assure you I honor the cloth you wear, and would not willingly offer it
violence. We are all liable to make mistakes at times. I freely forgive
yours and trust you will extend a like leniency to mine.'
"With that he doffed his hat, and left me standing there."
"Surely," said the Countess, deeply interested in the recital, "so far
as speech was concerned he made amends?"
"Yes, my daughter; such speech never came from the lips of an
ironworker."
"You are convinced he was the Prince?"
"Never for one instant did I doubt it."
"Be that as it may, Father Ambrose, why should not the young man walk
the streets of his own capital city, and even explore the laborers'
quarter of Sachsenhausen, if he finds it interesting to do so? Is it not
his right to wear a sword, and go where he lists; and is it such a very
heinous thing that, being accosted by a stranger, he should refuse to
make the admission demanded? You took him, as one might say, unaware."
The monk bowed his head, but did not waste time in offering any defense
of his action.
"I followed him," he went on, "through the narrow and tortuous streets
of Frankfort, an easy adventure, because darkness had set in, but even
in daylight my course would have been safe enough, for never once did he
look over his shoulder, or betray any of that suspicion characteristic
of our laboring classes."
"I think that tells in his favor," persisted the girl.
"He came to the steps of the Rheingold, a disreputable drinking cellar,
and disappeared from my sight down its steps. A great shout greeted him,
and the rattle of tankards on a table, as he joined what was evidently
his coterie. Standing outside, I heard song and ribaldry within. The
heir-presumptive to the throne of the Empire was too obviously a drunken
brawler; a friend and comrade of the lowest scum in Frankfort.
"After a short time he emerged alone, and once more I followed him. He
went with the directness of a purposeful man to the Fahrgasse, the
street of the rich merchants, knocked at a door, and was admitted. Along
the first-floor front were three lighted windows, and I saw his form
pass the first two of these, but from my station in the street could not
witness what was going on within. Looking about me, I found to my right
a narrow alley, occupied by an outside stairway. This I mounted, and
from its topmost step I beheld the interior of the large room on the
opposite side of the way.
"It appeared to me that Prince Roland had been expected, for the elderly
man seated at the table, his calm face toward me, showed no surprise at
the Prince's entrance. His Highness sat with his back towards me, and
for a time it seemed that nothing was going forward but an amiable
conversation. Suddenly the Prince rose, threw off his cloak, whisked out
his sword, and presented its point at the throat of the merchant.
"It was clear, from the expression of dismay on the merchant's face,
that this move on the part of his guest was entirely unexpected, but its
object was speedily manifested. The old man, with trembling hand, pushed
across the table to his assailant a well-filled bag, which the Prince at
once untied. Pouring out a heap of yellow gold, he began with great
deliberation to count the money, which, when you consider his precarious
situation, showed the young man to be old in crime. Some portion of the
gold he returned to the merchant; the rest he dropped into an empty bag,
which he tied to his belt.
"I did not wait to see anything more, but came down to the foot of the
stairs, that I might learn if Roland took his money to his dissolute
comrades. He came out, and once more I followed him, and once more he
led me to the Rheingold cellar. On this occasion, however, I took step
by step with him until we entered the large wineroom at the foot of the
stairs, he less than an arm's length in front of me, still under the
illusion that he was alone. Prince though he was, I determined to
expostulate with him, and if possible persuade a restitution of the
gold.
"'Your Highness!' I began, touching him lightly on the shoulder.
"Instantly he turned upon me with a savage oath, grasped me by the
throat, and forced me backward against the cellar wall.
"'You spying sneak!' he cried. 'In spite of my warning you have been
hounding my footsteps!'
"The moment I attempted to reply, he throttled me so as to choke every
effort at utterance. There now approached us, with alarm in his
wine-colored face, a gross, corpulent man, whom the Prince addressed as
proprietor of the place, which doubtless he was.
"'Landlord,' said Roland very quietly, 'this unfortunate monk is weak in
the head, and although he means no harm with his meddling, he may well
cause disaster to my comrades and myself. Earlier in the evening he
accosted on the bridge, but I spared him, hoping never to see his
monkish costume again. You may judge the state of his mind when I tell
you he accuses me of being the Emperor's son, and Heaven only knows what
he would estimate to be the quality of my comrades were he to see them.'
"Two or three times I attempted to speak, but the closing of his fingers
upon my throat prevented me, and even when they were slightly relaxed I
was scarcely able to breathe."
The Countess listened with the closest attention, fixing upon the
narrator her splendid eyes, and in them, despite their feminine beauty
and softness, seemed to smoulder a deep fire of resentment at the
treatment accorded her kinsman, a luminant of danger transmitted to her
down the ages from ancestors equally ready to fight for the Sepulcher in
Palestine or for the gold on the borders of the Rhine. In the pause,
during which the monk wiped from his wrinkled brow the moisture brought
there by remembrance of the indignity he had undergone, kindliness in
the eyes of the Countess overcame their menace, and she said gently:
"I am quite confident, Father, that such a ruffian could not be Prince
Roland. He was indeed the rude mechanic he proclaimed himself. No man of
noble blood would have acted thus."
"Listen, my child, listen," resumed Father Ambrose. "Turning to the
landlord, the Prince asked:
"'Is there a safe and vacant room in your establishment where I could
bestow this meddlesome priest for a few days?'
"'There is a wine vault underneath this drinking cellar,' responded the
landlord.
"'Does anyone enter that vault except yourself?'
"'No one,'
"'Will you undertake charge of the priest, seeing that he communicates
with none outside?'
"'Of a surety, Captain,'
"'Good. I will pay you well, and that in advance.'"
"This ruffian was never the Prince," interrupted the Countess firmly.
"I beg you to listen, Hildegunde, and my next sentence will convince
you. The Prince continued:
"'Not only prevent his communication with others, but do not listen to
him yourself. He will endeavor to persuade you that his name is Father
Ambrose, and that he is a monk in good standing with the Benedictine
Order. If he finds you care little for that, he may indeed pretend he is
of noble origin himself; that he is Henry von Sayn, and thus endeavor to
work on whatever sympathy you may feel for the aristocrats. But I assure
you he is no more a Sayn than I am Prince Roland.'
"'Indeed, Captain,' replied the host, 'I have as little liking for an
aristocrat as for a monk, so you may depend that I will keep him safe
enough until you order his release.'
"Now, my dear Hildegunde, you see there was no mistake on my part. This
young man asserted he knew nothing of me, and indeed, I believed he had
forgotten the time of my chaplaincy at the Court, often as he listened
to my discourses, yet all the time he knew me, and now, with an
effrontery that seems incredible, he showed no hesitation in proving me
right when I accosted him as son of the Emperor. I must in justice,
however, admit that he instructed the landlord when he paid him, to
treat me with gentleness, and to see that I had plenty to eat and drink.
When three days had expired, I was to be allowed my liberty.
"'He can do no harm then,' concluded the Prince, in his talk with the
landlord, 'for by that time I shall have succeeded or failed.'
"I was led down a narrow, broken stairway by the proprietor, and thrust
into a dark and damp cellar, partially filled with casks of wine, and
there I remained until set at liberty a few days ago.
"I returned at once to the Benedictine Monastery where I had lodged,
expecting to find my brethren filled with anxiety concerning me, but
such was not the case. Any one man is little missed in this world, and
my comrades supposed that I was invited to the Court, and had forgotten
them as I saw they had forgotten me, so I said nothing of my adventure,
but mounted my waiting horse and journeyed back to the Castle of Sayn."
For a long time there was silence between the two, then the younger
spoke.
"Do you intend to take any action regarding your unauthorized
imprisonment?"
"Oh, no," replied the forgiving monk.
"Is it certain that this dissolute young man will be chosen Emperor?"
"There is a likelihood, but not a certainty."
"Would not the election of such a person to the highest position in the
State prove even a greater misfortune to the land than the continuance
of the present regime, for this young man adds to his father's vice of
drunkenness the evil qualities, of dishonesty, cruelty, ribaldry, and a
lack of respect for the privileges both of Church and nobility?"
"Such indeed is my opinion, daughter."
"Then is it not your duty at once to acquaint the three Archbishops with
what you have already told me, so that the disaster of his election may
be avoided?"
"It is a matter to which I gave deep thought during my journey thither,
and I also invoked the aid of Heaven in guiding me to a just
conclusion."
"And that conclusion, Father?"
"Is to say nothing whatever about my experiences in Frankfort."
"Why?"
"Because it is not given to a humble man like myself, occupying a
position of no authority, to fathom what may be in the minds of those
great Princes of the Church, the Archbishops. In effect they rule the
country, and it is possible that they prefer to place on the throne a
drunken nonentity who will offer no impediment to their ambitions,
rather than to elect a moral young man who might in time prove too
strong for them."
"I am sure no such motive would actuate the Archbishop of Cologne."
"His Lordship of Cologne, my child, dare not break with their Lordships
of Treves and Mayence, so you may be sure that if these two wish to
elect Prince Roland Emperor, nothing I could say to the Archbishop of
Cologne would prevent that choice."
"Oh, I had forgotten, in the excitement of listening to your adventures,
but talking of the Archbishop reminds me his Highness of Cologne will
visit us to-morrow, and he especially wishes to see you. You may imagine
my anxiety when I received his message a few days ago, knowing nothing
of your whereabouts."
"Wishes to see me?" ejaculated Father Ambrose, wrinkling a perplexed
brow. "I wonder what for. Can he have any knowledge of my visit to
Frankfort?"
"How could he?"
"The Archbishops possess sources of enlightenment that we wot not of. If
he charges me with being absent from my post, I must admit the fact."
"Of course. Let me confess to him as soon as he arrives; your journey
was entirely due to my persistence. I alone am to blame."
The old man slowly shook his head.
"I am at least equally culpable," he said. "I shall answer truthfully
any question asked me, but I hope I am not in the wrong if I volunteer
no information."
The girl rose.
"You could do no wrong, Father, even if you tried; and now good-night.
Sleep soundly and fear nothing. On the rare occasions when the good
Archbishop was angry with me, I have always managed to placate him, and
I shall not fail in this instance."
Father Ambrose bade her good-night, and left the room with the languid
air of one thoroughly tired. As the young Countess stood there watching
his retreat and disappearance, her dainty little fist clenched, and her
eyebrows came together, bringing to her handsome face the determined
expression which marked the countenances of some of her Crusader
ancestors whose portraits decorated the walls.
"If ever I get that ruffian Prince Roland into my power," she said to
herself, "I will make him regret his treatment of so tolerant and
forbearing a man as Father Ambrose."
V
THE COUNTESS VON SAYN AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF COLOGNE
It was high noon when that great Prince of the Church, the Archbishop of
Cologne, arrived at Castle Sayn, with a very inconsiderable following,
which seemed to indicate that he traveled on no affair of State, for on
such occasions he led a small army. The lovely young Countess awaited
him at the top of the Castle steps, and he greeted her with the courtesy
of a polished man of the world, rather than with the more austere
consideration of a great Churchman. Indeed, it seemed to the quick
apprehension of the girl that as he raised her fair hand to his lips his
obeisance was lower, more deferential, than their differing stations in
life justified.
He shook hands with Father Ambrose in the manner of old friend accosting
old friend, and nothing in his salutation indicated displeasure of any
sort in the background.
Perhaps, then, that sense of uneasiness felt by both the aged Father
Ambrose and the youthful Countess Hildegunde in the Archbishop's
presence came from their consciousness of conspiracy, resulting in the
ill-fated journey to Frankfort. Nevertheless, all that afternoon the two
were oppressed by the shadow of some impending danger, and the good
spirits of the Archbishop seemed to them assumed for the occasion, and
indeed in this they were not far wrong. His Lordship of Cologne was
keenly apprehensive regarding an important conference set down for the
next day, and the exuberance of an essentially serious man in such a
crisis is prone to be overdone.
Father Ambrose, who, in the midst of luxury and plenty, lived with the
abstemiousness of an anchorite, and always partook of his scant
refreshment alone in his cell, was invited by the Archbishop to a seat
at the table in the dining-hall.
"So long as you cast no look of reproach upon me for my enjoyment of
Sayn's most excellent cuisine, and my appreciation of its unequaled
cellar, I shall not comment on your dinner of parched peas and your
unexhilarating tankard of water. Besides, I wish to consult with Ambrose
the librarian of Sayn, touching the archives of this house, rather than
with Ambrose the superintendent of farms, or Father Ambrose the monk."
During the midday meal the Archbishop led, and at times monopolized, the
conversation.
"While you were under the tutelage of the good Sisters at Nonnenwerth
Convent, Hildegunde, the Abbess frequently spoke of your proficiency in
historical studies. Did you ever turn your attention to the annals of
your own House?"
"No, Guardian. From what I heard casually of my ancestors a record of
their doings would be scarcely the sort of reading recommended to a
young girl."
"Ah, very true, very true," agreed the Archbishop. "Some of the Counts
of Sayn led turbulent lives, and except with a battle-ax it was
difficult to persuade them not to meddle with the goods and chattels of
their neighbors. A strenuous line they proved in those olden days; but
many noble women have adorned the Castle of Sayn whose lives shine out
like an inspiration against the dark background of medieval tumult. Did
you ever hear of your forebear, the gracious Countess Matilda von Sayn,
who lived some hundreds of years ago? Indeed, the letters I have been
reading, written in her quaint handwriting, are dated about the middle
of the thirteenth century. I cannot learn whether she was older or
younger than the Archbishop of Cologne of that period, and thus I wish
to enlist the interest of Father Ambrose in searching the archives of
Sayn for anything pertaining to her. The Countess sent many epistles to
the Archbishop which he carefully preserved, while documents of much
more importance to the Archbishopric were allowed to go astray.
"Her letters breathe a deep devotion to the Church, and a warm
kindliness to its chief ornament of that day, the then Archbishop of
Cologne. She was evidently his most cherished adviser, and in points of
difficulty her counsel exhibits all the clarity of a man's brain, to
which is added a tenderness and a sense of justice entirely womanly. I
could not help fancying that this great prelate's success in his
Archbishopric was largely due to the disinterested advice of this noble
woman. It is clearly to be seen that the Countess was the benignant
power behind the throne, and she watched his continued advancement with
a love resembling that lavished on a favorite son. Her writings now and
then betray an affection of a quality so motherly that I came to believe
she was much older than the great Churchman, but then there is the fact
that she long outlived him, so it is possible she may have been the
younger."
"Why, my Lord, are you about to weave us a romance?"
The Archbishop smiled, and for a moment placed his hand upon hers, which
rested on the table beside him.
"A romance, perhaps, between myself and the Countess of long ago, for as
I read these letters I used much of their contents for my own guidance,
and found her precepts as wise to-day as they were in 1250, and to me
... to me," the Archbishop sighed, "she seems to live again. Yes, I
confess my ardent regard for her, and if you call that romance, it is
surely of a very innocent nature."
"But the other Archbishop? Your predecessor, the friend of Matilda; what
of him?"
"There, Hildegunde, I have much less evidence to go upon, for his
letters, if they exist, are concealed somewhere in the archives of Sayn
Castle."
"To-morrow," cried the girl, "I shall robe myself in the oldest garments
I possess, and will rummage those dusty archives until I find the
letters of him who was Archbishop in 1250."
"I have bestowed that task upon one less impulsive. Father Ambrose is
the searcher, and he and I will put our wise old heads together in
consultation over them before entrusting them to the perusal of that
impetuous young noblewoman, the present Countess von Sayn."
The impetuous person referred to brought down her hand with a peremptory
impact upon the table, and exclaimed emphatically:
"My Lord Archbishop, I shall read those letters to-morrow."
Once more the Archbishop placed his hand on hers, this time, however,
clasping it firmly in his own. There was no smile on his face as he said
gravely:
"My lady, to-morrow you will face three living Archbishops, more
difficult, perhaps, to deal with than one who is dust."
"Three!" she cried, startled, a gleam of apprehension troubling her fine
eyes. "My Lords of Mayence, Treves, and yourself? Are they coming here?"
"The conclave of the Archbishops will be held at Castle Stolzenfels, the
Rhine residence of my brother of Treves."
"Why is this Court convened?"
"That will be explained to you, Hildegunde, by his Highness of Mayence.
I did not intend to speak to you about this until later, so I will
merely say that there is nothing to fear. I, being your guardian, am
sent to escort you to Stolzenfels, and as we ride there together I wish
to place before you some suggestions which you may find useful when the
meeting takes place."
"I shall faithfully follow any advice you give me, my Lord."
"I am sure of it, Hildegunde, and you will remember that I speak as
guardian, not as Councilor of State. My observations will be requests
and not commands. You see, we have reversed the positions of my
predecessor and the Countess Matilda. It was always she who tendered
advice, which he invariably accepted. Now I must take the rôle of
advice-giver; thus you and I transpose the parts of the former
Archbishop of Cologne, and the former Countess of Sayn, who, I am sorry
to note, have been completely banished from your thoughts by my
premature announcement regarding the three living Archbishops."
"Oh, not at all, not at all! I am still thinking of those two. Have you
told me all you know about them?"
"Far from it. Although I was handicapped in my reconstitution of their
friendship by lack of the Archbishop's letters, he had nevertheless made
a note here and there upon the communications he received from the
Countess. Throughout the letters certain paragraphs are marked with a
cross, as if for reperusal, these paragraphs being invariably most
delicately and charmingly written. But now I come to the last very
important document, the only one of which a copy has been kept, written
in the Archbishop's own hand.
"In the year 1250, the Countess von Sayn had ceded to him the Rhine town
of Linz. Linz seems to have been a rebellious and troublesome fief,
which the Sayns held by force of arms. When it came into the possession
of the Archbishop, the foolish inhabitants, remembering that Cologne was
a long distance down the river compared with the up-river journey to
Sayn, broke out into open revolt. The Archbishop sent up his army, and
most effectually crushed this outbreak, severely punishing the rebels.
He returned from this subdued town to his own city of Cologne, and
whether from the exposure of the brief campaign, or some other cause, he
was taken ill and shortly after died.
"The new Archbishop was installed, and nearly two years passed, so far
as I can learn, before the Countess Matilda made claim that the town of
Linz should come again within her jurisdiction, saying that this
restitution had been promised by the late Archbishop. His successor,
however, disputed this claim. He possessed, he said, the deed of gift
making over the town of Linz to his predecessor, and this document was
definite enough. If then, it was the intention of the late Archbishop to
return Linz to the House of Sayn, the Countess doubtless held some
document to that effect, and in this case he would like to know its
purport.
"The Countess replied that an understanding had existed between the late
Archbishop and herself regarding the subjugation of the town of Linz and
its return to her after the rebellion was quelled. But for the untimely
death of the late Archbishop she did not doubt that his part of the
contract would have been kept long since. Nevertheless, she did possess
a document, in the late Archbishop's own hand, setting out the terms of
their agreement, and of this manuscript she sent a copy.
"The crafty Archbishop, without casting doubt on the authenticity of the
copy, said that of course it would be illegal for him to act upon it. He
must have the original document. Matilda replied, very shrewdly, that on
her part she could not allow the original document to quit her custody,
as upon it rested her rights to the town of Linz. She would, however,
exhibit this document to any ecclesiastical committee her correspondent
might appoint, and the members of the committee so chosen should be men
well acquainted with the late Archbishop's writing and signature. In
reply the Archbishop regretted that he could not accept her suggestion.
The people of Cologne, believing that their overlord had rightfully
acquired Linz, cheerfully consented to make good their title by battle,
thus having, as it were, bought the town with their blood, and indeed, a
deplorable sacrifice of life, it would become a dangerous venture to
give up the town unless indisputable documentary evidence might be
exhibited to them showing that such a bargain was made by the deceased
prelate.
"But before proceeding farther in this matter, he asked the Countess if
she were prepared to swear that the copy forwarded to him was a full and
faithful rendition of the original. Did it contain every word the late
Archbishop had written in that letter?
"To this the Countess made no reply, and allowed to lapse any title she
might have to the town of Linz."
"I think," cried the girl indignantly, "that my ancestress was in the
right, refusing further communication with this ignoble Churchman who
dared to impugn her good faith."
The Archbishop smiled at her vehemence.
"I shall make no attempt to defend my astute predecessor. A
money-lender's soul tenanted his austere body, but what would you say if
his implication of the Countess Matilda's good faith was justified?"
"You mean that the copy which she sent of the Archbishop's letter was
fraudulent? I cannot believe it."