Eric Flint - Ring of Fire III

O’Donnell looked away, closed his eyes. “Owen, it wasn’t Preston who excluded John. It was me. And I did it to protect him.”

“Protect John? From what?”

O’Donnell cocked his head in the direction of the killing ground that led down to the gate. “From that…or worse. It was folly for us to have too many tempting targets in one place.”

O’Neill paused. Then, voice level: “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if John had come, the last two royal heirs of Ireland would have been in the same place, at the same time. And with politics in the Lowlands being what they are, signaling such a gathering was tantamount to inviting an attack. As we just saw.”

O’Neill frowned. “But we’ve got peace-for now-so who’d want the two of you dead? And how would they-whoever they are-even know you’re in the Lowlands at all, Hugh? The last any of us heard, you were off in Grantville.”

O’Donnell nodded. “Reasonable questions, Owen. Will you listen to the answers, before you tell me how wrong I am?”

Owen nodded. “Of course; that I can do.” And he grinned. O’Donnell returned the smile-and there were audible sighs of relief in the tent as the tension ebbed. “So let’s have it, Hugh: who is trying to kill you and John? The English? Again?”

O’Donnell leaned back, hands folded firmly on the field table before him. “It could be them. But you also have your pick of new possible culprits. Local Catholics who feel Fernando has been too lenient with the Calvinists. Ministers in Madrid who want to topple Fernando as King in the Netherlands. Maybe Philip himself. In short, anyone who wants to give the Spanish crown a reasonable pretext for ‘restoring order’ in the Netherlands.”

Owen shook his head. “I’m lost. How does attacking us achieve that?”

“We’re a wild card, Owen-all of us Wild Geese. Four tercios, almost all full strength at three thousand men each. What happens to the Lowlands if we disband-or rebel?”

“Chaos. The Prince of Orange might try to take charge, but he hasn’t the troops. The locals will try to oust the Spanish. Fernando, a Hapsburg of Spain, and his wife, a Hapsburg of Austria, will soon be surrounded and in peril for their lives.”

“And what happens? Who comes in, if we disband or just stay in barracks?”

“France might try to take advantage. Or maybe the Swede.”

“Exactly-and would Philip want either?”

“Christ, no!” And then Owen saw it. “So, with us no longer ready to be an independent spine for Fernando’s army, the local Spanish tercios call for help, and Philip has no choice but to intervene. Decisively.”

O’Donnell nodded. “There are many possible variations on the theme, but that’s the basic dirge. Half the court in Madrid is already calling for a ‘stern approach’ to Fernando’s recent actions: after all, he did take the title ‘King in the Netherlands’ without Philip’s permission. And since then, Philip has let his brother fend for himself…and we’ve all felt the results of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what has happened to your salaries over the last few months?”

Grumbles arose from every quarter of the tent.

O’Donnell spoke over them. “That’s not Fernando’s doing: he’s not the one holding the purse strings. That would be Olivares, either working independently, or at Philip’s behest. The Lowlands have long been a drain on the Spanish; over time, they’ve invested far more in this patch of ground than they’ve ever earned back. So, while Philip may not yet consider his brother a traitor, why should he pay for his tercios? Particularly those which aren’t Spanish?”

“So we Irish are like a redheaded stepchild between spatting parents.”

“Something very like it, yes.” Hugh looked around the tent. “Which means that, any day now, your allegiances may be questioned. And whatever you might answer, you can be sure of this: one or another of your employers will be very unhappy with your answer.”

“You mean, as unhappy as they were when you turned in your commission and titles?”

O’Donnell’s voice was quiet. “You’ve heard then?”

O’Neill shook his head. “Not officially, no: your officers have been keeping it quiet. But when your tercios came over here into bivouac with Preston’s, talk started-particularly when your men started getting orders from the Sassena-from Colonel Preston. And there were some as claimed that before you left, you’d folded up your tabard and sash of the Order of Alcantara and sent them back to Madrid.”

“That I did.”

Owen kept his voice carefully neutral: “So are you wanting us to follow your example?”

O’Donnell waved a negating hand. “I’d ask no man to follow my path. And there’s no need for you to declare your allegiance until you’re asked.”

“Then why didn’t you wait to do so, yourself?”

“Owen, when I was made a Knight-Captain of the Order of Alcantara, a Gentleman of His Majesty’s Chamber, and a member of his Council of War, I took my oaths before, and to, the king himself. In his very person, in Spain. I had my benefits and titles directly from his hand, and was, at his personal instruction, naturalized as a Spanish citizen. Honor demands, then, that if I know in my heart I can no longer be Philip’s loyal servant, I must relinquish all those privileges and garnishments at once. I can’t bide my time, waiting to be cornered into admitting that my allegiances have changed-even as I continue to enjoy the king’s coin and favor. Given the state of affairs here, honor may be all I have left-so it was both right and prudent that I keep it untarnished.”

“Fairly spoken,” Preston said. Owen found himself nodding; the earl of Tyrone’s officers were doing the same.

The flap of the tent came back. The young surgeon of the Tyrconnell regiment-blood still on his hands, some on his face-crossed the open center of the council ring and sat down next to O’Donnell. He said nothing, stared hard at nothing.

O’Donnell leaned toward him. “You’ve word on our worst wounded, Dr. Connal?”

“I do. Russell and Fitzgerald will live, but Nugent-” The young man dropped his head; O’Neill couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or grief. Perhaps both.

“Easy, Shane, easy,” soothed O’Donnell. “Have we lost him?”

“Not yet,” the younger man snapped through gritted teeth. “But we will, and there’s damn-all I can do to stop it. A gut wound”-he looked up, eyes narrow-“a small gut-wound. And I still can’t save him. If I were an up-time doctor-even one of their nurses-then, yes, maybe so. Probably. But me? I’m just-just a damned butcher, I am.” His head dropped again, neck rigid.

“It’s not a bit of your fault, lad,” put in O’Neill, seeking a moment in which simple kindness might also achieve some additional interclan mending. “And let’s not hear any more o’ this tearing yourself down because you’re not up-time-trained. I’m sure those fancy Grantville doctors are not half as good as everyone says they ar-” And he stopped, transfixed by a baleful glare from Hugh’s senior sergeant and old companion, O’Rourke-until a sudden, stinging chill of realization coursed through him. O’Donnell’s young wife of barely a year had died in childbirth only six months ago-and it was universally held that her death could have been prevented by an up-time doctor or nurse. O’Donnell might have had access to one of them through his godmother, the Infanta Isabella, but he had known that Philip IV would have been sorely displeased. And so, Hugh had refrained. And so, his wife, and only child, had both died. Criticizing up-time medicine was, Owen concluded, probably the stupidest thing he could have done at such a moment. He surveyed the faces in the tent to see just how much damage he had done.