1634: The Bavarian Crisis: Chapter Two

Prudentia Politica

    Brussels, the Spanish Netherlands

    Don Fernando, often known as the “Cardinal-Infante,” was the younger brother of King Philip IV of Spain by birth and, by virtue of his own martial accomplishments, the effective ruler of most of the Netherlands. All of it, actually, except Amsterdam and the small rump of less than two provinces still held by the Dutch rebels under the Prince of Orange, Fredrik Hendrik. But the uncertain expression on his face as he lowered the letter made him seem even younger than the twenty-three-year-old that he was. So, at least, it seemed to Pieter Paul Rubens, watching him—but since Rubens was acknowledged throughout Europe as one of the great portraitists of the day, his assessment was reliable.

    The young Spanish prince was, indeed, very unsure of himself. All the more so, perhaps, because he knew as a gifted military commander that uncertainty was a deadly thing in the middle of battle. Still, at least for the moment, Don Fernando was uncertain.

    “He has a somewhat unsavory—well, certainly interesting—reputation, you know.”

    Rubens smiled thinly. “I think, were Cardinal Bedmar still here in person, he would urge you to abandon the qualifying ‘somewhat’—but would also point out that his reputation is only unsavory among his enemies. Spain’s enemies.”

    The smile broadened. “To almost anyone, of course, he is interesting—including you. Which, may I remind Your Highness, is the very reason you decided to send him as your unofficial envoy to Venice. So why the sudden doubts in his capabilities?”

    Don Fernando shook his head, folded up the letter from Bedmar and handed it back to Rubens. Then, leaned back in his chair in the salon of his headquarters. “It’s not Alphonso’s capabilities that concern me, Pieter. It’s… well. His loyalties.”

    They were now treading on treacherous ground. Rubens paused, while he chose his words carefully. It would be tactless in the extreme to make too much of the fact that Bedmar’s loyalty to Spain was precisely what the young Spanish prince was worried about—since his own loyalty was now highly questionable.

    Best to avoid terms like “loyalty” altogether, Rubens decided. “Alphonso has grown weary of what he regards as the blind fecklessness of Spain’s ministers, Your Highness. I think you may rest assured that his thoughts run in tandem with yours.”

    A quick smile came and went on the cardinal-infante’s face. “That was very nicely put, Pieter. Have you considered taking up a career—just as a sideline from your painting, of course—as a diplomat?”

    They shared a soft laugh. When it was over, Rubens shrugged. “What I said remains true. I really do not think that Your Highness needs to entertain any doubts with regard to Cardinal Bedmar’s discretion. In any event”—he waggled the letter in his hands—“he has nothing much to report of any interest, beyond the usual machinations of the Venetians. The American delegation hadn’t yet arrived in the city when he sent me this.”

    Now, he smiled a bit ruefully. “I’m afraid you probably have a lot more to fear from my own… well, not indiscretion, exactly. Still, it’s not always easy to explain why I’m seeking a portrait of someone like Anna Katharina Konstanze Vasa or Anna de Medici or Claude de Lorraine—to say nothing of the two Austrian archduchesses, Maria Anna and Cecilia Renata. Taken one at a time, I believe my explanations have not aroused any suspicions. But should any competent spy”—what he meant was Spanish spy, but he left that unsaid—“happen to discover that I’m seeking portraits of all of them, I’m afraid… Well, to use that American expression, there will be hell to pay.”

    “I can imagine! Given that there could be only one plausible reason that you’d be seeking portraits of every eligible Catholic princess in Europe.” Don Fernando gave Rubens a sly smile. “Of course, I suppose I could claim that you were obviously intending to do away with your wife Helena and marry one of them yourself.”

    Again, they shared a soft laugh. And when it was over, Rubens shrugged again. “I don’t actually think there’s much risk involved, Your Highness. I’ve been dealing entirely with artists, not diplomats.”

    “Yes, I imagine they wouldn’t be as prone to suspicion.”

    Rubens burst into much louder laughter. “To the contrary, Your Highness! I can assure you that artists are obsessive about their suspicions—far more so than diplomats. The up-timers even have a word for the attitude. ‘Paranoia,’ they call it. But the suspicions run along professional channels, not those of matters of state. Each and every one of the artists from whom I’ve either bought a portrait or commissioned one is absolutely certain that I intend to do one myself based on their work—and then sell the end result for ten times what they would have gotten.”

    He cleared his throat and added, perhaps a bit smugly: “Which, indeed, I could, were I so inclined.”

    Don Fernando scratched his chin. “Perhaps that explanation…”

    “No, I’m afraid not,” said Rubens. “One or two portraits, yes. But eight?”  He shook his head. “No capable spy—not one, at least, with any knowledge of art—would believe for a moment that I’d delve that extensively into what is, after all, neither a lucrative nor a prestigious field of portraiture. At the risk of immodesty, I am an artist who gets commissioned by royalty to paint them in person—and turns down far more commissions than I accept. I do not have to paint portraits at second-hand in the hopes that I might be able to sell them at a later date. One or two I could explain, with not much difficulty, as a matter of specific personal interest. For eight portraits, there can be no logical explanation beyond the one that involves affairs of state.”

    The Spanish prince was still scratching his chin. “Only eight? I’d hoped…”

    “You will perhaps recall that I warned you, Your Highness. I’m afraid that today—and this won’t change for years—we have a shortage of eligible Catholic princesses who would suit you for a bride. Even that figure of ‘eight’ is stretching the matter. Two of the ladies involved—Claudia de Medici, the regent of Tyrol, and her older sister Maria Maddalena—are really a bit too old. Maria Maddalena is reported to suffer from very poor health, as well.”

    Don Fernando finally stopped scratching his chin. “I’ve met Claudia. She seemed quite capable and she’s not that much older than me. Somewhere around thirty, I believe.”

    “Yes, you’re right—and if you were a prince in a different position, with one or two brothers whose children could provide an heir in the event your own wife did not produce one, she’d be quite suitable. But a thirty year old woman—yes, you’re right about her age—is really a bit too old, when the entire dynasty will of necessity have to depend entirely on your own offspring.”

    He cleared his throat again, but before he could speak Don Fernando waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I see the point. Not that my brother Philip wouldn’t be delighted to provide me with an heir—but that would rather defeat the whole purpose of the enterprise, wouldn’t it?”

    His eyes narrowed slightly. “So… I need a wife who’s no older than her mid-twenties, and in good health. Of the remaining six, which do you think are the best prospects?”

    “Best, in what terms, Your Highness? In an ideal world, there’s no question—the two Austrians, especially the older sister. By all accounts, and I’ve collected quite a few, they are both in good health—even very vigorous health, by the standards of most highborn women—and both of sound mind. The older daughter Maria Anna even has something of a reputation for her intellect, if not the younger. And”—here he suppressed a smile—“they are also quite comely.”

    Don Fernando scowled. “I don’t care about their looks. Well. Not much. I need a wife who’ll produce children.”

    The prince’s pronouncement was in the finest tradition of capable royalty. It was also complete nonsense. Don Fernando was a very vigorous young man and he was no more indifferent to the comeliness of women than any other twenty-three year old male in good health. Given his training, of course, he never ogled such women. But Rubens had not failed to notice the prince’s rapt interest whenever a woman as beautiful as—to give just one recent example—Rebecca Abrabanel came into his presence.

    Don Fernando would never pursue the matter, to be sure. He was far too self-controlled for such foolishness. Leaving aside the fact that the Abrabanel was married, and apparently faithful to her husband, she was a Jewess. So, the prince made no advances, and did not ogle. But he certainly… observed.

    Privately, Rubens understood perfectly well that he had to find a bride for Don Fernando who would be sufficiently attractive for the prince to spend enough time in her bed to succeed in his royal duties. Dynasties died out for many reasons, and the ill health or infertility of the wife was only one of them. Lack of interest on the part of the husband would do just as well to wither a royal line.

    But Rubens left all that unsaid. Like any vigorous and capable twenty-three-year-old prince, Don Fernando was also sensitive about his youth. He would not take kindly to the suggestion that he was not, actually, a wise old Nestor.

    So, he went back to the subject at hand. “As I say, those two—especially the older sister—would be the ideal one from your point of view. However, they are also the daughters of Emperor Ferdinand II. Who is, ah…”

    “A religious fanatic,” stated the cardinal-infante curtly. “To the point of bigotry.”

    “Well… yes, unfortunately. So I can see no likelihood that he would ever agree to such a match. Given that, under the best of circumstances, it would cause a severe strain to be put upon the Habsburg dynasty across Europe—to which he also belongs. He’d view it as a capitulation to the Dutch Protestants. Who are not even Lutherans, but Calvinists.”

    Don Fernando made a face. “I find it hard to see where a marriage to an Austrian Catholic would constitute a ‘capitulation’ to Dutch Calvinists. But…” He sighed. “Yes, I can see where he would view it that way. By producing a fissure in the solid ranks—not so solid as that!—of the Habsburgs, the premier family of Catholicism, I would indirectly be giving succor to the enemy of the true faith.”

    He raised his hand and almost clutched his blonde hair, as if he might pull it out by the roots. “Aaaah! Am I the only member of my powerful and widely scattered family who studies those up-time books, and is capable of drawing intelligent conclusions from them? Are all other Habsburgs village idiots accidentally wearing royal finery?”

    He lowered the hand and glared up at Rubens—or rather, glared at the world, with Rubens just happening to be in his line of sight. “Is the lesson so difficult to read, in those up-time histories? Every dynasty that survived—some of them even prospered—did so by abandoning the attempt to enforce religious beliefs and behavior. Am I not right?”

    “Well… In Europe, certainly.” Pieter did not add what he could have, that all those dynasties had also survived because they abandoned their attempts to rule as well, and satisfied themselves with simply reigning. Rubens knew that Don Fernando even understood that himself, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, but was not really prepared to accept it yet. And perhaps never would be, though he lived to the age of eighty.

    The prince slapped the armrest of his chair with exasperation. “Yet they won’t give it up! No matter the cost!”

    He shifted the glare about the room, transferring it momentarily from one portrait to another hanging in the salon. They were all portraits of Habsburgs, and they covered every wall. There had been a lot of Habsburgs, over the centuries.

    Then he looked back at Rubens and, with the same exasperation, waved at a nearby chair. “Oh, sit down, Pieter. Surely we can dispense with royal protocol at such moments.”

    Rubens made no move toward the chair. “Actually, we can’t, Your Highness. In the absence of a meal or some such acceptable—”

    “There’s only the two of us!”

    The artist glanced meaningfully at the three servants and two soldiers who stood not so far away; the servants, next to the table holding wine and other refreshments; the soldiers, by the entrance. Except for Don Fernando’s last outburst, they’d been speaking softly enough that neither the servants nor the soldiers could have understood the conversation. But they were not blind. And, almost certainly, at least one of them was accepting pay from some foreign spy—including Spain, as they now must, in the category of “foreign.”

    Understanding the meaning of the glance, the prince sighed and sagged a little in chair. “Damned silliness,” he muttered. “And I can assure you that once I—”

    But he broke off that line of thought, with the self-discipline to be expected from a grandson of Philip II. Instead, he levered himself erect in his chair. Stiffly erect.

    “Very well, Pieter. We’ll continue as before. Are you sure your correspondence with Alphonso is in no risk of interception?”

    “Not entirely. But the cardinal is a circumspect man, whose letters can always be interpreted innocently. And for those occasions when they can’t, he will use his sister in Vienna as his intermediary.”

    Don Fernando smiled. “The formidable Dona Mencia. I met her once, you know? I was very young, at the time. She quite intimidated me.”

    And that, too, Rubens decided to let pass without comment. As it happened, he maintained his own correspondence with Dona Mencia. He would not have described her as formidable so much as very shrewd. Of course, he had the advantage of enjoying the same years of age that she did, rather than encountering her as a lad.

    It was all he could do not to sigh himself. Dona Mencia was now the close attendant to the older of the two Austrian arch-duchesses, and she seemed to have discerned already—such a canny woman!—Rubens’ strategy, even though he had said nothing directly to her at all.

    So he presumed, at any rate. For there could only be two explanations for Dona Mencia’s constant praises of Maria Anna, archduchess of Austria and the Holy Roman Empire. The young woman’s intelligence; her physical vigor; her courtesy and considerations for others; her exceptionally thorough education; even her beauty, if the old woman was to be believed—and she probably could.

    The first explanation was that Dona Mencia understood and supported the goal of Rubens and his patron Don Fernando. And felt strongly enough on the subject of her mistress Maria Anna that she pursued the subject despite knowing full well herself, as she must, how impossible such a match would be under the circumstances.

    The second explanation was almost frightening. What if Dona Mencia hadn’t discerned Rubens’ purpose? What if her depictions of Maria Anna were simply those of an enthusiast?

    Almost frightening. For Dona Mencia was indeed very astute. As astute and experienced as any elderly and widely traveled noblewoman in Europe. Her assessments of people were generally superb, in Ruben’s experience.

    In which case…

    The continent of Europe actually possessed the closest thing that ever existed in the real world to the silly American notion of a “fairy tale princess”—and there was no chance at all that Rubens’ patron Don Fernando could wake her from her sleep. In the real world, if not the up-time fables, the wards and barriers that guarded princesses were far denser and thicker and mightier than paltry magic. At bottom, entire armies stood in the way—real armies—not the spells of witches.

    So it was. Rubens was not a man given to whimsy, outside of his art. He put all thoughts of Maria Anna aside. Her sister too, for that matter, since the barriers were the same.

    “I think the best possibility is the Polish girl, the Vasa, although she’s only fifteen. Failing her, the Lorraine.”

    Neither was actually very good, in his opinion. The daughter of Henri de Lorraine was rumored to have an attachment to one of her cousins, which, if true, would be awkward at best. As for the Polish princess…

    Again, Rubens suppressed a sigh. He suspected he’d be doing a lot of that, in the future, as he pursued this matter.

    The one portrait he’d managed to obtain so far of the eight eligible princesses was a portrait of Anna Katharina Konstanze Vasa, half-sister and first cousin of the king of Poland. It was possible that the artist had botched the assignment by making her less attractive than she actually was—but it was not likely. As a rule, artists bent the stick as far as they could in the other direction, when doing portraits of any wealthy patrons, much less royalty.

    So, she would be unattractive at best, and possibly downright ugly. Worse still, from what Rubens could glean from the maddeningly spotty historical records of the up-timers, he thought she might have died at the age of thirty-two, in that other universe. That might have been due to an accident, of course, which could be avoided in this separate existence. But there was also the possibility of exceedingly bad health.

    Maria Anna lived to the age of fifty-five, long past her child-bearing years, and might well have lived longer given up-time medical…

    But that was pointless. “I’ll do the best I can, Your Highness. Under the circumstances.”

    The prince nodded heavily. Then, his expression brightened. “And there’s always that, we shouldn’t forget. Since whatever other lessons brought by the Americans my family chooses to ignore, there is one that they simply can’t.”

    “I’m not quite following you, Your Highness.”

    Don Fernando was actually grinning,. now, and quite cheerfully. “Circumstances. They change, you know. That is the one thing you can be absolutely sure and certain that circumstances will do.”