The Eastern Front(135)

General Lennart Torstensson and the bulk of the USE army, ordered to besiege Koniecpolski in Poznań.

For God's sake, why? Amelie Elizabeth was no soldier herself, but as you'd expect from a very capable landgravine of Hesse-Kassel, she understood a great deal about military affairs. Torstensson had no chance of taking Poznań, not as badly as the war had gone so far. So why keep his army in winter siege lines which would be very hard on the troops? It would be much more sensible to retreat and winter over in Gorzów and Zielona Góra.

Only one explanation made sense. The Swedish chancellor Oxenstierna—Wilhelm Wettin, formally, but Wilhelm on his own was not this ruthless—was keeping the unreliable USE soldiery as far away as possible. And he was deliberately bleeding them.

The strategy was cunning, in a reptilian way. But didn't the chancellor understand how reckless it was? Did he really think an army would just quietly starve to death?

The USE's Third Division, under Stearns, had been sent even farther away. To southern Bohemia, if the newspaper accounts were to be believed. To do what? Help Wallenstein defend himself against the Austrians?

Again, why? The last time Austria attacked Wallenstein—just a little over two years ago, at the second battle of the White Mountain—they'd been defeated. Was it likely they would try again? Not impossible, of course, but also not at all likely. So why weaken the USE army by drawing off a third of its forces?

Then, there was the evidence she'd spent all of yesterday and half of today piecing together. This took much more time, because there was no summary to be found anywhere, in any one newspaper or journal. Just small accounts scattered across many of them—most of them, actually—of what seemed to be casual movements. This markgraf going to visit his first cousin; this freiherr off to purchase some land; this burgermeister off to do this; that reichsritter off to do that.

She didn't believe it for a minute. She knew many of these people. The markgraf in question only had three first cousins. One had drowned as a young man during his wanderjahr in a drunken stupor, one had married an Italian viscount and was living somewhere in Tuscany, and the third had been filing lawsuits against the markgraf for at least fifteen years.

The freiherr? Going off to buy land? With what? Just six months ago, he'd tried to borrow money from Hesse-Kassel. They'd refused the loan, of course. The man was notorious for not repaying his creditors.

The burgermeister? Oh, that explanation was particularly grotesque. He was supposedly—

"Ah!" Angrily, the landgravine swept all the newspapers off her desk.

And the final piece of the puzzle—and to her mind, the most damning. Why had she not received an invitation to this so-obvious conclave?

The answer was just as obvious. She called for a servant.

"Paper and ink. Then pick this up. Not now. After I'm finished with the paper and ink which you still haven't fetched for me."

The servant girl raced off. Amalie Elizabeth forced herself to calm down a bit. There was no purpose in being harsh to servants simply because they were there. Doing so just made them more impervious to discipline when it was needed.

As soon as the servant returned, she began to write.

It was almost certainly a futile exercise, but she had to make the attempt.

Wilhelm, my old and dear friend. I implore you once again—





Chapter 43


Berlin, Capital of Brandenburg

Axel Oxenstierna laid a gentle hand on Gustav Adolf's shoulder. "Be well, my old friend. You need worry about nothing. Just heal. Come back to us."

The king had seemed to be dozing. Thankfully. He'd had one of his sudden furies two hours early. They came for no reason, they left for no reason, and left everyone exhausted, including the king himself.

Gustav Adolf's eyes opened suddenly. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition there.

But if it had been there, it passed. He just seemed puzzled now. His eyes drifted away from Oxenstierna and came to rest on his bodyguard. That was Erling Ljungberg, who had replaced Anders Jönsson. For a moment, again, there seemed to be recognition in the king's eyes.

It would not be surprising. Ljungberg's facial features did not resemble those of Jönsson's very closely, but otherwise they were much alike. Both very big men, both blond, both utterly ferocious in battle. They even shared the same love of American pistols. In fact, the pistol holstered at Ljungberg's waist was the very one that had been in Jönsson's hand when he died.

If Gustav Adolf did recognize him, though, it would be hard to know for sure. His speech was still . . . very odd. Axel would have thought he was outright mad, except for what the Moor had explained. This might still pass away, if all went well.

"Birches? Is that folded?" the king asked. "Just move the sand under the hymns."