has damaged more than just your hearing. Because a bit of clearheaded logic will tell you that there’s no way on earth that I could jeopardize Cardinal Borja.”
“Oh, you can, Father; you can jeopardize him on Earth, and in Heaven too, unless we’re wrong in our guess.”
“Who’s ‘we’? And what guess?”
“Jesus on the Cross, but you always were a great one for turning ev’ryting into words and more words, Father.”
“And you were ever a blasphemer. A bad habit you’ve not managed to break, I see. And I’ll hear your confession for it. But first I’ll hear answers to my questions. Who is making these absurd claims about the threat I pose to Cardinal Borja?”
John settled his temper. Father Luke was as mild as a kitten-until you raised his ire. And if you did raise it? Well, John had repulsed siege assaults that hadn’t been quite that fierce. “Father Luke, you have many friends who are cardinals, am I right?”
“Well…yes.”
“And how many of them have you seen since Philip’s troops arrived in Rome?”
Wadding darkened. But then he smiled.
“Have I said something funny, Father?”
“No. But ten years ago, you hadn’t the patience for irony. Or indirect argument. Very well, John. You make a point. As a rule, I’d not judge the actions of a cardinal, particularly when there’s so much wild rumor abroad. But it’s plain there’s been abuse of power, here.”
“Plain? Plain? Yes, Father: plain to a blind man at the bottom of an oubliette, even.”
Wadding closed his eyes. “John, these are evil times, no question. But what would you have me do?”
“What I asked you to do at the first: come with us. Now. It’s the right thing. And it’s the safe thing, before Borja realizes he can’t trust you either.”
“Can’t trust me? Even if he couldn’t, why should he care? Why would-?”
“Because if the pope made you a cardinal in pectore, and Urban is, then you’ll have a vote on the Consistory. And Isabella knows you well enough to know you’ll vote your conscience if it comes down to having to choose between Urban and Borja.”
John had never witnessed Luke Wadding speechless. Somehow, it was even more unnerving than being the object of his wrath-an experience with which John had a reasonable familiarity. When Wadding spoke, it was as though he were in a daze. “So, that’s the ‘they’ to whom you’ve been referring: the infanta and her nephew, the king in the Low Countries.”
“Yes. And they’re not alone in their opinion regarding Borja’s intentions.”
Wadding closed his eyes. “So they must suspect that Borja is guilty of much of what he’s been accused of, here.”
“Much. Perhaps all.”
Wadding opened his eyes. “For Borja to have done what you accuse him of would mean he is insane. I know the man; he is not insane.”
“Father, I’m not here to argue his sanity, or anything else, for that matter: I am charged to bring you out of Rome.”
Wadding stood. “And I may not leave. There are issues that have not been considered: students and clergy who are in my care, and scholarly matters, as well. There are also archives here, crucial to the history of Mother Church, which could be lost if-”
“Damn it, Father Wadding, you are coming with me, if I have to take you out of here at gunpoint-”
“Well now,” drawled a new voice, also in English, “you might not want to make threats when you’re at gunpoint yourself.”
John started, jumped up, hand halfway to his sword when he saw a wide, but unusually thin-walled, black muzzle aimed straight at his eyes. And the face behind it seemed to match descriptions he’d heard of the much- storied and infamous “Harry Lefferts, or I’m a caffler!”
Harry stared at the unfamiliar term, couldn’t suppress the slight pulse of gratification that went through him at being recognized, and raised his gun meaningfully. “Well, I’m not saying yes or no, but who the hell are you, and why are you threatening this priest?”
The fellow Harry was questioning-the foreign Boss-man who had breezed past the guards at the gate-did not seem particularly daunted by the barrel that tracked with him. “Where are my men? If you’ve done them ill, I swear by Christ Almighty, I’ll-”
The priest was on his feet. “Enough blasphemy, John O’Neill, or I’ll strike you here and now.”
Harry and Donald exchanged glances, eyebrows climbing high, before the priest turned on them. “And I do not recall inviting you gentlemen into the rectory. And I’m thinking that you did not simply walk past my guards, or the earl’s.”
Boss-man was an earl? Named O’Neill? The earl of Tyrone? But what the hell was he doing in Rome? Wasn’t he supposed to be commanding a tercio for-?
“My men: where are they?” said O’Neill. It wasn’t a request. Even though the earl of Tyrone was looking down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun, it was still a demand.
Harry waggled the gun a bit. “Do you know what this is?”
“Aye. And do you know how much shite you’re standing in this very moment?”
Lefferts smiled. “You have a point there. We hadn’t planned on stopping in, certainly not for this long. But when all the good father’s guards went rushing outside to the cistern, it was easy enough to slip in, sneak through the pantry, and find our way here.”
“Where you hoped to discover what?”
“Our friends. Or someone who might know something about them. Like you, maybe, Earl of Tyrone. So tell me, are you the mastermind in charge of intelligence operations for Borja, by any chance?”
That query produced the most unusual-and uncomfortable-reactions yet. Wadding tried, unsuccessfully, to conceal his surprised smile; John O’Neill, seeing it, flushed hot red. For a moment, the tense, armed stand-off in the room became secondary to what felt to Harry like an up-time reality TV moment, where one family member revealed the other’s faults in front of total strangers. So John O’Neill isn’t a mental giant or a spymaster. Brave, though: damned brave. Well, no reason to leave him embarassed, Harry “Okay, I get the picture: you’re not the guy we’re looking for. Which is more than fine by me. Hell, too much thinking spoils a man of action, eh, Your Earlship?”
The change this brought over O’Neill was nothing short of miraculous. The pugilistic stance and pugnacious expression evaporated. “Right enough. Now look, I’ve got little time as it is, and Father Wadding here needs to come with me for his own good, so I’d best-”
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down there. Last I heard, the good Father doesn’t want to go with you.”
“Perhaps,” said another voice, accented similarly to John O’Neill’s “but you’ll not be involved in the decision one way or the other. And be very careful as you turn-you and all your men.”
Harry obeyed, turning carefully. He discovered that no less than six soldiers, in buff coats and capelline helmets similar to the earl’s, had eased silently into the rectory’s antechamber. They had evidently entered through the doorway leading out into the small arboretum that was tucked against the building’s north side. They were all carrying what looked like primitive, oversized pepperbox revolvers; about half of them were aimed at him. And Harry thought:
Well, this sucks.
Owen Rowe O’Neill tried to make sense of what he was seeing: one of John’s escorts-big Synnot, no less-had been disarmed by the newcomers, hastily bound, and left behind like a sack of potatoes in the antechamber. These newcomers were obviously not Spanish, but then again, they were not obviously anything. They were deployed like soldiers, or raiders, but they evinced no uniformity of equipage whatsoever. Except, that is, the up-time weapons they were all holding. And these firearms were not the exorbitantly priced and notoriously unreliable copies that were as obvious as they were rare. These up-time guns were the real business, from the look of them. But that implied- no, no time for hypothesizing.
“You.” Owen jabbed the muzzle of his pepperbox at the youngish fellow who seemed to be the leader of the newcomers. “Why are you here? Be quick in answering; the guards will be back soon enough.”
