An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon

Author:Alan Gordon [Gordon, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIction, Historical, Mystery & Detective, General
ISBN: 9780312300968
Google: ptY45jP_RPwC
Amazon: 0312300964
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2004-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Ørvendil caught up to the fool at the base of the hill.

“Well, Terence?” he said, dismounting. “What do you say now?”

“Maybe Terence shouldn’t be my name either,” said the fool. “I’ve been thinking of changing it.”

“To what?”

“Cassandra,” said Terence, watching the last rays of the sun disappear. There was a roaring noise, and the two men looked up to see flames shoot into the air as the gathered men cheered.

“Let’s go,” said Ørvendil.

* * *

The elders of Slesvig and the surrounding villages stood in front of the fire. The oldest stepped forward.

“As our ancestors did, as our children will do, I call upon the men of Slesvig to ascend the Sacred Hill,” he intoned in a hoarse voice. “Are you here, men of Slesvig?”

“We are!” shouted the men.

“As Danelaw sets forth, and by decree of the King, we are gathered to elect one of us to be our ruler. Is there any man here who would assume that great burden?”

“I will,” said Ørvendil, striding into the center of the circle.

“Give us your name, candidate.”

“I am Ørvendil Gervendilson.”

“What are your qualifications?”

Ørvendil turned and faced the assembly.

“For many years I have been the steward of your fortunes, the watcher of your borders, the builder of your defenses, and the protector of your children. I have been placed here at the behest of the man who is now our king, and have his love and trust. I ask that I may continue to serve you.”

The respectful thumping of staves and swords on the ground met this speech, and Ørvendil bowed to the elders.

“Well spoken, milord,” said the leader. “Is there any man who challenges this candidate?”

“I do!” shouted a voice from the back.

There was a murmuring among the men, and a portion of the crowd parted. To the astonishment of everyone but Terence, Fengi strode into the circle.

“State your name,” said the elder.

“Fengi Gervendilson,” he replied.

“What are your qualifications?”

Fengi smiled, and turned to face the crowd.

“My qualifications are that, unlike my brother, I am not a traitor to the crown of Denmark.”

“What?” shouted Ørvendil. “You call me traitor, brother?”

“I do,” he said. “And I have proof of your treachery. Citizens of Slesvig, this man has conspired against the very life of our King. In doing so, he has brought in mercenaries to form the core of an army so that he could set himself up as a king in Slesvig, one to rival Valdemar himself. He has made overtures to the Wends, our sworn enemies, and threatens to bring us into another ruinous civil war not five years after the last tt one.

“Lies!” shouted Ørvendil. “Hideous and base deceptions. Do not believe this man. It is his own ambition that drives this attempt to unseat me.”

“I cannot unseat you,” said Fengi. “You do not possess the throne yet. Not without the consent of the men here.”

“What proofs have you?” demanded the elder.

“A Wendish spy,” said Fengi. “Captured with letters to Ørvendil acknowledging his complicity in this endeavor.”

“An obvious ruse,” said Ørvendil.

“A Tuscan mercenary, disguised as a common brickmaker,” said Fengi.

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