"Oh. Yes, I've seen it. Never went in, though."
She gave him her best smile. "You should drop by some time, then."
"I would not wish to intrude."
"Oh, don't be silly. It'd be nice to see you again. Really, it would."
Chapter 10
The siege lines of the Spanish army in the Low Countries, outside the walls of Amsterdam
"This would be an irrevocable step, Your Highness. I do not say you should refuse, simply . . ."
Pieter Paul Rubens shrugged. "Simply be aware, from the beginning, of the likely consequences. They will most probably be severe."
Don Fernando turned his eyes away from their examination of Amsterdam's walls to look at Rubens. The Habsburg prince most people called the cardinal-infante—he was the younger brother of Philip IV, king of Spain—knew from his reading of the up-time texts that as the centuries passed, Rubens would be remembered almost entirely for his art. But in the world he lived in, he was just as well-known for being one of Europe's premier diplomats.
And not by accident. In the weeks—months, now—since the siege began, Don Fernando had come to have the same confidence in the artist that most members of the Habsburg dynasty did. Members of other dynasties, for that matter. Whatever his private opinions, which he generally kept to himself, Rubens invariably gave counsel designed to help the person asking for it determine what they actually wanted in the first place. He did not ever seem to have—to use the American expression the prince had learned from the nurse, Anne Jefferson—"an ax to grind."
A charming expression, as were several others the prince had learned from Jefferson in her various visits to the Spanish camp. Visits that she'd officially made as a model for Rubens, but which had actually been disguised diplomatic maneuvers of one sort or another. Both the cardinal-infante and his opponents on the other side of Amsterdam's walls, the prince of Orange and the Abrabanel wife of the USE's prime minister, had found the young and innocent-looking nurse a most handy instrument for conducting what amounted to negotiations while officially fighting a bitter siege.
But he was not thinking of those charming expressions, explained to him by a very charming woman. It was something else she'd said to him, in her last visit, that had been gnawing at him for days, now. Especially coming on top of many months of growing doubts and uncertainties. To use another one of her expressions, the straw that broke the camel's back.
"I asked her," he said abruptly, "what she—an educated woman, quite intelligent—knew about the Habsburgs. Not today, but when she still lived in that . . ."
He waved his hand, vaguely. "Future world she came from."
He would leave it at that. The prince knew of the speculations and arguments that had been roiling Europe's theologians and philosophers—not to mention kings and princes and their advisers—since the Ring of Fire. They ranged from crude and simple accusations of demonism and witchcraft to logical arguments that were so convoluted they were impossible to follow at all. Inevitably—God knows how they managed it, but they did—a number of the theologians had even tied the debate back to the dispute over transubstantiation versus consubstantiation.
One bishop in southern Italy had gone so far as to suggest that the Ring of Fire somehow called into question the Nicene Creed. Of course, the man was obviously a lunatic—the proof of it being that he'd advanced the argument within reach of the Spanish Inquisition. A reach which had grasped him as quickly and surely as a snake seizing a mouse.
Rubens inclined his head. "And her response was . . ."
Don Fernando could feel his jaws tightening. "She was quite startled, you understand. And I pressed the matter—perhaps rudely—because I really wanted to see what her answer would be."
He took a deep breath and let it out. "Worse than I'd feared. Far worse." He could still remember, quite vividly, the nervous way the nurse's eyes had shifted about. As she so obviously tried to think of something pleasant she could say. Inoffensive, at least.
She'd failed, because the prince had not given her time. He had been rather rude, he could see now. Still, the rudeness had served its purpose.
"What she said—her exact words, Pieter—was: 'Well, you suffered from a lot of hereditary illness. And you all had that famous lower lip.' "
Rubens smiled faintly, as did the prince himself. Hard not to—since Don Fernando himself had the famous lip.
"Perhaps . . ." said Rubens. "Please remember that—yes, the woman is quite intelligent, but still—she had a limited education. Tightly focused, it would be better to say."