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KING ERIC
AND
THE OUTLAWS.
VOL. I.
KING ERIC
AND
THE OUTLAWS.
VOL. I.
NOTICE
TO
BOOKSELLERS,
PROPRIETORS OF CIRCULATING LIBRARIES,
AND THE PUBLIC.
The Publishers of this work give notice that it is Copyright, and that in case of infringement they will avail themselves of the Protection now granted by Parliament to English Literature.
Any person having in his possession for sale or for hire a Foreign edition of an English Copyright is liable to a penalty, which the Publishers of this work intend to enforce.
It is necessary also to inform the Public generally, that single Copies of such works imported by travellers for their own reading are now prohibited, and the Custom-house officers in all our ports have strict orders to this effect.
The above regulations are equally in force in our Dependencies and Colonial Possessions.
London, June, 1843.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
KING ERIC
AND
THE OUTLAWS;
OR,
THE THRONE, THE CHURCH, AND THE PEOPLE,
IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
BY
INGEMANN
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY
JANE FRANCES CHAPMAN.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1843.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
The historical records and traditions of Denmark, as well as the modern productions of Danish genius, are almost equally unknown to the general reader is England. While German, Swedish, and Italian works of any recognised merit, readily find translators, and the ancient ballads of Spain have received their English dress from an able and poetic pen, it appears somewhat singular that so little notice has hitherto been bestowed on the literature of a country, whose rich historical recollections are so closely interwoven with those of Anglo-Saxon England.
Though but little known in other lands, the ancient traditional lore of Scandinavia is nevertheless the source from which some of the most distinguished Danish writers of the present day, have selected their happiest themes, and drawn their brightest inspiration. The influence of the Saga, or traditional romance of Scandinavia, and of the "Kjœmpe Visé," or heroic ballad, is peculiarly apparent in the works of M. Ingemann.
The close adherence to historic outline--the development of character by action and dialogue--the delineation of scenery by brief though vivid sketches, in preference to elaborate description, are characteristics of Saga romance which M. Ingemann has been eminently successful in imparting to his own delineations of the chivalrous age of Denmark.
The Kjœmpe Visé, or heroic ballads which succeeded to the Saga in the North, and bear the impress of a kindred spirit, contain a store of historic tradition, and poetic incident, equally valuable to the antiquary who delights to trace the customs and manners of a remote age, and to the poet who seeks his inspiration from the historic muse of his Fatherland.
These vivid and truthful records of the middle ages of Denmark are to the modern writer of romance, what the oral traditions of the heroic age were to the chronicler of the Saga. They relate not only the exploits of northern warriors in their own, and in distant lands, but are also especially interesting, from the light they throw on the personal history of Denmark's most chivalrous monarchs. Their joys and sorrows, their sterner passions and gentler affections, are described by the national minstrel in a strain of simple and touching earnestness, which wins the full sympathy of the reader. This power of delineating human passion lends a charm even to some ballads, handing down the wildest superstitions of a superstitious age. In Germany the Danish ballads are known through the translations of Professor Grimm, who has entered with the enthusiasm both of an antiquary and a poet, into the spirit of Scandinavian lore. In the preface to his version of the "Kjœmpe Visé," M. Grimm dwells with peculiar pleasure on those ballads which have not only supplied M. Ingemann with much of the incident, but have also suggested the individual colouring of the historic portraits of "Eric and the Outlaws." All the prominent characters introduced into this romance from King Eric himself, down to Morten the cook, are historical, and enacted scarcely less romantic parts in the drama of real life, than those assigned them by M. Ingemann.
The struggle with papal authority--the encroachments of the Hanse towns--and the invidious attempts of the "Leccarii," (the socialists of the 13th century) were important features of that interesting period which this work is designed to illustrate.
The translator is aware of the difficulty of attracting attention to a romance drawn from Danish history; the work also makes its appearance without any of those adventitious advantages which sometimes ensure a favourable introduction to the public--it is translated by an unknown pen--is unaided by patronage of any kind--and has solely its own merits to rely on for success. It would afford no slight gratification to the translator were these to be appreciated by the reading public of a nation, which not only in its early history, is closely connected with Denmark, but which has inherited from Scandinavian ancestors, that indomitable spirit which rendered them in olden time masters of the seas.
KING ERIC
AND THE OUTLAWS.
CHAPTER I.
On the north-eastern coast of Zealand, about two miles from Gilleleié, is situate the village of Sjöberg, where the spade and the ploughshare occasionally strike against the foundations of ancient buildings, and traces yet remain of the paved streets of towns, the names of which are no longer known, and over which the corn now grows or the cattle graze. Towards the close of the thirteenth century there was still standing a small town, built on the ruins of the ancient Sjöberg. On a hill, surrounded by the water-reeds of the now nearly dried-up lake, fragments of walls of hewn free-stone lie buried in the earth, and mark the site of the strong and well fortified castle, which in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries served as a place of confinement for state prisoners of importance. The spot on which the castle stood was then entirely surrounded by the lake, which thus formed a natural fastness, rendering artificial moats superfluous. The castle was surrounded by ramparts. It was built of massive free-stone, and had a strong square tower, in which the most dangerous state prisoners were confined. The air was close and bad in the subterranean dungeon of the tower, where no ray of light could enter; but the upper dungeon, at the height of thirty-six feet from the ground, admitted light and air through a small round grated window. In this upper prison, towards the close of the year 1295, was still confined one of the chief accomplices in Marsk[[1]] Stig's conspiracy[[2]], the turbulent and imperious Archbishop Iens Grand. He had been imprisoned here during the minority of Eric Menved, as an accomplice in the murder of Eric Glipping, and as the protector of the outlawed regicides.
This dangerous prelate had many adherents in the country, and possessed powerful friends among the potentates of Europe, as well as at the papal see. According to the famous constitution of Veile (cum ecclesiæ Dacianæ), which had been the cause of such dangerous disputes between the kings and clergy of Denmark, the nation was immediately laid under an interdict prohibiting the performance of divine worship throughout the kingdom, on the seizure and imprisonment of a bishop by the king or any temporal authority. This, however, was not carried into effect on the seizure and imprisonment of Archbishop Grand. Not only love of their country and dread of the ungodliness, profligacy, and confusion, the certain consequences of a national punishment of this nature, had prompted the greater part of the Danish clergy to appeal to the pope against the enforcement of this penalty, but also their fears of temporal power and the people's wrath. The closing of the churches might have been followed by perilous consequences to the clergy themselves, at a time when the agitation caused by a regicide had not yet subsided, and the excited passions of the populace often broke out in scenes of blood and violence. This important question remained undecided at the court of Rome. Divine worship meanwhile was continued as usual, but fears were reasonably entertained, that, should the archbishop not speedily be set at liberty, the interdict would be confirmed by the pope, and the nation consequently plunged into a state of the greatest misery.
King Eric Menved had attained his majority, having completed his twenty-first year. The circumstances under which he had passed his childhood had conduced to the early formation of manly character, and to the development of his intellectual qualities. The outrage committed on the royal person, to which he had been witness in his childhood, had early awakened the consciousness of authority within his breast, and imparted something of passionate earnestness to his zeal in the administration of justice. He was deeply imbued with the chivalrous spirit of the age. The care with which he upheld the dignity of the crown was deemed by many a necessary policy in so perilous a time, but this anxiety for the maintenance of royal splendour, joined to his natural gaiety of disposition, had inspired the young monarch with a love of pomp and outward show, which was often censured as ostentatious vanity. The earnest solemnity with which he assumed the regal sceptre indicated a manly and resolute temper, early disciplined to firmness in the school of adversity; and the boldness with which he issued his first royal mandates bespoke a master spirit, conscious of kindred affinity with Waldemar the Victorious, the model as well as the ancestor of the young king,[[3]] Eric's first exercise of royal power was a bold attempt to assert the authority of his crown against the mightiest of earthly potentates, who from St. Peter's chair swayed kings as well as people in all Christian lands. This the young monarch dared to do, even at a time when his personal happiness was in a great measure dependent on the favour of the papal see. He had despatched his oldest and most experienced councillor of state, Ion Little, as well as Drost Hessel[[4]], to Rome, to justify as an act of lawful self-defence the proceedings against the archbishop, contrary to ecclesiastical law, and to demand his condemnation as a traitor to the crown. But besides this important mission, the aged councillor was entrusted with another, which at any other time would not have been attended with difficulty, although at the present juncture its favourable issue seemed doubtful, in proportion to its being of moment to the king. Little had been commissioned to obtain from the pope, and forward to Denmark with all possible dispatch, the long promised dispensation, empowering Eric to wed the beautiful princess Ingeborg of Sweden, to whom he had been betrothed in infancy, and had long loved as the companion of his childhood, and whom he now adored with all the devotedness and fervour of first and youthful love.
While the Danish embassy was detained at the papal court by all the artifices of tedious investigation and diplomatic ambiguity, the papal nuncio, Cardinal Isarnus, had been dispatched to Denmark, for the purpose of threatening the young Danish sovereign with excommunication in case he should refuse to release the archbishop unconditionally from imprisonment. The wily cardinal brought with him no letter from the pope touching the dispensation and permission for the royal marriage; but expressed himself on the subject in so dubious and enigmatical a manner, that it was evident the court of Rome designed to work upon the inexperienced monarch's feelings in a matter so nearly concerning his personal happiness, in order the more effectually to secure his submission to papal authority and his clemency towards the ecclesiastical offender at Sjöberg.
This mode of proceeding, however, was so far from producing, its intended effect on the young and impetuous King Eric, that it appeared to rouse him to such a pertinacious defiance of papal authority, as might be followed by dangerous consequences both to himself and the kingdom. The affair still remained undecided--the cardinal had quitted Denmark with fearful menaces, and was now at Lubec.
The haughty Archbishop Grand, who was alone the cause of this suspense and impending danger, was detained meanwhile in close captivity. During the first thirty-six weeks of his imprisonment he was confined in chains in the dark, deep, subterranean dungeon of the tower, and was left to suffer great misery and want, although most persons acquitted the young king (then in his minority) of having been accessary to this severity of treatment. The archbishop's fellow-prisoner, the traitorous and malevolent provost Jacob, had been released from prison on the plea of illness, but had immediately availed himself of this act of clemency to hasten to Rome, where he zealously laboured to stir up hostile feelings towards the king, and neglected no means of forwarding the liberation of the archbishop and their mutual revenge.
The preceding Christmas the king had visited Sjöberg, and had himself offered to give the archbishop his freedom, on the condition of his vacating the archiepiscopal chair, of his quitting the kingdom, and swearing to renounce all revenge, and give up all connection with the enemies of the crown. Notwithstanding the haughty defiance and scorn with which the archbishop had rejected this proposition, the rigour of his captivity was mitigated by the king's command, and he was placed in the upper dungeon he now inhabited, where he wanted neither light nor air, but where, as yet, he remained closely guarded and strongly fettered as before. As soon, however, as the king had left the castle, the condition of the captive became once more extremely miserable. The steward, Jesper Mogensen, was notorious for his avarice, his cruelty, and hypocritical bearing; and the king's brother. Junker[[5]] Christopher, was accused of having had a great share in the severity of the archbishop's treatment, although the prince took every opportunity of blaming the king's conduct in this matter, and counselled him to make any sacrifice and submit to any humiliation, to avoid a formal breach with the church and the papal see.
One evening in the month of October the steward of Sjöberg, accompanied by the cook and an old turnkey, ascended the winding stairs which led to the archbishop's prison and to the turnkey's chamber immediately above it. The strong light of a dark lanthorn, which the cook held up before him, fell full upon the countenance and form of the steward:--he was a short, strong-built man, with a true hangman's visage, in which the expression of ferocity and malice was combined with an air of wily hypocrisy; a shaggy cap was slouched over his low and narrow forehead; he wore a dirty coat of sheep's skin, and tramped up the stone stairs in heavy iron-shod boots, apparently in great wrath and alarm. "That limb of Satan! that ungodly priest!" he muttered, "if he hath dealings with the Evil One, chains will be of no use here."
"As I tell thee, master," answered the portly, round-faced cook, with an air of importance, "he talks with invisible spirits, and no turnkey dares any longer watch by him. He is as regularly bound to the Evil One as I am to thee, saving that he cannot shift his service, and leave his master when he pleases; you remember, no doubt, I gave you warning at the right time, and am free to be off either to-day or to-morrow, if I please. The devil take me if I stay longer here, since--since he is here already, I was near saying."
"Pshaw, Morten! thou shalt stay here till I get another cook: that thou didst promise me. But what hath given rise to all this talk about his sorceries?"
"There is something in it," answered the cook. "No one knows the Black Art out and out as he does. You know yourself that Junker Christopher's folk found the book on the Black Art among the letters from the outlaws, when they ferreted the bishop's secrets out of the chest in Lund sacristy. The book burned their fingers, and vanished instantly out of their hands. Such a devil's book always comes back to its master. That he hath not got it as yet, I am certain; but I fear he has it all at his fingers' ends. They said he never wearied of studying it at Lund, and he knows all the heathen and Greek books better by heart than his Paternoster, the ungodly hound!"
"Thou art right, Morten! He is a limb of Satan, and one cannot watch him too narrowly. His confounded learning never hit my fancy." Here the steward paused thoughtfully near the door of the archbishop's prison.
"Yes, take care, master!" resumed the cook; "he will soon fill the house with his devilries, and set all the imps in hell to plague us, if he doth not get his prison cleaned, and better meat and drink. It would please me right well were he to die of hunger and be eaten up of vermin. Such end would still be a thousand times too good for such an accursed traitor and wizard; but when the Evil One is in the house, it is wisest to remember one's own little transgressions, and not use a captive devil worse than we would he should use us."
"Pshaw, Morten! the devil is not our neighbour," interrupted the steward with a suspicious look. "Had I not myself heard thee curse and mock the archbishop, I should almost suspect thou wert in league with him."
"Nay, master! I can soon clear myself of that; I would sooner league with Beelzebub himself. The turnkeys can bear witness there is not one among them all that takes such delight in plaguing and vexing him as I do. When he is forced to drink muddy water, and eat mouldy bread like a swine yonder, I sing drinking songs below in the kitchen, and throw open the window that he may snuff up the scent of the roasting; and I never come nigh his door without singing one thing or another, which I know will make him turn yellow, black, and green with rage. I made a song last spring, all about freedom and fair green woods, that always enrages him. Now you shall hear, master:" and he sang loudly before the prison door,--
"A blithe bird flits round Sjöberg's tower,
Right merrily sings he,
Rise, captive, if thou hast the power,
Rise up and flee with me;
And then thou'lt breathe the fresh spring air,
And roam in greenwood gay;
Then speed we to thy castle fair,
To Hammershuus away."
"Hast thou lost thy wits, Morten?" interrupted the steward. "Wouldst thou stir him up to flee to his castle at Bornholm?"
"He may let that alone while he is here. Heard you not how deep he sighed? It was from rage and grief to think the least spring bird can fly to its castle and build its nest, while he can stir neither hand nor foot. I made that song on purpose to plague him."
"Thou art right, Morten! it did plague him," said the steward with a look of satisfaction. "Thou art an honest soul; I heard myself how deep he sighed: nevertheless, thou shalt not sing him any more such songs; they only serve to put fancies into his head. Thou art a good, well-meaning fellow, Morten! I know it well; but thou art somewhat simple. If the bishop knew the Black Art, he would not have been here so long. I rather incline to think his brain is cracked."
"Have a care, master; that fellow hath all his wits about him; there is not a bishop in all the country can beat him at Latin."
"It matters not to me whether he be mad or wise," muttered the steward, who mounted the stairs leading to the turnkey's room. He opened the door of this chamber, which was the uppermost in the tower, and directly above the archbishop's prison. Here two turnkeys were always on guard, and watched the prisoner through a chink in the floor. During the night two others were usually stationed in the captive's dungeon, and sat beside his couch, when it was their wont to plague him, and by their talk often to prevent his sleeping; but the report which had recently been spread abroad of the archbishop's sorceries, had so terrified the inmates of Sjöberg, that none dared any longer remain at night in the captive's chamber. The two sentinels were seated before a backgammon board, and were throwing the dice when the steward entered. They hastily concealed them, and rose respectfully.
"This is doing duty finely," muttered the steward: "while ye sit here and game, ye suffer him below there to play with Satan for his soul. Ye had best keep your eyes upon him, I counsel ye. If he gets loose, ye may make as sure of being hanged, as if ye had already the halter round your necks, and the clear air for a footstool. Now let's see what he is after." So saying the steward stooped down to the hole in the floor and peeped below. "He surely sleeps," he whispered; "he lies on his back without stirring."
"That he is well nigh forced to do, because of his chains and the pestilent smell," said the cook.
"Well," answered the steward, "one should not despise any means which might save an erring soul. It is for this reason, seest thou, I suffer the hardened sinner below there to lie in such swinish plight. Ignorant folk would call it cruel; it is in truth pure compassion. How long thinkest thou the most hardened offender can hold out such captivity without repenting of his misdeeds and creeping to the cross?"
"Ay, there doubtless you are in the right, master! You have pious and fatherly manner, and even generously exposed yourself to the risk of drawing down on you the king's wrath a second time, simply for the sake of exercising true Christian compassion, and saving the sinner's soul; but he is insensible to it, the scoundrel. His obstinacy is matchless. Could you believe it, master? Notwithstanding all you do to bring him to repentance and conversion, he curses you, nevertheless, every hour of the day, and wishes you may come to suffer a thousand times more torments in hell than you have here caused him to undergo out of pure Christian charity!"
"I can well believe it, Morten; from such sort of folk one should never look for gratitude; but the roof and ceiling are in too sorry a plight," muttered the steward looking around him: "under the blue sky he needs not to sleep, either; it might be dangerous besides."
"It was done according to your own order, master," resumed the cook in a credulous tone, and staring with an air of simplicity at the holes in the ceiling and the roof, "else it could never have rained down on that confounded Satan. Of a surety he will let alone flying with the owls through the roof; and when the nights are cold, a little rain and hail are right proper means of bringing him to reflection and confession of his sins."
"Well, it is true, Morten; I myself partly commanded it: but one should have moderation in all things; it should not appear as if the roof had been uncovered on purpose. Evil tongues will have plenty to talk of as it is. To-morrow the roof shall be repaired. Some small holes may remain--they will not catch the eye--fresh air is wholesome; even a little rain and snow may have their use. Not a rain-drop falls to the earth, Morten, but it may prove a means for the conversion of a hardened sinner."
"Ah, master," said Morten, with a tremulous voice and clasped hands, "you should, by my troth, have been a bishop: you often speak so touchingly and edifyingly that the tears start into mine eyes."
"Well," answered the steward with a self-satisfied smile, "I was, indeed, once intended to become a churchman, and though I got not the tonsure, I nevertheless learned many pious and useful truths during my noviciate; but it is not sufficient to know the truth, we must, by my troth, know how to use it for one's own and one's fellow-creature's salvation."
"Ah, yes, master," resumed Morten, with a devout look, "who is there can say that with as good a conscience as yourself? 'Tis a hard calling for a pious Christian conscience and a compassionate soul like yours, to be forced to play such bloodhound and hangman's tricks on a poor captive; but what will not one do for duty and precious virtue's sake, and to save an erring soul! Such a pious bloodhound and hangman----"
"Hold thy tongue, Morten," interrupted the steward; "thou must never use such words in speaking of thy master, however well and honestly thou meanst it. But hark! he speaks below there: canst hear what he says? It seems to me it is Latin or Greek."
The cook threw himself on his stomach and laid his ear close to the hole in the floor. "Our Lady preserve us!" he whispered with a look of affright, "he is calling on Aristoteles, the devil's schoolmaster, and is giving him directions about you; he swears that you are right ready to enter his school."
"Ay, indeed, it is just like the ungodly scoundrel! but I thought I heard another voice--there is surely no one with him?"
Morten listened again. "Master! heard you that?" he exclaimed, springing up with a look of terror, and looking towards the door as if he meant to escape.
"How now? What's that? What hath possessed thee, Morten? What heardest thou?"
"Stoop down your ear to the hole, master, and you shall hear. Our Lady graciously preserve us! The Evil One is manifestly with him. He is to fetch you at midnight if you do not presently give his good friend, the archbishop, meat and wine and clean garments. Only listen yourself!"
The steward cast a suspicious look at the cook, yet stooped to listen at the hole, keeping his eye all the while on Morten and the terrified turnkeys. He had not remained long in this position, ere he rose up deadly pale, and the name of Jesper Mogensen, accompanied by the sound of smothered and unnatural laughter, rung hollow as from an abyss, and in a voice wholly unlike the archbishop's. "Heard ye it not yourself, master?" said Morten; "he who now calls on you I desire not to see near me."
"Silence!" whispered the steward, stooping again with a look of alarm towards the crevice in the floor.
"Jesper Mogensen!" said the same terrific voice as if directly under his feet, "cherish my learned master and customer, or I will break thy neck, and turn inside out thy hypocritical soul."
While this voice rang through the chamber the turnkeys lay flat on their faces on the floor, and repeated their Avemaria. The steward trembled and shook; but Morten's cheeks now glowed crimson, and his eyes watered, as if affected by some secret exertion, while his lips were firmly compressed, and he stood apparently speechless with terror.
"Then let him have what he wants," stammered forth the steward. "If there are such tricks in the game, neither Junker Christopher, nor any one else, can require me to peril my life and soul any longer. Set thee to roast for the bishop in Satan's name, Morten! Let him eat and drink himself to death if he pleases! but escape he shall not, let him have ever so many devils for his friends."
"You will find it hard to hinder him, master," said Morten in a timid tone; "he who so can roar would deem it a small matter to fly through the key-hole with a bishop."
"I must see that, ere I believe it," said the steward, who appeared to have regained his self-possession, and recovered from his fright. "Thou art an honest fellow, Morten, but thou art somewhat credulous and simple--there is perhaps some trick in this. But this I would have thee, and all of ye, to know--if I smell a rat, or if any of ye have the least hand or part in this devilry, ye shall rue it dearly: ye shall be burned alive, or broken on the wheel, as surely as there is law and justice in the land."
"Our Lady preserve us, master!" exclaimed the terrified turnkeys in the same breath.
"I tell ye," continued the steward, "'tis nought else but trick and treachery. To try him below there, I will let him have good cheer and cleanliness for a time; but if he kicks up any more riots of this kind, he shall below in the dungeon again: and this I tell ye, knaves! if any of you dare help him to flight, one for all, and all for one, ye shall be hanged! Ye shall all three watch here to-night."
"Alack! we dare not, master!" said the old turnkey. "If there is sorcery in the tower, we dare not stay here, unless Morten the cook stay too, to keep up our courage."
"Stay, then, with these stupid knaves to-night, Morten!" said the steward. "After all thou art the wisest among them. I shall owe thee for it, and to-morrow I shall get fellows enough with some spirit in them."
"It is all one to me, master!" answered Morten. "I will keep up their spirits tonight. He who, like you and I, hath a good conscience, need not fear a few devil's tricks."
"True enough, Morten! thou shalt first follow me down stairs. I am somewhat dizzy from stooping; and then thou canst at the same time fetch meat and drink for the prisoner and all of ye."
"Come, master, take hold of my arm!" said Morten, following the steward out of the door. "All is quiet and orderly," he continued, as they descended the stair. "I thought it would be so--one good turn deserves another. You'll find, we shall get at last so used to these impish tricks that we shall not care a rush for them; and why should not one learn to put up with two or three little devils, when they choose to behave themselves courteously, and live in Christian concord and sweet family union with us?"
When Morten had attended the steward to the bottom of the stairs, he ran into his chamber, and from thence to the kitchen and pantry. He presently mounted the tower stairs again, and returned to his comrades with a bundle of clothes, two baskets of provisions, and a couple of flagons of wine. "Take thou the meat and wine and clothes to the hound below, Mads!" said he to the old turnkey; "but steal not aught thereof on the way! Master says the chamber is to be made clean and neat. A guard will henceforth be placed outside the door night and day, so that thou need'st not load him with all the fetters. Meanwhile let us here get something to keep life in us. Look, comrades! I have both mead and German ale with me. Only get thee gone, Mads; we will surely leave something for thee, if thou comest back sober."
The old man cast a longing look at the wine and good cheer he was to take to the captive, and departed. Morten now busied himself in placing the provisions on the table, and presently began to carouse merrily with the two younger turnkeys. The one had borne arms, and styled himself Niels the horseman; he was a lover of strong drink, and had rather a red nose. The other was a timid and cautious personage, with a cunning and miserly cast of countenance. He sat with the dice in his hands, and counted the number of marks he had won from his comrades.
"Thou art an excellent fellow, Morten," said Niels the horseman, pushing back the cap which shaded his sun-burnt and martial visage, while he drained his cup of mead, and seized on the flagon of ale. "Thou knowest well how to furnish a guard-room when one is required to keep one's eyes open and one's spirits up. By my soul! I would rather keep guard in a camp over a whole army of captives than sit here, especially if the confounded bishop understands the black art, and such-like devilry. What dost think of all this, Morten?"
"Truly, that is not for laymen to judge of," answered Morten. "I know neither the white nor the black art; but this I know, henceforth let there be ever such a stir below there, I budge not from my seat. When we keep our noses out of mischief, and strive to mind our duty, we shall be left in peace, and can sit here as quiet as though we lay in Abraham's bosom. Now drink, Niels! And thou, Jörgen, what art thou thinking of?" said he to the man with the dice. "I warrant thou wouldst rather kill the time in gaming, than in honest and innocent drink. Now, by our Lady! every man hath his crotchets in this world, but we must ever sing with the birds we live with. First, comrade, sing and drink with us, and we will play afterwards with thee. We have bright silver pieces in plenty." So saying, the merry cook threw a handful of silver money on the table, and began to sing a joyous drinking song. Jörgen looked covetingly at the silver, and shook the dice. "Come, good Morten, let's play first," said he, in a coaxing tone, and with a crafty smile, "and we can sing and drink afterwards."
"Darest thou throw for a silver piece?"
"For twenty, if thou wilt," answered Morten; "but I snap my fingers at dice and silver pieces, as long as I can get aught to moisten my tongue; it is the most important member in the world, seest thou, and well deserves to be cherished. That little instrument can turn whole kingdoms topsy-turvy. I am already half drunk, I perceive, and thou hast not lifted the cup to thy lips as yet. The man who games with me must be as jovial a soul as myself."
"Well, then, pour me out half a can of ale, if it be not too strong," said the cautious Jörgen. "Mead instantly gets into my head: when one would play a fair game, one should always be able to count to six; besides, we are not sent here to drink ourselves drunk, I trow."
"Just as much to drink as to game," answered Morten; "but leave that to me! I know the strength of the ale well, and what four fellows can stand, provided they be not carlines."[[6]] The turnkeys drank, and Morten replenished their cups.--"Know ye the news, comrades?" he continued, raising his voice, as he seated himself at his ease, with his arms resting on the table; "we may presently expect the king here at the castle; then will there be no lack of drink. Money, and mead, and wine, and Saxon ale, will flow here, as in blessed Paradise."
"The king!" said Niels the horseman; "then of a surety will there be fine doings here; he will, by my troth! give the huntsman something to do."
"You will see, then, the bishop will get loose," said Jörgen the turnkey, rolling the dice as he spoke, "for he is surely not so mad as to put the king in a rage again, as he did the last time."
"He cares not for the King's wrath," answered the cook; "that fellow minds neither king nor emperor; and if it be true that the pope in Rome sides with him, the king may go to the wall at last."
"What can the pope do to our king?" asked Niels the horsemen; "he dwells in Italy, far over the sea yonder, and hath neither horsemen nor ships to send hither."
"But he hath that which stands him in better stead," said Morten; "he hath got a bunch of keys, so heavy that a hundred men can't carry them, and with those he can both open and shut heaven and hell, to each one of us, just as it likes him. Hell-gate he willingly leaves open, for there is ever a throng in that quarter; but heaven's gate, by my troth! he locks every evening himself, and lays the keys under his pillow."
"But St. Peter keeps the gate," responded Niels; "he must ever stand sentinel there night and day."
"Right, Niels! but St. Peter is the pope's cousin only; besides, the pope keeps him under finger and thumb, and takes the keys from him every evening, as soon as it grows dark, just as the steward takes the keys from thee: the pope, moreover, is the Lord's stadtholder, as thou surely know'st; and when he is wroth, he is able by a single word to shut up all the churches in the country, and give all of us, body and soul, to the devil."
"Our Lady preserve us!" said Niels, crossing himself; "and think'st thou he durst act thus by our king and all Christian folk here in the country?"
"Yes, he threatens hard to do it, they say. The devil take the confounded bishop below, there! he is the cause of all this ill luck; 'twere better for king and country had he long since shown us a pair of clean heels."
"Think'st thou so, Morten! 'tis arrant folly, then, to pen the fellow up here as they do?"
"That's the king's business," answered Morten; "he surely knows what he is about; and hath doubtless his own reasons for what he does. The bishop had a hand in the game when they made away with his father in the barn at Finnerup--'tis true King Glipping was worth little enough, but he was king nevertheless, and the murder was a lawless business: our Lord forbid I should defend it! No one can think ill of our young king because he can't forgive the bishop; but, as I said before, state and country would fare better were the king less strict, and the bishop gone to the devil."
While this dialogue was carrying on, the old turnkey returned half intoxicated, and threw himself on a bench before the drinking table.
"How now, Mads! what red cheeks thou hast got," said the cook, laughing; "thou must surely have accredited the bishop's wine: thou didst right! who could know whether it might not be poisoned?"
"Death and pestilence, Morten! what art prating of?" lisped forth the old man in a fright, and spit upon the floor. "I have not so much as tasted a drop of his wine; nevertheless, thou shouldst not jest about such things."
"Be easy, old fellow!" said Morten, in a soothing tone; "I myself drank of it on the stairs. Well! what said he to the change?"
"Not so much as yon stone flask, comrade! The hound would sooner let himself be spitted than speak a fair word to any man: perhaps, too, he thought it was poison I brought him,--but, death and pestilence!"--here he paused and spit again--"I can never believe"----
"Make thyself easy, Mads! thou knowest thou hast not tasted a drop; at any rate here is something to rince thy throat with, which I warrant thee is good and wholesome. I will sing thee a merry song the while; which will do the bishop good as well." While Morten again replenished his comrades' cups, he cleared his throat and sang:
"In Sjöborg tower a spider's web
Holds sure a struggling fly;
He once was king and country's dread,
And held his head full high.
Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,
That web thou'lt never leave alive."
"What song is that?" asked Niels the horseman; "I never heard it before."
"It was made to mock the bishop below," said Morten; "and I it was who made it. Now ye shall hear; for to plague him properly, and mock his useless learning, I have managed to cram a little Latin into it that I learned of Father Gregory:" and Morten continued,--
"For Crimen læsæ majestatis,
The spider's web doth prison thee.
Custodibus inebriatis,
A thief shall catch a thief, thou'lt see.
Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,
That web thou'lt never leave alive."
While the cook thus sang in a loud voice, the clanking of chains was heard below in the archbishop's dungeon, and the two half-drunken turnkeys started from their seats, while Jörgen, who was still sober, took the opportunity of conveying a couple of the cook's silver pieces into his own pocket. "Let him writhe in his chains, the hound!" said Morten, remaining quietly seated; "he hears well enough how I mock him in the song, and that enrages him; but it does him good."
"Right, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, as he peeped through the chink in the floor. "He twists in his chains, as though he were possessed--thou may'st be sure it is the Latin that vexes him--but no matter for that. I would have him hear, that we lay folk know a thing or two as well as himself."
"Come, let's drink, comrades!" called the cook, and continued to sing, as he rose from the bench, and staggered, as if half-intoxicated, about the chamber:--
"Thy Latin hast thou clean forgot?
And canst not catch the blithe bird's lay?
Then dark and dreary be thy lot,
Within these walls thou'lt pine away.
Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,
That web thou'lt never leave alive.
"Hast thou a message to Rome?
Hark! the bird sings right cunningly!
Or farther yet, from my greenwood home?
Speak! and I'll haste far o'er the sea.
Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,
That web thou'lt never leave alive."
As he sang the last verse, he fell down flat beside the hole, above the archbishop's dungeon, and peeped through it.
"The false knave mocks me," he heard the captive murmur with a deep sigh.
"Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,
Thou'lt never leave that web alive,"
sang Morten at the top of his lungs, while he reeled about, and continued to repeat the burden of the song, in which the turnkeys joined with loud laughter.
"Thou art gloriously drunk, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, in an inarticulate voice, and fell under the table. "Thou shouldst bethink thee, we are on guard here, and not at an ale-house:" so saying, the man-at-arms rested his heavy head on a stone flagon, which lay on the floor, and fell asleep.
"But what hath become of Niels the horseman?" said the old turnkey, who had in the meantime drained a large flagon of potent Saxon ale (noted for its intoxicating properties). "I'll be hanged if I can see him."
"He is snoring under the table there, the guzzling hound!" answered Jörgen; "ye are pretty fellows, truly, to keep a night watch: I shall have to watch and be sober for ye all. Come, Morten! let us two keep our wits about us, and mind our duty! There lie thy silver pieces swimming in ale and mead--let's clear the table--shall we venture a throw for them? he who gets the highest throw shall pocket them; thou mayest throw first, an thou likest."
"Done!" said Morten; "but we must play fair." As he said this, he took the dice and threw.
"If thou canst count, count, Jörgen, he stuttered, without looking at the dice.
"Two, three--seven thou hast only got," answered Jörgen, hastily sweeping up the dice; "look, it is my turn now:" he threw the dice, which turned up a high number. "I've won! the money is mine! look thyself!"--he swept the money towards him.
"I doubt thee not--thou art an honest fellow," answered Morten, reeling, as he filled his comrade's cup, "the money is thine, but, by my soul! thou shalt now drink to the health of my true love, and then I will lie down to sleep. If thou drink not that cup clean out, I shall hold thee for a rascally cheat."
"Well, then, good Morten, here's to the health of the pretty Karen Jeppé of Gilleleié! see'st thou, I am a man of my word," said Jörgen, and drank--"There is not a drop left in the can."
"That's right! Thou art an honest soul after all," lisped the cook, tumbling on the floor, where he soon began to snore louder than any of the others.
"The dull brute!" muttered Jörgen, who began to feel somewhat muddled; "one may lead him by the nose as much as one likes." It was not long, however, before he leaned his head on his arms upon the table, and slept soundly. Hardly had he begun to snore, ere the cook rose, perfectly sober, and narrowly scrutinised the faces of the three sleeping turnkeys by the dim light of the lamp. As soon as he was satisfied that they slept soundly, Morten crept softly to the hole in the floor, and looked down on the prisoner.
"Venerable sir!" he whispered, "I have managed to drink them all three dead drunk; they are sleeping like logs--you need not doubt me. I have always been true and devoted to you. I was forced to plague and vex you, to throw dust in the eyes of others. I will do your bidding, wherever you please to send me."
"Is this earnest, Morten?" whispered the captive archbishop.
"It is, by my soul and honour!" answered the cook; "you saved my life, and concealed what you well wot of; therefore have I vowed to Saint Martin to save your life--at whatever cost."
"In the Lord's name, then, I will believe thee," said the prisoner. "If thou wouldst save my life, hie thee to Copenhagen, to my canon Hans Rodis, and consult with him! Bid him send me pen and ink--a file--and a ladder of ropes."
"Hans Rodis is at Esrom, my lord," answered the cook; "he bade me put this little sausage into your pious hands. If the chains will let you, hold up your hands, just as you lie there! Look, now! see how well we have hit the mark!" In saying this, the cook pushed through the aperture a thin rolled-up packet, concealed in a sausage; it was fastened to a string, by which he lowered it, holding the end fast in his hand. "I have it," said the captive, "praised be the King of kings! My faithful servant hath sent me what I need--let not go the string," he continued, after a pause; "bring the lamp to the hole--but one single ray of light!" The cook obeyed in silence.
"I am writing a word of moment to my commandant at Hammershuus; wilt thou put it faithfully into his own hands?"
"I will, by my soul! only make haste."
"Thy reward will be great in Heaven, as on earth; but give me light, light!"
"All is arranged," whispered the cook, holding the lamp closer to the hole; "let us but make sure of Hammershuus, and all will be well! The fitting time will be when ye see me again; meanwhile use the file with caution. I and the canon will care for the rest; Niels Brock and his friends will help us. Johan Kysté and Olé Ark are here. Be of good courage, venerable sir! you may depend on me. But haste! those drunken dogs are stirring--I fear they will awake."
"One moment more!" whispered the captive. "Pull up--all is ready," he continued, after a short pause. Morten hastily drew up the string, and found a sheet of parchment rolled up in the skin of the sausage, which was fastened to it: he carefully concealed it. "Hush! they wake!" he whispered. "I must set to work again." So saying, the portly cook rolled himself on the floor among the intoxicated and half-awakened turnkeys, and began to belabour them with all his might. "Hollo, there! now for a beating of meat!" he shouted, "now for a pounding of pepper! How come we by this lump in the porridge? It must be well beaten out."
"Oh, oh! Art thou mad, Morten!" cried Niels the horseman.
"Have done with thy chatter, I know what I am about," continued Morten, still laying about him. "I am neither mad nor drunk; but the devil take me if I stay longer here!--must you, clod-pates, have your say too, and fancy yourselves wiser than the cook? Would you make me believe I have horsemen in the pot?"
While Morten thus shouted and talked, as though intoxicated to an excess he overturned the lamp, reeled in the dark out of the chamber, and rolled himself down the stairs. When the keepers, on the following morning, had recovered the full use of their senses the cook had disappeared, and was nowhere to be found in the castle.
CHAP. II.
At sunrise next morning, the brisk broad-shouldered cook, with a large club in his hand, took his way through the wood skirting Esrom Lake[[7]], accompanied by two other wanderers. It was a foggy morning; large flocks of wild geese flew with shrill cries over the lake, and the fallen leaves of the forest were swept along the path by the sharp morning breeze. The cook and his companions proceeded in silence and with hasty steps; and it was not until the sun began to disperse the cold mists of morning, that Morten cleared his throat, and sang a merry ballad. His companions were two strong broad-shouldered fellows, with red wadmal cloaks, over dirty leathern breeches, and with broad swords and daggers in their thickly padded belts, which also appeared to serve them as purses. They had the appearance of deserters or dismissed men-at-arms; they both wore beards in the fashion of king's horsemen, but seemed to have long neglected all attention to cleanliness and personal neatness. Their unwashed faces betokened want of sleep and fitting rest. The heads of a couple of flails served them as walking staves. They bore on their backs large bundles of rich attire, from which pieces of smoked meat and other provisions protruded. Their long uncombed hair hung about their shoulders; the skin and hair of both were so dark, and their countenances had so little of a Danish cast, that they would have passed for foreigners, had not their dialect proclaimed them to be peasants from Lolland; who, at any rate, could not prove their evidently Vandal extraction in the first generation. The taller of the two had lost an eye, and the other had a huge scar between his nose and mouth, which looked like a hare lip, and his sharp projecting teeth gave him a ferocious appearance, resembling that of a wild boar.
The three wanderers occasionally looked behind them, as if they apprehended a pursuit; but they only beheld the white gable ends of Esrom monastery, which they had passed a short time before.
"Now, thanks for good companionship," said Morten, as he halted at a cross road in the forest. "It were best we part company for the present; ye understand what I said to you--ye are to hide yourselves at Gilleleié, and watch every night, until ye see the skiff with the black pennant, then push off with Jeppé's boat, and set me on shore: meanwhile watch narrowly all that goes on here, and who goes in and out of the castle. What Niels Brock and the archbishop have promised, you may make sure of. But then ye must not be self-willed; ye will never be able to get him out by force, and if the king and Marsk Oluffsen come hither to-day or to-morrow, ye might lightly get hanged and ruin every thing."
"Leave that to us, sly Morten," said the man with the one eye. "Johan Kysté well knows what he is about. I committed but one folly in my life; 'twas on that Easter eve I deserted from the Marsk, and took the palfrey from the pious clerk; I did but knock a little hole in his skull, but it was large enough for his bit of a soul to slink out of: one should let holy men go their way in peace; for this, I am now forced to put up with one eye. I vowed, therefore, to our Lady and St. Joseph, to become pious and God-fearing from that very hour, and never more to lay my hand on other than laymen."
"A pious resolve," said Morten: "wert thou not such a bloodhound and cut-throat, I could almost believe thy soul might be saved as yet, even shouldst thou steal and rob in a small way at times."
"It bids fair to be so," answered the one-eyed. "I have a letter of absolution from the archbishop, within my woollen jerkin, that will stand me in good stead when all the world besides marches to hell. Truly I served the learned Master Grand faithfully by night and day these many years, therefore hath the pious archbishop given me freedom from fasting, and absolution for sins for ten whole years: he hath not spared his silver pieces either; and shall I now suffer them to shut up such a man, and thereby rob so many honest fellows of a living? What sayest thou, Olé Ark? Shall we suffer it any longer? hath Master Grand deserved it of us?"
"Pshaw! Kysté; who says thou art to suffer it, and leave him in the lurch?" interrupted Morten. "We all want to have him out; but we would not be as fools, trying to burst open the doors with their own thick skulls. Force will not help us here--do but as I bid thee, and keep thy courage until we want it."
"Morten is right, Kysté," began the other Lollander, with a hideous grin, which displayed his projecting teeth. "Thou art a mad bull, and art ever ready to push with thy horns. Why haste so desperately to get him out? he was a good and generous man of God while he was in power, 'tis true, but since he hath lain in Sjöborg we have heard no great things of him, and have not been blessed with the sight of a stiver from his hand."
"Dull cod-fish!" replied Johan Kysté, hastily; "believest thou not what honest Morten hath vowed and promised us in the bishop's name? As soon as we get him out we are his steersmen at Bornholm, and get leave to catch what we can throughout the king's dominions."
"Hold, comrade," said Morten, correcting him. "It is only so long as the breach lasts between the king and the archbishop, that he gives you leave to drive that trade: it is only in the service of the church, and the pious bishop, that it may be lawful and Christian for a time; afterwards ye must content yourselves with what he gives you of his own, and lead quiet lives: but ere this day twelvemonth, you may feather your nests finely. Now begone, and neglect not what ye have taken upon ye, for the sake of other desperate pranks! I will not have you longer with me: if any one caught me in such fair company, they might take a fancy to hang me up by the side of you, for honest companionship's sake."
"Ho! ho! wouldst thou play the lordling, Morten?" said the one-eyed; "what higher honour couldst thou look for, thou turnspit!--But hark! what was that? are there hunters in the wood so early?"
The sound of hunting-horns, the tramp of horses, and the baying of hounds, was heard in the neighbourhood: the three wanderers hastened forward a few paces, but soon suddenly sprang aside in different directions.
"S'death! the king and all his courtiers!" exclaimed Morten, sheltering himself behind a large beech tree by the road side, while both his suspicious-looking comrades hid themselves among the thick brushwood.
A numerous hunting train drew near; at the head rode the young king, between the Drost and the Marsk: it was a noble sight to see the young chivalrous King Eric on horseback. He rode a tall milk-white horse, which seemed proud of its burden, and often fell into the artificial dancing-pace to which it was used in the tilt and tournay. Its bridle and saddle accoutrements glittered with gold and precious stones: the silken rein with which the king managed his steed was the only compulsory means to which it would submit; the slightest touch of the golden rowel in the king's spur caused it to rear almost upright, and for any other than the king it seemed rash and dangerous to bestride the proud animal. The king himself was a noble-looking youth, with a manly and determined, almost a stern, cast of countenance; but his long fair locks imparted a softness to this expression, which, in Eric's milder moods, called to mind the portraits of the Saviour's best beloved Apostle, leaning his head on his Master's breast. The young king had a dignified and chivalrous deportment, the effect of which was heightened by the almost dazzling splendour of his attire, which appeared indeed unsuited to a hunting party. The tall white plume in his hat sparkled with small silver stars; and the green hunting dress, bordered with ermine, was so richly broidered with silken lions, and golden hearts, that it resembled a shining suit of armour.
The splendour in which the young king appeared to delight was also conspicuous in his train. Drost Aagé, who rode at the king's right hand, was of the same age with King Eric, and had not yet attained his twenty-second year. He had been the king's playmate and confidant from childhood upwards, and now possessed his entire confidence and favour. There was a mild but almost melancholy seriousness in the expression of Drost Aagé's countenance, which gave him the appearance of being older than the king. He had thrown his dark blue mantle over the back of his smoking palfrey, by way of covering; and his rich silken dress was besprinkled with the foam of the king's restless and chafing steed, upon which he appeared to keep a watchful eye.
Marsk Niels Oluffsen, who rode at the king's left hand, was a tall strong-built man, of about thirty years and upwards, with a sharp, rough, warrior-like countenance, and stiff deportment. Next to Drost Aagé, he was the king's most indispensable counsellor, and was an exceedingly brave and doughty knight; but there was a tinge of haughtiness and severity in his looks and manner which frequently aroused the feelings of independence, and wounded the self-love, of his inferiors. Even the king and Drost Aagé, who were fully his equals in knightly prowess, and far surpassed him in tact and talent, often felt unpleasantly repulsed by his rough and blunt bearing, of which he was himself so unconscious that nothing astonished him more than whenever his uncouth roughness and self-confidence drove friends as well as enemies from him.
Among others of the king's train were two celebrated German minstrels--Master Rumelant, from Swabia, and Master Poppé the Strong, who, in their national dress of German minstrels, attracted much attention. Master Rumelant's stature was insignificant, but he had a lively and enthusiastic expression of countenance; he was a lover of argument, into which he was ever ready to enter with warmth and vehemence, especially on theological subjects, on which he entertained his own very peculiar opinions. His countryman, Poppé the Strong, well deserved his cognomen: he was a gigantic figure, with long coal-black hair and beard. His appearance often terrified old women and children, by whom he was even sometimes taken for a wizard. He spoke in a tone of emphatic decision, which would have better beseemed a commander-in-chief. He rode a lean grey horse, and always wore a black feather in his hat, in token of a sorrow he desired should be noticed and respected by others. These two strangers had been for some time the honoured guests of the young Danish monarch, who himself possessed a knowledge of the arts, and showed special favour to talented artists and men of learning. The king was also attended on this excursion by the famous Danish philosopher, Petrus de Dacia, who was accounted the greatest astronomer and arithmetician of his time, and was as renowned for his theological learning as for his eloquence and profound knowledge of Greek and Latin philology. Clad in his black canon's dress, he rode a quiet palfrey, between the two German minstrels; and always acted as mediator when, in the heat of argument, they became vehement, and seemed disposed to exchange hard words. He was still in the prime of life: on his journey through Germany he had become acquainted, at Cologne, with Christiné Stambel, the nun, so renowned for her sanctity; and the enthusiasm with which he always spoke of this lady would have subjected him to the suspicion of a secret passion, had he not in his writings, as well as in his conversation, lauded with still greater enthusiasm the blessed Virgin Mary, as preeminent in beauty and sanctity, and exalted her to supreme rank among the saints in the calendar. He had proved, with irresistible eloquence, that the gracious confidence the Lord showed to St. Peter, in intrusting him with the care of his flock, was even vouchsafed in a far higher degree to St. John, the beloved apostle, who, as the Lord's best-loved disciple, was appointed the protector and guardian of the blessed Virgin.
His vehement theological controversy on this point with the learned and famous Aldobrandino Papparonus Venensis, of the Dominican order, was in a great measure the foundation of the esteem in which he was held by the learned. It was only when the conversation turned on this his favourite theme that his equanimity was ever disturbed; excepting when this occurred, his discourse was calm, clear, and collected. The latent energy which lay in his full and ardent eye, with its expression of somewhat visionary enthusiasm, was calculated to inspire kindly attention and confidence, and (what was a phenomenon among the learned of his time) he was altogether free from pedantry and pride.
The king and his train now approached the cross road and the tree behind which Morten had concealed himself: from this spot opened the finest view on Esrom lake. "Halt!" said the king, springing from his horse: "this is a lovely spot; we will tarry here and take our repast. They will surely come this way from Elsinore."
"No doubt they will, my liege," answered Marsk Oluffsen, while he and the Drost dismounted at the same time from their horses, and gave them into the charge of the king's groom. "Here lies the high road to Esrom and Sjöborg. But, if I know the margrave right, he will not ride through Elsinore ere all the pretty maidens are awake and can admire his fair presence and horsemanship. As yet, his head is full of nought but love adventures and such nonsense."
"Call you love 'nonsense,' my brave Marsk?" interrupted the king. "Do you forget I am a bridegroom? and I trust not one of the coldest."
"Bridegroom, my liege?" answered the Marsk: "in Danish we call no man a bridegroom until his marriage day, and much must be done ere that day comes."
"Much?" rejoined the king, and his joyous animated countenance became suddenly stern and grave--"well! much may be done in a short time, but if they make the time too long, the day I long for may come when I will."
"The Lord and our blessed Lady forbid!" said Drost Aagé, in an under tone, casting a glance at the king, full of anxious and heartfelt sympathy.
"Let the horns play, Aagé," said the king, as if desirous to prevent more exclamations of this kind, which seemed to displease him. "The day will be fine: we will begin it joyously."
At a signal from the Drost, the musicians, who followed the hunting train, struck up the air of the well-known ancient ballad of "Axel Thordson and Fair Valborg,"[[8]] which they knew was a favourite with the king.
"Well, this is sweet music if it be not lively," said Eric: "where are Rumelant and Poppé? 'tis pity they cannot sing Danish; their skilful lays are but ill-suited to these tones."
"They are disputing again on spiritual matters," said the Marsk. "They are better fitted for a council of clerks than a hunting party."
"Let us listen," said the king: "I dare wager Master Poppé is in the right; but Master Rumelant nevertheless will be victor in the controversy."
While the music continued, and the attendants converted a low pile of wood into a table for the repast, the king's attention was attracted by the dispute of the two eager minstrels: each stood with the bridle of his horse in his hand, and spoke in a loud tone, while the grave Master Petrus sat calm and attentive on his palfrey, gazing on the lake.
"I will defend my opinion before the whole body of clerks, and all true believers in Christendom," said the vehement little Rumelant, striking his saddle with the handle of his whip as he spoke: "our sinfulness is assuredly better security for our salvation than all our paltry virtue--that is as true as that our blessed Lady's prayers avail in heaven, and she shows us no favour when she obtains grace for us; she shows us love and gratitude, which she is downright owing us for our sin's sake, for it is not the world's virtue, but its sin alone, she hath to thank for all her honour and glory."
"What are you driving at, my good Master Rumelant?" shouted the gigantic Master Poppé. "How is the holy Virgin honoured by our being a set of sinful scoundrels? that is no honour to us, or any one else."
"Not so, my self-sufficient sir!" shouted his opponent; "truly the case is clearer than the sun: it is assuredly not of our perfection we should boast, but, on the contrary, of our weakness. Would our dear blessed Lady ever have become that she became, had not Adam and Eve sinned, and all of us sinned too in them?"
"No, assuredly not, my dear friend: but how the devil----"
"Ergo, she hath man's sin to thank for her honour and glory! and ergo, she would be most ungrateful were she not to protect sinners, and bring us all likewise to honour and glory for our sin's sake."
"You drive me mad. Master Rumelant," shouted Master Poppé, stamping in wrath; "I know not what to answer you, but you are wrong, by my soul! as I will, like an honest German, show you with my good sword if you desire it. What if I should now commit the sin of slaying you on the spot, would the blessed Virgin bring me to honour and glory because of that? or would it be so small a sin that it could not be imputed to me as a great merit?"
"Worthy sirs," interrupted Master Petrus, gravely, "talk not of spiritual things with sophistry, or in an angry spirit; least of all of our blessed Lady, who is truth and heavenly calm itself. You exchange spiritual for temporal weapons, Master Poppé; and you darken the fountain of light, Master Rumelant, when you would make grace to proceed from sin on earth, instead of from incomprehensible love and mercy in God's kingdom."
"It seems to me it is of sin and grace those learned disputants are talking," said the king, seating himself by the side of Drost Aagé on the trunk of a tree at a little distance. "Well, that is a never-ending chapter, and truly one I ought to reflect on when I wend to Sjöborg."
"Most certainly, my liege," answered Aagé, looking with glad sympathy on the king's noble countenance. "When we think on the great mercy we all need, we should wish rather to be able to forgive our enemies than to execute the most lawful sentence upon them."
"Him thou meanest will I not forgive throughout all eternity!" burst forth the king impetuously. "He sat chief in council among my father's murderers, he ought to sit lowest among criminals in my kingdom. If the pope will not condemn him, I will. His blood I ask not, but outlawed and dishonoured shall he remain all the days of his life."
"The pope, however, hath alone the right to pass sentence on him, my liege," observed Aagé. "So long as he remains captive here he cannot defend his cause before his lawful tribunal, therefore it seems to me but reasonable----"
"No, Aagé!" interrupted the king, "neither just nor reasonable would it be to let loose the captive murderer, that he may perjure himself, to go forth free and honoured among his equals; but it were wise perhaps for my own peace and happiness."
"And perhaps for state and kingdom also," replied Aagé. "This much is certain, my liege: so long as that dangerous man is detained captive at Sjöborg, neither Drost Hessel nor Counsellor Jon can obtain the dispensation for your marriage; and if I understood the wily Isarnus aright, he is already privately empowered by the pope to enforce the unhappy constitution of Veile against both you and the kingdom."
"And were it so," said the king, rising, "think'st thou I and the kingdom would be really harmed by it? Would Denmark's bishops and priests dare to excommunicate their king, and all their countrymen? Hast thou not thyself, because of thy love to me, been for two years already under the ban of the archbishop? And art thou not well and sound notwithstanding? Hath any priest in Denmark dared to shut the church door against thee when thou camest by my side, or to deny thee the holy sacrament in my presence?"
"My sentence is not yet confirmed by the holy father," said Aagé; "and yet, my liege! I shudder, notwithstanding, to think of it--many of my noble countrymen regard me with looks which sadden and well nigh dismay me. The thunderbolts of the church are dreadful even in the hand of the chained criminal---they would have crushed me to the earth, did I not even yet hope that the ban, which a regicide hath proclaimed against me, is not accounted of by the merciful Lord in heaven. The holy father also will surely be moved by the righteousness of my cause, and by your intercession in my behalf, to recall it."
"He shall, he must do so," answered the king with warmth, "or I will teach thee to defy the might of injustice--perhaps also, my faithful Aagé, I and all Denmark may have to share thy fate! but, with the help of the Lord and our blessed Lady, we will not therefore be cast down, or stoop to humiliation. I stake my life and crown upon it!"
"For heaven's sake, my liege!" exclaimed Aagé, in alarm; but what he was about to utter was suddenly cut short by a significant look from the king, who, at that moment, had caught a glimpse of a round ruddy face, peering forth with a look of rapt attention from behind the tree beside which they were standing. "Who is that?" asked the king. "It is none of our huntsmen--art thou playing the spy, countryman?"
"A stranger!" exclaimed Aagé; "come hither; who art thou?"
"Would ye aught with me, good sirs?" said Morten, the cook, stepping forward. "I thought ye spoke to me. I am deaf, ye must know; if ye have any commands, ye must shout at the top of your lungs."
"Who art thou?" asked Aagé, raising his voice, while he gazed on him with a searching look. "What wouldst thou here?"
"Fear?" said the cook, assuming a simple look. "I will not deny I was somewhat afraid of your horses, and cared not to meet them on a fasting stomach."
"A poor crazy fellow," said the king, "let him go his way in peace, Aagé; had he even heard what we spoke of, what would it signify?"
"Yes, by my troth, horses do signify something!" said Morten, looking at Eric with evident interest. "The white horse signifies victory and speedy judgment on the Lord's enemies--says Father Gregory."
"So much the better!" said the king, gaily, giving him a couple of gold pieces. "Go thy way in peace, I would fain hope thou hast spoken truth in thy simplicity. The white horse is mine."
"But the dark red signifies rebellion and the yellow pestilence," continued Morten, seemingly touched, as he received the king's gift, and kissed his hand. "Mark, it was therefore I got frighted, when I saw ye between those two beasts. I am otherwise a poor sinner, at your service. I am going a pilgrimage for my own and other folks' sins. I will now pray for a blessing on you, noble sir!"--so saying, he strode hastily across the road, and disappeared in the wood.
"How would he interpret the red and the yellow horse?" said the king, gravely. "Those pious men of the cloister fill our country and people full of superstition."
"The fellow perhaps was neither deaf nor half-witted," answered Aagé; "to you he naturally said fair words, in order to escape. Our stern Marsk is not liked by vagrants; the bay horse he rides to-day is one he lately got in exchange from your brother Junker Christopher. My cream-coloured horse is well known, and since I fell under the church's ban the people look on me as the emblem of pestilence and misfortune by your side."
These serious comments on the cook's words were now interrupted by the sudden baying of the hounds, which dashed forward in couples towards a thick bush of white thorn, in full cry.
"Game! game!" shouted the huntsman; but, instead of the supposed deer, the two concealed wanderers sprang out of the bush: they had cast aside their peasants' mantles and their bundles, in order the more easily to save themselves by flight in their light cuirasses, but by so doing they had betrayed themselves, and awakened suspicion. By order of the Marsk they were instantly seized, and brought before the party of hunters.
"What means this?" called the king in surprise: "we are not come hither to hunt men."
"A couple of deserters from your Lolland horsemen, my liege," answered Marsk Oluffsen. "I know them; we have long been on the look-out for them; it is they whom the Count of Lolland hath sought after as robbers and murderers."
"Then send them to Flynderborg[[9]] to await their doom!" commanded the king. "What would they here! they shall be strictly brought to account."
The captured deserters were instantly led off to be bound and conducted to the fortress. They had until now stood still and downcast, like convicted criminals; but, on finding they were to be bound, they suddenly started forward and defended themselves with all the desperation of despair. They wounded three of the king's huntsmen with their daggers, and, amid the confusion and tumult occasioned by their unexpected onset, contrived to tear themselves loose, and instantly plunged into the lake. Some hunters pursued them on horseback, and a couple of hounds, trained to hunt the wild-duck, were let loose after them; but the fugitives dived and swam with such skill and vigour that none could see them until they landed on the opposite shore of the lake, where they quickly disappeared in the brushwood.
The king and his train had gone down to the water's edge to look at this singular sight. Some hunters were ordered to ride round the lake, in order if possible to overtake the fugitives. Drost Aagé would also have despatched some one after the pretended deaf man, whom he now believed to be in league with the deserters.
"No!" said the king, "he shall not be pursued. I use not to put gold into a man's hand one hour, and fasten iron round it the next."
The party now returned to partake of the repast which was spread for them. As soon as they had refreshed themselves they mounted their horses, and were about to proceed further, but the sound of hunting-horns was now heard on the road from Elsinore, and three riders in rich attire, with several knights and huntsmen, approached at full gallop. It was the king's brother, Junker Christopher, with the young Margrave Waldemar of Brandenborg, who was at this time the king's guest, and the brave Count Henrik of Mecklenborg, who had lately entered the king's service as commander of the army. They had been at Elsinore, where Prince Christopher had received a Swedish royal embassy on the part of the king. The margrave, it was said, had accompanied him for his amusement, and to enjoy the beautiful scenery of Elsinore, but had in reality joined the expedition at the request of Prince Christopher, who anxiously courted the young margrave's friendship. The prince seemed inseparable from him, and generally contrived to secure his companionship whenever he was charged with any important mission by the king, that it might give him opportunities, which he eagerly sought, of raising his consequence in the eyes of the people.
Prince Christopher, or the Junker, as he was generally called, was two years younger than the king. Though tall and strongly built, his figure was far from being so well proportioned as his brother's. His large features and long visage, shaded by coarse long black hair, had a gloomy and sinister expression, which reminded the people but too much of his detested father. His brother, the king, on the contrary, bore a greater resemblance to his mother, the fair and talented Queen Agnes, who, during the king's minority, had been for the most part at the head of state affairs, but who now led a happy private life with her second consort, Count Gerhard of Holstein, at the castle of Nykjöping. The popularity which the chivalrous King Eric had enjoyed from his childhood appeared little pleasing to his brother, and many believed that the prince secretly exerted himself to form a powerful party of his own in the country. In the event of the throne becoming vacant, he was in fact the member of the royal house who might first expect to be called to the crown, but of this there was no reasonable prospect. Notwithstanding that some differences had existed between the brothers on the affair of the archbishop's imprisonment, King Eric was so far from showing any mistrust of his brother, that he even promoted his consequence by investing him with considerable fiefs in the country. But Drost Aagé strongly suspected the prince of entertaining ambitious and treacherous projects, and the Drost's suspicions of Christopher were rather increased than diminished by the zeal with which, the prince seemed to enter into the negociations respecting the king's marriage. As well on this subject, of such moment to the king, as on that of the Swedish King Birger's marriage with the king's and Christopher's sister Mereté, there were at this time frequent communications between the Swedish and Danish court. The young King of Sweden was only in his sixteenth year, and wholly dependent on his state council, which was composed of men of very opposite opinions, and Drost Aagé feared that Prince Christopher's object in receiving the embassy was to increase if possible the obstacles to this double alliance. Aagé was, however, deterred from imparting his doubts to the king by the fear of occasioning a dangerous misunderstanding between the brothers; and Eric was so far from suspecting his brother of any dishonourable design, that he considered his anxiety to meet the Swedish embassy as a proof of fraternal affection. The young king welcomed both Christopher and the margrave with much friendliness; and as soon as he had greeted them, and the gay Count Henrik, turned towards the Swedish ambassadors, who, with some Danish knights, followed the princely comers. In the most dignified of the two Swedish nobles Eric joyfully recognised King Birger's faithful counsellor, the Swedish regent and Marsk, Sir Thorkild Knudson, a tall middle-aged man, of a grave and noble countenance; but it was not without a feeling of uneasiness that the king beheld his companion, a withered shrunken figure, whose cold and wily countenance wore a perpetual smile, and whose grey, staring ostrich-like eye had an expression of sinister scrutiny. It was the Swedish statesman and Drost, Sir Johan Bruncké, who, next to Thorkild Knudson, was the most influential statesman in Sweden, and appeared to stand as high in favour with the weak King Birger as with his ambitious brothers, while he gained a knowledge of the individual foibles of each, and well knew how to work upon them for his own advantage.
When the king had greeted the strangers, he proceeded with his augmented train to Esrom monastery, where he conversed with the ambassadors, and received letters from King Birger, Princess Ingeborg, and his sister Mereté, who, according to an earlier agreement, had been brought up, as the future Queen of Sweden, at the Swedish court. Eric seemed unusually joyous and animated after he had perused these letters. His anxiety to hasten his marriage, and to have it fixed for the ensuing summer, had met with the entire approbation of the royal house of Sweden, and Princess Ingeborg's letter breathed the most tender and devoted affection.
The difficulties and objections stated by the ambassador principally regarded the misunderstanding with the court of Rome, and the dispensation which was yet withheld, to which the king, misled by the ardour of his feelings, did not attach the importance it deserved.
He invited the ambassadors to be his guests for some weeks, as he hoped very shortly to remove all difficulties. The afternoon was spent pleasantly in hunting, and in the evening the king, with the whole of his train, repaired to Sjöborg, where several cars, conveying the cooks of the royal kitchen, and domestics of every description, had arrived during the day.
CHAP. III.
The ancient fortress soon presented a scene of splendid festivity. The spacious halls glittered with regal pomp, and resounded with the stir and bustle which are the accompaniments of a court. With the exception of the tower, the whole of the castle had been recently fitted up as a royal residence. The king's principal counsellors had accompanied him, and though he occasionally hunted, he did not therefore neglect state affairs, which frequently occupied him until the night was well nigh spent.
The king never inquired after the captive archbishop, whom he appeared to have forgotten. A reconciliation, on suitable conditions, with this important personage, was, however, doubtless the secret object of the king's sojourn at Sjöborg. The adjustment of this vexatious affair was never of more consequence than at this juncture, as it was not only a present hindrance to his marriage, but threatened to prove dangerous both to state and kingdom. The king, however, was desirous that no one should know the real purport of his visit, least of all the captive archbishop, who would probably take occasion thereby to raise his demands to the uttermost. Besides, Eric himself appeared not to have decided what course to pursue in this matter. Although revenge had never been his failing, and on the contrary he had often manifested the most generous temper, the remembrance of his father's murder had rendered him stern and almost implacable towards everyone connected with the regicides, and he felt it was impossible for him to make the first advances towards a reconciliation with Archbishop Grand. He apparently expected the haughty captive would himself petition for an interview, and pave the way to reconciliation by a humble acknowledgment of his guilt. One week after another, however, passed away, without any thing of this kind taking place. The number of guests was daily increasing at Sjöborg. The presence of the Margrave of Brandenborg and the Swedish ambassadors, as well as that of the hunting party and Prince Christopher's retinue, imparted an appearance of life and gaiety to this otherwise dreary castle, which almost painfully contrasted with its gloomy destination, and the many dark recollections connected with the place.
One day in November, a singular procession approached the castle of Sjöborg. From two Hanseatic merchant vessels, which had anchored off the fishing station, there landed a number of foreign seamen, who, carrying the Rostock flag, and with large broad swords at their sides, proceeded to the castle, amid the dissonant sound of pipes and trumpets. At the head of the procession marched a tall stout man, in a burgher's coat of fine cloth, trimmed with broad borders of costly fur. It was the rich trader, Berner Kopmand of Rostock, well known at the great fairs of Skanör and Falsterbo, whither he was wont to bring rich cargoes of cloth and costly spices. He was notorious for his authoritative and overbearing deportment, and for the ostentatious pomp by which he sought to acquire the reputation of a merchant prince. By his side walked the almost equally noted Henrik Gullandsfar of Visbye, also one of the most influential Hanseatic merchants, and an adroit and politic negociator between the Hanse towns and the northern princes,[[10]] They announced themselves at the castle as Hanseatic ambassadors, and were admitted into the upper hall, while their train was served with refreshments below.
A long conference took place between the king and the foreign merchants, in the presence of the Drost and council, during which Berner Kopmand was especially loud tongued, and the king preserved his patience for an unwonted length of time. The great privileges which had been granted by the king to the Hanseatic towns four years before, and which he had since augmented and confirmed at Nyborg, had not satisfied the expectations of the Rostockers; who demanded besides, the recognition of their self-assumed right, to pronounce and execute sentence of death on board their own vessels upon every Danish subject who had injured them, and fallen into their hands. The Vandal towns, together with the merchants of Mecklenborg and Lubec, were unanimously agreed, on their own responsibility, and without distinction, to hang every knight and noble who should molest them on their journeyings through Germany.
"Enough," said the king, at last, breaking off the conference, and rising in wrath, "I wanted but to hear how far ye would push your impudent demands, and therefore let ye have your say. This is my answer. My former promise to the towns I have hitherto kept; if they content ye not, we Danes may easily learn to fetch what we want from foreign lands, and export what we want not. When guests and strangers are injured here they can complain; there is law and justice in the land; but they who take the law into their own hands on Danish ground or on the Danish seas shall be condemned as traitors and robbers, whether they be knight or burgher, whether they be native or stranger." So saying, the king turned his back upon the merchant ambassadors. Without heeding their angry looks, he hastened to join his princely guests, and the Swedish lords who awaited his coming, to set out on a hunting expedition, and left the Hanseatic burghers to the care of the Drost.
The incensed merchants instantly quitted the castle with their followers, who had become intoxicated and unruly during their stay in the lower hall. The Marsk (to the merchants still greater annoyance) had taken upon himself to disarm them, as with bold presumption they had ventured on liberties which outraged both law and custom. Their weapons, however, were returned to them on reaching the shore, whither Drost Aagé and some other knights accompanied them, with cold courtesy, partly to protect them from the assembled rabble, which had crowded round the intoxicated seamen, to gaze at and deride them. On their way to the strand the wrathful traders spoke not a word, but the blood appeared ready to start from Berner Kopmand's crimson visage, while there was a calm cold smile on the countenance of Henrik Gullandsfar.
When these important personages, with their reeling train, had entered the boat, and pushed off from the shore, in order to row to their ships, the portly Rostocker suddenly raised his voice, and shouted with unrestrained wrath and bitterness, "Bring King Eric Ericson our parting greeting, Sir Drost! Tell him from me, Berner Kopmand of Rostock, and from Henrik Gullandsfar of Visbye, in our own and in the name of the great and mighty Hanse towns, that we threaten him with deadly strife, as the enemy of our liberty and of all noble burghership!"
Henrik Gullandsfar nudged his colleague's elbow in alarm; but the proud choleric Rostocker continued, "Tell the King of Denmark, dearly shall he rue the scorn and contempt he hath this day shown us; he shall rue it, as surely as I am called the rich Berner Kopmand of Rostock! and as surely as I am the man to ask what is the price of this state and country, and how many pounds a king is worth, in our times, when the lightnings of excommunication play above his head!"
"Such greeting and defiance you may yourself bring my liege and sovereign," answered Aagé, "if you fancy being sent back to Rostock with your hands tied behind you like a madman." So saying, he turned contemptuously on his heel, and returned with his knights to Sjöborg. He afterwards joined the king and the hunting-party, but made no mention of this impudent defiance, which, though it seemed to him indeed to be paltry and powerless, he yet could not but regard as a striking instance of the insufferable pride of these monied aristocrats, and of the boldness with which the equivocal position of the king at the court of Rome had inspired the ill-affected and discontented.
After a hard chase the king rode back in the evening to Sjöborg, with Drost Aagé by his side. It was already dark. The cold November blast whirled the fallen leaves around them as they rode through the forest. The moon now rose behind the trees, shining with an unsteady light from out the flying clouds, through the leafless boughs of the forest. Behind them rode Marsk Oluffsen between Henrik of Mecklenborg and the Swedish regent, whose return to Sweden was fixed for the following day. Some hunters followed with the game caught in the chase. The rest of the train remained at Esrom monastery. The king, as well as Drost Aagé, had been remarkably silent during the day. Since the arrival of the Swedish ambassadors, tidings had been daily looked for, but in vain, from the Danish embassy at the papal court. The king had not as yet taken any step towards a reconciliation with the captive archbishop. The journey of the Swedish ambassadors could no longer be delayed, and the obstacles to the king's marriage were not in any measure removed. The king and his faithful Aagé now rode in silence by each other's side, apparently occupied with a presentiment which they could not banish from their minds, but to which neither liked to give utterance. It was the unfortunate St. Cecilia's day, which yearly brought with it to the king bitter recollections of the dreadful murder of his father at Finnerup. Marsk Oluffsen appeared not to remember what day it was; he jested merrily, after his fashion, with the German and Swedish guests, and lauded the pious and frugal manner in which King Birger's tutor, a certain Carl Tydsker[[11]], had a few years since restored his young sovereign to health, namely, by making the same vow to three saints at once, and afterwards drawing lots to determine to which of the good saints the vow should be kept. "I have since wondered," said the Marsk, laughing, "whether the victory over the Kareles[[12]] was thrown into the bargain, and was one of St. Eric's miracles; if so, I must acknowledge that Carl Tydsker was worth his weight in gold." By this unlucky jest the Marsk wounded at the same time the national pride of both his German and Swedish companions, without appearing himself in the least to perceive it.
"When my countrymen as well as myself serve your king here in the north, Sir Marsk," answered the brave Count Henrik, "I feel we deserve thanks, and not mockery, whether we help him with prayer or with sword." As he said this he struck his hand with some violence on the hilt of his sword.
The Marsk looked astounded. He was silent; but his perplexity increased on Thorkild Knudson, also addressing him in a serious tone. "Deem ye my victory over the brave heathen to be a miracle, Sir Marsk?" said the Swedish knight, with a calm smile. "Every thing is a miracle, if ye will. Without heavenly aid no victory is won on earth; that even your victorious King Waldemar was forced to acknowledge, yet that detracts not from his glory. I reckon the victory of Wolmar with the heaven-sent banner, to be that which gained him his fairest laurels. Our times are more chary of laurels. Sir Marsk! we will not rob each other of those we win with honour."
"By all the martyrs!" exclaimed the Marsk, with wide oped eyes and crimson cheeks, "who ever thought of offending either you or the brave Count Henrik? By my soul! I understand ye not," he continued in an impatient tone; "were my brains as dull as those of other people, I should be badly off indeed."
Count Henrik could not suppress a good-natured laugh at the absurd contrast between the Marsk's words and his angry tone. The misunderstanding was soon set to rights, and the conversation turned on former and recent warlike expeditions.
Without thinking of what might awaken bitter recollections in the king's mind, especially on this day, the Marsk now talked in a loud voice of the feud, with Marsk Stig, and the taking of Hjelm, at which he himself had been present, under David Thorstensen's banner.
"Yet you took not the daring Marsk Stig, either dead or alive," said Count Henrik; "'tis a strange story they tell here of his disappearance."
"His death, as his life, is shrouded in darkness and mystery," observed the Swedish knight. "With us also he hath a dreaded name."
"He was a great general, though," said Count Henrik. "I would have given much to have seen him. Was he as tall as Sir Niels Brock or the Duke of Langeland?"
"He had a finer presence than either Niels Brock or Duke Longshanks, if he measured not the same length. In that point, perhaps, both you and I might have been his match; but he was a very devil of a fellow,--truly, I believe neither Germany nor Sweden could boast of one like him."
"It is true we cannot boast of so highly esteemed a regicide," said Count Henrik, in an offended tone. "I desire not to rival his fame."
"But, by all the martyrs! what is the matter now?" exclaimed the astounded Marsk; "think ye I wished for aught better in the world than to have knocked out his confounded brains? Therefore I may surely say without offence, that neither you nor Marsk Knudson have seen his match."
"For that both Count Henrik and I should thank the Lord," said the Swedish knight solemnly. "The country which gives birth to such heroes may have to pay dearly for the boast. In our country we have storms also, at times; and alas! have to deplore the devastations they cause. It is the same case here probably? I suspect that Denmark hath dearly bought this sad experience, and learnt that one daring hand can make a deeper wound in a nation's heart than a whole century can heal."
A rather embarrassed silence ensued. The king had heard the conversation which had been carried on by the party behind him, and sighed deeply.
"It was on this night, Aagé," he said, in a low voice. "For nine years have I now borne Denmark's crown, and as yet I have not fulfilled that I vowed when I saw him last."
"Whom, my liege?" asked Aagé, absently.
"My murdered father!" said the king. "Rememberest thou not the hour they lifted the lid from his coffin in Viborg cathedral, and laid the sacrament on his bloody breast? It was then I bade him my last farewell. What I vowed to him was heard only by the all-knowing God; but assuredly I will either keep that vow, or lose my life."
"At that time you were, as I was, a minor, my liege. If your vow to the dead was other than a pious and Christian vow, you ought not now, as a knight and sovereign, to keep it."
Eric was silent. The moon shone full on his noble form, and as he sat calm and erect on his fiery steed, with the white plume in his hat, and the purple mantle over his shoulder, he almost resembled the chivalrous St. George, about to strike his lance into the dragon's throat. His manly countenance was pale, and expressive of lofty indignation. "That I vowed to the dead I must perform," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "A wise monarch should disperse the ungodly."
As the king uttered these words an arrow whistled past his breast, and stuck in Drost Aagé's mantle.
"Murderers! traitors!" shouted the king, drawing his sword, while he reined in with difficulty his restless steed. Aagé rushed with his drawn sword to that side of the king whence the arrow was sped; the three other knights rode up in alarm. "An arrow! robbers! traitors!" was echoed from mouth to mouth. They looked around on all sides of the moon-lit road, but no living being was to be seen.
"Accursed traitors!" shouted Marsk Oluffsen, and dashed in suddenly among the bushes on the left side of the road, where he had perceived some white object moving. A shriek was heard, apparently from a female voice, and the Marsk's horse started aside. At the same moment two young maidens, in the dress of peasant girls, with long plaits of fair hair hanging low over their shoulders, ran, hand in hand, across the road, while a man of almost giant stature, in the dress of a Jutland peasant, with a large broad sword in his hand, sprang forward, and placed himself between the Marsk and the fugitives.
"Keep ye to me!" shouted the man. "It was I--it was Mads Jyde who shot. I mean not to show a pair of clean heels: let the maidens flee, they have done no ill, but I am the man who dares tilt with ye all." So saying, he brandished his sword wildly around, and wounded the Marsk's horse on the muzzle. The animal reared and snorted.
"Yield thee!" shouted Oluffsen, vainly aiming to strike his daring and gigantic foe; "Yield thee captive, or thou diest!"
On hearing this affray, the king would instantly have hastened to the spot, where he saw swords glittering among the bushes in the moonshine; but Aagé and the Swedish knight sought to detain him, while Count Henrik immediately surrounded the copse with the huntsmen, and dispatched a party of them after the fugitives. The Marsk had sprung from his intractable steed, "Cast thy sword from thee, stupid devil! Seest thou not thou art caught?" shouted he to the tall Jutlander.
"By St. Michael will I not," retorted the man. "None shall take Marsk Stig's squire alive; keep but your ground, Sir Knight, and thou shalt feel what Mads Jyde is worth." He now rushed frantically upon the Marsk, but the warlike chief was his superior in swordsmanship, and after a short but desperate fight the Jutlander fell, with his skull cloven, to the ground. He half-raised himself again, and tried to lift both his hands to his wounded head. "It was for thee, little Margaret," he gasped forth; "let but my master's children flee, and you are free to----" More he was unable to utter; his hands dropped from his head, and he fell back lifeless on the ground.
Meanwhile the king and his train had ridden to the spot. Some of the hunters had overtaken the fugitive maidens, and brought them captive into the circle of the king's train. All looked at them with surprise, for as they stood there in the moonshine they had the air of princesses in disguise. Their peasant's attire could not hide the delicate fairness of their complexions and their singular beauty. The taller of the two, who seemed also to be the elder, held the lesser and highly agitated maiden by the hand, as if to protect her. She was herself calm and pale. She looked in deep sorrow on the dead body of the man at arms, and appeared not to heed the standers by. The younger maiden seemed to be both frightened and curious. Though she could not be considered a child--for she appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age--her deportment was quite childlike. She hid herself, weeping, behind her sister, from the sight of the king and his knights, while she nevertheless occasionally peeped, with looks of eager observation, at their splendid attire.
"Speak out--who are ye?" asked the king, riding up to them.
The younger maiden drew back, and seemed preparing for flight, but the elder held her fast by the hand, and turned to the king, with calm self-possession, looking him steadily in the face with her large dark blue eyes. "King Eric Ericson," she said, "thine enemy's children are in thine hand: we are fatherless and persecuted maidens; no one dares to give us shelter in our native land; and our last friend and protector hath now been slain by thy men. Our father was the unhappy outlawed Marsk Stig."
"Marsk Stig's daughters!--the regicide's children!" interrupted the king, casting on them a look of displeasure. "Ye meant then to have completed your father's crime? Are ye roaming the country round with robbers and regicides?"
"We are innocent, King Eric!" answered the maiden, laying her hand upon her heart. "May the Lord as surely forgive thee our father's death, and the blood which flows here! Vengeance belongeth to the Lord. We wished but to quit thy kingdom."
"And ye would also have me depart this world," interrupted the king. "They must be taken to Kallundborg castle," said he to the huntsmen. "The affair shall be inquired into; if they can clear themselves they may leave the kingdom. Away with them; I will not look on them." So saying, the king turned his horse's head to avoid the sight of the fair unfortunate, who for an instant appeared to have softened his wrath.
No one had viewed the captive maidens with more compassion than Drost Aagé. "My liege," said he, in an under tone, "how could the innocent maidens help----?"
"That the arrow slew none of us?" interrupted the king hastily. "I dare say they were not to blame for that. Wolf's cubs should never be trusted; they shall meet with their deserts. Away with them."
"Then permit me to escort them, my liege," resumed Drost Aagé. "If a knight's daughters be led to prison, knightly protection is still owing them on their way thither."
"Well, go with them, Drost," answered the king aloud, waving his hand as he spoke. "They shall be treated with all chivalrous deference and honour; ye will be answerable for them on your honour and fealty." The king then put spurs into his impatient steed, and galloped off, followed by the Marsk, the Swedish knights, and the whole of the train, with the exception of Drost Aagé and four huntsmen.
The elder of the captive maidens still held her sister's hand clasped in her own. She had approached the body of the slain squire, beside which she knelt, bending over his head. Drost Aagé had dismounted from his horse, and stood close by with the bridle in his hand, and with his arm on the saddle-bow. It seemed as though the sight of the kneeling maiden had changed him into a statue.
The restless movements of the younger maiden did not attract his attention; his gaze dwelt only on the kneeling form: she seemed in his eyes as an angel of love and pity praying for the sinner's soul. He observed a tear trickle down her fair pale cheek, and could no longer restrain the expression of his sympathy. "Be comforted, noble maiden!" he exclaimed, with emotion; "no evil shall befall you. The man you mourn for may perhaps have been true and faithful to you, but (were he not struck with sudden madness) he fell here as a great criminal. Carry the dead man to Esrom," he said to two of the huntsmen; "entreat the abbot in my name to grant him Christian burial, and sing a mass for his soul." They instantly obeyed, and bore away the body. The kneeling maiden arose.
"Let me provide for your safety," continued Aagé. "Ere your case has been inquired into according to law, you cannot quit the kingdom; but I pledge my word and honour King Eric will never permit your father's guilt to make him forget what is due to your rank and sex."
"If we are really your prisoners. Sir Knight," said the elder sister, "then, in the name of our blessed Lady, lead us to our prison; promise me only that you will not separate us, and that you will not be severe to my poor sister."
"Neither for yourself nor for your sister, noble maiden, need you fear aught like harsh treatment; and if you, as I hope and believe, can justify yourselves, your captivity will assuredly not be a long one."
"Our life and freedom are in the Lord's hand--not in man's," said the eldest sister, in a tone of resignation. "In this world we have now no friends. Our father's meanest squire sacrificed his life for us; he whom he made a knight forsook us in the hour of need," she added in a low voice.
Drost Aagé now gazed with increased sympathy on the calm pale maiden, and was cut to the heart by the expression of dignified sorrow in her countenance, called forth by the consciousness of her desolate condition.
"I will be your friend and protector so long as I live!" he exclaimed with visible emotion. "That I pledge myself to be on my knightly word and honour."
"The Lord and our dear blessed Lady reward you for that," answered the fair captive. "You seem to wish us well; but if you are King Eric's friend, you must certainly hate us for our father's sake."
"Assuredly I am King Eric's friend!" said Aagé, the blood mounting to his cheek as he spoke, "but I cannot therefore hate you. If you, as I fully believe, are innocent of what hath just now happened, as a knight and as a Christian also I owe you and all the defenceless friendly consolation and protection."