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
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