King Christian IV nodded as the Danish court physician unbandaged what was left of Eddie Cantrell's leg. The monarch was a big, bluff man, narrow on the top and bottom, but wide in the middle. It was late at Rosenborg Castle, but, as Eddie had come to realize since his capture, the king kept idiosyncratic hours.
Lying on his narrow bed, Eddie flinched as his stump was revealed in the flickering candlelight, but the king's homely face took in the scarred flesh, the lack of both ankle and foot, with the utter aplomb of one who is whole himself and has never gotten in the way of an eighteen-pound roundshot in the heat of battle. "A very nice stump, Dr. Belk," he said in German. "Very nice, indeed. You have outdone yourself. Soon he can be fitted for a peg leg."
The doctor, who looked shriveled, as though he'd been freeze-dried at some point, waved a careless hand and replied testily, though Eddie couldn't understand more than a few words. Eddie's Danish was just barely coming along in the weeks since he'd been pulled out of the sea by the Danes, and the blasted doctor steadfastly refused to speak a single word of German to him. King Christian however spoke German like a native and seemed to prefer it. He even had a fair amount of English.
Eddie's room in Rosenborg castle was large and well furnished, with clean linens as well as a fireplace against Denmark's late autumn chill. He might have been an honored guest, but for the everpresent uniformed guard outside his room.
The doctor gestured at his truncated leg again, shrugged, then gathered the discarded bandages.
"What?" Eddie said. His fingers clawed at the bedclothes as he pushed himself up against the headboard. "Are you trying to tell me that it's going to grow back?" Despite of his gladness to be alive, even in this condition, he was tired of being treated like a stick of wood.
King Christian's forehead wrinkled. Fifty-six years old, he liked to dress in bright colors and sported a silly little goatee along with a single braid that stuck out of his dark hair. Tonight, as usual, he smelled of strong drink, but Eddie did not make the mistake of thinking him a fool. He just wished he could remember more of what the history books in Grantville said about Denmark in this era. Not that they'd said much, beyond some good articles in some of the encyclopedias. The problem was that given the rush with which Eddie and Hans Richter and Larry Wild had been sent up to Wismar to try to fend off the Danish fleet approaching it, there just hadn't been time to study anything that hadn't been directly tied to the task at hand. He'd read those encyclopedia articles, once, but simply couldn't remember much from them.
"They can do that?" the king said. "Your people from the future time?" His eyes, the pale-blue of winter ice, studied him shrewdly.
For a moment, Eddie was tempted to say yes. The more the king respected up-timers, the more leverage Eddie would have as a prisoner-of-war, but it just wasn't in him to tell a whopper that big at the moment. Lying took a lot of energy and he was fresh out. "No," he said, then tugged the red and blue quilt back over his stump so he wouldn't have to look at it. "We can't."
"Regrettable," the king said. "I would have liked to see that, but do not be downcast. You are mostly whole, just a little damaged, and it is not Our fault you attacked Our splendid navy in that tiny ship."
The battle flashed again inside Eddie's head—the roar of the Outlaw power boat, his foot exploding in raw, wrenching agony, blood everywhere—
He shuddered and threw an arm over his eyes as though he could blot out the memory. The grisly scene was embedded in his brain, though, and replayed endlessly. It didn't help that when he tried to sleep, he often saw Larry and Bjorn sliced to bloody ribbons by the same roundshot that had taken him out.
Christian patted his shoulder, but the man was so big, it felt more like a good-natured swat. "We have followed your Geneva Convention, and, by all appearances, your people set great store by you, even though you are only a lieutenant. Is your family highly placed?"
Eddie stared at the king's face, stifling an undignified snort at the thought of his old man being respected by anyone.
Christian didn't seem to notice. "Once negotiations are concluded, your people will most likely pay your ransom, and then you can go home to your family."
Eddie flopped back against his pillow. If Christian was pestering Mike Stearns for armaments or technology in return for Eddie's battered carcass, it just wasn't going to happen. He'd already come to terms with that.
He stared up at the fancy decorated ceiling. Besides, what good could he do the folks back in Grantville anyway? He couldn't see that anyone would have much use for a one-legged lieutenant.
"You rest now." The king turned away. "Tomorrow, I mean for you to tell my councilors about this Grantville so we can better understand how to defend against them. Your people are far too clever for my peace of mind."
Great, Eddie thought. Just great, icing on the cake, as his fellow Americans would have said. Now, on top of everything else that had happened to him, the Danes thought he should betray his country. Something to freaking look forward to. Too bad that roundshot hadn't been aimed just a hair higher.
He turned over and buried his face in his pillow as the door clicked shut.
Eddie awoke with a start to find a very pretty teenaged girl with long curly red-gold hair sitting on the stool beside his bed. She regarded him with unblinking blue eyes, her face very solemn for one so young. "Papà says you are feeling better," she said in flawless German.
His mouth sagged open and he could think of nothing to say. He'd kicked the bedclothes off in his sleep and suddenly realized she was leaning forward to examine his stump. Face burning, he covered it with the quilt.
"It is quite all right," the girl said. No more than fourteen or fifteen, she smoothed her skirts with utter aplomb. "I have seen such before. You are fortunate to be alive." The scent of roses drifted toward him.
It was still dark outside, so it had to be either very late or very early. The fire had burned down low in the grate. Shadows lay thick in the little room. Eddie struggled to sit up, clutching the quilts to his chest. "Who are you?"
"Anne Cathrine," she said as though that explained everything. Her hands were folded in her lap and a white lace shawl lay across her shoulders. She was dressed in a well-cut gown of dark-green, which was obviously far too expensive to belong to any sort of serving girl.
"I still don't understand," he said.
"Papà said you were feeling better when he came to tell us good night," she said again, this time speaking very slowly, as though he were brain-damaged, "so I thought I would visit you. I have never seen anyone from the future before."
He ran his fingers through his bedraggled ginger-colored hair, vainly attempting to restore some order. It had grown shaggy since his mishap at Wismar. "Who is your Papà?" Maybe the doctor or one of the court officials? he thought.
"Oh, he is the king." She cocked her head, studying him. "I thought everyone knew that."
His heart thudded and he became acutely aware that he hadn't washed in days. His scalp began to itch and he had to force his hands not to scratch. "Then you are a princess," he said.
"No, my official title is King's Daughter," Anne Cathrine said and picked at a bit on lint on her bodice with slim fingers. "The marriage with my mother was morganatic. Her rank was too far below his, so she was never queen and none of her children can inherit the crown." She sighed. "I did have a fiancé once, but Frantz drowned, swimming in the moat. Now Papà will marry me off to another nobleman, probably much older than me. Several have recently petitioned for my hand. I do not care for any of them."
"Gee, sounds like fun," he mumbled in English.
She leaned toward him, eyes bright. They were the same piercing pale blue of her father. "Is that American?" she asked. "If so, I should like to learn. I am very good with languages."
"Won't you get in trouble, if someone finds you here?" he said. "For that matter, won't they be angry with me?"
"Mamà was always very cross with us, so now that she's been exiled, Papà lets me do as I please," she said loftily. "At least until I am married. Then I suppose I will have to obey my husband."
"Well, he doesn't give me that kind of freedom," he said. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his back. "I think you had better go before someone finds you here."
"You are telling me to leave?" She blinked in surprise.
Eddie was no expert in royal protocol, but he didn't have trouble visualizing what folks would think if a jailbait-aged princess, king's daughter, whatever, was caught hanging around with a disreputable prisoner—in his bedroom—unchaperoned.
"It's late," he said and turned his face to the wall. Jeez, he hadn't shaved in days either. Suddenly, he itched from head to toe, or at least the toes that he still had. "I am tired. I want to sleep."
Her skirts rustled. "Very well," she said. "I will go—for the sake of your health."
Footsteps, light and precise as a dance figure, crossed the floor. The door opened and closed. He rolled back over and stared at the empty room. Light flickered from the remnants of the fire in the grate and the scent of roses lingered in the air.
The next morning, he asked for hot water and a razor when the maid brought him the usual bowl of warm milk and thick slices of cinnamon bread for breakfast, then did his best to eat all of the food. Most mornings he hadn't bothered. The washing water, when it came in a basin, was tepid, the soap yellow and harsh.
He pulled off his nightshirt, then sat on the edge of his bed and sponged himself down, trying not to look at his stump. In the light flooding in through his window, he could count his ribs. He'd lost a lot of weight since being injured, and he hadn't exactly been sporting any extra pounds in this pre-junk-food world.
He sighed. What he wouldn't give for a bag of Doritos or an egg McMuffin or even one lousy bite of a Hershey bar.
The door creaked open and he made a grab for his lacy bed-shirt, which guys back in Grantville would have snickered at as a nightgown. "Who is it?"
"Anne Cathrine." Her expectant face peered around the edge.
He tugged the shirt over his head, but it caught on his ears. "Go away! I'm not dressed!" he said, struggling to get his arms in the sleeves.
"Good," she said and pushed the door inward. "I have brought new clothes."
"Jeez!" His face flushed. He thrust his right arm through the sleeve, then clutched the covers over his bare legs. "What is it with you people?" he burst out in English. "This isn't a damned bus station, you know!"
Anne Cathrine's arms were full of clothing. One red-gold eyebrow lifted. "Could you say that again in German?"
"It, um, wouldn't translate very well." He could feel his ears burning. "Don't you have a—" He wanted to say "keeper." "A servant to watch after you or something?"
"Yes." She stiffened. "Mistress Sehested, our governess, 'watches,' as you say, after us. Fortunately, she is busy at the moment with my younger sisters. She would most likely beat me if she knew I was here, so we will not tell her."
"But you're a princess," Eddie said, flustered. He dropped the blankets, then managed, finally, to get his left arm through the nightshirt sleeve. "I didn't think princesses were ever beaten. That just doesn't sound right."
"I have told you—I am king's daughter, not a true princess." Her eyes narrowed, as she sorted through the clothing items. "It is very clear you know nothing about court life."
"I didn't mean to offend."
"Anyway," she went on, setting her bundle on his bed, "I thought a man from the future should look distinguished when appearing before Papà's councilors." She had her father's height and would be at least as tall as Eddie, if he were standing. She wore a wine-colored gown this morning, and her red-gold hair had been carefully coifed into elaborate braids pinned about her head. Two bright circles of red appeared in her cheeks. "They are fussy men, most of them old, who never want to let Papà have his way and always they say we do not have enough money! You must impress them so they will back all his wonderful plans."
He looked at the little pile, topped by a pair of gleaming black boots. Two boots. His heart lurched. He wouldn't need but one.
A maid carrying a single crutch appeared in the doorway behind Anne Cathrine. "Oh," the girl said, "and you will need this too." She motioned the servant across the room. "Do you wish help in getting dressed?"
"No!" Eddie blurted and scooted back across the bed out of reach. "I do not!"
She gazed at him with those luminous pale-blue eyes as though he were a three-year-old who'd just spilled catsup on the carpet. "I can assure you that I was not offering to do it myself, Lieutenant Cantrell," she said. "I will, however, send for a manservant if you desire assistance."
"I can dress myself," Eddie said, wishing she would just go away. Was it really possible to die of embarrassment? "Been doing it for years," he added in English.
"They say it is different in Grantville," Anne Cathrine said in a breathtaking change of subject. "For women, that is. They say your women can choose whom they will marry."
"Yes," Eddie said cautiously. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck.
"I should like to see a place like that," Anne Cathrine said. Her fingers fiddled with the white lawn shirt she'd brought, aligning the seams as though it mattered. "Later, after you speak to Papà's councilors, I wish for you to tell me all about this Grantville, with its wonderful clockwork carriages and flying machines."
"Sure, sure," Eddie mumbled. "Just let me get dressed."
"Oh." She nodded. "Very well." She turned to the maid. "Put the crutch where he can reach it, Gudrun."
The maid, a tiny dark-haired girl no older than the king's daughter, scurried forward, leaned the crutch against Eddie's bed, curtsied, then fled. Anne Cathrine followed, skirts rustling, glancing wistfully at him over one shoulder. "Promise you will tell me about the future."
"Yes, whatever!" Eddie said.
The door closed and he collapsed back against his pillows, drenched in nervous sweat. Now he needed to take that darned bath all over again, and he could just bet the water was as cold as the December air outside his window.
He thought of Anne Cathrine's blue eyes, the exact shade of the winter sky, and her supple young figure, then sighed. Maybe a cold bath wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.
The trip down to the king's audience chamber was arduous. Unfortunately, his room was at the top of one of the castle's towers. Eddie hadn't tried walking with a crutch until now. He'd asked for one, for a pair of them, actually, weeks ago, but the doctor had refused, finally saying through a translator that he was too weak. Eddie suspected that the real reason for denying him had been that, with crutches, he would be mobile and harder to confine.
Unfortunately, using one wasn't as easy as he hoped. He had a number of narrow winding staircases to negotiate, and in the end, the male servant sent to fetch him had to practically carry him the last few yards. Eddie was soaked in sweat all over again, despite the day's chill.
Just as they reached the audience chamber, he heard voices inside, arguing in German. "We have lost too many ships already, both at Luebeck and Wismar," one of them was saying. "More warships will cost money that Your Majesty's treasury simply does not have!"
"These future people are very clever," the king's voice said. "Think of all the damage done by one roaring little boat and a single air machine. If we could use this prisoner to get access in trade to armaments built in such a style, we might just achieve the edge we need to hold off the Swedes. And if we have even one of these devices in hand, our artisans might then be able to build our own."
"They will never sell us any of these marvels," someone else said in a froggy bass. "They have allied themselves with that wretch Gustavus Adolphus!"
"They were hasty," the king said calmly. "Alliances can change."
"They have no reason to change!" another voice put in. "After our failure at Wismar, we will be lucky to just to keep what we have. Mark my words, the island of Bornholm is at extreme risk! The Swedes have had their eyes on it for years."
Eddie shook off the servant's arm, straightened his back as best he could, and hobbled through the door. King Christian looked up from his thronelike chair at the head of a vast gleaming wooden table. "You are here, Lieutenant Cantrell! Good!" he boomed with his customary good humor. "Now we can get started."
He recognized the king's heir, Prince Christian, a slight thirty-year-old, standing behind the king. The son had come up to the tower, accompanying the king, several times during Eddie's convalescence, but never spoken to him.
The other seats at the table were filled with eight richly dressed men, some old and some merely middle-aged. Only two were anywhere near as young as the prince, and they stared, one and all, at Eddie as though they had a burr under their saddle.
And there was no chair for him. He hobbled closer on the single crutch, feeling horribly unbalanced. The thought of tripping and putting any weight on that still-healing stump was terrifying. Black dots shivered behind his eyes like the blobs in a lava lamp, merging and merging until he could hardly see. The room seemed to be buzzing. He reeled, then felt strong hands easing him into a chair.
After a moment, his vision cleared and he realized the minister seated closest to the king had surrendered his place to Eddie and was now glaring at him from a few paces away. Embarrassed, he tried to get up, but Christian himself pushed Eddie back as the servants brought another chair for the displaced man.
"No, no," Christian said. The icy eyes were intent. "You have not much strength yet. Americans are not as hardy as Danes. I should have realized."
A servant wearing the black royal livery pressed a goblet of hot mulled wine into Eddie's trembling hands. "Drink!" Christian said heartily, then upended his own golden goblet and clanked it down on the table. Drops of red wine glistened in his beard as a manservant hastened forward to refill the empty cup.
Eddie's dad had been an alcoholic, so on the whole, he avoided the stuff, but he sipped the wine. It was deliciously hot and heady and burned all the way down. After a moment, he did feel a bit better. His heart stopped racing and his hands shook less.
"Now," Christian said, leaning toward Eddie. "Grantville. Tell us how to defeat your navy. How many more of those deadly little boats do you have? How many flying machines?"
The Outlaw power boat, now reduced to fiberglass splinters floating in Wismar Bay, had been a one-off, though Grantville had a few other power boats, none as big. They were building more planes back home, but he wasn't sure how that was going. Parts were of course limited to what had come back through the Ring of Fire with them, and anyway he'd been too busy helping with the construction of the ironclads in the Magdeburg shipyards.
He just wished he could be there when the first ironclad met Christian's navy and blew it out of the water.
"Lieutenant Cantrell!" Christian's florid face with its fussy goatee hovered inches from his nose. "Are you well enough to speak now?"
It would be easier to say no, to plead infirmity and retreat back to his bed, but, dammit, Eddie'd had enough of lying about, staring at the stupid ceiling. He was ready to do something, anything, even if it was just sparring wits with royalty.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said and took another sip of the heady wine. "I am fine."
"The little boats that dash about in the water, then." The king gazed at him expectantly and Eddie noticed that, despite being bloodshot, those chill eyes were very intelligent. "How many?"
When he'd first been captured, he'd raised the issue of the Geneva Convention, refusing to give more than his name and rank, professing to have forgotten his serial number, though the truth was that he'd never been issued one. That had worked at the time, but now misinformation and misdirection might help Grantville more than his continued silence.
"Twenty," Eddie said off the top of his head and saw the councilors stiffen. A murmur ran through the room. "More or less. How long have I been here?"
"It has been two months since you were plucked out of the sea," Christian said and sat back in his gem-encrusted chair, thinking.
"Oh, then it's probably more," Eddie said and squirmed until he was sitting up straighter. Maybe if he told a big enough lie, they would think twice before attacking American and Swedish forces again. "We, um, build at least"—he was tempted to say "ten" but decided that would make it seem too implausible—"five or six a month."
"I . . . see." The king's tone was frankly disbelieving.
"We have over three thousand 'engines,' which we use to power machines like speed boats and airplanes, in Grantville," Eddie said. "I'm not sure how many have been allocated to the speed boat program, the airplane program, and other . . . projects. I'm just a lieutenant. They don't tell me everything."
"Three thousand?" echoed around the table. Chairs shifted uneasily. Startled glances were exchanged.
"We have calculating machines called 'computers' that help in their design," Eddie said. "And we have made some improvements lately in what we call 'software.' The new boats will be faster, and we should have a lot more of them."
"We have sent spies to Grantville," the king said, "and to the shipyards at Magdeburg. As far as we can tell, they are building very large ships with no sails at Magdeburg, nothing else. How can you explain that no one has seen any evidence of more deadly little boats anywhere?"
"They're . . . ah, in a building, hidden away," Eddie said. A drop of cold sweat rolled down his temple.
"Do you know this secret location?"
"Y-e-s," Eddie said, drawing the word out as he thought furiously.
"If we captured some of these 'engines,' " the king said, "could we build our own deadly little boats as well?"
"It wouldn't do you any good," Eddie said. "They require an energy source that you do not have, and anyway you would need what we would call a 'technician' to build, then service them." He gave the word in English.
The king pushed to his feet and loomed over Eddie. "Are you one of these 'technicians'?"
"No, I was just a pilot,' " Eddie said, "what I guess you would call a helmsman.' " The wine was potent, much stronger than any that he'd ever tried. He could feel it all the way down to his toes, even the ones that weren't there. He gazed morosely at his truncated leg, masked by the lame stocking they'd provided for him to wear under knee-length black trousers. He hoped the guys back in Grantville never got a gander at him dressed like this. "Or at least I was a pilot. Don't imagine I'd be good for much like this."
"You will mark for me a map!" Christian said. "Showing the location where these 'engines' of yours are built, so that we can send an expedition to acquire some for ourselves. And we will need to know more about this mysterious 'energy source.' "
"Sure, sure," Eddie said in English. "Whatever. It will be a waste of time, though. They will have moved the facility by now so that I can't give them away." The room was spinning again. The wine had gone to his head. He should have been more careful in his weakened condition. Well, what the hell. This was the best he'd felt since that terrible day in the bay. He upended the goblet and took another fortifying swig.
The king gave some commands in Danish that Eddie couldn't follow, then the ministers talked to one another in their native language.
At length, just when Eddie's eyelids were growing very heavy, Christian turned back to him and pushed a large map across the table. "Now, show us the location of these 'engines' at the time of your capture."
Eddie tried to make his eyes focus on the crude map of Grantville, with the high school and other major buildings indicated. "Right here," he said, trying not to slur his words. He stabbed his finger on the outskirts of town, pointing to the sketched-in square that he was pretty sure occupied the same space as Grantville's Value Mart in real life. It was a big retail building with a large area in the back for storage that wasn't accessible to customers. That might do the trick, unless the Danes could get a spy into the employees-only area.
An advisor made a careful X.
"And we will need at least one of your 'technicians,' " King Christian said, "who could construct and then operate one of these 'engines.' Give us a list of names."
A cold chill penetrated Eddie's increasingly hazy mind, then shivered down his back. He couldn't give them real names. Dimly, he was aware that he'd screwed up big-time. Jeez, couldn't he do anything right?
"Um, there's . . ." He tried to cudgel his useless brain to think. "Walt Disney and, ah, Harpo Marx. And Clint Eastwood. They're all pretty—you know—good at what they do."
One of the ministers scribbled down the names, asking Eddie for the details of the spelling. Christian looked satisfied, like an immense cat that had cornered a mouse. "It may not be necessary to actually infiltrate Grantville. Although ransom is usually paid in money, your king seems to value you highly for one of your rank. Perhaps he will be amenable to trading a 'technician' and one of these 'engines' along with its 'energy source' in order to ransom you."
Oh, yeah, Eddie thought as the room swooped around him in lazy circles, that was just so likely to happen.
Back in his room, once his head stopped spinning, Eddie was aghast at his stupidity. Eventually the king was going to find out there was no speed boat construction program. He'd think Eddie had made a fool out of him, and people who incurred the displeasure of monarchs didn't last long in this century. Outside, sleet rattled against the window and he shivered.
Lying on his bed, he folded his arms behind his head and wondered if they did that gruesome "draw and quarter" thing here in Denmark. In the movies, it always looked—
The door opened without preamble. Anne Cathrine peered in, then entered, wine-colored skirts rustling. "My papà was very pleased with your interview this morning."
Eddie struggled up into a sitting position. Even that was hard without two legs to push. "I'll bet," he muttered in English.
"He says, if you will give your parole, you may now have the freedom of the grounds." She stood before the fireplace, studying the guttering flames with a critical eye. "This is disgraceful. I will have it tended immediately."
"My 'parole,' " Eddie said. "What does that mean?"
"That you will not try to escape."
Eddie thought of trying to return to Grantville, one-legged, in the dead of winter, through hostile territory and without a single coin to his name. "Sure," he said, then added, "like I even had a prayer of getting away," in English.
"I so wish to learn your language!" She smiled and he saw that she had dimples. "They say you have books from the future in your city. If I knew this American tongue, I could perhaps read them one day." She pulled up a straight-backed chair and settled on it beside the bed. "It must be very wonderful, this future, with great clockwork birds you can ride through the sky."
"Airplanes," Eddie said and swung his foot over the side of the bed. "We call them airplanes."
Papà, it seemed, approved of Anne Cathrine learning English, or, as she termed it, American. Eddie suspected that she wasn't really supposed to spend time alone with him in his room, but so far no one had objected. Just to be on the safe side, though, he scheduled her language lessons down in the king's library.
Fortunately, she had tons of brothers and sisters so she wasn't exactly the center of attention. She'd explained to him that the king had fathered six children by his first marriage, including her half-brother, Prince Christian, who would inherit someday, and his younger brothers, the princes Frederik and Ulrik, also in line for the throne. Then there were twelve more children by Anne Cathrine's mother, Kirsten Munk, though several of those had been stillborn.
And now the king had a new mistress, some doe-eyed woman, not much older than Anne Cathrine, named Vibeke Kruse. The woman behaved abominably at every opportunity to all of Kirsten Munk's children, but especially to Anne Cathrine. The king, however, seemed infatuated with her.
Court politics were darned convoluted here at Rosenborg, and Eddie didn't think he would ever get all the pedigrees of the royal progeny straight. It was a little like one of those television soap operas his mom had used to watch, he decided, only a lot more complicated.
The ransom letter had been sent to Grantville. Eddie wanted to beat his head against the wall every time he thought about it. How could he have been such an idiot? Even though he doubted it, still there might have been some possibility folks back there could ransom him if he hadn't set up an impossible situation.
The whole thing was insane anyway. When that letter arrived, they were sure to think he'd lost his mind. And maybe he had. Being shut up in this Danish nuthouse, and one-legged on top of that, was enough to make anyone stir-crazy.
As near as he could tell, there was no such thing as a wheelchair around here, and certainly nothing like wheelchair access, even if there had been. The whole castle was full of steps from one end to the other, and most of them narrow winding ones at that. He was more limited by his lack of mobility than he was by his status as a prisoner-of-war.
At least Anne Cathrine was helping him with his Danish, so that every day he could understand just a little more of what was said around him. And since he continued to communicate to everyone else only in German and didn't let on that his command of Danish was improving, he heard more than anyone realized.
King Christian was effusive every time he saw Eddie, soliciting the American's opinion on where to build the royal engine factory, how many Eddie thought they could produce in the first year, and urging him to better explain this mysterious energy source. He also talked endlessly of Grantville's alliances, who was in charge, what sort of men they were, and how they had come to rely on that dastard Gustavus Adolphus. They could do better, Christian seemed to imply. Perhaps some of his fellow residents in Grantville might like to come and work for the Danes, sharing their advanced knowledge. Could Eddie inquire for such people, once he returned home?
Eddie did his best to answer without giving anything important away, working to create the impression that Grantville was a cohesive community with everyone pulling together for the common good. It was difficult, because the king seemed to see through everything he said and divine the truth of the matter, even when Eddie didn't think he was telling it.
One thing was for sure, the king drank even more as the winter progressed. Though he never appeared drunk, he always had a drinking bowl or goblet at hand. That made Eddie wary. Back home, before the Ring of Fire, his old man had known how to put it away too, and he'd been a mean, heavy-handed drunk, prone to smacking his family around.
One morning, when they met for Anne Cathrine's lesson, he asked her, as diplomatically as possible, if her father had always imbibed so much. She thought about it for a moment, her young forehead creased. "Yes, Papà is almost as fond of spirits as he is of young women," she said finally. "How would you say that in American?"
Anne Cathrine was wearing a gown of patterned blue silk today, which set off her eyes. Sometimes, when they were working together, he got lost in that pale gaze and couldn't remember what they were talking about.
"We would say 'he likes to tie one on almost as much as he likes to chase skirts,' " Eddie said.
" 'Tie—one—on'?" Anne Cathrine repeated, her expression intent. Her accent was thick, but improving. She folded her hands on the table and leaned toward him. "I understand the reference to 'skirts,' but the tying part does not make sense. In what regard does 'drinking' involve 'tying'? Perhaps they do it differently in Grantville."
Before Eddie could answer, the king's elderly secretary, Anders Larsen, burst into the library. A great blob of a man tricked up in dark-red velvet, his eyes widened when he saw the two young people seated at one of the tables. "Lieutenant Cantrell! You are summoned to the king's chambers at once. A letter from Grantville has arrived."
"Wonderful!" Anne Cathrine handed Eddie his crutch, then bounded to her feet. "Now Papà will get one of your engines. Then we can build deadly little boats for our navy. We will be able to defend ourselves against wicked King Gustavus Adolphus, and you will go home to your family!"
"Not bloody likely," Eddie muttered in English, forgetting that the princess could understand a great deal of what he said these days.
She halted at the threshold and stared at him. "You think not?"
"I am not important enough for such a trade," he said, then felt a hot flush creep up his neck.
"But you were so brave in the battle," Anne Cathrine said. "Papà told me how you sank one of our ships all by yourself even after you were badly injured. Surely your king values you?"
Eddie ducked his head and followed Larsen's lumbering form to the door and then down all the steps to the first floor. He had a flash of that excruciating day, of the moment when he'd looked behind him and seen his friends bloodied and dead. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He shuddered. Brave. "Yeah, right," he mumbled.
The king looked up from a sheaf of papers when Eddie hobbled into his study. It was a sumptuous room, full of expensive woods, precious ceramic vases and burgundy velvet draperies. Even the blasted ceilings had fancy paintings on them, when you thought to look up, and the andirons in the massive fireplace appeared to be gold. He glanced out the windows and saw it was snowing again. As far as he could tell, that was what it did best in these parts.
"Sit! Sit!" Christian waved a careless hand at a stool and Eddie eased onto it gratefully, laying his crutch on the floor within reach.
The king's hair had its customary wispy little plait, called an "elflock," and a pearl earring gleamed in one ear. His clothing was black and red today, trimmed in black fur. It looked warm.
"I will read for you the letter," the king said and cleared his throat.
"Most gracious King Christian IV,
"We send you greetings. We are of course delighted that Lieutenant Cantrell, serial number 007, has recovered from his injuries sufficiently to be repatriated. We thank you for following the Geneva Convention and the excellent medical attention you have granted him.
"As for your offer to ransom him in exchange for one of our engines and a technician to instruct you in its use, we must regretfully decline. Our entire inventory of engines has been sent to His Majesty Gustavus Adolphus to aid in his preparation for defense in the coming year. None of the three men you mentioned are available, unfortunately. Herr Disney and Herr Marx are much too old to travel, and Herr Eastwood was killed in a duel recently.
"Is there not some other fee to liberate Lieutenant Cantrell that we might mutually agree upon? We send you this viewing instrument as a token of our good faith. It has come to you all the way from the future. Lieutenant Cantrell can instruct you in its use.
"Respectfully,
"Michael Stearns, Prime Minister, United States of Europe"
Prime Minister, Eddie thought, not President. And what was "the United States of Europe"? The last he knew, Grantville and the New United States had been part of the Confederated Principalities of Europe.
So things had changed, and apparently in a major way. He felt a sudden wave of homesickness.
Christian laid down the letter. "So." He frowned. "It seems Our enemy, Sweden, is to have its own fleet of fast little boats powered by these Grantville 'engines.' "
Sweat trickled down Eddie's spine. At least Stearns had understood and was playing along with his ruse. It was to their advantage for Christian to think they had tons of power boats in reserve.
"That does present a dilemma." The royal fingers fiddled with his lacy collar. "We shall have to give the matter careful thought." The king picked up something from the desk behind him and held it out to Eddie. "This is what came with the letter, some sort of far-seeing device, yes?"
It was a pair of binoculars, Boy Scout issue. Eddie'd had a pair of his own years ago. These had been shined up until the metal gleamed, but they were still undersized, obviously meant for a kid, and, by the battered look of them, had done time on any number of camping expeditions.
He took them from the king, turning them over reverently. "Well, Your Majesty," he said carefully, "Prime Minister Stearns certainly spared no expense. These are the finest binoculars I've ever seen."
"Binoculars?" Eddie had expected the Danish king to stumble over the English term, but he had no trouble with it. Belatedly, he realized the word was actually Latin in its origins and Christian, like most educated people in the seventeenth century, had a much better knowledge of the ancient language than any up-timer did.
The king examined the binoculars with interest. "Two telescopes combined, in other words. What is the advantage?"
"Come over to the window and I will show you." Eddie handed the binoculars back to the king and laboriously maneuvered upright on his one foot. He always felt so awkward these days. He'd never been particularly graceful before, but just walking without having to think about every single step seemed like it should have been such a pure joy. He wished he'd paid more attention to how great it was to be whole when he'd still had two feet.
Using his crutch, he hobbled over to the window. The study looked down on the a wide expanse of flower beds and trees, all now rather bare with winter almost arrived.
He put the binoculars to his eyes, made some adjustments, then smiled as the scene below came into focus. A horseman was riding toward the castle and he could even make out the auburn of the man's hair, the green of his jacket. This pair might be well worn, but they still worked just fine. He handed them back to the king. "Look toward the oncoming rider, your Majesty," he said. "If the view is not clear, turn this dial a little." He pointed at the top of the binoculars.
Christian gazed through the lenses, then inhaled explosively. "Magnificent!" he boomed, and Eddie could smell the beer on his breath. "I am familiar with telescopes, but their image is flat. This is like standing next to what you see!"
Eddie hobbled back to his stool and sat down, easing his stump out before him. Whenever he was standing, he was always terrified someone was going to bump into it or knock him into the furniture. Barely healed, it was still very tender.
The king's unsettling light-colored eyes regarded Eddie shrewdly, then he handed off the binoculars to his secretary. Christian reached for a bowl of beer on his desk, upended it and drank noisily. "If our positions were reversed, I would not send an 'engine' to my enemies either," he said, more to himself than anyone in the room. "These Grantville people are not fools." He stared moodily over Eddie's head.
The air crackled with uncertainty. The secretary glared at Eddie as if it were all his fault, while Eddie pictured himself relegated to the dungeon, clapped in irons, fed bread and water, and damned little of that.
Finally, the king sighed. "So what other secrets do these people from the future possess? If I am not to have an 'engine,' then what other wonders can your people provide?"
Eddie's head spun as though he'd drunk too much of that beer himself. What to ask for that wouldn't hurt the war effort? Automatic rifles? A truck? Radios? Down-timers were clever and often just needed a hint of the right direction in order to make use of future technology. He couldn't think of anything that wouldn't come back to bite them in the end.
"Your Majesty, they have rifles that can strike targets from a great distance," the secretary, Larsen, said. "One such weapon nearly killed Wallenstein at Alte Veste last year, and it is so light, they say it was even fired by a woman."
"A woman?" Christian dropped onto his thronelike chair and regarded Eddie. "Is this true, Lieutenant Cantrell?"
"It was Julie Sims. A young woman very gifted at shooting," Eddie said cautiously. "She used a special long-range rifle with sights that let you see faraway, like your gift."
Christian picked up the binoculars again, and turned them over, studying the glass lenses. "Then, perhaps our own gunsmiths could take this device apart and craft such sights."
Eddie was afraid he was right. The technology for grinding that grade of lenses was not out of reach for the tools of this era.
On the other hand, this could keep the Danes busy for a while. The longer King Christian's attention was diverted from attacking the United States of Europe, which included Grantville, the stronger they would be when that attack finally came. Once the ironclads were launched, everything would be different. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, schooling his expression to polite encouragement.
"In the meantime," Christian said, "we shall write and require one of those rifles as your ransom." He cocked a dark eyebrow at Eddie. "Your life should be worth at least that much, do you not think?" He lounged back in his chair like a great bear, thinking. "They should send us one of your gunsmiths, too, to advise us. Who is the most accomplished among your firearms craftsmen?"
The secretary stared at him with expectant eyes, as did Anne Cathrine and the king. Eddie tried to think. Grantville wasn't going to send anyone here to take his place, no matter who he named. He gazed at his hands, scarred from the wounds he'd taken at the Bay of Wismar. "I think," he said slowly, "Elvis Presley would be your man."
"I shall miss you," Anne Cathrine said the next morning, when they met in the library for her American language lesson. "Once Herr Presley arrives and you are sent back to Grantville." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I wish I could go with you and meet your women! It is so hard to believe that they do as they like!"
"That's how things were in the future," Eddie said, unsettled by her distress. Truth be told, if it weren't for the fact that he knew his claims were bogus and he wouldn't be leaving any time soon, he'd be unhappy himself at not seeing the girl again.
He pulled out a chair at the long table and eased onto it. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"
She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. "Forgive me, Lieutenant. I did not mean to behave so disgracefully. Perhaps we should cancel our lesson today."
She stood to leave and Eddie caught her hand in his before he thought. "No," he said, then flushed as his fingers closed around hers. "Tell me. What's wrong?"
Anne Cathrine sank back into her chair, her posture very straight. "It is that horrid man, Dinesen. He has asked my father for my hand in marriage."
"Dinesen?" Eddie tried to think. "You mean that balding guy with the chicken-neck and bad teeth?"
"He is one of Papà's closest advisors," she said. Her eyes, tinged with red, looked over his shoulder. "And he is not just a nobleman. He owns the largest shipyard in all Denmark. He builds some of Papà's ships and is quite rich."
"Your father hasn't said yes, has he?"
"No, but he will," Anne Cathrine said. "I have already lost one fiancé, though it was not my fault that the idiot bet my brothers that he could swim the moat." She sniffed. "Frantz was always a show-off. I liked him, though."
She stopped, though Eddie could tell she had more to say. "Also," she said finally, "my mother was not noble, and she behaved quite badly. Mistress Sehested, my governess, says that I am fortunate that someone such as Dinesen would have me."
Eddie leaned forward. "I don't understand. What did your mother do that was so bad?"
More tears brimmed in the girl's blue eyes. She lowered her voice and spoke slowly in English, evidently not wanting to be overheard. "She had a lot of . . . gentlemen friends, one in particular. A German cavalry officer. He was quite handsome, and I fear Mamà was . . ." She bit her lip, then switched back to German, evidently lacking the English vocabulary. "Indiscreet."
"Oh." Eddie sat back. His mind whirled. "That's a bummer, but what does it have to do with you, especially now that she's gone?"
"Mistress Sehested says I come from 'bad stock,' that I will be no better than Mamà was, like a 'cat in heat.' Already, she says, I spend far too much time with—" She broke off and her cheeks flushed.
"With me," Eddie finished for her. He felt his own cheeks warm. Anger surged through him and he struggled onto his remaining foot, supporting himself against the massive table. What he wouldn't give to punch Mistress Sehested right in the middle of her aristocratic snout!
"But you can't marry an old goat like Dinesen!" He almost lost his balance, then sat down again. "That would be utterly—bogus!"
Anne Cathrine's depthless blue eyes regarded him, then her nose crinkled and she was laughing through her tears. "An 'old goat,' yes!" she exclaimed in German. "That is exactly what he looks like with that stringy little beard!"
"An 'old goat' you are fortunate to have, young lady," a female voice came from the threshold. "And you will not even have that much, if you are heard speaking in such an outrageous fashion."
Eddie turned to see Anne Cathrine's governess, Mistress Sehested, standing in the doorway. Still in her late twenties, she was regarded as a handsome woman throughout the court, though her expression was perpetually severe. Today, she was dressed in turquoise satin, and the cut was fine as any he'd seen in the palace. Her face was tight with anger.
"How can you even think of letting that man paw Anne Cathrine?" he demanded.
"She will do her duty," Mistress Sehested said, "as do we all. But I expect a commoner like you would know nothing about that."
Eddie's hand went to his stump, concealed in a baggy fold of hose. "Now, there you are wrong," he said, holding his head high. "I do know a bit about doing one's duty, however hard it gets."
The woman followed Eddie's gaze down to his truncated leg. "Any peasant can get in the way of a cannon ball. There's nothing noble about that." She stared at Eddie coldly. "Anne Cathrine, your presence is requested by your father." Then she left with a sweep of her full skirts.
"You should not anger her like that." Anne Cathrine's voice was only a whisper. Her fingers wrung the wet lace of her handkerchief. "She never forgets a slight, nor fails to remedy such."
"Neither do I," Eddie said, and was surprised at the steel in his own voice.
Three weeks later, the answer to the king's latest missive arrived from Grantville. Christian summoned him to the royal study.
Anne Cathrine was already present, head bowed, very subdued since the king had accepted Dinesen's petition for her hand in marriage. Her half-brothers, Princes Christian and Frederick, stood at the back of the room.
The King pulled the single sheet of creamy paper out of the envelope and read:
"Most gracious King Christian IV,
"We send you greeting, with renewed good wishes for your health and that of your family.
"Again, we are glad for word of Lieutenant Cantrell's continuing recovery. We hope to see him safe in Grantville in the near future.
"Upon receipt of your letter, we dispatched Herr Presley along with a long-range rifle, complete with telescopic sights, to Denmark, but word has reached us that he fell prey to bandits and the gun was lost. We have sent troops to recover the weapon, and rest assured that when it is found, we will send it promptly to you.
"In the meantime, please accept our regrets for the delay and tell Lieutenant Cantrell that his betrothed, Miss Marilyn Monroe, remains in good health.
"Respectfully,
"Michael Stearns, Prime Minister, United States of Europe"
An involuntary snort escaped Eddie. He tried to muffle it with a faked sneeze. Marilyn Monroe? Mike was really getting into the spirit of things.
"You are betrothed?" King Christian motioned him forward, so Eddie hobbled with his crutch across the inlaid wood floor. He was steadier now than he'd been even a week ago and moved with more assurance. The monarch's cold blue eyes studied him. "She is very beautiful, this Monroe woman?"
Eddie looked at his boot. "Some people think so," he said.
"Then We wish you joy," the king said, "when you return home."
"Uh, thanks," Eddie said.
Anne Cathrine gave him a strange look, then left in a flurry of rustling silk. Eddie's heart gave a lurch. She seemed upset.
"It is unfortunate about the rifle," Christian said, appearing not to notice. "I was looking forward to having it duplicated."
Balanced on his single foot, Eddie sighed. "Bandits have been a problem since we came here from the future." He moved several steps closer. "Have your craftsmen been able to reproduce the lenses from the binoculars yet?"
Christian scowled. "No. I have summoned a lens grinder from Amsterdam. Once he arrives, then We will see."
Mike Stearns had taken a calculated risk in sending the binoculars, Eddie thought. Just because the technology to make such things didn't exist here yet, that didn't mean people of this era weren't smart. With a good example of what could be accomplished, they would figure the process out.
As for himself, he wasn't fooled by that letter. No high-power rifle had been sent to Denmark. There were no bandits. Stearns was stalling. He had something in mind, some plan, even if it was just to put off Christian indefinitely while Gustavus Adolphus built up his forces and moved men and resources into place.
All Eddie could do to help was play along. He would never see Grantville again, never go home, but, so far, it seemed he was the only person in Denmark who knew it.
Anne Cathrine did not come for her language lesson the next day or the next. Finally Eddie sought her out in the apartments she shared with her sisters.
A young maid opened the door, then stared at Eddie, her mouth frozen in an "O."
"Please say that Lieutenant Edward Cantrell is here to see Anne Cathrine," he said in Danish, the words awkward on his tongue.
The door closed in his face and he was left teetering on his one foot and feeling stupid. Voices sounded from within, muffled and unintelligible. Finally, the door opened again. Anne Cathrine stood before him, stiff and proper, as though they hadn't spent hours and hours together.
She inclined her head. As always, her red-gold hair was beautifully braided, but her cheeks were pale, almost as though she'd been sick. Her gown was dark green and very formal with tons of laces and gold and velvet trim. "What's up, dude?" she said carefully in English.
Eddie had to stifle a laugh. "I was worried," he said in Danish. "You did not come for your lessons."
Mistress Sehested's voice spoke sharply behind her in the royal apartments. Anne Cathrine glanced over her shoulder, then edged out into the hallway and closed the heavy oak door. "I am very busy at the moment," she said. "I have fittings for my wedding dress and . . ." Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip.
"He's really going to make you do it, then," he said, "marry that old goat?"
"Dinesen is quite . . . zealous on the subject of our union." A tear trailed down her wan cheek. "He asked Papà to move up the wedding date, so I am afraid I have no more time for American lessons."
"You can't marry him!" Eddie said in English. "It just isn't right!"
"But you are to be married too," the girl said and brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. "To this Marilyn Monroe."
"Oh, that." Eddie glanced around, but they were alone in the shadowy hallway. He could hear the wind howling outside. "Prime Minister Stearns doesn't know it yet, but Marilyn and I are calling that off."
Her blue eyes widened. "You are breaking your betrothal?"
"She's, um, in love with someone else," Eddie said, "this guy named John Kennedy. I'm not going to stand in their way. We just haven't announced it yet. In Grantville, we consider it immoral to marry someone you don't love."
"But," she said softly, "what about duty?"
"The pursuit of happiness is a duty," he said. "Marriages made without love and respect don't last. Just look at your mother and father."
"But Papà did love her," Anne Cathrine said. "He was so unhappy when she turned away from him."
Eddie remembered his own mother, who had stayed with an alcoholic husband when good sense would have dictated otherwise. "I will never marry anyone I don't love, and who doesn't love me back," he said. "And neither should you."
"But I have to do as I am bid."
"Not if you lived in Grantville," he said. He thought of Sharon Nichols, Julie Mackay, and Melissa Mailey. They could all explain this so much better than he ever could. "I wish I could take you there."
"As do I." Her blue eyes shone with unshed tears.
Eddie thought for a moment. "Isn't there anything about this Dinesen that would make your father change his mind, some secret, perhaps?"
"He and Papà have been drinking companions for a long time," Anne Cathrine said. "His wife died in childbirth two years ago, and, when we are in the same room, he looks at me as though he could consume me like a hot apple pastry." She shuddered. "I barely know the man, and never wanted to."
"Then we'll have to make something up," Eddie said. "Leave it to me. I've always been good at whoppers. I had to be, growing up in my family."
" 'Whoppers?' " Her eyebrows rose in question.
"Lies," he said in German. He heard footsteps at the other end of the hall. "I'm going to rearrange the truth a little."
She patted at her skirts, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with trembling hands. "Do you think it will make a difference?"
"I don't know," he said, "but we can at least give it our best shot."
Eddie lay in bed that night and cudgeled his brain for ideas. What would make the king dislike Dinesen so much that he would boot the wretch out of court, much less out of Anne Cathrine's life? He thought back through all the rumors about royal goings-on that he'd heard since being delivered here one-legged and half-dead in October. Anne Cathrine's mother had evidently carried on in a quite scandalous fashion with a German cavalry officer until, three years ago, Christian had banished her from Copenhagen. What if—?
He turned over and huddled beneath the warm quilts, a tiny germ of a plan forming in his mind. Maybe, for once, his dreams would be good.
"Okay," he told Anne Cathrine in the library the next day, "all you have to do is play along."
"But it is not true," Anne Cathrine said. She had dressed in wine-colored silk and it flattered her naturally fair complexion.
"Heck, three quarters of the things I hear every day here aren't true," Eddie said. He breathed in the scent of fine leather and old paper from the surrounding shelves and shelves of books. "That doesn't keep anyone from saying them."
She bit her lip and nodded. Her red-gold hair was coiled low on her neck today and pinned with a silver ornament. She looked so enticing, he found it hard to concentrate.
"Look, this may not work," he said. "I can't promise anything, but it's worth a try."
The flames crackled pleasantly in the fireplace, and they passed the time then conversing in English until a young apple-cheeked maid came in to remove the ashes. Eddie nodded at Anne Cathrine. "You saw Herr Dinesen go off into the stable with Vibeke Kruse?" he said in Danish, very softly, as though he didn't mean to be overheard.
"He had his arm around her waist!" Anne Cathrine glanced over her shoulder, then leaned closer. "He is my intended, so I am sure there was nothing improper going on, but it looked so—so—"
"Shocking?" he supplied.
"Dinesen would never dishonor my father," she said. "It just would not happen."
"Of course not," Eddie said. "He is the king. Everyone respects that."
Startled, the freckled maid dropped the brush with a clatter, then picked it back up and finished her task. Eddie winked at Anne Cathrine.
They abandoned the library and made their way down to the vast castle kitchens to snag some freshly baked cinnamon cakes. Several cooks were working on the king's midday meal, putting crusts on lamb pies. Anne Cathrine broke off a piece of hot cake and handed it to Eddie, who was balancing on his crutch.
"You must be wrong," he said. "Vibeke Kruse would not allow anyone to—"
Anne Cathrine edged closer. "His hand was, well, let us just say where a gentleman's hand would never be!"
Eddie took a bite of the delicious cake. The cinnamon melted in his mouth. "Did she slap him?"
"No," Anne Cathrine said softly. "She laughed!"
"This is a very bold man you are marrying," Eddie said, struggling with his newly acquired Danish. "He should give you interesting children."
"What kind of children do you think Vibeke Kruse will be having?" Anne Cathrine giggled. Obviously, Eddie thought, despite her initial misgivings, she'd warmed to this business like a trooper.
They left the kitchens under the staring eyes of the two cooks, who gave each other a meaningful glance over the young people's heads.
Anne Cathrine and Eddie made a circuit of the entire castle, gossiping in front of servants at every opportunity. The princess gave an Oscar-worthy performance each time, lamenting the lack of respect for her royal father and the unworthiness of her future bridegroom. When they had exhausted all inside possibilities for an audience, they put on warm cloaks and went out through the snow to the royal stable to chat in the hearing of grooms and stable boys.
The air was crisp and clean, filled with the salt tang of the nearby sea. Snow sifted down from a pewter sky, light and feathery. Eddie hadn't been outside much since his arrival, and it was pleasant to leave the castle, even on one leg. His stamina was improving, and even though he had to rest on a bale of hay after they reached the stable, he felt more like his old self than he had since the attack run in Wismar Bay.
Anne Cathrine stopped in front of a stall and stroked a sleek black mare's nose. "This is my horse," she said. "Her name is Laila." She turned and looked at Eddie with those marvelous light-blue eyes. "When the weather is better, we could go riding. Then it would not matter about—" She colored, then pointedly turned her gaze away from Eddie's stump.
Eddie had never been much for horses, but he saw her point. On horseback, he wouldn't be lame like he was now. He could move about freely again. "I would like that," he said.
They carried on with their plan for several days before they saw any results. Servant girls began to give Dinesen strange looks when he visited the castle, ducking their heads and making sure to remain out of reach. Vibeke Kruse's mood, always mercurial, darkened, and more than one of her maids was seen fleeing her chambers, weeping.
Eddie eavesdropped, whenever he had the opportunity. Most servants did not realize he'd learned much Danish, so they were much freer with their comments than they might otherwise have been.
"I heard he went right into her rooms late at night!" a footman said in passing to a middle-aged seamstress on her way to a fitting. "And he did not leave until the next morning!"
Eddie, hobbling past the pair in the hallway on his crutch, pretended not to understand.
"They say a child will be born in the summer," the seamstress said, clutching her bag of pins, thread, and needles. "And it will not resemble the king!"
"Last time, he sent the unfaithful wretch away," the footman said. "And he is not even married to this one."
"It is a bad business." The seamstress's long face creased. "When the king is angry, everyone suffers. We shall all have to keep out of the way."
Eddie rounded the corner before he could hear more, but smiled to himself. It was working.
King Christian sent for Eddie two days later. A male servant delivered the message, then escorted him from his little tower chamber down to the ornate Winter Room, as though he couldn't be trusted to show up. The servant, an older man named Jens, set a brisk pace and wouldn't look at Eddie.
When Eddie entered the richly appointed room, morning sun was streaming through the windows. Anne Cathrine was already there, standing beside the king's massive chair, along with Prince Christian, Dinesen, Vibeke Kruse and a whole raft of people Eddie didn't recognize. The room smelled strongly of spilled wine as though the king had already tied one on. Cold sweat prickled down Eddie's back. This had all the hallmarks of a set-up.
King Christian drank deeply from a golden goblet, then clanged it down on a side table. "My court has been rife with rumors for the last few days," he said in German. "Wicked rumors."
Eddie did his best to stand up straight, even on one foot, and meet Christian's ice-cold gaze.
"Fortunately, none of them could be substantiated," Christian said. "Yet, still it is troubling."
Busted. All the starch left Eddie's spine. He wanted to sink down on a stool and hold his head in his hands. Not only had he gotten himself in deep, but he'd dragged Anne Cathrine in with him. Why hadn't he just kept his big mouth shut? He struggled to hold his head high.
"So I interview and ask questions," King Christian said. He glanced over at Vibeke Kruse who smiled back uncertainly. She was wearing a pale-gray dress cut scandalously low in the bodice. "The rumors say Dinesen has been indiscreet with my beloved Vibeke." He picked up the goblet again and pounded it in time with his words. "But this is not true!" Wine splattered the arm of his chair and floor. Servants hastened to wipe it up.
"Of course it is not, Your Majesty!" Dinesen started forward.
Christian held up a hand, his homely face creased in concentration. "But upon inquiry there were other things to be learned."
Dinesen paled. "Whatever you have heard, Majesty, rest assured I have not gone near—"
"There is the disturbing matter of the commissioning of four galleons by Gustavus Adolphus to replace his magnificent Vasa, which quite fortuitously sank in his own harbor a few years ago, praise be to God." King Christian took another long draft from his goblet, then held it out to be refilled. "Are We to suppose you have not 'gone near' that either?"
"But that—that—that—I—" Dinesen's mouth hung open.
"Was only business?" The king lurched to his feet. "You put money before loyalty to your monarch, and yet you expect the hand of my precious daughter in marriage?" His volume increased with each word until he was roaring. He dashed the remaining contents of the cup in Dinesen's face and red wine soaked into the linen of the shipbuilder's shirt. "From this moment on, Denmark will sell no ships to our sworn enemy, Sweden!" He turned to several uniformed guards waiting in the corner. "Take him away until I can investigate this further!"
They darted forward and seized Dinesen who was too horrified even to struggle. His face was as white as watered milk. "Your Majesty, please!"
King Christian turned to Anne Cathrine. "I had not thought to find you so like your mother, child," he murmured and touched her face with the tips of his fingers. "It seems you have something of her spirit after all."
"I am sorry, Papà," the girl said, catching his hand and pressing her cheek to it.
He glanced at the rest of the spectators and scowled. "Get out!"
Heart thumping, Eddie turned to go, too, but the king shook his head. "No, young scamp. You also will stay."
The room cleared, with Vibeke leaving last of all and giving both young people a venomous glare. The royal mistress's skirts swished through the door, then it closed behind her. Christian sighed. "Your mother was not all bad, you know, especially at the start." He upended his empty goblet, then gazed at it dolefully.
"She loved you then, Papà. I know she did." Anne Cathrine's voice was strained. She took the goblet and filled it again with dark-red wine from the bottle on the sideboard.
"Once," the king said. "But now is another day." He turned to Eddie. "My daughter tells me that you are not betrothed after all."
"No, sir," Eddie said. "Before I left Magdeburg, Marilyn Monroe's affections had settled upon another, and I released her from her promise. Prime Minister Stearns just is not aware of it yet."
"Very wise," the king said. "Once a woman's affections have altered, not all the tides in the world can turn them back." He picked at a ruby embedded on the arm of his lushly ornamented chair. "We received a new letter from Grantville. Perhaps you would care to read it?" He gestured at an envelope on the sideboard.
Anne Cathrine handed it to Eddie. He pulled the letter out, then read:
"Most gracious King Christian IV,
"We send you greetings. The gunsmith you requested, Herr Elvis Presley, is still missing and feared dead, though occasionally we do hear he has been sighted, so all may not be lost. In the meantime, perhaps we might make some other suitable arrangement to have Lieutenant Cantrell returned to us."
"Respectfully,
"Michael Stearns, Prime Minister, United States of Europe"
"I am not so foolish that I cannot recognize—what is that American expression my son Ulrik explained to me? Yes, 'stalling tactics.' " Christian said. "So it seems you will be with us for some time yet. That being so, I suggest you consider your behavior more carefully in the future."
The king shook his head. "Vibeke now quite detests you, and with good reason. You behaved badly and will have to watch out for her. I must warn you that she is well skilled in repaying a wrong. On the other side—" He chuckled. "It does no harm for her to be aware how easily she could lose her position here at court, if she ever did choose to . . ." His fingers drummed on the arm of his throne. His pale eyes became icy. "Misbehave."
Eddie swayed, and the king waved a careless hand at him. "Sit! Sit, before you fall down and I have to call the royal surgeon to put you back together again. It was hard enough the first time."
Thankful, Eddie limped over to a straight-backed chair by the wall and sank onto it.
"Dinesen is a fool. I knew about the ships for a long time, of course. Business is business. A man must take profit where he can, but I discovered he has been bragging, telling everyone how splendid those other ships will be, better even than the ones he has built for Us, while taking his advancement through marriage to my daughter for granted. He has even been pestering me, seeking favors for his family. I have already grown quite weary of him, and the wedding has yet to take place!
"As for you, daughter." The king turned to Anne Cathrine. "Your willfulness has done you out of a bridegroom, and I have my doubts whether anyone else at court will be willing to take you on after this debacle. Do not think that everyone is as gullible as kitchen helpers and chambermaids."
Flushed, Anne Cathrine stared down and traced the red and gold patterns in the Turkish carpet with the toe of her slipper.
"Still, you are coming of an age when you will have to marry someone. I will need to give thought to the matter again."
The king took a long drink of wine, then wiped the residue out of his beard with the back of one hand. "Now, on the chance that Prime Minister Stearns is telling the truth, we shall send soldiers after this Presley and Our missing long-range rifle." He turned to Eddie. "You will give the captain of my guard a complete description of the rascal's appearance. Especially useful will be anything distinctive about the man."
"Well," Eddie said, seeing a chance not to lie, exactly. "He's very fond of blue suede shoes."