THE GODESBERGERS.
'Tis needless to state that the gallant warrior Ludwig of Hombourg
found in the bosom of his friend's family a cordial welcome. The
brother-in-arms of the Margrave Karl, he was the esteemed friend of the
Margravine, the exalted and beautiful Theodora of Boppum, and (albeit no
theologian, and although the first princes of Christendom coveted such
an honor,) he was selected to stand as sponsor for the Margrave's son
Otto, the only child of his house.
It was now seventeen years since the Count and Countess had been united:
and although heaven had not blessed their couch with more than one
child, it may be said of that one that it was a prize, and that surely
never lighted on the earth a more delightful vision. When Count Ludwig,
hastening to the holy wars, had quitted his beloved godchild, he had
left him a boy; he now found him, as the latter rushed into his arms,
grown to be one of the finest young men in Germany: tall and excessively
graceful in proportion, with the blush of health mantling upon his
cheek, that was likewise adorned with the first down of manhood, and
with magnificent golden ringlets, such as a Rowland might envy, curling
over his brow and his shoulders. His eyes alternately beamed with the
fire of daring, or melted with the moist glance of benevolence. Well
might a mother be proud of such a boy. Well might the brave Ludwig
exclaim, as he clasped the youth to his breast, “By St. Bugo of
Katzenellenbogen, Otto, thou art fit to be one of Coeur de Lion's
grenadiers!” and it was the fact: the “Childe” of Godesberg measured six
feet three.
He was habited for the evening meal in the costly, though simple attire
of the nobleman of the period--and his costume a good deal resembled
that of the old knight whose toilet we have just described; with the
difference of color, however. The pourpoint worn by young Otto of
Godesberg was of blue, handsomely decorated with buttons of carved and
embossed gold; his haut-de-chausses, or leggings, were of the stuff of
Nanquin, then brought by the Lombard argosies at an immense price from
China. The neighboring country of Holland had supplied his wrists and
bosom with the most costly laces; and thus attired, with an opera-hat
placed on one side of his head, ornamented with a single flower,
(that brilliant one, the tulip,) the boy rushed into his godfather's
dressing-room, and warned him that the banquet was ready.
It was indeed: a frown had gathered on the dark brows of the Lady
Theodora, and her bosom heaved with an emotion akin to indignation; for
she feared lest the soups in the refectory and the splendid fish now
smoking there were getting cold: she feared not for herself, but for her
lord's sake. “Godesberg,” whispered she to Count Ludwig, as trembling
on his arm they descended from the drawing-room, “Godesberg is sadly
changed of late.”
“By St. Bugo!” said the burly knight, starting, “these are the very
words the barber spake.”
The lady heaved a sigh, and placed herself before the soup-tureen. For
some time the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was too much occupied in
ladling out the forced-meat balls and rich calves' head of which the
delicious pottage was formed (in ladling them out, did we say? ay,
marry, and in eating them, too,) to look at his brother-in-arms at the
bottom of the table, where he sat with his son on his left hand, and the
Baron Gottfried on his right.
The Margrave was INDEED changed. “By St. Bugo,” whispered Ludwig to the
Countess, “your husband is as surly as a bear that hath been wounded o'
the head.” Tears falling into her soup-plate were her only reply. The
soup, the turbot, the haunch of mutton, Count Ludwig remarked that the
Margrave sent all away untasted.
“The boteler will serve ye with wine, Hombourg,” said the Margrave
gloomily from the end of the table: not even an invitation to drink! how
different was this from the old times!
But when in compliance with this order the boteler proceeded to hand
round the mantling vintage of the Cape to the assembled party, and to
fill young Otto's goblet, (which the latter held up with the eagerness
of youth,) the Margrave's rage knew no bounds. He rushed at his son; he
dashed the wine-cup over his spotless vest: and giving him three or four
heavy blows which would have knocked down a bonassus, but only caused
the young Childe to blush: “YOU take wine!” roared out the Margrave;
“YOU dare to help yourself! Who time d-v-l gave YOU leave to help
yourself?” and the terrible blows were reiterated over the delicate ears
of the boy.
“Ludwig! Ludwig!” shrieked the Margravine.
“Hold your prate, madam,” roared the Prince. “By St. Buffo, mayn't a
father beat his own child?”
“HIS OWN CHILD!” repeated the Margrave with a burst, almost a shriek of
indescribable agony. “Ah, what did I say?”
Sir Ludwig looked about him in amaze; Sir Gottfried (at the Margrave's
right hand) smiled ghastily; the young Otto was too much agitated by the
recent conflict to wear any expression but that of extreme discomfiture;
but the poor Margravine turned her head aside and blushed, red almost as
the lobster which flanked the turbot before her.
In those rude old times, 'tis known such table quarrels were by no
means unusual amongst gallant knights; and Ludwig, who had oft seen
the Margrave cast a leg of mutton at an offending servitor, or empty a
sauce-boat in the direction of the Margravine, thought this was but one
of the usual outbreaks of his worthy though irascible friend, and wisely
determined to change the converse.
“How is my friend,” said he, “the good knight, Sir Hildebrandt?”
“By Saint Buffo, this is too much!” screamed the Margrave, and actually
rushed from time room.
“By Saint Bugo,” said his friend, “gallant knights, gentle sirs, what
ails my good Lord Margave?”
“Perhaps his nose bleeds,” said Gottfried, with a sneer.
“Ah, my kind friend,” said the Margravine with uncontrollable emotion,
“I fear some of you have passed from the frying-pan into the fire.” And
making the signal of departure to the ladies, they rose and retired to
coffee in the drawing-room.
The Margrave presently came back again, somewhat more collected than he
had been. “Otto,” he said sternly, “go join the ladies: it becomes not a
young boy to remain in the company of gallant knights after dinner.”
The noble Childe with manifest unwillingness quitted the room, and the
Margrave, taking his lady's place at the head of the table, whispered
to Sir Ludwig, “Hildebrandt will be here to-night to an evening-party,
given in honor of your return from Palestine. My good friend--my true
friend--my old companion in arms, Sir Gottfried! you had best see that
the fiddlers be not drunk, and that the crumpets be gotten ready.” Sir
Gottfried, obsequiously taking his patron's hint, bowed and left the
room.
“You shall know all soon, dear Ludwig,” said the Margrave, with a
heart-rending look. “You marked Gottfried, who left the room anon?”
“I did.”
“You look incredulous concerning his worth; but I tell thee, Ludwig,
that yonder Gottfried is a good fellow, and my fast friend. Why should
he not be! He is my near relation, heir to my property: should I” (here
the Margrave's countenance assumed its former expression of excruciating
agony),--“SHOULD I HAVE NO SON.”
“But I never saw the boy in better health,” replied Sir Ludwig.
“Nevertheless,--ha! ha!--it may chance that I shall soon have no son.”
The Margrave had crushed many a cup of wine during dinner, and Sir
Ludwig thought naturally that his gallant friend had drunken rather
deeply. He proceeded in this respect to imitate him; for the stern
soldier of those days neither shrunk before the Paynim nor the
punch-bowl: and many a rousing night had our crusader enjoyed in Syria
with lion-hearted Richard; with his coadjutor, Godfrey of Bouillon; nay,
with the dauntless Saladin himself.
“You knew Gottfried in Palestine?” asked the Margrave.
“I did.”
“Why did ye not greet him then, as ancient comrades should, with the
warm grasp of friendship? It is not because Sir Gottfried is poor? You
know well that he is of race as noble as thine own, my early friend!”
“I care not for his race nor for his poverty,” replied the blunt
crusader. “What says the Minnesinger? 'Marry, that the rank is but the
stamp of the guinea; the man is the gold.' And I tell thee, Karl of
Godesberg, that yonder Gottfried is base metal.”
“By Saint Buffo, thou beliest him, dear Ludwig.”
“By Saint Bugo, dear Karl, I say sooth. The fellow was known i' the camp
of the crusaders--disreputably known. Ere he joined us in Palestine, he
had sojourned in Constantinople, and learned the arts of the Greek. He
is a cogger of dice, I tell thee--a chanter of horseflesh. He won
five thousand marks from bluff Richard of England the night before the
storming of Ascalon, and I caught him with false trumps in his pocket.
He warranted a bay mare to Conrad of Mont Serrat, and the rogue had
fired her.”
“Ha! mean ye that Sir Gottfried is a LEG?” cried Sir Karl, knitting his
brows. “Now, by my blessed patron, Saint Buffo of Bonn, had any other
but Ludwig of Hombourg so said, I would have cloven him from skull to
chine.”
“By Saint Bugo of Katzenellenbogen, I will prove my words on Sir
Gottfried's body--not on thine, old brother-in-arms. And to do the knave
justice, he is a good lance. Holy Bugo! but he did good service at Acre!
But his character was such that, spite of his bravery, he was dismissed
the army; nor even allowed to sell his captain's commission.”
“I have heard of it,” said the Margrave; “Gottfried hath told me of it.
'Twas about some silly quarrel over the wine-cup--a mere silly jape,
believe me. Hugo de Brodenel would have no black bottle on the board.
Gottfried was wroth, and to say sooth, flung the black bottle at the
county's head. Hence his dismission and abrupt return. But you know
not,” continued the Margrave, with a heavy sigh, “of what use that
worthy Gottfried has been to me. He has uncloaked a traitor to me.”
“Not YET,” answered Hombourg, satirically.
“By Saint Buffo! a deep-dyed dastard! a dangerous, damnable traitor!--a
nest of traitors. Hildebranndt is a traitor--Otto is a traitor--and
Theodora (O heaven!) she--she is ANOTHER.” The old Prince burst into
tears at the word, and was almost choked with emotion.
“What means this passion, dear friend?” cried Sir Ludwig, seriously
alarmed.
“Mark, Ludwig! mark Hildebrandt and Theodora together: mark Hildebrandt
and OTTO together. Like, like I tell thee as two peas. O holy saints,
that I should be born to suffer this!--to have all my affections
wrenched out of my bosom, and to be left alone in my old age! But, hark!
the guests are arriving. An ye will not empty another flask of claret,
let us join the ladyes i' the withdrawing chamber. When there, mark
HILDEBRANDT AND OTTO!”