by Alan Gordon
“Well, Fool, you kept your end of the bargain,” said Fengi. “I shall keep mine. Unless, of course, the boy ever comes near me with that blade in his hand.”
“He won’t,” said Terence.
“Will you take an oath as to that?” asked Fengi.
Terence smiled and handed the horse’s reins to a soldier, but said nothing.
Amleth sat with his back against the palisade between Signe’s herbs and the bare patch that had been his mother’s flower garden. There was a piece of wood about the length of his forearm lying nearby. He picked it up, pulled out his sword, and started whittling the twigs and bark from it. After a while, he got up, ran into his room, and returned with the brick his father had presented to him on his birthday. He continued working on the end of the wood until it made a sharp point. Then he took the brick and hammered the newly made stake into the ground by his side.
There was someone standing over him. He looked up through his tears to see Alfhild watching him, a serious expression in her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making my own fort,” he said. “A place to protect me from my enemies.”
“I can get you some more wood,” she offered.
“All right,” he said. “Thank you.”
She ran off, then returned with several pieces from the pile of firewood near the kitchen. She dumped it on the ground before him, then sat next to him and watched as he carved another.
He was determined to make this one perfect. He turned the piece around several times before making each refinement with the sword, holding it up to the light and examining it from every angle. The second stake took him nearly two hours to complete.
Gerutha watched him from her room.
“Look at him,” she said to Fengi when he came up. “The entire afternoon wasted in carving two stakes.”
“It’s the shock,” said Fengi. “Several shocks. He’s a boy. Boys are resilient. He’ll get over it in time, you’ll see.”
“I hope so,” she said doubtfully.
Terence had been watching as well, holding a cold, wet cloth against his jaw that ached considerably. He saw Gorm walk up to the children and say something in a sharp tone to his daughter. She jumped up immediately and ran to their quarters, the drost following her slowly.
The sun was beginning to set. Terence walked over to Amleth and sat next to him.
“Building your own fort?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Amleth.
“Taking your time, I see,” said Terence.
“All I have left from my father is this sword and this brick,” said Amleth.
“And those eyes, and that mouth, and that chin, and those arms,” said Terence. “Your nose is from your mother, I think.”
“Maybe I’ll cut it off,” said Amleth.
“Don’t,” said Terence. “Your nose is blameless.”
“If I spend each day building this fort, then I will spend each day with the things my father gave me,” said Amleth. “I suppose that seems crazy.”
“It does,” agreed the fool. “And that is why you should keep doing it.”
The boy picked up another piece of wood and began carving it.
“You think that I am still in danger,” he said. “Even with my mother protecting me.”
“We have to think about what happens if you were to lose her,” said Terence. “I was watching your uncle when you drew your sword. He fears you.”
“He fears a boy?”
“He fears the man you shall become,” said Terence. “He fears his brother’s image. But he will not fear someone whose mind is addled.”
“So, you want me to play…”
“The fool,” said Terence. “Yes, Amleth. I want you to do that. It’s an old trick, but it just may keep you alive.”
They sat together in silence, the boy holding up the wood and inspecting it closely in the waning light.
Fengi watched the two of them, barely aware of the man who came up by him.
“Congratulations, milord,” he murmured.
Thank you, said Fengi. “I have your next assignment.
“Yes, milord?”
I want you to keep an eye on that fool,” said Fengi.
“Very good, milord,” said Reynaldo, smiling slightly.
Fifteen
“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. ”
—Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
* * *
“Time passed.” said Father Gerald. “There have been worse times in Denmark for fools. They say that when Starkad became king, he routinely had us beaten for licentiousness. A fool may not beat a king for that same crime, which was lucky for Starkad. But 1162 marked the beginning of bleak days for us, for we had lost what influence we had. I have often wondered who turned Valdemar against me, whether it was Fengi or Absalon, or simply the fickle nature of a man in power. I juggled in the streets and taverns of Roskilde, made the rounds of the rest of the cities, and collected what information I could. But I never got back into the inner chambers of the King. I wish that I had. A new war was brewing, one that should have been avoided. And Fengi, who had so long been a proponent of this war, saw a way to turn it to his vantage.”
Rügen—Slesvig, 1166 A.D.
Three longboats cut through the seas, the oarsmen pulling hard. Occasionally, the sound of a lash would echo across the waters as a soldier in the stern would catch a thrall lagging for a moment.
Fengi stood at the prow of the lead boat, leaning into the wind, feeling the spray in his face. Ahead, the white cliffs of Rügen grew larger. The small cove that was to be their meeting place came into sight, and Fengi smiled.
The Wends regarded their villages as places to stay between seagoing raids, and paid little attention to matters of architecture. Their huts were slapped together, and their great halls had dirt floors and leaky roofs. Yet their armor was fierce and impressive-looking, and their military discipline the equal of any of their neighbors. The Slesvegians were not deceived by the small size of the party that greeted them at the shore. They knew that bowmen lurked in the darkness, their arrows ready to be loosed.
“Welcome, Lord of Slesvig,” said the Wend leader, speaking in fluent Danish. “Our home is yours.”
“Thank you, Lord of Arkona,” replied Fengi in Slavic. “We are honored by your hospitality.”
The Wends brought them to the hall, where the meal was waiting. In the center of the room stood a wooden statue of Svantevit, the sevenheaded god, each head bearing a different expression, all of them frightening.
“You may offer your own prayers, if you wish,” said the Wend leader.
“My prayers are for all of us,” said Fengi.
“Then let us eat,” said the Wend.
Women silently filed into the room, depositing platters of fish and buckets of ale on the tables, then as silently filed out. The men set to the meal.
When they were done, Fengi stood.
“It is good that former enemies such as we can sit down to a good meal together,” he said. “I know that we have been at odds in the past.” He paused for effect. “But that is nothing compared to what we will be facing in the future.”
“Do you repay our generosity by threatening us?” said the Wend leader, standing and turning dark red.
“I do not threaten,” said Fengi. “I merely warn. There is a gathering of Danes taking place, the building of a navy greater than any in the northern seas, and their first purpose is to put an end to you. They see you as an annoyance, and they intend to swat you right off this island.”
“Then we shall meet you in battle,” declared the Wend.
“The combined forces of every Wend on this island cannot possibly be enough to face the Danes,” said Fengi. “You will die bravely, I am sure, but you will still die.”
“Why do you tell us this?” asked the Wend. “Are you not one of the Danes?”
“I am, or was,” said Fengi. “Which brings me to my offer to you.”
/> “Offer?” said the Wend suspiciously.
“Yes,” said Fengi. “You think that your only choice is to die in battle. I offer you life instead. Not only life, but employment and Christianity if you want it.”
“Employment,” said the Wend. “You want us to work for you.”
“You are warriors,” said Fengi. “I need warriors. I have a little project of my own. It will take a few years to put together, but when it comes to fruition, we all may do very well by it.”
“You wish us to become mercenaries for you,” said the Wend. “That’s it in a nutshell,” said Fengi. “There will be pay, shelter, the odd battle, and all you have to do is go to church on Sundays.”
“Church,” said the Wend disdainfully.
“Just make the weekly appearance like the rest of us. But you could still bring this lovely creature with you,” said Fengi, patting Svantevit on the nearest head. “Just so long as you keep it out of sight.”
“And then?” asked the Wend.
“And then you get to do what you like doing the most,” said Fengi. “Killing Danes.”
The Wend conferred with two of his captains, then turned back to Fengi.
“I was in the battle of Grathe Moor, serving Sveyn Peder,” he said. “I saw you fight there. If it were not for that, we would cut your throats right now for appealing for our help in a matter of petty ambition. But I know you to be a warrior, Lord Fengi. We respect that. I will not go with you to Slesvig. My place is on this island with my people, defending them. But if any of my men wish to live on in service to a foreigner, I will not stop them. I fear that you will not get the best of the Wends. But even the lesser Wends are still great warriors.”
“I can ask for nothing more,” said Fengi. “Those who join me will be treated well. And the rest of you will be in my prayers.”
“So be it,” said the Wend. “Go in peace.”
* * *
When the longboats pulled up to the docks in Slesvig, Gorm was standing there, waiting. He personally tied the line from the bow of Fengi’s boat, and extended a hand to his lord.
“Our lookout saw several boats returning with you,” he said. “But they landed somewhere on the southern shore. I take it that means you had a successful journey.”
“Not bad,” said Fengi. “About eighty armed men and their families. More will join them, especially once the island is taken. They’ll be in a camp near the church of St. Andreas. I want them kept out of sight for a while. Valdemar and Absalon would not appreciate their presence on Danish soil. Arrange for some supplies, especially ale. They can outdo the Jutes in drinking.”
“There may not be enough ale in Christendom if that’s the case,” said Gorm. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“How was everything in my absence?” asked Fengi as they walked back to the island.
“Uneventful,” said Gorm.
“Good,” said Fengi. “Thank you. How does your family?”
“Lother gains speed daily,” said Gorm, chuckling. “He lives to run. Do you know that he turns four next month?”
“Really?” exclaimed Fengi. “Time passes so quickly. I cannot believe that four years have …” He stopped short, remembering.
“Four years since she died, yes,” said Gorm. “I cannot believe it either, but there is the constant evidence of my son to prove it.”
“And Alfhild?”
Gorm sighed. “She still dotes on Amleth, despite my discouragement. I do not know what she finds appealing in that sullen monster. He sits in that little pen of his, reading and brooding, cursing at anyone who approaches. Except for her and Lother.”
“And Yorick,” said Fengi.
“Yes, and Yorick. Fools and children, those are all who his mind encompasses among the living. The rest is on manuscript. I daresay he has read everything that I own, and everything that the Bishop has as well.”
“It is an odd sort of madness,” agreed Fengi. “But he may still grow out of it. Let’s hope so, for his mothers sake. And how is my lady wife?”
“She’s been spending the day preparing for you,” said Gorm. “Make sure you notice.”
“As ever, you are invaluable,” said Fengi. “Tell me, have you considered remarrying? It seems a waste to languish alone.”
“Do I languish, milord?” asked Gorm. “I think that I do not. Nor am I alone, thanks to my children. But I cannot go through marriage again. The first was too happy and too painful a bond to relive, even in my memories. I would rather heal an old wound than incur a new one.”
“Suit yourself,” said Fengi as they crossed the drawbridge.
Lother came running full tilt, careening into his father, then hugging Fengi around his legs.
“Hello, Fengi,” he said.
“Hello, Lother,” said Fengi, fondly tousling the boy’s hair. “Look how he’s shooting up. Like a bean in May, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” said Gorm.
“Must get his height from his mother’s side of the family,” commented Fengi. “What does he get from you?”
“His mind,” said Gorm proudly. “He’s learning Latin already. The priests say he has a real knack for it.”
“Well, don’t let them take him,” said Fengi. “I’ll need Gorm’s progeny to fight battles as his father did.”
“I’m a good fighter,” said Lother.
“I’m sure that you are,” said Fengi. “Maybe we should teach him Slavic, Gorm.”
“Not so loud, milord,” cautioned Gorm.
“Yes, quite right,” said Fengi. “Well, I am off to compliment my wife. I will see you at dinner.”
“Very good, milord,” said Gorm, lifting his son into the air and putting him on his shoulders.
* * *
Amleth sat with his back to the stockade wall, smoothing his latest stake with a rough stone he had picked for that purpose. He heard footsteps running lightly toward him. It was Alfhild, a book clutched in her hand.
“It’s from Yorick,” she whispered furtively. “He says it’s a play by someone named Plautus. He says it’s funny. Will you read it to me?”
“It’s in Latin,” said Amleth, looking at it. “I’ll do my best. It may not be as funny in Danish. I finished another stake today.”
“Could I see it?” she said, plopping herself down next to him. He handed it to her. She held it up to the light, running her fingers across the surface. “Yju really got this one smooth. It practically shines.” She touched the tip gingerly. “And it’s sharp, too. How long have you been working on it?”
“About three weeks,” he said, handing her his brick.
She took the stake and pounded it expertly into the ground next to the last one he had done, then reached over the tiny wall and plucked a sprig of oregano from the garden and rolled it under her nose.
“This smells so good,” she said, sighing. “I think it’s my favorite.”
“Yesterday, you said sage was your favorite,” he said.
“Read to me,” she said, snuggling up against him.
“All right,” he said. “It’s about these twin brothers.”
* * *
“Look at Alfhild with Amleth,” said Fengi, watching the two children from his room. “Completely innocent of the world. Were it not for her mothers garden, I doubt that she would even know what a plant looks like. Her father does her wrong to keep her shut away from the town. It’s unnatural.”
“I think he intends her for the convent when she’s old enough,” said
Gerutha, lolling on the bed. “She, of course, thinks that she will marry our son.”
“Your son,” said Fengi. “He will be none of mine.” He turned to look down at her. “When will I have a son of my own?”
“It is in the hands of the Holy Mother,” she said piously.
He grimaced and turned back to watching Alfhild and Amleth.
“He’s no match for her,” he muttered.
“No, he can do much better than that,” said Gerutha, thinking tha
t she was agreeing with him.
* * *
The next morning, Terence showed up on the island. Amleth was waiting for him.
“Good morning, milord,” said Terence, bowing to the boy.
“Good morning, Yorick,” said Amleth, bowing back.
They started to leave.
“Just where do you think you are going?” demanded Gerutha, standing behind them.
“By your leave, madam,” said Terence. “The boy needs some sun and exercise. I am taking him swimming.”
She walked up to her son and turned him around.
“Give it to me,” she commanded him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “Hand it over, or you won’t walk off this island.”
Reluctantly, he reached into his pack and handed over his sword.
“Now, don’t get into any trouble,” she said, kissing his forehead.
“Don’t worry, he’s with me,” said Terence.
“Back by noon, Amleth,” she said.
“Yes, mother,” he called as he ran across the drawbridge.
The pair ran south until they reached the old Viking tower, then stripped to their linens and dove into the water.
“To the rock and back,” said Amleth. “Loser has to make the fire.”
“You’re on,” said Terence, and they kicked out into the fjord, swimming to a rock that stuck out of the water a hundred yards from shore. Amleth churned the water furiously, and had fifteen feet on the fool by the time he reached the rock, but he started tiring on the return. The fool passed him just before they reached the shore.
“I almost beat you that time,” gasped Amleth.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” said Terence, flopping onto the ground. “Go gather some wood, boy. I brought some sausages today.”
Amleth soon had the fire blazing, and the two of them put sausages on sticks and started to toast them. The heat worked its way into their bones, warming their bodies and drying their linens.
