One day in springtime, when the elder flowers were creamiest and swallows were teaching their nestlings to fly, a stranger came riding along the river. Past the postern gate his armored steed dashed, and straight he sat in his saddle as he called to Lord Othmar.
“I bring a challenge from the great lord who is my master,” he spoke defiantly as the young knight moved forth to meet him. With flashing eyes he tossed his gauntlet to the ground.
A murmur went among the vassals who stood by. To throw down a gauntlet was to invite war, and all waited for the master to act. But the silence was only for a minute. Then came a shouting and clashing of arms, for with defiance in his face Othmar picked up the glove and flung it back at the rider. That meant war, which in those days was believed to be a glorious thing.
The strange knight rode away along the Rhine shore as rapidly as he had come, while in the great courtyard of Castle Stolzenfels began the marshaling of vassals and preparation for fighting. The women burnished arms and gave all the aid they could, while the Lady Willeswind moved here and there, making suggestions where they were needed. All night long the sound of clanging armor was heard, and the next morning, when the men of Castle Stolzenfels went out of the castle gate to meet the enemy, Rupert the forester’s son marched at the head of the vassals.
Willeswind stood at the tower window and watched them go along the winding river road, thinking sadly of the days and nights of danger into which they went. Perhaps they would not return. Perhaps, too, some robber band might pillage the castle while they were away, for all the able-bodied men had gone to battle, and in those days many brigand hordes ravaged the Rhine valley, which the handful of old men at Stolzenfels would not be able to hold back. But she was brave, and although danger threatened, she faced it as a baron’s daughter should.
Autumn came, with swallows and martins flying southward, and still the battling raged away in the northland, sometimes with victory for Othmar and his men, sometimes with defeat, but always with dread for the anxious hearts of those who waited at home.
One night the wind raged like a mad thing, whipping the Rhine into foam. As the castle mistress sat in the great hall among the women, a servant entered, saying that a pilgrim stood at the outer gate, begging shelter from the night and storm.
“He is white and bent,” the man explained. “Shall I let him come inside?”
Willeswind’s heart was big and tender. “Yes, let him come,” she said.