by Alan Gordon
“Three days ago in Lolland,” replied Larfner. “Very little to do with us, I’m sorry to say. The proposal came out of the blue from Sveyn’s camp. The documents have made the rounds to the others for signatures and seals, and tonight there’s going to be a celebratory dinner. With entertainment, by the way, so you and I can do some two-man work.”
“Only two?” asked Gerald. “Where’s Leif?”
“Laid up in Odense, I heard. I don’t have the details. But he and I have made one small contribution to the peace. There’s going to be a / marriage.”
“Of whom?”
“Valdemar and Sophie, that Russian half sister of Knud’s. Ever seen her?”
“Let me think,” said Gerald, frowning slightly. “Yes, I remember her.
And I remember why I didn’t want to remember her. A remarkably unpleasant woman in every aspect. Does Valdemar really want to marry her?”
“He wants the alliance,” said Larfner.
“I wonder if that’s wise under the circumstances,” mused Gerald. “The treaty would keep things balanced for a while, but if Sveyn sees this marriage as a threat…”
“I think he’ll thank Valdemar for saving him from having to marry her,” chuckled Larfner. “Anyhow, he’s as tired of this war as anyone. He would rather settle things locally than have Barbarossa summon everyone to be told what to do.”
“That didn’t work so well the last time,” remembered Gerald.
Larfner picked up a wineskin, took a swig, then offered it to Gerald.
“A bit early for that,” observed the priest.
“It’s daylight, isn’t it?” replied Larfner. “Suit yourself. What’s the new fool like?”
“Tall,” said Gerald sleepily.
“A little more information, please.”
“Extremely tall,” Gerald elaborated. “And skinny. We could plant beans by him if he was willing to stand still that long. His Danish is good, and he seems to know what he’s about. I’m sorry I didn’t know about Leif. I would have brought the new fool here. We could use three fools for three kings.”
“Ah, the two of us are worth a company of fools,” said Larfner. “Get some sleep, or I’ll have to carry the act. Not for the first time, I might add.”
“Get on with you,” grumbled Gerald. “Come by at noon and wake me, would you?”
“Very good, milord,” said Larfner, bowing until his head was looking out between his legs. He left the room in that position. A moment later there was a shriek from a maidservant downstairs. Gerald grinned and fell asleep.
* * *
Larfner returned at noon and kicked him on the hard side of gently several times until Gerald sprang to his feet, ready to wrestle the other fool to the floor. Larfner stepped back into the doorway, poised for flight.
“Think you could take me?” growled the priest.
“I could, but we both would be in wretched shape before it was over,” said Larfner. “Here’s bread and herring for you.”
The priest ate hurriedly and threw his makeup on, then put on his sandals and picked up his staff.
“We should do the Two Brothers tonight,” he said. “That’s always a good one for reconciliation.”
“Nothing combative,” agreed Larfner. “Goes against the grain, but it’s good for me to be good once in a while, just for the practice.”
They walked out into Roskilde, heading toward the center. The town itself being fortified, the King’s hall was not otherwise enclosed. It was a circular building, about twice the size of its counterpart in Slesvig, and had sleeping quarters attached on either side, with the King’s quarters in the rear.
“Knud’s on the left, and Valdemars on the right,” Larfner informed him.
“Got it,” said Gerald. “Attend your master. I’ll pay my respects to the other kings.”
He went through the door at the rear of the hall and ducked behind a tapestry into the King’s quarters. A pair of guards intercepted him, but let him pass upon seeing his face. He had spent many years cultivating relationships on every level of Roskilde, from the highest of magnates to the lowest of thralls, and he was a particular favorite of the Danish garrison in Roskilde. Sveyn Peder was seated at a low table with two of his captains. He was a tall man in his forties, with a sallow complexion broken by a livid scar on his chin. He looked up with irritation when Gerald came in.
“Where the hell have you been hiding yourself?” he demanded. “I haven’t had any entertainment in a week.”
“Visiting a relative, Your Highness,” said Gerald, bowing. “A song, sir? Something to lighten the mood?”
“My mood is fine,” snapped the King. “Go play for our guests until dinner. Keep them out of my hair.”
“Very good, milord,” said Gerald. “I shall be here during dinner as well.”
“No surprise. I never knew you to miss a free meal,” said Sveyn. “Get out of here.”
Having expected this reception, Gerald sought out Valdemar. The Jutland king was twenty-six, powerfully built, with flaxen hair and eyes the color of the sea. He looked at the fool with delight as he entered.
“Look, everyone, it’s what’s his name, Gerald,” he said to the two men with him. “Come to juggle for us?”
“If that’s what you wish, milord,” replied Gerald, bowing. “My heartfelt felicitations on this occasion of peace, if I may be so bold. A great day for Denmark.”
“Let us hope so,” replied Valdemar. “Do you know these fellows, Fool?”
“I recognize the one by your side,” said Gerald, marking a slender, spry-looking man. “Esbern the Quick, is it not?”
“Esbern Hvide to you, Fool,” said Esbern.
“Of course, sir,” said Gerald. “Well met, young Esbern. How is your family?”
“They are well, thank you, Fool,” replied Esbern. “My brother Axel is back from Paris.”
“Is he here?” asked Gerald. “I would enjoy seeing him again. His conversations are always on such a high plane that I end up dizzy after them. Has he finished his studies?”
“Finished, and entered the priesthood,” said Esbern. “Before, he was just an annoying brother, but now he’s become quite the sanctimonious pain in the ass.”
“He already has his sights set on a bishopric,” laughed Valdemar. “I told him he’s not old enough yet. Do you know what he said?”
“That you’re not old enough to be a king?” guessed Gerald. Valdemar roared with laughter, joined by the others.
“But, good sir,” said Gerald, turning to the third man. “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure. I am Gerald the Fool.”
“Fengi of Slesvig,” said the other man. He was short and remarkably hairy. There was something about the glowering eyes that reminded Gerald of someone.
“I know who you are,” he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “’You’re Ørvendil’s brother. You look like him done in miniature.”
“Bastard of a fool,” muttered Fengi as the other two laughed.
“He makes up for his stature with his greatness of heart,” said Valdemar, throwing his arm around him. “I would rather have him at my side on a battlefield than any man I have met. He has saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“Then welcome, milord,” said Gerald. “I do not apologize for my jibes, for they are how a fool shows respect, as well as how he makes his living. But let me perform nonverbally for you.”
“What can you do with that?” asked Valdemar, pointing to the staff. “This?” replied Gerald, spinning it rapidly with his right hand. “Anything I like. Observe.”
He kept it spinning as he passed it from hand to hand, then behind his back. He then placed it upright on the hard clay floor. He put his right hand on top and grabbed it firmly in the middle with his left, then jumped lightly, ending upside down in midair, supporting himself with the pole. He breathed in, exhaled, then pushed up with his right hand so that he was now balanced in a one-hand stand, his feet pressed against the ceiling.
&nb
sp; Valdemar and Esbern clapped, while Fengi nodded approvingly.
“Can you fight with that?” he asked as Gerald dropped back to the floor.
“If I had to,” said Gerald. “Generally, it comes in handy deflecting thrown vegetables, which means I have used it far too often.”
Fengi took a knife out of his belt. “Could you block a thrown knife?”
“If I saw it coming, yes,” replied Gerald calmly. “It’s just like a thrown carrot, only sharper. Care to essay a throw?”
“Put up your weapon,” commanded Valdemar. “We don’t want to damage our host’s property.”
“Oh, I am no man’s property but my own,” said Gerald. “I am a free fool. If I choose to have a warrior’s knife thrown at me, then it is a fool’s choice.”
He stood facing Fengi, holding the staff vertically with both hands near the middle, separated slightly.
Fengi weighed his knife for a moment, looking at Gerald, then put it back in his belt.
“I don’t know whether you’re a brave man or a foolish one,” he said. “There’s a fine line between the two,” said Gerald. “In the heat of battle, it can be crossed many times in either direction. Let us hope that no man will have to put it to the test again in our lifetimes.”
“Amen,” said Valdemar. “I believe that was adequate entertainment for now. Give us leave, good Fool, and we will see you again at dinner.”
“Thank you, milords,” replied Gerald, catching the penny tossed to him by Esbern.
He wandered around the great hall, where the tables and benches were being set up by the serving thralls around a central fireplace. He paced the distance between the central fireplace and the tables, rehearsing routines in his mind for the space available. Each king would be at his own table, with Sveyn Peder at the rear and the two visitors by their respective guest quarters. He took three clubs from his pack and ran through some juggling maneuvers, marking where he needed to stand to gain the higher parts of the slanted roof while avoiding the crossbeams. The thralls stopped their labors for a moment to watch him until a soldier came in and barked at them.
Gerald, not wishing to cause the thralls any more trouble, nodded at the soldier and wandered outside, noting with approval that Valdemars men were chatting amiably with the ones who had come with Knud.
He decided to walk about the town until it was time for him to perform again. At the wharves, he marked the boats of the two kings, guarded warily by their crews who spent half their time watching each other and the other half watching the skies.
Gerald looked up at the clouds gathering in the distance. There’s going to be a storm later, he thought. He turned back toward the King’s hall, wondering if he should try to wangle a bed for the night there rather than trudge through the rain back to his room. A pair of soldiers passed him, wearing Sveyn’s colors, but speaking Slavic.
“Wends,” muttered Gerald in disdain. “What are they doing here?” Then he pondered that question more seriously. “Why would Sveyn Peder have Wends in Roskilde when he’s trying to make peace?” he said to himself.
He followed the pair, reaching into his bag for his lute. They turned before reaching the King’s hall and entered a nearby building. Gerald took a deep breath, and leapt through the doorway, announcing his presence with a mighty strum.
Startled soldiers leapt to their feet, reaching for weapons. Gerald stilled them with another chord, and proclaimed in Danish, “Greetings, friends. Your King has sent me to entertain you for the afternoon. What shall I sing for you?”
A group conferred with each other hastily, then one stepped forward.
“No one invited you here,” he said in heavily accented Danish.
“No one invites me anywhere,” replied Gerald. “But I promise you that by the time I have finished singing, you’ll be begging me to stay.”
“Do you know any songs in our language?” asked the soldier curiously.
“I am afraid that I do not speak your language,” said Gerald. “But I could sing you something in Danish or German if you would like. Or would you prefer juggling?”
“We would prefer that you get the hell out,” said the soldier, and a few of the others chuckled in agreement.
“Very good, milords,” said Gerald, bowing low. He turned and left.
He lurked outside a window, trying to pick up snatches of conversation. Despite his protestations, he spoke fluent Slavic, but kept that to himself. He learned nothing useful, and it was getting toward dinnertime, so he hied himself back to the King’s hall.
Larfner was already at work, strolling about the hall playing his lute. He raised an eyebrow at Gerald, who joined in from the other side of the hall. The two fools sauntered to the center of the room by the fireplace.
“Anything amiss?” asked Larfner.
“Nothing in particular,” said Gerald. “When do the festivities begin?”
“They’re waiting for the Archbishop to show up and bless everything,” said Larfner.
“Eskil’s come all the way from Lund?”
“No, apparently he was in Roskilde already. The Bishop here has been ailing, and Eskil wanted to make sure the local magnates don’t put in someone loyal to them and not to Rome.”
“Well, he’s … wait, they’re coming in.”
It had been agreed that the three kings would enter the hall simultaneously so as not to assert any claim to superiority. In actuality, although the three doors were flung open by the serving thralls at the same time, Valdemar and Knud were the ones who came into the hall, accompanied by their men. As all eyes turned toward the rear of the hall, Sveyn Peder made his entrance, Archbishop Eskil of Lund at his side. Knud looked troubled by the apparent endorsement of his rival by the Church, while Valdemar smiled, amused by the petty display.
Sveyn held his arms out to the assembled diners.
“Good friends, my brother kings, you are welcome in Roskilde,” he said. “Our responsibilities are great, and our burdens heavy. Let this night mark the easing of our spirits, the removal of care and woe, the lifting of the dark cloud of war from our great lands. Gentlemen, I ask His Holiness to give a benediction.”
Eskil stepped forward. “In the name of the Holy Father, I bless this union of former rivals. Let peace come to us all, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“I thank our host and His Holiness,” said Knud. “And I have one more piece of joy to bring to the table. I am pleased to announce that my sister, Sophie, is betrothed to my brother king, Valdemar. May the joining of our two families mirror the reconciliation of all the Danes.”
“I thank you, my brother,” replied Valdemar courteously. “For so I must call you now with all my heart.”
“Well,” said Sveyn. “Such tidings are ever welcome. Our feast is thrice blessed. Let it begin.”
Goblets were lifted and toasts drunk, and the fools began to perform in earnest. The serving thralls moved in and out of the room, bringing heaping plates of stew and bread, keeping the ale flowing freely.
Gerald and Larfner finished the Two Brothers to applause from all sides, and stepped over to a side table near Valdemars group to partake of what was set out for them.
“A happy room, I think,” said Larfner. “It’s going quite well. I told you that we could get by without Leif.”
“Did you see Sveyn’s face when Knud announced the marriage?” chuckled Gerald. “He hadn’t a clue that that was in the works. You’re right, I think he was relieved.”
He put down his cup and slung his bag around to the front to pull out his juggling clubs. As he did so, one of the serving thralls collided with him.
“I beg your pardon, good sir,” said Gerald jovially.
The thrall shot him a nasty glance, then looked back down at the floor and walked off. Gerald felt a chill run through his body as he saw the man’s face. He glanced about the room at the other servants.
“Still think the two of us are enough?” he asked Larfner softly. “What are you
talking about?” asked Larfner.
“The serving thralls,” said Gerald. “I know every one of them, and none of them is here. They’ve been replaced by Wend mercenaries. Are two fools enough to face a company of Wends?”
Larfner looked around the room, doing a quick count.
“There’s at least twenty of them,” he said. “We have to warn the kings. I’ll take Knud.”
He struck up a tune and ambled toward the far side of the room. Gerald casually took up his staff that was leaning against the wall, then walked along the sideboard until he was behind Valdemar. He leaned forward.
“Be on your guard, milord,” he muttered. “This is a trap.”
Valdemars expression never changed, but he quietly loosened his sword in its scabbard and shifted his stool back from the table.
Gerald was about to alert Valdemars companions when he saw the Wend who had confronted him earlier in the day. Now, he was approaching with a platter of freshly baked loaves of bread.
The knife on the tray looked much sharper than a bread knife.
Gerald stepped toward him, sliding the end of his staff in front of the Wends feet. The soldier tripped, the platter went flying. Gerald caught the knife.
“I believe you lost this,” he said in Slavic, holding it away from him.
“I have another,” snarled the Wend, reaching for his waist.
Gerald brought his staff up into the man’s groin, then stepped forward and felled him with a blow to the head with the haft of the knife.
“Milords, save yourselves!” he shouted as the disguised soldiers rushed into the room.
Valdemar was already up, throwing his cloak over the head of an onrushing soldier. He grabbed his stool and broke it on the man’s skull. Esbern was up, sword drawn, as were the rest of Valdemars men.
Gerald threw his knife into the throat of the nearest Wend, then suddenly lunged forward. A dagger hurled from the center of the room stuck in the end of his staff, inches from Fengi’s chest. Fengi shot a look of appreciation toward the fool, then picked up his stool with his left hand and used it as an improvised shield.