The triumphant energy in Fievé's boardroom evaporated the moment the royal summons was read. The committee meeting was hastily adjourned.
As Christian prepared to leave, his two allies offered him parting words of caution.
"The King values stability above all else," Fievé warned, his voice low. "He is a monarch of the old school. Do not frighten him with talk of industry and returns on investment."
"He is also a soldier," Admiral Løvenskiold added, his face grim. "But he is a King first. Address the crown, not the man. Remember to whom you speak."
Christian nodded, taking their counsel. In the carriage ride to Amalienborg Palace, he re-calibrated his entire strategy. The tactics that worked in the Landsting or in a boardroom—logic, leverage, intimidation—were useless here. This was not a negotiation. It was an exercise in fealty. His strategy had to be one of absolute deference, a performance of loyalty so profound that it would mask the radical nature of his actions.
Amalienborg Palace felt like a different century from Fievé's office. The air was still and heavy with the weight of history. Liveried servants moved with silent, practiced grace down corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced kings and queens. This was not a place of commerce or politics; it was a sanctuary of divine right.
He was led not to a grand throne room, but to a smaller, private study. King Christian IX was standing by a window, his back to the door. He was a tall man, but his shoulders were stooped, as if bowed by the weight of a disastrous war. Standing near the fireplace, looking smug and vindicated, was Count Ahlefeldt.
This was not an audience. It was an ambush.
Christian bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
The King turned slowly. His eyes were tired, but they held the spark of royal authority. "Count Eskildsen. You have been busy since your return to the capital."
"I have endeavored to be of service to Denmark, Your Majesty," Christian replied, keeping his own eyes lowered.
"Service?" the King echoed, a weary irony in his voice. "My ministers tell me you have sowed discord in the Landsting. They tell me you have publicly questioned the competence of my government. They tell me you have formed a committee that acts as a state within a state, issuing bonds and planning factories without royal sanction. You act like a Prime Minister, Count, a position which I have not granted."
"He acts out of boundless arrogance and ambition, Your Majesty," Ahlefeldt interjected, stepping forward. "He insults honorable men and has no respect for the traditions that make this kingdom great."
Christian did not rise to the bait. He did not look at Ahlefeldt. He kept his focus entirely on the King.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice imbued with a deep and convincing sincerity. "If my actions have caused you distress, I beg your forgiveness. My methods may have been clumsy, born of a young man's desperate urgency. But my motive, I swear on my family's name, is nothing but the preservation of your kingdom and the honor of your army."
He took a careful step forward. "I saw a problem, Your Majesty. Our brave soldiers, your soldiers, are dying because their tools are inadequate. I could not, in good conscience, stand by and do nothing. The committee is not a rival power. It is a tool. A tool to provide your army with the weapons it needs to be victorious."
He then played his masterstroke, framing his ambition as a gift.
"The glory for such a victory, and the credit for the means to achieve it, will not belong to a committee of nobles and merchants. It will belong to the Crown, under whose wise authority we operate. My only ambition is to forge the sword; the hand that wields it, the hand that will be celebrated for saving Denmark, will be yours and yours alone, Your Majesty. We are merely your humble, industrious servants in this matter."
The King was silent. He looked at Ahlefeldt, then back at Christian. He had expected a confrontation with an arrogant young radical. He was instead faced with a subject who showed perfect deference, who spoke not of his own brilliance, but of the King's future glory. Christian was offering him the political victory for the home front, gift-wrapped in loyalty.
It was an offer a beleaguered monarch could not refuse.
"You are a very clever young man, Count Eskildsen," the King said at last, his voice holding a new, grudging respect. "Perhaps too clever."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. Proceed with your… committee. Create your rifles and your ironclads. But know that my eye is upon you. Every action you take is in my name, and you will be held accountable for its success or failure. Do not mistake my patience for permanent approval."
"I would never, Your Majesty," Christian said, bowing again. "Thank you for your wisdom and your trust."
He was dismissed. As he walked out of the palace, past the silent guards and the portraits of long-dead monarchs, he felt a profound sense of relief, like a man who had just walked through a minefield blindfolded. Ahlefeldt's ambush had failed. He had survived the King.
He now had the grudging, conditional sanction of the Crown itself. He had the committee, the money, the allies, and the plans.
There were no more excuses. He had to deliver.