An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “Get him a surgeon!” shouted Amleth.

  “Too late,” gasped Lother.

  “Come on, boy, it isn’t that deep,” said Amleth.

  “Gerutha!” shouted Horace.

  She was clutching her throat, her eyes turning with terror toward Fengi.

  “What ails her?” said Fengi as she fell into his arms.

  “Poison!” Lother managed to shout. “The poison you intended for Amleth.”

  “What?” cried Amleth.

  “It was a trap,” Lother choked out. “You die by the poison from my blade, as do I.” He began to cough, then looked up at Amleth with a weak smile. “As did your father by the same treachery.” He sagged back to the floor.

  Amleth grabbed Lother’s sword with his free hand and took a step toward Fengi, staggering as he did. Fengi stood and backed away, drawing his own sword.

  “I don’t fear you,” he said. “You have less than a minute to live. You will die just as your father did.”

  Amleth smiled at him.

  “I had two fathers,” he said, and began juggling the two swords with his right hand. “They both taught me well.”

  Fengi watched the blades flip through the air, bouncing the firelight around the room. Suddenly, Amleth threw the Wends blade at the roof above Fengi’s head. It stuck in a rafter, quivering, and as Fengi’s eyes momentarily followed it, Amleth hurled Lother’s sword into his chest. The Duke of Slesvig fell through the doorway into the kitchen.

  For a second the only sound heard in the great hall was the crackling of the logs on the fires. Then Amleth fell to his knees.

  “My mother?” he gasped.

  Horace felt for a pulse.

  “Dead,” he said. -

  Amleth looked down for a moment, then around the room at the stunned expressions on the faces of the mercenaries.

  “Gendemen,” he said. “I apologize for my bad manners. The entertainment has ended for the evening.”

  Then he pitched forward onto the floor.

  Horace leapt over the table and ran to him. An old priest came into the center of the room and knelt by Lother.

  “He’s dead,” said Horace, looking up at the mercenaries with tears streaking his face. “My friend is dead.”

  The priest crossed himself.

  “This one as well,” he said. “God have mercy on their souls.”

  The captains looked around at each other.

  “What are we supposed to do?” said one. “Who is going to pay us?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said Horace. “There is food, there is drink. Let some soldiers from the barracks carry them to the cathedral. I will maintain the vigil myself. Ym captains decide what you want to do in the morning.”

  Eight of the barracks guards came in as Horace covered the faces of Amleth and Lother with their cloaks. They placed the bodies across spears carried lengthwise, and slowly trudged out of the great hall, the priest preceding them, intoning prayers in a quavering voice. Horace followed them.

  The captains sat there looking at each other. Then one of them turned to a terrified thrall.

  “Well?” shouted the captain. “What are waiting for? Get us more to drink!”

  * * *

  Father Gerald stopped, leaning wearily on his staff. Around him, the fools, troubadours, and children sat in silence.

  “I have often wondered if Gerutha knew that there was poison in the goblet that Fengi offered to Amleth,” he said. “I like to think so. I like to think that at the end, she sacrificed her life to save her son.”

  “But he died anyway!” shouted Thomas. We all turned to look at the boy who was on his feet, outraged. “What kind of story is that!’”

  “What do you mean, Thomas?” asked the priest gently.

  “That’s not a proper story,” shouted the boy, near tears. “They’re all dead. What good is a story where everyone dies?”

  “Death lies at the end of all of our lives,” said Father Gerald.

  “I know that,” said Thomas impatiently. “But this is supposed to be a story.”

  “Very true,” said Father Gerald, smiling. “But I never said it was over.”

  * * *

  The honor guard carried the bodies to a room inside the cathedral where they could be prepared for burial. They lowered them gently onto several tables, then looked up at Horace.

  “You are men of honor,” he said quietly. “But there is no need for you to be here. Your late commander would wish you to be at your posts. I will remain here with this good priest and pray for them.”

  “Then God be with you, sir,” said one of the guards, and they filed somberly out of the room. The priest blessed them as they left, then watched for a moment. Then he closed the door and turned to Horace.

  “Quickly,” said Father Gerald, handing him a stoppered flask and pulling another one from his pouch.

  Horace pulled the cloak back from Amleth’s face and shook him roughly, then hauled him to a sitting position and slapped him several times. Father Gerald did the same with Lother. Suddenly the two Danes started coughing heavily.

  “Drink up, lad,” urged Father Gerald, shoving the flask in Lother’s mouth.

  “Come on, old man,” said Horace, grinning as Amleth’s eyes fluttered open.

  Amleth clutched the flask weakly and forced some of the liquid down.

  “Dear God, that was awful,” he muttered.

  “The effects of the drug should wear off in a while,” said Father Gerald. “Well played, boys. Both of you.”

  Lother looked blearily around the room.

  “My head hurts,” he said, then he caught sight of Fengi’s and Gerutha’s bodies, lying under blankets.

  “Are they … ?” he began.

  “Yes,” said Father Gerald. “Unfortunately the poison she took was real. I’m sorry, Amleth. I didn’t see that coming.”

  Amleth tried to get to his feet, and nearly fell.

  “My legs are still wobbly,” he said.

  “You walk all right for a dead man,” observed Horace. “All right, so we need to weight down your coffins and seal them before—“

  The door crashed open. Reynaldo stood there, a crossbow in one hand and a sword in the other. He looked at Amleth, a sick smile on his face.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “The blood gushing out of the boy. There was too much for that wound. Pig’s blood in a pig’s bladder under the tunic. You think you could fool me? My ancestors invented that trick.”

  Father Gerald leaned upon his staff, looking every bit the old man.

  “Repent, my son,” he quavered. “For your eternal soul is in jeopardy.”

  “I fear no priest,” laughed Reynaldo, pointing the crossbow at Amleth.

  “No one does,” said Father Gerald. “That’s the trouble with the world today.”

  He struck up at the crossbow with his staff. The bolt flew harmlessly over Amleth’s head. The priest hit Reynaldo once in the throat, and the Tuscan fell, grabbing his neck.

  “Pity,” said Father Gerald, squatting down to watch him die. “I had some questions I wanted to ask you.”

  He administered extreme unction, then straightened and looked at Amleth.

  “I have longed believed him responsible for the death of a man we both loved,” he said. “I swear that I do not seek revenge in life, but the opportunities do keep presenting themselves.”

  “Well, that’s one coffin weight taken care of,” said Horace, dragging Reynaldo’s body away.

  Father Gerald turned back to Amleth and Lother, who looked at him dumbfounded. He reached down and pulled two bags from under the table.

  “Here’s your jester gear,” he said. “Get into your motley. Full makeup, but cloaks and hoods over everything.”

  The two changed, then applied the whiteface and stared at each other. “I wouldn’t recognize you in daylight this way,” said Lother.

  “You wouldn’t recognize yourself,” replied Amleth.

  “All rig
ht,” said Father Gerald. “Get going, You know how to avoid the patrols, you should make Gustav’s Stone before daybreak.” He handed each of them a small purse with coins. “Then Lother to the Guildhall, and Amleth to England, you have the passwords. Every Guild member on the way will help you.”

  “And what happens to you?” asked Amleth.

  “I leave for Roskilde,” said Father Gerald. “I have to convince Valdemar to send an army here to reclaim Slesvig.”

  “He won’t be happy to see you,” said Amleth.

  “No, he won’t,” grinned the priest. “Now, let me embrace you both. It may be the last time we see each other.”

  Amleth flew into his arms and hugged him hard. Lother, who had known him for much less time, did so hesitantly.

  Horace came in.

  “Well, this is it,” he said, clasping each by the hand. “I’ll hold the fort. Metaphorically, that is. Don’t start thanking me, I’ll get all weepy, and that isn’t me, is it? Now, get out of here.”

  Amleth and Lother shouldered their packs. Amleth touched his mother’s face briefly, then the two fools vanished through the door. “Need help weighting the other coffin?” asked Father Gerald.

  “You don’t have time,” said Horace. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Father Gerald sighed.

  “Valdemar was not happy to see me,” he said. “When he heard my news, he threw me into a dungeon. I sat there for six months, not knowing what had happened. Then, one day…”

  * * *

  The King and the priest looked at each other.

  “You look old,” said Father Gerald.

  “So do you,” said Valdemar.

  “I am old, I think,” said Father Gerald. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Do you want to hear what I have to tell you, or shall I come back in another six months?” asked Valdemar.

  “1 am listening,” said Father Gerald.

  “You were a good fool,” said Valdemar. “I should have listened to you. I am sorry.”

  “I have the power to forgive,” said Father Gerald.

  “Of course, I cannot admit this to the outside world,” continued Valdemar. “The King cannot be wrong.”

  “Of course not,” said Father Gerald.

  “Which is why you were imprisoned for your insolence,” said Valdemar. “And why you will now be banished forever from Denmark.”

  “But not put to death,” said Father Gerald.

  “No,” said Valdemar. “Not that.”

  “Very well,” said Father Gerald. “What happened to Slesvig?”

  “Slesvig is still mine,” said Valdemar. “I have placed a man that I trust there.”

  “You trusted Fengi, once,” the priest reminded him.

  “When I was less experienced,” said Valdemar. “I think that I have gotten better at this by now.”

  “We’ll see,” said Father Gerald.

  “I have a son, you know,” said Valdemar.

  “I know,” said the priest.

  “We made him co-king,” said Valdemar. “He’s still young, though. I was thinking that he might benefit from some entertainment. Maybe a jester. I thought that you might be able to recommend one.”

  Father Gerald smiled.

  “I think that I can help you there,” he said.

  Twenty-One

  “And you, the judges, hear a wary eye. ”

  —Hamlet, Act V, Scene II

  Swabia—1204 A.D.

  Another Valdemar now sits on the Danish throne,” said Father Gerald. “The grandson of the first. He looks like a good one. And he has a fool by his side. Is that ending more satisfactory, Thomas?”

  “Yes, Father,” replied the boy. “But what became of Amleth and Lother?”

  “They both went on to have careers in the Guild,” said Father Gerald. “But that is a different story. Many different stories, in fact.”

  “And the moral of this one?” asked Sister Agatha.

  “Moral?” said Father Gerald in puzzlement. “I am no Aesop. Draw what morals you wish. No, that isn’t right. One lesson I could teach from this is that both Terence and Amleth had chances to run from Slesvig and live long lives far from responsibility. Both chose to honor their commitments to the Guild instead, and it ended up costing Terence his own life and Amleth the lives of his mother and the woman he loved. But a war was averted and thousands of lives saved because they did not run from their appointed tasks. Now, I have talked too far into the night. Those who have regular morning chores must still perform them, but tomorrow, the rest shall sleep late.”

  There were cheers at this, and the gathering broke up.

  “Every time you tell that story, you kill more people,” Sister Agatha teased Father Gerald as she joined him.

  “I do not,” protested Father Gerald. “That’s exactly how it happened.”

  “You personally killed Sveyn?” she laughed as she escorted him to his room.

  Claudia and I walked to our tent in silence. Helga followed us carrying a blessedly sleeping Portia. She placed the baby gently in her cradle, then yawned, waved, and staggered off to the novitiates’ quarters. We sat by the cradle watching our daughter as the moonlight shone into the tent. “Well?” said Claudia.

  “Well, what?” I replied.

  “You were part of that story, weren’t you?”

  “Was I? I didn’t hear my name anywhere.”

  “Father Gerald always changes the names when they involve Guild members,” she said.

  “All right, who do you think I was?”

  “You were Amleth,” she said triumphantly. “That’s why you were so tense about hearing it again.”

  I sighed.

  “Truly, wife, you usually do better than that,” I said. “How old a man do you think I am?”

  She looked at me carefully, then shook her head.

  “You’re right, that was stupid of me,” she said. “Amleth, if he lives, would be on the verge of fifty. You’re younger than that.”

  “My next birthday will be my forty-second,” I said. “But you’re right about one thing. I was part of that story. I was the one called Fother.”

  “It must have been terrible, living through all of that,” she said.

  “It was.”

  “But to affect you so powerfully even now…”

  “It was much worse than what you heard,” I said.

  “But didn’t Father Gerald…”

  “He told a story,” I said harshly. “An old man with fading memories told it to us from his viewpoint and gave it the fool’s version of a happy ending, fou only think you know this story.”

  She took my hand in hers.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  * * *

  The two earliest memories I have are of Amleth juggling silks in front of me and of my father beating me for the first time. The two came so close together that they are forever linked in my mind, the defiance of nature and the shock of reality. Magic and pain. Illusion and disillusionment.

  I was four years old. I did not know why he started beating me, or why it happened so frequently. I assumed that I had done something meriting punishment, but I could not figure out what it was, and my father refused to enlighten me. Sometimes, all it took was my appearance in his presence to set him off.

  My only comforts were my sister and Amleth. She would hold me and press cool wet cloths to the bruises, and he would make me laugh, which would ease the pain. The healing power of laughter, that was another early discovery.

  I have no memory of Ørvendil, of course. Fengi and Gerutha were husband and wife since I first became aware of such matters, so it was a surprise when Amleth first told me that he had had another father. Having had only one parent, and a cruel one at that, I said that it was unfair that he had so many parents and I so few. He actually laughed at that, which seemed to make him feel better, confirming what I was learning about humor.

  Of the fool, Yorick, I only have the vaguest of images. A tall
man in whiteface smiling at me. I think that I remember him carrying me on his shoulders, but whether that is an actual recollection, or merely something that was told to me later so that it took root in my imagination, I cannot tell. For all I know, it may even have been something Amleth told me that happened to him.

  I don’t remember my mother.

  Once when I was older, Amleth at my request tried to draw me a picture of her, but after several attempts were crumpled and thrown into the fire, he gave up and dragged me to a nearby stand of trees whose leaves were turning. He picked up one reddish one that had fallen and handed it to me. Her hair was that color, he said. Only shiny.

  I cannot see the change of the trees in autumn without thinking of her.

  My father never spoke of her, and Alfhild tended to look distant and cry when I brought her up. Amleth was the one who ended up telling me stories about her, often while teaching me the rudiments of juggling and tumbling that he had absorbed from Yorick. I would become so enraptured in the sound of his voice as he repeated these tales that the juggling became automatic to me. I could negotiate the most treacherous landscape with the clubs keeping pace over me as if they were a band of trained birds.

  My father, when he was not punishing me, did pay attention to my spiritual upbringing and my education. I was at the school at the Slesvig cathedral at an early age, and when I wasn’t fooling around and making the other boys laugh, or being punished by the priests for doing it, I found that I had a knack for languages and literature. My father encouraged this. He taught me those tongues that he knew, and recruited resident foreigners to teach me theirs. Reynaldo taught me Tuscan dialect, which I liked, and kept calling me the little spy, which I didn’t like. I still remember the first time I said something funny to him in his own language. He looked at me in astonishment, then roared with laughter, clapping me on the back. When he reported this triumph back to my father, I was taken into our rooms and whipped, despite Alfhild flinging herself on father’s arm to try and stop him.