Of Pride and Power - 52. Chapter 46: “Concentrate your forces”

I never imagined I would return to England with a Jewish slave, a gift from the Margrave of Brandenburg. Sadly, I was not the first English monarch to enslave Jews under the guise of protection. William the Conqueror, England's first king, set a precedent in the 11th century by bringing Jews from Europe to England for financial administration under the guise of 'royal property' transfer. This occurred because the Catholic Church prohibited devout Christians from handling money. Once the Jews entered England in William's service, they became 'wards of the Crown,' effectively making them the property of the English monarchy. Although they were guaranteed protection by England’s rulers, all their work belonged to the Crown. Furthermore, after their deaths, any property they had acquired throughout their lives passed to the reigning monarch.

For the next two centuries, as this royal decree remained in effect, whenever Christian zealots—similar to those in the German lands—attacked Jews, English nobles were dispatched by the reigning king to suppress the violence, ostensibly to protect the king’s property. This treatment of human beings as property would have devastating repercussions in my timeline, particularly in shaping the social framework of the United States. Yet, in William's time, it was considered an act of kindness.

People in my timeline often say, 'You must choose the lesser of two evils,' but few realize that any choice in such a situation is still a devil’s bargain. Unlike my historical counterpart, Queen Elizabeth I, I do not adhere to the traditions or moral values of the past. Had England continued on that path, it would have led to terrible tragedies. One infamous incident involved Queen Elizabeth ordering the execution of her friend and royal physician, Roderigo Lopez, after his court rival, the Earl of Essex, revealed that Lopez was a practicing Jew. In my timeline, Elizabeth was remembered as a beloved monarch for her equanimity, despite such actions, because the people of England believed her actions were just—another product of the moral education that shaped England's treatment of non-Christians.

While I do not claim to be the arbiter of moral truth, I agree with the Veritas sects on one key point: morality cannot be dictated or forced; it must be acquired through personal experience. No individual or monarch has the right to make broad judgments based solely on someone’s background.

When we arrived on the English shore, I emancipated Levi, as I had outlawed slavery throughout my realm. I tasked Puck with finding a doctor to continue Levi’s physical therapy for his muscle atrophy. My chancellor, Nicholas Bacon, suggested sending Levi to a crown-sponsored orphanage rather than accepting him into the royal household, citing potential social and cultural concerns from my subjects. His suggestion was well-meaning, without malice or prejudice, but I cared little for popular opinion, especially when it involved denigrating human beings based on their background. The people of England—and the broader British Isles—would have to adapt to the present reality or cling to the false beliefs of the past and perish with them.

I had, in fact, considered placing Levi in an orphanage. After a decade of working with displaced people following Queen Mary’s reign, our social support systems had become far more competent than those of earlier times. However, Robert couldn't help bringing up images of Dickensian workhouses, abusive orphanages, and starving children begging for 'more' from indifferent administrators, despite such conditions being strictly prohibited. I felt guilty for not doing more for Levi’s family and other marginalized people across Europe, so it was inevitable that I would take him in as another ward.

In my timeline, the last English monarch to accept a foreign child as a ward was Queen Victoria, who took in an enslaved West African girl, renamed Sarah Forbes Bonetta, as her ward and 'god-daughter.' At the time, Great Britain did not recognize the concept of adopting non-British people into royal families. After several weeks of hospital care, I introduced Levi to my nine-year-old son Jamie, my eleven-year-old son Will, and my one-year-old daughter Francine. Levi didn’t speak English, but Jamie and Will, having some knowledge of German, helped their new friend and brother acclimate.

While all of this was happening within my family, my Prime Minister William Cecil, Military Commander Frances Howard, and Francis Walsingham, acting as my proxy, were organizing the next phase of our plan to confront the Russian Empire. With the Habsburg Empire’s forces spread thin by various conflicts in Europe, Francis worked on developing our agents to make inroads in the Polish and Lithuanian territories, which had descended into chaos after the Habsburg betrayal and the Russian destruction of Krakow. Frances was reorganizing the Royal Marines and Royal Navy for an expeditionary force, primarily in a support role, but they had to be prepared to defend a major port city. William Cecil, meanwhile, was making diplomatic overtures to King Johann III of Sweden and King John George of Prussia, seeking cooperation for our future operations.

Before my return to England, Robert had spent years developing new weapons, equipment, and a “special” ship with the assistance of the Three Sisters artificial intelligence at the Avalon facilities. It was a massive undertaking, as we needed to achieve multiple goals against the vast Russian Empire without relying on a large army. In my timeline, military strategists often quipped that conquering Russia was impossible, citing the many failures of historical figures. However, such critics often overlook the few successes in these endeavors. I took inspiration from those successes while cautiously reflecting on the failures.

We could not afford to launch a massive invasion of Russia or occupy its Baltic territories with England’s relatively small population. Even if we reached the population benchmarks of 1578, when we could support both new industries and an expanded military force from the children of omegas, England would barely be able to seize and manage the Duchy of Lithuania from Russia. Territorial acquisition is far more complex than portrayed in mangas and games, as managing both the lands and people you acquire requires more than simply demanding tribute if you want to avoid them becoming a burden on your nation. Throughout history, empires have often delegated administration to local elites, including Russia. However, this method requires religious indoctrination, cultural assimilation, and a powerful military presence to deter rebellion. In my timeline, the latest version of the Russian Empire, under the name of the Soviet Union, collapsed when its communist ideology—acting in place of religion—failed to maintain unity among its elites, and the weakened military could no longer hold the empire together.

I had long ago decided that if England, and later Britain when we unified, were to extend its reach beyond our islands, a traditional empire would be self-defeating. The benchmark of 1578 was set because we needed sufficient manpower to incorporate new lands without creating administrative or cultural conflicts. Russia's territories were therefore unappealing.

Beyond the logistics of empire-building, there was also the threat of the Russian Empire’s nuclear arsenal, which could be deployed at any time. This would either require advanced shielding—impractical for a military campaign—or my presence on the battlefield to displace the kinetic force, thermal energy, and radiation. I knew from radio interceptions and core communications that Europe was a backwater compared to the main battlefields in the Middle and Far East. When I heard about the level of destruction and the weapons being used there, I felt deep concern for Takechiyo and the limited military equipment I could offer him and Nippon. Even if I were to launch pre-emptive strikes with ballistic missiles, the Russian Empire was too vast to bombard without causing an ecological disaster. Achieving total victory in Russia seemed impossible when considering England's capabilities, even with our advanced technology. This likely explains why Russian forces in the Baltic continued expanding near their occupied territories, expecting Denmark to be the extent of England’s involvement.

After the Russian coup attempt in 1569, I spent years devising a plan, trying to find an alternative approach that matched our resources and limitations. I studied various historical examples.

First, the 13th-century Mongol invasion of Kyivan Rus under Genghis Khan’s mobile fighting force. Though the Mongols were outnumbered, they were far more agile and did not adhere to the concept of static battlefields. Their army didn’t rely on supply trains, as they lived off the lands they invaded, striking multiple areas with horseback archers to exploit weak points in enemy defenses. Additionally, they used Chinese gunpowder to render traditional fortifications obsolete by filling tunnels under city walls with explosives.

Closer to our period was the Ottoman invasion and destruction of Moscow in 1571, which didn’t happen in our world due to earlier Russian and Habsburg victories over the Ottoman Empire. In that timeline, however, an allied force of the Ottoman Empire and the Crimean Khanate executed a perfect invasion, bypassing Russian defense lines. For months, nimble Ottoman and Crimean forces waged a campaign across rural Russia, forcing refugees to flee to Moscow. This was a coordinated strategy, not a series of random raids. Ottoman infiltrators disguised as refugees entered the city and, on May 24th, 1571, set fire to palaces and detonated the national gunpowder stores. Moscow was consumed by flames, and chaos ensued as Russian troops fought their own fleeing citizens, mistaking them for the enemy. Moscow was destroyed, and hundreds of thousands died. Scandalous rumors circulated that Czar Ivan had fled during the disaster, worsening the situation.

Finally, I considered the war between the German Empire and the Russian Empire from 1914 to 1918. Many history books claim that Germany decisively won with early victories at Tannenberg and Masurian Lakes, but the tide turned with Russia’s Brusilov Offensive in 1916, which severely weakened the German and Austrian Habsburg armies. Ultimately, Germany’s success came from assisting communist dissident Vladimir Lenin in returning to Russia, which destabilized the Russian Empire in 1917. This single act caused the collapse of the Russian government, the murder of the Czar’s family, and a civil war that tore the empire apart for years.

Reflecting on these examples, I developed a strategy that incorporated elements from all of them. By winter 1576, when the Baltic Sea was still frozen, our preparations for the next campaign were complete. Given the possibility of nuclear weapon use, I would lead the vanguard myself. None of my friends could join me on this expedition—they were needed in Bristol to continue their work and protect my family in case of any unforeseen events. Although I wanted Robert to stay behind, I couldn’t bring myself to deny him the absolution he sought from this campaign. However, we wouldn’t be alone. All twelve mecha knights joined our vanguard.

The battle plan had taken years to prepare. The strategy was bold—some might call it reckless—but such is the way of leaders who seek to carve their legacy with fire and iron.

We traveled aboard our custom-built warship, Lamrei, named after King Arthur’s legendary mare. As we sailed from Bristol through the Øresund Strait toward our target, we coordinated the offensive from the ship’s advanced communications suite, using everything from vacuum-tube radios to mecha knights’ core-augmented systems to communicate with Dreadnoughts and attack submarines. In the dimly lit war room aboard Lamrei, surrounded by maps scattered across an oak table, I felt the weight of history pressing down on me. For hours, mecha knight commander Gard relayed updates from various fronts as battles broke out across the Baltic Sea. Our rapid offensive had caught the Russian forces by surprise, and we had made contact at multiple points.

With Commodore Francis Drake leading our submarines to attack and salvage Russian merchant ships from the Baltic Sea in the years and months before the campaign, we gained valuable intelligence, such as the names of vessels and their commanding officers. My other partner, Francis Walsingham, used his skills to obtain coveted Russian radio codes from deceased merchant officers, allowing us to clear our fake merchant ships along protected shipping lines. This provided cover for Commodore John Hawkins’ fleet of auxiliary cruisers as they advanced toward their designated targets. Before commencing naval bombardments, the submarine force would guard their flanks by engaging the Russian corvettes and destroyers patrolling near these strong points.

“Five Royal Navy battlegroups,” I muttered to myself, tracing a finger along the Baltic coastline at each battlefront. “Gdansk, Königsberg, Klaipeda, Riga, Reval.”

These weren’t just cities; they were keys—each one unlocking a different strategic passage, each one tethering the Russian bear’s Eastern European ambitions. I knew the campaign was far broader than these five port cities alone but controlling them would sever the Russian and Danish loyalist forces inland. The Russian Empire’s expansion had festered like a rot across Eastern Europe after the collapse of Poland-Lithuania, and they held the entire Baltic coast in a stranglehold as their main route of supply.

Five of my seven Dreadnought-class battleships had already been dispatched, each one targeting a key city. These behemoths were marvels of engineering, designed not only for combat but for dominating the sea and shoreline. Gdansk—known as Danzig in my original timeline—was the first to fall. William Cecil had entrusted its conquest to the Prussian army, transported by English ships, knowing their strength would be well-suited to the task. Danzig had once been part of the German Empire, and Joachim Frederick wouldn’t object to reacquiring part of the old territory. Königsberg and Klaipeda—Memel, as it was known in my timeline—also fell into Prussian hands through similar arrangements. While historically more complex than any 19th-century map would show, Prussia’s armies were the best choice to liberate these lands from Russian control. I had only one stipulation in William Cecil’s negotiations: Prussian troops were not to slaughter surrendered Russian soldiers or innocent civilians.

Königsberg held particular significance for Joachim. In my timeline, it had become a noncontiguous occupied Russian territory, renamed Kaliningrad. Though Prussia kept its promise to England, his orders were far harsher toward the defeated Russians—he forced them to strip and kneel before the Prussian flag, seeking penance from whatever Germanic spirit the symbol represented for the occupation of their land. German nationalism was displayed in its rawest form by his actions.

The Kingdom of Sweden was another matter. Their forces were less advanced but more numerous. Their commanders were ambitious, but they lacked the technical innovations of Prussia and England necessary to quickly breach fortified positions. For these reasons, I assigned extra support ships in the form of heavy cruisers to the two Royal Navy battlegroups aiding them in their assaults on Riga and Reval. Their failure was not an option. The Russians had heavily fortified these cities with citadels and redoubts, and it would take more than Swedish ambition to pry them loose. Nevertheless, thanks to the advanced bombardment systems of our Dreadnoughts, which acted similarly to bunker-buster bombs in my timeline, the Swedish forces succeeded. Riga and Reval were far more devastated by the assault than the Prussian-occupied cities of Gdansk, Königsberg, and Klaipeda, due to the need for additional firepower.

Despite the effort poured into taking these cities, my primary objective wasn’t their capture. My true ambitions lay farther east on the frigid shores of Narva, home to the Russian Baltic Fleet headquarters. That’s where I would strike personally, not with the might of my navy, but with something far more terrifying.

My husband, Archduke Robert Dudley, sat quietly across from me, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light as waves splashed against the ship. He knew what lay ahead, though we hadn’t spoken much about it. Seven years had passed since the death of our son—seven years of guilt and remorse, soon to end.

“Twelve mecha knights,” I said, more to myself than to him, as I pondered the forces I would bring against Russia, independent of the Royal Marines acting as our rear guard. “They don’t need to eat or sleep. They can self-repair with their cores and act independently.”

These weren’t just machines. They were androids, each one housing the consciousness of elite soldiers and tacticians. Their bodies, forged from advanced technologies, were faster and deadlier than any human soldier could ever be. They carried weapons beyond the imagination of most men in this time—compressed air bullets, plasma armor, and area-of-effect weapons capable of melting steel within a hundred yards.

We weren’t going to Narva to seize the city. Land meant nothing to me. My goal was to annihilate the Russian forces gathered near Narva. No Prussian or Swedish reinforcements were needed, as we didn’t intend to occupy the territory for long. What we needed was to crush their strength. Sweden would likely move in to claim the city as they did in my timeline, or Prussia might vassalize it as a buffer against their northern allies. The destruction of their Baltic forces would open the path to Russia’s heart straight to the Upper Volga.

“I wonder if they ever held any regrets for what they did,” Robert murmured, breaking his silence. He reached out and laid a hand on mine. His touch was firm, reassuring.

“They will,” I replied steadily. “They chose this course.”

The Russian fleet had patrolled the waters near Narva with the confidence of conquerors. But with simultaneous invasions of their port cities, all Russian merchant ships were ordered to identify themselves and head to specified points for inspection. By refraining from deploying our warships or raising alarms too soon, we would lure their fleet out. From a distance, Lamrei appeared like an oversized transport ship, with no visible turrets or launchers—nothing threatening.

“The Russians think in traditional terms,” I continued, turning fully to Robert. “They expect walls, trenches, and ships. They expect us to play by their rules—to conquer and assimilate territories. But this war isn’t fought in our timeline. It’s fought with ideas and weapons they can’t comprehend. When we descend upon them, they’ll have no time to react. Narva isn’t our prize—our prize is the obliteration of their fleet, their soldiers, and their will to fight.”

Robert’s gaze remained steady, and I knew he understood the stakes just as well as I did. This war wasn’t just about conquest; it was about reshaping the world, carving out a new path in history.

Mecha knight commander Gard stood by our side, his eyes glowing with an unnatural light, his frame humming with power. He was preparing for the assault tomorrow, calculating how we would destroy Russian forces and what forces we would face as we left their predetermined inspection point. As the coast appeared on the horizon, I allowed myself to think of one final thought before heading to bed with Robert after a long day.

“Harry, daddy is going to finish what you started.”