CAN YOU OUTRUN THE NIGHT?

Can you outrun the night?

El Staplador (elstaplador)

Summary:

A wild night, a traveller who may already be too late...

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

 

 

He would have known her name, if anyone had told him what it was, but he did not recognise her face. A handsome woman, already well into her forties, but lively and active, with flashing, autocratic dark eyes. To him she was merely another passenger, one more unfortunate on the way to the sanatorium high on the mountain. For they were all unfortunate who passed this way; either doomed to die themselves, or to lose one they loved.
It was good business for a carrier, this hospital. All summer they had toiled up and down this steep, new-laid, track, him or his master, on foot or on horseback or driving the carriage, bearing letters and flowers, patients and visitors. Once there had even been a pianoforte, a beautiful piece of work whose safe delivery had been superintended by the maker himself, coming all the way from Paris, it was said.
Now – autumn was here. First, the rain. Soon, the snow would come; but there was time to worry about that and to spare. He did not like the look of the weather today. The mountain was veiled deep in mist, and a great black cloud was rolling up the valley behind them. It was already spitting with rain, and threatened worse.
He could just see her if he looked over his shoulder. She sat in the carriage with her back straight, proud as a queen, her brow furrowed in a little frown (of worry, or displeasure? he did not care to find out), her hands clasped tightly on the handle of her bag.
The day grew darker. Night was falling, and, though it was close to full moon, the clouds blocked out all the sky. It was with a profound sense of relief that he brought the carriage to a halt in the tiny lamp-lit square of Ste-Marie-des-Montagnes. Surely, he thought, she would not want to go on tonight.
But, 'Why have you stopped?' she demanded as he opened the door for her.
He touched his cap. 'I thought you might care to stop here for the night, Madame. There's a storm coming, and we have yet an hour's drive, at the least.'
The first clap of thunder came just as she said, 'No. We carry on. I must get there tonight. I may already be too late.'
He nodded, closed the door, and climbed back on the box.
It poured steadily for the next forty minutes. The road became mud and he was forced to slow to a crawl. He could barely see ten paces in front of him; over and over again he had to wipe the rainwater from his face. And soon they came to what he had dreaded since the storm began. The ford ahead was a torrent of brown, swirling water. It was already as deep as would reach to a man's waist, he calculated, and the horses were as reluctant to go forward as he was.
This time she opened the door herself and stepped out without claiming his assistance. She stood, careless of the way that her skirts dragged in the mud, and called to him, 'We must keep on!'
'The ford, Madame! The river is in flood!'
She surveyed the scene, but shook her head. 'I cannot delay,' she said.
'I won't go further,' he protested. 'It's not safe.'
'I must go on,' she insisted.
'We'd never get the carriage across the ford.'
She looked at him, impatiently but not unkindly, then she drew a purse from her bag and held it out to him. 'Then take this, and let me have one of the horses. I will return it tomorrow. If you are an honest man, there is enough here to recompense your master for the loss if I do not keep my word; if dishonest, there is ample to set you up in business elsewhere. I do not care which; only, give me the means to go on.'
He gaped. 'Your luggage?' he said, stupidly.
'Dross. Do with it as you will. Now, will you release to me a horse?'
The purse was heavy, and after all it was her business if she chose to die sooner than God intended. He hastened to do as she told him, his cold hands fumbling with the buckles and sodden straps. She nodded. 'One moment,' she said, and climbed back into the carriage. Busy with the reins, he did not look to see what she was doing, and was shocked when she emerged dressed in men's riding clothes, her heavy cloak abandoned on the seat.
'Come, then,' she said, and he handed her the bridle. 'Thank you,' she said, and she led the horse on, up the track, towards the river. He watched until they were through the ford, soaked but still defiant. Further than that, he could not help her.
'Good luck!' he cried after her. But she could not have heard him over the wind.

Notes:

Rather depressing premise, sorry! It's sort of implied when Louise is introduced for the first time. Most of the time I choose to ignore it.

HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY KILL A CHARACTER

Authors are always being advised to be mean to their characters. Often, that meanness involves killing them off. And even as we may bawl over our beloved characters’ deaths, most of us get a strange sort of fulfillment out of it. We gotta play tough and do whatever best serves the story, right?

But that, of course, begs the question: Is killing off a character really the best way to serve your story?

Before we answer that question, let’s take a look at some reasons that may justify our decision to end a character’s life—along with some not-so-good reasons.

Good Reasons to Kill a Character

We can find many good reasons for snuffing even important characters, including:

• It advances the plot. (Melanie in Gone With the Wind.)
• It fulfills the doomed character’s personal goal. (Obi-Wan in A New Hope, Oberyn Martell, anyone who has mentored Harry Potter, Baron Zeppeli in JoJo, Éponine Thénardier/the original Little Mermaid, Juliet Capulet/Hélène de Chandroz/Shirin...)
• It motivates other characters. (Sirius Black, Mercutio, Ophelia, all of the Amis sans Marius -the sole survivor-, Renly, Drogo, Ygritte...)
• It’s a fitting recompense for the character’s actions up to this point. (Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Oberyn. Cú Chulainn. Also, Éponine Thénardier/the original Little Mermaid, Juliet Capulet/Hélène de Chandroz/Shirin...)
• It emphasizes the theme. (Everybody in Flowers of War, all the dwarves in The Hobbit, and so many star-crossed lovers across cultures and historical periods.)
• It creates realism within the story world. (Everybody in Westeros)
• It removes an extraneous character. (Danny in Pearl Harbor.)

Bad Reasons to Kill a Character

Some less worthy reasons for doing our characters dirty include:

• Shocking readers just for the sake of shocking them. (Shock value isn’t without its, well, value, but not every author is Alfred Hitchcock and not every story is Psycho.)
• Making readers sad just for the sake of making them sad. (An old saw says, “If they cry, they buy.” But readers never appreciate being tortured without good reason.)
• Removing an extraneous character. (I know, I know. I just said that was a good reason. But you have to double-check this one. If the character is extraneous, then you better verify if s/he really belongs in this story in the first place.)

A Final Consideration Before You Kill a Character

Now that we have a grip on what makes a character’s death work within a story—and what’s sure to make it fail—we next have to consider what could end up being a crucial reason not to kill your character.

Every character in a story should be there for a specific reason. He’s there to enact a specific function (as we discussed in recent posts about archetypes and roles). If he doesn’t enact that function, then you have to question his purpose in the story. And if he does fill a role within your story, well, then ask yourself this: Who’s gonna fill that role if you kill him off?

Dramatica authors Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley explain:

Unless the functions represented by the discontinued player reappear in another player, however, part of the story’s argument will disappear at the point the original drops out. In the attempt to surprise an audience by killing off a major player, many an author has doomed an otherwise functional storyform.

How to Kill a Character: A Checklist

Lucky for our sadistic little souls, roles and archetypes can shift from character to character or be shared by several characters. In short: when a character dies off, his death doesn’t have to mean his role will be left vacant for the rest of the story.

With all this knowledge in mind, here’s a quickie checklist for figuring out if you can get away with murder:

• You have scrutinized the list of good reasons to kill off a character.
• You have identified one of the reasons as being present in your plot (or come up with a new good reason).
• You have identified what role and archetype your character fills in your story.
• You have created and positioned another character(s) to fill the hole left in your story by the doomed character’s death.

–or–

• Your story ends in a thematically satisfying way that doesn’t require the character’s role to be perpetuated.

Sometimes the death of a character can raise an ordinary story into something special. If you can justify a character’s death, then go for it! Special may be just around the corner.

DAYS OF VICTORIES VII: ELEANOR AND CHRISTINA

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

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 Nyköpingshus, 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 Nyköpingshus, 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.

At her lonely seat of Gripsholm (where the Regent had her confined after claiming Nyköpingshus), a passage through dense woodland led from one of the castle gates to a little bay in Lake Mälaren. 

"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.

When the Queen Dowager was weeping and sobbing in the black mourning chamber at Nyköpingshus, 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 Lützen, 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 Estates of 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 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, and she 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 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 the war 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 Banér 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, Banér! Come! Now the time is here!" They whispered that they recognized the voice, and that it was his late wife's. But Banér'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 Banér, 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 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 fiancée, 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 had been 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.

A ROYAL FUNERAL IN VIKING TIMES

Herger said to me, “The wendol come. They know of the mortal wounds of Buliwyf, and they seek a final revenge for the killing of their mother.”

Each of the warriors of Buliwyf took a place at the perimeter of the fortifications that we had drawn up against the wendol. These defenses were poor, yet we had none else. We peered into the mists to glimpse the horsemen galloping down upon us.  I  had seen the aspect of the wendol and I knew them to be creatures, if not men, then like enough to men as monkeys are also like men; but I knew them to be mortal, and they could die.

Thus I had no fear, save the expectation of this final battle. In this manner was I alone, for the warriors of Buliwyf displayed much fear; and this despite their pains to conceal it. Verily, as we had killed the mother of the wendol, who was their leader, so also had we lost Buliwyf, who was our own leader, and there was no cheerfulness while we waited and heard the thunder approach.

And then I heard a commotion behind me, and upon my turning, I saw this: Buliwyf, pale as the mist itself, garbed in white and bound in his wounds, stood erect upon the land of the kingdom of Rothgar. And on his shoulders sat two black ravens, one to each side; and at this sight the Northmen screamed of his coming, and they raised their weapons into the air and howled for the battle. 

Now Buliwyf never spoke, nor did he look to one side or another; nor did he give sign of recognition to any man; but he walked with measured pace forward, beyond the line of the fortifications, and there he awaited the onslaught of the wendol. The ravens flew off, and he gripped his sword Runding and met the attack.

No words can describe the final attack of the wendol in the dawn of the mist. No words will say what blood was spilled, what screams filled the thick air, what horses and horsemen died in hideous agony. With my own eyes I saw Ecthgow, with his arms of steel: verily his head was lopped off by a wendol sword and the head bounced upon the ground as a bauble, the tongue still flicking in the mouth. Also I saw Weath take a spear through his chest; in this way was he pinned to the ground, and there writhed like a fish taken from the sea. I saw a girl child trampled by the hooves of a horse and her body crushed flat and blood pouring from her ear. Also I saw a woman, a slave of King Rothgar: her body was cut in twain cleanly while she ran from a pursuing horseman. I saw many children likewise killed. I saw horses rear and plunge, their riders dismounted, to be fallen upon by old men and women, who slew the creatures as they lay stunned on their backs. Also I saw Wiglif, the son of Rothgar, run from the fray and conceal himself in cowardly safety. The herald I did not see that day.

Now the sun burst through the mist, and the dawn was full upon us, and the mist slipped away, and the horsemen disappeared. In the broad light of day, I saw bodies everywhere, including many bodies of the wendol, for they had not collected their dead. This truly was the sign of their end, for they were in disarray and could not again attack Rothgar, and all the people of the kingdom of Rothgar knew this meaning and rejoiced.

Herger bathed my wound, and was elated, until they carried the body of Buliwyf into the great hall of Rothgar. Buliwyf was dead a score over: his body was hacked by the blades of a dozen adversaries; his visage and form were soaked in his own still-warm blood. Herger saw this sight and burst into tears, and hid his face from me, but there was no need, for I myself felt tears that misted my sight.

Buliwyf was laid before King Rothgar, whose duty it was to make a speech. But the old man was not able to do such a thing. He said only this: “Here is a warrior and a hero fit for the gods. Bury him as a great king,” and then he left the hall. I believe he was ashamed, for he himself had not joined in the battle. Also his son Wiglif had run like a coward, and many had seen this, and called it a womanly act; this also may have abashed the father. Or there may be some reason which I do not know. In truth, he was a very old man.

Now it happened that in a low voice Wiglif spoke to the herald: “This Buliwyf has done us much service, all the greater for his death at the concluding of it.” Thus he spoke when his father the King had departed the hall.

Herger heard these words, and I also did, and I was the first to draw my sword. Herger said to me, “Do not battle this man, for he is a fox, and you have wounds.”

I said to him, “Who cares for that?” and I challenged the son Wiglif, and upon the spot. Wiglif drew his sword. Now Herger delivered me a mighty kick or manner of blow from behind, and as I was unprepared for this I fell sprawling; then Herger joined battle with the son Wiglif. Also the herald took up arms, and moved slyly, in the desire to stand behind Herger and slay him at the back. This herald I myself killed by plunging my sword deep into his belly, and the herald screamed at the instant of his impalement. The son Wiglif heard this, and although he had battled fearlessly before, now he showed much fear in his contest with Herger.

Then it happened that King Rothgar heard of the clashing; he came once more to the great hall and begged for a ceasing of the matter. In this, his efforts were to no avail. Herger was firm in his purpose. Verily I saw him stand astride the body of Buliwyf and swing his sword at Wiglif, and Herger slew Wiglif, who fell down upon the table of Rothgar, and gripped the cup of the King, and drew it toward his lips. But it is true that he died without drinking, and so the matter was finished.

Now of the party of Buliwyf, once of the number thirteen, only four remained. We set out Buliwyf beneath a wooden roof, and left his body with a cup of mead in his hands. Then Herger said to the assembled people, “Who shall die with this noble man?” and a woman, a slave of King Rothgar, said that she would die with Buliwyf. The usual preparations of the Northmen were then made.

Several days probably elapsed before the funeral ceremony.

Now a ship was fitted out upon the shore below the hall of Rothgar, and treasures of gold and silver were laid upon it, and the carcasses of two horses also. And a tent was erected, and Buliwyf, now stiff in death, placed inside. His body was the black color of death in this cold climate. Then the slave girl was taken to each of the warriors of Buliwyf, and she said to me, “My master thanks you.” Her countenance and manner were most joyful, of a variety in excess of the general good cheer these people show. Whilst she dressed again in her garments, these garments including many splendid ornaments of gold and silver, I said to her that she was joyful.

I had in my mind that she was a fair maiden, and youthful, and yet soon to die, which she knew, as did I. She said to me, “I am joyful because I shall soon see my master.” As yet she had drunk no mead, and she spoke the truth of her heart. Her countenance shone as does a happy child, or certain women when they are with child; this was the nature of the thing.

So, then, I said this: “Tell your master when you see him that I have lived to write.” These words I do not know if she comprehended. I said to her, “It was the wish of your master.”

“Then I will tell him,” she said, and most cheerfully proceeded to the next warrior of Buliwyf. I do not know if she understood my meaning, for the only sense of writing these North people know is the carving of wood or stone, which they do but seldom. Also, my speech in the North tongue was not clear. Yet she was cheerful and went on.

Now in the evening, as the sun was making its descent into the sea, the ship of Buliwyf was prepared upon the beach, and the maiden was taken into the tent of the ship, and the old crone who is called the angel of death placed the dagger between her ribs, and Herger held the cord that strangled her, and we seated her alongside Buliwyf, and then we departed.

It is true that at the moment of her death the maiden smiled, and this expression afterward remained, so that she sat next to her master with this same smile upon her pale face. The face of Buliwyf was black and his eyes were closed, but his expression was calm. Thus did I last view these two North people.

Now the ship of Buliwyf was set aflame, and pushed out into the sea, and the Northmen stood upon the rocky shore and made many invocations to their gods. With my own eyes, I saw the ship carried by the currents as a burning pyre, and then it was lost to vision, and the darkness of night descended upon the Northlands.

In the company of the warriors and nobles of the kingdom of Rothgar. This was a pleasant time, for the people were gracious and hospitable.

Soon enough I thought the old King less a fool than I had previously.

 “This King is not such a fool as I have taken him to be.”

In reply, Herger said: “You are wrong, for he is a fool, and does not act with sense.” 

Here was the manner of it. Herger sought the audience of King Rothgar in private, and said to the King that he was a great and wise ruler whose people loved and respected him, by virtue of the way he looked after the affairs of the kingdom and the welfare of his people. This flattery softened the old man. Now Herger said to him that of the five sons of the King, only one survived, and he was Wulfgar, who had gone to Buliwyf as messenger, and now remained far off. Herger said that Wulfgar should be summoned home, and that a parry for this purpose be arranged, for there was no other heir save Wulfgar.

These things he told the King. Also, he spoke some words in private to the Queen Weilew, who had much influence over her husband.

Then it happened at an evening banquet that Rothgar called for the fitting out of a ship and a crew, for a voyage to return Wulfgar to his kingdom. The preparation of the ship took the space of several days. Herger had chosen to remain behind.

One day we stood upon the cliffs, overlooking the ship on the beach, as it was prepared for the voyage and fitted with provisions. Herger said to me: “You are starting upon a long journey. We shall make prayers for your safe-keeping.”

I inquired whom he would pray to, and he responded, “To Odin, and Frey, and Thor, and Wyrd, and to the several other gods who may influence your safe journey.” These are the names of the Northmen gods.

Here there are many gods and each has his importance.

CHRISTINA'S CHOICE

The Clever Princess and Christina Vasa. Christina Vasa as the Clever Princess (not Barbara Gordon, Anna Milton, Mary Winchester, Sue Storm-Richards...) So I thought. Take forth your handkerchiefs and prepare for a good story I wrote a couple of years ago (historical fiction based on real events, fairytale retelling focused on secondary characters, my own Swedish background and family history included). This story was originally in Spanish, so I have translated it into English.

1)
Once upon a time, there was a long and great war. And there were two people whose lives were branded by the conflict.
"Christina..."
The young girl wiped her brow clean with her right hand, for she had been riding all morning long. Casting off her cavalier hat, she untied her strawberry blond ponytail in her bedchamber. She had come of age indeed, but not all maidens in the world had inherited a kingdom and a war (though the front was leagues away, south of the royal court). A kingdom to rule and a war to stop.
Sitting before a modest firwood table, Christina started to read the electors' letters, as she sucked her feather quill. Some of the handwritings were hard to understand, yet she could figure out, grosso modo, the most relevant facts. For it was a matter of life or death: the sooner they came to terms with each other down in Westphalia, the better.
But there were no letters from Charles. Had he fallen? Perchance not. If that were the case, she would already had received the condolences. Like the day of her sixth birthday.
It was a cozy winter evening. Christina was in the same place, the great hall at Stegeborg, opening her gifts with the Wittelsbachs, the ones who raised her (for both her birth parents had left for the war front shortly after she had come to the world). One book in particular was dedicated to her: The Daring Feats of the Great Gustavus Adolphus, whose daughter he was. She couldn't have been happier or more innocent. And right then, suddenly, Aunt Catherine had her turn over to the last pages: the battle of Lützen, the dearly bought victory, the military funeral.
Christina's steel-blue eyes let go of a few tears. So early in her life did she cease to be a child. Then, a stern and aged stranger in black made an entrance. Chancellor Oxenstierna began to discuss the most relevant matters with John and Catherine: the education of the new girl queen, his own duties as regent, and the way the child should be prepared for her reign. Then came foreign tutors, ponies, fencing lessons, physical exercises, deer hunts, foreign languages, literary classics (the Aeneid, the Metamorphoses, the Gallic Wars...). She would be reared both as a warrior and a scholar, as if she had been a boy, together with Charles of Wittelsbach. The bonds between them hadn't tightened that early: being an only child, Christina always saw Charles and his sisters as good friends. But she usually told him, to tease him, that they were betrothed to each other.
Betrothed? And he still believed so! And no letters written by Charles had arrived from the German Empire... Could he have committed suicide?
Thrice were they parted by others. The first time, he went forth to study a certain degree at Uppsala University, when he was thirteen or fourteen summers old. The second time, Herr Oxenstierna had encouraged him to take the Grand Tour across Flanders and France: Charles spent three years away from home, and, upon going forth, he hadn't grown that dark stubble on his upper lip yet. The third time, he had already returned to Stegeborg from the Grand Tour with those little strands of raven hair for a moustache. The war kept raging on.
Christina herself, like Charles, had been born in the heat of the armed conflict that changed their lives forever.

Like he always had done at that time of year, Herr Oxenstierna had dropped by his homelands before returning to the war front, and he discussed the neverending war with the young girl. The silver streaks that once stood out had spread throughout his goatee, his eyebrows, and the rest of his hair. After all, a decade had passed since that evening's condolences.
The chancellor wanted to discuss matters of vital importance: the Austrian headquarters had received Swedish military and state secrets, and his suspicions were set on John of Wittelsbach, a foreigner and a Calvinist. The Count of Pfalz, married to Gustavus Adolphus's sister, had fled with her to Sweden after losing his lands and privileges at the start of the war. Charles had been born at Stegeborg, four years before Christina, but he had never felt like a foreigner or like an outsider. His father charged with treason? That was a name to be cleared, and he was ready to wash the Wittelsbach family name clean with blood if necessary.
And thus, he left for the third time, perchance never to return. The dark youth had received, from Christina, a fair lock from her ponytail and the command of the whole Swedish Army (it shouldn't be less, for perhaps, as a strategist, he could be the successor of the Great Gustavus Adolphus).
And years went by. The young princess who soon would be queen became aware of the fact that peace had to be signed as early as possible. If not, perhaps the young general wouldn't return alive. Actually, she didn't feel attracted to him, or to any other person, after her sexual awakening: after all, she was an intellectual, and a tomboy as well, and little did she care for her appearance or for fashion. Yet she liked him after all: only in conversation, riding together, drawing steel against each other. No sexual attraction or interest in wealth, just an intellectual relationship. Hence the importance of all that peace making.
"You should marry", they had told her at the table for the umpteenth time. She had been adressed by more than one of the noblemen seated beside her. Christina replied with a glare of her blue eyes, cold as ice and hard as steel, that said many things without a single word. She blushed and stood up, violently hitting the table with both her hands.

2)
They had summoned her to Tre Kronor. Though she preferred Stegeborg, she had to present herself at court to carry on some procedures. And also to visit the Chancellor, whose post she had decided to fill after the last farewell to Oxenstierna with a dashing gallant of Wallonian descent, Magnus de la Gardie.
She still felt restless at the deathbed of a gentleman in his seventies, who already saw before him the end of a lifetime and that of a regency. He had always been by Christina's side, from the very day he had arranged her parents' marriage. The Chancellor was strangely pale, and he could hardly breathe.
"Marry, Christina. Choose your husband..."
Then, he closed his eyes and became forever silent.
Once more, she burst into tears, which she quite rarely did.

3)
In a kingdom in the North there once lived a young princess so clever that she read all the newspapers and every book in the known world: partly due to her fondness of strange nations, partly because she had to stop a war that had already claimed enough lives. Her late regent and her other loved ones had sung to her always the same old song: "Why shouldn't you marry?"
Thus, shortly after she had ascended the throne, she received letters from southern lands, messages that peace was soon to be signed. If she wished for a bridegroom, he should not only be dashing (for that would be so tiresome!), but able to understand her as well. And thus, she assembled all of her court ladies together, and they were astonished upon that decision.
When the treaty was signed, she had proclamations printed and exported, and sent to the ends of the Habsburg Empire, stating that every well-favoured youth was free to visit Her Majesty (either at the royal court, at Tre Kronor, or at Stegeborg, her childhood estate) and speak with her, and those who displayed their wit were to make themselves feel quite at home, but the one who spoke best would be chosen as confident for Her Majesty ("perhaps as husband for her", countless suitors thought).
Thus, gallants came in crowds, from as far south as Prague and Constance, but none of was able to meet the requirement on the first or on the second day of the peace celebrations. They all could speak very well in a lecture hall, or on the street, or even by a campfire... but when they entered the royal residences, surrounded by gilded plasterwork, and rose-­red tapestries, and great, silver mirrors that glowed with the light of a thousand candles, and saw the counts and barons in all their finery, and the guards in blue and silver uniforms, they grew nervous, and they were stunned.
And, once before the throne, they could do nothing but repeat, like Echo, the last thing the young queen had said. And thus she grew bored with each man, and sent them all away, one by one.
On the third day, a dashing person came to Stegeborg on foot, without horse or carriage, with long raven hair and a lieutenant's or ensign's uniform (a rather worn and torn one, but nevertheless colourful and beautiful). When he passed through the palace gates, he saw the guards in their silver and blue uniforms, and the nobles in all their splendour, but was not the least embarrassed, though his own clothes were faded and worn. The halls were dazzling with light. State councillors and ambassadors walked around barefooted, wearing satin slippers. It was enough to distract the most brilliant orator. But the officer, though his worn boots creaked, didn't even flinch.
He went boldly up to the princess herself, who was seated on her throne, and all the ladies of the court were present with their maids, and all the counts and barons and knights with their servants; and every one of them was dressed so finely that they shone as brightly as the mirrors. They were placed around the throne according to their station: the nearer they were to the door, the lower was their rank and the prouder their look. Even the servants wore cloth of gold, and they were all so proud that they would not even look at him, because he had come to the palace with ink on his fingers. He was quite solemn and not at all afraid, free, lively and agreeable... and said he had not come to woo the princess, but to hear her wisdom; and he was as pleased with her as she was with him.
They looked at each other for a while, his eyes of black fixed on her eyes of blue. They recognized each other. And they embraced.
"Charles! You're alive!"
"Christina! How come you're wearing a gown?"
"You see...", she stroked her yellow satin skirt. "Today is not a usual day."
Both told each other everything they couldn't have told each other. He had been to Prague and seen there halls more elegant than those of his childhood, and thus, he had got used to the decadent elegance of the Baroque. She had stayed in Sweden due to affairs of state. The war that branded their lives had lasted for thirty years.

4)
The first ray of sunlight in one of those long summer days filtered itself through the curtains that covered her white lily-bed. A blond young girl with rather tangled hair, dressed still in her nightgown, stood up to take up a book from a nearby table and start reading it by daybreak light. Le discours de la méthode. The author would soon arrive in response to her invitation. They dressed her in breeches once more: wearing corsets and petticoats was meant only for special occasions.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought of Charles and of marriage. For a while, she felt light-headed and nearly fainted upon remembering that night's dream: one of her childhood memories. She was in a far darker room, that could be even considered eerie. In her dream, she was a child of seven, reading a history book beside a beautiful lady in mourning black, with platinum blond hair and bleak countenance, who never ceased to weep. Before both of them, within a crystal glass case, lay the lifeless form of a rather dashing gentleman, doubtlessly a warrior, a military man from what his attire could tell, with the same sharp goatee and the same impressive physique as the Great Gustavus Adolphus in the illustrations. He was strawberry blond with a high forehead, just like little Christina. As she read the account of the battle of Lützen, she couldn't avoid hearing all that weeping and those sighs of despair: "Why you, and not rather me? I can't even live without you!"

5)
They returned to the stables, that afternoon, from a ride that reminded more of a race. Charles was lagging behind Christina, like he had always done. Once more, they cast off their cavalier hats and their spurs.
"Christina... Shouldn't we..."
She blushed once more: her cheeks looked like strawberries. Locking eyes with Charles, she held a few tears in check.
"You shall be my successor, not my better half. Since we were raised together, I'm sure you'll even be a better ruler than I".
They exchanged glances once more, and they understood each other once again. The succession issue was no more a problem. And freedom lay just a few weeks ahead.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE - II

Adapted from the retelling by Elsie Finnimore Buckley

Second Story
In which Orpheus discovers true love, but also sorrow and despair

Thus did the gift of song fall upon Orpheus, so that he became the greatest of all singers upon earth. All day long he would wander about the woods and the hills, and tame the heart of every living thing with the magic of his voice.

One day it chanced that he came into a wood where he had never been before, and he followed a grass-grown track which led to the mouth of a cave. On one side of the cave stood a tall beech-tree, whose moss-covered roots offered a tempting seat, and close by a clear stream gushed forth from the rocks. He drank eagerly of the water, for he had wandered far and was thirsty; and when he had quenched his thirst, he sat down on the roots of the beech-tree and began his song. As before, the wild things gathered about him, and crouched at his feet, tame and silent, as he sang; and from the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass, with her chin between her hands, looking up into his face. For a time he did not see her, so silently had she come; but at last the power of her eyes drew his eyes upon her, and he turned his head and looked at her. When he saw her, his arm fell useless by his side and his voice died away in his throat, for he had never looked upon anyone so fair. Her hair was black as the storm-cloud, but her eyes were blue as the summer sky, and she lay like a white flower in the grass at his feet. For a long moment he gazed into her face without speaking, as she gazed back at him, and at last he spoke.

"Who art thou, maiden?" he asked.

"I am Eurydice," she answered.

"Thy hair is black as midnight, Eurydice," he said, "and thine eyes are bright as the noonday."

"Are not midnight and noonday fair to thine eyes?" she asked.

"They are fair indeed, but thou art fairer."

"Then I am well content," she said.

"I know not thy name nor thy face, Eurydice," said he, "but my heart beats with thy heart as though we were not strangers."

"When two hearts beat together, Orpheus, they are strangers no more, whether they have known each other all their days, or have met as thou and I have met. Long ago the fame of thee, and of thy singing, reached mine ears, but I hardened my heart against thee, and said, 'It is an idle rumour, and he is no better than other men, before whose face I flee.' But now the gods have brought thy steps to the hollow cave where I dwell, and thou, by thy magic, hast drawn me to thy feet, so that I, who doubted thy power, must follow thee whithersoever thou wilt."

"Shall I sing thee a song, Eurydice—the song thou hast sown in my heart?"

"Yes, sing me that song," she answered.

So he struck the chords of his lyre and sang her the song that was born of her beauty. One by one the wild creatures stole back to the forest, for that song was not for them, and they two were left alone beneath the spreading boughs of the beech-tree. As he sang, Eurydice crept closer to him, till her head rested on his knee and her long black hair fell in a cloud about his feet. As she drew nearer his voice grew lower, till it became but a whisper in her ear. Then he laid his lyre on the ground beside him and put his arms about her, and their hearts spoke to each other in the tongue that knows not sound nor words.

So it came to pass that Orpheus returned no more to dwell with Cheiron and his companions in the hollow cave below Pelion, but lived with Eurydice, his wife, in her cave in the heart of the forest. But he never forgot his boyhood's happy days, nor all that Cheiron had done for him. He would come often to see him and take counsel with him, and sing to the lads his magic song. For a few short years he lived a life the gods might envy, till the dark days came, when not even music could bring comfort to his heart. For one day, as he roamed with Eurydice through the dark forest, it chanced that she unwittingly trod upon a snake, and the creature turned upon her and pierced her white foot with its venomous fang. Like liquid fire the poison ran through her veins, and she lay faint and dying in his arms.

"O Eurydice," he cried, "Eurydice, open thine eyes and come back to me!"

For a moment the agony of his voice awoke her to life.

"Orpheus," she said, "beloved, this side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. But love, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered."

When she had spoken her head sank down upon his breast, and her spirit fled away, to return no more. So he bore the fair image of his wife in his arms, and laid her in the depths of the cave that had been their home. Above her head he placed a great pine torch, and all the long night watches he sat with his arms about her and his cheek against her cheek; and his heart groaned within him with a grief too great for words. Ere the day dawned he kissed for the last time the lips that could speak to him never again, and laid back her head on a pillow of leaves and moss. Then he pulled down the earth and stones about the mouth of the cave, so that no one could find the opening, and left for evermore the home he had loved so well. Onward he walked in the grey light of dawn, little caring where he went, and struck the chords of his lyre to tell all the earth of his grief. The trees and the flowers bowed down their heads as they listened, the clouds of heaven dropped tears upon the ground, and the whole world mourned with him for the death of Eurydice his wife.

"Oh, sleep no more, ye woods and forests!" he sang, "sleep no more, but toss your arms in the sighing wind, and bow your heads beneath the sky that weeps with me. For Eurydice is dead. She is dead. No more shall her white feet glance through the grass, nor the field-flowers shine in her hair. But, like last year's snow, she is melted away, and my heart is desolate without her. Oh! why may the dried grass grow green again, but my love must be dead for ever? O ye woods and forests, sleep no more, but awake and mourn with me. For Eurydice is dead; she is dead, dead, dead!"

So he wandered, making his moan and wringing the hearts of all who heard him, with the sorrow of his singing. And when he could find no comfort upon earth he bethought him of the words of his wife:

"This side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. But love, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered."

He pondered the words in his heart, and wondered what she might mean.

"If love is stronger than death," he thought, "then my love can win her back. If I can charm the hearts of all living things with the magic of my song, I may charm, too; the souls of the dead and of their pitiless king, so that he shall give me back Eurydice, my wife. I will go down to the dark halls of Hades, and bring her up to the fair earth once more."

SWEDISH KIDS STAGE BATTLE OF LÜTZEN

Starring Gustavus Adolphus, Mary Eleanor, Christina, and the officer who killed Gustavus.
It's, however, in Swedish!

THE RINGSTETTEN SAGA XIV: LIFE GOES ON AND ON AND ON

Previously on the Ringstetten Saga:

The independent and self-reliant tomboy queen (traumatized by her mother's fate, she declines to marry not to feel sorrow or have her wings clipped by love and/or obedience: "Free was I born, free I live, and free I shall die") feels the weight of the crown heavy upon her head. She came to visit the La Gardies as an excuse to inform them of her upcoming abdication, having already appointed the successor who will rule in her stead as she seeks adventure and thrills across Europe.

So, the next day, it's time to say farewell to the Queen, who has to inform her mother and courtiers of such a relevant decision. Later on, in mid-December, Liselotte and her children have been preparing the welcoming of another Eleonora: Alois's and Hedwig's daughter, who arrives three days later from Dalecarlia to marry her childhood friend Hermann and live with her in-laws. The betrothal is celebrated on New Year's Day.

However, Gerhard acts coldly towards his daughter-in-law and prefers to keep on writing his memoirs, having consecrated a room in the estate to his weapons and to the medal that Her Majesty gave him. The young lieutenant who fought so gallantly for the Protestant cause revives in the prose that graces his library, upon reaching the part of his life when he met the Swedish royals. Thus, Gerhard keeps on writing more and more passionately for each day... and even more upon realising that Liselotte, just like the Queen, has always looked and acted like Gustavus Adolphus… since, unknown to her, the Hero King of Lützen is her birth father, making her a legitimized royal bastard. At their next family Christmas, the memoirs writer finally discloses this under the influence, yet, surprisingly, no one is upset, and Liselotte herself remarks that she looked and acted like the late king more than like Colonel von Tarlenheim, while also realising why she was made a ward of the Crown after her apparent father’s death. Which means the Ringstettens have got true royal blood running through their veins!

While his daughter-in-law is with child, girls from nearby farms and villages come to the estate as servants, and the French garden becomes more beautiful for every day in springtime. Annika, the favourite among all these maids, is the orphaned granddaughter of the local wise woman, Svarta Maja (Black Maya), who tends to the Ringstettens as well as any qualified physician. The Walloons (Protestant Walloons in Sweden!) from a nearby iron foundry also become their friends and partners: the nobles come to the foundry where they live for Christmas, and the Walloons come to visit the estate in midsummer.

As Eleonora finds out, by midsummer, that she is with child (she was not sure until then), Gerhard reaches the part of his memoirs when he comes to Sweden and has a conversation with the Queen, commenting on the impression that she made. In early winter, the next generation of Ringstettens is kickstarted with Hermann's and Eleonora's eldest child: a premature little girl, that is christened Christina in the parish church. Sadly, such a joyful event is to be associated with a dramatic one: as the first snowdrops of spring appear in the French garden, the veteran officer is found unconscious in the library, before his desk, as he reached the account of his eldest grandchild's birth in the memoirs. Gerhard is strangely pale and cold, unable to breathe. He reacts upon being given water and brandy to drink, but his heartbeat has weakened to a flutter. The bullet in his chest, after being lodged in his left lung for decades, causes the searing pain and weakness that he is experiencing.
At dusk, the same evening, the flutter of his heart is finally silenced. It is up to Liselotte to finish his memoirs with the account of her beloved spouse's death and obsequies.
The next day, Gerhard receives his eternal rest in between the nearby church and the French garden, in a baroque shrine where Ringstettens of upcoming generations will follow him. On a wall of the shrine, Liselotte has the poem that her husband wrote at the start of his memoirs written (here is a translation of the full inscription, the original being in German and Swedish):

HERE LIETH

COUNT GERHARD WILHELM VON RINGSTETTEN

BORN IN 1615 - DIED IN 1654

LIEUTENANT IN THE FRENCH ARMY

LIEUTENANT IN THE SWEDISH ARMY

LORD OF THE RINGSTETTEN ESTATE

KÜSTRIN HAD THE HONOUR OF BEING HIS BIRTHPLACE.

HE CAME OF AGE IN CAMPS, TO SERVE A GREAT LEADER

IN THE GREATEST WAR OF HIS DAY

FOR THE HIGHEST CAUSE OF HIS DAY.

HE FREQUENTED MANY LANDS AND NATIONS.

SUCCEEDED WHEN TRIED,

SUCCEEDED IN LOVE,

SUCCEEDED IN LIFE.

"NO CHALLENGE WAS TOO HARD: I STROVE TOWARDS THE LIGHT.

YET I CAN'T COMPREHEND THAT I'LL BE OUT OF SIGHT"

The whole Ringstetten shire is in mourning, and the Tarlenheims come over from Dalecarlia. The Walloons and Black Maya are consternated as well. Yet even more misfortunes await the Ringstetten clan: it'll take a decade for an exhausted Eleonora to conceive another child, much to her mother-in-law's chagrin, and Queen Christina's successor dies in 1660, to be succeeded by his only son, Charles XI. 
One only cloud looms above them: the current master Hermann, Liselotte's and Gerhard's eldest son, is not able to leave for any war due to his brittle state of health, leaving his younger brother Konrad, the spare, in charge of the foreign campaigns.
Life has gone on in the shire without any trouble except that. Christina von Ringstetten has become a lonely and thoughtful child, with the maids and Etienne van der Heide, the steel mill owner's ten year older only son, for playmates. Though the green-eyed and strawberry blond little girl, educated by the local Reverend, also likes reading books, especially myths and war chronicles.
In the 1670s, catastrophes pile upon each other: royal officials scour the estate to give three quarters of the clan's lands to the Crown, and the King himself is coming to Värmland for a moose hunt (Charles XI having started an absolutist regime); Etienne has left for Uppsala University, leaving Christina on her own with her books; large patches of heartsease that cover the plains predict that it will be an unusually dry summer for that part of Sweden; and Eleonora, who happens to be expecting her third child and hopes that it will be a blond male (after her red-haired daughters, Christina and Ilse) to appease her stern mother-in-law... develops an unexpected craving for wild strawberries. 
An agreement with the Sidhe, the spirit of the woods, will solve all those issues... or not?

THE RINGSTETTEN SAGA VIII: THE LEIPZIG-FRIEDLAND WINTER

Previously on the Ringstetten Saga:

The late king's lifeless body is discovered, bloodstained and covered in gunshot and stab wounds, amidst a heap of slain Croatians. Liselotte finds an unconscious and freezing Gerhard, whom she takes to the surgeon and tends to herself. A nice draught of brandy (both to quench his thirst and ease his pain) down the lieutenant's throat almost brings him back from a state of near-death, but he will have to rest in bed all winter long, speaking and moving as little as possible, if he wants to survive: the bullet is lodged so deeply in his chest that it can't be taken out. The Leipzig Christmas wedding which Liselotte and he had dreamt of will have to be cancelled: they will marry in spring in the Swedish camp, if the wounded lieutenant survives.

Alois, however, has not been found, dead or alive. For one good reason: he strayed in the fog as well, was struck in the nape of his neck with a sword and suffers from amnesia, and thus he has joined Wallenstein's army as he was swept in the Friedlander's pell-mell retreat. After a brief stay in Leipzig before its fall, the amnesiac sergeant has followed the Wallenstein entourage eastward, into Friedland (the Wallensteins' shire, located in between Saxony and Bohemia). He has learned to know Isabella and Thekla von Wallenstein, His Lordship's wife and child (promoted to heiress after her brother's death), the former a blond and elegant Viennese noblewoman, the latter a raven-haired and reserved damsel who has lived in the shade of her father and brother... and is nowadays disturbed by her many suitors. Once in Friedland, Wallenstein has had the local gallows prepared for executing four colonels and nine subaltern officers for cowardice, as scapegoats for the Lützen-Leipzig debacle. Alois, now raised to the rank of generalissimo's aide-de-camp's orderly (pretty high, isn't it?), has become aware that disobedient peasants and servants, officers, privates, and vassals, are bound to wear a hemp necklace at the pettiest offence (even stealing fruit, or not wearing the Wallensteinian colours, which are scarlet and black). 
The Schloss Friedland chapel and those closest to it have got no bells, whose knell provokes His Lordship, but eunuchs calling from the church towers... Though very few people there are deeply religious. To start with, the Wallensteins and their associates are freethinkers.
However, Friedland is a peaceful shire with public schools in the smallest villages, manufactures (early modern industries), and medical care for the meanest subjects. The currency is a golden coin made in Friedland itself with Wallenstein's profile on it. Everything seems to betray that Wallenstein will take all this to imperial scale once he has dethroned the Kaiser: he is convinced that his reign will be remembered for its goodness and emphasis on welfare. Think of that, of an Enlightened despot born a century ahead of his times!

 In a glass case in a parish church (in Weissenfels, Saxony), the hero of freedom is mourned for by officers, privates, and a heartbroken Queen Eleanor (perchance the saddest of them all).
Eleanor (Desperate): Oh, Gustavus! Darling! Without you, I'm so alone! I wither, helpless, on my own!

With the enbalmed form of her late spouse and with his wounded steed, she invites Hedwig and Liselotte to follow the funeral procession to the royal palace in Nyköping. The blond girl, trying in vain to comfort her queen, declines such a tempting offer: she will follow the Swedish ranks, sure that her beloved Alois is still alive somewhere and that they are destined to meet each other again.
Liselotte declines as well, worried about Gerhard's state of health and having already decided to tend to his wounds. And also because she feels at home on the war front, not being that fond of courtly life.

Gerhard and other few Protestant survivors from the Battle of Lützen spend the winter in Leipzig's famous Auerbach Tavern. Our young lieutenant shares a room with his sister and fiancée, before moving into the estate of Breitenfeld for a quicker recovery (and less scuffles with university students). 
There he mostly spends the days sleeping until the week before Christmas Eve, when he starts reading books and making lace, that both girls sell at the local Christmas Market in Leipzig for profit. He draws the inspiration from the ice crystals on his windowpane, and he also notices that, having drunk too much brandy, his lace patterns resemble his first "cobwebs" of yore... let that be a temperance lesson!

The December celebrations of this trio are modest and cozy (that typically Germanic Gemütlichkeit!): Liselotte and Gerhard receive each a wedding ring and a medal of Gustavus Adolphus for their respective chain necklaces, while the convalescent lieutenant makes wonderful and special lace patterns, laden with love, for their dresses. After New Year, the lace made in that inn room is especially produced upon request of well-to-do Leipzig bourgeois for their tables and decoration.

At Schloss Friedland, the celebrations are far more lavish and baroque, crossing the limits of decency. Alois happens to have made friends with Thekla, though merely like siblings... but they must keep the distances, for His Lordship, drunk on success as he is, is rather protective of his wife's faithfulness and of his daughter's innocence. Thekla is courted by many suitors, three of which are actually a fifth column sent by the Kaiser from Vienna to watch the Duke of Friedland and inform the central government of his moves (though the would-be in-laws are unaware of the youths' agenda). Alois gets promoted to generalissimo's aide-de-camp's ensign, having to share entourage with Ladies Neubrunn and Brandeiss. He also gets to admire Wallenstein, and to learn of the duke's plans to team up with the Swedish regency for overthrowing the German Empire with a meticulously planned coup d'état!

Winter changes into spring once more, and both armies take to the field. But Sweden has lost power since the King's untimely death: the Regent reveals himself as a much worse leader, and Banér, now free once more, has started to drink to drown his sorrows after his beloved liege lord's death at Lützen. Thus, a long and bloody losing streak ensues. Gerhard and Liselotte marry in the woods in spring, while more officers defect to Wallenstein's army following each lost confrontation...