by Eric Flint
That last came with a sneer, to which Wettin responded with a glare. But the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel was now too angry himself to care about diplomacy.
"And have you given any thought to that little problem? How many of those squabbling petty noblemen and burghers you're pandering to have volunteered to raise and fund an army? Or are you lunatic enough to believe you can rely on the USE's army? Which is riddled with CoC agitators and organizers."
Amalie Elizabeth was no more inclined to be polite herself any longer, although she refrained from sneering.
"You did notice, I hope—you being the prime minister now—the results of the recent fracas between the CoCs and the anti-Semites?"
Her husband's sneer had never wavered. "Oh, yes. Wasn't that splendid? Thousands of reactionaries dead all over the country, the CoCs triumphant everywhere—and you might ask that pack of semi-literate exile noblemen from Mecklenburg why they haven't returned to their homes. Consider that, Wilhelm, before you get too cocksure about triggering a civil war."
But it was no use. The prime minister's expression might as well have been set in stone. The statue of a dwarf king, perhaps, determined to do what he was damn well determined to do, no matter the consequences.
After Rebecca finished speaking, Gretchen nodded. "Thank you for the information. Would you care for some more tea?" With a little smile, she wiggled her fingers at the large tea pot on the kitchen table between them, with its very ample accompanying provisions of sugar and cream. "It turns out I can afford a lot of tea, these days."
Rebecca shook her head and then cocked it sideways a little. "You don't seem upset by the news."
Gretchen shrugged. "I was expecting it. This clash is inevitable, Rebecca. There won't be any way to negotiate with the Crown Loyalists until they fracture and real political parties emerge from the wreckage. That . . . thing they call a party is nothing of the sort. It's an unholy alliance whose sole basis of agreement is seizing and holding power. Wettin is no more in control of it than a wave controls the sea."
Rebecca sighed. "I fear you may well be right."
She rose from her seat. "I must leave." Hearing the sounds of teenagers quarreling in a nearby room, she smiled. "The demands of children. As you well know."
Gretchen accompanied her to the door. Two Yeoman Warders were waiting in the corridor beyond, ready to escort Rebecca home.
"Thank you," she repeated.
Gretchen had been notified by Rebecca ahead of time that she'd be visiting this morning. That meant important political news, of course. Gretchen, in turn, had sent word to all the CoC leaders in the city.
So, within half an hour of Rebecca's departure, most of them had arrived at the apartment building and were gathered in Gretchen's kitchen. It was a very big kitchen, as it needed to be given that it was the kitchen for the entire complex.
"So it's definite then?" asked Spartacus, who was standing near one of the stoves.
"As definite as any information from Rebecca," she replied. "But, certainly on a subject like this one, that's pretty damn definite."
Across the table from her, Gunther Achterhof nodded. "Yes, I think we can assume it's true. As soon as the parliament begins its session, Wettin will introduce bills that will force through the reactionaries' positions on citizenship and the established church. The only question is: what do we intend to do about it?"
Gretchen reached for the tea pot. "Tea, anyone?"
Achterhof grinned. "Better get a bigger one. We're going to be here for hours."
"Days," predicted Spartacus.
Chapter 13
Stockholm
"Just as ugly as I remembered," Baldur Norddahl said to Prince Ulrik, who was standing next to him on the ship coming slowly into Stockholm's harbor. They were looking up at the Swedish royal palace, known as the Tre Kronor—"Three Crowns"—because of the shape of its central spire.
The palace sat on the island of Stadsholmen, which was the center of Stockholm. In this day and age, there wasn't much of the city lying outside of it. That would change in the future, Ulrik knew, when Stockholm would expand across many of the islands of the great archipelago situated off Sweden's eastern coast where Lake Mälaren met the Baltic. But at least for now, Sweden's capital was a relatively small city.
Stockholm was dominated by two buildings, the Tre Kronor and the Church of St. Nicholas, most commonly known as Storkyrkan and sometimes as the Stockholm Cathedral. The church was an imposing brick edifice located close to the palace, with an even more imposing steeple.
"Ugly" wasn't fair. In its own way, Tre Kronor was quite impressive. But it lacked the grace and style of Frederiksborg Palace in Denmark, in Ulrik's opinion. Admittedly, he could be accused of bias.
They were nearing the dock now, and a flurry of shouts was exchanged between some sailors on the ship and half a dozen men standing on the dock. Ulrik understood Swedish quite well, but some of the profanity being used was unclear to him. Of Finnish origin, perhaps. He was tempted to ask Baldur, who was fluent in all the northern languages including Russian. But he decided he would be damaging his dignity. There was nothing more sublime involved in the exchange than men coordinating the work of docking a small ship. And he was on an important diplomatic mission, after all.
Even if the critical person in that mission was still back on the ironclad that had carried them across the Baltic, having an eight-year-old temper tantrum that even Caroline Platzer was having a hard time coping with. Once it had become clear that Kristina's frenzy wasn't going to fade anytime soon, Ulrik had decided it would be best for him and Baldur to proceed onward in one of the lighters that had arrived to offload the passengers. He didn't think his presence was helping Platzer any, given that at least part of the reason Kristina was so agitated was her sure and certain knowledge that her mother would disapprove of her betrothed.
Besides, he wanted to get off the ironclad. The damn thing made him nervous. He thought it was sheer folly to use such a vessel for this purpose.
Folly, for at least three reasons. First, the vessel had never been designed as a passenger ship and was very poorly suited for the purpose. Even a regular warship would have been better. It certainly wouldn't have smelled as bad.
Second, using the thing was pure royal extravagance, as grandiose as it was expensive. With a father like Christian IV, Prince Ulrik had had more than enough such wasteful exhibitions.
Finally, it wasn't safe. The ironclads didn't handle open seas well at all, and even the Baltic classified as a sea. Admiral Simpson himself had cautioned against using the Union of Kalmar to transport Princess Kristina and Prince Ulrik to Stockholm.
But Gustav Adolf and Christian IV had both been adamant on the matter. The ironclad had formerly been the SSIM President, in the service of the USE Navy. As part of the elaborate process—"delicate dance," might be a better way of putting it—of forging the Union of Kalmar, Gustav Adolf had insisted that one of the ironclads be turned over to the new Union. That would make Christian IV at least technically the co-owner of the great warship, and the Danish king loved modern gadgets, especially military gadgets.
Well, it was over—assuming the Union of Kalmar didn't sink in the harbor, taking down the royal heiress at the same time. But as much as Kristina sometimes aggravated Ulrik, he certainly didn't wish that on her. For the most part, in fact, he'd grown rather fond of the girl.
True, she'd be something of a terror as a wife. At times, at least. But that didn't bother Ulrik very much. He was phlegmatic enough to handle it. His real fear since boyhood when it came to a political marriage—which was inevitable for a prince in line of succession—was that his wife would be dull and boring.
No fear of that with Kristina.
The ship was now tied up to the dock. A large coterie of Swedish court officials came forward. They were trying to spot Kristina, and as it became clear to them that the princess was not aboard, their expressions grew concerned.
"Princess Kristina was ill-disposed
for the moment," Ulrik explained, as he came across the gangway to the dock. Norddahl came behind him, followed by four servants toting their baggage.
Once he set foot on the dock, Ulrik nodded toward the Union of Kalmar. The ironclad was quite visible in the harbor. In fact, it had drawn a large crowd of sightseers to the various docks and piers. Except this one, of course, which had been blocked off by a unit of Swedish troops. Probably from the palace guard, Ulrik figured.
"She's still aboard the ironclad," he explained. "I imagine she'll be along fairly soon."
The fellow who seemed to be in charge of the contingent of officials was looking very glum by now.
"Her Majesty will be most upset," he said.
"And hence her daughter's indisposition," replied Ulrik cheerily.
Clearly, from his expression, the court official hadn't understood the quip. Just as well. Ulrik's father had once told him: As a king, you want brave generals, shrewd advisers and diplomats, but—make sure of this, son!—dull-witted court officials. They're insufferable otherwise.
Judging from the way the court officials were milling around, talking to each other in low-pitched but agitated tones, nothing would be happening until Kristina set foot on the dock. Quite obviously, none of these men wanted to return to the palace and face the queen without the princess in tow.
So be it. Ulrik had no problem standing around on the dock for a time. It was a very pleasant day, sunny and with just a mild breeze. After spending two days cramped on an ironclad and with the prospect ahead of spending weeks in what looked like a rather chilly royal palace—it would be crowded, too; palaces with royalty in residence always were—he didn't mind at all the pleasures of the moment.
Baldur felt otherwise. "There's got to be a decent tavern hereabouts," he said. "Even a not-so-decent tavern would suit me fine."
Ulrik smiled. "Suit you better, you mean. Unfortunately, this is not the time for carousal. It would look bad."
"Look bad for you," Baldur retorted. "They already think the worst of me."
Actually, from what Ulrik could determine, none of these officials seemed to have any idea of Baldur Norddahl's identity or of his checkered past in Sweden. Neither had any of the Swedish officials they'd encountered before they sailed—and there'd been a veritable drove of those, during the Congress of Copenhagen.
The explanation, of course, was simple—that selfsame dull-wittedness of officials. It simply wouldn't have occurred to any of them that a Danish prince—any sort of prince, even a Hindoo or Mussulman prince—would associate with ruffians. It helped that Ulrik had seen to it that Baldur's wardrobe was suitable.
The name wouldn't matter here. Ulrik had never asked, but he was quite sure that whatever misdeeds Baldur had committed in times past in Sweden, he'd done it under a different name.
There was no reason to press the matter, however, which they'd be doing if they ventured into a disreputable dockside tavern. If there was any place in Stockholm where they might encounter someone who'd known Baldur, it would be there.
A little motion in the distance caught his eye, and he turned to look. Another lighter was coming away from the Union of Kalmar. And it was flying the Swedish royal ensign.
"Too late, anyway," he said to Baldur. "Kristina's coming."
When the princess set foot on the dock, she ignored the gaggle of officials and rushed to Ulrik's side. She clutched his elbow with both hands and looked up at him with an expression that combined anxiety, determination and relief.
"Caroline says you won't get upset no matter what happens. Because that's the way you are, she says. So she says I should take my guidance from you."
Ulrik looked over at the gangway, where Caroline Platzer was now coming across. Their eyes met. He didn't know whether he should glare or look thankful.
Instead, he kept his expression neutral. Realizing, at the same time, that the infernally shrewd Platzer woman would have counted on that.
Ah, well. There were advantages to being a phlegmatic prince. Calming the nerves of a younger and very unphlegmatic princess, for one.
He patted her hands. "Everything will be fine."
A smooth and fluent liar, too. Another virtue for a prince.
Vaxholm Island, in the Stockholm Archipelago
When he entered the tavern and saw the men already sitting at the large table in the center, Charles Mademann's eyes widened.
Mathurin Brillard.
Robert Ouvrard.
Gui Ancelin.
Guillaume Locquifier.
Abraham Levasseur.
André Tourneau.
He hissed in a breath. He'd last seen Levasseur and Tourneau in Scotland, just before he left for Sweden. They'd been there with the leaders of their movement, Michel Ducos and Antoine Delerue. The other four men had all been involved in the affair in Grantville back in March. Ancelin was always ready for anything. Locquifier had an unfortunate tendency to obey orders to an excessive degree of fussiness, but he wouldn't be here at all if Michel Ducos and Antoine Delerue hadn't approved the project. Ouvrard, despite his gloomy outlook, was one of the best men in their organization for planning and carrying out decisive actions. So was Brillard, who was a superb marksman to boot. He'd have been the shooter who killed the town's mayor, Henry Dreeson.
They'd known where to find him because he'd sent the information to Scotland soon after he arrived. He had no idea where Levasseur and Tourneau had found the other four, who'd have been on the run after the Dreeson incident. Probably somewhere in Holland.
However they'd managed it, they could be here in Sweden for only one reason.
"Oh, splendid," he said, smiling widely.
Levasseur returned the smile, and gestured to an empty seat at the table. Brillard, on the other hand, was frowning.
"Is this safe, Charles?" he asked quietly, almost whispering. His eyes went to the door at the rear which led to the tavern-keeper's personal dwellings.
Mademann sat down. "Relax, Mathurin. To begin, the owner is a Dutch Gomarist and thus a sympathizer."
That was . . . some ways short of the truth. Geerd Bleecker was indeed a Counter-Remonstrant, as the followers of the theologian Franciscus Gomarus were often called. A stout enough fellow. But his ardor fell quite a bit short of what Mademann and his fellow Huguenots considered necessary for their cause. Bleecker had no idea what Mademann was really planning to do here in Sweden. He thought the Huguenot was just a wealthy exile seeking to recoup his fortunes. Sweden had many industries that were booming due to the influx of American technical knowledge combined with the large and already existing population in Stockholm of Dutch financiers and merchants.
"Perhaps more to the point," Mademann continued, "Geerd is in somewhat desperate financial straits—or was, until I arrived and provided him with a solid and steady source of income." Mademann waved his hand about, indicating the interior of the tavern. The wooden building was well enough made, but it was showing clear signs of disrepair. Nothing that threatened the integrity of the edifice yet. Just the sort of mostly minor problems that ensued when the owner of a building was short of funds.
Mademann smiled ruefully; not at his own situation but that of the tavern-keeper. "When Geerd first settled here he was convinced that many of the Calvinist merchants operating in Stockholm would be more comfortable with a tavern located on another island in the archipelago. Away from the eyes of the Swedish king's Lutheran pastors."
Tourneau cocked an inquisitive eye. "And . . . ?"
Mademann shook his head. "The thing is, Gustav Adolf keeps his pastors on a tight leash. He wants the Dutch here, so he's not about to tolerate harassment. No open worship is allowed, but he makes no effort to suppress Calvinists so long as they remain discreet. And this tavern is on the island of Vaxholm, which is just that little bit too far from the capital."
Ancelin grunted. "Didn't seem that far, from what I could tell when we came in."
Gui was not the most imaginative of men. He'd been born and ra
ised in a port city, but he'd never worked the sea himself. So, incurious by nature, he understood none of the realities involved.
"It's just a few miles," said Mademann. "But it's one thing to walk a few miles, it's another to row a boat across. Especially in a Swedish winter."
"Ah. Hadn't thought of that."
Mademann shrugged. "The distance was enough of an inconvenience that few Dutch merchants have ever even visited here. What little business Geerd has gotten over the years has been from Finnish fisherman and petty traders. Smugglers, most of them, for whom the distance is convenient."
"We can speak freely, then?" asked Ouvrard.
"Not in front of Bleecker or his wife. They don't . . ." He wiggled his fingers. "I saw no reason to burden them with unnecessary information."
Ancelin grunted again. "Be tough on them after we're done."
He was a crude man, too. Gui was saying nothing that they didn't already understand, so why make a point of the issue? The fate that was sure to befall the tavern-keeper and his wife was unfortunate, of course. But many misfortunes came in the wake of God's purpose.
So Mademann ignored the remark. "But he usually remains in the back. As long as we're not shouting, we can speak freely."
Levasseur leaned forward, placing his weight on his forearms. "You realize why we're here."
"Of course. I was hoping someone would come, once I learned of the princess' visit. On my own, I haven't even been able to find a way to get to the queen."
"Prince, too," said Brillard. "The queen and the heiress would be enough, but we can catch the Danish boy at the same time. That means Christian IV will be as furious as Gustav Adolf."
That would surely mean the wrath of the USE and the Union of Kalmar would be turned upon Cardinal Richelieu, given the evidence they'd be leaving behind. A new war with France would begin, the cardinal would fall, and the Huguenot cause would have another great chance. All seven of the plotters leaned back in their chairs simultaneously, so great was their mutual satisfaction.