AN UNWISHED-FOR MARRIAGE DAY.
The Countess Tekla having dismissed her waiting-maid, sat long in her
boudoir over-looking the Moselle, and thought deeply upon the question
that the girl had brought uppermost, by asking if the Countess had
abandoned all purpose of making an excursion on the river. Such indeed
had once been her intention if the iron Archbishop, her unrelenting
guardian, persisted in forcing his will upon her. His last word had been
given her the day the Court left Treves, and it was to the effect that
she should hold herself in readiness to wed Count Bertrich at the
Cathedral when the Court returned. The time for preparation was short,
and once inside the walls of that grim city, all chance of escape would
be cut off. Could she but reach Castle Thuron, the lofty stronghold of
her uncle Count Heinrich the Black, on the Lower Moselle, she felt that,
for the sake of kinship, if not for her broad lands, he would refuse to
give her up again to the Archbishop and to this abhorred union with a
middle-aged ruffian, who, rumour said, had murdered his first wife.
The stern Black Count, her uncle, she had never seen, and what she had
heard of him was disquieting enough. His mailed hand was heavy, and it
came down with crushing force on all who opposed his will; but he could
not make for her a more detested match than that which the Archbishop
insisted upon; and then he was her mother's brother; if any trace of
softness was concealed in his adamantine nature his niece might perhaps
touch it, for he had no children of his own.
Yet the Countess felt that in setting up her own will against that of
her guardian she was doing an unheard of, unmaidenly act. All women were
thus disposed of. How came it that rebellion against just authority
arose in her heart? She could not herself account for this strange
anomaly, and she feared that evil lurked somewhere in her nature. She
had confessed this feeling to her spiritual adviser, and he had mildly,
reproachfully censured her for it, placing her under penance that she
willingly endured, hoping it would bring about a change; but it had not,
and she shuddered every time the battle-scarred face of Count Bertrich
leered upon her. The Countess knelt before the image of her patron saint
and implored help; help to decide; help to oppose; help to submit; but
the placid saint had sent, as yet, no solution of the problem.
When last the Archbishop spoke, he spoke as one giving final decision
and he permitted neither reply nor comment. The days by the river were
slipping away and none knew how soon the Archbishop might suddenly make
up his mind to return to Treves. Then the Cathedral, and the wedding
procession! Why had Hilda spoken of the river and the skiff; that wild
project which she had prayed for help to put out of her mind? Was this
then an indication that her saint had come to a decision and that too in
her favour? It certainly seemed so.
She resolved to seek her guardian, throw herself at his feet and implore
him by the love he had once held for her father, who had lost his life
in the Archbishop's service, to release her from this loathed union. She
would give up her lands willingly, if that were required, and would
retire to a convent in Treves, or to any other place of refuge that
might be appointed.
Arnold von Isenberg sat in a chair that was with difficulty to be
distinguished from a throne. The back rose high above his head, and at
the top was carved in gilded relief the arms of the Electorate. The tall
pointed coloured windows by the river, cast a subdued radiance of many
hues on the smooth surface of the polished oaken floor. The lofty
timbered roof of the large room gave the apartment the appearance of a
chapel, which effect was heightened by an altar at one end, where
several high wax candles burned unceasingly.
Near the Archbishop, by a table, sat the monkish secretary, who wrote at
his Lordship's slow dictation, orders pertaining to business both
ecclesiastical and military. At the door of the room, which was
concealed by a heavy crimson curtain, stood two fully-mailed
men-at-arms, with tall pikes upright, whose ends rested on the polished
floor. Near them, out of hearing of the Archbishop's low voice, stood,
cap in hand, a courier equipped for riding, evidently awaiting the
despatches which the monk was writing. Deep silence pervaded the great
room and each person within it was motionless, save only the monk, who
now was tying the despatches into bundles and sealing them at the small
candle which burned on the table beside him.
The heavy drapery over the door parted, and a retainer entered softly,
standing with his back to the curtain until a scarcely perceptible
motion of the Archbishop's head permitted him to advance. Dropping on
one knee before the seated monarch, he said:
"My Lord Archbishop, the Countess Tekla begs to be admitted."
The Archbishop made no reply, and the messenger remained on his knee.
The despatches were given to the waiting courier, who departed. Then his
Lordship said curtly, "Admit her."
The messenger, rising, went to the door, held back the curtains, and a
moment later there glided into the room the Countess Tekla, who stood
pale against the crimson background. The Archbishop regarded her with a
dark and menacing look, but gave no other greeting. Seeing no motion
which invited her to approach, the girl, after standing a moment or two
in hesitation, moved swiftly forward and sank down before the throne.
"My Lord," she murmured; then agitation seemed to choke her utterance.
"If you come here to kneel," said the Archbishop, in low, deep tones,
"kneel at the altar yonder and not to me. While you are there, pray that
the saints bestow upon you a contrite spirit."
"My Lord," she cried, "I beg of you to take my lands, and graciously
permit me to retire to a convent that you may be pleased to appoint for
me."
"Your lands are mine, as your person is mine, to dispose of at my will,
unquestioned."
"My Lord, when my father gave my guardianship to you----"
"I hold my guardianship, not by your father's will, but through the
reading of the feudal law. Your father, in dutifully testifying that his
wish ran parallel with the law, set an example which his daughter may
profitably follow."
"I wish to follow his example. I wish to render up to you all lands that
were his. I wish to devote my poor services to Mother Church."
"Your poor services shall be given where I bestow them. Betake yourself
to your apartments, and come not here again until you bring with you a
bending will and an unrebellious spirit."
"My lord guardian, I do beseech you to hear me."
"I have heard enough and too much," said the Archbishop sternly.
"Write," he added to the secretary: "'To Count Bertrich. Hold yourself
in readiness to wed the Countess Tekla in the chapel of our summer
palace two days hence--on Friday at mid-day.'"
The Countess rose to her feet, the colour mounting to her cheek and
brow.
"My Lord," she cried, a ring of indignation in her voice, "add to that a
request that the Count disclose to you the cause of his first wife's
death, so that you may judge whether he is a fit person to entrust with
a second."
"You may question him regarding that after marriage. I have ever
understood that a man will grant information to his bride which he risks
peril of his soul by concealing from his confessor. To your apartments,
obstinate woman; there is but brief space to prepare for the
festivities."
"My Lord, my Lord, I bid you beware. It is feudal law that you may
dispose of my hand as you will; but by feudal law I also have the right
to make choice instead of a convent and forfeiture of my lands."
"Despatch that message to Count Bertrich," said the Elector to his
secretary.
"My Lord Archbishop, I will appeal to our Holy Father, the Pope, and to
the Emperor."
"Do so. We will marry you first, and should we have made a mistake our
Holy Father hath ample power to remedy it. And now, madame, your
audience is ended."
The Countess retired to her apartments, knelt before the image of her
saint and prayed for guidance. She was in some doubt that the harsh old
man would insist on the carrying out of his threat, and she had hope
that he would send for her to tell her so, but no message came from him.
Tekla slept little that night, and going down to early mass she saw the
chapel already decorated for the dreaded ceremony, the workmen having
evidently spent the night in preparing it.
The floral wreaths, the loops of white flowers breathing sweetness and
perfume, typical of love, joy and happiness, seemed in such ghastly
contrast to the reality, that their simple presence did more to decide
the girl than all the other influences which, on that eventful day,
helped to shape her conduct.
She resolved to escape from the thraldom of the Archbishop; seek refuge
in the castle of her uncle, and from that haven send an appeal to the
Pope and also to the Emperor. The only question was now that of means.
Castle Thuron was on the Moselle; the river was swift; she knew little
of the geography of the country, but she was aware that the roads by the
stream were bad, and she doubted if they extended all or even the
greater part of the way to the Rhine. Could she once get several hours
start, on that rapid current, the chances of being overtaken were
slight.
While the Countess had full confidence in her maid Hilda, she thought it
better not to confide her plans to any one. Hilda would be sure to tell
her lover, and that young man might at the very outset refuse to
undertake so perilous a voyage.
Then if Hilda were cross-questioned and became frightened, she could not
confess what she did not know. In the case of failure Tekla wished to
face all the results of her rebellion alone, and leave herself the right
to say that none other knew of her purpose. Questioning Hilda, and
finding she had learned where Conrad lived, the Countess, with the
natural craft of her sex, made preparations calculated to baffle her
pursuers, temporarily at least. When darkness set in, she requested
Hilda to lay out for her the costume she usually wore. This costume she
astonished Hilda by asking her to put on. When the tire-woman had thus
arrayed herself the two looked like sisters, and Hilda laughed merrily
at the transformation, which caused even the Countess, anxious as she
was, to smile.
"Now listen attentively, Hilda, and act with circumspection. I have
reason for wishing you to be mistaken for me to-night. You will put on
this heavy veil so that none may see your face. Go quietly through the
Palace and pass the guards without speaking to any or looking at any.
Avoid meeting three persons at all hazards; return at once if you see
one or other of them, and hie forth again as soon as danger is past.
These three are the Archbishop, Count Bertrich, and the monk who is his
Lordship's secretary. The guards will not stop you nor speak to you,
thinking it is I who pass. Once outside, see that you are not followed,
then get you to Conrad's house and bid him instantly to take you in his
boat to the watersteps of the Palace, where I will await you."
"Conrad spoke of another to help him with the boat; should he be absent
shall Conrad search for him, my Lady?"
"No. If he is there, bring him; if he is not, come instantly without.
But first you must come with me to the water-door and bolt the door when
I am out upon the steps."
"But how shall we return, my Lady?"
"I will tell thee more regarding our return when we are in the boat."
Hilda barred her lady out, which seemed a strange proceeding, then,
safely reached without question or following, the door of Baron
Siegfried, where she knocked twice.