THE EAGLETS
CHRISTINA’S mental and bodily constitution had much similarity—apparently
most delicate, tender, and timid, yet capable of a vigour, health, and
endurance that withstood shocks that might have been fatal to many
apparently stronger persons. The events of that frightful Easter Monday
morning did indeed almost kill her; but the effects, though severe, were
not lasting; and by the time the last of Ermentrude’s snow-wreath had
vanished, she was sunning her babes at the window, happier than she had
ever thought to be—above all, in the possession of both the children. A
nurse had been captured for the little Baron from the village on the
hillside; but the woman had fretted, the child had pined, and had been
given back to his mother to save his life; and ever since both had
thriven perfectly under her sole care, so that there was very nearly joy
in that room.
Outside it, there was more bitterness than ever. The grandmother had
softened for a few moments at the birth of the children, with
satisfaction at obtaining twice as much as she had hoped; but the
frustration of her vengeance upon Kasimir of Adlerstein Wildschloss had
renewed all her hatred, and she had no scruple in abusing “the
burgher-woman” to the whole household for her artful desire to captivate
another nobleman. She, no doubt, expected that degenerate fool of a
Wildschlosser to come wooing after her; “if he did he should meet his
deserts.” It was the favourite reproach whenever she chose to vent her
fury on the mute, blushing, weeping young widow, whose glance at her
babies was her only appeal against the cruel accusation.
On Midsummer eve, Heinz the Schneiderlein, who had all day been taking
toll from the various attendants at the Friedmund Wake, came up and
knocked at the door. He had a bundle over his shoulder and a bag in his
hand, which last he offered to her.
“The toll! It is for the Lady Baroness.”
“You are my Lady Baroness. I levy toll for this my young lord.”
“Take it to her, good Heinz, she must have the charge, and needless
strife I will not breed.”
The angry notes of Dame Kunigunde came up: “How now, knave Schneiderlein!
Come down with the toll instantly. It shall not be tampered with! Down,
I say, thou thief of a tailor.”
“Go; prithee go, vex her not,” entreated Christina.
“Coming, lady!” shouted Heinz, and, disregarding all further objurgations
from beneath, he proceeded to deposit his bundle, and explain that it had
been entrusted to him by a pedlar from Ulm, who would likewise take
charge of anything she might have to send in return, and he then ran down
just in time to prevent a domiciliary visit from the old lady.
From Ulm! The very sound was joy; and Christina with trembling hands
unfastened the cords and stitches that secured the canvas covering,
within which lay folds on folds of linen, and in the midst a rich silver
goblet, long ago brought by her father from Italy, a few of her own
possessions, and a letter from her uncle secured with black floss silk,
with a black seal.
She kissed it with transport, but the contents were somewhat chilling by
their grave formality. The opening address to the “honour-worthy Lady
Baroness and love-worthy niece,” conveyed to her a doubt on good Master
Gottfried’s part whether she were still truly worthy of love or honour.
The slaughter at Jacob Müller’s had been already known to him, and he
expressed himself as relieved, but greatly amazed, at the information he
had received from the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, who had visited
him at Ulm, after having verified what had been alleged at Schloss
Adlerstein by application to the friar at Offingen.
Freiherr von Adlerstein Wildschloss had further requested him to make
known that, feud-briefs having regularly passed between Schlangenwald and
Adlerstein, and the two Barons not having been within the peace of the
empire, no justice could be exacted for their deaths; yet, in
consideration of the tender age of the present heirs, the question of
forfeiture or submission should be waived till they could act for
themselves, and Schlangenwald should be withheld from injuring them so
long as no molestation was offered to travellers. It was plain that Sir
Kasimir had well and generously done his best to protect the helpless
twins, and he sent respectful but cordial greetings to their mother.
These however were far less heeded by her than the coldness of her
uncle’s letter. She had drifted beyond the reckoning of her kindred, and
they were sending her her property and bridal linen, as if they had done
with her, and had lost their child in the robber-baron’s wife. Yet at
the end there was a touch of old times in offering a blessing, should she
still value it, and the hopes that heaven and the saints would comfort
her; “for surely, thou poor child, thou must have suffered much, and, if
thou wiliest still to write to thy city kin, thine aunt would rejoice to
hear that thou and thy babes were in good health.”
Precise grammarian and scribe as was Uncle Gottfried, the lapse from the
formal _Sie_ to the familiar _Du_ went to his niece’s heart. Whenever
her little ones left her any leisure, she spent this her first
wedding-day in writing so earnest and loving a letter as, in spite of
mediæval formality, must assure the good burgomaster that, except in
having suffered much and loved much, his little Christina was not changed
since she had left him.
No answer could be looked for till another wake-day; but, when it came,
it was full and loving, and therewith were sent a few more of her
favourite books, a girdle, and a richly-scented pair of gloves, together
with two ivory boxes of comfits, and two little purple silk, gold-edged,
straight, narrow garments and tight round brimless lace caps, for the two
little Barons. Nor did henceforth a wake-day pass by without bringing
some such token, not only delightful as gratifying Christina’s affection
by the kindness that suggested them, but supplying absolute wants in the
dire stress of poverty at Schloss Adlerstein.
Christina durst not tell her mother-in-law of the terms on which they
were unmolested, trusting to the scantiness of the retinue, and to her
own influence with the Schneiderlein to hinder any serious violence.
Indeed, while the Count of Schlangenwald was in the neighbourhood, his
followers took care to secure all that could be captured at the
Debateable Ford, and the broken forces of Adlerstein would have been
insane had they attempted to contend with such superior numbers. That
the castle remained unattacked was attributed by the elder Baroness to
its own merits; nor did Christina undeceive her. They had no intercourse
with the outer world, except that once a pursuivant arrived with a formal
intimation from their kinsman, the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, of
his marriage with the noble Fräulein, Countess Valeska von Trautbach, and
a present of a gay dagger for each of his godsons. Frau Kunigunde
triumphed a good deal over the notion of Christina’s supposed
disappointment; but the tidings were most welcome to the younger lady,
who trusted they would put an end to all future taunts about Wildschloss.
Alas! the handle for abuse was too valuable to be relinquished.
The last silver cup the castle had possessed had to be given as a reward
to the pursuivant, and mayhap Frau Kunigunde reckoned this as another
offence of her daughter-in-law, since, had Sir Kasimir been safe in the
oubliette, the twins might have shared his broad lands on the Danube,
instead of contributing to the fees of his pursuivant. The cup could
indeed be ill spared. The cattle and swine, the dues of the serfs, and
the yearly toll at the wake were the sole resources of the household; and
though there was no lack of meat, milk, and black bread, sufficient
garments could scarce be come by, with all the spinning of the household,
woven by the village webster, of whose time the baronial household, by
prescriptive right, owned the lion’s share.
These matters little troubled the two beings in whom Christina’s heart
was wrapped up. Though running about barefooted and bareheaded, they
were healthy, handsome, straight-limbed, noble-looking creatures, so
exactly alike, and so inseparable, that no one except herself could tell
one from the other save by the medal of Our Lady worn by the elder, and
the little cross carved by the mother for the younger; indeed, at one
time, the urchins themselves would feel for cross or medal, ere naming
themselves “Ebbo,” or “Friedel.” They were tall for their age, but with
the slender make of their foreign ancestry; and, though their fair rosy
complexions were brightened by mountain mists and winds, their rapidly
darkening hair, and large liquid brown eyes, told of their Italian blood.
Their grandmother looked on their colouring as a taint, and Christina
herself had hoped to see their father’s simple, kindly blue eyes revive
in his boys; but she could hardly have desired anything different from
the dancing, kindling, or earnest glances that used to flash from under
their long black lashes when they were nestling in her lap, or playing by
her knee, making music with their prattle, or listening to her answers
with faces alive with intelligence. They scarcely left her time for
sorrow or regret.
They were never quarrelsome. Either from the influence of her
gentleness, or from their absolute union, they could do and enjoy nothing
apart, and would as soon have thought of their right and left hands
falling out as of Ebbo and Friedel disputing. Ebbo however was always
the right hand. _The_ Freiherr, as he had been called from the first,
had, from the time he could sit at the table at all, been put into the
baronial chair with the eagle carved at the back; every member of the
household, from his grandmother downwards, placed him foremost, and
Friedel followed their example, at the less loss to himself, as his hand
was always in Ebbo’s, and all their doings were in common. Sometimes
however the mother doubted whether there would have been this perfect
absence of all contest had the medal of the firstborn chanced to hang
round Friedmund’s neck instead of Eberhard’s. At first they were
entirely left to her. Their grandmother heeded them little as long as
they were healthy, and evidently regarded them more as heirs of
Adlerstein than as grandchildren; but, as they grew older, she showed
anxiety lest their mother should interfere with the fierce, lawless
spirit proper to their line.
One winter day, when they were nearly six years old, Christina, spinning
at her window, had been watching them snowballing in the castle court,
smiling and applauding every large handful held up to her, every laughing
combat, every well-aimed hit, as the hardy little fellows scattered the
snow in showers round them, raising their merry fur-capped faces to the
bright eyes that “rained influence and judged the prize.”
By and by they stood still; Ebbo—she knew him by the tossed head and
commanding air—was proposing what Friedel seemed to disapprove; but,
after a short discussion, Ebbo flung away from him, and went towards a
shed where was kept a wolf-cub, recently presented to the young Barons by
old Ulrich’s son. The whelp was so young as to be quite harmless, but it
was far from amiable; Friedel never willingly approached it, and the
snarling and whining replies to all advances had begun to weary and
irritate Ebbo. He dragged it out by its chain, and, tethering it to a
post, made it a mark for his snowballs, which, kneaded hard, and
delivered with hearty good-will by his sturdy arms, made the poor little
beast yelp with pain and terror, till the more tender-hearted Friedel
threw himself on his brother to withhold him, while Mätz stood by
laughing and applauding the Baron. Seeing Ebbo shake Friedel off with
unusual petulance, and pitying the tormented animal, Christina flung a
cloak round her head and hastened down stairs, entering the court just as
the terrified whelp had made a snap at the boy, which was returned by
angry, vindictive pelting, not merely with snow, but with stones.
Friedel sprang to her crying, and her call to Ebbo made him turn, though
with fury in his face, shouting, “He would bite me! the evil beast!”
“Come with me, Ebbo,” she said.
“He shall suffer for it, the spiteful, ungrateful brute! Let me alone,
mother!” cried Ebbo, stamping on the snow, but still from habit yielding
to her hand on his shoulder.
“What now?” demanded the old Baroness, appearing on the scene. “Who is
thwarting the Baron?”
“She; she will not let me deal with yonder savage whelp,” cried the boy.
“She! Take thy way, child,” said the old lady. “Visit him well for his
malice. None shall withstand thee here. At thy peril!” she added,
turning on Christina. “What, art not content to have brought base
mechanical blood into a noble house? Wouldst make slaves and cowards of
its sons?”
“I would teach them true courage, not cruelty,” she tried to say.
“What should such as thou know of courage? Look here, girl: another word
to daunt the spirit of my grandsons, and I’ll have thee scourged down the
mountain-side! On! At him, Ebbo! That’s my gallant young knight! Out
of the way, girl, with thy whining looks! What, Friedel, be a man, and
aid thy brother! Has she made thee a puling woman already?” And
Kunigunde laid an ungentle grasp upon Friedmund, who was clinging to his
mother, hiding his face in her gown. He struggled against the clutch,
and would not look up or be detached.
“Fie, poor little coward!” taunted the old lady; “never heed him, Ebbo,
my brave Baron!”
Cut to the heart, Christina took refuge in her room, and gathered her
Friedel to her bosom, as he sobbed out, “Oh, mother, the poor little
wolf! Oh, mother, are you weeping too? The grandmother should not so
speak to the sweetest, dearest motherling,” he added, throwing his arms
round her neck.
“Alas, Friedel, that Ebbo should learn that it is brave to hurt the
weak!”
“It is not like Walther of Vögelwiede,” said Friedel, whose mind had been
much impressed by the Minnesinger’s bequest to the birds.
“Nor like any true Christian knight. Alas, my poor boys, must you be
taught foul cruelty and I too weak and cowardly to save you?”
“That never will be,” said Friedel, lifting his head from her shoulder.
“Hark! what a howl was that!”
“Listen not, dear child; it does but pain thee.”
“But Ebbo is not shouting. Oh, mother, he is vexed—he is hurt!” cried
Friedel, springing from her lap; but, ere either could reach the window,
Ebbo had vanished from the scene. They only saw the young wolf stretched
dead on the snow, and the same moment in burst Ebbo, and flung himself on
the floor in a passion of weeping. Stimulated by the applause of his
grandmother and of Mätz, he had furiously pelted the poor animal with all
missiles that came to hand, till a blow, either from him or Mätz, had
produced such a howl and struggle of agony, and then such terrible
stillness, as had gone to the young Baron’s very heart, a heart as soft
as that of his father had been by nature. Indeed, his sobs were so
piteous that his mother was relieved to hear only, “The wolf! the poor
wolf!” and to find that he himself was unhurt; and she was scarcely
satisfied of this when Dame Kunigunde came up also alarmed, and thus
turned his grief to wrath. “As if I would cry in that way for a bite!”
he said. “Go, grandame; you made me do it, the poor beast!” with a fresh
sob.
“Ulrich shall get thee another cub, my child.”
“No, no; I never will have another cub! Why did you let me kill it?”
“For shame, Ebbo! Weep for a spiteful brute! That’s no better than thy
mother or Friedel.”
“I love my mother! I love Friedel! They would have withheld me. Go,
go; I hate you!”
“Peace, peace, Ebbo,” exclaimed his mother; “you know not what you say.
Ask your grandmother’s pardon.”
“Peace, thou fool!” screamed the old lady. “The Baron speaks as he will
in his own castle. He is not to be checked here, and thwarted there, and
taught to mince his words like a cap-in-hand pedlar. Pardon! When did
an Adlerstein seek pardon? Come with me, my Baron; I have still some
honey-cakes.”
“Not I,” replied Ebbo; “honey-cakes will not cure the wolf whelp. Go: I
want my mother and Friedel.”
Alone with them his pride and passion were gone; but alas! what augury
for the future of her boys was left with the mother!