They lowered the drawbridge again with a great creaking of windlass and chain, and Charles with his head up rode across. But his men-at-arms stood their horses squarely on the bridge so that it could not be raised, and Philip smiled into his beard.
Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's courtyard, as in his own, were piled high the Christmas tithes.
"A good year," said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. "Peaceful times, eh, cousin?"
But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open, and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on Philip fiercely.
"I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child find sanctuary with you."
"Tut," said Philip, good-naturedly, "it is the Christmas season, man, and a Sunday. We will not quarrel as to the why of your coming."
"Where is she?"
"Your wife or Clotilde?"
Now all through the early morning Charles had longed for one as for the other. But there was nothing of that in his voice.
"Clotilde," he said.