An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Terence.

  “Deflate Ørvendil’s ambitions. Teach him to be happy with his lot, and remind him that the favor of Valdemar may very well be worth more in the long run than any attempt at the throne.”

  “It is better to serve in Slesvig than to reign in Roskilde,” said Terence. “Very well. Any other information about the town?”

  “Ørvendil’s drost, his second in command, is named Gorm. He’s probably the man to see about entry into Valdemar’s inner circle, but you may also want to try with the soldiers there. Ørvendil’s wife is named Gerutha.”

  “You’ve forgotten the most important thing,” said Terence.

  Father Gerald grinned. “There are two taverns, both near the wharves. One is called The Red Pirate, and the other is The Vikings Rest. I recommend the ale in the latter. Do you need money?”

  “I earn my way,” declared the fool. “Will you be making the rounds with me?”

  “Go in on your own,” ordered the priest. “I don’t want anyone connecting the two of us yet.”

  “But you’ll be my contact?”

  “I’ll pop up when you least expect it,” promised the priest.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that already today,” said the fool dryly. “If I have to run, which is the safest direction?”

  “Away from the trouble,” said the priest.

  “Ask a stupid question,” muttered the fool. He picked up his collection of bundles, then stopped, looking again at the runestone.

  “What is it?” asked the priest.

  “Just a whim of mine,” replied the fool. He looked around until he found a small gray stone the size of his hand. He picked it up, slid a dagger from his sleeve, and started scratching letters on the stone.

  “Terence was here,” he said when he was done. He embedded it firmly in the dirt by the runestone, then stood back to survey his handiwork.

  “Will anyone ever notice?” asked the priest, smiling.

  “Will anyone ever notice anything we do?” replied the fool. “At least I have a stone, now. That’s probably all that Gustav fellow wanted when all was said and done.”

  He held out his hand. Father Gerald clasped it firmly, then the two thumbed their noses at each other. The priest watched as the fool strode east, the wind at his back. Terence walked firmly to the middle of the bridge, then stopped and looked around.

  “I take it back,” he called. “It’s an excellent bridge.”

  “What changed your mind?” asked the priest.

  “My feet aren’t wet,” replied the fool, and then he turned and kept walking.

  The priest watched him until he reached the distant river, then turned north and vanished amidst the mounds of the ancient dead.

  * * *

  Terence walked for an hour before he saw his next living soul. An earthen ridge stretched north from the road, planted with bushes at the top. Past it lay a farm, with regular rows of barley and wheat laid out. The farmer was watering his oxen at a pond near the road.

  “Hail, good fellow,” called Terence. “Is that water fit for a fool?”

  “The oxen like it well enough,” replied the farmer amiably. “Come over, if you like.”

  He was a stocky man with massive arms and a slightly bent back. He wore no shirt in the summer sun, and his skin was nut brown. He looked at Terence curiously as the fool removed a skin from his belt and filled it from the pond.

  “My name is Terence,” said the fool as he tied the skin shut. “Magnus,” replied the farmer. “What are you, some kind of pilgrim?”

  “A performer,” said the fool.

  “Singer?” asked Magnus. “Musician? Dancer? Tumbler?”

  “Yes,” said Terence. “Among other things.” He looked back at the ridge. “Tell me something, if I may be so bold as to ask. What is the purpose of that ridge? It seems too low to be of much use in repelling an army.”

  “It shields us from our greatest enemy,” replied Magnus. “Step over here a little and you’ll see.”

  Terence came over to him and looked at the ridge. “I confess, I do not see anything,” he said.

  “Close your eyes,” suggested the farmer.

  “I will see better with my eyes closed?” laughed the fool. Nevertheless, he closed them and listened. The sun beat down upon his face, warming him. Suddenly he smiled.

  “Well?” asked Magnus.

  “I am hot,” replied the fool. “I am hot because the sun is shining on my face, but also because the wind is no longer cooling me. The ridge is a windbreak.”

  “Without that ridge, the good soil would be floating on the Baltic inside of a year,” said Magnus. “My ancestors built it long ago, and we spend as much time tending to it as we do these crops.”

  “You are a worthy descendant of such wise men,” declared Terence. “Thank you for educating a fool like me.”

  “Not at all,” said Magnus. “Any kind of conversation is welcome out here. Where are you headed?”

  “East,” said Terence. “Is there a decent-sized town nearby?”

  “Stay on the road another two hours and you will reach Slesvig,” advised Magnus.

  “I am your servant,” said Terence, bowing. “And if conversation with you is always so enlightening, it will be well worth the occasional visit, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I would be glad to,” said Magnus. “I’m always interested in hearing about the world, even if it’s just Slesvig.”

  Terence waved and walked on.

  Nearly two hours later he came up against a more serious earthenwork wall, patrolled by soldiers. One stopped him.

  “What are you?” he said, looking at his motley.

  “A humble fool, good soldier, seeking to exchange amusement for sustenance,” replied Terence.

  The soldier looked at him some more.

  “Where do your loyalties lie?” he asked.

  “To whoever will be buying my next drink,” said Terence. “I will follow that man with more devotion than a puppy, and speak his praise to all and sundry. Do you know where I can find this man?”

  The soldier laughed.

  “If it’s drunken charity you want, try The Viking’s Rest,” he said. “Off the middle wharf. They have rooms, too.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” said Terence. “A fool’s blessing upon you, my friend.”

  The soldier waved him through.

  The river widened, then split around an island, a ragged rectangular chunk of land that he paced off at about three hundred yards. Around its edges ran a wall of tree trunks packed tightly together, with wooden towers encased in layers of hide at random intervals. At the eastern end, where the river spilled into the fjord, there were three levels of platforms with archers keeping a relaxed watch. He couldn’t see over the stockade wall, but guessed that it surrounded a great hall, some barracks, and Ørvendil’s quarters. Some bleating noises escaped from within, joined by hammers hitting anvils, the shouts of soldiers being drilled, and the loud sobbing of what sounded like a child.

  He wondered at this last. Father Gerald hadn’t mentioned whether Ørvendil and Gerutha had any children. He decided he had better learn more in town before approaching the island fortress. Besides, the sun was beginning to set, and already he could see the drawbridge being raised from the northern shore to cut off the island from the rest of the world.

  The fjord stretched out in front of him to the horizon, yet was no more than half a mile wide. The main part of town was a few hundred yards ahead of him on the north shore. Watch fires were being lit in the distance.

  He hurried along the shore, marking wharves, fishing boats in abundance, nets drying on skeletal wooden frames. There were longboats of a more martial mien as well, at a wharf that was fenced off and bristling with guards. He reached the middle wharf, looked left, and saw a welcoming sight—a tavern, with a sign depicting a Viking of old, asleep at a table with a tankard spilling onto the floor by him.

  He bounded in, his bundles
swinging merrily about, as the sailors and salt packers in the room turned in astonishment. He held up a hand in greeting, dropped his bundles to the floor, and rummaged through them hastily, finding a number of odd objects: a stuffed sparrow hawk, a drum, a tankard, a small saw, and a lute. Placing the last carefully aside, he tied the drum at his waist and started juggling the other three, marking each rotation by slapping one hand or the other on the drum. He started tossing them higher, increasing the frequency of the drumbeats until it looked like he was simply a drummer with the ability to levitate strange objects about his head. He caught all three, waited for the applause to die down, then searched through the bundles some more, diving under some of the larger ones in his quest. He emerged holding six brightly painted wooden balls, which he sent into a strange circuit, both into the air and bouncing off the drum back into his hands, which were darting about like flies. When he finished up this routine, he put the drum on the floor and picked up his lute.

  “I am Terence the Fool, my friends,” he proclaimed to the room. “I am here to sing for you.”

  By the end of the song, which he accompanied both by lute and drum, playing the latter with his left foot, the room was his. At the end of the evening, having fed and drunk, he reached an agreement with the tapster to provide entertainment in exchange for a small room in the back and regular meals.

  The next night, the tavern was packed as Slesvig crowded in to see the only fool within miles. Terence was patient, and waited a week without approaching the island. Then, one morning, a summons reached him.

  He scrubbed his motley so that the colors reemerged from the dinge, and pulled out a small glass to make sure that his makeup was less haphazard than usual. Then he shouldered his collection of bundles and walked up to the drawbridge.

  Inside, he came upon a group of four rectangular barracks, laid out in a square so that they could present another level of defense in the unlikely event that the enemy came inside the stockade. Beyond them stood a great hall, two levels high and taking up nearly half of the enclosed land. A small flock of goats was grazing to the left of it, and there were stables behind them. Several smaller buildings lay scattered beyond the hall, with gardens laid out around them.

  A squat man stood at the entrance to the hall, watching him carefully. He had a misshapen head, as if he had been assembled hastily by an indifferent sculptor, with the features smeared on as an afterthought. He beckoned to Terence, and the fool came up to him and bowed.

  “You are the fool,” said the man.

  “I am, milord. My name is—“

  “I know your name,” snapped the man. “I am Gorm Larsson, the drost to Ørvendil.”

  “How do you do, milord.”

  “Do not speak unless you are bidden to do so,” thundered Gorm.

  “I cannot do that, sir,” said Terence mildly.

  Gorm stared at him, momentarily speechless despite his mouth being fully open. Terence memorized the expression and stored it for future use.

  “You will..Gorm began.

  “No, I won’t,” said Terence.

  “You…”

  “No.”

  There was stifled laughter from within the hall behind the drost, who was nearly apoplectic with rage.

  “How dare you address me so!” he shouted.

  “Because I am a fool,” replied Terence frankly. “That’s why you sent for me. If you want predictable conversation, and only when bidden, then you can get yourself a courtier. They cost more, and they are truly boring people despite their magnificent clothing, but they will know their place. But I am a jester, Lord Drost. I will speak when I am spoken to, and when I am not spoken to, and at random moments. Sometimes, I make no noise at all, just to see what it’s like. May I come in?”

  Gorm stepped back, momentarily stunned by the onslaught. Terence stepped past him and looked around. The room was almost empty, table-tops, trestles, and benches stacked against the walls. The far wall was over a hundred feet away, and some women were standing by it.

  “Listen to me, Fool,” said the drost urgently as he hurried to keep pace with the taller man. “This is a real lady here, none of your Danish peasants. She’s been to the courts of France, visited Rome. She knows what a real court is like, and you shall treat her accordingly,”

  “If she knows what a French court is like, then she will know how fools behave,” said Terence. He strode up to the women firmly, then stumbled at the last second, tumbling end over end into a splayed heap amidst his bundles.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said, waving merrily, and was met with a collective giggling from the group.

  The woman in the center smiled. She was almost as tall as he was, a commanding, raven-haired beauty in her early twenties. She stepped forward and held out her hand to the fool. Terence seized it and allowed her to haul him back to his feet, to the appalled gape of the drost.

  “Welcome, Fool,” she said. “I am Gerutha, wife to Ørvendil.”

  “Milady,” he said, executing a proper bow with elaborate arm flourishes, sending the other ladies into fits of giggling again. He looked up suddenly with an expression of alarm and held a finger to his lips. “Careful, milady,” he said in an exaggerated whisper. “There is some sort of creature clinging to you.”

  “Amleth,” she said. “Don’t hide. Come and meet the jester.”

  A small boy peeped timidly around her skirts, thumb in his mouth. He was about two, with jet-black hair from his mother and skin almost as pale as the fool’s, only without the help of powder. He looked up uncertainly at the apparition in motley.

  “Amleth, is it?” said Terence gently. “A pleasure, milord. I believe I have something for you.” The boy watched him as he reached into his pouch and produced a brightly painted ball like the ones he used for juggling. He held it out. The boy hesitated.

  “Take it, Amleth,” urged Gerutha, but the boy held back.

  Terence smiled, and sat down on the floor so that he was looking directly at the boy. He held the ball out again. Slowly, the boy detached himself and approached the fool, suspecting a trick. He reached for the ball, and took it, taking his thumb out of his mouth to turn the plaything over and over, watching the patterns.

  “Hello, Amleth,” said Terence, holding out his hand. “I am Terence of York.”

  The boy looked up from the ball to the good-natured face of the fool.

  “Yorick,” said the child.

  Terence shook his head. “Terence,” he repeated. “Of York.”

  Amleth looked at him and darkened, his expression suddenly combative.

  “ Yorick,” he insisted stubbornly.

  Terence smiled.

  “Well, then,” he said, “Yorick it is.”

  Three

  “But look, amazement on thy mother sits."

  —Hamlet, Act III, Scene IV

  Slesvig, 1157 AD.

  Did you see him?” Gerutha said to her husband as she undressed that night. “I have never seen Amleth take to anyone as he took to that jester. He is usually so frightened of strangers.”

  Ørvendil grunted, watching her as he lay under the covers. He was a large bear of a man, scarcely distinguishable from the pile of furs that served as their bed.

  “I don’t like it,” he said as she slid next to him, wrapping her limbs around his body for warmth. “He is surrounded by warriors, men of arms, great men. Yet he hides behind his mothers skirts and only comes out when some painted freak throws a ball to him. Is this the future king of Denmark?”

  “Maybe you should throw a ball to him once in a while,” said Gerutha. “He’s only two. The way you storm around, it’s no wonder that he’s frightened. Grown men are frightened of you.”

  “Yet you are not?” he said. He rolled quickly, pinning her under him. “Not frightened of a king?”

  She smiled up at him.

  “I would be unworthy of your attentions if I was,” she whispered. And you are not a king yet, she thought, and then closed her eyes as they began to ma
ke love.

  * * *

  “Who is he?” Ørvendil asked idly the next day as he surveyed the fjord from atop the archers’ nest at the eastern wall.

  “An irritant,” replied Gorm. “A powdered scarecrow who makes his living from cheap tricks and ballads.”

  “Where is he from?”

  “He says ‘’fork. The guard at the western wall said he came from that direction.”

  “And before he reached the wall?” asked Ørvendil. “West, north, south, what? You’re supposed to be my spymaster. What else do you know about him? Could he be a spy?”

  “He hasn’t been behaving like one,” said Gorm. “He’s been entertaining at The Viking’s Rest ever since he arrived. He hasn’t been wandering about the town asking questions.”

  “He doesn’t have to if he’s at the tavern,” snapped Ørvendil. “Everyone goes there. All the information anyone could possibly need will come spilling out by the third drink. And now he’s wormed his way onto the island. How did that happen?”

  “Your wife invited him,” said Gorm. “She thought it would make it more like a real court.”

  Ørvendil turned to him in rage. Gorm didn’t flinch.

  “A real court!” shouted Ørvendil. “What does…”

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  He stopped as a high shriek pierced the air. Around him, archers notched arrows, calling to each other as they frantically searched for the source of the sound. Ørvendil held up his hand, and the chatter ceased.

  The shriek echoed through the island. Ørvendil and Gorm turned to the rear of the platform and looked down. Terence suddenly appeared, galloping out of the great hall, Amleth on his shoulders, the boy clinging tight to the head of the jester. The shrieks were coming from the child— repeated, uncontrollable howls of delight. The jester lengthened his stride and leapt over the backs of a pair of startled pigs, scattering a small flock of chickens that were pecking at the ground near the stockade wall.