Days of Victories

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DAYS OF VICTORIES

A historical tale by Werner von Heidenstam

translated from the Swedish and adapted by Sandra Dermark

November 2015

I. The Protestants take to arms

Deep within the Hofburg, his vast Viennese palace, sat an aged and ailing Kaiser Matthias,

rosary on his knees, and he talked about tolerance. But, when he closed his weary eyes for

the last time, his nephew Ferdinand was crowned kaiser by the allied Electors of the Realm.

Before the altar of the Virgin, he had sworn to reinstate the great power of the Catholic

Church. Clever and strong, surrounded by clergymen and priests, he was a man who kept his

word. It was his dream that all the power in Christendom should be shared by him and thePope alone. A storm was encroaching on his vast realm, because many of the electors and

their subjects had become Protestant since long ago. In the olden days, the Pope had been

the one in charge of spiritual matters, but that could no longer satisfy the faith of the people,

and that threatened their right to research and think free. The earthly world began, more and

more, to rise up against the old Church.

In the North, the din of war thundered as well. The young king of the Swedes, Gustavus

Adolphus, was burning with desire for great deeds. He was already starting to devise a new

form of warfare, and, at the same time, to rejuvenate and complete the internal state of

Sweden. The world is always young, and always new, for brave young people. He hadalready conquered Karelia, and Latvia would soon follow as well, so that the waves of the

Baltic, from as far south as Riga up to the Gulf of Bothnia, would reach the Swedish coastline.

But the Kaiser shrugged his shoulders at this young man's feats in faraway lands. For him,

the Polish Catholic Sigismund was still the rightful heir to the throne of Sweden, and Gustavus

Adolphus was but a usurper, on whom he didn't even dare to bestow the royal name. The

Kaiser was determined to exterminate all those who could be called heretics, without any

mercy, and he had such people near. With the crown of twelve stars around her head, the

Mother of God was still looking after his armies, over men who, their hands on their crucifixes,

swore to give their blood for her sake. The inevitable conflict had come. The Protestants fled

their razed churches and their scoured homes, as they restlessly looked around for a leader.Who was strong enough of will to be the man of the new age? Who would gather all of them

and lead them to victory, for their young creed not to become a poor flickering candle light,

that the storm would quench for ever?

The evil spirits of warfare, all of them, flew over the heart of Europe, to scour and devastate

the region for thirty long years. Ploughshares were left to their fate, to rust. Horses were

harnessed to cannons. Poor farmers had to pick acorns and berries in the woods to feed. Like

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redoubtable Titans, the Kaiser's warlords rushed forth, scattering fire and blood over the

lands. Filled with dread and awe, the rank and file looked up to them and followed them

blindly through hailstorms of bullets. What happened to a soldier who couldn't get his pay?

The light of burning haystacks and already scoured farmhouses lit up their way, as they

waded across rivers and marshes at night, towards the next place (even a petty holdfast

would count) where there were full cellars ripe for the looting.

Before a grand palace, sometimes a long row of baroque coach-and-sixes stopped at the

gates. The horses harnessed to the carriages were led to feed from marble mangers, while

blue-blooded guards and pageboys stood at the staircases. Every evening, countless guests

gathered in the brilliantly lighted great halls, but the host himself often remained unseen. If he

ever appeared before the set table, he sat wrapped up in his eerie thoughts, as he kept

silence. He was lilywhite and slender, with raven hair and blazing black eyes. If he ever said a

few short words, the whole company at the table listened to him entranced, as if he were a

soothsayer, as if they were listening to some mysterious voice from beyond. Silence was to

be kept in his presence as well. The servants were walking about in soft slippers, and thelords wrapped their spurs in satin ribbons, so that they did not clink. This was the most

redoubtable and the most dreaded of all the Titans, and his name was Albrecht von

Wallenstein.

In his youth, Wallenstein had been but a middling landowner, but he had married a dreadfully

wealthy and elderly dowager, without any children of her own, who died shortly after the

wedding and left him the whole of her vast property. By subsequently purchasing the castles

and lands of defeated Protestants from the Crown, he had expanded his estate to

unfathomable proportions.

A freethinker himself, he cared little for the conflicts between believers of different faiths. Withhis reputation as a warrior and his endless fortune, he summoned a vast army for the Kaiser,

and he let those soldiers feed themselves by taking all that there was to be found. All the way

from faraway lands, adventurers came to enlist under his flags to win both glory and wealth.

His wildest cavalry came all the way from Croatia. And, when the Croatians' silvery reins

glittered through the gunsmoke, both Catholics and Protestants knew that no quarter would

be given at all. The German electors could no longer tolerate such a scourge. And thus, they

persuaded the Kaiser to take the highest command of the Army from Wallenstein and bestow

it upon another of the Titans: the seventy-year-old, undefeated Count of Tilly.

High atop the walls of Magdeburg, which nearly resembled steep cliffs, the Protestants soon

saw that Tilly was closing in at the head of his ranks, veteran soldiers grown old under the flag

of the Catholic League. But what was this new, hitherto unknown battle-cry, that reached the

crowds on the ramparts?

"Down with the Kaiser's men! Long live the King of Sweden!"

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Strange things, indeed, had happened on the Baltic coast: there, a great royal fleet with

Swedish flags had suddenly landed. It's rather petty just to sit at home by the fireside and sigh

and complain about living in hard times. Young Gustavus Adolphus was a Great Swede, and

Great Swedishness has never meant to be left behind and let others win their victories. For

him, Great Swedishness was to let the whole people rejuvenate and arise, and then, with the

help of said people, to gallantly reach the hand towards the flagpole, in the heart of thegreatest power of its times. The grandson of Gustavus Vasa, the father of the nation, hadn't

forgotten what the real legacy of House Vasa was, and thus, he had come to support the

Germans of the same religion. Fortresses and holdfasts fell into his hands, and forth went the

march across grass and snow: rather snow, with which his Swedes and Finns were obviously

familiar. But could he be able to save his Protestant allies in Magdeburg? The Elector of

Saxony sat aside, quaffing his ale, and he didn't know yet what he should think about those

unwelcome guests, so he denied the Swedes passage through his lands.

Then, in the meantime, Tilly thought of employing a ruse de guerre. Day and night had his

huge cannons thundered at the walls of Magdeburg, where the people had already started tolose hope, but now he had his artillery silenced. At nightfall, the weary sentinels were still

watching on their posts... but not a sound could be heard from Tilly's camp.

"He knows the Swedes are coming", the townsfolk thought. "Against his custom, the old man

is preparing to retreat". Confidently, most of them returned to their homes at the end of the

night and got to bed, to finally have a rest. But the next morning, before the bells in the church

towers struck seven o'clock, a high ladder arose and leaned against the silent ramparts.

Followed by a band of dark-skinned Walloons, up climbed a man who never had shivered or

shaken. It was Colonel Pappenheim. Every time that battle frenzy or rage brought the hot

blood to his brows, two crossed scars that resembled crossed swords flushed red atop hisbushy eyebrows. The higher he climbed, the redder the scars blazed.

"Victory! Victory!", he cried, and finally he nailed the Imperial flag to the bastion, where the

last sleeping guards were hastily stabbed dead.

The pealing of the church bells and the rising smoke soon proclaimed to the whole region that

Magdeburg was being conquered and destroyed. Wounds, famine, toil and trouble: Tilly's

soldiers had held through all the odds to get to live in such times as those. Here, the meanest

private could get the wealth of a lifetime, as long as he made a good catch. There were no

longer rules or order. They just had to break some locks and fill their knapsacks to the brim.

But who could carry fine tables or chairs, or glass from windowpanes? "Break the furniture,

and let that rubbish burn!" That was the wild robber band's solution to the problem.

Women tried to hide in their cellars and in garrets, or on the heaps of slain out on the

blood-stained streets. On the floor of one only church there lay, at the end of the day, the

bodies of more than fifty beheaded women. Little children ran around, calling for mum and

dad, only to receive no answer. Laughing, the drunken Croatians caught them by their feet,

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split the poor orphans in twain with their sabres, and threw their bodies into the flames.

Rooftops fell down with thunder, and the whole of Magdeburg was plunged into such an

inferno, that the heat forced the conquerors to retreat and continue their looting elsewhere,

another day.

Tilly looked, with tears in his eyes, at the heaps of ashes, when he made a gloomy entrancein the ruins. The spoils that his men carried with them, when they finally marched on towards

Leipzig, were of no interest to him.

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II. The Battle of Breitenfeld

After new raids, Tilly was sitting one night in a cot with his generals in council. The

smouldering ruins of Magdeburg had finally scared the Saxon Elector off his tankard. Now

allied with the Saxons, Gustavus Adolphus was ready for battle. This council would decide

whether Tilly should, the very next day, confront the young victor on the open field of battle.

Doubting and troubled, the so experienced warlord shook his aged head. The red plume, that

hung from his hat downwards on his back, fluttered and flickered, and his stern face was

plowed with countless furrows and little wrinkles. Strict and clever, with deeply sunken eyes,

he sternly beheld his brothers in arms. But Pappenheim smirked to himself at the old man's

anxious carefulness, impatiently pounding his own chest. There was, on his body, not a spot

the size of a hand where he didn't have a scar. He was as old as Gustavus Adolphus, and

there was a legend in his household that, one day, a scarred Count of Pappenheim on a white

steed should defeat a great king. He was burning with impatience to ride his snow-white

gelding and test if the prophecy was true.As he spoke, the sword-like scars on his forehead flared up.

Finally, Tilly gave in. He slowly got up and buttoned his green doublet. Without being aware of

it, they had been sitting in the Leipzig morgue, and the dawn began to let its light in through

the little windows. As they walked out of the room, they saw that the walls were completely

decorated with paintings of craniums, crossbones, and coffins. A gloomy Tilly folded the brim

of his hat over his bushy eyebrows and got on his saddle.

They were now on the plains north of Leipzig, and, by a hill not far from the estate of

Breitenfeld, Tilly had laid his army in battle array. One of the Croatians, who had lost hishorse, was sitting astride on one of his huge heavy cannons. His old-fashioned breastplate lay

heavy upon his shoulders, such was its weight! But, quite unexpectedly, he began, after all, to

jump with both feet in the air, as he pointed with his sabre.

"There! The Swedes are coming!", he shouted with glee, while skipping higher and higher.

"My eyes are sharp, but I can't see that they have any cannons. Neither can I see any

matches on their guns, nor any fork rests for them to support their arquebuses. And the

gunners are running among the riders, like the lasses among the lads at a dance! I must tell

you something..." he said, after having coolly watched them for a moment. "These folks

simply don't understand the good old art of war. Yes, they're warriors indeed! But they don'tknow their own profession. And they must be so bored, or so I have heard! As soon as they

have a moment of spare time, they will all stand upright and sing their songs. Pardon me,

Holy Mary, but I know more exciting tunes. Ugh! Curses on those herring-eaters!"

The Croatian didn't notice that Tilly was turning pale. The dreaded Titan's seventy-year-old

eyes were sharper than his own. Through the spyglass, he beheld the handy flintlocks on the

Swedes' muskets, their shorter pikes, and the little light cannons that they had concealed

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within the brigades. But what kind of cannons were these ones, that did not need more than

one or two horses to be harnessed to? Well, they were made of leather. Anyway, dressing in

skins and writing on skins were things as old as time. But firing with guns made of skins was

just a whim of the Finns' and their Nordic brothers'. No, this was certainly not the way that it

should be, whether for a Croatian or for a laurel-crowned, white-haired warlord of the old

school. This was a young genius who, with a brand new art of war, rushed into a storm,against his obsolete elders.

Tilly's army was arranged in thirteen massive square tercios. They looked like thirteen large

holdfasts, because from every square's perimetre of gunners arose the infantry's

eighteen-foot pikes, like palisades. The officers gasped for breath and gave commands:

"Arms on forks!"

"Blow off match!"

"Open pan!", the commands were carefully and decently given.

Sometimes, it would take up to ninety-nine different steps before an arquebus was finally

fired, as it tossed forth heavily in its supportive fork rest. That had been the way of fighting

ever since the Middle Ages. The autumn sun shone blankly on their uncomfortable iron

armours, but it was gradually darkened by clouds and bluish gunsmoke, and the setting grew

even more dire. Light and free of movements, the troops of Gustavus Adolphus were arrayed

in long lines, and his little cannons began to peal. Pappenheim was already down in the fray,

on his white steed, to seek the King in the right wing, where he usually could be found. Seven

times did Pappenheim rush into attack, but every time, he was violently thrown back in the

heat of furious fighting. In the end, the terrified horses turned around and pulled their riders

with them into dizzying flight. Pikes and swords crossed, muskets thundered, and Tilly'sredoubtable cannons made the ground quake.

The gunsmoke grew thicker, and the drums drubbed for the soldiers not to lose each other.

Forsaken by the Saxons, who had already taken to flight, the Swedes kept on advancing

forwards. With the unbent Finns at their head, the eastern Swedes pursued the enemy up the

hill, as flames of fire lit up their faces. But could they really be sons of the North? The Croatian

who still was sitting on the cannon pensively clutched his head. They were dark of face, as if

they had just arisen from the ruins of Magdeburg. Then he saw how one of them stroked his

hair, and, where he had laid his hands, his hair turned a fair shade of blond. The gunsmoke

had laid itself like wet black paint over their skins and clothes.

A rider, who was constantly surrounded by flashing blades in the thick of the battle, had had

his costly lace collar so soiled that it looked like a dirty gray rag. He was a man in the prime of

youth. But he closed his eyes a little, as if he were short-sighted. And he was so heavy and so

overweight that his horse was panting for breath and full of froth. The rider held his head

backwards, with a fluttering green plume in his broad-brimmed hat. His chest was not

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shielded by any steel breastplate, but only covered in a buff doublet of moose-skin. This man

was the King of Sweden.

"Hold tight, my daring boys!", he shouted in a gallantly cheerful voice. "Think of our loved

ones at home! One hour more, and victory is ours for years and days beyond our lives!"

"Jesus, Mary!", the Leaguers replied, and, at those words, was heard the fanfare of Tilly's

trumpets.

The Croatian seized a knotted whip, a cat-of-nine-tails, in haste. The enormous siege cannon,

decorated with coats of arms and images of saints, had sunk into the ground with one of its

wheels, and it stood there leaning. Fourteen pairs of horses were harnessed to it. Some of

them lay dead, for they had been slain. The others got up on their hind legs at the Croatian's

whiplashes. Froth dripped from their mouths, and they lifted their hooves in the dark. But it

was impossible to move the obsolete colossus away. The Swedes hasted forth, they took

Tilly's cannons, and they threw their fire at his own soldiers.

No one except the commanders could any longer realize what really was going on in that

chaos... no one except the superhuman Titans, who could see in the dark and hear everything

and know everything.

Tilly was a hair's breadth from being taken prisoner, and he fell, losing consciousness, as

blows from the stocks of muskets struck his white-haired head. The bravest of his Walloons

encircled him in a square formation, and himself undefeated, though put to rout as a warlord,

he was led, as muskets were fired, away from the Swedish ranks.

Thus the great victory at Breitenfeld was won, and the day was coming to an end. Thethunderstorm of battle had gradually faded away, and the darkness of night descended, but

once more did the king place his weary army in battle array. It was his most precious treasure,

and he didn't want to expose it to any ambush.

One day, long ago, when he and his Finns had fallen victim to an ambush, he had stood, after

the battle, looking with concern at the slain. He had said: "How many feats should these

heroes have carried out, had not my carelessness led to their untimely death!" This

experience had made him more careful.

When he had thus carefully prepared himself for every risk, he rode before the regiments and

thanked them for a day that never should be forgotten. He embraced serious Horn, and he

shook hands with merry Banr. Then, he commanded that each and every one of the soldiers

should lay down for the night on the spot where they were. After having eaten and drunk his

fill at the camp follower's, he laid himself in a wooden cart, in which he also had encamped

the night before. It was a long time since he had last slept in his own royal bed. He had to

spend the nights sometimes in a tent, sometimes in a cart, and the great lords had to lay

themselves to sleep on horseback or on a wooden cart like he slept himself. And this

adventure would not last mere weeks or months, but the months grouped into years.

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Silence lay deeper upon the sleeping army, that lay rank by rank, with their weapons ready,

on the trampled ground, and the stars twinkled in the night sky. Did Martin Luther ever dream,

at the twilight of his life, that his word should have such defenders?

A lone rider was standing upright a few steps from the lit cart lantern, looking at his sword.

The gunner beside him turned his head towards him and said:

"That's a scary blade, shepherd lad! What you're carrying into battle is a really old

executioner's sword! A Catherine wheel and a gallows are engraved on the steel!"

"It is", the rider replied. "One night, a weary and heavy-hearted executioner came in rags to

my father's cottage, and he warmed himself beside our fire. He took water in his cupped

hands and drank heartily, and then he said: 'Many ill people, out of superstition, have believed

that they should be healed if they drank from my despicable hands. But that can't help me at

all. My illness is rooted deep inside my chest, in my heart of hearts, and it's called

melancholy.' We curled ourselves up in our beds of straw, for as long as we could, and, at the

break of day, we found out that the executioner had died during the night. For a long time, thisdreadful sword was resting on a corner, with no one to dare to touch it, not even my little

siblings. But then, war broke out, and I girded it by my side."

After a short break of silence, the rider resumed his tale:

"In the bloody days of old King Charles the Ninth, this sword turned many a Swedish lady into

a dowager. I'm thinking about that right now. Nowadays, we don't any longer use our steel on

our own countrymen. Do you see who it is, that gentleman who carefully and respectfully, yet

as a good friend, lies asleep by the King in that wagon? That's Banr. His father himself was

beheaded by the King's father. Now, both the sons are sleeping together like brothers."

"Yes indeed, new times have come for us Swedes", the gunner replied, as he pushed hishands to the nape of his neck and fell fast asleep.

The King had already closed his eyes beside his gallant Banr. His father's old enemies and

their descendants had finally forgotten all of the old grudges before his chivalry and sense of

justice, becoming his devoted friends.

As soon as the sun had risen, the army marched towards the Leaguers' abandoned camp.

There, they found the bags that contained Tilly's whole war treasury, and, in the carts, they

discovered the looted spoils of Magdeburg and those from many other raids. And what

horses! These steeds were like meant to ride on in the sunny crowd, among captured flags

and cannons! The saddles were fit for royalty. It looked empty at home in the little churches

and estates in the woods, but from that day onward there would be more splendour.

Thus began a triumphal procession among elated Protestants, who called the King of Swedes

their saviour and their leader. At night, they wandered through deep forests, as blazing

torches lit the way. Over vineyard-decked hills went the entourage, towards the splendid

Catholic Rhineland.

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III. The leader of the Protestants

In the meantime, a weak and restless human heart was throbbing in the distance, throbbingwith desire and longing. His queen, the young and beautiful Mary Eleanor, hadn't ever had a

good time since he had left her. Once back in her lands, she had travelled across the Baltic to

her Prussian birthplace and childhood home, but no pastimes could stifle her desire for that

spouse who, himself, could nevermore think of home or rest. On everyone's lips, she could

hear the name of the hero. But, no matter how much she pleaded in her letters to follow him,

he couldn't accept to take her with him into the horrors of war. Finally, the horses were

harnessed to her carriage. Surrounded by a great entourage of riders, she hasted southward,

full of elation, to live a few short golden months by his side, first in Leipzig, then in the

Rhineland where he had established his winter quarters. There they sat in elegance and

splendour, surrounded by vassal lords and diplomats.

Though both his deeds and words gave proof of his dignity, the King had a soul noble enough

to show sunny and mild happiness towards everyone. He did not need yet to pretend being

greater than what he actually was by looking around with a sour face and looking down at the

world with contempt. Such people are rarely among the best. His luck on the battlefield and

the respectability he irradiated as a person had suddenly made him one of the most powerful

men on Earth, and the Queen's eyes followed him with nigh reverence. Her slender neck rose

from a lace collar, and her blond, curly-haired head was always turned towards the direction

where the King could be found. She was both wistful and stubborn, but Mary Eleanor knew

how to love! All of her thoughts and dreams were dedicated to him, and, when she was on herown, she sat down and wept bitterly about being a warrior's spouse. She hated the din of

cannons and all of the great instruments of war. She wanted to sit with her dear husband by

the fireside and let the storm rage on outdoors.

There was a stern man in black velvet, who had recently been in the King's presence as well,

and this was his chancellor, the renowned Axel Oxenstierna. The Queen coaxed him to warn

their liege to never more risk his life by hot lead or cold steel. But the Chancellor stroked his

square goatee, and he replied by talking about the motherland. Thereafter, he followed the

King into his study, and then the door remained shut until late at night. The King was always

ready to listen to advice, especially if it came from such a good friend and mentor as

Oxenstierna. Only when they had already discussed the questions and reached an

agreement, the time had come to act, and then Oxenstierna sat down to write, as the King

finally went to bed.

One night, as Oxenstierna was sitting by candle-light, he visualized the path of the messenger

who, with one of his letters, galloped away towards France, towards Paris itself. Who was that

person, the one who stood there, in the halls of the Louvre, in a trailing scarlet lady's skirt? A

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pair of delicate hands received the letter, but, when the recipient's face was turned towards

the letter carrier, it came to light that he sported both a goatee and a curly moustache. It could

never have been the King of France, for Louis XIII would rather let go of all affairs of state.

Oxenstierna sat there, with closed eyes and crossed arms, and he knew indeed who it was. It

was the brilliant Cardinal Richelieu, the de facto ruler of France, who had cleverly established

a holy alliance with the Protestant Swedes to crush the powerful Kaiser in Vienna. But theflush of discontent that the letter had brought to his cheeks told, without words, that now it

was the Swedes' turn to speak for the French.

Oxenstierna opened his eyes and smiled in haste, as he seized his quill.

"My lord", spoke the servant who entered to replace the candles in the candlestick, "it is about

this time in the morning that you usually get up after a good sleep. It's already four o'clock!"

Richelieu had got impressive power, in his liege lord's humble opinion, but the Swedish

chancellor had another view of law and right. What the King and he had agreed was to be

honestly penned down and sent back home, to the Council of Regency. The goose quill was

dunked into ink and set on the paper once more, and, once more, that same word twinkled:"motherland

".

For him, this word was no mere decoration for festive times. It was the name he had given to

the whole project of future that was taking shape for his people. With this word on his mind,

he thought of the Chamber of Commerce, where the trade and economy of Sweden were

supervised. He thought of the new courts of law, which would ensure that no one was unjustly

condemned, and of the newly-founded universities. Ever since the Catholic teachers left the

land, the Swedish people had begun to become uncouth and ignorant. But, nowadays, there

had been so much studying and reading back at home that the lecture halls buzzed. The

Swedes were to be part of the foremost crowd of its times: that was the goal.Still, the nobility was the most learned and experienced estate of the realm, and Oxenstierna

was a nobleman himself. To create a brilliant knighthood, that would gladly die for its duty,

was his highest dream when he scribbled the word "motherland". The King himself proudly

remembered that his grandfather had been a true Swede, who had wandered through the

forests in the attire of a woodsman with the axe on his shoulder. In the olden days, when the

Three Estates gathered, there had often been noise and confusion, but now he had given

them a special ordered Parliament. Thus, he had sent the old-time freedom of the people to

speak its voice in a new era, and all this made Sweden stand above most of the other

kingdoms in Europe.

In the end, daylight broke into the room, and Oxenstierna, casting his quill aside, went to the

window. Down there, by morning light, there was a real crowd, everyone shouting and waving

with their hats. From a gallery, they had seen a glimpse of the King, the broad-waisted and tall

hero with the cheerfully uplooking head, the epitome of masculine beauty. Hot and fiery,

taking so many steps that the floor tiles quivered, at that early time he resumed once more his

place among the Chancellor's letters and essays. And then, he was not only the hero of the

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smallfolk, but a learned and sharp-eyed gentleman, as well-spoken as he was skilful as a

professional warrior on the battlefield.

The hours of toil and the grand ftes of the winter had to come to an end, after all, and, once

more, a heartbroken Mary Eleanor had to sit down and weep. With all of her worries and

whims, she felt like a helpless child, as long as her beloved spouse's hand was no longer held

in hers.

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IV. The crossing of the Lech

The great Protestant army, of which now the Swedes merely formed the core, was once more

on the field in springtime, as drums drubbed and trumpets called. Church bells pealed and

people shouted with glee to welcome Gustavus Adolphus. But when he had crossed the

Danube and reached the Bavarian border at the River Lech, then, Tilly, in his intrenchments

on the other bank, was already waiting for him. Humiliated and irate, the old man was still

reflecting on his defeat at Breitenfeld. He had the idea that he would never be able to close

his eyes calmly again, if he had not firstly avenged such a disgrace to his warrior's reputation

with a victory.

"Listen, my lads!", the King told his riders in a loud voice, as he rode out along the muddy

bank on the other side. "Fifty crowns for the one who can probe the depth of the river!"

Thus, a dragoon quickly dressed up as a farmer. He waded into the surging rapids of the

Alpine river, carrying a long pole. The white waters soon reached up to his waist, and there

stood Tilly's men, laughing at his pretend clumsiness.

"You've got to be mad as a hatter, you farmboy!", they said. "The river is just twenty-two feet

deep!"

That was good information for the skilful dragoon. With a most complaining voice, he pleaded

to the men that they should help him, in the name of the Virgin, to escape the clutches of thegrim Swedes. One of the soldiers took off his clothing and waded forth into the water to pull

the wretch over onto land with the pole. In that manner, the dragoon could see how the

river-bed sloped on the other side. He did not need to find out anything more, then. He

pretended to be scared and struggled, dripping, up onto dry land, leaving the stark naked and

freezing soldier to turn around in anger.

Now, the dragoon could tell the King everything that he needed to know. Then, the Swedes

hastened to break some cottages down, and they crafted, according to the dragoon's

description, low trestles of wood. Meanwhile, without interruption, bullets rattled over the

waters. Thus, on the very river bank, the soldiers lit up an immense bonfire of tar and dampstraw, so that they could work, unseen, concealed by the smoke screen, and lay out a bridge

on the trestles. A band of sooty Finns quickly rushed to the other bank with spades and hoes

instead of weapons. There, the ones who hadn't been killed began to dig up trenches, to

protect the army that would follow them. In the meantime, the King himself was aiming and

firing the cannons, and the thunder could be heard far into the land, as far as the Alps.

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Then, Tilly himself came out of his intrenchment with rigid, yet impatient steps. He gave

himself a short time to close his eyes and whisper his customary sincere prayer to the Virgin:

"Hail Mary, full of grace..."

Losing his self-control, he saw how his men were being forced to retreat again. The brim of

his hat was, in the front, raised up to the sky, above his high aquiline nose, and the wisps of

his silver white hair fluttered around his wrinkled cheeks. Around him, it was raining bulletsand broken treetops upon his faltering ranks. Without doubting, he seized a flag and

hastened, at the head of his bravest Walloons, down to the river bank. But, suddenly, the flag

sank to the ground. The time had finally come for the thundering storm that would, for once

and for all, strike the Titan down with its lightning. The bullet which Fate had chosen to

quench his long warrior's life had struck him. His right leg crushed just above the knee, he

was carried away, unconscious and bleeding, by his defeated and fleeing ranks.

Tilly was laid to bed in the Bavarian Elector's carriage, which, heavily shaking, carried him to

Ingolstadt Fortress. There, for fourteen long days of suffering, he lay in pain on his deathbed.

He had never sought any earthly gain, so he left his modest fortune to share between arelative of his and the faithful soldiers who had followed him in so many legendary battles.

Gustavus Adolphus's personal surgeon was tending to the struggling general's wounds. His

face pale with blood loss and pain, the respectable, yet broken old man still gave his advice to

the sorrowful Elector, but for his own misfortunes there was no longer any comfort. The din of

the thundering Swedish cannons soon reached the infirmary, and it haunted him until the

instant when he drew his last breath.

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V. The raid on the Old Holdfast

The Catholics saw with dread how the invincible Protestant army was gradually closing in on

the Kaiser's own capital. Tilly lay in his grave, and the other, even more redoubtable warlord,

Wallenstein, who had been banished on account of his hubris, sat, ominous and offended, at

his distant palace of Friedland. Before him lay a chart on which zodiac signs had been drawn.

He didn't want to hear about religion, but the dark loner did believe in the stars. They were his

gods. By the position of the stars and the planets, he believed he could read the events of his

life in the future, and he read of a great, dizzying destiny. Yet the Kaiser had to beg for a long

time, and to promise him unfathomable glory and power, and even carte blanche, before he

rose once more from obscurity, to support him with freshly-recruited troops. Until then,

Gustavus Adolphus had led the events of the war, but Wallenstein decided to quietly and

secretly force him to return up north again, step by step, not by uncertain battle, but by

attacking his allies, and through war of attrition and want, like by means of a mysterious

enchantment.

A half mile away from Nuremberg, Wallenstein had built, on three hills, a mammoth camp,

that everyone spoke of as if it had been a fairytale. It was so vast that its triple palisade of

deforestated woodland even encircled streams and hamlets. It took many hours to ride

around its perimetre, and breastplates and cannons were glimmering everywhere.

"As long as I breathe", Gustavus Adolphus said, "Wallenstein will never succeed".

And he wrote to Oxenstierna, who was making haste thither with reinforcements: "This

opponent is an evil spirit, that only can be exorcized through fasting". Wallenstein's fortified

hills loomed like a world of wraiths, whose residents never showed themselves at the light of

day, but still spread dread and misery. The water in the springs and wells was poisoned.

Famished stray horses staggered on the roads, and some of them, stung by gadflies, had

become mad and threw themselves headlong from the steep cliffs. On the streets, ailing

people lay starving and dying of fever. In Wallenstein's camp, the filth reached such levels

that the soldiers couldn't sleep at night, for the tents were completely full of grasshoppers.

Then, one dark autumn night, Wallenstein awoke to the sound of gunshots and to the shoutsof wide-awake women and youngsters. Mothers used to scare their children with threats of

the Swedes to make them behave themselves, and now, the bullets of the dreaded ones were

already rattling through the tents. Gustavus Adolphus could no longer bear to see his men

suffer. With muskets in their right hands and the left ones free, his soldiers were climbing up

the deforestated and steep slopes of the highest hill.

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On the top of the hill, there was an old holdfast. There stood Wallenstein, against the rays of

the rising sun, which, for instants, managed to pierce the thick gunsmoke. A dark armour

covered his slender torso, and his face, the sun caught red in his raven hair, remained

inexpressive, like that of a dead man. None of his warriors had ever seen him laugh or

received a word of kindness from his lips. Sternly and coldly, he gave his commands in a

sharp voice, keeping silence every now and then. From total obscurity, he had risen to thepower which he had created himself, and only his presence was enough for his soldiers to

fight with all their fury.

Time after time, the Swedes were put to rout, and the living slipped on the blood of the slain.

Ablaze with impatience, the King commanded the army in the midst of the carnage and

gunfire, and the sole of one of his boots was shot away. Lennart Torstensson was taken

prisoner and, afterwards, imprisoned in such a moist and cold dungeon in Ingolstadt (where

Tilly had died) that he would later suffer from painful gout for a lifetime.

With a flashing, slashing blade in his hand, St

lhandske stormed forth, surrounded by his

Finnish riders, but they were driven backwards down the slope. When night finally fell withsplashing rain, which would render gunpowder useless, the attackers were forced to turn

back.

However, it didn't last long before they attempted to storm the Old Holdfast one more time.

One day, the Swedish army was placed in battle array before Wallenstein's camp, waiting for

four hours to give battle. But, as mysteriously silently as he used to sit himself in a reunion,

his cannons and muskets kept silence. Even the sentinels went back into the encampment.

Only when the Swedes had marched away did Wallenstein finally leave the place. And,

behind him, the whole great holdfast burned to the ground, for he had given orders that that

should be done.

Soon, news and more news would come from Saxony that Wallenstein had begun to

devastate their land. To support their allies, the Swedes marched even further up north,

travelling on the same roads they had already taken before in the victorious days of

Breitenfeld. Oxenstierna rode by the King's side, and, like the year before, the march went, at

night, through wooded valleys, by the light of blazing torches. Slowly and quietly, for no one to

hear their words, both riders conversed about their dearest dreams, of a Northern Baltic

Empire and an alliance of Scandinavian and Germanic Protestants with Sweden for a leading

land. Serious and pensive, they finally took their leave of each other, weighed down by a

silent intuition that this farewell was perchance their last one.

When the King rode into Erfurt, where Mary Eleanor was waiting for him, she had, full of

desire, already hastened to the market square in the company of her court ladies. He followed

her up to their apartments in the local castle, but both were so distracted and in such low

spirits that everyone realized it. Hustle and bustle reigned in every corner, and, the very next

morning, he had to lead his army against Wallenstein, who was not far away from his present

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quarters. He entrusted the Queen to his council, called war a scourge, and reminded

everyone that he, himself, could every moment fall prey to misfortune or death.

"We shall see each other", he whispered to her. "If not in this finite life, it will be in the joys of

Eternity".

With tears in both their eyes, they embraced clinging to each other, he gave her the most

passionate of his kisses, and then he rode away into the sunset.

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VI. Ltzen

The quid of the question lay now in surprising Wallenstein, whose army was encamped atLtzen, and who, confident that the land would be in peace, had recently sent Pappenheim

away with a considerable amount of troops. Men and horses sank deep into the swampy mire,

until, late in a November evening, the church tower of Ltzen rose, before their eyes, from the

vast plains. The road to Leipzig stretched out, lined with earthworks like a high palisade,

across the open field. That night, behind these earthworks, turning the ditches into trenches,

Wallenstein placed his gunners. The Swedes lay on the muddy plains, and the King went to

sleep in an old cart. The generals advised him to find a better resting place, but he replied:

"How could I ever be pleased with any comforts, if I see so many people lacking comforts

around me?"

As the sun began to rise, with the red skies of dawn, he didn't want to eat or drink anything for

breakfast. Fasting as if it were some ritual, he got on his horse, without his breastplate,

dressed in his buff mooseskin doublet and gray overcoat. A thick fog hung upon the plains,

but the first song of encouragement echoed already through the ranks. Far up north were the

farmsteads of the Swedes. There, the elders and the maidens sat for a rest, laying their work

aside, to listen at the gate if someone would ever come with greetings from their sons and

sweethearts on the war front.

"Beloved brothers and countrymen!", the King said, reining his horse in before the vanguard

of his army. "Now, the day has come, the day on which you will show the world what you havelearned during so many campaigns! The enemy we have sought for so long is now right in

front of us, no longer entrenched on unreachable heights or within strong fortifications, but out

on the open field! You know, indeed, how carefully he avoided our confrontation before. Thus,

onward, to fight for freedom, for good fortune and eternal happiness! If you, for this time, let

go and yield to the foe, I ensure you that everything will be completely lost, without a chance

to be saved, and not a single bone of ours shall return to the land of our birth. But why do you

now question the courage of which I have seen so great proof? I know that you are ready to

follow me today, unto the bitter end, for our sacred cause!"

Yes, indeed. Their sacred cause, for which they had taken so many heavy steps and wakedfor so many nights, had not to be sacrificed, whatever the price might be.

In the meantime, the fog had grown so thick that every detachment stood ostensibly on its

own, without being able to see the others. Then, the King began to sing his cheerful battle

song:

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"Do not despair, my little band,

though enemies throughout the land

are seeking to destroy you!

They rejoice, hoping you'll fall soon,but they will sing another tune,

so keep on brave and coy, you!"

His manly baritone was soon joined by the thousands of voices of the Swedish Army,

regiment after regiment, and the meanest private felt happily secure that each and every one

of his brothers in arms, on all sides, was ready for battle as well. After another hour or so of

waiting, the white disk of the sun began to shine. The fog quickly parted and lifted from the

ground, and, immediately, Wallenstein's army could be seen against the backdrop, far to the

left, of the burning village of Ltzen.

"Jesus, help me to fight today for the glory of Your Holy Name!", the King seriously said, in a

loud and clear voice, both his hands clutching the hilt of his sword. "And now, onward!"

Wallenstein, who had the gout and was racked with pain, had been carried around among his

soldiers in a sedan chair. He hastily put his foot through a ribbon-wrapped stirrup and swung

himself onto the back of his war horse, a stallion.

"Jesus, Mary!", his soldiers shouted their battle-cry.

"Gott mit uns!

", echoed the old warcry of the Swedes, as they stormed forth to the road andcaptured seven of the enemy cannons.

In the distance, by some windmills, a wild confrontation flared up on the edges of both the

trenches, and the King rushed thither at the head of his cavalry.

"Follow me, my gallant lads!", he cried, as he thrust the spurs into the flanks of his horse

Streiff, unaware that the others, who did not ride that fast steeds, were left behind.

Once more, the sun was veiled by misty darkness, as if by enchantment, and sword thrusts

clanked on breastplates and lifted pistols.

"It's nothing, my boys", the King said in a carefree voice when his followers remarked that he

was wounded, shot in the left arm, and bleeding.

A pale Gustavus leaned on his saddle against the one closest to him, but then, another bullet

struck him in the back, at shoulder-blade height, and he fell unconscious off his steed. His

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devoted young pageboy, Leubelfingen, himself bleeding from several wounds, was the last

one to stay by his side. Ready to die, the youth offered the King his own horse, but he couldn't

lift the heavy unconscious form: he could only rest the royal head on his arms.

"Who is the wounded man?" asked the Croatian-accented enemy riders who surrounded

them in the gunsmoke.

Leubelfingen kept silence, to receive, in exchange, a rapier stab through his solar plexus. But

the King opened his glossy blue eyes and said in a faint voice, with blood on his lips:

"I am the King of Sweden."

Then, from the wild circle thundered the pistol shot that, for ever, quenched his heroic life.

The riders threw themselves over the dead man, taking off his gold chain and clothes. But, in

the meantime, with a gaping wound in his throat and an empty saddle, his nutbrown stallion

galloped back into the Swedish ranks, where, in the heat of the battle, he still knew that he

belonged. The soldiers immediately recognized Streiff, and they realized, full of shock, what

had happened. They had recently been thrown back, but, after that moment, they would

rather die to the last man than see the sun set over a battlefield where their fallen king lay in

the enemy's clutches.

Duke Bernhard of Weimar, a gallant Protestant, who had always stayed loyal to the Swedes,

placed himself at the head of the forth-rushing army.

"The defender of freedom is dead!", he cried. "For me, life is no longer life, if I can't avenge

his fall!"

His own left arm soon bled as well, but he didn't mind that at all, and St

lhandske crossed the

trenches with his men, Brahe fell with a broken knee, and around him fell the Yellow Brigade,

whose members didn't want to survive their king's death. It was of no use that Pappenheim

had, in the meantime, come back in time, riding on his white steed, like at Breitenfeld, to seek

his royal opponent. After a while, he was carried away, fatally shot in the chest, over

down-trodden furrows. Against the setting sun, that once more shed its reddish evening light

through the mists, Wallenstein awaited the last attack, his cloak pierced by several bullets.

But when night fell, the Swedish soldiers had reached their goal. The dark field, on which the

leader lay fallen among so many of his best men, had been conquered.

With torches in their hands, they walked among the slain to find the body of their king. That

was a dire wandering. Struck-down horses lifted their heads, staring at the firelight. Wounded,

thirsty comrades rose up on their elbows, asking for water. In the end, the soldiers came to a

spot which was completely silent. The battle had raged there with all its fury, and the slain

ones slept the sleep of death. It was hard to tell a friend from a foe, since many of them had

been robbed of their clothes and lay there nearly naked. The sashes, which had been a sign

of identification during the battle (green for Swedes and red for Austrians), lay scattered about

and downtrodden in the mire. The soldiers looked down, casting light on the pale faces, until,

under a heap of slaughtered warriors, they finally found the King's body. Bereaved, they lifted

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him up from the ground and carried him to Weissenfels, the nearest village that Wallenstein's

men had spared. The blood-stained doublet had fallen into enemy hands and been presented

to the Kaiser, who for a long time looked at it with tears in his eyes.

Tired of religious conflicts, Wallenstein kept on marching about with his army, as the pain of

his gout made him harder and more bitter. In a display of extravagant splendour, full of pomp

and circumstance, he travelled in an ornate baroque coach-and-six, at the sound of gilded

silver trumpets. And soon, a rumour spread that he was defiantly ready to rise up against his

own liege lord. Some of the Kaiser's loyal courtiers seized the Bohemian royal crown and

carried it from Prague to Vienna, fearing that he would ceremonially place it on his own head.

At the end of the day, forsaken by nearly everyone, he sat one evening, as usually, consulting

the stars. They foretold evil deeds. But he did not want to listen to such a foretelling, and he

went to bed, to dream daring dreams of universal peace in the name of freedom of worship.

Complete silence had to reign around him as always. When the servant outside the lockeddoor suddenly caught a glimpse of a detachment of soldiers, he laid his finger to his lips, to

tell them that they should walk quietly.

"Friend!", their leader replied, "now it's time to make some noise!"

Thus, he knocked violently on the door, and, since it did not open, he breached it like a

battering ram. Wallenstein was standing by the table, barefooted, dressed in his night shift.

But warfare had taught him how vain it was to waste words on a band of killers. Throughout

his life, keeping silence had been the greatest and most mysterious of his skills, and, this

time, he kept silent before the door as well.

"Are you a scoundrel?" the leader asked him. "A traitor who secretly betrays his own kaiser?

Now you must die!"

Too proud to give excuses, Wallenstein stretched out both his arms. Then, struck in the

middle of the chest by the leader's pike, he collapsed upon the floor, dying without a single

sound.

Long before that, the King's coffin had been carried across the Baltic, to Nykping, and placed

in a chapel while everything was being prepared for the funeral of state. The members of the

Council and the people of Sweden mourned him as honestly as the army, for he had been a

great person, as open-minded in the arts of peace as he had been in the arts of war. Hehadn't had nearly any enemies at all.

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VII. Eleanor and Christina.

Time after time, a heartbroken Mary Eleanor had the lid of the coffin lifted, just to behold his

frozen features. Her hero had fought his sunny battle of victory, and he lay now in front of her,

bereft of life, in a long shroud of silver brocade. She would have fit in better in earlier times,

when faithful ladies knelt by the candle-lit tombs of their beloved knights. The era that she

lived in was down-to-earth, with both feet firmly fixed upon the ground, and kettledrums

thundered. How could the mature and harsh Swedish lords, with all of their short and

straightforward language, understand and show patience towards such a woman, who could

neither rule herself nor others? She was too naive and weak for her voice to be heard when it

came to the fate of the young great power. All she could do was love and mourn.

At Nykpingshus, she had a room completely draped in black velvet. Chairs, tables, ceiling,

floor: everything was draped in black. Even the windows were fully draped in black curtains,

for not even a ray of daylight to be let in. There she sat, completely dressed in black, by

torchlight, and the servants that passed by the door could hear her sobbing. This was the

same castle where the Folkungs had starved, and where Charles the Ninth had sighed for

nights, pale with heart disease and impending death. Which was the prophecy that the

witches had sung at Nykpingshus, before the massacre, to the old holdfast? "You shall be a

home for regrets, and biers, and mourning widows' tears!"

When the coffin was finally earthed in Riddarholmen Church, Mary Eleanor asked, the very

next day, if she could get the key to the crypt, for lifting the lid for the last time in forever. But

the stern members of the Regency Council threatened her with placing guards at the church

door. Still she had, for her keeping, a relic more precious to her than any other: a little gold

casket, a keepsake in which she had enclosed the King's embalmed heart. At night, it hung,

inside a velveteen purse, from one of her bed-posts. By day, she sat, like she had done

before, in her bedchamber draped in black, clutching it on her chest, above her own heart.

Persuaded through endless threats, she finally let go of it. Caressing the golden keepsake,

she wrapped it in green taffeta, tying it, like a present, with a silken cord. Other hands laid it

down on the late King's body, where the heart had been in his life. And there it remains.

Still, she hadn't got through her longing yet. Colourful performers tried to entertain her with

songs and jests. A generous soul, she emptied her caskets, scattering jewelry and crown

coins into their hands. But her time still was lasting for that long. She talked bitterly about the

cold land where she was condemned to stay and mourn, and she decided to leave Sweden

for once and for all. Yet the venerable old Chancellor Oxenstierna, the leader of the land,

shook his gray head in disapproval.

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At her lonely seat of Gripsholm (where the Regent had her confined after claiming

Nykpingshus), a passage through dense woodland led from one of the castle gates to a little

bay in Lake Mlaren.

"I will stay in my bedchamber for six or seven days, reading books and saying my prayers",

she explained to her servants one evening, and had them bring enough provisions for a week.

Thereafter, she locked the door from the inside, and she was left with the sole company of Fru

Ebba, her chambermaid.

Night soon fell, and, while everyone else was sleeping, she silently crept into the garden with

her chambermaid, then through the passageway, to a rowboat moored in the lake. On the

other side, still within the castle park, they were received, with equal stealth, by some

accomplices of theirs, who had been waiting, beneath the oak trees, with saddled steeds for

the Queen and her maid. Both women got quickly on their horses, and the whole group of

riders hasted forth, galloping, down the road to the Baltic coast. Sometimes, during their flight,

they had to stay and have a rest for a while in a farmhouse. Then, the riders whispered to the

farmers that the fine lady was a wealthy heiress, who had run away from her parents. "Ah!

Her folks were so strict, and she couldn't marry the one she had given her heart to!" Upon

saying these words, they looked sorrowfully at her blood-shot eyes, and they pointed to a

long-haired young rider, dashing enough to be the man she had eloped with.

Over Gripsholm, the sun rose once more that morning. The Court Preacher placed himself

before the locked chamber door, reading the morning prayers aloud, like he ever had done

during her penance.

"What has happened? The Lord knows", he finally said, when he had to sit and sing through

the whole service all alone, without anyone singing on the other side.

Thus, the courtiers had no other choice than breaching the door. Enraged and shocked, they

stood on the threshold, looking at the flies that buzzed in the empty bedchamber. In a fit of

restlessness, the Great Gustavus Adolphus's widow, whom the whole world still curiously

talked about, had fled her country like a female adventurer, without any longer wishing to live

there.

But years went by, and the site of his grave was still frequently dwelled upon by her thoughts.

Finally, she returned once more, to finally sleep for eternity by his side. And thus, a celebrated

man's elderly, insignificant, and forgotten widow was carried, bereft of life, through the once

more opened crypt door. Among the laurels in that crypt, a little wreath of shy forget-me-nots

blooms invisibly upon a faithful heart.

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When the Queen Dowager was weeping and sobbing in the black mourning chamber at

Nykpingshus, a little six-year-old girl could often be found sitting by her feet. It was her

daughter Christina, her only child, who, after the fray at Ltzen, had inherited the crown of

great Sweden.

The little one was not allowed to play. Not even to whisper. But she couldn't be constantly

crying. It was dreadful to sit in the firelight of torches and candles in the light of day, and hours

reached the length of eternity. At first, she sat, full of longing, by the window, wondering if

ever once at last a ray of daylight, even though it were a thin and pale one, should find a way

in there. But the thick, heavy curtains were well fixed to the windowpanes. Then, she grew

accustomed to close her eyes, until, in the end, she was all ears. In the meantime, steps grew

closer and then faded outside the door.

But she gradually learned to recognize, even in the distance, a pair of creaking shoes, which

always announced a moment of liberation. It was when her tutor came to fetch her for the

classes. To avoid the black chamber, she kept on reading as long as possible. As soon as

she had finished a book, she reached out for another.

She gradually learned to love her books much more than she loved her toys, and she became

so learned that she could already write letters in both German and Latin at the age of ten.

Then, she learned language after language, even Greek, for pleasure's sake. On the other

hand, she would not even dare to touch a needle or a spool of thread. Then, she went rather

for a ride on horseback, through woods and fields, leaping over fences and ditches, so that

the farmboys who saw her were left breathless.

Axel Oxenstierna, who marvelled at her talents, came himself every day for a while, to teach

her about states and their people. He was the one who had presented her before the Estatesof the Realm and let them praise her as their Queen. Into her female hands, he would soon

hand over the power over the Swedish realm, which was for him the loveliest one on Earth,

and for which her father had given his life.

Through the people went a rush of longing to reach a place of honour in the North, and

individuals were proud of serving the common good. Hundreds of donations had been given

to Uppsala University. At the colleges, boys were learning their Latin declensions, with -us

and -um at the end of certain words. The mines were being cared for. Wallonian smiths turned

the steel beneath their hammers, letting sparks fly in all directions. At seven o'clock in the

morning, Oxenstierna was already sitting in his office, while, in the German lands, the army

was still ready to fight in the long struggle for freedom.There was not a single perfection that Oxenstierna could not have wished for his curious ward

to attain, for her to become the likeness of her father. Thus, he separated Christina from her

eerie mother. Worried, he realized that the child took after her mother to an unlikely degree,

even though she had inherited her father's genius. Then, he took her to the estate of

Stegeborg, leaving her in the care of her aunt Catherine, a most uncommonly clever woman.

They generally called her the Countess of the Pfalz, for she was married to a German count

who had fled his lands and come to Sweden because of the war. And they had a cheerful and

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good son, about Christina's age, by the name of Charles Gustavus. During the games they

played, both children often whispered to each other that they should, one day, walk down the

aisle together as bride and groom.

Eventually, Christina grew up, and Charles began to grow wisps of black peach-fuzz on his

upper lip.Disappointed and heartbroken, he realized that she behaved no longer towards him like she

had done before. Hunting horns echoed as the party rode through the forests. That evening,

she had been sitting in the saddle since sunrise itself. Her modest gray outfit was the most

simple of them all, without any decorations. Her plume flickered and fluttered in the wind, to

and fro, on her broad-brimmed cavalier hat, and a dark suntan covered her sharp, lively

features. No other lady could have dared to follow her on horseback, and she was pleased to

be entirely surrounded by men. With them, she could talk of classical poetry and philosophy,

instead of needlework or baking. Suddenly, she reined in her large, shining steed, a gelding

with a speckled coat. Charles made haste to lift her from the saddle, but she had already

landed on the ground with a quick leap. Her spurs clinked under her skirt-like trousers, andshe whipped her brown boots with her riding whip. Shaking her strawberry-blond locks back,

she looked at him with cold, shifty eyes:

"Why are you in such a sad mood?"

He bent the knees and made a curtsy, which was a custom for men to do in those days as

well, and swept the hat he had taken off along the tall grass. But he gave no reply.

"Do you know what I have been thinking of?", she seriously addressed him. "It must be tough,

after all, to get married and then always to have to obey another person. Let others get

curious and think what they please. But, Charles, could you keep a secret? I'll never, ever,

marry any man!"

He bent his head in silence, and a picnic supper was set for them on the green grass. Horns

echoed once more, as servants with tableware and pitchers in their hands stumbled upon the

trees' roots. The evening twilight made everything turn darker in the clearing, and soon the

time came to return home to court.

Charles Gustavus rode on his own amidst the oak trees. The narrow-shouldered and short

boy sat on his horse, swinging, distracted, in rhythm as the steed trotted.

"Why I am in such a sad mood?", he repeated maybe too loudly to himself. "And she dares to

ask me that?"

His straight raven hair was neatly combed, kept in a middle part hairstyle, and his cheeks

were round and ruddy, like those of a cherub. That was nothing to win a young queen's heart,

not even that of such a cool one as Christina. He was too clever not to understand it himself.

Anyway, the thorn in his heart wasn't the one that lay deepest, or the one that hurt the most.

There was another, far greater problem that troubled him. His mother was, after all, a Vasa.

The blood of House Vasa coursed through his veins, but still, he was seen by Sweden as a

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foreigner, and even as a stranger. In vain had he prayed to receive some duty at his country's

service. The mistrustful lords of the Council always answered: "No". A young, unexperienced

maiden would soon seize the royal sceptre, and thus, it was not convenient to make some

upstart too powerful. That was what the lords thought. But how could she ever lead a people

of warriors? He was born in Sweden. This was his motherland. Filled with pride and ambition,

he had listened, like the others, to every message of victory that the army brought from thewar front. And he could not serve that country! Then, he would live alone, in ennui and

idleness.

He puffed up his thick, rosy lips, looking completely manly and dashing, as his clenched fist

broke the pathside branches in a fit of rage. Now, he had made his decision. Like a common

volunteer, he should go forth into the war. That could, anyway, not be denied to him. He

reminded the readers of a young medieval squire, riding out into the wide world in pursuit of

adventures to win his golden knight's spurs. And now, you shall read how this adventure

came to an end.

Blood was still dripping on the German plains, where Banr was leading the army towards

new victories. Honoured like royalty, he lived among moats and cannons, and a tent was his

home. In the end, for three nights in a row, the soldiers thought they had heard a voice which

called: "Come, Banr! Come! Now the time is here!" They whispered that they recognized the

voice, and that it was his late wife's. But Banr's honey eyes sparkled with defiant joie de

vivre, and he replied with a hearty laugh:

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! They're calling for me to win victories to come!"

Laughing, he drained his tankard to the dregs, and he let the cannons thunder. After a while,another cannon storm raged from the Swedish camp: it was such a shot that the local

smallfolk ran, afraid, into the nearest churches. But it was only Banr, who had his cannons

fired to celebrate that his proposal of marriage had been accepted by a sixteen-year-old

countess. The soldiers still remembered the calling voice, and the pale face of the warlord

betrayed that his last hour was near. At the end of the day, pursued by the enemy and ablaze

with fever, he was carried in a stretcher by his men. He shouted, in the middle of his fever

dreams, that none other than Torstensson could take over his sword. For a whole month,

amidst the marching ranks one could see a coffin, and there, beneath the black cloth that

covered it, the deceased leader was slowly carried home to his land.

Though Torstensson was so broken down by the gout he had caught in prison that he was

often carried about in a stretcher, he led the army forth all the way to the very walls of Imperial

Vienna. It was under his command that Lieutenant Charles Gustavus made his way up

through the ranks. During a skirmish, he received bullets through his hat, coat, and shirt, and

his dark hair was torn off only on one side of his head, as if it had received a pretty nasty

scissor cut. But he puffed up his cheeks and his lips, and he struck back. This turned Charles

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into a great example to follow and such a manly man, and the soldiers loved him. He was

irate, and it was obvious that he thought of flying higher.

For such a fellow, who, to crown it all, had the Queen herself for a fiance, rising up was a

matter of short time. If she couldn't be his, at least she was willing to give him a royal

consolation prize. As Commander-in-Chief of the whole Swedish Army, he was allowed, in old

Protestant Nuremberg, to host the flamboyant banquet which finally sealed that peace hadbeen reached with the Kaiser, after thirty years of war. On the middle of the table splashed a

fountain of rose water, and, from a window, the golden Lion of the North sprayed out showers

of wine over the people, who were all drinking and singing and dancing. When night fell, thirty

Swedish gunmen entered the banquet hall, aimed for the ceiling with their muskets and shot

salute after salute, until the guests at the table could scarcely see each other through the

gunsmoke. In such gunsmoke, a whole era had passed, and, in gunsmoke, the last glass was

drained to the blessing of peace and to the German Realm where Protestants would now

share equal rights with Catholics.

FINIS.

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Days of Victories

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