players were fine men.” Christian bent and retrieved a tin crown from the surf. “Were I not destined to be a king, I would be an actor, you know.”
“Ah, indeed?” I could not manage to put the requisite enthusiasm into my voice.
“I have told you this before.”
“Many a time, my lord. But happily your lordship is destined to be king.”
“Aye.” Christian carried his armload of jetsam to a large, flat stone. He piled his goods there and sorted through them for a moment, then took off his fur hat and put the tin crown upon his head.
“I shall play you a scene, Soren.”
“The Murder of Gonzago?”
“Nay, not that. About, my brains. Ah, I know.”
Christian drew Voltemont’s sword and pointed it toward the sky, striking a heroic pose. He held his other hand out to me.
“Good Soren, thou hast supplied us with proofs shewn in the heavens that victory is ours this day. We thank thee, and now we go direct to battle! Your line here is, ‘God go with you, Majesty.’”
“God go with you, Majesty.”
“Soren, that was poorly recited and lacked all emotion. You must do better. Again.”
“God be with you, Majesty!” I said, with more volume than enthusiasm.
Christian shook his head.
“Well, I suppose that will have to do. I proceed. Now I go direct to battle. Here is our opponent!”
Christian turned and faced the opposite direction, removing his crown.
“Your lordship is most unwise to meet me on my own ground,” he said, forcing his voice to a low and husky register. “You shall not live to regret it, however. Your line here, Soren, is ‘Do not credit his boasts, my lord.’ With some feeling, if you would.”
“My lord, do not credit these boasts,” I said. My hands were cold. I brought them to my face and blew into my cupped palms to warm them.
“That is not how the line goes. Well, I shall continue as a company of one if you will be so poor a player.”
“I am sorry, my lord.”
“No matter. We cannot all excel at the finer and more subtle arts. Here, I shall finish the scene.”
He turned again and replaced the crown on his head. A scowl twisted his face.
“We will hear no more of your empty air, thou traitor! Come sir, to the fight!”
Christian swung the rapier, cutting the air before him, miming epic swordplay and forcing his invisible foe down to the rocks and sand, finally thrusting the rapier’s point into the ground with a wild cry.
“Death to you! We are victorious!”
He left the sword standing like a headstone in the sand, turned to me, and bowed from the waist. The tin crown fell from his head and the scene was ended. I clapped my hands.
“Most excellent,” I said. “Your father’s victory over Gustavus, yes?”
“Well done, Soren.” Christian smiled. His mood had much improved since the previous night. “Now I shall play you another scene.”
“You need not, my lord. You have shown your skill as an actor, I think.”
“Nay, you do but flatter me. Now, attend.” Christian took up his sword and climbed onto a round stone the size of a small table.
“I sit astride a stallion,” he said. “The action begins thus.”
Christian mimed riding horseback, his left hand gripping imaginary reins. He held the rapier low in his right hand.
“We approach the enemy! Just there, at the foot of the hill.”
He swept the sword through the air before him and crouched on the stone as if preparing to spring.
“We drive into their ranks and hew all ’round! Men writhe in agony, their blood everywhere! The shadow of the angel of death falls across their eyes! The terror, the monstrousness, the noise of it! It goes on and on!”
Christian thrust the sword about madly, battling foes on all sides of him.
“I strike a man! Another! Again! Down he goes, cleft to the breastbone, or losing an arm! I am the angel of death! I am the devil himself! I am king! King! King!”
Christian closed his eyes and hurled the sword away into the snow. He slipped down from the stone into the surf and walked blindly a few steps this way and that, icy water splashing to his knees.
“Oh, that this too solid flesh might melt!” He beat his breast with his fist and staggered up the beach, falling to his knees in the sand.
“So I come to hide on Hven,” he said. “I fled the battle, Soren. I fled.”
I took a step toward him.
“General Bernardo says you acquitted yourself well at Copenhagen.”
“Does he?