Chapter XVII: Part II (8)

The duke's horse began to plunge, and as soon as he had brought him into a steady pace again, he replied to the chancellor's question, without, however, turning his face towards him. "You would not make a good inquisitor, sir chancellor," he said, quickly, "if you think you could detect the criminals in this fashion. You may rest assured, worthy sir, that I shall cause search to be made for them in every direction; but I should least of all expect to discover them here. The audacious murderers will certainly be careful, on such an occasion, not to come hither, where they might be so easily detected. That Marsk Stig is the ringleader, we well know; but if we were to regard every one as a participator in the horrid act who may happen to grow pale or be affected during this solemnity," he continued, "we must first denounce ourselves and all the most attached friends of the country and the royal house; for who can barely think of the dreadful deed without emotion? When the margraves and I first heard the report of it, in Count Gerhard's castle at Kiel, we were almost overwhelmed with horror. The daring marsk has accomplices, most assuredly. I have dispatched spies throughout the country; and if you can discover the murderers before I do, sir chancellor, you will be entitled to our thanks. As our young king's nearest kinsman and natural guardian, I consider myself bound to pursue them."

The learned chancellor was silent, and again relapsed into thought.

The town soon lay distinctly before them, with its numerous churches and chapels, from which more than twenty towers and steeples rose towards the heavens.

"Hark, how the funeral bells are tolling from the steeple of Our Lady's Church," exclaimed now the grave chancellor: "soon will they be thus tolled from every steeple in Denmark; and think you not, illustrious sir, they will ring like the knell of doomsday in the ears of the murderers, wherever they may be?"

While he was yet speaking the sounds of bells increased, coming louder and more distinctly from the twenty churches of the city, and from every village steeple in the neighbourhood. Night closed in, and the flambeaux of the pages lighted up the mourning procession. Duke Waldemar's horse plunged about wildly among the flaring torches, seemingly affrighted at the tolling from the bells.

"Nay, hark again to the small bell on the gable of the grayfriars' church, behind the cathedral: how clearly it sounds beyond every other, although it has no belfry!" exclaimed Master Martinus to the duke, who was warm with curbing his unruly steed. "The poor grayfriars!" continued the chancellor: "they ring zealously to-night; desirous, perhaps, to let us know that they had no share in what their cloaks concealed in the barn of Finnerup."

The duke replied not, but addressed himself to his drost. "Do we not enter by St. Mogen's Gate?" he inquired, in an indifferent tone.

"Nay, illustrious sir: that is the entrance from the Aaborg road," replied Sir Abildgaard: "here we have the sea and the Borrewold on our right, and must enter by St. Michael's Gate, and along St. Michael's Street to the cathedral."

"Thou art right, Tuko. This noise has confused me. Is it not respecting St. Mogen's Gate they relate that stupid fable?"

"Yes, i'faith, sir," replied the knight, laughing--"of a bronze horse, under ground, that is said to sound whenever we have war in the country."

"The concealed horse, under the gate of St. Mogen, has been the palladium of the city from the earliest times, gentlemen," observed Master Martin, gravely: "it is said that no traitor and enemy of his country has heard it ring, and survived."

"The deuce!" exclaimed Sir Abildgaard, with forced pleasantry; "it is a pity the good St. Michael has not such a wonderful horse under his gate: we should then soon have certain proof whether we are all as good patriots as our learned chancellor."

"The holy Michael gives no warning," replied the chancellor, "but brandishes his flaming sword against the doomed. That is his image, gentlemen, we perceive over the gate there."

The procession was now entering the arch of the gate, and the torches illumined a knight-like, brazen statue, that stood over it, with one foot on a dragon, and a long flaming sword in its hand. The sword was gilded, and shone bright, in the light of the flambeaux, above the duke's head. He looked up, and fancied the statue moved and bent towards him; and quickly spurring his horse, he dashed under the gloomy archway.

"Did I not know it was a brazen statue," he whispered to his drost, "I could have sworn it was alive, and had Marsk Stig for its shadow."

The mourning train proceeded slowly along St. Michael's Street to the cathedral. Every window was lighted, and the streets were filled with people of all ranks, among whom as deep a silence prevailed as if they had been inanimate forms. The train approached the great illumined cathedral, whoso immense bells, with their deep, hollow tones, drowned those of every other.

In the large area surrounding the cathedral the mourners dismounted, and the procession advanced on foot, in the order in which it had arrived. Black cloth had been laid along the path leading to the doors of the church, which stood, grand and majestic, with its two lofty spires, and its four chapels, as it had been enlarged by King Niels, and completed by Bishop Nicolaus, in the twelfth century.

The procession entered, proceeding along the principal aisle, and past the four chapels, wherein candles burned on fourteen altars. The chapel of St. Kield, the patron saint of the city, on the northern side of the cathedral, was brilliantly illuminated. In it candles were burnt night and day, under St. Kield's golden shrine, which was suspended by gilded links from the vaulted roof; and here was seen, in passing, the tomb of the murdered Svend Grathé.

The last of the train had not entered the church-porch when the first halted opposite the high altar. Here the arms of the murdered king, bearing the two lions and the two crowns, half concealed by a veil of long black crape, were lighted up with twelve wax-candles; and here stood the provost, in full canonicals, with two other prelates, an archdeacon, a chanter, and twelve minor canons, with tapers in their hands. They sang a solemn requiem over a large oaken coffin, covered with lead, on which lay the great sword of King Erik Christopherson, by the side of a silver shrine containing the holy sacrament, which was now to follow him to the grave; as his sudden and violent death had prevented his receiving it whilst alive. On the shrine was engraved the Latin inscription: "_Panis adest veræ domini sponsalia vitæ_."

When mass had been sung, the provost pronounced a short oration. He then raised the lid of the coffin, and placed the shrine between the folded hands of the corpse. Every one who desired to see the royal body, now received permission to advance. A few only approached so near that they could see it, and among these was the young King Erik. He bowed in silence over his father's corpse, laid his hand upon its gory breast, and said a few words which no one heard. He then stepped back, and hid his weeping face in his mantle.

No other person approaching, the prelate replaced the coffin-lid, and having again laid the sword over it, the canons raised the coffin, and bore it, at the head of the mourners, behind the high altar, where they placed it in a vaulted tomb, raised an ell above the ground; whilst a deep and solemn dirge sounded from a crypt directly underneath. The prelate then cast three spadefuls of earth on the coffin, and pronounced, with a loud voice, the usual burial-service of the Church.

He then announced to the people, that the betrayed and murdered king, five years before his sudden death, as if impelled by a wonderful presentiment, had endowed the cathedral with gifts and estates, in order that masses and vigils should be maintained until the last day for the repose of his soul.[33]

"The requiem," said he, "which is now sounding, shall never cease. Every night this song shall ascend from the depths of the earth to the throne of the Almighty. Day and night we shall pray for the soul of our murdered lord, and implore the King of kings, that King Erik may be the last monarch of Denmark who shall fall by the hands of traitors and murderers. The Lord have mercy on the soul of his anointed! Woe! woe to his murderers!"

This woe-cry was repeated by all the canons, and by many of the mourners, among whom the voice of the young King Erik sounded with wonderful distinctness. Three times the woe-cry was repeated by the invisible chorus in the subterranean chapel beneath the tomb.

During the whole of these solemnities Master Martinus had been closely scrutinising every countenance around him, although he was inwardly much affected, and held his folded hands on his breast. In some, he beheld deep emotion; but many exhibited only coldness and indifference; and in others he remarked even a degree of bravado that alarmed him.

The duke and his drost stood with their faces turned from him, and appeared to have their attention fixed on St. Kield's Chapel. But when the hymn sounded from the crypt under their feet, and the deep woe-cry echoed among the arches of the church, the duke had to support himself on his sword, and laid his hand on his forehead; whilst Sir Abildgaard hastily whispered a few words in his ear. At the same moment a subdued shriek was heard, and a momentary confusion took place amongst the people at the church-door, where a man, who had swooned away, was carried out.

The train of mourners slowly quitted the church. During the funeral solemnities Drost Peter had stood quietly by a pillar of the choir, with his hands folded on the hilt of his drawn sword, which he held point upwards, while the Gospel was read. In this chivalrous and devotional posture, which signified that the knight was prepared to defend the holy faith, he had inwardly prayed for the soul of his murdered king, as well as for the future welfare of the young monarch and his kingdom.

When the procession had retired from the church, he observed a tall female form, in a simple black dress, and with a dark veil over her face, kneeling with folded hands near the high altar, where she seemed to pray with great devotion, without observing what was taking place around her. Her noble and beautiful figure reminded him, beyond all the women of Denmark, of her who was dearest to him; and, notwithstanding her simple dress, and the improbability of her being the Lady Ingé, he remained, absorbed in reverie. It was not until the tall form rose to depart, that he became aware that the procession had already withdrawn, and that the lights on the altar had been extinguished. He then sheathed his sword, and advanced slowly towards her. When he stood before her in the deserted aisle, which was still faintly lighted up by the candles of St. Kield's Chapel, she started, as if surprised at the meeting, and appeared anxious to avoid him.

"Ingé--noble Jomfru Ingé! if it be you," said he, "oh, do not avoid me, but say what weighty reason brings you hither? It is well that our prayers should unite at the royal tomb, and before God's altar, on this great day of mourning!"

"Drost Peter Hessel," replied the maiden, pausing, "here then, perhaps, we meet for the last time in this world. I will no longer attempt to conceal my face from you; although the cause of my appearance here must remain a mystery to you."

The veil was thrown aside, and revealed her whom the dear and well-known voice had already announced: the brave Lady Ingé stood before him. She regarded him with a countenance on which a deep although calm grief was imprinted; but its expression was softened by pious confidence, and by a calm demeanour announcing a firm and powerful will.

"For heaven's sake, what has happened to you?" exclaimed Drost Peter, alarmed. "I see you for the last time, say you? What mean you, noble Jomfru Ingé? Why are you here alone? and where is your father?"

"Inquire not, Drost Peter--I cannot, I dare not answer you. Give me your word of honour as a knight that you will not follow me from this holy place, nor seek to learn the road that I shall take."

"How can you think, noble Ingé, that I should follow you?"

"Remember who I am, and you will then understand me. This only can I tell you: I am fulfilling a heavy but necessary duty in quitting this unhappy land. God knows when I shall again see it; but here only my heart and soul are at home. Yet one thing more must I declare to you," she continued, with a trembling voice--"for my justification and your own peace. You must know it--that it is the truth, you have my word:--my unhappy father was at Flynderborg on St. Cecilia's night."

Drost Peter saw how much it had cost her to utter these word's; and he heard them with a feeling of joy, which, however, was restrained by a thrill of horror at the frightful thought they concealed.

"The merciful God be praised!" he exclaimed. "Take my word as a knight, noble Jomfru Ingé, that although my whole soul follows you wherever you may journey, mine eye shall not attempt to spy out your way, whoever accompanies you. We stand here on a divided road," he continued, deeply affected; "and I see too well that we must be parted for a time; but by my God and Saviour, in whose presence I stand, I shall not resign the hope of again seeing you! You were my childhood's bride, Jomfru Ingé! Our angels before God's throne united our infant souls, before they knew each other. If you may not or will not hereafter become my bride in reality, when these turmoils which now part us have ceased, and Denmark's throne again stands fast--I now vow to God, and by every saint, that Drost Peter Hessel shall go down unwedded into his grave, but never shall he forget his childhood's bride! Answer me not, noble-hearted Ingé! Crush not with a word the fairest hope of my life! I have an important work to perform in the world, and feel, by the blessing of God, strength and courage to complete it faithfully, even with this greatest loss. But with you is torn away the blossom of my heart's life, the fruit of which I must be condemned never to taste. Deprive me not, then, of my fair hopes, but rather, with one word, bid them live. Say but that word, and my courage and strength shall increase tenfold, to realise with cheerfulness the thoughts which first brought our souls to know each other. Ingé, dearest Ingé! canst thou hereafter love me?" With these words he seized her hand, and cast on her a look beaming with the strongest affection.

She withdrew her hand. "I can, my childhood's bridegroom," she replied, with inward emotion; "yea, I can love thee deeply, so that, even should I never more behold thee with these eyes, I can preserve thine image in my soul, until we meet in that greater fatherland where no strife and guile can prevail, and where no might can sever us. But I am a daughter, Drost Peter," she continued, retreating a step--"I am an unhappy daughter. You are--you must be--the enemy of the man who gave me life. Do, in God's name, what you must and ought, and let no thought of me lead your mind from truth and duty. The Almighty shall determine whether we again meet in this world or not!"

"It shall, it must be, noble, dearest Ingé! the compassionate Creator will not for ever divide us."

"That no one knows, save He who knows all. Farewell, my childhood's bridegroom--farewell! God and all his saints be with thee and our fatherland! He who is merciful be gracious to us all! Farewell!"

So saying, she hid her face in her veil, and disappeared along the dark aisle.

Drost Peter dared not follow her. He stood as if rivetted to the pavement; and it seemed to him as if the dark and baleful spirit that sped over the land had now torn away from him also the delight and joy of his life; but he felt, at the same time, with a melancholy pleasure, that this farewell hour had shown him a glimpse of a blessedness of which no separation, and no power on earth, could rob him.

He had been standing for some time, gazing on a tombstone in the floor of the church, when he raised his eyes to the image on the cross, above the door of the choir, and it seemed to him as if the drooping head of the Redeemer shone with glory in the rays proceeding from the lights of St. Kield's Chapel. Suddenly he felt a powerful blow on his left shoulder, as if from a strong, mailed hand. He turned, and a tall man, clad in armour, with his visor down, stood before him.

"We are met, Drost Peter Hessel--we are met!" uttered a deep and powerful voice. "If you are the knight who is placed to guard the infant throne, defend it if you can! You now behold the man who swears to overturn it, or perish in the attempt."

"Ha! Marsk Stig! regicide!" exclaimed Drost Peter, drawing his sword. But at that instant all the lights in St. Kield's Chapel, which had alone illuminated the church, were suddenly extinguished; the powerful, gigantic form disappeared, and Drost Peter groped alone, with his drawn sword, among the tombs in the dark cathedral.

THE
CHILDHOOD OF ERIK MENVED.