"Well," answered the steward with a self-satisfied smile, "I

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://www.archive.org/details/kingericandoutl02chapgoog

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

KING ERIC

AND

THE OUTLAWS.

VOL. I.

KING ERIC

AND

THE OUTLAWS.

VOL. I.

NOTICE

TO

BOOKSELLERS,

PROPRIETORS OF CIRCULATING LIBRARIES,

AND THE PUBLIC.

* * * * *

The Publishers of this work give notice that it is Copyright, and that

in case of infringement they will avail themselves of the Protection

now granted by Parliament to English Literature.

Any person having in his possession for sale or for hire a Foreign

edition of an English Copyright is liable to a penalty, which the

Publishers of this work intend to enforce.

It is necessary also to inform the Public generally, that single Copies

of such works imported by travellers for their own reading are now

prohibited, and the Custom-house officers in all our ports have strict

orders to this effect.

The above regulations are equally in force in our Dependencies and

Colonial Possessions.

_London_, _June_, 1843.

London:

Printed by A. Spottiswoode,

New-Street-Square.

KING ERIC

AND

THE OUTLAWS;

OR,

THE THRONE, THE CHURCH, AND THE PEOPLE,

IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

BY

INGEMANN

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY

JANE FRANCES CHAPMAN.

* * * *

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

* * * *

LONDON:

LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1843.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

The historical records and traditions of Denmark, as well as the modern

productions of Danish genius, are almost equally unknown to the general

reader is England. While German, Swedish, and Italian works of any

recognised merit, readily find translators, and the ancient ballads of

Spain have received their English dress from an able and poetic pen, it

appears somewhat singular that so little notice has hitherto been

bestowed on the literature of a country, whose rich historical

recollections are so closely interwoven with those of Anglo-Saxon

England.

Though but little known in other lands, the ancient traditional lore of

Scandinavia is nevertheless the source from which some of the most

distinguished Danish writers of the present day, have selected their

happiest themes, and drawn their brightest inspiration. The influence

of the Saga, or traditional romance of Scandinavia, and of the

"Kj[oe]mpe Vise," or heroic ballad, is peculiarly apparent in the works

of M. Ingemann.

The close adherence to historic outline--the development of character

by action and dialogue--the delineation of scenery by brief though

vivid sketches, in preference to elaborate description, are

characteristics of Saga romance which M. Ingemann has been eminently

successful in imparting to his own delineations of the chivalrous age

of Denmark.

The Kj[oe]mpe Vise, or heroic ballads which succeeded to the Saga in

the North, and bear the impress of a kindred spirit, contain a store of

historic tradition, and poetic incident, equally valuable to the

antiquary who delights to trace the customs and manners of a remote

age, and to the poet who seeks his inspiration from the historic muse

of his Fatherland.

These vivid and truthful records of the middle ages of Denmark are to

the modern writer of romance, what the oral traditions of the heroic

age were to the chronicler of the Saga. They relate not only the

exploits of northern warriors in their own, and in distant lands, but

are also especially interesting, from the light they throw on the

personal history of Denmark's most chivalrous monarchs. Their joys and

sorrows, their sterner passions and gentler affections, are described

by the national minstrel in a strain of simple and touching

earnestness, which wins the full sympathy of the reader. This power of

delineating human passion lends a charm even to some ballads, handing

down the wildest superstitions of a superstitious age. In Germany the

Danish ballads are known through the translations of Professor Grimm,

who has entered with the enthusiasm both of an antiquary and a poet,

into the spirit of Scandinavian lore. In the preface to his version of

the "Kj[oe]mpe Vise," M. Grimm dwells with peculiar pleasure on those

ballads which have not only supplied M. Ingemann with much of the

incident, but have also suggested the individual colouring of the

historic portraits of "Eric and the Outlaws." All the prominent

characters introduced into this romance from King Eric himself, down to

Morten the cook, are historical, and enacted scarcely less romantic

parts in the drama of real life, than those assigned them by M.

Ingemann.

The struggle with papal authority--the encroachments of the Hanse

towns--and the invidious attempts of the "Leccarii," (the socialists of

the 13th century) were important features of that interesting period

which this work is designed to illustrate.

The translator is aware of the difficulty of attracting attention to a

romance drawn from Danish history; the work also makes its appearance

without any of those adventitious advantages which sometimes ensure a

favourable introduction to the public--it is translated by an unknown

pen--is unaided by patronage of any kind--and has solely its own merits

to rely on for success. It would afford no slight gratification to the

translator were these to be appreciated by the reading public of a

nation, which not only in its early history, is closely connected with

Denmark, but which has inherited from Scandinavian ancestors, that

indomitable spirit which rendered them in olden time masters of the

seas.

KING ERIC

AND THE OUTLAWS.

CHAPTER I.

On the north-eastern coast of Zealand, about two miles from Gilleleie,

is situate the village of Sjoeberg, where the spade and the ploughshare

occasionally strike against the foundations of ancient buildings, and

traces yet remain of the paved streets of towns, the names of which are

no longer known, and over which the corn now grows or the cattle graze.

Towards the close of the thirteenth century there was still standing a

small town, built on the ruins of the ancient Sjoeberg. On a hill,

surrounded by the water-reeds of the now nearly dried-up lake,

fragments of walls of hewn free-stone lie buried in the earth, and mark

the site of the strong and well fortified castle, which in the

thirteenth and fourteenth centuries served as a place of confinement

for state prisoners of importance. The spot on which the castle stood

was then entirely surrounded by the lake, which thus formed a natural

fastness, rendering artificial moats superfluous. The castle was

surrounded by ramparts. It was built of massive free-stone, and had a

strong square tower, in which the most dangerous state prisoners were

confined. The air was close and bad in the subterranean dungeon of the

tower, where no ray of light could enter; but the upper dungeon, at the

height of thirty-six feet from the ground, admitted light and air

through a small round grated window. In this upper prison, towards the

close of the year 1295, was still confined one of the chief accomplices

in Marsk[1] Stig's conspiracy[2], the turbulent and imperious

Archbishop Iens Grand. He had been imprisoned here during the minority

of Eric Menved, as an accomplice in the murder of Eric Glipping, and as

the protector of the outlawed regicides.

This dangerous prelate had many adherents in the country, and possessed

powerful friends among the potentates of Europe, as well as at the

papal see. According to the famous constitution of Veile (_cum ecclesiae

Dacianae_), which had been the cause of such dangerous disputes between

the kings and clergy of Denmark, the nation was immediately laid under

an interdict prohibiting the performance of divine worship throughout

the kingdom, on the seizure and imprisonment of a bishop by the king or

any temporal authority. This, however, was not carried into effect on

the seizure and imprisonment of Archbishop Grand. Not only love of

their country and dread of the ungodliness, profligacy, and confusion,

the certain consequences of a national punishment of this nature, had

prompted the greater part of the Danish clergy to appeal to the pope

against the enforcement of this penalty, but also their fears of

temporal power and the people's wrath. The closing of the churches

might have been followed by perilous consequences to the clergy

themselves, at a time when the agitation caused by a regicide had not

yet subsided, and the excited passions of the populace often broke out

in scenes of blood and violence. This important question remained

undecided at the court of Rome. Divine worship meanwhile was continued

as usual, but fears were reasonably entertained, that, should the

archbishop not speedily be set at liberty, the interdict would be

confirmed by the pope, and the nation consequently plunged into a state

of the greatest misery.

King Eric Menved had attained his majority, having completed his

twenty-first year. The circumstances under which he had passed his

childhood had conduced to the early formation of manly character, and

to the development of his intellectual qualities. The outrage committed

on the royal person, to which he had been witness in his childhood, had

early awakened the consciousness of authority within his breast, and

imparted something of passionate earnestness to his zeal in the

administration of justice. He was deeply imbued with the chivalrous

spirit of the age. The care with which he upheld the dignity of the

crown was deemed by many a necessary policy in so perilous a time, but

this anxiety for the maintenance of royal splendour, joined to his

natural gaiety of disposition, had inspired the young monarch with a

love of pomp and outward show, which was often censured as ostentatious

vanity. The earnest solemnity with which he assumed the regal sceptre

indicated a manly and resolute temper, early disciplined to firmness in

the school of adversity; and the boldness with which he issued his

first royal mandates bespoke a master spirit, conscious of kindred

affinity with Waldemar the Victorious, the model as well as the

ancestor of the young king,[3] Eric's first exercise of royal power was

a bold attempt to assert the authority of his crown against the

mightiest of earthly potentates, who from St. Peter's chair swayed

kings as well as people in all Christian lands. This the young monarch

dared to do, even at a time when his personal happiness was in a great

measure dependent on the favour of the papal see. He had despatched his

oldest and most experienced councillor of state, Ion Little, as well as

Drost Hessel[4], to Rome, to justify as an act of lawful self-defence

the proceedings against the archbishop, contrary to ecclesiastical law,

and to demand his condemnation as a traitor to the crown. But besides

this important mission, the aged councillor was entrusted with another,

which at any other time would not have been attended with difficulty,

although at the present juncture its favourable issue seemed doubtful,

in proportion to its being of moment to the king. Little had been

commissioned to obtain from the pope, and forward to Denmark with all

possible dispatch, the long promised dispensation, empowering Eric to

wed the beautiful princess Ingeborg of Sweden, to whom he had been

betrothed in infancy, and had long loved as the companion of his

childhood, and whom he now adored with all the devotedness and fervour

of first and youthful love.

While the Danish embassy was detained at the papal court by all the

artifices of tedious investigation and diplomatic ambiguity, the papal

nuncio, Cardinal Isarnus, had been dispatched to Denmark, for the

purpose of threatening the young Danish sovereign with excommunication

in case he should refuse to release the archbishop unconditionally from

imprisonment. The wily cardinal brought with him no letter from the

pope touching the dispensation and permission for the royal marriage;

but expressed himself on the subject in so dubious and enigmatical a

manner, that it was evident the court of Rome designed to work upon the

inexperienced monarch's feelings in a matter so nearly concerning his

personal happiness, in order the more effectually to secure his

submission to papal authority and his clemency towards the

ecclesiastical offender at Sjoeberg.

This mode of proceeding, however, was so far from producing, its

intended effect on the young and impetuous King Eric, that it appeared

to rouse him to such a pertinacious defiance of papal authority, as

might be followed by dangerous consequences both to himself and the

kingdom. The affair still remained undecided--the cardinal had quitted

Denmark with fearful menaces, and was now at Lubec.

The haughty Archbishop Grand, who was alone the cause of this suspense

and impending danger, was detained meanwhile in close captivity. During

the first thirty-six weeks of his imprisonment he was confined in

chains in the dark, deep, subterranean dungeon of the tower, and was

left to suffer great misery and want, although most persons acquitted

the young king (then in his minority) of having been accessary to this

severity of treatment. The archbishop's fellow-prisoner, the traitorous

and malevolent provost Jacob, had been released from prison on the plea

of illness, but had immediately availed himself of this act of clemency

to hasten to Rome, where he zealously laboured to stir up hostile

feelings towards the king, and neglected no means of forwarding the

liberation of the archbishop and their mutual revenge.

The preceding Christmas the king had visited Sjoeberg, and had himself

offered to give the archbishop his freedom, on the condition of his

vacating the archiepiscopal chair, of his quitting the kingdom, and

swearing to renounce all revenge, and give up all connection with the

enemies of the crown. Notwithstanding the haughty defiance and scorn

with which the archbishop had rejected this proposition, the rigour of

his captivity was mitigated by the king's command, and he was placed in

the upper dungeon he now inhabited, where he wanted neither light nor

air, but where, as yet, he remained closely guarded and strongly

fettered as before. As soon, however, as the king had left the castle,

the condition of the captive became once more extremely miserable. The

steward, Jesper Mogensen, was notorious for his avarice, his cruelty,

and hypocritical bearing; and the king's brother. Junker[5]

Christopher, was accused of having had a great share in the severity of

the archbishop's treatment, although the prince took every opportunity

of blaming the king's conduct in this matter, and counselled him to

make any sacrifice and submit to any humiliation, to avoid a formal

breach with the church and the papal see.

One evening in the month of October the steward of Sjoeberg, accompanied

by the cook and an old turnkey, ascended the winding stairs which led

to the archbishop's prison and to the turnkey's chamber immediately

above it. The strong light of a dark lanthorn, which the cook held up

before him, fell full upon the countenance and form of the steward:--he

was a short, strong-built man, with a true hangman's visage, in which

the expression of ferocity and malice was combined with an air of wily

hypocrisy; a shaggy cap was slouched over his low and narrow forehead;

he wore a dirty coat of sheep's skin, and tramped up the stone stairs

in heavy iron-shod boots, apparently in great wrath and alarm. "That

limb of Satan! that ungodly priest!" he muttered, "if he hath dealings

with the Evil One, chains will be of no use here."

"As I tell thee, master," answered the portly, round-faced cook, with

an air of importance, "he talks with invisible spirits, and no turnkey

dares any longer watch by him. He is as regularly bound to the Evil One

as I am to thee, saving that _he_ cannot shift his service, and leave

his master when he pleases; you remember, no doubt, I gave you warning

at the right time, and am free to be off either to-day or to-morrow, if

I please. The devil take me if I stay longer here, since--since he is

here already, I was near saying."

"Pshaw, Morten! thou shalt stay here till I get another cook: that thou

didst promise me. But what hath given rise to all this talk about his

sorceries?"

"There is something in it," answered the cook. "No one knows the Black

Art out and out as he does. You know yourself that Junker Christopher's

folk found the book on the Black Art among the letters from the

outlaws, when they ferreted the bishop's secrets out of the chest in

Lund sacristy. The book burned their fingers, and vanished instantly

out of their hands. Such a devil's book always comes back to its

master. That he hath not got it as yet, I am certain; but I fear he has

it all at his fingers' ends. They said he never wearied of studying it

at Lund, and he knows all the heathen and Greek books better by heart

than his Paternoster, the ungodly hound!"

"Thou art right, Morten! He _is_ a limb of Satan, and one cannot watch

him too narrowly. His confounded learning never hit my fancy." Here the

steward paused thoughtfully near the door of the archbishop's prison.

"Yes, take care, master!" resumed the cook; "he will soon fill the

house with his devilries, and set all the imps in hell to plague us, if

he doth not get his prison cleaned, and better meat and drink. It would

please me right well were he to die of hunger and be eaten up of

vermin. Such end would still be a thousand times too good for such an

accursed traitor and wizard; but when the Evil One is in the house, it

is wisest to remember one's own little transgressions, and not use a

captive devil worse than we would he should use us."

"Pshaw, Morten! the devil is not our neighbour," interrupted the

steward with a suspicious look. "Had I not myself heard thee curse and

mock the archbishop, I should almost suspect thou wert in league with

him."

"Nay, master! I can soon clear myself of that; I would sooner league

with Beelzebub himself. The turnkeys can bear witness there is not one

among them all that takes such delight in plaguing and vexing him as I

do. When he is forced to drink muddy water, and eat mouldy bread like a

swine yonder, I sing drinking songs below in the kitchen, and throw

open the window that he may snuff up the scent of the roasting; and I

never come nigh his door without singing one thing or another, which I

know will make him turn yellow, black, and green with rage. I made a

song last spring, all about freedom and fair green woods, that always

enrages him. Now you shall hear, master:" and he sang loudly before the

prison door,--

"A blithe bird flits round Sjoeberg's tower,

Right merrily sings he,

Rise, captive, if thou hast the power,

Rise up and flee with me;

And then thou'lt breathe the fresh spring air,

And roam in greenwood gay;

Then speed we to thy castle fair,

To Hammershuus away."

"Hast thou lost thy wits, Morten?" interrupted the steward. "Wouldst

thou stir him up to flee to his castle at Bornholm?"

"He may let that alone while he is here. Heard you not how deep he

sighed? It was from rage and grief to think the least spring bird can

fly to its castle and build its nest, while he can stir neither hand

nor foot. I made that song on purpose to plague him."

"Thou art right, Morten! it _did_ plague him," said the steward with a

look of satisfaction. "Thou art an honest soul; I heard myself how deep

he sighed: nevertheless, thou shalt not sing him any more such songs;

they only serve to put fancies into his head. Thou art a good,

well-meaning fellow, Morten! I know it well; but thou art somewhat

simple. If the bishop knew the Black Art, he would not have been here

so long. I rather incline to think his brain is cracked."

"Have a care, master; that fellow hath all his wits about him; there is

not a bishop in all the country can beat him at Latin."

"It matters not to me whether he be mad or wise," muttered the steward,

who mounted the stairs leading to the turnkey's room. He opened the

door of this chamber, which was the uppermost in the tower, and

directly above the archbishop's prison. Here two turnkeys were always

on guard, and watched the prisoner through a chink in the floor. During

the night two others were usually stationed in the captive's dungeon,

and sat beside his couch, when it was their wont to plague him, and by

their talk often to prevent his sleeping; but the report which had

recently been spread abroad of the archbishop's sorceries, had so

terrified the inmates of Sjoeberg, that none dared any longer remain at

night in the captive's chamber. The two sentinels were seated before a

backgammon board, and were throwing the dice when the steward entered.

They hastily concealed them, and rose respectfully.

"This is doing duty finely," muttered the steward: "while ye sit here

and game, ye suffer him below there to play with Satan for his soul. Ye

had best keep your eyes upon him, I counsel ye. If he gets loose, ye

may make as sure of being hanged, as if ye had already the halter round

your necks, and the clear air for a footstool. Now let's see what he is

after." So saying the steward stooped down to the hole in the floor and

peeped below. "He surely sleeps," he whispered; "he lies on his back

without stirring."

"That he is well nigh forced to do, because of his chains and the

pestilent smell," said the cook.

"Well," answered the steward, "one should not despise any means which

might save an erring soul. It is for this reason, seest thou, I suffer

the hardened sinner below there to lie in such swinish plight.

_Ignorant_ folk would call it cruel; it is in truth pure compassion.

How long thinkest thou the most hardened offender can hold out such

captivity without repenting of his misdeeds and creeping to the cross?"

"Ay, there doubtless you are in the right, master! You have pious and

fatherly manner, and even generously exposed yourself to the risk of

drawing down on you the king's wrath a second time, simply for the sake

of exercising true Christian compassion, and saving the sinner's soul;

but he is insensible to it, the scoundrel. His obstinacy is matchless.

Could you believe it, master? Notwithstanding all you do to bring him

to repentance and conversion, he curses you, nevertheless, every hour

of the day, and wishes you may come to suffer a thousand times more

torments in hell than you have here caused him to undergo out of pure

Christian charity!"

"I can well believe it, Morten; from such sort of folk one should never

look for gratitude; but the roof and ceiling are in too sorry a

plight," muttered the steward looking around him: "under the blue sky

he needs not to sleep, either; it might be dangerous besides."

"It was done according to your own order, master," resumed the cook in

a credulous tone, and staring with an air of simplicity at the holes in

the ceiling and the roof, "else it could never have rained down on that

confounded Satan. Of a surety he will let alone flying with the owls

through the roof; and when the nights are cold, a little rain and hail

are right proper means of bringing him to reflection and confession of

his sins."

"Well, it is true, Morten; I myself _partly_ commanded it: but one

should have moderation in all things; it should not appear as if the

roof had been uncovered on purpose. Evil tongues will have plenty to

talk of as it is. To-morrow the roof shall be repaired. Some small

holes may remain--they will not catch the eye--fresh air is wholesome;

even a little rain and snow may have their use. Not a rain-drop falls

to the earth, Morten, but it may prove a means for the conversion of a

hardened sinner."

"Ah, master," said Morten, with a tremulous voice and clasped hands,

"you should, by my troth, have been a bishop: you often speak so

touchingly and edifyingly that the tears start into mine eyes."

"Well," answered the steward with a self-satisfied smile, "I was,

indeed, once intended to become a churchman, and though I got not the

tonsure, I nevertheless learned many pious and useful truths during my

noviciate; but it is not sufficient to _know_ the truth, we must, by my

troth, know how to _use_ it for one's own and one's fellow-creature's

salvation."

"Ah, yes, master," resumed Morten, with a devout look, "who is there

can say _that_ with as good a conscience as yourself? 'Tis a hard

calling for a pious Christian conscience and a compassionate soul like

yours, to be forced to play such bloodhound and hangman's tricks on a

poor captive; but what will not one do for duty and precious virtue's

sake, and to save an erring soul! Such a pious bloodhound and

hangman----"

"Hold thy tongue, Morten," interrupted the steward; "thou must never

use such words in speaking of thy master, however well and honestly

thou meanst it. But hark! he speaks below there: canst hear what he

says? It seems to me it is Latin or Greek."

The cook threw himself on his stomach and laid his ear close to the

hole in the floor. "Our Lady preserve us!" he whispered with a look of

affright, "he is calling on Aristoteles, the devil's schoolmaster, and

is giving him directions about you; he swears that you are right ready

to enter his school."

"Ay, indeed, it is just like the ungodly scoundrel! but I thought I

heard another voice--there is surely no one with him?"

Morten listened again. "Master! heard you _that_?" he exclaimed,

springing up with a look of terror, and looking towards the door as if

he meant to escape.

"How now? What's that? What hath possessed thee, Morten? What heardest

thou?"

"Stoop down your ear to the hole, master, and you shall hear. Our Lady

graciously preserve us! The Evil One is manifestly with him. He is to

fetch you at midnight if you do not presently give his good friend, the

archbishop, meat and wine and clean garments. Only listen yourself!"

The steward cast a suspicious look at the cook, yet stooped to listen

at the hole, keeping his eye all the while on Morten and the terrified

turnkeys. He had not remained long in this position, ere he rose up

deadly pale, and the name of Jesper Mogensen, accompanied by the sound

of smothered and unnatural laughter, rung hollow as from an abyss, and

in a voice wholly unlike the archbishop's. "Heard ye it not yourself,

master?" said Morten; "he who now calls on _you_ I desire not to see

near _me_."

"Silence!" whispered the steward, stooping again with a look of alarm

towards the crevice in the floor.

"Jesper Mogensen!" said the same terrific voice as if directly under

his feet, "cherish my learned master and customer, or I will break thy

neck, and turn inside out thy hypocritical soul."

While this voice rang through the chamber the turnkeys lay flat on

their faces on the floor, and repeated their Avemaria. The steward

trembled and shook; but Morten's cheeks now glowed crimson, and his

eyes watered, as if affected by some secret exertion, while his lips

were firmly compressed, and he stood apparently speechless with terror.

"Then let him have what he wants," stammered forth the steward. "If

there are _such_ tricks in the game, neither Junker Christopher, nor

any one else, can require me to peril my life and soul any longer. Set

thee to roast for the bishop in Satan's name, Morten! Let him eat and

drink himself to death if he pleases! but escape he shall not, let him

have ever so many devils for his friends."

"You will find it hard to hinder him, master," said Morten in a timid

tone; "he who so can roar would deem it a small matter to fly through

the key-hole with a bishop."

"I must see that, ere I believe it," said the steward, who appeared to

have regained his self-possession, and recovered from his fright. "Thou

art an honest fellow, Morten, but thou art somewhat credulous and

simple--there is perhaps some trick in this. But this I would have

thee, and all of ye, to know--if I smell a rat, or if any of ye have

the least hand or part in this devilry, ye shall rue it dearly: ye

shall be burned alive, or broken on the wheel, as surely as there is

law and justice in the land."

"Our Lady preserve us, master!" exclaimed the terrified turnkeys in the

same breath.

"I tell ye," continued the steward, "'tis nought else but trick and

treachery. To try him below there, I will let him have good cheer and

cleanliness for a time; but if he kicks up any more riots of this kind,

he shall below in the dungeon again: and this I tell ye, knaves! if any

of you dare help him to flight, one for all, and all for one, ye shall

be hanged! Ye shall all three watch here to-night."

"Alack! we dare not, master!" said the old turnkey. "If there is

sorcery in the tower, we dare not stay here, unless Morten the cook

stay too, to keep up our courage."

"Stay, then, with these stupid knaves to-night, Morten!" said the

steward. "After all thou art the wisest among them. I shall owe thee

for it, and to-morrow I shall get fellows enough with some spirit in

them."

"It is all one to me, master!" answered Morten. "I will keep up their

spirits tonight. He who, like you and I, hath a good conscience, need

not fear a few devil's tricks."

"True enough, Morten! thou shalt first follow me down stairs. I am

somewhat dizzy from stooping; and then thou canst at the same time

fetch meat and drink for the prisoner and all of ye."

"Come, master, take hold of my arm!" said Morten, following the steward

out of the door. "All is quiet and orderly," he continued, as they

descended the stair. "I thought it would be so--one good turn deserves

another. You'll find, we shall get at last so used to these impish

tricks that we shall not care a rush for them; and why should not one

learn to put up with two or three little devils, when they choose to

behave themselves courteously, and live in Christian concord and sweet

family union with us?"

When Morten had attended the steward to the bottom of the stairs, he

ran into his chamber, and from thence to the kitchen and pantry. He

presently mounted the tower stairs again, and returned to his comrades

with a bundle of clothes, two baskets of provisions, and a couple of

flagons of wine. "Take thou the meat and wine and clothes to the hound

below, Mads!" said he to the old turnkey; "but steal not aught thereof

on the way! Master says the chamber is to be made clean and neat. A

guard will henceforth be placed outside the door night and day, so that

thou need'st not load him with all the fetters. Meanwhile let us here

get something to keep life in us. Look, comrades! I have both mead and

German ale with me. Only get thee gone, Mads; we will surely leave

something for thee, if thou comest back sober."

The old man cast a longing look at the wine and good cheer he was to

take to the captive, and departed. Morten now busied himself in placing

the provisions on the table, and presently began to carouse merrily

with the two younger turnkeys. The one had borne arms, and styled

himself Niels the horseman; he was a lover of strong drink, and had

rather a red nose. The other was a timid and cautious personage, with a

cunning and miserly cast of countenance. He sat with the dice in his

hands, and counted the number of marks he had won from his comrades.

"Thou art an excellent fellow, Morten," said Niels the horseman,

pushing back the cap which shaded his sun-burnt and martial visage,

while he drained his cup of mead, and seized on the flagon of ale.

"Thou knowest well how to furnish a guard-room when one is required to

keep one's eyes open and one's spirits up. By my soul! I would rather

keep guard in a camp over a whole army of captives than sit here,

especially if the confounded bishop understands the black art, and

such-like devilry. What dost think of all this, Morten?"

"Truly, that is not for laymen to judge of," answered Morten. "I know

neither the white nor the black art; but _this_ I know, henceforth let

there be ever such a stir below there, _I_ budge not from my seat. When

we keep our noses out of mischief, and strive to mind our duty, we

shall be left in peace, and can sit here as quiet as though we lay in

Abraham's bosom. Now drink, Niels! And thou, Joergen, what art _thou_

thinking of?" said he to the man with the dice. "I warrant thou wouldst

rather kill the time in gaming, than in honest and innocent drink. Now,

by our Lady! every man hath his crotchets in this world, but we must

ever sing with the birds we live with. First, comrade, sing and drink

with us, and we will play afterwards with thee. We have bright silver

pieces in plenty." So saying, the merry cook threw a handful of silver

money on the table, and began to sing a joyous drinking song. Joergen

looked covetingly at the silver, and shook the dice. "Come, good

Morten, let's play first," said he, in a coaxing tone, and with a

crafty smile, "and we can sing and drink afterwards."

"Darest thou throw for a silver piece?"

"For twenty, if thou wilt," answered Morten; "but I snap my fingers at

dice and silver pieces, as long as I can get aught to moisten my

tongue; it is the most important member in the world, seest thou, and

well deserves to be cherished. That little instrument can turn whole

kingdoms topsy-turvy. I am already half drunk, I perceive, and thou

hast not lifted the cup to thy lips as yet. The man who games with me

must be as jovial a soul as myself."

"Well, then, pour me out half a can of ale, if it be not too strong,"

said the cautious Joergen. "Mead instantly gets into my head: when one

would play a fair game, one should always be able to count to six;

besides, we are not sent here to drink ourselves drunk, I trow."

"Just as much to drink as to game," answered Morten; "but leave that to

me! I know the strength of the ale well, and what four fellows can

stand, provided they be not carlines."[6] The turnkeys drank, and

Morten replenished their cups.--"Know ye the news, comrades?" he

continued, raising his voice, as he seated himself at his ease, with

his arms resting on the table; "we may presently expect the king here

at the castle; then will there be no lack of drink. Money, and mead,

and wine, and Saxon ale, will flow here, as in blessed Paradise."

"The king!" said Niels the horseman; "then of a surety will there be

fine doings here; he will, by my troth! give the huntsman something to

do."

"You will see, then, the bishop will get loose," said Joergen the

turnkey, rolling the dice as he spoke, "for he is surely not so mad as

to put the king in a rage again, as he did the last time."

"_He_ cares not for the King's wrath," answered the cook; "that fellow

minds neither king nor emperor; and if it be true that the pope in Rome

sides with him, the king may go to the wall at last."

"What can the pope do to _our_ king?" asked Niels the horsemen; "he

dwells in Italy, far over the sea yonder, and hath neither horsemen nor

ships to send hither."

"But he hath that which stands him in better stead," said Morten; "he

hath got a bunch of keys, so heavy that a hundred men can't carry them,

and with those he can both open and shut heaven and hell, to each one

of us, just as it likes him. Hell-gate he willingly leaves open, for

there is ever a throng in _that_ quarter; but heaven's gate, by my

troth! he locks every evening himself, and lays the keys under his

pillow."

"But St. Peter keeps the gate," responded Niels; "he must ever stand

sentinel there night and day."

"Right, Niels! but St. Peter is the pope's cousin only; besides, the

pope keeps him under finger and thumb, and takes the keys from him

every evening, as soon as it grows dark, just as the steward takes the

keys from thee: the pope, moreover, is the Lord's stadtholder, as thou

surely know'st; and when he is wroth, he is able by a single word to

shut up all the churches in the country, and give all of us, body and

soul, to the devil."

"Our Lady preserve us!" said Niels, crossing himself; "and think'st

thou he durst act thus by our king and all Christian folk here in the

country?"

"Yes, he threatens hard to do it, they say. The devil take the

confounded bishop below, there! _he_ is the cause of all this ill luck;

'twere better for king and country had he long since shown us a pair of

clean heels."

"Think'st thou so, Morten! 'tis arrant folly, then, to pen the fellow

up here as they do?"

"That's the king's business," answered Morten; "he surely knows what he

is about; and hath doubtless his own reasons for what he does. The

bishop had a hand in the game when they made away with his father in

the barn at Finnerup--'tis true King Glipping was worth little enough,

but he was king nevertheless, and the murder was a lawless business:

our Lord forbid I should defend it! No one can think ill of our young

king because he can't forgive the bishop; but, as I said before, state

and country would fare better were the king less strict, and the bishop

gone to the devil."

While this dialogue was carrying on, the old turnkey returned half

intoxicated, and threw himself on a bench before the drinking table.

"How now, Mads! what red cheeks thou hast got," said the cook,

laughing; "thou must surely have accredited the bishop's wine: thou

didst right! who could know whether it might not be poisoned?"

"Death and pestilence, Morten! what art prating of?" lisped forth the

old man in a fright, and spit upon the floor. "I have not so much as

tasted a drop of his wine; nevertheless, thou shouldst not jest about

such things."

"Be easy, old fellow!" said Morten, in a soothing tone; "I myself drank

of it on the stairs. Well! what said he to the change?"

"Not so much as yon stone flask, comrade! The hound would sooner let

himself be spitted than speak a fair word to any man: perhaps, too, he

thought it was poison I brought him,--but, death and pestilence!"--here

he paused and spit again--"I can never believe"----

"Make thyself easy, Mads! thou knowest thou hast not tasted a drop; at

any rate here is something to rince thy throat with, which I warrant

thee is good and wholesome. I will sing thee a merry song the while;

which will do the bishop good as well." While Morten again replenished

his comrades' cups, he cleared his throat and sang:

"In Sjoeborg tower a spider's web

Holds sure a struggling fly;

He once was king and country's dread,

And held his head full high.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,

That web thou'lt never leave alive."

"What song is that?" asked Niels the horseman; "I never heard it

before."

"It was made to mock the bishop below," said Morten; "and _I_ it was

who made it. Now ye shall hear; for to plague him properly, and mock

his useless learning, I have managed to cram a little Latin into it

that I learned of Father Gregory:" and Morten continued,--

"For Crimen laesae majestatis,

The spider's web doth prison thee.

Custodibus inebriatis,

A thief shall catch a thief, thou'lt see.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,

That web thou'lt never leave alive."

While the cook thus sang in a loud voice, the clanking of chains was

heard below in the archbishop's dungeon, and the two half-drunken

turnkeys started from their seats, while Joergen, who was still sober,

took the opportunity of conveying a couple of the cook's silver pieces

into his own pocket. "Let him writhe in his chains, the hound!" said

Morten, remaining quietly seated; "he hears well enough how I mock him

in the song, and that enrages him; but it does him good."

"Right, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, as he peeped through the

chink in the floor. "He twists in his chains, as though he were

possessed--thou may'st be sure it is the Latin that vexes him--but no

matter for that. I would have him hear, that we lay folk know a thing

or two as well as himself."

"Come, let's drink, comrades!" called the cook, and continued to sing,

as he rose from the bench, and staggered, as if half-intoxicated, about

the chamber:--

"Thy Latin hast thou clean forgot?

And canst not catch the blithe bird's lay?

Then dark and dreary be thy lot,

Within these walls thou'lt pine away.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,

That web thou'lt never leave alive.

"Hast thou a message to Rome?

Hark! the bird sings right cunningly!

Or farther yet, from my greenwood home?

Speak! and I'll haste far o'er the sea.

Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,

That web thou'lt never leave alive."

As he sang the last verse, he fell down flat beside the hole, above the

archbishop's dungeon, and peeped through it.

"The false knave mocks me," he heard the captive murmur with a deep

sigh.

"Then strive and toil, and toil and strive,

Thou'lt never leave that web alive,"

sang Morten at the top of his lungs, while he reeled about, and

continued to repeat the burden of the song, in which the turnkeys

joined with loud laughter.

"Thou art gloriously drunk, Morten!" said Niels the horseman, in an

inarticulate voice, and fell under the table. "Thou shouldst bethink

thee, we are on guard here, and not at an ale-house:" so saying, the

man-at-arms rested his heavy head on a stone flagon, which lay on the

floor, and fell asleep.

"But what hath become of Niels the horseman?" said the old turnkey, who

had in the meantime drained a large flagon of potent Saxon ale (noted

for its intoxicating properties). "I'll be hanged if I can see him."

"He is snoring under the table there, the guzzling hound!" answered

Joergen; "ye are pretty fellows, truly, to keep a night watch: I shall

have to watch and be sober for ye all. Come, Morten! let us two keep

our wits about us, and mind our duty! There lie thy silver pieces

swimming in ale and mead--let's clear the table--shall we venture a

throw for them? he who gets the highest throw shall pocket them; thou

mayest throw first, an thou likest."

"Done!" said Morten; "but we must play fair." As he said this, he took

the dice and threw.

"If thou canst count, count, Joergen, he stuttered, without looking at

the dice.

"Two, three--seven thou hast only got," answered Joergen, hastily

sweeping up the dice; "look, it is my turn now:" he threw the dice,

which turned up a high number. "I've won! the money is mine! look

thyself!"--he swept the money towards him.

"I doubt thee not--thou art an honest fellow," answered Morten,

reeling, as he filled his comrade's cup, "the money is thine, but, by

my soul! thou shalt now drink to the health of my true love, and then I

will lie down to sleep. If thou drink not that cup clean out, I shall

hold thee for a rascally cheat."

"Well, then, good Morten, here's to the health of the pretty Karen

Jeppe of Gilleleie! see'st thou, I am a man of my word," said Joergen,

and drank--"There is not a drop left in the can."

"That's right! Thou art an honest soul after all," lisped the cook,

tumbling on the floor, where he soon began to snore louder than any of

the others.

"The dull brute!" muttered Joergen, who began to feel somewhat muddled;

"one may lead him by the nose as much as one likes." It was not long,

however, before he leaned his head on his arms upon the table, and

slept soundly. Hardly had he begun to snore, ere the cook rose,

perfectly sober, and narrowly scrutinised the faces of the three

sleeping turnkeys by the dim light of the lamp. As soon as he was

satisfied that they slept soundly, Morten crept softly to the hole in

the floor, and looked down on the prisoner.

"Venerable sir!" he whispered, "I have managed to drink them all three

dead drunk; they are sleeping like logs--you need not doubt me. I have

always been true and devoted to you. I was forced to plague and vex

you, to throw dust in the eyes of others. I will do your bidding,

wherever you please to send me."

"Is this earnest, Morten?" whispered the captive archbishop.

"It is, by my soul and honour!" answered the cook; "you saved my life,

and concealed what you well wot of; therefore have I vowed to Saint

Martin to save your life--at whatever cost."

"In the Lord's name, then, I will believe thee," said the prisoner. "If

thou wouldst save my life, hie thee to Copenhagen, to my canon Hans

Rodis, and consult with him! Bid him send me pen and ink--a file--and a

ladder of ropes."

"Hans Rodis is at Esrom, my lord," answered the cook; "he bade me put

this little sausage into your pious hands. If the chains will let you,

hold up your hands, just as you lie there! Look, now! see how well we

have hit the mark!" In saying this, the cook pushed through the

aperture a thin rolled-up packet, concealed in a sausage; it was

fastened to a string, by which he lowered it, holding the end fast in

his hand. "I have it," said the captive, "praised be the King of kings!

My faithful servant hath sent me what I need--let not go the string," he

continued, after a pause; "bring the lamp to the hole--but one single

ray of light!" The cook obeyed in silence.

"I am writing a word of moment to my commandant at Hammershuus; wilt

thou put it faithfully into his own hands?"

"I will, by my soul! only make haste."

"Thy reward will be great in Heaven, as on earth; but give me light,

light!"

"All is arranged," whispered the cook, holding the lamp closer to the

hole; "let us but make sure of Hammershuus, and all will be well! The

fitting time will be when ye see me again; meanwhile use the file with

caution. I and the canon will care for the rest; Niels Brock and his

friends will help us. Johan Kyste and Ole Ark are here. Be of good

courage, venerable sir! you may depend on me. But haste! those drunken

dogs are stirring--I fear they will awake."

"One moment more!" whispered the captive. "Pull up--all is ready," he

continued, after a short pause. Morten hastily drew up the string, and

found a sheet of parchment rolled up in the skin of the sausage, which

was fastened to it: he carefully concealed it. "Hush! they wake!" he

whispered. "I must set to work again." So saying, the portly cook

rolled himself on the floor among the intoxicated and half-awakened

turnkeys, and began to belabour them with all his might. "Hollo, there!

now for a beating of meat!" he shouted, "now for a pounding of pepper!

How come we by this lump in the porridge? It must be well beaten out."

"Oh, oh! Art thou mad, Morten!" cried Niels the horseman.

"Have done with thy chatter, I know what I am about," continued Morten,

still laying about him. "I am neither mad nor drunk; but the devil take

me if I stay longer here!--must you, clod-pates, have your say too, and

fancy yourselves wiser than the cook? Would you make me believe I have

horsemen in the pot?"

While Morten thus shouted and talked, as though intoxicated to an

excess he overturned the lamp, reeled in the dark out of the chamber,

and rolled himself down the stairs. When the keepers, on the following

morning, had recovered the full use of their senses the cook had

disappeared, and was nowhere to be found in the castle.

CHAP. II.

At sunrise next morning, the brisk broad-shouldered cook, with a large

club in his hand, took his way through the wood skirting Esrom Lake[7],

accompanied by two other wanderers. It was a foggy morning; large

flocks of wild geese flew with shrill cries over the lake, and the

fallen leaves of the forest were swept along the path by the sharp

morning breeze. The cook and his companions proceeded in silence and

with hasty steps; and it was not until the sun began to disperse the

cold mists of morning, that Morten cleared his throat, and sang a merry

ballad. His companions were two strong broad-shouldered fellows, with

red wadmal cloaks, over dirty leathern breeches, and with broad swords

and daggers in their thickly padded belts, which also appeared to serve

them as purses. They had the appearance of deserters or dismissed

men-at-arms; they both wore beards in the fashion of king's horsemen,

but seemed to have long neglected all attention to cleanliness and

personal neatness. Their unwashed faces betokened want of sleep and

fitting rest. The heads of a couple of flails served them as walking

staves. They bore on their backs large bundles of rich attire, from

which pieces of smoked meat and other provisions protruded. Their long

uncombed hair hung about their shoulders; the skin and hair of both

were so dark, and their countenances had so little of a Danish cast,

that they would have passed for foreigners, had not their dialect

proclaimed them to be peasants from Lolland; who, at any rate, could

not prove their evidently Vandal extraction in the first generation.

The taller of the two had lost an eye, and the other had a huge scar

between his nose and mouth, which looked like a hare lip, and his sharp

projecting teeth gave him a ferocious appearance, resembling that of a

wild boar.

The three wanderers occasionally looked behind them, as if they

apprehended a pursuit; but they only beheld the white gable ends of

Esrom monastery, which they had passed a short time before.