1634: The Baltic War (62 page)

"Good thing I'm such a charmer then, huh?"

He rapped on the door with the butt of his fist. Not the one holding the pistol, of course.

"Mrs. Wentworth! Lady Strafford! Whatever! We're here to take you and your husband and your kids out of the Tower."

He thought he heard a whimpering sound. A kid, maybe. Other than that, nothing.

"Okay, let's try it again! If you and the kids aren't out here in ten seconds I'm going to come in and shoot every one of you deader'n doornails!"

"Harry!"

"Look, Rita, charm works in mysterious ways."

And so it proved. Perhaps five seconds later, the door opened and a terrified-looking young woman peered out.

Rita took it from there, pushing her way in. "Pay no attention to him, Elizabeth! But you do need to come, right now. No, don't take time to gather up anything. Just get the kids. Hi, Nan, how's tricks?"

A girl, maybe six or seven years old, barreled into Rita and clutched her. "Lady Simpson, I'm frightened! What's happening?"

"Everything's fine, sweetie. Where's—oh, there she is. Now where's William?"

"Here," came a squeaky little voice. A boy's face peeked from around a corner, staring at Harry as if he were an ogre.

"Well, come out, now! We've got to go."

The boy didn't budge, his eyes still fixed on Harry.

Rita turned her head and gave Harry a smile that would have looked good on a rattlesnake, if snakes could smile. "Why don't you just get lost, Captain Lefferts? Go find an enemy somewhere you can practice your charm on. I'll handle this."

All things considered, that seemed like a good idea. Harry went to see what George and Paul were up to.

Blowing Wakefield Tower into pieces, it sounded like. They couldn't really manage that, of course, just with shotguns. The stonework looked downright ancient. Still, they were giving it their enthusiastic best.

Four soldiers appeared in the Water Lane, coming around the corner from Mint Street. Sherrilyn missed her first shot, cursed herself for buck fever, and took one of them down with her second. By then, Don Ohde was shooting too. The sole unscratched survivor vanished somewhere. The one who'd been wounded was slowly crawling his way back. From the amount of blood he was leaving behind, Sherrilyn didn't think he'd make it. But there was obviously no point in wasting a bullet on him.

Sherrilyn caught a glimpse of motion to her right. A body hurtled off the Outer Wall, just past Cradle Tower. The sharp sound of a distant rifle shot was followed by the much duller sound of the corpse landing on the stones below.

"She really is the best, isn't she?" Ohde said admiringly.

* * *

Cromwell wasted a few seconds snatching up one of the dead guard's halberds, then tossing it aside when he saw the badly chipped blade, in favor of the other. But Andrew didn't begrudge him the moment. If he'd been imprisoned under likely sentence of death for months, he'd probably have done the same. And his worst fear, that Cromwell wouldn't be able to move well after such a long confinement, proved to be unfounded. Darryl had told him that Cromwell was maintaining an exercise regimen, but Andrew had been skeptical.

"Quickly, now," he said, racing toward St. Thomas' Tower.

Tom Simpson had braced himself for the worst. Unfortunately, Windebank had left Laud under the guard of the Warders; figuring, presumably, that a short, dyspeptic and sixty-one year old archbishop posed no great threat of escaping, be the Warders still reliable or not.

Luckily, when he entered the Salt Tower and reached the chamber where Laud was held captive, he discovered that not only was there only one Warder on duty, but he knew him quite well. Michael Dunn, whose daughter Cecily had just barely managed to survive the winter, mostly due to Rita's medical care.

"Tom!" Dunn exclaimed. "What is the name of all that's holy is happening out there?"

The Warder was obviously not in the least bit suspicious, even though there was no logical reason for Tom to have entered the Salt Tower. Dunn's grip on his halberd was simply that of a man keeping a heavy weapon from toppling and hurting someone.

"Don't know, Michael. Some sort of robbery, I think."

Dunn frowned. "Robbery? But why—"

Tom's fist ended that. He sucker-punched the poor guy. Hit him pretty hard, too, although at least he'd been able to catch him while he fell and keep the halberd from gashing him.

Tom felt pretty guilty about the whole thing. But nowhere nearly as guilty as he'd have felt if he'd had to kill a Warder.

There turned out to be a positive side to the whole thing, too. When Tom entered Laud's chambers to rescue him from captivity, he was in a peevish enough mood to handle the old man properly.

Red-faced and shrill, Laud protested and denounced him and flatly refused to go. So, Tom sucker-punched him too, and took him out over his shoulder.

* * *

"You
slugged
the archbishop of Canterbury?" Rita's mouth stayed wide open for seconds after she posed the question.

Grimacing, Tom passed Laud's still unconscious body over to Felix and Darryl, who'd get him down the ramp and into the barge.

"Yeah, 'fraid so. But look on the bright side, hon."

Her mouth gaped wider still. "There's a bright side to punching out the primate of your own church?"

"Sure is. I figure my chances of getting ordained as a priest just went down the tubes. Forget bishop."

Rita's jaw snapped shut. "Maybe you shoulda kicked him, too. Right in the nuts."

When they reached the gate that passed by the Bloody Tower, Cromwell stopped. "One moment, gentlemen." With no further ado, he hurried through the gate.

"What is he doing?" asked Jack.

Gritting his teeth, Andrew went after Cromwell. He didn't give Hayes an answer because he had no idea himself what the madman was doing.

He caught up with Cromwell just as he was going into the Bloody Tower.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily.

Cromwell paused and looked down at Andrew. "I'm fairly certain Thomas Wentworth needs my assistance, right about now. Knowing the man as I do."

"And what if he does?" Andrew pointed back through the gate. "We need to get through St. Thomas' Tower and into the bloody barge!"

To his relief, he saw that Stephen Hamilton was coming through the gate.

"What the bloody hell is taking so long with Wentworth?" he half-shouted. "The soldiers'll be rallying any moment."

Cromwell nodded. "What I figured."

Hamilton glared at him. "And what are you doing here?"

"I believe I owe the man a debt, of sorts. Seeing as how I had him executed once, in another universe." And with that, Cromwell passed through the door.

Andrew stared at Hamilton. After a moment, with a rather odd look on his face, Stephen shrugged. "It makes sense, you know. If you look at it the right way."

"He just sits there. Won't move, won't say anything." William Short shook his head. "We haven't known what to do."

Cromwell moved around William and his brother, leaned the halberd against the fireplace, and came to face Wentworth. The earl of Strafford was slumped in a chair by the fireplace, looking very haggard, as if he'd barely slept that night. Which was probably the case, in fact.

"Thomas," Cromwell said gently. "Look at me."

Wentworth's eyes came up. Cromwell extended his hand.

"In how many worlds can you serve the same faithless king? Be it a hundred, Thomas—be it a thousand—he'll betray you in every one. Come, man. Let's try it a different way."

After a couple of seconds, hesitantly, Wentworth extended his own hand. Cromwell took it and drew him to his feet.

"Elizabeth," the earl of Strafford murmured. "My children."

"They're already on the barge," said Hamilton, who'd come into the chamber. "Now, let us
go."

They had to pass through gunfire on the way. But it was just matchlocks, fired at too great a range—and fired too hurriedly, at that. By now, the savage marksmanship of Donald and Sherrilyn had taken its toll on the Tower's mercenaries. And they all knew that to climb onto the Outer Wall was nothing but a death sentence.

"Okay, listen up, everybody!" Harry bellowed, once the barge cast loose and had gotten well out into the Thames. He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "Once we get out of London, we'll be coming alongside that small boat following us that none of you should be looking at right now even though I'm pointing to it myself. Just take my word for it. We'll do the switch then. So, Gayle—you and Oliver and Darryl and Vicky and Stephen make sure you're ready to go. Four people will be switching the other way, too."

He lowered his hand and planted it on his hip. Then, made a flourishing gesture with his other hand.

"For the moment, ladies and gents and kiddies, just relax and enjoy your cruise on the lovely Thames. The show is about to begin. Maestro Gerd, take it away!"

Melissa had been staring at the ruins they'd left behind of what had once been St. Thomas' Tower. Except for possibly the Bloody Tower and the White Tower, it had been the most famous part of the world-famous Tower of London. Her face seemed gaunt. Now, hearing Harry's last words, her head came snapping around.

"What are you talk—"

"And one!" cried Gerd gleefully, triggering the detonator. Less than a mile upstream, a goodly part of London Bridge was suddenly engulfed in smoke.

Melissa half-rose from her seat. "My God!
You blew up London Bridge!"

"Nah," said Harry, waving his hand dismissively. "That's just the smoke bomb—"

"Stink bomb, too!" interjected Jack Hayes eagerly.

"—that we set off first. Make sure there's nobody around."

Melissa was just gaping at the sight of the bridge. Her face, pale by nature, now looked as white as a sheet.

After ten seconds or so, her head jerked, as if something had finally registered. "What do you mean—nobody around? Nobody around for
what?"

Harry frowned at her. "What do you think? For when we—"

"And two!" Gerd cried gleefully, working the detonator again. In the distance, there seemed to be a much smaller puff of smoke emerging from within the larger cloud. Perhaps a second later, London Bridge—parts of it, rather—began collapsing into the river.

"
Actually
blow up the bridge," Harry concluded.

Sherrilyn began rocking her head back and forth. Then, started singing, in a rather pleasant mezzo-soprano but one that was noticeably off-key.

"
London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair Lady."

"I can't believe it, Harry!" Melissa shrieked.
"You blew up London Bridge!"

"As a matter of fact, we didn't. We could've, but with all the people living in those shops on it we were afraid there'd be way too many casualties. So we just blew up some parts of it where nobody was living. Blew 'em up pretty good, too, so it'd look like we tried to drop the bridge but didn't quite manage to pull it off. Look, Ms. Mailey. I don't tell you how to do grammar, how's about you don't tell me how to do commando."

He pointed behind them. "We're on a barge that ain't exactly a speedboat, and we've got fifty miles to go, thereabouts, before we're in the clear. So, we need diversions. Keep the enemy confused. Make 'em think we're escaping a different way. First thing'll cross anybody's mind if you blow up London Bridge—or it looks like you tried to, anyway—is that you made your escape over to Southwark and you blew the bridge to stymie the pursuit. Which is the exact opposite of what we're actually doing. Especially when, just a short while later—"

He looked over to Gerd. " 'Bout time, I'm thinking, huh?"

"And three!" whooped Gerd.

There was no loud noise, this time. Just what seemed to be a faint puff of smoke a considerable distance off, on the Southwark side of the Thames but a good ways to the west of the bridge.

Melissa squinted. "I can't see . . . what . . ."

"Just give it a minute. We didn't need no fancy big explosives for this one. Just some nice incendiaries. That great big honking idiot thatch roof will burn like nobody's business."

It took perhaps five seconds for the meaning of that to register on Melissa. By then, the first flames could be seen and she no longer seemed pale. She seemed positively translucent.

"You—you—you—"

She was actually gobbling, for just a moment there. But she rallied by seizing her hair in both hands.

"You burned down the Globe theater? You barbarian!"

Harry looked aggrieved. "Jeez, Ms. Mailey, ease up some, willya? It ain't like we're talking about Grauman's Chinese theater in Hollywood, you know."

"That was Shakespeare's theater, you—you—you—"

She was gobbling again.

"Yeah, well, and what of it?" said Harry, unimpressed. "Julie says the place was a dump and nobody seems to be able to agree who Shakespeare was in the first place. I
been
to Grauman's Chinese, Ms. Mailey. Seen Marilyn Monroe's handprints in the sidewalk with my own eyes."

"You burned down the Globe theater!"

Luebeck

Colonel Nils Ekstrom didn't think he'd ever seen Gustav Adolf in this good a mood, not even after the birth of his daughter Kristina. Not in terms of sheer exuberance, at any rate. The king of Sweden and emperor of the United States of Europe was practically prancing on the walls of Luebeck.

"Ha! Ha!" he shouted, making gestures toward the Danish and French forces beginning to pull out of the siege lines surrounding Luebeck. Those gestures fell short of being technically obscene, but only because the emperor was too excited to take the time to shape them into anything coherent. But the spirit that infused them, as it did the tone of voice—he wasn't shouting anything too coherent, either—was completely and thoroughly derisive toward his opponents. If the enemy forces had been close enough, Nils suspected the emperor would have unlaced his trousers and urinated on them.

At the very moment that thought crossed the colonel's mind, the emperor
did
unlace his trousers. Unlaced them, shoved them down to his knees, turned around, bent over, and exposed his naked buttocks to the foe. That done, he pulled the trousers back up and gave Ekstrom a huge grin.

"Probably pointless, but who knows? Maybe that bastard de Valois is watching through an eyeglass."

Ekstrom wasn't quite sure how to respond. The protocol that governed discourse between a Swedish monarch and his subjects was less ornate than that favored in many kingdoms, but it was still fairly elaborate. Normally, that was a comfort for a man in the colonel's position, since it enabled him in a pinch to retreat into meaningless formalities. But nothing really seemed applicable to this particular display of royal prerogatives.

"Probably not, Your Majesty," seemed safe enough, though.

Gustav Adolf was still grinning as he laced back up the trousers. "No, I'm afraid not. That fat old bastard is probably squatting somewhere with his own trousers down, shitting all over the place. As well he should!"

The trousers restored to their proper condition, the emperor waved his hand in summons and began hurrying toward the stairs. "But come! Come! The radio room! There are orders to be given! Foes to smite! And smite again!"

He even broke into song, as they made their way down the stairs. No solemn hymn, either, of which Gustav Adolf had composed many for the Lutheran church. This seemed to be a pastiche that he was putting together on the spot. Most of it was from a well-known Swedish drinking song, but there were lines interspersed in English from something Ekstrom didn't recognize. Probably one of the American songs which he played on a peculiar device his daughter had sent him in December, as a gift in honor of Gustav Adolf's thirty-ninth birthday.

A "tape recorder," it was called, if Nils remembered correctly. He wasn't positive, though, because he tried to spend as little time as possible in the emperor's company whenever he used the device. Nils himself thought the music that emerged from it was hideously raucous. As a rule, the emperor had told him, he had much the same opinion—but he felt obliged to listen since Kristina had included some of her own favorite songs.

The emperor had quite a nice singing voice, actually, but it was still painful to listen to such musical bedlam. The portions from the drinking song came as a relief, for all that it was raucous in its own right. Extremely bawdy, too—but at least Ekstrom could make sense of it.

As it happened, the commander of the French forces outside Luebeck had been studying buttocks through an eyeglass. But they weren't the naked buttocks of a Swedish king, they were the still-trousered rear ends of thousand of Danish soldiers beginning their retreat back to Denmark.

"Those stinking Danes," snarled Charles de Valois, duc d'Angoulême, after he finished his study and returned to his headquarters. "Cowards!"

Standing toward the back of the tavern in the large inn that had served the duke of Angoulême as his headquarters over the course of the siege, one of his officers made very sure to keep his face expressionless. Months earlier, Jean-Baptiste Budes, comte de Guébriant, had begun coming to certain conclusions. As of today, he decided those conclusions could now be considered as firm.

His first conclusion—this one had actually become firm by the end of December—was that Charles de Valois was an ass. An old man with an unpleasant disposition, none too keen-witted with regard to anything, and particularly prone to stupidity when it came to military matters.

Of course
the Danes were lifting the siege and returning to their defensive lines at the Danewerk. That wasn't cowardice, it was simply common sense. Now that the American admiral Simpson had shattered the blockade of Luebeck, how in the name of God did the duke of Angoulême think the siege
could
be maintained?—even leaving aside the not-small problem that the Swedish general Torstensson had brought an army north from Hamburg to relieve the siege. Even if Torstensson hadn't come, what difference would it make? How could any general with the sense of a goose think he could "besiege" a port when the enemy had control of the sea?

The real problem now was that army of Torstensson's, which had already reached Segeberg and thereby stood across the French line of retreat up the Trave. If d'Angoulême had had the sense of even a chicken, much less a goose, he would have ordered the French forces to begin their retreat before the Danish commander had done so. The Danes didn't have far to go, and they didn't have to worry about Torstensson intercepting them before they got back to Denmark.

It was a long way to France, and the way had just gotten a lot longer.

Jean-Baptiste's second conclusion was that, as much as he generally thought well of Cardinal Richelieu in political terms, France's effective ruler was woefully lacking when it came to providing the nation with military leadership. Unfortunately, Richelieu had a long history and habit of handing out military posts primarily for reasons having to do with France's internal—and seemingly interminable—political faction fights. In that sphere of combat, Richelieu was the master, no doubt of it. But the resultant damage to the French army could be severe.

In some instances, Richelieu's factional purposes wound up being beneficial. He'd appointed Charles de la Porte because he was Richelieu's cousin, for instance—but there was no question de la Porte was a good officer. Far more often, however, the results were insalubrious.

D'Angoulême was a case in point. French political factionalism was often closely tied to the influence wielded by the great families of the
princes légitimé
s—the "legitimated princes" who amounted to royal bastards given official recognition, and were among the wealthiest and most powerful families in the French aristocracy. For years, Richelieu had maneuvered to crush the power of the Guise and Vendóme families. He'd done so, but his success had been due in large part to lavishly rewarding the other two great lines of the
princes légitimé
s, the Angoulême and the Longueville.

A brilliant political maneuver, yes—but one of the side effects was that the French army laying siege to Luebeck had been given to Charles de Valois, a man whose principal qualification for high military command was that he was the bastard of King Charles IX. He was sixty-one years old but often seemed to think like an octogenarian. De Valois was firmly set in old ways of fighting wars; ways which might have made sense in the days of the wars of religion, but were now completely inadequate.

For d'Angoulême, as for most of France's top generals, war was essentially a matter of sieges. Capturing important cities and towns as part of the chess game of the factional struggles in France. The fact that the nearest major foreign war, for decades, had been the struggle between the Spanish crown and the Dutch rebels—a struggle in which, until the recent formation of the League of Ostend, the French had always sided with the Dutch—had simply reinforced that attitude. The struggle in the Netherlands was certainly a war of sieges, yes. But that was inevitable, given the nature of the terrain. It did not follow that a war fought on the open terrain of northern Europe was going to have the same characteristics.

Indeed, it most certainly didn't. Jean-Baptiste's friend Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar was openly derisive of the French military command. "Every other army in Europe," he'd pointed out to Jean-Baptiste, "tries to have as powerful a cavalry force as it does an infantry force. Why? Because the only way you can win battles on the open field is with cavalry."

He was right about that, Jean-Baptiste was pretty sure. Which would not be surprising, given that the youngest of the dukes of Saxe-Weimar was a veteran commander of the German wars. Unless you could mass enough artillery, as Gustav Adolf had managed to do at Breitenfeld, it was effectively impossible to shatter a large force of well-trained infantry on the field, with other infantry. With pikes and muskets, it simply couldn't be done. What you
could
do, however, was use powerful cavalry forces on the flanks to drive off the enemy cavalry—at which point you could launch attacks on the great blocks of infantrymen from the rear or the flanks. The same tercio-style formations which were unbreakable when attacked from the front, were extremely fragile if attacked elsewhere.

But those were lessons that the duke of Angoulême had not only refused to learn, he'd even refused to study. What does a French prince need to learn from barbarous Germans and Swedes? War was siegecraft, and by God he'd come to lay siege to Luebeck—and any idiot knows that you fight a siege, on either side, with infantry and artillery.

So, France's army suffered from a severe shortage of cavalry units. The only powerful one that had been put together was Turenne's—and the enmity and animosity of the French military establishment to that young upstart was so intense that Richelieu had had no choice but to give him an independent command far distant from the main theater of war.

Being fair to Richelieu, Jean-Baptiste knew that the cardinal was aware of the problem, and had promoted a number of young officers in order to deal with it. But Turenne's appointment as a marshal had stirred up such a firestorm of protest that Richelieu had not been able to pursue the project as far as needed.

Which brought Jean-Baptiste Budes, the count of Guébriant, to his third firm conclusion.

He was himself an ass. A veritable idiot. An idiot twice over, in fact. Turenne had offered him a position in his small cavalry army, and Jean-Baptiste had declined. The count of Guébriant had the normal ambition of any capable thirty-two year old officer, and he'd thought Turenne's forces would spent the whole war simply twiddling their thumbs.

Which, indeed, they might be. Jean-Baptiste was on cordial terms with Turenne, but they were not personally well acquainted, so he'd had little contact with the young marshal since the campaign at Luebeck began. He really had no idea what Turenne and his forces had been doing for the past few months. But at least Turenne wouldn't come out of the war with a major defeat on his record—and a major defeat was precisely what the situation looked like to Guébriant, here in northern Germany.

Then—twice an idiot!—he'd also declined Bernhard's offer to give him a commission in Saxe-Weimar's mercenary army defending the frontier in the Franche-Comté. Partly because Jean-Baptiste was reluctant to resign from the regular French forces, but mostly because his assessment was that Bernhard's army would not be playing a particularly glorious role in the war either.

Which, indeed, they probably wouldn't. But lack of glory, modest as it might be, was far superior to inglorious defeat.

"Cowards, I say! Cowards!" The duc d'Angoulême was still indulging himself in his denunciation of the Danes, which had now gone on for several minutes. Several more minutes in which an army of Germans led by the Swede Torstensson and armed with American military technology had closed still tighter the noose around the French army at Luebeck.

No, say better, inglorious and humiliating disaster.

"Let the Danes go, Lennart," Gustav Adolf commanded over the radio. "You probably couldn't catch them anyway, but even if you could I'd still feel the same. At this point, I'm looking for a political settlement with Christian. Killing a lot of Danes for no good reason won't help that in the least. It's the French I care about now."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I can deal with the French."

"I want that French army crushed, Lennart. Defeated isn't good enough. I want it crushed. I want France—that bastard Richelieu—so thoroughly whipped that they'll hide in their holes for at least a year. Come next spring, I'll be giving John George of Saxony and that treacherous brother-in-law of mine in Brandenburg what they deserve—and I don't want to have to be watching over my shoulder for a French army coming, while I'm about it."

"Understood, Your Majesty. But I can't do anything about that cavalry force that overran the Wietze oil fields."

"No, of course not. But we've found out more about that. Turenne was in command, in turns out. A splendid commander, no question about it—but he's in very bad odor with the French high command. His success at Wietze combined with their humiliation here at Luebeck will tie the French army up in a faction fight that'll go on for . . . God knows how long. Nobody holds grudges like those arrogant French noblemen."

"True enough. Very well, Your Majesty. I'll be off to my work, then."

The Thames

"Just leave the boat," said Anthony Leebrick. "But make sure you tie it up properly, Richard. Adrift, it's likely to draw attention."

Towson gave him a look that was not filled with admiration. "Indeed. And what other sage advice do you have, O my captain? Make sure that I don't drive the wagon stark naked, shouting in every village we pass through that we're the ones who just carried out the biggest escape from the Tower of London in English history?"

Leebrick gave him a grin that was somewhat sheepish. "Well . . . point taken."