"Many people would like to have their cake and eat it too. This is rarely possible in life. There is no question that if we must take a bargain, either the right to make our best effort to save souls or the right to keep ecclesiastical power and property as they have accrued in the centuries since the conversion of the Emperor Constantine, the only morally acceptable choice is that we opt for the salvation of souls. Otherwise we have no right to call ourselves the disciples of the savior who died for us."
Doña Mencia folded the letter and put it back in her pocket. "He has provided citations from the church fathers and canon lawyers for his conclusion."
Maria Anna reached out her hand for the letter. Doña Mencia gave it to her.
"You realize, Your Grace, that you are not the only one who is asking this question. Nor are you the only one who is asking similar questions, as this war drags on. My brother is advising Don Fernando in the Netherlands. Some resolution must be reached there and it cannot be a legalistic reading of the 1555 Peace of Augsburg, which gave only the Lutherans rights within the Holy Roman Empire along with the Catholics. Don Fernando must deal with Fredrik Hendrik, who is indubitably a Calvinist. As are his subjects in the north."
"Papa will never agree to extend the terms of the Peace of Augsburg to cover more Protestants. He wishes to make it ever narrower."
"Your Highness." Doña Mencia paused. "Your Highness, it is possible that the emperor's intransigence may lead to the signing of separate peace treaties between various German princes and the Swede. Without his concurrence. Which in turn...."
Maria Anna nodded. Her brother Ferdinand had reached that conclusion also. "Which in turn may ring the death knell of an empire that has, however imperfectly, endured for eight hundred years. And with its death, of course, the Peace of Augsburg would lose effect. It is possible that Papa may be the last Holy Roman Emperor. That my brother Ferdinand may never be elected King of the Romans before Papa dies." She lifted her chin. "Ferdinand is considering what to do if that happens. And much of the Hungarian leadership is also Calvinist."
She didn't have the right to say any more than that.
Doña Mencia was a little surprised that the emperor's two oldest children had actually discussed the possibility openly, even with one another.
Then Maria Anna said, "I do not believe that Uncle Max would be at all happy if the electoral vote for which he fought so long and hard turns out to have no meaning. He will be very angry if he never gets to exercise it after Papa has given it to him. If there are no more elections, then it will also be meaningless that his brother in Cologne holds an electoral vote. If there is no longer a Holy Roman Empire, the position of die Habsburgerin in the Wittelsbach court will not be an easy one."
* * * *
Doña Mencia really had not intended to do it. She reached into her pocket again, and brought out the other item that had been in the bag the courier gave her just before she reached Passau. The rather obsolete note from Don Fernando in which he wrote in his own hand that a marriage with Archduchess Maria Anna of Austria would be his first choice.
Then, after Maria Anna had read them, she took back both of the letters. "I am sorry, Your Highness. But I do not believe that you have any secure place for these. The other morning while you were eating breakfast, Susanna Allegretti had reason to enter your oratory, to return the kneeler that you sent for repair. There was someone in the room, in the livery of one of the footmen, flipping through the pages of your Book of Hours, as if looking for hidden notes or letters. She didn't recognize him; there was no way to know whether he was sent by the court of Vienna or by the duke or..."
Maria Anna finished the sentence. "Or by the Bavarian ecclesiastical council. Or even by the Holy Office. I do not have the standing in the Bavarian court that Aunt Elisabeth Renata held. Or that Mama has at home. I have not earned the status, the prestige. I do not have the support from Uncle Max that will keep me out of the shadow of the inquisition, now that I have offered my patronage to the English Ladies. Not even Carafa, not even the nuncio, would be able to prevent them from taking an interest in me. Not even if he tried."
* * * *
Doña Mencia greeted the emissary from Dekan Golla. She apologized. She was sorry to inconvenience the friar, who was representing the man who had administrative authority over all of Munich's churches, but the archduchess was at prayer. If she could be of assistance in any way . . .
"I wish," the emissary said, "to see the archduchess at prayer, to confirm that this is indeed the case. Just to see her; I do not need to interrupt her meditations. Not, of course, that I doubt your assurances. However, a question has arisen in the confines of the Holy Office in regard to the archduchess' contacts with the foreign witches."
Doña Mencia was well aware that Duke Maximilian had determined that there was insufficient evidence to bring an indictment against Frau Simpson and Frau Dreeson for witchcraft. She did not, however, think it was prudent to bring that up at the moment. Beckoning Countess Polyxena to accompany them—as stupid as the girl seemed to be, Polyxena was one of those she suspected of having been placed in Maria Anna's household at the behest of Father Lamormaini—she led the Capuchin into the archduchess' bedchamber, across it, and silently opened the door to the smaller cubicle that had been intended to serve as a dressing room.
The archduchess had arranged it as an oratory, containing her prie-dieu and several of her favorite votive pictures. She was kneeling; there could be no question that it was she, since she turned her face toward the door when it opened. She was half way through a rosary; the golden rose lay on the reading pedestal where she would ordinarily place her Book of Hours; that lay closed on a small table beside her.
Doña Mencia stood quietly while the Capuchin watched; he then nodded his head and withdrew.
"Would you care to schedule an appointment with the archduchess? I am sure that she would be willing to receive you."
"Thank you, gracious lady, but I do not believe that it will be necessary." He withdrew into the corridor.
"What was that all about?" Countess Polyxena asked.
"I don't know," Doña Mencia answered. "I can only suspect. As, probably, you can as well." She did not define her suspicions.
* * * *
Maria Anna completed the interrupted rosary; then folded her hands and bowed her head. Thus far, her meditations had led to only one conclusion.
She had to make an important decision. She was the only person who could make it.
She realized that this was the first time she had ever been in this position. For the entire quarter century of her life, every important decision in regard to her existence had been made by someone else; by Papa and Mama; by her tutors; by the privy council.
She had dreamed that some day she would become a formidable Habsburg regent. What justification did she have for that dream? A regent had to assume heavy responsibility; a regent issued orders that affected not only herself, not only her immediate household, but the people of the territory entrusted to her care. How could you make wise decisions for others, when you had never made a decision for yourself? What good did the preparation do, the training in the names and functions of monarchs, magnates, and important counselors? What good, if you had never in fact made an important decision and accepted the consequences. Had never, on many days, even decided what to wear. Had rarely decided what to eat. Had never decided who your attendants would be.
She could request certain ladies, but she did not control their appointments. Had never decided where she would live or what rooms would be assigned her. She kneeled, stripping herself one by one of every delusion she had ever had in regard to power and authority.
The decision she must make would not just affect her. It would affect—she paused. Papa, certainly, and through Papa, Mama; her sister and brothers, her sister-in-law and nephew. Uncle Max; no, call him by what he was now, her betrothed husband. Don Fernando, her cousin, in the Netherlands; through him, his brother of Spain. Her own ladie
s and the other members of her household; the advisers and counselors of all the others; from there, in a dizzying spiral, other political powers, the Swede, Wallenstein. She pulled herself back from that abyss before its confusion could swallow her.
She looked at the golden rose lying before her. It would affect the pope and the church itself.
She looked at her folded hands. The easy decision was to stay. That was the decision that had already been made for her, of course. But if, this day, she made a conscious determination to follow the path that others had laid out for her, that would still be a decision. Because, now, there was another possibility. She had a chance to reach out, to grasp that prepared path, to make it her own.
She thought of her conversation with the Spanish courtier Saavedra and court chancellor Abegg. A path along which accused witches would burn if she were not fertile.
She bowed her head. She faced a life in which the husband who had been chosen for her turned his face away. In another world, according to the encyclopedia articles that Don Fernando sent, Aunt Elisabeth Renata had lived one more year. It had been a hard, bitter year during which she had been relentlessly attacked by the cancer. A hard, bitter year during which Uncle Max, although grieving, had made his farewells and, if he had not welcomed, had at least accepted that it was a mercy when God granted death to end his wife's suffering. In this world, Elisabeth Renata had been taken so fast. Uncle Max would not easily forgive his advisers for thrusting a second wife upon him before he had a chance to mourn the first.
Nor would he easily forgive his second wife, if at all, if ever, for being alive when Aunt Elisabeth Renata was dead. There. She admitted what she had known in her heart for these past weeks; what she had known since the ceremony at Passau.
It would, according to the encyclopedias, be a long marriage. Uncle Max was sixty-one now; he would live for eighteen more years.
Papa had not mentioned that. It was impossible to believe that Papa had not known. Father Lamormaini had not mentioned that. It was impossible to believe that he, too, had not known.
She could not rely upon those she had trusted. If they believed that withholding the truth would make her more malleable to their wishes, they would withhold it. That was a thing that she knew. She could not know why they did it, whether for good motives or for ill. She could know that they did it. This was something that she knew.
The other possible course of action...
Father Drexel's words came back to her. "If you are assigned the role of beggar, then play that person slyly and artfully." What role had God assigned her in this world that was a stage?
"The most beautiful and praiseworthy thing a man can do before he dies is to devote his life to the untiring performance of virtuous acts, constantly seeking to practice prudence, justice, moderation, endurance; faith, hope, and unselfish love." Presumably, it was the best thing a woman could do also. How could she best serve the church?
Maria Anna bowed her head in prayer; her eyes focused again on the golden rose that lay before her. She took out her rosary.
It was expected that everyone in the Residenz be in bed by ten o'clock in the evening at the latest.
Doña Mencia sent the ladies-in-waiting to bed; she, herself, continued watching. At midnight, she replaced the archduchess' candle; she performed this small service twice more during the night.
Just at dawn, Maria Anna rose stiffly from her prie-dieu, walked out of the oratory, and put her hand gently on Doña Mencia's shoulder, shaking it.
"Dress me for mass, please. And try to create some time, today, for us to speak privately again. We must make our plans."
Chapter 41
Sursum Corda
Munich, Bavaria
Through her chief attendant, Doña Mencia de Mendoza, Archduchess Maria Anna expressed a wish to spend some time viewing the duke's formal gardens. This was not surprising; her stepmother, Empress Eleonora, was known to be an enthusiastic gardener. The Hofmeister arranged it promptly. He had been ordered to extend every reasonable courtesy to the future duchess. The duke had not rescinded those orders in spite of the reprimand he had sent her in regard to the visit by the English Ladies.
Maria Anna announced, to the great joy of the gardeners, that she had been highly pleased with the excursion. She would, if possible, walk in the gardens for a half hour after mass each morning, granted that the weather permitted.
The Hofmeister saw no reason why this would not be possible. The gardens were well-secured and he had been notified by his counterpart in Vienna that the archduchess was fond of outdoor exercise. He arranged this also. It was not the sort of task for which he needed to consult the duke or the privy council, after all.
* * * *
After their conversation in the Hofgarten, Doña Mencia set out to mastermind the escape plot. In very short order, the archduchess' household was effectively divided into two categories: people whom Maria Anna trusted and those whom she did not trust at all. With a few in the middle concerning whom, despite her shrewdness, her opinion wavered. However, by consulting Doña Mencia and, for the lower servants, Susanna Allegretti, she drew a line. Her advisers were firm; those about whom she wavered must, necessarily, be included among those whom she did not trust. Maria Anna made that decision.
Her personal escort was large. After all, marrying into Bavaria was just like moving next door. Her father had not expected to have to pay the expenses of a long journey to bring her household home again when they were replaced by Bavarians of Duke Maximilian's choosing, so he had been generous.
Freiherrin Lukretia was within her circle; Countess Polyxena was not. Frau Stecher most definitely was not. It largely fell to Doña Mencia to think up ways and means to occupy those outside the circle somewhere else. Errands; lots of errands.
Within the circle, protocol fell by the wayside. It was hard enough to plot without trying to insist that everyone strictly abide by court etiquette at the same time.
* * * *
"In all the plays," Susanna said, "the princess disguises herself as her maid. Then the maid takes her place." She made this contribution to the discussion with considerable self-satisfaction for having thought of it.
Maria Anna looked at Doña Mencia and then at Susanna. She raised her eyebrows.
"Oh," Susanna said.
Neither of them qualified as a double for the archduchess: Doña Mencia was more than thirty years older; Susanna was about eight inches shorter.
For that matter, Maria Anna pointed out, none of the noble ladies in waiting whom she trusted qualify as a double. Freiherrin Lukretia, for example, was several months pregnant. Freiherrin Helena was blonde. It wasn't as if modern court ladies went around with their heads and faces swathed in yards of cloth, like a nun back in the period the humanists called the media aeva that had happened between the glories of the ancients and the modern revival of learning. She had been on public display every day since her arrival in Bavaria, surrounded by her ladies in waiting. That was what ladies in waiting were for at public events. They stood in a bevy around their mistress, looking decorative, so the people of the court or city, town or village, could admire their clothes. By now, a large number of Bavarians had seen the faces of all of them. Some from a distance, such as the people who lined the procession route; others, however, up close, such as the chambermaids in the palaces at which the entourage had stopped overnight. Duke Maximilian's guards had seen their faces many times. As had his prominent officials, courtiers, their wives, and the waiters who served their meals.
"There is something to be said," Doña Mencia said, "in favor of disguise in plain sight. Like playing 'hide the thimble.'"
* * * *
"The Hofmeister has spoken to me," Maria Anna said to her ladies-in-waiting. "These are, after all guest quarters—not where we will be living after the wedding. He wishes to consult with us about our preferences. For this duty, I have detailed Doña Mencia; the constant standing during official functions is, in any case, a hardship on her."
She smiled affectionately.
"Thus, for the purposes of such functions, I need to appoint one of you as her deputy."
She looked around the circle. Officially, this would be a great honor for one of them. Practically, it would keep one of them from snooping.
"Countess Polyxena, you will please assume this duty for the time being."
"The countess nodded. "Of course, Your Highness. Thank you." It was the kind of request that she couldn't refuse. Not even if she had wanted to. She didn't want to. It was only temporary, of course, but possibly a stepping-stone to greater things, to a permanent position as chief attendant if Doña Mencia chose to request permission to retire.
"Freiherrin Lukretia, in view of your condition," Maria Anna smiled, "please be so kind as to assist Doña Mencia with the housing arrangements. The constant standing cannot be easy for you, either."
Countess Polyxena smothered a smile. The other obvious candidate to succeed Doña Mencia was also being pushed to the side.
* * * *
"Fräulein Ward," Duchess Mechthilde said. "I believe that you may place confidence in Archduchess Maria Anna. And in Doña Mencia de Mendoza. If they bring to your attention a method by which Mary Simpson and Veronica Dreeson might be privately removed from your custody and returned to the United States of Europe, there is no reason for you to be afraid that this is a trap.
Mechthilde sighed. "All things considered, I will also be glad to be rid of the Grantville women. The allegation that my brother supposedly had them kidnapped is not making my position easier. If it were true, which I am sure that it is not, it would have been very imprudent of him."
"How," Mary Ward asked, "can the archduchess and Doña Mencia arrange to have them taken them out of this house without our being held culpable?"
"That," Mechthilde answered, "is their problem. Not mine."
She thought for a moment, finally realizing what the other woman had meant.
"Of course, if they do not think of a way to do it that absolves you and your sisters from complicity, then it will certainly still be yours. The inquisition would be all too happy to have one more reason to doubt your orthodoxy and obedience."