Free An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon Page B

him at that hour, but admitted him without question.
    Instead of heading toward Ørvendil’s quarters in the rear of the island, he climbed the ladders to the top platform at the front, greeting the archers by name as he passed them.
    Ørvendil was on the top platform, as Terence expected, looking across the fjord at the rising sun. Mists billowed across the waters, broken by the masts of the fishing boats. Gulls swooped in and out of sight, calling to each other.
    Terence joined Ørvendil and looked east.
    “I can’t see him,” he said.
    “See who?” asked Ørvendil without turning his head.
    “Whoever it is that you think is coming,” said the fool.
    “Who do I think is coming?” asked Ørvendil.
    “The rumor is that it’s Valdemar,” said the fool.
    “The rumor is wrong,” said Ørvendil.
    Terence shrugged.
    “It matters not to me,” he said. “But if Valdemar is on the way, I would be glad to entertain at the feast.”
    “There is no feast,” said Ørvendil.
    “Then I’ll entertain at the famine,” said Terence. “I am not particular.”
    “I say again that Valdemar is not coming,” said Ørvendil.
    “I will make a wager that you are wrong,” said Terence.
    “Are you a betting man?” asked Ørvendil.
    “Not until just recently,” replied Terence. “Would one as mighty as you take a fool’s wager?”
    “Hmm,” mused Ørvendil. “I have learned in my life that betting with men that I do not know well is a losing proposition.”
    “Wise policy,” said Terence. “So, you reject a fool’s gold. Copper, anyway.”
    “I am saving you from folly,” said Ørvendil. “Valdemar will not be coming here or anywhere ever again. I have information that he is dead.”
    “Do you?” said Terence. “And if that is the case, how does Ørvendil? Aren’t you honor bound to avenge him?”
    “He charged me with the care of Slesvig and its people,” said Ørvendil. “I would be betraying that trust if I led them into a futile battle.”
    “Wise politics,” said Terence. “I see that you have become something other than a simple warrior.”
    “War is never simple,” said Ørvendil.
    “What if Sveyn brings the war here?” asked Terence.
    “Are you planning to flee?” asked Ørvendil.
    “My instinct is to run from war,” said Terence. “But my loyalty is to a two-year-old boy.”
    “Would you risk your life to save Amleth?” asked Ørvendil in surprise. “He is worth saving,” said Terence simply. “He will become a great man, and a good one. Given the right man to emulate, of course.”
    “Meaning you, I suppose.”
    “No, milord,” said Terence. “Meaning yourself.”
    Ørvendil looked out across the fjord. The mists began to dissipate as the sun rose higher in the sky.
    “You overpraise me, Fool,” he said softly. “Why are you here so early? Vsu’re never up before midmorning. What is your mission here?”
    “To remind you of your true self, milord,” said the fool. “That is the mission of every fool.”
    “Is it?” wondered Ørvendil. “Are there many like yourself?”
    “There are fools beyond counting in this world,” said Terence. “But only a few like myself. Coincidentally, I spoke with one of them just last night.”
    “Where was he from?” asked Ørvendil.
    “Roskilde,” replied Terence.
    Ørvendil looked at him sharply, but the fool stood smiling serenely, his eyes closed, as the sunlight warmed his limbs. Then he opened them and looked at the lord of the stockade.
    “I rarely see the sun rise,” he said. “It’s a wondrous thing to see a new day, is it not? Well, milord, I must go see my master. He tells me that there will be some other boys coming to play today. I have brought a football along for the occasion. Things should be quite lively. Come and join us, if you can spare the time.”
    He stepped over to the pole supporting the platform and slid down.
    Ørvendil watched the fishermen ply their nets as the mists cleared, then turned and