THE HERALD OF THE KAISER
The Wartburg was in commotion; men ran this way and that through
barbican and bailey. Michael the Breaker looked to see if the
portcullis was ready to drop at a hatchet stroke. Franz of the Ram’s
Pate brandished a battle-axe of three stone, and Priest Clement clapped
on a helmet.
A herald had come to the Wartburg. He wore the Imperial arms, the
double eagle of the Hapsburgs upon his orange surcoat. He reined his
white mule at the gate of the Vorburg, and wound a long blast upon his
silver horn. Then his roaring summons roused all the castle.
“Ho! Ulrich of Eisenach! come forth, come forth and listen to the
summons of your liege lord and emperor!”
But Ulrich safe in the inner Hofburg swore a great oath by Saint
Jacobus that the herald might bawl until the bastion cracked before he
stirred to hear him; and the herald, having waited duly and gotten only
curses through the loophole, completed his proclamation.
“_In the Name of the Blessed Trinity, Amen!_
“I, Rudolf, Crowned of God, Emperor of the Romans, Graf of Hapsburg,
and Freiherr of Argau, to Ulrich of Eisenach, and all who follow
him,--greeting:--
“I do summon you to appear before my assize at Goslar, on the third
Monday hereafter following, to answer by what warrant you do hold
this castle of the Wartburg to the detriment of its lawful master,
our well-beloved cousin the Landgraf of Thuringia; and by what
warrant you have halted, robbed, and slain divers of our loving
subjects upon our highways, in violation of our Imperial peace.
“And especially we command you, under pain of our most condign
displeasure, to deliver instantly to this our herald the noble lady,
Agnes, daughter of our trusty vassal Graf Ludwig of the Harz, whom
you do detain in most unlawful custody.
“And each and all of you who shall defy these our commands, we
declare under our Imperial Ban, and as such our loyal subjects
are commanded to apprehend or extirpate. Also by the special
authorization of the holy Apostolic Inquisitor, the Archbishop of
Mainz, we declare all contemners of our decrees excommunicated from
the sacraments of Holy Church.
“God save Kaiser Rudolf!”
So cried the herald; and when no intention was manifested of delivering
up the Lady Agnes to him, he blew another great blast, and rode down
the steep to leave Baron Ulrich and his merry men clear at their wits’
last end.
No one could doubt that the extermination of Maid Agnes’s escort had
been incomplete. Some one had escaped and told Graf Ludwig. The lion
was unchained in very deed! In the great feasting hall the council met,
but there was no wassail now. Ulrich’s scarred face was black with rage
and dread. Priest Clement had nearly forgotten his scraps of Latin.
The situation was plain enough. All through the wild and wicked years
following the death of Frederick the Second, Thuringia had belonged to
the bandit barons who had watched the roads and ruled by “fist-law.”
The power of the Landgraf had sunk to a shadow, and Ulrich and his crew
had held the Wartburg for a decade. But there was a new kaiser now who
had begun to end the merry dance of devils. Rumours blew north,--how in
Swabia Kaiser Rudolf had beaten down castles and hanged many a reckless
“ritter” on the pine tree facing his own smoking keep. And Graf Ludwig,
the Imperial Vicar, had come to Thuringia with a goodly force to do the
very same deeds; therefore My Lord Ulrich had his food for thought.
“How many men will the Graf bring?” he was asking.
“I have heard said,” quoth Michael, sullenly, “he has more than
two thousand, with battering mangonels, likewise a band of English
longbowmen who came with Duke Richard of Cornwall and remained. No
crossbows can match their archery.”
“And we have an hundred and twenty dogs at most, and the Wartburg,
though strong, has a vast circuit to defend. If cleared of this plight,
I vow Saint Moritz of Coburg a chalice of heavy gold! Is that overdear
for the worthy saint’s aid--eh! Clement?”
Ulrich leered at the priest, and the holy man twisted his nose,
while meditating. “A pious vow, noble Baron, a very pious vow!
Nevertheless,--humph!--what did you say? How long did you think we
could make good the castle?”
“Two days at most,” snarled Michael, crossly.
“Two days, and then to heaven!” ran on Clement; “will the ladder be
axe, sword, or rope? Ah! _Gratias Deo_,--a thought!”
“What?”
“That the wench Agnes is still with the hermit. It is wrong to outrage
a saint _sed necessitas non habet legem_; and we can also add a trifle
to the weight of the chalice. In brief, seize her from the hermit, hold
her hostage; and when the Graf comes, force him to promise us at least
our lives in exchange for her safety.”
“The saint will rage,” objected Michael.
“If your wisdom knows a better salve against the little pains of
hanging, I am listening,” laughed Clement, dryly. Whereat Ulrich leaped
up with a jangle of armour.
“Priest Clement has the only sense. Be Jerome saint or devil, he must
not keep the maid. Out, every man and lad; arm heavily, and away to the
Dragon’s Dale!”
Therefore it befell that an hour later, just as the sun was scattering
the last mists of the morning, the Baron led out his force,--an hundred
odd of as hardened sinners as ever put on harness. Nevertheless it
took all his oaths, and the well-grounded fears of a swift voyage to a
nether country, to make the file advance when they began to enter the
charmed region around the Dragon’s Dale.
When they reached the cross where burgomaster Gottfred had been
stricken, even Michael the Breaker wished to halt and pray. Ulrich and
Clement walked behind with their lances to prod on the laggards. They
reached the mouth of the Dragon’s Dale, and every man stood irresolute,
nigh convinced that the first wight inside the ravine would be frozen
into a black stone in a twinkling. Yet as they scuffled and shrank,
lo! straight out from the wall of rock came running the saint himself,
his white hair spread like a lion’s mane, wild fire in his eyes, his
hands upraised now in prayer, now in cursings.
“In the name of the Lord Christ,--where? where?”
“Where, what?” demanded Ulrich, trembling, but not so much as before;
there was nothing awesome in the hermit now.
“The maid! Maid Agnes, the Graf’s daughter? She has vanished. You have
stolen her. Oh! may the curse of God light swift on you!”
He was nigh crazed, and a mere madman was not very terrifying. So they
plucked up courage, and stood their ground.
“Hark you, greybeard,” warned the Baron, roughly; “it is for the wench
we are come ourselves. Do you think we would rout you out of your
accursed den without fair cause? The maid we will have, or by the
Trinity,--” he broke off, the threat unfinished, and glared on the
hermit, who appeared utterly unstrung. For an instant he seemed only
the shambling dotard.
“Gone! gone,” he moaned abjectly. “I can find her nowhere. If you
fiends do not possess her, she has perished amongst the cruel beasts.”
The Baron was brave now, and advanced boldly.
“Here, Michael,--a cord; pinion this babbler. We’ll hale him to the
Wartburg, and then if the wench is not found, there’ll be tortures to
wring out of him where he is hiding her. Forward, lads; there’s nothing
dreadful.”
He snatched Jerome by the arm. Men looked to see a bolt crash down from
heaven. None came. Jerome submitted like a lamb. Michael and Clement
were at least brave enough to stand at either side as guards. Ulrich
led thirty of his boldest down the Dragon’s Dale, crossbow strung,
swords bare,--half disappointed they did not meet a fire-breathing
goblin. They found the little hut empty; they searched about the
tree--only birds and dragon-flies. Maid Agnes was nowhere. Ulrich
returning promised Jerome smart torture if the girl was not found.
Jerome gave back not a word. So at last the Baron started again for
the Wartburg with his prisoner, ordering the men to scatter through the
greenwood, by fives and tens, and to scour knoll and dale for seven
leagues about. Have the hostage they must, though they sought all night
for her!
Once at the castle Ulrich ordered forth the bloodhounds. The pack went
baying down the valley, the halloos of the hunt sounded far and wide in
the forest; but when the _lanzknechts_ dispersed in little bands, they
knew too well the paling dread of pixies to pry over deeply into the
secrets of the wood. The hounds ran down all scents--but vainly. Priest
Clement swore that the Brown Dwarfs had stolen the queen down to their
underworld. “Where, alas for her poor soul, since they were pagans
all!” he added as became a holy cleric. The chase wandered far from
the Wartburg. Presently Ulrich, disheartened, angry, turned back to
the castle, with Clement and Michael, leaving the rest to carry on the
hunt. Saint or no saint, he intended to test his prisoner by torture to
see if he were hiding Agnes by some art-magic. It would be an impious
deed,--Ulrich knew it,--but better impiety, than the falling into Graf
Ludwig’s iron clutches!
The Wartburg was nigh empty when the Baron reëntered. In the courts
some of the slattern women had lit huge bonfires, which roared up to
the deepening sky, making turret and rampart frown down grimly. Franz,
who had played castellan in his lord’s absence, reported the captive
safe in the lower dungeon. The Baron cursed that no one had advised
him to shoot down the herald, and so win extra time to prepare to face
attack; but there was only one thing to do now. Leaving Franz and a
bare dozen of men-at-arms to patrol the battlement, he summoned Priest
Clement and Michael to fetch him divers instruments; then with them
hastened down into the bowels of the great Wartburg rock.
All that stone and steel could do to secure Jerome had been done. He
was in a cell whither no sun had crawled since the building of the
Wartburg; but the hermit had recovered his dignity. He faced the three
men of blood with a cold, stern stare, which stole away half their
courage.
“Where is the maid?” demanded Ulrich, trying to set bravado up for
valour.
“God knoweth, and in His wisdom keeps her hid, except you have already
possessed yourselves of her, and seek this occasion against me.”
Ulrich ostentatiously produced a mallet, and many little oaken wedges,
while Clement raised the smoking torch. Then the Baron’s tone grew
threatening.
“Hear you, old man! be you saint or devil, we will have the maid.
Whether angel or gnome has hidden her, and where, you know; and by
Saint Moritz”--Ulrich felt safe invoking that martyr, in view of his
vow,--“out with her hiding-place or try these pretty toys! Behold!”
The anchorite shrugged his shoulders with undisguised contempt.
“Ulrich of Eisenach,” spoke he, sternly, “I answer you on the word
of a Christian man, though a sinner, that I know not where the maid
is. Doubtless it has pleased God to bring this thing to pass that you
may rush headlong in your sins and dash to eternal perdition. As for
these oaken splints, which you weakly design to drive betwixt my nails
and fingers,--bethink you if a man like me, who has endured the worst
gehennas of the paynim will flinch before your petty torments? Or what
will they profit you, save to heat sevenfold the fires now lit for you
in hell?”
Michael had been stripping back the sheepskin from the prisoner’s
shoulder. Then, as the light flickered over it, leaped back in horror.
“Holy Mother! His back,--all marked with scarce-healed scars!”
“Amen!” quoth Jerome, grimly; “those and all other tortures are too
gentle for my sins. Yet, if I would glory after the flesh, I can make
boast that all your tortures, Ulrich of the Wartburg, will be to me as
nothing.”
“He is right,” groaned the Breaker, all his terrors springing up anew;
“we are outraging God’s saint. The demons will boil us forever!”
“Silence, fool,” commanded Ulrich, grown desperate; “pass me yonder
mallet, and hold fast his wrist. We will sound the depth of this loud
boasting. Now and for the last time, babbler! Where hide you Agnes the
maid?”
Jerome vouchsafed no reply. Ulrich was clutching the mallet and sliver
when Franz-of-the-Ram’s-Pate burst into the prison. Even in the gloom
his face shone white as a ghost’s.
“Up, for the love of Christ! Horses and men are all about! The Wartburg
is surrounded.”
Whereat the three raced up from that dungeon, never waiting for the
door to clash.
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