“The Kaisar,” said Wildschloss, “is not the man to let a knight’s fee slip between his fingers. The king would have kept off their grip, and reserved you for knighthood from his own sword under the banner of the empire; but there is no help for it now, and you must make your vassals send in their dues.”
“My vassals?” said Ebbo; “what could they send?”
“The aid customary on the knighthood of the heir.”
“But there is—there is nothing!” said Friedel. “They can scarce pay meal and poultry enough for our daily fare; and if we were to flay them alive, we should not get sixty groschen from the whole.”
“True enough! Knighthood must wait till we win it,” said Ebbo, gloomily.
“Nay, it is accepted,” said Wildschloss. “The Kaisar loves his iron chest too well to let you go back. You must be ready with your round sum to the chancellor, and your spur-money and your fee to the heralds, and largess to the crowd.”
“Mother, the dowry,” said Ebbo.
“At your service, my son,” said Christina, anxious to chase the cloud from his brow.
But it was a deep haul, for the avaricious Friedrich IV. made exorbitant charges for the knighting his young nobles; and Ebbo soon saw that the improvements at home must suffer for the honours that would have been so much better won than bought.
“If your vassals cannot aid, yet may not your kinsman—?” began Wildschloss.