The Astrologer (5 page)

Nearing the top of the stairs, I saw the glow of lamplight and I heard whispering. I rounded the final corner of the ascent
to find myself face to face with one of the elite Swiss guards, who stood on the landing with sword in hand.

“Who’s there?”

“Friend to this ground,” I said. “Soren Andersmann, royal astronomer and member of the king’s war party.”

“Long live the king!”

“Long live the king.”

We looked at each other a moment. This man was not the night watch, else he would have been outside, looking for enemies on the land or sea. No, he was acting as sentry for someone. The whispering, which came from beyond the open door at the Swiss’s back, continued. I could not make out how many, or whose, voices I heard. I took a step toward the door and the soldier raised his sword.

“Nay, sir. Thou shalt not pass.”

“I wish only to take in the air and look upon the moon. As part of my duties as royal astrologer.”

“There are three other towers for stargazing.”

Impudent foreigner. Setting aside my curiosity about who was out there, I had every right to make a study of the heavens from atop a castle tower. Still, whatever umbrage I could muster would neither convince nor disarm the guard. I listened hard to the whispering for a few more seconds and then descended the stairs after favoring the Swiss with what was intended to be a withering expression. Any baboon can swing a sword. I am a man who has studied the very blueprint of God’s mind. Likely the Swiss thought me only pouting at him; there is no ferocity in my looks.

Eventually I came to possess a room key and the vague advice that my chamber was on the east side of the castle, near the stable. God only knew where my traveling trunk had been stored. I put off solving either of these mysteries when I saw the general movement of men and servants toward the dining hall. King Christian’s welcome feast was about to begin. Thank the saints, I thought, for I was ravenous.

THE BANQUET HALL WAS LONG, NARROW, AND DARK, the floor laid with white and red tiles, the walls hung with dull, ugly tapestries a hundred years old. A fireplace blazed at each end of the room. Sixty men followed the king into the hall and found places down the length of the immense table, seating themselves by rank. I watched Straslund move from chair to chair away from the king as men of higher estate took his place and forced him ever down the table until at last he sat at the very end with the priest, the surgeon, and me. Straslund gave me a disdainful look and immediately began a conversation with the man who sat to my left, Fritz Torstensson. This was one of Straslund’s cousins, who had ridden up from Copenhagen that afternoon. Torstensson and I had studied law together at Wittenberg. I had hoped to have a word with him, but it was clear that Straslund claimed Torstensson as his own for this banquet.

I turned my attention to the table. It was laid with much simpler fare than one finds at Copenhagen, but to the chamberlain’s credit the food was plentiful. Beef roasted rare, hens baked golden brown, and lamb shanks smothered in mushrooms were lined before the guests alongside platters of boiled onions and spinach with lemons, loaves of bread, and plates of herring; a trencher of fried eels was brought out for
the king. There was a jar of Rhenish for every four men, and servants stood by with even more.

King Christian sat at the head of the table, his son to his right, and then a dozen Danish generals. Opposite them sat the advisors and other noblemen, Ulfeldt in the middle of their rank, sitting prideful and tall in his black robes, bony arms flapping in his sleeves like a cormorant or a great skinny bat. At the king’s left hand was Sir Tristram, the commander of the castle, Master of the Oresund and Collector of the royal shipping tax. Tristram was an old man with a gray head, a large, round belly, and a leg made lame by gout. He had known my family, though I had not seen him in a long time. The years had not been gentle with Tristram, and it was difficult to look upon this bloated, faded man and recall the blond giant on whose back I had ridden in my father’s garden, the young knight rearing and whinnying like a mad horse to my childish delight. Now more a civil servant than a soldier, Tristram was known as “Sir Tollbooth” by the people of Elsinore. Sir Tollbooth nodded at something the king said, laughed loud, and then beat his fist on the tabletop. The sound carried over the hall and conversation stopped. All eyes turned to Tristram. He stood, slowly and with some effort, and lifted his goblet. Every man but the king took to his feet and raised a cup.

“Majesty, we welcome you back to your fortress of Kronberg,” Tristram said, and he did not pause for another breath for what seemed a quarter of an hour, congratulating the king on his victory over Gustavus and wishing the royal family the best of health and the wisdom of God and I know not what else. At long last, Tristram finished his speech and we all drank to King Christian. Tristram barely touched his wine, I noted, while the rest of us drained our cups and scrambled to refill them. As he took his seat, Tristram brushed away a tear and the king clapped him on the back. One of the royal advisors seated by Ulfeldt stood next to salute the king. He was followed by another noble, and then another, and then more speeches were
made by a few generals, and for nearly half an hour we stood drinking Denmark’s health.

“Enough,” the king said. “You flatter a hungry man too much while his supper grows cold before his eyes. We accept your congratulations, lords and gentlemen, so let us feast! But bring me more wine, and more for all! Come, more wine!”

I sat, a bit lightheaded from all the Rhenish, and set to on the feast. The priest next to me did not call for a benediction before the meal, but instead reached past me to drag the bread bowl nearer his own plate. The sounds of men tearing at roasted carcasses, chewing on flesh, cracking bones to suck out marrow, smacking their lips, and belching filled the room. Nostalgia swept over me for the feasts Tycho had given at Uraniborg. The rafters had shaken with laughter and the air had been alive as great ideas flew in all directions, Tycho debating fine points of cosmology with his assistants and tossing up hypotheses to be batted about like tennis balls. Those nights were contests where a man strove hard to challenge his imagination and the imaginations of his fellows. The king’s feast was a mere challenge to digestion and endurance against strong drink. The conversation was loud, but it was empty and dull. Generals talked of war and battles fought in their youth, councilors droned about taxes and harvests, while the lesser officers and gentlemen flattered their betters and lied about themselves. I became drowsy.

Straslund was deep in his cups and by the end of the second hour had pushed the trencher aside to lay his head upon his crossed arms and so sleep at the table. Such behavior, even more than his general uselessness, kept Straslund clear of any danger of a court appointment. One did not expect reward for drowsing at the king’s table.

Torstensson turned from his cousin and laid a hand on my arm.

“I began to think he’d talk all night. How do you, Soren?”

“I am well, Fritz. We must speak.”

“Later. We will walk the ramparts. I’ve not viewed Elsinore
from the castle in years and I will not pass the opportunity by. Even at night, the town must seem quite charming from this hill.”

“I have seen Elsinore at night many times before.”

“Your home town no longer charms you after you’ve seen so many finer places.”

“Elsinore is a walled fishing village in the shadow of an old fort, nothing more.”

“The same old contempt. I am happy that you change as little as does timeless Elsinore. Will you visit your father now you’ve come back?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“It would do you good.”

Straslund awoke and reeled back in his chair. He pawed at the table, knocking over his empty goblet. I believe Straslund was born under Gemini, but it was often joked that his mother had discovered him wrapped in swaddling under the sign of a wine merchant.

“Damn it! More wine! Long live him, eh?” His words were slurred and heavy, a drunken blur, and after a moment Straslund’s eyes slid shut and he slumped forward onto the table again, his hair falling into a tray of herring.

“My cousin is greatly vexed with you,” Torstensson said. “He claims you would murder him.”

“Knud is not valuable enough to murder.”

“He is not. Though my aunt and uncle seem to love him well enough.”

“One cannot choose one’s family.”

“Perhaps not.” Torstensson looked up the table. “I think the king will give a speech now.”

“At last.” We were all weary after the day and to cut the banquet short would offend none.

The king took to his feet and waved us all to remain seated. For a moment he was silent, looking one by one into the face of each man there, scowling at the sleeping head of Straslund when he came to our end of the table.

Christian son of Rorik had been born under the sign of the planet Jupiter, which accident of nativity had ever conferred luck upon him. Jupiter was further conjoined in square with Uranus, long guaranteeing the king’s particular success on the battlefield. It had often been said of Christian that he had been bred to be a soldier, and the heavens did seem to agree. Many are the crowned heads of Europe ruled by Jupiter. Those born in mighty Jove’s influence are ruled by fire and are tempestuous, vainglorious, loving of honor and honors, and holding to the rule of law. But the heat of Jupiter softened the substance of the king’s imagination to make him forgetful and dependent much upon custom, for innovation requires a harder, dryer organ of thinking. He was a simple man and there was never any mystery to him.

The king coughed into his fist, spat on the floor behind him, and then addressed us.

“Our cousin Gustavus, Earl of Jutland, was a traitor,” he said. “Gustavus was related by blood to many in the privy council and most of the nobility. He was cousin to half the men at this table. He was a traitor not just to our throne, but to the blood of his family and to the very blood of Denmark.”

The assembled nobles sounded their agreement. Those men most closely related to Gustavus condemned him with the loudest voices. Ulfeldt leaned forward, raising a hand.

“My lord, Gustavus was caught up by the very ecstasy of arrogance, whose violent property fordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings as oft as any passion under heaven that does afflict our natures. It made him into a madman.”

“Aye, Ulfeldt, a madman indeed! Who but a madman scorns his own family? Who but a madman points a naked sword at the heart of a king who rules by the will of God alone? Our cousin was mad, and though our forces now occupying Aalborg have broken Gustavus’s army, this madman has some like-minded allies who would contest against the will of God and against our royal will. Denmark hath yet more blood to cast away, and those allies of Gustavus are not yet all known to us.”

“Nay, my lord, but by my soul I shall find them all out!”

“Aye, Ulfeldt, we believe you will, for if aught be true, you shall know of it as always. And these treacherous men shall rue the hour of their discovery.”

A chorus of growls erupted from the menagerie of generals. The king continued, shaking a heavy fist in the air.

“We are burned up with wrath over this treason, and we suffer a rage that nothing can calm, nothing but blood, the blood of all these our enemies. It is the curse of kings in our present day to be served by slaves who take their whims for a warrant, who wink at the laws, ignore authority, and place themselves above all that holds our kingdom together. There roam across our Denmark murderers who would usurp us, who would put poison in our ears, serpents in our bed, a knife in our back. Spies and assassins, my lords, afoot on my Denmark!”

I held my breath. Who did he mean?

“Therefore let all know our plans,” the king said, drawing his dagger and holding it out before him over the table, as if he were displaying a holy relic. “For now we have moved our royal capitol to Elsinore, and our court here, to Kronberg. The queen and her attendants have been sent for, and we shall stay in this remote fortress until the scourge of Gustavus’s unlucky rebellion has been cleansed from our soil. We know that agents of this treason are even now in Copenhagen, so none allied to us is safe there. All of you here shall remain with us in Kronberg during this temporary state of war.”

The king spoke on for some time longer, fueled by wine, the heat of his anger, and the pleasure a monarch always has at the noise he makes among men who will not disagree with him. King Christian spoke of Denmark’s purity, her simplicity and simple faith, the trust he himself placed in Denmark’s traditions, in the Church and in God. I confess that toward the end of his speech I scarce listened. The king would keep me prisoner with him while he hid away in Kronberg. Well, he could die here as easily as he could die in Copenhagen.

The king sheathed his dagger and lifted his goblet. His voice echoed through the hall.

“Look around you, lads. Get used to your new home in this time of crisis. From here we shall sweep across our land and purify her. To Denmark!”

We scrambled to our feet and joined him, drinking the health of the nation.

“Enough of this feasting. There is much to be done now. Bernardo and Ulfeldt, come with us. Good night, the rest of you, my lords and gentlemen.”

We bowed as the king turned and swaggered from the hall, his Swiss general and Ulfeldt at his heels. Some of the remaining men took their seats and called for more wine or picked at half-eaten dishes of meat. Others drifted out to discover their chambers or talk privately by twos or threes. Torstensson took my elbow.

“Come,” he said.

It was cold outside and we pulled our furs close about our heads. My fingers and toes began turning to ice the moment we were out of the castle. I complained of it as I followed Torstensson up the stone steps to the platform along the battlement.