“Greetings, President Methwold.”
“Thank you for receiving me, Your Excellency,” the English East India Company man said in passable Castilian, bowing low.
Ignoring both the Englishman and Linhares, Father De Jesus bent to kiss the archbishop’s ring, receiving a benediction in return.
“Can we, perhaps, agree to set aside the social requirements of our individual styles for this meeting?” the archbishop said, smiling over the crown of his subordinate’s bent head. “We’ll be all night sorting out who is addressing whom, what with all the required ‘Your Excellencies.’”
Everyone but Father De Jesus readily agreed and Linhares took the priest’s delayed response as a result of either his movement to stand behind the archbishop’s chair or simply being intimidated at the presence of his betters.
Impatient to get the preliminaries out of the way, Linhares addressed President Methwold in Castilian: “I trust you have been keeping well, Mr. Methwold?”
“Yes, Lord Linhares, I have been. Please accept my thanks on behalf of the Company for your hospitality and the generous favors you have rendered the Company’s employees since we were so violently ejected from the Mughals’ lands.”
“You are most welcome. Indeed, it is on account of that favor that I asked you here tonight.”
Methwold’s expression didn’t so much change as harden, the lines of his face growing deeper as he looked from the priests to his host.
Linhares recognized the look immediately: Methwold was a fierce negotiator. Not two years past the two had sat across from one another and settled a peace between the Estado and the Company to better deal with the increased threat the Dutch posed to the trade of all nations in the waters of the East. That it had hardly made a difference in the face of Dutch depredations was neither here nor there; each knew the other for an honorable man.
“As and if the requirements of the Company allow it, you can be certain I will make good on those favors,” the man said after an instance’s quiet consideration.
“Good, good. I do not believe what I have to ask of you will conflict with the desires of the Company’s investors. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
The archbishop cleared his throat while Methwold thought that statement over. “For my part, I have a favor to ask of my young brother, here.”
De Jesus came round the chair and knelt before the archbishop again.
“I would ask you to lead a diplomatic mission on behalf of Christendom and the crown to meet with the young man we hope will be the next Mughal emperor.”
If Methwold had any objections to a Catholic priest representing “Christendom,” Linhares couldn’t see it. That kind of self-control was one reason the Englishman was here.
“To what purpose is my meeting with this Mohammedan prince, Your Excellency?” the priest asked.
Linhares was a bit taken aback by the direct question. His assessment of De Jesus’ character increased in light of it. Not everyone could question authority with such apparent ease.
“To pledge our combined”—the archbishop nodded toward Methwold—“support, and secure the right to open churches and schools for the common people in the territory he commands, once he ascends the throne.”
“Your Excellency, honesty makes me doubt I’m the best man for this. I am scarcely competent in Persian, have almost nothing of the courtly manners that such a mission would require…”
An expressionless Methwold looked sidelong at Linhares, who said, “The particular prince we would have you approach is rather ascetic in his religion. He does not hold much with ostentation in religion or philosophy.”
“To put it bluntly: he doesn’t like Jesuits. Thinks them arrogant and high-handed,” the archbishop amplified.
A startled snort escaped William Methwold’s control. While it was unlikely the man was unaware of the differences between the Orders and their respective methods of converting the heathen and the gentile, to have such division spoken aloud by a prince of the church in front of an Anglican of any rank was unheard of.
“But my work converting the local gentiles—”
“Commends you to the viceroy, to me, and to God. As does your gift of tongues.”
The archbishop allowed a brief silence while his subordinate searched his heart.
“Your Excellency, I can find no reason that is not rooted in pride why I should not accept this mission,” De Jesus said, at length.
“Very good, my son.”
Linhares turned to Methwold.
“I’m not certain what I can offer on behalf of the Company,” Methwold said.
“I propose we offer the prince supplies, free of charge or nearly so. Thanks to the hard work of men like Father De Jesus, the inland regions under our rule are finally producing an excess of foodstuffs.”
Methwold cocked his head, making his ridiculous ruff sway. “For our part, I cannot see the Company agreeing to such a plan. The Company has never had much in the way of settled farmland. We’ve always relied upon trade to feed our crews and factory workers.”
“Understood. Consider, then: What if our combined ships could cut off trade to his rivals and then transfer those goods as might be useful to him at limited cost and on agreeable credit terms?”
The archbishop didn’t bat an eye at this oblique mention of usury, though Father De Jesus stirred a bit.
William Methwold scratched his chin as he considered. He nodded again, his collar having lost some of its rigidity in the humidity. “What you propose has merit. I do believe I can engage our various employees to this task without waiting for word from the Honorable Merchants at home.”
Of course you can! Every one of you piratical bastards have been desperate to strike at the Mughals since the day they kicked you out and ambushed your caravan. The only thing staying your hand was the fear we might betray you to them and leave you without a safe harbor anywhere in India.
“Which prince do you propose to approach?” the president asked, though Linhares figured the Englishman knew precisely who the viceroy had in mind.
“Is that not clear from what has been said?”
