The Truce of God | Page 9

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