An Antic Disposition (16 page)

“It seems so far away,” sighed Amleth.

“Tomorrow is far away,” said Terence. “Get through today first.”

“What will you do if I go?” asked Amleth.

“Stay,” said Terence. “My work is here. There will always be drunks and children to entertain. Maybe Gorm will relent and allow me to play with Alfhild and Lother some more. Now, there are two people who will miss you when you go. Have you proposed to her yet?”

“I’m only eleven,” protested Amleth. “And she’s eight.”

“I realize that the age difference can be a hindrance to a marriage,” said Terence with a serious expression. “But you can overcome it if you

“Stop it,” laughed Amleth. “I am not going to marry anyone. Ever.”

“Don’t base your sense of marriage upon what you’ve seen inside that fortress,” advised Terence. “There are plenty of happy ones, and the rest are more or less tolerable.”

“Then why aren’t you married?” teased the boy.

“I have decided to lead a life of celibacy,” said Terence.

“Like a priest?” asked Amleth.

“No,” said Terence. “I mean a life of celibacy. And thank you for the straight line. So, what was your uncle up to on this little vacation of his?”

“I don’t know,” said Amleth. “He hasn’t talked to anyone but Gorm about it. Why?”

“He didn’t take any Danes with him, only mercenaries,” said Terence. “That interests me. Keep your ears open, all right?”

“I will,” promised Amleth. “Shall we juggle?”

“Let’s,” said Terence, standing and pulling on his motley.

As they passed nine clubs between them, they heard a distant rumbling. Terence turned in the direction of the sound.

“Just a supply convoy,” he said. “Oh, look. There’s Gorm on horseback. Better get back into character in case he sees you.”

Amleth hastily stuffed his clubs back into his bag and sat down, staring moodily at the dying embers of the fire. The drost spotted them, and rode up.

“Amleth, your mother bids me remind you that noon fast approaches,” said Gorm.

“Hail, Lord Drost,” said Terence.

Gorm looked him up and down, a pained expression on his face.

“I have never seen you without your whiteface on, Fool,” he said. “I understand now why you wear it. hour face is quite hideous without it.”

“Feel free to borrow it anytime you like,” said Terence. “How are your children today, milord?”

“They are none of your concern,” snapped the drost. “Amleth, the

W sun…

“I know where the sun is,” said Amleth. “Tell my mother I will be there anon.”

The drost sniffed and rode away. Terence began applying his makeup, looking at his reflection in the water.

“I like your face,” said Amleth.

The fool shrugged.

“It’s a face,” he said. “Just another prop for a fool to work with. All right, let’s get you back.”

F
engi and Gerutha
stood looking over a great excavation at the edge of town. At one end, thralls were carrying out sacks of dirt. At the other, masons were laying brick as a foundation.

“At last,” said Gerutha. “How long will it take?”

“A few years,” said Fengi.

“Years,” she said. “I want my Mary’s garden.”

“You will have it,” he said.

“And will there be balls? With musicians and lovely gowns?”

“Every fortnight,” he said, putting his arm around her. “And all of our children shall be raised as royalty.”

“All of them,” she said dully. “There’s just one, and he spends his days sitting in the mud.”

She walked away suddenly.

“There can be more,” he called after her. “Mary didn’t stop with just Jesus, you know. She had a whole brood of them. With a different father.”

Gorm rode up, dismounted, and approached Fengi.

“I sent the supplies,” he said.

“Good,” said Fengi. He looked across the crowd of laborers working to build his castle. “We need more money. I may have to raise taxes again.”

“There are complaints about the level of taxation as it stands,” said Gorm.

“There are always complaints,” said Fengi. “What does it matter? Do me a favor and escort my wife home.”

“Yes, milord.”

Gorm left his horse with a soldier and trotted after Gerutha. “Milady,” he said, gasping a bit. “I am to accompany you.”

“Thank you, Gorm,” she said.
“You
know, you really should call me Gerutha after all this time. We are family, after all.”

“Only by marriage, and that connection is lost, alas,” said Gorm. “Never,” said Gerutha. “Blood ties outlast death. And who knows? Maybe there will be another marriage someday.”

“I thank you, Gerutha,” he said, stumbling slightly over the name. “However, I am not interested in marrying again.”

“I was not talking about you,” she said. “But your daughter seems to have set her mind on my son.”

“It is but a childish affectation,” protested the drost. “As the only boy she knows, he naturally would become the object of her love. But I expect that she will grow out of it.”

“Perhaps,” said Gerutha. “But you must consider the effect that living isolated in a garrison will have on a young girl. Not to mention the effect a pretty girl might have on a garrison.”

“I have instructed her on the ways of virtue,” said Gorm stiffly. “She will remain a chaste and obedient daughter.”

“Easily said of an eight-year-old girl,” said Gerutha. She smiled at Gorm, which unnerved him. “She so reminds me of her mother, don’t you think?”

He did not reply.

S
eeing
the drost personally oversee the supply convoy’s departure had whetted Terence’s curiosity. Although he had lost an hour on them by the time he had returned Amleth to his mother, the fool’s long legs were able to close the distance on the slow-paced mules in no time.

His suspicions increased when the convoy turned east and followed the southern bank of the fjord rather than continue to the southern fortifications that protected Slesvig from Holstein. The wains passed the church of St. Andreas and continued on to a small farm. One of its fields was dotted with tents and campfires, and the wains were greeted by armed guards.

Terence hopped a fence enclosing a herd of cattle and crouched down. Then he ran, keeping low and using the cows for cover. They ignored him. When he reached the fence near the encampment, he flattened himself on the ground and peered cautiously through the tall grass that bordered it.

He could hear snatches of conversation, but he couldn’t understand what was being said. It wasn’t Danish, and it wasn’t German. He suspected that these were new mercenary recruits, but was puzzled why they were being kept out of sight. Fengi had more than his share of mercenaries, something that was beginning to alarm the fool.

He thought they might be speaking Slavic, which meant that they had come from the east. He noticed that many of them made for one large tent in particular, carrying things in, then coming out several minutes later empty-handed.

The sun set, and the people were gathering by a central bonfire, sharing provisions and singing. He decided to chance getting closer, crawling on his belly the entire distance. He came up behind the tent that had caught his attention, and with his dagger cut a tiny hole in it. Then he pressed his eye against the opening he had made. A hideous face peered back at him, and he almost shouted, but it was carved from wood. Beyond it was another, and another…

“Wends,” he breathed.

He crawled back to the fence, slithered under it, and made his escape through the cow pasture.

T
he next morning
Reynaldo approached Fengi as the latter rode by the brickyard.

“I have something to tell you,” he said softly.

“What is it?” asked Fengi.

“That fool knows about the Wends.”

“What?”

“I followed him yesterday when he went out of town. He tracked the supply convoy.”

“Well,” said Fengi thoughtfully. “That is unfortunate.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Reynaldo, smiling.

A
mleth thought
little of it when Terence failed to come to visit him that day. When a second day passed with no appearance by the fool, he was curious and a little irritated. He got up from his tiny enclosure and wandered around the island.

“Have you seen Yorick?” he asked Gorm in the great hall.

“No, and I do not care to,” said the drost frostily.

He sought out his mother.

“Have you seen Yorick?” he asked her.

“Yorick?” she said, puzzled. “No, now that you mention it. Maybe he’s gone off wandering again. You know he does that.”

Not without telling me first, he thought.

He asked a few of the soldiers, ones that he knew frequented The Viking’s Rest after the end of their watches. None had seen the fool.

It was after noon. He waited for a group of wagons to cross the drawbridge into the fortress with fresh supplies, then slipped out and walked into town.

He didn’t see the fool performing anywhere at the market or near the cathedral, his two favorite street locations. Amleth had been forbidden by his mother ever to enter a tavern, but he reasoned that by going in through the back entrance directly to Yorick’s room, he would not be in violation of that maternal edict. Besides, he thought with a slight smile, he could always claim madness.

He walked casually into an alleyway off a street near the tavern, then ducked under a fence and ran silently to the back entrance. He listened at the doorway, holding his breath, but heard no one inside. The tapster was usually in the front room, and the other occupants of the sleeping quarters worked days. He opened the door a crack and peered in. Then he slipped inside, closing it quickly behind him. He crept down the hall until he came to Yorick’s room. The door was ajar.

He tapped on it softly.

“Yorick?” he whispered. There was no reply. He pushed the door open slowly. “Yorick?”

The shutters were open, allowing the light to pour into the room. It was empty. He was about to turn and leave when a hand grabbed him roughly by the collar and spun him around. The man holding him appeared to be a monk, although his expression was not in the least one that inspired holy thoughts. In his free hand, he held an oaken staff.

“Who are you?” said the monk quietly, a trace of menace in his tone.

“Let go of me,” said Amleth.

The monk shoved him into the room, came in, and closed the door behind him.

“I asked you a question, boy,” he said.

There was something about him that seemed familiar to the boy. He glanced at the monk’s sleeves, then suddenly blurted out,
“Stultorum numerous!’

The monk arched his eyebrows in amusement.

“Come, child, he taught you better than that,” he said. “You don’t just throw passwords at any passing stranger.”

“Stultorum numerus,”
repeated Amleth, more confidently this time.

“Infinitus est,”
replied the monk. “You must be Amleth.”

“Yes,” said Amleth.

“How did you know that I was a fool?” asked the monk.

“I’ve seen you once before,” said Amleth. “When I was little.”

“You have a remarkable memory,” said the monk. “You weren’t even three then.”

“And I got a glimpse of your motley under your cassock,” added Amleth.

The monk grimaced, shoving the sleeve back under his cassock.

“Now, that was careless of me,” he said. “I must be getting old. My name is Gerald. I’m the Roskilde fool.”

“Yau came with Valdemar and Fengi that time, before Valdemar was king. You and Yorick let me juggle silks in front of my father. How could I not remember that?”

“That’s right,” said Gerald. “I have heard much about you, young Amleth. My colleague sings your praises, sometimes literally, when we meet.”

“Does he?” said Amleth, pleased.

“Yes,” said Gerald. “Now, tell me where I can find him. I need to speak with him.”

“I don’t know,” said Amleth. “Yorick usually comes to see me every day, but I haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday, and he left me no note saying he was going anywhere. He…”

Amleth stopped, Yarick’s collection of bundles were piled in a corner of the room. He went over to pick them up. Some of them rattled and jingled as he did. He looked at Gerald in alarm.

“He wouldn’t go anywhere without these,” he said.

Gerald knelt down by Terence’s pallet and pulled back the blanket. There was a patch of blood staining the thin sheet covering the hay. He touched it, but could not judge whether it was recent or not. He put the blanket back before the boy could see it.

“Tell me everything you can remember about the last time you saw …” he hesitated for a moment. “Saw Yorick.”

Amleth did, and Gerald nodded when he heard about the supply convoy.

“That must have been it,” he said. “He’s probably just gone in disguise to find out what that was all about. You say they went south?”

Amleth nodded.

“All right,” said Gerald. “Meet me down at the docks tomorrow afternoon. You’ll hear this song.” He whistled a few notes. “Do you have it?”

Amleth nodded.

“Good,” said Gerald. “Tell no one about this. And be careful with that password.”

“Yes, Gerald,” said Amleth.

H
e ran back
to the fortress. No one had remarked on his absence, and his moodiness at the evening meal was nothing unusual by this time. He slept fitfully, then paced in his miniature stockade like a lion in a cage, waiting for the sun to reach its peak.

He wanted to run to the docks, to find Yorick waiting for him, a teasing smile on his lips as he would throw the boy high into the air and catch him at the last possible moment. But he forced himself to sneak out quietly and take the indirect route through the town first, making sure that no one was following him. He wandered the docks, keeping his head down and paying attention to nobody. He did not see the monk, but as he passed a sailor who was sitting on a bench, whittling, he heard him whistle the tune Gerald had given him the day before. He walked up to him.