 
Hamlet: the Comedy

Or Perhaps a Cometragedy,

as told by Amundi, Last Jester to Denmark.

Translated into modern English by

Lenny Everson

rev 2

Copyright 2017 Lenny Everson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover design by Lenny Everson

For Dianne

Published at Smashwords:

****

Note:

Without knowing Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , you probably won't understand this novel. If you _like_ Shakespeare's play, _Hamlet_ , you probably won't like this novel. Good luck to the rest of you.

See chapter 23 if you need a summary of the play; chapter 24 for a list of characters.

Chapter 1: Wind

Denmark is a damned windy country. On a windy, windy afternoon, a prince and his friends might pass a noisy tavern, and the fools inside might not even notice, even if the wind were blowing strongly in the direction of Elsinore.

Prince Hamlet, accompanied by his friend, Horatio, and perhaps one or two others, seems to have passed Melka's Young Dog Tavern one afternoon when the usual wind was banging the branches of oak trees against the tavern roof.

I'd been waiting for Hamlet to arrive back in Denmark, and was angry with myself when I found I'd missed him. I've thought it over a few times since then. Maybe I could have done something different, and maybe it would all have worked out better for me and Tola. And for Ophelia. And for Hamlet. And for Denmark. Dust in the wind, as they say, dust in the wind.

***
Chapter 2: Tavern of Fools

I sat with Ingald inside Melka's Young Dog tavern, late on that afternoon in spring. It had been raining and the road outside was pretty well chewed up by wagons heading for Elsinore Castle, a day's travel away. Most of the wagons and carts were carrying military supplies to the castle or coming back for more. What did one expect? Denmark was facing a war it wasn't sure it could win.

A few minutes before, a sailor had come in, taken a quick look at his usual place now filled with clowns, fools, jesters, and a few crooks, and turned to leave. I'd grabbed his tunic. "The ferry's not in, is it? It's not due until tomorrow."

He'd shook himself loose. "Special boat. We brought Prince Hamlet in."

"Shit. How long ago?"

He'd shrugged. "A couple of hours, maybe. Who are all these clowns?"

"Jesters," I said. "This is the Convention of Fools, the third ever held in Denmark. And the second one I've been to," I added, not bothering to mention that it had been my idea. As the king's jester, an idea of mine got a bit of respect, or as much as any jester could in a country where humor was often considered a suspicious activity.

"You'll be gone, soon?" He hadn't looked happy.

"Tomorrow by noon."

The convention had been good, and most of the various Danish Lords and other nobles had, to my surprise, financed their fools to go. I guess they were getting tired of the same old jokes. As was I. The laughter was loud and the jokes had generally awful, but there was the odd one I could use.

"You don't seem happy. You were hoping to talk to Hamlet?" Ingald was young, but quick. A shortish fellow with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a accent from some Mediterranean country, Ingald had walked up to me and Soldir the night before. Like Soldir, he wanted to be an apprentice fool.

That seemed bizarre to me. Soldir, a tall old soldier with a scraggly beard and a bad limp, had asked to be an apprentice the week before. Now another one....

I'd explained to Ingald that the pay from the castle wasn't great, but I'd pay a bit out of my own salary, which wasn't bad. Ingald had waved it off. "Not a problem," he'd assured me. Once I'd confirmed that he could act the role of woman or man, I'd said I'd give him a month's trial. He'd smiled a big smile. I was to learn that his smile tended to make women weak at the knees. Or maybe it was just that, in Denmark, a tanned man with a foreign accent was an exotic item.

"No," I said. "I don't need to talk to the prince, but it would have been good to be at Elsinore Castle when he gets there."

"He's coming back for the funeral? Isn't that a bit late?" The funeral of Old King Hamlet, Prince Hamlet's father was more than a month in the past. Ingald looked at me with his most innocent look (I was to learn how well he could do that). "Perhaps he's going to claim his right to the throne?"

I scratched my chin. "I think if that were his plan, he'd come with an army of some sort." Shortly after Old King Hamlet had died, Hamlet's mother had married her late husband's brother, Claudius, and they now occupied the throne of Denmark."

"Maybe to lend a hand fighting the Norwegians?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not sure how much good he'd be at that."

"Then?"

"I don't know," I said. "Personally I'd have stayed at school in Wittenberg, if I were the prince. But he sent word and now he's most of the way to Elsinore and I'm here." I spat onto the floor.

"That's a problem?"

"Only if Claudius decides to have an entertainment to welcome him home. If that happens, I should be there."

Ingald smiled. "Because only you can provide a good one?"

"Or," I said, "they might find out how little they actually need me."

"Head on a pike," Ingald said. He'd obviously been listening. Having a jester's separated head put onto a pike pole outside a noble's residence was, at least in legend, that noble's way of advertising a vacancy for a new jester. Pike poles are long spears that have multiple functions, including display. Around the tavern, we fools joked about it a lot, speculating whose head was likely to be next.

I fumed. "Not much point in leaving for Elsinore this late in the day," I said.

Ingald nodded. "Can you introduce me to anybody I'm likely to meet again?"

I looked around. "Shoop the shitter," I said, pointing to a nondescript man at the next table, crying into his beer. "Learned at the feet of Yorick, one of my predecessors, dead a couple of decades." We slipped over to sit beside him. Shoop ignored us.

Abruptly Soldir pushed the door open and stood there with a large pot of what smelled like sheep stew. He looked around carefully before coming into the room. Melka followed him in with a large tray of bread. She looked very happy.

With a shortage of seats in the place, some men had volunteered to wait for supper. There were more jokes on the improvised stage. We laughed, dutifully. "I heard that last one in Istanbul," Ingald said. "Do jesters run out of new jests eventually?"

"Everything, wise and foolish, has been said before," I told him. "But nobody sober listens to much. So we can keep going back and starting all over again. Except the oldest, most tiresome jokes. We save those for late at night when the men are drunk. Then they want to hear them again." I looked around. "Most of these people have learned two essential lessons, my friends. "First, that a day in which you haven't laughed is a day wasted.":

"And the second?" Ingald asked.

"The secret one. That the aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being – that's foolish and dangerous – but to remind him that he's already degraded."

A couple of toasts were made, to which we raised our cups: "Some men are such fools; some fools are such men" and "It is better to love with fools than to fool with love." The toasts were as old as most of the jokes there, but who wouldn't drink to them, if only out of politeness?

Shoop was again muttering something about Yorick. The two servants, who might well have been Melka's daughters, kept the ale coming to those who had the money. Ingald flirted with the them, which got me fed as well.

When Soldir sat at our table, I introduced him and Ingald to each other. They eyed each other suspiciously. Then Ingald asked about the death of Old King Hamlet. "Why wasn't he replaced by Prince Hamlet? That's the way it goes in most kingdoms." He tasted the ale, then gave a skeptical look at the mug. I got the impression that he didn't think much of our Danish ales, but having tried the Danish wine a couple of times, he'd decided that the ale, at least, wasn't going to kill him.

"Hamlet was out of the country, at school, and by the time he got back Claudius had married Prince Hamlet's mother, Queen Gertrude," Soldir told him.

"And the Danish Nobles didn't object?" Ingald seemed incredulous.

"In case you hadn't noticed," I told the young man, "Denmark's under imminent threat of invasion by Norway." I looked around and lowered my voice even further. "Old King Hamlet had the brains of a cucumber, and would still have been deciding what to do when the Norwegians were putting his head on a stake outside the palace gates." I took a big swig of ale. "Most of the nobility were relieved when Claudius took over."

"Doesn't that sound a bit suspicious, then?"

I winked at Ingald. "Palace politics. Fools should keep out of it, and be wary of all rumors if they want to stay alive." I touched his hand, then waved for another ale. "That may have something to do with Asser's death, or so I've heard."

To his blank look, I said, "Asser was the royal jester before they hired me." I winked at him. "Amundi; current royal court clown and your mentor in the jester business – if we don't screw up too badly."

"You think?"

I nodded. "Asser always pushed his jokes closer to the line than was safe." I paid for two ales. "He was found in the moat." I shook my head "He might have fallen off the battlements while having a shit –some do, you know. Or he may have been pushed."

"Do we lose many that way?"

I looked at Ingald. "It's warm in the castles and mansions, and there are girls who love to be entertained. So there are always applicants for the job. But we do lose a few from time to time."

"I thought it a safer business than whaling." Ingald shook his long hair. He wiped some ale foam from a lip barely able to grow a moustache deep enough to notice.

I thought about asking him how he'd been a whaler at his age, but I didn't know much about life in whatever tropical country he'd come from, and, besides, if you can't tell tall tales, you'll never make it in the jester business. "Generally safe," I assured him, but you'll be fed a lot of good wine and asked to make fun of some important people. That's got a lot of fools tossed off bridges."

"I'll try to remember that." He lowered his voice. "I have two questions."

I nodded.

"How close were Shoop and Yorick?"

"I am," I said, "tired of Yorick. He's dead more than twenty years and he's still making fools of us fools. They were at least good friends, I was. If it went further, I didn't know about it. And the other question?"

When Ingald was somewhat fed, he asked, with his mouth full, "Did you know Asser?"

I shook my head. "He was a great guy they say. Everyone tells me that."

"Yet you seem rather hostile to the idea of inquiring into the manner of his death...."

"When war's imminent, it's not a good time to get too inquisitive or rambunctious in the castle," I said. "Too many spies, maybe. Too many suspicious people."

"Yet Soldir told me that the love of your life was inside Elsinore. Tola, I believe."

"Her husband's there, too." I wondered if that knowledge was current in the remote colonies.

"Ah," Ingald said. "Is he big, or powerful?"

"His name is Grim," I said. Then I explained what that meant in language of the English. "He's the king's Prime Minister, as well as Minister of War." I said, "Powerful in influence with the king and the nobles."

"You can see yourself taking the same flight as Asser?" Ingald laughed.

"I can. It's a straight drop into the toilet soup that makes up the moat."

"You suspect he knows about you and your... feelings towards his wife?"

I gave him one eye. "I don't know. But as we get closer to war with the Norwegians, life is getting cheaper in Denmark, and fewer questions are asked about other issues. He can hardly not know about Tola and I and the various bedrooms we've shared in the last two years." I dipped my bread into the last of the stew in my bowl. "Yet he hasn't, to this date, done anything. He could easily say I was a spy, and without the least proof my days of fooling around would end."

"Lots of bedrooms in the castle?"

"Enough, although as war gets closer, people are moving into the castle."

. "And many rooms in an inn. Yet Soldir and Melka do it outside. Standing up. Don't you find that unusual?" He eyeballed Soldir.

I said, "I asked Soldir once, and this is what he told me." But I didn't get a chance to tell my version of the story.

"You telling my story again?" Soldir asked.

"I was about to," I acknowledged.

"Why not buy me another ale and let me tell it myself?"

"Because I've heard it seven times and it won't be Ingald here buying the ale." But I knew I was defeated. I pushed my mug, still mostly full, over to Soldir when he sat down, and tried to find a waitress to get more. Not much luck there, since they were busy serving stew.

"Well, Ingald, it's a pleasure to meet you. Almost five years ago, the former king of this –" Soldir looked around as if to check for spies – "accursed land saw fit to start another of his pointless and silly wars, this time with the Friesians."

"As if," I said, "the Friesians had anything worth fighting for." Both Ingald and Soldir gave me a dirty look, so I went back to watching the butt ends of the women putting bowls of stew and chunks of bread in front of members of the fool's convention.

"Both my brother and I were gathered up, given almost-straight spears, and found ourselves in the King's army, heading south." He drank a good deal of my ale. I wished he'd drink more slowly, since I didn't want him to run out of ale before he told his story. "My brother, Soldir added, "was my best friend and Melka's husband."

"Ah," said Ingald.

"Foolishly," Soldir went on, "my silly brother tried to learn how to be a good soldier."

"Not you?" Ingald was served stew and bread, followed by Soldir and me.

"I," said Soldir, "decided to dedicate myself to the art of staying alive." He winked at Ingald. "It's not as easy as it seems"

His audience said nothing, so Soldir went on. "Cannon fodder. Arrow cushions. That's what they needed and that's what they got. A fifteen-foot spear and a small shield. If you don't have good shoes on when they round you up, you'll end up marching and fighting barefoot."

"The spear's for throwing?" Ingald looked intrigued.

"Not unless you're desperate. Once you throw that spear, you've just thrown away your only weapon. Anyway, they're usually too long for good throwing. No, the poor sods out in front of the army use their spears as pikes. Put the back end of the spear into the dirt, point the spear up and in the general direction of the enemy's chest, try to get behind your little shield, and pray to every saint you can remember." He leaned over the table and his eyes glared. "And coming at you are a bunch of armored bastards on giant horses."

"If I were out in front," Ingald said, "I'd mess my pants on the spot."

"Most do," Soldir said. "If you're going to survive you need to get used to having crap in your pants. If you live, you can wash later. The horse attacks come after the other army has thinned you out with arrows and poked at you with the longest pikes they've got. But," he said, "most horses aren't stupid enough to gallop into a wall of spear points. The few that do are screaming horse screams of fright and pain and trying to turn back. If they can't turn back, usually because there are too many other horses around them, they're soon stuck with spears, bleeding to death, and stomping on us guys with the spears."

"And the guy on the horse?"

"He's probably shit in his tin suit, too, but he's got a sword and he's determined to go down swinging it."

After a bit of silence, Ingald asked, "And the art of staying alive?"

"First, make sure your captain never knows you. If you're brave and good, he'll put you to the front to protect the idiots as long as you can before you die. You want to be in the middle, near the back."

"And if you're an idiot?"

"Fodder for arrows and spears and lances. Even your body might trip enemy soldiers and horses. A lance stuck through you is one less the enemy has to use." Soldir raised his eyebrows and sipped gently on some ale.

"Does that happen away from the battlefront?" Ingald asked.

"There are always spies and scouts and lost soldiers wandering around. They kill men whose pants are down, or who are away from their comrades and in a bed not their own."

"Ah!" Ingald smiled. "That's why...."

"You get used to doing it standing up," Soldir said. "The women prefer it in wartime, too. You never know when a wandering husband or cousin will show up from the battlefield."

"I must say," Ingald said, "Melka doesn't seem to have any complaints about your methods."

I looked at Melka, who was supervising the serving of stew and ale, and, most importantly, the collection of money for both of these. There was no credit; anyone who didn't provide money on the spot got no food or drink. Melka, while looking tough about the collection, also looked radiant.

"Melka's husband," Soldir said, "my brother, owned the tavern, and I bought and sold cattle. I had three wagons, five drivers, and customers throughout the area, mostly around Elsinore." He ate some mutton, swallowed a piece of bread, and washed it down with an ale that was good, but not great; Melka had obviously made a lot of the liquid in a hurry. "Then the army came by."

"I should think," Ingald said, showing wisdom beyond his years, "that disrupting your trade would not have been in the nation's interest."

"I was a cattle drover," Soldir said, "so they gave me a pike three times my height, with an iron point. My brother could cook and feed large groups. They put him into the squad that provided the animals for the army. Cattle, sheep, pigs. He drove them behind the army, which is what I should have been doing. When they ran low on animals, he was sent to appropriate them from the locals." He sighed. "Some farmer defended his pig by killing my brother. Took him two days to die from the wound."

"How long were you in the army?"

"Twenty-two years. Twenty-two long years. There were lots of breaks and I came back and helped Melka for quite a while, but sooner or later that idiot on the throne would decide to attack somebody he should have been trading with."

"You survived." Ingald looked my way, and I gave him permission to order more food and drink for the three of us.

"Aside from the horse kick to my leg, I took an arrow right in the chest," Soldir said. "They pulled it out, but the iron point is still in there." He pointed at the centre of his chest. "Right by my heart. Someday it'll kill me." He chewed, then swallowed, a particularly tough piece of mutton. "I hope it's when I'm pressed against Melka's sweaty buttocks."

"Now you're out of the army?"

"I am."

"And you're planning on being a fool?" Ingald noted.

A shake of the head. "I've been a sage for a week, learning from Amundi. Anyone who stays in the army is a fool."

"So you'll be a wise man who plays the fool."

Soldir shrugged. "There's many a fool playing the role of the wise man."

"How long can you stay out of the army?" I asked.

"I should be fine. Claudius is a better king than old King Hamlet was, God rest his stupid soul. With enough preparation for the castle, Fortinbras might think twice about attacking. With enough diplomacy, maybe someone can talk him out of it. In any case, I'm too old to soldier."

"What about Prince Hamlet," I asked him. "He might end up with the crown, sooner or later."

Soldir gave a pained look. "You know him better than I do."

"Brighter than his father," I said, "but incapable of thinking beyond the walls of the castle. And incapable of making up his mind. Some say used to say it takes Hamlet till lunch to decide what he's going to have had for breakfast."

"I've heard he's coming back to Elsinore," Ingald said. "The prince has been studying abroad." The kid seemed to have good information.

"Is that why he wasn't made king when his father died?" Soldir asked. Soldir nodded towards me. "You'd know better than I would," he said. "Loitering around the castle and amusing the locals by painting faces on your ass and dropping your pants."

"Yeah," I said, "that's my big act." I turned to Ingald. "They outmaneuvered the prince, I think. Had he been here, someone would have rushed him onto the throne and dropped the crown on his head." I checked around the room and lowered my voice. "Much to the dismay of almost everyone in this benighted cattle-meadow they call Denmark."

"Really?" Ingald asked. "The prince wasn't popular?"

Soldir nodded his head. "Word among the troops was that Prince Hamlet is a disaster waiting to happen." He put his hands out in front of him. "Not that he didn't have his supporters; there are a few nobles that don't like Claudius very much, but some of them are suspected of having close connections to the Norwegians. Or so the rumors go."

"There are rumors of spies?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. "And people who travel a bit, like the people in this convention – I waved an arm – "are particularly suspect."

"We should take care?" Ingald didn't seem worried.

I smiled at him and said in a louder voice, "I support the king. The king knows what's best for Denmark."

Soldir rolled his eyes. Ingald noticed and said, "You don't think opposing opinion is a good idea at this time?"

"If it looks like the king's army is losing, any critic will end up for example, hanging from a tree. If we win, they'll just beat you during the celebration. There's a time when wise men keep thoughts to themselves."

There was a long pause as we considered our options as fools. Myself, I was thinking of ways to make jokes about Norwegians. Unfortunately, if the Norwegians won the war, I might have to skip county as quickly as I could.

"Just how did all this business between the Danes and the Norwegians start?" Ingald asked suddenly.

Soldir just laughed and rolled his eyes.

"We're all Scandinavians," I told Ingald. When he looked as if that didn't mean a lot to him, I added, "Norsemen. Vikings"

He still looked a little blank.

"Chopping each other is our culture, our history, and in our blood. Someone kicked someone's pig three centuries ago, and the lopping and chopping goes on. It used to be single-handed combat, but we've learned from the French and the Germans and now it's a group thing." I laughed. "The coming war between Norway and Denmark may seem to have started when Old King Hamlet killed Old King Fortinbras, but that was just the last chapter in a wonderful saga that goes back centuries."

I would have gone on – Vikings have an interesting history, but a set of twin jesters stood up, and cleared their throats.

"Now, these two," I whispered to Ingald. "One's a devout Christian and one's a heathen atheist. I can never remember which is which, though. They claim to know 114 ways to have a threesome in a bed. They're probably lying...." I didn't get to explain to Ingald that lying is an art form among jesters, and a good lie is admired, when they broke into the Jester's Song.

The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out

The ones that go in are lean and thin

The ones that crawl out are fat and stout

Your eyes fall in and your teeth fall out

Your brains come tumbling down your snout

Be merry my friends be merry

They weren't halfway through the second line when someone took up a lyre, and most of the rest raised cups and joined them in the song. At the last line there was a drinking pause, and a fat man got up. "Eric Falstaffe, " I said. "Born in England to a family that's hung around royalty since the Romans left. I don't trust him." But Falstaffe began to sing,

"Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,

For you may be the next one to die.

They wrap you up in a big white sheet

From your head down to your feet.

They put you in a big black box...

And cover you up with dirt and rocks!

He sat down at the end of his contribution. And the six line chorus was sung by everybody. Shoop, small and thin, got up. "Shoop the Poop," I said to Ingald. Before I could explain, Soldir did another verse. It was similar to a verse I'd heard before, but just different enough that I didn't try to sing along.

All goes well for about a week,

Until your coffin begins to leak.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

The worms play pinochle on your scalp,

They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,

They eat the jelly between your toes.

A big green worm with rolling eyes

Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.

Your stomach turns a slimy green,

And pus pours out like whipping cream.

You'll spread it on a slice of bread,

And this is what you eat when you are dead.

Then the whole tavern, serving girls and all, joined in the chorus. "This guy," I said when a small man with a big head and a very bright outfit got onto the table top. "He likes boys, but you can trust him."

First you're sick and then you're worse

And then it's time to call the hearse

They take you out to the family plot,

And there you wither, decay, and rot.

They put you in the cold, cold ground

With all your relatives standing around.

The worms crawl in The worms crawl out

The worms they crawl all about

And when your bones begin to rot

The worms are there.... but you are not.

There was what was supposed to be the last chorus, but when it was finished, I shouted:

The Norwegian soldiers will soon find out

When their brains go trickling down their snouts

It better not to mess with Danes

If they want to keep their brains.

There was a puzzled silence when I sat down; out of nowhere I'd changed the theme and message of what was one of the most popular songs in Europe. Those who looked at me puzzled followed my gaze to the door. Two soldiers stood on either side of a middle-aged man. The man himself was of average size, dressed very well, and with an air of power and brutality that stopped conversation.

The man looked around the now-silent room, and smiled. He looked at me, nodded, and indicated to his guard that he was done at the Young Dog Tavern. They left, and a few moments later there was the sound of a dozen or more horses moving away down the road.

I broke the silence. "Gentlemen of Entertainment, you have just met the Grim, the Minister of War for Denmark." I took a chokingly large quantity of ale, and said, "I guess he didn't like our song enough to stay."

"You look pale," Soldir said to me. "But he didn't round us up for the Danish army. Was it because he knew you?"

"If they need clowns at the front of the troops to taunt the Norwegian cavalry, they'll be back. Right now they probably looking for people plotting insurrections." I was shaking a bit.

Ingald raised his eyebrows. "A Norwegian fifth column?"

"Not for the war," I said, waving for another round for all at my table. "The argument about the monarchy. There are those who believe Prince Hamlet should be given the crown, as Danish tradition dictates."

"And, in normal times, he would be king?"

"What has been done reeks of desperate measures, of people risking all and frightened to death of what they've done."

"Yet you seem to agree with the result, if not the measures," Shoop said, sitting beside us, taking ale from the young woman and passing the mugs around." I paid.

"I am not a fan of the Norwegians," I said. "Hamlet would be a disaster.

"Are they expecting him to return to Elsinore?" Ingald asked.

"Soon," I said.

"And that guy who was at the door?"

"Grim," I said. "Don't know why he was here. There was no need for him to come. He has more than adequate lieutenants to check out gatherings."

"He's an important man," Shoop observed.

"Supposedly Polonius outranks him, but Polonius has worms eating his brain before he's dead. Grim is the true power, and the one who decides who must be executed to keep the castle and the country from wandering away from the truth."

"He knows you," Ingald said.

"I've been Fool for the court since Claudius became king. He's watched me entertain at the wedding and afterwards."

"He smiled at you. Friends?"

I lowered my voice. He has a young wife. Tola."

"Ah," said Soldir. "That Grim. That Tola. And she's that friend of yours. That close friend." I said nothing, so the old soldier went on, using a forearm to wipe foam from his beard. "That smile of his; did you see the hangman's noose in it?"

I said nothing. Shoop said, "He should be so lucky. The torture chamber has the rat's cage." he explained." They put a cage of hungry rats on your chest, and let them eat their way into you."

Eventually, a trio stood on a small platform at the end of the tavern and did a comic routine about two farmers who were trying, and failing, to master juggling cats. Another comic did a remarkable spoof of the ghost of Old King Hamlet still ogling young girls.

"You're fooling around with the wife of the guy who's not only one of the most influential and powerful men in the kingdom, but has access to hired executioners," Ingald said. He sighed. "Be merry, my friend; be merry." Soldir just laughed.

"How about Claudius and Gertrude? Our new king and old queen? You high in their favor?"

I shook my head. "Claudius trusts nobody. Gertrude has put her future – and her ass – into Claudius's hands." I looked around. Most of the rest of the customers were sharing tricks or jokes; it seemed so joyously peaceful compared to the restrained madness of the castle.

It was dark when another man I recognized came in. I waved to him, and he came to our table. "This," I told the others, "is a fine fellow." Actually, he wasn't that fine, relying more on fleecing country yokels on market day than making people laugh, but I didn't feel I should bring that up right now. "How's the castle holding up while I'm gone?" I asked, lightly.

"The castle's still getting stronger with the work they're doing on it," he said, not sitting down. "The kingdom, maybe not so much. You missed the excitement of the week."

"And that was?"

"News. Prince Hamlet's come home from school to see his mother and his new father."

I blinked my eyes a couple of times. "You're kidding?

"Nope. He arrived yesterday at dusk." The man laughed and went to join some closer friends.

"You don't look happy at the news," Ingald said.

I thought about it a bit. "Gentlemen," I said, "I need to get back to Elsinore as soon as I can. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

"You expect trouble or entertainment?" Soldir was quick off the mark.

"God knows," I said. "Someone there may need me to save Denmark."

The night went on long after darkness. The fools, clowns, and jesters were polite in the castles and houses of nobility, but most had learned their trades in the town markets, where conning men out of their purses or practicing slight of hand was stock in trade. If a man got to be part of a noble's household, theft of so much as a spoon would get his head on a pike by the wall, but entertaining any willing housemaids was taken for granted. Some of those here were in the employ as nobles' part-time amusement, but often only as a small part of some other general labor. As jester to the crown, I was in a privileged position. My involvement with Tola was unlikely to end well, and I wondered where my head would be at next year's convention.

At least I hoped there would be another convention. If the Norwegians took over, most gatherings would be banned as a matter of course, to prevent people from planning to get their country back. And, of course, there would be a lot of jokes that Norwegians didn't find funny.

"Can we get into the castle?" Ingald asked, suddenly. "I'd like to see it."

"And I," Soldir said. "I, and my departed friends, have spilled enough blood for it, I think I deserve a peek." He looked at me.

"Wait a moment!" I had enough problems without these dudes. And Shoop, of course, but I didn't want to mention Shoop.

"And Shoop the Poop, of course," Soldir said.

"Why Shoop?" Ingald looked sadly at his empty mug.

"Shoop," I said, "has a plan." I stopped, unsure of what to say next.

Soldir laughed. "Shoop wants to shit in Elsinore."

"Pardon?" Ingald looked up, then around the room to Shoop.

"He wants," Soldir said, "to do it in the house of every noble in Denmark. And the major Church holdings. And Elsinore's at the top of his list. Or so he tells us."

"But why?"

Soldir shrugged. "He won't say."

"I can't see that it's a reason to take him along," I said. "He's more likely than not to get us into trouble."

"Ask Amundi," Soldir said.

I tried to think up something I could tell them, but failed. "I owe Shoop," I said, "Big time."

"Maybe someday he'll tell us," Soldir said, thumping me on the back. We all await that. Meantime, I'm only your acolyte, but I vote against it."

"I grunted."

"Maybe someday when the chief torturer is asking Amundi about Tola, he can add that to his list of questions. Go tell a joke," I said to Ingald. He got onto the stage, in spite of both of Melka's daughters accidentally bumping into him on the way. Poor girls; carrying ale like that they were slow to dodge his hands.

Actually, I was impressed. He had genuinely new jokes, mostly at the expense of the pope (these were well received) and the Church (so-so), and a few that somehow didn't translate well.

I congratulated him, but my mind was still on Elsinore castle and how to get back before things on the entertainment scene got out of control. Given the funeral, the wedding, the war, and the prince coming home, Elsinore castle was on the edge of craziness anyway, a tale told by a madman, full of sound and fury, and if it all meant anything, I couldn't figure it out. I kept drinking and getting more sober.

I stood up. "We can discuss it at breakfast. Right now, I'm tired and I have a few lice to feed." Indeed most of the fools had stumbled off to whatever part of the inn they'd paid for. Ingald and I squeezed between a couple of jesters from the south, trying to keep away from Shoop. There was room enough only for two, and Soldir found floor space in another room. I wrestled with my sleep until I told Shoop that he'd have to find another way into Elsinore castle. He just shrugged and went to sleep.

***
Chapter 3: Elsinore Castle in the Morning Sun

Ingald and I got up early. It had been a cold night. I could have afforded a private room, and perhaps even a bed in which a pig had previously rolled (collecting many of the lice and fleas before they found me), but including Ingald would have stretched the money I was saving in case I ever needed to flee Denmark. And, if I could talk Tola into coming with me, that would require even more money. So I slept fitfully, getting up once or twice to piss out the window while Ingald watched my purse, and watching Ingald's purse when his bladder needed emptying. One time I had a long wait, since there was a jester, somewhat constipated, having a crap out the window. He wasn't in a joking mood, and I was glad to get back to my sleeping blanket, tuck my purse back under my balls, scratch at a few of the most annoying bugs, and fall asleep to the blended sounds of men snoring, scratching, farting, and mumbling.

As I said, we got up early, had a breakfast of ale and oatmeal, and the three of us made plans for the invasion of Elsinore Castle.

"We just ride in?" Ingald asked.

"What would you suggest for us?" Soldir asked. "A ladder over the back wall? Or being launched by trebuchet onto the roof?" He laughed. "We can walk in, in spite of the preparations for battle. Provisioning and refortifying a castle means a constant stream of strangers coming and going, and we're just part of that crowd."

"Amazing," Ingald said.

"And," Soldir added, "Amundi here is part of the king's entourage, and if he's with us, we're welcome. Assuming he hasn't pissed off King Claudius since I last asked."

"Not that I know of," I said, "but you take your own chances. If war is declared, you'll be tossed out. Only essential people in there."

"What about you?"

"Don't know," I admitted. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I didn't really know the motive of either Soldir or Ingald for getting into the castle. "The castle is full of guards," I said. Then, after more thought, I added. "But it is, as I said, being worked on, so there are hundreds of strangers going in and out all the time. I think anybody could disguise himself as a worker and get in."

"It's true," Soldir said. "I've been in several times alone, and even have a place to sleep in there."

I added "They're in a panic to get the basics done, and farmers and their sons, and sometimes their wives, are showing up at the castle gates every morning looking for work. Most of them get hired these days, because things are behind schedule. But that doesn't mean that you won't be watched once you're inside. The contractor who hired a worker, or the foreman who bosses him, they'll be watching to see his guys don't slack off. And there are guards on the parapets keeping an eye on anybody who doesn't look like he belongs there."

"So," said Soldir, "we just have to look as if we belong there."

"I'll be fine. You two can get in on my word."

"And share your fate," Ingald noted.

"There's accommodation and there's food. Whether for us is the only matter in doubt."

"First, we have to get to Elsinore," Soldir noted.

"We'll leave that to fate." I got up. "I'm off to fill my water bottle."

"Can you fill mine, too?" Soldir asked. "I have a goodbye to say to Melka."

The sun was well up when the four of us started along the road from Elsinore town to Elsinore castle, a large leather bottle of water and a small bottle of wine over each shoulder, and a bag with cheese, bread, and sausage inside our coat pockets. I'd asked them to bring food and water. A week ago I'd managed to get Soldir added to the list of those the castle kitchen fed, but I wasn't sure I could stretch it to Ingald.

We reached Elsinore town late in the afternoon, riding past the temporary vendors at the edge of Elsinore town, and past the military encampment beside the road. Walking, or by ox cart, it was about twenty minutes to the castle. We followed, on our horses, a cart, part of a convoy carrying French- and Belgian-made weapons.The soldiers guarding the convoy made us get off the road at a crossroads just outside the castle, and we sat beside the road watching the train of a couple of dozen ox-drawn wagons go by. Their loads were covered and unknowable. "Lots of weapons?" Ingald suggested.

"Or provisions for a long siege," Soldir suggested. "They're obviously a bit pessimistic about stopping Fortinbras from landing on the coast." He turned to me. "Whatever happened to General Larrsen? He was a man to be prepared."

"He was gone before I got the gig at Elsinore," I said. "Rumor was that his military expenditures were cut back to the point that he went to Old King Hamlet and insisted on more men and more modern weapons."

"You have to be pretty desperate to insist to a king," Soldir said."

"Who knows? Maybe Old King Hamlet was right. It was peaceful at the time, and the Danish Lords had taken a big hit on their taxes to pay for the Polish adventure. General Larrsen ended up in charge of the defenses on Bornholm Island. Last I heard, he might have defected to Sweden. Anyway, I heard that it kept the rest of the military from requesting their needs."

"Or turned them to talking about revolution," Ingald suggested.

"There's always rumors of that," Soldir said.

I nodded. "It would take a team of monks working full time just to document the palace rumors."

"Do those weapons tell you anything?" Soldir spoke in a low voice. "Don't look too closely – we don't want to be taken for Norwegian spies."

Most of the wagons were covered with canvas tarps, so I couldn't tell what they carried. I said as much to the old ex-soldier. "You'd know better than we would, I imagine."

Soldir nodded. "Soldiers get used to making guesses about what kind of battle our dear leaders are planning for us to die in."

"And?"

"That wagon has Danish axes. Old Viking weapons, but deadly in close fighting where shoving a spear or swinging a sword is difficult. And now we're importing them." He shook his head. "Anyway, they're the kind of thing you want if the walls of your castle have been breached."

"Being pessimistic, are they?" Ingald asked, with a broad smile.

"Yes," Soldir said, "but pessimists live longer. You won't see any siege engines or engineers in this wagon train, I'm guessing."

"Meaning...?" Ingald asked.

"Claudius is trying to survive the initial Norwegian assault long enough to get help. These are defensive weapons."

"But they don't have any of the big offensive weapons here?"

"I don't see any, which means that, win or lose the battle on Danish soil, Claudius may not be planning on attacking Norway. In any case, Denmark is governed by the king and our ten Danish Lords; Claudius would have to get them onside before he could invade anybody except Gertrude."

"I think we should talk about something else," Ingald said.

"Oh."

"We're talking like we're a bunch of Norwegian spies. If anyone overheard us...."

I didn't know if anyone heard us talking so I told a couple of jokes to the two guards standing beside the nearest wagon.

I guess nobody found those particular jokes funny or what, but the whole train of wagons came to a halt then, and everybody got off to eat and fertilize the adjacent fields outside the castle. When they started again, the soldiers didn't let us past the drawbridge. The point of a lance is a wonderful dissuasion, one discovers. "A lance, Leif?" I asked.

"Sorry, Amundi," the guard said. "The king was pretty firm about this convoy getting in and unloaded without stopping." He pointed at the heavy carts going by. "You might as well have an ale for an hour or two."

In the street outside the castle, we tied our horses at a little tavern. Someone with entrepreneurial zeal had hauled a few tables to the outside of a rickety wooden ale-house for sales, I presumed, to interested travelers and relaxing spies, as well as for any worker or supervisor who had the funds to grab a beer every now and again. Four muscular men got up from one table, so we sat down.

Over the first beer, we talked about the castle and its contents. "It's looking stronger every day," Soldir said. "Where are they getting all that material?"

"In Elsinore town," I said, "the Church was planning to build the most magnificent cathedral in Denmark. That's where a lot of the stone and wood came from."

"Who will we meet in the castle?" Ingald looked almost nervous, although for a man so young, he was braver than I would have been.

"First person to watch for," I said, "is Claudius, our new king."

"Not on a horse, of course," Soldir said. He rubbed his chest, and I wondered if that story about getting an arrow stuck next to his heart were actually true. "The only time I've seen a king on a horse was when he was telling us what a glory it would be to get ourselves slaughtered for him." He spat onto the ground. But I've already done a Sunday entertainment for the King's banquet, and he's just a person on a high chair. With a crown."

"You'll probably see him walking around inspecting the repairs to the castle." I said." He's taller than most, blond, and has a guard of three of the toughest guys you're likely to meet."

"Maybe the toughest looking," Soldir lifted his bad leg over a bit. "The toughest bastards I've ever met are usually the ones that least look like it."

"Well," I said to Ingald. "If you see him smiling, it's not him. He looks like he's got the weight of all of Christendom on his shoulders, not just this little country."

"What about Hamlet himself?" Ingald watched the houses and farms go by.

"No problem there." I began to wonder when we'd be let in. "Everyone's been wondering what Hamlet's going to do when he gets here, so everyone will be watching him. I'll let both of you know when I see him."

"Is there anything he can do?" Soldir looked interested for a change.

"Not likely. If he were going to seize the throne, he'd have come with an army and a thousand knights from any of the Danish Nobles who are likely to challenge Claudius. That opportunity's gone now. Every day another couple of nobles shows up to swear fealty to Claudius and offer their services."

"If the Norwegians take over," Ingald said, "wouldn't it be in their interest to maintain the Danish nobles in their positions? Those would be the guys most likely to keep their estates running at top production."

Soldir laughed. "Economic sense, but not political sense. Some of Fortinbras's generals are superfluous sons from Norwegian nobility. They have older brothers who will get the family lands, and they've invested everything they could borrow into becoming great knights with scores of the best soldiers following them. Fortinbras will have to reward some of these with Danish land and Danish castles."

"What about the Danish nobles who owned those lands?" Ingald asked.

"Depends," I said, "on whether they can get to the border without being caught. The new owners can't leave them alive to work up rebellions."

"Will we at least meet the queen?" Ingald asked.

"I'll introduce you," I said. "She's a tough woman; be sure you don't get on her wrong side.

We saw the last of the carts in the wagon train snake away through under the portcullis gate and into the bailey, the large courtyard just inside the castle.

"Anyone else we should avoid?"

"The Lord Chamberlain is a guy named Polonius," I said. "He's been there through a few kings, and is supposed to be in charge of things within the castle. But...."

"But?"

"Well, Polonius is a bit old for the job, now. He often forgets what he started to say or gets lost along the way. Best bet is to humour him; he's still got a lot of power in the place."

"A source of jokes?"

"Get over those. Insulting people who sit at the king's table isn't going to do any of us any good. Besides, his daughter's been hanging out with Hamlet and she may be queen someday."

"Sons?"

"One, Laertes, currently away at school."

"What's happening over there?" Ingald asked. Men with horses were pulling down wooden buildings close to the castle. Whole rows of houses that had been standing when Soldir and I left for the Clown Convention were gone.

"It's what you'd expect," Soldir said. "They're clearing land in front of the castle walls to make an attacking army cross open ground. Don't want the Norwegian soldiers to have any place to hide, you know."

"This place?" Ingald asked, nodding at our beer shack.

"Probably gone tomorrow," I told him.

There was a loud whistle, and I saw Leif waving to me. I was starting to wonder if bringing another person into the castle was a good idea, what with the suspicions of spies. Then mentally I shrugged; someone in Melka's Young Dog tavern probably had names and descriptions already.

Ingald seemed curious at everything, so we helped enlighten him.

"Those stonemasons," Soldir said, are putting another storey around the lower bailey, which is the first area the Norwegians would reasonably attack. Of course," he noted, "many battles are won by the side that does something unreasonable, but this still looks like a good idea.

"It does," Ingald agreed. "I've heard and seen the same thing in Spain. Those brave or foolish Spanish knights who went to the crusades to free the Holy Land came back understanding what good fortifications could do for a battle."

Soldir nodded. "I'm told the original Elsinore castle was just wooden palisades on a hill. Rock walls and deep moats are the new style."

We left our horses in a guarded corral outside the castle. This was new but sensible; the castle was getting crowded lately. We walked across the drawbridge and through the castle gate. "Good afternoon, Amundi," Leif said. "Any new jokes from the convention?"

"A couple,' I said, "but I've got to try them on the king first. You know Soldir, of course. This other fellow is going to help me too."

Leif scanned Ingald, then said, "Welcome to the castle, young fellow." Ingald just nodded, measuring the height of the stone walls with his eyes.

I had the feeling that he'd seen much higher walls down south. I laughed, then couldn't stop for a moment. "I've been pulling your leg about spies. Of course there are spies here. The Norwegians want to know what to expect. Fortinbras himself is probably here disguised as an old woman selling eels. There are a dozen significant lords in Denmark. Every one of them wants to know if he's should fight for Claudius. If it looks like Claudius is going to lose this one, some of those lords will be contemplating what kind of deal they may have to make with Fortinbras."

"But those lords swore fealty to Claudius!" Ingald looked appalled.

"This isn't England," I said. "We have no Magna Carta here, so the king is absolute lord." I winked. "On the other hand, we're all Vikings by heritage and beheading your cousin was long a common greeting. And fealty is a highly transferrable commodity."

Soldir turned to me. You never explained Shoop's dedication to shitting in the houses of the Danish Lords, nor the royal castle."

"Don't forget the cathedrals," I said, "Shoop's out to do those, too. His folks were freemen, granted that status and enough land back in the times of the crusades, for heroism during the siege of Jerusalem." I stared through the gate, at the harbor past the castle, and went on. "When he was ten, one of the Danish Lords who held lands to the south of us impressed his father and his brother into the army, and that's the last he heard of any of them"

Ingald frowned. "Isn't that against the law?"

I wondered how a stranger such as Ingald, from far away, knew the feudal laws. On the other hand, he spoke fluent Danish, with only a slight, odd, accent. "It is," Soldir agreed, but I've seen men fighting beside me who were not supposed to be there. The tax dodge, I imagine."

When Ingald and I looked puzzled, he explained. "A Danish freeman cannot survive in a war on Danish soil by himself, because invaders would take his land easily. So he makes a compact with one of the neighboring lords. He'll pay annual taxes, usually in the form of crops and sheep, to the Lord. In return that Lord guarantees his freedom and defense in the face of invasion. Assuming, of course, the freeman will fight for the Lord during a siege. Other than that, the freeman has no obligations."

"Makes sense," Ingald said.

Soldir nodded. "It does until there's a couple of bad years and the taxes can't be paid. Then the gentry may make demands that are outside the compact."

"Illegal, still," Ingald.

"His family protested throughout Denmark, all the way up to Elsinore, and sent an emissary to the Pope. The result, nothing except the freehold became part of the Lord's estate. Shoop's family became common serfs for a richer man. Pretty shitty treatment,, I guess."

Ingald looked around at the castle walls. "The castle looks big on the outside, but seems a bit crowded on the inside."

Compared to places he probably had been, I figured it was. "The royal family has six major houses, aside from the castle," I told him. "They're scattered around the kingdom, and four can hold a lot more people than Elsinore castle can. The castle's used for ceremonial purposes, mostly. And for defense. In time of war, the manor houses are harder to defend. Most of my four years have been done in the castle manor houses. I like them better, if only for the smell." I pointed to the moat. "In the country they save their waste for the fields instead of surrounding the place with it."

"The manor houses are less important, symbolically, than the royal castle," Soldir noted. He watched carpenters making scaffolding. "Shoop's never got to do his thing inside the castle, then," he asked.

"Not yet," I told him. "He'd be after the throne, if he could, but I've never heard a word. Maybe it's going to be his coup de grace, his masterpiece in the planning."

Ingald asked Soldir, "And you haven't got to use the royal facilities either?"

Soldir shook his head. "Only the regular shitters and chamber pots. Doing a dump in a more appropriate place got to seem a good idea after sleeping in the fields most of last winter. It's nice to be inside and I'm glad Amundi here hired me. Besides, it all goes into the moat, whether it drops straight down or goes into a chamber pot in the night."

"You think Shoop's actually done many places?"

I shrugged. "He claims some. But I want you to know that men are men and jesters are jesters and both are known for telling lies as truth and truth as lies; the jesters just do it more entertainingly. I can't say I believed Shoop and I won't say I disbelieved him, but tall tales are cheaper than ale, and I bought him another pint each good story."

"And you?" Ingald asked Soldir. "Aside from comfort, why are you crowding into the castle?"

The old soldier scratched his balding head. "I've been in a few battles," he said. "Mostly for one of the Danish Lords. Seen a lot of men die. A lot of them, fools that they were, died heroically, in the name of the king. Our leaders were always getting us to do awful things in the name of the king." He shook his thin hair and looked up. "Sometimes I've wondered if they knew or cared what the king's name actually was."

"Did you care?" Ingald wanted to know.

"Only because the idea of sticking a knife in Old King Hamlet crossed my mind so many times." He coughed and rubbed his chest. "Winter in Poland for no reason anyone can figure out."

"Maybe," I said, "someone beat you to it."

The others perked up. "You think so?" Ingald asked.

I laughed. "Unless the king dies with a visible wound from a foreign soldier, there are always rumors. Heck, he might fall off his horse in battle, and word will get around that someone pushed him. Anyway, neither I nor any of you were in the garden when it happened."

"But there are rumors?" Soldir asked.

"Look," I said. "If he was killed – and I'm not saying he wasn't – it was subtly done. There were a couple of very warm days a couple of months ago, and he apparently took a nap in a warm place in the garden. And just never woke up."

"Convenient," Soldir said.

"That happened a lot when the Borgia's were running Italy Or so I understand," , Ingald said.

"That was mentioned more than once," I said, dryly.

"So" Ingald asked Soldir, again. "Why are you hanging around this castle? It's too late to stab the Old King Hamlet."

Soldir shrugged. "I just wanted to see what I was fighting for. Maybe pick up a few facts I can use for jokes, if I ever get a fool's job somewhere. What about you, Ingald?" he asked.

"I'm travelling the world," Ingald said, and I've never been in a Danish palace before. I figured if I followed Amundi," Ingald pointed at me, "I'd get the chance."

That left a lot unspoken. I was, indeed, willing to take Ingald inside Elsinore, at least briefly, because I enjoyed his company. He'd said he wanted to learn the fool trade, and I'd nodded. But I didn't know where he came from, other than "an island between the Greeks and the Spaniards."

So, when there was a pause in the conversation, I stated the obvious. "I'm going in there because I work there, and someone's got to lighten the mood."

"You mean, with the possibility of Fortinbras leveling the place and making serfs our of everybody inside?"

"Worse. With the prince back, the place will be nuts. The kid was gloomy enough before he left for school, but now, with his father dead and his mother remarried.... Well, I really don't want to have to make jokes there." Neither they nor I mentioned Tola, the main reason for my going back to Elsinore.

"But you will," Ingald said.

"True," I said. "But maybe I can also be a sympathetic ear for one or two." That, of course, turned out to be a prophetic understatement as it turned out. "Besides," I gave my most evil grin. "I can always blame you. As long as there's one head on a pike, the royalty's usually satisfied."

Ingald and Soldir nodded.

"What kind of jester would you like to be?" I asked them. "I mean, if you were known for one thing above others?"

"I work for you, and do what you want," Soldir said, and Ingald nodded agreement. "But, if I could, I'd like to speak wit when it's required." He smiled. "Just an old soldier, but it would be nice to say in ten sentences what other men say in whole books." He thought about it. "Or, better yet, what other men do not say, even in whole books."

"Perhaps," said Ingald, "there are things that don't deserve to be said briefly."

"A few,' Soldir acknowledged, "but my impression is that those are few." He smiled at our skepticism. "I always preferred hanging around educated men in the army, learning as much as I could before they were killed."

"What are the rules of the Great Hall?" Ingald asked. "The unwritten rules, of course. I presume flattery is allowed, if not encouraged." He said:

"I understand they teach in schools

That flattery's the meal of fools;

Yet sometimes even men of wit

Will condescend to take a bit."

I laughed. The guy might be more than a bumpkin in the skits, after all. "A bit," I said, "but first rule is never, ever, let anybody in power or influence in the room feel he's being mocked, You can do that, you know, by praising him too much, even more than he deserves. Remember not to appear too smart too often. The ruling bunch isn't a clan of philosophers, you know. I was told that every aristocracy that ever existed has behaved, in all its essential points, exactly like a small gang of criminal mobsters."

"Sounds dangerous," Ingald said.

I nodded. "A powerful man's room usually appears comfortable, but don't be fooled; it bristles with invisible weapons. He has an arsenal that you should fear, even though you should pretend not to."

"In legend, the fool teaches the king wisdom," Ingald said.

I held both hands up in front of me as if to stop the very thought. "Can you imagine," I said, "if you did take the opportunity to tell the king how he could show, truly show, greatness of character? If he followed your advice, he'd be a follower to his jester. If he didn't, and should have, he'd never forgive you. And would feel guilty as long as you still had eyes to see and a tongue to tell."

"So, no advice to kings? Politeness all the time in their company?"

"Yes, although it may destroy your nerve to be nice every day to the same human being, king or spouse. And remember that good manners are made of petty sacrifices."

"Is there one request every jester should make of his boss?" Soldir asked, being a soldier and used to taking orders.

"Yes," I said. "If your boss asks you what you want, say you want to know none of his secrets."

"But be witty, nonetheless, I suppose," Soldir said.

"Not too witty," I cautioned. "A worker looks for some rest at the end of a day. The rower when he reaches a port, the farmer when the peas and corn are safely dried and in bags. But a man known for real wit will always be expected to produce more and every jest means more and better are expected. It becomes a burden."

"Can we at least generalize?" Ingald wanted to know. "Speak about mankind?"

I sighed. "I tried that, but too many of the audience felt I'd included them, which obviously I had, and they weren't about to pay me for that. And, too, if you spread unfavorable views of mankind, however funny they are, you've encouraged bad men to believe they're no worse than the rest of the world, and...." I put an arm out, palm upwards.

"And they feel no need to improve," Ingald said.

"And the good, when they see we include them with the bad," Soldir said, "will think their goodness has all gone to waste."

"Got it," I said. "And after that you don't get paid by anybody." I grimaced at Soldir. "I'd think spending last winter sleeping in the fields would temper your enthusiasm a bit."

***
Chapter 4: A Tour of the Castle

It was getting well into the afternoon when I finished giving my acolytes a general tour of the castle. The road, the fields outside the castle, and the bailey, were still full of tradesmen and people carrying materials, and sometimes a woman pushing a cart of vegetables or smoked meats. It was a busy place, all in all, and Ingald watched the process from the parapets by the battlements with what looked like a sense of wonder. "They really are in a hurry," aren't they? I didn't think there were this many people in the area."

Soldir pointed to the tent village over by the forest. "Each serf has to serve his master two or three days a week. Usually, it's working in the master's fields, but when war is getting near, he'll be called over to work for the king." A trio of horses came through the castle gate, and I nudged Ingald. "It's King Claudius. Do what I do." They followed me down the stairs to the ground level. Coming out just ahead of the king. The guards watched warily; they knew Soldir and me, but Ingald was new to them.

I took off my hat, knelt on the ground on one knee, and bowed my head.

The tallest of the four horsemen said, "Amundi. Good to, ah, have you back. I thought you'd be another day at the conference." Claudius was a thin man with a reddish tinge to his hair, the way a classical Viking was supposed to look. He had large, luminous blue eyes that caught attention in a crowd, and a deep voice that would have been good for inspiration, except that he hesitated between words, making him seem slightly uncertain. In fact, I'd learned that Claudius was seldom uncertain in action, and, once having decided to do something, he did just that after a bit of careful planning.

I looked up, still kneeling. "I would have, your majesty, but serious events seem to be happening here and I thought you'd need a fool for balance."

Claudius shook his head ruefully. "In that case, I could use more than you. Who is this with you? Another, ah, long-lost son you've been forced to acknowledge finally?"

"A wanderer from Rome or Africa or somewhere down that way. He also wants to be a jester, and I've agreed to help him learn. He may help us with some new jokes," I added.

"If we have to go to war, he'll learn quickly; it's a game full of fools." Abruptly Claudius rode off.

"I thought he looked at me rather suspiciously," Ingald said.

"Can't blame him," I said. "From the view of many people he technically usurped the crown from the prince. He's now has a lot of the citizenry that doesn't like him on those grounds alone. And there are a bunch of Norwegians that have to kill him to get what they want. And there are the new taxes, of course."

"Didn't Old King Hamlet tax the people?"

"That's what kings are for. But, aside from the little Polish adventure a few years back, Old King Hamlet went easy on people." I waved at the construction. "It shows in Denmark's poor defenses."

"Nobody likes taxes."

"You're a wise young man."

"Every kingdom needs good defenses," Soldir said.

"You're a wise old man."

Ingald nodded. "He who turned his swords into plowshares will plow for the man who didn't."

I laughed. "I should have hired both of you to advise me instead of joining me in looking like asses in front of people."

"Sooner or later the wisdom of most of the greatest minds brings laughter to their descendants," Ingald said." He gave his most winning smile. A young woman passing by tripped over a log and almost lost her basket of bread. She blushed and hurried on. "Laughter is as necessary to a balanced mind as wisdom is."

"It's the same everywhere. I presume most people understand the need." Soldir stepped back to avoid losing some of his toes to a wheel. The wheel was attached to a cannon.

"That's new," Soldir said.

"You didn't have cannons before?" That was a question Ingald didn't have the right to ask.

"Not like these ones. They're just in from Belgium, I imagine. Not cheap, but I hear a round of grape shot can clear a field of attackers pretty quick." He turned to Ingald. Picture thousands of men, shoulder to shoulder with pikes. The men on horses a bit to one side. It's been that way since before Alexander the Great. Now imagine a cannon ball coming at them, bouncing and bouncing and men flying up in all directions, horses like bowling pins." He sighed. "We killed all the dragons, so we had to make our own. Every century we figure out how to kill people in a whole new way. What a creation is man."

"Will the Norwegians have cannons?" I asked Soldir. If he'd been more than a foot soldier, I didn't know it, but soldiers talk about weapons a lot, he'd told me the week before, saying, mysteriously, that it was a "safe" topic among veterans.

"Other than the a petards cannon or two? Always assuming they can get their hands on some those, and decide to use them." He pointed to a corner of the stone wall going up. "They'll shoot rocks at the edges of a castle, hoping to loosen the masonry enough to make the wall above it collapse."

"Sounds good," Ingald said. "What's the downside?"

Soldir shifted to put more weight on his good leg. "Like all such weapons, petards are expensive. Slow to travel, if you have to cross rivers and marshes. Need experts to mix up the gunpowder and keep it dry. And," he added, "The Viking way is to beat someone with an axe, then stab him a couple of times to emphasize your argument. A Viking always liked being covered with someone else's blood. Long-range weapons seem a bit sissy to a soldier up in these northern parts."

"Can we make jokes about weapons?" Ingald asked.

I thought about it. "If there are experienced soldiers present, they'd like that. And if we make fun of weapons that are being phased out for newer models, the king might like it. Good idea."

"And if the King doesn't like it?" Soldir asked.

"Ingald and I will throw dog shit at you, and we'll go on to the next joke. But pretty sure I'll eventually be giving entertainments for the soldiers camped out there, and they might like jokes like that. Good idea," I added.

We watched the operation and the women for a while.

"Does the king trust you?" Ingald asked.

"I doubt it. I smile too much for him. He knows a man can smile and still be a villain." I pointed to another soldier. "There's a guy too honest for his own good, but a better man you won't find anywhere. "Horatio!" I shouted.

As Horatio rode over on a dark horse, Ingald suggested, "A man to avoid, then?"

"Absolutely," I said. "There are few things more dangerous in a regime than honesty and integrity. Such people destroy the icons we all need, and cause parents to abandon their young children and children to abandon their old parents."

"And a jester should avoid it."

I didn't get to answer him, as Horatio rode up. "So the fool comes to hide behind stone walls?" Horatio smiled.

"As do so many," I said. "Should we stand in front and hide behind our faith, singing hymns?"

"Unless these walls get finished soon, it may not make much difference."

"You think so?"

"I do, but if the Norwegians hold off for a month or two, this place should stand up to anything they can bring. Claudius has got the Danish Lords to commit, and that's a good thing."

The horse shuffled as workers went by, and Ingald and I danced to avoid being stepped on. Horatio looked down from his higher perch. "I seem to recall some jokes you made in the fall that pointed out weaknesses in Elsinore's defenses."

"I had run out of toilet jokes at the time, and my arms were sore from juggling pickled ox testicles"

"Yet I thought it strange. Did you know Fortinbras was planning an adventure?"

I shook my head. "It was obvious that castle needed repairs; the rain was coming into my little room. And if I'd known in advance about the Norwegians, I'd now be in the low countries making jokes about Frisians and mud. What does Prince Hamlet think about the renovations?"

Horatio shook his head forlornly. "If he noticed them, he didn't tell me. He's more concerned about the renovations to his mother's status and her change of bedmates."

"Perhaps he needs a few jokes?"

"I'd be careful about that. Not all gloom is brightened by a cheerful person."

"I have a lot of gloom jokes, too."

"Give them a try, then," Horatio said, "and if you can't sleep you can join me on watch tonight."

"That sounds like more fun than even the best jester can provide."

"It's cold, damp, and dull. Perhaps you could mime a troop of Norwegians climbing the walls." Horatio turned his horse and cantered off.

"There's a mission for me," I said to my friends. "Cheering the prince." I was ignoring the suggestion that I walk the parapet with the guards. Leif, a friend of mine, was on guard duty sometimes, but not that particular night, and besides, darkness and a damp Danish wind had long lost their attractions.

"Are you going to join him on watch?"

I shook my head. Horatio is Hamlet's closest friend. Someday I may need his loyalty, and too many secrets and misstatements are possible in the moonlight. Let's go see if we can find the prince."

Ingald looked amazed. "You think the prince will have anything to say to you?"

"Well," I told him, "the one thing a jester must be known for, above all is total discretion. It means people will talk to him as they would to a priest, and that can save his life, by knowing where being funny will offend."

"And if someone in power insists on knowing what you know?

"Jokes, Ingald, jokes. Jokes and hope. And, beyond that, run for the borders."

In the end, the person we ran into first was Ophelia, not Hamlet. She appeared suddenly beside us wearing a red velvet cloak and hood over a white dress laced and trimmed with gold. Ophelia was about twenty-three years old, then, ten years younger than Hamlet. Taller than most women, she was almost Hamlet's height, with skin and hair so light she could have been mistaken for an albino if not for her deep blue eyes. From somewhere, either cosmetics or ancestry, her eyelashes were long and dark.

I'd known her since I'd arrived at Elsinore. More than most, she enjoyed being entertained and laughed at the jokes I told, even when she'd heard them more than once. She had a knack for Danish puns and a delight in sly jabs at Mother Church and its collection of overly pompous priests and cardinals. "My ancestors would have boiled you and put your head on a post," she once told a Cardinal sent from Rome to check the far reaches of Christendom.

Yet, much of the time, there was a wariness in her conversation and in her eyes, as if she couldn't bring herself to trust anything or anyone totally. One the feeling that she was on a lifelong quest to find someone to trust. We'd had long conversations many times in the last year, but I never got past that wariness.

I introduced her to Ingald and Soldir as the daughter of Polonius, the Lord Chamberlain. Then, since it looked as if she had something to talk about, I told my acolytes to meet me in a while. They disappeared up some of the stone steps.

Ophelia asked who my friends were.

"Apprentice jesters, or so they claim. I know Soldir, the old guy with the limp, but Ingald's pretty much a stranger to me."

But she had already turned back to me. "You've heard?"

"I have, My Lady, if you mean the good news that Prince Hamlet has returned."

Her smile broadened, quavered, then disappeared. "I am so glad to see him again. He's been gone for half a year." She was telling me things I already knew. I wondered why.

"Your beauty would bring a man back from the ends of the Earth, My Lady"

She waved a hand to brush off the compliment. "He's barely talked to me."

"He has a lot to be concerned about," I noted. "His father dead; his mother married to his father's brother." I waved a hand around. "Preparations for war."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, of course." She seemed close to tears. "Yet I was hoping he'd talk to me more than he has."

"Because everything else is problem and strife, and you are the candle in the darkness of Elsinore? I should expect he would, and am sure he will, in a day or two. Princes are weighted down with a lot of concerns, and we should feel pity for the crosses they bear."

"Yes," she said. She looked away. "That could be it. Tomorrow, maybe." She said so quietly that I almost couldn't hear above the sound of someone hammering at stones. "A prince has many concerns." She turned back to me. "Well, talk to him, Amundi. Find out what's going on in his royal brain."

"Yes, My Lady."

"He's been gone for six months and twelve days. And there are probably many lovely girls in Wittenberg."

"There could be none such as yourself." It was not true, but expected and probably needed. And I'd seen some of the lovely women they grow in Saxony. But Ophelia had a couple of advantages over any of them; she was Danish and she was of noble lineage. The family of her father, Polonius, was from one of the Danish Lords. A union between Hamlet and Ophelia would more closely bind her extended family to the monarchy.

"Thanks, Amundi, but we always have to remember that we hired you for your jokes."

I started to protest, but she stopped me. "If he's found another woman, I need to know. I want to know, Amundi."

"I think Horatio would know better than I would."

"Horatio is too much his friend, Amundi. I need someone who won't lie to me."

I raised my palms in shock. "A fool who tells the truth? Such a man would be more foolish than fool."

She gave me a wan smile. "Give it a try, Amundi. You can do it." She turned and, just before she left, looked back, and said, "If he's planning on leaving, tell him I want to go with him, but I can't yet."

I was still watching her go, and wondering where my students might have gone, when a voice said, "Sure, Amundi. Just ask the prince what he's thinking.

I turned, to find Ingald right beside me, and Soldir just trying to catch up. Startled, I said, "You move like ghosts," I told Ingald.

"When I get to be a professional jester," Ingald said, "I'll be sure to put bells on my ankles." He smiled broadly. "I'm thirsty." Soldir nodded.

"Follow me." We walked over to the nearest refreshment wagon, found used cups, then waited in line for a turn dip into a keg of ale. The stuff wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it was going to attract more flies than workmen by the end of the day.

"Now what?" Soldir asked. "Are we off to see Tola now?" He winked.

That would have been my first choice, but I ignored him. "You wanted to see the castle. Follow me." It was getting late in the afternoon, and I wanted to get the tour over with and have supper. We started up the stairs to the first landing, with me pointing out the layout. Soldir seemed pleased, saying, I usually see these things from the outside."

"Ah," Ingald said suddenly. "I have a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"If the Norwegians lay siege to Elsinore, and it goes on for a while...."

"Yes?"

"What do they do with the official jester?"

"I've never been in that position," I said.

"But?"

"Well there are always rumors." I sat down on a pile of logs, watching the activity in the courtyard below. It looked as if one shift was ending, the workers retiring to the tent village that surrounded the castle, where their wives would be preparing food. Another shift was beginning its slow march to the work awaiting them.

Ingald dusted off a space and sat beside me. "There are always rumors?"

"At the start, according to the stories, a jester is a valuable person. There's a lot of tension and fear in the castle, and they really like someone to keep up morale with entertainment, especially jokes about the enemy."

"I can understand that."

"But if the siege continues, and there's no sign of an army coming to relieve it, the mood changes."

"People start calculating the available food supplies, I imagine."

Both Soldir and I nodded. I said, "And when soldiers are wounded, it can get real hard to make jokes. It's then that a good fool makes himself useful in the infirmary and wherever possible. For example, he can put on a soldier suit and take a place along the battlements while a real soldier gets food or relieves himself into a bucket.

"Does he get to shoot a few arrows at the enemy?"

I shook my head. "Ammunition is far too valuable to let an amateur use it. He's just a placeholder on the wall, holding up a shield to catch arrows. The rest of his time is for more suitable duties, such as collecting the night buckets to empty over the wall."

"Sounds dangerous."

"You try not to get an arrow in you. They say you learn to be quick."

Ingald furrowed his brows. "What do they do with the dead?"

I pointed. "There's the catapult. Dead bodies corrupt the castle grounds – it can be really, really crowded in here in a siege. They go over the wall. Of course the enemy flings many of their own dead, especially those that died of disease, over the castle walls back at the people there. Where they are catapulted back outside again." I smiled. "I've never experienced any of this, and people who have may have lied because they think I'm really the rube I really am."

Soldir spoke up. "It's about like that. Most of them were trying to shock you with the truth.

Ingald was trying to picture it. "And when the food runs really low?"

"There comes a time when fear and desperation have reached the point that jokes and juggling seem like mockery. Then they ask themselves why this idiot is still here."

"And...."

"They sent him to the enemy. By catapult, or just up and over the wall by hand."

"Dead, I presume?"

"Of course. Alive, he might be persuaded to reveal weak points in the castle." I got up. "That last part is what older jesters tell me, anyway, but they're all lying bastards. Goes with the territory. Let's go get some food."

We ate at the servant's table on the ground floor of the castle. A jester may talk with royalty, but he is still a servant. There was plenty of meat and cheese. "You always eat this well?" Ingald asked.

I shook my head. "The Danish Lords are anxious to show support for the king these days, especially if that means hanging onto their precious knights a bit longer. They're forwarding more food than men-at-arms, I hear."

"Are there none who think this is all a sham?" Ingald waved at the building going on in the courtyard. "An excuse by the king?"

"No doubt, but if there is a battle brewing and if Claudius beats Fortinbras guess what he'll have?"

Ingald nodded. "Yes, I see. He'll have an army of battle-tested soldiers around him. And a castle known to have repelled an army. That would help in his dealings with the Danish Lords."

I was pleased; not many have the wisdom to see things clearly enough to be a jester. "The Danish Lords may need to keep some of their soldiers, just to keep the peasants down."

"Really? I'd have thought the peasants were, well, servile."

"You mean if the cottage is happy, the castle is happy. That's truer here than anywhere else in Europe. This is Viking land, Ingald; not many generations ago most farms in Denmark were freehold, owned by the men that worked them. These men are now serfs, but rebellion is never far below the surface. And if the Church supports the peasants...."

Ingald shook his head. "I've been nearer the pope than you. He has rebellious serfs just as the Danish Lords do. The Church doesn't want to put ideas into their heads."

We talked about it after supper, over a few beers, but Ingald couldn't accept that Danish serfs would be much different than Italian ones. Then we walked the parapets, at least the ones that weren't under too much construction.

I pointed out the river mouth and where it met the sea. Between the castle and the dunes men were building fortifications and boats. The wind was steady from offshore, and waves rolled up the beaches. I couldn't stop thinking about Tola. I craved that surge of energy I got from just catching a glance at her, a tightening joy that starts in the pit of the stomach and crawls upward until not smiling is a torture. But smiling in public might well end up in torture.

"Is Grim still away from the castle?" Ingald asked, as if reading my thoughts.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Hm," Ingald said, and I knew what he was thinking. But what he probably didn't know was that a walled castle is a very small space, socially, and if everybody there worked as hard at their jobs as they did at gossip, they'd wear themselves out in a couple of years. Most people knew in their hearts that most of the stories were untrue but those stories have to be the main entertainment until the king hires another forty jesters. No doubt the castle was rife with rumors about me and Tola, and no doubt Grim, master of spies, knew that. But even fools can be foolish at times, and seeing Tola again was high on my list of things to be foolish about.

"Ah," said Ingald when I showed him my room. It was on the first floor of the castle, small, and decorated only with religious icons; when a fool gets to joking about the Church, he'd better have a few icons in his room. "You have no windows in the walls."

"There are no windows on the first few floors of a castle," I said. "That would make it too easy for the enemy to push things through it."

"Not even a barred window, even if it faced the courtyard?"

"Then it would make it too easy for jealous husbands to push things through it."

"Things such as?"

I didn't have to think to hard. "If the jealous person were someone important with a lot of servants, he could collect a few hundred gallons of human waste, for example."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to have someone pushed off the parapet?"

"If you wanted them dead instead of warned, I guess." I waved my hand around the small space. "I can share my room with one of you, but only one, until another room in the castle becomes available." The other guy will have to live in town and commute."

Ingald nodded. "I can do that."

"I heard Yorick was involved with the queen?" Soldir smiled.

"And that Hamlet's their illegitimate child?" I shook my head. "I've heard that one. Unlikely. I imagine Gertrude was as dutiful a queen back then as she seems to be now. Hamlet may not show much of his father's leadership or warrior qualities, but he's not much of a joker either. Thinks too much." I showed him a place on the floor, across from my bed. He knew enough to go search the yard for the cleanest available straw. I went in search of someone from whom I could borrow another blanket. I'd got a couple of old ones from one of the horse stalls when, coming around a corner, I almost ran into Prince Hamlet. "My Lord!" I said.

"Amundi!" He smiled ruefully. "Fate's fools. Well met, fellow of the castle floor. We're both of us here to provide distraction and amusement, I believe."

"Though you, I believe," I said, "have better blankets and a family."

"Only if my mother wasn't in the horse stalls with Claudius at stud in the weeks before they graciously decided to enlarge my suddenly otherwise diminished family." He sighed. "Ah, family; my uncle is now my father."

"And your uncle's son is your cousin, so...."

"Yes," the Prince nodded. "I am my own cousin and the family numbers grow like rabbits, and thrift means the occupants of two beds can now share one."

I raised the horse blankets. "You are welcome to all I have, living and dead, weighing on my arm."

He laughed lightly. "And you are welcome to the living and dead I have riding on my shoulders. At least nobody will have to be entertained by the jester's mother pawing through her former brother-in-law's hairy patches, and a king's son has a bed with clean sheets. Have they taken your bed, too?"

"I have brought an accomplice, an acolyte, a minion, a learner, that he might learn the difference between comedy and tragedy."

"Tell him that the current un-king says he could find no better teacher nor no better place to learn the difference between tragicomedy and cometragedy than Elsinore. You'll show him the ins and outs of the place, as well as the ups and downs." He paused. "Up and down, in and out; there must be something else in this stone mausoleum to talk about than my mother and her rider." He waved a hand up toward the royal chambers. "I shall let you go before the fleas you are carrying die of old age."

I bowed in relief; one does not depart a royal's company without the royal permission. "You have, my lord, brought happiness to those who love you. Ophelia must have been delighted at your return."

He paused. "Ophelia. Yes. I suppose I'll see her tomorrow." And he walked away, slowly, stepping over the horse patties and whistling a tune I didn't recognize.

I returned to my room mystified; Hamlet had never before deigned to give me more than an idle comment while looking somewhere else, or laughter when I was in a role.

I told Ingald and Soldir about the meeting while Soldir picked as many bugs out of the blankets as candlelight would allow. "Pardon me if I'm presumptuous," Ingald said, "but if I were Ophelia I'd be wondering who he married down in Wittenberg "

Soldir looked up sharply. "Or at least his ability to fake a suitable bit of enthusiasm when he returned, he said"

I made sure the door was closed to protect us from the night air and nosy passers-by. "A prince who can't simulate sincerity will be replaced very soon. You should see Claudius smile and promise to help each of the Danish Lords against the others, the damned Church, the Norwegians, and the serfs. Then, of course, he must do something for his beloved Mother Church."

"But not the Norwegians nor the serfs, of course." Ingald smiled and departed for the town.

Soldir settled into his straw bed on the floor, scratched a few places, then blew out his candle.

I checked that the door was properly blocked. The small window within the door itself was covered, but some of the night noises came through.

"And what did the Prince say about renovations to the family house?" Soldir scratched and changed positions.

"As predicted, he said nothing. Maybe he approved of it all. I'm told that such concentration is a handicap."

"Such remarkable focus on a single problem is a handicap in a battle."

I was thinking that it was still early evening and there were things I wanted to share with Soldir but not yet with Ingald. I fell asleep about that time.

***
Chapter 5: Late Evening That Day

When I woke up, the room was empty. A quick look out the door showed that I hadn't slept long; the night construction crews were smaller, but still trying to get a few more stones set into concrete before leaving for their tents. I could hear singing from some of the soldiers' tents that surrounded the castle. There was temptation to join them for ale and songs, maybe tell a few jokes, drink a few ales, but my mind was still on Tola.

I crossed the courtyard as carefully as I could, in the general direction of the gate, then, once behind the pyramid of hay being stored for horses, I made an abrupt left turn towards the royal residences. There was a short corridor that led from the open bailey to the set of three rooms that Grim as Lord High Chamberlain of Denmark got in the castle. Of course he and Tola normally spent much of their time at their estate house a day's travel inland, but when diplomatic duties called, they moved to the castle, sharing the royal servants while Grim gently advised his king. I wondered if Claudius would pay more attention to him than Old King Hamlet had done. Then I decided that, judging by the money being poured into the walls of Elsinore, Claudius and Grim were getting along just fine.

There was a single candle burning at the entrance to the corridor, and I walked carefully, keeping one hand on a stone wall. I was just working up what I'd say to Tola when I ran into a wall I didn't see. I said something other than I'd planned, then took a candle stub from my pocket, lit it from the wall candle, and returned into the corridor. Where there had been a door to Tola's chamber, there was now only fresh brick.

For a moment, I wondered if Grim had decided on the ultimate chastity belt; if he'd walled Tola into their apartment until he returned.

Then a voice whispered, "Amundi! Here!"

I turned to find Tola waving from a door in a wall; a door that hadn't been there previously. She held a candle in front of her and was dressed in loose evening clothes, one pink breast peeking out from among them. "They moved the doorway," she said, as I slipped past her into her room. "Further from the outer wall of the castle. For safety, they said," she added, taking both candles and putting them into candleholders safely away from all threat of mischief.

Once again, I felt like a lost boy, a stranger in a distant land, wanting to take her hand, to hold her, but my heart was in my mouth as I faced her. All my greetings I'd planned and all my jester wit just disappeared somewhere. "Tola," I said feeling more the fool than ever.

"He's away for a week, maybe two, checking defenses and squinting at horses in the lost corners of this land." For a moment I thought she was going to smile. But she didn't; in the entire time I knew her, she never smiled when we were alone together. At least a week! Tola knew, obviously, how to deal with a speechless man. She shuffled out of her night clothes and took my hand. "This way," she said, and led me to the bed. I suddenly had larks in my heart and was glad I'd come back to Ellsinore. Country boy, innocent, rube, in the arms of a noblewoman.

Most of an hour later, I checked out the door, to be sure the path was clear, and slipped into the alley, my knees still a bit wobbly. I passed a few people on the way back to my room, but none said anything. Nobody out skulking the castle at this hour wanted to be identified, although most could make reasonable guesses as to whom they were passing and where they'd come from. If not, it just took a little more effort to add to the castle gossip. Somewhere on the ramparts, the guards were making noise about something. I wondered if they'd seen a Norwegian spy or just another of the many castle ghosts that people usually claimed someone they knew had seen. Myself, in the months I'd been in the castle, hadn't seen any.

Soldir was asleep in bed when I came in and locked the door behind me. I moved the cloth over the tiny window to keep the evil night airs out. "Welcome home," Soldir muttered, before falling asleep again.

I was awake for a while longer, wondering what I'd got myself into. It just didn't seem possible that Grim, spymaster, hadn't figured out what was happening with myself and his wife, but here I was, still alive and in possession of all my dangly parts.

I fell asleep before midnight, thinking about the guards on the battlement, and haunted by ghosts of my own past, wondering what my wife was doing and how what my oldest daughter looked like five years after I'd last seen her.

***
Chapter 6: A Castle Feast

I awoke early, to find Soldir sitting patiently in the corner of the room, fully dressed, watching me. "You sleep well," he said. "Even your snoring is amusing."

"Liar," I said, as a compliment. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"The thought had never occurred to me," he said, seemingly astonished. "I've been here chewing on my sandals and getting to like the taste of Elsinore mud." He smiled a wry smile.

"Wonderful," I said. "Elsinore's famous for its mud, particularly when mixed with oats that the mules have only partially digested. Shall we use the chamber pot before we go or would you first like to visit the properly civilized facilities the Danes are famous for?"

"Take me to the royal shithole," he said. "I'll bring the chamber pot to empty as any good acolyte would do." He lifted the pot out from the corner of the room, opened the door, and bowed.

"I like your attitude," I told him.

We dumped the contents of the bowl into one of the holes that took human waste from the castle's inhabitants to a newly built holding tank deep in the castle. "Denmark is so advanced that we now save our piss in the basement," I told Soldir. "Some people think it's where we plan to put the Pope, if he ever shows up here. Strictly as a favor to him, of course, so he'll understand what lesser people will be doing in Hell."

"You're good Catholics. Thoughtful to Mother Church in this Dane age." Soldir peered down the slot. "I've seen facilities elsewhere recently which collect the piss nitre for gunpowder. But as far as I can see, most people still dump it down the castle walls and into the moat."

"You are probably right," I said. "But now we've imported a couple of chemists from Belgium. We call them Royal Pissmeisters."

"Royal piss works better for gunpowder than serf piss?"

"So they say. I'm already making up a whole act of jokes and mime about it." I sat and waited on a bench while Soldir returned the chamber pot to my chamber. It was still cold in the morning; I could see the breath from the horses and men working on the walls and trenches. I could see, far off, the mist rolling in from the salt water that separated us from Sweden. I leaned back against the stone wall, enjoying the morning sunlight, when a voice I knew interrupted my memories of Tola's bare hide under a fur blanket.

"Amundi! I've found you? Have you found out what happened to Yorick yet?"

I opened my eyes. The man sitting beside me on the bench lacked every one of Tola's charms including her important body parts. "Shoop," I acknowledged. "I wondered where you were." I watched Soldir coming back up the stairs. "I've been here only a day, you know, and these inquiries take time." I yawned. "I thought you'd have done your thing and been gone by now."

"I will do that when the time is right," Shoop said. "Maybe today, but maybe as my final masterpiece, after I've done the rest of the country. Meanwhile I'm hauling water for the horses and scouting out the castle."

"You can do me a favor and not shit on the throne yet. There's a lot of tension around here, and I wouldn't want to make things worse."

"Make you a deal," Shoop said. As long as you're looking into Yorick's death, I'll put off the Great Poop."

"Done," I said, without thinking too much about it. "I'll fill you in on what I've learned every time we meet."

"Sounds like a plan," Shoop said, getting up.

"Our best to the horses," Soldir said, as Shoop left. He turned to me. "Maybe I'll ask a few questions about Yorick, too. It'll seem less suspicious coming from me." I shrugged; Yorick had been dead many years so there probably wasn't much to learn.

I caught sight of Ingald then, coming in from his place in town, and the three of us resumed our tour of the castle.

About an hour later, in one of the larger antechambers to the Great Hall, I showed Ingald the small storage room which held, among other things, the standard props for entertainments. The jugglers, poets, and other extras that were hired for more major events supplied their own equipment, but there was a collection of wigs, hayrakes, and ethnic outfits available. I'd used them for the four years of my employment, and Soldir had done so a few days before (adding a crooked soldier's pike – it leaned against the far corner), but such things were new to Ingald. He tried on various costumes, and offered to add Harlequin and Columbine outfits, assuming he could find a suitable tailor in town.

That sounded good to me, at least for a trial run; I was looking for something new and I suspected my audience was too. I asked if he could work up a Punch and Judy puppet show like we'd seen at the Convention of Fools. "I think so," he said. "I've seen three or four performances of Punch and Judy in my time, and with the help of a carpenter...." Then he asked about getting a bishop's mitre or pope's tiara but I ignored that.

The Great Hall itself was suitably magnificent, at least for a castle of Danish size. The lower level was one vast room with an entrance on one side and a large fireplace along another. One end of the room held the raised section, with the two thrones. I explained how the king and queen entered the room, after the guests were seated at tables, from a door behind the thrones. Tables were stacked along the edges of the room for fests. I pictured it as I sometimes saw it, a roomful of people involved in what was, at times, one conversation, everybody talking and nobody really listening, conversations overlaying each other's sentences and stories, anecdotes borrowed and regifted as a way to increase one's own score, and only the chronic listeners ever running out of things to say.

"Interesting tapestries," Ingald noted. "Some of these don't look all that Danish, I'll admit."

"A lot of them were stolen from raids on various other countries and brought back specifically to give to the kings. As they wore out or got too dark from smoke, a king would commission a local weaver to make new copies." I pointed at a couple. "So we end up with barely modified pictures of old Flemish tournaments and their knights in full regalia from that region. That one there was made a century or so specifically for Elsinore."

"Gruesome," said Soldir.

"It celebrates the time King Harald Grenske of Norway proposed marriage to Queen Sigrid Storrada of Denmark. She had him executed. It's popular at the moment."

"And that arras against the wall near the guest's door?" Ingald pointed to the curtain dividing off a small section of the room.

I was explaining how it was used by us entertainers when three royal guards came in. "Prepare to bow," I told Soldir and Ingald. "The king's here." We both were bowing when Claudius walked in, followed by Queen Gertrude. Laertes and Ophelia followed, then Polonius and a few royal attendants. I thought this was the end, but then Hamlet came in, hanging back and dressed in black.

Claudius gave us the hand sign, and I stood up, followed by Ingald, then, more slowly, Soldir. We stood quietly as six or seven important people of the castle entered, bowed, and stood back against the wall. I guessed that Claudius had something to say, and I wasn't wrong.

First thing he did was acknowledge that his marriage to Gertrude seemed rather sudden, but that he'd been urged to do so by many people, in order to prepare for war against Fortinbras and the Norwegians. This wasn't news; there had been a strong movement among the populace, the Danish Nobles, and the Church, in favor of getting an effective royalty before the Norwegians simply overran Denmark on a slow weekend. Myself, I was pretty sure that such a feeling was indeed there, but that Grim had masterminded its enlargement into a movement that Claudius couldn't be seen to ignore. Grim had ways of persuasion that ran the gamut of methodology, and I rather admired him, or would have, if I hadn't thought he was evil and I wasn't sleeping with his wife. I was glad Grim was out of the castle for a bit longer, although he tended to appear and disappear unexpectedly.

Claudius seemed determined to defend Danish possessions, including the Norwegian area Old King Hamlet had garnered by swordfight. I wondered about this last bit; there were lots of indications that the defense of Elsinore was going steadily, but I hadn't seen any army being readied to send across the strait to defend the Norwegian gift.

Then he said he'd written to Fortinbras's uncle asking him to tell Fortinbras to lay off the military action against Denmark. It seemed unlikely that the Fortinbras' uncle would do that, but it was worth a try, I figured; certainly nothing to lose. He sent a couple of couriers with the letter.

Next, he turned to Laertes, son of Polonius, and asked him what he wanted. I was quite surprised when I heard Laertes ask for permission to go back to Paris to study. Laertes would be an essential leader if it came to war with the Norwegians, and there wasn't much to do in Paris that didn't involve wine, women, and song. I changed my estimate of the lad. Polonius had no objection (perhaps he was concerned about his son's education – or perhaps it was more his son's safety) so that was quickly agreed to.

Then, while everyone held his breath, Claudius called Hamlet to the front and suggested maybe it was time for Hamlet to stop mourning his father. Well, I certainly thought so, too, but it wasn't my position to say so. All it did, though, was make Hamlet surlier, and even his mother's intervention didn't make any difference, although he did agree to stay in Elsinore rather than go back to Wittenberg. Like he had a choice, if no one was about to finance it.

There wasn't much to say after that. Claudius claimed to be happy that Hamlet would stay around and announced there would be a celebration of Hamlet's agreement. This seemed fine to me; there would be drinks for all of us, but there was no doubt that jestering would be part of any celebration in the evening, and I'd better get out some of my best routines, and maybe work up a couple of others. I figured Soldir and I could borrow a few new ones from the Convention of Fools, and we could include Ingald in one or two. How else would he learn?

Claudius left first, as befit a king, followed by his retinue, until only Hamlet and the rest of us clowns were left. I bowed to Hamlet, but I think he thought I was mocking him, and only scowled a bit more darkly, his cheerful mood of the previous day having taken a donkey ride to Wittenberg without him. Ingald, Soldir, and I made our exit. As we went down the hallway, we could hear Hamlet saying something we didn't catch.

"Who's he talking to?" Ingald asked.

"Probably himself. He always did that a lot."

"About what?"

"Oh," I said, "of war and defenses, and how, if we lose the war with the Norwegians he'll have his head stuck on a pole on the castle ramparts, or have to run away and hide on a sheep farm disguised as somebody's grandmother" I looked at Ingald and he looked at me, and we both laughed.

"More likely," I said, "bemoaning the loss of his father and the defection of his mother."

"Worried, perhaps, about their souls?"

"You're right about that one," I said. "The Bible specifically prohibits a man from marrying his brother's widow. Technically, they're living in sin."

"They must have had an epidemic of that in bible times. I can just imagine one brother getting a good-looking woman from a raid on some infidel camp, and his brothers each plotting to kill the lucky brother and take his place."

"Hey!" I said. "Nobody mentioned murder. As far as we know, Old King Hamlet died naturally, having a nap in the garden in the middle of winter."

"But it would have been logical," Ingald insisted. "It would give the throne to someone willing and capable of taking on Fortinbras." Ingald held up a hand to me. "I'm just saying that Prince Hamlet obviously didn't rush right back to claim the throne. I guess he didn't want to interrupt his studies into classical Greek introspection in Wittenberg."

I put my fingers to my lips. "Some things will not, ever, be mentioned or joked about. Let's keep our heads attached to our shoulders."

"If the Norwegians capture Denmark, would they have to kill Claudius and Hamlet?"

"Not absolutely, but the survival of either would provide a constant focal point for any of the Danish Lords trying to retake the kingdom. Usually the current claimants to the throne are said to have 'died in battle,' if you try to find out."

I sent out servants to contact the usual gang of jugglers, folk-singers, conjurers, and dancers. Then we spent the afternoon doing routines, sharing what we knew with each other and trying to remember some of the jokes and gags from the convention. Some were good, and others were long and not so good but designed to space out the good stuff. An evening in the royal court usually started around an hour before dusk and went on a couple of hours after for the guests and well after midnight for the select few men. The jesters were required to entertain three or four times and to come up with witticisms whenever a drunk yelled out a question.

That evening, after the late-afternoon meal, we walked the castle again, watching the construction and making jokes ("We could hire Norwegians; I hear they make castles of fish bones') with the workers. The sun was getting low, and I sent Soldir back to our room to get some sleep before the banquet. Myself, I was still a bit restless, and walked up to the northern parapet to watch the birds circle over the marshes.

"Amundi," a voice said.

I turned, and Ophelia was there in the shadows in a dark cloak. "My lady." I said, and bowed.

"It's beautiful here," she said, looking out. The moon was just rising in the east, and the sun had not long to go before it settled behind the western forests.

"So long as it doesn't fill up with Norwegians," I said, pointing to the grounds beyond the castle walls. Elsinore was sited on a promontory with cliffs to the sea right below; the Norwegians would have to come around through the fields and forests on one side or the marshlands on the other.

"The letter our king sent may have some effect. It is hard to be sure."

"I hope so," I said, "but Fortinbras' uncle has little to gain. It might take Fortinbras only a couple of days to reclaim the Norwegian property and possibly then launch an invasion of our land."

"The uncle might not know that," Ophelia said. "He's old and a man's ambition is lowered by constant pain." She looked again at the shadows moving across the land. "There's not much more that can be done, and talking about it won't help. You do your best, you pray to whatever gods you believe in.... Then you move on to other things. It's all a human being can do."

"You look troubled, My Lady."

She pointed out across the dunelands to the far-off beaches. "When I was old enough to ride, my father found a good horse and gave it to me. I loved that animal." She paused again, as if searching for memories. "My father and I would ride like the wind across the dunes and along the beaches at this time of day." She turned a bit to me. "I love my father, Amundi. He's been so good to me."

"Yes," My Lady." Although I thought this a new view of Polonius, riding a horse along the beach at full speed.

"You've seen him only in his dotage," Ophelia said as if reading my thoughts. "It came early to him, more than most men. I wish you could have seen him in his prime, Amundi."

"For you to love him so...."

"Oh, not just myself. He was known for his wisdom and diplomacy, Amundi. He kept Old King Hamlet out of more trouble.... Although he couldn't talk him out of the Polish war. But he stood in front of the castle twenty years ago, they say, and talked a thousand peasants out of revolution. They had a 'magna carta' of their own, and the king had a hundred armed knights ready, but at the end of the day my father had an agreement that the peasant leader, Nillson, accepted and even the king signed. The king lost a few minor powers and lowered taxes, and the peasants were allowed to live. And the king agreed to take their side against the Church in Rome."

"We could use some of that wisdom, now, My Lady."

"He made the Norwegian agreement, you know. They say it was on the day prince Hamlet was born. Our forces had taken an oath of revenge over a dispute in the fishing grounds. They'd taken a piece of Ossland, the part we now call Denmark's Norwegian territory."

"Was the agreement a good thing?"

"I think so. It included a hand-to-hand fight between Old King Hamlet and the Norwegian king, for the lands we'd conquered so far."

"Might Denmark instead have conquered more?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't born then, but I've been told that there were large numbers of Norwegians being gathered to repel us, and a good chance that the Swedes would enter on the Norwegians' side. We'd have been crushed. As it was, we got Vest Agder, which is a few nice little Norwegian fishing villages and some bad farmland. For a while."

"Only for a while?"

A laugh of derision. "Fortunes change as time goes on. The wheel of fortune, Amundi. Once-proud countries get silly and let their armies grow into bureaucracies while young men in oppressed countries turn into fine soldiers. We were lucky to have held the Vest Agder as long as we did."

"And now Fortinbras threatens." I looked back, and the workmen strengthening the walls by torchlight.

"We could use my father's wisdom now."

I let the silence go on. A pair of hawks circled close to the castle walls.

"My brother...."

"Yes, My Lady? He's left to return to school."

"If the Norwegians take Denmark, I'll die happy knowing he's alive in Paris." The temperature dropped and Ophelia drew a cloak around her. "And if the Norwegians take Denmark, he'll have a place in exile to foment a rebellion against the new king."

"I suspect others thought of that." I wanted to be careful what I said.

"I wonder. He's a good man and would make a good king."

"Ah...."

"I know what you're thinking, but prince Hamlet had first rights to the crown, until Claudius and Gertrude grabbed it." She smiled. "No need for comment."

"They are getting old," I said.

"As am I," Ophelia said, far younger than I but older than most Danish women get married.

I sat there on the parapet in silence for a while, not knowing what to say, my hands folded together like a youngster. Often I felt like this, a strange ship from a land far away, in a strange harbor. And, at that moment, older than the seas. "And I, My Lady, more than you."

"Yet you are full of jokes and smiles and tricks and antic dispositions."

"I wear them, My Lady as a soldier wears his chain mail, against the arrows and stones of reality Otherwise, I should be wounded too often. I think too much. Each joke can, like a stray arrow, wound if it is not avoided or deflected."

"That's deep.

"That's life. You fall into life like a man falling down a long-forgotten well, trying always to climb towards the light, tossing off our childhoods and yet trying to stand on them to reach up."

"And if we get to the light?"

"If I do, I'll let you know what's there, My Lady."

"You keep up the castle's spirits very well, for a fool."

"They say there's no fool like an old fool."

"Were you wise when you were my age? Or foolish, as I have heard myself to be."

While part of my mind was working on that cryptic sentence, I said, "I have led a life. I have sailed through the maelstrom and the storms and followed stars I thought would lead me home."

"There's a warm wind tonight," she said, "and the moon turns the tide soon. I would like to walk the beach with you until the northern lights came out and have you tell me your story."

"A lovely thought, but we know...."

"What are you, Amundi?"

"A man, pretending to be a boy, and a boy, pretending to be a man."

"You are single? I see you with no woman in the castle, except for that woman who doesn't want to be seen with you."

"I learned early," I said, "that I was no handsome Viking warrior, to carry off a woman's heart with bulging muscles and an iron sword. So I learned to make women laugh. There is," I said, waving my arms inland, "too little laughter out there. Too many women trying to find happiness instead of drudgery of days. A joke can win sometimes. I fell in love, I made a girl laugh. We had a nice plot of land and a small store by the road to sell our carrots."

"What happened?"

"We had four children. Two are still alive." I felt the black dog of memory nuzzle my heart. "I came home one day and the blacksmith had made her a lock to the house for which I had no key. Now she's the town blacksmith's wife. He's probably busy these days making spear points and arrowheads."

"Do you miss her?"

"I very much miss the optimistic youth I was then, with energy that would last all day, and the man who loved a pretty young girl with infinite faith. I miss the girl I thought she was. I miss my children." I sighed. "Do you come here often?"

"Since I was a girl, whenever we stayed at the castle. It used to be a happy corner, full of dreams of handsome men who would come in with the tide."

"Things are less simple when one packs the toys of childhood in that big old box."

She looked away, and said very quietly. "The tides are full of sea monsters and Norwegians."

"No handsome men from Wittenberg?"

"He has been here four days," she said. "And has yet to say a word to me."

"He has many things on his mind, My Lady. Wars, and the rumors of wars. And his mother married to her husband's brother."

"This is the end of the fourth day, and he has yet to speak to me." She closed her eyes and looked at a star newly come out. "He has yet to look me in the eye. We could have talked about all of this. I am no child, Yorick, and I know when there are dice to be thrown, cards to be played, and truths to be brought out of deep waters." She looked at me. "If a queen did not bear a son, should she be discarded?"

I shook my head. "We are Vikings, My Lady, not Englishmen. Whatever God wills, there will be raspberry wine to be made and arrangements to be made."

"My brother spoke to me today," Ophelia said.

"Words of good-bye, I presume."

"If only it had been that simple. He asked me to avoid prince Hamlet and to break off all but social contact."

I hesitated. "Yet you are of a family of Danish nobles, as is your father."

"Laertes thinks that the only prince of Denmark has more obligations than to take a wife from his own castle. There are allegiances to strengthen within Denmark's noble families, and perhaps to be made with foreign princesses. Perhaps to be married to any princess of the Holy Roman Empire so he might have new cousins enough to repel the ladders of Fortinbras."

"If he married Fortinbras, he might inherit two kingdoms, as soon as it was determined which would wear the small shoes."

"He makes no comment on the defense works, Amundi. I don't know if he notices that we are preparing for war. A pause. "I heard someone say Hamlet probably couldn't find Norway on a map and someone else say he could find it if it were attached to his mother's butt. I would happily be his mistress, should he require a different queen."

"I doubt that your brother or father would approve."

"If Hamlet were king, there would be little they could do. But, until then...."

"Well, yes, I said.

"My father forbade me today from any contact with Hamlet," Ophelia said.

I stood there, with that sense of exhaustion you get just by thinking how just plain awful people can be to each other. Whatever Hamlet was up to, Ophelia deserved none of it. She held my affection if only for being sincere and not judgmental. For wanting to be what she'd been, naturally joyful. If Hamlet or her family had taken that from her, I wasn't going to get along with them very well. Not that I'd been the favorite of any of them. Hamlet and Laertes had the noble's attitude that lesser orders, particularly the ugly ones, had no real feelings, and Polonius was lucky to remember who he himself was, most days.

Perhaps had I been Polonius, I might have done the same, but I didn't want to tell her that. "I am sorry to hear that, My Lady."

"I love my father, Amundi, but nothing compares, in a woman's heart, to her first true love. It is a fire I cannot crawl out of."

"You can wait; you must wait, for the next roll of the dice."

She laughed. "You've got a point there, fool. I could be next month the toy of Fortinbras or one of his generals."

"The castle grows by the day."

"You are a good listener, Amundi. But I cannot conspire with you, as I would like to conspire with Hamlet."

"Yet another of the castle conspiracies?"

"I know the rumors, but who could believe them." A seagull came close, then circled out towards the cliffs. "And yet, Claudius seems to have little love for Gertrude, and she even less for him. King Hamlet and Gertrude had only one child. Were you told to cheer me up?"

"All my jokes are plots and all my plots are jokes. But I sleep in the castle and eat at the table." Bells pealed from somewhere. "The party begins and I must go, My Lady. It is dark out here. Watch carefully for the steps that will take you down; many are new." I stood, bowed, and left her there. Halfway down the dark staircase I remembered that I hadn't asked her if she knew anyone who could tell me how Yorick died.

Ingald and I arrived at the Great hall a few minutes before the king and queen showed up, and stowed the comic trunk safely behind an arras. I checked to see how many of the town entertainers had shown up. It was most of the ones I'd asked; to entertain at a royal banquet meant pay and better food than most of them could afford in town.

As we gathered a plate full of food I noticed Ophelia at the head table, beside Laertes and Polonius. She looked very good in a green and gold dress, but no happier than one would expect of a woman who'd been told to keep away from her life's desire.

We'd barely sat down at a side table when heralds announced the royals. Claudius came in through the door behind the throne with Gertrude, followed closely by Hamlet. There was the usual standing and bowing, then the King sat down, and, with a rustling of gowns and a bit of the clanking of swords, the rest of us followed, Hamlet perhaps a bit more slowly than the others. But when Claudius toasted his stepson, with gratitude that he was safely back from Wittenberg and here to bring joy to his mother's heart after the loss of her husband, Hamlet thanked him, raised his glass, and said he was glad to be back in Elsinore. He didn't look glad, but for a guy dressed in black, it wasn't a bad speech, and suitably brief.

There was more toasting, to the soldiers who would defeat the damned Norwegians and to the workmen (a few were present) who were doing a fine job on the fortifications. Following toasts included the Church (the bishop nodded sternly but wisely) and the Danish Lords and other nobles of the country. I saw only one of these, but presumably spies were present to carry word around that, for better or for worse, the king had not forgotten them.

We got down to eating and drinking then, with various people toasting the king and members of their own tables. I was glad to see Ingald was following my advice, drinking and eating lightly. Soldi, as might be expected of one who'd been sleeping in the fields much of the winter, ate more, but not, I noticed, so much that his mobility was limited by the food; obviously his military history stuck with him.

The volume settled a bit and the pace slowed, perhaps because Hamlet was neither eating nor drinking. The king gave me a nod that said it was time to earn my keep, so I elbowed my companions and we slipped off to the trunk.

I came back in a few minutes dressed in green pants and an orange coat. As I got to the centre of the room, I nodded at Soldir and he played an off note on a tiny trumpet.

"My lord, your majesties, I announce the discovery of a new weapon to help every man stand bravely against our enemies!"

Ingald tootled again, and I spread my legs. From inside my tunic dropped a set of bull's testicles, still in their natural bag, which hung most of the way to my knees. I shook my hips to make them bounce, and while most of the head table laughed, I turned around in a circle so others could see. Then I took out a scroll and read, in a loud voice, "I have composed an ode to the scrotum, an item which has so seldom reached poetry." The laughter died eventually, and I said, "How few of us men adequately address their better parts? Time to rectify that." And recited, with much lifting and poking of the bag:

Shall I compare thee to a sun-dried fig -

Would that insult the manly side of thee?

Thou art as ugly, though several times as big...

And wisely concealed in shorts so few might see.

Shall I compare thee to a robin's nest

In which two perfect eggs have then been set?

A home in such a scraggly bush?? A jest

As would offend the meanest bird, I'd bet.

O thou art nothing but a bag of seed,

Your juices wanted on this rolling Earth

Just once or twice when some girl wants to breed -

And who thanks you at the hour of birth?

I paused, broke into a big smile, and said:

But oh! the joy I feel when someone calls,

Hey! That guy right there - he's got balls!

Ingald appeared with a pair of sheers and chased me around the room and out behind a curtain, emerging with the testicles around his neck.

Okay, maybe it wasn't the best of my poems, but it generated a lot of laughter – even Hamlet and Ophelia smiled – and lightened the mood considerably. After my return, I bowed to the high table and retreated, accompanied by more tootling from Soldir, and, I was glad to see, a round blast from the trumpeters when Claudius gave them a nod. Claudius raised his glass to me, not looking at Hamlet.

I told Ingald and Soldir, "we'll be called back, but the king knows enough to space the laughter out and not use up his fool's limited repertoire all at once. We'll use our new routines, but will also do some older stuff."

"I suspect a sad patriotic song should be next," Ingald said. He looked at Soldir who mentioned one, a very sad song about a Danish soldier dying in a far-off country.

"Very good," I said. "You'll be famous someday." I looked around for the best singer available.

The patriotic song was done by Odwin and his lute, and I must say he did a fine job, with a few soldiers crowded into the space in front of the high table and tears in the eyes of most of the people in the room. Not, I noticed, in the eyes of Hamlet or Ophelia who didn't look at each other, nor in the eyes of Grim. Tola sat next to him and we didn't look at each other.

Ingald and I did another skit, in which a large pink penis was added to my costume, banging against my knees as I walked to the centre of the room and read my toilet hole poem.

I used to swim naked when I was a kid

In rivers with targe-toothed fish

And I'd pray to the Gods that my private parts

Didn't resemble some hungry pike's dish

And I've lain bare-ass naked out on the beach

With seagulls hovering above

And the way they'd take a dead fish from the sand

Made me wish I'd put on a glove

But one terror in life that I can't always avoid

An experience to try a man's soul

Is the moment of truth when I set my bare butt

On top of a shithouse's hole

Oh the terror of life is the fly-haunted hole

For the spiders inside that place

May resent the intrusion of floppy male parts

That suddenly appear in their space

The black spider's bite brings spasms of pain

It'll have you rolling around

And your stomach will feel like you swallowed a cat

Or a spring that's coming unwound

The little brown spider likes a privy as home

It's happy under the slot

And you're apt to find some of your dick on the floor

As the bitten parts fester and rot

So brothers let me say, if you feel nature's urge

And you do truly cherish your "goods"

Be wary of outhouses and all they contain

And shit, with the bears, in the woods.

At which time Ingald approached with a long stick and a very large wool spider dangling from it, trying to get that "spider" to land on my "penis." After two circles of the center of the room, we exited under a table between the legs of two wives, and out the door, with a couple of the castle dogs following after him, barking. After which I let out, from the corridor, a blood-curdling scream. There was, if possible, even more laughter and applause than we'd gotten from the scrotum poem.

Odwin then did a series of more cheerful songs with his lute while some dancers whirled in the centre of the Great Hall. Ophelia left in the middle of one of them, returning a bit later. Just before midnight, Claudius and Gertrude left, and twenty minutes after that, Hamlet got up and left.

Castle feasts commonly went on till dawn, and this one seemed ready to do so, but without the principals involved. Polonius and a couple of the steadier nobles stayed at the head table, talking and giving the remaining revelers' nasty glances if they seemed to be getting out of hand. Perhaps Claudius wanted to show an austere side, since there was a war looming, and few of the workers strengthening the fortifications were invited to the feast (just as well; the room was crowded as it was. This was Denmark, not England). I learned later that Claudius had arranged for the workers to return to their tents and barracks with kegs of ale and loaves of bread.

Then again, the fact that Hamlet had returned none of the toasts might have put a gloom into the party, especially without at least a toast of allegiance to the new king. Anyone else would have been in the dungeon for doing that, but Claudius just ignored it, even if Hamlet's mother glared at her son more than once.

The remaining partygoers continued on getting more boisterous after Polonius fell asleep, head down on the royal table. These people weren't going anywhere while there was food to share and musicians to dance to. Given some of the rumors about the Norwegians, I could understand that.

Ingald and I stayed a few hours after the king left, telling jokes not suitable for gentler company. No doubt some of the better ones would be repeated around the castle in the next few days.

After Ingald had departed for his home in the town, when Soldir and I were on the way to my chambers, we were startled to meet Hamlet, moving towards his own chambers with a torch. We were moving slowly, with a candle: I had my hand between the candle and my face, so I could see the construction material left on the hallways without blinding myself. "Hail," I said, not knowing who it was. Hamlet was dressed in his usual black, and the glare made it hard to tell who it was. It was close to morning, and though Ingald and I hadn't had much to drink at any one time, still the ale added up.

"Amundi," Hamlet said.

"My lord." Ingald and I bowed. "You startled me," I said. Then I added, for no particular reason, "It's almost morning." I regretted that immediately; it sounded like a criticism of his habits or something.

"In this castle there are things more startling than a prince in the darkness," Hamlet said. His voice shook a bit.

"Nothing that I've seen, other than a few citizens rolled up in a cloak and sleeping off a gallon of ale." I jerked my head back towards the Great Hall, where a couple of musicians were still playing music, although not well any more. "I doubt that their bladders will allow much sleep tonight, unless they wake up in the morning wet from dreams of Roman fountains."

"No Amundi, there are ghosts that haunt this castle...." He stopped abruptly.

"Who is not followed by the ghost of his youth? I see it in the dark corners where my candle cannot reach."

"Then go to bed, Amundi, and your friend, too. I wish I had your jokes to keep my ghosts at bay."

"My lord," I said, bowing again.

After he passed us, Hamlet turned and said "May you have a peaceful night. How did your fathers die?"

"Of the cholera," I said.

"Of a festering wound, from a Swiss soldier's spear," Soldir said.

"Pray then that they found heaven, and had no need to come back."

I was trying to think of something to say when Hamlet disappeared around a corner. Ingald and I said nothing, even when we got to my chamber. We were tired, and sleep seemed better than philosophy.

***

Chapter 7: A Tour Begins

I slept late, waking up with a cruel taste in my mouth and my mind feeling like it had been on a six-year voyage to the tropics. I shook my head to waken a bit, but that was a mistake. Soldir was gone. Sunlight crept tentatively under the door. I stopped to dip some water out of a barrel. Half I drank, mosquito larvae and all, and the rest I poured over my head.

Half an hour later found me at the kitchen, waiting in a line for some ale and a chunk of bread for breakfast. Then I discovered there was also a greasy fish stew available to dip the bread into; which brightened my day. Somewhere bells rang, probably to mark a shift change or a break for the men on the scaffolding installing rocks into the weak spots in the castle walls. I sat in a corner on a stone bench with my back against a wall, feeling somewhat more lost than usual, and lonely. I wasn't ready to find Tola again, since Grim might just return from his country tour sometime that day after all, or so a new rumor said, but I wouldn't have minded talking with Ingald. I said hello to people whose names I knew, but none stopped to talk until I discovered that Soldir was sitting beside me, chewing on a nice chunk of pork. "Where the Hell did you get that?" I asked him.

He ripped off a piece and handed it to me. "Name me for a soldier and I behave like one," he said. "Leif's now a friend of mine." We watched the sun come up, the men at work, and, far away, some sort of formation of soldiers marching in the meadow. Their red-and-yellow uniforms made them look like a moving flower on the land. Soldir nudged me. "Glad you're a jester rather than a marching fool?"

I nodded. "So few know they are the fools and we are wise men who mock them all."

"Dream on," Soldir said. "We are all fools for someone, something, or just for wanting."

"It is foolish to want?"

He nodded. "All misery from wanting what you can't have." He finished his meat, then my ale, and added, "I hear Grim's coming home today to his loving wife."

I sighed. "I could do with a tour of the lands out yonder. Get away from all this war stuff for a few days."

"Let's see," Soldir said. "Tossed off the parapet, impressed into the army, or on a mission to someplace they'll treat you well.... It might be a good idea for us to move out today."

"You, too?"

"I made a lot of friends in the king's army," Soldir said. "Some of them are still alive, living by the castles of those nobles who use them. I'd be happy for a visit." He got up. "Let's find the king."

Ingald showed up right then, a half loaf of bread under one arm and a cooked leg of goose in his hand. I shook my head (unwisely, from the pain it produced); why did other people always get better fed than I? "Did I hear someone mention travelling?" he asked.

I decided to change the subject. Turning to Ingald, I said, "We met Hamlet last night – or early this morning – and he mentioned being haunted by ghosts. I wonder what he meant by that."

"Every castle has a few, they say," Ingald said. "It's that way in San Marino."

"Then the prince should not have noticed them." I looked around. "And he asked how our fathers died." I wrapped the piece of pork in a slice of bread and ate it, chewing slowly, as I'd learned to do in childhood when a meal this big would have been a treasure. "Maybe he saw the ghost of his father."

"I venture to say," Ingald said, "that the ghost of his father's been hanging around this castle since Hamlet came back from school. Could you feel it at the feast?"

"We all have our ghosts, as I told the prince last night. I have my own that follow me, and everyone has a few from the time they were too young to remember. As you get older they leave you feeling as if there's a place you can't remember, maybe a place there never was, that you need to return to."

"Well, Hamlet must have had a few ghosts. I hear he was fond of his father, and to walk the parapets now he must almost see him in many shadows." Ingald turned to Soldir. "Do soldiers see ghosts?"

There was a very long silence and for a moment I couldn't decide whether Soldir hadn't heard the question or had decided it wasn't one he was going to answer. Then he said, "Many, many, ghosts, I'm afraid. Every day in battle you see someone who was a friend, then remember that your friend died a day or week ago and it's actually someone else. You never get used to it but you come to expect it."

"Does it happen when you're not in battle?"

"It never quite stops. And, anyway, an army loses more soldiers to disease than to battle, so it goes on, just a bit slower." Soldir was looking a bit uncomfortable, then he asked, "What ghost haunts Amundi, the famous jester, when he finds himself alone at the end of a day?"

I owed him an answer, but was saved from it when Prince Hamlet himself came by. Dropping our plates and stuffing the bread into our mouths, we stood and bowed. I noticed that his black clothes had been replaced by red and orange, with pink shoes on his feet.

Hamlet stopped at ort table and grinned so broadly I almost choked. "A feast to break a fast for fools," he said. Then he tapped his head. "Any food for a fool is a feast, for he can fool himself!" He laughed. "Why do birds fly south for the winter?" he asked us.

We were still taken aback by the change in him, and Ingald barely got out a "Because...." When Hamlet waved at the ceiling and said, loudly enough to turn heads, "Because it's too far to walk!" Then he laughed and slapped himself on the thigh." He looked at us expectantly.

We all smiled a bit, since that's what you do as the minimum, but the joke was so old that jesters usually told it after everyone else was so drunk that the crowd would shout out the answer, and roar at their own inebriation. There was a moment's silence. Thinking maybe he wanted a return joke, I pointed to an empty place on the floor, and said, "Well, look at that dog. He spends all day licking his balls!"

Ingald picked up on that said, "Oh, I wish I could do that."

"You do?"

"Of course," Ingald said.

"Well, okay, but don't you think you should get to know him first?"

The prince laughed again and asked, "Why don't bears wear shoes?" He smiled and looked at each of us in turn. I squinted and scratched my head as if I were trying to figure it out. "Because they'd still have bear feet!" he yelled, and laughed even harder. Catching his breath, he rubbed Ingald on the head and walked out of the room, laughing.

We sat down, silently, looked around at the puzzled people in the room, and put our heads together. "That was a bit, er, unexpected," Ingald said. "Do you think he's gone around the bend?"

"He acts like it," I said.

"And you think it's an act?"

"A jester plays a fool and he plays an insane person when it's time to do his job. But an insane person cannot be a good jester. You have to be totally sane and totally wise to bring it off without making people disgusted at you." I shrugged.

"You could tell," Ingald said.

"I've been in the business a while," I said. "It's in the eyes and the stance. He's crazy like a fox."

"You're sure about that?" Ingald asked.

"Almost," I said. "Almost."

"But why?" Soldir asked.

"Ingald could probably figure that one out," I said.

Ingald nodded. "I can take a guess. A person can be chastised and limited by his mother and his position. He can be told how to behave and why he should not be depressed all the time. But there's very little society can do to a crazy man. Being the only prince around, he can't be locked up, so this gives him an escape from obligations and an excuse for whatever he does."

"Why here; why now?"

"Ah." Soldir waved at the room. "In the army, if you want something generally known, you can call all the soldiers together. Or you can just tell a few at supper, in confidence. Same effect."

"So you think this was staged," Ingald asked both of us.

I shrugged. "It sure looked like the opening act of a play of some sort, but whether it was a farce or a tragedy, I don't know."

"If it is," Soldir said, "I doubt if Hamlet knows, himself."

"You think?" Ingald asked.

Soldir gave a odd sideways shrug. "When a general plans a battle, he has many hopes. When the battle actually starts, he just prays it won't be a tragedy." Mopping up a bit of beer with the last of his bread, he added. "It is not always in his control."

"Is war ever a comedy?" Ingald asked.

"In history, it may be either, but at the time it is only one."

"A tragedy," I suggested.

Soldir shook his head. "A comedy with a lot of dead people. Always."

Later that morning, I got my wish to travel answered. Ingald and I were walking outside the walls, moving a small but heavy cask of ale for the carpenters, and trading jokes with them. I'd asked a joiner from Silkeborg if he'd heard anything about Prince Hamlet.

"I hear he's trying out for your job," the man said in his thick west country accent after he'd had a fill from the barrel. "Telling jokes and dancing jigs."

"Maybe I should be worried," I said. "Or maybe sometimes situations develop that only the half-crazy can get out of."

"His jokes are pretty bad or pretty old or both," the man said. Then he scratched his blond beard. "On the other hand it could be heredity. His father was quite the fool." He frowned. "Don't tell anyone I said these things."

"I've heard Old King Hamlet cut taxes," I said. "That should have been popular."

"He did that. But you know what they say: the man who turns his sword into a plowshare...."

I left it to Ingald. He finished the proverb with, "will plow for the man who did not."

"Ah," I said. "I must remember that one. Yet it must have seemed sensible at the time, didn't it?" The joiner said, shrugging. Old King Hamlet knew the Swedes were peaceful and he'd always been friends with Fortinbras's uncle, so maybe it looked peaceful."

"But?"

"We're Vikings."

Something in a change of the noise around the worksite alerted me, and I turned to see the King of Denmark coming up behind us, three personal guards beside him, stepping among the deep mud ruts that construction had left in the ground.

The three of us bowed quickly. "Your Majesty," I said. "How may we be of service?"

Indicating that we should straighten up, he complimented the joiner on his work. I handed him my mug of ale and waited till he'd tasted the product. He shook his head. "We've just got to get, ah, better ale for the working men." Then he turned to Ingald and me. "I wish I could have stayed for more of your entertainment last night; I've heard it was, ah, impressive." I nodded, and he went on. "I'd like to ask you to take your show to Roskilde. Just for the night, and, then to Faxe, and back. They deserve some entertainment from Elsinore." He smiled. "I'd send my son along, but, as the man says," he smiled at the joiner, "the boy has much to learn about humor." The joiner turned very pale. "Try to be back in no more than a week," the king added, "if you can."

I bowed, as did Ingald and Soldir. "We'd be honored, Your Majesty."

We watched the king striding away. "What do you think?" I asked the joiner.

"I think," the man said, taking an opportunity to swallow an amount of ale that might have choked me, "that he'll he asking for, ah, 'observations', when you return."

Ingald nodded. "And will you," he asked the joiner, "be taking observations back to your Lord?"

"I have not been asked to do so," the man said, "but I would be surprised if my liege back in Silkeborg weren't interested in whether Elsinore can stand a Norwegian siege, and for how long."

"We'd better prepare for the journey," I told Ingald and Soldir. I asked the joiner if he could handle the distribution of the contents of the ale cask and see that it got returned to the general supplies area by nightfall. As if I were master of provisions. With a twinkle in his eye, he agreed.

I never did find out if Claudius meant to send only me to Roskilde, for spying or entertainment, or whatever, but I took advantage of the uncertainty at the king's stables to casually assume that Ingald and Soldir were to go with me. The three of us, by ourselves, would have been enough to assume a relative safety on the roads and trails, but I soon discovered two armed soldiers had been detailed to accompany me, and accompany the three of us they did.

I asked the soldiers if they minded, and got a look back that said, "Mind? How could one mind a king's order?" And they assured me that there was no problem. Soldir winked at me when they did, and I knew that the soldiers minded. He'd told me that soldiers minded almost everything. They'd have minded just as much if other soldiers had been chosen for the duty of accompanying three jesters out across country in what the British call an "English mist," a form of rainfall that soaks you to the skin, but so slowly that you don't have the sense to find shelter.

Within an hour Ingald, Soldir, and I were on horseback, accompanied by the guards, travelling west and north towards Roskilde. There was a still the usual damned Danish westerly wind.

The fiefdoms of Denmark are pretty well self sufficient, and don't indulge much in trade outside their individual boundaries. What little commerce Roskilde had with Elsinore was obviously done mostly by boat, because roads between the two varied from poor to almost nonexistent. Had one of the soldiers (or guards, I suddenly thought) not had some reason to travel it a couple of times in the past, we'd have got lost for sure.

The rivers were high with the last of spring runoff and a bit of last week's rain, but Sjelland isn't a big island as this planet apparently goes, so we were able to ford them. It was the bogs that were more trouble, even if some were lain with rods of wood and some rock. There were few landmarks to follow. In places it was obvious that there'd been a wagon track generations before, but fields had turned to forests in the generations after the Black Death and its several return visits. Farmers were steadily winning back the fields, but it was slow work.

In places the path had been marked with a signs posted along one side, but the local farmers were convinced this just showed robbers where the next poor serf would sooner or later come along with a wagon-load of material essential for his family's survival. Often enough, the locals tore out the markers and scattered them in the forest. Worse, Denmark is one of those countries with few natural markers.

It was slow going in the bogs, the horses sinking sometimes to their hocks. In the mild, foggy spring they sweated a lot and had to be rested frequently, while we took shelter under a bare tree or a dark counting house meant for shepherds. I thought we might better have taken a boat, but Ingald assured me that, in a boat the wind was usually against you for reasons unknown, and a boat needed rowers. Far better the king should risk three fools, two soldiers, and a few horses than a boat full of rowers. Boats were hard to come by and susceptible to pirates and semi-legal pirates from the Norwegian or Swedish navies.

So ride we did, all day, finding a better track and eventually a village with an actual, glorious, inn. Okay, not all that glorious, but better than sleeping under a tarp on a wet meadow. By the time we'd got there, the horses were strung out quite a bit, and for a moment, in the town square, I wondered if some of the locals were planning to rob us. But the soldiers found us in a few minutes and the most disreputable of the natives got out of our way in the deep-mud streets. At that minute the setting sun broke out from under a cloud, which I took to be a good sign.

Whether or not the inn-keeper recognized the king's seal on the letter of introduction, I don't know, but he knew silver when he saw it, and we were soon with rooms and food while our horses were taken care of.

It was still light outside, and the three of us stepped outside to tour the village before going to bed and being introduced to the local varieties of lice, bedbugs, and fleas. The two soldiers were happy to say inside the inn, spending their money on mead and ale, and complaining, in a soldiery way, about everything below the sky and above the mud.

Somehow, we'd stumbled onto the grungiest village in Denmark. I mentioned this to Soldir and he agreed, but Ingald was certain he'd seen one in Tuscany, once, that was at least its equal. Being men, we eventually made our way to a hill, such as it was, with a tiny church on it. Ingald peered in briefly, probably to add to his store of knowledge about churches, and ascertained, he said, that, small as it was, it was probably too big for the local community to have afforded. Either Mother Church in Rome had contributed to its building, or it had been build a couple of hundred years before, the Black Death. Ingald then pointed out long-abandoned and barely visible streets and foundations to support the pestilence theory.

"If humans aren't slaughtering each other," Ingald said, "I guess the Good Lord gets a turn."

I thought this rather sacrilegious, being this close to a church, and crossed myself, but Ingald just laughed. He raised one hand and looked to the sky. "Lightning!" he commanded. Nothing happened. "Have you noticed," he asked, "that Denmark's a particularly low and swampy place?"

"You know," I said, "you might just be right. Maybe we'll find out tomorrow." I pointed out the direction we were likely to take. In most countries, the retaking of lands lost after the pestilence had progressed farther, but that's obviously harder in swampy country.

We returned by way of the village pump, not so much to get a drink as to evaluate the local women who gathered there to gossip and get water. The women eyed us and whispered as we approached, probably evaluating us – strangers must have been uncommon these days – in terms of our looks and imagined sexual abilities. One limping old soldier, one ugly joker, and, well, Ingald. It was late afternoon, and I was getting hungry.

After a moment of introduction, a woman of maybe 30 years stepped up to Ingald. "My, my," she said. "Aren't you a fine one! So seldom do we see a brown skin and lovely brown eyes." She reached out and touched Ingald. "Young, and so pretty. Where are you from?"

Ingald smiled his most winning smile. "I'm from far away," he said. "I've seen many countries and slept often beneath palm trees in lands where it never snows."

I rolled my eyes, and Soldir laughed. Both of us suspected Ingald of telling the truth, but we knew the lust a village woman could find in a mysterious stranger. Most of the women here would never get as far as the next village, and little Elsinore was as exotic as Paris or Rome to them. Believe me, even I might have capitalized on it myself if Ingald hadn't beaten me to it.

"Staying at the inn?" the woman asked, then added, with a wink, "I'm Elka." She moved closer to Ingald.

"At the inn, yes," Ingald said.

Elka shook here head. "Dog food is all you'll get there. And ale so bad the pigs won't drink it." She put her arm through his. "I'll make you a fine supper, with mutton, if you'll tell me stories of places you've been." She sighed. "Such a lovely young man; you should be fed better than that inn can provide."

The two left, arm in arm, Ingald carrying a bucket full of water. "Won't see him before morning," Soldir said.

The women at the well laughed and filled their buckets. "Her husband died three years ago," the last one at the well told us. "She has two surviving children and a lonely bed." Then she sighed, as if Elka were the lucky one, and turned to Soldir and me. "Fourth hut past the inn," she said. "My husband's away in Elsinore, and I can make better food than Elka. After dark." She turned and left to catch up with the other women.

The shadows lengthened, and Soldir and I walked back in the mud streets. A few times local men looked from alleys at us, probably contemplating their chances. They must have decided that Soldir, even with his limp, was a bit more than they could handle, and even if, being from the king's castle, we probably had worthwhile money bags dangling under our tunics.

When we got to the inn, I hesitated, and Soldir walked on, turning to wave goodbye. I watched to ensure nobody tried to tackle him before he got to that fourth house, then turned and went in. Three gentlemen of the fields tried to interest me in a card game, but I turned them down. The mutton stew was greasy and tasteless, but the bread and ale were palatable. I spent a restless time in the straw bed I'd paid for, contemplating my own loneliness and thinking about women. Two that the field hands were getting better acquainted with seemed, to be cheerful and lusty types. But I figured that was how they wanted a man to see them. Nobody, I thought could figure what went on in the heart of a woman when a man said goodbye in the morning. What did my wife think of me, after ten years? And Tola, sharing a bed with me, knowing her husband could have me sent to hell with a flick of his finger; what was she thinking? Did she have dreams she didn't dare share?

Could any woman ever trust a man when horizons and far roads were just a little to easy for him, and a little too hard for her? Some women, I decided, must hate horizons; horizons and the restlessness of a man in her bed in the small hours of the night. And if I could meet a woman who didn't have a little pain in the heart when a man, even a man she didn't like, left her, would I like her? Or would I fear her, raising my own fears in place of hers? Abruptly, I thought of the little graveyard on the edge of town, then the graveyard where two of my children lay, and I wondered what God could offer, other than an eternity of wondering what I should have done. It was black as a cave in the room, and eventually I slept.

A couple of times in the night I woke to a furtive push against the door, but I'd pushed the bed tight against it, and didn't have to call the soldiers from the other side of the wall.

I awoke again in the middle of the night, which is no time for thinking. Not in a strange room in a place you've never been. I know; I overthink things then. I missed Tola. I missed the moments in her bed. I wondered again how my wife was in her own tiny village, and if she ever missed me in the night. I wished I didn't think of that so often. I chased down a couple of fleas, and almost drifted back sleep. Then I decided that I might try the church again in the morning, although confession seemed to have done so little good last time. Couldn't hurt, I figured, but some stupid priest was probably going to get after me about Tola, and I didn't want that. One makes silly resolutions in the heart of the darkness of the night.

Somewhere close to the window an owl hooted and the rain started again. It was going to be another slow day of travel whenever the sun felt like coming up. How did these Danish farmers get anything done in summer when the mosquitoes hatched out? As if they had a choice; it was work or starve. And they called me fool. I contemplated sneaking downstairs and getting into the ale, but fell asleep again.

***
Chapter 8: Roskilde

When morning light was leaking through the cracks in the walls one of the soldiers was calling my name.

It was mostly ale and onions for breakfast; the cook told us there was nothing else available, for whatever money we had, unless we wanted her to boil her husband, but she figured that would take a week; two days to catch the useless bastard and five more to tenderize his scrawny carcass. The onions were old, but the ale, although a bit sharp, was quite strong, so it wasn't all that bad.

Ingald and Soldir were waiting for the two soldiers and me outside the inn door. The didn't have much to say, but the travelling was good, at least, till we got to the end of the "road" an hour's ride out of town. The night's rain hadn't improved it. One of the soldiers shook his head. "Anybody want to invade Poland instead?" he asked. That was an old joke in Denmark; invading Poland was always the next-to-last thing a person wanted to do. The lakes and swamps of that country had generated legends in the survivors of Old King Hamlet's last expedition.

"In winter," the other soldier added. That, too, was part of the joke. Poland's swamps seldom froze enough to support an army. The Danish army had struggled for a week through one swamp before, luckily, meeting the Poles on a lake frozen hard enough to support armies. King Hamlet had had the bright idea of making war during the winter, when the farmers weren't busy with the fields. Unfortunately winter-killed soldiers weren't much use to Denmark the following spring.

We surveyed the land. There was a bit of hope of some rising directly to the west, and Soldir pointed that way. "It'll be a bit further." he said, "but we'll make better time." Shaking his bad leg a bit, he turned to me. "So, fool, how was your night?"

I shrugged. "I hope we get a break from the rain," I said. "Did you do your good deed?"

"Ah," he said, The poor woman is a widow. Who knows what dangers might have come her way without a man to protect her?"

"In a village?" I asked. "With neighbors abutting her house?"

"Big help, they were. She called out several times, but no one did more than pound on the wall. Myself, I abutted her, too." We laughed at the vision of Soldir insisting on doing things standing up. Soldir turned to Ingald. "And you kept warm in the night, Ingald, I guess, dancing the goat's jig."

Ingald smiled. "I guess Amundi had a woman in his mind."

Soldir laughed. "I think he had a woman, not in his arms, but in his hand." Ingald tried not to laugh.

"When you jokers are done, we can get on our way," I told them. I shook the reins and trotted toward the high ground Soldir had pointed out. The others followed, with the two soldiers trailing well behind.

Until mid-morning, the country just got worse. More swamp, more sluggish streams, and a steady mist in a damp wind. The two soldiers groused continually, looking at us occasionally like it was all our fault and maybe, if we got lost in a bog, they could go home. Then, abruptly, the land started to rise a bit more. Now we were surrounded by freshly tilled fields, and the sun came out. We stopped by a fence, made a fire, and dried out while the horses rested and ate grass. Soldir, Ingald, and I told jokes to the soldiers, even a few they hadn't heard before. I recited my ode to the scrotum, which they appreciated, and they sang for us a long and raunchy sailor's song. I'd heard the song before, but there were a couple of new stanzas I could steal. We were all singing the closing lines, when Soldir jerked his head a bit to the left. I looked over there casually, and could see six or seven men sneaking along a hedge row. Soldir flicked his eyes in the other direction, and I followed them to a small forest, where at least two more men on horseback were edging to cut in front of us. "We have visitors," I said, pointing.

The soldiers and Soldir were in their saddles very quickly; Ingald and I were a lot slower. We backed ourselves against the fence. Soldir called instructions to the soldiers, and told Ingald and me to stay put. The two soldiers drew swords and trotted straight at the forest, from which three men on horses had emerged. Soldir took out his sword and went out to the middle of the field, looking at the men on foot. Ingald and I drew swords and waited.

I expected the two soldiers to attack the three horseback robbers, but they didn't. Instead, they stopped abruptly in the middle of the field. Then they put their horses through a routine, doing a couple of figure 8s, a couple of circles, then a couple of wild passes, finishing with the horses rearing back while the soldiers simultaneously drew their swords. Then the soldiers began a trot towards the three robbers, their two horses in perfect sync. The robbers had obviously figured out that they were in the presence of professionals, and vanished at a good clip into the woods. I looked in the other direction; Soldir had stopped his horse; the men on foot were running as fast as they could towards the nearest swamp. A couple of them had dropped their weapons.

We went on. After another three villages the road improved dramatically, and we passed several wagons pulled by oxen. In the middle of the afternoon we arrived at Roskilde the castle of Lord Olav.

It wasn't Elsinore by any means, but the castle was sturdy enough, with walls of some dark stone and a keep that rose well above the rest of the castle. It was built on a hill, even if a small one, and well back from the sea. A wide and scummy moat separated the castle from the horse pastures around it, and there was an extensive collection of tents beside the road. Flags identified the tents as belonging to various military groups.

We rode up, waited our turn behind a half dozen carts. I'd have liked to have relieved my sore ass end and to have walked the rest of the way, but I gathered that there were procedures to follow. At last the castle guards read the letter from Claudius and within an hour we were housed in a guest room in the castle and eating a supper of ham and bread in a small room with five officers of the castle. Our own soldier-companions had vanished the moment we got through the gate; Soldir told me they would be housed with soldiers of equal rank outside the castle.

Washing down some of the heavy bread for which the area was known with the insipid ale for which it was notorious, I commented to Soldir that the castle was a long way from the shore. The officers of the castle watched as my companion explained it. "Our Viking ancestors," he said, "never made war on each other for the sake of war or looting." He winked. "But sometimes it was necessary to settle family disagreements or insults with a boat full of guys with axes."

"In most countries, that happens pretty often," Ingald observed.

"And more so with the wonderful people in the north of Europe," Soldir said. "I think it's something to do with the long dark winters. In any case, Vikings land on beaches, jump out of the boats, and run screaming up to the objective waving axes and swords." He coughed. "Setting the castle back from the sea gives one more time to get ready for an afternoon of Viking small talk."

I looked around the small, stone-walled room and wondered what I was doing there. I grew up a village fool, a country kid who finally figured out that it was a lot easier making a silly display of myself than plowing fields in a cold spring rain. But, as a kid, stone walls were for prisons, for people on the way to execution. I'd got a lot of pleasure outside when the sun shone, following a fence-line in the mornings, checking for breaks, with the wet dew on the thick grass squeezing up through my toes The only sounds were the cries of crows, doves, and songbirds, except for wind touching the tree leaves. Now I looked at the ale and the bread, and the pot of honey, and listened to everyone talking but nobody really listening. The words overlaid each other and everybody was trying to give a good first impression to people they'd just met, as if it mattered to a fool what impression he made eating supper. A lot of people had run out of things to say to their comrades, so strangers got the burden of listening to old stories if they weren't quick enough to get a long tale running themselves. I thought again of the wild birds and long grass, and ordered another ale.

Then I took a few deep breaths, and put on my best smile. Far to the west of us, by a small river, my ex-wife and her replacement man would be planning the season's sowing and calculating how much grain they could spare for the larder. Maybe they had some of her relatives with them around the table, or maybe some of his. I told myself I didn't care. That I missed the birds more.

I caught Ingald watching me and gave him a nasty look. He was a lot further from home than I was ever likely to be, I thought, but at least he hadn't spent the last night alone.

Later, after hours of doing nothing at all, we ate at a long wooden table in the corner of one of the larger rooms of the castle, dishes delivered by servants.

"Someone's trying to impress us," Soldir said. "Outside of Elsinore castle, when I have I seen this much meat?" On the table there was spring lamb, pork, beef and fish, as well as bowls of eggs, butter, cheese, and milk.

"It helps when you're from the monarch's place," Ingald said. "They know you appear to be a collection of clowns, but things aren't always what they appear to be."

Soldir said the very fact that the Lord and his Lady were in the castle said something about the state of the nation. Lady Isobel, we'd been informed, had eight manor houses scattered, each about a day's ride from the next over fields and forests. Traveling from one to the other, Soldir explained, particularly in spring, was a good idea, just to show the serfs that order was still around. A castle, especially a small one like Roskilde, wasn't as comfortable as a manor house, but it was certainly safer if a crazy band of Norwegians, smelling of fish and sheep, were to come calling. The keep, as tall as any in Denmark, could support the Count's family and maybe fifty knights for a couple of months, according to Soldir. That's all it would need, he assured me; by that time there would be a rescuing army from the rest of the kingdom or the invading army would have to move on before it became itself encircled.

A tall woman, dressed in a robe trimmed with miniver and feathers and a mantle of scarlet cloth came in by the far door, looked around, then walked towards us. The material of the robe, I figured, was baudekyn, wool in the warp and gold thread in the woof. Everyone in the room bowed. We did, too.

"Please be seated," she said to us, and we sat down, our hands on our laps. There were the three of us fools and a half dozen locals, high-ranking servants. I'd expected a palace functionary, but this woman was obviously more than that. "I am Isobel," she said. "Lady of this overbuilt and silly rock house."

We all murmured greetings. Isobel pointed at five of the locals and dismissed them, keeping only a bearded old man to accompany us. Then she sat at the end of the table. The bearded old man, my two would-be jesters, and I; we sat in silence while Isobel watched us, seeming to be waiting for something. I wondered if she expected us to say something, even against protocol. I was about to introduce myself and my friends when two servants appeared carrying trays with jars of ale. I mean, big jars, not the regular ones we'd had with the meal. There were still trays of foods on the table, which was good, because I get hungry when I drink ale, a fact that explains my girth.

"Drink," the Duchess Isobel said. "Drink to the fools we are even when we pretend not to be." I nodded, although I've always resented the way outsiders tend to horn in on our territory. "You may introduce yourselves," she said.

"I am," I said, "Amundi. I have been chief fool for the king for the last four years."

Isobel interrupted me. "Everyone here has heard of you and some of your jokes. You're from Southern Denmark, are you not? Is that a problem, being from a place so far from Sjelland?" She'd obviously done her homework.

"It has not caused me a problem so far; King Claudius is happy with all Danes, however far from Elsinore they were born."

She laughed. "You could be a spy for the Norwegians, or you could be a spy for Claudius, for all we know. That means you're probably spying for Mother Church or the Germans."

"None of those, I assure you," I protested.

"Claudius didn't ask you to check out his Danish Lords, and how well they're preparing fortifications or rounding up soldiers? Or even their level of commitment to Denmark and its king, whom many have accused of incest for marrying his brother's widow?"

"My lady, the King may well ask for my opinions of Roskilde when I get back," I said, "but...."

"Doesn't the Bible insist on a man marrying his brother's widow?" Ingald interrupted. I scowled at him.

"Only," she said, wiping the foam from her lips, "if that widow has given the family no sons and the husband has been killed in battle. Then it's a requirement, in order to beget a son to continue the family line. And Gertrude has a son, heir to the throne, whatever type of king he might become."

"Otherwise it is only... lust?"

"Basically," she said, "but was Claudius lusting for the woman or the crown? That, at least, is the question I hear being asked around the castle."

"My lady," I said, "The king has asked me only to go to entertain you, should you wish, then go to Faxe and do the same. Nothing more."

"But if, when you get back to Elsinore, you were asked to report all you'd seen and heard?"

"Then, My Lady, I would do just that. I ask you not to tell me or show me anything you wouldn't want the king – or the queen – to hear."

"Fair enough," she said. "Introduce me to your companions."

"This young man with the olive complexion," I put an arm around Ingald, "is a stranger from the south somewhere. He's a bit of a mystery, but is well traveled, knows several languages, and says he wants to learn the fool's trade from me."

"Is he any good?"

"He sure is, My Lady, and I'm hoping to show you that he is, soon."

"And your other companion?"

"We call him 'Soldir,' because he was a soldier in his last profession. Wounded and no longer able to serve his country like he used to, he says he wants to be a fool. He asked me to introduce him to the trade."

"You're training your replacements, are you?"

"Yeah." I drank heavily and clapped my two companions on their backs. "But it's nice to have people I can practice with, so I'll take that chance."

"Can I trust them?"

"Neither more nor less than you trust me," I said. "Soldir, here, would be a good spy for anyone, king or invader, that needed an evaluation of your defenses. Ingald is probably memorizing your conversation in detail, for all I know, or checking which of your handmaidens to seduce first."

She laughed. "Maybe that handmaiden will tell him all the secrets of Roskilde." She sighed. "Just when we're preparing for war with those heathen Norwegians."

"They're Catholics, too." I noted.

"Odinists in their fishy little hearts, I suspect," she said. "Out to crucify us real believers. And you're a spy, so I'll chuck you from the top of the heap nailed to a board."

"Ah, I am. You found me out." I spread out my arms in a crucifixion gesture, near, knocking Soldir's ale onto his lap. "I was won as a boy on the day Old King Hamlet took the Norwegian province of Vest Agder. I came complete with a few holey fishing boats, a herd of small Norwegian ponies, and the symbolic gold cross from the Church of St. Thor ."

"Claudius must trust you to send you about the kingdom before a war."

"There are wise kings who appear wise, foolish kings who appear fools, wise kings who appear fools, and foolish kings trying to be wise. How is one to know which one serves?"

"And you wouldn't tell if you did know?"

"I have only been with Claudius for a few years. Trying," I added, to live up to the legend of Yorick."

"Ah, Yorick," Lady Isobel said. "There were always rumors about him." She shrugged. "I remember him. He was a good-looking man in his time. He entertained young Hamlet well, and provided much of the young prince's education."

"Some say he might have made a fool of the boy," Ingald said.

Isobel turned to look at Ingald. "I suspect that was done by nature, not by nurture. Speaking of which, how is prince Hamlet? Is he getting the military training he'll need to save his neck? I assume Laertes could guide him, if that man isn't already in charge of much of an army or two." She sighed. "I have two sons making themselves ready for the coming war. One will probably get himself killed pretty quick; he's an artistic type. And I have a third son coming in from Holstein to fight for the homeland." Then she smiled. "I can't see Hamlet in command of a pike regiment, but I assume Laertes will win honors for Denmark."

"Ahhh..." I said, with both Ingald and Soldir looking at me, then at the ceiling.

Isobel was by no means a stupid woman. "Laertes was put in charge of an army or navy, I assume?" she asked. "That boy had a natural ability to gather followers." A long silence. "Come on. Tell me."

I looked around but my friends weren't about to take over my place. I decided to put it plainly. "Laertes asked to be allowed to return to Paris and Hamlet to Wittenberg to continue their studies." I could see Isobel's eyes widen in astonishment. "Laertes is already probably halfway there."

"And brave young Hamlet?"

I couldn't tell if she was serious. "He asked, but Claudius refused him. Now he wanders the castle, telling bad jokes and getting in the way of the war preparations." I shrugged. "He's more of a distraction than a help; everybody's nervous about what he'll do next."

"Those little bastards," she said. "I knew that the prince wasn't going to be much help against Fortinbras, but at least I thought he'd put up a good show. Laertes, though; what was he thinking? Half the country's going to name chickens after him. What was his father thinking? What am I going to tell my sons and the soldiers who are supposed to fight for Denmark?"

"I think Polonius...." Ingald hesitated.

"Is getting senile? I figured that." She took a long drink of ale. "But it doesn't look good, does it, a man letting his kid get out of the country just when a battle's looming?"

True," I said. "Morale at the palace has dropped a bit."

"There was a time," Isobel said, quite unexpectedly, "that Polonius and I were thought to be lovers. Can you believe that? He was a lot older than I was, but he had the power to run the kingdom and the brains, too." We wisely said nothing. "It wasn't true of course, but he and Gertrude did what Old King Hamlet hadn't the ability or the inclination to do. I suspect those two they let the king go off to beat on the Polish just so they could get in a few good reforms while he was gone."

"Were the reforms good?" Ingald asked.

"They were the ones who made a defense pact with England," she said. "If England were in trouble, we'd send a few longboats into the battle. People still fear the Northmen," she added, "although we're not what our ancestors were. And if Claudius has any brains, he'll be calling on a few English warships to place between Denmark and Norway as soon as he can.":

Soldir got into the conversation. "You think England will send them, My Lady?"

"I think so," she said, signaling a servant for more ale. "Both our countries know it was a logical deal. And Old King Hamlet loaned them a tidy sum of money to help in one of their silly little wars in France. I never thought that loan would be paid back, but a few warships to guard the straits might help us."

"But it might be too late," Soldir noted.

"Got that one right," Isobel said. "It'll take a week to get the message to England, if he hasn't already started, a couple of weeks to get even a minimal convoy of ships ready and a week to get them over here, if the winds hold and the North Sea isn't too rough for Englishmen."

We nodded some agreement at that.

"My sons," she said, "were trained to fight and command. You have to fight to be able to command around here. What do you think they'd have been like if I'd sent them away to learn Latin and philosophy, and music?" I hoped she would ease up on the ale or we might be spending a long time on the subject of whose sons were fit to run Denmark. Abruptly, however, she got up, thanked us for listening to her, and said she was looking forward to the show on the next night.

When she'd left, we sat down. "Do all people tell jesters so much?" Soldir asked.

I nodded. "It's a professional hazard. It means you've got to keep the secrets or your head will be the joke on the pole."

"For those people who are amused at such things," Ingald said.

"More than you think," Soldir said. "My soldier friends see us as parasites on the economy, paid for the trivialities of making nobles laugh."

"Parasites on parasites," Ingald said. "No wonder they laugh when they see such a head on a pike beside a gate." He looked at me. "I promise I won't laugh at your head on a pike."

I pretended I didn't know what he was talking about, but making whoopee with the wife of the king's chief executioner wasn't going to do much for my retirement plans. "Castles," I said, "may survive a six-month siege, but it's a wonder they aren't washed away on the rumors that float around. A woman like Isobel has no one she can confide in, so a travelling clown often meets a her desperate need to talk about her concerns. But if you talk," I warned, "you're dead." I got up to go take a leak. "Sometimes it doesn't matter. She hears a rumor that matches something she told you, and the next thing you know, you're landfill, pushing up daisies."

I'd only meant to relieve my bladder, but Ingald and Soldir got up to join me. Afterward, we found our room, and went to sleep. I woke up, as usual, once or twice to use the chamber pot, and once to threaten Soldir with decapitation if he didn't stop snoring. He just laughed and eventually we both got back to sleep. The beds were very good.

We spent the next morning practicing our routine. It was much the same as the one we'd used at Elsinore, with some improvement in timing and a couple of acts suggested by my acolytes, just in case we were asked for encores. We didn't know whether Roskilde had an acceptable jester or not (eventually we learned it was between jesters), so we had to be prepared.

In the afternoon the sun came out, and I found a warm south-facing spot by a castle wall, near a garden. "Good day," a voice said, and I looked up to see Lady Isobel. It was not inappropriate; the social gulf between a Lady and a Jester is just too great even for scandalmongers. Or at least I thought at the time.

"Good day, My Lady." I stood, removing my cap.

She sat herself onto one end of the stone bench , then waved me down. "Sit, Amundi," she said, indicating the space beside her. I sat, put my hat between us, and waited.

"This castle," she said, looking around at the courtyard, "isn't going to win any prizes for architecture, is it?"

"Castles are for defense," I noted, crossing my legs and arms, then uncrossing my arms because all that crossing up seemed a bit anxious and antisocial.

"Can't stand this thing." An ox pulling a cart full of wheat went by; we pulled our feet in to save our toes. "It's cold and it's crowded. I blame Fortinbras for the whole thing, and Old King Hamlet as much." She scowled. What is Vest Agder to Denmark? Did I say that before? Should have offered it back to Norway as a Christmas present long ago. He's got it by now anyway; and we're sure not going to send our navy over there to fight for it. We can't even think of any way to stop him from overrunning Denmark, given the state of our national army, unless Faxe gets its ass moving."

"Do you think he'll win?" I asked, not knowing where else to go with the conversation. A stray dog came up and tried to decide whether to hump my leg or just pee on it. A quick kick to the jaw with my crossed leg sent it yelping on its way. Isobel just ignored it.

"I'm also from the mainland," she said. "I came into this marriage from a previous marriage, down in Bremen. Married at 8, widowed at fifteen, with no children." I was married to Olav at sixteen and came with four manors, three with good incomes, and the fourth with a very good income, all to come with me into the marriage.

I don't visit them often, though. Lord Olav has five himself, and now that I have sons, the oldest owns my bridal estates by law."

I just listened, politely.

"Olav's five manors don't produce nearly the income of my four back home, and that's a bit of a sore point with him. But I like the manor life here; things are way more comfortable than the castle, but you can't defend a manor. Fortinbras will likely get them...." She seemed a bit depressed. "I miss the lands."

"The lands, My Lady?"

"Of course," she said. The sun came out and she stretched out long legs and pushed her strawberry blonde hair back. "Fairly extensive holdings all the way down to the low countries. The four manor houses, productive in the good years."

Tough life, I thought.

"When my first husband died – he'd heard that bathing was healthy, so he ordered a bathtub and was dead within a week – his brother took most of the lands. I spent three years fighting in courts before I got those lands back. That's where I met Olav. He was suing Sweden for overpayment of fish. Someone read him the original agreement and he discovered he'd been paying the king almost twice the agreed number of barrels of salted herring."

"A brave thing, to sue a king," I noted.

"Olav wanted to settle it with a sword or ax duel, of course, but old Sweden stood his ground and the courts ruled against the king, on tradition, although this was in one of those times when the Church and the monarchy were fighting, so I suspect the Church of meddling. My case followed his, and we were introduced."

"And here you are."

"Well, there Olav's courtship of two women, one a princess of Bavaria, but they turned him down, and me, Miss Third Choice, was still here, with lots of money and no impediment except the vow of eternal celibacy I'd impulsively taken after my first husband died." She laughed. "One does silly things at fifteen."

"Getting out of that vow must have taken some doing." I really couldn't see how I could use this in any humorous way, unless sometime Isobel and her husband came to blows with Claudius.

"It would not have been cheap getting those vows annulled in any case, and because I was finally pregnant it cost me more. The Church acquired some very good lands that day." She scratched at an errant bug under her armpit. "I suppose you want to know what I think of Claudius and Gertrude."

"No, My Lady. That is one thing I don't want to know, Not now, not ever."

But she ignored my deer-in-the-torchlight look, and went on. "Claudius is a man with a limited vision. Had we struck first, Denmark has the means to take Norway, and perhaps some of Sweden. But he's of a defensive nature. Now that we've foolishly allowed Fortinbras to get an army together, Claudius is a godsend to Denmark. How fortunate that Old King Hamlet died. How fortunate that Prince Hamlet was far away when that happened. I suppose that Hamlet is furious that he wasn't anointed king at once. He's thirty-three, now and he may never get to be king. At the rate he's going he isn't going to get married and sire a son either."

"Yes, My Lady.

"I suppose that there are rumors that Claudius murdered Old King Hamlet and stole the throne."

"My Lady, if a thousand scribes worked day and night writing all the rumors that circulate around Elsinore, all the geese in Denmark would be shorn of quills before they were half done and all the geese would freeze on a cold morning."

She laughed. She was pretty when she laughed. "It's the same here, and in every manor house. The upstairs speculates about the downstairs and they about us. And we, of course, make stories about them."

"It's the quantity, I suppose, that saves us all, Everyone believes everything and nothing." I noticed a cobbler eyeing us from a distance and changed the subject. "This seems a sturdy castle, My Lady."

"Well, this war is going to be a problem between Claudius and Fortinbras, I think. If Fortinbras's army stops to invest every castle like this one, he'll never get to Elsinore. We can hold out until rescue comes. And if he takes Elsinore and declares himself king, then we'll send a peace envoy and make deals our descendants will curse us for." She got up. "I do hope you've had good accommodation here, Amundi."

"A fool I may be but not such a one as to expect to be treated as well as we have been, poor servants of the king that we are. We are grateful."

"Lord Olav and I are looking forward to your performance tonight. Is it going to be as raunchy as the one I hear you did at Elsinore?"

"Our plan was to do much the same show, but to stop if it seemed we were offending someone."

"Well, you won't offend me unless you use me as a joke. Other than that, go ahead. You'll find me laughing, if only behind the cover of a fan."

"Thank you, My Lady. One finds it comforting knowing one won't become a decoration on the castle wall in the morning."

She laughed again. "If I were to believe some rumors from Elsinore, you're safer here than there."

A chill ran up my spine. "As I said, My Lady....

"Indeed you did, Amundi, but even a professional fool can be a real fool sometimes." She walked off. "Even the best of hounds can be distracted," she called over her shoulder dodging a cart carrying the contents of the toilets out to the fields.

***
Chapter 9: Vrejlev Abbey

The next morning found us on the road to Faxe. Aside from the two soldiers from Elsinore, we were accompanied by two more armed men loaned by Isobel, at least for the first day, and longer if we asked. "The forests," she'd said, "are dark and deep here, and the bandits might be bolder than those you met coming to Roskilde." So we rode as a group of seven, the four soldiers and Soldir riding close behind us and laughing at soldier jokes, some of which had to be whispered, since they didn't know for sure that their comments wouldn't get back to their masters; soldiers are natural skeptics of everything they're told, except the most outlandish of rumors.

We'd got off late, after a big breakfast and warm wishes from our hosts. Within an hour we were in the forests and they were as described. The path was narrow and the trees tall, with little sunlight getting to the trail. The horses seemed skittish, jerking their heads and twisting their ears constantly. Myself, I attributed it to ghosts. There were many places where piles of stones in the woods remembered the time, before the plague, that these had been farms.

We were told that it would take more than one day to get to Faxe, but we might find accommodation midway at Vrejlev Abbey or in the houses around it. I wondered what staying at an abbey would be like.

"That went well," Ingald broke into my thoughts. "Even better than in Elsinore, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I said, "I gather we can come back there anytime." It had, indeed, gone over well. I suspect that Roskilde castle didn't get to hear the stories and jokes that a "metropolis" like Elsinore did. We'd done almost the same show as we did in Elsinore, although I'd added in a song about how, being a man, there were few places I couldn't have a piss. Soldir, beard and all, had put on a dress and played a noblewoman trying to find a place with a bit of privacy.

Then Ingald had done a routine about the Pope and the Church, pretending to be praising those while subtly – but not too subtly – mocking them. In one of his routines he praised the poverty of the Pope, who owned nothing, neither the white horse he sat on nor the ermine gowns that kept him warm while various lackeys kissed his toes. "Even a humble jester," he noted, "has more possessions than the poor Pope. Maybe someday he'll loan me a castle or even a woolen coat he doesn't own." When he was sure most of the guests (not counting those from Mother Church) were laughing, he went on into waters I myself would have considered dangerous. But they loved it.

"Let's hope," I said, as we came into open fields again, "that word of your jokes hasn't gotten to Vrejlev Abbey before we get there. I'd like to have a roof over my head when we get there."

"I suspect," Ingald said, "that if I did the same jokes at the abbey we might well be turned out to sleep in the barn, if not the fields. I also think the priests will memorize the jokes and tell them, in suitably appalled voices of course, for years afterwards."

"I'm with you on that one," I assured him, "but I'd just as soon not spend the night in the barn, anyway." I turned to let Soldir catch up. "Were you offended by Ingald's jokes about The Church? I've heard that soldiers can be religious at times."

Soldir said, "Soldiers under attack pray to God, the Church, Thor, and the long grasses to protect them. But they expect, and receive, about the same from all of those. They're skeptics at heart, after the first battle."

We tried to stop for lunch by the gate of a small farm, but the dogs came out and harassed our horses, so we moved on, eventually settling under a tree old enough to have been there when people vainly trying to flee the great plague (or one of the many subsequent plagues) came by. There was a character cut into the bark that might have been from a Viking blade.

When the horses had grazed and were rested, the seven of us moved on. The land became much more open, with many large fields fenced in with woven-branch fences. There were a few horses, more geese and ducks, and pigs that kept close to the houses. In one field a man followed team of cows that was pulling a scratch plow, stirring the earth just enough that the two men some distance after could scatter seeds. It looked like they were planting peas, but I couldn't be sure. They stared at us until Soldir waved, then they waved back. One man loped over to the fence, but seemed unable to think of anything to say when he got near us.

Soldir greeted the yokel with a polite bow and asked if we were near Vrejlev Abbey yet.

"You're from Roskilde castle," the man asked, in a thick accent.

"From Elsinore, by way of that castle," I said. "We're hoping to spend the night at the Abbey."

"Well," said the man, and trailed off into silence.

"We are on the correct road, aren't we?" Soldir asked.

"Yes. Yes. A ways down the road," he added, as if there were any other way to go."

We thanked him, and went on. He watched us for a minute, then went back to his plowing.

"They all like that?" Ingald asked. "Peasants, I mean. Here in Denmark, like?

I stopped the group in the road and pointed ahead. "See that house? It probably houses the ones who own the fields we've been going past."

"Large," Ingald noted.

"Tenant, probably," Soldir added.

Ingald inspected the land. "Pretty good land if you ask me."

"Some of the finest farmland in Europe, once you drain the swamps," I said. "I was a farmer, once," I added, although I'd probably told them that. "Travelers say that it's not as good as the German plains, but better than most of southern Europe, if you don't mind the winters."

"But they're tenants. They don't own it?"

I shook my head. There's a monastery up ahead. Priests take a vow of poverty, like the pope, so they don't own anything. But the monastery, itself...."

"People trying to buy their way into heaven?"

"Mother Church can be very forgiving," I said. "A bit of land here or there can take a lot off your time in Purgatory, I imagine."

"But don't the brothers or nuns do all the farming?" Ingald shifted on his horse. The horse, being a horse, looked around carefully and nervously. To a horse, a trot meant all was well; a stop in the middle of nowhere might mean danger. The horses began to neigh to each other, and we moved on, past the tenant's house. It was large, looking capable of holding several families.

"The priests farm as much as they can, given their obligations to prayer. But some donated lands are far away, and even those close to the Church are more than the Church workers can handle. Some lands are worked by hired farmers; others by tenants."

"And how do the tenants feel about that?"

I shrugged. "Depends on how they're treated by the local Church officials. That varies."

"You seem to know," Ingald said.

"I know," I said.

"And yet it is I that makes jokes about the Church."

I looked away. "You're younger and faster than I am. You can always go home." Wherever that is, I thought. "And how can one make fun of God's Church? Eternity waits."

"And you think the Church can save you?"

"So it claims." I shrugged. "One has to believe that it's the only portal to Heaven, if one hasn't been told otherwise."

Ingald laughed. "The average guy hasn't much idea what to do with his life, should he have free time, yet he's looking forward to an eternity which will last forever.'

"Yet the Church often brutalizes the people it has power over," Soldir noted.

"If the Church has the power over my eternity, the Church can get away with it," I said. "Besides, the Church and the people are two different entities. One is eternal and cannot be touched. The other is collection of people of various abilities and ethical behaviors, hanging around huge and silly stone buildings, for which they browbeat the population for leagues around."

"You're starting to get trapped between logic and faith," Ingald said. "If Heaven gave us reason and if Heaven also gave us faith, then we've been presented with two incompatible and contradictory gifts. Do you suspect God's a jester, and we are part of his infinite jest?"

"I respect God too much to hold Him responsible for a world as absurd as this one. Besides, God gave us civilization."

"Stone walls don't make a civilization, even with a big bell on top."

"Better than not being able get out of the rain on a cold winter day," I said. "Ask Soldir, he's done that enough."

"Well, sometimes you have to ask yourself if civilization has done any more to man than complicate his barbarism and refine his misery." Ingald watched the road and Soldir watched Ingald as if he were even stranger than he'd imagined. "And all the religions we now call false, people once called true."

"Barbaric peoples," I said, "are given to worshipping malevolent gods; if a god isn't cruel, they figure he probably isn't worth worshipping. They think, 'Kill a man and you're a murderer. Kill thousands and you're a conqueror. But kill everyone but a few in a boat, and wow, you must be a god.'"

"Luckily, we're free of that now," Ingald laughed, and we all lapsed into silence.

At the edge of a village, we came up on Vrejlev Abbey. It adjoined a cemetery and had a nice wall around it. There were people coming and going, and people working in the fields adjacent to the building. All were nuns, as far as I could tell.

"This is where you plan us to spend the night?" Soldir asked.

"I guess I assumed this would be a monastery for men," I said. "Monks. Men monks."

"Do they take in guests, just like monasteries for men?" Ingald asked.

"Beats me," I said. "Christ taught that we should be compassionate, but that's not always practiced when the Church owns land."

Ingald looked at the high walls of the compound and the Church that towered above it. "True, and the abbess will hold power that comes from God and from a collection of serfs working good soils. And power in any shape gets a full stomach. A full stomach always holds a dose of insolence. The well-fed do indeed like to lecture the hungry. But, then again, we might as well check it out; night is coming."

"The Church, even this far from Rome, is founded on kindness and honesty." I said.

Ingald snorted. "Found a Society of the Honest, and every thief in the area will rush to join it. God created the world, but the Devil helps grease the wheels of most carts."

Soldir smiled at me, shifting to favor his bad leg. "You are, of course, the boss of this expedition, so you get to go in and ask."

"I thought the boss got to delegate," I snapped. The others, including the soldiers, laughed. I spurred my horse forward, through the gate. Inside, nuns worked what were probably herb and vegetable gardens. There were even a few plots growing spring flowers. I tied my horse to a post by the steps to the church, and looked around. There were many faces watching me, and a woman moving towards me with the gait of authority. When she got close to me, she stopped and waited. Probably an abbess, but I wasn't sure how one addressed an abbess. "My Lady," I said. "I am with a group of six other men looking for a place to spend the night. You have my apologies; I didn't know this was an order of nuns." I hesitated, then remembered to add. "We have a missive from the king."

"We are an order of Benedictines, as you might tell by our black habits," she said. "I am the abbess. You may address me as 'Mother Abbess.'"

"Thank you, Mother Abbess. I would be grateful if you could direct seven men, soldiers and fools, to a place where we could have a meal and spend the night."

"Soldiers and fools? There's a combination you don't see often. Why are you calling yourselves fools?"

I explained about Ingald, Soldir, and me, and our mission from Elsinore. "The king loaned us two soldiers for our safety, and Roskilde loaned us two more to guide us through the forest." The nuns had returned to work, but they bobbed a lot, rising to watch us.

"You're not from the Church?"

"That's for sure, Mother Abbess. I'm afraid my fool friends and the soldiers have a definite lack of proper deference for an establishment such as this."

"We provide accommodation to visitors passing through. We do this for men and women, as a matter of Christian charity and we do it for free, although a donation to maintain the Church is always welcome." She indicated a group of small buildings standing off from the main compound. "You can stay there."

"I am grateful, Mother Abbess...." I started to say, but she interrupted me.

"I was afraid you were more idiots from the Church. Fools and soldiers would be more than welcome, if only by comparison." I thought she was the sternest-looking woman I had ever met, with the possible exception of my wife or her mother when my wife told me she was leaving me for the village blacksmith.

"A fool is more entertaining than an idiot, I should hope," I said.

"I would think so. An idiot should be listened to because even an idiot may wander into truth, but a fool should be listened to because he may be trying to tell you the truth. Did you put on an entertainment at Roskilde castle?"

"We did, my... Mother Abbess."

"Did you mock the Church?"

"We did, Mo...."

"Did they laugh at those jokes and skits?"

"I'm afraid they did, at times."

"Did you mock God or the saints?"

"No fool is that foolish; we leave that to idiots with no hope of Heaven other than God's mercy. I myself am not brave enough to mock the Church, either, but one of my apprentices...."

"One you brought with you?"

I rolled my eyes. "One that came with me, perhaps more like a tick on a horse's ass, I'd say."

She laughed, and seemed a different person. "Could we ask you to put on a small performance for some of us tonight? One that includes most of the jokes about the Church you told at Roskilde." When she saw that I looked shocked, she added. "We are separate from society, but it's useful to know what other people out there – she waved an arm in the general direction of everywhere else "are thinking. One must never let Satan take her by surprise," she added with a smile.

"Tonight?" I asked.

"Of course. I'll send a messenger to get you sometime after you've had a meal." She pointed again at the guest houses. "You might want to use two of those, since there's seven. Your food will be delivered at dusk."

I thanked her, and tried to back away, but discovered one can't very well do that if one is at the top of a flight of stairs. However, she took my tumble as part of my trade, and, after years of practice, I landed well. She laughed as hard as my companions did. I ignored my bruises and a bit of blood from my nose, and told the others of the arrangements I'd made. "If we ever assault a mountain, you're going up first, just so we can see you roll down," one of our Elsinore guards told me.

It was getting late, so we settled down into the two outbuildings, putting our blankets on straw that looked fresher than I'd feared. Soldir wandered over to the four soldiers while Ingald and I discussed what sort of show we might put on for women in a religious order.

"I'm flummoxed," I told him. "I've never put on a show for a religious group before, and the only one I put on for an all-woman crowd was impromptu and for working women in a cloth-dying factory. I don't think puns on 'dying' are going to do much for these women. Nor do I think they'll get a lot out of cock jokes."

Ingald was less worried, "I've travelled a lot, and I can say confidently that we can do the same routine we did last night, paring out a few of the anti-government comments and the bawdier parts of the skits and songs. Trust me. We can watch our audience and stop if it looks like we're offending anyone.

"What will we do about that religious part we did last night?" I asked.

Ingald smiled. That's the part they want most to see."

"But...."

"Look, Amundi, we'll just move it to the third person. Follow my lead. We'll be okay."

I doubted that, and had the feeling that we might just see the last of Ingald before midnight, his horse escaping into the swamps and woodlands on his way back to Greece or Spain or Egypt or wherever he'd come from. Young fools are braver than older and wiser fools. And faster on foot.

Supper arrived about that time, delivered on a cart, not from the abbey but from a pair of farmers, tenants to the religious order. "I was expecting a meal from the abbey kitchens," I told the wife, who looked more likely to talk than did the sullen man.

"You'd have done better with them," she said. "They eat well, even during this hard season."

"This is the hard season?" Ingald asked. I knew what she meant, but let her explain it to him.

"We store as much food as we can from the fall harvest," she said. "In spring there's not much left to eat. Then we have to take some of that if we want to keep the animals alive, and some more as seed for the fields. So, while plants are coming up everywhere, it'll be a month or more before even the pea crop is ready."

"Oh...." Ingald looked unsure at the food and ale the man was serving to the seven of us.

"Not to worry," the woman said. "Last year's harvest was better than usual and we slaughtered a pig yesterday. Anything we can't make into sausages won't keep, so we might as well get rid of an obligation to the monks and nuns."

"I hope this wasn't your last pig," I said.

"We've started raising them commercially,' the woman said. "There's a market in town and it gives us a bit of money. Until," she added, "the king decides he needs that money for a war or the abbey needs it to pay for a better table in their dining hall."

"Is this common?" A pig had always been just a farmer's way of using up household surplus in my village.

"It is becoming so," her husband said. "I've heard there may even be an export market to the Hanseatic League, if we can provide sausage and salted pork consistently."

"This looks like a good meal," I said. "Are we to pay you for it?"

"We're getting out of tilling a field for the abbey," the woman said. "If Her Majesty the Abbess found out you'd paid for this food, we'd lose that. Anyway, the bread is from Sister Hekja in the abbey bakery. I guess they don't like ours."

"They didn't seem too fond of the abbey," Ingald said, after the cart had gone back through the gate.

"The peasantry generally regards the Church as a parasite."

"They have to pay for saving their souls," Soldir said, breaking off a piece of bread and washing it down with ale.

"Generally, a serf is convinced that they could pay in a lot fewer long sermons and prayers, and a lot less tilling of the Church's field and still get into Heaven. I've tasted better ale, I added." My guess was that someone in the abbey might check to see that the food was good enough, but they probably didn't check the ale, so we got what the pigs didn't.

We spent an hour going over our show in the growing darkness, before a nun came to get us.

We were led into a large hall. The main table, it appeared, had been moved against a wall, to give us room. This wasn't as good an idea as it seemed, since some of our routine normally took place on the table top. Maybe they didn't want our footwear, covered in the yard manure, on their table. More finicky than people at the castles, I decided. It didn't matter; we were capable of doing most routines on the floor. Around the room, on identical chairs, were about a hundred women, but no men.

We started with an introductory song that broke into arguing and slapstick among the three of us as we disagreed about the lyrics then the tune. We followed that with some jokes and a skit about people of Viking ancestry trying to have a polite dinner, using axes instead of spoons.

There was a pause for Ingald to do his song about the Danish weather. Instead, he went into the one that seemed to criticize the Pope for luxury living. He toned it down a bit by starting with an, "I disagree with these thoughts but I heard them, and though I beat the crap out of the guy who taught it to me, well, here it is." I kept an eye on the door. Not only was it daring to do that to the Pope, but the Sisters themselves were sometimes at criticism for living a life of poverty that was better and more secure than the locals.

The women broke what had appeared to be a vow of silence when most of them laughed and clapped. A few, including Mother Abbess, kept a stern face, but didn't try to interrupt. At the end of Ingald's song, she stood up. "Thanks," she said. "We are cloistered here but it's wise to know what the rest of the world finds funny. Can you do more of the comedy you'd do at a manor or pub?"

We could and did. Or we did in a modified form. We preceded everything with an apology similar to Ingald's and we carefully kept our stuff to material that made fun only of men, their body parts, and their attitudes. Even then, I watched their eyes. There were always some that found it hilarious, but there were an increasing number finding things uncomfortable, and eventually Mother Abbess raised a finger. I stopped the others and we broke into a patriotic song, followed by a Christian song. That, and the song that followed, were based on folk songs with strong and repetitive choruses, in which we asked the sisters to join. One by one, they did, until the place filled with song. These women had good and practiced voices.

At the end, we bowed and were applauded. Mother Abbess dismissed the other women and came up to us. "That was good," she said. "Or, rather, just bad enough. We'll be talking about this for years. And probably explaining it to St. Peter after."

"Should we skip town at once?" I asked.

"Well, I'm ordering you to leave in the morning, you rascals."

I hadn't been called a rascal before, but I could see she was covering her butt with the order. "We will, of course. I'm sorry you were shocked and offended." I was covering my butt too, in case anybody asked.

"Just remember it for confession," she said, smiling. "But I'm glad we didn't invite any of the men; they don't have such a sense of humor, and that would have silenced my girls."

"Men?" I asked. "There are men here?"

"Of course. You don't think the Church would let mere women run this place without supervision? We have a priest here, and a couple of Church officials who get replaced regularly, in case they get too attached to the abbey."

"I should think you could do well enough on your own," Soldir said.

"The abbey was once only part of a larger complex, mostly male monks with a separate section for women," Mother Abbess said. "After a few, ah, incidents, the Church decided to separate us. But there's always a few men here to make sure we don't sell our souls to the devil or something."

"How will they take tonight's show, when they hear of it?" I asked.

She laughed. "They'll be appalled. But we'll get through it with prayers and confessions, of course. That's the usual way." She looked carefully at Ingald. "You seem familiar; do I know you from somewhere?"

"No, My Lady. I've never been here before. I'm a stranger in these parts."

She turned back to me. "Can you leave by sunrise? Without any more jokes about the Pope? You must learn forgiveness."

Ingald held up his hands in astonishment. "But my best idea is that we must forgive the Pope. In the first place, he needs it more than anyone else. And that's the best way to put ourselves above him."

"You know," she said, "Sometimes I suspect this world just gets worse and worse." But she smiled on Ingald the way she'd never have smiled on an ugly man like me.

"Oh, My Lady," Ingald protested. "You are mistaken, because Adam, who had only one commandment to keep, broke it. People today can't begin to break all God's commandments, but Adam managed it."

Mother Abbess laughed, and said nothing.

Ingald went on. "And there were only two children in the world, once. Cain killed Able; that`s a slaughter rate of one in two. Even the Black Death didn't manage a success like that." He winked at her. "Have you ever figured out why God preferred Able's sacrifice to that of Cain? I figure knowing the basics might help me along."

She shook her head again. "Do you work for Satan, by any chance? Has it occurred to you that many like you might go to Heaven with half the labour they go to Hell?"

Ingald spread his legs and looked into his pants. "Well, I guess I do. There's the big guy himself.... Wait, that's only my dick." He looked up and smiled at her. "Sometimes I can't tell them apart!"

"I'll pray for you," Mother Abbess said. "Be gone in the morning."

"Of course, I said." I didn't ask Ingald or Soldir; I knew they'd agree with me.

Ingald and I slept well, but Soldir and the four soldiers stood guard shifts all night, if only because the guest cottages weren't well built and we didn't want local thieves coming after our purses. In the pre-dawn of the morning the two from Roskilde left to return home, and the our little band of soldiers and fools went on down the road. Before we were out of the village, I stopped our group outside one of the cottages beside the road. They had a picture outside. "Sausages," I suggested. "Sausages, worms, or poop," Soldir said. "Hard to tell."

"There's a fairly large herd of pigs around," one of our soldiers said, sniffing the air.

"Probably sausages, then," Ingald said, offering to hold my horse while I made an inquiry at the cottage. I checked the road behind us, and didn't see any Church elders with axes coming.

No one answered when I knocked, so I went around back, taking my dog stick. Like most riders, I found it useful to carry a stick to beat off dogs that wanted to chase my horse when I rode or myself when I walked. Looking over a fence, I saw and waved to a man who was feeding pigs. When he came closer, I saw he was the man who had come with our supper the previous evening. I shook his hand. "Amundi," I said. "I was hoping you could sell us some sausages."

"For real money this time?"

"I'd offer a prayer for each sausage, but then you'd be more a fool than I, and I can't take the competition," I told him, bringing out my money bag. "We appreciated the supper you brought us last night."

He smiled. "I'm Geirstein. I would be happy to sell you sausages. Thora and I make the best around."

I bought enough for a breakfast and extra in case we found ourselves without a place to buy lunch. He overcharged and I overpaid and we both knew it, but we smiled and enjoyed getting a small bit back on the Abbey. In the end, though, he tossed in some perfectly good sausages for free, saying they were old and hard. His wife arrived and frowned at him, but the two waved goodbye as we left.

When the day was sufficiently warm we decided to stop for lunch in a small village of four huts on one side of a small river. The land was bright with sunshine and birds searching for food for their nestlings. One or two flew around in the tip branches of nearby trees, probably calling us names in bird language, but at least it sounded like song. A little further along the river there was the faint roar of water going over a mill dam. In the middle of the river a peasant and his son had two horses hooked to an empty wagon. We crossed the river there, since it was obviously a ford that had been used for centuries, then let our horses drink, rest, and whinny to the two wagon horses. The peasant was washing the horses while his son dabbed at places in the water with a line, trying to lure a fish.

Arno & Bengt, the two soldiers from Elsinore, ignored the peasant, but Ingald and I stopped with Soldir, who wanted to talk to the man. "Hello, fellow; do you live near here?" The son watched us with rapt attention.

The man, recognizing the uniform of king's soldiers, took off his hat. "I do." He indicated the nearest house, a good-looking place with several gables, three chimneys, and a wood-shake roof. The walls were probably of mud and wattle, and had been painted white within the last couple of years. "I own the mill," he added, pointing downstream. On the other side of the stream a black-and-white dog barked endlessly at us.

"This is a fine place," Soldir said. "A lovely house. Are the trees as old as they seem?" The village trees seemed very tall and thick-trunked.

"At least a hundred years old," the man said. "My grandfather told me they were old when he was a boy. We had more, but many of the oldest were lost in a windstorm five years ago." He shook his head at the skies. "Danish winds, you know."

"Your fields?" I asked, looking out over acres of land just turning fuzzy with newly spouted seeds.

"Not mine," he said. "My son and I have enough to do running the mill." He pointed to a couple of the other houses along the river. "My neighbours own most of land."

I wondered if he was telling the truth; possibly he suspected us of being land inspectors for the king's tax man. Possibly even he might suspect us being land inspectors for Fortinbras, making notes before talking over Denmark."May we stop for lunch here?" Ingald asked him. Our horses took the time to have a drink of river water.

"Of course. I'll just get Knud so he doesn't bother your horses." The man waded to the shore, scooped the dog into his arms, and carried him to the wagon.

We rode to the shore, left the horses where they could feed on grass, and sat beside our soldier companions. "Peaceful, isn't it?" I asked Bengt, who was sitting on the ground, his back against a tree, eating a sausage and washing it down with ale.

"I like the flowers," Bengt said, indicating a clump of purple irises along the bank. "Maybe we can stay a day or month here." Arno nodded in agreement. "Build a house, get a wife, have kids...."

"Even if you could afford it," Soldir pointed out, "you'd be working all day every day to get enough food to last the winter. Not," he said, "that you lead a sheltered life at Elsinore, but you know where your food's coming from."

"Work?" Bengt said. "I'd sooner be a jester."

Soldir had cut a sausage into bite-sized chunks and had got some river water to drink. "Just picture Fortinbras's army coming through those trees," he said, pointing beyond the fields. They're going to cross the river here, and get as many provisions from this village as they can. The locals will have fled into the forest with their wives and daughters, some of which won't actually be caught by Norwegian scouts. If the Norwegians are in a good mood, they'll just take the farm animals and not torch the houses."

A small bird flew down, landed on an iris stem, and told us something we couldn't understand.

We spent an hour or more there, resting and napping, while a few village people peered at us from behind the corners of their houses. Eventually I got up. "Off to Faxe," I said, getting on my horse. The others followed me out of the village and had just started along the dirt road when a local fellow and his wife came over to talk to us, and remained sufficiently polite as to not directly ask where we were coming from and going to, although this would eventually be big news in such a small place. Jesters of Elsinore! Soldiers from the king! Were the jesters under guard for making fun of Prince Hamlet?

When we told the peasant we'd spent the night at the abbey, the man shook his head and the woman spat onto the ground. "Money for prayers," she said, almost hissing. "Even in spring when we're down to our last seeds, they want money for prayers. They live well on our work. I expect to go into Heaven with a nun riding on my back."

When we were on our way to Faxe again, and our two soldiers were trailing well behind, I asked Ingald and Soldir, "Do you think they're planning revolution?"

"I fear a revolution and I hear a revolution," Ingald said.

"Against the king?" Soldir asked. "The king and the nobles take as much of the food of the poor as the Church does, and probably do less for the peasants."

"And the Church, yes, if they could. But the king has soldiers and arms. The Church does not," I said.

"The Church has God," Soldir said. "Is He not more powerful than the king?"

"Only as long as the people believe that. It takes a hot fire to melt a cannon; it takes only words to melt a belief."

"Isn't it more difficult to overthrow something with no substance, such as a religion?" Soldir said, sticking to his point.

"How many of your ancestors believed in Odin and Thor before Christianity came a-calling?" Ingald asked. "Jan Hus may have started something that will spread from Bohemia."

"There are still many who carry a few of those Norse beliefs," Soldir argued.

"They hide those beliefs," Ingald pointed out.

"You think someday there will be Catholics in a similar situation, hiding their beliefs and counting their beads at night, in the dark?" I looked at Ingald a little closer.

He laughed. "I get the feeling that Mother Church can be shaken by quakes and chewed at by rats, but it will still stand, in spite of those of us who ask if it should stand."

"Will it stand up to a collection of jesters?" Soldir asked.

"Oh, I think so." We were into a village, the dogs barking at us. Ingald had us stop where a priest was sweeping the doorway of a small church. "Let's see if God objects." He called the priest over. "I have a Church joke," he told the priest, who just tilted his head and said nothing."

"A man arrives at the gates of heaven. 'St. Peter asks, "Religion?' The man says, 'Eastern Orthodox.' St. Peter looks down his list, and says, 'Go to room 24. But be very quiet as you pass room 8.'" Ingald looked down at the priest. "Have you heard this one."

"I think not," the priest said, repressing a smile.

Ingald went on. "Another man arrives at the gates of heaven. 'Religion?' 'Buddhist,' the man answers. 'Go to room 18' St. Peter says, 'But be very quiet as you pass room 8.' A third man arrives at the gates. 'Religion?' 'Jewish.' 'Go to room 11. But be very quiet as you pass room 8.'"

"Okay." said the priest, sounding a bit dubious.

"The Jewish man says, 'I can understand there being different rooms for different religions, but why must I be quiet when I pass room 8? St. Peter tells him, 'Well the Catholics are in room 8, and they think they're the only ones here.'"

I smiled. Soldir laughed, and so did the priest. "I'll remember that one," he told Ingald, and went back to his sweeping. I tied my horse to a tree, ignoring my companions. I almost dragged the priest in. A confession, a couple of obligatory prayers, and I was out again. By then the others were sitting in the shade of a large tree.

"Purified?" Soldir asked.

"More so than you," I said, getting on my horse and riding off ahead of them. When we next rested, Ingald said, "Those poor people in the monastery. My first thought was what a sorry life they lead. Not counting the Abbess and the other leaders, of course. But the nuns...."

"The Church teaches us that we have to work hard to get to Heaven," I said. "It tells us that God made the hierarchy that the Church enforces. That the peasant was meant to work for the noble and the noble must support the king. The man shoveling cattle manure and the woman carrying the slop bucket is giving glory to God as much as the nun at prayer in the Church. All honest work gives God glory."

"Well," Ingald said, "Much of a man's honest work goes to the bellies of those in the monastery. I saw no bucket coming from the clouds to take it. A person who looks at life with a philosopher's eye is probably astonished at the ease with which so many are governed by so few."

"Amen" I said, and rode out ahead of the others.

***
Chapter 10: Faxe

The road steadily improved as we moved south, with bigger fields and more prosperous-looking villages. Even some of the smaller rivers had bridges over them. Ingald commented on this, but Soldir just said, "Wealth doesn't always bring happiness."

"Nor does poverty," Soldir said. "These people aren't singing out in their fields. Sometimes a fat cow just attracts bigger flies."

I'd been in Faxe a few years before, and recognized the attitudes of the people. "I don't want to lower your expectations," I said, "but this place is run by a pretty hard-assed bunch."

"With an efficient military," Soldir said. "Faxe soldiers are among the best we have, even if their sense of humour is kind of limited most of the time."

"No wonder Amundi did his confession," Soldir laughed. "He probably asked for last rites at the same time." He turned to look over his shoulder at Ingald. "I guess you and I are going to purgatory unshriven."

Arno & Bengt slowed down so that we could catch up to them. Faxe is just over that hill," Arno said.

"They'll have a party for us?" I asked.

"Don't think so," Bengt said. "They haven't much of a reputation for hospitality. I just thought I'd warn you about making some of your jokes."

"Noted," Soldir said. "Do you expect some sort of trouble?"

"No. They're just now known for laughing at anything but dead enemies."

At one rest stop, beside a windmill and a slow creek, we took the shade beside two travelers already there with a horse and wagon. They had several baskets of plants and were sorting them out. I recognized various wild herbs among the greenery. After getting out a flask of beer and sharing it with the two men, I said, "Doctors, I presume?"

One gave a suspicious look, but the other, a tall man with red hair, acknowledged it. "Yes," he said. "We've a patient in real trouble, and we're trying things in a last ditch effort to save him."

"Anyone we know?" Soldir passed them a hunk of soft cheese and got a greasy salami in return.

The short man gave a sharp look to his companion. "A prominent man who can't be named, as it might compromise his position."

"Okay," I said. "You must be getting desperate to come so far from your supplies."

"We are," the tall man said. "We're hoping fresh herbs will do what our dried ones won't."

"And we're asking the locals for advice," the short man admitted, reluctantly, it seemed. I was aware that a person who asks advice is usually looking for an accomplice. So I didn't tell him that sometimes it takes a brave and wise doctor not to prescribe.

"It's been a week since it started," the tall man said. "Our, ah, patient was just starting to shave when he cried out in pain, or so his servants tell us. Then he fell to the floor and started having fits."

"We were called at once," the short man said. "Us and four other physicians."

"What did you think it was?" Soldir asked, with a little smile."

"There were only two things it could have been," the short man said. "He had an imbalance in his humors. He needed to have some of the sickness let out of his blood or out of his digestion." The short man shook his head, nervously. "We argued, but we started right away with what seemed the best treatment. We drained him of a couple of cups of blood."

"Wouldn't that make him weaker?" Ingald watched some doves flying by.

"Oh, yes," the tall man said. "But then we blistered him. We put heated cups onto his skin. The blisters are pretty big, and we know they stimulate the system."

"Then," the short man said, "we let out another cup of blood."

"He still looked awful," the tall man said, "so we went to work on his digestive system. My friend here induced vomiting to clear his stomach. I gave him an enema to clear out his bowels."

"What about the intestines?" Ingald asked.

"A purgative," the tall man said. "Although he really didn't want to swallow it. But it was for his own good. Eventually, the contents of his intestines came out into a bowl."

"You've done all you could by that time," I said.

"But he wasn't any better!" the short man said. "He wasn't any better. So we kept trying, knowing we'd missed something in him." He waved towards his companion.

"We decided to try a syrup made of blackberry and rock salt," the tall man said. "I've seen that work wonders. But it didn't seem to be working this time. So the senior doctor shaved his head and put blistering plasters on his scalp."

"It was wonderful," the short man said. "He regained consciousness just like that. We were sure we were on the right track by then, so I gave him another enema."

"And I put hellebore root into his nostrils," the tall man said, "as well as a poultice of cowslip onto his stomach, and, of course, some more blistering plasters onto his skin."

"By this time," the short man said, we'd been at it all day, so another doctor made up a plaster of pigeon droppings. We put the plaster onto his feet and put him to bed. Then we all went to pray."

"Well," said Ingald, "I've seen doctoring in eight countries, but none so thorough."

"Oh, yes," the short man said. He beamed for a moment, then got sad again. "We came back in the morning and...our patient...seemed much better."

"So we continued, of course," the tall man said. "First I let out two more cups of blood. Then another doctor gave him a special potion." He looked at the short man. "Do you remember what was in it?"

"I think it was black cherry, penny, crushed pearls and sugar. Oh, and peony and lavender. He slept for the rest of the day." The short man started wringing his hands. "We thought we'd cured him."

"Since you're out here," I noted, "you obviously didn't."

"It was persistent," the tall man said, "very persistent. On the third day he woke up and had another fit."

The two men were nodding at each other and talking.

"We bled him."

"We gave him white wine with nutmeg and senna pods in water."

"We made a drink with extract from the skull of a man who'd been beheaded. But we had to force-feed him by that time. He didn't take to it."

"We made him eat the gallstone of a goat."

"And?" I asked.

"We thought we were done! Again, we thought that."

"We congratulated ourselves."

"We told everybody we'd cured him." The short man was near tears.

"By the next morning," the tall man said, "it was obvious he was near death."

"We hadn't much to lose," the short man said, "so we bled him again, gave him another enema, and forced another round of purgative down his throat."

"Then I made up some 'Jesuit's powder." The tall man explained to Ingald. "We normally use that for malaria but we added wine and opium."

"He kept getting worse."

"So today...." Soldir waved his hands at their baskets.

"Today," the tall man said, "We're going to try an extract of all the plants and animals in the area." He was near tears. "We don't know what else to do." The tall man and the short man got up and shook our hands. "If you have any ideas," the tall man said, "we'll listen."

Each of us looked around as if something would come to us. Then we shook our heads, and watched them leave."

We came to Faxe town a couple of hours later. The two soldiers provided by Roskilde left us there, whispering something to Soldir that made all of them laugh. We watched them ride back down the road, then scanned the town ahead of us.

"Do you think we'll be chased out?" I asked.

"Not us," Arno said. "The king's name still carries some weight." Nonetheless, both soldiers stopped abruptly when a troupe of eight soldiers in resplendent uniforms came over the hill.

"Fancy clothes," Ingald said.

"Don't let that fool you." Soldir sat straighter on his horse. "I've seen one or two of these guys in battle. They're good."

The men stopped in front of us, blocking our way. The one obviously in command asked, "Entertainers from the king, and their cage-keepers?"

"We have escaped from -Elsinore for a few days. Does that make us fools?"

"A wiser man wouldn't plan to return, I expect. Sergeant Knud at your service." He didn't smile.

"We thank you for your welcome."

Sergeant Knud grunted. "Follow me." He wheeled his horse around and started up the hill. Three of his men took station in front of us, and four waited until we had past and took station behind us. In a moment we could see Faxe Castle ahead of us, on a knoll in the valley. Of course, "hill," "knoll," and "valley" are relative terms; Denmark isn't known for its scenic natural wonders, once you get away from the coast.

"Impressive place," Ingald noted.

"The defenses are well kept up," Soldir said. "That's expensive in peacetime."

"You'd rather bust your ass when there's an invasion coming," I asked, "like they're doing in Elsinore?"

Ingald shrugged. "It might keep taxes down and the peasants happier. People pay taxes more gladly when there's an obvious need."

"The peasants are never happy," Soldir said. "And they never pay taxes gladly, regardless of the need."

"Peasants seem happier in other countries." Ingald stood in his stirrups to get a better view of the castle and the town not far from it.

"Danes," I told him. "Their ancestors were, for the most part, freemen and independent cusses, before Christianity got them."

"You think it was the Christian thing?" Ingald asked.

"Could be coincidence," I said, "or the hierarchy of the Church gave the stronger ones reason to impose the their will on the others."

"I doubt that," Soldir said. "I think it's just switching from invade and slaughter to getting along with your neighbours that does it. Farming makes a guy submit to anyone who'll protect his fields from criminals, his wife from rapists, and his soul from the devil."

We passed through the town. Everyone watched us; no one said anything or smiled. I noted a fine-looking pub that looked more hospitable than the stone walls on the other side of a carrot field. "The Boar's Son," it was called. Soldir saw the way I was looking and nodded, but didn't say anything.

We rode across the drawbridge over the stinking moat and into the castle courtyard. Lieutenant Whatever dismissed his men. "You won't be needed," he said to Arno & Bengt. "You can find accommodation with the soldiers, if you want, or find a place in town."

With a quick glance at us, our two companions from Roskilde opted to try to go into the town. "We'll send a message to tell you where we settle in," Arno told me. I just nodded and they were off, loping through the castle gates. Obviously not spying for Claudius, I thought.

Ingald, Soldir, and I dismounted and stood there waiting for a few minutes, Lieutenant Whatever looking completely unconcerned as people and carts went around us, and a few dogs sniffed our legs. A yellow tabby cat, ignoring the dogs, came up and rubbed against Ingald's legs. Ingald picked it up, cradled it in his arms, and stoked its fur. It purred happily.

For a moment I thought I saw Shoop, dressed in a woodsman's clothes and riding a firewood wagon.

Eventually, a shortish, plump man in his mid twenties strode up. He had two large and silent soldiers beside him. I wondered why fools deserved such consideration; it wasn't like they were in short supply in Denmark. Maybe ones who admitted it were rare.

He paused to look us over. "Welcome to Faxe Castle," he said. "I am Hakon, Count Thord's younger son. Which of you is the jester from Elsinore?"

I did a nice bow. "I'm Amundi, resident fool at Elsinore," I said, giving him the opening he needed.

"Then the rest of the collection of fools there are just transients?" he asked. He raised his arms and looked to the skies. "Thank you, Lord!" He smiled. "And these?" He indicated Ingald and Soldir.

I introduced them. "They are jesters in training," I said, "as much accomplices as acolytes."

"You provide training? Wonderful. You must meet my brother Ivar; he's been turning into a fool for the last year." He turned. "Follow me." He led us across the courtyard, his armed men following us closely.

Along the Inside of the wall were the usual collection of stone and wood buildings, designed to shelter soldiers in event of a siege. He stopped at the most disreputable-looking of the lot, although even it, like most things in the courtyard, was cleaner than you'd find in the average castle. "This will be yours for tonight and tomorrow; my men will be in the adjacent room. Call them if you need to go somewhere, even to relieve yourselves." He smiled and walked away.

"Could be worse," Ingald said, inspecting the beds for bugs.

"I've been used to worse," Soldir said. "It's better than nights on a cold wet ground, with Polish soldiers trying to lob rocks at you and Polish partisans selling you poisoned ale." He sat down on the only chair at a wobbly table.

"Tight ship, this place," I said.

"Very tight," Soldir said. "Faxe provides much of the leadership in a war, and always, always, the best soldiers. They do a lot of training."

"You've been here before?" I asked.

"Some things you know by reputation," Soldir said. "But I've always wanted to see it."

"How much does Faxe own?" Soldir sat on the dirt floor.

"As I understand," I said, "two castles and a string of manor houses out of town. I gather Lord Thord's ancestors were a pretty bloodthirsty bunch and collected a lot of land during the plague years."

I saw Ingald nodding. "you know these people."

"No," he said, "but I've seen the type in a dozen countries. I suspect that, if Norway invades Denmark, Faxe will somehow come out of it bigger than it started." He looked carefully around. "I know the type," he said again.

We were interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it to find a very small, thin woman in a brown but well made dress. Behind her, three men stood beside a mule-drawn wagon.

"You can call me Big Anna," the woman said. "I've brought you some stuff."

The men brought in a keg of what turned out to be ale and a platter with bread and meat stew, still warm from the kitchen. Before we could say anything, they also unloaded blankets and four more chairs. "You can leave the chairs outside, if you need the room," Big Anna said.

We thanked her, and waited. She waited. Then she said, "If you've nothing else to say, I'll sweep the room and tell you your schedule."

We had nothing else to say at that time, so we watched her sweep the floor and brush away some of the spider webs from the darker corners. I wasn't sure that was such a hot idea; instead of spiders that might catch a few bugs we now had homeless spiders with a grudge. But I was, I added to myself, no expert on spiders.

When she was done, Big Anna got a chair and joined us outside. She looked over the three of us, and said, "Just what are your plans at Faxe?"

"That," I said, "would depend on – "

Soldir interrupted me. "My lady, we are merely travelling jesters on a divine mission to get as far away from Elsinore as we can for as long as we can. The longer and farther, the better. Elsinore is not our stage; it is just a nuthouse. We are at the service of Faxe." He spread his arms and bowed, rather theatrically.

Ingald and I perked up. I'd assumed, as, obviously, that Big Anna was a servant who had come over to clean the guest house and gather enough facts for a speculation stew in the kitchens of Faxe Castle. Soldir turned to us. "May I present," he said, pausing for effect, "Lady Anna, the only daughter of Lord Thord still living at Faxe Castle."

Ingald and I bowed immediately, and fully. "I'm sorry, My Lady," I said, but...."

She laughed. "My sisters are married to idiots. Being the youngest, I'm allowed to hang around until my father decides what to do with me. I figured I should make myself useful for once. Even cats catch mice and birds lay eggs; a single girl like me is lucky to get an assignment." She winked. "To sweep for clowns. As, of course, most women do."

"To assess the characters of such?"

"Oh, I assume my father will at least ask me my opinion of the three of you. Which of you is Amundi?" I bowed. "What do you normally do when you show up at a new place?" she asked me.

"Entertain, My Lady. Make people laugh with us if we can, at us if we can't. Eat good meals, drink fine ale, and escape before the people of the castle figure out we've been making fun of them all along."

"It's getting late now. Can you hold off until we arrange a show tomorrow night?"

"Actually," I said, "That would suit us best." I coughed. "Are there any topics we should avoid, or any we should cover?"

She thought about it. "Don't criticize the king or queen; they both have their supporters here, as does Hamlet, though I can't see why. Go easy on religion; my father's not particularly religious, but he feels he should look as though he is. That's about it."

I looked around. "I guess we'll go for country humor." Ingald and Soldir nodded.

"Sounds good," Big Anna said. "Just watch my face; if I frown, it means you're getting onto dangerous turf."

"I'd appreciate that," I told her. Such a helpful critic was as valuable as gold to a jester.

Just before she left, she said, "we'll be sending a meal your way shortly. Probably a ham stew; dad likes to make sure none of you are moneylenders from the city. I don't know why, other than the amount of money he owes them for keeping the army going all this time." She walked across the courtyard, the gaze of everyone there following her, without looking back.

"I'm glad I didn't assume she was sent to keep us warm in bed," Ingald said. He squinted at Soldir. "How did you know."

"I'm a soldier. First thing you do when you go anywhere is find out who's who and who's the boss."

"I didn't think you had time for that!" Ingald was perplexed.

Soldir just smiled. "I have my ways."

"Anything else we should know?"

"Yeah," Soldir said. "Watch out for the two sons. One's smart and one's not, but they're both hard-asses like their father. Don't expect them to smile at anything we do, and remember that the whole family has been suspicious since their great grandfather stole most of Faxe from a family that just wasn't paying enough attention."

"How will I know the smart one," Ingald asked.

Soldir shrugged. "Beats me. I just know what I was told. We'll figure it out." Sensing my question, he said, "I talked with some Faxe soldiers during our stupid Poland war. I was told the king shits blood every now and again. His doctors look at the stuff every morning. The whole place wants him to live. They're afraid the one son, who's a year older than his brother, will end up running Faxe."

"And that worries them?"

"Damn right. He's the idiot." He smiled an evil smile. "Of course, soldiers judge idiocy differently than most; it depends on who's most likely to get them killed."

"The local jesters..." I said. It was a rule of practicality to ask one of the resident jesters which skits, songs, and poems the castle people hadn't heard or seen yet. It seems Soldir and his brief conversation with the Faxe soldiers had covered that. There were two old men, he told us, who played the jesters in Faxe, both retired and injured soldiers who had a repertoire of patriotic and thoroughly scandalous songs, but hadn't much in the way of active skits.

I was still contemplating that when a wagon drew up, and two guys unloaded a small keg of beer and some covered metal plates of what was probably mutton and ham stew. It also smelled a bit of fish; I guess they were using up the leftovers for the guests.

One of the servants slid back his hood, then, making sure the other fellow didn't see him, put a finger to his lips. It was Shoop. He winked at me, and then at Ingald and Soldir, who had noticed him by then.

"Here's your food, sirs," Shoop said in a loud voice with a heavy Lolland accent. When the other servant wasn't watching, he whispered to us, "Been here almost a week. Time to do my thing and move on."

"Not yet," I whispered. "They'd blame us."

Ingald nodded. "Can't you wait?"

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Tonight and tomorrow," I told him.

He thought about it. "I can wait till you're gone, I guess." He put his hood back up.

"Been busy, have you?"

"Doing good. This'll be my second castle in a week." He laughed. "I bet the bishop stepped in it."

"They'd hang you for that," I whispered.

"They'd do more than that," he said, "if they catch me. Especially these fucking warmongers at Faxe."

"Good luck," I whispered. My cohorts nodded.

He'd been gone only a short while when three men walked across the courtyard. Lord Hakon, whom we'd met on the road, was dressed in noble's clothes; the other two were soldiers with a lot of brass and a bit of silver. Hakon waited while we rose and bowed. "My lord," I addressed him.

"Sit down," he said. He sat down. I offered him some of my stew, but he refused it, saying "Already ate." I was sure he had, and probably better food, but he added, "basically the same food you're getting. With Fortinbras thinking of invading, we're on a war footing here. Everybody eats soldier food." He winked. "Of course, some of us get more of it, and a few snacks at bedtime. But in public, it's all stew, beer, and bread." He waved his guards back; they found a fairly clean piece of ground to sit on and a wall to lean against. "What brings you to our pile of stones?"

"Claudius," I said. "The king. I'm his latest jester and these two are learning the trade. His majesty thought it might be a good idea to have us entertain across the kingdom. We get to do a show tomorrow night, if you want. Otherwise, we'll move on."

"Checking out the state of the state for the head of state?"

I told him the same thing as I told Lady Isobel at Roskilde. "We haven't been asked to do that, but he may ask us when we get back. You should assume he will."

He laughed. "Faxe's not worried. We could probably take on Fortinbras and Claudius both, and come out ahead." He became serious. "Not that we would, of course. The king's the king and a civil war would probably have the Emperor Maximilian bring the Holy Roman Empire down on us. He's still got the army that defeated the French a couple of years ago. We're good, but pretty well out of our league against those krauts. Long live Claudius."

"He hasn't been king long, my lord," Ingald noted.

"I think Grim saw to that."

"Pardon?" Ingald seemed intrigued.

"Look," Hakon said, ripping off a chunk of bread then dipping it into my mug of ale, "it makes sense. Everybody expected Prince Hamlet to come running home and take the crown. Hell, we were all ready to swear fealty to Hamlet when, poof, Claudius marries his brother's widow, really biblical and all. But that shouldn't make him king of Denmark. Not with Hamlet alive." He drank more of my ale. His ale, actually, I suppose. "Is the prince getting up an army to regain his rightful throne?"

"Not that I've noticed," I said.

Hakon raised his eyebrows, but I didn't go on. He nodded. "Nothing you can say, of course. But I don't think it's safe to upset tradition like that. We're not Vikings any more, you know. I think my father feels the same, but he's not going to do anything – you can tell Grim that. And Claudius. He's got Faxe's support." He winked. "Maybe in return for a favor or two...."

"Grim?" I asked, imagining him doing the mortar and pestle in Tola's arms.

Hakon snorted. "Grim was here a week before Old King Hamlet's death and a few times after that, along with a few other Lords. Don't trust the bastard. I think the crowning of Claudius was his idea and... some people... say he probably poisoned the king. Wouldn't be the first time that happened and wouldn't be the last time." He finished my ale. "I think this" – he pointed at me – "Grim got together with a bunch of the Danish Lords and they asked my father whether he wanted to go for it. And my father said to put Claudius in. Claudius could handle Fortinbras." He burped a manly burp. "Save the kingdom. With Faxe to back him up, of course." He one-eyed me and put a finger alongside his nose. "All speculation, of course. As far as you'll get from my father, he supports the guy with the crown, however much henbane it took to get it. My brother, Ivar, on the other hand...." He got up, as did we. "Try to avoid him, is my advice."

"Can you ask your father whether he'd like an entertainment tomorrow?" I said.

"Probably will, but I'll send word. Just remember we've still got the rack in the basement." He got up and walked away without a backward look. I thought that he hadn't tried to tell us how he felt about anything.

We spent an hour or so trying to come up with an entertainment that would let us get out the door the morning after. Soldir suggested a few new soldier-friendly jokes, based on older jokes. I agreed; this was, after all, a military hangout of the first order, at least in Danish terms. Then, just as darkness arrived, so did another guest, coming slowly across the courtyard with six armed men carrying torches. "The other son?" I asked Soldir. "Ivar."

Soldir shrugged. "I think so, from the description, but...."

The six armed guards stopped well back. A short man hobbled forward into the light of our doorway. He limped badly, had one arm that didn't move much, and was wearing a soldier's outfit without decoration. Stopping before the doorway, he said, "I am Ivar, the Lord's son. He laughed, "makes me sound like Jesus coming back for more, doesn't it? May I come in; I don't take up much room."

We stood back, and bowed. "Welcome," I said. "I'm Amundi, theoretical leader of this trio of scallywags. Would you like a seat at the table?"

"Thanks," Ivar said. He took one of the three chairs and sighed. "One of you will have to stand, I see."

I was about to volunteer, when Ingald spoke up. "I'm the youngest." He moved to the corner of the room.

Ivar waved Soldir and I into the other chairs. He watched Soldir sit carefully into one chair. "A soldier, and a wounded one?"

Soldir nodded. "Yes, sir. An arrow into the chest and a horse kick that did my leg no good."

"Fighting for Denmark?" Ivar waved away the bread I offered, but took Ingald's mug, which I filled with ale.

"In the winter war against the Poles, sir," Soldir said.

"Saving Denmark, of course." Ivar laughed, choking up a bit of ale and brushing it off his beard.

"Paid to fight," Soldir said, "not to think."

"Soldiers do too much thinking for their own good. Anyway," Ivar said, "now you're a professional fool, and ready to do more thinking and less fighting. What did you think of the war?"

"If there was a reason in it," Soldir said, carefully "it was not explained to us soldiers."

"Tactfully said," Lord Thord's son winked. "A kingdom is held together, they say, by its king, and by the willingness of its subjects to do the bidding of that king. Without that, we're all at risk of whatever army comes by."

"It was a stupid war," Ingald said, stepping toward the table and taking a piece of bread, before returning to his place against the wall.

"You think so?" Ivar had another drink from the mug Ingald had used for his supper. "And what accent is that, that provides commentary on this Viking tendency to go off to other lands with axes a-swinging?"

"I am from the sunny south, hence this darker skin and brown eyes. I have been through a good chunk of this benighted continent and listened to a potful of stories of silly wars disguised as noble history."

"But...."

"Well, Old King Hamlet's war against Poland comes near the top of idiocy."

"Are you going to tell that to his Lordship?" He held up a hand to stop an immediate answer. "My brother and father and I would all have gone to that, except that Old King Hamlet, probably under the advice of Polonius, forbade it. My father, even then, was in no condition to travel, and Hakon and I formed part of a bulwark against any of the German or French states who might want to attack while we were in Poland. We sacrificed some of our best soldiers in the snow there, but some thought we were conniving cowards, ready to take over Elsinore if Old King Hamlet didn't return. So our father knows what a stupid war it was."

"Oh, I don't think we'll get into that," Ingald said. "The Lord sees what he wants to see, as Lords are apt to do, and the basement of Elsinore has devices of torture as fine, I imagine, as anything in Faxe." He smiled. "Can Faxe defeat Fortinbras if Elsinore falls?"

"We like to think so," Ivar said. "And we'll probably put our best men out to defend the castle. But if Elsinore falls...." He looked at Soldir.

"If Elsinore falls," Soldir said, "Faxe should retreat to its own walls and wait. Fortinbras will lose men against Elsinore, and more men against each of the castles of the other Danish lords. And, of course, he'll have to leave men to administer and guard each of the other castles, so when he gets to Faxe, he'll be weakened. Maybe even ready to deal."

"The man knows his theory." Ivar smiled. He stared each of us carefully in the face as he asked, "What do you think of the rumor that Claudius and his queen conspired with Faxe to replace an incompetent king with one that could defend the country?"

"If rumors were useful as cow shit," I told him, "we'd have enough to grow the best crops in all Europe. Maybe enough for all Europe."

"Good comeback," Ivar said, "but it doesn't answer my question."

"He wouldn't do that. My father wouldn't do that." Big Anna, Lord Thord's daughter, came into the room. She faced me. " Hakon, my other brother, asked me to tell you that Faxe would be delighted if you'd put on an entertainment tomorrow night."

Ivar laughed again. "You're sure dad wouldn't do that, even if it meant saving Denmark from the evil Norwegians? And Grim was here before Old King Hamlet died just having an ale and talking about the weather."

"Our father has a good idea what a civil war could do to a country, and when you usurp a king, you risk that." Anna looked defiant. "Denmark was slowly hammered together with the back end of a Viking axe; it can be split apart with the sharp end of resentment far more quickly. By the ambition of a Danish Lord or two. Island nations are easy to break up."

Ivar shrugged. "It could be hammered back together."

"With much blood. With much blood."

"But, if Fortinbras put the head of Claudius onto a pole outside the main gate of Elsinore?"

"Ah," Anna said. "That would be different. "Assuming the Norwegian army was worn down enough to defeat, our father might go for the crown." She looked at the ceiling. "Who wouldn't?"

Into the stillness, that followed, Ingald's voice, with its Mediterranean accent, came. "And if Prince Hamlet were to contest the crown with his uncle?"

Everybody watched the children of Lord Thord. Ivar laughed again, but I wasn't too sure it was sincere. "Dad told me a hundred times that he supported the head that supported the crown. I think he'd back Claudius until Hamlet managed that. Then he might support Hamlet. Loyalty to the crown, whoever wears it. As long as it's in Danish hands."

"Hamlet doesn't seem like he'd be much of a king," Anna said. "Just saying."

"Oh, I do believe that if Hamlet were king," Ivar said, "our dear father would offer guidance. A lot of guidance." He raised his eyebrows. "Aside from organizing a defense of the realm, do you think Claudius is any good?"

"I'd be happier if he went on an offensive instead of just defending." Anna watched us drink beer, then tore off a bit of bread, rolled it around a slice of pork, and ate it. It was not something she'd have gotten away with if she'd been in the castle proper.

"Raise an army and attack Fortinbras? Isn't it a bit late for that?" Ivar simultaneously finished his mug of ale and scratched at a nuisance flea behind his neck.

"The king has sent envoys to the king of Norway, asking him to rein in Fortinbras," I blurted.

Both of the Thord kids turned to me. "Aha!" Anna said.

Ivar laughed. "Just the other day my sister asked me to name the best military leaders in Danish history. I came up with a few names, guys that had won battles."

"And I said...?" Anna asked, with a knowing smirk.

"You said the best military leader is the one that gets what he wants without chancing a battle and sacrificing young men." Ivar got up. "She might have a point there. If so, it's hail to Claudius for his wisdom." He scratched his butt." We at Faxe prepare for war and hope for peace. We like it that way."

"Had enough ale, brother?" Anna had her hands on her hips.

"Nope," Ivar said, "Not enough for this poor aching body of mine, but even fools deserve sleep. Shall we go?" She nodded, and they left, arm in arm, without a goodbye.

There was a silence. Soldir took a walk around the cottage, just to check that there were no soldiers listening. It seemed a bit extreme, but I was glad of it. When he got back, we poured Ingald a mug of ale to let him catch up to us. He wiped off the lip of the mug and drained it in one go. "The lady might have a point about Claudius."

Soldir looked a bit puzzled. "You think he can get out of this war?"

"You're in favor?" I asked.

"There are a few nut cases who like war. They get a boost from killing." A drink of ale. "For the average soldier there's neither glory nor honor in it. If Claudius can get out of a war with the Norwegians without just handing the crown to Fortinbras, I'll personally get down and kiss his sweaty feet."

"You're not even in it," Ingald said. "Unless they need to fill in a ditch with bodies to let the army move."

"I have a lot of friends and the sons of friends who'd be in the war," Soldir said, simply. "And the daughters who are married to those of sons of friends." He stretched out his bad leg and made a sour face. "War is cruelty. There's no sense trying to reform it: the more cruel it is, the sooner it will be over. Next to a battle lost the greatest misery is a battle gained."

"Those aren't good lines to use here." I said. "And soldiers get hurt more than civilians."

Soldir shook his head. "Every soldier is somebody's husband, somebody's friend."

"Besides, an army often picks up diseases that follow an army home with the battle flags," Ingald noted. He saw us looking at him, and smiled. "Just saying."

The stub of a candle we'd been given was almost gone. Before we got to sleep, Soldir said, "There are assault weapons, the kind for putting castles under sieges, at Faxe and soldiers training on them. What do you think? Are they for defence training or for an assault on Norwegians or Elsinore?"

We ignored him and I slept through till dawn.

The next day was overcast, threatening rain. We got a breakfast dark rye bread, bacon, onions, and water. delivered well after dawn. Once again, Shoop was there, whispering to me as he put plates of food onto the table. "Thord is sick. The doctors are bloodletting five times a day and applying the clyster three times a day. It doesn't seem to help much. Good for a joke or two, I think."

At breakfast I gave this news to Ingald and Soldir. "Hakon's the older son. He should succeed Thord, but that's not always the case, especially if Ivar's a war hero or something." I told them.

"Hakon," Ingald said. "He thinks Ivar is a fool."

Soldir snorted. "That's just because Ivar is so crippled. Makes him look weaker than he is."

"So we don't know which one is the most dangerous to Elsinore."

"Hard to tell, among this bunch," Ingald agreed. "But the title will, in any case, probably go to the older son, instead of poor crippled Ivar."

"Doesn't always happen that way," Soldir said. "Take the case of poor Prince Hamlet. He may never get the crown, now."

"I imagine if Thord is really sick, there are conspiracies a-plenty going on." Ingald looked as if he should have got more breakfast ale.

"Yeah," Soldir said, straightening out his bad leg and wincing. "Too bad one of them, at least, couldn't be in France, studying theology or painting pictures of saints while this was going on. By the time he got back...."

"Anyway, we could do a lot of jokes and songs about leeches and purges and cuts all over the body," I said. "And doctor jokes."

"I suspect we might get a tour of the dungeon and its devices," Soldir said.

"Got a point there," I said.

"We'd better not joke about what doctors do up in these northern lands," Ingald said. "I know a bit about treatments in Italy and Africa, and we can make fun of some of them, possibly."

"Well," Soldir said, "we can joke about medicine in the Danish army. They do bloodletting a lot some afternoons, but I haven't noticed many soldiers being the better for it.

"Joking and battles aside," I said, "I've seen it done, but generally you to have to have enough money to afford a good doctor if you want it done right. I imagine Thord's got a dozen of them around him, trying to decide which of the four humors is overabundant inside him."

"First they'll bind an arm and let out a bit of blood to study, to check the balance of his humors," Soldir said. So they'll know where to cut him and how much blood to let out. After that, they make three cuts and apply three hot glass cylinders. As the cylinders cool, they suck out blood."

"I've seen that done," I said. "If you're red and sweaty, then you've got too much of the red humor. If you're turning yellow or orange, you cut a different place to let the yellow humor out. And if you're full of mucus and coughing, they've got to get rid of some of the white humors."

"Strangely enough, Soldir said, all the blood comes out the same color of red as far as I could ever tell, but the army doctors always claim to know what they're doing." There was a pause. "Tell him about the black humors," Soldir added.

I closed my eyes to remember. "I've only seen that done once. Black humors mean your body organs are rotting away inside you. Very serious. You're depressed all the time. Very, very serious. Which may be why you're depressed all the time. Like Hamlet used to be."

"And when you've let out the blood in the right places, does the patient usually recover?" Ingald was smiling, for some reason.

"Maybe not right away," Soldir said. "For serious cases, they want to leave the patient with enough blood to survive. Five times a day, until the patient heals."

"Or until God takes him?" Ingald asked.

"Sometimes the patient dies before the bloodletting can get the humors in balance," I said.

"Does the Church condone this?" Ingald asked.

"The Church says nothing about lay people getting the blood let out, but it's a big thing in the monasteries."

"Sick people there?"

"Well, the ancients – not the Bible, but the Romans who taught us so much – felt that semen had to be let out on a regular basis, or the monk's body would get sick," I said.

"I've explained that to more than a few women," Soldir asked.

"So a chaste community has to be bled at least once a month," I added.

"Even if a monk's not feeling badly?"

"That's worse; it means he must be emitting semen in secret, so he'd never admit he didn't need the bloodletting. The old monks bleed the young ones to help them get rid of sexual desires."

"It works?"

"Depends on how much you bleed them, I imagine," Soldir said.

"And just men?" Ingald asked.

"Boys and young men get it, so they don't suffer from lust. And old dudes with no partners." I wondered how soon I'd be in that category, getting orders from my boss to have it done. "And women, if they get past menopause. Until then, they're the lucky ones, usually shedding blood every month."

"And us fools?"

I winked. "A bad joke or a skit that's taken the wrong way can result in your getting 'corrected' by bloodletting, by the rack, or by purging."

"Ah," Ingald said. "They do a lot of purging in the south. The French aristocracy seems particularly fond of it. The pharmacists have a bunch of solutions and a variety of implements," Ingald demonstrated with his hands. "Long ones and short ones, curved ones and straight ones. They give the patient an enema with them. It's called 'conversing with the other cheeks.' It's supposed to remove the wastes, freshen the complexion, and brighten your spirits. Rich women do it a lot, I hear."

I nodded. "For all we know, they might be doing that to Thord between bloodlettings. If so, he'll be a marvel of a man soon."

"In the south countries," Ingald said, "they use buckets of leeches to extract blood."

"Ugh," Soldir shuddered. "Barbaric."

It rained all day, a light rain which the farmers and ducks probably liked, but was good for planning in the morning. In the afternoon I wandered towards the core of the castle and eventually found someone, a ramrod-stiff soldier in an immaculate uniform, who had the authority to give me what I needed. He had a couple of scars on his face, one arm, and a look that probably had had most of his opponents throwing down their spears in the day and just running for their lives. He turned out to be a likeable fellow with a great sense of humor.

"We have a lot of jokes and a few songs," I told him, "but we have some skits to practice, and we can't do it in that tiny cottage or outside in the rain."

"Of course," he said. "We can offer you a room in here, but I can't guarantee privacy, or we can let you use the stables. A lot of the horses are out with the army on maneuvers or hauling supplies in case we get a siege, so there's lots of room."

"That would be perfect," I told him. Then, after a pause, I asked. "Are there any subjects that are, er, sensitive? Topics we should avoid? Or any that you'd like us to make fun of?"

"Well," he said, "you've got to avoid talking about Prince Hamlet for your own good, since you have to go back to Elsinore. And Lord Thord is a bit touchy about his health right now. But the incompetence of our masons – you'd think Danes didn't know what a rock looks like – and the locals we get to supply us; they'd be good targets for a laugh."

"And they won't be in the audience," I said, although I wondered if word would get out before we were safely away from the local peasants.

"That's for sure." He called up a couple of servants and ordered a haunch of mutton, a quarten of bread, and a cask of French wine, to be delivered to one of the stables. "It's the one with the bell tower on it," he said. "Another stupid idea from the architects. There's no need for a bell there, and it just spooks the horses every time someone pulls the rope."

When I got back to our cottage, there was another person in it. Ingald and Soldir introduced me to Helgi, a thin, clean-shaven fellow of about my height. They watched me as I introduced myself.

Before Helgi could say anything, Ingald told me, "There's something I need to say about our new friend."

"Aside from the fact that Helgi's a woman pretending to be a man, what else can you tell me?" I said. I turned to her. "What's your real name, and why are you here?"

"Hekja," she said. "I escaped from Vrejlev Abbey after you left. I finally found you."

"You think this is going to be an improvement in your life?" I asked.

"I'm willing to take that chance." "Helgi" gave as determined a look as I've seen anywhere.

"Will someone come looking for you?" That was the last thing we needed.

She shook her head. "I've been pretty much a nuisance around there for a while."

"You regret joining the sisters?"

"I was given up as an infant to them. I've spent all my life in the walls and in the fields beside the convent."

"You won't make trouble for us?"

"Please, sir." There was a tear in her eye, but I ignored that. "I will be no problem."

"How old are you?" Ingald asked her.

"I am sixteen, sir."

Ingald said to me, "we can include her to play a woman."

"She's a woman playing a man already," I said. "And we have you for women's roles."

"She can be a woman playing a man playing a woman," Soldir said.

"We'll see," I told them. "I've got a stable and some food, or so I'm told, available. Follow me."

The stable was empty of all but one old horse. There was a cart with a heavy tarp over it. A couple of dogs were already nosing at the tarp and a bevy of cats watched from barn beams. We checked; there was just an unwashed fish net in there. There were no chairs, so we took food, cleared various types of stable stuff away with our feet, and sat on the floor.

"One of the best things about working in a castle," Ingald noted, "is that the fellow running the castle has to demonstrate that he has more food than he can eat."

"Maybe it makes the local serfs – the ones who go hungry so the guys in the castle can feast – feel more secure if their local boss is fat and healthy," Soldir said. "On the other hand, it didn't impress us soldiers much when our commanders ate like kings while we foraged for scraps we could steal from the locals."

I asked Helgi. "Was there much resentment of the Abbey?"

"I think so," she said. "But we didn't take all that much from the people, because the abbey owns so much land."

I doubted that. If they didn't take produce from the people around the abbey, they certainly made use of free labor by compulsion. An abbey was as much a protection racket as our political system, just on a longer-term basis. But the food at the castle was good, and a small but ample cartload we soon delivered to the barn. We even threw a few scraps of meat to the dogs and some bread crumbs to the birds in the stable.

The rain beat steadily on the roof while we practiced and improvised all afternoon. We concentrated on soldier skits in which plans go wrong but brave soldiers save the day. And skits featuring Norwegian soldiers trying to figure out the Danes, and failing. "Take the next valley – but this is what Danes call a valley? We made fun of Norwegian diet and accents as much as we knew."

For the first couple of hours Helgi/Hekja just watched. Then she put on one of our women's wigs over her shorn head, and tried out for the maiden's part in one skit. She wasn't much of a comedian, but she was good enough, and if she was going with us, she'd have to earn her keep.

"Nude men going to bother you?" I asked. "Nudity plays a big role in comedy late at night when the women aren't around."

"Don't know; I've never seen a nude man," she said simply, "except in old roman pictures, and there weren't many of those." She paused. "One of the visiting clergymen offered to show me last year, but I ran away."

"Good move," I said. "Ingald – how about you and Soldir do the innkeeper and the drunk skit?"

They did. Ingald played a drunken yokel who had only one piece of clothing left to buy another drink with. Soldir, the innkeeper, went on, in a strong Swedish accent about credit, but in the end, took Soldir's trousers as payment for a last glass of ale. The drunk never gets to drink the ale; because I came in, playing a wayward and horny goat, and Soldir climbed onto Ingald's shoulders, while Ingald ran around the room alternately trying to cover his genitals and ass at the same time while the innkeeper finished the beer. It went over well if the audience was drunk enough or hadn't seen the skit before.

Helgi sat there impassive, her eyes watching intently, although she laughed at the part where the drunk refuses to go home naked, and the innkeeper refuses to return the clothes, so they tie a ribbon around the drunk's dick as a compromise and send him out the door, chased again by the goat.

She'd now seen generally what we were about, so I offered her a choice. "You can pretend to be Soldir's wife or daughter, if you want," I told Helgi, "or you can join us as a performing man. And hope we don't get caught."

"I'll play a man," she said, without hesitation.

Dressed again, Ingald took half an hour to teach Helgi to walk and stand like a boy instead of a girl. He also taught her a heavy French accent, since most Danes were convinced the average Frenchman was pretty effeminate anyway. It was the best we could do; the consequences of being caught with a performing woman in the troupe might be heavy. Women worked as wives, daughters, and general labor to performing troupes, but an unattached woman caught performing would be a major blunder for us. Keeping company knowingly with an escaped woman from any branch of the Church was somewhere beyond contemplation.

Perhaps it was desperation, but Helgi learned quickly.

***
Chapter 11: The Road Back to Elsinore

We departed next morning, a glorious morning with a warm sun, light winds, a blue sky, a pack horse carrying food, and even a horse on loan for Helgi. And, of course, three unsmiling soldiers to guard us from road bandits. Or so they claimed. Soldir rode with these three for a short while, but they didn't have much in the way of conversation, so he returned to ride with us.

Helgi rode reasonably well; according to her, she'd done a bit of riding at the Abbey, although I couldn't imagine how. Anyway we made sure her horse was old and tame. I suspected it would go into some stewpot if it got back to Faxe.

In the afternoon, after fording another small river, we joined a larger convoy of wagons and walkers heading in the direction of Elsinore. The Faxe soldiers turned back at this point, taking with them the pack horse, but leaving us with most of the food, which we distributed among the horses. Surprisingly, one of the soldiers, who obviously had more authority than I presumed, gave Helgi the old mare she was riding. I thanked him, and he smiled and winked, before turning and leaving us. I wondered whether Helgi needed more guy-training, or whether the soldier liked young men. Or, maybe, the horse had been a gift from the king.

It was somewhere on that road that I suddenly realized I was happy, in a way that seldom occurs. I savored the feeling in the sunny afternoon, among so many strangers, until, of course, I'd picked it apart, and all I had left were crumbs and an aftertaste. I do that too often with my pleasures.

Late that afternoon we camped under small tents on a field surrounding an inn. Among the fifty or so wagons sharing the meadow with us was a group of travelling players I knew. I thought I'd go see them after supper. Meanwhile, we rested in the shade of a large oak.

"Faxe looks like it's getting ready for war," I said.

"Faxe is always ready for war," Soldir said. "It makes them feel good."

"Safer, anyway," Ingald said. "It probably makes them feel safer."

"Yet they're a target," I noted. "Don't you think," I asked Soldir, "that Fortinbras has to keep one eye on Faxe if he wants to take Elsinore?"

"That's obvious," Soldir said. "He might be wise to strike at Faxe first, just to get them out of the way."

"Faxe's the strongest castle in Denmark, I hear." Ingald sounded confident, although I didn't know that he was an authority. "The Norwegians might not take it."

"Depends," Soldir said, "whether or not Fortinbras has brought in some cannon and cannoneers, and some chemists who can make gunpowder. He might get them from Belgium or France, but they won't be cheap."

"You think Faxe's concerned?" I inspected a branch with a few flowers on it.

""All castles have to be concerned," Ingald said. "Nowadays a few good cannon or petards can blow a hole through any wall."

"They didn't look concerned," Soldir said. "They're practicing repelling a standard siege, and how to defeat siege engines."

"They're going to hold out against Fortinbras?" Helgi spoke up, surprising us all. "Is that why they have all that siege equipment? To practice on?"

"Good point," Soldir said. "There's too much of it and too many wagons around just for defense. I'd say they're going to take a castle somewhere."

"Defeat Fortinbras, then attack Norway?" Ingald smiled.

"Or take back Elsinore after the Norwegians have captured it."

"That could make them kings."

Soldir shook his head. "That doesn't sound like Faxe. They've always supported the monarchy."

"But if Lord Thord dies," I said, "one of those sons is going to be in charge. Things change with the generations. And if Elsinore falls and Claudius is killed, there's a vacuum to fill."

"Claudius seems capable," Ingald said, "but if he dies, I'm not sure who would stand behind Prince Hamlet."

We laughed. "You got a point there. But if the crown ends up at Faxe," I said, "we'll have to apply for jobs there. They seemed to like last night's performance. Especially the part where Ingald went running around the room with nothing but a ribbon tied to his dick."

I turned to Helgi. "First time you've seen a dick?"

She shook her head. "Second. There was a visiting bishop who cornered me in a back room and insisted on showing his to me."

"Were you impressed."

"Very. I spilled a whole bowl of hot soup onto his prize, I was so astounded."

After a supper of the cold meats and bread we'd brought from Faxe, I wandered over to the players' wagon, Helgi following closely. "Ejulf," I called to a man whose head came up to my belly button if he stood on his toes.

He turned, then smiled and embraced my knees and head-butted my crotch. "Amundi! Good to see you." He invited Helgi/Hekja and myself to the fire, and we made introductions, before sitting on blankets on the ground. We declined food, but accepted the offer of ale. "And here's a small mug for you," Ejulf said, appraising her. Then he laughed and added, "young man."

Following Ejulf's eyes, I turned, to see my other two coming up behind. "These are my compatriots and acolytes," I told Ejulf. I introduced Soldir first, "A fine soldier who now risks the barbs of fallen jokes rather than the steel points of falling arrows."

"A wise choice, although on a lonesome road it might be better to advertise yourself as a soldier than as a jester, if you don't want to be a fool who's a fool."

Ingald looked puzzled. "And why is that?"

"Because," Ejulf told him, "even an old soldier carries some respect, and may carry not only a knife but the ability to use it well. A jester, travelling alone, is prey to every brigand and band of brigands for the few cents he carries in his purse. A dead jester, singer, or actor brings no retribution, merely curse for the trouble of hauling his body into the woods for the wolves. Entertainers, such as we are, travel in groups for protection."

"Not even a king's clown?" Ingald looked dubious.

"Even so fine a king's clown would, dying, bring no more than a moment's furrow to the brow of a king or noble. Then that worthy being would call his best servant to find a replacement. Is it not the same, where you come from?"

I butted in. "This is Ingald, who claims to have visited so many lands in his travels that I think he's got wings hidden somewhere."

Ingald smiled. "In all the lands I've travelled, entertainers moved only with their patrons. I hadn't asked myself why they didn't go alone. I'm happy to have learned another truth in Denmark."

I joined Ejulf at his campfire while the other three went back to bring our worldly goods over. Ejulf was quite right; the larger the group, the safer it was going to be. When they returned, and we'd selected a good site for a tent, Ejulf introduced his fellow players, as well as their wives, who, according to an almost universal custom, did not entertain outside the troupe. Nonetheless, we found most of them to be vastly amusing and excellent singers. Not to mention seasoned consumers of the cheap ale available locally.

We could have started on a talk about the gigs available in Denmark, which would have been an education to Ingald and Soldir, but entertainers seldom have good news, once you discount some over-optimistic projections. And that depressing sort of talk is best with a lot of evasions and jokes that bring a grimace and laugh. And that requires ale. Luckily for them, I had enough money in my purse to cover a keg of the stuff, and some beef stew. They claimed to have already eaten supper, but they didn't hesitate to accept the food.

I asked Ejulf about the state of Denmark, politics being the bread and ale of the entertainment business.

"Temporary," he said, squinting.

"Pardon?" This was news. My heart beat a little faster. Ever since I'd found out that Ejulf had been one of my ex-wife's lovers, I'd spent many hours in the darkness of pre-dawn and the darkerness of too much ale carefully plotting what I was going to do with the tiny fucker. And I'd spent too much time picturing my ex-wife and Ejulf burping the worm in the mole hole, mattress-dancing, rummaging in the root cellar or whatever you call it. It took some imagination.

"Stoffler," Ejulf said.

"Johannes Stoffler," A player added.

"The professor at Tubingen University," a second player said.

"Predicted the end of the world." Another player clarified.

"Crap," a player's wife said, firmly.

"Stoffler?" I asked.

She waved her hand around. "And these idiots, too." She wandered away to do something with the other women.

"Tell me about Herr Stoffler," I was tempted to grab the keg of ale and make a run for it.

The third player seemed happy to do it. "Bright guy," he said. "Knows all about the stars. Makes horoscopes that astound everyone. The beginning of the Millennium, like in the Bible. The Judgment Day."

"Hardly time to shrive my soul," Ingald said, with a smile.

The player frowned. "You can make light of it, if you want, but Jesus will remember. He'll remember everything you said."

"If God raises the dead and judges them, who won't go to purgatory, except those of us who are off to Hell like a bag of shit down an outhouse hole?" Soldir asked. I thought he was improving his delivery; as a lifetime soldier he'd learned to talk directly and avoid similes. But he was learning.

"Despair," the player said, "also is a sin, because it means you have no faith in God's forgiveness. He crossed himself.

"There are no travelling players, no actors, in the Bible, I'm told," I said. "That tells you something. And the Bible specifically prohibits men from wearing women's clothing. Without qualification. Which of us has not done that?" The answer, I knew was none of us. The smaller men regularly played women in dramas, and in comedy the sight of a large, bearded man dressed like a woman was always good for a laugh, no matter how many times the locals saw it.

The player shrugged. "I think we can assume there are lesser sins, like the dressing, and greater ones, such as adultery. Purgatory may be what we get, if we're lucky."

"You mean, not 'if we're lucky', but 'if God spares us,'" Ingald said. I was thinking of adultery, and decided that if I was going to Hell for it, I might as well get in as much planting the parsnip with Tola as I could before judgment day came, from either God or Grim.

"Gloomy topic. And there's a few years to go." A fat player said.

Ejulf must have figured that, since we were into gloom anyway, it was time to talk business. "I hear you've come from Faxe."

I nodded. "And from Roskilde before that." I decided not to mention our night at the abbey, in case these players decided to make a comic performance out of it.

"We're thinking of offering a night's entertainment for Lord Thord." Ejulf said.

"A good idea," I said. "They pay well and there's lot's of food. But you have to tailor your approach." When eyebrows were raised, I clarified. "Nothing about bleeding and purging; Thord is sick and doesn't have much of a sense of humor. And nothing that goes against the Church or against Denmark. They're expecting war with the Norwegians and they've got to build up enthusiasm with the troops and whatever poor yokels they conscript."

"Making fun of yokels, is what we'll concentrate on, I guess," Ejulf nodded. "And the usual sex or potty dramas. A love story...." He looked my way, then added, "between a horse and a cow. We can do funny. And we have a couple of retread stories about men resolute in the face of death."

"That'll be okay, I think." I scratched my facial stubble. "I figured you'd be halfway to France by now, with a war coming."

"One gig at Faxe to finance it, and we're off. You?"

I shrugged. "Back to Elsinore and hope I live through it. I don't know about these two." I indicated Soldir and Ingald.

"We were talking," Ingald said. "If this group doesn't mind, we'd like to join them after Faxe and follow them south. We've got enough money to support ourselves till fall at least, if they don't want us in the troupe." Soldir was nodding.

"They can come with us," Ejulf said. "We'll see if we can use them."

I nodded. "I'll miss them," and ordered another keg of ale.

"You can come with us to Faxe," Ejulf said.

"No," Soldir said. "After our show there, we'd like to avoid the place for a while."

"The impression we got," Ingald said, "is that most of the people who saw us just loved most of the show. Some people get offended by everything and everything offends some people. But there'll be a few people who weren't at the show and may have become offended by exaggeration and rumor."

"Hey, we understand," a thin, balding said. "We can put on the safest play and there's always one or two who thinks we're making fun of them. But it wears off."

"It does," I said. "But the ones who like it promote it so the others learn not to complain too loudly. And the ones they complain to want to see the show the next time it comes, just to see for themselves."

"Still, we'll camp outside Faxe," Ingald said, "and join you the next day."

"Good idea," Ejulf said. "There's always the chance of another Grinthuld."

"I heard about Grinthuld," I laughed. "You must have offended the Earl."

"So it seems," Ejulf muttered, without explaining further."

We discussed jokes and skits and things like that, although not to coherently as we tried to consume the ale before it went bad. Eventually, only Ejulf, Ingald, and I were left sitting around the dying campfire.

"So you're leaving me," I said to Ingald.

"'Fraid so," he said. "Got the feeling a castle under siege isn't a good place for a jester. A fool would be a fool to fool around when kings are into their follies."

"You're right," I said, my sluggish mind trying to figure a way to kill Ejulf. But I wasn't steady enough to do anything, and Ingald led me back to our tent. I turned to the head of the travelling players. "If someone calls off the war, feel free to put on a show at Elsinore."

"Sure," Ejulf said. "Sure."

The next morning I said goodbye to Ingald and Soldir. Then we stood in silence for a minute, before they rode off. I turned and went back into the pub, to talk to Helgi/Hekja. I bought her an ale. "You didn't ask to go with them," I noted.

"Figured I'd be better off with you," she said, not smiling. "Can I come with you?"

"You might be in the middle of a war," I told her. "A man is expected to fight, and maybe die. If the castle is taken, a woman might not fare any better."

She gave a wry smile. "That's nothing I haven't thought about." She took what seemed a totally irreligious drink of ale. I've decided to take my chances."

"Look," I said. "My own future at Elsinore isn't secure." I hesitated. "There's something I have to tell you."

"About you and Tola? Heck, your departed friends already told me all about that. I say, if Grim hasn't killed you yet, he's probably not going to. Or he wants a truly spectacular ending for you, and it takes a lot of planning. That could be entertaining, in itself."

I sighed and covered my eyes. "Okay, then. Your choice. Elsinore. We'll leave as soon as we can join some travelers passing through. You still a virgin?"

"Yup. At least until tonight, if you want to share a bed." At my look of surprise, she shrugged and smiled again. "Hey, I'm leaving the abbey on the run. Some things can't be taken with me."

"Look..." I said, again.

"Hey," she said. "I won't tell Tola. And you ought to be complimented; I turned down Ingald's offers six times last night, and he's much better looking than you.""

We left before noon, joining a caravan of wagons carrying wood and rutabagas for Elsinore There were soldiers and knights, merchants with foreign accents and wagons of goods, as well as a few people I suspected were Belgian gunpowder and explosives experts. None of them seemed to doubt that Helgi was a man.

We rode all that day, glad of the company of soldiers, stopping every few hours to rest the animals and those men and women on foot. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, and the speed of oxen was satisfactory for the horses. We were all friends and none of us were friends; it was an uncaged feeling, I thought. Many people glad to see me, but no one I could share myself with completely, no one to soak up the toxins that accumulate in the soul. Chit chat leaves the mind hungry and restless.

Then, of course, I got to feeling down again; I can't say either Ingald nor Soldir was a close friend, but I had few others in this world to share laughs with. Being a jester is a solemn trade. As we rode, or rested during the breaks, I carried out a sort of a conversation with Helgi, but it was limited to me telling her of some of my adventures; she had little of interest to tell me of her lifetime in the Abbey. After a while I lapsed into silence, unable to see anything positive ahead other than a few moments with Tola, if I were lucky. My own lifetime seemed to stretch out only behind me.

Somewhere ahead was a castle preparing for war, run by a family eating Angry Soup for supper. I couldn't imagine what it must be like if Hamlet kept up his silly-ass pretense.

After a while, Helgi took to walking her old horse among the other travelers, asking questions or just listening to their babble. When she came back to me, I had to answer more questions, guessing the intent and the origin of many of the others. "Who are the guys with the big horses?" she asked me.

"Don't you want to ask them yourself?

"They look mean. I don't think they're the conversational type."

"They're men-at-arms," I said. "Professional warriors, They need the big horses for all the weapons and armor they have to carry." I shrugged. "They might be from Flanders. If the king has knighted them, they're knights: otherwise they're just expensive soldiers."

"Men-at-arms, yes," a voice said. "From France. Almost certainly mercenaries, coming to Elsinore either by command or looking for a job."

We turned. A short, rotund man leading a donkey was behind us. "Sir Casimir Jezowski," he said, "although the 'sir' counts only in Poland." He had a rather strong accent I didn't recognize, but made a reasonable guess it might be Polish. I immediately decided to study the accent in case I performed before soldiers who'd been in the Polish Winter War.

"You seem to know more than I do," I said. "On your way to Elsinore to look for a job too?"

"Well, I'm on my way to see King Claudius, but that's more by his invitation than my own inclination. Any castle threatened by siege is a place I'd rather not be."

"Not a soldier?" That, given his physical condition, seemed, likely, but I'd been surprised occasionally.

"An academic. A scholar of military history and strategy. Captured in Poland by Old King Hamlet, and held for ransom."

"Then why aren't you back in Poland?"

A wry smile. "None of my compatriots would come up with the money for my ransom. Seems I had differences of opinion with my fellow scholars and with my own king." We slowed down a bit, so as not to get ahead of him. "I gave my king advice on how to deal with the Danes. My king decided to be a hero instead of a man of wisdom. He never forgave me."

"For giving him correct advice?"

"For being unable to convince him my advice was correct. I was taken on the battlefield, and ended up in Wittenberg, married to a Saxon woman until last year, and paid to attempt to teach military history and military strategy to young fools."

"Now to such as the current prince?"

He laughed. "Only a fool speaks against a prince."

"Then I'm allowed, I guess, but I'll wait a bit. I'm Amundi, current and resident fool, jester, and clown at Elsinore. My companion here is Helgi, on his way to the castle because he's as big a fool as you, I guess."

"Claudius's fool? Did he fire Asser? It's been a couple of years since I've been in Denmark, but Asser seemed to be doing well then."

"Asser died," I said. "I got the gig a year later."

"Maybe he insulted king Hamlet," Casimir suggested.

I shrugged. "Insulting a king is in the job description."

"Maybe he told the king the truth."

"That," I said, "could have done it. For years a king may thank you for it, then one day.... But I guess you know about that."

Casimir clapped Helgi and me on the back, and laughed. "Brother fools," he said. "Good to meet you."

I was still watching the men-at-arms walking ahead of us, leading their massive horses. I nodded in their direction. "I've seen a few in my time," I said, "but never with their armor on."

"Oh, they don't wear that stuff except in battle. Or practicing, in tournaments, but in a tournament they leave off as much as they can get away with. Like the misercorde. It doesn't weigh much, but every bit helps."

"Isn't that something in Church?" Helgi looked puzzled.

"There's a misericord in churches," Casimir said. "Slightly different spelling. A little ledge that give someone support when he has to stand too long. Or an apartment in a monastery where some of the rules aren't enforced. Not that either of you would have to worry about that. No, the misericorde a warrior carries when are dressed for battle is a long thin knife. The 'mercy' knife, they call it. If you see someone who's going to die anyway, and you've got the time, well, out with the knife and end his life."

"Even through armor?" I asked.

"There are always places. A popular one is through the eye holes and into the brain. Under the arm, and into the heart, for another.

"No last rites?" Helgi looked shocked.

"Not unless there's a priest really handy, and that doesn't happen in battle. I mean, you've just won a battle and have to hurry on because the enemy's running away – best time for a slaughter – so your leader's telling you to hurry up. Gotta get moving before the enemy regroups or finds a good defensive position." He squinted at us to see if we got it.

"And your friend is dying slowly and painfully," I suggested.

"Of course. That's been the problem since there was war. If you find someone in your army to tend a wounded man, you've reduced your army by two men, instead of one. Of course, if he might live, you can just leave him there and hope he does. But if he's definitely a goner, well, the polite thing to do is get out your misericorde. It's thin enough to slide between spaces in the armor, if he's got his tin suit on. You just poke away at various places till he looks dead, then onto your horse, a quick, 'sorry, brother,' and off you go."

"And your army has been taking all the food and animals, burning houses and fields, raping women and killing any locals they find...." I said. "Wouldn't the locals torture him? I'd be plenty mad, myself."

"They leave that to the women. Women are more inventive than men. Besides, the men have all joined the local army."

"I'd think the sight of one battle would persuade anyone to stay home."

"Oh, heck no," Casimir said. "Yon local yokels there aren't looking forward to a lifetime of working the same fields, starving some years, and sending a big chunk of whatever they have to the local lord and the Church all their lives. One day they're offered a choice – or no choice – to join the army. Travel, brotherhood with strange guys holding the pike beside you, raping, pillaging, other people trying to kill you...."

"Pike?" Helgi asked.

"Long pole," Casimir said. "Three times as long as the guy holding it. Metal point on the business end. The weapon given to conscripts who are right off the farms."

"Against men at arms," Helgi said. "Isn't that...."

"Been using the pikes since Alexander. You get a few hundred men standing shoulder to shoulder with those pikes pointing out, and there may be men-at-arms willing to charge into that, but their horses aren't often that stupid. The charge comes to a halt right there."

"So what does the attacking army do?" I asked. I had a reasonable idea, but I figured the war historian could describe it better.

"Archery," Casimir said, as we stepped off the road to let a pushy train of ox carts roll by. "The pikemen don't have very big shields, so you try to break their ranks with arrows or steel crossbow bolts. If you get a break the ranks, an armored soldier on an armored horse rushes in and starts splitting heads open with his sword. Anybody falls down, probably gets stepped on by the horse."

"Running seems sensible." Helgi was getting off on things she'd never known existed.

"Ah," Casimir smiled. "But if you can find some wealthy adversary and you have a long pole and a hook on it, you might just be able to pull the guy off his horse. Then a bunch of you try to keep him down long enough to tie him up and hold him for ransom. These guys are worth more money that the average farm boy would see in his lifetime. That's why they'll take good care of a wealthy wounded man, even if they do keep him locked up until a deal is made."

"I wouldn't know who to sell to," I admitted.

"Someone will know. Word gets around. You can always sell your captive to your king, who will resell to the guy's king or family. The suit of armor is itself worthwhile."

"And these two guys are off to Elsinore, aren't they?"

"Where else?"

We spent the night camped on the outskirts of a village, on a place normally used by Roma from time to time. Even if we'd wanted to spend the night in one of the two inns, there wouldn't have been any room there; the richer merchants had already booked them. I was happy to spend the night in our tent on the grounds. It was cheaper, there were no bedbugs or fleas on the ground, and I got to talk to people around the campsite. When we climbed into the tent, Helgi asked me, "are you planning on having your way with me tonight?"

"Who knows?" I was a bit woozy with the local bad ale.

"Well, I need to know so I can get to sleep. Or not."

"Not tonight." The punishment for even trying to take a Church worker away from service to the Church usually ending with flames. And screaming; a lot of screaming. I had no desire to go from making an ass of myself to making an ash of myself.

"Fine." She was asleep before I could tell her my funny answer. After a while, I drifted off to sleep, dreaming unfathomable dreams and wishing impossible wishes.

The next day started warm and sunny, with a bit of light fog in the morning. I shared a breakfast fire with a small group of merchants. A man-at-arms on a big horse and his squire on a donkey drifted towards us so I tried to talk to the soldier. The man-at-arms himself looked a bit uncomfortable, but his squire was willing to talk. I thought the man had a Norwegian accent, but there are some islands of Denmark where rather strange accents are found, especially among those that were settled by the ancestors of both Danish and Norwegian Vikings. I put the guy on horseback in his early twenties and the guy riding the mule at about 30, close to Hamlet's age. Probably a young noble who'd acquired an older man's experienced squire, I figured.

"Ah," I said. "Spies from Norway, I assume. Come to check out the Danes."

The horseman said nothing, but the squire, hesitated, blinked a couple of times, and forced a laugh. "Of course not," he said. "That would be too dangerous. My lord," – he indicated the man-at-arms on horseback, – "is a Swiss prince, with little knowledge of your language. I am from the far Danish island of Laesoe, a runaway in my teens, and taken in service in many countries since."

"I doubt that," I said. "But I myself am Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, traveling incognito."

The donkey rider brightened. "Good to meet you, fellow Prince. I'm actually Prince Fortinbras, of course, personally traveling with a dickhead decoy! Our fathers should have got to know each other better. Who's your companion? Ophelia?"

"Nah," I said. "An escaped nun. Best kind of companion." There was a long, awkward silence, then I said goodbye and returned to my campfire. We started out again, but "Fortinbras" and his companion were gone from the convoy.

There were a few that turned off to other destinations the next day, but most of us arrived at Elsinore that evening. Somewhere along the way, Casimir asked me how the fortification of Elsinore castle was going. I thought maybe he was a spy, but as long as I didn't tell him anything anybody couldn't see, I figured I was safe enough.

"Walls higher, gate stronger," I said. "What else can you do to a castle? If they have the time they might deepen the moat, but that's just a guess. I'm no military historian like you, but I don't imagine castles have changed much in history."

"Not much," Casimir said. "A strong point with the best walls you can afford, a well inside for water, and room to store enough food for a long siege."

I nodded. It made sense. If Elsinore could hold out until Faxe and the other provinces could mount a counterattack, things might work out well, and both Tola and I might survive, if not in each other's arms and if.... "Probably always be that way," I said.

The Pole shook his head. "You're in the last of the castles. Thousands of years, and, well, nothing lasts forever."

"Pardon," I said, astonished. I'd heard the same sentiment before but had ignored it. Helgi, who was listening, said nothing, but she turned on her horse, to look Casimir over, possibly for dementia.

He saw the expressions on our faces. "I've been following this for the last thirty years or so. Look," he said," have you heard about the Italian wars a few years back? And still ongoing, I might add."

"This is Europe," I shrugged. "If there wasn't a war going on, I'd wonder what was wrong."

Casimir rolled his eyes. "Charles the Eighth of France invaded the Italian peninsula. He was eventually driven back, but before he did, he changed military strategy, probably forever." He leaned over. "Cannons," he said.

"Haven't seen much of that up this way, although the British are fond of them, I hear." I didn't mention the cannons I'd seen coming towards Elsinore.

Sir Casimir shook his head. "Bigger and better cannons than the British. In wagons with teams of horses and trained artillerymen. There are some in this convoy."

"Castle walls," I noted, "are thick and have stood up to projectile rocks before, have they not?"

"They use cannonballs of iron, now. Not just the rocks they used to use. Probably better gunpowder, too, but I haven't been able to find anybody who can confirm that." He shifted on his saddle; he was no more used to horseback riding than we were, I thought.

"Iron cannonballs are different," he said. "You have to bring hundreds with you, and haul them over bad roads in bad weather. That isn't easy or cheap."

"But..."

He smiled. "The French came to the fortress of Monte San Giovanni, which had successfully guarded Naples for over two hundred years. In fact, the place had recently outlasted a seven-year siege. So, I don't imagine the people were overly worried."

The convoy was slowing for the noon rest. I waited for more.

"Eight hours," Casimir said, "and the French were pouring through the breaches the made in the castle walls."

"Took the valuables," I suppose," Helgi said. She was probably used to stories of rich churches being looted and nuns being carted off.

"Killed every man, woman, and child, then took the valuables," the Pole said. "After that, most of the next strong points made a deal and surrendered."

"But you said he was eventually defeated," Helgi said.

"Well, even the best army loses men, to disease and accident, and eventually the cannons get low on ammunition and gunpowder. There are many more castles in Italy than a Frenchman can haul cannonballs for, and the ingredients for good gunpowder can't be found everywhere."

"Do you think Fortinbras will bring cannon against Elsinore," I asked, quietly.

"I don't think so. I doubt he has the money to afford the cannons or the cannonballs. Or all the horses, or the chemists to make gunpowder, at least on any scale. He might bring a couple of petards, though."

"Just what," Helgi asked, "is a petard."

"A short, fat cannon. It's got a range of about this far." Casmir held his hands almost together. He answered our question before we could ask. "Shove it up against the wooden entrance doors and it just might knock the doors down."

"The doors are the weak point?" Helgi wanted to know.

"Weaker than the walls, but more heavily guarded for that." We hobbled the horses to graze. There was no space left under any trees, but it was overcast and windy anyway. "You probably want to know how to use a petard. Amundi is the general in charge. What do you do?"

"How heavy is it?" I asked.

"It's a pig to move. A lump stuffed with gunpowder and a big rock or iron ball."

"You'll need wheels," I said.

"How big?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"You'll be pushing or dragging it over rough ground, maybe soft ground."

"Big wheels?" I guessed.

"Big wheels are good for rough ground, all right. Problem is, if the wheels are too big, you can't find a place to get a hold on the petard if you need to."

I thought about it. "Short, fat, wheels."

"Very good. And how many men to move it?"

"I find a team of four poor peons whose families are unlikely to see them again, and assign them to push the gadget up against the castle wall and light the fuse."

"Of course. But you," he pointed at Helgi, " are in charge of defense. What do you do?"

Helgi thought about it. 'Arrows," she said. "Lots of arrows. Maybe a few spears."

"Back to the soldiers dragging the petard. Arrows and spears coming down on you. You can't hold up your shield because you're fighting to haul this pig of a machine toward the castle. Any suggestions?"

"A roof," I said. "I'd make a portable roof for it and get a six or eight guys to carry the roof over the petard, to protect themselves and the petard crew."

Casimir turned to Helgi. "He's getting there. A roof, held up with poles and covered with wet hides from freshly slaughtered horses."

"Why wet hides?" I asked.

"Burning arrows."

'And rocks to drop on them when they got close." Helgi was getting onto this.

"Again, obvious. Anybody pushing a petard isn't going to be moving very quickly, and can't be holding a shield." He turned to me. "So what do you do?"

I thought about it. "The roof should do it."

"It would have to be a strong one; the people on the castle wall by the gate would be dropping large stones and hot oil on top of you. How short do you make the fuse?"

"A long wick, I figure, would leave you time to get away, but it also leaves time for the defenders to put it out."

"What would you do, if you were running the attack?"

"Sacrifice the attackers," I mumbled. "Short wick. Once you light it, you've got to get away; if the fuse is too long, the castle people can douse it, if they can break up the roof. Maybe a rock bashes in the portable roof over the petard and the contents of someone's chamber pot soaks the wick. I assume that, once it's in place, my guys just run like hell. With shields on their backs for the arrows."

"By Odin," I think he'd got it," Casimir said, laughing. "If you don't get away real quick, you'll get caught in the back blast as it bounces off the wall. And the petard will roll backwards when it fires. You don't want to be in the way. On the other hand, a lot of these devices simply explode when the fuse is lit."

"I'd run fast, I think."

"And," Helgi said, "even if you don't get killed when the damned thing goes off, you'll be running away, with your back to the castle, and no way to hold your shield over that backside. Target practice for archers on the wall."

"I'd throw away my shield," I said.

"Wise move, although your commander might take a few days before getting you a new one, just for losing military property. In fact, your men probably tied the shields to their backs just to let them run faster."

"You think Fortinbras might have some of these?"

"He could manage a couple, if he sells enough fish to afford it and if his Viking bravado doesn't make him scorn such tactics."

"And men-at-arms?" I nodded towards the big guys on horses.

Casimir lowered his voice. "They're looking for work, but if Claudius listens to me, he'll escort them out of the country."

"Not worth while?" Helgi wanted to know. She'd obviously been a monastery too long; even military tactics were interesting. Or maybe men-at-arms resembled her mental pictures of brave maiden-rescuing knights.

"Mercenaries have one big interest in life, and that's staying alive. They won't risk anything. If their appearance doesn't frighten the enemy, they'll try to look brave and just charge around. I've heard from an Italian man who saw two batches of mercenaries fight each other all day and get nothing more than a few dents in their armor. No, they won't take chances. They want pay and they're hoping to bring down someone for ransom."

"Other than Fortinbras himself, who will the Norwegians have worth ransoming?"

"We'll find out when the battle comes, but I'm expecting an army of fishermen not worth much to anybody but their families. We'll see; wars have a tendency to surprise."

"But shouldn't we have a few men-at-arms around for appearance?"

Casimir shook his long hair. "After any war you end up with dangerous armed men with too little income and too much time on their hands. It took the French decades to get rid of those bastards from the English wars. They went around looting, killing, and taking over villages. By that time the king was so heavily in debt for the wars he couldn't afford soldiers to hunt them down."

"Will Claudius takes your advice."

A rueful grin. "Yeah. Sure he will."

"I gather your Polish king didn't," Helgi said.

"Nope. We were facing King Hamlet and a small army. As far as the Poles were concerned, these were the Northmen, the Vikings returning, and all the old stories and fears came back. The Poles had enough men to defeat the Danes, but not the will."

"And your plan?"

"Retreat into the big swamps. Burn any food supplies the Danes might find. Harass the enemy and keep retreating. When the Danes get far enough from their boats, circle around and get between the Danish army and its boats. If possible, destroy the boats. Then keep it up till the Danes are out of food. Let them starve a bit, then attack."

"Would it have worked?"

"I think so," the Pole said. "It seemed to me to be working just fine, but my dear king wouldn't retreat. Attacked the Danes in the middle of a big frozen lake, and got pretty well hammered into the ice. Pride and bravado, instead of common sense."

"And you have a secret plan for Claudius" I asked.

"Maybe?" Casimir smiled. "But if I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, would it?"

"And I might be a spy for the Norwegians," I said. "I was born on the mainland, after all."

"You were? Then anything I told you might be just false information, in case you are a spy." Casimir smiled a smile of cunning.

"But I might have calculated for that, knowing that anything you told me would be the opposite of the truth, so I'd know enough to know that what you told me was what you wouldn't be advising Claudius."

Casimir clapped his hands together. "And I, knowing you're a bright man, as a fool needs to be to survive, might have calculated for that in advance, and would tell you the truth just to have you assume that's the thing I wouldn't do."

"You're a devious man," I laughed.

"You're both stark, staring crazy," Helgi said in disgust, an observation so perceptive that I had a burning urge to deflower her on the spot, on horseback, if necessary. Instead, both Casimir and I laughed.

"There's Elsinore," I said, as we came over a low hill and saw the battlements of the castle beyond the town of Elsinore. I led Helgi and Casimir off to the side of the convoy.

Helgi stopped her horse. 'It's big," she whispered.

"You tell her," I told Casimir.

"It's actually a small castle," he said. "In problem areas of the world, such as the Palestine or Wales, castles run, oh, five or six times that much area, and maybe twice as high."

"Really?"

"S'true," he assured her.

"What are all those tents?" she asked.

I knew, so I answered. "Soldier's tents and worker's tents. They've called in workers and craftsmen from all over Denmark. And some specialists from other countries. And, of course, the tents for soldiers come from all over the kingdom."

"How can we afford it?" Helgi was obviously a concerned taxpayer, although she'd never paid a cent in her life.

Casimir answered this one. "Claudius probably can't. He's going to have a big dept, owed to the banks in the Holy Roman Empire and its Hanseatic League. It'll take a few generations to pay it off."

"The banks charge high rates?"

"High to start with," Casimir said, "and much higher if there's a chance you'll be killed and not be able to pay it off."

"It looks like they've finished the main gate," I said, "and I see they're actually having the moat partly widened."

"If you look at the closer," Casimir added, "you'll see they're building a wooden wall around the town itself."

A pause, then Helgi said. "Wouldn't stone be better?"

Casimir laughed again. "Far better, But wood is easier to get in this end of Denmark, and they'll have to settle for that until they get more stone shipped in. There may not be time for that."

"Then what?"

"Then they fight as best they can, while some desperate townspeople – any that haven't left days before – run to get into the castle."

I was listening carefully. "Will the castle hold them all?"

"If they don't mind being crowded in. Of course, eventually the food runs out, Then the usual policy is to open the main door some dark night and push out anyone that isn't essential for keeping the castle out of enemy hands."

"Surely not the jester?" I said, pretending shock.

"Nor the wise old Polish military historian," Casimir said, sincerely. "Of course not." He turned to Helgi, and said, "So Helgi, are you starting to regret coming here? As a young man you'll be in the front lines of defense, and as a stranger to the area you'll be considered a sacrifice if they need something dangerous done."

"We shall see what God has in store for me." She straightened up in the saddle and moved on ahead of us, into the convoy again, following two carts carrying smoke-preserved meats and dried apple pieces in jars, or so the woman driving the wagon claimed.

Guards outside the gate stopped the convoy outside the castle, to let the men on the ground sort it out. We rode up to the castle, facing a gate that had been strengthened quite a bit since I'd seen it four days before. I wondered what a petard would do to it. Eventually, one of the guards, Leif, waved us in.

***
Chapter 12: Conversations and a Debrief

Inside, we dismounted and led our horses to the castle stable, where we were told that all horses except the king's would be kept outside the castle. After dong that, we walked back in carrying our packs, Hekja and Casimir following my footsteps along boards that mostly kept feet a bit above the manure-soaked mud. I figured I'd explain things to the castle supervisors and keep Hekja in with me, sleeping where Ingald had slept. Casimir had been here before and bid us goodbye, walking up the stairs towards the king's chambers.

Before I got there, Ophelia waved at me. "Amundi!" I stood still and watched her come over, seeming to be happy to see me again. Hekja stood silently beside me: I thought she seemed more interested in what Ophelia was wearing than in what she had to say.

"I'm glad to have you back," Ophelia said. "Sometimes I think you're the only real friend I've got here." Her face darkened a moment, then she smiled again. "My father and the King will want to talk to you about your travels, I'm sure but that can wait until tomorrow, can't it?"

"Thank you, My Lady," I said. "I doubt that I'll be telling our King anything he doesn't know. I'd be pleased if you'd inform your father that I've returned."

"I will. And who is this young man?" she asked, appraising Hekja. "This isn't the one you left with, if I'm not mistaken."

"My Lady , the two men I left with have decided to take a little vacation in safer lands."

"Oh, great. They'll probably be with my brother when Fortinbras's troops are passing me around for entertainment."

"I pray that that doesn't happen," I said, and Hekja looked like she was about to do exactly that.

"And who have you got to replace those quitters." I assume she meant Ingald and Soldir, not her brother in Paris and Hamlet, who'd wanted to be gone, too.

"This is Helgi, a young man from the farms, My Lady. He's come to offer his services to Elsinore and Denmark. I'll put him into Ingald's bed." Hekja bowed as she'd seen me do.

"Welcome, Helgi. If we're under siege, you'll be sharing the room with a few more people, too, until enough of them get killed off." She turned back to me. "I'd like to talk to you after supper."

"I'd be honored, My Lady."

We watched her walk away. Into the silence, I said, "She's the daughter of the Prime Minister, Polonius. Her brother, Laertes, is away to a school in Paris."

"I've heard of Polonius. The people seem very fond of him."

"More so than Claudius, I imagine. He was a wise man."

"Was?"

"I shrugged. His mind is going, which is a pity. We'll need it. He's pretty sharp in the mornings, but not much later in the day. And he knows it."

"Food?" Hekja asked.

"We'll put our packs in my room first," I said, leading her there.

"The castle looks smaller from inside the walls," Hekja said. I showed her my room. "My room in the convent was bigger," she said, "and I had a window."

I explained that castles in Denmark were for war, and that the royal family usually lived at one of the country estates.

We ate side by side at one of the big tables. I introduced Hekja (as "Helgi") to various people. I think people were beginning to wonder if I preferred men to women. It took me until dark to hear even the beginning of all the rumors running around the castle. Eventually, of course, I got most of them; people were reluctant to talk about anything involving me, especially involving me and Tola, so I didn't know whether I was close to being buried beside poor Asser or not. And if not, why not. Rumors were always passed on as, "I don't believe this myself, but I was told...." Rumors involving the coming war with the Norwegians, could, if negative, get a servant removed or hanged as an example of "discouraging thinking." Yes, the thought police were out in Elsinore, probably following a manual written in Faxe.

Rumors of my new companion were obviously starting up, as well as what really had happened to Ingald and Soldir, who'd left with me and not returned. As for Hekja, I could probably get away with a chastisement if someone found out she was female. It was natural, after all. But if someone found out she had left the Church, well, that was different. The Church would insist on the severest punishment for removing someone from the service of God. And they'd suspect I'd been knowing her in the Biblical sense, which would ensure a slow and painful transit to the afterlife for me.

I was beginning to think I should have joined Ingald and Soldir and the traveling players going south into Germany, and, probably, just kept going. But sometimes a professional fool is also an amateur fool in other matters, so I stayed, though anticipating many restless nights.

It wasn't for my own gratification that I went rumor-hunting. A jester has the ear of the king and the ears of the common servant, soldier, and craftsman. As long as my confidents were sure I didn't reveal names to the king and the kind was wise enough not to demand names, I could forward rumors to him from them, and assurances (none of which, of course, would be believed) to them from him. And tell jokes at the same time. It's a living.

I left Hekja sitting at the table, having a bowl of soup and watching and listening to others. It would be a good introduction to castle life. I suspected that, at the monastery, she'd learned to get valuable information around communal meal times, if only from the behavior of the other nuns.

Claudius hadn't called me yet for a debrief and there were a few hours before I'd have to get some sleep, so I went walkabout, listening and nodding, encouraging rumors by repeating the ones I'd just heard. Rumors, especially the nasty ones, run on big oak wheels, and every hand oils the axle as the rumor cart goes by. The castle kitchen was first stop. The place was full of people who showed every sign of knowing what they were doing, even in the extreme heat. It wasn't a place visited by the people who ran the castle; one was apt to pick up the impression that all the food was flavored with sweat, for one thing. Rows of large hanging cauldrons boiled in the wall-length fireplace, and in front of them a couple of dozen capons, impaled on spits, cooked slowly, the spit turned by a dog walking in a small cage.

"Amundi!" I was welcomed into the cleaning area, where I helped clean dishes and carry water from the fireplace to the wash bins. And shared gossip and rumors.

I wasn't called by Claudius that evening, so a couple of hours after dark I went back to my room. Hekja was sitting on her bed on the floor, reading a book of scripture by candlelight. I wasn't sure she would find much comfort in the Latin Bible, but then, again, there wasn't much else to read in Elsinore. Still....

"Ah," she said, looking divine in her short hair and boyish outfit. "Good to see you."

"Glad to be back in my room," I said, folding up a quarto of paper and setting the ink and pen on the tiny desk I used for creating jokes and skits. "I've been rumor-collecting."

"Anyone spreading rumors at the Abbey was punished."

"Anyone caught at it, you mean."

She smiled a prize-winning smile. "That's for sure."

There was a silence as I undressed. I had my back turned to her as I reached for my night gown. I was trying to decide whether or not to offer her my bed, and sleep myself on the floor bed. When I turned around, Hekja was sitting naked on her bed, legs apart and back against the wall, wearing nothing but a smile. I said nothing.

After a moment, she said, "Well, shall we get at it before we're too sleepy?"

"At it?" I said.

She looked peeved and wiggled just enough to make her nipples do small circles. "The ravishing. The deflowering. Cherry-picking time."

"No," I said. "No."

"No?" She looked confused.

"Do you know what the Church prescribes for having sex with a nun?"

"Ex nun."

"Tell that to the guy who lights the fire under my feet."

She shrugged. "You're a man. It's going to happen sooner or later. Why not now? Why waste days?"

"You've learned much from a bunch of celibate women."

"A lot of them came from bad marriages and behavior they were atoning for."

I was tired. I blew out the candle and lay down, catching a flea as it crossed my forehead. I was afraid she was going to come over to my bed, but she didn't and sometime after she was snoring gently I finally got to sleep.

In the morning we dressed in silence. On the way to the breakfast tables, I advised her to say she was another of my acolytes. And if anyone implied we were two men doing immoral things, just change the subject. I was beginning to think being thought of as a gay guy might be less dangerous than anybody finding about me and Tola and a runaway nun.

At the breakfast tables, I tried to give Hekja as much Elsinore-castle-survival information as I could, keeping away from the gossip. Gossip was going to be my business that day, and she'd pick up enough on her own. I did ask her to keep an ear out for gossip about myself, since that's one thing I wasn't likely to pick up on my own.

"No problem. I can just say I signed on as your acolyte and you've been a major disappointment." She paused. "I'll let them assume it's in the jokes department, not...."

"Dancing the goat's jig?" I said. "Cleaning the cobwebs with the womb broom? I think I'm good at that, or satisfactory, anyway, but I hesitate to do it in the cherry orchard next to the Church."

"The Sisters had a different opinion of men."

"The sisters, I suspect, either hadn't know any men or had escaped to the monastery to get away from nasty males. There are lots of others of us walking the earth."

"Heading for sainthood, are we?"

"After last night, I deserve something."

She winked one eye. "We'll see how long you last."

Having done the kitchen the day before, I did the rounds of the castle servants. When I could corner one, usually by helping with some chore, I'd say, "I've been away. What did I miss?" Then I'd say, "I heard..." and repeat a bit of gossip from a previous source.

Of course, in any governmental system, it's necessary to try to suppress gossip, but it's also impossible. So no one would pass me a detail claiming he or she knew it. As often as not, it would be, "I heard such and such. I told them not to spread gossip, and I certainly don't believe a word of it. I'm shocked that people would think something like that." Having insulated themselves, they'd give out the material in detail. I stored it up.

In mid morning, I ran across Prince Hamlet himself.

I still hadn't decided what Hamlet was up to, but I've known a few crazy people, and he didn't look like one of them. Anyway, to be crazy and get away with it you have to be a prince. Normal people get put away and kings get overthrown by their army or friends. But princes; princes get to be crazy for a while or stupid forever. Hamlet might be getting old, but he still had protection. On the other hand, some people carry their prisons inside them; I was starting to wonder if Hamlet was one of those.

I didn't know how his mother and her new man were coping, but the prince was driving me nuts. After all, he was taking over part of my job.

In the afternoon, I talked to the soldiers, the carpenters, the foreign fortification "experts" (neither of which offered much) then wandered into the town in a light rain to find out what I could. I hadn't been asked by Claudius to check out the rumors, but I was certain he'd appreciate it, and with his stepson doing some of my job I was more than eager to make up for that.

The townspeople were vastly more like fish swimming in a sea of rumors. Considering that their position, in case of a war, was between the walls of the castle and the weapons of the Norwegians, that was reasonable.

Just after supper Gamli, a royal servant, found me, asking if I'd please accompany him to the King. I did, with my heart in my mouth, although Gamli was so cheerful and talkative that there was hope I might not be part of the landfill for the town defenses by morning.

Claudius was in the Great Hall, side by side at a table with Grim. Since Grim was now the acting general of Elsinore's defenses, the topic, I figured, was war. Either that, or the two of them were going to accuse me of rummaging in the root cellar with Tola, convict me on the spot, and have a couple of soldiers escort me to the torture chamber in the basement to get acquainted with that fine implement that sprinkled molten lead on one's skin. When I noticed no soldiers in the room, I decided leaping for the window and hoping to land in the moat at a soft spot below a major toilet wasn't going to be called for.

I bowed to Claudius. "Your Highness," I said, then bowed a bit less to Grim, "My Lord."

Claudius waved me to a seat. "Sit."

I sat. A corner of my eye caught movement, but it was only Gamli and another servant, bringing in trays of ale and roasted venison. There was a flash of lightning outside and the room grew darker. A heavy rain dampened everything but my enthusiasm to stay alive. And to run off with Grim's wife, of course. The two servants put some lit candles onto the table and walked away. I reached for a tankard of ale, took a swallow, then pushed it over to the King. Being official taster when the official taster isn't around is a hazard the official jester just has to put up with.

"Polonius," Claudius said, "suggested we make up large Danish flags and send them to each of the castles and country homes of our beloved Danish Lords. What do you think of that idea?" Two pairs of eyes from across the table watched me.

"I am no expert in politics," I started to say, but Grim interrupted me.

"A fool's career and life sometimes depend on evaluating people and groups of people. We'd appreciate your input even if, as you say, you're not a political expert. This is one of Polonius's morning ideas."

I knew what that meant. Polonius had been one of the most astute politicians anybody had known. His senility was creeping up on him, and he knew it. In the morning he was much the great man he'd been at his prime, but by afternoon he was little more than a figurehead, trying to be brave while his mind betrayed him. Much of the kingdom held him in respect, although word on his dementia was getting around.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," I said. "The Lords will have little choice but to raise the flags – I hope they're large ones – throughout their holdings. To do less would be treason. And if the Norwegians show up, well, the flag shows which side the Lords are on. If the locals lower it at that time, their own subjects may rebel. If they don't, it means they have to fight. You've cornered the Lords that way."

"That was the way Polonius put it," Claudius said.

"You might want to send some to the towns and villages, too."

"For the same reasons?" Grim raised an eyebrow.

"Partly," I said, "but also so we can tell which ones have surrendered to the Norwegians. In a war, that can be useful information to our military."

Claudius looked at Grim, who nodded. Then the King said, "It's been a long day, trying to get the cannons placed and the damned foreign gunpowder experts settled in. We'd like your input on Faxe and Roskilde in the morning, at breakfast. Here. We notice that the two compatriots of yours didn't come back with you."

I explained about the motives of Ingald and Soldir.

"You believe them?" Grim looked grim.

"I think so," I said. "If they were spies for the Norwegians, they certainly fooled me. And they would have come here for updated information."

Claudius pushed the venison my way. I took a largish chunk; one doesn't refuse a king's suggestions, and besides, it was far better than what I'd just eaten in the castle dining hall. When I was well into the meat and had broken off a chunk of bread, Grim said, "You've had a busy day. We were wondering what you were doing, going all over the castle and town."

I waited until I'd washed down the food before replying. "I was making a list of rumors," I told them. "I figured you'd like to know what the people were thinking, and you'd have a difficult time getting as many as I could." I reached into my pocket and brought out sheets of paper. "This can wait until tomorrow," if you want," I said. "Or not at all, if you're not interested."

Claudius said, "We think it would be entertaining to hear these."

"I'm not sure they'll entertain you. You won't like them all," I said.

"We understand that part," the King said.

"Well, then, here they are. I've tried to break them down into categories, but, of course, some categories just overlap others."

King Claudius nodded.

"And," I told them, "you understand that people suspected I might report them to you, so they've not given me all." There was silence, so I went on, raising a finger (but not pointing it at the King of course) for each one. Here's what they're saying about Fortinbras and the war.

"Norwegian ships have been seen off the coast.

"Norwegians troops have already landed somewhere. The exact place varies from rumor to rumor.

"The Norwegians have already taken one Danish castle (the exact one varies) and are starving out another castle in the north of Denmark.

"The Polish have joined Fortinbras. They joined the Norwegians only because Hamlet senior attacked them without reason. There are rumors of Polish boats offshore among the Norwegian fleet.

"Fortinbras is being encouraged by yourself" I nodded to Grim, "although the reasons are either because you want to destroy the Norwegians or because you're on their side and trying to usurp the throne.

"Fortinbras isn't really trying to conquer Denmark; your Majesty is just making that up to justify improving Elsinore for your own use or to take on Faxe or the Conclave of Lords.

"Fortinbras has already made a pact with Faxe and Elsinore is doomed. And Fortinbras will marry Queen Gertrude after he's killed you, your Highness." I blushed. "I'm just reporting these, I know what lack of entertainment can do to the gossip machine in a castle."

Claudius laughed. "I knew some of these, but not all. I rule an, ah, inventive people. You have more?"

"Yes, your Highness. I have categories for Elsinore and the town, the Danish Counts, the death of King Hamlet, Prince Hamlet and Laertes, Ophelia, and other enemies and allies. And a miscellaneous category." I had a sudden thought. "I assure you, these are secret; I have spread none of these and have made up none, nor will I."

"Of course you won't," Grim said. "you understand the consequences. And we've tested you to be sure you keep secrets. You probably suspected as much."

I nodded, knowing that a Court Jester is too close to power to be trusted without testing his ability to keep secrets. "It is an essential thing to do."

Claudius said, "Tell me the rumors about our beloved Danish Lords."

"I have only two of significance, your Highness. In one, the Counts have been plotting rebellion for years, and you're already planning to overthrow them or you've made unspecified major concessions to ensure you'll have them on your side in the war. In the other, most of the Counts have already drawn up terms of surrender to Fortinbras."

Claudius spread his hands out, as if to indicate, "what else would you expect?" He leaned back, his chair being more comfortable than mine. "Continue."

"I call this one 'Allies and Enemies," I said. "Here's the list:

"The Holy Roman Empire is backing Fortinbras.

"The Holy Roman Empire is backing you.

"The whole war is a plot by the damned Germans in the Holy Roman Empire or maybe just the Hanseatic States and maybe Poland, to destabilize the Viking lands.

"Pope Leo is behind it all. Nobody could give me a reason for this, but some people certainly held to it.

"England's Henry VIII will send warships. Some think he'll block the straits to thwart Fortinbras, and a few think he'll be there to help Fortinbras with the invasion.

"Poland was on our side till King Hamlet attacked it. Nobody's sure why he attacked Poland." I stopped.

"Oh, continue," Claudius said. "You have a small audience here, but entertainment's the reason we keep you, and this is interesting, very interesting."

"Well, here's the category I call Elsinore Castle and Elsinore Town.

"Various people in Elsinore are spies for the Norwegians, the Pope, the Danish Nobles, England...." I said. Across the table two pairs of eyes rolled heavenward, then we were served more ale. I noticed that neither the King nor Grim drank much. I figured drinking too little would look conniving, so I had more than they did. I continued.

"When Fortinbras comes, the town of Elsinore will be fired on from both sides, resulting in a general slaughter of the people. They figure you can't let the town stand, since it'll be shelter for the Norwegians and materiel for them to build siege engines." I expected at least an involuntary nod or headshake, but there wasn't a sign on the faces of the two opposite me.

"On the other hand," I said, "some people are sure you'll take all the townspeople into the castle when Fortinbras shows up. A few think there's arguments and threats of palace coups about this point.

"Some, your Majesty, think you're so far in debt over the coming war that you'll have to go into hiding or sell the country to Pope Leo. They mention the cannons especially." Grim smiled at this one and Claudius laughed.

"Some think your Majesty is trying to get rid of Polonius and replace him with Grim. They think only Grim can save Denmark, but that you still trust Polonius with your life.

"Some, your Majesty, avow that you're a saint. A few that you're a pawn of Satan." I went on quickly. "Some say Polonius is our only hope. Others say Polonius is senile and probably can't find his dick behind his codpiece any more. That's a quote.

"Some say our king and queen hate each other, others that they are much in love.

"Some say you became king because you're a strong military leader, which Denmark needs at this time. Only a few say you were allowed to take over because you're a weak military leader and someone else is planning to usurp the throne. Various people and organizations are suspected.

"One rumor is that your doctors found blood in your piss-pot last week and you're dying.

"And a few," I said, "believe you're in charge of a rumor-spreading organization that finds people spreading these rumors and eliminates them."

"I've heard the rumor," Claudius said, "that I murdered King Hamlet. "That rumor was bound to go the rounds."

I nodded. "Some are sure that if you had killed King Hamlet, you'd have done it the Viking way, with an axe, so maybe the Queen did it. Or Faxe, or the Conclave of Counts. There is," I told him, "no consensus and it so obvious a rumor that few believe it."

"Well, I guess that does the official rumors about myself and the war. What are they saying about Hamlet and Laertes. And Ophelia?"

I sighed and shook my head to clear it a bit. "A few think Laertes isn't in Paris. He's in hiding, waiting to overthrow Fortinbras or your Majesty or Grim or for reasons unknown. They just can't fathom why a person of his lineage and ability would leave Elsinore when it's under threat. Some believe he's waiting to return and be a hero.

"Many think your stepson, Prince Hamlet, is genuinely nuts. Others think he has some bizarre plan to drive your Majesty around the bend because he thinks you were somehow responsible of the death of his father.

"Some are concerned that the Prince needs to be taught military skills. He's a decent sword fighter, but modern warfare isn't likely to include that." I took some more ale to clear my head again.

"Prince Hamlet's failure to woo and marry Ophelia has been the talk of all the women. Some think the Prince has a girlfriend at Wittenberg and wants to dump Ophelia. A few think he loves Ophelia, but is pretending not to, to protect her from yourself, although they can't say why she needs this protection."

"And your opinion?" the King asked me. "About Ophelia?"

"I am, Your Majesty, at a loss as to the way Prince Hamlet is ignoring Ophelia." I hesitated. "Nor do I know what his game is, if it's a game he's playing, which I suspect. Smiling and telling silly jokes is getting him nothing except passing time. If he's waiting for something to happen, I don't know what it is. I do get the feeling that Ophelia is the only person in Elsinore castle above suspicion and therefore the object of sympathy. Everyone here is the object of some sympathy, of course, but of some suspicion as well. Except Ophelia."

The King sighed. "Are there more rumors to hear."

"Only my miscellaneous bunch, Your Majesty." I was drunk enough to want a bed, but couldn't leave until dismissed.

The king nodded, Grim said, "Go for it, fool."

I wasn't sure whether he was hoping I'd say something no fool should say, and I was having trouble reading the list, but I went on. "I have to say that I consider these rumors defam defamatory and...."

"Come on," Grim said. "We want to get to lunch, too."

"Well," I said, "some people say that you've already given back Vest Agder, the land Old King Hamlet won from the Norwegians."

Claudius held up a hand to stop me. "That offer was included in the missive we sent to Fortinbras and his uncle. I wonder how it came out."

"Those who report the rumor – none acknowledge creating or believing it – are generally angry about it," I said. "And can see no reason other than cowardice."

"So Danish youth should lose their lives in a battle they can't win for a piece of rocky land and a few small fishing villages?" Claudius asked. He held up a hand, again. "No need for comment on that, Amundi. We said that Vest Agder was won by Old King Hamlet and always was a personal victory, and there was no reason the ownership of the land should remain with Denmark after the King's death. It's a thin excuse, but we were going to lose it anyway."

I said nothing, not trusting my fuzzy brain. "I am too drunk to comment, Your Majesty." "There are," I said, "differing opinions on how much Denmark wants to fight Fortinbras and whether you should make a deal with Fortinbras." I took a deep breath. "The last few rumors have Queen Gertrude prepared to escape back to her family home in Holstein, that there was something mysterious about the death of my remote predecessor, Yorick, that the castle is being haunted by the ghost of Old King Hamlet, and that we're about to find out the hidden truth, although they really don't say what this truth might be."

There was a long silence. "And that's it?" Claudius asked. "Have you any thoughts or concerns about any of these rumors."

"No. I do not. If I had such a thought or concern I would make up a silly rhyme to make fun of it." I burped, against my will. "I do wish, though, that Prince Hamlet would stop telling my jokes."

The King stood. Grim followed him to his feet and I stumbled up, knocking over my chair. "We will," Claudius said, "look forward to hearing you on your trip to Roskilde and Faxe, tomorrow at breakfast. I'll send a servant to your room." He strode out of the room and for a moment Grim and I were alone.

Then Grim smiled and said, "You are quite entertaining. Rumor collecting was a good idea. Sleep well." He turned and strode away. A quiet cough caught my attention. Gamli, the royal servant, was there to escort me all the way to my room. When I opened the door, Hekja was on her bed, naked. "Welcome back," she said. "I had a visit from Tola."

I took off my shoes and got under a blanket wanting nothing more than sleep. Hekja slid into my bed, reaching for my family organ but she probably learned on the spot what drink will do to that item. When I woke in the morning, her bed was empty. There was a tap on the door, but it was Gamli, come to lead me to the King.

The same table was there, with a large mug of wine for each of us. Claudius sat at the head of the table, and Polonius and Grim on either side of him. This looked more like a court to me than the previous evening's meeting. I really hoped I'd said nothing wrong.

I bowed as low as I could, and was waved to a chair. I sipped wine from one mug and passed it to the King. Claudius began. "Can you give us a report from Roskilde and Faxe?"

"I was one night at Roskilde," I said, "and had some short conversations with Lady Isobel. I have no expertise in military defenses, but it looked like they were preparing for war. There were lots of soldiers' tents, in any case, and the castle looked strong enough, considering its size, according to Soldir, my former acolyte. He was a soldier, and might know."

"You didn't come back with him," Polonius said.

I explained again that Soldir didn't want to get into another war at his age, and Ingald was a foreigner of some sort who thought it not his business.

"Might they be spies?" Polonius asked. I'd answered that question the previous night, but, of course, Polonius hadn't been there. Or maybe they were checking for consistency.

"I don't know," I said. "It's possible, but for whom I can't say. If they come back I'd watch them carefully, and feed them misinformation just in case."

"Or execute them, just in case," Grim suggested, taking a sip of his wine.

"I would miss them, but that's not my call," I said, taking a smaller sip of my wine.

"And what was your impression of the Count and Countess?" Polonius ignored his wine.

"They've recalled their sons from other places to fight, even though they think the odds of their survival are not that great. I think they'll fight as long as the rest of the Lords do, and perhaps longer. They are, after all, on Sjelland Island as is Elsinore so they haven't a lot of choice."

"Will they dig up their toilet waste for us?" Grim asked.

"Pardon?"

Polonius explained. "We're putting a great deal of money into cannons, mostly in the hope the Norwegians have few or none. My expensive foreign experts tell me we need lots of gunpowder for the cannons. An essential ingredient is saltpeter. The only good source of that stuff comes from decayed urine."

"I didn't want to know that," I said. "I don't want to know any state secrets."

"It'll come out soon anyway," Polonius said. "We're confiscating outhouses all over the kingdom."

"Then I think you've provided me and other jesters with the richest source of comedy we've had in years. I thank you for that."

"No problem," Grim said. "Our people will need all the humor they can get, soon."

"I think," I said, "that confiscating outhouses will extend the authority of Your Majesty. The Counts will say, 'Claudius wants everything from our battlements – the showing of the Danish flag – to our old piss.'"

"Maybe." Grim said. "But at least we're not taking something they've been making use of that way. It's a better tax than most."

I sipped a tiny bit of wine. "I doubt that I'm telling you anything you didn't know."

"A bit," Polonius said. "And every bit helps. Roskilde and Faxe are our closest provinces and will be critical if the Norwegians attack by sea, as is likely."

"And what did you think of Faxe?" Claudius asked.

I hesitated. A fool can be more easily forgiven by one important person in private than by three of them together, where laughing something off is not an option. In this situation, facing Grim (effectively Minster of War and President of Privy Council), Polonius (the Prime Minister), and my King and employer, made this not a time for levity. And Faxe was critical to these three, both because of its closeness to Elsinore and because of its military heritage. They'd have to keep track of Faxe in detail, as Fax would have to have spies in Elsinore. "It was difficult to get details, there," I said. "They're secretive and probably dedicated to misinformation."

"Nonetheless...." Grim shifted in his seat again. Maybe he reacted to fleas; some people do more than others.

"We... I talked with both Hakon and Ivar, as well as Lady Anna."

"Not Lord Thord?" Polonius asked. He didn't see you at all, even to discuss entertainment or conditions at Elsinore? Isn't that strange?"

I got a little more confident. "Word is out that Lord Thord is seriously ill, and in no condition to talk to anybody. Big – Lady Anna – said that one brother was an idiot, but we were never sure whether that was Hakon or Ivor."

"Probably Hakon," Polonius said.

"Hakon implied that Ivar was an idiot."

"Might those be true?" Grim looked up at the ceiling.

"I honestly don't know," I said. "Deception would be in Faxe's interest at any time. If an enemy believed that Lord Thord was incapacitated and his heir a fool, he might be taken unawares by a well planned attack from Faxe. Something that would pinch the Norwegians between Faxe's troops and Elsinore's walls."

"You think?"

"If I do, I apologize, my Lords. I sometimes do that when I don't mean to."

"Right," Grim said.

"As I said, I talked to them, and didn't find anything that would suggest either was a fool. I wouldn't like to be playing cards against either of them."

"Faxe's family is known for short people," Polonius said, "but they're as astute politicians as they are generals, and that's a combination we seldom find north of the Italian countries, or perhaps Constantinople. Did they sound supportive of Elsinore?"

"Hard to tell, My Lords. They expressed support for the Danish Crown, whoever wore it, whether it be you or Prince Hamlet. They more or less indicated that if Denmark weren't stable, it might be fodder for the Holy Roman Empire."

"Did you believe them?" Claudius asked.

"I trusted nothing they said. They might tell some truth and some lies, but I couldn't tell. Sorry about that."

There was a long pause. Polonius thanked me. Then Polonius said, "We were wondering about this young fellow you brought here, this Hekli. We admit that we can use young men, but some people are beginning to wonder if you're as interested in young men as you should be in women. Is this boy a professional fool, or are we going to have to wait while you train him?"

"If he's no good, people in the castle may resent another mouth to feed and we should put him out building fortifications," Grim said. It was a threat, but a mild threat.

"If you are having improper contact with him, the Church will have a say," Claudius noted.

I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Hekja could act, as I'd found out, but she was nowhere near ready for a steady routine in entertainment at Elsinore. I took the coward's way out; I confessed. "Her real name is Hekja," I said. "She ran away from Vrejlev Abbey after Soldir, Ingald, and I had spent a night there. An innocent night, I might add. She doesn't want to go back."

After a shocked, then amused silence, Polonius asked, "Do you want her to go back?"

"With all my heart. She claims to be a virgin, raised in the Abbey from infancy. For sheltering her, I am subject to punishment by the Church. If I have carnal relations with her, I would probably suffer more punishments than I care to contemplate."

"Yet she shares your room," Claudius said.

"You see my problem," I said. "I am a good Catholic, yet I don't want to be part of her conflicts with the Church. I could use your advice."

Grim started to say something, but Claudius spoke up. "I've got a lot of problems as King right now. The thought of your problem with this... Hekja is the funniest thing you've done in a while, and you're good at what you do. Let's all of us just keep this secret. Train her to make us laugh." He stroked his beard. "The northern countries of Europe are going to have some, ah, discussions and, ah, negotiations with Mother Church. We're getting a little pissed off by Leo and our taxes being used to rebuild his Rome. And his damned elephant." He turned to me. "You are dismissed." I finished my wine and left, my mind full of plans for skits about outhouse shovelers and the Pope. And a deep, deep, gratitude that my head would stay on my shoulders for while longer.

It was still early morning when I'd gone out and got back to my room. Helgi was sitting on my bed (mine wasn't on the floor), with her eyes closed. She was wearing her young-man outfit and had her eyes closed. "Hi, Amundi," she said. "Are we going to make a comedy team?"

"The king is looking forward to it," I said. "and I'm in favor. It's a lot easier to make skits and jokes using two people than one. Especially if you can play the part of a woman." I sat beside her and closed my eyes, too, to rest them. "It can be a sanctuary. You'll get food and shelter."

"For a while," she said.

"Until the war gets here. Then you might be impressed into battle, as I might. When the enemy's got ladders against the walls, everybody fights."

"Or until they find I'm a woman."

"Let's hope that doesn't happen."

"You won't tell anybody?"

"It's not in my interest," I said, couching the lie in logic.

"If you're my boss, how do I address you?"

"Jesters are always addressed by everybody by their first name. I'll call you Helgi and you'll call me Amundi."

"Like we were friends."

"We'll be friends."

"The Sisters assured me we can't be just friends forever. In a small room."

"I'm a joker. It will be a joke on everybody."

She took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back. She reached for my dick, and I moved her hand back. "It will be our joke," she said and burst into tears. Probably just tension, I thought.

"Shall we get a further tour of the castle and town?" I asked.

"I was talking to Tola," Helgi/Hekja reminded me.

"Tola?" I asked, probably sounding like I'd never heard the name before.

"Tola. I picked up a few rumors while I was circling my new prison. Some people were trying to find out if you were a sodomite. This seemed to conflict with the suspicion that you were Tola's lover, so I tracked her down and had a conversation about you."

"Tola," I said.

"You like to live dangerously, obviously," Hekja said. I gather her husband Grim is Minster of War."

"And President of the Privy Council, among other titles. In fact he's second in power to Claudius and in charge of Elsinore defences, the King's army, and negotiations with the Danish Lords."

"He could have you killed."

"Either or both of us, at a snap of his fingers."

"But you are Tola's lover?"

I nodded.

"You'd be safer doing the forbidden polka with me."

"If the Church didn't find out. And if I wanted to."

"You're in love with Tola?" She turned to me, astonished.

"Even a professional fool has a few amateur roles." I got up. "Let's go look at the town." I reached for my cloak, since it had looked like rain.

When I turned my back, she was naked again, on her hands and knees. "I'm going to give you one last chance," she said.

"Doggy style?" I asked.

"Pardon?"

"People normally do it face to face," I said.

"Really?" She got up, shrugged, and put on her clothes. "Sorry about that; at the monastery, the only sex activity I saw was the cattle, sheep, and goats. And the dogs and cats. And the pigs, of course. I just assumed humans did it that way, too. Nobody told me otherwise."

I didn't know what to say. It seemed logical to her, I guess.

***
Chapter 13: An Assignment

Elsinore town had one main street, leading from the biggest road in to the castle. It was wide, and cobbled, with one central square lined with shops and filled with vendors. The convoys coming toward the castle or to the new wall going up around the town had to push their way through. Sides streets were mostly dirt or mud and horse manure.

It was Saturday, it was busy, it was crowded and smelly and Hekja just loved it. I gave her some coins from the purse that hung around my neck and under my shirt – there were always pickpockets – and showed her how to bargain for what she wanted.

We bought lunch from baked goods vendor. Then I saw he glance so I got her a bright orange scarf. "You'll have to tell people you're saving it for your girlfriend," I suggested. She just smiled at me.

By mid-afternoon, the rain had started. I took her into a pub and each of us a beer. She examined it with distaste. "We had better beer at the... at my local pub," she said. I ignored her and began outlining the comedy routines she'd have to learn. I liked the fact that she instantly stopped looking at the locals and paid intent attention to what I had to say, asking clarifying questions. A few people at the table listened to us, but most just talked about their jobs.

On the walk back to the castle, in a light rain and a nasty wind, she asked about Tola, but I wouldn't answer.

There was still time before supper, so I took her to the jester's storage closet and showed her what we'd have to work with. Then we started practicing one of the old routines. I'd taught it to both Soldir and Ingald, but those fuckers were gone, and might never be back. The old routines are fine if your audience is drunk enough, or you've got a new partner. Or if you've got a new audience; there was a good chance I'd be doing some routines for the troops and maybe the workers on Sunday afternoon or evening.

Sunday morning was Church time; that was compulsory. But the afternoon and evening could be used for entertainment or relaxation.

We were halfway through the third iteration of the Beggar and the Thief skit when Tola showed up. Now, I'd been pondering what to tell Tola for a while. I finally decided there was too much of a chance she'd find out Hekja was a girl, if only from Grim, and when she did it had better come from me.

As soon as the routine was over, bowed to Tola and said, "My Lady, I was training my new assistant."

"I can see that," Tola said. "He seems to learn quickly enough. Perhaps you can do some I haven't seen before." She narrowed her eyes and said, "He'd make a good female actor; young and a bit effeminate."

"More than a bit," I said, and, after checking that no one else was around, pulled up Hekja's shirt to expose her breasts, for a moment.

"Oh," said, Tola.

"I thought you were going to keep this a secret," Hekja said, peeved.

"I," I said, "am going for a short walk." I stuffed the few items we'd used back in the Jester's Trunk, and pushed it into the closet. "Then I'm going back to my room for a nap." Then, of course, I walked out.

I got a bottle of good wine from a fellow I know, skipped supper, and by the time Hekja got to our room, I was singing something silly on my bed. I fell asleep shortly after that.

Sunday came with a hangover.

Hekja was up and gone when I woke up. I found her out along the wall, helping move lumber that had been used for scaffolding and was being carted away to somewhere else. They'd obviously worked her hard enough at the Monastery or she was stronger than I'd expected. When she saw me, she finished what she was doing and came over. "Ah," she said, "you woke up. I was beginning to think you wouldn't want to."

I handed her the oatmeal and onions breakfast that I'd got from the kitchen and walked with her out around the walls of the castle, which seemed to be coming along just fine, as far as I could tell. It had a long way to go to match Faxe's defenses, but seemed adequate to hold off a bunch of Norwegians. "So, what did you and Tola talk about?" I asked.

"Castle life, and people, and our childhood," she said.

"Okay...."

"We can be friends," Hekja said.

"We?"

"All three of us."

I had the sudden realization that if Tola was going to change from lover to friend, it would get a little more difficult to share a room with Hekja. "Look," said, "We've got to – ."

"You men. Tola still wants you."

"This is getting complicated," I said.

"Not so much," Hekja said. "You have sex with Tola when you can, and when Fortinbras puts your head on a pike by the road to town, your soul goes to hell. Adultery isn't a minor sin, you know."

"I don't know about that," I said. "Jesus stopped a crown from stoning the woman taken in adultery, but never mentioned her partner. Maybe men get a break in these deals." I didn't mention that, technically, I was still married to one wife, even if she had been sharing her bed with the village blacksmith for a few years.

"You're thinking that, as long as you're not married, it's fornication instead of adultery?" She chuckled. "The Catholic Church includes fornication with adultery in its Catechism. As far as the Church is concerned, the sixth commandment applies to both equally, along with premarital sex, by the way." We were back by the main gate, and followed a line of people going into the castle for reasons of their own.

"Shall we practice some more?" I asked Hekja.

"If your head doesn't hurt too much."

"Well, it does, but I'll live." Going up the stairs on the way to the Great Hall, I said, "You're aware that it's a sin for a woman to wear a man's clothing. Or a man to wear a woman's clothing?"

"You're sure about that? How would you know?"

"In my youth, I said, "I joined a band of traveling players when they stopped at my village for a few days. They let me play a part in a comedy, and, since I was young with a high voice, I got a girl's role." I shrugged. "The priest brought it up at mass."

"A few more years purgatory, when I go," Hekja said.

"You've heard of Joan of Arc, when the French were fighting the English?"

"I have. A witch, the Church says." She seemed puzzled by the reference.

"Well, the English burned her, and the only two charges they based that on were witchcraft and wearing a man's clothing."

"Really?"

"It's true."

"But you must wear women's clothing in many of your skits."

"I hope the Lord understands that's a temporary necessity."

Hekja shook her head. "Then I hope the Lord understands that these" she plucked her clothes "are a temporary necessity, too."

We had, by that time, arrived at the props closet. "You'll be playing a woman sometimes," I said, "so you can try on some of these dresses. I pointed along the hall. "There's a big mirror in the hallway."

When she wasn't back in a short time, I went to look for her. I found her in a noble woman's dress, standing in front of the mirror, crying.

I waited till she had stopped, then walked her back and started her on an easy skit, with a bit of singing. She turned out to be a natural musician and actress. Better yet, she didn't talk much, listening carefully and asking intelligent questions. Maybe, I thought, we can actually do this.

Afterwards, I showed her how I planned a few hours of entertainment for the king. The singers, the jugglers, our comedy, and a routine with two dogs and a sow that a man promised me he could bring. It was raining heavily once again by the time I was done, and we picked a seat by a window and watched the fields behind Elsinore castle, where they stretched almost to the sea.

"Is that where the Norwegians will come in?" she asked me.

I shrugged. "I'm no soldier, but that's where Vikings would land."

"Won't it be the most heavily defended, then?"

"I imagine so. But Fortinbras might consider surprise more important than convenience and land somewhere else."

"I would," she said. "I wouldn't attack where I was expected. That would be stupid."

Eventually the wind blew too much cold air and some rain into the room, and I closed the shutters. We walked back to our room for an afternoon nap. Even with a couple of candles going it was dark and damp there. After I blew out the candles and wrapped myself in my cloak she came over and lay beside me, wrapped in her own cloak. We put our arms around each other and one of us fell asleep while the other one was crying. I realized suddenly that she was the one sleeping.

The next month went by without major incident. Under orders from Claudius, I gave four shows a week, between the Great Hall of the castle, the soldier's quarters, the tradespeople's village, and the town of Elsinore. Hekja learned to juggle comically and provided a good source for man-woman jokes. She was taller than me, and could raise the pitch of her voice enough that she had no trouble convincing audiences she was a man playing a woman.

We made fun of each group to the others. Castle people, for example, liked jokes about foolish tradesmen and foolish townspeople and foolish soldiers. The other groups liked jokes especially about castle people, and considered me brave for telling them, not knowing Claudius had asked me to do it. "They need to have some fun at our expense," he assured me, then spent ten minutes defining the limits of such comedy. "We must not lose their respect," he said. "They may have to lay down their lives for us."

I nodded, and passed the information on to Hekja. She came up with a whole string of jokes about convent life, some of which we were able to use. It appeared that fear of the Church was a stronger motivation than respect for the Church, and fear's always a good source of jokes.

"We can make fun of some of the rumors going around," she suggested, and we were able to mock the silliest ones, as long as they didn't insult anybody or insinuate nasty goings-on.

I ruled out ghosts as a comic prop. "Old King Hamlet's death is a sore point, and none of the royal family would appreciate any jokes along that line."

"But everybody's talking about ghosts these days!"

"No," I said. "One does not insult people in power. I'll give you a tour of the castle torture room some time, and introduce you to the Choke Pear. It's about as long as your hand, but narrower, made of four leaves that fit together. For blasphemers and jesters who make one joke too many about the king, they stuff the device into the mouth or other orifice, and turn a handle at the end that remains outside. The leaves spread out as they turn that handle."

"They have that many blasphemers and bad jokes," she said, somewhat appalled.

"Oh, the rest of the time it's for more general torture, and is used in other body orifices. It'll kill a person over a few days, but they usually add in other tortures at the same time."

"And you've seen this?"

I smiled. "No one serves the king without an introduction, usually in the first week, to the torture room."

But I got thinking about ghosts, and eventually, after one Sunday mass, had a confessional conversation with the priest.

"Father," I said, "tell me about ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"I'm hearing a lot of rumors about ghosts," I said, "and I want to know the Church's position on them. I also have met a lot of people who claim to have seen one, although I, myself, haven't."

"The Church's position on ghosts is the same as the Bible's position, of course."

"And that is?"

"You're talking about the disembodied spirits of people no longer alive, I presume." The priest shifted a bit, but then, he was bound to be uncomfortable at his age on a hard wood seat.

"Of course. There are other kinds?"

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't including haunting memories of old times, or the Holy Ghost, or something like that."

"Nope," I said. "Dead people's wispy leftovers stalking the hallways and dungeons."

There was a pause. "They don't exist."

I was surprised. "But...."

"We can't argue with the Bible, can we? Ghosts, of the type you mean, are mentioned twice in the Bible, and both times to state categorically that they don't exist."

"Really?"

"Really. According to the bible, there is God, the angels – including Satan, the fallen angel – and humans. Nothing else."

"Then how come...?"

"They are illusions, created by Satan – Lucifer himself – to try to entice humans away from God."

"Wow," I said.

"That's for sure. Satan is always trying to lead people astray."

"Most of the ghosts just come and go."

"Can't explain that, son. Must be the devils downstairs practicing, or something. But people live on this planet, and after death go to Heaven or Hell. With a possible stopover in Purgatory, if required, since you can't get into Heaven unless you're pure." He sighed. "You die. Your soul goes to Hell or Purgatory or waits around until the resurrection, whenever that gets here. It does not hang around this soil."

"What if I had a conversation with a ghost?"

"Don't ever do that. Since a ghost is a device of the Devil, it'll try to get you to do things that will stand between your soul and Heaven. A ghost is a simulacrum full of cunning lies, and is profoundly evil. Satan might even make a ghost in the form of someone you knew, the better to lead you astray."

"It would talk me into sinning?" I must have sounded doubtful.

"Satan is far smarter and more devious than you or I. It would definitely try to make you do evil. "

"Such as?"

"Use your imagination, my son, and think of what the Church teaches. Satan is quite aware of God's ten commandments, and willing to get you going on those. The Devil wants your soul in Hell. In a minute's conversation he'd convince you to kill your mother or have carnal relations with your sister. He'll imitate people you knew and dress his ghosts up like you knew them; he's an expert at that. Just refuse to talk to any ghost. Ever."

"You seem to have thought about this a lot."

"Not a lot, but so many people claim to have seen ghosts that it's a topic at the seminary."

I don't know how he knew about my long-ago lust for my sister, and I wondered how much time I'd do in purgatory because of Tola, but I decided to put off confessing to these for another week.

I told Hekja about my conversation with the priest.

"No funny ghost."

"No ghosts at all," I said.

"But the soldiers talk about ghosts all the time."

"And the priest talks about the Holy Ghost, but we'll still avoid those topics."

She sighed. "Okay. Can we talk about adultery in the castle?" She seemed to have a fascination with the topic, which I figured was normal having grown up in a seminary. Actually, it was normal everywhere, but I didn't want to go there.

A month after Hamlet had come home to Elsinore, people were starting to wonder if there was going to be a war after all. But the ambassadors to Norway hadn't returned from what should have been a two-week journey there and back, so the castle kept being reinforced. After another week, however, Grim took off for a tour of the farther Danish Lords castles, to talk up Danish unity. I gathered he was promoting unity as a bulwark against our neighbours to the south and against the Swedes, even if we beat back Fortinbras.

I do know that it helped Tola and I meet a few more times, both in her apartment and in my room. If we met in public, she bossed me around as befit her status at the castle, but I don't know if it fooled anybody. Hekja found the whole thing immensely funny and made up a lot of jokes that I ignored, even as I saved them for when I'd be able to use them.

Hamlet, of course, kept up his big smile and his bad jokes, and even got into the occasional practical joke on workmen and soldiers. This wasn't fair, since there was no retaliation possible. At one point Claudius closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands. "If Hamlet doesn't get any, ah, worse than this," he said, "I'll live through it. I can put up with him as long as acting like an, ah, ass is the worst he gets. But I do wish Laertes were here."

Laertes; the man who a reasonable God would have made prince. And kept at Elsinore.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," I said. "Indeed. It's a wise plan to keep him so far from battle, so he can learn the manly arts of Latin and Greek, and practice his sword fighting in the taverns of Paris, against Frenchmen instead of poor Danes. A wise plan."

"You think so?" he said smiling, which I rated as a success-of-the-moment.

"For sure. Hamlet would have been slaughtered for his bad jokes within a week, if not for his really awful poetry." Something told me I could get away with slandering Hamlet for the moment at least.

"I've been thinking about recalling Laertes," Claudius said. "I might just try to talk Polonius into it, although I can see his need to keep his son safe. Problem is, Laertes can be, ah, impulsive, and that's not a good thing in a battle, nine times out of ten."

"Pity you can't exchange him for Ophelia. She'd do well in Paris, and probably pick up a nice rich prince from one of the French provinces."

"She'd have to have some great, ah, disguise, to come across as a man." Then, undoubtedly thinking of Hekja, he laughed and winked at me.

I laughed along with him, shaking my head ruefully at the same time. It was good to make the king laugh, and not just from my employment's point of view. He too often went around looking positively dismal when not in the company of those he had to inspire with confidence. The weight of Hamlet's nonsense must have been small compared to the coming war. If I were him, facing that, I'd have been off to the chapel twice a day to get the help of, if not God himself, at least some saints. I tended to avoid the Church whenever possible because of my guilt over loving Tola, but I couldn't see what Claudius had to fear from confession. Unless rumors were true that he was creating a war just to further unite the Danes. Or, as another rumor had it, that he'd killed Old King Hamlet. If that were true, he seemed to get no joy out of that or his marriage to Gertrude.

"I wonder if he's kept the money his father sent with him." Claudius was having one of his moments of relaxation, with the one man to whom he could talk in safety, more or less. "It's too easy in a strange city to have a pickpocket take a moneybag, or a, ah, con artist talk a foreigner out of most of it."

"He probably keeps it in a bank. They have such a thing there now."

"Yeah, the banks." Claudius said, bitterly.

"A well, they do have strong walls. They keep a man's money safe, so he takes only what he needs with him and can lose only that much."

Claudius snorted. "And how much does a bank charge for this privilege? They certainly soak me enough for war loans."

"From what I hear, sire, nothing. In fact they'll pay you to keep it there."

"Then how can they make money?" Claudius said. "It costs to build securely – I know that as well as anybody. And to, ah, hire staff?"

"They make money by lending your money to other people for interest. People such as kings who need to build castles."

"So I give my money to them and when I want some, they won't have it because it's been loaned out? Oh great."

"If you need some, they give you someone else's money in place of yours."

"So they rob me of the money I gave them for safekeeping, and to cover it up, they rob some other, ah, poor sucker?" He shook his head. "Sounds like a perfect satanic enterprise for robbing everybody simultaneously. I presume, with that amount of criminality, they're doing well."

"As far as I understand, Lord, banks are doing very well."

"Well, I'll see if I can persuade Polonius to get his son home. Obviously, keeping Hamlet here to inspire the troops hasn't, ah, worked out as I hoped." He put his hand on mine. "Perhaps that shouldn't go into a skit, however funny people might find it."

"I don't make fun of the royal family, you will have noticed. I don't want to end up like Yorick."

"Like Yorick? What do you know of that?"

"Like dead, is all I mean. I assume he's not hiding in Wittenberg, or in an Abbey, disguised as a nun."

"Ah." Claudius got up. "Dead. I can assure you of that."

I could tell I was dismissed, and left with a deep bow.

A few days later, Hekja and I were at a table for a mid-day meal, when Tola and Ophelia joined us, arriving together, and sitting at the table. "Hello," Ophelia said. "May we join you?" Both Hekja and I stood, bowed, and sat down again. Hekja was a quick study, or maybe she'd had to do that at the abbey every time a bishop or cardinal visited.

I could have made a remark about having dinner with fools and either of them could have replied that every woman has to get used to that after marriage, if not before, but that joke had been worked to death by everyone.

"A clear day," Tola said, "The workers can at last get back to building walls."

"I was out there yesterday morning, with my father," Ophelia said. "In the morning. They seem to be coming along nicely."

I could picture Ophelia taking a walk. She'd learned to walk like a queen after being more of a tomboy when she was younger. Lessons, I assumed, at some finishing academy for castle women. She'd sing silently to herself when the old Danish songs were part of an entertainment, and, if asked, she preferred stories about knights and women rescued from dragons. Polonius had noted how sad she was after he'd asked her to avoid Hamlet, and I tried dutifully to amuse her whenever possible.

"I'm impressed," I said, "but I'm no expert in fortifications." There was a pause. "The people seem to be grumbling a bit less." A longer pause. This conversation was getting nowhere. I turned to Tola. "My Lady, is there any way you can give my friend Helgi a tour of the Royal Quarters? He's led a rather sheltered life before coming to Elsinore and he's always wanted to see parts of the castle I can't take him to."

Tola seemed relieved. "But of course, Amundi. The Royal Quarters here are smaller than those in most of the palaces out there that we use in peacetime." She waved generally in the direction of the ocean, missing the true direction of the King's country estates by a wide margin, as many women do. "But they're still better than you or I are likely to see." She left with Hekja following. I could hear Tola giving him a tour of the decorations, mainly armaments and paintings, as they went.

"And you, My Lady. Are you well?"

"I am alone, Amundi. I am a small flower in a castle wall, unable to find the sunshine or the soil I need to grow. I am very much alone," Ophelia said.

"Yet everyone loves you," I said.

"Everyone loves, and even admires, the little flower in the crack in the cold stones of the castle wall. When it is gone – and it cannot grow – people will pass by the place with the vague feeling there was something there, once."

I nodded. She was right.

"I can say that, can't I, Amundi? Yet I don't know the truth of much. My view is small. I don't get to go further than the nearby towns, and my world is in books of adventures someone else wrote. How can I draw any conclusions from such a limited window? I am less than a princess, more imprisoned than the tradeswoman who travels across Denmark and into Holstein or the Balearic States. Even the cats run out at night and come back in the morning knowing mysteries. I am a prisoner of my position, and when I am gone, people will talk about me with a vague puzzlement, then move on to a happier topic."

I nodded. Hamlet was not only the one she loved, but also her way out of a prison. "I know the prince loves you."

"What's up with him?" Ophelia had a determined look to her. "He's still acting like an idiot."

"I honestly don't know," I told her. "I assumed he'd be over whatever it was by now."

"You're not training him to be a jester or something, are you?"

I raised my hands, palms out, and shook me head. "Oh, if I were, I'd do a lot better job. He's stealing my best silly jokes – the ones I keep for yokels – and sharing them. I wouldn't allow anybody to do that." I hesitated. "You're still not speaking to him?"

She shook her head. "I owe it to my father not to." She hesitated. "But it wouldn't make any difference. He talks to me only in bad jokes and silly riddles. At least they sound silly. But I just smile and move on. I'm sure he knows why I avoid him."

"My Lady," I said. "There are young nobles all over Denmark and even beyond that would court you."

She closed her eyes onto a few tears. "Who would take care of my father if I left, Amundi? He was a great man once, but there's not much left of that, and it's not going to get better. Praying and donations to the shrines haven't helped, and the old women tell me it never does." She got up, and I did, too. "Besides," she said, "I love Hamlet and he loves me. It's probably just as father told me; since I am forbidden to even talk to him, he's gone crazy. Someday that will change."

"My Lady," I said, as she walked away. I watched her go. The tragedy of human interface, I thought. You never get to really know someone until you've been married to them. And then, I remembered, even then they can move in with the town blacksmith one morning when you're eating cold oats. The people you meet let you into the anteroom of their minds, where they've fixed up things as they want a visitor to see them. Eventually, you might get to see another room, equally fitted out, but with a few of their favorite things, carefully polished.

If only, when people wanted to, they could do it the other way. Start with deepest secrets and get to know the rest later, at leisure. Other people, I thought ruefully. But not me. I had as many walls as Elsinore around my soul and I doubted that anyone would ever again see what I kept down in the torture room under the keep of my own soul. Tola seemed not to want to know.

Hekja came back alone. "Tola said she has things to do," she whispered to me, then giggled at the way I looked so disappointed. "On the other hand," she went on, "I got the feeling she'd look you up sometime." She punched me on the arm. "Don't look so disappointed. You have a warm present beside you every night, just waiting for unwrapping."

"And what would we name our firstborn?"

"The sisters at the Abbey know lots of ways to prevent pregnancy."

"What?"

"The Church condemns contraception, and can get quite specific at times." Hekja nodded her head vigorously. "We nuns discussed them. In detail. More than you'd think."

I snorted. "Like nuns would know whether any of those actually worked." Amateurs think they know a lot. I'd had lots of drunks tell me about fabulously funny skits I should put on. They were, almost inevitably, worth what I paid for them.

"God would know," I said. "Wouldn't he?"

"Save up your money; we can buy an indulgence after our fourth kid."

I rolled my eyes, raised my hands to the skies, and walked away. But I thought it would make a good skit – nuns discussing sex – if I could get it done right.

I found Polonius in the garden, hiding from the rain under a small shelter. I was trying to decide whether to talk to him or not, when he called me over. "Come, Amundi, I could use a laugh or two," he said, patting the chair beside him.

"Thank you, m'lord. It's a wet day, and I suspect we're better off than those people deepening the moat. You and Ingald," I said. "Seem to know more bits of wisdom than I ever will."

"They're wise only when correctly applied. Or if they're all you've got left." He looked infinitely sad. "Lately, it's all I've got left."

I said nothing.

"I was born in the Duchy of Mecklenburg," he said. "My parents were Danish merchants, on their way from somewhere to somewhere else. I travelled a lot when I was young. I guess I'll die here in Elsinore." We watched the rain and a few wet carpenters go by. "I don't think I'll know when I die. Every day things are closing in."

"You are still esteemed in Denmark."

He shook his head. "Only by those who haven't met me in the last year. I'm a shadow." He wiped an eye. "Now it's like I was playing a blind man's game, where people call out "you're getting colder" no matter which way I turn, no matter how much I try to understand. They turn away, and shake their head. I wonder how much I say is wrong and people just wait till I've left."

"You have my respect and sympathy."

"I want only darkness, now. If God's keeping me around, it must be for a joke." He looked me in the eye. "You could use me in a skit, as the demented old man, silly and thinking he's smart."

"I don't think so."

"You're right. Half the audience would laugh, and the other half would cry." When I said nothing, he asked, "did you come to talk to me about Ophelia and Hamlet?"

"No," I said, but I wondered if I meant it.

"I have experience," he said, "if not much brain left. Based on that, I trample on my daughter's dreams before they become nightmares. Hamlet is probably glad I forbade her to associate with him. He'll marry the daughter of a Danish Lord; Ophelia would never be more than a mistress. You know that."

"It is common, sir."

"Always was. I hope I'm right. Have you no jokes for me?"

I told him a couple that were perceptive, but not very funny. I should have stuck with funny.

"Thank you," he said. "Please leave me now; I have some self pity to cover myself in."

"As you wish." I went back to the castle, then off to the town to have some drink and meat in one of the happier alehouses. A place where there were no tears, except when drunks and other fools got into their cups.

Speaking of drink, I passed Grim in a hallway of the castle one day, and he was looking a bit, er, grim. It had been a week since, while he was inspecting troops further away and Denmark, Tola and I had become reacquainted with each other's pleasure parts, so I was only mildly apprehensive, which is to say I stopped breathing, my heart seized up, and I broke into a sweat that ran down the back of my legs and into my shoes. "Good morning, sire," I said. "I'd like to lighten things with a joke, but Hamlet beat me to it again this morning."

He actually almost smiled. "We should send him to Faxe. After a week they'll agree to anything if we take him back."

"Bad news?" I asked. "I can handle a crossbow fairly well, and am proficient at dumping waste buckets over castle walls."

"More like no news," Amundi. It's been a month since we sent our ambassadors to the Norwegians, and it's only a two week journey at best, including return. We're fearing the worst."

I was impressed that either he trusted me not to be a spy, or was so convinced I was a spy he trusted me to get false information to whoever I was spying for.

"You had hope of stopping the war, I gather."

"We had an idea, Claudius and I, that might just have worked." He sighed. "But as time drags on...."

"It drags on without war, though, sire."

"To offer peace takes little time, Amundi; a war takes a lot of time. And maybe we should just have grabbed our balls and rushed to battle."

"The general who wins a war without fighting is greater than the general who wins a hundred battles. I imagine that applies to a general who stops a war, too." I'd heard that from Ingald who seemed to know something about ancient Chinese sayings.

"Interesting comment, Amundi."

"Not mine," I said. Sun Tzu, a Chinese philosopher of war. Wrote a book on it many centuries ago." I was quoting Ingald, but decided against attributing it.

"Must read that sometime." Have a good day, Amundi, or at least a better one than I'm having."

"I'll try, sire. I thank you." I didn't specify what I was thanking him for. That day I went out to the far edge of Elsinore town, to Svendsvig Alehouse, a place with the best ale in town, if you could afford it. The ale was cheaper in quantity, so I ordered quantity. I made friends, and parodied every noble in Elsinore castle, including myself in gross ways. I understand I did riotous imitations of the Pope, a nun (unspecified) and Fortinbras. I woke up with a hangover, and Hekja looking at me from across my room.

"You drink too much," she said.

"I'm supposed to be a jester," I said. "And everywhere I go people are in tears."

" I daresay you got a lot of real laughs last night, at least the first time you fell off the table, and a couple of false ones when you bought a round of beer."

"I hurt," I said, and hoped she would come over and comfort me. The fool and the virgin, sharing a bed without doing what it was natural for couples to do. Most nights now we shared my bed for a while, teaching each other to do things with our hands that the Church wouldn't have approved of. Not that I wasn't adding to my sins, but I was hoping some restraint mattered in the view of God.

"No comfort for you this week," Hekja said, "I'm flowering."

It wasn't going to be a good week. I could tell that right away. As the month had worn on, my nasty little jokes mocking Norwegians had grown more specific, and there wasn't any doubt that if Fortinbras took Elsinore, my demise would be very certain, if very slow. They'd end up with my head, in full fool costume, on a pike outside the gate, so I could give people one last laugh as the crows took my eyes.

I got some food from the kitchen. "I hear you do a really good imitation of the Pope," the chief cook said, and the other kitchen staff laughed.

Hamlet said the same thing as I passed him in the bailey an hour later. I tried to get to see the king, but was turned away. I wondered what I'd said in that pub somewhere around midnight. Maybe he was just busy with war stuff, I figured.

I was sitting on the castle wall, working on plans for the next week's entertainment, when I looked up, and discovered that Gamli, the king's royal servant found me. I didn't know how long he'd been there, silent beside me. He had a smirk. "His Royal Highness will see you now," he said, with an air of such superiority that I wondered if a sudden leap over the wall might not be the best idea. It was a long, long walk.

Claudius was at his table, and waved me to the other side, without comment. He had maps and texts, handwritings, and a cup of mead in front of him. He turned everything but the mead upside down; I didn't know whether he was afraid I was a spy or was afraid I'd include all his war plans in palace jokes. Or bar jokes. He waved me to a chair. "Good afternoon, Amundi."

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty." It was my custom to address the king properly, when we met, and gradually leave off the titles as the conversations continued. I waited.

"I understand, you do a good impression of the Pope," he said, "I must see that some day."

I turned red and broke into a sweat. "So I was told, Your Majesty."

"How much do you remember of last night, Amundi?"

"Very little, Your Majesty."

Claudius shook his head ruefully. "Just what I need, a foolish fool. I thought you, ah, guys were known for wisdom."

"Jesters come in all types, My Lord, and the foolish fools get winnowed out." My hands started to shake, so I put them under the table.

"Well, according to my sources, at least to some who are assigned to, ah, frequent the same low places as yourself, you managed, somehow, to keep from insulting myself, my wife, or my crazy new son." He drank from the mug. "Or at least that, ah, limping soldier friend of yours did before you'd gone that far."

I stuttered, then said, "Soldir?"

"That's the one. It appears that he and the other guy hauled you off the table in time." He smiled. "Or maybe you'd never have gone that far."

"Oh, never, Your Majesty," I assured him. "I would not do that."

"For your sake, let's hope you're right. The next, ah, son of a bitch who even remotely suggests that I killed Old King Hamlet is going straight to the torture room for an education." He squinted at me. "You, on the other hand, I can just turn over to the Church. They'll hand you back to me with a, ah, specific list of corrections."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Are you going to show me your Pope Leo sometime?"

I choked. "At your wish, Your Majesty, but I suggest it be done in private, in case you laugh."

He looked around. "I don't see anybody." He raised his eyebrows.

I can't say I was relaxed enough to give a good performance, but I did my best. And the king did laugh, more casually than I'd see him do in months. "Thank you, Amundi," he said. "Now we can both go to, ah, Hell with a smile." He took a deep breath, and asked, "Are you available for more work?"

That was astonishing. Kings don't usually ask. But I'd noticed that Claudius, perhaps because he was not raised to be king, did ask a lot of questions before giving orders. It wouldn't work on the battlefield sometimes, but it was appreciated around the castle. "I have the castle entertainment mostly planned for the next couple of weeks," I told him. Neither of us mentioned that such plans depended on a war not breaking out.

"Fine. We are, as you noticed, surrounded by workers and soldiers, more every day. The workers are happy with pay and ale, but the soldiers are starting to get restless. I suppose soldiers always do." He pointed a finger at me. "Can you provide more, ah, entertainment that the soldiers would like?" He waved a hand. "Of course I know you've been doing some of that already, but I'm hoping you can do a lot more. With a bit of, ah, propaganda on behalf of myself and Denmark."

A ton of doubts and questions came into my mind. "No problem, Your Majesty."

"Thanks, Amundi. I knew I could count on you." He waited while I rose and bowed and took my leave. Behind me I could hear him turning over the papers on the table, and sighing.

Myself, my first thought was about Soldir and Ingald. Had they really hauled me off the table in the bar, and what the heck were they doing back in Denmark? They'd both said they were going south to avoid the war.

I decided that I'd find soldiers who would talk to me about soldier jokes for ale. My first thought was that buying ale would probably bankrupt me, but the idea of going back to see Claudius for "ale money" sounded like a bad plan, especially after my previous night's experience. I got Hekja away from a good-looking male servant and we went out of the castle to the military area.

"I'm to increase the entertainment schedule for the troops," I told her. "Claudius wants me to." I looked at her as we stepped over muddy wheel ruts and cattle droppings, but she made no comment. We found a bridge, made of two planks, over the latrine ditch, ignoring (as much as Hekja could) the dozen or so men peeing into the ditch or sitting on planks talking.

"You've done that before."

"Only on a small scale. A few minutes for a few small groups." I waved at the sea of tents at the edge of town. "Nothing on this scale."

"You're going to need me. There are a lot of skits that need two people, even if one of them is only a straight man."

"I don't know about you. What do you know about war?"

She snorted. "Probably almost as much as a country yokel like yourself." I was going to object, when she added, "I don't know much about war, but I do know a lot about a large organization dedicated to a single cause, and how its members think. There are bound to be some similarities. Besides, I imagine soldiers need a lot of women jokes, and I can play a woman quite convincingly, if I try."

"Perhaps too convincingly," I said, although I knew Hekja was quite as convincing playing a man pretending to be a woman as she was playing a woman pretending to be a man.

"And," she added, "I bet they do a lot of praying out on the battlefield."

I rolled my eyes. "Betting's a sin."

"So's fucking. That going to happen tonight?"

"Only if Tola comes over."

"Haven't seen her around for a while. You two meeting somewhere else."

"In the rose garden," I said. "Nobody notices one more prick there."

"So we're here to, what, get ideas?"

"We might at least find out what topics are funny and what topics to avoid. Drunken soldiers can show their annoyance pretty quickly."

"You going to bribe them. With what? The money you're using to keep me?"

"You aren't kept. And I figure I can afford an ale or two for a good interview."

The army camp stretched across several farms beyond the town walls. Crops had been flattened, cattle and pigs had been snatched in the night and eaten, and commanders and knights took the buildings. Most of the tents, except for gray Faxe tents, looked patched together from leftovers. They flapped in the constant Danish wind. "That's something pretty useless:" I said, "wind. This country's got more wind than it needs. The sun, I can understand. It warms us and grows crops. But wind?"

"Other counties have less wind?"

"That's what Ingald told me, and he claims to know." I didn't tell her that Ingald and Soldir might be back.

"We grind wheat with windmills," Hekja pointed out,

"For a month or two. The rest of the time it just blows."

"You're in a mood," she said.

I nodded. "I'm not looking forward to talking to soldiers."

The tent area was full of men, armed or not, young and old, and women wandering in small groups. Wagons and traders and hawkers moved randomly throughout, trying to sell hot food or bread, ales or mussels. The ground was muddy and soft. Piles of goods were everywhere, with armed men on benches guarding them. I saw no one I knew, and nobody bothered to look at us, just two more strangers, except the youngest men, who looked wonderingly at everything and everybody.

"Ale house." Hekja said, pointing at a big tent with benches outside and inside. It was mid-afternoon and there were spaces at some of the tables. We sat down, and ordered a couple of mugs of ale from the tired young man who was serving.

There were soldiers, among other people, but no one stopped at our table. A small brown bird flew into the tent, then back out. I watched it with my eyes, again disappointed that I couldn't just stretch out my arms, left my weight as a pile of bones and lard on the bench, and, lifted by twenty-five years' unfulfilled desires, circle up into the clouds. Maybe I was feeling above the mobs in the army encampment like some castle snob. Maybe I'd soar when I was dead, up to heaven, but I had the feeling that on Judgment Day I'd be tumbling down to Lower Realms reaching out for Tola and not quite touching her fingers. I was going to have to confess, sooner or later, just in case I didn't survive the war.

"What are you thinking?" Hekja asked.

"I'm thinking maybe I'd be a gift to Denmark, making people laugh in these troubled times."

Hekja looked around. "The ale seems to be doing a better job than you are, right now."

"Okay. You got me. I was thinking I'm just an unsociable asshole always hoping laughs meant acceptance, and always being disappointed."

"That's news? You might want to learn how to make friends."

I was just about to launch into something witty, but I lacked it in front of Hekja for some reason, so I reached into my bag and hauled out a rusty spear point and one of my fool's coxcombs. That drew more curiosity. In less than a minute, an old soldier, well over thirty, stopped at the table. "You're the castle fool – I mean the king's jester. People here can't decide whether Claudius is a fool to think he can beat Fortinbras or a fool because he thinks he needs to."

"And you?"

"I think our dear king is planning to defeat Fortinbras on our soil, then take Norway. But then, I'm just a soldier, out to die. And you? You're close to power."

I threw my arms up. "Far as I can tell, they don't trust anybody, including me. If I hear anything I never know if they're worried I might be a spy and want to feed lies to whoever they think might be my real bosses."

"So you're not here to spy on us for the King?"

"If he asks me any questions, I won't lie to him, but he told me to entertain the troops and I'm here to gather ideas for comedy, tragedy, tragicomedy, and comitragedy. I'm hoping to get ideas."

"Can I sit down?" He did without waiting for an answer. "Will you buy me an ale?" I did.

"Honored and delighted to have you here," I told him. "This young fellow is Helgi; he'll be part of the show. We'd like to make jokes without getting our asses booted out. That could be hard, because we know nothing about soldiering or war." I paused. "What can we call you?" I understood that he might be reluctant to give his real name.

He thought. "How about 'Mulvad', for now?" It meant a place where a person could ford a river.

"Mulvad," I said, "you don't appear to be an officer, even at your age. Do you love and trust your officers? And your fellow soldiers?"

He laughed until he had to set his mug down so he didn't spill the ale. "We _hate_ our officers," he said. "And they hate us."

"They hate you? Why?"

"Because they have to sacrifice us like.... Well, I'm not sure what gets sacrificed like soldiers. Even sheep get to be food. We just get to lie in the mud or the snow bleeding and crying for our mothers until Sakse comes around with his knife. That's too much to ask of a man, even an officer; to send all those other guys to die for a hill or a swamp or to fool the enemy where you're going to attack, or just because they're too stupid to know the Poles have set a trap. They hate us because they realize how stupid they are and how stupid we are to listen to them."

"And you hate the officers."

He stared at me as if I were making a joke. "Wouldn't you? They're out to kill you. The enemy is out to kill you, too, but at least they know why."

"Then," Hekja asked, "do the foot soldiers, the regular soldiers, come to love and trust each other?"

A swig of ale, then a shaking of the hands. "We all hate each other, too. The other soldiers are always trying steal the bit of food and water you've stolen from the enemy's farms and villages, and you need it because you haven't been fed in three days, because the officers have confiscated all the good pickings. You hate the soldiers that steal your last piece of frozen cabbage, or the ones you stole that cabbage from and are trying to make soup out of it. You hate the ones that do you harm, but you hate more the ones you've had to harm to stay alive. And the other men are always trying to get behind you when the arrows come in. Get an arrow through your throat, and the guy behind you will say 'thanks', if he's feeling grateful."

"But...."

"Look; you form little groups of four or five soldiers. It always happens in war. These are guys you trust only a tiny bit and but you depend on and love and hate them because you might just have to get yourself killed for one of them." He smiled. "Can you make a joke out of that? One that'll make the soldiers laugh?" He got up. "Good luck. Just remember that a new soldier has no idea, no idea at all, what he's signed up for, and an old soldier knows you can't ever, ever, ever, know what his brain's like after a war or what real burdens his soul carries. Just remember that, first.

"Who's Sakse?" Hekja asked.

"Ask the next guy. I have places to go and things to forget." He walked away.

A minute later, another soldier wandered over to our section of the bench. "I hear you'll buy me an

ale if I talk to you," he said, sitting down. A couple of men who came with him sat down, too. They were all thin and lanky.

Hekja laughed, knowing I'd been hoping to get away without the expense,.

"If you'll help me, I'll buy you a drink. This is Helgi, my assistant." I explained about my mandate to entertain the troops.

"Has the king offered to pay for your expenses?"

I shook my head. "I'll apply for reimbursement afterwards, but right now it's out of my own pocket."

He snorted like he didn't believe me. I couldn't blame him; I wouldn't have believed me either. Everybody who was anybody was trying to make money out of the war, and why wouldn't I be lying to soldiers and keeping money the king offered? But he sat down. "I'm Mulvad," he said."

"Same as the last soldier," I observed.

"Amazing coincidence, isn't it," he said.

"Truly amazing," I said. "Have you any ideas about something funny I can use in my show?"

"Well, now, I remembered a really funny event from the Polish war. I served under Old King Hamlet in Poland," he explained. "It's hilarious. You can impress the new recruits with it." The men beside him giggled a bit. I was glad they didn't want me to buy their ale, too.

"Okay," I said. "Go ahead."

He finished his mug of ale. It looked like I was going to have to buy another ale, but my soldier started in with his story.

"It was a cold night," he said. "We'd been fighting all day, and when it got dark we stopped and made camp in a woods on a hillside. Not the most comfortable camping, but defensible. That was important, because we'd been driven by the Poles for two days, with some night attacks as well."

He looked around, then went on. "We were outside a small town – maybe three hundred people – that the Polish army had settled into. In between us was a set of fields, covered with snow and wounded and dead people, where the last battle had taken place."

"How did the battle go?" Hekja asked.

He waved his hand dismissively. "As usual we killed a lot more of them than they killed of us. But that didn't matter; they had more soldiers available and we didn't. We weren't trying to win the war any more; we just wanted to get back to our ships and get the hell out of there. Anyway," he said, as though Hekja's question had annoyed him, "anyway the Poles had dragged off a few of our wounded guys who we didn't get to in time. They'd patch them up enough to scream, and torture them one at a time, trying to ruin our sleep. That's what the Poles did in the war. It's why you didn't want to be captured."

His two friends looked away. I nodded. Hekja said nothing.

"Anyway, the locals usually waited till dark before looting the bodies, but this night the moon came out, full, and what with the screaming keeping us awake anyway, and the moonlight bright on the snow, six of us took a few crossbows and a bunch of bolts and snuck along a fence line to the edge of the field."

Neither of his companions smiled.

"Drawing diagrams with his hands, he said, "we got up close enough to shoot and, sure enough, we saw a bunch of figures, wrapped up because of the cold, going from one body to another. Now a crossbow isn't the best of aims, but we rested them on the fence and got off a volley. Took down four of them before the rest ran away." He looked at me, knowing I was in no position to turn down ale, so I bought him one, and got us all a quartern of dark bread.

"Go on," I said.

"Well," he said, "we waded through the snow and guess what?' He looked at his companions, then all three of them looked unsmiling at us. "They weren't looters at all," he said, in a whisper. "They were Polish mothers and wives looking for the bodies of their sons and husbands." He finished his ale, stood up, ripped of a good chunk of bread, and said, "Isn't that a hoot? All they wanted was to drag their husbands and sons back to the town. And we shot them!"

"Were they dead?" Hekja asked.

He shrugged. "One was, for sure. Don't know about the others. By morning, they were all gone and all the bodies of our men had been looted and dismembered. We didn't have enough supplies to take the town, so we moved on, with the Polish army trailing us and picking fights whenever they thought they had a better position than us. We were pretty close to starving by then." He winked. "Make a joke out of that." The three of them left, walking out of the tent without looking back.

Hekja and I raised eyebrows to each other. "Make a joke about that," she mimicked.

"We still don't know who Saksi was," I noted.

The third man to walk up used a cane, and hobbled worse than Soldir ever had. "I hear you're trading ale for stories," he said, breathing badly and barely whispering. Shorter and wider than most, he leaned on his cane, looking dubious.

I introduced "Helgi" and explained our mission. And noted that we had limited funds.

"And I have unlimited ability to drink," he said, without a smile.

I ordered him an ale. "Why don't I trade two ales for your stories?" I asked.

"Sounds like a plan, to me," he said, drinking the first mug loudly and instantly. Then he sat there, puffing heavily. "Took an arrow in the hip," he explained.

I ordered another, thinking I was going to be the loser on this deal. "What can we call you?" Hekja asked. When he hesitated, she suggested, "Mulvad?"

"Ah," he said. "That will do." He curled his large hands around the mug as if to protect it, and said, "What would you like to know?"

Hekja and I leaned in to catch his words against the noise of the other patrons, two of whom sounded like they were going to kill each other with insults. "Whatever we can use that's common knowledge to soldiers. And," I added, "who Saski is."

He broke into a big smile. "That," he said, "I can help you with. Just bear with me, because I want you to understand about Saksi."

We nodded.

"We landed on the coast of Poland with fifty-three ships, large and small." He looked at his ale, but didn't drink any. "In a couple of days we were formed up and had the supplies in wagons. We had horses to pull the big wagons, but soldiers pulled the smaller ones. It was hell in the snow; we should have used sleds like the Poles did. I heard Old King Hamlet was planning on getting horses from the locals as we went." He lapsed into breathing heavily for a few minutes, then continued. "There was no opposition for a few days, so we followed the main road south, taking what we needed from the empty houses and towns.

"But there wasn't much. The animals, including horses, had been taken, and there was no grain stored. We send out ranging parties, but most of them didn't come back, so we continued on, looting anything of value left behind. All that did was make the wagons harder to pull. You can guess what happened."

"You ran out of food?"

"Of course. It was go back down a road where we knew there was no food, or continue on. Nobody listens to soldiers, so we went on. "After a while we dumped the loads of loot beside the road when the officers weren't looking. After a while we figured out they didn't care either. Then...."

We waited until he'd caught up on his breathing again. "Then?" Hekja coached.

"Then they started attacking us. The Poles. They'd hit us with arrows from the trees, then go back into the forests when we attacked them. Know where they hit us? From the sides, but mostly from where we'd been."

"They were forcing you away from the coast?" I suggested.

"Ate our horses, and made some of the carts into sleds, to start with.

"Someone made a sensible decision?"

He ignored that. "We finally got to a city. Everything was gone, but at least we didn't have to sleep in the snow. We had warm rooms, burning the furniture, and eating the dogs and cats." He squinted. "Much like you'd imagine, but the meat seemed good to us, even if the officers got most of it"

Finally, he took a small sip of his second mug of ale.

"There must have come a time when you decided to turn around."

Mulvad the Third nodded. "We were cold, dirty, and starving. They probably poisoned the wells, so we melted snow to drink. Old King Hamlet must have realized we weren't going to get to Warsaw, not at the rate we were losing men to dysentery, the cold, and the arrows from the attacking Poles. Oh, we killed two or three of them for every one they got of us, but we were going to run out of soldiers before they did. We built sled runners for the wagons, and started back." He sighed, and lapsed into silence.

"How was coming back?" I asked.

"Hit and run from the Poles as usual. Eventually we couldn't pull the sleds and started abandoning them." He smiled at us. "This is the hilarious part. A lot of sleds were full of wounded Danes. There was no more space. We started leaving behind those who weren't going to make it anyway."

"The Poles took them prisoner."

He nodded. "At night we could hear our men who'd been taken. They screamed a lot." This time he took a much bigger drink. "Saksi."

"Who's Saksi?" Hekja wanted to know, leaning closer. "I don't know where the name came from," Mulvad the Third acknowledged. "Maybe there was a real Saksi once."

"But...."

"Saksi," said the old soldier, "was the guy with the knife, The misericorde, the mercy knife."

Hekja looked shocked. "He killed his own?"

A nod. "It had to be done. We couldn't stay and we couldn't take someone who couldn't walk, and we couldn't leave them alive; the Poles would just torture them to death. Rumor was that the Polish women, especially those who'd lost husbands or sons, did most of the torturing."

"Okay...."

"Saksi, whoever was Saksi, it changed a couple of times, had the job of killing those who were going to die anyway."

"Were you....?"

"Never!" He had to stop and breath for a while. "It's a long thin knife, and you can't be rough with it. The usual way to do a common soldier was under the arm or along the neck and down into the heart. It was just as quick going through the eye and into the brain, but that meant looking they guy in the eye as you got there. Saksi had to do a couple of knights in armour, and for them, into the eye was best, but generally you rolled the soldier onto his face so he couldn't see you. It's said that the usual last words were 'please' or 'mother'."

"Who would volunteer?" Hekja wanted to know.

"We wanted to live. It's all we prayed for day and night. And whoever was 'Saksi' got better food and more protection from the Poles." He shrugged. "I heard that the first one killed himself after a couple of days, but there was no problem finding another."

"You made it home," I said, putting a hand on his arm.

He shook it off. "The Poles screwed up. You should get someone to tell you about the battle. It's a laugh, too." He closed his eyes. "Have I earned my ale?"

"And another," I said, "and even if it sets a bad precedent, I'll buy a third one."

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. I hurt a lot, you know." He pointed at his head. "In there, too. I have some bad dreams."

When he'd moved off, leaning on his cane and holding a mug and a half of ale in one hand, Hekja said, "I think we've had enough hilarity for one afternoon. Can we go back to the castle and talk about how funny it is. Besides, I need to pee really badly."

I nodded and got up from the table. I went behind the tent, but Hekja had to wait till she got to a latrine ditch so she could sit on a pair of planks.

Sir Casimir Jezowski sat at the end of one castle dining table, with no one beside him. Hekja had gone back to our room, promising to show up later. I guess she'd got used to eating later at the Monastery, or maybe some of the fun soldier tales had put her off and she'd gone to pray in private. "Amundi," Casimir said. "How are you doing?"

I set down my ale and plate of food, and told him about the commission Claudius had laid on me, and the interviews I'd had that afternoon. "You want advice?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said, "but first I want to know what happened to Old King Hamlet and the Danes in Poland in the winter war. They were losing. And then they won. You were minister of war for the Poles."

"Sure. As painful as it might be to remember, I can clarify it, at least as far as I know. You must remember, I wasn't a soldier or a minister of war, just a planner and advisor."

I nodded. "I can get the soldier's point of view in the military encampment."

"Okay. Yes, on my advice, we – pardon me, the Poles – realized we didn't have the men and equipment to beat the Danes. So we harassed them. We let them find enough loot to keep coming inland, and moved in behind them. We made sure they didn't capture horses enough to pull their wagons, and I can tell you pulling a wagon in snow wears down soldiers pretty quickly."

"That was your plan?"

"Well, part of it. We wanted to wear down the Danes as much as possible, and get them as far as possible from their boats. When they wanted to go home, they'd find the Polish army between them and those boats." He held up a hand to stop my question. "They were still a strong force when they did turn around, but we had called in some markers from Belarus and the Czechs and they offered a couple of small armies, with some first-rate cavalry. It looked like the cavalries at least were going to get between the Danes and their boats to help us."

"And your advice?"

He smiled, ruefully. "Just that. The Danes would have no choice but to fight to get to the boats; we'd removed all food sources around. The cavalry, especially, the Czechs, would chop them up."

"What happened?"

"The Danes decided to cross a lake as a short cut. There was smooth ice and no way for us Poles to ambush them. My beloved King decided he could end the war right there, and not owe any favors to either of our allies. At least I think that's what he thought; I don't really know. I warned him, respectfully, to stick to the plan, but maybe he wanted to look like a conquering hero instead of an ambusher who needed neighbors to help him. I agree it would have looked good in the history books if he'd won the battle. But he didn't win."

"What went wrong?" A few people near us at the table were listening.

"It looked good. We were fresh and had sleds instead of wheels, and our forces were almost the same size. A small cavalry unit, the King's personal guard, galloped out to demand surrender. They looked good, with flags flying and horses and men all in bright colors. Much of the rest of our army stepped out of the woods and onto the shore. Mind if I have a sip of your ale?" Sir Casimir Jezowski took more than a sip.

"Well," he went on. "The king's guard seem to have realized that they were getting a bit too far ahead of our – pardon me – the Poles' archers, so they slowed down. At that point, two things happened. First, a half-dozen Danes started whooping what they figured was a Viking battle call, and stripped themselves naked. Then they ran forward, holding those big double-bladed axes above their heads.

"A few horses shied at this, slipped on the ice and went down. Then, maybe when the Danes saw the horses go down, they realized how slippery it was underneath the Polish cavalry. The wind had cleared a few spots on the lake, but the rest was hand-deep in snow. The rest of the Danes joined in, running forward."

A bunch of people were listening now. Casimir continued. "The Polish cavalry still standing turned back towards more stable conditions, or at least tried to. A few more horses went down, and the rest of the army stopped pulling their sleds. Maybe it looked like Viking magic was there. Or maybe a nightmare fear handed down from generations of legends about the Northmen took hold. Men started stampeding toward the shore, while other Poles tried to stop them, and everybody fell over the sleds. The Danes got past the slippery patch and laid into the Polish soldiers, glad to have an enemy they could see, instead of one that ambushed them from bushes. In an hour it was over, with most of the Polish conscripts heading for home. The Polish King barely escaped."

"And you were captured."

"With a little help from myself. I would have been blamed for the loss, no matter that I'd advised against it."

"And the foreign cavalries that came to help the Poles?"

"The first of them got to the shore in time to see the last of the Danish ships sailing out into the Baltic, carrying a few valuable prisoners and a few nice-looking horses."

"A great victory."

"Are you being sarcastic? A victory is what you make of it. The Danes – at least those still alive – escaped with their skins and a victory, in their terms. Of course, the Poles still call it a victory for Poland; they did, after all, drive a bunch of marauding Danes from their country."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm a farmer turned into a jester. I don't know much about war and probably less about soldiers."

"Why this sudden interest in the Polish Winter Campaign?" Casimir's thick eyebrows went way up.

"Claudius wants me to do more entertaining of the troops." I wondered if I should get another ale, but Casimir told me to wait, got up, and got us both more ale. When he got back, I explained how I'd gone to interview soldiers for ideas.

"There are two basic types of soldiers in that camp," Casimir said. "There are the old hands, with experience in at least one war, and there are the fresh new recruits, off to find glory and adventure. You're talked only to the old guys."

"I was planning on talking to the young ones tomorrow," I told him, looking over his shoulder. Across the room, Hamlet was playing some sort of practical joke, I guess, dipping a frog into someone's ale. From all reports he'd started into such antics when he ran low on bad jokes. The fellow that owned the ale was smiling faintly, even as Hamlet dropped the frog onto his lap and went away, laughing.

"Well," Casimir said, "I don't think you'll have to, and in a minute I'll tell you why. Right now, I'd like to tell you that, as part of my... avocation...I've interviewed hundreds of soldiers, from kids who lied about their ages to get into the army to old guys trying to remember what they did. I'll tell you one thing first, about veterans."

"What's that?" I noticed that most of the people who'd been listening to us had drifted away.

"They will all tell you about anything they did that's glorious, even if they have to stretch the truth a bit. If you push, they'll laugh about the mistakes they make, no matter how horrible they are. Some will get the shakes as they're doing that, and call it funny. But they won't tell you about the horrible things they did _deliberately_. They'll tell you about awful things some _other_ , anonymous, guys did, but they carry their worst sins as scars you can't see."

"But the things they did are sanctioned by their officers, aren't they? They're fighting for a cause, and to show someone – maybe themselves – how brave they can be."

Casimir tapped his finger on the table. "That's how it starts for new soldiers. Those attitudes don't last long in a war. Call them 'the myths of battle,' because the nation promotes war with those myths."

"Okay. What's the reality of battle."

"Other than organized murder? It's the reality of the senses. You have five senses and every one takes in things you can't comprehend and can't deal with. The reality of the senses drives the myth out in no time at all." He looked around, saw nobody listening to us any more, and whispered, "The soldier loses his idealism, discovers his morals corrupted, and can't remember what the supposed purpose of the war was."

"It seems to me...."

"Whatever you think, that's how it seems to you now. But in battle there's that reality of the senses. Fear, mostly. You are afraid, young man, afraid all the time there's battle on or about to come. You'll cry, hoping no one will see your tears. You'll vomit, and everyone sees that. You'll tell people to tell your family that you died bravely. You'll shit your pants. A lot. And you'll spend a lot of time playing dead and calling your mother. Fear isn't a minor thing. It seeps through you, and never lets up."

"You sound like you've been there."

"Well," Casimir said, looking away, "I've interviewed a lot of soldiers. And I was at the battle on the ice simply because my dear stupid king insisted. But it hardly counts. Soldiers are almost paralysed with fright before a battle. There's a deadly silence, they tell me, and a terrible pounding in your head. You sharpen your weapons again and again. A battle is more or less two masses of raw fear rushing at each other."

"And I'm supposed to make jokes?" I said.

He ignored that question. "The worst thing, beyond all, is the realization of how much you've betrayed your own image of gallantry and courage, and how deep the fear runs through you."

"But there are heroes in war," I pleaded. "I've heard."

"When battle comes, sometimes a soldier will, in fact, risk death. Almost always for the small group of people he knows and loves. If you ask him about it, he's usually embarrassed about it and can seldom talk about it. He's usually sure he could never do it again. After the war, he'll find the survivors of his little group, and find they have nothing in common but the memory of their fear and debasement that they can't tell the rest of their civilized friends about."

We sat in silence for a while. It wasn't looking good for the fun entertainment I was supposed to do. I mentioned this to Casimir.

"Oh," he said. "You won't have to. What you'll be doing is completely different, and quite easy, especially if you drink enough."

I let that one sink in for a long while. "Easier would be good," I said. "Do you know something I don't? Maybe you can help me talk to the soldiers; you've done a lot of that, I guess." I was getting thoroughly depressed. Depression is epidemic among jesters, particularly when planning new entertainments, and this was looking like an impossible job. If I tackled the real fears and motives of the experienced soldiers, the king would have my head for ruining morale. If I didn't, the old soldiers would heckle me off the stage for trivializing the topic. I began seriously considering throwing Tola over my shoulder, stealing a sailboat, and getting the heck out of country. Maybe find Ingald and Soldir somewhere in the Holy Roman Empire, assuming they hadn't actually returned to Denmark.

"If your head gets any lower, you won't need a spoon to eat your stew; you'll be able to snort it up your nose," Casimir said.

I gave a sigh that encompassed the sorrows of the world.

"In answer to your question, I don't know anything about the coming war with the Norwegians. I'm a consultant, and Claudius and Grim – and Polonius when he's got his wits, which is less common all the time – ask my opinion. I do my best, but they don't confide in me and I never know from their stony faces which of my suggestions get their interest. And, in case you're wondering, I'm forbidden to leave the Elsinore area."

"They don't trust you?"

"They don't trust anybody," the Pole said. "I can't leave the area so I can't do much in the way of interviewing people for comedy, unless they're in the army camp outside. I might get away with that."

"But you think I won't have to."

"I'd bet that you'll just have to interview the new recruits and go from there."

"Okay...."

"Look. Unless Denmark is totally different than the rest of the world, you'll be asked to be part of a campaign to glorify your own nation and paint the Norwegians as creatures who crawled out from the bottom-most pits of Hell." He smiled. "We were due for it, and I suggested it, and I saw them smile at each other."

I thought about it. "I could do that."

"I'll help. A nation preparing for war has to work itself up into a point where it's almost crazy. I take that back. We have to become crazy to prepare for war. I can give you pointers from history, if you want."

"I'd bless you forever."

"Does the bible say anything about the blessing of a fool?" Casimir smiled.

"Of course," I said. "I just have to find it." I thought of being a propaganda machine. "Won't a lot of men be skeptical?"

"A rule not to forget; the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger." He smiled. Always has worked; always will."

Hekja and I returned to Elsinore town that afternoon. We chose a different drinking tent, one that was frequented by young men, rather than old soldiers. The two didn't mix much; I figured to ask Soldir about that if I ever saw him again. I ordered an ale for myself; Hekja lifted an empty mug from another table and sat it in front of her.

When a soldier, still in country clothes (no uniforms having yet arrived) checked me out, I explained my Royal mission to entertain the troops. He nodded, "That's probably a good idea." He returned to the group of men he'd been with, and, as I anticipated, a couple of young men drifted over in a few minutes. Everyone loves to give advice, and camp life can get boring pretty quickly. I bought them each an ale and let them sit across from me.

Well, I'd like to go into their conversations in detail, but there wasn't much of interest. "I'm a fourth son," one said. "I'll never get even a part of the farm. Might as well get off to see what the world's about." As if Elsinore and a few parts of Denmark weren't all he'd see. Of course, many young men wouldn't even get that far between birth and death.

Another, the son of a baker in a small town, told me, "I can get to be a real man in the army. Baking's what I can do when I get back." He went on, and I gathered that he'd heard tales of Viking ancestors and stories from the survivors of the Polish Winter War. "Men are tested in war," he assured me, "and their worth is proven."

There was a lot of that and a lot of nods from less articulate men. _Boys_ , I thought. _Eager to get a parade and the admiration of women when they get back._ Then I decided I'd been the same, once; there just wasn't a war available at the time.

One small fellow seemed a bit more honest. "Farming's farming," he said. "Some years are bad and you starve. Other years are good, and if the Count and the Church leave enough, a person can occasionally get enough to eat. That's life. But if me and my friends can capture a Norwegian knight, we can be rich. It's the only way to get rich."

_And_ , I thought, _maybe you can take out on some Norwegian soldier the frustrations you can't take out on the Church and the nobles._

That, and more of the same, took up the afternoon. There were anecdotes about farm and village life, but nothing I hadn't heard as a child. There was entertainment here, if I needed it, but it would have to be subtle. Luckily, the need to buy more than the occasional ale was soon forgotten, and it was a cheap process. They just wanted people to listen to them.

As one group was leaving another man sat down across from me and Hekja. I looked up; it was Soldir. My mouth dropped open.

"Do you want do know a wise thing Ingald told me?" he asked. "It's about generals. Military leaders. It's from the Chinese."

I nodded.

"The idea is that the general who wins one battle without fighting is greater than the general who wins a thousand battles through fighting."

It was the same thing I'd heard from Ingald some time before, but I didn't tell Soldir that. It was only the second of many more times I'd hear it. This time I thought about it. I supposed it would depend on how many battles one expected to be in. More than a couple, I'd go with the general with a thousand victories. I mean, how many battles can a guy win without fighting? Not many, European history said. But I didn't want to contradict a friend like Soldir, nor what Ingald had claimed was a Chinese saying. Besides, I wasn't even sure it was a true saying; I'd used the phrase, "it's an old Chinese saying" many times myself for stuff I'd just made up.

So I said, "Welcome back. What the hell are you doing here? Aren't you and Ingald supposed to be somewhere where no war is about to break out? Where's Ingald? Can I buy you an ale?"

"I won't turn down an ale." He sat down.

I caught the server's attention, and ordered a couple more ale. "As to my other two questions...?" I pointed to Hekja. You remember Helgi, here." I winked.

"Indeed, young fellow, I remember you well. He shook hands with Hekja and winked at me. "How's Amundi treating his newest acolyte?"

"He's a dickhead who won't do what I want, but he's good at entertainment. The king sent him out to learn how soldiers think, so he can do up some diversions for the troops." She pretended to take a drink out of her empty mug. "So far he's learned that there aren't any jokes he can tell and live to brag about."

Soldir laughed loudly, getting the attention of some young soldiers. "I can help with that. I think Ingald can, too."

"Ingald's here, too?" I looked around.

Soldir said, "He's just using the fine outdoor facilities that an army base provides."

"I still don't know why you're back," I said. I looked around. "Everybody here's preparing for war, far as I can tell. And the people in the castle, too." I spotted Ingald coming into the tent, his eyes adjusting to the lower light levels. I stood and waved, and he came over and sat down.

"I suppose this derelict excuse for a soldier got a free ale out of you, for sympathy," he said.

"You," I said, "can buy your own, unless you can tell me why you're back."

"Then I'd better buy my own." He waved down a server and ordered an ale and some sliced bread.

"Sliced?" I asked. "You've been too long in civilized countries."

He looked at Soldir and nodded. "We did well down south in the couple of weeks we were there. Worked up a couple of routines about Danes being warmongering maniacs whose ancestors had been beaten over their heads with axes a bit too often. Very popular."

"Now there's two strange things going on," I said. "In the first place, Casimir tells me I won't have to make up soldier jokes to amuse the troops. He says I just have to wait a bit." I got into the sliced bread and the butter that came with it. "And you two are back as if you know there won't be a war. Even Claudius doesn't think that, considering what he's borrowing from the lenders in the city. He sent a couple of envoys to the Norwegians, but they've been gone a month on what's a two-week journey at best, so I imagine Claudius's written them off by now."

"I guess we're just optimistic," Ingald said. "Now, can you use us?"

"I don't know," I told them. "I'm still trying to figure out how to entertain these soldiers and live through it."

"Ah," Ingald said. "Can you tell him, Soldir?"

"We discussed this and came to the conclusion that you're about to find your job getting really easy," the old soldier said, wiping foam from his beard.

"Hasn't yet." I said.

"It will," Ingald said. He lowered his voice. "When a nation goes to war, it first makes itself crazy. You'll help in that."

Soldir nodded. "I saw that in the Polish Winter War. To get young men to fight and the citizenry to shove money into a war, Claudius will have to work them up into a patriotic frenzy."

"Really?" Hekja asked.

"Really." Both Ingald and Soldir nodded in unison. "It's been done, it seems, in every nation I've heard about," Ingald said. "I'm astounded that we haven't got there yet. Patriot songs and poems, the mocking and disparagement of the enemy.... All that stuff. Easy as falling off a longboat."

"Well, then," I said.

"Can you get us back into the castle?" Soldir asked. "Sleeping on the ground makes my bad leg hurt at nights."

"My room's pretty small," I said. "And, ah, Hekja's using the other bed."

Both of them were still laughing when I went outside to relieve myself behind the tent.

When I got back, Ingald said, "Look, we know what we're doing and you're going to need more help with the patriot games than you know. Get us a place in the castle – any place with a bed – and you've got assistants." He waved a hand around. "There's not a place available in this town except the roof of a outhouse."

Still a bit miffed, I said, "I'll try. It's getting kinda crowded in there, but I'll see what I can do. Come to the castle gate at dusk. If I'm not there, go back to wherever you came from." I got up and left, followed by Hekja.

We'd barely entered the castle bailey when Gamli, Claudius's servant, got off a stool and came for me. I left Hekja and followed him up to the Great Hall.

Gamli closed the door behind him. There were four men and one woman waiting in the room, Claudius, Grim, Polonius, and Casimir sat on one side of the table. Gertrude sat beside her husband. With the Polish war historian there, I didn't have to worry, especially since Claudius and Casimir smiled at me. I bowed, then sat down where and when indicated.

"We have a new assignment for you," Grim said.

I nodded.

"You'll have a lot more money to spend," Claudius said. "Can you handle that?"

"I will employ a book keeper," I said.

The others nodded. Especially Polonius, who, as it was late afternoon, shook his head at the same times, as if trying to follow the conversation and not succeeding.

Claudius looked at Grim, and Grim nodded at Casimir. "Sir Casimir Jezowski," Grim said, has been enlightening us about the proper way to manage the morale of a country about to be invaded. It appears he has clear memories of the Polish Winter War." It was nice to know Casimir had got his "sir" back.

"Which they lost," Gertrude pointed out, as if we didn't know.

Casimir cleared his throat. We all looked at him. "I have done extensive studies of nations at war, and have detailed notes – in my head – of procedures used to rouse a population into supporting a war." There was a long silence, into which he added. "A supportive population is more eager to supply their sons to the army, and more willing to go into debt to supply the army with materiel."

Claudius and Grim nodded. After a moment, Polonius nodded too. Gertrude looked skeptical, but she'd always been a skeptic, it was said, and little got past her without proof – unless her husband insisted on having his way. "Can you do this?" Gertrude asked.

"I, your majesties, am a master of entertainment. With the help of Sir Casimir, I can mount a campaign that will have people begging you to do whatever it takes to fend off the Norwegians." I figured that if I didn't try or if I failed, I'd be dead in either case.

That brought smiles to most of my audience, although Gertrude's merely raised an eyebrow. "May I ask a boon, Your Majesty," I said.

He waved a finger to indicate I could proceed.

"You may remember my two acolytes from last month, the ones who helped me with the horse-and-Bishop act." They all smiled, even Gertrude. "Well, they have returned and I feel they could help me in this endeavour. Soldir remembers the Polish Winter War and its preparations and Ingald knows a fair amount about other countries, having travelled a lot. Is there room in the castle for them?"

Claudius looked at Gertrude. "There are a few rooms left above the kitchen," she said. "They are small, but they have beds."

"And," Grim added, "if they are in the castle when the Norwegians arrive, they will be added to our fighting forces along the walls." He raised his eyebrows. "As will you."

"Of course," I said. "Ingald is young and strong, and Soldir can handle a bow, I understand, even if his leg is bad."

"Then have them report to a captain of the castle defences, so he'll know where to find them if we wake up one morning and find ourselves surrounded by Fortinbras' army."

"I will have a plan for you tomorrow afternoon," I assured them.

At some signal I didn't notice, Gamli opened the door and I was dismissed, backing out of the room.

I slept poorly that night. I'd managed to get Ingald and Soldir into Elsinore castle, although they now had to leave their horses in town at a stable. They'd ended up sharing a tiny room above the kitchen. I left them cleaning out the debris of the last occupant and talking about building bunk beds so there might be room for a narrow table. A small window looked over the shore through walls as thick as a man's forearm. Now, back in my own windowless room, the only light was a thin line around the door frame, from some distant torch in a wall. I heard Hekja over in her bed, her steady breathing not quite turning into a snore.

There was a slightly caged feeling in me, in a stone room in a stone castle, with a commitment I had no idea how to keep. Scratching at a louse in my beard, and wondering if mice had gotten into my bed, I drifted off to a restless sleep.

Casimir, Hekja, Ingald, and Soldir sat with me at the end of a table in the worker's dining room the next morning. "First," Casimir said to us, "if you have a hang-up about keeping to the truth, you'd better exit right now." He looked around. "This is Liar's Central, and the heart of a conspiracy to subvert the brains of a whole nation. Or most of them, at least."

We all said, "No problem," or its equivalent. Jesters are mostly lies or blatant exaggerations, with just enough truth thrown in to keep the audience on edge. Little truths are like hedges, hiding the bigger truths that may not be spoken safely; the whole process works because the world fears truth and want so much to be deceived.

Then Casimir went into detail. It was a surprise to me, a farmer's son who had no experience of war. Ingald, who seemed to know everything about anything, was able to add information about similar operations in countries I barely knew the name to. Soldir had some experience from the Polish Winter War, although even he was a bit shocked at the extent of the plan.

I thought Hekja would be put off by the process, but she shrugged. "It's basically the way religion's taught at the monastery," she said. And on that basis, she added a couple of ideas of her own, emphasizing God's support for Denmark over Norway. We had a commitment, and it was time to get moving.

First, Casimir confirmed my clearance to spend money.

Next, we drew up a list of plans, and what we'd need to carry them out. By noon we were ready to ask for permission for it all. I figured the king would want to know, but apparently Grim was handling the basics. Casimir and I met him by a table full of papers and construction plans. He turned them over as we came in. "Go ahead," he said, and we did.

At the end of our presentation, he said, "That's good for a start. But don't be afraid to think bigger; we have a whole kingdom to consider."

First thing was to multiply our efforts. The team, Casimir, Hekja, Ingald, and Soldir, as well as myself found a place in the military tent area where the veterans hung out, standing on a table and singing the old Danish folk song, "The Last Viking Comes Home," about a brave warrior. It was pretty sappy, but the soldiers paid rapt attention.

Then we offered free ale to anyone who would stand up on a table and sing it. We got five takers among those old soldiers.

Since all of them could more or less hold a tune, we isolated them after doing the song twice. And bought them another ale; it was the king's money this time, even if he'd eventually have to pay back the money lenders after the war by taxing everybody in Denmark. That's assuming he didn't die in the war.

We put it to them that we needed singers to travel throughout Denmark singing patriotic songs to get people behind the coming battle against the Norwegians. If they agreed, we'd sponsor them with generous living expenses.

"And we just have to sing that song?" one skeptic asked.

"We'll provide you with some additional lyrics," I assured them, "about Danes being better than Fortinbras and his goons. And we'll teach you another dozen songs. Same theme. And a few jokes to try, if you want. But you don't have to."

"Reminds me of the Polish Winter War," one said. "We may have exaggerated a few things before that conflict."

"That," Soldi said, "was different. This time it's Denmark that's being invaded. By Fortinbras and his thugs. Don't you think they'll try to do to Denmark what Denmark tried to do to Poland?"

"Actually," another old soldier said, "they probably will. It seems customary to steal all the food for the soldiers, rape all the women, burn the farms of anybody who won't treat the invading army as gods and...." He sighed, lost in memories. "Sign me up," he said, "although once the fighting starts I'll be wanting back into my regiment."

"Once the fighting starts," I said, "I think the army's going to want all of us fighting, not singing.

"And you'll arrange this with my captain?" a third man asked.

"King's orders," I said. "He's the one behind this."

I shook hands with all of the men, then handed out printed copies of the song, with new lyrics about the Danish true Viking heart, and how the Norwegians are losers and wimps. The volunteers who couldn't read would find someone who could ;there was usually one guy in every twenty or thirty people who could read, and they'd teach the others.

"Oh, by the way" I said, turning as we left the tent. "We're going to find some others among the young soldiers, and we're also looking for people to play in skits in entertainments."

They actually showed even more enthusiasm at that. One man said, to our questioning look, "The village women go for jesters." Myself, I hadn't noticed, but it might have been the ugly factor. I got to wondering, if a successful war for our side, would mean there'd be a lot of competition for my job.

"You guys didn't comment much," I said to my cohort. "Except for Soldir's comment, which I thought was good. We won't mention that they're going to try to do to Denmark what Denmark tried to do to Poland."

"I thought you were doing a fine job," Ingald said. "And we're trying to rouse anti-foreigner sentiment, so I figured I should keep out of it."

"Anti-Norwegian sentiment," I corrected.

"Sure," Soldir said." Sure. That's how it starts."

"I didn't want to be a young guy talking to old soldiers," Hekja said, "especially if I'm not in the army myself, and if my voice is a bit high."

"As for me," Casimir said, "a lot of those guys fought in the Polish Winter War. My Polish accent wouldn't forward the cause much."

We got ten young soldiers and a very angry rebuke from a captain at the new recruits area. There was a lot of nose to nose yelling with the captain, until an offer to introduce the offer to Grim for clarification had him stomping off, muttering about us not taking his very best men without a fight. I'm not sure what sort of fight he was considering.

We left it at that for the day, the ten young guys singing the song, and doing the new, anti-Norwegian lyrics at full volume. They were trying to add a few more, much cruder lyrics, but not having much success.

As we passed the old soldiers' hangout, we heard a bit of a soldier doing our additional lyrics, then a couple of ones we hadn't penned. They were crude and they were well done. "Did you think this would happen?" Hekja asked quietly.

"Of course," I said. "Soldiers always do that; I've had enough of them suggest lyrics for my songs, and a few that didn't ask." Casimir nodded. "No different in the Polish army. And I can suggest a few suitable lyrics, although you'll have to change "Danish" to "Norwegian."

"Weren't you going to ask people if they wanted to be actors?" Ingald reminded me.

I waved a hand with my index finger out. "I know people. By tomorrow half of the people we got today will have changed their minds. But twice as many will want to know how to join, and a lot of those will want to be actors." And it actually turned out that way, although it took more than one day.

That evening, Casimir and I updated Grim with our work. He looked pleased. "What next?" he asked.

"First," I said, "we'll get together with a songwriter or two I know. Work up a dozen songs with nice patriotic – and that will sometimes include anti-Norwegian – lyrics. Should be enough. More will develop as the singers cross each other's paths." I sang him a stanza the old soldiers had written, and he winced, but laughed, so I handed him some of they lyrics we'd made up, rough, with corrections.

"Actually," Grim said, "that seems like a good start. What else do you have for the king?"

"We're improvising this, but moving quickly. Next," I said, "we'd like a royal edict on Danish words."

"Go on," he said.

"We must differentiate between Danish and Norwegian culture," Casimir said. Denmark.

"That," Grim said wryly, "could take some doing."

"Surprisingly little, according to history," Casimir said. "When a war is coming, people look for ways to make themselves different than their opponents. It's a little harder in a civil war, but it can be done."

"What edict would you like?"

I handed him our list. I'd had it done up with a good scribe; I knew the king couldn't read well and put a lot of stock into appearance. Being worried that it would seem as farfetched to Claudius as it did to us, we were counting on this one being smart-looking.

Grim read the first few, then looked up. "You're serious?"

I deferred to Casimir. He nodded; "It's essential in conflicts between people whose cultures are very similar."

"A crime to use 'sju' instead of 'syv' anywhere in Denmark?" Both were used for the number seven, but 'syv' was Danish, 'sju' was Norwegian. Another number, forty, showed up on the list, being 'fyrre' in Danish and 'forti' in Norwegian. There were twenty-seven others.

"Not a hanging crime," I said. "Just a day in the stocks in the public square."

"You understand that some of the northern parts of Denmark tend to use the Norwegian as often as the Danish," Grim said.

"They'll learn quickly enough," I assured him with more confidence than I felt. "And they'll probably find a few more on their own. You can expect a lot of bar fights over what is Norwegian and what is Danish."

"This is Denmark," Grim said. "There are always a lot of bar fights."

"Yes," Casimir said. "But in every one the people will be declaring themselves for or against Denmark. And that makes them for or against the King and the war." He shrugged. "It quickly becomes dangerous to be against your country."

"People have to declare themselves for Claudius," Grim said. "Great, if it works. People will stop talking about whether he killed Old King Hamlet or not."

"They still do that?" I asked.

"Everywhere," Grim said. He sighed. "It drives Claudius nuts, but if you had any idea how many of Europe's dynasties were changed that way...."

Casimir waved a finger. "I'm a military historian, and I know how many battles were caused by royals killing royals. Or trying to." He set the paper down. "What else have you got?"

"We're working up some comic sketches," I said. "We're portraying the Norwegians simultaneously as yokels and dangerous thugs." I saw his expression. "I think we can do it, however contrary it seems. I'm told that in war such contradictions are normal." I tilted my head towards Casimir, who nodded enthusiastically.

"You'll find," I went on, "that one of the better songs is about the true Viking heart being in the Danes, and how the Norwegians are losers and jerk-offs."

"You think so?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "We have basic history that the Norwegian Vikings spent a lot of their time raiding and invading soft targets like Iceland and Ireland, while the Danes conquered England. We emphasize the parts we want to prove our point, and tell it as history."

"And the historians...?"

"They'll learn to be very quiet," Casimir said. "They always do."

"How long will it take to get ready?" Grim asked.

"Properly," I said, "two months. But," I said to his expression, "we'll be sending the first four teams out to the nearest Danish Lords in two days and a new one every other day after that. We're aware that Fortinbras could be here anytime. We need a wagon for props and food and a couple of singers, and a couple horses for the other two. Four men to a team."

"I'll arrange that," Grim said, standing up.

"One more thing," I asked.

"Sure."

"We can tell the people that the king's going to give back Vest Agder? The Norwegians will get their little province back."

A cold look. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," I said, "everybody with half a brain thinks or says that it's a reasonable and obvious thing to do, since Fortinbras is bound to take it anyway; it's in Norway and we can't defend it. And if Fortinbras accepts it, and _still_ invades Denmark, then it doesn't leave Fortinbras any _reason_ for the invasion. We can portray him as a thug a lot easier that way."

Grim thought about it for a moment. "Yes," he said. "You can tell them we've offered Vest Agder back to the Norwegians as a token of good will. That may be interpreted as making things easy for Fortinbras, but you're right; everybody knows we'd just lose it anyway."

The next morning Hekja, Ingald, and I went back to the army camp. Casimir figured he wouldn't want to be there, with his strong Polish accent, when Danish nationalism was being worked up. When we got to the old soldiers' hangout, there was a shout of greeting and a couple of dozen soldiers started up singing one of the songs we'd left, with added verses. The additions were... interesting. Some were good.

We read the draft of the edict Claudius had signed the night before, and left a copy. At the entrance a couple dozen men asked about the performance troupes we were planning. I told them to meet me there after mid-day meal. It looked like some of the old soldiers were going to be happy touring Denmark and rousing the locals rather than waiting around for a war to start. I gathered that old soldiers are used to waiting a lot, but that doesn't mean they enjoy it. I suggested they practice a skit with a Norwegian yokel trying to steal a donkey from a wise Danish soldier.

The young recruits were almost as eager, with different suggestions about what words, more common in Norwegian than in Danish, should be greeted with derision and punishment. I left them with the same assignment, but asked those who wanted to join a comedy troupe to meet by the veterans' tent after lunch.

We ate lunch in the army camp, tossing around ideas over ale and mutton stew. A senior palace official found us. He'd already arranged for wagons and horses, and wanted to know what supplies they'd need. I was pleased at the efficiency.

Two days later, in the morning, the first troupe left for Roskilde, and in the afternoon, a second troupe left for Faxe. I arranged that they were to return post-haste if war broke out, and for their paths to cross; that's essential in comedy to allow sharing of ideas and experiences.

In the next three days, more wagons left, and the day after, two more were loaded onto boats and send off to western Denmark. All were traveling troupes, and all would, if the war didn't start, eventually visit all the Danish Lords. I don't know if Claudius and Grim were impressed, but I was. I'd stressed, I hoped, upon the troupes that all they had to do was the three sketches and four amended songs I'd taught them, but that they were allowed to improvise, if the audience approved. And they were encouraged to hire local talent for shows. I suspected that local talent would be sometimes abandoned for the chance to spend the nation's gold on more ale, but that's the way it goes in the entertainment industry.

The training had all been done in the open, or, on the day it rained, in the biggest tent. Many of the same audiences came for each session, and suggestions were incorporated, so the last troupes had better material than the first.

I was sure the king's men had reported all this to the king, but he commanded a private performance anyway. He laughed. Even Gertrude smiled a couple of times.

Life was good. The town and castle got stronger, and we devised entrainments for the troops and the townspeople and the castle that we wish we'd sent with the troupes. A couple of weeks went by.

Then things went crazy.

***
Chapter 14: The Reply From Norway

It started the morning I was in town, shopping for food, and ran into Renaldo, smiling and preparing his horse for a trip. Reynaldo hadn't had much to smile about for more than a month. He was Polonius's servant, and Polonius had slipped deeper into senility in the last few weeks. In a way it was a blessing, since he was now too senile to realize he was senile and he wandered around all day just getting in the way and not thinking much.

"You're looking pretty happy today," I said. Myself, I was happy, too. Reviews from our traveling patriotic comedy troupes had come into Elsinore, and it seemed they were doing a great job. In a couple of places they'd even been asked to lead patriotic parades through the streets.

"I'm off to Paris!" he said.

"Paris?" I wondered if I'd ever get to Paris in my lifetime.

He laughed. "I'm a spy, now!"

"Claudius needs spies in Paris?"

"No, no! Polonius is sending me." He held out and jingled a bag of coins. "I'm supposed to spy on Laertes"

I shook my head in disbelief. This spy thing had got right out of control in Elsinore. Everybody suspected everybody of being a spy for somebody or some interest group, so those that weren't concealing information were spreading disinformation, and disinformation about disinformation, so nobody believed anything but the obligatory seventeen new rumors a day going around the castle, circling the town, and coming back to the castle the next day, somewhat changed, if not inverted. The only one I believed was that Ophelia was spying on Hamlet for the king and queen, which wasn't easy since Hamlet and Ophelia weren't seeing each other or even talking to one another. But it made sense that the royal couple wanted to know what Hamlet was up to, other than bad jokes and the occasional practical joke.

I, of course, was reporting to Claudius about Hamlet, which was painful not because it was spying on a prince but because all I had to report were all his bad jokes. I did save a couple for myself, of course, in case they came in useful in a yokel or child skit. I figured Claudius was asking everyone from the cleaning staff up to try to find out what Hamlet was up to. I would have, if I were king.

"And why are you spying on the poor sorry bastard, forced to live in Paris and not in the wonderful city of Elsinore where the fun never stops?" I asked Reynaldo.

"I'm supposed to sneakily find out if he's living riotously and spending too much."

That was even more astonishing. No Dane in his right mind could imagine anybody – and that included the clergy – of living in Paris and _not_ living riotously and spending too much. "And if he is?"

"Well," Reynaldo said, "that wasn't made clear." An even bigger smile. "I guess I'll just have to stay there, investigating until my money gets low, then, if I haven't found a rich French woman to support me, I'll come home and see who's running Denmark." He mounted his horse. "See you whenever," and trotted down the road past Elsinore town and into great adventures of his own. I fought back an urge to steal a horse and follow him.

Instead, I looked back at the castle, striped like a stone carnival tent in the morning sunlight. The grey stone walls had long lines of brown on them, from the places where people sat and shit on stone benches, or the servants dumped chamber pots of their masters' overnight productions out the same holes. Even from that distance I thought I saw the pink of one bum poking out a ledge in a high wall. Everything ended up in the moat, and slowly drifted into the sea when it rained. And nobody was sending me to Paris. It all seemed terribly unfair.

I walked back to the castle with food for Hekja and me, wondering if Laertes had been allowed to go to Paris only to keep him safe in case Claudius and Gertrude didn't survive the war. Polonius and his family came close to being alternate, back-up royalty. And, however few people would have supported Hamlet for king a few months ago, there wouldn't be many who would do so after months of such silly behaviour. As far as I could tell, if people had to choose between Polonius or Hamlet for king it would be a toss up. The principality of Faxe would be happy with either as a figurehead while Faxe ran the country from the background.

I enjoyed the walk, watching the soldiers practice archery and wheel the cannons around, and talking to the drivers of the supply carts. I'd bought cakes And some small sugared bread, figuring Hekja hadn't had such luxuries in the monastery. Although we were sharing a room she spent a long time walking the countryside with Ingald lately. I figured that, after the years of confinement, an irreverent jokester like me was rather appealing at first. Until, at least until I ran low on jokes and she deduced I was just an ugly Danish peasant with a collection of witty sayings. But jesters should be ugly for the safety of the ladies of the castle. On the other hand, some actions are believed to be malicious just because they are done by ugly people.

Ingald, from somewhere mysterious and with endless stories of his travels, probably already seemed more interesting. Personally, I was finding Ingald just a bit smarmy and not as interesting as he thought he was. I also had a hard time believing he'd travelled as much at his age as he claimed to. But Hekja was bound to be a bit gullible, given her circumstances.

Hekja and I still shared a room, but often didn't keep to our own beds any more, keeping only her virginity intact if one followed the strict definition. I saw Tola often, but the castle was crowded and busy day and night, so we were no longer able to meet, or even to safely communicate.

Every hour I wished I were riding south to Paris with Reynaldo.

When I got to the castle, I found that many of the people there had gathered along the docks or were on the parapets, at the water side. I was told that the ambassadors Claudius had sent to Norway were back, looking alive, well, and cheerful.

I made my way towards the docks in time to see the two envoys, still clad in royal-envoy colors, and a dozen sailors in naval colors, marching purposefully to the castle, although they refused to speak to anyone. It looked so good I opened the basket of treats I'd brought for Hekja and shared them with the people next to me. Nobody cheered; there was a dead silence in the crowd. I looked around for Hamlet, but didn't see him.

Then I went in to the castle, to see if I could get into the Great Hall. Much to my surprise, I actually did, although I had to join a line of people against the walls. An hour later, trumpets sounded, Claudius and Gertrude had taken their thrones, and we were waiting for the envoys to present themselves formally. A row of chairs to one side held Grim and some senior officials, and even Polonius, who looked like he wasn't sure why he was there. Hamlet was nowhere to be seen. I was beginning to wonder if he had something against his stepfather; after all this was a crucial day in the history of Denmark, and he'd have to deal with the consequences someday when Claudius wasn't on the throne.

The king conferred briefly and quietly with the envoys, then raised a hand for silence. He handed a scroll of what looked like parchment to an aide. The aide explained in a loud and resonant voice that King Claudius had asked the ambassadors, Voltemand and Cornelius, to approach the King of Norway and ask him to stop Fortinbras from making war on Denmark. "Here is the answer from the King of Norway:

Greetings to you, King Claudius.

I'd been told young Fortinbras was raising an army to attack Poland. As soon as I got your letter I sent messengers to Fortinbras, who had taken advantage of my age and sickness to deceive me. I rebuked him, and he promised never again to take arms against your majesty.

I was so overjoyed with this promise that I bestowed on him an annual income of three thousand crowns. I also gave him permission to lead his soldiers into Poland, and am asking you for permission to take his troops through your kingdom on the way to Poland. He assures you of your safety.

There was a moment of silence after Loud Ludwig was finished, Then the room burst into cheers. I thought again of what Ingald had said, "The general who wins one battle without fighting is greater than the general who wins a thousand battles through fighting." _One great victory for Claudius_ , I thought. I wondered if we'd have to recall the troupes we'd sent out. Probably not, I decided. I wanted to ask about our lost Norwegian province of Vest Agder, but figured we'd get to that in due time.

Claudius announced a celebratory banquet for the evening, and that he was having copies of the letter sent throughout the kingdom. Then the rest of us were ushered out.

I tried to find Hekja, or anyone I knew, but couldn't. There was likely to be a call for my services, but I figured a bunch of patriotic songs – with the anti-Norwegian verses removed – and a few flowery toasts to Claudius and Gertrude would get me to the point where everyone was drunk; then I could go back to the Crude Yokel routines that people always liked.

I wondered how Hamlet was going react, but when I passed him, in an antechamber, he was engaged in a mocking "conversation" with Polonius. I stepped back and listened for a while, but couldn't for the life of me figure out what Hamlet was talking about or why he was annoying Polonius. If Hamlet still had designs on Ophelia, tormenting her father didn't seem like a good thing to do. _Just cruel_ , I thought.

Finally, unable to find anyone to tell the good news to, I put on a broad hat and cloak to ward off the light rain which had just come in and went downtown, feeling a bit lonely. It felt so good to be out of that stone fortress I felt like singing, so I did a love tune as I walked.

Word had got to Elsinore Town before I did, and hastily written copies of Norway's letter were posted outside the church and were being commented on everywhere I looked. People were gathered in groups, some off to the church and some off to the bars, and a few dancing in the streets. A few were singing the anti-Norwegian songs even if the war was off. I made a mental note to recall the travelling patriotic entertainment troupes I'd helped create.

Twice I was accosted by soldiers who wanted to join the troupes, but I explained to them that the day of the troupes was over. I certainly hoped it was; I sure didn't want the competition. Soldiers pointed me in the direction of my friends, and I eventually found Ingald and Soldir in a bar. They both stood and saluted me. "We," Ingald shouted over the din in his annoying accent, "thank you for saving Denmark from invading hordes of half-ass Norwegian Vikings!"

"Right on," Soldir said. "It's evident that the Norwegians were totally afraid of all those anti-Norwegian jokes and songs, and called off the invasion. I understand they made some silly excuse about Fortinbras and his uncle, but we know the truth." He paused. "What's the difference between a hawk and a handsaw?"

I knew a straight line when I heard one. "I don't know."

"Hey, you must be a Norwegian!" He turned to Ingald. "Don't hire this guy to work on the castle."

I rolled my eyes. They were obviously into the ale like a fish is into the Baltic Sea. Not that I wasn't going to use the joke, of course. Given the commotion, I didn't see any chance of getting ale myself, but Soldir, brave soldier that he was, took one from a table where one man had fallen onto the ground and his friends were trying to cover him with horse manure they'd brought in from outside. It was a good idea; that table had obviously had enough and I certainly hadn't. I hadn't done more than a couple of swallows before a waiter took my order for more. "I'll try," the waiter said, "but we're almost out." I handed him a coin, then two more when I saw the look in his eyes. I wondered if I'd see my purchase, but in fact he was back shortly with three mugs.

"Well," I said, "it looks like the war's off. Now what do we do with our lives?" They leaned in to hear me, as it was getting loud and a group of very drunk women were doing a version of one of our songs that I hadn't heard, with lyrics that were so astonishingly disgusting and funny that I sincerely hoped I could remember them if I ever needed them in the future. The song ended with a loud, "Death to traitors!" at which the crowd cheered.

Ingald tried to say something, but was drowned out. In one of those strange moments of calm in the din, he said, "We should go somewhere and talk sometime." I nodded as the noise surged back, and watched a tent full of drunks, happy until it was obvious that there was no more ale on hand, We nodded at each other, and managed to escape just before someone brought the tent down.

It was still raining, and we found an empty tent not far away with ale still available.

"How are things at the castle?" Ingald asked. He had the annoying habit of asking questions before anyone else could, and of appearing drunker than he was. My father, simple peasant that he was, told me to watch out for men like that, and be careful always to be a bit more sober than anyone else, especially those who faked their degree of inebriation.

Myself, I was in a mood. Somehow the removal of the war threat, with my visions of the Norwegians covering me with burning pig fat and making me dance on the parapet for one last laugh, left me hollow and directionless. I'd done such a good job of producing patriotic material and such a vivid job of imagining the Norwegians breaking into Elsinore castle while Tola and I escaped on a fast horse, that returning to the old days seemed hollow. "The castle," I said, "is in an uproar. People are dancing, getting drunk, and molesting the horses."

"In the town," Soldir said, "the vendors and suppliers that have been waiting for further commissions to fortify the castle are already packing up and heading out. The soldiers will probably go home in a few days. There are rooms available at a good rate, and Ingald and I are planning on moving into Elsinore town."

"Good plan for the suppliers," I said. "We won't be needing them, except to finish off some stuff that's partly done, I imagine. And I wouldn't mind getting out from that prison either." I sighed, and looked at the copy of Voltemand's speech. "It's a wonder Claudius published this as he got it."

"He's a wise man," Ingald said. "Nobody believes anything that's not original, and by not interpreting it, the king's going to win a few bonus points for himself. A lot of people are annoyed at the Church for not letting them read the original material; this is going to come as a refreshing change."

I read the notice again. "Looks like we've got peace in our time, or at least till Fortinbras dies. He's promised to let Denmark alone."

"Well...." Ingald said.

"Maybe..." Soldir said.

"What do you mean," I asked. "Isn't Fortinbras going to keep his promise?"

"No doubt," Ingald said, "but have you looked at what he promised?"

I read it again. "Am I missing something?"

"When Claudius mentions 'Norway', what is he talking about?" Ingald raised his eyebrows and looked at me. Soldir sat back, and looked at the tent ceiling.

"The kingdom of Norway, or the King of Norway," I said. "The king represents the kingdom." throwing my hands wide to show that it was obvious.

"Of course. But how does old King Norway address our own Danish king?"

I read it again. "That is a point," I said. "He doesn't call him 'Denmark,' does he?"

"No," said Ingald. "He addresses 'your highness' and says Fortinbras won't take up arms against 'your majesty.' It seems a bit... particular."

I was a bit drunk, but rubbed my face in my hands, then said, "You're saying, if I hear you right, that Fortinbras has promised to never again take up arms against... King Claudius only. That there's no promise of sparing the country of Denmark?"

"That," Ingald said, 'is what I get from this notice." He raised his palms to head off any objection on my part. "Of course there are going to be official papers, and, heaven knows, they might say something different, and I might be wrong, but from what we've got here...."

Soldir sat up. "From this notice, which is all we've got, we're safe as long as Claudius is alive. Not a moment longer." He looked at the paper again. "Do you suppose Norway doesn't really want to recognize Claudius as king of Denmark?"

"But this isn't one of those official papers that we haven't seen," I protested.

Ingald nodded. "But this is the one that Claudius chose to post on every Church door in Denmark."

Soldir spoke up. "Ingald and I suspect that Claudius has always been under suspicion of taking over the crown quickly, before it could go to Hamlet, and possibly of hastening the demise of Old King Hamlet. If other people come to the same conclusion as we have, the safety of Denmark depends on keeping Claudius himself alive. He'd like that."

"That's not what other people are saying," I said.

"It's only been a few hours," Soldir said, "but I suspect, when the Danish Lords, especially Faxe, see this, they'll come to the same conclusion as we have, even though they won't spread it around."

I raised my almost-empty mug. "Long live Claudius!" The other two, with rueful grins, did the same.

"Consider," Soldir said. "If Claudius dies, not only might Fortinbras invade Denmark, but...."

"We'd be led into battle by brave young Hamlet," Ingald added with a much more evil grin.

"Oh," I said, "I need more ale."

"What's your opinion of our noble prince?" Ingald asked. "Would you personally say he's a total fuck up?"

"I would."

"Say it."

"Of course Prince Hamlet is a total fuck up. But why did you want me to say it?"

"To be sure you won't turn either of us in. This way, you can join us in the dungeons if the king hears what you said about his step-son."

"Actually," I said. "I think the king would agree, even if Gertrude is trying not to say it herself. But why do you think so? Or do you?"

Both nodded.

"Reasons?" I asked.

Soldir said, "As we speak, some princes are leading men into battle or protecting their kingdoms from pillage. A few are in schools learning wisdom. Hamlet is making jokes and tormenting maidens. He hasn't carried a bucket to a thirsty mason nor ordered one carried. That's a prince who should have been preparing for war? Tormenting girls may happen in war, but it's not a regular part of a prince's training."

"Polonius," I said. "Have you seen him crying?"

Ingald spoke. "I have. For his senility, I presume."

"To most of Denmark he was a wise advisor, wiser than the kings he advised. But he's going into a land where he'll be a walking fool, a joke trying to remember what wisdom sounded like. To himself, he raged and cried. But not lately. In this last month he's getting past the point where he can remember what he used to be."

"Your point?" Ingald watched the drunks stumbling past the entrance to the tent.

"I overheard a conversation between Hamlet and Polonius Hamlet started out with calling Polonius a fishmonger. Then it was puns and verbal jousting."

"With a senile old man."

I said, "Denmark needs leaders as much as any place, yet Hamlet feels fine playing word games with the poor old man. A man who should be making us proud is teasing someone no longer able to defend himself, even verbally. I am this day ashamed to be a Dane." I put my hands over my eyes and rubbed my face.

"If Claudius dies, Hamlet becomes king. And, if we're right, Fortinbras may be free to attack. If you were one of the Danish counts, what would you do?"

"For the good of the country?" I asked.

Ingald and Soldir nodded.

I knew where this was going, and didn't want to go there. "What kind of man is Hamlet," I asked. "Do we even know that?"

Soldir tapped his fingers on the table. "In wars," he said, "most of the men are frightened and sorry they joined up. One or two in a hundred isn't. There's one type who just loves war. He delights in killing enemies and smiles at the slaughter of non-combatants. That's a type that should never be allowed to return to civilized society."

"You think Hamlet is one of those?" It seemed unlikely to me.

"There's one other kind, harder to spot. Ingald's run across a few in his time." Ingald nodded; they'd obviously talked about this before. Soldir continued. "Imagine a man that looks like you or me, laughs and smiles like you or me, has passions like you or me, but has no guilt, nor any feelings for anybody not in his interest to have feelings for."

Ingald took over. "Men like that – women, too – will, if they can get away with it, simply swat away those who get in their way. If they can get away with killing you, and want to for some reason, they do it without a moment's remorse or regret. They lack guilt."

"Evil?" I asked.

"I think Satan has taken away the most important thing, according to the Church, that God gave Adam. Guilt."

"They have friends?" I asked.

"They pretend to, and will as long as the friends are useful to them. The moment they are no longer of use, they can be removed, and if they are in his way, they will be removed. _If_ he can get away with it. Most of these types are smart enough. Many have single-minded drives their acquaintances know nothing of, so they their friends never know their danger."

"And," Soldir added, "who in all world can always get away with it?"

"The nobility, to some degree. Royalty, always. Only royalty can deal punishment to royalty."

"Look, Amundi," Ingald said. "I've spend some time in Italy. Pretty common to get people like that in power. They get to the top over the bodies of people in their way. To such people, you would be little more than a nuisance bag of bones and guts. They consider others disposable, as people who deserve what they get, little people who got caught in the crossfire of mightier people. 'What did he expect?' they'll say, and forget you instantly."

"You think Hamlet's crazy?" I asked.

"Like a fox," Ingald said.

"Like a snake," Soldir added. "We wanted to warn you."

"Maybe he's just silly. There is that rumor that Yorick, the jester who had the antic disposition, is his real father. After all, Hamlet's the only child Gertrude had, and that's not normal."

"He's hiding something," Ingald said. "Maybe his love for Ophelia has driven him nuts, but I think he hates Claudius and is biding his time."

"For months?" I asked. "Or does he plan to drive Claudius insane with bad jokes?"

"He was robbed of the crown when Claudius married Gertrude while he was away," Soldir noted.

"He doesn't seem to want the crown," I said.

"We can't read a man's mind," Ingald said. "But we can keep out of his way."

"I can try. He's a prince and this is a tight little castle."

"You might want to avoid Ophelia then. If Hamlet thinks you're advising her against him...."

"There's a shortage of beer in this tent," I said, getting up.

"We'll be moving out of the castle," Ingald said. "The town's not so crowded."

"Be careful," Soldir said as I left the tent. I was miffed; Hamlet hadn't seemed like a monster to me.

And then I saw Ejulf, one of my wife's lovers, staggering by the tent. He stopped. I stopped. We contemplated each other. He hiccupped. I considered stepping on him; he was ready to fall anyway. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus. I could have done it; things that happened in the drunken melee that the camp was becoming as the afternoon wore on would be overlooked. A lot of grudges would be settled before the end of the day.

"Amundi," he said. He looked around, whether for escape routes, assistance, or because he'd momentarily forgotten where he was. "Fancy meeting you here." He hiccupped again, and leaned against the tent's guy rope.

"The famous Ejulf Players are back in town?" I asked, although I already knew; Ejulf didn't go far from the players. If I were his size, I wouldn't either. If I messed around with other men's wives like Ejulf did, I wouldn't either. I was just trying to decide whether or not to bop him first with my mug – he was known for having a nasty bite and a tendency to bite assailants in the genitals – when Gudmund came wandering by, sober as usual. Gudmund, whom I often called 'Gudmud', worked for the Ejulf Players and often played female parts, and well, despite his great height, unusual even among Danes.

"We're back," he said, rather brightly for a teetotaller.

"So I see. It takes at least a week at your speed to get here from even Holstein. You were in Holstein, weren't you. So you must have started out while we were still preparing for war. That sounds brave."

Gudmund chuckled. "Your friends, Ingald and Soldir, seemed so sure there wasn't going to be a war that we decided to take a chance." He sighed. "And Holstein's full of plays with child actors. They seem to find that sort of thing cute there. So we took a chance, caught the ferry, and here we are. It looks like your friends were right."

"Yeah, doesn't it." I was wondering again how Ingald and Soldir figured it out more than a week before Claudius's Danish envoys had returned from Norway. I was obviously missing something. "You hope to get a gig at the palace?" It sounded like a good idea to me. Much as I disliked some of the members of the troupe, it might lessen the amount of entertaining I myself had to do or assemble.

"We ran across Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Gudmund said, while Ejulf collapsed onto the ground and began to snore. "Long-time friends of Hamlet, we understand. They're going to put in a word for us. Frankly, we can use the money." Gudmund didn't ask me, entertainer-in-chief, to put in a word.

It was, however, in my interest, so I said, "I think that's a good idea. I've been doing so much comedy for the last month that I think a good serious play would go over well. If it helps, I'll recommend you, too."

"I like that," Gudmund said. He hesitated. Are there any topics we might want to avoid? Sensitive subjects, like?"

I thought of telling them to avoid kings killing kings. That rumor had been going around long enough that I thought Claudius might just throw the next person saying it into the dungeons, if not the torture room. Then I looked at Ejulf, snoring in a pile of horse manure, and liked the thought of someone trying to adjust torture machines to his size. "Pretty well anything that doesn't mention Danes or Norwegians or war will be fine," I said. "You might want to avoid incest." At that point I figured I'd leave the rest to fate.

Gudmund shook my hand, thanking me. Then he threw Ejulf over his shoulder and marched off. I went looking for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. I found them, as expected, at the largest and happiest ale-tent in the military establishment. These guys might not be military material, but they had an instinct for locating alcohol.

They spotted me while I was standing in the tent doorway, looking around. "Amundi!" Guildenstern called, standing and waving. "Over here!"

The place was crowded, but some old soldier got up to get a breath of fresh air, so to speak, and I took his place on the bench. There was a lot of shouting and talk going on, so it wasn't much of a conversation. Both offered me a sip of their ale, and I took a drink from each. That didn't leave much, so I indicated, mostly by waving my arms, that we might leave and go elsewhere. Both agreed at once, emptied their mugs, and got up.

We exited the tent and I took them down the central laneway, stepping over more mounds of interesting organic material, to an empty tent. I thought of finding Ingald and Soldir again, but I no longer trusted them like I had before; somehow it seemed they'd gotten information from Norway even before the king had.

I was getting sick of tents.

"I think peace is going over well," I said.

Guildenstern pointed to a cart moving past the doorway. "There are a lot of wagons leaving today. Merchants that were hoping to get a royal contract, I'm told. "

"Not surprised," I said. "Peace is hell."

Rosencrantz laughed. "We expected to walk in on a battle. Not this situation. We're glad."

Guildenstern agreed wholeheartedly. "We had the most awful talks about us charging the Norwegian lines, and ending up stuck like pigs at a roast."

"We're not the soldier types," Rosencrantz noted, as if it needed to be noted. I'd only known them for a couple of months before they, like Hamlet, went off to a school somewhere, although these two went to England to study cuisine, which was a laugh. I mean, the Danes haven't contributed much to international cookery, but the English...." But I'd known they were close friends of Hamlet. I'd often seen them walking the castle and town with the prince, laughing or debating points of philosophy or rating women's butts. Apparently they'd grown up with Hamlet from the time Hamlet was quite young; Their parents, now dead, had lived in the town as prosperous merchants in the wood trade, and they were just a year or two younger than the prince.

So I had a good idea why they were in Elsinore. "The king sent for you," I said, "to see if you can figure out what's the matter with Hamlet. Before someone chucks him into the moat or something. You _have_ heard that he's making strange, I presume?"

Rosencrantz exchanged a look with Guildenstern. "Sent for?" Rosencrantz asked. Commanded?"

"No, no," Guildenstern assured me. "Not commanded."

"A request?" I asked, knowing I was on the right track. Neither of these two had been born with guile. Gook looks, money and self confidence had probably left a string of babies that resembled them across Denmark and England. Their openness and innocence, which was real enough, was part of their charm.

"We can't say," Guildenstern said, and Rosencrantz nodded his head.

"A suggestion," I offered.

Rosencrantz brightened. "Maybe a suggestion."

"Maybe we just heard in a letter that Hamlet isn't feeling his normal self, and we decided to come see if we could help him." They considered it, and nodded in unison.

"Good idea," I said. "Hamlet isn't his normal self. His normal self being...."

"Mostly gloomy," Rosencrantz said.

"But we've always found ways to make him laugh," Guildenstern said.

"Well, he laughs all the time, now," I said. "Are you going to make him gloomy again?"

"That wouldn't do," Rosencrantz said. "He can be very gloomy, you know."

"Very gloomy," Guildenstern said.

"And the business contract your uncle has with the castle has nothing to do with this." The pair might have got most of the money from the lumber business when their parents died, but their father, knowing his sons, had left the actual business to his wife's brother. In a war economy, it was doing very well.

"Business?" Guildenstern asked.

"Lumber business?" Rosencrantz asked. These two tended to ask questions when they didn't want to answer one.

"There are several theories going around about Hamlet," I said. "One is that he contemplated becoming king and decided to avoid it by becoming a fool. Or at least acting like one. Some people don't want a fool for a king. A lot of people don't, just in case there's a war or he wants to invade Poland or something like that."

"History," Rosencrantz said. "Fools for kings." He frowned. "Not now, of course; past history."

"Past Danish history," Guildenstern said. "Of course all Danish history is past history or we wouldn't call it history, would we?"

"Did you not find the history of the English to be full of idiots?"

"True," Both started nodding again. "But," Rosencrantz said, "most entertaining."

"Well," I said, "He's been horning in on my territory. There was lots of room there when I was entertaining these people." I waved at the tents. "But with the war... cancelled, I don't think there's room for two in the castle."

"Maybe he does want to be king," Guildenstern suggested. "Maybe when Hamlet's father died he wanted to take over, but his uncle and his mother got together while he was in Wittenberg. Hamlet was in Wittenberg, I mean, and now he's got to wait until, I mean, Hamlet's no spring chicken any more."

"Another theory," I offered, "has to do with Ophelia."

"Pretty girl," Guildenstern said. "Looks she'd be very cuddly in a bed. Hamlet likes her."

"Hamlet can't have her," I said. "Her father thinks the prince will have to marry a princess somewhere. Maybe a sour-faced Prussian who will produce lots of heirs and learn just enough Danish to complain about the wind all the time."

"Reasonable," Rosencrantz said. "Old King Hamlet should have had more sons. Maybe should have spent less time with the soldiers. One son? Makes you wonder."

"It made him crazy?" Guildenstern shook his head as if in sorrow. "Happy crazy? Seems unlikely. He could make her a secret mistress, Happens all the time in castles, I hear." They both looked at the ceiling.

"The only other theory," I said, "except for him having a construction brick dropped onto his head, is that he doesn't like Claudius at all and having Claudius in bed with his mother is driving him nutso."

"Happy nutso?" Rosencrantz seemed dubious.

"Maybe happy is a cover," I said. "Maybe he's planning on killing Claudius. After all, there is the rumor that Old King Hamlet didn't die a natural death."

"If you're a prince, and you're going to kill the king," Guildenstern said. "You can either run around raising an army – heaven knows there are enough people who might follow you to enhance their fortune – or you up and do it, and hope you can lie your way into power." He shook his head in doubt. "Or you arrange for a discrete accident, then get someone like Faxe to back you up against the other lords. For a discrete payoff, of course." He leaned towards me. "You don't spend months telling jokes, to the point where you'll have no supporters when you do take over."

"There's another theory," Rosencrantz said. "We thought it up a month ago. Maybe Hamlet was just trying to avoid military service. Who'd want to follow into battle a prince who was cracking jokes all the while?" He paused. "And if Denmark lost, maybe the Norwegians wouldn't kill him, seeing how harmless he was."

"If so, his behavior will change now that the war's been called off," Guildenstern said.

I hadn't thought these two to have had that much common sense. But then, I remembered, they'd always been brighter than they looked. "You make sense," I said, "but...."

"But what?" Guildenstern folded his arms in front of him.

"But be cautious. A prince can't be punished for anything he does, remember. And a crazy prince – even one that's just pretending to be crazy, if that's the case – now has an excuse for mayhem."

"Okay," Rosencrantz said. "Careful it is."

Guildenstern said, "We're friends. We've been closest friends for years. We shared everything while we were growing up." He looked at Rosencrantz and winked. Rosencrantz laughed. "He may be a bit short of other friends now. We should be okay." Both got up at the same time. I didn't know how they did that.

"Let me know...." I began. Then I changed my mind. "Don't let me know. Don't tell me anything. Nothing."

"You're so innocent," Guildenstern said. "Must be nice."

"Heavenly," I said. "Be careful."

"We embrace the universe," Guildenstern said, "with open arms. Harmless and loveable."

"Unless creatures with warm breasts get in our way first," Rosencrantz added. "Then we embrace them instead,"

On the way back to the castle, I met Hekja. She was carrying a large sack. She set the sack on the ground. "I love you," she said.

"That's what my wife told me before she loved the blacksmith more," I said. "You're just out of the cloister," I said. "You don't know what love is. How could you?"

"I'm moving into town," she said.

"Okay," I said. What was I to Hekja or Hekja to me that I should care. This was better and safer than sharing a room. I thought about joining Hamlet in the silly-jokes-all-day club. Or maybe walking the parapets with my eyes closed. I watched her go, then walked to the castle. Amundi; a creature of much wit and little intelligence.

A stiff Danish wind pushed me through the castle gates. Leif was on gate duty and we discussed the sudden peace for a minute. Then I entered the castle in a gentle rain with a thundercloud of gloom over my head. Work on the fortifications was still ongoing, but slowly now. I made my way to the main eating room, which was full, and got a mug of ale and a plate of mutton stew, with bread on the side. Hopefully, castle fare would improve when most of the workers were gone. And improve even more when the royal family took us to one of the country estates, with their warmer accommodations.

"Amundi!" a voice called. I recognized the Polish accent. I forced a space beside Casimir and sat down. He was eating the same fare as me. Remarkable.

"So what do you think?" I asked him. "It looks like the war's been called off, like the last act of a play that's getting bad reviews from the audience." I raised my mug. "Denmark saved, Fortinbras going elsewhere...." I lowered my mug when I saw Sir Casimir's face. "Oh, yeah. Fortinbras is off to Poland, isn't he."

"Follow me." Casimir left his almost empty mug and plate. I picked up mine and followed him outside, near an area where sawyers were turning round logs into square beams. We sat on one mostly-finished beam. I got a small sliver in my butt, but didn't move.

"Poland," I said.

"Why Poland?" Casimir cried. "What has Poland ever done to Norway or Denmark? Don't they have to have a made-up excuse at least?"

"Fortinbras was avenging his father by invading Denmark," I said. "At least that's what the Norwegians claim."

"They got Vest Agder back," Casimir said, speaking loud enough that some sawyers stopped to listen. And Old King Hamlet, the guy who killed his father, is dead. He has no excuse for invading Denmark or Poland. Looting, and shooting? That's what."

"Isn't it enough?" I asked.

"Especially, what is Poland to Fortinbras? He's a thug, a criminal; his war is murder and pillage. Old King Hamlet was liar like all other thugs and like ancient Vikings. Oh, Poland's had wars with its neighbours for land or honour, but.... Norway? As if we didn't have enough problems with the Russians and the Germans!" He waved his arms. I finished my stew before it could get knocked over. "Thuggery and buggery, the Norwegian army like all other damn armies in this damned age. Did Fortinbras even give a half-assed reason for wanting to invade Poland?"

"If he did, I didn't hear about it. I guess I have to ask what are we Vikings to the Poles or the Poles to us that we should have tried to loot them without a provocation?" I tried to be contrite for my ancestors.

"Old King Hamlet and Fortinbras : both thugs with armies. Thugs with armies. Murder, rape, looting! Polish neighbors are Russians and Germans A treaty with Denmark or Norway would be logical. We could come to each other's aid if the Holy Roman Empire wants to expand. That's logic. That's what a good leader would do. But not Fortinbras. No, he has to go a-Viking like his hated ancestors, those sons-a-bitches!" He sat down beside me and helped himself to part of my bread and a piece of mutton.

"I can see you'd be concerned with your people, what with the Norwegian army coming your way", I said."

He looked up, tried to talk with a mouthful of food, thought the better of it, washed the food down with some of my ale, and said, "Of course not. The Norwegian army's not going anywhere near Poland. Nobody's that stupid."

"What?" I asked.

"He's right," said a voice behind me. I looked up and there was Soldir. "I'd bet more heavily on Poland being invaded by, oh, the Irish or maybe the Fez of Morocco than the Norwegians." He, too sat down on the log, with a sigh of relief as he stretched out his bad leg.

"What?" I asked again.

"Not if he's landing an army in Denmark," Casimir said. He turned to Soldir. "Good to see you, Soldir. Tell our fool here how Old King Hamlet took his troops to invade my country, back when you were younger."

"By boat, of course," Soldir said. "Loaded men and supplies onto boats here at Elsinore. Then we sailed across the Baltic with a freezing tailwind and into the first port on the coast of Poland. Then it's seize the port, spend a few days unloading, and off we go down the road to wealth and glory."

"It's a Viking tradition," Casimir said.

"It's also the only possible way," Soldir said.

Casimir got up, smoothed out a patch of mud, and drew a map of northern Europe with a stick. "Observe," he said, pointing. I leaned forward. "Option one for Fortinbras is to leave Norway, sail past Elsinore into the Baltic, and go to Poland's sunny shores."

"Wet," said Soldir, but with the normal west winds, just a few days travelling, even with barges towing enough food and cannon for a decent invasion."

"On the other hand," Casimir said, "Fortinbras can land his forces on the head of Denmark, which is sticking up like a waiting dick." He pointed the stick at me. "Then what does he have to do?"

I thought he'd taught one too many classes in military school in Poland. Or had to explain the Polish campaign one too many Danish generals. "Unload his men and equipment onto the Danish land. And the carts to haul it all. And the horses to pull the carts."

Soldir nodded. "It would be impossible to haul enough food to get all the way to Poland from Denmark, even if you used every fish cart in Norway and every one of the tiny Norwegian horses. What's he going to do when the food runs out?"

"He'll have to get it as he goes," I said. "But he can't just take it, because he's here by permission."

"So he'll have to buy it. On top of the enormous sum and vile interest rates the money-lenders will have charged the Norwegians to raise an army and buy the weapons, he'll have to have enough money to buy food as he goes through Denmark." He smiled. "There's an old saying, 'while the grass grows, the horse starves.' Do you know what that means?"

"Of course," I said. "I've used it many times. It means that one of the hardest times of the year is when the crops are growing, but not ripe. A farmer has to have saved enough from the previous year to see his family through until the first harvest."

"And what time is it now?" Casimir asked.

"About that time," I said.

Soldir spoke up. "In the Polish Winter War we were counting on bins full of autumn harvest." He shook his head ruefully. "What hadn't been burned or spoiled with manure had been hauled away before we got there."

"So," Casimir went on. "Fortinbras is going to have to buy food as he travels, at a time when there's little to have and the price will be highest. He'll need more money from the moneylenders."

"Okay," I said.

"But then he leaves Denmark." Soldir pointed at the mud map. "He's in Holstein. Then he's in the Holy Roman Empire."

"Not just any part of the Holy Roman Empire," Casimir noted, but the Hanseatic League. Five hundred years of merchants controlling the trade of the coast of the Baltic Sea. Extracting every bit of money from that trade. He'll have to lead his army across not only Denmark but the Duchy of Schleswig, and the Duchy of Holstein. That puts him into The Duchy of Brunswick-Luneberg, assuming he isn't crazy enough to pass through the free city of Lubeck. That would be pricey. Top prices for food, this time of year."

Soldir nodded. "From there he crosses the Electorate of Brandenburg or the Duchy of Pomerania, where he'll find the Poles and probably their Hungarian allies, and maybe hired knights from the Teutonic Order waiting for him."

"After the war, he'll have to make his way back the same way, having no boats with him," Casimir pointed out."

I sighed. "Or he could have just _sailed_ from Norway to Poland."

Soldir said, sadly, "Or they could just have sailed to Poland."

"And tolls. Can you imagine what a Hanseatic state would charge for use of the roads?" Casimir said. "Fortinbras would be bankrupt before he got through Mecklenburg, let alone through any of the other half-dozen states. He'd be selling his army to pay for his own passage back to Norway."

"Do you know how most armies on the move feed themselves?" Soldir asked.

"Foraging," I hear, I said.

"Right," Casimir said. "Pillaging and looting and the rest. It's not like foraging for mushrooms in the woods; there's a lot of burning and raping and the usual. And how do you think the Hanseatic States will react to that sort of behaviour?"

"I'm not a military man," I told him. "I know nothing about the strength of those places."

"They don't have big armies," Casimir said. "They don't need to. They can hire the best knights and other mercenaries whenever a problem arises. Some of the best soldiers in Europe are available, with the finest new weapons. But they don't need to do that. Do you know why?"

I didn't feel like guessing.

"Big Brother," Soldir said.

Casimir nodded. "They're part of the Holy Roman Empire, of course. It's neither holy nor Roman, but it has a hell of a lot of soldiers available when there's trouble anywhere. Far, far, more than Fortinbras can even imagine. And suppose Fortinbras somehow got all the way to Poland by land. What would be waiting for him?" He waved at Soldir.

"Prepared armies of Poles," Soldir said. "With armies of allies."

"Which brings up the question," Casimir said, "of how Fortinbras would get home even if he attacked Poland."

"Steal boats?" I asked.

"The Poles would have all boats out of the way, just in case."

I stood up. "You're saying it can't be done."

"What would you say?"

I said, "It can't be done. Not by land."

"On the other hand," Casimir said, "they could always just sail to Poland."

"And not need to ask Claudius for permission to land in Denmark," Soldir said.

"And if Fortinbras were to cross Denmark with the permission of Claudius, how do you think the Holy Roman Empire would feel?"

I shrugged. "I think they'd be pretty pissed off at us," Casimir said.

I didn't know what to say. "So what can you say when Fortinbras lands on Jutland?" I asked.

"There's a bigger question," Casimir said. "What if the Norwegian army lands on Sealand?"

I blinked. "What?"

"What if...."

"I heard you," I said.

"What problems would it make for Fortinbras," Soldir asked.

The question annoyed me. "That would be stupid," I said. "First he'd disembark from his boats, then march past Elsinore to the other end of this island. Probably to the ferry at Voldingborg. He'd have to then ferry all his troops and equipment to Falster. Then he'd have to cross that island. Then ferry everything to the mainland. The Hanseatic merchants would like the business, but it would cost more than he's worth."

"Any conclusions?" Casimir asked me.

"It does seem like the ultimate in stupidity to attempt a land attack on Poland, when you've got all of Denmark and the Holy Roman Empire to get through." But then, not as stupid as landing on an island instead of the mainland."

"When you could just sail your boats to Poland," Soldir said. "What if you found out Fortinbras had landed on Sealand, our cozy little island here?"

"I'd wonder what he really was after," I said.

"Let's consider," Soldir said. "Fortinbras tried to fool his uncle, so we know he's a known liar and trickster. And that his uncle is an idiot for not throwing him in the dungeon for trying that. So can we trust anything he says to us?" Ingald laughed. " Probably has an honest face, too. Fortinbras or Hamlet to rule – neither have a conscience, big deal. Where's Laertes when Denmark needs him? Laertes, the guy who skipped town when war was about to break."

"You're moving into town, too? I asked Casimir.

He shook his head sadly. "Claudius seems to want me to stay safely in this prison."

"It's a prison?" I asked.

"There are all kinds of prisons," Soldir said. "Are you staying?"

"I guess I'm supposed to."

"Ingald and I will see you again sometime. We're available to help in entertainments. Meantime I'm going to sit in the sunlight by the river and watch the clouds go by." He smiled. "And I bet Ingald is going to get a nice room with a big window and a woman."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah." The rain started again, and we parted, Casimir and I going back into the stone hallways. Casimir left me for some pursuit of his own shortly after, and I went to see the chief chef to see if he'd had any word about celebrations. The chief chef, a tall, thin man from Odens who had always disliked me for reasons unknown, said the word had come down that the following evening would be devoted to a royal feast.

I paid three page boys to try to locate as many entertainers as possible. They'd done this before, as had I, so there was nothing new here. Any entertainers would be paid even if they didn't actually perform, and they were always given some of the feast goods.

The war was called off. My friends were back. I had my own room back to myself. I felt totally drained and disconnected and depressed for some reason. Which is why I wasn't paying attention when I heard a voice call me not far from my room. It was Ophelia; apparently she'd called me a couple of times as she got closer. I waved her to a bench along a corridor wall. "May I help you, My Lady?"

She told me that Hamlet had come into her chamber, his clothes torn and in disarray. He'd appeared distraught. He'd held her hand for a while, and looked into her eyes. Then he'd left.

"Did you tell your father about this?" I asked,

"I did, Amundi. He asked me if I'd had anything to do with Hamlet since he came back from Wittenberg, but I assured him I hadn't spoken a word to him, and had returned his notes and letters unopened."

Personally, it struck me as unlikely that she hadn't broken the seal and read one or two. Women in love are more likely to lie to fathers and husbands than to lovers, and curiosity is often stronger than wisdom or caution among lovers. But Ophelia was, I had to admit, not like other women. "Wise," I lied.

"Have you any idea what made him do that?"

"Odd," I said. "Very odd. What did you think?"

"I figured he was just crazy in love for me," Ophelia said. "That's what my father thinks, too. He knows I'm forbidden to associate with him – everybody in the castle has figured that out. Maybe he's just coming unhinged. You'd think he'd have tried to tell me something."

_Maybe there was something in those letters you returned_ , I thought. _Any normal woman would have let one slip into the hands of a friend, father's command or no_. "I've tried to talk to him myself," I told her. "All he does is joke. And change the subject. The jokes have no meaning in them, as far as I could see." I looked away. "I wish I could help you, My Lady, but Hamlet's been a mystery to me, too."

"Could he really be crazy?"

"I didn't used to think so," I told her, "but after three months of the same thing, I'm beginning to wonder." I paused, then told her the various theories going around the castle. Then we agreed, love was still the most logical explanation.

"If he loves me," Ophelia said, "why hasn't he tried to tell me so. A wink, even, might help. Doesn't he trust me?"

_Maybe there was a clue in those letters,_ I thought. _Maybe he tried to tell you he loved you today, and the first thing you did was run to your father. Maybe you failed another test. You're a woman who's going to be easier to bed than to keep a secret, I think._ "He's in a tough situation," I started.

Ophelia said, firmly, "I know what my father says, and there isn't a king or prince in Europe that doesn't have a wife and a few mistresses at the same time. Anybody but my father would accept that. I'd be happier in that role than the way it's going now."

"Do you think he loves you?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "I know that. A girl can tell these things. I guess my father's right; he's just crazy over me. My father won't live forever, and...."

Personally, I thought she was protesting a bit much. "Patience," I said. "Give him a bit longer." It was really inane advice, and I knew it and Ophelia knew it.

She stood up. "Stay close to him, Amundi, and let me know if you find out what's wrong," she said, as if she were my boss.

I bowed my head. "I will, My Lady."

I went to my room. My room seemed empty. It seemed smaller without Hekja or her bed. I watched the candle light on the walls and wondered. Someone, I couldn't remember who, had predicted that, if Hamlet were merely trying to avoid war duties, he'd change when the war was over. Well, the war was called off, and Hamlet seemed to have changed. I shook my head; I really hoped Hamlet's problem was something more noble than that.

He was, I thought a strange character, even for a prince. I had no indication that, other than his limited group of friends and relatives and Ophelia, he cared how anybody felt. Come to that, I got the feeling that he'd never asked his mother why she married Claudius. Ever. Or asked Claudius why he married Gertrude so quickly after the death of Old King Hamlet. Hell, Hamlet could have gone out on the parapet and asked the stars why those things happened.

Myself, I'd at least have asked my mother for an explanation. And if she were happy with Claudius. And did she love her husband? But, judging by the way Hamlet and his mother treated each other, they hadn't had such a conversation.

Myself, I'd have written "sorry" on my girlfriend's wall, and I'd have found a mutual friend or lady's maid to pass along information, so she could keep her promise to her father. Driving your mother around the bend is reasonable a lot of the time, but doing that to your girlfriend is just counterproductive.

Not even a talk with a priest, judging by the priest's attitude after confession.

Come to think of it, I'd never seen Hamlet ever ask "how are you," except when he had an immediate motive.

***
Chapter 15: A Feast and Half a Play

I slept poorly that night, after making plans for an elaborate entertainment. I figured, with so little time to prepare and so much to celebrate, I'd get everything available on hand. I didn't know whether my anti-Norway stuff was now outdated, or would be reused for a celebration. I didn't know whether the play should precede or follow other entertainment; eventually I decided to let the play be near the end. I'd save some funny stuff to lighten the mood after such a dramatic script.

By mid-morning, when I got the call from Claudius, I had things well in hand. "I'm giving a. ah, feast today, as you've probably heard," he told me. I nodded, and forgave him for not having told me earlier; he probably had a lot on his mind. "Can you arrange something in a hurry? I've got a travelling troupe for a play, but we'll need more once, ah, the ale and mead get working."

I pretended to think seriously for a minute then suggested most of the list I'd already arranged. He was delighted, so I added that I might, just might, be able to get also... and listed some more entertainers I'd already got commitments from.

"Wonderful!" he said. He smiled for the first time.

"Should I do any of the stuff we made up to mock the Norwegians?" I asked. "The war's over and people have heard it a lot. And it's getting cruder lately, as people add verses."

"Save it for the end of the night. People who are drunk like, ah, songs they can sing to and jokes they know the ending to."

"Done, my lord." I bowed and was ready for his dismissal, when I got the feeling he had more to say.

"Have you reached any, ah, conclusions about Hamlet?" He called Hamlet "my son" only in public.

"I'm an utter failure," I said. "I still say he's faking the smiley bit to cover up for something, but he's as closed as a walnut shell and I haven't found the nutcracker that can bring out the meat inside."

"You think it will come out by itself?"

"It has to, my lord; I'm certain of it."

"Well, in the last day he's changed, Amundi." He told me an almost identical version of the encounter between Ophelia and Hamlet. "I fear him," Claudius admitted.

"Can you send him away?" I asked.

He brightened up. "Back to Wittenberg?"

"Somewhere new, my lord. Somewhere where he can put things into perspective. Or an island of nut cases."

"Ah," Claudius said. "England. And those, ah, bastards owe me money. I can send Hamlet to get it." He snorted. "Like I ever thought I'd see that money again. But it's an excuse."

"You could send Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with him, my lord. They speak English and could give him a tour of the country."

"Excellent idea. You've lightened a king's mind, Amundi."

"Thank you, my lord."

It is said that Aesop, famous ancient Greek, died without ever knowing which of his fables had annoyed his royal patron. A jester has to jest, and royalty is a profession of very thin skin. A joke about some type of person can so easily be interpreted as a jab at the queen's second cousin. The queen complains to the king, who needs to mollify her for something else, and whoop-tee-doo, the next jester enters the castle looking at the head of the last one on a pike.

After the dissolution of my early world and dreams, I'd spent a couple of years earning bed and a meal at taverns across Denmark by making very bitter jokes about marriage and life. One night in Elsinore town a king's manservant, on the lookout for a new jester for Old King Hamlet, had made me an offer that involved regular meals and a room of my own. The last jester probably never knew what cost him so dearly.

I slept badly and woke up badly and alone.

I woke up badly and alone with no one's skin to touch but my own and no one to talk to but myself.

I should have been singing. My chances of dying in a senseless war had just dropped dramatically. I didn't have to share my room and the food served at the castle was probably going to improve as rationing ended.

I tried to have a talk with a small mouse nibbling at the bread I'd brought home the night before. He made a dive for a crack in the wall. I must have offended him, somehow. I went out to my favourite castle facility, and hanging my bum over the hole, added to the moat two storeys below. A high Danish wind blew some against the wall below. I'd not only relieved myself, but mooned the world to the north of the castle. Jester though I was, more the fool, for there was no one to laugh.

I should have been singing. I went up to the parapet and looked out over the kingdom, but the wind picked up, and I left, not because I was cold but because I couldn't just stretch out my arms and fly, vaulting into the air, shuffing off this man's weight and go soaring on the dreams I'd accumulated in the attic of my brain.

I sat down on a bench out of the wind, leaned against the stone wall, and watched the clouds skip across the sky. Casimir joined me. "I'm probably out of a job again," he said, staring in the same direction.

"Sure," I said.

"You," he said, have got a plum position. I hear there's going to be a gargantuan feast tonight."

"This is Elsinore, I said, not Paris or London."

"You'll have to have some entertainment for our magnificent victory."

"Victory?"

"The general who wins a battle without fighting is smarter than the general who wins a thousand over the lakes of blood a war takes."

I contemplated killing the next guy who said that. "Claudius, our genius," I said.

"You're glumpy today," he noted. "Shouldn't a jester be full of laughs?"

I shook my head. "We've got the same smile as everybody else. We just hoard it for the right occasion. Sitting in a cold wind isn't the right occasion. Wait for tonight."

"I hear there's a play coming. Travelling actors."

"Good," I said. "Saves me an hour of planning. By that time everyone can be drunk, and I can use all the old jokes until people start throwing vegetables at me. They love that part."

"They're playing the Murder of Gonzago" he said.

I turned to look at him. "So?"

"Sounds awfully close to those rumors of Old King Hamlet being killed, doesn't it?"

I shrugged. "Any serious play has murder and mayhem. We're not a subtle civilization. Different in Poland?"

"More crying to God. More philosophy. Same with the violence, though." He paused. "I saw Hamlet talking to the chief actor, that little guy. I think he wanted to add a few lines."

"As long as he doesn't add lines about killing your brother and marrying his wife, things should work out," I said. "Claudius's a bit sensitive about that rumor, even if brilliantly avoiding a war cuts him a lot of slack right now. Probably all he added were some bad jokes."

"Maybe I can sell myself off to Faxe. When Lord Thord dies maybe the new Lord will need a military advisor or guy to feed the hounds and clean the kennels."

"And you call me glumpy."

"I do."

"Grim," I said. "Minister of War."

"Good fellow. He hired me."

"I've been humping Tola for the last five months."

"Knew that. Yet you live."

"He could have me killed with a word."

"Now that the war's been put on the shelf, maybe he will. Can I have your job then"

"You mean as a jester, or fucking Tola?"

"She's beautiful, but I'm not that stupid. But they might laugh at my Polish accent if I were a clown."

"And I've been sharing a bed with Helgi who's really Hekja. A nun." I tossed a pebble into the square at a large blob of horse shit. I missed. "Do you know what the Church would do with that?"

"Same as in Poland, I imagine. Just causing a servant of God to leave the monastery is enough to get you beheaded. After a few days of torture to get you to confess and appeal for mercy." He scratched at an errant flea on his leg. "Fucking one should get you the complete course; enough to save your soul and provide a lesson to others."

"No fucking," I said.

"Really?" He laughed for a full minute then said, "Won't make much difference to the Church. You have touched her, I presume?"

"Intimate and knowledgeable about every inch except the inside of her vagina."

"You are something," he said.

"Couldn't risk a pregnancy," I said. "Would just complicate things. Besides, God would know and maybe cut me some slack in purgatory."

"The Church will assume you have had carnal relations," Casimir said. "They'll just torture you until you admit it, then do a few more days because you admit it." He tossed a pebble, too, but was a better aim than I. "Any other immediate dangers to your life? I need to know so I can do your job properly when you're down in the torture room confessing to everything."

"I suspect some of the people I'm hanging around with are spies," I said. "Maybe I just don't trust anybody, but they came back to Elsinore before anybody here knew about the agreement."

"So Claudius won't have to wait for the Church to charge you; he can just run you through the gamut out of suspicion of consorting with suspected spies."

I nodded and tossed a handful of stones. They all missed. Maybe that was a positive sign. "And I'm afraid of finding myself between Hamlet and Claudius. Prince and king. I don't think they like each other. I've been careful and lucky so far."

"If the Norwegians show up on Sealand, Claudius will have other things to worry about than you."

"Maybe they'll come looking for the dude who started all those Norwegians-are-cowardly dick-head songs."

"You're a true optimist," Casimir said.

"Give up optimism if you're going to be a fool. It's a handicap and makes for sappy jokes."

"Maybe you can run off with that travelling actor's troupe."

"Ejulf and I don't get along."

"That little guy? You know him?"

"Too well, but not as well as he knew my wife."

"Before you were married?"

"Before I returned from a trip to town one day."

"Ah," he said.

"Ah," I replied.

"Sitting on your pity pot," Casimir said abruptly.

I thought about it. "I am. What about you?"

"Far from home and family," he said. "Maybe I'll join Fortinbras just to see Poland again."

We looked across the courtyard. Two jesters were coming, one of them pointing at me. "Friends?" Casimir asked.

"Entertainers. Quite funny, but they've got to be used early in the evening before beer loosens their opinion on God and country. I don't know why they're still alive. Maybe right after the play."

Casimir got up. "You'll have a busy day ahead. I'm looking forward to it."

Behind the first two I could see more entertainers coming, eager for a chance at performing and getting a piece, however small, of the royal celebratory banquet. No doubt everyone in Denmark had been hiding food in preparation for an invasion.

It certainly looks like Claudius had kept Hamlet in Elsinore just for appearances' sake, in case of a war, I thought. As soon as the war's cancelled, Claudius wants to ship him out of the country. Not, of course, that I didn't think that was a good idea. Another thought came up. Claudius seemed to be the right king to confront a Norwegian invasion, especially since no one else thought of getting to Fortinbras' old uncle. But a war king isn't always suitable as a king in peacetime; I wonder how a Claudius monarchy will work out.

Conferring with people I knew and giving auditions and cautions to new hopefuls took the rest of the day. Most knew the usual pay rates and possible culinary perks involved. It looked like I'd get away without having to do more than supervise, but when Claudius passed by, he specifically requested one of my newer anti-Norwegian skits for late in the evening, especially with some of the raunchier material that others had added to my original story. I figured I could amend the lines to reflect the current situation. Soldir, Ingald, and Hekja, when they showed up, seemed to have no problem with that. I did ask them how they were doing in town with living arrangements, and all seemed happy with them, especially Hekja, who'd spent most of her life in a walled monastery and most of the last three months in a walled castle. She was still dressed as a man, I noted.

Once, when I was setting up just outside the main hall, Tola passed. We didn't greet each other with a smile, of course – we never did – but, since no one was around I reached out a hand to touch one of hers, but she dodged a bit and there was no contact. For a moment I just stood and watched her walk away. Everybody, I thought, is changing now that the war's been cancelled. But, for some reason, I hadn't expected a change between Tola and me. We'd become acquainted a couple of years before, when I made a foolish joke that made that sad woman laugh. The lady, entertained by the yokel. The yokel, enchanted by the lady.

The chief cook and I conferred in the afternoon about the order of the feast dishes and the order of entertainments. Some types of entertainment always accompanied courses of meals; some traditionally followed or preceded the main meal.

I did intend to check out Ejulf's new lines that Hamlet had added to The Murder of Gonzago, but somehow I didn't get around to it.

That was, it turned out, a very unfortunate mistake on my part. Even if Hamlet would take most of the blame, I was still partly in charge, and could have had a couple of actors poisoned or something, starting with Ejulf himself.

At one point, Gertrude stopped me. "We're sending Hamlet to England," she said.

"Ah," I said.

"He's got to get a bit more mature if he's going to be king. Someday."

I bowed. "Can I make jokes about England, My Lady?"

She shook her head. "We want to maintain good relations with them. The owe us money, and we're hoping to get one of those new ships with cannon if nothing better."

"Of course." I bowed as she left.

Things were going just fine until Ingald came up to me. "Amundi," he said, we have a problem."

"Oh?"

"It seems that the Mother Abbess from Vrejlev Abbey is in the castle, and will certainly be at the feast. Hekja says she'll be recognized even dressed as a man."

In which case, I'll be boiled in oil too, I thought.

"We'll put you in as the pretty Danish girl instead of Hekja," I told him. "She can go back to town. Soldir will still play the Danish soldier and I'll do the Norwegian soldier. I'll see if Casimir will play a Polish expatriate who's trying to convince the Norwegian soldier that he's not in Poland. It'll be even funnier with you playing a bearded maiden."

"I can do that," Ingald said.

"Where's Hekja?"

"Hiding in the room Soldir and I shared when we were here at the castle. We plan to spend the night there anyway after the show."

"Crowded for three people," I noted.

"Sure," he said.

I knew he'd make a good maiden, with a wig. Some of these Mediterranean types tend towards the effete, I find.

Singers did the usual patriotic folk songs while the main courses were served, and we were all geared to follow the Murder of Gonzago, helped a bit by some of the finest ales I'd ever tasted. My entertainers were waiting in the hallway while Ejulf launched into the play. The little turd was good at what he did, I had to admit. I was wondering what kind of splash he'd make if he fell from the parapet into the moat, when I noticed that the plot of the play had changed. Must be Hamlet's additions, I thought.

Somewhere not long after the time Gonzago was being truly killed and his murderer was exulting in it, I realized that we were into the area of the prince's additions. I'd say it affected me before the king, since, ultimately, I was responsible for everything entertainment-wise. They might be Hamlet's words, but I should have checked them, obviously. The play now paralleled the rumor that Claudius had poisoned Old King Hamlet.

There was a decided color change in the room. Claudius turned red and I must have been rather white, what with my blood all draining down to my feet. I had an awful vision of my bright red feet sticking up from the moat after I'd been tossed from the parapet. If that happened, I hoped to have Ejulf with me, his neck tight in my clenched hands.

I should be so lucky; there are reasons for torture rooms in castles.

Claudius stood up, called for lights, and walked out of the room. This doesn't happen as often as the children's tales would have one believe, but people had the general idea pretty quickly, heading for the exits. Some even left their mugs of ale behind. I stayed in the doorway, trying to decide whether to brazen it out or execute Escape Plan #1 before being myself executed.

Hamlet was in the corner conferring with Horatio; he looked happy and excited. I began to think he'd set up the play to see how the king reacted to specific accusations. If so, it certainly worked. I mean, the king was sensitive to the killed-your-brother-so-you-could-marry-his-wife rumor, but this seemed a bit extreme even for that.

Maybe the prince was so mad at Claudius he didn't know what else to do. For a moment I felt sorry for the kid. Then I considered what might happen if Hamlet were sure of it, and it wasn't good for Claudius (my boss) or Denmark (the place I inhabited).

I hoped he hadn't got his information from a ghost; rumors of the ghost of Old King Hamlet had been going around since he died, but then again, that's what is expected in a castle. The priest said a ghost is the creation of Satan, sent to stir up trouble. For a moment I wondered if a ghost would tell the truth to cause havoc and pain. Then I remembered the woman who told me about Ejulf and my wife; she loved truth, especially when it hurt someone, and she was no ghost.

Grim returned, and started spreading the word that Claudius had probably reacted to some bad shellfish and his wife was looking for a doctor. I thought it was obvious that Claudius had taken unusual exception to the play, and would have passed around the rumor that Claudius just didn't like people making fun of rumors.

Grim came back, then stopped in front of me. "Who changed the script?" Obviously, he knew the original.

A professional fool has to be able to think quickly. I realized that if I said I hadn't checked, I'd be hung for negligence. On the other hand, if I said I didn't see anything wrong, then it would mean I didn't suspect Claudius of awful crimes. "The prince," I confessed.

"And you didn't see anything wrong with it?"

I gave him my innocent-being-offended look, turning red in the face. "It wasn't a major change. Those Mediterranean types are always poisoning one another."

He glared into my eyes. My blood returned to my feet. "We'll see. I'm going to talk to the players, if I can find them."

I was now hoping Ejulf and his band were somewhere out in the dark, not hanging around the castle. Ejulf was likely to mention that I hadn't checked those satanic verses, if he were caught. "Yes, my lord," I said. When Grim left, I walked into the Great Hall and looked around, in case this was the last time I saw it. I wondered if Tola would miss me. Three of the Danish Lords who had come to Elsinore were conferring with the Mother Abbess. I guess all of them had come to Elsinore to prepare for war and were delighted when peace broke out. I imagine all of them were pleased with the entertainment, including the sight of the royal family vanishing. Fuel for endless gossip, of course.

I didn't see anybody I recognized from Faxe or Roskilde but Mother Abbess called me over. "Any idea what's going on," she asked.

"Not sure," I said. "The king sure looked upset with something."

"One joke too many from his kid while he was trying to watch a serious play?" a Lord asked.

"That would do it for me," I said, "but the king's been dealing with that for a few months now and I'd have said he was past it."

"If it was something in the play," Mother Abbess said, "heads will roll." She looked me straight in the eyes. "Yours?"

"Probably," I said. "Any chance of me becoming a nun and hiding in the Abbey?"

She seemed to think about it. "A little trimming of excess material by our butcher, and we can give it a try."

"I'll let you know," I said.

"You haven't seen one of my girls, have you?" Mother Abbess asked.

"Your girls?" I asked, innocently. A fool is an actor and I knew how to act as if I weren't acting. At least I hoped I did.

"We lose one or two a year. We lost one to a local sailor in the winter – she's probably in Rotterdam working for a living – and one was seen talking with your friend from the Vatican."

"My friend from the Vatican?"

She gave me a description.

"Ingald? From the Vatican?"

"I made a pilgrimage there a couple of years ago," Mother Abbess said. "He was there, working for a cardinal, if I'm not mistaken. When you stayed the night I knew I'd seen him before, but it took a while before I remembered where. You didn't know?"

"He told me only that he was from the south," I said. "I wondered where that was."

"Ask him if he's seen Hekja – that's the girl who left shortly after your group did. He looks like the kind a girl would run off with, especially if it's part of a travelling freak show."

"Freak show?" I asked, as if upset.

"Yeah," she said. "An abbey is a stationary freak show in its own way, and a lot of the girls watch the roads more than they should." She described Hekja.

"I'll keep an eye out," I assured Mother Abbess.

"In the meanwhile, can't you try to find out what's happening here?" a Danish Lord asked.

"Sure," I said, getting up. "If I don't come back soon, remember me and say a prayer for me," I said, and left.

I did wander up towards the royal chambers, but the closest I got, considering the attitude of the guards, was the end of the corridor, where I thought I could hear Hamlet haranguing his mother. He wasn't a Jolly Royal Jokester now that the war wasn't coming his way. He seemed to be complaining about her marriage or talking to a ghost, or both at the same time. Remembering what the priest had said about ghosts being just creations of the devil, I was hoping it was the former.

I retreated downstairs to the royal kitchen, where everybody was simultaneously gossiping and trying to figure who got what of anything that didn't get served to the official guests that evening. The King's Manservant was trying to figure out how to get some of the tasty snacks to important people before the servants stashed them all in their greedy little stomachs. I wasn't sure whether he was winning or losing, but there were mugs of ale hidden in every corner waiting for him to leave.

Being very much lower caste around the castle, I had my ins with the kitchen staff, who generally liked my jokes, so I retired to my room, figuring the excitement was over for the night. Soldir was waiting outside, looking for a place to sleep. He said he was old, hungry, thirsty, and his leg ached. We shared speculation on the events of the evening, bread and a pie, and flask of ale. Hekja had taken her coverings but not the straw mattress, and Soldir curled up on that with one of my blankets.

In the morning, we found out that, sometime in the night, Polonius had been killed. "By Hamlet," everyone said at breakfast.

Try as we might, we couldn't see any reason Hamlet would kill Polonius. Royal families killed each other to gain the crown or to deny it to someone else in the family. Had Claudius or Hamlet been killed, we could understand that, since Hamlet had a good claim to the throne. But that was almost always done on the sly, and shrouded in lies about sudden illnesses. Who would want to kill a senile old man like Polonius? He hadn't the brains to foment a threat to anybody. The Danish people loved him, if only in memory of his better years. Hamlet had grown up treating Polonius as a wise uncle who arranged for his education and taught him to be a royal son. I'd always thought that Hamlet loved Polonius second only to his own parents.

Yet who could it be? Did Claudius suspect Polonius of planning that upsetting play the night before? If so, I wouldn't last long. Before breakfast was over, the Official Announcement was made: Prince Hamlet had stabbed Polonius with a sword while Polonius was hiding behind an arras.

Like that cleared up anything.

Second announcement. Hamlet was going to visit England. That made sense. Punishing a prince was impossible, but losing him in that land of eccentrics might be easy, and who knows what could happen there. One noble was, a few years back, caught in a crowd of lower-class English yokels celebrating the victory of a local sports team, and beaten to death because he was wearing the wrong colors that day. Strange things happen in strange places.

I wandered the castle restlessly all day. In the afternoon, which was, for a change, sunny with light winds, I hitched a ride on an ox cart for the short ride to Elsinore town. I walked the main street market for a while, but didn't see anyone I knew or wanted to talk to, and walked back to the castle.

On one of high points, overlooking the harbor, I picked a place in the sun and watched boats. One big cargo boat was being outfitted, and carried the king's colors.

A voice spoke behind me. "That's for my son."

I turned around to see Gertrude behind me. She waved me down when I started to stand. "The North Sea's a nasty crossing," I told her.

"Better in this season than in winter," she said. "We could have sent him to the lowlands, and got a ship from there, but it's better he arrive in one of our best ships, flying the royal flag, if he's to be treated with the respect he's due." She paused. "As a prince of Denmark."

"Is there not a danger of pirates."

"No more on the Danish channels than on the English Channel, and this way we can use a large vessel with royal sailors as guards."

"I was sorry to hear about Polonius," I said.

"I knew Polonius long before you got here, Amundi. He was a gentleman, and, if King Hamlet wanted something done, Polonius made sure it was done." Her eyes filled with tears. "The people knew he always tried to spare them the burdens of taxes and conscription. Denmark became rich on all the wars Polonius talked my husband out of. He failed to stop the Polish Winter War, and never said to his king, 'I told you so, your majesty.'" She looked at her feet and shook her head. "King Hamlet was so embarrassed by that war that he cut back even on necessary expenses, like a strong army and new weapons."

"But Polonius got old," I said.

"A joke, Amundi. God's joke on all of us, to turn mewling babies into strong people then turn them into old fools."

"May all men live long enough to be old fools, My Lady."

"And women, too, Amundi. If the lamb on the way to market knew what was ahead it would leap off the cart and take its chances in the woods with the wolves and the poachers. But all we can see is a few moments ahead of us, and on those few moments we calculate the rest of our lives." She sighed. "Some of us don't even get those few moments."

"I am sorry for your loss, My Lady."

"Of Polonius? No, we miss what he was, Amundi. What he had been. Hamlet stabbed him through the arras, Amundi. God stabbed him through the brain a while back. My loss is my son."

"He'll come back."

"I don't know him, Amundi. He was all but cursing me for marrying Claudius, but what was I to do? The Norwegians were at our door and Hamlet was in Wittenberg studying Greek philosophy and German music. Lord Thord of Faxe even offered one of his sons to be 'protector' of the realm until Prince Hamlet got back. Did you know that? A temporary king." She watched the loading of the ship. "I don't know him, Amundi. My son was yelling at me and talking to a ghost. Polonius thought Hamlet was going to do me harm and called for help."

"Did Hamlet know it was Polonius?" I looked up. "Sorry, My Lady. That question is not mine to ask."

"He knew Polonius, Amundi. Polonius read books to him to teach him to read. He and Hamlet led a hundred huntsmen through the woods and fields to teach Hamlet to lead men and to.... Well, Hamlet knew Polonius for over twenty years, from when Hamlet was too young to lift a sword until he was a grown man sent off to learn what the world was like outside Denmark. Polonius taught him to play cards and find young women in the villages. There are probably more than a few children in Denmark that look like my son." She smiled. "Twenty years, Amundi. I don't think Polonius's voice changed all that much in the last year."

"He must have been devastated to do that to his old mentor."

"That," she said, "is all I would have asked of him. To say it was an accident in the heat of the moment." She waved a hand towards the harbor. "I want him out of here, for his safety and ours. Since there's no war coming, we don't need him at the castle. Maybe he'll find an English lady. I doubt, Amundi, that Ophelia will ever want him back, the way he's rejected her and after he killed her father without even an apology."

I watched her and said nothing.

"No jokes, Amundi? Did you know my son dragged the body away calling Polonius a bag of guts? It took an hour before he told us where he'd left the body. Did you know that?"

"He'll miss the funeral, My Lady."

"Finally a joke." She smiled. "That he will." She walked away, down the steps, stopping to say, "I hate this cold stone prison, Amundi. I'm looking forward to the day we can move back to the estate in Frederickborg and watch the deer and peacocks on the lawns."

The rest of the day went slowly. I paid off the entertainers. Those that hadn't got a chance to perform got less, of course, but all of them got some bakery items that weren't used, and, if they brought flasks, some of the king's wine or ale. I figured the king could cover the cost, what with not having to buy any more expensive artillery items and gunpowder, and not having to pay off Ejulf and his travelling troupe. Those were gone, and nobody was asking where at the moment.

Soldir went back into town, of course, after mid-day meal. I figured he liked to hang around other old soldiers when he could, and there wasn't going to be much call for him as a comedian at the castle for the next while. I told him to say hello to everyone for me, and got into a stash of German wine by calling in a favour or two from the royal supplies guard.

***
Chapter 16: Departures

Due to the quantity of liquids I'd taken in, I was up a couple of times in the night. The second time there was the faintest hint of sunlight in the distance over the castle wall. I got a warm coat from my room, greeted the guards at the gate, who had no problem letting me pass, and walked through the chill air to the docks. It was dark among the harbour buildings until I approached the docks themselves, where quite a few torches were burning. The ship with the royal colors was still at the wharf and there were a couple of dozen people on the landing.

I saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern off to one side, heads bent, talking together quietly. "Amundi!" Rosencrantz said, "You've come to wish us well, I guess."

"Of course," I said, "but I'm concerned about your health."

""A sea voyage will do wonders for us," Guildenstern said. "Put a sparkle in our eyes and a bloom on our cheeks."

"I'm guessing you're expecting the English girls to do that."

Rosencrantz smiled. "We'll be renewing acquaintances with some pretty ones we left behind."

"You're travelling with danger," I said, not wishing to mention Hamlet's name out loud. "I recommend you keep your doors locked at night and watch each other's backs when close to the railing."

"You think he'd do anything to us? We were just trying to help the king and Hamlet both with whatever issue he had."

"And now he knows that, we can work with him to send whatever reports he wants back to the king. We did that with his father for years. Ah, the things we got into that Old King Hamlet never knew about."

I rubbed my throbbing head. "He's not the same person, guys. He killed without a thought, you know."

"An accident," Guildenstern said. "He'll be better when he's away from this damned place."

"And, as a guest of king Henry, he'll be on his best behaviour," Rosencrantz added. "In the evenings we'll have fun."

Guildenstern nodded. "We plan to tell him we're supposed to report to the king, but we can all work on the reports he'd like to actually send."

"Optimists," I said, ruefully.

""Good-time boys," Rosencrantz said. "Eternally young and irresponsible, full of sunshine and love, on the quest for better ale and prettier women."

"Well, I hope you're right. Just remember that a prince can't be punished and a friend told me our boy may kill without regret or apology." I thought of just how hard it is to kill even an old man by accident with one thrust of a sword. Or how few men would stab through an arras without making sure just who's there.

"You worry too much."

"You need more grog," Rosencrantz said. He eyeballed me. "Not at the moment, of course."

I patted them on the back, we gave a group man-hug, and they walked up the boardwalk and into the ship, turning to wave once. I never saw them again.

Backing up, I almost stepped on the toes of queen Gertrude. "Good morning, Amundi," she said.

I bowed. "Good morning, My Lady."

"They're removing the hawsers."

"Ready to set sail, My Lady."

"With my son, Amundi. My only son. My only child."

"Yes, My Lady."

She sighed as the ship moved slowly away from the dock and the first sails were raised. A flash of sunlight touched the top of the castle, but not the tip of the mast. "It had to be done. He has to be sent away for a while. Killing the old man was just too much."

"Of course, My Lady."

"He was talking to the air, Amundi. He said it was a ghost. My son thought he was taking orders from a ghost."

I didn't think it was time to ask about the king's behaviour during the play. "He's been under a lot of stress."

"And didn't he think he was the only one trying to keep sane in a crazy world. He never asked me, Amundi, why I married Claudius. Not once. He never asked where was duty and where was love in all this."

I thought that kings, queens, and princes should know the difference between duty to self and family and duty to country; it comes with the job. But what about duty to God? However, I said nothing. The ship silhouetted against the rising sun and we turned our eyes from the blinding light."

"Shall we go back to the castle, Amundi. I have lost my husband and my son. Have you ever done that?"

"I have, My Lady. My wife and four children."

"Are we fools, Amundi?"

"Yes. Many are aware of it but only a few of us know the depth of our folly. We can see a thousand years behind us, but barely a moment ahead, My Lady. And the path is always turning as if around a corner in dense brush."

"Can we trust in God?" We walked through the gates of Elsinore castle.

"We can trust God to do what God wants, My Lady, but we cannot trust Him to do things we understand. That's the tragedy of being human."

"You may be right, Amundi. You may just be right."

They had a small funeral for Polonius that afternoon. The nobility who had come about a war and stayed to see such entertainment were in their best dress. Ophelia was more or less in controlled hysteria. Hamlet was in a ship tacking back and forth against the prevailing westerlies out in the Oresund channel between Denmark and Sweden.

The bishop was suitably churchy. Horseback riders were already fanning out across the kingdom telling of the "accidental" death of Polonius at the hands of Prince Hamlet, and of Hamlet's trip to England. It started to rain again. It was as good a day as any for a funeral, for an old man about to be the diet of a convocation of worms.

I went for a long walk along the seashore with a couple of townsfolk who were friends of mine, and we talked as much as we could about Polonius and Hamlet and Claudius. We watched the waves and the birds doing what they'd been doing long before the first people got to Denmark. We got silly and laughed at things that were supposed to be serious. I was invited back for a supper in town, and while I longed for one, I declined because I thought I might find Casimir in the lonely castle.

I didn't find the old Pole, so I did go to into the town, but not to the place I'd been invited to. I suspected that the hosts were going to pump me for information about the goings-on at the castle, and I really didn't want to get into that.

Three pubs later, I found Casimir, Ingald, and Soldir at a table in a mostly empty room. When Claudius was preparing for war, a lot of homes had been converted to pubs and alehouses for the soldiers and workmen, and supply of these was greater than demand at the moment. Hekja was there, beside Ingald, dressed in a pink and white gown and looking very pretty.

They waved me down and I asked them how they were doing. The ones now living downtown were doing well, they said, but Casimir had been asked to stay at the castle. "At least," he said, "I keep a room there, but now I spend most of my time here. Claudius doesn't care where I am any more, as long as I'm not hiding behind a curtain in the queen's chamber."

"Ah," I said. "You know about Polonius and Hamlet, I guess."

"There's been a notice posted and a priest read it in the square," Soldir said. "Hamlet killed Polonius, and has been sent to England. This morning, I presume, before they gave Polonius that quicky little funeral."

I nodded. "I watched the ship leave."

"By ship from Elsinore? Good idea. It'll take a bit longer but the longer the better. Did Rosencrantz and Guildenstern go with him?"

I nodded."

"I wish them luck."

'Been friends for years," I said.

"Princes don't have friends," Ingald said.

"Oh?" I said.

Ingald shrugged. "I've been in Italy, you know. You ought to meet the Borgias. Maybe Gioffre, son of Pope Alexander V. Or the great families of Sicily. They smile and kiss a lot, but they don't have friends unless they're useful. Met a guy named Machiavelli – he seems to have it figured out. He says, 'it is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.' I think Claudius will have to figure that out for himself."

"Much the same in the Vatican, I suppose," I said.

Ingald didn't twitch a muscle. "Oh, I suppose that any institution of power has to play by the same rulebook."

"Didn't see you at the funeral today," I said.

"We weren't invited." Soldir said.

"I get invited to events only if I can be useful," Casimir said. "What could I add? That Polonius was wise enough to caution Old King Hamlet against the Polish Winter War? I understand there weren't many people there."

"Not many," I said.

Ingald shook his head. "Another mistake, on the part of our king. Polonius was too important in his time to get such a send-off."

"Personally, I spent yesterday in a bit of a shock," I said. "Just when we thought we'd have peace...." I ordered some warmed bread with butter. "Didn't see any of you around. Wondered if you'd gone south again." I looked at the small cup Casimir had. "What on earth are you drinking?"

"Vodka," Casimir said.

"Pardon?"

"Distilled from ale," Casimir said. He handed his cup over. I took a sip and coughed. "It's like Akvavit, but from Poland. The owner here is Polish."

"Good stuff," I said, still breathing a bit heavily.

"Casimir and I were out riding north with Hamlet yesterday," Soldir said. "I think we were just in the wrong place when Claudius decided a day trip away from Elsinore would be good for the prince while the ship was getting ready. The three of us and a couple of armed soldiers."

"I suppose it was either that or lock him up," I said.

"Guess who we met two hours north of Elsinore?"

I shrugged.

"Tell him," Casimir said to Soldir.

"Another prince," Soldir said. "For a moment I began to think the Danish countryside was littered with the sons-of-bitches." He smiled. "Dear Fortinbras himself, Amundi, our Norwegian friend. And a captain in his army."

I had no words.

"On his way to Poland," Casimir said. "With the permission of Claudius, you know."

"How the hell can that be?" I tried to stare them all down. "Claudius gave his permission only two days ago and it would take a week to get a letter to Norway and a couple of weeks to get an army down this way."

The others just watched me.

"And," I said, "you convinced me that no sane person would take an army overland to Poland. Maybe their ships were just at anchor for provisions."

"Their ships were heading back to Norway," Ingald said. "Probably to bring the next load of soldiers."

"And you don't think they're going to Poland overland?"

Casimir finished his vodka. "Poland's safe."

"But I don't know about Denmark," Soldir said.

"But what can he do?" I was totally thrown astray by this latest revelation. "He can't harm Claudius by agreement." I squinted at Ingald. "This isn't Italy."

Casimir shrugged. "I think either he's going to wait till Claudius dies and he gets to go back on his promise, or he's going to ally with Faxe or Roskilde. Or he's got an army, so he'll just practice in the hope Claudius falls off a cliff or something."

"Do his men think he's invading Poland?"

Soldir nodded. "Hamlet asked the captain. The captain thinks they're off to fight for a few acres of rocky coastline for some matter of Norwegian honor, although he didn't seem to know what that matter of honor involved." He shifted his bad leg. "They'll be delighted whenever Fortinbras tells them they don't have to go further than Denmark."

I didn't get much more sleep that night, even sober. I wished I'd bought a flask of that vodka stuff. At one point I woke up from a restless sleep realizing that Laertes would likely be back from Wittenberg in a week or so, and he wasn't going to be happy about things. Worse yet, the kingdom was full not only of pro-Claudius and anti-Claudius citizens, and pro-Hamlet and anti-Hamlet citizens, but pro-Laertes and anti-Laertes citizens. Interesting times were ahead if any of the factions got the support of a Danish Lord or two. I reminded myself to check my bit of hidden wealth in case fleeing became a necessity.

After breakfast, I tried wandering the castle, hoping to meet Tola. However, she was still ignoring me or hiding from me and I had to seriously consider the possibility that our affair had been an imminent-war thing at best. What it was, at worst, I chose not to think about it.

I made the trek to Elsinore town. In town, the anti-Claudius factions were grumbling, most of them deeply suspicious about the murder of Polonius and of Hamlet's sudden departure for foreign parts. A few had guessed Hamlet had killed the old man, and, if you added up speculation that Claudius had got his throne through murdering Old King Hamlet, Elsinore was starting to sound more like some Italian monarchy than a sedate Danish one. There were even rumors that Claudius had killed Polonius with a poison ring on his finger and that was because Polonius was plotting to put Laertes onto the throne. Some even avowed that they'd heard that Claudius had removed Hamlet from Denmark for his own safety, in case Claudius himself were poisoned. I could have straightened some of these out, but I'd certainly have no more credibility than the rumor-mongers and would probably have been suspected of spreading deliberate disinformation from the castle.

Given that I was seriously considering the possibility that Claudius had, indeed, killed Old King Hamlet for the throne, I wasn't about to go out of my way to save the royal hide. Except, of course, that, were Claudius dead, Fortinbras might have no qualms about invading Denmark. It was enough to drive a fool to drink, even without any other problems.

I went to the same pub as last time, and ordered up a bit of (very expensive) vodka and watched the world tramp by from a bench outside. When Casimir and Soldir sat down beside me, I was glad. I needed a diversion, I told them.

"What do you think?" Casimir said to Soldir. "Maybe he'd like to meet Robert and Kjeld for religion. That would be diverting."

An hour later we three were riding into Hillerod, south of Elsinore. Casimir knocked at the door of a vine-covered cottage and spoke to someone inside. Soon we were sitting on benches down by a small, mosquito-filled creek under the shade of an oak. It was a hot day, and a young woman from the closest dwelling brought us ale and bread, as well as smoked eels. We tried to figure why Noah hadn't just swatted those two mosquitoes on the ark.

Then two men-at-arms rode up. I recognized them as the ones we'd met on the road from Faxe to Elsinore. Not long after Hekja had joined us. Soldir made the introductions. "These are Robert and Kjeld, professional men-at-arms, and veterans of the French wars." The swords and knives they carried seemed a bit surplus to their needs in Hillerod.

I was surprised to see them here, considering how many warriors had left, but I didn't want to get into that; I was promised religion, although I suspected that, with a wounded veteran and a military historian as guides, war would also get in there somewhere. "Do you really need the sword for a lunch by the river?" I asked Robert.

"No, but it's part of the package, ain't it? If there were trouble and I wasn't prepared, who would ever hire me again?" He shifted on the blanket, trying to get comfortable with his sword. I moved the wine out of the way before it got knocked over.

"Got a point, there," Soldir said.

That annoyed me, like everything else was annoying me at the time. Why suck up to a bully and killer? Well, maybe because most of this century and the ones before were a series of suck-up-or-die routines. "Got a point there," I said, poking the sword away from the basket of meats.

The creek sludged itself nonchalantly to the sea, or at least that part of the sea that separated Denmark from Sweden. A troupe of swallows circled the waters, picking off insects. We ate, wondering where the conversation might go next. "You guys are freelancers, routiers?" I asked.

"Technically," said Kjeld. "But we're still hoping to get a job with your king. Make honest men of ourselves for a while."

"And after that?" Soldir asked. "Back to plundering peasants and slaughtering townsfolk?"

"You left out the raping and the feasting," Kjeld noted.

"Aren't you getting a little old for that sort of thing?" They looked worn down, indeed.

"We're still capable soldiers," Robert said "And good advisors."

"Let's get this straight," I said. "The English army lost, and you got left behind in France, plundering and looting on your own for a few years. And that makes you capable soldiers and good advisors?"

"Times are changing." Kjeld shrugged. "All over Europe countries are setting up permanent armies. It's expensive, but when one country has such an army, the others follow suit. They haven't much choice."

"And?"

"And we're looking for a home for our old bones."

I looked at Soldir. "He's right," Soldir said.

"Denmark can't afford it," I said.

"Maybe Denmark can't afford not to afford it," Soldir said. "A professional army, with soldiers trained and paid can defeat an improvised army easily." He turned to look at our expert.

Sir Casimir Jezowski burped, breaking his long silence. "History tends toward that conclusion, with the Roman empire as a prime example, and Genghis Khan's bunch. Over the long run, of course, even professional armies fall."

"Overconfidence?" Robert asked, in French. We continually switched from Danish to bad French, depending on which was more likely to be understood.

Casimir shook his head. "The cost of maintaining a large army – and a navy, of course – impoverishes a country. Weapons and the maintenance of soldiers drain food reserves. Those cannon, for example, will be on Denmark's debt for a generation or two. And then there's the routiers." He nodded at Robert and Kjeld. "Just when the war's over and the king thinks he'll get more money from the farms – as soon as the farmers who survive have got their farms going again, routiers – roving groups of leftover soldiers – take most of it. So he's off to the city to borrow money from the moneylenders again."

"And now he's not going to have to use them," I noted. "The Norwegians are going to Poland instead." Yeah, sure they are."

"Of course," Casimir laughed. "Did you think deception wasn't as important for armies as for jesters?"

In the silence that followed, we ate and watched the wind touch the treetops. A dozen small yellow butterflies settled onto a pile of dog shit. "Before you were send to France, what did you do?" I asked the two routiers.

Kjeld shrugged. "I left the farm to my brothers when a man-at-arms needed a squire. After that, I was always a soldier."

Robert smiled. "I was rector of a small parish east of London, on the banks of the Thames."

"You're a long way from home," Soldir noted.

"In more ways than one. I was impressed into the King's service as a religious man, but found myself fighting one day for survival. I did it well enough that I was given no choice after that." He smiled wryly. "I'm probably bound for a term in purgatory, if the Church is right."

There was a silence. "Why shouldn't the Church be right?" I asked.

Robert looked around, as if the bushes were full of spies. Then he took a bundle of writings from his bag and passed some to me. He shifted nervously and scratched at a flea under an arm.

The top sheet told me all I needed to know. It was a part of the New Testament, but not in Church Latin. It was a translation into contemporary Danish. I pushed it back to him. "No," I said. "No. I did not touch these papers. I do not know you." I stood up. "You are damned to Hell, and as soon as the Church gets its hands on you, that's where you are going." I was shaking. I'd swear the temperature dropped and a cloud came over the sun. I thought I heard Satan laugh underground.

"You are going to turn me in to the Church?" Robert asked, very calmly.

"How could I?" I said, whispering just a bit hoarsely; I was in no position to throw the first stone. "This never happened. I don't know you and I never saw those." I pointed at the papers as Robert stuffed them back into a bag. I turned to look back at Elsinore across the pea fields. The castle blocked most of the view, but I could see the Church tower rising above the town buildings in the background. It seemed closer than before.

"What's the problem?" Soldir asked.

For a moment I thought of telling him about similar papers Tola had once shown me, but that would have acknowledged that I'd seen similar translations. Instead, I waved my arms helplessly, and sat down again, saying nothing. I dipped my mug into the big vat of ale, brushed off various insects from the surface, and drank. The whole mugfull.

"Truth." Robert said, with a small grin. "A dangerous truth. This is a translation of some of the Bible into Danish. It's an early version, but reasonably accurate."

"Lollards," I said.

"What?" Soldir and Casimir obviously hadn't heard the word.

"They are English people who are passing around copies of the Bible, in plain English," I told them. I waved at Robert and Kjeld. "You two have slaughtered babes in their mother's arms and stolen enough to enrich a minor kingdom. Yet the Church of Rome, our Mother Church, would forgive you, should you repent."

"And," Soldir noted, "for a decent indulgence, paid to your local cathedral, you could shorten you time in purgatory significantly. Are you saying," he said to me," the Church is more opposed to words on paper than deeds in blood?"

I nodded vigorously. "That's heresy. Cruelty doesn't spread; heresy does. It's pretty well top of the list of sins." To Robert I said, "Do you know what they'd do to you, a former cleric of the Church, if they caught you with these... papers?"

"I don't know what the rules are in Denmark," Robert smiled, " but in England the Church would torture me, hoping for a confession and a plea for mercy so they could feel better. As well they'd want a list of other Lollards. Then they'd turn me over to the civil authorities. After all, the 'Church does not shed blood', at least not directly."

He paused to eat, then went on, "The English bishops," he said, " work under the rules in an act called _On the Burning of Heretics_. I guess that'll tell you how the trials go. Recanting and penance can get most people off, but that won't work for a cleric. The Church sees reform as a plague, and carriers must be isolated and eliminated."

"And those civil authorities?" Casimir said, reaching for a chicken leg and piece of bread, "What would they do."

"They'd do exactly what the Church told them," Robert said. Burning and beheading, of course." He shook his head. "You have to hope that there's no wind on the day you burn, so the smoke can kill you quick. If the wind blows the smoke away instead, it can take a lot longer to die. They say that one guy took so long that he was able to pull his own cooked left arm off with his right hand. But the Church likes that; the more suffering, the more others are warned. There are 'Lollard prisons' in the palaces of most bishops and 'Lollard pits" – for burning – nearby. Not as much fun for the locals as dog fighting, but much more educational."

"And they'd throw your bones into the river," wouldn't they," I asked, a bit loudly.

"Oh, not right away! No. First they cover my bones with the vestments I used at mass. That way they can take them off, officially unfrocking me. Next they scrape my skull and finger bones; that's to symbolically remove the oils with which I was ordained. _Then_ they break up my bones and burn them into fine ash and dump them into the river. They want nothing my followers could save and revere."

"All for a few pages of translation of the Holy book," Soldir said.

"All for the truth," Robert said. He turned to me. "Are you sure you don't want to read them?"

"No thanks – a Jester is too easily roasted and carved for a king's feast with a cardinal applauding. We frighten them enough already." I crossed myself a few times, and put my hands on my rosary. "I don't want people saying to my lifeless skull, 'Not so funny now, is it, Amundi? So why are you still grinning?' I rather like the look of this head on this body." I told them. "It suits me this way."

"But don't you make fun of the Church sometimes?" Casimir asked.

"No" I said. "I make fun of the _persons_ in the Church, but never the Church. Never the sacraments." My hands were shaking; it took both of them to have more ale. I felt cold, even on this warm day.

"You make fun of Leo X," Soldir said. "I've been told that in Italy everyone, even in the Papal States, makes jokes about the Pope."

"Leo is just a person. He shits with his pants down just like me. Besides, there are jokes and jests," I said, "that a fool can say to his lord, in private."

"Even to the king?" Soldir raised his eyebrows in doubt,

"Especially to the king. But he cannot repeat them, nor the king's reaction to them. Ever. It must be the same for the Papacy. You can't make jokes." I tried not to think of my previous drunken episode. Nobody mentioned the jokes Ingald had made in the Monastery, although those were not as obviously about Leo.

"So tell me one of these jokes you make to the king," Casimir smiled.

"Screw you," I said, hoping someone would change the subject. I wanted to tell them to run for their lives.

"But the Pope," Soldir said. "It's so _easy_ to make fun of Leo. What can we say about religion, while we're at it?"

I dredged up an old one. "Philosophy is questions that may never be answered. Religion is answers that may never be questioned." I saw him smile as he worked on that one.

"I should think the first rebellions against the Church would start in the universities, where young men are meant to learn the universe," Casimir said. "Does the Church keep spies in Oxford?"

"Doesn't need to," Robert said. "The place is a bastion of conformity. It's forbidden to speak anything but Latin inside the university walls. And the students spend their time examining the Bible to learn about the wisdom of the Church and God. Probably in that order. There is no debate there."

"You were there?" Soldir asked.

"I was. It was a place to learn how not to learn. Or think."

"But..." Soldir said, "

"Call me prisoner of this war; a prisoner of the March of Truth." He sounded noble. Almost. I tried to remember who and what these guys had really been.

"You said you yourselves bought indulgences," I said. "But even if they get you a reduced time in purgatory, didn't you buy them with money you stole?"

Kjeld shrugged. "One uses the currency one has. The Church asks no questions, so why should God?"

"Besides," Robert said, "we offered protection from far more ruthless routiers. It's a protection racket, same as the king offers when he takes taxes."

"Or the Church offers, to lead us from evil. Or so some say," Kjeld qualified."

"But what is so dangerous about these writings," Soldir asked the group. "The Bible is God's word, so why shouldn't the Church support it? And go with it?"

There was a long silence. Then Robert spoke. "The Church uses a Latin Bible that was translated from the Greek long ago, and that Greek from either ancient Hebrew or from the original Aramaic that Jesus spoke. And in every translation, there are calls to be made, as to the best way to translate a concept."

We waited for clarification.

Robert went on. "The Lollards, and the Germans and Czechs who are translating the bible into modern languages tend to agree on two points of that translation. The first is that Christ and his followers didn't really tell anybody to follow _priests_. They say a better translation is ' _elders'_. The Church begs to disagree. In England, Sir Thomas More and Cardinal Wolsey disagree. Sir Thomas even has some stocks and whipping posts on his personal estate for preliminary interrogations of heretics."

"Elders?" Casimir asked.

"It means," I said, "that the priests who run our lives should have been just older, wiser, men in the community. No robes, no estates, no celibacy...."

"Ah," Soldir said. "I understand that part. And the other part?"

"Well, there's the matter of Christ saying to Peter, 'you're Peter, and on this rock I'll build my Church,' or words to that effect."

"Another bad translation?" Casimir asked.

"All good, except that the word, 'church.'"

"Not a good translation?"

"A better one is, 'congregation.'"

"No Church," Casimir said, "and no priests. Just elders and a community of believers. Why would the Church would object to that?" He laughed.

"It gets worse," Robert said, getting even more serious. "It appears the Bible does not mention bishops, or hierarchies, nor celibacy, saints, relics, infant baptism, nor pardoning of sins. Not even purgatory. It forbids the making of images and statues for religious purposes. And the Church uses 'do penance' for what the reformers say should be translated as 'repent'. And we all know how much doing penance can benefit the Church in terms of currency."

"It would put a lot of Church officials out of business, or at least out of the business of enjoying themselves," Kjeld observed in his thick Swedish accent.

"England's Henry the Seventh, when he got old, paid for ten thousand masses his soul. At twice the going rate," Robert said.

"So, if there's no purgatory, it would all be a waste of money," Casimir said.

We contemplated that. I was almost too scared to think.

"And maybe Thomas More and Cardinal Wolsey are just supporting the Church economy?" Soldir teased.

"No." Robert shook his head. "Sir Thomas at least is deadly serious about protecting the Church. He believes that, as much as it's full of humans, with all their villainy and foolishness, the Church is the institution of God and he will guard it with every ounce of his ability. He thinks that God guides us, using the Church, on an ongoing basis, and to go against that is to give aid to Satan."

"And does God shout to Pope Leo in a deep, booming voice?" Soldir seemed to be smirking a bit. There were obviously things I didn't know about the old soldier.

Robert rolled his eyes. "I believe they believe He whispers to the good men and women in the Church. Mostly to the men, I guess, since who listens to the women?"

"If it were a congregation instead of a Church, the women would have more of a voice," Casimir noted.

Robert looked surprised. "You agree with our movement to bring the contemporary language to the common people? To get the truth out?"

"Actually," Sir Casimir Jezowski said," I'm with Thomas and Thomas. Sir Thomas More and Cardinal Thomas Wolsey," he said, "I'd have you removed. I suspect that jail wouldn't be sufficient, so, much as I love and admire you, I'd have you executed in the most public and painful way possible. _Pour encourager les autres,_ as the French say." He smiled. "Nothing personal, you understand."

There was a moment's silence. Then Casimir added, "Don't worry; I'm not going to turn you in. I lack both the will and the means to challenge your movement. But, for the good of humankind, I'd prefer you fail." He sighed. "But, of course, history says you'll likely succeed, regrettable as that be."

"The truth won't set us free?"

"I'm a historian, you know. A military historian." Casimir held out his mug for more ale. The last cask was getting low, I noticed. "And," Casimir went on, "military history includes material on the causes and results of war. Not only changes of government, but the deaths of soldiers and civilians, too."

We all nodded, although I can't say I grasped where it was going. Maybe it was the ale.

"A war of conquest, which includes most European wars since history started, normally includes the deaths of lots of soldiers." He waved a hand dismissively. "That's taken for granted. And civilians are seldom counted. We know that cities that resist an army are often given the choice of surrendering and so being at the mercy of brutish soldiers and callous leaders. Or of fighting. Of course, if they choose to fight and subsequently lose, well...?" He pointed at Kjeld.

Kjeld shrugged. "Many times the orders are to kill everyone. Except for a few women and except for a few survivors sent ahead to the next city to explain matters."

"Of course," Casimir said. "But an army on the move can carry at most three days food, so it pillages the farms, takes the cattle and horses for food, often burns the farm buildings for no particular reason, and kills any farmer unlucky enough to be found. It's a depressing study, because starvation normally follows until the new owners, if the invasion is successful, get things moving again. Three or four years is average. And that's a war of conquest.

"Civil wars," he went on, "are a bit different. The people you're fighting speak your language, although maybe with slightly different accents. And nobody can leave the war, because, well, that's where they live. Civilians cannot help but become involved, and die in large numbers if the war drags on. You burn your neighbour's field because next week it could become useful to those of your former countrymen who might need it."

"I see where you're going," Soldir said.

"Good. A religious war would be almost unimaginably worse than even a civil war. Your enemy is anybody who thinks the way you think they shouldn't think. Your version of God is happy that you're killing those people. Everyone who's in the opposing religion threatens your view of salvation. Not just enemy soldiers, but even enemy civilians, even if they live on your street or the next farm." He got a fierce look. "And it never ends, because _you never know when you've won_. Nations will group themselves into like-minded religious confederations, vastly enlarging the scale of the fighting. And they have far less doubt about the justice of their cause. The English fought the French for over a hundred years, and everybody knew what they wanted was French wealth to be shipped back to England. In a religious war, that's not enough."

I got the idea, too. "You'd support the Catholic Church, not because it's right, but because it provides stability."

"Not that Europe's seen much stability," Soldir noted.

"That's the way Europe is," Casimir said. "But compared to the conquests of Genghis Khan and Alexander, we're engaged in little wars. Most of the boundaries change only a little, and as often as not, change back a while later. Maybe it's because we've got a Church telling each king that genocide isn't an option. That 'We're all one in Christ,' as the Bible says."

"And Europeans have always known when a war is over," I said. "Because all they wanted was land and loot. In religious war people will convince themselves they're fighting Satan himself."

"You've got it," Casimir said. "The Church is the core of our stability, the fountainhead of our laws and authority. You'd shatter the continuity of fifteen centuries. Anyone could proclaim himself a leader of a reformed Christian and gather converts. First these would challenge all authority because of their own interpretation, and if they win, the reformers would take on each other. Satan himself could walk the earth preaching lies and get an armed following. You think a few errors in the Catholic Church could match that? You're looking at bloodshed, to use a joke, of Biblical proportions." He glared at us.

"What about the Pope?" Soldir asked in the silence that followed Casimir's speech. To our questioning looks, he added. "Well, a lot of rebels seems to think the Church itself has become positively satanic, and Leo's behavior isn't helping much."

Kjeld nodded. "He seems to believe that the Church should be a show, an entertainment. Maybe he thinks that's what his flock needs."

"He's a de' Medici," I said, thinking that should tell people all they needed to know.

"He goes through the street riding a fine Persian horse, with a panther and two leopards beside him," Kjeld said.

"He has a cardinal hold up his robe so the people can see his fine red shoes," Soldir said, "or so they say." He seemed to know a lot about the pope, I thought. Maybe he and Ingald had long conversations.

"An elephant. He's got an elephant to follow him in his parades through the streets."

"That would be the first elephant in Rome in what, 1800 years?" Casimir said. "Or so I was told.

"He's reconquering Italy one city at a time. The people have to love that."

"With ten thousand Swiss mercenaries. That can't be cheap. There are forests outside Rome where only the Pope and his cardinals can hunt. I was told that. Trespassers have their hands and feet cut off. Then they burn the trespasser's home and sell his children as slaves."

We contemplated that for a minute. "Monetarily, he's in hock up to his holy nuts," Soldir said. "Every bit of revenue goes into paying the bankers. That's why he's gathering land together; for tax money. And more from the papal lands in Italy, France and Sicily. Thirty thousand ducats will make you a cardinal. A lot of money for a red hat."

"And it's never enough," Kjeld said. "He feeds his friends on parrot tongues and monkey brains. Some things come in from far India just for his banquets."

"He makes enemies. Did you hear what the Pope did when Petrucci tried to kill him?"

"Not the details," Kjeld said.

"Leo had a surgeon to operate on his papal hemorrhoids. They paid the guy to shove poison up the pope's ass. Didn't work, though."

"And the pope forgave him, of course," Kjeld said with a laugh.

"The pope is a de' Medici. You don't fool with the de' Medicis. Justice was certain, but not quick."

"The pope is not the Church," I said. "There were popes before him and there will be popes after him."

"You're right," Soldir admitted. "But even among the most faithful, there are those who think it's lost its way and needs to be changed."

"The most evil Pope still heads an organization that set the laws of all Europe," Casimir said. "The people that overthrow religious authority will eventually challenge all secular authority, too. There is no end to it, just no end. We learn from the Church that our social order is set by God. But you overthrown the power of the Catholic Church and next thing, the locals decide that a king is just a thing men have made for their own sakes. For peace. And then.....The Black Death, at least, lasted only a few years."

"Is there no way out?" I asked Casimir.

"Possibly within a single kingdom, if the king himself can enforce change and kill enough of his own citizens. But you'll still have Catholic kingdoms marching on any kingdom that challenges the Church of Rome." Casimir raised his hands in doubt. "History goes blank there."

"Is there anybody in Denmark out to challenge the Church?" I asked.

"Not that I've seen," Casimir said. "But there's a growing movement in Wittenberg, at the university, and both Hamlet and Laertes would have known about it."

"Ah," Soldir said. "I heard rumors about a young professor, Hans Luder, at Wittenberg. He's head of the troubles there."

"I see why he changed it to 'Luther'. 'Luder' means 'bitch'. He's changed his name but the Church will still hunt him down," Casimir said. "I hope so, anyway. For the safety of all Europe, I hope so."

"I've got a question," I said. "Just curious."

"Go ahead," Casimir said.

"This is a religious question," I said, "I'm not sure anyone here's qualified to answer it." There was silence, so I went on. "Claudius married his sister-in-law, and everybody thinks that's okay. But over in England Henry married his sister-in-law and he had to get a papal dispensation to do such an evil thing." I looked around. "Am I missing something?"

It was Soldir who spoke up. "You really need a priest and a Bible – a Latin one of course – but I _think_ it goes this way. According to Leviticus, Henry has 'uncovered his brother's secrets and shall die childless.' Or something like that. Anyway, it's a curse on marrying your brother's wife. He'll die childless."

"I doubt that Gertrude is about to provide Claudius with any kids anyway," Casimir noted. "Not at her age, and after she provided King Hamlet with only one."

Soldir waited until the laughter died down, then went on. "Deuteronomy has a different take on the procedure. It says – assuming I was correctly informed – that if brothers live together and one of them dies in battle without children, the other brother is actually _obligated_ to marry his dead brother's wife."

"Ah," I said, contemplating the mysteries of the Bible.

Casimir spoke up. "It's possible that in a society of small tribes, such as the Israelites or the Vikings, it was more important to support a widow than in a larger society."

"But they're both in the Bible?" I asked. Soldir hadn't struck me as someone who knew the Bible that well.

"When Robert here gets me a translated Bible, I can give you a better answer," Soldir laughed. "All I can tell you is what I heard from a fellow from Spain. And you know Spaniards." As if we knew anything about Spaniards other than their ferocity.

The lunch conversation changed to the weather, and women. Robert put his notes away, and neither he nor his bag burst into flame.

Soldir spoke up.

It's proud pope Leo I am

For poverty I don't give a damn

As for holiness, you'll find

I've made the lame blind

And in my youth I once cured a ham!

There was nothing more to say. We paid the peasant for the food and ale, and Casimir, Soldir, and I headed back to Elsinore. After a while, Casimir asked me, "Well, what did you think of all that."

"What's all this to you?" I asked.

"Religion generates history and history generates battles and I am a scholar of battles."

"You seemed more involved than that."

"I'm Polish," Casimir said. "We get worked up easily. And we take our religion seriously."

"You both seem more knowledgeable about the Church and the bible than I'd have guessed." I tilted my head and looked at them.

"Are you implying we're spies for the Vatican?" Soldir asked.

"Until Columbus's new world gets settled, the Danes are among the farthest from the Holy See and the last converted. Perhaps the Church should keep an eye on the Viking kingdoms," Casimir said.

"You didn't answer my question," I noted.

"I'm not spying for the Vatican, or for the Church," Casimir said, making a differentiation I didn't quite get.

"Me, neither. I spent a while after getting out of the army," Soldir said, fighting as usual to find a dry place to step when men on horses took the road, "in the study of God. Even thought I might sign into Monastery or something. Then I discovered what life in one of those places was like, and I didn't think I could spend my restless nights being thankful for the pain in my leg that ruins my sleep. But I started asking questions and haven't stopped."

"On the other hand," Casimir said, "you might want to keep an eye on that little brown bastard from the sunny south."

"Ingald?" I asked.

"I agree," Soldir said. "There's something about him I just don't trust."

"He makes a lot of jokes about the Church," I said, "including things we wouldn't say."

"But still," Casimir said, "he comes from the great holy southland and keeps his eyes open."

"Do you really think," I asked, "that nations would fight nations over religion?"

He started to say something, but I interrupted. "I don't mean like the Crusades. That was against Islam and for the protection of the Holy Land. And for the protection of Christianity itself. That's different."

"He's got a point, you know," Soldir said. "When the eastern Church broke from the Holy Catholic Church, there wasn't much fighting, was there?"

"Actually, no," the Pole said. "One group of western knights sacked Constantinople once, but after that, they generally ignored each other. Constantinople had actually started to rejoin the Roman Church but the Muslims put an end to that."

"Exactly," I said. "The Church persecutes apostates and heretics within its own jurisdictions, but if a whole country were to declare itself a separate branch of Christianity, I imagine the Church would have to accept that."

"The Church had no choice in those days," Casimir said. "It had few powerful nations committed to its support. An attack would have been just too expensive. The siege of a castle can take years." He paused. " _Could_ take years, in those days."

"BC," Soldir said. "Before Cannon." He thought a bit. "Maybe cannons are so terrible they will ensure that wars won't be fought any more. Peace."

Casimir said, "That's not the lesson of history. Rather, every weapon learns to hunger for blood."

We crossed a small creek, the horses kicking up mud. Casimir said, "The cannons of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain levelled the Muslim strongholds to get Spain back to Christianity. And, of course, the cannons of Muslims took little time to blow holes in those centuries-old walls of Byzantium. They renamed the town Istanbul, the City of Islam, but they could have named it city of gunpowder, since the cannon did what years of praying to Allah couldn't."

"But still," I argued, "The king of each country would turn the army on any group that turned away from the Church."

"Well, there was Jan Hus in Bavaria almost a century ago. The Hussites were declared heretics and defeated the Church and state five times."

"Then what happened?" Soldir asked.

"Then," Casimir said, "they made a deal with the Rome and became an odd little branch of Mother Church."

"My point exactly," I said. "There were no other countries that came at the Church's bidding to defend her honor. No matter what happens up here, we shouldn't expect nation to go against nation over matters of theology."

"We wouldn't want to," Casimir said. "The hundred years war between England and France should have taught us that it's just too expensive to conquer a country nowadays."

We fell in line behind a wagon carrying fruit and grain to the castle. "Kings have always enforced Church law, more or less," Casimir agreed, "but the nations are getting stronger all the time, mostly because they spend so much time looting each other or revenging something. Some day some king is going to realize that the tax money that's supporting the Churches in his country and the tax money that's going to rebuild Rome and buy Leo his elephants could be paying for his own armies. Then he could just decide that his local new Christianity is the real one."

"His own citizens would rebel," said.

"His own citizens are poorly armed," Casimir said, "and the king's likely been keeping them that way for centuries. He'll have had lots of practice. And a field full of knights sworn to him. A peasant attacking a knight has a very short life expectancy. On the other hand, if more than one kingdom rebelled against Rome, we might be looking at a whole new scenario."

"What if the king didn't fight for the Church? Soldir had a tendency to wince whenever he stepped over an obstacle, but he was watching this conversation carefully.

"The king would always fight for the Church," Casimir said. "The Church assures the country that the king is divinely appointed. Without the support of the Church the king has insufficient protection from the nobles."

"Yet the lineages and family alliances of the royal family change a lot."

"He's got another good point there," Soldir said. "The king gets precious little help from the Church in a civil war."

"He'd get less help in a religious civil war," I said. "People who think they're serving the Lord God are not inclined to surrender. In religious wars, which _are_ culture wars, peasants, not just soldiers, kill peasants. Brother kills brother. More than language separates people."

"You're with Casimir," Soldir said.

"Casimir is with history. I'm with my Church, the only link to the place I hope to spend eternity," I said, wondering how much purgatory time I'd accumulated. I turned to Soldir. "You must be with the Church; I've heard that soldiers need God."

"A legend of the people," Soldir said. "A soldier first doubts that God would allow such awful things as he sees in war, then doubts God. He sees that his fellow soldiers live and die by chance, brave men going down by a deflected arrow and brutish and cowardly men surviving because at the last moment one of his fellows moves just enough to take an arrow instead of him." He stopped again to rest his leg. "God may be somewhere, but He isn't in a war that he didn't personally order."

The guards nodded at us, or at least at Soldir, as we crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle.

Two weeks went by, and there was no sign of Laertes. Two weeks were about the minimum time it could have taken Polonius's son to get back, unless he were in a heck of a hurry; one week for the news of his father's death to get to him, and another for him to get back to Elsinore.

Tola continued to avoid me, and I didn't have much to say to Ingald, especially given that he was both a Vatican spy and a close associate of Helga, who had, eleven days after leaving Elsinore, switched back permanently into being a woman in woman's clothing, probably much to the surprise of the friends of Ingald. One rumor, which I heard only once, was that Helga was still a man, just dressing as a woman. Given her strong features and midrange voice, that wasn't all that much of a stretch, I guess. In any case, they kept close together, and she took to wearing better clothes than she could have afforded on the salary I paid them for Ingald's Sunday performances. Hekja didn't come to the castle any more, perhaps for fear of the Mother Abbess showing up again. Perhaps for some other reason.

***

Chapter 17: A Visit to the Norwegians

Twelve days after the departure of Hamlet, Casimir approached me to ask if I'd like to join himself and Soldir in a secret ride into the countryside. "Sure," I said, my mind more on women than on consequences. It had been a time of feigned happiness at the castle. The Fortinbras crisis, then the Hamlet problem, more or less solved, at least till Hamlet returned. I arranged the nightly singing and the Sunday entertainment, but nobody's heart seemed to be in it. Claudius stopped talking to me more than was necessary. Everybody was watching the road from the south, waiting to see Laertes coming back.

So, having arranged a young guy who had a lute (but couldn't sing very well) for the royal supper, I met Casimir and Soldir before dawn the next morning, my horse carrying food and ale and a couple of blankets. We met outside the gate, rode through the town, then, as soon as we were out of sight of both of those places, we turned north, through the dew-covered fields and out towards the coast. Finally we slowed down enough to talk. "And where are you taking me?" I asked.

"You'll see," was all the answer I could get.

I changed the subject. "Do you think Laertes is going to be a problem for the king?" I asked

"How well do you know him?" Casimir asked. Soldir obviously didn't know any more than I did, but Casimir had been at the castle for a couple of years before I got there.

"Only a little," I said. "We didn't interact much. He seemed to regard a peon-jester as more peon than jester, which is, to be honest, only fair. But it doesn't make for jolly companionship."

"Did you want him to like you?"

I thought about it. "Yes, I did, and I don't know why."

Casimir nodded. "He has charisma. People just seem to want to follow him." He turned to Soldir. "You've seen that in the army."

Soldir nodded. "There are some men people will look to for leadership. Must be a smell they have; I've run across it a hundred times, and can't relate it to ability or intelligence. Shows up in military history, I bet."

"It dominates history," the Pole acknowledged. "Leaders attract otherwise intelligent people and the next thing you know, there's a war starting. Half the time it's the road to disaster."

Soldir shifted on his horse. He was always doing that, because of his leg. "I learned to find those types and avoid them; they'd spend far too much of a battle wasting lives. I liked the grouchy guys who stayed back until there was a real chance to win a fight."

"Well," Casimir said, "Laertes is one of those leaders. Always had a small following around the castle."

"Is he any good?" I asked.

"Stupid as a bucket of last week's sardines," Casimir said. "Acts before thinking, then regrets it afterward. He's the opposite of Hamlet in many ways. Hamlet will overthink things and put them off. Laertes just attacks what appears to be the best target at the moment. Then he's full of regrets at what he's done. Hamlet is a loner who trusts very few. Laertes trusts everybody, then nobody, then everybody again."

"Why do you think he's not at Elsinore yet?" I asked. Casimir let Soldir answer.

"He's probably worked himself up," the soldier said. "Listened to someone else, either a friend or a natural troublemaker, and is discovering that he can get a bunch of people to follow him. Probably enjoys the power. He'll be here when he's ready."

"With a following, of course," Soldir noted. Then he pointed. We were getting near the coast, and on top of a high, grass-covered dune, was a tent with a few soldiers around it. There was a stiff Danish wind, of course.

"And what's the danger level? I asked. "From Laertes?"

"Take a look at just who's following him," Casimir said. "If it's just young hotheads, then it should be alright. But if there are soldiers from one or more of the Danish Lords, someone's backing him for a rebellion. Then we might be talking civil war. Otherwise, just a few stabbings and a lot of shouting at the castle gates."

"Unless Claudius is killed," I noted.

"That's right," Soldir said. "We talked about that letter from the King of Norway. If Claudius dies, then Fortinbras might be free to invade Denmark."

"Fun, isn't it," Casimir said. "Let's go talk to those guys on the hill."

We rode until it got too steep, then left our horses and scrambled up the dune, using weeds and grass as handholds. At the top, we were accosted by four Danish soldiers, swords in hand, long blond hair blowing in the wind.

Soldir stopped panting long enough to wave at one of the soldiers. "Harald," he said. "How are you today?"

The man sheathed his sword and came forward, helping Soldir up the last bit, then giving him a hug. "Solvi! Good to see you. Or are you still calling yourself 'Soldir?'"

"That's just my stage name. Here, you'll recognize Amundi the jester, and this is Claudius' military advisor, the guy from Poland, Casimir." We all shook hands. Then we shook hands with the other men, all of whom were as old as Soldir.

"How's it going," Soldir asked.

"They haven't moved much in the last week," Harald said, waving an arm. We followed his eyes. Beyond the dune was a shoreline of sand and rock. Sweden was a distant line across the water. Twenty or more longboats had were pulled up onto the sand and one was being unloaded. At least a hundred tents had been set up above the high tide level, with men moving around between them and small fires among them. The sea wind blew the smoke from the fires horizontally and shook the tents. Everywhere were stacks of wood and collections of barrels.

"Ah," said Soldir. "it looks like the Norwegians are making themselves at home."

The guard nodded. "The big tent with the flag belongs to Fortinbras."

"They been here long?"

"A couple of weeks. They started with a couple of boats and bring in a bit more every day or two. Preparing to invade Poland, they say." The guard laughed. "They're certainly taking their time about it." He pointed. "They've only got a dozen carts and they'll need a lot more for an overland trek."

"And few horses," Casimir said. There were only a dozen horses and a couple of oxen visible. "Have any left to go inland?"

"Nope. What you see is all there is, as far as I know. We've gone up the coast, but there are no more encampments." He shook his head. "We watch and report to Claudius every few days."

"Can we go down and talk to them?" Soldir asked. Casimir seemed as surprised as I was; he hadn't considered that either, obviously.

The Danish guards conferred briefly. "Sure," Harald said. "But if they get rough, you're on your own."

Casimir and I followed Soldir back to our horses, then to the Norwegians' camp. They didn't seem to have any guards. Soldir stopped at the first campfire and asked, is Kolbjorn, from Fyn here by any chance?" An old soldier stood up and pointed. "That way," he said, in heavily accented Danish.

Across the camp, in the meagre shelter of a dune, we found a man who stood up. Soldir got carefully off his horse, and the two men embraced. Soldi turned to us. "My old friend, Kolbjorn. We fought together with Old King Hamlet in the Polish Winter War. Married a Norwegian girl and now hangs around the Norwegian army."

Casimir and I dismounted and embraced the Norwegian soldier. "A friend of Soldir's is a friend of ours," I said.

"A friend of Soldir's is a friend of mine," the soldier said, even if that man wasn't in the Polish Winter War with us."

"I was in that war," Casimir said. "Not on your side, though."

The soldier laughed. "Then we are both veterans of the same war and strangers in this damned Danish countryside, where the wind never stops." He raised a finger. "But if you plan to warn the other Poles about us, you're too late."

"Poland knows you're coming?" I asked.

Kolbjorn laughed. "Follow me." We walked with him down to the shore where he pointed to a small sign stuck in the sand. We walked around to look at the face of it. "Poland," the sign said.

Kolbjorn said "It was a far shorter march than we'd figured. Fortinbras seems to be a genius at finding the right roads." He pointed at Casimir. "And of course, we've now found a Pole, so we're sure we won't have to walk any further!" He laughed again, till he coughed. "Come back to my fire; I have lamb stew and ale for you."

I caught up with Kolbjorn. 'So, officially this is Poland?

He laughed. "Officially? Of course not. That sign will be carried with us and stuck into the ground when we cross the real Polish border. But, unofficially, well, it's been there for a couple of weeks now."

"And you're glad to be here instead of in Poland?"

He waved an arm around. "This is a little patch of ground not worth farming, or even keeping. It's no more nor less than we were promised to fight for against the Poles. But it's a hell of a lot closer to home and we get well fed."

"And nobody's shooting arrows at you," Soldir noted.

Kolbjorn laughed again. He was obviously in a good mood. "Not yet. Rumor is that we'll march for Poland 'when the time's right.'" He shook his long blond hair. "And that's when Fortinbras decides that it's right."

"Seems to me," Casimir said, "that this gives the Poles time to prepare."

"I think they've had that," Kolbjorn said. "And time to bring in mercenaries and allies. Maybe Fortinbras wants them to go broke before we get there, feeding all those Russian and Czech troops."

"You don't look prepared for a thousand mile trek across a dozen states to get there," Casimir said.

Kolbjorn stopped to look back at him. "Hey, I don't make the decisions. They say there are a thousand more soldiers coming, but I haven't seen them, and I haven't seen any preparations for them. I just do as I'm told." He pointed at a tent. "Welcome to my home. Wish you'd brought a few dancing girls." Three old soldiers were sitting on a log watching a fire and drinking ale in front of the tent. Kolbjorn introduced us to them. "These are from Elsinore. Soldir here is an old friend. I shot him in the chest, and he's come to show me how my arrowhead's doing."

Soldir sat on the log and pulled up his tunic. He pointed at a scar. "It's still in there. Lets me know when the weather's going to change." He turned to me. "Kolbjorn and I first met in a little skirmish a few years back, when we were young. Something over a fishing pier on an island somewhere."

"Who won?" I asked.

Soldir and Kolbjorn looked at each other and shrugged. "If I ever get out that way again," Kolbjorn said, "I'll stop and ask who they belong to. Would you like ale and mutton stew?"

"Anything but that rotten fish you Norwegians like to eat," Soldir said.

We sat, ate, drank, and talked about our lives and such. The Norwegians complained about the wind and the price the Danish people charged for mutton and the we Danes complained about the loss of Vest Agder.

At some point, all four Norwegian soldiers set down their drinks and stood up. "Fortinbras," someone whispered."

I looked around, and a man with an air of command was approaching. I recognized him I bowed. He'd been on a mule, pretending to be a squire to a man-at-arms, when we met him on the road from Faxe back to Elsinore. I'd accused him of being a spy for Norway. Jokingly, I'd told him I was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. I could see he remembered me. "We meet again," I said." You seem to have improved your position from the servant of a Swiss prince a few months ago. All the way to Norwegian prince, I think."

Prince Fortinbras smiled. "And you, 'Prince Hamlet', seem not only to have come down in station but to be simultaneously here and on a ship bound for England."

"Deceptions," I said, "are for fools, jesters, and jolly people with a good sense of humor."

"Well, welcome to our encampment. Are you here from Claudius?"

"Not unless he finds out," I said. "We are here from curiosity, and I'm not sure how well he would take that."

"He'll be glad," the Norwegian prince assured me. "He's got more spies here than I have in Elsinore right now, but he can always use more information on former enemies. Do you think he minds if we tarry a while until we're ready to march on Poland?"

"Better here than trying to bridge the moat," I said.

He laughed. "May that never be necessary. Even Laertes may not have to. Can we bring you something back from Poland?"

"Maybe a small flask of vodka for my Polish friend," I said, indicating Casimir. "Sir Casimir Jezowski, captured in his homeland during our Polish Winter War."

"I seem to recall that Old King Hamlet brought back little more than that at the end of the war,"

"Ah, but he left a good collection of battlefield bones to be ground up into fertilizer," Casimir said, "and perhaps a few slaves with Danish accents."

"We'll try to do better," Fortinbras said. "When we go," he added, just before walking away.

We parted on good terms with Kolbjorn and his two skeptical-looking friends. "Fortinbras seems like a nice person," I said, "trying to sound sincere. "Not one that would harm us poor Danish types."

"Well," Kolbjorn said, "the one who killed his father is dead already, and aside from the locals who charge us exorbitant prices for food, he's only got one Dane on his hit list."

"And who is that." I was puzzled.

"There's a campaign in your country to make us Norwegians look like fools and rubes. Songs, jokes, you wouldn't believe. If he ever caught the guy behind that, well...."

On the way back, I asked Soldir how he got to know Kolbjorn so well. "We were stranded on that damned island for most of a month," he said, "before we were taken by a fishing boat to Sweden. Kolbjorn pulled his arrow out of my chest on the second day, but the arrowhead didn't come out." He thought a bit. "Maybe Sweden owns the island now."

"What's is called?" Casimir asked.

Soldir shrugged. "Never did know that, or I've forgotten it. I don't think they told Kolbjorn either."

"Are we going to tell Claudius about this?" Soldir asked.

"Have to," I said. "He'll find out anyhow. Shall we draw straws?"

The difficulty in drawing straws on horseback in a sea wind wasn't put to the test. "It'll be your job, Amundi. Right now you're the only one he has use for," Soldir said. He was right, but not by much.

But Claudius didn't care. I had barely got into the fact that I'd ridden north with friends when he waved a hand dismissively from his place in a lean-back chair. "Sure," he said. "And what did you think of, ah, Fortinbras and his boys? They're still preparing for their invasion of Poland, I'm told." He closed his eyes and put a damp cloth over them.

"Mostly older men in that camp," I said. "Soldiers experienced enough to know when they've got a good thing going."

"It's good for the local economy, I suppose; for the merchants and farmers and the women." He looked sad and distant, as if his mind were on other things. "As long as they don't create an excuse by roughing up our people for insults or for complaining about the Danes overcharging for turnips."

"Except for me."

He moved the cloth a bit and looked at me with one eye. "You?"

I nodded. "I guess my campaign to demonize the Norwegians was quite effective, in their eyes and they'd like to find the source."

"Maybe they admire you and want to, ah, recruit you." He replaced the eye cover and tried to get more comfortable on the thin cushion on the hard wooden chair. "Anyway, nobody gets to mess with the king's jester. Except the king, of course. Be careful, Amundi or I'll turn you in to the Norwegians."

"I can rub your head," I suggested, "and your shoulders, if you want."

"I'd like that since Gamli's off to town to, ah, get supplies. If you're going to kill me with a razor, can you do it quickly?"

"Killing you would be very much contrary to my inclination and my interests," I told him.

"Fine, then."

I can't say I'm the best head rubber, but I'm adequate. He let me know when it helped and when it didn't. "You're not a Faxe spy, are you?" he asked at one point.

"No, your majesty. The strength of Faxe is a good thing for Denmark. But a king probably has to fear such strength at such proximity."

"I do, Amundi, but so far it seems to have been in, ah,Lord Thord's interest to support me. I don't think he'll live much longer. His sons are a bit of an enigma; I don't know which one will take over. You've been to Roskilde, too, if I remember correctly."

"I have, my lord."

"They're saying they'll support me, too, but they're also checking out the other Danish Lords to make sure they're on the winning side in any case. Don't trust them for a minute. First army that bursts through the castle doors will have a bunch of Roskilde soldiers behind it, waving their new flags."

That wasn't my impression, but it wasn't my place to say anything unless asked. I continued rubbing, until Claudius finally said, "That's enough." I returned to my chair. He didn't look a lot more relaxed.

"And then there's Laertes," he said.

"I thought he'd be here by this time," I said.

A sigh. "The boy's been rousing the rabble, my fool, rousing the rabble. There are enough people in this kingdom who think I'm in the process of wiping out the previous administration, and Polonius was just another in the line of killings. They think the prince is next, I hear."

I knew that the truth, that Hamlet killed the old man, explained why he'd left country in such a hurry, but conspiracy plots grow like wildflowers, in good soil and bullshit. I knew Hamlet had killed Polonius, but I was pretty certain Old King Hamlet had died because and when Claudius wanted him to die. "A rebellion, sire?"

"I guess not, Amundi. Laertes has got a bunch or young hotheads to go with him, but there's no sign yet that any of the Danish Lords are going along with it."

"Shouldn't Fortinbras have a few young men with him, Sire?"

"A good army needs both. The older guys know what to expect and the young guys learn how to survive or die. When you're young, it looks so good to go to war, show your bravery, and return in glory to seduce the local farm girls." He got up, so I did, too. "Oh, to be that young and stupid again."

"You'll fight Laertes' army?"

"Fighting won't be necessary if I can show him the truth before he actually kills me. Leave now." He walked out of the room, and I found my way to the dining room, wondering why there was such a difference between young soldiers and old ones. Luckily, I found both Soldir and Casimir that evening in the usual soldier's hangout at a tavern and got to ask that question. "There's word that Laertes has rounded up some hot blood young guys and is out to confront Claudius," I told them. "He thinks Claudius killed Polonius."

They nodded, wisely.

"The Norwegians camp was full of old soldiers," I said.

They nodded wisely, again, although it's sometimes hard to tell wisdom from an ale-begrogged mind.

"I heard that young men join for glory. They want to show their bravery and impress the girls when they get home. Is that true?" I figured it was, because I'd once had the same inclination myself, before I got married.

"A bit simple, but true enough," Casimir said. "I've talked to almost a thousand soldiers, and that's the starting point."

I sat down. "There's more?"

Soldir nodded. "There's always more." He looked to Casimir.

"The average young man," the Polish military advisor said, "will go for glory. It isn't any different in Poland and it probably wasn't any different in ancient Rome."

Soldir nodded. "Life seemed pretty dull on the farm. We made trivial problems into big worries, but they were still small in the scheme of things."

"And when the government has made the enemy into absolute evil, why, it's like going for sainthood, like becoming one of the hundreds of holy men the Church praises every day. It's a greater glory than that young man is ever likely to achieve, or so they tell him." Casimir held up his mug. "Since you're still getting the king's money, you can buy. I'd like some lamb stew and bread with that. You're still using Soldir, but the pay's not as much as he'd like, so you can buy him the same."

I did. I'd detected a weariness in King Claudius's eyes, and power with that sort of attitude often leads to housecleaning. And, after a couple of years there, I was running out of good jokes. There's only so much juggling and singing leaders can take, and the present situation was so full of dangers that any topic could be considered an insult to someone in power. Spend while you can, I told myself. I bought for all three of us. "Do you consider soldiers fools?" I asked Casimir.

He shook his head. "I respect and admire professional soldiers, those who know what they're getting into. Read the Bible; force has always been part of the human condition, and I can't see that changing soon. So I want those guys on my side."

"But the new recruit...."

"The new recruit holds his family, his community, his culture sacred. For the Church he tries to fight Satan by his behaviour. When his country tells him that those things he cares about are under threat from another country, he'll sign up, with the blessing of parents and Church and a smile from the blonde at a neighboring farm. He's not a fool; just innocent."

"And that's what Laertes has behind him."

Both Soldir and Casimir nodded.

"But you told me that he learns the truth about war."

Casimir waved a finger to Soldir, who took it from there. "At the beginning, for a young man, the whole overwhelming process is like falling in love, just as confusing and wonderful. He has no idea that his images of war leave out the two critical factors there."

I thought. "Blood," I guessed, "and discomfort."

Both men across the table from me half-smiled and shook their heads a bit, simultaneously. "Fear," said Casimir. "Humiliation," Soldir added. "You start to shudder. Your hair stands on end.

"War is messy, brutal beyond belief, and simply awful beyond the ability of anyone to image it. But overwhelmingly, it's fear that gets the soldier. It's a fear that grabs you like a hateful giant and squeezes the air out of you. All the preparation and stories can't do it justice. War is seldom gallant or heroic Or redeeming. Fear controls you as soon as plans for a battle are announced. You will be powerless and weak in its face."

"You'll corrupt your morals, lose your idealism, and have no idea what the purpose is in very short order. You'll feel soiled." Soldir added. "You think you won't. You think that rotten feet, bad food, lice, and blood and shit running down your legs from your ass are a problem. They aren't." Casimir thanked me for the food by raising a spoon to me. "In the battle you'll run forward or back, filled with ferocity, turning into a thug and a murderer, pushed the belief that you're about to die and the thin hope that you won't. You're a grown man with the soul of a little boy, your mind turning to pudding as it imagines the shaft that will leave you dying. A soldier becomes a very simple creature. He's terrified when afraid, mopes when he's sad, hates and laughs when something's funny. His mind gets down to that.

"And sex," Soldir added.

"So the soldiers have assured me," Casimir said. "Keeping ones mind on attacking the pink fortress is the crutch a mind needs."

"I've been told a soldier bonds with his companions," I said.

"He bonds with them. He'll die for them and hopes that they'll die for him. He loves them." Soldir shrugged. "But he doesn't trust them to die for him when the time comes. He's seen too many good men fail."

"You seem cynical," I said.

"He's just knowledgeable," Casimir said. "The human experience in war is pretty uniform. Here's how it goes. As soon as the recruit experiences his first combat, anxiety reduces his effectiveness, and fear grabs him. He's always thirsty and often doesn't eat, or can't swallow food. He sweats and shakes a lot. He can't always remember how to use his weapons, and refuses to share blankets, arrows, or food. This lasts a week for most men. Some never get better and are useless after that, but, for most, they get over this in a week or less."

Soldir nodded. "If your army isn't near home, and these guys don't get over it, you let them trail at the back, hoping they'll just wander away and stop using the food."

Casimir raised a second finger. "If they get past this stage, they're good soldiers as long as the fighting isn't constant. They'll get confident and battle-wise."

"And if the fighting does continue?"

"That's what happened in the Polish Winter War," Soldir said. "We were harassed by partisans night and day. There were a few open fights, but mostly the Poles followed and attacked when we weren't expecting it. It never stopped." He looked at Casimir. "Your plan, I imagine."

Casimir shrugged. "It was my job and I was good at it. The king followed my advice; your Danish forces were still too strong to fight a big battle against." He turned back to me and raised three fingers. "Stage three. The endless fear finally weighs most men down. After three weeks of constant combat, they just wear down. All the symptoms that they first experienced come back, along with a fatigue that no amount of rest or sleep can overcome. The soldier becomes so cautious he won't leave his position, even when ordered to do so, except to continuously change position to avoid incoming arrows or musket fire. He's angry at everything and everyone. He's so terrified at night that he sleeps only in little naps in the daytime."

"Nights," Soldir said, leaning forward, "are the worst; they're full of fear and dread. It's too dark to see anything. Soldiers begin to go out of their minds. We listen and imagine enemy soldiers sneaking in during the darkness and slitting throats. At night our wounded die. Night and death, night and death, it's all we can think of. Some begin to hear enemy soldiers sneaking in and slitting throats." He laughed. "Who can sleep then?"

We stopped to eat and drink. A few of the old soldiers came over to our table to listen, without comment. "Does he get past this stage?" I asked, glad that my innate cynicism had always kept me from running off to join someone's army.

"He does," Casimir said and nodded to Soldir.

"He gets worse," the old soldier said. "Most just stop doing anything. Some run around wildly, ignoring danger. A few can't remember who they are. Some just fall on the ground, throwing snow and crying. And some run at the enemy, unarmed."

"That's the final stage," Casimir said. "Those who have experience non-stop fear for more than three weeks are usually capable only of walking and crying. The first few are carried in carts, but after that, they're just abandoned. Many desert."

"What happens to the ones who desert?" I asked. "I can't imagine it happening often."

"Considering that the chances of getting back to Denmark are almost nil?" Soldir asked. "Maybe a quarter of the army, all told."

I was shocked. "Any of those ever get back to Denmark?"

"There are rumors, but it's a long way to Denmark from Poland in the winter, and deserters who we catch are killed as punishment. That's better, however, than getting caught by the Poles. We ran across one guy who'd run away. The Poles had cut him open like a cod, hauled out his intestines and strangled him with them." He winked. "That's a short dying; the Poles, especially the mothers, usually found a way to spread out the pain for a lot longer. At night, sometimes, you could hear our deserters screaming. Sometimes we imagined it, I think, but not all the time. They liked to drag the bodies ahead of our marching route and leave them there." He took a really big draught of ale, and motioned to me to get more. I did. There was silence for a while.

They'd told me some of this before; soldiers' memories are like that; they feel compelled to repeat them, yet don't seem to be comforted by doing so. "And yet," I said, "A lot of soldiers are quick to sign up for another war. Fortinbras' camp is full of experienced soldiers." I looked down the table. "Any of you would have signed up if given the chance?"

Most of the men at the table raised a hand or index finger, but stared at the table. We let the silence sit while we finished ale and stew. "Beautiful night," Soldir said. Let's go for a walk."

We walked as far as another tavern, where we found ourselves a table in a corner. The rest of the clientele seemed to be mostly merchants and young people. They ignored us; I liked that.

"Now for the question," Soldir said. I waited.

"You might as well ask it," Casimir said, eventually.

I sighed. "If conditions in the battle are so bad, if a soldier spends so much time swearing he'll never come back if he gets out alive, then why do so many soldiers re-enlist?"

"He asked it," Soldir said.

Casimir nodded and said a few words in what was probably Polish, then added, "He did indeed." He turned to me. "Which of us would you like to answer that question? I have talked to hundreds of soldiers, both Polish soldiers and the prisoners they collected. Soldir here can speak from an experience I've never had."

"And you didn't think we should have asked the old soldiers in the last tavern?"

Both men shook their heads emphatically. "Soldiers in battle know one thing for sure; you wouldn't understand."

"I might."

"You wouldn't." Soldir ordered another round of ale before Casimir and I had really got into our first mug. He let me pay, of course.

I figured I was paying for information, so I sat in silence until Soldir said, "No soldier ever returns from a war. The men who show up after are bringing only their bodies home; their souls are on the battlefields." He covered his eyes and stopped.

"They are strangers to their parents," Casimir said. "They are not the men their wives and children knew."

A few men went by and Casimir paused till they were gone, then continued. "Those soldiers are aggressive, bitter, hardened men who believe in death, and little more. The war they bring with them fades, but slowly. The awful tension fades and the aggression is stuffed away inside somewhere, past the hatreds and the loneliness, and they start behaving human again. The fear takes longer, a lot longer, and eventually you have a man who is working again in society."

"They're back where they were?"

"No." Casimir sighed. "They're never what they were. No one can see past their face to know where they've been. What they've seen. What they've done."

Soldir leaned forward. "There are things that seem logical and reasonable in war. After, they seem crazy. I wrap them in wool and shove them way back in my mind, and try to forget. But they're there, and there is never a total peace with them."

"Look," I said, "that doesn't explain why soldiers go back to the army. That's where they got all these bad memories."

Both men nodded. "But," Soldir said, very quietly, "as we also told you, no one out in the rest of the world understands you. They can't."

"What you've experienced? I can understand how...."

Soldir turned to me in anger. You can't know...." He trailed off again.

Sir Casimir raised a hand. "You can imagine what they experienced. But you don't know what you haven't been told. Things you will never be told. Some of the things they did in war they won't even tell about in confession, sometimes."

"Some things, never," Soldir said.

"The Church hands out forgiveness," I said.

Soldir shrugged and shook his head. Then he changed the subject. "In normal society many of us never fit in." He put both hands in front of him. "And it's not just that the other soldiers know what we did, what we made of ourselves."

"They are remade men," Casimir said. "They trust no one but other soldiers, and not them all that much. But the other soldiers understand the cowardice and humiliation and aloneness and fear of battle. They understand the cruelties they did. Back in the army they are present with the ghosts of those who died. Ghosts are old friends." He looked around. "The people in real society never really know you any more. You're a stranger in your own land of birth. You find your own kind in the taverns, drinking ale and not talking about the wounds people can't see.

"According to the soldiers I've talked to," Casimir went on, "the worst times are the middle of the night, and the most common disturbances are sounds they remember. The sound of someone approaching a wounded friend with a misercorde, for example, and the man is crying and begging. And then, of course, the death rattle in his throat followed by the sound of his body shaking in the snow for a moment before he dies." He looked at me and smiled.

"Speaking of drinking ale with other soldiers," Soldir said, "I thank you, Amundi for this, but I feel the need to go back to the other soldiers and not talk about things with them." He tipped his hat and left.

"So," Casimir said in a quiet voice, "Did Claudius kill Old King Hamlet?"

I've seen audiences turn unexpectedly often enough to switch when I had to. "I've begun to wonder," I said, "after that play about the murder of Gonzago. It seems that our darling prince had some of the lines changed and that made Claudius very, _very_ upset."

"And not just because he's sick of that rumor?"

I shrugged. "It seemed more than that, if you ask me. He was bound to be angry, but even then...."

"Hamlet's doing."

"So it seems. The players disappeared fast enough, and I don't think our king got them into the dungeons."

"You would have?"

"I'd have been tempted," I said. "But of course the killing of Polonius became a much more important topic."

"Any idea why Hamlet would do that?"

"Not a clue."

"But it does look like Hamlet and Claudius are now in a state of war."

I nodded. "That can't be good for anybody."

"What if Claudius thinks you're part of it. After all, you recommended the players and arranged for the entertainment."

"I am, in fact, worried. It might be a good time to go wherever those players went. The king's got a thin hold on sanity as it is, and the threat from Laertes can't help. He'll be seeing enemies everywhere by now." I scratched a bunch of itchy spots, not all of which were due to fleas. "Are you going to tell me why old soldiers re-enlist?" He paused, so I added. "In spite of what you implied, I'm pretty sure you were a soldier once, and probably re-enlisted."

He sighed. "I'm hungry again. If you're buying, I'm talking. Something sweet."

Sounded like a deal to me and the tavern pastry, which was, as usual, a shell with a sweet filling, seemed to satisfy him, even if he, rightfully, complained about the hardness of the shell. I gathered that many countries made pastry that didn't break teeth.

"I did serve in the Polish army when I was young," he said. "And after swearing an oath to God that I'd never do it again, I signed up after a couple of years."|

"Yet you're not sitting with the old soldiers," I noted.

"I'll explain that, but it's personal, and I'll require vodka, not this crap ale." He sighed again. "Well, when a man fights in battle – not just serves in the army in peacetime – it changes him. Permanently."

I nodded. "So I gathered."

"Then what's the problem? A man's been debased, humiliated, and half turned into an animal. He's done things he can never talk about. People ask a soldier, 'Have you ever killed anyone?' and the soldier won't answer. Chances are he's killed people in ways he feels he could never be forgiven for, or stood by saying nothing while it was done. He's no longer part of society. How can he answer, 'I killed my old self?'" I was going to say something, but Casimir held up a warning finger. "I know we've heard that. But if that's so, where on earth will he find other people that understand what he's feeling? Think about it."

"If he's too old, he'll be in the taverns trying to forget." I remembered two soldiers determined to walk and walk until they died or forgot their past."

"And if he's still young?"

"In the army again."

"Right on. In the army where you don't have to explain things to people who agonize about indescribably petty things. Where, when you jerk instinctively at a sudden sound, other people do, too, and you can laugh about it. The war empties you out, and in the army, they tell you what to do and when to do it and life is simple again. Not pleasant, but simple. You're a boy again, a simple creature of instincts. And everyone else understands. We each get to carry each demon in a packsack when we march, and our dead friends walk among us. In battle we are ageless; our whole life is one day."

I waved my arms wide. "I still...."

"All we have left is our past. And we love it."

I straightened. "Pardon?"

"War was the most awful thing, the darkest thing, we have ever done. We know there won't be anything worse. But...."

I knew better than to say anything.

"War was the brightest, best thing in our lives. We lived every moment like a candle in a hurricane, a flame more overpowering and brighter and fuller than we could have imagined. We grew senses you can't imagine. Just to be alive was a wonder the like of which a civilian will never know. In civil life, our memories haunt us, but back in the army, people _know_. They _know_ and they say it's all right. And if we're forced to do awful things, army people will lie to us, will tell us we're heroes. We know how stupid it is, but we do it anyway and they tell us we're brave, not broken. That we're serving our country. The crowd admires us. And we want to believe that, and we almost do."

I stayed silent.

"You can't _know_." He looked around. "None of them can _ever_ know. It's a horrible, wonderful life. You live it with people you must trust and don't and must love and do because they may die for you at any moment. It's an addiction. They made us addicted to war." He smiled, and finished the pastry. "Do you think Ophelia's gone around the bend?"

"I think so. She's acting strangely, and won't talk about it."

"You've tried to talk to her?" Casimir raised his eyebrows.

"I've talked to her many times over the last couple of years. She's in love with Hamlet and can't do anything about it."

"You told me her father forbade it."

"But now he's dead," I noted. "Polonius thought she'd never be more than a mistress to Hamlet, but now she'd happily settle for that at one word from Hamlet, the guy who killed her beloved father."

"And he's gone."

"All it would take is one letter home, apologizing for the accidental killing of Polonius, and saying he still loved her. That's all." I leaned forward to whisper. "If I were Hamlet and if I loved Ophelia and if she were forbidden to communicate with me, I'd find a way around it. I'd communicate with her maid and have her maid communicate with Ophelia and call it meeting the terms of Polonius. But I'd do something for her pain. _Something_."

"If Hamlet married a princess somewhere out of duty, how long would she be happy in second place?"

I shrugged. "She's a woman. How could I know. My relations with that gender have been less than enlightening."

"How's Tola?"

"Ignoring me."

"How's Hekja?"

"Probably living with a short dude from the south and belly-bumping even as we speak."

He laughed. "It's a while until it's too dark to see our way back. Let's go for a walk along the shore."

Somewhere out where the dunes met rocky cliffs, sitting on a log and watching the sea birds, he told me his story.

"I'd signed up again, but there wasn't much to do for half a year until we got into a minor war with the Czechs over a marriage dowry and a couple of valleys down in the Tatras. Our commander, long may his soul rot in Hell, had decided to send scouting squads to the sides of the valleys, to protect the main army. I was in one of these, and our captain, even longer may his soul rot in hell, had no idea what he was doing. We got ambushed by a bunch of mercenary Spaniards with crossbowmen while making our way up a slope to check out a walled farm. Hans, my best buddy, had just stepped in front of me to avoid a pig, and took two quarrels, at least one of which was meant for me. I got the rebound of one bold through the left wrist. See, it still doesn't bend properly. We lost half our men, most of them left writhing on the ground, by the time we'd got back behind shelter. We hid there for a few hours until our commander sent more arrow fodder and our side wiped out their side. Not that I helped; I spent the time trying to keep from bleeding to death.

"The war went on for another week, then stopped and everybody came home, but for me it ended that day. Another little war started almost immediately after. My wrist had more or less healed, so I showed up at the military camp. I was told they didn't need anybody with one bad wrist, and I was finished fighting. Forever. "

"How did you feel?" I asked Casimir.

"At first I wanted to cheer. After spending three years off and on killing people I'd often felt toward the end that I'd had enough. More than enough." He wagged his head. "So my first feeling was that of joy. I told a couple of the guys in the barracks about it. One said I was a lucky bastard. But a fellow soldier looked me right in the eye: 'What in hell are you going to do now?' he asked.

"I shrugged my shoulders. I'd got pretty thin by that time, so I had to sit down to think about it. "Go back to the farm, I guess," I said.

"'Nah,' he said. 'There ain't nobody to kill on a farm.'"

I smiled at Casimir, but he didn't smile back, lost in his memories. "I walked over to the mess pretty slowly. I guess I should have been jumping and hopping, but the closer I got, the worse I felt. I didn't look at anybody when I sat down. But I'd hardly started my meal when I was surrounded by my old army buddies. They'd been with me when we got hit. Not everyone was here now, because Hans had died from the two bolts that had been aimed at me.

"There was the usual bullshitting with the crew. They brought their meals over and sat down around me.

"As soon as possible, I told them I was out of the army. The conversation started to dwindle off from that minute on. One by one, they finished their meals, and suddenly I knew that I was no longer one of the gang. I just didn't belong any more – they were preparing for another battle, and I wasn't.

"One of my best friends came up to me when I was putting on my coat. 'You gonna come watch us march out tomorrow?; he asked. I squeezed his arm and shook my head.

"Out of it," I said, and got him another ale.

"I found my way back downtown," Casimir said. "It was drizzling when I got there, so I hit the nearest tavern. I tossed back a couple of ales with some army types, then I drifted off to a place they served real beef.

"The barmaid said hello right away and an old timer sitting beside the bar knew me, too. I ordered a pint and a meal, and headed for a nearby table.

"I'd guzzled about half of it when Aniela approached my table and sat down. I, wished she hadn't. For as long as I'd known her, she'd been Bronislaw's girl. Bronislaw'd got his somewhere on the in the mountains, about two months ago. Declared missing.

"Aniela didn't drink the beer I offered her. She sat looking at the floor. Finally, she leaned across and almost whispered: 'There's no word on Bronislaw, is there?'

"'No,' I told her. 'Not yet. Of course there's plenty of time.' "No, there isn't," she said in her Russian accent. 'I'm six months pregnant, you know.'

"Well, I didn't know, so I didn't reply. I just studied my ale very closely. Anelia eventually got up and went away, without even saying goodbye.

"I took to looking around the room. There were plenty of army kids there, for this was their favorite hang-out. But I didn't know one of them. Just young kids, starting out, drinking too fast and swearing too much. They'd get tick off Ewa the barmaid if they kept at it too long.

"Then I went to the bar to get another beer, and a double vodka to help it along.

"Something hit me. I was standing there fiddling with my drinks when I started to cry. Not a noisy cry, just sort of a steady sob. I tried to shake it off, but couldn't. The tears were gushing – I couldn't hold them back and felt like a damned fool.

"Then Ewa was there beside me. She took both my drinks and led me away. 'Come on,' she said. 'Over here.' And I followed her to a table across the room, off to one side. I sat there until the place closed. I never ordered any ale, but Ewa kept my glass filled. I hope I paid her for it, but I don't remember. Because all I can remember doing that long, long night was drinking and crying. Crying and crying. I couldn't stop, and I guess I got pretty noisy.

"A young soldier type stopped briefly at my table. 'Can I help you, buddy?' I shook my head, covering up my eyes.

"When the pub closed I walked back to the army camp, still crying, as quietly as I could.

"When I got back to the barracks hut, I was the only one there. The rest had moved on somewhere. They were off to war. And I wasn't. I wasn't anywhere, really. Then suddenly I quit bawling. I went over and washed my face in the basin with cold water.

"Early next morning I got my papers and left for home on a wagon headed that way. As it lumbered along the road I watched the Polish countryside drift past, sure that I'd never see the barracks again. But there were no tears. I'd gotten rid of them a the night before. I didn't intend to ever cry again about any damned fool war. Never."

"And you never did?"

"Never. I never fought again, and every war was just silliness after that. I studied it, became an advisor, and was captured by the Danes. I've cried for many things since, but war's not one of them."

I didn't know what to say. Eventually, I said, "Thanks."

"You understand," Casimir said, "that if Claudius killed Old King Hamlet, and if Hamlet, the natural heir to the throne, knows this somehow...."

"Then they're at war for the monarchy."

Casimir nodded. "And if Claudius wants to win the war, why did he send Hamlet away, other than to temporarily remove a trouble spot? That doesn't win the war, does it?" He stared at his feet for a moment. "If Claudius were a real schemer, of an evil nature – for example, a man who'd poisoned rather than fought Old King Hamlet – what would he do with the prince?"

A cold chill rode down my back. "Logically, he'd arrange for an accident for Hamlet. Somewhere far enough that no one would ever know the truth. However much they suspect it," I added.

Casimir shrugged. "One more rumor in Elsinore is like one more fly on a goat. But if I were Claudius, I'd make sure Hamlet never got back to Elsinore."

"I guess we'll wait and see," I said.

"No."

"No?"

"Suppose Claudius killed Old King Hamlet, either for love of Gertrude or to protect Denmark from an incompetent king, and married in haste to keep the militarily incompetent son from making things worse. That's something one would have to do, although it might or might not weigh on his soul."

"The killing would," I said, "but the marriage?"

"Immoral, according to the Church, to wed a sister-in-law except during an active war. There was no Papal dispensation. He and Gertrude will both have the weight of God on their shoulders."

"But nothing we can do about it," I said.

"That doesn't mean there's nothing to do."

"How so?"

"When a man commits a crime, he may feel guilt. If a man kills twice, he's changed forever. Killing becomes a habit. He often becomes a monster, dangerous to anyone who might suspect his actions."

"He can't kill everyone."

"He can't kill everyone who suspects. He can kill only those who might tell, and are within reach of either his sword or his royal power." Casimir stared at me, and smiled an evil smile.

"Me?"

"Watch him, Amundi. "If he's a monster to start with, low-level people are a danger. If he was a good man to start with, he'll flail around after a second killing. Beware the dungeon, the rack, and the accidental push off the parapets." Casimir got up. "Time for me to head home, I think."

This gig had looked good a few years before when I'd signed onto the Official Fool role at Elsinore. I was worn down a bit, and not particularly sympathetic to anyone of higher station than myself. And that included a lot of the population of Elsinore castle. Now it looked as if I had to watch my neck as well as my moral status with God.

I decided to be proactive. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of any way to be proactive except by talking to a bunch of the more involved people. I went looking for a Ophelia. Claudius and Gertrude might not want to talk to me, but Ophelia probably wanted a shoulder to lean on. And I still had a few concerns about Ingald, whenever I managed to find him.

***
Chapter 18: Conversations with Ophelia and The King

"La, la, la," sang Ophelia. I'd found her on the parapets. Someone had brought back the wooden benches that had been removed when war was expected. It was a fine view westward over the canal and past the distant fields. "La, la, la. Of course I' crazy. Why shouldn't I be crazy. My boyfriend's bat-shit crazy ." She canted her head over onto one side and said, "We can be a loony couple. Except, of course, that he murdered my father. My father that I loved. That might stop a sane girl, but not a crazy one. I'll just wait for him to come back."

"Yes, My Lady."

"Except you don't expect him to come back, do you? You think he'll stay in England until all's been forgotten in history, then come back married to an ugly English girl. And I'll be mistress, I will. That will be fine." She winked. "I'll kill his bride when she's behind an arras," she whispered. "Apparently that's okay in Elsinore." Vigorous nodding. "It has precedent."

"It does now, My Lady."

She laughed, and did another "la, la, la." Took a deep breath. "I'll pitch her profane body over the ledge, right there, and watch her fall into the shit." Then she got serious. "You think he won't come back because royals get murdered here while napping in gardens? Oh, I think he will. He'll think about it for a while – maybe years, because he likes to take his time."

"He does, My Lady."

"But he'll come back, and all I ask is that he ask me to forgive him for stabbing my father through the liver with his sword. And a couple of pokes through the lungs. And just the teeniest, tiniest poke through the old man's heart. That's all. And all he has to do is ask." She frowned at me. "You don't understand a woman's love, do you, Amundi?"

"I never have, My Lady, and probably never will."

"A woman's love is crazy love, Amundi. It makes no sense and you shouldn't go looking for it to make sense." She giggled. Or you'll go crazy, too."

"I suspect you're right, My Lady."

"Oh, I am, Amundi. Hamlet had his reasons for denying me. I can trust him on that." She watched the sunset for a moment. "But all I ask is a letter from him explaining why he killed my father and how sorry he is, and I'll forgive him. Our own screwed-up love, Amundi."

"Well, then," I said because that phrase covers everything.

"But, of course, he'll only be alive long enough to ask my forgiveness. Then my brother will kill him. Do you think so?"

"The Church says revenge is for God, My Lady."

She shrugged. "Laertes is impulsive. And not all that smart. Bad combination. Who should I support, Amundi? My brother, my lover, or the world of crazy? If they fight, who should I cheer for?"

"I can't answer that one for you, My Lady."

"You can, but you dare not. Let's dance to my tune." She took my hand, put my arm around her, and we whirled around, while she sang an old Danish song of lost love and tried to get us over the roof edge to the long drop to the moat below. The sun slipped behind the trees on the horizon.

Eventually, I faked tripping on a piece of stone, then hobbled back to the bench, holding my ankle, and apologizing.

"Can you, Amundi, tell crazy from love?" She leaned over me, and whispered in my ear, "Conspiracies, Amundi. There are conspiracies everywhere in Elsinore. They're like ghosts in the very stones of this castle. Do you know that? Can't you just feel it?" Before I could answer, she was gone, singing her songs down the stone hallways.

I was on my way to see the queen when I ran into Grim on a stairway. Servants were out, lighting the torches and tallow candles that would give the castle just enough light in the evening hours that a person who knew the way could find a bedroom (not always his or her own) without getting lost or stepping in something that wasn't meant to be stepped into.

He stopped right in front of me. "You know, Amundi, Claudius has the instincts of a natural leader in a war. It was good to have him in power when we needed him." He shook his head sadly. "I'm just worried about how he'll handle the peace. First, his stepson nearly drives him bonkers, then we find out that Laertes is only a day away from here, with a bunch of hotheads."

"But not a large number of them," I understand, I said.

"Depends." He hesitated. "There's always been a pro-Hamlet faction in Denmark and lately a pro-Laertes faction, and we've got three Danish Lords here visiting from the far provinces. They're nervous and they're watching how the king handles it. If it goes as well as the letter that stopped the war, we'll be fine. But...."

I noticed he hadn't given Claudius credit for the letter to Fortinbras' uncle that had stopped the war. Maybe, I thought, that came from Polonius or Grim himself, or a brainstorming session between all three. "Surely," I said, "with Fortinbras camped so close to Elsinore, the lords will understand the need to rally behind Claudius."

"I understand that you understand the need to keep Claudius alive at all costs. With so much of our nation spread out on islands, civil war is never beyond reason."

He seemed to know a lot about what I knew, I thought. "I do. Long live the king."

"Yeah." Grim sighed. "Yeah. He can handle a war, but I don't know if he can handle peace. I can't imagine what this place would be like if Laertes and Hamlet were here at the same time."

"Yes, my lord. That's one sort of entertainment I would never enjoy." I stood aside to let him go by, which he did without further comment.

Gertrude was in her room, pulling a brush through her long hair and crying. "I doubt that you can make me laugh, now, Amundi."

"As do I, Your Majesty. I'll not disturb you."

The queen wiped her tears. "Give it a try. I could use the distraction."

I did. I gave her some of the better anti-Norwegian songs I'd written, then explained, in polite euphemisms, some of the changes those songs had undergone as they passed through the taverns and mess-halls of Denmark. That did help, for a few minutes.

"I worry, Amundi, about my son. He's set implacably against my husband, and when king and prince collide, survival is a difficult proposition."

"Your son is a tough young man," I said. "And smarter than most." I hoped at least one of those was true, but my commitment to truth was when asked by the king. My terms of employment didn't actually include telling the truth to the rest of the royal family.

"You know what bothers me the most, Amundi?" She returned to brushing her hair.

That was good one. My first thought was that she wished she had an older son, or none at all, but I wasn't going to say that.

"That he accused me of sin, without asking me."

I waited. I was right; it wasn't a good time to guess at meanings.

Queen Gertrude continued. "I had my reasons. They told me how important it was to have a ruler with a war imminent. And the archbishop explained that a man must marry his brother's wife if that brother is killed in battle." She stopped what she was doing. "I said the my husband didn't die in battle, but the archbishop said, with war imminent – that's the word he used, 'imminent' – it was the same thing. And if you can't trust the word of an archbishop about the bible, who can you trust?"

"That seems reasonable, My Lady. This fool can think of no better answer."

"Yet, not once in the months he was here did my son ask for an explanation. Not once did we have a talk about responsibility and duty. All I got was yelling and demands that I make myself celibate. Did you know that, Amundi."

"No My Lady." Though I'd known some and the rest wasn't surprising.

Gertrude stood up. "Thank you, Amundi. You have made me feel better. We must sometime prepare for a feast when Hamlet returns. Have you talked to Ophelia?"

"I did, My Lady."

"How is the poor girl? I'm afraid she's not strong enough to withstand all this...." She waved an arm around in a general way.

"You may well be right, My Lady."

"Sad. You may leave, now."

I bowed, and did.

On the rest of the way to the royal chamber, I passed a few servants at their chores, but none gave me a second look. That was a good sign; it's best to avoid people who aren't in the king's favour. Tola was standing in her doorway, but when she saw me, a frightened expression crossed her face and she closed the door firmly. I couldn't think of any way to take that as a good sign about anything. I'd been wondering if she'd found out Hekja had moved out, but that wasn't the look I just got.

Claudius was at the banquet table, being served food and drink. It looked like he was having mead with roasted peacock. I bowed, and he indicated I should sit down across from him. At least, that's what I guessed, but he was obviously working on becoming oblivious to the rest of the world. He waved at a servant, and ordered "the same this damned fool." A plate and a mug were delivered promptly.

I've always liked mead, but peacock isn't my favourite food. I drank. I ate.

"Amundi!" he said. Drunks, if you know them, like exclamation marks; you can walk into a bar and sell a basketful any time. "Good to see you. Good to have someone to talk to."

I didn't like his smile, but otherwise that was good; obviously he considered me someone he could tell things to. "Always good to be of service, Your Majesty."

"You listen well," he said. A few moments later, he added. "I hear you listen to a lot of people." He didn't look up.

_Ah_ , I thought. _He's been watching me. He always has been, but now he wants me to know it._ "Always, My Lord. It's my desire to keep track of events and rumors, to provide better entertainment topics and, if you wish, information that you can't get elsewhere."

"You sure you're not a, ah, Norwegian spy?" He raised his eyebrows, but dropped a wing bone into his mead without noticing. I decided not to tell him about it. Some thing are like royal farts; they never happen.

"Quite certain, my lord. Last I heard was that the Fortinbras has a price on my head for all those songs and poems I made up about Norwegians."

"Does he? Well, that makes sense."

"It does. The Norwegians think I've accused them of everything but fucking their grandmothers' horses."

"Actually, Amundi, I'd heard that you'd included that. And their, ah, grandmothers, too. If Fortinbras somehow wins, you might want to get a, ah, boat and head south."

"I think I'm safe at the moment."

"Oh, do you?" He burped. "You sure you're not spying for anyone else?"

"Quite certain, my lord." But the conversation was not going the way I wanted.

He sighed. "Of course, of course, of course," then jerked his head around in a circle. "How are the, ah, sedition movements in the castle. And the town?"

"None that I know of sir. Many people resent your wealth and power, but it's directed at your office, not at yourself personally. You seem to be as well liked as any king who has the right to tax his people." That was a lie. People were a bit riled about the quickie funeral for Polonius, the taxes that had strengthened the castle, and the suspicion that Claudius had murdered Old King Hamlet, but every king has his own faults. There had certainly been a lot of grumbling about Old King Hamlet when Fortinbras was threatening. I was hired to tell the king the truth, but I'd just decided that I might rewrite the job description and not tell him the truth all the time.

"Look," he said. "I know that there's a bunch of my, ah, citizens who think that Hamlet should get the crown, and a bunch more that think Laertes should be king because Hamlet would be a disaster, but...." He seemed to lose his train of thought about there. His eyes, I thought, had death in them.

"Always the case, my lord. If everyone wanted the king they had we'd know for sure judgment day was near. I think you're pretty safe, assuming someone doesn't assassinate you."

"Yeah," he said. "A lot of people wonder if Hamlet thought it was me behind that arras." He raised one eyebrow, a trick I've never mastered.

"That would have been my assumption, my lord. He's never accepted you as his new father." I paused to let that one sit. "But at least he's not going to be a problem when he's in England, I imagine."

"Ah." The king said. "He could make a deal with Henry and come back with an English army behind him, but I doubt it. By the time he'd reached a, ah, decision like that he'd be too old to do anything about it. Stabbing at the curtain was probably the only impulsive thing he's done in his life, and all it did was kill the wrong guy and get himself shipped off to England." He didn't seem very worried about Hamlet's return, and he was beginning to turn his "s" sounds into "sh" sounds. And the pauses in his sentences were getting longer.

"So, till the prince returns, your main problem is Laertes."

"Probably not a problem," Claudius said. "I can talk him down. Everybody knows it was Hamlet killed the old guy." He raised his mug, then paused, one eye closed. "There's a bone in here. Did you put a bone in my drink?" He reached for a dagger.

I gave my best confused and astonished look. "Bone? No sir." It was not the time to admit I'd seen it fall. I'd figured it was too big to swallow easily anyway. I frantically poked at the remains of my peacock. "My bird has both bones, sire." I fished out and held up both matching wing bones.

"I probably dropped it." He was looking tired. "Can't choke on my own bone. I die, you got Norwegians all over the place. Did you know that?"

I nodded. "Yes, my lord. And they'd rush me right down to the torture room."

The king looked puzzled.

"For those anti-Norwegian songs I wrote," I reminded him.

"Ah. Yes." He stared at his food a long time. "Do you know what hardships I saved this country by taking over when Old King Hamlet died? Do you have any idea?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Armies are expensive and the peasants pay for them in taxes. We take their men as arrow fodder. But an invading army takes all. All, my fool. All. We're God's dog worms, Amundi. We take, the peasants' food. In the event of a war we protect them – by making the breadwinners into arrow fodder. We take all they have except enough seeds to plant and survive on till harvest. Then we find we have servants and knights to feed, so we go after some of what little is left. But a marching army, like the Norwegian army would be, takes all, Amundi." He sang:

"We'll do you no harm

All we'll take is your farm

Daughters and wives

Then all of your lives."

It was more or less one of the ditties I'd written. It was certainly the fear we'd spread around Denmark, even if it ignored a few historical cases among our ancestors where transition had come rather more gently. Myself, I wasn't going to argue the point. I just wanted to get out of there before the king slid into a drunk's aggressive phase.

"So," I said. "Deal with Laertes when he gets here...."

"Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after."

"Then deal with Hamlet when he returns," I said. The king smiled, which stopped me briefly. "Then just stay alive until Fortinbras goes home. Or really goes to Poland," I added.

"So simple. You make it sound so simple." He scowled at me.

That wasn't one of the phrases I wanted to hear. It often preceded a drunk's anger. I'd learned that years before.

"Sorry, sire."

"You should be. For all you have to do around here, I'd like to have your job. Fun and laughter." He pondered something slowly. "And what are you thinking, Amundi? I wonder about that sometimes."

"No one but God knows what another person's thinking, my lord."

"Don't give me that God crap. I don't trust Him any more than I trust anybody else. Sure, they were all happy when I was saving the country, but now...." He tried to get up, then gave up. "It was an evil day, Amundi, when religion got control of mor... morality. And worse when the Church got control of religion."

"In six days the Lord created the heavens and the Earth and all the wonders in them," I said. "There are some that think he might have taken just a little more time," I said, trying to keep him close to religion.

He laughed, and waved for more mead, which was brought to him. He spilled a bit and cursed the servant who wiped it up. When the servant was out of sight, Claudius whispered to me, "They're in on it, too,. I think. Gonna poison me and give the crown to Laertes. Like that's going to do a fat lot of good. And those others you got with you. Those ones you don't know much about; what's their names?"

"You mean Soldir and Ingald?"

"I do. I don't trust them. Especially that little Greek guy." He sighed again. "Who can I trust, Amundi? Can I even trust you?"

"You can, my lord."

"Sure," he said. "Of course." He looked at me. "When this is all over I'm going to spend the summer up on the coast, at the manor house on the coast. Go fishing every day like I used to. Get all new servants. All new people." He put his head down onto the table and whispered. "You may go, you lying pervert. Here, take my crown with you."

I got out of there, but left the crown behind.

That evening I put my few personal objects into a goatskin bag and rode with an ironmonger on his cart out of Elsinore, not sure what I'd do next, except spend the night in town. I had money enough to take a room at one of the many inns, but knocked on the door of a small hut I knew Casimir was leasing. He was, or pretended to be, happy to see me, and the blonde woman he had there didn't seem to mind that I spent the night.

"You think the king's losing it?" Casimir asked, sitting at the table by candlelight.

I described the talk he'd given me. "I'm getting nervous," I admitted. I sat on the floor, since I wouldn't take Casimir's chair and the other chair was for Odindisa. "I wonder if you're right about him killing both Old King Hamlet and prince Hamlet, too."

"Well, a killing spree can be entertaining, as long as one isn't part of it. And, Amundi, you've said things to the king that would have gotten most men strapped to the rack."

"That's part of the job," I said. "The fool gets to speak the truth and the king gets the truth. Otherwise no jester would last a day. But he didn't want anything from me."

"That's bad," Casimir admitted. "One of the problems with vengeance is that it often doesn't know where to stop."

"There's vengeance?" I asked.

Casimir laughed. "Every man has a list of people on his vengeance scroll. Hamlet, Laertes, and Fortinbras, all after vengeance on dead fathers. Have you no vengeance scroll, or did I misinterpret the look you gave that little master of the plays."

"Okay."

"If the prince suspects Claudius killed his father, he'll be on the vengeance trail and there will be more bodies than Polonius before he's done. And Fortinbras wants to invade and conquer all of Denmark just because his father lost a duel to Old King Hamlet. Which makes no sense, since both participants are dead, but that's the logic of vengeance."

"There's an old saying...." I started.

"The one that says, if you're planning vengeance, dig two graves. Implying that vengeance will take you too?" Casimir chuckled and Odindisa did too, dutifully. "I think that when the Devil hears a vow of vengeance he throws a banquet in Hell."

"Probably does," I said. "And Viking history is made up of a lot of acts of vengeance. Sometimes you have to wonder if getting an axe in your skull isn't listed as a 'natural death' in the Norse lands.

"Are you going to stay here?"

"It's been a good gig," I said. "Better than the last couple." I scratched my neck. "But, yeah, I think it's time to skip town. Maybe go into France and join Ejulf and his traveling players."

"I thought you wanted to strangle the little guy."

"I can arrange an accident for him when I get there."

"Revenge?"

"You hear Satan laughing?"

"If you leave, it's an admission of guilt."

"If I stay, a couple of hours on the rack will give them an admission of guilt. And a head on a pole by the drawbridge. I wonder if they'll put my fool's cap on it."

"You think the king would do that to you?" Casimir smiled. He knew better.

"The Church would, if Claudius told them that I'd been sharing a room with a former nun. That's a capital crime, you know. The Church would turn me over to Claudius with the recommendation that I be persuaded to confess and beg forgiveness. After I'd done that to clear my sins, I could be safely executed. I'm told the rule at the stake is to inhale as much smoke as you can and pass out quick."

"You told me you didn't actually fuck Hekja."

I winced. "Like who'd believe me. Especially after I confessed under their persuasion."

Casimir thought about it. "What about me?"

"You could go back to Poland."

"The king thinks I defected, you know. The king of Poland. That's why he wouldn't pay for my ransom. That and the fact that we lost that battle."

"When you advised against it."

Casimir shrugged. "He denies that. He's the king and he aught to know."

"You could come to France with me."

Casimir looked up at Odindisa. "You'd like to live in Paris?"

She smiled. "Well, of course."

I sighed. "Maybe the Laertes thing will blow over. Maybe Hamlet will have an accident. Or change his mind. Maybe Claudius was just a bit drunk."

"In vino veritas. Drunk people talk from the heart; anything else is a bit difficult."

"You know," I said, "if we heard of a remote tribe that habitually drank a liquor that went to their heads, made them stupid, and then made them vomit, we'd be appalled at their barbarity."

"Sometimes," Casimir said, "barbarity is essential to being human."

The candle was getting low. "Let's talk a bit more in the morning."

"You'd still have to leave without Hekja."

"Let's talk in the morning."

As he got up, Casimir asked. "Should we tell Ingald?"

"We should tell Hekja. She's in danger, too." I hesitated. "She should also know that Ingald is working for the Vatican."

"Meaning what I think it does?"

I nodded. "He could well be under a vow of celibacy, so he couldn't take her back to Rome, and he could easily arrange for the Abbey to come get her."

***
Chapter 19: Laertes Returns

In the morning Casimir and Odindisa left to do some shopping, I found Soldir in the usual tavern, and he told me where to find Ingald. Ingald answered my knock on the door. I didn't go in and Hekja didn't come out. I was explaining that I knew he was a Vatican spy, without trying to bring Hekja's future into this, when there was the sound of horns, and both of us turned. Laertes and an untidy bunch of armed men were coming into town. "Suddenly, I miss our idiot pope," Ingald said, stepping inside and slamming the door behind him.

_What the Hell._ I stepped in behind the last man marching, walking well behind those on horseback, and followed them towards the castle. By the time I was out of town, another fifty young men had joined the column, and both Soldir and Casimir were beside me. A rabble of children and mothers followed us.

Laertes and his mob marched up to the gates of Elsinore castle, and the guards there just waved everybody in across the moat and into the bailey. Those of us who didn't stay outside just stood there, like a school of sardines, as Laertes and a couple of men-at arms went up the stairs to the door of the throne room/banquet hall. They hammered at the door a few times, then Leif opened it and they disappeared inside.

"What do you think," I asked my friends. "Execution for treason, or an offer to let them replace me as a laughing stock?"

Casimir waggled a hand back and forth. "Could go either way. It's treason, all right, but there's no way they could have got past the drawbridge with this tiny army. Personally, I'd have been tempted to let them camp outside until most of them went home."

"You're right," Soldir said. "If they wanted to overthrow Claudius, then they needed a couple of thousand more men, and assistance from some of the Danish Lords. Or maybe from Fortinbras."

"Fortinbras," I noted, "has promised not to harm Claudius."

"But," said Casimir, "if Laertes lops off Claudius's head, he and Fortinbras will be fighting it out for the throne."

Soldir looked around. "This bunch wouldn't last long against Norwegian veterans. Not without help."

I looked out the gate. "I don't see any help coming."

"Then I think Laertes is after your job as principal fool of Elsinore. Begging my pardon, but I think there's a lot of people here angling for that title, whether they know it or not."

I said, "When I applied for the position a few years ago, Claudius told me, 'Why not. One fool more or less at Elsinore won't make much difference.'"

We were in the bailey about an hour, and I was just thinking of going up to the first floor myself when Laertes and Claudius appeared on the balcony.

Laertes waved for silence. "I have learned, to my satisfaction, that this king of Denmark did not kill my father." There was a general buzz, until there was another wave. Laertes continued. "It seems that Prince Hamlet killed my father, and not deliberately, but by mistake." There was almost total silence. "So I'm supporting my liege, my king." He bowed one knee to Claudius, then stood up and said, "there will be food and drink served to anyone who stays, but it'll take a couple of hours. You are free to return to your homes anytime." He followed Claudius inside, and the doors closed. After a minute, the doors opened again, just long enough that Laertes' two men-at-arms came out and took the steps back to the crowd in the bailey.

Amid the loud talking, I asked Casimir what he thought.

"I suspect, the Pole said, "that he was hoping to arouse enough of an army while coming here. I suspect, as well, that he didn't and had the choice of continuing with this group and hoping more would join, or fleeing the country as a traitor."

"And it worked out for him," Soldir said. "A prodigal non-son in his prodigal non-son-sense."

I nodded. "You'll make a good fool yet, Soldir."

Casimir said, "Claudius will probably have a statue of Polonius commissioned to make up for the small funeral. Anyway, Laertes pretty well has to accept any conditions that keep him out of the torture chamber."

"But now he's got another enemy," I said. "Prince Hamlet."

"In the unlikely event that Hamlet gets back. But how does Laertes get revenge on Hamlet? To draw blood on a royal body is a death sentence," Soldir said.

"It's done all the time," Casimir said, "but he and Claudius are together on this, if we are wrong and Hamlet actually comes home. All they need is a bit of help from the fine Italian hand of someone like Ingald. That's how the Borgias do things down where the orange trees grow, I understand."

By this time, about half the mob had left. Casimir and Soldir and I were about to leave when I glanced up. Claudius was at a window, watching us. I waved, hoping he might understand that we hadn't actually joined Laertes' army; we were just along to see how things worked out. Claudius didn't acknowledge my wave, but he watched as we left the castle. I told this to my friends. They didn't look happy.

We showed up at Ingald's door and discussed options. "If we run and get caught, we're dead," Casimir said again. Hekja, who sat in a chair at the table, watched me, then the floor.

"Right now, Ingald pointed out, "Claudius has solved his Laertes problem and has probably ensured that Hamlet doesn't come back to Denmark for a long time, if ever."

"Meaning?"

Casimir answered. Except in the unlikely event that Hamlet returns suddenly to Denmark, Claudius' problems are solved, so he won't be in a hurry to do anything in a hurry. We're probably safe, now, although...."

"Although?" Hekja asked.

Casimir smiled a rueful smile. "Once a king becomes paranoid, it seems to be a one-way street. He sees conspiracy everywhere until he dies. The country suffers."

"I'm getting ready to move out anyway," I said. "I don't like the odds." I turned to Ingald. "You have the protection of Mother Church, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Hekja asked.

"Ask Ingald," I said, getting up.

"Who was it?" Ingald asked.

"Her Mother Abbess from Vrejlev Abbey. Pilgrimage last year to Rome."

"Ah."

I slept on Casimir's floor that night.

Next morning I learned that Hamlet was coming back to Elsinore, unexpectedly, and soon.

Just before noon, I'd walked to the town dock and bought a small fishing boat with a tattered sail. It had taken all the money I had on hand.

In the afternoon sometime, Ophelia drowned.

Busy day. Here's how it went.

I was walking back towards Elsinore while the dew was still heavy on the summer grass, wondering if I dared get some of my goods out of my castle room. I had no real idea of whether I was catching silly conspiracy feelings from Claudius and Ophelia, or whether I was in real danger. But I'd done enough comedy in enough Danish taverns in front of enough drunken men (and occasionally women) to get a feeling that things weren't going the way they should. I was getting that feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I decided it wasn't just the perogies that Odindisa had cooked me for breakfast. Something was rotten Elsinore castle.

I was close to the castle when Horatio rode up from the harbour, with three men in rough sailor outfits beside him. He paused beside me, and walked with me apart from the sailors. We greeted each other with genuine affection. I liked him because I'd been able to do him a favor once, and that always warms one's heart. He liked me for the same favour. He'd come to Elsinore a couple of years ago and found one afternoon that Hamlet had promised the court that Horatio would provide an evening of entertainment that very evening. Hamlet, of course, had neglected to tell Horatio of this any earlier.

Horatio was at the time new to the castle and still trying to make a good impression. I was at the time also new to the castle and hoping to make a good impression. Horatio was in shock, asking everyone he met if they could do something, anything, for that event, when he asked me.

It happened that I'd not done anything at Elsinore castle, but was working the taverns of the town and making mental notes of what was available, should it ever be required, so, short as the notice was, I wasn't totally unprepared. The town had a good selection of people hoping that someday they'd be able to perform for the king, and a good selection of oddballs willing to try.

That night I provided singers and dancers before the banquet, more singers and some exotic drummers during the meal. I even included Lamond, a Norman who was on a trek to visit his ancestral homeland. The guy could, and did, do tricks on a horse in front of the king's table that amazed royalty and guests alike. When the horse did a dump on the floor, I grabbed a silver tray from a waiter, scooped the horseshit onto it, and offered it to a court sycophant who'd been working his way out of the favour of Old King Hamlet for a while, mostly by recommending better Danish defences. The whole thing was a great success, and Horatio owed me one, and he knew it. Of course, I owed him one, since his introduction got me an appointment as court jester shortly after, but we didn't mention that,

"How are you, my old friend," Horatio asked.

"Fine at the moment," I said, "but I'm getting the impression that I'm becoming the muck between fortune's toes as far as the king is concerned."

Horatio got off his horse and walked with me, leading the animal. "You're right, Amundi. I've heard him say uncomplimentary things about you and your friends lately. I don't think that he's put out a warrant out for your arrest...." He stopped. "But I think he will, soon."

"Things are going bad at the castle? I thought the king's troubles were over." We stood behind a corral of small donkeys and watched the castle.

"Worse than you, know. Hamlet's coming home."

I was stunned. "Pardon? He's supposed to be getting into London about now." If the royal ship had returned it sure wasn't visible in the port as far as I could see.

"Sure surprised me, too," Horatio said. He took out a small bundle of papers from a saddlebag on his mare. "It says here – this is a letter from the prince – that his ship was in a battle with pirates. Hamlet jumped onto the pirate ship, and was taken prisoner. The only one, it seems. The king's ship...." He read some more. "Kept going towards England, apparently." He looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. "And the pirates let him go free on Danish soil."

"Why?"

Horatio shrugged again. "Doesn't say, except he now owes them a favour of some sort." He waved the rest of the papers. "Hamlet didn't say any more, but I'm supposed to get these other letters to the king. They're sealed, so I don't know what's in them." He pointed at the sailors. I'll let these men take the letters to the king. Myself, I get a nervous feeling when I get near that castle now."

I thanked him and we watched the three men make their way to the castle. "What now?" I asked.

"After they deliver Hamlet's letters to the king, they're suppose to come back here and lead me to the prince." He looked at me. "There are royal battles going on, and a lot of us little people can get stomped to death if we're too close. Hamlet against Laertes and Claudius; if people had any sense, they'd flee the castle like rats off a sinking ship."

"Some say Hamlet is a rightful heir who will kill people without checking where his rapier is pointing."

"I'm his friend, Amundi. Maybe the only one he's still got."

We talked for a while longer then I retreated towards the town while Horatio found himself a place to sit and wait. I stopped after a minute, and hesitated, looking all directions. I had no desire to talk to anybody. My life in Elsinore might, I thought, be coming to an end shortly. After only four years, two months and a week or so. It was depressing and I was thoroughly depressed. I walked past Horatio, saying, "Good luck to Hamlet," because Horatio was Hamlet's only friend, if you didn't count his mother or Ophelia, and I didn't. Instead of continuing across the drawbridge and through the gate, I turned and followed one of the paths that led around the walls of the castle.

There weren't many people on the path I took, perhaps because it wasn't the one closest to the castle; that one followed the moat and, a country boy by upbringing, I liked to get away from the incessant smell of human waste dumped into the moat. Looking up the walls, I saw a pink bum hanging out a toilet window, and, above the parapet, a couple of bored guards. One of them pointed at me, making my heart beat a bit faster, but neither of them drew their bows nor headed off as if to inform their superior. _So far so good_ , I thought. _Maybe I'm going to get through this with my life and my job._

At the creek, the trail turned away from the castle, through a grove of maples. Halfway through the grove I heard singing and caught the glimpse of a crimson garment down the bank in some hawthorn bushes. "Ophelia?" I called. There was silence. "Amundi here."

Ophelia clambered up the bank, holding on to willow shoots. When she got to the top, she straightened her dress, pulled a few burs off her sleeve and combed her hair with one hand. "Hello, Amundi," she said, holding up one hand. "I've been gathering wildflowers." She had a mixed bouquet.

"There are probably safer places for a young woman to gather flowers," I said, smiling.

"La, la, le la," she sang, then said. "But I want the flowers that I want. Not the ones that were planted for people who want them. I want the unwanted flowers. La, la, le la." She smiled and pushed her head into the bouquet to smell them, then held them towards me. "Would you like to smell them?"

I did, but they just smelled like weeds to me. "Very nice, I said.

"Maybe I'll give them to the winner of the swordfight," she said. She did a little dance.

"Swordfight?" I asked.

"You didn't hear about the swordfight in the throne room?" She looked puzzled. "Yes, it's a gentlemanly thing the king and my brother are arranging. Laertes and Hamlet will duel to see who's the bigger pricker. A couple of pricks, a bit of blood, and someone will win.

"Does Hamlet know about this?" I asked.

"He will, when he gets here. Maybe a few days, maybe less, maybe more. I heard."

I was astounded. Ophelia, now rummaging in the weeds seemed to have heard the news of Hamlet's imminent return from his exile to England. I wondered if he'd written a letter to her, too. "You think Hamlet will agree?"

"A little pointed conversation in the throne room? Civilized talk with rapiers? Oh, I think Hamlet will agree." She laughed. "It will be fun. What could go wrong?" Then she sang two verses of an old song

"Well..." I started.

"Let's see now. "She held her flowers close to her breast, pursed her lips, looked at the treetops, and said, "My lover killed my father. I believe my brother's out to kill my lover." She looked me in the eyes and smiled again. "Oh he doesn't want to. He knows it was an accident. But revenge is revenge. Speaking of which, my lover is probably going to try to kill his stepfather, because of what he suspects. And he'll have to kill my brother to do that, I imagine. What a lucky little girl I am!"

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

She held up an index finger, pointing up. "Let's see if I got this straight. My father, whom I loved dearly, forbade me to associate with Hamlet. Queen Gertrude always wanted me to marry her son – did you know that? – but my father kept us apart. Luckily, my lover killed my father, whom I loved dearly. What a lucky, lucky little girl I am! So far, so good?"

I nodded, watching the clouds.

"So now Hamlet and I can be together. Yes we can, Amundi. It was a secret plan, Amundi. So secret that Hamlet never told me about it. Not a word. Not a wink in his eye when he denied his love. Not a note slipped to a chambermaid. No. And now, coming back from exile, do you know what letter he wrote to me, apologizing for killing my father, whom I dearly loved but saying now we can finally be together. Do you know that letter, Amundi? Have you seen it? Oh, there it is, in your hand. No? You're watching the sky. Maybe it's in a cloud. Maybe he wrote his love on a cloud. It's only Horatio who gets paper from Hamlet; Horatio and the dearly loved stepfather."

I stopped watching the clouds and watched my feet.

"They're all crazy, you know, Amundi. Not me. Not fair Ophelia. No. Only those who think they are sane are crazy around here. Now, pay attention. My lover's stepfather is probably going to try to kill my lover, just as a safety measure. So we have that little friendly swordplay in the throne room. What could go wrong?"

"I doubt..." I started to say, but she went into her la la routine till I stopped.

"Did you know there are one or two poisoners around? Oh, yes, there are. You didn't think I knew about Claudius and Old King Hamlet, did you? But I keep my eyes open and I can smell a rat in a shipload of polite dead fish." She leaned close, and whispered. "But did you know my brother's been dabbling in poisons for years? He used to poison the rats, till we had too many cats, then, well, he did a few cats, too. In fact, at first I thought it was Laertes who did in Old King Hamlet." She nodded, and smelled the flowers again. "But if he did, it was Claudius who put him up to it." She laughed. "And you think I'm in danger out here!" She closed her eyes and began dancing. "Who loves poor Ophelia?" she sang.

I bid her goodbye and went on. Without stopping she called after me, "What could go wrong?" Then, further away, "Amundi! You're a dead man walking."

When I got to the sea at the north end of the castle grounds, I sat on a fishing dock for a while, watching the sea birds. I'd been here with Hekja a week or two before, because she wanted to see salt water. She listened to the lapping of the waves and said they made a sound like lovers whispering. After a bit, I turned back. I didn't see Ophelia, but after I'd crossed the bridge over the creek and was nearing the moat, Gertrude, with a half-dozen soldiers as guard, approached.

"Amundi!" she called, although I wasn't actually thinking of jumping into the moat to avoid any more conversations with the inmates of Elsinore castle.

"Your Majesty," I said, kneeling until she got close.

She waved me to my feet. "Have you seen Ophelia?"

"Earlier, My Lady. She was gathering wild flowers near the stream."

Gertrude squinted. "What kind of flowers? Flowers have messages."

"I don't know, My Lady. Weed flowers."

A shake of the head. "Men! And not since?"

"Not since," I said, feeling foolish with a knot at the bottom of my stomach.

Gertrude ordered her guards to search the area. "Hamlet's coming home," she told me, "and I want that poor girl watched. She's had a rough spring."

"She has, My Lady."

"Let's go back to the castle, Amundi."

I nodded. What else could I do? I hoped the proximity of the queen would keep me safe. Unless she was delivering me to the prison. I walked beside her. The queen had aging in her hips; living in damp castles and the cruel Danish wind will do that to a person. She walked slowly as she talked. "Did you hear there's to be a gentlemanly swordfight?" she asked. "Laertes and my son?"

"That's the rumor, My Lady."

"Claudius told me." She stopped momentarily, rubbed her right hip, and shook her head in despair. "I'm not sure there can be any such thing. My son and the man whose father he killed. With swords." She half laughed. "What could possibly go wrong?" She started walking again. I found that if I took small steps, I could keep up with her. "Would you like to be there, Amundi? Just to see how it ends?"

"It would be interesting, I imagine, to see which is the better swordsman, but I understand that when bulls fight, small children should stay outside the corral."

"I'll be there, Amundi. As usual. Duty above everything. Always duties; as a queen, as a wife, as always. In the audience four Danish Lords will watch the show. Maybe they're witnesses or something so nothing bad will happen." She sighed. "Why don't they just get Viking axes? Hack away until the one with the last limb still attached wins."

"Sword fighting calls up little blood, My Lady."

"A little blood on the skin, a couple of stains on the clothes. Usually. But not when there's too much blood in the balls, Amundi. Then men are bulls and _everyone_ should leave the corral."

"I would give much to see that, My Lady, but not. I hear I may not be in the king's favor, now."

"I'll get you my maid's dress. Stay back, and stay quiet. None of the attention will go to you. And yes, Claudius is looking for scapegoats and victims; I think he took Sir Casimir away already, and maybe Soldir, too. But it's you he wants, so he can start life again, I guess." She stopped once more to rub a hip. You should be safe, my favourite fool. No one has a _real_ reason to kill you." We walked across the drawbridge, and the guards bowed. "And you thought my son was the crazy one. I wonder if Ophelia is an inmate who's escaped the asylum for a moment or two."

"Innocents and victims are in great danger always."

"You think so?" Gertrude asked. "Or is that only in a battle?"

I nodded. "Both tortured people and torturers resent them. And everyone is fighting a battle others can't see. It makes them crazy."

"My husband is crazier than my son.

"Maybe they drove each other crazy My Lady."

She nodded. "I wish I were with Ophelia. That castle is becoming an _unsafe_ place, at least, as you say, for innocents. Maybe Ophelia and I can hide in the woods, Amundi. Would you drop by and entertain us with jokes and juggling if we did?"

"Yes, My Lady." We started, slowly, up the stairs. In her room she had her tallest handmaiden hand me some of her clothes. They fit, more or less, if some of the buttons were done. Gertrude stuffed some stockings in for breasts. I looked passable with a bonnet, but decided to take a chance, get to my room, and get a wig from my kit bag. There was another kit, a big box of accessories, in an anteroom beside the banquet hall/throne room, but that seemed to be pushing my luck a bit.

"You're not a beautiful woman," Gertrude noted, as the handmaiden giggled. "But then, you never were a handsome man, either."

"Handsome jesters are scarce, My Lady. The men don't trust a man who can make the women laugh and feel good with jokes and compliments. I was lucky to be born ugly, otherwise I'd be out weeding the bean crop today."

I opened the door to the queen's dressing chamber and peeked out. Nobody around. I crossed the royal bedroom, ready, if need be to duck into the royal shitroom. From there, it was said, a person could escape by throwing himself out the hole, then falling a couple of storeys into the moat, probably cushioned at the end by a pile of very royal output. There were always stories about that, including one about Asser, my predecessor as jester to the king, but I doubted that any of them were true. Except, of course, two. One had an invading army capturing a castle by smuggling some soldiers up the royal shaft, and another a smart king leaving the shaft open; but slaughtering invading soldiers as they climbed into the room.

In any case I didn't need to take that exit; the hallway was empty. I arranged my outfit and bonnet and walked towards my room, wondering if I had an ally in the castle; the queen had been most helpful. But paranoia breeds on itself, and I was wondering if she'd set me up. Maybe hauling away a maidservant would be less socially irresponsible than hauling away the official court jester. Or maybe if the jester were dressed as a maid, as I was, he'd be assumed to be up to no good and could safely be dispatched. My head ached.

I casually looked down the hallway that led to my room, but kept on going; there was a guard outside my door. I took the shortest way to the courtyard and talked my way onto an empty firewood wagon leaving the castle. I sat beside the driver, and, with my hand on his thigh, the two sleepy guards at the gate ignored us, except for a knowing chuckle. I made a mental note: _don't ever go back into Elsinore castle again._

I left a somewhat frustrated woodseller in downtown Elsinore. At Casimir's flat I found Odindisa frantic with despair, and Soldir sharpening a dagger.

"They've taken Casimir?" I asked, needlessly. Apparently Gertrude had spoken the truth.

Soldir didn't look up. "I'm going to get him back."

"The queen said they'd taken you, too."

"Misinformed." This was a different Soldir than the one I'd known. When I couldn't think of anything to say, he added. "It was close, but Casimir warned me something like that might happen, and I made preparations."

"You're going back into the castle," I said, logically, but superfluously.

Soldir said nothing. Odindisa said, "He thinks he can do it." She wasn't adding any more relevant information to the situation.

"When?" I asked.

Soldir looked up. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'd like to help."

"Only a fool would go back into that trap." He looked up. "At least you're dressed for the part."

"Fool at your service," I said, and did a little jester jig, until I realized it was remarkably like one of the dances Ophelia had done that morning. "But why?"

"Casimir is a friend," Soldir said, now sharpening a smaller dagger, of the kind one carries in one's stockings or under an arm.

"Don't you have lots of friends? Old soldiers?"

He snorted. "Those. We love each other, but friends are people you can sit and talk to, not sit and share the things we can't talk about. I've got rather fond of Casimir."

"I'd like to help," I repeated.

He looked up again, unsmiling. "You're another friend. A good one. It would be a shame to sacrifice you for the mission. But if I had to, well...."

I could see that. Keeping track of which one to save might be a problem, depending on the circumstances. "I could be a distraction." I told him about the warnings from Horatio and Ophelia that morning.

"A distraction is what I was referring to. I assume you haven't killed many people."

"Well, that's true. But I know the castle better than you do, and I'm good at costumes." I indicated the maid's dress that I was wearing.

"You'd look prettier with a wig." He looked up at Odindisa. She went to a closet and came back with a red wig.

I tried it on. "Both smiled, but neither laughed.

"You're hired, Miss Leadir."

"When?" I asked.

"Dawn. We go in with the delivery carts."

It was probably a good plan. I asked about getting away, and Soldir figured they'd hijack a fishing boat.

"No need," I said. "I bought a boat. It's the _Gunhild_ , now docked in Elsinore harbour, in the muddy area at the south, past the fishing huts."

Soldir looked pleased. "It'll float?"

I shrugged. It's a sound boat with a lot of patches, especially to the sails. Looks ugly. Has a few rotting fish in it. Leave the fish there."

"Makes it less likely to be stolen?"

"Sure," I said. "It'll hold six people, seven or eight in a pinch, if the weather's good." I'd sooner have waited to tell him alone, and let him decide whether or not to tell Odindisa.

"You know how to sail?" Odindisa asked.

"Not much."

"I do," she said. "I can handle a fishing boat."

Soldir seemed a bit surprised. I was glad to have a crew member with sailing experience.

We were about to finalize plans when the town crier came by in the street below, announcing, among other things, the death of Ophelia, by drowning.

I sat down abruptly. "I was talking with her this morning." I discovered that I was bothered by her death more than I could have expected. Part of my mind had assumed that others might die, but Ophelia would be there. It was like a darkness on the sea when a familiar navigation point is missing. I had the feeling that I'd always be looking for her, as if she'd just stepped into another room and would be right back.

Soldir passed me some of his ale from a keg. "This changes our plans."

"How so?"

"There will be funeral preparations all morning," Soldir said. "People will be up early. But during the funeral there might be a better chance. Have you heard about four Danish Lords coming in from Jutland today?"

"I heard something about it, yesterday, I said. "Didn't pay it much attention. Had other things on my mind."

"Claudius didn't ask you to provide entertainment?"

"No."

"Well, he's written you off then."

"So I gather."

"Tomorrow afternoon the castle will be full of people who don't know us, and the guards will be busy with putting them up and with Ophelia's funeral. We can move among the crowds. Do you have any money, or did you spend it all on the boat?"

"I've got a hidden stash. Small but valuable." I hesitated. "If I can get it in the morning I can afford to get us out of the country." Actually, I could afford to get all of us to Paris if I got the stash, but I didn't want to tell them that.

"When's Hamlet due home?"

I shrugged again. "The letter didn't say, I guess, but I got the impression it was very soon."

"Well," Soldir said, "if he gets here today or tomorrow, Claudius and the whole castle will be distracted enough that we can get away with most anything."

About dawn the next morning I put the woman costume in a bag, borrowed a shovel, followed the early merchant carts toward the castle, over to the harbour, then took the path to the castle cemetery. It was a warm, still day with a promise of thundershowers, and a heavy morning fog.

I went to the grave of Asser, paused, and looked around. No one. When first I got to Elsinore, I'd replaced the wooden marker with a stone one that read "cursed be he who disturbs these bones." Then, a bit at a time, I'd converted every bit of money I could earn or steal to jewellery and gold. And buried it under the stone. I'd just hauled out the bag when I heard whistling. I replaced the stone and hid the bag under my long shirt. A tall, strong man with a broken nose and one bad eye walked out of the fog, a shovel over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw me. "And who are you?"

Blessed day; he didn't recognize me. "I was asked to help you."

His expression soured. "They think I need help digging a grave?"

"Ophelia's grave, right?"

"It isn't. But it will be when I get done."

I bowed. "I was asked by Grim to help you. Everyone said you didn't need help, but I didn't dare disobey him."

"Have I met you before?"

"I don't know. I do know I haven't met you."

He thought a bit, then shook his head. "Well, then, let's get at it. If you don't get dirt on me and stay out of my way when I ask, we'll get along. I guess it'll be nice to have a live person to talk to for a change." He marked out a rectangle. "Here's as good as any. You start, and when you're an arm's length down, I'll take over."

I was doing fairly well for a guy with a weight hanging under his tunic and banging into his balls every time he bent over, and was getting close to my assigned depth when he abruptly said. "I know. You're what's-his-name, the court jester. I saw you do a show at the Bonesberg tavern a while ago. That's you, isn't it?"

I stopped digging. "And why do you think I'm out here?"

He thought about it. "Annoyed the king, maybe."

I nodded. "Royally. Or maybe the queen; I'm not sure."

He laughed at the pun. "And that got you assigned to gravedigging? Must have been some joke."

"Beats me," I said, "or at least that's what the king would like to do."

"What?"

"Beat me."

He laughed again. "Now seriously, I've always thought that royal jester was a cushy job. There's not many ways for a peasant to get into the royal household."

I leaned on my shovel, still panting a bit. "Well, the job's open, I understand. You want it, you can have it. All you have to do is be funny and wise, and organize jugglers and other bastards who want a slice of the king's buffet on Sundays. Think you can do that?" I climbed out of the hole and resumed leaning on my shovel.

"I've been told I'm pretty good at wit," the gravedigger said. I didn't know his name then and I don't know it yet. Lots of people think they're qualified to be jesters. Most of them aren't. Your family thinks it funny when you mock your brother-in-law. The court will think it funny when you mock the queen's brother-in-law. Difference is, in the latter case, you end up entertaining the palace torturer or mysteriously appearing one morning floating in Elsinore harbor. He asked, "How do I apply?"

I smiled and shrugged. "All you have to do is try your wit out on a royal. You might find a few at the funeral, but I doubt that any will be in a joking mood when they put Ophelia down." I was suddenly very, very sad.

He frowned. "Do you think they'll give her a Christian burial? She killed herself, I hear."

"Palace gossip," I assured him. "The coroner says this should be a Christian burial, and he should know." I has no idea if Ophelia committed suicide or was drowned by some villain who grabbed her, or if she slipped on a muddy bank. As far as I knew, none of the palace people could swim. I hoped she was buried before Hamlet got back.

He argued the point. I changed my tack and argued that everybody knew it was a suicide but Ophelia was upper class and the rules didn't apply to rich people. He had enough wit to be a jester, but seemed a bit too bloody likely to contradict anybody who disagreed with him. "Now how do I get to try my wit on a Royal?" he asked. "I'd like to be inside on cold winter nights."

"I guess that's your prob...." I stopped. Prince Hamlet and Horatio were coming along the path. Only Horatio saw me, and I put a finger to my lips.

***
Chapter 20: Hamlet Returns

The gravedigger stretched then took up his shovel. "You're done for the moment. Go get me some booze."

Leaving my shovel, stepped back behind a cedar bush and hunkered down.

Hamlet got off his horse. "This guy's singing while he's digging someone's grave."

"I guess he's got used to digging graves. Probably doesn't bother him any more," Horatio said.

I took the opportunity to head out. I had my loot and I wanted to get it hidden on my boat. Unfortunately, between me and harbor a long line of people were coming, led by six men carrying a body wrapped in a shroud; Ophelia's funeral was in session. I stood aside, took my hat off, and put my head down. The king and queen passed, followed by a priest, then two of the Danish Lords of Jutland. Only Claudius looked at me. I saw him taken aback. He gave me a dark look, drew a finger across his throat, then turned his head and went on.

"I don't think you're in the king's favour any more," a quiet voice beside me said.

I turned. It was Leif. I'd seen him on the parapets doing guard duty, once or twice as part of the king's personal guards, but most often with a bored expression at the palace gate.

"I'm not sure what the king thinks I did," I said, "but he's convinced I did it."

"Planning on leaving Elsinore? It might be a good idea for you."

"Sweden," I lied.

"You can ride out of town with me, if you can get a horse," he said. "I'm going north now."

A light dawned. "Fortinbras' camp. To tell him Hamlet's back."

"Perhaps you'd better find your own way out of trouble" he said, with a smile. He walked quickly away and was soon out of sight along the curving pathway.

Now I want to tell you that a lot of important things happened in the next few hours. Slow down and read this narrative accordingly, or you'll be as confused as I was during most of the time it was happening.

While moving away from the gravesite, I could hear a commotion, and my curiosity moved me a bit forward. "What's up?" I asked the tallest guy around. It turned out to be the gravedigger, without his shovel.

"Not sure why, but it looks like Hamlet and Laertes are in the grave, wrestling," he said.

"You aren't there making jokes, I see," I said.

"I'm stupid," he said, "but not that stupid. I've buried a lot of normal people who got in the way of our wonderful Danish nobility, and that includes a couple of smartasses like Asser." _Ah_ , I thought. _He might just make it yet._

With everybody else trying to see the action, I walked down the path and away. In a short while I was at the harbour, and at _Gunhild_. She didn't look any better than when I'd bought her, but at least she was mine. I leaned over the water, grabbed a dead flounder, and dragged it onboard. It had been dead long enough to become soft. Making sure nobody was watching, I emptied my purse of gold coins and a few good gems, and stuffed them into the fish. I lifted the floorboards and put the fish under them. That, I figured, was as good as I could do. The rest would depend on fate. I said a little prayer, hoping God could hear me even without a priest to help.

From deep under the bow I hauled out the bag of clothes I'd hidden there before I went to the cemetery. When the opportunity presented itself, I changed clothes, and became Miss Leadir again. I hid my usual clothes under an upturned one-wheeled wagon, hoping they'd be there when I came back.

I went looking for Soldir. He found me. I wouldn't have recognized him – he was dressed that much like a palace servant. "Psst," he said. "Here, Miss Leadir."

Suddenly my new name didn't seem like so much of a joke. I looked up at the castle walls; they seemed taller and thicker, now. "Have you thought this through?" I asked.

He snorted. "No time for that now. Should be a breeze."

I looked up. There was a steady breeze, and the first few drops of rain.

"Met Hamlet," Soldir said, as we joined the line of those going into the castle.

"This morning?"

"When else? Lots of people seem to think he'll be sword fighting in the Great Hall this afternoon." When I nodded, he added, "A gentlemanly demo with Laertes in front of everybody who matters. You see what silly-ass entertainment they think up when you're not available for planning?"

I nodded. "Mr. Revenge and Mr. Stab-Whomever's-behind-a Curtain." We passed through the portcullis and into the bailey.

"Better than war," Soldir said, limping less than usual. "Hamlet seemed eager for the thing, and I bet the visiting lords will find it very entertaining."

"It's war, but not as we know it," I said. "Laertes is in a revenge war, supposedly about his father, but probably about his sister, too, now." We moved into a side passage. "And Hamlet's at war with himself, but he doesn't know it."

Soldir smiled a truly evil smile. "And in the Great Hall. With swords. What could go wrong?" He stifled a laugh. "Hamlet's been at war with himself since he grew pubic hair, I've been told."

"There's the king and queen and four Danish Lords from Jutland as witnesses. It wouldn't be in anybody's interest to do anything serious!" I looked up towards the windows of the Great Hall. You'd have to be crazy." I thought a bit. "Dulled rapiers?"

"Not likely," Soldir said. "Having sharpened points is better. With dulled points you have to push harder to draw blood, and that's more dangerous."

"In the name of all that's holy, who suggested a swordfight after a funeral, especially this one?"

"...Run by the inmates, Welcome to Elsinore Asylum," Soldir said. "What could go wrong. Do you know the way to the dungeons?"

"I did a few entertainments based on the dungeons and torture rooms a few times. Royalty seems to find that funny, especially the cardinal and Old King Hamlet. I toured the place for accuracy."

"Was there anybody down there?"

"That was a couple of years ago. One guy; I think he deserved to be there. One guard came down every few hours, then slept outside the door most of the time. I guess there wasn't much danger of anybody getting out."

"I doubt that Claudius will be so careless, but we might be lucky."

We followed the corridors to the stairs. Everybody ignored Soldir. A couple of male servants (and one female servant), obviously from Jutland, winked at me. I smiled and touched a braid. _They must be hard up in Jutland,_ I thought. I found the doorway; it wasn't' locked.

The penance rooms weren't far below ground level; Elsinore was too close to the water level. I held up a hand and peeked around the last corner. It was lit only by a couple of very small, barred windows. "There are two guards," I whispered, "and neither of them look the least bit sleepy."

"Time to mislead them, Miss Leadir." He nudged me out into the corridor.

I did my best north Jutland accent in a woman's voice. I'd done it before, for laughs. "Where am I?" I squeaked, looking around.

One guard started to draw a sword, but the other stopped him, and beckoned me. "You'll be looking for the Great Hall?" He pointed behind him, towards the dungeons. "This way, My Lady." Obviously Elsinore palace guards were both hard up _and_ nasty.

I took a couple of steps and hesitated. I figured I'd let them chase me past Soldir and he could deal with them.

The smaller guy was way too fast for that. I'd barely turned when he was on me, knocking me down and battering my head against the stone floor. At the same time he busied himself tearing my clothes off, right down to and including my shoes. Then he looked at my naked body, and said, "What the hell...."

"No cursing in the dungeons," Soldir said, and smacked him on the back of the head with a short iron bar.

I got up, my head pounding, but only bleeding a bit. The smaller guy was out, if not dead, and the bigger guy was sitting against the wall, his eyes not quite in focus. I gather he got the tap with the iron bar first. "Get the keys," Soldir said, and I took a set from the smaller guard.

The locks worked well, but creaked loudly with the keys. That sound was probably designed into dungeon hinges. I opened the door. More creaking. "Casimir," I said. A small body shuffled by me. It was Ejulf. Casimir followed. Both had obviously been beaten somewhat but at least they were mobile. Ejulf obviously hadn't got away; I wondered about the rest of the acting troupe.

"Thanks," Ejulf said. Casimir just nodded. His face was bruised and a bit crooked.

The larger of the two guards was starting to get up, and trying to draw his sword at the same time. It was a silly move; in the narrow corridors a dagger would have been a better weapon. In any event, he tripped over his sword. I'd decided to grab his sword rather than my clothes when Soldir said, "Forget it. There's someone else coming. Back against the wall."

The guard, probably a relief for one of the other two whistled as he came along the stone corridor. He'd found a resonant frequency and was just getting into a fine Danish folk tune, one about someone drowning himself for love and haunting the cod-fishing grounds, when he came around the last corner and tripped over Soldir's good leg. Both went down. Casimir banged the new guy's head against the wall, and Soldir said, "Run."

I'd seen enough of the castle's prison system; I ran. Soldir got to be lead man as we went down the corridor and up the stairs, with Casimir following – a big unsteadily – behind. I couldn't get past those two, which allowed Ejulf's little legs to keep him butting his head against my naked butt. At the top of the stairs, the corridor divided. Soldir pointed to the right, so I ran that way. "Wait!" Ejulf wheezed. When I hesitated he yelled, "Carry me, Amundi," and threw his arms around my neck.

Soldir and Casimir went the other way, which I suddenly realized was the short way to open air.

A guard appeared at the top of the stairs, puffing, and hesitated. Then he ran after Soldir and Casimir, probably figuring a naked man couldn't get far in a castle before someone stopped him.

A second guard, the one Soldir had brained with the steel rod, appeared at the top of the stairs, said a few things not allowed by the Church, and staggered after me. I decided to find a way to get rid of Ejulf, who was cutting off my windpipe with his grasp.

I suddenly realized I was in the area behind the Great Hall, with the royal bedchamber on one side and the king's entrance to the Great Hall on the other, and had decided to try the bedchamber, when someone stepped out in front of me. "Amundi!" he said.

I blinked. "Shoop?" I said, with what air I could squeeze past Ejulf's forearm.

"Not into the bedroom," he said. "There are guards in there." He pointed. Into the Great Hall."

I could hear the guard coming up the stairs behind me. Ahead was a dead end. I gave Shoop a confused look.

"Hide under the thrones," he said, opening the door. "Did you ever find out what happened to Yorick?" he called as I dashed in. I shook my head. Shoop slammed the door behind us. The room was empty, so I went to my knees, rolled Ejulf over my head and kicked him under the queen's throne. Myself, I crawled under the king's throne, drew myself in until the cloths fell again, and crouched there, my arms around my knees and my head bent forward and to one side. I shifted and it wasn't as bad as I was afraid it might be.

"Amundi," Ejulf called.

"Shut up," said, "or we'll both die. I'll come get you when I can." _How long can it be?_ I thought. _They've got nothing to do before the meal but watch Hamlet and Laertes try to poke each other with rapiers._ Myself, I was hoping one of them would kill the other. In the confusion, I had a small chance of getting out, especially if I left Ejulf there.

A few minutes later I heard voices from across the hall. Hamlet and Horatio, talking in a quiet voice. It seemed to be about his trip and how he got back. Only Hamlet spoke loud enough to hear, and it sounded like he'd found a plot to have him killed. Then Hamlet lowered his voice, and I missed the rest. Probably Hamlet arguing with himself as usual. I listened, but didn't hear Ophelia's name, only a few hours after her funeral.

Then another voice, probably Osric, royal sycophant. Everybody, thank goodness, spoke up as if addressing a room full of people. Hamlet got welcomed back to Denmark. Hamlet annoyed Osric, for no other reason than that Osric wasn't in any position to contradict him. Osric mentioned Laertes as if neither Hamlet nor he had ever met Ophelia's brother. Bizarre, I thought, then recalled that I was hiding under the king's throne. It was a day for bizarre events, I decided, and relaxed a bit. I was hoping that no one smelled Ejulf under Gertrude's throne chair. Obviously cleaning facilities in the Elsinore dungeons were limited.

Hamlet had apparently wandered towards the thrones, either contemplating poking a hole through Claudius or sitting there himself. "God controls everything," he said. "Everything will work out as destiny wants it to." It seemed a strange thing for a man bent on vengeance to do. If Ophelia were alive, he might have said her father was destined to be stabbed behind his arras. Maybe he thought Ophelia was destined to drown. He was a hard man to understand. If he had even once mentioned Ophelia, the girlfriend he'd been so upset about in her grave that the morning, I might have understood him a bit better.

Trumpets blared and voices filled the hall.

There was half an hour or so of the usual, getting the nobles and hangers-on and servants seated at their tables, then a another blast of trumpets and Claudius and Gertrude came in, and sat at their chairs. I moved out of the way as the top of my cubicle sagged.

A silence fell over the room, so I knew the sword fighting was about to start. I wished I was able to see it, but stayed still. I wished I'd been able to arrange the fighting; it would have been the cap of my life as a jester. I wished I was a long, _long_ way from Elsinore castle. Claudius farted; it was not the royal blessing I wanted.

Apparently Hamlet and Laertes were to get right at it. Hamlet apologized to Laertes and entered a plea of insanity. It went by without comment. Laertes chose a new sword. Claudius offered Hamlet a cup of wine with a valuable pearl if he made Laertes bleed three times. _Note to self; valuable pearl out there._

Trumpets, polite whispering in the hall. Hamlet thinks he hit Laertes once, and calls for a referee. Apparently Claudius decided not to wait; he offered Hamlet the pearl in the wine, but Hamlet was better with a rapier than anybody suspected, and decided to continue. I wondered if he'd been practicing.

Claudius stood for a moment and said, loudly, "Gertrude, don't drink that!"

"I'll drink if I want to," she said. I wondered if it was the cup meant for Hamlet. I wondered about the wine. Given the rumor that Claudius poisoned Old King Hamlet and Ophelia's confession that her brother was a fan of poisons, I felt like shouting, "Don't drink anything in this room, people." I didn't; I just wondered if maybe it was poisoned wine meant for Hamlet and what would become of the pearl.

If I'd been _sure_ the wine was poisoned, maybe I'd have crawled out of the chair and stopped Gertrude. She'd been on my side, after all, as far as one could tell about a woman who usually put duty before anything else.

Unknown to me, Ejulf wasn't under the queen's chair any more. He'd gotten under the royal dining table while Osric and Hamlet were arguing. Saw it all, he claimed later, but he's a lying little bastard at the best of times, so I've never been sure. He claimed Hamlet got stabbed, switched swords with Laertes, and the queen took a turn for the worse.

It was Gertrude who went down first, falling beside her chair and crying out that she'd been poisoned. I didn't hear the goblet fall so I gathered that she'd taken only a sip, then set it down.

Things didn't improve from there. Laertes not only admitted the poison was his idea, but told Hamlet that the sword was dipped in poison and, well, both had been cut with it.

Then he blamed the king for everything, which I thought was a bit of a stretch, but possible. Not that I wanted the king alive. I'd stopped being fond of the bugger just because he wanted to torture and kill me. There was a thump on the hall floor that I assumed was Laertes. Somewhere outside the castle there was cannon fire, and the voice of Osric identified it as coming from the forces of Fortinbras, approaching. _Just what Denmark needs_ , I thought.

Turned out Hamlet wasn't going to die that easily. I guess he'd postponed things until, at the last moment, he'd found the one reason not existing before – the impossibility of further vacillation."

I heard some steps which, from the sound of it, were from Hamlet, climbing onto the dais and pouring poison wine down Claudius' throat and kicking me in the kneecap. I was thinking that things weren't all bad, when Horatio climbed up and tried to drink the poison cup. Hamlet talked him out of it, took the cup, then fell over, but not before recommending that Fortinbras get the crown of Denmark. That stunned me. Like all Viking royalty, he had a claim to the throne, but it was well behind most of the Danish Lords and their children. Then I remembered being told that Fortinbras had grown up with a life-long romance; himself. This was his chance to become a king, and he thought he really deserved it

The cup fell between the royal thrones and the table. Two heads came out at floor level, Ejulf's and mine, banging together. We both grabbed, but he got the cup and I got the pearl that had rolled from it. Horatio had his back to us, and we crawled back into our hiding places.

I briefly considered swallowing the pearl (it was large, but I might have managed it) except that I'd once heard of a man who did that, to get a pearl out of the country. I'd also heard that when the pearl came out his asshole, it was pockmarked and considerably smaller. So I wiped it onto my underarm hair to remove as much of any poison as I could and into my cheek it went. There was a tingling in my mouth but that was all.

Cannon fire from outside the palace was followed by drumming in the hall. I recognized the voice of Fortinbras, who pretended to be mightily upset at getting the crown so easily.

Then a voice with an English accent announced that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had been executed, as per Claudius' orders. It seemed a silly thing to say, with dead bodies all over the place, but I guess he was, like Osric, just a functionary looking for a pat on the head for doing his job.

Horatio blamed Hamlet for the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, giving me one more reason to be glad the prince was dead. I hoped he'd go to hell for that – there was no way they could have been involved. Truer friends to Hamlet and happier people I've never met.

Naked, I considered my options. There weren't any. I stayed still as Fortinbras took over giving orders. First order, clear the room of bodies and people. I liked that; it gave me hope. We got down to a silence with only the footprints of someone getting onto the stage. I thought it was Fortinbras but the footsteps went off through the king's door.

I peeked out. The room was empty. I looked at Ejulf, whose head was peeking from under the tablecloth. I was about to say something when, across the Great Hall, a door opened and Fortinbras came in, with a well-decorated Norwegian guard. Ejulf and I ducked back into safety. Fortinbras seemed happy, as well he should have. Two pairs of footsteps came to the dais, and one came onto the stage. "Might as well try it on," Fortinbras said, in Norwegian. I could hear him picking up the crown. Footsteps came closer and the seat of the royal throne dipped for a minute. Then Fortinbras shouted, "What the fuck!" and stood up. "Someone shit on the throne."

I could hear him cursing, and looking for something to wipe himself and the throne clean. I guess he grabbed the tablecloth because he asked, angrily, "who are you? You're going to die, you little...."

I reached out, grabbed our new king's ankle, and toppled the new king of Denmark over. "Let's go, Ejulf," I said, dragging him towards the king's door. We went across the hall and into the royal bedroom.

From behind me, I heard Fortinbras shouting in badly accented Danish, "You're first on my list, Amundi!" I have a winning way with kings, I guess.

We crossed the royal bedroom and into the royal shit room. "Dead end," Ejulf said, then looked in fright at me. "You're not going to...." He had no time to say anything more as I lifted the wooden lid and heaved him into the hole. I could hear Fortinbras come into the bedroom as I put one leg, then another over the sill, crossed myself, prayed to the saint of fools, and made the long fall down the outside castle wall, into the moat, one hand pinching my nose and my teeth clenched to hold the pearl in my mouth.

I think I knocked off several wasp nests on the way down, but my prayers were answered; I didn't land on Ejulf.

They really aught to flush out that moat with water from the creek more often.

It was still raining heavily, which helped a bit when we got out of the moat. There was no pursuit that I could detect. We got to the dock, where the tide was in. I threw Ejulf into the water, and jumped in after him, rolling around to clean us a bit.

We got to _Gunhild_ shortly after. To my relief Soldir and Casimir were there. I wasn't much surprised to see Odindisa, either. She'd obviously go wherever Casimir did. I looked under the old cart, but someone had stolen my clothes. I returned to the boat.

Hekja was a surprise. She was putting in time cleaning the old boat up a bit, it seemed. She'd just pried my rotting fish from under the floorboards. I spit the pearl from my mouth. "No!" I yelled.

She looked ruined. "You don't want me?"

No, yes, I want that fish and you too!" A flock of seagulls circled, confused. Conversation was getting difficult. I needed both mouth and hands. I reached back and shoved the pearl up my butthole.

"Hekja," a voice beside me said. It was Ingald.

"Bugger off," I said, as Ejulf jumped into the boat. I turned to Hekja and pointed at Ingald. "You want out? I'm not going to let this jerk into the boat."

Hekja shook her head. I elbowed Ingald in the pit of the stomach and untied the lines. Casimir pushed the boat away from the dock, and the last I saw of Ingald was him walking in the heavy rain back towards the town.

Soldir pointed at Ejulf. "You really want him?" I was starting to shiver; Soldir handed me a rain cloak.

"We might need him as bait," I said. I farted out the pearl. I got my sack of loot from the rotting fish, tied it around my waist, and added the pearl.

As we got out of the harbour and struggled to get the wet sails up, the wind picked up and the rain dropped back a bit. Another boat, not much bigger than ours, was also heading for open water, and passed right behind us. There were three men in the front, and Grim sat in the back with Tola. I waved. Grim waved back without smiling. They turned north, and we turned south, and soon their boat, the castle, and the town of Elsinore had disappeared into the rain behind us. I heard another cannon, but I don't know what it meant. My prayers were answered as we got around the point; the rain stopped and my friend, the Danish wind picked up, from the north.

***
Chapter 21: Afterward

What a fine comedy this world would be if one did not play a part in it.

It's been thirty years since Hekja and I fled Elsinore.

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young; a man must have grown old and lived long in order to see just how short life is, how very thin the gap between a young man and an old man with a young soul and old bones. But what of that? It is nothing. An older man shouldn't try to realize the hopes and wishes of his early youth; each decade of a life has its own fortunes, its own hopes, its own laughter, its own tears. Life is either a continuing adventure, or it is nothing. As Hekja often told me, "Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadows. Not even the ones that follow a person around.

Of all the principals in the events, the only one Hekja and I ever saw again was Soldir, about thirteen years after Fortinbras took over my country. He came limping into the bakery one beautiful day in spring, and stood there, leaning on a cane. He said nothing. I said nothing. We just stepped up to each other and embraced. Then I called Hekja downstairs and she wrapped her arms around him, too, without speaking.

"Hekja," I asked, can we turn the shop over to Pierre and go for a walk?" She nodded, and we walked half a block to a French café with tables on the sunny side of the street. All around us Frenchmen, old and young, talked fiercely about politics and religion and aspects of life only they could find the words for.

"It is," I said, "good to see you, old friend." The waiter brought wine and we gauged the changes that had put lines on our faces. Hekja nodded, she was an eternally cheerful person, but now was happier than I'd seen her in a while.

"And you, Hekja and Amundi." He looked up at the trees, just coming into leaves. "A beautiful spot."

"But what brings you to Paris," I asked.

"Came looking for you," the old soldier said. He waved his arms around to encompass everything. "And I wanted to see Paris before I die."

"It's a long way," I said.

"No so far. I met some French traders in one of the Danish free towns that Fortinbras has opened to try to generate a bit more tax money. They hired me as an interpreter, since I spoke some French." He smiled. "Next thing I knew, I'm offered a ride on a wagon to this fair city and they'll pay me to learn to speak their damned language better."

"It's a big city," I said.

"Your Danish community here isn't all that big; you weren't hard to find."

"You have a place to stay?"

"I'm supposed to find one. Shouldn't be a problem."

"You're welcome to stay above the bakery," Hekja said, then looked at me in case she'd been too forward.

"We have spare rooms."

"Then I'd be happy to stay with you for a night. That is your son at the bakery?"

"Pierre, our oldest son, is bound and determined to learn the business until we agree to let him go off the see the world." I laughed. "I told him to go to the Vatican and find his real father. I'd like to see the look on Ingald's face when Pierre shows up."

Hekja seemed as happy as I to talk to someone outside our tiny Paris Danish community, and she'd always liked Soldir. Maybe he was a father figure to a woman that had grown up among women, except for the occasional haughty and sometimes licentious men who visited the monastery.

I was happier than the wine would allow. In age we talk because we have seen much, and because we know it may be soon that we cease talking altogether.

We talked about the young people, of course. It's safe. Young people, we decided, think old men are fools; old men _know_ young men are fools.

We avoided the elephant in the room for a while. Soldir said, "Paris is beautiful in the spring, and so peaceful."

"The truest beasts live in the most populous and beautiful places," I said. "Concealment is easier there."

There was a long silence, Then Soldir said, "I lost my wife – you never met her – to a cholera outbreak almost eight years ago. Hekja took his hand and looked out at the street, where boys were gathering up the horse manure while dodging more horses.

"Three," I said. "Two girls and a boy, to the plague and cholera and something else – it' hard to tell with an infant." The silence went on, till I added, "We have three left now: Pierre, the oldest, and Gunhild and Sigrid." I smiled, and asked. "I hear Fortinbras is still running our country."

Soldir nodded, a bit sadly. "He is. Things in Denmark have pretty well settled down, although they still sing some of our little anti-Norwegian songs in places where they can get away with it."

"I thought the Danish Lords might resist. Other than Roskilde, I mean." I remembered Lady Isobel.

"Well, Fortinbras has more luck than a demon, I guess. Having been handed the crown that way rather confused the situation. After a month, he did send troops and took Roskilde, of course, but I've always suspected that he made up the stories about Roskilde's rebellion."

"Took the castle down, they say."

Soldir laughed. "Well, they blew down the gates with the very cannons that Claudius paid so much for." He nodded to Hekja. "I heard that Lady Isobel ended up in Vrejlev Abbey. Roskilde Castle wasn't badly damaged, and some Norwegian Lord owns it now. Did you know Fortinbras deeded almost half Roskilde's land over to Faxe without explanation?"

"No," I said, "but I'm not surprised. Anybody can be bought."

"Well, after capturing the crown, taking over Roskilde, and making peace with Ivar in Faxe, he had Elsinore, with the two nearest of the Danish Lords' castles to protect his claim. And the testimony of the Danish Lords at the showdown in the great hall. I guess the rest of the Danish Lords saw the light and swore fealty. That and agreeing to an increase in taxes...."

"So Denmark's now a province of Norway?" Hekja asked.

Soldir nodded. "Remember Big Anna, daughter of Lord Thord of Faxe? She married one of Fortinbras' younger brothers. Fortinbras, by the way, is also king of Norway. His uncle died shortly after our country was taken over."

"Yeah," I said. "I heard that."

"I've always wondered," Soldir said, "if Hamlet really loved Ophelia."

I snorted. "Some love affair. For two months he denies _ever_ having loved her and never apologizes after he killed her father. He could have said, 'how convenient, my darling. I killed your father so now we can get together.' Do you know what Hamlet called her, when he found out she was dead? 'the fair Ophelia'. Not 'my darling' or anything sweet."

"Well, I heard that Hamlet professed his love in her grave," Ingald said. "The story was still current when I got back to Elsinore."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh yes, it was a magnificent scene. The prince jumped into the grave and said he loved her more than forty thousand brothers, then he fought hand-to-hand with Laertes."

"Okay..." Ingald said. "That matches what I heard."

I said, "I was hiding under the throne of Denmark when Hamlet came into the Great Hall, later that day. He had a long conversation with Horatio, most of which I didn't catch, but I'm pretty sure Ophelia's name didn't come up. Then Osric, one of the king's courtiers came in. Do you know what Hamlet did then? He mocked Osric and laughed at him." I raised both eyebrows and a glass of wine. "I doubt that the prince of Denmark ever mentioned Ophelia again, after the nice little scene in the grave. He may have displayed a lot of emotions before he died, but grief for Ophelia somehow got left behind." I snorted. "One of the great love stories of our time. Yeah, right. Hamlet's love was about one verse long as I remember it." I finished the wine, and, since none of the waiters seemed interested in serving anybody – you learn to tolerate that in Paris – Hekja poured most of her glass into mine.

"Would you stay with us more than just tonight?" I asked Soldir. "It's so good to have someone to talk to about those times."

"I can," Soldir said, "but you'll probably wish you had Ingald here, too. He was so wise. Or at least good with parables and wit."

"Solomon," I said, "made a book of proverbs, but a book of proverbs never made a Solomon."

"I'd be happy to stay," Soldir said. "Tomorrow you can tell me how you ended up in such a fine bakery."

"He will," Hekja said, smiling. We walked arm in to the store, closed it down for the day, then went to our apartment, which was only a block further from the street the bakery was on. My daughters smiled and conversed well for their age, as good Parisian kids are taught. I had private tutors for each of them, and another for Pierre, in the mornings.

After Aimee, the house servant, had cooked a meal, I let her go home. At the table, and afterwards, in the living room, I told Soldir how I'd obtained the pearl. When we'd fled Elsinore, Ejulf and I had told the others in the boat about the killings in the Great Hall, but neither of us had mentioned the pearl, me because it could be tempting, and Ejulf probably because he still had plans to get it from me.

We'd split up at the dock at the free city of Lubeck. Soldir, Casimir, and Odindisa, taking the route west to Mecklenburg while Hekja and I went south to Hamburg, on our way to Paris. I'd left Ejulf tied to the dock, with a silver coin in his mouth and the ownership of the boat.

"The pearl was in the wine cup?" Soldir said, amazed. "Just how big was it?"

"Like a small grape," I said. "We joined a band of merchants trading in cloth and got to Paris a about a month later."

"That's a big pearl," Soldir said with a quiet whistle.

"I had stashed some money under Asser's gravestone," I said, "but the pearl gave us enough to buy a bakery in a good section of town, as well as rent a place to stay. Pierre was born in the fall, and a couple of years later we sold the first bakery and opened a new one down the street. Eight people working for us, now."

"I didn't know you could bake," Soldir said.

Hekja spoke up. "I worked most of my early life in the monastery bakery. We started out in Paris selling the same things as the rest of the French bakeries, then added in some Danish sweets. But we learned to make pastry the French way, so it didn't break teeth.

"You've done well."

"Thanks to the pearl. Did you know that a Roman general named Vitellius once financed an entire military campaign with the proceeds from one pearl. So I was told, but it was probably larger than the one I had. And people lie to me a lot. Not all peoples are so committed to truth as us Danes."

A silence fell over the room as we drank wine and watched the Paris sky grow dark outside the window. We lit candles, fine and clean beeswax candles rather than the smoky tallow ones the poor use, and talked into the night.

The next day was as bright and sunny a day as Paris could offer, and we walked along the river, first talking about the current political situation in Europe. The Germans, Soldir noted, had put down a peasant's revolt, with a lot of bloodshed, almost all of it on the part of the peasants.

"And we thought Luther would overthrow the civil establishment after the Holy Church," I said. "I guess we were wrong."

"Early days," Soldir said. "It's been just over a year since Sweden went officially Lutheran, and a couple of months since Finland did. They're still routing out the loyal Catholics up there." He rubbed a finger in a palm. "Don't forget, if a kingdom gets rid of the Roman Church, there's a lot of taxation money it doesn't have to send to the Vatican. And Fortinbras is probably contemplating that right now."

Eventually, Soldir, Hekja, and I, returned to talking about the old days as we'd seen them.

Eventually I said to Soldir, "You went back to Denmark, of course. What did people think of the way Fortinbras showed up within minutes of the Danish royal family being wiped out? It seems a rather remarkable coincidence to me."

"There were a lot of rumors about secret deals and betrayals between various people present and the Norwegians, but I never found anything that would make me think they were real. No," he said, "I think Fortinbras figured his best option was just to hang around the area and hope something would happen. I think he just got lucky. It's a thin plan, but I've often wondered if Hamlet himself didn't have the same kind of plan; hang around pretending to be crazy until he found a reason to poke a nifty little hole through Claudius' hard little heart."

"You think Claudius was a worse example of human than Hamlet?"

"Not by much. A person can be driven to murder by love or hate, if he's going to do it on impulse by himself. Lots of that in the Bible, once the Church. But," he grimaced and shook his head, "to plan to have someone murdered... that's wickedness of a high degree. Both men are guilty of that."

"But," I said, crossing myself, "both died without benefit of clergy, so they're both enjoying purgatory."

"To get back to the wonderful way Fortinbras showed up a few minutes after the royal Danish family dispute ended, I'd say he had a good spy close to the throne, a spy to let him know there was going to be sword fighting in the Great Hall."

"Leif," I said. "I saw him galloping away north earlier that day."

"Ah, yes," Soldir said. "That makes things a bit clearer."

"Nonetheless," Hekja said, "Fortinbras was lucky to have Hamlet return. Otherwise, none of that would have happened, and you'd both still be telling jokes on Sundays in Elsinore."

"You believe that?" Soldir said. He'd been limping more, so we found a small pastry shop with a table, and sat down. Hekja and I often roamed Paris trying out the competition.

"Not as good as our bakery," Hekja said, even before she ordered something to compare.

"One more thing," I asked Soldir. "You and Ingald came back to Denmark when everybody else thought the Norwegian invasion was still a possibility. Even the ambassadors hadn't come back to report to Claudius."

"Ingald insisted it was safe. I had no idea how at the time, but he probably got the information from some Church official. They usually know things before anybody else. He probably knew about that silly pirate thing before Hamlet set foot on Danish soil again."

"Silly? You didn't believe the pirate story?" I asked. "Horatio got it straight from Hamlet and the prince wasn't the kind to make up stuff like that."

"Oh," I have no doubt Hamlet believed it," Soldir said. "The kid was good at some things, but he never could figure out people or their actions."

"What do you think happened, then?" Hekja asked.

"Let's look at the collection of odd events," Soldir said. He held up a finger. "A pirate ship large enough to threaten a royal Danish ship with armed men on it. That's not common." He held up a second finger. "They attack Hamlet's ship and manage to get him, and him alone, onto their ship, unharmed, and then they sail away."

"Still possible," I said.

"Logical," Soldir said, "if you knew the prince was on it. Nothing the rest of the ship could be carrying was as valuable as the prince himself. A knight alone will bring a ransom of greater wealth than anything you can imagine. There were nobles captured in the hundred year's war who waited years before their king could raise enough money and negotiate enough of a discount to get them home. Claudius would be obligated to buy him back at great cost. "

Unless Claudius planned all this." Hekja leaned forward, listening.

"In that case," Soldir said, "Hamlet would have gone overboard with a rock attached to his foot. The last thing Claudius wanted, as far as I could see, was to get his stepson back on Danish territory."

"But they didn't ransom him," I said. "They let him go for a promise of a future favor."

"And that's the most unlikely thing I've heard since the Church told me I'd go blind if I kept playing with my Jonsen. When Hekja blushed and smiled, Soldir said, "If that were true we'd have blind armies fighting each other. And, I daresay, a lot of blind nuns tending the monastery fields." When Hekja stopped laughing, Soldir held up a third finger. "That makes up the oddest pirate crew in the history oof humanity, I imagine."

I pointed a finger at him. "You think those pirates had strong Norwegian accents, don't you?"

"I think that when Hamlet killed Claudius those 'pirates' got their favour repaid."

We all contemplated that for a while. "So," Hekja said, "if Fortinbras only pretended to want to attack Poland so he could hang around Elsinore and he faked a pirate attack to get Hamlet back to the castle, where, conveniently, Hamlet killed Claudius, then you must assume Fortinbras to be very, very lucky in life, or an evil genius almost at the level of Satan himself." She raised her eyebrows in skepticism.

Soldir gave a magnificent Italian shrug that he must have picked up from Ingald. "I'd say, just luck. Hang around the goal and hope someone passes you the ball. Free the prince and send him back to Elsinore. Then he'd wait and hope. Can't hurt, he'd think; Hamlet seemed like the kind of guy to always make things worse. And there's that ghostly command for Hamlet to kill Claudius. Bound to help his cause."

"Ghostly command?" I asked. "There were rumors that Hamlet had seen the ghost of his father, but I didn't hear about any command."

"Well," Soldir said, brightening – it's always nice to pass along real juicy information, "well, the rumor was that the ghost of Hamlet's father contacted him right after Hamlet got back to Elsinore." Soldir leaned further forward and whispered, as if we were in a dark room somewhere, "Some guards swore on the Latin bible that the ghost said Claudius killed his father and made him promise vengeance!" He widened his eyes, and winked at us.

Hekja sat up and crossed her arms. "The nuns were always seeing ghosts in the monastery. It's an old dark place full of shadows. But we were taught that the world is made up of God, angels, and people. No ghosts of anybody dead. That if we met a ghost it must be a creation of The Devil, sent here to try to make us do things God would disapprove of. We could ignore it; it couldn't hurt us except by suggestion."

"That would fit with the one Hamlet saw, if the rumor's true," Soldir said. "The guard I spoke to was convinced he'd seen a ghost and that it had been dressed in a battle outfit like Old King Hamlet used."

"That convinced you?" Hekja asked."

Soldir laughed. "Every soldier sees some ghosts at night. Only a few have conversations with them, though." He turned to Hekja. "Did any of these ghosts look like handsome young men with a bulging codpiece?"

"I never saw one," she said, "but I suspect a few nuns might have seen what you describe."

"Getting back to Fortinbras," I said, "and away from oversexed nuns, do you remember that saying about a general who wins a battle without fighting is the best general. We said that applied to Claudius after he got the letter from Fortinbras' uncle." I paused for effect. "But, in the long run, that might have applied better to Fortinbras, wouldn't you say? Claudius dies a few minutes before Prince Hamlet. Fortinbras get the crown handed to him and gets all of Denmark without breaking his promise or losing more than a couple of soldiers to the perils of bad Danish beer."

Soldir was quick. "I'd say it applied to Satan first and foremost. The bastard's always been a great general." We all crossed ourselves.

"Fortinbras should build a statue honoring Claudius and Hamlet." Hekja said.

"You think so?" Soldir asked.

"Norwegian heroes. Between them they managed to eliminate both the entire royal family of Denmark and the logical successors."

We got off the bench, and began walking again. I bought us some apples from a dirty street urchin I felt sorry for. "Claudius and Hamlet," I said. "Tragic heroes?" I asked Soldir.

"When I first got to Elsinore," Soldir said, "the king was preparing for war against the Norwegians. They were running three shifts a day; that's how concerned they were. As you saw, at the end, after lots of stabbing and drowning and poisoning, Hamlet casually handed the crown to Fortinbras."

"A man he'd never personally met," Hekja added.

"We couldn't make up a skit like that for an entertainment," I said. "Who'd believe it?"

"A novel, like _Don Quixote_. Or a play. We could charge admission to see it. We could send the idea to England; they're far enough away to laugh at us."

"Did you ever hear anything of Casimir and Odindisa? They were talking of coming to Paris, too."

Soldir nodded. I got it on good report that they were in Prussia. Casimir was teaching military theory at some officer's school."

"What's Prussia like," Hekja asked.

"They say it's like Faxe, only a whole kingdom of it." We contemplated that for a while, walking the narrow medieval streets of Paris.

"Any idea what happened to Grim?" I asked, meaning Tola, and the others knew I meant Tola so they didn't say it.

"I found out that it was Grim who told Claudius that Casimir was a Norwegian spy, and that you probably were, too. Don't know why he did that. He and his sister got back to Jutland, somewhere, then took off for Sweden, I hear,"

"His sister?" I almost tripped on a beggar.

"Oh, yeah. Nobody found that out till later, but Tola was Grim's sister. They were spying for the Danish Lords as a group, I guess, trying to put the Elsinore noses to the grindstone to keep the Norwegians out. Like that worked. Last I heard they were selling Swedish translations of the Bible up in Stockholm."

"Shoop?" I asked.

Soldir shrugged. "I ran across him once. Asked him how his list was going. He said, 'Quite successfully. All 12 of the Danish Lords, including the new Norwegian one.' So I asked him if the royal throne was his best. He said he could tell me how he did a couple of dining room tables or a Lady's bed, but actually, he says he got creative after a while. Second best was into a serving dish, subsequently delivered to the dining room still warm for a very formal dinner, and the best was a Lord and Lady's little dog, late one evening not long before bedtime. He claimed they always slept with that dog in their bed."

"Didn't hear from him again?"

"My hope is that he went off to Rome. Did you ever find out what happened to Yorick?"

I shook my head vigorously. "No. Not all trails have an end, not all hounds flush a partridge."

"Do you think Claudius actually killed Old King Hamlet?" Hekja asked Soldir.

"Probably," he said.

"Did Gertrude know?"

"If she did," I said, "she probably went right into denial or justification. I didn't see any lamenting on her part," I said. "She was good to me; I rather liked her."

***
Chapter 22: Wind

I had the last of our best French wine and a piece of what the French think is salami, and went to bed. Long after I'd blown out the candle, and Hekja and I had relived some of our more youthful passion, I lay awake, listening to the wind.

"You're thinking of Denmark again, aren't you?" Hekja asked, quietly.

"I am," I said. "I thought of Elsinore in moonlight."

"Long ago," she said, "and far away." She went to sleep, snoring gently as always.

I rolled towards her and cupped one warm breast in my hand without waking her. Eventually, I, too, fell asleep.

*** END OF NARRATIVE ****

Chapter 23: Summary of Shakespeare's Hamlet Play

Background

Everything takes place in or near Elsinore Castle, home of the Danish Royalty.

A couple of months before the play starts, Hamlet's father, Old King Hamlet, was found dead. By the time Hamlet got back from his school in Germany, his mother Gertrude, had married his uncle Claudius and they were running Denmark. Fortinbras, a prince of Norway, is threatening to invade Denmark.

Act 1. Scene 1.

Night-shift guards on the parapets of Elsinore Castle comment on the round-the-clock defense improvements being done. They see the ghost of Old King Hamlet.

Act 1: Scene 2.

Claudius and Gertrude are trying to celebrate things, but Prince Hamlet's having none of it. Claudius is sending a letter to the King of Norway in hopes of stopping Fortinbras. Hamlet is informed of the ghost.

Act 1: Scene 3.

Ophelia, Hamlet's girlfriend, is warned by her brother not to trust Hamlet. Then her father, Polonius, forbids her to even speak to Hamlet. Laertes leaves for school in Paris.

Act 1: Scene 4.

Hamlet is taken to see the ghost.

Act 1: Scene 5.

The ghost says Claudius murdered him, and asks for revenge. Hamlet tells his friends he's going to act strangely. Hamlet ignores Ophelia after this.

Act 2: Scene 1.

Hamlet still acting strangely.

Act 2: Scene 2.

It's a couple of months later. Claudius asks Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, old friends of Hamlet, to find out why he's acting like that.

Word comes back from the King of Norway; he's forbidden Fortinbras to harm Claudius, but could Claudius kindly let Fortinbras pass through Denmark to attack Poland instead? A traveling acting group is coming to the castle; Hamlet asks them to do a play about a king killing a king.

Act 3: Scene 1.

Hamlet denies ever having loved Ophelia.

Act 3: Scene 2.

The play is performed; Claudius panics.

Act 3: Scene 3.

Claudius decides to send Hamlet to England. Hamlet almost decides to kill Claudius.

Act 3: Scene 4.

Talking with his mother, Hamlet kills Polonius. Drags body away.

Act 4: Scene 1.

Gertrude now convinced Hamlet is nutso.

Act 4: Scene 2.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern try to get Hamlet to tell them what he did with Polonius' body.

Act 4: Scene 3.

Claudius steps up plans to send Hamlet to England, and plans to have him killed there.

Act 4: Scene 4.

Fortinbras is near Elsinore. Hamlet is unhappy. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern go with him, bound for England.

Act 4: Scene 5.

Laertes returns to find his father murdered and his sister Ophelia crazy. He vows revenge.

Act 4: Scene 6.

A letter from Hamlet; he's on his way home, thanks to some pirates,

Act 4: Scene 7.

Claudius arranges for Laertes to have a swordfight with Hamlet when he returns. A poisoned sword and cup of poisoned wine are prepared. Ophelia is found drowned.

Act 5: Scene 1.

Hamlet returns as Ophelia is being buried. He's not happy.

Act 5: Scene 2.

Hamlet says he arranged to have Rosencrantz and Guildenstern killed. Swordfight in throne room results in deaths of Laertes, Claudius, Gertrude, and Hamlet. Fortinbras shows up; the dying Hamlet gives Fortinbras the crown.

***
Chapter 24: Characters and Places in this Book

(At least, this is how they started in the story.)

**Amundi** : Jester to the royal family of Denmark. From Southern Denmark.

**Arno & Bengt**: two soldiers sent to accompany Amundi and friends on the tour.

**Asser** : Jester previous to Amundi

**Big Anna:** Lady Anna, daughter of Lord Thord of Faxe. A very small, thin woman.

**Casimir** : Sir Casimir Jezowski. Polish military historian

**Claudius** : Became King of Denmark after Old King Hamlet died and he married Gertrude. A tall, thin man, with large luminous blue eyes and a perpetual air of sadness. Deep voice.

He has a tendency to hesitate in speaking, but not in action.

**Ejulf** ;. Leader of the traveling players. He plays the part of the murdered king

**Elsinore Castle** : Palace in which the royal family lives, especially in war times.

**Elsinore Town** : The town just outside Elsinore castle.

**Faxe Castle** : A castle near Elsinore. Run on a very military basis by the ailing Lord Thorde. Sons Hakon and Ivar, daughter Anna (Big Anna).

**Fortinbras** : Prince of Norway. Son of the late King Fortinbras.

**Gamli** : a royal servant

**Gertrude** : Queen of Denmark. After Old King Hamlet died, she married his brother, Claudius

**Great Hall** : Largest enclosed room in the castle. Used for feasts, entertainment, and royal functions.

**Grim** : The Danish Minster of War & President of Privy Council. Lives with Tola. A very deep voice.

**Gudmund** : One of Ejulf's players,

**Guildenstern and Rosencrantz** : Long-time friends of Hamlet. Good-time guys.

_Gunhild:_ Amundi's escape boat.

**Hakon:** Younger son of Lord Thord of Faxe.

**Hamlet** : Prince of Denmark. Son of Old King Hamlet and Gertrude

**Hanseatic League** : A defensive and commercial confederation of merchant guilds and their market towns along northern Europe, all within the Holy Roman Empire.

**Hekja** : Former nun from x monastery. When disguised as a man, she's called Helgi.

**Helgi** : Hekla, when disguised as a man.

**Holstein** : a Duchy of the Holy Roman Empire. First place you find if you walk out of Denmark.

**Holy Roman Empire** : A complex collection of territories dominating central Europe from Demark to Italy. At the time of our story it had recently been renamed Holy Roman Empire of the Germans.

**Ingald** : Apprentice jester.

**Ivar:** Older son of Lord Thord of Faxe.

**Kjeld and Robert** : Two Men-at-arms, mercenaries, looking for work.l

**Laertes** : Son to Polonius, brother to Ophelia

**Leif:** Elsinore palace guard

**Lord Thord:** Lord of Faxe

**Melka's Young Dog tavern:** A tavern a day's travel from Elsinore

**Miss Leadir:** Amundi, in disguise as a woman, to mislead the dungeon guards.

**Odindisa** : Wife of Sir Casimir

**Odwin and his lute** : Entertainer

**Old King Hamlet** (Prince Hamlet's father)

**Ophelia** : Daughter of Polonius. Loves Hamlet.

**Paris** : French city where Laertes studied.

**Polish Winter War** : A war in which Old King Hamlet (Prince Hamlet's father) defeated the Polish army

**Polonius** : Prime Minister of Denmark, father to Ophelia and Laertes

**Robert and Kjeld** : Two Men-at-arms, mercenaries, looking for workl

**Roskilde castle** : A castle near Elsinore, home of one of the Danish Lords, Olav, and his wife, Lady Isobel

**Rosencrantz and Guildenstern** : Long-time friends of Hamlet. Good-time guys.

**Sergeant Knud:** Soldier from Faxe

**Shoop** : Bitter Dane, determined to shit on the seats of important political and religious leaders in Denmark

**Sir C** asi **mir Jezowski** : Polish military historian

**Sjelland (Zealand)** : The Danish island on which Elsinore stands.

**Soldi:** Stage name of Solvi. Old soldier and apprentice jester

**Thord:** Lord of Faxe

**Tola** : Wife to Grim. Lover of Amundi

Vest Agder: the part of Norway Old King Hamlet won when he defeated Fortinbras' father before the story starts

**Voltemand** : With **Cornelius** , an envoy send to the King of Norway.

**Vrejlev Abbey:** A monastery. Hekja was raised there.

**Wittenberg** : German city where Hamlet studied.

**Young Dog tavern:** A tavern a day's travel from Elsinore. Melka, a friend of Soldir, runs it.

***
Chapter 25: A Request to the Reader

My dear and gentle reader: this book is my best effort, but you may find it necessary to report to me that there are typos and errors in the text. If so, I would be happy to learn of them and make changes to the next revision.

You may also want to make suggestions as to how the novel can be improved. Many of these, of course, will cause me to go into a funk, break open a bottle of scotch, and get a new hobby. But that doesn't mean that many such suggestions won't be incorporated into future revisions anyway.

Here are some questions to consider:

Do you want more about any of the following?

Amundi and family

Amundi and Helka or Tola

Sir Casimir

Ingald

Other characters

16th century customs and life

Which characters would you like to see more of?

The Church

Castles

Other Questions

Which characters would you like to see less of? Any I should liquidate at the beginning?

What changes to any character would you like to see?

Have I omitted any characters that should be in the book?

Any things I've left out? Have poorly explained? Explained more than once?

Are there any places where my narrative contradicts that of Shakespeare.

***
Chapter 26: Sources

Also, the web, especially Wikipedia (yes, I've sent them donations), Uncle John's Bathroom readers, and places I've just forgotten. The list includes ones I've used as well as ones I plan to use for the next revision.

  * 10,000 jokes, toasts, and stories: Copeland

  * The Oxford book of Aphorisms: Gross

  * The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. John Koenig dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com [magnificent]

  * If I die in a combat zone: O'Brien

  * No more heroes: madness and psychiatry in war; Gabriel [magnificent]

  * One soldier's war: Babchemko [magnificent]

  * And no birds sang; Mowat

  * War is a force that gives us meaning: Hedges [magnificent]

  * An article my late father wrote

  * Life in Elizabethan England

  * Daily life in Elizabethan England

  * The Vikings: Brondsted

  * Life in a medieval castle: Gies

  * Timelines of History: Vol. 6

  * Free fall in crimson: MacDonald

  * 1000 feelings for which there are no names: Giordano

  * Book of fire: Moynahan [very good]

  * Hamlet No Fear Shakespeare

  * The decline and fall of the Roman church: Martini

*** END OF BOOK ***

