“For a man of principle,” Gustav said crossly, “you certainly have your little ways.”
“I think you haven’t quite understood me,” said the bishop, “not that it matters, of course; not in the least. You see—” He put on a look so baffled and ironic, above all so extreme in its admission of absurdity — like the expression of a poisoner when he sees that, by carelessness, he’s drunk the wrong wine — that Lars-Goren for an instant felt pity for him. “You see, betrayal of ideals—” He waved vaguely, as if dismissing their pity. “Betrayal of ideals is a great sin and a torment. But what you do, that’s merely savage, merely bestial. Who blames a dog if he eats cow dung? We merely look away in disgust. Dogs will be dogs. But if a man eats dung, and not from madness, which makes him just an animal again, but for some considered purpose not central to his survival but pursuant to his comfort or luxury—then we look away with a vengeance, my friend“—he raised one stern finger—“not in disgust but in scorn!”
“Yes, I see,” Gustav said. If he saw, he was not impressed.
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t,” said the bishop. “It’s not important, of course. You do what’s natural to you, widowing young women, burning down perfectly good buildings. And I, I cunningly support you as long as you’re useful, shifting money and men to your side, providing you with maps and equipment, castles to hide in, information on the enemy’s activities. I have seen to it already that both Dalarna and Kopparberg are armed and equipped, waiting for your command. I will support you, as I say. And then, of course, when you’re no longer useful—” He closed his eyes for a moment and tipped his head up, then opened them, staring into the lead-gray sky. “Such a stupid waste,” he said. “The whole business. I wonder which of us God finds more uninteresting!”
For the first time, Lars-Goren spoke. “Why do you do it then?” His voice broke out louder than he’d intended, sharp as iron striking rock. Gustav gave a start, but the bishop moved only his eyes, studying Lars-Goren. Then, losing interest, he looked away again and lowered his head until his chin was near his chest. “Why do I do it, you say.” His face moved painfully from one expression to another, like the face of an actor constrained to say an overfamiliar line from a too-well-known play. “Why not?” he said at last, and grinned bitterly. He glanced at Gustav’s bandaged arm, nodded to himself, and, without another word, turned abruptly to walk toward his horse. Now as before, he walked a little mincingly, as if he hated the uncertainty of the grip earth gave, hated getting soil and bits of leaf on his shoes. His man gave him a leg up, then went over to his own horse and mounted.
The bishop scowled, made a kind of tsk tsk, then looked, full of gloom, at Gustav and Lars-Goren. “Time for the exit,” he said, “the interesting farewell gesture, the parting bit of wit.” He slung his jaw sideways — exactly as the horse was doing again, trying to be rid of the bit — then breathed deeply, shaking his head. “You know”—he nodded to Gustav Vasa—“you, in my position, would simply turn your horse and gallop off, not true? Man of affairs, much on his mind, no time for entrances and exits; you simply come and go. How I envy you!” He looked up at the sky again. It seemed to have gone darker, affected by his mood “Is Bishop Hans Brask not ten times busier than Gustav Vasa? Yet always, always the intolerable burden of style! Always the cool eye drifting toward the murder! — excuse me, I meant mirror!” He looked flustered, almost shocked. “Stupid slip,” he muttered. He glared at Lars-Goren as if the whole thing were his fault. “Stupid,” he whispered, his face dark with anger, and abruptly, still blushing, he turned his horse toward the woods and galloped off. After a moment his men wheeled around and followed. A little foolishly, as if unable to think what else to do, Gustav Vasa waved.
8.
SO IT WAS THAT GUSTAV VASA became, first, regent, then king, of Sweden. To set off the revolt of the Dalesmen of Dalarna, he scarcely needed to raise his hand. Rumors fanned by the Devil’s huge wings were already widespread of Kristians intention of putting all Swedish mineral exports in Denmark’s control, and there were rumors, too — most of them well-founded — of atrocities committed upon peasants and country priests by the Danish soldiery. On the off chance that anyone alive in Dalarna had not yet heard the rumors, Gustav seized the Lutherans’ printing press at Uppsala and turned it from the printing of Bibles in German and Latin to a different and highly original purpose, propaganda. It was a stroke of genius, that unprecedented use of the new machine. Even in France there were men who gnashed their teeth in envy, wishing they themselves had been the first in the world to think of it.
The miners of Kopparberg soon joined the uprising, then all of Bergslag, then farmers and lumbermen from the areas surrounding; and since Kristians government officials in Stockholm were too busy squabbling among themselves to come up with effective counter-measures, the rebellion gathered momentum. In April 1521 the rebels were able to defeat Kristians forces at Västerås; in May they captured Uppsala. With the speed of an army on sailing sleds, Gustav pushed eastward to the sea to win a port through which supplies could reach him from abroad, and by the beginning of summer his army stood outside Stockholm. Now Hans Brask, bishop of Linkoping, and Ture Jönsson, governor of Västergödand, came openly to his support. It was through their influence that he was elected regent in August 1521.
Kristian of Denmark fumed, pacing, wringing his hands, and swearing; but for the moment he was helpless. For three months he’d been visiting the Netherlands, playing high politics with his Hapsburg relations, pursuing his plan of shifting all his business from the Hanseatic League to the Dutch, where the profits would be greater. He wrote furious, imperatorial letters, the Devil sitting at his elbow, giving him advice, but the letters did no good. By Christmas, most of Sweden was in the hands of the insurgents “Never mind,” said the Devil, his huge, crooked hands calmly folded on the table, his head bowed low, so that Kristian could not see his expression. “Take what they will, these lunatics,” said the Devil, “it will all melt like snow.”
“Like snow, you say,” said Kristian. Even with the Devil, he had a way of staring with one eye wide open, so blue it looked like glass, the other eye closed to a slit. He drummed his dimpled fingers on the table.
Solemnly, the Devil nodded. “You forget, my friend,” he said, “we have on our side the most brilliant general in the world, the magnificent Berend von Melen!”
“Ah!” said Kristian of Denmark, raising both eyebrows and beaming with pleasure. “Ah yes, the German!” He had met this Berend von Melen only twice, and both times had judged him, after careful thought, to be insane. Kristian had been delighted. He had never been much of a warrior himself, and the stories of Vikings he’d heard in his childhood had convinced him that only the insane made good soldiers.
As it happened, and as the Devil was well aware — unless it had briefly slipped his mind — at just the moment when the Devil was giving consolation to Kristian, Berend von Melen was formally switching his allegiance to Gustav Vasa. All that now stood between Vasa’s peasant army and complete victory were the fortresses of Stockholm, Kalmar, and Älvsborg. With the army he had at hand he knew he could not take them, for it was largely an army of volunteers, most of them unpaid, always anxious about their crops and families, eager to go home; but Gustav was by no means out of cards. By April, in return for trading privileges, the two nearest cities of the Hanseatic League, Lübeck and Danzig, were covertly supporting him, sending privately funded armies. By October Lübeck was a formal ally. Gustav was now in control of the sea and able to blockade Stockholm; on land he was now strong enough to invade the Danish provinces of Blekinge, Skåne, and Viken.