By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

no, too formal an instruction … reflect, let us say, in letters home. Ones you might write on a cold and lonely evening with nothing else to do … on all you hear and see around you … dip into the general mood … little sketches of the players … colourful accounts of balls and soirées … what is being said by whom, and to whom. On the surface, tittle-tattle, but believe me … each page would be a treasure trove. You young blades with your heads full of romance, you think spying is all about invisible ink and stolen documents? You’re wrong. Just having someone tell you what is round the corner is worth far more. Your king is sending you into what is likely to become a hotbed of political intrigue and power-plays, and as likely as not, war – because he wants to know what is going on behind all the formal communiqués, and because you are unofficial and therefore more likely to hear and see … more. Much, much more than you could ever steal from a rifled bureau. In God’s name, sir, what else do you think spying is?’

James stood for a moment, crestfallen. Played upon again. ‘And I thought I was escaping all these games,’ he said, trying to sound droll. ‘What a flat they must take me for, to play my strings with such ease?’

‘Oh, it’s far worse than that, my dear James. Far worse,’ said de Valençay, with a sardonic guffaw. ‘Let me tell you what awaits you in Poland. The death of Augustus II has re-opened all the old fault lines in Europe. So I will summarise. Polish kings are elected by a council of nobles. Augustus, while he was alive, tried to abolish the tradition by announcing that he was going to settle the crown on his son. He failed. So now that he’s dead, the crown is up for grabs. My liege lord Louis’ wife is Polish, and indeed her father Stanislas once held the crown … for about half an hour, or at least that’s what it felt like. He wants it back. And my liege lord Louis wants him to have it back. However, Russia – and Saxony, for what that’s worth – want Augustus’ son to inherit. Austria probably wants the same, but isn’t saying … for the moment. Ditto, King Charles of Spain. They all have vested interests … a Poland friendly to France might discomfit our old enemy, Austria. If Russia puts Augustus’ son on the throne, it gives the tsar a little bit more leverage in mittel Europa, and then there’s the endless opportunities for the players to nibble at each other’s territorial extremities … all the ones they’ve always coveted … if it comes to war. Contemplating it is like overturning a stone and watching all the insects wriggle. I’m sure that was the gist of what your king had to say to you?’

James nodded, glumly. All the things he’d come to detest in the mindless churn of empires.

‘Well, he hasn’t told you everything,’ de Valençay went on, idly whacking at a twig with his walking stick. ‘There’s been talk of a compromise candidate. One who would … defuse matters … for the time being. They have lit, in secret, upon some sixth, seventh, tenth, God knows what, son of King Peter of Portugal, would you believe? Some barely breeched little brat, called Manuel. Nobody’s ever heard of him. Eminently manipulatable. And the whole idea, likely an anathema to the Poles. But who cares about them? That’s the official secret one. But there is another, unofficial, secret contender. One who would really set the cat among the pigeons. Who would not entirely displease Louis … but only unofficially … because he would not want to upset Hanoverian George in London, who would be apoplectic if he ever got wind. Nor would this candidate entirely displease the tsar, or Charles of Spain. Can you guess who it is, young James?’

‘Why would I want to bother?’ James replied.

‘It is James Francis Edward Stuart,’ said de Valençay. ‘Your king.’

James stopped walking. It was as though someone had punched him in the stomach. Why would King James want the Polish throne? And if he was considering it, why not say? If James was going into the lion’s den to report back to him on who was favourite to win, should he not know James Stuart’s name was in the pot? James’ sense of being manipulated himself, in this whole adventure, never mind poor little Manuel, filled him with a rare anger.

‘Of course he didn’t tell you,’ said de Valençay. ‘Your king may appear the essence of the open, straightforward, decent man, but he cannot have been playing this game for so long and learned nothing. If you didn’t know, then there is no danger of you letting it slip. Also, you being such a blindly loyal aide, if someone else let it slip, it is the first thing you would report … unalloyed … a full account of how the gathered reacted to the very idea of it. The astonishment … or maybe hilarity? Contempt? Serious calculation? He’d get a purer picture.’

‘But why? Why would he want the throne of Poland?’

‘Oh, come now,’ said de Valençay, with a snort. Think about it – once you’ve finished luxuriating in all your resentment. For a start he would get a whole new, national exchequer to play with. No more begging bowls. Then he’d get a seat closer to the top table. He would have something to trade in terms of alliances, instead of just future promises. He insists now, he is not interested. Just one throne interests him, Great Britain. His own. He must say that, because what if people laughed at the idea, or worse, he shows his hand, and loses. Those are just two arguments. There are more. That is why I, and my liege-lord Louis,