E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)



THE TRUCE OF GOD

by

MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

Decorations by Harold Sichel

New York
George H. Doran Company

1920







[Illustration: "Softly," he said ... "No harsh words."]



[Illustration]



[Illustration: Chapter One]




The Truce of God

I


Now the day of the birth of our Lord dawned that year grey and dreary,
and a Saturday. But, despite the weather, in the town at the foot of the
hill there was rejoicing, as befitted so great a festival. The day
before a fat steer had been driven to the public square and there
dressed and trussed for the roasting. The light of morning falling on
his carcass revealed around it great heaps of fruits and vegetables. For
the year had been prosperous.

But the young overlord sulked in his castle at the cliff top, and bit
his nails. From Thursday evening of each week to the morning of Monday,
Mother Church had decreed peace, a Truce of God. Three full days out of
each week his men-at-arms polished their weapons and grew fat. Three
full days out of each week his grudge against his cousin, Philip of the
Black Beard, must feed on itself.

His dark mood irritated the Bishop of Tours, who had come to speak of
certain scandalous things which had come to his ears. Charles heard him
through.

"She took refuge with him," he said violently, when the Bishop had
finished. "She knew what hate there was between us, yet she took refuge
with him."

"The question is," said the Bishop mildly, "why she should have been
driven to refuge. A gentle lady, a faithful wife--"

"Deus!" The young _seigneur_ clapped a fist on the table. "You know well
the reason. A barren woman!"

"She had borne you a daughter."

But Charles was far gone in rage and out of hand. The Bishop took his
offended ears to bed, and left him to sit alone by the dying fire, with
bitterness for company.

Came into the courtyard at midnight the Christmas singers from the town;
the blacksmith rolling a great bass, the crockery-seller who sang
falsetto, and a fool of the village who had slept overnight in a manger
on the holy eve a year before and had brought from it, not wit, but a
voice from Heaven. A miracle of miracles.

The men-at-arms in the courtyard stood back to give them space. They
sang with eyes upturned, with full-throated vigour, albeit a bit
warily, with an anxious glance now and then toward those windows beyond
which the young lord sulked by the fire.

    "The Light of Light Divine,
    True Brightness undefiled.
    He bears for us the shame of sin,
    A holy, spotless Child."

They sang to the frosty air.

When neither money nor burning fagot was flung from the window they
watched, they took their departure, relieved if unrewarded.

In former years the lady of the Castle had thrown them alms. But times
had changed. Now the gentle lady was gone, and the _seigneur_ sulked in
the hall.

With the dawn Charles the Fair took himself to bed. And to him,
pattering barefoot along stone floors, came Clotilde, the child of his
disappointment.

"Are you asleep?"

One arm under his head, he looked at her without answer.

"It is the anniversary of the birth of our Lord," she ventured. "Today
He is born. I thought--" She put out a small, very cold hand. But he
turned his head away.

"Back to your bed," he said shortly. "Where is your nurse, to permit
this?"

The child's face fell. Something she had expected, some miracle,
perhaps, a softening of the lord her father, so that she might ask of
him a Christmas boon.

The Bishop had said that Christmas miracles were often wrought, and she
herself knew that this was true. Had not the Fool secured his voice, so
that he who had been but lightly held became the village troubadour, and
slept warm and full at night?

She had gone to the Bishop with this the night before.

"If I should lie in a manger all night," she said, standing with her
feet well apart and looking up at him, "would I become a boy?"

The Bishop tugged at his beard. "A boy, little maid! Would you give up
your blue eyes and your soft skin to be a roystering lad?"

"My father wishes for a son," she had replied and the cloud that was
over the Castle shadowed the Bishop's eyes.

"It would not be well," he replied, "to tamper with the works of the
Almighty. Pray rather for this miracle, that your father's heart be
turned toward you and toward the lady, your mother."

So during much of the night she had asked this boon steadfastly. But
clearly she had not been heard.

"Back to your bed!" said her father, and turned his face away.

So she went as far as the leather curtain which hung in the doorway and
there she turned.

"Why do they sing?" she had asked the Bishop, of the blacksmith and the
others, and he had replied into his beard, "To soften the hard of
heart."

So she turned in the doorway and sang in her reedy little voice, much
thinned by the cold, sang to soften her young father's heart.

    "The Light of Light Divine,
    True Brightness undefined.
    He bears for us the shame of sin,
    A holy, spotless Child."

But the song failed. Perhaps it was the wrong hour, or perhaps it was
because she had not slept in the manger and brought forth the gift of
voice.

"Blood of the martyrs!" shouted her father, and raised himself on his
elbow. "Are you mad? Get back to your bed. I shall have a word with
someone for this."

Whether it had softened him or not it had stirred him, so she made her
plea.

"It is His birthday. I want to see my mother."

Then she ducked under the curtain and ran as fast as she could back to
where she belonged. Terror winged her feet. She had spoken a forbidden
word.

All sleep was gone from Charles the Fair. He lay on his elbow in his bed
and thought of things that he wished to forget: of the wife he had put
away because in eight years she had borne him no son; of his great lands
that would go to his cousin, Philip of the Black Beard, whom he hated;
of girls in the plain who wooed him with soft eyes and whom he passed
by; of a Jew who lay in a dungeon beneath the Castle because of usury
and other things.

After a time he slept again, but lightly, for the sun came in through
the deep, unshaded window and fell on his face and on the rushes that
covered the floor. And in his sleep the grimness was gone, and the
pride. And his mouth, which was sad, contended with the firmness of his
chin.

Clotilde went back to her bed and tucked her feet under her to warm
them. In the next room her nurse lay on a bed asleep, with her mouth
open; outside in the stone corridor a page slept on a skin, with a
corner over him against the draught.

She thought things over while she warmed her feet. It was clear that
singing did not soften all hearts. Perhaps she did not sing very well.
But the Bishop had said that after one had done a good act one might
pray with hope. She decided to do a good act and then to pray to see her
mother; she would pray also to become a boy so that her father might
care for her. But the Bishop considered it a little late for such a
prayer.

She made terms with the Almighty, sitting on her bed.

"I shall do a good act," she said, "on this the birthday of Thy Son, and
after that I shall ask for the thing Thou knowest of."

After much thinking, she decided to free the Jew. And being, after all,
her father's own child, she acted at once.

It was a matter of many cold stone steps and much fumbling with bars.
But Guillem the gaoler had crept up to the hall and lay sleeping by the
fire, with a dozen dogs about him. It was the time of the Truce of God,
and vigilance was relaxed. Also Guillem was in love with a girl of the
village and there was talk that the _seigneur_, in his loneliness, had
seen that she was beautiful. So Guillem slept to forget, and the Jew
lay awake because of rats and anxiety.

The Jew rose from the floor when Clotilde threw the grating open, and
blinked at her with weary and gentle eyes.

"It is the birthday of our Lord," said Clotilde, "and I am doing a good
deed so that I may see my mother again. But go quickly." Then she
remembered something the Bishop had said to her, and eyed him
thoughtfully as he stared at her.

"But you do not love our Lord!"

The Jew put out his foot quietly so that she could not close the
grating again. But he smiled into her eyes.

"Your Lord was a Jew," he said.

This reassured her. It seemed to double the quality of mercy. She threw
the door wide and the usurer went out cautiously, as if suspecting a
trap. But patches of sunlight, barred with black, showed the way clear.
He should have gone at once, but he waited to give her the blessing of
his people. Even then, having started, he went back to her. She looked
so small in that fearsome place.

"If there is something you wish, little maid, and I can secure it for
you--"

"I wish but two things," she said. "I wish to be a boy, only I fear it
is too late for that. The Bishop thinks so. And I wish to see my
mother."

And these being beyond his gift, and not contained in the pack he had
fastened to his shoulders, he only shook his head and took his cautious
way toward freedom.

Having tried song and a good deed, Clotilde went back again to her room,
stepping over the page, who had curled himself up in a ball, like a
puppy, and still slept. She crossed her hands on her breast and raised
her eyes as she had been taught.

"Now, O Lord," she said, "I have tried song and I have tried a good
deed. I wish to see my mother."

Perhaps it was merely coincidence that the level rays of the morning sun
just then fell on the crucifix that hung on the wall, and that although
during all the year it seemed to be but of wood and with closed eyes,
now it flashed as with life and the eyes were open.

"He was one of Your people," she said to the crucifix, "and by now he is
down the hill."




[Illustration: Chapter Two]




II


Now it was the custom on the morning of the Holy day for the _seigneur_
to ride his finest stallion to the top of the hill, where led a steep
road down into the town. There he dismounted, surrounded by his people,
guests and soldiers, smaller visiting nobility, the household of the
Castle. And, the stage being set as it were, and the village waiting
below, it was his pleasure to give his charger a great cut with the
whip and send him galloping, unridden, down the hill. The horse was his
who caught it.

Below waited the villagers, divided between terror and cupidity. Above
waited the Castle folk. It was an amusing game for those who stood
safely along the parapet and watched, one that convulsed them with
merriment. Also, it improved the quality of those horses that grazed in
the plain below.

This year it was a great grey that carried Charles out to the road that
clung to the face of the cliff. Behind him on a donkey, reminder of the
humble beast that had borne the Christ into Jerusalem, rode the Bishop.
Saddled and bridled was the grey, with a fierce head and great
shoulders, a strong beast for strong days.

The men-at-arms were drawn up in a double line, weapons at rest. From
the place below rose a thin grey smoke where the fire kindled for the
steer. But the crowd had deserted and now stood, eyes upraised to the
Castle, and to the cliff road where waited boys and men ready for their
desperate emprise, clad in such protection of leather as they could
afford against the stallion's hoofs.

Two people only remained by the steer, an aged man, almost blind, who
tended the fire, and the girl Joan, whom Guillem slept to forget.

"The _seigneur_ has ridden out of the gates, father," she said. The
colour mounted to her dark cheeks. She was tall and slender, unlike the
peasant girls of the town, almost noble in her bearing; a rare flower
that Charles, in his rage and disappointment, would pick for himself.

"And were you not undutiful," he mumbled, "you would be with him now,
and looking down on this rabble."

She did not reply at once. Her eyes were fixed on the frowning castle,
on the grim double line of men-at-arms, at the massive horse and its
massive rider.

"I, too, should be up there," whined the old man. "Today, instead of
delivering Christmas dues, I should be receiving them. But you--!" He
swung on her malevolently, "You must turn great ox-eyes toward Guillem,
whose most courageous work is to levy tribute of a dungeon!"

She flushed.

"I am afraid, father. He is a hard man."

"He is gentle with women."

"Gentle!" Her eyes were still upraised. "He knows not the word. When he
looks at me there is no liking in his eyes. I am--frightened."

The overlord sat his great horse and surveyed the plain below. As far as
he could see, and as far again in every direction, was his domain,
paying him tithe of fat cattle and heaping granaries. As far as he could
see and as far again was the domain that, lacking a man-child, would go
to Philip, his cousin.

The Bishop, who rode his donkey without a saddle, slipped off and stood
beside the little beast on the road. His finger absently traced the dark
cross on its back.

"Idiots!" snarled the overlord out of his distemper, as he looked down
into the faces of his faithful ones below. "Fools and sons of fools! Thy
beast would suit them better, Bishop, than mine."

Then he flung himself insolently out of the saddle. There was little of
Christmas in his heart, God knows; only hate and disappointment and
thwarted pride.

"A great day, my lord," said the Bishop. "Peace over the land. The end
of a plentiful year--"

"Bah!"

"The end of a plentiful year," repeated the Bishop tranquilly, "this day
of His birth, a day for thanksgiving and for--good-will."

"Bah!" said the overlord again, and struck the grey a heavy blow. So
massive was the beast, so terrific the pace at which it charged down the
hill that the villagers scattered. He watched them with his lip curling.

"See," he said, "brave men and true! Watch, father, how they rally to
the charge!" And when the creature was caught, and a swaying figure
clung to the bridle:

"By the cross, the Fool has him! A fine heritage for my cousin Philip, a
village with its bravest man a simpleton!"

The Fool held on swinging. His arms were very strong, and as is the way
with fools and those that drown, many things went through his mind. The
horse was his. He would go adventuring along the winter roads,
adventuring and singing. The townspeople gathered about him with
sheepish praise. From a dolt he had become a hero. Many have taken the
same step in the same space of moments, the line being but a line and
easy to cross.

The _denouement_ suited the grim mood of the overlord. It pleased him to
see the smug villagers stand by while the Fool mounted his steed. Side
by side from the parapet he and the Bishop looked down into the town.

"The birthday of our Lord, Bishop," he said, "with fools on blooded
horses and the courage of the townspeople in their stomachs."

"The birthday of our Lord," said the Bishop tranquilly, "with a lad
mounted who has heretofore trudged afoot, and with the hungry fed in the
market place."

Now it had been in the mind of the Bishop that the day would soften
Charles' grim humour and that he might speak to him as man to man. But
Charles was not softened.

So the Bishop gathered up his courage. His hand was still on the cross
on the donkey's back.

"You are young, my son, and have been grievously disappointed. I, who am
old, have seen many things, and this I have learned. Two things there
are that, next to the love of God, must be greatest in a man's life--not
war nor slothful peace, nor pride, nor yet a will that would bend all
things to its end."

The overlord scowled. He had found the girl Joan in the Market Square,
and his eyes were on her.

"One," said the Bishop, "is the love of a woman. The other is--a child."

The donkey stood meekly, with hanging head.

"A woman," repeated the Bishop. "You grow rough up here on your
hillside. Only a few months since the lady your wife went away, and
already order has forsaken you. The child, your daughter, runs like a
wild thing, without control. Our Holy Church deplores these things."

"Will Holy Church grant me another wife?"

"Holy Church," replied the Bishop gravely, "would have you take back, my
lord, the wife whom your hardness drove away."

The _seigneur's_ gaze turned to the east, where lay the Castle of
Philip, his cousin. Then he dropped brooding eyes to the Square below,
where the girl Joan assisted her father by the fire, and moved like a
mother of kings.

"You wish a woman for the castle, father," he said. "Then a woman we
shall have. Holy Church may not give me another wife, but I shall take
one. And I shall have a son."

       *       *       *       *       *

The child Clotilde had watched it all from a window. Because she was
very high the thing she saw most plainly was the cross on the donkey's
back. Far out over the plain was a moving figure which might or might
not have been the Jew. She chose to think it was.

"One of Your people," she said toward the crucifix. "I have done the
good deed."

She was a little frightened, for all her high head.

Other Christmases she and the lady her mother had sat hand in hand, and
listened to the roystering.

"They are drunk," Clotilde would say.

But her mother would stroke her hand and reply:

"They but rejoice that our Lord is born."

So the child Clotilde stood at her window and gazed to where the plain
stretched as far as she could see and as far again. And there was her
mother. She would go to her and bring her back, or perhaps failing that,
she might be allowed to stay.

Here no one would miss her. The odour of cooking food filled the great
house, loud laughter, the clatter of mug on board. Her old nurse was
below, decorating a boar's head with berries and a crown.

Because it was the Truce of God and a festival, the gates stood open.
She reached the foot of the hill safely. Stragglers going up and down
the steep way regarded her without suspicion. So she went through the
Square past the roasting steer, and by a twisting street into the open
country.

When she stopped to rest it was to look back with wistful eyes toward
the frowning castle on the cliff. For a divided allegiance was hers.
Passionately as she loved her mother, her indomitable spirit was her
father's heritage, his fierceness was her courage, and she loved him as
the small may love the great.

The Fool found her at the edge of the river. She had forgotten that
there was a river. He was on his great horse, and he rode up by the
child and looked down at her.

"It was I who captured him," he boasted. "The others ran, but I caught
him, so." He dismounted to illustrate.

"It is not because you were brave that you captured him."

"Then why?" He stood with his feet wide apart, looking down at her.

"It is because you have slept in a manger on a Holy Eve."

"Aye," he responded, "but that was a matter of courage, too. There were
many strange noises. Also, in the middle of the night came Our Lady
herself and said to me: 'Hereafter thou shalt sing with the voice of an
angel.'"

"I should like to see Our Lady," said the child wistfully.

"Also," pursued the Fool, "She gave me power over great beasts. See! He
fears me, while he loves me."

And indeed there seemed some curious kinship between the horse and the
lad, perhaps because the barrier of keen human mind was not between
them.

"Think you," said the little maid, "if I slept where you did She would
appear to me? I would not ask much, only to be made a lad like you, and,
perhaps, to sing."

"But I am a simpleton. Instead of wit I have but a voice and now--a
horse."

"A lad like you," she persisted, "so that my father would love me and my
mother might come back again?"

"Better stay as you are," said the Fool. "Also, there will be no Holy
Eve again for a long time. It comes but once a year. Also it is hard
times for men who must either fight or work in the fields. I--" He
struck his chest. "I shall do neither. And I shall cut no more wood. I
go adventuring."

Clotilde rose and drew her grey cloak around her.

"I am adventuring, too," she said. "Only I have no voice and no horse.
May I go with you?"

The boy was doubtful. He had that innate love and tenderness that is
given to his kind instead of other things. But a child!

"I will take you," he said at last, rather heavily. "But where, little
lady?"

"To my mother at the castle of Black Philip." And when his face
fell--for Philip was not named The Black only for his beard--

"She loves singing. I will ask you to sing before her."

That decided him. He took her before him on the grey horse and they set
off, two valiant adventurers, a troubadour and a lady, without food or
sufficient clothing, but with high courage and a song.

And because it was the Truce of God the children went unharmed,
encountering no greater adventure than hunger and cold and aching
muscles. Robbers sulked in their fastnesses, and their horses pawed the
ground. Murder, rapine and pillage slept that Christmas day, under the
shelter of the cross.

The Fool, who ached for adventure, rather resented the peace.

"Wait until Monday," he said from behind her on the horse. "I shall show
you great things."

But the little maid was cold by that time and beginning to be
frightened. "Monday you may fight," she said. "Now I wish you would
sing."

So he sang until his voice cracked in his throat. Because it was
Christmas, and because it was freshest in his heart, he sang mostly
what he and the blacksmith and the crockery-seller had sung in the
castle yard:

    "The Light of Light Divine,
    True Brightness undefiled,
    He bears for us the shame of sin,
    A holy, spotless Child."

They lay that night in a ruined barn with a roof of earth and stones.
Clotilde eyed the manger wistfully, but the Holy Eve was past, and the
day of miracles would not come for a year.

Toward morning, however, she roused the boy with a touch.

"She may have forgotten me," she said. "She has been gone since the
spring. She may not love me now."

"She will love you. It is the way of a mother to keep on loving."

"I am still a girl."

"You are still her child."

But seeing that she trembled, he put his ragged cloak about her and
talked to comfort her, although his muscles ached for sleep.

He told her a fable of the countryside, of that Abbot who, having duly
served his God, died and appeared at the heavenly gates for admission.
"A slave of the Lord," he replied, when asked his name. But he was
refused. So he went away and laboured seven years again at good deeds
and returned. "A servant of the Lord," he called himself, and again he
was refused. Yet another seven years he laboured and came in all
humility to the gate. "A child of the Lord," said the Abbot, who had
gained both wisdom and humility. And the gates opened.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Chapter Three]




III


All that day came peasants up the hill with their Christmas dues, of one
fowl out of eight, of barley and wheat. The courtyard had assumed the
appearance of a great warehouse. Those that were prosperous came
a-riding, hissing geese and chickens and grain in bags across the
saddle. The poorer trudged afoot.

Among the latter came the girl Joan of the Market Square. She brought
no grain, but fowls only, and of these but two. She took the steep
ascent like a thoroughbred, muscles working clean under glowing skin,
her deep bosom rising evenly, treading like a queen among that clutter
of peasants.

And when she was brought into the great hall her head went yet higher.
It pleased the young _seigneur_ to be gracious. But he eyed her much as
he had eyed the great horse that morning before he cut it with the whip.
She was but a means to an end. Such love and tenderness as were in him
had gone out to the gentle wife he had put away from him, and had
died--of Clotilde.

So Charles appraised her and found her, although but a means, very
beautiful. Only the Bishop turned away his head.

"Joan," said Charles, "do you know why I have sent for you?"

The girl looked down. But, although she quivered, it was not with
fright.

"I do, sire."

Something of a sardonic smile played around the _seigneur's_ mouth. The
butterfly came too quietly to the net.

"We are but gloomy folk here, rough soldiers and few women. It has been
in my mind--" Here he saw the Bishop's averted head, and scowled. What
had been in his mind he forgot. He said: "I would have you come
willingly, or not at all."

At that she lifted her head and looked at him. "You know I will come,"
she said. "I can do nothing else, but I do not come willingly, my lord.
You are asking too much."

The Bishop turned his head hopefully.

"Why?"

"You are a hard man, my lord."

If she meant to anger him, she failed. They were not soft days. A man
hid such tenderness as he had under grimness, and prayed in the churches
for phlegm.

"I am a fighting man. I have no gentle ways." Then a belated memory came
to him. "I give no tenderness and ask none. But such kindness as you
have, lavish on the child Clotilde. She is much alone."

With the mention of Clotilde's name came a vision: instead of this
splendid peasant wench he seemed to see the graceful and drooping figure
of the woman he had put away because she had not borne him a son. He
closed his eyes, and the girl, taking it for dismissal, went away.

When he opened them there were only the fire and the dogs about it, and
the Bishop, who was preparing to depart.

"I shall not stay, my lord," said the Bishop. "The thing is desecration.
No good can come from such a bond. It is Christmas and the Truce of God,
and yet you do this evil thing."

So the Bishop went, muffled in a cloak, and mantled with displeasure.
And with him, now that Clotilde had fled, went all that was good and
open to the sun, from the grey castle of Charles the Fair.

At evening Joan came again, still afoot, but now clad in her best. She
came alone, and the men at the gates, instructed, let her in. She gazed
around the courtyard with its burden of grain that had been crushed out
of her people below, with its loitering soldiers and cackling fowls, and
she shivered as the gates closed behind her.

She was a good girl, as the times went, and she knew well that she had
been brought up the hill as the stallion that morning had been driven
down. She remembered the cut of the whip, and in the twilight of the
courtyard she stretched out her arms toward the little town below, where
the old man, her father, lived in semi-darkness, and where on that
Christmas evening the women were gathered in the churches to pray.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having no seasonable merriment in himself, Charles surrounded himself
that night with cheer. A band of wandering minstrels had arrived to
sing, the great fire blazed, the dogs around it gnawed the bones of the
Christmas feast. But when the troubadours would have sung of the
Nativity, he bade them in a great voice to have done. So they sang of
war, and, remembering his cousin Philip, his eyes blazed.

When Joan came he motioned her to a seat beside him, not on his right,
but on his left, and there he let her sit without speech. But his mind
was working busily. He would have a son and the King would legitimise
him. Then let Philip go hang. These lands of his as far as the eye could
reach and as far again would never go to him.

The minstrels sang of war, and of his own great deeds, but there was no
one of them with so beautiful a voice as that of the Fool, who could
sing only of peace. And the Fool was missing.

However, their songs soothed his hurt pride. This was he; these things
he had done. If the Bishop had not turned sour and gone, he would have
heard what they sang. He might have understood, too, the craving of a
man's warrior soul for a warrior son, for one to hold what he had
gathered at such cost. Back always to this burning hope of his!

Joan sat on his left hand, and went hot and cold, hot with shame and
cold with fear.

So now, his own glory as a warrior commencing to pall on him, Charles
would have more tribute, this time as lord of peace. He would celebrate
this day of days, and at the same time throw a sop to Providence.

He would release the Jew.

The troubadours sang louder; fresh liquor was passed about. Charles
waited for the Jew to be brought.

He remembered Clotilde then. She should see him do this noble thing.
Since her mother had gone she had shrunk from him. Now let her see how
magnanimous he could be. He, the _seigneur_, who held life and death in
his hands, would this day give, not death, but life.

Being not displeased with himself, he turned at last toward Joan and put
a hand over hers.

"You see," he said, "I am not so hard a man. By this Christian act shall
I celebrate your arrival."

But the Jew did not come. The singers learned the truth, and sang with
watchful eyes. The _seigneur's_ anger was known to be mighty, and to
strike close at hand.

Guillem, the gaoler, had been waiting for the summons.

News had come to him late in the afternoon that had made him indifferent
to his fate. The girl Joan, whom he loved, had come up the hill at the
overlord's summons. So, instead of raising an alarm, Guillem had waited
sullenly. Death, which yesterday he would have blenched to behold, now
beckoned him. When he was brought in, he stood with folded arms and
asked no mercy.

"He is gone, my lord," said Guillem, and waited. He did not glance at
the girl.

"Gone?" said Charles. Then he laughed, such laughter as turned the girl
cold.

"Gone, earth-clod? How now? Perhaps you, too, wished to give a hostage
to fortune, to forestall me in mercy?"

He turned to the girl beside him.

"You see," he said, "to what lengths this spirit of the Holy Day extends
itself. Our friend here--" Then he saw her face and knew the truth.

The smile set a little on his lips.

"Why, then," he said to the gaoler, "such mercy should have its reward."
He turned to Joan. "What say you? Shall I station him at your door,
sweet lady, as a guard of honour?"

Things went merrily after that, for Guillem drew a knife and made, not
for the _seigneur_, but for Joan. The troubadours feared to stop singing
without a signal, so they sang through white lips. The dogs gnawed at
their bones and the _seigneur_ sat and smiled, showing his teeth.

Guillem, finally unhanded, stood with folded arms and waited for death.

"It is the time of the Truce of God," said the _seigneur_ softly, and,
knowing that death would be a boon, sent him off unhurt.

       *       *       *       *       *

The village, which had eaten full, slept early that night. Down the hill
at nine o'clock came half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback and
clattered through the streets. Word went about quickly. Great oaken
doors were unbarred to the news:

"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and
arm. The child Clotilde is gone."

Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the _seigneur_ was off,
riding like a madman. Flying through the Market Square, he took the
remains of the great fire at a leap. He had but one thought. The Jew had
stolen the child; therefore, to find the Jew.

In the blackest of the night he found him, sitting by the road, bent
over his staff. The eyes he raised to Charles were haggard and weary.
Charles reined his horse back on his haunches, his men-at-arms behind
him.

"What have you done with the child?"

"The child?"

"Out with it," cried Charles and flung himself from his horse. If the
Jew were haggard, Charles was more so, hard bitten of terror, pallid to
the lips.

"I have seen no child. That is--" He hastened to correct himself, seeing
Charles' face in the light of a torch. "I was released by a child, a
girl. I have not seen her since."

He spoke with the simplicity of truth. In the light of the torches
Charles' face went white.

"She released you?" he repeated slowly. "What did she say?"

"She said: 'It is the birthday of our Lord,'" repeated the Jew, slowly,
out of his weary brain. "'And I am doing a good deed.'"

"Is that all?" The Jew hesitated.

"Also she said: 'But you do not love our Lord.'"

Charles swore under his breath. "And you?"

"I said but little. I--"

"What did you say?"

"I said that her Lord was also a Jew." He was fearful of giving offence,
so he hastened to add: "It was by way of comforting the child. Only
that, my lord."

"She said nothing else?" The _seigneur's_ voice was dangerously calm.

The Jew faltered. He knew the gossip of the town.

"She said--she said she wished two things, my lord. To become a boy
and--to see her mother."

Then Charles lifted his face to where the stars were growing dim before
the uprising of the dawn, and where, as far away as the eye could reach
and as far again, lay the castle of his cousin Philip of the Black
Beard. And the rage was gone out of his eyes. For suddenly he knew that,
on that feast of mother and child, Clotilde had gone to her mother, as
unerringly as an arrow to its mark.

And with the rage died all the passion and pride. In the eyes that had
gazed at Joan over the parapet, and that now turned to the east, there
was reflected the dawning of a new day.

       *       *       *       *       *

The castle of Philip the Black lay in a plain. For as much as a mile in
every direction the forest had been sacrificed against the loving
advances of his cousin Charles. Also about the castle was a moat in
which swam noisy geese and much litter.

When, shortly after dawn, the sentry at the drawbridge saw a great horse
with a double burden crossing the open space he was but faintly
interested. A belated peasant with his Christmas dues, perhaps. But
when, on the lifting of the morning haze, he saw that the horse bore two
children and one a girl, he called another man to look.

"Troubadours, by the sound," said the newcomer. For the Fool was
singing to cheer his lack of breakfast. "Coming empty of belly, as come
all troubadours."

But the sentry was dubious. Minstrels were a slothful lot, averse to the
chill of early morning.

And when the pair came nearer and drew up beyond the moat, the soldiers
were still at a loss. The Fool's wandering eyes and tender mouth bespoke
him no troubadour, and the child rode with head high like a princess.

"I have come to see my mother," Clotilde called, and demanded admission,
clearly.

Here were no warriors, but a Fool and a child. So they let down the
bridge and admitted the pair. But they raised the bridge at once again
against the loving advances of Philip's cousin Charles.

But once in the courtyard Clotilde's courage began to fail her. Would
her mother want her? Prayer had been unavailing and she was still a
girl. And, at first, it seemed as though her fears had been justified,
although they took her into the castle kindly enough, and offered her
food which she could not eat and plied her with questions which she
could not answer.

"I want my mother," was the only thing they could get out of her. Her
little body was taut as a bowstring, her lips tight. They offered her
excuses; the lady mother slept; now she was rising and must be clothed.
And then at last they told her, because of the hunted look in her eyes.

"She is ill," they said. "Wait but a little and you shall see her."

Deadly despair had Clotilde in its grasp with that announcement. These
strange folk were gentle enough with her, but never before had her
mother refused her the haven of her out-held arms. Besides, they lied.
Their eyes were shifty. She could see in their faces that they kept
something from her.

Philip, having confessed himself overnight, by candle-light, was at mass
when the pair arrived. Three days one must rot of peace, and those three
days, to be not entirely lost, he prayed for success against Charles, or
for another thing that lay close to his heart. But not for both
together, since that was not possible.

He knelt stiffly in his cold chapel and made his supplications, but he
was not too engrossed to hear the drawbridge chains and to pick up his
ears to the clatter of the grey horse.

So, having been communicated, he made short shift of what remained to
be done, and got to his feet.

The Abbot, whose offices were finished, had also heard the drawbridge
chains and let him go.

When Philip saw Clotilde he frowned and then smiled. He had sons, but no
daughter, and he would have set her on his shoulder. But she drew away
haughtily.

So Philip sat in a chair and watched her with a curious smile playing
about his lips. Surely it were enough to make him smile, that he should
play host to the wife and daughter of his cousin Charles.

Because of that, and of the thing that he had prayed for, and with a
twinkle in his eyes, Black Philip alternately watched the child, and
from a window the plain which was prepared against his cousin. And, as
he had expected, at ten o'clock in the morning came Charles and six
men-at-arms, riding like demons, and jerked up their horses at the edge
of the moat.

Philip, still with the smile under his black beard, went out to greet
them.

"Well met, cousin," he called; "you ride fast and early."

Charles eyed him with feverish eyes.

"Truce of God," he said, sulkily, from across the moat. And then: "We
seek a runaway, the child Clotilde."

"I shall make inquiry," said Philip, veiling the twinkle under his heavy
brow. "In such a season many come and go."

But in his eyes Charles read the truth, and breathed with freer breath.

They lowered the drawbridge again with a great creaking of windlass and
chain, and Charles with his head up rode across. But his men-at-arms
stood their horses squarely on the bridge so that it could not be
raised, and Philip smiled into his beard.

Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his
horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's courtyard, as in his own, were
piled high the Christmas tithes.

"A good year," said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. "Peaceful
times, eh, cousin?"

But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open,
and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on
Philip fiercely.

"I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child
find sanctuary with you."

"Tut," said Philip, good-naturedly, "it is the Christmas season, man,
and a Sunday. We will not quarrel as to the why of your coming."

"Where is she?"

"Your wife or Clotilde?"

Now all through the early morning Charles had longed for one as for the
other. But there was nothing of that in his voice.

"Clotilde," he said.

"I shall make inquiry if she has arrived," mumbled Philip into his
beard, and went away.

So it came about that Charles was alone when he saw the child and
caught her up in his hungry arms. As for Clotilde, her fear died at once
in his embrace. When Philip returned he found them thus and coughed
discreetly. So Charles released the child and put her on her feet.

"I have," said Philip, "another member of your family under my roof as
to whom you have made no inquiry."

"I have secured that for which I came," said Charles haughtily.

But his eyes were on Philip and a question was in them. Philip, however,
was not minded to play Charles' game, but his own, and that not too
fast.

"In that event, cousin," he replied, "let the little maid eat and then
take her away. And since it is a Sunday and the Truce of God, we can
drink to the Christmas season. Even quarrelling dogs have intervals of
peace."

So perforce, because the question was still in his heart if not in his
eyes, Charles drank with his cousin and enemy Philip. But with his hand
in that small hand of Clotilde's which was so like her mother's.

Philip's expansiveness extended itself to the men-at-arms who still sat
woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them hot liquor, for the day was
cold, and at such intervals as Charles' questioning eyes were turned
away, he rubbed his hands together furtively, as a man with a secret.

"A prosperous year," said Philip.

Charles grunted.

"We shall have snow before night," said Philip.

"Humph!" said Charles and glanced toward the sky, but made no move to
go.

"The child is growing."

To this Charles made no reply whatever and Philip bleated on. "Her
mother's body," he said, "but your eyes and hair, cousin."

Charles could stand no more. He pushed the child away and rose to his
feet. Philip, to give him no tithe of advantage, rose too.

"Now," said Charles squarely, "where is my wife? Is she hiding from me?"

Then Philip's face must grow very grave and his mouth set in sad lines.

"She is ill, Charles. I would have told you sooner, but you lacked
interest."

Charles swallowed to steady his voice.

"How--ill?"

"A short and violent illness," said Philip. "All of last night the women
have been with her, and this morning--" He glanced toward the window. "I
was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."

Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this
morning?" he roared.

"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year."
Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.

"Would you like to see her?"

Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.

"I doubt if she cares to see me."

"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words--she is a true woman,
and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly
and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand."

Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with
poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip's eyes grew a new admiration
for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the
entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.

"Softly," he said through his beard. "No harsh words. Send the child in
first."

So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and
wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame.
Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop's averted
head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart
lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him
were dead of a Christmas peace.

Little cries came to him, Clotilde's soft weeping, and another voice
that thrilled him, filled with the wooing note that is in a mother's
voice when she speaks to her child. But it was a feeble voice, and its
weakness struck terror to his soul. What was this thing for which he had
cast her away, now that he might lose her? His world shook under his
feet. His cousin and enemy was, willy-nilly, become his friend. His
world, which he had thought was his own domain, as far from his castle
as the eye could reach and as far again, was in an upper room of
Philip's house, and dying, perhaps.

But she was not dying. They admitted him in time to save his pride, for
he was close to distraction. And, being admitted, he saw only the woman
he had put away.

He went straight to his wife's bed and dropped on his knees beside it.
Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in
his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame
of the girl Joan.

He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.

"I have tried to live without you," he said, "and death itself were
better."

When she did not reply, but lay back, white to the lips, he rose and
looked down at her.

"I can see," he said, "that my touch is bitterness. I have merited
nothing better. So I shall go again, but this time, if it will comfort
you, I shall give you the child Clotilde--not that I love her the less,
but that you deserve her the more."

Then she opened her eyes, and what he saw there brought him back to his
knees with a cry.

"I want only your love, my lord, to make me happy," she said. "And now,
see how the birthday of our Lord has brought us peace." She drew down
the covering a trifle, close to his bent head, and showed the warm curve
of her arm. "Unto us also is born a son, Charles."

"I have wanted a son," said Charles the Fair, "but more than a son have
I wanted you, heart of my heart."

       *       *       *       *       *

Outside in the courtyard the Fool had drawn a circle about him.

"I am adventuring," he said. "Yesterday I caught this horse when the
others ran from him. Then I saved a lady and brought her to her
destination. This being the Christmas season and a Sunday, I shall rest
here for a day." He threw out his chest magnificently. "But tomorrow I
continue on my way."

"Can you fight?" They baited him.

"I can sing," he replied. And he threw back his head with its wandering
eyes and tender mouth and sang:

    "The Light of Light Divine,
    True Brightness undefiled.
    He bears for us the shame of sin,
    A holy, spotless Child."