The Astrologer (24 page)

“I am glad of that, at least.” Ulfeldt looked away from me, again studying the cross behind the altar. He breathed out heavily, not quite a sigh.

“Do you return to Elsinore with us?”

“Nay, my lord. Christian promises to send a boat for me this evening.”

“This is fine. That will do.” Ulfeldt nodded. “I will have need to use you, sir, after Christmas. You will not mind leaving Denmark for a month or more?”

“That will depend on where you send me.”

“Careful, aren’t you? I will be sending you to Paris, to my son Jens.”

“Paris? Why?”

Ulfeldt glanced around the chapel and then stood. He plucked at my collar.

“I am about to entrust you with a grave secret. But not here. Come.”

He shambled away from the pew and I followed him across the chapel to the confessional. Ulfeldt entered the priest’s side of the cabinet and I went into the penitent’s booth. When the doors were shut, Ulfeldt slid the screen open between us and whispered.

“My daughter must away from Denmark.”

“Vibeke? Why, my lord?”

“She will go to Paris, where Jens is friend to the archbishop. I have arranged to put my daughter into a nunnery, to remain there for the rest of her days.”

“I do not think your daughter will enjoy the cloister, my lord.”

“It is not for you to think,” he hissed. “The king will fatten your purse for this little errand, better than you deserve. But Vibeke trusts you, poor girl. She thinks of you fondly as if you were some kind of shabby uncle. I will not send her off with a gang of Swiss ruffians to see her no more. You will do this.”

“Does Vibeke know the reason you wall her away?”

“Do not be impertinent. I am giving her to the religious life. She is a sweet girl, but you know as well as I that Vibeke will make no man a wife.”

“Not even the father of her child?”

I held my breath, listening to Ulfeldt’s labored breathing on the other side of the screen. It seemed a long while before he said anything.

“I do not know what you mean, sir.”

“Let us be frank, my lord. Your daughter is with child. Christian is the father. Vibeke told me this herself. I know that she is in Elsinore only because he sent for her. I know the queen will disapprove.”

“Disapprove?” Ulfeldt laughed, a wheezy bark that rattled the confessional. “I dare say she will have both mother and child drowned. Foolish girl. Terrible, foolish girl. But she is
my only daughter and I love her as only an aged father can. She will be safe in Paris, and even happy some day, I pray.”

“How long has this been, this love?”

“Love? I dare say I do not call it love.”

“Vibeke seems quite smitten with him.”

“Young girls are often awed by power. When I was not so old as this, before I met Vibeke’s mother—God rest her soul— even I was a magnet for many sweet things.”

I did not believe him.

“I wonder, my lord, that Christian has said nothing of this to me.”

“Why would he? Who are you to him? Or he to you that you should have this confidence?”

“I have spent the last several days in his company, at least. And many more before the battle.”

“Last several days? What nonsense is this? You have been nowhere near him.”

There was a long silence, and then I understood. There were two Christians.

“My lord,” I whispered. “You are talking about the king.”

“Of course I am talking about the king. And you are talking in ciphers.”

I resolved not to let on that I had misunderstood.

“Does the queen know aught of this?”

“Kirsten is a shrewd woman,” he said. “Vibeke has a loose tongue, fed by pride at sharing the king’s bed. But her Majesty has said nothing of this to me. This is not your affair, and you must not ask not so many questions. Vibeke carries King Christian’s bastard child. That is more than you ought to know, and you would do well to keep your fingers to your lips about it, if you wish to keep your head to your neck.”

“I am no stranger to discretion.”

It was certain that the king would find some excuse to behead me the day I returned to Denmark after delivering Vibeke to Paris. Perhaps he would even send an assassin after me in France, as he had sent Erik Brahe across Europe to
murder Tycho. When my errand was done I was worse than expendable. The king’s ascendant was Aries, a cardinal sign; he was not a man to leave a loose end that might unravel his secrets.

“Do your duty, that is all the king requires,” Ulfeldt said. “Now I must go down to the water to join the prince.”

The screen slid shut and our confessions were over. I opened the door and stepped out of the booth, colliding with Prince Christian. How long he had been there, I know not. Voltemont’s rapier was in his hand, and his cheeks were flushed with bright spots, like rouge poorly applied to a doxy’s face. He pushed me away and pulled open the door to Ulfeldt’s side of the confessional. The old man cried out in alarm, a high bleating noise. Christian pulled him from the booth.

“You poison this holy air with your lies,” the prince said. He had Ulfeldt by the front of his robes and shook the old man hard.

“My lord, what means this? Unhand me, so please you.”

“It will please me,” Christian said. “In but a moment.” He dragged Ulfeldt away from the confessional, to the door on the north side of the chapel. I moved to follow, but Christian pointed his rapier at me and ordered me back.

“I will deal justly with this dissembling old traitor,” he said. “Fear not, Soren!”

Christian kicked the door open and pushed Ulfeldt through it, following hard upon him and closing the door. Ignoring Christian’s command, I rushed after them.

North of St. Ibb’s, the ground was given over to the graveyard. Beyond this half moon of land was a cliff, overlooking a drop of forty yards to sharp rocks at the edge of the water. Christian pulled Ulfeldt through the snowy cemetery and let the old man fall to his knees at the edge of the cliff.

“Repent of these lies,” Christian said. “My father an adulterer? Under the very roof where my mother prays? You serpent! You ancient devil! Repent of this tale!”

“My lord, you have misheard,” Ulfeldt said. “Pray let us go back to the church, and I will explain all.”

Christian set the point of his rapier against Ulfeldt’s breast. The old man looked up at the prince, his lower lip quivering, more in anger than fear, I thought. I was a few yards from them.

“Stay back, Soren,” Christian said. “This is not your affair. It is for the prince to make a reckoning of these slanders, is it not so, Ulfeldt?”

“My lord, I beg you let me rise.”

“Then rise.”

Ulfeldt stood, unfolding himself slowly upward. He had lost his cap and a cold wind stirred his hair. His head, with its fringe of white, was like a dead bloom atop a dry stem in some abandoned garden. He coughed and spread his hands before the prince.

Ulfeldt had been born under the influence of the Sun. It is well known that more people die in summer than at any other time, and this is why we know that the Sun is the star that can produce both the greatest good and the greatest evil in things here below. A man naturally well influenced by the Sun wants to be a king, bailiff, judge, or public person, so he might do much good. And so a man under the Sun’s influence has an appetite for rising to positions of honor and power and he craves all the things that can speed his ascent. It is also true that a native of the Sun is worse in his evil than others. Just as goodness and warmth give a greater craving for the common good, the great heat of his desires will give him a larger appetite for evildoing than other men.

“My lord, I am an old man.”

“Would you like to go home, old man?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Are you a christian?”

“You know I am, my lord.”

“Then Heaven is your home. You have my leave to go there, though I suspect you will find yourself in the other place.”

With that, the prince thrust the sword into Ulfeldt’s breast. Half the blade’s length passed through the old man’s shuddering body. Ulfeldt’s legs buckled and he toppled, slipping over the edge of the cliff. Christian stood alone, the sword bloody in his hand.

“Thou intruding fool,” he called over the cliff. “Farewell. You sought to abuse the ears of the kingdom, but I have stilled your tongue!”

“Christian,” I said, taking a few slow steps toward him. “What have you done?”

“Done? I know not.” He slid the bloody sword into its scabbard and kicked snow over the edge of the cliff. “It seems that Ulfeldt has fallen to his death, does it not?”

For a moment Christian and I looked unblinking into each other’s eyes. There was a noise behind us and I turned. Father Stepan and one of the Swiss soldiers had come into the cemetery.

“What news, my lord?” The Switzer looked around him, squinting in the glare off the snow. “Have you spoken with Lord Ulfeldt?”

“Aye,” Christian said. “Before the accident.”

“Accident, my lord?”

“Ulfeldt has fallen over the edge,” I said, and gestured to the spot where Christian had murdered the old man. “Not a minute ago it happened. I do not know if he is in the sea or has swum to the docks, but you should go rescue him.”

The Switzer hesitated a moment, his gaze shifting between my face and the prince’s.

“The king will be displeased if you let the lord chamberlain drown,” Christian said, and the soldier disappeared into the church. Father Stepan beckoned Christian away from the cliff and the two of them went into St. Ibb’s. I walked carefully out to the edge and looked over. At the base of the cliff Ulfeldt lay face down in the water, the waves battering his corpse against the rocks. I turned away and walked to the church. Father Stepan waited there for me, alone.

“My lord Christian bids you farewell,” he said.

“Farewell?”

“Aye. The Prince has gone to the wharf, to hire a boat which will take him home. He gives me a message for you.”

“What message?”

The priest leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

“The prince says that he would sooner trust a bawd to become a virgin than a Switzer to be a saint. Does this mean anything to you?”

“Only that the prince hath not yet learned to create good analogies, Father. Is there more?”

“Nothing more.”

I looked around the chapel. It was as dark and plain as ever.

“Father Maltar makes no concessions for Christmas,” I said.

“It is not his way. Will you come to Mass tomorrow?”

“Perhaps. For now I shall go to the wharf. Possibly the prince has not yet left the island.”

By the time I made it to the docks the Swiss had commandeered a rowboat and recovered Ulfeldt’s body. The old man was stretched out on the dock like a game fish, his eyes and mouth open. The chain of his office was missing, taken by the waves. One of Ulfeldt’s shoes was gone, and his nose was crushed. I knelt and closed his eyes and mouth, crossing his hands over the wound in his chest. Foolish old man. I wondered what would become of Vibeke without him there to protect her from the queen. The prince had done a rash and terrible thing in murdering Ulfeldt.

The Swiss had been busy with Ulfeldt and had not seen the prince come down from the church. Christian was not on the dock. He was not on the ship the Swiss had sailed from Kronberg. A few old fishermen were repairing a net at the western end of the wharf and I questioned them.

“Young man, taller than you, with fine clothes?” one of the fishers said.

“That’s him,” I said.

“I sold him one of my boats. A small one with a stepped
sail, not a quarter hour ago. He paid me ten times its worth, he did. Said he was making for Copenhagen and rowed west, then the current took him around the curve of the island. He must be sailing south e’en now.”

I gave this news to the Swiss. Jochen pushed me aside and questioned the fishers himself. He looked at the fistful of coins Christian had paid for the boat and ordered the his own ship to sail around to the southwest and intercept the prince.

They did not find him. The fishing boat Christian bought was discovered within the hour, capsized and unmanned, nearly a mile out from the island and drifting on the current. Another hour was spent searching for Christian among the waves, but he was not discovered. The waters of the Sound are cold and swiftly-flowing. It sometimes takes weeks for a drowned man to wash ashore. Frequently the body lands fifty or more miles away from where the man went into the water. The Swiss towed the fishing boat back to the wharf at Tuna and then sailed to Elsinore, taking their unhappy news with them, along with the frozen corpse of Ulfeldt, to present to the king and queen.

I was content to remain behind on the island for another day. In the fading sunlight I marched through the snow to Uraniborg. I hoped I would manage to light a fire in the stove upstairs. It was very cold.

A PRIEST WILL CLAIM THAT TO ASK THE ULTIMATE question is to wonder what God requires of us. A king will claim that the ultimate question is whether a man be truly loyal to his lord. A lover will ask if you be faithful or no. All such questions stand below the eternal question, which every philosopher endeavors to answer, the question which does not hide its face behind the mask of priest, king, or lover: what is true?

Our ancestors lived in a primitive world where every event was isolated, terrifying, and miraculous. The sun rose today, but would it rise again tomorrow? The moon sometimes showed her face and sometimes did not. Lightning fell murderously from the sky. Insects devoured a harvest one year, and the next there was an unexpected bounty. Nothing was connected, and all men feared constantly what the unknown could bring. We did not know the cosmos, and in our ignorance we peopled it with invisible gods and demons. We made blood sacrifices to appease them, but we learned nothing of the truth. For four thousand years—so Scripture tells us—did we live thus. In the fifth millennium men began to see that the cosmos was a great machine, that all was connected, that the wheel within a wheel was not just the face of God but was also the shape of reality. Intelligent men began to find answers to the proper questions and we were no longer a world of cave-dwelling beasts. Philosophy
was born, and reason with it. Philosophers do not murder each other. Priests, princes, popes, and kings keep at the slaughter because they have no habit of intellectual inquiry. They are no better than the pagans whom God drowned in the Flood, and once again such men are a plague upon the face of the Earth. I place my faith in the Ark of knowledge, and I believe that science will save man from his innate depravity. Thus have I ever bent my knee to the great men of philosophy, alchemy, astronomy, and astrology. Thus did I thrive at university and thus did I crave employment with Tycho Brahe on Hven. Tycho Brahe, I believed, did always pursue answers to the one true question. Tycho sought to reveal that which is true.