The alliance between Christian and Baron Fievé was not one of friendship, but of mutual interest, forged in the cold fire of ambition. Their next meeting took place not in the old-world comfort of a club, but in Fievé's main office near the Copenhagen docks. It was a room that hummed with the energy of the new age, complete with a telegraph key clicking softly in the corner and clerks moving with brisk, modern efficiency in the antechamber.
"A beautiful plan is one thing, Count," Fievé said, tapping a manicured finger on the dossier Christian had prepared. "A political reality is another. We need to fracture Ahlefeldt's bloc. We must make an example of someone, to show the others that resistance is unwise and cooperation is… profitable."
Christian pointed to a name on the list. "Count Preben Gyldenfeldt. An old and respected name. His family has stood with the Ahlefeldts for a century. He is also in debt up to his eyeballs to the National Bank of Commerce."
Fievé smiled thinly. "A bank in which I hold a controlling interest. I believe their board is meeting next week to review their agricultural loan portfolio in light of the war. A most timely coincidence. Gyldenfeldt is the perfect first lever."
Their strategy was set. They would not approach him in private, where he could refuse them out of pride. They would corner him in the semi-public sphere of The Royal Club, a place where appearances were everything.
They found him two nights later, standing alone by a window, staring grimly into the street. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Fievé approached first, a drink in his hand, his demeanor open and friendly.
"Count Gyldenfeldt, a pleasure," Fievé began. "A grim time for the kingdom."
"Fievé," Gyldenfeldt acknowledged with a weary nod. "Indeed. This war will be the ruin of us all."
"The financial pressures are certainly immense," Fievé said sympathetically, swirling the brandy in his glass. "I was speaking with the directors at the National Bank of Commerce just yesterday. They are growing quite nervous about their exposure to agricultural loans, given the uncertainty. There is talk of calling in some of the more… significant notes to shore up their reserves."
The color drained from Gyldenfeldt's face. He knew exactly what Fievé was saying. His family's estates, his very name, were secured by those notes. At that moment, Christian joined them, his expression one of quiet solemnity.
"Count Gyldenfeldt, Baron Fievé," he greeted them.
"Ah, the young Count Eskildsen," Fievé said, turning as if surprised. "We were just discussing the dire economic straits of the landed gentry."
"A problem my proposed Armaments Committee seeks to address," Christian said smoothly, stepping into the opening. He looked Gyldenfeldt directly in the eye, his gaze intense but not unkind. "Once we secure domestic production, our first priority must be to stabilize the home front. The committee's charter will mandate the purchase of all necessary grain for the army and our new industrial workforce from Danish estates, at a fixed, favorable price, with long-term contracts."
He let the offer hang in the air. "It would be a tragedy for a patriotic family's estate to fail for lack of a stable market, especially when its produce could be serving the nation's war effort."
Gyldenfeldt was trapped. Before him stood two of the most powerful men in the new Denmark. One, the industrialist, was holding a financial gun to his head. The other, the young reformer, was offering him a golden shield. His pride warred violently with his instinct for survival. He looked from Fievé's cold smile to Christian's intense gaze and saw no way out.
"Your… your proposal, Count Eskildsen," Gyldenfeldt stammered, his voice hoarse. "I confess I did not give it its proper due in the chamber. Might I trouble you for a copy of the charter? I should like to… study it more closely."
"Of course, Count," Christian said with a gracious nod. "I will have one sent to you in the morning."
The older man bowed stiffly and walked away, not a colleague, but a casualty, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Later that evening, back in his study, a courier pouch arrived from Eskildsgård. Christian broke the seal and read the weekly report from Soren. The news was a balm to his soul, a clean and welcome contrast to the dirty work of politics. The drainage of the north pasture was complete, the soil already drying and turning a rich, dark color. Stig, despite his grumbling, had finished a second plow, and with the two new plows working in tandem, the spring tilling was proceeding at twice the speed of any previous year. The foreign seeds had arrived at the port and were being prepared for planting. Eskildsgård was being transformed, day by day, into a perfect machine of production.
Christian put the letter down, a feeling of genuine satisfaction settling over him. He picked up his list of Landsting members and drew a single, neat line through the name of Count Preben Gyldenfeldt.
The clean success at Eskildsgård was the goal. It was the model for the future Denmark he intended to build. But to achieve it on a national scale, he knew he must first master this grimy, dishonorable war in the political trenches of Copenhagen.
One down, he thought, his eyes already moving to the next name on the list. Sixteen to go.