Anecdotes Of Mediaeval Germany

THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.



In the year of grace 1140 a German army, under Conrad III., emperor,

laid siege to the small town of Weinsberg, the garrison of which

resisted with a most truculent and disloyal obstinacy. Germany, which

for centuries before and after was broken into warring factions, to such

extent that its emperors could truly say, "uneasy lies the head that

wears a crown," was then divided betwe n the two strong parties of the

Welfs and the Waiblingers,--or the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, as

pronounced by the Italians and better known to us. The Welfs were a

noble family whose ancestry could be traced back to the days of

Charlemagne. The Waiblingers derived their name from the town of

Waiblingen, which belonged to the Hohenstaufen family, of which the

Emperor Conrad was a representative.



And now, as often before and after, the Guelphs, and Ghibellines were at

war, Duke Welf holding Weinsberg vigorously against his foes of the

imperial party, while his relative, Count Welf of Altorf, marched to his

relief. A battle ensued between emperor and count, which ended in the

triumph of the emperor and the flight of the count. And this battle is

worthy of mention, as distinguished from the hundreds of battles which

are unworthy of mention, from the fact that in it was first heard a

war-cry which continued famous for centuries afterwards. The German

war-cry preceding this period had been "Kyrie Eleison" ("Lord, have

mercy upon us!" a pious invocation hardly in place with men who had

little mercy upon their enemies). But now the cry of the warring

factions became "Hie Weif," "Hie Waiblinger," softened in Italy into

"The Guelph," "The Ghibelline," battle-shouts which were long afterwards

heard on the field of German war, and on that of Italy as well, for the

factions of Germany became also the factions of this southern realm.



So much for the origin of Guelph and Ghibelline, of which we may further

say that a royal representative of the former party still exists, in

King Edward VII. of England, who traces his descent from the German

Welfs. And now to return to the siege of Weinsberg, to which Conrad

returned after having disposed of the army of relief. The garrison still

were far from being in a submissive mood, their defence being so

obstinate, and the siege so protracted, that the emperor, incensed by

their stubborn resistance, vowed that he would make their city a

frightful example to all his foes, by subjecting its buildings to the

brand and its inhabitants to the sword. Fire and steel, he said, should

sweep it from the face of the earth.






Weinsberg at length was compelled to yield, and Conrad, hot with anger,

determined that his cruel resolution should be carried out to the

letter, the men being put to the sword, the city given to the flames.

This harsh decision filled the citizens with terror and despair. A

deputation was sent to the angry emperor, humbly praying for pardon, but

he continued inflexible, the utmost concession he would make being that

the women might withdraw, as he did not war with them. As for the men,

they had offended him beyond forgiveness, and the sword should be their

lot. On further solicitation, he added to the concession a proviso that

the women might take away with them all that they could carry of their

most precious possessions, since he did not wish to throw them destitute

upon the world.



The obdurate emperor was to experience an unexampled surprise. When the

time fixed for the departure of the women arrived, and the city gates

were thrown open for their exit, to the astonishment of Conrad, and the

admiration of the whole army, the first to appear was the duchess, who,

trembling under the weight, bore upon her shoulders Duke Welf, her

husband. After her came a long line of other women, each bending beneath

the heavy burden of her husband, or some dear relative among the

condemned citizens.



Never had such a spectacle been seen. So affecting an instance of

heroism was it, and so earnest and pathetic were the faces appealingly

upturned to him, that the emperor's astonishment quickly changed to

admiration, and he declared that women like these had fairly earned

their reward, and that each should keep the treasure she had borne.

There were those around him with less respect for heroic deeds, who

sought to induce him to keep his original resolution, but Conrad, who

had it in him to be noble when not moved by passion, curtly silenced

them with the remark, "An emperor keeps his word." He was so moved by

the scene, indeed, that he not only spared the men, but the whole city,

and the doom of sword and brand, vowed against their homes, was

withdrawn through admiration of the noble act of the worthy wives of

Weinsberg.





A KING IN A QUANDARY.



From an old chronicle we extract the following story, which is at once

curious and interesting, as a picture of mediaeval manners and customs,

though to all seeming largely legendary.



Henry, the bishop of Utrecht, was at sword's point with two lords, those

of Aemstel and Woerden, who hated him from the fact that a kinsman of

theirs, Goswin by name, had been deposed from the same see, through the

action of a general chapter. In reprisal these lords, in alliance with

the Count of Gebria, raided and laid waste the lands of the bishopric.

Time and again they visited it with plundering bands, Henry manfully

opposing them with his followers, but suffering much from their

incursions. At length the affair ended in a peculiar compact, in which

both sides agreed to submit their differences to the wager of war, in a

pitched battle, which was to be held on a certain day in the green

meadows adjoining Utrecht.



When the appointed day came both sides assembled with their vassals, the

lords full of hope, the bishop exhorting his followers to humble the

arrogance of these plundering nobles. The Archbishop of Cologne was in

the city of Utrecht at the time, having recently visited it. He, as

warlike in disposition as the bishop himself, gave Henry a precious

ring, saying to him,--



"My son, be courageous and confident, for this day, through the

intercession of the holy confessor St. Martin, and through the virtue of

this ring, thou shalt surely subdue the pride of thy adversaries, and

obtain a renowned victory over them. In the meantime, while thou art

seeking justice, I will faithfully defend this city, with its priests

and canons, in thy behalf, and will offer up prayers to the Lord of

Hosts for thy success."



Bishop Henry, his confidence increased by these words, led from the

gates a band of fine and well armed warriors to the sound of warlike

trumpets, and marched to the field, where he drew them up before the

bands of the hostile lords.



Meanwhile, tidings of this fray had been borne to William, king of the

Romans, who felt it his duty to put an end to it, as such private

warfare was forbidden by law. Hastily collecting all the knights and

men-at-arms he could get together without delay, he marched with all

speed to Utrecht, bent upon enforcing peace between the rival bands. As

it happened, the army of the king reached the northern gate of the city

just as the bishop's battalion had left the southern gate, the one party

marching in as the other marched out.



The archbishop, who had undertaken the defence of the city, and as yet

knew nothing of this royal visit, after making an inspection of the city

under his charge, gave orders to the porters to lock and bar all the

gates, and keep close guard thereon.



King William was not long in learning that he was somewhat late, the

bishop having left the city. He marched hastily to the southern gate to

pursue him, but only to find that he was himself in custody, the gates

being firmly locked and the keys missing. He waited awhile impatiently.

No keys were brought. Growing angry at this delay, he gave orders that

the bolts and bars should be wrenched from the gates, and efforts to do

this were begun.



While this was going on, the archbishop was in deep affliction. He had

just learned that the king was in Utrecht with an army, and imagined

that he had come with hostile purpose, and had taken the city through

the carelessness of the porters. Followed by his clergy, he hastened to

where the king was trying to force a passage through the gates, and

addressed him appealingly, reminding him that justice and equity were

due from kings to subjects.



"Your armed bands, I fear, have taken this city," he said, "and you have

ordered the locks to be broken that you may expel the inhabitants, and

replace them with persons favorable to your own interests. If you

propose to act thus against justice and mercy, you injure me, your

chancellor, and lessen your own honor. I exhort you, therefore, to

restore me the city which you have unjustly taken, and relieve the

inhabitants from violence."



The king listened in silence and surprise to this harangue, which was

much longer than we have given it. At its end, he said,--



"Venerable pastor and bishop, you have much mistaken my errand in

Utrecht. I come here in the cause of justice, not of violence. You know

that it is the duty of kings to repress wars and punish the disturbers

of peace. It is this that brings us here, to put an end to the private

war which we learn is being waged. As it stands, we have not conquered

the city, but it has conquered us. To convince you that no harm is meant

to Bishop Henry and his good city of Utrecht, we will command our men to

repair to their hostels, lay down their arms, and pass their time in

festivity. But first the purpose for which we have come must be

accomplished, and this private feud be brought to an end."



That the worthy archbishop was delighted to hear these words, need not

be said. His fears had not been without sound warrant, for those were

days in which kings were not to be trusted, and in which the cities

maintained a degree of political independence that often proved

inconvenient to the throne. As may be imagined, the keys were quickly

forthcoming and the gates thrown open, the king being relieved from his

involuntary detention, and given an opportunity to bring the bishop's

battle to an end.



He was too late; it had already reached its end. While King William was

striving to get out of the city, which he had got into with such ease,

the fight in the green meadows between the bishops and the lords had

been concluded, the warlike churchman coming off victor. Many of the

lords' vassals had been killed, more put to flight, and themselves taken

prisoners. At the vesper-bell Henry entered the city with his captives,

bound with ropes, and was met at the gates by the king and the

archbishop. At the request of King William he pardoned and released his

prisoners, on their promise to cease molesting his lands, and all ended

in peace and good will.





COURTING BY PROXY.



Frederick von Stauffen, known as the One-eyed, being desirous of

providing his son Frederick (afterwards the famous emperor Frederick

Barbarossa) with a wife, sent as envoy for that purpose a handsome young

man named Johann von Wuertemberg, whose attractions of face and manner

had made him a general favorite. It was the beautiful daughter of Rudolf

von Zaehringen who had been selected as a suitable bride for the future

emperor, but when the handsome ambassador stated the purpose of his

visit to the father, he was met by Rudolf with the joking remark, "Why

don't you court the damsel for yourself?"



The suggestion was much to the taste of the envoy. He took it seriously,

made love for himself to the attractive Princess Anna, and won her love

and the consent of her father, who had been greatly pleased with his

handsome and lively visitor, and was quite ready to confirm in earnest

what he had begun in jest.



Frederick, the One-eyed, still remained to deal with, but that worthy

personage seems to have taken the affair as a good joke, and looked up

another bride for his son, leaving to Johann the maiden he had won. This

story has been treated as fabulous, but it is said to be well founded.

It has been repeated in connection with other persons, notably in the

case of Captain Miles Standish and John Alden, in which case the fair

maiden herself is given the credit of admonishing the envoy to court for

himself. It is very sure, however, that this latter story is a fable. It

was probably founded on the one we have given.





THE BISHOP'S WINE-CASKS.



Adalbert of Treves was a bandit chief of note who, in the true fashion

of the robber barons of mediaeval Germany, dwelt in a strong-walled

castle, which was garrisoned by a numerous band of men-at-arms, as fond

of pillage as their leader, and equally ready to follow him on his

plundering expeditions and to defend his castle against his enemies.

Our noble brigand paid particular heed to the domain of Peppo, Bishop of

Treves, whose lands he honored with frequent unwelcome visits,

despoiling lord and vassal alike, and hastening back from his raids to

the shelter of his castle walls.



This was not the most agreeable state of affairs for the worthy bishop,

though how it was to be avoided did not clearly appear. It probably did

not occur to him to apply to the emperor, Henry II., the mediaeval German

emperors having too much else on hand to leave them time to attend to

matters of minor importance. Peppo therefore naturally turned to his own

kinsmen, friends, and vassals, as those most likely to afford him aid.



Bishop Peppo could wield sword and battle-axe with the best bishop,

which is almost equivalent to saying with the best warrior, of his day,

and did not fail to use, when occasion called, these carnal weapons. But

something more than the battle-axes of himself and vassals was needed to

break through the formidable walls of Adalbert's stronghold, which

frowned defiance to the utmost force the bishop could muster. Force

alone would not answer, that was evident. Stratagem was needed to give

effect to brute strength. If some way could only be devised to get

through the strong gates of the robber's stronghold, and reach him

behind his bolts and bars, all might be well; otherwise, all was ill.



In this dilemma, a knightly vassal of the bishop, Tycho by name,

undertook to find a passage into the castle of Adalbert, and to punish

him for his pillaging. One day Tycho presented himself at the gate of

the castle, knocked loudly thereon, and on the appearance of the guard,

asked him for a sup of something to drink, being, as he said, overcome

with thirst.



He did not ask in vain. It is a pleasant illustration of the hospitality

of that period to learn that the traveller's demand was unhesitatingly

complied with at the gate of the bandit stronghold, a brimming cup of

wine being brought for the refreshment of the thirsty wayfarer.



"Thank your master for me," said Tycho, on returning the cup, "and tell

him that I shall certainly repay him with some service for his good

will."



With this Tycho journeyed on, sought the bishopric, and told Peppo what

he had done and what he proposed to do. After a full deliberation a

definite plan was agreed upon, which the cunning fellow proceeded to put

into action. The plan was one which strongly reminds us of that adopted

by the bandit chief in the Arabian story of the "Forty Thieves," the

chief difference being that here it was true men, not thieves, who were

to be benefited.



Thirty wine casks of capacious size were prepared, and in each was

placed instead of its quota of wine a stalwart warrior, fully armed with

sword, shield, helmet, and cuirass. Each cask was then covered with a

linen cloth, and ropes were fastened to its sides for the convenience of

the carriers. This done, sixty other men were chosen as carriers, and

dressed as peasants, though really they were trained soldiers, and each

had a sword concealed in the cask he helped to carry.



The preparations completed, Tycho, accompanied by a few knights and by

the sixty carriers and their casks, went his way to Adalbert's castle,

and, as before, knocked loudly at its gates. The guard again appeared,

and, on seeing the strange procession, asked who they were and for what

they came.



"I have come to repay your chief for the cup of wine he gave me," said

Tycho. "I promised that he should be well rewarded for his good will,

and am here for that purpose."



The warder looked longingly at the array of stout casks, and hastened

with the message to Adalbert, who, doubtless deeming that the gods were

raining wine, for his one cup to be so amply returned, gave orders that

the strangers should be admitted. Accordingly the gates were opened, and

the wine-bearers and knights filed in.



Reaching the castle hall, the casks were placed on the floor before

Adalbert and his chief followers, Tycho begging him to accept them as a

present in return for his former kindness. As to receive something for

nothing was Adalbert's usual mode of life, he did not hesitate to accept

the lordly present, and Tycho ordered the carriers to remove the

coverings. In a very few seconds this was done, when out sprang the

armed men, the porters seized their swords from the casks, and in a

minute's time the surprised bandits found themselves sharply attacked.

The stratagem proved a complete success. Adalbert and his men fell

victims to their credulity, and the fortress was razed to the ground.



The truth of this story we cannot vouch for. It bears too suspicious a

resemblance to the Arabian tale to be lightly accepted as fact. But its

antiquity is unquestionable, and it may be offered as a faithful picture

of the conditions of those centuries of anarchy when every man's hand

was for himself and might was right.