“Ah! I am anxious to know why.”
“For reasons of history, not of the palate. A fair English Princess was guest of Stolzenfels long ago, and this wine was served to her.”
“In that case,” returned the Count, “I also shall fall back on history, and first order brimming tankards of old Caub. Really, Madam,” he said, turning to Hildegunde, “we should have had Royalty here to meet you, instead of two old wine-bibbers like his Highness and myself.”
The girl looked startled at this mention of Royalty, bringing to her mind the turbulent events of yesterday. Nevertheless, with great composure, she smiled at her enthusiastic host.
“Still,” went on the Count, “if we are not royal ourselves, ‘tis a degree we are empowered to confer, and, indeed, may be very shortly called upon to bestow. That is true from what I hear, is it not, your Highness?”
“Yes,” replied the Archbishop gravely.
“Well, as I was about to say, this Castle belonged to the Falkensteins, and was sold by them to the Palatinate. Rumor, legend, history, call it what you like, asserts that the most beautiful woman ever born on the Rhine was Countess Beatrice of Falkenstein. But when I drink to the toast I am about to offer I shall, Madam,” he smiled at Hildegunde, “assert that the legend no longer holds, a contention I am prepared to maintain by mortal combat. Know then that the Earl of Cornwall, who was elected King of Germany in 1257, met Beatrice of Falkenstein in this Castle. The meeting was brought about by the Electors themselves, who, stupid matchmakers, attempted to coerce each into a marriage with the other. Beatrice refused to marry a foreigner.
“The Chronicles are a little vague about the most interesting part of the negotiations, but minutely plain about the outcome. In some manner the Earl and Beatrice met, and he became instantly enamored of her. This is the portion so deplorably slurred by these old monkish writers. I need hardly tell you that the Earl himself succeeded where the seven Electors failed. Beatrice became Cornwall’s wife and Queen of Germany, and they lived happily ever afterwards.
“I give you the toast!” cried the chivalrous Count Palatine, rising. “To the cherished memory of the Royal lovers of Gutenfels!”
The Archbishop’s eyes twinkled as he looked across the table at Hildegunde.