Rinaldo and His Wonderful Horse Bayard

There was a Belgian lord, named Aymon, who built a castle in the

mountainous part of Belgium. It was on so high a peak that it seemed

also as if no one but eagles, or fairies, could live in it.

Besides his brave soldiers with him in the castle, Aymon’s four

stalwart sons were there to help him. Their names were Rinaldo, Allard,

Guichard, and Richard. They were the biggest men known in the country.

Rinaldo, the oldest, was as tall as the largest giant, for he stood

sixteen feet high. When he rode a horse, he had to twist his legs up

around the pommel of his saddle, so that his heels or toes would not

dig into the ground, or drag on behind. In fact, no horse wanted to be

under him, and there was always misery in stables, whenever it was

known that Rinaldo wanted to go out riding, or hunting. But the horse

Bayard always enjoyed careering over the country with his master in the

saddle.

Happily, this long-legged fellow had a cousin, named Mangis, who pitied

him for having such long legs, and being thus obliged to pay a large

tailor’s bill, every time he wanted a pair of leggings. Moreover,

Marquis was sorry for the horses which Rinaldo had to ride, and wanted

to find out some way to make it easier, for the dumb creatures in the

stables.

Now the castle of Duke Aymon was at Egremont, a few leagues from the

famous city of Liège. Its master thought it to be so strong, that no

army, however brave, or supplied with good engineers and plenty of

catapults, could ever conquer it.

When Charlemagne sent a host of mighty men to Egremont, and the

commander ordered his trumpeter to go to the gate of Aymon, and there

demand his surrender, the proud Duke behaved both haughtily and

naughtily. He put his thumb to his nose and then wiggled his four

fingers at the trumpeter, in the most impolite manner. He then bade his

master to go and eat turnips, and not bother him any more, with his

foolish chatter about surrendering. He had beef, and bread, and

sausages, and oats and hay, enough to last five years. Moreover, he did

not care a clam shell for Charlemagne and all his host. Let them go and

fight the Saracens, if they wanted to. Who cared?

The trumpeter came once more, and repeated his demand that Duke Aymon

should come out of his castle, and kneel down before Charlemagne and

beg his pardon, kiss his hand, and promise to be loyal and obedient.

But the Duke, instead of listening politely, was even more impudent,

than before. This time he not only wiggled the fingers of his right

hand at the trumpeter, but he actually wiggled-waggled. That is, as

soon as the trumpeter ceased blowing, he put his right thumb to his

nose, and then, joining the little finger of the right hand, to the

thumb of his left hand, he made a most contemptuous double motion, with

all of his ten fingers wiggling at once.

At this the trumpeter, having lost his temper at the Duke, who was high

up on the walls, shook his fist at him, and went off in high dudgeon.

He reported to Charlemagne that his overproud vassal had actually

wiggled-waggled to his face.

Thereupon, Charlemagne ordered his army to bring up the catapults, and

they sent a storm of stones into the castle. They hurled blazing

bundles of oil soaked in tow, while the archers and crossbowmen swept

the turrets and walls with showers of arrows, and iron-headed bolts.

This was to keep off the besiegers from the ramparts, so that they

could not interfere with the sappers and miners. These men were far

down on the lowest side of the castle, digging below the foundations,

so as to undermine the walls and tumble them down. They dug the earth

away, with their picks and hammers, and then knocked away several rods

of masonry. At first, they supported the walls at intervals with heavy

pillars of wood, made of tree trunks, until all was ready. Then, they

would set the wooden columns on fire, and the whole side of the castle

would fall down.

Then again, Aymon was summoned to surrender, but nothing came of it;

for, hardly had the echoes of the trumpet died away, before the duke

was seen again at his old game of “sniggle-fritz”; that is, of playing

wiggle-waggle, with both hands and his ten fingers. Meanwhile, he said

all sorts of saucy things, boasting of how many barrels of salt beef he

had in his larder, and bushels of oats in his bins.

Poor old fellow, he did not know that the fires, under the foundations

of the walls, were to be kindled that night, which would spill most of

his castle and all of his storehouses and stables into the valley, far

beneath.

But his oldest son Rinaldo, the long-legged fellow, had also a long

neck, like a rope. Stretching it out, with his body leaning far over

the wall, he could see what was coming. But his father, the duke, would

not yet believe there was any danger.

So Rinaldo got the horse Bayard, with the family saddle cleaned up, and

all ready to escape. He vowed to keep up the war, even if his father

was taken prisoner.

This was just what happened. Even when the enemy lighted the fires, at

sundown, and the smoke rolled up over the ramparts, the old Duke

stubbornly pooh-poohed the idea of any real danger.

But about midnight, a terrific noise, like a peal of thunder, was

heard. Then one would have thought that the tail board of a cart, as

large as a town hall, had been pulled out, and a million bricks were

being dumped out. The walls slid down, the towers crashed over, and

barns, storehouses, soldiers, horses, and engines of war were tumbled

in one heap of rubbish into the valley.

Then Charlemagne’s host rushed in with sword and spear. The Duke Aymon

was taken prisoner and sent to Aix-la-Chapelle.

But Rinaldo was ready. Hearing the enemy’s trumpet sound for the

charge, he went to the stable, situated on the safe side of the castle,

and led out the horse Bayard. Then he called his three brothers to his

side, and coolly fed the animal a peck of magic oats, which the

enchanter, Maugis, had given him. He was in no hurry, for he knew what

was coming, while the three brothers watched in wonder. Rinaldo had in

mind a secret path through the woods.

At the first mouthful of oats, Bayard began to lengthen out and

enlarge, steadily increasing in size; until, having finished its feed,

the faithful brute looked up and nodded. Some say he winked his eye, as

if he enjoyed fooling the enemy.

The four brothers then leaped upon Bayard’s back, and away he flew like

the wind, never stopping until the heart of the forest of Ardennes was

reached.

There, at Montfort, overlooking the Ourthe River, one of the highest

rocky places, they reared a still stronger castle, with a triple line

of walls and moats. The keep, or donjon, was perched on a pinnacle.

There they lived unmolested several years, keeping up a wild life as

outlaws; concerning which all Belgian children have heard. They defied

Charlemagne to come and take their stronghold.

They built a special stable, long enough to hold the horse Bayard, when

he should lengthen himself out; either for his own amusement, or for

the family of brothers, to take a ride. They gave him every day a good

feed of oats and hay, and the mountain springs furnished the best of

water. They made for him a new saddle, which was eight feet long, so

that the four brothers could ride more comfortably, if they had to

mount him again in a hurry, to escape, or to go for a long joy ride.

But Charlemagne, resolving to get rid of these troublesome fellows,

came into the Ardennes, with a bigger army and many war engines. After

a long siege, he captured the castle.

Again the wonderful horse, Bayard, was brought out and its lengthened

back having been duly strapped with the saddle, which was as big as a

sofa, the four brothers jumped nimbly on its back. Bayard was so swift,

that they escaped every one of the war bolts and arrows, which whizzed

past them, from the sharpshooters, who were posted up in the trees and

among the rocks. In fact, in its fleetness, this wonderful horse beat

the wind. The four brothers never ceased their gallop, until they had

reached Gascony, in France, in the dominions of King Yon. Here they

entered his service, to drive out the Saracens.

But although they served loyally in the army of this monarch, who used

a good deal of Gasconade, or boasting about his benevolence, he proved

a traitor. He basely delivered up the four brothers to Charlemagne; but

in due time they all escaped.

Now this story is not so much about the four men, as about Bayard, the

most famous of all horses.

It is enough to say, that, after this time, the four brothers

separated, three to seek more adventures in war, and the fourth to

follow the pursuits of peace. What became of the three, who were the

younger, we are not informed.

About the tall brother, Rinaldo, however, many stories are told, and a

thousand streets, hotels, or parks, in France and Italy and Belgium,

are named after him. Tired of war, he became a monk and entered the

cloister in the city that makes sweet smelling eau de Cologne, or

cologne water. He had shown much skill in building forts and castles,

but now he resolved to rear a grand cathedral, more splendid than any

in the Rhine country. He thus became one of the first architects of

that noble house of worship, whose two magnificent spires have been

completed, only within the memory of men still living.

Rinaldo evidently had a bad temper, and, this time, instead of a

quarrel over a chess board, he got into a row with the masons, and

these rough fellows threw him into the river Rhine and let him drown.

Yet later the pope made him a saint and a fine monument to his memory,

and over his relics, was reared in the city of Dortmund, where the

Germans brew much beer and whence, from the mines near by, they dig up

much coal.

Of the younger brothers, the last one before he died, gave Bayard a

good feed of oats, and then slapping him on the flank let him go free.

Bayard trotted off and back to Belgic Land and into the forest of

Ardennes. There, happy and free with no work to do, or burdens to

carry, Bayard enjoyed the freedom of the wild horse.

But at last, Charlemagne’s men captured the splendid animal, and

brought him before the mighty ruler, who thus addressed Bayard:

“You have often in the past brought my plans to naught, but now you do

so no more.”

Thereupon Charlemagne gave orders that a great heavy stone, as big as a

load of hay, should be tied around his neck. Then Bayard was to be

driven off the high rock at Dinant, into the Maas, or Meuse, River;

and, as every one might expect, to be drowned.

Now the lofty pinnacle rock at Dinant, called the Roche à Bayard,

stands up by the river side. In shape, it is like an old fashioned

sugar loaf, or a colossal Lombardy poplar, or a pointed fir tree,

turned into stone. Close to it, is the solid bed rock of the hill.

Between both, a famous high road runs, so that the two masses form a

natural stone portal, or gateway, into the suburbs of the famous and

beautiful city of Dinant.

Thousands of people assembled to see the wonderful sight, expecting the

funeral and a watery grave of a noble animal that must surely be

drowned. Some wept copiously, at the loss of so splendid a creature.

Bayard had certainly been loyal to its masters and deserved a better

fate.

But, instead of grief and sadness, there was merriment. In place of

drowning, a resurrection and a triumph surprised the multitude of

gazers. For one moment, the gallant animal was seen, leaping into the

air. Then, with a tremendous splash, the horse fell into the Maas

River.

In the next moment, however, he had shaken off the load, and leaving

the big stone behind him, swam across the river. Emerging from the

stream, Bayard shook off the water from his flank. Then, rearing up on

his hind legs, he neighed three times, as much as to say “catch me, if

you can”; and trotted off into the woods.

No wonder the Belgian children believe that such a horse is immortal,

and still lives. He courses, even yet, through the Ardennes forest. He

neighs occasionally, but never allows himself to be seen of men, for he

does not trust them.

What King Arthur is to the Welsh little folks, the horse Bayard, is to

the children in Belgium, for the fairy horse Bayard, never dies.