Chapter 3

There’s many I ween in Denmark green Who all to be masters now desire; To Ribe old their course they hold, And there they buy them strange attire.

There they prepare such clothes as wear The holy Monks of orders grey, And this they’ve done in the hope alone Their liege and sovereign to betray.

They watch’d him sly, they watch’d him nigh, Whether the King went down or up; But best they sped, in the hour so dread, When the King would ride to Tinderup.

The cause of the same was an injur’d Dame, Bold Stig the Marshal’s lovely wife; With Ranild a plot she up has got Which cost King Erik his youthful life.

Ranild the loon, her sister’s son, Ranild who serv’d King Erik near, Tells him with art of hind and hart, And of silvan game to the hunter dear.

“To thee I can show both buck and doe Within the bonny green wood that play; With greyhounds tried we forth will ride, Sir King, not distant is the way.”

Then Erik he bade his serving lad To saddle him straight his good grey steed; “To Jutland’s Ting will ride your King, And see how things in Jutland speed.”

And he order gave to his courtiers brave That they should before to Viborg hie; No thought he had that Ranild the lad Was brooding a subtle treachery.

But Ranild rode by a secret road, And he bade the Monks themselves prepare; I tell to ye for a verity That Ranild practis’d cunning rare.

Now after the hart and hind they start, And after the nimble roe as well; The long day’s space endur’d the chase, Till murky night upon them fell.

Then in faultering guise the King he cries, For his heart I ween was full of dread: “God help us now, and Saint Gertrude thou, We fairly out of the path have sped.”

Then about he spied and about he pried, Amid the bushes so dark and drear, Till sight he got of a little cot Where fire and light were burning clear.

And into that house King Erik goes, His luck the Monarch there will try; And he was aware of a damsel fair, No fairer ever had met his eye.

And her to his breast the King he press’d, And kiss’d her oft with fond delight: “My lovely may, I beg and pray That thou wilt sleep with me this night.”

Then answer’d and said the woodland maid, With a burst of laughter wild and loud: “In mind I keep how thou didst sleep With Ingeborga fair and proud.

“Answer, I pray, and fairly say, How many maids hast thou, Sir King, Deserted and left of fame bereft? For that will death upon thee bring.”

“If that thou know, fair maid, I trow That thou canst tell much more to me; Now tiding give how long I shall live, And say how many my foemen be.”

With solemn air said the maiden fair, “Hark thou to me and believe my word; For life thou must look to the little crook, Whereon doth hang thy trusty sword.

“The knobs on thy belt of tough, tough felt, The foeman’s number will tell I ween; Beware, I say, of Monk hoods grey Concealing warriors stern and keen.”

To catch the maid the King essay’d, His heart was bent yet more on learning; Then slipped away the woodland fay, Suddenly into vapour turning.

As long as stay’d with him the maid Both light and fire his sight did cheer, But as soon, as soon as she was gone With Ranild he stood in the bush so drear.

Then the King for advice to Ranild cries, And Ranild the traitor answer’d thus: “From out this place our way we’ll trace, For here no moon can shine on us.

“If I be right, a hamlet hight Grey Tinderup not far doth lie; This night we’d best in Tinderup rest, My liege, I think for a certainty.

“And thither we’ll ride, and there we’ll bide, Until the moon has risen on high; By Mary’s might no mortal wight Will do thee any injury.”

So they ride away to Tinderup grey, And loud for lodging, lodging shout; But they came so late that every gate Was lock’d, and fires and lights put out.

Then their steeds they turn to Tinderup barn, No mortal knew that they were there; To the King I wot the thought came not That he was now to his end so near.

But Erik’s breast was not at rest, And thus to Ranild the lad he cried: “O make the door both fast and sure, I fast and sure in thee confide.

“Do thou the door with a stake secure, I’ve ever found thee faithful yet; In mind I hold that Stig is bold, And oft I think upon his threat.”

“I’ve driven a pin the floor within, And plac’d a balk against the door; By Mary bright no mortal wight To move that mighty balk has power.

“Marsk Stig is hot, I deny it not, And wondrous words he thunders out; But be of good cheer my master dear, He o’er his table sits no doubt.

“The lapwing bird each spot can guard Upon the face of the verdant field, Except alone the knoll whereon Its nest the bird is wont to build.”

No pin or stake did Ranild take, He was I wean a lying cheat; I tell to ye, for a verity, He only took two straws of wheat.

And for all his talk ’twas no thick balk He plac’d for the door’s security, But a wheat-sheaf light which the gust of night From the door removed instantly.

Scarce on the groun’ had they laid them down, On the groun’ of the barn so cold and hard, When of Ingeborg Dame the avengers came, Spurring amain to the peasant’s gard.

Into the yard came riding hard The fatal monks of orders grey; No pause they made, to the place they sped Where well they knew that the Monarch lay.

Upon the door their blows they shower, With faulchion struck they and with spear; “Come out, come out, Sir King,” they shout, “The Dame has sent to greet thee here.”

To them in reply did Ranild cry, And thus the Ranild youth began: “No King is here, no King is near, No King nor any such a man.”

Then swift and fast Sir Ranild cast Over his Lord both straw and hay, But points with his hand to the in-rushing band The spot where the hapless Monarch lay.

They extinguish’d straight the wax light great That burn’d the head of the Monarch o’er; Then round the King they stood in a ring, With blades athirst for his dearest gore.

“O Ranild hear, my servant dear, If thou wilt only fight for me, My sister bright to thee I’ll plight, And she thy wedded wife shall be.”

Then he hew’d for his Lord on the broad, broad board, And on the balk he hew’d so brave; He hew’d hither, and he hew’d thither— He fought for his master like a knave.

Full in the breast their stabs they address’d, As near to the heart as well might be; With wounds so sore, forty and more, Miserably murder’d the King was he.

At him they bored with spear and sword, No rest to him the Monks allow’d; When done was the deed each took his steed, And away with frantic fury rode.

This happ’d on the night of Cecily bright, The season it was so bright and holy. The King is dead, his blood is shed, But Ingeborg still is melancholy.

“Now who will bear to Viborg fair The corpse of the King across the green? And who will go with the tale of woe To Skanderborough where sits the Queen?”

Then ride would none to Viborg town, And attend the corse across the green; But rose up amain a little swain, And he would ride to the Danish Queen.

Uprose amain the little swain, And not long idle I ween he stay’d; He tore from the grey the saddle away, And that on the back of the white he laid.

“Hail gracious Queen so fair of mien, Who sittest clad in scarlet red; A traitorous train the King have slain, In Tinderup barn he lieth dead.

“They stabbed him with might in his bosom white, Their points came out of his royal side; Take thou good care of the youthful heir, Who Denmark’s realm is doomed to guide.

“Take heed, take heed of the land I rede, And of this royal Castelaye; ’Bove every thing of the youthful King, Who in after time shall Denmark sway.”

“Thou little lad thy tale is sad, And it fills my heart with grief and pain; But thee I’ll prize for thy advice, And clothe and feed thee whilst I reign.”

It happ’d on the night of Cecily bright, In that sweet season blest and holy, Vengeance has sped, the King is dead— But Ingeborg still is melancholy.