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

“I ask one thing, Your Majesty.”

The desperation in that plea made Christian stop enumerating his war plans. “You are aware that I’m capable of sustaining you for the rest of your life.”

“Still one thing I need of you. Just one.”

The sound of Christian’s breath sufficed to make Cornelis shake in terror. “You already agreed to work for me. You said you would’ve jumped at the chance.”

“Yes, I did say that, and there’s one thing I require. I cannot build one ship without your word.”

Christian hit the table with his fist. “You dare make demands of me?”

“Who needs whom here?” Cornelis surprised himself; he hadn’t meant to lay out so plainly the true nature of their relationship. It seemed to him that those words could be his last.

Sweat drops trembled on Christian’s forehead as he clenched his jaw. “Speak,” he growled.

“I want the Dutch Republic to be spared. Fight the Turks, fight the French, destroy the Holy Roman Empire for all I care, but my country’s vessels must not be harmed.”

Christian gave the request the briefest thought before erupting in laughter. “Of course, you fool! You don’t know what you’re saying. I wasn’t planning to move against Protestant countries anyway!”

That reaction confused Cornelis, but he wasn’t going to let that sway him. “Do I have your word?”

“I’ll sign a decree if that’ll do it. The Dutch Republic! What an idea! Get out of here. Go to your wife.”

A pair of soldiers took Cornelis out while Christian still shook with laughter. Cornelis had been more useful than he could’ve known: he’d given Denmark the perfect cover. The Spanish and the French would see their ships drop like flies while the Dutch sailed freely, so suspicion would focus on the Dutch, and no one would think to look at Denmark.

Evening, July 19 (Julian), 1651

Stockholm

Everyone in Sweden was shocked that their king dressed as a man. The sovereign had since childhood preferred the more energetic and physical pastimes, and by the time of assuming the throne, had become famous for speaking, walking and sitting like no well-bred woman ever did. But a woman she was, even holding the title of king because Sweden had no other, even having at the time of birth been briefly declared to be a boy. King Kristina of the House of Vasa did many things the manly way, but in one respect she distanced herself from male customs: she never drank. As a frequenter of writers and musicians and philosophers brought to her court from all over Europe, she valued above all things the importance of nourishing her mind and keeping it awake.

As soon as Countess Leonora Ulfeldt of the House of Oldenburg entered the reception hall of the Big Ball House of Stockholm, she found it easy to identify which of the dozens of figures conversing before the start of the play was the king of Sweden. While her height and size were unremarkable in that room, surrounded by tall Swedes, her disordered hair and practical clothes marked her as an exception in a sea of wigs and jewels. Leonora herself had a preference for the male form of dress, but seeing Kristina made her feel less alone. She admired the king’s audacity. It was a hot summer night, and elegance was suffocating.

She took one step toward the small group and hesitated. She disliked the sensation; as a daughter and sister of kings, she was no stranger to courtly manners. However, Kristina had a reputation for existing outside of protocol. Leonora had been warned that this king would see right through any conversational maneuver, and she thought she’d decided on an effective introduction to what she needed to say, but Kristina in the flesh, in the middle of animated discussion with erudite men whose intellect was very much her inferior, laughing without reserve, carrying herself with no care for decorum or poise, was an intimidating sight. It made Leonora long for a life that could be.

After some quick rethinking, Leonora decided that people who didn’t live by protocol were likely to respond well to direct words, and so she approached the king with a more relaxed demeanor. “Your Majesty,” she said, and half the heads in the room turned to her, “please forgive the interruption. I bring news from Denmark that must be heard privately.”

Kristina’s face showed no reaction. “I don’t think I know you,” she pointed out in impeccable Danish, with a grave voice that made Leonora tremble.

“My name is Leonora Ulfeldt,” she replied with a curtsey, “and… that is the reason I had to seek Your Majesty at a public place instead of requesting an audience.”

“Indeed,” nodded the king, amid the murmurations of those who had understood the exchange. Ulfeldt had recently become an infamous name. Leonora’s husband, the count Corfits Ulfeldt, was wanted in Denmark under accusations of treason. In her current disgraced state, she would never have been granted an audience through the ordinary channels. The message Leonora carried must be of the gravest importance for her to have incurred public exposure in that manner. “How are things in Canute’s dominions?” Leonora’s father, the late Christian the Fourth, had many times referred to his impromptu annexation of England as a restoration of the ancient empire of his ancestors. His successor, King Frederik the Third, had started referring to it with the blunter name of Canutic Empire.

Leonora wasted no words. “You could call them Margrete’s dominions, to hear my brother speak of them.”

Kristina caught the reference at once, and her face froze. “Watch the play with me. You’ll sit by my side and tell me all about your dear king.” She paid no further attention to the scholars she’d been talking to, and, taking Leonora by the hand, led her into the auditorium.

For the first several minutes, conversation was not possible in their box seats. The overture to Moorflower was famously loud, with explicit instructions from the composer to fill the air to the point that attention was impeded from veering elsewhere. The story of the pious refugees who by their inexperience had sailed directly into the hands of pirates had left the Venetian public unimpressed, mainly because the success of captain Sulayman was odious to a people who prided themselves on warding off every advance from the Turks, but in Protestant lands that tale of sincere devotion met with tragedy struck a dear chord.

The overture ended and the curtain opened. The tenor who played William Bradford started singing a hopeful aria about the promised land in America, tearing the heartstrings of those who knew the play’s ending.

Kristina asked softly, “Have you seen the original version?” Her voice had somehow grown even deeper, sending chills all through Leonora, who only managed to shake her head. “Some years ago, I invited an Italian troupe to come and perform Moorflower in Venetian. It’s better than in German, but this time I wanted to test what it sounded like in Swedish. I’ve had the idea for a while now that Sweden should open itself more to what is going on in the arts, and the first step is to make Swedish into a literary language.”

Leonora strained to catch the singer’s lines underneath Kristina’s explanation. “Does Your Majesty like the result?”

“It’s only the first act; we shall see. But they had better put on a good show; my treasurer yelled at me when he saw how much I paid for the translation,” she confided with a wicked smile. Leonora took the chance to have a close look at her clothes, which had nothing luxurious about them. She found truth in the gossip about Kristina: she liked to wear none of her jewels, and would happily part with them for a good book.

The aria concluded with a prayer that had given critics fodder for plenty of commentaries; its wording rang true to Protestant ears, who couldn’t believe that an Italian Catholic had written it. Although the Inquisition didn’t extend to Venice, speculation about Samuele Fulla’s religion didn’t cease. His unexplained disappearance only served to keep the rumors growing.