himself into my room and shook me awake.
“A man who aspires to be an assassin ought to remember to lock his door,” Torstensson said.
“I have only just come to bed,” I complained. “I aspire to nothing but more sleep. What time is it?”
“Well past noon. You need not rise on my account. I am in Elsinore but another hour or so, and then I must away.”
“You’ve brought the weapons?”
“If that is what you call them, yes. The trunk is there in the corner. Take care with these toys, my friend.”
“I will. You bring a box full of death, and I am aware how you put your own life in jeopardy to carry them into this castle.”
“I do not complain, Soren. Just as you demanded that yours be the hand to silence the king, I swore to assist you as I can. If Atlas volunteers for his employment, he ought not bemoan the weight of the world on his back.”
“You are a good man, Fritz.”
“This is not about my goodness, but the good of the nation. Last night I dreamed of the king. He marched his army across Denmark, fighting a great battle from one end of the realm to the other, the nation blood-soaked and too small to hold all the fallen. Christian rode at the head of his terrible army, the troops all clad in black armor spattered with Danish blood, the soldiers’ faces black and beaked cruelly like man-sized ravens, their shining black eyes gazing unblinking at the hillocks of corpses and gore left in their wake. The king stood in his saddle, his sword arm sweeping across the sky, blocking out the sun. I awoke terrified, in a bath of sweat. I am not a good man. I am a conspirator in treason.”
“I could ask for no better conspirator. Now get thee gone, that I might sleep.”
Torstensson took my hand.
“Have great care, Soren. Lock your door.”
“I will, by the Cross. You shall soon hear news of the king. Has cousin Erik met his fate?”
“Killed by highwaymen only yesterday.”
“A tragedy.”
“Aye, for him.”
“Well, Fritz. I will write another tragedy here in Elsinore. But first I must sleep.”
{ Chapter Eight }
A T RUNK F ULL OF A DDERS
THE WEATHER GREW WORSE. THAT EVENING A NEW storm front rolled south to stand over Denmark’s skies and send forth a heavy snow that fell, hour after hour and foot upon foot, until every city and town was an isolated island, besieged by the cruel forces of winter. Elsinore shivered within her walls while above the town Kronberg brooded. King Christian paced the castle halls, barking out conflicting orders and chewing on his unrequited battle lust. He could not make war upon the weather that made the road to Copenhagen impassible. I heard the king complain that Baron Jaaperson would walk unopposed into the royal palace to bed the chambermaids and raid the treasury at his leisure. This was nonsense; the baron and his men were at that moment struggling through a thick forest, fighting their way through deeply drifted snow dropped by the very storm against which the king raged.
Each day that the coastal highway remained closed delayed the king’s order to march south. The horoscopes I had drawn up became outdated one by one, and every evening I found myself casting new charts for the king, the prince, and the baron. My imagination was sorely taxed and I was increasingly troubled by what I could see of the prince’s true chart. Confusion and contradiction reigned in his houses and I liked it not, though all the while I crafted pretty and optimistic horoscopes for him.
The snow fell without pause for a week, during which time Kronberg fell into a routine of expectation and disappointment, the habitants swinging between nervous argument and boredom. Christmas approached and all there wished to be home during the Yuletide season. All save the king, who disliked the pomp of court life. Despite his frustrated bloodlust he looked happier to me in that cheerless antique of a fortress than ever I had seen him in Copenhagen.
My own days were spent orbiting about
“A man who aspires to be an assassin ought to remember to lock his door,” Torstensson said.
“I have only just come to bed,” I complained. “I aspire to nothing but more sleep. What time is it?”
“Well past noon. You need not rise on my account. I am in Elsinore but another hour or so, and then I must away.”
“You’ve brought the weapons?”
“If that is what you call them, yes. The trunk is there in the corner. Take care with these toys, my friend.”
“I will. You bring a box full of death, and I am aware how you put your own life in jeopardy to carry them into this castle.”
“I do not complain, Soren. Just as you demanded that yours be the hand to silence the king, I swore to assist you as I can. If Atlas volunteers for his employment, he ought not bemoan the weight of the world on his back.”
“You are a good man, Fritz.”
“This is not about my goodness, but the good of the nation. Last night I dreamed of the king. He marched his army across Denmark, fighting a great battle from one end of the realm to the other, the nation blood-soaked and too small to hold all the fallen. Christian rode at the head of his terrible army, the troops all clad in black armor spattered with Danish blood, the soldiers’ faces black and beaked cruelly like man-sized ravens, their shining black eyes gazing unblinking at the hillocks of corpses and gore left in their wake. The king stood in his saddle, his sword arm sweeping across the sky, blocking out the sun. I awoke terrified, in a bath of sweat. I am not a good man. I am a conspirator in treason.”
“I could ask for no better conspirator. Now get thee gone, that I might sleep.”
Torstensson took my hand.
“Have great care, Soren. Lock your door.”
“I will, by the Cross. You shall soon hear news of the king. Has cousin Erik met his fate?”
“Killed by highwaymen only yesterday.”
“A tragedy.”
“Aye, for him.”
“Well, Fritz. I will write another tragedy here in Elsinore. But first I must sleep.”
{ Chapter Eight }
A T RUNK F ULL OF A DDERS
THE WEATHER GREW WORSE. THAT EVENING A NEW storm front rolled south to stand over Denmark’s skies and send forth a heavy snow that fell, hour after hour and foot upon foot, until every city and town was an isolated island, besieged by the cruel forces of winter. Elsinore shivered within her walls while above the town Kronberg brooded. King Christian paced the castle halls, barking out conflicting orders and chewing on his unrequited battle lust. He could not make war upon the weather that made the road to Copenhagen impassible. I heard the king complain that Baron Jaaperson would walk unopposed into the royal palace to bed the chambermaids and raid the treasury at his leisure. This was nonsense; the baron and his men were at that moment struggling through a thick forest, fighting their way through deeply drifted snow dropped by the very storm against which the king raged.
Each day that the coastal highway remained closed delayed the king’s order to march south. The horoscopes I had drawn up became outdated one by one, and every evening I found myself casting new charts for the king, the prince, and the baron. My imagination was sorely taxed and I was increasingly troubled by what I could see of the prince’s true chart. Confusion and contradiction reigned in his houses and I liked it not, though all the while I crafted pretty and optimistic horoscopes for him.
The snow fell without pause for a week, during which time Kronberg fell into a routine of expectation and disappointment, the habitants swinging between nervous argument and boredom. Christmas approached and all there wished to be home during the Yuletide season. All save the king, who disliked the pomp of court life. Despite his frustrated bloodlust he looked happier to me in that cheerless antique of a fortress than ever I had seen him in Copenhagen.
My own days were spent orbiting about
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