An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  He tossed me the clubs. I caught them and weighed them in my hands for a moment.

  “Two wings for three clubs,” I said. “Too easy.”

  I held all three clubs in my right hand, put my left behind my back, and began a one-handed routine. There were respectful cheers from the crowd, and the fool raised an eyebrow in mock irritation.

  “He has bested you, La Vache!” cried a merchant from one of the stalls.

  “Not in the least,” declared the fool. “He has skill, no question. But I am still La Vache, the greatest fool in Paris.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” I said, tossing him back his clubs.

  “Brave words, little boy,” said the fool. “Do they bespeak a brave heart, or are you just a large bladder full of wind?”

  “Try me,” I said as boldly as one whose voice had broken only a few months before could.

  “Very well,” said the fool. He picked up a sack from the ground and raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen! I shall now perform the trick that brought me fame and fortune. The one that I performed before crowned heads and mitered, and at the very Hippodrome of Constantinople in front of one hundred thousand astonished spectators.”

  He reached into the sack and pulled out two short logs. Each was about a foot in length, and as wide around as a blacksmith’s forearm.

  “Log juggling?” I said. “Is that the trick?”

  He smiled at me. It was an evil smile, and I felt a pang of fear in my breast.

  “In this trick, the log will not move,” he said. “I need a volunteer to hold it for me. Will you be so kind, my young master?”

  I nodded. He walked up to me, handed me the log, and positioned my hands so that it was directly in front of my chest.

  “Hold it tight, strong, and steady,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked as he walked back to his sack. “Is this trick dangerous?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “At least for me. For you, quite a lot.”

  Then he reached into his sack and pulled out an ax.

  “You must be wondering if this is a sharp instrument or not,” he said, holding it before the crowd and turning it so that it gleamed. “Behold!”

  With a swift, strong motion, he split the second log neatly in two. “Looks sharp enough to me,” he said as the crowd chattered and grew. “Now, what I propose to do is to throw this ax from where I stand into the center of the log that my new assistant is now holding thirty paces away. If I err by the slightest amount, or if he moves the least distance, then he will suffer the same grisly fate as my last assistant, and I will once again be carted off to prison to repent of my foolish ways. Are you ready to face your destiny, young one?”

  “How much did you have to drink this morning?” I asked, trying not to shake.

  “Almost enough,” he said. He lifted the ax over his head with his right hand, then licked his left thumb and held it in front of him, squinting at me in concentration. Then, to my vast relief, he lowered the ax.

  “No,” he said. “Not like this.” He paused as the crowd groaned in disappointment, then leered maliciously at me. “Too easy.”

  He took a large kerchief from his belt with a flourish and tied it around his face, then again held the ax aloft.

  “Boy?” he cried. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” I replied, my voice definitely breaking at this point.

  “Do you still hold the log in the same position? Straight and strong?”

  “I do.”

  “Then pray!” he shouted, and there was a blur of steel and a thud as the ax buried itself in the exact center of the log, the blade stopping just short of coming out the other side. I held on for a moment as women screamed on all sides, then the two halves gave way in my hands and the ax clattered to the ground. The crowd roared and coins flew through the air toward the old fool, who caught most of them, his hands no longer the clumsy helpers from the earlier part of his act.

  I picked up the ax and the pieces of the log and walked up to him.

  “Yours, I believe,” I said.

  “Well?” said Horace from behind me. “Does he pass?”

  La Vache flipped me a coin and looked me over.

  “I have a riddle for you, boy,” he said. “What do you call someone who will willingly let an insane old drunk throw an ax at him?”

  I looked at him and realized that he was completely sober, although I had my doubts as to his sanity.

  “A fool,” I replied.

  “He passes,” said La Vache. “Come with us, Lother. I want you to meet some friends of ours.”

  La Vache led us to a shed, threw open the door, and motioned us inside. When I crossed the threshold, I saw a gathering of fools, male and female, doing a stretching routine that was very familiar. One of them looked at me and whistled.

  “He’s so pale he won’t need whiteface,” he said.

  “This is Lother, the new novitiate,” announced La Vache. He turned to me. “You have skills, boy. Can you juggle three clubs in the other hand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, provoking some hoots from the rest of the fools.

  “Don’t call me ‘sir,’ “ growled La Vache. “Three in one hand is a good trick for thirteen. Can you do four?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  He took four clubs, put a hand behind his back, started juggling them, then switched hands and kept them going.

  My jaw dropped.

  “You must be Amleth’s juggling master,” I said.

  “Among others, yes,” he replied. “Go do your stretches.”

  “Master La Vache?” I said.

  “What?”

  “May I see your kerchief?”

  He tossed it to me. I examined it thoroughly and found no eyeholes. “Satisfied?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  “No,” I said. “Let me see the one you actually used.”

  He beamed. “Now, that would be the one with the holes in it, wouldn’t it? I wondered if you spotted the switch.”

  “It didn’t make it much less terrifying,” I said.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the summer in intensive training. When the school term arrived, I did not register, although Horace continued with his classes.

  “I already know how to be a fool,” he said. “Now I strive to become an educated one.”

  “You know, if there is no revolt by Fengi soon, then I am going to be in serious trouble for not going to school,” I said.

  He handed me a stack of books and scrolls.

  “My work from my first year,” he said. “You can read it in your spare time. The most important part of education is being able to repeat precisely what everyone else has already said.”

  One day in early October, I came to the shed to find Horace, La Vache, and some of the older fools deep in conversation. La Vache saw me and motioned me over to the table.

  “This concerns you,” he said. “There’s a new plan, Ym’re a decent swordsman by now, are you not?”

  “I have studied it, most recently with Amleth,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said. “There are several goals involved. First and most important, we have to stop the revolt. That means stopping Fengi.”

  “You mean killing him,” I said.

  “Valdemar will not listen to us,” said La Vache. “There may be no other way. But we have to manage it so that no attention is drawn to the Fools’ Guild. That’s our other main goal. The lesser goals involve getting Amleth and Alfhild out of Slesvig alive.”

  “And Lother,” added Horace. “And me, I hope.”

  “I’m going back to Slesvig?” I said, my face falling.

  “Not until Christmas,” said La Vache. “You will come in with a reputation as a swordsman who has made his mark dueling in Paris.”

  “How will I do that?” I asked.

  “Because your fencing master, Lamord, will inform them,” said La Vache.

  “But I’ve never studied under Lamord,” I said.

&
nbsp; “Lamord will say that you have,” he said. He pulled over a bowl of water and a glass and started washing off his whiteface.

  “Why will he do that for us?” I asked.

  He dried off his face, looked sadly at his reflection, then began shaving off his beard.

  “He won’t,” he said. “No one in Slesvig knows Lamord by sight. He and I are of an age, and I am proficient enough with a sword to pass. I am going there to puff you up, and to contact Amleth. Now, when you get back, you must make your peace with your father and insinuate yourself into Fengi’s confidences. Show some ambition to follow your father’s path. Make yourself known as a useful tool, and I am certain that Fengi will find a use for you.”

  “Am I to be the one to kill Fengi?” I asked.

  “Unlikely,” he said. “But you may be instrumental in helping Amleth get away.”

  “He’s going to do it?”

  “If Amleth does it, then it will be attributed to vengeance for his father,” said Horace. “No one will think otherwise.”

  “But Fengi’s guards will cut him down on the spot,” I said.

  “We’re working on that,” said La Vache. “Ymr contact when you go home will be a priest at the cathedral named Gerald. Yau’re a good boy, Lother, so go to church and confess your sins as often as you can.”

  “I don’t have that many to confess,” I said.

  “You will,” said Horace.

  La Vache opened a chest and removed a set of Norman armor. Two of the others helped him on with it.

  “Too much weight for an old man,” he said. “Where are the birds?”

  “Here,” said Horace, handing him a cage with some carrier pigeons in it. “Try not to eat them.”

  La Vache thumbed his nose at us and left.

  * * *

  At the dawning of the first of November, I was shaken awake by Horace. My first impulse was irritation, but something in his expression stifled my protest before it could be uttered.

  “Change in plans,” he said. “I am afraid that I have some bad news.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Your father is dead. I am sorry, Lother.”

  Almost without thinking, I started rubbing my jaw, the site of many a parental bruising.

  “How did he die?” I asked.

  Horace swallowed. “Amleth killed him.”

  Whatever sleep was left in me fled on the instant.

  “Tell me that this wasn’t part of the plan,” I said. “The great plan to save Denmark.”

  “It wasn’t,” he started, then he sighed and began pacing the room. “It was always a possibility, depending on how much of the command we needed to disrupt. Fengi might not have been enough. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “Four days ago,” he said. “We just got word by carrier pigeon from Father Gerald.”

  “Where is La Vache?”

  “On his way home,” he said. “He won’t know anything about it yet. And I have to leave Paris.”

  “Why?”

  “Amleth has been banished officially, but we think that is just a cover. His life may be at stake now.”

  “His life,” I said.

  “Are you still with us, Lother?” asked Horace, his face a mask. I suddenly feared him.

  “Yes,” I said. “They’ll be sending for me.”

  “Then act as though you are hearing about it for the first time,” he said. “See Father Gerald as soon as you can. If all goes well, you will see me in Slesvig before the year ends.”

  He left. I was alone with my thoughts.

  I had been brought up by my father to respect the blood that bound us. Of course, the man who brought me up spent much of my childhood beating me. And my sister. And he did not shrink from betraying Ørvendil, who he was tied to both by blood and by honor.

  Honor and blood demanded that I avenge him. But everything about my life now screamed against it. It wasn’t the love I owed Amleth, the fables I heard from Horace, or the immersion in the lore of the Fools’ Guild that dissuaded me.

  It was the realization that I hated my father and was relieved that he was dead. And if his death suited Guild policy or Amleth’s own vengeance, so much the better. I felt as if I had been living with an iron clamp around my lungs, and for the first time I could breathe freely, knowing that my father would never again be able to harm Alfhild or me.

  I was glad that someone else killed him before I did.

  * * *

  I took the official news of his death with quiet dignity, which impressed the messenger no end. I packed my belongings, leaving Horace’s books and notes where he could find them, saddled my horse, and galloped back to Slesvig. I made the obligatory visit to my father’s grave, noting that what flowers there were lay on my mother’s side, then announced to the escort that I wished to pray at the cathedral. I went inside, knelt before the altar, crossed myself, then glanced quickly around. A priest was watching me solemnly. He walked to the confessional, and I entered the other compartment.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began.

  “Stultorum numerus..he whispered.

  “Infinitus est,” I whispered back.

  “We’ll save your soul later, Lother,” he said. “I am Father Gerald. My condolences on the loss of your father. Now listen.”

  He filled me in on what had taken place since he had sent his message, and gave me mercifully few instructions. Then I rode my horse home.

  I went straight up to Alfhild’s room without speaking to anyone on the island. I hesitated before knocking on her door. It looked different, somehow. Then I realized that she had had the outside bar removed. Good for her, I thought, and knocked.

  “Who is it?” she asked, her voice sounding strained and weary.

  “It’s Lother,” I said.

  There was the sound of a bar being removed, then the door opened and she stood before me. She was beyond pale, and her hair was wild and loose about her. There was something lackluster in her eyes, but then she brightened for a moment and embraced me.

  “Father is dead,” she said. “Amleth killed him.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asked. “Something you must never tell anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad of it,” she whispered.

  “So am I.”

  She sat on a bench and looked out the window.

  “Have you ever looked at Amleth’s fort from here?” she asked.

  “Not in a long time,” I said, joining her.

  From one flight up, the design of the miniature stockade seemed even more impressive, the fanciful patterns of the stakes curling away from the main circle, the solitary brick anchoring the center.

  “Sometimes I pretend that I can fly,” she said. “Then I look down at the fort and see all of the people from up high and wonder about their tiny lives behind their tiny walls.”

  Her hands hung limply at her sides, and she sagged a bit against the window frame.

  “Are you ill?” I said with concern. “You don’t look well. Have you been eating anything?”

  “Gerutha brings me food,” she said. “Of late, I have no appetite. I so longed for a chance to escape this prison, but now that I am free, I find that I cannot leave.”

  “He’ll come back and save us,” I said. “I know it.”

  She smiled, put her arm around my shoulders, and squeezed.

  “It’s good to have you back home, little brother,” she said.

  * * *

  I paid my respects to Gerutha and Fengi. It was odd speaking to people whom I had known all of my life, yet now saw in a new light. I felt awkward, knowing that I was playing a scene with every new conversation. I was outside of my body, watching the actor Lother listening for his cues, then feeding him his lines. Father had raised me to be a spy. Now, at long last, I was one, and it was in my own home.

  * * *


  The day that Alfhild died was the worst day of my life. I still replay the last time I saw her alive in my mind. I should have gone with her. I should have spotted something in her manner that would have served as an alarm, or just accompanied her as a matter of course, but I didn’t. I was still only thirteen, and she was still my big sister, and there was no danger to her in Slesvig now that my father was dead, was there? She presented no threat to Fengi or his plans. If Father Gerald had known at that point that she had sent the messenger to warn Amleth—but he didn’t.

  I’ll be back before noon. Those were the last words Alfhild ever said to me. She was back long after noon, thanks to the kindness of the farmers who delivered her to me. I looked at her, knowing that I had nothing left to lose. I looked at the bruises on her shoulders, the other cuts on her body, and knew that she had died at someone else’s hands. She might just as well have taken me with her.

  I remembered Fengi’s strange behavior at lunch, his denial of having been south that morning, the way he kept wincing. When Gerutha came up and held me, I decided then and there that Alfhild’s murderer would die at my hands.

  I rode to the pond where she had met her fate. The farmers were right—there was no trace of her clothing. I saw some late blooms by the water side, many of them crushed. That was where she sat. Where she struggled for her life. I looked around the open meadow, then rode toward the nearby forest.

  There it was, a small piece of her gown, the broken branches showing me a way back into the darkness. I tied up my horse and began following the trail she had left behind, occasionally finding other scraps. I emerged in a small clearing. A glint of steel caught my eye, and I picked up a small dagger from under some leaves that had fallen. I recognized it. It was my father’s. And there was blood on it.

  Was it hers? I saw no wound on her body that looked as if it had been from a blade. And where was her clothing? If she had torn it off and run through the woods, then she wouldn’t have left pieces of it on her path. But if she took her clothes off after, then they would have been found.