The Truce of God / A Tale of the Eleventh Century

Of ancient deeds so long forgot;

Of feuds whose memory was not;

Of forests now laid waste and bare;

Of towers which harbor now the hare;

Of manners long since changed and gone;

Of chiefs who under their gray stone

So long had slept, that fickle fame

Hath blotted from her rolls their name.

SCOTT.

Reader! if your mind, harassed with the cares of a utilitarian age, require an hour of recreation; if a legend of a far different and far distant day have aught that can claim your sympathy or awaken your attention; if the "Dark Ages" be to you Ages of Faith, or even lit with the gray morning-light of civilization, come wander back with me beyond the experimental revolution of the sixteenth century, to the time when the Gothic temples of the living God were new.

It was the eleventh century: the sun shone as brightly then as now; ay, and virtue too, though sympathy for a lustful tyrant has stamped the age with infamy. Through an extensive forest in Suabia, as the old chronicle from which I copy relates, a gallant youth was urging on, with voice and rein, a steed that seemed as bold and fiery as his rider. The youth's flashing eye, and the spear in his hand, told clearly enough that the boar was before him. On he went, as if the forest were his element, now bending low beneath the knotted bough, now swerving aside from the stern old trunk which sturdily opposed his progress, and seemed to mock him as he passed. On he went, as if danger were behind and safety before him; as if he galloped to save his own life, not to risk it in taking a boar's. An angry bark and a fearful howl rang in the distance, and the hunter's bugle sounded a merry blast. On he went, faster than before, and now as if he sought his mortal foe. The boar was at bay; monarch of the wood, he had turned to defend his realm, and his white tusks were soon red with the blood of the noble hounds who fearlessly disputed his right. The youth leaped from his horse with the speed of thought. Bred to the chase, the well-trained animal stood firm while his master cautiously, but with the calmness of the victor of a hundred frays, advanced against the bristling monster. Quitting the dogs for this new assailant, the boar came madly on; the huntsman sank upon one knee, and so true was his eye, and so firm his hand, that the heart of the savage was cloven by the spear. The youth rose to his feet, dizzy from the shock, and, springing nimbly upon the grim body of his prostrate victim, his fine form swelling with the rapture of his recent triumph, brought his horn to his lips, and again its notes went ringing merrily through the woods.

Echoes, like fading memories, growing fainter and fainter as they receded, gave the only response.

"Where can they be?" said the youth, "their steeds were fleet. Out of sight and out of hearing! How completely I have beaten them."

He laughed triumphantly as he said this, and, sitting down upon the long grass, began to caress an enormous hound that panted at his feet, as unconcernedly as though the forest now contained nothing more formidable than doves or lambs. His horse, thoroughly domesticated, strayed a little from the dead boar, feeding as it went.

The youth took off his plumed bonnet, and, flinging back his long black hair, fell into one of those light, smiling day-dreams which belong only to the young and innocent. He built fifteen air-castles in as many minutes. But at last he grew impatient; he sounded blast after blast; still no answer came. The trees kept up their sleepy sigh, and the sapless branches creaked, but no human voice, no human foot save his own, broke the silence.

"Thou hast given me a goodly chase," exclaimed the youth, springing up and addressing the boar, "and I shall wear this in remembrance of thee."

He drew his hunting-knife, and soon uprooted one of the monster's tusks. Depositing the precious relic in a hunting pouch he wore at his side, he mounted his horse, rather puzzled where to go.

"It is easier to get in this oaken field than to get out of it," said our hunter, "but if the forest have an end, I'll find it. Now, my dear loitering friends, we hunt each other."

Giving his horse the spur, and allowing the creature to choose its course, he called on the lagging hounds, and dashed away as rapidly as he had come. The wood was light as ever, and here and there sunbeam lay, like a golden spear, along the ground yet the rich lustre of the sky, wherever it was visible the hum of numberless insects, the fresh flight of the awakened bird, and the freer and cooler breeze, warned the youth that sunset was near. On went the noble steed, with steady step and trembling nostril while his finely veined ears spoke so rapidly that the rider could scarcely understand their language. They passed through long lines of trees that opened into other lines, from one limited horizon to another, yet all was green before and behind, to the right and to the left, one interminable emerald. The light turned from a rich gold to a golden red, and yet it played only on whispering leaves and on the long grass at their feet. Still the youth felt no fear, but hummed some old ballad, or drew a lively peal from his horn. He dismounted to refresh himself at a spring that had nestled among some rocks, and was murmuring there like a spoiled child. Having cared for the gallant animal which had borne him so well, he stretched himself a moment upon the green bank.

"Ha! what is that!" he exclaimed, bending forward to listen; "a horseman? Let him come; friend or foe, I shall be glad to see him."

He was on his horse in a moment. As he turned to look behind, he saw a gentleman, richly dressed, and admirably mounted, coming at full speed from another quarter of the wood. The stranger was quite young, perhaps a year or two older than our hunter, but certainly not over twenty-three. The youth knit his brows as the horseman approached, and eyed him keenly and sternly. When within a few yards of the spring, the stranger dismounted and drew his sword. The youth did the same. His handsome features were now distorted with anger and disdain, and it was difficult to recognize in the fierce figure, that seemed the guardian dragon of the fountain, the laughing boy who sat there so quietly a moment before. The stranger appeared to return the bitter hatred.

"I have found you, Gilbert de Hers," he muttered; "your bugle has rung your knell."

Gilbert replied but by a laugh of scorn, and the next instant their swords gleamed in the air. But just as the two blades met with a sharp clang, there came stealing through the wood the mellow sound of a distant bell. It was like the voice of an angel forbidding strife. Those soft, lingering notes seemed to have won a sweetness from the skies to pour out upon the world, and, filling the space between field and cloud, connected for a moment heaven and earth-for they wake in the heart of man the same emotions more perfectly felt in paradise.

For many centuries after the destruction of the Roman Empire, when all human institutions were swept away by the resistless torrent that poured from the North, and the Church of God alone stood safe and firm, with the rainbow of heaven around her, the stern warriors of Germany asserted their rights, or redressed their wrongs with the sword, and scorned to bow before the impotent decrees of a civil tribunal. A regular system of private warfare gradually sprang up, which falsely led every man of honor to revenge any real or fancied offence offered to any of his kindred. The most deadly enmity frequently existed between neighboring chiefs, and the bitter feeling was transmitted unimpaired from father to son. The most dreadful consequences inevitably resulted from this fatal installation of might in the outraged temple of justice. Until lately a blind prejudice and a perverted history have charged this unfortunate state of things to the pernicious influence of the Church of Rome. But the wiser Protestants of the present day, considering it rather a poor compliment to their faith to assign its birth to the sixteenth century, are beginning to be awake to the powerful instrumentality of the Christian Church in the regeneration of mankind, and the production of modern civilization. Few, indeed, even with the light of history, can form an adequate idea of the immensity of the task assigned to Christianity in shedding light over the chaos that followed the overthrow of Rome, in reducing it to order, and preparing the nicely fitted elements of modern Europe.

The Catholic Church beheld, and bitterly deplored, the evils of private warfare. Council after council fulminated its decrees against the pernicious system; men were exhorted by the sacred relics of the Saints to extinguish their animosities, and abstain from violence. But the custom had taken deep root; for, in the language of a well-known Protestant historian, "it flattered the pride of the nobles, and gratified their favorite passions." But in the eleventh century the Church had gained a partial victory over the dearest appetites of the fiery Frank and the warlike Saxon. It was enacted, under pain of excommunication, that private warfare should cease from the sunset of Wednesday to the morning of Monday, and few were hardy enough to expose themselves to the penalty. The respite from hostilities which followed was called the "Truce of God."

It was not the musical voice of the bell that made Gilbert de Hers pause on the very threshold of the struggle, and bite his lip until it grew white; but the sweet-toned bell announced the sunset of Wednesday. The young men stood gazing at each other, as though some spell had transformed them into stone. But the messenger of peace had stayed the uplifted sword, and, sheathing their unstained weapons, they knelt upon the green carpet beneath them, and put forth the same prayer to the same God.

It is a sight that may well command the eyes of Angels, when, though deaf to earthly laws and considerations, the angry heart, in the first heat of its wild career, still stops obedient to the voice of religion. Amid the dross of human frailty, the pure metal shines with the lustre that surrounds the sinner in the morning of his conversion.

They rose almost together, and their faces, so lately flushed with anger, were now calm and subdued.

"Farewell! Henry de Stramen," said Gilbert, as he leaped into the saddle.

"Farewell!" replied his antagonist, and, almost side by side, they proceeded in the direction of the bell.

A deadly feud was raging between the families of Hers and Stramen. It had continued for more than twenty years, and now burned with unabated fury. It originated in some dispute between Gilbert's father and the Lord Robert de Stramen, Henry's uncle, which resulted in the death of the latter. The Baron of Hers was charged with the murder, and, though he persisted in declaring his innocence, Henry's impetuous father, the Lord Sandrit de Stramen, swore over the dead body of his brother to take a bitter revenge on the Baron of Hers and all his line. Henry de Stramen had been nursed in the bitterest hostility to all who bore the name of Hers, and the unrelenting persecution of the Lord Sandrit had made Gilbert detest most cordially the house of Stramen. It was with mutual hatred, then, that the two young men had met at the spring. They knew each other well, for they had often fought hand to hand, with their kinsmen and serfs around them. Now they were alone, and what a triumph would be the victor's! but the bell, the Tell of peace, the silver-tongued herald of the truce of God, had sheathed their weapons.

It could not have been without a severe struggle that the two mortal foes rode quietly in the same direction, with but a few yards between them. They were not half an hour in the saddle when they discovered the spire of the church they were both in search of, rising gracefully above the trees. As they emerged from the forest, they could see stretching before them a broad expanse of hill and dale, wood and field. Scattered here and there were the humble dwellings of the forester and husbandman, and, from their midst, towering above them, like Jupiter among the demigods, stately and stern rose the old castle of the house of Stramen. The western sky was still bathed in light, and shared its glories with the earth; airy clouds, ever changing their hues, sported, like chameleons, on the horizon; the stream that wound around the castle seemed sheeted with polished silver: the herds and flocks were all still, and the voice of the birds was the only sound; and, amid this beauty and repose, how lovely and majestic was that finely moulded Gothic church!

Henry de Stramen tied his horse to a tree, and was soon lost in the elegantly carved doorway. Gilbert paused a moment, and gazed upon the open country before him with very mingled emotions. He had been there before at the head of his clan to disturb the serenity which, in spite of himself, was now softening his heart. He did not linger long, but led his horse a little within the woods, and entered the church. The gray-headed priest at the altar was solemnly chanting, from the beautiful liturgy of the Church, as he knelt down on the hard aisle, and the branching ceiling seemed to catch and repeat the notes. Through the stained window, where was pictured in unfading colors many a scene suggesting the goodness and mercy of God, and the blessed tidings of salvation, came the fading light of day, softened and beautiful. It was not merely the superior genius of the age that made the chapels and cathedrals of the Ages of Faith so immensely superior to the creations of the present day, but its piety too; that generous and pure devotion which induced our ancestors to employ their best faculties and richest treasures in preparing an abode as worthy as earth could make it of the presence of the Son of God. Then the house of the minister was not more splendid than his church, his sideboard not more valuable than the altar.

Gilbert saw around him the hard, sunburnt features, the stalwart forms he had marked in the desperate fray; he could touch the hands, now clasped in prayer, that had been so often raised against him in anger. Beside him knelt the maiden, with her brow all smooth and unfurrowed by care, and the matron who, numbering more than double her years, had felt more than treble her sorrows. The youth was deeply moved, as he gazed, and thought he might have robbed that mother of her son, that wife of her husband, that sister of a brother. Those gentle, melancholy beings had never harmed him, and, perhaps, in a moment of passion, he had deprived their existence of half its sweetness, and turned their smiles to tears. It was with an aching, an humbled heart that he bowed his head until it touched the cold floor, when the Lamb without spot was elevated for the adoration of the faithful.

A hymn, befitting the occasion, had been intoned, and the priest had left the altar, but those fervent men and women did not hurry from the church as if grateful for permission to retire, but lingered to meditate and pray.

Gilbert remained until all had gone save Henry de Stramen and a lady who knelt beside him. They rose at length, and, passing so close to Gilbert that he could distinctly see their faces, left him alone. He was in the act of rising when the priest appeared, and beckoned him into the sacristy.

"Remain here," the old man said, taking the youth by the hand.

"I must hurry home, Father," replied Gilbert; "my father will have no peace, thinking the boar has killed me."

"Let him fret awhile; it is better he should lament you alive, than dead by the serfs of Stramen."

"They dare not attack me!" exclaimed the youth; "they fear the Church and my own arm too much for that!"

"Nay, peace!" rejoined the priest; "it is better not to expose them to the temptation, or you to the danger."

The practicability of spending the night in security in the very teeth of Stramen Castle had not occurred to Gilbert; he hesitated a second or two, and then, as if all his plans and ideas had undergone a thorough revolution, gracefully promised obedience.

"You are right, Father," he said; "and to speak truth, I am weary enough. If you promise me protection to-night, I will gladly rest my head wherever you place the pillow."

"Those who sleep with me," whispered his venerable adviser, "must content themselves without a pillow. But I will promise you a safe couch, though it is a hard one; the softest beds are not always the freest from danger. In the mean time, tarry here until I have said some prayers."

"But my horse," interposed Gilbert.

His companion rang a small bell. A benevolent-looking man, somewhat past the prime of life, plainly dressed in a black cassock, answered the call. The priest conversed awhile with him, in an undertone, and then, ascertaining from Gilbert where his horse was, dismissed the attendant, remarking that the animal should not suffer.

Motioning Gilbert to a chair, the priest entered the sanctuary. Instead of sitting down, the young noble leaned against a lancet window which commanded a view of the neighboring castle. He stood there looking idly upon the darkening prospect, until the appearance of two persons riding rapidly along the main road to the castle, aroused his attention. He followed them eagerly with his eyes until they were completely lost in the twilight. One of the riders was evidently a woman; but it would be inquiring too minutely into Gilbert's thoughts to determine whether that circumstance, or the proneness of youth to become interested in trifles, excited his curiosity.

Night was fast approaching, and a light from the altar made itself felt throughout the church. Still the priest knelt before the sacred tabernacle, and Gilbert longed for his appearance. He grew impatient of being alone, when a companion was so near at hand; the place was strange, and there were no well-known objects to stand in the place of friends, supplying by the thousand associations they conjure up, and their mute appeals to memory, the absence of language.

The minutes wore heavily on; but at length the priest entered the sacristy. Gilbert followed him out of the church to a very small house a few paces off, within the shadow of the wood. The house, which was but one story high, was divided into two rooms by a stone partition. In the back room slept the pastor of the church, Father Omehr. The front room contained a table and a bench. Father Omehr, for this was the name of Gilbert's companion, struck a light and made the young man sit down upon the bench, while he spread out upon the table some fruit and bread and wine.

"Eat, my son," said the old man; "the wine is good and the bread is quite fresh. These grapes are better than any in Hers."

Gilbert seemed inclined to dispute the last assertion; but the length and vigor of his repast strongly confirmed the opinion expressed by his host. The latter remained standing with his arms folded on his breast, and regarded the youth with a smile, as he indulged the keen appetite sharpened by the severe exercise of the day. The meal was eaten in silence, save an occasional entreaty from Gilbert to his entertainer to partake of his own cheer, and the refusal. The little lamp between them shone upon two noble faces: in spite of the great disparity between their ages, they were alike; not so much in feature as in the character of the head.

The priest must have been near seventy. The top of his head was entirely bald; yet the little hair left him, which grew behind in a semicircle, from ear to ear, was only sprinkled with gray. He was tall and admirably formed for strength and agility; and though his cheek was pale and sunken, and his high broad forehead ploughed by many a heavy line, still in his eye and lips and nose were visible the relics of a splendid creation. There was an expression of great energy about his mouth; his whole face indicated intelligence and benevolence; and it was the actual possession of this energy, intellect, and virtue that made Father Omehr a worthy descendant of the noble emissaries of Adrian, who, ever in the rear of Charlemagne's armies, healed by the Cross the wounds inflicted by the sword, and drove forever from the forests of Germany the gloomy and accursed rites of Hesus and Taranis.

Gilbert de Hers was more than a fearless hunter and skilful soldier. He had been carefully instructed by his confessor in the writings of the Fathers-in logic, philosophy, and the classics; he had read the death of Patroclus, and the episode of Nisus and Euryalus; he knew by heart many of those beautiful hymns whose authors, in the spirit of Catholic humility, had concealed their names. He was much beloved by all who knew him and were permitted to love him. His charities were numerous and unostentatious. Though scarcely twenty-one, his bearing, was bold and manly; there was no disguise about his large black eyes; they spoke out all his thoughts before his tongue could tell them. Apart from the great beauty of his features, high thoughts had printed a language on his face much more fascinating than mere regularity of feature. His very elegant form did not promise extraordinary strength, yet he was as formidable to his foes as welcome to his friends.

Gilbert rose at the conclusion of his rather protracted meal, and declared he would remain seated no longer while his companion stood. The priest carefully removed the remnants, after which he sat down upon the bench, and obliged the youth to sit beside him.

"Now, my son," he said, "tell me what in the world has brought you here alone?"

"No inclination of mine, my dear Father," replied Gilbert.

"Who has sent you then?"

"I am sent by chance," answered Gilbert, laughing. "Early this morning I set out, with some twenty companions, in pursuit of a boar. I was better mounted than they, and so was the boar, for he distanced them. When the chase was at an end I found myself entirely alone, and could hear nothing of my men. I did not know where I was; so I permitted my horse to choose his own course, and by some accident he has brought me here."

Father Omehr listened attentively, and added, after a pause:

"It is well you came not yesterday. Did you meet any one in the wood?"

Gilbert felt the searching eye of his companion upon him, and related with much embarrassment all that had happened at the spring.

"I knew he was in search of something to prey upon when he left me so suddenly. That Henry de Stramen should thus pursue a boy!-fie! It is a stain upon his manhood!"

Gilbert looked up in the speaker's face to ascertain if he were in earnest.

"And but for that little bell, where should you be at this moment?"

"Here, Father, most likely!"

This was said so calmly and maliciously, that Father Omehr could not repress a smile. But it quickly vanished, and left behind an expression of deep sorrow.

"And must this fatal feud last forever?" was his passionate exclamation; "are ye ever to revel in carnage, like the lion of the desert-and shall the example of the Son of God inspire nothing but contempt for those who imitate Him?"

The missionary buried his face in his hands, and Gilbert, abashed by the solemn rebuke, kept a respectful silence.

"O Gilbert! Gilbert!" resumed the priest, lifting his tearful eyes from the ground, "if your God submitted to insult and stripes and death to save you, can you not patiently endure for His sake a few slight injuries?"

"Our injuries are not slight," replied the youth, "nor is the vengeance of the house of Stramen an idle threat. They have burned the houses of our serfs, desolated our fields, butchered our kinsmen and dependants; shall we not protect ourselves, even though our resistance makes their blood run freely? They have accused my father of a crime of which he is innocent, and have sought to visit upon him real chastisement for the imaginary murder. Shall I stand still and tamely see them wreak their most unrighteous wrath upon my guiltless parent's head?"

"I should be glad, my son, if you confined yourselves to mere resistance; but how often have you inflicted, within sight of this very door, the injuries of which you complain? Could you see what I see-the orphan's piteous face, the widowed mother's tear of agony-blighted hopes and unavailing regrets-you might pause in your fearful retaliation!"

"They have brought it on themselves," said Gilbert, musing, "they are the aggressors."

"Alas! be not the means by which their sins are aggravated."

"You must address yourself to them!" returned the other.

"And have I not? Day and night I have reasoned, implored, prayed; I have represented the folly, injustice, and impiety of their violence; I have held out to them the anger of God and the maledictions of man; I have employed art, eloquence, and reproof: but all in vain. Oh, what years of misery has your quarrel cost me! Could I only live to see it healed; to see you once more living like Christian men, employed in atoning for your own sins, not in arrogantly chastising each other's faults; to see the sword of discord broken, and peace and love and safety proclaiming the Divine efficacy of our holy religion! We all have enough to do to vanquish ourselves, and have little time to spare in subduing others, unless we aid them in conquering their passions, and then we promote our salvation: but your conquests only peril your eternal welfare."

Gilbert understood from this last remark that his companion had read what was passing in his mind, and he contented himself by saying:

"Believe me, Father, I regret their obstinacy."

"You are young now," pursued his monitor; "but, trust me, when your old limbs fail you, and your sight waxes dim, your angry deeds will rise like spectres around you and haunt you to the tomb."

Gilbert attempted no reply, but listened with the air of one who approved the advice, but despaired of ever profiting by it. After an interval of meditation, Father Omehr arose and spread some soft fleeces in the corner of the room.

"May you sleep soundly, my son," he said, "and beg of God grace to moderate your angry passions. Your bed is not very soft, but it is in your power to sanctify it, and then it will be better than the down which muffles those who disdain or neglect to invoke the Divine protection."

Gilbert knelt down and received the old man's blessing, who, wishing him a good night, withdrew into his own apartment and closed the door.