might soon return to camp and warm my hands over a fire.
“I do not withdraw my claim to Denmark,” Gustavus said. “Yet I would avoid a civil war that devastates the nation.”
“This affront to our honor cannot be ignored,” King Christian said. “Even if you withdraw now and your allies return to their own estates, we have put great expense into bringing our army into Jutland, and the village of Skorping will need to be rebuilt. That will require gold, cousin.”
“I am governor of Jutland. Skorping was mine to burn.”
“We made you governor, cousin. We are your king. Jutland is ours. All of Denmark is ours.”
“Aye, for now. But all of that will change. I do not withdraw, cousin.”
“We can make war and soak these snowy hills with blood,” the king said. “But there is another path we might take. We can decide our dispute in the honored manner of our ancestors.”
Gustavus laughed.
“Cousin,” he said. “You challenge me to single combat?”
“We do. The survivor keeping the crown.”
A few flakes of snow fell, settling onto King Christian’s beard.
“My good cousin,” Gustavus said. “I am twenty years younger than your royal person. I keep my broadsword in constant practice and my joints neither creak nor ache. You are an old man, my lord. Has your son not made you a grandfather yet?”
“Cousin, you make the blood in my heart boil with such talk. I need hear no more of it.”
“Then I will pit my life ’gainst yours for rule of Denmark, cousin. I will drain the blood from your royal veins, and then your kin and kind will swear allegiance to Gustavus.”
“Allegiance has little meaning here in Jutland,” King Christian said. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent, in the year of our Lord 1601. I stood on a frozen lake with Prince Christian on my left and a Danish general named Constantin to my right. In a week, I would turn thirty. Tycho Brahe, the most brilliant man in all of Europe, had been murdered by the king only three months earlier. I reminded myself to make a show of grief when his Majesty died.
Christian son of Rorik and Gustavus of Aalborg raised their great swords within the ring of men standing in the center of Madum Sø. There was snow on their armor and white breath streamed from their helmets into the still air. Mars in Aries, I thought. Jupiter descending.
Gustavus had lost a great deal of blood. He swung wildly at the king, missed, and fell to one knee as his lame foot slipped on the ice. He knelt in Perseus, frost and blood on the face of his helmet. King Christian stood in Taurus and brought his sword down in a mighty blow, cutting Gustavus’s left arm apart at the elbow. Gustavus bellowed like a wounded bear and dropped his sword. The king rained death down upon him, hacking him to pieces. Bright blood spread over the ice, flooding through my imagined constellations. King Christian, still ruler of Denmark, stood over his dead cousin. He pushed up the beaver of his helmet to lick some of Gustavus’s blood from his blade. One barbarian had killed another, and the rebellion was over.
Prince Christian took my arm and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking with excitement. “My father hath slain his enemy. Was it not a glorious, fine thing?”
“Aye, my lord. Your father was never in any danger.”
“Do not sound so disappointed. You have seen my father in his native element today. It was like unto the ancient knight in our great epic.”
“Gustavus was no Grendel, my lord. He was a man, not a monster.”
“His treason was monstrous.”
“Aye, my lord, and surely a treacherous knave earns his reward.”
A squire threw an ermine over the king’s broad back. Towering over the men who had come onto the lake with Gustavus, the king looked each of them in the eye and growled low in his throat. These men were Jutland nobles, tall, bearded, and rich. They cowered and bent their knees, swearing an oath to never again bring such troubles against the crown. Christian son of Rorik promised a punishment of heavy fines to remind them of their fealty, but he let the traitors escape with their lives.
A boy of twelve or so years remained behind on the lake after the treasonous lords fled. This was young Gustav, son of the man who lay butchered at the king’s feet. The boy’s slender hand closed around the grip of a ceremonial dagger