Fine. "Early Modern Era" king, if that'd make the scholars happy.
Swell. What that meant in the real world, as far as Eddie was concerned, was that he was in transition from brutal illiterate kings whose powers were actually limited in practice to the Brave New World of absolute monarchies, whose torturers and executioners were literate so they could stay up on the latest innovations. Thank you very much.
No, he was just in a funk. The sort of funk that might be respectable enough somewhere in Greenwich Village or the lower east side of Manhattan, but any solid hillbilly would sneer at. Go fix the suspension on your car or something, you dummy.
And why was he in a funk? Oh, let's move on to Idiocy Number Three.
Secret Agent Man. James Bond, 007. Mike Stearns had entrusted him with the task, in captivity, of ferreting out the secrets of the enemy and foiling their plans with fiendishly clever countermoves. Like fucking Houdini.
Right. That made Mike Stearns an even bigger idiot than Eddie, sure, but Stearns wasn't sleeping three floors over a dungeon.
Well, maybe he was, actually—given that Gustav Adolf had insisted on having his architects draw up the plans for Hans Richter Palace and oversee its construction. The Good Old Swedes, in this day and age, weren't exactly what you'd call good ole boys. A lot closer to their troll roots, still, than they were to Ingrid Bergman.
But so what? They were Mike's dungeons, whose tongs and pincers and God knows what else he didn't have to worry about.
Well. At least not until he lost the election. After that—this day and age being what it was—who could say?
Big deal. The election Mike had to worry about was at least a year away. Eddie could lose his election any time that damn drunken Danish king who kept him up half the nights till the wee hours drinking along with him chose to punch his ticket.
Did I mention I have absolute power? No? Well, not to worry—here's the proof of it. Lads, take this fellow downstairs and pluck off another part of his body.
Eddie heard the door opening. All thought of the Three Lesser Idiocies were swept from his mind. The Great One had arrived.
"Still in bed! Eddie, you should be ashamed of yourself! And don't pretend you have a hangover because my father let you go long before the carousing was over last night. I know, Ulrik told me. Oh, he's here, too."
Eddie sat up to look. Sure enough, the youngest of the king's three sons in the royal line was coming in right behind.
Perfect. The outrigger, so to speak, to the Greatest of All Idiocies.
On the other hand—they had bestsellers in this day and age, too, he'd discovered—maybe if Eddie survived it all he could write a book and become rich and famous. Okay, rich and the laughingstock of an entire continent, but what the hell.
The Life of a Secret Agent. No, that'd be fudging. The Secrets of a Secret Agent; or, How to Turn 007 Into a Seven Percent Solution.
Chapter One. Get captured in a naval battle. Make sure you lose a foot while you're at it.
Chapter Two. Get some moron of a president to make you his secret agent while in captivity.
Chapter Three. Ingratiate yourself to an alcoholic enemy king by drinking as much as you possibly can in his company, when you don't like liquor to begin with and the stuff scares you to death because your dad was a souse.
Chapter Four. Feed him a pack of silly lies and just hope that he's not sober enough to catch you at it.
Chapter Five. Make friends with his son the prince.
Chapter Six. Fall in love with his daughter the princess. Fine. The "king's daughter"—as if that's going to make any difference when they figure it out, seeing as how James Bondaged .07 was clever enough to pick a girl who's jail-bait back up-time and dungeon-bait in this one, so it wouldn't matter if she was a butcher's daughter.
Chapter Seven . . .
But Eddie flinched from that still-unwritten one. He could only hope the red-hot tongs would cauterize the wound at the same time they rendered him unconscious from agony, when they removed the offending body part in question. Sometimes he found himself wondering if, in this day and age, they made wooden peg-dicks to match wooden peglegs.
The scariest thing was, they probably did.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" Anne Cathrine demanded. "You'd think I was a ghost or something."
Ulrik pulled up a chair next to the bed, blithely ignoring the cost of the chair or whatever damage it might do to the floor. Eddie was afraid to sit in most of the furniture, himself, and whenever he couldn't walk barefoot on the floor he practically tiptoed.
Of course, Ulrik could confidently expect to inherit the dungeons and the tongs and the what-not. He had a chance of it, at least. Danes still had the custom that the nobility got to elect the king, choosing from whoever was eligible in the royal family. They'd already elected the oldest prince Christian as the successor, but if he died before his father did, Ulrik might still wind up on the throne even though he was the youngest of the three princes. Even if he didn't, he'd surely come out of it with a dungeon or two, along with a reasonable share of the torturers and tongs and pincers and what-not.