Barr Robert
Tekla

CHAPTER XXXVI
THE FIVE BILLETLESS ARROWS

The bowman, with characteristic caution, stole down the hill until he neared the line, wound so tightly round the castle. Here his circumspection redoubled, and, trailing his bow after him, he crawled on hands and knees towards his friend, Roger Kent, who, with bowed head, marched to and fro along his accustomed beat. The poet seemed in a state of blank despondency, but whether on account of the slanders of an unsympathetic world, or for the reason that he had parted in discordant terms from his comrade, John Surrey could not tell. A warble from the forest caused the sentinel to raise his head and peer into the denseness of the thicket. The moon showed his face to be alert and expectant, expressions which changed into a look of joy when the warble was repeated and he saw emerge from the plantation the rotund figure of his friend and critic. The latter motioned him to come out of the moonlight into the shadow, and the unsuspicious Roger, casting a glance round him, seeing the coast clear, approached until the gloom of the wood fell over him, then stood, realising that, after all, the insult had not been of his bestowal, and that etiquette at least demanded from John some verbal amends for his former verbal buffets, if there was to be peace between them.

"Roger," said John, "I could not sleep until I had told you how sorry I am that my roughness of speech gave you good cause for offence, and I beg you to think no more of my words."

"What you said," replied Roger, dolefully, "was no doubt true enough. I have been thinking over your estimate of my poems, and I fear I have, in my enthusiasm, at various times given you the idea that I held them in high esteem myself; but alas, no one knows better than I what poor trash they are, and I recited them to you that I might profit by your criticism. I cannot find fault with an honest opinion."

"It was not an honest opinion," cried John, fervently. "I was disappointed that you refused to pleasure my master by allowing him to get free of the castle, but he has said that you were quite right to stand by your oath and showed me that, in your place, I would have done the same. Ah, he has a high opinion of poets, my master."

"Has he so? Then am I the more unfortunate that I cannot aid him to escape. I would I had taken the oath with him instead of under the Archbishop, whom I have never seen, but such are the fortunes of war, and one of the many blessings of peace is that then a man is at liberty to do what he will for a friend, as I think I have well set forth in a verse conned over in my mind since you left me, which I shall entitle, 'Peace boweth to Friendship.'"

"Let me hear it, Roger, in token of your forgiveness, for what I said to you a while since was but the reflex of my disappointment, and in no wise an indication of my true mind."

"The verse is but a trivial one at best," said Roger, in a tone of great complacency that rather belied his words, "and is, you must remember, not yet polished as it will be when I indite it on papyrus; still I have to admit that even in its present unfinished shape it contains the germ of what may be an epic. It runs thus – "

And here he repeated the lines sonorously, while his comrade listened with rapt attention beaming on his upturned countenance.

After this felicitous introduction the two sat down together, the sentinel rising now and then to cast a look about him, resolved that even the delights of a discussion upon poesy should not make him neglect the business he had in hand, but the night was still, with the castle and camp wrapped in equal silence. At last John's quick ear caught the low signal that told him Rodolph and Conrad were waiting to make good their way through the line, broken at this point by a literary conference. John looked sharply at his friend, wondering whether or no he also had heard the sound, but the other babbled serenely on.

"You remember the poems you delivered that night at the foot of the wall long ago, when you so unjustly charged me with being asleep, because, I suppose, your first verses were on 'Sleep?' Recite them again in the order you then arranged them, if you can, and I will tell you whether you have improved the lines or not."

The author rapturously began, and he had no complaint to make regarding his listener's lack of attention. John seemed fascinated, and fixed his eyes on the speaker with a keen inquiry that was most flattering. Never had reciter so absorbed an audience, and the poet went on like one inspired. He glowed with the enthusiasm of his varying themes, and his voice was at times thrilled with the pathos or the tenderness of his changing subjects. Once, indeed, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a quatrain, and whispered, alarmed:

"What was that? A twig snapped; I am sure of it. Did you hear nothing?"

"Nothing, Roger, but the most marvellous lines that ever man was privileged to listen to. Go on, for God's sake, and do not keep me thus deprived of the remainder. What follows: what follows, Roger?"

"Ah, John," cried the poet, beaming upon him, "you have the true feeling for poesy; why was the gift of expression denied you?"

"It is a question I cannot answer, but if I fail to make an arrow, I can judge it rightly when it is made. Perhaps if I were a poet myself I could not so well appreciate the verses with which you delight the world."

"True. I have met other versifiers who were so lacking in all valuation of genius that instead of listening to some of my best efforts they would insist on disturbing me with their own poor doggerel, which was entirely devoid of any just reason for existence. You would hear more of this poem, then?"

"I would not lose a word of it for all the wine between here and Treves. Go on, I beg you, for I never before heard the like of it."

The syllables of the poet flowed like the sweet purling of a stream, and finally, through it all, John's straining ears caught again the signal, but this time from the opposite side of the moonlit Thaurand valley, high up on the hill, which intimated to him that his comrades were at last safe, and that they were making their way across the rocky headland which jutted out between the Thaurand and the Moselle to the north of the spot where the talker and the listener sat, and thus Rodolph and Conrad had avoided the danger of going down the valley and past the end of the village, which was thronged with the Archbishop's men. John Surrey still sat there until he thought his comrades had had time to reach the bank of the river, knowing that then if he were captured or killed, they, at least, would be free from molestation, for it had been arranged that they were to wait but a short time for him, and, on the first symptom of alarm, make the best of their way down the Moselle, with such speed as was possible. Two more poems were recited, and at the end of the last, John Surrey rose and placed his hands on Roger's shoulder, his friend, the poet, rising also.

"If it should so chance, Roger, that I do not live to tell you this again, mark well my last words. The verse you have rhymed to me will live long after our two heads are low, if you can but get them on parchment so that others may read them when we are gone. This is my true belief, for there is something in them that touches me, although I cannot explain why or what it is. I do not think I understand them, yet am I pleased and soothed to listen to them, for the words run smoothly, the one into the other, like music. This, Roger, is my firm opinion, and perhaps my last, so remember it, and forget my petulance earlier in the night. How many arrows have you, Roger?"

"Arrows? The saints save us! What have arrows to do with poetry, John? I carry five with me each night on guard, but have never yet had use for any. But respecting that last poem, did you notice – "

"Roger, old friend, good-bye."

Saying this with trembling voice, John Surrey leaped down the hillside towards the stream, his stout body ill adapted to the recklessness of his descent, leaving the other standing open-mouthed in amazement, chagrin coming over him with the surmise that all this listening to his verse had been a mere cheat; yet John's last words of praise rang persistently and deliciously convincing in his ears. For a moment he stood thus, then a realisation of his duty burst upon him, and he seized bow, automatically placing an arrow accurately on the string.

Headlong the rotund John plunged downwards, expecting a command to stop, but no cry came. He splashed through the little stream, and knew that in his slow ascent up the steep crumbling hill, the moon would be shining full on his broad back, making him a target that would delight the heart of any archer who ever drew string to ear. He shivered in spite of his courage, in fear of the sudden pang which he himself had so often and so light-heartedly dealt, but the shiver was because his back was toward the danger, and he told himself that he would have faced certain death with equanimity could he but see the missile that was to slay him. He toiled panting up the hill, the ground crumbling under his feet and making progress doubly slow and tiresome, wondering why the shaft did not come. At last there was a swift hum at his right ear like the sharp baritone of an enraged wasp. Into the earth, on a level with his nose, an arrow buried itself up to the feather on its shank. He almost fancied he felt the sting of it, and his hand went up to his ear without thought on his part. He turned round for one brief moment, and waved his hand to the tall man across the valley, then struggled up as before. The second arrow came as close to his left ear, struck a ledge of rock and glanced out of sight. Still John laboured on and up. After a similar interval had passed and the distant bowman saw he did not intend to stop, the third arrow passed his side, grazing his doublet on a level with his panting heart. The hill seemed steeper and steeper, and John breathed as if his breast would burst, the breath coming hot as steam from his parched throat. He seemed intuitively to know when the next arrow would come, and it came exactly on the moment, not passing him as the others had done, but tearing his doublet and hanging there between the skin and the cloth, yet so far as John could tell in the excitement of the moment not cutting his flesh. He paused, turned, and lying back against the hill, gasped:

"Lord, Roger, what a marksman you are!"

Even his lack of breath could not disguise the admiration in his tone. The tall archer on the further side leaned forward as he saw the other apparently fall, but he made no outcry. There was still one arrow left, and he held it notched on the string. The fugitive lay where he had sunk to the ground, and closed his eyes as he rested, drawing in long draughts of air while his heart beat like the drumming of a partridge's wing. It was but a short distance now to the crest of the ridge, and once over that he was safe, but he was under no delusion that he could reach shelter if the other cared to use his remaining shaft. The belief became fixed in his mind that he would be killed at the last moment, just as he reached the apex, for he knew Roger would not have the heart to slay him sooner. He rose slowly, waved his hand, and set himself resolutely to the remainder of the task. The time passed at which the last arrow should have come, but still the bowman seemed to hesitate. So exhausted was the climber that he struggled up the last few yards of the terrible ascent on his hands and knees, grovelling like some wild beast, the sweat from his forehead drenching his eyes and blinding him. With a final effort he stood on the ridge, turned round, and in a panic of rapidly accumulated fear was about to precipitate himself down the opposite slope when he was saved the trouble of the effort, for the last arrow rang against his glittering steel cap, the impact flinging him on the loose rubble, half stunned by the blow. Through his brain rang the thought, repeated and repeated:

"Roger has preferred his friend to his oath."

After a time he began to fear he was really slain, and to convince himself that life was still in him, rose slowly, standing at last on the crest of the ridge, waving his arms. Roger had remained like a statue after his last shaft had sped, his gaze fixed on the spot where his friend had fallen. When he saw that Surrey was indeed alive, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.

CHAPTER XXXVII
THE TRAITOR AND HIS PRICE

Of all those gathered in the large tent, the Archbishop of Treves was the first to realise that the bundle which had so unexpectedly dropped down upon them, as it were, from the skies, was a man. The dismal groan of agony which had marked the sweep of the strange missile along the table, followed by the distant words from the direction of the castle, caused von Isenberg to fear that his envoy had been captured by the Black Count, probably betrayed by the captain, and had thus been flung back defiantly to his master by means of the tower catapult. Whilst the others stood horrified and amazed, crossing themselves devoutly, the Archbishop gave a quick command to Bertrich.

"It is a man, inhumanly bound, and thrown thus to his death. Cut the cords that imprison him. Call hither a physician, although I fear nothing can be done for him."

Two of Bertrich's men lifted the bundle from the chair and placed it on the table. Bertrich himself, drawing a dagger, at once severed the ropes, and the body, of its own accord, relaxed and straightened out, the limbs falling into a natural position after their constraint. To all appearances the man was dead. They turned him over, his ghastly purple face appearing uppermost in view of those who craned their necks to see.

"It is Steinmetz, captain of the castle," said Bertrich, who recognised him.

"The man we bought?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Ah." The Archbishop's interjection was long drawn out. "That explains the words we heard. The mission has been bungled, and probably the envoys are prisoners."

But as he spoke the physician entered, followed by the envoys themselves, who had just arrived up the hill from their interrupted conference. The physician announced that the man was not dead, but he gave little hope of his recovery after such frightful usage. He did recover, nevertheless, and lived to build the chapel on the Bladenburg, standing exactly where the great tent stood, to mark the spot where he had fallen and had been so miraculously saved, his descent being broken by the tent itself. The Archbishop enriched the traitor, as he enriched all those who served him, whether they were successful or the reverse, and part of this ill-gotten gold Steinmetz expended in the erection of the stone chapel, thus showing gratitude to the saint who had intervened on his behalf in the hour of his direst strait.

The chief of the two envoys told von Isenberg how their meeting with the captain under the walls of the castle had been interrupted. The gold had been given to Steinmetz, they said, and this the Archbishop believed, because he had heard the wild cry of the Black Count.

The Archbishop of Treves turned to his colleague of Cologne, and said:

"This unlooked-for incident may make an entire change in my plans. I must have further information before deciding what I shall do. If Steinmetz lives, and is in his right mind, we shall, for the first time, have accurate tidings of the state of things in the interior of Thuron. It may be that the Count has supplies we know not of; if such is the case, and if you still hold it well to raise the siege, we will then leave this place together, you for Cologne, I for Treves. I trust, my Lord, that you will agree to do nothing definite until we have further consultation with each other."

"I will so agree," replied the Archbishop of Cologne.

With this the high dignitaries parted for the night, to meet next morning in the conference tent. Day had broken before the unfortunate Steinmetz was able to speak. All his former truculence had departed, and although his bones were whole, thanks to the intercepting tent, his nervous system was shattered, and he seemed but a wreck of the bold soldier he had once been. When brought before the two Archbishops, supported by a man on either side of him, there was alarmed apprehension in his roving eyes, and he started at the slightest sound.

The Archbishop of Treves questioned him gently, speaking in a soothing monotone.

"I surmise that you were thrown hither from the catapult on the north tower. Was that the case?"

The captain bowed and shuddered, making no audible reply.

"Your master, then, discovered that you intended surrendering the castle to me. How did this knowledge come to him?"

Captain Steinmetz moistened his lips and in halting words related what had occurred in the courtyard of the castle.

"The money sent by me has therefore been lost to you?" said the Archbishop, when the recital was finished.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I would like to say that I make the loss mine, and will pay to you the whole sum originally agreed upon, as I am convinced you have done your best to terminate a struggle which, so far as Count Heinrich is concerned, was hopeless from the first. I have some curiosity to know how near starvation is to those within the castle."

Captain Steinmetz hesitated.

"There are two reasons why you may be loath to answer truthfully. The first is loyalty to your late master, but circumstances have caused me to apprehend that this consideration does not press heavily upon you. The second is that if starvation is within measurable distance, you may imagine that I repent paying good gold for a place shortly to be mine for nothing. It was to remove this impression that I stated to you a moment ago that the stipulated amount will be paid in full, not deducting the coins scattered in the castle yard. Therefore, answer truly; how stands Thuron as regards famine?"

"Famine is now there, my Lord."

"You mean they are already on short rations?"

"We have been on short rations for a long time past. I mean there is not enough food to keep the garrison alive for another ten days."

"You are sure of that?"

"Absolutely sure, my Lord."

"Were you never able to get into the castle even a scant supply from outside our lines?"

"We tried it often enough, but never succeeded."

"Ah," ejaculated the Archbishop with satisfaction; then turning to his Lordship of Cologne, he added:

"That is a compliment to our united forces, my Lord. I like to see a thing well done, when it is attempted, although I confess a more active campaign would have pleased me better. This close blockade, therefore, I look upon as a triumph more personal to yourself, perhaps, than to me."

"I trust my natural humility of mind will keep me from being too proud of it," replied his Lordship of Cologne, in dubious tones.

"You think, then, that Thuron cannot hold out many days longer?" continued Treves, again addressing Steinmetz.

"If the surrounding line is held as tightly as it has been," answered the captain, "Count Heinrich must surrender or starve."

"I see you are exhausted and will question you no more. You may retire."

Captain Steinmetz, assisted by his two supporters, left the Archbishops together. Arnold von Isenberg sat silent in his place, making no comment on the cross-examination. Conrad von Hochstaden walked up and down the tent with bowed head, absorbed in thought. He was apparently waiting for the Lord of Treves to speak first, but the other sat motionless and speechless, narrowly watching the movements of his reluctant ally.

"I suppose," said von Hochstaden at last, pausing in his promenade, "that you now expect me to remain in co-operation with you until the castle falls."

"I am not sure that I expect anything. I am waiting to hear your views, as all the circumstances of the case are now before you. I admit that I am disappointed over the failure of my latest plan; still, such is the risk all must run who attempt anything. The man who never fails is the man who never tries."

"If I could be sure this fellow speaks the truth – "

"He does speak the truth."

"How can you know?"

"Because it is not to his interest to tell a lie. He has placed the period of proving his words too near at hand to make dealing with fiction entirely safe. A prophet who sets a day for the fulfilment of his prediction must be either a true seer or a fool. Steinmetz is no fool."

"You think, perhaps, that I should be a fool to stand by you for two years and withdraw when the task is within ten days of completion."

The Archbishop of Treves spread out his hands deprecatingly, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"I should hesitate before I ventured to express an opinion in terms so strong as those you have suggested: I wait rather to hear your own judgment, hoping the verdict will be one with which I can cordially and conscientiously agree."

"Very well. It would be an act of folly to withdraw now that we are apparently within sight of the goal. I will, therefore, double the time held to be required, and will remain your faithful ally for twenty days longer. If, at the end of that period, the castle is not in your possession, you will place no obstacle in the way of my retirement to Cologne. If that does not meet with your approval, then make a proposal to me."

"I agree, and would have agreed had you placed the limit at ten days, so confident am I that the garrison of Thuron are at this moment in the direst straits. If unforeseen circumstances make it necessary for you to retire at the end of twenty days, I also will retire at the same time, and thus we will share defeat as we would have shared victory. Meanwhile, I suggest that until the twenty days have expired, it is necessary for both you and me to remain in this camp, for the castle may fall at any moment, and I desire that we march through its gates together, and raise the flag of Cologne on one tower and the flag of Treves on the other. I trust there is nothing impending that will make your return to Cologne, during this time, imperative?"

"No. It is not necessary for me to be in Cologne until the middle of August. I have set the fourteenth of that month as the day on which the corner stone of my cathedral is to be laid, and I wish to have my hands free of blood and myself free from feud before then, so that God's blessing may rest on the edifice."

"Such a condition is most exemplary and most necessary," said the Archbishop of Treves, with some suspicion of a sneer in his tone. "I make no doubt but your cathedral will be a beautiful building, and thrice blessed in the admitted sanctity of its founder. Well; we shall have ample time for the cleansing of hands before the fourteenth, not that there has been much blood to smear them for the past two years, but if your mind is ill at ease, I shall be happy, in the interests of good architecture, to be your confessor, and send you to the laying of the foundation stone fully absolved. It is then agreed that for twenty days we remain partners."

Thus the two Archbishops concluded their bargain, thinking perhaps of many events that might intervene between their hope and its realisation, but giving no thought to the real thunder-cloud that had been gathering so long to the south of them, and having no knowledge of a young man at that moment making his way through the forest to the east of the Rhine, his face set direct for Frankfort.