Featured Article » Fiction

Historically Well Preserved

Written by Virginia DeMarce

 

Grantville, July 1635

"I arrived in February," Robert Herrick said politely.

Mistress Sophie Thomas, her eyes fixed on the refreshment table, walked between him and Mistress Alannie Clark, bearing a tray of sandwiches and coffee.

He sent a mental prayer of thanks in the general direction of the deity for this timely interruption of the conversation and looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand. He loathed coffee. He loathed the custom of congregating over coffee and pastries for an hour of what amounted to ecclesiastical baby-kissing after the services. He hated baby-kissing, literal or metaphorical, political or ecclesiastical. A bachelor, almost forty-five years old, he was quite content with that status. The fragments of poems that constantly fluttered around in his mind were often addressed to mistresses, but his Julia and Anthea, his Amaryllis and Corinna, even when he was acquainted with their models, were purely imaginary creatures who, clad in diaphanous draperies, danced barefoot through the sparkling diamonds of May's dew-studded grass.

It was very satisfactory of them to remain imaginary. Real women—the "fellowship room" on the ground floor of the church, under the sanctuary was, at the moment, occupied by too many of them—weren't sufficiently . . . ethereal. His glance swept the room at floor level. They were more likely to wear sturdy shoes and trudge through slush in January or mud in July.

If he had been able to hibernate in the libraries, as he had originally planned when he began this journey. . . . Still, he had learned some things of use. He would eventually become a published author—in another fifteen years or so. That was some consolation for not being a published author as of the present Anno Domini. But Grantville was an expensive place to live, even if one lived simply.

He glanced around and then shoved the cup of coffee behind one of the curtains on the windows. Services were held above, accessed by a rather attractive flight of double, curving, stairs that were almost modern in their design.

Modern by the standards of Europe in 1635, that was.

The city historian had explained the design to him. The founder of the parish had been all too aware of the proclivity of the creek that ran through Grantville to flood more or less regularly, so he had insisted that all the more expensive aspects of the building be placed as high as possible, well out of the reach of muddy waters.

Mistress Thomas said something to Mistress Clark.

As soon as her attention turned away from him, he ducked quickly behind a portable flagpole on which the USE flag was mounted before another overly-zealous member of the Daughters of the King Ladies' Society could thrust a replacement cup of coffee into his hand.

This time, he remembered to avoid the huge hole in the floor (there had been an unfortunate incident one Sunday when he forgot about it. The vestry had determined to install a temporary railing, but so far hadn't located a carpenter who was willing to work for what they were willing to pay). The historian told him that it had been excavated during a period of time when the building had been rented by a heterodox body called the Church of Christ that practiced the baptism of adults by total immersion. When there had been a proper carved white marble font still in place upstairs! Anabaptists! Generally speaking, heretics had no common sense at all, even aside from their theological idiosyncrasies.

Babies! Kissing babies! He winced. One had only to look at Mistress Riddle's granddaughter to realize that she would shortly be inflicting a quite unavoidable christening party upon him.

Surely, in a world absent the effects of original sin, it would have been possible for a poet to earn a living without becoming a clergyman.

Eve had a lot to answer for.

At least, the up-timers were so focused on time and time schedules that after weekday Morning Prayer, they had the good grace to depart at once—if they came at all, which most of them did not. Weekday Vespers services usually consisted of himself and Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Price Riddle, with their granddaughter assisting the old man. On Sunday, however, a person couldn't get St. Alfred's parishioners out through the doors with a shovel, as Mistress Thomas remarked with appalling good cheer every time he brought the topic up. They stayed and they ate.

Mistress Clark, undeterred by the reprovisioning of the refreshment table and the flagpole, zeroed in on him again. "So, you came in February. So what?"

Herrick raised an eyebrow. "I agreed to provide this church with regular services and sermons for a space of six months in return for my board and room while using the libraries."

"And?"

"I still plan to leave next month." Mentally, he inserted a thankful, Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation. The content of the up-time hymnals was one of the few ameliorating aspects of his stay in the up-time city. He had dropped suggestions here and there among the members of the parish that one of the hymnals would be a welcome, much-appreciated, farewell present. He should also mention to the bishop, when he got home, that a praise service dedicated to the memory, if that was the right word under the circumstances, of one Miss Catherine Winkworth, now-never-to-exist, once-upon-a-time-nineteenth-century, zealous-and-indefatigable, translator of German religious lyrics into English, might not come amiss.

He shook his head to collect his wandering thoughts.

Mistress Clark, although she had only been acquired into the parish "by marriage" as the up-timers put it, bade fair to become a most formidable organizer. "Has anyone done anything to get a replacement for you?"

"I've written to Archbishop Laud," Mistress Veleda Riddle said, manifesting from the other side of the flagpole. "Again, as I've said plenty of times before, I really want a bishop, but a person would think that now he's in exile, living off the charity of Fernando and Maria Anna in the Netherlands, he'd have at least one impoverished chaplain around who would be happy enough to come to Grantville for a while. He's very slow at answering his correspondence."

Herrick smiled politely.

If he were an archbishop, he would delay replying to letters from Mistress Riddle, too.

****

"I'm to the point that I don't care if someone is a Durchlaucht or an Erlaucht or just a plain, ordinary, everyday lout." The pen flew out of Mallory Parker's fingers and across the room.

Mary Kat Riddle caught it. "Hey, be careful. These calligraphy pens are expensive."

"You don't even have the excuse that we went to high school together for drafting me into this. I'm five whole years older. I was out before you were in."

Mary Kat laid the pen gently on the desk, next to a stack of best-quality cream-colored paper with matching envelopes. "The only excuse that I needed was that I saw you were in town for a week to visit your sisters." She grinned. "I did at least overlap in high school with Nina and Chelsea, if that counts."

Mallory leaned back. "Not to mention that I'm Methodist. We're Methodist. All of us Parker girls are Methodist. Why me, O Lord? Why not Nina and Chelsea?" She picked up the compilation of titles and appropriate forms of address that Mary Kat had borrowed from the chancery in Rudolstadt and slammed it shut. "Nor am I into diplomatic protocol."

"You'd better learn to be, since Anton wants to get promoted."

Mallory sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the swivel chair. Before she married the Rudolstadt city council's clerk, he had omitted to mention that he had ambitions to rise higher. Much higher. He had an application in with Ed Piazza's office in Bamberg. And one with the office of the secretary of state in Magdeburg.

If he got either job, she would have to quit her job teaching English in Jena.

But since she was pregnant anyway . . .

"Open the book, Mal," Mary Kat said. "Chelsea and Nina aren't on vacation. You are. Grandma's on the warpath about raising funds to renovate Grantville's dilapidated little Episcopalian church. Every envelope gets a letter; every recipient gets the proper form of address. Most illustrious, just plain illustrious, or not illustrious at all. Or a plain, ordinary, everyday lout, if he also happens to be a rich lout. They're addressed as Herr."

"I can't see that there's a desperate deadline. Seems to me that it would be easier if you all just gave up and joined the Methodists. They call us 'Methodist Episcopal' after all—or, at least, they used to, before we turned into 'United Methodist.' Will you even be having services once the temp she found goes back wherever he came from?"

"Who knows? We may be back to lay readers and prayer services. That's what we did before he came." Mary Kat, considerably more pregnant than Mallory, stood up and rubbed her lower back. "To work, minion. There are roofs to be re-shingled, cracked stained glass windows to be repaired, fresh leading for the windows to be obtained, water-damaged woodwork to be replaced, floors to be refinished, organs to be built, and therefore money to be found." She grimaced. "Not to mention grimy old asphalt siding to be removed and replaced with something more attractive, I hope."

"And your grandmother to appease."

"That, too. Be sure to hold out the letter you address to Archbishop Laud in Brussels. Grandma wants to put a personal cover letter in the envelope with it."

****

"Where's a squire when ye need one?" Thomas Welford paused on the bridge at the three-way intersection, looking along the street to where Grantville's St. Alfred the Great Episcopal Church perched at the very end, four blocks away, as far from the creek as a building could be sited without running into a shale hillside.

Richard Tomkins nodded solemnly. "Yep. Where's a squire when ye need one?"

Ordinarily, Welford and Tomkins would not have taken it upon themselves to call upon the wife of a respected barrister.

Of course, back home in Herefordshire, they would just have been very insignificant members of the parish. The squire would have worried about things like this. Or the local gentry who served as trustees of the parish endowment. Or the vicar, who was likely the squire's younger brother. Or the rural dean, who was probably the nearest baron's younger brother. Or the bishop, who might well be the nearest earl's ex-tutor.

If they had never become soldiers, they could have spent their Sunday mornings until the day they died figuring out ways to skip services in the village church without being disciplined for it by their betters.

In Grantville . . . Well, there weren't very many adherents of the Church of England.

They could have taken this as a license to skip church for the indefinite, nearly infinite, future, without the risk of incurring any discipline at all, since Grantville's authorities didn't care in the least whether or not they conformed to the established communion.

Instead, somehow, they had ended up feeling . . . sort of fond of the town's tottering little parish. Responsible for the well-being of this remote outpost of the Anglican Communion, as the up-timers called it. While it wasn't home, it was as close to home as a lad from Herefordshire was likely to find in Grantville. One of Thomas' passionate defenses of the establishment had recently gotten him into a brawl with a Scots Presbyterian at the Thuringen Gardens. It hadn't been the first time and probably wouldn't be the last time.

He shook his head, which still had a lump from the fight. "There's a downside to this up-time idea that all men are created equal. It appears to require the created to do a lot of work that they could otherwise have left to their betters."

Tomkins nodded. "That's us, now, me lad. Equal and stuck with it."

"Mr. Martin Riddle could have been more cooperative. Even if he is now of a different religious persuasion, he's still the lady's grandson. It would have been more appropriate for him to approach her. What did we get for our pains?"

"He laughed until he choked and said, 'Time to belly up to the bar, boys.'"

****

Veleda Riddle pursed her lips.

Tompkins sort of liked it when the old lady did that. When she pushed her mouth out, it made her look even more like the sheep named Ewegenia on the Brillo pamphlets. Helped a man forget that she was the wife of a highly respected barrister.

"It came to me this morning while I was shaving, Missus," Welford said. "It just came down and landed on top of my head, like the tongues of fire at Pentecost, or something. I really like that front window in the church, by the way, now that the carpenters have pulled off those old sheets of plywood that were hiding it."

"Are you sure it wasn't caused by that blow to your head?" Herrick asked.

He found a vestry board that included two common ex-mercenaries to be a very distressing phenomenon. Of course, they were doing well—far better than two sons of common farm laborers ought to be doing, if anybody in Grantville had requested his opinion on the matter, which nobody had. The parish had held a celebration—small and discreet in a time of public mourning—when Tomkins, after the anti-vaccination riot of the previous March, had been appointed "Head of Security" at the firm manufacturing the vaccine. The man had not only learned his letters but also obtained the famous "GED." During the process, he had developed an annoying mannerism of pulling his spectacles from the pocket in his doublet, carefully placing the hooked ends of the frames behind his ears, picking up the agenda of the vestry board meeting, and saying, "Humph."

The spectacles were a product of the "vision screening" to which all GED candidates in Grantville were subjected and were also the reason that the man had finally been able to learn his letters. He was all too prone to wax eloquent in regard to the epiphany the Lord granted to him when the "apprentice optometrist" handling the machines announced cheerfully, "No, you're not a dunce, whatever they told you twenty years ago. You're just farsighted. Go to McNally and get this prescription filled before you start classes."

Welford had learned to read and write, but did not yet have the "GED." One of the up-timers in the parish was tutoring him in first-year algebra, which appeared to be the sticking point. He was one of the night watchmen at the vaccine firm, but had a promise of heading a squad at the Leahy Medical Center once the GED was in hand. The commander was holding the position for him.

Why, just to command a squad of guardsmen, did the man need to know even first-year algebra? By the time the rowdy brawler—he just could not seem to pass up a fracas in his free time—passed this course, if he ever did, he would know more higher mathematics than most professors at Oxford and have no use for it at all. The up-timers' view of the necessary components of education for what some of their books called the "working class" verged upon the insane. Why didn't they just call a peasant a peasant and a laborer a laborer? It was as if, in their minds, academics and gentry did no work. Requiring the "GED candidates" to learn to swim might make some sense, but why algebra?

Herrick looked at Welford closely. Why him? Surely there must be a more appropriate candidate for promotion in this city. Hadn't St. Paul said something applicable? No. He was thinking of "neither a borrower nor a lender be," and that was from Polonius, not from Paul; from Will Shakepeare's Hamlet, not the Bible. Still, one could surely derive "neither a brawler nor a . . . some word starting with the letter 'l' . . . be" from Paul's admonitions on the necessary qualities of a bishop. Or a member of a vestry board. Couldn't one? His mind drifted toward the composition of a satirical epigram. What word would work that began with "l"? He had heard Mistress Riddle's grandson use the term "limp noodle" in conversation, but that lacked a certain poetic ambiance. Moreover, no one had been willing to provide him with a precise definition. It didn't scan, either.

It hadn't been so bad when he arrived. The vestry board had been headed by the chief justice of the SoTF Supreme Court. But then, after the election, Mr. Charles Riddle had moved to Bamberg. If the admiral and his wife were only here . . . but they were in Magdeburg, so he might as well wish for the moon. The Holcombs were in Magdeburg. Almost every up-time Episcopalian of any social distinction was . . . somewhere else.

Which left a seven-person vestry board consisting of . . . Mistress Riddle. He could think of her, if he tried hard enough, as a representative of her husband, who was becoming increasingly feeble. Mistress Wendy Thomas, from the Technical College faculty. She had been divorced, but the first husband had been left up-time, thank goodness, so he could consider her a widow. But remarried, now, to a Lutheran, which was a most undesirable state of affairs. Mr. Kitt—thank the Lord for Mr. Kitt. Mistress Christie Penzey from the high school faculty, also divorced, but with her husband thankfully left up-time, so another honorary widow. Mr. Edgerton, also from the high school faculty but, alas, like Thomas Riddle, far from young. And two rather crude ex-mercenaries.

Rather crude? He took a mental red pen to his composition. Very crude.

A vestry board on which there were women? Almost as many women as men? Herrick shuddered. If Mistress Thomas could be induced to resign in favor of her brother, who was also an academic, husband of the overenthusiastic coffee purveyor . . . Yes, that might work. That left the problem of Mistress Penzey. Who else was there who might replace her? Mr. Clark, perhaps, though he was young for such a responsible position and away so much of the time . . .

Well, he was going back to England, so it wasn't his problem any more. Herrick dragged his attention back to the conversation.

"We've been to that village in Gloucestershire once," Tomkins said more practically. "With the cowpox people. So we know how to get there. And how to get back with a group of people in tow, if Vicar Barneby is willing to come with us, which is more to the point. If we leave now, we can get there before winter. If we leave now, we can get back with them before winter, and then St. Alfred's won't have to depend on visiting priests who come to see the libraries and are willing to hold services for a while, but spend more time in their homilies reciting poetry than they do quoting the Bible."

He gave Herrick a rather fishy eye. "Not that you haven't improved the way we speak," he added grudgingly. "We know many more words now than we did a few months ago, not to speak of a few years ago. Not that most of them come in handy for anything practical."

Mistress Riddle raised her eyebrows. "What makes you think that Mr. Barneby would be willing to come?"

"Uh," Welford said. "Well."

That was the problem with sudden inspirations. It was hard to explain why you thought they would work.

One of the problems, anyway.

"Vicar Barneby seemed like a very fine man," Tomkins said. "His wife seemed to be a very good lady. They have five children. If they bring their servants, too . . ." He beamed. "It would practically double the size of the regular attendance at our services."

"That's not," Welford grumped, "why the idea came to me." The eye he gave Herrick was more evil than fishy. "One thing, though, Vicar. You stay put until we get back. No haring off for greener pastures 'til we find someone to take your place."

"We should write Vicar Barneby . . ." Veleda started.

"What's the point?" Tomkins asked. "We can get there as fast as a letter can. Just write it and we'll take it with us. Anyway, even if a letter might get there first if you sent it as far as Amsterdam by air post, there's no point in giving Barneby and his wife time to think up reasons to refuse. That's not the result we want. It's a lot harder to say 'no' to someone's face."

Herrick smiled suddenly. "Mistress Riddle."

"Yes?"

He looked at Welford and Tomkins. "May I suggest that we bring in front of the vestry a proposal to divert enough of the funds now on hand for the purposes of renovation to send . . ." He paused. ". . . to send these gentlemen themselves as far as Brussels by air post. It would save considerable time, so perhaps I would be able to depart as scheduled."

Tomkins turned white.

"But the building . . ." Veleda sputtered.

Tomkins looked at her hopefully.

"Ah," Herrick said piously.

He'd heard Mary Kat call it his "stained glass voice." She had loaned him a very irreverent book with the title How to Become a Bishop without Being Religious. Irreverent, and it dealt with Methodist heretics, but still, the sheer practicality of many of its recommendations had been . . . eerily accurate . . . such as the advantages that a young clergyman derived from marrying a girl who wanted to marry a minister and the even greater advantages that came with marrying a girl who had an impressive dowry . . . ideally, by marrying one who combined both qualities.

"Ah," he said again. He looked at the ceiling. "But is it not more important to ensure that the flock is fed with the Word of God than to worry about their having a well-fenced pasture?"

She frowned.

"Anyway," he said briskly, "we can send a round-robin letter to the absent parishioners who are prospering—prospering very well—in their diaspora, explaining the situation and requesting a special contribution to replenish the fund."

Slowly, she nodded. "We should send them via Brussels, though, not Amsterdam. That way, they can speak directly to Archbishop Laud about the parish's concerns."

Welford turned as white as Tomkins.

Where was a squire when ye really needed him?

Brussels, The Low Countries, late July 1635

William Laud had only himself to blame. He had asked his secretary to locate, sort by date of arrival, annotate, and deliver to his desk a compilation of all the requests he had received from Mistress Veleda Riddle of Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia, since their arrival in Brussels.

This would not be complete, of course, but under the circumstances of his departure from the Tower of London, no one could blame him for having left the earlier ones behind in the archdiocesan archives in Westminster.

He tapped his fingers on the desk.

Thomas Wentworth did not have to display quite such a level of hilarity over the idea that a building no older than Grantville's St. Alfred the Great Episcopal Church (constructed in 1897 and thus barely more than a century old at the time of the Ring of Fire) might merit funds for something called historical preservation.

His secretary—William Dell had made his own dramatic escape from London in order to join his employer in exile—was responding with even more hilarity in regard to the enclosed pamphlet (illegally liberated from the Grantville City Hall's archives; please be so kind as to return it) describing the up-time National Trust for Historic Preservation and another (illegally liberated from the Grantville City Hall's archives, but we have quite a few copies, so you can keep it) describing the up-time West Virginia State Historic Preservation Office.

These pamphlets asserted that any building over fifty years old counted as historical up-time. Mistress Riddle derived from these an extensive argument that in a properly organized world, St. Alfred's should be eligible for federal matching funds, if only it had any funds on hand for the federal government to match.

"I believe," Wentworth commented, "that to the best of my knowledge, the parliament of the United States of Europe has had more urgent calls on its time than the maintenance of historical buildings. If the up-timers are so solicitous of historically significant structures, why did they blow up the Wartburg?"

"I believe," Dell said, "upon the basis of several close readings of the material . . ." He cleared his throat. "I believe that it was their general propensity to blow up historically significant buildings that led to the passage of this legislation. Can you even imagine a world in which structures were replaced so quickly that one that endured a half-century was considered to have attained a significant age?"

Laud picked up another broadsheet. "What is a 'New Deal' and why is it important that they have a mural from it in their post office? For that matter, what is a 'Preserve America mini-grant'?" He handed it over to Thomas.

Wentworth looked at the illustration dubiously. The shiny paper was of marvelous hardness and astounding whiteness; the colors of the reproduction were superb. Why had anyone gone to the trouble? "The muralist, presumably, was a local amateur," he commented. Frowning, he looked at it again. "What are these mechanical devices pictured in it?"

"I have no idea," Dell answered. "But I am quite certain that we barely have enough money to pay next month's rent on our quarters here in Brussels and certainly not enough to repair this Mistress Riddle's church building. Shall I draft a refusal? Polite of course, with a recommendation that she would do better to seek a wealthier patron?"

Laud nodded. "That's the first pile. Now as to the second . . . she wants a bishop?"

"If we didn't need our diplomatic contacts here in the Low Countries," Wentworth commented, "we could always move to Grantville ourselves and provide her with one slightly tattered Archbishop of Canterbury for her greater convenience."

"When she first presented her request, the main reason was that she perceived a need for there to be someone on the continent who could ordain clergy. For now—although, I most sincerely hope, not for long—that is scarcely an issue, since I am on the continent and can perform any needed ordinations myself. Still, because I hope that our sojourn will not be long, there is some merit to the request. Grantville by itself certainly isn't large enough to deserve a bishop, but it might be feasible to appoint a bishop to cover the entire Anglican diaspora in the United States of Europe."

"In partibus infidelium, I presume," Wentworth commented sardonically.

Near Gloucester, England, July 1635

William Barneby drew up his horse, handed the reins to his groom (who was also the family's gardener, general man-of-all-work, and footman). Dick Badger fell well into the category of "jack of all trades and master of none," or, at least, not quite master of any, but he was willing, cheerful, and strong, which made up for a lot of other lacks. Will the Younger hopped off the sturdy Welsh pony they had borrowed from Squire Albright for this expedition to the cathedral town.

Grace came out and kissed them both, the younger children trailing in her wake. "Is it good news? Is he accepted?"

Her voice was a little anxious. They were far from wealthy. If Young Will, with his angelic voice, could become a chorister at the cathedral, his education would be assured and they could husband their resources for the schooling of Benedict who, alackaday, croaked like a bullfrog, even at the age of eight.

"Accepted," Barneby said. "But. . . ." He looked around. Dick had a lot of gossips at the village tavern and the girls might chatter with their friends when they went to take lessons with the governess that Squire Albright employed for his daughters. They would mean no harm, but Mistress Warren was inclined to repeat all that she heard. "Later." He nodded toward the house.

Grace turned and led the way into the hall. The stone-built vicarage was old-fashioned. It had stood for well over two centuries and might well have sufficed for a celibate Papist vicar before the reforms of King Henry. She wished she had a modern parlor into which she could welcome her friends without having everyone else passing through on errands. The four chambers were not adequate, although Dick slept over the stable and Betty in the loft. William had taken one for his study; they shared one, the boys shared one, and the girls shared one. If guests came to stay, she and William had to give up their chamber for the sake of hospitality and sleep on cots in the hall. The kitchen, cellar, and brewhouse were in a separate building and she should not complain, because apart from Squire Albright's manor house, it was certainly the largest and most comfortable in the village.

With a nod, Barneby dispatched Dick to the stables. With another nod, Grace dispatched Betty to the kitchen. She told Young Will to change and take the other children out to the kitchen garden to weed, since weeding was a task never done.

"Accepted." Barneby resumed the conversation they had started outside.

"But?"

"But I am not certain that I want him there. The bishop . . ."

"What has Godfrey Goodman done now?"

"His tendencies toward Papistry are becoming more and more pronounced. Not in superficial things such as Archbishop Laud encouraged, such as the vestments and music. Those are, ultimately, adiaphoral, which is what the Puritans fail to understand. Goodman is deviating from the Thirty-Nine Articles in matters of doctrine and faith. While I am far from counting myself as a Puritan and like an afternoon of bowls and archery after the Sunday service as well as any man. . . ."

Grace nodded. "There is such a thing as a proper balance. A good, sturdy, Anglican faith is what England needs. But where else can we place him? Gloucester is near enough that he could come home regularly. Worcester? The King's School is there for the choristers and Thomas Tomkins is a truly outstanding musician."

Barneby shook his head in the negative. "With all due respect to Thomas Tomkins, there is the matter of the bishop. I will place no son of mine under a man who may well have committed bigamy."

Grace smiled. Bishop Thornborough's tangled matrimonial history, with a divorce case of scandalous proportions in York while he was dean of the cathedral there and his taking a second wife in Ireland while he was bishop of Limerick there with the first still alive in England, had provided the ladies of the region's gentry with much entertainment, even if it all happened thirty years in the past and the man had married and buried a third wife since then—he being her third husband as well. It was all as fresh as ever in the recollection of Squire Albright's widowed mother. Her eyes would gleam as she recited, "And then the second wife was accused of providing the poisons that the Countess of Somerset used to poison Sir Thomas Overbury, and . . ."

But . . . She pulled her thoughts together "You're quite right. In any case, he is much too inclined to tolerate the Puritans. Bishop Thornborough enjoys saying that he has outlived several men who expected to succeed him in his see. If the old man isn't careful, he will find that he has outlived his diocese and will see his cathedral vandalized, his choir abolished, and the organ torn to pieces by fanatics before he dies. So not Worcester. But, where?"

Barneby stood up. "God will find a way, Grace. And I have a sermon to prepare." He kissed her absently and headed for the small chamber where he kept his books safely away from a rambunctious household full of small children.

She watched him until he closed the door and then started to see how the children were doing in the garden. But instead of starting down the path, she leaned against the gate, watching them.

God was causing life to contain so many repetitions of "but" since the appearance of the visitors from Grantville who had come looking for cowpox and departed with vials of horse pox two years earlier. She would never have thought that the pamphlets about such things as clean water would cause such concern. It was not because anyone objected to clean water. Even in rural England, there were proverbs that presumed a reasonable level of cleanliness.

In the morning when ye rise

Wash your hands, and cleanse your eyes,

Next be sure ye have a care,

To disperse the water farre.

For as farre as that doth light,

So farre keepes the evil spright.

But that was sheer superstition. There were no sprites, no fairies, elves, brownies, or gnomes to be kept away by tossing a pan of water or attracted by serving a saucer of milk.

Both the bishop's officials and king's, from the lord lieutenant down to Squire Albright as the local justice of the peace, had taken undue interest in the pamphlets brought by the vaccine hunters. So far, all was well, but if they tried to place Will at a cathedral farther away than Gloucester, where they were still comfortably secure because the persons in authority knew them well, it would bring down more attention, probably from strangers, very possibly with less favorable outcomes.

They would have to do something. But what? Go someplace. But where?

But when? The answer to that was, soon.

But who would have them? But how would they get there?

She didn't even have to ask herself—But why?

The pamphlets came from Grantville, after all. The men who now controlled the king, since Her Majesty's much-grieved death and His Majesty's unfortunate injury, did not care for items and ideas ...