The Trial of Sören Qvist. Janet Lewis
pressed her old lips more firmly together. The beggar continued to stare into the fire. Not for the world would she let him know what tenderness, what sense of loss the mention of that name brought into this hour of fear and dislike. She closed her eyelids slowly to press away the tears that gathered; opened them again upon a blurred figure in the firelight.
The coming of Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen and Pastor Juste changed all this. An eddy of damp air entered with them and made the chimney smoke. Vibeke ran to take the judge’s cloak, to help the pastor off with his boots. At Thorwaldsen’s command she drew up a trestle table to the middle of the floor, set chairs, brought candles, replenished the fire. The low roof seemed lower still because of the height of Thorwaldsen’s figure, and the room smaller because of the shift of furniture.
“We will have light,” said the judge, “so that I can look well at this man. And, Pastor, fetch your paper and ink. We will have a record of all that is said. Sit here by the table, Pastor. Vibeke, set the lights here.”
The door being shut, the chimney drew properly again. The air cleared. The candle flames steadied themselves. Vibeke brought a pewter mug of beer and set it by the fire to warm for Judge Tryg Thorwaldsen. They began with the examination.
“It is established,” said Pastor Juste, “that we have here a man who declares himself to be Niels, the brother of Morten Bruus, lately of Ingvorstrup in the parish of Vejlby. He further deposes that he left the province of Jutland in nutting time in the autumn before the defeat of King Christian, whom God save, at Lutter-am-Barenberge. That would have been, then, shall we say, in October 1625?”
The judge nodded. “As you say, Pastor Juste.” The beggar also assented.
“Then, having been a soldier for seven years, off and on, he lost an arm at Lützen, and that would be in 1632.”
Again Tryg nodded and the beggar copied him.
“He then begged his bread throughout the German duchies, as also in Bohemia and in Slesvig-Holstein, for the space of fourteen years. He is now returned to Aalsö parish in the month of November, and the year 1646, to lay claim to the fortune of his brother Morten. He has as yet called upon no one living and able to identify him.”
“Write that all down,” said Tryg, and after a pause the pastor answered, “It is written.”
“And now, Master Thorwaldsen,” said the beggar, “do you not remember Niels Bruus?”
“You could be Niels,” said Thorwaldsen. “Or you could not be. I was present when they buried the body of Niels—so called.”
The beggar grinned at that, and Tryg said, “I hope that you understand that it is a serious matter for you to represent yourself as someone other than you are. You stand in the way of a heavy penalty if you should fail to prove yourself Niels Bruus.”
“Anna Sörensdaughter will identify me,” said the beggar with confidence.
The judge looked at him for a long moment without stirring, almost as if he had not spoken. Then he said, “Let me question you a little. You have asked us to remember Niels. If you are Niels, you will remember something of Vejlby, and of Aalsö. You were a boy here. Did you do your catechism with Pastor Qvist?”
The beggar shook his head. “With Pastor Peder Korf,” he said, and added piously, “I did it none too well, more’s the pity.”
“But why not with Pastor Sören?” inquired the judge. “You were of his parish.”
The beggar shrugged his shoulders. “We were none too good friends with Pastor Sören when I was a boy. Morten had quarrels with him, and Morten sent me to Pastor Korf. I did not always come when I was sent.”
The judge considered this awhile and then said, “You must have known Vejlby well, however. Tell me something of Vejlby. The inn there—tell me, what was the name of the inn at Vejlby and where did it stand?”
“That is easy,” said the beggar. “Everyone knows that the name of the inn was the Red Horse, and it stood on the market street, facing the east.”
Juste Pedersen was about to interrupt, when Tryg checked him with a motion of his hand.
“Was there anything else you can remember about the Red Horse Inn?” he inquired.
The beggar had a faint smile. “It was also called the Sign of the Three-legged Horse,” he said.
“He is wrong enough there,” said Pastor Juste, “but he has probably been at a great many inns in his day, and perhaps we should not reckon this too seriously.”
“But he is not wrong,” said the judge. “When the Germans came, they burned the inn, and the new inn stands, as you are thinking, in quite another spot and has another name, but the old inn stood, as he says, on the market street facing east, and the artist who made the sign, for reasons of his own, painted the red horse with three legs.” He reached into his pocket for a white linen handkerchief and wiped his hands upon it nervously. “In a horse-trading country, Pastor Juste, you will grant that even the churls remember a horse with three legs. But your memory is not always so clear,” he said, turning again to the beggar, “and one thing else puzzles me. Why have you not asked Vibeke Andersdaughter to identify you?”
“Ah, she,” said the beggar. “I have been a long time trying to remember her name. I know now. She was Pastor Sören’s housekeeper in the old days. She has changed. She is old now. Besides, I never paid much attention to her.”
Tryg looked at Vibeke. She answered slowly, “He might be Niels Bruus. I think he is Niels Bruus.”
“Well, am I not Niels Bruus now?” demanded the beggar. “You say so—Vibeke says so.”
“There is nothing so far,” said Tryg very slowly, “to prove that you are not Niels Bruus. The whole matter now lies in how honest an explanation you can give . . .” He paused, and the beggar took the words out of his mouth.
“Of the corpse in the garden, eh? Well, I will tell you.”
“Speak a little slowly,” said Juste. “I cannot write too fast.”
“Well,” said the beggar, “as you know, I was a servant to Pastor Sören Qvist.”
“Tell me,” said Tryg curiously, “you that left Jutland because you were afraid of Morten, were you never afraid of Pastor Sören?”
“Oh no,” said the beggar promptly. “The pastor was a good man. Even when he was angry, and struck me, I was not afraid of him, for he was still a good man. But Morten—Morten had always a kind of devil in him. Even when we were children I was always afraid of him. He was always much cleverer than I. He was older, too, and more handsome, but he was always cleverer. And always I did what he told me to. So when he told me to plague the pastor and make him angry; I did. Then Morten rewarded me. Morten did not love the pastor. Do you understand?”
“I begin to understand,” said Thorwaldsen. “Go on.”
“Then one day I made Pastor angry and he knocked me down. I remember it was nutting time. I ran home to Morten and told him what had happened, and he praised me and gave me good food. Then he locked me up. I thought that was strange, but Morten was cleverer than I. Master Thorwaldsen, cannot I have one swig from your mug? It makes me thirsty to talk so much.”
The judge swore under his breath, but pushed the pewter mug toward the beggar, who drank, and drank again. Finally he set the mug on the table, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his crimson doublet, and went on with his story.
“Morten locked me up until midnight. This was at Ingvorstrup. Then he came, and he gave me a spade to carry. We went out toward Revn, and beyond, as well as I could tell, but we stopped at a crossroads. There was a suicide buried, not many days before. Morten said dig, and I dug, but Morten pulled the body out of the ground. I was frightened. I had not been a soldier then. I was not used to such things. Neither had the suicide been exorcised.” He shuddered, and Vibeke crossed herself.
“We