Rosamunda the Princess. An historical romance of the sixth century; and other tales. ... With ... illustrations

Preface

. HPHESE Stories — all of which, save that which occupies the chief place on the title-page, have already appeared in various magazines — are now for the first time collected together and published under my name. And since it has been supposed by some who saw " Rosamunda" in manuscript, that the legendary verses and rhymes introduced into its pages were obtained by me from extraneous sources, it may not perhaps be deemed ill-advised to admit, that, whether for praise or for blame, I alone am re sponsible for their existence. In concluding, it is my pleasant duty to acknow ledge the kindness and courtesy of the proprietors of " Macmillan's Magazine," " London Society," " The Churchman's Companion," and the " Penny Post," to whom I am indebted for permission to reprint the stories which originally saw the light in those pe riodicals.

NINON KINGSFORD. Hinton Hall, Shrewsbury, New Year's Day, 1875. CONTENTS. > PAGE rosamunda the princess ..... i The Flower-Girl of Sicyon . . . -57 A Cluster of Flowers : — The Crocus (Ssirmg) . . . . -77 The Rose (Summer) . . . . -99 The Water-Reeds (A utumn) . . ■ .115 The Marigold ( Winter) . . . . 135 The Painter of Venice . . . . . 153 Noble Love ....... 219 The Romance of a Ring . . . . -279 Religious Tales : — The Children of the Kingdom .... 301 Symphorian ....... 329 Cædmon ....... LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Rosamunda : — Helmichis discovering himself to Rosamunda . . Frontispiece The Crocus :— To/acep.

Felix shewing the Crocuses to Irene . . • .82 The Rose : — Bhagwandaee taking food to Bhagwandas 101 Bhagwandaee weaving herself a garland of Roses . . 109 T.he Water-reeds : — Stratiotes and Metis by the river Permessus . . .118 The Marigold : — Marie beside the two graves . . . . -136 Hertha and Marie gazing on the Marigold Plant . . 145 Hertha beside a wounded Veteran . . . . i£o The Painter of Venice : — Messer Domenico playing his Lute to Fra Giuseppe and Angelo 162 Messer Domenico and Angelo in the Mercato . . . 169 Messer Castagno perplexed at the decision of Niccolo . 177 Fra Giuseppe and Messer Domenico reclining on the banks of the Mugnone ....... 187 Messer Domenico with Angelo and Niccolo in the balcony . 181 Veneziano and Castagno surrounded by various implements of their craft ....... 197 Fra Giuseppe supporting the prostrate form of Messer Domenico ........ 205 The Death-bed of Andrea del Castagno . . . .215 Noble Love : — Marvel Maxwell carrying Dorothy Pratt's basket . . 236 Humphrey Pratt questioning Dorothy .... 239 Marvel, disguised as Nicholas, appearing to Lady Edith . 246 Nicholas Webb detaining Dorothy Pratt . . . 260 Marvel and Dorothy in Dame Holmes' cottage . . .271 The Children of the Kingdom : — Azriel and Mona at Esther's Death-bed . . . .305 Caius watching Mona make a wreath for her Mother's Grave . 310 Cædmon : The Story of a Saxon Poet :— Cædmon listening at the door of the Monastery Chapel . AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE SIXTH CENTURY. " Non est ira super iram mulieris."— Ecclesiasticus xxv. 23.

Introduction

. iB'EfaSlVERY era of the world's recorded vicissitudes has its liUggll peculiar charm. History, which links together for us the successive ages of the past, is like a silken cord upon which are strung a vast number of variously-hued gems. Here is one of sober and subdued tint, — a period of grave pursuit and monastic learning, — there a cycle of years, which like the clear sapphire seems to reflect the serenity of heaven itself, — here another of dark and cloudy appearance, fit emblem of an ignorant or indolent age. Now and then, too, comes a ruby or a carbuncle red with the fierce carnage of warlike races, a jewel precious after its kind, and not ill-beseeming the ancient diadems of hardy kings. And although we of these gentler times may prefer to adorn the regal coronal with the more temperate beauty of the white diamond, the tender pearl, or the milky and delicate brilliance of the changeful opal, it may yet be no unpleasant pastime for us in our lighter moments to give wing to our thoughts, and send them back to dip and hover, swallow-like, over the ruddy stream of those past and angry ages, whose fittest types are the crimson gems on the chain of the world's rosary.

Such a wild and stormy epoch were the fifth and sixth centuries of the Christian era, during which time pro digious swarms of barbarians poured down like devouring locusts on the whole of the European continent, and with amazing success and rapidity forcibly possessed themselves of Thrace, Pannonia, Gaul, Spain, Africa, and a large por tion of Italy. Wherever these terrible warriors penetrated, bloodshed and ruin marked the way. Fertile districts they laid waste, cities they sacked and plundered, villages they burned to ashes ; men, women, and infants, without distinc tion, fell victims to their lawless arms. Fire, pestilence, and B

INTRODUCTION.

. famine ravaged the land before and around them, and still new herds of invaders followed, expelled, and routed their fierce predecessors, preying like savage beasts on their own kind. Distinctive titles applied by authors of that distracted age to several of the barbarian princes, mark the horror and dread which they inspired among the civilized nations. Epi thets such as "The Scourge ofthe Lord," "The Destroyer of the peoples," are continually employed in contemporary re cords to designate these formidable chieftains. Beneath the blow of their irresistible battle-axe, the Roman power which had queened it so long over the kingdoms, sank and perished. New blood was infused into the veins of the world, and the old modes of government, policy and thought were swept from their foundation. An age of devastation, conflict, and excitement, shook the continent of Europe from end to end, and in a brief span changed its whole face and spirit.

Art, science, and learning fell into disrepute among the laity ; all skill save that of arms was reckoned contemptible ; and deeds of the wildest daring, or of the cruellest revenge received the praise due to virtue and courage. It is therefore no matter for wonder that in the history of these turbulent centuries, when human life was valued only in respect of physical strength and prowess, when hatred, ambition, love, and vengeance tore the hearts of men with their keenest fangs, when woman hood knew no softness and manhood no remorse, many a strange adventure and wild pathetic romance are found interwoven with details of rapine and conquest, — like tears upon a blood-stained page ; stray chords of eolian music borne to our ears by the blast of the angry storm-wind. Courtly poets and minnesingers of old days perpetuated the memory of romances such as these in their songs and impromptu rhymes, some of which lived into succeed ing ages, and finally incorporated themselves as popular legends, either to take lasting hold of the minds of men among other grim and sad realities of the past, or to fade away into the region of mythical story and national folk-lore. Chief among the mighty names of the Teutonic heroes, and foremost in the annals of those wild and warlike episodes

INTRODUCTION.

. 5 which even so late as the reign of Charlemagne, the German minstrels still continued to celebrate in song, we find the name of the renowned Scandinavian warrior Alboin, and the story of the Gothic Princess, — proud and beautiful Rosamunda. And it may be observed by way of tribute to the art of poetry, that we owe almost all our esoteric knowledge of this disturbed but important era in the formation and destiny of Europe, to the individual romances preserved by itinerant bards and monkish rhymers ; so true it is that the biography of one great man or woman of an age presents a better picture of its politics, events, and manners, than the most minute and exhaustive general history. Let us, then, eschewing further preface, employ the power which these poetic chroniclers have placed in our hands, and annihilate time and space by aid of the only magic wand which modern science knows, to reproduce, as on the table of a camera obscura, some few scenes of an old and terrible drama, first written with no inventive pen and sober ink, but with warm earnest blood at the point of many a terrible sword.

Chapter I

WfflT was the first watch of a certain summer night in the HH year of our Lord 564. A fair, bright moon had risen over the ancient city of Sirmium, on the banks of the river Savus in Pannonia, a city Roman in name and in architecture, but now inhabited and governed by a fierce tribe of the Gothic race, the pagan Gepidæ. The broad paved streets, across which here and there were flung the black shadows of projecting porticoes, resounded no more with the sharp clang of Roman arms, nor did the sweet full song of Christian praise awake any longer the echoes of yonder marble - columned temple. Instead of these, the step of the barbarian Swede trod the thoroughfares, the flat blade of his rude battle-axe glinted under the white light, and snatches of wild hymns in praise of Odin or of Thor disturbed at intervals the serenity of the soft evening air.

For the Gepidæ, singular in this respect among their kindred, still clung with a hardy fidelity to the faith of their early northern sires. Christianity had ratified its triumph in the world long since, through the conversion of the Emperor Constantine ; and the great convocation held at Nice in 325, had secured the recognition of the Catholic Church as the only true institution of Almighty God. But as it is in these days, so it was then. Catholicity failed to content the whole world. Heresies without number sprang up among the nations, and the Christians, who before their emancipation had contended only with pagan persecutors, now found them selves attacked and challenged by their own brethren, inso much that in a short time the dissension within the camp be came as grievous as ever the conflict with secular authorities and heathen rule had proved in older days.

At the time of which we write, Arianism was the most popular and widely-spread of these heretical outgrowths from the parent tree ; and it was perhaps rather complimentary than other wise to the Church Catholic and Apostolic, that nearly all the rough and bloodthirsty hordes which first ravaged and then occupied central Europe, when time and the pressure of association had obliged them to abandon their hereditary creed, disdained the pure milk of the Word as too refined and delicate a potion for their spiritual appetites, and adopted in preference the theological vagaries of Arius. The Gepidæ, however, as we have seen, were, even in the latter part of the sixth century, still staunch to the old Gods. At once the proudest and the frankest of the barbaric clans, they scorned the pretence of conversion to any new beliefs, with good reason deeming the warlike religion of the Norse better fitted than the mild doctrines of a saintlier faith, to that adven turous and pitiless course of life which it was their pleasure to pursue.

So their altars still smoked to Odin the Hero, and still they swore their most solemn vows before the shrine of the terrible Three, the changeless and cold-hearted Nornir ; and ever at their festivals the mead-cup was emptied to the honour of the immortal dwellers in Asgard, and to the spirits of the valiant warriors feasting in the Valhalla of the gods. To-night the gods were the theme of song in the pavilion of the Gepide king. He and his followers were encamped outside the city walls of Sirmium, for there had been a battle between the Gepidæ and their rivals, the Winili, or Lango bards with whom they were at feud, and the Langobards had gained the victory. But the vanquished were a hardy race, and their ill-fortune did but serve to fortify their fierce and stedfast spirit. Death they dreaded not, and extinction it self was a slight evil in their eyes when compared with the shame of surrender to a foe, or the bitterness of relinquish ing the chance of vengeance.

So they comforted themselves with the prospect of speedy retaliation, and pledged them selves, as they wiped their blood-stained axes, to seek no rest and beget no heirs until they had humbled Audoin, the prince of the victorious tribe. Therefore, when their corselets were doffed and the shields were laid aside in the tents, a great feast was held in the pavilion of Turisend the Gepide chief, and many were the mighty warriors assembled about the board ; but the face of the royal host was sad, and his courtiers ate and drank in silence, for the feast they kept that night was a feast of Death. Eighty years of wild and martial life had knotted the brow and whitened the long beard of king Turisend, and his figure, though grand and sinewy as became his race and his station, was gaunt in its outline like that of an ancient forest-tree that has weathered many angry storms.

Grim of aspect though he was, the face of the old chieftain was not devoid of that strange pathos which we are wont to find in the features of the aged, and the grey eyes, that shifted to and fro so rest lessly under their shaggy overhanging fringes, were softened at times with a haze like that of tears. For the youngest son of King Turisend lay dead on the battle-field at Asfeld far away, and the heart of the old man was heavy for the sake of the youth who had been his pride and his best beloved. Suddenly, in the midst of the silent guests uprose a tall : stalwart Goth, with bare brown arms and neck, round which were ornaments of gold. And the tones which rolled from his massive throat were deep as echoes of thunder from the bosom of a cavern. " King Turisend," he said, " and ye his warriors, who feast with him to-night before the gods, give heed to me the minstrel Thorsen, for the spirit of the dwellers in Asgard has come upon me, filling my veins with fire, that this night I may sing in your ears a song of counsel and prophecy at the bidding of Odin the Mighty, Destroyer of armies, Avenger of the Gothic race !"

And straightway all the warriors at the king's table leapt to their feet and shouted together, " It is well said ! Give ear to the scalder Thorsen, the son of Knud, and to the prophecy of Odin the Hero, the Avenger of men ! " So the king called a page, and bade him fetch a harp for the bard ; and Thorsen swept its sonorous strings with his great broad hands, on which the corded sinews shewed like the gnarled branches of a leafless oak, and anon he listed his mighty voice and sang his inspired rhyme. " One even at his palace gate, Like a marble column grand and tall, Odin the War-god, the Hero stood, Crisp was his hair and red as blood, And his ample chest was broad and straight As a city wall ! " North and south he spread his hands Over all the Gothic lands ; Over camp, and moor, and glen Stretched his mighty arms asunder Far as their embrace could reach, And like thunder In the van of armed men Was the stirring of his speech.

"'lam the Hero-King of old, Odin the Lord of Death, the Strong ; And in my courts of gold Revel and rite I hold, Banquet and song ! For there Each in his brazen chair, My warrior sons who fell in fight Feast at my board to-night ! " ' But apart in that vast hall Nearest to Odin's throne, Stands the chief seat of all Vacant, alone ! Never was there hero meet Yet to fill that royal seat, Never yet have human feet Those bright steps ascended ; Yet must I find me one Worthy to rule my feast Ere night be ended, Ere in the fruitful east Reddens the sun ! " ' Thus above the Gothic lands Spread I my hands ; Thus from the south and north Call I my children forth ; Ye who have souls of flame, Sons of a mighty Sire, Ye whom the thirst for fame Quickens like fire, Chiefs, whose undaunted souls Odin alone controls, Hear and obey ; Dire the gift I ask, God-like the mighty task, God-like will I repay !

" ' For by these ruddy hairs, Red with ten thousand wars, Odin, whom Heaven adores, Odin the Hero swears ; He shall be counted meet That most exalted seat Who to my throne shall bring Deadliest offering ! Over my solemn feast He shall be chosen priest, Worthy renown and sway. God-like the gift I ask, God-like the mighty task, Like a God I repay !' " Thus, with his arms asunder, Cloud-like and grand, Over all the northern land Odin rolled his voice in thunder ; And from the south and north Slowly his sons came forth One by one ; While in the amethyst Splendour of sunset mist Sank the sun. " Then to their sire's feet Deadly gifts the heroes bore, Wine that slays by smooth deceit, Gold for bribes, and iron for war ; But never a word and never a breath Parted the lips of the Lord of Death. " Silent evermore and dim, Dread of form and vast of limb, Odin sat unmoved and grim : None of all his sons had grace Worthy that exalted place, Sadly, with averted face, Passed they all away, None was found to rule the least, And already in the east Dawn was gray.

" Then against the sky behold Moved a shape of awful seeming, Fair and tall, with hair of gold Down its marble bosom streaming. Red its slender hands with blood, Cold its eyes with bitter hate ; Pale as stone and proud it stood, Terrible as Fate. " Rose the mighty God, and straightway Bending from his brazen gateway Spoke with swift and bated breath :_ ' Who art Thou,— more dread than Odin ? Art thou mortal, — art thou human ?' ' Yea,' she said, ' an angry Woman Stands before thee, Lord of Death !' " Loudly then, as rolls the thunder, Odin laughed with triumph dread, And with both his giant hands Whirled the brazen gates asunder ! ' Enter thou, my child,' he said, ' Thou my best beloved art, For the gift thy Lord demands Is the hate within thy heart ! Nothing knows the mighty Odin, Curse divine or vengeance human, Rage of God or mortal foeman, Deadly as the wrath of woman !' " Thus for the heroes' feast Odin found a ruler meet ; And the champion's golden seat Thus was won, Ere in the fruitful east Broke the sun !"

The song was ended, and as the minstrel's hand dropped from the strings of the harp, a low murmur arose among his audience. No one applauded, for the rhapsody was regarded by most of those present as a prophetic inspiration from a divine source, as, indeed, Thorsen himself had declared it ; and to the less reverent of the company the sentiments set forth by the song were somewhat distasteful. One or two old veterans of the battle-field gnawed their grey beards in silence, indignant that either god or mortal should have presumed to assert thus emphatically the superiority of feminine over male malignity. But as Thorsen yet stood erect in his place, the fervour which had prompted his minstrelsy still warm on his rugged brow, the eyes of all the guests moved with one accord towards the entrance of the pavilion.

For there, one shapely hand raised high to push aside thc heavy folds of the tent canvas, stood King Turisend's fair grand-daughter, Rosamunda. Her form was tall and ma jestic, passing the common height of woman-kind, and her bare rounded arms displayed such muscular development as no princess in Europe now-a-days can boast. Her hair, coarse in fibre and ruddy-gold in hue, streamed in crisp wavy masses to her waist, and about her head sparkled a bright circlet, significant of her noble station. Rosamunda's was not that high-bred type of beauty which in later times adorned the royal courts — delicate pink and white loveliness, with all the bloom, the sweetness and the fragility of the blush-rose, — but rather the grand outline of shape and the splendid cast of features which one imagines to have cha racterized Semiramis and Cleopatra ; and which, if tales be true, is yet found in the women of some wild tribes.

" Rosamunda ! " cried the old king. It was the first out spoken word which had been heard since the cessation of the song. And as if the utterance of that single name dissolved a spell, the guests with one impulse aroused them selves from meditation, and besought their chief that the princess might enter the pavilion. " Come hither, my child," quoth Turisend, mildly ; " sit thee here at my right hand, and drink from my cup. What brought thee to our tent to-night ?" " I stood alone in the moonlight without," she answered him, " and I heard the song of Thorsen the bard. My lord, take heart, the prophecy of Odin will not deceive." "Alack, daughter !" sighed the white-haired king, looking fondly upon her, " when brave warriors fail to conquer, and iron harness to resist, when sword, and helm, and shield avail not to strengthen fierce hearts, what can the fair soft fingers of a woman do to avenge a nation disgraced ?"

Rosamunda cast down her eyes. " My father's sire," she said, " needs not that I should tell him how many and how strange are the chances of warfare." "Nay, child," responded the aged chieftain, mournfully shaking his long beard, " for have I not this day beheld the death of thy brave uncle, my dear son Thurismund ? Well and valiantly he fought, a true prince of the Gothic race that knows not fear of foe, but neither did his daring nor the might of Odin avail to save us from defeat. We are fallen !— fallen !" "Alas, my Turisend!" groaned a husky old warrior, in fected with the melancholy of his liege-lord, "times were otherwise with us when Ardarich, thy great ancestor, led : 12 our fathers to combat against the tyrannous Hun Were not the Gepidæ— the proud invincible Gepidæ-first ot the Gothic race to cast off that hateful yoke ?

Ours was a nation of victors then, brooking no master save our own,— and now, woe the day !— we are like to become servants of Audoin the Langobard ! Chances of warfare, these, princess,— the chances of all human things !." Rosamunda's face brightened with new colour. "Aye," she said, earnestly, "but the poet would have us know that chance is powerless to cheat or assuage the hatred of a wrathful woman ! Her vengeance strikes as strike the lightnings of the high gods,— most true, most sure, un swerving, and unmoved by lapse of time. She, while in auspicious seasons pass, remains ever fixed in her purpose, patient and inflexible as heaven, eagle-eyed for the oppor tunity she desires. Your bribes may fail you, your fire may be quenched, the hand that guides your sword may err, the steel may snap asunder ; a thousand fatalities may check the rage or baulk the skill of men.

But he who dares a woman's anger grips the horny palm of Death himself, yea, even though she wear sweet smiles upon her lips, sa luting that doomed man with words of love and favour. None of her wiles shall be sponsors for her faith ; year after year she will hunt down her prey, till at last her hour comes ; she marks it well, she strikes, — the man she hates is crushed to powder. What she conceives shall surely issue in her deed ; nor gold, nor prayers, nor touch of children's lips, nor terror of steel shall buy compassion of her, if she be proud or injured, or oppressed. No guerdon which men or gods can pay shall prevail to abate a tiny measure of that woman's vengeance, though to wreak it she slay a hero. Her hand will not refrain from mixing the poison-cup because she hears her sucking child is dead, nor will her resolute fingers quiver on the dagger's hilt albeit kingdoms fall, and priests and pro phets blaspheme their gods !"

Scarce had the princess pronounced these last words, her eyes dilated and her voice powerful with emotion, than there was heard the dull trampling of many feet upon the sward outside the tent, and the hand of a man suddenly raised the drapery which covered the opening to the pavilion. Rosa munda started from the board, and the chieftains about her rose uneasily. A tall and stately figure, habited as a warrior, entered the banquet -tent, and with uncovered head approached the king. The stranger, though but a youth in years, moved with so haughty a gait, and wore so ferocious an aspect, that the pages who stood by the chair of Turisend involuntarily recoiled, and shrank, with blanched cheeks, into the darkest corners available. Forty armed men flocked into the pavilion behind the unexpected visitant, following him in well-ordered silence, as vassals wait upon their lord Dignified and calm, the venerable Turisend arose and fastened his dim eyes earnestly on the face of the young man before him.

" Thou art Alboin, prince of the Langobardi," said he, in deep _ constrained tones, "thou art the slayer of my son Thurismund. It was thine arm that struck him to the earth, thy spear that cleft his heart ! Wherefore comest thou hither to his father ? " "King Turisend," responded the Lombard heir, "thou sayest truly ; and it is the deed whereof thou speakest that brings me into thy presence to-night. My father, the mighty Audoin, holds triumphant festival with his chiefs, rejoicing over the honour our arms have won, and over the fall of thy princely son, whose life the Christians' God delivered into these unworthy hands! But, albeit the glory of our successes on the plain of Asfeld be thus due in so great a measure to me, my -father's warriors in vain besought him to permit me a place beside his own at the feast of victory. ' My chiefs are not unmindful,' said my royal sire, ' of those wise and honourable customs which our great ancestors inflexibly observed, and which I also will retain inviolate.

Whatever merit or prowess may distinguish a prince of Scandinavian blood, whatever fame his skill or courage may have earned, ye know well that he cannot be admitted to sit at the table of the king until he shall have solemnly received his arms from a foreign and a royal hand. Go then, my son,' he added, 'depart in accordance with the dictates of our national law, and seek forthwith the honour thou lackest at some neighbouring court.' Thus my father dismissed me ; and I, choosing from among his guests these forty companions of my fortunes in arms, sped hither straightway to thee, most venerable host, since in very sooth thy royal pavilion for the nonce stands nearer our own than any other, and I am in haste to take that promised seat at our board, which cannot be mine till I am invested with the rights of manhood.

Do thou then, O Turisend, as becomes thine exalted station and warlike renown, extend to Alboin the favour he demands ! As thy suppliant, and not as thine enemy, I present myself to-night in thy royal presence, to crave of thy courtesy a boon which no warrior of regal lineage dare for shame's sake refuse to one of equal rank. I kneel for thy grace, noble Gepide, — delay not the performance of thy part in the ceremony ! " So speaking, the heir of the Langobard monarchy sank upon his knee before the father of his victim, with eyelids lowered and head abased, counterfeiting the gait of a de corous humility, although more than one spectator of the scene perceived a scornful and defiant curl upon his lip which betrayed the true character of his emotions, and of the motives that had really impelled him thus to out rage the sorrowful court of King Turisend. lhat aged chieftain of a pagan race proved himself at least more generous and refined of heart than his Christian visitor.

For, as we have seen, all the Scandinavian tribes which had' settled in Lombardy professed some form, orthodox or heterodox, of the new creed, and the Langobard people over whom the fierce Audoin reigned, had long adopted the Arian perversion of the faith. Nor did this difference of religious opinion between the Winili and the Gepide nations tend to mitigate the bitterness of hatred which warlike rivalry had enkindled between them. The con verts, albeit themselves in a state of enmity with Mother Church, regarded the adorers of Odin and Thor with all the disdainful rancour of theological pride ; and the followers of the northern gods, returning scorn with scorn, contemned the renegades as a perjured and time-serving generation, unworthy the grand lineage and the ancient country whence they had sprung.