An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon Page A

walked away.

Seven
    ‘‘Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool..
    —Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
Slesvig, 1157 A.D.
    T here are times when people become weary of fools. Terence knew this well enough to make sure that he occasionally spent time outside of Slesvig, wandering the villages under its dominion, juggling for meals and singing for a nights lodging in a hayloft. He would return from these sojourns refreshed, and the quiet in the town left by his absence made the noise of his presence all the more welcome.
    And there are times when fools become weary of themselves. When he wanted peace and quiet, he would make the two-hour trek west to Magnus’s farm. There he would walk with the farmer and discuss whatever topics came to mind without feeling the need to perform. Or he would share the chore at hand, basking in the simplicity of accomplishing a necessary task. Gorm had arranged for him to be followed on these occasional visits, but the spy observed nothing illicit, and casual questioning of the farmer revealed only information about growing barley and rye. A great deal of information about growing barley and rye, as Magnus was a garrulous man on that subject. The spy eventually gave up.
    Terence knew about the spy, of course, but worried neither about him nor any other attempt by Gorm to learn more about him. A handful of people now knew of his connection to the Roskilde fool, but few knew more than that, and those who did found it useful to keep that knowledge quiet.
    On an unusually moderate day in early December, Terence lay his cloak down on the meadow near the watering hole where he first met Magnus, then stretched out on his back. Magnus was in his barn, slaughtering pigs for the smokehouse, a task Terence begged off from joining. He lay there, half asleep, listening to the breeze whistle through the brush on the windbreak.
    When the woman first appeared, Terence thought that he dreamt her. She was looking behind her as she clambered up to the top of the windbreak, and the wind was sending her hair streaming toward him, almost as if the hair itself had taken her captive and was dragging her away. She turned to look ahead too late to avoid an exposed root directly in her path. It sent her somersaulting through the high grass and weeds anchoring the windbreak on the side by the farm, her arms flailing about in an effort to slow her fall. She met the level ground with a thump.
    By that time Terence was up and running to her aid. She was sprawled on the ground, her eyes closed, breathing rapidly. He felt for her pulse, then looked down at her face that, despite being smudged and slightly scratched, or possibly because of being smudged and slightly scratched, appeared to him to be quite lovely.
    At that moment her eyes opened to behold the whiteface of the fool, his hair sticking out at odd angles from beneath his cap and bells. She looked at him quizzically.
    “Have I stumbled upon some hidden fairyland?” she asked him. “Or is this a dream?”
    “I know it isn’t a fairyland,” he replied. “I’m no longer certain about the dream, but which of us is the dreamer?”
    “I did bump my head, I think,” she said. “That would make me the more likely candidate.”
    “Ah, but I am a fool,” he said. “We never know the difference, anyway.”
    “I have never dreamt of a fool before,” she said. “Do you ever dream of women?”
    “Often,” he replied, laughing.
    “Then perhaps this is your dream,” she said. “Rather ungallant of you to cause me to trip and fall like that.”
    “My apologies,” he said. “Are you all right?”
    “I think so,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her head ruefully. “My pride is hurt.”
    “I think that you no longer have any pride,” he said.
    “Why is that?”
    “It is said that pride goeth before a fall,” he replied. “Since you have just fallen, your pride must have gone on ahead.”
    “Alas, I am a fallen woman,” she sighed. “How embarrassing to