by Alan Gordon
“Two of my friends,” said Amleth. “Sleeping off the journey.”
“Sleeping off a drunk, if I know Danes,” laughed Michel. “Rolf and Gudmund, if my information is correct.”
“It is,” replied Amleth. “I will attempt to rouse them.”
By the time he accomplished this, Michel had carried all of their trunks up to their room. Amleth paid the driver and went inside, the other two straggling behind him. They had a single room, with the pallets laid out side by side. Michel had placed their trunks against the opposite wall, and set up three stools next to them so that the trunks would double as desks and tables.
The walls consisted of plaster mixed with small stones and coated with whitewash, although not recently. The wall facing the street had two large windows with shutters. Michel threw them open, and light streamed in.
“You are lucky, sirs,” he said. “You will have good light for your studies. That will save you candle money.”
“What is he saying?” whispered Gudmund in Danish.
“I thought you spoke langue d’o’il,” said Amleth.
“I do,” said Gudmund. “Just not that fast.”
They looked out the window. Their immediate view was of a pig market.
“What we gain in sunlight, we lose in smell,” said Amleth.
“Well, you can’t have everything,” said Michel. “At least there’s fresh sausage to be had. Now, sirs, if you will follow me.”
He led them back outside.
“They call this square Porceaux, for obvious reasons,” said Michel. “If you lose your way, ask for the Porceaux, or just follow your noses. There’s a stall here that sells fresh bread.”
“What about wine?” asked Rolf.
“Every other shop,” said Michel. “Now, first place I’m taking you to is the Blackfriars’ Convent. Quickly, now.”
“Why are we going to a convent?” muttered Gudmund once Amleth finished translating.
“Maybe it’s a fancy name for a whorehouse,” whispered Rolf excitedly.
Amleth merely smiled.
“Here we are, sirs,” said Michel after they had walked half a mile. “A treat for the eyes and a drain on the purse, but you’ll never find a better selection.”
“Look at them,” breathed Amleth in wonder. “Have you ever seen a more glorious sight?”
Spread out in front of the convent were tables of books, presided over by librarii, booksellers licensed by the school.
“Not a whorehouse at all,” sighed Gudmund. “Only Amleth would be happy in a place like this.”
“Come, Gudmund,” said Amleth. “Our fathers sent us here for an education.”
“There’s education, and there’s education,” said Rolf.
Laden with used tomes, the freshly copied ones being too expensive for their budgets, the three Danes followed Michel to the neighborhood abutting the Grand Pont, where they met the banker to whom their fathers had entrusted their allowances. Then they crossed the bridge onto the island in the center of the Seine.
“Is that the new cathedral?” asked Rolf, pointing to a building surrounded by scaffolding.
“It will be when it’s finished, and that won’t be in our lifetime,” said Michel. “The choir is done, and it’s been dedicated to the Holy Mother. I am taking you to the cloister to register with the chancellor. After that, I will show you around the island to the houses where the masters teach, and then you’ll be on your own.”
Registration consisted of paying a fee and swearing an oath to the Church.
“Carry these with you at all times,” advised the cleric who handed them the documents naming them as scholars. “If you get into any trouble, show them to the guards and they will turn you over to us for disciplinary procedures.”
“So we have immunity?” asked Rolf eagerly.
“Only from the state,” said the cleric. “The eyes of God are everywhere, and we carry out His dictates on earth. If we catch you, you will wish that the guards had jurisdiction.”
They filed out somberly.
“Of course, the key phrase there is if they catch us,” said Rolf.
“True enough,” said Gudmund, cheering up.
The masters of the school kept small rooms scattered over the island, primarily near, and even on, the Grand Pont and the Petit Pont. The three split up to inquire as to classes. Amleth, having grilled Michel as to the relative merits of the scholars available, happily signed on for as much as he could handle.
Yet the experience proved a dry one. He would dutifully rise at dawn and join his fellow scholars, sitting on the floor of the rooms until an elderly man in a gown and biretta would shamble in and begin reading verbatim from a sheaf of yellowed pages. He would drone on without interruption until he reached the end, then assemble the pages back into their original order and walk out without further colloquy. The students were expected to take down what he said without question. As the weather cooled and their hands slowed in the unheated room, they soon mastered the technique of disrupting the teachers rhythm by pelting him with rolls or even stones, allowing them to catch up in their note-taking during the ensuing tirades.
Amleth read on his own voraciously, seeking out booksellers throughout the city, both connected to the school and not. He soon realized that the cathedral school was rote learning throughout: grammar without literature, rhetoric without debate, philosophy without questioning, theology without spirituality. Knowledge without wisdom.
All the while, his jester gear lay untouched under the spare blanket in his trunk. One day, he realized with a pang that he had not practiced in over a month. It was early evening, and he was alone in the room. Rolf and Gudmund were out carousing. Having already run through their allowance, they were now borrowing from the moneychangers near the Grand Pont. The squealing of the pigs being slaughtered across the street had ended. He opened his trunk and pulled out his clubs.
He ran his fingers over their worn, familiar surfaces, then lay them on his pallet and began the stretching exercises that Yorick had taught him. Then he picked up three clubs and ran through the basic patterns until they were part of him again. He added a fourth club, then a fifth, breathing easily, his eyes focused on a point outside the window. He flipped a sixth club up into the air with his foot, and it too was sucked into the vortex of the pattern, the clubs seemingly moving on their own, unrelated to the blur of movement beneath them.
“I say, you are rather good at that,” came a voice from behind him. Amleth was startled, but managed to keep the pattern going. Slowly, he turned toward the door, the clubs still dancing over him.
There was a young man standing there, an amused smile on his face. Amleth had seen him before, a fellow student, but had not met him. “How may I help you?” asked Amleth.
“Oh, it’s not me that needs the help,” returned the other. “I am here on a mission of mercy on behalf of your two mates.”
“Are they in trouble?” asked Amleth.
“Yes,” said the other. “My name is Horace, by the way.”
“Amleth,” said Amleth. “You are in my rhetoric class with Julien de Petit Pont.”
“Yes. Ghastly, isn’t it?” said Horace. “Anyhow, your fellow Danes are being detained in the Bishop’s cells for the heinous act of throwing apples at a tradesman.”
“Is that all?” said Amleth. “Why can’t they just post… oh, I see. They’ve spent their money.”
“With the last penny going for the apples,” said Horace. “Come, I will take you there.”
Amleth tucked his gear into his trunk, threw on his cloak, and followed Horace down the stairs.
“Where did you learn to do that?” asked Horace. “I’ve dabbled a bit, but you are really quite superb.”
“Am I really?” asked Amleth. “I was taught by the town jester when I was younger. I have tried to keep it up.”
“Well, it’s quite marvelous,” said Horace. “I’ve seen a few jesters in my time, and that was as good as any of them. Except may
be that fellow who performs over at the market at les Halles. Have you seen him?”
“No,” said Amleth. “I would love to.”
“I’d say you should pick up a little extra money performing, only I don’t think you would,” said Horace.
“Why not?” asked Amleth.
“You’re a good juggler,” said Horace seriously. “But you look like you haven’t laughed in years. No one would find you entertaining.”
“There’s some truth in that,” admitted Amleth.
Horace glanced about, then whispered, “The rumor is that you are mad. Is it true?”
“Would you like it better if I confirmed it or if I denied it?” asked Amleth.
“Oh, confirmed, definitely,” said Horace. “So much more interesting, don’t you think? Here we are.”
With Horace’s help, Amleth rescued his fellow Danes with profuse apologies and a small bribe, then led them home.
“Thank you,” he said to Horace after they had laid the two inebriates out on their pallets.
“My pleasure,” said Horace. “Nice meeting you. Say, if you are interested, come join us for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Who are you with?”
“I’m a Norman,” said Horace. “The Danish students eat with us a lot. You’ll be right at home.”
“All right, I will,” promised Amleth. “And thanks again.”
* * *
The next morning, he walked to les Halles. Just as Horace had said, there was a fool there, an aged fellow with a shaggy, gray beard whose motley resembled the markings on a cow, but whose patter was sharp and whose skills were exceptional. He did well with the morning crowd. When he took a break, Amleth went up to him.
“You are very good,” he said. “What is your name?”
“They call me La Vache,” said the fool. “Something to do with my motley.”
“Did they name you that because of the motley, or did you get the motley to go with the name?” asked Amleth.
“It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten,” said La Vache. “But if you need me to entertain at one of your student affairs, I am available.”
“How did you know I was a student?” asked Amleth curiously.
“You know that I am a fool by my dress,” said La Vache. “Since you do not dress as a fool, you must be a wise man, hence, a student.”
“I cannot argue with that,” laughed Amleth. “Except to say that not every fool wears motley.”
“True enough,” agreed La Vache.
“After all, does not the Good Book say, ‘Stultorum numerous…’ ” He stopped.
La Vache’s eyes narrowed.
“That would be from the Vulgate,” he said quietly. “Not a phrase one generally hears on the street.”
“It isn’t complete, though,” returned Amleth.
“What would you know about it?” asked La Vache.
“What is the rest of it?” asked Amleth.
La Vache glanced about the marketplace quickly. No one was watching them.
“Infinitus est,” he muttered. “Who are you?”
“My name is Amleth Ørvendilson. I am from Slesvig. I was wondering if you gave lessons.”
“You’re not with the Guild?” asked La Vache.
“No.”
“Then how did you know the password?”
“It was given me when I was young by a jester who told me to use it for my protection if I needed it.”
“Are you in danger now?” asked La Vache.
“Just from boredom,” said Amleth.
“Well, we can’t have that,” said La Vache. “Especially in Paris. Do you see that large shed over yonder?”
“Yes,” said Amleth.
“Meet me there at dinnertime on Thursdays. I’ll show you a few things.”
Amleth nodded and tossed him a penny.
He had done it all on an impulse, yet he found his thoughts racing toward Thursday, leaving the parts of his mind bent on study far behind. When the day arrived, he slipped away from the Porceaux square and walked quickly to les Halles, his gear slung over his shoulder. He saw La Vache going into the shed. He looked around, then followed him, stopping short when he saw what was inside.
Several jesters were stretching out in front of him, including La Vache. In front of them, in full motley and makeup, was Gerald.
“Welcome, Amleth,” he said. “Now, the real education begins.”
Seventeen
“Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris...”
—Hamlet, Act II, Scene I
Slesvig—Paris, 1174-1175 A.D.
“A letter has arrived, milord,” called Gorm softly as Fengi emerged from his quarters at dawn.
‘’Who from?” asked Fengi.
“Rolf in Paris,” said Gorm.
Above them, on the upper floor of Gorm’s quarters, Alfhild crept to the window to listen.
“What’s the gist?” asked Fengi.
“That French wine is superior to Danish ale,” said Gorm. “That education is wasted on the young, and that…”
“He says all of this?” laughed Fengi.
“No, milord, I do,” said Gorm. “When I think what I could do now when I should have done it then, I could weep.”
“Don’t weep now,” said Fengi. “What of Amleth?”
Alfhild leaned as far as she could out the window without being noticed.
“He keeps to himself, apart from this Norman friend of his,” said Gorm. But he is still disappearing every Thursday evening, returning late, yet with neither wine on his breath nor book in his hand. He does not discuss where he has been, what he has been doing, or whom he has been with.”
“What does Rolf think?” asked Fengi.
“He suspects that there is a woman,” said Gorm. “Some French courtesan whose favors may be purchased with Danish coin.”
Above them, Alfhild collapsed, clutching her hands to her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
“Very like,” commented Fengi. “If it was true, then that would be the surest sign of sanity we have seen in him. It’s about time. He’s in Paris, after all. Not having a woman there would be like walking through a bakery without nibbling the pastry.”
“Even so, milord,” said the drost.
“I suppose even you ran wild when you were there,” said Fengi. “You may suppose as you like,” said Gorm shortly. “I will not say yea or nay.”
“Have they tried following him?” asked Fengi.
“A few times, just out of curiosity,” said Gorm. “But he gave them the slip every time.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Fengi thoughtfully. “Men’s natures being what they are, I would think that he would want to boast of such a conquest rather than conceal it. This sounds more like something that he truly wishes to hide.”
“Perhaps the lady is married,” suggested Gorm.
Alfhild sank her teeth into her palm, tears running down her cheeks. “That’s a possibility,” said Fengi. “One I would wish to be discouraged for the sake of his mother. She dislikes any hint of a flaw in his character. A scandal would be quite upsetting.”
“We should send someone to follow him who knows how to do it properly,” said Gorm. “Someone with discretion.”
“Who do you have in mind?” asked Fengi.
“Reynaldo,” said Gorm. “He speaks langue d’oil fluently. And he knows when to be quiet.”
“I know that well,” said Fengi. “Send him.”
On a sunny Thursday afternoon a few weeks later, Amleth and Horace emerged from the house of a master.
“Canon law does not become more interesting after three years,” said Horace, yawning.
“I like it,” said Amleth. “Once one pierces the fog, one can see how the Church really behaves.”
“In the beginning was the Word,” said Horace. “Then everyone started interpreting it. That’s where the trouble began.”
“We’d be better off without words,” agreed Amleth. “No misinterpretati
ons, no misunderstandings.”
“No insults,” added Horace.
“There are insults without words,” said Amleth. “I have seen them often in Paris. You take your arms and arrange them thusly…”
“Stop,” laughed Horace. “You’ll get us both in trouble. I don’t want to get thrown into jail just when spring is coming.”
“What will you be doing this summer?” asked Amleth.
“Going home, having endless strolls with whatever prospective brides my mother is lining up for me,” said Horace. “Dreadfully boring.”
“Come with me, then,” begged Amleth. “You’ve been promising to visit Slesvig for ages. I promise not to try to marry you to anyone.”
“Your last argument is persuasive, Master Amleth,” said Horace. “I will write my mother and tell her to bid the maidens adieu. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Good-bye,” said Amleth.
He dashed home and exchanged his books for his jesters bag, then wandered casually through the stalls at the pig market, greeting many of the vendors by name.
Behind him, Reynaldo followed, munching on a sausage. The young student seemed to him to be much more cheerful than the brooding boy of his memory. Perhaps it was the city, thought the Tuscan. Everything was better here—the food, the wine, the women. Especially the women, he mused, having already sampled enough to make the comparison.
He watched as Amleth ducked into a tavern, and took up a position across the street from where he could see inside. Amleth purchased a cup of wine and some cheese and mixed with a group of students, chatting away. Reynaldo sighed. He appreciated the faith his masters had shown in sending him here, but the assignment looked like it would be dull indeed, following a student to his mistress.
He finished the sausage and wiped his fingers on his sleeves, then looked up to see what Amleth was doing.
He wasn’t there.
Reynaldo hurried across the street and looked around the tavern. The clump of students was still chatting away, but Amleth wasn’t one of them. There was a rear door in the tavern, visible to him now that the students weren’t standing between it and his observation post. He opened it and peered out. There was an alley stretching out in both directions, with many more turning off it. Amleth could have gone anywhere.
