AT THE HIGH ALTAR
When Maurice von Lynar reached the open air he stood for full five
minutes, light-headed in the rush of the city traffic. The loud
iteration of rejoicing sounded heartless and even impertinent in his
ear. The world had changed for the young Dane since the Count von Löen
had been summoned by the Princess Margaret.
He cast his mind back over the interview, but failed to disentangle
anything definite. It was a maze of impressions out of which grew the
certainty that, safely to play his difficult part, he must obtain the
whole confidence of the Duchess Joan.
He looked about for the Prince of Muscovy, but failed to see him. Though
not anxious about the result, he was rather glad, for he did not want
another quarrel on his hands till after the wedding. He would see the
Princess Margaret there. If he played his cards well with the bride, he
might even be sent for to escort her.
So he made his way to the magnificent suite of apartments where the
Duchess was lodged. The Prince had ordered everything with great
consideration. Her own horsemen patrolled the front of the palace, and
the Courtland guards were for the time being wholly withdrawn.
[Illustration: "Joan of Hohenstein stood, looking out upon the river."
[_Page 91_]]
It seemed strange that Joan of the Sword Hand, who not so long ago had
led many a dashing foray and been the foremost in many a brisk
encounter, should be a bride! It could not be that once he had
imagined her the fairest woman under the sun, and himself, for her sake,
the most miserable of men. Thus do lovers deceive themselves when the
new has come to obliterate the old. Some can even persuade themselves
that the old never had any existence.
The young Dane found the Duchess walking up and down on the noble
promenade which faces the river to the west. For the water curved in a
spacious elbow about the city of Courtland, and the summer palace was
placed in the angle.
Maurice von Lynar stood awhile respectfully waiting for the Duchess to
recognise him. Werner, John of Thorn, or any of her Kernsberg captains
would have gone directly up to her. But this youth had been trained in
another school.
Joan of Hohenstein stood a while without moving, looking out upon the
river. She thought with a kind of troubled shyness of the morrow, oft
dreamed of, long expected. She saw the man whom she was not known ever
to have seen--the noble young man of the tournament, the gracious Prince
of the summer parlour, courteous and dignified alike to the poor
secretary of embassy and to his sister the Princess Margaret of
Courtland. Surely there never was any one like him--proudly thought this
girl, as she looked across the river at the rich plain studded with
far-smiling farms and fields just waking to life after their long winter
sleep.
"Ah, Von Lynar, my brave Dane, what good wind blows you here?" she
cried. "I declare I was longing for some one to talk to." A
consciousness of need which had only just come to her.
"I have seen the Princess Margaret," said the youth slowly, "and I think
that she must mistake me for some other person. She spoke things most
strange to me to hear. But fearing I might meddle with affairs wherewith
I had no concern, I forebore to correct her."
The eyes of the Duchess danced. A load seemed suddenly lifted off her
mind.
"Was she very angry?" she queried.
"Very!" returned Von Lynar, smiling in recognition of her smile.
"What said the Princess?"
"First she would have it that my name and style were those of the Count
Von Löen. Then she reproached me fiercely because I denied it. After
that she spoke of certain foreign customs she had been taught, recalled
walks through corridors and rose gardens with me, till my head swam and
I knew not what to answer."
Joan of the Sword Hand laughed a merry peal.
"The Count von Löen, did she say?" she meditated. "Well, so you are the
Count von Löen. I create you the Count von Löen now. I give you the
title. It is mine to give. By to-morrow I shall have done with all these
things. And since as the Count von Löen I drank the wine, it is fair
that you, who have to pay the reckoning, should be the Count von Löen
also."
"My family is noble, and I am the sole heir--that is, alive," said
Maurice, a little drily. To his mind the grandson of Count von Lynar, of
the order of the Dannebrog, had no need of any other distinction.
"But I give you also therewith the estates which pertain to the title.
They are situated on the borders of Reichenau. I am so happy to-night
that I would like to make all the world happy. I am sorry for all the
folk I have injured!"
"Love changes all things," said the Dane sententiously.
The Duchess looked at him quickly.
"You are in love--with the Princess Margaret?" she said.
The youth blushed a deep crimson, which flooded his neck and dyed his
dusky skin.
"Poor Maurice!" she said, touching his bowed head with her hand, "your
troubles will not be to seek."
"My lady," said the youth, "I fear not trouble. I have promised to serve
the Princess in all things. She has been very kind to me. She has
forgiven me all."
"So--you are anxious to change your allegiance," said
the Duchess. "It is as well that I have already made you Count von Löen,
and so in a manner bound you to me, or you would be going off into
another's service with all my secrets in your keeping. Not that it will
matter very much--after to-morrow!" she added, with a glance at the wing
of the palace which held the summer parlour. "But how did you manage to
appease her? That is no mean feat. She is an imperious lady and quick of
understanding."
Then Maurice von Lynar told his mistress of his most allowable
falsehoods, and begged her not to undeceive the Princess, for that he
would rather bear all that she might put upon him than that she should
know he had lied to her.
"Do not be afraid," said the Duchess, laughing, "it was I who tangled
the skein. So far you have unravelled it very well. The least I can do
is to leave you to unwind it to the end, my brave Count von Löen."
So they parted, the Duchess to her apartment, and the young man to pace
up and down the stone-flagged promenade all night, thinking of the
distracting whimsies of the Princess Margaret, of the hopelessness of
his love, and, most of all, of how daintily exquisite and altogether
desirable was her beauty of face, of figure, of temper, of everything!
For the Sparhawk was not a lover to make reservations.
* * * * *
The morning of the great day dawned cool and grey. A sunshade of misty
cloud overspread the city and tempered the heat. It had come up with the
morning wind from the Baltic, and by eight the ships at the quays, and
the tall beflagged festal masts in the streets through which the
procession was to pass, ran clear up into it and were lost, so that the
standards and pennons on their tops could not be seen any more than if
they had been amongst the stars.
The streets were completely lined with the folk of the city of
Courtland as the Princess Margaret, with the Sparhawk and his company of
lances clattering behind her, rode to the entrance of the palace where
abode the bride-elect.
"Who is that youth?" asked Margaret of Courtland of Joan, as they came
out together; she looked at the Dane--"he at the head of your first
troops? He looks like your brother."
"He has often been taken for such!" said the bride. "He is called the
Count von Löen!"
The Princess did not reply, and as the two fair women came out arm in
arm, a sudden glint of sunlight broke through the leaden clouds and fell
upon them, glorifying the white dress of the one, and the blue and gold
apparel of the other.
The bells of the minster clanged a changeful thunder of brazen acclaim
as the bride set out for the first time (so they told each other on the
streets) to see her promised husband.
"'Twas well we did not so manage our affairs, Hans," said a fishmonger's
wife, touching her husband's arm archly.
"Yea, wife," returned the seller of fish; "whatever thou beest, at least
I cannot deny that I took thee with my eyes open!"
They reached the Rathhaus, and the clamour grew louder than ever.
Presently they were at the cathedral and making them ready to dismount.
The bells in the towers above burst forth into yet more frantic
jubilation. The cannons roared from the ramparts.
The Princess Margaret had delayed a little, either taking longer to her
attiring, or, perhaps, gossiping with the bride. So that when the shouts
in the wide Minster Place announced their arrival, all was in readiness
within the crowded church, and the bridegroom had gone in well-nigh half
an hour before them. But that was in accord with the best traditions.
Very like a Princess and a great lady looked Joan of Hohenstein as she
went up the aisle, with Margaret of Courtland by her side. She kept her
eyes on the ground, for she meant to look at no one and behold nothing
till she should see--that which she longed to look upon.
Suddenly she was conscious that they had stopped in the middle of a vast
silence. The candles upon the great altar threw down a golden lustre.
Joan saw the irregular shining of them on her white bridal dress, and
wondered that it should be so bright.
There was a hush over all the assembly, the silence of a great multitude
all intent upon one thing.
"My brother, the Prince of Courtland!" said the voice of the Princess
Margaret.
Slowly Joan raised her eyes--pride and happiness at war with a kind of
glorious shame upon her face.
But that one look altered all things.
She stood fixed, aghast, turned to stone as she gazed. She could neither
speak nor think. That which she saw almost struck her dead with horror.
The man whom his sister introduced as the Prince of Courtland was not
the knight of the tournament. He was not the young prince of the summer
palace. He was a man much older, more meagre of body, grey-headed, with
an odd sidelong expression in his eyes. His shoulders were bent, and he
carried himself like a man prematurely old.
And there, behind the altar-railing, clad in the scarlet of a prince of
the Church, and wearing the mitre of a bishop, stood the husband of her
heart's deepest thoughts, the man who had never been out of her mind all
these weary months. He held a service book in his hand, and stood ready
to marry Joan of Hohenstein to another.
The man who was called Prince of Courtland came forward to take her
hand; but Joan stood with her arms firmly at her sides. The terrible
nature of her mistake flashed upon her and grew in horror with every
moment. Fate seemed to laugh suddenly and mockingly in her face. Destiny
shut her in.
"Are you the Prince of Courtland?" she asked; and at the sound of her
voice, unwontedly clear in the great church, even the organ appeared to
still itself. All listened intently, though only a few heard the
conversation.
"I have that honour," bowed the man with the bent shoulders.
"Then, as God lives, I will never marry you!" cried Joan, all her soul
in the disgust of her voice.
"Be not disdainful, my lady," said the bridegroom mildly; "I will be
your humble slave. You shall have a palace and an establishment of your
own, an it like you. The marriage was your father's desire, and hath the
sanction of the Emperor. It is as necessary for your State as for mine."
Then, while the people waited in a kind of palpitating uncertainty, the
Princess Margaret whispered to the bride, who stood with a face ashen
pale as her own white dress.
Sometimes she looked at the Prince of Courtland, and then immediately
averted her eyes. But never, after the first glance, did Joan permit
them to stray to the face of him who stood behind the altar railings
with his service book in his hand.
"Well," she said finally, "I _will_ marry this man, since it is my fate.
Let the ceremony proceed!"
"I thank you, gracious lady," said the Prince, taking her hand and
leading his bride to the altar. "You will never regret it."
"No, but you will!" muttered his groomsman, the Prince Ivan of Muscovy.
The full rich tones of the prince bishop rose and fell through the
crowded minster as Joan of Hohenstein was married to his elder brother,
and with the closing words of the episcopal benediction an awe fell upon
the multitude. They felt that they were in the presence of great unknown
forces, the action and interaction of which might lead no man knew
whither.
At the close of the service, Joan, now Princess of Courtland, leaned
over and whispered a word to her chosen captain, Maurice von Lynar, an
action noticed by few. The young man started and gazed into her face;
but, immediately commanding his emotion, he nodded and disappeared by a
side door.
The great organ swelled out. The marriage procession was re-formed. The
prince-bishop had retired to his sacristy to change his robes. The new
Princess of Courtland came down the aisle on the arm of her husband.
Then the bells almost turned over in their fury of jubilation, and every
cannon in the city bellowed out. The people shouted themselves hoarse,
and the line of Courtland troops who kept the people back had great
difficulty in restraining the enthusiasm which threatened to break all
bounds and involve the married pair in a whirling tumult of acclaim.
In the centre of the Minster Place the four hundred lances of the
Kernsberg escort had formed up, a serried mass of beautiful well-groomed
horses, stalwart men, and shining spears, from each of which the pennon
of their mistress fluttered in the light wind.
"Ha! there they come at last! See them on the steps!" The shouts rang
out, and the people flung their headgear wildly into the air. The line
of Courtland foot saluted, but no cheer came from the array of Kernsberg
lances.
"They are sorry to lose her--and small wonder. Well, she is ours now!"
the people cried, congratulating one another as they shook hands and the
wine gurgled out of the pigskins into innumerable thirsty mouths.
On the steps of the minster, after they had descended more than
half-way, the new Princess of Courtland turned upon her lord. Her hand
slipped from his arm, which hung a moment crooked and empty before it
dropped to his side. His mouth was a little open with surprise. Prince
Louis knew that he was wedding a wilful dame, but he had not been
prepared for this.
"Now, my lord," said the Princess Joan, loud and clear. "I have married
you. The bond of heritage-brotherhood is fulfilled. I have obeyed my
father to the letter. I have obeyed the Emperor. I have done all. Now be
it known to you and to all men that I will neither live with you nor yet
in your city. I am your wife in name. You shall never be my husband in
aught else. I bid you farewell, Prince of Courtland. Joan of Hohenstein
may marry where she is bidden, but she loves where she will."
The horse upon which she had come to the minster stood waiting. There
was the Sparhawk ready to help her into the saddle.
Ere one of the wedding guests could move to prevent her, before the
Prince of Courtland could cry an order or decide what to do, Joan of the
Sword Hand had placed herself at the head of her four hundred lances,
and was riding through the shouting streets towards the Plassenburg
gate.
The people cheered as she went by, clearing the way that she might not
be annoyed. They thought it part of the day's show, and voted the
Kernsbergers a gallant band, well set up and right bravely arrayed.
So they passed through the gate in safety. The noble portal was all
aflutter with colour, the arms of Hohenstein and Courtland being
quartered together on a great wooden plaque over the main entrance.
As soon as they were clear the Princess Joan turned in her saddle and
spake to the four hundred behind her.
"We ride back to Kernsberg," she cried. "Joan of the Sword Hand is wed,
but not yet won. If they would keep her they must first catch her. Are
you with me, lads of the hills?"
Then came back a unanimous shout of "Aye--to the death!" from four
hundred throats.
"Then give me a sword and put the horses to their speed. We ride for
home. Let them catch us who can!"
And this was the true fashion of the marrying of Joan of the Sword Hand,
Duchess of Hohenstein, to the Prince Louis of Courtland, by his brother
Conrad, Cardinal and Prince of Holy Church.