Of Pride and Power - 50. Chapter 44: “Never appear too perfect”

Inciting a successful rebellion is typically a complex and arduous task, often requiring years of internal disunity and careful coordination. For example, in England, I spent nearly a decade preparing before making my move against Queen Mary. However, there are exceptions to this rule, especially when the target nation is already weakened by prolonged conflict and heavy casualties. War fatigue has plagued aggressors and occupying nations throughout history. Russia had exhausted too many troops and resources in their initial offensive against us and the Habsburg-New Rome alliance, which successfully checked their advances. As a result, the Danish army and navy stepped in to fill the gaps. Despite being armed with rifled muskets from newly-built factories and possessing a navy that relied on sails and single propellers steam engines, their forces were not overwhelmingly superior in technology compared to their occupation targets, particularly the German duchies under Habsburg influence. Heavy casualties were inevitable, making the rank-and-file soldiers increasingly resentful of being used as cannon fodder and creating the possibility of a military revolt.

Prince Hans’ childhood friend and lover, Holberg Schauenburg, was the eldest son of the Duke of Holstein, who commanded one of the largest armies in the Danish Kingdom. Prince Hans could leverage these connections to raise a rebel army against King Magnus II. Though military revolts usually fail in the long term because the military elements are often ill-prepared to govern, we were confident we could be an exception. With the support of Prince Hans and his other allies, including key members of the Royal Gendarmes—Denmark's equivalent of a domestic police force—we believed we could restore order after a sudden coup. We also informed Sweden and Hohenzollern Brandenburg-Prussia of our plans, though they did not respond or join our operations at that time.

The coup was scheduled for September 1574, one year after the atomic weapon was used on the Polish capital. The timing was not symbolic; it simply took six months to assemble enough military forces and prepare a proper fleet to blockade the Danish capital of Copenhagen. As I mentioned, organizing a successful coup requires time. Most sudden uprisings or revolts fail due to poor preparation. Additionally, Prince Hans needed to rally his followers and spread rumors of regicide against King Magnus II—rumors that, surprisingly, spread quickly even before English intelligence became involved. Although this warranted investigation, it served our purposes, and Francis wasn’t around for follow-up. Thanks to this information war, all the garrisons in Holstein joined Prince Hans’ coup, giving him command of around 30,000 soldiers. Denmark had a military force of 500,000 troops and 211 warships, but most of these forces were deployed on the frontlines. Copenhagen and the Danish Strait were defended by only 20,000 soldiers and 87 warships.

People in my timeline rarely reflect on it, but England did invade Denmark due to Russian influence at one point. In the late 18th century, when a French military commander named Napoleon Bonaparte—who would later become Emperor through numerous victories—began his campaign to conquer the world, England, now united as Great Britain, and its allies, including Russia, initially resisted the French emperor. However, by 1800, Czar Paul of Russia broke with his former allies after several defeats against the French. He seized all British ships within Russia, closed off the Baltic Sea to allied vessels, and declared the formation of an Armed Coalition of Neutrality, nominally against both the former allies and the French Empire. Yet, Russia’s ambitions extended beyond neutrality. Czar Paul ordered an army of mounted Cossack troops to invade British territories in India, while Great Britain’s fleets and armies were engaged in battle with the powerful French Empire. With the world on the brink, the Russian Empire betrayed its former allies—a betrayal that would not be the last in my timeline. In 1801, to curb Russian influence, Great Britain engaged the Danish fleet, allied with Russia, in the First Battle of Copenhagen. Under the command of the famous British Admiral Horatio Nelson, the British fleet routed the Danish fleet through superior firepower and tactics.

What happened after the defeat of the Danish fleet in my timeline could serve as a template for future events. In the same year, an assassin strangled Czar Paul of Russia to death, ending his bid for supremacy. Some historians in my timeline later claimed this was an act of British covert intelligence, though no proof of such an accusation was ever found, even after two centuries. It may have been either a stroke of luck for Britain or a testament to the skill of our spies. However, I vowed that if Czar Ivan were to meet his end, it would be by my own hand.

The sea was calm that morning as we approached the Øresund Strait, which separates Copenhagen from the Scandinavian Peninsula. I stood on the deck of HMS Excalibur, our newest dreadnought and my flagship, watching the faint outline of Copenhagen on the horizon. It was strange how serene the water could be on the eve of such violence. Behind me, the steel monsters of my fleet followed in perfect formation—a fleet of three dreadnoughts, twelve cruisers, and a swarm of corvettes and auxiliary ships.

I had no illusions about what lay ahead. The Danish navy, though outgunned, would fight with the ferocity of a cornered beast. King Magnus II’s fleet of iron and wooden ships was a relic from another era, one that was fading fast. The Russian Empire did them no favors by equipping them with only late 19th-century technology.

As we drew closer to the city, the signal to prepare for battle echoed through the decks. The crew moved like clockwork, well-rehearsed in the dance of war after years of battle drills off Plymouth and war games off Scapa Flow. The great guns of the Excalibur swung into position, and I felt the familiar tension in the air—a mix of fear and anticipation—reminding me of the Battle of Calais. Below deck, my officers awaited my orders at various battle stations, from radar rooms to munition-loading bays. But for now, I watched in silence as we waited for the enemy fleet and offshore batteries to take position. I wanted their forces fully mustered—ensuring our firepower would be devastatingly effective and reducing the risk to Prince Hans’ land forces, who lacked the traditional 3:1 attacker advantage.

After several hours, the Danish fleet appeared on the horizon, their white sails flapping in the wind like funeral shrouds. As my commanders expected, Magnus had sent his ships to meet us head-on. His gunboats and frigates spread out in a defensive arc, hoping to trap us in the shallows. In my timeline's 1801 Battle of Copenhagen, several ships in the British fleet ran aground in the shallows, forcing them to close the distance to bring their powerful guns to bear against numerically superior forces. Though we also faced a numerical disadvantage, our coordinated fire control systems meant we didn’t need to get as close.

The first volley from our ships, including the Excalibur, erupted with a deafening roar. The shells screamed through the sky, splashing into the water just ahead of the Danish line. This was a measuring shot to adjust our fleet’s fire control systems. Moments later, after the range calculations were complete, my fleet unleashed its full fury. It was a symphony of destruction—every gun fired in unison, the sound rolling across the water like thunder. The Danish ships were engulfed in fiery chaos. They tried to maneuver out of our firing range, but the shallows made escape impossible.

I watched as a wooden Danish frigate was torn apart by a shell from one of my dreadnoughts, its masts collapsing in a cloud of smoke. The sea churned with debris and flames, but my ships didn’t relent. The small and nimble corvettes moved in for the kill, their speed and firepower overwhelming the remaining Danish vessels. Unlike their Danish counterparts, these small ships were well-suited for coastal warfare. From where I stood, it was clear that this naval battle was futile for the Danes.

Despite our overwhelming firepower, the Danes fought bravely. As the hours passed, ship after ship sank beneath the waves. Their antiquated naval guns, poorly aimed and lacking coordinated fire control, either splashed harmlessly into the sea or ricocheted off the armor of my ships. The heaviest damage we sustained was from lucky hits against close-range corvettes that lost their unarmored radar and radio towers. Even their ironclads—symbols of Danish naval pride created through their alliance with the Russian Empire—were no match for our corvettes' low-flying missiles, which struck just above the ships’ exposed waterlines.

As the Danish navy broke against our corvette screen, I knew the Danish commander would come to the same realization I had months ago—their time was up. I allowed myself a grim smile. This battle wasn’t just about Denmark; it was about the future and who would lead Europe in this new age of iron and industry. Magnus’ Danish ambition was simply in the way.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, I could see Copenhagen more clearly from the deck, its towers and spires reaching up like the last fingers of a drowning city. Along the shore, half-buried mounds concealed Magnus’ coastal redoubts, hoping to lure an assault from our Royal Marines. They were well-hidden, and if we were as reckless as the English forces at Gallipoli in my timeline, we would have faced certain disaster despite our technical prowess. But we didn’t take the bait. Instead, I used my ability to pinpoint their positions for our long-range guns. In response to our shelling, the Danish shore batteries fired back, but their rate of fire was inferior. Our capital ships stayed just beyond their standard targeting range, forcing them to make wild estimates that improved our odds. While they managed only one shell every ten minutes, our turrets methodically fired three shells per minute, dismantling their shore batteries. Several shots came dangerously close, but the Danes simply ran out of time.

I had no personal stake in Prince Hans’ rebellion, not really. Hans needed my ships, and I needed an ally on the throne of Denmark—someone who would owe their crown to me and remove Russia’s influence in the Baltic Sea. While my ships dismantled King Magnus’ naval and coastal defenses, Prince Hans’ army advanced from the south, his 20,000 men marching on the weakened city defenses. His few field guns fired at the city gates, adding to the chaos among the defenders.

From my binoculars, I could see their movement—columns of soldiers in the distance, banners flying in the wind. It was a quaint sight after years of fighting far more advanced forces. Hans wasn’t a general, but he didn’t need to be. My ships did most of the work for him. After we finished with our naval opposition, our bombardment softened the city’s defenses before his men marched in.

By mid-afternoon, the outer walls of Copenhagen had crumbled, and Hans’ men were inside the city. My dreadnoughts and cruisers provided coordinated artillery support, shelling the remaining barricades and clearing a path for Hans’ troops to sweep through the streets.

The city was in chaos—flames rising from every corner, the screams of the wounded mingling with the crack of gunfire. My officers brought me reports of the devastation, but I remained on deck, watching as the sun set behind the burning city. It was an eerie hellscape that I had created, as the architect of Prince Hans’ campaign and pretense to seize the Danish throne. The tragic sight of the burning city reminded me of the Second Battle of Copenhagen in 1807. In my timeline, the famous British Admiral Horatio Nelson led the Royal Navy to victory in 1801 and prevented the destruction of the Danish capital through diplomacy. However, a second betrayal by Denmark and resurgence of Russian Empire in 1807 made such grand gestures moot. The bombardment of Copenhagen in the second battle marked the beginning of the Anglo-Russian War. During that conflict, the brutality of the British Royal Navy in 1807 at Copenhagen limited the engagements between Britain and the Russian Empire. Russia’s Czar feared British reprisals and Britain’s government faced public outcry for its destructive actions. Unlike King George of Britain during that conflict, the current and future government of Britain cannot hold me back.

The Habsburg Empire, Ming China, the Indian Vedas state, and smaller entities like the Valois-Medici New Rome composed the countless members of the consortium. They were all problems, but none had attacked me directly, except the Russian Empire. Perhaps the Habsburg Empire tried covertly, but they never succeeded, not even in a pyrrhic victory. The Russian Empire’s strike on London and the murder of my son were carried out despite layers of protection and intrigue. In my mind, true peace or victory would not be possible without the bloodshed that had to occur. Perhaps I was being petty, and maybe I should have let go of my grief and hatred. But even now, I believe I did the right thing, despite the circumstances I was unaware of.

By evening, word reached us from Prince Hans’ followers: Copenhagen had fallen, and Magnus was dead. According to the surviving palace servants, he had poisoned himself. I ordered the fleet to cease fire. The battle was over; now it was time to settle the political situation in Denmark. Prince Hans convened a grand assembly of Danish nobles to elect a new king. King Magnus II did have a young son, Christian, who was just four years old, and his retainers and loyalists considered him the legitimate heir to the throne. Though it might have been a more strategic move to eliminate the child, Prince Hans refused to shed familial blood like his uncle had. I agreed with Prince Hans’ decision despite my advisors’ objections, as I believed it was better to maintain the appearance of legitimacy in his coup. Additionally, Prince Hans requested that our fleet depart from Copenhagen during the noble election to uphold Danish independence, as we had agreed. The English fleet would be docked in Amsterdam during the election—close enough to deter loyalists or the Russian Empire, yet far enough to avoid exerting direct influence.

Unknown to most observers, I stayed behind in Copenhagen until the last ships departed, secretly transferring my flag from the dreadnought HMS Excalibur to the cruiser HMS Elephant. A fleet of transport ships and auxiliary cruisers had arrived after the battle for salvage operations. Commodore Hawkins needed to organize these operations to clear the sea lanes for normal shipping, as we had sunk many warships in the Øresund Strait. Although the salvage fleet was slated to leave before the election, it provided me with three unsupervised days. I wanted to investigate the death of King Magnus II, as the accounts of his sudden suicide were inconsistent among the various servants of the Danish monarchy. While no one seemed to question his death, I was suspicious, especially since I had used the theory of King Magnus’ regicide against his brother as the rationale for Prince Hans’ revolt. As Robert would say, I sometimes focus on seemingly random things.

For the first two days, I sent several English agents disguised as merchants from nearby Køge to investigate the former servants of King Magnus. Their first target was the former home of the Royal Chamberlain. The Danish Royal Chamberlain had reportedly committed suicide in prison, leaving a note expressing his desire to join his fallen king. Having seen the note, I wanted to compare it against his handwriting using my ability for total recall and analysis. Posing as loyalists to King Magnus, my agents managed to procure several pieces of private correspondence from the deceased chamberlain, which supported my suspicion that the chamberlain did not write the purported suicide note. Letters from the chamberlain and testimonies from his family members, who were servants in the palace, also indicated that King Magnus had not been seen for several months preceding the coup. Most orders were administered through verbal or written decrees, and a veil had been placed around the king’s bedroom, where messengers and porters brought news and food. However, before we could bring these facts to light, the chamberlain’s home was destroyed in a fire. His extended family members perished in the blaze. The same fate befell the porters and messengers with close proximity to King Magnus II. Although the deaths appeared to be tragic accidents or grief-driven suicides, I doubted so many coincidences. These unsettling developments forced me to take direct action.

King Magnus’ body was guarded in the damaged Royal Church, but I made my way into the building with several elite Aelfric guardsmen, using a combination of my abilities and the cover of night. I wanted no witnesses to our visit, which could alert whatever forces were behind these mysterious deaths. The church was eerily quiet late at night, with no one awake or aware of my presence as I moved through walls without damaging the structure. In the crypt, I found the body covered under a white cloth. Using my sensory abilities, I analyzed the corpse for irregularities and quickly discovered the truth: Magnus had not died by poison, as the Danish physicians had reported. Instead, he had died from prolonged exposure to below-freezing temperatures. The discoloration attributed to poison was actually due to a lack of oxygen and constricted blood flow. There were signs of ice burns, and his skin’s pale, waxy texture indicated that his body had been exposed to extremely low temperatures for an extended period. One of the benefits of such a method was the delay in bodily decay; without advanced techniques or scientific instruments, it would have been impossible to determine if he had died an hour ago or several months ago.

As I was about to order my Aelfric guards to retrieve the body, a mechanical voice addressed me, "Aelfric Elias Tudor, we are not your enemy. We share the same goals in Denmark and the elimination of the Russians. Leave the death of King Magnus alone. This building will be destroyed in two minutes; please do not interfere with its destruction."

I identified the source of the voice as coming from a backpack radio system, though it was not of English, Russian, or Habsburg design. The radio resembled the Tornister series military radios from 1940s Germany in my timeline, with industrial-quality materials. My mind raced with possibilities as I noticed the advanced RDX explosive—known as C-3—which was currently used in the Pyrenees against the Habsburg military by Royal Intelligence under Francis. RDX-derived explosives were highly classified, so I was shocked to see them in use in Denmark by an unknown party. Although I could have disrupted the explosive, I was more curious to learn who had developed equivalent technology without being a major faction.

After one last look at the backpack and the explosives, I decided to leave the Danish Royal Church to its fate. The following morning, I heard news of the church’s destruction as I covertly left Copenhagen. In the days that followed, a series of surprising events occurred. Prince Hans of Denmark was assassinated in Copenhagen during the election, and King Magnus’ son, Christian, was murdered several days later in a reprisal attack. The Danish realm seemed to be destabilizing, until several Swedish-Brandenburg armies invaded Norway and seized Denmark. King Johann III of Sweden, leveraging his unique position and military prowess, declared the formation of a new union based in Stockholm, reminiscent of the Kalmar Union that ruled Denmark, Norway, and Sweden under one monarch from 1397 to 1523. To the world, King Johann III appeared to have outplayed everyone, including me, and created a massive Scandinavian empire that dwarfed the Swedish Empire of my timeline. However, only my senior minister and I knew the truth. The RDX within the C-3 explosive was manufactured in Prussia using nitrolysis, which left trace elements of ammonia that I could reverse trace into their organic components. In the subsequent territorial distribution, the provinces of Holstein and Schleswig were ceded to the Duchy of Brandenburg-Prussia. All of these moves indicated that someone of high position in Brandenburg-Prussia, like me, was pulling the strings. Though they claimed not to be our enemy, it was clear they had their own means and motives.