An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon Page A

adequate entertainment for now. Give us leave, good Fool, and we will see you again at dinner.”
    “Thank you, milords,” replied Gerald, catching the penny tossed to him by Esbern.
    He wandered around the great hall, where the tables and benches were being set up by the serving thralls around a central fireplace. He paced the distance between the central fireplace and the tables, rehearsing routines in his mind for the space available. Each king would be at his own table, with Sveyn Peder at the rear and the two visitors by their respective guest quarters. He took three clubs from his pack and ran through some juggling maneuvers, marking where he needed to stand to gain the higher parts of the slanted roof while avoiding the crossbeams. The thralls stopped their labors for a moment to watch him until a soldier came in and barked at them.
    Gerald, not wishing to cause the thralls any more trouble, nodded at the soldier and wandered outside, noting with approval that Valdemars men were chatting amiably with the ones who had come with Knud.
    He decided to walk about the town until it was time for him to perform again. At the wharves, he marked the boats of the two kings, guarded warily by their crews who spent half their time watching each other and the other half watching the skies.
    Gerald looked up at the clouds gathering in the distance. There’s going to be a storm later, he thought. He turned back toward the King’s hall, wondering if he should try to wangle a bed for the night there rather than trudge through the rain back to his room. A pair of soldiers passed him, wearing Sveyn’s colors, but speaking Slavic.
    “Wends,” muttered Gerald in disdain. “What are they doing here?” Then he pondered that question more seriously. “Why would Sveyn Peder have Wends in Roskilde when he’s trying to make peace?” he said to himself.
    He followed the pair, reaching into his bag for his lute. They turned before reaching the King’s hall and entered a nearby building. Gerald took a deep breath, and leapt through the doorway, announcing his presence with a mighty strum.
    Startled soldiers leapt to their feet, reaching for weapons. Gerald stilled them with another chord, and proclaimed in Danish, “Greetings, friends. Your King has sent me to entertain you for the afternoon. What shall I sing for you?”
    A group conferred with each other hastily, then one stepped forward.
    “No one invited you here,” he said in heavily accented Danish.
    “No one invites me anywhere,” replied Gerald. “But I promise you that by the time I have finished singing, you’ll be begging me to stay.”
    “Do you know any songs in our language?” asked the soldier curiously.
    “I am afraid that I do not speak your language,” said Gerald. “But I could sing you something in Danish or German if you would like. Or would you prefer juggling?”
    “We would prefer that you get the hell out,” said the soldier, and a few of the others chuckled in agreement.
    “Very good, milords,” said Gerald, bowing low. He turned and left.
    He lurked outside a window, trying to pick up snatches of conversation. Despite his protestations, he spoke fluent Slavic, but kept that to himself. He learned nothing useful, and it was getting toward dinnertime, so he hied himself back to the King’s hall.
    Larfner was already at work, strolling about the hall playing his lute. He raised an eyebrow at Gerald, who joined in from the other side of the hall. The two fools sauntered to the center of the room by the fireplace.
    “Anything amiss?” asked Larfner.
    “Nothing in particular,” said Gerald. “When do the festivities begin?”
    “They’re waiting for the Archbishop to show up and bless everything,” said Larfner.
    “Eskil’s come all the way from Lund?”
    “No, apparently he was in Roskilde already. The Bishop here has been ailing, and Eskil wanted to make sure the local magnates don’t put in someone loyal to them and not to