by Alan Gordon
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.
Ørvendil walked up to the drost and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to send him staggering.
“Gorm, my friend,” he said, “we are going to find you a woman.” He walked away, leaving the drost standing with his mouth hanging open.
* * *
Gerutha was tending her flower garden in the rear of the compound, pruning a pair of rosebushes that cowered by the palisade. She looked up in surprise as her husband, who rarely came to the garden, strode up, grinning like a maniac.
“I like this fool,” he said. “He gives better advice than many a university-educated sage. Tell me, my Queen. Have you any unmarried cousins?”
“Let me think,” said Gerutha, putting down her blade. “Signe still lacks a husband. She is my mother’s cousin Harald’s daughter.”
“From outside of Flensburg,” remembered Ørvendil. “Skinny, with ratty hair.”
“A cruel but accurate description,” said Gerutha. “She must be about seventeen now.”
“Yet unmarried?”
“Yes,” said Gerutha. “She has always been a little odd. She kept to herself as a child. She never liked decent society.”
“Perfect,” said Ørvendil. “Send for her immediately.”
“Very well, husband,” said Gerutha. “I take it that you have found a suitable husband for her.”
“Gorm,” said Ørvendil.
“Gorm,” said Gerutha thoughtfully. “Yes, that just might work. You realize, of course, that this will make him family.”
“The better to bind him to us,” replied Ørvendil. “Good. Now, where’s Amleth?”
“Having a nap,” said Gerutha. “He should be waking about now.” Ørvendil walked to their quarters, a two-story building with one small room on each floor.
“Amleth?” he called softly.
The boy appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He looked up to see his father and flinched.
My son fears me, thought Ørvendil.
He did not want that. He looked down at the quivering shape of his son, and held out his hand.
“I understand that you have a new ball,” he said gently. “May I see it?”
Amleth slowly reached into his pouch and produced the ball his new friend Yorick had given him. Resigned to never seeing it again, he handed it to his father.
Ørvendil inspected it carefully as Amleth watched, the boy’s eyes never leaving the ball.
“Sit down,” commanded his father abruptly.
Amleth looked at him in confusion, wondering what strange behavior was called for.
“Sit,” repeated his father. To illustrate, he plopped down on the path before his son, his legs spread in a vee before him.
Slowly, carefully, Amleth sat on the ground opposite his father.
“Legs like mine,” said Ørvendil.
Amleth, beginning to think his father mad, copied him.
Ørvendil took the ball and rolled it to his son, the ball coming up against the boy’s right thigh. Amleth looked at the ball suspiciously, searching for any sign of betrayal. But the ball just sat there, resting against his leg. He leaned forward and grabbed it.
“Good,” said Ørvendil, applauding. “Now, roll it back to me.”
The boy hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Ørvendil assured him. “Yau’ll get it back. I promise it you.
Amleth rolled the ball to his father, who plucked it from the ground and sent it rolling back.
Amleth smiled. Ørvendil smiled back.
Gerutha rounded the corner, a basket of flowers in her hand. She stopped and watched in pleased astonishment as her husband and son sat in the dirt as equals, rolling a painted wooden ball back and forth, back and forth.
Four
“Beware of entrance to a quarrel.”
—Hamlet, Act I, Scene III
Roskilde, 1151 A.D.
A priest walked behind a hedge on the outskirts of Flensburg. A minute later a jester walked out, an oaken staff in his hand, the priest’s cassock folded neatly and packed inside his bag.
At the wharves, he took passage on a German cog that was leaving for Sjælland. The crew negotiated the straits between Langeland and Lolland with ease born of long practice, and put in at Vordingborg. He left them on merry terms and walked briskly to the northern road.
Two days later, walking a little less briskly, he reached the moat and earthenwork wall enclosing Roskilde. The city was about three times the size of Slesvig, surrounding a bustling harbor at the southern end of a
wide fjord. Already there had been talk of building a new cathedral to handle the burgeoning population, awaiting only some resolution to the long civil war that had sapped the riches of the island. In the meanwhile, watchtowers lined the coast, ready to ignite the bonfires that would signal the approach of a hostile navy.
Gerald kept a room on the second floor of a boardinghouse at the eastern end of the city. He arrived there shortly after sunrise, having walked through the night. As he came to his doorway, he was mildly irritated to hear someone snoring inside.
Noiselessly, he entered to find another fool stretched out on his pallet, the source of the snores. Smiling, Gerald carefully extended his staff until the end was about to poke the sleepers nose. Suddenly the other fool grabbed the staff and wrenched it out of Geralds hands.
“Just because you consider yourself the master of stealth doesn’t mean I don’t know when you are there,” said the fool. Then he opened his eyes and grinned.
“Larfner, would you mind heaving your wretched carcass out of my bed?” said Gerald. “I need it more than you do at the moment.”
“Debatable, considering how much I had to drink last night,” said his colleague, but he complied, rolling across the room. He was a robust, stocky man in his mid-forties, and wore a motley favoring patches of brown and green.
Gerald lay down with a sigh, peeling off his sandals and wiggling his toes. Larfner watched him with disgust.
“Truly, you have the ugliest feet known to mankind,” he said. “It’s a wonder that you can pass for human. Hunters crossing your trail must think they’ve found some forgotten monster of yore.”
“They get me from one place to another, and that’s all that I ask of them,” said Gerald. “What are you doing in Roskilde? You’re supposed to be with King Knud.”
“And so I am,” said Larfner. “He is in Roskilde.”
Gerald sat up in alarm. “What’s happening?” he asked. “Is he allying with Sveyn against Valdemar? Damn you, man, how could you have let that happen?”
“There’s an alliance,” said Larfner. “But of all three of them. They’ve finally agreed to the treaty.”
“Have they at last?” exclaimed Gerald. “Then praise the First Fool, Our Savior. Brilliant work, my friend. When did this miracle come about?”