The Dove in the Eagle's Nest by Charlotte M. Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕

them with his big axe—Heinz’s broad shoulders near.  Heaven strike with them!  Visit not their forefathers’ sin on those pure spirits.  Some are flying.  Some one has fallen!  O heavens! on which side?  Ah! it is into the Schlangenwald woods that the fugitives direct their flight.  Three—four—the whole troop pursued!  Go not too far!  Run not into needless risk!  Your work is done, and gallantly.  Well done, young knights of Adlerstein!  Which of you is it that stands pointing out safe standing-ground for the men that are raising the waggon?  Which of you is it who stands in converse with a burgher form?  Thanks and blessings! the lads are safe, and full knightly hath been their first emprise.

A quarter of an hour later, a gay step mounted the ascent, and Friedel’s bright face laughed from his helmet: “There, mother, will you crown your knights?  Could you see Ebbo bear down the chief squire? for the old Snake was not there himself.  And whom do you think we rescued, besides a whole band of Venetian traders to whom he had joined himself?  Why, my uncle’s friend, the architect, of whom he used to speak—Master Moritz Schleiermacher.”

“Moritz Schleiermacher!  I knew him as a boy.”

“He had been laying out a Lustgarten for the Romish king at Innspruck, and he is a stout man of his hands, and attempted defence; but he had such a shrewd blow before we came up, that he lay like one dead; and when he was lifted up, he gazed at us like one moon-struck, and said, ‘Are my eyes dazed, or are these the twins of Adlerstein, that are as like as face to mirror?  Lads, lads, your uncle looked not to hear of you acting in this sort.’  But soon we and his people let him know how it was, and that eagles do not have the manner of snakes.”

“Poor Master Moritz!  Is he much hurt?  Is Ebbo bringing him up hither?”

“No, mother, he is but giddied and stunned, and now must you send down store of sausage, sourkraut, meat, wine, and beer; for the wains cannot all cross till daylight, and we must keep ward all night lest the Schlangenwalden should fall on them again.  Plenty of good cheer, mother, to make a right merry watch.”

“Take heed, Friedel mine; a merry watch is scarce a safe one.”

“Even so, sweet motherling, and therefore must Ebbo and I share it.  You must mete out your liquor wisely, you see, enough for the credit of Adlerstein, and enough to keep out the marsh fog, yet not enough to make us snore too soundly.  I am going to take my lute; it would be using it ill not to let it enjoy such a chance as a midnight watch.”

So away went the light-hearted boy, and by and by Christina saw the red watch-fire as she gazed from her turret window.  She would have been pleased to see how, marshalled by a merchant who had crossed the desert from Egypt to Palestine, the waggons were ranged in a circle, and the watches told off, while the food and drink were carefully portioned out.

Freiherr Ebbo, on his own ground, as champion and host, was far more at ease than in the city, and became very friendly with the merchants and architect as they sat round the bright fire, conversing, or at times challenging the mountain echoes by songs to the sound of Friedel’s lute.  When the stars grew bright, most lay down to sleep in the waggons, while others watched, pacing up and down till Karl’s waggon should be over the mountain, and the vigil was relieved.

No disturbance took place, and at sunrise a hasty meal was partaken of, and the work of crossing the river was set in hand.

“Pity,” said Moritz, the architect, “that this ford were not spanned by a bridge, to the avoiding of danger and spoil.”

“Who could build such a bridge?” asked Ebbo.

“Yourself, Herr Freiherr, in union with us burghers of Ulm.  It were well worth your while to give land and stone, and ours to give labour and skill, provided we fixed a toll on the passage, which would be willingly paid to save peril and delay.”

The brothers caught at the idea, and the merchants agreed that such a bridge would be an inestimable boon to all traffickers between Constance, Ulm, and Augsburg, and would attract many travellers who were scared away by the evil fame of the Debateable Ford.  Master Moritz looked at the stone of the mountain, pronounced it excellent material, and already sketched the span of the arches with a view to winter torrents.  As to the site, the best was on the firm ground above the ford; but here only one side was Adlerstein, while on the other Ebbo claimed both banks, and it was probable that an equally sound foundation could be obtained, only with more cost and delay.

After this survey, the travellers took leave of the barons, promising to write when their fellow-citizens should have been sounded as to the bridge; and Ebbo remained in high spirits, with such brilliant purposes that he had quite forgotten his gloomy forebodings.  “Peace instead of war at home,” he said; “with the revenue it will bring, I will build a mill, and set our lads to work, so that they may become less dull and doltish than their parents.  Then will we follow the Emperor with a train that none need despise!  No one will talk now of Adlerstein not being able to take care of himself!”

Letters came from Ulm, saying that the guilds of mercers and wine merchants were delighted with the project, and invited the Baron of Adlerstein to a council at the Rathhaus.  Master Sorel begged the mother to come with her sons to be his guest; but fearing the neighbourhood of Sir Kasimir, she remained at home, with Heinz for her seneschal while her sons rode to the city.  There Ebbo found that his late exploit and his future plan had made him a person of much greater consideration than on his last visit, and he demeaned himself with far more ease and affability in consequence.  He had affairs on his hands too, and felt more than one year older.

The two guilds agreed to build the bridge, and share the toll with the Baron in return for the ground and materials; but they preferred the plan that placed one pier on the Schlangenwald bank, and proposed to write to the Count an offer to include him in the scheme, awarding him a share of the profits in proportion to his contribution.  However vexed at the turn affairs had taken, Ebbo could offer no valid objection, and was obliged to affix his signature to the letter in company with the guildmasters.

It was despatched by the city pursuivants—

The only men who safe might ride;
Their errands on the border side;

and a meeting was appointed in the Rathhaus for the day of their expected return.  The higher burghers sat on their carved chairs in the grand old hall, the lesser magnates on benches, and Ebbo, in an elbowed seat far too spacious for his slender proportions, met a glance from Friedel that told him his merry brother was thinking of the frog and the ox.  The pursuivants entered—hardy, shrewd-looking men, with the city arms decking them wherever there was room for them.

“Honour-worthy sirs,” they said, “no letter did the Graf von Schlangenwald return.”

“Sent he no message?” demanded Moritz Schleiermacher.

“Yea, worthy sir, but scarce befitting this reverend assembly.”  On being pressed, however, it was repeated: “The Lord Count was pleased to swear at what he termed the insolence of the city in sending him heralds, ‘as if,’ said he, ‘the dogs,’ your worships, ‘were his equals.’  Then having cursed your worships, he reviled the crooked writing of Herr Clerk Diedrichson, and called his chaplain to read it to him.  Herr Priest could scarce read three lines for his foul language about the ford.  ‘Never,’ said he, ‘would he consent to raising a bridge—a mean trick,’ so said he, ‘for defrauding him of his rights to what the flood sent him.’”

“But,” asked Ebbo, “took he no note of our explanation, that if he give not the upper bank, we will build lower, where both sides are my own?”

“He passed it not entirely over,” replied the messenger.

“What said he—the very words?” demanded Ebbo, with the paling cheek and low voice that made his passion often seem like patience.

“He said—(the Herr Freiherr will pardon me for repeating the words)—he said, ‘Tell the misproud mongrel of Adlerstein that he had best sit firm in his own saddle ere meddling with his betters, and if he touch one pebble of the Braunwasser, he will rue it.  And before your city-folk take up with him or his, they had best learn whether he have any right at all in the case.’”

“His right is plain,” said Master Gottfried; “full proofs were given in, and his investiture by the Kaisar forms a title in itself.  It is mere bravado, and an endeavour to make mischief between the Baron and the city.”

“Even so did I explain, Herr Guildmaster,” said the pursuivant; “but, pardon me, the Count laughed me to scorn, and quoth he, ‘asked the Kaisar for proof of his father’s death!’”

“Mere mischief-making, as before,” said Master Gottfried, while his nephews started with amaze.  “His father’s death was proved by an eye-witness, whom you still have in your train, have you not, Herr Freiherr?”

“Yea,” replied Ebbo, “he is at Adlerstein now, Heinrich Bauermann, called the Schneiderlein, a lanzknecht, who alone escaped the slaughter, and from whom we have often heard how my father died, choked in his own blood, from a deep breast-wound, immediately after he had sent home his last greetings to my lady mother.”

“Was the corpse restored?” asked the able Rathsherr Ulrich.

“No,” said Ebbo.  “Almost all our retainers had perished, and when a friar was sent to the hostel to bring home the remains, it appeared that the treacherous foe had borne them off—nay, my grandfather’s head was sent to the Diet!”

The whole assembly agreed that the Count could only mean to make the absence of direct evidence about a murder committed eighteen years ago tell in sowing distrust between the allies.  The suggestion was not worth a thought, and it was plain that no site would be available except the Debateable Strand.  To this, however, Ebbo’s title was assailable, both on account of his minority, as well as his father’s unproved death, and of the disputed claim to the ground.  The Rathsherr, Master Gottfried, and others, therefore recommended deferring the work till the Baron should be of age, when, on again tendering his allegiance, he might obtain a distinct recognition of his marches.  But this policy did not consort with the quick spirit of Moritz Schleiermacher, nor with the convenience of the mercers and wine-merchants, who were constant sufferers by the want of a bridge, and afraid of waiting four years, in which a lad like the Baron might return to the nominal instincts of his class, or the Braunwasser might take back the land it had given; whilst Ebbo himself was urgent, with all the defiant fire of youth, to begin building at once in spite of all gainsayers.

“Strife and blood will it cost,” said Master Sorel, gravely.

“What can be had worth the having save at cost of strife and blood?” said Ebbo, with a glance of fire.

“Youth speaks of counting the cost.  Little knows it what it saith,” sighed Master Gottfried.

“Nay,” returned the Rathsherr, “were it otherwise, who would have the heart for enterprise?”

So the young knights mounted, and had ridden about half the way in silence, when Ebbo exclaimed, “Friedel”—and as his brother started, “What art musing on?”

“What thou art thinking of,” said Friedel, turning on him an eye that had not only something of the brightness but of the penetration of a sunbeam.

“I do not think thereon at all,” said Ebbo, gloomily.  “It is a figment of the old serpent to hinder us from snatching his prey from him.”

“Nevertheless,” said Friedel, “I cannot but remember that the Genoese merchant of old told us of a German noble sold by his foes to the Moors.”

“Folly!  That tale was too recent to concern my father.”

“I did not think it did,” said Friedel; “but mayhap that noble’s family rest equally certain of his death.”

“Pfui!” said Ebbo, hotly; “hast not heard fifty times how he died even in speaking, and how Heinz crossed his hands on his breast?  What wouldst have more?”

“Hardly even that,” said Friedel, slightly smiling.

“Tush!” hastily returned his brother, “I meant only by way of proof.  Would an honest old fellow like Heinz be a deceiver?”

“Not wittingly.  Yet I would fain ride to that hostel and make inquiries!”

“The traitor host met his deserts, and was broken on the wheel for murdering a pedlar a year ago,” said Ebbo.  “I would I knew where my father was buried, for then would I bring his corpse honourably back; but as to his being a living man, I will not have it spoken of to trouble my mother.”

“To trouble her?” exclaimed Friedel.

“To trouble her,” repeated Ebbo.  “Long since hath