Mary Roberts Rinehart

“ The seigneur's gaze turned to the east, where lay 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 Clotilde had watched it all from a window. Because she was very high the thing she saw most plainly was the cross on the donkey's back. ”

“ The men-at-arms were drawn up in a double line, weapons at rest. From the place below rose a thin grey 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 Guillem slept to forget. ”

“ The young seigneur clapped a 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 overnight in a manger on the holy eve a year before and had brought from it, not wit, but a voice from Heaven. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Also Guillem was in love with a girl of the village and there was talk that the seigneur, in his loneliness, had seen that she was beautiful. So Guillem slept to forget, and the Jew lay awake because of rats and anxiety.
The Jew rose from the floor when Clotilde threw the grating open, and blinked at her with weary and gentle eyes.
"It is the birthday of our Lord," said Clotilde, "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!" ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ A fine heritage for 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 drown, 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 a dolt 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 dénouement suited the grim mood of the overlord. ”

“ 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." ”

“ It comes but once a year. Also it is hard times 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."
Clotilde rose and drew her grey 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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”