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.'"