Read Online 1636: The Cardinal Virtues by Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint
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knows that, and that our family is properly represented at court. But . . . you’re not here to question that, are you, Philippe?”
“No. Of course not. I am here on behalf of my lord Tour d’Auvergne, Marshal Turenne. Some of your vaunted commerce—” he waved a hand toward the port below—“provisions and equips our forces.”
“So you think there’ll be war?”
“My dear Cosme,” de la Mothe answered. “There is always war. In the best instance it is possible for men to bring it about on terms of their own choosing.”
“If it were up to me, the terms I would choose would be accommodation. War is bad for business, and we here in Marseilles gain nothing by fighting with Spain or Savoy or Naples or, honestly, anywhere else.” He sighed. “But if the cardinal wills it, then we must needs obey.”
De la Mothe looked back out across the city. Valbelle was a politician: a former conseil of the city, now merely a private citizen. But no one achieved any office in Marseilles without his help or consent. So it had been for decades. Cosme de Valbelle, the second of the name, had been elected for the first time in 1618 when he was in his early forties, and for a second, shorter term a few years ago. Now the first consulship was in the hands of the Sieur d’Aiglun, a bland nonentity. But no one—not de la Mothe, not Turenne, and certainly not the cardinal himself—had any illusions about who really ran the city.
Valbelle loved to perform the stately pavane, the game of bons mots , rather than get to the point. De la Mothe, for his part, had spent too much time in military service—fifteen years, man and boy—to be anything less than direct; but he knew that to achieve anything with Valbelle meant to play the game.
“Your note said that you had someone you wanted me to meet.”
“Yes. It’s part of the reason I invited you to la Garde. She’s up here receiving some sort of medical treatment from the priory’s hospitaller; she didn’t trust the quacks and frauds down in the city.”
“‘She’?”
“Yes, she . The lady is an up-timer , Philippe. And a very fierce example of that unusual race. I’m sure you’ll find her interesting.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Interesting was hardly enough to describe how Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt found Sherrilyn Maddox when he first met her that soft early-autumn day in the fortress-priory above Marseilles. She truly was fierce.
When Valbelle led him into the priory, passing beneath the escutcheon of François I and the lamb of the Apostle John bearing the Christian banner, the first thing he heard was the sound of feet on stone. He was on his guard at once, and nearly drew his blade when someone came running along the vaulted gallery. The person was in loose-fitting clothing with a queue of hair neatly tied behind, and came to a halt a few paces away, bent over slightly with hands on thighs, panting as if the exercise had been difficult.
He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and looked at Valbelle, perplexed.
“Give it a moment,” the older man said quietly.
De la Mothe said nothing and waited. At last the other person stood up straight. Though dressed in a long-sleeved blouse and some sort of pantaloons, he could see at once that it was a woman. Not unattractive, but she had clearly made no particular effort to enhance her appearance. Without saying a word—or asking leave of either Valbelle or himself—she walked somewhat gingerly to a stone bench that ran along the gallery and dropped to a seat.
“Sorry,” she managed. “Still trying to get back in shape.”
De la Mothe understood the words, but wasn’t sure of the meaning. “Allow me to present myself,” he said at last. “I am Philippe, Comte de la Mothe-Houdancourt, Governor of Bellegarde, General of France.” He made a leg.
“Sherrilyn Maddox,” she said. “Thuringian Rifles. Glad to meet you.” She extended her hand, and when he took it with the intent of offering his lips she
“No. Of course not. I am here on behalf of my lord Tour d’Auvergne, Marshal Turenne. Some of your vaunted commerce—” he waved a hand toward the port below—“provisions and equips our forces.”
“So you think there’ll be war?”
“My dear Cosme,” de la Mothe answered. “There is always war. In the best instance it is possible for men to bring it about on terms of their own choosing.”
“If it were up to me, the terms I would choose would be accommodation. War is bad for business, and we here in Marseilles gain nothing by fighting with Spain or Savoy or Naples or, honestly, anywhere else.” He sighed. “But if the cardinal wills it, then we must needs obey.”
De la Mothe looked back out across the city. Valbelle was a politician: a former conseil of the city, now merely a private citizen. But no one achieved any office in Marseilles without his help or consent. So it had been for decades. Cosme de Valbelle, the second of the name, had been elected for the first time in 1618 when he was in his early forties, and for a second, shorter term a few years ago. Now the first consulship was in the hands of the Sieur d’Aiglun, a bland nonentity. But no one—not de la Mothe, not Turenne, and certainly not the cardinal himself—had any illusions about who really ran the city.
Valbelle loved to perform the stately pavane, the game of bons mots , rather than get to the point. De la Mothe, for his part, had spent too much time in military service—fifteen years, man and boy—to be anything less than direct; but he knew that to achieve anything with Valbelle meant to play the game.
“Your note said that you had someone you wanted me to meet.”
“Yes. It’s part of the reason I invited you to la Garde. She’s up here receiving some sort of medical treatment from the priory’s hospitaller; she didn’t trust the quacks and frauds down in the city.”
“‘She’?”
“Yes, she . The lady is an up-timer , Philippe. And a very fierce example of that unusual race. I’m sure you’ll find her interesting.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Interesting was hardly enough to describe how Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt found Sherrilyn Maddox when he first met her that soft early-autumn day in the fortress-priory above Marseilles. She truly was fierce.
When Valbelle led him into the priory, passing beneath the escutcheon of François I and the lamb of the Apostle John bearing the Christian banner, the first thing he heard was the sound of feet on stone. He was on his guard at once, and nearly drew his blade when someone came running along the vaulted gallery. The person was in loose-fitting clothing with a queue of hair neatly tied behind, and came to a halt a few paces away, bent over slightly with hands on thighs, panting as if the exercise had been difficult.
He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and looked at Valbelle, perplexed.
“Give it a moment,” the older man said quietly.
De la Mothe said nothing and waited. At last the other person stood up straight. Though dressed in a long-sleeved blouse and some sort of pantaloons, he could see at once that it was a woman. Not unattractive, but she had clearly made no particular effort to enhance her appearance. Without saying a word—or asking leave of either Valbelle or himself—she walked somewhat gingerly to a stone bench that ran along the gallery and dropped to a seat.
“Sorry,” she managed. “Still trying to get back in shape.”
De la Mothe understood the words, but wasn’t sure of the meaning. “Allow me to present myself,” he said at last. “I am Philippe, Comte de la Mothe-Houdancourt, Governor of Bellegarde, General of France.” He made a leg.
“Sherrilyn Maddox,” she said. “Thuringian Rifles. Glad to meet you.” She extended her hand, and when he took it with the intent of offering his lips she
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