King Eric and the Outlaws, Vol. 2 / or, the Throne, the Church, and the People in the Thirteenth Century.

CHAP. IX.

In the castle-yard, before the knights' hall, stood a crowd of curious grooms and kitchen maids, to hear the singing, and gaze at the king and the stranger-guests. Amid this gossiping and jesting throng, wandered a fat, silent personage, closely muffled in a cloak. The maidens crowded together, and giggled whenever he came near them, and the one joked the other about him as a well-known wooer of the whole fair sex. It was the generally self-satisfied and obsequious Sir Pallé, who now however looked most solemn and thoughtful. He had here for some time listened to the jests of the maidens and their talkative admiration of the king's handsome presence and his splendour, and of all the pomp they beheld. This seemed however but little to amuse him to-night; he yawned with a sigh, and went with undecided steps towards the maidens' tower; he now heard the sound of a lute in that part of the square, where fell a partial shadow, and the cold wind whistled in eddies around the pillars of the tower. He paused, and listened attentively; the sounds continued, and he thought he discerned a dark form standing under the tower window. He drew nearer with curiosity, and distinctly beheld a man with a knight's helmet, around whose person fluttered an ample mantle; while he gazed up at the grated window, and occasionally struck the cords of a lute with wild earnestness. Pallé leaned back in alarm against the wall, and thought he had recognised the mysterious guest of the forest monastery. The cold perspiration broke out on his forehead; but his curiosity overcame his fright, and he remained standing. He heard a whisper, which was answered from above, and a deep but low voice, now sung beneath:

The deep voice ceased; the little window rattled behind the grating, and a sweet female voice sang from above--

"Ha! Gundelille's voice, Ulrica Stig!" muttered Pallé; "ay, indeed, a love adventure then! and yonder outlawed hound on my preserve. This shall soon be put a stop to!" In his jealous eagerness he plucked up courage, and first stole a good way back from the tower; he then went briskly forward again, and growled forth a song, while he tramped hard, letting his long sword clatter after him on the stone pavement; but he had hardly swaggered ten paces from the tower ere the disguised figure rushed past him like lightning and threw him on the ground; he felt at the same time a stab in his right side. "Murder! help!" gasped Pallé, in a low voice. He dared not cry aloud and give the alarm lest the terrible fugitive should return and despatch him at once. "Alas! poor unoffending fellow I that am!" he moaned, "when I carry my head highest I even get run through the body. Those accursed women! they are only created to be my ruin--" He hasted to get upon his legs, and ran as hard as he could over the dusky part of the court-yard to his chamber in the knights' story, where in all secresy he had his wound examined and bound up. His ample mantle had parried the thrust, and the wound seemed trifling; but it pained him exceedingly, and the fright had so overpowered him that he was compelled to retire to his couch. To the many inquisitive questions put to him as to who it was that had wounded him, he dared not answer a word; and the more he thought of his mysterious rival the more alarmed he became. "The Drost!--send for the Drost!" he at last exclaimed in a low tone. "It is a state secret; no other may know it." Nobody attended much to this expression, which was regarded merely as one of his customary boasts of a knowledge of state affairs and secrets which it was known would never be entrusted to him. At last, however, his attendants were forced to humour him, and sent a messenger to summon the Drost.

Meanwhile the Lady Ulrica stood alone, and listened at the little grated window in in the maidens' tower. On a work-table in the chamber stood a lamp, and a handsome fisher-maiden's costume, trimmed with pearls and silk ribbon, lay upon it. A sweet female voice was heard singing in the adjoining apartment; here sat her sister, the meek Margaretha, before the lamp, occupied in embroidering a large piece of tapestry for an altar-cloth. The edge or border consisted of skilfully worked foliage, with figures and scenes taken from life. There sprang hart and hind--here danced ladies and knights in miniature; but within the border hung the Saviour on the cross, and the Virgin Mary stood with St. John and St. Magdalen at the foot of the cross as Mater Dolorosa, represented as usual with a sword through the bosom. In the foreground knelt a knight in black armour, with his consort and two little maidens in mourning attire. In these figures she had pourtrayed her father, the mighty Marsk Stig, and her proud and unhappy mother Ingeborg, together with herself and her sister, as children. While Margaretha sat diligently occupied in this employment, and sang the ballad of Hagbarth and Signé, she noticed not what her capricious sister was about.^[6]

The distant sound of the festive din at the castle occasionally reached the lonely prison of the captive maidens; when this happened, Ulrica always became impatient, and wept at the thought of her exclusion from these festivities, and Margaretha found it a hard task to comfort her. Each time the sprightly little Karen came to supply their wants, Ulrica eagerly and inquisitively questioned her of all that passed, and the maiden was forced to give a description of all the stranger guests and knights. It was only when Margaretha heard Drost Aagé's name, and Karen's account of what she knew of his dangerous adventure at Kallundborg, that she forgot her work, her hands dropped into her lap, and she listened with attentive interest. What their attendant related of the king, of his condescension towards the lowest, and his just strictness towards the great and mighty, she also heard with a species of interest, although not without a melancholy and sometimes bitter smile when she thought of her own fate; but when Ulrica would be informed of the looks of each of the stranger knights, of the colour of their hair, beard, and clothes--how they sat at table, and with what they were served, Margaretha was near losing patience; she therefore was very glad when Ulrica, as now, took a fancy to shut herself up in the little tiring chamber, there to busy herself with her gay apparel, and gossip with their attendant Karen. Since the maiden had on the morning of this day mentioned the tournament which was in preparation, and the dance and masque which it was hoped would take place the next evening, Ulrica had become joyous again. When she was not whispering and gossiping with Karen, she sang quite gaily in the little tiring chamber to which she had taken a special fancy.

Ulrica had shut herself up this evening in her favourite retreat. She was again busied with her gay attire, and was humming a merry ballad about Carl of Risé and Lady Rigmor; but she now heard her sister's sweet melancholy song as she sat at her pious occupation, and the tears suddenly started to the eyes of the easily excited Ulrica; she rose in haste, as if scared by her own thoughts, and threw her decorations on the floor. She opened the door, and flew to embrace her meek sister with eager emotion.

"What is this, Ulrica? What ails thee, dearest sister?" asked Margaretha, with sympathising uneasiness, as she returned her ardent demonstrations of affection.

"Ah! I grew all on a sudden so anxious and sad," said Ulrica. "Thy song was so sweet and sorrowful, just like a lonely forsaken bird's in its cage, and I thought how it would be if thou wert left quite alone in this horrid tower, with no one whatever to care for thee and comfort thee as thou hast comforted me and spoken kindly to me every day."

"Thou art still with me, dear Ulrica, and truly I sit here with a cheerful heart at my precious tapestry. When the Lord wills it our prison doors will assuredly open for us, and ere that time we need not expect it. We will, however, never sorrow as those who have no hope."

"That is true indeed," said Ulrica, half offended, and wiping her eyes. "When thou canst but embroider and tell thy rosary, and the adventures of courteous knights, or sing the Drost's ballads, thou carest but little for the whole fair world without; but I can endure this life no longer: when I hear the sea dashing below at night I often wish that a merman would come and carry me off like Agneté. I would almost rather be at the bottom of the sea than in this wearisome prison-hole."

"Never make such foolish and ungodly wishes, dear sister," answered Margaretha, half alarmed, and involuntarily crossing herself. "It is better, however, to be in prison and innocent than at liberty and guilty, rememberest thou not what stands in holy writ about St. Peter in prison, and what he said?"

"I know all that well enough," interrupted Ulrica, pettishly; "but, nevertheless, there came an angel and took him out."

"If the Lord and our Lady will it so, such an angel might be sent to us also," continued Margaretha. "It needs but an angel's thought in a kindly soul. I, too, should rejoice to see God's fair world again, when that might be with honour and without sin--but thou wert speaking of mermen^[7] and evil spirits, and I heard before how wildly thou sang'st; it sounded to me like Agneté's answer to the merman--as though thou wert an unhappy deluded maiden like her. Ah, sweet sister! I know too well who thou art thinking of; but beware of him! he is assuredly just as false as the ocean foam, and as the hapless Agneté's bridegroom."

"I require not he should be one hair better," answered Ulrica, eagerly. "Truly it was that foolish fickle Agneté, and not her bridegroom, who was false and faithless. She broke her vow, and left her wedded husband and her little children, and would not return to them, however much he besought her--such goodness and piety I cannot understand; no, truly, he was far more good and honourable! I ever pitied him, poor wretch! So very frightful, either, he could not have been," she continued; "he had fair hair and sparkling eyes like Sir Kaggé. Just listen!" and she sang--

"But it surely was no good sign," observed Margaretha, "when he entered into the church, and all the holy images turned to the wall. Alas, dearest sister, I could never look at Sir Kaggé's small sparkling snake-like eye, but it seemed as though all pious and godly images fled from my soul."

"Ah, thou art so unreasonable," exclaimed Ulrica impetuously; "so terribly unreasonable, that it is impossible longer to bear with thee. I shall run from thee as soon as I can,--that I tell thee beforehand; but then," she added half sadly--"ah, then thou must not weep and mourn for me, Margaretha! Wilt thou promise me that? or--wilt thou come too?"

"What art thou thinking of, poor dear child! art thou ever dreaming of flight, and yet canst not find in thy heart to leave me? Make up thy mind to be patient, sweet Ulrica! After all, we cannot escape, and I would not if we could. With all his severity, the king is still good and just, every one here says so; he will surely one day come to know we are innocent, and will let us wander free out of his kingdom; that is the utmost we can hope for, after what hath happened; and this hope I do not give up."

"The king!" resumed Ulrica with vehemence, and with a proud toss of the head; "truly the king is a revengeful, an obstinate, and unjust tyrant. I would tell him so to his face, even were I certain he were my real brother, as people say; but he should beware," she continued, with a look of defiance, "it is neither chivalrous nor kingly, to keep ladies and noble knights' daughters, perhaps even a king's daughter, in prison. I know however of one knight in the world who hath courage to avenge us, and free me from this degradation."

"You terrify me, dear bewildered child! Art thou dreaming again of that fearful greatness, and thinking of ungodly revenge! This comes not of thyself--That dreadful Kaggé can surely never be here again?"

"If he were here, should I tell it to thee, that thou in thy conscientiousness might betray it to the zealous Sir Drost, and that I might see my only friend on the wheel to-morrow?--thus far extends not our sisterhood. A little while ago, I cared for thee, with my whole heart," she continued, in a voice of lamentation, "but now I cannot abide thee; thou dost hate and despise the only human being that cares for me, and thou mightest almost make me fear him did I not know him better--this is not good of thee, Margaretha." She burst into a flood of tears, held both her hands before her eyes, and pushed away her sorrowing and sympathising sister, with her pretty elbows.

"Weep not, be not naughty and wroth, dearest Ulrica," entreated Margaretha. "I hate no living soul in the world. Perhaps even Kaggé may be better than I think; but if he is here and thou canst send a message to him, then for heaven's sake, beseech him to fly, and not plot more mischief."

"No, no!" said Ulrica, impatiently, and stamping with her little feet, without, however, taking her hands from her eyes. "Who says he is here? Would he were here, and was going to help me hence! If I were once gone, thou wouldst miss me though, Margaretha! Then thou wouldst rue having made me so naughty and wroth and untoward to-night. Now thou mayst sit down at thine ease, and think how thou wilt be able to make me good again--I am going to my couch without even kissing thee, and bidding thee good night," so saying, she ran to her couch, sprang into it with her clothes and shoes on, and drew up the down quilt quite over her head.

Margaretha seated herself on the side of the couch, and spoke gently and soothingly to her. She would have taken the thick down quilt from her face, but the little self-willed maiden held it fast with both hands, and appeared to be strongly convulsed under it. Margaretha became alarmed and feared she was ill; at last she was nearly weeping herself; but Ulrica presently set up a loud laugh, and sprang from under the quilt. "Look! now! am good again!" she said, playfully, and hopped a graceful dancing step. "Come now, Margaretha, and thou shalt see all my finery; for I will be present at the gay dance to-morrow, that I tell thee; and if thou dost not let me slip out of the door with little Karen, I jump out of the window and break my neck,--then thou wilt be quit of me. Come and thou shalt see all my fine things!" so saying, she threw her arms round her grave sister's neck, kissed her and skipped with her into the little tiring chamber.

CHAP. X.

Some of the company in the knights' hall were entertaining themselves with singing and lutes, but Junker Christopher had sat down to a grave game at chess with the Duke of Langeland. Sir Niels Brock, Sir Johan Papæ and their silent friend with the helmet, tried their fortune at dice and backgammon. Count Gerhard listened with the king, the Marsk, and the young knights, to the adventures and songs of the German minstrels. These foreign masters of song sought especially to entertain the king and his guests with lays composed in honour of all crowned heads, whom they lauded as their munificent patrons and protectors. At last they addressed themselves immediately to the king in a strain of somewhat exaggerated panegyric, particularly on his learning, and in the same metre and high-flown phrase in which the Minnesingers formerly sang the praises of their loves. Count Gerhard smiled, and the king at last became impatient. "No! this goes too far!" he exclaimed; "would you make me believe, Master Rumelant, that you are enamoured of me as though I were a fair maiden? No more of this! Sing to us, rather of the brave Nibélungen, and the hero Siégfred."

"As you command! most mighty prince! My generous and noble patron!" answered Master Rumelant, with a bow; but he had been thrown into such confusion by the king's displeasure at his flatteries, that he could recollect nothing perfectly, but jumbled different songs together. "Stop! let me!" interrupted Master Poppé, with his warrior-like voice, and he now began the bold and spirited German epic poem of the brave Nibélungen, in tones which rang through the hall. The lay gained great applause, but it was a long epic, which became wearisome by the monotony of the melody or recitative. When Poppé paused only for a moment to take breath, or recollect, Master Rumelant instantly took up the lay, and as soon as he made any mistake, or faultered, Master Poppé recommenced with renovated powers; and thus it seemed as though the poem would never be ended.

The king was, however, an attentive listener, and laughed once or twice right heartily at the naïve and vivid descriptions; but at last he grew tired, and cleared his throat several times. "Excellent! excellent! good sirs; thanks!" he said, interrupting the unwearied singers. "That is enough for one time. There is marrow and bone in your heroic lays, as well as in your warriors; they are almost as hard to despatch. Now we should like to hear a Danish song. We have, indeed, no such single heroic poem, unless it be our chronicles. In reality, they compose an epic which I trust will never be ended. Our war songs are but fragments of them, but they are therefore better suited for songs. They never flag, but go on briskly, and that I ought to like right well, since I am myself of a somewhat impetuous temper. We have, besides, no real master of the art as yet," he continued: "but our songs are national, and are sung both by knight and peasant. Where is the Drost?"

The Drost had been some time ago summoned from the hall, and no one knew where he was.

"Now Marsk Oluffsen! do you sing of our warriors and heroes!" said the king. "But have a care you split not the good arches here in our hall! I know your voice well."

"I would rather fight than sing songs for you, my liege!" answered the Marsk; "they say I sing like a growling bear, but if you desire it I will willingly growl you out a song." He then cleared his throat, and began in a bass voice as deep and hollow as from an abyss.

"Silence!" exclaimed the king, stamping vehemently on the floor.

The Marsk was silent, and stared at him in astonishment.

"What are ye thinking of, Sir Marsk! would you remind the king of his father's death?" whispered Count Henrik in his ear.

"By all the martyrs! who ever thought of that?" said the Marsk, and hastily withdrew. Soon after, the master of the household stepped forward, and summoned the king and his guests to the supper-table, as he threw open the door of the dining-hall.

As was customary when the king was present, all the etiquettes of the table were observed according to chivalrous usage. Each knight had his appointed seat, with a small separate trencher and napkin. When the king went to take his place, he was wont to walk round the table of his knights, and at times to cast an observant glance over these small napkins, which were to lie whole and smoothly spread before the seats of the knights, with bread and trenchers, or plates, in a prescribed position. If a rent or a slit was found in the napkin, or if the bread lay reversed, it implied a charge touching the honour of the knight to whom the bread and napkin belonged, and the person thus accused was instantly obliged to leave the table, and remain shut out from the community of knights, until he should have justified himself. The day preceding a tournament there were generally a herald and two pursuivants, or under-heralds, present, at the king's table and that of his knights, to watch over the observance of these customs. This was the case on this evening.

When the king came to the middle of the knights' table, he stopped, on remarking three trenchers upon which the bread lay reversed; he started, and nodded to the herald.

"Who are to sit here?" asked the king with a stern look.

"The high-born knights, Sir Niels Brock and Sir Johan Papæ, my liege," answered the herald, with lowered staff and a precise deportment. "Also a certain Ako Krummedigé, whom no one knows. It is he to whom it hath been permitted to wear his helmet here in the hall, and keep silence towards every one, according to his knights' vow at the holy sepulchre."

"Who is their accuser?"

"An unknown knight, my liege! but he hath placed his covered shield as a pledge in the armoury; he will appear and give his name when it is demanded."

"Well! be watchful, herald! fulfil thy duty!" so saying, the king went to take his seat.

Shortly afterwards Sir Niels and Sir Papæ, with their mysterious friend, appeared, and were about to take their accustomed places. On seeing the reversed bread, however, they started; the knight of the helmet changed colour and drew back a step; but Brock and Papæ hastily replaced the bread in prescribed form, and took their seats with a look of haughty defiance; at the same moment the herald advanced with a drawn sword in his hand, directly opposite to them on the other side of the table; he slit, with the point of his sword, the three small napkins before them. "Sir Niels Brock, Sir Johan Papæ, and you who call yourself Sir Ako Krummedigé!" he said, solemnly, "In the name of Danish chivalry, I cut asunder, as I have done your table napkins, every tie of fellowship between you and knighthood. You are accused of treachery and treason; of a Judas deed and projected regicide; therefore you are ejected from the king's, and every honourable knight's society, until you have met your accuser and justified yourselves, if you are able to do so; in consideration of the gravity of the accusation, I demand of ye, besides, your weapons, and announce to you that you are put under knightly arrest."

The herald then beckoned, and the two pursuivants advanced to receive the swords of the prisoners, and lead them to their confinement. All the guests rose in astonishment, and the king's knights and halberdiers drew their swords.

"Confounded mummery!" muttered the tall knight, Brock, as he rose. "There, herald!" he called in a loud voice, and threw his glove on the table--"Take that to my accuser! wherever he meets me, my good sword shall prove him to be a liar and a fool--where is he? Dare he not name himself and look me in the face?"

"Here he stands!" said a voice from the door of the dining hall, and Drost Aagé stood there erect and calm on the threshold, with his hand on his sword, gazing with a searching look on the three accused knights.

"I laugh at the accusation of a dreamer and a visionary," cried Brock in a proud and scornful tone. "We meet. Sir Drost! I do but deposit my sword in the hands of these men that I may receive it to-morrow, acquitted by the king and knighthood, after washing out the blot here cast on mine and my friends' honour with the blood of the calumniator." He then delivered up his sword to the pursuivants.

Papæ had risen likewise; he also threw his glove with a contemptuous smile on the table--"There lies my pledge." he said, "and here is my answer to my accuser, whoever he may be, even though he should be given over to the devil, and the destruction of the flesh." So saying, he flung his large battle sword on the flagged floor at the herald's feet. They then both went with haughty and hasty strides out of the door, casting one or two flashing glances at the Drost, and with the pretended Ako Krummedigé between them. This silent and disguised knight had become as blanched in the face as his slit trencher-napkin. He had given up his sword to the pursuivants; no sound issued from his blue compressed lips--but his glance rolled with fearful wildness beneath his bushy and blackened eyebrows; his legs tottered under him, and he was forced to take hold of the strong Sir Niels to keep himself from sinking on the floor. The Drost himself followed these dangerous prisoners to see that the formalities of their imprisonment were legally and properly conducted.

This singular occurrence had excited great astonishment. The general silence was soon succeeded by a low whispering. The two daring knights were well known; every one was aware that they were suspected of having abetted the archbishop's flight. It was also known that they belonged to the discontented in the land;--of friends they had not a few; and they passed for brave, independent lovers of their country, who cared not to flatter royalty, but had strength and courage to maintain the liberties of the people, and their own rights in council against the mightiest. That they should have joined in treasonable conspiracies did not seem probable; and it was supposed the Drost had been too precipitate in making this singular charge. As the king's favourite, he was not free from the attacks of envy. "It is sad to think of the young Drost," whispered one of the junker's knights, "he is such a dreamer he scents treason everywhere, and makes the king to be hated, by his ill-timed zeal." Respecting the unknown knight with the helmet, and his guilt, there were many conjectures; he appeared in a suspicious light to most of the company--but that one of the outlaws should have dared to enter into the king's presence and sit at his table, seemed an act of such presumptuous daring, that none believed it to be possible. Meanwhile, all took their seats. Although the wine-flasks soon went round, the company appeared, however, unable to forget the unpleasant transaction which had clouded the king's countenance, as well as his step-father's; and, as it seemed, had also thrown Junker Christopher into an anxious and uneasy mood. It was not until all were seated, that Drost Aagé again entered the supper hall. He also was silent and depressed. He took his seat directly opposite the king and Junker Christopher. The three nearest knights rose to make room for him, according to the ancient usages of the table, and he sat down without saying a word respecting the accused and their crime. He seemed lost in reverie, and appeared not to notice the unusual flagging of the conversation around him; but his attention was in reality rivetted with affectionate sympathy on the deep emotion he thought he discovered in the king's countenance. The gloomy sternness before depicted in it seemed now to be lost in thoughtful sadness. Eric sat with his wine cup in his hand, and regarded with a kindly look his friend and step-father Count Gerhard; at last he nodded involuntarily, and turned towards his reconciled foe, Duke Eric of Langeland. "A health in honour of the negotiator of peace and of my reconciled kinsman!" he said, suddenly rising from his seat. All the knights stood up--and the king continued--"Even this feast in honour of peace hath been made gloomy to me by traitors; they shall have their deserts; to-morrow is the day for passing sentence; to-day we will not think on it. At this moment, I trust in the Lord and our blessed Lady that no secret traitor drains a cup in our hall. Long live Count Gerhard and Duke Eric!"

"Long life to them, and long live our noble king!" was echoed from mouth to mouth, with great and nearly universal enthusiasm, while the goblets rang, and the horn-players, on a signal from the herald, made their instruments resound through the hall.

Junker Christopher had also joined in the general shout of acclamation, and the king appeared especially to rejoice at hearing his brother's voice so animated on this occasion. His eye sought the junker's while he rung his glass against his; but Christopher's glance was cold, restless, and irresolute, while his cheek glowed, and he twisted the corner of his napkin with his left hand. A smothered sigh escaped the king's breast as he again resumed his seat. Aagé now observed, with great astonishment, that there was a large rent in Junker Christopher's napkin, which he was vainly striving to conceal with his hand. The king seemed to have made the same discovery at the same instant. He had suddenly changed colour, and his countenance expressed a fearful degree of wrath and grief; he made a movement as if he were about to start up, but instantly recovered himself by a strong internal effort; he set down his cup directly before him on the table, and, by pushing his own napkin from him, contrived to hide with it the rent in his brother's.

A look of affectionate admiration from Drost Aagé was repressed by a stern glance of the king's serious eye while he laid his finger on his lips. "Music!" he called, and gave a signal to the herald. The hall soon resounded with lively hunting horns. The gravity of the guests presently disappeared, and each talked gaily with his neighbour; the king himself appeared gay and in spirits, although Aagé, indeed, remarked that it cost him a desperate effort. When the castle chaplain, at the conclusion of the feast, was about to pronounce the blessing, all the knights had become so joyous and loud-tongued, that the herald was twice compelled to remind them of the etiquette of the table. When the repast was ended the king retired in haste to his private chamber, and beckoned gravely to Aagé to follow him. When Christopher rose, he threw his napkin, as if by accident, under the table; he then went out on the hall balcony, and whistled; soon afterwards the prince's large hunting-hound came bounding through the hall, with a crumpled napkin in his mouth.

The king had entered the private chamber with Aagé; he had thrown himself into a chair, and held his hand before his eyes. He remained a long time in this posture. Aagé stood in silence opposite to him, regarding him with a look of sorrowful sympathy. The king at last took his hand from his eyes, and he appeared to have wept. "Who hath dared to destroy love and confidence between brothers?" he exclaimed; "if it was you, Drost Aagé, it is the last time I call you my Drost."

"I it was not, my noble liege!" answered Aagé; "who it was I know not. May the Lord pardon that man among your true servants who so unwisely and rashly hath grieved you! It must have been done secretly, and without the herald's knowledge."

"I despise a secret accusation," continued the king; "it is unlawful; it is in a high degree deserving of chastisement; it shall--yet no--no examination can take place in this case. If he is a traitor," he continued, and deep grief was again visible in his countenance, "were he capable! Be it as God wills--I injure not a hair of his head. Should I disgrace my father in his children? Should I doom my mother's son outlawed and dishonoured? Should I myself, Great God!----" He paused, and his hair seemed to stand on end with horror. "Look at me, Aagé," he resumed; "could such a thought be harboured here?" He laid his hand on his high and glowing forehead. "It burns within," he continued; "but no unseen Cain's mark burns there. My hand was sternly raised against him--love me he cannot--fear me he must. Well! let him tremble before his liege and sovereign until he learns to love his brother. Now, not a word more of this! It is perhaps only spite and slander. Who dares charge my left hand of treachery against the right? I know nothing as yet--I will know nothing--I have known enough of evil----" He began again after a thoughtful pause, and with a gloomy downcast look--"have I not had traitors around me since I was a child? Have I not seen my father murdered, and his shameless murderers in my presence? Have not their bloody hands been secretly and openly raised against my life from the hour in which I doomed them outlawed? yet have they not had the power to touch me," he continued with cheerfulness, and raised his head. "No assassin's dagger hath yet reached me, even though excommunicated and given over to the Evil One. I know it, Aagé; I have seen it--the hand of the righteous Lord was betwixt me and my deadly foes. No traitor and murderer--not even a soul murderer--no sinful archbishop or pope--not the arch-fiend himself--shall shake the crown upon this head." As he said these words he raised his hand and looked upwards with a glance of almost prophetic inspiration, and there was a nobleness and majesty in his countenance which seemed capable of humbling the most presumptuous foe.

"My liege!" exclaimed Aagé, with heartfelt joy, "the spirit which speaks through you at this hour is not alone the spirit of royalty and justice, but surely that of love also."

"Go to my brother, my faithful Aagé," interrupted the king hastily; "take him this----" He took a gold chain from his neck, to which hung an image of the Madonna. "Pray him to accept this jewel from his brother, as a memorial of this celebration of peace. Tell him our unhappy father wore this image to the day of his death." The king turned hastily away, and seemed desirous to hide the sorrowful emotion which had caused his voice to falter. Aagé stood with the chain in his hand, and was about to give vent to the warmth of his feelings; but the king turned suddenly, and said, in a stern voice, "Tomorrow a council of knights will be held. The accused shall be arraigned, and defend themselves if they can. All are equal here with respect to the law--be they friends or foes. Woe to the accuser who hath not ample proof, were he even my dearest friend! Go! and the Lord be with thee."

Aagé bowed in silence, with wounded feelings, and would have departed, but the king, on perceiving his emotion, stretched out his arms towards him, and pressed him to his heart, without saying a word more.

Aagé hastily departed with the chain. When the king was alone in his chamber, he put his hand into his vest, and drew forth a rosary, garnished with pearls and rubies. "Thy Christmas gift when we were children, my Ingeborg!" he said, with deep emotion. "What thou knewest I would ask for besides, thy angel joined me in prayer for at the throne of Grace.--Christopher! Christopher! may God forgive thee the thought thine eye betrayed!" He then imprinted a kiss on the rosary, replaced it in his vest, and sat down quietly before his table to attend to state affairs.

CHAP. XI.

Early the next morning a herald-pursuivant stood in Drost Aagé's sleeping apartment, with his large plumed hat in one hand, and a long, pointed sword in the other. The Drost hastened to put on his garments, while he listened with anxious attention to the information which was given him. The three accused knights had disappeared in the night, together with the men-at-arms, who had relieved guard at midnight before the door of the knights' story. Sir Niels Brock's and Sir Johan Papæ's horses had been taken out of the stable--none of their squires or servants were to be seen in the castle; but the large well-fed horse which the pretended Sir Ako Krummedigé had bestrode was still standing in the stable. The pursuivant who brought these tidings to the Drost delivered to him, at the same time, the sword which at the repast of the preceding evening he had received from the mysterious knight with the helmet, and drew the Drost's attention to a singular contrivance in it. The hilt was hollow, and contained a fluid, which, by means of a spring, might be imparted to the blade. A dog, whose skin had been scratched with this sword, had died in convulsions.

"Ha! a poisoned weapon!" exclaimed Aagé in alarm, returning the sword with a look of horror; "take it instantly before the judgment hall of the castle--Thou canst of course bear witness on oath from whom thou didst receive it?"

"That I shall find it hard to do. Sir Drost, seeing no one knows who he really is," answered the pursuivant; "but that it was the dumb knight with the helmet--him they call Sir Krummedigé--I can take my oath upon. I should also announce, Sir Drost," he continued, "that the junker's gentleman of the bedchamber, Sir Pallé, died last night of his wound, although it was so trifling that we jeered him about it almost to the last. The surgeon swears he hath been wounded by a three-edged poisoned dagger."

"Our Lady be merciful unto us!" exclaimed Aagé. "His deadly terror was then but too well founded--We have had a poisoner then as our guest! Even now he may perhaps be among us!"

The Drost hastily left his chamber. Soon afterwards Marsk Oluffsen's rough voice was heard in the court of the castle, and ere it rang for mattins a knight, at the head of a troop of horse, rode at full gallop out of the castle gate. The Marsk himself, it was said, was gone to the chase. He dashed on with a number of hunters and hounds through the park. The Drost searched the whole castle. Ere mattins were ended, the Marsk and his huntsmen brought a bound captive to the tower. It was the mute knight with the helmet. His beard and eyebrows had changed colour, and it was soon known that he was one of the outlaws.

Amid the bustle caused at the castle by providing for the court, and attending on its numerous guests, much notice was not attracted towards these serious proceedings. The expected tournament and the knightly festivities occupied every one. The squires polished their master's arms and costly saddle-furniture; the prancing chargers were trained and tended; and the mild spring weather seemed to promise a bright day for the festivity. From the town and the neighbourhood crowds of gaily attired persons flocked to the castle. The splendidly accoutred knights careered eagerly and indefatigably with each other. All the castle windows which looked on the tilt-yard were already crowded with richly attired ladies, and most persons seemed to have forgotten both mattins and mass for the festival. It was whispered, indeed, that the tournament would not take place; but no one was disposed to believe this, as workmen began to bestir themselves, and preparations were still carried on, which kept expectation alive. Meanwhile the king was seen to ride as usual to mass with his princely guests, attended by his halberdiers. He was grave and thoughtful. Junker Christopher rode in gloomy silence by his side; he wore over his breast the large gold chain, with the image of the Madonna, which the king was wont to wear himself; and this token of distinction was regarded as a sign that all misunderstanding must have been removed between the brothers. The junker's eye meanwhile avoided the king's, and not one word was exchanged between them on the road to and from church.

After mass, the king instantly repaired to the knights' hall with all his men, and it was announced by the heralds that a knights' council, and a court of justice would be held. The tournament and the other festivities were in the meantime announced by the Marsk to be given up; and people now flocked to the knights' hall to see the king administer justice among his knights. He sat with an unusually stern and grave aspect on the raised ivory throne, and was surrounded by regal state and splendour. He first examined into the conduct of some young knights who were accused of minor faults and transgressions of the laws of chivalry. Those who either could not prove their innocence according to the established proceedings of temporal justice, or where doubt was entertained, relied on sword and lance, for redeeming their honour were sternly banished the castle; but those who acknowledged and repented a pardonable error, obtained permission by bold and knightly deeds, to regain their place and rank among the king's men.

The Drost now stepped forth in his own and in the name of the murdered Sir Pallé, with an accusation against the pretended Sir Ako Krummidigé, as the assassin of that slain knight, as well as against Sir Niels Brock and Sir Johan Papæ, as traitors and secret conspirators against state and crown, and he craved permission, in case the testimony he brought forward was not considered sufficient to establish his charge, to confirm it with sword and lance, to be judged by God, in a combat for life and death with the traitors. As the two knights so seriously accused, had escaped by unlawful flight, they were proclaimed to be suspected, and cited to appear and defend themselves before the expiration of six weeks and one day, if they would not be passed sentence upon as traitors; but the pretended Ako Krummedigé, whose real name was now discovered by sufficient evidence, was led before the tribunal. He was clad in the ancient armour in which he was attired on his first arrival; he wore also the helmet and shield he had brought with him from the monastery, and on which the famous armorial bearings of the noble family of the Hvides were noticed for the first time; but he had no sword by his side, and was surrounded by a strong guard. The glossy black was removed from his stiff beard, which now resembled the bristles of a boar; and from his bushy, meeting-eyebrows which were considered by the lower orders as a ^[9]"Wolfman's mark." and by which the outlawed Sir Kaggé was especially distinguished.

He was pale, and stared wildly around him. When he heard himself named and accused, and beheld the king in the large circle of attentive knights, he seemed to struggle against appearing cast down or humbled.

He raised his head, and stepped forward with a bold and haughty look, and even with the assumption of a degree of knightly dignity. "I greet thee, King Eric Ericson!" he said, in a loud voice. "I greet every brave knight who serves with honour here at court! Christ preserve every dear son of Denmark from the misfortune which brings me hither! But if there be brave and true Danish men here present, the man who became outlawed for Denmark's freedom and the honour of Danish chivalry will not lack weapons and defenders."

"Talk not of freedom and honour, thou who hast nought but effrontery and deeds of infamy to boast of!" began the king with calm and cold contempt. "Under the name of a pious and honourable man, thou hast crept into my hall among men of honour, and abused the sacred laws of chivalry, to hide deceit and treachery. Thy mask hath fallen off traitor! thy poisoned weapon hath betrayed thee--Thou wert chased from Denmark for a Judas deed; yet still thou hast dared to enter my presence. One assassination thou hast already perpetrated in my royal castle, and another thou hast meditated--Canst thou deny it? Hast thou a word to say in thy defence, miscreant?"

The prisoner bit his lips, and ground his teeth. "If I come not precisely from the holy sepulchre," he muttered, "I come, however, from the graves of kinsmen and friends, and from the corpses of murdered comrades. The fool whose mouth I have stopped, was a soulless lump of flesh, on whom I did but whet my dagger. What I purposed besides, is no concern of any one; but what I had promised, it was my fixed resolve to perform. Against tyrants no weapon is dishonourable, King Eric! and if an outlawed man hath neither rights nor safety, how then can you suppose he will let himself be bound by your pitiful laws?"

"Have ye considered the matter, my knights!" said the king; "then pronounce doom upon this audacious criminal, according to the laws of God and man!"

"He hath forfeited honour and life, according to the laws of the land," was the unanimous verdict. "According to strict justice, he hath even forfeited hand and eye." The herald pronounced the doom in a loud voice.

When Kaggé heard his death doom, his knees shook, and he looked around him with a rapid and searching glance, as if expecting to find defenders or protectors against the sentence, among the spectators, but there was a death-like stillness; no one moved tongue or hand in his defence. He seemed humbled, and now bent on one knee before the tribunal. "Bethink you, King Eric!" he said, in a supplicating tone, "I served in your royal father's castle, and he himself gave me the praise of being the best squire he had. His death was never my wish, I would have saved him had it been in my power; although he had broken his contract and had himself loosened the tie which bound Denmark's crown to his head."

"I remember well thou didst serve in my father's castle, for hire and for garments," answered the king; "but I know, and every man in Denmark knows, also, that thou wert in Finnerup barn, on that bloody St. Cecilia's eve, and thy sword was not the last which was plunged into the breast of thy unhappy master and king. As a faithless traitor and regicide thou wert however but outlawed while I was a minor, but now thou shalt suffer just punishment, as surely as I wear Denmark's crown!"

"Is there not a single free man here, who dares to speak a word for me?" cried the captive, springing up with a wild look. "Ha! slaves of a tyrant! I despise ye," he continued, looking frantically around him. "The deed for which I was outlawed, was the proudest ever achieved by Danish man. A tyrant's murder hath been an honoured deed so long as the world hath stood, wherever a spark of freedom was in the spirit of the people--Now there are nought but cowardly slaves in Denmark, and it shames me to call you countrymen. There you stand aghast! because a bold word is heard again in kingly hall--You have courage only for crawling in the dust before a revengeful despot, and to doom the last friend of freedom to the scaffold--Is it not enough for you to see my blood? Will you saw off my hands and feet? Will you pluck out my eyes, that no free man may see you blush? Will you deal thus with a descendant of Skialm--Hvide's noble race? I am a knight," he added proudly. "I demand but to be judged by the law of knighthood--That is recognised over all the world, but under this country's laws I stand no longer."

"Who dubbed thee a knight? asked the king, with a contemptuous look.

"The greatest knight in Denmark's kingdom," answered the captive, drawing himself up with a look of defiance. "The man whose shoe latchet no knight here was worthy to loose--The Marsk of Denmark's kingdom, Stig Anderson Hvide, and if your chivalrous bearing is aught else than empty boast and mockery, King Eric, you will suffer me to be judged with equity according to the law which is as the apple of your eye."

"Be it so, by all the holy men!" exclaimed the king with glowing cheeks; "according to the law of chivalry shall thy doom be executed, since thou dost thyself demand it, and thou shalt learn what it is to be doomed to dishonour. The knighthood which an outlawed regicide gave thee is truly but little honour worth, nevertheless thou shalt not take it with thee to thy dishonourable death. Thy hands and feet thou shalt keep, and thy false eyes also--but the honour thou boastest of, thou shalt lose according to law, for the sake of chivalry--and thy life for my father's sake alone."

At a signal from the king, the captive was now removed, and a council of the oldest knights met together to decide upon the mode of carrying the sentence into execution, according to the laws of chivalry.

Three hours afterwards, the captive was led in full knightly armour, and on horseback, to a high scaffold within the lists, under which the king himself appeared on horseback, surrounded by all his knights. The castle chaplain stood on the scaffold, at the head of a row of monks from the Dominican monastery. The captive was led up hither, not indeed to suffer death, but, according to the laws of chivalry to be ejected from the community of knights in a manner the most degrading. There was a crowd assembled; all the windows of the castle, as well as the stands on the lists were thronged with curious spectators. From the window of the servants' hall, close by the maidens' tower, peeped forth a fair little inquisitive face which was remarked for its beauty and animation; it was the captive Lady Ulrica, who without knowing what was going forward, had persuaded the tractable Karen to take her with her, to see the great procession which was talked of. No one knew what was to happen. The whole transaction was hitherto unknown in Denmark, where the young King Eric was the first sovereign who endeavoured to introduce all the usages of chivalry, and the novelty and mystery of the proceeding, tended still more to heighten curiosity. Ulrica beheld the priests on the high scaffold, and a knight in full armour led upon it: his back was turned to the window, and she did not recognise him. A rough sour-visaged man in a red cloak, with an iron club in hand, now stepped forward, he looked like an executioner, but however carried neither sword nor axe. He tore the shield from the knight, and struck off his armour; after which he broke the shield and armour into pieces with his iron club, and cast the fragments at his feet.

"Gracious heaven! Is this an execution?" cried Ulrica in dismay. The knight was now led down from the scaffold. He turned his pale and terrible countenance towards her, and she recognised him. "Kaggé! righteous heaven!" she exclaimed with a shriek, and sank swooning in the arms of her attendants. They hastened to carry her back to the tower, and to the fostering care of her gentle sister.

The armorial bearings were taken from Kaggé's broken shield; they were now, together with the shield, fastened to the tail of a mare, and thus dragged in the mire through the streets of Wordingborg, followed by the scoffs of the herald, which were echoed by the enraged mob.

The disarmed knight was meanwhile led upon the dunghill near the stables of the castle; here his gold spurs were taken off, and on the same degrading spot the tail of the horse he rode last was docked. While the attention of the spectators was rivetted on these singular proceedings, the dishonoured knight made a vain attempt to escape. He was now bound with cords, and again led upon the scaffold--there he stood staring wildly around him and foaming with rage, while the priests chanted a requiem over him as over the dead. He looked around in a frenzy; when, however, he perceived that the sword of the executioner was not glittering over his head, he seemed not as yet to have abandoned all hope of life, and drew himself up in desperate defiance. The solemn death-chant, nevertheless, appeared to awe him, and to damp his resolution. Ere it was ended, he sank down in an attitude of prayer. The chanting ceased, and the castle chaplain presently stepped forward with the holy scriptures, and began to read with a loud voice the Psalmist's denunciations against traitors--"Let there be none to extend mercy unto him, let his posterity be cut off, and in the generation following let their name be blotted out. As he loved cursing, so let it come unto him; as he delighted not in blessing, so let it be far from him----"

"Nay! silence with thy curses Priest! Whether they be scripture or not!" called the king with vehemence. "His soul must be judged by the merciful God. It is here question only of knightly honour."

But the chaplain had entered with such zeal into his text, that, without heeding the king's words, he still added, "When he shall be judged, let him be condemned, and let his prayer become sin----"

The kneeling knight started up at these words, and glared frantically at the priest, "Know then, every free man in Denmark! and judge if it were sin!" he shouted--"I prayed in this hour to the vanquisher of monsters, St. Magnus, and all the saints, that king Glipping's accursed race might be rooted out of the earth, as he was himself by this hand in Finnerup Barn."

"Thou didst declare the truth unto him priest!" said the king, suppressing with difficulty his exasperated feelings-- "yet--no more ecclesiastical cursing! his thoughts and prayers are for God to judge; this criminal stands here only before his earthly judges."

The priest was silent; the king now turned solemnly to the pursuivant-at-arms, and asked, "Say, what is this criminal's name?"

"Sir Aagé Kaggé, of the noble race and lineage of the high-born Hvides," answered the pursuivant-at-arms.

"That is not his name who here stands in our sight," cried the herald, "for in him I and Danish chivalry only recognise a traitor, a deceiver, and a false swearer."

The king thrice asked the name of the criminal. The herald-pursuivant named it each time, and each time the herald cried, "that is not HIS name!" with the same annulling addition. When the herald had proclaimed these words for the last time, he received from the hand of the pursuivant-at-arms an ewer with hot water; he then mounted the scaffold with it, and dashed the water over the head and shoulders of the dishonoured knight, with these words, "Thus I efface the sacred mark of knighthood from this corpse."

As soon as these words were uttered, the criminal was looked upon as dead, and treated as an actual corpse. He was dragged by cords down from the scaffold, and tied on a bier. A pall was spread over him, and while the king and all his knights rode back to the castle, Kaggé, followed by a scoffing mob of the lowest class, was borne to the church, where the priests again prayed and chanted over him as over the dead. When the pall was at last removed, in order to lead him to actual death, he lay senseless on the bier, and it was doubted whether he ought in this state to be carried to the place of execution.

"Go hence and let him alone! The sun hath gone down, and he shall be unmolested here till to-morrow," said a powerful and authoritative voice, and the Commendator of the monastery of the Holy Ghost stepped solemnly forward in his white dress as master of the choir, with his double twelve-pointed silver cross on his breast. All recognised him, and bowed reverently with folded hands, and half-bended knees, to receive his blessing.

The provost and his attendants, who were to conduct the prisoner to the place of execution, seemed, however, somewhat doubtful and lingered. "I am responsible! Go hence all of you, and let the sinner lie here till to-morrow!" repeated the Commendator, "his soul shall have time to prepare for its separation from the sinful body. It is the duty of my holy office to care for the souls of the departing. In the name of the church and the holy spirit, I command the temporal authority here present to give way!"

Every one departed; the Commendator last quitted the church, and ordered the church door to be locked. By command of the provost, a strong guard of men-at-arms was stationed before it.

When the provost and his attendants early the following morning entered the church to lead the unknighted captive (already dead in law) to execution, a real corpse was found bound to the bier. Some thought that the proceedings of the previous day were sufficient to kill him; others deemed it probable that he might have expired from dread when he came to himself in the night, and found himself alone and bound on the bier in the deserted church. The idea that terror had caused the death of the miscreant captive while lying in such wretched plight the whole night, in expectation of his death, now excited a species of compassion in the same mob who on the preceding day could not sufficiently taunt and scoff the detested assassin; and it was discovered that, after all, the king had been far too strict, and that even the pious Commendator himself had in a great degree augmented the sinner's punishment by caring for his soul in such sort; and allowing him the space of a whole night to die of terror, during his preparation for death. The face of the corpse was swollen, and already in such a state that none could recognise the outlawed knight, excepting from the bristly beard and meeting eyebrows. The body was instantly, and in all privacy, buried without the customary ritual of the church, and in unconsecrated ground. But hardly was the dead man interred, ere a low murmur was heard among the restless populace that it could scarcely have been the right corpse after all. The speedy change in the appearance of the body so early in the spring was deemed exceedingly suspicious, and it was rumoured that the beard and eye-brows were undoubtedly false. It was known that the outlawed Aagé Kaggé had been a kinsman of Archbishop Grand; and the Commendator of the order of the Holy Ghost, who from the monastery might have ingress to the church, was conjectured to have availed himself of his authority on this occasion, to save a kinsman of that mighty and dangerous prelate. This rumour, however, was instantly put down by the provost and his attendants, whom it might have caused seriously to be brought to account. It reached neither the ears of the King nor the Drost, and it was believed at court (as had been in legal form announced by the temporal authorities of the town) that the outlawed regicide had been found lifeless on the bier, and that the body had been buried in the morning, after lawful inspection.

The stern solemnity which pervaded the king's proceedings at this time at Wordingborg was remarked by all. The festivities which had been looked forward to with pleasure on occasion of the treaty with the Dukes, were wholly relinquished, and all the stranger nobles and knights soon left the castle. Junker Christopher had taken a cold and hasty farewell, and it was said had repaired to Kallundborg or Holbeck. Both these castles had been restored to him with full investiture of the fiefs. Ere his departure, he had announced that the maidens' tower was carelessly guarded, and that the fair prisoners were in communication with the household, and probably even with persons of more consideration. This information compelled the commandant to observe more strictness in guarding the captives. The obliging little Karen was replaced by a grave female attendant, and no one but herself and a monk skilled in medicine were admitted to the tower. The youngest of the captive maidens was ill, it was said, and not quite in her right mind. She imagined she had seen an execution, and that she herself was a princess who had an unfortunate prince for a lover. This gave rise to much gossip, and all manner of conjectures among the household at the castle. Drost Aagé was spoken of as the most zealous friend and advocate of the captive maidens, and it was supposed that by means of his influence their cause would soon be decided in their favour.

The king, with his state council and halberdiers, remained until past Easter at Wordingborg Castle, from whence were issued many royal mandates and ordinances. In these matters the Drost was, next to the king himself, especially occupied, and was seldom seen to join the other knights in their diversions within the lists or in the tennis court. He was, as usual, grave and pensive. Occasionally he was seen in the moonlight spring evenings to wander alone, as if lost in reverie, around the maidens' tower. Since the king's arrival at Wordingborg, Aagé had not seen the captive maidens; it appeared that he had heard the gossiping reports of his warm interest for them, and that he feared to injure their cause or their reputation by a visit.