The Baltic War(305)

Customs in the seventeenth century varied a great deal, as did the legal systems themselves. But the issue didn't usually revolve around the matter of age, as such.



Beyond that, John Chandler Simpson wasn't a hypocrite. Or liked to think not, at least. Like most Americans from upper class backgrounds—probably any backgrounds, although he wasn't sure about that—both he and his wife Mary had become sexually active in their mid-teens. Fifteen years old, in his case, with a high-school girlfriend he still remembered quite fondly. In Mary's case, the day after her sixteenth birthday, which she'd celebrated with a high school boyfriend she now claimed to detest.



Of course, what neither of those high-school paramours had been was royalty. Which was really what was at issue here. And, perhaps still more to the point, neither of them had been motivated by royal ruthlessness—whose presence here was quite apparent. Indeed, quite impressive, in its own way. He wouldn't have thought Christian IV to be that subtle. A good reminder, really, that simply because a man is an alcoholic doesn't mean he isn't shrewd and canny when he's sober.



"You realize you were played, don't you?" he asked Eddie, still looking out the window.



From the corner of his eye, Simpson could see Cantrell's little start of surprise. "Sir?"



He decided he could allow himself a smile, finally. Just a thin one, of course. Wise, stern, knowing, etc., etc. So it was with that expression on his face that he turned back to look at Eddie.



"Played. I'd say 'played for a fool' except that I don't actually think you've stumbled into outright folly. Not so far, anyway."



Eddie was practically gaping at him. Simpson was pleased to see, however, that the youngster was still standing at attention. By God, there was hope for him yet.



"For Pete's sake, Eddie. Are you so naïve as to think that a captured enemy officer would be allowed in close and continual proximity to the oldest daughter—princess or not, who cares?—of the king who holds him imprisoned? More than that! From your jumbled explanation earlier, it's blindingly obvious that the two of you were practically thrown at each other. And with the whole damn royal family in on the game. Her brother Ulrik, for certain. Her father, needless to say. And—"



It had to be said, and said bluntly. "And the girl herself, of course."



After a moment, Eddie swallowed. A hurt look seemed to creep into his eyes.



Simpson unclasped his hands and gave a little dismissive wave with the left. "Oh, don't misunderstand me. I don't have any doubt your prin—king's daughter—is genuinely fond of you. May even be in love with you, insofar as the term ever applies to royalty in this day and age. Royal or not, fifteen-year-old girls don't give up their virginity in cold blood. Not that one, at least; so much is clear enough to me, having met her. But the fact remains that this thing was set up from the very beginning. Literally, from the day you arrived here. By her father, with both her and Prince Ulrik as part of the . . ."



He shook his head, slightly. "I'm not sure what to call it. 'Plot' implies the intent to do harm, which isn't actually involved here. Not, at least, unless you're one of those idiots who thinks getting married is a fate worse than death. 'Scheme' comes closer, but it's still got too much of a sinister connotation. The best word is actually 'machination,' if you give it the proper Machiavellian twist. The way a smart king will, when he considers that the world of power can take many twists and turns, so he'd do well to make preparations for alternative outcomes. And however much alcohol he consumes, Christian IV is a very smart man."



Eddie swallowed again. "You're kidding. Uh, sir."



Simpson chuckled. "Oh, stand at ease, will you? Eddie, when have you ever known me to kid you? Or anyone, for that matter. I'm hardly what people think of as a jester."



"Ah . . . well, never. Sir. But . . ."



He was still in that same rigid pose. Simpson placed his right hand on the young man's shoulder and gave it a little shake. "At ease, I said. Eddie, it's not the end of the world. Not, at least, if you're willing to let a small modicum of intelligence enter into what has heretofore clearly been a matter guided only by . . . well. I won't say there were no brains involved, since there clearly were on the part of the Danish royal family. But there were certainly damn few on yours."



He moved over to the table and held up the royal document. "If you strip away the flowery language which is but a patina over a truly impressive list of dire consequences should the culprit—that's you, Lieutenant Cantrell—fail to make good on his crimes, what this amounts to is something any humble farmer back home could have said. With a shotgun in his hand. 'Marry my girl—betroth her, in this instance, the customs being different—or I'll blow your fucking head off.' That's pretty much the gist of it."