The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

“Nay, what is there so terrible for her, save that she hath brought upon herself damnation an she die unrepentant? Wouldst thou not have her live to repent and be shriven?”

Eleanore groaned again. “Thou art too young to understand, Alixe. Ah! her purity! her innocence! How she will suffer! There is no suffering like unto it.” Madame slipped to her knees, there by the window, and putting her arms upon the sill, buried her head in them, and drew two or three terrible breaths. Alixe, helpless, fighting to keep down her own secret woe in the face of this more bitter grief, felt herself useless. She remained perfectly still, looking out at the sea, but noting nothing of its beauty, till, all at once, madame began to speak again, in a muffled voice,—

“I remember well my wedding with the Sieur du Crépuscule. I was of the age and of the innocence of Laure. Never was mortal so happy as I, upon the day of the ceremony at Laval. I loved my lord, and he had given all his honor into my keeping. But had the bitterness of guilt been on me when I was brought home to Le Crépuscule, alone and a stranger in his house, I know not if I could have lived through the shame and bitterness of my first days. Thou canst not know, Alixe; but the humiliation of that time is as fresh in my memory as ’twere but yesterday. Ah! leave me now, maiden. Leave me alone. Thou’st been good and faithful to me, but a mother’s grief she must bear alone. Go thou to bed, child, and, in the name of pity, pray for thy sister!”

So she sent Alixe from the room, and made the door fast after her. After this she did not return to her place at the window, but began slowly to make ready for the night. When at length she was prepared, she wrapped herself closely in a warm woollen mantle, and went to her priedieu. Laure, from the priory, had ceased to accost Heaven. Therefore madame took her daughter’s place, and thence through the night ascended an unceasing, bitter, commanding prayer that Laure should be restored to her mother’s house, or else be mercifully received into the more accessible hereafter.

When morning dawned, her great bed had not been slept in, but throughout that day Eleanore sought no rest. She spent the hours passing from the hall to the keep and thence to the tower at the drawbridge, waiting, hoping, praying for tidings. During the afternoon three or four henchmen rode in, exhausted. But none of them had found any trace of Laure. One, however, who had taken the St. Nazaire road and had reached that town during the night, had learned that Flammecœur and his page had been there on the afternoon of the day they left Crépuscule. And, upon further search, this man found a shop where the trouvère had bought a lady’s mantle and hood, both black. This was all the news that could be got; but it was enough to prove, without the least doubt, Flammecœur’s guilt.

Late in the afternoon Alixe went to work among the falcons, changing some of them from their winter-house to the open falconry in the field. Madame, seeing her at work, went out and watched her for a time. Alixe answered her few remarks with respect, but would not talk herself. The girl was dark-browed to-day, and very silent, and madame, perceiving that something troubled her, shortly left her to herself, and began to pace the damp turf. Hither, presently, came David, with the news that Monseigneur de St. Nazaire had come.

With a cry of sudden relief madame hurried back to the Castle, where the Bishop awaited her. He was gowned as usual in his violet, with round black cap, and gauntlet cut to show his ring. And as she came into the great hall, he advanced to her with both hands outstretched and a look of trouble in his clear eyes.

“Eleanore, for the first time in many years I come to you in sorrow, to bring to you what comfort the Church can give,” he said gently, fixing his eyes upon her to read how she had taken her blow, and from it decide what his attitude toward her should be. For St. Nazaire had a great and affectionate respect for Eleanore, and he was accustomed to treat her with a consideration that he used toward no other woman. It was for this that he had come to her in her grief, at the first moment that he heard the news of Laure’s flight.

“Come thou into this room, where we can be alone,” she said quickly, leading him into the round armory that opened off the great hall immediately opposite the chapel. Half closing the heavy door, she sat down on a wooden settle, motioning the Bishop to a tabouret near at hand.

“Is there any news of her? What hast thou heard?” she asked eagerly, bending toward him.