COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN V: DAYS OF VICTORIES III

DAYS OF VICTORIES

A historical tale by Werner von Heidenstam
translated from the Swedish and adapted by Sandra Dermark

III. The leader of the Protestants

In the meantime, a weak and restless human heart was throbbing in the distance, throbbing with 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 her own, 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 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 the flush 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 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 fêtes 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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