An Antic Disposition (3 page)

“Terence was here,” he said when he was done. He embedded it firmly in the dirt by the runestone, then stood back to survey his handiwork.

“Will anyone ever notice?” asked the priest, smiling.

“Will anyone ever notice anything we do?” replied the fool. “At least I have a stone, now. That’s probably all that Gustav fellow wanted when all was said and done.”

He held out his hand. Father Gerald clasped it firmly, then the two thumbed their noses at each other. The priest watched as the fool strode east, the wind at his back. Terence walked firmly to the middle of the bridge, then stopped and looked around.

“I take it back,” he called. “It’s an excellent bridge.”

“What changed your mind?” asked the priest.

“My feet aren’t wet,” replied the fool, and then he turned and kept walking.

The priest watched him until he reached the distant river, then turned north and vanished amidst the mounds of the ancient dead.

T
erence walked
for an hour before he saw his next living soul. An earthen ridge stretched north from the road, planted with bushes at the top. Past it lay a farm, with regular rows of barley and wheat laid out. The farmer was watering his oxen at a pond near the road.

“Hail, good fellow,” called Terence. “Is that water fit for a fool?”

“The oxen like it well enough,” replied the farmer amiably. “Come over, if you like.”

He was a stocky man with massive arms and a slightly bent back. He wore no shirt in the summer sun, and his skin was nut brown. He looked at Terence curiously as the fool removed a skin from his belt and filled it from the pond.

“My name is Terence,” said the fool as he tied the skin shut. “Magnus,” replied the farmer. “What are you, some kind of pilgrim?”

“A performer,” said the fool.

“Singer?” asked Magnus. “Musician? Dancer? Tumbler?”

“Yes,” said Terence. “Among other things.” He looked back at the ridge. “Tell me something, if I may be so bold as to ask. What is the purpose of that ridge? It seems too low to be of much use in repelling an army.”

“It shields us from our greatest enemy,” replied Magnus. “Step over here a little and you’ll see.”

Terence came over to him and looked at the ridge. “I confess, I do not see anything,” he said.

“Close your eyes,” suggested the farmer.

“I will see better with my eyes closed?” laughed the fool. Nevertheless, he closed them and listened. The sun beat down upon his face, warming him. Suddenly he smiled.

“Well?” asked Magnus.

“I am hot,” replied the fool. “I am hot because the sun is shining on my face, but also because the wind is no longer cooling me. The ridge is a windbreak.”

“Without that ridge, the good soil would be floating on the Baltic inside of a year,” said Magnus. “My ancestors built it long ago, and we spend as much time tending to it as we do these crops.”

“You
are a worthy descendant of such wise men,” declared Terence. “Thank you for educating a fool like me.”

“Not at all,” said Magnus. “Any kind of conversation is welcome out here. Where are you headed?”

“East,” said Terence. “Is there a decent-sized town nearby?”

“Stay on the road another two hours and you will reach Slesvig,” advised Magnus.

“I am your servant,” said Terence, bowing. “And if conversation with you is always so enlightening, it will be well worth the occasional visit, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I would be glad to,” said Magnus. “I’m always interested in hearing about the world, even if it’s just Slesvig.”

Terence waved and walked on.

Nearly two hours later he came up against a more serious earthenwork wall, patrolled by soldiers. One stopped him.

“What are you?” he said, looking at his motley.

“A humble fool, good soldier, seeking to exchange amusement for sustenance,” replied Terence.

The soldier looked at him some more.

“Where do your loyalties lie?” he asked.

“To whoever will be buying my next drink,” said Terence. “I will follow that man with more devotion than a puppy, and speak his praise to all and sundry. Do you know where I can find this man?”

The soldier laughed.

“If it’s drunken charity you want, try The Viking’s Rest,” he said. “Off the middle wharf. They have rooms, too.”

“Sounds like heaven,” said Terence. “A fool’s blessing upon you, my friend.”

The soldier waved him through.

The river widened, then split around an island, a ragged rectangular chunk of land that he paced off at about three hundred yards. Around its edges ran a wall of tree trunks packed tightly together, with wooden towers encased in layers of hide at random intervals. At the eastern end, where the river spilled into the fjord, there were three levels of platforms with archers keeping a relaxed watch. He couldn’t see over the stockade wall, but guessed that it surrounded a great hall, some barracks, and Ørvendil’s quarters. Some bleating noises escaped from within, joined by hammers hitting anvils, the shouts of soldiers being drilled, and the loud sobbing of what sounded like a child.

He wondered at this last. Father Gerald hadn’t mentioned whether Ørvendil and Gerutha had any children. He decided he had better learn more in town before approaching the island fortress. Besides, the sun was beginning to set, and already he could see the drawbridge being raised from the northern shore to cut off the island from the rest of the world.

The fjord stretched out in front of him to the horizon, yet was no more than half a mile wide. The main part of town was a few hundred yards ahead of him on the north shore. Watch fires were being lit in the distance.

He hurried along the shore, marking wharves, fishing boats in abundance, nets drying on skeletal wooden frames. There were longboats of a more martial mien as well, at a wharf that was fenced off and bristling with guards. He reached the middle wharf, looked left, and saw a welcoming sight—a tavern, with a sign depicting a Viking of old, asleep at a table with a tankard spilling onto the floor by him.

He bounded in, his bundles swinging merrily about, as the sailors and salt packers in the room turned in astonishment. He held up a hand in greeting, dropped his bundles to the floor, and rummaged through them hastily, finding a number of odd objects: a stuffed sparrow hawk, a drum, a tankard, a small saw, and a lute. Placing the last carefully aside, he tied the drum at his waist and started juggling the other three, marking each rotation by slapping one hand or the other on the drum. He started tossing them higher, increasing the frequency of the drumbeats until it looked like he was simply a drummer with the ability to levitate strange objects about his head. He caught all three, waited for the applause to die down, then searched through the bundles some more, diving under some of the larger ones in his quest. He emerged holding six brightly painted wooden balls, which he sent into a strange circuit, both into the air and bouncing off the drum back into his hands, which were darting about like flies. When he finished up this routine, he put the drum on the floor and picked up his lute.

“I am Terence the Fool, my friends,” he proclaimed to the room. “I am here to sing for you.”

By the end of the song, which he accompanied both by lute and drum, playing the latter with his left foot, the room was his. At the end of the evening, having fed and drunk, he reached an agreement with the tapster to provide entertainment in exchange for a small room in the back and regular meals.

The next night, the tavern was packed as Slesvig crowded in to see the only fool within miles. Terence was patient, and waited a week without approaching the island. Then, one morning, a summons reached him.

He scrubbed his motley so that the colors reemerged from the dinge, and pulled out a small glass to make sure that his makeup was less haphazard than usual. Then he shouldered his collection of bundles and walked up to the drawbridge.

Inside, he came upon a group of four rectangular barracks, laid out in a square so that they could present another level of defense in the unlikely event that the enemy came inside the stockade. Beyond them stood a great hall, two levels high and taking up nearly half of the enclosed land. A small flock of goats was grazing to the left of it, and there were stables behind them. Several smaller buildings lay scattered beyond the hall, with gardens laid out around them.

A squat man stood at the entrance to the hall, watching him carefully. He had a misshapen head, as if he had been assembled hastily by an indifferent sculptor, with the features smeared on as an afterthought. He beckoned to Terence, and the fool came up to him and bowed.

“You are the fool,” said the man.

“I am, milord. My name is—“

“I know your name,” snapped the man. “I am Gorm Larsson, the drost to Ørvendil.”

“How do you do, milord.”

“Do not speak unless you are bidden to do so,” thundered Gorm.

“I cannot do that, sir,” said Terence mildly.

Gorm stared at him, momentarily speechless despite his mouth being fully open. Terence memorized the expression and stored it for future use.

“You will..Gorm began.

“No, I won’t,” said Terence.

“You…”

“No.”

There was stifled laughter from within the hall behind the drost, who was nearly apoplectic with rage.

“How dare you address me so!” he shouted.

“Because I am a fool,” replied Terence frankly. “That’s why you sent for me. If you want predictable conversation, and only when bidden, then you can get yourself a courtier. They cost more, and they are truly boring people despite their magnificent clothing, but they will know their place. But I am a jester, Lord Drost. I will speak when I am spoken to, and when I am not spoken to, and at random moments. Sometimes, I make no noise at all, just to see what it’s like. May I come in?”

Gorm stepped back, momentarily stunned by the onslaught. Terence stepped past him and looked around. The room was almost empty, table-tops, trestles, and benches stacked against the walls. The far wall was over a hundred feet away, and some women were standing by it.

“Listen to me, Fool,” said the drost urgently as he hurried to keep pace with the taller man. “This is a real lady here, none of your Danish peasants. She’s been to the courts of France, visited Rome. She knows what a real court is like, and you shall treat her accordingly,”

“If she knows what a French court is like, then she will know how fools behave,” said Terence. He strode up to the women firmly, then stumbled at the last second, tumbling end over end into a splayed heap amidst his bundles.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, waving merrily, and was met with a collective giggling from the group.

The woman in the center smiled. She was almost as tall as he was, a commanding, raven-haired beauty in her early twenties. She stepped forward and held out her hand to the fool. Terence seized it and allowed her to haul him back to his feet, to the appalled gape of the drost.

“Welcome, Fool,” she said. “I am Gerutha, wife to Ørvendil.”

“Milady,” he said, executing a proper bow with elaborate arm flourishes, sending the other ladies into fits of giggling again. He looked up suddenly with an expression of alarm and held a finger to his lips. “Careful, milady,” he said in an exaggerated whisper. “There is some sort of creature clinging to you.”

“Amleth,” she said. “Don’t hide. Come and meet the jester.”

A small boy peeped timidly around her skirts, thumb in his mouth. He was about two, with jet-black hair from his mother and skin almost as pale as the fool’s, only without the help of powder. He looked up uncertainly at the apparition in motley.

“Amleth, is it?” said Terence gently. “A pleasure, milord. I believe I have something for you.” The boy watched him as he reached into his pouch and produced a brightly painted ball like the ones he used for juggling. He held it out. The boy hesitated.

“Take it, Amleth,” urged Gerutha, but the boy held back.

Terence smiled, and sat down on the floor so that he was looking directly at the boy. He held the ball out again. Slowly, the boy detached himself and approached the fool, suspecting a trick. He reached for the ball, and took it, taking his thumb out of his mouth to turn the plaything over and over, watching the patterns.

“Hello, Amleth,” said Terence, holding out his hand. “I am Terence of York.”

The boy looked up from the ball to the good-natured face of the fool.

“Yorick,” said the child.

Terence shook his head. “Terence,” he repeated. “Of York.”

Amleth looked at him and darkened, his expression suddenly combative.

“ Yorick,” he insisted stubbornly.

Terence smiled.

“Well, then,” he said, “Yorick it is.”

D
id you see him
?” Gerutha said to her husband as she undressed that night. “I have never seen Amleth take to anyone as he took to that jester. He is usually so frightened of strangers.”

Ørvendil grunted, watching her as he lay under the covers. He was a large bear of a man, scarcely distinguishable from the pile of furs that served as their bed.

“I don’t like it,” he said as she slid next to him, wrapping her limbs around his body for warmth. “He is surrounded by warriors, men of arms, great men. Yet he hides behind his mothers skirts and only comes out when some painted freak throws a ball to him. Is this the future king of Denmark?”

“Maybe you should throw a ball to him once in a while,” said Gerutha. “He’s only two. The way you storm around, it’s no wonder that he’s frightened. Grown men are frightened of you.”

“Yet you are not?” he said. He rolled quickly, pinning her under him. “Not frightened of a king?”

She smiled up at him.

“I would be unworthy of your attentions if I was,” she whispered. And you are not a king yet, she thought, and then closed her eyes as they began to make love.

“
W
ho is he
?” Ørvendil asked idly the next day as he surveyed the fjord from atop the archers’ nest at the eastern wall.

“An irritant,” replied Gorm. “A powdered scarecrow who makes his living from cheap tricks and ballads.”

“Where is he from?”

“He says ‘’fork. The guard at the western wall said he came from that direction.”

“And before he reached the wall?” asked Ørvendil. “West, north, south, what? You’re supposed to be my spymaster. What else do you know about him? Could he be a spy?”

“He hasn’t been behaving like one,” said Gorm. “He’s been entertaining at The Viking’s Rest ever since he arrived. He hasn’t been wandering about the town asking questions.”

“He doesn’t have to if he’s at the tavern,” snapped Ørvendil. “Everyone goes there. All the information anyone could possibly need will come spilling out by the third drink. And now he’s wormed his way onto the island. How did that happen?”

“Your wife invited him,” said Gorm. “She thought it would make it more like a real court.”

Ørvendil turned to him in rage. Gorm didn’t flinch.

“A real court!” shouted Ørvendil. “What does…”

H
e stopped
as a high shriek pierced the air. Around him, archers notched arrows, calling to each other as they frantically searched for the source of the sound. Ørvendil held up his hand, and the chatter ceased.

The shriek echoed through the island. Ørvendil and Gorm turned to the rear of the platform and looked down. Terence suddenly appeared, galloping out of the great hall, Amleth on his shoulders, the boy clinging tight to the head of the jester. The shrieks were coming from the child— repeated, uncontrollable howls of delight. The jester lengthened his stride and leapt over the backs of a pair of startled pigs, scattering a small flock of chickens that were pecking at the ground near the stockade wall.

Ørvendil looked around, noting the grins on the faces of the archers, the laughter of the guards patrolling the walls. Beside him, Gorm was red-faced with fury.

“I’ll have him thrown out on his painted head,” he growled. “A complete collapse of military discipline, milord. Shameful.”

“No, no, it’s not worth the trouble,” said Ørvendil.

Gorm turned to him in confusion.

“But, milord?” he asked. “Don’t you think he’s a problem? You wanted me to find out more about him.”

Ørvendil looked at his spymaster.

“Yes,” he said. “Speak with him. Find out what you can.”

“And then?”

Ørvendil looked back down at his son, who was bouncing happily on the fool’s shoulders.

“Then report what you have learned back to me,” he said. “But let him stay for now.”

“But why, milord?”

“I’ve never heard Amleth laugh like that before,” said Ørvendil, half to himself.

Gorm started to say something, then thought better of it and descended the ladders to the ground.

“You there, Fool,” he called. Terence turned and galloped up to him, Amleth still riding merrily along.

“My Lord Drost,” said the fool, bowing low, the child hanging on for dear life as he did so. “How are you on this fine day?”

Gorm looked at him with contempt. “Is that how you treat your master’s son? Is that any way to handle a child?”

“Child? What child?” asked Terence innocently. Amleth giggled, and the fool looked up to him and put a finger to his lips. “Hush, Amleth,” he whispered. “If you’re quiet, then no one can see you.”

“Can’t see him?” protested Gorm. “He’s …”

Terence winked at him. The drost stared at him stupidly, then took a deep breath.

“Why, where did he go?” exclaimed Gorm woodenly. “Young Amleth has completely vanished. And I could have sworn he was here a minute ago.”

Amleth’s eyes grew big, but he kept silent.

“Quite the talented lad, isn’t he?” said Terence. “One second he’s there, the next he’s gone. He’s a veritable magician, if you ask me.”

“Amleth,” called Gerutha from inside the great hall. “Time to eat.” Amleth turned with a disappointed moan, and Terence immediately plucked him from his shoulders and plopped him down on the ground.

“I have found you, milord,” he said to the boy. “The moment you made that sound, you became visible again. Now, run along to your mother, or I’ll be in trouble.”

“Bye, Yorick,” called the child, and he waved as he ran inside the hall. “Well done, my Lord Drost,” commented Terence as he waved back. “With a little practice, you would have the makings of a fine fool.”

“It doesn’t take much to amuse a child,” said Gorm.

“You would think so,” said Terence. “But it must be extremely difficult in truth, for no one here has done it. Thank goodness I arrived when I did, or Amleth could have ended up like …” He stopped, looking pointedly at the drost. “Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m here.”

“Good for you, certainly,” said Gorm. “How is it that you happened to come to Slesvig? It’s a long way from York.”

“That was part of its appeal to me,” confessed Terence. “I had tired of York, and York had tired of me. I needed a new audience, so I sailed the seas. I fetched up in Ribe, but there was already a fool there. Nice fellow. He showed me around, we did a couple of two-man shows, then he kicked me out and told me never to come back. He suggested Slesvig.”

“Why?” asked Gorm.

“He said there was no fool here, so I would have the place to myself. He did not know about you, unfortunately.”

“Cease, you grow tiresome,” said Gorm. “Must I be the endless butt of your japes?”

“It’s large, certainly,” said Terence, craning his neck to look at the ample rear of the drost. “But I wouldn’t call it endless. In fact, if one’s butt is one’s end, then it can never—“

“Enough!” shouted Gorm, and he stormed away, muttering.

There was a chuckle from above. Terence looked up, shading his eyes from the noon-high sun, to see Ørvendil watching him from the top platform.

“Milord, I am literally dazzled by your presence,” called Terence.

“Are you?” replied Ørvendil. “Come, join me. ‘’tou’ll like the view.”

Terence scurried up the ladders to the top, then looked around. The fjord stretched out in front of him. Even at this height, he couldn’t see its end.

“How far is it to the sea?” he asked.

“Two days with a willing crew,” said Ørvendil.

“And with an unwilling crew?”

“One, if they want to live,” said Ørvendil.

“And which do you prefer?” asked Terence.

“It depends how quickly I need to be at sea,” replied Ørvendil. “Sometimes you have to take the unwilling crew.”

Terence shook his head.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you would want the willing crew no matter what, even if it means arriving later.”

“Why?” asked Ørvendil.

“Because when you get there, they will be your allies, while the unwilling crew could turn on you at any moment.”

“Perhaps,” said Ørvendil. They stood for a while, watching the fishing boats in the distance. “They tell me that you’re a fool. I don’t believe it.”

“They tell me that you’re a king,” said Terence. “I don’t believe that, either.”

“Who tells you that?” asked Ørvendil.

“Idle gossip,” said Terence. “The word is that you see Slesvig as a stepping stone to higher things. But how high can you rise in such a low country?”

“Idle gossip can be dangerous,” observed Ørvendil.

“Yes, it can,” agreed Terence. “But to whom? If a pathetic fool like me has heard it, then it is likely that smarter, more powerful men have as well. Does that put the gossipers in danger? More likely, the subject of the gossip.”

“Are you saying that I am in danger?” asked Ørvendil.

Terence shrugged. “As I understand it, there are already three kings in Denmark. Three is an uneven number. I can juggle three of anything, but I can’t make them balance. One will rise and the other two will fall, dragging each other down.”

“A fourth could even the scales,” observed Ørvendil.

“If he picks the right one to join,” returned Terence. “If he guesses wrong, however, then he shall fall as well. And the chances of guessing wrong are two out of three.”

“Then your counsel is to wait and see?”

“My counsel?” laughed Terence. “I am a fool, milord, playing with words. Who would take counsel from such a man?”

“If I thought the counsel worth taking, then I would,” replied Ørven-dil.

“Would you indeed?” said Terence, amused. “Well, if you thought the counsel worth taking, then I daresay it’s because you have already thought of it yourself.”

“How much do you charge for counsel?” asked Ørvendil.

“My advice is always free,” said Terence. “That’s why no one ever thinks it’s worth anything. No, milord, pay me for folly, and nothing else. Allow me food and drink while I am here, and anything else that suits your mood will be ample remuneration. And if you have no stomach for fooling, then I will go to those who do.”

“Like my son,” said Ørvendil.

“He’s a fine boy,” said Terence.

“I want him to be a man,” said Ørvendil.

“He’s already a boy, so you’re halfway there,” said Terence. “He doesn’t have to be a man right away. Let him be a boy for a while longer. Do you know what he needs the most right now?”

“’tbu, I suppose,” said Ørvendil.

“No,” said Terence. “He needs other children to play with. He’s a two year old inside a fortress, with his view of the world cut off and nothing but armored legs to bump into. He’s made friends with the animals, did you know that? He has names for each of them. Put him with other boys, his spirit will fly. He’ll learn how to play, how to make friends, how to fight, how to forgive. He needs to run through the woods, paddle in the water, scrape his knees, and roll in the mud. If a man did those things with a sword in his hand, you would think him an exceptional soldier. If you truly desire to make Amleth a man among men, let him be a boy among boys first.”

“A lengthy bit of free advice,” said Ørvendil. He looked across the fjord, then turned and looked down into the enclosed island. “All right, I agree. Do you know any children?”

“Milord, there is a town filled with children right there,” laughed Terence. “Walk through it with your eyes and ears open, and you may spot a few. That’s where a fool has an advantage over a lord.”

“How, Fool?”

“I can leave this island and wander the world without fear, and the children will flock to me. A lord must hide behind walls and men, and rarely ventures out for fear.”

“Are you calling me a coward?” thundered Ørvendil, his hand on his sword.

“I have only seen you in here,” said Terence. “It was my understanding that King Valdemar made you his representative in Slesvig when he was elected by the Jutland
thing.
I assume that he chose you because you are a brave and capable leader, and worthy of his trust.”

“Well?” roared Ørvendil, slightly mollified.

“A leader leads,” said Terence. “His people must see him do so. Not just in the cathedral on Sundays.”

“There are men who wish me dead,” said Ørvendil.

“If you stay in here, then they will have a following out there,” said Terence. “But if the people are yours, then your enemies will be alone and easier to face.”

“You seem intent on making an enemy of my drost,” observed Ørvendil.

“He is a man who needs a fool,” said Terence. “He has forgotten what it was like to be a boy. Oh, and there is something he needs even more than a fool, in my opinion.”

“What is that. Fool?”

“He needs a woman,” said Terence. “He has forgotten what it is like to be a man, too.”

“With all of this wisdom at your beck and call, I wonder that you should choose to remain a fool,” said Ørvendil slowly, staring at the painted man.

“I lack ambition,” said Terence, bowing slightly. “Now, if you will pardon me, milord, I have to perform at the tavern tonight. Come by if you have a mind to do so. The ale is outstanding.”

“Who sent you, Fool?” asked Ørvendil.

“Why, you did, milord,” replied Terence. He turned and slid down one of the platform poles, then trotted across the drawbridge, waving to the soldiers as he did so.

Ørvendil watched until the fool vanished into the town. Then he stepped toward the ladder, and hesitated. As his men watched curiously, he stepped to the platform pole that had served Terence as transport, grasped it firmly, swung out over the edge, and slid to the ground, landing with a thud that momentarily knocked the breath out of his body. He gasped, sucking in air, then laughed.

Gorm watched him with astonishment from the barracks. “Milord, are you all right?” he called.

“Never better,” replied Ørvendil. “I haven’t done that since I was ten. Not as easy as it looks, I must say.”

“God in Heaven, you could have broken your leg,” said Gorm sternly.