An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  Horace unbuckled his sword and removed a knife from his belt, then surrendered them to a guard.

  “I am at your service,” he said, bowing to Fengi and Gerutha.

  They left. Behind them, the two gravediggers, relieved that they didn’t have to expand the grave, finished burying Alfhild.

  Amleth sat calmly against the wall of the small storage room that doubled as a cell on the island, his eyes closed. Hanging from the ceiling around him were strings of garlic and onions, bundles of herbs, and dried fruit, their smells mingling pleasantly. Alfhild would have liked this room, he thought sadly.

  The door opened, and he squinted in the sudden light to see Fengi standing before him.

  “A long story, you say,” Fengi said as he sat against the wall opposite Amleth.

  “Depending on how 1 tell it,” said Amleth.

  “Summarize, if you please,” said Fengi.

  “Pirates,” said Amleth. “Hostage. Ransom. I knew Horace would be good for it, so I sent for him. Redemption, at least in a strictly monetary sense. Came home.”

  “The last is what I find remarkable,” said Fengi.

  “Really? I would have thought the pirates were the strangest aspect of the story,” said Amleth.

  “That you would consider your life valuable enough to ransom, yet you would throw it away so easily by coming here.”

  Amleth closed his eyes.

  “I came back for Alfhild,” he said.

  “Alfhild? Why?”

  “I had made a promise,” said Amleth. “I should have kept it long ago. And now its too late to do anything about it.”

  “’’tou were going to run away with her,” said Fengi. “Perfect. A mad man marries a mad maid. You would have produced an entire litter of lunatics.”

  “Alfhild was not mad,” said Amleth. “She suffered from her isolation, from the cruel practices of her father, but she was not mad. I knew her, I daresay, better than anyone. I carried her as a baby. I comforted her when her mother died bearing Lother, and I wore her favor when I left for Paris the first time. I wear it still.”

  “She was mad, and she drowned herself,” said Fengi.

  “She was sane, and someone killed her,” said Amleth. “Was it you?”

  “Why would I do that?” asked Fengi softly.

  “Because she warned me of your plans,” said Amleth. “The longer version of my story includes my pilfering your commission from my close friends Rolf and Gudmund. An interesting request under your official seal.”

  “Where is that scroll now?” asked Fengi.

  “With a man that I trust,” said Amleth. “Along with my own account of your secret army. If I die at your hands, he delivers it to Valdemar. If he doesn’t hear from me by a certain date, the same.”

  “How do I know that he hasn’t taken it to Valdemar already?” asked Fengi.

  “Because you are still alive and in power,” said Amleth.

  “And what is to prevent me from keeping you prisoner until I launch my attack?”

  “Nothing,” replied Amleth. “Oh. There’s always mother.”

  Fengi winced.

  “You have the freedom of the grounds,” he said, unchaining Amleth. “You come within ten feet of the drawbridge, and you will be cut down on the spot.”

  “Understood,” said Amleth. “May I at least go to church on Sundays? I would like to get my spiritual affairs in order.”

  “I think that would be wise,” said Fengi.

  * * *

  Fengi stood with Reynaldo on the topmost archers’ platform, looking west. The Tuscan was swathed in furs, huddling as far inside them as he could possibly get.

  “Feels like it will be a cold winter this year,” Fengi commented as the wind whipped into his face.

  “Wonderful,” sighed Reynaldo. “I still cannot get used to your winters. Far too cold, in my opinion. When you become king, do something about that, won’t you?”

  “When the winters are bad, the Danes huddle inside closed doors,” mused Fengi. “They sleep by the fires, practically piling on top of each other for the warmth.”

  “Pile me high with Danish maidens, and I will survive this winter,” said Reynaldo.

  “The Danes feel safe in the winter,” continued Fengi. “Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they know that the winter is their shield,” said Fengi. “Because they know that no one would dare risk an attack during the winter. So, the Danish soldier sits by the fire, comfortable and sleepy. Unarmored, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Reynaldo, smiling.

  “And if there is an alarum, he loses valuable time getting his armor on,” said Fengi. “They don’t make them sleep in their armor anymore. They’ve grown soft, fat, and complacent. So, there’s an attack, and it takes him five minutes to turn into a real soldier, which will be five minutes too late. And he will burst through the door and immediately be assaulted by an angry foe.”

  “You?” guessed Reynaldo.

  “The Danish winter,” said Fengi. “The surprised soldier will go from a hot fire to frozen gales in a matter of seconds, and the shock will take away his will to fight before he takes a second step toward the battle.”

  “But will not that same weather fall upon the attackers?” asked Reynaldo.

  “Of course,” said Fengi. “But the attackers will have been out in it long before, and will be cutting through the frigid winds like a longboat through choppy waves. Our men will not feel the cold settle into their bones until the last defender is run through.”

  “And then you will be king,” said Reynaldo.

  “And then I will be king,” said Fengi. “Your spies say that Valdemar will have all of his allies and advisers at the Feast of the Epiphany?”

  “Yes,” said Reynaldo.

  “We shall leave on New Year’s Day,” said Fengi.

  “Good,” said Reynaldo. “It’s about time. Of course, some of your men will think it sacrilege to launch a war during the Christmas season.”

  “Fortunately, others worship a wooden, seven-headed monstrosity and would like nothing better than to take one more shot at the man who destroyed their people,” said Fengi. “I just worry.”

  “About what, milord?”

  “About Amleth. Does he really have a man ready to warn Valdemar? And until when must we keep Amleth alive to keep that from happening?

  “Amleth knew about the letter,” said Reynaldo. “He knows about the mercenaries. I think that he made sure there would be someone ready before he came back here.”

  “My thinking as well,” said Fengi. “And I still need his mother’s family fortunes and blood ties to back me in this little venture. Therefore, I must not harm him. And that irks me.”

  “I could kill him,” suggested Reynaldo.

  “No,” said Fengi. “His death cannot come from anyone under my command.”

  “Is there no one else who would have cause to kill him?” asked Reynaldo. “One who could do it without suggestion of an outside motive?”

  Fengi smiled.

  “There is one,” he said.

  * * *

  “Come with me, Lother,” said Fengi. “I need to talk to you.”

  They walked across the drawbridge, side by side, and headed toward the fjord. Fengi sat heavily down on a bench, rubbing his side, and motioned to Lother to sit by him.

  “There is something you should know about your sister,” said Fengi. “You know how devoted she was to Amleth.”

  “Of course,” said Lother.

  “Amleth took advantage of her,” said Fengi. “It’s as simple as that. He took advantage of her, as young men will of susceptible maids. That’s why your father put her in the convent.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Lother.

  “You are young,” said Fengi gently. “There is much about humanity that is wicked and sordid. It all happens as we leave childhood for the adult world. Some demon takes hold of us, and those of us not strong enough
to conquer it succumb to all manner of sin. Yaur sister was a victim of her desires. And his.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Lother.

  “Your father and I talked of it many times,” said Fengi. “And as Duke of Slesvig, I have sources of intelligence that encompass many different areas. Sometimes I hear things that I would prefer not to know. Your sister was seduced by Amleth, and it was her sin that drove her mad. Do you think that it was chance that brought him back on the very day of her funeral?”

  “What do you mean?” said Lother hoarsely.

  “How did he know to find us there?” asked Fengi. “How did he know she was dead? She left on the day of her death to meet her lover, and this happened. At least she had the courage to flee him, naked and beaten as she was.”

  Lother was shaking, balling his hands into fists.

  “I shall kill him,” he said.

  “Now, now, hold on for a moment,” said Fengi, taking the boy’s arm. “Your honor does you proud, but you cannot just cut him down in cold blood.”

  “I cannot let him live knowing what you told me,” said Lother.

  “Agreed, but there are more subtle ways,” said Fengi. “I am having a feast on New Year’s Eve for my captains. I am suggesting for entertainment that you give a demonstration of your prowess with a sword.”

  “I’m listening,” said Lother.

  “I will suggest to Amleth that he be your opponent in this demonstration,” said Fengi. “Then, an accident will occur.”

  “One problem,” said Lother. “I am good, but he is still older and stronger. I cannot guarantee that the accident will suffice.”

  “But I can,” said Fengi. “I have a syrup that I obtained on my travels long ago. Apply it to the edge of your blade, and even the smallest scratch on your adversary will be enough to send him to his death.”

  “Have you ever tested it?” asked Lother curiously.

  “How do you think I managed to defeat my brother?” replied Fengi, smiling at Lother.

  Lother smiled back.

  * * *

  “There is to be a feast on New Years Eve,” Amleth said.

  “Oh, good,” said Horace. “I love a good meal to end the year. Am I invited?”

  “I doubt that you will be allowed to eat anywhere else,” said Amleth. “I wonder if there is anyone I could hire to taste my food first,” said Horace. “Or would that be bad manners?”

  “ Ydu could probably get out of here before then,” said Amleth. “There are some sympathetic guards. And some bribable ones.”

  “What, and miss a good meal?” laughed Horace. “That would violate my most sacred code.”

  “Have I thanked you enough?” asked Amleth.

  “No,” said Horace. “And if we survive, there will not be enough thanks in the world. And if we don’t, then that will still be true.”

  The Danish guards overlooking the drawbridge watched with foreboding as the mercenary captains filed through the gate, speaking six different languages.

  “Sixty of them,” said one of the guards. “That means there has to be at least three thousand men under them.”

  “There were Wends in there, did you see that?” said the other. “Holsteiners, Switzers, God knows what else. He’s been keeping them hidden away for years. Now, he has them out in the open. That can only mean we’re going to war.”

  “But against whom?” asked the first man.

  “I don’t know,” said the other. “But I have a bad feeling about all of this.”

  Fengi looked across the mass of warriors who sat on long benches by the tables surrounding the central fires. He thought back to that fateful feast in Roskilde, when he had fought his way to safety along with Valdemar. The trick to a feast, he thought, is to be the man throwing it. He stood, and the room became silent.

  “My friends,” he said. “We come to celebrate the end of an old year, and the dawning of a new age. We shall eat and drink until it is 1176!” There was cheering as thralls swarmed in, carrying bowl after bowl of stews and puddings, platters of roasted hogs and chickens, and pitchers of spiced mead.

  Lother sat at the end of the table, picking at his food with no appetite. Occasionally, he glanced across the room to where Amleth was sitting quietly, looking at the foreign faces in his fathers hall. Horace sat to his left, chattering merrily with Gerutha.

  Fengi stood again.

  “Gentlemen, we have some extraordinary entertainment for you tonight,” he said. “Although you have come from many lands, tonight you have become my brothers.” Cheers at this. “Which means that you are now all Danes.” Laughter and hooting followed this pronouncement, and Fengi changed his expression to one of mock sternness. “Are you saying that this isn’t the culmination of your hopes and dreams?”

  “You have purchased our loyalty and our arms,” said one of the Wend captains. “But why should we choose the nationality of the very people we seek to conquer?”

  “I stand by the prowess and might of the Danish soldier,” said Fengi. “As fierce a warrior as you are, I would match even that stripling at the end of my table in skill with a sword with anyone.”

  “Him?” scoffed the Wend. “He’s still a boy.”

  “But a prodigy with a sword nonetheless,” said Fengi. “Shall I call upon him to demonstrate?”

  “Is this our entertainment?” asked the Wend.

  “Well, the beginning,” said Fengi. “Lother, step forward.”

  Lother strode to the center of the tables, turned smartly, drew his sword, and saluted all sides to the mocking applause of the assembled mercenaries.

  “Now, we need to find him a worthy opponent,” said Fengi.

  “I will be happy to teach him a lesson,” said the Wend.

  “No, my friend, I cannot spare you,” said Fengi. “I will not risk harm to any of my captains. At least, not here. But there is one present who has boasted that he taught Lother everything he knows. Perhaps a match between master and pupil would be a good one.”

  “Are you referring to me, milord?” asked Amleth, drumming his fingers on the table.

  “A friendly contest,” said Fengi. “Striking only with the flat of the blade. Most hits out of ten bouts. Let’s see you put your brag to the test.”

  Amleth stood reluctantly.

  “I have no sword,” he said as he walked into the center of the hall.

  “Here is one for you,” shouted the Wend, tossing his to him.

  Amleth caught it, then swung it a few times experimentally.

  “You must have a strong arm to wield such a mighty weapon, good captain,” he said, saluting him. “I will try and do you honor.”

  “Well spoken, my son,” said Fengi. “And for my part, I will drink to the first man who lands a blow.”

  He snapped his fingers, and an ornate golden goblet was placed before him and filled with wine. He held it aloft so that it gleamed in the firelight.

  “This was passed down from my ancestors,” he said. “According to family lore, it was taken from the hoard of a dragon whom the founder of our line slew in single combat. Let us see who earns the first toast.”

  Amleth turned to face Lother.

  “I must confess that I have not been practicing,” he said.

  “I have,” said Lother.

  They began circling each other slowly. Amleth feinted toward Lother, but the younger man refused to acknowledge it. He kept his eyes on

  Amleth’s sword hand. Amleth’s eyes seemed to be looking into the distance, almost as if he were dreaming.

  Strange,” he said. “This almost…” Then he lunged forward in midsentence. Lother knocked the thrust aside, but Amleth’s momentum took him inside his sword arm. He reached around him and swatted him playfully on the rear with the flat of his blade.

  One to me,” he said as the mercenaries started laughing.

  Fengi raised the goblet toward Amleth.

  “May God grant you a long life,” he said, and drank.

  “Amen,” sa
id Gerutha.

  “Fill the cup again,” Fengi commanded, and a thrall rushed up with a pitcher. “Again, gentlemen.”

  Lother and Amleth faced each other.

  Well,” said Amleth. “Maybe I’m not as rusty…”

  Shut up,” said Lother. “There are no conversations on a battlefield.”

  “Nor are there children,” said Amleth, and the mercenaries roared as Lother chased him around the fires.

  “Nor are there madmen!” shouted Lother.

  “As for that,” began Amleth, then he tripped over a table leg. Lother dashed in, sword raised, and Amleth rolled at the last second, his sword snaking through the air to swat Lother on the calf as the latter’s sword banged off the floor.

  “Second hit to the madman,” grinned Amleth as he got to his feet.

  “Here, son,” said Fengi, holding up the goblet. “Now, you must drink to your ancestors.”

  “I will when I have won this match,” said Amleth. “Until then, I must keep my wits about me.”

  “Then I shall drink to my son,” said Gerutha, taking the goblet from her husband and downing it in one motion as the mercenaries sounded their approval.

  “I am surprised at you, Lother,” said Amleth. “I thought you knew that trick. I guess it is one thing to fight in the classroom, and another when something is actually at stake.”

  “There is nothing at stake here,” growled Lother, and he swept his sword up and across.

  Amleth lurched back, grabbing his wrist.

  “What is wrong with you?” he protested. “We hadn’t begun again, and this was to be the flat of the blade only. This was to be a friendly bout.”

  Lother said nothing, but held his sword up, crouching slightly.

  “You killed my father and drove my sister to her death,” he said. “There is nothing friendly about it.”

  He attacked, and Amleth sidestepped and seized Lother’s wrist and twisted it. The younger man grimaced and dropped his sword. Amleth planted his foot in the other’s side and sent him spinning away.

  “I see,” said Amleth softly. He looked at Lother, who was braced against the edge of a table. “You need a sword.”

  He threw the Wends sword to Lother and ducked down to grab the fallen blade. Lother caught the tossed weapon by the hilt and charged just in time to take the point of his own sword in his stomach. Blood poured through his tunic and dripped onto the floor as he collapsed.