to go to his mother, when the priest stopped him. 'All is not yet
finished; back to your place,' and, standing in front of Inga so that no
man could behold her hand, he wound a white cloth many times round it.
'Now you may come,' said the priest, and Hacon went with his mother to
her house.
For many days they waited, and then the priest sent word to Hacon the
king, and Skuli the earl, and the archbishop and the bishops and the
nobles, that the following evening they should meet in Christ Church,
and he would unbind the hand of Inga. Not one of them was missing, and
in the presence and sight of all the priest unwound the linen and
stretched out the hand of Inga, and behold! the skin of that hand was
whiter and fairer to see than the skin of the other. And the archbishop
proclaimed a Thing to be held the next Sunday in the space in front of
the church, and there he gave out how that the king's mother had won
through the ordeal, and that any who from that day misdoubted Hacon's
right to the crown should be laid under the ban of the Church. Also, he
said that Hacon the king and Skuli the earl had made a new compact of
friendship.
But compacts did not count for much with Skuli, not even when, a year
later, Hacon, then fifteen, was betrothed to his daughter Margaret. In
this matter the king followed the counsel of his friends, though he
himself knew Skuli too well to expect that the earl would suffer a
marriage or anything else to bind him. 'It will all come to the same
thing, I fear,' he said to his mother, as he set out at Michaelmas for
the ceremony at Drontheim. For some reason we do not know the marriage
was delayed for six years, and it was not until 1225, when Hacon was
twenty-one, that it actually took place. Then, after Easter, Hacon took
ship at Tunsberg on the Bay, and sailed for five days till he reached
Bergen. As soon as he arrived the preparations for the wedding began,
and on Trinity Sunday, when the sun remains in the sky all night long in
the far north, Hacon and Margaret were married in Christ Church.
Afterwards great feasts were held for nearly a week in the palace. Hacon
sat at the high table at the head of the men in the Yule Hall, and
Margaret gathered round her the women in the Summer Hall, and the monks
and abbots held a banquet in another place.
All the days that Hacon lived Margaret was a good wife to him, and wept
sore for the trouble that Skuli, her father, brought on the land. For
Hacon the king had been right in his prophecy, and for fifteen years
Skuli never ceased from scheming against him, and murdering those that
stood in his way, till even his own men grew ashamed and tired of him.
Nothing was there which he held sacred, and this brought him more
dishonour than all his other crimes. Once Hacon sent Ivar and Gunnar to
him with letters. Warm was their welcome from Skuli, and splendid were
the presents which he gave them when they left. But secretly he bade men
ride after them and slay them where they could find them. Fast rode
Skuli's men, but Ivar and Gunnar rode faster, for Hacon had need of
them. At length they rested for the night in a farm belonging to the
king, and Skuli's men, with Gaut Wolfskin and Sigurd Saltseed at their
head, came unawares to the house also. As they entered they beheld
Gunnar leaning against the lattice of the window, and they threw open
the door and slew him where he stood, but not before many of their band
lay dead upon the ground. When Ivar saw that his help could be of no
avail he sprung into the loft close by, and, squeezing himself through a
narrow opening, leaped to the ground and sought to take refuge in the
church, but it was locked. Then he seized a ladder which was standing by
and ran up it to the roof, throwing the ladder down when he reached the
top. In the dark no man troubled him; but it was November, and the wind
was keen, and no clothes had he upon him save a shirt and his breeches.
When the sun rose he found that Skuli's men were gathered below,
watching that he should not escape; but, indeed, his hands were so
frozen with cold that he could have taken hold of nothing. He prayed
them to grant him his life; but they laughed him to scorn, and Sigurd
Saltseed seized the ladder and set it up against the church, and climbed
upon it, and thrust Ivar through with a spear so that he fell dead to
the ground.
---------------------
Now these things displeased the people of Norway, and one by one his
liegemen departed from Skuli and took service with Hacon, till at length
so few followers had the earl that he was forced to fly. The Birchlegs
sought him everywhere, and one day news was brought to them that he was
lying hidden in a monastery, and some of his men also. So the Birchlegs
came up to the monastery to attack it, but the archbishop went forth to
meet them and begged that Skuli might be let pass in peace to see the
king. Some listened to the archbishop, but others, whose hearts were
harder, crept away and set fire to the monastery, and the fire spread.
Then Skuli saw that the time for fighting was past, and, lifting up his
shield, he stood in the doorway crying, 'Strike me not in the face, for
not so is it done to princes'; therefore they thrust him through in the
body, and he died.
But all this happened fifteen years after the marriage of Hacon, and it
is no longer the concern of this tale, which treats only of his youth.
At sixty years old he died, having worn the crown of Norway forty-seven
years. In spite of his enemies at home, he did many things for his
people, and ruled them well. The poor were mercifully dealt with, and
his soldiers were forbidden to steal from either friends or foes.
Churches and hospitals and great halls he built in plenty, rivers he
widened and numbers of ships he had, swift sailing and water-tight, for
he was overlord of lands far away over the sea. Iceland and Greenland
paid their dues to him. The Isle of Man, which owned a king, did him
homage, and so did the south isles of Scotland—the 'Sudar' Isles as
they were called, Jura, and Islay, and Bute, and the rest—and their
bishop was known as the Bishop of Sodor and Man, as he is to this day.
Besides this, the friendship of Hacon was sought by many foreign
princes: by the Emperor Frederick the Second, 'the Wonder of the World';
by the Grand Prince of Russia; by the Pope Innocent IV., who sent a
legate to crown him king. Hacon also sent his daughter to Spain with a
great dowry, to marry whichever of the king's four sons pleased her
best. Still, in spite of his fame, his voyages were few, and it seems
strange that he should have been seized with mortal illness at the
bishop's house in Kirk wall. At first they read him Latin books, but his
head grew tired, and he bade them take the scrolls away and tell him
instead the tales of the Norse kings his forefathers. And so he died,
and when the ice was melted and the sea set free, his body was carried
to Bergen and buried in Christ Church, where he had been married and
where he had been crowned.
---------------------
This is the tale of Hacon the King.
_MI REINA! MI REINA!_
WHEN Marie Louise d'Orléans, daughter of Madame, and niece of Louis
XIV., was born, on March 27, 1662, both her grandmothers as well as her
mother were terribly disappointed that she was not a boy. 'Throw her
into the river,' exclaimed Madame, in fun, of course; but the
queen-mother of England, the widow of Charles I., whose sorrows had
crushed all jokes out of her, answered gravely that after all, perhaps,
things were not quite so bad as they seemed, for by-and-by she might
marry her cousin the dauphin who was only a few months older.
Quite unconscious of her cold welcome, the baby grew and thrived, and
was so pretty and had such charming little ways, that they soon forgave
her for being only a girl, especially as when she was two years old she
had a little brother. The Duc de Valois, as he was called, was a
beautiful child, strong and healthy, whereas the dauphin was always ill,
and Louis XIV. had no other sons to inherit his crown. So great
rejoicings were held at the Duc de Valois' birth in the château of
Fontainebleau; bonfires were lighted and banquets were given, and, more
than that, an allowance of money was settled on him by the king. His
other uncle, Charles II., was his godfather, and the baby was given his
name, with that of his father Philippe. The children lived mostly at St.
Cloud, where there were splendid gardens to run about in and merry
little streams to play with. When their mother drove to Paris or St.
Germain to attend great balls or fêtes at Court, Madame de St. Chaumont
took care of them, and saw that they did not fall into any mischief. For
some time they never had an ache or a pain, but when the Duc de Valois
was about two years old he was very ill, from the difficulty of cutting
his teeth. Madame de St. Chaumont stayed with him and nursed him night
and day till his mother could reach him; however, he soon improved, and
Madame was able to go back to St. Germain, knowing that his governess
would take as much care of him as she could herself. After he grew
better, the great coach and six horses were got ready, and he was driven
to the Palais Royal in Paris, and placed in the charge of the
fashionable doctor of the day, Maître Gui Patin. But unhappily, in spite
of all their precautions, the boy managed to catch cold; convulsions
followed, and Monsieur insisted on preparations being made for the
christening, instead of only having, as was usual, a hasty ceremony,
while the public rite was commonly put off till the royal child had
passed its twelfth birthday. It was on December 7, 1667, that little
Philippe Charles was baptized, and the following day he had a fresh
attack, and died of exhaustion, to the despair of his mother, who adored
him. All the honours customary to be paid to one so near the throne were
bestowed on the dead child. For three days he lay in state, and the
princes of the blood, headed by the king himself, passed before him and
sprinkled water on his bier. Then the people were let in, and many a
woman's eyes grew wet at the sight of that beautiful baby. Three days
later he was put to rest in the royal burying-place at St. Denis, near
Paris.
The next few years passed peacefully away. Marie Louise was a clever
little girl, and not only was fond of books, like her mother, but had
sharp eyes, and noticed everything that went on round her. On wet days
she danced in the rooms of St. Cloud or the Palais Royal, as Madame had
danced twenty years ago at the Louvre; and when she was seven there was
a small sister, Anne Marie, for her to play with and to nurse. 'She can
move her fingers and toes, and squeaks without being squeezed. She is
more amusing than any doll,' said Marie Louise.
But the quiet of the child's life was soon to be disturbed, and
Mademoiselle was to learn her first sorrow. One morning, at the end of
1669, a messenger in the royal livery arrived from the king, bearing a
letter for Madame, who burst into sobs while reading it. Dismissing the
messenger with a wave of her hand—for she was unable to speak—she sank
back on the sofa, and for some minutes wept bitterly. Then, gathering up
her strength, she passed into the adjoining room, where Madame de St.
Chaumont was sitting over her embroidery.
'Read this, my friend,' said Madame, and walked to the window. The
letter, which Madame de St. Chaumont read silently to the end, was from
the king. It was very short, and merely informed Madame that his Majesty
had reason to think that her children's governess had been concerned in
an intrigue whereby the bishop of Valence had incurred his displeasure,
and he begged, therefore, that she might be at once dismissed from her
post. Grieved though she was at parting from a woman who for nearly
eight years had shared both her cares and her troubles, Madame had no
choice but to obey, and Madame de St. Chaumont knew it. So they parted,
and during the winter and spring that followed Madame missed her friend
daily more and more. Then, with the bright June weather, came Madame's
sudden seizure and death, and Monsieur, poor foolish, womanish man, was
left with two little girls to look after.
[Illustration: Marie Louise receives the visits of condolence]
How could he do it? Well, he began very characteristically by dressing
up Mademoiselle, now eight years old, in a violet velvet mantle which
trailed on the ground, and announcing that she would receive visits of
condolence. Of course members of the Court and the great officials
flocked in crowds, and when they had paid their respects to
Mademoiselle, they were, much to their surprise, shown into the nursery
where little Anne Marie, Mademoiselle de Valois, at this time hardly
past her first birthday, was awaiting them. The baby was too young to be
hurt by her father's follies, and as long as she had good nurses to look
after her could safely be left to their care; but with Marie Louise it
was different, and, luckily for her, the kind queen, Marie Thérèse, had
pity on her, and took her to Court to be brought up with the dauphin.
Together they danced and played, and no doubt quarrelled, but in all
their games, the lively, sharp-witted little girl took the lead of the
slow and rather dull boy. In a year's time Monsieur married again, and
his choice fell on his dead wife's cousin, Charlotte Elizabeth, daughter
of the Elector Palatine, only ten years older than Marie Louise herself.
The new Madame, ugly, awkward, ill-dressed, plain-spoken, but
kind-hearted and full of sense, was a great contrast to her predecessor,
Henriette, but she was very good to the two little girls, and never made
any difference between them and her own children. We may be sure that
Marie Louise, who was gentle and sweet-tempered, as well as pretty and
clever, was quick to notice all her good qualities and to be grateful
for her stepmother's care and affection, though at first it was a trial
to leave the court and her friend the dauphin and go and live in the
Palais Royal. But then, how amusing Madame was, and what stories she
could tell of 'when I was a little girl,' which was not so long ago,
either!
'I longed to be a boy, and was always playing boys' games; but as I grew
bigger I was not allowed so much liberty, and had to make up my mind to
be a girl, and do stupid things at home, and dress up, which I hated. I
was also obliged to drink tea or chocolate, which I thought very nasty.
My only pleasure was hunting, and I was never so happy—I never _am_ so
happy now—as when I got up at dawn and rode away to hunt with my dogs
yapping round me. How all your French ladies are so lazy I can't
imagine; I can't bear to stay in bed when I am awake.' No doubt Madame
made a very strange figure in the splendid Court of Louis XIV.; and she
on her part looked down with scorn from the superiority of a stout
riding habit and a man's wig on the beautiful, ladies with their elegant
dresses and plumed hats! But the king himself was not more particular
about forms and ceremonies than she was, and though her manners and free
remarks often made him shudder, yet he had a real respect for her good
sense, and was grateful to her for making the best of his silly brother.
[Illustration: MARIE LOUISE MAKES HER PETITION TO THE KING]
So the years slipped by, and one day Marie Louise was seventeen,
graceful and charming like her mother, with 'feet that danced of
themselves,' as Madame de Sévigné said to her daughter. The dauphin was
seventeen too, and in those days young men, especially princes, married
early. Would the prophecy uttered over her cradle by her grandmother,
Henrietta Maria, come true, and the beautiful, quick-witted girl be
queen of France? The Parisians would have liked nothing better, and even
the princes of the blood would have been content; she had been like a
daughter to the queen, and was sure of a welcome from her; but the
king—why did the king stand aloof and say nothing? Marie Louise guessed
what was being whispered, and waited and wondered too, till she grew
pale and thin, and Madame watched her and said angrily to Monsieur: 'Did
I not warn you not to let her go to Court so much, if you did not want
to make her miserable? Now she will never be happy anywhere else.'
At length the king's silence was explained. Marie Louise would never be
queen of France—a German princess must be the wife of the dauphin; but
she should be queen of Spain, and her husband was to be Charles II., the
brother of Marie Thérèse. True, the King of Spain was ill-educated and
ugly, and so stupid that some doubted if he had all his wits. He was
very delicate too, and at four years old could scarcely walk or talk,
and never stood without leaning on somebody. But he was lord over vast
possessions, though, perhaps, he had not much real power out of Spain,
and there the country was in such poverty that there was but little
money passing from hand to hand. His mother, Marie Anne of Austria, had
held the reins of government, but at length, aided by his half-brother,
Don John, Charles suddenly banished her to Toledo, and announced that he
meant to be king in fact as well as in name. His first step was to break
off negotiations with the emperor, whose daughter the queen-mother had
chosen for his wife. This was done under the influence of Don John, and
it was he who first suggested that King Charles might look for a bride
in France. The king was slow to take in new ideas, and as backward in
parting with them. Don John let him alone, and did not hurry him, but he
threw in his way a portrait of the princess, and contrived that he
should overhear the conversation of some Spanish gentlemen who had
lately returned from Paris, and were loud in praises of the lovely and
fascinating Mademoiselle. Charles looked at the miniature oftener and
oftener; soon he refused to part with it at all, and by-and-by began
even to talk to it. Then he told Don John he would never marry any woman
but this.
Soon an envoy was sent to the King of France to ask the hand of his
niece, which, after the usual official delays, lasting fully nine
months, was joyfully granted to him. Tales of Charles II., who was,
after all, Marie Thérèse's brother, had not failed to cross the
Pyrenees, and Mademoiselle's heart sank as she thought of what awaited
her. Once she summoned up all her courage and threw herself at the
king's feet, imploring him to let her stay in France, even though she
were to remain unmarried.
'I am making you queen of Spain,' he answered; 'what more could I have
done for my daughter?'
'Ah, Sire! you could have done more for your niece,' she said, turning
away, for she saw it was hopeless.
---------------------
Although the formal consent of Louis XIV. was not given till July 1679,
King Charles had nominated the persons who were to form the household of
the young queen ever since January. He had Don John continually with
him, asking his advice about this and that, though he never even took
the trouble to tell his mother of his marriage, and left her to learn it
from common rumour. At length all was ready; the king was informed of
the day that the princess would reach the frontier, and Don John was
about to start for the Pyrenees, when he was seized by a severe attack
of fever, and in ten days was dead. According to etiquette he lay in
state for the people to visit, in the splendid dress which had been made
for him to wear when he met the new queen.
It was on a little island in the middle of the river Bidassoa that Marie
Louise said good-bye to France. She had thought she could not feel more
pain when she had bidden farewell to the friends of her childhood—to
the king and queen, to her father and stepmother, to her young sister,
now ten years old, whose daughter would one day be queen of Spain too;
worse than all, to the dauphin himself. Yet as long as she remained on
French soil she was not wholly parted from them, and now and then a wild
hope rushed through her heart that something, she did not know what,
would happen, and that she might see one or other of them again. But as
she entered the pavilion on the island where her Spanish attendants
awaited her she knew that the links that bound her to the old life were
broken, and she must make the best of that which lay before. It was a
very strange Spain over which she was to reign, and she may often have
dreamed that she was living in a fairy tale, and that some day her ugly
king would throw off his enchanted mask and become the handsomest and
most charming of princes. Spain itself really began in the old French
town of Bayonne, where ladies paid visits with fat little sucking pigs
under their arms, instead of being followed by long-eared spaniels, as
in France. The pigs had ribbons round their necks to match their
mistresses' dresses, and at balls were placed, after their entrance, in
a room by themselves, while their owners danced with a grace no other
nation could equal the _branle_, the _canaris_, or the _sarabande_. At
certain times the gentlemen threw their canes into the air, and caught
them cleverly as they came down, and they leapt high, and cut capers,
all to the sound of a fife and a tambourine—a wooden instrument like a
ship's trumpet, which was struck by a stick. As to the clothes in which
the young queen was dressed by her _Camarera Mayor_, or chief lady of
the bedchamber, on her arrival at Vittoria, Marie Louise did not know
whether to laugh or to cry when she caught sight of herself in a mirror.
Her hair was parted on one side, and hung down in five plaits, each tied
with a bow of ribbon and a string of jewels. In winter, twelve
petticoats were always worn, and though the upper one was of lace or
fine embroidered muslin, one at any rate of the other eleven was of
thick velvet or satin, worked in gold, while, to support the weight,
which was tremendous, a huge stiff hoop was fastened on underneath them
all. The dress itself was made very long, so as to conceal the feet,
shod in flat, black morocco slippers. The bodice, high in front and low
behind, which gave a very odd effect, was made of rich cloth of gold,
and glittered with diamonds. 'But I can never move in these clothes,'
said the queen, turning to the Duchess of Terranova, who knew no French
and waited till the Princess d'Harcourt interpreted for her.
'In summer her Majesty the Queen of Spain will wear only seven
petticoats,' replied the duchess, dropping a low curtesy; and Marie
Louise gave a little laugh.
Odd as her own dress seemed, that of the old Camarera Mayor and the
mistress of the maids of honour was odder still. They were both widows,
and wore loose, shapeless black garments, with every scrap of hair
hidden away. When they went out of doors large hats concealed their
faces, and in this guise they rode on mules after their mistress, who
was mounted on a beautiful Andalusian mare; As she travelled to Burgos,
near which the king was to meet her, Marie Louise noticed with surprise
that all the carriages were drawn by six mules, but they were so big and
strong that they could gallop as fast as any horse. The reins were
usually of silk or rope, and each pair was harnessed at a great distance
from the next, the coachman riding on one of the first two. When she
inquired why he did not sit on the box, as in France, and have
postillions in front, she was told that since a coachman had overheard
some state secrets discussed between Olivares and his master, Philip
IV., no one had ever been allowed to come within earshot of his Majesty.
On November 20, at a small village called Quintanapalla, near Burgos,
she was met by the king. Her journey had not been a pleasant one, for
the Duchess of Terranova appeared to think that her position as Camarera
Mayor enabled her to treat the queen as she chose, and she behaved not
only with great severity, but with positive rudeness. Besides this, a
dispute arose between the Duke of Osuna and the Marquis of Astorga as to
who should ride nearest the queen, and, to put an end to it, Marie
Louise was obliged to quit her horse and enter a carriage, surrounded,
as the custom was, by curtains of shiny green cloth, which were kept
drawn. Right glad was she to think that she would soon be free of this
tyranny, and be with someone who wanted her—and Charles did want her to
the end of her life.