A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Strong Arm

R >> Robert Barr >> The Strong Arm




"What better warranty could the Archbishop ask than that?" replied the
Envoy. "If you can hold back the Hungarians for four or five days, then
I doubt not that whatever you ask of the Archbishop will speedily be
granted."

"We shall ask nothing," cried the blacksmith, "but his blessing, and be
deeply honoured in receiving it."

Whereupon the blacksmith, seizing his hammer, went to the door of his
hut, where hung part of a suit of armour, that served at the same time
as a sign of his profession and as a tocsin. He smote the hanging iron
with his sledge until the clangorous reverberation sounded through the
valley, and presently there came hurrying to him eight of his stalwart
sons, who had been occupied in tilling the fields.

"Scatter ye," cried the blacksmith, "over the land. Rouse the people,
and tell them the Hungarians are upon us. Urge all to collect here at
midnight, with whatever of arms or weapons they may possess. Those who
have no arms, let them bring poles, and meanwhile your brothers and
myself will make pike-heads for them. Tell them they are called to,
action by a Lord from the Archbishop of Treves himself, and that I
shall lead them. Tell them they fight for their homes, their wives, and
their children. And now away."

The eight young men at once dispersed in various directions. The smith
himself shod the Envoy's horse, and begged him to inform the Archbishop
that they would defend the passes of the Eifel while a man of them
remained alive.

Long before midnight the peasants came straggling to the smithy from
all quarters, and by daylight the blacksmith had led them over the
volcanic hills to the lip of the tremendous pass through which the
Hungarians must come. The sides of this chasm were precipitous and
hundreds of feet in height. Even the peasants themselves, knowing the
rocks as they did, could not have climbed from the bottom of the pass
to the height they now occupied. They had, therefore, no fear that the
Hungarians could scale the walls and decimate their scanty band.

When the invaders appeared the blacksmith and his men rolled great
stones and rocks down upon them, practically annihilating the advance
guard and throwing the whole army into confusion. The week's struggle
that followed forms one of the most exciting episodes in German
history. Again and again the Hungarians attempted the pass, but nothing
could withstand the avalanche of stones and rocks wherewith they were
overwhelmed. Still, the devoted little band did not have everything its
own way. They were so few--and they had to keep watch night and day--
that ere the week was out many turned longing eyes towards the
direction whence the Archbishop's army was expected to appear. It was
not until the seventh day that help arrived, and then the Archbishop's
forces speedily put to flight the now demoralised Hungarians, and
chased them once more across the Rhine.

"There is nothing now left for us to do," said the tired blacksmith to
his little following; "so I will get back to my forge and you to your
farms."

And this without more ado they did, the cheering and inspiring ring of
iron on anvil awakening the echoes of the Alf-thal once again.

The blacksmith and his twelve sons were at their noon-day meal when an
imposing cavalcade rode up to the smithy. At the head was no other than
the Archbishop himself, and the blacksmith and his dozen sons were
covered with confusion to think that they had such a distinguished
visitor without the means of receiving him in accordance with his
station. But the Archbishop said:

"Blacksmith Arras, you and your sons would not wait for me to thank
you; so I am now come to you that in presence of all these followers of
mine I may pay fitting tribute to your loyalty and your bravery."

Then, indeed, did the modest blacksmith consider he had received more
than ample compensation for what he had done, which, after all, as he
told his neighbours, was merely his duty. So why should a man be
thanked for it?

"Blacksmith," said the Archbishop, as he mounted his horse to return to
Treves, "thanks cost little and are easily bestowed. I hope, however,
to have a present for you that will show the whole country round how
much I esteem true valour."

At the mouth of the Alf-thal, somewhat back from the small village of
Alf and overlooking the Moselle, stands a conical hill that completely
commands the valley. The Archbishop of Treves, having had a lesson
regarding the dangers of an incursion through the volcanic region of
the Eifel, put some hundreds of men at work on this conical hill, and
erected on the top a strong castle, which was the wonder of the
country. The year was nearing its end when this great stronghold was
completed, and it began to be known throughout the land that the
Archbishop intended to hold high revel there, and had invited to the
castle all the nobles in the country, while the chief guest was no
other than the Emperor himself. Then the neighbours of the blacksmith
learned that a gift was about to be bestowed upon that stalwart man. He
and his twelve sons received notification to attend at the castle, and
to enjoy the whole week's festivity. He was commanded to come in his
leathern apron, and to bring with him his huge sledge-hammer, which,
the Archbishop said, had now become a weapon as honourable as the two-
handed sword itself.

Never before had such an honour been bestowed upon a common man, and
though the peasants were jubilant that one of their caste should be
thus singled out to receive the favour of the famous Archbishop, and
meet not only great nobles, but even the Emperor himself, still, it was
gossiped that the Barons grumbled at this distinction being placed upon
a serf like the blacksmith Arras, and none were so loud in their
complaints as Count Bertrich, who had remained drinking in the castle
while the blacksmith fought for the land. Nevertheless, all the
nobility accepted the invitation of the powerful Archbishop of Treves,
and assembled in the great room of the new castle, each equipped in all
the gorgeous panoply of full armour. It had been rumoured among the
nobles that the Emperor would not permit the Archbishop to sully the
caste of knighthood by asking the Barons to recognise or hold converse
with one in humble station of life. Indeed, had it been otherwise,
Count Bertrich, with the Barons to back him, were resolved to speak out
boldly to the Emperor, upholding the privileges of their class, and
protesting against insult to it in presence of the blacksmith and his
sons.

When all assembled in the great hall they found at the centre of the
long side wall a magnificent throne erected, with a daïs in front of
it, and on this throne sat, the Emperor in state, while at his right
hand stood the lordly Archbishop of Treves. But what was more
disquieting, they beheld also the blacksmith standing before the daïs,
some distance in front of the Emperor, clad in his leathern apron, with
his big brawny hands folded over the top of the handle of his huge
sledge-hammer. Behind him were ranged his twelve sons. There were deep
frowns on the brows of the nobles when they saw this, and, after
kneeling and protesting their loyalty to the Emperor, they stood aloof
and apart, leaving a clear space between themselves and the plebeian
blacksmith on whom they cast lowering looks. When the salutations of
the Emperor had been given, the Archbishop took a step forward on the
daïs and spoke in a clear voice that could be heard to the furthermost
corner of the room.

"My Lords," he said, "I have invited you hither that you may have the
privilege of doing honour to a brave man. I ask you to salute the
blacksmith Arras, who, when his country was in danger, crushed the
invaders as effectually as ever his right arm, wielding sledge, crushed
hot iron."

A red flush of confusion overspread the face of the blacksmith, but
loud murmurs broke out among the nobility, and none stepped forward to
salute him. One, indeed, stepped forward, but it was to appeal to the
Emperor.

"Your Majesty," exclaimed Count Bertrich, "this is an unwarranted
breach of our privileges. It is not meet that we, holding noble names,
should be asked to consort with an untitled blacksmith. I appeal to
your Majesty against the Archbishop under the feudal law."

All eyes turned upon the Emperor, who, after a pause, said:

"Count Bertrich is right, and I sustain his appeal."

An expression of triumph came into the red bibulous face of Count
Bertrich, and the nobles shouted joyously:

"The Emperor, the Emperor!"

The Archbishop, however, seemed in no way non-plussed by his defeat,
but, addressing the armourer, said:

"Advance, blacksmith, and do homage to your Emperor and mine."

When the blacksmith knelt before the throne, the Emperor, taking his
jewelled sword from his side, smote the kneeling man lightly on his
broad shoulders, saying:

"Arise, Count Arras, noble of the German Empire, and first Lord of the
Alf-thal."

The blacksmith rose slowly to his feet, bowed lowly to the Emperor, and
backed to the place where he had formerly stood, again resting his
hands on the handle of his sledge-hammer. The look of exultation faded
from the face of Count Bertrich, and was replaced by an expression of
dismay, for he had been until that moment, himself first Lord of the
Alf-thal, with none second.

"My Lords," once more spoke up the Archbishop, "I ask you to salute
Count Arras, first Lord of the Alf-thal."

No noble moved, and again Count Bertrich appealed to the Emperor.

"Are we to receive on terms of equality," he said, "a landless man; the
count of a blacksmith's hut; a first lord of a forge? For the second
time I appeal to your Majesty against such an outrage."

The Emperor replied calmly:

"Again I support the appeal of Count Bertrich."

There was this time no applause from the surrounding nobles, for many
of them had some smattering idea of what was next to happen, though the
muddled brain of Count Bertrich gave him no intimation of it.

"Count Arras," said the Archbishop, "I promised you a gift when last I
left you at your smithy door. I now bestow upon you and your heirs
forever this castle of Burg Arras, and the lands adjoining it. I ask
you to hold it for me well and faithfully, as you held the pass of the
Eifel. My Lords," continued the Archbishop, turning to the nobles, with
a ring of menace in his voice, "I ask you to salute Count Arras, your
equal in title, your equal in possessions, and the superior of any one
of you in patriotism and bravery. If any noble question his courage,
let him neglect to give Count of Burg Arras his title and salutation as
he passes before him."

"Indeed, and that will not I," said the tall noble who had sat at
Bertrich's right hand in his castle, "for, my Lords, if we hesitate
longer, this doughty blacksmith will be Emperor before we know it."
Then, advancing towards the ex-armourer, he said: "My Lord, Count of
Burg Arras, it gives me pleasure to salute you, and to hope that when
Emperor or Archbishop are to be fought for, your arm will be no less
powerful in a coat of mail than it was when you wore a leathern apron."

One by one the nobles passed and saluted as their leader had done.
Count Bertrich hung back until the last, and then, as he passed the new
Count of Burg Arras, he hissed at him, with a look of rage, the single
word, "_Blacksmith!_"

The Count of Burg Arras, stirred to sudden anger, and forgetting in
whose presence he stood, swung his huge sledge-hammer round his head,
and brought it down on the armoured back of Count Bertrich, roaring the
word "ANVIL!"

The armour splintered like crushed ice, and Count Bertrich fell prone
on his face and lay there. There was instant cry of "Treason! Treason!"
and shouts of "No man may draw arms in the Emperor's presence."

"My Lord Emperor," cried the Count of Burg Arras, "I crave pardon if I
have done amiss. A man does not forget the tricks of his old calling
when he takes on new honours. Your Majesty has said that I am a Count.
This man, having heard your Majesty's word, proclaims me blacksmith,
and so gave the lie to his Emperor. For this I struck him, and would
again, even though he stood before the throne in a palace, or the altar
in a cathedral. If that be treason, take from me your honours, and let
me back to my forge, where this same hammer will mend the armour it has
broken, or beat him out a new back-piece."

"You have broken no tenet of the feudal law," said the Emperor. "You
have broken nothing, I trust, but the Count's armour, for, as I see, he
is arousing himself, doubtless no bones are broken as well. The feudal
law does not regard a blacksmith's hammer as a weapon. And as for
treason, Count of Burg Arras, may my throne always be surrounded by
such treason as yours."

And for centuries after, the descendants of the blacksmith were Counts
of Burg Arras, and held the castle of that name, whose ruins to-day
attest the excellence of the Archbishop's building.




COUNT KONRAD'S COURTSHIP


It was nearly midnight when Count Konrad von Hochstaden reached his
castle on the Rhine, with a score of very tired and hungry men behind
him. The warder at the gate of Schloss Hochstaden, after some cautious
parley with the newcomers, joyously threw apart the two great iron-
studded oaken leaves of the portal when he was convinced that it was
indeed his young master who had arrived after some tumultuous years at
the crusades, and Count Konrad with his followers rode clattering under
the stone arch, into the ample courtyard. It is recorded that, in the
great hall of the castle, the Count and his twenty bronzed and scarred
knights ate such a meal as had never before been seen to disappear in
Hochstaden, and that after drinking with great cheer to the downfall of
the Saracene and the triumph of the true cross, they all lay on the
floor of the Rittersaal and slept the remainder of the night, the whole
of next day, and did not awaken until the dawn of the second morning.
They had had years of hard fighting in the east, and on the way home
they had been compelled to work their passage through the domains of
turbulent nobles by good stout broadsword play, the only argument their
opposers could understand, and thus they had come through to the Rhine
without contributing aught to their opponents except fierce blows,
which were not commodities as marketable as yellow gold, yet with this
sole exchange did the twenty-one win their way from Palestine to the
Palatinate, and thus were they so long on the road that those in
Schloss Hochstaden had given up all expectation of their coming.

Count Konrad found that his father, whose serious illness was the cause
of his return, had been dead for months past, and the young man
wandered about the castle which, during the past few years, he had
beheld only in dreams by night and in the desert mirages by day,
saddened because of his loss. He would return to the Holy Land, he said
to himself, and let the castle be looked after by its custodian until
the war with the heathen was ended.

The young Count walked back and forth on the stone paved terrace which
commanded from its height such a splendid view of the winding river,
but he paid small attention to the landscape, striding along with his
hands clasped behind him; his head bent, deep in thought. He was
awakened from his reverie by the coming of the ancient custodian of the
castle, who shuffled up to him and saluted him with reverential
respect, for the Count was now the last of his race; a fighting line,
whose members rarely came to die peaceably in their beds as Konrad's
father had done.

The Count, looking up, swept his eye around the horizon and then to his
astonishment saw the red battle flag flying grimly from the high
northern tower of Castle Bernstein perched on the summit of the next
hill to the south. In the valley were the white tents of an encampment,
and fluttering over it was a flag whose device, at that distance, the
Count could not discern.

"Why is the battle flag flying on Bernstein, Gottlieb, and what means
those tents in the valley?" asked Konrad.

The old man looked in the direction of the encampment, as if the sight
were new to him, but Konrad speedily saw that the opposite was the
case. The tents had been there so long that they now seemed a permanent
part of the scenery.

"The Archbishop of Cologne, my Lord, is engaged in the besiegement of
Schloss Bernstein, and seems like to have a long job of it. He has been
there for nearly a year now."

"Then the stout Baron is making a brave defence; good luck to him!"

"Alas, my Lord, I am grieved to state that the Baron went to his rest
on the first day of the assault. He foolishly sallied out at the head
of his men and fell hotly on the Archbishop's troops, who were
surrounding the castle. There was some matter in dispute between the
Baron and the Archbishop, and to aid the settlement thereof, his mighty
Lordship of Cologne sent a thousand armed men up the river, and it is
said that all he wished was to have parley with Baron Bernstein, and to
overawe him in the discussion, but the Baron came out at the head of
his men and fell upon the Cologne troops so mightily that he nearly put
the whole battalion to flight, but the officers rallied their panic-
stricken host, seeing how few were opposed to them, and the order was
given that the Baron should be taken prisoner, but the old man would
not have it so, and fought so sturdily with his long sword, that he
nearly entrenched himself with a wall of dead. At last the old man was
cut down and died gloriously, with scarcely a square inch unwounded on
his whole body. The officers of the Archbishop then tried to carry the
castle by assault, but the Lady of Bernstein closed and barred the
gate, ran, up the battle flag on the northern tower and bid defiance to
the Archbishop and all his men."

"The Lady of Bernstein? I thought the Baron was a widower. Whom, then,
did he again marry?"

"'Twas not his wife, but his daughter."

"His daughter? Not Brunhilda? She's but a child of ten."

"She was when you went away, my Lord, but now she is a woman of
eighteen, with all the beauty of her mother and all the bravery of her
father."

"Burning Cross of the East, Gottlieb! Do you mean to say that for a
year a prince of the Church has been warring with a girl, and her
brother, knowing nothing of this cowardly assault, fighting the battles
for his faith on the sands of the desert? Let the bugle sound! Call up
my men and arouse those who are still sleeping."

"My Lord, my Lord, I beg of you to have caution in this matter."

"Caution? God's patience! Has caution rotted the honour out of the
bones of all Rhine men, that this outrage should pass unmolested before
their eyes! The father murdered; the daughter beleaguered; while those
who call themselves men sleep sound in their safe castles! Out of my
way, old man! Throw open the gates!"

But the ancient custodian stood firmly before his over-lord, whose red
angry face seemed like that of the sun rising so ruddily behind him.

"My Lord, if you insist on engaging in this enterprise it must be gone
about sanely. You need the old head as well as the young arm. You have
a score of well-seasoned warriors, and we can gather into the castle
another hundred. But the Archbishop has a thousand men around
Bernstein. Your score would but meet the fate of the old Baron and
would not better the case of those within the castle. The Archbishop
has not assaulted Bernstein since the Baron's death, but has drawn a
tight line around it and so has cut off all supplies, daily summoning
the maiden to surrender. What they now need in Bernstein is not iron,
but food. Through long waiting they keep slack watch about the castle,
and it is possible that, with care taken at midnight, you might
reprovision Bernstein so that she could hold out until her brother
comes, whom it is said she has summoned from the Holy Land."

"Thou art wise, old Gottlieb," said the Count slowly, pausing in his
wrath as the difficulties of the situation were thus placed in array
before him; "wise and cautious, as all men seem to be who now keep ward
on the Rhine. What said my father regarding this contest?"

"My Lord, your honoured father was in his bed stricken with the long
illness that came to be his undoing at the last, and we never let him
know that the Baron was dead or the siege in progress."

"Again wise and cautious, Gottlieb, for had he known it, he would have
risen from his deathbed, taken down his two-handed sword from the wall,
and struck his last blow in defence of the right against tyranny."

"Indeed, my Lord, under danger of your censure, I venture to say that
you do not yet know the cause of the quarrel into which you design to
precipitate yourself. It may not be tyranny on the part of the
overlord, but disobedience on the part of the vassal, which causes the
environment of Bernstein. And the Archbishop is a prince of our holy
Church."

"I leave those nice distinctions to philosophers like thee, Gottlieb.
It is enough for me to know that a thousand men are trying to starve
one woman, and as for being a prince of the Church, I shall give his
devout Lordship a taste of religion hot from its birthplace, and show
him how we uphold the cause in the East, for in this matter the
Archbishop grasps not the cross but the sword, and by the sword shall
he be met. And now go, Gottlieb, set ablaze the fires on all our ovens
and put the bakers at work. Call in your hundred men as speedily as
possible, and bid each man bring with him a sack of wheat. Spend the
day at the baking and fill the cellars with grain and wine. It will be
reason enough, if any make inquiry, to say that the young Lord has
returned and intends to hold feasts in his castle. Send hither my
Captain to me."

Old Gottlieb hobbled away, and there presently came upon the terrace a
stalwart, grizzled man, somewhat past middle age, whose brown face
showed more seams of scars than remnants of beauty. He saluted his
chief and stood erect in silence.

The Count waved his hand toward the broad valley and said grimly:

"There sits the Archbishop of Cologne, besieging the Castle of
Bernstein."

The Captain bowed low and crossed himself.

"God prosper his Lordship," he said piously.

"You may think that scarcely the phrase to use, Captain, when I tell
you that you will lead an assault on his Lordship to-night."

"Then God prosper us, my Lord," replied the Captain cheerfully, for he
was ever a man who delighted more in fighting than in inquiring keenly
into the cause thereof.

"You may see from here that a ridge runs round from this castle,
bending back from the river, which it again approaches, touching thus
Schloss Bernstein. There is a path along the summit of the ridge which
I have often trodden as a boy, so I shall be your guide. It is scarce
likely that this path is guarded, but if it is we will have to throw
its keepers over the precipice; those that we do not slay outright,
when we come upon them."

"Excellent, my Lord, most excellent," replied the Captain, gleefully
rubbing his huge hands one over the other.

"But it is not entirely to fight that we go. You are to act as convoy
to those who carry bread to Castle Bernstein. We shall leave here at
the darkest hour after midnight and you must return before daybreak so
that the Archbishop cannot estimate our numbers. Then get out all the
old armour there is in the castle and masquerade the peasants in it.
Arrange them along the battlements so that they will appear as numerous
as possible while I stay in Castle Bernstein and make terms with the
Archbishop, for it seems he out-mans us, so we must resort, in some
measure, to strategy. On the night assault let each man yell as if he
were ten and lay about him mightily. Are the knaves astir yet?"

"Most of them, my Lord, and drinking steadily the better to endure the
dryness of the desert when we go eastward again."

"Well, see to it that they do not drink so much as to interfere with
clean sword-play against to-night's business."

"Indeed, my Lord, I have a doubt if there is Rhine wine enough in the
castle's vaults to do that, and the men yell better when they have a
few gallons within them."

At the appointed hour Count Konrad and his company went silently forth,
escorting a score more who carried sacks of the newly baked bread on
their backs, or leathern receptacles filled with wine, as well as a
stout cask of the same seductive fluid. Near the Schloss Bernstein the
rescuing party came upon the Archbishop's outpost, who raised the alarm
before the good sword of the Captain cut through the cry. There were
bugle calls throughout the camp and the sound of men hurrying to their
weapons, but all the noise of preparation among the besiegers was as
nothing to the demoniac din sent up by the Crusaders, who rushed to the
onslaught with a zest sharpened by their previous rest and inactivity.
The wild barbaric nature of their yells, such as never before were
heard on the borders of the placid Rhine, struck consternation into the
opposition camp, because some of the Archbishop's troops had fought
against the heathen in the East, and they now recognised the clamour
which had before, on many an occasion, routed them, and they thought
that the Saracenes had turned the tables and invaded Germany; indeed
from the deafening clamour it seemed likely that all Asia was let loose
upon them. The alarm spread quickly to Castle Bernstein itself, and
torches began to glimmer on its battlements. With a roar the Crusaders
rushed up to the foot of the wall, as a wave dashes against a rock,
sweeping the frightened bread-carriers with them. By the light of the
torches Konrad saw standing on the wall a fair young girl clad in chain
armour whose sparkling links glistened like countless diamonds in the
rays of the burning pitch. She leaned on the cross-bar of her father's
sword and, with wide-open, eager eyes peered into the darkness beyond,
questioning the gloom for reason of the terrifying tumult. When Konrad
strode within the radius of the torches, the girl drew back slightly
and cried:

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.