1633

'He's forty years old, Darryl!' she snapped. 'So he'd have been five years old when he 'killed the Men of '98'-assuming, of course, that those had been the men of fifteen ninety-eight instead of 1798, which is when the rebellion actually happened. You're almost two centuries off.'

Darryl was glowering. Not at the reproof-water off his back, that; always had been-but with the glower of a man who knew what he knew, dammit, and don't confuse him with the facts.

Melissa rubbed her face, reminding herself that she was a diplomat these days, not a schoolteacher. No point in trying to correct Darryl's grasp of history. For whatever reason the young man detested Strafford, the detestation was probably good enough. She wasn't certain yet, but all the signs pointed to an England which was already lost to them. She'd come here looking for peace-even, possibly, an alliance-but with Strafford now an earl, and all the rest she'd seen…

'The point's this, people. Wentworth was always-by far-the best adviser and official King Charles ever had. But, in the world we came from, Charles never much cared for the man. Basically, because Wentworth was too smart and too capable and too efficient.'

'Didn't trust him, huh?' grunted Tom.

Melissa shook her head. 'No, it wasn't that. Wentworth-Strafford-was loyal to the bone. When the time finally came, oh, when was it? In 1641, I think, give or take a year. When the time came when the English revolution demanded Strafford's head, King Charles let them have him-even though he'd sworn to Strafford that he would stand by him no matter what.'

Melissa, unlike Darryl, had a sense for the grayness of history. Heroes were rarely simply heroes, nor villains always 'villainous.' Strafford, like Richelieu-like Wallenstein, even-was a man of many parts. Some of which could only be admired, however much the men themselves might be enemies of what she stood for now, in this time and place.

'Strafford's quite a guy, actually,' she said softly. 'He sent-would send, years from now, in that other universe-a letter to the king absolving him of his vow. And by all accounts, even those of his enemies, went to his death with great courage and dignity-and not a murmur of complaint about his-'

There was no reason to be diplomatic. 'His worthless, treacherous, useless, incompetent, feckless, shithead of a king.'

There! I feel better.

Darryl was grinning at her use of the vulgar term. Miz Mailey!

Everyone in the room chuckled. Melissa grinned herself.

'King Charles the First was-is-one of the dumbest kings the English ever saddled themselves with. Well… 'dumb' isn't exactly the right word. Frankly, that's giving him too much credit. He was-is-probably smart enough. So he doesn't even have that excuse. But he's got the temperament of a child. He sulks, he pouts, he always wants to have his cake and eat it too. For years he neglected his French Catholic wife, in favor of his infatuation with his favorite courtier, the duke of Buckingham-who was an even bigger jackass than he is. Buckingham was assassinated in 1628. That's happened in this universe too, because it was before the Ring of Fire. Since then, Charles has been doting on his wife. And-never fails!-Henrietta Maria is another royal twit. She's Louis XIII's sister, and she's pretty much cut from the same cloth as her brother. If Louis didn't have Richelieu running France for him-at least he's smart enough to know talent when he sees it-he'd be in a mess.'

Tom chuckled heavily. 'Are there any kings or queens who can tie their own shoes, in this day and age? Outside of Gustav Adolf, of course.'

'Several, as a matter of fact. King Christian of Denmark is quite an impressive monarch. The biggest problem he always had was trying to bite off more than he could chew. But-capable, no doubt about it, even if he is drunk half the time. And if the current rulers of Spain and Austria aren't anything to write home about, their younger relatives are something else. Don Fernando of Spain-they'll already be calling him the 'cardinal-infante,' I imagine-is just about to start his impressive military career. That's the Spanish Habsburgs. On the Austrian side of the family, Emperor Ferdinand's son the King of Hungary is also on the eve of coming into his own.'

She twirled her fingers in the air, trying to depict the confused workings of space and time. 'In the universe that was-would have been; hell, probably is somewhere else-the cardinal-infante and the king of Hungary would lead the Habsburg armies that defeated the Swedes at Nordlingen in 1634. Of course,' she added, comforting herself, 'they didn't have to face Gustav Adolf himself, since he died at Lьtzen.'

Tom Simpson, if nothing else, knew his military history. 'November of last year, that would have been.' His thick chest rumbled a little laugh. 'Not in this universe, though. We pretty well put the kibosh on that at the Alte Veste.'

Rita shushed him with a hand on his arm. 'Keep talking, Melissa.'

'The point is this,' she repeated. 'The reason Charles didn't like Wentworth-and his queen Henrietta Maria disliked him even more-is because the man pestered him. 'Do this, do that.' The fact that he was unquestionably loyal and his advice was generally good didn't matter to Charles. He just found the man tiresome, that's all. Wentworth distracted him-tried to, anyway-from his beloved round of masques and the flattery of that pack of toadying courtiers he and the queen always had around them.'

She snorted. 'Earl of Strafford! Wentworth didn't come from the nobility, he came from the gentry. Like any capable and ambitious man of his time-this time-he wanted honors and recognition. For years, hard years in which he served the king ably and even brilliantly, he petitioned Charles to make him an earl. And, naturally, Charles-God, what a sorry man he was-is-rewarded him with indifference. He showered earldoms on every twit of a courtier who gained his or Henrietta Maria's favor, but nothing for Wentworth. Nothing except another assignment. Not until almost the very end, when England started to blow up under his feet, did Charles finally make Wentworth the earl of Strafford. Years from now, that should have happened. Right now, Wentworth is supposed to have just arrived in Ireland-where he'd spend years hammering that place into shape for the English.'

Darryl scowled but, thankfully, kept quiet.

'Do you see what I'm getting at, people?' She pointed again at the entryway. 'In this time and place, Charles has already made him the earl of Strafford. And you can be sure it isn't because Charles is any brighter or less of a jerk. So what does that tell us?'

'They know what's going to happen,' said Tom immediately. 'Of course, we were already pretty sure of that, once Rebecca found out that Doctor Harvey took some copies of pages from that history book he ran into while he was visiting Grantville. But knowing is one thing, figuring stuff out is another.'

He rose, and went to the window overlooking the street between St. Thomas' Tower and the inner wall of the Tower of London. 'The shit's hitting the fan, isn't it? That's what you're telling us, Melissa.'

'Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that,' she said primly-until the laugh which swept the room reminded her that she'd use the vulgar term herself, not minutes past. Then, smiling a bit sheepishly, she continued:

'But, yes, that's the gist of it. Charles obviously knows there's a revolution coming and the 'historical agenda' has him scheduled for the chopping block. It's like Samuel Johnson said: 'Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' Not even Charles is silly enough to let his petty irritation with Wentworth stand in the way of staying alive and staying in power. So he must have called him back from Ireland and given the task of stopping the revolution before it even starts into his very capable hands.'

She nodded toward the window overlooking the Thames. 'We all noticed that the shipping pattern in the Channel was odd.'

Then, nodded toward Bruch. 'To be precise, Friedrich told us it was.' In years gone by, Friedrich had served as a sailor on one of the Hanseatic League's ships. 'And then, how busy the river traffic on the Thames seemed to be. Remember that most so-called 'warships' in this day and age are just armed merchantmen. At a guess, I'd say the English are preparing some kind of naval expedition.'

'What for?' asked Rita, her face creased with a frown. 'I'd think that if Charles was worried about revolution at home, that he'd be keeping his attention on that. Not playing games with military adventures somewhere else.'

'I don't know myself, Rita. But…' Melissa tried to figure out a quick and simple way to explain the complexities.

'Look, we've been hearing about the new Spanish expedition against Holland for months now. And about France's reaction to it. Well, the English aren't all that fond of the Dutch themselves at the moment. In our own history, Charles and the court actually favored the Spaniards over the Dutch, despite all the English pride in having defeated the Armada. Of course, our Spain didn't get around to launching its 'Second Armada' until several years from now in our history, so the fact that they're planning one now seems to indicate that they've been doing a little future research of their own.

'But my point is that even though 'official England' favored Spain then, there's no way Charles would have actually helped the Spaniards. However much he disliked Holland, he recognized a certain commonality of interest with them. And he knew Richelieu's policy was always directed at defeating Habsburg power, so siding with Spain against the Dutch would have made him France's enemy, as well. That's why he stayed neutral in this particular little conflict in our own past.

'But if he's preparing a naval expedition now, then that suggests he doesn't plan on sitting this one out this time around. I can't believe he'd openly support Spain-not with the potential for pissing off Richelieu, and especially not in light of the fact that there's nothing in particular Spain could give him to make it worth his while. But if not Spain, then he has to be planning on siding with the Dutch, instead, and that doesn't make any sense either. Unless Richelieu is involved somehow.'

'But why would he want to help Richelieu?' Rita asked with a frown.

'It all comes down to money, in the end,' Melissa replied. 'Charles hasn't summoned a Parliament in years, now-not since the Parliament of 1628 which infuriated him. But without a Parliament, his means of raising funds are pretty limited. That was always what hamstrung the English monarchy, you know. It's the reason that England has a much smaller army than most countries of this day and age. The crown doesn't have much of a war chest without getting Parliament's approval. And summoning a new Parliament is the one thing Charles is not going to do, for sure. The last one had already become a hotbed of Puritan dissent.'

Not to her surprise, Tom's mind was already ranging ahead. If the huge soldier didn't have his father's temperament, he had inherited the man's brains. 'He needs money to crush revolution at home, so he's getting it from abroad. Why not France? His wife's the French king's sister, after all. But wherever he gets it, he'll have to pay a price for it. So, yeah, that could be by supporting somebody else's military adventures-like Richelieu's bid to stop the Spanish Habsburgs from regaining control of Holland.'

He cocked his head away from the window, looking at Melissa. 'Makes sense, I suppose. But it also seems a bit fancy, though-far-thinking, let's call it-for a king as goofy as you've described Charles.'

'It is. But Wentworth's capable of thinking that far ahead. And, as I said, he's been made the earl of Strafford…'

'Way ahead of schedule,' Tom concluded, turning back to the window. A moment later, he seemed to stiffen.

'And here's something else.' He pointed down at the street below. 'Dunno what it means, Melissa, but they're hauling somebody else into this joint. And I'd say, going