“Grothusen,” he said suddenly, “the son of Aurora von Königsmarck was at the battle of Stade, was he not?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Grothusen, wondering at this change of subject, “a brilliant lad, they say.”
“His mother defied me once,” remarked Karl, with his ugly smile. “She was a surprising woman—what happened to her?”
“I do not know, sire—she left the Elector years ago.”
“If she is alive,” said Karl grimly, “she will be pleased to hear of my present state.”
Grothusen looked startled and bewildered, but the King said no more; he was thinking, irrelevantly, of John Rheinhold Patkul.
The execution of this man, his one barbarity, was the sole fruit of his victories—the only thing that he had achieved and that no one could take away from him; the might of the Czar and all his allies could not put together the broken bones of Patkul.
Karl moved abruptly, checking his line of thought.
“Well,” he said, “let us make our preparations to return home.”