1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  Sophie smiled. “My surname, of course.”

  Cautiously now, Leonora! “What is strange about it?”

  “That it is still affixed to my person. You know, of course, that I was married.”

  “Y-yes.” It would not do to let Sophie know how very much Leonora knew of this. Her personal curiosity could easily be misunderstood as mere nosiness. “Your husband died in the Baltic War, did he not?”

  “Yes, he did. So I am familiar with the many ways in which mourning can become a burden more trying than the grief that may underlie it. Or not.”

  Suddenly, Leonora was unsure that she wanted to hear Sophie’s unuttered truth. But she was also aware that there was no way to stop it now. To flinch away from it, to smother it before it could leave Sophie’s lips, would be to show herself a coward, to be unworthy of trust, and so, to be unworthy of further shared revelations. And so Leonora took what she knew to be a fateful step: “I am unsure how best to understand that statement, dear Sophie.”

  Who smiled. “That was well and delicately put, Leonora. I thank you for being so patient with me. This is difficult to speak of. Not the least because I fear it will make you—your sister, too, but particularly you—think ill of me.”

  Leonora did not know what to say: she simply shook her head.

  Sophie drew in a deep breath. “I was married to Laurids Ulfeldt in October of 1631, had our child in June of the following year, and lost that child soon after. But by that time he had been sent to serve under Anders Bille on the island of Osel. Which is where he died, early in 1633, trying to intercept a boat of Swedish couriers. Which only occurred because Gustav did not die at Lützen, which in turn led to your father’s eventual war against him. So, in point of fact, Laurids died when he did because the up-timers arrived and changed history.”

  Sophie turned to face Leonora directly. “You are not the only one to spend much of your life transported to other places and other times in the pages of a book. As is true for so many of us, I became curious about what had happened to me in the up-timers’ world. Last year, I finally had the chance to peruse their collected histories.” She smiled. “It was a humbling thing, to see what little mention there was of me at all, other than that I was a ‘rich heiress’ who had married Laurids Ulfeldt. Who, I discovered, was to have lived much longer. And with whom I was to have had four children.”

  Leonora felt tears rise into her eyes, but did not blink, did not let them escape. At the age of seven, harshly treated by the parental surrogates who had raised her while she was away from her father’s court, she had resolved never to shed tears again.

  Sophie’s eyes widened. She reached out and touched Leonora’s cheek. “No. Do not weep. Not for me. And most of all, not for what you think is my grief.”

  “What?” Leonora croaked.

  “My dear friend, you know what the Ulfeldt family is like. Laurids was the best of them, true, but they are not . . . not warm men. Nor sensitive, nor compassionate. He was more physically vital than most of them, but not what one would call vigorous. He spent most of the few days we had together immersed in his books, pursuing his ‘historical projects,’ as he called them.”

  Sophie laughed, shook her head. “That was to have been the great bond between us, you see: books. Except that he used them as a means of making things smaller, as a way to fit all life—what had come before and what was transpiring around him—into neat compartments and categories, whereas I used them to rove far and wide, to the ends of this earth and beyond.” Her rueful smile faded. “I suppose one could say nothing defined the differences between us so sharply and so sadly as the reasons for which we embraced books. Which was the majority of the embracing that occurred in our marriage.”

  For the first time since Leonora had met Sophie, the young woman averted her eyes. “So you see, Leonora, I know what it is like to mourn and yet not feel grief. I am not saying that this is what is occurring behind the hard façade that Edel Mund shows to the world. Frankly, I think something different afflicts her. But I know what it is like to wear black, and step slowly and heavily because it is what is expected of a mourning wife, but to feel nothing but relief within. And in that relief, feel oneself base and monstrous.”

  “But how? And for what?” Leonora blurted out. “For being rid of a man you did not love, never wished to marry? Because, Sophie, it was no secret that your mother engineered that marriage, in no small part to secure allies who would protect her from my father’s wrath. What would you feel but relief in escaping from such a union? And why, therefore, should you feel such guilt?”

  “Because my guilt does not arise from escaping my marriage to Laurids,” Sophie explained hollowly, “but from dancing away to my freedom upon the ghost bodies of three more little children to whom I never gave birth. And for living past my time.”

  Leonora did not breathe. “What do you mean?”

  Sophie’s eyes rose back to Leonora’s. “One of the other things the histories revealed about me was my date of death: May 1635. Just as we were preparing to leave for the New World, I had, in that other history, left the world entirely.”

  Leonora went from horrified to confused in the space of a single second. “But then, how did you have four children—?”

  Sophie shook her head. “In that other history, Laurids was only briefly on Osel. With Gustav dead, the Baltic War never occurred; the tensions were brief, and he returned. But here, he never returned from Osel and so, did not father three more children. For which I am unspeakably grateful. And for which I must certainly be damned.”

  “Damned?”

  “How can I not be, Leonora? I wake every morning and breathe a sigh of relief that I am no longer married to Laurids Ulfeldt. And then I remember, in the next breath, that my freedom comes at the expense of his life and that of three unborn children. How does that not damn one?”

  Leonora forced herself to become calm. “Sophie, you did not act to deprive Laurids of his life. And whatever you may have felt about your marriage, I do not believe you wished him dead, did you?”

  Sophie shook her head mutely.

  “And you only learned of the three other children afterward, so they could not even have been a part of your initial reaction to his death.”

  Sophie looked up. “What point are you driving toward, Leonora?”

  The young woman considered. “You have read much of the up-timer literature?”

  “As much as I can, but it was mostly histories, since that is what fascinated Laurids. Ironically, the copies he commissioned arrived two years after he died.”

  “How much of the up-time ‘psychology’ have you read?”

  “I know the word, and the basic principles, but nothing specific.”

  “I see. Well then, when you have the opportunity, you must come to peruse the complete copies that my father has in his library. And once there, you must look up the term ‘survivor guilt.’”

  And Sophie asked, as Leonora had hoped: “What is survivor guilt?”

  “It means that when, in a group of people, only a few survive, those survivors may feel guilty not to have lost their lives, too. It was often observed when the up-timers’ ships sank or their flying machines crashed. It happens with them much, much more than with us, because so many people of our time are convinced that God chooses, with great purpose, who shall live and who shall die.” And there is a statement that damns me, Sophie: “many people of our time are convinced that God chooses . . . ”—but not me. Not anymore. “There is much more to it than that, of course. And, since I am a wallflower at these dances and parties, I shall have ample time to explain more of it this evening, if you so wish.”

  Sophie smiled. “I do so wish. And thank you for not insisting on returning to the matter of my surname.”

  Leonora blinked. “To be truthful, I had quite forgotten about it. I take it you were referring, then, to why you are not using the name Ulfeldt?”

  “Yes, that is part of it. Although it wasn’t even my ow
n doing.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “That is because you are not the daughter of my mother. It was she who compelled me to keep my name Rantzau, so that the estates in my father’s name would not be so easily subsumed into the growing treasury of the Ulfeldt family. And also to ensure that my name did not strike the ear of your father with an immediate spark of pain and annoyance.”

  Hearing those words, Leonora felt her very own spark of pain. “Well, that is truly said.”

  Sophie’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Leonora, I am so sorry. I was too deeply involved in my own regrets. I forgot that you, too—”

  “There is nothing to be sorry for. The dissolution of my betrothal to Corfitz Ulfeldt is past and done. Do not trouble yourself with any thoughts of it. I don’t,” Leonora lied.

  Sophie’s eyes remained upon her, gentle but steady. “You are a strong young woman, Leonora, and driven by a quiet but firm will that many might miss. I can even imagine it extends to embrace the idea that one finds in so many of the up-time attitudes, and in their later writings: that a woman need not be defined by any man, not even her spouse or father. A fearsome thing for many of this world. Conversely, it is a refreshing, even life-saving, freedom to a few of us. But I wonder—”

  Leonora heard that last fragment of a sentence for what it was: a baited hook, which, if inquired after, would catch her on a question she might regret. But as ever, her curiosity was greater than her fear: “What is it that you wonder?”

  “Whether any girl, at the age of eleven, has ever been completely indifferent to having a betrothal struck aside by her royal father? And to a powerful man who, I am told, showed as much affection toward you as he ever has toward anyone else.”

  Yes, as much as that was. And would have been more properly avuncular, since he is more than twice my age. “It was a disappointment, yes, but even then, I realized that although father’s first thought was to protect himself and the throne, his nullification of our betrothal was a blessing to my future happiness.” She leaned back, vaguely remembered that if she did not triumph over her annoying, mousy brown hair, she could not countenance going to tonight’s party at all. “I remember quite clearly when my father’s first agents returned from Grantville, just before summer, 1633. Corfitz, who had been his favorite courtier, had not only been a traitor to him in the other world, but the documents revealed that he had already commenced pursuing the earliest of those same treacheries in this one. There was no explaining the future events as a sad set of unfortunate circumstances in which some combination of flawed perception and momentary lapses of integrity had led him down a path that history contrived to paint in unflattering hues. No, his flaws of character were revealed to be many and monstrous. Indeed, in retrospect, much of the wit and charm with which he had captivated my father upon his arrival in court had barely masked a scheming mind overwhelmingly shaped by two principles: ruthlessness and ambition.”

  “I have heard,” Sophie ventured, “that although he has committed no overt crime against the throne, your father’s rejection of him has made him so vituperative and disruptive in the Rigsrad that it might be best if he were to be banned from it. Given that the new trade and cooperative industries with the up-timers are bringing Denmark far more silver than Corfitz’s own fiscal proposals, there are very likely enough sympathetic nobles to make such a dismissal possible.”

  “Yes. I have heard the same things whispered,” Leonora said with a nod. “But I suspect that my father has reservations about doing so.”

  “Your father is, of course, quite politically prudent.”

  Yes, Sophie, he is. But prudence is not why he has foresworn what would amount to a public crucifixion of Corfitz Ulfeldt. The question is, should I share the actual reasons with you? Are they too hurtful? And will the subjectivity of memory—my memory—do them justice?

  As if magically summoned by that final concern, her memory seemed to wipe away her sight, expanding and unfolding until, quite suddenly, she was in that past moment, almost a year ago this very day . . .

  Chapter 24

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  Leonora remembered the quiet servant who came to her room, delivering a summons that interrupted her preparations for another party, the one her father had held to honor her and Anne Cathrine before they departed for the New World. Ironically, it was her father who was now demanding that she immediately make her way down to his private audience chamber.

  When she had arrived, flushed and slightly winded, he had smiled and guided her by the hand—for he always treated her like a shy little girl—to her customary seat, the one right next to Anne Cathrine’s. But this time, the room was empty except for herself and her father.

  At first she wasn’t sure why he had summoned her. That his conversation did not plough immediately and directly to the topic at hand was nothing new. Christian IV was in his element when discoursing passionately upon three topics at the same time, leaping back and forth between them and integrating his arguments with insights that were as often illogical as they were inspired, leaving his audience with the impression that he was part savant and part madman. But today, Leonora’s royal father was rambling among, not hunting after, his subjects. Had she not known better, she might have suspected she was witnessing the first signs of a decline into dotage.

  But his lack of vigorous direction was a reflection of the multifaceted misgivings and uncertainties that occupied his ruminations that day. He began by muttering vaguely about history—that what is recorded about the past is not the full story of that past, and may often show some persons in a better light than they deserve, and others far worse. Without segue, he veered into revealing that he had begun to give serious thought to setting aside his mistress, Vibeka Kruse. Although he did not explain the topical connection, Leonora knew it well enough from her own readings of the up-time histories. Vibeka Kruse was a viperous enemy to all of the children Christian IV had with other women, but most particularly those of Leonora’s own mother, Kristen Munk. And, just as the up-time histories had opened his eyes to the true character of Corfitz Ulfeldt, so too had it swept aside any self-delusions that he could actually effect some rapprochement, or at least modus vivendi, between Kruse and his children.

  Her father had fallen silent after once again affirming that he felt great ambivalence about using these future histories to judge those around him. After staring moodily into his empty goblet for the better part of a minute, he startled her by bursting out with: “I did him a favor by dismissing him, you know. A favor.”

  “Who, father?” Leonora asked with a blink, knowing precisely whom he was referring to. “You did who a favor?”

  Christian IV looked away, and she knew the expression on his face all too well: furtive and guilty, like a toddler caught perpetrating some naughtiness. Whether that guilt was in reaction to ruining Ulfeldt’s career or for breaking Leonora’s betrothal to him was unclear until he spoke again. “By dismissing Corfitz Ulfeldt, I saved him. In the other world, I gave that wolf a taste of royal blood and he came to crave it for himself. I was so pleased by his wit, so pleased that he seemed to like you, that I did not stop to see what I should have suspected: that it was all calculation and connivery.”

  And she had thought: Yes, you were so pleased to learn that even your half-ugly duckling might now be wed someday. Pleased even though the man who was supposedly attracted to her was twenty-four, that the glow of royal approval was heating his ambitions to a tumultuous boil, and that the object of his supposed affection was only nine years old. Could you possibly have thought that his interest in me was anything but political?

  But Leonora had long before learned to school her features to impassive attentiveness, and when her father stole a glance to judge her reaction, he learned nothing. He looked away again before continuing. “My overeager embrace of him was irresponsible. Conferring royal favor upon an overambitious man is like handing a drink to a drunkard: you are encouraging his worst behavior
. For the sake of his own soul, to say nothing of the health of Us and Our State, it is better that he becomes a bitter anti-royalist. Even though he continues to pour almost treasonous accusations into the public ear from his seat in the Rigsrad. The other course of history, in which We kept him close to Our chest and Our favor, led to his becoming a traitor entertaining plots of regicide.”

  Having shared his thoughts, he sat staring at the wall. He did not ask her opinion of what he had said, nor how she felt about having her betrothal and future plans evaporate at one snap of His Royal Fingers. Several very long minutes of silence passed before he rose, muttering about servants who couldn’t even keep their king’s goblet full, and stalked off in search of refreshment. He never returned to the chamber and, in consequence, she arrived late for her own party.

  But that had not been the end of her education in regard to Corfitz Ulfeldt, although in some ways it marked the beginning of her education about her up-time self. A subject in which she was uniquely self-taught. But that memory—of receiving the book that was to guide her through all those unhappy studies—was so unpleasant that it catapulted her out of recollections and back into present perception.

  Sophie was watching her calmly, but there was a hint of concern in her gray eyes.

  “I am sorry,” Leonora said. “I was . . . remembering what my father said about Corfitz.”

  “I see.”

  Do you? Leonora wanted to say more, to explain so many things to her much older friend, but she couldn’t—not until the air was clear between them. Which she undertook with a lack of preamble that startled even her. “I must begin by apologizing, Sophie. For the opinion I held of you back then, when your mother was our governess, and you came to visit.”

  Sophie waited while Leonora struggled to find a way forward and the courage to follow it. “Yes?” she said.

  “Sophie—my sister Sophie, that is—assured me that you were now betrothed to . . . to Corfitz Ulfeldt. That I had been . . . replaced by you.”