An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “Where is he now?”

  “In a monastery about five miles from here, along with Ørvendil’s brother Fengi and three men. Esbern the Quick is living up to his name by running north to rally the troops and bring his family’s power into play. But the key to success may be right here in Slesvig. If the King comes here, will he live through the night?”

  Terence frowned.

  “I haven’t been here that long,” he said. “But if I was a betting man, I would say yes.”

  Father Gerald seized the fool’s hand, covering the coins in it.

  “Bet,” he commanded.

  “Maybe I could level the field first,” said Terence. “Do you want to stay here?”

  “No, I need to report back,” said Father Gerald. “I will return tomorrow night.”

  He opened the shutters and peeped outside, then climbed through the window

  “Where shall we meet?” asked Terence.

  “I’ll find you,” said the priest as he vanished into the night.

  “I’m sure of that,” muttered Terence as he closed his shutters. He yawned. One day’s notice to save the world, he thought. Better get some sleep.

  He came to the island just before dawn, much earlier than his usual time. The guards at the drawbridge were surprised to see him at that hour, but admitted him without question.

  Instead of heading toward Ørvendil’s quarters in the rear of the island, he climbed the ladders to the top platform at the front, greeting the archers by name as he passed them.

  Ørvendil was on the top platform, as Terence expected, looking across the fjord at the rising sun. Mists billowed across the waters, broken by the masts of the fishing boats. Gulls swooped in and out of sight, calling to each other.

  Terence joined Ørvendil and looked east.

  “I can’t see him,” he said.

  “See who?” asked Ørvendil without turning his head.

  “Whoever it is that you think is coming,” said the fool.

  “Who do I think is coming?” asked Ørvendil.

  “The rumor is that it’s Valdemar,” said the fool.

  “The rumor is wrong,” said Ørvendil.

  Terence shrugged.

  “It matters not to me,” he said. “But if Valdemar is on the way, I would be glad to entertain at the feast.”

  “There is no feast,” said Ørvendil.

  “Then I’ll entertain at the famine,” said Terence. “I am not particular.”

  “I say again that Valdemar is not coming,” said Ørvendil.

  “I will make a wager that you are wrong,” said Terence.

  “Are you a betting man?” asked Ørvendil.

  “Not until just recently,” replied Terence. “Would one as mighty as you take a fool’s wager?”

  “Hmm,” mused Ørvendil. “I have learned in my life that betting with men that I do not know well is a losing proposition.”

  “Wise policy,” said Terence. “So, you reject a fool’s gold. Copper, anyway.”

  “I am saving you from folly,” said Ørvendil. “Valdemar will not be coming here or anywhere ever again. I have information that he is dead.”

  “Do you?” said Terence. “And if that is the case, how does Ørvendil? Aren’t you honor bound to avenge him?”

  “He charged me with the care of Slesvig and its people,” said Ørvendil. “I would be betraying that trust if I led them into a futile battle.”

  “Wise politics,” said Terence. “I see that you have become something other than a simple warrior.”

  “War is never simple,” said Ørvendil.

  “What if Sveyn brings the war here?” asked Terence.

  “Are you planning to flee?” asked Ørvendil.

  “My instinct is to run from war,” said Terence. “But my loyalty is to a two-year-old boy.”

  “Would you risk your life to save Amleth?” asked Ørvendil in surprise. “He is worth saving,” said Terence simply. “He will become a great man, and a good one. Given the right man to emulate, of course.”

  “Meaning you, I suppose.”

  “No, milord,” said Terence. “Meaning yourself.”

  Ørvendil looked out across the fjord. The mists began to dissipate as the sun rose higher in the sky.

  “You overpraise me, Fool,” he said softly. “Why are you here so early? Vsu’re never up before midmorning. What is your mission here?”

  “To remind you of your true self, milord,” said the fool. “That is the mission of every fool.”

  “Is it?” wondered Ørvendil. “Are there many like yourself?”

  “There are fools beyond counting in this world,” said Terence. “But only a few like myself. Coincidentally, I spoke with one of them just last night.”

  “Where was he from?” asked Ørvendil.

  “Roskilde,” replied Terence.

  Ørvendil looked at him sharply, but the fool stood smiling serenely, his eyes closed, as the sunlight warmed his limbs. Then he opened them and looked at the lord of the stockade.

  “I rarely see the sun rise,” he said. “It’s a wondrous thing to see a new day, is it not? Well, milord, I must go see my master. He tells me that there will be some other boys coming to play today. I have brought a football along for the occasion. Things should be quite lively. Come and join us, if you can spare the time.”

  He stepped over to the pole supporting the platform and slid down.

  Ørvendil watched the fishermen ply their nets as the mists cleared, then turned and looked north across the town that was beginning to wake, and beyond to the outlying hills where the shepherds had been up since dawn, and past them to where he knew his outposts had been watching through the night. No signal fires on the horizon. Not yet.

  He climbed down the ladders, not wishing to imitate Terence’s methods this time. The cooking fires were going, and the smell of fresh baked bread pervaded the fortress. He swung by the kitchen to grab a piece, then went to his quarters.

  Amleth was already out and running, kicking the ball to Terence. The fool could juggle with his feet as well as his hands, observed Ørvendil. He watched Terence kick the ball in the air a dozen times without letting it touch the ground. Amleth looked at him in awe.

  Gorm emerged from the great hall. Ørvendil beckoned to the drost, and they entered Ørvendil’s quarters.

  Gerutha was there, gathering flowers she had picked into a vase.

  “What is it?” she asked, catching sight of Ørvendil’s expression.

  “Valdemar is coming here, possibly today,” said Ørvendil.

  “How do you know this?” asked Gorm. “I’ve had no information about it.”

  “You have your birds, I have mine,” said Ørvendil. “It was an unusual source, but one that I trust. So we must choose our path.”

  “Choose?” exclaimed Gerutha. “You have already chosen. You wanted to become king. There were three kings in the way. Now, one of them is gone, and one is about to place himself in your hands. Give him to Sveyn, and you eliminate your greatest rival.”

  “And Sveyn will become your ally,” said Gorm. “Which will give you access to Roskilde, something that is denied to you now.”

  “The path is not yet chosen,” said Ørvendil. “There have been things said, desires expressed, all as to what if? It is easier to speculate when the choice is not available, the paths yet unseen.”

  “But this was what you wanted,” urged Gerutha. “This is what we all wanted. We have been waiting for years for just such an opportunity, and now it has been placed before you.”

  “It can only be the divine will of God at work,” said Gorm, clasping his hands piously.

  “For God’s sake, just make up your mind,” said Gerutha.

  Ørvendil looked back and forth at the two of them, their faces distorted in his eyes by their ambition. Do I look like that? he wondered.

  “Sometimes I think that God gives us choices only to test us,” he said. “When I had no choice, I wanted what I did not have. Gorm, my
friend, fou said that Sveyn had violated all that is holy when he betrayed his brother kings, and more importantly his guests. What will be said of me if I betray the man who trusted me with part of his kingdom?”

  “That you slew a traitor,” said Gorm. “And in doing so removed the last obstacle to peace in Denmark, something that has eluded us for years. You will be praised. The people will carry you on their shoulders to Roskilde.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Ørvendil. “Or perhaps they will rise against me as a despot.”

  He heard a movement behind him, and turned toward the doorway. His son stood there, looking at him, hugging a football to his tiny chest. “Hello, son,” said Ørvendil, squatting down to face him.

  “Play with me?” pleaded the boy.

  There were shouts of children outside.

  “Your friends are here?” asked Ørvendil.

  Amleth nodded solemnly.

  “It’s good to have friends,” said Ørvendil. Suddenly he placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Amleth, startled, looked up at his father’s eyes.

  “Friends are important, Amleth,” said Ørvendil. “A true friend will stand by you under any circumstance, no matter what. And all you have to do in exchange is exactly the same. Do you understand me?”

  Amleth shook his head. Ørvendil smiled sadly.

  Abu will in time,” he said. “Run out and play. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Amleth dashed outside, and his shrieks soon joined those of the other two boys. Ørvendil stood and faced his wife and drost.

  “I’ve made my decision,” he said.

  Outside, Terence crouched by Amleth as they faced off against the other two boys in a game they had devised on the spot.

  “Did you go see your father like I asked?” he whispered.

  Amleth nodded.

  “Is he coming out to play with us?”

  Amleth nodded again.

  Terence smiled, satisfied.

  “Well done, my boy,” he said. “Well done indeed.”

  Six

  “When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows.”

  —Hamlet, Act I, Scene III

  Slesvig—Viborg, 1157 A.D.

  Valdemar, Fengi, and the three soldiers trudged toward Slesvig’s easternmost gate, weapons loose in their belts. Ahead of them an unusually large number of soldiers manned the earthenworks, watching them approach.

  “Are you quite sure this is a good idea?” muttered Fengi to the King. “The fool said it was safe,” said Valdemar.

  “And you trust the fool,” said Fengi.

  “Don’t you?” asked Valdemar.

  “No,” said Fengi. “And even if I did, I would wonder if he himself had been fooled.”

  “Always a possibility,” said Valdemar cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

  Suddenly a company of horsemen poured through the gates, fully armored, their spears leveled. They galloped toward the King’s party. “Milord?” said Fengi, reaching for his sword.

  “Be still,” commanded the King, and he stepped forward to face the oncoming troops.

  The horsemen wheeled and encircled the party, then came to a stop. Their leader looked at Valdemar, then dismounted and removed his helm.

  “Sire,” said Ørvendil, kneeling and holding his sword hilt-first to the King. “Welcome home. Praised be to God that you lived.”

  Valdemar took the sword and held it aloft. There was cheering from the horsemen, echoed by the soldiers on the walls.

  “Rise, my friend,” he said. “I trust that everything is well?”

  “I have kept your birthplace safe for your return,” said Ørvendil. “Please, take my horse.”

  He led the steed to the King and handed him the reins. Valdemar mounted, then started toward the town. The three soldiers mounted behind three horsemen, and the company followed the King.

  “And what about me?” demanded Fengi, still standing.

  Ørvendil looked at him in surprise.

  “Oh, so you’re here now?” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t bring enough horses.”

  Then he roared with laughter at the chagrined expression on his brother’s face.

  “Come, little brother,” he said, throwing an arm around the latter’s shoulders. “I shall walk with you. I want you to tell me everything about your adventures since we last saw you.”

  His brother stood rigid at the touch, then slowly relaxed.

  “Well, we were on Lolland when we heard about the treaty,” he began, and the two of them walked into Slesvig.

  At the great hall on the island, dinner was waiting. Gerutha herself waited upon Valdemar, selecting the choicest morsels for his bowl. The two brothers flanked the King, and Ørvendil’s men filled the room.

  “I must say that I have become chary of dinners in great halls,” commented Valdemar.

  “One could scarce blame you after your recent perils,” said Ørvendil. “If you like, I will taste your meal for you.”

  “No need,” said the King. “If I was meant to die at your hands, it would have happened before now.”

  There was a brief hush at these words as the soldiers looked to the head of the table. Gerutha went pale for a moment, then regained her composure.

  “Let me be the taster to the King,” she said softly, plucking a piece of bread and dipping it in Valdemars bowl. She popped it into her mouth, swallowed it, and smiled.

  “Forgive me, lady,” said the King. “I am weary past exhaustion, and my thoughts were not meant to insult your hospitality, however clumsily they were expressed. My love and trust have not been misplaced in your good husband.”

  There was a commotion at the other end of the room, and a pair of fools burst in.

  “I told you there was food!” cried Terence in delight. “Look, Gerald, a feast!”

  “But is there ale?” wondered Gerald. “I have been forced to drink water for several days running, and that is hard on a man.”

  “If you were running for several days at sea, then you deserved what you got,” scoffed Terence. “Despite your good opinion of yourself, you can’t run on water. Next time stay on the boat.” He walked to the head of the table and bowed to the King, “hour Majesty, you are welcome in Slesvig. I have heard that you brought a fool with you on your journey, and he did not entertain you even once. He is a disgrace to our entire profession, milord, but I propose to make up for it now.”

  “Very good, Fool,” said Valdemar. “We could use a laugh or two.”

  “Two, milord?” said Gerald. “We shall have that in a matter of seconds.”

  And they did, followed by many more.

  For the finale, Terence stood in the center of the hall with his drum at his belt.

  “Milords and miladies,” he said, beginning a drumroll. “It is my pleasure tonight to introduce to you a performer of such skill, such courage, and such precocity that I myself must kneel before him.”

  Gerald stepped forward and began to bow. Terence grabbed him by the seat of his motley and pulled him back.

  “Not you,” Terence said, and Gerald made an expression of exaggerated bewilderment. “May I present to you the astonishing skills of… Amleth!”

  Amleth ran to the center of the room, stood before Terence and Gerald, and bowed to the head of the table. The room applauded, laughing at the child before he had even begun.

  With a look of intense concentration, he took the three silk handkerchiefs that Terence had given him and held them up. Then he tossed one into the air over his head. As it floated down, he tossed the second, then the third. He caught the first, tossed it again, and repeated the action with the others. After five rounds of this, he plucked them from the air, then held his arms out, grinning madly.

  “Well done, boy!” shouted his father, beating his fists on the table.

  “Very impressive, child,” applauded Valdemar. He dug into his pouch and pulled out a penny. “Come, you have made your mark as a performer.”

  “That’s no mark, that’s
a penny,” said Gerald.

  Amleth walked up and took the coin, his eyes wide as it caught the light. Then he scampered back to the fools.

  “Look, Yorick,” he said excitedly.

  “Congratulations,” beamed Terence, hugging the boy. “Yau were superb.”

  “Quite promising,” said Gerald. “You should go to your mother now. Buy some sweets in town tomorrow. Yw’ve earned them.”

  Amleth ran under the table to the other side and hugged his mother. He waved to the room as she carried him out.

  “Now that the entertainment is over, we must to business,” said Valdemar. “It is only a matter of time before Sveyn sends his troops across the straits to Jutland. We must make ready for them.”

  Terence, now playing his lute softly at the other end of the hall, nudged Gerald as Gerutha silently slipped back in.

  “More interested in the war council than in her own son,” he muttered.

  “So I see,” said Gerald. “Interesting.”

  “How soon before Sveyn makes his move?” asked Ørvendil.

  “My source says he’s spent the last three days celebrating his victory,” said Gorm. “It will be at least that long before he learns that you are still alive, sire.”

  “Good. That will buy us some time to put our armies together,” said Valdemar.

  “I will lead the army of Slesvig north,” declared Ørvendil.

  “No, you won’t,” said Valdemar.

  Ørvendil sat there, looking stunned.

  “But, sire,” he protested.

  “Hear me out,” said Valdemar, silencing him with a gesture. “I must think of all of Denmark, not just myself. Word will reach the Holsteiners and the Wends of what has happened here. They may take advantage of our disorder to attempt to seize Slesvig. I need you here, Ørvendil. It will do me no good if I defeat Sveyn and have nothing left to rule. Give me half your troops, but keep the other half and defend our borders.”

  “Half my troops are yours,” said Ørvendil. “And I will give you a man worth all of them. Gorm, you are to go with the King.”