Ring of Fire III

Chapter Two

Schwarzach, January 1635

Once Friedrich von Kanoffski arrived from Freiburg im Breisgau, where he was locum tenens, the informal but closely associated group of Bernhard’s associates who called themselves Der Kloster because of their working headquarters at the “requisitioned” Abbey of Schwarzach, was complete. Once everyone else had extended to the Bohemian their congratulations and felicitations on the safe delivery the previous month of his wife Anna Jolantha Salome, nee Stump, the daughter of a Freiburg patrician, of a healthy son named Johann Balthasar, they got down to business on the general theme of “Well, what next?”

“You’re still officially in the employ of France,” Caldenbach said. “It may be the result of incredible bureaucratic inertia, but you are. In spite of everything that happened last spring, Richelieu is still sending money to Besancon.”

“Not much,” Rosen pointed out. “Not very regularly, either.”

“Insurance,” Bernhard said. “Louis XIII is very short on regiments at the moment. Richelieu will not formally break the contract as long as he can imagine even the most unlikely ‘just in case’ scenario in which he might need to call on me. In case you’re wondering, I have that directly from a plant on Mazarin’s staff. There’s no such scenario on the horizon.”

“At the moment,” Sydenham Poyntz added.

“Next.” Bernhard had little patience for meetings.

Johann Faulhaber, the engineer from Ulm who was supervising the military construction at the new national capitol in Besancon, presented a very satisfactory progress report.

Johann Ludwig von Erlach, a Swiss from Bern who was moving up very rapidly and showed every sign of becoming Bernhard’s lieutenant in general as well as lieutenant-general, had some things to say about management of the fortress at Breisach. If anyone else felt stirrings of envy when Bernhard named him as governor of the Alsatian territories as well, he didn’t say so. Erlach was a flamboyant man. Silver plate was not good enough for the general. His had to be gilded. He currently maintained three households simultaneously-one in his Swiss castle at Castelen, the second in Breisach itself, and the third in camp whenever he took to the field.

Johann Michael Moscherosch, poet and public relations man, outlined his latest campaigns with words, designed to lure a public he considered all-too-gullible into believing that their new ruler was also the cherry filling in their torte.

“I wish, though,” Moscherosch said, “that you would decide for once and all what you want to call yourself. There are only so many circumlocutions, euphemisms, and ways to dance on my tiptoes available.”

Von Rosen licked his lips. “Besancon is the capital, but the Franche Comte, the old County of Burgundy as distinct from the once-upon-a-time Duchy of Burgundy in the Netherlands, is only a county, after all. You are already a duke (not to mention that your older brothers are also dukes, with the exception of Wilhelm, who was a duke). Certainly, you will not demote yourself to become a a mere count, will you?” he asked a little anxiously.

Kanoffski laughed. “Does it bother you that there is more prestige in being employed by a duke than in being employed by a count?”

“Well,” von Rosen began. “No, I suppose not. But still…”

“When it comes to sitting around tables, conducting diplomatic negotiations,” Poyntz remarked to the ceiling, “dukes are seated well above counts and get to speak first. These things do matter, Kanoffski.”

“With the new new additions last year, Burgundy, our Burgundy, is powerful,” Caldenbach said. “Bernhard now holds more land than all of the Ernestine-line brothers together, as dukes of Saxe-Weimar, did before the Ring of Fire. He should assume an equally splendid title.”

Bernhard was feeling the first rumblings of the indigestion that was his constant companion. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said. “Move on.”

With the one exception of Moscherosch, the men who constituted “ Der Kloster ” were military officers, hard-bitten, experienced, and tough.

Still, it was Moscherosch who said, “Heirs.”

Bernhard raised one bushy black eyebrow.

“Heirs, Your Grace,” Moscherosch said firmly. “There is no point to all this if you do not produce heirs. Your efforts will amount to spitting into the wind.”

Kanoffski nodded. “I have a list of suitable Protestant possibilities.”

Elizabeth of the Palatinate? Maybe, but she was in the Spanish Netherlands.

“And,” Bernhard said, “she has just turned sixteen. I find that I have little appetite for becoming a father on the same day I become a husband. Rearing a child-bride strikes me as a truly tedious job.”

“Well,” Caldenbach said, “that lets out Frederik Hendrik’s daughters. They are even younger.”

“Much too young,” Moscherosch said. “Not even of childbearing age. Keep the purpose in mind. Heirs as soon as possible.”

“Marguerite de Rohan? She’s a little older. Almost eighteen, I think.”

“She’s in Brittany, on the goddamned other side of France. Plus, Henri de Rohan, for all the respect I have for the man and what he has done to advance the Huguenot cause over the years, will want to control her husband. He wouldn’t refuse me. In fact, he’s suggested the match already. I turned it down.”

“Why in heaven?”

“The duc de Rohan wants to buy a competent general for his daughter and heiress, to fight his wars now that he’s aging. I have no desire to become a puppet hanging on strings that another man is manipulating.”

“What about Christian IV’s daughters?”

Der Kloster regretfully dismissed the daughters of the Danish king as not only the products of a morganatic marriage, but apparently extremely self-willed. Poyntz brought up stories about Eddie Cantrell and Anna Cathrine that were making the rounds of European courts, to general hilarity and multiple rude and obscene comments.

Bernhard gritted his teeth. “That one, the oldest one, is the same age as Elisabeth of the Palatinate. The rest are even younger. Did you hear me? They are too young. The next of the Danish king’s daughters after Anna Cathrine is exactly half as old as I am. ”

“Your Grace,” Kanoffski said politely. “Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel is not likely to die conveniently so that you can marry Amalie Elisabeth.”

“I would,” Bernhard said. “If she weren’t already married, I would snatch Amalie right up. She’s interesting. She’s intelligent. She’s politically astute. I like her a lot.”

“She’s too old,” Caldenbach squalled. “She’s older than you are, Your Grace.”

“Only two years older,” Bernhard said mildly. Then he smiled. The smile was not mild. It was wicked. “She’s a magnificent breeder. They already have six children living in addition to the four who died. Anyone want to bet me on how many more children she will give Wilhelm? I’ll wager ten thousand USE dollars on five more. Two thousand at each birth.”