1635 The Papal Stakes (90 page)

“No? Then whom?”

The pope smiled. “It was to help you, my dear Vitelleschi.”

It took Vitelleschi a second to realize that his mouth was hanging open. He finally sputtered: “Me? How? In what way?”

“Ah, Vitelleschi, old friend, how else could I know your true mind? And how else could you be free to know it yourself?”

“I do not understand, Your Holiness.”

Urban smiled. “Without this process, you would have followed my decisions—as you always have—because that is your job. And you would have done so ardently and firmly, because of our long years together. But that is a very different thing from believing in something yourself. And I needed to know what
you
believed. That way, I could compare your conclusions with my own. But more importantly, I needed your
convictions
—whatever they might be—to be wholly and utterly your own. I did not want you torn between duty to me on one side, doctrinal doubts on the other, and with the middle-ground a mire of contending ideas and conjectures. No. You need to be as firmly committed to this new course, to our new policies, as I am.”

“And had my conclusions been at variance with your own?”

Urban shrugged. “Then I would have restudied my tentative decisions on the matter.” He smiled and glanced back at Wadding who was just emerging, squinting, into the sunlight. “After all, had your conclusions been different, you would then have been offering me the same counsel as Luke Wadding. And if the former Fathers Vitelleschi and Wadding can agree on something—if the epoch’s leading Jesuit and Franciscan minds are in such unprecedented unison on any topic—then a wise pope must consider that true miracle a sign from God and take heed!”

PART SIX

Early August 1635

A sky grown clear and blue again

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

As Sharon watched, the second dirigible that the USE had leased for its Mediterranean operations appeared between the rounded crests of the northern Berici Hills, heading east. Other members of her recently reconstituted but still displaced embassy looked up to see it pass.

“There’s our ride,” murmured Larry Mazzare, beside her.

“Your ride,” she corrected. “That one is only returning as far as Chur.” She frowned. “I probably shouldn’t ask, but do you have any idea where Urban is going to go after getting there?”

Mazzare shrugged. “No idea; I’ll send a message from wherever we wind up.”

Sharon put a hand on the small-town priest’s arm. “And again I probably shouldn’t ask, but are you sure you want to go with him?”

“Want to?” Larry’s laugh was sudden and short. “Speaking as an individual, I most certainly do
not
want to. I just want to go back home, like you. But speaking as a priest, I want to go wherever he goes, come what may. Besides, Urban needs me, both as a cardinal in whatever Consistory he can summon to him, and as a radio-equipped emissary from the USE. At least he’s arranged for excellent security—and is scooping up more all the time. And ever since Urban’s survival was announced, and attested to by the priests who met us in Vincenza last week, most of the papal troops have stopped responding—even halfheartedly—to Borja’s orders.”

Sharon leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Is it true that Urban made one or two of the bishops who came to see him in Vincenza cardinals
in pectore
?”

Mazzare glared at her. “Who told you that?”

“No one. Well, actually you did, by the way you just reacted.” She smiled sweetly at Larry.

Mazzare muttered, “Remind me not to play poker with you.” They shared a small smile and looked out over the small, remote valley just a day south of Vincenza; although sparsely settled by the standards of the Venetian Republic, the smattering of houses on the lush green hills produced a sensation of overcrowding after weeks in the almost uninhabited mountains around Molini. “Will you miss it?” Mazzare asked suddenly.

“Miss what? Italy?”

“No. Being an ambassador.”

“Well, maybe a bit.”
Sharon, you are such a liar; one half of you is dying to get home and get reacquainted with real honest-to-goodness running water, and the other half is screaming that it’s like the old song says, “you can’t go home again”—because what will ever compare to all this? Damn; I’m probably borderline PTSD now, but I’ve never felt so alive, and useful, and needed in my whole life. And how much is Ruy going to want a quiet domestic life? Hell, how much do
I
want it—if at all?
“It was a lot more dangerous than I anticipated,” she added after a moment.

“Well, danger should not be a problem for those of us traveling with Urban, now. As soon the pope’s personal friends heard he was alive, they started sending their most trusted retainers to join him. And the growing radio network north of the Alps has certainly accelerated the pace at which news of his survival has been spreading.”

Ruy’s voice rose behind them. “Yes, I have heard as much. I just finished decoding the latest messages from both the USE and the Low Countries. Given the guard contingents our pope’s many friends are sending, it sounds as though the papal entourage may well be the safest place in Christendom. Also, the leadership of both the USE and the Low Countries have agreed to the pope’s choice of a personal security chief.”

Mazzare frowned. “Why was the consent of both states required?”

“Ah, because the poor fool Urban requested for the job has ties to both polities.”

Sharon heard the odd emphasis upon “poor fool” and turned to face Ruy. “You? He chose you?”

“Ah, you see? My magnificent wife misses even not the subtlest hint! She is truly as quick-witted as she is beautiful.”

“Ruy! Without even asking me? How could you—?”

“Eh. About that, my heart. The transmission from the USE had a few desultory lines included for your lustrous self as well.”

Oh. Great.
“And what are they?”

“You have been made the USE’s officially appointed envoy to the papal entourage and its official political representative to the council Urban intends to convene.”

Well, did I speak too soon about not wanting to go home, or what?
And yet, truth be told, Sharon also felt relieved and perhaps just the tiniest bit excited as well. “So I guess this means we don’t get to fly back on the repaired Monster.”

“That is correct, my love. We will be in the balloon to Chur. But as I understand it, the Monster will fly along with us and oversee our safe arrival. Merely to provide assistance in the event of alpine mishaps and to show the flag to the Graubünders, as it were.”

Yeah, and to amaze and awe the natives. One of whom, come to think of it, was none other than—
“That guy that Miro met with—Jenatsch—wouldn’t be so stupid as to think that he could deal a bigger hand for himself, what with a pope ripe for the plucking in his own back yard—would he?”

Ruy frowned. “He is too clever for that, I think—but, on the other hand, why trust to fate, or to the prudence of a man who left his mark on your history by employing a battle axe as readily as diplomatic nuance?”

“Exactly. So, the way I see it—”

Larry Mazzare rose. “Well, since good-byes don’t seem to be necessary any more, I’ll leave you two to your favorite pastime.”

“Our pastime?” wondered Ruy.

“What are you talking about, Larry?” said Sharon.

But with an impish smile, the cardinal had started strolling down toward the small garden.

Larry Mazzare turned into the garden’s largest, bee-busy arbor—and was almost run down by the big hidalgo whose sense of honor had overcome his oath of fealty to Philip and who had accompanied the rescuers back to Italy. And whose name he was always forgetting—

“Don Vincente,” Larry said, relieved that the name had come to him at the last second, “I did not see you.”

“A hundred pardons, Your Eminence. The fault was mine. I am—I am somewhat overwhelmed, I fear.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“What he means to say,” said Luke Wadding, coming up behind, “is that he just met the pope.”

“I did, yes!” gushed Don Vincente, who looked as star-struck as a schoolboy and as harmless as a restless tiger. “It was—oh, if only I could tell my family. But alas, they believe I am—”

Mazzare stretched out a hand and touched Castro y Papas on the arm. “Don Vincente, I know you worry that the news of your death may be too hard for them to bear, particularly as they are older parents. But they believe your departure was with honor; they will endure.”

He nodded. “True. And perhaps it is better that they do not know the truth: that in order to live, I forsook honor—”

“No,” Mazzare’s voice became firm. “You did not. You swore an oath to a ‘noble and holy crown’ did you not?”

“I did.”

“And so tell me, were you not compelled by the duly appointed representatives of that crown to repeatedly act in ways that were the very antithesis of holiness or nobility?”

His head hung. “I was.”

“Then, my son, it is not you who broke faith with them: it is our representatives of the crown who broke faith with you.” Don Vincente looked sideways; Larry saw—as was to be expected in a man of his age and experience—that this had already occurred to him. But as a devout Catholic, he would not presume the authority to absolve himself; that had to come from a priest—as it had now. “I can well imagine your doubts, Don Vincente; the first tenet of chivalry is that one’s virtue and honor is not contingent upon the virtue and honor of others. Just so. But your duty here was not just to yourself, but to the innocent. It may well be that we might have to pay a heavy—even an ultimate—price to abide by the oaths we swear. But should others—particularly an innocent mother and her unborn child—be compelled to pay for the keeping of our oaths, as well? The answer to that is ‘No’—and you found that answer with great speed and clarity.”

Don Vincente looked up. “Thank you, Your Eminence. This has troubled me—among other things.”

“Oh, what other things?”

Wadding commented from over the big Spaniard’s shoulder. “He’s very much looking forward to meeting Ruy—a ‘whispered legend’ he calls him. But he is, let us say ‘reluctant,’ to share what he knows about Borja, and particularly, this Pedro Dolor fellow who has been his spymaster ever since Quevedo was—er, removed.”

Don Vincente looked up quickly. “Is it true that Don Ruy slew Quevedo in single combat?”

Mazzare saw the gleam in the young man’s eye, saw the opening there that Ruy would use to get him to share his precious insider knowledge of Borja’s command structure, and simply said, “Why not go ask him yourself? He is just there, at the head of the garden.”

Mazzare returned Don Vincente’s brief nod, Wadding’s knowing smile, and walked on to where he knew the pope had retired to meditate for a while.

But turning into the next long arbor, Larry saw Urban in solemn conversation with two of the Wild Geese—Owen and Sean, from the shape of the silhouettes. Rather than turn into that shaded tunnel of bright flowers and wafting lilac, Mazzare kept walking straight on. He considered returning to his own room to pack, but decided against it; as he had left, late-sleeping Frank and Giovanna had just begun stirring in the adjacent room. And if this day was like every other thus far, Mazzare would gladly miss their loud—and vigorous—celebration of the morning and each other.

Owen had not expected that Urban would bow his head in such an extended gesture of memorial respect, but he did, staring down at the small, flat stone under which they had buried those few personal effects of John O’Neill that had been carried back from Rome. All in all, they weighed only ten pounds, but they had to remain here: Franchetti had made it very clear that any balloon of his that got tasked with carrying the pope was going to have plenty of extra fuel, a spare engine, and no unnecessary weight.

The pope murmured something short and Latin, which puzzled O’Neill, because it wasn’t any of he benedictions he was familiar with. As it was, Urban had already said a full mass for the fallen earl in Vicenza, for which Father Hickey had made the journey, looking so old and drawn that Owen wondered if he might not soon follow his dear Johnnie into the grave out of sheer grief. And here, Urban had murmured a familiar blessing and benediction when they first bowed their heads.

When the pope finally raised his chin, Owen asked, “Your Holiness, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what prayer you said there at the end.”

“Oh,” explained Urban, “that was no prayer. It was a line from a story—a story, and a line, which reminded me of your courageous—and I have heard it whispered, occasionally impetuous—cousin.”

“Ah, he’d appreciate the truth of your words, Holy Father, and I doubt he’d dispute ’em. But what were they?”

Urban put his chin up slightly. “‘But his strength and valor availed naught.’”

Sean Connal frowned. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that passage.”

Urban smiled. “It would be truly miraculous if you were, Doctor. It is from a narrative called
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
, a rather ancient work from China. Father-General Vitelleschi’s missionaries in that land just sent back a translation in April. I had thought it lost—but it turns out the father-general had it all the time. He is a most resourceful man.”

“As is His Holiness,” replied Sean, “I understand that you have prevailed upon the ambassador—now, doctor, now, I suppose—to accept me as a medical trainee under her guidance. I am most grateful for this kindness, Holy Father.”

Urban laughed. “Oh, it is no kindness, Doctor. It is pure, unadulterated selfishness. It is in my own interest to ensure that I have a doctor trained to up-time standards in my retinue.”

Owen frowned. “What do you mean, ‘in your retinue,’ Your Holiness?”

Urban turned towards him with a look of such singular gravity that, for the most fleeting of moments, Owen was scared. “Colonel O’Neill,” said Urban, “you are the Pope’s Own Men.”

Still frowning, unsure at the strange nature of the compliment, Owen bowed. “We thank you humbly, Holy Father.”