at his belt. I held my breath, my every muscle tense, and I thought the child might somehow put the blade through the king’s throat, but he disappointed me. He knelt by his father’s bloody corpse and bowed his head.
“Majesty, I beg your leave to take my father home and bury him.” He had a high, clear voice. I imagined him singing hymns during Mass.
“Your father was a heretic,” the king said. “Rebellion is an affront to God Himself, but I killed your sire honorably, in battle. We should by rights have burned him alive at the stake, but you may drag his bones to your church and pray over him. Let this be a lesson to you, boy. A king will only show mercy to his enemies after he has defeated them.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
That night there was a great feast in the camp to celebrate the victory. I was invited to the king’s tent by Prince Christian, who had drunk many cups of wine before he found me.
“My father brought eels from home in anticipation of this victory,” Christian said.
“Eels?”
“Aye, fished from the harbor at Copenhagen. My mother doth not care for them, but they are my father’s favorite meat, be they boiled into soups, soused in brine and served with lemons, breaded and fried, smoked, jellied, grilled over the fire, or diced and baked inside game birds. There are few ways to prepare eels that do not please my father.”
“I have no appetite,” I said.
“That is your misfortune. But we will celebrate the king’s brave deed today. My father bows before no man. Come.”
Christian dragged me to his father’s tent, where generals and other nobles celebrated with the king. I kept to one side and avoided the wine-soaked brawl while I observed Christian son of Rorik, king of Denmark, lord of Schleswig and Holstein. With his head tilted forward and with the swaggering limp of an experienced campaigner, he marched the length of his tent and made merry with his staff. The generals drained cup after cup in his honor.
“Death to Gustavus!” cried a drunken lord. “His widow and son will have no feast this night!”
“His widow? I should show her the royal scepter,” King Christian said, grabbing the front of his breeches. The drunken lords rocked with laughter, braying like asses.
“And that little brat,” the king roared. “He dared speak to me, did you all see? We should have dragged him to camp and roasted him for our dinner! I’d crack his leg bones with my jaws and suck out his young marrow! Who dares defy Christian son of Rorik? No man! No man dares defy me! Now give me wine, you dogs! Wine for the king!”
A goblet was given to his Majesty. Someone pushed a cup into my hand. We lifted our drinks and a cheer was raised by every man in the tent but me. Christian son of Rorik was a fearless warrior who had never known defeat, but I would dare defy him. He was my enemy, and I had sworn to kill him.
{ Chapter Two }
EVEN THE HEAVENS CHANGE
PRINCE CHRISTIAN AND I STOOD ON THE DECK OF THE Odin as it sailed away from Jutland. The king and a number of his officers were returning to Zealand, leaving behind a large force of men who would march into Aalborg later in the day. The royal army would put to the sword all those citizens who had openly followed Gustavus, and terrorize a great many innocent citizens besides. No matter a man’s own politics, it is always bad luck for him if his lord fails in battle.
The day was cold, but the overcast had cleared here and there to let show patches of blue, clean and pure. I made a wish that the clouds would blow away by sundown so that I might behold the heavens. It had been nearly a week since I had observed the night sky, and the moon was waning but still three quarters full. The phases of the moon are all pleasing to the eye.
“Will we be in Copenhagen by dark, my lord?”
“Nay, Soren.” Christian no longer wore his armor and sword. Under his cloak he dressed in a crimson velvet doublet with white trim to honor his father’s victory. “Tonight we will be in Elsinore. My father would speak to the lord of the castle there.”
“Elsinore,” I said. Decades of memories struggled to surface and I willed them back to stillness.