"Yes, Your Highness. And their destination?"
Don Fernando tugged at his fleshy lower lip. "Grol. Since we rebuilt the fortresses there, Grol should do nicely."
The relief that announcement brought to Manrique was quite visible on his face. The town of Grol was at the eastern end of Gelderland, bordering on Munster. It had good fortifications of its own, was an easy march from Amsterdam—and would make just as easy a march to get back, if need be. Best of all, while it was close enough to the German territories that would soon be the scene of major battles to make it appear as if the cardinal-infante was attempting to intervene, it was very far from the Elbe. In fact, it was no farther north than Hannover.
"The archbishop will protest mightily, you understand."
"Oh, yes, of course. I shall naturally issue a fierce demand that he allow our forces passage through Munster. But . . ."
Don Fernando shifted his shoulders, in a very slight shrugging gesture. It was easy enough to include a phrase or two in such a stiffly worded demand that made it clear he was willing to negotiate. Archbishop Ferdinand, as one might expect from a brother of Maximilian of Bavaria, was notorious for being prickly and contentious, even toward his allies. By the time a settlement allowing passage of Spanish forces through his territory could be made, it would most likely all be over.
Manrique began to leave.
"One thing more, Miguel."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Have word sent across to Amsterdam, inviting Señora Abrabanel to dinner at my quarters. The night after tomorrow, let's make it."
"Rubens also, I assume?"
"Oh, yes. That Scaglia fellow who's visiting him, as well. And . . ."
He spread his hands and raised them, as if offering a sacrifice to the gods. "There's no point avoiding the matter. Not any longer. Invite Richter and her husband also."
Amsterdam
After the Spanish messenger left, Rebecca turned to the other people in the USE embassy's salon and smiled widely. "So. He's decided. I shall tell Michael tonight."
Gretchen eyed her skeptically. "We all know you're smart. Don't ruin your reputation at the last moment. What if he hasn't decided?"
Rebecca shook her head. "Oh, Gretchen, don't be silly. If he still wanted to negotiate—or simply stall for time—he certainly wouldn't have invited you."
Gretchen thought about it for a few seconds. "He did once before," she pointed out.
"That was curiosity—which you satisfied. This is . . . call it a statement. A subtle one, but a statement nonetheless."
Gretchen thought about it for a few more seconds, then smiled herself. "I suppose I should take the invitation as a compliment, then."
"Oh, yes. In a manner of speaking."
"I'm still taking my shotgun," Jeff insisted stoutly.
Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Are you kidding? Yeah, sure, it's a compliment. One of those 'my, what big teeth you have, dear' sort of compliments. Best to make sure he doesn't decide he misgauged the length of the fangs, huh?"
Rebecca sat back down on the divan, sighing. "I can remember when you were a trusting and innocent sort of person, Jeff."
He grunted. "Yeah, sure, so can I. Wasn't all that long ago, either, if you measure it in years and months."
"As opposed to what?" his wife asked.
Jeff started counting on his fingers. "Lessee. One Battle of the Crapper. Followed by—well, never mind, even if everybody knows you did it and I covered it up for you—followed by one Battle of Jena. Complete with you shooting a pimp, just for the hell of it."
"It was not 'just for the hell of it'!" Gretchen protested.
"Yeah, fine. You had your reasons, which I can sure enough find with a microscope, not that I'd accuse you of being quick on the trigger, God forbid. But we were talking about my lost innocence, remember? Brand new wife gunning down pimp goes a long ways, when it comes to removing the dew from innocent hubby's eyes. You'd be amazed how well that works. Moving right along—"
He went back to studiously counting off on his fingers. "One Croat raid. One pirate ambush in the English Channel, that you know and I know and the man in the moon knows was set up by Cardinal Richelieu. Man of God, no less. One French and English betrayal of the Dutch fleet, requiring us to scramble like mad for Amsterdam. One—"
"Stop bragging, husband," said Gretchen.
Jeff dropped his hands. "Wasn't. Just explaining how it happens that at the tender age of twenty-one I'm more suspicious than your average retired cop."