The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

To the girl-bride that morning passed—somehow. It was perhaps the bitterest three hours she had ever endured; yet she would not confess her disappointment even to herself. Besides, was not Gerault coming home again? Had he not said that he would be back at noon? Had he not called her “beloved”? Her heart thrilled at the thought; and she forgot the fact that Gerault knew that she could ride with hawk on wrist and tell a fair quarry when she saw it. She forgot that at such times as this even hawking will generally give way to love; and that he is a sorry bridegroom that loves his horse better than his bride. Yet she forgave him for the time, and regained her smiles until the shadow of a new dread fell upon her. She could endure the morning; but the afternoon? Would he remain with her through the afternoon? Alas, here was the terrible pity of it! She could not tell.

However, this last dread proved to be groundless. Gerault made no move to leave the Castle again that day. Perhaps he even felt a little guilty of neglect; or perhaps her greeting on his return betrayed to him how she had suffered through the morning. However it was, as soon as the long dinner was at an end, the Seigneur and his lady were observed to wander away into the armory, and they sat there together, on the same settle, until the shadows grew long in the courtyard and the afternoon was nearly worn away. What they said to one another, or how Gerault entertained his maid, no one knew; for, oddly enough, Courtoise had put himself on guard at the armory door, and would permit none to venture so much as a peep into the room on which his own back was religiously turned. So for that afternoon demoiselles and squires chose King and Queen of their revels from among their own number, and perhaps enjoyed their games the better for that fact.

When the sun was leaning far toward the broad breast of the sea, all the Castle, mindful of their souls, repaired to the chapel for vespers, a service held only when the Bishop was at Le Crépuscule. Gerault and Lenore were the last to appear, and while the Seigneur’s expression was rather thoughtful than happy, it had in it, nevertheless, a suggestion of Lenore’s repressed joy, so that madame, seeing him, was satisfied for the first time since his home-coming.

But alas for the thoughts and hopes that this afternoon had raised in the observing ones of Le Crépuscule, Lenore and her husband were not seen again to spend a single hour alone together. Gerault remained for the most part with the general company of the Castle, not seeking to escape to solitude with Courtoise, but holding his lady from him at arm’s length. His attitude toward her was uneasy. He did not avoid her, but, were they by chance left alone together for ten minutes, his manner changed till it was like that of a man guilty of some dishonorable thing. Oftentimes, when they were with a number of others, Gerault would be seen to watch Lenore closely, and his eyes would light with momentary pleasure at some one of her unconscious graces. But the light never stayed. Quickly his black brows would darken, the shadows re-cover his face, and he would be more unapproachable than before.

In the course of a few days, Lenore began to grow morbidly sensitive over her husband’s attitude; and, out of sheer misery, she began to avoid him persistently. This brought a still more bitter blow to her, for she discovered that he was glad to be avoided. Lenore was desperate; but still she was brave, still she held to herself; and if at times she sought refuge with madame and Alixe, those two kindly and pitying souls met her with outstretched arms of silent sympathy, and never betrayed to her by so much as a glance how much they had observed of Gerault’s incomprehensible neglect.

The holiday week passed, and with its end came a spirit of relief that it was over. Next morning the usual occupations were begun, and Lenore went up to the spinning-room with the rest of the women. This work-room was on the second floor, and ran almost the whole length of the south side of the Castle: a long, narrow room, with many windows looking out upon the courtyard, and only a sideways view of the hazy, turquoise sea. Here was every known mechanical contrivance for the making of cloth and tapestry, and their development out of the raw wool. The loom, just now half filled with a warp of pale green, stood at the east end of the room; the fixed combs, the half-dozen spinning-wheels, the tambour-frames for embroidery, and the great tapestry-border frame, were ranged in an orderly line down the remaining length, and each of the maidens had her particular task of the summer in some stage of completion. Since Lenore’s arrival a spinning-wheel had been set up here for her, and she sat down to it at once, while her demoiselles were directed by madame to begin work on the tapestry border, at which four could apply the needle at the same time. As the roomful settled quickly to work, under the general guidance of madame, Lenore began to tread her wheel and draw out thread with a hand practised enough to win the approval even of Eleanore. And as the morning wore along, Lenore found herself unaccountably soothed and comforted by her task and the kindly atmosphere of perseverance and attention to duty surrounding her.

Nevertheless, it was not a comfortable day for such work. The heat was intense. Fingers grew constantly damp with sweat. Thread knotted and broke, silk drew, and little exclamations of anger and disgust were frequently to be heard. However, the labor was continued as usual for three hours, till eleven o’clock, the dinner hour, came, and the little company willingly left the spinning-room to another afternoon of silence, and went downstairs to meat. At the foot of the stairs stood Gerault, waiting for Lenore; and when she reached him he kissed her upon the brow before leading her to table. In that moment the girl’s heart sang, and she felt that her day had been fittingly crowned.

In the early afternoon Lenore found that there were new occupations for all the Castle. The demoiselles were despatched to the long room on the first floor, which, though not dignified by the name of library, yet took that place, for instruction in certain things, mental and moral, by the friar-steward, Father Anselm. The young men were at sword practice in the keep. And Lenore, who could write her name and read a little from parchment manuscripts in both Latin and French, and whose education was therefore finished, was summoned by madame and taken over the whole Castle, receiving, at various stages, instruction in domestic duties and the management of the great building. She saw everything, from the linen-presses upstairs to the wine-cellars underground; and everywhere the hand of madame was visible in the scrupulous exactness and neatness with which the Castle was kept. Then in her heart Lenore determined that in time she would learn madame’s habits, and, if it could be done in no other way, win Gerault’s respect by her abilities as a housekeeper.

The hours of late afternoon and early evening were devoted to recreation, which was entered into with new zest by every one. To be sure, Gerault sat all evening with his mother, playing draughts. But his eyes occasionally strayed to the figure of his wife; and later, when the Castle was still, and Lenore, in the great curtained bed, was wandering on the borderland of sleep, she felt that this day was the happiest she had yet spent in Le Crépuscule; and she knew in her heart that work and work only could now bring her peace. And thereafter, poor little dreamer, a smile hovered upon her face as she slept!

On the tenth day of the new regime in Le Crépuscule, squire Courtoise sat in the armory, polishing the design engraved on his lord’s breastplate. Courtoise was moody. Ordinarily his cheerfulness in the face of insuperable dulness was something to be proud of. But latterly his faith, the one great faith in his heart,—not religion, but utter devotion to his lord—had been receiving a series of shocks that had shaken it to its foundation. Courtoise was by nature as gentle, genial, and kindly a fellow as ever held a lance; and in his heart he had for years blindly worshipped Gerault. His creed of devotion, indeed, had embraced the whole family of Le Crépuscule, because Gerault was its head. Till the time of their last going to Rennes, there had been for him no woman like madame, no such maid as Laure, and no man anywhere comparable to his master. Poor Laure had dealt him a grievous blow when she followed Flammecœur from the priory. But from the day of Gerault’s betrothal to little Lenore, the daughter of the Iron Chateau had held his heart in her hand, and might have done with it as she would. Loving the two of them as he did, and seeing each day fresh proof of Lenore’s affection for her lord and his, Courtoise naturally looked for a fitting return of this from the Seigneur. And here, all in a night, Courtoise’s first great doubt had entered in. They had been married three days, they were barely at Le Crépuscule, before Courtoise saw what made him sick with uneasiness. If the Seigneur had wedded this exquisite maiden with the sunlit hair, must he not love her? And yet—and yet—and yet—Courtoise sat in the armory and polished freely at the steel, and swore to himself under his breath, recklessly incurring whatever penance Anselm should see fit to give. For here it was mid-afternoon, and his little lady just freed from her hours of toil; and there was Gerault gone off by himself, without even his squire, forsooth, to hawk with the Iron-Beak over the moor!