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A Classic Christmas short story set in medieval times with a courageous young girl who affects the peace the world so badly needs. This book was written during the era of Rinehart’s serious writing. It is a medieval Christmas fairy tale about Lord Charles the Fair and his young daughter, Clotilde, who longs for something more than her gender allows at that period in time.This is not such an unusual wish as between the 5th C. and the 15th C. there are no less than 105 women recorded as taking up arms to fight alongside their male counterparts. However this was not as easily achieved as one might think, if only because of the differences in a women’s upper-body shape to men which made the shaping of armour more difficult, not to mention more cumbersome in battle.===============Mary Roberts Rinehart (August 12, 1876-September 22, 1958) was a prolific author often called the American Agatha Christie. She is considered the source of the phrase "The butler did it", although she did not actually use the phrase herself, and also considered to have invented the "Had-I-But-Known" school of mystery writing.Rinehart wrote hundreds of short stories, poems, travelogues and special articles. Many of her books and plays were adapted for movies, such as The Bat (1926), The Bat Whispers (1930), and The Bat (1959). While many of her books were best-sellers, critics were most appreciative of her murder mysteries.
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Mary Roberts Rinehart
Originally Published by
George H. Doran Company, New York
Abela Publishing, London
The Truce of God
Typographical arrangement of this edition
©Abela Publishing 2017
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London, United Kingdom
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."
"The question is," said the Bishop mildly, "why she should have been driven to refuge. A gentle lady, a faithful wife—"
"Deus!" 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. A miracle of miracles.
The men-at-arms in the courtyard stood back to give them space. They sang with eyes upturned, with full-throated vigour, albeit a bit warily, with an anxious glance now and then toward those windows beyond which the young lord sulked by the fire.
"The Light of Light Divine,
True Brightness undefiled.
He bears for us the shame of sin,
A holy, spotless Child."
They sang to the frosty air.
When neither money nor burning fagot was flung from the window they watched, they took their departure, relieved if unrewarded.
In former years the lady of the Castle had thrown them alms. But times had changed. Now the gentle lady was gone, and the seigneur sulked in the hall.
With the dawn Charles the Fair took himself to bed. And to him, pattering barefoot along stone floors, came Clotilde, the child of his disappointment.
"Are you asleep?"
One arm under his head, he looked at her without answer.
"It is the anniversary of the birth of our Lord," she ventured. "Today He is born. I thought—" She put out a small, very cold hand. But he turned his head away.
"Back to your bed," he said shortly. "Where is your nurse, to permit this?"
The child's face fell. Something she had expected, some miracle, perhaps, a softening of the lord her father, so that she might ask of him a Christmas boon.
The Bishop had said that Christmas miracles were often wrought, and she herself knew that this was true. Had not the Fool secured his voice, so that he who had been but lightly held became the village troubadour, and slept warm and full at night?
She had gone to the Bishop with this the night before.
"If I should lie in a manger all night," she said, standing with her feet well apart and looking up at him, "would I become a boy?"
The Bishop tugged at his beard. "A boy, little maid! Would you give up your blue eyes and your soft skin to be a roystering lad?"
"My father wishes for a son," she had replied and the cloud that was over the Castle shadowed the Bishop's eyes.
"It would not be well," he replied, "to tamper with the works of the Almighty. Pray rather for this miracle, that your father's heart be turned toward you and toward the lady, your mother."
So during much of the night she had asked this boon steadfastly. But clearly she had not been heard.
"Back to your bed!" said her father, and turned his face away.
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