An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  Ørvendil caught up to the fool at the base of the hill.

  “Well, Terence?” he said, dismounting. “What do you say now?”

  “Maybe Terence shouldn’t be my name either,” said the fool. “I’ve been thinking of changing it.”

  “To what?”

  “Cassandra,” said Terence, watching the last rays of the sun disappear. There was a roaring noise, and the two men looked up to see flames shoot into the air as the gathered men cheered.

  “Let’s go,” said Ørvendil.

  * * *

  The elders of Slesvig and the surrounding villages stood in front of the fire. The oldest stepped forward.

  “As our ancestors did, as our children will do, I call upon the men of Slesvig to ascend the Sacred Hill,” he intoned in a hoarse voice. “Are you here, men of Slesvig?”

  “We are!” shouted the men.

  “As Danelaw sets forth, and by decree of the King, we are gathered to elect one of us to be our ruler. Is there any man here who would assume that great burden?”

  “I will,” said Ørvendil, striding into the center of the circle.

  “Give us your name, candidate.”

  “I am Ørvendil Gervendilson.”

  “What are your qualifications?”

  Ørvendil turned and faced the assembly.

  “For many years I have been the steward of your fortunes, the watcher of your borders, the builder of your defenses, and the protector of your children. I have been placed here at the behest of the man who is now our king, and have his love and trust. I ask that I may continue to serve you.”

  The respectful thumping of staves and swords on the ground met this speech, and Ørvendil bowed to the elders.

  “Well spoken, milord,” said the leader. “Is there any man who challenges this candidate?”

  “I do!” shouted a voice from the back.

  There was a murmuring among the men, and a portion of the crowd parted. To the astonishment of everyone but Terence, Fengi strode into the circle.

  “State your name,” said the elder.

  “Fengi Gervendilson,” he replied.

  “What are your qualifications?”

  Fengi smiled, and turned to face the crowd.

  “My qualifications are that, unlike my brother, I am not a traitor to the crown of Denmark.”

  “What?” shouted Ørvendil. “You call me traitor, brother?”

  “I do,” he said. “And I have proof of your treachery. Citizens of Slesvig, this man has conspired against the very life of our King. In doing so, he has brought in mercenaries to form the core of an army so that he could set himself up as a king in Slesvig, one to rival Valdemar himself. He has made overtures to the Wends, our sworn enemies, and threatens to bring us into another ruinous civil war not five years after the last tt one.

  “Lies!” shouted Ørvendil. “Hideous and base deceptions. Do not believe this man. It is his own ambition that drives this attempt to unseat me.”

  “I cannot unseat you,” said Fengi. “You do not possess the throne yet. Not without the consent of the men here.”

  “What proofs have you?” demanded the elder.

  “A Wendish spy,” said Fengi. “Captured with letters to Ørvendil acknowledging his complicity in this endeavor.”

  “An obvious ruse,” said Ørvendil.

  “A Tuscan mercenary, disguised as a common brickmaker,” said Fengi. “He has turned on you, my brother, despite your payment. He has revealed the cache of weapons you had buried, deadly seeds awaiting the spring of your ambitions.”

  “Nonsense,” said Ørvendil. “None of these is trustworthy. They are not even Danes.”

  “There is one more man,” said Fengi. “A Dane. A trustworthy one. Will you hear him, milord?”

  “If such a one exists, let him stand before me,” said Ørvendil. “I fear no one.”

  “It is I, milord,” said Gorm, stepping beside Fengi.

  Ørvendil stared at his drost in shock.

  “Et tu, Brute?” he said softly.

  Gorm winced, but stayed by Fengi.

  “Well?” demanded Ørvendil. “What do you have to say?”

  “I know you to be false,” said Gorm. “I know that you conspired against the life of Valdemar during the civil wars, and that only through my intervention did he live through the night upon his arrival in Slesvig after his flight from Roskilde. I know that you have brought mercenaries into Denmark, and have attempted to sway the loyalties of the Danish soldiers here. I know that you love not our king, and intend to destroy him. I know that you desire nothing less than a throne to sit upon and a crown for your head, and for that you are willing to sacrifice anyone and anything.”

  “You know nothing,” growled Ørvendil. “Men of Slesvig, this man is nothing more than a common Judas, seeking to line his pockets with the thirty pieces of silver promised him by my brother. He has recast history in a new mold. It was he who wanted me to slay Valdemar and curry favor with Sveyn. He has been nursing his disappointment well, so that it has grown and flourished. Men of Slesvig, you know me. You must believe me.”

  He looked around at the faces, the features harsh in the firelight. They began to swim in front of him. He drew his sword.

  “Soldiers,” he cried. “My comrades in arms. Stand by me.”

  The soldiers present took up a position behind the drost.

  “Gorm, you inspire loyalty even to a perverted cause,” said Ørvendil.

  “Give up your sword, milord,” said Gorm.

  “Is there no one here who will stand by me?” Ørvendil shouted.

  There was silence, then the sound of a single sword being drawn from its scabbard. A small figure emerged from the crowd and walked into the circle to take up a place by Ørvendil.

  “Amleth, no,” breathed Terence.

  Amleth held his sword in front of him, his weight on his back foot, a flawless copy of his father.

  “I stand by you,” he said.

  Swallowing hard, Terence stepped into the circle.

  “And you, Fool?” asked Ørvendil. “Do you stand by me?”

  “I stand by the boy, milord,” said Terence.

  Ørvendil knelt to look at his son, placing his hands on Amleth’s shoulders.

  “I have never been prouder of you nor loved you more than I do right now,” he said. “But this is not your battle. Not yet. Fool, I invoke your promise to me.”

  “Yes, milord,” said Terence. “Come, Amleth.”

  “No,” said Amleth. “I am staying with my father.”

  “Go, son,” said Ørvendil, rubbing his eyes. “That’s an order.”

  Amleth sheathed his sword, looking up defiantly at the wall of men surrounding him. Then he surrendered himself to Terence, who picked him up and carried him out of the circle.

  Ørvendil held his sword aloft.

  “I call upon the ancient Danelaw,” he said. “I stand ready to meet my challenger here and now. Trial by combat, brother.”

  Fengi drew his sword and walked toward him.

  “I accept,” he said.

  “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” said Ørvendil, softly so that only the two of them could hear.

  “For a long time now,” replied Fengi.

  “You never could beat me,” said Ørvendil, bringing his sword back and his free hand up in front of him.

  “You’ve grown soft and complacent, brother,” said Fengi, his sword waving slowly back and forth. “You are not the swordsman you think you are.”

  The faces of the men in the circle were a blur in the distance to Ørvendil. All he saw was his brother, silhouetted against the bonfire. He stepped to his left, his sword coming up to chest level.

  From the edge of the circle, Amleth watched, held by Terence. The fool had thought of taking the boy out of there, but knew that no matter what happened, Amleth must see it or forever hate the world for hiding it from him.

  “Father will win,” said the boy confidently. “You’l
l see.”

  Ørvendil did not move with his son’s confidence. He kept blinking, as if something were in his eyes. The noise of the flames was as a roaring of the sea in his head. As he circled around his brother, he stepped awkwardly for a moment in a hole in the ground. Fengi immediately swept his sword across, keeping it low. Ørvendil stepped back hastily, but cursed as the tip of the blade caught his right shin.

  “First hit to me,” taunted his brother.

  “A scratch,” growled Ørvendil. “Enough playing.”

  He attacked, each blow meeting Fengi’s sword with a loud clang. Fengi fought defensively, conservatively, but the onslaught drove him back toward the bonfire. He could not risk glancing behind him to gauge the distance, but the heat and the crackling of the logs were too close for comfort.

  “You see?” said Amleth.

  Something’s wrong, thought Terence.

  Ørvendil had paused, his breath coming heavily. He rubbed his brow with his free hand. Fengi attacked, and Ørvendil’s sword barely parried him in time. The older brother suddenly thrust at the chest of the younger, but Fengi anticipated the move and stepped quickly to the side, with a thrust of his own at Ørvendil’s waist, piercing his stomach just below the breastplate. Ørvendil hacked at the blade with his own, and Fengi’s sword broke at the hilt. The younger man stepped back, drawing his knife from his waist.

  “Father!” cried Amleth.

  Ørvendil glanced out at the boy and the fool, then pulled the broken blade from his side and threw it into the bonfire. His own sword seemed absurdly heavy in his hand. He raised it and staggered toward his brother, screaming as he came. His legs gave out just before he reached him, and as he fell, Fengi grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and cut his throat.

  “No!” screamed Amleth.

  Terence picked him up and dashed down the hill.

  Fengi looked down at his brother’s body, then picked up his sword and looked out at the thing.

  “Any other candidates?” he asked quietly.

  There was silence.

  “Then make your election,” he said.

  * * *

  Terence loped through the darkness, his long legs putting Slesvig far behind. The boy sobbed as he clung to the fool, riding his shoulders. When they reached a bulge of forest that provided some cover, Terence ducked behind a clump of bushes and sat down for a moment to catch his breath.

  “Listen to me,” he said, panting. “Your father charged me with keeping you safe if anything happened to him. I don’t know how far Fengi is taking this, but I have to assume that your life is in danger. I’m getting you to a place where you can be hidden, then I’m going back to Slesvig to find out what’s going on.”

  “What about my mother?” sniffled the boy.

  Terence hesitated.

  “I hope that she’s all right,” he said. “Was she still at the island?”

  “Yes,” said Amleth.

  “How did you manage to sneak out without her noticing?”

  “She went to lie down after father left,” the boy explained. “The guard at the gate knew I wanted to see the thing. He let me go.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Terence. “It was a terrible thing for you to see, and you may have put yourself in danger by standing up for your father like that.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “But it was brave and wonderful of you, Amleth. You made your father proud. I know that.”

  He stood up and beckoned to the boy.

  “Remember what I once told you about being silent?” he whispered. Amleth nodded, and the fool placed him back on his shoulders.

  He ran into the night.

  * * *

  The soldiers at the island listened with varying degrees of shock, anger, and grudging acceptance as Gorm told them what had transpired at the thing. When Fengi rode in, they stood at attention and saluted him. He leapt from his horse and strode to the rear of the island.

  He didn’t knock when he entered Ørvendil’s quarters. He walked by Lother’s cradle and the sleeping Alfhild and up the steps to the room of his late brother. He stopped, seeing the nude form of his sister-in-law, the thin blanket covering it rising and falling slighdy. He sat by her head and stroked her hair lightly. She stirred, then settled back to sleep.

  He chuckled softly, then took her chin in his hands and shook her, first gendy, then with increasing force until her eyes opened and focused on him in confusion.

  “Fengi?” she said.

  “The same,” he replied. “I have come to bring you some news.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Your husband is dead,” he said. “At my hands.”

  She sat up suddenly, the blanket sliding from her. He gawked for a moment, then recovered. She looked at him steadily.

  “You know my conditions,” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, taking her in his arms. “And I welcome them.”

  Fourteen

  “Denmark’s a prison.

  —Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

  Slesvig—Roskilde, 1162 A.D.

  Terence stood at the edge of the river, trying to gauge its depths in the darkness.

  “I wish that old Gustav had built his bridge here,” he muttered.

  He looked down at the sleeping child at his feet, then pulled a piece of cord from one of his pouches. He sat by Amleth, crossed the boy’s wrists, and tied them together. Amleth woke as he finished, saw that he was bound, and started to scream. Terence quickly clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth.

  “Quiet!” he commanded. “We are on the wrong side of the river from where we need to be, and there is no safe crossing for us. There’s nothing to do but to swim for it. I tied your hands so that you could hang on to me better. I am going to uncover your mouth. Will you remain silent?” The boy nodded. Terence let him go, then hauled him to his feet and picked him up. Amleth swung onto the fool’s back and placed his hands over Terence’s head.

  “Don’t strangle me, boy,” warned Terence. “Or it will be a watery grave for both of us.”

  He waded into the river until the water was up to his waist, then lunged forward, kicking hard. He was a good swimmer from childhood on, and had kept it up most days in the fjord, to the amusement of the town children and the irritation of the fishermen. He had taken Amleth on his back more than once, but this was different, laden as they were with clothes, bundles, and weapons. The currents were tricky. Terence was dragged and turned around more than once, but there was enough of a moon out for him to keep his bearings. After about fifteen minutes, he was able to drag himself and the boy onto the opposite bank.

  “I’m glad I left my lute at the tavern,” he said as he untied the boy. “I’d never get it in tune after this.”

  Amleth’s teeth were chattering. Terence, who was no drier or warmer, hugged him hard and rubbed his limbs. He took a wineskin from his waist and pulled out the stopper.

  “Here,” he said, offering it to the boy. “Pray that it is wine rather than river, or we will have to send to Cana for a miracle.”

  The boy swigged it, then lurched forward and spewed everything left in his stomach onto the ground.

  “Well done,” said Terence cheerfully. “I was wondering when you would get around to that.”

  The boy looked up at him mournfully.

  ‘Come on,” said Terence. “Wash your mouth out, and we’ll move on. It isn’t far, but we need to get you to a warm fire.”

  “No more fires,” said Amleth, taking the fool’s hand.

  They reached Magnus’s farm long after midnight. As Terence neared the farmhouse, a pair of hounds started barking, charging him as they did so. They scented the fool before they reached him, and knew him as a friend. The boy clung to Terence’s leg as the two dogs nosed him curiously.

  “Who’s there?” called Magnus, standing in the door with a lantern in one hand and an old spear in the other.

  “It’s me,” said Terence. “I need help.”

  “Who’s that with you?” asked
the farmer, peering at Amleth.

  “A boy,” said Terence. “He needs help, too.”

  “’’iou had better come in, then,” said Magnus. He went inside.

  “Who is he?” asked Amleth.

  “A friend,” said Terence. “Now, I want you to listen to me carefully. I am going to leave you with him and return to Slesvig. If I am not back by sunset, assume that your safety cannot be guaranteed there. Make for Ribe. There’s a fool there named Kanard. When you see him, tell him…” He hesitated. “Tell him ‘stultorum numerus.’ He will say ‘injxnitus est.’ These are the passwords from one fool to another. He’ll take care of you.” He fumbled at his waist for his purse and handed it to him. “That should be enough to get you there.”

  “But then what?” asked Amleth.

  “Make for England,” said Terence.

  The boy slept, and the two men sat nearby and watched him. Terence related the evening’s events to the farmer.

  “If what you say is true, then your own life may be forfeit the moment you step foot in town,” said Magnus.

  “Seems likely,” agreed Terence. “Nevertheless, I have to find out what’s going on, especially with his mother. He must know that.”

  “How did the town turn on Ørvendil so readily?” asked Magnus. “Especially his own soldiers.”

  “He had Gorm arrange the assembly,” replied Terence. “Gorm must have handpicked every man there. Ørvendil never had a chance.”

  “Yet it was his brother who killed him, not the thing,” said Magnus. “That puzzles me. Fengi is a capable soldier, no question, but I have never heard that he was his brother’s equal with a sword.”

  “Neither have I,” agreed Terence. “But Ørvendil wasn’t himself tonight. He fought like a sleepwalker. I wonder what affected him like that.”

  Amleth’s eyes opened for a moment, then closed again.

  “It makes no difference anymore,” said Magnus. “He wasn’t himself. Now, he isn’t anything. God have mercy on his soul. You look done in. Grab yourself some sleep. I’ll keep watch with the dogs.”

  “Thank you,” said Terence. “Thank you for everything.”