Chapter 24
Philip Haymill tapped on his lordship’s study door. At the voice from within, he turned the handle and leaned in.
“My lord? I have today’s letters for you.”
The Earl of Cork looked up from the piles of papers on his desk. To his servant, the chancellor’s face looked haggard and thinner than it had in months past. “Bring them, if you please. I have a short while before I must wait upon His Majesty.”
Haymill lowered the tray and transferred the missives to the table. His training under Lord Strafford had taught him not to open anything that was sealed with wax and a signet, but others were to be unfolded and laid flat for perusal. While they had little else in common, this chancellor followed the same practice as his deposed and now escaped predecessor.
The Earl pushed through the pile of papers, looking as he did every day for certain seals. He peered up at the clerk.
“Nothing from Hamburg?” he asked.
“No, sir. I’ve looked for the fish impression in the sealing wax, but none has come.”
“Curse those fool bully-boys!” his lordship said. “Ye’ve had all the postings from every ship?”
Like any efficient courtier, Haymill had anticipated the question. “Yes, sir. I had two boys waiting on the docks since before dawn every day, sir. You have all the news that there is to have from overseas.”
“That is all, Haymill,” the chancellor said. He waved a hand and Haymill retreated and closed the door behind him.
Cork broke open every seal, scanned the signatures of each of the correspondents, and tossed the pages aside. No mistake. O’Connor had not written. He threw himself out of his chair and walked up and down the short length of his office.
It was not as though he had no other issues with which he needed to deal. If he only heard petitions from the people sitting out in the antechamber, he could have been busy all day and all night for decades to come. If he sat with the king, who had become obsessed with the histories from the future that other spies had obtained from Magdeburg and Grantville showing that he had only a scant handful of years left to live before he was unjustly executed, Cork would get nothing else done. If he did nothing but oversee the restoration of the Tower, again, it would take all the hours that God sent. Delegating took only a few tasks from his burden.
His head ached with the number of things that had gone and continued to go wrong. He, too, could not help but be obsessed with the visitors from the future. He knew how many missteps he had made. Why had he not executed Strafford and Cromwell while they were in his hands? Logic told him that they had still not yet become the men that the future histories said they would. Why had he not released the Americans and put them back on a ship to the Germanies instead of continuing to hold them?
Because of the king, of course. Charles had been paralyzed and unable to act out of pure fear. The Americans had been prepared to make alliances, or at the very least, form a non-aggression pact. He had found that term in one of the books on political science that had been smuggled to him by a spy in Aragon. The much-copied document propounded some very dangerous concepts, none of which gave him any advantages toward dealing with the all-powerful Americans, Gustavus Adolphus, or the so-called United States of Europe’s steadily-growing list of allies. He had to know how they had escaped and humiliated him—no, not him, for he was but a humble servant of the crown. How the Americans had humiliated His Majesty, Charles, by grace of God king of England, Scotland and Ireland and all the territories claimed by his predecessors. They could not have escaped alone. He had questioned, some under torture, every person that could possibly have assisted in the enterprise, and received surprisingly little useful information.
From one of the stacked boxes of correspondence, he extracted the last couple of letters from Diarmid O’Connor. It was a wonder that these idiots could actually read and write. That barely adequate literacy was the main reason he had sent him and Fitzroyce abroad to investigate for him, that he would be sent regular reports on what they found. Capable of reading and writing letters, yes. Ability to maintain a coherent and steady correspondence, damn them, no.
The two fools had left Amsterdam months ago in advance of his orders, and turned up in Germany instead, sending a half-apologetic letter to him, and hoping that he would continue to use them. Why hadn’t he abandoned them then and there? It sounded as though they had drawn suspicion upon themselves, and were looking for another assignment where they had not soiled the nest. It was a wonder that they hadn’t turned up with a knife between their ribs. Not that he would ever hear the fate of a couple of ruffians finding themselves dead in a ditch. He’d instructed them to go to Grantville and look for the clues to the culprits there. Despite their stupidity, they might still come up with the information that had kept him awake and restless for over a year.
The only fact that had persuaded him that O’Connor and Fitzroyce were not wasting his time and money was that girl they wrote about who was so curiously out of place. That “Margarette de Beecham.” They didn’t say who she was or where she came from, other than she was English. That they had happened upon that fact, even by accident, opened up questions from yet another front that was troubling the king.
What, indeed, was an English girl traveling on her own doing heading for the United States of Europe? Was there a connection to the Americans? What possible help could one countrified vixen have offered to render the wall of the Tower of London into ruins? But the mere fact that she was there in Hamburg, that she was bound for the new country, all that worried him. Why was she there? What possible connection did a young Englishwoman have with the Americans?
The name provoked an itch of remembrance at the back of his mind. He pulled one box of correspondence after another to him and looked through it. De Beecham. Why did that sound familiar? March, February, January…no, it must have been further back, before Christmas. It sounded like an aristocrat’s name.
He drew a sheet of good white paper from the previous year’s file. Yes, here it was, in April (curse O’Connor’s misspelling): the honorable Margaret de Beauchamp, daughter of Sir Timothy and Lady de Beauchamp, baronet of Churnet and Trent, who owned a number of small properties in Staffordshire, begged permission to have an audience with the king. He felt ire roiling in his belly.
Well, where in hell was the king to get money to pay for the defense of the realm without taxes? Boyle almost asked aloud. But that was something that was always evident.
And now that he cast his mind back, the girl had come to him regarding taxes. Yes, he had granted her a brief audience. Not with the king, of course. A tiny manor, father a gentleman, merchant class, engaged in the wool trade, as so many of them were in the north, didn’t merit an audience. Boyle had a very faint memory of a brown-haired girl with hazel eyes, not plain per se, but not striking in any manner. She had asked on behalf of her father for forbearance of the annual levy, and the Earl of Cork had turned her down. That was the last he’d seen of her.
The de Beauchamp manor was in the north. The north of England had been a thorn in the king’s side for a long time now. For the last many months, His Majesty had been growing concerned about the protests. Staffordshire and Yorkshire both had shown signs of discontent. In fact, some nobles and gentry alike had refused to pay their taxes until their voices were heard. They wanted the king to summon Parliament back into session, to formulate new laws and to enforce boundaries between the king and the people. Was de Beauchamp part of the movement against the king’s will?
But, no, in the tax rolls that Boyle perused, Trent and Churnet was up to date on his levy. So, he was not refusing to pay. Somehow, he had managed to raise the funds. Probably by selling some assets, or a delayed profit coming in.
Boyle chewed on his thumbnail. Was the baronet’s complicity a ploy? Was he trying to allay suspicions about his leanings by seeming to comply with the requirements of the crown, but plotting against it behind a smiling face? The king feared armed resistance rearing in the counties near Scotland. Boyle had had reports of those in the duchies and counties raising armies.
He harkened back to the pilfered history books that he had read. A fearsome time lay ahead, not far at all, and the nobles and men of property of the north were instrumental in bringing about the end of the monarchy—at least temporarily. He must starve them of the resources to foment rebellion. The countryside must be subdued and kept fearful. Ordinary troops would not serve to intimidate fellow Englishmen. No, for that purpose, he would employ mercenaries hired by the crown. And what better way to pay those mercenaries than with the very tax revenues that the gentry so hated paying?
What if he was to pick out certain troublesome nobles and make examples of them? More than a few surely had guilty consciences. Like Churnet and Trent. The coincidence that his daughter had been in London and was now in Germany required scrutiny. Would her father argue that she represented the family’s interest in the wool trade? Boyle did not believe in coincidence. It would have to be proved to him.
He slapped a hand on the stack of letters. Why had O’Connor not written back with more information about her? Boyle feared that they had fallen afoul of the Americans while snooping through Grantville. Or had they perhaps been unable to find a messenger who would safely and securely carry back a message to a ship bound for London? He was going mad waiting to hear from them.
Were they, in fact, dead in a ditch? What, then, had happened to their possessions? Had they remembered to destroy his correspondence, or did someone now have the letters he had written to them asking for information on the destruction of the Tower and those who had aided and abetted the escape of the Americans?
Richard Boyle slammed a fist on his desktop. He blamed himself. He had tried to make the best use of bad tools, and that was his mistake. It had only been weeks since he had last heard from O’Connor or Fitzroyce. Should he continue to be patient? Or would inaction cause more damage to his position or to the crown? These men had proved unreliable before. Should he send other men to Hamburg, to investigate where the fools had gone? Had they turned coat and volunteered to work for the Americans? He would have their heads!
An impulsive swat by a furious hand sent an inkwell flying into the wall. The black spatter that ran down onto the parquet floor made him angry at himself. He kicked the thick glass bottle across the room, then strode to the door and flung it open.
“Haymill! Get someone to clean this floor.”
Instead of waiting to see if his will was done, he stalked out of the room, leaving the mess behind. Thirty or so pairs of hopeful eyes met his as he stormed through the antechamber. Their hope quickly faded even before he reached the doors, which a pair of pages held open for him. Their troubles would have to wait another day.
The war in the Baltic Sea had been a terrible revelation to all, proving that the Americans were fearsome enemies. The king had been of no use at all throughout the crisis, seeing assassins around every corner. Refugees had begun to turn up on English shores and been questioned by his men. No sign whatsoever had been found of the Americans, or of the two traitors, nor of his formerly trusted guards and soldiers.
Should he wait to send spies northward? No, why would he wait? But to throw any more trustworthy men into the maelstrom while Gustavus Adolphus lurked at the very shores of the realm seemed foolhardy.
He hated to wait any longer, in hopes that the fools had a report on its way on another merchant ship. In the meantime, he fretted over the lack of information.
It was time to send someone to Staffordshire and see what was going on there. He had no doubt that His Majesty would agree.
* * *
Admiral Simpson led Leutnant Georg Zimmer into Mike Stearns’ office. Mike looked up from the piles of paperwork that never seemed to end.
“We’ll have to regard this matter as serious,” John Chandler Simpson said without preamble, gesturing to the man at his back. “It sounds as though that fool in London is never going to let the situation rest. A year has passed. You would think he has more pressing troubles.”
“Maybe not,” Mike said, setting aside the budget. “One of the most recognizable buildings in the city left in ruins. But if you ask Melissa Mailey, the greater crime was in destroying the Globe Theater.”
Simpson dismissed the latter comment with a wave. “I’m serious, Mr. Prime Minister. It seems as though Cork sent at least a dozen spies into Europe looking for those who escaped from the Tower of London and any collaborators who may have assisted in the rescue.”
“And have they found any?”
“No. Of course not. Any of our people who are still in Great Britain are staying well out of his hands. Those who returned here have resumed their normal lives and are spread out across the continent. These two dolts we have in custody have no idea where to look for them. We certainly gave them adequate access to the government building in hopes of discovering Cork’s plan by what they targeted, but, clearly, he did not trust them with any higher information or plans he may have. They had a mission, which God knows they have failed, and thank God for that.”
“That’s a relief, but how much can we trust the word of a couple of spies?”
“Calling them spies is an overestimation of their abilities,” Simpson said. “It would be comparing college students to kindergarteners. If they had worked in the mines, they would have had the rough edges knocked off them and possibly become good employees. As it is, they are completely out of their depth. I would almost feel sorry for them, but they can’t be trusted. They’re both too cunning and too stupid to let go.”
“What did they know?”
“Herr Prime Minister, the truth is very little,” Georg said. He was the very picture of a hearty farm boy from the countryside, with thick blond hair and blue eyes in a round pink face, a long neck but thick shoulders suitable for carrying a couple of oxen. From Simpson’s description of him, the exterior concealed a mind foxlike in its cunning. Mike thanked Heaven that the young man was on their side. The USE Navy was the most functional branch of the USE military. God knew the Air Force was still a few puddle jumpers and spotter planes, and not much else was ready to roll. Thank the same God that that young idiot Eddie Cantrell had been found safe in Copenhagen, although minus one lower leg and plus one royal fiancée. John Simpson had been a changed man since he had returned from the North Sea. If anything, he was more protective of the USE and the people in it. The investigative branch that was growing up, both through the Freedom Arches and Simpson’s people, was a harsh reality that the former executive fought for, but Mike knew it was a necessary evil. “They are not very intelligent, of course, but they are observant and cunning. It seems that they ascribed importance to the presence of English and Irish personnel in the USE, and named names in their posts to their master.”
“They were meant to go into Grantville. We’ve had an influx of Irishmen, so they might have passed more or less unnoticed while they were snooping around, but they have been as subtle as a brick thrown through a window.”
“What names?” Mike asked.
Simpson pursed his lips. “No one of real importance. They’d become fixated on Miss de Beauchamp, ignoring everything else going around them. They did manage to get a letter out to him in Hamburg before we noticed their presence. Since then, my men tried to drop hints they could have picked up on to misdirect London to fire on targets to which they can’t do any harm. Unfortunately, the only actually vulnerable person here is the one they identified to the Earl of Cork.”
“My sister will be angry about that,” Mike said. Rita was back in Ingolstadt with Tom, and she was already angry that the two spies had been allowed free rein in the palace. Mike had agreed with Simpson’s estimation that it was better to see what they were looking for, and had discussed it with her over the radio. Naturally, she was worried about her young friend. So was he. “But they haven’t been able to send reports since then?”
Georg smiled. “Yes, Herr Prime Minister. They think they sent many reports by way of travelers who were going to the port, or even on to London itself.”
“They think.”
“Ja. We have all of them. They did not at first identify their ‘handler,’ as Admiral Simpson calls it,” here Georg offered a slight bow to the admiral, “but it did not take much persuasion before they gave up the name. We knew already, because of the reports.”
Mike leaned back in his chair. “Tell me that they didn’t have the envelopes addressed to him directly.”
“Nein, they are foolish, but not that foolish. Three wrappings, one to a warehouse on the dock in London. One to a man, we think is a messenger. The innermost one addresses the Earl of Cork by name, and is sealed with wax.”
“He’s as slippery as a bag of snakes. I’m certain that he set up this system,” Simpson said. “These two would never have thought of it themselves.”
Mike frowned. “What did they learn? What does he know now that he didn’t before?”
“By the reports, not very much. They overheard gossip at the receptions that our men let them enter. They were always distracted before they could overhear important conversations, such as your discussions, or those held by my daughter-in-law. They amassed the names of nobles that are in cooperation, but those are not precisely secret. And none of them are friends of England. Charles has been isolated for years, now. We were tempted to let that one slip through, but it had references in context to a previous message that we couldn’t let pass.”
“They told us everything that they have seen,” Georg added. “They were eager to disclose anything that they knew. We did not have to resort to strong measures. At least not much.”
“You are very thorough,” Mike said, with a wry smile. His mind tried to shy away from the reality, but he pushed it firmly back. “Did they overhear anything of importance from my sister? What she’s doing in Ingolstadt?”
“Nein, mein herr. Nor would they understand the import of her presence there.”
Mike stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Of course, they knew that Rita had returned here. The others who were in London with her are scattered all over the landscape, so they’re safe. But they saw her interact with Margaret.”
“That, yes,” Simpson said. “But those letters are in our possession. None of them reached London.”
“So, what hard information on her will he have? He may know that she is a friend to the USE.”
Simpson shook his head. “He knows nothing. He suspects everything. The king is of no use. Boyle is as efficient as Charles will let him be, which is lucky for us.”
“What about the spies? How loyal are they to the crown?
“As loyal as they would be to anyone who would pay them. Spycraft is superior to manual labor.”
“Can we buy them?”
“With respect, Mr. Prime Minister,” Simpson said, “no.”
Mike started to protest. Simpson raised a hand. Not in an imperious gesture, but one asking for patience. They had had this discussion more than once in the past.
“Damn it all,” Mike said. “I’m a hunter myself, but I hate the thought of executions. This is not what we do! Why can’t we consider rehabilitation? West Virginia did away with its death penalty long before I was born.”
“Nineteen sixty-five, to be exact,” Simpson said. “But that was where we came from, not where we are now.”
“But we are still the same people that we were then!”
“I’d argue that not to be strictly true, Mike,” Simpson said. Fine lines gathered around his eyes, and he looked weary. “For so many reasons. But the important difference is that we came from a rich country, where we could afford to house prisoners serving life sentences. Those resources are no longer as readily available, and Gustav Adolf himself would argue, as would the man on the street, that if you plan to feed anyone for what could be forty or fifty years, let it be someone who deserves it.”
Georg cleared his throat. “Mein herr, no one wants to feed and house spies. They could live another thirty years, and then what? They could still escape and cause more trouble. This is the way things have always gone.”
“To be honest, they expect nothing more from us,” Simpson said.
Mike stared at him in disbelief. “If they’re not confessing to get clemency, why are they talking so readily?”
“So we will make it quick,” Simpson said. “We would anyhow. We do not torture. That’s barbarism.”
Mike felt a chill in his belly. “I hate this part of the job.”
“So do I. It’s not an honorable death in battle. It isn’t passing away on a deathbed surrounded by loved ones. They’re pawns in a dirty game, and they know it. Boyle would knock them off the chess board without a backward thought, except the trouble of where to dispose of the bodies. And your own sister might well have been one of those pawns.”
“I know it,” Mike said, the grim thought even more chilling.
“Don’t go soft on them. Not for a minute. They’d hang any of our people if they could. We need to set an example that shows we are serious.”
“Is this the example we want to set?” Mike asked. “Why don’t we transport them to one of the colonies?”
“And make these two their problem? Is that fair?” Simpson asked.
Mike gritted his teeth. Another of the realities of being in charge. It was one of the many things that would be on his conscience forever, despite knowing how much damage spies did. If he turned them to the side of the USE, they could turn back again, depending on the threats posed to them by their former master, or how much they were offered.
Mike had no stomach for officially sanctioned murder, but he knew that he had no choice. Yet another good reason for giving up this office as soon as he could. The wheels for that were in motion, fortunately. Very deliberately, he changed the subject.
“How is Eddie Cantrell doing?”
“That young idiot,” Simpson said, but his tone was indulgent, or as indulgent as John Chandler Simpson ever let himself be. “I’ll let you know if we find out anything else of importance, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Thank you.” After they left, Mike pulled a piece of paper out to write a note to be transmitted to his sister in Ingolstadt. She’d want to know, and would probably give him a piece of her mind about it.