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.