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.