[Illustration: RIBERHUS.]
To the West of the Old Town, with only the dry moat and a fringe of
gardens between, stood the green Castle Hill. Green it was and had
been in the memory of the oldest. The road-makers of three generations
before had taken what the house-builder had left of the ruins that
alone remained of Denmark’s once great historic stronghold. There its
fighting kings guarded the land against the enemy to the south; thence
its armies had marched to victory or defeat in many a fight with the
turbulent German barons. Thither came the merchant ships of Europe
bringing stone from the Rhine for the Domkirke, sweet wines and silken
raiment for the ladies of the court, and cloth from Flanders; for to be
well dressed in those days a man’s coat must have been cut in Ribe. The
river was long since sanded in, in my day, and ships came that way no
more. A few lonesome sheep were picketed on the green hill, and when at
night the white mist crept in from the sea, blurring and blotting the
landscape out, their melancholy bleating alone betrayed the site where
once the clash of arms waked ready echoes.
Here dwelt King Valdemar and his gentle queen who live in the Danish
folk-song. Of her after seven centuries the ploughman sang yet:
She came without burden, she came with peace,
She came the good peasant to cheer.
The ballad tells of the brief year of bliss the royal lovers lived
here, of his wild ride across the heath to her death-bed, and of the
daring May party that won back the castle from a traitorous garrison
for “King Erik the young.” Last summer they dug in the Castle Hill and
found little enough there. But here on my table stands a brick from
the stout wall, that long since crossed the ocean with me. It may
be that there is magic in the stone to tell of the past, for it was
fashioned by monks who knew more than the pater-nosters they told on
their beads; or is it that I am of Queen Dagmar’s kin, her god-son,
christened as I was in the font she gave to the Domkirke: last night
as I sat alone pondering the old songs, the flickering shadows from my
study fire touched it, and I dreamed again the story of King Valdemar
and Riberhus.[15]
I dreamed that I saw a great throng on land and shore, men and women
in holiday garments, straining their eyes seaward, where a ship with
golden dragon’s head was making its way slowly between low islands. As
it came into full view, the people broke into jubilant cheers: “Welcome
Dagmar, Denmark’s Queen!” It was the King’s ship bringing his bride
from her far Bohemian home. Answering cries came back from the crew,
and with music and the waving of many banners the splendid vessel
sailed up the channel. At the rail stood a golden-haired princess with
the King’s messenger and friend. Her eyes were wet, but there was a
happy smile upon her lips. Her glance sought the lonely figure of a
horseman on the beach whose prancing steed champed its bit impatiently.
Where he rode the crowd fell back and made room.
“What knight rides yonder on the white charger?” she asked; “never saw
I kinglier man.”
“Hail thee, fair Queen! that first of Denmark’s sons thou sawest is
thy royal bridegroom,” was the answer. “It is King Valdemar, whom his
people call ‘Victor,’ with cause.”
Then I heard a louder, more joyous cry than before, and I saw the
people thronging about, striving to kiss the hem of her robe as she
stood upon the quay that was laid with crimson cloth for her feet. I
saw the King bend his knee and kiss her hand and her brow; and the
people went wild at the sight. They took her horses out of their
harness, and themselves drew the chaise toward the city with the many
spires, singing and shouting their joy; and I saw that she was glad
and that the young King who rode by her side was proud and happy. I
saw them walk up the broad aisle of the Domkirke together, followed by
many brave knights and fair ladies, and before the altar they knelt and
were blest by the venerable priest who had held the King in his arms at
his christening. The bells of the thirteen churches and chapels in the
town were rung, and masses were said for the twain at their altars. And
I heard many a wassail drunk at the wedding-feast in the great halls
of the castle and in the thronged streets of the town, where torches
burned from sundown to sunrise and the people made merry through the
long summer nights. Strong ale and mead from the royal cellars ran like
a river, for such was the custom of the times and of the people.
But before the sun had set twice I heard a new song in the Ribe
streets which the very children learned with joy. It told of the
Queen’s “morning-gift” from her lord. “Ask,” he said; “whatever thy
wish, of land or gold, it shall be thine.” But she prayed for neither
greatness nor riches, but that the plough-tax that bore heavily on
the husbandman be forgiven him, and that the peasants who, for rising
against it, were laid in irons be set free. And the King granted her
prayer. Ever since, the Danish people have given Dagmar’s name to
their best-beloved queens. “Daybreak” was the meaning of it in the old
tongue, and she was their hope and heart’s desire.
Then darkness fell; and I saw the King resting after the chase in a
far-distant place. In the west there arose a cloud of dust, and at the
sight of it his heart misgave him, for his happiness had been too great
for man. Out of it came one riding fast with evil tidings: “The Queen
is sick unto death. She bids the King make haste.” And there came to me
the voices of women singing at their spinning-wheels as I heard them
when I was a child; and this was the burden of their song:
[Music:
When the King he rode out of Skanderborg
Him follow’d one hundred men.
But when he rode over Ribe Bridge
Then rode the King alone.
In Ringsted sleepeth Queen Dagmar!]
Over the wildsome moor he had come, neither resting nor sleeping, his
face set ever toward the sea, the one wild prayer in his heart that he
might not be too late. But ride man ever so fast, death travels faster.
As his horse’s hoofs struck fire from the stones in Grönnegade,[16]
with the castle beyond the pillared gate at its end, the Ribe church
bells rang out the tidings of Dagmar’s death.
Now help, O Lord, my Dagmar dear,
Me thinketh my heart must break.
[Illustration: THE KING’S RIDE OVER THE MOOR.]
On his knees at her bed the King begs her weeping women to pray that
she may speak to him once more, and the Queen opens her eyes and
smiles upon her lover. “Fear not for me,” she says, “I did no worse sin
than to lace my silken sleeves on Sunday.” And her last thought as her
first is for her people. She prays him to pardon every outlaw, and with
her dying breath pleads with him not to take Bengerd to his heart. “The
evil Bengerd,” the ballad calls her, and evil did she bring to Denmark.
For, when in after years the King did marry the Portuguese princess,
whose beauty was so great that even her dust after ages bore witness to
it, she brought King and land but sorrow and misery, aye! and of both a
full measure.[17]
But these things were not yet. Still I dreamed by my study lamp. I saw
a mighty host of men and ships; fifteen hundred sail did I count in
line. But the men wore no fine raiment; they were clad in steel and
carried battle-axes and swords. Every knight wore on his left shoulder
a crusader’s cross. And I saw the King, grown stern and gray, lead them
toward a foreign shore, where there dwelt men who worshipped idols.
And there by night the pagan hosts fell upon them in such multitudes
that the King’s men were swallowed up as sands by the sea. I saw them
struggling in darkness and dread in which no man knew friend from foe,
and the Christians were driven back in despair, their standards taken;
and a great cry arose that all was lost.
Then I beheld a wondrous thing. I saw a strange banner descending as if
from the clouds, over against the hills upon which the priests were
calling upon God for victory. It was crimson red, and in it was a
great white cross, even the one upon which our Lord was crucified for
the sins of the whole world. And a loud voice cried, “Bear this high,
and victory shall be yours.” And the heathen saw and heard and were
stricken with fear; for now they knew, indeed, that they were fighting
the Lord God of Hosts, and that their strength was as a broken reed.
And as the ensign fell among the battling hordes I saw a tall knight
who rode before the King seize it and, holding it high, spur his horse
into the bravest of the fight, with the cry “For God and the King.”
[Illustration: “FOR GOD AND THE KING.”]
And I saw the King’s men take heart and the heathen turn and flee from
the shore that was strewn with their slain, while the sea ran red with
blood. And the King and his men rested their swords and knelt upon
the battlefield as the moon rose over it, and sang a Te Deum to their
God for having delivered them and crushed the power of the Evil One;
for of the Fiend and of his idols there was an end in the land, then
and forevermore. And I knew that I had seen in my dream the battle
of Lyndanissa that won all Esthland for the Christians’ God by King
Valdemar’s sword, and gave to Denmark its Dannebrog, oldest of flags
among nations.
[Illustration: “THE KING AND HIS MEN KNELT UPON THE BATTLEFIELD.”]
Once more did darkness fall, and I saw the old King betrayed by night
in his tent, in the midst of peace, by his guest, the Black Count
Henrik of Schwerin, who hated him, and, with Dagmar’s son, brought,
bound and gagged, “in great haste and fear,” to the traitor’s strong
tower on the Elbe. I saw them lying in chains, thirty moons and more
in the dark dungeons, while Denmark’s foes rose on every side and
overwhelmed its armies that had lost hope with their leader. I saw the
old marshal, the King’s kinsman and friend, brought wounded and chained
to his cell after the battle; and the aged King bowed his head while
his enemies mocked him. And I saw the prince with Dagmar’s blue eyes
and fair locks comfort him in his sorrow and defeat. And then I saw the
Danish women, matron and maid, in the proud castle and in the peasant’s
hut, bring their gold and their gems, their rings and their jewels
and their silver, for their King’s ransom; and once more the Old Town
echoed with cries of gladness and joy as when Dagmar came; but this
time he rode alone, and stricken and sore.
[Illustration: DANISH WOMEN RANSOMED THEIR KING.]
[Illustration: “COMFORTED THE KING IN SORROW AND DEFEAT.”]
Once again in my dreams I saw the gates of the tower swing wide and
a mighty army march forth to meet the German traitors in battle, to
avenge their King. And I saw the great barren where the bones of the
fairest knights in all the North lay bleaching in many a summer’s sun
from that day, while all the Danish land mourned. I saw the day all but
won when the base Holsteiners turned their arms against their Danish
allies, and I beheld the sun set in defeat and disaster and the King
borne, wounded and beaten, from the field, his army destroyed, his wars
ended.
But still were his people faithful, in evil days as in good. I saw
King Valdemar, now blinded and white and bent, put away the sword and
write laws for his land that in the evening of his life earned him the
name of the Wise Law-giver; for the landmarks he set, the justice he
did between man and man, endure unto this day. I saw the last crushing
sorrow fall upon him when Dagmar’s son was killed on the chase by a
friend’s arrow. And I saw the mightiest of Danish rulers breathe out
his great soul in the fulness of his days. And as I awoke I heard the
voice of the old chronicler, when Valdemar was gathered to his fathers:
“Truly then fell the crown from the heads of Danish men.” For never
since has Denmark seen his like.
The embers in my fireplace glowed and the stone from the old tower
showed red. Once more I saw, as in a dream, the castle on the hill. It
was night, and there were lights in the windows and sounds of noisy
revelry within. On the green by the river men and women were dancing.
The girls had daisies and the young leaf of the beech braided in their
hair, for it was May-day. The men wore long muffling cloaks that hid
their armor and their swords. They were dancing “May into town” in the
glad fashion of the day, and into the castle too, where the captain
was making merry with his men. He had betrayed the King’s cause into
the hands of his enemies and sold his soul, with his faith, for their
gold. Little did he dream who was dancing over the drawbridge which the
sentinels let down at his bidding:
They danced them over the Ribe Bro, (bridge)
There danceth the knight with pointed shoe
For Erik, for young King Erik.
Over the bridge and into the castle they danced, and into the great
hall where the faithless Tage Muus and his men sat drinking deep to
the success of their deviltry, hammering a mirthful welcome on the
table with their tankards as the doors swung open for the May party.
They trod the dance lightly before them, the men waving torches and the
women weaving flowery garlands about them, and the knaves hailed them
uproariously; but the shout died in their throats as, at a signal from
their leader, the women seized the torches and the men dropped their
cloaks and fell upon the revellers with drawn swords. For they were the
King’s men, and Ribe was loyal if the captain of the castle was false.
So it was won by a May dance
For Erik, for young King Erik,
Valdemar’s son, and his banner flew once more from its walls, while the
dungeon claimed the traitors.
Thus I dreamed. And I thought that I slept seven centuries and saw the
green Castle Hill once more with its lonesome sheep looking into the
sunset; with its billowing reeds in the deep moats that whisper to the
west wind of the great days that were; with the sleepy little town
by the shallow river, its glory gone, its ships gone, the world gone
from it, forgotten even as--no, not that. For the great name, the great
past, live for all time, and that which I have written is not a dream.
It is the story of the castle that stood upon the green hill, and of
its king. It is the story of Riberhus.