Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 570: A Pact in Gilded Halls

Gilded eagles gazed down from the walls as Wilhelm II reclined at the conference table, fingers idly toying with the silver chain of his pocket watch.

Opposite him sat King Albert of Belgium, elegant but visibly tense, flanked by the stolid Dutch Prime Minister.

They’d come to Berlin during the calm before the storm. Both knew that what lie on the horizon was likely another great war. And this time, they wanted to be on the right side from the start.

But beneath the silence lay question on everyone’s mind.

At last, Albert spoke it aloud.

“Your Majesty, forgive my candor… but is it not unusual that His Highness the Grand Prince of Tyrol is absent from these proceedings?”

A mild smile curved Wilhelm’s lips. His gray eyes glinted with faint mischief.

“Ah, my dear Albert. Bruno has spent three years cloistered in Berlin’s war offices, breathing telegram dust, ruling by fountain pen and telegraph wire. Months more overseeing Okinawa’s transition. If ever a man earned a season’s reprieve from strategy; it is he.”

The Dutch Prime Minister cleared his throat, eyes darting to the large map of Europe behind Wilhelm’s chair.

“Still… one hears so many stories. That he can recite railway timetables from memory, or that he wept when the new reserves from Tyrol arrived, too young by half. That he ordered the bombardment of Kobe with such precision. Not to mention that ghastly business in Belgrade all those years ago. And now as we sit here to discuss the most important questions of the era he’s suddenly absent?”

Wilhelm’s mustache twitched. He leaned forward, palms splayed on the polished oak.

“Gentlemen, sometimes even the steeliest men must remember they are flesh. If you wish for him to stand unshaken when next your sons must march, better he has these small indulgences now.”

Albert offered a faint, somewhat strained smile.

“I suppose… I only wonder what a man like that does for leisure.”

Wilhelm barked a short laugh, though there was a tightness behind it.

“As do I.”

—

Aboard the Elsa, named after Bruno’s mother, and second daughter alike. Somewhere west of Sardinia.

The sun blazed across calm blue water, gilding every crest. White gulls followed lazily in the yacht’s wake.

Bruno lay sprawled on a deck lounger, jacket discarded, crisp white shirt open at the throat. A thin volume of verse lay face-down on his chest.

Even here, relaxation was something he had to rehearse; shoulders occasionally tensing as though expecting a servant to bring fresh dispatches.

Heidi approached, barefoot on the warm teak planks, the breeze toying with the pale silk of her gown.

She carried a small plate of olives and sliced cheese. With a conspiratorial grin, she dropped into the lounger beside him.

“Your complexion is improving, you know. Less pallor, more; Portuguese rogue.”

Bruno snorted, eyes still closed.

“Three years under gas lamps and mountains of war memoranda, subsisting on black coffee and two hours of sleep a night; it does dreadful things to a man’s skin.”

Heidi traced a small circle over the back of his hand.

“And to his heart?”

His eyes finally opened; clear, azure as the blue sky above, catching the horizon. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he squeezed her fingers gently.

“That’s why we’re here.”

In years past Bruno would come home from war as a hollow shell of his former self. Taking months perhaps even years to re-adjust to life beyond the trenches.

But this was not a war he had fought alongside the young men who followed him into battle.

This was a war, the first war he had conducted where he was not permitted to be there in person to support those he ordered into position.

It was not the blood and the mud that haunted him now, but the fact he could not endure it alongside those who did.

Even so, Heidi noticed that this was a nominal improvement over past years. And thus she sat by her husband’s side and hugged his chest, allowing him the peace and comfort he needed with her warmth as an added gift.

—

Wilhelm drummed his fingers again, looking past Albert and the Dutchman as though seeing all the way to the warm western seas.

His face set in that complex blend of relief and private concern known only to rulers who had found someone willing to shoulder their darkest burdens.

“When he returns, he will be the same as before. Perhaps that is tragedy enough.”

Albert exhaled, unconsciously glancing toward the windows as though expecting to see Tyrolean mountain banners on the parade grounds.

“Perhaps… or perhaps precisely why Europe sleeps a little safer tonight.”

A quiet settled over the gilded hall once more, only the ticking of a clock filling the space. Then Wilhelm shifted, steepling his hands atop the table, voice dropping into that low measured cadence he reserved for matters of true state.

“Now then, gentlemen… to the question of guarantees.”

He tapped a finger against a slender sheaf of documents that lay neatly stacked before him.

“France’s fever grows worse by the month. De Gaulle’s purges have driven out every moderate voice. Their rearmament is ahead of schedule, and the Entente’s shadow stretches once more across the Channel. I will not insult you by pretending Belgium or the Netherlands could standalone should Paris resolve to revisit 1914. But this time I would hope you would take my warnings more seriously than the last.”

Albert’s jaw tightened. He glanced aside at the Dutch Prime Minister, whose mouth had become a thin, colorless line.

“Your Majesty,” Albert said carefully, “I made up my mind the moment I saw de Gaulle churning tanks out of his factories by the dozens. Nearly two decades ago we stood alone, outnumbered, holding off a French invasion. Only Germany came to our aid. I’ve come to honor that allegiance….”

Wilhelm inclined his head, a subtle expression of surprise in his aging eyes. But he was not alone in that disbelief.

The Dutch Prime Minister was absolutely flabbergasted by Albert’s remarks. This wasn’t just security guarantees, this was a declaration of intent to join the Central Powers, or whatever form it now took.

Belgium had been neutral for decades, centuries even. And now? Now they intended to join the Germans in a war against the French, should the banners of de Gaulle take up arms in aggression once more.

He couldn’t believe his ears. Nor could he properly respond to such an idea.

Wilhelm’s features softened gently, a look of respect formed in his glassy gaze. Albert and he had not been close friends, even after the war. They were at best on amicable terms, but acquaintance nonetheless.

Yet now, in his old age, he could see Bruno’s recommendations had born greater fruit then just victory.

“Your words mean more to me than you can imagine, but I will have to advise you should remain neutral. Make no mistake, should France, Britain, or any other nation of the Entente invade your borders, we will be there to defend you, like we were in 1914. We simply ask that this time you take necessary precautions against such a possible eventulality.”

Albert was not dismayed by the Kaiser’s words. In fact he was relieved. He had come seeking to become an active partner in an alliance that would certainly be fighting in the next war.

Thinking perhaps this would be his greatest play to ensure Belgium’s survival. Yet the Kaiser still intended to guarantee Belgium’s independence regardless of their actual commitment to a military alliance.

As for the Dutch Prime Minister, he was eager to press for a similar agreement, as he found what the Kaiser had offered Belgium far more favorable than what he had initially thought would be the outcome of these discussions.

“You would guarantee the independence of Belgium and the Netherlands in writing?”

“In iron and ink both,” Wilhelm promised. “Tyrol’s industries will extend credit and armaments. Berlin shall coordinate fuel reserves, railway interlinks, even pre-positioned food stocks. Your economies will not bear the strain alone.”

There was a pause; then Albert gave a small nod, and the Dutchman leaned forward at last.

“Then let us draft these protocols in detail. So that when next Europe’s cannons awaken, we do not find ourselves groping in the dark.”

Wilhelm’s expression softened by a fraction, relief hidden behind the slight sag of his shoulders. He reached for the carafe of mineral water, pouring each man a glass.

“To the peace we prepare for,” he murmured. “And the war we will not shrink from, if forced upon us.”

They drank. And outside the palace windows, Berlin bustled on oblivious; unaware that in this quiet gilded room, a second great web was being woven across the continent.

Wilhelm lingered a moment after the final toasts, watching the golden sun spill across the long table, catching on cut glass and inkpots.

In that hush he found himself wishing Bruno was here, after all; to weigh these promises with his cold precision, to remind them all that wars were not fought by signatures, but by iron and blood.

Then the Kaiser pushed such thoughts aside. This would suffice. For now, Europe had chosen its camps. And that was always how the first drumbeats began.

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