Part 2

"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.