The Astrologer (2 page)

“I do not withdraw my claim to Denmark,” Gustavus said. “Yet I would avoid a civil war that devastates the nation.”

“This affront to our honor cannot be ignored,” King Christian said. “Even if you withdraw now and your allies return to their own estates, we have put great expense into bringing our army into Jutland, and the village of Skorping will need to be rebuilt. That will require gold, cousin.”

“I am governor of Jutland. Skorping was mine to burn.”

“We made you governor, cousin. We are your king. Jutland is ours. All of Denmark is ours.”

“Aye, for now. But all of that will change. I do not withdraw, cousin.”

“We can make war and soak these snowy hills with blood,” the king said. “But there is another path we might take. We can decide our dispute in the honored manner of our ancestors.”

Gustavus laughed.

“Cousin,” he said. “You challenge me to single combat?”

“We do. The survivor keeping the crown.”

A few flakes of snow fell, settling onto King Christian’s beard.

“My good cousin,” Gustavus said. “I am twenty years younger than your royal person. I keep my broadsword in constant practice and my joints neither creak nor ache. You are an old man, my lord. Has your son not made you a grandfather yet?”

“Cousin, you make the blood in my heart boil with such talk. I need hear no more of it.”

“Then I will pit my life ’gainst yours for rule of Denmark, cousin. I will drain the blood from your royal veins, and then your kin and kind will swear allegiance to Gustavus.”

“Allegiance has little meaning here in Jutland,” King Christian said. It was the fourth Sunday of Advent, in the year of our Lord 1601. I stood on a frozen lake with Prince Christian on my left and a Danish general named Constantin to my right. In a week, I would turn thirty. Tycho Brahe, the most brilliant man in all of Europe, had been murdered by the king only three months earlier. I reminded myself to make a show of grief when his Majesty died.

Christian son of Rorik and Gustavus of Aalborg raised their great swords within the ring of men standing in the center of Madum Sø. There was snow on their armor and white breath streamed from their helmets into the still air. Mars in Aries, I thought. Jupiter descending.

Gustavus had lost a great deal of blood. He swung wildly at the king, missed, and fell to one knee as his lame foot slipped on the ice. He knelt in Perseus, frost and blood on the face of his helmet. King Christian stood in Taurus and brought his sword down in a mighty blow, cutting Gustavus’s left arm apart at the elbow. Gustavus bellowed like a wounded bear and dropped his sword. The king rained death down upon him, hacking him to pieces. Bright blood spread over the ice, flooding through my imagined constellations. King Christian, still ruler of Denmark, stood over his dead cousin. He pushed up the beaver of his
helmet to lick some of Gustavus’s blood from his blade. One barbarian had killed another, and the rebellion was over.

Prince Christian took my arm and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking with excitement. “My father hath slain his enemy. Was it not a glorious, fine thing?”

“Aye, my lord. Your father was never in any danger.”

“Do not sound so disappointed. You have seen my father in his native element today. It was like unto the ancient knight in our great epic.”

“Gustavus was no Grendel, my lord. He was a man, not a monster.”

“His treason was monstrous.”

“Aye, my lord, and surely a treacherous knave earns his reward.”

A squire threw an ermine over the king’s broad back. Towering over the men who had come onto the lake with Gustavus, the king looked each of them in the eye and growled low in his throat. These men were Jutland nobles, tall, bearded, and rich. They cowered and bent their knees, swearing an oath to never again bring such troubles against the crown. Christian son of Rorik promised a punishment of heavy fines to remind them of their fealty, but he let the traitors escape with their lives.

A boy of twelve or so years remained behind on the lake after the treasonous lords fled. This was young Gustav, son of the man who lay butchered at the king’s feet. The boy’s slender hand closed around the grip of a ceremonial dagger at his belt. I held my breath, my every muscle tense, and I thought the child might somehow put the blade through the king’s throat, but he disappointed me. He knelt by his father’s bloody corpse and bowed his head.

“Majesty, I beg your leave to take my father home and bury him.” He had a high, clear voice. I imagined him singing hymns during Mass.

“Your father was a heretic,” the king said. “Rebellion is an affront to God Himself, but I killed your sire honorably, in
battle. We should by rights have burned him alive at the stake, but you may drag his bones to your church and pray over him. Let this be a lesson to you, boy. A king will only show mercy to his enemies after he has defeated them.”

“Aye, Majesty.”

That night there was a great feast in the camp to celebrate the victory. I was invited to the king’s tent by Prince Christian, who had drunk many cups of wine before he found me.

“My father brought eels from home in anticipation of this victory,” Christian said.

“Eels?”

“Aye, fished from the harbor at Copenhagen. My mother doth not care for them, but they are my father’s favorite meat, be they boiled into soups, soused in brine and served with lemons, breaded and fried, smoked, jellied, grilled over the fire, or diced and baked inside game birds. There are few ways to prepare eels that do not please my father.”

“I have no appetite,” I said.

“That is your misfortune. But we will celebrate the king’s brave deed today. My father bows before no man. Come.”

Christian dragged me to his father’s tent, where generals and other nobles celebrated with the king. I kept to one side and avoided the wine-soaked brawl while I observed Christian son of Rorik, king of Denmark, lord of Schleswig and Holstein. With his head tilted forward and with the swaggering limp of an experienced campaigner, he marched the length of his tent and made merry with his staff. The generals drained cup after cup in his honor.

“Death to Gustavus!” cried a drunken lord. “His widow and son will have no feast this night!”

“His widow? I should show her the royal scepter,” King Christian said, grabbing the front of his breeches. The drunken lords rocked with laughter, braying like asses.

“And that little brat,” the king roared. “He dared speak to me, did you all see? We should have dragged him to camp and roasted him for our dinner! I’d crack his leg bones with my
jaws and suck out his young marrow! Who dares defy Christian son of Rorik? No man! No man dares defy me! Now give me wine, you dogs! Wine for the king!”

A goblet was given to his Majesty. Someone pushed a cup into my hand. We lifted our drinks and a cheer was raised by every man in the tent but me. Christian son of Rorik was a fearless warrior who had never known defeat, but I would dare defy him. He was my enemy, and I had sworn to kill him.

PRINCE CHRISTIAN AND I STOOD ON THE DECK OF THE
Odin
as it sailed away from Jutland. The king and a number of his officers were returning to Zealand, leaving behind a large force of men who would march into Aalborg later in the day. The royal army would put to the sword all those citizens who had openly followed Gustavus, and terrorize a great many innocent citizens besides. No matter a man’s own politics, it is always bad luck for him if his lord fails in battle.

The day was cold, but the overcast had cleared here and there to let show patches of blue, clean and pure. I made a wish that the clouds would blow away by sundown so that I might behold the heavens. It had been nearly a week since I had observed the night sky, and the moon was waning but still three quarters full. The phases of the moon are all pleasing to the eye.

“Will we be in Copenhagen by dark, my lord?”

“Nay, Soren.” Christian no longer wore his armor and sword. Under his cloak he dressed in a crimson velvet doublet with white trim to honor his father’s victory. “Tonight we will be in Elsinore. My father would speak to the lord of the castle there.”

“Elsinore,” I said. Decades of memories struggled to surface and I willed them back to stillness.

“Will you visit your father?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“How long has it been since you were in Elsinore?”

“Eight years, my lord.”

“Eight years.” Christian peered at my face and I looked away. “Eight years, during which you were half a day’s travel from him.”

“I was busy on Brahe’s island, my lord. There was no time to come to Elsinore. Nor have I the time now. I will return to Copenhagen tomorrow, by the king’s leave.”

Christian again studied my expression. I tried to form my face into a mask of indifference; I did not wish to discuss my father.

“The king will not give you his leave,” Christian said. “He wishes you to remain with him.”

“He can surely let a week pass without a new horoscope, my lord.”

“’Tis not that. He hath an especial employment for you.”

“Indeed? I would hear of it, then.”

“Then you will, but not from me.” Christian smiled and put his arm about my shoulders. A wave fell into the ship’s side, sending a fountain of spray over the deck rail, soaking our fur cloaks. “You must allow my father to speak to you himself regarding your excellent new task, but I believe you will be pleased. There is no man in Denmark—or even the world— more fit for this duty than is Soren Andersmann.”

“My lord, your habit of withholding facts after pricking my interest is most vexing. It is highly irritating.”

“You must be patient, my friend. But be not alarmed. You will enjoy the work, and it is so important that during this employment you shall be free of your duties as court astrologer.”

“Am I to lose my appointment?” I broke free of Christian’s arm and took a step away from him. “My lord, if this is some misdirection, some plot to remove me from court while your father interviews men with none of my past associations, I demand that you be even and direct with me about it.”

“Soren, you speak quite out of turn!” The prince closed the distance between us and took my hand. “I tell you my father
knows you are his man. You must take me at my word. This task will surely increase your esteem. But I will not reveal the details. I leave that pleasure to the king.”

“Very well. I shall await his Majesty’s pleasure.”

Christian shook my arm playfully.

“Do not be petulant. You have quite the fiery tongue when you are anxious to think yourself injured, but mark me: you are in no danger of losing your appointment. The king is most impressed with the horoscope you cast for his confrontation with Gustavus.”

The prince referred to that horoscope filled with optimistic lies which I had drawn up and presented to his father on the morning our war party set out from Copenhagen. Abundant signs of victory and good fortune were clear to any with eyes to see, I claimed. Perverting science for political reasons galled me, but I sided with the angels. Perhaps the charlatans who sell only horoscopes that please their clients also feel they are doing a higher service, but I do doubt it.

“I am always happy to please the king,” I said.

“He may not always be pleased with you.”

“What do you mean? Did you not a moment ago say that I had impressed the king?”

“I mean your book. I believe it will not impress my father. You must not mention it to him at all, especially now that he is preparing to reward you.”

I had written a short volume called
Nunc Scio Mysterium,
in which I contrasted the weaknesses of received wisdom with the strengths of observable data, and predicted a time to come when inquiry would trump folklore and tradition. Writing not for my fellow men of science but for all men with any learning, I showed the future as a bold vista and revealed the past for the storeroom of broken ideas that it is. Rationality shone on every page of my little tome, and I was justly proud of it. The book had not been published yet, but I circulated the manuscript among some of my educated friends, including Prince Christian.

“There is nothing in my work to distemper the king,” I said.

“In some readings, it challenges everything that stands.” Christian leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Lord Ulfeldt hath seen it, you know. He intimates that he wishes a word in your ear about it.”

“Against it?”

“Very like. Ulfeldt says you challenge the rights of kings.”

“Ulfeldt misreads me.”

“Then so do I.”

I looked out over the water, at the northern coast of Zealand. The
Odin
was bound for the eastern tip of the island, for the town of Elsinore where I had been born, in a region of forests and farms. Elsinore lay but thirty miles north of Copenhagen, which is a city of sophistication and culture, but Elsinore seemed to inhabit some remote century, existing always in a time of primitive ignorance. It was the king’s favorite place in Denmark.

“My lord,” I said. “My book only observes that what we can see is to be more trusted than what we are told without evidence.”

“That is a dangerous statement. And heretical in some eyes. I know that you write merely of the natural philosophies, but men will read it more broadly, as a political commentary. The Devil is the prince of lies, Soren. We must put our faith in our kings and our church, for we know truth lies therein.”

“Truth lies all around us! The Wise Men followed the stars to find the Redeemer, my lord. I also follow the stars, for careful and accurate observation of the universe will lead us to prosperity and happiness. I am an astronomer because by looking at Heaven I see the Earth.”

“Brahe used to say that. I remember. You ought not quote him on my father’s ship. This book of yours may be read by men such as Gustavus, who will see it as a call for dissention and change. You might accidentally spur my father’s enemies into action against him. Surely that is not what you intend?”