1635 The Papal Stakes (68 page)

“From those sources, I learned that the governor was offering the physicians half the recompense we had agreed upon. The
xueta
physicians—who are, I point out, only
allegedly
Jewish—were unwilling to perform the task at any sum. Most of them were reluctant to become involved in the treatment of what the governor insists upon calling a ‘true’ Christian woman. The
xuetas
convincingly explained how involvement in such cases can often backfire upon
conversos
such as themselves.

“However, the best of these physicians—whose name I had passed on to the governor but whom, for some mysterious reason, he approached last—was the only one not to reject the commission outright. However, he was every bit as reluctant as his peers and had several stipulations—”

“Which were utterly outrageous!” the governor screeched, his jowls quivering.

Dolor might have sighed. “What were these stipulations?”

“He required at least two assistants to help him with medical procedures and getting up the hill and the stairs: he is in his late seventies. He also wanted an inordinate amount of spirits on hand.”

“Spirits?”

Don Vincente nodded. “Yes; pure alcohol. He calls it ethanol. It is an up-time term, which signifies—”

“It signifies witchery, or I’ll be buggered by a bull!”

“Ethanol is the up-time term for ‘medical alcohol’ is it not?”

Don Vincente shrugged. “Perhaps, but I think that may apply to what they call ‘methanol.’ In any event, Asher indicated that for now, he only has access to large quantities of ethanol. It is apparently quite effective at preventing infections.”

Dolor had heard this before. “Did the
xueta
require anything else?”

“No, but the appearance—”

“Governor, I suggest you worry less about appearances and more about your responsibilities.”

“I am, Señor Dolor—and I answer to the Carthusian Monastery for my actions, as you may be aware. So I elected to seek out a physician that was more pleasing both to God and the authorities of His Majesty. And I was fortunate enough to find one, residing for a time here in the Almudaina.”

Don Vincente cleared his throat. “If I may, Señor Dolor?”

“Yes?”

“The physician to whom the governor refers was promoted to his current position after concluding his service to the aristocracy on the mainland, where, within the last year, he bungled three births, losing two of the mothers in the process. One was the niece of a prominent nobleman.”

“A prominent nobleman who was well-known in court, I take it?”

“Very well known in court, Señor Dolor.”

“I see. So, given the prospect of having this bungler from the mainland attending the prisoner’s parturition, you decided to take matters into your own hand concerning the hiring of the
xueta
physician?”

Don Vincente shrugged. “Their doctors are quite proficient. This one is said to be the best.”

“And also the most uncooperative,” put in the governor. “At the captain’s repeated urging, I finally relented and deigned to extend this signal honor to Asher. The heretic’s response was so lacking in grace or gratitude that he deserved flogging on the spot.”

Don Vincente shrugged. “I did warn the governor that we had to expect a measure of reluctance from the
xueta
physicians. They are most uncomfortable handling female medical matters.”

Dolor shrugged. “However, is this case not made easier since it is not one of their own community?”

Don Vincente shrugged back. “Señor Dolor, let us speak frankly. Let us allow that many of the
xuetas
are still—to some degree or another—practicing Jews. They not only consider contact with Gentiles distasteful but dangerous—and in the latter regard, history vindicates their opinion. Frankly, I suspect that there are only two reasons they will provide assistance to Giovanna Stone.”

“The money, of course,” sneered Don Sancho.

Don Vincente’s voice was sharp. “You mean, the money that was already insufficient before you decided to pocket half of it yourself?”

“What outrageous lie is this?” The governor’s face deepened from red to purple. “I was holding the other half back, so that I might have something left to bargain with. You know how Jews are, how they will—”

Given the look on Don Vincente’s face, Dolor was glad that the full length of the table was between him and the sanctimonious little liar who, it now seemed, was also an embezzler. The captain interrupted him again. “No, the money was not the motivation in this case:
converso
doctors usually receive ten times as much from the Christian nobles who sneak them in the back door when a delivery turns difficult. In this case, one reason was sympathy: the woman is our prisoner and has no other recourse. In addition, this situation gives the
xuetas
an opportunity to quicken the gratitude of the Jews who are now in Grantville.”

Dolor rubbed his chin. “Yes. If the rumors I hear are correct, the Americans have involved themselves deeply in the affairs of the Jews—and vice versa. The Nasis, for instance, have mostly relocated to Grantville itself. So you suspect that these
xuetas
will be eager to curry favor with their cousins by helping the daughter-in-law of the wealthiest of the Americans?”

Don Vincente shrugged. “In their position, wouldn’t you? Since the Nasis left the Mediterranean, their use as trading liaisons for the other Jewish communities of the region has diminished. The
xuetas
here must be desperate to make new relationships. And with this Jewish cartel whispering in the ears of the Americans, whose influence is rising in Venice—”

Dolor shook his head. “Venice. The USE. The Nasis. All of them are our foes, Captain. And you are suggesting that this
converso
Asher may be part of a larger plot for the
xuetas
to make connections with those foes?”

“Yes. But where is the problem in that? We trade regularly with our foes. For instance, in the Low Countries—”

“Yes, I am quite acquainted with the peculiarities of that situation.” Dolor held up his hand. “I leave this in your hands then, Captain. Governor Morales y Llaguno, you are to admit the
xueta
physician, and, presuming he will accept it, you are to offer him the commission at the full rate we discussed.”

“Very well. But I do not like this. And I will have my men—my own men—present at all times. Even when the woman is giving birth.”

“Of course. And I’m sure Captain Castro y Papas intends to have his own contingent present, as well.”

“Yes,” said Don Sancho, “so one would hope.” His expression changed. “I can only hope that Don Vincente’s conjecture is correct—that touching a Gentile woman will repel the old Jew. I will take steps to make sure that he must admit—in the presence of witnesses—that this signifies a further and final proof of his renunciation of Judaism: to touch, in an intimate fashion, a woman who is not of his race.” His smile became smug. “And how delicious that, in so doing, he will simultaneously be degrading the little Italian she-goat.”

Dolor rose, turned his back on Don Sancho, did not note if the man bade him a respectful farewell or not. All he could think was:
what a repulsive little swine
.

Dolor passed out through the portcullis, earning respectful nods from the soldiers from Fort San Carlos and averted eyes from the Castell’s regular guard contingent. As he left the shadows and strode into the midday glare, a figure emerged from the bright, sun-dappling dust that had been kicked up by the
xueta
physician’s donkeys. It was a representative from the viceroy’s legal office, who doffed his hat and offered a prim bow.

“Yes?” Dolor did not even break his stride.

“A most unusual communication came to the viceroy this morning by way of the weekly packet from Rome, Señor Dolor.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It seems that a message arrived for you in Rome some weeks ago and has just caught up with you now.”

“Oh? And from whom does the message come?”

The representative stood a little straighter. “No less a personage than the count-duke Olivares himself.” The obsequious functionary smiled knowingly. “However, it seems to have met with impediments in Rome, delayed by inefficient bureaucrats, no doubt.”

You mean, by people like yourself?
But Dolor only nodded. The delay was not surprising. Borja would not know what to do with a private communiqué from Olivares to his own spymaster, particularly if it arrived without any communication to Borja himself. The pope-intendant certainly understood that his actions in Italy had aroused royal displeasure in Madrid, thereby costing him what few friends he had there. The preference—and greater trust—implied by a private communication to Dolor would have left Borja in a dither of uncertainty and anxiety. Unable to safely open the letter himself, but unwilling to let it slip out of his fingers, the cardinal had probably sat on the missive, hoping for some small sign as to its import. But when none had arisen, he had had little choice but to send it to Palma—by the slowest boat available, apparently.

The viceroy’s representative cleared his throat histrionically. “Naturally, the viceroy would like to be on hand when you open the letter, since it may have news of import to him as well—news he would like to hear immediately.”

Rubbish. The viceroy is simply a nosy old cretin, wringing his hands, wondering why he doesn’t get the favor of communications from the high and mighty any more.
But Dolor said “I will accompany you to the Almudaina immediately. I presume you have a carriage at the bottom of the hill?”

The representative bowed with a foppish flourish. “And a litter to convey us from this height hence.”

“Lead,” nodded Dolor in the direction of Bellver’s outer gatehouse and began contemplating how to turn Olivares’ gesture of comparatively overt favor into an exchange that could be parlayed into another personal meeting. Face-to-face contact would be the only truly safe—and effective—conditions under which he might reveal to the count-duke that he, Pedro Dolor, had possession of what had now been positively identified as the body of Lord John O’Neill, last earl of Tyrone, vassal of Philip, and traitorously fallen aiding the up-timers in Rome.

“Must they stay?” David Asher’s tone was rough with age and annoyance. His glare was almost as damning as Giovanna’s. Frank kept his arms folded, watching, terribly uncertain how to feel about the man who had entered the room at the head of four men-at-arms.

Captain de Castro y Papas bowed apologetically. “Doctor, Señora
Stone, my apologies, but yes, they must stay. The governor insisted upon having his own men here. It seemed prudent—for a variety of reasons—that I should have an equal number of my own personnel present.”

“Might as well sell tickets,” grumbled Asher as he washed his hands in a bowl of water and ethanol, held by the smaller of his two assistants.

“Again, my apologies. I must leave them here, but I do not need to magnify the offense with my presence; I shall depart at once.”

“Great,” growled Asher. “We lose the only one with manners. Now, Señora Stone, try not to pay attention to the four men in the room.”

“There are four men in here? I see only dogs.”

Asher barked out a laugh. “You I will be happy to treat. What about your husband? Has he a tongue?”

“I do,” said Frank.

Asher looked up, eyes narrowed but still surprised. “Huh. Some tone of gratitude from the nervous husband.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Asher. I have unfinished business with him.”

“Who? The big hidalgo who just left? Take a word of advice, young man; leave that unfinished business unfinished, or he might finish you.”

“It’s not that kind of business. At least I don’t think so.”

Asher made a gruff noise as he testily rearranged the sheets his larger assistant had propped up to form a privacy blind. “Now I’ll need you to relax, Señora Stone—and with your permission, I’ll—”

“You have my permission, now and in all future times. You are a physician; I am your patient. If others imagine anything else, that is a product of their own backward low-mindedness.”

Despite himself, Asher smiled. “I’m surprised your husband had the courage to marry you, Señora.”

“So am I,” admitted Frank. Then, seeing Giovanna’s look, he amended, “I mean, she was so beautiful, I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to ask her if—”

“Ah,” interrupted Asher, who was evidently no longer paying attention to Frank. “It is just as your first doctor, the famous Sharon Nichols, suspected: there are at least twins. Maybe triplets.”

Frank frowned. “No. Sharon said—”

“Yes, yes,” grumbled Asher, “I know she believed it very unlikely that there were three fetuses, but I am telling you I disagree. And with your wife this much further along in the pregnancy, it becomes easier to discern them.” He looked up hard at Frank. “So do not disagree with me, young man. When I say there are three here who will have to be brought out to safety, I know exactly what I am talking about.”

Frank looked at the old
xueta
’s eyes, saw them flash—right before the one facing away from the four guards in the room winked.

“Yes,” said the doctor slowly, clearly, “it appears that there are three Stones who will have to brought out to safety. And probably sooner than any of us thought.”

Giovanna sat upright and looked at Frank, eyes wide. Who got it now.

“Oh,” he said to Asher, nodding. And keeping any hint of a smile off his face.

Captain Castro y Papas drifted in the direction of the impromptu mess that had been set up on the second gallery level of the Castell; the kitchen proper, having failed an inspection, was being thoroughly scoured. Approaching the cook laboring red-faced and sweaty over boiling pots and a field stove, Don Vincente had a sudden, almost nostalgic pang of recollection to his earliest years as a soldier—and then that moment of comparative innocence was shattered.

One of the Castell’s regular guards belched and commented to his mates, “All this fuss about some Italian bitch and her demon spawn whelp-to-be is nonsense. I say asking for a Jew to deliver her is proof positive that she’s a witch. So we should burn her, the devil-riding husband, and the Jew all at once and be done with it.”