"What is this? What means this conduct, child?" he inquired, in tones that sounded almost harshly. "Dear, best Inge!" he added, with greater mildness, "compose yourself. What is the matter?"
"Father, father!" she exclaimed, eagerly, as she rose, "is the strange knight still in your closet?"
"What leads thee to trouble thyself about my official business?"
inquired the father, perplexed: "I do not permit this interference in my affairs. Go to thy chamber, and make ready my travelling-wallet. I journey from hence in half an hour."
"Thou travellest, father? and leavest me behind alone? How long remainest thou away?"
"But a few days: it is on important business. When wert thou wont to be afraid of being alone? I shall provide for the safeguard of the castle during my absence. Thou canst therefore be calm."
"For thee, too, father? Nay, nay, I cannot maintain this painful silence: thou must know the truth, father. I tremble for thy secret schemes--I tremble for thy terrible friends--I am tortured by the most dreadful anguish for thy soul!"
"Art thou mad, girl?" exclaimed the uneasy father, exasperated, and stamping violently. "Hast thou, too, conspired against me? Is it not enough that my own tyrannical kinsman and his understrappers must torture me in my own house, and threaten me, covertly, with the despotic kingly power? Shall my own child be my betrayer? Must I not converse with a trusty friend in my closet, without being suspected and betrayed by my own? Get thee to thy apartment, child, and weep not; or, if thou must weep, let it be only in private. Guard thy tongue, also, that thou betrayest not thy father"s life with thy childish nonsense.
My affairs thou understandest not; and for my soul thou needest not care. I know what I dare do: my confessor is a man who better understands my salvation than thou and the conscientious Drost Peter.
Do as I say, my good child, and be reasonable. I shall not have time, after this, to bid thee farewell. The gentleman I travel with is my friend, and a man I can depend upon. Farewell."
With these words he hastily departed. The unhappy daughter wept no longer: she appeared calm, almost to indifference, and proceeded to her chamber to execute her father"s orders.
Scarcely had she finished packing her father"s portmanteau, ere a trooper appeared, to take it to him. He was a tall, strange carl, in complete iron mail, and with a wild, audacious countenance.
"What is thy name, and who is thy master, countryman?" asked Lady Inge, as she looked at him calmly and keenly.
"I need not conceal my honest name here," replied the man, with a Jutland accent: "people call me long Mat Jute. My master has a better name, but I dare not mention it on Zealand"s ground. The three rogues who have just left, are not worthy to see his face. He never sets foot on sh.o.r.e here, without being cased in steel from top to toe; and whoever merely catches a glimpse of his eyes, through the bars of his helmet, is seized--with decency be it spoken--with the gripes, on the spot. But with your father it is quite another matter, fair jomfru: he is a brave man, I wot."
"Mat Jute!" repeated Jomfru Inge: "my little maiden Elsie"s sweetheart?"
"O yes, fair jomfru," smirked the man, stroking his beard: "a little sweethearting one must have, wherever he goes: it never binds him, and it is good for both man and beast. But there goes my master to the skiff. Farewell, fair jomfru." And seizing the tolerably heavy portmanteau by the thongs, with two of his fingers he sw.a.n.g it on his shoulder.
Lady Inge went to the window. At the door stood Elsie, to bid farewell to her warlike sweetheart once more. He did not waste time, however, in a long and touching adieu, giving her only one hearty kiss in pa.s.sing along the narrow pa.s.sage, and then pushing her aside to overtake his master.
Lady Inge stood as if rivetted to the window. She saw her father, closely wrapt in his travelling-cloak, cross the court-yard of the castle, by the side of a tan, stalwart knight, who, in a dark, tarnished steel harness, strode proudly towards the castle-gates. The castellan paused once or twice, as if he had forgotten something, or was undecided; but the strange knight seemed to give no heed to this.
Near the entrance of the dark archway, the tall, giant-like figure stopped and turned round, and Lady Inge now saw that his face was concealed by a black iron visor. He raised his mail-clad arm and beckoned. Sir Lave still lingered a moment. The sword of the strange knight rang sharply against the stones at his feet, and again he beckoned, with an authoritative motion of his arm, like a general, and turned away. Sir Lave hastily followed him, and both disappeared under the dark archway of the gate.
To Lady Inge, it seemed as if her father was drawn into an abyss by the dreadful iron giant. "Merciful G.o.d! Stig Andersen himself!" she exclaimed, as, with a scream, she fell back, devoid of consciousness, on the floor.
When her recollection returned, she found herself in the arms of her waiting-maid; and little Elsie, with all her giddiness, was almost weeping over her dear jomfru"s condition. But Lady Inge soon recovered.
A sudden thought seemed to inspire her with new strength and courage, and, rising hastily, she left her waiting-maids. Taking her bunch of keys, she proceeded to her father"s private closet, at the door of which she stopped doubtfully, and searched uneasily among the keys; but, to her surprise, she found the closet door ajar. On examination, however, she found that it had been locked, but probably in such haste and agitation, that the iron staple, which should have held it, was broken. This accident seemed to relieve her from every doubt, and she stepped promptly over the threshold, and looked around her.
Her attention was first directed to a well-known cabinet in the wall, wherein her father kept his private letters. The steel k.n.o.b, by which it could be opened, glistened in her eyes like a dangerous snake"s head. She pressed the k.n.o.b, the cabinet sprang open, and a bundle of papers and letters came to view, which she instantly recognised.
Shortly before Duke Waldemar"s visit, in the previous year, she had seen her father receive, with great anxiety, this well-known packet from a lively, fat carl, who had sung merry songs in the servants"
hall, and a.s.sisted the maids in the kitchen. That these letters were of an important and dangerous character, was, to her, only too evident.
Without stopping to examine them, she placed them in an iron box, wherein her father was accustomed to keep the royal toll-money, but which now stood, empty and unlocked, near the door. Having locked the box, and placed the key in her bosom, she sank down in a praying posture, and thus remained, for the rest of the day, in the lonely closet. As soon as it was dark, she dragged the heavy iron box down into the castle-garden, where, with great effort, she buried it in the knoll, near the Sound.
"G.o.d forgive me!" she sighed; "he is my father! I bury his infamy, and thus save his name and honour! But, away from me, the key to the horrible secret! It presses on my heart with the weight of a mountain."
As if seized with extreme horror, she took from her bosom the key of the box, and threw it with all her might into the deep Sound, that roared at the foot of the height. She then returned, quietly and thoughtfully, into the fortress.
In the southern part of the parish of Felballe, in the diocese of Aarhuus, stood the famous castle, Mollerup, close by a stream with a few water-mills, and near a dark wood of half a mile[27] in extent. It was a strongly-fortified place, in the heavy Gothic style of building, with thick walls of hewn stone, and a lofty square tower in the centre.
The fortress was provided with earthen ramparts and wide ditches, both before and behind.
Here resided the celebrated Marsk Stig Andersen Hvide, with his family.
He had himself erected and fortified this castle, whose lofty tower was visible, from a considerable distance, over the wood. On the flat summit of the tower, within the battlements, stood four iron-clad men, day and night, as sentinels, who constantly kept their looks fixed towards the four quarters, like the stone giants on Kolding Castle. The heavy drawbridge was already up, and over the arched gateway fluttered a large banner, adorned with the arms of the lord of the castle--a seven-rayed star on azure, under a helmet with two white wings.
On the ramparts stood large bliders, or wall-slings--a kind of wooden machine, by which immense stones were thrown. At great expense, the marsk had here collected numerous defensive machines, some of which had been made in Roskild, by German artificers. Here might be seen the fearful igel-cat[28] with oak-peg bristles on the back, used for crushing besiegers; here, also, was to be found the dangerous brynkiol, of iron, with crooked steel spikes, and pointed iron claws, whose purpose was, when let down from the ramparts, to seize besiegers, and drag them up. Shot-waggons, for red-hot stones, stood ready for defence, night and day. Seven hundred men in armour guarded the fortress. The order and quietness that reigned within the walls denoted the strictest discipline. The grim, ironclad men moved about with a silence and regularity that fearfully indicated the dark temper which ruled in that fortress.
The powerful master of the castle was now absent, but his return was daily expected; and the place was filled with grave and quiet guests.
Every night the drawbridge was lowered at a secret signal, and the gate opened for the admission of strangers, who came disguised in the gray cloaks of friars, or in knight"s full armour. In the large riddersal, and in the lofty arched apartments, were daily a.s.sembled a great number of guests; and although the clatter of knives, and other table utensils, might be heard, there was no loud conversation, nor any sound of social glee. Among these guests no woman was to be seen; a remote wing of the castle being devoted to the female portion of its inhabitants, who there pa.s.sed their hours in almost conventual separation from the more warlike community.
It was now the afternoon of the third day after Sir Lave"s departure from Flynderborg with the mailed knight, in whom, for the first time, and with so much terror, Lady Inge had seen the powerful marsk. In the women"s vaulted apartment of Mollerup sat the reserved lady of a knight, in a dark coloured dress, with her countenance concealed by a black head-dress.
Two little maidens, also in black, but without veils, sat on high stools by her side. They were both beautiful children, with light hair and blue eyes. One, who was almost a head taller than the other, and had her smooth, plaited locks tied up with a dark pearl-band, appeared to be about fourteen years old: her cheeks were so faintly coloured, and her skin was so clear and white, that she almost resembled a beautiful marble statue, miraculously endowed with life, but still only half belonging to the world of mortals. A deep, calm melancholy overspread her fair, earnest countenance: there was nothing painful and consuming, however, in its grief, which was softened by a pious and kindly expression, as if she had already overcome some awful sorrow, and had found her lost, youthful joys in the far-off mysterious world to which she appeared to belong. She sat, with a weaving-frame in her lap, working, with threads of silk and gold, a picture of the Virgin and Child, surrounded by a halo of worshiping angels.
The other little girl had yellow flaxen hair, which hung down her neck in ringlets. She did not appear more than nine years old, and had a merry and extremely lively, childish countenance, red rosy cheeks, and a pair of wild, playful eyes, which were never at rest, but constantly twinkling. She was rather handsome, but violent, impatient, and restless: scarcely remaining quiet for an instant on her stool; now throwing aside her work, and then taking it up again; with a thousand other antics, which she abandoned as rapidly as they were conceived.
"Still, Rikke!" said the veiled lady, without looking at the child, or uncovering her face. "Wilt thou into the nursery again?"
"Yes, willingly, mother: it is much more pleasant," exclaimed the little restless girl, running out.
The veiled lady heaved a deep sigh, and relapsed into her former silence. She was busied in rubbing spots of rust from a large broad battle-blade, which lay across her knees; but she appeared to direct her thoughts to her work with difficulty, and her hands often fell inertly on her knees.
"Mother," said the quiet, grave maiden with the gold embroidery, "I am thinking of what our Lord and Redeemer would say, if he still journeyed about the world, and were to come to us here."
"If the Just One stood amongst us, child, he would ask why justice slumbers so long."
"Ah, mother, think you not he would rather say as he said to the holy Peter, the night he was betrayed by the false Judas?"
"I have forgotten it," answered the mother. "Has Father Anton taught it you? What said he, then?"
"It stands in the holy text, dear mother." And she repeated, with folded hands, and in a singing tone, the pa.s.sage in Matthew--""Put up again thy sword into his place; for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?""
The mother was silent, and sank into a gloomy reverie. "Thou art a pious child, my Margarethe," she said, at length; "but thou art little like thy brave father. Thou art still too young to understand the cruel injustice and the monstrous scandal that befell his house. Thou canst not understand wherefore thy mother will not suffer any one in the world to look upon her face. There are stains, unmerited stains, that can only be washed out in a manner that is costly, and dangerous, and dreadful, but necessary as eternal justice. Thy mother has not quite forgotten the pious instructions of her childhood. Knowest thou what our righteous Lord and Judge said, when he foresaw the cruel injustice he should suffer?--"He who hath not a sword, let him sell his garment and buy one!""
"Yea, right, right, my daughter Ingeborg!" was uttered by a broken, aged voice, from an obscure corner of the apartment: "so it stands written. It is G.o.d"s own word. Buy me a sword for my garment: I need no garments. All the garments in the world will not hide our shame!"
The person who thus spoke now made his appearance--a little, bent, aged figure, greatly emaciated, who groped his way forward, for his red, half-shut eyes were without vision. His head, almost entirely bald, appeared all scratched and torn; and his coa.r.s.e gray beard was in tufts, as if it had been half plucked out. His lean fingers were crooked, and provided with monstrous nails. His dress was of a new and fine black fur, but hung about him in tatters; and his wild, crazy expression clearly enough indicated that he had thus maltreated it himself, in his fits of madness.
"Ah, poor old grandfather!" exclaimed the little Margarethe: "he has got his hands loose, and has been tearing himself again."
"Call a couple of the house-carls, child," whispered the mother, hastily; "but with all quietness. Perhaps I, myself, can talk to him best."
The little Margarethe went hastily out, with her hands folded over her breast, as if praying.
"Quiet, quiet, father!" said the veiled lady, placing the sword under the table, and advancing leisurely towards him. "The time is not yet come; but it draws near: thou shalt yet, perhaps, before thou diest, hear thy daughter"s voice without blushing. To see me and my scandal, thou art free."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the old man, wildly: "that freedom, old Palle Little has taken himself; for that he has asked neither king nor pope. If thou wilt bind me again, my daughter, do so; but quickly, and touch not my claws, I advise thee! They will serve to tear out the tiger-heart and the blinking goats" eyes. Only promise me that you will yourself unbind me, and hand me my Toke"s sword, when the time arrives."