1634: The Baltic War (75 page)

"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."

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?"

For a moment, wildly, Eddie's mind careened back to the memory of what had been—to hell with admirals, standing at attention, kings, and the whole damn world—easily the most wonderful moment of his life.

"Well. Yes, sir. I guess. In a manner of speaking."

Simpson's stone face finally moved. Slightly. His eyebrows went up perhaps a quarter of an inch.

" 'In a manner of speaking.' Lieutenant Cantrell—since you force me to be clinical about it—that particular act is generally only carried out in one manner. The male involved inserts his penis into the female's vagina, which had not theretofore been penetrated in that manner and with that human organ, and does so fully. There may or may not be a hymen in the way, but whether there is or isn't does not actually affect the end result. The male usually but not always ejaculates inside the vagina when the act is concluded; but, again, whether he does or doesn't has no relevance here. Prior to the performance of this act, the female is considered a 'virgin.' Often, the term 'maiden' is used as well or instead. Thereafter, she is not."

He was back to that detestable piercing-gaze business. "So. I will rephrase the question, in the hopes that I might finally get a straight answer from a junior officer whom I have quite distinct recollections of being forthright even to the point of annoying the piss out of me. Is Anne Cathrine, the fifteen year old daughter of the king of Denmark, still a virgin?"

"Ah. Well." Eddie cleared his throat. "No, sir. She is not." He could have added—had the situation called for an imbecile hopping up and down in joyful remembrance of things past—
not by a country mile, sir. Not after two and a half days in that submarine.

But he didn't. Not being actually an imbecile, even if he was probably doing a fair imitation.

"And you are responsible for this transformation in her status?"

"Well. Yes, sir."

The admiral looked away, finally—thankfully!—and spent perhaps a minute staring out the window. Eddie spent that minute wondering whether he'd just be struck by the admiral's lightning, or whether they'd actually turn him over to King Christian to be fitted into a diving suit for the world's grossest form of execution. Clearly enough, that was the question his commanding officer was contemplating.

In point of fact, John Chandler Simpson was waging a mighty struggle not to burst into laughter. Having been introduced to Anne Cathrine the day before, it wasn't as if he had any trouble understanding Eddie's actions. The girl's very evident concern and anxiety for Eddie's fate had actually been more impressive than her attractive physical appearance. Simpson didn't have any doubt that there was a lot more involved here than simply youthful hormones.

Even the girl's age didn't bother him, being honest about it. True enough, in most states back up-time, she'd not reached the age of consent. But that was more a matter of stubborn American legal tradition than anything in the real world, or anything Simpson cared about on a moral level. Most European countries even in the world he'd come from would have considered her of legal age. If he remembered correctly, Denmark and Sweden were among them.

Customs in the seventeenth century varied a great deal, as did the legal systems themselves. But the issue didn't usually revolve around the matter of age, as such.

Beyond that, John Chandler Simpson wasn't a hypocrite. Or liked to think not, at least. Like most Americans from upper class backgrounds—probably any backgrounds, although he wasn't sure about that—both he and his wife Mary had become sexually active in their mid-teens. Fifteen years old, in his case, with a high-school girlfriend he still remembered quite fondly. In Mary's case, the day after her sixteenth birthday, which she'd celebrated with a high school boyfriend she now claimed to detest.

Of course, what neither of those high-school paramours had been was
royalty.
Which was really what was at issue here. And, perhaps still more to the point, neither of them had been motivated by royal ruthlessness—whose presence here was quite apparent. Indeed, quite impressive, in its own way. He wouldn't have thought Christian IV to be that subtle. A good reminder, really, that simply because a man is an alcoholic doesn't mean he isn't shrewd and canny when he's sober.

"You realize you were played, don't you?" he asked Eddie, still looking out the window.

From the corner of his eye, Simpson could see Cantrell's little start of surprise. "Sir?"

He decided he could allow himself a smile, finally. Just a thin one, of course. Wise, stern, knowing, etc., etc. So it was with that expression on his face that he turned back to look at Eddie.

"Played. I'd say 'played for a fool' except that I don't actually think you've stumbled into outright folly. Not so far,
anyway."

Eddie was practically gaping at him. Simpson was pleased to see, however, that the youngster was still standing at attention. By God, there was hope for him yet.

"For Pete's sake, Eddie. Are you so naïve as to think that a captured enemy officer would be allowed in close and continual proximity to the oldest daughter—princess or not, who cares?—of the king who holds him imprisoned? More than that! From your jumbled explanation earlier, it's blindingly obvious that the two of you were practically thrown at each other. And with the whole damn royal family in on the game. Her brother Ulrik, for certain. Her father, needless to say. And—"

It had to be said, and said bluntly. "And the girl herself, of course."

After a moment, Eddie swallowed. A hurt look seemed to creep into his eyes.

Simpson unclasped his hands and gave a little dismissive wave with the left. "Oh, don't misunderstand me. I don't have any doubt your prin—king's daughter—is genuinely fond of you. May even be in love with you, insofar as the term ever applies to royalty in this day and age. Royal or not, fifteen-year-old girls don't give up their virginity in cold blood. Not
that
one, at least; so much is clear enough to me, having met her. But the fact remains that this thing was set up from the very beginning. Literally, from the day you arrived here. By her father, with both her and Prince Ulrik as part of the . . ."

He shook his head, slightly. "I'm not sure what to call it. 'Plot' implies the intent to do harm, which isn't actually involved here. Not, at least, unless you're one of those idiots who thinks getting married is a fate worse than death. 'Scheme' comes closer, but it's still got too much of a sinister connotation. The best word is actually 'machination,' if you give it the proper Machiavellian twist. The way a smart king will, when he considers that the world of power can take many twists and turns, so he'd do well to make preparations for alternative outcomes. And however much alcohol he consumes, Christian IV is a very smart man."

Eddie swallowed again. "You're kidding. Uh, sir."

Simpson chuckled. "Oh, stand at ease, will you? Eddie, when have you
ever
known me to kid you? Or anyone, for that matter. I'm hardly what people think of as a jester."

"Ah . . . well, never. Sir. But . . ."

He was still in that same rigid pose. Simpson placed his right hand on the young man's shoulder and gave it a little shake. "At ease, I said. Eddie, it's not the end of the world. Not, at least, if you're willing to let a small modicum of intelligence enter into what has heretofore clearly been a matter guided only by . . . well. I won't say there were
no
brains involved, since there clearly were on the part of the Danish royal family. But there were certainly damn few on yours."

He moved over to the table and held up the royal document. "If you strip away the flowery language which is but a patina over a truly impressive list of dire consequences should the culprit—that's you, Lieutenant Cantrell—fail to make good on his crimes, what this amounts to is something any humble farmer back home could have said. With a shotgun in his hand. 'Marry my girl—betroth her, in this instance, the customs being different—or I'll blow your fucking head off.' That's pretty much the gist of it."

"But—can he
do
that, sir? I mean . . ." Eddie's shoulders sagged a bit. "I mean, jeepers,
we
won the war, not him."

"So? Have no illusions, Lieutenant. I can probably manage to spare you the worst of these consequences—by the way, did you really show him how to use a diving suit to—"

"Hell, no! Uh, sir."

"Well, that's a bit of a relief. But, as I was saying, I can almost certainly manage to get you executed in a reasonably civil manner. I think I
even have a good chance of getting Gustav Adolf to insist on a mere exile to somewhere . . . oh, incredibly unpleasant. They have a lot of medieval fortresses around here, you know. Lock a man up, throw away the key, and let him fight it out with the rats. Probably in Norway, whose rats are famous."

Eddie was staring at him. "But . . ."

"But
what
? Do you suffer from the delusion that Gustav Adolf would intercede on your behalf? Right at the point where he's finally reached an agreement with Christian that Prince Ulrik will betroth his own daughter Kristina? Thereby—that was a shrewd move, as you'd expect—taking most of the sting out of Denmark being forced into a new Union of Kalmar. Now, Christian can console himself with the knowledge that at least his grandchild will continue to rule his kingdom—as well as Sweden and Norway and Iceland and Finland, for that matter. In the middle of all this, do you think the emperor is going to risk upsetting the deal because a junior naval officer is a complete dunce?"

"He
did
?"

Simpson frowned. "Did what?"

Eddie shook his head. "Sorry, sir. I was talking about Ulrik. Did he agree to marry—uh, betroth—Princess Kristina?"

"Well,
of course
he did. Why in the world wouldn't he? Even leaving aside the fact that every child of royalty—in the line of succession or not, it really doesn't matter—knows perfectly well that they'll wind up marrying someone for reasons of state, in this case it's an incredibly advantageous match for him."

"But—but—"

"But
what
? But his bride-to-be is only seven years old? But he only met her for the first time this morning? For God's sake, Eddie, the Ring of Fire was three years ago. Has it only just registered on you that we're in the seventeenth century?"

For whatever reason, it was that last remark by Simpson that cleared the whole thing up for Eddie. Not that there was any reason for the admiral to be so sarcastic!

Especially since he was wrong, anyway. Looking back on it all, Eddie could now see that it
hadn't
been set up from the beginning. What had actually drawn Anne Cathrine and him together in the beginning was that when he first encountered her she was being set up to marry a rich merchant, whom she disliked intensely. Eddie had helped her scheme her way out of the match—or so he thought. With hindsight, he could now see that that was when her father had gotten the idea of matching her with him instead.

And . . . yes, of course Anne Cathrine would have agreed. By then, at the very least, Eddie was sure she'd come to be quite fond of him. Far more so than she could realistically expect with any alternative prospect. You could call it "calculated," if you wanted to cast it in the worst possible light. Or "unromantic," if you wanted a milder term. But both terms were just stupid. She was what she was, that's all. And he thought she was the most terrific girl he'd ever met, and by that same country mile.