He turned toward the priest. "Do not underestimate that woman, Bartolome. Whatever else, do not. She could teach Richelieu himself the meaning of ruthlessness-but she's no hothead. In fact"-he was able to smile again-"Don Fernando was quite taken by her, when they finally met last month."
"He did?" Isabella was back to her throat-clutching. "That reckless boy! What was he thinking? I hope-please tell me this much-that he did not permit her to bring that horrid pistol into his presence."
Rubens grinned; he couldn't help himself. "Quite the contrary. He made that stipulation in his request that she come into his camp for a visit-and invited her husband along also, with his shotgun. A weapon, I might add, that is considerably more ferocious and one which, in his case, is almost as famous as hers. He's quite an impressive fellow, actually, in his own much quieter way."
Isabella was practically gaping. "My nephew is a prince of Spain!"
"Your Grace, he did not dispense with his own bodyguards," Rubens said, in a more serious tone. "Please-you must stop thinking of these people as simple, unlettered rabble-rousers. To be as blunt as I can, they could also teach Europe's kings and princes and counselors"-his eyes swept the table-"I do not exempt us, either, the meaning of organization and leadership."
He leaned back in his chair. "Besides, the cardinal-infante had no real choice. By that point in his negotiations with Fredrik Hendryk, everything had been settled. But he had not reached a settlement with Rebecca Abrabanel over the issue of whether the Dutch right to retain their councils and deliberative bodies would be extended in full across the entire Netherlands, in the event the nation was reunited. Not one that she was satisfied with, at least-more precisely, one that she said would satisfy Richter and her Committee of Correspondence. So, Don Fernando decided to talk to Richter himself."
Isabella shook her head, chuckling. "Dear me. I had no idea my rambunctious great-nephew was thinking that far ahead."
"I told you, Isabella. He's a very young fox-young enough that he can't accept the inevitable without at least one clash of arms-but he's a genuine fox, nonetheless. Fredrik Hendryk once told me, rather ruefully, that Don Fernando reminds him in some ways of his father, William the Silent."
That brought a moment's respectful silence. Given the source-any knowledgeable source, really-that was high praise indeed.
"And what was the outcome of the meeting?" Scaglia asked.
"Oh, Don Fernando agreed, in the end. Richter's bargaining argument was so simple, he told me afterward, that he saw no way to refuse."
"And this argument was… what?"
"She told him-very pleasantly, apparently, no shouting involved at all-that she was ultimately indifferent to the matter. Don Fernando could give her the extension of democratic representation across the Netherlands that she wanted. Or she would take it. The difference, she estimated, was not more than two years. Four, at the outside."
Isabella stared at him, wide-eyed, her hand back at her throat. "She bullied a Spanish prince?"
"Oh, hardly that. No, no, Your Grace, you don't understand. It wasn't any implied threat that persuaded Don Fernando. It was simply that-so he told me, afterward-it was quite apparent that Richter was indifferent to the matter. Completely indifferent. He said it was like negotiating with a glacier whether it will reach the sea."
Isabella lowered her hand. "I must meet this woman. Can it be arranged, Pieter?" Impatiently, she waved her hand. "Fine, fine. She can bring the pistol, if she insists. Her husband, too, with his-whatever you call it."
Pieter was taken by surprise again. "I… don't know. I shall enquire, when I return to Amsterdam. Which, by the way, I must do on the morrow. Is there anything further we need to discuss? I will need most of the afternoon and evening to make preparations for the journey."
Isabella and her advisers looked at each other. Finally, seeing that no one seemed to feel any urge to speak, she said: "It seems we are finished, for the moment. Nothing more we can do, really. Everything is ready from our side for the transition, once-if, but let us pray it is simply 'once'-my great-nephew finally decides."
Chapter 24
Rubens paused, in the corridor beyond the conference room, until Scaglia emerged, then fell in beside him.
"I was thinking we should talk some more. We've really not had that much in the way of private discussion."
"Yes, I agree. I was meaning to approach you myself, Pieter. Where? I can come up to the siege camp, if that's easier for you."
Rubens smiled. "Oh, there's no need for anything so rigorous. Mind you, the house I purchased there is quite adequate. But within a week, I believe I shall have acquired a much more spacious home in Amsterdam itself."
"Dear God," Scaglia said, chuckling. "What a preposterous siege this has turned into. The chief diplomat for the besiegers setting up his domicile in the city besieged. What's that American expression? Charles V must be spinning in his grave."
"There are some precedents, actually. Not many, I admit. But that's always the advantage of being an artist, you know. People are willing to label my behavior as 'eccentric' when they need to look the other way."
"True enough." Scaglia sighed. "I should have thought of that, when I began my career. Of course, I doubt if even the most wretched and ignorant reichsritter in Germany would have paid a Swedish copper for anything I painted. Two things, Pieter."
"Yes?"
"I've been to Grantville myself, you know. The first thing is that I want your solemn assurance that you will stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me in doing everything in our power to prevent the American trampling of the Low Countries. They can have their Freedom Arches, fine. But no hamburgers. I want those abominations banned."
"Done. Mind you, I doubt we can do it by law. But I'm sure we can find more subtle means to the same end. If nothing else, I'll do a still-life of a hamburger that will nauseate anyone who looks at it. And the second thing?"
They'd reached an intersection at the end of the corridor. Scaglia stepped to the side, out of any traffic, drawing Rubens with him. Very quietly:
"I was taken by the expression 'soft landing,' once you explained it. And I've been thinking for some time myself-you're absolutely right about Richter-that we need our own committees of correspondence. One that is completely continental, just as they are. Call it the European Committees for a Soft Landing, if you will."
Rubens thought about it. He'd often had similar notions himself, although he'd never crystallized them the way Scaglia had.
"The membership to consist of?"
"Open to anyone, from prince to pauper, who wishes to join. I think that's essential, Pieter."
"Yes… I agree. Difficult to carry out in practice, you understand. Neither you nor I-not I, for certain-is really that well-suited to organizing the masses."
"No, we're not. We're diplomats, not agitators. But I have studied the CoCs very carefully, Pieter. I've read a great deal of their literature, spent time in their Freedom Arches, talked to their supporters and activists. Most of what their enemies ascribe to their supposedly demonic methods is no more intelligent than the Protestant prattle about Jesuit devils. The real key to what the CoCs do is simply that they plant their flag, out in the open, where everyone can see it. And then people come to them. And it is among those people that you find your organizers. We can do the same. Not as easily, no, and we'll certainly be drawing a much higher portion of our supporters from more prosperous classes than they do. That will give us the advantage of more money and better connections with existing powers, but shallower roots in the populace as whole. Still, it can be done. With will and energy, it can be done."