An Antic Disposition (13 page)

“We will let him think so,” said Valdemar. “But when the time comes, you will denounce him in my name and seize him.”

“Me, milord?” exclaimed Fengi.

“You,” said Valdemar. “I am proposing that you assume the reins of power in Slesvig. With my backing, you will be selected. I want to have someone in there that I can trust.”

“You would trust a man who would betray his own brother?” asked Fengi.

“I would trust a man who is bound to me, not by petty ties to his family,” said Valdemar.

Fengi knelt before him and kissed his ring.

“I shall do your bidding,” he said.

As Fengi left the King’s chamber, he saw Gerald heading toward him.

“So long, Fool,” he said. “I am off to Slesvig.”

“Ah, to visit your brother,” said Gerald. “Always good to see family. Have a pleasant journey.”

“Oh, I will,” chuckled Fengi. “The best ever.”

Gerald watched him as he walked away, suddenly suspicious. Then he knocked respectfully on the King’s door.

“Enter,” said Valdemar.

Gerald came in to find his master in a foul mood, his eyes perusing a letter in his hand.

“Fengi was in good spirits when he left here,” said Gerald. “Did he steal yours?”

“Don’t attempt to cheer me, Fool,” said Valdemar. “I have no taste for it right now.”

“What is the matter?” asked Gerald.

“Nothing that concerns you,” said Valdemar. “I’ve taken care of it already. Go amuse someone else.”

“Very good, milord,” said Gerald, bowing and retreating from the room.

He wished he had a glimpse of the letter in Valdemars hand. He walked quickly until he reached Fengi’s lodgings. He knew that the man’s room was on the second floor, out of earshot. He ducked down an alley, laid his staff on the ground, and climbed a water barrel. Then he jumped, his hands catching the edge of the roof. He pulled himself on top, hoping that no pedestrian would bother looking up. He crawled to a spot over Fengi’s room, then pressed his ear to a crack between the wooden planks that covered it.

“Pack everything,” he heard Fengi say.

“Everything, milord?” replied a thrall. “Are we staying for a while in Slesvig?”

“Oh, yes,” said Fengi. “For a very long while.”

Gerald listened for a while longer, but heard nothing of use. When he heard the door close, he inched backward to the side of the house and dropped back onto the water barrel. He jumped down and grabbed his staff, then ran to his own quarters to fetch his gear. Then he started to run.

Before Fengi’s thralls had finished packing, the priest was several miles south.

H
e reached
Slesvig five days later, hoping he had a lead on Fengi. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out some suitably rustic garb, hoping to pass for a farmer on a rare jaunt into town. He stowed his motley, picked up his staff, and walked to The Viking’s Rest.

It was late afternoon, and the fish packers, smelling about as one would expect, were on their first round of ale. A group of brickmakers entered, chattering away in Tuscan. Gerald was wearing a broad, floppy cloth hat that kept his face partially concealed. He scanned the room from under it, looking for his colleague but not finding him. Something about one of the other patrons jolted his memory. He desperately wanted to talk to Terence. He was about to inquire of the tapster as to his whereabouts when he heard a drum beating outside. He turned just as Terence staggered in, looking gaunt underneath his whiteface.

“Entertainment!” cried Terence as the drunken denizens turned and cheered. “Where is the entertainment?” He tripped over a stool and his head slammed into the edge of the bar as the room laughed heartily. “Oh, wait,” he said, straightening. “I am the entertainment.”

He began juggling clubs, but the past proficiency was not there. The third or fourth time he dropped them, he just let them lay on the floor. Gerald saw with alarm that the fool’s forehead was gashed from when he had hit the bar, the blood dripping into his eyes. Terence dabbed at it ineffectually with his sleeve.

“Now, where was I?” he said. “Was I telling the one about the maid and the ass, or the ass and the maid? Neither of them has a happy ending. Where’s my drink?”

“Ten rounds of juggling without a drop first,” said the tapster. “Pick up your clubs.”

Terence picked them up and held them in front of him. “If there’s a drop, then there won’t be a drop,” he said. “But if there is no drop, then there will be a drop. Is that the challenge?”

“That’s it,” said the tapster.

“Count for me, everyone,” said Terence, and as the fish packers took up the count, he began juggling three clubs.

He made it through to the end to the cheers of the room, and seized his mug of ale with a flourish. But Gerald saw the effort it had taken him for a feat that any ten year old at the Guild could do with his eyes shut. He watched with dismay as Terence floundered through a ribald ballad. When the fool retired, Gerald slipped around to the back and caught him sagging to the floor.

“What in the name of the First Fool is wrong with you?” said the priest, helping him to his pallet.

“Performed at a party,” said Terence. “Too much to drink.”

“I’ve never heard of you letting your drinking get in the way of your performing,” said Gerald.

“A drunk can get as many laughs as a fool around here,” said Terence. “It’s much easier and a lot more fun. What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until next month.”

“I think Fengi’s up to something,” said Gerald. “He’s on his way here.”

“When?” asked Terence sleepily.

“Maybe in the next two days,” said Gerald. “But I have to ask you something. What do you know about those Tuscans?”

“Brickmakers,” said Terence. “Maybe spies, who knows?”

“More than maybe,” said Gerald. He dug into his pack and pulled out a sheaf of papers, shuffling through them until he found the one that he wanted. “Who is this man?” he demanded.

Terence squinted blearily at it.

“I know him,” he said. “When did he sit for his portrait?”

“In Roskilde,” said Gerald. “He was dining with Fengi.”

“Well,” said Terence. “That’s odd. Must be one of Fengi’s spies.”

“Why didn’t you know that?” said Gerald.

“I don’t know lots of things,” said Terence. “And the things I do know, I can’t do anything about.” Then, to Gerald’s shock, he curled up on his pallet and began to weep.

“Stop this,” said Gerald, pulling him upright and cuffing him about the head.

“Quit it,” cried Terence, feebly shielding himself with his arms. “What is the matter with you?” asked Gerald.

“Secrets,” said Terence. “Too many of them. I can’t prove anything. I can’t tell Amleth what I suspect, and I can’t protect him from it.”

“Amleth?” asked Gerald. “Protect him from what?”

“He couldn’t possibly understand,” blurted out Terence. “He’d turn on me.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Gerald in bewilderment. Terence suddenly knelt before Gerald, clutching at his tunic. “You’re still a priest, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Gerald.

“Help me,” begged Terence.

“What is it?” asked Gerald.

Terence looked up at him, the blood drying on his brow, his whiteface crosshatched with tear tracks.

“Forgive me, Father,” he whispered. “For I have sinned.”

F
ather Gerald looked
out at us. No, he couldn’t look out at us, we all knew that, yet it seemed in that moment that his gaze had returned to him, filled with sadness and compassion. Portia was long asleep in her mother’s arms, but she was the only one not held captive by the old priest’s tale.

“There are disadvantages to being a man in holy orders,” he said. “Especially when one’s natural inclinations to storytelling become subservient to the most sacred of confidences. What I heard that night, I cannot say, even now after so many years.

“But what was to come, I can tell you. Even in my final darkness, I can see it. I cannot tell you how often I wish that I could not.”

G
erald left early
the next morning to avoid being seen in town by Fengi. Terence, despite his hangover, rose and walked with him to the northern gate.

“Are you sure you can handle this by yourself?” asked Gerald.

“No,” said Terence. “But having you here will probably just make things worse.”

“I could send another fool in,” said Gerald.

“You don’t trust me,” said Terence.

“Not in your present state
of
mind,” said Gerald.

Terence put his left hand on his cap and bells and thumbed his nose with his right.

“I swear by the First Fool, Our Savior, by Davids lyre and Balaams ass that I will not get drunk until you see me again,” he said. “And only then if you drink along with me. Will that suffice?”

There was something in his look, bloodshot though his eyes were, that reassured the priest.

Yes,” he said. “That will suffice.
Te absolve “

‘Nice that you can do that,” said Terence. “Go talk to your king.

T
here was
a cry from the guards at the drawbridge the next day as Fengi and his retinue arrived. Gerutha hurriedly presented herself to greet him.

“My dear brother,” she scolded him. “Again you arrive without warning. We would have prepared a proper feast for you. Whence comes this discourtesy?”

“Forgive me, sister,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand. “My news demanded haste, and my anticipated pleasure at giving it transcended the ordinary courtesies. Where is my brother?”

“Inspecting the southern earthworks,” she replied. “He will be home this afternoon. Let me escort you to your room.”

He took her arm and walked across the drawbridge onto the island, a satisfied smile on his face as he passed through its gate. Gorm was standing inside with an honor guard. As his eyes met Fengi’s, he nodded slightly.

Fengi greeted him, then embraced the drost.

“My friend, we have heard of your loss,” he said. “No words can possibly console you for that, but the King himself wished me to express his love and condolences to you on his behalf.”

“I thank you, milord,” said Gorm.

“How did Fengi know about that already?” wondered Terence, who was watching from a short distance away.

“Why?” asked Amleth, who was standing next to him.

Terence looked down at the boy and patted his head.

“Forgive me, young lord,” he said. “I hadn’t realized that I was speaking aloud. Forget that I said it.”

They watched Fengi approach with Gerutha. Fengi smiled broadly when he saw the boy.

“Has he doubled in size since my last visit?” said Fengi, holding his arms out. Amleth ran and leapt into his uncles embrace, Fengi staggering slightly from the impact.

“Hello, uncle,” said Amleth. “I have a sword now. Would you like to see it?”

“I certainly would,” said Fengi, prying the boy loose and lowering him to the ground.

“Look!” said Amleth proudly, drawing it and shoving it almost in his uncles face.

Fengi stepped back hastily.

“Take heed, boy,” he said. “Even toy swords may wound. Hand it over.” He took it and examined it, nodding before giving it back.

“I remember when your grandfather gave that to your father,” he said. “Ørvendil chased me all over the grounds for the rest of the day, waving it around and screaming bloody murder. I hope that he has taught you better than that.”

“Oh, he teaches me every day,” said Amleth proudly. “Someday, I will be as good a swordsman as he is. He’s the best there ever was.”

“That’s what everyone says,” said Fengi. “And I see your friend the fool is still lurking about.”

Terence bowed.

“Milord, it is good to see you again,” he said. “If there is any entertainment that you desire, it will be my pleasure to provide it.”

“I am hoping to be the entertainment,” said Fengi. “But that must await my brother’s arrival. Sister, I am at your service.”

He offered Gerutha his arm, and the two of them walked into the great hall.

Terence watched Fengi’s thralls unload his bags from a wain.

“Looks like an extended visit,” he commented to Amleth.

“Good,” said Amleth. “I like Uncle Fengi.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” observed Terence.

W
hen Ørvendil returned to Slesvig
, he observed the fool sitting cross-legged on a large boulder near the ruins of the Viking tower.

“Hail, Yorick,” he called, heading his horse in that direction. “What brings you here?”

“The winds of rumor,” said the fool. “Fortunately, I had my sails set to catch them.”

“What news do these winds carry?” asked Ørvendil.

“Suspicions only,” said the fool. “Improbable threats, yet were they to prove true, then there is one here who will prove false.”

“I am too tired for riddles,” said Ørvendil.

“So am I,” said Terence, “hbur brother is arrived from Roskilde. He took enough time to get here to allow my brother fool to beat him in a race that he knew nothing about. He thinks that your brother means you harm.”

“This is the same fool that sits at the throne of Valdemar?”

“Yes, milord.”

“What does Valdemar say about Fengi?”

“We don’t know, milord,” admitted Terence. “But your brother has the King’s trust, and you don’t. Now, Fengi arrives with no advance warning, promising to entertain you tonight.”

“So he’s a threat to your job as well, is he?” chuckled Ørvendil. “Is that all you could come up with?”

“There’s one more thing,” said Terence. “He already knew of Signe’s death. He publicly embraced Gorm and consoled him. Only a pigeon could have gotten word to him that quickly, and there’s only one man in Slesvig who uses them.”

“So Gorm is in communication with someone in Roskilde,” said Ørvendil. “There’s nothing odd about that.”

“But…”

“Cease, enough,” said Ørvendil. “My brother and I have had our differences, but those were long ago. We still share the same blood.”

“Then pray that none of it is shed,” said Terence. “Please take precautions, milord. They can be done quietly, and if I’m wrong, then there’s no harm done.”

“You waylay me and accuse my brother and my drost to my face,” said Ørvendil. “Next thing you’ll be telling me is that my son is part of the conspiracy.”

“Of all the people in Denmark, your son is the one you may trust the most,” said Terence. “I would that you considered me as loyal and honest.”

“I do,” said Ørvendil. “But you are trying to frighten me with trifles. Even if I doubted my brother, I would not fear him. He has never been able to defeat me in any form of combat.”

“He’s a cunning man, milord,” said Terence. “I wish you had his subtlety. He may defeat you by connivance rather than combat.”

“Let him try,” declared Ørvendil grandly. “Now, let’s go have dinner.”

Ø
rvendil embraced
his brother at the entrance to the island while the soldiers applauded from the walls.

“Good to see you, little brother,” he said. “What brings you at such speed to our home?”

“Nothing but the best of news giving my horse wings,” said Fengi, pulling a scroll from his pouch. He held it aloft so that all could see the royal seal, then he opened it.

“ ‘By order of Valdemar, King of all Denmark,’ “ he read, bellowing the words to the four corners of the island. “ ‘The position of Duke of Slesvig has never been formally confirmed. Therefore, we call an assemblage of the Slesvig
thing,
so that the citizens of which it is composed may vote upon the matter. Thus decreed, Valdemar.’ “ He rolled up the scroll and handed it to Ørvendil with a flourish. “Congratulations, my brother.”

Ørvendil drew his sword, stuck it in the ground, and knelt before it, his hands clasped before him.

“I give thanks to Almighty God,” he said. “To His Son and the Holy Spirit, to His Blessed Mother and all of His saints. May I prove worthy of His trust and of the King’s.”

“Amen,” said Fengi, kneeling by his side.

“Gorm, my friend,” called Ørvendil, rising.

“Here, milord,” said the drost, coming forward.

“Will you arrange for the assembly? Two nights hence, on the Sacred Hill. Let a bonfire be built that will be seen throughout the land.”

“It will be done, milord,” said the drost. “Soldiers, give up your voices for your lord and master.”

The cheers filled the island. Ørvendil acknowledged them with a nod, then turned and smiled at his wife and son, who were standing in the entrance to the great hall. As he and his brother walked in for the feast, Ørvendil saw Terence leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded, his face expressionless. He winked at the fool and vanished into the hall.

“Come on, Yorick,” urged Amleth, tugging on the fool’s arm. “It’s time for dinner.”

Terence smiled.

“Do you know what the first rule of fooling is, Amleth?”

“What, Yorick?”

“Always take your meal when you find it, even if you’re not hungry. You never know if it’s going to be your last.”

“That’s not much of a rule, Yorick,” said Amleth as they went in.

“What do you want from me?” asked Terence. “Wisdom?”

“
Y
ou see
?” crowed Ørvendil to his wife as they prepared for bed. “Things have worked out after all.”

“I see that after all these years of loyalty and hard work, you are in exactly the same place as yesterday,” said Gerutha. “What difference does a title make?”

“It makes you a duchess,” said Ørvendil, bowing playfully to her.

“When I could have been a queen,” she replied bitterly.

He lunged forward and slapped her face.

“How dare you?” he shouted as she sank to her knees in terror. “Will you never be satisfied?”

Not by you, she thought, but she held her tongue this time.

Ørvendil climbed to the top of the archers’ platform just before dawn. The night watch was thinly manned due to the celebration the previous evening. He found only one person at that post, seated in the center of the platform, silhouetted against the first glimmerings of the sun. Then the figure turned, causing a faint tintinnabulation with his cap.

“Yorick?” exclaimed Ørvendil.

“My name is Terence,” said the fool quietly. “Everyone’s forgotten that. Except for one.”

“Who is that?” asked Ørvendil, sitting beside him.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Terence. “Dead, now. Maybe you shouldn’t use my name. It may bring bad luck.”

“My luck seems good right now,” said Ørvendil.

“ ‘Seems,’ “ said Terence. “That is such an unreliable word. So is ‘luck.’ “

“So is ‘fear,’ “ said Ørvendil. “Your fears are more unfounded than my luck.”

“So it seems,” said Terence. “Keep your sword loose in its scabbard, just in case.”

“I always do,” said Ørvendil.

G
orm stood
at the foot of Signe’s grave. Someone had left a bunch of wildflowers on it, tied with a long blade of grass. Already, small plants were sprouting from the earth, as if her gift for growing continued beyond death.

“Thought I’d find you here,” said Fengi.

The drost turned. The other man was seated on a grave stone behind him.

“I’m sorry to invade your privacy, but this seemed like the best place to talk to you,” said Fengi.

“She’s dead because I failed her,” said Gorm bleakly. “It is appropriate that she witness my betrayal.”

“It is you who are betrayed, my friend,” said Fengi. “hbu are the one who is loyal to the King, not your master.”

“Very well,” said the drost, “hbu know my conditions.”

“I do,” said Fengi. “And I welcome them.”

All through the next two days, thralls chopped down trees and carried them to a great, flat-topped hill south of the town. They piled them together, then more on top, until a pyramid of wood soared fifty feet into the air. Amleth and Terence watched them from a safe distance. “What is so sacred about this hill?” asked Amleth.

“I don’t know,” said Terence. “I asked one of the priests about it, but he just muttered something about sacrilege and walked away. I guess that the
thing
has been coming here since before the Church came to Slesvig.”

“Were there human sacrifices here?” asked Amleth, his eyes wide. “Maybe,” said Terence. “But we don’t do that anymore.”

The sun was beginning to set. From their vantage point, they could see men streaming toward the hill from every direction. The thralls were rolling barrels of pitch up the hill now. When they reached the top, they upended them and poured their contents over the newly hewn logs so that they would burn more readily.

“All right,” said Terence. “I promised your mother that I would bring you back before sunset.”

“Can’t I stay and watch?” pleaded the boy.

“This is man’s business,” he said. “No place for you yet.”

B
ack at the island
, Ørvendil was ready. His armor was burnished to a dull gleam, and his horse had been brushed until its coat shone as well. Amleth held the horse’s reins for his father as he mounted, Gerutha emerged from the great hall, holding an enormous golden goblet with both hands. She stood before him and offered it up.

“Mead,” she said. “Brewed as our ancestors did to honor the gods.”

“The gods?” he said, laughing. “Don’t let the priests hear you. Those days are long past.”

“Tonight’s ritual is from the old days,” she said. “Sometimes, the old ways are the best ways. To you, my lord and husband.”

She drank from the goblet, then handed it up to him. He downed it in three gulps, then held it aloft.

“For Slesvig!” he shouted, and the men picked up the cry and sent it over the town.

He handed the goblet back.

“Thank you, Gerutha,” he said. Then he seized the reins of the horse and galloped over the drawbridge.

Gerutha and Amleth watched him depart.