A Book of Golden Deeds

The most trustworthy person she had about her was Helen Kottenner, the lady who had the charge of her little daughter, Princess Elizabeth, and to her she confided her desire that the crown might be secured, so as to prevent the Polish party from getting access to it. Helen herself has written down the history of these strange events, and of her own struggles of mind, at the risk she ran, and the doubt whether good would come of the intrigue; and there can be no doubt that, whether the Queen's conduct were praiseworthy or not, Helen dared a great peril for the sake purely of loyalty and fidelity. 'The Queen's commands', she says, 'sorely troubled me; for it was a dangerous venture for me and my little children, and I turned it over in my mind what I should do, for I had no one to take counsel of but God alone; and I thought if I did it not, and evil arose therefrom, I should be guilty before God and the world. So I consented to risk my life on this difficult undertaking; but desired to have someone to help me.' This was permitted; but the first person to whom the Lady of Kottenner confided her intention, a Croat, lost his color from alarm, looked like one half-dead, and went at once in search of his horse. The next thing that was heard of him was that he had had a bad fall from his horse, and had been obliged to return to Croatia, and the Queen remained much alarmed at her plans being known to one so faint-hearted. However, a more courageous confidant was afterwards found in a Hungarian gentleman, whose name has become illegible in Helen's old manuscript.

The crown was in the vaults of the strong Castle of Plintenburg, also called Vissegrad, which stands upon a bend of the Danube, about twelve miles from the twin cities of Buda and Pesth. It was in a case within a chest, sealed with many seals, and since the King's death, it had been brought up by the nobles, who closely guarded both it and the Queen, into her apartments, and there examined and replaced in the chest. The next night, one of the Queen's ladies upset a wax taper, without being aware of it, and before the fire was discovered, and put out, the corner of the chest was singed, and a hole burnt in the blue velvet cushion that lay on the top. Upon this, the lords had caused the chest to be taken down again into the vault, and had fastened the doors with many locks and with seals. The Castle had further been put into the charge of Ladislas von Gara, the Queen's cousin, and Ban, or hereditary commander, of the border troops, and he had given it over to a Burggraf, or seneschal, who had placed his bed in the chamber where was the door leading to the vaults.

The Queen removed to Komorn, a castle higher up the Danube, in charge of her faithful cousin, Count Ulric of Eily, taking with her her little daughter Elizabeth, Helen Kottenner, and two other ladies. This was the first stage on the journey to Presburg, where the nobles had wished to lodge the Queen, and from thence she sent back Helen to bring the rest of the maids of honor and her goods to join her at Komorn. It was early spring, and snow was still on the ground, and the Lady of Kottenner and her faithful nameless assistant travelled in a sledge; but two Hungarian noblemen went with them, and they had to be most careful in concealing their arrangements. Helen had with her the Queen's signet, and keys; and her friend had a file in each shoe, and keys under his black velvet dress.

On arriving in the evening, they found that the Burggraf had fallen ill, and could not sleep in the chamber leading to the vault, because it belonged to the ladies' chambers, and that he had therefore put a cloth over the padlock of the door and sealed it. There was a stove in the room, and the maidens began to pack up their clothes there, an operation that lasted till eight o'clock; while Helen's friend stood there, talking and jesting with them, trying all the while to hide the files, and contriving to say to Helen: 'Take care that we have a light.' So she begged the old housekeeper to give her plenty of wax tapers, as she had many prayers to say. At last everyone was gone to bed, and there only remained in the room with Helen, an old woman, whom she had brought with her, who knew no German, and was fast asleep. Then the accomplice came back through the chapel, which opened into this same hall. He had on his black velvet gown and felt shoes, and was followed by a servant, who, Helen says, was bound to him by oath, and had the same Christian name as himself, this being evidently an additional bond of fidelity. Helen, who had received from the Queen all the keys to this outer room, let them in, and, after the Burggraf's cloth and seal had been removed, they unlocked the padlock, and the other two locks of the outer door of the vault, and the two men descended into it. There were several other doors, whose chains required to be filed through, and their seals and locks broken, and to the ears of the waiting Helen the noise appeared fatally loud. She says, 'I devoutly prayed to God and the Holy Virgin, that they would support and help me; yet I was in greater anxiety for my soul than for my life, and I prayed to God that He would be merciful to my soul, and rather let me die at once there, than that anything should happen against his will, or that should bring misfortune on my country and people.'

She fancied she heard a noise of armed men at the chapel door, but finding nothing there, believed—not in her own nervous agitation, a thing not yet invented—that it was a spirit, and returning to her prayers, vowed, poor lady, to make a pilgrimage to St. Maria Zell, in Styria, if the Holy Virgin's intercessions obtained their success, and till the pilgrimage could be made, 'to forego every Saturday night my feather bed!' After another false alarm at a supposed noise at the maiden's door, she ventured into the vault to see how her companions were getting on, when she found they had filed away all the locks, except that of the case containing the crown, and this they were obliged to burn, in spite of their apprehension that the smell and smoke might be observed. They then shut up the chest, replaced the padlocks and chains with those they had brought for the purpose, and renewed the seals with the Queen's signet, which bearing the royal arms, would baffle detection that the seals had been tampered with. They then took the crown into the chapel, where they found a red velvet cushion, so large that by taking out some of the stuffing a hiding place was made in which the crown was deposited, and the cushion sewn up over it.

By this time day was dawning, the maidens were dressing, and it was the hour for setting off for Komorn. The old woman who had waited on them came to the Lady of Kottenner to have her wages paid, and be dismissed to Buda. While she was waiting, she began to remark on a strange thing lying by the stove, which, to the Lady Helen's great dismay, she perceived to be a bit of the case in which the crown was kept. She tried to prevent the old woman from noticing it, pushed it into the hottest part of the stove, and, by way of further precaution, took the old woman away with her, on the plea of asking the Queen to make her a bedeswoman at Vienna, and this was granted to her.

When all was ready, the gentleman desired his servant to take the cushion and put it into the sledge designed for himself and the Lady of Kottenner. The man took it on his shoulders, hiding it under an old ox-hide, with the tail hanging down, to the laughter of all beholders. Helen further records the trying to get some breakfast in the marketplace and finding nothing but herrings, also the going to mass, and the care she took not to sit upon the holy crown, though she had to sit on its cushion in the sledge. They dined at an inn, but took care to keep the cushion in sight, and then in the dusk crossed the Danube on the ice, which was becoming very thin, and halfway across it broke under the maidens' carriage, so that Helen expected to be lost in the Danube, crown and all. However, though many packages were lost under the ice, her sledge got safe over, as well as all the ladies, some of whom she took into her conveyance, and all safely arrived at the castle of Komorn late in the evening.

The very hour of their arrival a babe was born to the Queen, and to her exceeding joy it was a son. Count von Eily, hearing 'that a king and friend was born to him', had bonfires lighted, and a torchlight procession on the ice that same night, and early in the morning came the Archbishop of Gran to christen the child. The Queen wished her faithful Helen to be godmother, but she refused in favor of some lady whose family it was probably needful to propitiate. She took off the little princess Elizabeth's mourning for her father and dressed her in red and gold, all the maidens appeared in gay apparel, and there was great rejoicing and thanksgiving when the babe was christened Ladislas, after a sainted King of Hungary.

The peril was, however, far from ended; for many of the Magyars had no notion of accepting an infant for their king, and by Easter, the King of Poland was advancing upon Buda, to claim the realm to which he had been invited. No one had discovered the abstraction of the crown, and Elizabeth's object was to take her child to Weissenburg, and there have him crowned, so as to disconcert the Polish party. She had sent to Buda for cloth of gold to make him a coronation dress, but it did not come in time, and Helen therefore shut herself into the chapel at Komorn, and, with doors fast bolted, cut up a rich and beautiful vestment of his grandfather's, the emperor Sigismund, of red and gold, with silver spots, and made it into a tiny coronation robe, with surplice and humeral (or shoulder-piece), the stole and banner, the gloves and shoes. The Queen was much alarmed by a report that the Polish party meant to stop her on her way to Weissenburg; and if the baggage should be seized and searched, the discovery of the crown might have fatal consequences. Helen, on this, observed that the King was more important than the crown, and that the best way would be to keep them together; so she wrapped up the crown in a cloth, and hid it under the mattress of his cradle, with a long spoon for mixing his pap upon the top, so, said the Queen, he might take care of his crown himself.

On Tuesday before Whit Sunday the party set out, escorted by Count Ulric, and several other knights and nobles. After crossing the Danube in a large boat, the Queen and her little girl were placed in a carriage, or more probably a litter, the other ladies rode, and the cradle and its precious contents were carried by four men; but this the poor little Lassla, as Helen shortens his lengthy name, resented so much, that he began to scream so loud that she was forced to dismount and carry him in her arms, along a road rendered swampy by much rain.

They found all the villages deserted by the peasants, who had fled into the woods, and as most of their lords were of the other party, they expected an attack, so the little king was put into the carriage with his mother and sister, and the ladies formed a circle round it 'that if anyone shot at the carriage we might receive the stroke'. When the danger was over the child was taken out again, for he would be content nowhere but in the arms of either his nurse or of faithful Helen, who took turns to carry him on foot nearly all the way, sometimes in a high wind which covered them with dust, sometimes in great heat, sometimes in rain so heavy that Helen's fur pelisse, with which she covered his cradle, had to be wrung out several times. They slept at an inn, round which the gentlemen lighted a circle of fires, and kept watch all night.

Weissenburg was loyal, five hundred armed gentlemen came out to meet them, and on Whitsun Eve they entered the city, Helen carrying her little king in her arms in the midst of a circle of these five hundred holding their naked swords aloft. On Whit Sunday, Helen rose early, bathed the little fellow, who was twelve weeks old that day, and dressed him. He was then carried in her arms to the church, beside his mother. According to the old Hungarian customs, the choir door was closed—the burghers were within, and would not open till the new monarch should have taken the great coronation oath to respect the Hungarian liberties and laws.

This oath was taken by the Queen in the name of her son, the doors were opened, and all the train entered, the little princess being lifted up to stand by the organ, lest she should be hurt in the throng. First Helen held her charge up to be confirmed, and then she had to hold him while he was knighted, with a richly adorned sword bearing the motto 'Indestructible', and by a stout Hungarian knight called Mikosch Weida, who struck with such a goodwill that Helen felt the blow on her arm, and the Queen cried out to him not to hurt the child.

The Archbishop of Gran anointed the little creature, dressed him in the red and gold robe, and put on his head the holy crown, and the people admired to see how straight he held up his neck under it; indeed, they admired the loudness and strength of his cries, when, as the good lady records, 'the noble king had little pleasure in his coronation for he wept aloud'. She had to hold him up for the rest of the service, while Count Ulric of Eily held the crown over his head, and afterwards to seat him in a chair in St. Peter's Church, and then he was carried home in his cradle, with the count holding the crown over his head, and the other regalia borne before him.

And thus Ladislas became King of Hungary at twelve weeks old, and was then carried off by his mother into Austria for safety. Whether this secret robbery of the crown, and coronation by stealth, was wise or just on the mother's part is a question not easy of answer—though of course she deemed it her duty to do her utmost for her child's rights. Of Helen Kottenner's deep fidelity and conscientious feeling there can be no doubt, and her having acted with her eyes fully open to the risk she ran, her trust in Heaven overcoming her fears and terrors, rendered her truly a heroine.

The crown has had many other adventures, and afterwards was kept in an apartment of its own, in the castle of Ofen, with an antechamber guarded by two grenadiers. The door was of iron, with three locks, and the crown itself was contained in an iron chest with five seals. All this, however, did not prevent it from being taken away and lost in the Revolution of 1849.

GEORGE THE TRILLER

1455

I  'Why, Lady dear, so sad of cheer?       Hast waked the livelong night?'     'My dreams foreshow my children's woe,       Ernst bold and Albrecht bright.      'From the dark glades of forest shades       There rushed a raging boar,     Two sapling oaks with cruel strokes       His crooked tusks uptore.'      'Ah, Lady dear, dismiss thy fear       Of phantoms haunting sleep!'     'The giant knight, Sir Konrad hight,       Hath vowed a vengeance deep.     'My Lord, o'erbold, hath kept his gold,       And scornful answer spake:     'Kunz, wisdom learn, nor strive to burn       The fish within their lake.'     'See, o'er the plain, with all his train,       My Lord to Leipzig riding;     Some danger near my children dear       My dream is sure betiding.'     'The warder waits before the gates,       The castle rock is steep,     The massive walls protect the halls,       Thy children safely sleep.'II     'T is night's full noon, fair shines the moon       On Altenburg's old halls,     The silver beams in tranquil streams       Rest on the ivied walls.     Within their tower the midnight hour       Has wrapt the babes in sleep,     With unclosed eyes their mother lies       To listen and to weep.     What sudden sound is stirring round?       What clang thrills on her ear?     Is it the breeze amid the trees       Re-echoing her fear?     Swift from her bed, in sudden dread,       She to her lattice flies:     Oh! sight of woe, from far below       Behold a ladder rise:     And from yon tower, her children's bower,       Lo! Giant Kunz descending!     Ernst, in his clasp of iron grasp,       His cries with hers is blending.     'Oh! hear my prayer, my children spare,       The sum shall be restored;     Nay, twenty-fold returned the gold,       Thou know'st how true my Lord.'     With mocking grace he bowed his face:       'Lady, my greetings take;     Thy Lord may learn how I can burn       The fish within their lake.'     Oh! double fright, a second knight       Upon the ladder frail,     And in his arm, with wild alarm,       A child uplifts his wail!     Would she had wings! She wildly springs       To rouse her slumbering train;     Bolted without, her door so stout       Resists her efforts vain!     No mortal ear her calls can hear,       The robbers laugh below;     Her God alone may hear her moan,       Or mark her hour of woe.     A cry below, 'Oh! let me go,       I am no prince's brother;     Their playmate I—Oh! hear my cry       Restore me to my mother!'     With anguish sore she shakes the door.       Once more Sir Kunz is rearing     His giant head. His errand sped       She sees him reappearing.     Her second child in terror wild       Is struggling in his hold;     Entreaties vain she pours again,       Still laughs the robber bold.     'I greet thee well, the Elector tell       How Kunz his counsel takes,     And let him learn that I can burn       The fish within their lakes.'III     'Swift, swift, good steed, death's on thy speed,       Gain Isenburg ere morn;     Though far the way, there lodged our prey,       We laugh the Prince to scorn.     'There Konrad's den and merry men       Will safely hold the boys—     The Prince shall grieve long ere we leave       Our hold upon his joys.     'But hark! but hark! how through the dark       The castle bell is tolling,     From tower and town o'er wood and down,       The like alarm notes rolling.     'The peal rings out! echoes the shout!       All Saxony's astir;     Groom, turn aside, swift must we ride       Through the lone wood of fir.'     Far on before, of men a score       Prince Ernst bore still sleeping;     Thundering as fast, Kunz came the last,       Carrying young Albrecht weeping.     The clanging bell with distant swell       Dies on the morning air,     Bohemia's ground another bound       Will reach, and safety there.     The morn's fresh beam lights a cool stream,       Charger and knight are weary,     He draws his rein, the child's sad plain       He meets with accents cheery.     'Sir Konrad good, be mild of mood,       A fearsome giant thou!     For love of heaven, one drop be given       To cool my throbbing brow!'     Kunz' savage heart feels pity's smart,       He soothes the worn-out child,     Bathes his hot cheeks, and bending seeks       For woodland berries wild.     A deep-toned bark! A figure dark,       Smoke grimed and sun embrowned,     Comes through the wood in wondering mood,       And by his side a hound.     'Oh, to my aid, I am betrayed,       The Elector's son forlorn,     From out my bed these men of dread       Have this night hither borne!'     'Peace, if thou 'rt wise,' the false groom cries,       And aims a murderous blow;     His pole-axe long, his arm so strong,       Must lay young Albrecht low.     See, turned aside, the weapon glide       The woodman's pole along,     To Albrecht's clasp his friendly grasp       Pledges redress from wrong.     Loud the hound's note as at the throat       Of the false groom he flies;     Back at the sounds Sir Konrad bounds:       'Off hands, base churl,' he cries.     The robber lord with mighty sword,       Mailed limbs of giant strength—     The woodman stout, all arms without,       Save his pole's timber length—     Unequal fight! Yet for the right       The woodman holds the field;     Now left, now right, repels the knight,       His pole full stoutly wields.     His whistle clear rings full of cheer,       And lo! his comrades true,     All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty,       Burst on Sir Konrad's view.     His horse's rein he grasps amain       Into his selle to spring,     His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel       Has caught, his weapons ring.     His frightened steed with wildest speed       Careers with many a bound;     Sir Konrad's heel fast holds the steel,       His head is on the ground.     The peasants round lift from the ground       His form in woeful plight,     To convent cell, for keeping well,       Bear back the robber knight.     'Our dear young lord, what may afford       A charcoal-burners' store     We freely spread, milk, honey, bread,       Our heated kiln before!'IV     Three mournful days the mother prays,       And weeps the children's fate;     The prince in vain has scoured the plain—       A sound is at the gate.     The mother hears, her head she rears,       She lifts her eager finger—     'Rejoice, rejoice, 't is Albrecht's voice,       Open! Oh, wherefore linger?'     See, cap in hand the woodman stand—       Mother, no more of weeping—     His hound well tried is at his side,       Before him Albrecht leaping,     Cries, 'Father dear, my friend is here!       My mother! Oh, my mother!     The giant knight he put to flight,       The good dog tore the other.'     Oh! who the joy that greets the boy,       Or who the thanks may tell,     Oh how they hail the woodman's tale,       How he had 'trilled him well!'3     'I trilled him well,' he still will tell       In homely phrase his story,     To those who sought to know how wrought       An unarmed hand such glory.     That mother sad again is glad,       Her home no more bereft;     For news is brought Ernst may be sought       Within the Devil's Cleft.     That cave within, these men of sin       Had learnt their leader's fall,     The prince to sell they proffered well       At price of grace to all.     Another day and Earnest lay,       Safe on his mother's breast;     Thus to her sorrow a gladsome morrow       Had brought her joy and rest.     The giant knight was judged aright,       Sentenced to death he lay;     The elector mild, since safe his child,       Sent forth the doom to stay.     But all to late, and o'er the gate       Of Freiburg's council hall     Sir Konrad's head, with features dread,       The traitor's eyes appal.     The scullion Hans who wrought their plans,       And oped the window grate,     Whose faith was sold for Konrad's gold,       He met a traitor's fateV     Behold how gay the wood to-day,       The little church how fair,     What banners wave, what tap'stry brave       Covers its carvings rare!     A goodly train—the parents twain,       And here the princess two,     Here with his pole, George, stout of soul,       And all his comrades true.     High swells the chant, all jubilant,       And each boy bending low,     Humbly lays down the wrapping gown       He wore the night of woe.     Beside them lay a smock of grey,       All grimed with blood and smoke;     A thankful sign to Heaven benign,       That spared the sapling oak.     'What prize would'st hold, thou 'Triller bold',       Who trilled well for my son?'     'Leave to cut wood, my Lord, so good,       Near where the fight was won.'     'Nay, Triller mine, the land be thine,       My trusty giant-killer,     A farm and house I and my spouse       Grant free to George the Triller!'     Years hundred four, and half a score,       Those robes have held their place;     The Triller's deed has grateful meed       From Albrecht's royal race.

The child rescued by George the Triller's Golden Deed was the ancestor of the late Prince Consort, and thus of our future line of kings. He was the son of the Elector Friedrich the mild of Saxony, and of Margarethe of Austria, whose dream presaged her children's danger. The Elector had incurred the vengeance of the robber baron, Sir Konrad of Kauffingen, who, from his huge stature, was known as the Giant Ritter, by refusing to make up to him the sum of 4000 gulden which he had had to pay for his ransom after being made prisoner in the Elector's service. In reply to his threats, all the answer that the robber knight received was the proverbial one, 'Do not try to burn the fish in the ponds, Kunz.'

Stung by the irony, Kunz bribed the elector's scullion, by name Hans Schwabe, to admit him and nine chosen comrades into the Castle of Altenburg on the night of the 7th of July, 1455, when the Elector was to be at Leipzig. Strange to say, this scullion was able to write, for a letter is extant from him to Sir Konrad, engaging to open the window immediately above the steep precipice, which on that side was deemed a sufficient protection to the castle, and to fasten a rope ladder by which to ascend the crags. This window can still be traced, though thenceforth it was bricked up. It gave access to the children's apartments, and on his way to them, the robber drew the bolt of their mother's door, so that though, awakened by the noise, she rushed to her window, she was a captive in her own apartment, and could not give the alarm, nor do anything but join her vain entreaties to the cries of her helpless children. It was the little son of the Count von Bardi whom Wilhelm von Mosen brought down by mistake for young Albrecht, and Kunz, while hurrying up to exchange the children, bade the rest of his band hasten on to secure the elder prince without waiting for him. He followed in a few seconds with Albrecht in his arms, and his servant Schweinitz riding after him, but he never overtook the main body. Their object was to reach Konrad's own Castle of Isenburg on the frontiers of Bohemia, but they quickly heard the alarm bells ringing, and beheld beacons lighted upon every hill. They were forced to betake themselves to the forests, and about half-way, Prince Ernst's captors, not daring to go any father, hid themselves and him in a cavern called the Devil's Cleft on the right bank of the River Mulde.