The Strong Arm by Robert Barr

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The Count cleared his throat several times, which in the stillness of
that vaulted room sounded like the distant booming of cannon.

"If to cast the Archbishop half the distance of this room is to cast a
slight upon him, I did so, your Majesty."

There was a simultaneous ripple of laughter at this, instantly
suppressed when the searching eye of the Emperor swept the room.

"Sir Count," said the Emperor severely, "the particulars of your
outrage are not required of you; only your admission thereof. Hear,
then, my commands. Betake yourself to your castle of Winneburg, and
hold yourself there in readiness to proceed to Treves on a day
appointed by his Lordship the Archbishop, an Elector of this Empire,
there to humble yourself before him, and crave his pardon for the
offence you have committed. Disobey at your peril."

Once or twice the Count moistened his dry lips, then he said:

"Your Majesty, I will obey any command you place upon me."

"In that case," continued the Emperor, his severity visibly relaxing,
"I can promise that your over-lord will not hold this incident against
you. Such, I understand, is your intention, my Lord Archbishop?" and
the Emperor turned toward the Prince of Treves.

The Archbishop bowed low, and thus veiled the malignant hatred in his
eyes. "Yes, your Majesty," he replied, "providing the apology is given
as publicly as was the insult, in presence of those who were witnesses
of the Count's foolishness."

"That is but a just condition," said the Emperor. "It is my pleasure
that the Council be summoned to Treves to hear the Count's apology. And
now, Count of Winneburg, you are at liberty to withdraw."

The Count drew his mammoth hand across his brow, and scattered to the
floor the moisture that had collected there. He tried to speak, but
apparently could not, then turned and walked resolutely towards the
door. There was instant outcry at this, the Chamberlain of the Court
standing in stupefied amazement at a breach of etiquette which
exhibited any man's back to the Emperor; but a smile relaxed the
Emperor's lips, and he held up his hand.

"Do not molest him," he said, as the Count disappeared. "He is unused
to the artificial manners of a Court. In truth, I take it as a friendly
act, for I am sure the valiant Count never turned his back upon a foe,"
which Imperial witticism was well received, for the sayings of an
Emperor rarely lack applause.

The Count, wending his long way home by the route he had come, spent
the first half of the journey in cursing the Archbishop, and the latter
half in thinking over the situation. By the time he had reached his
castle he had formulated a plan, and this plan he proceeded to put into
execution on receiving the summons of the Archbishop to come to Treves
on the first day of the following month and make his apology, the
Archbishop, with characteristic penuriousness, leaving the inviting of
the fifteen nobles, who formed the Council, to Winneburg, and thus his
Lordship of Treves was saved the expense of sending special messengers
to each. In case Winneburg neglected to summon the whole Council, the
Archbishop added to his message, the statement that he would refuse to
receive the apology if any of the nobles were absent.

Winneburg sent messengers, first to Beilstein, asking him to attend at
Treves on the second day of the month, and bring with him an escort of
at least a thousand men. Another he asked for the third, another for
the fourth, another for the fifth, and so on, resolved that before a
complete quorum was present, half of the month would be gone, and with
it most of the Archbishop's provender, for his Lordship, according to
the laws of hospitality, was bound to entertain free of all charge to
themselves the various nobles and their followings.

On the first day of the month Winneburg entered the northern gate of
Treves, accompanied by two hundred horsemen and eight hundred foot
soldiers. At first, the officers of the Archbishop thought that an
invasion was contemplated, but Winneburg suavely explained that if a
thing was worth doing at all, it was worth doing well, and he was not
going to make any hole-and-corner affair of his apology. Next day
Beilstein came along accompanied by five hundred cavalry, and five
hundred foot soldiers.

The Chamberlain of the Archbishop was in despair at having to find
quarters for so many, but he did the best he could, while the
Archbishop was enraged to observe that the nobles did not assemble in
greater haste, but each as he came had a plausible excuse for his
delay. Some had to build bridges, sickness had broken out in another
camp, while a third expedition had lost its way and wandered in the
forest.

The streets of Treves each night resounded with songs of revelry,
varied by the clash of swords, when a party of the newcomers fell foul
of a squad of the town soldiers, and the officers on either side had
much ado to keep the peace among their men. The Archbishop's wine cups
were running dry, and the price of provisions had risen, the whole
surrounding country being placed under contribution for provender and
drink. When a week had elapsed the Archbishop relaxed his dignity and
sent for Count Winneburg.

"We will not wait for the others," he said. "I have no desire to
humiliate you unnecessarily. Those who are here shall bear witness that
you have apologised, and so I shall not insist on the presence of the
laggards, but will receive your apology to-morrow at high noon in the
great council chamber."

"Ah, there speaks a noble heart, ever thinking generously of those who
despitefully use you, my Lord Archbishop," said Count Winneburg. "But
no, no, I cannot accept such a sacrifice. The Emperor showed me plainly
the enormity of my offence. In the presence of all I insulted you,
wretch that I am, and in the presence of all shall I abase myself."

"But I do not seek your abasement," protested the Archbishop, frowning.

"The more honour, then, to your benevolent nature," answered the Count,
"and the more shameful would it be of me to take advantage of it. As I
stood a short time since on the walls, I saw coming up the river the
banners of the Knight of Ehrenburg. His castle is the furthest removed
from Treves, and so the others cannot surely delay long. We will wait,
my Lord Archbishop, until all are here. But I thank you just as much
for your generosity as if I were craven enough to shield myself behind
it."

The Knight of Ehrenburg in due time arrived, and behind him his
thousand men, many of whom were compelled to sleep in the public
buildings, for all the rooms in Treves were occupied. Next day the
Archbishop summoned the assembled nobles and said he would hear the
apology in their presence. If the others missed it, it was their own
fault--they should have been in time.

"I cannot apologise;" said the Count, "until all are here. It was the
Emperor's order, and who am I to disobey my Emperor? We must await
their coming with patience, and, indeed, Treves is a goodly town, in
which all of us find ourselves fully satisfied."

"Then, my blessing on you all," said the Archbishop in a sour tone most
unsuited to the benediction he was bestowing. "Return, I beg of you,
instantly, to your castles. I forego the apology."

"But I insist on tendering it," cried the Count, his mournful voice
giving some indication of the sorrow he felt at his offence if it went
unrequited. "It is my duty, not only to you, my Lord Archbishop, but
also to his Majesty the Emperor."

"Then, in Heaven's name get on with it and depart. I am willing to
accept it on your own terms, as I have said before."

"No, not on my own terms, but on yours. What matters the delay of a
week or two? The hunting season does not begin for a fortnight, and we
are all as well at Treves as at home. Besides, how could I ever face my
Emperor again, knowing I had disobeyed his commands?"

"I will make it right with the Emperor," said the Archbishop.

The Knight of Ehrenburg now spoke up, calmly, as was his custom:

"'Tis a serious matter," he said, "for a man to take another's word
touching action of his Majesty the Emperor. You have clerks here with
you; perhaps then you will bid them indite a document to be signed by
yourself absolving my friend, the Count of Winneburg, from all
necessity of apologising, so that should the Emperor take offence at
his disobedience, the parchment may hold him scathless."

"I will do anything to be quit of you," muttered the Archbishop more to
himself than to the others.

And so the document was written and signed. With this parchment in his
saddle-bags the Count and his comrades quitted the town, drinking in
half flagons the health of the Archbishop, because there was not left
in Treves enough wine to fill the measures to the brim.

CONVERTED

In the ample stone-paved courtyard of the Schloss Grunewald, with its
mysterious bubbling spring in the centre, stood the Black Baron beside
his restive horse, both equally eager to be away. Round the Baron were
grouped his sixteen knights and their saddled chargers, all waiting the
word to mount. The warder was slowly opening the huge gates that hung
between the two round entrance towers of the castle, for it was the
Baron's custom never to ride out at the head of his men until the great
leaves of the strong gate fell full apart, and showed the green
landscape beyond. The Baron did not propose to ride unthinkingly out,
and straightway fall into an ambush.

He and his sixteen knights were the terror of the country-side, and
many there were who would have been glad to venture a bow shot at him
had they dared. There seemed to be some delay about the opening of the
gates, and a great chattering of underlings at the entrance, as if
something unusual had occurred, whereupon the rough voice of the Baron
roared out to know the cause that kept him waiting, and every one
scattered, each to his own affair, leaving only the warder, who
approached his master with fear in his face.

"My Lord," he began, when the Baron had shouted what the devil ailed
him, "there has been nailed against the outer gate; sometime in the
night, a parchment with characters written thereon."

"Then tear it down and bring it to me," cried the Baron. "What's all
this to-do about a bit of parchment?"

The warder had been loath to meddle with it, in terror of that
witchcraft which he knew pertained to all written characters; but he
feared the Black Baron's frown even more than the fiends who had
undoubtedly nailed the documents on the gate, for he knew no man in all
that well-cowed district would have the daring to approach the castle
even in the night, much less meddle with the gate or any other
belonging of the Baron von Grunewald; so, breathing a request to his
patron saint (his neglect of whom he now remembered with remorse) for
protection, he tore the document from its fastening and brought it,
trembling, to the Baron. The knights crowded round as von Grunewald
held the parchment in his hand, bending his dark brows upon it, for it
conveyed no meaning to him. Neither the Baron nor his knights could
read.

"What foolery, think you, is this?" he said, turning to the knight
nearest him. "A Defiance?"

The knight shook his head. "I am no clerk," he answered.

For a moment the Baron was puzzled; then he quickly bethought himself
of the one person in the castle who could read.

"Bring hither old Father Gottlieb," he commanded, and two of those
waiting ran in haste towards the scullery of the place, from which they
presently emerged dragging after them an old man partly in the habit of
a monk and partly in that of a scullion, who wiped his hands on the
coarse apron, that was tied around his waist, as he was hurried
forward.

"Here, good father, excellent cook and humble servitor, I trust your
residence with us has not led you to forget the learning you put to
such poor advantage in the Monastery of Monnonstein. Canst thou
construe this for us? Is it in good honest German or bastard Latin?"

"It is in Latin," said the captive monk, on glancing at the document in
the other's hand.

"Then translate it for us, and quickly."

Father Gottlieb took the parchment handed him by the Baron, and as his
eyes scanned it more closely, he bowed his head and made the sign of
the cross upon his breast.

"Cease that mummery," roared the Baron, "and read without more waiting
or the rod's upon thy back again. Who sends us this?"

"It is from our Holy Father the Pope," said the monk, forgetting his
menial position for the moment, and becoming once more the scholar of
the monastery. The sense of his captivity faded from him as he realised
that the long arm of the Church had extended within the impregnable
walls of that tyrannical castle.

"Good. And what has our Holy Father the Pope to say to us? Demands he
the release of our excellent scullion, Father Gottlieb?"

The bent shoulders of the old monk straightened, his dim eye
brightened, and his voice rang clear within the echoing walls of the
castle courtyard.

"It is a ban of excommunication against thee, Lord Baron von Grunewald,
and against all within these walls, excepting only those unlawfully
withheld from freedom," "Which means thyself, worthy Father. Read on,
good clerk, and let us hear it to the end."

As the monk read out the awful words of the message, piling curse on
curse with sonorous voice, the Baron saw his trembling servitors turn
pale, and even his sixteen knights, companions in robbery and rapine,
fall away from him. Dark red anger mounted to his temples; he raised
his mailed hand and smote the reading monk flat across the mouth,
felling the old man prone upon the stones of the court.

"That is my answer to our Holy Father the Pope, and when thou swearest
to deliver it to him as I have given it to thee, the gates are open and
the way clear for thy pilgrimage to Rome."

But the monk lay where he fell and made no reply.

"Take him away," commanded the Baron impatiently, whereupon several of
the menials laid hands on the fallen monk and dragged him into the
scullery he had left.

Turning to his men-at-arms, the Baron roared: "Well, my gentle wolves,
have a few words in Latin on a bit of sheep-skin turned you all to
sheep?"

"I have always said," spoke up the knight Segfried, "that no good came
of captured monks, or meddling with the Church. Besides, we are noble
all, and do not hold with the raising of a mailed hand against an
unarmed man."

There was a low murmur of approval among the knights at Segfried's
boldness.

"Close the gates," shouted the maddened Baron. Every one flew at the
word of command, and the great oaken hinges studded with iron, slowly
came together, shutting out the bit of landscape their opening had
discovered. The Baron flung the reins on his charger's neck, and smote
the animal on the flank, causing it to trot at once to its stable.

"There will be no riding to-day," he said, his voice ominously
lowering. The stablemen of the castle came forward and led away the
horses. The sixteen knights stood in a group together with Segfried at
their head, waiting with some anxiety on their brows for the next move
in the game. The Baron, his sword drawn in his hand, strode up and down
before them, his brow bent on the ground, evidently struggling to get
the master hand over his own anger. If it came to blows the odds were
against him and he was too shrewd a man to engage himself single-handed
in such a contest.

At length the Baron stopped in his walk and looked at the group. He
said, after a pause, in a quiet tone of voice: "Segfried, if you doubt
my courage because I strike to the ground a rascally monk, step forth,
draw thine own good sword, our comrades will see that all is fair
betwixt us, and in this manner you may learn that I fear neither mailed
nor unmailed hand."

But the knight made no motion to lay his hand upon his sword, nor did
he move from his place. "No one doubts your courage, my Lord," he said,
"neither is it any reflection on mine that in answer to your challenge
my sword remains in its scabbard. You are our overlord and it is not
meet that our weapons should be raised against you."

"I am glad that point is firmly fixed in your minds. I thought a moment
since that I would be compelled to uphold the feudal law at the peril
of my own body. But if that comes not in question, no more need be
said. Touching the unarmed, Segfried, if I remember aright you showed
no such squeamishness at our sacking of the Convent of St. Agnes."

"A woman is a different matter, my Lord," said Segfried uneasily.

The Baron laughed and so did some of the knights, openly relieved to
find the tension of the situation relaxing.

"Comrades!" cried the Baron, his face aglow with enthusiasm, all traces
of his former temper vanishing from his brow. "You are excellent in a
melee, but useless at the council board. You see no further ahead of
you than your good right arms can strike. Look round you at these stout
walls; no engine that man has yet devised can batter a breach in them.
In our vaults are ten years' supply of stolen grain. Our cellars are
full of rich red wine, not of our vintage, but for our drinking. Here
in our court bubbles forever this good spring, excellent to drink when
wine gives out, and medicinal in the morning when too much wine has
been taken in." He waved his hand towards the overflowing well, charged
with carbonic acid gas, one of the many that have since made this
region of the Rhine famous. "Now I ask you, can this Castle of
Grunewald ever be taken--excommunication or no excommunication?"

A simultaneous shout of "No! Never!" arose from the knights.

The Baron stood looking grimly at them for several moments. Then he
said in a quiet voice, "Yes, the Castle of Grunewald _can_ be
taken. Not from without but from within. If any crafty enemy sows
dissension among us; turns the sword of comrade against comrade; then
falls the Castle of Grunewald! To-day we have seen how nearly that has
been done. We have against us in the monastery of Monnonstein no fat-
headed Abbot, but one who was a warrior before he turned a monk. 'Tis
but a few years since, that the Abbot Ambrose stood at the right hand
of the Emperor as Baron von Stern, and it is known that the Abbot's
robes are but a thin veneer over the iron knight within. His hand,
grasping the cross, still itches for the sword. The fighting Archbishop
of Treves has sent him to Monnonstein for no other purpose than to
leave behind him the ruins of Grunewald, and his first bolt was shot
straight into our courtyard, and for a moment I stood alone, without a
single man-at-arms to second me."

The knights looked at one another in silence, then cast their eyes to
the stone-paved court, all too shamed-faced to attempt reply to what
all knew was the truth. The Baron, a deep frown on his brow, gazed
sternly at the chap-fallen group.... "Such was the effect of the first
shaft shot by good Abbot Ambrose, what will be the result of the
second?"

"There will be no second," said Segfried stepping forward. "We must
sack the Monastery, and hang the Abbot and his craven monks in their
own cords."

"Good," cried the Baron, nodding his head in approval, "the worthy
Abbot, however, trusts not only in God, but in walls three cloth yards
thick. The monastery stands by the river and partly over it. The
besieged monks will therefore not suffer from thirst. Their larder is
as amply provided as are the vaults of this castle. The militant Abbot
understands both defence and sortie. He is a master of siege-craft
inside or outside stone walls. How then do you propose to sack and
hang, good Segfried?"

The knights were silent. They knew the Monastery was as impregnable as
the castle, in fact it was the only spot for miles round that had never
owned the sway of Baron von Grunewald, and none of them were well
enough provided with brains to venture a plan for its successful
reduction. A cynical smile played round the lips of their over-lord, as
he saw the problem had overmatched them. At last he spoke.

"We must meet craft with craft. If the Pope's Ban cast such terror
among my good knights, steeped to the gauntlets in blood, what effect,
think you, will it have over the minds of devout believers in the
Church and its power? The trustful monks know that it has been launched
against us, therefore are they doubtless waiting for us to come to the
monastery, and lay our necks under the feet of their Abbot, begging his
clemency. They are ready to believe any story we care to tell touching
the influence of such scribbling over us. You Segfried, owe me some
reparation for this morning's temporary defection, and to you,
therefore, do I trust the carrying out of my plans. There was always
something of the monk about you, Segfried, and you will yet end your
days sanctimoniously in a monastery, unless you are first hanged at
Treves or knocked on the head during an assault.

"Draw, then, your longest face, and think of the time when you will be
a monk, as Ambrose is, who, in his day, shed as much blood as ever you
have done. Go to the Monastery of Monnonstein in most dejected fashion,
and unarmed. Ask in faltering tones, speech of the Abbot, and say to
him, as if he knew nought of it, that the Pope's Ban is on us. Say that
at first I defied it, and smote down the good father who was reading
it, but add that as the pious man fell, a sickness like unto a
pestilence came over me and over my men, from which you only are free,
caused, you suspect, by your loudly protesting against the felling of
the monk. Say that we lie at death's door, grieving for our sins, and
groaning for absolution. Say that we are ready to deliver up the castle
and all its contents to the care of the holy Church, so that the Abbot
but sees our tortured souls safely directed towards the gates of
Paradise. Insist that all the monks come, explaining that you fear we
have but few moments to live, and that the Abbot alone would be as
helpless as one surgeon on a battle-field. Taunt them with fear of the
pestilence if they hesitate, and that will bring them."

Segfried accepted the commission, and the knights warmly expressed
their admiration of their master's genius. As the great red sun began
to sink behind the westward hills that border the Rhine, Segfried
departed on horseback through the castle gates, and journeyed toward
the monastery with bowed head and dejected mien. The gates remained
open, and as darkness fell, a lighted torch was thrust in a wrought
iron receptacle near the entrance at the outside, throwing a fitful,
flickering glare under the archway and into the deserted court. Within,
all was silent as the ruined castle is to-day, save only the tinkling
sound of the clear waters of the effervescing spring as it flowed over
the stones and trickled down to disappear under the walls at one corner
of the courtyard.

The Baron and his sturdy knights sat in the darkness, with growing
impatience, in the great Rittersaal listening for any audible token of
the return of Segfried and his ghostly company. At last in the still
night air there came faintly across the plain a monkish chant growing
louder and louder, until finally the steel-shod hoofs of Segfried's
charger rang on the stones of the causeway leading to the castle gates.
Pressed behind the two heavy open leaves of the gates stood the warder
and his assistants, scarcely breathing, ready to close the gates
sharply the moment the last monk had entered.

Still chanting, led by the Abbot in his robes of office, the monks
slowly marched into the deserted courtyard, while Segfried reined his
horse close inside the entrance. "Peace be upon this house and all
within," said the deep voice of the Abbot, and in unison the monks
murmured "Amen," the word echoing back to them in the stillness from
the four grey walls.

Then the silence was rudely broken by the ponderous clang of the
closing gates and the ominous rattle of bolts being thrust into their
places with the jingle of heavy chains. Down the wide stairs from the
Rittersaal came the clank of armour and rude shouts of laughter. Newly
lighted torches flared up here and there, illuminating the courtyard,
and showing, dangling against the northern wall a score of ropes with
nooses at the end of each. Into the courtyard clattered the Baron and
his followers. The Abbot stood with arms folded, pressing a gilded
cross across his breast. He was a head taller than any of his
frightened, cowering brethren, and his noble emaciated face was thin
with fasting caused by his never-ending conflict with the world that
was within himself. His pale countenance betokened his office and the
Church; but the angry eagle flash of his piercing eye spoke of the
world alone and the field of conflict.

The Baron bowed low to the Abbot, and said: Welcome, my Lord Abbot, to
my humble domicile! It has long been the wish of my enemies to stand
within its walls, and this pleasure is now granted you. There is little
to be made of it from without."

"Baron Grunewald," said the Abbot, "I and my brethren are come hither
on an errand of mercy, and under the protection of your knightly word."

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