The Saxon Uprising(126)

In the royal palace not far away, another child was feeling anxious.

“What should we do, Ulrik?” asked Kristina. The girl was almost literally dancing up and down, with a sheaf of radio messages clutched in her little fist.

“We do nothing, Kristina.” Ulrik tried to figure out the best way to explain the matter. Then, as he had done so many times before, came to the conclusion that with Kristina it was best to just give her the same explanation he’d give an adult. An intelligent adult. She wouldn’t quite understand, perhaps, but she’d know she wasn’t being condescended to—which invariably threw her into a fury.

“Your role as the monarch in this situation is to be, not to do.” He pointed to the messages she was holding. “That’s why General Stearns was careful to stipulate his loyalty to the crown.”

Kristina frowned, while she thought it through. After a while, she sighed.

“I’d rather be doing something,” she complained. “I’m feeling nervous. And I don’t like it. It’s always better if I’m doing something.”

Caroline Platzer cleared her throat. Kristina’s mentor/confidant/governess was sitting on a nearby divan. She and Baldur Norddahl had finally arrived in Magdeburg a few days ago, having taken much slower means of transportation from Luebeck.

Ulrik gave her a quick, appreciative glance. “In that case, Princess, I think you should visit your subjects,” he said. “They’ll be feeling nervous today as well.”

Now, Kristina did start literally jumping up and down. “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! That’s a wonderful idea, Ulrik! Where should we go first?”

Had it been necessary, Ulrik would have guided her to the right destination. But it wasn’t. Whether due to innate Vasa political instinct or simply childish enthusiasm, Kristina settled on the correct answer within seconds.

So, off they went. And if there was anyone in Magdeburg on that cold, clear day in February of 1636 who thought it was odd to see a large contingent of Marines in very fancy uniforms escorting the nation’s princess into the city’s central Freedom Arches, they said nothing about it.

The Marines probably thought it was odd—especially when Kristina told them to take off their shakos (“against sanitary regulations when working in a kitchen”) so they could help her with the cooking.

She even dragooned Ulrik and Baldur into helping her with the cooking. And Caroline, of course.

Platzer seemed quite at home in a kitchen, but Ulrik was well-nigh useless. He couldn’t recall ever cooking a meal in his entire life, much less preparing meals for dozens of customers. (Which soon became hundreds of customers, as the word spread.)

Baldur wasn’t much better. “They don’t have any salted fish,” he complained. Norwegians had certain definite limits.

But their skills didn’t matter. Neither did Kristina’s, which weren’t really any better despite the girl’s own delusions. Magdeburg’s central Freedom Arches was the premier such establishment in the whole of the United States of Europe. Its kitchen was huge, its cooking staff large and very experienced. They had no trouble making up for the royal errors.

The customers in the large eating rooms didn’t care in the least. They weren’t flocking to the place this morning to ingest food, they were flocking to ingest symbols.

Darmstadt, Province of the Main

By noon, the entire city council had gathered at the Rathaus. So had every guildmaster in the city and the leading figures of every prominent wealthy family. The tavern in the basement was packed.

The mayor read through all the radio messages again, for the benefit of the late arrivals. When he was finished, there was silence for perhaps ten seconds. Then the head of the city militia drained his stein and slammed it down on the table. Almost hard enough to break the thick glass. As it was, everyone sitting at that table jumped in their seats a little.

“Well, fuck!” he exclaimed.

One of the city councilmen sitting at the mayor’s table gave him a sour look. “Oh, give it up, Gerlach. It’s over.”

The militia commander scowled at him. “He’ll probably get beaten. He’s an amateur. Banér is as good as they come.”

“Banér is a Swedish pig,” said the master of the coopers’ guild. “Besides, what difference does it make? Listen to them out there.”

Even through the thick walls of the Rathaus, the chants of the crowd marching through the streets outside were quite audible.

Prince of Germany! Prince of Germany!

“All of my apprentices are out there,” continued the guildmaster. “So is every single one of my journeymen except Ehrlichmann, and the only reason he’s still at home is because he’s sick. Even if Stearns loses and Banér kills him, he just becomes the national martyr. Remember how many damn streets and squares they named after Hans Richter, after he got killed? How many do you think they’ll name after the Prince?”