Chapter XVIII: Part III (1)

Half an hour after Lady Ingé had left Drost Peter in Viborg Cathedral, by the grave of the murdered king, she departed, in the plain dress of a citizen's daughter, through St. Mogen's Gate, in company with her father. Many travellers were proceeding the same way; but before midnight, by order of the young king, every gate was barred.

Duke Waldemar and Sir Abildgaard had accompanied the procession from the cathedral. The old Borrewold Castle had been prepared for the reception of the royal family and their followers; and there, late in the evening, the queen and the young king held a council, with locked doors, at which were present the Margraves of Brandenburg, Chancellor Martinus, and Drost Peter, who had hurried from the church with the important intelligence that Marsk Stig himself was in Viborg, and had had the audacity to be present at the funeral. Every precautionary measure was instantly adopted. The approaches to the royal apartments in the Borrewold were guarded by Sir Thorstenson and Benedict Rimaardson, with the royal trabants. Mailed horsemen and landsknechts blocked up every avenue to the castle. The trusty civic guard of Viborg was armed, and, at the chancellor's suggestion, the orders of the king were immediately issued to shut the gates of the city, and to institute a strict search throughout it, during which every suspicious person was seized and imprisoned.

It was past midnight. The duke, with great inquietude, paced up and down his sleeping chamber, situated in the eastern wing of the castle, facing the Viborg lake. The events of the journey and the interment had strongly excited his fears. The expressions of the chancellor on their way to the city, and his searching looks in the cathedral, had created in him a feeling of uneasiness, which he in vain endeavoured to overcome. His anxiety was farther increased by the stern preparations going forward in the castle, which had not escaped his notice. On every side he heard the tread of armed men--in the court-yard, as well as in the passage outside his chamber.

Although both himself and his drost were waited upon with the greatest attention, and even with regal pomp, it still appeared to him that all his movements were watched; and the strong guard outside his door was far from pleasing to him. He had despatched Tuko Abildgaard into the city, an hour before, to ascertain the cause of the excessive noise and clang of arms he heard there, and he had not yet returned. The door was at length opened, and the young knight entered, breathless.

"What is the meaning of the din?" inquired the duke: "is the town in an uproar?"

"Not precisely so; but matters look suspicious," replied Sir Abildgaard, with some agitation. "They are searching everywhere for the marsk. I have been three times laid hold of, and your name was barely powerful enough to liberate me."

"Have they seized the marsk?" asked the duke, hastily.

"Nay, sir duke: it is rumoured that he left the town before the gates were secured. The Stig knew well what he was about; but what he wanted here to-day, I am at a loss to conceive."

"That is easily understood," replied the duke. "To know in what temper the people are, must be to him of much importance. Great grief or lamentation I did not observe; neither saw I peasant or burgher in the procession."

"But now the wind has shifted, sir. The sight of the queen and of the young king has worked a wonderful change in the mob. You should hear how they growl against the daring marsk and his friends, and how they lament and extol the deceased king, the soft-hearted fools! We shall now have Reinmar von Zweter and all the German poets in vogue, and Erik Glipping will become a great man in his grave. But it is always thus. When the wild beast, that every one pursued, has fallen, even his greatest foes lament over him, as if he had suffered shameful injustice; and they admire the monster for his powerful claws, when they have no longer anything to fear from them. That wavering turncoat, Sir Lavé, from Flynderborg, has been here, with the marsk: he was seized with qualms in the church, it is said, and behaved like a madman during the funeral. Fortunately, he has disappeared. Had they caught him, he was in a condition to betray us all."

"Us?" repeated the duke, suddenly changing his tone of familiarity to one of pride and coldness: "remember to whom you are addressing yourself, Tuko! What connection had I with these conspirators? Look to your own safety. After what you have stated, I would advise you to be careful. Rely not on my name: unless you can, like me, wash your hands of what has happened, and swear you had no part in it, I cannot aid you. I am here, with the young king, as his nearest kinsman and protector. With Marsk Stig and his transactions, I can have nothing to do. The late conspiracy at Möllerup is already talked of as a well-known affair, and you are named as having been concerned in it. But for me, I knew nothing of it, and nothing will I know."

"But, most gracious sir," exclaimed Sir Abildgaard, in astonishment, "you stated no objections when you accorded me permission to travel; and, though you did not expressly send any message by me, we perfectly understood each other. What I promised in your name, I have never doubted but that you would fulfil."

"What you have promised, you must yourself perform. I have promised nothing that I dare not proclaim to the world. That which I promised and swore to the deceased king, in our covenant at Sjöborg, I have kept to the letter. From that hour I have undertaken no step against the crown and kingdom, and yet here they have no confidence in me. I must remain contented with respectful servants, and an ample guard of honour, while the margraves and Drost Hessel are present in the council. But I shall speedily teach these gentlemen who is the guardian of the king, the legal protector of the kingdom; and the daring rebels, too, shall know that I am not the man who, contrary to his oath and duty, will be found protecting traitors and regicides."

Sir Abildgaard stood as if thunderstruck. "My noble duke," he said, at length, "you must be jesting? You will not strike down, in his moment of need, the faithful friend who has placed his life in jeopardy for your sake? I, who so cheerfully shared imprisonment and adversity with you--you cannot seriously propose to use me as a mere tool, which you can suffer to be broken and cast aside with unconcern, when you have no farther need of me? If this, however, be the friendship of princes, I must indeed have been the most obtuse animal in the world, when I thought I had discovered generosity and magnanimity under purple."

"Tuko," said the duke, with a transient expression of emotion, and a proud commanding look, "link not your common notions of friendship and generosity with that great chain of thought that binds my princely life to the throne of Denmark. Have you been familiar with me from my childhood, and not yet learnt to separate the thought from the word? Think you this hand can ever be so mean and base, as to crush the true and active friend of my youth, who spoke and acted, while I was forced to sleep and hold my peace? Learn truly to estimate your princely master, who ceases not to be your friend, although he must now, for loftier reasons, assume the appearance of a stern enemy. If, with me, you have discovered the true meaning of living for a great and noble object, know also that the paltry vulgar virtues, which people call friendship, fidelity, gratitude, and I know not what, are at bottom but pompous nothings, which only command the respect of children in spirit and statecraft, and which the matured ruler-mind hesitates not to cast aside when, from the puppet masses, he can embody for himself the great idea for which he lives and labours. If you now comprehend me, Tuko, you will at once acknowledge and respect that mighty spirit you nurtured in its developement, and by whose side you shall again stand when I have reached my goal, and you have acquired strength to follow me. Meantime, you must depart: this night must you fly; and by your flight accuse yourself, and betray what you can no longer conceal. You, and all the other delinquents, I adjudge outlaws. As the king's guardian, and protector of the realm, I shall pursue you with rigour when the proper moment has arrived. But if there be a great spirit in you, as I have believed, you will not therefore hate or mistake me; and when the season of persecution is over, you shall find that Duke Waldemar was not a selfish or faithless friend, and that you were no credulous fool when you trusted to generosity and magnanimity under purple."

"Now, I understand and admire you, noble sir," replied the artful knight, bowing profoundly, "though I must flee you as from a stern pursuer. What I have done for you in secret shall cast no shadow on your glory. You can stand high and pure by the infant throne, and condemn your friends without blushing. Good--I shall fly--whither I dare not say; but wherever, in the north, there sits enthroned a powerful protector of Marsk Stig, there is the place of shelter for his persecuted friends. Farewell, noble duke: your drost shall soon be gone. Spare not the hardened sinner when he gains a respectable distance; but remember also, that none of us are immaculate, and let mercy take the place of justice when the hour of condemnation has arrived."

So saying, he retired into a side apartment, and speedily returned disguised as a right handsome pantry-maid. He curtsied to the duke, mimicking with much drollery the bashful manners of a servant-wench.

"Dearest gentleman," he said, with the accent of a Jutland peasant-girl, "I am a modest, innocent lass, and hardly know how I could have found my way into the presence of such a grand young lord. Pardon my intrusion, and allow me to quit this place pure and uninjured, that the slanderous world may think no ill of me. That you are a dangerous gentleman for such as me, is well known; and your guard of honour will certainly not be surprised if I conceal my modest face from them. Thanks, worthy gentleman, for your gracious kindness. For your sake I must now hide from the world for a long time, and you must pretend not to know me, though I shall probably grieve for what is yours, and you will not certainly repel the hand of your humble servant."

"Art thou a fool? Is this a time for jesting?" exclaimed the duke, in a low tone; and, opening the door into the passage, "Good night, my child," he said, aloud, patting the cheeks of the pretended girl in the open doorway. "Run on, now: these brave soldiers will not harm thee. But take care, in future, that thou dost not thus go astray after wedlock fancies, and mistake a knight's closet for the pantry."

The rough landsknecht outside the door smiled in his beard, and, without suspicion, allowed the tall pantry-maid to slip past.

The duke closed the door, and cast himself, in gloomy thoughtfulness, on a chair.

"Flee, miserable coxcomb!" he muttered, "and find a shelter now where thou canst! Thou wilt hardly escape without getting thy wings scorched."

In a minute afterwards he fancied he heard a scream. He approached the window with some uneasiness, and distinguished a cry of "Seize her! it is a disguised traitor!" shouted by a gruff voice in the street. There followed some shrieking and tumult, which, however, soon died away in the distance.

The departure of the intimate friend of his youth, and concern for his fate, seemed to have disposed the duke to melancholy; but the feeling was not of long duration.

"Bah!" he said to himself, as he proudly paced the floor, "when the ancient heroes tied fire beneath the wings of swallows, and sent them forth as instruments of conquest, what cared they for the piping of the little creatures?"

He again threw himself on a chair, and fell into deep thought. Since his imprisonment at Sjöborg, where he had often held converse the whole night with his owl and his dead kinsman, as if the latter answered him from the inscribed prison-wall, he would frequently, in his closet, talk half aloud to himself; and it was rumoured and believed by many, that he was leagued with powerful spirits.

"As far as I know," continued he, wrapt in his gloomy fancies, "the first great stage is mounted: it requires courage to stand upon it, for it is bloody and slippery; but I did not stir a hand--not a word escaped my lips. I stand pure and free; and where is he who can accuse me? The next stage is a minor. It, too, must be ascended--but without crime. The fair hand that shall help me up is cold, but it may be warmed. It will lose me a pious soul, but a love-dream shall not stand in my way. On! on!--and then--then shall no one say, 'Behold! there goes King Abel in his grandson!'"

Next forenoon, when Duke Waldemar left his apartment to appear in the royal presence, the guard of honour lowered their lances respectfully before him. The queen and the young king received him with an attention that surprised him; whilst Drost Peter's salutation, though somewhat cold, was courteous. The duke surmised that the council had resolved to invest him with that full power and authority which they could not refuse him without overstepping the law of the land, and rousing a dangerous and powerful enemy, who, in open league with the conspirators, could easily overthrow the yet unstable throne.

The consciousness of this power, and the feeling that he was already secretly dreaded, although his authority was not publicly acknowledged, imparted to him an air of confidence and almost kingly dignity that did not ill become him. He approached the queen with as much ease and freedom as if he had already been for a long time her adviser, and the guardian of the young king. He spoke of the critical state of the kingdom, and of the measures to be adopted, with sagacity and zeal, but at the same time with the decisive air of a co-regent. This demeanour was, however, attended with so much politeness, and respectful acknowledgment of the queen's important influence as royal mother, that the fair and proud Queen Agnes could not possibly be offended. She appeared to have already been more favourably disposed towards the duke by her brothers; and, now, she could not but admire the delicacy with which he advanced his claims, without seeming at all assuming or importunate.

The constraint which was apparent in the queen's demeanour at the beginning of the conversation soon disappeared, and Drost Peter observed with concern the manner in which the duke, by his subtle flatteries and vehement denunciation of the conspirators, contrived to disarm the queen of every suspicion that had previously attached to him.

"It is a horrible conspiracy!" exclaimed the duke, warmly. "Many of the most important men of the country appear to be engaged in it. A rigid investigation has become necessary, that the guilty may be discovered, and the innocent remain unsuspected. My former misunderstanding with the king, and that youthful folly for which I had justly to atone at Sjöborg, and which there I also learnt to forswear and repent, may have exposed me to a distrust, which I hope soon to remove by faithful deed and counsel. In a magnanimous soul an unfounded suspicion can never take deep root, though there be spirits mean and distrustful enough to nourish it. I blame no one, however, for being vigilant and cautious," he continued. "In these unhappy times, distrust insinuates itself into the closest relations of friendship and kindred. Would you believe it, noble queen, even the friend of my youth, Drost Tuko Abildgaard, had given me cause for strong suspicions, which, I regret to say, are now confirmed; for last night he disappeared."

"How?" exclaimed the queen, with surprise: "your drost--the young Sir Abildgaard?"

"Even he, noble queen! Is it not melancholy? A man, whom I regarded for so many years as my friend--he who shared my youthful follies, and was, indeed, partly the cause of them--though for that he shared my imprisonment in Sjöborg, which he left, as I believed, with the same abjuration of his errors that I made--I have now reason to believe that he was present with the conspirators at Möllerup, in the foolish expectation that I should approve that horrible project, if it could be executed before I dreamt of it. Yesterday, having heard with what horror I condemned the conspirators, he fled, and I have not since heard of him."

"Respecting this affair, illustrious sir," observed Drost Peter, "I have to inform you, that Sir Tuko Abildgaard was last night apprehended in a suspicious disguise, but afterwards escaped by a daring artifice, and is not yet discovered."

The duke remained silent, and merely raised his hand to his eyes, as if unable to restrain an emotion that seemed to do honour to his heart.

"Noble duke!" exclaimed the queen, with warm interest, "what you have lost in that false friend you have gained in my esteem and confidence. That your drost was among the conspirators was well known to me; and there was a moment when even those who defended you most zealously were forced to admit that your intimate connection with this knight was unaccountable. My brothers are your friends. From them I have learnt your disinterested sympathy, as well for me, as for the crown and kingdom. They were witnesses of your horror upon first hearing of this audacious crime; and it will greatly rejoice them to learn, that the incomprehensible enigma of your relation with Sir Abildgaard has thus been solved."

The duke blushed slightly; but hastily availed himself of the advantageous impression he had made upon the queen. He advised that a Dane-court should be held at Nyborg in the spring, where he would himself be present, and, in conjunction with the queen, assume the guardianship of the young king. In the meantime he hoped to show himself worthy of that important office, by securing the country against the daring marsk and the rebels. He suggested that the queen should, for the present, remain with the young king at Viborg, where the strong garrison and the fidelity of the burghers rendered any hostile attack impossible. This had been the advice of Drost Peter and the chancellor, in which the Margraves of Brandenburg had also concurred.

The same day the duke left Viborg, apparently on the best terms with the royal house. A short time afterwards it was announced that he had raised an army in South Jutland, to oppose the marsk and his adherents.

But Drost Peter trusted him not; and old Sir John, who, quite recovered, soon arrived at Viborg, shook his head doubtfully at these tidings. They suspected that the duke merely pretended to arm himself against the marsk, in order to muster a respectable force, with which he could assert his claims at the Dane-court, and secure his election to the regency.

* * *

Whilst nearly all the conspirators, stricken with horror at their own deed, had sought refuge in Norway, Marsk Stig had buried his wife, and, with his two daughters, had left Möllerup, where he no longer considered himself secure. At great personal risk he had been present at the king's interment, and had marked how little favourable to him and his cause was the temper of the people.

Nevertheless, it was quickly rumoured that Rypen House and Flynderborg were in the hands of the rebels, and that the valiant marsk, with seven hundred men in iron, and his warlike engines from Möllerup, had taken a strong position on Helgeness and Hielm, from which points he appeared resolved to carry devastation through the country.

Helgeness is a peninsula, girded by immense heights. It stretches, like a promontory, from Molsherred towards Samsoe, between the bay of Vegtrup and that of Ebeltoft. The neck of land by which this peninsula is connected with North Jutland, is only two hundred paces in breadth. With the utmost haste, the marsk had caused this approach to be cut off by a deep trench, and a wall of large hewn stones, at which they laboured day and night; the old castle on Hielm Island being fortified at the same time.

This singular little island is only about an English mile in circumference. It lies in the Cattegat, about two miles east of Helgeness, and about a mile from the point that runs out from Ebeltoft parish. The old castle on the island is said to have been built in pagan times, by the famous King Jarmerik, who was there slain. The island and castle belonged, at the period of which we treat, to Chamberlain Rané Jonsen, as did also a tenement or farm-house on the point, which, for many ages after, was called Rané's barn-yard. The island possessed a good haven, where lay Jarl Mindre-Alf with his pirate-vessels. There was no want of fresh water; and Fru Ingeborg had, with much prudence, advised her husband to make this his place of refuge. Here he was in greater security than at Möllerup, had firm footing on the Danish coasts, and could receive supplies from Norway without impediment. The island was already, from its situation and heights, so well fortified by nature, and the old castle was so favourably situated, that it did not seem difficult to make the place impregnable. There were now added two lofty towers, with loopholes and strong battlements, and the castle was provided with deep double trenches.

The marsk had not awaited the permission of his kinsman, the crafty Chamberlain Rané, to occupy this important position, and probably he did not expect much complacency from him. The latter, indeed, appeared to have intended this secure asylum for himself, should all miscarry. Hence, on the marsk's arrival, he found a brave little garrison in the castle, who had strict orders from the chamberlain to defend it against every one to the last extremity. The marsk had therefore to take the place with the strong hand, and was so exasperated by the unexpected resistance he encountered, that he allowed the whole garrison to be slain. For this reason, it was afterwards sung, in the old ballad:--.

"Marsk Stig he captured Hielm so steep--
The truthful tale I tell:
Full many a cheek was blanched that day,
And many a hero fell."

Here the marsk erected his lithers and other formidable machines on the old rock-fast walk and visited Helgeness almost daily, to superintend the fortifications there. His seven hundred ironclad men were garrisoned in Hielm, and on the peninsula. Some of the peasants in the neighbourhood had voluntarily declared for him; but many he caused to be seized, and compelled them to bear stones and labour on the works. The towers on Hielm speedily arose, as if by miracle, terrifying the oppressed peasants all around, who were constrained not only to work on the walls of Helgeness, but also to supply provisions for the garrisons of both places.

These misfortunes were attributed by the depressed people to the bad government of the murdered king; and the feelings they then indulged are plainly indicated in the ballad which, a few months after the king's death, blended mournfully with the blithe spring song of the birds, and in which the new fortress was described as a monster who had risen from the sea, with horns like towers. Therein it was sadly sung:--

"The peasant he goes out o'er the field,
And there he sows his corn:
Help us, our Father in heaven high,
Now Hielm has got the horn!

"God pity us poor peasants gray,
That Glipping e'er did reign:
Alas, that he was ever born
To be the peasants' bane!"

This ballad the stern marsk himself heard a young peasant-girl singing, one fair morning in the beginning of May, while, mounted on his war-steed, he was surveying with pride the strong defences, to which a few peasants and prisoners of war were still engaged in dragging the last stones.

One of the strongest workmen on the walls was a stalwart old man, in a worn-out leathern harness, who, notwithstanding the presence of the marsk, had sat quietly down on an angle of the wall, his arms crossed, and regarded the proud general with a wild, disdainful look.

The peasant-girl, carrying bandages in her hand, advanced leisurely along a footpath, beyond the wall. Her song seemed to surprise the marsk. The old prisoner on the wall also listened attentively. The girl first sang aloud, at some distance:--

"They were full seven score men and seven
Upon the muir who met:
The king is slain--how rede we now?
And where now shall we get?

"The king is slain, and lies a corse--
The peace we've broken down;
Here we can neither bide nor bigg
In field or burrow-town.

"But we will on to Scanderborg,
And bid the queen good-day,
And ask the lady how she doth
Before we farther gae.

"She may forget how she would mock,
And all our words deride:
The fire is now in the mocker's house,
And she the stour maun bide."

Marsk Stig started. He heard his own words to the conspirators, at the council on the heath immediately after the king's murder, and something of what had passed between the queen and him at Scanderborg.

The peasant-girl drew nearer, and sang, with a loud voice, what had been preserved in the ballad of the words of the queen and the young king:--

"Welcome, Marsk Stig, thou self-made king!
Now shalt thou have thy due;
This night of blood, should King Erik live,
Full dearly shalt thou rue.

"Then up spake Erik Erikson,
Little though he mot be:
From Denmark thou'rt outlawed, as sure
As the crown belongs to me."

The marsk became irritated, and reined in his steed; whilst the prisoner on the wall laughed aloud.

"Pray be not angry, stern sir marsk," he muttered: "only hear the ballad out. There is not a word of falsehood in it."

The peasant-girl seemed to concern herself only with her bandages and her song, which went on to relate how the marsk went home to Lady Ingeborg, at Möllerup, and how she advised him to fortify Hielm. With deep grief, Stig Andersen heard some of the last words of his unhappy wife, as the girl continued her song:--

"For nine long winters have I pined--
In secret borne the blight;
My heart is now laid in the grave--
Good night, my lord, good night!"

The anger of the marsk changed to a deep melancholy. He sat on his horse motionless as a statue, listening to the two last verses of the ballad, which the girl sang with such an expression of sadness, that it pierced his heart, and he felt as if, in these tones of sorrow, the whole grief of the country had united to penetrate his bosom with reproaches, as with a sharp two-edged sword. The words were simple and touching:--

"The sturdy oaks in the greenwood stand,
When the storm comes down amain,
But the hazel and the birchen tree
Are rooted from the plain.

"What kings and courtiers do amiss
Upon the poor doth fall;
Then pity us wretched peasants, God!
Have mercy on us all!"

"My Aasé, my Aasé!" suddenly exclaimed the old prisoner on the wall, springing up and extending his arms towards the dark-eyed country-girl, who, with the delighted cry of "Grandfather, dear grandfather, have I at last found you?" dropped her bandages, and with outstretched hands ran towards him as eagerly as if she would have crossed the deep ditch and sealed the wall that separated them.

"What now, child?" exclaimed the marsk, riding up to her. "Wilt thou be the first to carry Marsk Stig's fortress by storm? Is this thy daughter, old graybeard?"

"My grandchild--my blessed little Aasé she is, stern sir marsk!" cried old Henner Friser, so deeply affected that, for a moment, he forgot his feeling of defiance. "She has sought for me the whole country round. Ah, if you have a human heart, sir marsk, deny me not the pleasure of clasping her again to my old bosom, and blessing her once more, before I drag myself to death on your accursed wall."

"Thou art an intractable and audacious carl," replied the marsk: "even when thou beggest a favour, thou defiest me, and cursest my work."

"I dare not curse your work, sir," replied Henner: "my hand is not purer than your's; but my help will bring you no blessing. Every stone I have rolled hither will most assuredly be scattered: therefore have I toiled like a beast of burthen, and have not every day laid my hands in my lap. And well may I call this wall accursed; it bears the ban in its own foundations. It will fall, as surely as it now stands, proud and bold, a devilish barrier between Danish hearts. It parts even fathers and children; for here I stand, a miserable, thrall-bound man, forbidden to embrace my own child."

"Strange old man!" exclaimed the marsk, with a vague feeling of dread--"thou art free. Descend! Bid the landsknechts unbind thee, and depart in peace with thy child!"

"Thanks, stern sir," cried little Aasé, seizing the marsk's mailed hand, and pressing it to her lips: "for this deed will the merciful God forgive you all the sorrow you have caused me. Come, come, grandfather! Thou art free--hearest thou not, thou art free!"

"Free I have always been," replied the old man, proudly, and without moving. "I have not raised a single stone more than I chose, and from this day forth I should never have raised another. It might have cost me my head; but that I have worn long enough, and I would never wish it to fall by an abler hand than Marsk Stig's."

"Thou singular old man!" exclaimed the marsk, thoughtfully, "thou shouldst never have fallen by my hand, however much thy insolence might have deserved it. Neither of us, I perceive, should condemn the other. Thou art a man who, hadst thou so willed it, might have stood by the side of Marsk Stig."

"I do stand by your side, Stig Andersen!" interrupted Henner, raising himself proudly erect on the lofty wall above him: "at this instant I stand as high, not merely on this wall, which separates you from your country, but on the mighty boundary between the land of the living and the dead. Many days of penance I have not remaining, unless, like the shoemaker of Jerusalem, I have to roam the earth like a spectre till the day of doom. What I have to say to you at parting, I shall say aloud, before the whole world. Would that my voice could reach every ear in Denmark!" And he cried, loudly: "Cursed--cursed is the hand that is lifted against kings and crowns, were it strong as St. Christopher's, and pure as that of the Holy Virgin. The murderer of a king shall never know peace: his race shall perish from the earth--his best deeds shall be as the flax, that is consumed in smoke and flame--"

"Silence!--thou art mad, old man!" cried the marsk, in anger, and with a threatening gesture.

But the old warrior remained immoveable, and gazed full in his flashing eyes. "We two are able to look angry men in the face," he continued, calmly: "but you are right--neither of us should condemn the other. I have not much to tell you, Stig Andersen. You slew the false ravisher, King Glipping. I, Henner Hjulmand Friser, slew the accursed fratricide, King Abel. We are thus equals. I can hold out my hand to you as a comrade--the one bloody hand cannot smear the other."

"Ha, old Henner! wert thou that bold Frisian?" cried the marsk, in astonishment. "Come hither! I shall dub thee a knight, even in thine old days."

"That shall you not, Stig Andersen," replied the old man. "In deeds I am your equal; and you shall now see that, without the stroke of knighthood, I stand as high as you. I have not repented my act, nor have you repented your's. But I did not persecute the dead in his innocent race--I did not undertake, with blood-besmeared hands, to distribute crowns, nor desire to become an idol among men. I would free, not lay waste, my country. I built no wall between hearts and hearts. Yet I perceive that there can be no blessing with us, and such as we. For this was I unable to seize you and your accomplices; but was led into this stronghold by the crafty demon that I myself had bound. And here have I atoned my temerity, by slaving for a greater regicide than myself. It is the reward I merited. I perceive this now, proud marsk, and am therefore a higher man than you. The time will come, Stig Andersen, when you shall see it in the same way. We then may meet again, and toil like trusty comrades on a greater rebel-defence than this."

He paused for a moment, and the wildness of his countenance gave place to melancholy. "Yet, nay," he continued, in a subdued tone, "there is still pardon for us both; but not thus--not thus--mighty marsk. I am on my way thereto: if you will with me, tear down your accursed defences, and follow me yonder, to where the sun rises!"

So saying, he descended from the wall on the inner side. His words had made a singular impression on the marsk.

"Humph! he is still half crazy, however," muttered the gloomy warrior, as he rode in silence to the gate by which the liberated prisoner was to issue.

Alarmed by her grandfather's words, Aasé, pale and trembling, followed the knight. As they reached the gate, Henner Friser, with a long staff in his hand, advanced towards it. He still wore a link of his heavy iron chain, which did not, however, obstruct his movements. The marsk's trusty attendant, Mat Jute, who superintended the fortifications, followed the haughty old man, to hear his liberation confirmed by the marsk himself, before he removed the link.

"Loose him--he is free!" ordered the marsk, and Mat Jute obeyed.

"One word farther only, Henner," said the warrior. "Whither wouldst thou I should follow thee?"

"Thither, where yonder tree once grew, and bore the eternal fruit of mercy," answered Henner, pointing to a large cross, which stood by the roadside.

The marsk laughed wildly. "Yes, truly, when I have reached my second childhood," he replied. "Depart in peace, old man. Thy deed was greater than thyself; and so it overcomes thee. Go get thyself a letter of pardon: turn saint if thou canst; and let us see who shall first reach the goal. When thou returnest, thou shalt be welcome to me, wherever I am. We can then discuss, to better purpose, which of us stood the highest, or performed the most."

The marsk spurred his horse and disappeared within the fortification. Henner Friser silently extended his hand to little Aasé, and they departed leisurely, without once looking behind.

They thus continued their way for some time, in painful silence. Aasé at length broke it.

"Dear, good grandfather," she said, tenderly, "why dost thou not speak to me? I have not seen thee for many a day--not since that dreadful St. Cecilia's night."

"What sayest thou, my child?" inquired the old man, as if awaking from a dream--"ay, let us hear: what became of thee on that fearful night?"

"Yes, fearful it was, truly! When thou and Skirmen had both left me, I fell asleep on the bench, and my dreams were frightful. When I awoke, I was in the cellar, beneath the floor, and I thought that I had seen the king, and warned him of the grayfriars. It was daybreak, and I ran to the forester's. There I heard of the king's murder, and that thou hadst followed the murderers. I waited for thee three days, in the greatest anxiety, which I could endure no longer. I then exchanged clothes with the forester's maid, took our little hoard, and resolved to travel the country over until I had found thee."

"My true, my dearest Aasé!" exclaimed the old man, patting her cheek: "thou hast had better fortune than I. And no wonder: the pure angels of God attend thee; but I--I had an imp of the Evil One for my guide. I, too, at length found those I sought; but my guide was craftier than I and my companions. That artful fox, Rané, befooled us long enough, and took us all round Jutland with him. But at last I became impatient, and threatened that my good sword should despatch him. He then swore with an oath that if the regicides were in the country, I should discover them at Helgeness. There, sure enough, I found their ringleader, was overpowered, and, as you witnessed, made a beast of burden. Ha! I merited the reward! How can Henner Hjulmand enter into judgment with regicides!"

"Dear, dear grandfather, now do I know what has so troubled thee when it stormed of a night. But, trow me, it was not the dead King Abel who rode through Finnerup Forest in the dark: it was the marsk and his man; for I knew them both again. And now be comforted, dear grandfather. Our Lord will no longer be angry with thee for that deed. The ungodly King Abel, like another Cain, had surely slain his brother, and did not deserve to live. But if thou hast not rest therefore, dear, good grandfather, let us make a pilgrimage to Rome, or to the holy sepulchre, as you intended, and there obtain pardon of all our sins."

"Yea, that will we, my child. Had I no greater burden to bear than thou hast, this path would be easy to me. Now, however, that thou knowest what oppresses me, I am already lighter of heart. I have never wished this deed undone, but still it has robbed me of my peace. If, however, it please God and St. Christian, my soul shall yet regain tranquillity ere I die. Whatever penance the holy father lays on me I shall perform, unless he require that I should repent. We shall succeed; and, if thou hast brought the gold-box with thee, we shall not suffer want on our journey. 'Tis time enough yet to fast."

"See, grandfather, here it is: I have not touched it. I bound up wounds by the way, and thus earned more dalers than I have spent." So saying, she handed the old man a little wooden box, and another containing copper money. "But, alas, dear grandfather," she continued, "is it true that the dreadful marsk is stirring up the whole land to rebellion against the young king?"

"Aye, child, and more's the pity: he is the ablest carl I have known; but Denmark has given birth to him to her own ruin. He has powerful friends, both at home and abroad. The country is full of traitors. There is something to be done here worth having a hand in, were I still young, and dared defer this penance. Flynderborg has been betrayed by Sir Lavé, and at Rypen House the marsk's banner of rebellion waves over the castle-gate."

"Ah, grandfather, there will be terrible times. The duke, with a large army, is before Rypen, but nobody believes that he intends honestly by our young king and country. Drost Peter is also expected there--and Skirmen will certainly be with him--when, it is said, the castle will be taken by storm."

Whilst they were thus conversing, they heard behind them the gallop of horses. They turned, and beheld two tall peasants, mounted on noble steeds, attended by a peasant-lad on a norback, and leading two saddled horses behind him.

"Drost Peter!--Skirmen!" cried old Henner and Aasé, in the same breath.

In an instant the peasant-lad had dismounted, and was in Aasé's arms. Drost Peter and Sir Bent Rimaardson, for the disguised peasants were no other, then stopped. They soon learned from old Henner what he knew of the marsk's strength at Helgeness and Hielm, which, in their disguise, they had already closely approached, and were therefore almost as well acquainted with the state of the defences as Henner himself.

"Follow us to Rypen, brave old man," said Drost Peter. "Until that royal burgh is ours, I shall not appear in the presence of the queen and our young king. Good counsel is precious here; and if you know more than your paternoster, now is the time to show it. You and Aasé may mount our spare horses."

Little Aasé was soon on horseback, and they proceeded at a brisk trot on the road to Rypen.

On the way Drost Peter learned from Henner that the crafty Rané was greatly embittered at seeing his ancestral castle on Hielm in the hands of the marsk; but that, dissembling his feelings, he had been despatched from Helgeness, no doubt with a message to Norway, or probably to bring reinforcements. How he had accomplished his errand, however, Henner knew not.

* * *

An important change had, in the meanwhile, taken place with Rané. Neither the marsk nor the Norse freebooter had received him as he had expected when he led Henner Friser and the royal huntsmen into their stronghold at Helgeness. The marsk had offered him no compensation for the island of Hielm and his ancestral fortress; and the jarl, instead of redeeming his promise to receive him as his son-in-law, had merely given him the stroke of knighthood, and told him to be contented with that honour for the present. Rané was too prudent to betray his indignation: he therefore appeared only zealous to serve the marsk, and to show the jarl that he was not deficient in daring courage. He had sailed from Helgeness in one of the freebooter's pirate-ships, giving them the assurance that he should soon prove he had not received the golden spurs unworthily. But instead of bearing to Kongshelle, as he had promised, where the Norwegian king, Erik the Priest-hater, and Duke Hakon, were residing, he steered direct for Tönsberg.

Rané, since he had received the stroke of knighthood, seemed to have acquired a spirit of daring which was strikingly manifested in his whole deportment and appearance. His squeaking voice had, in the course of the last half year, become transformed into a somewhat rough bass, not deficient in strength; his reddish downy beard had become darker and stronger; and the feminine expression of his countenance gave place to one of strong and wild passionateness. The feeling of the important influence he had acquired in these great state affairs, and the dangerous position he had placed himself in, from which he could extricate himself only by his own sagacity and abilities, gave a stamp of confidence to his air and manner which considerably mitigated the unpleasantness of his crafty smile.

At Tönsberg Castle dwelt the daughter of Jarl Mindre-Alf, Kirstine Alfsdatter,[34] or Jomfru Buckleshoe, as she was called, from the large gold buckles she wore. She was about sixteen years of age, strong, plump, with dark brown hair, very lively blue eyes, and a pert, little, turned-up nose. She had been brought up in Tönsberg, like a future princess. Her mother died during her infancy, and her father she had seldom seen. She had been indulged in every humour; and, whilst the algrev was absent on his viking expeditions, his daughter lived free and happy in the castle, where she soon ruled not only the old warden, but the whole garrison.

Yet with all her wildness and self-will, she did not lack a certain polish of education. Snorro's nephew, the famous Icelandic skald and saga-writer, Sturlé Thordarson, had visited Tönsberg three years previously, and shortly before his death; and this old man of three score and ten, with his lively and characteristic narratives of King Hagen Hagensen's exploits, and his spirit-stirring poems respecting old Norwegian heroes, awakened in the heart of the young girl so strong a desire for a life of activity, that, ever since, she had formed no higher wish than to set out on a cruise like her father, or live to see some grand event take place. A few months before the period our narrative has reached, she had made the acquaintance of Jomfru Ingé, who had followed her fugitive father to Tönsberg, and at his wish had remained there, whilst he continued his journey to Kongshelle, where most of the conspirators had found protection with King Erik the Priest-hater and Duke Hakon.

Sir Lavé suffered much from witnessing the grief of his daughter, occasioned by his treachery to the royal house of Denmark. Her presence awoke a constant warfare and inquietude in his wavering soul. He could, indeed, read nothing but filial solicitude in his daughter's looks, since she had witnessed his repentance and his agony during their flight from Viborg, after the king's funeral; yet, notwithstanding this, he had embraced the first opportunity of separating from her.

At Tönsberg Castle Jomfru Ingé again breathed freely, and conquered the feelings of dejection which her father's presence had inspired. Still it was to her a painful thought, that she was living in the castle of a hostile pirate; for, while it belonged to a vassal like Jarl Mindre-Alf, it did not seem to her like the ancient royal castle erected by King Hagen Hagensen. The assurance that the rude pirate-chief was not expected home for a considerable time, could alone reconcile her; and her horror of the algrev did not extend to his daughter.

The bold Norwegian girl and the high-souled daughter of the Danish knight soon became intimate friends. Norwegian skald-songs and Danish kæmpeviser seemed, from their lips, lays of the same stock. Jomfru Buckleshoe rode out with her Danish friend to the fells, and proudly exhibited to her the glories of her native land; whilst the noble-hearted Ingé admired the land of rocks and Norwegian heroism with as much sincerity, as she sang with pathos and animation the quiet beauties of her own fatherland, and extolled her own faithful and constant countrymen, who, in these unhappy times, were defending against rebels the crown of Denmark and its youthful king.

Ingé's attachment to the royal house to which her father was opposed, strongly influenced the courageous daughter of the jarl. This spirit of independence recommended itself powerfully to the mind of the Norwegian damsel. She was provoked that her own father and the King of Norway should render assistance to the enemies of the youthful king, who, from Lady Ingé's account of his dangerous situation, stood before her as the personification of that peculiar form of adventure in which her imagination was most prone to feel an interest.

One day, as the two maidens were riding by the strand, they perceived a ship, under full sail, run into Tönsberg Fiord.

"See, see!" cried Kirstine, joyfully, "one of my father's galleys. And seest thou that haughty knight by the prow? Who can it be? Take heed, proud Ingé! 'tis one of thy countrymen, who can no longer bear thy absence!"

"'Tis one of thy father's ships, Kirstine," replied Ingé, "and therefore can bear no friend of mine or Denmark's. One only grieves my absence, and he it cannot be: he would not forsake his king and country in their need to visit me."

"Perhaps a wooer to me, then," cried Kirstine, laughing. "If he be a Danish knight, and please me, I may yet perhaps be in Denmark, defending your youthful king. Is it not tiresome," she continued, pettishly, tossing her head, "that we girls must always sit with our hands in our laps, and allow the men to act as they think proper, without ever being asked our opinion, as if it were a matter of course that we must have none at variance with their own? I should think, however, that we are quite as numerous as they, and have souls as whole and true in every respect. In what concerns myself, I have a will as resolute and free as any damsel in Denmark; and, as my father supports your rebels, I shall support thee and thy true countrymen. In the olden times, our Norwegian damsels were not so submissive as they now are: then, there were whole armies of _skioldmöer_,[35] which the valiant Stærkodder himself had reason to acknowledge. Knowest thou the lay of the brave Hervor, who compelled her father to hand her the sword of Tirfing from his barrow?"

"She was a Danish skioldmö," replied Ingé, "but a wild and godless pagan. Heaven preserve every Christian soul from such mad temerity!"

"She was a damsel, nevertheless, who not only knew what she could do, but also dared to do it, in spite of any man," rejoined Kirstine. "Old Sturlé taught me the lay concerning her. Listen: this is the verse I like best." And, with a voice so clear that it re-echoed across the fiord, she sang:--

"I dare to touch
And take in my hand
The sharp-edged sword--
Would only I had it!
Never, I trow,
Shall the fire consume me,
That playeth around
The dead hero's eyes."

"Sing not that pagan song, dear Kirstine," cried Ingé, interrupting the enthusiastic songstress. "Hervor herself was terrified at her ungodly deed, and as she left her father's grave saw the air in flames around her. Such unnatural self-will never comes to good."

"Sturlé told me, however, that at last she got the hero she relied on," replied Kirstine. "Certainly, no luck attended the sword; but still she must have led a right pleasant skioldmö's life. It is her I intented to represent in the lady with the sword on the burning height, which you may see, wrought, in my father's riddersal. I should like to be a skioldmö: then should I away to Denmark, to defend your young king."

"Dear Kirstine," exclaimed Ingé, with much solicitude, seizing her hand, "thanks for thy concern for me and my unhappy fatherland; but let it not withdraw thee from fidelity and obedience to thy father. I praise God and the Holy Virgin that I can still obey my father, even when I appear most wayward. Let me entrust thee with an important secret, Kirstine. Thou knowest I am in fact a prisoner here; but I mean to escape, and thou must aid me."

"With all my heart," replied Kirstine, joyously; "but then I must accompany thee, for I am tired of this uniform life. Cannot two such damsels as we do something in the world? Wilt thou to Denmark, Ingé?"

"To Denmark or Sweden--I have kinsfolk in both."

"If I am to help thee, I must know everything. That letter brought thee by the foreign clerk the other day, was certainly from Drost Hessel?"

Lady Ingé blushed. "Nay," she answered, with a suppressed sigh; "but, since thou wilt know all, read it."

They halted. Kirstine seized the letter, and eagerly opened it. "_Martinus de Dacia_," she began to read. "Thou art befooling me, Ingé! This is certainly Latin."

"It is only a man's name," replied Ingé: "so our learned chancellor, Master Martin Maagenson, calls himself. He is a trusty friend of the royal house, and has written the letter for my dear old kinsman John. They wish me to proceed to Stockholm, to the young Princess Ingeborg, who is destined for our king's bride. She must have the daughter of a Danish knight for a companion, that she may learn from a native to know her future people. I am chosen for this, which they say is the only way in which I may be able to benefit my father, and serve my unhappy country. I have considered it closely, and no longer hesitate. My father has left me here, and I must not follow him. He is now safe at Kongshelle. I have his permission privately; but he dares not openly avow it: his dangerous position compels him to be silent. It must appear, therefore, that I escaped without his consent or knowledge. Your old warden has to-day been requested to detain me. Now, dear Kirstine, assist me to escape from hence: if I can only get safely from Tönsberg, my way is open. As well in Denmark as in Sweden, every castle-warden and governor is bound to accelerate my journey when I produce this letter." So saying, she took from the pocket of her mantle a roll of parchment, with three seals attached.