A CASTLE AMONG THE CRAGS
Like the Israelites of old, mankind is prone to worship
false gods, and persistently sets up the brazen image
of a sham hero, as its idol. I should like to
write the history of the world, if for no other reason
than to assist several well-established heroes down
from their pedestals. Great Charlemagne might
come to earth’s level, his patriarchal, flowing
beard might drop from his face, and we might see him
as he really was—a plucked and toothless
old savage, with no more Christianity than Jacob,
and with all of Jacob’s greed. Richard of
England, styled by hero-worshippers “The Lion-hearted,”
might be re-christened “The Wolf-hearted,”
and the famous Du Guesclin might seem to us a half-brutish
vagabond. But Charles of Burgundy, dubbed by this
prone world “The Bold” and “The Rash,”
would take the greatest fall. Of him and his
fair daughter I shall speak in this history.
At the time of which I write Louis XI reigned over
France, Edward IV ruled in England, and his sister,
the beautiful Margaret of York, was the unhappy wife
of this Charles the Rash, and stepmother to his gentle
daughter Mary. Charles, though only a duke in
name, reigned as a most potent and despotic king over
the fair rich land of Burgundy. Frederick of
Styria was head of the great house of Hapsburg, and
Count Maximilian, my young friend and pupil, was his
heir.
Of the other rulers of Europe I need not speak, since
they will not enter this narrative. They were
all bad enough,—and may God have mercy
on their souls.
* * * *
*
Most of the really tragic parts in the great drama
of history have been played by women. This truth
I had always dimly known, yet one does not really
know a fact until he feels it. I did not realize
the extent to which these poor women of history have
suffered in the matter of enforced marriages, until
the truth was brought home to me in the person of
Mary, Princess of Burgundy, to whose castle, Peronne
La Pucelle, my pupil, Maximilian of Hapsburg, and
I made a journey in the year 1476.
My knowledge of this fair lady began in far-off Styria,
and there I shall begin my story.
* * * *
*
In times of peace, life in Hapsburg Castle was dull;
in times of war it was doleful. War is always
grievous, but my good mistress, the Duchess of Styria,
was ever in such painful dread lest evil should befall
her only child, Maximilian, that the pains of war-time
were rendered doubly keen to those who loved Her Grace.
After Maximilian had reached the fighting age there
was too little war to suit him. Up to his eighteenth
year he had thrice gone out to war, and these expeditions
were heart-breaking trials for his mother. Although
tied to his mother’s apron strings by bonds of
mutual love, he burned with the fire and ambition
of youth; while I, reaching well toward my threescore
years, had almost outlived the lust for strife.
Max longed to spread his wings, but the conditions
of his birth held him chained to the rocks of Styria,
on the pinnacle of his family’s empty greatness.
