CHAPTER XII
HOW WULF TOOK THE EMPEROR’S MESSAGE TO KARL OF THE FORGE
It still wanted an hour of daybreak when the convent porter bent over the pallet where Wulf lay and shook the boy into wakefulness.
“Thou’rt to get up, lad,” he said, with gruff kindness. “Eat this and make thyself ready to go an errand. When thou’rt ready, go to the lady superior in her audience-room.”
He put some bread and meat and a tankard of beer upon the floor, and left Wulf to awaken more fully and make such preparation as he had need of.
Mother Ursula and the emperor were still talking when Wulf, having knocked at the door of the little reception-room, answered the former’s call to enter. To all appearance neither had taken any rest since Wulf had last seen them, and so eagerly was the emperor talking that neither paid any heed to the boy as he stood waiting their pleasure.
“He was known to have ridden hither,” Rudolf was saying, “and to have brought the boy. He was minded to leave him with you, my lady, against his going again to Jerusalem; but no word ever came from either. But gladly would I lay down the crown that is proving over-burdensome to my poor head, to set eyes upon the face of either.”
The emperor paced the floor sadly, his stern, homely face drawn by emotion.
“He would have sought out Karl, had he known,” Rudolf went on. “I must see the man. Ah, here is the boy!”
He turned, seeing the boy, who advanced and did knee-service.
“So,” the emperor said, “we are going to use thy stout legs, boy. Make thou their best speed to thy grandsire, and tell him that Count Rudolf rides to the Swartzburg and would have him at hand. Canst do that?”
“Ay, Sire.”
“But stay,” said Rudolf; “haply he has grown too feeble for bearing arms?”
Wulf flushed with indignation for stalwart Karl.
“Nay,” he said stoutly; “he will carry what weapon thou wilt, and enter the castle close behind thee.”
“Sh!” cried Mother Ursula, shocked at the boy’s speech. “Thou’rt speaking to the emperor, lad!”
Rudolf laughed. “Let the boy alone,” he said. “One may speak freely to whom he will of a man like Karl.” Whereupon Mother Ursula hurried to cross herself piously.
“Now hasten,” the emperor said kindly, “and God be with thee!” And Wulf went forth.
As he passed through the refectory the porter handed him some food, which he put into his wallet, and filling his leathern water-bottle at the fountain in the convent yard, he fastened it to his belt, and swung out on his journey.
By now had come dawn, and the birds were beginning their earliest twitter among the trees. Later, squirrels and other small deer began to move about, and to chatter among the boughs and in the fallen leaves. The forest was full of pleasant sights and sounds, and the early morning breeze brought sweet, woodsy smells to his eager nostrils.
By and by a red fox stole across an open with a plump hare flung back over his shoulder, and Wulf gave challenge for sheer joy of life and of the morning. Reynard paused long enough to give him a slant glance out of one wise eye, then trotted on. Long pencils of early sunlight began to write cheery greetings on the mossy earth and on the tree-trunks. The witchery of the hour was upon everything, and Wulf felt boundlessly happy as he stepped along. All his thoughts were vague and sweet—of Elise safe at the convent, doubtless still sleeping; of the emperor’s gracious kindness; of Karl’s joy at the message he was bringing. Even the sorry medley of half-knowledge about his own name and state had no power to make him unhappy this morning.
Not but that he longed to know the truth. He had never been ashamed to think of himself as Karl’s grandson; but the bare idea of something other than that set his blood tingling, and caused such wild hopes to leap within him that, but for the need to walk warily on this errand so fraught with danger, he could have shouted and sung for joy.
He went on steadily, stopping but once, in the middle of the forenoon, to eat a bit of bread and to refill his water-bottle at a clear, pure stream which he crossed.
As he drew near to the neighborhood of the glade he was minded to turn aside for a look at the scene of yesterday’s strange adventure, when he thought he heard a low groan beyond him in the forest. He stood to listen, and presently caught the sound again—the moaning of some creature in mortal pain.
He crept forward warily. As he came nearer to the moaning he became certain that the hurt creature was a man, and he tried to hear whether there might be others with him. No sound reached him, however, save that faint groaning; so at last he parted the drooping branches of an elm-tree, and saw a piteous sight.
There upon the grass, face downward, lay Bell-Hutten, his body rocking softly from side to side as in great agony. His garment of skins was torn from his shoulders, and Wulf noted a torn wound, the blood now dried about it, where the robber’s dagger had struck the day before.
As the boy watched, filled with dole, he saw the poor creature reach back a hand toward an empty water-bottle that lay on the grass. His left hand was stretched forward, the fingers clutching vaguely among the grass and leaves. Wulf’s whole nature, as he stood there, ached with horror and pity—horror of the unhappy being upon whom the curse of God and man seemed to have fallen so heavily.
“’Tis a pitiful thing,” he thought, “and urgent as this business of our emperor’s is, I cannot go on and leave the man thus.”
“Brother,” he called softly, not to startle the sufferer, “what dost want?”
“Water! water! For mercy’s sake!”
“Canst manage this?” and loosening his leathern bottle, Wulf handed it to the half-wit.
The poor fever-parched hands grasped it eagerly, drew the stopper, and the man drank.
There was a more human note in the voice that prayed blessing on the boy.
“Hast any food?” Wulf asked.
The unkempt head was shaken, and hastily emptying his wallet, Wulf bent over the man, with the bread and meat which the good sisters had put up for him.
“Bide here until morning,” he said, “and I will bring thee more. I must hasten now. I am not on my own business.”
He was turning away when he saw growing at his feet masses of the pungent, healing wormwood, and a new thought struck him. Hastily gathering a handful of the tenderest leaves, he filled his mouth and began chewing them with his strong young teeth. It was bitter work, and, in spite of himself, his face twisted grimly as he rolled the wry cud on his tongue; but he stuck to the task till he had a big poultice of the wholesome stuff spread on a broad dock-leaf.
Then, first bathing away the hardened blood with a little water from the flask, he clapped the poultice deftly upon the sore and angry wound. After that he was forced to go on with all speed; but there was a note of hearty good cheer in his voice as he bade his patient good-morrow.
So he fared on his way, sore shaken in his healthy young nerves, but gathering strength with every onward stride, his own aching arms and legs fair eased as he thought of the comfort his poultice must be bringing to the outcast’s hurt shoulder.
Traveling thus, bent now only upon his errand, he never saw the stealthy shadow that, mile after mile, kept pace with him beyond the thicket, dodging when he paused, moving when he moved, until, satisfied as to where he was going, the evil thing hurried back over the way to keep tryst with a master as evil, and to carry the welcome news that the tinker had gone alone back to the forge, where quick work might surprise and catch him.
It was the middle of the afternoon when he reached the forge and found Karl, who stared at sight of him.
“I’d dreamed thou wast safe away, boy,” he said, shaking him lovingly by the broad shoulders. “What madness is this? The baron’s men have been here for thee, and thy life is naught worth if they find thee. Why art so foolhardy, son?”
“Count Rudolf is at St. Ursula’s, and sends for thee,” Wulf said, laughing at his fears.
Karl turned on the instant, and seized a great sword that lay on the anvil.
“Sayst so? And thou hast seen the count—I mean the emperor? How looked he? What said he? And he remembered old Karl? Ah! his was ever a true heart.” The rough face was alight with loving, excited pride.
“Give me a bite to eat, and we’ll fare back together,” Wulf said; but Karl became anxious again.
“Nay,” he said. “Thou’st escaped the baron’s wolves this time, but by now they swarm the woods. Moreover, thou art tired out. Bide thee in hiding here. They will never dream that thou art simple enough to come aback to the forge after this time. Here is thy best refuge now. Rest, then, and by to-morrow the emperor’s men will have harried them all back to the castle to defend the place.”
To Wulf this word seemed wise, and fain was he to rest, being footsore and weary; so he busied himself with helping Karl make ready. No armorer’s staff did the stout fellow take now, but a strong, shapely bow, from off the smithy wall. He tried it over his knee as he fitted cord to it, smiling grimly the while. Of arrows he took a goodly number, and girt himself with a short two-edged sword. His fierce joy imparted itself to Wulf, who watched him.
At last Karl went to the cupboard beside the forge, and opening it, lifted out the shining knight’s sword.
“This be the blade I have told ye of, lad,” he said—“the very one; for I gave Herr Banf mine own, that had never seen battle, and kept this one for thee.”
He ran his thumb along the keen edge. “Mayhap thou’st no claim on earth to it,” he said, “yet no man hath showed a better, and thou’lt give it play for the emperor, whose service owns it; so take it. But, lad, lad,” he cried, “an ye love God and this poor lost land, remember ’twas a brave and a true man first carried that sword ’gainst foe.”
“Ay, ay, Karl, I will remember,” said Wulf, solemnly, taking the sword in hand. Karl had fitted it with a plain, strong scabbard, and it was ready for stout and worthy deeds. A thrill went through the boy as he girt it to him, and there beside the forge, silently, within his own mind, he vowed that blade to knightly and true service.
Then Karl bade him good-by and stepped forth through the woods, to do the emperor’s bidding.