So, he'd built Rosenborg Castle, in the center of the city. Also designed in the Dutch Renaissance style, and also with its elaborate gardens surrounding the palace. And also, needless to say, with modern plumbing.
Not for Eddie, such digs, however-not now that Christian was furious at him. No, no. Eddie got to stay in the old castle perched on a small island in the city's harbor. Slotsholmen, the Danes called it, which translated into English as "castle island." With a view from the Blue Tower that was a long step down from overlooking fancy gardens. Now, Eddie got to look out the window at Copenhagen's commercial seaport. What was worse, he had to smell the city's harbor.
Worst of all, in his old quarters at Frederiksborg he'd been able to sit on a toilet. Here, in the finest medieval tradition, squatting was considered de rigeur, and flushing was a synonym for gravity.
So be it. In retrospect, Eddie knew he was lucky that he hadn't fallen afoul of the king's temper much sooner. He'd known that Christian IV had a complete edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica in his possession, since the king bragged about it constantly. But Eddie had assumed that since the king of Denmark had spent a small fortune to get his hands on a copy of the entire Britannica, he'd had enough sense to get the great 1911 edition, which was by far the most useful one for down-timers.
What an idiot he'd been! With Christian's obsession with gadgetry and all things modern, Eddie should have realized the Danish king would have insisted on the most recent edition in Grantville. That was the 1982 edition, if he remembered correctly.
Which, of course-once someone checked-had plenty of references to the various individuals that Eddie had mentioned in his sundry lies to the king. At the time, especially with his brain pickled in alcohol half the time since the king insisted he carouse with him, Eddie had thought he'd been very clever.
Ah, yes, Your Majesty, we have superb armaments technicians. The best are probably Walt Disney, Harpo Marx, and Clint Eastwood.
Oh, and by far the best gunsmith is Elvis Presley.
He rubbed his face. Then, to make things worse, Mike Stearns-him and his idiot Agent 007 schemes-had referred in a response to Christian's queries about exchanging Eddie for the gunsmith Elvis Presley, that unfortunately Mr. Presley had since passed away. And then-what in God's name had possessed him?-had casually referred to Eddie's fiancee Marilyn Monroe.
That had caused some tense days with Anne Cathrine, for sure. Until Eddie-had there been no end to his own folly?-had reassured her that his engagement to Marilyn Monroe was off because he'd discovered that the faithless Marilyn had switched her affections to Eddie's longtime rival John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
He could have at least had the sense to invent some names!
Alas. Six days ago, Christian IV had finally let his son Ulrik take the precious encyclopedias out of the locked cabinet in the Winter Room of Rosenborg Castle and start examining them. Ulrik, whose suspicious mind had no business residing in a twenty-two-year-old brain, had started by double-checking every single one of the statements and claims Eddie had made in his months of captivity. More precisely, having his three assistants check the name references while Ulrik and his tame pirate-cum-tech-whiz Baldur had studied Eddie's more substantive claims.
At which point, the proverbial crap had hit the proverbial fan. The next day, Eddie had been bundled into a carriage-none too gently-and hauled before the king in one of the chambers of Rosenborg. Now that spring was here and the war was heating up, Christian IV had shifted his residence to the capital.
The Dark Room, that chamber was called, appropriately enough. Eddie had found out since that the name actually came from the fact that once the great new tower was erected the room had lost its previous direct sunlight. But, at the time, he hadn't wondered about the name's provenance at all. It had seemed blindingly obvious.
"So!" the king had bellowed. "The liar is here!"
He pointed to a large and elaborate looking armchair in front of the fireplace. "Place him in the chair!"
The soldiers who'd brought Eddie immediately complied. While they did so, Eddie had time to contemplate the rest of the arrangements.
There was a fire going in the fireplace. Check.
The remains of a fire, rather, since open flames might have imperiled the chair. But there were still plenty of glowing coals. Check.
There were tongs heating in the coals. Check.
Middle Ages, coming up. Eddie considered raising the fine points of the Geneva Convention, but figured that would be pretty pointless. Given the mood Christian IV was in.
No sooner had he been manhandled into the chair than he discovered the elaborate looks of the thing were no accident. It turned out there were restraints concealed in the armrests that did a very nice job of strapping him down.
Check. Middle Ages, if he were lucky. It was looking more like the Dark Ages every moment.
Ulrik and Anne Cathrine had been present in the room when Eddie was hauled in. The king's daughter was looking distressed. Ulrik simply looked thoughtful.
"You can't do this, Papa!" she wailed.
"Ha! Watch me!" He waved imperiously at another soldier standing in the corner. "Give him the treatment!"
Eddie braced himself. But, to his astonishment-he yelped here; he couldn't help it-what happened was that a flood of ice-cold water came pouring out of the backrest and soaked him.
"Ha! It works!" Christian was beaming, now. He gave his son a gloating look. "I told you it would. Even-well, we shall see."
He made another imperious gesture, this one to the two soldiers standing on either side of the chair. Quickly, they removed the arm restraints.
"Get up, you miserable liar!" commanded Christian.
Eddie rose, a bit shakily. Then, jumped, when a loud toot sounded below him. He jumped high enough, in fact, that he almost stumbled on his peg leg when he landed.
"Ha! Ha!" the king bellowed. "The trumpet works too!"
"Papa!" Anne Cathrine hurried over and took Eddie by the arm. "You shouldn't humiliate him so! And you know Eddie's delicate. He'll likely get sick from that cold water!"
The king bestowed a sneer on Eddie. "Delicate, is he? Another false pretense, daughter, be sure of it! If my own doctors hadn't put it on, I'd have that wooden leg removed. Just to be sure! I might do it anyway."
He strode forward and wagged a very large royal forefinger under Eddie's nose. "Liar! I say it, again! Liar!"
Between the fear and the sudden freezing from the water-and, most of all, the presence of Anne Cathrine and his grumpiness about her continual insistence he was "delicate"-Eddie lost his temper.
"Don't wag that finger at me, dammit! It was you who broke the Geneva Convention! All I'm supposed to tell you is my name, rank and serial number!"
"And there was another lie!" If Eddie's shouts had caused even the slightest waver in that shaking royal digit, he could see no sign of it. "007! Ha! Your prime minister lied, too!"
"Well…"
Eddie didn't really have a good answer to that. God damn Mike Stearns, anyway. It was all his fault!
Ulrik cleared his throat. "Father, let's not forget that he didn't lie about the rest. Not when someone's life was at stake. It was not Eddie who urged the diving suit on us. In fact, he tried to warn us it was dangerous."
That caused a moment's pause in the finger-wagging.
Only a moment's, alas. Proving, once again, that the female is deadlier than the male, Anne Cathrine immediately shifted from distress and concern to indignation.
"But he lied about his betrothed!"
"I did not! That was Mike Stearns!"
Anne Cathrine glared at him. Still holding him by the arm, though.
"So? It was you who lied about Johannes Fitz-stupid whatever his last name was!"
"Well…"
The royal finger-wagging went back into high gear. "So he did! So he did! Toying with my daughter's affections, too, the rogue! I see it all, now! The snake in our midst! I ought to have him strapped into that diving suit, I should! Try it out for its new purpose!"