1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [57]
"She's still aboard the ironclad," he explained. "I imagine she'll be along fairly soon."
The fellow who seemed to be in charge of the contingent of officials was looking very glum by now.
"Her Majesty will be most upset," he said.
"And hence her daughter's indisposition," replied Ulrik cheerily.
Clearly, from his expression, the court official hadn't understood the quip. Just as well. Ulrik's father had once told him: As a king, you want brave generals, shrewd advisers and diplomats, but—make sure of this, son!—dull-witted court officials. They're insufferable otherwise.
Judging from the way the court officials were milling around, talking to each other in low-pitched but agitated tones, nothing would be happening until Kristina set foot on the dock. Quite obviously, none of these men wanted to return to the palace and face the queen without the princess in tow.
So be it. Ulrik had no problem standing around on the dock for a time. It was a very pleasant day, sunny and with just a mild breeze. After spending two days cramped on an ironclad and with the prospect ahead of spending weeks in what looked like a rather chilly royal palace—it would be crowded, too; palaces with royalty in residence always were—he didn't mind at all the pleasures of the moment.
Baldur felt otherwise. "There's got to be a decent tavern hereabouts," he said. "Even a not-so-decent tavern would suit me fine."
Ulrik smiled. "Suit you better, you mean. Unfortunately, this is not the time for carousal. It would look bad."
"Look bad for you," Baldur retorted. "They already think the worst of me."
Actually, from what Ulrik could determine, none of these officials seemed to have any idea of Baldur Norddahl's identity or of his checkered past in Sweden. Neither had any of the Swedish officials they'd encountered before they sailed—and there'd been a veritable drove of those, during the Congress of Copenhagen.
The explanation, of course, was simple—that selfsame dull-wittedness of officials. It simply wouldn't have occurred to any of them that a Danish prince—any sort of prince, even a Hindoo or Mussulman prince—would associate with ruffians. It helped that Ulrik had seen to it that Baldur's wardrobe was suitable.
The name wouldn't matter here. Ulrik had never asked, but he was quite sure that whatever misdeeds Baldur had committed in times past in Sweden, he'd done it under a different name.
There was no reason to press the matter, however, which they'd be doing if they ventured into a disreputable dockside tavern. If there was any place in Stockholm where they might encounter someone who'd known Baldur, it would be there.
A little motion in the distance caught his eye, and he turned to look. Another lighter was coming away from the Union of Kalmar. And it was flying the Swedish royal ensign.
"Too late, anyway," he said to Baldur. "Kristina's coming."
When the princess set foot on the dock, she ignored the gaggle of officials and rushed to Ulrik's side. She clutched his elbow with both hands and looked up at him with an expression that combined anxiety, determination and relief.
"Caroline says you won't get upset no matter what happens. Because that's the way you are, she says. So she says I should take my guidance from you."
Ulrik looked over at the gangway, where Caroline Platzer was now coming across. Their eyes met. He didn't know whether he should glare or look thankful.
Instead, he kept his expression neutral. Realizing, at the same time, that the infernally shrewd Platzer woman would have counted on that.
Ah, well. There were advantages to being a phlegmatic prince. Calming the nerves of a younger and very unphlegmatic princess, for one.
He patted her hands. "Everything will be fine."
A smooth and fluent liar, too. Another virtue for a prince.
Vaxholm Island, in the Stockholm Archipelago
When he entered the tavern and saw the men already sitting at the large table in the center, Charles Mademann's eyes widened.
Mathurin Brillard.
Robert Ouvrard.
Gui Ancelin.
Guillaume Locquifier.