Chapter 6 #2
Other voices, those from families with less in their coffers or whose estates were closer to the sea or Prussia or Finland were quieter, more subdued, moving toward Harald to unobtrusively try to listen in.
They, at least, seemed to understand what this meant.
War. Everything was about to change, and Harald could feel the weight of it settling onto his shoulders even as his classmates continued their casual chatter.
He stayed like that, standing with one hand resting on the Radio, his mind spinning between memories of last night's perfect moment and the crushing reality of what was coming, until the housemaster came to tell him that his car was here.
Time to be Prince Harald again, completely and utterly, no matter what his heart wanted.
Harald's worry deepened as the car passed the familiar river entrance to the family apartments, continuing on to the palace's grand rotunda instead.
As the spare, he was rarely included in matters of state—being summoned from school was bad enough, but this?
His fingers twisted in his lap. The last time he'd been called to the state rooms had been for a formal portrait, not actual governance.
The car crunched to a stop on the gravel.
Stone lions watched through the gathering dusk as Harald climbed out, straightening his school uniform.
Even the guardsman's face was grim as he gestured toward the main stairs.
Whatever was happening, it was serious enough to need both princes. The thought made his chest tight.
Raised voices leaked through the heavy oak door of the council chamber.
Harald recognized his father's distinctive wheeze beneath Prime Minister Lindstrom's measured tones.
His hand hesitated on the brass doorknob.
Would Father look as strong today as he had in the portrait that hung in Riddarhuset's great hall? Somehow, Harald doubted it.
The door's betraying creak announced him.
Harald stepped into a tense discussion, the scents of tobacco and leather that surrounded him doing nothing to ease his nerves.
His father sat at the head of the long table, face flushed and handkerchief clutched in one trembling hand.
Freddie occupied the position at Father's right hand—the Crown Prince's traditional place—his back straight and face carefully neutral.
Mother perched like an ice sculpture on one of the chairs pushed well back from the mahogany table, her usual position during the rare occasions she was permitted to observe state meetings.
Prime Minister Lindstrom removed his tiny round spectacles with deliberate slowness.
Goren Lindstrom's tall, thin frame seemed almost fragile behind the mahogany table, but Harald knew better.
The Prime Minister's dark hair, graying prominently at the temples, was swept back from a high forehead that creased with thoughtful concentration, and his blue eyes showed that he missed little and thought much.
Unlike Father's ornate uniform or Freddie's military dress, Lindstrom wore a simple dark suit with a plain tie, letting his mien and personality establish his importance, rather than his dress.
"Your Highness." Lindstrom inclined his head, voice low and calm. "Thank you for coming so promptly."
Harald had always found the Prime Minister intimidating—not because he was unkind, but because he operated with such careful control.
Every gesture seemed deliberate and considered, from the way he leaned slightly forward when speaking to the elegant folding of his hands atop the scattered papers.
Father respected Lindstrom, which was rare enough—the King rarely admired anyone who wasn't in uniform.
"Your Highness," Lindstrom said, nodding to Harald. "We were just discussing Sweden's position regarding the German incursion into Poland."
Harald bowed to his father, then acknowledged the others. "Prime Minister, Ministers." With no direction forthcoming, he took the empty chair beside his mother, acutely aware that like her, he sat removed from the main council table.
"As I was saying," Foreign Minister Hallberg continued, "we must maintain our neutrality while preserving our economic relationships. The iron ore trade with Germany represents nearly forty percent of our export economy."
Unlike the Prime Minister's deliberate stillness, the Foreign Minister possessed a only barely leashed energy, his angular face with high cheekbones constantly shifting with subtle expressions.
His striking grey eyes seemed to quickly calculate every variable in the room, looking around as quickly as his mind leaped from possibility to possibility. He was not a man to be trifled with.
"Germany will not tolerate interference with their iron supply," Hallberg stated, his voice cold. "We must protect our neutrality by maintaining our trade relationships."
Harald noticed how Hallberg's short wavy blonde hair caught the lamplight as he stepped away from the window, moving with economical grace.
His modest but elegant dark suit was offset by a distinctive silver brooch on his lapel—a Swedish flag.
The Foreign Minister's hands punctuated his words with firm, deliberate gestures.
"And that trade will continue," Father said, each word measured and heavy.
"Sweden is not moving to a war footing simply because Herr Hitler has marched on Poland.
I have heard your arguments, but I am the King, and I have made my decision.
We will follow our existing policy of strict and absolute neutrality. "
Another cough rattled through Father's chest. Harald's fingers dug into the arm of his chair, fighting the urge to go to him. Freddie's expression remained unchanged, but Harald noticed his brother's knuckles whitening on the table's edge.
"With respect, Your Majesty," Health Minister Forsberg said, her socialist leanings evident in her tone, "neutrality cannot mean blind indifference. The reports from Poland are disturbing. Civilian targets, bombing of Warsaw—"
"Unconfirmed reports," The Queen interjected from her position at the room's edge, her voice firm.
Harald watched several ministers exchange glances at her interruption.
"We also have no reason to believe that Herr Hitler intends for this to grow into a wider conflict.
The Germans and the Poles have always clashed, and Poland hasn't long been an independent state. "
Lindstrom's eyes flicked toward Mother with barely concealed irritation before he turned back to the council table. "Your Majesty," he said carefully, addressing Father rather than Mother, "while various... perspectives exist on Germany's intentions, we must focus on concrete policy decisions."
"Says the Prussian Princess," Forsberg muttered, loud enough to carry across the table.
"You will mind your manners when speaking to my wife." Father's harsh tone dissolved into another coughing fit. Harald watched helplessly as his father pressed the handkerchief to his mouth, the white linen coming away spotted with red.
Freddie leaned forward, subtly shifting to shield their father from the ministers' view. "Minister Forsberg, your concerns are noted, but personal attacks have no place in this council."
Harald felt a surge of pride at his brother's diplomatic handling of the situation. This was what Freddie had been trained for—what Harald would need to learn if he were to be any help at all.
"I apologize, Your Majesty," Forsberg said, though her tone held little contrition. "But we cannot ignore that Germany's actions represent a fundamental shift in European stability."
From her observer's chair, Mother leaned forward slightly, her knuckles white as she gripped her small notebook. Harald could practically feel her frustration radiating across the space between the council table and her enforced position on the periphery.
"And what would you have us do?" Commerce Minister Torvald Sanden challenged, his conservative views evident. "Sever ties with our strongest trading partner? Leave our economy in ruins based on unconfirmed reports?"
Harald studied Commerce Minister Sanden as the man leaned back in his chair.
Everything about Sanden projected wealth and influence—from his perfectly tailored charcoal suit to the silk pocket square that caught the lamplight.
His slicked-back dark hair gleamed with pomade, not a strand out of place despite the heated discussion.
When he spoke, his thin angular face remained composed, measuring each minister's response like a businessman evaluating stock prices.
Unlike the other ministers who seemed genuinely troubled by the Polish situation, Sanden appeared almost bored by the moral implications.
His manicured fingers drummed silently against the mahogany table, the gesture betraying his impatience with what he clearly viewed as sentimentality interfering with practical economics.
"The German Reich purchases nearly sixty percent of our iron ore exports," Sanden continued smoothly, his voice carrying the confidence of a man accustomed to having his counsel sought and heeded. "To jeopardize that relationship over... moral concerns... would be economic suicide."
Harald noticed how Sanden's pause before "moral concerns" made the phrase sound distasteful.
The Commerce Minister's expensive gold watch chain caught the light as he adjusted his position, every movement deliberate and polished.
Here was a man who saw the world through the lens of profit margins and trade agreements.
"That may be true, Torvald, but you must concede that it wouldn't be hard to find another market for Germany's portion of our exports. Britain, and other western powers would be incredibly keen on increasing their purchases."
"Better one bird in the hand than ten in the forest, as they say." Sanden said, his voice smug.