Read Online 1636: The Cardinal Virtues by Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint
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grabbed his palm and shook it.
When this unusual introduction was over, she let her hand fall to her sides and looked him up and down. De la Mothe was dressed in proper attire that befit a count. He had left off his breastplate and other armor, retaining only his blade—and not the one he used when fighting with the cavalry. He had donned his best wig, and bore a decoration of the chevau-légers that he had earned at Saint-Martin-de-Ré a decade before.
“I hope I’ve not offended you, Comte. Monsieur. I’m not sure what title I should use.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Madame—Mademoiselle—”
“Just call me Sherrilyn. My students at Grantville High had to call me ‘Ms. Maddox,’ but most people just stick to my first name.”
“Then you may call me Philippe.”
“Suits me fine,” she answered. “Would you sit down, Philippe? Monsieur Valbelle said you had something you wanted to talk to me about. I was just running a few laps—this knee” she slapped one of her legs—“has been giving me problems, and I’m not a damn bit of good to anyone if I don’t get back to form. No less than Harry Lefferts took me off the first team.”
“Ah,” de la Mothe said. “ That is a name I know.” He looked at Valbelle, and then stepped over to the bench and sat near the up-timer. Lefferts was a well-known troublemaker, who had made the acquaintance of the cardinal and had been tied to all kinds of mischief since the Ring of Fire. From what he heard, there were even young bravos in the Italian cities who styled themselves after him— lefferti , they called themselves.
“Everyone knows Harry and his Wrecking Crew,” Sherrilyn said. “Well, that’s pretty much over. The band has broken up, and there’s no plan to get it back together. To be honest, Comte—Philippe—I’m a bit at loose ends right now.”
De la Mothe was struggling with the idiom and looked up at Valbelle—but the older man had walked away along the gallery, leaving him in the company of the up-timer. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean. But if you are presently without a position, I expect that I could find something for someone of your talents to do.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You mentioned the Thuringian Rifles. And the, eh, ‘Wrecking Crew.’ I am certain that your weapons expertise would be invaluable to us.”
“And by ‘us,’ you mean . . .”
“Myself and my commander. Henri Tour d’Auvergne. General Turenne.”
“ Turenne ?” She frowned. “The guy who carried out the raid against our oil fields at Wietze? The guy whose troops killed Quentin Underwood?”
De la Mothe took a deep breath. “. . . Yes. He did command the raid on Wietze two years ago.”
“I’m not sure I’m fond of the idea of working for him. Of course, you’re not the enemy anymore, are you? Now we’re friends with the French. And Quentin Underwood was a dick who got caught up in our German vacation. Still, I’d have to consider the merits of the idea.”
“My lord of Turenne has no designs on your USE, Sherrilyn, nor on the armies of your allies. We know who the enemy is.”
“And who might that be?”
“Spain.”
“Huh. And where is Turenne now?”
“His army is encamped outside of Lyon. The—king—has ordered him south to keep watch on the Spanish. We believe that the Count-Duke de Olivares, the Spanish King’s minister, is preparing an invasion of France in cooperation with . . . certain elements.”
“But not the USE.”
“No. Certainly not . Olivares’ chief ally is—may be—the king’s brother. Monsieur Gaston. We do not know his whereabouts. He was most recently in Lorraine and the Franche-Comté, but he has relocated—possibly to Madrid, or even Rome. He has a peculiar skill at making trouble.”
“Sounds like Harry Lefferts.”
“I can see the comparison,” de la Mothe said. “But as versatile as your friend Lefferts might be, Monsieur Gaston is infinitely more devious. And he plays at
When this unusual introduction was over, she let her hand fall to her sides and looked him up and down. De la Mothe was dressed in proper attire that befit a count. He had left off his breastplate and other armor, retaining only his blade—and not the one he used when fighting with the cavalry. He had donned his best wig, and bore a decoration of the chevau-légers that he had earned at Saint-Martin-de-Ré a decade before.
“I hope I’ve not offended you, Comte. Monsieur. I’m not sure what title I should use.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Madame—Mademoiselle—”
“Just call me Sherrilyn. My students at Grantville High had to call me ‘Ms. Maddox,’ but most people just stick to my first name.”
“Then you may call me Philippe.”
“Suits me fine,” she answered. “Would you sit down, Philippe? Monsieur Valbelle said you had something you wanted to talk to me about. I was just running a few laps—this knee” she slapped one of her legs—“has been giving me problems, and I’m not a damn bit of good to anyone if I don’t get back to form. No less than Harry Lefferts took me off the first team.”
“Ah,” de la Mothe said. “ That is a name I know.” He looked at Valbelle, and then stepped over to the bench and sat near the up-timer. Lefferts was a well-known troublemaker, who had made the acquaintance of the cardinal and had been tied to all kinds of mischief since the Ring of Fire. From what he heard, there were even young bravos in the Italian cities who styled themselves after him— lefferti , they called themselves.
“Everyone knows Harry and his Wrecking Crew,” Sherrilyn said. “Well, that’s pretty much over. The band has broken up, and there’s no plan to get it back together. To be honest, Comte—Philippe—I’m a bit at loose ends right now.”
De la Mothe was struggling with the idiom and looked up at Valbelle—but the older man had walked away along the gallery, leaving him in the company of the up-timer. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean. But if you are presently without a position, I expect that I could find something for someone of your talents to do.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You mentioned the Thuringian Rifles. And the, eh, ‘Wrecking Crew.’ I am certain that your weapons expertise would be invaluable to us.”
“And by ‘us,’ you mean . . .”
“Myself and my commander. Henri Tour d’Auvergne. General Turenne.”
“ Turenne ?” She frowned. “The guy who carried out the raid against our oil fields at Wietze? The guy whose troops killed Quentin Underwood?”
De la Mothe took a deep breath. “. . . Yes. He did command the raid on Wietze two years ago.”
“I’m not sure I’m fond of the idea of working for him. Of course, you’re not the enemy anymore, are you? Now we’re friends with the French. And Quentin Underwood was a dick who got caught up in our German vacation. Still, I’d have to consider the merits of the idea.”
“My lord of Turenne has no designs on your USE, Sherrilyn, nor on the armies of your allies. We know who the enemy is.”
“And who might that be?”
“Spain.”
“Huh. And where is Turenne now?”
“His army is encamped outside of Lyon. The—king—has ordered him south to keep watch on the Spanish. We believe that the Count-Duke de Olivares, the Spanish King’s minister, is preparing an invasion of France in cooperation with . . . certain elements.”
“But not the USE.”
“No. Certainly not . Olivares’ chief ally is—may be—the king’s brother. Monsieur Gaston. We do not know his whereabouts. He was most recently in Lorraine and the Franche-Comté, but he has relocated—possibly to Madrid, or even Rome. He has a peculiar skill at making trouble.”
“Sounds like Harry Lefferts.”
“I can see the comparison,” de la Mothe said. “But as versatile as your friend Lefferts might be, Monsieur Gaston is infinitely more devious. And he plays at
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