1635: The Eastern Front (assiti shards)

by Eric Flint

  Baldur Norddahl closed the lid of the last trunk. Then, with a little grunt of effort, placed it on top of the stack of trunks piled next to the door that led into the palace suite that he and Prince Ulrik had shared since they arrived.

  "That's it," he said. "We're all packed except for the one small valise we'll use tomorrow morning. Hallelujah, and hosanna as well. We're finally almost gone. God willing, we'll never see the witch again."

  Referring to the queen of Sweden as a witch was a gross form of disrespect for royalty. The French called it lese majeste, but it was a concept that went all the way back to the Roman emperors. The term itself derived from the Latin laesa maiestas.

  For more than a millennium and a half, men had lost their heads for committing the offense. But Prince Ulrik couldn't find it in his royal self to take umbrage.

  Maria Eleonora was a witch, queen of Sweden or not.

  In a manner of speaking, at least. Caroline Platzer came into the suite just in time to hear Baldur's quip. She immediately took it upon herself to issue a technical correction.

  "Don't be silly. Witches don't exist in the first place. The queen of Sweden probably has what's called borderline personality disorder. BPD, for short."

  "Probably?" asked Ulrik.

  Platzer shrugged. "I've been trained mostly by Maureen Grady, and Maureen thinks people throw around the diagnosis of BPD way too readily."

  "It's the first time I've ever heard the term, actually."

  "Well, sure. You're a prince, not a shrink. For you, a borderline personality is either someone you ignore completely or"-here came a gleaming smile-"a prime candidate for the chopping block. They're not a lot of fun to be around, especially if you're family."

  Norddahl was always fascinated by up-time concepts, even if he thought many of them were nonsense. "What exactly is it?" he asked. "This borderline personality disorder, I mean."

  Caroline grimaced. "Well, that's the problem. It's a pretty vague diagnosis. Maureen doesn't like it much because she thinks it's so sloppy it gets applied too often. But the gist of it is that someone with BPD suffers from instability of moods, unstable personal relationships-chaotic relationships, even-and what we call 'black and white thinking.' The technical term is 'idealization and devaluation.' You're either a good daughter or a bad daughter, there's nothing in between-and your status can flip from one to the other at the drop of a hat."

  She gave Ulrik the gleaming smile. "Or a good future son-in-law or a bad one, with nothing in between."

  Ulrik snorted. "I've seen that change in mid-sentence."

  "That's how it works. People with BPD also tend to have an unstable self-image. In extreme cases, that can even lead to dissociation. That means-"

  "She turns into a witch," interjected Baldur. "Just as I said."

  Kristina came into the suite just in time to hear the last exchange. She looked quite upset. "Do you think I'll turn into a witch too, when I grow up?"

  Caroline put her arm around Kristina's shoulders and gave the girl a little hug. "Of course not. And why are you listening to the diagnosis of a social throwback, anyway? If Baldur Norddahl had ever taken an MMPI or Rorschach test up-time, they'd have put him in a straightjacket right away."

  Baldur was intrigued. "What is MMPI and who is Rorschach?"

  "MMPI stands for Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. It was one of the most commonly use personality tests up-time by mental health professionals. The Rorschach test was developed-"

  "If I took that MMPI, would I pass it?" asked the princess, still agitated.

  "Ah… Kristina, it's not the sort of test you pass or fail."

  "That's just silly," the girl pronounced, as if she were royalty. Which, of course, she was. She drew herself up like a future empress. Which, of course, she was.

  "You must develop a new one of these tests," she commanded. "Where you either pass or fail."

  Caroline stared at her.

  Ulrik laughed. "You'd have done better to leave it at 'witch,'?" he said.

  Vaxholm Island, in the Stockholm Archipelago

  Rather than hire one of the island's local fishermen to ferry them, as they usually did, Mademann and his associates appropriated Bleecker's boat. It was just big enough to get them all to the capital in one trip.

  There was no reason not to take the boat. Geerd Bleecker was no longer in a position to complain. Neither was his shrew of a wife.

  Eventually, their bodies would be found, but not soon. Most likely, they'd be uncovered in the course of an investigation launched by the local authorities, rather than because their neighbors spotted anything amiss. The tavern's well-built root cellar would slow the decomposition quite nicely.

  Everything was going according to plan-except the weather. The skies had grown darker even as the morning advanced. By mid-day it would probably be raining.

  That could be a real problem, if their targets appeared.

  The Huguenot zealots had managed over time to acquire a few up-time firearms on the black market. Brillard had used one of them to assassinate Dreeson, but he'd been forced to leave the rifle behind. Of the ones that remained, unfortunately, Ducos had insisted on keeping them in Edinburgh. So all they had in their possession here in Stockholm were down-time guns.

  Very good ones, true. Mademann had managed to obtain a Cardinal breech-loading rifle for Mathurin Brillard, their best marksman. He'd gotten percussion cap pistols for himself and Gui Ancelin, which shouldn't be affected too badly by the rain. But they were single-shot weapons and muzzle-loaders. Reloading them would take some time.

  The others were all armed with double-barreled flintlock pistols. The weapons were better than wheel-locks, but they were also susceptible to misfiring in wet weather. It was possible to keep a flintlock's firing pan covered from rain, so they should be able to count on firing the two shots already loaded. But if they needed more shots than that, they'd be in a very difficult position. Reloading a flintlock in the rain was impossible unless you could find shelter, and who wanted to be worried about that in the middle of a firefight?

  That assumed they'd have any chance at carrying out their mission at all, of course. Or even part of it. By now, the plotters had reconciled themselves to killing any one of the appointed targets if the opportunity arose. Ducos had insisted on all three royals being assassinated but Ducos was in Edinburgh. They'd do what they could.

  The boat arrived at one of the docks. Mademann and his companions tied it up. If all went well, some of them would be able to use it to make their escape from Stockholm.

  Probably not, though. All of them had understood from the beginning that if their mission succeeded, it would probably be at the cost of their own lives. They'd taken care to leave no evidence that would tie them to Delerue or Ducos, and had planted on their persons some faked evidence that would point to Richelieu. That way, even their corpses could do a service for the cause.

  The seven Huguenots moved into the streets of Stockholm. They were headed for Slottsbacken, the very broad avenue that connected the royal palace to the Church of St. Nicholas. If there was any chance to complete the mission, it would be there.

  The first drops of rain began to fall.

  Stockholm

  By early afternoon, the dark skies had produced a downpour. As if the weather outside had magical powers over human personalities, the queen's mood worsened in lock step with the weather.

  By mid-afternoon, the rain started to ease off a little, but to make up for it the wind picked up. And, again as if by magic, the queen shifted from being morose to being openly belligerent.

  Most of her belligerence was aimed at Ulrik. Maria Eleonora apparently found it useful and necessary to spend her final time with the Danish prince explaining to him in detail.

  All of his faults.

  All of the reasons he was quite unsuited to be the husband of her only child.

  All of the faults of her husband, who had been mad enough to concoct the scheme.

  None
of it, of course, had any effect on Ulrik. He listened patiently, and outwardly politely, because there was no point in doing anything else. By this time on the morrow, they'd be gone anyway. But he dismissed the criticisms as surely and easily as he would have dismissed reproaches by village idiots, town drunks, and palace courtiers.

  Unfortunately, Kristina did not have the Dane's impervious hide. The princess was sensitive to criticism coming from anybody, and she had very few defenses against her mother.

  So, by late in the afternoon, Sweden's queen and princess were shrieking at each other. And it didn't take more than five minutes of that before Kristina raced out of the audience chamber.

  That gave Ulrik a reasonable pretext to go after her, and thereby get away from the queen. Which he did immediately, of course, with Baldur right on his heels.

  They found Kristina half-running toward the palace's entrance onto Slottsbacken. "I'm going to the church!" she cried.

  She often did that when her mother upset her. She found the interior of the old church relaxing. She especially enjoyed looking at the wooden statue of Saint George and the Dragon that was said to have been carved by Bernt Notke. The statue was also supposed to hold relics of several saints, including Saint George himself.

  "You'll get soaked out there," Baldur warned.

  Kristina didn't slow down at all. "So what? It's better than my mother pissing all over us."

  She had a point. Besides, there was an alcove near the entrance where the guards took their lunch. The table in it was big enough to shelter all three of them from the rain, if it was turned upside down. Two guards could carry it easily enough.

  Of course, the guards would get wet. But theirs was a dull and tedious existence. A little excitement would do them good.

  Inside the audience chamber, the little mob of dwarves and buffoons who attended upon Maria Eleonora were struck dumb.

  On every prior occasion-there had been plenty of them-the queen had reacted to her daughter's angry and abrupt departures by pretending nothing had happened. But this time she was in a fury herself.

  The weather, obviously. It had driven her out of her wits.

  She rose from the throne and strode toward the door, holding up her skirts. "Guards! To me!" Then, she headed for the main entrance of the palace, trailed by a small military retinue.

  She was not trailed by dwarves and buffoons, however. This was a new situation and they did not react well to new situations. When in doubt, it was always best to pretend nothing had happened.

  Chapter 31

  For a moment, Mademann was paralyzed by the arresting sight of the procession coming out of the palace. Two of the palace guards had an upended table in their hands and were holding it above their heads. They came into Slottsbacken and started moving toward the Church of St. Nicholas.

  Then he realized that the Swedish princess and the Danish prince were underneath the table, being sheltered from the rain. Ulrik was in front, with Kristina just behind him. Behind her came the prince's burly Norwegian aide.

  Al last! They'd at least be able to take down two of their three targets.

  He turned his head and hissed, getting the attention of the five men hiding farther back in the alley. Charles was the lookout at the corner and the only one of them who'd seen the royal party emerge from the palace.

  "They're coming," he said. "Kristina and Ulrik, with the Norwegian. Two palace guards also."

  In his excitement, he forgot to mention the table.

  The five Huguenots moved forward until they were all gathered near the alley's entrance. Mademann was still the only one who could see the royal party, though. That was as it should be. Even in the pouring rain there was a chance they could be spotted lurking in the alley. One person there might be ignored. Half a dozen would cause alarm.

  The soldiers were almost trotting, obviously eager to get out of the rain. The party would come abreast of the alley's entrance within seconds.

  Mademann gauged the situation. Tactically, given the downpour, there seemed to be only one sensible strategy. Just rush their targets and shoot them down.

  "Get ready," he hissed.

  Mathurin Brillard was watching the scene from the other end of Slottsbacken. He was farther away but had a better view because he was looking through a window on the upper floor of a tailor shop. Half an hour earlier, when he'd come into the shop, he'd forced the elderly tailor to close the shop and come with him upstairs. Once in the bedroom above, he'd clubbed him senseless.

  Judging from the evidence of the bedroom, there should be a wife somewhere. Wherever she was, though, she wasn't in the shop or in the living quarters above. Perhaps she was running an errand or visiting relatives. It was also possible the tailor was a widower but hadn't been able to bear getting rid of his dead wife's belongings.

  Whichever the case, all the woman had to do was stay away for a few more hours and it would all be over, one way or the other.

  He saw the party coming out of the palace and stiffened. That was the princess and the prince. Not his targets, technically, since he was supposed to take care of the queen. But the queen would probably never make an appearance, anyway, so Mathurin raised his rifle. If his comrades' attack on Ulrik and Kristina ran into difficulties, Brillard would come to their aid.

  In good weather, he'd have positioned himself farther back in the room in order to avoid being spotted in the window by a passerby. In this downpour, though, he didn't think that was a problem, and the direction of the wind was keeping the rain from coming into the room. He was standing close enough to the window that when he took aim, most of the rifle's barrel would extend outside. It would get wet, but that wasn't a problem with a breech-loading rifle like this one. Mathurin had fired the gun several times on the tavern's island, to get accustomed to the thing. It was very accurate. A truly delightful weapon in every respect except that it was quite heavy. This was a full-sized rifle intended for infantrymen, not the carbine version of the Cardinal. Brillard didn't envy any soldier who had to carry the gun on a long march.

  That was not something an assassin had to deal with, thankfully.

  Behind him, the tailor let out a soft moan. He was lying on the floor near the bed.

  Mathurin must not have hit him as hard as he thought he had. Now that the rifle was loaded, he didn't want to use the gun butt again. So he went over and stamped on the man's head. Once, twice, thrice. That should do it.

  Quickly, he returned to the window. The royal party was coming abreast of an alley where Brillard thought Mademann and the others were probably hiding. The fight should start any moment.

  "Now!" shouted Mademann. He rushed out of the alley toward the prince and princess.

  A shot rang out almost immediately. Then, another.

  The shots had come from behind him. Which idiot-?

  To his consternation, Charles saw that at least one of the two shots had struck the soldier holding up the front end of the table. The man was already collapsing. Much worse, so was the table.

  And God damn all quick-thinking princes!

  Ulrik caught the edge of the table and tipped it so the table would fall on its side and provide them with a barricade.

  Tried to, rather. The soldier holding up the rear end was too confused to understand what the prince was trying to do. He was still trying to hold the table up.

  Baldur kicked him out from under it. The soldier was flung onto his back, his head hitting the street hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Baldur caught his end of the table. He realized what Ulrik was trying to do and followed suit with his own end. A moment later the table was lying on its side with its heavy top facing their assailants. Ulrik and Baldur crouched down behind it. The princess did so herself, without needing to be told.

  What a mess. Still, the situation favored them. Locquifier-another idiot!-fired a shot from his percussion cap pistol at the table top. The wood splintered, but it was thick enough that the bullet didn't penetrate.

  That left Loc
quifier effectively disarmed, of course, because his percussion cap pistol only had one barrel. No way to reload in this downpour.

  The first idiot had been Ancelin. At least he'd had the sense to discard his pistol now that he'd fired both barrels. He drew a knife and ran toward the right end of the table.

  That was now the only sensible tactic. Get around the ends of the table so they had access to their targets.

  Mademann made to follow Ancelin. His foot slipped on one of the wet cobblestones and he fell, dropping his pistol. The weapon skittered off across the cobblestones, coming to rest ten feet away.

  "Merde alors!"

  By October of the year 1635, the Ring of Fire was four and half years in the past. Over that period of time, even though they numbered in the thousands, up-time firearms had come to be worth a prince's ransom.

  Fortunately, Ulrik of Denmark was a prince.

  He owned three of the weapons, in fact: a bolt-action Browning.308 rifle, a Smith amp; Wesson.40 automatic pistol with a ten-round magazine, and a Colt Detective Special.38 caliber snub-nose revolver.

  He was carrying the revolver today, as he normally did in everyday matters. The little gun was easy to conceal in regular clothing, which the automatic wasn't. Ulrik had been quite sure the queen would have objected had she realized he was coming into her presence armed. The revolver had a six-round cylinder, but Ulrik only had five of the chambers loaded. He disliked carrying the weapon with a loaded chamber under the hammer, even if the man who'd sold him the gun insisted it was quite safe.

  So. Five shots, and he had no way to reload since he wasn't carrying any spare ammunition. He didn't have that much anyway. The ammunition for up-time guns was also very expensive. By now, they were all handmade reloads.

  He was pretty sure there were at least six assailants, from what he'd seen before the table came down.

  The Americans called it Murphy's Law.

  Mademann scrambled after his pistol. On hands and knees because when he'd tried to stand up he'd just slipped again.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Ancelin was close to the table. Andre Tourneau was very close also, at the other end. He had his pistol at the ready.