They'd known where to find him because he'd sent the information to Scotland soon after he arrived. He had no idea where Levasseur and Tourneau had found the other four, who'd have been on the run after the Dreeson incident. Probably somewhere in Holland.
However they'd managed it, they could be here in Sweden for only one reason.
"Oh, splendid," he said, smiling widely.
Levasseur returned the smile, and gestured to an empty seat at the table. Brillard, on the other hand, was frowning.
"Is this safe, Charles?" he asked quietly, almost whispering. His eyes went to the door at the rear which led to the tavern-keeper's personal dwellings.
Mademann sat down. "Relax, Mathurin. To begin, the owner is a Dutch Gomarist and thus a sympathizer."
That was…?some ways short of the truth. Geerd Bleecker was indeed a Counter-Remonstrant, as the followers of the theologian Franciscus Gomarus were often called. A stout enough fellow. But his ardor fell quite a bit short of what Mademann and his fellow Huguenots considered necessary for their cause. Bleecker had no idea what Mademann was really planning to do here in Sweden. He thought the Huguenot was just a wealthy exile seeking to recoup his fortunes. Sweden had many industries that were booming due to the influx of American technical knowledge combined with the large and already existing population in Stockholm of Dutch financiers and merchants.
"Perhaps more to the point," Mademann continued, "Geerd is in somewhat desperate financial straits-or was, until I arrived and provided him with a solid and steady source of income." Mademann waved his hand about, indicating the interior of the tavern. The wooden building was well enough made, but it was showing clear signs of disrepair. Nothing that threatened the integrity of the edifice yet. Just the sort of mostly minor problems that ensued when the owner of a building was short of funds.
Mademann smiled ruefully; not at his own situation but that of the tavern-keeper. "When Geerd first settled here he was convinced that many of the Calvinist merchants operating in Stockholm would be more comfortable with a tavern located on another island in the archipelago. Away from the eyes of the Swedish king's Lutheran pastors."
Tourneau cocked an inquisitive eye. "And…?"
Mademann shook his head. "The thing is, Gustav Adolf keeps his pastors on a tight leash. He wants the Dutch here, so he's not about to tolerate harassment. No open worship is allowed, but he makes no effort to suppress Calvinists so long as they remain discreet. And this tavern is on the island of Vaxholm, which is just that little bit too far from the capital."
Ancelin grunted. "Didn't seem that far, from what I could tell when we came in."
Gui was not the most imaginative of men. He'd been born and raised in a port city, but he'd never worked the sea himself. So, incurious by nature, he understood none of the realities involved.
"It's just a few miles," said Mademann. "But it's one thing to walk a few miles, it's another to row a boat across. Especially in a Swedish winter."
"Ah. Hadn't thought of that."
Mademann shrugged. "The distance was enough of an inconvenience that few Dutch merchants have ever even visited here. What little business Geerd has gotten over the years has been from Finnish fisherman and petty traders. Smugglers, most of them, for whom the distance is convenient."
"We can speak freely, then?" asked Ouvrard.
"Not in front of Bleecker or his wife. They don't…" He wiggled his fingers. "I saw no reason to burden them with unnecessary information."
Ancelin grunted again. "Be tough on them after we're done."
He was a crude man, too. Gui was saying nothing that they didn't already understand, so why make a point of the issue? The fate that was sure to befall the tavern-keeper and his wife was unfortunate, of course. But many misfortunes came in the wake of God's purpose.
So Mademann ignored the remark. "But he usually remains in the back. As long as we're not shouting, we can speak freely."
Levasseur leaned forward, placing his weight on his forearms. "You realize why we're here."
"Of course. I was hoping someone would come, once I learned of the princess' visit. On my own, I haven't even been able to find a way to get to the queen."
"Prince, too," said Brillard. "The queen and the heiress would be enough, but we can catch the Danish boy at the same time. That means Christian IV will be as furious as Gustav Adolf."
That would surely mean the wrath of the USE and the Union of Kalmar would be turned upon Cardinal Richelieu, given the evidence they'd be leaving behind. A new war with France would begin, the cardinal would fall, and the Huguenot cause would have another great chance. All seven of the plotters leaned back in their chairs simultaneously, so great was their mutual satisfaction.
Chapter 14
Magdeburg
Gazing out of his office window overlooking the Elbe, Francisco Nasi had the same thought that most people did when they studied that scenery.
What a blighted mess.
In days past-well, you had to go back at least a year-the Elbe itself had been fairly attractive, even if the factories and mills and foundries that lined it in this area were not. But that was no longer true. The river had become rather badly polluted.
According to up-time values of "polluted," at any rate. For someone reared in the seventeenth century, the river might be dirty and ugly but at least it was no longer dangerous. Magdeburg's extensive water and sewer systems saw to that, along with the ferocious patrols maintained constantly by the city's Committee of Correspondence. Whatever other noxious substances might be in that river, human waste was no longer one of them.
Nobody in their right mind would willingly drink from that river. Even after being filtered in the water treatment plants, the Elbe's waters near Magdeburg still tasted pretty foul. If you did drink from it, though, the worst you'd probably suffer was just a bad taste in your mouth, maybe a touch of nausea. But you wouldn't contract dysentery or typhoid fever-as you very well might if you drank the river waters near many towns and cities in Europe.
For that, if nothing else, Francisco's allegiance to the Americans would have been firm. They had their faults, certainly. For someone of Nasi's sophistication and cosmopolitan inclinations, parochialism was perhaps the worst. But wherever the influence of the up-timers went, children lived. Not all, but many more than would have otherwise.
His allegiance to one up-timer in particular was more than firm. By now, it was as solid as granite. That was his former employer, Michael Stearns, whom he'd served for two years as what amounted to his chief of espionage.
Francisco wondered how Mike was faring now. He'd be on the eve of his first battle. Well, not exactly his first battle, but certainly his first battlefield.
He'd do very well, he thought. It was almost impossible to imagine Mike Stearns not doing very well at anything he tried.
But there was no longer anything Francisco could do for the man. Not directly, at least. So, hearing the knock on the door, he turned away from the window and brought his mind to bear on a current problem.
"Come in, Eddie." He'd been expecting Junker's arrival, but Francisco would have known who his visitor was just by the way he knocked. For whatever quirky reason-the man was given to whimsy-Eddie Junker had adopted the habit several months earlier of rapping on a door according to a little up-time jingle: Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.