Speaker 1: The Truce of God by Mary Roberts Rhinehardt. One Now,
the day of the Birth of our Lord dawned that
year gray and dreary and 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 Seigniere clapped his 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 over night 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 vigor, 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
faggot 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 seigniere sulked
in the hall with the dawn. Charles the fair took
himself to bed, and to him, pattering barefoot along stone floors,
came Clotilda, 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, to day he is born, I thought. She
put out a very small, 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 then 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 line in manger all night, she said,
standing with her feet while 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 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. She went as far as a
leather curtain which hung in the doorway, and there she turned.
Why did 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. To the light of light, divine, true brightness, undefiled.
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 some one 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 Blackbeard, 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 yusery and
other things. After 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. Clotilda 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 draft. 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 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 Gwillam, the jailer, 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, Guiellam was
in love with the girl of the village, and there
was talk that the Seigniere, in his loneliness, had seen
that she was beautiful. So Gwillim slept to forget, and
the Jew lay awake because of rats and anxiety. The
Jew rose from the floor when Clotilda threw the grating
open and blinked at her with weary and gentle eyes.
It is the birthday of our lord, said Clotilda, 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 tis 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 his shoulders. He only shook
his head and took his cautious way toward freedom. Having
tried song and a good deed, Clotilda went back again
to her room, stepping over the page, who had curled
himself up in a ball like a puppy and still asleep.
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 wished 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 all the year it seemed
to be of but wood and with closed eyes, now
it flashed as with light, and the eyes were open.
He was one of your people, she said to the crucifix.
And by now he is down the hill. Two Now
it was the custom on the morning of the holy
day for the seignere to ride his finest stallion to
the top of the hill, where led a steep road
down to 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 fik. 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 gray 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 gray, 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
gray 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 Guieleamn slept to forget. The seignor has written out
from the gates, Father, she said, the color 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 to day, instead of delivering Christmas dews,
I should be receiving them. But you, he swung on
her malevolently. You must turn great ox eyes toward Guillam,
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 the 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 fingers absently traced the dark cross on its back. Idiots,
snarled the Overlord 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. Tranquility, this day of his birth,
a day for thanksgiving and for good will, Bah, said
the overlord again, and struck the gray a heavy blow.
So massive was the beast, so terrific the pace at
which it charged down the hill, that the villager scattered.
He watched them with his lip curling. See, he said,
brave men, and true watch father, how they rallied 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 from 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 drowned, 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 adult
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 denoueman 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 birth day
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, tranquility, with a
lad mounted, who has heretofore trudged a foot, 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's grim humor, 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 mannfe 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 hill side. 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 hardens drove away. The
seigneur's glance turned to the east, where they 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 Clotilda had watched
it all from the 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 a 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,
Clotilda would say, But her mother would stroke her hand
and reply, they but rejoice that our lord is born.
So the child Clotilda 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 odor 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 gate 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
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. Ay, 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 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. Clotilda
rose and drew her gray 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
gray 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
skulked in their fastnesses, and their horses pawed the ground. Murder,
rappin 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 said, 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 cellar
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. Clotilda
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. Seeing that she trembled, he
put his ragged lila about her and talked to comfort her,
although his muscles ached for sleep. He told her a
fable of the country side 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 labored 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 labored,
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 three All that
day came peasants up the hill with their Christmas dews.
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 poor trudged afoot.
Among the latter came the girl Joan of the market square.
She brought no grain, the fowls only, and of these
but two. She took the steep ascent like a thoroughbread
muscles working clean under glowing skin, her bosom rising evenly,
treading like a queen among the clutter of peasants, and
when she was brought into the great hall, her head
went yet higher. It pleased the young senyor 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 Clotilda. 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 signor'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 for none but such kindness as you have
lavish on the child Clotilda. She is much alone. With
the mention of Clotilda'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 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 this pleasure. And with him,
now that Clotilda had fled, went all that was good
and open to the sun from the gray 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
troubiters 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 Jane 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 legitimize 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 minstrel
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's soul, for a warrior's son,
for one to hold what he had gathered at such
cost back always to this burning hope of his jone
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 tributers sang louder. Fresh liquor was passed about.
Charles waited for the Jew to be brought. He remembered Clotilda.
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
seignere 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 senyor's anger was known to be mighty to strike
close at hand. Gwillim, the jailer, 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,
Gwillam 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 Gwillim, and waited. He did
not glance at the girl gone, said Charles. Then he
laughed such laughter as turned the girl cold gone earth cloud.
How now, perhaps you too wished to give a hostage
to fortune, to forestall me in mercy. He turned the
girl beside him. You see, he said, to what lengths
the spirit of this holy day extends itself? Our friend? Here?
Then he saw her face and knew the truth. The
smile sat a little on his lips. Why then, he
said to the jailer, 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 honor.
Things wept merrily after that, for Gwillam drew a knife
and made not for the Signere 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 Seignor sat and smiled, showing his teeth. Gwillam, finally, unhanded,
stood with folded arms and waited for death. This is
the time of the truce of God, said the Signor 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 minute arms on horseback, and clattering through the streets.
Word went about quickly. Great oaken doors were unbarred to
the news. The child Clotilda is gone. They cried through
the streets, up and arm, the child Clotilda 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 be 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's 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's
face went white. She released jew, 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 offense, so he hastened to add it
was by way of comforting the child. Only that, my lord.
She said nothing else. The Senyor'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 going
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, Clotilda 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 dews, 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 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
wore a slothful lot, add first 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 him head high like a princess.
I have come to see my mother Clotilda called and
demanded admission. Clearly, here were no warriors but a fool
and a child. So they let down the bridge and
admitted the pear. But they raised the bridge at once
again against the loving advances of Philip's cousin Charles. But
once in the courtyard, Clotilda's courage began to fail her.
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 haunted look in her eyes,
she is ill. They said, wait but a little and
you shall see her deadly despair had Clotilda 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 over night
by candlelight, 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,
and 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 gray 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 Clotilda, 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 plane 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, Clotilda.
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 knight in the saddle,
and his horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's court yard,
as in his own, were piled high the Christmas ties.
A good year, said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dews
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 out 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 Clotilda? Now?
All through the early morning Charles had longed for one
as for the other, but there was nothing of that
in his voice. Clotilda, 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 Clotilda, 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've 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's 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 quarreling 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 Clotilda's, which was so
like her mother's. Philip's expansiveness extended itself to the menaton arms,
who still sat woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them
hot liquor, for the day was cold, and at such
intervals as Charles's 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 bleted 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 line. 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
at 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, Clotilda'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 Clotilda, 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 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 him 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 sun, I have 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 bated him. I can sing, he replied. And he
threw back his head with his 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, and of the truce of God. By Mary
Robert's Rhinehart