The Truce of God Part 18

"He is down!" screamed Gilbert, in agony, hewing his way toward the king. Rodolph was alone against a host, while his horse sank up to his knees in the marshy ground. Before succor could arrive, a sword had cloven through the monarch's wrist, and his right hand fell to the ground.

"It is the hand that I raised when swearing allegiance to Henry,"

muttered Rodolph, bitterly. With tears in his eyes, Gilbert struggled to reach the king, who, unarmed and disabled, drove his steed against the circle that hemmed him in. His crest was gone, and his armor hacked and stained with blood: still fearlessly he bore up against his foes, and seemed to rejoice in the unequal strife. The chivalry of Suabia were spurring fast to the rescue, and Gilbert, now supported by a small band of friends, was almost at his side, when G.o.dfrey de Bouillon charged the king with levelled lance. The steel, impelled by a powerful hand, entered at the groin, and Rodolph, mortally wounded, fell to the ground.

The Bohemians uttered a cry of joy at the king's overthrow, for they knew him well by his armor and actions. Their triumph was short-lived, however, for the Suabians, eager to avenge their leader, gave no quarter, and the victorious Saxons had attacked their rear.

"Stop not now!" said Rodolph to the n.o.bles about him; and the lords of Hapsburg, Tubingen, Achalm, Hers, and Stramen swept on to avenge him.

Gilbert remained rooted to the spot. His lance dropped from his hand as he leaped from his horse and knelt beside his monarch. Already the helmet had been removed by one who supported the dying hero in his arms.

From Gregory VII to Pius IX, from the Dominican that accompanied Cortez to the Jesuit who followed a more recent conqueror, the Catholic missionary had been found in the front of battle. It was Father Omehr whose breast now pillowed the monarch's head. Gilbert's heart was almost bursting as he pressed the only remaining hand to his lips and saw that he was recognized. Feeling he could not long survive, Rodolph raised his head and asked, in a dying voice, "Whose is the day?" "Yours, my lord, yours!" replied those who were around him; for Gilbert, unable to speak, did not attempt to answer, but continued to gaze on the eagle eye over which the film of death was gathering fast.

"Yours, my lord, yours," repeated the mourners. At these words, Rodolph fell back in the missionary's arms, saying, "Then I accept with joy the end to which G.o.d has called me. Death no longer disturbs me, since it brings victory with it." From this moment he was speechless; and with his gaze earnestly bent upon his shield, that had been raised by a page, and on which was blazoned a crowned lion sleeping upon the knees of the Blessed Virgin, Rodolph of Suabia breathed his last. The calm face of the dead was not paler than Gilbert, who, unmoved by the shout of victory, watched the clay that had so lately been--a king.

While they bore the body to the royal pavilion, the pursuit was continued with terrible effect. The Saxons remembered the losses they had suffered five years before--the Suabians saw their desolated homes and their expiring duke. The small remnant of Henry's army that escaped the relentless sword and the equally fatal depths of the Elster, were only reserved for a fate still more dreadful. After wandering about, a prey to want and misery, they were now butchered by the peasantry of Saxony and Thuringia, who, armed with hatchets and scythes, flew to avenge upon the relic the wrongs they had suffered from the whole army.

Many of the fugitives plunged into the forests, preferring the slow tooth of famine to the swifter stroke of steel. Others, concealing themselves until the first gust of pa.s.sion was over, besought the mercy of the peasantry, who, at last moved with compa.s.sion or glutted with slaughter, received them as fellow-beings, healed their wounds, and sent them to their homes. Henry of Austria, with a suite little proportioned to his rank, fled to Bohemia.

There was none of the exultation of victory in the allied camp that night: each soldier seemed to feel that the conquest had been too dearly won. Rodolph was not only beloved by the Suabians, who from their cradles had experienced his bounty, his virtue, and justice, but he had endeared himself to the Saxons by his affability, his wisdom, and his valor. He had healed their private quarrels and humbled their public enemies; he found them divided and feeble, he left them united and vigorous. They regarded him as the savior of Saxony, and affectionately styled him "_Pater patriae_." Nor was the grief of the bishops and priests less ardent and sincere, for they felt that a zealous and dauntless defender of the Church had fallen.

The soldiers, scattered about in groups, slept little, but whispered to each other, and fixed their eyes upon the torches that burned so steadily in the royal pavilion. There was stretched, cold and stiff, the victor of the day, his n.o.ble features rigid in death, while his barons knelt weeping around the bier, and the Archbishop of Mayence recited prayers for his soul. The night wore away, and when the morning broke out cheerfully as though no care were in the world, Gilbert de Hers still knelt beside the corpse of the king. No tears were in his eyes then, and the expression of his face varied between deep thought and deep grief. He might have remarked that the scorn had departed from Henry of Stramen's lip; but he did not. His mind was occupied with other things; and silent and sad, he would not leave his vigil beside the dead.

Early in the morning of the sixteenth, the victorious army, sadder than defeat could ever have made it, entered Merseburg. After the obsequies had been performed with equal solemnity and magnificence, the body of the king was deposited in the choir of the cathedral. A statue of gilt bronze for many a year marked the tomb of Rodolph of Suabia.

On the same evening, when the soldiers were scattered through the town, and the n.o.bles had retired to such quarters as they could procure, Gilbert de Hers sought out Father Omehr, and found him in an apartment which the Archbishop of Mayence had obtained for the missionary.

Up to the day of his interview with Rodolph at Mayence, Gilbert's mind had been wholly engrossed with the bright pictures which a vivid and worldly fancy and a keen ambition to excel can always unfold to the eye of youth. At times he remembered the night pa.s.sed in the missionary's humble dwelling, when Bertha's knife had confined him there, and he saw again the crucifix and the sacristan. But this was only for a moment.

The image of the Lady Margaret was sure to enter and banish every other feeling than that of deep love for her. But from the night of the coronation, a change had fallen upon the youth, which Father Omehr's keen eye had not failed to remark. He displayed no longer the same thoughtless gayety or the same dreamy abstraction. He had reveries, it is true, proceeding from the fear of losing the Lady Margaret, or the hope of gaining her. The missionary had refrained from questioning the young knight, nor did Gilbert reveal any secret to his venerable friend.

Whether he might have recovered his former levity can scarcely be answered, but the death of Rodolph seemed to have extinguished it forever. So great a change had this last incident wrought in him, that it was not only evident to Father Omehr and Sir Albert, but all who knew him were struck with his altered manner. They ascribed it to grief alone, for they knew him to have been the monarch's favorite.

When the young n.o.ble and the old priest, whose love for each other had steadily increased, had sat awhile in silence, the latter took his companion by the hand, and, as the visit seemed to solicit the question, said, in a tone evincing the interest of a parent: "My son, what ails you?"

Then, for the first time, the violent and various feelings which had been aroused in Gilbert's breast found a vent in tears. An hour almost pa.s.sed away before he could compose himself, and then he only said: "To witness him struck down by death just as he had gained all for which he lived--to see the fruit of thirty years' labor s.n.a.t.c.hed from his lips before he could taste it! O G.o.d, for what trifles are we toiling!"

It was difficult to recognize Gilbert de Hers in the pale, excited face and trembling figure which, with clasped hands and eyes upturned, uttered these meaning words.

Another hour pa.s.sed, and the youth was kneeling at the missionary's feet.

Midnight was tolled by the great bell of the cathedral, and Gilbert had risen.

"My son," said Father Omehr, as they parted, "you have been taught to despise the world--the next step is to love G.o.d!"

Otto of Nordheim and Welf of Bavaria had determined to keep their forces together until apprised of Henry's further designs, and the allied armies rested upon their arms at Merseburg. In the meantime Henry used every artifice to raise another army; but such a panic had seized his adherents, that they declared they would rather be swallowed up in the earth than again encounter the Saxons. When Otto and Welf were thus a.s.sured of Henry's immediate inability to injure them, they disbanded the troops which had served them so gallantly. Much as the soldiers longed to return to their homes, they did not part without some reluctance. They had long toiled side by side in the same glorious cause; they had shared the same dangers and the same pleasures. They had slept and kept watch together. Reminiscences of hair-breadth escapes and of mutual services had created friendships of no ordinary strength. For many days the different troops could be seen evacuating the city under their feudal chiefs, until at last scarce a soldier remained at Merseburg.

It was about the first of November that the barons of Hers and Stramen set out with the relics of their clans for their lordships in Suabia.

The face of Sandrit of Stramen was sterner than ever, and his son seemed to have caught a portion of his severity. They rode along swiftly, and whenever they spoke it was about the Lady Margaret. Father Omehr alone preserved his equanimity, and even he was now unusually absent and thoughtful. Nor was the retinue of Albert of Hers more cheerful. Sir Albert's eyes were fixed on the ground in deep dejection; tears were ever and anon springing into Humbert's eyes, and even the va.s.sals behind them were gloomy and dispirited. They were returning to a desolated home, it is true; but, what was worse, they were returning without Gilbert.

The Lady Margaret was still at Tubingen. With scarce more fervor did Gregory VII uphold against the world the measures he deemed essential to the liberty, unity, and purity of the Church, than did this young girl pursue the object to which she had consecrated herself--the extinction of the feud. Humble as were her aim and efforts, when contrasted with the objects and exertions of the sainted Pontiff, she could still imitate his piety and perseverance. The reader may have remarked the changes in the Lady Margaret's character. She was naturally haughty and impetuous, though generous and sincere. In spite of her piety, that pride, so difficult to curb, would still break out. But these infirmities had been zealously combated, until religion had triumphed over the weakness of humanity. Still, for some time, the Lady Margaret was unhappy, and accused herself of human love in seeking the reconciliation, imputing the revolution in her feelings to a culpable tenderness. But she soon discovered that vanity--that an aspiration after the _consciousness_ of perfection rather than true piety--occasioned her uneasiness. She no longer tormented herself with dangerous mistrusts, but gave all she had to G.o.d, begging Him to purify the gift and supply her mind with the dispositions to render the offering acceptable. She had learned that most difficult lesson even to the holy--to hope rather than despond in the conviction of unworthiness.

There was one other victory which the Lady Margaret had gained over herself: she had suppressed an inclination to return the attachment of Gilbert de Hers, which she clearly saw could only lead to unfortunate results. It was the remembrance of this inclination that occasioned the misgivings which she had at last obtained grace to disregard.

Such was the Lady Margaret at the time of the battle of Elster. She frequently reverted to the challenge she had given the a.s.sailants of Stramen Castle, and detected in that defiance a relic of her former pride. It was the last spark.

She was now in daily expectation of her father and brother, and of one almost equally dear--Father Omehr. Her walks were confined to a large room adjoining her chamber, and thence along the corridor to the chapel.

Her evening exercise was to walk, supported by the Countess of Montfort, to the altar of the Blessed Virgin, and observe the custom of her earliest youth, by leaving there a bunch of flowers. She spent most of the day in a cushioned chair--she was too weak to kneel long. She loved to sit in the sunlight, holding the countess's hand in her own attenuated fingers. Then she would speak of her father and brother, and say that on the morrow they would surely be reunited. She never mentioned sickness or pain; she saw her companion's tears falling fast at times, but she would only wipe them away with a smile and an embrace. As the sunbeams played upon her wasted features, fringing her hair with gold, and encircling her with a brilliant halo, the countess would turn away from the lovely vision to hide her emotion, and whisper to herself: "This is a glimpse of the world beyond the grave!"

CHAPTER X

We need not mourn for thee, here laid to rest; Earth is thy bed, and not thy grave; the skies Are for thy soul the cradle and the nest.

There live!

Ta.s.sO.

Toward the close of November, on one of those bright warm days, when winter, as if in memory of the departed summer, puts by his blasts and snows, the Countess of Montfort was seated at the bedside of the Lady Margaret. The countess, though in the bloom of health and youth, was sad and tearful. The maiden, though her breath was short and difficult, wore a smile upon her lips. The shadow of death was on her sunken temples, and had touched her quivering nostril and waxen ear, through which the light came as through porcelain. Yet the eyes were closed, and the pale lips moved, and the wasted hands, embracing a crucifix, were joined in prayer. She could still beg G.o.d to heal the feud. How edifying, how beautiful, how sublime the spectacle!--sublimer than the deeds of heroes, the conceptions of poets, the aspirations of genius. What is Archimedes moving the world to the humblest Christian moving heaven by prayer!

In a corner of the room a small statue of the Immaculate Mother of G.o.d stood upon a pedestal. The marble figure breathed all that purity and simplicity so striking in the images which adorned the old Gothic cathedrals. The eyes of the maiden frequently rested upon it, and as often as sunset came, she would bid the countess place a bunch of flowers at its feet. Thus did she continue to the end of her life the pious custom of her infancy.

All was still in the darkened chamber, and the rich tapestry hung mournfully from the walls. The things of earth make the earthly heart ache in the presence of death. But how joyously the eye of faith kindled up, as it rested on the face of the meek sufferer!

The door opened softly, a light step entered, and a female servant whispered something to the countess. She started and looked suddenly at Margaret. The invalid had caught the whisper, low as it was. A slight tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her breast and said, in a low tone:

"G.o.d be praised! It is my father! Bring him to me."

Is this dying girl his daughter! Is this attenuated form all that remains of his n.o.ble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret? Like a blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains. Henry, all tears and sobs, caught his sister's outstretched hand and held it to his heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol. Behind these knelt Father Omehr. For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he too felt the thorn of grief in his throat. But when Margaret's calm eye rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom whence it came.

"Let us thank G.o.d for having thus united us!" said the Lady Margaret, and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.

"Father!" whispered the invalid.

The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent, crushed figure made no reply.

"Father!" she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent's head.

Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand. A minute had changed his face, as if a year had been ravaging there: it was so furrowed, so haggard. He gazed but an instant at his daughter; then hid his face again, muttering but one word: "Margaret!"

"Father," said the maiden to Father Omehr, who now stood at her at her pillow, "is Albert of Hers at home?"

The missionary nodded.

"Let him know that Margaret of Stramen, on her death-bed, entreated him to fly here without a moment's delay."

Even the sound of that hated name produced no perceptible impression upon the heart-broken baron. The Count Montfort, who had just entered the room, suddenly exclaimed:

"I, myself, will deliver your message, my child, as quickly as horse can speed."

Margaret endeavored to thank him, but, exhausted by excitement and exertion, she fell back upon her pillow. The countess prudently led the unresisting father from the room, and despatched Henry to administer to his grief.

"I am changed," said Margaret to the missionary, as she recovered.

"G.o.d has changed you for Himself, my child," replied the old man, struggling with the weakness of human nature, for he had known and loved her from her infancy.