The truce of God: A tale of the eleventh century

by George H. Miles

"Stop not now!" said Rodolph to the nobles about him; and the lords of Hapsburg, Tübingen, Achalm, Hers, and Stramen swept on to avenge him. Gilbert remained rooted to the spot. His lance dropped from his hand as he leaped from his horse and knelt beside his monarch. Already the helmet had been removed by one who supported the dying hero in his arms. From Gregory VII to Pius IX, from the Dominican that accompanied Cortez to the Jesuit who followed a more recent conqueror, the Catholic missionary had been found in the front of battle. It was Father Omehr whose breast now pillowed the monarch's head. Gilbert's heart was almost bursting as he pressed the only remaining hand to his lips and saw that he was recognized. Feeling he could not long survive, Rodolph raised his head and asked, in a dying voice, "Whose is the day?" "Yours, my lord, yours!" replied those who were around him; for Gilbert, unable to speak, did not attempt to answer, but continued to gaze on the eagle eye over which the film of death was gathering fast.

"Yours, my lord, yours," repeated the mourners. At these words, Rodolph fell back in the missionary's arms, saying, "Then I accept with joy the end to which God has called me. Death no longer disturbs me, since it brings victory with it." From this moment he was speechless; and with his gaze earnestly bent upon his shield, that had been raised by a page, and on which was blazoned a crowned lion sleeping upon the knees of the Blessed Virgin, Rodolph of Suabia breathed his last. The calm face of the dead was not paler than Gilbert, who, unmoved by the shout of victory, watched the clay that had so lately been—a king.

While they bore the body to the royal pavilion, the pursuit was continued with terrible effect. The Saxons remembered the losses they had suffered five years before—the Suabians saw their desolated homes and their expiring duke. The small remnant of Henry's army that escaped the relentless sword and the equally fatal depths of the Elster, were only reserved for a fate still more dreadful. After wandering about, a prey to want and misery, they were now butchered by the peasantry of Saxony and Thuringia, who, armed with hatchets and scythes, flew to avenge upon the relic the wrongs they had suffered from the whole army. Many of the fugitives plunged into the forests, preferring the slow tooth of famine to the swifter stroke of steel. Others, concealing themselves until the first gust of passion was over, besought the mercy of the peasantry, who, at last moved with compassion or glutted with slaughter, received them as fellow-beings, healed their wounds, and sent them to their homes. Henry of Austria, with a suite little proportioned to his rank, fled to Bohemia.

There was none of the exultation of victory in the allied camp that night: each soldier seemed to feel that the conquest had been too dearly won. Rodolph was not only beloved by the Suabians, who from their cradles had experienced his bounty, his virtue, and justice, but he had endeared himself to the Saxons by his affability, his wisdom, and his valor. He had healed their private quarrels and humbled their public enemies; he found them divided and feeble, he left them united and vigorous. They regarded him as the savior of Saxony, and affectionately styled him "Pater patriæ." Nor was the grief of the bishops and priests less ardent and sincere, for they felt that a zealous and dauntless defender of the Church had fallen.

The soldiers, scattered about in groups, slept little, but whispered to each other, and fixed their eyes upon the torches that burned so steadily in the royal pavilion. There was stretched, cold and stiff, the victor of the day, his noble features rigid in death, while his barons knelt weeping around the bier, and the Archbishop of Mayence recited prayers for his soul. The night wore away, and when the morning broke out cheerfully as though no care were in the world, Gilbert de Hers still knelt beside the corpse of the king. No tears were in his eyes then, and the expression of his face varied between deep thought and deep grief. He might have remarked that the scorn had departed from Henry of Stramen's lip; but he did not. His mind was occupied with other things; and silent and sad, he would not leave his vigil beside the dead.

Early in the morning of the sixteenth, the victorious army, sadder than defeat could ever have made it, entered Merseburg. After the obsequies had been performed with equal solemnity and magnificence, the body of the king was deposited in the choir of the cathedral. A statue of gilt bronze for many a year marked the tomb of Rodolph of Suabia.

On the same evening, when the soldiers were scattered through the town, and the nobles had retired to such quarters as they could procure, Gilbert de Hers sought out Father Omehr, and found him in an apartment which the Archbishop of Mayence had obtained for the missionary.

Up to the day of his interview with Rodolph at Mayence, Gilbert's mind had been wholly engrossed with the bright pictures which a vivid and worldly fancy and a keen ambition to excel can always unfold to the eye of youth. At times he remembered the night passed in the missionary's humble dwelling, when Bertha's knife had confined him there, and he saw again the crucifix and the sacristan. But this was only for a moment. The image of the Lady Margaret was sure to enter and banish every other feeling than that of deep love for her. But from the night of the coronation, a change had fallen upon the youth, which Father Omehr's keen eye had not failed to remark. He displayed no longer the same thoughtless gayety or the same dreamy abstraction. He had reveries, it is true, proceeding from the fear of losing the Lady Margaret, or the hope of gaining her. The missionary had refrained from questioning the young knight, nor did Gilbert reveal any secret to his venerable friend. Whether he might have recovered his former levity can scarcely be answered, but the death of Rodolph seemed to have extinguished it forever. So great a change had this last incident wrought in him, that it was not only evident to Father Omehr and Sir Albert, but all who knew him were struck with his altered manner. They ascribed it to grief alone, for they knew him to have been the monarch's favorite.

When the young noble and the old priest, whose love for each other had steadily increased, had sat awhile in silence, the latter took his companion by the hand, and, as the visit seemed to solicit the question, said, in a tone evincing the interest of a parent: "My son, what ails you?"

Then, for the first time, the violent and various feelings which had been aroused in Gilbert's breast found a vent in tears. An hour almost passed away before he could compose himself, and then he only said: "To witness him struck down by death just as he had gained all for which he lived—to see the fruit of thirty years' labor snatched from his lips before he could taste it! O God, for what trifles are we toiling!"