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 Palle, 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. Palle 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:
"Oh list then, Agnete, thus sue I to thee![5]
Wilt thou be moved my true love to be?
Ho! ho! ho!
Wilt thou be moved my true love to be,
To morrow they lead here the dance so free?"
The deep voice ceased; the little window rattled behind the grating,
and a sweet female voice sang from above--
"Oh yes, by my troth, that will I indeed,
O'er the sea so blue if thou'lt bear me with speed--
Ha! ha! ha!
O'er the sea so blue if thou'lt bear me with speed,
But not to its depths will I dive with thee,
Then to-morrow we'll lead the dance so free."
"Ha! Gundelille's voice, Ulrica Stig!" muttered Palle; "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 Palle,
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 Signe, 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 Aage'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 Rise 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 Agnete. 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 Agnete'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 Agnete's bridegroom."
"I require not he should be one hair better," answered Ulrica, eagerly.
"Truly it was that foolish fickle Agnete, 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 Kagge. Just listen!" and
she sang--
"His hair was as the pure gold bright,
His eyes they sparkled with joyous light."
"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 Kagge'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 Kagge 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 Kagge 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.