The king marched into the courtyard with armor polished bright, his cape a crimson waterfall down his back. His eyes were clear and he looked at the face of his son a moment, bared his teeth like a dog, and then waved for the yeoman to bring him his stallion. The prince, the generals, and the captains all heaved themselves onto their horses. A wave of martial noise clattered over the courtyard, the sounds of steel plate rubbing over mail, of creaking saddle and harness and the sighing of three score heavy horses. I stood to Christian’s left, his boot near my elbow, one of his gold-plated spurs catching the morning light. We were beneath the leafless maple tree at the west end of the courtyard. The cloak slipped from my shoulders and fell to the flagstones and I took half a step toward the king. It was impossible that he lived.
The king looked around the courtyard, at his men on horseback and then at those of us on foot. He frowned.
“Where is Tristram?”
No one knew. A page ran into the castle. I felt the cold suddenly and pulled my furs off the ground and wrapped myself in them. The air was still, like on Easter mornings in the minute just before the church bells ring.
The page returned, red-faced and breathless. He gave his report to the king’s yeoman, who in turn spoke to the king. The king liked not what he heard, and struck the yeoman a hard blow, knocking him to the ground.
“Bernardo!”
Bernardo guided his horse up next to the king. The Swiss general and his men wore yellow and black armor, a swarm of deadly wasps in the belly of Denmark. The king spoke with Bernardo for a moment. Bernardo grimaced, or maybe it was a grin, then shook his head and called to one of his captains.
“Marcellus!”
Marcellus joined the king and the general. They spoke quietly, gesturing to the castle. Marcellus nodded, saluted the king, and climbed down off his horse. A groom took the reins and led Marcellus’s mount back to the stables as Marcellus walked the other way, into the castle. None of this activity made clear what was happening.
King Christian looked around once more at his officers and then shook his reins, riding out of the yard through the great iron gate on the south wall. The prince moved to ride at his father’s side, followed by the generals, captains, and other knights. In five minutes the courtyard had emptied but for a few guards and me. It would be some days before I saw any of the departing men again.
I went into the castle, to the great hall where a fire blazed. I stood near the hearth and warmed myself. It had been a confusing morning.
The king should have been dead. I had poisoned Tristram’s bottle of wine. A cup of it should have put Tristram into a sickbed for a fortnight, perhaps. The rest of the bottle, if the king drank it down, should have produced a royal corpse. Yet the king looked in fine fettle and showed no sign of having been touched by my potion. And where was Tristram?
I asked a page, asked two of them, and they did not know. They said that the Swiss captain, Marcellus, was in charge of Kronberg now. When I was thawed and warm I went to my chamber and tried to cast Tristram’s chart, but I could not remember the date of his birth, much less the hour. Instead I cast my own horoscope and Mercury turned up in unhappy conjunctions of death, death, and death. I was not safe.
My appetite was gone and I ate nothing all day. I packed my traveling trunk and carried the things that Fritz had brought me down to a corner of the cellars, putting a handful of vials into a hole behind a loose brick. As I walked through the castle I was sure I heard voices around each corner, whispering my name. Evening came on and I felt as though I was choking, short of breath. There was not enough air for me in Kronberg. To remain in the castle seemed foolhardy and I resolved to travel immediately to Hven. I would feel safer within the walls of Tycho’s empty castle than I did at the king’s fortress. What the crown commands, I must do, so none would raise an eyebrow at my departure. A boat could be hired in the morning at the