A Legend of the Rhine

  A LEGEND OF THE RHINE

  William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER I. SIR LUDWIG OF HOMBOURG.

  CHAPTER II. THE GODESBERGERS.

  CHAPTER III. THE FESTIVAL.

  CHAPTER IV. THE FLIGHT.

  CHAPTER V. THE TRAITOR'S DOOM.

  CHAPTER VI. THE CONFESSION.

  CHAPTER VII. THE SENTENCE.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE CHILDE OF GODESBERG.

  CHAPTER IX. THE LADY OF WINDECK.

  CHAPTER X. THE BATTLE OF THE BOWMEN.

  CHAPTER XI. THE MARTYR OF LOVE.

  CHAPTER XII. THE CHAMPION.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE MARRIAGE.

  This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, [email protected].

  A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

  CHAPTER I. SIR LUDWIG OF HOMBOURG.

  It was in the good old days of chivalry, when every mountain that bathes its

  shadow in the Rhine had its castle: not inhabited, as now, by a few rats and

  owls, nor covered with moss and wallflowers, and funguses, and creeping ivy. No,

  no! where the ivy now clusters there grew strong portcullis and bars of steel;

  where the wallflower now quivers in the rampart there were silken banners

  embroidered with wonderful heraldry; men-at-arms marched where now you shall

  only see a bank of moss or a hideous black champignon; and in place of the rats

  and owlets, I warrant me there were ladies and knights to revel in the great

  halls, and to feast, and to dance, and to make love there. They are passed

  away:�those old knights and ladies: their golden hair first changed to silver,

  and then the silver dropped off and disappeared for ever; their elegant legs, so

  slim and active in the dance, became swollen and gouty, and then, from being

  swollen and gouty, dwindled down to bare bone- shanks; the roses left their

  cheeks, and then their cheeks disappeared, and left their skulls, and then their

  skulls powdered into dust, and all sign of them was gone. And as it was with

  them, so shall it be with us. Ho, seneschal! fill me a cup of liquor! put sugar

  in it, good fellow�yea, and a little hot water; a very little, for my soul is

  sad, as I think of those days and knights of old.

  They, too, have revelled and feasted, and where are they?�gone?� nay, not

  altogether gone; for doth not the eye catch glimpses of them as they walk yonder

  in the gray limbo of romance, shining faintly in their coats of steel, wandering

  by the side of long- haired ladies, with long-tailed gowns that little pages

  carry? Yes! one sees them: the poet sees them still in the far-off Cloudland,

  and hears the ring of their clarions as they hasten to battle or tourney�and the

  dim echoes of their lutes chanting of love and fair ladies! Gracious privilege

  of poesy! It is as the Dervish's collyrium to the eyes, and causes them to see

  treasures that to the sight of donkeys are invisible. Blessed treasures of

  fancy! I would not change ye�no, not for many donkey-loads of gold. . . . Fill

  again, jolly seneschal, thou brave wag; chalk me up the produce on the hostel

  door�surely the spirits of old are mixed up in the wondrous liquor, and gentle

  visions of bygone princes and princesses look blandly down on us from the cloudy

  perfume of the pipe. Do you know in what year the fairies left the Rhine?�long

  before Murray's "Guide-Book" was wrote�long before squat steamboats, with

  snorting funnels, came paddling down the stream. Do you not know that once upon

  a time the appearance of eleven thousand British virgins was considered at

  Cologne as a wonder? Now there come twenty thousand such annually, accompanied

  by their ladies'-maids. But of them we will say no more�let us back to those who

  went before them.

  Many, many hundred thousand years ago, and at the exact period when chivalry was

  in full bloom, there occurred a little history upon the banks of the Rhine,

  which has been already written in a book, and hence must be positively true.

  'Tis a story of knights and ladies�of love and battle, and virtue rewarded; a

  story of princes and noble lords, moreover: the best of company. Gentles, an ye

  will, ye shall hear it. Fair dames and damsels, may your loves be as happy as

  those of the heroine of this romaunt.

  On the cold and rainy evening of Thursday, the 26th of October, in the year

  previously indicated, such travellers as might have chanced to be abroad in that

  bitter night, might have remarked a fellow-wayfarer journeying on the road from

  Oberwinter to Godesberg. He was a man not tall in stature, but of the most

  athletic proportions, and Time, which had browned and furrowed his cheek and

  sprinkled his locks with gray, declared pretty clearly that He must have been

  acquainted with the warrior for some fifty good years. He was armed in mail, and

  rode a powerful and active battle-horse, which (though the way the pair had come

  that day was long and weary indeed,) yet supported the warrior, his armor and

  luggage, with seeming ease. As it was in a friend's country, the knight did not

  think fit to wear his heavy destrier, or helmet, which hung at his saddlebow

  over his portmanteau. Both were marked with the coronet of a count; and from the

  crown which surmounted the helmet, rose the crest of his knightly race, an arm

  proper lifting a naked sword.

  At his right hand, and convenient to the warrior's grasp, hung his mangonel or

  mace�a terrific weapon which had shattered the brains of many a turbaned soldan;

  while over his broad and ample chest there fell the triangular shield of the

  period, whereon were emblazoned his arms�argent, a gules wavy, on a saltire

  reversed of the second: the latter device was awarded for a daring exploit

  before Ascalon, by the Emperor Maximilian, and a reference to the German Peerage

  of that day, or a knowledge of high families which every gentleman then

  possessed, would have sufficed to show at once that the rider we have described

  was of the noble house of Hombourg. It was, in fact, the gallant knight Sir

  Ludwig of Hombourg: his rank as a count, and chamberlain of the Emperor of

  Austria, was marked by the cap of maintenance with the peacock's feather which

  he wore (when not armed for battle), and his princely blood was denoted by the

  oiled silk umbrella which he carried (a very meet protection against the

  pitiless storm), and which, as it is known, in the middle ages, none but princes

  were justified in using. A bag, fastened with a brazen padlock, and made of the

  costly produce of the Persian looms (then extremely rare in Europe), told that

  he had travelled in Eastern climes. This, too, was evident from the inscription

  writ on card or parchment, and sewed on the bag. It first ran "Count Ludwig de

  Hombourg, Jerusalem;" but the name of the Holy City had been dashed out with the

  pen, and that of "Godesberg" substituted. So far indeed had the cavalier

  travelled!�and it is needless to state that the bag in question contained such

  remaining articles of the toilet as the high-born noble deemed
unnecessary to

  place in his valise.

  "By Saint Bugo of Katzenellenbogen!" said the good knight, shivering, "'tis

  colder here than at Damascus! Marry, I am so hungry I could eat one of Saladin's

  camels. Shall I be at Godesberg in time for dinner?" And taking out his horologe

  (which hung in a small side-pocket of his embroidered surcoat), the crusader

  consoled himself by finding that it was but seven of the night, and that he

  would reach Godesberg ere the warder had sounded the second gong.

  His opinion was borne out by the result. His good steed, which could trot at a

  pinch fourteen leagues in the hour, brought him to this famous castle, just as

  the warder was giving the first welcome signal which told that the princely

  family of Count Karl, Margrave of Godesberg, were about to prepare for their

  usual repast at eight o'clock. Crowds of pages and horse-keepers were in the

  court, when, the portcullis being raised, and amidst the respectful salutes of

  the sentinels, the most ancient friend of the house of Godesberg entered into

  its castle-yard. The under-butler stepped forward to take his bridle-rein.

  "Welcome, Sir Count, from the Holy Land!" exclaimed the faithful old man.

  "Welcome, Sir Count, from the Holy Land!" cried the rest of the servants in the

  hall. A stable was speedily found for the Count's horse, Streithengst, and it

  was not before the gallant soldier had seen that true animal well cared for,

  that he entered the castle itself, and was conducted to his chamber. Wax-candles

  burning bright on the mantel, flowers in china vases, every variety of soap, and

  a flask of the precious essence manufactured at the neighboring city of Cologne,

  were displayed on his toilet-table; a cheering fire "crackled on the hearth,"

  and showed that the good knight's coming had been looked and cared for. The

  serving-maidens, bringing him hot water for his ablutions, smiling asked, "Would

  he have his couch warmed at eve?" One might have been sure from their blushes

  that the tough old soldier made an arch reply. The family tonsor came to know

  whether the noble Count had need of his skill. "By Saint Bugo," said the knight,

  as seated in an easy settle by the fire, the tonsor rid his chin of its stubby

  growth, and lightly passed the tongs and pomatum through "the sable silver" of

  his hair,�"By Saint Bugo, this is better than my dungeon at Grand Cairo. How is

  my godson Otto, master barber; and the lady countess, his mother; and the noble

  Count Karl, my dear brother- in-arms?"

  "They are well," said the tonsor, with a sigh.

  "By Saint Bugo, I'm glad on't; but why that sigh?"

  "Things are not as they have been with my good lord," answered the hairdresser,

  "ever since Count Gottfried's arrival."

  "He here!" roared Sir Ludwig. "Good never came where Gottfried was!" and the

  while he donned a pair of silken hose, that showed admirably the proportions of

  his lower limbs, and exchanged his coat of mail for the spotless vest and black

  surcoat collared with velvet of Genoa, which was the fitting costume for "knight

  in ladye's bower," the knight entered into a conversation with the barber, who

  explained to him, with the usual garrulousness of his tribe, what was the

  present position of the noble family of Godesberg.

  This will be narrated in the next chapter.

  CHAPTER II. THE GODESBERGERS.

  'Tis needless to state that the gallant warrior Ludwig of Hombourg found in the

  bosom of his friend's family a cordial welcome. The brother-in-arms of the

  Margrave Karl, he was the esteemed friend of the Margravine, the exalted and

  beautiful Theodora of Boppum, and (albeit no theologian, and although the first

  princes of Christendom coveted such an honor,) he was selected to stand as

  sponsor for the Margrave's son Otto, the only child of his house.

  It was now seventeen years since the Count and Countess had been united: and

  although heaven had not blessed their couch with more than one child, it may be

  said of that one that it was a prize, and that surely never lighted on the earth

  a more delightful vision. When Count Ludwig, hastening to the holy wars, had

  quitted his beloved godchild, he had left him a boy; he now found him, as the

  latter rushed into his arms, grown to be one of the finest young men in Germany:

  tall and excessively graceful in proportion, with the blush of health mantling

  upon his cheek, that was likewise adorned with the first down of manhood, and

  with magnificent golden ringlets, such as a Rowland might envy, curling over his

  brow and his shoulders. His eyes alternately beamed with the fire of daring, or

  melted with the moist glance of benevolence. Well might a mother be proud of

  such a boy. Well might the brave Ludwig exclaim, as he clasped the youth to his

  breast, "By St. Bugo of Katzenellenbogen, Otto, thou art fit to be one of Coeur

  de Lion's grenadiers!" and it was the fact: the "Childe" of Godesberg measured

  six feet three.

  He was habited for the evening meal in the costly, though simple attire of the

  nobleman of the period�and his costume a good deal resembled that of the old

  knight whose toilet we have just described; with the difference of color,

  however. The pourpoint worn by young Otto of Godesberg was of blue, handsomely

  decorated with buttons of carved and embossed gold; his haut-de-chausses, or

  leggings, were of the stuff of Nanquin, then brought by the Lombard argosies at

  an immense price from China. The neighboring country of Holland had supplied his

  wrists and bosom with the most costly laces; and thus attired, with an opera-hat

  placed on one side of his head, ornamented with a single flower, (that brilliant

  one, the tulip,) the boy rushed into his godfather's dressing-room, and warned

  him that the banquet was ready.

  It was indeed: a frown had gathered on the dark brows of the Lady Theodora, and

  her bosom heaved with an emotion akin to indignation; for she feared lest the

  soups in the refectory and the splendid fish now smoking there were getting

  cold: she feared not for herself, but for her lord's sake. "Godesberg,"

  whispered she to Count Ludwig, as trembling on his arm they descended from the

  drawing-room, "Godesberg is sadly changed of late."

  "By St. Bugo!" said the burly knight, starting, "these are the very words the

  barber spake."

  The lady heaved a sigh, and placed herself before the soup-tureen. For some time

  the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was too much occupied in ladling out the

  forced-meat balls and rich calves' head of which the delicious pottage was

  formed (in ladling them out, did we say? ay, marry, and in eating them, too,) to

  look at his brother-in-arms at the bottom of the table, where he sat with his

  son on his left hand, and the Baron Gottfried on his right.

  The Margrave was INDEED changed. "By St. Bugo," whispered Ludwig to the

  Countess, your husband is as surly as a bear that hath been wounded o' the

  head." Tears falling into her soup-plate were her only reply. The soup, the

  turbot, the haunch of mutton, Count Ludwig remarked that the Margrave sent all

  away untasted.

  "The boteler will serve ye with wine, H
ombourg," said the Margrave gloomily from

  the end of the table: not even an invitation to drink! how different was this

  from the old times!

  But when in compliance with this order the boteler proceeded to hand round the

  mantling vintage of the Cape to the assembled party, and to fill young Otto's

  goblet, (which the latter held up with the eagerness of youth,) the Margrave's

  rage knew no bounds. He rushed at his son; he dashed the wine-cup over his

  spotless vest: and giving him three or four heavy blows which would have knocked

  down a bonassus, but only caused the young Childe to blush: "YOU take wine!"

  roared out the Margrave; "YOU dare to help yourself! Who time d-v-l gave YOU

  leave to help yourself?" and the terrible blows were reiterated over the

  delicate ears of the boy.

  "Ludwig! Ludwig!" shrieked the Margravine.

  "Hold your prate, madam," roared the Prince. "By St. Buffo, mayn't a father beat

  his own child?"

  "HIS OWN CHILD!" repeated the Margrave with a burst, almost a shriek of

  indescribable agony. "Ah, what did I say?"

  Sir Ludwig looked about him in amaze; Sir Gottfried (at the Margrave's right

  hand) smiled ghastily; the young Otto was too much agitated by the recent

  conflict to wear any expression but that of extreme discomfiture; but the poor

  Margravine turned her head aside and blushed, red almost as the lobster which

  flanked the turbot before her.

  In those rude old times, 'tis known such table quarrels were by no means unusual

  amongst gallant knights; and Ludwig, who had oft seen the Margrave cast a leg of

  mutton at an offending servitor, or empty a sauce-boat in the direction of the

  Margravine, thought this was but one of the usual outbreaks of his worthy though

  irascible friend, and wisely determined to change the converse.

  "How is my friend," said he, "the good knight, Sir Hildebrandt?"

  "By Saint Buffo, this is too much!" screamed the Margrave, and actually rushed

  from time room.

  "By Saint Bugo," said his friend, "gallant knights, gentle sirs, what ails my

  good Lord Margave?"

  "Perhaps his nose bleeds," said Gottfried, with a sneer.

  "Ah, my kind friend," said the Margravine with uncontrollable emotion, "I fear

  some of you have passed from the frying-pan into the fire." And making the

  signal of departure to the ladies, they rose and retired to coffee in the

  drawing-room.

  The Margrave presently came back again, somewhat more collected than he had

  been. "Otto," he said sternly, "go join the ladies: it becomes not a young boy

  to remain in the company of gallant knights after dinner." The noble Childe with

  manifest unwillingness quitted the room, and the Margrave, taking his lady's

  place at the head of the table, whispered to Sir Ludwig, "Hildebrandt will be

  here to-night to an evening-party, given in honor of your return from Palestine.

  My good friend�my true friend�my old companion in arms, Sir Gottfried! you had

  best see that the fiddlers be not drunk, and that the crumpets be gotten ready."

  Sir Gottfried, obsequiously taking his patron's hint, bowed and left the room.

  "You shall know all soon, dear Ludwig," said the Margrave, with a heart-rending

  look. "You marked Gottfried, who left the room anon?"

  "I did."

  "You look incredulous concerning his worth; but I tell thee, Ludwig, that yonder

  Gottfried is a good fellow, and my fast friend. Why should he not be! He is my

  near relation, heir to my property: should I" (here the Margrave's countenance

  assumed its former expression of excruciating agony),�"SHOULD I HAVE NO SON."

  "But I never saw the boy in better health," replied Sir Ludwig.

  "Nevertheless,�ha! ha!�it may chance that I shall soon have no son."

  The Margrave had crushed many a cup of wine during dinner, and Sir Ludwig

  thought naturally that his gallant friend had drunken rather deeply. He

  proceeded in this respect to imitate him; for the stern soldier of those days

  neither shrunk before the Paynim nor the punch-bowl: and many a rousing night