John Gardner - Freddy's Book

“No reason you should doubt what you’re told,” said Gustav, turning from Lars-Goren angrily. “Everyone in Sweden believes whatever stupid foolishness he’s told.”

“My dear King Gustav!” said von Melen, stiffening, pretending to be insulted beyond measure. Now his arms were at his sides, his right boot thrown forward, the toe cocked out — the stance, it seemed to Lars-Goren, of a comic dancer. He was balding, cleanshaven except for a small jut of beard like an Egyptians. His shoulders were narrow, his belly like a globe below his hollow chest. Except for the pomp of his beribboned chest and the stiffness of his posture, no one would have thought him a military man, but he was said to be an excellent fencer.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Gustav wearily. “I snarl to keep in practice. You’ve met my friend and kinsman Lars-Goren?”

Von Melen bowed deeply, like a performer. He made an effort to seem unimpressed by Lars-Goren’s great size and breadth, but even in the middle of his sweeping bow, von Melen kept his eyes on the knight. Lars-Goren half rose from his chair, nodding back, then sat down again.

“So tell me, what wonderful news have you brought me?” asked Gustav.

“Not news, exactly—” von Melen began, glancing at Lars-Goren.

“I thought not.” King Gustav waved his hand. “Go on.”

Von Melen clasped his hands behind his back and stood cocked forward, head tipped, eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s a delicate matter,” he said cautiously.

Again Gustav waved, this time impatiently. “Delicate matters are Lars-Goren’s specialty. You may speak out as freely as you like.”

“Very well,” said von Melen, and began again. “As you’re well aware, you’ve received great benefits from the remains of the party of Sten Sture.” He waited for acknowledgement from Gustav. None came. Von Melen cleared his throat, professorial, and continued: “These benefits you haven’t always been diligent to repay. I might mention, for example, Sten Sture’s chief chancellor and factotum, Bishop Sunnanväder. What have you done for this man who was once the most powerful lord in all Sweden, a prince of the Church, and a man on whom your election very heavily depended? You invite him to celebrate High Mass on your entry into Stockholm, and you toss him the bishopric of Västerås — a crumb! Or again I might mention Knut Mickilsson, dean of Västerås — another who took a prominent part in securing your election. Again and again you’ve passed over him as if he’d died in the bloodbath.”

“That’s a pity, yes,” said Gustav ambiguously.

Abruptly, like an actor at his important moment, von Melen drew a paper from the pocket of his coat. “Let me read you what they’re saying in Dalarna these days.” He adjusted his spectacles, held up the paper, and read. “‘All those who faithfully served the lords and realm of Sweden, Gustav has hated and persecuted, while all traitors to the realm, and all who abetted the country’s cruel foe King Kristian, and who betrayed Herr Sten and all Swedish men, these he has favored.’” Crisply, he lowered the paper, then folded it and put it in his coat.

“You’re not going to leave me the paper?” Gustav asked.

“Surely, if you like.” Von Melen got it out again and handed it to Gustav. “There are thousands more just like it. As you see, they’ve copied your use of the printing press.”

“Yes, naturally. They’re slow, but they learn.” Gustav glanced at the paper, then carelessly stuffed it in his pocket. “So, von Melen, what is it precisely that you’re after, generously bringing up the names of these nincompoops who’d turn on me in an instant if Fredrik should release Kristina Gyllenstierna?”

Berend von Melen smiled with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. When he thought the expression had made its effect, he said, “I of course come to you as your friend and now cousin by marriage. Also, of course, I have some very slight concern about myself. That letter against foreigners — that filth so typical of the Dalarna mentality — has dark implications. It places Sten Sture and his party on one side, and on the other side you and all of us who have so loyally served your country though not in fact born here. If Kristina should be released, as Fredrik threatens, and the peasants and burghers should join in league with the remains of the party of Sten Sture — the ‘international magnates,’ as you call them …”

Gustav nodded and cut him off. “Yes, yes, enough.” He scowled. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Meanwhile,” said von Melen with an apologetic gesture, as if sorry to trouble His Majesty with more — and again he showed his peculiar, prissy smile—“if you were to ask me to visit Dalarna, with a small, discreet army, nothing of the sort that would suggest, you know, oppression—”

Gustav scowled more darkly and glanced at Lars-Goren. Lars-Goren looked at his hands, then drawing out his knife, began cleaning his fingernails. Von Melen watched in disgust.

“You must admit,” said Gustav, “it’s an interesting thought.”

“Not a very wise one, I think,” said Lars-Goren. He avoided looking up.

“Not wise?” snapped Gustav, flushing a little, as if the idea had been his own.

Lars-Goren shrugged. “Why send a foreigner to Dalarna, where foreigners are hated? Send him, say, to Gotland — to Visby, say, where the pirates hide between attacks on the merchant ships of Lübeck. Wipe out Sören Norby and his privateers, and — who knows? — perhaps Lübeck will be inclined to grant us an extension on the war-loans.”

“Ha!” said Gustav, clapping his hands and whirling around to face von Melen. “You see how ingenious we are, we Swedes? You, a German, will fight for a cause of importance both to Sweden and to Germany! You’ll win yourself great honor. I think so! Ah, what a day this is for you, von Melen!” In his delight, King Gustav seized von Melen’s arm. “Go prepare! Get whatever you need — don’t be cheap!” He added quickly, “Don’t be too cheap.”

Von Melen’s mouth worked, twisting as if by itself like a snake, hunting for objections. “As you say, Your Majesty,” he brought out. His tiny blue eyes looked hard at Lars-Goren. After a moment he “As you say.” He brought himself to attention as if at some inaudible command from Gustav, turned sharply, and marched out.

Gustav moved quickly to Lars-Goren and bent toward him, his hands on his knees. “You’re good,” he said. “I wish I had ten of you!” Then he laughed. “Poor von Melen! How can he plot against my government with Sten’s bishops when he’s sloshing around off Gotland?”

Lars-Goren laughed too. It was pleasant, this scheming and counter-scheming. Who could deny it? The sound of their laughter set off curious echoes. He glanced around the room.

4.

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS, thrusts and counterthrusts — ah, what a moment it was in the life of the Devil! He was everywhere at once, passing out leaflets — attacks on both sides — in Dalarna and Småland; conspiring both for and against the Dutch with King Fredrik and the tsar; stirring conflict in Stockholm between the city authorities and the pigs and chickens that roamed freely in the streets, the wolfpacks that crept along the hedges. Above all, he paid close attention to Sören Norby and the Stures.

“My friend,” said the Devil, appearing to Sören Norby in the terrifying guise of Sten Sture’s ghost, “you are my last resort now — you and your courageous pirates!”

Sören Norby sat bolt upright, his gray eyes as wide and glittering as coins. “Who are you?” he shouted. He shot his right hand under his pillow for his knife.

“I,” intoned the Devil, “am the ghost of Sten Sture the Younger, foully murdered by King Kristian of Denmark and now betrayed on every hand by my own Swedish kinsmen!” He stretched out his arms, his charred remains still smoking in the tatters of his winding-sheet.