his footsteps all the way to the village. The three score or so residents of Tuna were leaving their huts for the church and I joined them for Mass. The singing was ragged and the Latin of the responses was mumbled and poorly pronounced, but Father Maltar in his white vestments and gold-trimmed stole seemed a holy man for the moment. He did not refuse me the Host, nor did Father Stepan withhold the wine, and I sat among the congregants of St. Ibb’s as if I were one of them. It was warm in the chapel and I nearly slept during the homily, which Father Maltar delivered in the strangely accented Danish of the island. The entire service was charming and quaint and I could happily pretend I was a tourist, a visitor from the Continent perhaps, with nothing more troubling on my mind than where to dine after the service.
Maltar blessed and dismissed us. I watched the villagers leave the church, hoping to recognize one of the fishermen to whom I had spoken the day before. All of the men looked the same to me and I steeled myself to speak with the priests, readying my pride for a few minutes of begging. Happily I was spared that humiliation.
“Happy Christmas, friend of Brahe.”
It was the boy, Justus Axlrod. I had not noticed him during the service. He was bundled up in his oversized clothes, but he held out one gloved hand to me, like a man, like an equal. I looked down at him for a moment and then took his hand.
“Happy Christmas, friend of Father Maltar. Are you wishing me farewell?”
“Aye, for you are leaving Hven today.”
“I am. You already know this?”
“It was my unhappy duty to open the doors to that prince very early this morning. He knocked for I know not how long before Father Stepan bade me see who broke our sleep. Your prince was white with frost and demanded I build up the fire. Is he mad?”
“He is a prince, and does as he pleases. Such men walk with a greater tether than we.”
“Aye. He had me rouse Father Maltar, who confessed him before dawn. I think he is mad, though he gave me a few coins. He bade me hire a boat to carry him to Kronberg, and I awakened Ole Faaborg, who is a fisherman.”
The villagers had by now all left the church, but for the boy and an old woman praying alone. The priests were not in the chapel. No doubt they were in the kitchen, eating bread and roe.
“Where is Prince Christian?”
“On Zealand, I imagine.” Justus tilted his head and looked at me, perhaps wondering if I was as mad as Christian. “Ole Faaborg sailed north with your prince before Matins. I am to tell you that when he returns he will load you into his boat and take you back to Kronberg in your turn. If Ole is not attending Mass in Elsinore, he ought to be at our wharf by noon. And you will leave Hven, and so farewell, friend of Brahe. I advise you to be at the wharf and not make Ole Faaborg wait.”
“I thank you, Justus Axlrod.” I put a few coins into the boy’s hand. “My advice to you is that if you are true to yourself, you can be false to no man.”
“Do you mean that I should then not be true to myself, that I may be false to others?”
“That is one way to interpret it. You are a clever lad. I wish you well. I will pray for your sister.”
“You should go down to the wharf and await Ole Faaborg. Fare you well.”
Ole Faaborg did not go to Mass in Elsinore and returned well before noon. His boat was small and stank of fish, as did he. He refused my offer of further payment, saying that he did the crown’s bidding. He also refused to speak of the prince except to allow as how Christian had disembarked at the King’s Harbor in Elsinore.
I sat before the mast in Ole Faaborg’s stinking boat and we set out for Kronberg. The dirty canvas sail flapped and rustled in the wind. Behind me the island of Hven, the church of St. Ibb’s, the fallen paper mill, and the ruins of Tycho Brahe’s great house all receded into the distance. I did not look back.
{ Chapter Twenty }
SING HIM TO SLEEP
PERHAPS THE ASSASSINATION OF KING CHRISTIAN WAS an empty gesture, and perhaps I had