THE DEBT OF NATURE
Although the daughter of the constable received every attention
commensurate with the cheer of the camp, the day passed but slowly.
With more or less interest she viewed the diversified group of
soldiers, drawn by Charles from the various countries over which he
ruled: the brawny troops from Flanders; the alert-looking guards,
recruited from the mountains of Spain; the men of Friedwald, with
muscles tough as the fibers of the fir in their native forests. Even
the Orient--suggestive of many campaigns!--had been drawn upon, and the
bright-garbed olive-skinned attendants, moving among the tents of
purple or crimson, blended picturesquely with the more solid masses of
color.
For the Flemish soldiery, who had brought the fool and herself to the
camp, the young girl had a nod and a word, but it was the men of
Friedwald who especially attracted her attention, and unconsciously she
found herself picturing the land that had fostered this stalwart and
rough soldiery. A rocky, rugged region, surely; with vast forests,
unbroken brush! Yonder armorer, polishing a joint of steel, seemed
like a survivor of that primeval epoch when the trees were roofs and
the ground the universal bed. Once or twice she passed him, curiously
noting his great beard and giant-like limbs. But he minded her not,
and this, perhaps, gave her courage to pause.
"What sort of country is Friedwald?" she said, abruptly.
"Wild," he answered.
"Is the duke liked?" she went on.
"Yes."
"Do you know his--jester?"
"No."
For all the information he would volunteer, the man might have been
Doctor Rabelais' model for laconicism, and a moment she stood there
with a slight frown. Then she gazed at him meditatively; tap! tap!
went the tiny hammer in the mighty hand, and, laughing softly, she
turned. These men of Friedwald were not unpleasing in her eyes.
Twice had she approached the tent wherein lay the fool, only to learn
that the emperor was with the duke's _plaisant_. "A slight relapse of
fever," had said the Italian leech, as he blocked the entrance and
stared at her with wicked, twinkling eyes. She need be under no
apprehension, he had added; but to her quick fancy his glance said: "A
maid wandering with a fool!"
Apprehension? No; it could not be that she felt but a new sense of
loneliness; of that isolation which contact with strange faces
emphasized. What had come over her? she asked herself. She who had
been so self-sufficient; whose nature now seemed filled with sudden
yearnings and restlessness, impatience--she knew not what. She who
thought she had partaken so abundantly of life's cup abruptly
discovered renewed sources for disquietude. With welling heart she
watched the sun go down; the glory of the widely-radiating hues give
way to the pall of night. Upon her young shoulders the mantle of
darkness seemed to rest so heavily she bowed her head in her hands.
"A maid and a fool! Ah, foolish maid!" whispered the wanton breeze.
The pale light of the stars played upon her, and the dews fell, until
involuntarily shivering with the cold, she arose. As she walked by the
emperor's quarters she noticed a figure silhouetted on the canvas
walls; to and fro the shadow moved, shapeless, grotesque, yet eloquent
of life's vexation of spirit. Turning into her own tent, the jestress
lighted the wick of a silver lamp; a faint aroma of perfume swept
through the air. It seemed to soothe her--or was it but
weariness?--and shortly she threw herself on the silken couch and sank
to dreamless slumber.
When she awoke, the bright-hued dome of the tent was aglow in the
morning sun; the reflected radiance bathed her face and form; her
heaviness of heart had taken wings. The little lamp was still burning,
but the fresh fragrance of dawn had replaced the subtile odor of the
oriental essence. Upon the rug a single streak of sunshine was
creeping toward her. In the brazier which had warmed her tent the
glowing bark and cinnamon had turned to cold, white ash.
Through the girl's veins the blood coursed rapidly; a few moments she
lay in the rosy effulgence, restfully conscious that danger had fled
and that she was bulwarked by the emperor's favor, when a sudden
thought broke upon this half-wakeful mood, and caused her to spring,
all alert, from her couch. To dress, with her had never been a matter
of great duration. The hair of the joculatrix naturally rippled into
such waves as were the envy of the court ladies; her supple fingers
adjusted garment after garment with swift precision, while her figure
needed no device to lend grace to the investment.
Soon, therefore, had she left her tent, making her way through the
awakening camp. In the royal kitchen the cook was bending over his
fires, while an assistant mixed a beverage of barley-water, yolks of
eggs and senna wine for Charles when he should become aroused. Those
courtiers, already astir, cast many glances in the girl's direction, as
she moved toward the tent of the fool.
But if these gallants were sedulous, she was correspondingly
indifferent. Anxiety or loyalty--that stanchness of heart which braved
even the ironical eyes of the black-robed master of medicine--drove her
again to the ailing jester's tent, and, remembering how she had ridden
into camp--and into the august emperor's favor--these fondlings of
fortune looked significantly from one to the other.
"A jot less fever, solicitous maid," said the leech in answer to the
inquiries of the jestress, and she endured the glance for the news,
although the former sent her away with her face aflame.
"An the leech let her in, he'd soon have to let the patient out," spoke
up a gallant. "Her eyes are a sovereign remedy, where bolus, pills and
all vile potions might fail."
"If this be a sample of Francis' damsels, I care not how long we are in
reaching the Low Countries," answered a second.
To this the first replied in kind, but soon had these gallants matters
of more serious moment to divert them, for it began to be whispered
about that Louis of Hochfels had determined to push forward. The
unwonted activity in the camp ere long gave credence to the rumor; the
troopers commenced looking to their weapons; squires hurried here and
there, while near the tents stood the horses, saddled and bridled,
undergoing the scrutiny of the grooms.
Some time, however, elapsed before the emperor himself appeared.
Nothing in the bead-roll, or devotional offering of the morning, had he
overlooked; the divers dishes that followed had been scrupulously
partaken of, and then only--as a man not to be hurried from the altar
or the table--had he emerged from his tent. His glance mechanically
swept the camp, noting the bustle and stir, the absence of disorder,
and finally rested on the girl. For a moment, from his look, it seemed
he might have forgotten her, and she who had involuntarily turned to
him so solicitously, on a sudden felt chilled, as confronted by a mask.
His voice, when at length he spoke, was hard, dry, matter-of-fact, and
it was Jacqueline whom he addressed.
"You slept well?"
"Yes, Sire," she answered.
"And have already been to the fool's tent, I doubt not."
The mask became half-quizzical, half-friendly, as her cheeks mantled
beneath his regard. Was it but quiet avengement against a jestress
whose tongue had been unsparing enough, even to him, the day before?
Certes, here stood now only a rosy maid, robbed of her spirit; or a
_folle_, struck witless, and Charles' face softened, but immediately
grew stern, as his mind abruptly passed from wandering jestress and
fleeing fool to matters of more moment.
Under vow to the Virgin, the emperor had announced he would not draw
sword himself that day, but, seated beneath a canopy of velvet,
overlooking the valley, he so far compromised with conscience as
personally to direct the preparations for the conflict. On his sable
throne, surrounded by funereal hangings, how white and furrowed, how
harassed with many cares, he appeared in the glare of the morn to the
young girl! Was this he who held nearly all Europe in his palm? who
between martial commands talked of Holy Orders, the Apostolic See and
the Seven Sacraments to his priestly confessor?
And from aloof she studied him, with new doubts and misgiving, her
thoughts running fast; and anon bent her eyes to the hill on the other
side of the valley. In her condition of mind, confused as before a
crisis, it was a distinct relief when toward noon word was brought that
the free baron was approaching. Soon, not far distant, the _cortège_
of Louis of Hochfels was seen; at the front, flashing helmets and
breastplates; behind, a cavalcade of ladies on horseback and litters,
above which floated many flags and banners.
Would he come on; would he turn back? Many opinions were rife.
"Oh," cried a page with golden hair, "there will be no battle after
all."
And truly, confronted by the aspect of the emperor's camp, the marauder
had at first hesitated; but if the dangers before him were great, those
behind were greater. Accordingly, leaving the cavalcade of the
princess, her maids and attendants, the free baron of Hochfels,
surrounded by his own trusted troops, dashed forward arrogantly into
the valley, bent upon sweeping aside even the opposition of Charles
himself.
"Yonder's a daring knave, your Majesty," with some perturbation
observed the prelate who stood near the emperor's chair.
"Certes, he tilts at fame, or death, with a bold lance," replied
Charles. "Would that Robert of Friedwald were there to cry him quits."
While thus he spoke, as calm as though secluded in one of his monastery
retreats, weighing the affairs of state, nearer and nearer drew the
soldiers of the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld; roughly calculating, a force
numerically as strong as the emperor's own guard.
The young girl, her face now white and drawn, watched the approaching
band. Would Charles never give the signal? Imperturbable sat the
mounted troopers of the emperor, awaiting the word of command. At
length, when her breath began to come fast and sharp, Charles raised
his arm. In a solid, steady body, his men swept onward. The girl
strove to look away, but could not.
Both bands, gaining in momentum, met with a crash. That nice symmetry
of form and orderliness of movement was succeeded by a tangle of men
and horses; the bristling array of lances had vanished, and swords and
weapons for hand-to-hand warfare threw a play of light amid the jumble
of troops and steeds, flags and banners. With sword red from carnage,
Louis of Hochfels drew his men around him, hurling them against the
firm front of Charles' veterans. It was the crucial moment; the
turning point in a struggle that could not be prolonged, but would be
rather sharp, short and decisive. If his men failed at the onset, all
was lost; if they gained but a little ascendancy now, their mastery of
the field became fairly assured. Great would be the reward for
success; the fruits of victory--the emperor himself. And savagely the
free baron cut down a stalwart trooper; his blade pierced the throat of
another.
"Clear the way to Charles!" he cried, exultantly. "He is our guerdon."
So terrible that rush, the guard of Spain on the right and the troops
of Flanders on the left began to give way; only the men of Friedwald
stood, but with the breaking of the forces on each side it was
inevitable they, too, must soon be overwhelmed. Involuntarily, as the
quick eye of the emperor detected this sign of impending disaster, he
half-started from his chair. His hand sought his side; in his eyes
shone a steely light. The prelate quickly crossed himself and raised
his head as if in prayer.
"The penance, Sire," he murmured, but his voice trembled.
Mechanically Charles replaced his blade. "Yea; better a kingdom lost,"
he muttered, "than a broken vow."
Yet, after so many battles won in the field and Diet; after titanic
contests with kings in Christendom, and Solyman in the east, to fall,
by the mockery of fate, into the grasp of a thieving mountain rifler--
"Ambition! power! we sow but the sand," whispered satiety.
"Vainglory is a sleeveless errand," murmured the spirit of the
flagellant.
Yet he gazed half-fiercely at his priestly adviser, when suddenly his
gloomy eye brightened; the inutility of ambition was forgotten;
unconsciously he clasped the arm of the joculatrix, who had drawn near.
His grip was like a gauntlet; even in her tense, strained mood she
winced.
"The fight is not yet lost!" he exclaimed. As he spoke the figure of a
knight, fully armed, who had made his way through the avenue of tents,
was seen swiftly descending the hill. Upon his strong Arabian steed,
the rider's appearance and bearing signaled him as a soldier apart from
the rank and file of the guard. His coat-of-arms, that of the house of
Friedwald, was richly emblazoned upon the housings of his courser.
Whence had he come? The attendants and equerries had not seen him in
the camp. Only the taciturn armorer of Friedwald looked complacently
after him, stroking his great beard, as one well satisfied. As this
late-comer approached the scene of strife the flanks of the guard were
wavering yet more perilously.
"A miracle, Sire!" cried the prelate.
"But one that partakes more of earth than Heaven," retorted Charles,
with ready irony.
"Who is he, Sire?" breathlessly asked the young girl. At her feet
whimpered the blue-eyed page, holding to her skirt, all his courage
gone.
But ere he could answer--if he had seen fit to do so--from below, out
of the vortex, came the clamorous shouts:
"The duke! The duke!"
The master of the mountain pass heard also, and felt at that moment a
sudden thrill of premonition. The guerdon; the quittance; could it be
possible after all, the end was not far? He could not believe it, yet
a paroxysm of fury seized him; his strength became redoubled; wherever
his sword touched a trooper fell.
But like a wave, recovering from the recoil, the soldiers of Friedwald
broke upon his doomed band with a force manifold augmented; broke and
carried the flanks with it, for the assaulting parties to the right and
left were dismayed by the strength unexpectedly hurled against the
center. The bulky Flemish, the lithe Spaniard, the lofty trooper of
Friedwald, overflowed the shattered line of the marauders.
"Duke Robert!" and "Friedwald!" shouted the Austrian band.
"Cowards! Would you give way?" cried the free baron, striking among
them. "Fools! Better the sword than the rope. Come!"
But in his frenzied efforts to rally his men the master of Hochfels
found himself face to face with the leader of the already victorious
troops. At the sight of him the bastard paused; his breast rose and
fell with his labored breathing; his sword was dyed red, also his arms,
his clothes; from his forehead the blood ran down over his beard. His
eyes rolled like those of an animal; he seemed something inhuman; an
incarnation of baffled purpose.
"If it is reprisal you want, Sir Duke, you shall have it," he panted.
"Reprisal!" exclaimed Robert of Friedwald, scornfully. "The best you
can offer is your life."
And with that they closed. Evading the strokes of his more bulky
antagonist, the younger man's sword repeatedly sought the vulnerable
part of the other's armor. The free baron's strength became exhausted;
his blows rang harmlessly, or struck the empty air.
A sensation of pain admonished him of his own disability. About him
his band had melted away; doggedly had they given up their lives
beneath sword, mace and poniard. The ground was strewn with the slain;
riderless horses were galloping up the road. The free baron breathed
yet harder; before his eyes he seemed to see only blood.
Of what avail had been his efforts? He had won the princess, but how
brief had been his triumphs! With a belief that was almost
superstition, he had imagined his destiny lay thronewards. But the
curse of his birth had been a ban to his efforts; the bitterness of
defeat smote him. He knew he was falling; his nerveless hand loosened
his blade.
"I am sped!" he cried; "sped!" and released his hold, while the tide of
conflict appeared abruptly to sweep away.
As he struck the earth an ornament that he had worn about his neck
became unfastened and dropped to the ground. But once he moved; to
raise himself on his elbow.
"The hazard of the die!" he muttered, striving to see with eyes that
were growing blind. A rush of blood interrupted him, he fell back,
straightened out, and stirred no more.
Now had the din of strife ceased altogether, when descending the slope
appeared a cavalcade, at the head of which rode a lady on a white
palfrey, followed by several maids and guarded by an escort of soldiers
who wore the king's own colors. A stricken procession it seemed as it
drew near, the faces of the women white with fear; the gay attire and
gorgeous trappings--a mockery on that ensanguined arena.
Proudly proceeded the lady on the white horse, although in her eyes
shone a look of dread. It was an age when women were accustomed to
scenes of bloodshed, inured to conflicts in the lists; yet she
shuddered as her palfrey picked its way across that field. At the near
side of the hollow her glance singled out a motionless figure among
those lying where they had fallen, a thick-set man, whose face was
upturned to the sky. One look into those glassy eyes, so unresponsive
to her own, and she quickly dismounted and fell on her knees beside the
recumbent form. She took one of the cold hands in hers, but dropped it
with a scream.
"Dead!" she cried; "dead!"
The lady stared at that terribly repulsive face. For some moments she
seemed dazed; sat there dully, the onlookers forbearing to disturb her.
Then her gaze encountered that of him who had slain the free baron and
she sprang to her feet. On her features an expression of bewilderment
had been followed by one of recognition.
"The duke's fool!" she exclaimed wildly. "He is dead, and you have
killed him! The fool has murdered his master."
"It is true he is dead," answered the other, leaning heavily on his
sword and surveying the inanimate form, "but he was no master of mine."
"That, Madame la Princesse, we will also affirm," broke in an austere
voice.
Behind them rode the emperor, a dark figure among those bright gowns
and golden trappings, the saddle cloth and adornments of his steed
somber as his own garments. As he spoke he waved back the cavalcade,
and, in obedience to the gesture, the ladies, soldiers and attendants
withdrew to a discreet distance. Bitterly the princess surveyed the
monarch; overwrought, a torrent of reproaches sprang from her lips.
"Why has your Majesty made war on my lord? Why have you countenanced
his enemies and harbored his murderers?" And then, drawing her figure
to its full height, her tawny hair falling in a cloud about her
shoulders: "Be sure, Sire, my kinsman, the king, will know how to
avenge my wrongs."
"He can not, Madam," answered Charles coldly. "They are already
avenged."
"Already avenged!" she exclaimed, with her gaze upon the prostrate
figure.
"Yes, Madam. For he who hath injured you has paid the extreme penalty."
"He who was my husband has been foully murdered!" she retorted,
vehemently. "What had the Duke of Friedwald done to bring upon himself
your Majesty's displeasure?"
"Nothing," answered the emperor, more gently.
"Nothing! And yet he lies there--dead!"
"He who lies before you is not the duke, but Louis of Hochfels, the
bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld."
"Ah," she cried, excitedly, "I see you have been listening to the false
fool, his murderer."
An expression of annoyance appeared on the emperor's face. He liked
not to be crossed at any time by any one.
"You have well called him the false fool, Madam," said Charles, curtly,
"for he is no true fool."
"And yet he rode with your troops!"
"To redeem his honor, Madam."
"His honor!"
With a scornful face she approached nearer to the monarch.
"His honor! In God's name, what mean you?"
"That the false fool, Madam, is himself the Duke of Friedwald!"