Barracktown bei Fulda, July, 1634
"Ah." Dagmar Nilsdotter was in tears as she held her husband's hand. "What a beautiful wedding, Helmuth. What a lovely bride. My heart is strangely moved. Strangely warmed."
Sergeant Hartke was not quite so volubly impressed, but he did admit that both Lieutenant Friedrich Württemberger and Margarethe Pistora appeared to be rather delighted with both themselves and the situation. They had just taken advantage of the SoTF's liberal citizenship policy, unusually low age of majority, and practice of "universal sectarianism" by getting married in the Barracktown sutlery in a ceremony presided over by the mayor of Barracktown, otherwise known as Sergeant Helmuth Hartke, who for this purpose was a duly licensed civilian celebrant.
"Not bad, as ceremonies go," Simrock said. "And Venus herself ministers resolution and hardiness unto tender youth as yet subject to the discipline of the rod, and teaches the ruthless soldier the soft and tenderly effeminate heart of women . . ."
"Montaigne again, I presume?" Jeffie Garand leaned back against the wall, looking toward the entrance. On one side of the door, Merckel and Kolb, on the other side Heisel and Bauer, were watching the room attentively while trying their best to look like casual wedding guests.
Simrock nodded.
"You're quoting out of context," Theo warned. "He ended that sentence with 'in their mothers laps.' He wasn't talking about weddings."
Dagmar turned to Duke Eberhard. "Your brother looks so handsome in his uniform, Captain Your Grace."
He smiled. "I was just thinking that Friedrich actually looks rather like a large salmon fillet in that orange-ish uniform, not to mention that he clashes badly with Margarethe's cherry red dress, but I'm not in any position to complain, since I'm was wearing an orange-ish uniform myself. But he does look handsome, even if he is still on crutches."
"Is the foot very bad?" someone behind them asked.
"Once General Brahe's people caught up to us at Weselberg, the medic prevented gangrene." Hertling snagged a piece of thin, folded and rolled dough filled with some sweet fruit off a passing tray. "The foot itself—he will always have to wear a very tight, heavy boot to protect it. The bones are not right. General Brahe's regiment had a medic, not an up-time miracle-making surgeon. When he is an old man, he will be predicting the weather on the basis of how much his foot aches."
"This food is great." Jeffie looked around. "Who cooked it? Who arranged all this?"
Simrock patted a nearby reddish head. "Tata arranged it. She's been helping with wedding receptions since she was a toddler, whenever her family wasn't on the run and had an inn to settle down in. She just snapped her fingers and it happened."
"It was a bit more complicated than that. You're right though. Riffa's mother is a terrific cook."
"Once upon a time," Jeffie said. "Once upon a time, long ago, for my high school graduation, to be precise, Mom took me and Justin to Las Vegas."
"Where is Las Vegas? What is Las Vegas?"
"It is, was, will be a city in Nevada. I'm just thinking. I do that sometimes." Jeffie turned around and called, "Frau Hartke."
"My name is Dagmar Nilsdotter. Hartke is my husband."
"Well, then, Ms. Nilsdotter. Sorry, but that just doesn't sound very respectful to say to Gertrud's mom. How many of these do they have in Fulda, now? These civil weddings, I mean?"
"Oh, many. Two or three a week, perhaps, because people come from many miles away to have Helmuth marry them, because many villages do not have civil celebrants licensed yet. Any mayor may become one, but they have to apply and be approved. Most priests and pastors will not marry young people without the consent of their parents, even if it is legal."
"Thanks a lot." He followed Simrock's example in patting the top of Tata's head. "I really ought to talk to you and Riffa's mom sometime this week. You could make a mint if you set up a Vegas-style wedding chapel here."
Gertrud kicked his ankle.
Eberhard put his arm around Tata's waist. "Hands off, guys." He sighed. "I wish that Ulrich could have been here."
The four goons were moving to block the entrance.
Theo turned around, peering out the window. "We have more company."
"I should never accepted Donner's offer." Marcus Pistor's voice shrilled into a register that an Italian castrato would have envied.
"What offer? It's not Donner who just married your daughter." Jeffie was enjoying himself.
"His offer to use the Horn of Plenty to hold services for the Calvinist civilians in Mainz." The shrill was now accompanied by tiny globules of spit. "If I had performed only my duties as a military chaplain, my son would never have been seduced by the doctrines of the Committee of Correspondence and my daughter would never have met this outrageous Swabian . . ."