THE SCHNEIDERLEIN’S RETURN
THE poor little unowned bride had more to undergo than her imagination
had conceived at the first moment.
When she heard that the marriage was to be a secret, she had not
understood that Eberhard was by no means disposed to observe much more
caution than mere silence. A rough, though kindly man, he did not
thoroughly comprehend the shame and confusion that he was bringing upon
her by departing from his former demeanour. He knew that, so enormous
was the distance then supposed to exist between the noble and the
burgher, there was no chance of any one dreaming of the true state of the
case, and that as long as Christina was not taken for his wife, there was
no personal danger for her from his mother, who—so lax were the morals of
the German nobility with regard to all of inferior rank—would tolerate
her with complacency as his favourite toy; and he was taken by surprise
at the agony of grief and shame with which she slowly comprehended his
assurance that she had nothing to fear.
There was no help for it. The oubliette would probably be the portion of
the low-born girl who had interfered with the sixteen quarterings of the
Adlerstein shield, and poor Christina never stepped across its trap-door
without a shudder lest it should open beneath her. And her father would
probably have been hung from the highest tower, in spite of his shrewd
care to be aware of nothing. Christina consoled herself with the hope
that he knew all the time why he had been sent out of the way, for, with
a broad grin that had made her blush painfully, he had said he knew she
would be well taken care of, and that he hoped she was not breaking her
heart for want of an escort. She tried to extort Eberhard’s permission
to let him at least know how it was; but Eberhard laughed, saying he
believed the old fox knew just as much as he chose; and, in effect,
Sorel, though now and then gratifying his daughter’s scruples, by serving
as a shield to her meetings with the young Baron, never allowed himself
to hear a hint of the true state of affairs.
Eberhard’s love and reverence were undiminished, and the time spent with
him would have been perfectly happy could she ever have divested herself
of anxiety and alarm; but the periods of his absence from the castle were
very terrible to her, for the other women of the household, quick to
perceive that she no longer repelled him, had lost that awe that had
hitherto kept them at a distance from her, and treated her with a
familiarity, sometimes coarse, sometimes spiteful, always hateful and
degrading. Even old Ursel had become half-pitying, half-patronizing; and
the old Baroness, though not molesting her, took not the slightest notice
of her.
This state of things lasted much longer than there had been reason to
expect at the time of the marriage. The two Freiherren then intended to
set out in a very short time to make their long talked-of submission to
the Emperor at Ratisbon; but, partly from their German tardiness of
movement, partly from the obstinate delays interposed by the proud old
Freiherrinn, who was as averse as ever to the measure, partly from
reports that the Court was not yet arrived at Ratisbon, the expedition
was again and again deferred, and did not actually take place till
September was far advanced.
Poor Christina would have given worlds to go with them, and even
entreated to be sent to Ulm with an avowal of her marriage to her uncle
and aunt, but of this Eberhard would not hear. He said the Ulmers would
thus gain an hostage, and hamper his movements; and, if her wedding was
not to be confessed—poor child!—she could better bear to remain where she
was than to face Hausfrau Johanna. Eberhard was fully determined to
enrol himself in some troop, either Imperial, or, if not, among the Free
Companies, among whom men of rank were often found, and he would then
fetch or send for his wife and avow her openly, so soon as she should be
out of his mother’s reach. He longed to leave her father at home, to be
some protection to her, but Hugh Sorel was so much the most intelligent
and skilful of the retainers as to be absolutely indispensable to the
party—he was their only scribe; and moreover his new suit of buff
rendered him a creditable member of a troop that had been very hard to
equip. It numbered about ten men-at-arms, only three being left at home
to garrison the castle—namely, Hatto, who was too old to take; Hans, who
had been hopelessly lame and deformed since the old Baron had knocked him
off a cliff in a passion; and Squinting Mätz, a runaway servant, who had
murdered his master, the mayor of Strasburg, and might be caught and put
to death if any one recognized him. If needful the villagers could
always be called in to defend the castle: but of this there was little or
no danger—the Eagle’s Steps were defence enough in themselves, and the
party were not likely to be absent more than a week or ten days—a
grievous length of time, poor Christina thought, as she stood straining
her eyes on the top of the watch-tower, to watch them as far as possible
along the plain. Her heart was very sad, and the omen of the burning
wheel so continually haunted her that even in her sleep that night she
saw its brief course repeated, beheld its rapid fall and extinction, and
then tracked the course of the sparks that darted from it, one rising and
gleaming high in air till it shone like a star, another pursuing a fitful
and irregular, but still bright course amid the dry grass on the
hillside, just as she had indeed watched some of the sparks on that
night, minding her of the words of the Allhallow-tide legend: “_Fulgebunt
justi et tanquam scintillæ in arundinete discurrent_”—a sentence which
remained with her when awake, and led her to seek it out in her Latin
Bible in the morning.
Reluctantly had she gone down to the noontide meal, feeling, though her
husband and father were far less of guardians than they should have been,
yet that there was absolute rest, peace, and protection in their presence
compared with what it was to be alone with Freiherrinn Kunigunde and her
rude women without them. A few sneers on her daintiness and uselessness
had led her to make an offer of assisting in the grand chopping of
sausage meat and preparation of winter stores, and she had been answered
with contempt that my young lord would not have her soil her delicate
hands, when one of the maids who had been sent to fetch beer from the
cellar came back with startled looks, and the exclamation, “There is the
Schneiderlein riding up the Eagle’s Ladder upon Freiherr Ebbo’s white
mare!”
All the women sprang up together, and rushed to the window, whence they
could indeed recognize both man and horse; and presently it became plain
that both were stained with blood, weary, and spent; indeed, nothing but
extreme exhaustion would have induced the man-at-arms to trust the tired,
stumbling horse up such a perilous path.
Loud were the exclamations, “Ah! no good could come of not leading that
mare through the Johannisfeuer.”
“This shameful expedition! Only harm could befall. This is thy doing,
thou mincing city-girl.”
“All was certain to go wrong when a pale mist widow came into the place.”
The angry and dismayed cries all blended themselves in confusion in the
ears of the only silent woman present; the only one that sounded
distinctly on her brain was that of the last speaker, “A pale, mist
widow,” as, holding herself a little in the rear of the struggling,
jostling little mob of women, who hardly made way even for their
acknowledged lady, she followed with failing limbs the universal rush to
the entrance as soon as man and horse had mounted the slope and were lost
sight of.
A few moments more, and the throng of expectants was at the foot of the
hall steps, just as the lanzknecht reached the arched entrance. His
comrade Hans took his bridle, and almost lifted him from his horse; he
reeled and stumbled as, pale, battered, and bleeding, he tried to advance
to Freiherinn Kunigunde, and, in answer to her hasty interrogation,
faltered out, “Ill news, gracious lady. We have been set upon by the
accursed Schlangenwaldern, and I am the only living man left.”
Christina scarce heard even these last words; senses and powers alike
failed her, and she sank back on the stone steps in a deathlike swoon.
When she came to herself she was lying on her bed, Ursel and Else,
another of the women, busy over her, and Ursel’s voice was saying, “Ah,
she is coming round. Look up, sweet lady, and fear not. You are our
gracious Lady Baroness.”
“Is he here? O, has he said so? O, let me see him—Sir Eberhard,”
faintly cried Christina with sobbing breath.
“Ah, no, no,” said the old woman; “but see here,” and she lifted up
Christina’s powerless, bloodless hand, and showed her the ring on the
finger. Her bosom had been evidently searched when her dress was
loosened in her swoon, and her ring found and put in its place. “There,
you can hold up your head with the best of them; he took care of that—my
dear young Freiherr, the boy that I nursed,” and the old woman’s burst of
tears brought back the truth to Christina’s reviving senses.
“Oh, tell me,” she said, trying to raise herself, “was it indeed so? O
say it was not as he said!”
“Ah, woe’s me, woe’s me, that it was even so,” lamented Ursel; “but oh,
be still, look not so wild, dear lady. The dear, true-hearted young
lord, he spent his last breath in owning you for his true lady, and in
bidding us cherish you and our young baron that is to be. And the
gracious lady below—she owns you; there is no fear of her now; so vex not
yourself, dearest, most gracious lady.”
Christina did not break out into the wailing and weeping that the old
nurse expected; she was still far too much stunned and overwhelmed, and
she entreated to be told all, lying still, but gazing at Ursel with
piteous bewildered eyes. Ursel and Else helping one another out, tried
to tell her, but they were much confused; all they knew was that the
party had been surprised at night in a village hostel by the
Schlangenwaldern, and all slain, though the young Baron had lived long
enough to charge the Schneiderlein with his commendation of his wife to
his mother; but all particulars had been lost in the general confusion.
“Oh, let me see the Schneiderlein,” implored Christina, by this time able
to rise and cross the room to the large carved chair; and Ursel
immediately turned to her underling, saying, “Tell the Schneiderlein that
the gracious Lady Baroness desires his presence.”
Else’s wooden shoes clattered down stairs, but the next moment she
returned. “He cannot come; he is quite spent, and he will let no one
touch his arm till Ursel can come, not even to get off his doublet.”
“I will go to him,” said Christina, and, revived by the sense of being
wanted, she moved at once to the turret, where she kept some rag and some
ointment, which she had found needful in the latter stages of
Ermentrude’s illness—indeed, household surgery was a part of regular
female education, and Christina had had plenty of practice in helping her
charitable aunt, so that the superiority of her skill to that of Ursel
had long been avowed in the castle. Ursel made no objection further than
to look for something that could be at once converted into a widow’s
veil—being in the midst of her grief quite alive to the need that no
matronly badge should be omitted—but nothing came to hand in time, and
Christina was descending the stairs, on her way to the kitchen, where she
found the fugitive man-at-arms seated on a rough settle, his head and
wounded arm resting on the table, while groans of pain, weariness, and
impatience were interspersed with imprecations on the stupid awkward
girls who surrounded him.
Pity and the instinct of affording relief must needs take the precedence
even of the desire to hear of her husband’s fate; and, as the girls
hastily whispered, “Here she is,” and the lanzknecht hastily tried to
gather himself up, and rise with tokens of respect; she bade him remain
still, and let her see what she could do for him. In fact, she at once
perceived that he was in no condition to give a coherent account of
anything, he was so completely worn out, and in so much suffering. She
bade at once that some water should be heated, and some of the broth of
the dinner set on the fire; then with the shears at her girdle, and her
soft, light fingers, she removed the torn strip of cloth that had been
wound round the arm, and cut away the sleeve, showing the arm not broken,
but gashed at the shoulder, and thence the whole length grazed and
wounded by the descent of the sword down to the wrist. So tender was her
touch, that he scarcely winced or moaned under her hand; and, when she
proceeded, with Ursel’s help, to bathe the wound with the warm water, the
relief was such that the wearied man absolutely slumbered during the
process, which Christina protracted on that very account. She then
dressed and bandaged the arm, and proceeded to skim—as no one else in the
castle would do—the basin of soup, with which she then fed her patient as
he leant back in the corner of the settle, at first in the same
somnolent, half-conscious state in which he had been ever since the
relief from the severe pain; but after a few spoonfuls the light and life
came back to his eye, and he broke out, “Thanks, thanks, gracious lady!
This is the Lady Baroness for me! My young lord was the only wise man!
Thanks, lady; now am I my own man again. It had been long ere the old
Freiherrinn had done so much for me! I am your man, lady, for life or
death!” And, before she knew what he was about, the gigantic
Schneiderlein had slid down on his knees, seized her hand, and kissed
it—the first act of homage to her rank, but most startling and
distressing to her. “Nay,” she faltered, “prithee do not; thou must
rest. Only if—if thou canst only tell me if he, my own dear lord, sent
me any greeting, I would wait to hear the rest till thou hast slept.”
“Ah! the dog of Schlangenwald!” was the first answer; then, as he
continued, “You see, lady, we had ridden merrily as far as Jacob Müller’s
hostel, the traitor,” it became plain that he meant to begin at the
beginning. She allowed Ursel to seat her on the bench opposite to his
settle, and, leaning forward, heard his narrative like one in a dream.
There, the Schneiderlein proceeded to say, they put up for the night,
entirely unsuspicious of evil; Jacob Müller, who was known to himself, as
well as to Sorel and to the others, assuring them that the way was clear
to Ratisbon, and that he heard the Emperor was most favourably disposed
to any noble who would tender his allegiance. Jacob’s liquors were
brought out, and were still in course of being enjoyed, when the house
was suddenly surrounded by an overpowering number of the retainers of
Schlangenwald, with their Count himself at their head. He had been
evidently resolved to prevent the timely submission of the enemies of his
race, and suddenly presenting himself before the elder Baron, had
challenged him to instantaneous battle, claiming credit to himself for
not having surprised them when asleep. The disadvantage had been
scarcely less than if this had been the case, for the Adlersteinern were
all half-intoxicated, and far inferior in numbers—at least, on the
showing of the Schneiderlein—and a desperate fight had ended by his being
flung aside in a corner, bound fast by the ankles and wrists, the only
living prisoner, except his young lord, who, having several terrible
wounds, the worst in his chest, was left unbound.
Both lay helpless, untended, and silent, while the revel that had been so
fatal to them was renewed by their captors, who finally all sunk into a
heavy sleep. The torches were not all spent, and the moonlight shone
into the room, when the Schneiderlein, desperate from the agony caused by
the ligature round his wounded arm, sat up and looked about him. A knife
thrown aside by one of the drunkards lay near enough to be grasped by his
bound hands, and he had just reached it when Sir Eberhard made a sign to
him to put it into his hand, and therewith contrived to cut the rope
round both hands and feet—then pointed to the door.
There was nothing to hinder an escape; the men slept the sleep of the
drunken; but the Schneiderlein, with the rough fidelity of a retainer,
would have lingered with a hope of saving his master. But Eberhard shook
his head, and signed again to escape; then, making him bend down close to
him, he used all his remaining power to whisper, as he pressed his sword
into the retainer’s hand,—
“Go home; tell my mother—all the world—that Christina Sorel is my wife,
wedded on the Friedmund Wake by Friar Peter of Offingen, and if she
should bear a child, he is my true and lawful heir. My sword for him—my
love to her. And if my mother would not be haunted by me, let her take
care of her.”
These words were spoken with extreme difficulty, for the nature of the
wound made utterance nearly impossible, and each broken sentence cost a
terrible effusion of blood. The final words brought on so choking and
fatal a gush that, said the Schneiderlein, “he fell back as I tried to
hold him up, and I saw that it was all at an end, and a kind and friendly
master and lord gone from me. I laid him down, and put his cross on his
breast that I had seen him kissing many a time that evening; and I
crossed his hands, and wiped the blood from them and his face. And,
lady, he had put on his ring; I trust the robber caitiff’s may have left
it to him in his grave. And so I came forth, walking soft, and opening
the door in no small dread, not of the snoring swine, but of the dogs
without. But happily they were still, and even by the door I saw all our
poor fellows stark and stiff.”
“My father?” asked Christina.
“Ay! with his head cleft open by the Graf himself. He died like a true
soldier, lady, and we have lost the best head among us in him. Well, the
knave that should have watched the horses was as drunken as the rest of
them, and I made a shift to put the bridle on the white mare and ride
off.”
Such was the narrative of the Schneiderlein, and all that was left to
Christina was the picture of her husband’s dying effort to guard her, and
the haunting fancy of those long hours of speechless agony on the floor
of the hostel, and how direful must have been his fears for her. Sad and
overcome, yet not sinking entirely while any work of comfort remained,
her heart yearned over her companion in misfortune, the mother who had
lost both husband and son; and all her fears of the dread Freiherrinn
could not prevent her from bending her steps, trembling and palpitating
as she was, towards the hall, to try whether the daughter-in-law’s right
might be vouchsafed to her, of weeping with the elder sufferer.
The Freiherrinn sat by the chimney, rocking herself to and fro, and
holding consultation with Hatto. She started as she saw Christina
approaching, and made a gesture of repulsion; but, with the feeling of
being past all terror in this desolate moment, Christina stepped nearer,
knelt, and, clasping her hands, said, “Your pardon, lady.”
“Pardon!” returned the harsh voice, even harsher for very grief, “thou
hast naught to fear, girl. As things stand, thou canst not have thy
deserts. Dost hear?”
“Ah, lady, it was not such pardon that I meant. If you would let me be a
daughter to you.”
“A daughter! A wood-carver’s girl to be a daughter of Adlerstein!” half
laughed the grim Baroness. “Come here, wench,” and Christina underwent a
series of sharp searching questions on the evidences of her marriage.
“So,” ended the old lady, “since better may not be, we must own thee for
the nonce. Hark ye all, this is the Frau Freiherrinn, Freiherr
Eberhard’s widow, to be honoured as such,” she added, raising her voice.
“There, girl, thou hast what thou didst strive for. Is not that enough?”
“Alas! lady,” said Christina, her eyes swimming in tears, “I would fain
have striven to be a comforter, or to weep together.”
“What! to bewitch me as thou didst my poor son and daughter, and
well-nigh my lord himself! Girl! Girl! Thou know’st I cannot burn thee
now; but away with thee; try not my patience too far.”
And, more desolate than ever, the crushed and broken-hearted Christina, a
widow before she had been owned a wife, returned to the room that was now
so full of memories as to be even more home than Master Gottfried’s
gallery at Ulm.