The Pretenders

The great hall in Oslo Palace. King Skule is feasting with the Guard and his Chiefs. In front, on the left, stands the throne, where Skule sits, richly attired, with a purple mantle and the royal circlet on his head. The supper-table, by which the guests are seated, stretches from the throne towards the background. Opposite to Skule sit Paul Flida and Bård Bratte. Some of the humbler guests are standing, to the right. It is late evening; the hall is brightly lighted. The banquet is drawing to a close; the men are very merry, and some of them drunk; they drink to each other, laugh, and all talk together.

Paul Flida.

[Rises and strikes the table.] Silence in the hall; Jatgeir Skald will say forth his song in honour of King Skule.

Jatgeir.

[Stands out in the middle of the floor.¹

Duke Skule he summoned the Örething;

when ’twas mass-time in Nidaros town;

and the bells rang and swords upon bucklers clashed bravely

when Duke Skule he donned the crown.

King Skule marched over the Dovrefjeld,

his host upon snow-shoes sped;

the Gudbranddalesman he grovelled for grace,

but his hoard must e’en ransom his head.

King Skule south over Miösen fared,—

the Uplander cursed at his banner;

King Skule hasted through Raumarike to Låka in Nannestad manor.

’Twas all in the holy Shrove-tide week

we met with the Birchleg horde;

Earl Knut was their captain—the swords with loud tongue

in the suit for the throne made award.

They say of a truth that since Sverre’s days

was never so hot a fight;

red-sprent, like warriors’ winding-sheets,

grew the upland that erst lay white.

They took to their heels did the Birchenlegs,

flinging from them both buckler and bill there;

many hundreds, though, took to their heels nevermore,

for they lay and were icily chill there.

No man knows where King Håkon hideth;—

King Skule stands safe at the helm.

All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state

as King of all Norway’s realm!

Skule’s Men.

[Spring up with loud jubilation, hold goblets and beakers aloft, clash their weapons, and repeat:

All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state as King of all Norway’s realm!

King Skule.

Thanks for the song, Jatgeir Skald! ’Tis as I best like it; for it gives my men no less praise than myself.

Jatgeir.

The King is honoured when his men are praised.

King Skule.

Take as guerdon this arm-ring, stay with me, and be of my household; I will have many skalds about me.

Jatgeir.

’Twill need many, my lord, if all your great deeds are to be sung.

King Skule.

I will be threefold more bountiful than Håkon; the skald’s song shall be honoured and rewarded like all other noble deeds, so long as I am king. Be seated; now you belong to my household; all you have need of shall be freely given you.

Jatgeir.

[Seats himself.] Ere long there will be a dearth of what I most need, my lord.

King Skule.

What mean you?

Jatgeir.

Foes to King Skule, whose flight and fall I can sing.

Many of the Men.

[Amid laughter and applause.] Well said, Icelander!

Paul Flida.

[To Jatgeir.] The song was good; but ’tis known there goes a spice of lying to every skald-work, and yours was not without it.

Jatgeir.

Lying, Sir Marshal?

Paul Flida.

Ay; you say no man knows where King Håkon is hiding; that is not true; we have certain tidings that Håkon is at Nidaros.

King Skule.

[Smiling.] He has claimed homage for the King-child, and given it the kingly title.

Jatgeir.

That have I heard; but I knew not that any man could give away that which he himself does not possess.

King Skule.

’Tis easiest to give what you yourself do not possess.

Bård Bratte.

But it can scarce be easy to beg your way in midwinter from Bergen to Nidaros.

Jatgeir.

The fortunes of the Birchlegs move in a ring; they began hungry and frozen, and now they end in like case.

Paul Flida.

’Tis rumoured in Bergen that Håkon has forsworn the Church and all that is holy; he heard not mass on New Year’s day.

Bård Bratte.

He could plead lawful hindrance, Paul; he stood all day cutting his silver goblets and dishes to pieces—he had naught else wherewith to pay his household.

[Laughter and loud talk among the guests.

King Skule.

[Raises his goblet.] I drink to you, Bård Bratte, and thank you and all my new men. You fought manfully for me at Låka, and bore a great part in the victory.

Bård Bratte.

It was the first time I fought under you, my lord; but I soon felt that ’tis easy to conquer when such a chieftain as you rides at the head of the host. But I would we had not slain so many and chased them so far; for now I fear ’twill be long ere they dare face us again.

King Skule.

Wait till the spring: we shall meet them again, never fear. Earl Knut lies with the remnant at Tunsberg rock, and Arnbiörn Jonsson is gathering a force eastward in Viken; when they deem themselves strong enough, they will soon let us hear from them.

Bård Bratte.

They will never dare to, after the great slaughter at Låka.

King Skule.

Then will we lure them forth with cunning.

Many Voices.

Ay, ay—do so, lord King!

Bård Bratte.

You have good store of cunning, King Skule. Your foemen have never warning ere you fall upon them, and you are ever there where they least await you.

Paul Flida.

’Tis therefore that the Birchlegs call us Vårbælgs.²

King Skule.

Others say Vargbælgs; but this I swear, that when next we meet, the Birchlegs shall learn how hard it is to turn such Wolf-skins inside out.

Bård Bratte.

With their good will shall we never meet-’twill be a chase the whole country round.

King Skule.

Ay, that it shall be. First we must purge Viken, and make sure of all these eastward parts; then will we get our ships together, and sail round the Naze and up the coast to Nidaros.

Bård Bratte

And when you come in such wise to Nidaros, I scare think the monks will deny to move St. Olaf’s shrine out to the mote-stead, as they did in the autumn, when we swore allegiance.

King Skule.

The shrine shall out; I will bear my kingship in all ways lawfully.

Jatgeir.

And I promise you to sing a great death-song, when you have slain the Sleeper.

[An outburst of laughter among the men.

King Skule.

The Sleeper?

Jatgeir.

Know you not, my lord, that King Håkon is called “Håkon the Sleeper,” because he sits as though benumbed ever since you came to the throne?

Bård Bratte.

They say he lies ever with his eyes closed. Doubtless he dreams that he is still king.

King Skule.

Let him dream; he shall never dream himself back into the kingship.

Jatgeir.

Let his sleep be long and dreamless, then shall I have stuff for songs.

The Men.

Ay, ay, do as the skald says!

King Skule.

When so many good men counsel as one, the counsel must be good; yet will we not talk now of that matter. But one promise I will make: each of my men shall inherit the weapons and harness, and gold and silver, of whichever one of the enemy he slays; and each man shall succeed to the dignities of him he lays low. He who slays a baron shall himself be a baron; he who slays a thane, shall receive his thaneship; and all they who already hold such dignities and offices, shall be rewarded after other kingly sort.

The Men.

[Spring up in wild delight.] Hail, hail, King Skule! Lead us against the Birchlegs!

Bård Bratte.

Now are you sure to conquer in all battles.

Paul Flida.

I claim Dagfinn the Peasant for myself; he owns a good sword that I have long hankered after.

Bård Bratte.

I will have Bård Torsteinsson’s hauberk; it saved his life at Låka, for it withstands both cut and thrust.

Jatgeir.

Nay, but let me have it; ’twill fit me better; you shall have five golden marks in exchange.

Bård Bratte.

Where will you find five golden marks, Skald?

Jatgeir.

I will take them from Gregorius Jonsson when we come northward.

The Men.

[All talking together.] And I will have—I will have——[The rest becomes indistinct in the hubbub.

Paul Flida.

Away! Every man to his quarters; bethink you that you are in the King’s hall.

The Men.

Ay, ay—hail to the King, hail to King Skule!

King Skule.

To bed now, good fellows! We have sat long over the drinking-table to-night.

A Man-at-Arms.

[As the crowd is trooping out.] To-morrow we will cast lots for the Birchlegs’ goods.

Another.

Rather leave it to luck!

Several.

Nay, nay!

Others.

Ay, ay!

Bård Bratte.

Now the Wolf-skins are fighting for the bear-fell.

Paul Flida.

And they have yet to fell the bear.

[All go out by the back.

King Skule.

[Waits till the men are gone; the tension of his features relaxes; he sinks upon a bench.] How weary I am, weary to death. To live in the midst of that swarm day out and day in, to look smilingly ahead as though I were so immovably assured of right and victory and fortune. To have no creature with whom I may speak of all that gnaws me so sorely. [Rises with a look of terror.] And the battle at Låka! That I should have conquered there! Håkon sent his host against me; God was to judge and award between the two kings—and I conquered, conquered, as never any before has conquered the Birchlegs! Their shields stood upright in the snow, but there was none behind them—the Birchlegs took to the woods, and fled over upland and moor and lea as far as their legs would carry them. The unbelievable came to pass; Håkon lost and I won. There is a secret horror in that victory. Thou great God of Heaven! there rules, then, no certain law on high, that all things must obey? The right carries with it no conquering might? [With a change of tone, wildly.] I am sick, I am sick!—Wherefore should not the right be on my side? May I not deem that God himself would assure me of it, since he let me conquer? [Brooding.] The possibilities are even;—not a feather-weight more on the one side than on the other; and yet—[shakes his head]—yet the balance dips on Håkon’s part. I have hatred and hot desire to cast into my scale, yet the balance dips on Håkon’s part. When the thought of the kingly right comes over me unawares, ’tis ever he, not I, that is the true king. When I would see myself as the true king, I must do it with forethought, I must build up a whole fabric of subtleties, a work of cunning; I must hold memories aloof, and take faith by storm. It was not so before. What has befallen to fill me so full of doubt? The burning of the letter? No—that made the uncertainty eternal, but did not add to it. Has Håkon done any great and kingly deed in these later days? No, his greatest deeds were done while I least believed in him. [Seats himself on the right.] What is it? Ha, strange! It comes and goes like a marsh-fire; it dances at the tip of my tongue, as when one has lost a word and cannot find it. [Springs up.] Ha! Now I have it! No——! Yes, yes! Now I have it!—“Norway has been a kingdom, it shall become a people; all shall be one, and all shall feel and know that they are one!” Since Håkon spoke those madman’s words, he stands ever before me as the rightful king. [Whispers with fixed and apprehensive gaze.] What if God’s calling glimmered through these strange words? If God had garnered up the thought till now, and would now strew it forth—and had chosen Håkon for his sower?

Paul Flida.

[Enters from the back.] My lord King, I have tidings for you.

King Skule.

Tidings?

Paul Flida.

A man who comes from down the fiord brings news that the Birchlegs in Tunsberg have launched their ships, and that many men have gathered in the town in these last days.

King Skule.

Good, we will go forth to meet them—to-morrow or the day after.

Paul Flida.

It might chance, my lord King, that the Birchlegs had a mind to meet us first.

King Skule.

They have not ships enough for that, nor men.

Paul Flida.

But Arnbiörn Jonsson is gathering both men and ships, all round in Viken.

King Skule.

The better for us; we will crush them at one blow, as we did at Låka.

Paul Flida.

My lord, ’tis not so easy to crush the Birchlegs twice following.

King Skule.

And wherefore not?

Paul Flida.

Because Norway’s saga tells not that the like has ever befallen. Shall I send forth scouts to Hoved-isle?

King Skule.

’Tis needless; the night is dark, and there is a sea-fog to boot.

Paul Flida.

Well well, the King knows best; but bethink you, my lord, that all men are against you here in Viken. The townsfolk of Oslo hate you, and should the Birchlegs come, they will make common cause with them.

King Skule.

[With animation.] Paul Flida, were it not possible that I could win over the men of Viken to my side?

Paul Flida.

[Looks at him in astonishment, and shakes his head.] No, my lord, it is not possible.

King Skule.

And wherefore not?

Paul Flida.

Why, for that you have the Trönders on your side.

King Skule.

I will have both the Trönders and the men of Viken!

Paul Flida.

Nay, my lord, that cannot be!

King Skule.

Not possible! cannot be! And wherefore—wherefore not?

Paul Flida.

Because the man of Viken is the man of Viken, the Trönder is the Trönder; because so it has always been, and no saga tells of a time when it was otherwise.

King Skule.

Ay, ay—you are right. Go.

Paul Flida.

And send forth no scouts?

King Skule.

Wait till daybreak. [Paul Flida goes.] Norway’s saga tells of no such thing; it has never been so yet; Paul Flida answers me as I answered Håkon. Are there, then, upward as well as downward steps? Stands Håkon as high over me as I over Paul Flida? Has Håkon an eye for unborn thoughts, that is lacking in me? Who stood so high as Harold Hårfager in the days when every headland had its king, and he said: Now they must fall—hereafter shall there be but one? He threw the old saga to the winds, and made a new saga. [A pause; he paces up and down lost in thought; then he stops.] Can one man take God’s calling from another, as he takes weapons and gold from his fallen foe? Can a Pretender clothe himself in a king’s life-task, as he can put on the kingly mantle? The oak that is felled to be a ship’s timber, can it say: Nay, I will be the mast, I will take on me the task of the fir-tree, point upwards, tall and shining, bear the golden vane at my top, spread bellying white sails to the sunshine, and meet the eyes of all men, from afar!—No, no, thou heavy gnarled oak-trunk, thy place is down in the keel; there shalt thou lie, and do thy work, unheard-of and unseen by those aloft in the daylight; it is thou that shalt hinder the ship from being whelmed in the storm; while the mast with the golden vane and the bellying sail shall bear it forward toward the new, toward the unknown, toward alien strands and the saga of the future! [Vehemently.] Since Håkon uttered his great king-thought, I can see no other thought in the world but that only. If I cannot take it and act it out, I see no other thought to fight for. [Brooding.] And can I not make it mine? If I cannot, whence comes my great love for Håkon’s thought?

Jatgeir.

[Enters from the back.] Forgive my coming, lord King——

King Skule.

You come to my wish, Skald!

Jatgeir.

I overheard some townsfolk at my lodging talking darkly of——

King Skule.

Let that wait. Tell me, Skald: you who have fared far abroad in strange lands, have you ever seen a woman love another’s child? Not only have kindness for it—’tis not that I mean; but love it, love it with the warmest passion of her soul.

Jatgeir.

That do only those women who have no child of their own to love.

King Skule.

Only those women——?

Jatgeir.

And chiefly women who are barren.

King Skule.

Chiefly the barren——? They love the children of others with all their warmest passions?

Jatgeir.

That will oftentimes befall.

King Skule.

And does it not sometimes befall that such a barren woman will slay another’s child, because she herself has none?

Jatgeir.

Ay, ay; but in that she does unwisely.

King Skule.

Unwisely?

Jatgeir.

Ay, for she gives the gift of sorrow to her whose child she slays.

King Skule.

Think you the gift of sorrow is a great good?

Jatgeir.

Yes, lord.

King Skule.

[Looks fixedly at him.] Methinks there are two men in you, Icelander. When you sit amid the household at the merry feast, you draw cloak and hood over all your thoughts; when one is alone with you, sometimes you seem to be of those among whom one were fain to choose his friend. How comes it?

Jatgeir.

When you go to swim in the river, my lord, you would scarce strip you where the people pass by to church; you seek a sheltered privacy.

King Skule.

True, true.

Jatgeir.

My soul has the like shamefastness; therefore I do not strip me when there are many in the hall.

King Skule.

Ha. [A short pause.] Tell me, Jatgeir, how came you to be a skald? Who taught you skald-craft?

Jatgeir.

Skaldcraft cannot be taught, my lord.

King Skule.

Cannot be taught? How came it then?

Jatgeir.

The gift of sorrow came to me, and I was a skald.

King Skule.

Then ’tis the gift of sorrow the skald has need of?

Jatgeir.

I needed sorrow; others there may be who need faith, or joy—or doubt——

King Skule.

Doubt as well?

Jatgeir.

Ay; but then must the doubter be strong and sound.

King Skule.

And whom call you the unsound doubter?

Jatgeir.

He who doubts of his own doubt.

King Skule.

[Slowly.] That, methinks, were death.

Jatgeir.

’Tis worse; ’tis neither day nor night.

King Skule.

[Quickly, as if shaking off his thoughts.] Where are my weapons? I will fight and act—not think. What was it you would have told me when you came?

Jatgeir.

’Twas what I noted in my lodging. The townsmen whisper together secretly, and laugh mockingly, and ask if we be well assured that King Håkon is in the westland; there is somewhat they are in glee over.

King Skule.

They are men of Viken, and therefore against me.

Jatgeir.

They scoff because King Olaf’s shrine could not be brought out to the mote-stead when you were chosen king; they say it boded ill.

King Skule.

When next I come to Nidaros, the shrine shall out! It shall stand under the open sky, though I should have to tear down St. Olaf’s church and widen out the mote-stead over the spot where it stood.

Jatgeir.

That were a strong deed; but I shall make a song of it, as strong as the deed itself.

King Skule.

Have you many unmade songs within you, Jatgeir?

Jatgeir.

Nay, but many unborn; they are conceived one after the other, come to life, and are brought forth.

King Skule.

And if I, who am King and have the might, if I were to have you slain, would all the unborn skald-thoughts you bear within you die along with you?

Jatgeir.

My lord, it is a great sin to slay a fair thought.

King Skule.

I ask not if it be a sin; I ask if it be possible!

Jatgeir.

I know not.

King Skule.

Have you never had another skald for your friend, and has he never unfolded to you a great and noble song he thought to make?

Jatgeir.

Yes, lord.

King Skule.

Did you not then wish that you could slay him, to take his thought and make the song yourself?

Jatgeir.

My lord, I am not barren; I have children of my own; I need not to love those of other men.

[Goes.

King Skule.

[After a pause.] The Icelander is in very deed a skald. He speaks God’s deepest truth and knows 263it not——I am as a barren woman. Therefore I love Håkon’s kingly thought-child, love it with the warmest passion of my soul. Oh, that I could but adopt^[39] it! It would die in my hands. Which were best, that it should die in my hands, or wax great in his? Should I ever have peace of soul if that came to pass? Can I forgo all? Can I stand by and see Håkon make himself famous for all time! How dead and empty is all within me—and around me. No friend—; ah, the Icelander! [Goes to the door and calls:] Has the skald gone from the palace?

A Guard.

[Outside.] No, my lord; he stands in the outer hall talking with the watch.

King Skule.

Bid him come hither. [Goes forward to the table; presently Jatgeir enters.] I cannot sleep, Jatgeir; ’tis all my great kingly thoughts that keep me awake, you see.

Jatgeir.

’Tis with the king’s thoughts as with the skald’s, I doubt not. They fly highest and grow quickest when there is night and stillness around.

King Skule.

Is it so with the skald’s thoughts too?

Jatgeir.

Ay, lord; no song is born by daylight; it may be written down in the sunshine; but it makes itself in the silent night.

King Skule.

Who gave you the gift of sorrow, Jatgeir?

Jatgeir.

She whom I loved.

King Skule.

She died, then.

Jatgeir.

No, she deceived me.

King Skule.

And then you became a skald?

Jatgeir.

Ay, then I became a skald.

King Skule.

[Seizes him by the arm.] What gift do I need to become a king?

Jatgeir.

Not the gift of doubt; else would you not question so.

King Skule.

What gift do I need?

Jatgeir.

My lord, you are a king.

King Skule.

Have you at all times full faith that you are a skald?

Jatgeir.

[Looks silently at him for a while, and asks.] Have you never loved?

King Skule.

Yes, once—burningly, blissfully, and in sin.

Jatgeir.

You have a wife.

King Skule.

Her I took to bear me sons.

Jatgeir.

But you have a daughter, my lord—a gracious and noble daughter.

King Skule.

Were my daughter a son, I would not ask you what gift I need. [Vehemently.] I must have some one by me who sinks his own will utterly in mine—who believes in me unflinchingly, who will cling close to me in good hap and ill, who lives only to shed light and warmth over my life, and must die if I fall. Give me counsel, Jatgeir Skald!

Jatgeir.

Buy yourself a dog, my lord.

King Skule.

Would no man suffice?

Jatgeir.

You would have to search long for such a man.

King Skule.

[Suddenly.] Will you be that man to me, Jatgeir? Will you be a son to me? You shall have Norway’s crown to your heritage—the whole land shall be yours, if you will be a son to me, and live for my life-work, and believe in me.

Jatgeir.

And what should be my warranty that I did not feign——?

King Skule.

Give up your calling in life; sing no more songs, and then will I believe you!

Jatgeir.

No, lord—that were to buy the crown too dear.

King Skule.

Bethink you well—’tis greater to be a king than a skald.

Jatgeir.

Not always.

King Skule.

’Tis but your unsung songs you must sacrifice!

Jatgeir.

Songs unsung are ever the fairest.

King Skule.

But I must—I must have one who can trust in me! Only one! I feel it—had I that one, I were saved!

Jatgeir.

Trust in yourself and you will be saved!

Paul Flida.

[Enters hastily.] King Skule, look to yourself! Håkon Håkonsson lies off Elgjarness with all his fleet!

King Skule.

Off Elgjarness——! Then he is close at hand.

Jatgeir.

Get we to arms then! If there be bloodshed to-night, I will gladly be the first to die for you!

King Skule.

You, who would not live for me!

Jatgeir.

A man can die for another’s life-work; but if he go on living, he must live for his own.

[Goes.

Paul Flida.

[Impatiently.] Your commands, my lord! The Birchlegs may be in Oslo this very hour.

King Skule.

’Twere best if we could fare to St. Thomas Beckett’s grave; he has helped so many a sorrowful and penitent soul.

Paul Flida.

[More forcibly.] My lord, speak not so wildly now; I tell you, the Birchlegs are upon us!

King Skule.

Let all the churches be opened, that we may betake us thither and find grace.

Paul Flida.

You can crush all your foemen at one stroke, and yet would betake you to the churches!

King Skule.

Yes, yes, keep all the churches open!

Paul Flida.

Be sure Håkon will break sanctuary, when ’tis Vårbælgs he pursues.

King Skule.

That will he not; God will shield him from such a sin;—God always shields Håkon.

Paul Flida.

[In deep and sorrowful wrath.] To hear you speak thus, a man could not but ask: Who is king in this land?

King Skule.

[Smiling mournfully.] Ay, Paul Flida, that is the great question: Who is king in this land?

Paul Flida.

[Imploringly.] You are soul-sick to-night, my lord; let me act for you.

King Skule.

Ay, ay, do so.

Paul Flida.

[Going.] First will I break down all the bridges.

King Skule.

Madman! Stay!—Break down all the bridges! Know you what that means? I have assayed it;—beware of that!

Paul Flida.

What would you then, my lord?

King Skule.

I will talk with Håkon.

Paul Flida.

He will answer you with a tongue of steel.

King Skule.

Go, go;—you shall learn my will anon.

Paul Flida.

Every moment is precious! [Seizes his hand.] King Skule, let us break down all the bridges, fight like Wolves,³ and trust in Heaven!

King Skule.

[Softly.] Heaven trusts not in me; I dare not trust in Heaven.

Paul Flida.

Short has been the saga of the Vargbælgs.

[Goes out by the back.

King Skule.

A hundred cunning heads, a thousand mighty arms, are at my beck; but not a single loving, trusting heart. That is kingly beggary; no more, no less.

Bård Bratte.

[From the back.] Two wayfarers from afar stand without, praying to have speech with you my lord.

King Skule.

Who are they?

Bård Bratte.

A woman and a priest.

King Skule.

Let the woman and the priest approach.

[Bård goes; King Skule seats himself, musing, on the right; presently there enters a black-robed woman; she wears a long cloak, a hood, and a thick veil, which conceals her face; a priest follows her, and remains standing by the door.

King Skule.

Who are you?

The Woman.

One you have loved.

King Skule.

[Shaking his head.] There lives no one who remembers that I have loved. Who are you, I ask?

The Woman.

One who loves you.

King Skule.

Then are you surely one of the dead.

The Woman.

[Comes close to him and says softly and passionately.] Skule Bårdsson!

King Skule.

[Rises with a cry.] Ingeborg!

Ingeborg.

Do you know me now, Skule?

King Skule.

Ingeborg,—Ingeborg!

Ingeborg.

Oh, let me look at you—look long at you, so long! [Seizes his hands; a pause.] You fair, you deeply loved, you faithless man!

King Skule.

Take off that veil; look at me with the eyes that once were as clear and blue as the sky.

Ingeborg.

These eyes have been but a rain-clouded sky for twenty years; you would not know them again, and you shall never see them more.

King Skule.

But your voice is fresh and soft and young as ever!

Ingeborg.

I have used it only to whisper your name, to imprint your greatness in a young heart, and to pray to the sinners’ God for grace toward us twain, who have loved in sin.

King Skule.

You have done that?

Ingeborg.

I have been silent save to speak loving words of you;—therefore has my voice remained fresh and soft and young.

King Skule.

There lies a life-time between. Every fair memory from those days have I wasted and let slip——

Ingeborg.

It was your right.

King Skule.

And meantime you, Ingeborg, loving, faithful woman, have dwelt there in the north, guarding and treasuring your memories, in ice-cold loneliness!

Ingeborg.

It was my happiness.

King Skule.

And I could give you up to win might and riches! With you at my side, as my wife, I had found it easier to be a king.

Ingeborg.

God has been good to me in willing it otherwise. A soul like mine had need of a great sin, to arouse it to remorse and expiation.

King Skule.

And now you come——?

Ingeborg.

As Andres Skialdarband’s widow.

King Skule.

Your husband is dead!

Ingeborg.

On the way from Jerusalem.

King Skule.

Then has he atoned for the slaying of Vegard.

Ingeborg.

’Twas not therefore that my noble husband took the Cross.

King Skule.

Not therefore?

Ingeborg.

No; it was my sin he took upon his strong, loving shoulders; ’twas that he went to wash away in Jordan stream; ’twas for that he bled.

King Skule.

[Softly.] Then he knew all.

Ingeborg.

From the first. And Bishop Nicholas knew it, for to him I confessed. And there was one other man that came to know it, though how I cannot guess.

King Skule.

Who?

Ingeborg.

Vegard Væradal.

King Skule.

Vegard!

Ingeborg.

He whispered a mocking word of me into my husband’s ear; and thereupon Andres Skialdarband drew his sword, and slew him on the spot.

King Skule.

He kept ward over her whom I betrayed and forgot.—And wherefore seek you me now?

Ingeborg.

To bring you the last sacrifice.

King Skule.

What mean you?

Ingeborg.

[Points to the Priest who stands by the door.] Look at him!—Peter, my son, come hither!

King Skule.

Your son——!

Ingeborg.

And yours, King Skule!

King Skule.

[Half bewildered.] Ingeborg!

[Peter approaches in silent emotion, and throws himself before King Skule.

Ingeborg.

Take him! For twenty years has he been the light and comfort of my life.—Now are you King of Norway; the King’s son must enter on his heritage; I have no longer any right to him.

King Skule.

[Raises him up, in a storm of joy.] Here, to my heart, you whom I have yearned for so burningly! [Presses him in his arms, lets him go, looks at him, and embraces him again.] My son! My son! I have a son! Ha-ha-ha! who can stand against me now? [Goes over to Ingeborg and seizes her hand.] And you, you give him to me, Ingeborg! You take not back your word? You give him to me indeed?

Ingeborg.

Heavy is the sacrifice, and scarce had I strength to make it, but that Bishop Nicholas sent him to me, bearing a letter with tidings of Andres Skialdarband’s death. ’Twas the Bishop that laid on me the heavy sacrifice, to atone for all my sin.

King Skule.

Then is the sin blotted out, and henceforth he is mine alone; is it not so, mine alone?

Ingeborg.

Yes; but one promise I crave of you.

King Skule.

Heaven and earth, crave all you will!

Ingeborg.

He is pure as a lamb of God, as I now give him into your hands. ’Tis a perilous path that leads up to the throne; let him not take hurt to his soul. Hear you, King Skule: let not my child take hurt to his soul!

King Skule.

That I promise and swear to you!

Ingeborg.

[Seizes his arm.] From the moment you mark that his soul suffers harm, let him rather die!

King Skule.

Rather die! I promise and swear it!

Ingeborg.

Then shall I be of good cheer as I go back to Halogaland.

King Skule.

Ay, you may be of good cheer.

Ingeborg.

There will I repent and pray, till the Lord calls me. And when we meet before God, he shall come back to me pure and blameless.

King Skule.

Pure and blameless! [Turning to Peter.] Let me look at you! Ay, your mother’s features and mine; you are he for whom I have longed so sorely.

Peter.

My father, my great, noble father! Let me live and fight for you! Let your cause be mine; and be your cause what it may—I know that I am fighting for the right!

King Skule.

[With a cry of joy.] You trust in me! You trust in me!

Peter.

Immovably!

King Skule.

Then all is well; then am I surely saved! Listen: you shall cast off the cowl; the Archbishop shall loose you from your vows; the King’s son shall wield the sword, shall go forward unwavering to might and honour.

Peter.

Together with you, my noble father! We will go together!

King Skule.

[Drawing the youth close up to himself.] Ay, together, we two alone!

Ingeborg.

[To herself.] To love, to sacrifice all and be forgotten, that is my saga.⁴

[Goes quietly out by the back.

King Skule.

Now shall a great king’s-work be done in Norway! Listen, Peter, my son! We will awaken the whole people, and gather it into one; the man of Viken and the Trönder, the Halogalander and the Agdeman, the Uplander and the Sogndaleman, all shall be one great family! Then shall you see how the land will come to flourish!

Peter.

What a great and dizzy thought——

King Skule.

Do you grasp it?

Peter.

Yes—yes!—Clearly——!

King Skule.

And have you faith in it?

Peter.

Yes, yes; for I have faith in you!

King Skule.

[Wildly.] Håkon Håkonsson must die.

Peter.

If you will it, then it is right that he die.

King Skule.

’Twill cost blood; but that we cannot heed!

Peter.

The blood is not wasted that flows in your cause.

King Skule.

All the might shall be yours when I have built up the kingdom. You shall sit on the throne with the circlet on your brow, with the purple mantle flowing wide over your shoulders; all men in the land shall bow before you——[The sounds of distant horns⁵ are heard.] Ha! what was that? [With a cry.] The Birchleg host! What was it Paul Flida said——?

[Rushes towards the back.

Paul Flida.

[Enters and cries:] The hour is upon us, King Skule!

King Skule.

[Bewildered.] The Birchlegs! King Håkon’s host! Where are they?

Paul Flida.

They are swarming in thousands down over the Ekeberg.

King Skule.

Sound the call to arms! Sound, sound! Give counsel; where shall we meet them?

Paul Flida.

All the churches stand open for us.

King Skule.

’Tis of the Birchlegs I ask——?

Paul Flida.

For them all the bridges stand open.

King Skule.

Unhappy man, what have you done?

Paul Flida.

Obeyed my King!

King Skule.

My son! My son! Woe is me; I have lost your kingdom!

Peter.

No, you will conquer! So great a king’s-thought cannot die!

King Skule.

Peace, peace! [Horns and shouts are heard, nearer at hand.] To horse! To arms! More is here at stake than the life and death of men!

[Rushes out by the back; the others follow him.

A street in Oslo. On each side, low wooden houses, with porches. At the back, St. Hallvard’s churchyard, enclosed by a high wall with a gate. On the left, at the end of the wall, is seen the church, the chief portal of which stands open. It is still night; after a little, the day begins to dawn. The alarm-bell is ringing: far away on the right are heard battle-shouts and confused noises.

King Skule’s Hornblower.

[Enters from the right, blows his horn, and shouts.] To arms! To arms, all King Skule’s men!

[Blows his horn again, and proceeds on his way; presently he is heard blowing and shouting in the next street.

A Woman.

[Appears at a house door on the right.] Great God of mercy, what is astir?

A Townsman.

[Who has come out, half dressed, from a house on the other side of the street.] The Birchlegs are in the town! Now will Skule have his reward for all his misdeeds.

One of Skule’s Men.

[Enters with some others, bearing their cloaks and weapons on their arms, from a side street on the left.] Where are the Birchlegs?

Another of Skule’s Men.

[Coming from a house on the right.] I know not!

The First.

Hist! Listen!—They must be down at the Geite-bridge!

The Second.

Off to the Geite-bridge then!

[They all rush out to the right; a townsman comes running in from the same side.

The First Townsman.

Hey, neighbour, whence come you?

The Second Townsman.

From down at the Lo-river; there’s ugly work there.

The Woman.

St. Olaf and St. Hallvard! Is it the Birchlegs, or who is it?

The Second Townsman.

Who else but the Birchlegs! King Håkon is with them; the whole fleet is laying in to the wharves; but he himself landed with his best men out at Ekeberg.

The First Townsman.

Then will he take revenge for the slaughter at Låka!

The Second Townsman.

Ay, be sure of that.

The First Townsman.

See, see! The Vårbælgs are flying already!

A troop of Skule’s men enter in full flight, from the right.

One of Them.

Into the church! None can stand against the Birchlegs as they lay about them to-night.

[The troop rushes into the church and bars the door on the inside.

The Second Townsman.

[Looking out to the right.] I see a standard far down the street; it must be King Håkon’s.

The First Townsman.

See, see, how the Vårbælgs are running!

A second troop enters from the right.

One of the Fugitives.

Let us take to the church and pray for grace.

[They rush at the door.

Several Vårbælgs.

’Tis barred! ’tis barred!

The First.

Up over Martestokke then!

Another.

Where is King Skule?

The First.

I know not. Away! yonder I see the Birchlegs standard!

[They flee past the church, out to the left.

Håkon enters from the right with his Standard-bearer, Gregorius Jonsson, Dagfinn the Peasant, and several other men.

Dagfinn.

Hark to the war-cry! Skule is gathering his men behind the churchyard.

An Old Townsman.

[Calls from his porch, to Håkon.] Take heed for yourself, dear my lord; the Vargbælgs are fierce, now they are fighting for life.

Håkon.

Is it you, old Guthorm Erlendsson? You have fought both for my father and for my grandfather.

The Townsman.

Would to God I could fight for you as well.

Håkon.

For that you are too old, and there is no need; men pour in upon me from all sides.

Dagfinn.

[Pointing off over the wall to the right.] There comes the Duke’s standard!

Gregorius Jonsson.

The Duke himself! He rides his white war-horse.

Dagfinn.

We must hinder his passage through the gate here!

Håkon.

Wind the horn, wind the horn! [The Hornblower does so.] You blew better, you whelp, when you blew for money on Bergen wharf.

[The Hornblower winds another blast, louder than the first; many men come rushing in.

A Vårbælg.

[From the right, fleeing towards the church, pursued by a Birchleg.] Spare my life! Spare my life!

The Birchleg.

Not though you sat on the altar! [Cuts him down.] ’Tis a costly cloak you wear, methinks ’twill fit me well. [Is about to take the cloak, but utters a cry and casts away his sword.] My lord King! Not another stroke will I strike for you!

Dagfinn.

You say that in such an hour as this?

The Birchleg.

Not another stroke!

Dagfinn.

[Cuts him down.] Well, you may e’en let it alone.

The Birchleg.

[Pointing to the dead Vårbælg.] Methought I had done enough when I slew my own brother.

[Dies.

Håkon.

His brother!

Dagfinn.

What![Goes up to the Vårbælg’s body.

Håkon.

Is it true?

Dagfinn.

I fear me it is.

Håkon.

[Shaken.] Here see we what a war we are waging. Brother against brother, father against son;—by God Almighty, this must have an end!

Gregorius Jonsson.

There comes the Duke, in full fight with Earl Knut’s troop!

Dagfinn.

Bar the gate against him, king’s men!

On the other side of the wall, the combatants come in sight. The Vårbælgs are forcing their way towards the left, driving the Birchlegs back, foot by foot. King Skule rides his white war-horse, with his sword drawn. Peter walks at his side, holding the horse’s bridle, and with his left hand uplifting a crucifix. Paul Flida bears Skule’s standard, which is blue, with a golden lion rampant, without the axe.⁶

King Skule.

Cut them down! Spare no man! There is come a new heir⁷ to the throne of Norway!

The Birchlegs.

A new heir, said he?

Håkon.

Skule Bårdsson, let us share the kingdom!

King Skule.

All or nought!

Håkon.

Think of the Queen, your daughter!

King Skule.

I have a son, I have a son! I think of none but him!

Håkon.

I too have a son;—if I fall the kingdom will be his!

King Skule.

Slay the King-child, wherever you find it! Slay it on the throne; slay it at the altar; slay it—slay it in the Queen’s arms!

Håkon.

There did you utter your own doom!

King Skule.

[Slashing about him.] Slay, slay without mercy! King Skule has a son! Slay, slay!

[The fighting gradually passes away to the left.

Gregorius Jonsson.

The Vargbælgs are hewing their way through!

Dagfinn.

Ay, but only to flee.

Gregorius Jonsson.

Yes, by Heaven,—the other gate stands open; they are fleeing already!

Dagfinn.

Up towards Martestokke. [Calls out.] After them, after them, Earl Knut! Take vengeance for the slaughter at Låka!

Håkon.

You heard it: he proclaimed my child an outlaw—my innocent child, Norway’s chosen king after me!

The King’s Men.

Ay, ay, we heard it!

Håkon.

And what is the punishment for such a crime?

The Men.

Death!

Håkon.

Then must he die! [Raises his hand to make oath.] Here I swear it: Skule Bårdsson shall die, wherever he be met on unconsecrated ground!

Dagfinn.

’Tis every true man’s duty to slay him.

A Birchleg.

[From the left.] Duke Skule has taken to flight!

The Townsfolk.

The Birchlegs have conquered!

Håkon.

What way?

The Birchleg.

Past Martestokke, up towards Eidsvold; most of them had horses waiting up in the streets, else had not one escaped with his life.

Håkon.

Thanks be to God that has helped us yet again! Now may the Queen safely come ashore from the fleet.

Gregorius Jonsson.

[Points off to the right.] She has already landed, my lord; there she comes!

Håkon.

[To those nearest him.] The heaviest task is yet before me; she is a loving daughter;—listen—no word to her of the danger that threatens her child. Swear to me, one and all, to keep ward over your King’s son; but let her know nothing.

The Men.

[Softly.] We swear it.

Margrete.

[Enters, with ladies and attendants, from the right.] Håkon, my husband! Heaven has shielded you; you have conquered and are unhurt!

Håkon.

Yes, I have conquered. Where is the child?

Margrete.

On board the King’s ship, in the hands of trusty men.

Håkon.

Go more of you thither.

[Some of the men go.

Margrete.

Håkon, where is—Duke Skule?

Håkon.

He has made for the Uplands.

Margrete.

He lives, then!—My husband, may I thank God that he lives?

Håkon.

[In painful agitation.] Hear me, Margrete: you have been a faithful wife to me, you have followed me through good hap and ill, you have been unspeakably rich in love;—now must I cause you a heavy sorrow; I am loath to do it; but I am King, therefore must I——

Margrete.

[In suspense.] Has it to do with—the Duke?

Håkon.

Yes. No bitterer lot could befall me than to live my life far from you; but if you think it must be so after what I now tell you—if you feel that you can no longer sit by my side, no longer look at me without turning pale—well, we must even part—live each alone—and I shall not blame you for it.

Margrete.

Part from you! How can you think such a thought? Give me your hand——!

Håkon.

Touch it not!—It has even now been lifted in oath——

Margrete.

In oath?

Håkon.

An oath that set its sacred seal upon a death-warrant.

Margrete.

[With a shriek.] My father! Oh, my father!

[Totters; two women rush forward to support her.

Håkon.

Yes, Margrete—his King has doomed your father to death.

Margrete.

Then well I know he has committed a greater crime than when he took the kingly title.

Håkon.

That has he;—and now, if you feel that we must part, so let it be.

Margrete.

[Coming close to him, firmly.] We can never part! I am your wife, nought else in the world but your wife!

Håkon.

Are you strong enough? Did you hear and understand all? I have doomed your father.

Margrete.

I heard and understood. You have doomed my father.

Håkon.

And you ask not to know what was his crime?

Margrete.

’Tis enough that you know it.

Håkon.

But it was to death that I doomed him!

Margrete.

[Kneels before the King, and kisses his hand.] My husband and noble lord, your doom is just!