Part 24

The reason of this extraordinary conduct on Ludwig’s part was easy to guess. He was jealous of the superior strength and prowess Reinold had displayed in the lists; above all, he could not forget the fall he had met with at his hands. He confided his dislike of Reinold to his favourite, Ganelon, a fawning sycophant, and told him that he wanted to rid himself and the country of him whom he chose to regard as his enemy. Ganelon at once had a plan to propose. He said that Ludwig, who was famous for his skill in playing chess, should challenge Adelhart, one of the brothers, to play a game with him, each player to stake his head to the other. Reinold would be sufficiently punished, in Ganelon’s eyes, by the pain his brother’s death would cause him. Ludwig agreed to the plan with alacrity. Adelhart, on receiving the challenge, declined to play on such terms, saying that if he won, he could not raise his hand against the life of his future liege lord; but Ludwig would not listen to any excuse, saying he would have him proclaimed a coward if he did not consent. So the young hero gave way, much against his will.

A few minutes later the two men were seated opposite each other before a chess-board, while three of the courtiers, who had been chosen umpires, stood beside the table and watched the players. Five games were to be played. The chess-men on the one side were made of gold, those on the other of silver. Ludwig, who played with the golden chess-men, had the first move. The five stipulated games were played one after the other, and in each of the five, Ludwig was check-mated. The umpires were silent. The king swept the pieces together impatiently, and when Adelhart said he had only played for the sake of his life and honour, that the head of his king was sacred in his eyes, Ludwig caught up the chess-board and flung it in his face with such force that the blood flowed from his mouth and nose, and stained his garments.

The hero instantly rose and withdrew. As he crossed the courtyard, his brother Reinold hastened to meet him, and asked what was the matter. On learning what had taken place, the younger brother was very angry. He gave orders that all should be got ready for their departure, and sent a servant to tell his father and brothers to come down to their horses. Then, turning to Adelhart, he said he would fetch him the prize he had won. Signing to his brother to follow him, he at once directed his steps to the throne-room, where the emperor was seated with his knights and nobles about him. Ludwig and the umpires were there also. Reinold advanced to the throne, and told Karl the whole story, asking the umpires if it were not so. Two of them were afraid, and held their peace; but the third boldly avowed the truth. Reinold, upon this, drew his sword Flammberg, and with one stroke severed Ludwig’s head from his body. Almost before the spectators could draw breath, the brothers had left the room. On reaching the courtyard, they at once mounted their horses and rode away, accompanied by Haymon and the rest of their party.

They were pursued on the instant. The men-at-arms came up with them outside the town gates, and a battle ensued. From the first there seemed to be very little chance for Count Haymon and his sons. They had but a few men-at-arms to support them, and the enemy’s numbers increased every minute. Their men were at last all slain, and so were all their horses, except Bayard, which bore bold Reinold here, there, and everywhere with equal speed and safety. At length, seeing that further contest was useless, Reinold called to his father and brothers to mount behind him on Bayard. The three brothers lost no time in obeying him but Haymon was so hemmed in by the press of people that he could not move. Although bearing a fourfold burden, Bayard galloped away as lightly and easily as if he had had nothing on his back.

Haymon meantime yielded himself prisoner to Bishop Turpin, the bishop promising that his life should be spared. But the emperor refused to be bound by Turpin’s promise, and ordered that Haymon should be publicly hung for the offence his son had committed. The bishop’s entreaties were vain. It was not until Roland and the other paladins threatened to leave his service if he persisted in ordering Haymon’s death, that the emperor gave way, and set his prisoner free, after making him swear to deliver his sons into his hands on the first opportunity. With the prospect of the gallows before his eyes, Haymon took the oath demanded of him.

Meanwhile the brothers journeyed rapidly through the broad lands of France. Nowhere could they find an abiding-place, for they were outlaws, whose life was forfeited if they fell into the emperor’s hands. At length they came to Saforet, a Moorish chieftain, with whom they made friends, and to whom they swore fealty. They remained with him three years, serving him well; but when, at the expiration of that time, they asked for the pay he had promised but never given, the Moor, who thought them unable to defend their rights, refused to listen to the request. So Reinold, growing impatient, cut off his head. It was certainly an effectual way of ending the argument, but it necessitated immediate flight on the part of the brothers. This time they turned for protection to Iwo, prince of Tarasconia, the mightiest opponent of Saforet. The prince received them with every mark of honour, and with their help gained many victories over his enemies. But when he heard of the imperial ban under which they lived, Iwo called his council together, and asked what was to be done. Some of his advisers wanted him to get rid of the brothers as quickly as possible; while others said that it would be well to court the emperor’s favour by delivering the outlaws into his hand; but the greater number were of opinion that the best thing to do would be to bind the heroes by some strong tie to the princely house. This last piece of advice was the one followed by Iwo, who gave Reinold his only daughter Clarissa to wife, and appointed him and his brothers a residence by the sea. There a strong fortress called Montalban was built, which became the chief stronghold of the principality. On one occasion the emperor’s forces besieged it for a whole year, and then had to withdraw, baffled.

“Look,” cried Richard, looking down from the battlements, “the imperial eagle flutters away into the forest with a broken wing. Up, Reinold, and after it, that we may send it home like a plucked goose.”

“I have something else to do,” answered his brother thoughtfully. “Seven years have passed over our heads since we saw our good mother. The longing to see her again gnaws at my heart; I must go and visit her, were it to cost me my life.”

His brothers agreed to go with him; so they armed themselves cap-a-pie, drew long grey pilgrims’ dresses over their armour, and set out for Castle Pierlepont. They got there safely, and were received with the greatest joy by their mother, who could not do enough to show them how happy their coming had made her.

The chamberlain who had taken them into the presence of the Countess Aya, soon discovered who they were, and determined to betray them. He went at once to his lord, Count Haymon, told him who the supposed pilgrims were, and reminded him of his oath to the emperor. Haymon was very angry, and felt inclined to slay the chamberlain there and then, but refrained. After taking counsel with himself, he made up his mind that the best thing he could do would be to take his sons prisoner, and march them off to the emperor; giving them, however, an opportunity of slipping away before they reached Paris. So he called his men-at-arms to follow him, and went to his wife’s apartments. Aya, seeing them crossing the court, would have hidden her sons, but they refused to hide, and, throwing off their pilgrims’ robes, prepared to defend their lives to the last. Reinold’s great strength served him in good stead. He fought so furiously that the men-at-arms fell back. Haymon alone stood firm. Reinold swung his sword, but his mother clung to him, entreating him to remember that it was his father who stood before him. Reinold at once put up his sword, but disarmed his father, and took him prisoner.

“The man that would have delivered his own children up to the executioner’s axe shall go to his friend the emperor in a guise that befits his knightly character,” said Reinold.

The men-at-arms stood so much in awe of the young man’s prowess and strong arm, that they promised implicit obedience. Reinold, therefore, sent one of them to fetch an ass. When it was brought he placed the count upon it, and bound him to the saddle. Then calling a boy, he placed the reins in his hands, and bade him lead the prisoner to Paris. The count, however, had not so far to go, after all; for, meeting some of the imperial troops on the way, he was set at liberty, mounted on a horse, and taken back to Pierlepont.

The brothers were enjoying themselves in their old home, when the emperor’s troops arrived before the gates of the castle. Reinold was alone with his mother when the order to surrender was given by the invaders. The young man snatched up his sword, but his mother silently pointed to the gates, which were already thrown open. She then dressed him hastily in his pilgrim’s robes, and led him out of the castle by a secret door. Having done this, Aya returned to seek, and, if it might be, save her other sons; but she found them prisoners and bound, and in the hands of their enemies. She wept and wrung her hands, for she knew that she was powerless to help them.

Meantime Reinold was hastening back to Montalban as quickly as he could. He was determined to save his brothers, and knew that delay would be fatal. Arrived at home, he went straight to the stables, where Bayard whinnied with joy to see him. After eating a few mouthfuls of food hastily, he mounted his gallant steed and started for Paris, as swiftly as if his horse had had wings.

He halted in a thick wood near the town, dismounted, and while his horse grazed beside him, threw himself down at the foot of a great tree, and began to consider what would be his best plan of operation. Overmastered by fatigue, he presently fell asleep, and dreamt that a necromancer was stealing his horse. When he awoke he looked about him anxiously, and called “Bayard,” but in vain. He called louder and louder. No answer was returned. He looked carefully for marks of his horse’s feet, but found none.

At the edge of the wood, he met a pilgrim, who spoke to him humbly. After some conversation, the pilgrim pushed back his hood, and looked at Reinold with a smile, and the young man recognised his cousin Malagis. The necromancer then promised to restore the brothers and Bayard safe and sound. He took some yellow powder out of a box, and sprinkled it over himself and Reinold, at the same time muttering his Abracadabra, and in a moment they were changed into the likeness of crippled beggars. Together they limped into Paris.

A crowd of richly-dressed lords and ladies were crossing the bridge over the Seine, which at that time connected the island-city with the mainland. The emperor was there also, and beside him was the famous hero Roland, to whom he had promised the horse Bayard, if he would fight and conquer the sons of Haymon. The horse was led by several grooms. All at once it stopped short, whinnied, jerked the reins out of the grooms’ hands, and trotted up to the two beggars, who were watching the procession.

“Bayard is strangely constituted,” cried Count Roland; “the beast seems actually to like poor folk better than noble knights.”

“Bayard! Is this Bayard?” asked one of the beggars. “Oh, noble gentleman, if this be Bayard, pray permit my poor comrade to mount him. A holy man told us that if he did so, he would at once be cured, and, as you see, he is a lamester.”

“Well, Cousin Roland,” said the emperor, “help the poor fellow up, that we may see a miracle for once in our lives. I only hope it _will_ be a miracle, and that the miserable wretch’s arms and legs may not be broken.”

Roland signed to his servants, who with much difficulty hoisted the ragged lamester into the saddle. They had to do it three times before he was safely settled. No sooner was he firmly seated than he drew himself up proudly, touched Bayard with the heel of one of his wooden shoes, and galloped away so fast that no one could overtake him. Malagis pretended to be much frightened lest his comrade should meet with some injury from the runaway horse.

At midnight, a little man might have been seen creeping along the streets of Paris, dressed in a grey coat. He kept continually murmuring, “Ista, sista, pista, abracadabra!” And dark clouds rose and covered the sky, making the moon and stars grow dim. He at last reached a tall, gloomy-looking house, before which a guard was set; but the watchmen had bent their heads and fallen asleep at his approach. The strong oak doors opened when he touched them with the point of his staff. He entered, and went straight to an underground dungeon, where three men were chained to the wall. He muttered some mysterious words, and the chains fell from off them.

“Rise, brothers,” he said; “your cousin Malagis is here. He has come to save you.”

So they rose and followed him.

Before leaving Paris, the necromancer went to the sleeping emperor, and asked him for the loan of his crown and sword. Karl immediately gave them to him.

The emperor’s feelings next morning may be more readily imagined than described, when he heard of the events that had taken place during the night. He longed more than ever to have his revenge on the sons of Haymon; but could not see how to accomplish his desire.

Cunning Ganelon then said that he was sure that Iwo had his price, and might be induced to sell the brothers to the emperor. Karl tried the plan, and won Iwo to his side, on paying him a ton’s weight of gold.

This done, the faithless traitor went to Montalban, and said that he brought good news from Paris; he had persuaded the emperor to let bygones be bygones, and all would now be well if the four brothers would only go to Falkalone unarmed, and in the garb of penitents, and there beg forgiveness. The emperor had promised, Iwo said, to grant them a full pardon, and to restore them to their ancient dignities.

When the brothers were about to start for Falkalone, Clarissa entreated them to beware lest the message were a treacherous one, adding that she knew her father would sell his own child for gold. Reinold sternly told her she was an unnatural daughter, and bade her hold her peace. He then rode on; but Adelhart remained behind for a moment, and hid four swords, which his sister-in-law handed him, under the skirts of his penitent’s robe.

As the brothers were riding on their asses up the steep and narrow path that led to Falkalone, they were set upon by an armed band of warriors. Adelhart divided the swords with which Clarissa had provided him, and they defended themselves so well, that the count of Châlons, fearful of losing more men, determined to draw a cordon round the place where the brothers had taken their stand, and starve them out.

The four weary men sat down to rest. They looked anxiously all round to see whether help would not come. The hot day was over, and evening coming on apace, when all at once they saw a well-known banner on the opposite hill. It was waved by a horseman who was galloping towards them, accompanied by a small band of armed men. Reinold immediately recognised his Bayard, and his cousin the necromancer.

The battle at once began in the plain below. Before it had lasted long, Bayard had caught sight of its master; with a loud neigh of pleasure the noble horse broke through the enemy’s ranks and galloped up to Reinold. Malagis dismounted, threw his cousin the reins, and at the same time handed him his sword Flammberg, which Clarissa had sent. Reinold flung himself into the saddle, and rode down to the place of combat, followed by his brothers, who had in the meantime caught some of the riderless chargers that were flying from the field. The brothers gained a glorious victory, and the count of Châlons only succeeded in saving the remnant of his forces by retreating under cover of the darkness.

“Who told the magician? Who is the traitor?” cried the emperor, when he heard what had happened.

After many conjectures had been hazarded, every one came to the conclusion that none other than Iwo had betrayed the true state of matters to Malagis, and one of the courtiers added that the prince of Tarasconia had taken refuge in the monastery of Beaurepart. Upon which the emperor said grimly, that even the walls of the sanctuary should not protect him from his vengeance, and immediately despatched Roland to capture Iwo, and see him hanged.

When Reinold first returned to Montalban, it was his firm intention to punish his father-in-law’s treachery with death; but Clarissa’s entreaties prevailed, and he promised to spare him. It was for fear of his vengeance that Iwo had taken refuge in the monastery. He never thought of the emperor turning against him. Reinold did not hide his satisfaction when he learnt that Karl had sent to take Iwo out of the monastery, that he might hang him at Monfaucon. But Clarissa was much troubled in spirit when her husband told her the news.

“Ah, my baby,” she said, bending over her child, “perhaps you will grow up to be a hero like your father, and then people will point at you and say, ‘Yes, he is very brave, and a true hero; but still, he is the grandson of a man who died on the gallows,’ and then you will creep away from the assembly of noble men, and try to hide your shame in the wilderness.”

Reinold sat for some minutes in thoughtful silence; then springing to his feet, he kissed his wife, and said:

“You are as wise and good as one of God’s angels. The traitor shall be saved.”

He hastened to the stable, mounted his horse, and galloped away to the forest of Monfaucon. There he found Iwo standing at the gallows with the cord round his neck. Reinold knocked down one of the executioners, cut the cord round Iwo’s neck, exclaiming, “Be off, you rascal, lest you be hanged after all,” and then beat back the other executioner, who would have recaptured the prince of Tarasconia. Count Roland now came to the rescue, but was soon forced to measure his length upon the ground, and Reinold rode away, saying, “It was your horse’s fault, good cousin, not yours.”

Several of the paladins, who had witnessed the short combat between the heroes, began to make jesting remarks about what had occurred. Roland had never been unhorsed before, except once or twice by Oliver, and he took the matter grievously to heart. He rode away in silence; not to Paris, but in the direction of Montalban, that he might seek vengeance for his overthrow.

As he was riding through a wood, he met a man with a crossbow, who was shooting a deer, and at once recognised him to be Richard, Reinold’s brother. He took him prisoner, and in spite of Richard’s remonstrances, and his reminders of their relationship, took him to Paris, and delivered him to the emperor. Karl was delighted at the lucky chance, at once condemned Richard to be hung at Monfaucon, and asked which of his paladins would undertake the task of seeing the sentence carried out. They all refused, saying that hanging was not a seemly death for a knight to die. At length Rype, a new-made knight, offered his services to the emperor. A pious pilgrim who was present at the discussion, begged that execution might be delayed until he had had time to pray for the weal of the poor sinner at St. Denys.

But instead of going to St. Denys, the holy man went to Montalban, and told Reinold all that had happened, bidding him make haste if he would arrive at Monfaucon in time to save Richards life. Having said this, Malagis—for the pilgrim was none other than he—went to the kitchen to ask for some food, for he was tired and hungry after his long and arduous journey on foot.

Reinold, Adelhart, Wichart, and their men soon reached the gallows at Monfaucon. There was no one there, so they stretched themselves out on the grass and fell asleep. When Rype came with his prisoner, they were still asleep; but Bayard, hearing them, awoke his master with a kick. In another moment the brothers had fallen upon the imperial troops, whom they soon put to flight. They then set Richard free, and hung Rype with the same rope he had brought for his prisoner.

The emperor, finding that all his former attempts to avenge his son’s death had been in vain, determined on a new plan of action. He called out a large army, and marched to lay siege to Montalban.

The fortress was strictly invested. The besieged ventured on making an occasional sally on the enemy without the walls, for the purpose of getting provisions, etc. Much blood was shed on either side, but nothing decisive took place. The siege went on for years, and neither party gave way. At length the garrison of Montalban began to feel the want of provisions, and Reinold made up his mind to a desperate step. He broke through the besiegers’ camp and carried off a number of provision wagons. Malagis had rendered such action possible by slipping out of the fortress unnoticed and sprinkling some of his sleeping powder over part of the camp. As he was about to scatter another pinch, he was seized by the collar, and, looking round, saw that it was strong Olivier, one of the twelve paladins, who was dragging him away. The rough attack had knocked the powder out of the necromancer’s hand, and it had fallen on the ground. Instead of laying his hand on his sword, the little man caught hold of the bag of hellebore snuff he had hidden within his garment, and threw a pinch into Olivier’s face. The hero sneezed and sneezed, and still he sneezed; but the more convulsively he sneezed, the tighter he clutched his prisoner, whom he at length dragged into the emperor’s presence.

“A-chew! your Highness!” he said and sneezed; “I bring you—a-chew!—the wicked-a-chew!—necromancer—a-chew!—do with him—a-chew!—as you will.” Here such an agony of sneezing came upon poor Olivier that he could say no more.

The emperor thanked and pitied the worthy paladin, and ordered that the magician should be bound, and guarded to Monfaucon, where he was to be hanged.

“Sire,” whimpered Malagis, “pray let me live this one more night, and let me have a good supper, for I have not tasted food for the last four and twenty hours.”

Meanwhile the paladins and many other knights had entered the royal tent. They one and all joined their entreaties to those of the poor little man. Seeing that the emperor seemed inclined to yield, Malagis said in a grave and solemn tone,—

“Your Majesty, I swear on my honour that I will not go away from here without your own consent, nor will I go unless you bear me company.”

Karl then promised to let him have the twenty-four hours’ grace, and several of the knights offered their services as guards.

The lords sat down to supper, and devoted their whole attention to the good food and wine that were set before them, while Malagis, curled up in a corner close at hand, appeared to do the same. When supper was over, the necromancer was taken to the place that was to serve him as prison, and the noble knights, who had undertaken to keep watch and ward, took up their places for the night.