An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  On the other side of the room, Knud was having less success. Despite Larfner’s warning, his men had not reacted as quickly as had Valdemars. Larfner himself was beset by three soldiers, and was laying about with a knife in one hand and his lute in the other.

  Knud went down, a knife in his back. Sveyn stood behind him, teeth bared. The Wends from that side of the room started toward Valdemar.

  “Fall back!” yelled the Jutland King. “Make for the door.”

  His men retreated into his quarters, Gerald with them. They tried to shut the door, but the Wends were massed on the other side. Suddenly there was a discordant twang, accompanied by the splintering of wood, and Larfner pulled one of the soldiers away and pushed into the room. He, Gerald, and Valdemar managed to shove the door into place and secure the bar.

  In the great hall Sveyn picked up the treaty, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fire. Then he gestured to his men to break down the door to Valdemars quarters.

  “That door won’t hold for long,” said Valdemar as he and his men hastily threw on what armor they could.

  “Out the window, milord,” said Larfner. “We’ll hold them for a few minutes.”

  “Right,” said the King. “If you get out, make for the wharves and join us. Our thanks, gentlemen.”

  Valdemar, Esbern, Fengi, and the three other men who had made it inside went out the window. The barred door started shivering under the repeated crashes.

  The two fools looked at each other.

  “That was my favorite lute,” said Larfner. “Now, I’m angry.”

  “You’re wounded,” said Gerald suddenly, looking at a section of the other’s motley that was rapidly changing color.

  Larfner looked down at his side.

  “Strange,” he said. “When did that happen?”

  Then he sagged to the floor, still staring at the stained motley.

  Gerald felt for a pulse, then gently closed Larfner’s eyes.

  “We could have used that third fool, old friend,” he said. “No time for extreme unction. I’ll pray for you later, if I’m lucky.” He pulled Larfner’s pack from his shoulders and added it to his own, then took the knife from his hand.

  The door crashed into the room. The first Wend through took Larfner’s knife in his heart. The next two went down under two quick blows from Gerald’s staff. As the rest stumbled over the bodies, Gerald ran to the window, hurling his staff ahead of him. Then he dove through, somersaulting in midair and landing on his feet. He picked up his staff and ran north.

  He heard a commotion from a nearby street, and veered toward it. Up ahead of him, Valdemars party was backed against a warehouse wall, weapons up, surrounded by a squad of Wends wielding axes. Gerald rammed his staff into the back of the neck of the nearest, tripped up two more, and picked up an ax from the ground. Emboldened by his arrival, the Jutlanders attacked. Within a minute, the Wends had fled, leaving nine of their number on the ground.

  Valdemar looked at Gerald, who had accounted for two more during the fighting.

  “Your friend?” he asked.

  “Dead,” replied Gerald.

  “He died well,” said Valdemar.

  “Not if they catch you,” said Gerald. “Make haste, milord.”

  “Come with us,” urged Valdemar.

  “I have no other choice,” said Gerald.

  They ran to the wharves, then pulled up short. Valdemars boat had been seized, his crew taken.

  “That’s not good,” said Fengi.

  “Well, there’s six of us,” said Valdemar. “Seven, counting the fool. Let’s grab that small boat over there.”

  “Rowing,” sighed Esbern as they climbed into it. “I do detest rowing.”

  “It’s better than dying,” said the King as he cut loose the ropes. “Pull for the open sea.”

  They stayed to the far side of the harbor, hoping to sneak out under the cover of darkness. The alarum was sounded as they were some two hundred yards from shore, and a cluster of torches moved onto a larger boat. But it remained at its wharf.

  “Wonder why they aren’t following us,” said Fengi.

  “Well, no matter,” said Valdemar. “Considerate of Sveyn to wait until we were done eating before he attacked. At least we’ll have enough strength to get out of here. I wish we had some stars to steer by.”

  “Milord, I think I know why they aren’t following us,” Gerald began with a sinking feeling.

  Then, the storm hit.

  Five

  “You cannot speak of reason to the Dane,

  And lose your voice."

  —Hamlet, Act I, Scene II

  Slesvig—Fyn, 1157 A.D.

  They had captured him when he was young. He didn’t remember much about the trip north, just a vague memory of being blindfolded and taken onto a boat. They landed after two days at sea, and he was bound and put on a wagon. Throughout the journey, he had but a single thought in his mind: home.

  He spent most of his time behind bars. On the rare occasions when they allowed him in the courtyard to exercise, they would blindfold him again and tie a rope to one of his legs so that he couldn’t escape.

  Then one day, without explanation, they took him out without a blindfold and without a rope. He immediately thought of flight, and waited for a moment when their attention was lax. Then he took off without a second thought.

  They did not pursue him. They stood there watching, almost as if they had expected him to do what he was doing.

  He didn’t know where he was, but his instincts shouted south. He took his bearings from the morning sun and headed in that direction. He was weak. His muscles were unused to this much exertion. He stopped when he safely could, stole moments of sleep, foraged for what food and water he could find undetected.

  Finally, the landscape began to look familiar. Then the long, narrow fjord opened up in front of him. There was an island at its western end that he knew was his destination. He was exhausted, and there was something wrong with his leg, but with one final surge of energy he made it onto the island. His family was there, overjoyed to see him after having given him up for good. A man came in, patted his head, and fiddled with his leg for a moment. It felt normal again. They gave him food, and although he was once again behind walls, his heart surged within his breast because he was home again, and that was the most important thing in the world.

  * * *

  Gorm unrolled the tiny scroll that the carrier pigeon had brought him from his spies in Roskilde. He read it, grunted with surprise, and rushed to find Ørvendil.

  From a discreet distance, Terence watched him. He had been trying for several days to devise a way of reading the scrolls before the drost started his daily rounds. The pigeon coop was on top of Gorm’s quarters, accessible by a ladder. Unfortunately, this meant that it was visible from just about every watchpost on the island.

  Terence sighed, then looked down as something tugged on his hand. Amleth was by his side, looking up at him solemnly.

  “Have you been there long?” exclaimed Terence. The boy nodded. “Well, my friend, that was most excellent sneakery. I never even heard you come up. Show me how you did that.”

  Amleth, delighted to have a skill that Terence didn’t, demonstrated his tiptoeing, giggling as the fool tried it, tripped, and fell headlong.

  “Not like that?” asked Terence from the ground.

  Amleth shook his head. The fool held out his hand for the boy to pull him to his feet.

  “All right,” said Terence. “Itou teach me how to do that, and I will show you something in exchange. Let’s try it over there.” He pointed to Ørvendil’s quarters, which Gorm had just entered.

  The drost climbed the steps inside and knocked softly on the door.

  “What is it?” came the voice of Ørvendil.

  “It’s me, milord,” Gorm whispered.

  “Can it wait?” said Ørvendil.

  “It’s urgent news, milord,” said Gorm. “From Roskilde.”

  There was a rus
tle of clothing, then the door opened and Ørvendil stood in front of him, looking disheveled.

  “What?” he said.

  “Milord,” began Gorm, then he stopped and gawked as he saw the nude form of Gerutha as she slid her gown on.

  Ørvendil glanced behind him, then chuckled.

  “The fool was right,” he said.

  “The fool, milord?” said Gorm in confusion.

  “Never mind. What is so important that you must interrupt my slumbers?”

  “Begging your pardon, milord, and milady,” stammered the drost. “I received word from my man in Roskilde. The whole city is talking of it. King Sveyn has killed the other two kings.”

  “What?” exclaimed Ørvendil as Gerutha, now dressed, came up to join him. “How?”

  “By treachery, milord, and violation of all that is holy. He invited them to dinner to celebrate a duly signed treaty, and had his men attack them.”

  “And he killed them both there?” wondered Ørvendil. He began pacing in the tiny room.

  “Actually, he only killed Knud there,” said Gorm.

  Ørvendil stopped. “What happened to Valdemar?” he snapped.

  “He fought his way clear with a handful of men, but his boat had been taken. He tried to escape in a small boat, but a fierce storm blew up. There was no sign of him after that, but no one could have survived it, according to my man.”

  “No one but Valdemar,” said Ørvendil. “Best seaman I ever saw. It would be easier to drown a fish than to capsize him.”

  “I am of your mind, milord,” said Gorm.

  “Was my brother with him?” asked Ørvendil, looking away for a moment.

  “I do not know, milord,” said Gorm. “I’ve heard nothing otherwise.”

  “If Valdemars alive, then he’s on the run,” said Gerutha. “Where will he go?”

  Ørvendil looked at his drost.

  “You’re Valdemar, you have no men, and the King is on your tail. Where would you go?”

  “Here,” said Gorm simply.

  Ørvendil nodded. “My thinking as well. Then we shall have to be ready for him.”

  He turned suddenly and strode over to the window. He looked out to see Terence standing just under it, teaching Amleth the rudiments of juggling with three silk handkerchiefs that wafted slowly in the air.

  Amleth looked up and saw his father. He waved merrily. Terence turned and called, “Good day, milord. The boy shows promise. We’ll make a fool out of him yet.”

  “A worthy ambition,” replied Ørvendil. “Keep at it, son.”

  He turned back to his wife and Gorm.

  “We will speak of this further,” he said. “I’m going to inspect the outer walls. We’re vulnerable from several directions now. I don’t want to make a move until I know what’s become of Valdemar.”

  * * *

  “Does anyone,” asked Valdemar moodily, “have the slightest idea where we are?”

  They had made it through the storm, rowing and bailing without cease as the waves sent them soaring and crashing. Somehow, they had kept the boat from capsizing, but they had been carried into the open sea. It was two days after their escape from Roskilde, and they had yet to see a trace of land or a navigable star. The sun had finally emerged from the banks of clouds that had so recently attacked them, and the Jutlanders squinted and peered at the horizon.

  “We’ve come south, I think,” said Fengi. “Judging by the sun, anyway.

  “There’s something to the west,” called Esbern, pointing. “I can’t see if it’s island or mainland.”

  “Westward it is,” said Valdemar. “Let’s take inventory. What supplies have we?”

  Sheepishly, the men in the boat held out pouches of gold. Valdemar laughed.

  “We are rich indeed,” he said. “All we need is someplace to spend it. At least we have weapons and armor. What about water?”

  “I filled the skins while I was bailing,” said Gerald. “There’s enough.”

  He looked haggard, his makeup for the most part gone, leaving only a few white streaks on his face. The King looked at him thoughtfully.

  “You were the only one to think of that, Fool,” he said. “We were all remiss.”

  “Sometimes, when you think you are going to die, you forget what you will need if you are wrong,” said Gerald.

  “Have you any food?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “Let’s see,” said Gerald, rummaging through his pack and the one he had taken from Larfner. “Here’s a loaf of bread. Let me pass around half of that for now. And I will put the rest to good use.”

  He pulled a length of twine and a small metal hook out of his bag, then attached them to the end of his staff. He baited the hook with a morsel of bread, and dangled it over the side. A minute later he was hauling a good-sized cod into the boat.

  “Hope you like it raw,” he said, gutting it with his knife.

  “You are proving remarkably useful,” said Valdemar. “Are you ambitious?”

  “I confess to one ambition,” said Gerald.

  “Out with it.”

  “I wish to be fool to the king of all the Danes,” he said.

  “God grant your ambition, Fool,” said Valdemar with a smile.

  They ate in silence, then picked up their oars.

  “Land fall by sundown,” said the King. “Then comes the real work.”

  They made it ashore as the sun hit the far horizon, pulling the boat across the mud flats as shorebirds screamed and flapped furiously about them. When they reached higher ground, they dragged the boat into a thicket and did their best to erase their tracks. Then, to a man, they collapsed.

  “Anyone know this place?” asked the King.

  “I’m not certain, but I think somewhere on Fyn,” said Esbern. “It has the look of the eastern shore.”

  “Should we make for Odense?” asked Fengi.

  Valdemar shook his head. “Sveyn will have sent messengers out yesterday morning. Fyn is under his dominion as much as Sjælland is. If we go to Odense, our heads will be on display in the market by nightfall.”

  “Where then?” asked Fengi.

  “We could take to the water in the morning,” said Valdemar. “Head south to Slesvig. With luck, we could reach your brother before Sveyn’s messengers do.”

  “My brother will know by now,” said Fengi.

  “How?” demanded Valdemar.

  “His drost has a spy in Roskilde who sends him messages by pigeon.”

  “Does he?” mused the King. “Very interesting. Let’s assume he does know. Ørvendil is still my vassal.”

  “Of course,” said Fengi, but there was doubt in his voice.

  “Either he’s still loyal to me, or he will betray me to Sveyn,” continued the King.

  “Or he’ll take advantage of the situation to make his own bid for the throne,” said Esbern.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” protested Fengi, but without enthusiasm.

  “Do you trust your brother?” asked Valdemar.

  Fengi was silent.

  “So, there are three possibilities, and two of them are fatal to our cause,” concluded Valdemar. “Shall we hazard a throw of the dice on Slesvig?”

  “If you do not make the throw, are you still in the game?” asked Gerald.

  The others looked at him.

  “I don’t recall hearing that the fool is part of this council,” said Fengi. “The fool has saved our lives three or four times in the last two days,” said Valdemar. “He has earned the right to speak.”

  “I have a tendency to speak whether I have the right to or not,” said Gerald. “I ask you again, if you do not go to Slesvig, can you still survive?”

  The others looked at Valdemar.

  “If Slesvig is faithful, then I have the best chance of prevailing,” said the King. “If not, the rest of my forces would be caught between Sveyn on the north and Slesvig on the south. I would not do well fighting on two fronts.”

  “Then one out of three is better
odds than nothing at all,” said Gerald. “Perhaps I could weight the dice in your favor.”

  “How?” asked Valdemar.

  “This had best not involve killing my brother,” said Fengi, lurching to his feet.

  “If your brother has turned traitor, then his life is forfeit,” said Valdemar. “But as deadly as our foolish friend has proved to be, I suspect he has something else in mind.”

  “I have a friend in Slesvig,” said Gerald.

  “Let me guess,” said Valdemar. “Another fool.”

  “Yes, sire,” said Gerald. “Another fool.”

  Slowly, a grin crept across Valdemars face.

  * * *

  Four nights later, Terence helped the tapster heave the last drunken fisherman out of The Viking’s Rest, then went to his room in the back, counting his money as he walked. This was why he failed to notice the end of the staff held across his doorway at midshin.

  “Careless,” commented Father Gerald as Terence went sprawling.

  “They would make you sweep out the Guildhall for a month if they caught you like that.”

  Terence picked himself up, then held up his hand.

  “At least I didn’t drop any money,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. What’s up?”

  “What have you heard about events in Roskilde?” asked Father Gerald, sitting on the edge of Terence’s pallet. He was in monk’s garb again, the better to skulk around at night.

  “Nothing specific,” said Terence. “Gorm got a message by bird a few days ago that sent him scurrying around like a man possessed, and Ørvendil has stepped up the patrols and reinforced the garrison, but no one knows why.”

  “Any unwinged messengers come in?” asked the priest.

  “No, and I’ve been watching like a hawk,” said Terence. “What happened in Roskilde?”

  Father Gerald filled him in briefly. Terence gave a low whistle when he heard about Larfner.

  “I didn’t know the man, of course,” he said. “But Kanard spoke quite well of him. I know he’s an old friend of yours. I’m sorry, Father.”

  “So am I,” said Father Gerald. “We’ll mourn him properly when this is over. In the meanwhile I have become more actively involved than I anticipated when I last spoke to you. Despite the Guild’s admonitions, I have become one of Valdemars protectors.”