by Alan Gordon
Gerald watched him thoughtfully. His priestly side regretted not being able to help the man himself, but he did not want Gorm to know about his other identity, and a confession at close quarters would easily have led the drost to make the connection between the priest and the fool. Something had upset the drost, that was plain to see. Gerald wished he knew what it was. He had seen him leave with Fengi, which aroused his curiosity, but by the time he had removed his makeup and donned his cassock, it was too late to hear what they had to say to each other. It occurred to him that he could have heard the drosts confession to gain the information, but he had sworn long ago never to abuse that sacrament.
He entered the tavern and immediately spotted Fengi eating in the corner with another man he had never seen before. He bought a pitcher of ale along with some cheese and pickled herring and sat near them, trying to overhear their conversation, but they were merely eating. When they left, Gerald followed. The two split up outside the tavern, Fengi heading back to the great hall and the other man walking south. Gerald hesitated, then followed the stranger. He thought that he might have been staying at one of the boardinghouses outside the southern wall, but the man simply passed through the gate and kept going.
Gerald was not prepared to trail him all the way across Sjælland. Sighing, he abandoned the quest and returned to his own room to prepare himself for the evenings entertainment. He sketched the man’s face on a scrap of paper, jotting down what he could about his description, and added it to a large sheaf of similar drawings that had grown steadily since he had been in Roskilde.
“Too many spies and not enough fools,” he muttered. He wished, not for the first time, that Larfner were still alive to help him.
Gorm grew more hopeful about the small parish church with every step he took toward it. It was ideal for his purposes—out of the mainstream of Roskilde society, and with no connection at all to Slesvig. Perhaps there he could find the spiritual comfort and guidance that he desired. He conjured up visions of how the priest might look—a kindly man, spiritually pure, imbued with the inner light brought on by years of monastic asceticism, yet tempered with a worldly knowledge of human affairs. A man that would see into his heart and his inner conflicts, understand, forgive, and prescribe the correct path through the sin-ridden thickets that blocked his view of paradise.
The church was a small, rectangular affair, built of crudely worked blocks of tufa with a wooden roof that looked badly in need of repair. He pushed open the door to find a single aisle with benches on either side leading to a simple nave with a cross nailed against the wall. There was no one there.
“Hallo!” he called. There was an indistinct noise from inside a wooden door at the rear. He strode toward it and opened it.
A sleepy priest was standing there, hastily knotting the cord around his cassock, his hair long and unkempt. He waved peremptorily at the drost.
“Be right with you,” he muttered.
“What is it?” said a womans voice.
Gorm peered around the priest to see a slatternly female lying on a pallet, a naked breast visible under the partially thrown covers. She had a wineskin in one hand, and given its depleted appearance had been sampling it heavily.
“Just a lost soul, I expect,” said the priest. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be with you when I’m done.”
He motioned the astonished drost back into the nave.
“Who was that?” spluttered Gorm.
“My housekeeper,” said the priest. “Now, what may I do for you, my son?”
“How can you… ?” Gorm began, nearly choking. He took a deep breath. “How can you help me?”
“I don’t know,” said the priest. “What is the problem?”
“The whole world has become corrupt!” screamed Gorm. “Nothing is pure. No one can be trusted.”
“That, I’m afraid, is beyond my simple capabilities,” said the priest. “I can pray for you, my son.”
“Pray for yourself!” snapped Gorm, and he stormed out of the church. “Probably too late for that,” muttered the priest.
“Are you coming back to bed?” called the woman from inside the outer room.
“Yes, my dear,” replied the priest.
He turned, crossed himself briefly out of habit, and went back inside.
* * *
Fengi knocked respectfully on the door to Valdemars room.
“Come,” said the King from inside.
Valdemar was seated, his feet propped up on a cushioned stool.
“Am I disturbing you, milord?” asked Fengi.
“I am in need of disturbance,” said Valdemar. “My fool wandered off after the meeting, just when I was in the mood to be amused.”
“I can offer little in the way of entertainment,” said Fengi. “My thoughts lay in rather a different direction.”
“Share them.”
“I want to apologize on behalf of my brother,” said Fengi. “He should have been here.”
“It is not for you to apologize,” said Valdemar. “These words should be coming from his own mouth.”
“True, milord.”
“In any case, I am surprised to hear you speaking up like this. He is your brother, after all.”
“’Vou are my brother,” said Fengi. “My loyalties are here.”
“Nobly spoken,” said Valdemar. “What do you want?”
“Nothing more than what I have said,” replied Fengi. “My brother does act on Denmark’s behalf in building these fortifications. I saw them the last time I passed through Slesvig. They are very impressive. I daresay they are strong enough to withstand an attack from any army around.”
“Including mine, I suppose?”
“Why would you attack Slesvig?” asked Fengi. “It is already yours.”
“What are your brothers intentions?” asked Valdemar bluntly. “Stop these hints and speak plainly.”
“I do not know his intentions,” said Fengi. “I have no proof that they are anything but what they should be in such a loyal soldier.”
“No proof,” repeated Valdemar. “But you have your suspicions.”
“No more than do you,” said Fengi. “Suspicions are dangerous things, milord. Anything can be suspect. Or anyone. But the truth is often harder to come by.”
“But if you do come by it, you will let me know immediately,” ordered Valdemar.
“Of course, milord.”
“Well, off to Barbarossa with you,” said Valdemar. “Keep me informed.”
“I will, milord,” promised Fengi as he turned to leave. The King stopped him with a gesture.
“Of everything,” said Valdemar.
“Yes, milord,” said Fengi.
He left the King’s chambers, a smile playing on his lips.
* * *
Gorm returned to Slesvig several days later. As he rode through the gates in the eastern earthenworks, his practiced eye saw the defenses anew. He noticed the effort put into them, the thickness and height of the ridges, larger than anything the Wends ever had to contend with in their lives.
All around him he saw soldiers. The same soldiers he had seen for years, had drilled mercilessly at dawn, had led on patrols. The soldiers he had molded into a top fighting unit.
He and Ørvendil.
He rode past the kiln, which was going full blast. Red roof tiles were piled neatly next to it, the cathedral renovations having taken precedence over the building of the new castle.
The new stronghold.
He fancied that people were eyeing him strangely, although when he looked directly at them, they were looking elsewhere, seeming to pay him no mind. He doubted that. He was a danger now, armed with newly opened eyes of his own. He would increase his spies in the town. Not a bird would fly over the city, not an insect crawl through it without his knowing it. He would never be caught by surprise by anything again, and those who attempted to deceive him would be dealt with.
He walked across the drawbridge to the island, grunting at the greetings of
the men on the platforms. It was evening, already past the last meal, but he had no appetite. He entered his quarters and went upstairs without even glancing at his sleeping daughter. Signe was still up, combing out her hair. She turned with surprise when she heard him.
“You’re back,” she exclaimed. “We had no word that you were returning.”
“Are you displeased?” he said.
“Why, husband, of course not,” she said. “How was your journey?”
He looked at her. She was in her nightgown, her feet bare, her unplaited hair reaching down to the small of her back.
“Lie down,” he said.
“Don’t you want to tell me about Roskilde?” she asked him.
He stepped forward and shoved her down to the pallet. She landed hard, tears coming to her eyes.
“I told you to lie down,” he said.
“What is the matter?” she said. “Why are you behaving like this?”
He unbuckled his sword belt and let the weapon clatter to the floor. Then he knelt by her feet.
“The world is corrupt,” he said. “Everything is rotten.”
“But…”
He heaved himself onto her, knocking the breath out of her. His hands scrabbled for the hem of her nightgown, then he grew impatient and simply ripped the fabric apart. She was struggling, writhing beneath him, which only added to his rage. He slapped her hard, then did it again. She was crying now, which infuriated him.
“Wait,” she pleaded. “I’m not..
She cried out with pain as he entered her. He was in a frenzy, coarse grunts erupting from him with every thrust.
It was over in a minute, and he lay on top of her, panting, his heart pounding. Then he saw her face, the tears streaking her cheeks as she looked away from him.
“Why are you crying?” he asked. “This is what you wanted. This is what husbands and wives do, isn’t it?”
She would not look at him. He stood, walked to the doorway, then turned to look at her again.
“Isn’t it?” he screamed. Then he fled down the steps.
* * *
Two months later, she realized that she was with child.
Eleven
“Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh..
—Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
Slesvig, 1162 A.D.
“When will the baby come?” asked Amleth as he pulled weeds out of the herb garden.
“I don’t know,” said Signe, sitting with her back against the wall, her hands resting on her swollen belly. “Soon, I think.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked Amleth.
“I think perhaps a boy,” said Signe. “But I don’t know for certain.” Amleth looked at her in puzzlement.
“’You had a baby before, didn’t you?” he asked.
“You know that I did,” said Signe. “You may have noticed her chasing after you for the last few years.”
“So, if you have done this before, how come you know so little about it now?” asked the boy, a sly grin on his face.
Signe looked at him openmouthed, then burst into laughter.
“Come here, you scamp,” she said, holding her arms out.
He came to her shyly, and she hugged him, ruffling his hair, then kissed his forehead.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For making me laugh,” she told him. “It’s been a while since anyone has done that.”
“I could fetch Yorick,” he offered.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s so busy of late. I don’t wish to take him away from those who are in need of cheer.”
“But..
“Besides,” she said, hugging him again. “I have his most talented student to entertain me. Now, run along, little cousin. It’s time for your lesson with your father.”
“Bye, Signe,” he called, snatching his sword belt from the ground and running.
“Good-bye, cousin,” she said softly. “I wish I had better answers for you. I wish I had some for myself.”
* * *
Terence reached out and swept the boy into the air as he came dashing through the great hall. Amleth shrieked as he sailed up near the crossbeams, but kept his body in the right position for the fool to catch him.
“You shouldn’t scream like that,” said Terence sternly. “It gives people the impression that I could actually let you fall.”
“There’s always a first time,” said Amleth as the fool put him back on the floor.
“So, how does your cousin?” asked Terence casually.
“Fine,” said the boy. “I made her laugh.”
“Did you?” exclaimed Terence. “Well done, my student. Nothing coarse, I hope.”
“I don’t know anything coarse,” declared the boy with the most innocent look he could muster.
“Of course not,” said Terence. “Does she need any further entertainment?”
“She said that she didn’t,” said Amleth. “She said she didn’t want to take you away.”
Terence looked out toward the rear doorway, but could not see Signe’s garden. He sighed.
“Very well,” he said, “’four father is waiting at the usual place. Don’t let him cut you in half.”
“I won’t, Yorick,” promised the boy. “Bye!”
He ran off.
* * *
Gerutha looked at her garden in disgust.
“Rip everything out,” she commanded the thrall standing by her. “Everything, milady?” he asked warily. “Even the roses?”
“The roses have given me nothing but trouble for all of my hard work,” she said. “It’s time to begin anew. Rip them all out and toss them into the woods somewhere. Maybe Nature will take pity on them and let them grow.”
The thrall shrugged and commenced digging up the garden.
“I never thought that I would live to see this day,” said Ørvendil as he and Amleth came up behind her.
“When we build the new castle, we will have a proper courtyard with a proper garden,” she said. “Somewhere with good light and healthy soil.’ “When we build the new castle, we will,” he said. “Would you like to see Amleth in combat?”
“Show me,” she said, turning to watch.
Amleth and his father faced off against each other, the wooden practice swords in their hands. Ørvendil took a step forward, menacing the boy. Amleth stepped backward, keeping his weight on his back foot, his sword held low and behind him. His father lunged suddenly, and the boy sidestepped the thrust and brought his weapon around to clang off his father’s left shoulder.
“Good, Amleth!” shouted one of the soldiers on the wall.
“Watch your post,” called Ørvendil. “If you want entertainment, go see Yorick at the tavern.”
“Yes, milord,” said the soldier, winking at the boy.
“Well done, boy,” said Ørvendil, clapping him on the back. Amleth beamed with pride.
“That was wonderful, Amleth,” said his mother, smiling. “Run and find your friends until dinner.”
Amleth needed no second invitation. He took the practice sword from his father and ran off.
“I hope he and his friends don’t use those practice swords on each other,” said Gerutha.
“I hope they do,” said Ørvendil. “He’ll pass on the learning to them, and have a good time doing it.”
“When will you begin work on the new castle?” asked Gerutha. “When the roof on the cathedral is done,” said Ørvendil. “Be patient, love. What’s another year when the end is in sight?”
“Could I get some bricks for a Mary’s garden, then?” she asked, a wheedling tone entering her voice.
“Church first, wives after,” said Ørvendil. “Not yet.”
“I have lived my entire life with ‘not yet,’ “ she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“And with ‘I’m sorry.’ “
He looked over at Signe’s herb garden, searching for a new subject. “I swear, the woman h
as a golden touch,” he said. “She must be descended from some fertility goddess of yore.”
“Unlike me,” snapped Gerutha.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said hastily, coming over to embrace her. She stiffened in his arms. After an awkward hug, he released her.
“It’s not always the richness of the soil that makes the garden grow,” she said. “Sometimes it’s the quality of the seed.”
She turned back to the thrall, who was desperately trying to look unconcerned.
“I am going out for a walk,” she said. “When I return, I want to find nothing but freshly turned dirt here. I want it to look like a new grave, do you understand?”
“Yes, milady,” said the thrall, shoveling frantically.
Would you like me to … ?” began Ørvendil. No,” she said, walking away.
* * *
Alfhild skipped through a meadow, chasing the butterflies that flitted among the flowers. Signe watched her from a low rise, resting against a large cushion that a thrall had carried for her. She plucked a blade of grass from the ground and brushed it across her face, smiling as her daughter stopped to peer at her reflection in a small pond.
A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Terence standing behind her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said.
“I was just passing through,” he replied. “May I join you?”
“How does one just pass through the middle of a meadow?” she asked.
“I’m a fool,” he replied. “If I started giving reasons for everything that I did, I would be out of a job.”
“True enough,” she said.
They sat in silence for a while, watching Alfhild.
“She grows more like you every day,” said Terence. “A good thing, in my opinion.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I wonder what the new one will be like?”
“So do I,” he said. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy, I think,” she said. “He feels much different than Alfhild did. He’s very active.”
“Still, I hope that he also resembles his mother,” said Terence.
