1636: The Cardinal Virtues by Walter H. Hunt, Eric Flint

on their hands to try to keep warm. By the calendar, spring was three weeks old—but the snow on the ground and the icy wind put the lie to it.
    “What did we ever do to Monsieur to get posted here, Jacques?” asked the younger soldier. He was tall and trim, and affected the same style of moustache and beard as his master.
    The other man, shorter and older, turned aside and spat by way of answer. He had seen a considerably greater number of seasons, and didn’t bother much with fashion. He also didn’t ask questions anywhere near as much.
    “Are you sure that he will be here?” Jacques continued.
    “He told us he will come, Pierre, then he will come. I know better than to disobey him.” He gave his young companion a hard look as if to say, and if you have any sense, you’d best do the same.
    “Why in this God-forsaken place?”
    “Hah.” Jacques scratched his beard. The ruins fit that description pretty well: the big stone structure with a tall tower and stone outbuildings sprawling all over the side of the hill was completely abandoned. “ God-forsaken . You have the makings of a court fool, my young friend. There hasn’t been very much of a presence up here since some pope or other threw the monks out of here ten or fifteen years ago . . . though I don’t know how blessed it was when there were monks up here. But the answer to your question should be obvious even to a clown—it’s miles from everywhere, but commands a good view of the road that leads over the mountains from the west all the way to Turin. A perfect place for a secret meeting.”
    “And we’re here . . .”
    “To make sure it stays secret,” Pierre said. “The young bastard will be coming from that way—” he pointed west, toward the road that bent toward the little village of Bussoleno—“and Monsieur is traveling from Tuscany and should come up that way.” He pointed in the other direction. “Then, I would guess, we will journey together to Turin.”
    “Seems like a lot of trouble to go to. But maybe he likes the view, Pierre.”
    “Shut up.”
    Before Jacques could respond, there was a high-pitched whistle. Jacques and Pierre drew their swords and stepped next to the tower, each looking in a different direction. After a few moments, two horsemen approached, climbing the hill in plain sight. Even from the distance, Jacques could pick out the livery of the house of Vendôme.
    The two men put up their swords and approached.
    Louis de Vendôme, Duke of Mercoeur, cut a fine figure. Tall and handsome, he was an excellent horseman and—Pierre and Jacques knew—a talented swordsman. During the last few years as he had accompanied Monsieur Gaston, there had been numerous occasions for him to demonstrate that skill in affairs of honor. The soldiers knew their place and stood respectfully as Louis dismounted. He was traveling light and fast, with two gentlemen in waiting and a valet, who dismounted and followed in turn. The servant caught the reins of the horses and led them carefully up the slope behind the others.
    “Is he here?” Louis said.
    “Not yet, Your Grace,” Pierre said. “We have been watching for him.”
    The nobleman turned away, looking down the road and then up toward the towering, broken façade of the abbey.
    “God-forsaken place,” he said.
    Jacques smirked at Pierre, out of sight of the duke; Pierre scowled at him, then turned to the nobleman. “Yes, my lord. But it is as His Highness commanded.”
    “Yes, yes.” He kicked the base of the tower, loosening mud and snow from his boots. “We’re going to go inside. Keep careful watch and alert me when he approaches.”
    “Of course, my lord.”
    He said nothing further, but beckoned to his two gentlemen companions. They began to walk up a narrow stone stair toward an arched portal that led to the interior.
    The valet, holding the reins of the horses, looked at Pierre and Jacques, as if they might tell him where to stable them. When they didn’t respond,