Eric Flint - 1634 - The Baltic War

Simpson smiled, and the hand on Eddie's shoulder now became a firm and guiding one. "Come along, then, Lieutenant." He began steering him toward the door.

"Where are we going now, sir?"

"Right outside."

Eddie frowned. "Right outside" would just be an empty room. One of those completely pointless huge rooms that seemed to be mandatory in palaces, and which had no function Eddie had ever been able to determine except to rub into the faces of anyone who wandered in that the guy who owned the palace was way, way, way, way richer than you were or ever would be.

But, as it turned out, the room did have a function. It was big enough to hold two kings, one prime minister, one senator, one prince-no, three; both of Ulrik's older brothers were there too-umpteen admirals and generals and officers and officials and noblemen.

And one king's daughter.

Gustav Adolf looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes, Admiral, and twenty-seven seconds. About what you predicted."

He then leaned over and glanced at the watch adorning the equally thick wrist of the man standing right next to him. "Exactly what yours says, to the second. I told you these up-time watches were perfect, Christian."

"Right you were." The king of Denmark had a cheerful smile on his face. From long experience, Eddie interpreted this one as the-king-is-half-plastered-but-only-half-and-he-can-drink-anyone-under-the-table-anyway crossed with God-I-love-gadgets.

Good thing, too, because most of the faces in the room were unfriendly. Well, stern and solemn, at least. Okay, Mike Stearns and Rebecca were smiling at him. Sweetly, in the case of Rebecca; sorta, in the case of Mike. And he recognized Caroline Platzer over in a corner, although he didn't have a clue why she was here at all. She was standing next to some guy he didn't know, and she was smiling too.

Ulrik was standing not far from his father, and a little behind him. He was giving Eddie that inscrutable look that belonged on some sort of ancient Chinese mandarin or Tibetan monk instead of a Scandinavian prince almost his own age. Naturally, Baldur Norddahl was grinning. Any shark who saw that grin would swim as fast as it could the other way.

That left…

Anne Cathrine. When he finally looked at her, she was just staring at him, looking very wide-eyed and very apprehensive.

Simpson cleared his throat. "My lieutenant-"

There weren't many times-almost almost almost none at all-when it was a smart idea for a junior officer to interrupt his admiral. But this was one of them. Damn the sarcastic old fart. Eddie had at least three brain cells.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding, which I've just cleared up with my commanding officer." He was pleased to see that he managed to say all that firmly and coherently. Didn't stammer or hesitate at all, and never said "uh" or "well" even once.

"As was my intention all along-which simply got interrupted by the battle-I would like to ask the king of Denmark for his daughter's hand in marriage."

He didn't know if that was the right protocol. But screw it. The worst Christian would do for a lapse in protocol was make Eddie drink with him for three hours while he explained the right way to do it. He probably wouldn't even mention the diving suit.

As it happened, it didn't matter. As soon as he finished, Anne Cathrine drew herself up in as haughty a pose as a fifteen-and-five-sixths-year old could manage-not too good, really, although the out-thrust bosom was magnificent, even in formal court wear-and gave her father what would be called a "withering look" if she'd been twice the age and could pull it off.

But that didn't matter either. "I told you, Papa!" she exclaimed. Then she gathered her skirts, rushed to Eddie, threw her arms around him and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

"Tonight," she whispered into his ear. "Northwest corner room. Third floor. I'll open the window."

She glanced down at his feet. Foot and peg leg, rather. "Oh, I forgot. Can you manage a rope?"

Before Eddie could answer-or even catch his breath-her father was bellowing something about impropriety and Anne Cathrine scurried back.

Gustav Adolf drew his sword. "Come here, Lieutenant Cantrell."

Oh, shit.

The emperor leaned his head toward Christian IV. "I suppose I should properly do it elsewhere, since this is imperial and not Union business. But with your permission?"

The Danish king was still glaring at his daughter. "Oh, yes, certainly, brother. No need to stand on formalities."

Simpson's hand propelled Eddie forward. When he was just a few feet from the emperor, Gustav said, "Kneel, sir."

He then glanced at a man standing next to him. Eddie didn't recognize him, but he was wearing a Swedish army uniform. "Have we established any firm protocol yet, Nils?"

The Swedish officer shook his head. "Not really, Your Majesty. This is only the second, so it's all still rather malleable."

"In that case, I'll do it like in the movies. It's got more style."

By then, Eddie was on his knees, more-or-less driven down by Simpson's hand. The treacherous bastard.

Gustav frowned. "Something's not right."

"One knee only, Your Majesty."

"Ah, yes, of course. On one knee only, Lieutenant."

Confused, Eddie did as he was told. Did it really matter how many knees a man was on, when they chopped off his head?

At least it'd be quick. That was a real sword that had been wielded in real battles, and by a king who knew how to use it.

But Eddie was confused again when the sword simply came down, rapped him lightly on both shoulders, and was withdrawn.

"Rise, now, Imperial Count of Wismar!" boomed Gustav II Adolf.

"That calls for a drink!" boomed Christian IV. "In the banquet hall! Eddie, you sit next to me, of course, now that you're part of the family."

It wasn't until nine o'clock that night before Eddie managed to weasel his way out of the banquet hall. He was a lot less sober than he wanted to be, but still sober enough to walk and-hopefully-skinny up a rope with only one foot.

It took him a while to find the right part of the palace, and when he did he was dismayed to see that another man was already standing there. He was looking up at the windows on the floors above, with a puzzled frown on his face.

As he got closer, Eddie recognized the man. His face, anyway, since he didn't know his name. It was the fellow who'd been standing next to Caroline Platzer in the big room.

Seeing nothing else to do, Eddie just marched up to him. Well, stumped up.

As he came near, the man looked at him and gave him a formal little bow. More in the way of an exaggerated nod, really.

"Good evening, Imperial Count of Wismar."

"Ah… Lieutenant Eddie Cantrell, please. That count business was none of my doing and I'm not too comfortable with it."

The stranger's blocky face was suddenly creased by a smile. One of those genuinely friendly smiles that made Eddie instinctively sense he probably liked the guy.

"Yes, I know," the man chuckled. "They made me the imperial count of Narnia right after I arrived. But I'm actually just Thorsten Engler."

He stuck out his hand and Eddie shook it.

"What are you doing here, Thorsten, if I might ask? And are you kidding about the Narnia business?"

"To answer your questions in reverse order, the Narnia issue is still unsettled. My betrothed thinks that it's preposterous to force a whole town to change its name on a royal whim, and she's insisting that the princess tell her father to change it back. Princess Kristina, on the other hand, insists that 'count of Nutschel' sounds stupid and she likes Narnia and so there. In this instance, unlike many, I suspect the princess will win the contest of wills. As to the first…"

He looked up at the row of windows on the third floor of the palace. The very many windows on a palace the size you'd expect Christian IV to build. "As to the first, I'm faced with a quandary."