Madness In Great Ones

Chapter Two

It took Herning a while to find Prince Amleth. The heir to the throne, the prince bound by honor and tradition to one day avenge his father's murder, was all of seven years old, and was running happily through the castle. I am not a nursemaid, Herning thought with some irritation after a good half-hour of running around, following the prince's trail. His headache was decidedly worse by now.

At last, and not a moment too soon for Herning, he found Amleth in the nursery. Herning suppressed a groan – he had started there, only to be told that Amleth was in the great hall. If only I'd waited here, he thought, and cleared his throat.

Amleth, playing happily with two carved and painted wooden soldiers, looked up. Herning caught his breath – he had never noticed it before, had never had the prince's gaze trained directly on him, but Amleth would grow up to be the spitting image of his father. Herning could see it even through the baby fat. Horwethil's legacy was written in the set of Amleth's jaw, his firm grip on the soldiers, his piercing eyes that had stayed blue after infancy. It felt disconcertingly like looking at a seven-year-old Horwethil, and Herning consciously pushed the thought away and bowed. "Prince Amleth," he said.

Amleth frowned. "Should I know who you are?" he asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Not necessarily," Herning assured him. "I am Herning, lord of the city of Struer."

"Oh." Amleth smiled. "I'll remember you now."

"I am glad to hear it, my prince," Herning said, and meant it. "But you must come with me now. I have –" He stopped. How do you tell a seven-year-old boy whose life is perfect that his world is coming crashing down on his head? Herning clutched for lifelines and fell back on court protocol and formalities. He knelt before Amleth. "My lord prince," he said, "the worst of things has happened. Your father, King Horwethil, is dead."

Like Gerutha, Amleth could not believe it. He stared with shock in his blue eyes at Herning, and then shook his head. "But – but he can't be dead," Amleth said, his words slow as his mind processed them. "He's the king. He can't just die!"

It was easier to tell Gerutha, outside under the sky where God could judge his actions, that Feng had murdered Horwethil than it was to say it within the castle. But it had to be done, somewhere. Amleth had to know his task. Herning rubbed his face wearily and held out his hand to the prince. "Come with me," he said softly, "and hurry."

Amleth's blue eyes narrowed with suspicion and fear, but he scooped his wooden soldiers into one hand and carefully laid his other hand into Herning's. "Where are we going?" he asked as Herning opened the door of the room and peered cautiously out into the hall. "Where are you taking me?"

"To my quarters," Herning replied, keeping his voice at a whisper. He felt Amleth's hand tense in his, and he added soothingly, "Your mother sent me, my lord prince. You can trust me."

"But you said my father –"

"Hush!" Herning put his finger against Amleth's lips to silence the prince, who might unwittingly say something he should not and betray them. Feng might have spies anywhere. We have all misjudged Feng, Herning thought angrily, and we will all pay the price of that. He looked at Amleth, at the round face that had paled in chilling imitation of Gerutha when she learned of Horwethil's death, and wondered where the justice was in the fact that Amleth too, blameless and guileless, would pay the price along with the court.

Regardless of whether or not spies watched and marked Herning and Amleth's passage, they encountered no one on the way to Herning's quarters. With a sigh of profound relief, Herning opened the door and let them both in, shutting the door behind them and locking it. One of the servants approached and bobbed a curtsey, and Herning dismissed her with a brusque wave of his hand. Amleth made for the wall, his soldiers clutched in his hand and his eyes wide and frightened.

Herning thanked God when Margret came into the room. She was tall and just a little on the plump side, but to Herning's eye the certain tendency to roundness that her whole body had merely amplified the sweetness of her demeanor. She beamed at him and came quickly to embrace him, but Herning took her hands and nodded silently to where Amleth huddled against the wall.

"Oh, God," Margret breathed. "Herning – what's Prince Amleth doing here?"

Herning dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Love, our world has changed." He lowered his voice and beckoned Amleth closer. Pale with fear but pricked with curiosity, Amleth obeyed, stepping cautiously nearer to Herning and Margret. "The king has been murdered." He told them the story then, in full, with even more detail than he gave to Gerutha because of the horrified look in Amleth's face. For her part, Margret sank into a chair at the start, and when Herning finished the grim recital, she held out her arms to Amleth with tears in her eyes. The prince's lips quivered, and the knuckles of the hand holding the soldiers went white, and then he ran to Margret and clung to her, sobbing.

"What can we do?" Margret asked, stroking Amleth's hair soothingly. "Is there anything?"

"I spoke to the queen," Herning said dully. "She's barely clinging to life – there'll be no rallying around her. And who knows how long Feng's been planning this? It may seem impetuous and mad, but I believe he worked this out long ago. I think we are surrounded, and that there is nothing we ourselves can do." He looked at Amleth, or rather at Amleth's back. The prince seemed to have gotten himself under control. Herning feared setting him off again, but there was nothing else to do. "But you can do something, my lord prince."

Amleth looked up. "What?" he asked.

"You are bound by honor to avenge the death of your father," Herning reminded him.

"Herning, think! He's seven years old, he can hardly challenge Feng to a duel!"

"He's seven years old now," Herning pointed out. "But in ten years he will be seventeen, in fifteen he'll be twenty-two. And Feng is not the youngest of men now. He's twenty-eight – in fifteen years he'll be forty-three, and then Amleth has as good a chance as anyone of defeating him."

Margret's arms tightened protectively. "But Feng will be after him! He's not stupid, he knows what tradition demands! If Amleth lives to see seventeen it will be a miracle!" She was the one close to tears now, and Amleth the one regarding Herning with a mixture of fear and wild hope.

Amleth wriggled free of Margret and looked gravely up at Herning, who knelt to put his eyes on a level with the prince's. "Uncle Feng killed Father," he said slowly, his child's voice belying the gravity of his words. "And I must kill Uncle Feng, but Uncle Feng wants to kill me so that I don't kill him."

"Yes," Herning confirmed.

"Can't I talk to Uncle Feng and convince him not to kill me?" asked Amleth hopefully.

Herning smiled sadly. Oh, to be a child and to have it all be that simple! "No," he said. "He would not listen, and he'd kill you that much faster."

"Then I have to keep him from killing me," Amleth said, downcast at the failure of diplomacy. He looked back up at Herning. "How?"

Herning sighed. Here at last was a question that he could give a definite answer to, something that could be solid in Amleth's reeling world. "A ruse," he said, thinking aloud in meditative tones. "A trick. Something to mislead Feng, to not make him think about you so that he can't think of killing you."

"Something to gull him into believing Amleth's no threat," Margret added, picking up on her husband's train of thought.

"We could say you killed yourself," Herning suggested. "No, then there'd have to be a state funeral. Perhaps…a fit of hysteria, brought on by hearing of your father's death?"

"That's good," Amleth put in. "No one pays any attention to crazy people."

Herning's eyes were sparkling. "That's it! Amleth has gone mad! Hearing of his father's death made him so grief-stricken that he can't even utter a coherent sentence!"

"Can you do that, Amleth?" Margret asked, concern furrowing her brow even as her eyes leaped with the same excitement that was in Herning's gaze. "Pretend to be crazy for years?"

Amleth considered. "It wouldn't be easy," he said. "But would it keep me safe?"

"No one pays attention to crazy people," said Herning, repeating Amleth's words back to him. "Yes, Amleth, I think you'd be quite safe."

"Then I'll do it," Amleth said simply. Herning noticed that he no longer clutched his soldiers, that he had left them in Margret's lap, and smiled to himself.

"Wait! What about Gerutha?" Margret asked. "Should she know?"

"I can tell her somehow," Herning said, "and she could help foster the belief that Amleth's mad. She might even let him foster with us, and that would be ideal." He was touched when, as he spoke of Amleth fostering with him and Margret, the prince's eyes lit up hopefully. "I should take you back to the nursery, Amleth," Herning said reluctantly, "if we have this all figured out."

Amleth nodded. He retrieved his soldiers from Margret's lap, and Herning took his hand and led him back to the nursery. "How does a crazy person behave?" Amleth whispered when they had made it back.

Herning scratched his head. "Just – be odd. Do strange things. Here!" He hurried to the fire pit, still holding Amleth by the hand. The fire was long dead, but Herning reached in and grabbed a handful of ashes, smearing them on his prince's face and tunic. Kneeling in front of Amleth, he gripped the tunic between his hands and tore it at some of the seams, and mussed Amleth's brown hair with his hands still covered in ashes. "There," he said with satisfaction, surveying his handiwork. "Make messes. Throw things and scream. Say things that make no sense. Make up nonsense languages. Walk around wide-eyed. Just do things that make people unsure of you, and they'll do their best to forget you exist." Herning kissed Amleth on the forehead, much as he might have kissed his daughter Olwa when she was afraid, to boost her courage, and stood up. "Be brave, sweet prince," he whispered.

The face that looked back at him from under the thick coating of ashes was determined and resolute. "I will," Amleth promised.

Herning left him there, wondering how he was going to get access to Gerutha to tell her about her son's chances of survival.