Chapter 5
Daniel began to paint the Aerie room on his canvas while waiting for the Gustavus Adolphus to join him. His goal was to capture the sunny glow that Winslow Homer had so skillfully added to the grasses and the clothing of the boys in the painting Kristina had admired, and the Aerie was awash with that perfect golden afternoon light. He shifted his easel slightly to capture more of that light, and worked more yellow and white into the edges of the blue paint he was mixing on his palette.
He knew in his bones that the king would be pleased with the painting—it would make him appear more vital and alive than anything Daniel had painted before. Both the king and his people needed an image that was bursting with vigor. Daniel's only question was, how should he paint the king? What pose, what emotion should he express? Should the king appear stern, fearsome, bold? Or kind, jovial, relaxed? The answer would come as he worked—it always did. In the past, he had shouldered aside such impulses and painted the static, staid portraits that were expected of him. But now? Anything—anything—was possible.
The door let out a creak, which was followed by the booming voice of the king: “Daniel, my friend! At last, I have broken free of my counselors—though I suspect they called a halt to our meeting only because my cousin Erik had threatened to behead the lot of them if they kept me talking past five.”
Daniel set down his palette and brush and returned the king's greeting. The king asked after his family, and Daniel spoke with pride as he described Benjamin's drawings. “I can see already, Your Grace, that he shares my talent. And he loves looking at the paintings in my books. He will do great things, that boy!”
“You are lucky in your son,” the king said, “as I am lucky in my daughter. She will be a formidable queen one day, God willing.”
Seeing the king's frown, Daniel thought about the murder of Kristina's mother and how close she and Ulrik both had come to dying, just a few months earlier. Daniel said, “I hope all is well in your territories,” hoping it would prompt the king to speak on other matters.
“Ah,” the king said as he settled into a chair that Daniel had carefully placed for him. “Well, that is a long story, indeed. Please, continue if you wish,” he said, gesturing toward the easel.
Daniel picked up his tools and returned to his work as the king commenced what became a tale of dizzying complexity. Daniel was soon lost in a dense thicket of names and relationships. He had once been intimately familiar with the details, if not the personages, of Gustav's political world. But now? He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed and forgotten in his years away—and of course the makeup of Gustav's territories was much changed now.
Though reluctant at first to display his ignorance, Daniel asked the king to tell him about the situation in Saxony, which he'd heard little about in the past month. He was relieved when the king spoke with some enthusiasm for almost an hour about the intricate dealings there and the difficult personalities involved. Gustav seemed pleased to speak with an outsider for a change.
Before the king was done explaining the details, the door creaked again. One of the guards opened it, and Kristina dashed in, laughing. “Father, do you—oh!” She stopped, placing a small hand over her mouth. “Oh, I didn't realize. I'm interrupting. My apologies.”
“Yes, my dear,” the king said, “but perhaps an interruption is just what we need. I have been boring poor Daniel with politics for two hours now.”
“Oh, that's very cruel of you, Papa,” she said, smiling.
“Daniel,” he said, “Come, rest for a few minutes.” He gestured to another chair nearby, and Daniel set his brush and paints aside. “Now,” he said to Kristina, “tell me what you've been doing.”
“Ulrik and I went for a carriage ride with Carolyn and Thorsten. Ulrik is teaching me how to drive”
“Oh?” the king said, frowning.
“Yes, well, he wouldn't hand over the reins completely, but he let me guide the horses. They were so quick to respond to my movements. They were quite frightened once—we came around a corner and three rabbits ran out from behind a bush—but they settled down quickly. It was so much fun, and so lovely. I wish I could see the river from my rooms.” Kristina continued to describe their adventures, including a picnic in a grove near the river, before she seemed to remember something and scanned the room quickly. Her whole face brightened as her eyes lit on the small box sitting on a table nearby. “Oh! Is that . . .”
Daniel smiled, his eyes twinkling. “It is, indeed. Please, enjoy.”
She dashed over and scooped up the box, then returned to her seat beside her father. She opened the lid. “Oh, yum! So beautiful.” She shared out the small pastries Sofia had baked that morning, and they were silent for a moment as they enjoyed them.
“She is most talented, this wife of yours,” Gustav said. “I'm surprised you aren't the size of a horse by now.” Gustav ate the last bite of his treat. “You must bring her to meet me soon. And your boy!”
Daniel hesitated for a moment, thinking of Emanuel, before realizing he meant Benjamin. “Yes, of course, Your Grace. I'm sure they would both enjoy that.”
Kristina looked into the box, considering. “There are three left. May I bring some to Ulrik and Baldur?”
“And the third?” her father asked.
She smiled. “Well . . .”
The king laughed. “Yes, my dear, of course. Off with you! Enjoy. We will talk more later.”
As the door closed, the king shook his head. “She has borne her losses well, I think. I just hope she has no more to bear for many years.”
In the solemn silence that followed, Daniel returned to his easel and took up his brush again. “Your Grace, I have been wondering. All of the security measures. Do you expect an attempt on your lives? The Huguenots, perhaps? The Poles?”
“Ah,” the king shrugged. “One never knows. It seems unlikely, but then I thought Stockholm would be safe—and I certainly never imagined anyone would attempt to harm Kristina's mother. I hope and pray, for Kristina's sake, that we are being overly cautious, but better that than not cautious enough. As it is, I'm sure no one can reach us here.”
Daniel nodded, but was distracted by the firm set of the king's shoulders. It was the perfect posture to show Gustav II Adolph's courage and his resolve. Daniel set his brush aside and focused on capturing the pose on the paper he'd brought for sketches, and was pleased by the results. When he was done, he began to ask the king another question, but noticed the look of fatigue on the man's face.
It was time to stop for the day.
∞ ∞ ∞
Emanuel knew the man only as Anatol. He was a thin, churlish man, always eager to drink and smoke too much. But when his mind was clear and his breath pleasant, he was good with a pistol and with a knife. And he had come to Magdeburg to avenge Poland.
They sat around a small three-legged table in the back of Peter's silver shop, their faces illuminated only by a candle burnt nearly to the end. Emanuel chewed on a stale piece of bread crust and listened to them speak ill of the king. He shared in their hatred, but he remained silent, listening intently as they proposed one idea after another. He had heard it all before, many times over the years. He had pitched in as well, speaking angrily of how he was going to wrap his fingers around the Vasa's meaty neck and watch in triumph as the life slipped out of the man's deceitful eyes. Those had only been fantasies. There had never been a real opportunity to do such a thing. But now? Perhaps there was.
Emanuel had remained taciturn since his return from dinner with his father. Peter had asked him multiple times about the visit, prodding for information. Emanuel had responded truthfully—describing the meal, Sofia and Benjamin, the conversation about up-time art—but had never come out and specifically said that his father had won the commission. And he definitely did not discuss the offer that his father had made to him. That was the opportunity that they had been looking for; that was their way in. So, why had he not said anything?
“I have men keeping an eye on the palace,” Anatol said, waving pipe smoke out of the candlelight, “checking to see when and if the Swede ever shows his ugly face. Nothing so far. Counselors have come and gone, USE government officials, and the princess has been seen on occasion, but not the king.”
“Perhaps a staff person, or a counselor would be good to drop,” said Peter. “That would clearly send a message.”
Anatol nodded. “That would get their attention, but it might also make the king behave even more like a turtle. Although . . . my men have seen that Jewish bitch from time to time.”
“The Stearns woman?”
Anatol nodded. “It would not be too difficult to take care of her.”
“That would cause a lot of strife, Anatol, perhaps more so than killing the king. Her up-time husband would drench the earth with the blood of thousands if she were to be killed.”
Anatol chuckled. “All the more reason to consider it. Turn the high and mighty Mike Stearns into a bloody and vengeful tyrant—then see how quickly the USE falls.” He turned toward Emanuel and puffed out another cloud of smoke. “What do you say to that?”
“I say that I'm not interested in killing a woman. That bastard Gustavus is the only target I care about. Policy emanates from him. The real power lies with him.”
“Then we need your help!” Peter growled, slapping the tabletop with his palm.
It was the first time in a long while that Emanuel had heard Peter raise his voice. Usually so calm and unassuming, almost lethargic—to hear him now in such a froth made it clear to Emanuel that his father-in-law was more than frustrated.
“We need to know what Daniel Block told you. Did he, or did he not, get the commission?”
Emanuel sighed deeply. “Yes.”
“Why has it taken you so long to say so? Is my daughter, your late wife, not worthy of justice? Did you not swear upon her broken body that you would avenge her?”
Emanuel groaned. He could still see her lying in the shattered and smoking remains of the comfortable apartment they shared with her parents—could still smell the smoke and the blood. . . . Her arm had been thrown up, as if to block a terrible blow. When he drew her arm down, the sight of her face—what was left of it—had overwhelmed him. He would give anything to have been there with her, even if it meant joining her in death.
Emanuel drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes,” Emanuel said, “she is more than worthy. Still. . . . So he has a commission to paint the king. So what? How does that get us closer to Gustavus?”
Anatol chuckled once again. “Clearly, you are not an assassin.”
“No, I'm not. I'm an artist. I create, I do not destroy.”
Anatol's smile subsided, and he grew solemn. He placed his hand on Emanuel's arm. “Trust me, my friend. I understand what you're going through. My father was a devil of a man, who tried too late in life to make amends. He failed, and good riddance. But I know what's going on inside you. I know the pain you must be feeling, the confusion. But don't look at it as destroying a life. Look at it as creating peace . . . peace for the thousands of families whose sons and daughters were butchered in these streets when Gustavus abandoned them. Look at it as creating peace for the tens of thousands who lost brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, when he invaded Poland. His death will create far more than it will destroy. We have an opportunity here to change history, just as the Americans have tried to do ever since the Ring of Fire. You have an opportunity here to do a great service for all of Europe. Will you help us?”
The room grew silent. Emanuel stared into the flickering candlelight, avoiding Peter's and Anatol's eager eyes. Despite his little speech, Emanuel thought it was unlikely that Anatol cared about changing the world. All he cared about was money. Someone, somewhere, was filling his pockets with coin, making this whole deadly endeavor possible. Who was it? Peter had not said anything about that. Perhaps he didn't know, or perhaps he, too, was withholding information. To protect or to deceive? The answer was not clear. But Emanuel knew this much: Peter wanted blood spilled in exchange for his daughter's death.
And so do I.
“All right. I will do what I can to help you kill the Swede.” He turned to Anatol. “What do you want me to do?”