An Antic Disposition by Alan Gordon Page B

tumble like that before a professional tumbler like yourself. You must teach me how to do it better.”
    “It wasn’t bad for an amateur,” he said critically. “Remember to tuck your head under next time, and practice, practice, practice.”
    She started to laugh, a deep merriment from within. He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.
    “Is this your farm?” she asked, looking around.
    “No,” he said. “It belongs to my friend Magnus. But I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind you falling on it.”
    “Could he hide me, do you think?” she asked, suddenly serious. “I could earn my keep. I know farms. I grew up on one.”
    “Why do you need to hide?” he asked.
    “I ran away,” she said. “They’ll find me. They always do.”
    “Who?” he asked.
    “My family,” she said. “They are escorting me to Slesvig to marry me to someone I have never met.”
    “Without your consent?” he exclaimed.
    She looked down.
    “I did consent,” she said in a small voice. “I thought I would be out from under my fathers thumb at last. But I didn’t want to come here so soon. I wanted to spend one last Christmas with my sister and her children. They are the only ones I really cared about, and now I may never see them again. And I miss the fields and the forests near my home. I have spent so much time wandering them on my own that I am fearful of being in a city with so many people.”
    “Slesvig isn’t that large,” he said.
    “Do you know it well?” she asked.
    “I am the town fool,” he said.
    “Then why are you here?”
    “Obviously, so that I may come to your aid,” he replied.
    She smiled shyly.
    “Maybe Slesvig will not be such a terrible place after all,” she said. “If a man of this quality is only the town fool, what paragons must the others be?”
    “Never judge a town by its fool,” he admonished her. Then he stopped as the sound of hoofbeats came from the distance.
    “Damn,” she muttered. “Time to face my fate. It has been a pleasant idyll with you, good sir. What is your name?”
    “It depends on who is talking to me,” he said. “Most of Slesvig calls me Yorick. It’s not my name, but it stuck.”
    “What do you wish me to call you?” she asked.
    He hesitated. “Terence,” he said. “It would sound lovely coming from
    H you.
    “Terence,” she repeated. “My name is Signe. And that is my father galloping toward us.”
    Signe’s sire was clearly a man given to temper, and the sight of his runaway daughter brushing grass and leaves from the back of her gown while in the company of a strange man did nothing to improve his disposition.
    “Get away from her, thrall!” he shouted, uncoiling a whip as he directed his horse toward them.
    “I’m not a thrall, I’m a fool,” protested Terence as he stepped to the side.
    The father turned his attentions to Signe.
    “Is this the sort of man you consort with when you run away?” he snarled. He snapped the whip toward her. She stood without flinching, awaiting contact, but Terence stepped between them and blocked it with a juggling club.
    “Don’t do that,” he implored the man. “’four daughter is innocent of any dalliance, you have my word.”
    “The word of a fool?” laughed the father. He lashed out at Terence. The fool ducked quickly under the whip and jumped up on the horse behind him.
    “Don’t do that again,” he said quietly, pinioning the man’s arms with his own. “It would be a simple thing for me to inflict a great deal of pain upon you right now, but I do not wish to distress this lady any further. Drop the whip.”
    The father hesitated, then yelped suddenly and let the whip fall to the ground. Terence smiled.
    “There,” he said. “Now we can all get along.”
    “I will report your insolence to the Duke,” sputtered the father.
    “If you are referring to Ørvendil, I can assure you that he is quite used to my insolence,” replied Terence. “I am in the garrison every day, solely for the