The Baroque Cycle: Quicksilver, the Confusion, and the System of the World (77 page)

Once they got clear of the Spij the canal broadened and
Monmouth executed a dramatic spin—lots of flesh and bone moving fast—not really graceful, but she couldn’t not look. If anything, he was a more accomplished skater than Eliza. He saw Eliza
watching,
and assumed she was
admiring,
him. “During the Interregnum I divided my time between here and Paris,” he explained, “and spent many hours on these canals—where did you learn, mademoiselle?”

Struggling across heaving floes to chip gull shit off rocks
struck Eliza as a tasteless way to answer the question. She might have come up with some clever story, given enough time—but her mind was too busy trying to fathom what was going on.

“Ah, forgive me for prying—I forget that you are
incognito,
” said the Duke of Monmouth, his eyes straying momentarily to the black sash that d’Avaux had given her. “That, and your coy silence, speak volumes.”

“Really? What’s in those volumes?”

“The tale of a lovely innocent cruelly misused by some Germanic or Scandinavian noble—was it at the court of Poland-Lithuania? Or was it that infamous woman-beater, Prince Adolph of Sweden? Say nothing, mademoiselle, except that you forgive me my curiosity.”

“Done. Now, are you that same Duke of Monmouth who distinguished himself at the Siege of Maestricht? I know a man who fought in that battle—or who was
there,
anyway—and who spoke at length of your doings.”

“Is it the Marquis de—? Or the comte d’—?”

“You forget yourself, Monsieur,” said Eliza, stroking the velvet sash.

“Once again—please accept my apology,” said the Duke, looking wickedly amused.

“You
might
be able to redeem yourself by explaining something to me: the Siege of Maestricht was part of a campaign to wipe the Dutch Republic off the map. William sacrificed half his country to win that war. You fought against him. And yet here you are enjoying the hospitality of that same William, in the innermost court of Holland, only a few years later.”

“That’s nothing,” Monmouth said agreeably, “for only a few years after Maestricht I was fighting by William’s side,
against
the French, at Mons,
and
William was
married
to that Mary—who as you must know is the daughter of King James II, formerly the Duke of York, and Admiral of the English Navy until William’s admirals blew it out of the water. I could go on in this vein for hours.”

“If I had such an enemy I would not rest until he was dead,”
Eliza said. “As a matter of fact, I
do
have an enemy, and it has been a long time since I have rested…”

“Who is it?” Monmouth asked eagerly, “the one who taught you to skate and then—”

“It is
another,
” Eliza said, “but I know not his name—our encounter was in a dark cabin on a ship—”

“What ship?”

“I know not.”

“What flag did it fly?”

“A black one.”

“Stab me!”

“Oh, ’twas the typical sort of heathen pirate-galleon—nothing remarkable.”

“You were captured by heathen pirates!?”

“Only once. Happens more often than you might appreciate. But we are digressing. I will not rest until my enemy’s identity is known, and I’ve put him in the grave.”

“But suppose that when you learn his identity, he turns out to be your great-uncle,
and
your cousin’s brother-in-law,
and
your best friend’s godfather?”

“I’m only speaking of one enemy—”

“I know. But royal families of Europe are so tangled together that your enemy might bear all of those relations to you
at once.”

“Eeyuh, what a mess.”

“On the contrary—’tis the height of civilization,” Monmouth said. “It is not—mind you—that we
forget
our grievances. That would be unthinkable. But if our only redress were to put one another into graves, all Europe would be a battleground!”

“All Europe
is
a battleground! Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Fighting at Maestricht and Mons and other places has left me little time for it,” Monmouth said drily. “I say to you it could be much worse—like the Thirty Years’ War, or the Civil War in England.”

“I suppose that is true,” Eliza said, remembering all of those ruined castles in Bohemia.

“In the
modern
age we pursue revenge at Court. Sometimes we might go so far as to fight a duel—but in general we wage battles with
wit,
not
muskets.
It does not kill as many people, and it gives ladies a chance to enter the lists—as it were.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you ever fired a musket, mademoiselle?”

“No.”

“And yet in our conversation you have already discharged any number of
verbal
broadsides. So you see, on the
courtly
battleground, women stand on an equal footing with men.”

Eliza coasted to a stop, hearing the bells of the town hall chiming four o’clock. Monmouth overshot her, then swooped through a gallant turn and skated back, wearing a silly grin.

“I must go and meet someone,” Eliza said.

“May I escort you back to the Binnenhof?”

“No—d’Avaux is there.”

“You no longer take pleasure in the Ambassador’s company?”

“I am afraid he will try to give me a fur coat.”

“That would be terrible!”

“I don’t want to give him the satisfaction…he has used me, somehow.”

“The King of France has given him orders to be as offensive as possible to Mary. As Mary’s in love with
me
today…”

“Why?”

“Why is she in love with me? Mademoiselle, I am offended.”

“I know perfectly well why she is in love with you. I meant, why would the King of France send a Count up to the Hague simply to behave offensively?”

“Oh, the comte d’Avaux does many other things besides. But the answer is that King Louis hopes to break up the marriage between William and Mary—destroying William’s power in England—and making Mary available for marriage to one of his French bastards.”

“I knew it had to be a family squabble of some sort—it’s so mean, so petty, so vicious.”

“
Now
you begin to understand!”

“Doesn’t Mary love her husband?”

“William and Mary are a well-matched couple.”

“You
say
little but
mean
much…what
do
you mean?”

“Now it is my turn to be mysterious,” Monmouth said, “as it’s the only way I can be sure of seeing you again.”

He went on in that vein, and Eliza dodged him elaborately, and they parted ways.

But two hours later they were together again. This time Gomer Bolstrood was with them.

A
COUPLE OF MILES NORTH
of the Hague, the flat polder-land of the Dutch Republic was sliced off by the sea-coast. A line of dunes provided a meager weather-wall. Sheltering behind it, running parallel to the coast, was a strip of land, frequently wooded, but not
wilderness, for it had been improved with roads and canals. In that belt of green had grown up diverse estates: the country retreats of nobles and merchants. Each had a proper house with a formal garden. The bigger ones also had wooded game-parks, and hunting-lodges where men could seek refuge from their women.

Eliza still knew little about Gomer Bolstrood and his scheme; but it was obvious enough that he was in league with some merchant or other, who was the owner of one such estate, and that he had gotten permission to use the hunting-lodge as a pied-à-terre. A canal ran along one side of the game-park and connected it—if you knew which turns to take—to the Haagsche Bos, that large park next to the Binnenhof. The distance was several miles, and so it might have been a morning’s or an afternoon’s journey in the summer. But when ice was on the canals, and skates were on the traveler’s feet, it could be accomplished in very little time.

Thus Monmouth had arrived, by himself, incognito. He was seated on the chair that Bolstrood had likened to an ogre’s throne, and Eliza and Bolstrood were on the creaking faggot-chairs. Bolstrood tried to make a formal introduction of the Client, but—

“So,” Eliza said, “as you were saying a short time ago: fighting battles with muskets and powder is an outmoded practice and…”

“It suits my purposes for people to think that I actually
believe
such nonsense,” Monmouth said, “and women are ever eager to believe it.”

“Why—because in battle, women become swag, and we don’t like being swag?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’ve been swag. It didn’t suit me. So, for me, your little lecture about modernity was inspiring in a way.”

“As I said—women are eager to believe it.”

“The two of you are acquainted—?—!” Bolstrood finally forced out.

“As my late Dad so aptly demonstrated, those of us who are predestined to burn in Hell must try to have a
bit
of fun while we are alive,” Monmouth said. “Men and women—ones who are not Puritans, anyway—know each other in all sorts of ways!” Regarding Eliza warmly. Eliza gave him a look that was intended to be like a giant icicle thrust through his abdomen—but Monmouth responded with a small erotic quiver.

Eliza said, “If you play into the comte d’Avaux’s hands so easily, by diverting your affections from Mary—what use will you be when you sit on the throne of England?”

Monmouth drooped and looked at Bolstrood.

“I didn’t tell her, exactly,” Gomer Bolstrood protested, “I only told her what commodities we wish to purchase.”

“Which was enough to make your plan quite obvious,” Eliza said.

“Doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Monmouth said. “As we cannot make the purchases anyway without putting up some collateral—and in our case the collateral
is
the throne.”

“That’s not what I was told,” Eliza said. “I’ve been assuming the account would be settled with gold.”

“And so it will be—
after.”

“After what?”

“After we’ve conquered England.”

“Oh.”

“But most of England is on our side, so—a few months at most.”

“Does most-of-England have
guns
?”

“It’s true what he says,” put in Gomer Bolstrood. “Everywhere this man goes in England, people turn out into the streets and light bonfires for him, and burn the Pope in effigy.”

“So
in addition
to purchasing the required
commodities,
you require a bridge loan, for which your collateral will be—”

“The Tower of London,” Monmouth said reassuringly.

“I am a trader, not a shareholder,” Eliza said. “I cannot be your financier.”

“How can you trade, without being a shareholder?”

“I trade ducat shares, which have one-tenth the value of proper V.O.C. shares and are far more liquid. I hold them—or options—only long enough to eke out a small profit. You will need to skate about forty miles that way, your grace,” Eliza said, pointing northeast, “and make connections with Amsterdam moneylenders. There are great men there, princes of the market, who’ve accumulated stacks of V.O.C. stock, and who will lend money out against it. But as you cannot put the Tower of London in your pocket and set it on the table as security for the loan, you’ll need something else.”

“We know that,” Bolstrood said. “We are merely letting you know that when time comes to effect the transaction, the payment will come, not from us, but—”

“From some credulous lender.”

“Not
so
credulous. Important men are with us.”

“May I know who those men are?”

A look between Bolstrood and Monmouth. “Not now. Later, in Amsterdam,” Bolstrood said.

“This is never going to work—those Amsterdammers have more
good
investments than they know what to do with,” Eliza said. “But there might be another way to get the money.”

“Where do you propose to get it from, if not the moneylenders of Amsterdam?” Monmouth asked. “My mistress has already pawned all of her jewels—
that
resource is exhausted.”

“We can get it from Mr. Sluys,” Eliza said, after a long few minutes of staring into the fire. She turned to face the others. The air of the lodge was suddenly cool on her brow.

“The one who betrayed his country thirteen years ago?” Bolstrood asked warily.

“The same. He has many connections with French investors and is very rich.”

“You mean to blackmail him, then—?” Monmouth asked.

“Not precisely. First we’ll find some
other
investor and tell him of your plan to invade England.”

“But the plan is a secret!”

“He’ll have every incentive to
keep
it secret—for as soon as he knows, he will begin selling V.O.C. stock short.”

“That, ‘selling short,’ is a bit of zargon I have heard Dutchmen and Jews bandy about, but I know not what it means,” Monmouth said.

“There are two factions who war with each other in the market:
liefhebberen
or bulls who want the stock to rise, and
contremines
or bears who want it to fall. Frequently a group of bears will come together and form a secret cabal—they will spread false news of pirates off the coast, or go into the market loudly selling shares at very low prices, trying to create a panic and make the price drop.”

“But how do they make money from this?”

“Never mind the details—there are ways of using options so that you will make money if the price falls. It is called short selling. Our investor—once we tell him about your invasion plans—will begin betting that V.O.C. stock will drop soon. And rest assured, it will. Only a few years ago, mere
rumors
about the state of Anglo/Dutch relations were sufficient to depress the price by ten or twenty percent. News of an invasion will plunge it through the
floor.”

“Why?” Monmouth asked.

“England has a powerful navy—if they are hostile to Holland, they can choke off shipping, and the V.O.C. drops like a stone.”

“But
my
policies will be far more congenial to the Hollanders than King James’s!” Monmouth protested.

Bolstrood meanwhile had a look on his face as if he were being garrotted by an invisible cord.

Eliza composed herself, breathed deeply, and smiled at Monmouth—then leaned forward and put her hand on his forearm. “Naturally, when it becomes generally understood that your rebellion
is going to succeed, V.O.C. stock will soar like a lark in the morning. But
at first
the market will be dominated by ignorant ninehammers who’ll foolishly assume that King James will prevail—and that he will be ever so annoyed at the Dutch for having allowed their territory to serve as spring-board for an invasion of his country.”