[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 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.”