Karl had taught him to fence and thrust, and much of sword-play, in which the armorer was skilled, and while his play at these was that of a lad, the boy could fairly hold his own with cudgel and quarter-staff, and more than once had surprised Karl by a clever feint or twist or a stout blow, when, as was their wont on summer evenings, the two wrestled or sparred together on the short green grass under the great oak-tree. Also, Wulf was beginning to be of use at the forge, and great was his joy when, after repeated attempts, he at last made for himself a knife of excellent temper and an edge which even Karl found good. Thereafter this knife was his belt companion in all his woodland journeys.
He was happy, going about his work with the big armorer, or wandering up and down the forest, or, of long winter evenings, sitting beside the forge fire watching Karl, who used to sit, knife in hand, deftly carving a long-handled wooden spoon, or a bowl. The women in the village were always glad to trade for these with fresh eggs, or a pat of butter, or a young fowl; for the armorer had as clever a knack with his knife as with his hammer. On these evenings he used to fill the boy’s spirit with joy by tales of knightly craft, and of the brave gentlemen who, in years past, had ridden to the holy wars, and of deeds of gentleness and courage done by brave knights for country and king and the truth. Then it was that young Wulf felt his heart glow within him, and he longed for the time when he too might fare out to fight for the good, and to free the land from the evil that wasted field and meadow and ground down the people until no man dared hold up his head or meet, level-eyed, the gaze of his fellow.
It happened, at last, on a day when Karl was making ready to go to the castle with a corselet which he had mended for the baron himself, that the armorer met with an accident that changed Wulf’s whole life. Karl was doing a bit of tinkering on the smaller anvil by the forge, when one support of the iron gave way, and it fell, crushing the great toe of one foot so that the stout fellow fairly rocked with the pain, while Wulf made haste to prepare a poultice of wormwood for the hurt member.
Despite all their skill, however, the toe continued to swell and to stiffen, until it was plain that all thought of Karl’s climbing the mountain that day, or for many days to come, must be put aside.
“There’s no help for it, lad,” he said at last, as he sat on the big chest scowling blackly at his foot in its rough swathings. “It’s well on toward noon now, and the baron will pay me my wage on my own head if his corselet be not to hand to-day; for he rides to-morrow, with a company from the castle, on an errand beyond. Thou’lt need to take the castle road, boy, and speedily, if thou’rt to be back by night.”
Nothing could have pleased Wulf more than such an errand; for although he often went with Karl on other matters about the country, and had even gone with him as far as the Convent of St. Ursula on the other side of the forest, the armorer, despite his entreaties, had never allowed him to go along when his way lay toward the Swartzburg. This had puzzled the boy greatly, for Karl steadfastly refused him any reason why it should be. In truth Karl could hardly have given reason even to himself for his action. His unwillingness to take Wulf to the castle was, however, really grounded upon a fear of what as yet unknown thing might happen.
The boy made all haste, therefore, to get ready for the journey, lest Karl should repent of his plan. It was but the shortest of quarter-hours, in fact, before—his midday meal in a wallet at his belt, the armorer’s iron-shot staff in his hand, and the corselet slung over his shoulder—he was passing through the wood toward the road to the Swartzburg.
Walking with the easy swing of one well wonted to the exercise, it was not so very long ere he had cleared the forest and was stepping up the rough stone road that climbed the mountain pass to the castle. He crossed the stream at a point very near the clump of willows below the plateau where, years before, the children had watched the shining knight’s encounter with Herr Banf. Other children played on the plateau, as the little ones had done that fair morning, but Wulf hastened on, mindful only of the new adventure that lay before him.
Up and up the stony way he trudged stoutly, until it became at last the merest bridle-path, descending to the open moat across which the bridge was thrown. On a tower above he descried the sentry, and below, beyond the bridge, the great gates into the castle garth stood open.
Doubting somewhat as to what he ought to do, he crossed the bridge and passed through the gloomy opening that pierced the thick wall. Once inside, he stood looking about him curiously, forgetful, in his wonder and delight at the scene, that Karl had told him to ask for Gotta Brent, Baron Everhardt’s man-at-arms, and to deliver the corselet to him. This, by now, he had slipped from his shoulder and held with his arm thrust through its length, his fingers grasping its lower edge.