Christina Queen of Sweden: The Restless Life of a European Eccentric

скачать книгу бесплатно


Maria Eleonora passed a sad winter, bereft of her mother and sister, her little daughter dead, and her husband, to whom she had begun to cling with a desperate fondness, too often preoccupied and too often away. In February came a further blow, the death of her younger brother, at the age of just 21. As the spring approached, happier times seemed promised; the days lengthened and a mild sun shone down, and another baby quickened in her womb. But in April, news arrived from Berlin of the Electress Dowager’s death. The Queen was deeply affected, and for some weeks she lay sorrowing and ill, mourning her mother, wearied by her pregnancy. Towards the end of May, she rallied. The King was again in Stockholm, and in the fine spring weather an inspection of the Swedish fleet was to take place in the surrounding harbour. The royal couple would attend together, reviewing the ships from aboard their own small yacht. The fleet lay at anchor off the little island of Skeppsholmen, and as the King and Queen sailed past, a sudden squall blew up around them, rocking their yacht from side to side until it almost capsized. Though the mooring was soon reached, the Queen was carried back, frightened and ailing, to her rooms in the castle, and there she endured the bitter conclusion of the day. For within a few hours, her labour had begun, too early; the morning light would break upon her weeping women, and her little stillborn son.

The King recorded the tragedy with pious resignation. ‘Disaster has befallen me,’ he wrote. ‘My wife has brought a dead child into the world. It is because of our sins that it has pleased God to do this.’

For his Vasa dynasty, at least, it was indeed a disaster. In this fifth year of his marriage, and despite the Queen’s three confinements, Gustav Adolf had as yet no living heir. Three years before, his younger brother had been killed in battle in Poland, and the King of that same country, Gustav Adolf’s cousin, Sigismund III, now stood to inherit the Swedish throne. Moreover, Sweden’s enemy heir had two adult sons of his own, through whom a Catholic dynasty might be foisted upon the unwilling Swedes, raising once again the spectre of civil war.

But the lack of an heir was not the only disaster to have befallen the King. His wife’s behaviour was becoming increasingly eccentric. During his many absences on campaign, she would be ill and depressed, then would bound out of her dismal moods with cravings for sweet foods and lavish spending on gifts for her favourites which the Treasury could not afford. She had always been passionately fond of her husband, but now her attachment became obsessive, and she pleaded repeatedly with Axel Oxenstierna to persuade him to return. ‘Please help me, if you can help me,’ she wrote to the exasperated Chancellor. One courtier, describing her as ‘unimaginably’ hysterical, attributed her behaviour, sympathetically, to simple loneliness. Maria Eleonora herself felt sure of the source of her malaise. ‘When I know that my most beloved lord is coming,’ she wrote, ‘then all my sickness and panic fall away.’

The Queen’s extreme behaviour was not the only sign that she was now far from well. Her very odd use of language was becoming the subject of comment by many at court. Far from having mastered the language of her adopted country, since coming to live in Sweden she had become incapable of using even her native German correctly. Whether speaking or writing, she muddled syllables and made up strange concoctions of words which resembled but did not match those of any language she had learned. Although no one regarded the Queen as intelligent, and many spoke of her extravagant flights of hysteria, her unusual difficulty with language suggests a possible neurological problem. It may be that, during one of her confinements, she had suffered some kind of stroke; certainly there was no mention of any language problem before her marriage, and her own father had suffered several strokes which had left him increasingly debilitated. Whatever the reason for the Queen’s abnormal use of language, it no doubt added to her increasing sense of desperation – even her handwriting, once straight in lines of even spacing, now showed a pronounced downward slope, the graphologist’s tell-tale sign of depression.

The Queen’s unhappiness can only have been increased by the knowledge that, only a few hours’ journey from Stockholm, her husband’s nine-year-old illegitimate son was living with his Dutch mother and stepfather, Margareta and Jakob Trello, at Benhammar, an estate in the King’s gift.

The King was evidently proud of the boy; he had named him, after all, Gustav Gustavsson. His existence was no secret, and indeed, rumours abounded that the affair between the King and Margareta was still ongoing; Margareta herself had written to Gustav Adolf to reassure him that she was not the source of them. There does not seem to have been any truth in the rumours, but the boy’s bright and sturdy presence in itself must have been a constant reminder to the Queen of the son she herself still lacked.

The King, though courteous and considerate, had by now abandoned any hope of a genuine companionship with his wife. In public, he spoke of her affectionately, but in private he referred to her as his malum domesticum, a ‘domestic cross’ which he was obliged to bear. To his friends, it seemed, he regarded her as ‘more or less a child’, to be attended to and watched over, but from whom no mature, reciprocal feeling could ever be expected. Still in her twenties, Maria Eleonora had already begun to assume the sad mantle of old age, confused in her speech, prey to every illness, trying to those about her.

Further troubles now beset Gustav Adolf, for this was 1625, a plague year, and his own troops in the east had not been spared. In December came news of his mother’s death. It was late in the spring before he could return to bury her; through the long months of winter her body lay in state in Nyköping. But on his arrival, the King brought joyful news; the Queen was expecting another child. Pitying her pleading, and no doubt only too aware that an heir had yet to be produced, the King had agreed to her joining him after a Swedish victory had provided a pause in the fighting. As the year progressed, every precaution was taken to ensure Maria Eleonora’s safety, and in November, a few weeks before the expected birth of the new baby, Gustav Adolf’s illegitimate son was tactfully dispatched to the university at Uppsala, in the care of the King’s own boyhood tutor. It was not in any sense a dismissal; the young Gustav would retain his place in his father’s affections, but for now, it seems, he was best out of the way.

December in Stockholm, the cold, dark winter of the north, and a new moon glimmered on the frozen river. Around the castle, the plain wooden dwellings stood huddled and low, as if to shelter themselves from the bitter weather. Above, in a black sky, the stars were aligned just as they had been more than thirty years before at the birth of Gustav Adolf; now, once again, the Lion ascendant cast its faint reflection on the old stone tower’s three golden crowns. Within the castle, torches flamed and fires blazed, striving against the darkness and the damp. Courtiers paced and servants dozed, while the Queen consulted her astrologers, and the King dreamed of a son.

It had been an anxious time. Gustav Adolf and Maria Eleonora had been six years married, and they had as yet no living child. The birth of a boy was now predicted, but as the Queen drew near her confinement, the astrologers foresaw death as well. The child would die, or if he lived, he would cost the life of his mother, or even his father, who lay ill, feverish and troubled as the hour of the birth approached. If the boy lived, he would be great, they said, and the Queen took comfort, remembering the signs of her pregnancy, the omens in the stars, and her husband’s dreams.

It was the eighth of December,

a Sunday, and as night fell, a night of bitter cold, the Queen began her labour. She was not strong, and the birth proved difficult, but as the clocks neared eleven, the baby emerged, alive, into the eager hands of the midwives. That the child was strong and likely to survive was clear – a lusty roar announced a determined entry into the world – but it was covered from head to knee in a birth caul, concealing the crucial evidence of its sex. The caul was removed at once, and the Queen’s attendants, delighted to meet the expectations of the court, declared the child a boy; its siblings were dead, and it was, after all, sole heir to a valiant warrior king. The mother and father were duly informed, and through the cold midnight air the castle rang ‘with mistaken shouts of joy’.

The nurse came confidently forward, the exhausted Queen lay back, but for the disconcerted midwives it would be no night of rest or sweet, familiar work. A closer look at the baby had revealed their error; it was in fact a girl. Through the dark night hours they waited, for no one dared tell the King. As the morning light dawned weakly over the castle, the baby’s aunt decided to take the matter in hand. She took the child up in her arms, went to her brother’s sickroom, and lay the child directly on the King’s bed, sans swaddling clothes or, as the baby herself was to describe the event, ‘in such a state that he could see for himself what she dared not tell him’.

Legend has it that the King expressed no disappointment, indeed, not even surprise, at this extraordinary turn of events. He calmly took up the child and kissed it, then spoke to his sister in accents of tender stoicism. ‘Let us thank God,’ he said. ‘This girl will be worth as much to me as a boy. I pray God to keep her, since He has given her to me. I wish for nothing else. I am content.’ The Princess reminded him that he was still young, as was the Queen, that there would surely be other children, surely a son, but the King merely replied, ‘I am content. I pray God to keep her for me’, and he blessed the baby and kissed her again, as if to emphasize his contentment. ‘She will be clever,’ he added, smiling, ‘for she has deceived us all.’

The legend has its source in the pen of Christina herself, though she claimed to have heard the story ‘a hundred times’ from her aunt and also from her mother, who, at the time of this exchange, lay perilously weak in her own room. It is not likely to be true, though the Princess may well have softened the tale for the lonely little girl whom she later took into her care. In fact, the birth of a daughter was a desperate disappointment for Gustav Adolf and his followers, and it threw into question the very survival of the shaky Vasa dynasty. The King’s calm acceptance, if calm it really was, is more likely to have been the result of his fever, the lassitude or lethargy of a draining illness, or even of quiet relief to have at least a living child. As for the Queen, it was some time before she was considered strong enough to withstand the sorry news. After four pregnancies and the deaths of three infants, and this latest, most difficult birth, she was ‘inconsolable’ to find that she had not borne a son after all. She rejected the child out of hand, and began her own descent into a profound mental disarray.

Whatever his private feelings, and despite his fever, the King soon rallied. A Te Deum was commanded in thanksgiving for the birth, and the baptism was quickly arranged. The child was christened Kristina Augusta,

the same names that had been given to the elder sister who had died three years before. ‘Christine’ had been the King’s mother’s name, and his grandmother’s, too, and it was also the name of a Finnish noblewoman with whom he had once been in love – the memory of that young beauty may now have brought a smile to his lips as he announced the name he had chosen for his little daughter.

The baby’s second name, Augusta, perhaps a loose rendering of ‘Gustav’, may have been the Queen’s choice. She is not likely at any rate to have liked the baby’s first name; there had been no love lost between herself and the King’s late mother.

Many years later, needing to emphasize her Catholic credentials, Christina was to claim that, during her baptismal ceremony, the pastor had inadvertently blessed her baby forehead with a sign of the cross, so enrolling her unwittingly in the ‘happy militia’ of Rome. But in fact, this kind of blessing had remained fairly common in Sweden through the early decades of Lutheranism. The pastor’s sign, far from a presaging, was a gesture made instinctive from the force of long habit. And Christina’s claim, as so much of her life was to be, was no more than a ruse to persuade her audience, and perhaps even more, to persuade herself.

Why had it been so difficult for Maria Eleonora’s attendants to determine the sex of her newborn child? The large caul would surely have been removed at once to establish the answer to this most important of dynastic questions. The baby’s loud voice, the ‘extraordinary, imperious roar’, may have been a sign of strength, but not more. It is more likely that the experienced midwives were for once confronted with something unfamiliar in the squalling little person of a baby of ambiguous sex. Though the child had been born before midnight, they waited until the morning to make their final, altered decision.

Was the little girl really a boy? Was she a hermaphrodite, or a pseudo-hermaphrodite? Diagnoses of this kind, at a distance of centuries, must always be conjectural. It is possible that Christina was born with some kind of genital malformation, and she may even have been what would now be called intersexual or transgendered. Our own statistically-minded age records that about one in every hundred babies is born with malformed genitals of varying degrees of ambiguity, making it often difficult, and sometimes impossible, to determine the baby’s sex. There are various disorders which can cause such malformations;

in the case of a baby girl, the most common of them would produce a perfectly healthy infant with normal internal sex organs, but often with an enlarged clitoris and partially fused labia, easily confused at first glance with the small infant penis of a longed-for male child.

Whatever the case, Christina’s sex, like her sexuality, was to remain ambiguous to others and ambivalent to herself throughout her tempestuous life. It would distort her relations with her mother and her father, poisoning the one and tainting the other. And in the first years of her life, it would precipitate a dynastic crisis from which she would emerge an acclaimed crown prince.

Death of a King (#ulink_1ecea3ac-431e-560a-9d35-549628a09f3e)

In his diary, looking back to the years of his childhood, John Evelyn records:

I do perfectly remember…the effects of that comet, 1618…whose sad commotions sprang from the Bohemians’ defection from the Emperor Matthias: upon which quarrel the Swedes broke in, giving umbrage to the rest of the princes, and the whole Christian world cause to deplore it, as never since enjoying perfect tranquillity.’

The English diarist’s ‘comet’ of 1618 was no less than the beginning of the Thirty Years War, set in slow motion by the infamous ‘defenestration of Prague’, when the city’s two unhappy Habsburg governors were thrown from a window of the Hradčany Castle.

The governors, ignobly landing on a dungheap, survived unhurt, disappointing many of the Emperor’s supporters of two early martyrs to the cause. But in the following years, there had been no lack of martyrs on either side, indeed, on all sides, for the war was proving less a struggle for or against imperial power than a muddled conflict of shifting alliances, religious, territorial, political, and personal. No one, it seems, had wanted war; fear had motivated most. But defensively, pre-emptively, unwittingly, dozens and then scores of combatant armies were gradually dragged or preached or bribed into the lists of the perverse, ancient battle for peace.

For generations, the Holy Roman Emperors of the German Nation had been successively elected from the Catholic Austrian House of Habsburg.

The Empire, a loosely linked archipelago of hundreds of principalities and estates, cities and bishoprics, both Catholic and Protestant, was by no means exclusively German; territories as far afield as Lombardy had allowed it to claim its ‘Roman’ title, and it had once encompassed even the Papal States. But since the beginning of the Reformation, a hundred years before, its tenuous cohesion had been threatened by growing Protestant objections to the rule of a Catholic Emperor.

Of the Empire’s seven Electors, three were Catholic bishops, three Protestant princes, and the seventh was the elected King of Bohemia, in recent decades always Catholic and always a member of the Habsburg family. But as the aged and childless Emperor Matthias began to fail in health, the restive Protestants of Bohemia saw their chance. On the Emperor’s death, a new King of Bohemia would be elected, a new voice for the choosing of the next Holy Roman Emperor. They determined that the voice would not be Catholic, nor would it be the voice of a Habsburg, and they set their sights on Friedrich, the Calvinist Elector of the Palatine.

On Matthias’ death in March 1619, his titles of Archduke of Austria and King of Bohemia were assumed by his Habsburg cousin, Ferdinand of Styria, in the full expectation that the title of Holy Roman Emperor would also soon be his. But the Protestant Bohemians countered by deposing Ferdinand, and elected Friedrich as their King in his place. Ferdinand’s response was ferocious. In the autumn of 1620, at the great Battle of the White Mountain at Bíláhora near Prague, the Bohemian army was destroyed. Ferdinand exacted a terrible revenge: the gates of Prague were closed, and for a week his troops were licensed to take whatever they could. The city was sacked, and the gates of the Hradčany Castle itself were more than once blocked with wagonloads of plunder. For the rebels themselves, there was no mercy; the native nobility was simply wiped out, most by execution, the rest by confiscation of their lands and subsequent exile – many found their way to Sweden. Bohemia was forcibly re-Catholicized, while Friedrich’s expected allies, the union of German Protestant princes,

stood anxiously by, shaking their heads.

Friedrich appealed to Gustav Adolf to adopt his cause and take up arms against the Habsburg forces, but the Danes had already answered the call, and the Swedes could not be persuaded to fight alongside their old enemies and former overlords. The hapless ‘Winter King’ continued a disheartened and desultory search for help, while his own Palatinate lands were occupied by Spanish Habsburg troops, cousins to Ferdinand’s Austrians. Thenceforth the greater part of Europe was gradually sucked into the vortex. The Dutch, seizing their chance to strike at the distracted Spaniards, fanned the flames with their plentiful banknotes. Catholic France, no friend to Catholic Austria or to Catholic Spain, joined the fray on the Protestant side, while every German field and town paid its pound of flesh.

In the months before Christina’s birth, the Spanish Habsburgs had been making a last attempt to reassert their own imperial strength, forging closer links with their Austrian relatives and trying to construct a united bloc of powers friendly to both Habsburg dynasties. The jewel now loosening from the Spanish imperial crown was the Dutch United Provinces – broadly, the northern area of today’s Netherlands. Since the end of their truce with Spain in 1621, the Dutch had been fighting once again for independence; their wealthy towns, with their enterprising immigrant populations, progressive administration, and advanced banking systems, had become a trading and financial nexus for Europe and far beyond. Such a prize the Spanish empire, long declining, could not afford to lose. The Spaniards hoped that combined Habsburg forces might seize the ports along the coast of northern Germany; from there, a strengthened Austrian-Spanish navy could control the Baltic Sea, cutting off the Dutch from the rich trade that was financing their military resistance.

The Austrian Habsburgs responded as their Spanish cousins had hoped. In April 1627, the Emperor Ferdinand II conferred on his general, Count Wallenstein, the title of Generalissimo of the Baltic and Open Seas. The new Generalissimo was already in control of several territories in northern Germany, and by November he had installed himself in the Baltic port of Wismar, where he set to work to build up the imperial navy. In the same month, Gustav Adolf wrote anxiously to his Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna: ‘The popish league comes closer and closer to us. They have by force subjugated a great part of Denmark, whence we must apprehend that they may press on to our borders, if they be not powerfully resisted in good time.’

The Chancellor agreed. Imperial forces had by now captured the whole of mainland Denmark, and the Danish King had been forced to retreat to his nearby islands. From Denmark an attack might easily be launched against Sweden itself, on its own territory. The situation, Oxenstierna remarked, ‘makes my hair stand on end’.

In January 1628, a secret committee of the Swedish Senate agreed to an invasion of the Emperor’s German lands if the King should deem it necessary. A pre-emptive attack, to draw the imperial forces away from their present too threatening position, had been Gustav Adolf’s own suggestion. In the face of the Habsburg threat, Poland was demoted to a secondary enemy, and Oxenstierna was accordingly dispatched to conclude a peace in the east, so that Swedish forces might be deployed elsewhere. After almost two years of negotiating, and twelve years of war, the Poles agreed to a truce.

Since their king, Sigismund III, would not renounce his claim to the Swedish throne, a real peace remained elusive, but for Gustav Adolf a halt to the actual fighting was for now just as useful. It was an opportune moment for the Swedes to become involved at last in the great conflict which had been gathering pace in the Habsburg lands for more than a decade already. Protestant Germany had found no champion, and many exiled voices were calling for Swedish help. Now the armistice with Poland released thousands of battle-hardened men, ready for active service elsewhere.

Gustav Adolf’s decision met with loud applause from the Dutch; they had their Baltic trade to protect. But they were not the only power to welcome the idea of a Swedish march against the Empire. The French encouraged it, too, and promised to assist with subsidies; Catholic France was no friend to Catholic Austria, and Richelieu had hopes of using the Swedes as a pawn in his own ongoing game against the Emperor. But his terms were unacceptable to Gustav Adolf, and towards the end of 1629, preferring to find other allies, the King sent his own emissaries to the various courts and free cities of Europe; all returned empty-handed. The German Protestant princes, who had most to gain by a Swedish invasion, also declined to help, for by the same invasion, or so they feared, they also had most to lose.

Sweden was a small country, with not many more than a million souls. Despite many recent reforms initiated by the King and his able Chancellor, it was still poor, with commerce and industry struggling to develop, and the state coffers empty after years of war by land and sea. It could not afford to fight alone against the resourceful Habsburg Empire. Bereft of allies, Gustav Adolf hesitated. Then, paradoxically, the very lack of money which had stayed his hand now forced it. In Prussia, squadrons of German cavalry who had fought for him against the Poles stood waiting; they were mercenaries, and, though their Polish campaign was over, they could not be disbanded, for there was no money to pay them off. If they were kept in service, payment could be delayed, and so it was decided. The cavalry would be sent to Pomerania, now occupied by imperial troops, and there the rest of the Swedish army would join them.

The forces ranged against the Swedes were led by the Czech Count Wallenstein and General Count Tilly, the latter a Dutch nobleman and a professional soldier, a Jesuit manqué whose devotion to the Virgin Mary and strict personal morality had earned him the epithet of ‘the monk in armour’.

Wallenstein, though he led his own armies, was neither by nature nor by training a military man. Modestly born, through an advantageous marriage and the cheap purchase of no fewer than 66 estates confiscated from the defeated Bohemian rebels a few years before, he had become one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He was consequently able to raise and pay large armies of his own, and owing to his administrative brilliance, to keep them fully supplied as well.

The imperial forces needed Wallenstein, but at this crucial point, unwisely, they let him go. Flush with recent Catholic victories, in March 1629, the Emperor Ferdinand had declared an Edict of Restitution, whereby Protestant worship was to be banned, and the Catholic powers were to reclaim all lands acquired by Protestants since the Peace of Augsburg in 1555, almost 75 years before. It was an extravagant order which looked, even then, impossible to carry out. The areas in question were huge, and it seemed that there were not even enough potential Catholic landowners to claim them. Many leading Catholics opposed the Edict, among them Wallenstein himself. He had in fact been brought up as a Lutheran, and although in his youth he had converted to Catholicism, the armies he now maintained were full of Protestant soldiers. His protest against the Edict was met by his swift dismissal from the imperial forces, who were now to be commanded by Tilly.

The Emperor’s Catholic allies were delighted. They had resented Wallenstein’s swift climb to power, suspecting that Ferdinand was little more than a pawn in the Count’s ambitious hands. But they were soon to regret his departure, for as he went so too did his men, along with many thousands of other imperial soldiers who had also been paid with his money, and fed, clothed, mounted, and armed through his superbly organized lines of supply. In due course Wallenstein would return, but now, to the Emperor’s dismay, the gap left on the battlefields by the armies of his former ally was filled by those of a new and fearsome enemy, Gustav Adolf, the King of Sweden.

The Swedes pressed inland, and on a hot and windy day in the September of 1631, they drew up at Breitenfeld, near the Saxon city of Leipzig, where imperial forces commanded by Tilly were already waiting. At the eleventh hour, the wavering Elector of Saxony, Johann Georg, had thrown in his lot with the Swedes; his own land was now at stake, and he had arrived to do battle himself at the head of his ranks of young noblemen, with their new-polished armour and their gaily coloured cloaks – ‘a cheerful and beautiful company to see,’ said Gustav Adolf, and so indeed they must have seemed by comparison with his own hardbitten men in their torn and dusty outfits.

Tilly’s forces had begun to fire as soon as their opponents came into sight, but the imperial general, despite his great experience, was soon disconcerted by the novel ‘chessboard’ manoeuvres of the Swedes, whose agile little squares of alternating cavalry and infantry swivelled to fire in all directions, easily outmanoeuvring Tilly’s traditional forward-facing lines.

Despite a dazzling sun against them, and despite the hasty departure of the frightened Saxon Elector and most of his novice troops, the Swedes achieved a resounding victory, in no small part due to the brilliant planning and indefatigable energy of their own remarkable King.

And by morning, of the host of imperial soldiers who had survived the battle only to be taken prisoner by the Swedes, many thousands had enlisted in the service of their yesterday’s foe. After the Battle of Breitenfeld, mercenaries from all parts of Europe flocked to the Swedish standard. By 1632, as well as substantial forces in Prussia and the Baltic, on the seas and at home on Swedish territory, Gustav Adolf had some 120,000 men fighting in the German lands. Of his great army, perhaps one-tenth were native Swedes. The remainder, mostly mercenaries, were drawn from east to west: Finns and Germans, Scotsmen, English and Irish, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Czechs and Poles and Russians, their motives for fighting as varied as their origins.

The fortunes of war of the Emperor Ferdinand were now at their lowest ebb. The Swedes’ position seemed unassailable. At this point, Gustav Adolf could have offered a peace settlement, but he chose to fight on, expanding his territories and claiming hesitant allies among the German princes, both Protestant and Catholic. In the spring of 1632, his soldiers cut a triumphal path through southern Germany towards Bavaria. In early April they crossed the Danube river, leaving in their wake a devastated countryside from which no pursuing army might take sustenance. By the middle of May they stood at the gates of Munich, where they met with no resistance; a huge ransom had purchased the safety of the city and its people. From Munich, Gustav Adolf hoped to entice the Emperor’s forces into battle, and then to march on the imperial capital of Vienna.

On the Bohemian border, the Generalissimo Wallenstein waited with his own army. He had himself raised it, equipped it, and paid it, but as yet he refused to lead it into battle. Since his dismissal from the imperial command, he had ignored all attempts to reinstate him, but now it seemed that the price he demanded to do so was about to be paid. The price was enormous: absolute control over the imperial armies and over all peace treaties, huge areas of Habsburg lands, and the title of Elector.

But, with Gustav Adolf nearing Vienna, the desperate Emperor conceded everything.

His extravagant terms agreed, Wallenstein moved his army into Prague itself, barring the Swedish army’s way to Vienna. The King’s allies wavered, and in June a hesitant Gustav Adolf withdrew to Nuremberg. There, over the next few days, he revealed his plan for the future of Germany. The lands of the Holy Roman Empire were to be completely reorganized. The power of the Habsburg dynasty would be broken, and a new, dominant body of Protestant princes, the Corpus Evangelicorum, would take its place under an elected president, Gustav Adolf himself. The ban on Protestant worship was to be withdrawn, and religious toleration practised throughout the Empire. Peace would be maintained by a strong standing army.

The Corpus Evangelicorum was an idea born of crisis, an interim plan to provide cohesion and leadership for the duration of the war. It implied no long-term political objectives, and was not intended as a blueprint for a Swedish empire in the German lands. So at least said the Swedes, but few, and least of all the group’s proposed members, regarded it so innocently. As the German campaigns had progressed, it had seemed to them increasingly clear that Gustav Adolf harboured major dynastic ambitions for himself, ambitions which had much to do with their own German territories.

The Corpus Evangelicorum itself may have been an interim plan, but it seems that something of its kind was, after all, intended to endure. For more than a year already, Gustav Adolf had been negotiating a betrothal between his five-year-old daughter and her cousin Friedrich Wilhelm, the eldest son of the Elector of Brandenburg. This, the King hoped, would achieve what his own marriage to the Elector’s sister had so far not achieved: unite Swedes and Germans in a new northern bloc, which would shift the whole balance of power in Europe away from the Catholic Habsburg south and towards a new Protestant Swedish-German dynasty.

Honoured and beloved Father,

As I have not the happiness of being with Your Royal Highness, I am sending you my portrait. Please think of me when you look at it, and come back to me soon and send me something pretty in the meantime. I am in good health, thanks be to God, and learn my lessons well. I pray God will send us good news of Your Majesty, and I commend you to his protection.

I remain,

Your Royal Highness,

Your obedient daughter,

Christina.

So read the King, seated on a campstool in his tent at Fürth, on the outskirts of Nuremberg. The summer was drawing to a close. For almost three months, his army had been encamped there, while on the ridge above them, the imperial force stood waiting. Wallenstein had followed the King to Nuremberg, and now held him trapped with his weakening army. Though the King’s thoughts may have turned often enough to his little daughter at home, he cannot have had much leisure to think of sending ‘something pretty’ to her, for his supply lines were poor, food and water were scarce, and his men were beset by disease and discouragement. An attempt to fight their way out had ended in disaster; of their cavalry alone, three quarters had been lost. The camp was full of rumours that the King’s allies were turning from him, and among the men, for the first time, his popularity began to fade.

The time had come to offer peace terms, and accordingly, Swedish envoys were sent out to Wallenstein, in their hands the plan for the Corpus Evangelicorum, with plenty to placate the besieger. The Generalissimo chose not to accept it, as he could well afford to do, with Gustav Adolf and his once invincible men penned in beneath the ridge. Without fresh supplies, the Swedes could not survive the cold weather that would soon be upon them, and in mid-September the desperate King decided to attempt a retreat from the camp. If he succeeded, he would march towards Austria, where new rebellions were rumoured to have started against the Habsburg powers.

The retreat began, the Swedes fearing every moment the onslaught of the imperial troops. But Wallenstein did not attack. Instead, he turned his army towards Saxony, to the lands of Gustav Adolf’s half-hearted ally, the Elector Johann Georg. The Swedes themselves turned back to help the Elector, and by mid-October they were once again in Nuremberg, the scene of their own grim defeat only weeks before. Now, passing through the abandoned imperial camp, they found, to their horror, the remnants of Wallenstein’s army, the unburied dead and, worse, the starving wounded, still lying there. The King gave instructions for the occupation of the area before the winter should set in, and moved his army on towards Saxony. They marched via Leipzig, then west some fifteen miles to the little town of Lützen, where, so they had heard, Wallenstein was encamped with a reduced army. There the revitalized Swedes would engage them, sure of victory with their novel fighting tactics and their superior numbers.

But Gustav Adolf’s information was only partially correct. Wallenstein had only just dismissed his 12,000 allied forces. Learning of the Swedish King’s advance, he had sent for them to be recalled. His remaining army alone numbered some 14,000, and they spent the night setting up their cannon and their barricades. In the early hours of the next morning they were still to be seen, making their way by torchlight, digging their trenches and hoisting their defences, while, outside the town, in the fields nearby, the 16,000 Swedish troops lay sleeping.

It was the sixth of November. By eight in the morning, in clear light, the first shots had been fired, while the King still stood before his army, offering prayers for a Protestant victory. Wallenstein had drawn up his army in traditional formation, with infantry in the centre, protected by artillery, and cavalry on the wings, while the Swedes stood ready in the flexible squares which had served them so well at Breitenfeld. It was not until ten that the two armies engaged, and by then the battleground was covered in a thick mist, alternately providing cover and hampering visibility. The Swedes charged first, and the desperate struggle began.

Later, those who had fought that day could not agree when the imperial reinforcements had arrived; some thought midday, others thought not until the evening. In fact, the cavalry arrived first, led by the legendary Count Gottfried Pappenheim, hero of the imperial army and idol of his own soldiers. They attacked immediately, beating the Swedes back over the territory they had won. Pappenheim was shot through the lung and retreated from the battle to die, choked with blood, in his coach behind the lines. It was rumoured that Gustav Adolf had also been hit. His horse had been seen, wounded in the neck, plunging wildly across the battlefield. The imperial general Piccolomini, himself grazed seven times by bullets, swore that he had seen him lying on the ground. Duke Bernard of Saxe-Weimar took command of the Swedish force, and by nightfall, the imperial troops had been driven back. Wallenstein retreated to the nearby town of Halle, leaving his men in disarray behind him. The battle had been inconclusive, but the Swedes now occupied the field, and the victory was held to be theirs.

In the darkness, the Swedish soldiers began the terrible search for the body of their King. Beneath a heap of the dead, naked but for his shirt, they found him. He had been killed by a shot through the temple, but his body showed other wounds: a dagger thrust and another shot in his side, two shots in the arm, and a shot in the back.

Rumours spread that the King had been betrayed, killed by his own men under cover of battle. Some recalled the Bloodbath of Linköping, saying that the sons of those beheaded by his father had succeeded in claiming a tardy revenge.

Others held that his murder had been ordered by Cardinal Richelieu, determined to be rid of the ‘impetuous Visigoth’ who had bettered him at his own political games. It seemed impossible that the great Gustav Adolf could have died like any ordinary soldier, shot and stabbed as he fought his way through enemy lines. Bernard of Saxe-Weimar gave out that the King was not dead, but only wounded, and for days afterwards merchants in London were placing bets that he was still alive. Waiting in Erfurt, Maria Eleonora learned the truth on the tenth of November; she collapsed with grief. The following day, in Frankfurt, Chancellor Oxenstierna heard the news, and passed the first sleepless night of his life.

Gradually it emerged that, leading a cavalry charge early in the battle, the King had been shot in the arm, and had lost control of his horse. In the thick mist covering the battlefield, he had been separated from his escort of cavalrymen. Wounded again, he had fallen from his saddle, but his boot had caught in a stirrup, and he had been dragged along the ground. Falling free, he had been unable to rise, and had been shot in the head where he lay.

His body was carried, on a powder wagon, to the little village of Meuchen near the battlefield, and there it was washed clean of dirt and blood. The King’s reverent soldiers stored the blood itself in the village church, marking the place with his coat of arms. Overnight, the body lay before the altar, and when morning broke, the village schoolmaster, who served as the local joiner as well, set to work to build a wooden coffin. In this the King’s body was carried to the town of Weissenfels, some ten miles distant. There, in the bay-windowed room of a local guesthouse, it was laid out and embalmed by the King’s own apothecary. Among those who saw the body there in its simple coffin was Gustav Gustavsson, the King’s illegitimate son, now sixteen years old, and serving in the Swedish army.

Back in Meuchen, one Swedish soldier, recovering from his own wounds, arranged a primitive memorial to his lost commander-in-chief. With the help of local peasants, he rolled a large stone – the ‘Swede’s Stone’ – to the place where his King had fallen.

It is said that the Emperor himself wept, and ordinary people who had never set eyes on the great King wailed in the streets at the news of his death. ‘He alone was worth more,’ said Richelieu, ‘than both the armies together.’

The King’s body had now to be transported back to Sweden, escorted, in death as in life, between footsoldiers and cavalrymen. From Weissenfels it was carried a hundred miles north towards Berlin, and in the middle of December, the cortège was met by the newly widowed Queen. She was almost hysterical. For several weeks, fearing to aggravate her state, her attendants had kept her in Erfurt, preventing her from travelling to where her husband’s body lay. Now, seeing his lifeless form, she gave way to an extravagant grief. The King’s heart had been taken from his body, to be separately preserved; this Maria Eleonora now took to herself, wrapping it first in a linen kerchief and later placing it in a golden casket. She kept it with her constantly. At night, it hung above her bed, glowing in the light of vigil candles, while the Queen wept desperate tears.

Northward the Swedes continued their sorrowful journey. At Wolgast, they paused; the Baltic Sea was frozen, and for many months there would be no passage across to Sweden. Maria Eleonora’s behaviour became increasingly bizarre; the eccentric traits which she had shown for some years had been intensified, it seemed, by the shock of the King’s death. Now, disregarding the entreaties of those around her, she began to make plans for an elaborate funeral, spending wildly on one scheme after the next. Her stranded little court began to disintegrate into chaos, while, day and night, Maria Eleonora clung, often literally, to her husband’s mortal remains, until her attendants feared she had lost her reason. In February 1633, three months after the King’s death, she wrote from Wolgast: ‘Since We, God pity Us, were so rarely granted the pleasure of enjoying the living presence of His Majesty, Our adored, dearest master and spouse, of blessed memory, it should at least be granted to Us to stay near his royal corpse and so draw comfort in Our miserable existence.’

From Stockholm, the alarmed senators dispatched the Chancellor’s cousin, Gabriel Oxenstierna, to investigate the Queen’s entourage and to oversee the return of the King’s body home to Sweden. Delayed by illness and the winter weather, Oxenstierna reached Wolgast only in the middle of May, and there he found the grieving Queen ‘swimming in tears’, and her little court in wretched disorder.

It was not until July that the royal flagship set off at last, and in early August the entourage arrived at the industrial town of Nyköping, on the eastern coast of Sweden. Here, furnaces blasted and foundries thundered, shipwrights and millworkers toiled and travailed. Once the country’s capital, Nyköping now centred on a magnificent Renaissance castle, the Queen’s private residence. It was here, twenty years before, that Gustav Adolf had been proclaimed King, and it was here that his body now came to a temporary rest.

It was in Nyköping, too, that Maria Eleonora at last saw again her six-year-old daughter. It had been some fifteen months since their last meeting; since the spring of the previous year, the Queen had been in Germany, visiting her family, following her husband’s campaigns. Christina had been left in Sweden in the care of her paternal aunt, the Princess Katarina, and she had now travelled to Nyköping ‘in person, with all the senators and all the noblemen and women’, to meet the sad cortège. Dutifully, the little girl approached the unfamiliar, grieving woman who was her mother. ‘I kissed her,’ she was later to write, ‘and she drowned me with tears, and nearly suffocated me in her arms.’

The King’s body was laid at first in the castle’s Green Hall, but Maria Eleonora, now refusing any talk of burial, soon had it removed to her own bedroom. The coffin was covered by an elaborate set of oval pearls after her own design, but it remained unsealed, and it seems that it was not seldom opened. More than a year after the King’s death, the men of the Swedish parliament, shocked, embarrassed, and indignant, petitioned the Estate of the Clergy, asking ‘whether a Christian could in good conscience apply for and be granted the right to open the graves and the coffins of their dead and gaze at and fondle their bodies in the belief that through these acts they would receive some comfort and solace in their state of great heart-rending sorrow and distress’.

But slow planning for the state funeral, and perhaps, too, some pity for their great King’s widow, stayed any firm response.

After many delays, and constant opposition by Maria Eleonora, the King’s body was at last interred on 15 June 1634, nineteen months after his death. Towards the Riddarholm Church in Stockholm, final resting-place of Sweden’s kings, the body was borne on a silver bier, encircled by military standards and captured enemy cannon and other symbols of the warrior King’s victories, including his bloodstained sword, just as it had been taken from the battlefield at Lützen. A vast crowd of people accompanied the procession, weeping, mourning, straining to see. And among the nobles and soldiers and court officials, some of them spied one very small figure – their new, seven-year-old Queen.

Within a day of the King’s interment, Maria Eleonora pleaded for the coffin to be opened again, asking that the King should not be buried while she lived.

Fourteen years before, when the handsome young ‘Adolf Karlsson’ had come to court her, the body of Maria Eleonora’s father had lain in state, months after his death, in the gloom of the castle chapel, while the drab accompaniments of a formal mourning oppressed his court. The King’s own mother, too, had lain unburied through the long northern winter, awaiting her son’s return from the conquests that would make his name feared and famous. But, even in an age of delayed burial and long months of mourning, Maria Eleonora’s grief at her husband’s death was felt to be excessive. Throughout the royal apartments, darkness reigned. Black fabrics draped the walls from ceiling to floor, and the windows were blocked with sable hangings; no daylight filtered through. Sermons and pious orations droned endlessly. The Queen mourned day and night, relieved only by her troupe of dwarves and hunchbacks, dancing in the candlelight. Bereft of her husband, she now turned her attention for the first time to her little daughter, smothering her with new-found affection, and forcing her to live alongside her in the macabre atmosphere. She dismissed Christina’s Aunt Katarina, who had looked after the child for the previous two years, and announced that from now on she herself would take care of her. The once rejected girl-child, ugly and ‘swarthy as a little Moor’, was now found to be ‘the living image of the late King’, and the Queen scarcely let her out of her sight. By day the little girl struggled to escape to her books and her horses; by night she was obliged to share her mother’s bed in the gloomy chamber, lying fearful and lonely beneath her father’s encased heart. The King’s death had set in train a melodrama of mourning in which Christina was to remain a virtual prisoner, until her rescue by the ‘five great old men’ who were now to serve as Sweden’s regents.