An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “It gets swept out,” replied Amleth.

  “And?”

  “They put on a new coat of whitewash.”

  “Aha!” said Terence. “Why is that?”

  “It looks nicer,” said Amleth. “It makes the room brighter when the sun shines in.”

  “There you have it,” said Terence. “My job is to make the world a little bit brighter. To bring the sun into the darkness. What better way to do that than with a whitewashed face?”

  “Is that the real reason, Yorick?”

  “What better reason could there be, my young friend?”

  “I thought that it might be a mask,” said the boy.

  “Why would a fool need a mask?” asked Terence, smiling.

  “Maybe because he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is,” Amleth replied.

  “But you know who I am,” said Terence, “You can see my every expression from miles off, even in the dead of night. I am an open book, written on white paper so that I am easier to read.”

  “So it’s not a mask?”

  “Every face is a mask, white or not,” said Terence. “I’ve seen you at times with complete clarity, just as I can see to the bottom of this fjord right now. Other times, however…” He stirred up the mud from the bottom until the water was completely murky. “And all of that was based on what you chose to reveal to me with your expressions. The only difference is that your mask resembles the face of a boy named Amleth. It’s an uncanny likeness, milord.”

  “Should I always reveal my thoughts, Yorick?”

  “Of course not,” replied the fool. “Especially in the world you live in. You are growing up inside a fortress inside a city encircled by walls which are surrounded by earthenworks. Everyone here is concealing something all of the time. The man who is open about everything will be a man in great danger. If you are going to rule Slesvig someday, you must learn how to hide your thoughts, and to recognize when others are doing the same.”

  ‘’I don’t want to rule here,” protested Amleth.

  “You are Ørvendil’s son,” said Terence. “That is your fathers wish for you.”

  “Can’t I become a jester instead?” pleaded the boy.

  “A jester? That’s much harder work than being a duke,” said Terence. “You have to learn so many different things to become a jester.”

  “Really?” teased Amleth. “I thought all you had to do was act foolish all of the time.”

  “As if that wasn’t difficult enough,” said Terence indignantly. “To suppress my vast intelligence in the cause of foolery. You cannot imagine the effort it takes. I lie down at the end of a long day and suddenly start spouting epic poetry and complicated logical proofs, just to make up for all of the stupidity I force myself to utter. No, Amleth, stay with your destiny. You’ll be better off.”

  “But I would make an excellent fool.”

  “Alas, the demand is slight and the supply is great. However, there is no reason not to keep practicing. Something might open up somewhere. Work on your juggling.”

  He tossed four balls to the boy who caught two in each hand. Amleth had mastered three balls by the time he turned five, but the fourth had been causing him difficulty. He muttered to himself in frustration every time one fell.

  “Relax, breathe, find the rhythm,” counseled Terence. He gingerly took the iron rod out of the fire, holding the cooler end with a cloth. He then carefully burned several holes through one side of the piece of wood he had been whittling.

  “Will Rolf and Gudmund be coming to play with you today?” he asked.

  “Maybe later,” said Amleth. “I don’t care much.”

  “You don’t? Why not? Aren’t they your friends?”

  “I think that they only play with me because their parents want favors from my father,” said Amleth. “They always act so strangely when they come to the island. I think it would be easier if I just lived in a normal house like they do.”

  “Maybe,” said Terence. “Maybe you should ask your father if you could live in town.”

  “I did. He says as soon as the castle is built. I’ll be an old man before that happens.”

  Terence placed the carved end of the hollowed-out piece of wood in his mouth and blew into it. A slightly fuzzy piping emerged. He frowned and peered down the end of it, then took the metal rod and smoothed out the bore. He sounded the flute again, and the tone was clearer. He ran his fingers up and down the scale. It sounded true, and he played an old Yorkshire tune.

  “That one came out well,” commented Amleth. In his fascination with Terence’s labors, he had forgotten that he was juggling, and the four balls jumped through their patterns perfectly. He realized what had happened.

  “I’m doing it!” he said excitedly.

  “Good, Amleth,” said Terence. “You’ve found the rhythm. Four will be second nature to you from now on. Say, isn’t it your sixth birthday today?”

  “You know it is,” said Amleth.

  “I know it is,” said Terence, reaching out and plucking the balls from over Amleth’s head. “And this is for you.”

  He handed him the flute. Amleth seized it eagerly, turning it over and over. Then he piped a few notes.

  “It’s glorious!” he cried, hugging the fool. “Thank you, Yorick!”

  “It’s another thing to practice,” warned Terence. “You’ll be a busy little boy.”

  “Show me the fingering,” said Amleth.

  Terence taught him some simple tunes, and the boy played them over and over while the fool doused the fire and packed their gear.

  “Come, child,” he said, looking up at the sun. “It’s almost noon. We have to meet your father.”

  * * *

  North of the town, a kiln had been constructed, the labor supervised by several men brought in from Tuscany, most of whom spoke little Danish but gesticulated quite fluently. Clay was dug up from the riverbed and trundled to the yard next to the great oven. There it was mixed with straw and pressed into crude wooden molds, then turned out onto stone slabs.

  It was the day of the first firing, and Ørvendil needed to be there despite the arrival of his son’s birthday. Amleth was happy and excited to see this new magic in action. He and Terence had watched the kiln’s construction, and he had been impressed to learn that the fool spoke the Tuscans’ language. The brickmakers had become regulars at The Viking’s Rest as a result, and brought their strange, lively music with them. Terence began teaching the boy Tuscan.

  The Bishop himself had come from the cathedral to bless the new enterprise. Then he stayed on, as curious to see it as the six-year-old boy. Other children were crowded behind the fence, envying Orvendil’s son who got to get so close to the fire.

  “We do one first,” said Carlo, the master brickmaker. A single brick was put inside the kiln, and then the opening was sealed off. Everyone stared at it, watching every wisp of smoke as if it were a portent. Then, the master declared that enough time had passed. The seal was cracked open, and the finished brick was plucked from the embers by a pair of iron tongs and plunked down on the ground. The master walked slowly around it, inspecting it from every angle, then tapped it several times with a wooden mallet.

  “It’s good,” he pronounced finally, and a cheer went up from everyone. He picked up the cooled brick, walked up to Ørvendil, and knelt, holding it before him.

  “First one is for you,” he said. “Be careful, still hot.”

  Ørvendil took it from him and bade him stand, then looked at it curiously. He turned to the crowd and held it aloft.

  “The first of many,” he cried. “And with them we will build Slesvig into a great city!”

  There were more cheers at this, and Ørvendil smiled. Then he turned to his son.

  “Here, Amleth,” he said, handing the brick to him. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you, father,” said the boy, delighted with it.

  “And thank Carlo for making it,” added his father.

  “Grazie, si
gnore,” said Amleth, bowing.

  “You are most welcome, most learned child,” said Carlo as the other Tuscans laughed in delight. “May I present my brothers, Reynaldo and Phillippo. They don’t speak Danish yet, but your Tuscan is getting better all the time.”

  “Yorick taught me,” said Amleth proudly. “Thank you for the brick. It’s wonderful.”

  “That’s not your only present, you know,” laughed Ørvendil.

  “There’s more?” asked his son.

  “Come with me. We’ll walk for a bit. Yorick, you come along, too.”

  “Very good, milord,” said Terence.

  The three of them walked to the outskirts of town into a slight declivity in the landscape that hid them from view. Ørvendil stopped, turned, and put a finger to his lips. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a long, narrow object wrapped in cloth and handed it to the

  What is it?” asked Amleth as he unwrapped it, then he gasped. He was holding what would have been a man’s short sword. For the boy, however, it was the equivalent of a longsword, and he swung it clumsily through the air, causing the two men to jump hastily back.

  “Hold, hold,” laughed his father. “That’s a real sword, and it will draw real blood. Here’s the scabbard. Put it in there.”

  He handed the boy an ancient scabbard, its leather cracking.

  “My father gave me this when I was your age,” said Ørvendil. “And his father gave it to him. Your education from now on will include the proper methods of fighting. Here is the first lesson. You never remove your sword from your scabbard unless you are prepared both to kill and to die. Nothing less than that. Do you understand me, boy?”

  Amleth nodded solemnly.

  “But how do I practice without taking it out?” he said.

  Ørvendil pulled two wooden swords from the pouch.

  “With these,” he said. “They are weighted differently, and they won’t cut anything, but we’ll start you out with them. Fool, are you acquainted with the techniques of fighting?”

  “I have lived most of my life in taverns,” said Terence. “I’ve had my share of fights.”

  “Any with swords?” asked Ørvendil.

  “Milord, I carry no sword,” replied Terence. “Mostly they were fist-fights and wrestling matches.”

  “Perfect,” said Ørvendil. “Any fighting begins with a knowledge of wrestling. Then you add in the weapons. Catch, Fool.”

  He tossed him one of the wooden swords.

  “Now, Fool, when I tell you to, attack me,” commanded Ørvendil. He stood with his left hand raised, the weapon in his right held low, his weight on his back foot. “Now.”

  Terence lunged forward, and Ørvendil easily parried the thrust.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” said Terence. “I did not do that very well.”

  “Nor will many you encounter in life,” said Ørvendil. “But there will be some formidable foes. When you attack, thus …”

  He stepped forward, his sword thrusting up toward Terence’s stomach. The fool quickly stepped back and parried it. Ørvendil looked at him in surprise.

  “Did I make that attack so obvious?” he wondered. “You blocked it quite skillfully.”

  “Mere luck, milord,” said Terence. “I was just…”

  Ørvendil struck again, and the fool blocked it.

  “… defending myself,” Terence continued, and suddenly found himself facing a hailstorm of blows. He kept backing away, ducking and blocking. Amleth watched the two men in fascination. Finally, his father broke through the fool’s guard and landed a blow on his shoulder. Terence winced in pain and lowered his sword, holding his palm out in surrender. Ørvendil stepped back and scrutinized him.

  “There is not a soldier in my entire garrison who could have matched me as well,” he said softly. ‘’Where did you learn to handle a sword like that?”

  “I am an entertainer,” explained Terence. “We used to stage mock sword fights at festivals. We had to know how to handle the weapon just as well as a soldier does.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that’s the true explanation,” said Ørvendil. He tossed his practice sword to his son. “Amleth, stand there and get a feel for this. I will talk with this entertainer for a moment.”

  The two men walked some distance away and watched the boy go through his paces, imitating both his father and Terence.

  “Talented boy,” said Terence.

  “Yes,” said Ørvendil. “I would give my life to keep him safe.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Would you?” asked Ørvendil. “Give your life for him?”

  Terence looked at him, his face expressionless.

  “I need to know the answer,” said Ørvendil.

  “Yes, milord,” said Terence. “I would give my life for him.”

  They watched Amleth some more.

  “Thank you, Yorick,” said Ørvendil. “I hope that that time never comes.”

  * * *

  Gerutha looked at her garden in frustration.

  “Manure,” she muttered.

  “What, cousin?” asked Signe, working in the herb garden nearby while Alfhild toddled about, trying to catch a white butterfly that had drifted into the fort.

  “I am thinking of tearing out everything and starting all over again,” said Gerutha. “Perhaps make a walled garden dedicated to the Holy Mother, where we could sit and devote ourselves to prayers.”

  “It sounds too much like a convent for my taste,” said Signe. “It’s bad enough living behind high walls. Why build more?”

  “But that would be the charm of it,” said Gerutha. “A place where women could be at peace, undisturbed by the rudeness of men.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being disturbed a little more,” said Signe. “I think my husband is frightened of me for some reason.”

  “Really?” said Gerutha. “Why do you think that? Is he cold to you?”

  “He’s kind enough,” said Signe. “And he’s completely devoted to Alfhild. But since she was born, he’s been reluctant to…”

  She blushed and fell silent.

  “He’s an odd one, no question,” said Gerutha thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s seeing anyone else.”

  “Gerutha!” exclaimed Signe. “He would never do that.”

  “Oh, any man would do anything,” said Gerutha. “Any woman would as well, given the opportunity. There’s no shortage of bastard children in Denmark, that’s for certain. But I don’t think that’s your husband’s problem. Have you tried …”

  She whispered something in her cousin’s ear, and Signe’s eyes grew wide.

  “Can one do that?” she asked in wonder.

  “Oh, yes,” said Gerutha. “Once they get over the shock, they quite enjoy it. Gorm’s always been timid about women and love. He needs to be jolted out of it, if you ask me. And maybe you’ll get a son out of it this time.”

  “That would please him, having a son,” said Signe. “He was mocked so badly by everyone for having a daughter. Except by Terence, oddly enough.”

  “Terence? Oh, Yorick,” said Gerutha. “I’m so used to hearing Amleth call him that that I’ve quite forgotten his true name.”

  “Where is Amleth? I thought we were going to celebrate his birthday today.”

  “We will. He went to see the opening of the new kiln with his father. He was quite excited about it.”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Signe. “It’s finally ready. Now all of my precious trees will be cut down to feed the fires.”

  “They are not your trees,” said Gerutha sharply.

  “No, I know that,” said Signe. “It’s just that I so much enjoy walking among them.”

  “If we are going to have a proper castle around here, then the trees will have to go,” said Gerutha. “That’s just how things will be.”

  There was a commotion nearby, and Amleth burst into the rear of the fort, waving his new treasures.

  “Look, mother!” he cried. “I got a brick from the kiln, and I thanked Carlo
in Tuscan, and he said I spoke it really well, and father gave me the sword his father gave him, only I can’t take it out until I learn how to use it better, but he’s going to teach me, and Yorick gave me this wonderful flute, and I can already play some tunes, come and listen…”

  “Wait, wait,” protested his mother, laughing as he pulled her by the skirt of her gown into the great hall.

  Signe laughed as she heard the amateur piping inside, then looked up to see Terence smiling at her.

  “Hello, Terence,” she said.

  “Milady,” he said, bowing. Then he squatted in front of Alfhild who sucked her thumb and looked at him shyly. “No hug, Princess?”

  She ran up to him and threw her arms around him, then shrieked giddily as he held her high in the air.

  “Can you see over the walls, Princess?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “You will in time,” he said. “You are growing like one of your mother’s odoriferous weeds. Truly, milady, you have a gift for gardening.”

  “Not so loud,” cautioned Signe. “Gerutha gets so jealous about my little accomplishments.”

  “That’s new, isn’t it?” asked Terence, pointing to one plant. “Oregano,” said Signe. “My husband got it from one of the brick-makers. It smells wonderful.”

  “May I?” he asked. She nodded, and he sat by the plant and buried his face in it as Alfhild giggled. “Pungent. A good herb for a lamb stew.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Signe. “But try and get them to cook with it here. The recipes haven’t changed since the cooks’ great-grandmothers handed them down.”

  “Then you should command the kitchen for an evening and perform culinary .miracles,” declared. Terence.

  “Ah, such an act of rebellion would put me in the stocks,” said Signe. “Then you would be a true cook, for they say that the measure of a cook is in her stocks,” said Terence.

  “I want Gorm to set up a house in town so that we may have our own kitchen,” said Signe. “But he will not leave his men. I would like Alfhild to grow up in a more normal place, although she absolutely adores being around Amleth. Don’t you, my sweet?”

  Alfhild nodded.

  “And I was hoping you would marry me,” said Terence to the little girl. “Do you know this garden as well as your mother does?”