Your Servant,
Robert Weasenham
1632, November, A Road near Heidelberg
"Can you remind me again why I'm freezing my arse off on this god-forsaken mission of yours?" grumbled a faint voice thru the driving sleet, from under a wet fur hat.
"Oh, the usual when dealing with the London Companies—connections, bribery and profit, especially the bribery and connections," Rob shouted back through the wind.
Tom Cotton was a city boy in his late thirties, and not a great traveler. "I'd rather be in a gaming house in London at this time of year, not plonked on the back of a bony nag in bad weather. Or at least give me a coach with soft pillows, and a curtain to keep off the wind."
As the mission leader, Rob Weasenham was enjoying his cousin's discomfort, watching his companion hunched unhappily on the horse in front. Tom had always been a bit of a fashionist, too much time dressing up at Court, not enough in the fresh air. Their small trade party was well covered with guards, but they needed to move quickly to avoid the worst of the winter.
"Let us hope the next change of horses is an improvement," Tom muttered.
"Take Tom, you'll need someone who knows books" a friend in London had suggested. "He's been a miserable git, moping about town since his father died." Well, Rob had him now, but he could have done without the constant whining about the weather, mud on his fine clothes, traveler's rations, rotgut wine, and a hundred other complaints through Dover, Calais, Paris, and parts east. And now diverting further south was wasting valuable time, and costing more than Rob had expected, the Swedish armies had taken the Rhine/Main junction at Mainz last year, and that route was reported as still not safe.
"Another hour, we should find the inn. Soon, Tom; another hour and you can drink yourself silly with some hot wine." Rob resigned himself to another bad night shepherding his investment, and an expectation of another thumping head in the morning. His cousin's drinking had always been a bit free in Oxford, but he'd settled down when he'd married Margaret, and running the estate at Connington. Taking on his father's responsibilities last year had been a bit of a shock, but what do could you expect when the king put the old man in the Tower over winter? Rob had not spent time with Tom for a few years, and was tired of dealing with a relation continually looking for answers in the bottom of a glass.
But the bulge under Rob's coat with the packet of letters from London was a constant reminder of the opportunities for, at least, some major favors awaiting back home.
Most of the letters and lists were due to connections in the City, mainly flapping tongues in trade halls and the Exchange in the City. The Apothecaries had started it—"Dr. Harvey has promised some seeds to a Master Little for a physic garden, and we must have some cannabis from Mr. Stoner."
It went from there to the Mercers—"find any almanacs, especially information on harvests and the weather." "Riiiight," Rob thought. "Try to fix the price of grain for the next twenty years." Rob and his uncle didn't believe those London pedants had thought through that more could be made playing the European shipping insurance market to best advantage with the same information.
Next, the Gardeners' Company chimed in—"we have heard Grantville plants cabbage, squashes and other Dutch crops in the way of our market gardeners. Record growing methods, and any seed varieties. We also have been unable to grow potatoes well, unlike Ireland. Do they have some that would suit England?"
And the Silk Makers—"if this place is truly from Virginia in the Americas, search for Red Mulberry trees, as the seeds and cuttings from Jamestown have not served us well from long ocean voyages. Mayhap seed available closer to and planted earlier shall be more palatable to our silk worms."
And the rest. Rob carried wish lists from all the other London Companies, wanting an English merchant with active trade contacts in Thuringia.
The court was in quiet turmoil, but for once the palace birds were not squawking and little of the king's intentions were known. Concerned at the rumors, his worship the mayor of London, had arranged a secret Companies meeting in the Guildhall, along with the professors from Gresham College for advice on what to do next. London's trade must not suffer, and when money was at stake, when did the City and its merchants wait for guidance from any king?
His old Oxford college friend—now a professor—John Greaves had therefore suggested the Weasenhams at Lynn for an off-the-books visit. The Dyers Company also had connections to Erfurt from ten years before because of Rob's uncle William supplying German woad plants and extraction methods to various landowners in an attempt to make England self-sufficient in the blue dye.
So here Rob was. October and November in the rain with a grumpy cousin, the license to travel to Grantville that had been much harder to obtain than anyone would believe, and a pocket full of wild expectations. He had hoped to use the existing relationship with Erfurt as an excuse to travel, but the French were having none of it. He and Tom were both taking a calculated risk to get to Grantville before winter set in, and get out before any more roving armies attempting to flatten it the following spring arrived.
Another note that had caused them to be on their horses in filthy weather was sitting safely in a desk at home. Stark bribery! Uncle William had judged the risk and that had tipped the balance. Rob and Tom were to go to Grantville.
* * *
To Master William and Journeyman Robert Weasenham, Hilgay, Norfolk
Most Private and Confidential
Sirs,
Professor Greaves was kind to mention you have agreed to visit Thuringia and Grantville for his worship, the mayor. May I also ask to add a charge of my own, and to your family's benefit?
With the new tasks in the Great Fen, and developing Covent Garden in West London, I have secured against all capital and a percentage of my rents for next years. My fellow investors must know if our intended endeavors succeed, and what troubles to avoid on the way.
There have been mentions of a great "English Encyclopedia," and other history books in the Grantville Library that is open to all that come. It is hoped that somewhere an indication of the result of the Lynn Measure in six years shall be recorded.
As for Covent Garden, I continue to be exasperated. Our king demands beauty in design and form, but it is not his monies at risk if I may not find tenants. Acquire a selection of some building designs from Grantville suitable for his majesty's approval, and any plans that shall help my agents in London to keep my bankers at bay.
If you can find what you may before summer next, the Levels Corporation shall add five thousand acres to your family's allotment at the Isle of Southery from Mr. Lien's piece.
Robert, I have also contacted your cousin Thomas, and in confidence have encouraged him to travel with you. He is still not attending to business and is continually in his cups in town, and gambling heavily since your godfather, Sir Robert, passed. Thomas now holds the largest library in England and should be certain to sift information wanted by the London Companies and myself, for you were never one inclined for the books unless it contains a column of numbers. If we can include him a part of this mission and under your direction, mayhap the cloud may be lifted from his countenance.
In your debt,
Francis, Baron Russell, Earl of Bedford
1632, December, Grantville
Thomas removed his hat and strode into the double doorway of the Grantville Public Library. His cousin was off doing more deals for the day, but Tom had reassured him this was not yet the right time to be exploring through the book collections in this wonderful place. Tom knew that when visiting another's library he should arrange to impress the owner or sponsor first with a few gifts.
"My bailiwick, I think," he had assured Rob, and then left their lodgings at the schloss above the "power plant" on his new horse earlier this morning. He then headed back down the new road into Grantville in the snow.
Rob and Tom had tried the previous day to negotiate with the town council, but it seemed that in Grantville the Milady Head Librarian was God A
lmighty in her bailiwick, and the governor of this town had little to do with arrangements and policies for access to the book collection.
Once inside the building, Tom handed his cloak, hat, and silver tipped walking staff to the elderly guard inside the library doorway. Some things might change, but some were reassuringly familiar. A sharp-eyed pensioner watching the comings and goings like a hawk in the entrance was exactly what he had expected.
* * *
Cecelia Calafano was standing behind the main desk, sorting—not very enthusiastically—through today's batch of newspapers and magazines from the re-cycling ferrets. Most of the textbooks had moved to the high school, and the deep reference section shelves were just the right depth to be stacked flat with newspapers and magazines by year, month, and edition.
She looked up when the door opened and suppressed a groan. The approaching well-dressed figure was unwelcome. Nearly all the new library visitors were directed to the high school, and Cecelia was not in the mood to deal with anyone.
"Chandler Bing in black velvet, a lace shawl, and pointy shoes." That was the first thing that came to her mind. She suppressed a snort, attempted a straight face, wiped her nose with a handkerchief, then began to put a flea in his ear using her improving German. "You will want to go to the school . . ."
He cut her off in perfect, formal English. "Good day, Madam. I have come to make introductions and would arrange a meeting with Milady Marietta Fielder."
The man placed what looked like a map roll case on the counter, and handed over a parchment envelope with a finely gloved right hand. "I wish to converse with Milady Fielder urgently. Can you tell me when her duties may allow her to be next available?" he insisted.
Cecelia sniffed, blew her nose loudly into her cotton handkerchief, and wished someone would hurry up and re-invent a decent, fast-acting, twenty-four hour cold remedy. "Mrs. Fielder is off sick with the flu, and can't be disturbed. I'm in charge. What do you want?" She knew she growled at him; her headache, sore joints, and wheezy chest were beginning to really piss her off.
His unexpected response was, "In that case, good lady, may I view your index?"
The question jarred her into her fuddled head, making her concentrate. Her librarian's instinct started flashing little red stars—no, it wasn't just because she'd blown too hard into her hanky. Most of the visitors dived straight to the history books, technical manuals, and political novels. No one asked about the index first. It usually took at least three visits to begin to civilize them.
Cecelia, still not mentally quite there yet, thought of a question from college, which popped out. "And which cataloging and indexing methods are you familiar with?"
His answer had her and her new guest sitting in a chair in the back office ten minutes later, with some tea brewing on her small hot plate. Cecelia grabbed the phone and started dialing.
* * *
Marietta Fielder wished she were dead. Dead would be easy, dead would be warm and less painful. Every winter since she was a child she had caught the latest sniffle, cold, or exotic flu. Regular as clockwork for the past ten years, she'd made a point of getting her flu shot early November, either at the mall in Fairmont, or from the doctor in town. Most of the time it had worked, and winter wasn't as bad as it could have been.
This year was worse than 1969. This time it hurt. No shots, no Advil for the migraines, precious little lemon juice. But she was mobile—just enough that she could be left safely at home alone during the day.
Shuffle to the toilet wrapped in an old dressing gown and bunny slippers, cough and splutter back to bed. All that was available was Gribbleflotz aspirin and some peppermints. Yuck!
Shaking her head in disgust while standing was a visceral mistake. Marietta gasped, held onto the rail at the top of the stairs waiting for her vision to return and slowly worked her way back to bed, levering herself back slowly under the quilt.
A thrash metal rock band erupted from the phone next to her head. More vision loss in an attempt to grab the handset. "What'cha want? No respect for the dead?" the corpse moaned down the line
Cecelia was gabbling at her. Marietta could hear her also coughing, spluttering, and the odd sneeze, but still gabbling.
"Marietta, we have a visitor, from England, insisting that he wants to meet you, sniff," Cecelia chattered away. "He has presents and everything."
Marietta was sure there was a combined chortle, giggle and a wet snort in the middle of that sentence.
* * *
Cecelia looked down at the map roll emptied onto the desk between her and their visitor. She ran her hand over "A Mappe of Massachusetts Bay Colony for His Worship Governor John Winthrop" and a package of papers marked "Inventories and Maps of Plymouth Colony, 1621" that were signed by a Captain Christopher Jones.
"He's a walking, talking librarian's Christmas present." This time Cecelia lost it completely, and barked out a laugh. Oooohhhh! More sore ribs, but worth it.
Her guest stared, frozen, with goggle eyes, perhaps wondering what had gotten into this sniffling, grumpy lady with the stupid smile. She waved one hand, mouthed, "Wait."
"Marietta, do you remember your first term taking your M.A.? Indexing and Classification Systems . . . Middle Ages to Victorian?"
Now she was enjoying herself. Life at the libraries had been a hell for the past couple of years. It seemed that God was having a little joke with the last two qualified librarians (or was that first?) in this universe. "You have someone here who uses the Caesarean Library Index—ACCCDEFGJJNOTTVV"
Getting into it (and being a smarty pants to boot), Cecelia quoted by rote from her college days, " Augustus, Caligula, Claudius, Cleopatra, Domitian, Faustina, Galba, Julius, Justinius, Nero, Otho, Tiberius, Titus, Vespasian, and Vitellius."
Tom nodded sharply, a grudging smile on his face.
A short garbled mutter from down the line, Cecelia answered sharply, "No chance, the British Library won't exist for another one hundred and twenty years, before that . . . where did the British Library get the Caesars' Index?"
More waiting, and then Cecelia heard a particularly painfully sounding exclamation from the handset. Finally, Marietta was getting very close.
"No, not him. His son. Yup! His father died over a year ago." Looking directly into Tom's sad eyes, Cecelia proclaimed, "I have Sir Thomas Cotton from London right in front of me, proposing some kind of library exchange program with the Guildhall in London, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, and Sir Robert Cotton's Antiquarian Library at Connington Manor."
Tom was satisfied that his family's reputation for preserving books and manuscripts had survived.
1633 June, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire
Francis Russell opened the shutters of his reception room window, looking down on the fallow deer grazing on the lawn in the late afternoon sunshine. He tossed his satchel with the paperwork from London onto his oak desk, and sat back to light his favorite pipe; smoke curling gently to the ceiling.
The now not-so-secret mission to Thuringia had not yet returned when Francis was summoned to Blackfriars Palace in April. Wentworth had informed him he had traded all of the king's twelve thousand acre interest in the Levels Corporation to others: selected landowners, merchants, minor lords and barons.
A condition was that Francis was to keep the "New Men" closely involved in the project, out of London and away from court. No doubt Wentworth was playing chess games with information from the history books. And Vermuyden—him too: no speculating on the London market, no crazy ventures in mining, keep him and his out from under the king's feet.
At the time the offer was a gift from heaven. Real investors with capital were always preferable to King Charles Stuart, who was always glad to spend other people's money with the slash of a pen. After the ham-fisted affair at St. Ives with Squire Cromwell's family, the king's boast that he could govern well without Parliament was going very sour, and Francis was pleased he had severed all current financial ties with the court. His bankers had also indicated
with an improved rate of interest, and had also accelerated payments for the building work on Covent Garden Square on improved terms.
Now his old childhood playmate, Robert Weasenham had come back—alone. To be fair, he had delivered everything Francis had commissioned, and more. Tom Cotton had died in Grantville from a hot winter fever; however his bookwork had mainly been completed with precise collation of information that indicated that the Lynn Measure would fail.
"Whilst clear on certain details, the histories indicate the Measure will fail due to bad weather, thus some of the ditches and dykes must fail during some winter storm in 1636 or 1637. The other landowners also complain that the drainage is insufficient."
Francis' own encyclopedia entries had recorded that King Charles had assumed the project after the failure in 1638, and the impetus to complete the works had been lost until after a civil war. It also suggested that in that other history Cromwell was the coming man, and he had supported the completion of the project during the 1640s. Cromwell was a prickly subject for Wentworth and the king. Francis knew well enough to stay away from that subject in London.
A page from a 1994 road map of England (What was a "rental car"?) and encyclopedia entries for the towns in the Fen area showed the revised works during the late 1640s and thereafter for the next three hundred years. Francis now knew that they needed another parallel drainage canal for the Ouse, changes to the outflows of both the Nene and Ouse, high tide retaining gates at the river mouths, flood relief reservoirs. The list went on and on and on. This warranted more capital, more men, and he still had only five years to finish. Francis shook his head in wonder. The existing investors and the New Men would certainly have enough to keep them full occupied, and Francis had decided to delegate the financial arrangements more than he usually liked.
And for himself—only eight years left to manage his affairs. God! Seeing your own life history written down would sear any man's soul. Robert had assured him that these "Americans" believed God had changed what was written by bringing Grantville to this time. Francis had huffed and puffed at Robert, especially not understanding the story about the butterfly, and dismissed it as a piece of whimsy. Francis was a practical sort of man, what was written is written. He had immediately updated the will and inheritance clearly onto his children.