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Mrs. December, 1636



Chet Gottfried


Justus Corneliszoon van Liede’s smile was all teeth. Big teeth. Broad teeth. Dazzling teeth. Many men would have wanted to punch in his teeth at first sight. Many women would have been tempted to do the same. Flo Richards was different.

“Have another piece of cake, Herr van Liede.” She daydreamed about the cavities that the rich white icing could cause in those brilliant teeth of his.

The Dutch cavalier accepted the cake with a flourish that went well with his flamboyant clothing, from satin doublet to orange breeches and tall red boots.

“Thank you, dear lady. My ride from Amsterdam was well worth the opportunity to enjoy your most wonderful cake.”

Flo watched Justus’ goatee move back and forth like a metronome as he chewed.

“How long did it take to travel from Amsterdam to Grantville?”

Justus smiled. “Not long at all. A few weeks, dear lady.”

Flo didn’t trust the smile. “Call me Flo.”

“Of course, Flo, dear lady. And you may call me Justus Corneliszoon.”

She sighed. Justus was the most difficult person she had ever met. He combined seventeenth-century courtier with twentieth-century used car salesman.

“I’m flattered by the letter you sent: your invitation. I’m impressed by your mastery of written English.” Flo paused a moment. She wasn’t at all sure whether she wanted to tackle traveling anywhere except maybe Jena. It wasn’t like you could just hop in the car and travel a hundred miles in a couple of hours.

“Thank you.”

“But a few weeks in each direction means that you expect me to be away from my farm for over a month. In autumn. That’s harvest time, and I’m pretty busy.”

Justus swung his arms wide and his smile grew wider. “But think of the honor, dear lady Flo. To have your portrait painted by Pieter Paul Rubens is a privilege you can tell your children and grandchildren.”

“There’s a war going on.”

“What war? There isn’t any war, not in that direction. That was settled last year.”

“There are thieves and looters on all the roads.”

“You shall have a dedicated escort. I have already arranged to have good men accompany you.”

Flo was beginning to feel desperate. “I’ve never been away from J.D. for over a month.”

“You mean your husband? Yes, I know about J.D., and we expect him as well. Dear lady Flo, you and J.D. will love seeing Amsterdam. It is particularly beautiful in the autumn.” He smiled.

“Well, maybe.” Flo tried to recall the last time that she and J.D. went traveling. They hadn’t been anywhere since the Ring of Fire. Before that, all she could recall was their second honeymoon to New Orleans. And that was that. “I’ll have to talk it over with J.D. first.”

“Of course. I would expect nothing less.” Then Justus cleared his throat. “Pieter Paul Rubens made a special request in regard to you.”

Flo was on her guard. “Yes?”

“He has a certain technique in regard to his portraits of women.”

“I am not—most definitely not—going to pose naked for him. I don’t care how many portraits he’s done or how many women he’s painted. I am not appearing naked for him!”

“No, no, dear lady Flo. Whether you are dressed or undressed is your own decision. Rubens’ request is different: He wants to include a few symbols of yourself in the painting, such as your love of coffee. You would bring a pot in which you brew your coffee, as well as a few cups.”

Flo settled. “That’s okay.”

“And he would like you to bring your wonderful ram Brillo.”

* * *

When J.D. came home later that day, Flo cornered him and took him into their bedroom.

J.D. began undressing. “A little early in the day for this, isn’t it?”

“Keep your pants on, J.D. It’s not what you think. Have you been drinking?”

J.D. hiccuped. “Gerhart opened a new pub in town. Calls it the Hole in the Wall. It’s a small place but quiet. He’s studied a variety of cookbooks from the library and is going to serve light meals. But you don’t want to try his pizza. He uses Swiss cheese. Some of the other dishes aren’t bad, I have to admit. Gerhart is trying hard enough, and right now he’s in the middle of decorating. Today, we were sampling some of his brews.”

“Smells like you’ve downed a keg.”

He sat on the bed. “Real ale. You used to pay extra for it, but here, it’s all they have. No fizz, but it packs quite a punch. I wonder what the alcohol content is?”

“Whatever it is, it’s too high. Now listen, J.D. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“I have a surprise for you. What are you doing?”

J.D. had stretched out on the bed. “I can take surprises better while lying down, dear.”

“You’d only fall asleep. Okay. How would you like to take a trip together?”

“Like to Amsterdam?”

Flo became suspicious. “What made you say ‘Amsterdam’?”

“It seems as good a place as any. Besides, wouldn’t it be good to get away?”

“Who told you about Amsterdam?”

J.D. grinned. “Gerhart, me, and a bunch of us were talking about how good a painting would look over the bar. You know, a naked woman. Every pub should have one. Something by Rubens, since Varga hasn’t been born yet. I hear tell that he’s pretty good for that sort of thing. So we were talking about who in Grantville would look best naked and who would be most willing to go to Amsterdam. Opinions were hot! It could have become an out-and-out fight, but in the end we made paper ballots and had a vote. Guess who won?”

He patted the bed, and Flo, blushing lightly, sat next to him.

“J.D., you’re not telling me that your buddies would prefer me to one of the young lovelies we have in town?”

Hugging Flo, J.D. gave her a kiss. “You’d be surprised the reputation you have. For starters, maybe you should remember to button your blouse more often.”

Flo rolled her eyes. “And here I used to wonder what you geezers talked about.” Then she looked at him suspiciously. “Just a minute. Would one of your drinking companions be a piece of fluff known as Justus Corneliszoon van Liede?”

J.D. smirked. “Do you mean Corny? He’s a right good fella and a fine drinking companion.”

“Corny? Not Justus Corneliszoon?”

“It might have been something like that for the first glass or two. Then he let his hair down. He could certainly talk up a streak. And he has to have the brightest teeth in the world. It’s like staring at a laser. Funny though. Gerhart wanted to punch Corny’s teeth in. For no reason whatsoever. Well, before Gerhart could do anything, out jumps Corny’s sword, and four cuts later, Gerhart’s shirt is in shreds. Then they were friends, slapping each other’s back and laughing. I guess Gerhart was happy to be alive, and Corny is willing to be friends with anyone. Good thing too. A guy that good with a sword has to be someone to have on your side.”

“And he told you all about our going to Amsterdam?”

J.D. gave her a hug. “Why not? We’ve been working around the clock, helping the town settle in, helping the Germans settle in, helping our kids settle in. So why don’t we take a vacation?”

“What about Ed Piazza?” Flo asked. “We’ll be gone six weeks or more. Can he spare you that long?”

“He’d better. I haven’t had a day off since the Ring of Fire, so I’m due. Don’t forget Mike Stearns is a long-standing union man. Try talking to the unions about no one having time off anymore, and then you’ll see explosions that’ll make the Thirty Years’ War look like a kid’s game.”

“Now, J.D. It’s a good job. I don’t want you to get into any departmental fights and jeopardize everything for the sake of a picture.”

“I was going to resign anyway, babe. I don’t want to move away from the girls. So I talked to Ed and then talked to the tech school. I’ll be back teaching as soon as we return.” J.D. grinned. “We’re going, and we’ll be having fun! And I’d like to get my hands on as many bulbs as I can. Tulips will help brighten our place, and we can sell them too. Not to mention it will be great to have a calendar.”

Flo pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall. “What’s that, J.D.? We already have calendars.”

“But not a Rubens calendar. Didn’t Corny tell you? Sure, part of it is to go to have your portrait painted. But Corny is putting together a calendar of Grantville notables—as painted by Rubens.”

“Grantville notables, huh? I suppose that’s why he wants Brillo along. Do you think it’s going to be easy to get that ram to Amsterdam? He’s almost as stubborn as you are.”

“Why shouldn’t Brillo come along? He can walk part of the way, and Corny said that he was hiring an up-time wagon, should Brillo be his rambunctious self and prefer to ride. Rubens included Anne Jefferson’s pom-poms and baton in her painting, so why shouldn’t you have Brillo in yours? Not every ram has inspired a rebellion. And a Rubens calendar would be a collector’s item. Did you know that Rubens has a whole flock of artists and printmakers working for him? They’ve been into prints for years, but this will be their first calendar. I wonder whether it is going to be Gregorian or Julian. I hope Gregorian, but you never know. Down-timers never cease to amaze me.”

J.D. was going a little too fast for Flo. “I’m going to be in a calendar?”

“Sure, Flo. How does it feel to be Mrs. December, 1636?”

“Get one fact straight, mister. I’m not posing in the nude for anyone. Look at me! I’m a grandma! Who’s ever heard of fifty-somethings posing naked?”

J.D. agreed. “Absolutely not. It’s totally out of the question.”

Flo got off the bed and looked into the mirror. “Totally out of the question? Are you trying to tell me something, J.D.?” She turned right and left and critically inspected herself. “I still have a pretty good figure. Or do you think I’m too heavy?”

“Rubens likes well-rounded women, dear. And so do I. I’m sure you’d look great however you posed. One thing’s for certain. The boys would really love to have you naked—over the bar.” J.D. grinned.

For a moment Flo was lost in her thoughts. Then she snapped out of it. “Come on. Let’s get Johan, Anna, and the rest for a decent dinner. Lord knows what we’ll be eating on the road.” Naked, she thought. And snorted to herself: That will be the day!

* * *

A week later, a procession headed into Flo’s yard: a handsomely painted wagon drawn by two horses, with two saddled horses tied to the rear of the wagon. Justus rode a high-stepping black gelding in front.

Flo, J.D., their three daughters, and their partners in running the farm, Johan, Anna, Wilhelm, and Ilsa, soon surrounded the wagon. Justus casually dismounted while giving a nonstop description of all the wonders of his preparation for the vacation to Amsterdam, not least of all the wagon, rented from an up-timer. It had a seat in the front for two drivers, and the wagon had benches on either side that could be dropped down. “Very convenient for sleeping, should you stop between cities or inns.” The wagon also had bales of hay for the horses and Brillo.

“And allow me to introduce you to your noble escort. I present my brothers Frederik van Liede and Johan van Liede. They are brave men, wonderful shots, excellent drivers, and will see you through every obstacle anyone could encounter.”

The two brothers slouched on the front seat. For each aspect of Justus that said dandy, the two brothers screamed despair. Where Justus had finely groomed hair, wisps of yellow stuck out in random directions from their heads. From his brothers’ lifeless clothing to their drooping expressions, they looked as if they had been dragged through every puddle from Amsterdam to Grantville.

Flo was shocked. “My God! Whatever happened to them?”

“Ah ha!” Justus declared. “You have noticed! All has not been well with my brothers. They were aboard the good ship Brederode in the battle along the English Channel, for which the English changed sides and attacked the Dutch fleet. The Brederode exploded, killing the entire crew except my brothers, who were thrown into the sea. They were fished up by the Spanish, and I, Justus Corneliszoon van Liede, had to pay ransom to release them. So, dear lady Flo, my brothers are in my debt. And until such day as they can repay it, they are in my service. It should only be another five years before they are free to return to the sea. And perhaps by then, the Netherlands will have another fleet, so that my brothers can be sailors again.”

Flo asked, “What do sailors know about horses and roads?”

“My dear lady Flo, my brothers were farmers and often traveled these routes until several years ago. They would probably be farmers today if their joint farm hadn’t burned to the ground. A pity we didn’t know about lightning rods back then. Then they took to the sea. Or rather they were drunk and were taken to the sea. No matter, aboard the Brederode, they became crack shots, and between them killed twelve Spaniards before their ship went boom.”

J.D. scratched his head. “Farmers? Sailors? They look more like flotsam and jetsam to me.” The nicknames stuck, and thereafter everyone, including Justus, referred to the younger van Liede brothers as Flotsam and Jetsam.

Flo’s one consolation was that however bedraggled Flotsam and Jetsam appeared, Justus knew his way around and was an expert swordsman. So her heart sank when she saw Justus mounting his horse.

“I’ve put together a farewell party with all types of meat, soup, and bread for us.”

Justus took off his broad-brimmed hat and waved it with a flourish. “No, no, dear lady Flo. Business attends. I must ride on ahead, for there are other contracts to arrange. I leave you in the capable hands of my brothers. They won’t let you down, for they know what will happen if they do. Farewell!” And he galloped away.

While watching Justus disappear, Flo had a brainstorm. She asked Flotsam and Jetsam, “Do either of you speak English?”

Flotsam looked at Jetsam, and Jetsam looked at Flotsam. After a minute of mute consultation, Flotsam shook his head.

Nee.

“But you do understand English?”

After another consultation, they both slowly nodded, as if any suggestion of speed would cause a head to roll off.

Ja.

Johan entered the conversation. “Konnen Sie deutsch?

Nee.

It soon came down to the fact that the only language between the two Dutch brothers was Dutch, whereas they appeared to understand most other languages—to some extent. Flo turned to J.D. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

J.D. patted her on the shoulder. “Remember, Rubens likes plump women. You don’t want to be losing any weight.”

She punched him on the arm and marched into the house.

* * *

The following morning saw intense activity while everyone helped load the wagon—except Flotsam and Jetsam. They stood by and sadly watched the load increase and increase and increase. Food, clothing, blankets, dry wood, coal, coffee, soap, books, yarn, knitting needles, and sundry items were piled high into the wagon.

Each of Flo’s three daughters managed to speak to Flo alone.

Kerry gave Flo a small package wrapped in brown paper. “You’ll bless me for this.”

Turning the parcel this way and that, Flo asked, “What is it?”

“A clean queen-sized sheet. You’ll want to strip any bed in any inn and put this on. You won’t believe the fleas.”

Flo laughed. “I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

Kerry asked, “Mom, are you going to pose in the nude?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“If you did, what would I tell my children? What would happen if they saw their grandmother naked?”

Flo had to bite her tongue not to say that the children would hardly be scarred for life if that happened. Instead, she said, “I’m sure you can find something better to worry about. It’s not going to happen.”

Later, Missy trapped Flo in the kitchen and handed her a box. “Ma, here’s something you’ll really need.”

The box was about the same size as the parcel. “Let me guess. It’s a sheet.”

Missy was surprised. “Did you pack any? Even if you did, I’m sure you could use an extra.”

In the bedroom, Amy cornered and stared intently at Flo. “Mom, you’re not going to pose naked, are you?”

Overall, Flo was starting to get a bit insulted by that question. She freely admitted that she wasn’t as thin as Anne Jefferson, but it wasn’t like she was fat. And she certainly wasn’t old. She laughed uneasily. “Good heavens, no, Amy. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“It’s what the whole town is talking about. Everywhere you go, people are saying that Rubens wants you naked.” Amy gave her mother a heavy package in a small backpack. “You’ll need this. It’s a revolver and a handful of bullets.”

“Are you telling me to shoot Rubens?”

“Don’t be silly, Mom. It’s for the road. You don’t know who you’ll meet. And if you want to protect your virtue when you’re being painted, that’s okay, too.”

Outside, J.D. was also receiving gifts, from the men around the farm. His sons-in-law gave him a second shotgun in addition to J.D.’s own, muskets, and a variety of knives. Johan gave J.D. something particularly valuable: a large plastic tarp.

“Do you think we’re going to have picnics?” J.D. asked.

“No. You will be in an open wagon and want some protection for when it rains.”

“But the tarp’s red,” J.D. complained.

“So?”

“Do you have anything in green?”

Johan laughed and slapped J.D. on the back. “You need a vacation.”

Meanwhile, both men and women found time to talk to Flotsam and Jetsam. Each person promised that should anything untoward happen to either Flo or J.D., the Dutch brothers would lose their hands, fingernails, private parts, eyes, or whatever piece of anatomy the speaker preferred. Tone and body language supplemented the brothers’ limited German and English. With each additional speaker, the two brothers looked sadder, more forlorn, and more crumpled.

Early the next morning, Flotsam and Jetsam hitched the horses to the wagon and tied the saddle horses to the rear.

By nine o’clock, J.D. had a pleased look on his face. He had arranged all their belongings in the wagon. “I guess that’s about it. We’re ready to go, and I’ve used up every square inch of space. How’s that for packing?”

Flo put her hands on her hips. “What about Brillo?”

J.D.’s face sunk almost as low as that of the Dutch brothers. “You get the ram. I’ll begin rearranging.”

Chuckling all the way to Brillo’s pen, Flo never noticed the enormous grin on Johan’s face as he followed her.

“Brillo’s gone!” Flo gasped.

“Relax, Flo,” Johan said. “I put him with the ewes for the night. I thought that might make him more manageable.”

“Good idea.”

The two of them found Brillo peacefully dozing among the ewes.

Johan laughed. “He’s in heaven.”

They pushed and prodded the sleepy ram all the way to the cart, in which J.D. had cleared a space for him.

“It’s not much room,” J.D. admitted, “but there’s bound to be more space as time goes by.”

Brillo blinked peacefully until J.D. and Johan swung him aboard. Then the ram was wide awake. His first baa was somewhat weak, but each succeeding baa gained in strength and terror.

Everyone pretended to ignore the cries while Flo and J.D. were kissed and hugged. She and J.D. got into the back with Brillo, and Flo stood up and gave her farewell speech.

“We’ll go, we’ll see, and we’ll return.”

Everyone applauded, Flotsam shook the reins and clucked at the horses, and the wagon rolled away to various cheers and ever-louder baas.

Flo closed her eyes. “However long this trip takes, it is going to be longer than I had imagined.”

That was at the end of August.

* * *

Three weeks, four sweaters, five caps, and seven scarves later, they were still in Germany. Flo had calluses on her knitting fingers, J.D. was working on a beer belly, and Flotsam and Jetsam were more ragged than ever.

J.D. lifted a stein of beer. “It won’t be long now.”

Flo was working on another sweater for J.D. “You mean when we reach the border?”

“No, dear. When they serve dinner.” He burped again.

They were sitting by a table in a small inn a few miles west of Osnabrück. It wasn’t the most desirable inn, but the weather was stormy, and neither of them looked forward to another day of being stuck between inns and sleeping in the open at night while it was raining.

A fat man wearing torn clothes staggered over to them. He had a large knife stuck in his belt, a patch over an eye, greasy hair, and various scars. He was the innkeeper, and Flo didn’t trust him.

A young woman followed the innkeeper. She was somewhat better dressed and was carrying a large tray with bowls.

The innkeeper spoke and understood English in terms of single words. “Dinner.”

Flo groaned. “Stew?” She thought of chunks of indigestible meat sunk at the bottom of a bowl that had a scum of fat floating on the top.

The innkeeper smiled a terrible smile, exposing black teeth. “Mutton.”

She gave a little shriek and thought: Brillo! Jumping up, Flo ran outside the inn and into its stable on the side. There she saw one of the van Liede brothers leaning against a stall. He had a musket lying across his thighs and was staring blankly in the distance. Next to him, Brillo was peacefully chewing his cud. A strange warmth descended over her, she was incredibly thankful, and she wanted to hug the two of them. Then she felt guilty that she didn’t know whether it was Flotsam or Jetsam guarding her ram. The two might have been identical twins.

“Hello,” she said somewhat shyly.

Goedenavond.

“Excuse me, but are you Flotsam or Jetsam?”

“Jetsam.”

The indignity of calling these two men after the debris of the ocean occurred to her, and Flo tried to apologize.

The corners of his mouth turned upward. It might have been a smile. “Nee, nee. Het Geeft niet.” Then he thought about it some more. “Good name.”

“Would you like to learn to speak English? It would help to pass the time on the road.”

Jetsam nodded.

Where do I begin, she wondered. Flo pointed to her nose. “Nose.” Jetsam repeated after her. After Flo ran through her face, she started on her body and worked down to her thighs.

Jetsam put his hand on her thigh and smiled in earnest. “Thigh!”

Flo recognized the look of the predatory male and hastily stood up. “I think we’ve had enough English for one night.”

Going back inside the dark inn, she sat down by her table. “J.D., you won’t believe what happened. J.D.?” As soon as her eyes acclimated to the numerous people milling around, she saw that the serving girl was sitting on J.D.’s lap. His right hand held a tankard and his left hand was inside her blouse.

Looking at her with bleary eyes, J.D. burped. “Strong ale.”

Flo said pointedly, “I don’t know about the ale, but maybe you should take it easy on the milk.”

The girl removed J.D.’s hand, curtsied, and, laughing, left the table. J.D. said, “I think she’d like to come to Amsterdam with us.”

“Really?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

What began as a nod ended in a plummet, and J.D.’s head rested on the table. Flo finished her cold meal in silence.

* * *

Three days later, in the bedroom at another nameless inn on the nameless road, J.D. complained, “I don’t know why you aren’t talking to me. It happens. I was drunk. I thought she was you.”

Flo stripped the bed and put one of the travel sheets over it. “She was taller than me, had blond hair, a squint in one eye, and warts. So how in all hell did she look like me?”

J.D. began undressing. “She had your boobs.”

After putting a top sheet over the spread one, Flo critically inspected the blankets for lice and fleas. “Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned her boobs. Maybe I was ready to forget.”

“Honestly, Flo. You’ve a great body. I can see why Rubens would want to paint you naked. I mean, you’d be the naked one. Rubens would have his clothes on. Well, he better have his clothes on.”

Flo warmed to him. “You think so?”

Nodding vigorously, J.D. got under the covers. “Let me show you.”

She got into bed next to him. “I don’t know, J.D. You’re the only man who’s ever seen me naked—if you don’t count doctors. I don’t know if I could do it even if I wanted to do it. What’s that hand doing? Hmm.” And the time for conversation rapidly slipped away.

* * *

By the end of September they had almost reached the border between the Netherlands and Germany. The problem involved a fork in the road and one of those rare occasions when there was no other traffic. J.D. and Jetsam had taken the saddle horses to explore the forks, as well as to buy some bread and other provisions. Flotsam was snoring in the wagon, and Flo was sitting on the driver’s seat and stitching a ram needlepoint. She had drawn the design at home, and this was the first opportunity she’d had to finish it. Brillo was tethered nearby to a tree and was nibbling in the high meadow.

Half-dozing in the sunlight, Flo became aware of the large wagon drawn by a team of four horses when it drew near. She immediately recognized it as an up-time conveyance not only by the driver having a seat in the front but also by the “We Love Feet” logo and the “Eisenhauer Shoe Company” lettering on the side.

Flo waved to the driver. “Hello!”

The driver reined his horses to a stop. “Guten Tag.” He took in her appearance and wagon. “You are an American.”

“Yes, and are you ever a sight for sore eyes.”

“Do your eyes hurt?”

“No.” Flo reminded herself to avoid being literal with down-timers. “I meant that I didn’t know that Eisenhauer had expanded this far so soon.”

“Ja, Herr Eisenhauer’s shoes are very popular. We will be branching into the Netherlands next year. Why wear wood clogs when you can have leather boots at the same price?” He jumped off his wagon. “I’m Siegbert Zuckertort, but everyone calls me Ziggy.”

She got down and offered her hand. “I’m Flo Richards, and I wouldn’t mind another pair of shoes.”

They shook hands.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve delivered all the shoes. You see, I’m taking hides back for more shoes.” He smiled. “We don’t want any wasted trips, and Herr Eisenhauer insists on a full load in both directions. But I have a catalog. Perhaps you would like to order something?”

“Another time maybe. When I’m back in Grantville.”

“Flo Richards, Flo Richards,” he murmured. “Yes, I know you. You’re the one with Brillo the Ram. You’re famous. He’s famous! I have seen the video Bad, Bad Brillo.

“Really? How did you like his performance?”

“Brillo is one hundred percent ram. So what are you doing here? Where are you going? And who is looking after Brillo while you are away?”

“We’re going to Amsterdam, and Brillo is right over here . . .” Turning, she pointed to where she had Brillo tethered.

He wasn’t there.

Looking in the distance, Flo saw three men leading Brillo away. “My God! They’re stealing Brillo!”

Ziggy reached into his wagon. “You’re lucky that they haven’t killed you.” He pulled out a heavy cudgel and charged the thieves. Flo took her wagon at a leap and began looking in all the green backpacks for the one that had the revolver. Finding the gun, she jumped down and started running. She prayed the gun was loaded.

One of the thieves threw a rock at Ziggy. It missed, and then he was on them and hit the first bandit on the neck. The bandit crumpled, but the other two used their clubs and soon had Ziggy on the ground.

By that time, Flo was close enough. Standing in her stocking feet, at only around five foot one, she wasn’t particularly tall even by seventeenth-century standards. Flo was also a tad on the plump side and not accustomed to running. For this occasion, however, she had no trouble screaming curses while racing at full speed. It was enough to make the two bandits hesitate. When she began firing the revolver in the air, they decided that they had had enough for one day and ran away. The third managed to get up and didn’t do too bad a job in keeping up with his fellow thieves.

Panting, Flo helped Ziggy to his feet. “Are you okay?”

He was bleeding from a head wound and seemed a little woozy. “I have had better days.”

Facing Brillo, Flo asked, “What’s the idea, you big goof? You baa your head off day in and day out, but when three strangers sneak over, untie you, and lead you away, you don’t make a peep. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Baa!”

Flo laughed. “I think he’s gotten over his trauma of being ramnapped. I’m not sure about myself though. I could use a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?”

“Ah, coffee! But of course!”

Half leading and half dragging Brillo, Flo walked alongside Ziggy back to their wagons.

“You saved Brillo.”

Ziggy laughed. “You saved Brillo. I performed a delaying tactic.” He shook his head. “I have had enough of soldiering and prefer a quiet life. Deliver shoes and buy hides. That’s a good life. I have already earned enough for a roomy cottage outside Bamberg. It has been two months since I have been home, and I look forward to seeing my wife and children.” He sighed. “I miss them.”

By the wagon, Ziggy nodded toward Flotsam. “I wonder how he managed to sleep through it all.”

Flo sniffed. Flotsam’s state of unconsciousness was due to schnapps. “Yes, he’s a great bodyguard.” She bound Ziggy’s wound.

“Thank you, Flo. You are kind.”

“That’s nothing. Let’s see if this sweater fits you. That’s the least I can do for a friend of Brillo.”

When J.D. returned later that afternoon, looking rather beat, he scowled at the picnic that Flo had set up for Flotsam and Ziggy. “I wish I could spend all my time eating and chatting.”

Flo laughed. “Stop grouching. If you brought back any cheese or fresh bread, I’ll let you enjoy the last of our coffee supply.”

* * *

On a bright day in early October, Flotsam reined the wagon over to the side of the road. Approaching them was a sea of wool, a flock of sheep led by a young blond girl of about twelve. She smiled and waved her shepherd’s crook, in thanks to the travelers standing aside.

Flo waved back to the girl. To J.D.: “Look how those ewes follow her. We should be so lucky back home.”

J.D. nodded toward Brillo. “He’s beginning to become restless.”

Tied to the wagon, Brillo was pulling and straining at his tether.

“Relax, J.D. Brillo can’t get away. I know how to tie a good knot.”

“Was it a slipknot by any chance?”

Breaking free, Brillo charged into the middle of the sheep. Following him were Flo, J.D., and Jetsam. Flotsam was analyzing the situation throughout somewhat bloodshot eyes.

From the rear of the flock, a middle-aged farmer joined the pursuit. He seemed very upset and was talking nonstop.

While Flo and J.D. held Brillo, who was baaing for all he was worth, Jetsam explained in broken English and gesture that the farmer was taking his ewes to a different pasture. He was also a bit worried that the spring lambs would look like Brillo.

“Brillo didn’t do anything!” Flo declared. She kept a tight grip around Brillo’s neck.

J.D. had a less ambitious hold around Brillo’s middle. “Not yet.”

The farmer did a Moses act, parting the ewes and giving Brillo plenty of clearance. However, one particularly cute ewe was more than ready to respond to Brillo’s advances. The ewe began running around them and avoiding the farmer’s best attempts to have her move with the other sheep.

While the ewe ran her circles, Brillo dragged Flo and J.D. after him.

The farmer was shouting, Jetsam was laughing, and Flo and J.D. shared curses.

“J.D., why don’t we just buy the ewe?”

Standing tall, J.D. spoke with the voice of authority. “If we give in once, what happens when Brillo meets another ewe he wants?”

“Let’s handle one crisis at a time,” Flo panted. “We can afford a ewe. Besides, look at her. She’d be a good addition for the breeding program.”

Brillo baaed in agreement.

Flotsam, whether drunk or sober, understood the fine art of negotiation and immediately got into the spirit of bargaining. The farmer haggled with equal enthusiasm.

The young girl walked over to see what was happening. After a few words from the farmer, she burst into tears.

“What’s wrong now?” Flo asked.

Jetsam explained that the particular ewe happened to be the girl’s favorite. She didn’t want her father to sell it. She said that he should buy Brillo, but her father didn’t want to.

Between the sheep baaing and the girl crying, Flo felt a headache stirring. But she persevered, and leaving Brillo in J.D.’s perhaps capable arms, Flo walked to the girl. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Jetsam rapidly translated everything Flo said.

“Maria.”

“Listen, Maria, you don’t want money for your ewe, do you?”

She shook her head no.

“But what if you had something wonderful?”

Jetsam told her that Maria wanted to know what could be more wonderful than her ewe.

“Tell Maria to wait a few minutes.” Flo got into the wagon and began selecting objects: a pair of scissors, strong thread, and the red tarp.

“You’re not cutting our tarp!” J.D. said indignantly.

Flo cut a rectangle from the plastic tarp. “You never liked it.” While the haggling continued, Flo worked wonders with needle and thread. “It isn’t easy sewing plastic. You have to be careful or the plastic will crack and tear.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was done, walked over to Maria, and held up a red plastic cape with a hood. “This is for you, sweetheart. It will keep you dry in the rain.” She put the cape around the girl, who began to smile and talk rapidly.

“Maria is excited,” Jetsam said.

Flo grinned. “I could have guessed that.”

The farmer and Flotsam came to terms on the ewe’s cost. Although Maria shed a few more tears over the loss of her ewe, she didn’t make any more verbal objections. Maria and the farmer began moving their flock. The girl’s step seemed lighter with her new cape.

“That wasn’t so bad, J.D. And we’ve a good-looking ewe for our flock. What should we call her?”

“Pad?” J.D. suggested.

“Don’t be foolish. That’s a boy’s name. I’ll call her Pat. Or maybe Patty? Should we tether both of them to the wagon or let them ride?”

J.D. smirked. “I think they’ll both want to ride afterward.”

Flo saw what J.D. meant. “Honestly, Brillo, don’t you have any self-restraint? Couldn’t you have waited until we reached the privacy of a stable?”

Brillo baaed very contentedly.

* * *

The road to Utrecht was a traffic disaster. Carts, wagons, and what have you carrying fruit, wood, grain, and every type of dry good imaginable had ground to a standstill along the soft verge. Marching from the city, Spanish troops and cavalry dominated the road, and few people dared challenge the soldiers’ right of way. Civilian opportunity arose between soldier formations, when everyone would go onto the firm grade and try to make some progress before the next group of soldiers appeared. Anyone too slow paid a high price: Earlier they had passed a smashed cart and its unhappy driver who didn’t leave the road fast enough.

Perched on the driver’s seat, J.D. idly held the reins. He snarled when a cart attempted to ride over the meadow next to them as a shortcut. But the cart didn’t get far at all. It sank deep into mud hidden by the tall grass.

“And it serves you right!” he yelled. “Damned cheaters.”

“What’s that, J.D.?” Flo was busy giving Flotsam and Jetsam knitting lessons. It wasn’t so much that they enjoyed knitting, but it was more comfortable sitting in the wagon than on the driver’s seat. Whatever their interest in knitting, Flo was pleased with the progress that her students were making.

J.D. asked, “Do you think the Spanish are leaving the Netherlands?”

“Perhaps they intend to subjugate some other country?”

“They’re subjugating us,” he grumbled. “I hate sitting still.”

“Do you want to try knitting? I’m sure Flotsam or Jetsam will let you have a turn.”

“I hate knitting.”

“Don’t be gloomy. The traffic will clear. It always does. We should be in Utrecht by tomorrow. Then it’s only a hop, skip, and jump to Amsterdam.”

“Hop, skip, and jump?” J.D. grimaced. “And it’s only mid-October. Some vacation.”

“You shouldn’t have taught them how to play poker. If you didn’t owe them how many thousands of God knows what currency, you would be looking forward to a soft bed, a real bath, decent food, and warm water.”

“Why are you so cheerful? Aren’t you the same Flo who threatened Brillo yesterday with death and damnation? Something about sending him to a desert without a blade of grass for a thousand miles?”

“That was yesterday. Today I’ve made a decision.”

“You mean like inventing an automobile for our next ‘honeymoon’? Or putting in a train line?”

Flo stood up and put her arm around J.D.’s shoulders. “I mean a real decision, J.D. I’m going to do it!”

“Do what?”

“I’m taking my clothes off for Rubens. I’ve been debating that with myself every day since we set out from Grantville. Should I or shouldn’t I? Don’t interrupt! I want to say this straight. You tell me it’s okay. Our daughters tell me they’re aghast. So which way do I go? Well, what the hell. It’s only skin, and it’s not like I’m doing a bump and grind on the stage. It’s art, and am I ready! As long as someone offers me a real bath, off they come!”

“All your clothes?”

“You got it, mister, every last scrap.”

J.D. twisted around to give her a hug. As he twisted, he accidentally pulled on the reins and the horses reared, shifting the wagon into the road proper.

As fate would have it, an extravagant carriage passing in the opposite direction locked wheel to axle with them, tangling the two vehicles and jolting all the occupants. Flotsam and the coach driver began working to separate the two vehicles, and J.D. gladly gave the reins to Jetsam.

An official-looking head poked out the carriage window and began yelling alternately in Dutch and Spanish.

J.D. was in no mood to negotiate and cursed back at the official.

The personage managed to squeeze a fat arm out the window. The stranger shook his fist, and J.D. gave him the finger.

“I hope he understands that,” J.D. muttered.

“No problem, J.D. Looks to me like you got your point across.”

The door to the near side of the carriage was blocked by the wagon, and the carriage bobbed up and down while the person inside shifted his position. The far door was kicked open just as a cavalryman was passing, and the door swung out right in front of the horse. The horse performed various pyrotechnics and saved itself, but the rider was tossed head over heels.

After getting to his feet, the cavalryman threatened the fat personage, and the fat personage screamed at the cavalryman. The cavalryman pulled his saber halfway out of its scabbard, and the official puffed and postured while his face turned bright red.

“You see,” J.D. said. “It’s all sorting itself out.”

As soon as the two vehicles were separated, Flo asked, “Maybe we should drive on?”

“Sounds good to me, but exactly how are we going to move?”

A crowd of curious onlookers had surrounded them.

“Rubberneckers,” Flo moaned, “and in the seventeenth century.”

“Makes you feel right at home, doesn’t it?”

A Spanish officer rode up and dismounted. He silenced the angry official and cavalry trooper and then listened to each in turn.

“He’d make a pretty good traffic cop,” J.D. said.

“I preferred it more when they were yelling at each other.”

Flo’s instincts proved correct. The fat official walked into plain sight and pointed at J.D. Then the cavalryman also came over and pointed.

“That’s not fair,” J.D. complained. “It wasn’t my fault that the guy rode into the door. Fatty should have looked in both directions before opening it.”

The Spanish captain approached them. Flo thought the captain’s glare wasn’t too cold. She didn’t expect to be drawn and quartered for an hour at least.

In answer to the captain’s questions, J.D. said, “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish. Or Dutch. I’m an American.”

“Ah, American.” The captain smiled, and Flo’s heart fell to the subbasement. Somehow she knew that the captain was among the few soldiers who had survived the American attack on the castle Wartburg in 1632, during which the Spanish troops were not only killed by lead and fire but forced to listen to Wozzeck. To the present day, debate raged among the survivors about which was worse: to be honorably killed in battle or to suffer the torments of Berg’s opera.

The captain continued to smile. “You will follow me.” He pointed south. Away from Utrecht. Away from Amsterdam.

“I’m an American citizen,” J.D. said.

“And you Americans are great believers in law. So. You have committed serious crimes against His Excellency. You have caused much damage. All this must be sorted out. Fines must be assessed, damages awarded.” The captain nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, all this must be thoroughly looked into. You will be made quite comfortable, for you will be with us a considerable time.”

Flotsam and Jetsam, never too cheerful in the first place, became less than splinters on the seas of life. J.D. was speechless. Flo broke.

“Two months! We’ve been on the road for two months to go to Rubens! We were almost there. Almost. Just a few days more and now this. I don’t believe it. I honest to God don’t believe it. Why in all the world did I ever listen to Justus Corneliszoon van Liede? I must have been freakin’ out of my mind. There are dozens of painters. Hundreds of printers. Why Rubens? Why Justus Corneliszoon?”

It was the captain’s turn to become pale. “You are acquainted with Justus Corneliszoon van Liede?”

If Flo’s traits were to be assessed, among those highest ranked would be paperwork and organization. It only took her fifteen seconds to find Justus’ letter and put it in the captain’s hands.

After reading it, the captain handed the letter back to Flo and bowed. He said very quietly, “Excuse me one moment.” He stalked over to the cavalryman, who had been grinning with delight.

“You!” the captain yelled to him. “Why are you standing here? Where is your regiment? Get on your horse, and if you fall off it again and do not break your neck, I will personally break it for you.” The captain whirled on the fat dignitary. “Pig! Why were you driving on the road? Don’t you see the soldiers? What gives you the right to be among them? Do you have a uniform? A rank? There’s nothing soldier about you.”

The official protested and waved his arms and pointed at J.D.

The captain drew his sword. “I envy you, for you have a simple choice. Move or die. Which do you prefer?”

Fat does not imply slow. Personage and carriage were away before the captain could return to Flo and J.D., whose mouths had collectively dropped open.

The captain bowed again to them. “I sincerely apologize for any mistakes.”

“You know Justus?” Flo asked.

The captain grinned and suddenly looked years younger. “Of course I know him! He asked me to watch for you. That was maybe three weeks ago. It was odd meeting him. At first I wanted to punch his teeth in, because he was that type of fop. But before I could even draw my sword, he cut my doublet to shreds. Imagine that! Well, there’s only one thing to do with such a swordsman. We promised each other eternal friendship, and I agreed to help you the best I can. Now, how may I assist you?”

Flo looked at J.D., and J.D. looked at Flo. They were somewhat embarrassed to ask, since they weren’t accustomed to favors that put them ahead of everyone else, but the captain understood those glances.

“Attend! You will bring your wagon on the road and proceed after me. I will arrange an escort to guide you to Utrecht.” He glared at the onlookers, who immediately dispersed. He was that type of captain.

And they were on their way, and Flo sang, “Amsterdam, here we come.”

* * *

Flo slammed the door, and J.D. jumped a couple of feet skyward.

“Lord, woman! Don’t I have enough gray hairs?” He waved the binoculars he was holding in front of her. “I nearly put an eye out. That would be a fine addition to this ‘vacation.’ You know, standing on a roof is perhaps the best way to see Amsterdam. Through binoculars. The tours are okay, but the canals stink. They’re more like open sewers than waterways. I keep hoping to spot the Gretchen statue. Wasn’t there talk of putting one up where she was on top of a building somewhere and waving a flag? We should be able to see it from here.”

They were staying in Paulus Pontius’ house, which was next to Rubens’ studio. Between the two buildings was a large courtyard and stable.

J.D. noticed the expression on Flo’s face. It was a cross between the Mother of Demons and Lucrezia Borgia, only not as pleasant. He asked innocently, “Didn’t the first sitting for Rubens go okay? Did you have a place to change? Was the studio warm enough? Did Brillo do anything unmentionable?”

Flo grabbed J.D. by his shirt and shouted, “When can we leave?”

“Well . . .” J.D. was taken aback. He had never seen Flo so angry. “We’d have to send messages to Flotsam and Jetsam. They weren’t expecting to be ready for another week. We need fresh provisions. What happened? What did Rubens say?”

“It’s not my portrait!”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not my portrait. It’s Brillo’s. I’m not Mrs. December. It’s Mr. December. I was only invited because they didn’t think anyone else could manage Brillo. He has a reputation, you know. He’s a one-ram revolutionary. What am I? Huh? I’m a frumpy housewife. That’s all.” She sniffed.

J.D. hugged her. “Those miserable bastards. I’m going to have a few words with this Rubens. I don’t care who he is. No one can treat my wife like that. And after two months on the road to get here? They have their nerve.”

Flo returned the hug with interest. “No, not a word to anyone. It’s too humiliating. I just want to go home.”

“We’ll get started immediately.”

She shook her head no. “I have to see this through. Brillo will be painted and get a month on the calendar. That’s something. Then we’ll have nothing to do with these people again.”

“At least we’ll have a fine portrait of your unfavorite ram.”

“Not even that!” Flo wailed. “Someone already bought it.”

“What? Has Richelieu been up to his old tricks? Sneaking and conniving among everyone?”

“No, it’s some collector in Italy. I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I wonder how whoever heard of Brillo?”

Flo smiled glumly. “We have the most famous ram in the world.”

Listening by the half-opened door was Paulus Pontius, Rubens’ favorite printmaker. Deciding not to join his guests, he quietly shut the door and left.

* * *

A week later, Flo and J.D. were busily packing for their return journey when someone knocked on the open door.

Flo straightened up and smiled. “What a pleasure to see you!”

“A pleasure to see you, dear lady Flo.” Justus Corneliszoon bowed deeply. “Flotsam and Jetsam have loaded most of the wagon, and I have a present for you.” He offered her a small cloth bag.

“Can I believe that aroma? Can I?” Flo opened it. “It is! It really is! Coffee! It’s been weeks since I’ve had any. Let me heat a pot of water, and we’ll have some.”

“Not to bother, dear lady Flo. I left some beans with the kitchen wench, and she’s grinding them to make a fresh pot for us even as we speak. Shall I meet you in the dining room downstairs in half an hour? We can have a farewell chat.”

Flo hugged Justus. “That’s a date!”

He laughed. “Then I shall see you shortly.” Justus left the room.

“Thanks for noticing me,” J.D. said. “I don’t understand you at all, Flo. You didn’t get your portrait painted, we didn’t get Brillo’s portrait, and you’re all smiles. That is, you’re all smiles after Corny reappeared. Do you have anything to confess?”

She was all innocence. “Who? Me? No, I’m only happy that the calendars came out so well. Who’d think that Paulus could turn out plates for printing so fast?”

“You sure were happy to see Corny.”

“Well, at first I thought that he ran out on us. But, who’d think he’d spend so much time on the road marking a route for us, making friends, and eliminating brigands. It’s like having Ivanhoe on our side.”

“Can’t you think of a Dutch hero?”

Walking over to a tall and narrow wooden box, Flo tapped it significantly. “Rolled up inside is a wonderful drawing by Rubens of Brillo. It’s almost as good as a painting, and maybe even better. I think I prefer his drawings to his paintings.”

What Flo didn’t mention to J.D. was that rolled within the Brillo drawing was a second one, in red chalk and white washes, of Flo reclining on a sofa. In the nude. Flo thought it was very flattering, but Rubens had a flattering manner in general. Perhaps she would give it to J.D. for his birthday. Perhaps. But it wouldn’t leave their bedroom back home. Some things were too private.

“I’m really looking forward to being home. You know what I think, J.D.? I think we’re going to have a fine trip back to Grantville.”

J.D. looked out the window. “Maybe.”

It had started to snow.

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Framed