“King Christopher I of Denmark is at the city gate. He has been defeated by rebels in a battle at Skelskør, and now he seeks refuge inside the walls of Copenhagen. But Bishop Erlandsen is no friend of the king and the drawbridge is not lowered.
“The wind sings the same song as the bishop: ‘Stay away! The door is locked!’ ”
“It is a time of unrest: hard times when each man trusts only himself. From the tower flies the banner of Holstein. The country is wracked by war and war’s brother, the Black Plague. It is a night of sorrow and fear that seems endless. But then there is a new king. His name is Valdemar and he is called by the people ‘Atterdag’—for during his reign it became ‘again day’ in Denmark.
“Copenhagen is no longer a bishop’s town, it is under the Crown. More houses have been built, more narrow streets have been laid, and these are guarded at night by watchmen. There is a town hall, and near the western gate has been erected a gallows made of bricks. In order to be hanged there and enjoy the view of the wide bay, you have to have been born in Copenhagen; strangers are not given such a privilege.
“ ‘It is a beautiful gallows,’ sighs the northeast wind. ‘The sun rays were right: how the beautiful does flourish!’
“And from Germany there came trouble and want. It was the Hanseatic League,” explained Godfather, “rich merchants from Rostock, Lübeck, and Bremen. King Valdemar had put a golden goose on the tower of his castle at Vordingborg to make fun of them. But soon these ‘geese’ ruled more of Denmark than did the king.
“A fleet was sailing toward Copenhagen. King Erik, the grandson of Valdemar, did not have the courage or the will to fight against his German relatives. The enemy were so well armed and there were so many of them. Taking his men with him, the king fled to Sorø: the town by the gentle lake, near the quiet forest, where he spent his days amusing himself and his court to the sound of love songs and the clinking of glasses.
“But one member of the court had remained in the city, a person with a royal heart and a regal soul. Look at the picture of her. She was delicate, almost fragile, with eyes as blue as the ocean and yellow hair. She was Queen Philippa of Denmark, who had once been an English princess. She had stayed behind in the fear-ridden city, with its narrow streets and lanes, its earthen-walled huts and stalls. The people did not know whether it was wiser to leave or to remain within the city. The queen called the peasants, the merchants, and the tradesmen together. She quieted their fears and gave them courage. Boats were manned and armed; the defenses of the city were restored. A battle was fought and God gave the people of Copenhagen victory. The sun shone again over their city. Blessed be Philippa! She went everywhere—into the huts, the hovels, the houses. She ordered that the wounded be brought to her own castle, where she herself helped nurse them. I have cut out a picture of a laurel wreath and pasted it above her,” said Godfather. “God bless you, Queen Philippa!”
“Now we leap forward in time,” explained Godfather. “Christian I has returned from Rome, where he has been blessed by the Pope. A great brick building is being erected. Here learning will have its seat, and here not Danish but Latin will be spoken. The poor men’s sons can study here too. They leave the plow and the workshop behind, to make their way begging. In long black capes they stand before the rich merchant’s house singing and waiting for alms.
“Nearby, in a humbler building, Danish is spoken and Danish customs are observed. Beer porridge when you arise and dinner at ten in the morning. The sun shines in through the tiny windows and dances on the shelves of the larder and the shelves of the bookcase, where true treasures stand: Mikkel’s The Rosary of Our Lady and his Divine Comedy; Henrik Harpenstreng’s Book of Healing; and the verse chronicles, which tell the history of Denmark, that were written down by a monk in Sorø, Brother Niels.
“ ‘Any Dane who can read should read these books,’ says the master of the house. He is the man who makes that possible: a Dutchman named Gotfred van Gehmen. He is the first one to practice in Denmark that black, that blessed art of book printing.
“Now books are to be found not only in the royal castles but in the houses of ordinary citizens as well. Proverbs and folk songs have been given eternal life. What men have not dared utter—whether in sorrow or in joy—the folk song, saying it covertly and yet clearly, has expressed. It is a bird whose wings never have been clipped. It flies freely in the one small room of the peasant’s hovel and through the halls of the mighty. As a falcon it sits on the noble lady’s hand, as a sparrow it chirps in the hut of the serf.
“ ‘It is idle talk! It is prattle!’ cries the northeast wind.
“ ‘It is spring,’ say the sun rays. ‘Can’t you see that everything is in bloom?’ ”
“We turn the page of our picture book,” said Godfather. “See how beautiful Copenhagen looks! Tournaments are being held, and contests and games. There is a procession: noble knights in armor and their ladies dressed in silk, embroidered with gold. King Hans is marrying his daughter Elisabeth to the Duke of Brandenburg. Look how young and happy she is as she stands on the velvet carpet. She is thinking of her future. Near her stands her brother, Prince Christian. In his eyes there is melancholy. He has a passionate nature. He is the friend of merchants and tradesmen, and he knows of their troubles and of the misery of the poor.
“Only God can give us happiness!”
“On the next page of our picture book,” Godfather says, “the wind is blowing hard and it is sharp; it sounds like a sword that is being swung. It is a time of strife, of civil war.
“It is an ice-cold day in April. There is a crowd of people in front of the king’s castle. There are also people gathering at the old customs house, near which the royal ship is lying at anchor. There are people in the windows and on the roofs, but no one is smiling. They stare sadly and intently at the castle. There is no dancing, no feasting inside; it looks as if it were empty, abandoned. No one is to be seen in the bow window where King Christian II used to stand, to look across the drawbridge and up Kings Row to the little house where his ‘dove’ lived. Who knows whether the young Dutch girl whom he loved so dearly was poisoned by Thorben Oxe, who has been beheaded for the crime?
“Now the great portal of the castle opens. The drawbridge is lowered. There is King Christian II. His wife, Queen Elisabeth, stands beside him. She will not desert her royal husband now that he has been deserted by everyone else.
“He is a man who behaves rashly and thinks rashly. He wants to break time-honored laws. He wishes to free the peasant and protect the artisan. He has tried to clip the wing of the ‘greedy falcon’—as the nobility were called in the folk songs. But they are stronger than he is and that is why he is leaving Denmark now: to seek aid abroad. There are tears in the eyes of the citizens of Copenhagen, for they must part with their king.
“There are other voices that want to tell of the times. Some speak for and others speak against him. There are three parts in the chorus. Listen to the words of the nobility; they were written down and printed:
“ ‘Woe to you, King Christian, who ordered the blood bath of Stockholm in which our noble cousins of Sweden were slaughtered. Cursed be your name!’
“The monks shout in agreement: ‘God condemns you and we condemn you! You have brought the heresy of Martin Luther into the churches of Denmark. You have let the Devil’s tongue speak from the pulpit. Cursed be your name!’
“But the commoners—the merchants, the peasants, the artisans—weep bitterly. ‘Christian is the friend of the people. He made laws that the peasants could not be treated like cattle, that a man could not be traded for a hunting dog. These laws will witness of your virtue.’ But the words of the poor are like chaff.
“The ship sails past the castle, and the people have climbed up on the walls of the city to get a last glimpse of their king.”
“Hard times pass slowly. Do not trust your kith and even less your kin. King Christian’s uncle, Frederik of Holstein, would rather be king than help his nephew. The realm
falls into his hands; only Copenhagen still remains loyal to King Christian II. Duke Frederik lays siege to the city. ‘Loyal Copenhagen,’ the long months of its suffering have been described in song and in story.
“You want to know what happened to King Christian—‘the lonely eagle’ as the folk songs called him?” asks Godfather. “Birds fly far and wide over land and sea. The stork came from the south one spring and told of what he had seen:
“ ‘I saw King Christian in flight across the great heath in northern Germany. There he met a woman in a cart pulled by an old nag; that woman was his sister, who had been the Duchess of Brandenburg. Her husband had driven her from his home because she had remained true to the teachings of Martin Luther. On the dark heath met the two children of King Hans of Denmark, who in those times of unrest could trust neither their kith nor their kin.’
“The swallow came from Sønderborg Castle and sang its lament. ‘King Christian has been betrayed. He is in a dungeon as deep as a well; there he is imprisoned. He walks round and round in his cell. His feet are wearing a furrow in the stone floor as his thumb makes a groove in the marble table.’
“The fish hawk flies over the open sea. There he has seen the ship of the brave Søren Nordby, who fights for King Christian II. So far luck has been with him, but luck is like the wind and the weather, subject to change.
“In Jutland and on the island of Fyn the ravens and the crows call: ‘All goes well. War is good!’ There are corpses of both horses and men for them to feed upon.
“No one feels safe; the peasant keeps a bludgeon and the townsman a sharp knife, and both of them agree, ‘Kill the wolves and let none of their cubs survive.’ Clouds of smoke drift across the land from burning towns. There is civil war!
“Duke Frederik took the title of king but did not live long enough to enjoy it. Now his son Christian carries on the fight. The old King Christian II is still a prisoner in Sønderborg Castle. He will never be set free, never again see his loyal city of Copenhagen.
“The young King Christian III stands where his father stood, at the gates of Copenhagen. Despair reigns within the hunger-ridden city. Leaning against the wall of the Church of Our Lady is a woman.… No, it is the body of a woman, and two living, starving children are sucking blood from her dead breasts.
“ ‘Loyal Copenhagen!’ Its resistance is dying, its courage is gone.”
“Listen to the trumpets and the drums, they are playing a fanfare. Dressed splendidly in silk and velvet, on horses with gilded reins, the noblemen are riding through the streets of Copenhagen on their way to the market place. The tradesmen and the merchants and the peasants are dressed in their best clothes and are walking in the same direction. Is there to be a fair? Or a tournament as there used to be in earlier times? What else could be about to happen? Is there to be a bonfire, a burning of popish books? Or is the executioner there, waiting to bind a heretic to the stake, as he has Bishop Slaghoek?
“Christian III, the ruler of Denmark, is a Protestant, a Lutheran. This is to be made known, proclaimed throughout the land.
“Noble ladies, with high white collars and little caps with pearls embroidered on them, watch the spectacle from their windows. Under a canopy stand the king’s council; they are wearing the clothes that tradition demands of their office. In the center on the throne sits King Christian III, but he is silent. The chief of the council reads the decrees; they have been written in Danish, not in Latin. They are hard words, words composed in anger, words of judgment against the people for their opposition to the nobility.
“The merchants and the tradesmen lose their rights, the peasants become slaves. Then the churchmen—the monks, the priests, the bishops—are stripped of their wealth and power. The property of the Church of Rome is divided between the king and the nobility.
“Hate and arrogance are having their day. Pride rules and it is a pitiful sight.
“The poor bird comes hobbling and limping,
Hobbling and limping.
The rich bird comes soaring and flying,
Soaring and flying.
“In times of change, dark clouds obscure the heavens, but even then, the sunlight does sometimes break through. Hans Tausen and Petrus Palladius, which is only the Latin for the Danish Peter Plade, are both sons of poor blacksmiths. Hans, who is from the island of Fyn, becomes known as Denmark’s Martin Luther. Petrus Palladius, once a poor lad from Jutland, is Bishop of Roskilde. Also among the nobility there is a name worth remembering: Hans Friis, Lord Chancellor of Denmark, who did his best to lighten the lot of the students. King Christian III did much for the university. Yes, there were sun rays even in those dark, dismal times.”
“A new page and a new era. Near the coast of Samsø, a mermaid with sea-green hair, rises out of the water and sings to a peasant a song about a prince who will soon be born and who will be a great King.
“A legend tells that this prince was born in the open fields, beneath a hawthorn tree. There are many songs and legends about King Christian IV, for of all the kings of Denmark, he was the most loved. Remembered he will be, for all the most beautiful buildings in Copenhagen were built in his time and planned by the king himself. Who does not know them? Rosenborg, “the castle of the roses,” as beautiful as the flower that gave it its name; the Stock Exchange with its great spire of three intertwined dragons’ tails; the dormitories near the university where the students could live; the Round Tower, like a pillar of Urania, pointing upwards toward the sky.
“From there you can see the island of Hveen, where once stood the Castle of Urania, with its cupolas glittering in the moonlight. Within that castle lived the great astronomer Tycho Brahe. He was of noble blood and mermaids sang of him, too. Their songs told of the kings and the others—those whom the spirit of knowledge had ennobled—who had come to the island to visit this great man. He lifted Denmark’s name so high that he inscribed it in the heavens; yet Denmark was not grateful and he lived in exile. In his sorrow, to dull his pain, he wrote: ‘Isn’t heaven above me everywhere, what more need I ask?’
“His poems and songs have the spirit of the folk song within them, the same spirit that the mermaid’s song of Christian IV has.”
“Now this page of the book I want you to look at very carefully,” said Godfather. “There are many pictures on it, as there are many verses in the old sagas. It is a story that starts very happily and ends very sadly.
“Here is the first picture. You see a little princess dancing in a king’s castle. Now she sits down on her father’s lap. King Christian IV loves his daughter Eleanora. As she grows older her feminine charm and steadfast character become more apparent. Already as a child she has been engaged to young Corfits Ulfeldt, the most noble of all the noblemen. Her governess is strict, and the girl complains to her future husband that she uses the rod too much; and he defends her. She is so clever, so learned. She knows Greek and Latin. She accompanies herself on the lute while she sings in Italian. She can discuss religion, talk about Martin Luther and the Pope.
“King Christian IV rests in his grave chamber in the cathedral at Roskilde. Now Eleanora’s brother is king. His court is known for its elegance and its pomp; the beautiful Sophie Amalie of Lüneburg—now Queen of Denmark–sets the style. Amid the courtly splendor, is there anyone more enchanting than the queen? Does anyone ride a horse more daringly than Her Majesty? Can anyone speak more spiritedly and with more knowledge than Denmark’s queen?
“ ‘Eleanora Christine Ulfeldt!’ answered the French ambassador, and then adds, ‘In beauty and intelligence, she is superior to everyone.’
“On the polished dance floors of the castle, the thorns of envy take root; they enter the skin, they hurt; they cannot be removed and around the insult vengeance grows. ‘She is a whore child. She may not drive across the drawbridge in her carriage; where a queen rides, she may only walk.’ Slander, gossip, accusations, and lies fly like snowflakes in a snowstorm.
“One still night, Corfits Ulfeldt takes his wife by the
hand and leads her to the city gate, of which he has the key. Outside horses are waiting. They ride along the beach. A ship awaits them and they sail for Sweden.”
“Now we turn the page,” said Godfather, “just as fortune turned against these two.
“It is autumn. The days are short and the nights are long. It is wet and gray. On the ramparts around the city stand full-grown trees. The wind plays with the withered leaves that still cling to the branches. Leaves fall into the yard behind Peder Oxe’s great house; it stands empty. The wind plays around the home of Kai Lykke, near the harbor; it has been converted into a jail, its master lives in exile. His coat of arms has been broken in two and his portrait hanged on the gallows.
“You are wondering why all this has happened,” remarked Godfather, and raised his eyes from the picture book. “I’ll tell you. It is because one cannot speak disrespectfully of the Queen of Denmark and go unpunished.
“Where is Corfits Ulfeldt, once Lord Chancellor of Denmark? The wind howls like a pack of wolves. It blows across a flat field where once his castle stood. Stone by stone, it was taken down until there was only one large piece of granite left standing. The wind laughs. ‘That is one of the boulders that I loaded on an ice floe in Norway and blew south. It stranded on the sandbank that became “Thieves’ Island.” I cursed it. Later it was used in the building of Ulfeldt’s Castle, inside whose walls his wife sang to the lute and read Greek and Latin. She strutted about proudly; now only the stone struts, it is so proud of its inscription:
“Erected in memory of the traitor,
Corfits Ulfeldt, to his everlasting
shame, disgrace, and dishonor.