John Gardner - Freddy's Book

The crowd began to whisper, its anger building, and at the last possible moment Gustav Vasa broke his silence. “Men of Dalarna,” he said, “I have told you no reasonable man can hate the Danes, much less dream of beating them. But I do not come before you as a reasonable man. I come as the last, wild hope of the Stures, a Sture myself and a man with powerful acquaintances in Lübeck, men who owe me favors and have even more need of me than you have — more need, as they know themselves, than has all of Sweden!” The shock his words gave them seemed to pass through the crowd in waves, like wind over wheat. “Is it possible?” they said to one another. “Is he mad?”

Lars-Goren began to feel troubled. It was not so much that Gustav was lying a little, though he was, of course — he was not quite as close to the Stures as he pretended, nor did anyone in Lübeck owe him favors. Neither was it, exactly, that for a man in such a passion, Gustav Vasa spoke remarkably well-turned sentences. One fights as one can, Lars-Goren told himself. A man in a fury makes use of his fists in the best way his training makes available to him, so why should Lars-Goren object if his kinsman Gustav used careful rhetoric? Nevertheless, Lars-Goren felt distressed, looking up at the platform from his place beside the Devil. Like torches at a stage play, flickering on the sweatbeads of an actor playing Christ, throwing up a shadow on the wall behind him, so the torches around the platform gleamed and danced and raised shadows over Gustav. Like an actor’s lines, not like real, direct feeling, the well-turned cries of Gustav’s anger rang out over the crowd and rebounded from the mountains. Even the answers of the crowd sounded staged: Is it possible? Is he mad? The smudged faces, swellings, and wounds of the Dalesmen — real as he knew them to be — looked like putty and paint in the torches’ red glimmer, and even the Devil, with spittle on his lip, seemed all at once, to Lars-Goren, like a child in a costume. All the world had gone unreal, mere foolish play — a shoddy carnival, a magic show; and remembering those who had died in Stockholm, those real severed heads, mouths working in the dirt, those real bodies stretched and torn apart on the rack, Lars-Goren began to be filled with frustration and anger that it should all come to this.

“My name,” Gustav Vasa was saying on the platform, “is Gustav Vasa! After my old friend and wealthy, staunch supporter Bishop Brask, who was spared because of his clerical status and his pretended friendship with that filthy pig Gustav Trolle, archbishop, I am the last close relation of Sweden’s fallen hero, the man who should have been our king, Sten Sture the Younger!” He lowered his eyebrows, smiling like a demon, and ground his right fist into his left palm, waiting while they roared their pleasure; then he spoke again. This time Gustav made no secret of his strong emotion. He told them of the death of his father and uncles, the imprisonment of his two lovely sisters; told them — almost gently, though his voice clanged out like a Swedish iron bell and tears streamed down his cheeks — that he, for one, could still unreasonably find it in his heart to hate the efficient and elegant Danes. He, for one, could dream of overthrowing them, dream of sending those noble old sea-kings out to sea for the rest of their days — let them settle in China! He said: “‘And where will this Gustav get his army?’ you ask.” He raised both hands, pointing. “You,” he screamed, “will be my army!”

The Devil, in his excitement, was sobbing and, at the same time, dancing. From every quarter of the crowd rose a roar of approval. Everywhere, miners were kissing each other.

At just that moment a man came running up the hill from the village. He pushed into the crowd, trying to reach the platform shouting something to everyone who would listen. When news of what the man was saying reached the Devil, his hair stood on end and his eyes rolled in fury and confusion. Then, collecting his wits, the Devil made a rush — roaring and swinging his fists to make a path — pressing to the platform, where he whispered in Gustav Vasa’s ear. Together, they melted at once into the crowd and hurried to the darkness beyond the farthest reach of the torches. As well as he could, Lars-Goren followed. He caught up with them at the nearest of the pit-barns, climbing onto horses.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Lars-Goren called out, keeping clear of the Devil, trying to look only at his kinsman.

“It’s Brask!” Gustav answered. “Bishop Brask and his men! Somehow or another they’ve got on to us! Grab a horse, Lars-Goren! If they’ve heard about me and what I’ve claimed for them, they’ve probably heard that you’ve been with me!” He shouted to his horse, wheeled, then galloped off, the Devil galloping right behind him, his black cape flying. As quickly as he could, Lars-Goren caught a horse for himself and set out after them, but as luck would have it, he was too far behind and got lost in the woods. When he found them — or, rather, found Gustav Vasa but not the Devil, sitting at his campfire beside a high mountain lake — Bishop Brask and the noblemen of his party had already caught up with him. Their horses were coming from the woods toward Gustav just as Lars-Goren came toward him from the opposite direction. When Gustav saw them he leaped up in a fury, then at once sat down again and began to bang the earth with his fist, crying without shame, like a schoolboy, swearing his heart out.

7.

BISHOP BRASK WAS A TALL, bald-headed old man, lean and straight of back, with heavy-lidded, pale blue, nearsighted eyes and fingers so stiff and thin that, even in their gloves, it seemed that a strong wind might break them off like twigs. He wore a stern black cloak over his purple outfit, a wide-brimmed black hat with a blue-black feather, and high-heeled boots from Flanders. His attire was like a king’s, by Swedish standards, though Sweden was of course not Germany or France, and in fact when the bishops of Europe were called together he always made a point of not going, lest his poverty be revealed.

He sat on a black horse in skirts and blinders — a sleek, fine animal by the name of Crusader, the old man’s most treasured possession. It was dancing a little now, twisting its head, trying to understand the acrid smell of Gustav Vasa but not giving the question its full attention, trying to work the iron bit out of its mouth, drooling and giving its head quick sideways snaps. Bishop Brask drew the reins in more tightly and pretended not to notice. He stared down gloomily at Gustav, waiting for him to finish. The bishop’s men sat waiting a little behind him, chins lifted, hands folded on the pommels of their saddles, their capes thrown back, like aristocrats posing for a painting.

Lars-Goren got down off his horse, tied it to a tree, and walked toward Gustav. Abruptly Gustav looked up at him, then over at the bishop, and stopped swearing.

As if it were a signal, the bishop got down off his horse and gave the reins to his man. He came toward Gustav, stepping warily, like a man who disliked having to walk on dirt, and he worked the tight leather gloves off his fingers as he came. When he reached Gustav, he gave an ironic little bow surprisingly like the Devil’s and said, “I understand we’re in some way kinsmen.”

“That may be,” said Gustav.

The bishop raised the tips of his fingers to his chin and seemed to muse for a moment, as if his speech were off-the-cuff, though everyone present was aware that it was carefully planned. “Come, come,” he said “there are hardly so many of us left that we can afford to be unfriendly.” Slowly, his frown became a not entirely unpleasant smile, and he stretched out his hand.