PASSING THE OUBLIETTE
WHO can describe the dreariness of being snowed-up all the winter with
such a mother-in-law as Freiherrinn Kunigunde?
Yet it was well that the snow came early, for it was the best defence of
the lonely castle from any attack on the part of the Schlangenwaldern,
the Swabian League, or the next heir, Freiherr Kasimir von Adlerstein
Wildschloss. The elder Baroness had, at least, the merit of a stout
heart, and, even with her sadly-reduced garrison, feared none of them.
She had been brought up in the faith that Adlerstein was impregnable, and
so she still believed; and, if the disaster that had cut off her husband
and son was to happen at all, she was glad that it had befallen before
the homage had been paid. Probably the Schlangenwald Count knew how
tough a morsel the castle was like to prove, and Wildschloss was serving
at a distance, for nothing was heard of either during the short interval
while the roads were still open. During this time an attempt had been
made through Father Norbert to ascertain what had become of the corpses
of the two Barons and their followers, and it had appeared that the Count
had carried them all off from the inn, no doubt to adorn his castle with
their limbs, or to present them to the Emperor in evidence of his zeal
for order. The old Baron could not indeed have been buried in
consecrated ground, nor have masses said for him; but for the weal of her
son’s soul Dame Kunigunde gave some of her few ornaments, and Christina
added her gold earrings, and all her scanty purse, that both her husband
and father might be joined in the prayers of the Church—trying with all
her might to put confidence in Hugh Sorel’s Loretto relic, and the
Indulgence he had bought, and trusting with more consolatory thoughts to
the ever stronger dawnings of good she had watched in her own Eberhard.
She had some consoling intercourse with the priest while all this was
pending; but throughout the winter she was entirely cut off from every
creature save the inmates of the castle, where, as far as the old lady
was concerned, she only existed on sufferance, and all her meekness and
gentleness could not win for her more than the barest toleration.
That Eberhard had for a few hours survived his father, and that thus the
Freiherrinn Christina was as much the Dowager Baroness as Kunigunde
herself, was often insisted on in the kitchen by Ursel, Hatto, and the
Schneiderlein, whom Christina had unconsciously rendered her most devoted
servant, not only by her daily care of his wound, but by her kind
courteous words, and by her giving him his proper name of Heinz, dropping
the absurd _nom de guerre_ of the Schneiderlein, or little tailor, which
had been originally conferred on him in allusion to the valiant
Tailorling who boasted of having killed seven flies at a blow, and had
been carried on chiefly because of the contradiction between such a title
and his huge brawny strength and fierce courage. Poor Eberhard, with his
undaunted bravery and free reckless good-nature, a ruffian far more by
education than by nature, had been much loved by his followers. His
widow would have reaped the benefit of that affection even if her
exceeding sweetness had not gained it on her own account; and this giant
was completely gained over to her, when, amid all her sorrow and
feebleness, she never failed to minister to his sufferings to the utmost,
while her questions about his original home, and revival of the name of
his childhood, softened him, and awoke in him better feelings. He would
have died to serve her, and she might have headed an opposition party in
the castle, had she not been quite indifferent to all save her grief;
and, except by sitting above the salt at the empty table, she laid no
claim to any honours or authority, and was more seldom than ever seen
beyond what was now called her own room.
At last, when for the second time she was seeing the snow wreaths
dwindle, and the drops shine forth in moisture again, while the mountain
paths were set free by the might of the springtide sun, she spoke almost
for the first time with authority, as she desired Heinz to saddle her
mule, and escort her to join in the Easter mass at the Blessed
Friedmund’s Chapel. Ursel heaped up objections; but so urgent was
Christina for confession and for mass, that the old woman had not the
heart to stop her by a warning to the elder Baroness, and took the
alternative of accompanying her. It was a glorious sparkling Easter Day,
lovely blue sky above, herbage and flowers glistening below, snow
dazzling in the hollows, peasants assembling in holiday garb, and all
rejoicing. Even the lonely widow, in her heavy veil and black mufflings,
took hope back to her heart, and smiled when at the church door a little
child came timidly up to her with a madder-tinted Easter egg—a gift once
again like the happy home customs of Ulm. She gave the child a kiss—she
had nothing else to give, but the sweet face sent it away strangely glad.
The festival mass in all its exultation was not fully over, when anxious
faces began to be seen at the door, and whisperings went round and many
passed out. Nobody at Adlerstein was particular about silence in church,
and, when the service was not in progress, voices were not even lowered,
and, after many attempts on the part of the Schneiderlein to attract the
attention of his mistress, his voice immediately succeeded the _Ite missa
est_, “Gracious lady, we must begone. Your mule is ready. There is a
party at the Debateable Ford, whether Schlangenwald or Wildschloss we
know not yet, but either way you must be the first thing placed in
safety.”
Christina turned deadly pale. She had long been ready to welcome death
as a peaceful friend; but, sheltered as her girlhood had been in the
quiet city, she had never been brought in contact with warfare, and her
nervous, timid temperament made the thought most appalling and frightful
to her, certain as she was that the old Baroness would resist to the
uttermost. Father Norbert saw her extreme terror, and, with the thought
that he might comfort and support her, perhaps mediate between the
contending parties, plead that it was holy-tide, and proclaim the peace
of the church, or at the worst protect the lady herself, he offered his
company; but, though she thanked him, it was as if she scarcely
understood his kindness, and a shudder passed over her whenever the
serfs, hastily summoned to augment the garrison, came hurrying down the
path, or turned aside into the more rugged and shorter descents. It was
strange, the good father thought, that so timorous and fragile a being
should have her lot cast amid these rugged places and scenes of violence,
with no one to give her the care and cherishing she so much required.
Even when she crept up the castle stairs, she was met with an angry
rebuke, not so much for the peril she had incurred as for having taken
away the Schneiderlein, by far the most availing among the scanty remnant
of the retainers of Adlerstein. Attempting no answer, and not even
daring to ask from what quarter came the alarm, Christina made her way
out of the turmoil to that chamber of her own, the scene of so much fear
and sorrow, and yet of some share of peace and happiness. But from the
window, near the fast subsiding waters of the Debateable Ford, could
plainly be seen the small troop of warriors, of whom Jobst the Kohler had
brought immediate intelligence. The sun glistened on their armour, and a
banner floated gaily on the wind; but they were a fearful sight to the
inmates of the lonely castle.
A stout heart was however Kunigunde’s best endowment; and, with the
steadiness and precision of a general, her commands rang out, as she
arranged and armed her garrison, perfectly resolved against any
submission, and confident in the strength of her castle; nay, not without
a hope of revenge either against Schlangenwald or Wildschloss, whom, as a
degenerate Adlerstein, she hated only less than the slayer of her husband
and son.
The afternoon of Easter Day however passed away without any movement on
the part of the enemy, and it was not till the following day that they
could be seen struggling through the ford, and preparing to ascend the
mountain. Attacks had sometimes been disconcerted by posting men in the
most dangerous passes; but, in the lack of numbers, and of trustworthy
commanders, the Freiherrinn had judged it wiser to trust entirely to her
walls, and keep her whole force within them.
The new comers could hardly have had any hostile intentions, for, though
well armed and accoutred, their numbers did not exceed twenty-five. The
banner borne at their head was an azure one, with a white eagle, and
their leader could be observed looking with amazement at the top of the
watch-tower, where the same eagle had that morning been hoisted for the
first time since the fall of the two Freiherren.
So soon as the ascent had been made, the leader wound his horn, and,
before the echoes had died away among the hills, Hatto, acting as
seneschal, was demanding his purpose.
“I am Kasimir von Adlerstein Wildschloss,” was the reply. “I have
hitherto been hindered by stress of weather from coming to take
possession of my inheritance. Admit me, that I may arrange with the
widowed Frau Freiherrinn as to her dower and residence.”
“The widowed Frau Freiherrinn, born of Adlerstein,” returned Hatto,
“thanks the Freiherr von Adlerstein Wildschloss; but she holds the castle
as guardian to the present head of the family, the Freiherr von
Adlerstein.”
“It is false, old man,” exclaimed the Wildschloss; “the Freiherr had no
other son.”
“No,” said Hatto, “but Freiherr Eberhard hath left us twin heirs, our
young lords, for whom we hold this castle.”
“This trifling will not serve!” sternly spoke the knight. “Eberhard von
Adlerstein died unmarried.”
“Not so,” returned Hatto, “our gracious Frau Freiherrinn, the younger,
was wedded to him at the last Friedmund Wake, by the special blessing of
our good patron, who would not see our house extinct.”
“I must see thy lady, old man,” said Sir Kasimir, impatiently, not in the
least crediting the story, and believing his cousin Kunigunde quite
capable of any measure that could preserve to her the rule in Schloss
Adlerstein, even to erecting some passing love affair of her son’s into a
marriage. And he hardly did her injustice, for she had never made any
inquiry beyond the castle into the validity of Christina’s espousals, nor
sought after the friar who had performed the ceremony. She consented to
an interview with the claimant of the inheritance, and descended to the
gateway for the purpose. The court was at its cleanest, the thawing snow
having newly washed away its impurities, and her proud figure, under her
black hood and veil, made an imposing appearance as she stood tall and
defiant in the archway.
Sir Kasimir was a handsome man of about thirty, of partly Polish descent,
and endowed with Slavonic grace and courtesy, and he had likewise been
employed in negotiations with Burgundy, and had acquired much polish and
knowledge of the world.
“Lady,” he said, “I regret to disturb and intrude on a mourning family,
but I am much amazed at the tidings I have heard; and I must pray of you
to confirm them.”
“I thought they would confound you,” composedly replied Kunigunde.
“And pardon me, lady, but the Diet is very nice in requiring full proofs.
I would be glad to learn what lady was chosen by my deceased cousin
Eberhard.”
“The lady is Christina, daughter of his esquire, Hugh Sorel, of an
honourable family at Ulm.”
“Ha! I know who and what Sorel was!” exclaimed Wildschloss. “Lady
cousin, thou wouldst not stain the shield of Adlerstein with owning aught
that cannot bear the examination of the Diet!”
“Sir Kasimir,” said Kunigunde proudly, “had I known the truth ere my
son’s death, I had strangled the girl with mine own hands! But I learnt
it only by his dying confession; and, had she been a beggar’s child, she
was his wedded wife, and her babes are his lawful heirs.”
“Knowest thou time—place—witnesses?” inquired Sir Kasimir.
“The time, the Friedmund Wake; the place, the Friedmund Chapel,” replied
the Baroness. “Come hither, Schneiderlein. Tell the knight thy young
lord’s confession.”
He bore emphatic testimony to poor Eberhard’s last words; but as to the
point of who had performed the ceremony, he knew not,—his mind had not
retained the name.
“I must see the Frau herself,” said Wildschloss, feeling certain that
such a being as he expected in a daughter of the dissolute lanzknecht
Sorel would soon, by dexterous questioning, be made to expose the
futility of her pretensions so flagrantly that even Kunigunde could not
attempt to maintain them.
For one moment Kunigunde hesitated, but suddenly a look of malignant
satisfaction crossed her face. She spoke a few words to Squinting Mätz,
and then replied that Sir Kasimir should be allowed to satisfy himself,
but that she could admit no one else into the castle; hers was a widow’s
household, the twins were only a few hours old, and she could not open
her gates to admit any person besides himself.
So resolved on judging for himself was Adlerstein Wildschloss that all
this did not stagger him; for, even if he had believed more than he did
of the old lady’s story, there would have been no sense of intrusion or
impropriety in such a visit to the mother. Indeed, had Christina been
living in the civilized world, her chamber would have been hung with
black cloth, black velvet would have enveloped her up to the eyes, and
the blackest of cradles would have stood ready for her fatherless babe;
two steps, in honour of her baronial rank, would have led to her bed, and
a beaufet with the due baronial amount of gold and silver plate would
have held the comfits and caudle to be dispensed to all visitors. As it
was, the two steps built into the floor of the room, and the black hood
that Ursel tied over her young mistress’s head, were the only traces that
such etiquette had ever been heard of.
But when Baron Kasimir had clanked up the turret stairs, each step
bringing to her many a memory of him who should have been there, and when
he had been led to the bedside, he was completely taken by surprise.
Instead of the great, flat-faced, coarse comeliness of a German wench,
treated as a lady in order to deceive him, he saw a delicate, lily-like
face, white as ivory, and the soft, sweet brown eyes under their drooping
lashes, so full of innocence and sad though thankful content, that he
felt as if the inquiries he came to make were almost sacrilege.
He had seen enough of the world to know that no agent in a clumsy
imposition would look like this pure white creature, with her arm
encircling the two little swaddled babes, whose red faces and bald heads
alone were allowed to appear above their mummy-like wrappings; and he
could only make an obeisance lower and infinitely more respectful than
that with which he had favoured the Baroness _née_ von Adlerstein, with a
few words of inquiry and apology.
But Christina had her sons’ rights to defend now, and she had far more
spirit to do so than ever she had had in securing her own position, and a
delicate rose tint came into her cheek as she said in her soft voice,
“The Baroness tells me, that you, noble sir, would learn who wedded me to
my dear and blessed lord, Sir Eberhard. It was Friar Peter of the
Franciscan brotherhood of Offingen, an agent for selling indulgences.
Two of his lay brethren were present. My dear lord gave his own name and
mine in full after the holy rite; the friar promising his testimony if it
were needed. He is to be found, or at least heard of, at his own
cloister; and the hermit at the chapel likewise beheld a part of the
ceremony.”
“Enough, enough, lady,” replied Sir Kasimir; “forgive me for having
forced the question upon you.”
“Nay,” replied Christina, with her blush deepening, “it is but just and
due to us all;” and her soft eyes had a gleam of exultation, as she
looked at the two little mummies that made up the _us_—“I would have all
inquiries made in full.”
“They shall be made, lady, as will be needful for the establishment of
your son’s right as a free Baron of the empire, but not with any doubt on
my part, or desire to controvert that right. I am fully convinced, and
only wish to serve you and my little cousins. Which of them is the head
of our family?” he added, looking at the two absolutely undistinguishable
little chrysalises, so exactly alike that Christina herself was obliged
to look for the black ribbon, on which a medal had been hung, round the
neck of the elder. Sir Kasimir put one knee to the ground as he kissed
the red cheek of the infant and the white hand of the mother.
“Lady cousin,” he said to Kunigunde, who had stood by all this time with
an anxious, uneasy, scowling expression on her face, “I am satisfied. I
own this babe as the true Freiherr von Adlerstein, and far be it from me
to trouble his heritage. Rather point out the way in which I may serve
you and him. Shall I represent all to the Emperor, and obtain his
wardship, so as to be able to protect you from any attacks by the enemies
of the house?”
“Thanks, sir,” returned the elder lady, severely, seeing Christina’s
gratified, imploring face. “The right line of Adlerstein can take care
of itself without greedy guardians appointed by usurpers. Our submission
has never been made, and the Emperor cannot dispose of our wardship.”
And Kunigunde looked defiant, regarding herself and her grandson as quite
as good as the Emperor, and ready to blast her daughter-in-law with her
eyes for murmuring gratefully and wistfully, “Thanks, noble sir, thanks!”
“Let me at least win a friendly right in my young cousins,” said Sir
Kasimir, the more drawn by pitying admiration towards their mother, as he
perceived more of the grandmother’s haughty repulsiveness and want of
comprehension of the dangers of her position. “They are not baptized?
Let me become their godfather.”
Christina’s face was all joy and gratitude, and even the grandmother made
no objection; in fact, it was the babes’ only chance of a noble sponsor;
and Father Norbert, who had already been making ready for the baptism,
was sent for from the hall. Kunigunde, meantime, moved about restlessly,
went half-way down the stairs, and held council with some one there;
Ursel likewise, bustled about, and Sir Kasimir remained seated on the
chair that had been placed for him near Christina’s bed.
She was able again to thank him, and add, “It may be that you will have
more cause than the lady grandmother thinks to remember your offer of
protection to my poor orphans. Their father and grandfather were, in
very deed, on their way to make submission.”
“That is well known to me,” said Sir Kasimir. “Lady, I will do all in my
power for you. The Emperor shall hear the state of things; and, while no
violence is offered to travellers,” he added, lowering his tone, “I doubt
not he will wait for full submission till this young Baron be of age to
tender it.”
“We are scarce in force to offer violence,” said Christina sighing. “I
have no power to withstand the Lady Baroness. I am like a stranger here;
but, oh! sir, if the Emperor and Diet will be patient and forbearing with
this desolate house, my babes, if they live, shall strive to requite
their mercy by loyalty. And the blessing of the widow and fatherless
will fall on you, most generous knight,” she added, fervently, holding
out her hand.
“I would I could do more for you,” said the knight. “Ask, and all I can
do is at your service.”
“Ah, sir,” cried Christina, her eyes brightening, “there is one most
inestimable service you could render me—to let my uncle, Master
Gottfried, the wood-carver of Ulm, know where I am, and of my state, and
of my children.”
Sir Kasimir repeated the name.
“Yes,” she said. “There was my home, there was I brought up by my dear
uncle and aunt, till my father bore me away to attend on the young lady
here. It is eighteen months since they had any tidings from her who was
as a daughter to them.”
“I will see them myself,” said Kasimir; “I know the name. Carved not
Master Gottfried the stall-work at Augsburg?”
“Yes, indeed! In chestnut leaves! And the Misereres all with fairy
tales!” exclaimed Christina. “Oh, sir, thanks indeed! Bear to the dear,
dear uncle and aunt their child’s duteous greetings, and tell them she
loves them with all her heart, and prays them to forgive her, and to pray
for her and her little ones! And,” she added, “my uncle may not have
learnt how his brother, my father, died by his lord’s side. Oh! pray
him, if ever he loved his little Christina, to have masses sung for my
father and my own dear lord.”
As she promised, Ursel came to make the babes ready for their baptism,
and Sir Kasimir moved away towards the window. Ursel was looking uneasy
and dismayed, and, as she bent over her mistress, she whispered, “Lady,
the Schneiderlein sends you word that Mätz has called him to help in
removing the props of the door you wot of when _he_ yonder steps across
it. He would know if it be your will?”
“The oubliette!” This was Frau Kunigunde’s usage of the relative who was
doing his best for the welfare of her grandsons! Christina’s whole
countenance looked so frozen with horror, that Ursel felt as if she had
killed her on the spot; but the next moment a flash of relief came over
the pale features, and the trembling lip commanded itself to say, “My
best thanks to good Heinz. Say to him that I forbid it. If he loves the
life of his master’s children, he will abstain! Tell him so. My
blessings on him if this knight leave the castle safe, Ursel.” And her
terrified earnest eyes impelled Ursel to hasten to do her bidding; but
whether it had been executed, there was no knowing, for almost
immediately the Freiherrinn and Father Norbert entered, and Ursel
returned with them. Nay, the message given, who could tell if Heinz
would be able to act upon it? In the ordinary condition of the castle,
he was indeed its most efficient inmate; Mätz did not approach him in
strength, Hans was a cripple, Hatto would be on the right side; but Jobst
the Kohler, and the other serfs who had been called in for the defence,
were more likely to hold with the elder than the younger lady. And Frau
Kunigunde herself, knowing well that the five-and-twenty men outside
would be incompetent to avenge their master, confident in her
narrow-minded, ignorant pride that no one could take Schloss Adlerstein,
and incapable of understanding the changes in society that were rendering
her isolated condition untenable, was certain to scout any representation
of the dire consequences that the crime would entail. Kasimir had no
near kindred, and private revenge was the only justice the Baroness
believed in; she only saw in her crime the satisfaction of an old feud,
and the union of the Wildschloss property with the parent stem.
Seldom could such a christening have taken place as that of which
Christina’s bed-room was the scene—the mother scarcely able even to think
of the holy sacrament for the horror of knowing that the one sponsor was
already exulting in the speedy destruction of the other; and, poor little
feeble thing, rallying the last remnants of her severely-tried powers to
prevent the crime at the most terrible of risks.
The elder babe received from his grandmother the hereditary name of
Eberhard, but Sir Kasimir looked at the mother inquiringly, ere he gave
the other to the priest. Christina had well-nigh said, “Oubliette,” but,
recalling herself in time, she feebly uttered the name she had longed
after from the moment she had known that two sons had been her Easter
gift, “Gottfried,” after her beloved uncle. But Kunigunde caught the
sound, and exclaimed, “No son of Adlerstein shall bear abase craftsman’s
name. Call him Rächer (the avenger);” and in the word there already rang
a note of victory and revenge that made Christina’s blood run cold. Sir
Kasimir marked her trouble. “The lady mother loves not the sound,” he
said, kindly. “Lady, have you any other wish? Then will I call him
Friedmund.”
Christina had almost smiled. To her the omen was of the best. Baron
Friedmund had been the last common ancestor of the two branches of the
family, the patron saint was so called, his wake was her wedding-day, the
sound of the word imported peace, and the good Barons Ebbo and Friedel
had ever been linked together lovingly by popular memory. And so the
second little Baron received the name of Friedmund, and then the knight
of Wildschloss, perceiving, with consideration rare in a warrior, that
the mother looked worn out and feverish, at once prepared to kiss her
hand and take leave.
“One more favour, Sir Knight,” she said, lifting up her head, while a
burning spot rose on either cheek. “I beg of you to take my two babes
down—yes, both, both, in your own arms, and show them to your men, owning
them as your kinsmen and godsons.”
Sir Kasimir looked exceedingly amazed, as if he thought the lady’s senses
taking leave of her, and Dame Kunigunde broke out into declarations that
it was absurd, and she did not know what she was talking of; but she
repeated almost with passion, “Take them, take them, you know not how
much depends on it.” Ursel, with unusual readiness of wit, signed and
whispered that the young mother must be humoured, for fear of
consequences; till the knight, in a good-natured, confused way, submitted
to receive the two little bundles in his arms, while he gave place to
Kunigunde, who hastily stepped before him in a manner that made Christina
trust that her precaution would be effectual.
The room was reeling round with her. The agony of those few minutes was
beyond all things unspeakable. What had seemed just before like a
certain way of saving the guest without real danger to her children, now
appeared instead the most certain destruction to all, and herself the
unnatural mother who had doomed her new-born babes for a stranger’s sake.
She could not even pray; she would have shrieked to have them brought
back, but her voice was dead within her, her tongue clave to the roof of
her mouth, ringings in her ears hindered her even from listening to the
descending steps. She lay as one dead, when ten minutes afterwards the
cry of one of her babes struck on her ear, and the next moment Ursel
stood beside her, laying them down close to her, and saying exultingly,
“Safe! safe out at the gate, and down the hillside, and my old lady ready
to gnaw off her hands for spite!”