The great white tent erected on the heights of Bieldenburg was in reality much larger than it appeared from the battlement of Thuron. It is doubtful if any who then beheld it, lord or serf, had the slightest conception of its significance. It was actually the precursor of what is perhaps the grandest cathedral the world has ever seen; and when, two years after, Konrad von Hochstaden laid the foundation stone of Cologne Cathedral, it was the designer of this tent who drew the plans for that splendid edifice, which was not to be completed for centuries later.
If the three Archbishops of Cologne, Mayence and Treves, who were also Electors, could have held honestly together, and could have suppressed their jealousy of each other, they might have swayed the destinies of Germany much more surely than they did, for they needed but one more Elector with them to form a majority of the Electoral College, the number of whose members was now fixed at seven, a figure which the Germans were loath to change, because it had come, in this connection, to have almost a mystical significance. Not only had the Electors power to nominate whom they pleased as Emperor, but the College had also the right to depose him, yet the latter privilege was practically nullified by their fear and hatred of each other, so that afterwards an acknowledged fool, Charles IV., who was held in such slight respect that a butcher in Worms had him arrested for not paying his meat bill, so worked on the mutual dislikes of the Electors that he not only reigned undeposed, in spite of a thousand reasons for being rid of him, but actually arranged matters so that his weak-minded son was elected to succeed him, in spite of the determination heretofore held, that no colour should be given for establishing a precedent that a son might succeed his father on the German throne.
The Rhine, flowing from Mayence to Cologne, seemed to have formed a link between the Archbishops of each place, and they were usually found in alliance with each other, bonded against powerful Treves, whose iron-handed master had defied them both and held them at bay outside the barred gates of Frankfort. The astute Arnold von Isenberg had now resolved to lure the Archbishop of Cologne from the Archbishop of Mayence, and thus Treves and Cologne found themselves in alliance opposite Thuron. What the inducements were is unknown, but as the Archbishop of Cologne two years later began the great Cathedral, and as the Archbishop of Treves four years later began the castle of Stolzenfels on the Rhine, it may be surmised that there were mutual concessions, and that each was reasonably well guaranteed from interference by the other. Stolzenfels stands, as near as may be, midway between Cologne and Mayence, so in fixing a fortress residence for himself and his successors right on the line of communication between his two rivals, it must be admitted that the Archbishop of Treves had a substantial advantage in the bargain. This desertion of his ancient ally must have somewhat surprised the Archbishop of Mayence, for he doubtless remembered that twenty-one years before, Frederick von Isenberg, a relative of the master of Treves, had assassinated on the Cavelsburg, Engelbert von Berg, Archbishop of Cologne, the predecessor of Konrad von Hochstaden, one Archbishop reigning between.
There were also reasons of locality which made an alliance between Cologne and Treves natural. Mayence up the Rhine, Cologne down the Rhine, and Treves up the Moselle formed the points of a large triangle, and the latter cities being further from the capital than the other, were perhaps freer from fear of whatever influence the Court might possess.
It had long been the ambition of Cologne to build a Cathedral in keeping with the growing ambition of the Archbishopric. Both Mayence and Treves had great Cathedrals. The Cathedral at Mayence had been four times destroyed by fire within the past two centuries and had arisen like an ecclesiastical phœnix in greater splendour after each conflagration. That of Treves had been built on the site of the Roman Basilica, and was said to rival the ancient edifice in size and magnificence. The ill-fated Engelbert took the first steps towards the beginning of a Cathedral in Cologne that would at least equal those of Mayence and Treves, but his assassination ended the scheme for a time. His successor did nothing, and now that Konrad von Hochstaden was Archbishop he was ambitious to link his name with the commencement of an edifice that would eclipse anything then in existence. It was his intention to employ the greatest architects in Germany, and when this determination spread abroad, it caused many artists more or less known to submit plans to him, but none of these met the Archbishop's entire approbation.
There came a man from a small village near Cologne who desired to submit designs for a great church, but being without influence and without wealth he never succeeded in gaining audience with the princely Archbishop. He had no gold with which to bribe attendants and no highly placed friends who could whisper a word for him at the proper moment. Yet he had one friend who believed in him. Father Ambrose, clerical secretary to the Archbishop, was a native of the small and insignificant village of Riehl near Cologne, where the man ambitious to build a Cathedral lived, and Meister Gerard, the architect, was well known to him. Ambrose spoke once or twice to Konrad regarding this man, but the Archbishop was then busy with the secret envoys from Treves, and while war is being concocted, churches must stand in abeyance. When these secret negotiations were completed, Father Ambrose again attempted to bespeak a hearing for his fellow-townsman. The Archbishop, however, was not then in the architectural mood, and Ambrose feared his request had been inopportune.
"You are a good man, Ambrose," said the Archbishop, "but persistent. Now let me tell you finally what my purpose is. It is not a village church I wish to see builded, but a Cathedral that will outshine Imperial Rome herself. Therefore it is not a village architect I am on the outlook for, but one who will prove the modern brother of the builder of the Parthenon in Athens."
"I know not who built the Parthenon, my Lord," said the monk, with the dogged pertinacity of the North German, "but it may have been a village architect, despised by the great of Greece."
"It may indeed be so. Whence comes this architect of yours?"
"From Riehl, my Lord."
"From Riehl, indeed! You might at least have given us a town the size of Bonn. From Riehl!" The Archbishop threw back his head and laughed.
"'Can any good come out of Nazareth,' quoth they of old," said the monk, solemnly. The Archbishop became instantly serious.
"Ambrose, that smacks strongly of the sacrilegious."
"I may put it thus then—'A prophet is not without honour but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house,'" said the monk, giving the quotation in Latin.
"You think much of this man?"
"I do indeed, my Lord."
"Then I will give him a commission, but it shall not be the building of a Cathedral. I have made compact with my brother of Treves, Arnold von Isenberg, too long estranged from me. We are more like to find ourselves engaged in tearing down than in building up. Let your architect then design for me a large tent, one that will hold a hundred men while seated at dinner, or five hundred, with tables removed, to hear Mass. Let the tent be well proportioned, for in that lies architectural skill. Its ornamentation will give little scope to a dull man and much to one who is ingenious. Draw what money is needed from the Treasury for its construction, and see that the sum be ample, so that your architect may have fair recompense, and that I may not be ashamed of my tent, for within it shall the Archbishop of Treves meet me in conference. Have the tent made ready as soon as possible, for I know not the day I may need it, and in the building of it let your fellow remember that the beauty of a tent is that it bears transportation well, being not over bulky, and that it is erected quickly and stands firmly in a storm."
Thus came the large tent, made in Cologne, to be placed on the heights of Bieldenburg over the Moselle, with Meister Gerard himself superintending its erection.
The floor had been constructed of flattened timber, bedded in the cement used for the building of castles, which when hardened was more difficult to break than the stones it bound together. Over this was laid Eastern cloths, soft in touch to the foot, and pleasing in colour to the eye. When the tent was erected, Meister Gerard waited eagerly until the sun rose next morning, so that he might persuade Ambrose to ask the Archbishop's criticism of the work now completed that he might thus obtain an opportunity to speak with the great ecclesiastic, on whom the architect felt his future depended. Gerard saw the envoys depart on their mission to the castle, and, early as it was, he also saw Konrad von Hochstaden, the monk Ambrose by his side, walking to and fro before the Archbishop's residential tent. The great audience pavilion stood alone, one end facing the east, as any erection intended for the use of two Princes of the Church should stand. To the north of it was the cluster of tents occupied by Konrad and the numerous attendants who waited upon him. To the south was a similar village belonging to the Archbishop of Treves, each village being at the point nearest the city from which its master took his title. The trumpets were blaring before Castle Thuron when Ambrose induced the Archbishop to inspect the new tent. He stood within it and gazed about him, while the architect, near by, waited for a word of approval or condemnation.
"You have given us no ornamentation," said Konrad at last.
"The ornamentation, my Lord, is largely in its correct proportion; nevertheless, I have ventured on a touch of colour which may be seen, or not, at your Lordship's pleasure."
"Let us behold it, then."
The architect gave a signal to two workmen who waited at the western end of the tent, and they, by the pulling of cords, rolled up an inner screen. There was disclosed a picture wrought in many coloured silks, deftly sewn together, representing the arms of Cologne and Treves in juxtaposition. The light shone through the scheme of colour from the outside, and the richness of the painting stood out with the more distinctness that the whole interior of the tent was of one subdued hue of white.
"That is most ingenious," the Archbishop was pleased to say, to the architect's gratification. "We will have it remain so."
"I have another picture on the eastern end as well," said Gerard. "Have I your Lordship's permission to exhibit that also?"
"Surely, surely," answered Konrad, whereupon the two workmen walked the length of the tent, and rolled up another screen similar to the first.
The result was most startling. The morning sun shone fully upon the eastern end of the tent and imparted a glory to the rich colouring, which gave the picture a brilliancy savouring more of Heaven than of earth. The design represented a twin spired Cathedral, worked out in the fullest detail, the spires encrusted with ornament, the beautiful Gothic door between them being a model of correct proportion, yet of immense size, the whole representation one on which the eye rested with ever increasing delight, wonder, and admiration.
For some moments the Archbishop stood speechless before this marvel in line and tint. At last he said:
"It is not possible that such a building actually exists and I have never heard of it! Where is it?"
"Only in my brain, my Lord, but it may exist in Cologne, if your Lordship so wills it."
"Ah!" The Archbishop drew a long sigh of supreme gratification. "Are you sure you sold not your soul to the devil for this design, Meister Gerard."
"I had hoped your Lordship would attribute the design to a higher source. It was my belief that inspiration prompted the picture which made me so persistent in trying to obtain permission from your Lordship to exhibit to you the drawings. There will be no Cathedral like that of Cologne in all the rest of the world, if this building is erected."
"You speak truly. Let down the curtain, and see that it is securely fastened. The design cannot be seen from without, can it? I did not notice it as I entered."
"No, my Lord, unless at night when the tent is lighted, and then only when the curtain is raised."
"This curtain is not to be raised. No one must look upon this picture. Have a new end made for this tent, and put in a drawing of Treves Cathedral if you like, but this is to be seen by none. Meister Gerard, you are the architect of Cologne Cathedral. He is to have a room in the palace, Ambrose, and a fitting allowance: see to it. As soon as another end is in place, get you back to Cologne and work upon your plans. Men less inspired will attend to the fighting."
Therefore was the stay of Meister Gerard, architect of Cologne Cathedral, of short duration in the neighbourhood of the Moselle.
The Archbishop was still in the tent when his envoy returned from the mission to Castle Thuron, and reported there to his master the colloquy that had taken place between Count Heinrich and Bertrich. Konrad von Hochstaden frowned as he listened, and for a time pondered deeply in silence over the information he had received. The architect and the workmen were gone, and Archbishop, envoy and monk were alone in the tent.
"You say that Count Bertrich attacked the castle as you departed. Are any of my men in the fray?"
"No, my Lord. I urged Count Bertrich to postpone assault until you were made acquainted with the result of our conference at the gate, but this he refused to do. I then ordered your captain to hold aloof until he got direct command from you."
"You did well. This Bertrich seems to act much on his own responsibility; a hot-headed man, whom perhaps his master employs for that very reason; if successful, the Archbishop may commend, and if unsuccessful, disclaim. Is there a chance of capturing the castle through his onslaught?"
"I could form no opinion thereon, not knowing how rigorously the place may be defended."
"I must have some explanation from Arnold von Isenberg before the question is decided. Ambrose, deliver greetings from me to the Archbishop of Treves, and acquaint him with the fact that I await him here, as there are matters of grave import to discuss."
The monk departed, and presently the Archbishop of Treves entered the tent attended only by his secretary. After salutations had passed between the two Princes, Konrad von Hochstaden began the discussion, going directly to the heart of the matter, as was his fashion, for he never imitated the round-about method of approaching a subject that so much commended itself to his more subtle colleague.
"I am informed that Count Bertrich has attacked the castle, and is at present engaged in its reduction, and this without waiting for co-operation from my forces."
"If he has done so," replied Arnold suavely, "he has most gravely outrun his instructions."
"He furthermore stated to the Count of Thuron that you had certain powers granted you by the Emperor Rodolph. What is the nature of those powers?"
"In that also is Count Bertrich wrong. I have never so much as seen the Emperor Rodolph."
"You may, nevertheless, have had communication with him."
"I have had no communication with him."
"It seems strange that such a claim should have been put forward on your behalf by your own envoy."
"I cannot account for it. Bertrich has not yet returned, but when he does, I shall ask him for an explanation, and that in your presence. He is a turbulent man, and a good fighter, but difficult to restrain. One has to work with the tools that come to one's hands, and often the service is ill-rendered, as seems to have been the case in this instance."
As the Archbishop ceased speaking there arose cheer after cheer from Castle Thuron, which caused all present to listen intently, and for a short time nothing further was said. It was his Lordship of Cologne who first broke silence.
"Those cries are too near at hand to betoken victory for Count Bertrich. Perhaps it may be well to send him reinforcements."
"No," said Treves. "This action has been begun without my sanction, and Bertrich must conduct it as best he can. He has the demerit of being over-confident, and a check, while not affecting the final result, may make him the easier to reason with, and prevent the recurrence of such hasty unauthorised action."
"You take it coolly. I confess I would learn with some impatience that my troops were being over-borne, and my first impulse would be to send assistance."
"Your action would be natural and creditable to you, but there is more at stake than the issue of a mêlée. I find myself unexpectedly put on the defensive, and have no reply to make beyond giving you my simple word. I know no more than you do what has happened, and have had, as yet, no account of the parley with the occupier of Thuron. It is necessary there should be complete confidence between you and me, and I regret that in the very beginning of our united action, suspicion should be engendered in your mind. If Bertrich captures Thuron, he mistakes me much if he thinks that the bringing thither of the Black Count will compensate for the shadow he has cast on my good faith with you. Therefore I propose to await his coming, and I shall be most gratified to have you question him before he has had word with me, either in my presence, or in my absence, as best pleases you."
The candour of Arnold von Isenberg made an evident impression on his suspicious colleague, who said after a pause:
"Yes, there must be confidence or our united action will be futile. There are our arms, side by side, on the end of this tent, facing the stronghold which we expect to reduce. Our several motives should be as plainly in sight to each other, which is my excuse for speaking thus openly to you, rather than cherishing secret distrust."
The sentence was strangely interrupted. The cheering had for some time ceased, and now through the arms of Treves, blazoned on the wall, there came, with a sound of tearing cloth, the huge round stone shot from the catapult. It fell with a resounding crash on the floor and rolled between the two Electors, who both started back with dismay on their faces. The silk and canvas hung in tatters, and showed beyond a bit of the blue and peaceful sky. The Archbishop of Cologne devoutly crossed himself, but his comrade of Treves looked alternately at the rent, and at the great missile that caused it, like one stupefied.
"If I believed in portents," said the Archbishop of Cologne in the uncertain voice of one who did so believe, "that might have seemed an unlucky omen."
The Lord of Treves, recovering himself, shrugged his shoulders.
"It is but a chance shot, and the rending of a bit of painted cloth. I shall send flag of truce to Heinrich and ask him to deal us no more of these pleasant surprises. If he refuses, then must our encampment be removed further from the castle, while we shall place some catapults here and return his favours to him, so I have little doubt he will consent to leave us unmolested."
As he finished speaking there entered to them Count Bertrich, his face flushed with anger, but his demeanour in a measure crestfallen. He bowed to each Prince of the Church, and stood there silent, wincing under the lowering indignant gaze bestowed on him by his imperious master.
The two Archbishops looked at one another as if each waited for his colleague to begin.
"Will you question Count Bertrich, my Lord?" said Treves, at last.
"No. He has represented you, and should account to you. As I have your permission to note his replies, I shall put question when I have heard what he has to say, if further examination seems necessary."
"You went on a diplomatic mission," began Treves, very slowly to his follower; "am I correct in surmising that you return from a battle?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Is it true that you began this attack notwithstanding the protest of my ally's representative?"
"It is, my Lord."
"In pursuance of instructions previously given by me?"
"No, my Lord; I had no instructions from you to offer battle, but I knew it was your intention to fight, if Heinrich refused to surrender. He did so refuse, and I took it upon myself to begin."
"What was the outcome?"
"I was defeated, my Lord."
"Have you lost any men?"
"Something over a dozen, and under a score. They were killed by the archer I told you of, just on the point of victory. We would have had the castle otherwise."
"You return, then, a defeated man, having insulted your master's ally by refusing to listen to his counsel, your followers are slain, and you admit having acted without orders. What have you to say in excuse, Count Bertrich?"
"There is nothing to say. I stand here to take the brunt of my acts, and to endure what punishment is inflicted upon me. A fighting man makes mistakes, and must bear the issue of them."
"Yet, what I have chronicled is not the most serious of your offences. It seems hardly credible that you should have said such a thing, but I am told you boasted to Heinrich that the Emperor had bestowed certain authority on me. Made you any such statement, and if so, what explanation have you to offer?"
"I out-lied the villain, that was all?"
"To whom do you refer when you speak of the villain?"
"To the black thief of Thuron. Perhaps I should have admitted two villains, myself being the other. He said that he would surrender the castle if you had authority from the Emperor. I knew he was lying, and would surrender to none, so I said you had such authority."
"What grounds had you for making such statement?"
"No grounds whatever, my Lord. It was merely a case of two liars meeting, one on horseback, the other on the walls of Thuron."
Notwithstanding the seriousness of the occasion, a slight smile disturbed the severe lips of the questioner, and a more kindly light came into his eyes. He was shrewd enough to see that the blunt and prompt outspokenness of the Count served his purpose better than the answers of a more diplomatic man would have done. There was never a moment's pause between question and reply, nor was there any evidence on the part of Bertrich of an endeavour to discover what his master wished him to say. Any sign of an understanding between the two, any hesitation on Bertrich's part in answering, might have added to the apprehensions of Konrad von Hochstaden. But the dullest could not help seeing that here stood a brave unscrupulous man who knew he had done wrong, yet who was not afraid to take upon himself all the consequences, attempting little excuse for his conduct. The Lord of Treves turned to the Lord of Cologne. "Have you any question to ask?" he said.
"Not one. I have nothing to say except to beg of you not to visit any resentment you may feel upon Count Bertrich, who is a brave soldier, if an unskillful liar. Indeed I am not sure but the Count has done us both a service in bringing to an issue this matter, which, to our detriment, might have dragged on longer than would have been convenient. The Black Count seems to possess some skill in diplomacy, which I did not give him credit for, and it was probably his intention to keep us parleying with him until he was better prepared to receive us. All that now remains for us to do is to plan a comprehensive attack on the castle with our whole force, which will be immediately successful. Your archer can do little when confronted by an army, for, as I understand it, there is but one archer in the castle. Then we will take the Black Count and the other prisoners with us to Treves in a few days, and there pass judgment upon him, for I think it better that such trial should take place under your jurisdiction than under mine, Heinrich being your vassal, and he seems to show a preference for having all transactions done in strict accordance with the feudal law, which is but just and proper. He may then appeal to the Emperor—if he can find his wandering Majesty."
"I entirely agree with your argument," replied Treves; and turning to Count Bertrich, he continued, "In deference to what has been urged on your behalf by his Lordship of Cologne, I shall say nothing further in regard to your conduct, beyond breathing a fervent hope that you will not so offend again. Take or send a flag of truce to Thuron gates, and ask the Black Count to respect this camp. Tell him that if he will not so arrange, he will merely put us to the trouble of moving back our tents, and placing catapults here instead. If he molest us not, we shall take no offensive measures against him from this quarter. This piece of rock has just been hurled from the castle through the tent, and it came dangerously near being the death of some of us."
"By the gods, then," cried Count Bertrich, "Heinrich has greatly improved his catapult practice in very short time."
"We have no desire to be his targets, so make the arrangement with him if you can."
"My Lord, if I may venture the suggestion, it were better to have no further traffic with the Black Count, for I doubt if he will keep his word, even if he gave it. But besides that, this is the only point from which a catapult can be of service against the castle. Placed here, half-a-dozen engines, energetically worked, might fill his courtyard for him. I strongly urge you to remove the tents and fix catapults in their places."
"Count Bertrich," said Arnold, harshly, gazing coldly upon him, "this morning's excursion has led you into delusions not yet cleared away, I fear. This campaign is to be conducted by the Archbishop of Cologne and myself. We desire no suggestions from you, but very prompt obedience. You have heard the order, transmit it to one of your officers, for I distrust your own powers as faithful envoy. When he reports the result of his conversation with Count Heinrich to you, you will then, perhaps, be good enough to bring the tidings to me."
Count Bertrich reddened angrily, kept silence, bowed to the two dignitaries and withdrew.
"Nevertheless," he muttered to himself as he strode away, "it is folly to waste the best point of attack for the convenience of two Archbishops. Heinrich is no such fool as not to jump at such a senseless proposal."
The swarthy Heinrich, summoned once again by bugle blast to the gate top of the castle, seeing there a man with white flag, heard with amazement that the high and honourable Archbishops did not wish to be incommoded by his catapult practice and the incoming inconvenience of the lumps of stone, and were, therefore, willing themselves to forego the bombarding of the castle from that point, if he would promise not to fling rounded granite again into the deliberations of the mighty Lords aforesaid. Heinrich, casting a glance over his shoulder at the heights of Bieldenburg, scarcely believing that men pretending knowledge of war and siege would so easily forego so great an opportunity as the heights afforded them for the annoyance of the castle, not to mention the destruction which might be caused by the falling of stone on the roofs inside the walls, readily gave his consent to put the catapult of the north tower out of action—a promise which he duly kept in the letter, if not quite in the spirit, as will be seen when this history has somewhat farther extended itself.
So great, however, was his distrust of humanity in general, and the Archbishops in particular, that he did not remove his catapult from the north tower to some part of the battlements where it could make its influence felt on the invaders, but kept it there idle, expecting that their Lordships would, when they came to realise the advantages of the situation, forthwith break their word, which, it is pleasant to record, they never did. The incident of the white flag and its mission encouraged Heinrich mightily, for small as was his respect for his assailants before, it was less now. They might easily have shifted their tents farther back, while he could not remove the castle, nor eliminate the Bieldenburg, and thus they possessed a notable natural advantage over him which they had recklessly bargained away, getting practically nothing in exchange. The Black Count walked up and down gleefully rubbing his hands together, communing with himself, for he was not a man to run and share his satisfaction with another. This was but the first day of the siege, yet he had enjoyed a victory in diplomacy, a victory in battle and a victory in bargaining, and in pluming himself thereon he quite overlooked the fact, as mankind is prone to do, that in none of the three cases was the merit due to himself, but to the actions of others.
There were to be no more pleasant breakfasts on the top of the south tower, it being within the range of possibility that a crossbow bolt might find its way thither, so the two ladies of the castle could not be permitted to run the chance of such an eventuality. Heinrich, however, beginning at that late day to show some human interest in his family, arranged that they should eat together in the great hall. Here he took the head of the table, with his wife and Tekla on one side, while Rodolph occupied a seat on the other. The archer had proved himself no less expert with cooking utensils than with the bow, and on the promise of an extra penny a day, willingly prepared their meals, which were carried in by two men-at-arms, who proved, at first, clumsy waiters compared with the neat and deft-handed Hilda. These meals, however, were anything but cheerful functions, for the Count and his wife rarely broke silence, and although some conversation passed between Rodolph and Tekla, it was overshadowed by the continual gloom that sat on the brow of their taciturn host.
Watch was set for the night, as evening fell once more upon the valley, and again the hundreds of camp fires glowed in the darkness, while up from the tented plain, in the still air, came the singing of familiar songs, deep-throated bass mingling with soprano and tenor, the harmony mellowed by distance, sounding sweet in the ears of the beleaguered. The songs for the most part were those the Crusade had brought forth, and the words, while often warlike, even more frequently told of Christ and his influence on the world. They were the songs which had stirred the sentiment of the nation and had caused so many to go forth to battle for the rescue of the true sepulchre from infidel hands. Militant marching tunes mingled with other sadder strains which mourned the nonreturn of friends from the Death Plains of the crimson East.
In the morning the circling army was early astir, displaying an energy not less remarkable than it had exhibited on the previous day. It was evident that an attack of some kind was contemplated, and those within the castle had not long to wait before the design was disclosed. A line of men, probably numbering a thousand, was drawn up at the foot of the hill extending between the village of Alken and the castle, from the north of the Thaurand valley far towards the west. The warriors stood about, or sat down, or sprawled at full length on the ground, as suited each soldier's fancy, and apparently waited the word of command which their officers, standing on the alert, would give when some signal was shown or sounded. The few sentinels on watch along the eastern wall of the castle gave warning that a like company of men was crawling up the steep slopes of the Thaurand through the forest, but little heed was given to them, as the eastern sides of the castle were so high that no man could easily win to the top with any ladder the besiegers might construct, and if they attempted such scaling, the guards at the top would have no difficulty in dislodging the ladders with their pikes and lances. The line near Alken rested out of reach of catapult-stones, but in a measure only. Although the catapult which Heinrich at once set in operation, could not hurl a stone directly on their line, yet the balls of granite rolled down the hill with irresistible force, and while the men were inclined at first to hail these missiles with shouts of merriment, dancing this way and that to avoid them, several standing with legs widespread allowing the projectiles to pass between their feet, yet now and then a hurling stone would take an unexpected leap in the air and double up a man, whose laughter was heard no more. After some moments of eruptive activity on the part of the castle the soldiers were compelled to treat the efforts of the enemy with respect, while the officers moved their men in extended order, so decreasing the danger from the catapults.
Presently there emerged from the forest, in front of the gate, twoscore or more of men in complete armour. They advanced to the great oaken log which had proved so disastrous to their comrades the day before. Crossbow bolts now flew again from the wood, but a wholesome fear of the archer on the tower kept the bowmen from showing themselves. The men in armour with some difficulty lifted the heavy log to their shoulders, and as they advanced towards the gate, Surrey's arrows glancing ineffectually from their protected bodies, a bugle call rang out over the valley. Instantly the men at the bottom of the hill gave a great cheer and charged up the slope, treading down the vines, while others behind them carried scaling ladders of a length suitable for the long low front of Thuron. Those at the catapults now worked like madmen, and their efforts told heavily on the advancing army, whose movement, laborious because of the steepness of the hill, the feet of the men entangled in the tenacious, trailing vines, was once or twice checked in the ascent, but they always rallied with a cheer, under the encouragement of their officers, and set their faces to the task before them with renewed energy.
The archer on the tower desisted from his fruitless efforts against the men in armour, and now turned his attention to the unprotected horde climbing the hill, and although every arrow did execution, the stormers were in such multitude that his skill had no effect in checking the advance.
The Black Count strode from catapult to catapult, alternately cursing and encouraging the workers. Rodolph, now in full armour, commanded a body of men who stood on the battlements with axes on their shoulders, ready to spring forward when ladders were planted. The twoscore with their battering ram threw down their bulky burden at the gate, and endeavoured to put it to its use, but it was soon evident they could not hold the position they had won. Besides, they were unaccustomed to the weight and awkwardness of armour and made little headway with their battery. Their heads being enclosed in iron—for if they had shown an inch of their faces the archer would certainly not have turned discouraged from them—prevented their hearing the words of command, and they seemed incapable of swinging the log with rhythmic motion. Count Bertrich, on his horse, his visor up in spite of the archer, roared orders that were not obeyed, because unheard, and in his frenzy the Count seemed about to ride down his own followers, while loudly cursing their clumsy stupidity. But worse than this was the rain of stones which even armour could not withstand. The Black Count, summoning his most stalwart followers, hurled down on the men beneath them the huge granite spheres, acting for the time as their own catapults. The machine itself did better execution than it had accomplished the day before, as its workers had now learned its peculiarities. The oak log gave infrequent feeble blows against the strong gate, but one after another of its carriers were felled by the stones, then the log itself proved too heavy for its thinned supporters, and so came to the ground, whereupon those who remained turned and fled for shelter in the forest, all of them sweating in the unaccustomed iron cases in which they found themselves: some falling prone on the ground through heat and exhaustion, not knowing how to unloose their headpieces to get a breath of fresh air.
Bertrich wasted no further effort on them, but called his crossbow brigade out of the wood to advance and harass those on the walls while the scaling ladders were being put into use. They came out timorously with an eye on the tower rather than on the direction of their bolts. Here, at last, was Surrey's opportunity. His hatred of a crossbow man as a cumberer of the earth lent strength to his aim, and his anger at being baffled by those in armour made the game he was now playing doubly enjoyable. He raised a Saxon yell, heard far and wide over hill and dale.
"Oh, here you are at last!" he cried. "Come along with your ox-bows and hay ricks."
When half-a-dozen had fallen under the whizzing, almost invisible, shafts that so quickly succeeded each other, the ranks of the crossbow men wavered and broke, every man of them getting under cover as speedily as he could.
Those on the western wall under Rodolph's command were now having all they could do. The hill climbers, although somewhat out of breath with their hurried ascent, swarmed in such numbers at the foot of the walls, that for a time their repulse seemed almost hopeless. Each of the attacking soldiers carried, wound round his waist, a rope tied at one end to a piece of timber three or four feet long. This billet of wood they flung over the parapet, dragging instantly on the attached rope. Sometimes the billet came down on them again, but more often it caught and held in the machicolations of the parapet, and then the soldier, setting his feet against the stone wall, climbed nimbly up the rope, usually to get knocked on the head with a battle-axe when he appeared at the top, but while many went thus down again, others obtained a precarious footing and fought fiercely until they fell backwards over the parapet.
Rodolph saw that the moment three or four of the enemy made good their stand at any one part of the wall, their comrades would swarm up at that point and the castle would be taken, for the besiegers were so numerous they might speedily overpower the little garrison. He gave the word to cut the ropes whether the ascending man got foothold or not. The defenders, in the fury of the battle, were paying more attention to the splitting of skulls than the destroying of the means of ascent, often leaving a rope dangling where another than its original owner might come up. After this command the battle-axes clove each rope at its junction with the wooden billet, and so destroyed its usefulness, for there was no time in the mêlée to retie the cord to other billets, even if other billets were to hand. When at last the ladders came, the fight waxed more fierce. Here Rodolph took pattern by the Black Count, and gave command to the defenders to hold catapult stones in readiness and wait till two or three men were following each other up a ladder, then hurl granite on the foremost, who in his fall brought down his comrades with him. In each case when this was accomplished the men on the walls were instructed to rush forward, pull up the ladder and throw it inside the courtyard. In this way most of the ladders had been taken before the attacking force rightly estimated their loss, or indeed noticed it in the exciting conflict which was going forward, and with each capture the danger to the castle grew less. Black Heinrich looked grimly on, taking little part in the defence now that the attack on the gate had been abandoned, but once when, in spite of all efforts of the defenders, four ladders had been placed simultaneously together and half-a-dozen men succeeded in mounting the battlements, the Count sprang forward and grasping one after another of the invaders, flung them, head over heels, through the air in such quick succession, and with such incredible force, that most of them rolled well nigh into the village of Alken before they came to rest on the hillside. The raiders gradually became discouraged, but were buoyed up by the hope that other points of attack might be more favoured by fate than theirs, else the retreat would have sounded from the bugle. But suddenly a riderless horse came galloping round a corner from the gate, and the officers recognised the animal from its trappings. Like wildfire spread the rumour, "Count Bertrich is slain," then all heart departed from the attack, and a wild exultant cheer rose from those in the castle. The retreat down the hill became a panic-stricken flight, which the catapults, now in activity again, accelerated.
"Show your white flag!" roared Heinrich, striding up and down the battlements, intoxicated with his triumph, and waving hands above his head like a madman. "Show your white flag; you surely were not foolish enough to attack without it."
The white flag presently did appear coming up from Alken, and the request was made that they be allowed to bear away their dead and wounded. Then at last the active engines ceased and the tired men sat on beams and parapet, drawing sleeves across their sweating brows.
The foot of the walls presented an appalling spectacle. There was a windrow of dead and wounded, as if the poor wrecked human beings had been some sort of wingless moths who had flung themselves against these adamant walls, and had paid the last penalty of their rashness. Parts of broken ladders lay mingled with the slain, together with the round lumps of stone which had been their undoing.
"Is it true that Count Bertrich has been slain?" asked Rodolph of Heinrich, when the latter had assumed his customary calm.
"I know nothing of it. Here is the archer who was on the tower; he may be able to tell us."
"Indeed," said Surrey, "I fear it is not true, for I had no fair shot at him. It was not my intention to have killed him so early in the game, but he must needs insult me, so I let fly at him."
"How did he insult you?"
"He raved at the cautious crossbow men, telling them that if they did not come out from the wood they were cowards. Now it is not fair to call a man a coward who fears my bow, and that expression I took as an insult. He is a wise man and not a coward who betakes himself to the wood when my arrows are abroad."
"I can bear witness to the truth of that," said the Black Count.
"I therefore loosed arrow at his slanderous mouth, but he turned his face just at the moment, and although I unhorsed him and he lay still enough till they dragged him away, I have my doubts regarding his death."
During all the rest of that stirring day soldiers were busy carrying their dead and wounded comrades down the steep hill to the village, and the white flag flew until darkness blotted it out.
On the following morning there were no signs of activity in the camp, as the sentries on the castle walls gazed about them in the early dawn.
Heinrich thought that after a defeat so overwhelming the Archbishops would strike tent and hie themselves back to their respective cities, there to resume the religious duties which had been interrupted by the martial bugle blast, but Rodolph laboured under no such delusion. He said the defeat made a prolonged siege inevitable; that the feudal lords could not afford to turn their backs upon a vassal who had thus repulsed them, or their prestige in the land would be gone forever. And it was soon evident that, although there was no activity in the camp, neither was there any sign of departure. It was learned from those who came to make further search for the missing, that Count Bertrich lay grievously ill of his wound, and if he recovered there would be another scar on his already unattractive face, but hope was held that he might live, as he was being tenderly cared for in his own tent next to that of the Archbishop of Treves himself. Rodolph acquainted the archer with the condition of his high-born foe, and Surrey received the news with subdued dejection.
"I had no fair chance," he said, sadly. "A man on a prancing horse is ever a difficult mark, but when he is encased in armour with only his face showing, and then unexpectedly turns his head just as arrow leaves string, death, however merited, can hardly be looked for."
The archer spent most of his time on the tower top, industriously making arrows, and attended assiduously by his menial, who had conceived a strong attachment to him, chiefly through the medium of vigorous kicks and blows which John somewhat lavishly bestowed, hoping thus, as he said, to make a man of him.
"You may have another opportunity of giving Count Bertrich a taste of your skill," said Rodolph, "for I doubt if the siege is yet near its conclusion. Indeed that we still hold the castle is due most of all to you."
"We hold the castle through the mercy of Providence alone," said the archer, gloomily, uninfluenced by his master's praise.
"Through that of course," remarked Rodolph, "but also in a measure through our own hard blows and your accurate marksmanship."
"I am saying nothing against the valour of the garrison, my Lord. What I mean is, that if Providence had led my friend Roger Kent into the camp of the enemy, as I supposed was probable, there would have been little use of our longer holding out, for he could have stood in Alken or even further away and picked us off one by one as pleased him. No man would dare show face above parapet. I would rather undertake to conquer Thuron with Roger Kent alone than with all the army of the Archbishops."
"Let us be thankful therefore that he is elsewhere. You think then he is not with the Archbishop?"
"He has probably forgotten all about my going to Treves," replied the archer, sorrowfully. "Roger is an absent-minded man, and a dreamer. He is likely sitting on the bank of some stream, poetry making and watching the drying of the papyrus he fabricates, for unless hunger overcame him he would never think of accepting service with any, or of drawing bow. It was his hope that some good peasant would take charge of him, and feed him, allowing him to exchange poetry for what provender and lodging he had, but he has never found such, for he wants a hut in a picturesque spot, by a lake or near a waterfall, with hills or mountains round about, where he may make papyrus and poetry."
"What is the nature of this papyrus he manufactures, and what is its purpose?" asked the Emperor.
"He says the Egyptians produced it in ancient times. He macerates certain reeds and grasses together between two stones, in flowing water, and when he has compounded a substance like porridge, he spreads it thinly on a flat stone which lies in the sun. It dries very white, and is of light texture, like cloth, only more easily torn, and will last you a long time if kept dry, but in water it dissolves again. He has thus lost much good poetry, through lying in trenches during heavy rains, the which causes him to dislike campaigns where the tents are few. On his papyrus he indites with a sharp stylus his poems, and for safe keeping places the sheets under his doublet when he sleeps; but he rises, after a rainy night, encased in pulp, which he takes from various parts of his apparel with tender care, attempting to dry the same again in the sun. He tells me that even when successful in drying the substance, the poetry is gone. Thus does he yearn for a warm hut of his own, or any one's for that matter, who will let him use it. But there is small chance of a peasant taking him up; few of them care for poetry, and he never can save the money he earns; he was always a fool in that respect, differing greatly from me; he gives away his money to the first beggar that comes with a pitiful story."
"I like your friend Roger from what you tell me of him, and if I ever come near to him, God granting he has not bow in hand, I shall be pleased to furnish him the hut he craves, if we can find one with stream and waterfall in conjunction."
"What! and thus rob Germany of the finest archer that ever bent yew wood? Indeed, it is my hope that he shall find no such patron, but that we may both take service under one commander, fighting side by side in future battles, or perhaps instructing others in the use of the long bow, and thus raising a company that will be of use in German warfare!"
As day by day passed without motion in the camp, it came to be believed in the castle that no further attack was contemplated until Bertrich had so far recovered as to lead it. He alone knew the conformation of the fortress, as he alone had been inside Thuron, so it was probable that his knowledge was regarded by the Archbishop as necessary to an attacking force.
The nights were now moonless, and although watch was strictly kept, the first intimation the garrison had of renewed hostilities was the resounding crash of the battering ram against the closed gate. The Black Count was instantly on the rampart above the gate with his stone heavers, launching out huge boulders into the darkness, and calling in his stentorian voice for torches, which seemed slow in coming. These lighted brands were flung down on the besiegers, to be trampled out by them at once, while the stone throwers, taking advantage of the momentary gleams of light, thundered down granite on the heads of the enemy. The gate did not yield as speedily as the assaulters expected, and they, not knowing it was barricaded behind by tons of grain in sacks, redoubled their efforts to gain quick entrance, for they were unarmoured, and knew their existence depended on a sudden forcing of the portal.
Rodolph, leaving the defence of the gate entirely to the Black Count, summoned his men to the long west battlement, fearing an attack there with the ladders, for he could not conceal from himself the fact that had the day attack been more intelligently conducted, with a concentration of forces at any one point along the lengthy wall, it would have come perilously near to success. He ordered a lavish supply of unlit torches, which he placed in position along the outer edge of the parapet, for their only hope lay in having plenty of light to deal successfully with an onslaught. To light the torches prematurely would be to lay the defenders open to a flight of bolts from crossbows, were a brigade of bowmen in attendance, as was extremely probable.
Shortly after the first sounds of battering at the gate aroused the citadel, the attack on the west front began. The besiegers apparently had not come up the hill as before, but swarmed round the corner of the castle from the level ground opposite the entrance, and at first Rodolph thought the assault on the gate had been abandoned and the attacking party had come to try their fortunes against the comparatively low wall, which it was his duty to protect, but the blows of oak on oak still resounded, and now he saw he was face to face with a general attack similar to the one they had formerly repulsed in daylight, the enemy doubtless hoping to profit by the darkness, and perhaps thinking to take the garrison by surprise.
In spite of his eagerness and anxiety, the Emperor could not help pausing for a moment to note the unexpected transformation which took place in the valley and on all the hillsides round about. As soon as the cheers from Thuron gave evidence that the attack was known and had been met, a line of fire seemed to encircle the castle far below and up the hills. Thousands of torches were lit, and the cheers of their holders caused Rodolph to expect an instant onslaught by the entire strength of the Archbishops. This, however, was not the intention, for those bearing the torches marched and counter-marched in apparently aimless fashion, weaving a thousand threads of fire into a glowing web that dazzled the eyes of the onlookers, while cheer after cheer rent the air, as if to encourage the actual besiegers.
The amazing illumination had at first the effect intended. It bewildered those who had to face it, while the assailants, with their backs to the scintillating brilliancy, were helped rather than disturbed by the universal glow, which faintly illumined the grey walls before them. Rodolph had his torches lighted as rapidly as possible, for he knew that light was absolutely necessary to a successful defence, and the long train of flaming, smoking torches, which were here and there beaten down by the ends of ladders, suggested an expedient to him. He had ample help, for the whole force of the castle was now aroused, so he ordered up his reserves to carry wood and build two bonfires, one at each end of the stone terrace. With these roaring to the sky, the two great towers of Thuron stood out in crimson relief, seeming to hang in the air, resting on nothing, for their bases were hid in the darkness below. Before the fires blazed out, however, several of the enemy had obtained footing on the terrace, and fierce hand to hand fights were going on, the climbers for the most part getting the worst of it, for even when a man secures his footing on solid stone instead of ladder-round, he is scarcely on equality with his foe who has had to expend no exertion, merely waiting there until a head appears.
When the two fires shot up to the sky the desultory cheering in the valley gave place to one mighty simultaneous shout of triumph, while torches were enthusiastically flung in the air. They were quite palpably under the delusion that the castle had been carried and was already burning. The fierce yell which came from Thuron was an answer they had not expected, and now, as being of no further use, the torches below were extinguished as rapidly as they had been lighted. The great castle was self-illumined and must have presented a spectacle well worth viewing from the plain below, as it stood out against the dark sky like a glowing fortress of molten stone. With the sudden access of light, the attack on the gate had proved no more practicable than on the two previous occasions. The archer on the tower again cut down the unprotected men, and again the attacking party fled panic stricken to the forest or round to the west front, where matters were going little better for their comrades.
The besiegers, with a lively remembrance of their former repulse along the same wall, became disheartened when they found themselves fighting in a light as strong as that of day. They knew if they did not scale the walls before the garrison became fully alive to what was taking place, they would have no further chance after they were discovered. Again they saw their ladders pulled up when those who climbed them had been crushed by stones, shattered with battle-axe, or flung backwards by a lighted torch being thrust in their faces, and now they saw the ladders thrown on the fires to blaze up and illumine their discomfiture.
Yet the fight while it lasted had been fiercer than during the previous attack, and three of Count Heinrich's men had been slain.
In spite of the victory, which wrought up the Black Count to a pitch of frenzy, during which he paraded the long terrace between the two fires, shaking a battle-axe above his head, and roaring defiance to the enemy, Rodolph saw that if these attacks were continued the castle must inevitably fall, for the Archbishops had more than a hundred men to Heinrich's one, and the loss of two or three of the garrison on each occasion would soon leave the castle without defenders. For the greater part of the night the Emperor paced the walls, keeping watch with the regular guard. The fires burned out, and as dawn approached he still walked up and down with his cloak drawn round him, pondering on the extraordinary situation, and wondering how it would end. He felt that he was the Emperor in name only, as indeed many of his predecessors had been without complaining, so long as they had money to spend and good wine to drink. Here was war of the most sanguinary nature raging in the centre of his dominion, his subjects not arrayed against a foreign foe, but mercilessly slaughtering each other, and if the Emperor cried "Stop," not even the most humble of the men-at-arms would heed the command. How to remedy this amazing state of affairs he had not the least idea. If he proclaimed himself to Heinrich that noble would, as like as not, clap him into the deepest dungeon of Castle Thuron, and look about to see what profit might be made of his notable prisoner. Should he approach the Archbishops, a similar fate would probably await him. He would have given much for an hour's conversation with Baron von Brunfels, or even for the opportunity of letting his friend know where he was, but either chance was alike impossible, girt round as he was by hostile troops. The hill tops were lightening with coming dawn when Rodolph sought his room in the south tower, and lay down wrapped in his cloak to a troubled rest, his great problem still unsolved by his night's vigil.
What the Emperor feared the Archbishops would do, and what would have been the proper thing to do from a military standpoint, was what the warlike prelates did not do. Both were appalled at the loss of life which had accompanied their efforts to capture Thuron. It is not to be supposed that a man whose ambition it was to link his name with the building of the greatest cathedral the world had yet seen, relished the outlook which promised instead to give him the reputation of a Hannibal or an Alexander, and that, too, without the compensating fame of a great conqueror, for the Archbishop of Cologne saw that even if the castle were captured, the feat would add few laurels to the brow of a commander at the head of a comparatively overwhelming force. He felt he had been tricked by his smooth-spoken colleague, who had persuaded him that the mere appearance of this imposing body of men before the walls of Thuron would in a manner cause them to imitate the walls of Jericho. In this suspicion, however, he wronged his brother of Treves, who had not intentionally misled him, but had actually hoped to prevent bloodshed by employing a force so palpably irresistible that Heinrich would at once come to terms. Arnold von Isenberg had no particular objection to the shedding of blood, and had before now held down his enemies with a strong hand, but results in this instance had been out of all proportion to their cost. He had been led, more than he himself cared to admit, by the impetuosity of his fiery follower, Count Bertrich, who now lay raving with the fever resulting from his wound. As Arnold advanced in years he was more prone to depend on diplomacy for his victories than on actual force, but he liked to have the force in the background even if he did not care to use it.
There was a stormy scene between the two dignitaries on the morning after the failure of the night attack. The dormant suspicions of von Hochstaden were again roused. The assurance that the siege would be a bloodless one had been so quickly belied, that he now saw in Bertrich's first impetuous attack a determination to drag the forces of Cologne into a struggle which Treves shrank from meeting alone, and now the apparently frank answers of the culprit which at the time had satisfied him, seemed but the deeper villainy, as having been probably rehearsed beforehand. Thus the Archbishop of Cologne saw himself the easy dupe of his crafty co-elector, from whose latent methods he had more than once suffered, and whose cunning he had always feared.
"You have deceived me," he cried angrily, when they were in the conference tent alone together, saving only the presence of their two secretaries.
"I do not like your word 'deceived,'" replied von Isenberg, who remained as calm as the other was agitated, "unless you apply it to me as well. I have deceived you, perhaps, but I was myself deceived. If you accuse me of miscalculation, I am willing to admit the truth of the charge."
"You knew the character of this man Heinrich; I did not. You said we had but to sit down before the castle, and it was ours. That was not true."
"I have already admitted that I was mistaken," said Arnold, quietly.
"You can do nothing but admit it," cried von Hochstaden, hotly; "the facts disclaim all denial. What I hold is that you knew this before we came, and have drawn me into a quarrel which is none of mine; that you have forced on the fighting so that we are now apparently committed to a course of which I entirely disapprove."
"I assure you I did not expect to be compelled to fight."
"That I do not believe."
"My Lord, you are too angry now to discuss this question as it should be discussed. You are overwrought, and naturally, at the loss of so many of your men."
"I would not give the life of one Rhine man for all the castles on the Moselle!" exclaimed von Hochstaden, impetuously.
"I was about to add that I, too, am deeply grieved that your men have fallen, and also that so many of my own have been killed. I think it right then that we postpone further discussion until we can approach this grave situation with minds free from the emotions which now make reasoning difficult. Are you willing that we leave decision until to-morrow?"
"With all my heart. Our talk cannot bring back to life the meanest of our following. To-morrow you will be unembarrassed by any suggestions from me."
"Why, my Lord?"
"Because the moment I leave this tent I shall give orders to my captains to gather my men, when we shall together journey to Cologne."
"Do you hold such determination to be fair to me?"
"Have you been fair to me? You have deceived me from the first."
"Twice you have said that, my Lord, and for the second time I give you my earnest assurance that such is not the case. I counsel you as a friend not to make the charge the third time."
"Do you threaten me?"
"Have you not threatened me with your desertion? If you say you do not intend to withdraw, then we will lay plans together at a future time."
"I am determined to return to Cologne."
"To begin your cathedral?"
"'Tis of more avail than dashing out the brains of my soldiers against a Moselle rock."
"Let me give you good advice in the rearing of it. Build your cathedral like a fortress. You will need a stronghold presently in Cologne, whether you need a church or not."
"From threatening my person you threaten my city."
"Frankly, I do," replied the Archbishop of Treves, without raising his voice. "You have hitherto been in some measure the ally of Mayence. I cannot remember the time when I feared you combined, but it suited me to separate you. I have done so. I learn that our brother of Mayence is both enraged and trembling. If you leave Thuron I shall instantly propose alliance with him, who now thoroughly distrusts you, and he will gladly join me, for I have never pretended to be his friend, and he has ever feared me as an enemy. Why did I propose alliance with you?"
"For your own purposes, as I now know too well."
"Surely. But what suggested the thought that such an alliance might be accepted by you? You cannot guess? Well, I will inform you. Because your ally of Mayence sent secret emissaries to me proposing an alliance with him. I saw there were differences between you, and instantly resolved to make an ally of the stronger. Therefore my envoys went to you, while his were dealing with me in Treves. When my men returned with your consent I told the envoys from Mayence, with much regret, you had made the first proposal to me, and that although I had sent to you begging to be released from our compact, you had refused."
"Which was a lie."
"Say rather a whole series of them, my Lord, or call it diplomacy if you wish to speak politely; but meanwhile do not neglect my advice to build your cathedral in the form of a fortress, and make it a strong one."
"How can you expect me to trust you after such a cynical confession?"
"I do not expect you to trust me. I have dealt with strict honesty towards you from the moment we joined together, yet you have displayed distrust since the first day. I do not in the least object to that. But as I cannot have the advantage of confidence I shall turn to the advantage of perfect frankness. I shall keep to the letter the bargain I have made with you. You shall keep to the letter the bargain you have made with me."
"You mean, then, to attempt to stop my withdrawal?"
"No. You may withdraw to-morrow if you wish to do so, and my men will form line and salute you as you pass. Then I shall divide my forces into groups and attack Thuron night and day until there is not a man left to defend it. That will not take many days, and it will give time for my brother of Mayence to meet my victorious army at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle, when we will journey amicably together to make some inquiries regarding the progress of your cathedral at Cologne."
Konrad von Hochstaden walked the length of the tent several times with knit brows, turning in his mind the problem that confronted him. Arnold sat on the bench beside the long table which divided them, his face impassive and inscrutable. Never during their colloquy had he raised his voice to a higher key than was necessary to make it distinctly heard. The two monks sat apart, downcast and silent, helpless spectators of a quarrel which might have the most momentous consequences.
At last von Hochstaden stopped in his walk, and stood regarding his ally with bewildered indecision stamped on his countenance. He had spoken heretofore in tones alternately tremulous with deep emotion and quavering with the anger he had tried in vain to suppress.
"I cannot stand here," he said, "and see my men uselessly slaughtered."
"With your humanity I am in complete sympathy. It is no pleasure to me to have soldiers killed, although sometimes the killing is necessary. Were I alone I would, as I have said, throw force after force against Castle Thuron until it succumbed, but I am acting with you and eager to come to an understanding that will be satisfactory to you; but you have made no proposal, only a threat of withdrawal. Now if it is your wish to take the castle without risking the life of another of your followers, I stand ready to make such arrangement."
"Can such arrangement be made?"
"Without doubt. We have come so suddenly on Count Heinrich that he has had no opportunity of provisioning his stronghold. The peasants tell my men that he has taken in nothing that will enable him to withstand a prolonged siege. We can therefore environ him so closely that in a comparatively short time hunger will compel him to sue for terms. This may consume days, but not the lives of men. I stand ready to agree to such a proposal willingly; in truth I will agree to anything you suggest, short of your own desertion, or of requiring me to retire defeated before the Black Man of Thuron."
"How long, think you, will the siege last?"
"There is the castle; there are our men. You can answer your question as well as I. How many men has Heinrich within his fortress? I do not know. What I do know is, that if no more grain enters the castle, the supply therein will, in time, be consumed, and then grim famine allies itself with the two Archbishops—a foe that cannot be fought with bow or battle-axe. If we resolve to starve him out, then I shall proclaim to my men that I will hang any who shortens the life of one of his. There will thus be no more bloodshed, for he dare not sally forth to attack us, and we will keep bow-shot distance from him. The conditions of the game are all before us; you can form a conclusion as well as I, and if you prove in the wrong, I shall not accuse you of cozening me."
The Archbishop of Cologne stood with clouded brow, arms folded across his breast, ruminating on what had been said by the other, who watched him keenly from under his shaggy eyebrows. At last von Hochstaden spoke, with the sigh of a man out-generalled.
"I do not wish to spend the remainder of my days sitting before Thuron."