"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."