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herring; a trencher of fried eels was brought out forthe king. There was a jar of Rhenish for every four men, and servants stood by with even more.
    King Christian sat at the head of the table, his son to his right, and then a dozen Danish generals. Opposite them sat the advisors and other noblemen, Ulfeldt in the middle of their rank, sitting prideful and tall in his black robes, bony arms flapping in his sleeves like a cormorant or a great skinny bat. At the king’s left hand was Sir Tristram, the commander of the castle, Master of the Oresund and Collector of the royal shipping tax. Tristram was an old man with a gray head, a large, round belly, and a leg made lame by gout. He had known my family, though I had not seen him in a long time. The years had not been gentle with Tristram, and it was difficult to look upon this bloated, faded man and recall the blond giant on whose back I had ridden in my father’s garden, the young knight rearing and whinnying like a mad horse to my childish delight. Now more a civil servant than a soldier, Tristram was known as “Sir Tollbooth” by the people of Elsinore. Sir Tollbooth nodded at something the king said, laughed loud, and then beat his fist on the tabletop. The sound carried over the hall and conversation stopped. All eyes turned to Tristram. He stood, slowly and with some effort, and lifted his goblet. Every man but the king took to his feet and raised a cup.
    “Majesty, we welcome you back to your fortress of Kronberg,” Tristram said, and he did not pause for another breath for what seemed a quarter of an hour, congratulating the king on his victory over Gustavus and wishing the royal family the best of health and the wisdom of God and I know not what else. At long last, Tristram finished his speech and we all drank to King Christian. Tristram barely touched his wine, I noted, while the rest of us drained our cups and scrambled to refill them. As he took his seat, Tristram brushed away a tear and the king clapped him on the back. One of the royal advisors seated by Ulfeldt stood next to salute the king. He was followed by another noble, and then another, and then more speeches weremade by a few generals, and for nearly half an hour we stood drinking Denmark’s health.
    “Enough,” the king said. “You flatter a hungry man too much while his supper grows cold before his eyes. We accept your congratulations, lords and gentlemen, so let us feast! But bring me more wine, and more for all! Come, more wine!”
    I sat, a bit lightheaded from all the Rhenish, and set to on the feast. The priest next to me did not call for a benediction before the meal, but instead reached past me to drag the bread bowl nearer his own plate. The sounds of men tearing at roasted carcasses, chewing on flesh, cracking bones to suck out marrow, smacking their lips, and belching filled the room. Nostalgia swept over me for the feasts Tycho had given at Uraniborg. The rafters had shaken with laughter and the air had been alive as great ideas flew in all directions, Tycho debating fine points of cosmology with his assistants and tossing up hypotheses to be batted about like tennis balls. Those nights were contests where a man strove hard to challenge his imagination and the imaginations of his fellows. The king’s feast was a mere challenge to digestion and endurance against strong drink. The conversation was loud, but it was empty and dull. Generals talked of war and battles fought in their youth, councilors droned about taxes and harvests, while the lesser officers and gentlemen flattered their betters and lied about themselves. I became drowsy.
    Straslund was deep in his cups and by the end of the second hour had pushed the trencher aside to lay his head upon his crossed arms and so sleep at the table. Such behavior, even more than his general uselessness, kept Straslund clear of any danger of a court appointment. One did not expect reward for drowsing at the king’s table.
    Torstensson turned