CHAPTER XI
WHAT THE FUGITIVES FURTHER SAW IN THE FOREST, AND HOW THEY CAME TO ST. URSULA AND MET THE EMPEROR
At last Wulf bestirred himself, turning to his companion.
“Art resting?” he asked. “That were a sharp tug to do again, winded as we are; but, please God, naught further will misadventure us. We may abide here until we are minded to go on. Or, stay; I know the very place!”
He pressed forward stilly, leading the weary girl, until, bending aside some hanging boughs, he suddenly started back, signing her to be quiet.
Before them was a little open glade, set round with young beech-trees, that showed lightly against the darker growths. Within the nearly round inclosure grew a great walnut-tree, a little to one side; thorn and brier pressed back against the beeches all around, and the glade was thinly carpeted with sparse grass of delicate green, growing somewhat feebly in the deep leaf-mold.
There was no need for Wulf to enjoin silence upon Elise, once she had peeped within the glade. Leaning against the trunk of the walnut-tree, sword in hand, stood Conradt, while gathered about him were a number of men who, by their dress and arms, might have been knights—though greatly did their faces belie the knightly order.
They had evidently been feasting, for the disorder of a hearty meal lay about them on the leaves and grass, and the men were lounging as men are wont to do after feeding. Beside two of them, as they lay at ease, were bows, and Wulf marveled to note that these were ready strung.
“What foolishness is here,” he thought as he watched, “to keep a resting bow strung, such fashion?”
The two watchers kept very still, for the gathering had an ill look, while as for Wulf, he heartily wished that Elise were well gotten away from the dangerous neighborhood. What the maiden’s own feelings were, he could judge from the hard grip she kept upon his left hand—so hard that he well-nigh flinched with the pain. Nevertheless, her face showed no fear; only, as she looked upon Conradt, it wore a set resoluteness, making Wulf feel sure that whatever came she would not faint nor fall to crying, but what wit and might were hers would be to the fore.
All at once most of the men sprang up and bent forward as listening, each man by gesture silencing his fellows; then was Wulf mazed to note the look of that gathering.
The two bowmen stood staring straight before them, making no motion toward their weapons until Conradt and another took them up and put them in the fellows’ hands, when the boy saw that those archers were stone-blind. More than that, the man who helped Conradt fix their bows had but a short stump of a left forearm.
This stump he thrust through the arm-strap of a shield which he snatched from the ground, and drawing his sword, hurried across the glade, the archers following, holding by his jerkin.
While all this was going forward the two watchers became aware of the sound of a bell through the trees. It was plain that this was the sound which had roused the men. These still remained within the glade, but pressed forward toward the opening, ready to sally out upon whoever might pass.
“This be far from the road for merchants,” Wulf thought. “Mayhap some caravan has lost its way. That bell would be on the leading animal, which looks, an I’m not a blunderer, as ’twere likely to be too large a company for our Conradt’s sorry crew.”
Then he and Elise exchanged looks, for the sound was plainly coming toward the glade, as though the animal bearing the bell were traversing some woodland path.
The monstrous group before them also noted this, and Conradt, plucking the blind archers by their sleeves, led them back a little space, nearer to where Wulf and Elise were hidden. Here he stationed them, and setting their bows at aim toward a slight opening among the bushes on the other side, he went back to the walnut-tree.
“He fancies the travelers, if there be any, will come in at yon place,” said Wulf to himself; “but ’tis my belief that ’tis naught, after all, but an estrayed bell-heifer wandering through the woods.”
Then a man’s voice sounded above the noise of the bell. They could not make out its utterance, but something in the hoarse, droning cry chilled the listeners’ hearts. The men within the glade looked at one another in awe.
“Mother of heaven! What may it be?” Elise whispered with white lips to Wulf.
He shook his head, not knowing, when in the opening at the yonder side of the glade a figure showed—a tall, gaunt figure of a man, indeed, but looking rather like some wild thing of the forest.
He was clad for the most part in the skins of beasts with the hair left on, and about his loins was knotted a rope from which hung the iron bell whose clangor had held their attention so long.
“’Tis Bell-Hutten,” whispered Wulf to Elise. “I might have guessed as much, but in truth ne’er saw I him before.”
By now most of the group within the glade knew the man, for the whole countryside knew his history. He was a harmless half-wit who, in years agone, had been as bright and forward as any man until one evil day when he had been hired by a company of merchants to set them through the forest, for such was the business he followed. This he had undertaken, riding the bell-horse at the head of the company; but the caravan had been set upon by robber knights, who spoiled the merchants of their goods. In the affair Hutten, the guide, had been wounded in the head, so that his wits were hurt; and since that day he had wandered in the forest, no man’s man, living such ways as he might, but ever thinking himself estrayed from that company which he led, and seeking it, that he might guide the merchants through the woods.
It was talked among the forest folk and in the villages of the district that the guide had really been faithless and had led his charge into the ambush which those knights had made, and for this reason many feared and shunned the man, even while they pitied him with the rough pity of the time. As to the truth of this harsh belief, however, no man knew, but many, when they heard his bell, which he had taken from the horse he had ridden that day, turned aside and went their ways, crossing themselves and praying to be delivered from the black sin of falseness to friends.
The stranger was plainly taken aback at the sight of the unfriendly-looking men in the open. He had been wailing forth a miserere as he walked, but the words were hushed upon his lips as he stood in his tracks for an instant and then turned to flee.
But the one-armed man did a woeful thing, whereat even Conradt cried out in dismay. Plucking from his belt a short dagger, he hurled it, with a curse upon him for giving them such a fright, after the retreating figure. The dagger struck the half-wit in the back, whereupon he gave a great cry and staggered forward out of sight, while the dastard stood half appalled at his own wickedness.
Then all the robbers turned away from the doer of that foul deed, even the blind men refusing to be led away by him, as was evidently their wont, choosing instead to follow Conradt and the others out into the forest. Left thus to himself, the outcast struck into the woods alone, and soon not a sound could be heard of any of that company.
For a time Wulf and Elise dared not stir, but sat looking at each other with blanched faces, and lips still parted in horror. Then Wulf found tongue.
“We must get from here,” he whispered hoarsely, wiping away the cold sweat that stood in great drops on his forehead. “Ay, but ’twas a fearsome sight. I wonder thou didst not faint nor scream, Elise. In truth, thou’rt stern stuff for such a slip of a maiden.”
But Elise could only shake her head.
“Take me away,” she moaned at last. “I can bear no more!”
First, however, Wulf drew from his wallet some bread and cheese, and opened again the bottle of goat’s milk.
“’Tis fair like to be butter,” he said, “what with all our running and jouncing it, but do thou try to eat and drink now; ’twill hearten us after this awful thing.”
The milk was still sweet, and being young, wholesome creatures, the two made out to take the food and drink they needed, and were afterward able to go on their way, warily but steadily, through the woods. Nevertheless, it was close upon nightfall when the convent walls showed gray before them where the woods had been cleared away.
All was bustle and confusion there. The close was full of armed men, and about the stables and courtyards were many great war-horses, while grooms and men-at-arms ran to and fro on divers errands, or busied themselves about the horses and their gear. Altogether the scene was one of such liveliness as Wulf had never dreamed the convent could take on.
At the little barred window of the cloister gate where he knocked with Elise, a lay sister was in waiting, who told them the reason of all this business. The new emperor, with his train, was the convent’s guest. That night he would bide there, awaiting the coming of the bulk of his army, wherewith, later, he meant to attack the Swartzburg. The sister admitted our travelers, and took Elise straight to the mother superior, leaving Wulf to find the way, which well he knew, to the kitchen.
The emperor and the mother superior were together in the latter’s little reception-room when Elise was brought before them, trembling and shy, as a maiden might well be in the presence of royalty and of churchly dignity; but the mother superior, though she had never seen the little maid, called her by name, the lay sister having made it known, and turned with her to the emperor.
“This, Sire,” she said, “is the child of your old friend Von Hofenhoer, and sometime ward of our baron, who, I fear, is ill prepared to make accounting of his stewardship. But why she is here I know not yet, save that Sister Stanislaus tells me that she was brought here a refugee from the castle by the grandson of old Karl of the forge—he of whom you were asking but now.”
The emperor was a tall, lean man, with eagle-like visage, clean-shaven and stern. His long, straight hair fell down on either side of his gaunt face, and his eyes were bright and keen. He was plainly, almost meanly dressed. Nevertheless, he was of right kingly aspect, and, moreover, despite his stern looks, he smiled kindly as he placed a hand on Elise’s bowed head.
“Thy father was my good comrade, child,” he said, “and sorry am I to see his daughter in such a plight; but thou shalt tell us about it presently, and we shall see what is to be done.”
The lay sister returned, bearing some wine and a plate of biscuits; and seating her in an arm-chair, the mother superior bade Elise partake of these, which she did gladly. When she had finished, the two dignitaries, who were own cousins and old friends, drew from her, little by little, the story of her flight from the castle, and of her reasons therefor.
As the emperor listened he paced up and down the little stone-floored room, now frowning sternly, now softening a bit as he looked upon the fair young maiden, so spent with fear and hardship.
“This is bad work, Mother Ursula,” he said at last, “and well is it that we have come to clean out the jackal’s nest. But this boy Wulf whom she speaks of—he would be here yet. Him I would see—and our good old Karl; would he were here now!”
So Wulf was summoned before the great emperor, and came with swift-beating heart. Brought face to face with Rudolf, he fell upon one knee, cap in hand, and waited the monarch’s will.
When the latter spoke it was with great kindliness; for well was he pleased with the goodly-looking youth.
“Thou mayst rise,” he said, when he had glanced keenly over the kneeling figure. “And so thou’rt my old friend Karl’s grandson. If there’s aught in blood, thou shouldst be an honest man and a brave; for truer nor braver man ever lived, and well knows Rudolf of Hapsburg that.”
A thousand thoughts and impulses surged through Wulf’s brain while the emperor spoke, but the moment seemed none for speech other than that with which he finally contented himself, saying simply:
“And that is thy good fortune,” cried the emperor. “But tell me when I may have speech of my friend, for there is a matter hath brought me hither that needeth his help, though I knew not that he were even alive until the mother superior here told me of his presence hereabout. Well knew she how Rudolf loved his ancient man-at-arms.”
“An he knew what was afoot,” Wulf said respectfully, “he were here now to honor the emperor. Readily could I take him a message, your Majesty,” he added.
“That were well done,” began Rudolf; but Mother Ursula interrupted.
“Nay,” she said, “the baron’s men belike are even now scouring the country for the boy. ’Twere the price of his life to send him forth again—at least, till the Swartzburg is taken.”
“True enough,” said the emperor. “In faith, my longing in this matter hath made me forgetful. Well, I must e’en seek another messenger.”
“If I might go, Sire,” Wulf persisted, with manly modesty that still further won Rudolf’s straightforward heart, “no messenger could go so quickly as I—by ways I know that are quite safe. I can fare back now, and be there by daylight.”
“By the rood, no!” cried the emperor. “Thou shalt rest some hours ere we think further of this. There’s none too much such timber as thou in the land, that we should be in haste to fell it. Get thee now to refreshment and rest, and if we need thee thou shalt know it.”
Thus dismissed, Wulf was fain to be content with retiring, and despite his anxiety to serve the emperor, who had won the boy’s whole loyal heart, right glad was he, after a hearty supper, to go to bed. So, when he was shown, at last, into the traveler’s dormitory, he threw himself down upon the hard cot spread for him, and fell at once into a deep sleep.