THE COUNTESS VON SAYN AND THE ARCHBISHOP OF COLOGNE
It was high noon when that great Prince
of the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne, arrived
at Castle Sayn, with a very inconsiderable following,
which seemed to indicate that he traveled on no affair
of State, for on such occasions he led a small army.
The lovely young Countess awaited him at the top of
the Castle steps, and he greeted her with the courtesy
of a polished man of the world, rather than with the
more austere consideration of a great Churchman.
Indeed, it seemed to the quick apprehension of the
girl that as he raised her fair hand to his lips his
obeisance was lower, more deferential, than their differing
stations in life justified.
He shook hands with Father Ambrose
in the manner of old friend accosting old friend,
and nothing in his salutation indicated displeasure
of any sort in the background.
Perhaps, then, that sense of uneasiness
felt by both the aged Father Ambrose and the youthful
Countess Hildegunde in the Archbishop’s presence
came from their consciousness of conspiracy, resulting
in the ill-fated journey to Frankfort. Nevertheless,
all that afternoon the two were oppressed by the shadow
of some impending danger, and the good spirits of
the Archbishop seemed to them assumed for the occasion,
and indeed in this they were not far wrong. His
Lordship of Cologne was keenly apprehensive regarding
an important conference set down for the next day,
and the exuberance of an essentially serious man in
such a crisis is prone to be overdone.
Father Ambrose, who, in the midst
of luxury and plenty, lived with the abstemiousness
of an anchorite, and always partook of his scant refreshment
alone in his cell, was invited by the Archbishop to
a seat at the table in the dining-hall.
“So long as you cast no look
of reproach upon me for my enjoyment of Sayn’s
most excellent cuisine, and my appreciation of its
unequaled cellar, I shall not comment on your dinner
of parched peas and your unexhilarating tankard of
water. Besides, I wish to consult with Ambrose
the librarian of Sayn, touching the archives of this
house, rather than with Ambrose the superintendent
of farms, or Father Ambrose the monk.”
During the midday meal the Archbishop
led, and at times monopolized, the conversation.
“While you were under the tutelage
of the good Sisters at Nonnenwerth Convent, Hildegunde,
the Abbess frequently spoke of your proficiency in
historical studies. Did you ever turn your attention
to the annals of your own House?”
“No, Guardian. From what
I heard casually of my ancestors a record of their
doings would be scarcely the sort of reading recommended
to a young girl.”
“Ah, very true, very true,”
agreed the Archbishop. “Some of the Counts
of Sayn led turbulent lives, and except with a battle-ax
it was difficult to persuade them not to meddle with
the goods and chattels of their neighbors. A
strenuous line they proved in those olden days; but
many noble women have adorned the Castle of Sayn whose
lives shine out like an inspiration against the dark
background of medieval tumult. Did you ever hear
of your forebear, the gracious Countess Matilda von
Sayn, who lived some hundreds of years ago? Indeed,
the letters I have been reading, written in her quaint
handwriting, are dated about the middle of the thirteenth
century. I cannot learn whether she was older
or younger than the Archbishop of Cologne of that
period, and thus I wish to enlist the interest of
Father Ambrose in searching the archives of Sayn for
anything pertaining to her. The Countess sent
many epistles to the Archbishop which he carefully
preserved, while documents of much more importance
to the Archbishopric were allowed to go astray.
“Her letters breathe a deep
devotion to the Church, and a warm kindliness to its
chief ornament of that day, the then Archbishop of
Cologne. She was evidently his most cherished
adviser, and in points of difficulty her counsel exhibits
all the clarity of a man’s brain, to which is
added a tenderness and a sense of justice entirely
womanly. I could not help fancying that this
great prelate’s success in his Archbishopric
was largely due to the disinterested advice of this
noble woman. It is clearly to be seen that the
Countess was the benignant power behind the throne,
and she watched his continued advancement with a love
resembling that lavished on a favorite son. Her
writings now and then betray an affection of a quality
so motherly that I came to believe she was much older
than the great Churchman, but then there is the fact
that she long outlived him, so it is possible she may
have been the younger.”
“Why, my Lord, are you about to weave us a romance?”
The Archbishop smiled, and for a moment
placed his hand upon hers, which rested on the table
beside him.
“A romance, perhaps, between
myself and the Countess of long ago, for as I read
these letters I used much of their contents for my
own guidance, and found her precepts as wise to-day
as they were in 1250, and to me ... to me,”
the Archbishop sighed, “she seems to live again.
Yes, I confess my ardent regard for her, and if you
call that romance, it is surely of a very innocent
nature.”
“But the other Archbishop?
Your predecessor, the friend of Matilda; what of him?”
“There, Hildegunde, I have much
less evidence to go upon, for his letters, if they
exist, are concealed somewhere in the archives of Sayn
Castle.”
“To-morrow,” cried the
girl, “I shall robe myself in the oldest garments
I possess, and will rummage those dusty archives until
I find the letters of him who was Archbishop in 1250.”
“I have bestowed that task upon
one less impulsive. Father Ambrose is the searcher,
and he and I will put our wise old heads together in
consultation over them before entrusting them to the
perusal of that impetuous young noblewoman, the present
Countess von Sayn.”
The impetuous person referred to brought
down her hand with a peremptory impact upon the table,
and exclaimed emphatically:
“My Lord Archbishop, I shall
read those letters to-morrow.”
Once more the Archbishop placed his
hand on hers, this time, however, clasping it firmly
in his own. There was no smile on his face as
he said gravely:
“My lady, to-morrow you will
face three living Archbishops, more difficult, perhaps,
to deal with than one who is dust.”
“Three!” she cried, startled,
a gleam of apprehension troubling her fine eyes.
“My Lords of Mayence, Treves, and yourself?
Are they coming here?”
“The conclave of the Archbishops
will be held at Castle Stolzenfels, the Rhine residence
of my brother of Treves.”
“Why is this Court convened?”
“That will be explained to you,
Hildegunde, by his Highness of Mayence. I did
not intend to speak to you about this until later,
so I will merely say that there is nothing to fear.
I, being your guardian, am sent to escort you to Stolzenfels,
and as we ride there together I wish to place before
you some suggestions which you may find useful when
the meeting takes place.”
“I shall faithfully follow any
advice you give me, my Lord.”
“I am sure of it, Hildegunde,
and you will remember that I speak as guardian, not
as Councilor of State. My observations will be
requests and not commands. You see, we have reversed
the positions of my predecessor and the Countess Matilda.
It was always she who tendered advice, which he invariably
accepted. Now I must take the rôle of advice-giver;
thus you and I transpose the parts of the former Archbishop
of Cologne, and the former Countess of Sayn, who, I
am sorry to note, have been completely banished from
your thoughts by my premature announcement regarding
the three living Archbishops.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all!
I am still thinking of those two. Have you told
me all you know about them?”
“Far from it. Although
I was handicapped in my reconstitution of their friendship
by lack of the Archbishop’s letters, he had nevertheless
made a note here and there upon the communications
he received from the Countess. Throughout the
letters certain paragraphs are marked with a cross,
as if for reperusal, these paragraphs being invariably
most delicately and charmingly written. But now
I come to the last very important document, the only
one of which a copy has been kept, written in the
Archbishop’s own hand.
“In the year 1250, the Countess
von Sayn had ceded to him the Rhine town of Linz.
Linz seems to have been a rebellious and troublesome
fief, which the Sayns held by force of arms.
When it came into the possession of the Archbishop,
the foolish inhabitants, remembering that Cologne was
a long distance down the river compared with the up-river
journey to Sayn, broke out into open revolt.
The Archbishop sent up his army, and most effectually
crushed this outbreak, severely punishing the rebels.
He returned from this subdued town to his own city
of Cologne, and whether from the exposure of the brief
campaign, or some other cause, he was taken ill and
shortly after died.
“The new Archbishop was installed,
and nearly two years passed, so far as I can learn,
before the Countess Matilda made claim that the town
of Linz should come again within her jurisdiction,
saying that this restitution had been promised by
the late Archbishop. His successor, however,
disputed this claim. He possessed, he said, the
deed of gift making over the town of Linz to his predecessor,
and this document was definite enough. If then,
it was the intention of the late Archbishop to return
Linz to the House of Sayn, the Countess doubtless held
some document to that effect, and in this case he
would like to know its purport.
“The Countess replied that an
understanding had existed between the late Archbishop
and herself regarding the subjugation of the town of
Linz and its return to her after the rebellion was
quelled. But for the untimely death of the late
Archbishop she did not doubt that his part of the
contract would have been kept long since. Nevertheless,
she did possess a document, in the late Archbishop’s
own hand, setting out the terms of their agreement,
and of this manuscript she sent a copy.
“The crafty Archbishop, without
casting doubt on the authenticity of the copy, said
that of course it would be illegal for him to act upon
it. He must have the original document.
Matilda replied, very shrewdly, that on her part she
could not allow the original document to quit her custody,
as upon it rested her rights to the town of Linz.
She would, however, exhibit this document to any ecclesiastical
committee her correspondent might appoint, and the
members of the committee so chosen should be men well
acquainted with the late Archbishop’s writing
and signature. In reply the Archbishop regretted
that he could not accept her suggestion. The
people of Cologne, believing that their overlord had
rightfully acquired Linz, cheerfully consented to
make good their title by battle, thus having, as it
were, bought the town with their blood, and indeed,
a deplorable sacrifice of life, it would become a
dangerous venture to give up the town unless indisputable
documentary evidence might be exhibited to them showing
that such a bargain was made by the deceased prelate.
“But before proceeding farther
in this matter, he asked the Countess if she were
prepared to swear that the copy forwarded to him was
a full and faithful rendition of the original.
Did it contain every word the late Archbishop had
written in that letter?
“To this the Countess made no
reply, and allowed to lapse any title she might have
to the town of Linz.”
“I think,” cried the girl
indignantly, “that my ancestress was in the
right, refusing further communication with this ignoble
Churchman who dared to impugn her good faith.”
The Archbishop smiled at her vehemence.
“I shall make no attempt to
defend my astute predecessor. A money-lender’s
soul tenanted his austere body, but what would you
say if his implication of the Countess Matilda’s
good faith was justified?”
“You mean that the copy which
she sent of the Archbishop’s letter was fraudulent?
I cannot believe it.”
“Not fraudulent. So far
as it went her copy was word perfect. She neglected
to add, however, a final sentence, and rather than
make it public forfeited her rightful claim to great
possessions. Of the Archbishop’s communications
to her there remains in our archives a copy of this
last epistle written in his own hand. I cannot
imagine why he added the final clauses to what was
in essence an important business communication.
The premonition he admits may have set his thoughts
upon things not of this world, but undoubtedly he
believed that he would live long enough to conquer
the rebels of Linz, and restore to the Countess her
property. This is what he wrote, and she refused
to publish:
“’Matilda, I feel that
my days are numbered, and that their number is scant.
To all the world my life seems to have been successful
beyond the wishes of mortal man, but to me it is a
dismal failure, in that I die bachelor Archbishop
of Cologne, and you are the spinster Countess von
Sayn.’”