COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN VII: DAYS OF VICTORIES V

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

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 fountains 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 shouts of 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.

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 the power 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, Stålhandske stormed forth, surrounded by his Finnish riders, but they were driven backwards down the slope. When night finally fell with splashing 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 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.

...

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.

...

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN IV: DAYS OF VICTORIES II

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

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 his horse, 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't know 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 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's redoubtable 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 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. The thunderstorm 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 Banér. 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.

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, this dreadful 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 Banér. 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 his hands to the nape of his neck and fell fast asleep.

The King had already closed his eyes beside his gallant Banér. 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 Sweden 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.

...

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN II: GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS AT CAILIN MOAT AND IN THE REACH

The logo for this year's Countdown to Lützen: a "Keep Calm" logo for Gustavus Adolphus.

This post is consecrated to the Westerosi rulers that remind me the most of Gustavus Adolphus: young dashing warrior kings with hopeful ambitions and enough charm, but who died untimely and violent deaths. 

Let's see how many parallels more can be drawn between their lives and that of the Vasa, shall we?

Robb Stark

Why was he like Gustavus Adolphus?

•  KING IN THE NORTH!
•  Fatherless, supported by widowed mother
•  Married for love, after many obstacles
• At an early age, distinguished himself on the battlefield, reputed as invincible
• Had got charm, which made his men ready to die for his sake
• Maybe he was bisexual?
• Was literally stabbed in the back (Gustavus was shot in the back)
• His untimely, violent death sent shockwaves through the world

Renly Baratheon

Why was he like Gustavus Adolphus?

• At an early age, distinguished himself on the battlefield, reputed as invincible
• Had got charm, which made his men ready to die for his sake
• Was homo and involved in a ménage à trois: maybe he was bisexual?
• Knew how to enjoy the fine things in life
• Had the same extroverted personality as Gustavus Adolphus
• Was regarded as impulsive and overconfident
• Violently killed at the war front
• Was literally stabbed in the back (Gustavus was shot in the back)
• His untimely, violent death sent shockwaves through the world
• Rumours say that he appeared on the battlefield, months and even years after his untimely death

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN III: DAYS OF VICTORIES I

Here are the Gustavus Adolphus Cakes we made last year.
They're decorated with yellow marzipan, blue fondant, whipped cream (for the fog)
and filled with raspberry jam (for the blood)

DAYS OF VICTORIES

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

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 spoke of tolerance. But, when he closed his weary eyes, 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 prelates 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 the Pope 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 had already 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. To 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, nuts, and berries in the woods to feed. Like 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 own sinister 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 the lords 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. With his 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 septuagenarian, 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!"

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 the greatest 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 to lose 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, ere 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 his bushy 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, 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 entrance in the ruins. The spoils that his men carried with them, when they finally marched on towards Leipzig, were of no interest to him.


...

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN I: THE STORY OF THE THUMBSUCKER

ON THIS EERIE, DARK, OMINOUS EVENING...
WHAT BETTER THAN AN OLD-STYLE CAUTIONARY TALE, TOLD TO THE CHILDREN OF YORE?
WOULDN'T THAT BE TOO INNOCENT?

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN: 2014 EDITION

This year will witness the rebirth of the Countdown to Lützen, the event in which the mistress of this blog will count down, for a week, the days until the expected sixth of November, in which you'll be in for an autumnal surprise!
The themes of this countdown will be Westeros, nostalgia, creepy All Hallows scares (for those who dare to brave the darkest nights of their subconscious)...

Want to know which Westerosi leader(s) has (have?) got more of Gustavus Adolphus?

Want to see some sweet, sweet, Gustavus Adolphus cakes?

Want to keep up with the Wallensteins themselves? Interviews with Isabella von Wallenstein and her daughter Thekla, the latter about to marry Free Lord Rudolf von Kaunitz?

Want songs? Poetry? Haiku? Fanart? 30YW-inspired "Keep Calm" memes?

Eeeevil stories of doom, with glowing powers and wickedness punished? Struwwelpeter tales?

A translation of a Swedish-language story about a great warrior ready to die for a good cause?

Programme:
31-10: The Story of Konrad the Thumbsucker
01-11 (or 02-11): Gustavus Adolphus Cakes
02-11: Gustavus Adolphus at Cailin Moat and in the Reach
03-11: KEEP CALM AND DO NOT DESPAIR / (The Days of Victories, by Werner von Heidenstam)
04-11: Poem by Carl Wilhelm Böttiger (The Days of Victories, by Werner von Heidenstam)
05-11: Keeping Up with the Wallensteins (The Days of Victories, by Werner von Heidenstam)
06-11: Lützen-themed surprise!! (The Days of Victories, by Werner von Heidenstam)


Here you have a Swedish-language snippet to break the ice:

Gustav II Adolf var en blond, vacker, något överviktig man, storartad fältherre och endast besjälad av kristliga och humana tankar. Det dröjde länge innan jag kunde släppa den bilden , och egentligen vill jag inte det nu heller, medan jag tronar på minnen från fornstora dar.
Ett litet hjältemodigt land kastar sig ut i världen, med värjor och läderkanoner för att värna en religion. Dagens unga fantasy-läsare skulle kanske uppskatta berättelsen, den finns i många variationer, men kanske inte med ett så brutalt slut – hjälten skjuten och genomstucken, slungad från hästen, trampad av hovar, avklädd och plundrad.
En av de skönaste män jag någonsin sett. Han var högväxt och höll sig mycket rak. Han hade ljungande blå ögon och ett hår så gult som vetet då det mognar. Varje hans rörelse talade om kraft, blicken ur hans ögon om myndighet men också om klokhet. - Kungen!
Skulle detta vara kättaren över alla kättare, ärkeluteranen från Norden?

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN V: GUNPOWDER

"Remember, remember...
the 5th of November?
Three score barrels of gunpowder below,
the English Parliament to overthrow..."

This day is not only the eve of the Battle of Lützen, but also the anniversary of another seventeenth-century happening, more than two decades before Gustavus died, and also orchestrated by the Counter-Reformation. And gunpowder played as relevant a role as at Lützen.
This evening, throughout the UK, Catholic traitors will be burned on effigy in public beneath skies splashed with bright-coloured fireworks.
If the conspirators had succeded, an Anglo-Saxon Catholic dictatorship instead of Protestant constitutional monarchy would have changed world history for good and forever.
Now Shakespeare was welcome at the royal court, and he must have been certainly aware of the Catholics' conspiracy, which was aborted and ended with the execution of the traitors four days after the first premiere of Othello, a day like today in 1604.
To please a stirred King James Stuart, the Bard came up with a tragedy about the assassination of a Scottish ruler (like his liege) at the hands of a conflicted traitor (though his spouse and three pretty weird sisters were the real instigators). The usurper is defeated and slain by the heir to the throne in the grand finale.
Of course, who doesn't know the Tragedy of M****th (mentioning it out loud is said to bring bad luck: please touch wood!)?

THE THIRD DAY BEFORE

"One day more... another day, another destiny..."
The untimely death of Gustavus Adolphus on the bloody and foggy plains of Lützen in early November 1632 is something known to every Swede from eleven years upwards...
Esaias Tegnér's Romantic poem Axel is set during the reign of Charles XII, half a century later. In this excerpt, a Russian invasion in what is now Finland calls all able men of the shire to arms:

But, at the summons of alarm, 
Children and feeble veterans arm, 
With swords and halberts, which were new, 
When Gustaf Adolf's banner flew 
Victorious o'er the Baltic main, 
And triumphed upon Lützen's plain...

Those scarred veterans must have been beardless youths when 

the fateful confrontation took place. 

It must have marked the lives of those few survivors...

What were their thoughts before, during, and after the battle?

And upon the Russian invasion five decades later?

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN IV: THY NAME IS VALDIS

Finally, the real name of the false heroine in Erstwhile is revealed!
"Valdis" sounds much more musical than "Katla". Also, the blonde's true name is meaningful: "Mistress of Choice" in Old Norse...
Now wedding bells are tolling for Valdis and Marcus (don't they look like Othello and Desdemona?)...
Let's take a first peek inside Chateau Valdis and look at our favourite anti-heroine!

The courtyard is kind of shabby, but the guardhouse is stunning! (Even more, considering Her Ladyship's recent betrothal)!

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN III: MACARONS AND OTHER PASTRIES

I made some chocolate macarons a couple of days ago.
Now, there are only three left, and soon there will be none.
For the 6th (how are you feeling?), I will make some typically Swedish Gustavus Adolphus Cakes.
They're sponge cakes, decorated with red fruit jam (for the blood) and whipped cream (for the fog).
The tradition of making these cakes is over a century old.

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN II: MOVEMBER

Wait? Movember with an M?
It's an international NGO/NPO, that started in Auz about three years ago and has become big in Europe.
Its name is a portmanteau of "Moustache", "Movement", and "November".
Its goal: to prevent prostata cancer.

Mo Bro Jack A. Lope in late November last year.

Right now, hundreds of Mo Bros (Movember Brothers) worldwide have kickstarted the month with a clean shaven upper lip. On the 1st of December, they will have shaven their impressive moustaches once more.

COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN I: THE COSTUME PARTY

31-10 + 1-11: FEAST OF ALL HALLOWS
I have attended the party I mentioned in a previous post. In fact, most of the people there were dressed as undead...
Except one of the clerks. She was Erik, the Phantom of the Opera (and her costume was as detailed as mine!) The other clerks weren't dressed up for the costume party.
There was a little girl dressed as a pirate... I scared her telling her that officers capture pirates!!