by Alan Gordon
“Good, milord,” replied Gorm. “I shall serve him as I do you.”
“Better, we hope,” muttered Terence. Gorm looked around uncertainly for a moment, then turned back to the King.
“Then we leave in the morning,” said Valdemar. “We shall unite at Viborg with my men and those loyal to Esbern and the Hvides.”
“That won’t give you enough to meet Sveyn head on,” said Ørvendil.
“No,” said Valdemar. “But I shall double the size of my army by just one day’s work.”
“What sorcery will you use to accomplish that trick?” asked Fengi.
“Just watch,” said Valdemar. “You’ll see.”
Valdemar slept in Ørvendil’s bed, while the lord of the fortress made his preparations in the room below.
“One door closes, and then the other one closes as well,” said Gerutha bitterly as they spread fresh straw on the clay floor and covered it with a woolen blanket. “Now, you can never gain Sveyn’s love, and you seem to have lost Valdemars trust as well. Protect our borders my foot. He doesn’t want you anywhere near him. Instead of having one or the other, now you have neither.”
“At least I have you,” said Ørvendil sleepily.
She snorted and rolled onto her side, her back to her husband.
* * *
She woke with the sunrise, slipped on her gown, and left her husband snoring on the floor. She walked back to her flower garden and stared moodily at the roses. They were spindly things, clinging to a dilapidated trellis, fighting for their few minutes in the sun. She sighed and began pulling weeds.
“Good morning, sister,” said Fengi, standing at the foot of the garden.
She stood hastily, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Good morning, brother,” she said. “I did not hear you approach. ‘Vou are up early. The other men are all sleeping off the feast.”
“I never sleep well here,” he replied. “I decided to walk around the place. Those platforms at the front are new.”
“Yes,” she said. “They can hold more bowmen than the old ones. He’s even thinking of building a catapult.”
“But where will he get the stones to throw?” asked Fengi. “Just like big brother to come up with a grandiose plan like that without thinking it all the way through.”
“And that’s not even the most…” she stopped herself in midthought.
He looked at her curiously.
“You seem almost…” he began, then he stopped as well.
“Seem what?” she asked.
“It is not my place to say,” he said.
“You are my husband’s brother,” she said. “Speak your mind. I seem almost what?”
“Disappointed,” he said.
“How could I possibly be disappointed? I have all of this,” she laughed, sweeping her arms over the garden.
“Still,” he said.
She looked at him. So like his brother, she thought, yet so unlike as well. A leaner man, a shorter one, certainly, yet he exuded an aura of power far beyond that of her husband. It was no surprise that, of the two of them, Fengi would be the one at Valdemars side.
“I remember the day you first came here,” he said suddenly.
“It wasn’t that long ago,” she said.
“Six years,” he said. “I was seventeen, in charge of the patrols on the western road. I was there when your carriage came up.”
“I remember,” she said. “YOU escorted us to town.”
“One carriage holding a lady, and three carts carrying her belongings. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Three carts! She owns more things than half the women in town put together. Won’t she be in for a shock when she gets to Slesvig!’ You came to the front of the carriage as it drew near, and I got a good look at your expression when you saw the town for the first time.”
“What was it like?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“Like the one you had last night when Valdemar told my brother to stay behind,” he said softly.
“Is it wrong to want glory for one’s husband?” she asked stiffly.
“Is that what it was?” he asked in return.
“Of course,” she replied.
“Then forgive my curiosity, sister,” he said, bowing slightly. “Now, I must beg my leave. There are preparations to be made.”
He turned to leave.
“Fengi,” she said softly.
He turned back to look at her, and she found herself blushing.
“God be with you,” she said, holding out her hand. “You will be in my prayers.”
He took it, then brought it to his lips.
“Thank you, Gerutha,” he said, holding her gaze with his own. Then he let go of her hand and walked away.
Unseen by both of them, Amleth watched from the rear doorway of the great hall, munching on some fresh baked bread with honey. As his uncle passed the corner, the boy took off through the interior of the building, emerging from the front entrance. He rounded the corner just in time to collide with Fengi.
“Uncle!” he said gleefully, holding up his arms.
Fengi looked down at him curiously.
“You have my mothers face, did you know that?” he said.
Amleth shook his head. Fengi squatted to face him.
“She died when I was a boy, not much older than you,” he said. “But I remember her. Your smile is like hers.”
He gave the boy an awkward pat on the head, then straightened up and continued walking. Amleth scampered alongside of him, laboring to keep pace.
“I enjoyed your performance last night, nephew,” said Fengi. “You and that fool must spend a lot of time with each other. What’s his s»» name?
“Yorick,” said Amleth.
“Yorick,” repeated Fengi thoughtfully. “What’s he like?”
“He’s a funny man,” said Amleth enthusiastically.
“So you like him,” said Fengi. “He’s a fool, you know.”
Amleth nodded.
“Do you want to be a fool or a warrior when you grow up?” asked Fengi.
Amleth looked confused.
“Oddly enough, in the last few days, I have met warriors who were actually fools, and a fool who was actually a warrior,” said Fengi.
They had reached the drawbridge, which was being lowered. They watched it together.
“Good-bye, nephew,” said Fengi. “Say your prayers and mind your mother. Give her a kiss from me, will you?”
“I will,” said Amleth. “Bye, uncle.”
He waved as Fengi walked across the bridge. His uncle did not look back.
Amleth ran back to the garden where his mother had finished with her flowers. He threw his arms around her. Laughing, she picked him up and hugged him. He kissed her on the cheek.
“And good morning to you,” she said, kissing him back.
“That was from Uncle Fengi,” he said proudly.
She smiled. “Was it now?” she said. “Well, this is from me.”
She kissed him again, and all was well with his world.
* * *
Ørvendil and Gerutha escorted Valdemar to the head of the company assembled for him. Gorm and Fengi stood at the front. Valdemar turned to his hosts.
“I thank you, my friends, for your hospitality,” he said. “It shall not be forgotten.”
“We are but servants in your house, sire,” said Gerutha.
“We will keep your kingdom safe,” said Ørvendil. “God be with you.” Valdemar embraced them, then mounted his horse. “We march north to Viborg,” he told the men. “There we will be joined by our brothers. Together, we shall meet the Devil on the field of battle. When victory is ours, Denmark shall be one. Are you with me?”
“Milord, not since Jason set sail on the Argo has such a band of heroes assembled,” cried Gorm. “Praised be our Lord and King, Valdemar!”
“Valdemar!” shouted the men.
“Listen to Gorm,” marveled Terence at the rear of the crowd. “He had the
makings of a military toady all this time, and I never knew.”
“Denmark shall be one,” said Gerald. “One what, I wonder?”
“Well, good luck, fellow fool,” said Terence. “I’ll stay here where it’s safe.”
“Thank you,” said Gerald. “One bit of advice.”
“What?”
“Be careful about Amleth. It’s good that you’ve taken to each other so well. But don’t forget that he already has parents. For better or for worse, they should be the ones raising him, not you.”
“I know,” said Terence. “I just want…”
“You want them to raise him the way you would if you were his father,” said Gerald. “I understand. But you could end up driving a wedge between them, especially when the boy is this young.”
“I’ll be careful,” promised Terence, “^ibu be the same.”
“I’m marching headlong into war,” grumbled Gerald. “The time to be careful has long passed.”
They clasped hands, and Gerald hurried to catch up with the army. Ørvendil and Gerutha watched from the foot of the drawbridge until the last soldier had disappeared, then walked back into the great hall, now deserted. He took her hand. She pulled it back and walked away from him.
“I will build you a castle,” he said. “I promise.”
“Out of what?” she said. “There’s not enough stone in Slesvig, and you don’t have the money to bring it in.”
She went out the rear door. He watched her, then turned toward the front. Then he stopped and looked down at the hard clay floor. “Maybe not,” he said. “But there are other ways.”
* * *
Two armies assembled outside the cathedral in Viborg that October, eyeing each other uneasily. Many had faced each other on the field of battle, and were tensed for another fight now.
Inside, the banns were read, and a young priest stepped forward and presided over the marriage of a couple who had met only minutes before. He took their hands and pressed them together, then blessed the union before a heavily armed congregation.
When it was over, Valdemar stepped into the aisle. He was joined by Esbern, Fengi, Gorm, and several captains from the army that had served the late King Knud.
The young priest joined them.
“Not bad for your first wedding, Axel,” said Valdemar. “Thank you for performing it.”
“Impressive command of Latin, little brother,” said Esbern. “Father will be pleased that your studies were not wasted.”
“The Bishop didn’t look too happy that I was performing his duties in his cathedral,” observed Axel, who was strapping armor over his cassock.
“Don’t worry,” said Valdemar. “If I become king of all Denmark, I will make you bishop here.”
“If you become king of all Denmark, I will be going with you,” replied Axel. “I don’t want to miss the fun.”
“Then I’ll make you bishop of Roskilde,” promised Valdemar. “As soon as the old one goes to Heaven.”
“I hear he is ailing,” said Axel. “I will pray for his recovery.”
A throat was cleared behind them. Valdemar glanced back and managed not to wince.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “Will you excuse us for a while?”
They bowed, and he beckoned to his new bride. She took his hand with a look of wolfish anticipation, and he led her out of the cathedral to the cheers of both armies.
“Did you see her face?” said Esbern. “He must really want to be king.”
“Sacrifices must be made when you take the throne,” said Axel. “Let us await the consummation.”
They stood outside with the men, watching a small house near the cathedral. About half an hour went by, then Valdemar emerged, fully armored, and waved a bloody sheet. The men cheered.
“Men of Denmark,” cried Valdemar. “I have taken the Princess Sophie to wife.”
There were more cheers at this statement of the obvious.
“The making of this match was the last action of the late King Knud,” he said. “His sister is now my wife, under my protection. His family is now mine.” He stopped and looked at the army of the late king. Then he took a deep breath and shouted, “And the debt owed to his blood is now mine!”
There was a deep-throated roar of approval.
“South of here lies the moor known as Grathe,” continued Valdemar. “Our scouts report that Sveyn Peder, the murderer, is hoping to lead his army through there in the hope of catching us unawares. We shall meet him on Grathe Moor. Our armies combined cannot be anything but victorious. And when we are, peace will be celebrated across all of Denmark. Go bravely into battle, not for revenge, but for peace, my friends, and we shall begin a new golden age together.”
He strode through the armies, banging his sword on his shield. Behind him, his new bride watched from a window, a slight smile upon her lips.
* * *
A day later, King Sveyn Peder staggered through a bog, his shield gone, his sword notched, an arrow wound in his thigh. His men had been routed, and he himself had turned and run in full view of the opposing armies. He had somehow managed to evade capture, but was lost on ground that was both hostile and unpleasantly soggy.
He cried out with relief when he reached solid ground, and nearly collapsed in exhaustion. There was a road ahead. Roads were good things. It meant he could escape back to the harbor where his navy awaited him, and once he had reached them, he could reassemble his men. He wasn’t defeated, not yet.
He knew that there would be patrols searching for him. He thought of waiting until darkness to continue, but then he saw salvation in the guise of an old monk, plodding along the road, leaning heavily on an oaken staff.
Sveyn burst out of the woods, his sword out.
“Hold, Father,” he commanded.
The monk stopped.
“How can I help you, my son?” he asked solicitously. “You are wounded. I have some small skill in healing, if you will permit me.”
“You have something I value even more highly,” said Sveyn.
“What could that be?” asked the monk.
“Your cassock and cowl,” said the King. “Give them to me.”
“That I cannot do, my son,” said the monk. “They are the uniform of my order. I cannot let another take them.”
“I was not asking,” snarled Sveyn, bringing up his sword. Then he howled in pain as the monk, with speed belying his years, stepped inside
Kis swing, seized his sword hand with one hand and his elbow with the other, then twisted the arm back. There was a crack, then Sveyn dropped the sword, clutching his now useless right arm.
“Broken, I should think,” said the monk. “How about some of that healing I mentioned?”
Sveyn growled and reached for the sword with his left hand. The monk sighed, then picked up his staff and swung. There was another crack, and Sveyn fell to his knees.
“Instead of the healing, sire, perhaps you should consider confession,” said the monk.
Sveyn looked up at him, comprehension dawning on his face.
“You know me,” he said.
“Yes, milord,” said Gerald, pushing back his cowl. “And you know me as well.”
Sveyn stared dumbly.
“Yxi’re the fool,” he exclaimed in bewilderment.
“When I was with you, I was a fool,” said Gerald. “But I am also a priest. I will give you the opportunity that you did not give so many that fatal night in August—to clear your soul and make your peace with God. Will you make confession, milord?”
“Damn you!” shouted the King, trying to pick up the sword once again.
“Your death is required, I’m afraid,” said Gerald gently as he snatched the King’s sword from the ground.
“I thought that priests were not allowed to spill blood,” whined the King in desperation.
“I’m not that kind of priest,” replied Gerald. “Please believe me when I say that revenge for my friend Larfner is not my reason for killing ft you.
He swung the sword once, and Sveyn’s head was separated from his neck.
“But, sadly enough, vengeance has been satisfied,” said Gerald. He knelt by the corpse and administered extreme unction. Then he tossed the sword by the body, pulled his cowl back over his head, and walked away.
Seven
‘‘Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool..
—Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
Slesvig, 1157 A.D.
There are times when people become weary of fools. Terence knew this well enough to make sure that he occasionally spent time outside of Slesvig, wandering the villages under its dominion, juggling for meals and singing for a nights lodging in a hayloft. He would return from these sojourns refreshed, and the quiet in the town left by his absence made the noise of his presence all the more welcome.
And there are times when fools become weary of themselves. When he wanted peace and quiet, he would make the two-hour trek west to Magnus’s farm. There he would walk with the farmer and discuss whatever topics came to mind without feeling the need to perform. Or he would share the chore at hand, basking in the simplicity of accomplishing a necessary task. Gorm had arranged for him to be followed on these occasional visits, but the spy observed nothing illicit, and casual questioning of the farmer revealed only information about growing barley and rye. A great deal of information about growing barley and rye, as Magnus was a garrulous man on that subject. The spy eventually gave up.
Terence knew about the spy, of course, but worried neither about him nor any other attempt by Gorm to learn more about him. A handful of people now knew of his connection to the Roskilde fool, but few knew more than that, and those who did found it useful to keep that knowledge quiet.
On an unusually moderate day in early December, Terence lay his cloak down on the meadow near the watering hole where he first met Magnus, then stretched out on his back. Magnus was in his barn, slaughtering pigs for the smokehouse, a task Terence begged off from joining. He lay there, half asleep, listening to the breeze whistle through the brush on the windbreak.