Tekla

"I must be gone to the castle," said Conrad.

"We will walk up the hill with you," rejoined Surrey, "and, Conrad, I wish you would take my watch on the wall till I relieve you. I desire to have converse with my friend here, and we will sit under the wall, where you can give me timely warning if you hear any one approach from within, although I think such interruption most unlikely. Was it on your rope I descended, I wonder?"

"I left a rope dangling at the north-west corner."

"That was it. I marvelled how it came there, and thought it had been flung up by the besiegers, remaining unseen by the garrison. Will you, then, take my watch for a time, Conrad?"

"Surely. 'Tis but slight recompense for the choking I – "

"Yes, yes," interrupted the archer, hurriedly, "we will not speak of that, for you took me by surprise. Mount to the battlements, and you will find my pike lying on the top of the wall near the place of descent."

They had by this time reached the castle, and there they stood for a few moments and listened, but everything was quiet, and Conrad, aided by the hanging rope, ascended to the top, while the two archers sat down at the foot of the northern tower.

"The poem on 'Friendship,' – " began Roger.

"Yes," broke in his friend, "we will come to it presently. How is it you are fighting for the Archbishop?"

"How is it you sent no word back to me as you promised to do?"

"That is a long story. They would not even let me enter Treves, for there was nothing of all this afoot when I was there. On finding service at last, having journeyed to a hill-top within a league of this place, I tried to send tidings to you by the young man who has just left us, but he was baffled and turned back by the forces of the Archbishop, and could no more get to Treves than I could enter it once I was at its gates. We are all prisoners here, and until your arrow tapped my steel cap I knew not where you were."

"Hearing nothing I went to Treves in search of you, regretting I had not accompanied you, but you know there were important poems that I wished to complete when you left me – they are all finished now, and it would have done you good to hear them, in fact, it was that which made me follow you to Treves, for the consummation of a poem is the listening to it. There is one set of verses on 'Sleep' that luckily I remember, and can recite, if you will but harken."

"What happened when you reached Treves?"

"I made enquiry concerning you from all with whom I could gain speech, but there was nothing save talk of war in the place, and nowhere could I hear aught of you. One army had already left Treves, marching eastward, and another was then filling its ranks. The officer I spoke with, who was inducing all he could to join, offering great chances of plunder when the castle was taken, said he remembered you well, and that you had gone with the first army, leaving word that I was to join and follow you."

"The liar. I wonder the Archbishop retains the service of such, although perhaps he does not know his officers hold the truth in contempt."

"It is strange you should refer so warmly to truth, for I esteem it the choicest of all virtues, and have written a poem on 'Whiterobed Truth,' which I hope remains in my memory, seeing it is so dark that no reading may be done. It begins – "

"You believed him, of course, and enlisted with him?"

"Yes. He said we should find you here, and so indeed have I, but in the opposite camp. I marched with them down the river, and when we arrived I heard such wonderful stories of an infallible archer in the castle that I knew he must be you."

"Yes," cried John, rubbing his hands together in glee, "it was the most heavenly opportunity ever bestowed upon a mortal man. I wish you had been there to see. I was in the tower above the enemy, and I shot them in the neck, stringing them one after another on the shafts, like running skewers in a round of beef. Not one did I miss."

"Oh, 'tis easily done," commented Roger, carelessly. "'Tis instinct, largely; you glance at your mark, and next instant your arrow is there."

"Roger Kent," replied the other, in a despondent tone, "I have on various occasions passed favourable judgment on your poems; I think you might, in return, admit that I am at least proficient in the rudiments of archery."

"John Surrey, I have more than once expressed the opinion, which I still hold, that you will in time, with careful practice, become a creditable archer. You would not have me say more and thus forswear myself."

"No," admitted John; "I am well content when you say as much, and now if it pleases you I will listen to as many of your verses as you can conveniently remember."

Surrey leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh, and the other, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm said:

"I will recite you first the poem on 'Friendship,' in honour of our meeting, and then you shall hear the verses on 'Sleep,' which come the more timely on an occasion when we both deprive ourselves of it, in order to hear verse which you will be the first to admit is well worth the sacrifice."

The poet then delivered his lines in smooth and measured tones, to which the other listened without comment. From poem to poem Roger Kent glided, sometimes interlarding the pauses between with a few sentences describing how the following effort came to maturity, thus cementing the poems together with their history, as a skilful mason lays his mortar between the stones. No literary enthusiast could have had a more patient listener, and the night wore on to the tuneful cadence of the poet's voice. At last he ceased. The steps of the patient Conrad on the battlements echoed in the still night air.

"Those are all the poems I can remember," he said, "and you see that I have not misspent the time while you were journeying down the Moselle. I do not know when I have had a more fruitful season. If I could but deliver these verses to some monk who would inscribe them on lasting parchment, for future ages to discuss and con over, I would be a happy man. Alas, the monks care not to write of aught save the sayings of the Fathers of the Church, and look askance at poems dealing with human instincts and passions that are beyond the precincts of the cloister, even though such poems tend to the future enrichment of literature, had the holy men but the mind to appreciate them. Thus I fear my verse will be lost to the world and that, in this deplorably contentious existence which we lead, my span may be suddenly at an end, with none to put in permanent form the work to which my life has been devoted. What poem, think you, of all you have heard, is the most likely to live after we are gone?"

There was no reply, and in the silence that followed, the even breathing of John Surrey brought to the mind of the poet the well nigh incredible suspicion that his friend was asleep. This suspicion, however, he dismissed as unworthy of either of them, and he shook his comrade by the shoulder, repeating his question.

"Eh? What?" cried John. "Take your hand from my throat, villain."

"My hand is not on your throat but on your shoulder, and I misdoubt you have for some time been asleep."

"Asleep?" cried John, with honest indignation. "I was far from being asleep. When you stopped reciting I had but let my mind wander for a moment on the rough usage I had had from Conrad, who pretended he did not know me. I'll wing a shaft by his ear so close that it will make him jump a dozen yards, and for the space while he counts ten he will be uncertain whether he is in this world or the next. I called him villain, and I stick to it."

"But what call you my poems?"

"They are grand – all of them. You are getting better and better at rhyming; I swear by the bow, you are. I never heard anything to equal them."

"Indeed," replied the poet, complacently, "a man should improve with age, like good wine, if he have the right stuff in him, but though all are so good, there is surely some poem better than the rest, as in a company of men one must stand taller than his fellows. Which was it, John?"

"The last one you recited seemed to me the best," said John, scratching his head dubiously, and then not having the sense to let well enough alone, added, "the one on 'Sleep.'"

The poet rose to his feet and spoke with justifiable indignation.

"I have recited to you a score since that, you sluggard. You have indeed been asleep."

"I said not the last, but the first. I say the poem on 'Sleep' is the best, and that I hold to."

"The first was on 'Friendship,'" said the poet gloomily.

"Nay, I count not the one on 'Friendship' as aught but the introduction. 'Twas given, you said, in honour of our meeting, therefore I regard the one on 'Sleep' as the beginning, and although all are good, that seemed, in my poor judgment, the best."

"I had hoped you would have liked the one on 'Woman's Love,'" murmured Roger, evidently mollified.

"Ah, Roger, what can you expect of a hardened bachelor like me? There was a time when I would have thrown up my cap and proclaimed that poem master of them all, which doubtless it will be accounted in the estimation of the world. Even I admit it was enough to make my old bones burn again, and while you were reciting it, I was glad young Conrad was not here, else he had straightway run to Alken in his own despite. That poem will be the favourite of lovers all the world over; I am sure of it."

"Say you so, honest John?" cried Roger, with glee. "It is indeed my own hope. You were the truest and wisest of critics, and no bowman in all Germany can match you. Forgive me that I mistook your meditation for slumber. And now, good night, old friend; we will meet again when I have composed some others, although I doubt if I ever do anything as good as that one."

And thereupon the friends embraced and parted, each glowing with the praise of the other.

CHAPTER XXXI

BRAVE NEWS OF THE EMPEROR

As the days went by and the seasons changed, dull monotony settled down upon the besieged castle, and all within felt more or less its depressing effects. The Black Count chafed under it like a caged lion, breaking out now and then into helpless rage, eager to do anything rather than the one thing which had to be done, and that was to sit quiet until the Archbishops tired of their task, or until some commotion occurred elsewhere which would compel them to withdraw their troops. Heinrich had wild schemes of breaking through the lines, marching on to Treves, and there fomenting rebellion, so that Arnold might find something to occupy him at home and be thus compelled to leave his neighbour in peace. But the cool head in the garrison was that of Rodolph, who pointed out calmly to his nominal chief the impracticability of his plans. He knew more of Treves than did the Count, and asserted that no man could stir up trouble in that town, where all were but too well acquainted with the weight of the Archbishop's iron hand.

It was not to be expected that two men so differently constituted as the Emperor and the Count, thus hemmed in together, should grow to love each other; indeed, Heinrich took small pains to conceal the dislike he felt for his enforced guest, although Rodolph was more politic, and always treated his elder with grave respect. Only once during the two years' siege did there come a conflict of authority between them, and this said much for the forbearance of the Emperor.

One morning Rodolph found the Count in the courtyard in full armour vigorously superintending his men, who were removing from the gates the bags of grain and casks of wine which were piled against them.

"What is going forward?" asked Rodolph, quietly.

"Something that concerns you not, and your assistance is neither asked nor wanted," answered the Black Count, in his most surly manner.

"Pardon me, if I venture to point out that anything which pertains to the safety of the castle concerns me."

"Whose castle is it?" roared the Count.

"That is precisely the point now under dispute," replied the Emperor, with the utmost gravity. "If you do some foolish thing the castle doubtless will in a few hours belong to the Archbishops, for they are probably counting on an act of folly which will bring them into possession. I am anxious that the castle remain in your hands, therefore I ask again, what are you proposing to do, and why are you taking away the materials which so well supported the gates when they were assaulted?"

"I am commander here and not to be questioned."

"That is hardly according to our compact, my Lord. Let us not, however, discuss the matter before the men, but in the council chamber alone together. I must know what you intend to do."

"I have held my castle until now against all comers. I will continue to keep it in my own way."

"Your memory is short, my Lord. Your castle was saved in the first assault by my archer. In the two following it was kept largely by my generalship, if I may be so conceited as to claim as much. You did some stentorian shouting, and some wondrous catapult practice, which, if it killed any, wrought their death more by amazement at the work, than through the accuracy of the machines. I came here a stranger, but am now well known to the men, and they have confidence in me. If we must have deplorable dissensions in their presence I will at once give command for them to cease work, and you will see how many obey me. It is best not to force me to this extremity, for if I am thus put to it, you will give no more orders in this castle. Let it come to an open contest between you and me, and you will be amazed to find that all who rally round you are Steinmetz and one or two others, hirelings at best, whom you, knowing nothing of men, have placed above the others, and even they will at once desert you when they find you standing practically alone. Therefore, my Lord, I ask you for the third time what you intend to do?"

The cool and firm insistence of the Emperor had a quenching effect on the other's anger. The Count began to doubt the wisdom of his hot-headed resolve, for he had, in spite of himself, a growing confidence in Rodolph's generalship, and his bluster was largely caused by the shame he felt in placing his plans before the incisive criticism of his comrade in arms. He turned brusquely away from Rodolph, and said, curtly:

"Very well. Let us to the council chamber."

The Emperor followed him, and was in turn followed by the archer, who always kept an eye on his master, unless definitely commanded not to do so. The archer never pretended that he had the least belief in the good faith of Count Heinrich, and it is likely that Rodolph, although he gave no utterance to his distrust, had as little confidence, for he rarely made objection to the watch John Surrey kept over him. Neither was their vigilance relaxed on the tower. They constantly increased their store of provisions, and allowed no one to come up the stair on any pretence whatever. When the archer was not on watch in the tower, Conrad usually took his place, and the possibility of their having to stand a siege within a siege at any moment was rarely absent from the mind of the Emperor. If the intentions of the Black Count were honest, there was no harm in being ready for the reverse.

When the Emperor and Count reached the council chamber the latter turned sharply round and plunged at once into his explanation.

"I am going to open the gates and sally forth at the head of my men. I shall cut their line and, sparing none who oppose me, fight as long as may be, then shall we return to the castle. In this way shall I harass them day by day, until they are glad to raise the siege."

"How many men do you intend to leave with me to protect the castle in your absence?"

"The castle needs no protection until I return to it. The Archbishops will find enough to do without troubling Thuron. I shall take all my men with me."

"Have you made any computation regarding the number of soldiers the Archbishops have under their banners?"

"What has that to do with it? The men are scattered north, east, south, and west of this place, and cannot be rallied in time to harm me."

"I am, of course, not in the confidence of the Archbishops and cannot tell how wisely or unwisely their plans are laid. Were I in their place I should count on just such a sortie as you have proposed, caused either by folly or desperation. It is a thing a famished commander might do, or it might be done by one who knew no better. I should have it arranged that a bugle call would cause all available men to march instantly over the hills and cut you off from the gates before you could possibly retreat. As the Archbishops have a hundred men and more to your one, there can be no possible doubt regarding the termination of such a venture as yours. You are as wise as a snail would be to leave his shell, and, unarmed, fight a hawk in the open. The castle is your shell, and remaining in it is your only salvation. I am astonished at the futility of your proposal."

"I cannot sit inactive."

"You must. Otherwise the sane thing to do is to run up a white flag after taking down your own, make terms with the Archbishops and deliver your castle to them. Then you may get concessions, but to sally forth at the head of your men is to deliver your castle at once into their hands, and that without compensation, for then they take it and capture or kill you. It is the project of a madman."

The Count became fiercely enraged at this merciless criticism, and, almost foaming at the mouth, smote his fist on the table, crying:

"Our weakness is not that we are outnumbered a hundred to one. It is that we are one too many in Thuron. No garrison can prosper under two commanders."

"Again you are mistaken. There are not two commanders, but one only. There are two commanders with the besiegers, and that fact, in spite of their army's strength, is probably the reason the castle has not been taken long since. There is but one commander in Thuron, and I am he."

"You lie!" yelled the Black Count. "I am master of Thuron, and will remain so while a stone of it rests on another."

"Prove yourself so. The weapons with which we previously fought on this question still hang on the wall; only, take warning. I shall use the edge of the sword, and not the flat of it, upon your person when next I face you."

"I shall not honour you by fighting with you, a nameless stranger, for whose quality no one can vouch."

"I bore the honour you formerly bestowed upon me modestly enough, and no one has been told of our encounter. As for the quality of my fighting, you made no complaint at the time."

"I will imprison you as an insubordinate traitor."

"I am even prepared for that, and have been ever since I took my quarters in the tower. The moment you break your word with me I constitute myself my own jailer, and will retire to the tower. There my archer will kill your adherents one by one in the courtyard, or on the battlements, or wherever you dare show yourselves. I will haul down your banner and run up a flag of truce instead. Then, when the envoys of the Archbishop come, I will shout to them from the tower that we are commanded by a madman. I will make terms with them so far as the ladies are concerned, and will tell them how to take the castle, as not one of your men dare show face upon the walls, fearing my archer. I regret being compelled to show you that you are both helpless and, at the same time, a fool, but you would have it. Now, my Lord, what is to be done? Are you content to hold command under my orders, or am I to be further troubled with your petulance, so that I must humiliate you in the eyes of your own men, depose you publicly, and perhaps imprison you in the castle I would be only too glad to have you hold and keep? I must know definitely and finally, for these discussions cannot continue."

The Black Count rested his shaggy head in his hands, and for a long time there was silence in the room. At last he raised his blood-shot eyes, burning with hate, and shot a question at Rodolph.

"Who are you?"

"Your master. Take that for granted until this siege is ended, then you may discover you have not been in error. If you attempt to fight me as well as the Archbishops the contest will be a short one. In the fiend's name, has your ill temper not left enough of sense in your brain to show you, even in your anger, that it is better to have me fighting for you than against you? Your persistent stupidity exhausts my patience."

"What am I to tell the men whom I have ordered to clear the sacks from the gate? They will think me indeed mad if I bid them reverse their work."

"They think it now, as does every one with whom you come in contact. When the grain is all removed tell them to fill the empty sacks with earth and stones from the cellars, and to place them in position against the gates again. Have this done whenever a sack is emptied in future, so that our consumption of corn will not interfere with the security of the gates. If you have said to any one that you intended to sally forth, tell him now that you have changed your mind."

This was the last rebellion of Count Heinrich against the usurper within his gates. The ladies, when all met together for the evening meal, did not suspect that there had been any difference between the two men, for Heinrich was invariably so gruff towards his women folk that his demeanour could hardly be made worse by any check he had encountered during the day, and Rodolph's manner was marked by a deferential equanimity that was immutable.

While they were seated at the evening repast Captain Steinmetz entered and made announcement that a holy Palmer was before the gate asking admittance, saying he had news for the master of the castle.

"Where is he from? How did he get through the lines?" demanded the Count.

"I think he is from Palestine," replied Steinmetz, "and he came through the lines by permission of the Archbishops. He says he bears news to you of the Emperor."

"Of the Emperor?" ejaculated Rodolph, in amazement.

"Yes. His Majesty is fighting in the Holy Land, and I think the monk comes from him with news of his battles."

"Ah!" Rodolph looked closely at those who sat round the table, but said nothing further. Tekla gazed with interest at the captain; the Count's eyes were bent on the table, and his wife regarded his dark face timorously.

"We want no news of the Emperor's fighting," said the Count, gruffly, at last. "What matters his fighting to us? A wise man goes not abroad to deal his blows, when there are good knocks to be given in his own land. Tell the Palmer we want none of his budget."

"Not so, my uncle," cried Tekla, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, "we are all loyal subjects of his Majesty, I hope, and I confess I should like to hear how he prospers. I beg you to admit the pious father."

"He is most likely a pious spy, sent by the connivance of the Archbishops, whose tool he is. Their Lordships desire to know how matters stand within the fortress."

"Even if that be the case," put in Rodolph, mildly, "I should be the last to baulk their curiosity. It would give me pleasure to have them know that the stout Count Heinrich is well, and has no fear of them, either separate or united. It may comfort the Archbishops to learn that we were faring generously when their envoy came upon us, and that Heinrich of Thuron thought them of so small account that he permitted a man coming from their camp and through their lines to enter his dining hall."

The Count's eye lit up for a moment as he glanced round his hall, then the light died out, gloom came upon his brow, and once more he bent his gaze on the table in silence.

"I would suggest, however, that the Palmer be blindfolded before he is taken up the ladder, and so conducted to the Count's presence. It may be prudent to conceal from him how well the gates are barricaded. If he actually comes from the Emperor, I confess, like the Countess here, I think so much of his Majesty that I should dearly love to have news of him. What say you, my lord Count?"

"Have it as you will. There is no desire on my part to hear of his Majesty, so question the Palmer as best pleases you. Admit the man, Steinmetz, but blindfold him as has been suggested."

A few minutes later the monk was led into the hall, advancing with caution as a blind man does, gropingly uncertain regarding his footsteps, placing one sandal tentatively before the other, as if he feared a trap, although led by the captain, who at last removed the bandage from his blinking eyes, thus bringing him suddenly from darkness to light. The monk bowed low to each one present, then stood with folded arms, awaiting permission to speak. If he were indeed a spy he showed no indication of it: his face was calm and imperturbable, and looked little like the countenance of a man in fear of the fate which must quickly have followed conviction as an informant.