The Baltic War(308)

Ulrik was standing not far from his father, and a little behind him. He was giving Eddie that inscrutable look that belonged on some sort of ancient Chinese mandarin or Tibetan monk instead of a Scandinavian prince almost his own age. Naturally, Baldur Norddahl was grinning. Any shark who saw that grin would swim as fast as it could the other way.



That left . . .



Anne Cathrine. When he finally looked at her, she was just staring at him, looking very wide-eyed and very apprehensive.



Simpson cleared his throat. "My lieutenant—"



There weren't many times—almost almost almost none at all—when it was a smart idea for a junior officer to interrupt his admiral. But this was one of them. Damn the sarcastic old fart. Eddie had at least three brain cells.



"There seems to be a misunderstanding, which I've just cleared up with my commanding officer." He was pleased to see that he managed to say all that firmly and coherently. Didn't stammer or hesitate at all, and never said "uh" or "well" even once.



"As was my intention all along—which simply got interrupted by the battle—I would like to ask the king of Denmark for his daughter's hand in marriage."



He didn't know if that was the right protocol. But screw it. The worst Christian would do for a lapse in protocol was make Eddie drink with him for three hours while he explained the right way to do it. He probably wouldn't even mention the diving suit.



As it happened, it didn't matter. As soon as he finished, Anne Cathrine drew herself up in as haughty a pose as a fifteen-and-five-sixths-year old could manage—not too good, really, although the out-thrust bosom was magnificent, even in formal court wear—and gave her father what would be called a "withering look" if she'd been twice the age and could pull it off.



But that didn't matter either. "I told you, Papà!" she exclaimed. Then she gathered her skirts, rushed to Eddie, threw her arms around him and planted a big kiss on his cheek.



"Tonight," she whispered into his ear. "Northwest corner room. Third floor. I'll open the window."



She glanced down at his feet. Foot and pegleg, rather. "Oh, I forgot. Can you manage a rope?"



Before Eddie could answer—or even catch his breath—her father was bellowing something about impropriety and Anne Cathrine scurried back.



Gustav Adolf drew his sword. "Come here, Lieutenant Cantrell."



Oh, shit.



The emperor leaned his head toward Christian IV. "I suppose I should properly do it elsewhere, since this is imperial and not union       business. But with your permission?"



The Danish king was still glaring at his daughter. "Oh, yes, certainly, brother. No need to stand on formalities."



Simpson's hand propelled Eddie forward. When he was just a few feet from the emperor, Gustav said, "Kneel, sir."



He then glanced at a man standing next to him. Eddie didn't recognize him, but he was wearing a Swedish army uniform. "Have we established any firm protocol yet, Nils?"



The Swedish officer shook his head. "Not really, Your Majesty. This is only the second, so it's all still rather malleable."



"In that case, I'll do it like in the movies. It's got more style."



By then, Eddie was on his knees, more-or-less driven down by Simpson's hand. The treacherous bastard.



Gustav frowned. "Something's not right."



"One knee only, Your Majesty."



"Ah, yes, of course. On one knee only, Lieutenant."



Confused, Eddie did as he was told. Did it really matter how many knees a man was on, when they chopped off his head?



At least it'd be quick. That was a real sword that had been wielded in real battles, and by a king who knew how to use it.



But Eddie was confused again when the sword simply came down, rapped him lightly on both shoulders, and was withdrawn.



"Rise, now, Imperial Count of Wismar!" boomed Gustav II Adolf.



"That calls for a drink!" boomed Christian IV. "In the banquet hall! Eddie, you sit next to me, of course, now that you're part of the family."





Chapter 70


It wasn't until nine o'clock that night before Eddie managed to weasel his way out of the banquet hall. He was a lot less sober than he wanted to be, but still sober enough to walk and—hopefully—skinny up a rope with only one foot.



It took him a while to find the right part of the palace, and when he did he was dismayed to see that another man was already standing there. He was looking up at the windows on the floors above, with a puzzled frown on his face.



As he got closer, Eddie recognized the man. His face, anyway, since he didn't know his name. It was the fellow who'd been standing next to Caroline Platzer in the big room.