Chapter 171: A Grand Crusade!
Isabella stared at him, her chest heaving. She looked at the bags under her uncle’s eyes, the sweat on his brow, and the trembling in his hands.
"You aren’t doing this for the family," Isabella sneered. "You are selling me like a prized broodmare because you are terrified. You are terrified of the Swabian King, and you think throwing me into an Italian bed will buy you a shield."
Ferdinand’s face flushed a deep purple. "Silence! I am the Archduke of Austria! You will respect my authority!"
Tears of pure frustration finally spilled over Isabella’s eyelashes, cutting tracks through the light powder on her cheeks.
She snatched the contract off the desk and tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Ferdinand’s chest.
"I hate you!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "I hope the Swabian King marches his carts through your gates and burns this palace to the ground!"
Lifting her crimson skirts, Isabella spun on her heel and sprinted out of the study, her sobs echoing down the marble hallway.
The swung shut behind her, leaving a ringing silence in the room.
Ferdinand slowly sank back into his heavy leather chair. He looked older than he ever had, staring blankly at the torn pieces of the marriage contract resting on the floor.
He reached for his chalice, draining the remainder of the spiced wine in a single gulp.
Ferdinand slowly turned his gaze back to his spymaster, who had remained still and silent throughout the explosion.
"As I was saying, Kinsky," Ferdinand murmured. "I don’t care how many spies you have to sacrifice. I don’t care how many Italian mercenaries we have to bribe with Piedmont’s gold."
Ferdinand’s eyes hardened. "Get me the blueprints to Konrad’s weapons. Or there won’t be an Austria left to defend."
...
Far to the west, in the opulent halls of the Louvre Palace in Paris, King Francis I of France stood before a towering fireplace.
He was pressing his palms against his temples, listening to the crackle of the hearth, trying to ease a headache that had lingered for weeks.
Francis was the undisputed ruler of the French Kingdom, a man whose rivalry with the Habsburg Emperor had defined a generation.
But the endless wars over the Italian peninsula had taken a brutal toll.
Yet, for the first time in a decade, a bizarre ray of hope had pierced the gloom of French politics.
Deep in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, a minor Swabian lord had suddenly crowned himself King of Alemannia, completely upending the continental power balance.
Francis didn’t understand how Konrad von Frundsberg had transformed a sleepy agricultural province into an industrial juggernaut, but the results were undeniable.
Konrad was bleeding Charles V dry, and the enemy of my enemy was, potentially, a very lucrative friend.
Francis turned away from the fire as the doors of his solar opened. Marshal Anne de Montmorency, the supreme commander of the French armed forces, stepped into the room.
"Ah, Montmorency," Francis greeted, a genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. He gestured to a silver carafe of wine on a nearby table. "Please, pour yourself a cup. It has been far too long. How is your health?"
The veteran Marshal bowed deeply before pouring a modest measure of wine. "I am holding together, Your Majesty. Just barely avoiding the grave. But how are you? You look... tired."
Francis let out a short, barking laugh. "Tired? I am decaying, my friend! My court is a viper’s nest, the treasury is empty, and I swear, if I have to listen to one more duke complain about his land disputes, I will throw myself into the Seine. The burdens of this crown are enough to age a man a century."
Montmorency chuckled, taking a sip of the vintage. "You are merely forty, Sire. You have decades left to suffer."
"Only if I don’t die of a stroke first," Francis muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "But enough about my impending demise. Tell me of your covert trip to the eastern borders. What is happening in Swabia? How is this upstart King producing so much steel?"
Montmorency’s smile vanished. His weathered face grew incredibly somber as he set his silver cup down.
"I wish I could explain it to you, Sire," Montmorency began.
Francis leaned forward. "So the rumors are true? This Swabian King actually has an army?"
"His soldiers wear dark-grey uniforms, and every single man carries a rifle with a grooved barrel," Montmorency confirmed, nodding slowly. "They load their powder in brass cartridges, not leather pouches. If the reports from the Hungarian front are even half-accurate, King Konrad is going to slaughter the Habsburgs."
"We must have those weapons," Francis declared, stepping toward his Marshal. "Tell me, Montmorency, can we purchase these rifles? Can we buy his solid-cast cannons?"
Montmorency sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "King Konrad is fiercely protective of his engineering, Sire. He knows that his monopoly is his only true defense against the rest of Europe. He does not sell his firearms, for fear we might dismantle and copy them."
"..." Francis sighed. "Offer him French gold. Offer him access to our Mediterranean ports. When you next send an envoy to Augsburg, you must secure a shipment of those weapons. If we arm our knights with Swabian steel, we can march into Italy and break the Emperor’s back for good."
He looked up. "Just get me those Swabian rifles. Please. I need something to go right."
Montmorency bowed deeply. "I will send our best diplomats to Augsburg tomorrow, Sire."
...
Pope Paul III sat upon the gilded papal throne within the heart of the Vatican. Since the Emperor was failing to contain the threat, the Pope had taken matters into his own hands.
Kneeling before the papal throne were three hundred heavily armored knights. They were Spanish zealots, veterans of the Inquisition, wearing stark white surcoats emblazoned with a blood-red cross.
They had been summoned to Rome to form a brand-new militant order, tasked with a singular purpose.
Pope Paul III stood, raising a golden crucifix high into the air as he chanted the Latin rites of consecration.
"Arise, Knights of the Cleansing Flame!"
"Your holy mandate is clear,"
"The Swabian Heretic seeks to replace the divine order of God with the soulless hum of machines. You will infiltrate his borders. You will rally the faithful within Germany, and you will purge his factories with righteous fire! Go forth, and prepare the way for a grand crusade!"
"Deus Vult!" the knights roared.
With their blessing received, the zealots turned and marched out of the basilica.
They were heading north, fully intending to drag Alemannia back into the dark ages.
As the doors swung shut, Pope Paul collapsed back into his throne. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a throbbing ache behind his eyes.
"How many militant orders does that make this year, Cardinal?" the Pope asked his secretary, who was standing quietly in the shadows.
The Cardinal adjusted his robes and glanced at a ledger. "That is the fourth new order you have consecrated since the spring, Your Holiness."
"Madness," the Pope muttered, rubbing his face. "Absolute madness. Emperor Charles is a fool. He pushed Konrad into a corner, taxed him into oblivion, and forced the man to invent his own kingdom. Now I have to bankrupt the Vatican just to clean up the Emperor’s mess."
The Cardinal bowed his head respectfully. "Indeed, Your Holiness. However, we have a more pressing issue. The Ambassador from the Republic of Venice has arrived. He is waiting in the antechamber."
"Send him in," the Pope sighed. "We need the Venetian navy to blockade the Swabian trade routes on the Adriatic."
A few moments later, a tall, elegantly dressed man walked into the throne room.
He wore the rich velvets of the Venetian merchant elite.
"Your Holiness," the Ambassador greeted. "The Doge sends his warmest regards."
"Save the pleasantries," the Pope snapped, waving a hand. "I summoned you here to discuss the Swabian Heretic. I need the Republic of Venice to sign the Papal embargo. Your galleys must intercept any merchant vessels carrying copper, sulfur, or coal bound for Alemannian ports."
The Venetian Ambassador offered a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
"I am afraid the Republic must decline your request, Holy Father," the Ambassador said. "King Konrad has offered Venice exclusive, tariff-free distribution rights for his new cast-iron plows and steel tools across the Mediterranean. The profit margins are simply astronomical. We have already signed a ten-year trade pact with Augsburg."
The Pope’s face flushed a deep crimson. "You are making deals with a heretic?! I am calling for a holy crusade, and you are worried about profit margins?!"
"We are worried, Your Holiness," the Ambassador replied, his tone hardening slightly. "We saw what his Gatling carts did to the Ottoman army in Hungary. The Doge has no desire to invite that kind of slaughter to our borders. We will trade with the Swabians, and we will remain strictly neutral in your religious wars."
"Then at least issue a formal denunciation!" the Pope demanded, his voice rising to a shout. "Condemn his secular state! Stand with the Church in spirit, if not in gold!"
The Ambassador chuckled softly, adjusting his velvet cuffs. "The Republic of Venice does not mix theology with our ledgers, Your Holiness. To condemn King Konrad is to lose our trade rights. You are on your own. Good day."
Without waiting for a dismissal, the Ambassador turned and walked out of the basilica, leaving the Pope stunned.
For a long moment, the massive room was silent. Then, Pope Paul III buried his face in his hands and let out a long scream of frustration.
Why was nothing working? Why was every major power on the continent either terrified of the Swabian King or eager to buy his creations?