The Truce of God

I


Now the day of the birth of our Lord dawned that year grey and dreary,
and a Saturday. But, despite the weather, in the town at the foot of the
hill there was rejoicing, as befitted so great a festival. The day
before a fat steer had been driven to the public square and there
dressed and trussed for the roasting. The light of morning falling on
his carcass revealed around it great heaps of fruits and vegetables. For
the year had been prosperous.

But the young overlord sulked in his castle at the cliff top, and bit
his nails. From Thursday evening of each week to the morning of Monday,
Mother Church had decreed peace, a Truce of God. Three full days out of
each week his men-at-arms polished their weapons and grew fat. Three
full days out of each week his grudge against his cousin, Philip of the
Black Beard, must feed on itself.

His dark mood irritated the Bishop of Tours, who had come to speak of
certain scandalous things which had come to his ears. Charles heard him
through.

"She took refuge with him," he said violently, when the Bishop had
finished. "She knew what hate there was between us, yet she took refuge
with him."