The ruins of Castle Rheinfels, which stand above the pretty little
town of St. Goar, are the most extensive of their kind on the Rhine.
The castle was erected in the middle of the 13th century by Count
Dietherr, a nobleman belonging to the famous Rhenish family of
Katzenelnbogen. It was a strongly fortified burg, and within ten years
of its completion the mighty ramparts witnessed several bloody
encounters. Twenty-six Rhenish cities once combined to carry the
invulnerable fortress, but though some 4000 lives were sacrificed the
army retreated baffled. For centuries after this, the banner of the
Hessian Landgraf waved from its battlements, none daring to attack it.
Then the fanatic Gallic forces of the Revolution entered the
Rhineland, and laid the magnificent castle in ruins.
There is a legend associated with Rheinfels which dates from that age
of chivalry when noble knights and their squires trod its courts, and
this legend seems touched with the sadness of the history of the
castle itself. The Count of Rheinfels was the proud father of a lovely
daughter, and among her numerous wooers it was George Brömser of
Rüdesheim who had won the maiden's heart. No one was more incensed at
this than the knight of Berg. This knight belonged indeed to a race
said to have been descended from an archbishop of Cologne, but his
disposition was evil, and his covetousness and avarice made him wish
to increase what earthly possessions he had. But the lord of Rheinfels
was shrewd enough and hesitated before entrusting his pretty daughter
and her large dowry to such a man. As already remarked this entirely
agreed with the maiden's desire. She was really deeply in love with
the chivalrous young knight of Rüdesheim, but shrank, almost with
aversion, from the impetuous wooing of the harsh and selfish knight of
Berg.
Some time after the betrothal of the lovers the date of the marriage
was fixed. Before the marriage had been celebrated however young
Brömser appeared at Rüdesheim in the early dawn on his steaming
war-horse, having ridden during the night from Rüdesheim to bring the
following sad intelligence to his beloved. The Emperor Albrecht had
summoned the nobles to do battle against the Swiss confederates, who
had renounced their allegiance, driven the imperial representatives
from their land, and finally declared war against their overlord. The
knights of the Rhineland were called upon to suppress the flames of
rebellion. On receiving the pressing call of the Emperor, Brömser did
not hesitate for a moment but resolved to obey his feudal superior.
At first the young bride wept, but when her lover comforted her with
words of endearment, and her father praised the soldierly resolution
of the young man, the maiden calmly submitted to the will of God.
Before the young knight rode off he took a young linden-tree which he
had pulled up in a grove, and having removed the soil with his sword,
he planted the sapling in front of the castle. Then he spoke as
follows to his bride. "Tend this budding linden which I have planted
here to the honour of my patron saint. You shall keep troth with me so
long as it flourishes, but if it fade (and may St. George in his grace
prevent it) then you may forget me, for I shall be dead." The weeping
bride threw herself in her lover's arms, and while he enfolded her
gently with his right, with his left he raised his sword, and showed
her engraved upon it in ancient letters, for daily repetition, the
words: "Preserve O everlasting God, the body here, the soul hereafter.
Help, knight St. George." Then, after receiving many kind wishes from
his sorrowing friends, the young soldier rode in the morning mist down
through the woods to join the imperial forces.
Several months passed. Then the melancholy news got abroad in the
German land that something disastrous had happened in the campaign
against the Swiss peasants. At last came a trustworthy report to the
effect that a bloody defeat had overtaken the proud army of Albrecht.
It was at Morgarten, where the noble hero called Arnold of Winkelried
had opened up to his countrymen a pathway to freedom over his
spearpierced body. Many counts and barons found on that day a grave in
the land of the Swiss, and sounds of mourning were to be heard in many
a German castle. But to Castle Rheinfels no traveller brought any
tidings either of weal or woe, and we can imagine with what sickness
of heart the maiden waited, and how her hope faded as the days and
weeks slipped past. It was so long since the ill-fated army had set
out against the Forest Cantons, and now the thoughts of men were
turned in other directions, while the Swiss peasants were quietly
allowed to reap the fruits of their bravery. The most sanguine found
it difficult to cheer the drooping maiden of Castle Rheinfels.
Then one day her former wooer, the mean avaricious Dietrich of Berg,
presented himself. It was certain that George Brömser must be dead,
and he was come again to sue for the hand of so desirable a young
lady. The dejected maiden informed her eager wooer that she had
plighted her troth to her absent lover beside the linden-tree
flourishing in front of the castle. Only when this tree, consecrated
to St. George, should fade would she be released from her promise. The
knight of Berg departed in anger, and immediately betook himself to a
wood and there selected a decayed linden, as similar as possible to
the green one growing before Castle Rheinfels. In the night he
cautiously approached the castle, tore up the linden, flung it with a
curse into the Rhine, and then planted in its place the withered
sapling. Next morning, a morning bright with the promise of spring,
the fair daughter of Rheinfels stepped out on the lawn. A cry of pain
escaped her lips when she perceived the faded tree. The days and weeks
that followed were spent in deep grief. After a suitable time had
elapsed, the knight of Berg again put in an appearance at Rheinfels,
mightily pleased with himself. Again he sought the hand of the maiden
now released from her solemn promise. Sadly, but firmly however she
told her importunate wooer that she would keep troth with her lover in
death as in life. Then the wrath of the despised knight drove him to
commit a horrible deed. In his savage anger he drew his sword and
buried it in the maiden's breast. Fleeing from the scene of his
dreadful crime he was suddenly seized with remorse, and like Our
Lord's avaricious disciple, he went and hanged himself. Deep was the
sorrow in Castle Rheinfels over the sacrifice of this innocent young
bride, who had kept her troth so nobly. But grief and tears could not
replace the lost one. In the midst of the mourning a stranger was
announced. He came from the Swiss land.
After the battle of Morgarten a brave Swiss had found George Brömser
with broken limbs and many bleeding wounds amongst a heap of slain. In
a peasant's hut the wounded man lay long in pain and weakness. His
broken limbs required long and patient attention. Finally, after much
suffering, George Brömser, the last of all the campaigners rode back
to the Rhineland, with his lover's name on his lips and her image in
his heart.
With uncovered head the lord of Rheinfels showed the young man the
grave of his beloved, and there the two men embraced each other long
and silently. The young soldier pulled up the faded linden-tree and
hurled it into the Rhine, while on the newly-made grave he planted
white lilies. George Brömser did not a second time fall in love, but
remained true to his chosen bride to the end of his days. We are told
that in the company of knightly minstrels he sought to forget his
great sorrow, and that later he composed many pretty songs. One of
them has survived the centuries, and was recently discovered, along
with the melody, in an old manuscript. It begins:
"A linden stands in yonder vale,
Ah God! what does it there?"