He frowned at the Capuchin. "For that matter, we have more immediate concerns than Fulda, too. One of Gustavus Adolphus's generals with twenty-five thousand men looking at my eastern border is one of those thoughts that make worries about the status of Fulda seem comparatively insignificant."
"Great oaks from little acorns grow," his confessor said piously. "Moreover, I doubt that there are more than ten thousand men looking at your eastern border. And those are mostly Hessians under von Uslar rather than Swedes."
The archbishop frowned his displeasure.
"Think of Fulda as the first domino in bringing down the CPE and unraveling? Something?"
"As a grand conspirator," the archbishop said, "you . . . never mind. And get Gruyard out of my palace. I don't care where you put him, except not in any other building that belongs to the archdiocese, but get him out. He makes my flesh crawl."
"He's good at what he does."
"That's the problem."
Where Are We and What Are We Doing Here?
Stift Fulda, June 1633
"Where are we?" Mark Early asked.
"This is Neuenberg," the abbot answered. "I served as provost here before I was elected abbot. Among several other places where I was provost. That's why I came along today, to introduce you to the people here."
"What does a provost do?"
The abbot started a long explanation.
"Middle management." Clara Bachmeierin inserted the English term into the conversation.
Mark nodded.
The breeze picked up. Clara grabbed for her files. She was acting as clerk today. Boyneburg's horse boy picked up a couple of rocks and gave them to her for paperweights.
"Why are we sitting under a tree instead of inside?" Mark asked.
"It's a linden tree," Boyneburg said.
"Why are we sitting under a linden tree?"
"People around here conduct important business under the village linden tree. Always have, as far as I know. Well, maybe not in the dead of winter or a pouring rain, but generally that's where the village council meets and anything else important gets done."
Mark sighed. "When in Rome." He put on his sunglasses.
"I'd take those off if I were you," Clara recommended. "There will be better times to introduce the peasants of Neuenberg to modern technology."
He put them back in his breast pocket and squinted into the sun. A bunch of people were coming out of the chapel.
"Bailiff," Mark said, "announce that the session of the Special Commission on the Establishment of Freedom of Religion in the Franconian Prince-Bishoprics and the Prince-Abbey of Fulda will come to order."
An elderly farmer looked at him. "The bailiff's sick. Something he ate, probably. You don't want him here."
"Do you have an under-bailiff?"
"Nein."
"A constable?"
"He's the bailiff."
"Somebody," Mark said, "announce that the session of the Special Commission on the Establishment of Freedom of Religion in the Franconian Prince-Bishoprics and the Prince-Abbey of Fulda will come to order."
None of the villagers moved.
Urban von Boyneburg got up and announced it.
"Pardon, Your Honor," the elderly farmer said, "but we would like to bring to Your Honor's attention that it's a good day for making hay, and we would just as soon be done with this business by the time the dew goes off."
Fulda, June 1633
"It's gross," Andrea Hill said. She was holding the pamphlet by one corner, between her thumb and her index finger, as far away from her body as she could get it. "And the town is plastered with them."
"Come on, Andrea," Wes Jenkins said placidly. "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."
"Oh yes it can." She threw it onto the table in front of him. "Poor Clara. They put her name in the thing, in the caption to that hideous picture. And all of our soldiers I saw out on the street were looking at the placards that go with it and going 'har, har, har!' So you"—she stopped and pointed at Derek Utt—"can just get up and go out there and make them stop it."
Derek reached over and pulled the pamphlet out from in front of Wes. Thumbed through it once. Got up.
Orville Beattie came into the conference room, carrying another copy. Wes grabbed the first one from where Derek had dropped it. As he looked through it, his face went white and pinched.
"Clara I understand," Fred Pence said as he came in, "but who's Salome? The one in the Bible?"
Andrea glared at him. He realized that it was one of those mornings when it was just generally a bad thing to be a male human being, and a worse one to be a son-in-law.
"The prioress," Andrea said. "At the Benedictine convent here in town. You've surely walked past it. Ascension of Mary, it's called. There's a plaque by the door. She's been here since 1630. She and three others came from the abbey of Kühbach in the diocese of Augsburg to start it up. They've been through hard times, what with the Hessians and everything. And us, considering that we confiscated the estates that the abbot had assigned to support them. They're dirt poor. There are days when they're going hungry, until Clara or I take the rest of our supper over to them. This is just so . . . unfair. Her name is Salome. Salome von Pflaumern."