Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages. Wilhelm Wägner
town which, small and unimportant as it is now, was once a mighty sea-port. In those old days the harbour was deep and large and full of ships, while in the town itself were numerous palaces and houses surrounded by gardens and orange-groves.
Here it was that the great and glorious King Rother, the father of his people and the terror of his foes, held court amongst the dukes, counts and nobles of the land. The race-course was close to the sea, and there the young warriors were wont to congregate, to throw the spear and practise such sports as teach agility, while the women and maidens looked on and distributed prizes to the successful candidates for honour.
One day King Rother was seated on his throne surrounded by his counsellors, watching now the people, now the sports, and now the restless waves that were beating against the shore. There was a troubled look upon his face. Turning to his old and faithful banner-bearer, Duke Berchther of Meran, who sat beside him, “Look,” he said, “do you see how the waves raise their foam-crowned heads high in the air, dash forward, and then vanish without leaving a trace behind? The kings of the earth resemble them in this, so indeed do all men.”
“What do you say?” cried the duke. “Do you not hear how many songs are sung in your praise? Know you not that such songs live on from generation to generation, and that your name and deeds will therefore be spoken of with admiration till the end of time?”
“That is poor comfort,” replied the king. “What is the future to me, when the present is so tame and joyless? A happy home were better to me than the songs of which you speak. There go your seven sons, bold Leupold at their head, their helmets wreathed in token of victory. You live a second life in them, and their love will sustain you in your old age. What good is my throne to me? I have not wife nor child. I shall wither like an old tree, or become the laughing-stock of children in my age!”
“Then why do you not marry?” asked the duke, laughing heartily. “You are in your prime and a famous warrior. You might pick and choose any one you liked for a wife, no one would say you nay, from a simple maiden to a high-born princess.”
“You say that I am free to choose,” said Rother bitterly; “kings are more fettered in their choice than other men. They must marry in their own degree, or their children cannot succeed them, and may even live to curse them. I have travelled in many lands, but I have never yet seen the princess I could have wished to make my wife.”
“Nay then, sire, if you are so hard to please,” returned Berchther after a deep and thoughtful silence; “I think I know of a lady who might suit you, if you are willing to risk your head for her sake.”
The king desiring further information, Berchther showed him the portrait of a lovely girl, who, he said, was the daughter of the Emperor of Constantinople. Rother could not take his eyes off the picture, and exclaimed that she, and she alone, must be his wife.
“Very good, my lord,” said Berchther; “but that is a more difficult matter to bring about than you think. I must explain what I mean. The Emperor Constantine is so devoted to his daughter that he will not part with her; and if any man—be he count, duke or king—is bold enough to go and ask for her hand, he at once orders his head to be cut off. And what is the good of a headless wooer?”
“I think,” answered Rother, “that I shall meet with a better reception than that. The emperor of the East will know how to bear himself to the ruler of the West. But now call my counsellors together, that I may tell them what I intend to do.”
When the council was assembled, the king told his ministers the whole story, adding in conclusion that he intended to do his wooing in person. They strongly dissuaded him from this, upon the plea, that the king, being the chief of the state, had no right to endanger its safety by risking his head unnecessarily. Rother at last gave way, much against his will. The debate as to who should go to Constantinople lasted a long time, for each man felt that his head was of at least as much value to himself as the king’s could possibly be to the state. Then Leupold, Berchther’s brave son, rose with six of his brothers, and declared in their name and his own that they were ready to go as soon as the ships were fitted out for the journey; whereupon five noble counts, emulating the valour of these seven, announced their willingness to accompany them.
Preparations were made for the departure of the twelve ambassadors, and at last the day came on which they were to set sail. Just before the anchors were lifted, the king came down to the harbour, his gold-stringed harp in his hand, and sang them a farewell song, so strangely sweet and stirring that it moved them as Wodan’s songs used to move the hearts of their fathers in the olden time. It seemed to them as though the god of battles were calling on them to be up and doing. The music ceased; and then Rother took leave of them, saying, “If ever you are in need, and you hear that song, you may know that I am near and will help you.”
The hawsers were unloosed and the ship set sail. After a voyage that lasted for days and weeks, the travellers sighted the Golden Horn, the port of Constantinople; and as the sun was rising over the city, they landed at the wharf. They dressed themselves in velvet and heavy gold brocade, and cloaks trimmed with ermine. Every one turned to gaze after them as they passed up the street towards the palace. None knew who they were or whence they came, but all thought they must be the ambassadors of some mighty prince.
The emperor was yet in bed, dreaming of the feasts and carousals in which his heart delighted, when the empress awoke him, and said, “Get up, Constantine; the messengers of a great king have come to see you. They bring tidings of vast importance. You must receive them with all due honour and respect.”
When the emperor was ready, he desired the ambassadors to be brought to him in the throne-room, where he received them courteously. At first all went well. Constantine was pleased that his friendship and alliance should be sought by the ruler of the West, and expressed his delight in no scant terms; but when Leupold went on to say that his royal master had also commissioned him to ask in his name for the hand of the Princess Oda, the emperor’s wrath knew no bounds, and he ordered his guards to seize the “foreign hounds” and cast them into prison.
When the guards had left the hall with the twelve ambassadors, Constantine began to pace the floor, rubbing his hands, and muttering, “Behead, drown, hang—which shall it be? Ah, it were best to hang them. It would be a grand sight! Twelve fine gentlemen in gorgeous raiment brought at once to the gallows. St. Maurice grant that the wondrous spectacle may bring us glory!”
“Constantine,” said the kindly empress, “beware what you do. Is our beautiful daughter never to marry? Would it not be a good thing to give her to King Rother, and let her rule the West with him, as we the East? If you slay the messengers he has sent, Rother will assuredly ally himself with the heathen king of Desert-Babylon, and, with his help, seek your destruction.”
“St. Michael and his holy angels will protect us against the might of the godless host of infidels,” replied the emperor sanctimoniously.
“Ah,” said the prudent wife, “do not be too sure of that. He has other things to do. He has to fight for the conversion and salvation of the wild heathen tribes. Take my advice, and keep Rother’s messengers as hostages, that our hands may be strengthened when their king comes over the western sea and demands them from us at the head of his army.”
The counsel pleased the emperor, and he gave orders that the prisoners should be well guarded.
The weeks and months rolled into a year, and still the ambassadors did not return to Bari. Every heart was full of an undefined dread. Had they perished at sea, or at the hands of the cruel tyrant to whom they had been sent? None could answer.
Old Berchther one day went to the king, and said, “Sire, my heart is sad. I can bear my sorrow no longer. I had twelve goodly sons. Helfrich, the eldest, was slain fighting the barbarians near the Elbe in the far north. Seven have gone to Constantinople in your service, and have never returned. I will go and see if I can find them.”
“You must not go alone,” returned the king. “I will call a meeting of the royal council, and ask my wise advisers what were best to be done.”
After a stormy discussion, in which weighty arguments were often enforced with still weightier blows, it was determined to follow