An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “Let’s show him,” said Signe, gathering the little girl onto her lap. “Tell Terence where the fennel is.”

  Alfhild pointed the stalks out.

  “And the marjoram?” asked Terence.

  Alfhild looked around, then pointed.

  “Impressive,” said Terence. “Of course, I haven’t the slightest idea which herb is which, so she could be pointing to daisies for all I know.”

  “Sit here,” said Signe, patting the ground next to her. The fool joined the two, and Signe put Alfhild’s hand in his. “Alfhild, show him lovage. That’s right. And thyme. Mint, horseradish, and dill.”

  “Dill I know well,” said Terence. “I have eaten my share of pickles.”

  “How about this one?” said Signe, plucking a narrow leaf from a plant with clusters of light blue flowers. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, and held it out to the fool.

  Instead of taking the leaf, he took her hand and brought it gently to his face. She started at the contact, but did not stop him. He bowed his head and inhaled deeply.

  “It’s wonderful,” he said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  Signe started to answer, then faltered.

  “Rosemary,” said Alfhild.

  * * *

  Gorm sat in a corner of The Viking’s Rest an evening later, watching Terence perform. No, he was watching the Tuscans watch him perform.

  As Ørvendil’s spymaster, he had to check them out thoroughly, and none of his men spoke enough Tuscan to eavesdrop adequately.

  There were six of them, including the three brothers. If they were brothers. They had been recommended by someone at Barbarossa’s court who had been passing through Slesvig on the way to Roskilde the previous year. Gorm had independently verified that they had constructed kilns in Ltibeck and Holstein, but that in a way made them more suspect. They were only hired men, after all, and hired men from Holstein could still be in its pay.

  Terence spun a ribald yarn that sent the Danes in the room into hysterics. Gorm grimaced at the subject matter, then narrowed his eyes as he noticed that both Carlo and Reynaldo were laughing along with the Danes and translating the punchline to the rest of the group.

  Carlo had said that he was the only one who spoke Danish. Gorm decided to have Reynaldo watched more closely. He finished his ale and left the tavern.

  He was unusually irritable this evening. His wife had tried to do something unspeakable to him earlier, something that he had only heard of in his soldiers’ recountings of their adventures in whoring. He slapped her when she tried it, then shoved her to the pallet with a curse. She wept, saying that all she wanted to do was to please him, to give him a son. One part of him wanted to weep with her, to take her into his arms and let her comfort him. But he knew that to be weakness.

  He came back to the fort and detailed a man to follow Reynaldo. He did not want to return to his room just yet. Salvation came to him in the form of his master, who was coming in late himself.

  “Good evening, old friend,” said Ørvendil. “What news?”

  “I have been investigating your brickmakers,” said Gorm. “I have my suspicions of Reynaldo.”

  “’fou suspect most people,” said Ørvendil.

  “That’s why you need me,” said Gorm. “To balance your trusting nature.”

  “Maybe,” said Ørvendil. “Speaking of which, I need to send someone to Roskilde to represent us at the military council. How about it?”

  “It would be an honor, milord,” said Gorm, bowing. “I will leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Good,” said Ørvendil. “See what kind of trouble my brothers been getting into lately, won’t you?”

  “Yes, milord,” said Gorm.

  “Now, get back to that pretty wife of yours,” said Ørvendil.

  Gorm winced, and hoped Ørvendil did not see it. He climbed quietly up to his room where Signe lay sleeping, curled away from the doorway. He packed his gear as quietly as possible, then sat in the lower room, watching Alfhild sleep in her little bed, until the first crowing of the cock told him it was time to leave. When Signe rose, he was long gone.

  * * *

  That evening, Terence finished his evening performance and staggered off to his room. He had been invited to join in many rounds of ale, and had accepted far too many of the invitations. Now, he was feeling their effects.

  He had also noticed Reynaldos fluency with the local tongue the night before, and waited for the all too predictable appearance of Gorm’s man tonight. He wondered what he would find out about the brickmaker. Terences own conversations with them had not turned up anything suspicious, but the Tuscans were a private group. Not surprising, given that they were foreigners here. The Jutlanders did not like foreigners, despite their show of good cheer at the construction and opening of the kiln. They grumbled about having to do the hard labor at low wages while the Tuscans earned masters’ fees for watching bricks bake.

  He yawned and stretched out on his pallet. Suddenly he was aware of someone else in the room, standing silently by the window. Slowly he reached for the dagger he kept under the pallet.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  “I am,” came a woman’s voice. It was pitched low and soft, with the tone of a silver bell.

  “And who might you be?” asked Terence, sitting up.

  “A gift, Fool,” she replied. “One sent by a grateful patron who wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “What have I done to merit such a token?”

  “You brought cheer to a lonely heart,” she said. “I am the recompense.”

  “Show yourself,” he said.

  She stepped forward into the slim, slanted stream of moonlight that slipped through the shutters. She was wearing a dark green gown covered by a hooded black cloak. Her face was obscured by a mask over her eyes.

  “You are masked,” he said.

  “So are you,” she replied.

  “Forgive me, but how do I know this isn’t some trick?” he asked. “A lulling prelude to a robbery, for example.”

  She shrugged, and the cloak and gown tumbled down around her.

  “I am unarmed,” she said.

  “I would hardly say that,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “No more questions,” she said as she knelt down to kiss him. “No more words.”

  * * *

  When he woke the next morning she was gone. He thought for a moment that he had dreamt her in his drunken state, but as he smelled the morning air, he picked up her fragrance. It was an odd one, not the sickly cheap perfume favored by the women of the town. He searched for it, breathing reverently with his eyes closed.

  “Rosemary,” he said.

  Ten

  “ ’A is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this.”

  —Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

  Roskilde, 1161 A.D.

  Upon his arrival in Roskilde, Gorm sought out his longtime informant and handed him a cage containing three more carrier pigeons. The birds were jessed and hooded, and not at all happy about it. They protested loudly as the cage rocked back and forth during its transfer. The drost caught up on the latest gossip of the city, then rode on to the great hall.

  He was quartered in a barracks, where he was recognized and welcomed by a sergeant who knew him from the civil wars. Back in the company of soldiers, Gorm relaxed and chatted away, happy to be in a place where the war stories were actually war stories.

  He presented himself to the King in the morning, handing over his credentials to the Royal Drost with all due ceremony. His presence was noted by all, as was Ørvendil’s absence.

  “Does your master so disdain military matters that he will insult the King rather than attend this council?” asked Bishop Absalon.

  “Quite the contrary,” said Gorm. “He is busy supervising the construction of stronger defenses at the southern border of your kingdom. What could be more military than that?”

 
“Our southern borders haven’t been attacked in years,” said Absalon.

  “Thus proving the efficacy of the defenses,” said Gorm. “The moment we let down our guard is the moment that we will be attacked.”

  “I was once sold a charm at an absurd price,” drawled a voice from the sideboard. “The crone who foisted it upon me assured me that it would keep away dragons. Do you know, to this day I have never seen one?”

  Several men guffawed at that. Gorm peered across the fire to see a fool leaning against the wall, a lute cradled in his arms.

  They’re everywhere, Gorm thought to himself.

  Valdemar motioned everyone to their seats. The fool remained standing against the wall, softly playing his lute. Gorm found the music irritating, but the rest of the company didn’t seem to notice it.

  “We will hear first from our ambassador to the court of Frederick Barbarossa,” said the King. “Welcome, Fengi. What news?”

  Fengi stood, and Gorm leaned forward to get a better look. The onetime warrior had exchanged his armor for the rich vestments of a courtier, and his body had filled out accordingly as a result of carrying so little weight.

  “The Emperor sends his greetings,” he said. “He wonders when you will get around to recognizing him as your liege lord. He wishes you to stand by him in his selection of the Pope.”

  “Does he?” smirked Valdemar. “Well, perhaps we should consult with the Church first. Is there a representative of the Archbishop of Lund here?”

  “No!” shouted several in the room, roaring with laughter.

  “Oh, dear,” said Valdemar. “How will we be counseled if such a high prelate prays from so far away for so long? I suppose that we will have to turn to the Bishop of Roskilde in his absence. Absalon, how says the Church on the Emperor’s request?”

  “The Church notes that Rome is far away, but the Emperor’s dominions are close by,” said Absalon. “As are his armies.”

  “Geography is destiny,” said Valdemar. “Tell the Emperor that we will recognize him as liege lord, in exchange for his support, or at least his lack of interference in local matters.”

  “Done, milord,” said Fengi.

  The rest of the council was given over to reports on castle building, shipbuilding, the plans for the new merchants’ town, and the relative merits of importing salt from Liibeck versus manufacturing it from the sea. Gorm followed it all with interest, contributing little. When the meeting was over, the men at the table rose, many adjourning to the nearby taverns. Before he could leave, Gorm was summoned to approach the King. He did so with trepidation. Valdemar crooked a finger at him, and the drost leaned in to hear what he had to say.

  “Tell your master that I expect him in person the next time,” said Valdemar. “Remind him that he rules at my pleasure. If my displeasure is incurred, I will call an assembly of the Slesvig thing and replace him.”

  “I will, milord,” said Gorm, bowing.

  He turned to leave, then saw Bishop Absalon speaking with a small group of men. He hovered at their perimeter, waiting patiently until they had finished. When Absalon turned to leave, Gorm tapped him on the shoulder. The Bishop turned toward him.

  “What?” he said in irritation.

  “Your Holiness, I wonder if I might have a word with you,” said Gorm humbly.

  “About what?”

  “It’s a religious matter,” said Gorm.

  “Then go find a parish priest with some free time,” snapped the Bishop. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

  “Now, I can,” said Gorm. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

  Fengi watched him from the door. As the drost turned, he smiled broadly and waved to him.

  “Come, dine with me, old friend,” he called. “There’s an inn near the western wall that sets an outstanding table.”

  Gorm fell into stride by him.

  “Seeking confession from our bishop?” asked Fengi jovially. “He won’t tend to anyone unless he thinks they’re useful.”

  Stung, Gorm looked away for a moment.

  “Oh, my dear fellow, I apologize,” said Fengi quickly. “That was meant as a joke. I didn’t think that you really were seeking… Look, I meant that Absalon only counsels those he thinks useful to his own ambitions. I never meant to imply that you were useless. Quite the contrary, my friend. I regard you as one of the ablest men in Denmark.”

  “Do you really?” said Gorm, flattered.

  “Absolutely. Why else would my brother send you to check up on me?” laughed Fengi. “He has, hasn’t he?”

  “It was not the essential part of my mission,” said Gorm. “But he did ask me to see how you were.”

  “As well as what I was up to, eh?” said Fengi. “So, what have I been doing?”

  “After leaving Slesvig, you traveled to Italy,” said Gorm. “You spent some time in service in Ferrara, training the local garrison. You left in a hurry amidst rumors of an affair with a countess who also was the Bishop’s mistress, much to the distress of the count. You then spent time at the court of the Emperor, working your way into his inner circle, and then used that connection to win your way back into Valdemars favor, becoming his ambassador. You have amassed a small group of men who act as your spies, both in Denmark and in Holstein. Two of them are in Slesvig.”

  “You are extremely well informed,” said Fengi, surprised and impressed. “And my brother knows all of this.”

  “Not all,” said Gorm.

  The two walked along in silence, Fengi deep in thought, Gorm waiting. When they arrived at the tavern, they took a small table in the far corner and ordered a meal.

  “There’s a rumor going around that my brother is planning to break off from Denmark,” said Fengi suddenly.

  “I haven’t heard that,” said Gorm.

  “I’m surprised,” said Fengi. “Valdemar knows. He wasn’t happy at all about big brother’s failure to come here today. He’s had his doubts ever since Ørvendil built the defenses at the northern border of Slesvig. They are too far inland to be of any use in repelling the Wends. No Wend would ever venture more than two hours’ run from the coast. They’re cowards.”

  “But…”

  “Has he been bringing any foreigners into town?” asked Fengi. “Perhaps in the guise of skilled labor? Artisans?”

  “There’s some brickmakers from Tuscany,” said Gorm. “Six of them.”

  “Tuscany, eh?” said Fengi. “Is their leader a swarthy fellow called Carlo? And were they in Holstein before coming there?”

  “How did you know about that?” asked Gorm.

  “They’re mercenaries,” said Fengi. “Paid killers. Didn’t you check them out?”

  “I did,” said Gorm miserably. “My contacts in Holstein are limited, unfortunately.”

  “I think Ørvendil’s up to something,” said Fengi thoughtfully. “He’s kept you out of things, hasn’t he? And that’s why you haven’t told him everything that you know, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve always kept some information to myself,” said Gorm. “You never know what it may mean until you have all of the facts.”

  “Smart man,” said Fengi. He leaned forward. “But you are wrong about one thing. I actually have three men in Slesvig.”

  “Who is the third?” asked Gorm.

  “You,” said Fengi.

  “What?”

  “Look,” Fengi said urgently, leaning across the table. “I don’t know enough about his plans yet to go to Valdemar. But we cannot have another civil war in Denmark. It would be horrific, coming so soon after the last one, and we need to present a strong front to the rest of the world. Valdemar wants me to stay in Roskilde for a while, so I can’t investigate Slesvig myself, and my men, as you well know, are not privy to what’s happening inside the fortress. But you are.”

  “Not according to what I’ve heard from you today,” said Gorm.

  “No, but you can be,” said Fengi. “Now that you understand the situation, you can be on the lookout for anything suspicio
us.”

  “God knows that I can do that,” said Gorm bitterly. “It seems that I have suspected everyone but the man I should have suspected the most.” He drained his goblet, then set it carefully down on the table. “All right, I will report to you. But if I think that you are wrong, then I want you to take no action against your brother.”

  “Of course not,” said Fengi, holding out his hand.

  Gorm clasped it, shaking slightly, then left the tavern, his plate untouched.

  A man who had been sitting nearby, his back to them, stood, came over to Fengi’s table, and took the recently vacated seat.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Like a charm,” said Fengi. “Nothing easier than playing on the suspicions of a naturally suspicious man. You know what to do?”

  “Of course,” said the man. “When does he return to Slesvig?”

  “The council meets for two more days,” said Fengi.

  “Then I will leave this evening,” said the man. He gestured at Gorm’s plate. “Do you mind? No point in wasting food.”

  “Be my guest,” said Fengi.

  * * *

  As Gorm left the tavern, his mind teemed with recrimination and doubt. His failure in properly investigating the bricklayers gnawed at him. His inability to gauge his masters intentions shook him to his foundations. He barely noticed the man he bumped into. Then he saw the cassock, and stopped.

  “My apologies, Father,” he stammered.

  “Not at all, my son,” said the priest.

  Gorm hesitated for a moment, then plunged in.

  “Father, I wish to make confession,” he said. “Would you hear it?”

  “Alas, I am on my way to minister to a poor soul on his deathbed,” said the priest. “But there is a parish church not two hundred paces south of here, just beyond the gate. Someone there should be able to assist you.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Gorm gratefully, and he set off in that direction.