said. “Now I think I understand you better. You have envied your masters your whole life, eh? But you are a good fellow and an obedient servant. Thus have you ever been a favorite of mine. Well, perhaps Father Maltar will have eels after all and you will so lower yourself and your pride as to share them with me.”
“Father Maltar will have no eels.”
“We shall see.”
{ Chapter Thirteen }
THE SINFUL LIFE AT COPENHAGEN
I WAS NEARLY FROZEN TO MY VERY SOUL BY THE TIME Christian and I walked through the door of St. Ibb’s. We stumbled to the font, pulled off our gloves to genuflect, and knelt to the crucifix. I thought how lucky Christ had been to live in Galilee where it is ever warm. Had He been buried in Denmark, our Lord may well have remained in His tomb.
Father Maltar sat on his bench, warm by the stove at the rear of the chapel. He gave a black look after he recognized me. When he saw that I was with the prince, he rose to bow slightly to Christian and then settled down again on his bench. I moved to the blessed warm atmosphere of the stove while Christian piled greetings and flattery upon the old man.
“I heard a rumor that you were too elderly to maintain your parish, but clearly this is mere slander,” Christian said. “I do not think you have aged a minute since I first laid an eye upon you, Father.”
“I was old then,” Maltar said. “I am much older now, my lord. I am ancient.”
“Nonsense, Father. You have a clear eye and a strong voice. I had expected a withered leaf of a man, not a stout oak. You are yet a powerful warrior of Christ.”
“I am a barrel of lard, you mean.” Maltar put a wounded tone into his voice, but he smiled at the prince.
“You do not waste away and that is an excellent piece of news, Father.”
“As you insist, my lord.” Maltar raised a hand as if to ward off any further praise. “Tell me, my lord, what do you at St. Ibb’s?”
“I come to confess.”
“My lord?”
“I have joined good Soren’s party out at the old Brahe manor and must take the sacraments here, Father. I am not shriven since going into battle at Copenhagen, and I would confess myself to you, if you will do me the duty.”
Maltar did not seem to know what to think of this request. He sat on his bench with eyes half closed and shook his heavy head.
“You recall how to take confession?” Christian prompted him.
“I do, my lord.” Maltar blinked slowly, an old bear caught hibernating in his den. “Is not the bishop of Copenhagen your confessor, my lord?”
“He is. The bishop is a most excellent fellow. My mother is fond of him also.”
“I doubt it nothing.” Maltar turned his face away from the prince. “My lord, I cannot take your confession. The bishop is a nobleman, but I am not. Before I found my calling, I was the son of a journeyman stevedore who worked Elsinore’s wharves. Men such as I, even though we wear cassock and Roman collar, are not fit to be in your confidence. Go to Copenhagen to be shriven, my lord. Or at least to Elsinore. Father Olaf is a gentleman. I am proud to be a peasant and a priest, but I am still a peasant.”
The old man was talking rubbish. He wanted the crown prince of Denmark to beg him to be his confessor. He would brag about it for years to come.
“You are a priest,” I said. “Do your priestly duty as your lord commands.”
“Peace, Soren.” Christian sat next to Maltar and I wondered that the bench did not break beneath them. The prince laid his hands atop Maltar’s. “Good Father, I recall how you petitioned the king to have St. Ibb’s restored when the roof was falling in and the altar damaged by weather. I recall with what solemn piety you did entreat my father to restore God’s house, comparing the king to that venerable saint from Assisi. You are a more noble man than I am, Father, and I humbly beseech you to hear my confession this morning.”
Maltar inclined his immense head and stared at the floor. He breathed deeply and I thought again that he slept, but he arched an eyebrow and looked slyly at the prince.
“My lord, you honor me with this. I am yours to command. Hven is ever grateful