Arturo Serrano - To Climates Unknown - An Alternate History of a World Without America

That name gave Villiers pause. To the average person, Sweyn Forkbeard was no one, an obscure figure at best; but every lord of Villiers’s rank had read about the family of ambitious Danes who had once ruled England. Sweyn himself had only occupied the throne for around a month, but his son Canute the Great had reigned for two solid decades.

Cornelis didn’t know any of that history, but seeing how much it affected the duke made him gain a deeper appreciation of how far Christian was willing to go to conceal the fact that he was the true reason for the invasion.

“Parliament will not accept these arguments,” argued Villiers. “And neither will the people.”

Christian’s tone hardened as he took the letter from the table and shoved it into the duke’s hand. “Go and tell your people that the days of Canute are back.”

“I will not! True English patriots will rise up by the thousands to demand, and if necessary to fight for, the release of their rightful king.”

Christian drew out his sword and slashed the duke’s guts open. The room drew a collective breath of shock, followed by expectant silence. The duke collapsed onto the floor and, at a signal from the king, two soldiers hurried to take the body elsewhere. “Search his house,” he ordered. “Add his riches to the Iceland fund. And arrest whoever is supposed to be in charge of England now.”

Quickly, the soldiers in the room took up separate tasks: one of them started scrubbing the blood off the floor, another was handed the king’s sword for cleaning, and a small group went outside to fulfill the arrest order. Then Christian took notice of Cornelis and waved for him to approach the table.

“I see your wife was returned to you. Are you happy now?”

“She should never have been taken. You could simply have asked me to come.”

The king didn’t like that tone of defiance, and pointed at the spot where Villiers had fallen. “Saying ‘please’ is for people who don’t have a sword.”

Undeterred, Cornelis pressed on, “Where do you have my children?”

“They are perfectly safe, just like your wife. You’ll be free to see them later today.” Christian walked around the room until he found a seat. “Did you meet Munk?”

Cornelis didn’t want to answer and concede the change in the course of the conversation.

“What’s wrong with him?” the king asked Mrs. Drebbel.

“Please, Your Majesty, let me see them while you talk to Cornelis.”

The king regarded both of them with pity, and ordered for her to be escorted away. “Leave it to a mother to find the diplomatic middle ground.”

The thought that it was Sophie’s presence that kept Christian from acting more impulsively made Cornelis shudder. To push that idea from his head, he sought another topic. “I take it I stand before the king of England now.”

“I appreciate that you didn’t phrase it as a question,” replied Christian in an exceedingly gentle tone.

Cornelis had worked for kings long enough to know when such smoothness hid a blade. “In natural philosophy, one learns to recognize when a fact about the world is unquestionable.” He didn’t add his opinion that politics wasn’t made of facts, and said instead, “I regret that not many in London share the same practical inclination.”

“All the worse for them. More heads to display at the London Bridge, more money for the Iceland fund, more breathing room in Parliament. I hope I don’t have to slice my way through the entire English nobility before one of them acknowledges that I’m in charge here.”

Once more Cornelis saw the conversation take a grisly turn and felt the urge to steer the king’s attention away from that mood. “What’s the Iceland fund?” Against his hopes, Christian’s face hardened further.

“It’s an annoyance to no end, thanks to one of your fellow Dutchmen.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Majesty.”

Christian chuckled. “Have you heard of one captain Sulayman?” Cornelis shook his head. “I thought you would know the story. He betrayed your country and swore allegiance to the Turks. To this day I’m still gathering the money to ransom all the people he took from Iceland. By God, the gall it takes for a pirate to venture that far north!”

Now Cornelis knew what that was about. The raid of Iceland had, over the less than six years since, entered the realm of scary stories told to keep children obedient.

Christian still seemed absorbed in the story. “Since this has to do with you, I can tell you a little secret: I would give Sulayman the crown I’ve won today, this warship, every sheep in England and my cape. That man will never know it, but he’s the reason why Denmark will rule the world.”

“What?”

The king’s voice lowered until only Cornelis could hear. “Didn’t Munk tell you why he made a detour?”

The question had never occurred to him. “Anyone can see why. He refused to give up and went to find the route in the other direction.”

“That’s not the reason. Here’s what happened: while he was coming back from America and Sulayman was on his way to Iceland, they crossed paths.”

“He didn’t mention that.”

“Because he doesn’t want to attribute his fame to chance. But that day is the key to everything we’re doing now. Munk’s lookout man spotted the English ship coming toward them. Munk took the spyglass and saw that it had been taken by pirates, and decided not to risk being captured too. So he turned northward. The rest is history: his ship crashed in Greenland, he met the natives, and he found the Arctic passage. All thanks to that greedy pirate.”

Cornelis stood in silence, imagining the chains of consequence that had to have moved at a precise speed to arrange such an encounter. He suddenly felt too small.

“Mr. Drebbel? Are you still listening?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was pondering the future of world trade.”

“You’re thinking of trade, but I’m thinking of bigger things. You’ll start work immediately on making more of those submersible ships, but I want you to study how to equip them with cannons.”

That last part pulled Cornelis back from his thoughts. “What do you need cannons for?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“A ship that stays hidden underwater has nothing to fear from pirates.”

“That’s true, Mr. Drebbel, but I want the other ships to be afraid of mine.”

Cornelis felt his throat dry up. “You don’t just want a merchant fleet. You want an army.”

“Now you get it. Picture in your mind’s eye what the future’s going to look like: every one of our enemies will hesitate to cross the seas because they know there’s something hidden in the water. Something that can hit them from below, something that can never be found. A secret weapon that my empire alone will have.”

Cornelis could hear the demands competing for his conscience. It had been years since he’d had such a big opportunity to feed his children, but he didn’t know how much of his soul it would cost. “Do you intend to become the sole master of the oceans?”

“I intend to become more than that. As long as no one else has these ships, or knows how to build them, I will be a legend. This is a propitious time for legends, Mr. Drebbel. The ancient Norsemen spoke of a creature that hid underwater, waiting to prey on unwary sailors. They called it Hafgufu. That’s what you’re going to build for Denmark: a monster that eats ships.”

All strength abandoned Cornelis, and he looked for a chair before his legs melted. “Exactly whom do you want to swallow?”

“Spain, for starters. England has been utterly inept at giving those Pope worshipers the smacking they deserve. Once I have your ships, Mexican silver will no longer sustain their vulgar heresy. Then there’s Portugal, of course, and France. In time, I may even retake the holy lands from the Turks.”