§ § § -- August 7, 2004

"Are there any emergencies?" he inquired, coming down from the foyer into the study and leaving a stack of mail on the desk.

Leslie stood up, shaking his head. "No, there's nothing pressing, but I was just thinking about Christian wanting to go back to see King Erik. Father…" She paused a moment, trying to find the best way to formulate the question, while Roarke waited with patient curiosity. "Suppose Christian did go back?"

Roarke chuckled and reminded her, "You yourself pointed out that it's not possible to change history."

"I know," said Leslie. "But I was thinking over the way Christian phrased his request to go back. He said he would have liked to know if there could have been a way to retrieve the crown. You see?" she said, her excitement rising at Roarke's thoughtful look. "Not so much that he meant to actually try to go after it—just to see if it might have been possible! In light of that, wouldn't it be less of a risk?"

"It wouldn't entirely eliminate the risk he would be taking," Roarke said. "In order to determine the chances that the crown could have been brought back to the surface, he will have to be there for the battle and the king's assassination. However, yes—since he won't make an actual attempt to rescue the crown, it would indeed be less of a risk." He smiled at her. "Very well, when we see Christian at dinner this evening, I'll let him know."

By then the triplets were awake, and Mariki helped Leslie put them in their stroller so they could be with their parents and grandfather during the adults' meal. Christian came across the porch just as Leslie was on her way out with the stroller, and lit up at sight of his family there. "Well, it's good to see all four of you!"

"I'm glad you came back too," Leslie teased him, grinning. "Hey, they must've missed you after all. Look at them smiling back at you!"

Christian met up with them and knelt down in front of the stroller, beaming at his children and talking to them in jordiska. Roarke came out a moment later and took his usual chair, chuckling softly at the sights of Christian enjoying his offspring and Leslie watching him with a soft, dreamy smile. Christian took the time to give each triplet a kiss atop the head and a little tickle under the chin before straightening up, leaning over the stroller and kissing Leslie. "Have you seen what Mariki's menu is going to be?"

"Nice and light," Leslie said. "Father likes gazpacho, so we have it a lot in the summer along with a big salad and clarified pineapple juice. There's usually ice cream for dessert."

"That sounds very tempting," said Christian and sat down. Leslie positioned the stroller so that the triplets could see both her and their father, then took her own chair, just as Mariki came out with her cart. The cook tried to tease the triplets into smiling at her while she was doling out serving dishes, but the babies merely stared at her, making Roarke, Christian and Leslie all start to laugh.

"Really," grumbled Mariki. "I fed two of them today, you know—you'd think they'd be a little more grateful than that."

Leslie snickered and said, "I hope you're not expecting to hear 'thank you, Mariki' from them anytime soon. Oh, look, Christian, that looks like that all-inclusive salad you told me you grew up on…whatever it was called."

"Allasallad," Christian supplied, peering into the large crystal bowl that Mariki set out, "and yes, I think you're right. This should be the perfect final meal of the day. There, you see, Mariki, at least you'll get an expression of appreciation from me, if not the babies."

Laughter broke out at that; Susanna chortled, her tiny baby voice mingling with those of the adults and making Mariki blink. "Well, well…one of them already laughs, huh? Okay, I'll cut them a little slack this time. And your remark is received with…well, good humor, if not exactly gratitude, Prince Christian." Amid the new chuckles, she grinned and took her cart back to the kitchen.

The conversation dealt with odds and ends of the day before Leslie cleared her throat. "I hope you didn't plan to spend all day tomorrow at your office, my love."

Christian eyed her blankly. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you should set aside at least an hour, maybe two," Leslie told him and smiled. "Father decided to give you the chance to look in on Finn Greenstone's fantasy and see the battle that resulted in the loss of the crown."

Christian caught his breath and then stared at her, his eyes widening. "What? But I had already…that is, I said I'd retracted the request…" He suddenly grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for whatever made you change your mind about it!"

Roarke smiled and informed him, "Actually, Christian, Leslie pointed out to me that you had said you'd like to see if the possibility of retrieving the crown existed, as opposed to your making an actual attempt to do so. Of course, you realize there is still a certain risk involved, but far less so than in the scenario we had thought you were suggesting."

"Ach," Christian said and burst into laughter again. "I can swim, all right, but I'm no diver…and I certainly wouldn't want to dive into the North Sea, cold as it is. No, all I wanted to know is whether there were any chance to find it again." He turned to Leslie and covered her hand with his. "Thank you, my darling—that was quite unexpected."

She shrugged and smiled. "Well, after lunch, I started thinking about it, and I realized what your exact words had been. I hope you get good news out of it."

"We'll see, I imagine," Christian mused, squeezing her hand. "So, Mr. Roarke, what time are you thinking of having me go back?"

§ § § -- August 8, 2004

Mariki and her staff had insisted on watching the triplets again, having fallen like a bunch of rocks under the babies' spell. It was about mid-afternoon on Sunday, and Christian stood in front of the time-travel-room door with Roarke and Leslie, paging through a copy of his sister's history book that had been published twelve years before. "It says here," he said when he found the relevant page, "that only a few of the contingent that went out with Erik returned after the battle. They told a tale of furious fighting, not just man to man, but ship to ship as well, using everything from Viking-vintage flaming arrows to swords and muskets and ship's cannon. Anna-Laura notes herein that they had little to tell, because there were perhaps a dozen or so of them, and they were heavily affected by exhaustion from fighting—first in their own defense and then for their lives—and grief at the king's death. She infers from what they do say that at least one of the ships went down, but it isn't known which one."

"Then you'd better be sure there's the local equivalent of a lifeboat when you get there, first thing," Leslie said firmly.

Roarke nodded. "Wise advice, Leslie. Christian, you should have more than enough time to see the entire battle from beginning to end. But once it does end, especially if you find that it's the ship on which you stand that is in danger of sinking, you must find a means of escape as quickly as possible. That's the only way Leslie can bring you back."

Christian looked up and cleared his throat delicately. "Um…about Leslie." He looked at his wife, who peered quizzically back. "I've been thinking about it, and…well, if you're willing to disguise yourself as a man, perhaps, to blend in with the soldiers, you might like to come with me after all. That is, if you want to."

Leslie stared at him, blinking once or twice, then lunged forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Oh, Christian, my love." He closed the book, chuckling and returning her embrace, and she drew her head back. "Funny, I've been thinking about it too, and it occurred to me that no matter how much I might want to go with you, I probably wouldn't get away with any kind of disguise. Besides, I guess I'm too chicken to go back and witness swordfights and gunfire, and dodge cannonballs and bullets…and especially to see that Irish glory-seeker do in King Erik. So I guess I'll wait here with Father."

Laughing softly, Christian hugged her close. "I'll miss you, but I'll take my comfort in knowing you're safe. Well enough, then, just show me what I'm to wear."

Roarke smiled at them. "Since you two have come to a conclusion, then Leslie, why don't you see him off. Just let me know if you have any questions."

Leslie brought Christian into the time-travel room and took note of the accoutrements waiting there for him. "Oh, good. Suit of chain mail with breastplate and helmet, check…sword, check…linen clothing, check. Okay, go ahead and change."

"Stay here with me and tell me what exactly I'll be going into," Christian said, already removing his own clothing. "Where will I land when I first walk in? How long will I be there? And will the translation device be in place?"

Leslie giggled, watching him toss his jeans over the back of a chair. "From what I hear from Father, you'll join the contingent of soldiers King Erik calls up, just as they're gathering in front of the castle to march to the royal marina." She saw his startled look emerge from his dark-blue T-shirt as he pulled it off, and nodded. "Obviously it was destroyed or dismantled somewhere down the line, but there was one then."

"Perhaps it was Erik's extravagance," Christian mused, examining the linen shirt before tugging it on. "After all, Mr. Roarke did say he was a great one for showing off the things his treasury could procure."

"That's possible," agreed Leslie. "So anyway, that's where you'll end up when you first get there. I'm not sure how long you'll be in 1542—obviously through the entire battle, but we don't know how long it took. And yes, their archaic jordiska will be translated into modern jordiska, and vice versa. Try to think of it as an adventure."

Christian rolled his eyes, pulling on the woolen pants. "I did exhibit a certain amount of enthusiasm about going back, didn't I. Me and my big mouth." Leslie laughed and he gave her a dirty look that melted into a reluctant smile. "Suppose you help me get this chain mail on. I saw a suit of it at the historical museum in Dalslund, when I cut the ribbon at its grand opening, and they told me it was quite heavy, even with only the chest and knee plates as additional protection."

"I should think so," Leslie said, helping him lift the chain-mail leggings. "Wow, they're right! Just trying to move around in this stuff is going to give you more exercise than even your longest run on any beach could do."

Christian grinned ruefully, struggling into the chain mail. "I'm sure it will. And what will I have for a weapon, then? If I'm going in disguised as a soldier, I'll certainly have to have something with which to defend myself."

"You'll have a nice shiny sword and a musket," said Leslie. "I don't know how familiar you are with firearms…"

"I haven't dealt with any since I did my military service," Christian admitted, shrugging and reaching for the chain-mail shirt. "Perhaps I'll be better off slinking around the back of the regiment and hoping no one takes too much notice of me."

Laughing, Leslie helped him don the chest and knee plates, remarking, "Frankly, I'd feel better if you did! Well, how does it feel?"

"Heavy," said Christian, staring down at himself. "And I'm already beginning to perspire in this thing. I suppose it's the price I pay for my folly. Well, let me get that helmet and gather up my weapons, and get all this done and over with."

A few minutes later Leslie paused at the secondary door in the room, her hand on the knob, her eyes on her husband's. "You'll probably recognize the terrain, so I won't worry so much about that. But once you're on the water, locate a lifeboat and try to stick near it if you possibly can. If it's the king's ship that starts to sink, don't worry about women and children first—there won't be any—or looking like a coward. Just get to that lifeboat, because that's where I'll come in to bring you back here. Otherwise I'll just appear on the ship itself, somewhere away from as many eyes as possible."

"Well enough," Christian agreed. "Any other instructions?"

His voice was wryly amused, and she grinned, stretching up a little to plant a kiss on his lips. "Yes," she said softly, sobering. "Stay safe, my darling, whatever you do."

"I'll do my very best," he promised quietly. "I love you, my Leslie Rose. Believe me, I'll be very glad to see you when it's time for me to come back."

"Good," she said and smiled again. "Good luck, my love." With that, she opened the door, stepped aside to let him through, putting on the helmet as he went, and pulled it shut again, sighing heavily. "Cripes," she muttered. "Think I'll ask Father how long I have to wait to go get him…"

‡ ‡ ‡

Just as Leslie had said, Christian found himself among a small group of soldiers, arranged in neat and orderly rows; he glanced surreptitiously around him, taking his cue from his companions and standing straight and still. He didn't have to wait long; a loud, deep voice from somewhere ahead of him shouted, "We go now!" and the entire group began to march forward in measured cadence. No one said anything; Christian continued to follow their lead, unwilling to draw more attention to himself than he absolutely had to.

Shortly he spotted the marina Leslie had mentioned. It wasn't quite what he had expected: it was really no more than a very long wooden dock, with surprisingly small ships moored on both sides. The silence was quite heavy by now, broken by nothing other than the sound of the ocean washing onto the shore. At this point, perhaps a kilometer beyond the castle itself, the cliffs began to lose height and continued to do so as far north as he could see from here, till they eventually gave way to small, narrow beaches near the point where the shores of Lilla Jordsö began to curve east. It was the same as in his own time, and it told him almost exactly where he was: some few hundred meters from the north boundary of the castle grounds, which in the present day was marked by a tall iron fence. In this time, the fence didn't yet exist, and there was no landscaping at all that he recalled seeing. The castle itself, though, was as he knew it…at least from the outside.

He boarded a vessel called Kungliga Äran—Royal Glory—with the rest of the regiment and made certain to note the location of the nearest lifeboat, then looked curiously around him. To his surprise, there was no sign of anyone else aboard, just the chain-mail-and-plate-clad soldiers. Like him, they were all wearing helmets, hiding their faces and making him feel as though he were in the company of so many antique, uninhabited suits of armor. He peered around and noticed that a couple of the guys nearest him were beginning to shift their weight back and forth as the regiment stood waiting for their ruler, and he dared lean close to one and mutter, "Where is the king?"

"His Majesty delights in grand entrances," the soldier replied, a disembodied, muffled voice behind a steel mask. "We are to wait upon his timely arrival." This was followed with a snort that made Christian grin.

"Silence there!" the loud, deep voice boomed from up front, and Christian settled back into an at-ease stance, gathering his patience. He was able to wait only so long before that patience began to run out, and he supposed that had a lot to do with his long wait to marry Leslie. He smiled at the mental image of her, then carefully tucked away all thoughts of her and their children. He'd had ample enough warning of the dangers he faced here that he fully intended to maintain the highest possible level of alertness that he could.

Mutterings began from up front, and then came the deep voice again: "The king approaches! Stand tall in respect for His Majesty!" Christian drew himself into the stiff military stance he'd so often employed during his mandatory service so many years ago and squinted through the eyeholes in the helmet. He wasn't allowed to turn his head, though, so he had to wait till the king came into the limited field of vision the helmet afforded him. When he did, Christian had to stifle a gasp of sheer disbelief.

King Erik VII was clad in brilliant-purple robes that swirled around his highly polished black leather boots; the cloak was trimmed in white silk to match the clothing beneath it. Christian tried to remember the name of the odd-looking ribbed red velvet jacket the king wore over his white silk shirt—oh yes, a doublet, that was it. The white silk pants ballooned out at the knees where they were tucked into the boots. Erik, Christian noticed to his amused surprise, had brilliantly red hair, almost flame-colored, as if he were the long-lost brother of Roarke's guest whose fantasy Christian was indirectly participating in now. I wonder if that was Queen Gudrun's legacy, or someone else's? he thought, smirking behind his helmet. Apparently it died out somewhere down the way, since there's not one Enstad on record with hair of that color. Erik wore his hair loose, falling around his shoulders in a slight wave; and atop the flame-colored tresses perched the crown, which all by itself took Christian's breath. It was bigger than the present-day crown, studded with so many gems that he couldn't quite tell what the crown itself was made of, and smack in center front was mounted a very large rainbow gem. "The crown jewels…had been fashioned at great effort and expense," Roarke had said. No question about the truth of that, Christian mused in astonishment, especially not with that rainbow gem holding the place of honor as it did. Several generations of monarchs must have set aside money for decades to obtain that bauble.

Christian watched his ancestor till the man vanished from his field of vision; a moment later the deck rocked gently, signaling Erik's boarding, and again the deep voice shouted, "His Majesty joins us! All pay respect!" Along with the others, Christian dropped to one knee and murmured a welcome. Welcome to your death, ancestor mine…

With Erik aboard, the pace picked up. The mooring ropes were cast off and the ship nosed its way into the North Sea, bouncing rapidly atop the waves. Christian peered at the sky; it was overcast for the most part, with a few blue spaces here and there through which the sun cast the occasional bright spot on the water. With his back to shore, he had no way of gauging how far out they were venturing, but it was no more than fifteen or twenty minutes before they spotted the dark shapes of other vessels ahead. "The vassal's word is good, Your Majesty!" came the deep voice again, and Christian wondered who its owner was. "There lie the accursed Irish raiders now, just awaiting us!"

"They'll soon see with whom they trifle," Erik announced with great self-satisfaction. "Put on all speed forward, so that we can dispatch them at haste!"

Christian spared one hurried glance behind him. The jordisk shore was still within sight, but the castle was no more than a rise on the landscape this far out. He didn't suppose anyone was going to take a depth reading, however primitive, at this stage of the game, and he shook his head to himself. Something compelled him to break rank and push ahead, trying to get to the king, wanting a word or two with the monarch history would know as Erik the Loser. Was there any chance of talking sense into him?