An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “Unfortunately, the position of King’s Fool has been filled,” snapped Fengi. “Tell Valdemar that I have gone to visit my brother. I will be back in time for the next war.”

  He stormed away.

  “Then, God willing, we shall not see you again,” muttered Gerald.

  * * *

  Signe lay on her pallet, a rag clenched between her teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. The contractions were coming more quickly now, to the satisfaction of the midwife who sat placidly knitting on a stool by the window.

  This should be easy, thought Signe. I’ve seen cows drop calves in the middle of a field and keep on grazing. Mares who bore foals nearly as big as me without a nicker of pain. If such lowly creatures can manage this, surely I can.

  But the labor had gone on for most of the day, and she was weak from it.

  “Eggs,” she gasped.

  “What, dear?” said the midwife.

  “We should lay eggs, like chickens,” said Signe. “It would be so much easier.”

  “Yes,” chuckled the midwife. “But then I would be out of a job, wouldn’t I?”

  The next onslaught came sooner than Signe expected, and the midwife stood, holding a knife and a clump of dried moss.

  “Here it comes at last,” she said cheerfully. “Start pushing, dear.”

  Signe started to scream.

  Outside, Amleth stared up at the window, trying to understand the sounds. They had told him she was having a baby, and he had seen the swelling of her belly and felt the kicks, but he still did not know how this child was going to get out of its tiny, warm prison. He thought of nuts being cracked open to reveal their treasures, and wondered if the other lady would be doing the same to Signe. If so, it was no wonder that she was screaming.

  Gorm sat in the great hall, a nearly empty wineskin on the table before him. With each of his wife’s screams he shuddered and took another swig. He had been drinking for a long time.

  Ørvendil poked his head through the doorway, saw the drunken drost, and clucked disapprovingly.

  “Come, man, is that any way to behave?” he said, sitting by him. “I’ve seen you go into battle against heavy odds without blinking. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I can face my own death without fear,” said Gorm. “But she’s in such agony, and it’s all my fault.”

  “It’s no fault, it’s the way of things,” said Ørvendil. “All women go through this, yet we all get born somehow. I think it’s mostly show, anyhow. That way, they make us feel guilty so we end up pampering them for a while.”

  There was a shriek that dwarfed all that had gone before, and Gorm turned deathly white. Then there was a slap and a baby crying.

  “You see, my friend?” said Ørvendil, clapping the drost on the back. “There was nothing to worry about.”

  Gorm staggered to his feet and lurched toward his quarters. The midwife met him at the entrance.

  “A girl, more’s the pity,” she pronounced. “Nothing but trouble in the long run.”

  “And Signe?” asked Gorm.

  “She lost a lot of blood, but I finally stopped it,” said the midwife. “She should live. Give her plenty of wine for one week, and keep your filthy hands off her for a month or so. She can’t do this too often.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Gorm. He moved as if to enter, but the midwife stood blocking the door, her hands on her hips.

  “Well?” she said.

  Gorm looked at her uncertainly.

  “Thank you?” he said.

  She held out her hand.

  “Oh, of course,” said Gorm, quickly thrusting some coins into it. She stuck them in her pouch and stood aside.

  He took the steps two at a time, then stood at the door to the bedroom, reeling slightly with exhaustion and wine. Signe lay on the pallet, holding the newly swaddled infant against her breast. She looked up at Gorm and smiled weakly.

  “Here she is, husband,” she said. “How do you like her?”

  He plopped down by her and looked at his daughter. She was already sleeping, as worn out from being born as her mother was from bearing her.

  “She’s so small,” he whispered, touching her hand with his finger. “She’ll grow,” said Signe. “What shall we call her?”

  “I was thinking of Alfhild,” said Gorm. “From my studies of history, she was a woman known for her chastity and her courage as a warrior. These are qualities I would fain see in my own daughter.”

  “Chastity, yes,” said Signe wearily. “We’ll leave warfare to the men.”

  “I just meant….” he stammered. “Is the name all right?”

  “It’s fine,” said Signe, closing her eyes.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked, but she had fallen asleep. He watched the two of them lying there, the baby nestled in her mother’s arms, rising and falling with each breath. He did not notice Amleth, who had crept silently up the steps to look at the new child, wondering how she had escaped.

  When Gorm came down later, the men at the rear posts cheered him from on high. Ørvendil came out of the great hall and clasped his hand.

  “A daughter, eh?” he said. “Well, too bad about that. Better luck next time. How’s the wife?”

  “Tired,” said Gorm. “So am I. Is there any dinner left?”

  “Dinner, and more importantly ale,” said Ørvendil, leading him inside. Signe lay on the pallet, trying to get Alfhild to nurse. Such a pale girl, she thought. Like the moon.

  She sat up, wincing in pain. The midwife had left her little instruction on how to take care of either herself or the baby, and her husband had not thought of arranging for any help. She wondered where he had gone.

  She started, seeing Amleth peering at her from the steps. She had thought that he was there before, sometime after the baby was born, but her mind was in such a confused state that it might have been a dream. He looked frightened, and she realized that she must be a haggard mess. She beckoned to him.

  “Would you like to see the baby?” she whispered.

  He nodded solemnly, coming forward, holding something in his hand. She smiled when she saw that it was a bouquet.

  “Are those for me?” she asked.

  He nodded again, handing them to her. She pulled him to her and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Those aren’t from your mothers garden, are they? She’d be angry if you picked them without her permission.”

  “Yorick and I picked them on the moor,” he said, his eyes never leaving the little girl.

  “Did you?” she said softly, looking at them more closely.

  They were wildflowers, violets, crowflowers, and dandelions, and their fragrance eased her pain for the first time that day.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And thank Yorick. They remind me of home.”

  * * *

  Gerutha looked at her garden in frustration. Despite her best efforts, her roses failed to produce more than a pair of wan blooms, while the lilies came out misshapen and yellowed. She looked over at Signe’s herb garden, which was thriving, and sighed.

  “Manure,” said Fengi, standing behind her.

  She squealed in surprise, then surprised both of them by turning and giving him a quick embrace.

  “But we had no word of your coming to visit,” she said. “And what do you mean by manure?”

  “It’s what I say whenever people discuss gardening,” he said. “I look as knowing as possible and say, ‘Manure. It needs more manure.’ I may be right, for all I know, but mostly I just enjoy saying the word. Sorry about the unexpected visit. Shall I go away and come back again?”

  “You’re being naughty,” she scolded him. “It’s good to see you under any circumstances. How long will you be staying?”

  “Until I’m needed elsewhere,” he said. “I have been thinking of seeing more of the world. Perhaps I’ll try my luck with the Varangians in Constantinople.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “We need you here in De
nmark.”

  “We?” he said. “You and who else?”

  “If it were only me, then that should be enough,” she said, then thought, I’m flirting with him.

  “It is, of course,” he said, laughing. “You’ve talked me out of Constantinople. Thank you. Where’s my brother?”

  “Supervising more earthenworks north of the town. You should go greet him.”

  “I will immediately. What news before I leave you?”

  “Gorm and his wife had a baby girl,” she said. “Sickly looking thing, but it survived. Signe barely made it through.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said, crossing himself. “How does Gorm like fatherhood?”

  “He doesn’t know what he should be doing,” she laughed. “Men are so useless about babies.”

  “And Amleth?”

  “Ask him yourself,” she said. “He’s standing right behind you.”

  It was Fengi’s turn to whirl around in surprise. His nephew stood before him, grinning and holding his arms out. Fengi lifted him up and tossed him high, then caught the shrieking child.

  “Hello, nephew,” he said.

  “Hello, uncle,” replied Amleth.

  “I never heard you approach,” said Fengi. “With stealth like that, you’ll be working for Gorm soon.”

  Amleth shook his head violently at that prospect. Fengi put him down, and the boy dashed away.

  If Ørvendil was surprised to see his younger brother ride up, he did not show it. He was standing on a newly constructed ridge while teams of thralls dug up dirt, loaded it into carts and barrows, hauled it to the ends of the ridge, dumped it, and tamped it down with small logs. He waited for his brother to reach him and locked him into an embrace in full view of everyone, then walked with him along the length of the construction.

  “What trouble are you in?” he asked quietly.

  “Is that the first thing that crosses your mind?” laughed Fengi. “Given where you were, yes,” said his brother. “You wouldn’t leave Roskilde when things are going so well for you unless they weren’t going so well for you. What happened?”

  “I left of my own accord,” said Fengi. “The new regime is shaping up in ways that I do not like. Axel Hvide has just become Bishop of Roskilde.”

  “Little Axel?” exclaimed Ørvendil. “Esbern’s brother? But he isn’t even old enough to grow a beard.”

  “He is now,” said Fengi. “The little bastard may end up running everything if we’re not careful.”

  “If we’re not careful,” echoed his brother thoughtfully. “When did you and I become a we again? You left to follow your ambitions years ago.

  “And you stayed to follow yours,” retorted Fengi. “Why are you building fortifications here? Which of your enemies would attack from the north?”

  “We have had Wends raiding the coastline north of us,” said Ørvendil. “I thought that since the earthenworks south and west of Slesvig have been completed, it would be worth building up our northern defenses so that they can’t slip around us in that direction.”

  “It seems to me that you’ve turned Slesvig into a nice little defensible territory,” said Fengi. “Defensible from every direction.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Given how well I know you, I thought you might have given up on being king of Denmark, but thought you might set up your own kingdom. You could get a little support from Holstein in exchange for access to the northern seas, maybe even reach out to Barbarossa before Valdemar does.”

  “What you are talking about is treason,” said Ørvendil.

  “Which I am certain you considered ever since Valdemar put you in here,” said Fengi. “I’m still wondering why you didn’t take advantage of him when we showed up last year. He wouldn’t have been the first king to be murdered in Slesvig. Do you mean to tell me that this is what you’ve settled for? No more ambition?”

  “There comes a time when you settle for your lot in life,” said Ørvendil. “I’ve lived a little longer than you, and I know that now. You still have to learn it. Get married, have children. It will make more sense to you once you’ve done that.”

  “Rubbish,” said Fengi. “You have to keep moving or you’ll die. Look, we could do this together. You’re squeamish about taking on Valdemar, fine. There’s Wendish territory to the east, and no one would complain if we attacked them. You know that they are looking at us and drooling in anticipation.”

  “No,” said Ørvendil. “If you’re spoiling for a fight, go somewhere else.”

  “Coward,” muttered Fengi.

  “Be careful what you say, little brother,” cautioned Ørvendil.

  “What are you going to do about it, big brother?” taunted Fengi, his hand drifting toward his waist.

  “If your hand gets one inch closer to your hilt, you’ll find out,” said Ørvendil pleasantly. “You know you can’t take me in combat.”

  Ørvendil’s guards were moving closer, sensing the menace within the two brothers. Fengi looked around and let his hand fall to his side. Ørvendil laughed and put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, and the guards relaxed their vigilance.

  “Have a nice visit with your family,” said Ørvendil. “Then go back to Roskilde. Or go to Barbarossa, or France, or wherever you can find a real battle. When you’ve conquered this restlessness, come back here and well find you a wife. We’re good at that.”

  * * *

  Terence had finished performing at The Viking’s Rest when, to his surprise, he saw Gorm sitting alone at a table, watching him. He filled two tankards with ale and brought them over.

  “We rarely see you in here, my Lord Drost,” he said, placing one of the tankards in front of him.

  “I came to see you,” said Gorm. He picked up the tankard and drained it in one gulp. “Is there someplace we could talk?”

  “A moment, milord,” said Terence. “My gullet is not as expansive as yours, and I prefer to taste the brew when I drink it.”

  He finished his ale, then stood.

  “Let us walk. The evening is still young.”

  They left the tavern and ambled along the shoreline. The moon was full, and its sister shone from the depths of the fjord.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Gorm. “You did me great service when I did so last year, and the matter is again one that is deeply personal.”

  “Why not a priest, Sir Appollonius?” asked Terence. “I am flattered that you would come to me on a personal matter, but I am not sure that we could even call ourselves friends, much less confidants.”

  “I think that is why I can come to you,” said Gorm. “Anyone else who heard this would laugh at me. Imagine, the one person I thought wouldn’t laugh would be a jester. This is a matter of marriage, and I don’t think a priest could help with that.”

  “Given the number of concubines and bastard children they have, you might be wrong,” said Terence.

  “But that isn’t marriage,” said Gorm. “That is simply carnality. Fleshly desire.”

  “True enough,” agreed Terence.

  “And yet, it touches upon my own concern,” said Gorm. “I never asked to be married, you know.”

  “I know,” said Terence.

  “The embrace of a woman …” began Gorm, then he turned crimson. “You may speak, milord,” said Terence. “I am not unaware of such things.”

  “I have long prayed for my freedom from sin,” said Gorm. “The feelings of carnality disturb me.”

  “But they are not sinful within the sacrament of marriage,” protested Terence.

  “That’s how we are taught,” said Gorm. “But I am uncertain of it. The consummation was …”

  “Was what, milord? Successful, surely, for we have that delightful little Alfhild in the world with us now.”

  “Successful in that sense, of course,” continued Gorm. “But it nearly killed Signe to have that baby. It nearly killed them both. And that midwife warned me away from her.”

  “Just for a while, I�
�m sure,” said Terence. “To give your wife a chance to recover.”

  “I want her, Fool,” Gorm burst out. “I cannot control these feelings. Yet my lust mortifies me, and the venting of it could kill her if she goes through another childbirth.”

  “These things do happen, milord,” said Terence. “It is the way of the world.”

  “I could not live with myself if I caused her death through my own sinful desires,” said Gorm miserably. “I know that I would be perceived as unnatural if I withheld myself from her, but it does seem to be the best course of action. Do you see that?”

  Terence walked on with the drost. Poor man, he thought. He comes to me for advice on his future, yet it is Signe’s happiness that I care about. It would be better for everyone if I refused to counsel him on this matter.

  “Appollonius, my friend,” he said. “I agree with you.”

  Gorm gave him a look of gratitude, and Terence felt sick inside.

  Nine

  “I find thee apt,”

  —Hamlet, Act I, Scene V

  Slesvig, 1161 A.D.

  “Yorick, may I ask you a question?” asked Amleth.

  “Certainly,” replied Terence. “Let me just finish what I am doing.”

  The two of them were sitting by the ruins of an old Viking tower on a promontory south of the mouth of the river. The fool was busy whittling the head of a straight branch that he had hollowed out. A small campfire burned behind them on which they had cooked a fish that Amleth had netted. Terence took a small, thin iron rod from one of his pouches and laid it so that its end was nesded on the embers, then turned his attention back to the boy.

  “Your question, my young lord,” he said.

  “Why do fools wear whiteface?” asked Amleth.

  “Do we?” exclaimed Terence. He peered into the water and cried out in shock when he saw his reflection. “Why didn’t you tell me? I look ghastly.”

  “I’m serious,” said Amleth, giggling nonetheless. “I want to know.”

  “There are many reasons,” said Terence. “Let me ask you this. What happens to your room every spring?”