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Dove in the Eagle's Nest

<h2>CHAPTER VI THE BLESSED FRIEDMUND’S WAKE</h2> Midsummer-Day arrived, and the village of Adlerstein presented a most unusual spectacle.  The wake was the occasion of a grand fair for all the mountain-side, and it was an understood thing that the Barons, instead of molesting the pedlars, merchants, and others who attended it, contented themselves with demanding a toll from every one who passed the Kohler’s hut on the one side, or the Gemsbock’s Pass on the other; and this toll, being the only coin by which they came honestly in the course of the year, was regarded as a certainty and highly valued.  Moreover, it was the only time that any purchases could be made, and the flotsam of the ford did not always include all even of the few requirements of the inmates of the castle; it was the only holiday, sacred or secular, that ever gladdened the Eagle’s Rock. So all the inmates of the castle prepared to enjoy themselves, except the heads of the house.  The Freiherr had never been at one of these wakes since the first after he was excommunicated, when he had stalked round to show his indifference to the sentence; and the Freiherrinn snarled out such sentences of disdain towards the concourse, that it might be supposed that she hated the sight of her kind; but Ursel had all the household purchases to make, and the kitchen underlings were to take turns to go and come, as indeed were the men-at-arms, who were set to watch the toll-bars. Christina had packed up a small bundle, for the chance of being unable to return to the castle without missing her escort, though she hoped that the fair might last two days, and that she should thus be enabled to return and bring away the rest of her property.  She was more and more resolved on going, but her heart was less and less inclined to departure.  And bitter had been her weeping through all the early light hours of the long morning—weeping that she tried to think was all for Ermentrude; and all, amid prayers she could scarce trust herself to offer, that the generous, kindly nature might yet work free of these evil surroundings, and fulfil the sister’s dying wish, she should never see it; but, when she should hear that the Debateable Ford was the Friendly Ford, then would she know that it was the doing of the Good Baron Ebbo.  Could she venture on telling him so?  Or were it not better that there were no farewell?  And she wept again that he should think her ungrateful.  She could not persuade herself to release the doves, but committed the charge to Ursel to let them go in case she should not return. So tear-stained was her face, that, ashamed that it should be seen, she wrapped it closely in her hood and veil when she came down and joined her father.  The whole scene swam in tears before her eyes when she saw the whole green slope from the chapel covered with tents and booths, and swarming with pedlars and mountaineers in their picturesque dresses.  Women and girls were exchanging the yarn of their winter’s spinning for bright handkerchiefs; men drove sheep, goats, or pigs to barter for knives, spades, or weapons; others were gazing at simple shows—a dancing bear or ape—or clustering round a Minnesinger; many even then congregating in booths for the sale of beer.  Further up, on the flat space of sward above the chapel, were some lay brothers, arranging for the representation of a mystery—a kind of entertainment which Germany owed to the English who came to the Council of Constance, and which the monks of St. Ruprecht’s hoped might infuse some religious notions into the wild, ignorant mountaineers. First however Christina gladly entered the church.  Crowded though it were, it was calmer than the busy scene without.  Faded old tapestry was decking its walls, representing apparently some subject entirely alien to St. John or the blessed hermit; Christina rather thought it was Mars and Venus, but that was all the same to every one else.  And there was a terrible figure of St. John, painted life-like, with a real hair-cloth round his loins, just opposite to her, on the step of the Altar; also poor Friedmund’s bones, dressed up in a new serge amice and hood; the stone from Nicæa was in a gilded box, ready in due time to be kissed; and a preaching friar (not one of the monks of St. Ruprecht’s) was in the midst of a sermon, telling how St. John presided at the Council of Nicæa till the Emperor Maximius cut off his head at the instance of Herodius—full justice being done to the dancing—and that the blood was sprinkled on this very stone, whereupon our Holy Father the Pope decreed that whoever would kiss the said stone, and repeat the Credo five times afterwards, should be capable of receiving an indulgence for 500 years: which indulgence must however be purchased at the rate of six groschen, to be bestowed in alms at Rome.  And this inestimable benefit he, poor Friar Peter, had come from his brotherhood of St. Francis at Offingen solely to dispense to the poor mountaineers. It was disappointing to find this profane mummery going on instead of the holy services to which Christina had looked forward for strength and comfort; she was far too well instructed not to be scandalized at the profane deception which was ripening fast for Luther, only thirty years later; and, when the stone was held up by the friar in one hand, the printed briefs of indulgence in the other, she shrunk back.  Her father however said, “Wilt have one, child?  Five hundred years is no bad bargain.” “My uncle has small trust in indulgences,” she whispered. “All lies, of course,” quoth Hugh; “yet they’ve the Pope’s seal, and I have more than half a mind to get one.  Five hundred years is no joke, and I am sure of purgatory, since I bought this medal at the Holy House of Loretto.” And he went forward, and invested six groschen in one of the papers, the most religious action poor Christina had ever seen him perform.  Other purchasers came forward—several, of the castle knappen, and a few peasant women who offered yarn or cheeses as equivalents for money, but were told with some insolence to go and sell their goods, and bring the coin. After a time, the friar, finding his traffic slack, thought fit to remove, with his two lay assistants, outside the chapel, and try the effects of an out-of-door sermon.  Hugh Sorel, who had been hitherto rather diverted by the man’s gestures and persuasions, now decided on going out into the fair in quest of an escort for his daughter, but as she saw Father Norbert and another monk ascending from the stairs leading to the hermit’s cell, she begged to be allowed to remain in the church, where she was sure to be safe, instead of wandering about with him in the fair. He was glad to be unencumbered, though he thought her taste unnatural; and, promising to return for her when he had found an escort, he left her. Father Norbert had come for the very purpose of hearing confessions, and Christina’s next hour was the most comfortable she had spent since Ermentrude’s death. After this however the priests were called away, and long, long did Christina first kneel and then sit in the little lonely church, hearing the various sounds without, and imagining that her father had forgotten her, and that he and all the rest were drinking, and then what would become of her?  Why had she quitted old Ursel’s protection? Hours of waiting and nameless alarm must have passed, for the sun was waxing low, when at length she heard steps coming up the hermit’s cell, and a head rose above the pavement which she recognized with a wild throb of joy, but, repressing her sense of gladness, she only exclaimed, “Oh, where is my father!” “I have sent him to the toll at the Gemsbock’s Pass,” replied Sir Eberhard, who had by this time come up the stairs, followed by Brother Peter and the two lay assistants.  Then, as Christina turned on him her startled, terrified eyes in dismay and reproach for such thoughtlessness, he came towards her, and, bending his head and opening his hand, he showed on his palm two gold rings.  “There, little one,” he said; “now shalt thou never again shut me out.” Her senses grew dizzy.  “Sir,” she faintly said, “this is no place to delude a poor maiden.” “I delude thee not.  The brother here waits to wed us.” “Impossible!  A burgher maid is not for such as you.” “None but a burgher maid will I wed,” returned Sir Eberhard, with all the settled resolution of habits of command.  “See, Christina, thou art sweeter and better than any lady in the land; thou canst make me what she—the blessed one who lies there—would have me.  I love thee as never knight loved lady.  I love thee so that I have not spoken a word to offend thee when my heart was bursting; and”—as he saw her irrepressible tears—“I think thou lovest me a little.” “Ah!” she gasped with a sob, “let me go.” “Thou canst not go home; there is none here fit to take charge of thee.  Or if there were, I would slay him rather than let thee go.  No, not so,” he said, as he saw how little those words served his cause; “but without thee I were a mad and desperate man.  Christina, I will not answer for myself if thou dost not leave this place my wedded wife.” “Oh!” implored Christina, “if you would only betroth me, and woo me like an honourable maiden from my home at Ulm!” “Betroth thee, ay, and wed thee at once,” replied Eberhard, who, all along, even while his words were most pleading, had worn a look and manner of determined authority and strength, good-natured indeed, but resolved.  “I am not going to miss my opportunity, or baulk the friar.” The friar, who had meantime been making a few needful arrangements for the ceremony, advanced towards them.  He was a good-humoured, easy-going man, who came prepared to do any office that came in his way on such festival days at the villages round; and peasant marriages at such times were not uncommon.  But something now staggered him, and he said anxiously— “This maiden looks convent-bred!  Herr Reiter, pardon me; but if this be the breaking of a cloister, I can have none of it.” “No such thing,” said Eberhard; “she is town-bred, that is all.” “You would swear to it, on the holy mass yonder, both of you?” said the friar, still suspiciously. “Yea,” replied Eberhard, “and so dost thou, Christina.” This was the time if ever to struggle against her destiny.  The friar would probably have listened to her if she had made any vehement opposition to a forced marriage, and if not, a few shrieks would have brought perhaps Father Norbert, and certainly the whole population; but the horror and shame of being found in such a situation, even more than the probability that she might meet with vengeance rather than protection, withheld her.  Even the friar could hardly have removed her, and this was her only chance of safety from the Baroness’s fury.  Had she hated and loathed Sir Eberhard, perhaps she had striven harder, but his whole demeanour constrained and quelled her, and the chief effort she made against yielding was the reply, “I am no cloister maid, holy father, but—” The “but” was lost in the friar’s jovial speech.  “Oh, then, all is well!  Take thy place, pretty one, there, by the door, thou know’st it should be in the porch, but—ach, I understand!” as Eberhard quietly drew the bolt within.  “No, no, little one, I have no time for bride scruples and coyness; I have to train three dull-headed louts to be Shem, Ham, and Japhet before dark.  Hast confessed of late?” “This morning, but—” said Christina, and “This morning,” to her great joy, said Eberhard, and, in her satisfaction thereat, her second “but” was not followed up. The friar asked their names, and both gave the Christian name alone; then the brief and simple rite was solemnized in its shortest form.  Christina had, by very force of surprise and dismay, gone through all without signs of agitation, except the quivering of her whole frame, and the icy coldness of the hand, where Eberhard had to place the ring on each finger in turn. But each mutual vow was a strange relief to her long-tossed and divided mind, and it was rest indeed to let her affection have its will, and own him indeed as a protector to be loved instead of shunned.  When all was over, and he gathered the two little cold hands into his large one, his arm supporting her trembling form, she felt for the moment, poor little thing, as if she could never be frightened again. Parish registers were not, even had this been a parish church, but Brother Peter asked, when he had concluded, “Well, my son, which of his flock am I to report to your Pfarrer as linked together?” “The less your tongue wags on that matter till I call on you, the better,” was the stern reply.  “Look you, no ill shall befall you if you are wise, but remember, against the day I call you to bear witness, that you have this day wedded Baron Eberhard von Adlerstein the younger, to Christina, the daughter of Hugh Sorel, the Esquire of Ulm.” “Thou hast played me a trick, Sir Baron!” said the friar, somewhat dismayed, but more amused, looking up at Eberhard, who, as Christina now saw, had divested himself of his gilt spurs, gold chain, silvered belt and horn, and eagle’s plume, so as to have passed for a simple lanzknecht.  “I would have had no such gear as this!” “So I supposed,” said Eberhard coolly. “Young folks! young folks!” laughed the friar, changing his tone, and holding up his finger slyly; “the little bird so cunningly nestled in the church to fly out my Lady Baroness!  Well, so thou hast a pretty, timid lambkin there, Sir Baron.  Take care you use her mildly.” Eberhard looked into Christina’s face with a smile, that to her, at least, was answer enough; and he held out half a dozen links of his gold chain to the friar, and tossed a coin to each of the lay brethren. “Not for the poor friar himself,” explained Brother Peter, on receiving this marriage fee; “it all goes to the weal of the brotherhood.” “As you please,” said Eberhard.  “Silence, that is all!  And thy friary—?” “The poor house of St. Francis at Offingen for the present, noble sir,” said the priest.  “There will you hear of me, if you find me not.  And now, fare thee well, my gracious lady.  I hope one day thou wilt have more words to thank the poor brother who has made thee a noble Baroness.” “Ah, good father, pardon my fright and confusion,” Christina tried to murmur, but at that moment a sudden glow and glare of light broke out on the eastern rock, illuminating the fast darkening little church with a flickering glare, that made her start in terror as if the fires of heaven were threatening this stolen marriage; but the friar and Eberhard both exclaimed, “The Needfire alight already!”  And she recollected how often she had seen these bonfires on Midsummer night shining red on every hill around Ulm.  Loud shouts were greeting the uprising flame, and the people gathering thicker and thicker on the slope.  The friar undid the door to hasten out into the throng, and Eberhard said he had left his spurs and belt in the hermit’s cell, and must return thither, after which he would walk home with his bride, moving at the same time towards the stair, and thereby causing a sudden scuffle and fall.  “So, master hermit,” quoth Eberhard, as the old man picked himself up, looking horribly frightened; “that’s your hermit’s abstraction, is it?  No whining, old man, I am not going to hurt thee, so thou canst hold thy tongue.  Otherwise I will smoke thee out of thy hole like a wild cat!  What, thou aiding me with my belt, my lovely one?  Thanks; the snap goes too hard for thy little hands.  Now, then, the fire will light us gaily down the mountain side.” But it soon appeared that to depart was impossible, unless by forcing a way through the busy throng in the full red glare of the firelight, and they were forced to pause at the opening of the hermit’s cave, Christina leaning on her husband’s arm, and a fold of his mantle drawn round her to guard her from the night-breeze of the mountain, as they waited for a quiet space in which to depart unnoticed.  It was a strange, wild scene!  The fire was on a bare, flat rock, which probably had been yearly so employed ever since the Kelts had brought from the East the rite that they had handed on to the Swabians—the Beltane fire, whose like was blazing everywhere in the Alps, in the Hartz, nay, even in England, Scotland, and on the granite points of Ireland.  Heaped up for many previous days with faggots from the forest, then apparently inexhaustible, the fire roared and crackled, and rose high, red and smoky, into the air, paling the moon, and obscuring the stars.  Round it, completely hiding the bonfire itself, were hosts of dark figures swarming to approach it—all with a purpose.  All held old shoes or superannuated garments in their hands to feed the flame; for it was esteemed needful that every villager should contribute something from his house—once, no doubt, as an offering to Bel, but now as a mere unmeaning observance.  And shrieks of merriment followed the contribution of each too well-known article of rubbish that had been in reserve for the Needfire!  Girls and boys had nuts to throw in, in pairs, to judge by their bounces of future chances of matrimony.  Then came a shouting, tittering, and falling back, as an old boor came forward like a priest with something heavy and ghastly in his arms, which was thrown on with a tremendous shout, darkened the glow for a moment, then hissed, cracked, and emitted a horrible odour. It was a horse’s head, the right owner of which had been carefully kept for the occasion, though long past work.  Christina shuddered, and felt as if she had fallen upon a Pagan ceremony; as indeed was true enough, only that the Adlersteiners attached no meaning to the performance, except a vague notion of securing good luck. With the same idea the faggots were pulled down, and arranged so as to form a sort of lane of fire.  Young men rushed along it, and then bounded over the diminished pile, amid loud shouts of laughter and either admiration or derision; and, in the meantime, a variety of odd, recusant noises, grunts, squeaks, and lowings proceeding from the darkness were explained to the startled little bride by her husband to come from all the cattle of the mountain farms around, who were to have their weal secured by being driven through the Needfire. It may well be imagined that the animals were less convinced of the necessity of this performance than their masters.  Wonderful was the clatter and confusion, horrible the uproar raised behind to make the poor things proceed at all, desperate the shout when some half-frantic creature kicked or attempted a charge wild the glee when a persecuted goat or sheep took heart of grace, and flashed for one moment between the crackling, flaring, smoking walls.  When one cow or sheep off a farm went, all the others were pretty sure to follow it, and the owner had then only to be on the watch at the other end to turn them back, with their flame-dazzled eyes, from going unawares down the precipice, a fate from which the passing through the fire was evidently not supposed to ensure them.  The swine, those special German delights, were of course the most refractory of all.  Some, by dint of being pulled away from the lane of fire, were induced to rush through it; but about half-way they generally made a bolt, either sidelong through the flaming fence or backwards among the legs of their persecutors, who were upset amid loud imprecations.  One huge, old, lean, high-backed sow, with a large family, truly feminine in her want of presence of mind, actually charged into the midst of the bonfire itself, scattering it to the right and left with her snout, and emitting so horrible a smell of singed bacon, that it might almost be feared that some of her progeny were anticipating the invention of Chinese roasting-pigs.  However, their proprietor, Jobst, counted them out all safe on the other side, and there only resulted some sighs and lamentations among the seniors, such as Hatto and Ursel, that it boded ill to have the Needfire trodden out by an old sow. All the castle live-stock were undergoing the same ceremony.  Eberhard concerned himself little about the vagaries of the sheep and pigs, and only laughed a little as the great black goat, who had seen several Midsummer nights, and stood on his guard, made a sudden short run and butted down old Hatto, then skipped off like a chamois into the darkness, unheeding, the old rogue, the whispers that connected his unlucky hue with the doings of the Walpurgisnacht.  But when it came to the horses, Eberhard could not well endure the sight of the endeavours to force them, snorting, rearing, and struggling, through anything so abhorrent to them as the hedge of fire. The Schneiderlein, with all the force of his powerful arm, had hold of Eberhard’s own young white mare, who, with ears turned back, nostrils dilated, and wild eyes, her fore-feet firmly planted wide apart, was using her whole strength for resistance; and, when a heavy blow fell on her, only plunged backwards, and kicked without advancing.  It was more than Eberhard could endure, and Christina’s impulse was to murmur, “O do not let him do it;” but this he scarcely heard, as he exclaimed, “Wait for me here!” and, as he stepped forward, sent his voice before him, forbidding all blows to the mare. The creature’s extreme terror ceased at once upon hearing his voice, and there was an instant relaxation of all violence of resistance as he came up to her, took her halter from the Schneiderlein, patted her glossy neck, and spoke to her.  But the tumult of warning voices around him assured him that it would be a fatal thing to spare the steed the passage through the fire, and he strove by encouragements and caresses with voice and hand to get her forward, leading her himself; but the poor beast trembled so violently, and, though making a few steps forward, stopped again in such exceeding horror of the flame, that Eberhard had not the heart to compel her, turned her head away, and assured her that she should not be further tormented. “The gracious lordship is wrong,” said public opinion, by the voice of old Bauer Ulrich, the sacrificer of the horse’s head.  “Heaven forfend that evil befall him and that mare in the course of the year.” And the buzz of voices concurred in telling of the recusant pigs who had never developed into sausages, the sheep who had only escaped to be eaten by wolves, the mule whose bones had been found at the bottom of an abyss. Old Ursel was seriously concerned, and would have laid hold on her young master to remonstrate, but a fresh notion had arisen—Would the gracious Freiherr set a-rolling the wheel, which was already being lighted in the fire, and was to conclude the festivities by being propelled down the hill—figuring, only that no one present knew it, the sun’s declension from his solstitial height?  Eberhard made no objection; and Christina, in her shelter by the cave, felt no little dismay at being left alone there, and moreover had a strange, weird feeling at the wild, uncanny ceremony he was engaged in, not knowing indeed that it was sun-worship, but afraid that it could be no other than unholy sorcery. The wheel, flaring or reddening in all its spokes, was raised from the bonfire, and was driven down the smoothest piece of green sward, which formed an inclined plane towards the stream.  If its course was smooth, and it only became extinguished by leaping into the water, the village would flourish; and prosperity above all was expected if it should spring over the narrow channel, and attempt to run up the other side.  Such things had happened in the days of the good Freiherren Ebbo and Friedel, though the wheel had never gone right since the present baron had been excommunicated; but his heir having been twice seen at mass in this last month great hopes were founded upon him. There was a shout to clear the slope.  Eberhard, in great earnest and some anxiety, accepted the gauntlet that he was offered to protect his hand, steadied the wheel therewith, and, with a vigorous impulse from hand and foot, sent it bounding down the slope, among loud cries and a general scattering of the idlers who had crowded full into the very path of the fiery circle, which flamed up brilliantly for the moment as it met the current of air.  But either there was an obstacle in the way, or the young Baron’s push had not been quite straight: the wheel suddenly swerved aside, its course swerved to the right, maugre all the objurgations addressed to it as if it had been a living thing, and the next moment it had disappeared, all but a smoky, smouldering spot of red, that told where it lay, charring and smoking on its side, without having fulfilled a quarter of its course. People drew off gravely and silently, and Eberhard himself was strangely discomfited when he came back to the hermitage, and, wrapping Christina in his cloak, prepared to return, so soon as the glare of the fire should have faded from his eyesight enough to make it safe to tread so precipitous a path.  He had indeed this day made a dangerous venture, and both he and Christina could not but feel disheartened by the issue of all the omens of the year, the more because she had a vague sense of wrong in consulting or trusting them.  It seemed to her all one frightened, uncomprehended dream ever since her father had left her in the chapel; and, though conscious of her inability to have prevented her marriage, yet she blamed herself, felt despairing as she thought of the future, and, above all, dreaded the Baron and the Baroness and their anger.  Eberhard, after his first few words, was silent, and seemed solely absorbed in leading her safely along the rocky path, sometimes lifting her when he thought her in danger of stumbling.  It was one of the lightest, shortest nights of the year, and a young moon added to the brightness in open places, while in others it made the rocks and stones cast strange elvish shadows.  The distance was not entirely lost; other Beltane fires could be seen, like beacons, on every hill, and the few lights in the castle shone out like red fiery eyes in its heavy dark pile of building. Before entering, Eberhard paused, pulled off his own wedding-ring, and put it into his bosom, and taking his bride’s hand in his, did the same for her, and bade her keep the ring till they could wear them openly. “Alas! then,” said Christina, “you would have this secret?” “Unless I would have to seek thee down the oubliette, my little one,” said Eberhard “or, what might even be worse, see thee burnt on the hillside for bewitching me with thine arts!  No, indeed, my darling.  Were it only my father, I could make him love thee; but my mother—I could not trust her where she thought the honour of our house concerned.  It shall not be for long.  Thou know’st we are to make peace with the Kaiser, and then will I get me employment among Kürfurst Albrecht’s companies of troops, and then shalt thou prank it as my Lady Freiherrinn, and teach me the ways of cities.” “Alas!  I fear me it has been a great sin!” sighed the poor little wife. “For thee—thou couldst not help it,” said Eberhard; “for me—who knows how many deadly ones it may hinder?  Cheer up, little one; no one can harm thee while the secret is kept.” Poor Christina had no choice but submission; but it was a sorry bridal evening, to enter her husband’s home in shrinking terror; with the threat of the oubliette before her, and with a sense of shame and deception hanging upon her, making the wonted scowl of the old baroness cut her both with remorse and dread. She did indeed sit beside her bridegroom at the supper, but how little like a bride! even though he pushed the salt-cellar, as if by accident, below her place.  She thought of her myrtle, tended in vain at home by Barbara Schmidt; she thought of Ulm courtships, and how all ought to have been; the solemn embassage to her uncle, the stately negotiations; the troth plight before the circle of ceremonious kindred and merry maidens, of whom she had often been one—the subsequent attentions of the betrothed on all festival days, the piles of linen and all plenishings accumulated since babyhood, and all reviewed and laid out for general admiration (Ah! poor Aunt Johanna still spinning away to add to the many webs in her walnut presses!)—then the grand procession to fetch home the bride, the splendid festival with the musicians, dishes, and guest-tables to the utmost limit that was allowed by the city laws, and the bride’s hair so joyously covered by her matron’s curch amid the merriment of her companion maidens. Poor child!  After she had crept away to her own room, glad that her father was not yet returned, she wept bitterly over the wrong that she felt she had done to the kind uncle and aunt, who must now look in vain for their little Christina, and would think her lost to them, and to all else that was good.  At least she had had the Church’s blessing—but that, strange to say, was regarded, in burgher life before the Reformation, as rather the ornament of a noble marriage than as essential to the civil contract; and a marriage by a priest was regarded by the citizens rather as a means of eluding the need of obtaining the parent’s consent, than as a more regular and devout manner of wedding.  However, Christina felt this the one drop of peace.  The blessings and prayers were warm at her heart, and gave her hope.  And as to drops of joy, of them there was no lack, for had not she now a right to love Eberhard with all her heart and conscience, and was not it a wonderful love on his part that had made him stoop to the little white-faced burgher maid, despised even by her own father?  O better far to wear the maiden’s uncovered head for him than the myrtle wreath for any one else! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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