The Truce of God | Page 6

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