1635: The Eastern Front

Chapter 43

Berlin, Capital of Brandenburg

Axel Oxenstierna laid a gentle hand on Gustav Adolf's shoulder. "Be well, my old friend. You need worry about nothing. Just heal. Come back to us."

The king had seemed to be dozing. Thankfully. He'd had one of his sudden furies two hours early. They came for no reason, they left for no reason, and left everyone exhausted, including the king himself.

Gustav Adolf's eyes opened suddenly. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition there.

But if it had been there, it passed. He just seemed puzzled now. His eyes drifted away from Oxenstierna and came to rest on his bodyguard. That was Erling Ljungberg, who had replaced Anders Jonsson. For a moment, again, there seemed to be recognition in the king's eyes.

It would not be surprising. Ljungberg's facial features did not resemble those of Jonsson's very closely, but otherwise they were much alike. Both very big men, both blond, both utterly ferocious in battle. They even shared the same love of American pistols. In fact, the pistol holstered at Ljungberg's waist was the very one that had been in Jonsson's hand when he died.

If Gustav Adolf did recognize him, though, it would be hard to know for sure. His speech was still…?very odd. Axel would have thought he was outright mad, except for what the Moor had explained. This might still pass away, if all went well.

"Birches? Is that folded?" the king asked. "Just move the sand under the hymns."

Axel stroked his hair. "Rest, king. Rest."

He turned away, headed for the door. It was time to attend to the king's business.

"Make sure he comes to no harm," he said to Ljungberg, then had to restrain a little laugh when he saw the man's disgusted look. Giving such instructions to such a bodyguard was quite pointless, after all. You might as well instruct the sea to be wet.

One of the palace's servants was quick to open the door. Very quick. It had not taken Sweden's chancellor long at all to make clear to the servants of Brandenburg-the servants of former Brandenburg-that if they wished to keep their sinecures they'd have to understand that the old sleepy ways of Berlin were coming to an end. Soon enough, this would be the new capital city of the United States of Europe.

As he walked down the corridor to the very large chamber that had served the electors of Brandenburg for a reception room, Axel mused on his long relationship with Gustav Adolf. His father had died when he was sixteen-too young to rule by Swedish law and custom. At the same time, his capabilities were obvious and no one wanted a long regency with all of its attendant problems.

Axel himself had been only twenty-eight at the time. But he was a scion of one of the great noble families and already very influential. He had been the principal engineer of the arrangement that had enabled Gustav Adolf to come to the throne on January 4, 1612. He'd been only seventeen years old at the time.

Part of the arrangement had required the young king to sign a charter of guarantees that restored most of the rights and privileges of the nobility that previous Vasa rulers had stripped away from them.

Twenty-three years had gone by since then; almost twenty-four. For most of those years, Gustav Adolf had scrupulously abided by the charter of guarantees. In letter, at least. Inevitably, a monarch as capable and forceful as he would overshadow any nobility. But no one could reasonably ask for more. A weak and incapable monarch was far worse.

Then the Americans had come through the Ring of Fire. Within a year, their alliance with Gustav Adolf had begun to take shape. It had first crystallized in the formation of the Confederated Principalities of Europe, in the fall of 1632. A year later, under the impact of the war launched by the League of Ostend, the CPE's ramshackle structure had been swept away and replaced with the much more powerful United States of Europe-a true federation, now, with real national power.

Oxenstierna had had misgivings from the start. Still, the advantages had been obvious; hard to resist, even for a nobleman, much less a king. For all his dislike of the Americans-their ways and customs and attitudes; he did not dislike all of them as people; some, he even liked-Axel was neither stupid nor blind. There was no doubt that it was the alliance with Grantville-even with Michael Stearns, the man-that had enabled Gustav Adolf to rise so quickly to the prominence he now held in European affairs. Soon enough, Axel didn't doubt, in world affairs.

On the day of the Ring of Fire, Gustav Adolf had been the "Lion of the North." The king of Sweden, merely, but a king whose own innate abilities had made Sweden a much greater power than its population and resources would normally have warranted.

Four and a half years had gone by. Today, Gustav Adolf was still king of Sweden-and a considerably richer Sweden. He was also the emperor of the United States of Europe, a position which, despite the many republican absurdities and aggravations attendant upon it, still gave Gustav Adolf unmatched military power. Power which he'd used, among other things, to resurrect the Union of Kalmar-on a Swedish foundation this time, not a Danish one-and reunite Scandinavia for the first time since the middle ages.

All well and good. But as time went on-it was obvious, even if the king himself had been blind to it-the American elixir had become a poison. The higher the king rose, the weaker became the foundations of his rule. Before much longer, if this went on, it would all be swept away.

Axel thought the hand of God had been at work, that day on the shores of Lake Bledno. A king's life had been saved, yes, by a valiant hero. But perhaps just as important-here lay the subtlety of the Lord's work-was that the king fell into a swoon. A swoon that now looked to last for quite some time. Months, almost certainly. Possibly years. (Possibly forever, too; but the chancellor's mind shied away from that.)

Oxenstierna knew well the workings of his friend's mind. Gustav Adolf would remain loyal to a fault. He'd made his agreements with Michael Stearns, and would keep to them, even if those agreements were draining the lifeblood out of his realms.

So, Axel thought, God's hand. Let the king sleep while his faithful servitors did what had to be done.

He'd reached the door to the reception hall. Quickly, two servants opened it for him.

He stepped through. Wilhelm Wettin was waiting there.

A weak and slender reed, Wettin. A decent man, yes. Too decent, perhaps, for what had to be done. But between Oxenstierna's pressure from above and the pressure brought by his many followers from below, he'd finally acquiesced.

Again, God's hand at work. Had Gustav Adolf still been in full command of his senses, the chancellor would not have been able to bring the prime minister to this point. He was quite sure of it.

Wettin was looking pale; his face drawn; close to haggard, even.

Oxenstierna took him by the shoulder and swung him to face the crowd that was packed into the great reception hall.

"Have faith, Wilhelm," he said.

The crowd roared. Oxenstierna released his grip from the prime minister's shoulder and took two steps forward. Then, raised his hands high.

"It is time to end the anarchy! Are you with us?"

The roar was deafening.