Suddenly, through the tumult, madame caught a sound that made her lift her head and half rise from her chair, listening intently. There had been a sound of horses’ hoofs on the courtyard stones.
“’Tis St. Nazaire at last,” she whispered to Alixe. “Now we shall hear of—Go thou thyself, Alixe, and fetch hither fresh meat and a pasty and a flagon of the best wine. Monseigneur must be weary. He shall sit here at my side—”
Alixe rose obediently and hurried away on her errand; and while she was gone there came a clamor at the door. A burly henchman sprang up and lurched forward to open it, peering out into the darkness. Those in the room heard a little ejaculation, and then there entered a new-comer with some one else beside him. Neither was the Bishop of St. Nazaire. Both of them were young,—one, indeed, no more than a boy, wearing an esquire’s jerkin, hosen, cap, and mantle, and carrying only a short dirk in his belt. The other, who came forward into the full light of the lamps and torches, was a young man of six and twenty or thereabouts, lean and tall and graceful, clad in half armor, but clean-shaved, like a woman. His face had the look of the South in it, his eyes were piercingly dark, and his waving hair as black as the night. In their first glance at the new-comer, most in the room took notice that his spurs were not gilt; but soon a maid spied out that the little squire carried on his back a lute, strung on a ribbon, and then the stranger’s profession was plain.
This general examination lasted but the matter of a few seconds. Then Madame Eleanore rose, and the stranger saluted her with a grace that became him well, and began to speak in a mellow voice,—
“Madame la Châtelaine, give thee God’s greeting! I hight Bertrand Flammecœur, singer of Provence, the land of the trouvère; and now find myself a most weary traveller through this chilly land. Here—” indicating his follower with two slim fingers—“is my squire, Yvain. We come to-day from the Castle of Laval, in the South, where, in the high hospitality of its lord, we have sojourned for some weeks. There, indeed, I sang in half a score of tenzons with one Le Fleurie, an able singer. But now, to-night, inasmuch as we are weary with long riding, empty for food, numb with cold, and have found the drawbridge of this Castle down, we make bold to crave shelter for the night, and a manchet of bread to comfort our stomachs withal,” and the trouvère bent his body in a graceful obeisance; while Eleanore, smiling her hospitality, stepped forward a little from where she stood.
“It is the Breton custom, Sir Trouvère, to leave the drawbridge down during the holy weeks of Christmas and Easter; and in those days any may obtain food and shelter among us. Thou and thy squire, however, are doubly welcome, coming as ye do from our cousins of Laval, in which house I, Eleanore du Crépuscule, was born. In the name of my son, the Seigneur Gerault, I return you God’s greeting, and pray you to make this Chateau your home. Now, sith ye are well weary and anhungered, let your boy rest him there among my squires, while you come here and sit and eat.”
Thereupon little Yvain, after a bow, ran eagerly to the place indicated to him; and Flammecœur, smiling, went forward at madame’s invitation toward the place at her side. Ere he reached it, Alixe, who had been in the kitchens and thus missed the stranger’s entrance, came into the hall, bearing with her a wooden tray containing food and red wine. At sight of the stranger she halted suddenly, and as suddenly he paused to make her reverence; for by her dress he knew her to be no serving-wench. In the instant that their glances met, her green and brilliant eyes flashed a flame of fire into his dark ones; and curiously enough, a color rose in the pale cheeks of the man ere Alixe had thought to catch the flush of maiden modesty. Perhaps no one in the room had noted the contretemps. At any rate, Flammecœur, taking a quick glance to see, found none looking at him in more than ordinary curiosity; whereupon his debonair self-possession flew back to him, and, turning again to Madame Eleanore, he presently sat down to table and began his meal. While he ate, and his appetite was excellent, he found space to converse with every one about him; and had a smile for all, from madame to the shyest of the demoiselles. Out of courtesy for their hospitality, he gave a somewhat careless and rambling but nevertheless highly entertaining account of some of his wanderings, and was amused to see how the young demoiselles hung on his words. Only upon Alixe did he waste his efforts, for she paid scant attention to him, listening just enough to escape the charge of rudeness. And Flammecœur was man enough and vain enough to get himself into something of a pique about her in this first hour of his coming to Le Crépuscule.
When the stranger had had his say, and proved himself sufficiently “trouvère,” the general after-feast of song and story began. Both tale and song were of that day,—broad enough for modern ears, but of their time unusually mild, and of the character that was to be heard from ladies’ lips. Burliest henchman and slenderest squire alike tuned his verse for the ears of Madame Eleanore to hear; and the wanderer, Flammecœur, noted this fact astutely, and so much approved of it that, while dwarf David’s fairy tale went on, he took a quick resolve that he would make a temporary home for himself in this Castle.
In the course of time Flammecœur was asked for a song. Yvain brought his lute to him, and he tuned the instrument while he pleaded excuse from a long chanson. When he began, however, his voice showed small sign of fatigue. He sang a low, swinging melody of his own composing, fitted to words once used in a Court of Love in the south,—a delicate bit of versification dealing with dreams. And so delicately did he perform his task that perfect silence followed its close.
A moment later there was a sharp round of applause; for these Bretons had never heard such a chansonette in all their cold-country lives. Before anything more could be demanded, Flammecœur, satisfied with the impression already made, sprang to his feet, and turned to Eleanore, saying: “Lady, I crave permission for me and my squire to seek our rest. We have ridden many leagues to-day, and at early dawn must be up and off again.”