A Book of Golden Deeds

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> A Book of Golden Deeds

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On arriving in the evening, they found that the Burggraf had fallen ill,
and could not sleep in the chamber leading to the vault, because it
belonged to the ladies' chambers, and that he had therefore put a cloth
over the padlock of the door and sealed it. There was a stove in the
room, and the maidens began to pack up their clothes there, an operation
that lasted till eight o'clock; while Helen's friend stood there,
talking and jesting with them, trying all the while to hide the files,
and contriving to say to Helen: 'Take care that we have a light.' So she
begged the old housekeeper to give her plenty of wax tapers, as she had
many prayers to say. At last everyone was gone to bed, and there only
remained in the room with Helen, an old woman, whom she had brought with
her, who knew no German, and was fast asleep. Then the accomplice came
back through the chapel, which opened into this same hall. He had on his
black velvet gown and felt shoes, and was followed by a servant, who,
Helen says, was bound to him by oath, and had the same Christian name as
himself, this being evidently an additional bond of fidelity. Helen, who
had received from the Queen all the keys to this outer room, let them
in, and, after the Burggraf's cloth and seal had been removed, they
unlocked the padlock, and the other two locks of the outer door of the
vault, and the two men descended into it. There were several other
doors, whose chains required to be filed through, and their seals and
locks broken, and to the ears of the waiting Helen the noise appeared
fatally loud. She says, 'I devoutly prayed to God and the Holy Virgin,
that they would support and help me; yet I was in greater anxiety for my
soul than for my life, and I prayed to God that He would be merciful to
my soul, and rather let me die at once there, than that anything should
happen against his will, or that should bring misfortune on my country
and people.'

She fancied she heard a noise of armed men at the chapel door, but
finding nothing there, believed--not in her own nervous agitation, a
thing not yet invented--that it was a spirit, and returning to her
prayers, vowed, poor lady, to make a pilgrimage to St. Maria Zell, in
Styria, if the Holy Virgin's intercessions obtained their success, and
till the pilgrimage could be made, 'to forego every Saturday night my
feather bed!' After another false alarm at a supposed noise at the
maiden's door, she ventured into the vault to see how her companions
were getting on, when she found they had filed away all the locks,
except that of the case containing the crown, and this they were obliged
to burn, in spite of their apprehension that the smell and smoke might
be observed. They then shut up the chest, replaced the padlocks and
chains with those they had brought for the purpose, and renewed the
seals with the Queen's signet, which bearing the royal arms, would
baffle detection that the seals had been tampered with. They then took
the crown into the chapel, where they found a red velvet cushion, so
large that by taking out some of the stuffing a hiding place was made in
which the crown was deposited, and the cushion sewn up over it.

By this time day was dawning, the maidens were dressing, and it was the
hour for setting off for Komorn. The old woman who had waited on them
came to the Lady of Kottenner to have her wages paid, and be dismissed
to Buda. While she was waiting, she began to remark on a strange thing
lying by the stove, which, to the Lady Helen's great dismay, she
perceived to be a bit of the case in which the crown was kept. She tried
to prevent the old woman from noticing it, pushed it into the hottest
part of the stove, and, by way of further precaution, took the old woman
away with her, on the plea of asking the Queen to make her a bedeswoman
at Vienna, and this was granted to her.

When all was ready, the gentleman desired his servant to take the
cushion and put it into the sledge designed for himself and the Lady of
Kottenner. The man took it on his shoulders, hiding it under an old ox-
hide, with the tail hanging down, to the laughter of all beholders.
Helen further records the trying to get some breakfast in the
marketplace and finding nothing but herrings, also the going to mass,
and the care she took not to sit upon the holy crown, though she had to
sit on its cushion in the sledge. They dined at an inn, but took care to
keep the cushion in sight, and then in the dusk crossed the Danube on
the ice, which was becoming very thin, and halfway across it broke under
the maidens' carriage, so that Helen expected to be lost in the Danube,
crown and all. However, though many packages were lost under the ice,
her sledge got safe over, as well as all the ladies, some of whom she
took into her conveyance, and all safely arrived at the castle of Komorn
late in the evening.

The very hour of their arrival a babe was born to the Queen, and to her
exceeding joy it was a son. Count von Eily, hearing 'that a king and
friend was born to him', had bonfires lighted, and a torchlight
procession on the ice that same night, and early in the morning came the
Archbishop of Gran to christen the child. The Queen wished her faithful
Helen to be godmother, but she refused in favor of some lady whose
family it was probably needful to propitiate. She took off the little
princess Elizabeth's mourning for her father and dressed her in red and
gold, all the maidens appeared in gay apparel, and there was great
rejoicing and thanksgiving when the babe was christened Ladislas, after
a sainted King of Hungary.

The peril was, however, far from ended; for many of the Magyars had no
notion of accepting an infant for their king, and by Easter, the King of
Poland was advancing upon Buda, to claim the realm to which he had been
invited. No one had discovered the abstraction of the crown, and
Elizabeth's object was to take her child to Weissenburg, and there have
him crowned, so as to disconcert the Polish party. She had sent to Buda
for cloth of gold to make him a coronation dress, but it did not come in
time, and Helen therefore shut herself into the chapel at Komorn, and,
with doors fast bolted, cut up a rich and beautiful vestment of his
grandfather's, the emperor Sigismund, of red and gold, with silver
spots, and made it into a tiny coronation robe, with surplice and
humeral (or shoulder-piece), the stole and banner, the gloves and shoes.
The Queen was much alarmed by a report that the Polish party meant to
stop her on her way to Weissenburg; and if the baggage should be seized
and searched, the discovery of the crown might have fatal consequences.
Helen, on this, observed that the King was more important than the
crown, and that the best way would be to keep them together; so she
wrapped up the crown in a cloth, and hid it under the mattress of his
cradle, with a long spoon for mixing his pap upon the top, so, said the
Queen, he might take care of his crown himself.

On Tuesday before Whit Sunday the party set out, escorted by Count
Ulric, and several other knights and nobles. After crossing the Danube
in a large boat, the Queen and her little girl were placed in a
carriage, or more probably a litter, the other ladies rode, and the
cradle and its precious contents were carried by four men; but this the
poor little Lassla, as Helen shortens his lengthy name, resented so
much, that he began to scream so loud that she was forced to dismount
and carry him in her arms, along a road rendered swampy by much rain.

They found all the villages deserted by the peasants, who had fled into
the woods, and as most of their lords were of the other party, they
expected an attack, so the little king was put into the carriage with
his mother and sister, and the ladies formed a circle round it 'that if
anyone shot at the carriage we might receive the stroke'. When the
danger was over the child was taken out again, for he would be content
nowhere but in the arms of either his nurse or of faithful Helen, who
took turns to carry him on foot nearly all the way, sometimes in a high
wind which covered them with dust, sometimes in great heat, sometimes in
rain so heavy that Helen's fur pelisse, with which she covered his
cradle, had to be wrung out several times. They slept at an inn, round
which the gentlemen lighted a circle of fires, and kept watch all night.

Weissenburg was loyal, five hundred armed gentlemen came out to meet
them, and on Whitsun Eve they entered the city, Helen carrying her
little king in her arms in the midst of a circle of these five hundred
holding their naked swords aloft. On Whit Sunday, Helen rose early,
bathed the little fellow, who was twelve weeks old that day, and dressed
him. He was then carried in her arms to the church, beside his mother.
According to the old Hungarian customs, the choir door was closed--the
burghers were within, and would not open till the new monarch should
have taken the great coronation oath to respect the Hungarian liberties
and laws.

This oath was taken by the Queen in the name of her son, the doors were
opened, and all the train entered, the little princess being lifted up
to stand by the organ, lest she should be hurt in the throng. First
Helen held her charge up to be confirmed, and then she had to hold him
while he was knighted, with a richly adorned sword bearing the motto
'Indestructible', and by a stout Hungarian knight called Mikosch Weida,
who struck with such a goodwill that Helen felt the blow on her arm, and
the Queen cried out to him not to hurt the child.

The Archbishop of Gran anointed the little creature, dressed him in the
red and gold robe, and put on his head the holy crown, and the people
admired to see how straight he held up his neck under it; indeed, they
admired the loudness and strength of his cries, when, as the good lady
records, 'the noble king had little pleasure in his coronation for he
wept aloud'. She had to hold him up for the rest of the service, while
Count Ulric of Eily held the crown over his head, and afterwards to seat
him in a chair in St. Peter's Church, and then he was carried home in
his cradle, with the count holding the crown over his head, and the
other regalia borne before him.

And thus Ladislas became King of Hungary at twelve weeks old, and was
then carried off by his mother into Austria for safety. Whether this
secret robbery of the crown, and coronation by stealth, was wise or just
on the mother's part is a question not easy of answer--though of course
she deemed it her duty to do her utmost for her child's rights. Of Helen
Kottenner's deep fidelity and conscientious feeling there can be no
doubt, and her having acted with her eyes fully open to the risk she
ran, her trust in Heaven overcoming her fears and terrors, rendered her
truly a heroine.

The crown has had many other adventures, and afterwards was kept in an
apartment of its own, in the castle of Ofen, with an antechamber guarded
by two grenadiers. The door was of iron, with three locks, and the crown
itself was contained in an iron chest with five seals. All this,
however, did not prevent it from being taken away and lost in the
Revolution of 1849.

GEORGE THE TRILLER

1455

I.

'Why, Lady dear, so sad of cheer?
Hast waked the livelong night?'
'My dreams foreshow my children's woe,
Ernst bold and Albrecht bright.

'From the dark glades of forest shades
There rushed a raging boar,
Two sapling oaks with cruel strokes
His crooked tusks uptore.'

'Ah, Lady dear, dismiss thy fear
Of phantoms haunting sleep!'
'The giant knight, Sir Konrad hight,
Hath vowed a vengeance deep.

'My Lord, o'erbold, hath kept his gold,
And scornful answer spake:
'Kunz, wisdom learn, nor strive to burn
The fish within their lake.'

'See, o'er the plain, with all his train,
My Lord to Leipzig riding;
Some danger near my children dear
My dream is sure betiding.'

'The warder waits before the gates,
The castle rock is steep,
The massive walls protect the halls,
Thy children safely sleep.'

II.

'T is night's full noon, fair shines the moon
On Altenburg's old halls,
The silver beams in tranquil streams
Rest on the ivied walls.

Within their tower the midnight hour
Has wrapt the babes in sleep,
With unclosed eyes their mother lies
To listen and to weep.

What sudden sound is stirring round?
What clang thrills on her ear?
Is it the breeze amid the trees
Re-echoing her fear?

Swift from her bed, in sudden dread,
She to her lattice flies:
Oh! sight of woe, from far below
Behold a ladder rise:

And from yon tower, her children's bower,
Lo! Giant Kunz descending!
Ernst, in his clasp of iron grasp,
His cries with hers is blending.

'Oh! hear my prayer, my children spare,
The sum shall be restored;
Nay, twenty-fold returned the gold,
Thou know'st how true my Lord.'

With mocking grace he bowed his face:
'Lady, my greetings take;
Thy Lord may learn how I can burn
The fish within their lake.'

Oh! double fright, a second knight
Upon the ladder frail,
And in his arm, with wild alarm,
A child uplifts his wail!

Would she had wings! She wildly springs
To rouse her slumbering train;
Bolted without, her door so stout
Resists her efforts vain!

No mortal ear her calls can hear,
The robbers laugh below;
Her God alone may hear her moan,
Or mark her hour of woe.

A cry below, 'Oh! let me go,
I am no prince's brother;
Their playmate I--Oh! hear my cry
Restore me to my mother!'

With anguish sore she shakes the door.
Once more Sir Kunz is rearing
His giant head. His errand sped
She sees him reappearing.

Her second child in terror wild
Is struggling in his hold;
Entreaties vain she pours again,
Still laughs the robber bold.

'I greet thee well, the Elector tell
How Kunz his counsel takes,
And let him learn that I can burn
The fish within their lakes.'

III.

'Swift, swift, good steed, death's on thy speed,
Gain Isenburg ere morn;
Though far the way, there lodged our prey,
We laugh the Prince to scorn.

'There Konrad's den and merry men
Will safely hold the boys--
The Prince shall grieve long ere we leave
Our hold upon his joys.

'But hark! but hark! how through the dark
The castle bell is tolling,
From tower and town o'er wood and down,
The like alarm notes rolling.

'The peal rings out! echoes the shout!
All Saxony's astir;
Groom, turn aside, swift must we ride
Through the lone wood of fir.'

Far on before, of men a score
Prince Ernst bore still sleeping;
Thundering as fast, Kunz came the last,
Carrying young Albrecht weeping.

The clanging bell with distant swell
Dies on the morning air,
Bohemia's ground another bound
Will reach, and safety there.

The morn's fresh beam lights a cool stream,
Charger and knight are weary,
He draws his rein, the child's sad plain
He meets with accents cheery.

'Sir Konrad good, be mild of mood,
A fearsome giant thou!
For love of heaven, one drop be given
To cool my throbbing brow!'

Kunz' savage heart feels pity's smart,
He soothes the worn-out child,
Bathes his hot cheeks, and bending seeks
For woodland berries wild.

A deep-toned bark! A figure dark,
Smoke grimed and sun embrowned,
Comes through the wood in wondering mood,
And by his side a hound.

'Oh, to my aid, I am betrayed,
The Elector's son forlorn,
From out my bed these men of dread
Have this night hither borne!'

'Peace, if thou 'rt wise,' the false groom cries,
And aims a murderous blow;
His pole-axe long, his arm so strong,
Must lay young Albrecht low.

See, turned aside, the weapon glide
The woodman's pole along,
To Albrecht's clasp his friendly grasp
Pledges redress from wrong.

Loud the hound's note as at the throat
Of the false groom he flies;
Back at the sounds Sir Konrad bounds:
'Off hands, base churl,' he cries.

The robber lord with mighty sword,
Mailed limbs of giant strength--
The woodman stout, all arms without,
Save his pole's timber length--

Unequal fight! Yet for the right
The woodman holds the field;
Now left, now right, repels the knight,
His pole full stoutly wields.

His whistle clear rings full of cheer,
And lo! his comrades true,
All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty,
Burst on Sir Konrad's view.

His horse's rein he grasps amain
Into his selle to spring,
His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel
Has caught, his weapons ring.

His frightened steed with wildest speed
Careers with many a bound;
Sir Konrad's heel fast holds the steel,
His head is on the ground.

The peasants round lift from the ground
His form in woeful plight,
To convent cell, for keeping well,
Bear back the robber knight.

'Our dear young lord, what may afford
A charcoal-burners' store
We freely spread, milk, honey, bread,
Our heated kiln before!'

IV.

Three mournful days the mother prays,
And weeps the children's fate;
The prince in vain has scoured the plain--
A sound is at the gate.

The mother hears, her head she rears,
She lifts her eager finger--
'Rejoice, rejoice, 't is Albrecht's voice,
Open! Oh, wherefore linger?'

See, cap in hand the woodman stand--
Mother, no more of weeping--
His hound well tried is at his side,
Before him Albrecht leaping,

Cries, 'Father dear, my friend is here!
My mother! Oh, my mother!
The giant knight he put to flight,
The good dog tore the other.'

Oh! who the joy that greets the boy,
Or who the thanks may tell,
Oh how they hail the woodman's tale,
How he had 'trilled him well!'

[Footnote: Trillen, to shake; a word analogous to our rill, to shake the
voice in singing]

'I trilled him well,' he still will tell
In homely phrase his story,
To those who sought to know how wrought
An unarmed hand such glory.

That mother sad again is glad,
Her home no more bereft;
For news is brought Ernst may be sought
Within the Devil's Cleft.

That cave within, these men of sin
Had learnt their leader's fall,
The prince to sell they proffered well
At price of grace to all.

Another day and Earnest lay,
Safe on his mother's breast;
Thus to her sorrow a gladsome morrow
Had brought her joy and rest.

The giant knight was judged aright,
Sentenced to death he lay;
The elector mild, since safe his child,
Sent forth the doom to stay.

But all to late, and o'er the gate
Of Freiburg's council hall
Sir Konrad's head, with features dread,
The traitor's eyes appal.

The scullion Hans who wrought their plans,
And oped the window grate,
Whose faith was sold for Konrad's gold,
He met a traitor's fate

V.

Behold how gay the wood to-day,
The little church how fair,
What banners wave, what tap'stry brave
Covers its carvings rare!

A goodly train--the parents twain,
And here the princess two,
Here with his pole, George, stout of soul,
And all his comrades true.

High swells the chant, all jubilant,
And each boy bending low,
Humbly lays down the wrapping gown
He wore the night of woe.

Beside them lay a smock of grey,
All grimed with blood and smoke;
A thankful sign to Heaven benign,
That spared the sapling oak.

'What prize would'st hold, thou 'Triller bold',
Who trilled well for my son?'
'Leave to cut wood, my Lord, so good,
Near where the fight was won.'

'Nay, Triller mine, the land be thine,
My trusty giant-killer,
A farm and house I and my spouse
Grant free to George the Triller!'

Years hundred four, and half a score,
Those robes have held their place;
The Triller's deed has grateful meed
From Albrecht's royal race.

The child rescued by George the Triller's Golden Deed was the ancestor
of the late Prince Consort, and thus of our future line of kings. He was
the son of the Elector Friedrich the mild of Saxony, and of Margarethe
of Austria, whose dream presaged her children's danger. The Elector had
incurred the vengeance of the robber baron, Sir Konrad of Kauffingen,
who, from his huge stature, was known as the Giant Ritter, by refusing
to make up to him the sum of 4000 gulden which he had had to pay for his
ransom after being made prisoner in the Elector's service. In reply to
his threats, all the answer that the robber knight received was the
proverbial one, 'Do not try to burn the fish in the ponds, Kunz.'

Stung by the irony, Kunz bribed the elector's scullion, by name Hans
Schwabe, to admit him and nine chosen comrades into the Castle of
Altenburg on the night of the 7th of July, 1455, when the Elector was to
be at Leipzig. Strange to say, this scullion was able to write, for a
letter is extant from him to Sir Konrad, engaging to open the window
immediately above the steep precipice, which on that side was deemed a
sufficient protection to the castle, and to fasten a rope ladder by
which to ascend the crags. This window can still be traced, though
thenceforth it was bricked up. It gave access to the children's
apartments, and on his way to them, the robber drew the bolt of their
mother's door, so that though, awakened by the noise, she rushed to her
window, she was a captive in her own apartment, and could not give the
alarm, nor do anything but join her vain entreaties to the cries of her
helpless children. It was the little son of the Count von Bardi whom
Wilhelm von Mosen brought down by mistake for young Albrecht, and Kunz,
while hurrying up to exchange the children, bade the rest of his band
hasten on to secure the elder prince without waiting for him. He
followed in a few seconds with Albrecht in his arms, and his servant
Schweinitz riding after him, but he never overtook the main body. Their
object was to reach Konrad's own Castle of Isenburg on the frontiers of
Bohemia, but they quickly heard the alarm bells ringing, and beheld
beacons lighted upon every hill. They were forced to betake themselves
to the forests, and about half-way, Prince Ernst's captors, not daring
to go any father, hid themselves and him in a cavern called the Devil's
Cleft on the right bank of the River Mulde.

Kunz himself rode on till the sun had risen, and he was within so few
miles of his castle that the terror of his name was likely to be a
sufficient protection. Himself and his horse were, however, spent by the
wild midnight ride, and on the border of the wood of Eterlein, near the
monastery of Grunheim, he halted, and finding the poor child grievously
exhausted and feverish, he lifted him down, gave him water, and went
himself in search of wood strawberries for his refreshment, leaving the
two horses in the charge of Schweinitz. The servant dozed in his saddle,
and meanwhile the charcoal-burner, George Schmidt, attracted by the
sounds, came out of the wood, where all night he had been attending to
the kiln, hollowed in the earth, and heaped with earth and roots of
trees, where a continual charring of wood was going on. Little Albrecht
no sooner saw this man than he sprang to him, and telling his name and
rank, entreated to be rescued from these cruel men. The servant awaking,
leapt down and struck a deadly blow at the boy's head with his pole-ax,
but it was parried by the charcoal-burner, who interposing with one hand
the strong wooden pole he used for stirring his kiln, dragged the little
prince aside with the other, and at the same time set his great dog upon
the servant. Sir Konrad at once hurried back, but the valiant charcoal-
burner still held his ground, dangerous as the fight was between the
peasant unarmed except for the long pole, and the fully accoutered
knight of gigantic size and strength. However, a whistle from George
soon brought a gang of his comrades to his aid, and Kunz, finding
himself surrounded, tried to leap into his saddle, and break through the
throng by weight of man and horse, but his spur became entangled, the
horse ran away, and he was dragged along with his head on the ground
till he was taken up by the peasants and carried to the convent of
Grunheim, whence he was sent to Zwickau, and was thence transported
heavily ironed to Freiburg, where he was beheaded on the 14th of July,
only a week after his act of violence. The Elector, in his joy at the
recovery of even one child, was generous enough to send a pardon, but
the messenger reached Freiburg too late, and a stone in the marketplace
still marks the place of doom, while the grim effigy of Sir Konrad's
head grins over the door of the Rathhaus. It was a pity Friedrich's
mildness did not extend to sparing torture as well as death to his
treacherous scullion, but perhaps a servant's power of injuring his
master was thought a reason for surrounding such instances of betrayal
with special horrors.

The party hidden in the Devil's Cleft overheard the peasants in the wood
talking of the fall of the giant of Kauffingen, and, becoming alarmed
for themselves, they sent to the Governor of the neighboring castle of
Hartenstein to offer to restore Prince Ernst, provided they were
promised a full pardon. The boy had been given up as dead, and intense
were the rejoicings of the parents at his restoration. The Devil's Cleft
changed its name to the Prince's Cleft, and the tree where Albrecht had
lain was called the Prince's Oak, and still remains as a witness to the
story, as do the moth-eaten garments of the princely children, and the
smock of the charcoal-burner, which they offered up in token of
thanksgiving at the little forest church of Ebendorff, near the scene of
the rescue.

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