1634: The Baltic War (assiti chards)

by Eric Flint

  What Mike still didn't know, and could only guess at, was exactly why Christian had made that choice. Did he want his sharpest son in that position to thwart the project, over time? Or did he want him there to make it succeed?

  Mike's attention was drawn away from his musings, for a moment, by the sight of the door to the chamber opening. A moment later-speak of the devil-Prince Ulrik himself slipped in and quietly and unobtrusively took a seat among the noblemen and officials watching the proceedings at the big table in ranked chairs along three of the four walls.

  His gaze met Mike's for a moment, then slid away. As usual, the prince's expression was noncommittal. He was amazingly hard to read, for someone so young.

  Which led Mike to another tentative conclusion, which was that in the long run it really didn't matter why Christian had chosen to act as he had. It would be his son, not he, who would determine how it all shaped up.

  Interesting times.

  Thankfully, it was also time for a break, and Gustav Adolf had just given the signal. Mike got up and headed for the toilets, after holding Becky's chair for her. She scurried for the toilets faster than he did, not surprisingly. Whatever else was different between the early seventeenth and late twentieth centuries, one thing had remained constant. The line at the women's toilet would move a lot slower than that at the men's.

  You wouldn't think so, given how few women were attending the Congress of Copenhagen in an official capacity. But Danish concepts of "official capacity"-and Swedes and Germans were no different-were a lot more relaxed than those of the up-time world. So if, for instance-to take an example present right then and there-the count of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt, Ludwig Guenther, who'd just celebrated his fifty-third birthday and had been officially invited to the Congress, chose to bring his nineteen-year-old wife and sit beside her, nobody was going to tell him he couldn't.

  Normally, Mike would have waited for Becky to emerge before he went back into the big meeting chamber. But he needed to take care of some pressing business during this break.

  Fortunately, the admiral hadn't moved from his chair. Mike had noticed before, in other long meetings, that John Chandler Simpson was one of those people who seemed to possess a cast-iron bladder. Probably a very handy thing to have, at long stockholders' meeting.

  The chair next to Simpson's was vacant, for the moment, so Mike slid into it.

  "It's set, John," he said softly. "If it goes to the wire, we'll get Eddie out of there. Let the chips fall where they may."

  Stiffly, Simpson nodded. "Thank you." He paused, and swallowed. "It means a great deal to me. Not just personally, either. There's…" His eyes became grim. "Principles at stake."

  "So there are. That said, John…"

  Simpson raised his hand, his expression lightening a great deal. "Please, Mike. I'm fully aware of how bad the fallout is likely to be. And I'm just as aware that there's an easy solution to it all. But I'm still not going to force Eddie into it."

  Mike smiled. "Who said anything about 'forcing' him? I simply point out two things to you. The first is that any man who successfully ran a major corporation for umpteen years has got to have some skill at getting people to do what he wants them to do, without breaking their heads. Am I right?"

  "Well. Yes."

  "Thought so. And the second thing I'll point out is that since he got put back under arrest, Eddie has clammed up completely. The only thing he says-so the Danes tell me-is that the only one he'll report to is his commanding officer, Admiral Simpson."

  Simpson's lips quirked. It wasn't quite a smile. "Yes, I know. And, yes, I understand your point. I'll do what I can. But when are they going to allow me to speak to him?"

  Mike coughed into his fist. "Well… actually, John, I've been the one dragging it out, not them. I wanted to make sure I had Harry in place, first. So…"

  He glanced over and saw that Gustav Adolf and Christian were alone, for the moment. "Give me a minute."

  It took two minutes, before he got back. "Right after the meeting. In fact, they'll have Eddie brought to one of the rooms off to the side."

  Simpson nodded again. Even more stiffly than before. Then, very quietly, he said, "It is a pleasure to have you as my commander-in-chief, Prime Minister Stearns."

  Axel Oxenstierna stood up. "The session will resume!"

  Mike rose and went back to his chair at the table. Becky was already there. And if anybody wondered why a female who was merely a senator from one of the provinces of the United States enjoyed one of the coveted seats at The Table, they could kiss Mike's sweet ass. On some subjects, he and the seventeenth century saw eye to eye, thank you.

  "-following principalities will henceforth be part of the province of Hesse-Kassel: Paderborn, the Duchy of Westphalen-"

  "Someday," Mike muttered, "somebody is going to have to explain to me the logic of creating a new province called 'Westphalen'-and then incorporating the existing Duchy of Westphalen into a different province."

  "It's a seventeenth-century thing," Becky whispered. "You wouldn't understand."

  "-Waldeck, Wittgenstein, the northern portions of Nassau-Siegen and Nassau-Dillenberg, Wied, Trier east of the Rhine, parts of Mark and Berg, Corvey-"

  "Smart ass," Mike complained. "And where the hell do you pick up all these Americanisms, anyway?"

  "I hang out with a bad crowd at the mall," Becky whispered. "And you're muttering too loudly."

  "-into the new Upper Rhenish Province: The remnants of the Rhine-Palatinate, Pfalz-Zweibruecken, the Diocese of Speyer, Erbach, Saarbruecken-"

  "Let's have three cheers for coherent political geography. Free at last, free at last…"

  "Michael-hush." She slid her hand under the table and squeezed his knee. Since the squeeze turned into a caress, Mike decided to shut up. It never pays to irritate a very affectionate but political-junkie wife at a major political conference where she has ringside seats.

  "-Saarwerden, Hagenau, Dagsberg, the northern portion of the Diocese of Strassburg, Obersalm, Landstuhl-"

  At the next break, Mike tracked down Prince Ulrik. It was time for a casual conversation, he figured.

  That proved to be a lot harder. Not because Ulrik was hard to find, but because Mike had to fight his way through three circles of admiring young Danish noblewomen who surrounded him. There were some Germans in there too, he thought, and at least one Swedish girl.

  Again, it would seem odd, if you didn't understand the time and place. Why, after all, would the fact that a young man was about to become betrothed to a princess make him attractive to other women? There was not a cold chance in hell that he'd abandon a match with Kristina for anything else.

  But… there were wives, and there were mistresses, and nobody knew yet whether Ulrik was going to be one of those monarchs-Gustav Adolf being an example-who dallied little if at all. Or whether he'd prove to be a chip off the old block and follow his father's example. For an ambitious and enterprising young noblewoman, the status of royal mistress was a lot more exciting-not to mention probably renumerative-than that of a nobleman or rich merchant's wife. Especially when the prince was young, physically fit and rather good-looking, and the nobleman or merchant was likely to be a pot-bellied middle-aged man with flatulence and bad breath.

  Mike didn't know himself, but he suspected the poor girls were wasting their time. Ulrik didn't seem like a cold fish, as such. But if Mike had assessed him correctly, he was far shrewder than his sire, and much less prone to impulsive behavior. In the short run, a royal mistress might be a veritable delight. In the long run, she was likely to become a monstrous headache-and her children, worse still. If anyone had any doubts, they had only to contemplate French politics.

  The slight look of relief on Ulrik's face when he spotted Mike muscling his way to the center gave support to that hypothesis, at least.

  "Excuse me, ladies," the prince said smoothly, "but I must speak to the prime minister now."

  After the little mob of young women went their regretfu
l way, Ulrik gave Mike a nod. "Thank you. I felt like a city under siege. What are their mothers thinking, anyway? Do they really believe I'm that mindless?"

  "Well… You might want to consider, Your Highness, that trying to ram an ironclad with a rowboat doesn't exactly give the impression of a cool and calculating fellow."

  Ulrik smiled. "No, I suppose not. What may I do for you, Prime Minister?"

  "Mike, please. This is more in the way of a personal conversation."

  "In that case, please call me Ulrik. You're here with regard to Eddie, I assume."

  "Yes."

  Ulrik took a deep breath, glanced over to the table where his father was now talking to Chancellor Oxenstierna, and let it sigh out slowly. "I've done what I can, Mike, and I will continue to do so. But my father is set on his course. When he gets like this, it's impossible to budge him. Partly it's just childish; the fact that he enjoys drama-and he did, personally, catch the culprit… ah, what's your expression for it?"

  "Red-handed." Mike made a little shrug. "Yes, that's understood. But I wasn't actually referring to that part of the business. I wanted to raise with you-open a discussion, rather-of what happens if Eddie, ah, sees his way clear."

  "Oh." For a moment, the prince's face got an actual expression. Very warm, it was. "I'd like that. I surely would."

  Mike rubbed his chin. Doing so reminded him that he hadn't shaved that morning, and he'd best not let it go another day. Alas, however marvelous a wife Becky might be in most respects, she was not one of those broad-minded and jolly ladies who thought beards on a man's face were splendid. "Like kissing a dog," was the way she put it. She'd become downright adamant on the subject since some too-damn-enterprising fellows had figured out how to make safety razors a few months ago, so Mike no longer had the excuse of the deadly perils of using a straight razor.

  "Well, good. But I trust you understand that the connection will work both ways?"

  Ulrik smiled. "The 'conduit,' you might also say, if I've gotten the right term. Yes, of course." He swept the room with his finger. "Isn't that what we're about here, after all? Making connections and laying conduit."

  The hypothesis was looking better and better, all the time.

  But Oxenstierna was rising again.

  "Nice talking to you, Ulrik. Let's do it again."

  "Lunch tomorrow, perhaps."

  He slid back into his seat just late enough to get a sharp glance from Becky.

  "-province of the Main will remain under direct imperial administration, between the Fulda region under Thuringian administration and the Rhine, down to Mainz. Franfurt-am-Main, however, remains an independent imperial city. As for Baden-Durlach and Strassburg-"

  Ulrik was right, of course-as was demonstrated by Oxenstierna's droning recitation. None of the business taken up this afternoon, after all, had anything to do with the Union of Kalmar. It was all internal matters for the United States of Europe. But Gustav Adolf had wanted the Congress of Copenhagen to be sweeping and authoritative, and he'd insisted that Christian sit in on all of its deliberations. His capable advice might be needed, for one thing-which the emperor said with a perfectly straight face, even solemnly-and, for another, his son Frederik was about to become one of the USE's top officials.

  So, sit Christian did. And if he drank wine throughout, he also paid attention-and did, indeed, offer his advice and opinions. Much of which was quite good, and only a little of which was half-drunken nonsense.

  "-be allotted to a future Province of Swabia once it is pacified, the administrator of which will be the margrave of Baden-Durlach, the following territories: everything east to the Lech and south to the borders of Switzerland and Tyrol, except for-"

  Sweeping, indeed. Some of these areas the Swedish chancellor was now referring to were not actually under USE military control, and even in the ones that were, the control was still shaky. If for no other reason than that Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar still had a powerful army in the vicinity and Mike was more and more coming to think that Bernhard was not simply a mercenary working for the French. Which, if true, meant…

  Interesting times just got a little more interesting.

  "-imperial cities of Ulm and Augsburg. Count Ludwig Guenther has agreed to negotiate with Duke Anton of Oldenburg on the subject of merging Oldenburg into the province of Westphalia voluntarily. Regretfully, Ostfriesland is apparently petitioning for admission to the United Provinces instead of the United States of Europe, as is Bentheim, a subject which will require firm discussions with the various authorities in the Netherlands at such time-"

  That was likely to get interesting, too. But right now, he had more immediate concerns. "When's the dinner break?" he muttered.

  "Michael, be quiet or I will put you on a strict regimen of bread, water and abstinence."

  He could live on bread and water. The third threat, though, was downright scary. Becky might even do it. Real political junkies were unpredictable, that way. Turn on you like wild beasts.

  So, he shut up again.

  Finally, though, came the dinner break. And it would be the break for the rest of the day, because a banquet was being prepared.

  Mike rose and began moving through the crowd toward Admiral Simpson. Before he got there, a Danish subaltern intercepted him and gave him the news. Lieutenant Cantrell been moved and was being held in-the subaltern pointed-that room over there.

  "Thank you," Mike murmured. Looking up, he saw that Simpson was coming his way, so he just waited in place.

  "He's in there," Mike said, indicating the room.

  Simpson nodded. "This shouldn't-"

  A booming voice interrupted him. "How long, Admiral?"

  Mike hadn't seen Gustav Adolf coming. The fact that he had done so was an indication by itself of how seriously the emperor took the matter. There was undoubtedly a comic-opera aspect to l'affaire Eddie, but…

  Heads sometimes rolled in comic operas, too. There was a great deal at stake here, and the man who was simultaneously the king of Sweden, emperor of the United States of Europe, and the new ruler of the Union of Kalmar-they hadn't settled on a title yet, but "High King" seemed to be in the lead-wasn't about to see it start coming apart because a very junior American officer couldn't keep one organ of his body under control and, so far at least, had shown precious few signs that the organ between his ears was working at all.

  Mike didn't blame him, not one bit. But that still wouldn't stop him from throwing his own monkey wrench into the works if push came to shove. Whatever disagreements he'd had with John Chandler Simpson in the past, he had none at all today. There were principles-and one of them was that you didn't let one of yours be hung out to dry just because a goddam king was having a royal snit. Piss on all the crowned heads of Europe, if that's what it came down to.

  "I'd estimate about twenty minutes, Your Majesty," said Simpson smoothly. "My lieutenant's a good man. I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."

  Gustav Adolf's ensuing harrumph was about what you'd expect from someone with all those titles. Majestic, it was.

  A Danish official scurried up, with a document in his hand. "These are the formal charges, Admiral Simpson."

  "Thank you. Well, then, I'll be off."

  Chapter 69

  Had he been asked a year earlier-even a few days earlier-Eddie Cantrell would have sworn that no human being could possibly stand at attention as rigidly as he was doing that very moment. As if, by imitating perfectly the absence of all life, those still alive in the vicinity might just possibly ignore him. Mistake him for a potted plant or a vase or something. Maybe a statue.

  Alas, it didn't work.

  "Let me get this straight, Lieutenant Cantrell," said Admiral Simpson, staring down at him from what seemed an impossibly imposing height, his hands clasped behind his back. "If I'm interpreting your incoherent mumbles correctly, the accusation leveled by the king of Denmark against one of my junior officers is indeed correct. Entirely correct, and in all its particulars."

>   "Well…"

  "Please enlighten me as to any errors in detail."

  "Ah… she's not actually a 'princess,' sir. Technically, she's just a 'king's daughter.' "

  "Indeed." Simpson glanced back at the table in the small salon in Rosenborg Castle where he and Eddie were meeting privately. On the table lay the very formal looking document-parchment, royal seal now broken, the whole nine yards-containing the king of Denmark's charges.

  "Perhaps I misspoke, not being familiar with Danish custom. But I think it hardly matters, since the operative terms involved are two: 'daughter' being the first; 'of the king' being the second."

  "Well. Yes, sir. Anne Cathrine is, ah… well, yes. She's the king's daughter."

  Some mad impulse made him add: "His oldest daughter, sir."

  "I recommend that you avoid issues of age, Lieutenant. That's because, in this instance, the operative term is not actually 'oldest.' The operative term is"-again, the admiral glanced back at the document-"fifteen. That is, I believe, the age of the princess. Excuse me, king's daughter."

  "Ah. Well. Sir, she's almost sixteen."

  Eddie wondered where in hell John Chandler Simpson had learned that piercing gaze. The one that belonged on some sort of weirdo Hawk God determined to penetrate to the truth, where any reasonable human being would settle for a decent fudge.

  Since the gaze seemed unrelenting, Eddie was forced to add, "Well. In about two months. Her birthday's August 10."

  "In other words, fifteen. As I said. Which brings us to the core of the matter. Did you or did you not-in a submarine, no less, which may speak well of your nautical interests but does not help you in the least in these circumstances-deflower the fifteen-year-old daughter of the king of Denmark?"

  "Well." Eddie cleared his throat. "Well, sir."

  "Perhaps you're unfamiliar with the term 'deflower.' The common and much coarser variant is 'popped her cherry.' So, I repeat. Lieutenant Cantrell, did you or did not pop the cherry of the king of Denmark's fifteen-year-old daughter?"