Part Five
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
Chapter 45
Striding out of the Schloss, the enormous palace of the Archbishop-Electors of Mainz which he had appropriated for his own use during these past winter months, Gustav II Adolf caught sight of the Rhine. The flow of the river—clear, clean, simple, straightforward—brought a certain relief to his spirit.
He stopped abruptly, to admire the sight. Behind him, his little escort of advisers stumbled to a halt. Fortunately for them, none of the advisers actually collided with the king. There would have been no royal repercussions, of course. Gustav was not that kind of monarch. But as enormous as he was—and the king had gained considerable weight during the months of physical idleness and diplomatic feasting—it would have been somewhat like running into an ox. Startled king; bruised adviser, sitting on his ass. Contemplating the futility of trying to move the king of Sweden when he chose otherwise.
“No, Axel,” said Gustav firmly. He did not take his eyes off the Rhine. “Let Wilhelm and Bernard Saxe-Weimar rant and rave all they want. I am not sending an expedition to Thuringia.”
“Wilhelm is not ‘ranting and raving,’ ” demurred Oxenstierna. “He is simply expressing concern over the situation in his duchy. You can hardly blame him.”
Gustav scowled. “I don’t care how polite he’s being—which his brother certainly isn’t! The answer is still no.”
The king rubbed his hands briskly. There was no snow on the ground, but it was still only mid-March. The temperature was chilly. “I’ve gotten soft and tender,” grumbled Gustav. “All this easy living in the south!”
Just as briskly, he turned and faced his advisers. They were all Swedish, except for Sir James Spens.
To Axel: “No, no, no. In this, the dukes of Saxe-Weimar are proving to be as petty as any German noblemen. In their absence—protracted absence, let me remind you—the people of their principality have seen fit to organize themselves to survive the winter and the depredations of the war.” Half-angrily: “What were they supposed to do, Axel? Starve quietly, lest the tranquility of the dukes be disturbed?”
Oxenstierna sighed. His long-standing, half-amicable quarrel with the king of Sweden on the subject of aristocracy had intensified over the past year. And the chancellor of Sweden was losing the argument. For a moment, trying not to grit his teeth in frustration, Axel silently cursed his German counterparts. With friends like these, who needs enemies? In truth, the chancellor did not really disagree with his monarch on the specifics of the matter. Axel wouldn’t wish the German nobility on a pack of dogs, except as provender. Still—
“Gustav,” he said firmly, “the issue is not petty. And it can’t be shrugged off as another instance of aristocratic fatuity. For all intents and purposes, power in southern Thuringia—every single report agrees on this, whatever else they are in dispute over—has been seized by a republic.” His lips tightened. “They even chose the Dutch United Provinces as the model for their own name. The ‘United States,’ if you please!”
The king began to speak, but Axel held up his hand. The gesture was not peremptory—there were limits, even with Gustav II Adolf—but firm for all that. The monarch acceded politely to the wishes of his chancellor, and held his own tongue for the moment.
“The issue is a general one,” continued Oxenstierna. He snapped his fingers. “I care that for southern Thuringia. But what if the example spreads? Or simply starts to panic the surrounding principalities? We have enough problems with nervous German allies as it is. Let the Protestant princes start fretting over revolution, and the yoke of the Habsburg empire will start seeming more like a shelter than a burden.”
Standing a few feet away, Torstensson snorted. “As if the Saxons or the Prussians needed an excuse to be treacherous!”
Oxenstierna cast the artillery general a quick glare, but Torstensson stood his ground. More—he pushed back. The young general snapped his own fingers. “And I care that for the tender pride of the German aristocracy. Any one of those noblemen”—he glared himself—”and I do not except the Saxe-Weimars or Hesse-Cassel—will abandon us quickly enough, given the opportunity.”