Prince of Fools

Now I’m a good-looking fellow. No doubts about that. Good thick hair, honest smile, face in order, but this interloper could have stepped from some frieze of the sagas, chiselled to perfection. I hated him with a rare and instant passion.

“And you are?” I aimed for a level of disdain with enough edge to cut but not to make me look bad whilst doing it.

“Hakon of Maladon. Duke Alaric is my uncle. Perhaps you know him? My longships are the green-sailed ones in the harbour.” He knocked back the brandy. “Ah, a mandolin!” He spied the troubadour. “May I?”

Hakon took the instrument, strumming with his injured hand, and immediately music began to flow like liquid gold. “I’m better on the harp, but I’ve tried these a few times.”

“Oh, would you sing for us?” Astrid, pressing her gifts against him.

And that was that. I slunk back to my table while Golden Boy held the tavern spellbound with a gloriously rich tenor, running through all their favourite songs. I chewed my lukewarm roast and found it hard to swallow, my ale sour rather than salt. I glowered through narrowed eyes as Hakon stood bracketed by Edda, Astrid, and various other wenches drawn from the shadows by his cheap show.

At last I could take it no longer and got up to go out back for a piss. A final resentful glance at Hakon saw him disentangling from Astrid to follow me out. I pretended not to notice. Once in the blustery yard, rather than making immediately for the latrine I waited, leaving the door ajar and listening for his approach.

The wind had picked up something fierce and put me in mind to play a trick I’d used a time or two back in Red March. On hearing him take the handle I gave the door a hearty kick, slamming it shut. A meaty thud and an oath rewarded me. I counted to three and hauled the door open.

“Hell! Are you all right, man?” He was on his backside, clutching his face. “The wind must have caught the door. Terrible thing.”

“. . . be okay.” Both hands still clasped over his nose, the injured one atop the good.

I crouched beside him. “Best have a look.” And pulled back his bad hand. Immediately that familiar warmth built, and with it came an idea both despicable and delicious in equal parts. I gripped his bitten hand tight. The day went dim around me.

“Ow! What the—” Hakon pulled away.

“You’re fine.” I hauled him to his feet. Fortunately he helped, because I could barely lift myself.

“But what—”

“You’re just a bit dazed.” I steered him back into the tavern room. “You got hit by a door.”

Astrid and Edda converged on Golden Boy and I stepped away, letting them at their prey. As I left I tugged the loose end of the bloodstained cloth about his hand and pulled it away with me.

“What—” Hakon lifted his uncovered hand.

“How many babies did you save?” I said it quiet enough over my shoulder as I returned to my table, but too loud to miss.

“There’s no bite there!” Astrid exclaimed.

“Not even a scratch.” Edda stepped back as if Hakon’s lies might be contagious.

“But I—” Hakon stared at his hand, holding it up even higher, turning it this way and that in astonishment.

“He can pay for his own damn brandy!” The warrior at the bar.

“A cheap trick.” The thickset woman, slamming down her tankard of ale.

“He’s no kin of Alaric!” Anger starting to colour the complaints.

“I doubt he’s spoke a true word since he came in.”

“Liar!”

“Thief!”

“Wife-beater!” That last one was me.

The crowd folded about poor Hakon, their shouts drowning him out, punches flying. Somehow he made it through them, half-running through the street door, half-thrown. He sprawled in the mud, slipped, fell, scrambled up, and was gone, the door slamming behind him.

I leaned back in my chair and took the last chunk of pork off my knife. It tasted sweet. I can’t say I was entirely proud about using the healing gift of angels to screw over the better man just for being more handsome, taller, and more talented than me, but then again I couldn’t bring myself to feel too bad about it either. I looked out over the crowd and wondered which of the girls to reel back in.

“You, boy.” A stout ginger-haired man blocked my view of Astrid.

“I’m—”

“I don’t care who you are, you’re in my seat.” The fellow had the kind of aggressive red face that makes you want to slap it, his bulk girded in thick leathers set with black iron studs, knife and hatchet at his hips.