An Antic Disposition (8 page)

Gorm went straight to bed without meeting his bride. Their first encounter was early the next morning. He emerged from his quarters to see a young woman working on the herb garden, breaking the hard soil with an iron-shod spade. She was sweating heavily despite the cool of the early morning, and her hands were covered with dirt, much of which she had transferred to her cheeks and brow. She looked up at him and nodded pleasantly, then went back to work. He grunted, then went to the kitchen.

Ørvendil was already up and eating.

“Well, look who’s back,” he said, holding up his hand. “How was the coronation?”

“Too soon over,” replied the drost. “I was hoping for more of a feast after everything we went through.”

“You’ll get one here soon enough,” said Ørvendil. “Let your belly be patient.”

“Who’s the new kitchen wench?” asked Gorm. “I saw her in the garden just now.”

Ørvendil stared at him for a moment, then started guffawing.

“You simpleton,” he bellowed. “That’s the new wife we picked out for you. Go introduce yourself, and for God’s sake don’t let her know that’s what you thought she was.”

Gorm nearly fled in embarrassment back to the garden. Signe was still there, covering it with dried leaves. She stood as he approached, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You’re..he began, then he stopped. “Damn me, I was never told your name.”

“I am Signe, sir,” she replied. “I am Gerutha’s cousin. I’ve come here to marry Ørvendil’s drost, Gorm.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, stammering. “I mean, that is to say, I know. And I am. Gorm, that is.”

“Oh,” she said, momentarily taken aback.

He was not at his best, having traveled for several days on little sleep. His eyes were bleary and his skin already wrinkled despite his being just a few years older than Ørvendil.

Still, those were just appearances, she thought. She held out her hand. “I am glad to meet you at last,” she said. “And glad that we met before we married. It might have been awkward otherwise.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s awkward enough now without anyone watching, isn’t it?”

“There’s that boy who keeps peeping around the corner,” she said, pointing.

He turned around to see Amleth ducking back behind Ørvendil’s quarters.

“Milord’s son, Amleth,” he said. “Has all the makings of a fine irritant when he grows up.”

“He’s quite curious for such a little one,” she said. “He seems a little frightened of me for some reason.”

“He’s frightened of most people at first,” he said. “The only one he ever took to right off was that fool.”

“Oh, I’ve met him,” she said. “He was quite nice.”

Gorm snorted.

“A fool’s a fool, no matter how nice,” he said. “Come, let me carry your spade for you. We should get to know each other, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” she said, handing it to him. “That would be most welcome.”

W
hen Terence arrived
at the island midmorning, Gorm was standing at the foot of the drawbridge. Terence nodded to him, intending to walk by, but to his surprise the drost put a finger to his lips and beckoned to him.

“Good morning, milord,” said the fool. “Welcome home. How was your journey?”

“Wearisome,” said Gorm. “Walk with me for a while, Fool.”

“Very well, milord,” said Terence, wondering what was up.

They walked upstream for a hundred paces before Gorm spoke.

“What do women want, Fool?” he asked.

Terence chuckled.

“My Lord Drost, if I knew, I would be a married man by now,” he said.

“Have you never wooed a lady, Fool?” asked Gorm.

“No lady wants a fool for a husband,” said Terence. “Although many get them in spite of their desires. But my life has been one of constant movement. That does not leave much room for romance, at least not one lasting more than a drunken nights worth.”

The drost looked glum, and Terence decided to take pity on him.

“On the other hand, milord,” he said, “I have been called upon to woo on behalf of others.”

“How does that work?” asked Gorm.

“Through the power of music,” said Terence. “A woman will be won by song, and not necessarily by the singer. If there is some lady whose favors you seek, send me to her on your behalf, and stand by me in fervent suppliance so that she knows that I am but the vessel pouring forth your love.”

“And there will be a fee for this service, I suppose,” said Gorm.

Terence shrugged.

“I cannot work for love when I work for love,” he said. “But you will find me to be quite reasonable for a fool.”

“Done,” said the drost. “She will be at the evening meal tonight. Please stay for that before you go to your tavern duties.”

They returned together. Amleth was standing at the entrance, jumping up and down with glee.

“ Yorick!” he cried. “You’re back!”

“Hello, my little fool,” said Terence, scooping the boy up and swinging him by his arms around and around. Gorm shook his head at the familiarity and walked away.

T
he evening meal
was convened at sunset, and Terence duly made his entrance with Amleth. He had spent the day teaching the boy some new songs, and handed him a small tambourine for the occasion. They strolled around the room together, Amleth singing one verse, Terence the next. It wasn’t long before they ran through Amleth’s repertoire, so the boy contented himself by keeping the beat with his new instrument.

Terence had left Ørvendil’s table for last, waiting for Gorm’s signal, and in the uncertainty of the firelight had failed to note the new arrival. When Gorm stood and waved to him, he and Amleth approached that end of the room. The drost joined them, facing Ørvendil, Gerutha, and Signe, and bowed.

“Milord,” he said as the soldiers behind him exchanged knowing winks and nudges. “I have requested your fool to make a special performance on my behalf, but it is not meant for you.”

“Guessing something of the nature of the performance, I am relieved,” said Ørvendil. “Pray, continue.”

Gorm turned to face Signe.

“My bride, this song is my first gift to you. Yorick, if you will.” There was a brief lull in the music as Terence stared at Signe in surprise.

“My Lord Drost, you have captured a fair prize,” he said, regaining his voice. “May my music be equal to her love.”

He sang, his eyes never leaving hers, an old ballad of a couple who swore undying love, but who were separated by the vicissitudes of fate, remaining loyal throughout until they were reunited by sympathetic higher powers. His voice caressed her, and though Gorm stood by the fool throughout, his hands clasped almost in prayer, it was the fool that she watched, though none in the room marked her. Except for Amleth, who sat at Terences feet, looking back and forth between the two of them.

When Terence finished, the soldiers, who had become so entranced with the song that they had ceased drinking, pounded the tables and roared their approbation. The fool bowed to Signe, then to Gorm.

“Let me reward you for that, Fool,” said the drost, reaching for his pouch.

“Stay, milord,” said Terence. “Let it be my gift to you and your lady. May happiness be yours forever.”

“Give him the money anyway, Gorm,” called Ørvendil. “You owe him something for this lovely creature. It was at his suggestion that we arranged it.”

Signe looked at Terence in shock, then stood.

“I would like to thank all of you for making me so welcome in Slesvig,” she said. “Husband, come sit by me. Fool, please play some more.”

“Your servant, milady,” said Terence, quietly strumming his lute.

He wandered through the room, Amleth by his side. He looked back at Signe, who was chatting with the drost. Gorm remained stiff and ill at ease.

“My fault,” muttered Terence. “All my fault. Forgive me, milady.”

Amleth looked up at him, puzzled. Terence smiled at the boy and patted his head.

“Where’s my accompaniment, little fool?” he said.

Amleth started shaking the tambourine.

T
he wedding was
the next day. The cathedral, the largest building in Slesvig, was filled with every soldier not on patrol, along with some curious townspeople. Ørvendil, Gerutha, and Amleth sat together in the front. Terence sat in the last row, feeling miserable and hungover. He had drunk more than usual at The Viking’s Rest after he left the island, so much so that he dropped several balls during his juggling routine to the derision of the locals.

The banns were read. Signe wore a dark blue velvet gown that had been lent to her by Gerutha, and a circlet of evergreen twigs on her head, set off well by her auburn hair. Gorm was in full armor, the leather straps worn and cracked from long use, the buckles inadequately polished. The bishop presided over the ceremony, joining their hands before the altar and blessing the union. Then the couple turned and faced the congregants, smiling bravely as all but one in the room stood and cheered. Signe looked out upon the sanctuary of strangers, and saw the lone seated man, the fool who was hunched on a bench at the rear, looking down at his boots.

The soldiers carried their drost and his bride on a platform from the cathedral all the way back to the great hall. The feast had been in preparation all day, cattle whipped across the drawbridge to be cut down inside the fortress and roasted in great pit fires. Fresh rushes were strewn throughout the hall, and extra thralls were brought in to supplement those of Ørvendil’s household.

Ørvendil himself stood for the first toast.

“My friends,” he said, “I drink to my right hand, a man who has given his life to serve, and who has finally been persuaded to accept some happiness of his own. I drink to his new bride, a lady who brings a breath of country air into these soldiers’ quarters, whose beauty and grace are second only to that of the woman who shares my life.” Gerutha smiled and bowed her head. “To Gorm and Signe!”

“Gorm and Signe!” shouted the soldiers. “Speech! Speech!”

Gorm stood and cleared his throat.

“My lord and lady, my brothers in arms,” he said. “I thank you for the dangers that we have shared and the love that you bear me.” He stopped, took a deep breath, then continued. “I have wanted to memorialize the events of recent months, to make the appropriate tribute to those brave men who fought for our King and brought peace and unity to all of Denmark. I have long fancied myself a poet…”

“Oh, dear God,” sighed Terence as the drost launched into a recitation of bad verse that lasted nearly an hour.

When it was over, those who were still paying attention respectfully thumped the table, waking the rest who joined in as soon as they realized it meant the continuation of the meal.

“Well, that was inspiring,” said Ørvendil. “I had no idea you had this skaldic side to you.”

“Did you like it, milord?” asked the drost.

“Oh, yes,” said Ørvendil. “Ym should teach it to Amleth someday.”

Amleth, who was busy running under the tables, stopped and turned pale.

“But if you want the opinion of a professional, perhaps we should ask friend Yorick,” said Ørvendil.

Terence, who had been nursing a wineskin throughout the recitation, stood unsteadily and staggered toward the main table.

“Why, sir,” he cried. “You have completely missed your calling. You should have been a warrior-poet, going into battle with ax in one hand and harp in the other, a battling bard. What did you say when you first left us for the wars? That not since Jason and the Argonauts set off in search of the Golden Fleece had such a group of worthies gathered? I forget which hero was meant to be you. Not Jason, certainly, for the wife he brought back was not the equal of the one you have now. Not Herakles, for he deserted his comrades to chase after a boy. Neither Castor nor Pollux fits your singular self, nor Orpheus, despite your poetic prolixity, for you are no singer, sir.” He stopped for a moment, considering, then brightened. “I have it. Yju are the one who watches and records the great deeds of others, and lives to write them down. As Appollonius of Rhodes did for Jason and his band of heroes, so you have done for Valdemar the Great. I hereby dub thee Appollonius the Second, and I promise to study thee anon, along with all of the other fusty, musty, crusty poets of yore.”

There was laughter at this. Gorm was indignant, and turned to complain to Ørvendil. But his lord was chuckling right along with them, attempting to cover his mouth with his hands.

“To bed!” came a shout from the soldiers, and the rest picked it up. An impromptu escort formed, a squadron of drunks, and Gorm and Signe were bustled into their quarters while the soldiers camped expectantly outside.

The couple closed and barred the door to the ribald hoots of the men, then wearily climbed the steps to the upper room. Signe looked around. Crude shelves lined the walls, covered with old books and tattered scrolls. A new pallet, a gift from Ørvendil and Gerutha, was in a corner, covered with the linens she had brought from home.

“I did not know that you were a scholar as well,” she said.

“I studied in Paris when I was young,” he said. “I never wanted to be a soldier. I wanted to be a poet, or an actor. But I was a bad actor, and a worse poet. I made a fool of myself tonight, didn’t I?”

“No, certainly not,” she said reassuringly.

“I became a soldier,” he said. “A strategist, a spymaster. It is the only thing that I do with any proficiency. I have always been comfortable with men. I do not know what sort of husband I will turn out to be.”

“I have never been a wife before,” she said nervously. “We will make the best of it.”

There was chanting from outside. Gorm sighed.

“Come,” he said, leading her to the bed. “We must produce a bloody sheet for them.”

“There will be blood?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head sadly. “There will be blood.”

T
he Bishop
of Roskilde lay still on his bed. It was a proper bed, with an ornately carved oak headboard depicting scenes from the life of Christ. Silk coverlets were laid out to keep his body warm, but they could do little for him. He had breathed his last the night before.

In a large room below, the members of the diocesan chapter sat around a large table. The chair at the head of it was left empty in tribute to the late bishop. A priest, representing the cathedral, rapped his knuckles on the table to command attention.

“A prayer first,” he announced, and heads bowed. When he was done, he rapped the table again. “We will follow the procedure set forth at the Concordat of Worms. Nominees will be proposed by this chapter, after which we will vote. A representative of the Emperor may observe. Is there a representative of the Emperor here?”

“Not in years,” said a deacon. “Barbarossa prefers to look south, fortunately.”

“Very well,” said the priest. “Is there a representative of the Archbishop of Lund present?”

He looked around and saw none.

“Unfortunate,” he said. “I know Archbishop Eskilde has had his differences with the King, but..

“He’s fled to France,” interrupted a lay member. “If he gave a damn, he would come back and stand up for himself.”

“Just as well he stays there,” said another. “We don’t need anyone stirring up trouble again.”

“Fine,” sighed the priest. “Is there a representative of the King here?”

“Will I do?” said Valdemar, standing in the doorway.

The chapter members stood hastily and began bowing. Valdemar motioned them to sit.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said genially, looking around at the group. “Hmm, not enough seats. Mind if I take this one?”

He sat at the head of the table in the late bishop’s seat. There were stifled gasps among the chapter members.

“My lord,” said the priest. “You do understand that you have no voting privileges here.”

“Of course I understand,” said Valdemar, leaning back and propping his boots up on the table. “I just came to make sure that protocols are honored, and that this will be a proper election, untainted by outside influences.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said the priest, stammering slightly.

“In fact, I would like to suggest that you use a secret ballot,” continued Valdemar. “That way, everyone may make his choice from his own conscience without fearing the criticism of the rest.”

“An admirable idea, milord,” said the deacon. “We were about to propose nominees.”

“Good,” said Valdemar. “I will go wait outside the cathedral, so that my presence does not in any way hinder the fairness of this process. I will be in the courtyard, anticipating the divine choice. My prayers are with you, my friends.”

He stood and left the room.

“What was that all about?” asked a lay member.

“Take a look,” said the priest, standing by the window overlooking the courtyard.

The chapter crowded around him, peering down.

“Odd place to drill soldiers, isn’t it?” remarked the deacon.

“Yes, and so many of them,” said the priest. He turned to face the others. “Secret ballots, gentlemen. Vote your consciences, and pray for our salvation.”

“But we haven’t had nominations yet,” protested one of the lay members.

“I think we have, don’t you?” said the priest, passing around slips of paper.

A
few minutes
later the priest emerged into the courtyard and approached Valdemar. The two conferred for a moment, then the King turned and signaled to his men to disperse.

From there, he returned to the great hall that had once been his rival’s. He kept his quarters in the same rooms from which he had once fled as a besieged guest. He felt safer in them, knowing the value of a good escape route.

Axel was sitting there, playing chess with Gerald. The two looked up as the King entered.

“Congratulations, you are now the Bishop of Roskilde,” said the King. “Good,” said Axel. “We’ll be needing a larger cathedral.”

“Rather cheeky bringing that up before you have even been installed,” said Valdemar. “What’s wrong with the cathedral we have now? It holds everyone who actually shows up for services.”

“But there will be a lot more people in Roskilde by the time you and I finish our plans,” said the new bishop. “I have been thinking that I should change my name to something more suited to my new office.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Valdemar.

“Something biblical, but close to my own name,” said Axel. “Someone beloved of a king. How does Absalon strike you?”

“Bishop Absalon,” said Valdemar. “Sounds important.”

“I like it,” said Axel.

Gerald shook his head. He wondered at the new bishop who had forgotten the story of the betrayal and revolt of King David’s favorite son.

“I will announce it after the old bishop’s burial,” said Axel. “That’s going to be tomorrow, by the way. hbu should be there. I will be giving the eulogy as my first act as bishop.”

“Tomorrow?” exclaimed Gerald. “Will you have enough time to write it?”

“I wrote it months ago,” said Axel. “The old bastard took forever to die, didn’t he?”

He unrolled a map of Denmark and spread it out on a table.

“Do you mind ending our game?” he said to Gerald. “’’lou were gone in five moves.”

“So I see,” said Gerald, bowing. “Well played, Your Holiness.”

“I like the sound of that,” chortled Axel, taking pieces from the board and using them to anchor the corners of the map.

“Congratulations, Axel,” said Fengi, entering the room. “Must I genuflect before you now?”

“Later,” said Valdemar. “Let’s see what this schemer is proposing.”

“Just what will be needed to keep your kingdom,” said Axel. He took the castles from the board and placed them at different points on the map.

“That’s where we need strongholds,” he said to Valdemar. “Strongholds,” said Valdemar. “A new cathedral and several stone castles. How on earth are we going to pay for all of that?”

Axel pointed to the straits between Skaane and Sjælland.

“With the sea, Valdemar,” he said. “We control the straits now. We tax everything that passes through them. We take a percentage from the fish markets. And we set up a new market here.”

He stabbed a finger at the eastern end of Sjælland.

“It’s ideally located,” he said. “There’s a decent harbor, and it’s sheltered from the worst of the winds.”

“But not the worst of the Wends,” said Fengi. “When are we going after them?”

“We just finished a war,” said Valdemar. “The people won’t put up with another one so soon.”

“They will if it puts an end to Wendish raiding,” said Fengi. “If we wait…”

“We’re not ready yet,” said Axel.

Fengi swept the chess pieces from the table.

“Who is ‘we,’ Axel?” he said. “When did you start making decisions for the King?”

“When did you?” retorted Axel. “I am the Bishop of Roskilde, and with the Archbishop in exile, the See of Lund might as well be mine. The Crown must work with the Church in Denmark if there is to be any hope of survival.”

“But the Wends respect neither Church nor Crown,” said Fengi. “What other option do we have?”

“Peace,” said Gerald.

The others turned to look at him.

“Of course, it’s not my place to say,” he said.

“Oh, stuff it, Fool,” said Fengi. “That act grows tiresome.”

“You forget your place, Fengi,” said Valdemar quietly. “Our love for you is of long standing, but our patience is not infinite.”

“I see,” said Fengi. “Of the three men before you in this room, I am the one you chastise for speaking freely. Very good, milord. If you have no further need of me, I will take my leave of you.”

He bowed briefly and left the room. Gerald followed him.

“I did not mean to drive a wedge between you and the King, milord,” he said.

“Of course not,” said Fengi.
“You’re
just a fool. A fool can have no influence in the affairs of the great. Whereas a soldier such as myself is of immense importance.”

“The most difficult time for a soldier is during peace,” said Gerald gently. “You must learn to make your own peace with it.”

“What would you have me do?” demanded Fengi. “Plant a garden and raise flowers?”

“A man of your talents and intelligence should be able to find a worthwhile office,” said Gerald.

“Unfortunately, the position of King’s Fool has been filled,” snapped Fengi. “Tell Valdemar that I have gone to visit my brother. I will be back in time for the next war.”

He stormed away.

“Then, God willing, we shall not see you again,” muttered Gerald.

S
igne lay on her pallet
, a rag clenched between her teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. The contractions were coming more quickly now, to the satisfaction of the midwife who sat placidly knitting on a stool by the window.

This should be easy, thought Signe. I’ve seen cows drop calves in the middle of a field and keep on grazing. Mares who bore foals nearly as big as me without a nicker of pain. If such lowly creatures can manage this, surely I can.

But the labor had gone on for most of the day, and she was weak from it.

“Eggs,” she gasped.

“What, dear?” said the midwife.

“We should lay eggs, like chickens,” said Signe. “It would be so much easier.”

“Yes,” chuckled the midwife. “But then I would be out of a job, wouldn’t I?”

The next onslaught came sooner than Signe expected, and the midwife stood, holding a knife and a clump of dried moss.

“Here it comes at last,” she said cheerfully. “Start pushing, dear.”

Signe started to scream.

Outside, Amleth stared up at the window, trying to understand the sounds. They had told him she was having a baby, and he had seen the swelling of her belly and felt the kicks, but he still did not know how this child was going to get out of its tiny, warm prison. He thought of nuts being cracked open to reveal their treasures, and wondered if the other lady would be doing the same to Signe. If so, it was no wonder that she was screaming.

Gorm sat in the great hall, a nearly empty wineskin on the table before him. With each of his wife’s screams he shuddered and took another swig. He had been drinking for a long time.

Ørvendil poked his head through the doorway, saw the drunken drost, and clucked disapprovingly.

“Come, man, is that any way to behave?” he said, sitting by him. “I’ve seen you go into battle against heavy odds without blinking. What’s the matter with you?”

“I can face my own death without fear,” said Gorm. “But she’s in such agony, and it’s all my fault.”

“It’s no fault, it’s the way of things,” said Ørvendil. “All women go through this, yet we all get born somehow. I think it’s mostly show, anyhow. That way, they make us feel guilty so we end up pampering them for a while.”

There was a shriek that dwarfed all that had gone before, and Gorm turned deathly white. Then there was a slap and a baby crying.

“You see, my friend?” said Ørvendil, clapping the drost on the back. “There was nothing to worry about.”

Gorm staggered to his feet and lurched toward his quarters. The midwife met him at the entrance.

“A girl, more’s the pity,” she pronounced. “Nothing but trouble in the long run.”

“And Signe?” asked Gorm.

“She lost a lot of blood, but I finally stopped it,” said the midwife. “She should live. Give her plenty of wine for one week, and keep your filthy hands off her for a month or so. She can’t do this too often.”

“Yes, all right,” said Gorm. He moved as if to enter, but the midwife stood blocking the door, her hands on her hips.

“Well?” she said.

Gorm looked at her uncertainly.

“Thank you?” he said.

She held out her hand.

“Oh, of course,” said Gorm, quickly thrusting some coins into it. She stuck them in her pouch and stood aside.

He took the steps two at a time, then stood at the door to the bedroom, reeling slightly with exhaustion and wine. Signe lay on the pallet, holding the newly swaddled infant against her breast. She looked up at Gorm and smiled weakly.

“Here she is, husband,” she said. “How do you like her?”

He plopped down by her and looked at his daughter. She was already sleeping, as worn out from being born as her mother was from bearing her.

“She’s so small,” he whispered, touching her hand with his finger. “She’ll grow,” said Signe. “What shall we call her?”

“I was thinking of Alfhild,” said Gorm. “From my studies of history, she was a woman known for her chastity and her courage as a warrior. These are qualities I would fain see in my own daughter.”

“Chastity, yes,” said Signe wearily. “We’ll leave warfare to the men.”

“I just meant….” he stammered. “Is the name all right?”

“It’s fine,” said Signe, closing her eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, but she had fallen asleep. He watched the two of them lying there, the baby nestled in her mother’s arms, rising and falling with each breath. He did not notice Amleth, who had crept silently up the steps to look at the new child, wondering how she had escaped.

When Gorm came down later, the men at the rear posts cheered him from on high. Ørvendil came out of the great hall and clasped his hand.

“A daughter, eh?” he said. “Well, too bad about that. Better luck next time. How’s the wife?”

“Tired,” said Gorm. “So am I. Is there any dinner left?”

“Dinner, and more importantly ale,” said Ørvendil, leading him inside. Signe lay on the pallet, trying to get Alfhild to nurse. Such a pale girl, she thought. Like the moon.