1634: The Baltic War (assiti chards)

by Eric Flint

"So!" bellowed the Danish monarch. As big as he was, he seemed to loom over Eddie like a mountain. Or a troll king.

  Christian stomped over to the submarine. He was too fat to get in, but he did manage to stick his head in far enough to examine the interior.

  "So!" he bellowed again, his voice sounding like it came from an echo chamber.

  He came back out and gave Eddie a glare that dwarfed any glare in Eddie's experience. Admiral Simpson's glare, which he'd once thought ferocious, was like a candle to an arc light.

  "So!" He pointed a rigid finger at Eddie. "Arrest him!"

  That seemed a pointless sort of thing to say. Eddie already had two soldiers holding him by the arms, with two more prodding his back with halberd blades.

  "Papa!" wailed Anne Cathrine. "You can't do this!"

  "Watch me!" Part Five The labyrinth of the wind

  Chapter 66

  Copenhagen June 1634

  "How are the mighty fallen," grumbled Colonel Jesse Wood, taking off his leather jacket and hanging it on a hook in the shed-in-all-but-name that had been jury-rigged as the new "Command Headquarters" of the brand spanking new Union of Kalmar's brand spanking new first and only airfield, just outside Copenhagen. "Hi, Frank. What are you doing here?"

  Sitting in a chair that was at least six degrees of separation from anything that belonged on an air field and would have cost a small fortune up-time-lounging in it luxuriously, rather-General Frank Jackson grinned up at him.

  "Still grousing, huh? What's the matter, Jesse? Why does it offend your sensibilities to have the air force turned into a passenger service? Hell, I thought you were just a lowly trash-hauler up-time."

  "Please. I flew a tanker. Big, big difference-and never mind what any stupid fighter pilot jock says."

  He looked around and, seeing no alternative, sat in another chair that was every bit as absurd. "Where did they get these damn things, anyway? Every time I sit in one of them I expect a museum guard to start shouting at me."

  Frank's cheerful grin seemed fixed in place. "Frederiksborg Palace, where else? You know how much King Christian loves this airfield. I think Gustav Adolf's offer to build it for him right away is what really turned the tide and finally reconciled him to the Union of Kalmar. Well, between that and agreeing to betroth Princess Kristina to Prince Ulrik. You're in the air most of the time, so you probably aren't aware of it, but Christian comes out here bright and early at least every third morning, all the way from the palace in Copenhagen. How he manages that, with the hangovers he must have, is a mystery to me. Hollow leg is one thing. That guy's got a quasi-dimensional leg, from what I can tell."

  Frank half-rose from the chair, supporting himself with his left hand on one of the armrests, and pointed out the window with the other. More precisely, out of the three panes in the huge window that weren't stained glass. Like the chairs, the window was a preposterous thing to have in such a ramshackle and hastily constructed edifice.

  "I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Jesse, but they've already started breaking the ground out there. Just past the perimeter fence."

  "Breaking the ground? For what?"

  "What do you think? Christian's new palace. He says it'll be a small one, though. A 'flying cottage,' he calls it."

  Jesse rolled his eyes. "God help us. I've already had to give him four joyrides."

  "Piker. He's pretty well adopted Woody. Who's given him at least a dozen joyrides-and is now trying to figure out how to fend off the increasingly royal insistence that we teach Christian how to fly."

  Jesse didn't roll his eyes, this time. He closed them tightly shut, the way a man does when he's feeling intense pain. "God help us, again."

  "He's pretty well coordinated, actually."

  "Yeah, I know. So what? He's also half-drunk most of the time."

  By the time he reopened his eyes, Frank was back to lounging in his chair. "But you never answered my question. Why are you here, Frank? Puh-leese don't tell me you want a joyride, too. I just got finished having to listen to a seven-year-old girl squealing with delight for hours."

  Frank chuckled. "Yeah, I saw. What a mob, huh?"

  He was referring to the huge crowd that had been at the airfield to greet Princess Kristina and her two companions when they landed. The emperor himself had been at the center of it, along with King Christian, surrounded by umpteen officials, officers and courtiers. Prince Ulrik had been there also, of course, to greet his new seven-year-old fiancee. Or rather, fiancee to be, since the betrothal wouldn't be official until the formal ceremony in a few days. But, by now, the news had even spread through most of the United States of Europe, much less Denmark. There'd been an even bigger crowd at the airfield in Magdeburg to cheer the princess on her way-although that one had mostly been made up of commoners.

  Lady Ulrike and Caroline Platzer had spent the entire flight from Magdeburg in absolute silence, clutching anything available to clutch with knuckle-whitening intensity. Lady Ulrike had been terrified because it was the first time she'd ever flown. Caroline Platzer had been even more terrified because she'd flown many times-and therefore knew perfectly well how far removed Jesse's Gustav was from anything an up-time commercial airline company would have allowed to even taxi onto a landing strip. They wouldn't have trusted the damn thing to tow luggage carts to the ramps, for that matter.

  Kristina had just been ecstatic. It was her first time flying, too, and so what? Fifteen minutes after they got into the air, she'd started pestering Jesse to teach her how to fly.

  The odd thing was, he might very well wind up doing so. When the girl got bigger, of course. But in her case, the thought only caused him to wince a bit. The truth was-all you had to do was watch her on a horse-Kristina had the physical skills to do it. God knows, she had the attitude. The biggest problem would be to keep her from trying fancy acrobatics and dive-bombing routines the first time she went up behind the controls.

  "To answer your question," said Frank, "I'm here on a private mission from our beloved prime minister. Things are still kinda dicey for Eddie Cantrell, and Mike wants to know if-in a real pinch-you could be ready to fly the scapegrace out of here on a moment's notice. 'Moment's notice' as in, just before the headsman's axe comes down. That's assuming Mike can figure out a way to get him out of the palace, but he's pretty sure he can manage that. Seeing as he sent for the experts. It's being kept very quiet, of course, but Harry Lefferts and his crew got here two days ago on a ship they swindled somebody out of. Mike's prepared to go to the mat on this one, if he really has no choice."

  Jesse sighed. "Christ on a crutch. They still have the poor kid locked up?"

  Frank shrugged. "Yeah, insofar as you can call being under house arrest in a room-suite, more like-in Rosenborg Castle 'locked up.' It ain't exactly a barren cell in Marion County jail. Even the plumbing's probably better."

  "Still, it seems excessive as all hell. I mean, the kid's not charged with anything that up-time would have-"

  Frank grin's was gone by now, and he interrupted Jesse forcefully. "We aren't up-time, Jesse, if you hadn't noticed-and the girl involved is royalty. You may not be aware of it, but Christian IV is actually considered a very tolerant monarch in the here and now. Even something of a wimp, when it comes to family stuff like this. The reason people think that is because he only had his second wife Kirsten Munk-she's the girl's mother, if you didn't know-imprisoned when she was suspected of adultery. Instead of having her head cut off on the grounds of treason. Which is what Henry VIII did-twice-not all that long ago."

  Jesse made a face. "Seventeenth fucking century. I forget, sometimes."

  "Yeah, we all do. But there it is. Mike thinks-thinks, mind you, he's not positive-that Christian's mainly insisting on the full royal treatment as part of all the bargaining maneuvers. To put it another way, he's not actually as outraged as he claims to be. But…"

  "Yeah, but. Who knows?-and seventeenth-century 'bargaining' is every bit as much of a contact sport as everything politic
al is in this day and age. It can get really rough."

  Frank nodded. "Yep, sure can. As Christian IV proved when he agreed to let Eddie go in return for Prince Ulrik-and then dragged out the process until the emperor arrived, so he could demand that Gustav Adolf have him arrested. Drunk or sober, he ain't no dummy. He needed Gustav Adolf here to squelch the admiral, who was making loud noises by then about reducing the rest of Copenhagen to rubble if his lieutenant wasn't goddamit produced on his flagship right fucking now. Even then, Gustav had to do some truly imperial squelching before the admiral shut up."

  There was silence for a time, as two men engaged in that ancient ritual whereby another man was finally allowed into their private comradeship.

  "Simpson's okay," Jesse declared.

  "Yeah, he is," Frank concurred.

  After a moment, Jesse said, "I can get Eddie out of here. Now that all the fricking passengers have been shuttled to Copenhagen in time for the big shindig-have they come up with a name for it yet, by the way?-I've got a legitimate excuse to stick around for a while, instead of spending every waking hour in a cockpit."

  He waved his hand toward the airfield beyond the closed door. "All of the Gustavs have to have those stupid passenger benches taken out and get re-fitted as fighting planes. Am I the only one who remembers that there's still a war going on? Supposed to be, anyway. Last I heard, the only ones who'd agreed to a cease-fire are the Spaniards-and then, only the ones under the cardinal-infante's command."

  "Oquendo's agreed to it also," Frank said. "We just got the word yesterday. It seems the good admiral has decided his commission requires him to obey the commander of all Spanish forces in the Netherlands, and to hell with what Madrid says." Frank chuckled. "Of course, the count-duke of Olivares and the king of Spain himself aren't likely to agree, but nobody in this day and age can lawyer like Spanish hidalgos. Especially when the hidalgo in question has his fleet anchored in the Zuider Zee and the rest of the Spanish navy can't get to him without fighting their way through a big chunk of the USE's navy."

  Jesse cocked an eyebrow. "The Achates is hardly what I'd call a 'big chunk.' "

  Frank shook his head, looking smug. "You're way behind the curve, Jesse. Too much time spent staring through a windscreen, the last couple of weeks. Gustav Adolf ordered Commodore Henderson to take his flotilla into the Zuider Zee. There are now six of those paddle wheelers guarding Amsterdam-each and every one of which has a dozen sixty-eight pound carronades loaded with explosive shells, just in case anyone gets any screwy ideas."

  He settled into his chair, very comfortably. "No, at least for the time being, Don Fernando and Don Antonio de Oquendo can thumb their noses at the Spanish crown around the clock, if they want to. As for the rest…"

  He waved a hand, dismissively. "The Danes are out of it, obviously. The English are too, for all practical purposes. They never had much in the way of land forces involved in the war, and after the wreckage the Achates left in the Thames estuary it's not likely even that dimwit Charles I is going to order his navy into action. That leaves the French, who are asking for a cease-fire. But Gustav Adolf is ignoring their ambassador. He won't agree to it until his troops finish gobbling up as much territory as he figures he can digest. All those dinky little principalities in northwest Germany and what you and I would have called northeast France in the old days are falling like tenpins to Gustav's forces. Hesse-Kassel's done some nibbling of his own too. With the emperor's agreement, of course. Most of it, anyway-and a little after the fact, in some cases. But there's been hardly any fighting at all."

  Jesse frowned. "I'd think-"

  "You aren't a French cardinal staring at a civil war in the making, Jesse. The only reliable, intact and powerful force Richelieu has at his disposal is Turenne and his cavalry. And guess where they are, now? We just got word about that yesterday, too."

  Jesse thought for a moment, and then chuckled himself. "Billeted in the Louvre, I imagine."

  "You got it in one. Richelieu needs Turenne to keep the lid on Paris, so he's not about to send him off to fight us. Turenne's got the only French army worth talking about, at the moment, if you don't count Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar-and Mike thinks it's not all that clear how much Richelieu can count on Bernhard these days. The key thing, though, is that those dangerous damn Sharps breechloaders of Turenne's are out of it for while. So, Gustav Adolf figures now is a good time to let his eager commanders on the ground bring him a lot of little Floridas."

  "Floridas?"

  "Never mind. Inside joke, I'll explain it to you later. I heard it from Torstensson."

  Frank planted his hands on the armrests and heaved himself to his feet, grimacing as if he were engaged in one of the labors of Hercules. "Damn, I love these chairs. Gotta see if I can wheedle the Danes into giving us a couple for army headquarters. Which-you got it rough, flyboy, you surely do-the rotten bastards made us put in what's left of Copenhagen Castle. Stumble over the rubble on your way in, which is probably just as well 'cause it takes your mind off the stench coming from the harbor."

  Once erect, he ambled toward the door. "Okay, I'll tell Mike you're a go if we need a fast horse out of Copenhagen for Eddie."

  "So, what did you think of him?" asked Caroline, once they were settled in their chambers in Rosenborg Castle.

  Princess Kristina frowned. "I don't know yet. He's very quiet. I'm not sure I like that. And I'm still angry at him. He blew up one of our ships! Almost blew up another!"

  "Which took a great deal of courage."

  Kristina rubbed her nose. "Well. Okay. Still."

  "He's good-looking, you know, in a quiet sort of way," chipped in Lady Ulrike.

  Kristina continued to rub her nose. "I guess."

  Caroline and Lady Ulrike exchanged an exasperated glance.

  "Your father is not holding a grudge over the matter," pointed out Lady Ulrike.

  Silence. Then, with a little sniff, Kristina took her hand away from her nose and peered up at Caroline. "And where's the Count of Narnia? I wanted to say hello to him. Congratulate him, too, for being such a hero."

  Caroline had to restrain a smile. She'd finally gotten some more letters from Thorsten and had gotten his viewpoint on that business. Which amounted to bemusement at being told that he was a "hero" for doing something that was considerably less dangerous than any number of farm chores. Capturing a badly wounded young officer and an exhausted old one? Try tending to a lame horse, sometime. That critter can cave your skull in. Break a shoulder, easily. Not to mention what an ox can do to you.

  But all she said was, "He hasn't arrived yet. Sometime this afternoon, supposedly. No fancy flying for him, you understand. He's just a sergeant. They're bringing him here on a merchant ship."

  "Well, they shouldn't. He's a count and he should be an officer."

  The seven-year-old girl wandered to a nearby window and looked out over the gardens below. After a moment, she said, "He rides a horse well. The Danish prince, I mean. Really well. I watched him carefully."

  "Well, thank the Lord," murmured Lady Ulrike.

  Chapter 67

  "I can remember when this was easy," muttered Ulrik. "Not more than-at most-one out of hundred people in Copenhagen recognized me, unless I was wearing court dress. Even then, it wasn't more than one in ten."

  Walking next to him, in the same sort of cheap and utilitarian clothing, Baldur Norddahl smiled thinly. "You were just a prince, then. Not the Danish national hero."

  Ulrik scowled. "I was prepared for death and dismemberment. Not the destruction of what little privacy I had left."

  "Oh, stop complaining." Whatever traces of formality had still been left in their relationship had sunk into the Oresund somewhere in the course of the battle. And the prince didn't miss it at all. He'd had very few close friends in his life.

  "Not more than four people stopped to take a second glance, Ulrik, and I don't think any of them decided it was really you."

  "Still. It's annoying."

  A few
paces farther down, Baldur put a hand on his arm. "This is it."

  Ulrik looked up at the tavern's sign. The nonexistent sign. Then, at what might be the entrance to a tavern. Maybe.

  "Could they have found a more inconspicuous and wretched-looking place?" he asked.

  "They are who they are. Which, if you've forgotten, is why we came here to begin with."

  Ulrik waved him forward. "You first. You're the nerveless adventurer. I'm just a timid national hero. Better you than me, if the floor collapses or the roof falls down or giants rats come at us."

  Smiling, still thinly, Baldur led the way.

  Inside, the tavern wasn't quite as wretched-looking as its exterior had been. Which wasn't saying a lot, of course.

  Aside from the tavern keeper, the only occupants of the room were a small crowd gathered around a large table toward the back. All men, except for two women. They were wearing the same sort of common apparel that Ulrik and Baldur were wearing, but they looked as completely out of place as a den of lions in a mousehole.

  "Yes, that's them," murmured Baldur. As if Ulrik could have any doubts.

  This time, Ulrik led the way. As he got nearer, he heard one of the men at the table whisper to another, "Heads up, Harry. We got trouble."

  He spoke in English, perhaps thinking that a Danish prince wouldn't be familiar with the tongue. Which, indeed, most wouldn't.

  Ulrik decided he might as well start there. He not only spoke the language-rather well, by now-he even had something of an Appalachian accent, according to Eddie. So, when he came to a stop, just a few feet away, he said in English:

  "I am Prince Ulrik of Denmark. I believe I am speaking to Captain Harry Lefferts, of the USE Army."

  He addressed the remarks to the man who been the recipient of the whisper. Even without that clue, however, Ulrik would have known who their commander was. For someone like himself, born and raised in a position of power, it was quite obvious in ways he would have found difficult to explain in words-but obvious, nevertheless.