by Alan Gordon
He slammed the door shut and went back to his inn, berating himself. It was going to be a long and irritating week.
* * *
“I was followed again,” said Amleth as he ducked into the shed where they trained.
“Rolf or Gudmund this time?” asked La Vache, who was leading the stretching exercises.
“Neither,” said Amleth. “My uncle must have become suspicious of me. He sent one of his spies from Slesvig. I lost him.”
“Well done,” said La Vache. “Good to know the training paid off. But I don’t like having him poking his nose into the Guild’s business.”
“Neither do I,” said Amleth.
“I’ll get word to Gerald in Roskilde,” said La Vache. “Meantime, we’ll figure out something here.”
* * *
The following Thursday, Reynaldo was ready. He followed Amleth from lecture to lecture just in case he was making an early start rather than coming home first. When his quarry emerged from his room and wandered through the pig market, the sausages, no matter how tempting, did not distract his pursuer. Amleth wove his way through the stalls, then entered the same tavern he had chosen the previous week. When he slipped out the rear door, Reynaldo was already in the alley, crouching behind a rain barrel. Amleth glanced around, but did not spot the Tuscan.
Reynaldo tailed him as he turned toward the Place de Greve. Amleth passed through the warehouses of the area to a neighborhood that gave even Reynaldo pause. In front of one of the smaller bawdy houses, a young woman stood in the doorway, a thin shawl draped around her bare shoulders.
“You are late, mon cher,” she scolded him. He shrugged sheepishly, and she grabbed him by both shoulders, pulled him down, and kissed him hard as the other prostitutes and their patrons hooted from windows around them. Then the two of them vanished inside.
A gray-bearded porter standing nearby laughed.
“Every week, the same thing,” he said to no one in particular. “You’d think that boy would be beyond shame by now.”
“Excuse me,” said Reynaldo. “Do you know that young man?”
“Him?” said the porter. “Don’t know his name, but he’s a regular in these parts. If he went to church on Sundays as much as he comes here on Thursdays, then his soul might be safe, but I doubt it. Students, pah!” He spat on the ground for emphasis.
“Thank you,” said Reynaldo, tossing him a penny.
“Don’t mention it,” said La Vache, watching the Tuscan leave. “Or rather, do mention it.”
Inside the bawdy house, the jester who had played the prostitute watched through the shutters.
“He’s gone,” she said, turning to Amleth. “I think he bought the act.”
“Good,” said Amleth. “Thank you.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure,” she said teasingly. She stretched out on the bed. “Sure you don’t want to do anything else? We’ve already paid for the room. It would bring a touch of verisimilitude to your performance.”
“I enjoyed the kiss,” said Amleth sincerely. “But I wear the favor of another.”
“Oh, la,” she sniffed. “Spare me the chivalrous amateurs.”
* * *
“Reynaldo has returned from Paris, milord,” said Gorm a week later.
“Yes?” said Fengi.
“It was as we suspected,” said Gorm. “A Parisian tarte for him to munch upon. Reynaldo was told that he makes weekly visits to bawdy houses in that district.”
“How discriminating was his eye?” asked Fengi.
“Reynaldo said that she was very pretty,” said Gorm.
“Good for Amleth,” said Fengi. “Paris has been well worth the expense if it has brought him down to earth again.”
“Yes, milord,” said Gorm. “One less thing to worry about with all this other business.”
“Let’s not discuss that here,” warned Fengi.
“Of course not, milord,” said Gorm.
The drost went inside his quarters. He thought he heard his daughter weeping upstairs. He sighed with exasperation. She had been doing that a lot lately. He felt completely unable to address the needs of an adolescent girl. He had kept her shut up in the upper room for most of the day so that she might avoid temptation, but it did not seem to help.
He ascended the steps to the room and unbarred the door. She sat up on the pallet, her face so like her mothers that he turned pale for a moment, imagining Signe returning to haunt him.
“Yau wanted me to enter a convent,” she blurted out suddenly. “When can I go?”
He knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his.
“Praise be to God,” he said fervendy. “I will arrange it forthwith.”
He dashed down the steps in his haste.
Alfhild clutched an old, raggedy doll to her bosom and rocked back and forth, a low moan emanating from her.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lother, poking his head through the door.
“I’ve decided to enter the convent,” she said.
“Oh, no,” he muttered. “Is that why father is looking so happy? He has finally broken you.”
“He didn’t break me,” she said. “I just want to be away from everything. It’s all too much for me.”
“But a convent? And now? Can’t you at least wait until Amleth comes back?”
She threw herself down and wailed.
“What on earth did I say?” asked Lother, rushing to comfort her.
“I never want to see him or hear his name again,” she sobbed. “Amleth?” he said, producing another wail. “But why?”
“He has been unfaithful to me,” she said.
“Impossible,” he said firmly.
“It’s true,” she said, shaking her head. “Father had him followed in Paris.”
“Then it must have been a mistake,” said Lother. “Or some kind of joke. He loves only you. You know that.”
He took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the tears from her face. “You can’t go to a convent,” he said. “I’d never get to see you there. Who would cheer you up?”
“You’ll be gone in the fall anyway,” she said. “You’ll be in Paris studying, and he’ll be in Paris whoring, and I’ll be shut in here with father watching my every move. A convent would be paradise compared to that.”
“Except that you’ll become a nun,” said Lother. “Amleth can’t marry a nun.”
“I can’t marry him knowing what I know,” she said. “Please, Lother. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Let me talk to father,” he begged her.
She smiled, and kissed his cheek, which still bore a recent bruise from his father’s ministrations.
“I would rather be walled up in a convent until I die than let any more harm come to you,” she said.
“I’m a man,” he said. “I protect you.”
“I know,” she said. “I just don’t know who will protect you.
* * *
“A convent,” said Fengi when Gorm informed him of his decision. “And she actually agreed to go?”
“She is my daughter,” said Gorm haughtily. “She does as I tell her to do.”
“Of course,” said Fengi. “Still, I shall be sorry to see her go. What with Amleth away, and Lother heading to school this fall, she would have been the only young person left on the island.”
“She’s almost a woman,” said Gorm. “There are girls her age getting married.”
“And you don’t want her to marry,” said Fengi.
“I cannot say that I see much in that institution,” said Gorm. “At least I can preserve her from sin this way. There will be no temptation for her, and she will be none herself.”
“Quite so,” said Fengi.
* * *
“Impressive defenses,” said Horace, looking out the window of the carriage as they passed through the gate in the southern earthenworks. “My father built them,” said Amleth.
“They keep the Holsteiners in Holstein,” chirped Gudmund.
“Yes, the fearsome Hol
steiners,” added Rolf. “All our lives, we’ve lived in fear that the Holsteiners were going to invade us. Then our parents send us to Paris, and what’s the first border we cross? Holstein!”
“We were terrified,” said Gudmund. “We crouched down in the carriage, hoping they wouldn’t see us.”
“Except for Amleth,” said Rolf. “But then, he’s mad, isn’t he?”
“Some of the time,” said Amleth.
“What did you think would happen if they saw you?” asked Horace. “Oh, something horrible,” said Gudmund. “We’d be held for ransom, or flayed alive.”
“Or eaten,” laughed Rolf.
They crossed the river and headed east. Amleth grew quiet as they approached the town. The carriage stopped by the foot of the drawbridge, and Horace and Amleth pulled their trunks from the roof and thanked the driver. It pulled away, Rolf and Gudmund waving from inside.
“God, did they even stop talking long enough to draw breath?” groaned Amleth.
“So, this is your island castle,” said Horace, surveying the stockade.
“Don’t call it a castle in front of my mother,” warned Amleth. “She might take it as sarcasm.”
“It was sarcasm,” said Horace. “Ready to face the family?”
“No,” said Amleth. “Let’s go in.”
They were greeted as they passed by the guards, but with little fanfare otherwise. A pair of thralls dropped whatever it was that they were doing and rushed to take the trunks from the two students. Gerutha appeared shortly thereafter, holding both arms out.
“My young gentleman has arrived,” she cried, hauling Amleth into her embrace. He submitted with ill grace, then stepped back.
“Mother, this is my companion and fellow student, Horace,” he said. “Horace, the Duchess Gerutha.”
“Madame, it is an honor,” said Horace in his best Danish, bowing low and kissing her hand.
“Ah, Parisian manners,” she said, beaming. “It has been so long since I was at the courts there.”
“Their present glory must be a pale shadow of when your magnificence graced them,” said Horace.
Amleth rolled his eyes as his mother simpered at the young man.
“Come,” she said. “I will take you to your quarters.”
“I know where I live,” said Amleth, but his mother had already taken Horace’s arm.
“This is the great hall,” she said, leading him inside.
Amleth sighed and followed them.
The two students had missed the midday meal, so she left them in the kitchen. When they had filled their stomachs, they went back to the Dukes quarters.
“This is where you grew up?” asked Horace, looking around at the stockade walls.
“I’m afraid so,” said Amleth.
“That explains a lot,” said Horace.
“Quiet, or I’ll tell mother that you are really a Norman, not a Parisian,” said Amleth.
He stopped short as he entered his room. His mother was standing over his open trunk, holding a stuffed sparrow hawk, an expression of panic on her face.
“Yau have Yorick’s belongings,” she said in a near whisper. “Why? For God’s sake, what are they doing here?”
“What were you doing in my trunk?” demanded Amleth.
“I was going to unpack your things for you,” she said. “Why do you have Yorick’s? Did you kill him?”
“For God’s sake, mother!” Amleth shouted. She looked at him in horror. “How could you say that? You know how much he meant to
“More than I do,” she said. She threw the stuffed bird back. “I’m sorry.” She left.
Horace watched her.
“Will she tell your uncle?” he asked.
“No,” said Amleth bitterly. “She’s my mother.”
He shut the trunk, taking care to bury the jester gear under the blankets. Then he turned to Horace.
“Let me show you my fort,” he said.
He took him to the rear of the island where his stockade still stood between the herb garden and the bare patch that once had been Gerutha’s. His brick still rested in the middle of it.
“Impressive,” said Horace, surveying it. “There must be over two hundred stakes here.”
“Over three hundred,” said Amleth proudly. “It took me years.”
“But will it protect you from your enemies?” asked Horace.
“Apparently not,” said Amleth.
Horace turned to see a boy of twelve standing before them, a fierce expression on his face, his hand on his sword’s hilt.
“Have you returned to face me at last, you coward?” shouted the boy.
“Have you grown so tired of life at such a young age that you would challenge me?” returned Amleth.
“Draw your sword and fight like a knight,” said the boy. “Or I shall cut you down like the dishonorable dog that you are.”
“Have pity, good knight,” said Amleth. “I have no weapon as mighty as yours.”
The boy reached into his pack and produced a wooden practice sword that he threw to Amleth. Then he drew his own.
They circled each other warily. Amleth feinted a few times, but the boy did not rise to the bait. Then Amleth stumbled for a moment over a rock, and the boy attacked. Amleth sidestepped and let the boy’s momentum carry him over his outstretched foot. The boy leapt over it and whirled, sword at the ready. Amleth was already on the move, his sword coming in fast and low, but the boy blocked it easily, a grin on his face.
“You stumbled on purpose,” he said. “That was a trick to lure me in. You almost had me.”
“But I didn’t trip you up this time,” said Amleth. “You’ve improved quite a bit. Lother, meet my friend Horace. This is Lother, my cousin.”
“Is it safe?” asked Horace.
“Not at all,” said Lother. “I may have a quarrel with Amleth, you know. But I’ve been defending him just in case I was right.”
“Right about what?” asked Amleth.
Lother beckoned them close.
“Alfhild thinks you were unfaithful to her,” he said. “Reynaldo was spying on you in Paris. He came back and told father that you were visiting a brothel there.”
“Alfhild heard about that?” said Amleth, turning ashen.
“I told her that it couldn’t be true,” continued Lother.
“It is, and it isn’t,” said Amleth.
“Which is it?” asked Lother.
“It was a trick we… I played on Reynaldo,” said Amleth. “I wanted to give Fengi something to think about. But I had no intention of it getting back to Alfhild.”
“That’s the problem with jokes,” said Horace. “They develop lives of their own.”
“I have to see her,” said Amleth. “I have to explain.”
“Unfortunately, that may prove difficult,” said Lother.
“Why?” asked Amleth.
“She entered the convent last week,” he said gloomily.
“Oh, no,” said Amleth. “Tell me she hasn’t taken vows yet.”
“She has to be a novice for six months, I think,” said Lother.
“I have to see her,” shouted Amleth, running toward the drawbridge.
* * *
He took one of his uncle’s horses and galloped south. The convent was two miles past the church of St. Andreas, and it was midafternoon by the time he arrived. He leapt from the horse and banged on the front gate, his hair disheveled, his clothes dusty from the journey, and his face covered in sweat. The woman who kept the gatehouse took one look at the apparent madman and refused him both admittance and conveyance of any message to the inner sanctum.
Frustrated, he rode back. A nearby tavern beckoned, and he tasted Danish ale for the first time in months. It tasted good. He had a few more.
The sun was beginning to set when he emerged and, with great difficulty, climbed back on his horse. He wasn’t paying any attention to the route home. A wrong turn brought him to an unfamiliar road that passed by a secluded area containing a lar
ge military encampment. The guards looked at him suspiciously as he rode by, singing a bawdy Parisian drinking song. One of them made some comment that he barely heard, and it was only when he had ridden some distance that it occurred to him that it had been in German.
He tied his horse up in a small copse of trees and walked back to the camp, staying off the road and out of sight. The campfires were burning brightly, and the soldiers were having their evening meal, a dozen conversations going on simultaneously. None of them was in Danish.
He ran back to his horse and galloped back to Slesvig.
His uncle was standing in the entrance to the stockade when he crossed the drawbridge. Amleth jumped down from the horse.
“She’s locked away from me!” he shouted. “What harm did you think I would do her?”
“What is wrong with you?” demanded his uncle. “You barely arrive, then you steal a horse and vanish for the day? Your mother…”
“There is evil and sin everywhere!” shouted Amleth. “But you take the pure and put them in prisons filled with madwomen rather than letting them fight God’s enemies on the battlefield. I say that these walls behind which you hide will no more protect you from the world than the ones I built by the garden. Yet I will be safe there, and nowhere else.”
He fled to the rear of the island and jumped over his fortifications.
“What has happened?” asked Gorm, coming up to Fengi.
“He has relapsed,” said Fengi. “Your daughter’s absence seems to have deeply affected him.”
“Praise be to God that I got her out of here in time,” said Gorm.
“Praise be,” said Fengi.
* * *
Amleth sat there day and night, refusing to join the others at meals. He accepted the food that was brought to him, and the use of a blanket, but otherwise remained. Sometimes Lother sat with him, sometimes Horace did. Gerutha came out to plead with him, but he sat stonefaced, and she walked away, weeping.
