The Baltic War(265)

"What?"



"Your Highness," the newcomer repeated, sliding to a stop and bending in a hasty, panting bow, "the Americans have arrived!"



"Where? When?" Ulrik demanded rather more sharply.



"They've anchored in the Øresund, Your Highness. About three-quarters of an hour ago."



"Anchored?"



"Yes, Your Highness. They've raised a white flag, and their Admiral Simpson has requested a truce. According to the messenger he sent ashore, he has messages for your father. The king sent me to tell you that he wants you there when he receives him in the Long Hall."



"Of course. Go back and tell my father I'm on my way. I'll be there immediately."



"Yes, Your Highness!"



The messenger disappeared, and Ulrik turned back to Norddahl.



"I have to go," he said quickly. "But, first, what do you make of it?"



"I don't imagine they'd be here unless they'd already raised the blockade." The piratical-looking Norwegian's expression was grim. "And I don't imagine they'd be wasting time sending in messages if they thought giving us additional time to prepare would make any difference in the end."



"Couldn't you at least suggest the possibility that they're so afraid to attack that they're trying to bluff us into giving up without a fight?" Ulrik demanded with a tight grin, and Norddahl chuckled.



"Well, no, I don't suppose you can," the prince continued, and drew a deep breath. He thought with obvious intensity for several seconds, then nodded briskly and looked back at Norddahl.



"All right. To be perfectly honest, there's nothing I'd like more than to settle this entire affair without anyone getting hurt. I'm afraid that's not going to happen, though. So, while I go find out what Admiral Simpson has to say, I think you need to be passing the word to get ready."



"Of course."



Norddahl nodded back, sharply, and Ulrik turned to hurry off after the vanished messenger.





King Christian was waiting with some impatience by the time Ulrik reached the Long Hall. The huge room had been the last one to be furnished in Rosenborg Castle, only completed in 1624. Its official purpose was to serve as a ballroom, but Ulrik's father often used it as an audience chamber when he was feeling too restless to sit in his own chamber. The floor gave him plenty of room to pace about, and if he did feel the urge to sit down he could select any one of the many silver chairs that lined the walls.



The king looked more like a bear than ever, but his normal ebullience was singularly absent. He seemed completely sober, thankfully, but the look on his face didn't exactly inspire Ulrik with boundless optimism. The prince found himself wishing that his brother Frederik were here to assist him in reining in their father's emotional nature. Unfortunately, Frederik had been with the Danish forces besieging Luebeck, and was now helping to lead the retreat back to the Danewerk.



The oldest of the three princes was absent also, due to illness, but Ulrik didn't miss him. Truth be told, he didn't have a very high opinion of his brother Christian.



Which meant it was all up to Ulrik.



"Took you long enough," the king observed, and Ulrik shrugged very slightly.



"I came as quickly as I could, Father. Norddahl and I had to alert the galleys if we expect them to accomplish anything. And," he pointed out, "I don't see any American messenger waiting for us."



"Of course not! We had to send back our agreement to talk to them."



It was a sign of his father's anxiety, Ulrik thought, that he appeared completely oblivious to the illogic inherent in criticizing his son's "tardiness" when both of them were fully aware that no message could possibly get back to the palace for at least another hour or so.



Not that the king wasn't completely capable of being equally illogical under other circumstances.



"Did they give any indication as to the nature of this 'message' of Simpson's, Father?" the prince asked.



"No, and I wish they had." Christian grimaced, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword. Ulrik nodded. Simpson obviously had something special—and probably complicated, if not downright devious—in mind. Any simple message could have been delivered at the same time he sent his request for a truce ashore.



"I suppose we'll find out shortly," the prince observed.





Well, there's a message all by itself, Ulrik reflected some ninety minutes later, as Captain Admiral Overgaard followed the immaculately uniformed USE lieutenant into the Long Hall behind the chamberlain.



"Lieutenant Franz-Leo Chomse, Your Majesty, and . . . Captain Admiral Overgaard," the chamberlain announced in the voice of a man who devoutly wished he were elsewhere. Just about any elsewhere, if Ulrik was any judge.