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Entering her hiding place in the grove, a damsel overhears a man in hunters’ clothing cursing himself for his sentimentality.
‘Good day. Methinks you called yourself Jørgen?’ she greets the unexpected guest.
The name is only a small thing altogether, only like a drop in the sea, and yet it is enough to incite the answer: ‘I am not called Jørgen. I am Rane Jonsen.’ Immediately Rane wants to bite off his tongue—he will be broken on the wheel when the gentlewoman calls to her chaperon.
‘Poor you.’ The maiden’s response is unanticipated. ‘I am Kirsten Alvsdatter,’ she relates in exchange, gesturing for them to be seated amid the holt, the field and the new-mown meadow.
‘You do not condemn King Erik Klipping’s slayers?’
‘It takes a particular sort of king to so short-change and offend his nobles that he was forced to sign a håndfæstning,’ Kirsten evaluates.
‘Mayhap you, young and innocent girl, would change your mind had you met King Erik in person,’ Rane insinuates, then regrets his acrimony at once—the damsel has been nought but cordial to him. What is it about this brown hind—young lady——Rane corrects his language—that I keep being rude to her? ‘I beg your pardon. That was uncalled for.’
‘I heard that a young woman brought King Erik’s sword that night, that she had been a ladies’ maid at court shortly before, and that you had been wooing her before she went to court. You saw her bringing the sword as you all rode from Finderup, didn’t you?’ Kirsten conjectures. ‘That was the quietus for you.’
Rane does not refute the surmise. ‘I was not aware that the bait that the cloister folk had told me resided in the hut at Viborg Heath was Aase, else I would not have Erik break her peace again.’
You are kinder than I am, Kirsten reflects. Out of respect for a gentleman’s courtesy, she holds back the words ‘She was not worth it’, instead observing, ‘The virgin Cæcilia’s night. You have a sense of humour, Rane Jonsen.’ Seeing an ironic smile grace Rane’s lips, she enquires, ‘There was a misreckoning, wasn’t there? Finderup—it does not seem a little nest with which you would be familiar.’
For the first time in … how long has it been? ..., Rane bursts into genuine laughter at how the maiden reads him like an open book. ‘If only I had met you earlier, Kirsten Alvsdatter.
‘Princess Hedevig is a sweet lady, but I do not have special affections for her; I simply thought it would form a good match. Now I am made less than Aase.’
‘You would still have been driven to the deed for Marsk Stig,’ Kirsten asserts.
‘How do you know me better than I know myself, Kirsten Alvsdatter?’ There is no sarcasm in Rane’s words, merely wonder.
‘You know I have family at court who would tell tales of the king’s swains, of Marsk Stig’s victory at the Battle of Hova and the fair bride of his youth.’
‘Mother always said that Aunt Ingeborg was too innocent and that innocence would cause the lily to lie in the dust. She was so happy when Aunt Ingeborg married Stig—she said that Stig was the only man who would forgive Aunt Ingeborg regardless of any scandal her innocence might bring upon him and give his own life to avenge her honour. It was why Stig was allowed to marry into the Hvide clan and bear its name, and he did it proud. I wanted to warn Stig that evening, but he bade his farewell too soon,’ Rane recalls. ‘I am reminded of Count Jakob’s words: “Enough, and yet only a small thing altogether, only like a drop in the sea, but…” Was our deed worth it, that Denmark should burn in the east and in the west?’
‘Poor Stig and his daughters—your cousins, the groves’ roses—that the king first burnt in the heath,’ Kirsten pities.
‘The elder resembles Ingeborg, and I fear for her fate. The younger takes after Stig—she will survive,’ Rane forebodes. ‘Stig says that I long for Gjorslev too much, and that longing will cause me to be wheeled.’
He turns away from Kirsten to contemplate the grove’s roses. Around them sing birds for one who roves the woods to catch and berries for him to gather, and the most appealing berries are the young lady’s red lips, but Rane no longer thinks of hunting birds.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Kirsten,’ he bids farewell. What is wrong with me? I had not meant to be so cold to her.
Rane has just turned away from her when he feels the heat of lips on his own, and twists himself away from them.
‘Do you realise what you are doing, Kirsten Alvsdatter?’ Gently, he adds, ‘You cannot imagine what it is like to be sorely severed both from friends and kinsmen.
‘Let me sing you a song.’ Rane attempts to assuage Kirsten.
‘It was the virgin Svanelil,
she wanted to go to Lauds;
then struck the merman his harp,
so swift she halted her walk.
She wanted to the church to go
by the beach’s wet seaweed,
deafened was though her li’l ear
to all that the nuns did sing.
All the bells they did ring,
all the small boys did sing,
but the virgin
she listened to the harp.
…
The third time did he the harp strike,
was Svanelil in the dance too;
she forgot about the Lauds hour,
she swivelled without peace.
She danced away her cape of blue,
she sprang in two her shoe,
soon in the merman’s own arms,
she did dance away her faith.’
‘You sang it to warn Ingeborg, didn’t you? But I know in whom, Rane, my faith lies,’ Kirsten affirms.
‘Your mother and father will not let me have you as bride.’
‘They will let you take me if you threaten to burn all their estate,’ Kirsten divulges sorrowfully, ‘but let me be the shameful daughter who eloped.’
‘Brown hind, don’t let yourself be caught,’ Rane whispers to her, severing himself from her touch.
‘On the coat of arms of the Rani family is an antler,’ Kirsten murmurs.
And Rane has lost to her argument.
