Down: Pinhole (43 page)

Before driving inside the great walled city, Garibaldi walked back toward the covered wagon and stuck his head through the flap. John was on a bench next to Adolphus.

“I will enter Paris now,” he told John.

“Watch your back,” John said.

“Antonio and Simon will take care of that but for the moment I’m not worried. Maximilien needs Italia too much to attempt any harm.”

“Was Forneau part of the welcoming party?”

“He was.”

“He’s a good man. If you have a private moment, thank him for helping me.”

“I will.” After a pause Garibaldi said, “I’d like you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“My army will take its position to the northeast. As I suspected, the French will want to use us as the first line against Henry.”

“Cannon fodder.”

“True, but we must minimize the loss. When I enter our camp tonight I will ask my commanders for their tactical plan but the person I most ardently wish to hear from is you.”

John shook his hand, careful not to squeeze tender joints too hard. “I’ll scope out the lay of the land, Giuseppe, and give you my best recommendations. You can count on me.”

Garibaldi released the grip and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t look so worried. Your Emily is probably closer to you than at any time since you arrived.”

John pulled out his watch for emphasis and said, “I’ve only got one week left. I’m seriously worried about making it back to England in time.”

“Then you and I must work for a swift victory on the battlefield,” Garibaldi said. “Let’s put Adolphus to work too. Let’s see if prayer works in Hell. Will you pray for us, monk?” he asked.

Adolphus nodded earnestly. “I will start my prayers now and I will not stop praying until both my new friends have been graced with the favor of the Lord.”

Maximilien received Garibaldi with a level of suspicion and arrogance that made Forneau wince. On more than one occasion he had to remind his king in a whispered sidebar that like it or not, this man was the new king of Italia and the commander of the army who would help them against more immediate enemies.

Garibaldi, channeling his old adversary, Machiavelli, let the French king’s slights pass without visible reaction. For now he needed him and if all went well he would feed the bastard to his own guillotine when the time was right.

“We must not lose sight,” Garibaldi said, “that we will have a battle on two fronts. We have Henry approaching from the coast and Barbarossa from the west. Surely the correct approach is for my army to take on the English and yours to deal with the Germans.”

“Impossible! That would leave Paris undefended,” Maximilien fumed. He had heard the argument before from Forneau but he was not convinced.

“A direct defense of Paris would be unwise,” Garibaldi said, leaning forward in his chair for emphasis. “Firstly, if Paris finds itself in a siege, Henry and Frederick will separately or jointly, pound it to rubble then starve you into submission. The battle must be taken to them on the open field. The only way to save Paris is to crush the attackers before they can do their worst to your city.”

Several of the French generals standing behind Maximilien nodded at this assessment but they did not speak lest they incur their monarch’s wrath.

“You have been a king for less than a week,” Maximilien sniffed, “while I have been one for over two hundred years. And yet you seem to savor your own opinions as if they were a fine wine.”

“It is true I am new to the throne. Whereas you were an esteemed political philosopher, whom I much admired, I was a soldier and a damned good one. As I might prudently defer to you on political tactics, you might do likewise to me on military tactics.”

At that, Robespierre stood and grimaced from leg pain. He shouted, “How dare you? I have fought myriad wars and defended my realm countless times. I know how to save Paris.”

“In that case, maybe you don’t need my army,” Garibaldi said. “We would be happy to begin our march back to Italia this very evening.”

Forneau whispered to the king that perhaps they ought to caucus in private and when the king agreed, Forneau announced a recess, leaving the Italian delegation alone.

Antonio was about to vent his spleen but Garibaldi put a finger to his lips and reminded him that in these places, the walls had ears.

When the French returned it was apparent that Robespierre’s military men had persuaded their king to climb down.

“Very well,” Maximilien said with a pinched face. “We will meet the Germans and you will meet the English. However, I will leave a reinforced royal guard behind in Paris to protect the palace from any rear guard actions by units of either the English or the Germans.”

“Very sensible,” Garibaldi said with a victorious smile.

“You will dine with me tonight,” Maximilien said.

Garibaldi stood, stoically hiding his own aches and pains. “With respect, I will dine with my soldiers tonight to boost their morale, as I have always done on the eve of a battle. It is an old habit. Let us break bread together after we have vanquished our foes.”

Garibaldi arrived at the Italian camp near the town of Argenteuil after dark. Inside a candlelit tent John nursed an ale while Garibaldi’s generals presented a battle plan. Although Antonio and Simon offered to translate, John waved them off. He’d heard the generals’ views earlier in the day and hadn’t been impressed. They advocated a conventional approach, a pincer action, drawing Henry into a soft center then driving reserve forces into his left and right flanks.

Garibaldi listened, stroking his chin in thought. When they were done he invited John’s opinion which was duly translated for the non-English speakers among the assembly.

“Well, I guess I see it differently,” John said. “First of all, we’ve positioned ourselves just to the north of the Seine and as a matter of course, I hate to have our backs to the water, but that’s not my major problem.”

“And what is your concern?” Garibaldi asked.

“I know what Henry’s cannon are capable of and there’s a chance he’s had the time to make more of them in Sweden. He can stand back and lob in shells from a long distance without having to come into your pincer. And once he sees you’re a threat to his flanks, he’ll only need to reposition and re-aim the guns.”

“Then how would you approach the battle?”

“I say we come at him in a way I’ll bet he’s never seen before.”

“Come,” Garibaldi said. “Show me on the map.”

The men crowded around the table listening as John took them through his ideas and when he was done and all the questions from Garibaldi and the generals had been answered, Garibaldi slapped the map with his palm and said, “Yes! This is exactly what we must do.”

King Henry arrived at Ermont the same time as the dawn. Ermont was some five miles from the Italians at Argenteuil although the English would not know this for several hours until one of their scouting parties would report on the position. Henry dismounted and surveyed the plain, a vast meadowland, the tall grasses undulating in the breeze.

“Where is the river?” he asked Cromwell.

“Directly to the south, Your Majesty. No more than a one-hour march.”

“And you are certain there is a bridge?”

“I am so informed.”

“Robespierre will mightily defend the crossing or he will destroy it.”

“If he defends it we will crush them. If he destroys the bridge we will build a new one in one week or less. I would have our carpenters begin to fell trees from the wood we recently departed.”

“Your optimism buoys me. I trust it is not misplaced,” Henry said. “Why is my tent not ready? I wish to rest and eat.”

“I will see to it immediately.”

“Will they come to me or must I go to them? This is the question which has been rolling about in my mind.”

“We shall know that soon enough, sire. I believe it matters not as your mighty singing cannon and your stout heart will win the day for Brittania.”

“Thank you, Cromwell,” Henry said dryly. “I can always count on you to tell me exactly what I wish to hear.”

The Germans arrived at Sevran, to the northeast of Paris, at mid-morning. The French forces, in position at nearby Drancy, were generating so much smoke from their cooking fires that Himmler, surveying the plain through his telescope, suspected an encampment. He ordered a squad of men to reconnoiter on horseback and when they returned they reported a massive concentration of French troops. Himmler strode over to the king’s travel wagon and briefed him on the development.

“It seems they knew we were coming,” Himmler said. “Otherwise they would not have thrown their army against their eastern flank.”

“Good,” Barbarossa said. “This pleases me. That means they have left their western flank less well protected. The English will smash through and once we have defeated Maximilien, aided by the Russians, we will turn our attention to Henry. By the end of this campaign we shall see Germania in control of much of Europa.”

“That was my goal during my lifetime,” Himmler said curtly. “However, we must be vigilant against our supposed ally. Stalin will have his own agenda of conquest.”

“Where is his army?”

“I am hoping they will come by nightfall but my information is not reliable. When they arrive I will have them sweep around Henry’s army and surprise them from the rear.”

“Will Stalin personally lead his forces?”

“That is my understanding.”

“I will meet with him without you as I know the two of you have bad blood.”

“Bad blood? No, sire, poisonous blood,” Himmler said, unable to disguise his still-simmering anger over Stalin’s triumph over the Nazis.

Frederick’s ever-present young male companions offered the king a tray of sweetmeats and he chose one daintily. “This is what I will offer Stalin to persuade him to exit France and return to Russia after our victory: we will send an army east to assist him against the Chinese. I believe he will find this attractive.”

“And if he refuses?”

“If he does and demands we carve up Francia and Brittania then I will make allegiance with the Chinese and I will destroy him.” He had another sweet, then another and soon the tray was empty. Himmler looked as though he might have liked some too but he kept his mouth shut. Then Frederick asked, “Where is the woman?”

“She is well-guarded in a wagon near my own.”

“Do not let her get away from us. She is more valuable than a room filled with emeralds and diamonds.”

“Rest assured, she is guarded by my best men,” Himmler said. “I guarantee you she will be persuaded to help us build the most powerful weapons in all of Hell.”

John wanted to go alone but Antonio, Simon, and Caravaggio insisted on accompanying him on his mission. Just before dusk they crept up on the German encampment approaching from the northwest, taking care not to encounter any elements of the French army massed at Drancy. There was a wooded hill overlooking the Germans that proved to be a satisfactory observation point. Each man had come with a spyglass and the four of them set to scouring the vast German camp.

“It’s a needle in a haystack,” John said after a few minutes. There were hundreds of wagons and tents and thousands of milling troops.

“There won’t be many women, we’ve got that going for us,” Simon said.

“If we can find the king’s wagon then she would be close, I think,” Antonio said. “It will certainly be near the center to give him the most protection from an invasion.”

“What does a king’s wagon look like?” John asked.

“It will be large,” Antonio said, “and very nice.”

John laughed. “Thanks for that. I mean, any flags or emblems?”

“Not likely,” Simon said. “No sense making him an easy target.”

Caravaggio was concentrating in silence but after a while he said, “That one may belong to Barbarossa. I see many men coming and leaving, men with fancy uniforms.”

He gave them instructions on where to point their telescopes and Antonio and Simon agreed it was a likely enough suspect.

“Good eye,” John said.

“It is what I do, I see things,” the painter replied.

Working against the fading light they kept sweeping their scopes around the surrounding wagons but they failed to spot anyone promising. Antonio urged a return to the Italian camp but John pressed for more time. It was getting harder and harder to make out much more than shapes and campfires.

Suddenly, Caravaggio whispered, “There!” He spied a hulking figure leading another figure in a long dress from a wagon near the king’s to an adjacent small tent. Armed men circled the wagon.

John frantically tried to focus on the white tent Caravaggio was describing and when he had it in his sights he held his hands as steady as possible. The others found it too and four pairs of eyes locked onto it.

“It may be a privy set up for a lady,” Antonio said.

John felt his heart beating through his chest. Looking through the spyglass he had a flashback to the time he had spent an entire day peering through a sniper scope in Iraq, but this time his target wasn’t an enemy. It was the woman he loved.

The tent flaps parted and the woman emerged. The hulking man immediately grabbed her by the wrist. John tracked her, step by step. She had a hooded cloak pulled over her head and he couldn’t make out her face but just as she climbed the stairs to enter the wagon, the hood slipped down.

He saw it in the light of a nearby torch.

Blonde hair.

And in the briefest moment, a flash of a profile.

Emily.

“It’s her,” he said, more to himself than to his comrades.

“Are you sure?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, it’s her.”

“I am also sure,” Caravaggio said, collapsing his spyglass.

“Why?” John asked.

“Because she is as you described her. Very beautiful.”

Upon his return to the Italian lines John urgently sought out Adolphus. The old monk was on his knees praying in the dark. He stopped when John touched him and he looked up with a smile.

“I was praying for you,” he said.