state of the kingdoms and the principalities, I think I can even name the sin. Pride, Axel. Overweening, unrestrained arrogance. Nobility purely of the flesh, not the spirit.”
Oxenstierna did not try to respond. In truth, he did not want to. Axel Oxenstierna, chancellor of Sweden, was eleven years older than his king. Older—and often, he thought, wiser. But that same wisdom had long ago led the man to certain firm conclusions.
The first of those conclusions was that Gustav II Adolf was, quite probably, the greatest monarch ever produced by the people of Scandinavia.
The other, was that he was almost certainly their greatest soul.
So, where the chancellor might have argued with the king, the man would not argue with that soul. Oxenstierna simply bowed his head. “As you say, my lord,” was his only reply.
Gustav acknowledged the fealty with his own nod. “And now, my friend,” he said softly, “I need to be alone for a time.” Regal power was fading from his face. Anguish was returning to take its place.
“It was not your fault, Gustav,” hissed Oxenstierna. “There was nothing you could do.”
But the king was not listening. He was deaf to all reason and argument, now.
Still, Axel tried: “Nothing! Your promise to the people of Magdeburg was made in good faith, Gustav. It was our so-called ‘allies’ who were at fault. George William of Brandenburg wouldn’t support you, and John George of Saxony barred the way. How could you—?”
He fell silent. Hopeless. The human reality which the warrior king had put aside, for a time, was flooding into the man himself.
The huge, powerful figure standing in the center of the tent seemed to break in half. An instant later, Gustav Adolf was on his knees, head bent, hands clasped in prayer. His knuckles were white, the hands themselves atremble.
The chancellor sighed, and turned away. The king of Sweden was gone, for a time. For many hours, Axel knew. Many hours, spent praying for the souls of Magdeburg. Oxenstierna did not doubt that if his friend Gustav knew the names of the tens of thousands who had been slaughtered in that demon place, that he would have commended each and every one of them to the keeping of his Lord. Remembering, all the while, the letters they had sent to him, begging for deliverance. Deliverance he had not been able to bring in time.
Many hours.
At the entrance to the tent, Oxenstierna stared out across the plains of central Europe.
Oxenstierna did not try to respond. In truth, he did not want to. Axel Oxenstierna, chancellor of Sweden, was eleven years older than his king. Older—and often, he thought, wiser. But that same wisdom had long ago led the man to certain firm conclusions.
The first of those conclusions was that Gustav II Adolf was, quite probably, the greatest monarch ever produced by the people of Scandinavia.
The other, was that he was almost certainly their greatest soul.
So, where the chancellor might have argued with the king, the man would not argue with that soul. Oxenstierna simply bowed his head. “As you say, my lord,” was his only reply.
Gustav acknowledged the fealty with his own nod. “And now, my friend,” he said softly, “I need to be alone for a time.” Regal power was fading from his face. Anguish was returning to take its place.
“It was not your fault, Gustav,” hissed Oxenstierna. “There was nothing you could do.”
But the king was not listening. He was deaf to all reason and argument, now.
Still, Axel tried: “Nothing! Your promise to the people of Magdeburg was made in good faith, Gustav. It was our so-called ‘allies’ who were at fault. George William of Brandenburg wouldn’t support you, and John George of Saxony barred the way. How could you—?”
He fell silent. Hopeless. The human reality which the warrior king had put aside, for a time, was flooding into the man himself.
The huge, powerful figure standing in the center of the tent seemed to break in half. An instant later, Gustav Adolf was on his knees, head bent, hands clasped in prayer. His knuckles were white, the hands themselves atremble.
The chancellor sighed, and turned away. The king of Sweden was gone, for a time. For many hours, Axel knew. Many hours, spent praying for the souls of Magdeburg. Oxenstierna did not doubt that if his friend Gustav knew the names of the tens of thousands who had been slaughtered in that demon place, that he would have commended each and every one of them to the keeping of his Lord. Remembering, all the while, the letters they had sent to him, begging for deliverance. Deliverance he had not been able to bring in time.
Many hours.
At the entrance to the tent, Oxenstierna stared out across the plains of central Europe.