Chapter 12
Schloß Lichtenburg, Prettin
Electorate of Saxony
August 1635
Hedwig, the fourth daughter of the late King Frederick II of Denmark and the equally deceased Duchess Sophie of Mecklenburg-Güstrow stood looking out the window, reflecting briefly on Psalm 146. Verlasset euch nicht auf Fürsten. “Put not your trust in princes, in mortal men who cannot save you. He takes his last breath, he returns to the earth. On the same day, his plans perish.” In the eyes of God, a ruler was as mortal as the poorest peasant.
In the eyes of rebels, also.
The up-timers who had landed so abruptly in this world, so drastically upending its equilibrium, had brought an English-language hymnal with them. She had bought a copy of the reprint, of course. One, written not so far from the “now” in which she was standing at a window, written less than a century from this “now,” echoed the psalm:
Trust not in princes; they are but mortal;
Earthborn they are and soon decay.
Vain are their counsels at life’s last portal,
When the dark grave engulfs its prey.
Since mortals can no help afford,
Place all your trust in Christ, our Lord.
Alleluia, alleluia!
Of the seven children in her family, she, one sister, and one brother survived to this day; he the current king of Denmark.
Bittersweet. Her childless marriage had lasted for nine years; she had been a widow nearly a quarter of a century.
She had never gotten along well with Christian’s brother and successor, Elector John George of Saxony. Had not seen eye to eye with him in regard to her dower lands. Had maintained some limited freedom of action when it came to trade and commerce, ordering the canal dredged to improve transport, even when it competed with his exports; had tried to live as a faithful woman should. Founded churches. Aided the poor and built hospitals for the sick. Provided care for the disabled. Attempted to exemplify how one should display the fruits of faith. Somewhat ironically, elected into the Tugendliche Gesellschaft of like-minded Lutheran noblewomen.
“Virtuous” Society. The men of their families had arrogated to themselves the title of Fruchtbringende Gesellschaft, “Fruit-bearing” Society.
They’d given her the title Die Grossthaetige and the motto Gott zu ehren. “Mighty in deeds—To the honor of God.”
Mighty in deeds? Because of her position—to some degree. Because of her influential connections—to some extent. Because she was, if not admired by the subjects in her Witwensitz, her “widow’s seat,” at least respected by them—more or less. Well-liked—not so much. She was hard on drunkards and a terror to gamblers whose paychecks went to cards and dice instead of the support of their families.
And when she said “jump,” the only acceptable answer was “how high?” There was that. So: well-liked—not so much.
By a combination of those factors, though, she had managed to keep her territories from being attacked during the course of the war. Not by Leaguists, not by Swedes; not by Catholics, not by Protestants; not by Austrians, Danes, or uncontrolled bands of unemployed mercenaries. They were almost intact; nearly untouched.
Until now.
All in all, she would rather not see anyone die for John George’s sins.
She looked out the window again, at her little army drawn up against a body of the rebel partisans.
Her reasonably well-trained and well-equipped little army, a squadron of mounted dragoons and a company of infantry; men who had served her well as they performed their duties, most of them for many years. Flanked by some of the militia from Prettin and a few from the villages—not many. Most of the men in the militia remained where they lived, to defend their families, friends, and neighbors against the expected plundering and looting.
Drawn up against a pressing crowd of far less well-equipped men. Less orderly men. Angry men.
Out of sight, hidden inside Schloß Lichtenburg, her foster-daughters, personal attendants, and domestic servants; some outside workers who could not be expected to defend the castle, elderly gardeners and young stableboys; townspeople and villagers who for some reason had been nearby this morning. Beyond her sight, the remainder of the residents of the Ämter of Annaburg, Schweinitz (which included Schloß Lichtenburg and the small town of Prettin), Seyda and Schlieben, all the villages within those districts, and all the people of those villages. Not a lot of people, a couple of thousand, but each one a subject to whom she owed the duty of protection. To the best of her ability.
It was a task for which the small army at her disposal would not suffice. It could not turn the partisans away; not drive them out. Not all of them. Those who remained would wreak damage.
She squared her shoulders and went down to negotiate.
Again.
This time with a man with whom she had no connections at all.
* * *
When Thomas Kleinitz looked at the liveried soldiers drawn up to oppose his men, he saw them overshadowed by the building behind them. It was large. Expensive. Modern, maybe fifty years old, not a fortress; even the towers had windows. Any architect who put big windows on the ground floor was a victim of idiotic overconfidence in the milk of human kindness.
The old monastery building, one that probably had the kind of towers, turrets, and slits that defenders could use to pour boiling oil down on people like him, had burned down, he’d heard.
The old building had been famous, sort of. Back in 1518, Martin Luther had gone there and met with Georg Spalatin, the private secretary of Elector Frederick the Wise, who had promised to back his rebellious monk. Which was neither here nor there. The electors had turned it into a royal palace after putting an end to monks and nuns; there had been enough battles in Saxony between then and now.
Maybe the boiling oil had caught on fire, which would have served someone right.
Behind him, there were men. Angry men.
Also, outsiders.
You didn’t have to live very far away from a particular village for the people there to think you were an outsider. Ten miles would do it; fifteen miles was about a guarantee. Twenty miles? You might as well be from . . . well . . . Magdeburg. Or the legendary Grantville of the up-timers.
His men were Saxons, yes, for the most part, but not drawn from the old woman’s villages, beyond a couple of dissatisfied wastrels who had been objects of her censoriousness. She’d kept this Flecken from being attacked by anyone’s army, so far. The villages were ripe for the plucking. The men who lived in them, for the most part, didn’t want to be plucked; didn’t want their wives, sisters, and daughters plucked; didn’t want their shops and farms plucked.
Not even by partisans of Gretchen Richter whose cause was righteous.
They were suspicious that die Richterin’s righteous cause would draft their sons and brothers, drag them into her foreign campaigns as ruthlessly as any mercenary “recruiter” for Tilly or Holk might have forced them into his regiment.
They were, Andreas Amthor from over in Thuringia, whose brother Nicholas had been shot by the Croats in 1632, who had read more than one CoC pamphlet, told him the day before, “a pernicious nest of little self-satisfied proto-bourgeois.”
Who were sadly lacking in major grievances. They had plenty of minor ones, everybody did, but . . .
The old lady hadn’t done anything wrong, really, except be who she was: the sister-in-law of Elector John George of Saxony. The duty of the lord to subjects was Schutz und Schirm; she had given her subjects protection and defense against outside attacks. They weren’t living like wolves on the heath. They didn’t want to.
Consorting with the enemy, he supposed, would have to be the charge if she was on trial.
Not to mention that both the up-timers and the CoC were hellishly opposed to such classic activities as plundering and looting, which meant that if the men behind him got out of his control, he would be in deep shit. In a noose on a gallows was not impossible. Put there by enforcers from his own side of this uprising in Saxony.
The old lady’s soldiers had rifles. Which were currently pointed at the ground.
His men had muskets, mostly. Which had fucking well better be pointed at the ground, but he didn’t dare turn around to look.
He had enough supporters of the uprising with him, half-trained to three-quarters trained, to do a lot of damage to the soldiers he was confronting. But not without taking a lot of damage themselves.
He didn’t have enough men to fight all the locals who didn’t want to be plucked even now; he certainly wouldn’t after they’d taken the damage those rifles could inflict. Their rate of fire compared to what he could manage . . . Would it be worth it?
Nobles. A man couldn’t trust a word they said. God himself had spoken a warning in the psalms. Verlasset euch nicht auf Fürsten.
In front of him, the infantrymen were moving to either side, the mounted dragoons splitting their formation in the center and sidling their horses.
From behind the horses, a couple of footmen appeared and began to tug on the handles of the huge double doors.