Kitabı oku: «Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages», sayfa 14

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TREASON AND DEATH

Eight years, or thereabouts, had come and gone, when messengers arrived from Burgundy inviting Siegfried and Chriemhild to a great feast. They accepted the invitation, and Sigmund determined to accompany them to Worms.

Brunhild had said one day to her husband, “King Gunther, why does your brother-in-law Siegfried never come to our court like the other vassals? I should like to see both him and your sister Chriemhild. Pray send, and command their presence at court.”

“I told you before,” answered Gunther, somewhat nettled, “that my brother-in-law is as mighty a king as I. He rules over the Nibelungs and the Netherlands.”

“How strange!” she replied. “You cannot deny that he called himself your man when he was in Isenland.”

“Oh! he only said that to help me in my wooing,” said Gunther, feeling uncomfortable.

“You only say that,” was her answer, “to make your sister seem to have a higher rank. But however that may be, I should very much like to see them both at our court.”

“Very well,” he answered kindly, “I will send messengers to invite them to the Midsummer feast, and they will not refuse to come.”

He went away, and did as he had said. Brunhild remained alone, plunged in thought.

“There he goes,” she muttered. “The man that conquered the once heroic maiden, who thought herself strong enough to brave the battle like the Valkyrs of old. And he, what is he but a weak reed, moved hither and thither by every breath of wind that blows? How much greater Siegfried is! He is a hero with the world at his feet. But then a vassal! To be sure, none such could dare to raise his eyes to the queen of Isenland. Had he done so, she must have scorned him, and would scorn him to this very hour.”

Siegfried and his party came to Worms at the appointed time. There was no end to the feasting, tilting, and minstrelsy. Old Sigmund renewed his youth again, and delighted to talk of old days with the Lady Ute, whom he had known as a child. The young queens were always together, at church, or at the feast, or else in the gallery overlooking the tilt-yard. The only amusement to which Chriemhild did not accompany her sister-in-law was the chase.

One day when they were sitting together in the gallery watching the feats of agility and skill shown by the warriors, she said in the joy of her heart:

“Is not my Siegfried glorious among warriors, like a moon among the pale stars of night? He is a royal hero.”

“He is well deserving of your praise,” replied Brunhild, “but still he must yield the first place to my husband.”

“Of a truth,” answered Chriemhild, “my brother is a bold warrior, but he does not equal my husband in feats of arms.”

“Why,” said Brunhild, “did not win he the prize at Isenstein, while Siegfried remained with the ship?”

“Do you mean to accuse the Nibelung hero, the dragon-queller, of cowardice?” cried the young wife indignantly.

“He cannot stand so high as the king of Burgundy,” answered Brunhild, “for he is not his own man, but owes fealty to my husband.”

“You lie, proud woman!” exclaimed Chriemhild, her face flushing with anger, “you lie most insolently. My brother would never have let me marry a man who was not free. Siegfried owes no man allegiance, neither for Nibelungland nor yet for Netherland. The first kingdom he conquered with his own right hand, the other is his inheritance; and I, his queen, may hold my head as high as you.”

“Try it, chatterer! I shall always walk into church before you.”

With these words Brunhild left the gallery. Chriemhild felt both hurt and angry. It was the first grief that had ever befallen her, and she could not get over it. She went to her rooms, put on her costliest garments and the jewels that had come out of the Nibelung treasure; then, followed by her ladies and serving-men, she walked to the minster. Brunhild was already there with her train. She would have passed the proud woman silently, but the latter exclaimed:

“Your husband is my husband’s man, so wait here, and let your queen go first.”

“Better for you had you held your peace,” said Chriemhild. “A paramour go before a king’s wife, indeed!”

“Are you mad?” asked Brunhild. “What do you mean?”

“I will tell you what I mean,” replied Chriemhild, “when I come out of church;” and passing before her enemy, she went in to the house of God.

The proud queen stood still, weeping, at the entrance door. Shame and anger struggled in her breast, and she could scarcely wait till the end of the service. At length the door opened, and Chriemhild appeared.

“Now,” exclaimed Brunhild, “stop, and explain what you meant by your insulting words, you wife of a bondsman.”

“Wife of a bondsman?” repeated Chriemhild, as though she had not heard the other words. “Do you recognise the gold ring on my hand shaped like a serpent?”

“It is mine,” said Brunhild. “Now I know who stole it from me.”

“Well,” continued Chriemhild, “maybe you also remember the silken girdle I wear round my waist, with its gold buckles and precious stones. My husband gained both the ring and the girdle that night, when he, not Gunther, conquered you.”

Chriemhild went her way with the air of a hero on the day of his greatest victory. The proud queen remained standing where her sister-in-law had left her, her head bowed with shame. She sent for her husband, and when he came, told him how she had been insulted. And Gunther promised to ask Siegfried if he had any knowledge of what had taken place. He received his brother-in-law in the royal hall, and in the presence of many of his bravest warriors. He told him what had chanced, and immediately the Nibelung hero declared, in all good truth, that he had never spoken of dishonour and of the queen in the same breath; adding that too much weight should not be laid on the words that women spoke in anger. He then offered to clear himself by a solemn oath. But Gunther interrupted him, saying he knew him of old, and that his word was as good as his bond.

“Hearken, then, ye men of Burgundy,” said the hero; “you see that I am pronounced innocent of causing the humiliations your queen has endured, and indeed I have always regarded her as a modest woman, and a good wife. And now, dear comrade Gunther, chide your wife as I shall chide mine for what they have this day done, that we may never again be brought to dispeace by their idle chatter.”

He then turned and left the hall; but many a Burgundian felt that their queen had suffered a cruel wrong.

Next day Brunhild began to make preparations for her departure to Isenland. The king and his brothers entreated her to stay; but she sat silent and immovable as a stone figure.

“We cannot let you go,” cried the king. “We will at any cost expiate my sister’s thoughtless speech. What price do you demand?”

She rose, looked round the circle of warriors, and said in a hoarse and hollow voice:

“Blood!”

The Burgundians started, and stared at each other, none daring to speak. She continued in the same tone:

“Not all the waters of the Rhine could wash the stain from my honour. The heart’s blood of yonder man alone can do it.”

The uneasiness of the warriors increased; but Hagen said:

“Are the bold Burgundians grown weak with age? Have they become children again? I will explain the matter. Our queen demands the heart’s-blood of Siegfried. Ha! The words seem to terrify you!”

The Burgundians exchanged whispers about Siegfried’s strength, how it were certain death to fight with him, and, moreover, that he was innocent of all blame in the matter.

Then grim Hagen turned to Brunhild, and said, “Lady, it was against my advice that Gunther went to woo you in Isenland; but, now that you are our queen, your honour shall be safe in our hands. I will satisfy your desire.”

“But,” exclaimed young Giselher, “it is not the way in Burgundy to return evil for good. Siegfried has always been true to us, and I, at least, will not be false to him.”

Hagen tried to persuade Volker, the minstrel, to help him in the work of assassination, for Siegfried was not a man they could attack openly. But Volker refused. Ortwin offered himself in his stead, saying that the mere fact of Siegfried having given the ring and girdle to his wife was an insult to the queen of Burgundy, and must therefore be revenged.

Gunther here broke in passionately, “Such a murder would cast dishonour on all Burgundy, and it is my duty as the king to prevent it.”

“Lord of the Rhine,” cried Brunhild, rising from her seat, “I give you three days to think of it. After that, I either go to Isenland, or have my revenge.” With these words she left the room.

“No weapon can hurt him,” said the Margrave Gere, “for he has bathed in dragon’s blood, and is only vulnerable in one place, on which a lime-leaf fell when he was doing it.”

“If he guesses what we are after,” added Sindolt, “he and his thousand Nibelungs will conquer the kingdom.”

“I will do it by cunning,” said grim Hagen.

The king could not make up his mind one way or the other. He would—and would not. And when the warriors separated, nothing was settled. Three days later, when Gunther saw that the queen’s mind was fully made up, he consented with a sigh to let his uncle Hagen try his plan.

About this time heralds came from Lüdegast and Lüdeger to declare war against Burgundy. Siegfried at once promised to help his brothers-in-law to defend the country. The ladies were all busy preparing the jerkins their husbands were to wear. One day when Chriemhild was thus employed, Hagen entered her room. He bade her be of good cheer, because the hero having bathed in dragon’s blood was invulnerable.

“Good friend,” she answered sadly, “my Siegfried is so bold that he often pushes into the midst of the enemy, and, in such a case, he might easily be wounded in his only vulnerable point.”

Hagen begged her to embroider a little cross upon his jerkin to mark the place, so that he might always cover it with his shield. She promised to do so, and immediately worked a little cross with silver thread upon the garment. Her anxiety was needless, for the next day fresh messengers came to say that the kings had changed their minds regarding war, and were now determined to be true to their old alliance. Soon after this, Gunther made preparations for a great hunt to be given in honour of the continued peace. On the morning on which it was to be held, Chriemhild entreated her husband to remain at home. She had had such terrible dreams the night before, that she feared for his life. He laughed at her, and then kissed her, saying that a bad dream would be a foolish reason for keeping away from the hunt.

“Besides that, be comforted, dear wife. What harm can happen to me? I shall be amongst faithful friends and comrades all day long. I shall take Balmung and a sharp spear with me, and I should like to see him who would dare withstand me.”

He kissed her again, and hastened away. She ran to the window, and watched him until he disappeared from sight. The morning passed very pleasantly, and then the warriors sat down to their mid-day meal, which was spread out on the grass. There was food in plenty, but the wine ran short. Hagen explained that he had sent the wine on to another place, thinking it was there they should have dined; but he told his friends of a cool spring under a lime-tree not far off, and offered to run a race there with Siegfried. The latter laughingly accepted the challenge, adding that he would carry his sword and hunting-tackle, while Hagen went empty-handed, that the race might be more equal. The two warriors ran across the meadow ground towards the linden, and, as they ran, the field flowers tried to stop bold Siegfried, the branches of the trees beckoned him to go back, and the birds in the linden sang sadly as though they would say, “Turn back, noble hero, the traitor is behind you.” But Siegfried did not understand the language of the flowers, trees, and birds. He trusted his friend as himself.

“Here we are at last,” he cried to the panting Hagen. “Here is the clear spring; see how the water sparkles. Let us rest under the cool shade of the linden, until the king comes up, for he must have the first draught.”

He laid aside his sword and other weapons, and threw himself on the flowery grass.

“How dull you look,” he continued to Hagen, “and yet it is such a bright and beautiful day, and we have had such good sport this morning. Ah, here are the others. Come, Gunther, we are waiting for you. You must have the first draught.”

Gunther stooped and drank of the fresh, clear water of the spring, then Siegfried followed him, saying with a laugh:

“I intend to have a real good drink. But do not fear, noble friends, I shall leave you plenty. This spring is like mankind: one part goes down into the earth, and another comes up into the light of day, but it never ends.”

“Very true,” said Hagen; “what matters one life more or less?”

The Nibelung hero bent over the well and drank thirstily, and, as he did so, Hagen caught up his spear and plunged it into his back, in the exact spot where Chriemhild had embroidered the silver cross on his jerkin. He did it with such force, that the point of the weapon went through his back and came out at his chest. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and, not finding his sword where he had put it, for it had been removed by one of the conspirators, seized his shield and struck the murderer to the ground. More he could not do. He sank back helplessly amongst the flowers, which were dyed red with his blood. The silver stream was also reddened, and all the sky was crimson with the light of the setting sun. It seemed as if nature were blushing for the evil deed that had just been done.

Once more the hero feebly raised his beautiful head, and said, looking round upon the Burgundians:

“Ye murderous hounds, what harm did I ever do you? Had I known of your treachery, ye had all lain dead at my feet. A devil from hell must have tempted you to do this foul deed. None of you ventured to meet me in open battle, and so you fixed upon Hagen to do the cowardly deed. Your names will be known until the latest times as those of cowardly traitors. And now, King Gunther, dishonoured as you are through this ill-deed, and weak of will, listen to the words of a dying man. Protect my wife, she is your own sister, protect my poor wife from Hagen.”

These were the last words of the royal hero.

The warriors stood silently around him, their hearts filled with sorrow and repentance. Gunther at length said:

“We will tell the people, who all loved the dead man, that he was murdered by robbers. Chriemhild will never then hold us to blame.”

“Nay,” said Hagen, “that may not be. I will not deny what my own cunning and my own hand have done. Our queen has now the expiation that she demanded, and your honour required. Burgundy is safe from all enemies, for no man was ever Siegfried’s equal, or ever will be. What do I care for the complaints of a people or for the tears of a woman? Let us make a bier of branches, that the dead warrior may be borne to Worms thereon. Ha! here is Balmung, his good sword; to-day it shall do its old master a last service, and its new master a first.”

When the bier was made, the hunting party set out for Worms in very different fashion from that in which they had started in the morning. They did not arrive until late at night. It almost seemed as though the dead hero inspired both warriors and serving-men with terror. None of them would carry him up the staircase. Hagen called them cowardly loons, and raising the body on his shoulders, carried it up, and laid it outside Chriemhild’s door. Next morning early the queen got up, and made ready to go to the sanctuary. She called a chamberlain, and he, seeing a dead man, whom he did not recognise in the half-light, lying in the passage, told his mistress. She shrieked aloud:

“It is Siegfried! Hagen has murdered him at Brunhild’s command!”

The servants brought lights, and they saw that she had spoken truth. She threw herself on her husband’s body, and with her tears washed his face clear of the blood stains that marred it. There he lay before her, pale, cold, and motionless; never, never again should she hear his voice;—never again. The word rhymed in her ears, and seemed to madden her. She would willingly have died with him, and have gone down to the grave; or, as her forefathers believed, have rejoined him in Freya’s halls.

Old Sigmund, on hearing the news, uttered no word, but his heart seemed broken. He kissed his son’s wounds, as though he hoped thereby to recall him to life. Suddenly he started to his feet, and the old spirit awoke in his heart.

“Murder! Vengeance!” he cried. “Up, Nibelungs, up, and avenge your hero.”

He hastened into the court, and the Nibelungs, hearing his words, crowded round him in full armour. The old man received a sword and coat of mail from them, but his trembling hands were too weak to hold them, and next moment he had sank unconscious on the ground. The Burgundians were awaiting the assault with arms in their hands, and grim Hagen was bringing up new forces to help those already there.

The Nibelungs retired, gnashing their teeth.

On the third day after this, the bier was taken to the sanctuary to be blessed by the priest. The populace crowded into the church, that they might give a last look at the dead hero, who had done so much for Burgundy. Chriemhild stood by the uncovered coffin, which was adorned with gold and precious stones. Her eyes were tearless, but all could read her sorrow in her face and bearing. A veiled woman passed close by amongst the crowd. Chriemhild alone recognised her.

“Go, murderess,” she cried, “do not approach him, lest the very dead should bear witness against you.”

The Unknown vanished in the crowd.

The Burgundian warriors now came to view the corpse, as custom demanded. When Hagen came up, the wounds of the dead man opened, and his blood flowed forth in a warm stream, as at the hour of the murder.

“Do not stand there, assassin,” said Chriemhild; “do you not see how the dead bears witness against you?”

The bold warrior remained where he was.

“I do not deny what my hand has done. I only acted as I was bound to act by my fealty to my liege lord and his queen.”

If Chriemhild had had a sword in her hand, and had been possessed of a man’s strength, Hagen had scarcely quitted the sanctuary alive.

Many gifts were made to the poor in honour of the dead hero, who was buried on the fourth day. The grave-chamber was richly decorated, and over it rose a high mound. Chriemhild followed the coffin to its quiet resting-place. There the lid was opened once more at her command. She kissed and wept over the pale face of her husband. Her women at length had to bear her away, for she would have remained there for ever. Hagen was standing without, grim and unmoved as ever, and said with his usual fatalism, “What has happened, must needs have happened. The will of the Norns must be done.” The queen did not hear him. She did not even see how Gunther, Gernot, and many of the other warriors tried to hide their grief and repentance. Her thoughts were all with the dead.

Sigmund and the Nibelungs prepared to return home. They wanted to take Chriemhild with them, to guard her from the false Burgundians, but she would not leave her husband’s grave, and only begged the old king and the Margrave Eckewart to take care of her little son, and bring him up to be like his father. For she said he was an orphan, fatherless, and perhaps motherless. She had only one wish, which she whispered in the old man’s ear—the wish for vengeance. Sigmund took leave of none but the Lady Ute, who mourned for Siegfried as if he had been a son of her own, and of Giselher, the youngest of the brothers. Then he set out for the Netherlands.

Time passed on, and it almost seemed as though Chriemhild had grown content, and had become reconciled to her brother. Grim Hagen alone seemed to fill her with horror, and Brunhild she also avoided. She, one day, told her brother that she wished the Nibelung treasure to be brought up to Worms, as it was her private property. Gunther rejoiced at this proof of her renewed confidence in him, and at once consented to send for it. Alberich delivered the treasure to the messengers without hesitation, and at length it arrived at Worms. The queen made generous gifts to the people, and whenever she found a brave warrior who possessed but few worldly goods, she would provide him with all that was necessary for his calling, and with daily pay besides. So that she gradually became complete mistress of a small army, which grew daily larger, and more powerful.

Hagen warned the kings of this; he told them that the Lady Chriemhild meditated vengeance. He did not care for his own life, he said, but the fair land of Burgundy must not fall into her hands. The only way that he could see of preventing this consummation would be for the kings to take the Nibelung treasure under their own care. The brothers would not consent. Gernot said that enough harm had been done to their sister already without heaping small indignities on her. Once, when his liege lords were absent, Hagen, who had always considered that prevention was better than cure, called his men together, and fell upon the warders who had charge of the Nibelung treasure. He carried off all that remained of it, and sank it in the deep waters of the Rhine. It was of little use that the kings heard of his ill-deed on their return; it was of little use that Chriemhild made indignant complaint: the deed was done, and could not be undone.

“If you were not our uncle,” said Gunther and Gernot, “this should have cost you your life.”

A short time afterwards, Hagen showed his nephews the place in the Rhine where he had hidden the treasure, and made them swear that none of them would betray its hiding-place as long as one of them was alive. Chriemhild was sad and sorrowful as before; she always sat with her mother, and embroidered tapestry in which she depicted the scene of Baldur’s death, and showed how he was cruelly slain by his brother Höder, and how Nanna died of a broken heart, and shared her husband’s bier. But in Baldur every one recognised the features of her hero, and in Nanna her own; while Höder had the features, garments, and murderous weapon of grim Hagen. She often held the needle suspended in her fingers, and sat watching the picture thoughtfully. When the Lady Ute asked her, on such occasions, “What are you thinking of, my child?” she would answer, “I was thinking of Hagen.”