An Antic Disposition (9 page)

She sat up, wincing in pain. The midwife had left her little instruction on how to take care of either herself or the baby, and her husband had not thought of arranging for any help. She wondered where he had gone.

She started, seeing Amleth peering at her from the steps. She had thought that he was there before, sometime after the baby was born, but her mind was in such a confused state that it might have been a dream. He looked frightened, and she realized that she must be a haggard mess. She beckoned to him.

“Would you like to see the baby?” she whispered.

He nodded solemnly, coming forward, holding something in his hand. She smiled when she saw that it was a bouquet.

“Are those for me?” she asked.

He nodded again, handing them to her. She pulled him to her and kissed him on the forehead.

“Thank you,” she said. “Those aren’t from your mothers garden, are they? She’d be angry if you picked them without her permission.”

“Yorick and I picked them on the moor,” he said, his eyes never leaving the little girl.

“Did you?” she said softly, looking at them more closely.

They were wildflowers, violets, crowflowers, and dandelions, and their fragrance eased her pain for the first time that day.

“Thank you,” she said. “And thank Yorick. They remind me of home.”

G
erutha looked
at her garden in frustration. Despite her best efforts, her roses failed to produce more than a pair of wan blooms, while the lilies came out misshapen and yellowed. She looked over at Signe’s herb garden, which was thriving, and sighed.

“Manure,” said Fengi, standing behind her.

She squealed in surprise, then surprised both of them by turning and giving him a quick embrace.

“But we had no word of your coming to visit,” she said. “And what do you mean by manure?”

“It’s what I say whenever people discuss gardening,” he said. “I look as knowing as possible and say, ‘Manure. It needs more manure.’ I may be right, for all I know, but mostly I just enjoy saying the word. Sorry about the unexpected visit. Shall I go away and come back again?”

“You’re being naughty,” she scolded him. “It’s good to see you under any circumstances. How long will you be staying?”

“Until I’m needed elsewhere,” he said. “I have been thinking of seeing more of the world. Perhaps I’ll try my luck with the Varangians in Constantinople.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “We need you here in Denmark.”

“We?” he said. “You and who else?”

“If it were only me, then that should be enough,” she said, then thought, I’m flirting with him.

“It is, of course,” he said, laughing. “You’ve talked me out of Constantinople. Thank you. Where’s my brother?”

“Supervising more earthenworks north of the town. You should go greet him.”

“I will immediately. What news before I leave you?”

“Gorm and his wife had a baby girl,” she said. “Sickly looking thing, but it survived. Signe barely made it through.”

“Thank God for that,” he said, crossing himself. “How does Gorm like fatherhood?”

“He doesn’t know what he should be doing,” she laughed. “Men are so useless about babies.”

“And Amleth?”

“Ask him yourself,” she said. “He’s standing right behind you.”

It was Fengi’s turn to whirl around in surprise. His nephew stood before him, grinning and holding his arms out. Fengi lifted him up and tossed him high, then caught the shrieking child.

“Hello, nephew,” he said.

“Hello, uncle,” replied Amleth.

“I never heard you approach,” said Fengi. “With stealth like that, you’ll be working for Gorm soon.”

Amleth shook his head violently at that prospect. Fengi put him down, and the boy dashed away.

If Ørvendil was surprised to see his younger brother ride up, he did not show it. He was standing on a newly constructed ridge while teams of thralls dug up dirt, loaded it into carts and barrows, hauled it to the ends of the ridge, dumped it, and tamped it down with small logs. He waited for his brother to reach him and locked him into an embrace in full view of everyone, then walked with him along the length of the construction.

“What trouble are you in?” he asked quietly.

“Is that the first thing that crosses your mind?” laughed Fengi. “Given where you were, yes,” said his brother. “You wouldn’t leave Roskilde when things are going so well for you unless they weren’t going so well for you. What happened?”

“I left of my own accord,” said Fengi. “The new regime is shaping up in ways that I do not like. Axel Hvide has just become Bishop of Roskilde.”

“Little Axel?” exclaimed Ørvendil. “Esbern’s brother? But he isn’t even old enough to grow a beard.”

“He is now,” said Fengi. “The little bastard may end up running everything if we’re not careful.”

“If we’re not careful,” echoed his brother thoughtfully. “When did you and I become a we again? You left to follow your ambitions years ago.

“And you stayed to follow yours,” retorted Fengi. “Why are you building fortifications here? Which of your enemies would attack from the north?”

“We have had Wends raiding the coastline north of us,” said Ørvendil. “I thought that since the earthenworks south and west of Slesvig have been completed, it would be worth building up our northern defenses so that they can’t slip around us in that direction.”

“It seems to me that you’ve turned Slesvig into a nice little defensible territory,” said Fengi. “Defensible from every direction.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Given how well I know you, I thought you might have given up on being king of Denmark, but thought you might set up your own kingdom. You could get a little support from Holstein in exchange for access to the northern seas, maybe even reach out to Barbarossa before Valdemar does.”

“What you are talking about is treason,” said Ørvendil.

“Which I am certain you considered ever since Valdemar put you in here,” said Fengi. “I’m still wondering why you didn’t take advantage of him when we showed up last year. He wouldn’t have been the first king to be murdered in Slesvig. Do you mean to tell me that this is what you’ve settled for? No more ambition?”

“There comes a time when you settle for your lot in life,” said Ørvendil. “I’ve lived a little longer than you, and I know that now. You still have to learn it. Get married, have children. It will make more sense to you once you’ve done that.”

“Rubbish,” said Fengi. “You have to keep moving or you’ll die. Look, we could do this together. You’re squeamish about taking on Valdemar, fine. There’s Wendish territory to the east, and no one would complain if we attacked them. You know that they are looking at us and drooling in anticipation.”

“No,” said Ørvendil. “If you’re spoiling for a fight, go somewhere else.”

“Coward,” muttered Fengi.

“Be careful what you say, little brother,” cautioned Ørvendil.

“What are you going to do about it, big brother?” taunted Fengi, his hand drifting toward his waist.

“If your hand gets one inch closer to your hilt, you’ll find out,” said Ørvendil pleasantly. “You know you can’t take me in combat.”

Ørvendil’s guards were moving closer, sensing the menace within the two brothers. Fengi looked around and let his hand fall to his side. Ørvendil laughed and put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, and the guards relaxed their vigilance.

“Have a nice visit with your family,” said Ørvendil. “Then go back to Roskilde. Or go to Barbarossa, or France, or wherever you can find a real battle. When you’ve conquered this restlessness, come back here and well find you a wife. We’re good at that.”

T
erence had finished performing
at The Viking’s Rest when, to his surprise, he saw Gorm sitting alone at a table, watching him. He filled two tankards with ale and brought them over.

“We rarely see you in here, my Lord Drost,” he said, placing one of the tankards in front of him.

“I came to see you,” said Gorm. He picked up the tankard and drained it in one gulp. “Is there someplace we could talk?”

“A moment, milord,” said Terence. “My gullet is not as expansive as yours, and I prefer to taste the brew when I drink it.”

He finished his ale, then stood.

“Let us walk. The evening is still young.”

They left the tavern and ambled along the shoreline. The moon was full, and its sister shone from the depths of the fjord.

“I need to talk to you,” said Gorm. “You did me great service when I did so last year, and the matter is again one that is deeply personal.”

“Why not a priest, Sir Appollonius?” asked Terence. “I am flattered that you would come to me on a personal matter, but I am not sure that we could even call ourselves friends, much less confidants.”

“I think that is why I can come to you,” said Gorm. “Anyone else who heard this would laugh at me. Imagine, the one person I thought wouldn’t laugh would be a jester. This is a matter of marriage, and I don’t think a priest could help with that.”

“Given the number of concubines and bastard children they have, you might be wrong,” said Terence.

“But that isn’t marriage,” said Gorm. “That is simply carnality. Fleshly desire.”

“True enough,” agreed Terence.

“And yet, it touches upon my own concern,” said Gorm. “I never asked to be married, you know.”

“I know,” said Terence.

“The embrace of a woman …” began Gorm, then he turned crimson. “You may speak, milord,” said Terence. “I am not unaware of such things.”

“I have long prayed for my freedom from sin,” said Gorm. “The feelings of carnality disturb me.”

“But they are not sinful within the sacrament of marriage,” protested Terence.

“That’s how we are taught,” said Gorm. “But I am uncertain of it. The consummation was …”

“Was what, milord? Successful, surely, for we have that delightful little Alfhild in the world with us now.”

“Successful in that sense, of course,” continued Gorm. “But it nearly killed Signe to have that baby. It nearly killed them both. And that midwife warned me away from her.”

“Just for a while, I’m sure,” said Terence. “To give your wife a chance to recover.”

“I want her, Fool,” Gorm burst out. “I cannot control these feelings. Yet my lust mortifies me, and the venting of it could kill her if she goes through another childbirth.”

“These things do happen, milord,” said Terence. “It is the way of the world.”

“I could not live with myself if I caused her death through my own sinful desires,” said Gorm miserably. “I know that I would be perceived as unnatural if I withheld myself from her, but it does seem to be the best course of action. Do you see that?”

Terence walked on with the drost. Poor man, he thought. He comes to me for advice on his future, yet it is Signe’s happiness that I care about. It would be better for everyone if I refused to counsel him on this matter.

“Appollonius, my friend,” he said. “I agree with you.”

Gorm gave him a look of gratitude, and Terence felt sick inside.

“
Y
orick
, may I ask you a question?” asked Amleth.

“Certainly,” replied Terence. “Let me just finish what I am doing.”

The two of them were sitting by the ruins of an old Viking tower on a promontory south of the mouth of the river. The fool was busy whittling the head of a straight branch that he had hollowed out. A small campfire burned behind them on which they had cooked a fish that Amleth had netted. Terence took a small, thin iron rod from one of his pouches and laid it so that its end was nesded on the embers, then turned his attention back to the boy.

“Your question, my young lord,” he said.

“Why do fools wear whiteface?” asked Amleth.

“Do we?” exclaimed Terence. He peered into the water and cried out in shock when he saw his reflection. “Why didn’t you tell me? I look ghastly.”

“I’m serious,” said Amleth, giggling nonetheless. “I want to know.”

“There are many reasons,” said Terence. “Let me ask you this. What happens to your room every spring?”

“It gets swept out,” replied Amleth.

“And?”

“They put on a new coat of whitewash.”

“Aha!” said Terence. “Why is that?”

“It looks nicer,” said Amleth. “It makes the room brighter when the sun shines in.”

“There you have it,” said Terence. “My job is to make the world a little bit brighter. To bring the sun into the darkness. What better way to do that than with a whitewashed face?”

“Is that the real reason, Yorick?”

“What better reason could there be, my young friend?”

“I thought that it might be a mask,” said the boy.

“Why would a fool need a mask?” asked Terence, smiling.

“Maybe because he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is,” Amleth replied.

“But you know who I am,” said Terence, “You can see my every expression from miles off, even in the dead of night. I am an open book, written on white paper so that I am easier to read.”

“So it’s not a mask?”

“Every face is a mask, white or not,” said Terence. “I’ve seen you at times with complete clarity, just as I can see to the bottom of this fjord right now. Other times, however…” He stirred up the mud from the bottom until the water was completely murky. “And all of that was based on what you chose to reveal to me with your expressions. The only difference is that your mask resembles the face of a boy named Amleth. It’s an uncanny likeness, milord.”

“Should I always reveal my thoughts, Yorick?”

“Of course not,” replied the fool. “Especially in the world you live in. You are growing up inside a fortress inside a city encircled by walls which are surrounded by earthenworks. Everyone here is concealing something all of the time. The man who is open about everything will be a man in great danger. If you are going to rule Slesvig someday, you must learn how to hide your thoughts, and to recognize when others are doing the same.”

‘’I don’t want to rule here,” protested Amleth.

“You are Ørvendil’s son,” said Terence. “That is your fathers wish for you.”

“Can’t I become a jester instead?” pleaded the boy.

“A jester? That’s much harder work than being a duke,” said Terence. “You have to learn so many different things to become a jester.”

“Really?” teased Amleth. “I thought all you had to do was act foolish all of the time.”

“As if that wasn’t difficult enough,” said Terence indignantly. “To suppress my vast intelligence in the cause of foolery. You cannot imagine the effort it takes. I lie down at the end of a long day and suddenly start spouting epic poetry and complicated logical proofs, just to make up for all of the stupidity I force myself to utter. No, Amleth, stay with your destiny. You’ll be better off.”

“But I would make an excellent fool.”

“Alas, the demand is slight and the supply is great. However, there is no reason not to keep practicing. Something might open up somewhere. Work on your juggling.”

He tossed four balls to the boy who caught two in each hand. Amleth had mastered three balls by the time he turned five, but the fourth had been causing him difficulty. He muttered to himself in frustration every time one fell.

“Relax, breathe, find the rhythm,” counseled Terence. He gingerly took the iron rod out of the fire, holding the cooler end with a cloth. He then carefully burned several holes through one side of the piece of wood he had been whittling.

“Will Rolf and Gudmund be coming to play with you today?” he asked.

“Maybe later,” said Amleth. “I don’t care much.”

“You don’t? Why not? Aren’t they your friends?”

“I think that they only play with me because their parents want favors from my father,” said Amleth. “They always act so strangely when they come to the island. I think it would be easier if I just lived in a normal house like they do.”

“Maybe,” said Terence. “Maybe you should ask your father if you could live in town.”

“I did. He says as soon as the castle is built. I’ll be an old man before that happens.”

Terence placed the carved end of the hollowed-out piece of wood in his mouth and blew into it. A slightly fuzzy piping emerged. He frowned and peered down the end of it, then took the metal rod and smoothed out the bore. He sounded the flute again, and the tone was clearer. He ran his fingers up and down the scale. It sounded true, and he played an old Yorkshire tune.

“That one came out well,” commented Amleth. In his fascination with Terence’s labors, he had forgotten that he was juggling, and the four balls jumped through their patterns perfectly. He realized what had happened.

“I’m doing it!” he said excitedly.

“Good, Amleth,” said Terence. “You’ve found the rhythm. Four will be second nature to you from now on. Say, isn’t it your sixth birthday today?”

“You know it is,” said Amleth.

“I know it is,” said Terence, reaching out and plucking the balls from over Amleth’s head. “And this is for you.”

He handed him the flute. Amleth seized it eagerly, turning it over and over. Then he piped a few notes.

“It’s glorious!” he cried, hugging the fool. “Thank you, Yorick!”

“It’s another thing to practice,” warned Terence. “You’ll be a busy little boy.”

“Show me the fingering,” said Amleth.

Terence taught him some simple tunes, and the boy played them over and over while the fool doused the fire and packed their gear.

“Come, child,” he said, looking up at the sun. “It’s almost noon. We have to meet your father.”

N
orth of the town
, a kiln had been constructed, the labor supervised by several men brought in from Tuscany, most of whom spoke little Danish but gesticulated quite fluently. Clay was dug up from the riverbed and trundled to the yard next to the great oven. There it was mixed with straw and pressed into crude wooden molds, then turned out onto stone slabs.

It was the day of the first firing, and Ørvendil needed to be there despite the arrival of his son’s birthday. Amleth was happy and excited to see this new magic in action. He and Terence had watched the kiln’s construction, and he had been impressed to learn that the fool spoke the Tuscans’ language. The brickmakers had become regulars at The Viking’s Rest as a result, and brought their strange, lively music with them. Terence began teaching the boy Tuscan.

The Bishop himself had come from the cathedral to bless the new enterprise. Then he stayed on, as curious to see it as the six-year-old boy. Other children were crowded behind the fence, envying Orvendil’s son who got to get so close to the fire.

“We do one first,” said Carlo, the master brickmaker. A single brick was put inside the kiln, and then the opening was sealed off. Everyone stared at it, watching every wisp of smoke as if it were a portent. Then, the master declared that enough time had passed. The seal was cracked open, and the finished brick was plucked from the embers by a pair of iron tongs and plunked down on the ground. The master walked slowly around it, inspecting it from every angle, then tapped it several times with a wooden mallet.

“It’s good,” he pronounced finally, and a cheer went up from everyone. He picked up the cooled brick, walked up to Ørvendil, and knelt, holding it before him.

“First one is for you,” he said. “Be careful, still hot.”

Ørvendil took it from him and bade him stand, then looked at it curiously. He turned to the crowd and held it aloft.

“The first of many,” he cried. “And with them we will build Slesvig into a great city!”

There were more cheers at this, and Ørvendil smiled. Then he turned to his son.

“Here, Amleth,” he said, handing the brick to him. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, father,” said the boy, delighted with it.

“And thank Carlo for making it,” added his father.

“Grazie,
signore,” said Amleth, bowing.

“You are most welcome, most learned child,” said Carlo as the other Tuscans laughed in delight. “May I present my brothers, Reynaldo and Phillippo. They don’t speak Danish yet, but your Tuscan is getting better all the time.”

“Yorick taught me,” said Amleth proudly. “Thank you for the brick. It’s wonderful.”

“That’s not your only present, you know,” laughed Ørvendil.

“There’s more?” asked his son.

“Come with me. We’ll walk for a bit. Yorick, you come along, too.”

“Very good, milord,” said Terence.

The three of them walked to the outskirts of town into a slight declivity in the landscape that hid them from view. Ørvendil stopped, turned, and put a finger to his lips. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a long, narrow object wrapped in cloth and handed it to the

What is it?” asked Amleth as he unwrapped it, then he gasped. He was holding what would have been a man’s short sword. For the boy, however, it was the equivalent of a longsword, and he swung it clumsily through the air, causing the two men to jump hastily back.

“Hold, hold,” laughed his father. “That’s a real sword, and it will draw real blood. Here’s the scabbard. Put it in there.”

He handed the boy an ancient scabbard, its leather cracking.

“My father gave me this when I was your age,” said Ørvendil. “And his father gave it to him. Your education from now on will include the proper methods of fighting. Here is the first lesson. You never remove your sword from your scabbard unless you are prepared both to kill and to die. Nothing less than that. Do you understand me, boy?”

Amleth nodded solemnly.

“But how do I practice without taking it out?” he said.

Ørvendil pulled two wooden swords from the pouch.

“With these,” he said. “They are weighted differently, and they won’t cut anything, but we’ll start you out with them. Fool, are you acquainted with the techniques of fighting?”

“I have lived most of my life in taverns,” said Terence. “I’ve had my share of fights.”

“Any with swords?” asked Ørvendil.

“Milord, I carry no sword,” replied Terence. “Mostly they were fist-fights and wrestling matches.”

“Perfect,” said Ørvendil. “Any fighting begins with a knowledge of wrestling. Then you add in the weapons. Catch, Fool.”

He tossed him one of the wooden swords.

“Now, Fool, when I tell you to, attack me,” commanded Ørvendil. He stood with his left hand raised, the weapon in his right held low, his weight on his back foot. “Now.”

Terence lunged forward, and Ørvendil easily parried the thrust.

“I’m sorry, milord,” said Terence. “I did not do that very well.”

“Nor will many you encounter in life,” said Ørvendil. “But there will be some formidable foes. When you attack, thus …”

He stepped forward, his sword thrusting up toward Terence’s stomach. The fool quickly stepped back and parried it. Ørvendil looked at him in surprise.

“Did I make that attack so obvious?” he wondered. “You blocked it quite skillfully.”

“Mere luck, milord,” said Terence. “I was just…”

Ørvendil struck again, and the fool blocked it.

“… defending myself,” Terence continued, and suddenly found himself facing a hailstorm of blows. He kept backing away, ducking and blocking. Amleth watched the two men in fascination. Finally, his father broke through the fool’s guard and landed a blow on his shoulder. Terence winced in pain and lowered his sword, holding his palm out in surrender. Ørvendil stepped back and scrutinized him.

“There is not a soldier in my entire garrison who could have matched me as well,” he said softly. ‘’Where did you learn to handle a sword like that?”

“I am an entertainer,” explained Terence. “We used to stage mock sword fights at festivals. We had to know how to handle the weapon just as well as a soldier does.”

“Somehow, I doubt that’s the true explanation,” said Ørvendil. He tossed his practice sword to his son. “Amleth, stand there and get a feel for this. I will talk with this entertainer for a moment.”

The two men walked some distance away and watched the boy go through his paces, imitating both his father and Terence.

“Talented boy,” said Terence.

“Yes,” said Ørvendil. “I would give my life to keep him safe.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Would you?” asked Ørvendil. “Give your life for him?”

Terence looked at him, his face expressionless.

“I need to know the answer,” said Ørvendil.

“Yes, milord,” said Terence. “I would give my life for him.”

They watched Amleth some more.

“Thank you, Yorick,” said Ørvendil. “I hope that that time never comes.”

G
erutha looked
at her garden in frustration.

“Manure,” she muttered.

“What, cousin?” asked Signe, working in the herb garden nearby while Alfhild toddled about, trying to catch a white butterfly that had drifted into the fort.

“I am thinking of tearing out everything and starting all over again,” said Gerutha. “Perhaps make a walled garden dedicated to the Holy Mother, where we could sit and devote ourselves to prayers.”

“It sounds too much like a convent for my taste,” said Signe. “It’s bad enough living behind high walls. Why build more?”