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Title: The Boy and the Baron
Author: Adeline Knapp
Release Date: October 9, 2021 [eBook #66498]
Language: English
Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY AND THE BARON ***
THE BOY AND
THE BARON
[Illustration: “THE TWO KNIGHTS WHEELED THEIR HORSES AND DASHED AT EACH
OTHER AGAIN AND AGAIN.”]
[Illustration]
S^T. NICHOLAS BOOKS
THE BOY AND THE BARON
_BY_ ADELINE KNAPP
NEW YORK · THE CENTURY CO · MCMII
Copyright, 1901, 1902, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published October, 1902_
THE DEVINNE PRESS
TO
MERODINE KEELER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I WHAT THE CHILDREN SAW FROM THE PLAYGROUND ON THE PLATEAU 3
II HOW KARL THE ARMORER TOOK THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE
FROM AMONG THE OSIERS 19
III HOW WULF FARED AT KARL THE ARMORER’S HUT 26
IV OF HOW WULF FIRST WENT TO THE CASTLE, AND WHAT BEFELL 39
V HOW WULF WENT TO THE SWARTZBURG, AND OF HIS BEGINNING
THERE 60
VI HOW CONRADT PLOTTED MISCHIEF, AND HOW WULF WON A FRIEND 73
VII HOW WULF CLIMBED THE IVY TOWER, AND WHAT HE SAW AT THE
BARRED WINDOW 86
VIII HOW BARON EVERHARDT WAS OUTLAWED, AND HOW WULF HEARD OF
THE BABY IN THE OSIERS 101
IX OF THE ILL NEWS THAT THE BARON BROKE TO HIS MAIDEN WARD,
AND OF HOW SHE TOOK THAT SAME 115
X HOW WULF TOOK ELISE FROM THE SWARTZBURG 132
XI WHAT THE FUGITIVES FURTHER SAW IN THE FOREST, AND HOW THEY
CAME TO ST. URSULA AND MET THE EMPEROR 145
XII HOW WULF TOOK THE EMPEROR’S MESSAGE TO KARL OF THE FORGE 161
XIII HOW WORD OF HIS DANGER CAME TO WULF AT THE FORGE 173
XIV OF THE GREAT BATTLE THAT WAS FOUGHT, AND OF HOW WULF SAVED
THE DAY 187
XV HOW THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE WAS BROUGHT TO LIGHT 198
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The two knights wheeled their horses and dashed at each
other again and again _Frontispiece_
The shining stranger held in front of him a good-sized
burden 9
Putting horn to lip, he blew four great blasts 15
The forest’s small wild life constantly came in at the
open door 33
The boy began patting the broad neck of the charger 53
Wulf could naught but fend and parry with his stick 77
Lowering himself farther, he came upon a narrow casement
nearly overgrown with ivy 97
Then the baron gripped her by the arm 125
With the head of his battle-ax he struck it a blow that
sent it inward 177
The emperor laid drawn sword across his bowed shoulders 207
THE BOY AND
THE BARON
CHAPTER I
WHAT THE CHILDREN SAW FROM THE PLAYGROUND ON THE PLATEAU
One sunny forenoon in the month of May, something over six hundred years
ago, some children were playing under the oak-trees that grew in little
companies here and there in a pleasant meadow on a high plateau. This
meadow was part of a great table-land overlooking a wide stretch of
country. It was hedged along the west with white-thorn, setting it off
from the tillage on the other side, and on the east it dipped to the
bank of a little stream fringed with willows and low bushes. The south
side descended in a steep cliff, and up and down its slope the huts of a
little village seemed to climb along the stony path that led to the
plateau. Farther away lines of dark forest stretched off out of sight,
in solid walls that looked almost black over against the bright green of
meadow and field and the rich brown of the tilled land. On all sides
were mountains, covered with trees or crowned with snow, from which,
when the sun went down, the wind blew chill. Beyond the stream a highway
climbed the valley, and the children could see, from their playground,
the place where it issued from the edge of the wood. They could not
follow its windings very far beyond the plateau, however, for it soon
bent off to the left and wound up a narrow pass among the hills.
Toward the north, and far overhead, rose the grim walls and towers of
the great castle that watched the pass and sheltered the little village
on the cliffside. Those were rude, stern times, and the people in the
village were often glad of the protection which the castle gave from
attacks by stranger invaders; but they paid for their security, from
time to time, when the defenders themselves sallied forth upon the
hamlet and took toll from its flocks and herds.
It was “the evil time when there was no emperor” in Germany. Of real
rule there was none in the land, but every man held his life in his own
charge. Knights sworn to deeds of mercy and bravery, returning from the
holy war which waged to uphold Christ’s name at Jerusalem, were undone
by the lawlessness of the times, and, forgetful of all knightly vows,
turned robbers and foes where they should have been warders and helpers.
The lesser nobles and landholders were become freebooters and
plunderers, while the common people, pillaged and oppressed by these,
had few rights and less freedom, as must always be the case with peoples
or with single souls where there is no strong law, fended and loved by
those whom it is meant to help.
The children under the oak-trees played at knights and robbers.
Neighboring the meadow was the common pasture, where tethered goats and
sheep, and large, slow cattle, stood them as great flocks and caravans
to sally out upon and harry. Now and again a party would break forth
from one clump of trees to raid their playmates in a pretended village
within another. Of storming castles, or of real knights’ play, they knew
naught; for they were of the common people, poor working-folk sunk to a
state but little above thraldom, and heard, in the guarded talk of their
elders, stories only of the robber knights’ dark acts, never of deeds
daring and true, such as belong to unspotted knighthood.
As the whole company lay in make-believe ambush among the shrubbery near
the edge of the plateau, Ludovic, the oldest boy, suddenly called to
them to look where, from the forest, a figure on horseback was coming
out upon the highway.
“See,” Ludovic cried. “Yonder comes a sightly knight. Look, Hansei, at
his shining armor and his glittering lance.”
“He is none of hereabout,” nodded Hansei, flashing his wide blue eyes
upon the gleaming figure. “My lord’s men-at-arms are none so shining
fair. Whence may he be, Ludovic?”
“How should I know?” asked Ludovic, testily, with the older boy’s
vexation when a youngster asks him that which he cannot answer.
“Small chance he bringeth good,” added he, “wherever he be from; but, in
any case, let us lie here until he passes.”
“He weareth a long, ruddy beard,” said keen-eyed Gretel, as a slight
bend in the road brought the knight full-facing the group. “Oh,
Ludovic,” she suddenly cried, “what if it should be Barbarossa, come to
help the land again?”
“Barbarossa!” exclaimed Ludovic, scornfully. “Old woman’s yarn! Mark ye,
Gretel, Barbarossa will never wake from his sleep. He has forgotten the
land. My father says God has forgotten it in his heaven, and how shall
Barbarossa remember it, sleeping in his stone chamber? No; it is the
truth: he will never come.”
“It is no long beard,” said Hansei, who had been watching eagerly. “’Tis
something that he bears before him at his saddle-peak.”
This was indeed true. The shining stranger, as the children could now
plainly see, held in front of him, on the saddle-peak, a good-sized
burden, though what it was the young watchers could not, for the
distance, make out. Nevertheless they could see that it was no common
burden; nor, in truth, was it any common figure that rode along the
highway. He was still some distance off, but already the children began
to hear the ring of the great horse’s iron hoofs on the stones of the
road, and the jangle of metal about the rider when sword and armor
clashed out their music to the time of trotting hoofs. As they watched
and harkened, their delight and wonder ever growing, they suddenly
caught, when the knight had now drawn much closer, the tuneful winding
of a horn.
[Illustration: “THE SHINING STRANGER HELD IN FRONT OF HIM A GOOD-SIZED
BURDEN.”]
The rider on the highway heard the sound as well; but, to the children’s
amaze, instead of pricking forward the faster, like a knight of hot
courage, he drew rein and turned half-way about, as minded to seek
shelter among the willows growing along-stream. There was no shelter
there, however, for man or horse, and on the other hand the narrowing
valley shut the road in, with no footing up the wooded bluff. When the
knight saw all this, he rode close into the thicket, and leaning from
his saddle, dropped, with wondrous gentleness, his burden among the
osiers.
“’Tis some treasure,” murmured Ludovic. “He fears the robber knights may
get it.”
By now there showed, coming down the pass, another knight. But the
second comer was no such goodly figure as the one below. His armor,
instead of gleaming in the sunlight, was tarnished and stained. His
helmet was black and unplumed, and upon his shield appeared the white
cross of a Crusader. Nevertheless, albeit of no glistening splendor, he
was of right knightly mien, and the horse he bestrode was a fine
creature, whose springy step seemed to scorn the road he trod.
“’Tis a knight from the castle,” the children said, and Hansei added:
“Mighty Herr Banf, by his white cross. Now there will be fighting.”
Down below, where the road widened a bit, winding with a bend of the
stream, the shining stranger sat his horse, waiting, lance at rest, to
see what the black knight would do. The moment the latter espied him he
left the matter in no doubt, but couched his lance and bore hard along
the road, as minded to make an end of the stranger; whereupon the latter
urged forward his own steed, and the two came together with a huge rush,
so that the crash of armor against armor rang out fierce and clear up
the pass, and both spears were shattered in the onset.
Then the two knights fought with their swords, dealing such blows as
seemed to the children watching enough to fell forest trees. They
wheeled their horses and dashed at each other again and again, until the
air was filled with the din of fighting, and the young watchers were
spellbound at the sight.
The shining stranger was a knight of valor, despite the unwillingness he
first showed. He laid on stoutly with his blade, so that more than once
his foe reeled in saddle; but the black knight came back each time with
greater fury, while the stranger and his horse were plainly weary.
Especially was this true of the horse. Eagerly he wheeled and sprang
forward to each fresh charge; but each time he dashed on more heavily,
and more than once he stumbled, so that his rider missed a blow, and was
like to have come to the ground through the empty swing of his sword.
At last the Crusader came on with mighty force, whereupon his foe
charged again to meet him; but the weary horse stumbled, caught himself,
staggered forward a pace or two, and came first to his knees, then
shoulder down, upon the rough stones of the road. The shining knight
pitched forward over his head, and lay quite still in the highway, while
the Crusader reined in beside him with threatening blade, and shouted to
him to cry “quits.” But the stranger neither moved nor spoke; so the
other lighted down from his horse and bent over him to see his face.
[Illustration: “PUTTING HORN TO LIP, HE BLEW FOUR GREAT BLASTS.”]
When he had done this he drew back, and putting horn to lip, blew four
great blasts, which he repeated again and again, waiting after each to
listen.
Presently an answering horn sounded in the distance, and a little later
a party of mounted men came dashing down the road from the castle. These
clustered about the fallen knight, and when one who seemed to be their
leader, and whom the children knew for Baron Everhardt himself, saw the
stranger’s face, he turned to the victor and for very joy smote him
between the iron-clad shoulders—from which the children thought that the
newcomer could have been no friend of their baron.
Then the men stooped and by main force lifted the limp figure, in its
jangling armor, and set it astride the great horse that stood stupidly
by, as wondering what had befallen his master. The latter made no move,
but lay forward on the good steed’s neck, and so they made him fast;
after doing which, the whole party turned their faces upward and rode
along toward the castle.
Not until the last sound died away up the pass did the children come out
from their maze and great awe. They drew back from the edge of the cliff
and looked wonderingly at one another, for it seemed to them as if years
must have gone by since they had begun their play on the plateau. At
last Ludovic spoke.
“The treasure is still among the osiers,” he said. “When night falls,
Hansei, thou and I will slip down across the stream and find it. There
may be great riches there. But no word about it, for if they knew it at
the castle we should lose our pains.”
Solemnly little Hansei agreed to Ludovic’s plan, and the children left
the plateau, climbing down the rocky goat-paths to their homes along the
cliff.
CHAPTER II
HOW KARL THE ARMORER TOOK THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE FROM AMONG THE
OSIERS
The children had scarcely gone from the plateau when there came down the
defile from the castle a figure unlike, in manner and attire, any that
had but shortly before gone that road.
This was a tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in leather that was worn and
creased, showing much hard wear. Over his left shoulder he carried two
great swords in their scabbards, and his right hand gripped a long,
stout staff, the iron point of which now and then rang out against the
stone of the road as he thrust his great arm forward in rhythm with the
huge stride of his long, leather-clad legs. The face beneath his hood
was brown and weather-beaten, of long and thoughtful mold, but turned
from overmuch sternness by the steady, kindly gleam of his gray eyes,
pent in under great brows that met midway of his forehead, almost hiding
the eyes from sight.
Had the children still been upon the plateau they would have known the
figure for Karl of the forge in the forest below the village. He had
been, as was often his errand, to the castle, this time with a
breast-let that he had wrought for the baron, and was returning with the
very sword wherewith the Herr Banf had made end of the shining knight,
and with that blade also which had been the stranger’s own, to make good
all hurts to their tempered edges and fit them for further service in
battle.
He swung along the descending road until he came over against the place
by the clump of osiers, where the children had seen the knight drop his
burden. There he suddenly stopped, and leaned to listen. He thought that
he heard a faint cry from the green tangle, so he waited a little space,
to learn if it would sound again. Sure enough, it came a second time—a
feeble, piteous moan, as of some young creature in distress and spent
with long wailing.
“Now that is a pity,” thought Karl. “Some wee lamb has slipped off the
cliff and fallen into the stream.”
He looked doubtfully at his burden, wondering what time it might take
him to go to the rescue; but the little cry came again, so piteously
that his soft heart would not let him wait longer. So, leaving the
swords behind a boulder, he plunged in among the osiers; but he had gone
but a step or two when he started back in dismay, for he had nearly
trodden upon a yellow-haired babe who sat among the willows, looking up
at him with great blue eyes in which the tears yet stood. Terror was in
every line of the small face, but the baby made no further sound. He
only looked earnestly up at the bearded, black-browed face bent over
him, until he met the armorer’s eyes. Then he reached up his arms, and
Karl stooped and raised him to his broad chest.
“Now what foul work is here, do you suppose?” he muttered to himself.
“This is no chick from the village, nor from the castle either, I’ll be
bound, or there’d have been hue and cry ere this.”
He pressed back the little face that had been buried against his neck,
and surveyed it sharply. “What is thy name, little one?” he demanded at
last.
At sound of the armorer’s voice the child again looked at him, and
seemed not to understand the question until Karl had several times
repeated it, saying the words slowly and plainly, when at last the baby
said, with a touch of impatience: “Wulf! Wulf!” adding plaintively:
“Wulf hungry!”
Then he broke down and sobbed tiredly on Karl’s big shoulder, so that
the armorer was fain to hush him softly, comforting him with wonderful
gentleness, while he drew from his own wallet a bit of coarse bread and
gave it to the little fellow. The latter ate it with a sharp appetite,
and afterward drank a deep draught from the leather cup which Karl
filled from the stream. As he was drinking, a sound was heard as of some
one passing on the road, whereupon the boy became suddenly still,
looking at Karl in a way that made the armorer understand that for some
reason it had been taught him that unknown sounds were a signal for
silence.
“Ay?” thought Karl. “That’s naught like a baby. He’s been with hunted
men, to learn that trick!”
When the child had eaten and drunk all he would, he settled down again
in Karl’s arms, asking no questions—if, indeed, he could talk enough to
do so, a matter of which the armorer doubted, for the little chap was
but three or four years old at most. He seemed, however, well wonted to
strangers, and to being carried from place to place; for he took it
kindly when Karl settled him against his shoulder, throwing over him a
sort of short cloak of travel-stained red stuff, in which he had been
wrapped as he lay among the osiers, and stepped out upon the road. He
first made sure that no one was in sight; then, regaining the swords, he
walked hurriedly forward, minded to leave the highway as soon as he
reached a little footpath he knew that led through the forest to his
forge.
Good fortune favored him, and he gained the footpath without meeting any
one; so that ere long the two were passing through the deep, friendly
wood, the baby fast asleep in Karl’s arms, one small arm half encircling
the armorer’s big neck, the other little fist clenched in the meshes of
his grizzled beard. Karl stepped softly as any woman, lest his charge
awaken and take fresh fright at the gloomy way before them, and at the
tall, dark trees, whose branches met over the travelers’ heads.
Thus they fared, until at last they reached the forge, and the hut where
the armorer dwelt alone. The way through the wood had been long, and the
afternoon was well-nigh spent when Karl laid little Wulf upon a heap of
skins just beyond the great chimney, and set himself to prepare food for
himself and his charge.
CHAPTER III
HOW WULF FARED AT KARL THE ARMORER’S HUT
Big Karl the armorer was busy at his forge, next morning, long before
his wee guest awakened from the deep sleep of childhood, which he slept
upon a pile of pelts in a corner of the smithy. Working with deft
lightness of hand at a small, long anvil close beside the forge, Karl
had tempered and hammered the broken point of Herr Banf’s sword until
the stout blade was again ready for yeoman service, and then he turned
to the stranger knight’s blade, which was broken somewhat about the hilt
and guard.
It was a good weapon, and as Karl traced his finger thoughtfully down
its length he turned it toward the open door, that the early sunlight
might catch it. Then he suddenly gave a start, and hastily carried the
sword out into the full daylight, where he stared it over closely from
hilt to point, turning it this way and that, with knit brows and a look
of deep sorrow on his browned visage. After that he strode into the
smithy, and went over to where the boy lay, still fast asleep.
Turning him over upon the pelts, he studied the little face as sharply
as he had done the sword, noting the broad white brow, the delicate
round of the cheek, and the set of the chin, firm despite its baby
curves; and as he did so a great sternness came over the face of the
armorer.
“There’s some awful work here,” he said at last to himself. “Heaven be
praised I came upon the little one! Would that I might have had a look
at the face of that big knight.”
Still musing, he turned and went to a cleverly hid cupboard in the wall
beside the great chimney. Opening this, he disclosed an array of blades
of many sorts and shapes, and from among these he took one that in
general appearance seemed the fellow of the stranger’s weapon, save that
it had, to all look, seen but scant service in warfare.
Karl compared the two, and then set to a strange task. Hanging the
service-battered sword naked within the cupboard, he took the new blade
and began to ill-treat it upon his anvil—battering the hilt, taking a
bit of metal from the guard, and putting nicks into the edge, only to
beat and grind them very carefully out again. He took a bottle of acid
from a shelf and spilled a few drops where blade met hilt, wiping it off
again when it had somewhat stained and roughened the steel. This
roughness he afterward smoothed away, and worked at the sword until he
had it in fair semblance of a hardly used tool put in good order by a
skilful smith.
This done he sheathed it in the scabbard which the stranger had worn,
and which was a fair sheath, wrought with gold ornaments cunningly
devised. Karl looked at it with longing.
“I’d like well to save it for ye, youngster,” he said; “but ’tis a fair
risk as it stands. Let Herr Ritter Banf alone for having spied the gold
o’ this sheath; it must e’en go back to him.” He laid the sheathed
weapon away in a chest with Herr Banf’s own until such time as he should
make his next trip to the castle.
He had hardly done when, turning, he beheld the child watching him from
the pile of skins, looking at the strange scene about him, but keeping
quiet, though the tender lips quivered and the look in the blue eyes
filled Karl with pity.
“There’s naught to fear, little one,” he said with gruff kindness,
lifting the boy from the pile. “I make sure you’re hungry by now, and
here’s the remedy for that—and for fear, too, of your sort.” And from
out the coals of the forge he drew a pannikin, where it had been keeping
warm some porridge.
Very gently he proceeded to give it to the child, with some rich goat’s
milk to help it along. In truth, however, it needed not that to give the
boy an appetite. He had eaten nothing the night before, seeming starved
for sleep, but now he ate in a half-famished way that touched Karl’s
heart.
“In sooth, now,” the latter said, watching him, “thou’st roughed it,
little one, and much I marvel what it all may mean. But one thing sure,
this is no time to be asking about the farings of any of _thy_ breed, so
thou shalt e’en bide here with old Karl till these evil days lighten, or
Barbarossa comes to help the land—if it be not past helping. It’ll be
hard fare for thee, my sweet, but there’s no doing other. The castle
yonder were worse for thee than the forge, here, with Karl.”
“Karl?” The child spoke with the fearless ease of one wonted, even thus
early, to question strangers, and to be answered by them.
“Ay, Karl,” replied the armorer. “Karl, who will be father and mother to
thee till such time as God sends thee to thine own again.”
“Good Karl,” said the baby, when the man ceased speaking, and he reached
out his hands to the armorer. The latter lifted him and carried him to
the forge door.
“Thou’rt a sturdy rascal,” he said, nodding approval of the firm,
well-knit little figure. “Sit thou there and finish the porridge.”
The little fellow sat in the wide door of the smithy and ate his coarse
food with a relish good to see. It was a rough place into which he had
tumbled—how rough he was too young to realize; but much worse, even of
outward things, might have fallen to his share, as, indeed, we shall see
ere we have finished with young Wulf.
Deep within the heart of each one of us, no matter how old, there lives
a child. All our strength, all that the years bring us of gain or good,
help us not at all if these do not serve to fend this child from harm,
and to keep it good. Big Karl at his forge knew naught of books, and to
him, in those evil days, had come much knowledge of the cruelty and
wickedness of evil men. Nevertheless, safe within his strong nature
dwelt the child-soul, unhurt by all these. It looked from his honest
blue eyes, and put tenderness into the strength of his great hands when
he touched the other child, and this child-soul was to be the boy’s
playmate through the years of childhood. A wholesome playmate it was,
keeping Wulf company cleanly-wise, and no harm came to him, but rather
good.
[Illustration: “THE FOREST’S SMALL WILD LIFE CONSTANTLY CAME IN AT THE
OPEN DOOR.”]
Then, beside the ministering care of the gentle, manly big armorer,
little Wulf had through those years the teaching and companionship of
the great forest. It grew close up about the shop, so that its small
wild life constantly came in at the open door, or invited the youngster
forth to play. Rabbits and squirrels peeped in at him; birds wandered in
and built their nests in dark corners; and one winter a vixen fox took
shelter with them, remaining until spring, and grew so tame that she
would eat bread from Wulf’s hand.
The great trees were his constant companions and friends, but one mighty
oak that grew close beside the door, and sent out its huge arms
completely over the shop, became, next to Karl, his chosen comrade.
Whenever the armorer had to go to village or castle, Wulf used to take
shelter in this tree; not so much from fear,—for even in those evil days
the armorer’s grandson, as he grew to be regarded by those who came
about the forge, was too insignificant to be molested,—but because of
his love for the great tree. As he became older he was able to climb
higher and higher among its black arms, until at last he made him a nest
in the very crown of the wood giant.
Every tree, throughout its life, stores up within its heart light and
heat from the sun. It does this so well, because it is its appointed
task in nature, that the very life and love that the sun stands for to
us become a part of its being, knit up within its woody fiber. When we
burn this wood in our stoves or our fireplaces, the warmth and blaze
that are thrown out are just this sunshine which the tree has caught in
its heart from the time it was a tiny seedling till the ax was laid at
its root. So when we sit by the coal fire and enjoy its genial radiance,
we are really warming ourselves by some of the same sunlight and warmth
that sifted down through the leaves of great forest trees, perhaps
thousands of years ago.
Of course little Wulf did not know all this as we know it, but doubtless
he knew much else that we do not know at all; at all events, he knew the
sunshine of his own time and his own forest, and into his sound young
heart there crept, as the years went by, somewhat of the strength and
the sunshine-storing quality of his forest comrade, until, long before
he became a man, those who knew him grew to feel that here was a strong,
warm heart of human sunshine, ready to be useful and comforting wherever
use and comfort were needed.
At first faint memories haunted him; but as the years passed he learned
to think of them as a part of one of Karl’s stories—one that he always
meant to ask him to tell again, sometime. The years slipped away,
however, and his childish impressions grew fainter and fainter, until at
last they had quite faded into the far past.
But all this came about years after, and could not possibly have been
foreseen by Karl the armorer as he stood at his forge and thought sadly
on his own inability to do all that needed doing for the little one so
suddenly and so strangely thrust upon his care.
CHAPTER IV
OF HOW WULF FIRST WENT TO THE CASTLE, AND WHAT BEFELL
For a matter of nine or ten years Wulf dwelt with Karl at the forge, and
knew no other manner of finding than if he had been indeed the armorer’s
own grandson, as he was known to those who took the trouble to wonder,
Karl himself never dissenting to the idea. He was now a well grown lad
of perhaps fourteen years, not tall, but sturdy, strong of thigh and
arm, good to look at, with a ruddy color, fair hair, and steady eyes
that met the gaze fearlessly.
Karl had taught him to fence and thrust, and much of sword-play, in
which the armorer was skilled, and while his play at these was that of a
lad, the boy could fairly hold his own with cudgel and quarter-staff,
and more than once had surprised Karl by a clever feint or twist or a
stout blow, when, as was their wont on summer evenings, the two wrestled
or sparred together on the short green grass under the great oak-tree.
Also, Wulf was beginning to be of use at the forge, and great was his
joy when, after repeated attempts, he at last made for himself a knife
of excellent temper and an edge which even Karl found good. Thereafter
this knife was his belt companion in all his woodland journeys.
He was happy, going about his work with the big armorer, or wandering up
and down the forest, or, of long winter evenings, sitting beside the
forge fire watching Karl, who used to sit, knife in hand, deftly carving
a long-handled wooden spoon, or a bowl. The women in the village were
always glad to trade for these with fresh eggs, or a pat of butter, or a
young fowl; for the armorer had as clever a knack with his knife as with
his hammer. On these evenings he used to fill the boy’s spirit with joy
by tales of knightly craft, and of the brave gentlemen who, in years
past, had ridden to the holy wars, and of deeds of gentleness and
courage done by brave knights for country and king and the truth. Then
it was that young Wulf felt his heart glow within him, and he longed for
the time when he too might fare out to fight for the good, and to free
the land from the evil that wasted field and meadow and ground down the
people until no man dared hold up his head or meet, level-eyed, the gaze
of his fellow.
It happened, at last, on a day when Karl was making ready to go to the
castle with a corselet which he had mended for the baron himself, that
the armorer met with an accident that changed Wulf’s whole life. Karl
was doing a bit of tinkering on the smaller anvil by the forge, when one
support of the iron gave way, and it fell, crushing the great toe of one
foot so that the stout fellow fairly rocked with the pain, while Wulf
made haste to prepare a poultice of wormwood for the hurt member.
Despite all their skill, however, the toe continued to swell and to
stiffen, until it was plain that all thought of Karl’s climbing the
mountain that day, or for many days to come, must be put aside.
“There’s no help for it, lad,” he said at last, as he sat on the big
chest scowling blackly at his foot in its rough swathings. “It’s well on
toward noon now, and the baron will pay me my wage on my own head if his
corselet be not to hand to-day; for he rides to-morrow, with a company
from the castle, on an errand beyond. Thou’lt need to take the castle
road, boy, and speedily, if thou’rt to be back by night.”
Nothing could have pleased Wulf more than such an errand; for although
he often went with Karl on other matters about the country, and had even
gone with him as far as the Convent of St. Ursula on the other side of
the forest, the armorer, despite his entreaties, had never allowed him
to go along when his way lay toward the Swartzburg. This had puzzled the
boy greatly, for Karl steadfastly refused him any reason why it should
be. In truth Karl could hardly have given reason even to himself for his
action. His unwillingness to take Wulf to the castle was, however,
really grounded upon a fear of what as yet unknown thing might happen.
The boy made all haste, therefore, to get ready for the journey, lest
Karl should repent of his plan. It was but the shortest of
quarter-hours, in fact, before—his midday meal in a wallet at his belt,
the armorer’s iron-shot staff in his hand, and the corselet slung over
his shoulder—he was passing through the wood toward the road to the
Swartzburg.
Walking with the easy swing of one well wonted to the exercise, it was
not so very long ere he had cleared the forest and was stepping up the
rough stone road that climbed the mountain pass to the castle. He
crossed the stream at a point very near the clump of willows below the
plateau where, years before, the children had watched the shining
knight’s encounter with Herr Banf. Other children played on the plateau,
as the little ones had done that fair morning, but Wulf hastened on,
mindful only of the new adventure that lay before him.
Up and up the stony way he trudged stoutly, until it became at last the
merest bridle-path, descending to the open moat across which the bridge
was thrown. On a tower above he descried the sentry, and below, beyond
the bridge, the great gates into the castle garth stood open.
Doubting somewhat as to what he ought to do, he crossed the bridge and
passed through the gloomy opening that pierced the thick wall. Once
inside, he stood looking about him curiously, forgetful, in his wonder
and delight at the scene, that Karl had told him to ask for Gotta Brent,
Baron Everhardt’s man-at-arms, and to deliver the corselet to him. This,
by now, he had slipped from his shoulder and held with his arm thrust
through its length, his fingers grasping its lower edge.
He was still without the inner wall of the castle, in a sort of
courtyard of great size, the outer bailey of the stronghold. Beyond
where he stood he could see a second wall with big gates similar to the
one through which he had just passed. Before these gates in the outer
court two young men were fencing, while a third stood beside them,
acting as a sort of umpire or judge of fence. The contestants were very
equally matched, and Wulf watched them with keenest enjoyment. He had
fenced with Karl, and once or twice a knight, while waiting at the
forge, had deigned to pass the time in crossing blades with the boy,
always to the latter’s discomfiture; but he had never before stood by
while two skilled men were at sword-play, and the sight held him
spellbound.
Thanks to Karl, he was familiar with the mysteries of quart and tierce
and all the rest, and followed with knowing delight each clever feint
and thrust, made with the grace and precision of good fence. He could
watch forever, it seemed to him; but as he stood thus, following the
beautiful play, out through the gate of the inner bailey came three
children—a girl a year or two younger than he, and two boys about his
own age.
He gave them but the briefest glance, for just at that moment the
players began a new set-to, and claimed his attention. In a little bit,
however, he felt a sharp buffet at side of the head, and, turning, saw
that one of the boys had thrown the rind of a melon so as to strike him
on the cheek. As Wulf looked around, both the boys were laughing; but
the little girl stood somewhat off from them, her eyes flashing and her
cheeks aglow as with anger. She said no word, but looked with great
scorn upon her companions.
“Well, tinker,” called the boy who had thrown the melon-rind, “mind thy
manners before the lady! Have off thy cap or thou’lt get this,” and he
grasped the other half-rind of melon, which the second boy held.
“Nay, Conradt!” the little maid cried, staying his hand. “The lad is a
stranger, and come upon an errand; do we treat such folk thus?”
Wulf’s cap was by now in his hand, and, with crimson cheeks, he made a
shy salutation to the little girl, who returned it courteously, while
the boys still laughed.
“What dost thou next, tinker?” the one whom she had called Conradt said,
strutting forward. “Faith, thy manners sorely need mending. What dost to
me?”
“Fight you,” said Wulf, quick as a flash, and then drew back, abashed;
for, as the boy came forward, he saw that he bore a great hump upon his
twisted back, while one of his shoulders was higher than the other.
The deformed boy saw the motion, and his face grew dark with rage and
hate.
“Thou’lt fight me?” he screamed, springing forward. “Ay, that thou
shalt, and rue it after, tinker’s varlet that thou art!” And with his
hand he smote Wulf upon the mouth, whereupon he dropped the corselet and
clenched his fists, but could lay no blow on the pitiful creature before
him. Seeing this, the other, half crazed with anger, drew a short sword
which he wore, and made at Wulf, who raised the armorer’s staff which he
still held and struck the little blade to the ground.
By now the two fencers and their umpire were drawn near to see the
trouble, and one of them picked up the sword.
“Come, cockerel,” he said, restoring it to him, “put up thy spur and let
be. Now, lad, what is the trouble?” and he turned sharp upon Wulf.
“’Tis the armorer’s cub,” he said to his companions as he made him out.
“By the rood, lad, canst not come on a small errand for thy master
without brawling in this fashion in the castle yard? Go do thy message
and get about home, and bid thy master teach thee what is due thy
betters ere he sends thee hither again.”
“Yon lad struck me,” Wulf said stoutly. “I’ve spoken no word till now.”
“Truly, Herr Werner,” put in the little girl, earnestly, “it is as he
says. Conradt has e’en gone far out of his way to show the boy an ill
will, though he has done naught.”
At this Herr Werner looked again upon Conradt. “So, cockerel,” he said.
“Didst not get wisdom from the last pickle I pulled thee out of?”
“Why does the fellow hang about here, then?” demanded Conradt, sulkily.
“Let him go to the stables, as he should, and leave his matter there.”
“I was to see Gotta Brent,” Wulf said, ignoring Conradt and speaking to
the young knight.
“See him ye shall,” was the reply. But anything further that Herr Werner
might have said was cut short by the sound of a great hue and cry of
men, and a groom ran through the gate shouting:
“Back! Back for your lives! The foul fiend himself is loose here!”
At his heels came half a dozen men, with stable forks and poles, and two
others who were hanging with all their weight upon the bridle-reins of a
great horse that was doing his best to throw off their hold, rearing and
plunging furiously, and now and again lashing out with his iron-shod
hoofs.
There was a hurrying to shelter of the group about Wulf, who stood alone
now, staring at the horse. The latter finally struck one of the grooms,
so that the fellow lay where he rolled, at one side of the court, and
then began a battle royal between horse and men.
One after another, and all together, the men tried to lay hold upon the
dangling rein, only to be bitten, or struck, or tossed aside, as the
case might be, until at last the huge beast stood free, in the middle of
the court, while the grooms and stable-hangers made all haste to get out
of the way, some limping, others rubbing heads or shoulders, and one
nursing a badly bitten arm.
“Tinker,” called the knight from behind an abutment of the wall, “art
clean daft? Get away, before he makes a meal off thee! Gad! ’twill take
an arrow to save him now; and for that any man’s life would be forfeit
to Herr Banf.”
There was a scream from the little girl; for the horse had spied Wulf,
and came edging toward him, looking wild enough, with ears laid back and
teeth showing, as minded to make an end to the boy, as, doubtless, he
was. For the life of him Wulf could not have told why he was not afraid
as he stood there alone, and with no weapon save the armorer’s staff,
which he had not time to raise ere the beast was upon him.
Then were all who looked on amazed at what they saw, for close beside
Wulf the horse stopped and began smelling the boy. Then he took to
trembling in all his legs, and arched his neck and thrust his big head
against Wulf’s breast, until, half dazed, the boy raised a hand and
began patting the broad neck and stroking the mane of the charger.
“By the rood,” cried one of the grooms, “the tinker hath the horseman’s
word, and no mistake! The old imp knows it.”
[Illustration: “THE BOY BEGAN PATTING THE BROAD NECK OF THE CHARGER.”]
“See if thou canst take the halter, boy,” called Herr Werner; and laying
a hand upon the rein, Wulf stepped back a pace, whereupon the horse
pressed close to him and whinnied eagerly, as if fearful that Wulf would
leave him. He smelled him over again, thrusting his muzzle now into
Wulf’s hands, now against his face, and putting up his nose to take the
boy’s breath, as horses do with those they love.
“By my forefathers!” cried Herr Werner. “Could Herr Banf see him
now—aha!”
He paused; for, hurrying into the courtyard, followed by still another
frightened groom, came a knight who, seeing Wulf and the horse, stood as
if rooted in his tracks. Softly now the charger stepped about the boy,
nickering under his breath, so low that his nostrils hardly stirred; and
at last he brought his knees to the pave, stooping meekly, as one who
loved a service he would do, and thus waited.
An instant Wulf stood dazed. Then he passed his hand across his
forehead; for a strange, troubled notion, as of some forgotten dream,
passed through his brain. At last, obeying some impelling instinct, that
yet seemed to him like a memory, he laid a hand upon the horse’s withers
and sprang to his back.
Up, then, rose the noble creature, and stepped about the courtyard,
tossing his head and gently champing the bit, as a horse will when he is
pleased.
“Ride him to the stables, boy, and I will have word with thee there,”
cried the older knight, who had come out last; and pressing the rein,
though still wondering to himself how he knew what to do, Wulf turned
the steed through the inner gate, to the bailey, and letting him have
his head, was carried proudly to the stables, whence the throng of
grooms and stable-boys had come rushing. They came to the group of
outbuildings and offices that made up the stables, followed by all the
men, Herr Banf in the lead, and the place, which had been quite
deserted, was immediately thronged, attendants from the castle itself
coming on a run, as news spread of the wonderful thing that was
happening.
Once within the stable-yard, the horse stood quiet to let Wulf dismount;
but not even Herr Banf himself would he let lay a hand upon him, though
he stood meek as a sheep while the boy, instructed by the knight, did
off the bridle and fastened on the halter; then he led his charge into a
stall that one of the lads pointed out to him, and made him fast before
the manger. When this was done the horse gave a rub of his head against
Wulf, and then turned to eating his fodder, quietly, as though he never
had done otherwise.
Then Herr Banf took to questioning Wulf sharply; but the boy could tell
him but little. Indeed, some instinct warned him against speaking even
of the faint thoughts stirring within him. He was full of anxiety to get
away to Karl and tell him of this wonderful new experience, and he could
say naught to the knight, save that he was Karl the armorer’s grandson,
that he had never had the care of horses, and in his life had backed but
few, chiefly those of the men-at-arms who rode with their masters to the
forge when Karl’s skill was needed. He was troubled, too, about Karl’s
hurt, of which he told Herr Banf, and begged to be let to hasten back to
the smithy.
“Go, then,” said Herr Banf, at last, “and I will see thy grandsire
to-morrow; thou’rt too promising a varlet to be left to grow up an
armorer. We need thy kind elsewhere.”
So, when he had given the nearly forgotten corselet to Gotta Brent, Wulf
fared down the rocky way to the forge, where he told Karl all that had
chanced to him that day.
“Let that remain with thee alone, boy,” the armorer said, when the boy
had told him of the strange memories that teemed in his brain. “These
are no times to talk of such matters an thou ’dst keep a head on thy
shoulders. Thou’rt of my own raising, Wulf; but more than that I cannot
tell thee, for I do not know.” And there the lad was forced to let the
matter rest.
“It is all one with my dreams,” he said to himself, as he sought his bed
of skins. “Mayhap other dreams will make it clearer.”
But no dreams troubled his healthy boy’s sleep that night, nor woke he
until the morning sun streamed full in his upturned face.
CHAPTER V
HOW WULF WENT TO THE SWARTZBURG, AND OF HIS BEGINNING THERE
It was maybe a week after Wulf’s visit to the Swartzburg that Herr Banf
rode through the forest to the smithy. He was mounted upon the great
stallion that had been so wild that day, and as he drew rein before the
shop the horse gave a shrill neigh, for he smelled Wulf. Karl’s foot was
by so far recovered that he was able to limp about the forge, and he and
the boy were busy mending a wrought hauberk of fine chain mail which the
lady superior of St. Ursula had sent to them that morning.
“A fair day, friend Karl,” the knight called out as he sat his horse
under the big oak-tree. “Here am I come for that youngster of thine. He
is too useful a scamp to be let spend his days tinkering here. Haply he
has told ye how this big Siegfried of mine took to him. I’ faith, not a
groom at the castle can handle the horse!”
“Ay?” said Karl, and he said no more, but stood with hands folded upon
the top of his hammer and looked steadily at Herr Banf. Wulf, meanwhile,
had dropped the tongs that he held, and run out to the horse, who now
stood nuzzling his neck and face in great delight.
“By th’ rood,” cried Herr Banf, “’tis plain love at first sight! Came
another so near Siegfried’s teeth, and I’d look to see him eaten. I must
have the boy, Karl!”
Now, that great horse was none other than the one which the shining
knight had bestrode on the day of his meeting with Herr Banf. The
Crusader had taken the beast for his own charger, and a rare war-horse
he was, but getting on in years by now, and turning wild at times, after
the manner of his kind. Not a groom or stable-lad about the castle but
had reason to know his temper; so that, because of their fear of him,
the horse often lacked for care.
When Herr Banf had said that Wulf must come with him, Karl stood silent
for a moment, watching the lad at Siegfried’s head; then, turning to the
knight, he said:
“In truth, they seem fast friends. Well, it shall be as the boy shall
choose.”
“For what he says I will undertake,” the knight said, laughing. “Wilt
come to the castle, lad?”
Wulf looked from the horse to Karl and back again. ’Twere easy to see
where his desire lay.
“Shall I be able to see Grandsire Karl now and then?” he asked.
“As often as need be,” said Herr Banf.
“What shall I say?” Wulf turned to Karl.
“What thou wilt,” the armorer nodded. “We have talked o’ that.”
So had they, and Wulf’s question was but the last wavering of the boy’s
heart, loath to leave all it had yet known. In another moment his will
regained its strength, and the matter ended in his taking again the
climbing road up the Swartzburg pass, this time with a hand clinging to
Herr Banf’s stirrup-leather, while the great horse stepped gently,
keeping pace with the boy’s stride.
“Where didst learn to bewitch a horse, lad?” the knight asked as they
journeyed. “What is thy ‘horseman’s word’?”
“I have none,” was the reply. “The horse seemed to know me, and I him. I
cannot tell how or other.”
“By my forefathers, but beasts be hard to understand as men! What was’t
thou didst, by the way, to the little crooked cock at the castle?”
“Him they call Conradt, Herr Knight? I did naught.”
“Well, he means to fight thee for it.”
“Nay,” replied Wulf, “that he’ll not.”
“How is that?”
“It would not be becoming for me to fight him.”
“So,” Herr Banf said grimly. “Thou’st a good idea of what is due thy
betters.”
“It is not that,” explained Wulf, simply. “I am the better of us two; a
whole man goes not against a weakling.”
The knight looked keenly down at the lad, noting as he had not done
before the easy movement of his body as he stepped lightly along, more
like a soldier than like a peasant. He was alert and trim, with shapely
shoulders and the head carried well up.
“A queer armorer’s lad, this,” thought Herr Banf, in some wonder. But by
now they were before the castle watch-tower, and in a moment more, still
with one hand at the knight’s stirrup, Wulf again entered at the castle
gate. There, in the outer bailey, Herr Banf lighted down, and bade Wulf
take Siegfried to the stables for the night.
A crowd of grooms were about the gates of the stable-yard as the boy
came up, for the word had spread that the tinker had returned to take
charge of the big horse, and dark looks were bent upon the newcomer.
“Shall I do with him as before?” Wulf asked of one of the loungers.
“That thou ’lt find out for thyself,” was the surly answer, whereupon
the other fellows laughed jeeringly.
Nothing daunted, Wulf proceeded to do off Siegfried’s harness, amid the
rude comments of the grooms, and by dint of using all his wit he managed
to get the horse haltered and in stall.
Then he climbed to the loft and threw down some hay into the manger, as
Karl had been mindful to tell him how, after which he found a measure
and started in quest of the corn-house. The boys followed at his heels,
helping none, but getting great sport out of his hunt.
He found the place at last, and climbed the steps, still pursued by the
jeering grooms. Heeding them naught, he walked along the corn-house
floor, peering into the different bins, wondering from which to take the
horse’s feed. At last he came to one about half full, and this he deemed
to be the one he sought; so he sprang upon the edge and leaned forward
to fill his measure.
No sooner had he done so than he felt himself pushed from behind, and
over he shot, head foremost, into the grain. Turning about in the
yielding stuff, he rose to his feet just in time to be struck full in
the forehead by the heavy lid of the bin; for the cowardly varlets
slammed it down upon him and ran off to the horse-barn.
Not one of them turned back, and for any effort of theirs it might have
gone hard with Wulf; for he lay stunned and helpless, slowly smothering
in the tight bin. Nor did he know when the lid was suddenly thrown back
and a stern, wrathful man leaned over the edge to lift him out into the
air. Then the man took him over his shoulder as if he had been a sack of
meal, and carried him down the corn-house steps.
Into the horse-barn he bore him, and laid him upon the floor. The
stable-boys were still there, and then the newcomer proceeded to score
as one in authority, as indeed he was; for this was the master of the
horse himself who now bent over Wulf, chafing his hands and doing what
he could to bring him back to life; and so well did he work that ere
long the boy sat up and looked about him until he presently remembered
what was toward.
“Siegfried has not had his corn,” he said faintly; but the master of
horse bade him be quiet.
“Thou, Hansei,” he said to the youngest of the boys who stood about,
“get the measure and give the stallion his feed; and mind how thou goest
about him. As for ye others, get to work for a set of black imps as ye
are; and be thankful that ye hang not, every rapscallion of ye, for this
foul trick.”
Picking up a billet of oak from where it lay on the floor, he hurled it
among the group, who scattered, dodging this way and that, as every boy
went to his own neglected task.
As for Wulf, he lay upon the barn floor and watched Hansei care for
Siegfried, who was quiet enough now that the armorer’s lad was with him.
The lad Hansei was the same who had played with the others on the
plateau on that day when the shining knight rode up the pass. Well was
it for our boy that the honest young peasant took a liking to him, and
was minded to stand his friend, for he had else scarce found comfort at
the castle.
It was Hansei who at supper-time took him into the great hall where the
household and its hangers-on gathered for meals, and got for him a
trencher and food; though little cared Wulf for eating on that first
night when all was new and strange to him.
The hall was very large, and Wulf, looking up toward its lofty roof,
could not see its timbers for the deep shadows there. At either end was
a great fireplace, but the one at the upper end was the larger and
finer. Near it, on a platform raised above the earthen floor, Baron
Everhardt sat at board, with the knights of his train. Below them were
the men-at-arms and lower officers of the castle; and seated upon
benches about the walls were the fighting-men and general hangers-on of
the place.
These sat not at board, but helped themselves to the food that was
passed about among them after the tables were served, and ate, some from
their hands, others from wooden trenchers which they had secured. Wulf
and Hansei were among the lowliest of the lot, and the stable-boys did
not sit down at all, but took their supper standing, leaning against the
wall just inside the door and farthest from the hearth, and they were
among the last served.
But, as we have seen, Wulf cared little, that night, for food or drink,
though his new friend pressed him to eat. He was sore-hearted and weary,
what with the strangeness and the hardness of it all. Soon the great
tankards began to pass from hand to hand; and the men drank long and
deep, while jests and mighty laughter filled all the place, until only
Wulf’s sturdy boy’s pride kept him from stealing out, through the
darkness, back to Karl at the forge.
Presently, however, he began to notice faces among the company at the
upper end of the hall. Two or three ladies were present, having come in
by another door when the meal was well over, and these were sitting with
the baron and Herr Banf. One of the ladies, Hansei told him, was the
baron’s lady, and with her, Wulf noticed, was the little girl whom he
had seen at the time of his first visit to the castle.
“Who is she?” he asked.
“A ward of our baron’s,” Hansei answered, “and she is the Fräulein Elise
von Hofenhoer. They say she is to be married, in good time, to young
Conradt; and that be a sorry weird for any maiden.”
“Conradt?”
“Yea; the crooked stick yonder, the baron’s precious nephew.”
Following Hansei’s glance, Wulf descried the hunchback boy of his
adventure seated at board, drinking from a great mug of ale. With him
was the other boy, who, Hansei told him, was Waldemar Guelder, and some
kin to Herr Banf, in whose charge he was, to be trained as a knight.
“He’s not such a bad one,” the stable-boy said, “an it were not for
Master Conradt, who would drag down the best that had to do with him.”
Thus, one by one, Hansei pointed out knights and followers, squires and
men, until in Wulf’s tired brain all was a jumble of names and faces
that he knew not. Glad indeed was he when at last his companion nodded
to him, and slipping out from the hall, they made their way to the
horse-barn, where, up under the rafters of a great hay-filled loft, the
pair made their beds in the fragrant grasses, and slept soundly until
the stamping of horses below them, and the sunlight streaming into their
faces through an open loft door, awakened them.
CHAPTER VI
HOW CONRADT PLOTTED MISCHIEF, AND HOW WULF WON A FRIEND
It was perhaps a matter of six weeks after Wulf’s coming to the
Swartzburg that he sat, one day, in a wing of the stables, cleaning and
shining Herr Banf’s horse-gear. He was alone at the time, for all of the
younger boys and hangers-on of the place were gone about the matter of a
rat-catching trial between two rival dogs whose bragging owners had
matched them; and of the others, most had ridden with the baron on a
freebooting errand against a body of merchants known to be traveling
that way with rich loads of goods and much money. Only Herr Werner, of
all the knights, was at the castle.
Save for Hansei, who stood by him stoutly, Wulf had as yet made no
friends among his fellow-workers, but full well had he shown himself
able to take his own part; so that his bravery and prowess, and his
heartiness to help whenever a lift or a hand was needed, had already won
him a place and fair treatment among them. Moreover, his quick wit and
craft with Siegfried, the terror of the stables, made the master of
horse his powerful friend. And, again, Wulf was already growing well
used to the ways of the place, so that it was with a right cheerful and
contented mind that he sat, that day, scouring away upon a rusty
stirrup-iron.
Presently it seemed to him that he heard a little noise from over by the
stables, and peering along under the arch of the great saddle before
him, he saw a puzzling thing. Crossing the stable floor with wary tread
and watchful mien, as minded to do some deed privily, and fearful to be
seen, was Conradt.
“Now what may he be bent upon?” Wulf asked of his own thought. “No good,
I’ll lay wager!” And he sat very still, watching every movement of the
little crooked fellow.
Down the long row of stalls went the hunchback, until he reached the
large loose box where stood Siegfried. The stallion saw him, and laid
back his ears, but made no further sign of noting the newcomer. Indeed,
since Wulf had been his tender the old horse had grown much more
governable, and for a month or more had given no trouble.
Conradt’s face, however, as he drew nigh the stall, was of aspect so
hateful and wicked that Wulf stilly, but with all speed, left his place
and crept nearer, keeping in shelter behind the great racks of harness,
to learn what might be toward. As he did so he was filled with amaze and
wrath to see the hunchback, sword in hand, reach over the low wall of
the stall and thrust at Siegfried. The horse shied over and avoided the
blade, though, from the plunge he made, Wulf deemed that he had felt the
point.
While the watcher stood dumfounded, wondering what the thing might mean,
Conradt sneaked around to the other side, plainly minded to try that
wickedness again, whereupon Wulf sprang forward, snatching up, on his
way, a flail that lay to his hand, flung down by one of the men from the
threshing-floor.
“Have done with yon!” he called as he ran; and forgetting, in his wrath,
both the rank and the weakness of the misdoer, he shrieked: “What is’t
wouldst do? Out with it, ere I husk thy soul from its shell with this!”
and he raised the flail.
Taken unaware though he was, Conradt, who was rare skilful at fence,
guarded on the instant, and by a clever twist of his blade cut clean in
twain the leather hinge that held together the two halves of the flail.
’Twas a master stroke whereat, angry as he was, Wulf wondered, nor
could he withhold a swordsman’s delight in the blow, albeit the sword’s
wielder was plain proven a ruffian.
[Illustration: “WULF COULD NAUGHT BUT FEND AND PARRY WITH HIS STICK.”]
He had small time to think, however, for by now Conradt let at him full
drive, and he was sore put to it to fend himself from the onslaught,
having no other weapon than the handle of the flail.
Evil was in the hunchback’s eyes as he pressed up against his foe, and
evil lay at his heart as well, as Wulf was not slow to be aware. The
latter could naught but fend and parry with his stick; but this he did
with coolness and skill, as he stood back to wall against the stall,
watching every move of that malignant wight with whom he fought.
Up, down, in, out, thrust, parry, return! The sounds filled the barn.
Wulf was the taller and equally skilled, but Conradt’s weapon gave him
an advantage that, but for the blindness of his hatred, had soon won his
way for him. But soon he was fair weary with fury, and Wulf began to
think that he would soon make end of the trouble, when he felt a sharp
prick, and something warm and wet began to trickle down his right arm,
filling his hand. Conradt saw the stain and gave a joyful grunt.
“One for thee, tinker,” he gasped, his breath nigh spent. “I’ll let a
little more of thy mongrel blood ere I quit.”
“An thou dost,” cried Wulf, stung to a fury he seldom felt, “save a drop
for thyself. A little that’s honest would not come amiss i’ the black
stream in thy veins.” And he guarded again as Conradt came on.
This the latter did with a rush, at which Wulf sprang aside, and ere his
foe could whirl he came at him askance, catching his sword-hand just
across the back of the wrist with the tip of his stick, so that for an
instant Conradt’s arm dropped, and the point of his blade touched the
floor. ’Twas a trick in which Wulf felt little pride, though fair
enough, and he did not follow up the advantage, knowing he had his enemy
beaten for the time.
The hunchback stood glaring at Wulf, but ere he could move to attack
again a voice cried: “Well done, tinker. An ye had a blade our cockerel
had crowed smaller, and I had missed a rare bit of sport.”
On this both boys turned, for they knew that voice; and Herr Werner came
forward, not laughing now, as mostly he was, but with a sterner look on
his youthful face than even Conradt had ever seen.
“Now, then, how is this?” he demanded of Wulf. “What is this brawl
about?”
The boy met Werner’s eyes frankly. “He had best tell,” he said, nodding
toward Conradt.
“Suppose, then, thou dost”; and Herr Werner looked at the hunchback,
who, his eyes going down before the knight’s, lied, as was his wont.
“He came at me with the flail, and,” he added, unable to withhold
bragging, “I clipped it for him.”
“And what hadst done to make him come at thee?”
“I did but look at the horses, and stood to play with old Siegfried,
here. ’Tis become so that my uncle the baron himself may yet look to be
called to account by this tinker’s upstart.”
The stern lines about Herr Werner’s mouth grew deeper.
“Heed thou this, Conradt,” he said, with great earnestness. “Yonder was
I, by the pillar, and saw this whole matter. What didst plan ill to the
stallion for?”
“The truth is, not to have him hereabout,” muttered Conradt, his face
dark with fear and anger. “These be my uncle’s stables, and this great
beast hath had tooth or hoof toll from every one about the place.”
“True, i’ the main,” Herr Werner said scornfully. “Is this why the baron
hath made thee master of the horse? Shall I tell him with what zeal thou
followest thy duties?”
Conradt’s face was fair distorted now; fear of his uncle’s wrath was the
one thing that kept the wickedness of his evil nature in any sort of
check, and well he knew how bitter would be his taste of that wrath
should this thing come to the baron’s ears. So, too, knew Herr Werner,
and, in less manner, Wulf; for his keen wit had taught him much during
his six weeks’ service at the castle.
“What shall I say to the baron of this?” demanded Herr Werner again, as
he towered above them.
“I care not,” muttered Conradt, falsely; but Wulf said:
“Need aught be said, Herr Werner? I hold naught against him, save for
Siegfried’s sake,”—with a loving glance over at the great horse,—“and
’tis not likely he’ll be at this mischief again.”
“What say, thou fine fellow?” asked the young knight of Conradt; but the
latter said no word.
“Bah!” cried Herr Werner, at last. “Why, the tinker lad is a truer man
than thou on every showing; get hence, that I waste on thee no more of
the time should go to his wound,” he added; for Wulf, in moving his arm,
had suddenly flinched and his face was pale. In another moment Herr
Werner had the hurt member in hand, and as he was, like most men of that
rude time, somewhat skilled in caring for wounds, he had soon bandaged
this one, which was of no great extent, but more painful than serious,
and was quickly eased.
Meanwhile Conradt had moved off, leaving the two alone. Though it would
never be set to his credit, his malice had wrought a good work; for in
that hour our Wulf got himself a strong and true friend in the young
knight, who was fair won by the sterling stuff that showed in the lad.
“He hath more of knightliness in him here in the stables,” thought he,
as he left Wulf, “than Conradt will ever know as lord of the castle;
and, by my forefathers, he shall have what chance may be mine to give
him!”
And that vow Herr Werner never forgot.
CHAPTER VII
HOW WULF CLIMBED THE IVY TOWER, AND WHAT HE SAW AT THE BARRED WINDOW
Good as his word had Herr Werner been in finding Wulf the chance to show
that other stuff dwelt in him than might go to the making of a mere
stable-lad. For the next three years he was under the young knight’s
helping protection, and, thanks to the latter’s good offices in part,
but in the end, as must always be the case, with boy or man, thanks to
his own efforts, he made so good use of his chance that his tinker
origin was haply overlooked, if not forgotten, by those left behind him
as he mounted height by height of the castle’s life.
Not that these forgave him his rise. Those small, mean souls had sought
the hurt of the boy, but, when all was said and done, ’twas hard to hold
hatred of such a nature as his. The training of old Karl and of the
forest had done its work well with him, and he was still the simple,
sunny-hearted Wulf of the forge, ever ready to help, forgiving even
where forgiveness was unsought, and keeping still, amid all the foulness
and wickedness of that dark time and in that evil place, the clean,
wholesome child nature that had dwelt in the baby among the osiers.
He was by now a sturdy, broad-chested young fellow, getting well on to
manhood, noted for his strength, and for his skill in all the games and
feats of prowess and endurance that were a part of the training of boys
in those days. Already had he ridden with Herr Werner in battle, and
though no real armiger, by reason of his lowly birth, yet was he, in the
disorder of the times, unchallenged as the knight’s chosen attendant and
buckler-bearer on the lawless raids on which the baron led his train.
Indeed, the baron himself had more than once taken note of the youth,
and had on two occasions made him his messenger on errands both perilous
and nice, calling for wit as well as bravery.
Only Conradt hated him still—Conradt, with the sorry, twisted soul that
held to hatred as surely as Wulf held to love. He was a year or two
older than Wulf, and was already a candidate for knighthood; for,
despite his crooked body, he was skilled, beyond many who rode in his
uncle’s following, in all play at arms. There was no better swordsman
even among the younger knights, and among the bowmen he had already a
name.
Despite all this, however, the baron’s nephew was held in light esteem,
even among that train of robbers and bandits—for naught better were
they, in truth, despite their knighthood and their gentlehood. They
lived by foray and pillage, and petty warfare with other bands like
themselves, and in many a village were dark stories whispered of their
wild raids.
Yet none of these would hold fellowship with Conradt, albeit they dared
not openly flout the baron’s nephew. Nevertheless, he had gathered to
himself a manner of following from the villages and countryside about
the Swartzburg: criminals and refugees, for the most part, men who had
suffered for their misdeeds at the hands of such law as was in the land;
fellows whom no other leader would own, but who gladly fell in under a
headship as bad as they. These ranged the forest wide and far, and from
their evil raids was no poor man free nor helpless woman safe.
Well knew the baron, overlord of all that district, of the doings of his
doughty nephew; but for reasons of his own he saw fit to wink at them,
save when some worse infamy than common was brought to his notice in
such fashion that he could not pass it by. He were a brave man, however,
who could dare the baron’s wrath so far as to complain lightly to him of
Conradt, so the fellow went for the most part scot-free of his misdeeds,
save so far as he might feel the scorn and shunning of his equals.
It was on a bright autumn afternoon that a company of the boys and
younger men of the Swartzburg were trying feats of strength, and of
athletic skill, before the castle, in the inner bailey. From a little
balcony overlooking the terrace the ladies of the household looked down
upon the sports, to which their presence gave more than ordinary zest.
Among the ladies was Elise, now grown a fair maiden of some fifteen
years. Well was she known to be meant by the baron for the bride of his
nephew; but this knowledge among the youths of the place did not hinder
many a quick glance from wandering her way, and already had more than
one young squire chosen her as the lady of his worship, for whose sake
he pledged himself, as the manner of the time was, to deeds of bravery
and high virtue.
The contestants in the courtyard had been wrestling and racing; there
had been tilts with the spear, and bouts with the fists, and some
sword-play, when at last one of the number challenged his fellows to a
climbing trial of the hardest sort.
Just where the massive square bulk of the keep raised its grim stories,
a great buttress thrust boldly out from the castle, running up beside
the wall of the tower for a considerable distance. The two were just
enough apart to be firmly touched, on either side, by a man who might
stand between them, and it was a mighty test of courage and strength for
a man to climb up between them, even a few yards, by hand and foot
pressure only. It was a great feat to perform among the more ambitious
knights and squires about the castle.
The challenger on this afternoon was young Waldemar Guelder, Herr Banf’s
ward, now grown a stalwart squire; and he raised himself, by sheer
strength of grip and pressure of foot and open hand against the rough
stones, up and up, until he reached the point, some thirty feet above
ground, where the buttress bent in to the main wall again, and gave no
further support to the climber, who was fain to come down by the same
way as he went up.
Shouts of “Well done! Well done!” greeted Waldemar’s deed when he
reached the ground, panting, but flushed with pride, and looked up
toward the balcony, whence came a clapping of fair hands and waving of
white kerchiefs in token that his prowess had been noted.
Then one after another made trial of the feat; but none, not even
Conradt, who was accounted among the skilfulest climbers, was able to
reach the mark set by young Guelder, until, last of all, for he had
given place time after time to his eagerer fellows, Wulf’s turn came.
He too glanced up at the balcony as he began the ascent, and Elise,
meeting his glance, smiled down upon him. These two were good friends,
in a frank fashion little common in that time, when the merest youths
deemed it their duty to throw a tinge of sentimentality into their
relation with all maids.
Conradt noted their glances, and glowered at Wulf as the latter prepared
to climb. No sneer of his had ever moved Elise to treat “the tinker”
with scorn. Indeed, Conradt sometimes fancied that her friendship for
Wulf was in despite of him and of the mastership he often tried to
assert over her. That, however, was impossible to an honest nature like
Elise. She was Wulf’s friend because of her hearty trust in him and
liking for him, and so she leaned forward now, eager to see what he
might do toward meeting Waldemar’s feat.
Steadily Wulf set hands and feet to the stones, and braced himself for
the work. Reach by reach he raised himself higher, higher, until it was
plain to all that he would find it no task to climb where the champion
had done.
“He’ll win to it!” cried one and then another of the watchers, and
Waldemar himself shouted out encouragement to the climber when once he
seemed to falter. At last came a cry from Hansei: “He has it! Hurrah!”
and a general shout went up. From the balcony, too, came the sound of
applause as Wulf reached the top of the buttress.
“In truth, our tinker hath mounted in the world,” sneered Conradt from
the terrace. “Well, there’s naught more certain than that he’ll come
down again.”
Wulf heard the words, as Conradt meant he should, and caught, as well,
the laugh that rose from some of the lower fellows. Then a murmur of
surprise went through the company.
The walls of the keep were overgrown with ivy, so that only here and
there a mere shadow showed where a staircase window pierced the stones.
In the recess where the young men were wont to climb the vines were torn
down, but above the buttress, over both keep and castle, the great
branches grew and clung, reaching clean to the top of the tower; and
Wulf, unable to go farther between the walls, was now pulling himself up
along the twisted ivy growth that covered the face of the tower.
On he went, minded to reach the top and scale the battlement. It was no
such great feat, the lower wall once passed, but none of the watchers
below had ever thought to try it, so were they surprised into the more
admiration, while in the balcony was real fear for the adventurous
climber.
He reached the top in safety, however, and passing along the parapet
just below the battlement, turned a corner and was lost to their sight.
On the farther side of the keep he found, as he had deemed likely, that
the ivy gave him safe and easy support to the ground, so lowering
himself to the vines again, he began the descent.
He had gone but a little way when, feeling with his feet for a lower
hold, he found none directly under him, but was forced to reach out
toward the side to get it, from which he judged that he must be opposite
a window, and lowering himself farther, he came upon two upright iron
bars set in a narrow casement nearly overgrown with ivy. Behind the bars
all seemed dark; but as Wulf’s eyes became wonted to the dimness, he
became aware, first of a shadowy something that seemed to move, then of
a face gaunt, white, and drawn, with great, unreasoning eyes that stared
blankly into his own.
[Illustration: “LOWERING HIMSELF FARTHER, HE CAME UPON A NARROW CASEMENT
NEARLY OVERGROWN WITH IVY.”]
He felt his heart hammering at his ribs as he stared back. The piteous,
vacant eyes seemed to draw his very soul, and a choking feeling came in
his throat. For a full moment the two pairs of eyes gazed at each other,
until Wulf felt as if his heart would break for sheer pity; then the
white face behind the bars faded back into the darkness, and Wulf was
ware once more of the world without, the yellow autumnal sunshine, and
the green ivy with its black ropes of twisted stems, that were all that
kept him from dashing to death on the stones of the courtyard below.
So shaken was he by what he had seen that he could scarcely hold by his
hands while he reached for foothold. Little by little, however, he
gathered strength, and came to himself again, until by the time he
reached the ground he was once more able to face his fellows, who
gathered about, full of praise for his feat.
But little cared our Wulf for their acclaim when, glancing up toward the
balcony, he caught the wave of a white hand. His heart nearly leaped
from his throat, a second later, as he saw a little gleam of color, and
was aware that the hand held a bit of bright ribband which presently
fluttered over the edge of the balcony and down toward the terrace.
It never touched earth. There was a rush toward it by all the young men,
each eager to grasp the token; but Wulf, with a leap that carried his
outstretched hand high above the others, laid hold upon the prize and
bore it quickly from out the press.
“’Tis mine! Yield it!” screamed Conradt, rushing after him.
“Nay; that must thou prove,” laughed Wulf, and winning easily away from
the hunchback, he ran through the inner bailey to his own quarters,
whence, being busy about some matters of Herr Werner’s, he came forth
not until nightfall. At that time Conradt did not see him; for the baron
had summoned his nephew to him about a matter of which we shall hear
more.
CHAPTER VIII
HOW BARON EVERHARDT WAS OUTLAWED, AND HOW WULF HEARD OF THE BABY IN THE
OSIERS
One bright morning, not long after Wulf had climbed the ivy tower, there
came to the Swartzburg a herald bearing a message whereat Baron
Everhardt laughed long and loud. So also laughed the youngerlings of the
place, when the thing came to be noised among them; albeit two or three,
and in especial Wulf and Hansei, who was now head groom, laughed not,
but were sore troubled.
The baron had been declared an outlaw.
For an emperor now ruled in Germany, and good folk had begun to dare
hope that the evil days might be drawing to a close. The new emperor was
none other than Rudolf of Hapsburg, he who had been count of that name,
and since coming to the throne he had bent his whole mind and strength
to the task of bringing peace and good days to the land, and order and
law within reach of the unhappy common folk whose lives were now passed
in hardship and fear.
To this end the Emperor Rudolf had early sent to summon all of the
barons and the lesser nobles of the land to come to his help against the
rebel counts Ulric and Eberhard of Würtemberg, who had joined with King
Ottakar of Bohemia to defy the new ruler. The head of the Swartzburg had
been summoned, with the others, but, filled with contempt for “the poor
Swiss count,” as he dubbed the emperor, had defied him, and tore up the
summons before the eyes of the herald who brought it.
Nevertheless, in spite of the refusal of nearly all the nobles to aid
their emperor, the latter had, with his own men, gone against the two
rebel counts and their kingly ally, and had beaten their armies and
brought them to sue for peace. Now he was turning his attention to the
larger task of putting fear of the law and of rightful authority into
the hearts of the robber nobles.
Of these a goodly number were already declared outlaws, and now the
baron’s turn had come. Moreover, one of the men of the Swartzburg, who
had ridden beyond the mountains on a matter for the Herr Banf, had
ridden back with word that the emperor, with a strong army, was already
out against the outlawed strongholds, and meant soon to call at the
Swartzburg.
“And a warm welcome shall we give this new emperor of ours,” boasted
Conradt, on the castle terrace. “Emperor, forsooth! By the rood! Count
Rudolf will have need of all his Swiss rabble if he would bring the
Swartzburg’s men to knee before him!”
A chorus of assent greeted this speech. For once his hearers listened
respectfully to the baron’s nephew. Right eager were all the young men
for the fray that was threatening; and so great was their contempt for
the emperor that they could see for it but one outcome.
“But that his Austrians were in revolt and his army divided,” declared
one, “King Ottakar had never yielded to the Swiss. He of Hapsburg will
find it a harder matter to yoke the German barons.” And all his hearers
nodded assent to the bragging speech.
What Baron Everhardt, at council with his knights, thought of the
outlook, not even Conradt, among those on the terrace, rightly knew; but
a few hours later, by orders sent out through the stewards and the
masters of arms and horse, the routine of the castle was being put upon
a war footing, to the joy of the eager young men. All were busy, each at
his own line of duty, in the work of preparation for battle, and, to
Wulf’s delight, it fell to his lot to fare down the valley to the forge
on an errand for Herr Werner, whose man he was.
It was a matter of some weeks since Wulf had seen Karl, and glad was he
now to be going to him; for in his own mind he was sore perplexed in
this matter of the new emperor’s proclamation of the baron, and he
longed for the armorer’s wise and honest thought about it all.
“Thou hast seen this emperor of ours?” he said, as he sat curled, after
his childish wont, in the doorway of the smithy, whence he could look,
at will, within at the forge, or without adown a long green aisle of the
forest.
“Ay,” said Karl, proudly; “his own man-at-arms was I, as thou knowest,
and that was on the holy war. Served him have I, and gripped his
hand—the hand of an honest man and a sore needed one in this land
to-day.”
“Dost think he can master the barons?” the boy asked, and Karl looked
troubled.
“These be ill times for thought, boy,” he said, “and worse for speech;
but the emperor is ruler in the land, and if he bring not order into our
midst, then in truth are the scoffers wise, and God hath forgotten us up
in heaven.”
“Would I were of his train!” Wulf said quickly, and silence fell between
them, during which the boy sat gazing, with troubled eyes, adown between
the black trunks of the great trees. Karl, watching him, gathered
rightly that he was worried as to his duty.
“An he be in truth the emperor by will of the people, and not alone of
him at Rome,” Wulf added at last, “then are all true men who love
Germany bound to come to his banner.”
“Ay.” Karl thrust the iron he was welding deep into the glowing coals of
the forge.
“But I am of the Swartzburg’s men; and how may I be an honest one and
fail at this moment when every blade is needed?”
“’Tis hard,” Karl said, “and that only thine own heart can teach thee.”
He brought his hammer down upon the glowing iron till it sent out a
shower of sparks. “No man may show another what honest action may be;
but perhaps thou’rt nearer being the emperor’s man than the baron’s,
were the truth known. An I guess rightly, ’twere ill faring if one of
thy line raised blade against Rudolf of Hapsburg.”
The armorer muttered this half in his beard, nor looked at Wulf as he
spoke.
“Nay, Karl,” the boy cried sharply; “make me no more riddles, but speak
out plainly, man to man. What is this that thou hast ever held from me?
What meanst thou by any line of mine?”
“Alas!” said the armorer, sadly. “Naught know I, in truth, and there’s
the heartbreak. ’Tis a chain of which some links are missing, and ill
work is it to make that blade fitten again. Would to God I did know,
that I might speak of a surety that which my heart is settled upon. But
this that I do know shalt thou hear to-day.” And coming over by the
doorway, Karl took seat upon the great chest near by, and fell to
telling Wulf of that which we already know—of his trip to the Swartzburg
a dozen years before, and how he had taken him from the osiers.
“Never saw I that knight, nor naught dared I ever ask of him; but slain
was he by Herr Banf, and was no noise ever made of who he was. Only this
I know: that the sword Herr Banf gave me to put in order had been that
stranger’s, and none other was it than one forged by these own hands for
Count Wulfstanger of Hartsburg when he rode with Count Rudolf to
Prussia, and he was our emperor’s heart’s friend. Three swords made I at
that time, alike in temper and fashion; and one was for Count
Wulfstanger, one was his who is now emperor, and one I kept and brought
with me to this place—” Karl halted just here, but Wulf was too taken
with the tale to note that.
“But thou knowest not that aught had I to do with that stranger knight,”
he urged, longing for Karl’s answer.
“That do I not. But, lad, thou’rt fair like my Lord Bernard, as his own
son might be; and tell me, how camest thou in the osiers just at that
time? Oh, I have worn thin my poor wits over this thing. But naught have
I been able to learn or guess. I did what I might, and if ever thou
comest to thine own, and thine own be what I think—ah, boy, thou’rt fit
for it!” And the old armorer’s face shone with loving pride as his eyes
took in the figure in the doorway.
“I can bear arms and sit a horse and hold mine honor clean,” said Wulf,
simply. “But oh, Karl, fain would I know the rights of this matter.”
He sighed, his thoughts going back to the castle, and to the memory of a
fair small hand fluttering a ribband down over the heads of a rabble of
scrambling youths. Truly the tinker’s lad, if such he was, was looking
high.
“I wish that I might see that sword,” he said at last.
“That thou mayest.”
The armorer arose from his seat on the chest, and turned toward the
cupboard; but just then there showed, riding out from the forest and up
to the door of the forge, two or three riders whom Wulf knew to be from
Conradt’s mongrel band of thieves and cutthroats.
They had with them a matter of work that, he quickly saw, would keep
Karl busy for an hour or two; so, mindful of his errand and of the need
to get back to the Swartzburg, where so great things were toward, he
arose from the doorway.
What of loyalty and duty his mind might fix upon at last, he knew not
yet; but the thought of one who in the trouble to come might be in
danger drew him like a magnet. So, bidding Karl good-by, he went his
way.
His mind was full of confused thoughts as he fared through the forest,
and how long he had been walking he knew not when suddenly he heard a
whistling twang, and an arrow speeding close past his head lodged in a
tree not a foot from him.
Turning quick as flash, his eye caught sight of a fleeing figure beyond
the nearest trees, and without an instant’s halt Wulf sped after the
runner.
He was fleet of foot, and not many moments was it ere he was up with his
cowardly foe, and catching him by the shoulder with one strong hand, he
whirled the fellow about and stood face to face with Conradt.
The hunchback had thrown away his bow and arrows the better to run, and
now put hand to sword; but ere he could draw, Wulf put forth one long
leg and tripped him up, so that he lay upon his back on the turf,
glaring up at Wulf, whose face glowed with unwonted anger and whose
sword’s point was at the breast of the prostrate ill-doer.
“Thou again?” he asked, when he had looked Conradt well over. “And what
wouldst have this time? What thou’rt likely to get is a quick shriving,”
he added.
There was no reply.
“What wast after?” Wulf persisted.
“Thy life,” was the defiant answer. “To let thy tinker blood out—and to
get the ribband ye stole.”
“Softly,” the other said. “That were an ugly word an any one heard it.
My life thou’rt not likely to get; as for the ribband, ’tis as much mine
as the other, and I am minded to keep both.”
Conradt’s only reply was a muttered curse; but his eyes rolled shiftily,
glancing askance adown the woods, as seeking help.
“If thou’rt looking for thy cutthroats,” Wulf said, “they’re back at the
forge, and likely to stay there an hour or so yet. Meantime, my pretty
fellow,” he asked wrathfully, “what shall I do to thee?”
A look of sullen despair crept over the hunchback’s face.
“Thou’lt do what is in thee,” he snarled at last—“as I did with thee.”
Wulf raised his sword; but looking down upon the fellow who would have
slain him, he saw his ill-shapen body and distorted face, and noted the
lurking fear in his restless eyes, and because it was in him to be
pitiful and generous, his heart stirred with compassion, and he could
not smite the creature lying there. Slowly his hands fell until the
point of his sword rested upon the ground; then he spurned the figure
lightly with his toe.
“Get thee up and be off,” he said. “An thou bidest long here, it may not
go so well with thee, after all.”
Rolling over upon his face, Conradt sprang to his feet and slunk away,
curlike, into the forest. His life had been spared, but the beast that
dwelt within his bad heart was not tamed. He had been given another
chance, such as the strong may give the weak, whether the weakness be of
body or of soul, so the strong yet ward his own strength; but this he
was too base to know, but deemed that fear had held Wulf’s hand; so that
he was not helped at all by the mercy that had spared him.
As for Wulf, he gave the meeting scant thought as he went on his way.
The weightier matters that pressed upon his brain kept mind and heart
engaged while he journeyed; but his duty seemed no clearer to him when
he had reached the castle than it had done at the forge with Karl.
CHAPTER IX
OF THE ILL NEWS THAT THE BARON BROKE TO HIS MAIDEN WARD, AND OF HOW SHE
TOOK THAT SAME
Baron Everhardt sat beside a table in the great hall of the castle,
scowling blackly at a pile of weighty-seeming papers that lay before
him. The baron could himself neither read nor write, but Father Franz,
his confessor and penman, had been with him all forenoon, and together
they had gone over the parchments, one by one, and the warrior noble
had, to all seeming, found enough to keep his mind busy with them since;
for he still sat as Father Franz had left him, fingering the huge sheets
and staring at the big black-letter text that told him naught.
The parchments were none other than the deeds in the matters of the
estate of the baron’s ward, Fräulein Elise von Hofenhoer, regarding
which estate the emperor had sent word that he should demand accounting
after he had wrought order at the Swartzburg. The baron’s face was not
good to see when he recalled the words of the emperor’s message.
“By the rood!” he muttered, bringing a clenched fist down on the table.
“The poor Swiss count were wiser to busy himself with setting his own
soul in order against coming to the Swartzburg.”
He sprang from his chair and paced the floor wrathfully, when there
entered to him his ward, whom he had sent to summon.
A stately slip of maidenhood was Elise: tall and fair, with fearless
eyes of dark blue. She seemed older than her few years, and as she stood
within the hall even the dark visage of the baron lightened at sight of
her, and the growl of his deep voice softened in answering her greeting.
“Sit ye down yonder,” he said, nodding toward a great Flemish chair of
oak over beyond the table.
Obediently Elise sank into its carven depths; but the baron paced the
floor yet a while longer, while she waited for him to speak.
At last he came back to the table, and seated himself before it.
“There be many gruesome things in these hard days, Fräulein,” he said,
“and things that may easily work ill for a maid.”
A startled look came into Elise’s eyes, but naught said she, though the
dread in her heart warned her what the baron’s words might portend.
“Thou knowest,” her guardian went on, “that thy father left thee in my
care. Our good Hofenhoer! May he be at greater peace than we are like to
know for many a long year!”
There was an oily smoothness in the baron’s tone that did not ease the
fear in Elise’s heart. Never had she known him to speak of her father,
whom she could not remember, and, indeed, never before had he spoken to
her at such length; for the baron was more at home in the saddle, or at
tilt and foray, than with the women of his household. But he grew bland
as any lawyer as he went on, with a gesture toward the parchments:
“These be all the matters of what property thy father left, though
little enough of it have I been able to save for thee, what with the
wickedness of the times; and now this greedy thief of a robber count who
calls himself Emperor of Germany, forsooth, seems minded to take even
that little—and thee into the bargain, belike—an we find not a way to
hinder him.”
“Take me?” Elise said in some amaze, as the baron seemed waiting her
word.
“Ay. The fellow hath proclaimed me outlaw, though, for that matter, do I
as easily proclaim him interloper. So, doubtless, ’tis even.” And the
baron smiled grimly.
“But that is by the way,” he added, his bland air coming back. “I’ve
sent for thee on a weightier matter, Fräulein, for war and evil are all
around us. I am none so young as once I was, and no man knows what may
hap when this Swiss comes hunting the nobles of the land as he might
chase wild dogs. ’Tis plain thou must have a younger protector,
and”—here the baron gave a snicker as he looked at Elise—“all maids be
alike in this, I trow, that to none is a husband amiss. Is’t not so?”
Elise was by now turned white as death, and her slim fingers gripped
hard on the chair-arms.
“What meanst thou, sir?” she asked faintly.
The baron’s uneasy blandness slipped away before his readier frown, yet
still he smiled in set fashion.
“Said I not,” he cried, with clownish attempt at lightness, “that all
maids are alike? Well knowest thou my meaning; yet wouldst thou question
and hedge, like all the others. Canst be ready for thy marriage by the
day after to-morrow? We must needs have thee a sheltered wife ere the
Swiss hawk pounce upon thee and leave thee plucked. Moreover, thy groom
waxes impatient these days.”
“And who is he?” Elise almost whispered, with lips made stiff by dread.
“Who, indeed,” snarled the baron, losing his scant self-mastery, “but my
nephew, to whom, as well thou knowest, thou hast been betrothed since
thou wert a child?”
The maiden sprang wildly to her feet, then cowered back in her chair and
hid her face in her hands.
“Conradt? Oh, never, never!” she moaned.
“Come, come,” her guardian said, not unkindly. “Conradt is no beauty, I
grant. God hath dealt hardly with him in a way that might well win him a
maiden’s pity,” he added, with a sham piousness that made Elise shiver.
“Thou must have a husband’s protection,” the baron went on. “Naught else
will avail in these times. And ’twas thy father’s will.”
“Nay; I believe not that,” Elise cried, looking straight at him with
flashing eyes. “Ne’er knew I my father, but ’twere not in any father’s
heart, my lord, to will so dreadful a thing for his daughter. Not so
will I dishonor that brave nobleman’s memory as to believe that this was
his will for me!”
The baron sprang up, dashing the parchments aside.
“Heed thy words, girl!” he roared. “Thy father’s will or not thy
father’s will, thou’lt wed my nephew on to-morrow’s morrow!”
“Nay; that will I not!” The fair face was lifted and the small hands
clasped each other in their slender strength.
The baron laughed softly in his beard, a laugh not pleasant to hear.
“In sooth,” he said, “’tis a tilt of precious web, the ‘will not’ of a
maid, but naught so good a wedding garment as that thou’lt need to find
’tween now and then.”
Elise came a step nearer, with a gesture of pleading.
“My lord,” she said, with earnest dignity, “ye cannot mean it! I am a
poor, helpless maiden, with nor father nor brother to fend for me. Never
can ye mean to do me this wrong.”
“’Tis needful, girl,” the baron said, keeping his eyes lowered; “this is
no time for thee to be unwed. Thou must have a legal protector other
than I. Only a husband can hold thy property from the emperor’s
greed—and perhaps save thee from eviler straits.”
“Nay; who cares for the wretched stuff?” cried she, impatiently. “Ah, my
lord, let it go! Take it, all of it, an ye will, and let me enter a
convent—rather than this.”
But for this the baron had no mind. Already had he turned his ward’s
property to his own use, and her marriage with Conradt was planned but
that he might hide his theft from the knowledge of others. Well knew he
how stern an accounting of his guardianship Mother Church would demand,
did Elise enter her shelter; but he only said:
“Thou art not of age. Thou canst not take so grave a step. The law will
not let thee consent.”
“Then how may I consent to this other?”
“To this I consent for thee, minx. Let that suffice, and go about thy
preparations.”
“I cannot! I cannot! Oh, Herr Baron, dost thou not fear God? As he
lives, I will never do this thing!”
Then the baron gripped her by the arm.
“Now, miss,” he said, his face close to hers, “enough of folly. Yet am I
master at the Swartzburg, and two days of grace have I granted thee; but
a word more, and Father Franz shall make thee a bride this night an thy
thieving cur of a bridegroom show his face in the castle. See, now;
naught canst thou gain by thy stubborn unreason. I can have patience
with a maid’s whims, but an thou triest me too greatly, it will go hard
but that I shall find a way to break thy stubborn will. But what
thinkest thou to do to hinder my will?”
She was weeping silently, the great tears welling up unchecked and
falling from her cheeks to the floor; but she answered proudly enough:
“I can yet die, sir.”
He released her arm and flung her from him.
“That were not a bad notion,” he sneered, “once the priest hath mumbled
the words that make thee Conradt’s wife. But now get yonder and prepare
thy bridal robes”; and he strode away.
[Illustration: “THEN THE BARON GRIPPED HER BY THE ARM.”]
Elise turned and fled from that place, scarce noting whither she went.
Not back to the women’s chambers; she could not face the baroness and
her ladies until she had faced this monstrous trouble alone.
Out she sped, then, to the castle garden, fleeing, poor hunted fawn that
she was, to the one spot of refuge she knew—the sheltering shade of a
drooping elm, at whose foot welled up a little stream that, husbanded
and led by careful gardening, wandered through the pleasance to water my
lady’s rose-garden beyond. There had ever been her favorite
dreaming-place, and thither brought she this great woe wherewith she
must wrestle. But ere she could cast herself down upon the welcoming
moss at the roots of the tree, a figure started up from within the
shadow of the great black trunk and came toward her.
She started back with a startled cry, wondering, even then, that aught
could cause her trouble or dismay beyond what was already hers. In the
next instant, however, she recognized Wulf. He was passing through the
garden and had been minded to turn aside for a moment to sit beneath the
elm where he knew the fair lily of the castle had her favorite nook.
Sweet it seemed to him, in the stress of that troubled time, to linger
there and let softer thoughts than those of war and of perplexing duties
come in at will; but he was even then departing when he was aware of
Elise coming toward him.
Then he saw her face, all distraught with pain and sorrow, and wrath
filled him.
“What is it?” he cried. “Who hath harmed thee? ’Twere an ill faring for
him an I come nigh him!”
“Wulf, Wulf!” moaned Elise, as soon as she knew him. “Surely Mary Mother
herself hath sent thee to help me!” And standing there under the
sheltering tree, she told him, as best she might for shame and woe and
the maidenly wrath that were hers, the terrible doom fallen upon her.
And Wulf’s face grew stern and white as he listened, and there fell off
from it the boyish look of ease and light-heartedness that is the right
of youth, and the look of a man came there, to stay until his death.
Now and again, as Elise spoke, his hand sought the dagger at his belt,
and his breath came thick from beneath his teeth; but no words wasted he
in wrath, for his wit was working fast on the matter before them, which
was the finding of a way of escape for the maiden.
“There is but one way for it,” he said at last, “and that must be this
very night, for this business of the emperor’s coming makes every moment
beyond the present one a thing of doubt. It cannot be before midnight,
though, that I may help thee; for till then I guard the postern gate,
and I may not leave that which is intrusted me. But after that do thou
make shift to come to me here, and, God helping us, thou’lt be from here
ere daybreak.”
“But whither can I go?” Elise cried, shrinking in terror from the bold
step. “How may a maiden wander forth into the night?”
“That is a simple matter,” said Wulf. “Where, indeed, but to the Convent
of St. Ursula beyond the wood? Thou’lt be safe there, for the lady
superior is blood kin to the emperor, and already is the place under
protection of his men. An he think to seek thee there, even our wild
baron would pause before going against those walls.”
“’Tis a fair chance,” said Elise, at last, “but an ’twere still worse,
’twere better worth trying, even to death, than to live to-morrow’s
morrow and what ’twill bring”; and a shudder shook her till she sobbed
with grief.
The time was too short even for much planning, while many things
remained to be done; so Elise, ere long, sought her own little nest in
the castle wing, there to make ready for flight, while Wulf took pains
to show himself as usual about the tasks wherewith he was wont to fill
his hours.
CHAPTER X
HOW WULF TOOK ELISE FROM THE SWARTZBURG
It was a little past midnight, and the air was black and soft as velvet
when two figures crept across the inner bailey and gained the outer
court of the castle. Not easy was the journey for them, but feeling by
hand and foot along the pave and the walls, Wulf led, his fingers never
leaving the masonry, while Elise crept after him, holding fast by his
sleeve.
One by one Wulf counted the buttresses of the wall, until one more
would, he knew, bring them to the postern gate.
“Gotta Brent’s son followed me on watch here,” he whispered to Elise.
“He is a sleepy fellow, and will not have got well settled to the tramp
yet.”
“Thou’lt not harm him, Wulf?” she breathed back anxiously. “Ne’er again
could I be happy if any hurt came to an innocent person through me.”
“Nay; let thy heart be easy,” replied Wulf. “I will but fix him in easy
position for the good long sleep he loves. He were no fellow to be put
on watch in time of danger.”
Just then the clank of metal came to their ears, and they knew that the
sentinel was drawing near on his beat.
Close back they pressed into the deep shadow of the bastion, while Elise
put both hands over her heart in an instinct to muffle its wild beating.
It seemed to her straining ears to sound above the shuffle of coming
steps and the rattle of the watchman’s armor and weapons.
Almost beside them, lantern in hand, the watch paused; but his body was
between them and his light, and its rays did not shine into the bastion.
After a moment he raised the staff which he carried and struck a sharp
blow against the stones.
The sudden sound wrung from Elise a little outcry, which she checked on
her very lips, as it were; but the sentry must have caught somewhat of
it, for he bent toward them, and Wulf braced himself to spring upon him,
when of a sudden a call rang out from the sentinel on the watch-tower,
far adown the wall.
“One hour past midnight, and all’s well,” it said; and the watchman
beside them took it up, bellowing forth the words until they sounded
fair awful coming out of the darkness. From elsewhere—Wulf judged it to
be the castle keep—the watch-cry sounded again, and ere it had clean
died away Wulf gave a forward spring, catching the sentinel just as he
was turning to walk adown his beat.
In a flash the fellow had received a blow from his own staff that
quieted him. Then, dashing out the lantern, Wulf, as best he could in
the darkness, thrust a soft leathern gag into the man’s mouth, making it
fast by cords at the back of his head. Then he bound him, hand and foot,
and, taking from the fellow’s girdle the key of the postern, he grasped
Elise’s hand, and together they made out to open the gate and creep
forth.
Between them and liberty there yet lay the ditch; but well Wulf knew
where, at the foot of the steps leading from the postern, the warden’s
boat was tied, and, with every sense sharpened by the dangers about
them, he managed to get Elise into the small craft. By now a few stars
shone through the darkness, lighting them, feebly enough, to the other
side, and presently the pair had clambered again ahead.
“Now for it!” whispered Wulf. “Gird thy skirts well, for an we win away
now, ’twill be by foot-fleetness.”
Bravely Elise obeyed him, and taking her hand again, Wulf led off at a
long, low run, none too hard for her prowess, yet getting well over the
ground. Thus they began descending the defile. It was cruel work for a
tender maid, but Elise was of such stuff as in years gone had made her
ancestors the warrior comrades of kings; she neither moaned nor
flinched, but kept steady pace at Wulf’s side.
Thus they fared for a matter of two or three miles, and had gotten well
away down the pass when they caught, on the still night air, an alarum
of horns that would be from the castle. Plainly something was astir, and
that, most likely, the discovery that some one had come or gone by the
postern gate.
“The boat will soon tell them which ’tis,” said Wulf, “and they’ll be
after us just now.”
They quickened pace, and, reckless of danger on the rough foothold, sped
flockmeal down the stony road, Wulf with an arm about the maiden’s
waist, that he might lift her along over the roughest places, she with a
hand on his shoulder, hastening stoutly beside him.
By now they were beyond the steepest of the way, and near to where the
stream that kept it company toward the valley widened over the plain for
a matter of some miles by length, but of no great width, in a sedgy,
grass-tufted morass, with here and there clumps of wild bog-willow and
tall reeds.
The noise of pursuit sounded loud and terrible behind them, and they
could almost tell the different voices of the men. Then, without
warning, over the crest of the mountains towering up on one side rose
the late moon, full and lambent, flooding the whole scene with light.
“Quick! quick!” cried Wulf; and fair lifting his companion, he swung
down the rocks that edged the cliff, sliding, slipping, scrambling,
still holding her safe, until with a spring they gained the shelter of
the willows.
There they lay breathless for a moment, while above them a party of
horsemen swept by in full cry.
“They will soon be back,” said Wulf, “for well will they guess that
naught human can have won very far ahead of them. We must e’en pick our
way over yonder, Elise.”
“We can never!” gasped the girl, almost in despair.
“That were a long day,” answered Wulf, easily. “I wot not if any other
man from the castle can do it, but well know I how it can be done, and
come aland in the thick of the wood.”
Stooping, he lifted Elise in his strong arms, and resting her light
weight on shoulder and chest, went easily forward, now stepping upon a
reedy islet of green, just showing in the moonlight, now plunging almost
waist-deep in water below which, other trips had taught him, was
foothold, but never stopping until he drew near the other side. Then,
sore wearied, he raised Elise, that she might lay hold on some
overhanging boughs and swing herself up among them, after which Wulf
crawled ashore and lay panting, while Elise bent over him, calling him
softly by name, and taking blame to herself for all his weariness.
He did but wait to get his breath, however; then, as they heard the hue
and cry of the returning horsemen, he started up again. By the noise
they could tell that another party had come down the pass and joined the
first, but they did not linger to listen to them, but, freshened by
their short rest, plunged into the forest.
Well was it for them that Wulf knew, as some men to-day know their home
cities, the wayless depths of that wood. Open were they to him as a
tilled field to the plowman, and with the sureness of a hiving bee he
led Elise through the great tree-aisles. Here and there where boughs
were thinner the moon’s rays sifted in, and served now to lighten, now
merely to deepen the shadow; but for the most part it was fair dark,
until, after long travel, as they came to a little bit of open where
ancient forest fire had cleared the trees, they saw that the moonlight
had given place to the first gray tint of dawn.
On they went for yet another hour, and now it was clear daylight when,
sounding through the woods, came again the noise of horsemen. Evidently
the baron’s men had skirted the stream and struck through the forest.
For all the fugitives knew, they might show before them any moment now.
“Wulf,” cried Elise, “do thou leave me here. I can go no farther, but go
thou on. I will stay to meet them. They dare not kill me,—would they
might!—but if I stay and go back with them to the castle, thou canst
escape, and thy death will not be at my charge.”
“Hush!” Wulf answered, almost roughly. “Dost think I will do thy bidding
in this? But here is no place to hide. We must get on, an we may, where
the bush is thicker. So hearten thyself for one more trial.”
His arm once more on her waist, they ran on—she sobbing with weariness
and fear for him—through the forest.
But nearer and nearer, louder and more clear, came the noise of their
pursuers, and still more feebly ran the tired pair, stumbling over
fallen boughs and matted tangles of dead leaves.
“Wulf! I am like to die of weariness,” gasped Elise, at last. “Go on
alone, I beg thee.”
“Hark!” Wulf interrupted, with a quick gesture. “What is that?”
They were at the edge of another open, which they were minded to skirt,
fearful to cross it and risk discovery; but beyond it came the sound of
still another body of horsemen, crashing through the forest.
“Belike the party have divided,” Wulf whispered, “the better to find
us.” But, even as he spoke, a squire rode from the brash into the open,
bearing a banner that Wulf had never before seen. He shrank back into
the thicket, keeping tight hold of Elise’s hand; but the newcomer had
evidently ridden out by mistake from the body of his fellows, and
retired again by the way he came. They could hear him going on through
the brush.
“They are not Swartzburg riders,” Wulf said, and then a mighty din arose
among the trees. The woods rang on all sides with the cries of
fighting-men and the clashing of weapons, and in another moment Wulf
made out clearly the battle-cry of Baron Everhardt’s men. But above it
and all the din of fighting, there rose another cry: “For God and the
emperor!” so that he knew that a party of Rudolf’s men, if not his whole
army, had fallen in with the pursuers, and his hot young blood stirred
with longing to be in the fray.
Then he bethought him of the matter at hand.
“Now! now, Elise! this is our chance! We must be off! One more dash and
we shall be where any band of horsemen will have much ado to follow, and
well on our way to the convent.”
He pressed to her lips an opened bottle filled with goat’s milk, urging
her to drink, and when she had done so she looked up at him with fresh
courage in her eyes.
“I am ready,” she said, rising. He stopped the bottle and secured it at
his belt, and again they went on, dashing forward, unmindful of any
noise they might make when all the wood was so full of direful sound.
The new hope that had come to Elise gave her fresh strength, so that it
seemed to her as if she had but just begun to run.
In this fashion they traveled on until at last Wulf halted in the
deepest depth of the great forest.
“We shall be safe to rest here,” he said, still speaking softly, “while
we break our fast.” And there, beneath the dark old trees that seemed to
bend and gather over them to hide and to comfort, they sank down, scarce
able to move or speak.
CHAPTER XI
WHAT THE FUGITIVES FURTHER SAW IN THE FOREST, AND HOW THEY CAME TO ST.
URSULA AND MET THE EMPEROR
At last Wulf bestirred himself, turning to his companion.
“Art resting?” he asked. “That were a sharp tug to do again, winded as
we are; but, please God, naught further will misadventure us. We may
abide here until we are minded to go on. Or, stay; I know the very
place!”
He pressed forward stilly, leading the weary girl, until, bending aside
some hanging boughs, he suddenly started back, signing her to be quiet.
Before them was a little open glade, set round with young beech-trees,
that showed lightly against the darker growths. Within the nearly round
inclosure grew a great walnut-tree, a little to one side; thorn and
brier pressed back against the beeches all around, and the glade was
thinly carpeted with sparse grass of delicate green, growing somewhat
feebly in the deep leaf-mold.
There was no need for Wulf to enjoin silence upon Elise, once she had
peeped within the glade. Leaning against the trunk of the walnut-tree,
sword in hand, stood Conradt, while gathered about him were a number of
men who, by their dress and arms, might have been knights—though greatly
did their faces belie the knightly order.
They had evidently been feasting, for the disorder of a hearty meal lay
about them on the leaves and grass, and the men were lounging as men are
wont to do after feeding. Beside two of them, as they lay at ease, were
bows, and Wulf marveled to note that these were ready strung.
“What foolishness is here,” he thought as he watched, “to keep a resting
bow strung, such fashion?”
The two watchers kept very still, for the gathering had an ill look,
while as for Wulf, he heartily wished that Elise were well gotten away
from the dangerous neighborhood. What the maiden’s own feelings were, he
could judge from the hard grip she kept upon his left hand—so hard that
he well-nigh flinched with the pain. Nevertheless, her face showed no
fear; only, as she looked upon Conradt, it wore a set resoluteness,
making Wulf feel sure that whatever came she would not faint nor fall to
crying, but what wit and might were hers would be to the fore.
All at once most of the men sprang up and bent forward as listening,
each man by gesture silencing his fellows; then was Wulf mazed to note
the look of that gathering.
The two bowmen stood staring straight before them, making no motion
toward their weapons until Conradt and another took them up and put them
in the fellows’ hands, when the boy saw that those archers were
stone-blind. More than that, the man who helped Conradt fix their bows
had but a short stump of a left forearm.
This stump he thrust through the arm-strap of a shield which he snatched
from the ground, and drawing his sword, hurried across the glade, the
archers following, holding by his jerkin.
While all this was going forward the two watchers became aware of the
sound of a bell through the trees. It was plain that this was the sound
which had roused the men. These still remained within the glade, but
pressed forward toward the opening, ready to sally out upon whoever
might pass.
“This be far from the road for merchants,” Wulf thought. “Mayhap some
caravan has lost its way. That bell would be on the leading animal,
which looks, an I’m not a blunderer, as ’twere likely to be too large a
company for our Conradt’s sorry crew.”
Then he and Elise exchanged looks, for the sound was plainly coming
toward the glade, as though the animal bearing the bell were traversing
some woodland path.
The monstrous group before them also noted this, and Conradt, plucking
the blind archers by their sleeves, led them back a little space, nearer
to where Wulf and Elise were hidden. Here he stationed them, and setting
their bows at aim toward a slight opening among the bushes on the other
side, he went back to the walnut-tree.
“He fancies the travelers, if there be any, will come in at yon place,”
said Wulf to himself; “but ’tis my belief that ’tis naught, after all,
but an estrayed bell-heifer wandering through the woods.”
Then a man’s voice sounded above the noise of the bell. They could not
make out its utterance, but something in the hoarse, droning cry chilled
the listeners’ hearts. The men within the glade looked at one another in
awe.
“Mother of heaven! What may it be?” Elise whispered with white lips to
Wulf.
He shook his head, not knowing, when in the opening at the yonder side
of the glade a figure showed—a tall, gaunt figure of a man, indeed, but
looking rather like some wild thing of the forest.
He was clad for the most part in the skins of beasts with the hair left
on, and about his loins was knotted a rope from which hung the iron bell
whose clangor had held their attention so long.
“’Tis Bell-Hutten,” whispered Wulf to Elise. “I might have guessed as
much, but in truth ne’er saw I him before.”
By now most of the group within the glade knew the man, for the whole
countryside knew his history. He was a harmless half-wit who, in years
agone, had been as bright and forward as any man until one evil day when
he had been hired by a company of merchants to set them through the
forest, for such was the business he followed. This he had undertaken,
riding the bell-horse at the head of the company; but the caravan had
been set upon by robber knights, who spoiled the merchants of their
goods. In the affair Hutten, the guide, had been wounded in the head, so
that his wits were hurt; and since that day he had wandered in the
forest, no man’s man, living such ways as he might, but ever thinking
himself estrayed from that company which he led, and seeking it, that he
might guide the merchants through the woods.
It was talked among the forest folk and in the villages of the district
that the guide had really been faithless and had led his charge into the
ambush which those knights had made, and for this reason many feared and
shunned the man, even while they pitied him with the rough pity of the
time. As to the truth of this harsh belief, however, no man knew, but
many, when they heard his bell, which he had taken from the horse he had
ridden that day, turned aside and went their ways, crossing themselves
and praying to be delivered from the black sin of falseness to friends.
The stranger was plainly taken aback at the sight of the
unfriendly-looking men in the open. He had been wailing forth a
_miserere_ as he walked, but the words were hushed upon his lips as he
stood in his tracks for an instant and then turned to flee.
But the one-armed man did a woeful thing, whereat even Conradt cried out
in dismay. Plucking from his belt a short dagger, he hurled it, with a
curse upon him for giving them such a fright, after the retreating
figure. The dagger struck the half-wit in the back, whereupon he gave a
great cry and staggered forward out of sight, while the dastard stood
half appalled at his own wickedness.
Then all the robbers turned away from the doer of that foul deed, even
the blind men refusing to be led away by him, as was evidently their
wont, choosing instead to follow Conradt and the others out into the
forest. Left thus to himself, the outcast struck into the woods alone,
and soon not a sound could be heard of any of that company.
For a time Wulf and Elise dared not stir, but sat looking at each other
with blanched faces, and lips still parted in horror. Then Wulf found
tongue.
“We must get from here,” he whispered hoarsely, wiping away the cold
sweat that stood in great drops on his forehead. “Ay, but ’twas a
fearsome sight. I wonder thou didst not faint nor scream, Elise. In
truth, thou’rt stern stuff for such a slip of a maiden.”
But Elise could only shake her head.
“Take me away,” she moaned at last. “I can bear no more!”
First, however, Wulf drew from his wallet some bread and cheese, and
opened again the bottle of goat’s milk.
“’Tis fair like to be butter,” he said, “what with all our running and
jouncing it, but do thou try to eat and drink now; ’twill hearten us
after this awful thing.”
The milk was still sweet, and being young, wholesome creatures, the two
made out to take the food and drink they needed, and were afterward able
to go on their way, warily but steadily, through the woods.
Nevertheless, it was close upon nightfall when the convent walls showed
gray before them where the woods had been cleared away.
All was bustle and confusion there. The close was full of armed men, and
about the stables and courtyards were many great war-horses, while
grooms and men-at-arms ran to and fro on divers errands, or busied
themselves about the horses and their gear. Altogether the scene was one
of such liveliness as Wulf had never dreamed the convent could take on.
At the little barred window of the cloister gate where he knocked with
Elise, a lay sister was in waiting, who told them the reason of all this
business. The new emperor, with his train, was the convent’s guest. That
night he would bide there, awaiting the coming of the bulk of his army,
wherewith, later, he meant to attack the Swartzburg. The sister admitted
our travelers, and took Elise straight to the mother superior, leaving
Wulf to find the way, which well he knew, to the kitchen.
The emperor and the mother superior were together in the latter’s little
reception-room when Elise was brought before them, trembling and shy, as
a maiden might well be in the presence of royalty and of churchly
dignity; but the mother superior, though she had never seen the little
maid, called her by name, the lay sister having made it known, and
turned with her to the emperor.
“This, Sire,” she said, “is the child of your old friend Von Hofenhoer,
and sometime ward of our baron, who, I fear, is ill prepared to make
accounting of his stewardship. But why she is here I know not yet, save
that Sister Stanislaus tells me that she was brought here a refugee from
the castle by the grandson of old Karl of the forge—he of whom you were
asking but now.”
The emperor was a tall, lean man, with eagle-like visage, clean-shaven
and stern. His long, straight hair fell down on either side of his gaunt
face, and his eyes were bright and keen. He was plainly, almost meanly
dressed. Nevertheless, he was of right kingly aspect, and, moreover,
despite his stern looks, he smiled kindly as he placed a hand on Elise’s
bowed head.
“Thy father was my good comrade, child,” he said, “and sorry am I to see
his daughter in such a plight; but thou shalt tell us about it
presently, and we shall see what is to be done.”
The lay sister returned, bearing some wine and a plate of biscuits; and
seating her in an arm-chair, the mother superior bade Elise partake of
these, which she did gladly. When she had finished, the two dignitaries,
who were own cousins and old friends, drew from her, little by little,
the story of her flight from the castle, and of her reasons therefor.
As the emperor listened he paced up and down the little stone-floored
room, now frowning sternly, now softening a bit as he looked upon the
fair young maiden, so spent with fear and hardship.
“This is bad work, Mother Ursula,” he said at last, “and well is it that
we have come to clean out the jackal’s nest. But this boy Wulf whom she
speaks of—he would be here yet. Him I would see—and our good old Karl;
would he were here now!”
So Wulf was summoned before the great emperor, and came with
swift-beating heart. Brought face to face with Rudolf, he fell upon one
knee, cap in hand, and waited the monarch’s will.
When the latter spoke it was with great kindliness; for well was he
pleased with the goodly-looking youth.
“Thou mayst rise,” he said, when he had glanced keenly over the kneeling
figure. “And so thou’rt my old friend Karl’s grandson. If there’s aught
in blood, thou shouldst be an honest man and a brave; for truer nor
braver man ever lived, and well knows Rudolf of Hapsburg that.”
A thousand thoughts and impulses surged through Wulf’s brain while the
emperor spoke, but the moment seemed none for speech other than that
with which he finally contented himself, saying simply:
“He brought me up, Sire.”
“And that is thy good fortune,” cried the emperor. “But tell me when I
may have speech of my friend, for there is a matter hath brought me
hither that needeth his help, though I knew not that he were even alive
until the mother superior here told me of his presence hereabout. Well
knew she how Rudolf loved his ancient man-at-arms.”
“An he knew what was afoot,” Wulf said respectfully, “he were here now
to honor the emperor. Readily could I take him a message, your Majesty,”
he added.
“That were well done,” began Rudolf; but Mother Ursula interrupted.
“Nay,” she said, “the baron’s men belike are even now scouring the
country for the boy. ’Twere the price of his life to send him forth
again—at least, till the Swartzburg is taken.”
“True enough,” said the emperor. “In faith, my longing in this matter
hath made me forgetful. Well, I must e’en seek another messenger.”
“If I might go, Sire,” Wulf persisted, with manly modesty that still
further won Rudolf’s straightforward heart, “no messenger could go so
quickly as I—by ways I know that are quite safe. I can fare back now,
and be there by daylight.”
“By the rood, no!” cried the emperor. “Thou shalt rest some hours ere we
think further of this. There’s none too much such timber as thou in the
land, that we should be in haste to fell it. Get thee now to refreshment
and rest, and if we need thee thou shalt know it.”
Thus dismissed, Wulf was fain to be content with retiring, and despite
his anxiety to serve the emperor, who had won the boy’s whole loyal
heart, right glad was he, after a hearty supper, to go to bed. So, when
he was shown, at last, into the traveler’s dormitory, he threw himself
down upon the hard cot spread for him, and fell at once into a deep
sleep.
CHAPTER XII
HOW WULF TOOK THE EMPEROR’S MESSAGE TO KARL OF THE FORGE
It still wanted an hour of daybreak when the convent porter bent over
the pallet where Wulf lay and shook the boy into wakefulness.
“Thou’rt to get up, lad,” he said, with gruff kindness. “Eat this and
make thyself ready to go an errand. When thou’rt ready, go to the lady
superior in her audience-room.”
He put some bread and meat and a tankard of beer upon the floor, and
left Wulf to awaken more fully and make such preparation as he had need
of.
Mother Ursula and the emperor were still talking when Wulf, having
knocked at the door of the little reception-room, answered the former’s
call to enter. To all appearance neither had taken any rest since Wulf
had last seen them, and so eagerly was the emperor talking that neither
paid any heed to the boy as he stood waiting their pleasure.
“He was known to have ridden hither,” Rudolf was saying, “and to have
brought the boy. He was minded to leave him with you, my lady, against
his going again to Jerusalem; but no word ever came from either. But
gladly would I lay down the crown that is proving over-burdensome to my
poor head, to set eyes upon the face of either.”
The emperor paced the floor sadly, his stern, homely face drawn by
emotion.
“He would have sought out Karl, had he known,” Rudolf went on. “I must
see the man. Ah, here is the boy!”
He turned, seeing the boy, who advanced and did knee-service.
“So,” the emperor said, “we are going to use thy stout legs, boy. Make
thou their best speed to thy grandsire, and tell him that Count Rudolf
rides to the Swartzburg and would have him at hand. Canst do that?”
“Ay, Sire.”
“But stay,” said Rudolf; “haply he has grown too feeble for bearing
arms?”
Wulf flushed with indignation for stalwart Karl.
“Nay,” he said stoutly; “he will carry what weapon thou wilt, and enter
the castle close behind thee.”
“Sh!” cried Mother Ursula, shocked at the boy’s speech. “Thou’rt
speaking to the emperor, lad!”
Rudolf laughed. “Let the boy alone,” he said. “One may speak freely to
whom he will of a man like Karl.” Whereupon Mother Ursula hurried to
cross herself piously.
“Now hasten,” the emperor said kindly, “and God be with thee!” And Wulf
went forth.
As he passed through the refectory the porter handed him some food,
which he put into his wallet, and filling his leathern water-bottle at
the fountain in the convent yard, he fastened it to his belt, and swung
out on his journey.
By now had come dawn, and the birds were beginning their earliest
twitter among the trees. Later, squirrels and other small deer began to
move about, and to chatter among the boughs and in the fallen leaves.
The forest was full of pleasant sights and sounds, and the early morning
breeze brought sweet, woodsy smells to his eager nostrils.
By and by a red fox stole across an open with a plump hare flung back
over his shoulder, and Wulf gave challenge for sheer joy of life and of
the morning. Reynard paused long enough to give him a slant glance out
of one wise eye, then trotted on. Long pencils of early sunlight began
to write cheery greetings on the mossy earth and on the tree-trunks. The
witchery of the hour was upon everything, and Wulf felt boundlessly
happy as he stepped along. All his thoughts were vague and sweet—of
Elise safe at the convent, doubtless still sleeping; of the emperor’s
gracious kindness; of Karl’s joy at the message he was bringing. Even
the sorry medley of half-knowledge about his own name and state had no
power to make him unhappy this morning.
Not but that he longed to know the truth. He had never been ashamed to
think of himself as Karl’s grandson; but the bare idea of something
other than that set his blood tingling, and caused such wild hopes to
leap within him that, but for the need to walk warily on this errand so
fraught with danger, he could have shouted and sung for joy.
He went on steadily, stopping but once, in the middle of the forenoon,
to eat a bit of bread and to refill his water-bottle at a clear, pure
stream which he crossed.
As he drew near to the neighborhood of the glade he was minded to turn
aside for a look at the scene of yesterday’s strange adventure, when he
thought he heard a low groan beyond him in the forest. He stood to
listen, and presently caught the sound again—the moaning of some
creature in mortal pain.
He crept forward warily. As he came nearer to the moaning he became
certain that the hurt creature was a man, and he tried to hear whether
there might be others with him. No sound reached him, however, save that
faint groaning; so at last he parted the drooping branches of an
elm-tree, and saw a piteous sight.
There upon the grass, face downward, lay Bell-Hutten, his body rocking
softly from side to side as in great agony. His garment of skins was
torn from his shoulders, and Wulf noted a torn wound, the blood now
dried about it, where the robber’s dagger had struck the day before.
As the boy watched, filled with dole, he saw the poor creature reach
back a hand toward an empty water-bottle that lay on the grass. His left
hand was stretched forward, the fingers clutching vaguely among the
grass and leaves. Wulf’s whole nature, as he stood there, ached with
horror and pity—horror of the unhappy being upon whom the curse of God
and man seemed to have fallen so heavily.
“’Tis a pitiful thing,” he thought, “and urgent as this business of our
emperor’s is, I cannot go on and leave the man thus.”
“Brother,” he called softly, not to startle the sufferer, “what dost
want?”
“Water! water! For mercy’s sake!”
“Canst manage this?” and loosening his leathern bottle, Wulf handed it
to the half-wit.
The poor fever-parched hands grasped it eagerly, drew the stopper, and
the man drank.
There was a more human note in the voice that prayed blessing on the
boy.
“Hast any food?” Wulf asked.
The unkempt head was shaken, and hastily emptying his wallet, Wulf bent
over the man, with the bread and meat which the good sisters had put up
for him.
“Bide here until morning,” he said, “and I will bring thee more. I must
hasten now. I am not on my own business.”
He was turning away when he saw growing at his feet masses of the
pungent, healing wormwood, and a new thought struck him. Hastily
gathering a handful of the tenderest leaves, he filled his mouth and
began chewing them with his strong young teeth. It was bitter work, and,
in spite of himself, his face twisted grimly as he rolled the wry cud on
his tongue; but he stuck to the task till he had a big poultice of the
wholesome stuff spread on a broad dock-leaf.
Then, first bathing away the hardened blood with a little water from the
flask, he clapped the poultice deftly upon the sore and angry wound.
After that he was forced to go on with all speed; but there was a note
of hearty good cheer in his voice as he bade his patient good-morrow.
So he fared on his way, sore shaken in his healthy young nerves, but
gathering strength with every onward stride, his own aching arms and
legs fair eased as he thought of the comfort his poultice must be
bringing to the outcast’s hurt shoulder.
Traveling thus, bent now only upon his errand, he never saw the stealthy
shadow that, mile after mile, kept pace with him beyond the thicket,
dodging when he paused, moving when he moved, until, satisfied as to
where he was going, the evil thing hurried back over the way to keep
tryst with a master as evil, and to carry the welcome news that the
tinker had gone alone back to the forge, where quick work might surprise
and catch him.
It was the middle of the afternoon when he reached the forge and found
Karl, who stared at sight of him.
“I’d dreamed thou wast safe away, boy,” he said, shaking him lovingly by
the broad shoulders. “What madness is this? The baron’s men have been
here for thee, and thy life is naught worth if they find thee. Why art
so foolhardy, son?”
“Count Rudolf is at St. Ursula’s, and sends for thee,” Wulf said,
laughing at his fears.
Karl turned on the instant, and seized a great sword that lay on the
anvil.
“Sayst so? And thou hast seen the count—I mean the emperor? How looked
he? What said he? And he remembered old Karl? Ah! his was ever a true
heart.” The rough face was alight with loving, excited pride.
“Give me a bite to eat, and we’ll fare back together,” Wulf said; but
Karl became anxious again.
“Nay,” he said. “Thou’st escaped the baron’s wolves this time, but by
now they swarm the woods. Moreover, thou art tired out. Bide thee in
hiding here. They will never dream that thou art simple enough to come
aback to the forge after this time. Here is thy best refuge now. Rest,
then, and by to-morrow the emperor’s men will have harried them all back
to the castle to defend the place.”
To Wulf this word seemed wise, and fain was he to rest, being footsore
and weary; so he busied himself with helping Karl make ready. No
armorer’s staff did the stout fellow take now, but a strong, shapely
bow, from off the smithy wall. He tried it over his knee as he fitted
cord to it, smiling grimly the while. Of arrows he took a goodly number,
and girt himself with a short two-edged sword. His fierce joy imparted
itself to Wulf, who watched him.
At last Karl went to the cupboard beside the forge, and opening it,
lifted out the shining knight’s sword.
“This be the blade I have told ye of, lad,” he said—“the very one; for I
gave Herr Banf mine own, that had never seen battle, and kept this one
for thee.”
He ran his thumb along the keen edge. “Mayhap thou’st no claim on earth
to it,” he said, “yet no man hath showed a better, and thou’lt give it
play for the emperor, whose service owns it; so take it. But, lad, lad,”
he cried, “an ye love God and this poor lost land, remember ’twas a
brave and a true man first carried that sword ’gainst foe.”
“Ay, ay, Karl, I will remember,” said Wulf, solemnly, taking the sword
in hand. Karl had fitted it with a plain, strong scabbard, and it was
ready for stout and worthy deeds. A thrill went through the boy as he
girt it to him, and there beside the forge, silently, within his own
mind, he vowed that blade to knightly and true service.
Then Karl bade him good-by and stepped forth through the woods, to do
the emperor’s bidding.
CHAPTER XIII
HOW WORD OF HIS DANGER CAME TO WULF AT THE FORGE
Once Karl was gone, Wulf set to work to cook some food for himself over
the forge fire, and when he had eaten he barred the smithy door of heavy
bolted planks, and threw himself down upon the armorer’s pallet to seek
the rest he so much needed.
Meantime, through the dim, leafy reaches of the forest a man dragged
himself painfully, now catching at the great tree-boles that he might
not fall, now staggering forward in a vain attempt to run, then dropping
on all fours to creep forward, never halting altogether, but ever, in
some way or other, pressing onward hour after hour, and so making
headway. He had muffled his telltale bell, and his face was set in
deadly determination to the gaining of some great end. So the half-wit
fared through the forest that night on an errand of human love, and no
beast crossed his path to hinder, nor bewraying twig or bough crackled
under his feet to warn any foe of his coming.
How long Wulf had slept he knew not, but his slumber at last became
fitful and uneasy, and presently he was ware of some noise at the great
door of the smithy. From the rays of moonlight that stole in through the
chinks, he knew that the night must be well-nigh spent, but he was yet
heavy with sleep and could not rightly get awake on the moment.
He sprang up at last, however, sword in hand, and waited to hear
further. If this were a foe it were none of any great strength to stand
thus, making no clamor, but calling softly.
“Open! Open!” a voice outside cried in a hoarse, imploring whisper. “In
the name of Heaven, make haste to open! No foe is here, but only one
weak man who comes to warn ye of danger. ’Tis poor Bell-Hutten, who
means no harm to him who saved him in the forest. Open! Open!”
Softly, then, Wulf drew out the great forged bolt that held it, and
keeping the steel weapon-wise in his right hand, threw open the door.
“What wouldst have? Art hungry?”
“Nay; speak not of my wants, but tell me—art named Wulf, and do men call
thee the tinker?”
“Some men do; but they be no friends of mine.”
“That I warrant; but death is at thy heels; an thou get not from here he
will be quickly at thy throat.”
“What is toward?” asked Wulf, making ready to step forth.
“Nay, that I know not, save that ’tis harm to thee. Yonder I lay where
ye left me, when there came two skulkers in the bushes, and one told the
other how he had followed one whom, from their talk, I deemed to be
thee, and how thou hadst come on to the smithy here. Yet, though they
were twain, durst they not come for thee, but went their way to get help
at the Swartzburg; whereupon I came away hither, by such snail’s pace as
I might; but sore I feared lest they might be here before me. Now get
thou away, and quickly!”
“I thank thee, friend,” said Wulf, “and straight will I.”
Bell-Hutten made a quick gesture.
“Alas!” he groaned. “’Tis too late. They be upon thee now!”
Sure enough; all too plainly, through the trees, could be heard the
sound of horsemen coming up rapidly, albeit with some caution.
“Canst not hide?” gasped Bell-Hutten.
[Illustration: “WITH THE HEAD OF HIS BATTLE-AX HE STRUCK IT A BLOW THAT
SENT IT INWARD.”]
“Ay, and well. Get thee to the bush!” And closing the door behind him,
Wulf sprang to the great oak, his friend and shelter in childhood and
boyhood, now his haven in deadly peril. Easily he swung himself up,
higher and higher, until he was safe among the thick foliage of the
broad, spreading top. So huge were the branches, even here, that a man
might stand beneath and look up at the very one where Wulf lay, yet
never dream that aught were hidden there.
The baron himself was of the party who rode up around the smithy just as
Wulf was settled in his place. Straight to the door he drove his horse,
and with the head of his battle-ax struck it a blow that sent it inward
on its hinges.
One or two men bearing torches sprang into the house, and the single
room became suddenly alight, but no one showed there. Hastily they
ransacked the place, while the baron sat his horse and roared forth his
orders, sending one man here, another yonder, to be at the thicket and
scour all the places. One even came under the great tree and held up his
torch, throwing the light high aloft, but seeing naught of Wulf.
Then the baron laughed savagely.
“This is thy chase, nephew Conradt,” he jeered. “Said I not he would
never be here? The armorer’s whelp is a hanging rogue fast enough, but
no fool to blunder hither, once he were safe away with the girl.”
“Peradventure,” began Conradt, but just then came in two spearmen,
driving the outcast before them, staggering as he walked.
“This we found in the thicket and haled out,” they began; but Conradt
and some of the others shrank back hastily, for in the dim light the
poor half-wit was a terrible sight. But the baron showed no fear.
“Hast seen any man hid hereabout?” he asked. “We seek a gallows escape,
by name Wulf.”
The sorry creature only stared vacantly, and then sank to the ground.
“Answer me!” roared the baron. “Dost know him we seek? What art doing
here thyself?”
There was no reply.
“Let me make him speak,” Conradt cried, bold now amid that company; and
with drawn sword he came forward.
“So thou’lt not give tongue?” he screamed. “By the rood, I do believe
thou knowest where the tinker hath hidden. Out with it, then, ere I
split that devil’s head of thine!”
His blade gleamed in the moonlight, and the wretched outcast on the
ground raised a beseeching hand. But that blow was never to fall.
Instead, as from heaven itself, came a flying shaft, deadly and sure,
that struck Conradt’s sword-arm, and snapped it as it had been a dead
twig.
It was flung by Wulf, who, forgetting his own danger in wrath to see
that helpless man so beset, had hurled, from his hiding-place, the great
bolt of forged steel, which, in his haste, he had not cast aside ere
climbing the tree. He looked, after that, to see them all rush toward
him; but, instead, even the baron was smitten with fear, and deemed, as
did his men, that the wrath of God had fallen upon them all for
Conradt’s sin in raising blade against him whom Heaven had already
marked with vengeance. Most of the soldiers fled upon the instant; but
one of his own men helped the hunchback to saddle, and mounting behind
to hold him up, they joined the company that raced, flockmeal, away from
the place, so that soon not one remained, nor any sound from them came
back upon the wind.
Nevertheless, Wulf deemed it best not to venture down, but lay along a
great bough of the oak-tree, and at last fell into a doze that lasted
until daylight. Even then, when he would have descended, his quick ears
caught the sound of passers no great distance off; so he kept his
hiding-place hour after hour, until at last, when the sun shining upon
the tree-tops told him that the noon was close at hand, all seemed so
still that he swung himself down—stiffly, for he was cramped and
sore—and gained the ground.
Then was his heart sorrowful, to see, among the bushes that crept up to
the edge of the open, the outcast lying still and stark upon his face.
Wulf ran forward, and bending over him, called him by name, but he never
stirred nor answered; nevertheless, as Wulf raised the man’s head the
closed eyes opened for an instant, though the lids at once fell again.
Hastily gathering the worn figure in his arms, Wulf bore it into the
smithy and laid it on Karl’s bed. Then he busied himself with blowing up
the fire in the forge and warmed some goat’s milk which, little by
little, he succeeded in forcing between the white lips. He chafed the
limp hands and wrapped warmly the cold body, until by and by a stronger
flutter of life came in the faint heart-beats, and the man’s breathing
was more noticeable.
Wulf worked desperately, for his sorrow was great at the thought of what
the outcast had gone through for him.
“An I had dreamt he was there,” he said to himself in self-reproach, “I
had never bided there in the tree. A sinner he may have been, and a
black traitor, as men do say, but he had that in him of gratitude which
God will not forget!”
Between times, as he worked over the sufferer, he began gathering up
certain weapons and other matters on which he knew that Karl set value,
and these he hid within the cupboard beside the chimney. Busied thus, it
was far in the afternoon when, as he was giving his patient another sip
of warm milk, the latter suddenly opened his eyes and gazed at Wulf with
a calm look of understanding and peace. This, however, quickly turned to
anxiety and alarm as he began to remember what had gone before. His
wandering reason was for the moment present and clear.
“Thou here?” he gasped. “Go; leave me here! They are after thee—they
will find thee!”
“An they do,” Wulf said quietly, “they will find me in that place where
is most claim upon me.”
At that moment he caught the sound of approaching men. Indeed, even the
dulled ears of the sick man had long since been ware of it, and the
noise was what had roused him; but Wulf’s attention had been all on his
tasks, and he had no warning until from all the openings about the
clearing appeared horsemen and foot-soldiers, while from beyond came the
noise of horses and armor and of men’s voices.
Springing to the door, Wulf stood at bay, sword in hand, meaning to sell
his life dearly rather than be taken or give up his charge, when a voice
that he knew was raised, and Karl the armorer shouted:
“Nay, lad; an thou’rt a loyal German, give thine emperor better homage
than that!” And through all his weariness and daze Wulf made out to come
forward and kneel at the emperor’s stirrup.
They were friends, not foes, who had come this time.
CHAPTER XIV
OF THE GREAT BATTLE THAT WAS FOUGHT, AND OF HOW WULF SAVED THE DAY
Now were Wulf’s anxieties well over; for this great company of riders
and foot-soldiers was none other than the main part of the Emperor
Rudolf’s army, that had ridden on that day from St. Ursula’s wood; for
the emperor’s will was that to-morrow should see the attack begun on the
Swartzburg.
They were still an hour’s march from the place set for resting that
night, where would gather to them a smaller body that had come by
another way, minded to meet with a company of riders from the castle,
known to be hereabout. So, when he had spoken kindly to young Wulf, for
whose sake, indeed, the troop had made their way lie past the forge,
Rudolf of Hapsburg bade the boy fall in with the men, and the whole
company again went forward, the sick man borne upon a hastily made
litter by four of the foot-soldiers.
Getting for himself a good bow and arrow from the smithy, Wulf fell in
with the ranks of footmen, and then was he amazed to find that his
right-hand neighbor was Hansei from the Swartzburg.
Right pleased was he at the discovery, though well he wondered what it
might mean, and he made haste to ask Hansei about the matter. Then did
he hear how, two days before, a company of knights and others from the
castle, riding in chase of Elise and himself, had fallen in with an
outriding party of Rudolf’s men, and there had been fighting.
“Ay,” said Wulf, remembering, “and there at hand were we when that
fighting began.”
“Glad am I that we knew it not,” Hansei cried. “For the most part of the
emperor’s men were slain or taken prisoner, and few escaped to carry
word to the convent; but with them ran I: for I had small stomach to
fight ’gainst the lawful rulers of this land, and thou a hunted man
beside.”
Then did Hansei ask Wulf of his faring in the woods, whereupon Wulf, as
they marched, told him all the story, and how the outcast had come to
warn him, and of how the poor fellow had been like to die there by the
smithy, and how he had cared for him. But Hansei was filled with dread
at that part of the tale, for he feared for Wulf that he had given
shelter to the traitor, as he believed Bell-Hutten to be.
“Nay; but he is a fellow-man who risked his life for me,” Wulf said.
“But a black sinner was he, curst of God and men,” Hansei answered. “And
what says the priest o’ Sundays? Is’t not that we should hate evil?”
“To hate evil, surely,” said Wulf, soberly; “yet not to forget, as we
are men, where evil touches good; for this does it, at one point and
another, even as never a bane groweth, here in the forest, but its
unbane lives near neighbor to it. And it were foolishness, Hansei, if
nothing more, to let the thought that he was a sinner hinder our helping
a fellow in need.”
“Better foolishness than sin,” muttered Hansei, turning a bit sullen at
the reproof.
“’Tis not so certain,” replied Wulf. “For between sin and foolishness
there lies this difference: that God forgiveth our sins an we repent;
but our foolishness is like to get i’ the grain of us at last, and
naught kills it then but that we die ourselves.”
So talking, the two kept pace with the marching company, until, by
nightfall, they came up with the other party, and camp was made, well on
the road toward the Swartzburg.
No fires were built; for Rudolf of Hapsburg was minded, if possible, to
come close before the castle gates ere those within were aware; but
every man cared for his own needs as best he might, and before long the
whole host was sleeping, save for the watchers.
It was nigh upon daybreak when a wild alarum went through the camp, so
that every man sprang to his feet and grasped his weapon as he ran
forward in the darkness to learn what the matter was. The cries of men,
the clashing of weapons and armor, the shrill screams of wounded horses,
came up on every side, while so dark was it that for a little time the
emperor’s soldiers scarce knew friend from foe as they pressed on, half
dazed.
Soon, however, they made shift to form their array in some sort of
order, and there in the forest began a mighty battle.
For the baron, filled with vanity and wrath, and made foolhardy by the
easy victory his men had won over Rudolf’s soldiers two days before, had
planned this night attack, knowing, through Conradt’s spies, where the
emperor’s army were lying, and deeming that it would be a light matter
to set upon that force in the darkness, and destroy it, man and horse.
But Baron Everhardt had believed that that smaller body which the spies
had seen and brought him word of was the main army, and so the men of
the Swartzburg had all unthinkingly walked into a trap where they had
been minded to set one.
Sharp and grim now the fighting went on, sword meeting sword, pike
striking spear, as knight met knight or common soldier alike in the
confusion. Above all the din rang out the battle-cries of the two
parties, the Swartzburg men ever meeting the royal war-cry, “God and the
emperor!” with their own ringing watchword, “The Swartzburg and
liberty!” until the whole wood seemed filled with the sound.
In the midst of the fray went Rudolf of Hapsburg, with his great
two-handed sword, cleaning a way for those behind him. No armor wore he,
save a light shirt of chain mail, and no shield save his helmet; but
beside him fought Karl the armorer, with a huge battle-ax, so that Wulf,
catching glimpse of him in the press at day-dawn, felt a great joy fill
his heart at sight of that good soldier.
Not long could he look, however, for he and Hansei were in the thick of
it, well to the fore, where Rudolf’s banner-bearer had his place. In the
close quarters there was no work for the bowmen, so Wulf fought with the
sword that Karl had given him the day before, and a goodly blade he
found it; while Hansei wielded a great pike that he had wrested from one
of the baron’s men, and laid about him lustily wherever a foe showed.
So the hours passed, and many men were slain on either side, when it
began to be felt by the emperor’s soldiers that the Swartzburg men were
slowly falling back toward the defile to gain the castle.
“An they do that,” Hansei gasped, as he met Wulf again, “a long and
weary siege will be ours; for thou well knowest the Swartzburg’s
strength, and well hath the baron made ready.”
Then to Wulf came a right warcraftly notion, which he told to Hansei,
whereupon the two set to gather to them some score or more of the young
men, and these fell back toward the edge of the battle, until they were
out of the press and hastening through the wood, as Wulf knew how to
lead them.
They came at last to the morass, not far from where he and Elise had
crossed that night when they fled from the castle.
“There is never a crossing there!” Hansei cried, aghast, when he saw the
place; but Wulf laughed.
“Crossing there is,” he said lightly, “so that ye all follow me softly,
stepping where I step. Mind ye do that, for beyond the willows and the
pool yonder is quicksand, and that means death, for no footing is there
for any helper.”
Thus warned, the young men looked at one another uneasily; but none fell
back; so, unseen by the foe, and noting well each step that Wulf made,
they followed him until at last they won clear across that treacherous
morass, and came safe aland again among the osiers, well up the pass
toward the Swartzburg. Here they rested, getting their wind, and jesting
in high glee, as hot-hearted young fellows do, over the sport that was
to follow.
More than an hour they waited there, and by and by the sound of battle
began swelling up the defile. The baron’s men were in retreat, but
fighting stoutly, as they fell back, pressed close by the foe. Already
had the baron wound his horn loud and long, and cheerily was it answered
from the watch-tower with a blast which told that the keepers there were
in readiness, and that open gates and safe shelter awaited the
retreating men—when out at their backs sprang Wulf and his fellows, and
fell upon them right and left.
Then wild confusion was on all. Those attacked at the rear pressed
forward upon their comrades, who knew not what had happened, and drove
them back again to meet the swords and pikes of those lusty young men
who made the most of the foes’ surprise, and cut down many a seasoned
warrior ere he could well learn how he was attacked.
Then the baron sounded his horn again, and out from the castle came all
of the Swartzburg’s reserve to the rescue, and Wulf and his little band
were in turn beset, and like to be destroyed, had not Rudolf himself,
riding his great war-horse, and followed close by Karl, cut a way
through the Swartzburg ranks to their aid.
By now the fighting was man to man, pell-mell, all up the pass, and so
confused was that mass of battling soldiery that friend and foe of the
Swartzburg pressed together across the draw and in through the castle
gates, fighting as fight a pack of wolves when one is down.
Then, above all the din, sounded Herr Banf’s voice, calling the men of
the Swartzburg to the baron, and there against the wall of the outer
bailey made they their last stand. Well had Baron Everhardt fought among
his men, but at last a well hurled spear thrown from one of the
emperor’s soldiers pierced his helm and entered his brain, as he was
rallying his friends, and there he fell.
Quickly Herr Banf and Herr Werner took him up and bore him within the
inner bailey, while without the fighting went on. But the castle’s men
fought halfheartedly now; for their leader was gone, and well knew they
that they were battling against their lawful emperor. So ere long all
resistance fell away, and the emperor and his men poured, unhindered,
into the courtyard.
The Swartzburg was taken.
CHAPTER XV
HOW THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE WAS BROUGHT TO LIGHT
It was high noon when the last of the knights of the Swartzburg laid
down his arms at the feet of the emperor and swore fealty to him. Of the
castle’s company Herr Banf was missing; for he had ridden forth, in the
confusion that followed the entrance of Rudolf’s men, to make his way
through the woods and thence out from that land, minded rather to live
an outlaw than to bend knee to the foe of his well loved friend.
A wise ruler as well as a brave soldier was Rudolf of Hapsburg, and well
knew he how to win as well as to conquer. So, when all the knights had
taken oath, to each was returned his arms, and him the emperor greeted
as friend.
Within the castle hall the dead master lay at rest, and beside him
watched the baroness, a pale, broken-spirited lady, whose life had been
one long season of fear of her liege lord, and who now felt as little
sorrow as hope. Her the emperor had already visited, to pay her respect
and to assure her of protection, and now, with the two or three women of
that stern and wild household of men-folk, she waited what might come.
Meanwhile, through castle and stables and offices the emperor’s
appointed searchers went, taking note of all things; but Rudolf of
Hapsburg sat in the courtyard, in sight of his men, who were by now
making shift to prepare themselves a meal; for the greater number had
not tasted food that day.
To Wulf the whole changed scene seemed like a dream, so familiar the
place, yet so strange—as one in sleep finds some place that he knows
well puzzle him by some unwonted aspect. He stood watching the soldiers
feeding here and there about the bailey, when there came two squires
from the keep, leading between them a bent and piteous figure.
It was a man who cowered and blinked and sought to cover his dazzled
eyes from the unwonted light of day. Him the soldiers brought before the
emperor, and on the moment Wulf knew that face to be the one which he
had seen at the barred window of the keep on the day when he had climbed
the tower.
“What is this?” demanded Rudolf, as he looked the woeful figure up and
down. Scarce bore it likeness to a man, so unkempt and terrible was its
aspect, so drawn and wan the face, wherein no light of reason showed.
“We know not, your Majesty,” one of the squires replied; “but we found
him in a cell high up in the keep, chained by the ankle to a stone
bench, and I broke the fetter with a sledge.”
By now the nobles and knights of Rudolf’s army were gathered about; but
none spoke, for pity. Then the emperor caused all the knights of the
Swartzburg to be summoned, and he questioned them close, but not one of
them knew who the man might be, or why he was a prisoner at the
Swartzburg. Indeed, of all the company, only one or two knew that such a
prisoner had been held in the keep. Of the two men who might have told
his name, one lay dead in the great hall, and one was riding from the
Swartzburg, an outlaw.
But the emperor was troubled. A haunting something in that seemingly
empty face drew his very heartstrings, and fain would he have known the
man’s name. Then suddenly through the press of knights and nobles rushed
Karl the armorer, and clasped the woeful figure in his arms, while he
trembled and sobbed with wrath and sorrow.
“Oh, my lord!” he cried, bringing the man closer before Rudolf. “Look
upon this! Knowest thou not who ’tis?”
The emperor had grown very white, and he passed one hand over his eyes.
“Nay,” he said; “it is never—it cannot be—”
“Oh, my lord! my lord!” sobbed the armorer, his great chest heaving and
the tears streaming down from his unashamed eyes. “It _is_ the
count—Count Bernard himself, thine old comrade, whom thou and I didst
love. Look upon him!”
So white now was the emperor that his face was like death; but it was
set in fierce wrath, too, as, little by little, he began to see that
Karl might be right. He bent forward and laid a hand on the man’s
shoulder.
“Bernard, friend Bernard!” he called loudly, that the dulled senses
might take in his words. “Bernard, dost know me?”
Slowly the other looked up; a dim light seemed to gather in his eyes.
“Ay, Rudolf,” he whispered hoarsely; then the light went out, and he
shrank back again.
“There is a tale I would have told your Majesty,” Karl said, recovering
himself, “an the herald had not come just as he did on the night before
last”; and then, seeing Wulf in the throng, he called him to come
forward.
Wondering, the boy obeyed, while, with a hand on his arm, Karl told the
emperor all that he had been able to tell Wulf that day at the forge—of
the battle between the knights, of how he had thereafter found the
stranger child in the osiers, and how he had kept the blade which Herr
Banf had won.
“Now know I of surety,” he said at last, “that that knight was Count
Bernard von Wulfstanger; but who this boy may be I can only guess.”
Now a voice spoke from amid the throng. Hansei, who had been edging
nearer and nearer, could keep silence no longer.
“That would be the ‘shining knight’s’ treasure! Well I remember it, your
Majesty!” he cried.
“What meanest thou?” demanded Rudolf; and there before them all Hansei
told what the children saw from the playground on the plateau that day
so many years agone.
The emperor’s face grew thoughtful as he looked at Wulf from under
lowered brows.
“Ay,” he said at last; “’tis like to be true. Count Bernard rode this
way with the babe, meaning to leave him with our cousin at St. Ursula;
for his mother was dead, and he was off to the Holy Land. He must have
missed the convent road and got on the wrong way. Thou art strongly like
him in looks, lad.”
His voice was shaking, but Wulf noted it not; for he had drawn near to
Karl, who was bending over the wan prisoner. The boy’s heart was nearly
broken with pity.
Was this his father, this doleful figure now resting against Karl,
wholly unable to support itself? Gently Wulf pressed the armorer back
and took the slight weight in his strong young arms. “’Tis mine to do,
an ye all speak truth,” he said.
Few were the dry eyes in that company as Wulf circled the frail body to
him and the weary head rested itself quietly against his breast.
“See that he is cared for,” the emperor said at last, and from the
throng came the noblest of those knights to carry the count into the
castle. Wulf would have gone with them, but Rudolf called him back.
“Stand forth,” he said, pointing to a spot just before him, and Wulf
obeyed.
“Thou’st fought well to-day, boy,” Rudolf went on. “But for thy ready
wit, that led thy fellows by a way to fall upon the foe from behind,
this castle had been long in the winning, and our work by that much
hindered. Thou hast proven thy gentle blood by the knightly deed thou
didst by the young maid, now our own ward, and sure are we that thou’rt
the son of our loved comrade Count Bernard von Wulfstanger. Kneel down.”
Then, as Wulf knelt, fair dazed by the surging of his own blood in his
ears, the emperor laid drawn sword across his bowed shoulders.
“Rise, Herr Wulf von Wulfstanger,” he said.
The young knight, trembling like any timid maid, got to his feet again,
though how he could not have told.
“He’ll need thy nursing a bit, Karl,” Rudolf of Hapsburg said, an amused
smile playing about his grim mouth; and our Wulf never knew that the old
armorer more carried than led him away to quiet and rest.
[Illustration: “THE EMPEROR LAID DRAWN SWORD ACROSS HIS BOWED
SHOULDERS.”]
Not all in a day was order restored at the Swartzburg; for many and
woeful had been the deeds of the high-handed robber who had so long
ruled within those grim walls. They came to light little by little under
the searching of the emperor’s wardens; and when the parchments relating
to the Swartzburg properties came to be examined, it was found that not
the baron, nor Conradt, his heir-at-law, had all along been owner of the
castle, but young Elise von Hofenhoer, whose guardian the treacherous
noble had been. There were other outlying lands, as well, from which the
baron had long collected the revenues, and it was to keep his hold on
that which he had so evilly gotten that he would have married Elise to
Conradt, his nephew and ready tool.
The emperor himself now became guardian to the maiden, who, happy in the
safe shelter of St. Ursula, was to remain there until such time as a
husband might claim the right to fend for her and hers, if need should
come.
And now our Wulf of the forge and the forest abode in the hall of his
fathers as Count Wulf von Wulfstanger, and made bright that wronged
one’s days. Rudolf of Hapsburg had long been in charge of the estates of
the lost nobleman, and a straight accounting made the honest
soldier-emperor to Wulf, as his heir, of all that he had held in trust.
With old Karl for helper and adviser, Wulf, all doubt and mystery
cleared, ruled his great domain. Later he brought home his fair bride
from St. Ursula, given into his keeping by the emperor himself, and
thereafter, the story tells, Baron Wulf and his lady lived long a life
of usefulness and good deeds; whereby those hard times were made easier
for many, and the sunshine, gathered through the years, made warmth and
light for others, as must always be in this world, when any life is
lived for the sake of usefulness and helpfulness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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