Eric Flint: 1634: The Ram Rebellion

His report finished, Scott closed the notebook and looked up.

“Hearts and Minds?” Steve Salatto asked.

“Self-government in Franconia is proceeding normally,” said Johnnie F. “That is, things are messy, disorganized, imperfect, and squabbly. Tithe compensation committees are disputing with water rights committees, neither of which have much in common with the weights and measures people, none of whom can seem to get a firm answer out of Magdeburg, because the parliament up there is passing things without appropriating the funds to implement them. Lord, how I hate unfunded mandates.”

He bestowed a cheerful grin on everyone at the table. “All of which is just fine with me. I prefer any amount of mess and imperfection to a slick authoritarian regime any day.”

“Does anyone have an update on what’s happening at the Fulda end of things? I’m afraid that we’ve pretty much been leaving Wes Jenkins to his own devices.” Steve Salatto was moving through the morning’s agenda fairly briskly.

Weckherlin looked up from his note-taking, annoyed that young Samuel Ebert, whom he had left in his place at the desk in the outer office, was interrupting the meeting.

“My apologies, but he says that it is very important.” Ebert came around the table and handed a note to Salatto.

“Who is Constantin Ableidinger?” Steve asked, after scanning it.

“I am not familiar with the name, Herr Salatto,” Weckherlin answered.

Ebert opened his mouth, looked at Maydene Utt, then closed it again. The senior auditors were not particularly happy that their juniors had been drafted for other jobs in the administration during this summer’s crisis-particularly not after the Krausold debacle. Ebert, Heubel, and Fischer spent a lot of their time keeping their mouths closed and trying to look inconspicuous.

“Why does he want to see me?”

“Since I don’t know who he is, I don’t have the slightest idea.” Weckherlin again.

Ebert opened his mouth. “Excuse me, Herr Salatto. But I believe that Herr Haun may know him. And Herr Blackwell.”

Steve looked at them. Both shook their heads. “I’ve heard the name,” Johnnie F. said, “but I’ve never met him.”

“Put him off.” Steve waved Ebert out of the room.

He didn’t move. Looked at Herr Haun and Herr Blackwell. “Sirs, forgive me. He gave me this to show you.”

Scott reached out his hand. Ebert was handing him a well-read copy of Common Sense .

“Well, I will be goddamned.” He passed it over to Johnnie F. “Remember him, now? He told us we’d likely meet again, if he wasn’t unlucky.”

Johnnie F. stared down at the book in his hands. “Him? He’s Ableidinger?”

“Come on, Scott, what’s going on?” Steve was becoming impatient.

“You’ve got Big Bad Brillo himself standing in your outer office. And now we’ve finally put a name to him. Not just that ‘Helmut’ alias, or whatever you’d call it. What in hell is he doing here? Did he just walk in?”

“Yes sir,” Ebert said. “Like anyone else with business in the palace.”

Steve was looking at young Ebert. “How come you thought that Johnnie F. and Scott would know him?”

“Well, they’ve been up there. To where he has his headquarters now, on the Coburg border, since they decided Frankenwinheim wasn’t safe enough. Several times. I just assumed that they would. And Herr Hawker in Bamberg has the Hearts and Minds team’s printing done by Frau Else Kronacher. I know that from checking the invoices.”

“You’ve known his name all along?”

“Not his name, no, Herr Salatto. But I recognized him certainly, when he walked in. No one who has ever heard the ram speak is likely to forget him. I’ve heard him. So have Fischer and Heubel.”

Ebert paused. “Herr Krausold did, too. Before, ah… We’re, well, we’re down-timers, you know. People don’t notice us, the way they do you. And we’re young, the three of us. Like most of the people who go to his speeches. They don’t turn anyone away.”

Anita raised her eyebrows. “Frau Kronacher?”

“The woman who is called ‘the ewe.’” From Ebert’s tone of voice, it was clear he assumed that everyone knew that. “She prints all the pamphlets coming out of Bamberg.”

Everyone was staring at him. Nervously, the young German intern looked to Johnnie F. for support.

“But-Herr Haun. Surely you knew this? You visit her shop every time you’re in Bamberg.”

All stares shifted to Johnnie F. He cleared his throat.

“Well. Ah.”

Steve Salatto rolled his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ. The idea, Johnnie, is that we’re supposed to win over their hearts and minds. Not-goddamit-the other way around.”

“Well,” Johnnie F. repeated. “Ah.”

Castle Bimbach, near Bayreuth, August, 1634

Emma Thornton still couldn’t quite believe this was really happening. It all seemed like something out of a bad movie.

Desperately, she looked over at Meyfarth, as if he might reassure her. But the Lutheran pastor’s face, though stiffly composed, was also as pale as a sheet.

Guess not.

Both of them were tied to chairs in the dungeon. Well, not exactly a “dungeon.” The big chamber was a half-basement, with narrow windows up on the walls, allowing some light into the room.

“Torture chamber,” she’d call it, except it really had more of a resemblance to a very primitive dentist’s office. Which didn’t make her feel any better at all. Especially given the “dentist” and his assistant.

The “dentist” wasn’t so bad, maybe. If he’d actually been a dentist. Just a man in late middle-age, round-shouldered and with something of a stoop, wearing a nondescript cloth coat.

The problem was that Emma knew his actual position. He was Freiherr von Bimbach’s official gaol-keeper and executioner-a post which, in this time and place, doubled as “official torturer.”

His much younger journeyman assistant was even worse. No unobtrusive cloth coat for him. He was wearing the sort of outfit that blacksmiths wore while working in their shops. And he was just about as big and bulky as any blacksmith Emma had ever seen.

There was even a brazier glowing in a corner. With tongs being heated in it!

Unbelievably, things got worse. The door to the chamber was opened by a soldier, who ushered in the lord of the castle. He was holding something in his hand, but Emma was too pre-occupied with the Freiherr himself to notice what it was.

Emma stared at him. This was the first good, up-close look she’d had of Freiherr Fuchs von Bimbach since her kidnapping.

His appearance was… not promising. Bimbach was in his forties, stocky to the point of being overweight, and with a hard and heavy face. Clean-shaven, which made his jowls prominent.

He came right over to her and held up the object in his hand. Now, she saw that it was one of the pieces of Mormon literature she’d hastily stuck into her pocket when she’d been lured away from her stand in Bamberg.

“You are a heretic,” von Bimbach stated. “Here is the proof of it. Heresy is a capital crime, and I am charged with enforcing the law. And I have the Halsgericht. ”

Emma rallied her will. “Not the new laws. You can’t-”

Von Bimbach slapped her across the face with the booklet. “You do not have permission to speak.”

He moved over to Meyfarth and held the booklet under his nose. “And you! A man who claims to be a Lutheran pastor, no less. You have tolerated this-no, have conspired with her.”

Meyfarth said nothing. But he returned the Freiherr ’s glare without flinching.

After a moment, von Bimbach turned away. The soldier who had ushered him in was still standing at the open door. The Freiherr beckoned and the man brought him over a packet. Apparently he’d been carrying it with him.