Featured Article » Fiction

First Impressions

Written by Iver P. Cooper

The pickpocket thought he had spotted an easy mark.

First of all, he could tell from the fellow's clothing that he was a foreigner. So he wouldn't get the same kind of help if he raised a hue and cry that a citizen would.

Secondly, he was at the fair selling paintings. Artists were notoriously oblivious to the mundane aspects of life, like eating . . . or not getting their purses lifted. Of course, there probably wasn't a lot in that purse, but you couldn't have everything your own way.

Finally, he was distracted, talking to an extremely pretty girl. Tall, blonde and buxom. For that matter, she was doing a pretty good job of distracting bystanders, that might otherwise notice a cutpurse.

The pickpocket was having trouble staying focused himself.

He worked with the ebb and flow of the crowd, sidling closer without making his path obvious. He waited . . . then made his move.

The pickpocket should, perhaps, have paid closer attention to the subject matter of the paintings. They were detailed and realistic looking depictions of life in the New World. Including such subjects as Indian raids.

The painter whirled and caught the pickpocket's wrist. A wrist which was, unfortunately, attached to a thievish hand whose fingers were at that very moment gripping the painter's purse. It was, to be blunt, the very worst moment to have one's wrist grabbed and placed on public display. . . .

"Naughty, naughty," the painter, Felix Gruenfeld, said. His voice was relaxed, but his fingers weren't.

The blonde took in the scene and reacted in a less elegant but more practical way. "Help! Thief!"

The bystanders surged forward, eager to aid the damsel in distress, and tackled the unfortunate thief. They accepted the damsel's thanks, and then handed the criminal off to the market guards. He would probably be hanged before the fair was over.

If her helpers were disappointed to learn that the purse was the painter's, not hers, and that she was the painter's wife, at least they were too polite to say so.

****

"That was deftly done," said his wife, Birgit Wegenerin.

"Thank you," said Felix. "There are advantages to living several years in the wilds of America. And making friends with the Indians. They taught me how to sneak up on an animal, or a person, and how, um, to not get sneaked up upon. What's the up-time term? 'Situational awareness,' I think."

"Comes in handy in chess, too," said Birgit. "Too many players focus on their own attack, without minding where their opponents' pieces are marching."

Felix wasn't surprised by the chess reference. Birgit was from Stroebeck, the "Chess Village." Where girls as well as boys learned to play at a young age. And where a suitor had to play a village champion if he wanted to marry a Stroebeck maiden.

Felix had been such a suitor once. He was clobbered in the first match, but went to Grantville, learned up-time chess theory, and returned for a rematch. At which he won her hand.

They had just driven a wagon, loaded with Felix' sketches and paintings, to the Free Imperial City of Nuernberg, one hundred seventeen miles south of Grantville. They had arrived in time for St. Egidius' Day, September 1. While the town was Protestant now, and didn't celebrate saint's days in the Catholic manner, that day was still the beginning of a three week fair of international proportions. Felix's artwork had sold well. Well enough, obviously, for his purse to attract the attentions of a pickpocket.

****

The swordsman stood on a barrel, a sword in one hand, parrying dagger in the other. He mimed dueling, then placed the point of the dagger at his throat, as he aimed the sword skyward. After pausing for effect, he somersaulted off the barrel.

Birgit gasped.

The swordsman, now at ground level, held up the dagger; the crowd could see that he hadn't lost a drop of blood. They applauded, and the performer took a bow.

"I wouldn't want to try that trick," Felix said. "Not even with a paintbrush in place of the poniard."

"I wouldn't want you to."

"So, now what, Birgit? Listen to some pipers? Go bowling on Haller meadow? Watch a crossbow match on Schutt Island?"

"I think we should pack up now so we can leave for Solnhofen first thing in the morning."

The village of Solnhofen lay forty miles south of Nuernberg.

Felix frowned. "There's no rush. Perhaps I'll sell a few more paintings."

"You already said that was unlikely. That at best you might sell a few at the very end, to the bargain hunters that offer half-price, or less, in the hope the seller doesn't want to transport his merchandise back home."

"That's true. I suppose."

"So waiting around Nuernberg just costs us money in rent that could be better spent on starting up the new printmaking business."

The problem with painting, as he had told her in the early days of their courtship, was that it took so long to do each piece. And if one was popular, it took equally long to make a duplicate. Sketching was fast, but didn't command the same prices as paintings. If you thought the art could sell many copies, you could prepare a copperplate engraving, and make prints. But engraving a plate was much more time-consuming than painting.

Birgit was a practical sort of girl and, once he took her back with him to Grantville, she started asking the up-timers questions. Lots of questions. And the answers were the other reason they were in Nuernberg. She had persuaded Felix to try to duplicate lithography. Lithography was reputed to have many advantages, not least of which was that it was much cheaper, easier and faster to print drawings by lithography than by copperplate engraving.

"I'd feel more comfortable about lithography if, you know, we weren't the first."

"We aren't the first. The first was Alois Senefelder in 1796, old time line. The encyclopedia said so." Her tone was reverent.

"You know what I mean. First in this time line. Books are all well and good, but you don't learn to paint from books, and you don't learn smithing from books, so why should we expect to be able to learn lithography from books? I'd be a lot more comfortable with this scheme of yours—"

"—scheme—?"

"If even one of the up-timer art teachers were an expert with it. . . ." His voice trailed off.

Birgit took a deep breath, and expelled it slowly. "Felix. If there was already an expert around, then it wouldn't be as promising a proposition. We would have competitors. They would run up the price of the limestone. Or worse, persuade the Solnhofeners to give them an 'exclusive.'" Solnhofen's fine-grained limestone was Senefelder's original "litho"—stone. And was still used by printmakers two centuries later. The stones could hold fine detail and, unlike a copperplate, a Solnhofen stone could be ground and re-used to print a new design.

"If Solnhofeners were still quarrying limestone two centuries after Senefelder, then surely there's plenty of it to go around."

"Sure. But we want to get the choicest pieces at the best price. And we want to be the first on the market with lithographs, so the other artists are playing, um, 'catch-up.'"

"Still, it's a risk."

"Living is a risk. War, famine, and pestilence all around us, despite the up-time inventions. You already did what you could to bring down the risk. You read all the book entries. You sat down with all the art teachers, and found out what they remembered about lithography from their printmaking classes in art school. Eleanor gave you some tips that weren't in the books, as I recall."

"Still—"

Birgit glared at Felix. "I did not ride in a wagon for over a hundred miles just to watch you sell paintings in a square in Nuernberg. I could have stayed in Grantville and been productive. I could have gone to the library, and visited friends who have TV and air conditioning. I could have eaten ice cream every day. I didn't have to come here with you, husband."

Felix's up-time friends had told him how they had visualized German women before the Ring of Fire. Either wearing a "dirndl" and carrying a beer mug in each hand, smiling, or wearing a horned helmet and carrying a long spear, frowning. Birgit definitely fit the second image at this point. A Valkyrie, a chooser of the slain.

Felix decided that discretion might be the better part of valor. On the other hand, he did have his male dignity to consider.

"We'll leave. In two days. That will give me one day to dispose of some of the paintings. Give us more room for the limestone."

Birgit nodded curtly. "Fine. I'm taking a walk. I need to calm down."

****

Birgit strode off, turned the corner. After a few blocks, she stopped at a bakery and bought a Lebkuchen, a honey cake. When you're feeling down, eat a sweet, she figured.

As she munched, she thought about the complications of married life. Felix is a kind man, and funny, and a fine artist, but, really! He just hasn't learned that you have to put money to work if you want to make money. You have to learn to take a calculated risk.

Felix complains about how hard it is for painters financially, but doesn't want to do anything about it. And he knows that I have more of a head for business than he does, but he won't let me do so. Even though he grew up in Holland where "she-merchants" are taken for granted.

Or he agrees, then gets cold feet. That's worse than just saying "no" in the first place.

She made her way back in the Haupmarkt, where they had been arguing an hour or so earlier. Felix was gone. Back at the inn, she supposed. Packing. Painting. Sulking, perhaps.

Birgit strode over to the Schoner Brunnen fountain. It looked like a miniature cathedral, with a spire

She took hold of the famous golden ring. What had people told her?

"Turn the gold ring thrice; wish granted in a trice."

She turned it, three times, and stepped back.

"Bah!" she exclaimed. A passerby gave her a curious glance. As if you could just need to wish for something, and it would happen.

****

As soon as Birgit was out of sight, Felix started walking back toward the inn.

Birgit's smart, but she's lived such a sheltered life, up to now, he thought. Birgit had never been rich, but she had never had to miss a meal because she couldn't afford one. Felix had. Even before the siege of Amsterdam.

The Guild of Saint Luke's in Amsterdam wouldn't have elevated Felix to mastery if they hadn't thought there was room for him. But art isn't like bread, or smith work. It's a luxury, not a necessity. If times are bad, then even master painters starve.

Felix kicked a stone down the road, watched it skitter over the cobbles. When he met Birgit, all his worldly goods were in Amsterdam, the Spanish siege line rendering them as inaccessible as if they were in the New World he had once visited.

The newspapers in Nuernberg had just announced the peace treaty between the United States of Europe and the Netherlands. That meant the siege was over, Felix supposed. It didn't mean that his paintings, and other possessions, had survived the siege. They could have been stolen. Or burnt. If so, his resources were limited to the little he had accumulated in Grantville.

And now I have Birgit to support, too. It can only be a matter of time, considering how long and how often I've been bedding her, before we have a child as well. Then I'll have three mouths to support. On just a painter's brush.

A pack of children came running around the corner, laughing; Felix stepped out of their way, and watched them for a moment.

Birgit's father, Felix knew, thought he was just a vagabond. Within a week of the engagement, old Hans Wegener had second thoughts and started trying to talk Birgit into breaking it off. Prudently, Felix got her out of Stroebeck right away, before she, too, changed her mind. But that meant taking her to Grantville before Felix was entirely confident that he could support her.

To start over in Grantville, I had to buy brushes, paints, canvas, and an easel. I had to rent a room that had good light. And rent, even outside the Ring, is astronomical.

He recognized an approaching citizen as one who had purchased a "Battle of Wismar." It was a good seller in Magdeburg; the heroic Hans dive bombing the Lossen. He hadn't been sure that it would do as well here, so far from the sea, but the gamble of bringing a few had paid off well. Felix greeted the customer.

He suddenly thought of what he might do about the remaining paintings. He turned down a side street and went off to visit a fellow guildsman, a Nueremberger who came to Grantville from time to time and had bunked down in Felix's garret. Felix left the paintings with him. His friend promised to try to sell them in Felix's absence, for a commission, of course.

Painting isn't like a regular job, Felix mused as he stepped back into the street. You don't get a weekly paycheck. It takes time to paint and it takes time to figure out what paintings would sell. And when the work is commissioned, you can wait a long time to actually get paid.

Someone like Rubens, with high level patronage, can take risks. But I can't, can I? Just because the up-timers in their own time and place knew how to do something, doesn't mean that it can be duplicated here and now. Look at the microwave oven disaster!

Felix had thought about working more for the Geological Survey. Full time, not just contract illustrations. But then he realized that if he did, he would hardly have time to paint.

What would my life be like without Art?

What would it be like without Birgit?

Felix hoped that this new lithography venture would work. For both their sakes.

****

Felix and Birgit went to bed quickly, without their usual banter. The next day, they talked, but a bit stiffly, confining themselves to minutiae like "how's your stew?" and "I wish it would stop raining."

The appointed day of departure, fortunately, was more pleasant; the morning sun warmed the stones of the Frauentor, the Ladies' Gate, and sparkled on the dancing waters of the Pegnitz as they steered their wagon southeast, along its northern bank.

The sun also seemed to have a warming effect on the couple's mood; after a while they spoke, at first haltingly, then with greater animation, about the people streaming past them and what their business in the city might be.

They arrived in Schwabach, their first stop, a little after lunch time. After eating, Felix and Birgit wandered up to the Church of Saint John. It was Lutheran, of course; it was here in Schwabach that the Schwabacher font, used to print Martin Luther's first German bible, had been designed.

Felix pointed out to her the altar carved by Veit Stoss. "You know the story about him?"

Birgit shook her head.

"He was a master of the arts—wood carving, sculpture, painting, and engraving. He was also a forger. He was caught and sentenced to death. The Prince-Bishop of Wurzburg pleaded that his life be spared, and at the last moment the Rath decided that his talents were so great that it would be sacrilegious to execute him. So they branded him on both cheeks, and threw him into prison for a few years. Eventually, the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian the First, granted him a full pardon."

"What did he forge?" asked Birgit.

"Some kind of promissory note. Not another artist's painting, if that's what you were thinking."

After looking at a few paintings, they sauntered out, and blinked as their eyes re-adjusted to the bright sunlight. "Okay, now it's my turn," Birgit said. "We have a look at the needle factory."

"Needles?"

"It's for another of my . . . schemes. . . ."

"No problem," he said hurriedly. "Take your time, I'll do some sketching."

They spent some minutes there, and Birgit ended up buying a few needles. Not for sewing or knitting on her own account, however.

"I had a very interesting chat with Sarah Wendell before we left Grantville. The Higgins Sewing Machine Factory would like to find a better source for needles than the one it is using now. Someone read in an encyclopedia that Schwabach was the, what was the phrase?" She wrinkled her eyes. "The 'chief seat of needle manufacture in Bavaria.'"

"When?"

"Well, that was the question no one in Grantville knew the answer to. But when we got to Nuernberg, I asked around, and they told me that a needle factory was established here last year. And HSMC will pay me for the information I collected, thank you very much. Enough so that we can certainly spend the night at the inn."

"I won't fight you on that. Particularly since I made my own inquiries in Nuernberg."

"And?"

"They said that the brewery here is excellent."

****

They had only driven the cart for perhaps an hour or two when Felix heard a rider, coming up fast behind them. At least, he hoped it was just one rider.

There was no way that the mule-drawn wagon was going to stay ahead of a horseman all the way to Roth, so Felix pulled over to one side. He sent Birgit into the woods close by, pulled out a pre-cocked crossbow, and loaded a bolt into it. He stood on the far side of the wagon from the road, and used the body of the wagon to conceal the weapon. And he put a souvenir of his stay in the New World—a tomahawk—close at hand.

The rider swept by. He was young, and wore clothes which would have been deemed gentlemanly if they weren't tattered. He gave Felix only a quick glance and then continued.

Felix didn't wave her back. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, Birgit emerged from the woods anyway. "That was a false alarm. . . ."

"Get back in hiding! We don't know who's after him, or why! And I hear riders!"

She scowled, but scurried back into hiding.

A few minutes later, four more riders appeared. . . . Sighting Felix, the leader made a hand motion. Two of the riders kept going, and the leader and his remaining henchman came toward Felix and dismounted.

"Hello, stranger. Have you seen anyone in a hurry this morning, heading south?" As he spoke, his fellow rider sidled to his left.

"Indeed I have," said Felix. "You're perhaps a half-hour behind him."

"Well, that's good to know. However, I think I would like to look inside this wagon of yours, to make sure that he didn't accidentally sneak under the blankets when you weren't looking."

"And I might let you do that, provided that we take precautions so that you don't accidentally ride off with something which doesn't belong to you. To begin with, tell your friend to halt . . . now." Felix raised the crossbow into view. The flanker halted, but gave the leader a questioning look.

"That's good for only one shot," the leader said coolly.

"I am sure that your widow will find that a great consolation."

"So what do you propose?"

"Your friend rides far enough away that I don't have to worry about him rushing me, but in sight so that he can see that I am playing fair with you." Felix didn't add, and so I can see that he isn't trying to circle around me. But the leader no doubt understood.

"You take off your weapons, leave them back a few feet. Then you can pull off the blankets. Look all you please, but keep both hands where I can see them."

"Fine, fine." The leader rummaged around the inside of the wagon, looked underneath, shook his head. "Okay, that's clear. How do I know he's not hiding in the woods?"

"Then what did he do with his horse? These are mules, as I am sure you know. You see where they're standing. Do you see any fresh horse poop elsewhere, but nearby, other than what you brought with you? This whole time, have you heard your horses' neighing answered?

The leader scowled. "I do see foot prints, actually."

"My son's. I sent him into the woods, for obvious reasons."

The leader stood, studying Felix.

Felix returned the compliment. "You think the two men you sent ahead will be enough to get him, before he reaches Roth?"

The leader shrugged. "I suppose that even if you've got him hidden in the woods behind you, it will cost him in the long run if we beat him there." He bowed, collected his weapons, and swung himself back into the saddle. "If we do find out you helped him, and we see you again . . . you'll regret it."

He turned to the other man. "Joseph. On to Roth."

They rode off. Felix waited, until he was sure that they weren't planning a double back, then called Birgit back.

She emerged, somewhat tattered himself. "When I went back in the second time, I had less time to find a decent hiding place, I had to throw myself into a goddamn bramble bush."

"Better a few thorns than a few swords," said Felix. "You can repair yourself when we get to Roth."

****

They arrived there shortly before lunch. They passed through the gate, and Felix pointed toward a fountain. "And this is why the chase was so fierce," Felix said.

"What . . . oh." She saw the sign. "An asylum." Here, a fugitive could pay the Freingsgulden and stay in Roth for a year, hoping that in the meantime he or she could negotiate a more permanent solution with the pursuers.

"Did he make it?"

"I hope so," Felix said. "I didn't appreciate the interrogation."

"You're just sympathetic because you think he was fleeing creditors."

"That might be part of it. It is, after all, almost the natural state of the aspiring artist."

"But for all you know," said Birgit, "he seduced their sister, or maybe he even murdered someone."

"We won't be here long enough to find out."

Felix had thought they were just passing through Roth, but Birgit had other ideas. "I've heard about this town. Back when we were in Nuernberg. Half a century ago, the Fournier family started a wire goods factory here. Started by Georg Fournier, who fled here from a Nuernberg debtor's prison."

Felix groaned. "Not another factory. Perhaps I'll let that fugitive we met murder me."

Birgit smiled sweetly. "You don't have to go. You can go up to Schloss Ratibor, the hunting lodge built here by the Margrave of Ansbach. Look at the artwork."

"Right. One painting after another of noblemen on horseback, and dogs treeing some critter or another. Fascinating."

****

Despite the factory tour, they reached Pleinfeld at dusk, and hurried in before the gates were closed.

"No factories here, I hope," muttered Felix.

"None that I know of. They mine sand here—I think they sell it to glassmakers—but it is too expensive to ship it a long distance. Now, when the railroad comes to Nuernberg, there will be some possibilities."

****

The inn at Pleinfeld had been horrible. Felix and Birgit almost wished that they had been locked out of the town. But at least they could look forward to a lunch stop at the Imperial Free City of Weissenburg-am-Sand. Or at least Felix was looking forward to it.

"I'm feeling a little nauseous," said Birgit.

"I am not surprised. I think the eggs were rancid."

As they neared Ellingen, the traffic picked up. At first Felix thought it was because they were getting near to Weissenburg, but that wasn't the answer. Or at least not the whole answer. At Ellingen, the road from Nuernberg to Augsburg crossed the one from Wurzburg to Munich.

"Stop the cart."

"Ho!" Felix shouted, as he pulled gently on the reins.

A moment later, Birgit leaned over the side of the wagon, and threw up.

Felix shook some water out of a water pouch and used it to moisten a rag. He reached around and held it to her forehead. "That help?" She nodded, but stayed by the side of the wagon.

They waited a while, and at last Birgit announced, "I think that's it. Let's get going."

"You sure?"

"If I'm sick, and not just suffering from indigestion, I'd rather be in Weissenburg."

If I were sick, I'd rather be in Grantville, or Jena, than Weissenburg, thought Felix.

They came to the crossroad, and Felix looked both ways. "Well, that's an interesting coincidence. " He pointed in the direction of Wurzburg, at an approaching coach, with cabbalistic symbols marked on the front. "A traveling Paracelsus." By which, he meant, an itinerant peddler of medicines. "Perhaps he has something that can help you."

This Paracelsus wannabee was of the opinion that to pause between sentences was to waste God's Bounty of Breath. "And then I have the new products, out of Grantville. Do you have a headache? I have Gribbleflotz Sal Vin Betula. That is, the little blue pills of happiness."

"Not a headache. Nausea."

"Hmm . . . then perhaps you should try a little Gribbleflotz Sal Aer Fixus, in water. And add some ginger. Honey, too, perhaps. Let me see what I have."

He found the Sal Aer Fixus quickly enough, but had to search for the ginger. He kept chattering as he did so. Finally, he pulled out a jar, and held it out where he could read the label. "Ah, that's it," he muttered. "Sorry it was buried so deep. But the toughest part is over, I have the honey right here."

They dickered a bit. Felix had to do the talking, and Birgit thought that he settled at too high a price, but she didn't have the energy to intervene. At last, the peddler waved good bye, and continued on his way, and Felix administered the remedies to Birgit.. . .After giving it time to take effect, he helped Birgit back on board and took up the reins.

****

They came around a bend in the road and Felix brought the team to a halt, and sighed.

"What's wrong, Felix?"

"Nothing's wrong. Under ordinary circumstances, I would draw that vista." The city of Weissenburg was perhaps a mile beyond. But Birgit quickly realized that the city was not the attraction. Rather, it was the fortress of Wulzburg, southeast of Weissenburg. This crowned a hill that rose perhaps two thousand feet above the town.

"You can draw it. I am not nauseous right now."

He paused for a moment, then motioned the mules back into action. "No, we best not wait, your nausea might return. Perhaps I will draw it on our return trip."

****

The next morning, Birgit told Felix that she was feeling better, but wanted to go back to sleep.

"So we will spend the day here in Weissenburg?"

"Yes—you could go back and draw the fortress you liked."

"You're sure you won't need me?"

Birgit pulled the covers over her head. Through them she mumbled, "I feel fine, I just want to take it easy today. Now, tell the maid not to disturb me, and go out and let me get some rest." Felix went out, and returned; Birgit passed on lunch. At dinner she just ate some bread.

****

From Schwabach to Weissenburg, they had been heading up the valley of the Regnitz, a tributary of the Main. To continue, they now had to head south, and cross into the valley of the Altmuhl. This would take them to Dietfurth, Pappenheim, and at last to Solnhofen. While that was their ultimate destination, the Altmuhl would flow on, eventually reaching the Danube at Kelheim.

Still, some delays were necessary, at least artistically. They had barely left Weissenburg behind them, and Felix already had his sketchbook out, after an apologetic look at Birgit. The mules didn't mind.. . .Birgit didn't either. Now that she had the ginger. And not if Felix was quick about it. It was business, after all—exotic scenes were the artist's stock in trade.

Birgit watched his fingers as he drew, then followed his gaze. "So that is the Teufelsmauer—the 'Devil's Wall.' You have to wonder why the Devil bothered to build a wall out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Very funny, Birgit," he replied, his pencil continuing to fly across the page, and his eyes flicking back and forth between the vista and the paper. "You heard what the minister in Weissenburg said, before I drank him under the table—the Romans built this wall. You have to visualize what it was like when it was new. A stone wall eight feet high, made, I suppose, of rock from local quarries.. . .With a road behind, and stone watchtowers, three times the height of the wall, every few miles. With legionaries on the lookout for the Hunnish hordes to the north."

"I'm a Hun, I suppose."

"I am sure they would have been happy to let you across. But not your brothers and boy-cousins."

Birgit was feeling back to normal. While Felix drew, she looked around for Roman artifacts that might be sold as curiosities. Just before her enthusiasm dwindled to the point of nothingness, she found the cheekpiece of a legionnaire's helmet. It was embossed with the image of a woman.

"She's carrying a bow, so she's probably the Goddess Diana. Should fetch a decent price for some collector's Wunderkammer." A wunderkammer was a curiosity cabinet, a private museum. Throughout Europe, many noblemen had them, and in the Netherlands, merchants were also collectors. Since Felix was a landscape artist, he had found it to be a profitable sideline to also keep his eyes open for artifacts, historical and natural, that he might sell to curiosity seekers. He had been off prospecting at the time of the Battle of Dunkirk. Otherwise, he would probably have been in Amsterdam when the siege began. "Unless you would rather keep it. Being a goddess on earth, yourself."

Birgit shook her head, but smiled.

The minister had also told them about the Fossa Carolina—Charlemagne's Ditch—which was five miles southwest of Weissenburg. In 792, the Emperor ordered that a canal be dug to connect the Rhine to the Danube. Or, more precisely, the Altmuhl to the Rezat. The effort petered out, even though the two tributaries were only a mile apart, because canal locks had not yet been invented, and the two streams were at levels many feet apart.

The minister had a somewhat more spiritual explanation for the failure: "God would not allow his own Design to be frustrated." Which was another way of saying, if the Lord had wanted the Rhine and the Danube to be connected, he would have formed them that way to begin with. Birgit was unimpressed—she knew that a Rhine-Danube canal was shown on the up-timer's maps of Germany—but kept her skepticism to herself.

****

Felix had thought, based on the up-time maps, that they could stay on the north bank of the Altmuhl all the way to Solnhofen. That wasn't possible, after all. Just past Dietfurt, the river turned sharply south, skirting a tall plateau.

Yes, a local told them, they had to cross the river at Dietfurt, Felix should have guessed; the name of the town did mean, "People's Ford."

By the time they completed the crossing, both Felix and Birgit were exhausted. Still, the Lutheran Birgit made the time to seek out the former home of the famous female champion of the Reformation, Argula von Grumbach. When Arsacius was arrested in 1522, she had lobbied the Rector and Council of Ingolstadt University. Her Scripture-rich letter found its way into print, and went through fourteen editions in two months. The Catholics called for Duke Wilhelm to tame "the silly bag," but the Lutheran preacher Balthasar Hubmaier said that she knew more of the Divine Word than all the red hats in the world put together.

Her principles were pursued at some cost; her husband Friedrich remained a Catholic, yet lost his job at Dietfurt as a punishment for her activities. Argula had once written, "May God teach me to understand how I should act towards my man." Birgit had sometimes wondered that herself, even though Felix's Calvinism was not especially problematic for her.

****

The Altmuhl, heading east, had to force its way across the Franconian Jura, like a corkscrew threading into a wine cork. It was narrow and windy, with cliffs several hundred feet high framing the river. Willows shaded the green water, and oak trees dotted the ground between the river and the cliffs. Beech trees clutched the slopes, and, craning his neck and shielding his eyes against the sun, Felix could make out the familiar silhouettes of spruce, pine and larch at the top of the gorge.

It was by the circuitous path of the Altmuhl that they came at last to the village of Pappenheim, the boyhood home of the famous commander of the Black Cuirassiers. Who was now far away, in the service of His Recently-crowned Majesty, King Wenceslas V Adalbertus, sovereign of Bohemia and all its dominions. Formerly known in these Protestant parts as Wallenstein the Devil.

The next morning, the sky was dark and threatening, and before they broke their fast, it began to rain. So heavily, in fact, that Felix joked that he wasn't sure whether the river Altmuhl was at their feet or above their heads.

Two hours later, the rain hadn't slackened a bit, and they decided to have lunch in Pappenheim. Felix took out a piece of charcoal, and drew an eight by eight grid on the table. They improvised chess pieces from pieces of wood and rock, and played chess the rest of the dreary afternoon.

The next morning, they were surprised to receive an invitation to the Graf's castle. Actually, the summons was from the countess, Anna Elisabeth, Pappenheim's second wife. Thanks to Pappenheim riding Wallenstein's coattails, she would now be "Her Serene Highness, the Duchess of Moravia."

She had heard, from a somewhat drenched servant, of ...