The Astrologer

{ Chapter Twenty }

SING HIM TO SLEEP


PERHAPS THE ASSASSINATION OF KING CHRISTIAN WAS an empty gesture, and perhaps I had no reason to hold my course toward the treasonous act. But when I stepped off the boat at Elsinore, it was as if the act had already been committed, my future as unchangeable as my past and my steps—inexorably carrying me with Bernardo’s dagger closer to the king’s heart full of royal blood—were steps I had already taken. I could no more walk a different path than could the moon change her orbit around the Earth. The king’s death was indelibly written into my book of days and all I need do was endure, keep walking toward and through that moment until I emerged somewhere in the future with blood on my hands and the deed complete. I was not resolved, nor was I brave. I was no more than awake. And thus awake did I enter the fortress of Kronberg on the 28th day of December in the year of our Lord 1601, to join those loyal Danes in celebration of King Christian’s name day, a murder weapon hidden within my doublet.

Under my left arm I carried a star chart for the coming year, the most beautiful horoscope I had ever drawn, in four colors on heavy parchment. The chart showed indications of victory and increased wealth for the king, urged caution in dealings with Denmark’s enemies, and remained vague but positive about the weather and the prosperity of fishers and farmers. These were the same sorts of lies the king had expected from his astrologer on every previous name day. Drawing this horoscope and illustrating the four corners of the parchment with portraits of the four elements blessing Denmark had taken up almost all of my time since leaving Hven. Had the hostler in Elsinore not reminded me to eat, I would have fasted for three days, so bent was I on my craft.

Before I left the hotel and made my way to Kronberg, I hastily drew up my own horoscope. The portents were unclear, the Parts of Fortune cryptic, but Mercury was in the ascendant with Saturn opposed. The day held great promise but also great risk for me. Unfortunately I had spent so much of my time creating the king’s false horoscope that I had no chance to cast a true chart for him. I reminded myself to be careful.

The road into Kronberg was thick with guests, provisioners, and many Swiss soldiers, who were conspicuous in their plumed helmets and yellow-on-black trappings. Even on this day of celebration, the king made a show of strength. If any of his guests’ sympathies bent toward rebellion, the presence of these infamous lancers should remind them that Christian had beaten down a dozen insurrections in as many years. At the great iron gate into the keep, one of the Switzers greeted me by name. I did not recognize him.

“Captain Marcellus sends his compliments,” he said and then I knew him for one of the men who had held me down for Marcellus’s beating. I nodded and walked on, through the gate and into the courtyard.

The queen had been given a free hand to make a festive place of the fortress. Evergreen branches brought from the forest were tied into great swags with cloth of red and white, adorning every window that faced into the courtyard. Bunting of red, white, and gold hung in the corners of the yard, around the great marble planter and over the doors to the entrance hall. Danish soldiers were everywhere, their armor polished bright and decorated with red and white ribbon as if they were not men but children’s toys. The smell of mulled wine, evergreen trees, and roasting meat filled the air.

“It is like unto a hunting party in a wood,” a noblewoman passing by remarked. “Kirsten is very clever. I will not be surprised if a live stag is chased down the halls, the king loosing arrows at it.”

Passing into the entrance hall, I found the plain and ugly space transformed with more spruce and fir, more ribbon, braziers set low to the floor like camp fires, and even more beribboned soldiers. I saw no one there who knew me. I made my way across the hall and took a place away from the flow of guests, near a brazier in a corner where entire trees had been brought inside and stood on end after having been felled in the king’s forest.

Vibeke appeared a moment later, coming forward from where she hid among the evergreen trees. She was dressed like so many other women on that day, in a crimson, white, and gold dress under a fur cloak. The long strand of amber beads hung around her neck and I wondered if the necklace—an expensive and fine bit of jewelry—had been a gift from the king.

Vibeke stood beside me, looking at the ceiling on the far end of the hall. I do not know if I had ever seen her face without a smile before that day. She looked older than her years.

“My lady Vibeke,” I said. “How do you?”

“Oh, what news, my lovely lad Soren?” She handed me sprigs of fir and spruce. “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Here are the daisies I picked for you this morning. Daisies are for friendship, and we are fast friends, sir.”

I played along with her game.

“My lady, these daisies had best go in water ere they wilt.”

“Daisies are like friendship: they never wilt until they wilt. There’s pansies,” she said, pushing more greenery into my hand. “That’s for thoughts.”

“My lady, why do you give me these herbs and flowers? And where are your shoes?”

“My shoes are with my sandals. Should I be shoon when I am shorn? How would I mourn? His funeral is tonight, hast heard?”

So that was it. Vibeke had learned of her father’s death. I wondered who had told her, and what story she had been given.

“I grieve for your father, my lady. Do they bury Lord Ulfeldt tonight? On the king’s name day?”

“Oh, there are many things to call the king, sir. My father shall not be buried. I shall sing him to sleep, sir, if I remember all my Latin. You may come and sing the basso; I know he admired your voice, sir. Do tell her Majesty to wear nothing of blue, my lords all a-sable too. Have I missed the In Paradisum? You are all in nighted color.”

“Nay, lady. I wear red and white in my sleeves to honor the king. Is the Requiem tonight? There will be a service?”

“Aye, sir. The Requiem is tonight. A crypt shall do him service, sir, and serve him for a crypt. Then the king and queen shall serve lamb for supper, his mouth stuffed with blue. He lies in the chapel.”

“Your father?”

“Christian. But he’ll speak no blue when comes my brother.” “Your brother? Jens?”

“Aye, so he is called. I have called him.”

“You have sent for him?”

“White his shroud as the mountain snow, larded all with sweet flowers, which bewept to the grave did not go with true-love showers. His beard white as snow. Jens have I sent for, sir.”

“Paris is twelve days’ ride from Elsinore, at least. In good weather. Your brother shall not be here within a month, Vibeke.”

“Then you, sir, shall walk with me in the procession. He was fond of your voice. Shall we sing the In Paradisum? My brother is no priest.”

“No?”

“Nay, sir. I pray you say nothing of this to my father.”

“Not a word, lady.”

“I thank you. Jens hath this last year been in Paris studying I know not what—the bare legs of maidens, methinks—he is like that. My father was much deceived, but no longer. Jens comes tonight, to tell all to my father and say so to Christian. He favors blue. I must put a word to him about color before he speaks. Jens is a fine swordsman, do you know? He will come to fetch revenge for our father’s death.”

“Revenge upon whom?”

“He is dead and gone, sir, he is dead and gone. At his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone. Christian and Christian and Christian. I must away, sweet sir. I thank you. None other will join me in my mourning, and now the castle’s air is poisoned with blue. See it? There and there. Collect you some sweet-smelling flowers for my father’s pyre.”

“His pyre, lady?”

Vibeke turned and focused her eyes upon mine. Her expression disturbed me; her face was drawn, with deep lines at the corners of her mouth. A single tear had caught in the lashes of her left eye. Vibeke blinked the tear away and took my hand.

“He shall have a Viking funeral, to join his fearless ancestors!”

“He has no ship, my lady.”

“He had a ship of state! He did so tell me often. Fare you well now. Be thou ready.”

Vibeke released my hand and ran through the crowd of visitors, out of the hall with her bouquet of twigs and branches. Her bare feet must have been cold on the tile floors. I did pity the poor addled girl.

When she was out of sight, I also left the hall, going down the eastern corridor and descending some stairs on my way to the chapel. Kirsten had not decorated that part of the fortress. There were no swags of greenery, no ribbons nor any other form of artificial cheer. The corridor was empty but for two Danish soldiers standing post outside the chapel. They made no move to stop me as I went through the doors.

Ulfeldt’s corpse had been wound in a sheet and laid on a table before the altar. The air was thick with incense and the chapel was quiet but for the prayers of the priest, who sat a vigil beside the body. Ulfeldt’s services should have been at the cathedral in Copenhagen, with all the pomp and ceremony befitting a man who had spent his life in service of the crown. Instead he lay deep within the fortress, all but forgotten during the king’s festivities.

I was surprised to see the queen there. She sat in the first pew, her head bowed. In prayer or merely spinning thoughts of her husband and the lord chancellor’s daughter, I knew not. I was not certain Kirsten knew the king had taken Vibeke as a mistress. In any case, I was not the queen’s confidante, nor did I wish to disturb her at her prayer, and so I made to leave the chapel. At that moment Kirsten turned to see me.

“Soren,” she said.

“Majesty.” I bowed low.

“Come here and sit beside us. We see you have not abandoned Elsinore.”

“It is the king’s name day, Majesty. I return to honor him. Though my business on Hven is not fully concluded.”

“Oh, Brahe’s toys. Did you count them all up for my husband?”

“I did, Majesty. There were not so many instruments as I had hoped.”

“You will give us a list of them before any are sold to foreigners. The king’s brother is fond of such mechanical marvels. We may wish to present one of Brahe’s implements to Prince Frederik.”

“I will make an inventory for you, Majesty.”

“We thank you, sir.” Kirsten called to the priest and asked him to lend us the chapel for a few moments. The priest blessed Ulfeldt’s corpse, bowed low to the queen, and backed out of the chapel, closing the doors behind him.

“You were with Lord Ulfeldt the day he died,” Kirsten said in a low voice. “The king’s Switzers have told me this much. What did Ulfeldt say to you before he fell to his death?”

I knew I must tread carefully here. The prudent course seemed to be one of ignorance, so I stepped tentatively down that path.

“Majesty, Lord Ulfeldt asked after your son.”

“Go on.”

“He asked after Christian’s health, and told me he had come to bring the prince back to Kronberg.”

“Is that all?”

“Lord Ulfeldt had some message for the prince, but he wished to deliver it privately. He was not able to give the message before the accident took his life, Majesty.”

“I see. Said he aught of the king?”

“Of the king? Only that both of your Majesties were awaiting the prince’s return.”

“No more?”

“No more, Majesty.”

Kirsten looked at me long and I become uncomfortable under her gaze. I shifted in my seat and waited for her to either question or dismiss me.

“Nothing more, Soren? Ulfeldt said nothing of his own family?”

The queen knew something, and knew I did also. If I could not plead ignorance, I could try innocence.

“There was some trivia, Majesty, regarding Lord Ulfeldt’s daughter.”

“Trivia?” Kirsten’s right eyebrow raised the slightest bit. “What is this trivia?”

“Only that his daughter goes soon to Paris to enter the religious life there, Majesty. He asked that I travel with Vibeke.”

“You? Why ask you?”

“Vibeke is passing fond of me, Majesty, and Lord Ulfeldt knew this. I did agree to see her safely to her brother.”

The queen pressed a finger to her lips and then glanced toward Ulfeldt’s shrouded body.

“Why is Vibeke entering the convent?”

“Majesty, Lord Ulfeldt feared that no man would marry his daughter, her mind being in the disarray we have all noticed since she was a child.”

“No man will have Vibeke?” There was a bitter, mocking tone in the queen’s voice. I was reminded of the prince’s voice in the library when he had threatened to kill me. It was not a tone I had ever heard from Kirsten in the past, and I grew wary.

“Vibeke is a pretty girl,” the queen said. “We are certain that men find her attractive now that she has entered womanhood. Even a well-bred hound sometimes follows the scent of a mongrel bitch in heat, is it not so?”

“Majesty, I am not well acquainted with the temptations to well-bred hounds.”

“Temptations?”

“As you say, Majesty.”

“Did I say? I am not certain that I did. Well. Wherever the maid is sent and for whatever reason, our best hopes travel with her. We are certain she will be missed.”

Kirsten wound a silver and ruby necklace around the index finger of her left hand and then slowly unwound it. She did not know the details of Vibeke’s relationship with the king, I was sure. She did not know that Vibeke carried her husband’s bastard, and I would not tell her. Kirsten sighed and released her necklace.

“No more from Ulfeldt?” she asked.

“No more, Majesty.”

She pointed to the parchment I carried, rolled and tied with red ribbon.

“Is that your horoscope for the king?”

“Aye, Majesty.”

“Does it reveal anything worrisome?”

“Nay, Majesty.”

“It never does, does it? And yet still there are worries. No, Soren, do not trouble to answer. You give the king the news he must hear to remain strong. Your charts are a tonic for him, and for us as well. I regret that I wished to interfere with your art before the king took our son into battle.”

Kirsten apologizing to me? I did not know what she was getting at.

“You are most gracious, Majesty.”

“Nonsense. Have you spoken with our son since he returned to Kronberg?”

“No, Majesty.”

“He is much changed after the battle. I do not know him sometimes.”

“Majesty, I think the prince but takes on the mantle of heir to the throne. He is fresh from the forge of war, and his spirit hardens like steel in the fire. Your royal son now comes into his own as prince and warrior.”

“You think he grows more like unto his father?”

“Aye, Majesty.”

Kirsten looked away from me and toyed with her necklace a moment.

“Will you be at the banquet this evening, Soren?”

“Aye, Majesty.”

“It will be a feast truly fit for a king. There will be all manner of dishes prepared from eels. Eels! I do not like them. Well, we will look for you there, sir.”

“I thank you, Majesty.”

She rose, and I stood.

“I would ask one favor,” she said. “Will you visit my son today, before the feast? I know how fond he is of you.”

“I will, Majesty.”

“Farewell for now,” she said.

I hurried to open the doors and bowed low to Kirsten as she passed into the hall. The two soldiers were at her side immediately and accompanied her as she glided around a corner, out of sight. The priest came back into the chapel and gave me an inquiring look, which I ignored. I sat down in a pew and pretended to pray.

I knew I took a great risk to trust the Swiss, for I had no strong reason to believe they would let the prince live when his father was dead. It was possible that they were secretly in the pay of some foreign enemy of Denmark. Such an idea had not occurred to me before, and I was alarmed at the thought. My musing was interrupted from its unhappy course by the voice of the priest.

“Lady Vibeke,” he said. “How do you in this time of sorrow?”

Vibeke had an expression almost of panic on her face, eyes wild and her skin bright with sweat. A bundle of twigs and branches was under one arm and her other hand fluttered at her side, a wounded white bird. She was still barefoot and the hem of her dress was dark with wet, as if she had been outside in the snow.

“Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?” she asked, taking three slow steps down the aisle toward Ulfeldt’s corpse.

“Your poor father yet lies here,” the priest said gently.

“Say you? Nay, pray you mark,” Vibeke said, and began to sing:

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s

All in the morning betime

And I a maid at your window

To be your valentine.

Then up he rose and donned his clothes

And dupped the chamber door,

Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.

“Alas, sweet lady,” the priest said. “What imports this song?”

“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Pray let’s have no words of this, but when they ask you what it meant, say you this: By Jesus and Saint Charity, alack, and fie for shame! Old men will do it if they come to it; by Cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, ‘Before you tumbled me, you promised me to wed.’ He answers, ‘So would I have done, by yonder sun, if thou hadst not come to my bed.’”

“Oh, Lady Vibeke,” the priest said. “Why do you speak such low verse in this sacred place? You should rest, my lady.”

“To bed?” she answered. “I have been taken there often, sir. But you are wearing blue again.”

The priest, dressed all in black, looked down at his cassock in confusion.

“It well matches your eyes, Father. Pray you do not wear it tonight. My father always favored green. I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him in the cold ground. We shall not allow it. And so thank you—and you as well, Soren—for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night.”

Vibeke laid her armload of dead things on the table at her father’s feet, kissed the alarmed priest on the cheek, and ran out of the chapel. Her singing faded as she hurried down the hall. The priest looked over at me, his hands clasped before him.

“Give her good watch,” he said. “I pray you.”