An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “You missed my meaning,” she said. “Wouldn’t you consider him a possibility?”

  He sat up.

  “No,” he said. “Not Gorm.”

  “Yet you sound less certain about him than you did about Yorick,” she said. “Gorm has been completely distraught since he lost Signe. He may very well have held the midwife responsible for the death of his wife.”

  “I pray that wasn’t what happened,” said Ørvendil. “But I’ll put a different man on it.”

  “Good,” said Gerutha. “I want to get to the bottom of all this.”

  * * *

  The next morning Gorm staggered into the great hall, dark patches under his eyes. He saw Ørvendil speaking to a captain of the guards. The Duke glanced over at the drost, whispered something hurriedly to the captain, then clapped him on the back and sent him on his way. Then he turned to Gorm, smiling broadly.

  “Ydu look like hell,” he said.

  “I was up with the baby all night,” groaned Gorm. “It’s difficult when the wet nurse isn’t here. Thank you for letting Alfhild sleep with Amleth.”

  “Thank my wife for that,” said Ørvendil. “She figured you had enough on your mind right now.”

  “I heard about the midwife,” said Gorm. “I’ll start looking into it today.”

  “No need,” said Ørvendil. “I just sent Lars to do it.”

  “You did?” said Gorm. “But that should be my responsibility.”

  “Your responsibility right now is to that baby,” said Ørvendil. “Lars will handle it just fine.”

  Gorm looked at his master closely.

  “You think I had something to do with it, don’t you?” he said. “No,” said Ørvendil. “I honestly don’t. But we have to make sure that the investigation …”

  “You think I had something to do with it!” Gorm repeated loudly. Ørvendil’s face darkened. He walked quickly up to the drost and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Now, you listen to me,” he said quietly. “If I put you in charge of an investigation while the town gossip already has you as a possible murderer, then no one will trust whatever conclusions you reach.”

  “But if you don’t put me in charge, then everyone will know that you don’t trust me,” said Gorm.

  “Everyone knows that you are in mourning and that you are taking care of that baby,” said Ørvendil. “No one will think that I don’t trust

  » you.

  “I will,” said Gorm. “Do you wish me to resign from your service?”

  “Not in the least,” protested Ørvendil.

  The drost sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to weep.

  “Look,” said Ørvendil more kindly. “If that wet nurse won’t move in here, why don’t you take a place in town near her?”

  “In town?” said Gorm. “But my post is here. My men are here.”

  “You would come in here first thing in the morning,” said Ørvendil. “It’s not as if you’re patrolling with the night watch, and this way you could get out of your quarters until the memory fades from them. I’m sure Alfhild would prefer staying somewhere else.”

  “She’ll stay where I tell her to stay,” said Gorm. “She’s my daughter.”

  “It’s just a suggestion,” said Ørvendil. “If you’d rather stay, then stay.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Gorm wearily.

  * * *

  Amleth was juggling with Terence, tossing four clubs back and forth. Alfhild sat on the ground nearby, watching the boy in admiration. When Gerutha came out of the great hall, Amleth was the first to espy her. “Mother, look!” he cried. “Look what I can do.”

  “Very good, Amleth,” she said, coming up to Terence’s side. “Go play with Alfhild for a minute. I want to speak with Yorick.”

  “All right,” he said to Alfhild’s delight. He started rolling a ball to her.

  “So many ‘Mother, looks’ to get through,” said Gerutha, watching them play. “What with you teaching him juggling and his father teaching him swordplay.”

  “Both useful skills,” said Terence. “With swordplay, you can survive in wars. With juggling, you can survive in taverns.”

  “It’s almost as if he has two fathers,” said Gerutha. “He dotes so much upon you.”

  “I am merely a friend,” said Terence. “He knows who his father is. He adores him. And you.”

  “I wonder if I have been the best mother to him,” she said. “Perhaps I have indulged him, letting him be with you so much.”

  “If you consider that an indulgence, so be it,” said Terence. “Have your husband say the word, and I will stop coming here. The children would be disappointed, though.”

  “They would get over it,” said Gerutha.

  “You seem anxious to have me go,” said Terence.

  “I am trying to protect my son,” said Gerutha.

  “From me?” laughed Terence. “I am also his protector. I keep his mind from knotting up too tightly.”

  “It’s just that,” she said, hesitating for a moment, “you were seen visiting that poor midwife.”

  “Her name was Thora,” said Terence. “She complained about always being called the midwife rather than by her actual name. Funny how your profession can disfigure you for life like that. Midwife. Thrall. Fool. Before you know it, everyone’s forgotten your true name, including yourself. Queen is another one like that.”

  “Did you kill her?” asked Gerutha.

  “I had no reason to, although a fool always lacks reason, so maybe that is no excuse. No, I am no more likely a candidate for the gallows than you are, milady.”

  “I am glad to know it, Fool,” she said, turning to leave. Then she turned back. “I wouldn’t become too enamored of this protector role,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I take care of my own.”

  “I am certain of that, milady,” he said, bowing.

  * * *

  The next day Gorm walked back from inspecting the northern defenses, which seemed more formidable every time he saw them. Lother seemed as if he wanted to live, to the drost’s relief. He had taken to the wet nurse with enthusiasm, and was considered by her to be a good-natured baby, something Gorm himself felt unqualified to say.

  He noticed, as he neared the brickyard, that Reynaldo was walking on a path that would soon intersect his own. The Tuscan nodded curtly at the drost.

  “Good morning,” said Gorm in Tuscan.

  Reynaldo looked at him in surprise.

  “I did not know that you spoke our language,” he said.

  “I spent some time there when I was younger,” said Gorm. “I don’t have much of an opportunity to speak it around here.”

  “You speak it well,” said Reynaldo.

  “Thank you,” said Gorm. “You speak ours well, too.”

  “I do all right,” said Reynaldo, then he stopped, his face turning crimson.

  “I thought as much,” said Gorm, switching back to Danish.

  “You think you are so smart,” said Reynaldo. “You follow us around, and listen to our conversations, and act like you know everything. Well, I tell you right now that you know nothing.”

  “I may know more than you think,” said Gorm. “But if there is any matter on which you would enlighten me, feel free.”

  Reynaldo looked around quickly. There was no one else within earshot.

  “There is something you might be interested in,” he said. “For a price, I might tell it to you.”

  “Or I could torture it out of you for nothing,” said Gorm. “In my present mood, I may do that anyway. I suggest that you start talking before I change my mind.”

  “It is information that could put me in grave danger,” said Reynaldo. “And you.”

  “Don’t worry about my life,” said Gorm. “I place little value on it. What do you have to say?”

  “It is a strange thing, living so far from home,” said Reynaldo, sighing. “I thought when I left
Tuscany that the farther north I went, the colder the people would be. But now that I am in Slesvig, I find that the people here are the same as my own. They are fairer, they eat different foods, much worse food in my opinion, but they are still the same. There are passions here, ambitions, love, hatred. I am a passionate man. I left behind a woman that I loved who was forced to marry another. I buried my heart in Tuscany and thought I would never see it again.”

  He sighed again. “I say all this to you because I know that you understand great passion. I have seen what you have gone through with the loss of your good wife, may her soul find Heaven. I know that you will understand what a momentous thing it is for me to say that I have found my heart again.”

  “Are you saying that you love a maid?” asked Gorm. “Is that what this is all about? Hardly worth payment or torture.”

  “It is that, but much more,” said Reynaldo. “I am a constant man. When I have a passion, it is for the person, and for everything around her. I have fallen in love with a Danish maid, and with this country, with these strangely shaped waters and constant winds. And it is because of this love that I now wish to protect what I had been brought here to destroy.”

  “I take it that you are not talking about brickmaking anymore,” said Gorm.

  “We are the first recruits for what will become a much larger army,” said Reynaldo. “You don’t need so many Tuscans to supervise a kiln. One skilled brickmaker is enough. I know that you have suspected us for some time. Ydu were correct to do so. I could show you where we buried our cache of weapons.”

  “But who do you work for?” asked Gorm.

  “Surely you have guessed by now,” said Reynaldo. “Who but the man who brought us here?”

  “Ørvendil?” said Gorm.

  “The same,” replied Reynaldo. “Already, he has begun transferring the men he cannot trust to posts outside of the island. I am surprised that he has not suggested that you leave there yet.”

  “Ørvendil,” said Gorm in despair. “But why?”

  “A man with an army may do what he wishes,” said Reynaldo. “I was not trained to ask questions. I could make my guesses, but you know your master better than I do.”

  “I thought I did,” muttered Gorm. “And now you have come to me because you have had a change of heart.”

  “No,” said Reynaldo. “When I came here, I was a heartless man. My heart has not changed so much as it has been rediscovered. Now, I fear bloody war and the death of all that I want to live. I cannot run away and leave my beloved behind again. I cannot afford to spirit her out of here. So, I must change what will happen before it is too late. The only person I could think of coming to with this information was you.”

  “Because I am a passionate man,” said Gorm.

  “And a brave one. And one who loves his country. And his children.” They walked along in silence, Gorm thinking, Reynaldo watching him think.

  “Tell no one else about this,” said Gorm. “I must find out who among my soldiers I may trust. I will get word to a man I know who has the ear of the King. Do not speak to me again.”

  “Thank you, milord,” said Reynaldo fervently. “When our first son is born, he shall have your name.”

  “No,” said Gorm sadly. “It would be like naming him Judas.”

  He turned toward the island. Reynaldo watched him. Then he walked to the house of his Slesvig maid. She was passionate. After he paid her.

  * * *

  Valdemar read the letter that Fengi handed to him. Then he reread it.

  “I think that we have moved beyond suspicions,” he said.

  “Yes, milord,” said Fengi sadly.

  “You trust this man?” asked the King.

  “You know him as well as I do,” said Fengi. “He fought well for you on Grathe Moor while my brother sat on his fortified island, waiting to see who would win.”

  “He stayed because I told him to,” said Valdemar.

  “Yes, and with remarkably little protest,” said Fengi. “All I am saying is for a man like Gorm to approach you like this without his masters knowledge…”

  “It must be tearing him apart,” said Valdemar.

  “He may rather have himself torn apart than see his country suffer the same fate,” said Fengi.

  “All right,” said Valdemar. “We will remove Ørvendil from power. But we will do it properly, by Danelaw. We have long delayed the convening of the Slesvig thing. I think that it is time we called it.”

  “My brother will think that it’s being called to formally elect him,” said Fengi.

  “We will let him think so,” said Valdemar. “But when the time comes, you will denounce him in my name and seize him.”

  “Me, milord?” exclaimed Fengi.

  “You,” said Valdemar. “I am proposing that you assume the reins of power in Slesvig. With my backing, you will be selected. I want to have someone in there that I can trust.”

  “You would trust a man who would betray his own brother?” asked Fengi.

  “I would trust a man who is bound to me, not by petty ties to his family,” said Valdemar.

  Fengi knelt before him and kissed his ring.

  “I shall do your bidding,” he said.

  As Fengi left the King’s chamber, he saw Gerald heading toward him.

  “So long, Fool,” he said. “I am off to Slesvig.”

  “Ah, to visit your brother,” said Gerald. “Always good to see family. Have a pleasant journey.”

  “Oh, I will,” chuckled Fengi. “The best ever.”

  Gerald watched him as he walked away, suddenly suspicious. Then he knocked respectfully on the King’s door.

  “Enter,” said Valdemar.

  Gerald came in to find his master in a foul mood, his eyes perusing a letter in his hand.

  “Fengi was in good spirits when he left here,” said Gerald. “Did he steal yours?”

  “Don’t attempt to cheer me, Fool,” said Valdemar. “I have no taste for it right now.”

  “What is the matter?” asked Gerald.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” said Valdemar. “I’ve taken care of it already. Go amuse someone else.”

  “Very good, milord,” said Gerald, bowing and retreating from the room.

  He wished he had a glimpse of the letter in Valdemars hand. He walked quickly until he reached Fengi’s lodgings. He knew that the man’s room was on the second floor, out of earshot. He ducked down an alley, laid his staff on the ground, and climbed a water barrel. Then he jumped, his hands catching the edge of the roof. He pulled himself on top, hoping that no pedestrian would bother looking up. He crawled to a spot over Fengi’s room, then pressed his ear to a crack between the wooden planks that covered it.

  “Pack everything,” he heard Fengi say.

  “Everything, milord?” replied a thrall. “Are we staying for a while in Slesvig?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fengi. “For a very long while.”

  Gerald listened for a while longer, but heard nothing of use. When he heard the door close, he inched backward to the side of the house and dropped back onto the water barrel. He jumped down and grabbed his staff, then ran to his own quarters to fetch his gear. Then he started to run.

  Before Fengi’s thralls had finished packing, the priest was several miles south.

  * * *

  He reached Slesvig five days later, hoping he had a lead on Fengi. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out some suitably rustic garb, hoping to pass for a farmer on a rare jaunt into town. He stowed his motley, picked up his staff, and walked to The Viking’s Rest.

  It was late afternoon, and the fish packers, smelling about as one would expect, were on their first round of ale. A group of brickmakers entered, chattering away in Tuscan. Gerald was wearing a broad, floppy cloth hat that kept his face partially concealed. He scanned the room from under it, looking for his colleague but not finding him. Something about one of the other patrons jolted his memory. He desperately wanted to talk to Terence. He was about to inqu
ire of the tapster as to his whereabouts when he heard a drum beating outside. He turned just as Terence staggered in, looking gaunt underneath his whiteface.

  “Entertainment!” cried Terence as the drunken denizens turned and cheered. “Where is the entertainment?” He tripped over a stool and his head slammed into the edge of the bar as the room laughed heartily. “Oh, wait,” he said, straightening. “I am the entertainment.”

  He began juggling clubs, but the past proficiency was not there. The third or fourth time he dropped them, he just let them lay on the floor. Gerald saw with alarm that the fool’s forehead was gashed from when he had hit the bar, the blood dripping into his eyes. Terence dabbed at it ineffectually with his sleeve.

  “Now, where was I?” he said. “Was I telling the one about the maid and the ass, or the ass and the maid? Neither of them has a happy ending. Where’s my drink?”

  “Ten rounds of juggling without a drop first,” said the tapster. “Pick up your clubs.”

  Terence picked them up and held them in front of him. “If there’s a drop, then there won’t be a drop,” he said. “But if there is no drop, then there will be a drop. Is that the challenge?”

  “That’s it,” said the tapster.

  “Count for me, everyone,” said Terence, and as the fish packers took up the count, he began juggling three clubs.

  He made it through to the end to the cheers of the room, and seized his mug of ale with a flourish. But Gerald saw the effort it had taken him for a feat that any ten year old at the Guild could do with his eyes shut. He watched with dismay as Terence floundered through a ribald ballad. When the fool retired, Gerald slipped around to the back and caught him sagging to the floor.

  “What in the name of the First Fool is wrong with you?” said the priest, helping him to his pallet.

  “Performed at a party,” said Terence. “Too much to drink.”

  “I’ve never heard of you letting your drinking get in the way of your performing,” said Gerald.

  “A drunk can get as many laughs as a fool around here,” said Terence. “It’s much easier and a lot more fun. What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until next month.”