The Saxon Uprising-ARC

Chapter 49


Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

After Rebecca got the report, she took her children and sat with them by a window, looking out into the night. The snow had finally stopped falling and there was enough of a moon to see the city. For once, its industrial filth covered in white, Magdeburg was not ugly.

Kathleen was in her lap. Sepharad sat to her left, Baruch to her right.

“Daddy will be home soon,” she said, smiling.

“Is he all right?” asked Baruch anxiously.

“Oh, yes.” She imagined he must have some bruises, assuming the report that he’d had two horses shot out from under him was accurate and not just a reporter’s fabrication. But he was definitely alive and in fairly good health. That was clear in the report and presented in several different ways, ending with his refusal to allow Banér’s head to be hoisted on a pike.

That sounded like Michael. He would have fought savagely, but with the battle now won he’d already be looking toward a peace settlement. Rubbing salt into wounds was just not his way.

She so loved that man. She envied Gretchen, then. She had survived—the report was explicit on that issue—and so had her husband. Colonel Higgins was played up in the report, in fact. Apparently it had been his regiment that was responsible for killing Banér, although Rebecca had serious doubts that Jeff had led a final charge on horseback. The man hated to ride at the best of times. In a snowstorm? Not likely.

Gretchen’s children came into the room, entering slowly and hesitantly. Rebecca waved them toward her.

“Your mother is fine,” she said. “So is your father.”

After that, they looked out of the window in silence. There seemed nothing much more to say.

Kristina came to stand by Ulrik, as he looked out of a window in the royal palace. He, too, was struck by Magdeburg’s unusual looks that night. The snow covering everything gleamed in the moonlight. If you didn’t know how much soot and grime lay underneath, you might think you were in some enchanted elven city.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Nothing, still.” He put a hand on her skinny shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

There was a great deal of affection in that squeeze, not simply reassurance. He’d become very fond of the girl in the time they’d spent together since they left for Stockholm back in…

Dear God. Had it only been eight months ago? It seemed more like eight years.

Impossible, of course. If it had really been eight years, Kristina would now be old enough to get married.

He thought about that for a while. And realized that for the first time since he’d become betrothed to the Swedish princess, he was looking forward to the marriage. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, it had ceased being purely a political matter.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied.

Brussels, capital of the Netherlands

Peter Paul Rubens left the meeting early. Once the report was digested and the basic response settled upon—no, obviously we’re not going to try to take advantage of the situation; not with Stearns alive and so obviously well; we’re not mad—he saw no need to spend the next few hours assuring the king and queen and their advisers that they’d made the right decisions all along. Archduchess Isabella would handle that just fine.

Instead, moved by a sudden impulse—a rare impulse, lately—he wanted to start a painting.

He didn’t normally do battlefield portraits. Portraits of combat, yes—he’d done many of those. But they focused on such things as Achilles’ slaying of Hector or a lion hunt or the battle of the Amazons. He wasn’t particularly fond of the sort of set-piece depictions of enormous battlefields, which usually portrayed the victor in the foreground. He’d done close cousins of that sort of paintings on commission, like his Triumph of Henry IV. But he’d never before been moved to do one simply because he found the subject fascinating.

This time, though, he couldn’t resist. First, because he’d already done a portrait of the subject which he’d had to keep hidden because the political content was dubious for someone in his position. In the course of that work, though, he felt he’d come to know the man and wanted the chance to portray him again—this time, in a painting that could see the light of day.

And then, there was the central image! As arresting as Judith slaying Holofernes. The conquering general, presented with the head of his defeated enemy—and spurning it. Not from horror but from majesty, as befitted a prince.

Paris, capital of France

“Your judgment was quite sound, Your Grace,” said Servien, once Richelieu had finished reading the news report that had come in over the radio in the palace. “It was wise not to do anything.”

The cardinal set the report aside and shrugged. “Most likely, yes. It would have been easier to deal with Oxenstierna, but I’m afraid he’s in a bad place now. He should have left well enough alone.”

Coming from Richelieu, that statement was perhaps dubious. There were many in France—some of them not even his enemies—who thought the accusation couldn’t leave well enough alone belonged on his own doorstep.

Madrid, capital of Spain

There was no reaction to the news report in the court of Spain.

They had no radio. They wouldn’t receive the news for days yet.

Poznan, Poland

“They claim some Poles were involved,” said Lukasz Opalinski, as he scanned through the report. After reading a couple of more lines, he hissed. “I don’t believe it! The fellow who was apparently their leader claims some connection to the Koniecpolskis! Some bastards will say anything.”

“His name?” asked Stanislaw Koniecpolski.

Lukasz shook his head. “They don’t provide it. But it’s an obvious lie. The only Pole we know in Dresden is Jozef and he certainly wouldn’t…”

His voice trailed off. Startled, he looked up at the grand hetman. “You don’t think… Surely…”

Koniecpolski started to laugh.

Berlin, capital of Brandenburg

Keeping well off to the side of the assembly chamber, almost but not quite in the shadows, Erik Haakansson Hand listened cynically to Oxenstierna’s speech. The chancellor was taking the time to rally the spirits of his followers, even as he prepared to march his army out of Berlin.

Everything is fine, lads.

He wouldn’t be marching on Magdeburg, though. There’d been a last minute change of plans. He’d have to march on Dresden instead, and hope to succeed where Banér had failed.

Victory will soon be ours.

He needed to move quickly, too, before Stearns’ division recuperated.

I march on the rebels tomorrow!

Great cheers rang the chamber. The colonel felt a hand tug at his elbow. Turning, he saw it was James Wallace, one of the Scot bodyguards in Ljungberg’s unit.

“Erling says you have to come now. Quickly.”

Gustav Adolf was sitting up in his bed when Erik entered the room. His blue eyes seemed bright and clear.

“What is happening, cousin?” the king asked. Only the slight drawl indicated the lurking anger. He hooked a thumb at Ljungberg.

“He won’t tell me anything. Me, his own king.”

“That’s because…”

Where to begin?

The king solved that problem himself. “Is my daughter…?”

“She’s quite well, Your Majesty,” Erik said hurriedly. “In good health. Even in good spirits. Just yesterday, I listened—well…”

“What? Damn you, Erik, what’s happening?”

Ah, that familiar temper. A good solid kingly sort of temper. Not a wild and unfocused rage.

Also a far more dangerous temper, of course.

“Yesterday I listened to a speech she gave over the radio. Quite a good one, too, allowing for her age. Very enthusiastic.”

Gustav Adolf frowned. “Why is my daughter giving speeches? Over the radio, you said?”

“It’s a long story, Sire.”

“Then sit.”