An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon

blood is now mine!”
    There was a deep-throated roar of approval.
    “South of here lies the moor known as Grathe,” continued Valdemar. “Our scouts report that Sveyn Peder, the murderer, is hoping to lead his army through there in the hope of catching us unawares. We shall meet him on Grathe Moor. Our armies combined cannot be anything but victorious. And when we are, peace will be celebrated across all of Denmark. Go bravely into battle, not for revenge, but for peace, my friends, and we shall begin a new golden age together.”
    He strode through the armies, banging his sword on his shield. Behind him, his new bride watched from a window, a slight smile upon her lips.
----
    A day later , King Sveyn Peder staggered through a bog, his shield gone, his sword notched, an arrow wound in his thigh. His men had been routed, and he himself had turned and run in full view of the opposing armies. He had somehow managed to evade capture, but was lost on ground that was both hostile and unpleasantly soggy.
    He cried out with relief when he reached solid ground, and nearly collapsed in exhaustion. There was a road ahead. Roads were good things. It meant he could escape back to the harbor where his navy awaited him, and once he had reached them, he could reassemble his men. He wasn’t defeated, not yet.
    He knew that there would be patrols searching for him. He thought of waiting until darkness to continue, but then he saw salvation in the guise of an old monk, plodding along the road, leaning heavily on an oaken staff.
    Sveyn burst out of the woods, his sword out.
    “Hold, Father,” he commanded.
    The monk stopped.
    “How can I help you, my son?” he asked solicitously. “You are wounded. I have some small skill in healing, if you will permit me.”
    “You have something I value even more highly,” said Sveyn.
    “What could that be?” asked the monk.
    “Your cassock and cowl,” said the King. “Give them to me.”
    “That I cannot do, my son,” said the monk. “They are the uniform of my order. I cannot let another take them.”
    “I was not asking,” snarled Sveyn, bringing up his sword. Then he howled in pain as the monk, with speed belying his years, stepped inside
    Kis swing, seized his sword hand with one hand and his elbow with the other, then twisted the arm back. There was a crack, then Sveyn dropped the sword, clutching his now useless right arm.
    “Broken, I should think,” said the monk. “How about some of that healing I mentioned?”
    Sveyn growled and reached for the sword with his left hand. The monk sighed, then picked up his staff and swung. There was another crack, and Sveyn fell to his knees.
    “Instead of the healing, sire, perhaps you should consider confession,” said the monk.
    Sveyn looked up at him, comprehension dawning on his face.
    “You know me,” he said.
    “Yes, milord,” said Gerald, pushing back his cowl. “And you know me as well.”
    Sveyn stared dumbly.
    “Yxi’re the fool,” he exclaimed in bewilderment.
    “When I was with you, I was a fool,” said Gerald. “But I am also a priest. I will give you the opportunity that you did not give so many that fatal night in August—to clear your soul and make your peace with God. Will you make confession, milord?”
    “Damn you!” shouted the King, trying to pick up the sword once again.
    “Your death is required, I’m afraid,” said Gerald gently as he snatched the King’s sword from the ground.
    “I thought that priests were not allowed to spill blood,” whined the King in desperation.
    “I’m not that kind of priest,” replied Gerald. “Please believe me when I say that revenge for my friend Larfner is not my reason for killing f t you.
    He swung the sword once, and Sveyn’s head was separated from his neck.
    “But, sadly enough, vengeance has been satisfied,” said Gerald. He knelt by the corpse and administered extreme unction. Then he tossed the sword by the body, pulled his cowl back over his head, and