The Geste of Duke Jocelyn
by Jeffery Farnol · English · Gutenberg #8165 · 364,589 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Geste of Duke Jocelyn
Author: Jeffery Farnol
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8165]
Most recently updated: March 15, 2018
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8165
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GESTE OF DUKE JOCELYN ***
Produced by Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE GESTE OF DUKE JOCELYN
By Jeffery Farnol
Illustrations in color by Eric Pape
(Illustrations not included in this edition)
Copyright, 1920,
By Little, Brown, And Company.
All rights reserved Published September, 1920
Norwood Press
Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
My GILLIAN, thou child that budding woman art
For whom to-day and yesterday lie far apart
Already thou, my dear, dost longer dresses wear
And bobbest in most strange, new-fangled ways thy hair;
Thou lookest on the world with eyes grown serious
And rul'st thy father with a sway imperious
Particularly as regards his socks and ties
Insistent that each with the other harmonise.
Instead of simple fairy-tales that pleased of yore
Romantic verse thou read'st and novels by the score
And very oft I've known thee sigh and call them “stuff”
Vowing of love romantic they've not half enough.
Wherefore, like fond and doting parent, I
Will strive this want romantic to supply.
I'll write for thee a book of sighing lover
Crammed with ROMANCE from cover unto cover;
A book the like of which 't were hard to find
Filled with ROMANCE of every sort and kind.
I'll write it as the Gestours wrote of old,
In prose, blank-verse, and rhyme it shall be told.
And GILLIAN--
Some day perhaps, my dear, when you are grown
A portly dame with children of your own
You'll gather all your troop about your knee
And read to them this Geste I made for thee.
ILLUSTRATIONS
“Nobles of Brocelaunde, salute your Duchess Yolande”
They saw afar the town of Canalise
“Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed
“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid.
With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came
The long blades whirled and flashed
PRELUDE
Long, long ago when castles grim did frown,
When massy wall and gate did 'fend each town;
When mighty lords in armour bright were seen,
And stealthy outlaws lurked amid the green
And oft were hanged for poaching of the deer,
Or, gasping, died upon a hunting spear;
When barons bold did on their rights insist
And hanged or burned all rogues who dared resist;
When humble folk on life had no freehold
And were in open market bought and sold;
When grisly witches (lean and bony hags)
Cast spells most dire yet, meantime, starved in rags;
When kings did lightly a-crusading fare
And left their kingdoms to the devil's care--
At such a time there lived a noble knight
Who sweet could sing and doughtily could fight,
Whose lance thrust strong, whose long sword bit
full deep
With darting point or mighty two-edged sweep.
A duke was he, rich, powerful--and yet
Fate had on him a heavy burden set,
For, while a youth, as he did hunt the boar,
The savage beast his goodly steed did gore,
And as the young duke thus defenceless lay,
With cruel tusk had reft his looks away,
Had marred his comely features and so mauled him
That, 'hind his back, “The ugly Duke” folk called
him--
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: An ugly hero?
MYSELF: That is so.
GILL: An ugly hero, father? O, absurd! Whoever of an “ugly” hero heard?
MYSELF: I'll own, indeed, I've come across but few--
GILL: But a duke--and ugly! Father, this from you?
MYSELF: My duke is ugly, very, for good reason, As shall appear in due and
proper season!
GILL: I'm sure no one will want to read him then, For “heroes” all should
be most handsome men. So make him handsome, please, or he won't do.
MYSELF: By heaven, girl--no, plain heroes are too few!
GILL: Then ev'ry one will leave him on the shelf!
MYSELF: Why, then, I'll read the poor fellow myself.
GILL: I won't!
MYSELF: Then don't! Though, I might say, since you're set on it, child, My
duke was not so ugly when he smiled--
GILL: Then make him smile as often as you can.
MYSELF: I might do that, 't is none so bad a plan.
GILL: And the lady--she must be a lady fair.
MYSELF: My dear, she's beautiful beyond compare.
GILL: Why, then--
MYSELF: My pen!
So here and now I do begin
The tale of young Duke Jocelyn,
For critics, schools,
And cramping rules,
Heedless and caring not a pin.
The title here behold
On this fair page enrolled,
In letters big and bold,
As seemeth fit--
To wit:--
FYTTE I
Upon a day, but when it matters not,
Nor where, but mark! the sun was plaguy hot
Falling athwart a long and dusty road
In which same dust two dusty fellows strode.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered, goodly wight
In garb of motley like a jester dight,
Fool's cap on head with ass's ears a-swing,
While, with each stride, his bells did gaily ring;
But, 'neath his cock's-comb showed a face so marred
With cheek, with brow and lip so strangely scarred
As might scare tender maid or timid child
Unless, by chance, they saw him when he smiled,
For then his eyes, so deeply blue and bright,
Did hold in them such joyous, kindly light,
That sorrow was from heavy hearts beguiled--
This jester seemed less ugly when he smiled.
Here, O my Gill, right deftly, in a trice
I've made him smile and made him do it--twice.
That 't was the Duke of course you've guessed at once
Since you, I know, we nothing of a dunce.
But, what should bring a duke in cap and bells?
Read on and mark, while he the reason tells.
Now, 'spite of dust and heat, his lute he strummed,
And snatches of a merry song he hummed,
The while askance full merrily he eyed
The dusty knave who plodded at his side.
A bony fellow, this, and long of limb,
His habit poor, his aspect swart and grim;
His belt to bear a long broad-sword did serve,
His eye was bold, his nose did fiercely curve
Down which he snorted oft and (what is worse)
Beneath his breath gave vent to many a curse.
Whereat the Duke, sly laughing, plucked lutestring
And thus, in voice melodious did sing:
“Sir Pertinax, why curse ye so?
Since thus in humble guise we go
We merry chances oft may know,
Sir Pertinax of Shene.”
“And chances woeful, lord, also!”
Quoth Pertinax of Shene.
“To every fool that passeth by
These foolish bells shall testify
That very fool, forsooth, am I,
Good Pertinax of Shene!”
“And, lord, methinks they'll tell no lie!”
Growled Pertinax of Shene.
Then spake the Knight in something of a pet,
“Par Dex, lord Duke--plague take it, how I sweat,
By Cock, messire, ye know I have small lust
Like hind or serf to tramp it i' the dust!
Per De, my lord, a parch-ed pea am I--
I'm all athirst! Athirst? I am so dry
My very bones do rattle to and fro
And jig about within me as I go!
Why tramp we thus, bereft of state and rank?
Why go ye, lord, like foolish mountebank?
And whither doth our madcap journey trend?
And wherefore? Why? And, prithee, to what end?”
Then quoth the Duke, “See yonder in the green
Doth run a cooling water-brook I ween,
Come, Pertinax, beneath yon shady trees,
And there whiles we do rest outstretched at ease
Thy 'wherefores' and thy 'whys' shall answered be,
And of our doings I will counsel thee.”
So turned they from the hot and dusty road
Where, 'mid green shade, a rill soft-bubbling flowed,
A brook that leapt and laughed in roguish wise,
Whereat Sir Pertinax with scowling eyes
Did frown upon the rippling water clear,
And sware sad oaths because it was not beer;
Sighful he knelt beside this murmurous rill,
Bent steel-clad head and bravely drank his fill.
Then sitting down, quoth he: “By Og and Gog,
I'll drink no more--nor horse am I nor dog
To gulp down water--pest, I hate the stuff!”
“Ah!” laughed the Duke, “'tis plain hast had enough,
And since well filled with water thou dost lie
To answer thee thy questions fain am I.
First then--thou art in lowly guise bedight,
For that thou art my trusty, most-loved knight,
Who at my side in many a bloody fray,
With thy good sword hath smit grim Death away--”
“Lord,” quoth the Knight, “what's done is past return,
'Tis of our future doings I would learn.”
“Aye,” said the Duke, “list, Pertinax, and know
'Tis on a pilgrimage of love we go:
Mayhap hast heard the beauty and the fame
Of fair Yolande, that young and peerless dame
“For whom so many noble lovers sigh
And with each other in the lists do vie?
Though much I've dreamed of sweet Yolanda's charms
My days have passed in wars and feats of arms,
For, Pertinax, this blemished face I bear,
Should fright, methinks, a lady young and fair.
And so it is that I have deemed it wiser
To hide it when I might 'neath casque and visor--”
Hereat Sir Pertinax smote hand to knee
And, frowning, shook his head. “Messire,” said he,
“Thou art a man, and young, of noble race,
And, being duke, what matter for thy face?
Rank, wealth, estate--these be the things I trow
Can make the fairest woman tender grow.
Ride unto her in thy rich armour dight,
With archer, man-at-arms, and many a knight
To swell thy train with pomp and majesty,
That she, and all, thy might and rank may see;
So shall all folk thy worthiness acclaim,
And her maid's heart, methinks, shall do the same.
Thy blemished face shall matter not one jot;
To mount thy throne she'll think a happy lot.
So woo her thus--”
“So will I woo her not!”
Quoth Jocelyn, “For than I'd win her so,
Alone and loveless all my days I'd go.
Ha, Pertinax, 'spite all thy noble parts,
'Tis sooth ye little know of women's hearts!”
“Women?” quoth Pertinax, and scratched his jaw,
“'Tis true of dogs and horses I know more,
And dogs do bite, and steeds betimes will balk,
And fairest women, so they say, will talk.”
“And so dost thou, my Pertinax, and yet,
'Spite all thy talk, my mind on this is set--
Thus, in all lowliness I'll e'en go to her
And 'neath this foolish motley I will woo her.
And if, despite this face, this humble guise,
I once may read love's message in her eyes,
Then Pertinax--by all the Saints, 'twill be
The hope of all poor lovers after me,
These foolish bells a deathless tale shall ring,
And of Love's triumph evermore shall sing.
“So, Pertinax, ne'er curse ye so
For that in lowly guise we go,
We many a merry chance may know,
Sir Pertinax of Shene.”
“And chances evil, lord, also!”
Quoth Pertinax of Shene.
Now on a sudden, from the thorny brake,
E'en as Sir Pertinax thus doleful spake,
Leapt lusty loons and ragged rascals four,
Rusty their mail, yet bright the swords they bore.
Up sprang Sir Pertinax with gleeful shout,
Plucked forth his blade and fiercely laid about.
“Ha, rogues! Ha, knaves! Most scurvy dogs!” he cried.
While point and edge right lustily he plied
And smote to earth the foremost of the crew,
Then, laughing, pell-mell leapt on other two.
The fourth rogue's thrust, Duke Joc'lyn blithely parried
Right featly with the quarter-staff he carried.
Then 'neath the fellow's guard did nimbly slip
And caught him in a cunning wrestler's grip.
Now did they reel and stagger to and fro,
And on the ling each other strove to throw;
Arm locked with arm they heaved, they strove and panted,
With mighty shoulders bowed and feet firm-planted.
So on the sward, with golden sunlight dappled,
In silence grim they tussled, fiercely grappled.
Thus then Duke Jocelyn wrestled joyously,
For this tall rogue a lusty man was he,
But, 'spite his tricks and all his cunning play,
He in the Duke had met his match this day,
As, with a sudden heave and mighty swing,
Duke Jocelyn hurled him backwards on the ling,
And there he breathless lay and sore amazed,
While on the Duke with wonderment he gazed:
“A Fool?” he cried. “Nay, certes fool, per De,
Ne'er saw I fool, a fool the like o' thee!”
But now, e'en as the Duke did breathless stand,
Up strode Sir Pertinax, long sword in hand:
“Messire,” he growled, “my rogues have run away,
So, since you've felled this fellow, him I'll slay.”
“Not so,” the Duke, short-breathing, made reply,
“Methinks this rogue is too much man to die.”
“How?” cried the Knight; “not slay a knave--a thief?
Such clemency is strange and past belief!
Mean ye to let the dog all scathless go?”
“Nay,” said the Duke, square chin on fist, “not so,
For since the rogue is plainly in the wrong
The rogue shall win his freedom with a song,
And since forsooth a rogue ingrain is he,
So shall he sing a song of roguery.
Rise, roguish rogue, get thee thy wind and sing,
Pipe me thy best lest on a tree ye swing!”
Up to his feet the lusty outlaw sprang,
And thus, in clear melodious voice, he sang:
“I'll sing a song not over long,
A song of roguery.
For I'm a rogue, and thou'rt a rogue,
And so, in faith, is he.
And we are rogues, and ye are rogues,
All rogues in verity.
“As die we must and turn to dust,
Since each is Adam's son,
A rogue was he, so rogues are we,
And rascals every one.
“The Abbot sleek with visage meek,
With candle, book and bell,
Our souls may curse, we're none the worse,
Since he's a rogue as well.
“My lord aloft doth hang full oft
Poor rogues the like o' me,
But all men know where e'er he go
A greater rogue is he.
“The king abroad with knight and lord
Doth ride in majesty,
But strip him bare and then and there
A shivering rogue ye'll see,
“Sirs, if ye will my life to spill,
Then hang me on a tree,
Since rogue am I, a rogue I'll die,
A roguish death for me.
“But i' the wind the leaves shall find
Small voices for my dole,
“And when I'm dead sigh o'er my head
Prayers for my poor rogue soul;
For I'm a rogue, and thou 'rt a rogue,
And so in faith is he,
As we are rogues, so ye are rogues,
All rogues in verity.”
The singing done, the Duke sat lost in thought,
What time Sir Pertinax did stamp and snort:
“Ha, by the Mass! Now, by the Holy Rood!
Ne'er heard I roguish rant so bold and lewd!
He should be whipped, hanged, quartered, flayed alive--”
“Then,” quoth the Duke, “pay him gold pieces five,”
“How--pay a rogue?” the Knight did fierce retort.
“A ribald's rant--give good, gold pieces for't?
A plague! A pest! The knave should surely die--”
But here he met Duke Joc'lyn's fierce blue eye,
And silent fell and in his poke did dive,
And slowly counted thence gold pieces five,
Though still he muttered fiercely 'neath his breath,
Such baleful words as: “'S blood!” and “'S bones!” and “'S death!”
Then laughed the Duke and from the greenwood strode;
But scarce was he upon the dusty road,
Than came the rogue who, louting to his knee:
“O Fool! Sir Fool! Most noble Fool!” said he.
“Either no fool, or fool forsooth thou art,
That dareth thus to take an outlaw's part.
Yet, since this day my rogue's life ye did spare,
So now by oak, by ash, by thorn I swear--
“And mark, Sir Fool, and to my saying heed--
Shouldst e'er lack friends to aid thee in thy need
Come by this stream where stands a mighty oak,
Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke,
Hid in this cleft a hunting-horn ye'll see,
Take then this horn and sound thereon notes three.
So shall ye find the greenwood shall repay
The roguish life ye spared a rogue this day.”
So spake he; then, uprising from his knees,
Strode blithe away and vanished 'mid the trees.
Whereat Sir Pertinax shook doleful head:
“There go our good gold pieces, lord!” he said.
“Would that yon rogue swung high upon a tree,
And in my poke our gold again might be.
Full much I marvel, lord, and fain would know
Wherefore and why unhanged didst let him go?”
Then answered the Duke singing on this wise:
“Good Pertinax, if on a tree
Yon rogue were swinging high
A deader rogue no man could see--
'He's but a rogue!' says you to me,
'But a living rogue!' says I.
“And since he now alive doth go
More honest he may die,
Yon rogue an honest man may grow,
If we but give him time, I trow,
Says I to you, says I.”
At this, Sir Pertinax growled in his beard--
My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:
GILL: A beard? O father--beard will never do!
No proper knight a beard ever grew.'
No knight could really romantic be
Who wore a beard! So, father, to please me,
No beard; they are, I think, such scrubby things--
MYSELF: Yet they are worn, sometimes, by poets and kings.
GILL: But your knight--
MYSELF: Oh, all right,
My Gill, from your disparagement to save him,
I, like a barber, will proceed to shave him.
Sir Pertinax, then, stroked his smooth-shaved chin,
And thus to curse he softly did begin,
“Par Dex, my lord--”
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: Your knight, dear father, seems to love to curse.
MYSELF: He does. A difficult matter, child, in verse--
GILL: Of verse I feel a little tired--
MYSELF: Why, if you think a change desired,
A change we'll have, for, truth to tell,
This rhyming bothers me as well.
So here awhile we'll sink to prose.
Now, are you ready? Then here goes!
“Par Dex, my lord!” growled Sir Pertinax. “A malison on't, says I, saving
thy lordly grace, yet a rogue is a rogue and, being rogue, should die right
roguishly as is the custom and the law. For if, messire, if--per De and by
Our Sweet Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, if, I say, in thy new and
sudden-put-on attitude o' folly, thou wilt save alive all rogues soever,
then by Saint Cuthbert his curse, by sweet Saint Benedict his blessed
bones, by--”
“Hold now, Pertinax,” said the Duke, slipping his lute into leathern bag
and slinging it behind wide shoulders, “list ye, Sir Knight of Shene, and
mark this, to wit: If a rogue in roguery die then rogue is he forsooth;
but, mark this again, if a rogue be spared his life he may perchance and
peradventure forswear, that is, eschew or, vulgarly speaking, turn from his
roguish ways, and die as honest as I, aye, or even--thou!”
Here Sir Pertinax snorted as they strode on together, yet in a little they
turned aside from the hot and dusty road and journeyed on beneath the trees
that grew thereby.
“By all the fiends, my lord, and speaking vulgarly in turn, this belly o'
mine lacketh, these my bowels do yearn consumedly unto messes savoury and
cates succulent--”
Whereat the Duke, smiling merry-eyed, chanted roguishly:
“A haunch o' venison juicy from the spit now?”
“Aha!” groaned the Knight, “Lord, let us haste--”
“A larded capon to thee might seem fit now?”
“Saints!” sighed the Knight, “but for one little taste.”
“Or, Pertinax, a pasty plump and deep--”
“Ha--pasty, by the Mass!” the Knight did cry.
“Or pickled tongue of neat, Sir Knight, or sheep--”
“Oh, for a horse! For wings wherewith to fly--”
“Or breast of swan--”
“Stay! nay, my lord, ha' mercy!” groaned Sir Pertinax, wiping moist brow.
“Picture no more toothsome dainties to my soul lest for desire I swoon and
languish by the way. I pray thee, let us haste, sire, so may we reach fair
Canalise ere sunset--yet stay! Hearken, messire, hear ye aught? Sure, afar
the tocsin soundeth?”
Now hearkening thus, they both became aware
Of distant bells that throbbed upon the air,
A faint, insistent sound that rose and fell,
A clamour vague that ominous did swell.
As thus they stood, well hidden from the road,
Footsteps they heard of feet that briskly strode.
And, through the leaves, a small man they espied,
Who came apace, a great sword by his side.
Large bascinet upon his head he bore,
'Neath which his face a scowl portentous wore;
While after toiled a stout but reverend friar
Who, scant of breath, profusely did perspire
And, thus perspiring, panted sad complaints
Thus--on the heat, his comrade and the Saints.
“O Bax, O Bax! Saint Cuthbert aid me now!
O Bax, see how to sweat thou'st made me now!
Thy speed abate! O sweet Saint Dominic!
Why pliest thou thy puny shanks so quick;
O day! O Bax! O hot, sulphurous day,
My flesh betwixt ye melteth fast away.
Come, sit ye, Bax, in shade of yon sweet tree,
And, sitting soft, I'll sagely counsel thee.”
“Not so, in faith,” the small man, scowling, said,
“What use for counsel since the cause be fled?
And since she's fled--Saints succour us!” he cried;
As 'mid the leaves all suddenly he spied
Sir Pertinax in his unlovely trim,
His rusty mail, his aspect swart and grim--
“Ha!” gasped the little man, “we are beset!”
And starting back, off fell his bascinet.
Whereat he fiercely did but scowl the more,
And strove amain his ponderous sword to draw.
“Hence, dog!” he cried, “lest, with my swashing blow,
I make thee food for carrion kite and crow.”
But in swift hands Sir Pertinax fast caught him
And, bearing him on high, to Joc'lyn brought him,
Who, while the captive small strove vain aloft
Reproved him thus in accents sweet and soft:
“Right puissant and potential sir, we do beseech thee check thy ferocity,
quell now thy so great anger and swear not to give our flesh for fowls to
tear, so shalt thou come down to earth and stand again upon thine own two
legs. And thou, most reverend friar, invoke now thy bloody-minded comrade
that he swear to harm us not!”
The stout friar seated himself hard by beneath a tree, mopped moist brow,
fetched his wind and smiled.
“Sir Fool,” said he, “I am thy security that thou and thy brawny gossip
need quake and tremble nothing by reason of this Bax, our valiant reeve--he
shall harm ye no whit.” Here, meeting Jocelyn's eye, Sir Pertinax set
down the small Reeve, who having taken up and put on his great bascinet,
scowled, whereupon Duke Jocelyn questioned him full meek:
“Good master Reeve, of your courtesy pray you tell us why yon bells do ring
so wild alarm.”
The small Reeve viewed him with disdainful eye;
Sniffed haughty nose and proudly made reply:
'Our bells we ring and clamour make, because
We've lost our lady fair of Tissingors.
Our Duchess Benedicta hath this day
From all her worthy guardians stole away.
Thus we for her do inquisition make,
Nor, 'till she's found, may hope our rest to take,
And thus we cause such outcry as we may,
Since we lose not our Duchess ev'ry day.
So then we'd have ye speak us--aye or no,
Saw ye our errant lady this way go?
And, that ye may her know for whom we seek,
Her just description fully I will speak:
Her hair night-black, her eyes the self-same hue,
Her habit brown, unless 't were red or blue,
And if not blue why then mayhap 'tis green,
Since she by turns of all such hues is seen--”
“Stay, sir,” quoth Jocelyn, “'tis plain to see
No maid but a chameleon is she,
For here we have her brown and green and blue,
And if not brown then rosy is her hue,
And, if not red, why then 'tis very plain
That brown she is or blue or green again.
Now fain, sir, would I ask and question whether
She e'er is seen these colours all together?
“O fain would I a lady spy,
By countryside or town,
Who may be seen all blue and green,
Unless she's red or brown.”
But now, while fierce the little man did scowl,
The rosy Friar, sly-smiling 'neath his cowl,
His visage meek, spake thus in dulcet tone:
“Sir Fool, our Reeve is something mixed, I'll own,
Though he by divers colours is bemused,
Learn ye this truth, so shall he stand excused:
Our Duchess Benedicta, be it known,
Hath this day from her several guardians flown.
Ten worthy men her several guardians be,
Of whom the chief and worthiest ye see,
As first--myself, a friar of some report,
Well-known, methinks, in country, town and court.
Who as all men can unto all men speak,
Well read beside in Latin and in Greek,
A humble soul albeit goodly preacher,
One apt to learn and therefore learned teacher,
One who can laugh betimes, betimes can pray,
Who'll colic cure or on the bagpipe play.
Who'll sing--”
“Stay!” cried the Reeve. “Friar, what o'me?”
“Patience, O Bax, too soon I'll come to thee!
Who'll sing ye then blithe as a bird on bough--”
“Friar!” growled the Reeve, “the time for me is now!”
“So be it, then,” the Friar did gently say,
“I'll speak of thee as truly as I may:
Here then behold our port-reeve, Greg'ry Bax,
Who, save for reason, naught in reason lacks,
Who, though he small and puny seems to shew,
In speech he is Goliath-like, I trow,
Chief Councillor of Tissingors is he,
And of the council second but--to me.
For with the townsfolk first of all come I--”
REEVE: Since thy fat finger is in every pie--
“Saving your reverend grace,” Duke Joc'lyn said,
“What of this maid that turneth green and red?”
REEVE: Fool, then learn this, ere that our lord duke died,
Ten guardians for his child he did provide,
The Friar and I, with men of lesser fame,
Co-guardians are of this right puissant dame.
JOCELYN: Beseech ye, sir, now tell us an' ye may,
Why hath thy youthful Duchess run away?
“Fair Fool,” quoth the Friar, fanning himself with a frond of bracken,
“'tis a hot day, a day reminiscent of the ultimate fate of graceless
sinners, and I am like the day and languish for breath, yet, to thy so
pertinent question I will, straightly and in few words, pronounce and
answer thee, as followeth: Our Lady Benedicta hath run away firstly,
brethren, for that being formed woman after Nature's goodly plan she hath
the wherewithal to walk, to leap, to skip or eke to run, as viz.: item and
to wit--legs. Secondly, inquisitorial brethren, she ran for an excellent
good reason--as observe--there was none to let or stay her. And thirdly,
gentle and eager hearers, she did flit or fly, leave, vacate, or depart
our goodly town of Tissingors for that she had--mark me--no mind to stay,
remain or abide therein. And this for the following express, rare and most
curious reason as--mark now--in a word--”
“Hold--hold, Friar John!” exclaimed the Reeve; “here sit ye here
a-sermonising, venting words a-many what time our vanished Duchess fleeth.
Knew I not the contrary I should say thou didst countenance her flight and
spent thyself in wordy-wind wherewith to aid her!”
Now here, chancing to meet Duke Jocelyn's shrewd gaze, Friar John slowly
and ponderously winked one round, bright eye.
Quoth he:
“Hark to our valiant port-reeve Greg'ry Bax
Who, save for reason, nought of reason lacks!”
“Howbeit,” fumed the Reeve, stamping in the dust, “here sit ye at thy
full-bodied ease, fanning flies and animadverting--”
“Animadverting!” nodded Friar John. “A good word, Reeve, a fair, sweet
word; in verity a word full-bodied as I, wherefore it liketh me well. So
sit I here animadverting whiles thou kicketh up a dust in fashion foolish
and un-reeve-like.”
“A plague o' words!” cried the Reeve. “A pest o' wind! Enough--enough,
contain thy prolixities and rodomontade and let me to the point explain--”
“Aha!” quoth the Friar. “Good sooth, here's a noble word! A word round
i' the mouth, rolling upon the tongue. Ha, Reeve, I give thee joy of
rodomontade!”
“Thus then,” continued the Reeve, “I will, with use of no verbiage
circumlocutory, explain.”
“Ho-oho!” cried Friar John, rubbing plump hands ecstatic. “Good Bax, ne'er
have I heard thee to so great advantage--verbiage circumlocutory--and
thou--thou such small man to boot! O most excellent, puny Reeve!”
Here the little man turned his back upon the Friar and continued hastily
thus:
“A lord there is, a lord of lofty pride,
Who for our lady oft hath sued and sighed--”
FRIAR JOHN: Whom she as oft hath scornfully denied!
THE REEVE: A mighty lord who seeketh her to wife--
FRIAR JOHN: Though he, 'tis said, doth lead most evil life!
THE REEVE: To which fair lord our wilful maid we'd wed--
FRIAR JOHN: Since this fair lord the council holds in dread!
THE REEVE: But she, defying us, this very day
Like wicked thief hath stole herself away.
Thus this poor lord such deeps of gloom is in
Vows he'll not wash, nor shave again his chin
Till found is she: He groaneth, sheddeth tears--
THE FRIAR: And swears her guardians ten shall lose their ears!
THE REEVE: Wherefore are we in mighty perturbation,
Amazed, distraught and filled with consternation.
Thus do our bells ring out their wild alarms,
Our civic bands do muster under arms;
Drums shall be drummed the countryside around,
Until our truant Duchess we have found,
And we have wed this most elusive dame
Unto Sir Agramore of Biename.
THE FRIAR: And yield her thus to woes and bitter shame!
THE REEVE: So speak me, fellows; as ye came this way
Saw ye aught of this wilful, errant may?
Answered JOCELYN: “Neither to-day nor any other day.”
“Why then,” fumed the Reeve, “here have we been at great expense o' breath
and time and all to no purpose. Come, Friar, beseech thee, let us haste to
begone.”
So Friar John got slowly to his feet
Complaining loud of hurry and of heat,
But paused behind the hasteful Reeve to linger,
And to plump nose he slyly laid plump finger.
Now stood Sir Pertinax thoughtful, chin on fist, insomuch that Jocelyn,
thrumming his lute, questioned him:
“Good Pertinax, how now
What pond'rest thou
With furrowed brow?
Thy care, Sir Knight, avow!”
Saith Pertinax: “I meditate the way wondrous of woman, the frowardness of
creatures feminine. For mark me, sir, here is one hath guardians ten, yet
despite them she is fled away and they ten!”
“Why truly, Pertinax, they are ten, so is she fled.”
“Aye, but if they be ten that ward her and she one that would flee, how
shall this one flee these ten?”
“For that they be ten.”
“Nay, lord, here be twenty eyes to watch one young maid and twenty legs to
pursue the same, yet doth she evade them one and all, and here's the wonder
on't--she's but one maid.”
“Nay, there's the reason on't, Pertinax--she is a maid.”
“The which is great matter for wonder, lord!”
“Spoke like a very Pertinax, my Pertinax, for here's no wonder at all. For
perceive, the lady is young, her wardens ten grave seniors, worthy wights
--solemn, sober and sedate, Pertinax, wise and wearisome, grave yet
garrulous, and therefore they suffice not.”
“Aye, prithee and wherefore not?”
“For their divers worthy attributes and because they be--ten. Now had these
ten been one and this one a very man--_the_ man--here had been no running
away on part of the lady, I 'll warrant me?”
“Stay, my lord,” said Pertinax, in deep perplexity, “how judge ye so--and
wherefore--why and by what manner o' reasoning?”
“Ha, Pertinax!” laughed the Duke, “my lovely, loveless numskull!” So
saying, he kicked the good Knight full joyously and so they trudged on
again.
Till presently, beyond the green of trees,
They saw afar the town of Canalise,
A city fair, couched on a gentle height,
With walls embattled and strong towers bedight.
Now seeing that the sun was getting low,
Our travellers at quicker pace did go.
Thus as in haste near to the gate they came,
Before them limped a bent and hag-like dame,
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It beak-like wished to peck sharp chin below.
Humbly she crept in cloak all torn and rent,
And o'er a staff her tottering limbs were bent.
So came she to the gate, then cried in fear,
And started back from sudden-levelled spear;
For 'neath the gate lounged lusty fellows three
Who seldom spake yet spat right frequently.
“Kind sirs, good sirs,” the ancient dame did cry,
“In mercy's name I pray ye let me by--”
But, as she spoke, a black-jowled fellow laughed,
And, spitting, tripped her with out-thrust pike-shaft,
That down she fell and wailed most piteously,
Whereat the brawny fellows laughed all three.
“Ha, witch!” they cried, as thus she helpless lay,
“Shalt know the fire and roasted be one day!”
Now as the aged creature wailed and wept,
Forth to her side Duke Joc'lyn lightly stepped,
With quarter-staff a-twirl he blithely came.
Quoth he: “Messires, harm not this ancient dame,
Bethink ye how e'en old and weak as she,
Your wives and mothers all must one day be.
So here then lies your mother, and 't were meeter
As ye are sons that as sons ye entreat her.
Come, let her by and, fool-like to requite ye,
With merry jape and quip I will delight ye,
Or with sweet song I 'll charm those ass's ears,
And melt, belike, those bullish hearts to tears--”
Now the chief warder, big and black of jowl,
Upon the Duke most scurvily did scowl.
“How now,” quoth he, “we want no fool's-heads here--”
“Sooth,” laughed the Duke, “you're fools enow 't is clear,
Yet there be fools and fools, ye must allow,
Gay fools as I and surly fools--as thou.”
“Ha, look 'ee, Fool, Black Lewin e'en am I,
And, by my head, an ill man to defy.
Now, motley rogue, wilt call me fool?” he roared,
And roaring fierce, clapped hairy fist on sword.
“Aye, that will I,” Duke Joc'lyn soft replied,
And black-avised, swart, knavish rogue beside.”
But now, while thus our ducal jester spoke,
Black Lewin sprang and fetched him such a stroke
That Jocelyn saw flash before his eyes,
More stars that e'er he'd noticed in the skies.
Whereat Sir Pertinax did gaping stare,
Then ground his teeth and mighty oaths did swear,
And in an instant bared his trusty blade,
But then the Duke his fiery onslaught stayed.
“Ha!” cried the Knight, “and wilt thou smitten be
By such base knave, such filthy rogue as he?”
“Nay,” smiled the Duke, “stand back and watch, good brother,
A Rogue and Fool at buffets with each other.”
And speaking thus, he leapt on Black Lewin,
And smote him twice full hard upon the chin,
Two goodly blows upon that big, black jowl,
Whereat Black Lewin lustily did howl
And falling back, his polished bascinet
With ringing clash the cold, hard flagstones met.
Whereat his fellows, shouting fierce alarms,
Incontinent betook them to their arms;
And thus it seemed a fight there must have been
But that a horseman sudden spurred between--
A blue-eyed youth with yellow, curling hair,
Of slender shape, of face and feature fair,
A dainty knight was he in very truth,
A blue-eyed, merry, laughter-loving youth.
“Ha, knaves, what do ye with the Fool?” lisped he,
“Wilt strike a motley, dogs--a Fool? Let be!
Though faith, 't would seem, Sir Fool, thou hast a fist
That surly Lewin to his dole hath kissed.
If it can strum thy lute but half as well,
Then gestours all methinks thou should'st excel--
Ye rogues, pass Folly in, no man shall say
That from our town we folly turned away.
Come, follow, Fool, into the market-square,
And give us earnest of thy foolish ware.”
Now it was market day, and within the goodly square were people come from
near and far, a notable concourse, country folk and folk of the town,
farmers and merchants, rustic maids, fair ladies, knights and esquires on
horseback or a-foot, but who, hearing the jingle of the Duke's tinkling
bells, seeing his flaunting cock's-comb, with one accord gathered to him
from every quarter:
For when this long-legged gestour they espied,
They, laughing, hemmed him in on every side,
And, “See, a Fool! A Fool! The Fool must sing,”
And “Fool! A Fool!” upon the air did ring,
Wherefore the Duke betook him to his lute,
And strummed until the chattering crowd was mute.
Then while all folk did hold their peace to hear,
In golden voice he sang, full rich and clear:
“'A fool! A fool!' ye cry,
A fool forsooth am I.
But tell me, wise ones, if ye can,
Where shall ye find a happy man?
Lived there one since the world began?
Come, answer ye
To me!
“'What of the king?' says you.
Says I to you--'Go to!
A king despite his crown and throne,
Hath divers troubles all his own.
Such woes, methinks, as are unknown
To such as ye,
Or me!'
“'Ha, then--the rich!' ye cry,
'Not so in truth,' says I.
'The rich man's gold is load of care,
That day and night he needs must bear;
Less care he'd know if poor he were,
As poor as ye,
Or me!'
“For, sirs, as I do guess
This thing called 'Happiness'
Man leaveth with his youth behind;
So keep ye all a youthful mind,
Thus happiness ye all shall find
If wit have ye,
Like me!
“O list ye, great and small,
Proud knight, free man and thrall,
True happiness, since life began,
The birthright is of every man;
Seize then your birthright if ye can,
Since men are ye--
Like me!
“Thus I forsooth, a Fool,
Do now ye wise ones school;
Since of my folly, full and free,
I wisely thus admonish ye,
Be wise--or eke fools learn to be
In verity--
Like me!”
Now when the song was ended some there were who laughed and some looked
grave, some talked amain and some wagged solemn heads, while many a good
coin rang heartily at Duke Jocelyn's feet; smiling, he bade Sir Pertinax
take them up, joying to see the proud Knight stooping thus to pouch the
money like any beggar. But now, when he would fain have gone his way into
the town, the people would by no means suffer it and clamoured amain on
all sides, insistent for more; wherefore, lifting his scarred face to the
sunset sky, Duke Jocelyn sang as here followeth:
“When man is born he doth begin
With right good will, to daily sin,
And little careth.
But when his grave he thinketh near,
Then grave he groweth in his fear
And sin forsweareth.
“This life that man doth cherish so,
Is wondrous frail and quick to go,
Nor will it stay.
Yet where's the man that will not give
All that he hath so he might live
Another day.
“Fain would I know the reason why
All men so fearful are to die
And upward go?
Since Death all woes and ills doth end,
Sure Death, methinks, should be a friend,
Not hated foe.
“So when Death come, as come he must,
Grieve not that we this sorry dust
Do leave behind.
For when this fleeting life be run,
By Death we all of us--each one,
True life shall find.”
Now while he sang melodious and clear
Amid the throng that closer pressed to hear,
Duke Joc'lyn of a sudden did espy
The “wherefore” of his coming and the “why.”
Yolande herself he, singing, did behold,
Her eyes, red lips, her hair of ruddy gold;
And all her warm and glowing loveliness
Did sudden thus his raptured vision bless;
While she, in gracious ease, her horse did sit
That pawed round hoof and champed upon his bit,
Arching proud neck as if indeed he were
Proud of the lovely burden he did bear.
As Joc'lyn gazed upon her thus, she seemed
A thousand times more fair than he had dreamed.
Now while he sang, she viewed him, gentle-eyed,
And quite forgot the gallant by her side,
A tall, dark-featured, comely lord was he,
With chin full square and eyes of mastery,
Who, when the Duke made of his song an end
Did from his saddle o'er Yolanda bend.
With eyes on her warm beauty he stooped near
To touch white hand and whisper in her ear;
Whereat she laughed and frowned with cheek flushed red
Then, frowning still, she turned her horse's head,
And rode away with dame and squire and knight,
Till lost she was to Joc'lyn's ravished sight.
“Ha, lord!” quoth Sir Pertinax, as they came within a quiet thoroughfare,
“this lady is grown more fair since last we saw her Queen of Beauty at
Melloc joust, concerning whom Fame, in troth, doth breed a just report for
once. But, messire, didst mark him beside her--with touch o' hand, lord,
whispers i' the ear--didst mark this wolf, this Seneschal, this thrice
accurst Sir Gui?”
“Aye, forsooth,” answered the Duke, “but thou'rt an hungered, methinks?”
“To touch her hand, lord--aha! To whisper in her ear, lord--oho! A right
puissant lord, Seneschal of Raddemore, Lord of Thorn and Knight of Ells! A
lord of puissance and power potential.”
“And thou, my Pertinax, art but a hungry Knight, that trampeth with a
hungry Fool, wherefore let us forthwith--”
“Aye, but mark me, lord, if this puissant lord with pomp and high estate
doth woo the lady--”
“So then, my Pertinax, will I woo this lady also.”
“How, in this thy foolish guise?”
“Aye, forsooth.”
“Why, then, thou art like to be whipped for froward Fool and I for ragged
rogue, and this our adventure brought to ill and woeful end--so here now is
folly, lord, indeed!”
“Aye, forsooth!” smiled the Duke,
“Whereto these bells give heed.
But come, amend thy speed,
Methinks thy fasting-need
These gloomy vapours breed.
Thy inner man doth plead
Good beef with ale or mead
Wherein, thou Fool decreed,
I am right well agreed
'T were goodly thing to feed,
Nor will I thee impede,
So follow Folly's lead
And food-wards we'll proceed.”
FYTTE 2
How Pertinax mine host's large ears did wring,
And Jocelyn of these same ears did sing.
Now the town was full, and every inn a-throng with company--lords, both
great and small, knights and esquires and their several followings, as
archers, men-at-arms, and the like, all thither come from far and near
to joust at the great tournament soon to be, to honour the birthday of
Benedicta, Duchess of Tissingors, Ambremont, and divers other fair cities,
towns and villages. Thus our travellers sought lodgment in vain, whereat
Sir Pertinax cursed beneath his breath, and Duke Jocelyn hummed, as was
each his wont and custom; and ever the grim Knight's anger grew.
Until, at last, an humble inn they saw--
A sorry place, with bush above the door.
This evil place they straightway entered in,
Where riot reigned, the wild, unlovely din
Of archers, men-at-arms, and rogues yet worse,
Who drank and sang, whiles some did fight and curse.
An evil place indeed, a lawless crew,
And landlord, like his inn, looked evil too:
Small was his nose, small were his pig-like eyes,
But ears had he of most prodigious size,
A brawny rogue, thick-jowled and beetle-browed,
Who, spying out our strangers 'mid the crowd,
Beholding them in humble, mean array,
With gestures fierce did order them away.
“Nay,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “here will we bide,
Here will we eat and drink and sleep beside.
Go, bring us beef, dost hear? And therewith mead,
And, when we've ate, good beds and clean we 'll need.”
“Ho!” cried the host. “Naught unto ye I'll bring
Until yon Fool shall caper first and sing!”
Said Jocelyn: “I'll sing when I have fed!”
“And then,” quoth Pertinax, “we will to bed!”
“And wilt thou so?” the surly host replied;
“No beds for likes o' ye do I provide.
An' ye will sleep, knave, to the stable go,
The straw is good enough for ye, I trow.”
“Ha!” roared Sir Pertinax. “A stable? Straw?
This to me, thou filthy clapper-claw,
Thou fly-blown cod's-head, thou pestiferous thing!”
And, roaring, on the brawny host did spring;
By his large ears Sir Pertinax did take him,
And to and fro, and up and down, did shake him;
He shook him quick and slow, from side to side,
While loud for aid the shaken landlord cried.
Whereat the vicious crowd, in sudden wrath,
Shouted and cursed and plucked their daggers forth.
But, ere to harm our bold Knight they were able,
Duke Joc'lyn lightly sprang on massy table;
Cock's-comb a-flaunt and silver bells a-ring,
He laughing stood and gaily plucked lute-string,
And cut an antic with such merry grace
That angry shouts to laughter loud gave place.
Thereafter he sang as followeth:
“Bold bawcocks, brave, bibulous, babbling boys,
Tall tosspots, come, temper this tumult and noise;
So shall I sing sweetly such songs as shall sure
Constrain carking care and contumacy cure.
Thus, therefore--”
But here the surly landlord raised much clamour and outcry, whiles he
touched and caressed his great ears with rare gentleness.
“Oho, my yeres!” roared he. “My yeres do be in woeful estate. Oho, what o'
yon fierce-fingered rogue, good fellows, what o' yon knave--'a did twist my
yeres plaguily and wring 'em roguishly, 'a did! Shall 'a not be beaten and
drubbed out into the kennel, ha? What o' poor Nykins' yeres, says I--my
yeres, oho!”
“Thine ears, unsavoury scullion,” laughed Jocelyn; “thine ears, forsooth?
Hark ye, of thy so great, so fair, so fine ears I'll incontinent make a
song. List ye, one and all, so shall all here now hear my song of ears!”
Forthwith Duke Jocelyn struck his lute and sang:
“Thine ears, in sooth, are long ears,
Stout ears, in truth, and strong ears,
Full ears, I trow, and fair ears,
Round ears also and rare ears.
So here's an ear that all eyes here
Shall see no beauty in, 'tis clear.
For these o' thine be such ears,
Large, loose, and over-much ears,
Ears that do make fingers itch,
Ears to twist and ears to twitch.
If thine ears had gone unseen,
Pulled forsooth they had not been;
Yet, since pulled indeed they were,
Thine ears plain the blame must bear.
So of thine ears no more complain,
Lest that thine ears be pulled again.
So hide thine ears as best ye may,
Of which same ears, to end, I say
Thine ears indeed be like my song,
Of none account, yet over long!”
Now hereupon was huge laughter and merriment, insomuch that the
thick-jowled landlord betook himself otherwhere, and all men thronged upon
our jester, vociferous for more.
“Aye, but, bold tosspots,” laughed Jocelyn, “how now, sit ye without wine
in very truth?”
“Not so, good Fool,” they cried. “Here be wine a-plenty for us and for
thee!”
“Go to, tall topers,” quoth the Duke, “ye are witless, in faith, for there
is no man here but is without wine, as in song will I shew--mark now:
“'Tis plain that ye are wine without,
Since wine's within ye, topers stout.
Without your wine, ye whineful show,
Thus wine-full, wine without ye go.
Being then without your wine, 'tis true,
Wine-less, ye still are wine-full too.
But, mark! As thus ye wine-full sit,
Since wine's within, out goeth wit.
Thus, truth to tell, tall topers stout,
Both wine and wit ye go without!”
By such tricks of rhyme, jugglery of words, and the like, Duke Jocelyn won
this fierce company to great good humour and delight; insomuch that divers
of these roysterers pressed wine upon him and money galore. But, the hour
growing late, he contrived at last to steal away with Sir Pertinax, which
last, having fed copiously, now yawned consumedly, eager for bed. Howbeit,
despite the Knight's fierce threats, they found no bed was to be had in
all the inn, and so, perforce, betook them at last to the stable.
There, while our Knight cursed softly, though full deep,
Soon in the straw our Duke fell fast asleep.
My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:
GILL: O, father, dear, I greatly fear
You 'll never be a poet!
MYSELF: Don't be too hard upon the bard,
I know it, girl, I know it!
These last two lines, I quite agree,
Might easily much better be.
Though, on the whole, I think my verse,
When all is said, might be much worse.
GILL: Worse, father? Yes, perhaps you're right,
Upon the whole--perhaps, it might.
MYSELF: But hark now, miss! Attend to this!
Poetic flights I do not fly;
When I begin, like poor Lobkyn,
I merely rhyme and versify.
Since my shortcomings I avow,
The story now, you must allow,
Trips lightly and in happy vein?
GILL: O, yes, father, though it is rather
Like some parts of your “Beltane.”
MYSELF: How, child! Dare you accuse your sire
Of plagiary--that sin most dire?
And if I do, small blame there lies;
It is myself I plagiarise.
GILL: Why, yes, of course! And, as you know.
I always loved your “Beltane” so.
MYSELF: But don't you like the “geste” I'm writing?
GILL: Of course! It's getting most exciting,
In spite of all the rhymes and stuff--
MYSELF: Stuff?
Enough!
My daughter, you're so sweetly frank.
Henceforth my verses shall be blank.
No other rhyme I'll rhyme for you
Till you politely beg me to.
Now then, your blank-verse doom you know,
Hey, presto, and away we go!
FYTTE 3
Tell'th how Duke Jocelyn of love did sing,
And haughty knight in lily-pool did fling.
Upon a morn, when dewy flowers fresh-waked
Filled the glad air with perfume languorous,
And piping birds a pretty tumult made,
Thrilling the day with blended ecstasy;
When dew in grass did light a thousand fires,
And gemmed the green in flashing bravery--
Forth of her bower the fair Yolanda came,
Fresh as the morn and, like the morning, young,
Who, as she breathed the soft and fragrant air,
Felt her white flesh a-thrill with joyous life,
And heart that leapt responsive to the joy.
Vivid with life she trod the flowery ways,
Dreaming awhile of love and love and love;
Unknowing all of eyes that watched unseen,
Viewing her body's gracious loveliness:
Her scarlet mouth, her deep and dreamful eyes,
The glowing splendour of her sun-kissed hair,
Which in thick braids o'er rounded bosom fell
Past slender waist by jewelled girdle bound.
So stood Duke Jocelyn amid the leaves,
And marked how, as she walked, her silken gown
Did cling her round in soft embrace, as though
Itself had sense and wit enough to love her.
Entranced he stood, bound by her beauty's spell,
Whereby it seemed he did in her behold
The beauty of all fair and beauteous things.
Now leaned she o'er a pool where lilies pale
Oped their shy beauties to the gladsome day,
Yet in their beauty none of them so fair
As that fair face the swooning waters held.
And as, glad-eyed, she viewed her loveliness,
She fell to singing, soft and low and sweet,
Clear and full-throated as a piping merle,
And this the manner of her singing was:
“What is love? Ah, who shall say?
Flower to languish in a day,
Bird on wing that will away.
Love, I do defy thee!
“What is love? A toy so vain
'T is but found to lose again,
Painful sweet and sweetest pain;
Ah, love, come not nigh me.
“But, love, an thou com'st to me,
Wert thou as I'd have thee be,
Welcome sweet I'd make for thee,
And weary of thee never.
“If with thy heart thou could'st endure,
If thou wert strong and thou wert sure,
A master now, and now a wooer,
Thy slave I'd be for ever.”
Thus sang she sweet beside the lily-pool,
Unknowing any might her singing hear,
When rose another voice, so rich, so full
As thrilled her into rapt and pleasing wonder;
And as she hearkened to these deep-sung words,
She flushed anon and dimpled to a smile:
“What is love? 'Tis this, I say,
Flower that springeth in a day,
Bird of joy to sing alway,
Deep in the heart of me.
“What is love? A joyous pain
That I ne'er may lose again,
Since for ever I am fain
To think and dream of thee.”
Now hasted she to part the leafy screen,
And one in motley habit thus beheld.
But when 'neath flaunting cock's-comb she did mark
His blemished face, she backward from him drew
And caught her breath, and yet upon him gazed
'Neath wrinkled brow, the while Duke Jocelyn
Read the expected horror in her eyes:
Wherefore he bowed his head upon his breast
And plucked at belt with sudden, nervous hand
As, cold and proud and high, she questioned him:
“What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show
A visage that might shame the gladsome day?”
Whereto he answered, low and humble-wise:
“A Fool! The very fool of fools am I--
A Fool that fain would pluck the sun from heaven.”
“Begone!” she sighed. “Thy look doth make me cold,
E'en as I stand thus i' the kindly sun.
Yet, an thou 'rt poor as thy mean habit speaks thee,
Take first this dole for tender Jesu's sake.”
Then answered Jocelyn on lowly knee:
“For thy sweet bounty I do thank thee well,
But, in good sooth, so great a fool am I,
'Stead of thy gold I rather would possess
Yon happy flower that in thy bosom bloometh.
Give me but this and richer fool am I
Than any knight-like fool that coucheth lance--
Greater I than any lord soever,
Aye--e'en Duke Jocelyn of Brocelaunde.”
Smiled now Yolande with rosy lip up-curving,
While in soft cheek a roguish dimple played.
Quoth she: “Duke Jocelyn, I've heard it said,
Is great and rich, a mighty man-at-arms,
And thou but sorry Fool in mean array,
Yet”--from white fingers she let fall the flower--
“Be thou, Fool, greater than this mighty Duke!
And now, since mighty Fool and rich I've made thee,
In quittance I would win of thee a song.”
Now sat Yolande, white chin on dimpled fist,
Viewing him o'er with cruel, maiden-eyes,
So swift to heed each outward mark and blemish
(Since maids be apt to sly disparagement,
And scorn of all that seems un-beautiful)
While he did lean him by the marble rim,
His wistful gaze down-bent upon the pool,
Feeling her look and knowing while she looked:
What time he touched his lute with fingers skilled,
And so fell singing, wonder-low and sweet:
“Though foul and harsh of face am I,
Lady fair--O lady!
Fair thoughts within my heart may lie,
As flowers that bloom unseen to die,
Lady fair--O lady!
“Though this my hateful face may fright thee,
Lady fair--O list!
My folly mayhap shall delight thee,
A song of fools I will recite thee,
Lady fair--O list!”
Herewith he sighed amain, but smiled anon,
And fell anon to blither, louder note:
“Sing hey, Folly--Folly ho,
And here's a song of Folly,
All 'neath the sun,
Will gladly run
Away from Melancholy.
“And Fool, forsooth, a Fool am I,
Well learned in foolish lore:
For I can sing ye, laugh or sigh:
Can any man do more?
Hey, Folly--Folly, ho!
'Gainst sadness bar the door.
“A Fool am I, yet by fair leave,
Poor Fools have hearts to feel.
Poor Fools, like other fools, may grieve
If they their woes conceal.
Hither, Folly--Folly, ho!
All Fools to Folly kneel.
“What though a Fool be melancholy,
Sick, sick at heart--heigho!
Pain must he hide 'neath laughing Folly,
What Fool should heed his woe!
Hither, Folly--Folly, ho!
Fool must unpitied go.
“E'en though a Fool should fondly woo,
E'en though his love be high,
Poor Folly's fool must wear the rue,
Proud love doth pass him by.
Heigho, Folly--Folly, ho!
Poor Fool may love--and die.
“Though Wisdom should in motley go,
And fools the wise man ape;
Who is there that shall Wisdom know
Beneath a 'scalloped cape?
Heigho, Folly--Folly, ho!
Life is but sorry jape.
“So, hey, Folly--Folly, ho!
And here's a song o' Folly,
All 'neath the sun
Do gladly run
Away from Melancholy.”
The singing done, she viewed him kinder-eyed,
Till eyes met eyes--when she did pout and frown,
And chid him that his song was something sad,
And vowed so strange a Fool was never seen.
Then did she question him in idle wise
As, who he was and whence he came and why?
Whereto the Duke--
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL:
Dear father, if you're in the vein,
I'd like a little rhyme again;
For blank verse is so hard to read,
And yours is very blank indeed!
MYSELF:
Girl, when blank verse I write for thee,
I write it blank as blank can be.
Stay, I'll declare (no poet franker)
No blank verse, Gill, was ever blanker.
But:
Since, with your sex's sweet inconstancy,
Rhymes now you wish, rhymes now I'll
rhyme for thee:
As thus, my dear--
Give ear:
Whereto the Duke did instant make reply:
“Sweet lady, since you question me,
Full blithely I will answer thee;
And, since you fain would merry be,
I'll sing and rhyme it merrily:
“Since Mirth's my trade and follies fond,
Methinks a fair name were Joconde;
And for thy sake
I travail make
Through briar and brake,
O'er fen and lake,
The Southward March beyond.
“For I an embassage do bear,
Now unto thee, Yolande the fair,
Which embassy,
Now unto thee,
Right soothfully,
And truthfully,
Most full, most free,
Explicit I 'll declare.
“Thus: videlicit and to wit,
Sith now thou art to wedlock fit--
Both day and night
In dark, in light
A worthy knight,
A lord of might,
In his own right,
Duke Joc'lyn hight
To thine his heart would knit.
“But, since the Duke may not come to thee,
I, in his stead, will humbly sue thee;
His love each day
I will portray
As best I may;
I'll sue, I'll pray,
I'll sing, I'll play,
Now grave, now gay,
And in this way,
I for the Duke will woo thee.”
Now, fair Yolanda gazed with wide-oped eyes,
And checked sweet breath for wonder and surprise;
Then laughed full blithe and yet, anon, did frown,
And with slim fingers plucked at purfled gown:
“And is it thou--a sorry Fool,” she cried.
“Art sent to win this mighty Duke a bride?”
“E'en so!” quoth he. “Whereof I token bring;
Behold, fair maid, Duke Joc'lyn's signet ring.”
“Heaven's love!” she cried. “And can it truly be
The Duke doth send a mountebank like thee,
A Fool that hath nor likelihood nor grace
From worn-out shoon unto thy blemished face--
A face so scarred--so hateful that meseems
At night 't will haunt and fright me with ill dreams;
A slave so base--”
“E'en so!” Duke Joc'lyn sighed,
And his marred visage 'neath his hood did hide.
“But, though my motley hath thy pride distressed,
I am the Fool Duke Joc'lyn loveth best.
And--ah, my lady, thou shalt never see
In all this world a Fool the like of me!”
Thus spake the Duke, and then awhile stood mute,
And idly struck sweet chords upon his lute,
Watching Yolande's fair, frowning face the while,
With eyes that held a roguish, wistful smile.
She, meeting now these eyes of laughing blue,
Felt her cheeks burn, and sudden angry grew.
So up she rose in proud and stately fashion,
And stamped slim foot at him in sudden passion;
And vowed that of Duke Joc'lyn she cared naught;
That if he'd woo, by him she must be sought;
Vowed if he wooed his wooing should be vain,
And, as he came, he back should go again.
“For, since the Duke,” she cried, “dare send to me
A sorry wight, a very Fool like thee,
By thy Fool's mouth I bid thee to him say,
He ne'er shall win me, woo he as he may;
Say that I know him not--”
“Yet,” spake Duke Joc'lyn soft,
“E'er this, methinks, thou'st seen my lord full oft.
When at the joust thou wert fair Beauty's queen
Duke Joc'lyn by thy hand oft crowned hath been.”
“True, Fool,” she answered, 'twixt a smile and frown,
“I've seen him oft, but with his vizor down.
And verily he is a doughty knight,
But wherefore doth he hide his face from sight?”
“His face?” quoth Joc'lyn with a gloomy look,
“His face, alack!” And here his head he shook;
“His face, ah me!” And here Duke Joc'lyn sighed,
“His face--” “What of his face?” Yolanda cried.
“A mercy's name, speak--speak and do not fail.”
“Lady,” sighed Joc'lyn, “thereby hangs a tale,
The which, though strange it sound, is verity,
That here and now I will relate to thee--
'T is ditty dire of dismal doating dames,
A lay of love-lorn, loveless languishment,
And ardent, amorous, anxious anguishment,
Full-fed forsooth of fierce and fiery flames;
So hark,
And mark:
In Brocelaunde not long ago,
Was born Duke Jocelyn. I trow
Not all the world a babe could show,
A babe so near divine:
For, truth to tell,
He waxed so well,
So fair o' face,
So gay o' grace,
That people all,
Both great and small,
Where'er he went,
In wonderment
Would stare and stare
To see how fair
A lad was Jocelyn.
And when to man's estate he came,
Alack, fair lady, 't was the same!
And many a lovely, love-lorn dame
Would pitiful pant and pine.
These doleful dames
Felt forceful flames,
The old, the grey,
The young and gay,
Both dark and fair
Would rend their hair,
And sigh and weep
And seldom sleep;
And dames long wed
From spouses fled
For love of Jocelyn.
Therefore the Duke an oath did take
By one, by two, by three,
That for these love-lorn ladies' sake
No maid his face should see.
And thus it is, where'er he rideth
His love-begetting face he hideth.”
Now laughed Yolande, her scorn forgotten quite,
“Alas!” she cried. “Poor Duke! O woeful plight!
And yet, O Fool, good Fool, full fain am I,
This ducal, love-begetting face to spy--”
Quoth Joc'lyn: “Then, my lady, prithee, look!”
And from his bosom he a picture took.
“Since this poor face of mine doth so affright thee
Here's one of paint that mayhap shall delight thee.
Take it, Yolande, for thee the craftsmen wrought it,
For thee I from Duke Jocelyn have brought it.
If day and night thou 'lt wear it, fair Yolande,”
And speaking thus, he gave it to her hand.
Its golden frame full many a jewel bore,
But 't was the face, the face alone she saw.
And viewing it, Yolanda did behold
A manly face, yet of a god-like mould.
Breathless she sate, nor moved she for a space,
Held by the beauty of this painted face;
'Neath drooping lash she viewed it o'er and o'er,
And ever as she gazed new charms she saw.
Then, gazing yet, “Who--what is this?” she sighed.
“Paint, lady, paint!” Duke Joc'lyn straight replied,
“The painted visage of my lord it shows--
Item: one mouth, two eyes and eke a nose--”
“Nay, Fool,” she murmured, “here's a face, meseems,
I oft have seen ere now within my dreams;
These dove-soft eyes in dreams have looked on me!”
Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet these eyes can nothing see!”
“These tender lips in accents sweet I've heard!”
Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet--they ne'er have spoke a word!
But here's a face at last doth please thee well
Yet hath no power to speak, see, sigh or smell,
Since tongueless, sightless, breathless 't is--thus I
A sorry Fool its needs must e'en supply.
And whiles thou doatest on yon painted head
My tongue I'll lend to woo thee in its stead.
I'll woo with wit
As seemeth fit,
Whiles there thou sit
And gaze on it.
Whiles it ye see
Its voice I'll be
And plead with thee,
So hark to me:
Yolande, I love thee in true loving way;
That is, I'll learn to love thee more each day,
Until so great my growing love shall grow,
This puny world in time 't will overflow.
To-day I love, and yet my love is such
That I to-morrow shall have twice as much.
Thus lovingly to love thee I will learn
Till thou shalt learn Love's lesson in thy turn,
And find therein how sweet this world can be
When as I love, thou, love, shall so love me.”
“Hush, hush!” she sighed, and to her ruddy lip
She sudden pressed one rosy finger-tip.
And then, O happy picture! Swift from sight
She hid it in her fragrant bosom white.
“O Fool,” she cried, “get thee behind yon tree,
And thou a very Fool indeed shall see,
A knightly fool who sighs and groans in verse
And oft-times woos in song, the which is worse.”
For now they heard a voice that sung most harsh,
That shrilled and croaked like piping frog in marsh,
A voice that near and ever nearer drew
Until the lordly singer strode in view.
A noble singer he, both tall and slender,
With locks be-curled and clad in pompous splendour;
His mantle of rich velvet loose did flow,
As if his gorgeous habit he would show;
A jewelled bonnet on his curls he bore,
With nodding feather bravely decked before;
He was a lover very _point de vice_,
And all about him, save his voice, was nice.
Thus loudly sang, with lungs both sound and strong
This worthy knight, Sir Palamon of Tong.
“O must I groan
And make my moan
And live alone alway?
Yea, I must sigh
And droop and die,
If she reply, nay, nay!
“I groan for thee,
I moan for thee,
Alone for thee I pine.
All's ill for me
Until for me
She will for me be mine.”
But now, beholding Yolande amid her flowers, herself as sweet and fresh as
they, he made an end of his singing and betook him, straightway, to amorous
looks and deep-fetched sighs together with many supple bendings of
the back, elegant posturings and motitions of slim legs, fannings and
flauntings of be-feathered cap, and the like gallantries; and thereafter
fell to his wooing on this fashion:
“Lady, O lady of lovely ladies most loved! Fair lady of hearts, sweet dame
of tenderness, tender me thine ears, suffer one, hath sighed and suffered
for sake of thee, to sightful sue. Lovely thou art and therefore to be
loved, and day and night thou and Love the sum of my excogitations art,
wherefore I, with loving art, am hither come to woo thee, since, lady, I
do love thee.”
“Alack, Sir Palamon!” she sighed, “and is it so?”
“Alack!” he answered, “so it is. Yest're'en I did proclaim thee fairer than
all fair ladies; to-day thou art yet fairer, thus this day thou art fairer
than thyself; the which, though a paradox, is yet wittily true and truly
witty, methinks. But as for me--for me, alas for me! I am forsooth the very
slave of love, fettered fast by Dan Cupid, a slave grievous and woeful,
yet, being thy slave, joying in my slavery and happy in my grievous woe.
Thus it is I groan and moan, lady; I pine, repine and pine again most
consumedly. I sleep little and eat less, I am, in fine and in all ways,
'haviours, manners, customs, feints and fashions soever, thy lover
manifest, confessed, subject, abject, in season and out of season, yearly,
monthly, daily, hourly, and by the minute. Moreover--”
“Beseech thee!” she cried, “Oh, beseech thee, take thy breath.”
“Gramercy, 'tis done, lady, 'tis done, and now forthwith resolved am I to
sing thee--”
“Nay, I pray you, sir, sing no more, but resolve me this mystery. What is
love?”
“Love, lady? Verily that will I in truth!” And herewith Sir Palamon fell
to an attitude of thought with eyes ecstatic, with knitted brows and sage
nodding of the head. “Love, my lady--ha! Love, lady is--hum! Love, then,
perceive me, is of its nature elemental, being of the elements, as 'twere,
composed and composite, as water, air and fire. For, remark me, there is no
love but begetteth first water, which is tears; air, which is sighings and
groanings; and fire, which is heart-burnings and the like. Thus is love a
passion elemental. But yet, and heed me, lady, love is also metaphysical,
being a motition of the soul and e'en the spirit, and being of the spirit
'tis ghostly, and being ghostly 'tis--ha! Who comes hither to shatter the
placid mirror of my thoughts?”
So saying, the noble knight of Tong turned to behold one who strode towards
them in haste, a tall man this whose black brows scowled fierce upon the
day, and who spurned the tender flowers with foot ungentle as he came.
A tall, broad-shouldered, haughty lord was he,
With chin full square and eyes of mastery,
At sight of whom, Yolanda's laughter failed,
And in her cheek the rosy colour paled.
Quoth he: “Sir Palamon, now of thy grace,
And of thy courteous friendship yield me place,
To this fair lady I a word would say.
Thus do I for thy courteous-absence pray,
I am thy friend, Sir Knight, as thou dost know,
But--”
“My lord,” quoth Sir Palamon, “I go--
Friendship methinks is a most holy bond,
A bond I hold all binding bonds beyond,
And thou 'rt a friend right potent, my lord Gui,
So to thy will I willingly comply.
Thus, since thy friendship I hold passing dear,
Thou need but ask--and lo! I am not here.”
Thus having said, low bowed this courtly knight,
Then turned about and hasted out of sight.
“And now, my lady,” quoth Sir Gui, frowning upon her loveliness, “and now
having discharged yon gaudy wind-bag, what of this letter I did receive
but now--behold it!” and speaking, he snatched a crumpled missive from his
bosom. “Behold it, I say!”
“Indeed, my lord, I do,” she answered, proud and disdainful; “it is,
methinks, my answer to thy loathèd suit--”
“Loathèd!” he cried, and caught her slender wrist,
And held it so, crushed in his cruel fist;
But proud she faced him, shapely head raised high.
“Most loathèd, my lord!” she, scornful, made reply.
“For rather than I'd wed myself with thee,
The wife of poorest, humblest slave I'd be,
Or sorriest fool that tramps the dusty way--”
“Ha! Dare thou scorn me so?” Sir Gui did say,
“Then I by force--by force will sudden take thee,
And slave of love, my very slave I 'll make thee--”
Out from the leaves Duke Joc'lyn thrust his head,
“O fie! Thou naughty, knavish knight!” he said.
“O tush! O tush! O tush again--go to!
'T is windy, whining, wanton way to woo.
What tushful talk is this of 'force' and 'slaves',
Thou naughty, knavish, knightly knave of knaves?
Unhand the maid--loose thy offensive paw!”
Round sprang Sir Gui, and, all astonished, saw
A long-legged jester who behind him stood
With head out-thrust, grim-smiling 'neath his hood.
“Plague take thee, Fool! Out o' my sight!” growled he,
“Or cropped thine ugly nose and ears shall be.
Begone, base rogue! Haste, dog, and get thee hence,
Thy folly pleadeth this thy Fool's offence--
Yet go, or of thy motley shalt be stripped,
And from the town I 'll have thee shrewdly whipped,
For Lord of Ells and Raddemore am I,
Though folk, I've heard, do call me 'Red Sir Gui,'
Since blood is red and--I am Gui the Red.”
“Red Gui?” quoth Joc'lyn. “Art thou Gui the dread--
Red Gui--in faith? Of him Dame Rumour saith,
His ways be vile but viler still--his breath.
Now though a life vile lived is thing most ill,
Yet some do think a vile breath viler still.”
Swift, swift as lightning from a summer sky,
Out flashed the vengeful dagger of Sir Gui,
And darting with a deadly stroke and fierce,
Did Joc'lyn's motley habit rend and pierce,
Whereat with fearful cry up sprang Yolande,
But this strange jester did grim-smiling stand.
Quoth he: “Messire, a fool in very truth,
The fool of foolish fools he'd be, in sooth,
Who'd play a quip or so, my lord, with thee
Unless in triple armour dight were he;
And so it is this jester doth not fail
With such as thou to jest in shirt of mail.
Now since my heart thy foolish point hath missed
Thy dagger--thus I answer--with my fist!”
Then swift he leapt and, even as he spoke,
He fetched the knight so fierce and fell a stroke
That, reeling, on the greensward sank Sir Gui,
And stared, wide-eyed, unseeing, at the sky.
Right firmly then upon his knightly breast
Duke Joc'lyn's worn and dusty shoe did rest,
And while Yolande stood white and dumb with fear,
Thus sang the Duke full blithely and full clear:
“Dirt thou art since thou art dust,
And shalt to dust return;
Meanwhile Folly as he lust
Now thy base dust doth spurn.
“Yea, lord, though thy rank be high,
One day, since e'en lords must die,
Under all men's feet thou'lt lie.”
Now, fierce, Sir Gui did curse the Fool amain,
And, cursing, strove his dagger to regain.
But Joc'lyn stooped, in mighty arms he swung him,
And down into the lily-pool he flung him.
With splash resounding fell the noble knight,
Then gurgling rose in damp and sorry plight,
Whiles Joc'lyn, leaning o'er the marble rim,
With lifted finger thus admonished him:
“Red Gui,
Dread Gui,
Lest a dead Gui,
Gui, I make of thee,
Understand, Gui,
Fair Yolande, Gui,
Humbly wooed must be.
“So, Gui,
Know, Gui,
Ere thou go, Gui,
Gui they call the Red;
And thou'lt woo, Gui,
Humbly sue, Gui,
Lest Love strike thee dead.
“Now while thou flound'rest in yon pool,
Learn thou this wisdom of a Fool;
Cold water oft can passion cool
And fiery ardours slake;
Thus, sir, since water quencheth fire,
So let it soothe away thine ire.
Then--go seek thee garments drier
Lest a rheum thou take.”
Sir Gui did gasp, and gasping, strove to curse,
Whereat he, gasping, did but gasp the worse,
Till, finding he could gasp, but nothing say,
He shook clenched fist and, gasping, strode away.
Then Joc'lyn turned and thus beheld Yolande,
Who trembling all and pale of cheek did stand.
“O Fool!” she sighed. “Poor Fool, what hast
thou done?”
Quoth he: “Yolande, to woo thee I've begun,
I better might have wooed, it is most true,
If other wooers had not wooed thee too.”
“Nay, Fool!” she whispered. “O beware--beware!
Death--death for thee is in the very air.
From Canalise, in haste, I bid thee fly,
For 'vengeful lord and cruel is Sir Gui.
Take now this gold to aid thee on thy way,
And for thy life upon my knees I'll pray,
And with the holy angels intercede
To comfort thee and aid thee in thy need.
And so--farewell! “Thus, speaking, turned Yolande.
But Joc'lyn stayed her there with gentle hand,
Whereat she viewed him o'er in mute surprise,
To see the radiant gladness of his eyes.
Quoth he: “Yolande, since thou wilt pray for me,
Of thy sweet prayers fain would I worthy be.
This I do know--let Death come when he may,
The love I bear thee shall live on alway.
Nor will I strive to leave grim Death behind me,
Since when Death wills methinks he sure will find me;
As in the world Death roameth everywhere,
Who flees him here perchance shall meet him there.
Here, then, I'll bide--let what so will betide me,
Thy prayers like holy angels, watch beside me.
So all day long and in thy pretty sleeping
'Till next we meet the Saints have thee in keeping.”
My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:
GILL: The last part seems to me much better.
I like Yolande, I hope he'll get her.
MYSELF: Patience, my dear, he's hardly met her.
GILL: I think it would be rather nice
To make him kiss her once or twice.
MYSELF: I'll make him kiss her well, my dear,
When he begins--but not just here.
I'll later see what I can do
In this matter to please you.
GILL: And then I hope, that by and by
He kills that frightful beast, Sir Gui.
MYSELF: Yes, I suppose, we ought to slay him,
For all his wickedness to pay him.
GILL: And Pertinax, I think--don't you?
Should have a lady fair to woo.
To see him in love would be perfectly clipping.
It's a corking idea, and quite awfully ripping--
MYSELF: If you use such vile slang, miss, I vow I will not--
GILL: O, Pax, father! I'm sorry; I almost forgot.
MYSELF: Very well, if my warning you'll bear well
in mind,
A fair damsel for Pertinax I 'll try to find.
GILL: Then make her, father, make her quick,
I always knew you were a brick.
FYTTE 4
How Pertinax plied angle to his sport
And, catching him no fish, fish-like was caught.
* * * * *
By sleepy stream where bending willows swayed,
And, from the sun, a greeny twilight made,
Sir Pertinax, broad back against a tree,
Lolled at his ease and yawned right lustily.
In brawny fist he grasped a rod or angle,
With hook wherefrom sad worm did, writhing, dangle.
Full well he loved the piscatorial sport,
Though he as yet no single fish had caught.
Hard by, in easy reach upon the sward,
Lay rusty bascinet and good broadsword.
Thus patiently the good Knight sat and fished,
Yet in his heart most heartily he wished
That he, instead of fishing, snug had been
Seated within his goodly tower of Shene.
And thinking thus, he needs must cast his eye
On rusty mail, on battered shoon, and sigh,
And murmur fitful curses and lament
That in such base, unknightly garb he went--
A lord of might whose broad shield bravely bore
Of proud and noble quarterings a score.
“And 't was forsooth for foolish ducal whim
That he must plod abroad in such vile trim!”
Revolving thus, his anger sudden woke,
And, scowling, to the unseen fish he spoke:
“A Duke! A Fool! A fool-duke, by my head!
Who, clad like Fool, like Fool will fain be wed,
For ass and dolt and fool of fools is he
Who'll live in bondage to some talk-full she.
Yet, if he'll wed, why i' the foul fiend's name,
Must he in motley seek the haughty dame?”
But now, while he did on this problem dwell,
Two unexpected happenings befell:
A fish to nibble on the worm began,
And to him through the green a fair maid ran.
Fast, fast amid the tangled brake she fled,
Her cheeks all pale, her dark eyes wide with dread;
But Pertinax her beauty nothing heeded,
Since both his eyes to watch his fish were needed;
But started round with sudden, peevish snort
As in slim hands his brawny fist she caught;
“Ha, maid!” he cried, “Why must thou come this way
To spoil my sport and fright mine fish away?”
“O man--O man, if man thou art,” she gasped,
“Save me!” And here his hand she closer grasped,
But even now, as thus she breathless spake,
Forth of the wood three lusty fellows brake;
Goodly their dress and bright the mail they wore,
While on their breasts a falcon-badge they bore.
“Oho!” cried one. “Yon dirty knave she's met!”
Sir Pertinax here donned his bascinet.
“But one poor rogue shan't let us!” t' other roared.
Sir Pertinax here reached and drew his sword.
“Then,” cried the third, “let's at him now all three!”
Quoth Pertinax: “Maid, get thee 'hind yon tree,
For now, methinks, hast found me better sport
Than if, forsooth, yon plaguy fish I'd caught.”
So saying, up he rose and, eyes a-dance
He 'gainst the three did joyously advance,
With sword that flashed full bright, but brighter yet
The eyes beneath his rusty bascinet;
While aspect bold and carriage proud and high,
Did plainly give his mean array the lie.
Thus, as he gaily strode to meet the three,
In look and gesture all proud knight was he;
Beholding which, the maid forgot her dread,
And, 'stead of pale, her cheek glowed softly red.
Now at the three Sir Pertinax did spring,
And clashing steel on steel did loudly ring,
Yet Pertinax was one and they were three,
And once was, swearing, smitten to his knee,
Whereat the maid hid face in sudden fear,
And, kneeling so, fierce cries and shouts did hear,
The sounds of combat dire, and deadly riot
Lost all at once and hushed to sudden quiet,
And glancing up she saw to her amaze
Three rogues who fleetly ran three several ways,
Three beaten rogues who fled with one accord,
While Pertinax, despondent, sheathed his sword.
“Par Dex!” he growled, “'Tis shame that they should run
Ere that to fight the rogues had scarce begun!”
So back he came, his rod and line he took,
And gloomed to find no worm upon his hook.
But now the maiden viewed him gentle-eyed;
“Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed,
“Thou, like true knight, hast fought for me today--”
“And the fish,” sighed he, “have stole my worm away,
Which is great pity, since my worms be few!”
And here the Knight's despond but deeper grew.
“Yon rogues,” he sighed, “no stomach had for fight,
Yet scared the fish that had a mind to bite!”
“But thou hast saved me, noble man!” said she.
“So must I use another worm!” sighed he.
And straightway with his fishing he proceeded
While sat the maid beside him all unheeded;
Whereat she frowned and, scornful, thus did speak
With angry colour flaming in her cheek:
“What man art thou that canst but fight and fish?
Hast thou no higher thought, no better wish?”
“Certes,” quoth he, “I would I had indeed
A goodly pot of foaming ale or mead.”
“O base, most base!” the maid did scornful cry,
And viewed him o'er with proud, disdainful eye.
“That I should owe my life to man like thee!
That one so base could fight and master three!
Who art thou, man, and what? Speak me thy name,
Whither ye go and why, and whence ye came,
Thy rank, thy state, thy worth to me impart,
If soldier, serf, or outlawed man thou art;
And why 'neath ragged habit thou dost wear
A chain of gold such as but knights do bear,
Why thou canst front three armed rogues unafraid,
Yet fear methinks to look upon a maid?”
But to these questions Pertinax sat dumb--
That is, he rubbed his chin and murmured, “Hum!”
Whereat she, frowning, set determined chin
And thus again to question did begin:
SHE: What manner of man art thou?
HE: A man.
SHE: A soldier?
HE: Thou sayest.
SHE: Art in service?
HE: Truly.
SHE: Whom serve ye?
HE: A greater than I.
SHE: Art thou wed?
HE: The Saints forfend!
SHE: Then art a poor soldier and solitary.
HE: I might be richer.
SHE: What dost thou fishing here?
HE: I fish.
SHE: And why didst fight three men for me--a maid unknown?
HE: For lack of better employ.
SHE: Rude soldier--whence comest thou?
HE: Fair maiden, from beyond.
SHE: Gross Knight, whither goest thou?
HE: Dainty damosel, back again.
SHE: Dost lack aught?
HE: Quiet!
SHE: How, would'st have me hold my peace, ill fellow?
HE: 'T would be a marvel.
SHE: Wherefore?
HE: Thou'rt a woman.
SHE: And thou a man, ill-tongued, ill-beseen, ill-mannered, unlovely,
and I like thee not!
HE: And what is worse, the fish bite not.
Now here, and very suddenly, she fell a-weeping, to the Knight's no small
discomfiture, though she wept in fashion wondrous apt and pretty; wherefore
Sir Pertinax glanced at her once, looked twice and, looking, scratched his
ear, rubbed his chin and finally questioned her in turn:
HE: Distressful damosel, wherefore this dole? SHE: For that I am weary,
woeful and solitary. And thou--thou'rt harsh of look, rough of tongue,
ungentle of--HE: Misfortunate maiden, thy loneliness is soon amended, get
thee to thy friends--thy gossips, thy--
SHE: I have none. And thou'rt fierce and ungentle of face.
Here she wept the more piteously and Sir Pertinax, viewing her distress,
forgot his hook and worm, wherefore a fish nibbled it slyly, while the
Knight questioned her further:
HE: Woeful virgin, whence comest thou?
SHE: From afar. And thou art ofeatures grim and--
HE: And whither would'st journey?
SHE: No where! And thou art--
HE: Nay, here is thing impossible, since being here thou art somewhere and
that within three bowshots of the goodly town of Canalise wherein thou
shalt doubtless come by comfort and succour.
SHE: Never! Never! Here will I weep and moan and perish. And thou--
HE: And wherefore moan and perish?
SHE: For that I am so minded, being a maid forlorn and desolate, a poor
wanderer destitute of kith, of kin, of hope, of love, and all that maketh
life sweet. And thou art sour-faced and--
HE: Grievous maid, is, among thy many wants, a lack of money?
SHE: That also. And thou art cold of eye, fierce of mouth, hooked of nose,
flinty of heart, stony of soul, and I a perishing maid.
At this Sir Pertinax blinked and caught his breath; thereafter he laid down
his rod, whereupon the fish incontinent filched his worm all unnoticed
while the Knight opened the wallet at his girdle and took thence certain
monies.
HE: Dolorous damsel, behold six good, gold pieces! Take them and go, get
thee to eat--eat much, so shall thy dolour wax less, eat beef--since beef
is a rare lightener of sorrow, by beef shall thy woes be comforted.
SHE: Alas! I love not beef.
Now here Sir Pertinax was dumb a space for wonder at her saying, while she
stole a glance at him betwixt slender fingers.
HE (_after some while_): Maid, I tell thee beef, fairly cooked and aptly
seasoned, is of itself a virtue whereby the body is strengthened and
nourished, whereby cometh content, and with content kindliness, and with
kindliness charity, and therewith all other virtues small and eke great;
therefore eat beef, maiden, for the good of thy soul.
“How?” said she, viewing him bright-eyed 'twixt her fingers again. “Dost
think by beef one may attain to paradise?”
HE: Peradventure.
SHE: Then no beef, for I would not live a saint yet awhile.
HE: Nathless, take thou these monies and go buy what thou wilt.
So saying, Sir Pertinax set the coins beside her shapely foot and took up
his neglected rod.
SHE: And is this gold truly mine?
HE: Verily.
SHE: Then I pray thee keep it for me lest I lose it by the way and so--let
us begone.
Here Sir Pertinax started.
“Begone?” quoth he. “Begone--in truth? Thou and I in faith? Go whither?”
SHE: Any whither.
HE: Alone? Thou and I?
“Nay, not alone,” she sighed; “let us go together.”
Sir Pertinax dropped his fishing-rod and watched it idly float away down
the stream:
“Together, maiden?” said he at last.
“Truly!” she sighed. “For thou art lonely even as I am lonely, and thou
art, methinks, one a lonely maid may trust.”
“Ha--trust!” quoth he. “And wherefore would'st trust me, maiden?”
SHE: For two reasons--thou art of age mature and something ill-favoured.
Now, at this Sir Pertinax grew angered, grew thoughtful, grew sad and,
beholding his image mirrored in the waters, sighed for his grim, unlovely
look and, in his heart, cursed his vile garb anew. At last he spoke:
HE: Truly thou may'st trust me, maiden.
SHE: And wherefore sighest thou, sad soldier?
HE: Verily for thy two reasons. Though, for mine age, I am not forty
turned.
Saying which, he sighed again, and stared gloomily into the murmurous
waters. But presently, chancing to look aside, he beheld a head low down
amid the underwood, a head huge and hairy with small, fierce eyes that
watched him right bodefully, and a great mouth that grinned evilly; and now
as he stared, amazed by this monstrous head, it nodded grimly, speaking
thus:
“Lob, Lobkyn he
Commandeth thee
To let her be
And set her free,
Thou scurvy, cutpurse, outlaw knave,
Lest hanged thou be
Upon a tree
For roguery
And villainy,
Thou knavish, misbegotten slave;
For proud is she
Of high degree,
As unto ye
Explicitly--”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, rising and drawing sword. “Now, be thou imp of
Satan, fiend accursed, or goblin fell, come forth, and I with steel will
try thee, Thing!”
Out from the leaves forthwith crawled a dwarf bowed of leg, mighty of
shoulder, humped of back, and with arms very long and thick and hairy. In
one great fist he grasped a ponderous club shod with iron spikes, and now,
resting his hands on this and his chin on his hands, he scowled at the
Knight, yet grinned also.
“Ho!” he cried, rolling big head in threatening fashion:
“Vile dog, thy rogue's sconce cracked shall be, Thy base-born bones
be-thwacked shall be. I'll deal thee many a dour ding For that thou darest
name me--Thing!”
“Now, as I live!” said Sir Pertinax, scowling also. “Here will I, and with
great joyance, cleave me thine impish mazzard and split thee to thy beastly
chine. And for thy ill rhyming:
“I with this goodly steel will halve thee
And into clammy goblets carve thee.
So stand, Thing, to thy club betake thee,
And soon, Thing, I will no-thing make thee.”
But, as they closed on each other with eager and deadly intent, the maid
stepped lightly betwixt.
“Stay, soldier--hold!” she commanded. “Here is none but Lobkyn Lollo--poor,
brave Lob, nor will I suffer him to harm thee.”
“How, maiden?” snorted the good Knight fiercely. “Harm me, say'st thou--yon
puny Thing?”
“Truly, soldier!” said she, roguish-eyed. “For though thou art very
ungentle, harsh of tongue, of visage grim and manners rude--I would not
have Lob harm thee--yet!”
Now hereupon our bold Sir Pertinax
With indignation red of face did wax.
The needful word his tongue was vainly seeking,
Since what he felt was quite beyond the speaking.
Though quick his hand to ward or give a blow,
His tongue all times unready was and slow,
Therefore he speechless looked upon the maid,
Who viewed him 'neath her lashes' dusky shade,
Whence Eros launched a sudden beamy dart
That 'spite chain-mail did reach and pierce his heart.
And in that instant Pertinax grew wise,
And trembled 'neath this forest-maiden's eyes;
And trembling, knew full well, seek where he might,
No eyes might hold for him such magic light,
No lips might hold for him such sweet allure,
No other hand might his distresses cure,
No other voice might so console and cheer,
No foot, light-treading, be so sweet to hear
As the eyes, lips, hand, voice, foot of her who stood
Before him now, cheek flushing 'neath her hood.
All this Sir Pertinax had in his thought,
And, wishing much to say to her, said nought,
By reason that his tongue was something slow,
And of smooth phrases he did little know.
But yet 't is likely, though he nothing said,
She, maid-like, what he spake not, guessed or read
In his flushed brow, his sudden-gentle eyes,
Since in such things all maids are wondrous wise.
Now suddenly the brawny Dwarf did cry:
“Beware, my old great-grand-dam creepeth nigh!”
Thus speaking, 'mid the bushes pointed he,
Where crook'd old woman crouched beneath a tree
Whence, bowed upon a staff, she towards them came,
An ancient, wrinkled, ragged, hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below.
Mutt'ring she came and mowing she drew near,
And straightway seized the Dwarf by hairy ear:
Fast by the ear this ancient dame did tweak him,
And cuffed his head and, cuffing, thus did speak him:
“Ha, dolt! Bad elf, and wilt thou slay, indeed,
This goodly man did aid me in my need?
For this was one that fought within the gate
And from Black Lewin saved thy grannam's pate!
Down, down, fool-lad, upon thy knees, I say,
And full forgiveness of this soldier pray.”
But Sir Pertinax, perceiving how the old dame
did thus tweak and wring at the Dwarf's great,
hairy ear even until his eyes watered, interceded,
saying:
“Good, ancient soul, humble not the sturdy, unlovely,
mis-shapen, rascally imp for such small
matter.”
“Nay, but,” croaked the old woman, tightening
claw-like fingers, “kind master, he would doubtless
have slain thee.” At this, Sir Pertinax scowled,
and would have sworn great oath but, meeting the
maid's bright eyes, checked himself, though with
much ado:
“Art so sure,” he questioned, “so sure man of
my inches may be slain by thing so small?”
At this the maid laughed, and the old woman,
sighing, loosed the ear she clutched:
“Shew thy strength, Lob,” she commanded and,
drawing the maiden out of ear-shot, sat down beside
her on the sward and fell to eager, whispered talk.
Meantime the Dwarf, having cherished his ear,
sulkily though tenderly, seized hold upon his great
club with both hairy hands:
And whirling it aloft, with sudden might
A fair, young tree in sunder he did smite,
That 'neath the blow it swayed and crashing fell.
Quoth Pertinax: “Good Thing, 't is very well.
Par Dex, and by the Holy Rood,” quoth he,
“'T is just as well that I was not yon tree!”
And whirling his long sword as thus he spoke,
Shore through another at a single stroke.
“Here's tree for tree, stout manling!” he did say.
“What other trick canst show to me, I pray?”
Then Lobkyn stooped the broken stump to seize,
Bowed brawny back and with a wondrous ease
Up by the roots the rugged bole he tore
And tossed it far as it had been a straw.
Sad grew our knight this mighty feat perceiving,
Since well he knew't was past his own achieving.
But anon he smiled and clapped the mighty Dwarf on shoulder, saying:
“Greeting to thee, lusty Lob, for by Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within
the Wood, ne'er saw I thine equal, since thou, being man so small, may do
what man o' my goodly inches may nowise perform. Thou should'st make a
right doughty man-at-arms!”
Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he:
“Aha, good master, and Oho,
As man-at-arms fain would I go;
Aye, verily, I would be so,
But that my grannam sayeth 'No!'
“And, sir, my grand-dam I obey
Since she's a potent witch, they say;
Can cast ye spells by night or day
And charmeth warts and such away.
“Love philtres too she can supply
For fools that fond and foolish sigh,
That wert thou foul as hog in sty
Fair women must unto thee fly.
“Then deadly potions she can make,
Will turn a man to wriggling snake,
Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake,
Or loathly frog that croaks in lake.
“And she can curse beyond compare,
Can curse ye here, or curse ye there;
She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare,
In fine, can curse ye anywhere.
“And she can summon, so 't is said,
From fire and water, spirits dread,
Strong charms she hath can wake the dead
And set the living in their stead.
“So thus it is, whate'er she say,
My grand-dam, master, I obey.”
“Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in
spells and such black arts--the which is an ill thing--thou hast a powerful
gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this
distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?”
“O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn,
“Like many such diseases, 't is inborn.
For even as a baby, I
Did pule in rhyme and versify;
And the stronger that I grew,
My rhyming habit strengthened too,
Until my sad sire in despair
Put me beneath the Church's care.
The holy fathers, 't is confessed,
With belt and sandal did their best,
But, though they often whipped me sore,
I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,
Till, finding all their efforts vain,
They sadly sent me home again.”
“A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's
rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?”
“Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,
To cipher and to read right well;
They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,
Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.”
“And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!”
Cried LOB:
“What matter that? Heaven save the mark,
Far better be a soldier than a clerk,
Far rather had I be a fighter
Than learned reader or a writer,
Since they who'd read must mope in schools,
And they that write be mostly fools.
So 'stead of pen give me a sword,
And set me where the battle's toward,
Where blood--”
But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very
suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again.
“Talk not of blood and battles, naughty one!” she cried. “Think not to
leave thy old grannam lone and lorn and helpless--nor this our fair maid.
Shame on thee, Lob, O shame!” saying the which she cuffed him again and
soundly.
“Master,” he sighed, “thou seest I may not go,
Since that my grand-dam will not have it so.”
“Good mother, wise mother,” said the maid, viewing Sir Pertinax smilingly
askance, “why doth poor soldier go bedight in fine linen 'neath rusty
hauberk? Why doth poor soldier wear knightly chain about his neck and swear
by knightly oath? Good mother, wise mother, rede me this.”
The old woman viewed Pertinax with her bright, quick eyes, but, ere she
could answer, he sheathed sword, drew ragged mantle about him, and made to
go, but, turning to the maid, bent steel-clad head.
“Most fair damosel,” said he gently, “evening cometh on, and now, since
thou art no longer forlorn, I will away.”
“Nay, first, I pray thee, what is thy name?”
“Pertinax, madam.”
“So then doth Melissa thank Pertinax. And now--out alas! Will Pertinax
leave Melissa, having but found her?”
Sir Pertinax looked up, looked down, fidgeted with his cloak, and knew not
how to answer; wherefore she sighed again, though with eyes full merry
'neath drooping lashes and reached out to him her slender hand. “Aye me,
and shall we meet no more, poor soldier?” she questioned softly.
“This I know not,” he answered.
“For thy brave rescue I do give thee my humble thanks, poor soldier.”
“Thy rescue, child?” cried the old woman. “Alack and wert thou seen? Thy
rescue, say'st thou?”
“Indeed, good mother, from Sir Agramore's rough foresters. But for thee,
thou needy soldier, my gratitude is thine henceforth. Had I aught else to
give thee, that were thine also. Is there aught I may? Speak.”
Now Sir Pertinax could not but heed all the rich, warm beauty of her--these
eyes so sombrely sweet, her delicate nose, the temptation of her vivid
lips--and so spake hot with impulse:
“Aye, truly, sweet maid, truly I would have of thee a--” Her eyes grew
bright with laughter, a dimple played wanton in her cheek, and Sir
Pertinax was all suddenly abashed, faint-hearted and unsure; thus, looking
down, he chanced to espy a strange jewel that hung tremulous upon her
moving bosom: a crowned heart within a heart of crystal.
“Well, thou staid and sorry soldier, what would'st have of me?” she
questioned.
“Verily,” he muttered, “I would have of thee yon trinket from thy bosom.”
Now at his words she started, caught her breath and stared at him
wide-eyed; but, seeing his abashment, laughed and loosed off the jewel with
quick, small fingers.
“Be it so!” said she. But hereupon the old woman reached out sudden hand.
“Child!” she croaked, “Art mad? Mind ye not the prophecy? Beware the
prophecy--beware!
'He that taketh Crystal Heart,
Taketh all and every part!'
Beware, I say, Oh, beware!”
“Nay, good mother, have I not promised? And for this crystal it hath
brought me nought but unease hitherto. Take it, soldier, and for the sake
of this poor maid that giveth, break it not, dishonour it not, and give it
to none but can define for thee the secret thereof--and so, poor, brave,
fearful soldier--fare thee well!”
Saying which this fair maiden turned, and clasping the Witch's bony arm
about her slender loveliness, passed away into the denser wood with Lobkyn
Lollo marching grimly behind, his mighty club across his shoulder.
Long stood Sir Pertinax, staring down at the strange jewel in his hand yet
seeing it not, for, lost in his dreams, he beheld again two eyes,
dusky-lashed and softly bright, a slender hand, a shapelyfoot, while in
his ears was again the soft murmur of a maid's voice, a trill of girlish
laughter. So lost in meditation was he that becoming aware of a shadow
athwart the level sunset-glory, he started, glanced up and into the face
of a horseman who had ridden up unheard upon the velvet ling; and this
man was tall and armed at points like a knight; the vizor of his plumed
casque was lifted, and Sir Pertinax saw a ruddy face, keen-eyed,
hawk-nosed, thin-lipped.
“Fellow,” questioned the haughty knight, “what hold ye there?”
“Fellow,” quoth Sir Pertinax, haughty and gruff also, “'t is no matter to
thee!” And speaking, he buttoned the jewel into the wallet at his belt.
“Fool!” exclaimed the Knight, staring in amaze, “wilt dare name me
'fellow'? Tell me, didst see three foresters hereabout?”
“Poltroon, I did.”
“Knave, wilt defy me?”
“Rogue, I do!”
“Slave, what did these foresters?”
“Villain, they ran away!”
“Ha, varlet! and wherefore?”
“Caitiff, I drubbed them shrewdly.”
“Dared ye withstand them, dog?”
“Minion, I did.”
“Saw ye not the badge they bore?” demanded the fierce stranger-knight.
“'T was the like of that upon thy shield!” nodded Sir Pertinax grimly.
“Know ye who and what I am, dunghill rogue?”
“No, dog's-breakfast--nor care!” growled Sir Pertinax, whereat the
stranger-knight grew sudden red and clenched mailed fist.
“Know then, thou kennel-scourer, that I am Sir
Agramore of Biename, Lord of Swanscote and Hoccom, Lord Seneschal of
Tissingors and the March.”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “So do I know thee for a very rogue
ingrain and villain manifest.”
“How!” roared Sir Agramore. “This to my face, thou vile creeper of ditches,
thou unsavoury tavern-haunter--this in my teeth!”
“Heartily, heartily!” nodded Sir Pertinax. “And may it choke thee for the
knavish carcass thou art.”
At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and
therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward
among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring
his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax
arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again;
thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it
thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it
solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword,
set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as
follows:
“Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and
zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I
incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him
and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will
forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the
body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement,
his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves
as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax,
“Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the
which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of
Shene Chapel within the Wood--Amen!”
Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed
his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of
Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and
confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a
wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour
and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as:
“Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!”
By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a
way until--surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn
and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry--he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled
and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb
with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing
this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding
the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue
eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and
lost in the fierce, jostling throng.
My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:
GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought
It was a poem of a sort.
MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?
GILL: Of course--the sort folks love to read.
But in the last part we have heard
Of poetry there's scarce a word.
MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read,
You'll find that, oft as not, indeed,
The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped,
Into plain prose quite often jumped.
GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me
All prose--as prosy as can be--
MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest
Our Geste for you lacks interest?
GILL: Not for a moment, father, though
Sir Pertinax was much too slow.
When fair Melissa “laughing stood,”
He should have kissed--you know he
should--Because, of course, she wished him to.
MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true?
GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right,
And you're as slow as your slow knight.
Were you as slow when you were young?
MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue.
You may be sure, in my young days,
I was most dutiful always.
Grown up, I was, it seems to me,
No slower than I ought to be.
And now, miss, since you pine for verse,
Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse;
And, like a doting father, I
To hold your interest will try.
FYTTE 5
Which of Duke Joc'lyn's woeful plight doth tell,
And all that chanced him pent in dungeon cell.
* * * * *
In gloomy dungeon, scant of air and light,
Duke Joc'lyn lay in sad and woeful plight;
His hands and feet with massy fetters bound,
That clashed, whene'er he moved, with dismal sound;
His back against the clammy wall did rest,
His heavy head was bowed upon his breast,
But, 'neath drawn brows, he watched with wary eye
Three ragged 'wights who, shackled, lay hard by,
Three brawny rogues who, scowling, fiercely eyed him,
And with lewd gibes and mocking gestures plied him.
But Joc'lyn, huddled thus against the wall,
Seemed verily to heed them none at all,
Wherefore a red-haired rogue who thought he slept
With full intent upon him furtive crept.
But, ere he knew, right suddenly he felt
Duke Joc'lyn's battered shoe beneath his belt;
And falling back with sudden strangled cry,
Flat on his back awhile did breathless lie,
Whereat to rage his comrades did begin,
And clashed their fetters with such doleful din
That from a corner dim a fourth man sprang,
And laughed and laughed, until their prison rang.
“Well kicked, Sir Fool! Forsooth, well done!” laughed he,
“Ne'er saw I, Fool, a fool the like o' thee!”
Now beholding this tall fellow, Jocelyn knew him
for that same forest-rogue had wrestled with him
in the green, and sung for his life the “Song of
Roguery.” Wherefore he smiled on the fellow and
the fellow on him:
Quoth JOCELYN: I grieve to see
A man like thee
In such a woeful plight--
Quoth the ROGUE: A Fool in fetters,
Like his betters,
Is yet a rarer sight.
“Ha i' the clout, good fellow, for Folly in fetters is Folly in need, and
Folly in need is Folly indeed! But, leaving folly awhile, who art thou and
what thy name?”
Saith the ROGUE: Robin I'm named, Sir Fool,
Rob by the few,
Which few are right, methinks, for
so I do.
“Then, Rob, if dost rob thou'rt a robber, and being robber thou'rt
perchance in bonds for robbing, Robin?”
“Aye, Fool, I, Rob, do rob and have robbed greater robbers that I might
by robbery live to rob like robbers again, as thou, by thy foolish folly,
fooleries make, befooling fools lesser than thou, that thou, Fool, by such
fool-like fooleries may live to fool like fools again!”
Quoth JOCELYN: Thou robber Rob,
By Hob and Gob,
Though robber-rogue, I swear
That 't is great pity
Rogue so pretty
Must dance upon thin air.
Quoth ROBIN: Since I must die
On gallows high
And wriggle in a noose,
I'll none repine
Nor weep nor whine,
For where would be the use?
Yet sad am I
That I must die
With rogues so base and small,
Sly coney-catchers,
Poor girdle-snatchers,
That do in kennel crawl.
“And yet,” said Jocelyn, “thou thyself art rogue and thief confessed. How
then art better than these thy fellows?”
“By degree, Sir Fool. Even as thou'rt Fool o' folly uncommon, so am I no
ordinary rogue, being rogue o' rare parts with power of rogues i' the wild
wood, while these be but puny rogues of no parts soever.”
“No rogues are we!” the three did loudly cry,
“But sad, poor souls, that perishing do lie!”
“In me,” quoth one, “behold a man of worth,
By trade a dyer and yclepen Gurth;
In all this world no man, howe'er he try,
Could live a life so innocent as I!”
The second spake: “I am the ploughman Rick,
That ne'er harmed man or woman, maid or chick!
But here in direful dungeon doomed be I,
Yet cannot tell the wherefore nor the why.”
Then spake Red-head, albeit gasping still:
“An honest tanner I, my name is Will;
'T was me thou kickedst, Fool, in such ill manner,
Of crimes unjust accused--and I, a tanner!”
Here Joc'lyn smiled. “Most saintly rogues,” said he;
“The Saints, methinks, were rogues compared with ye,
And one must needs in prison come who'd find
The noblest, worthiest, best of all mankind.
Poor, ill-used knaves, to lie in dungeon pent,
Rogues sin-less quite, and eke so innocent,
What though your looks another tale do tell,
Since I'm your fellow, fellows let us dwell,
For if ye're rogues that thus in bonds do lie,
So I'm a rogue since here in bonds am I,
Thus I, a rogue, do hail ye each a brother,
Like brethren, then, we 'll comfort one another.”
Thus spake Jocelyn, whereafter these “saintly rogues” all three grew
mightily peevish and, withal, gloomy, while Robin laughed and laughed at
them, nodding head and wagging finger.
“Prithee, good Motley,” he questioned, “what should bring so rare a Fool
to lie in dungeon fettered and gyved along of innocent rogues and roguish
robber?”
Whereto Duke Jocelyn answered on this wise:
“Hast heard, belike, of Gui the Red?”
(Here went there up a howl)
“A mighty lord of whom't is said,
That few do love and many dread.”
(Here went there up a growl)
“This potent lord I chanced to view,
Behaving as no lord should do,
And thereupon, this lord I threw
In pretty, plashing pool!
“Whereon this dreadful lord did get
Exceeding wroth and very wet;
Wherefore in dungeon here I'm set,
For fierce and froward Fool.”
Here went there up a shout of glee.
Cried Robin: “O sweet Fool,
I would I had been there to see
This haughty lord of high degree
In pretty, plashing pool.”
Here shout of glee became a roar,
That made the dungeon ring;
They laughed, they rolled upon the floor,
Till suddenly the massy door
On creaking hinge did swing;
And to them the head jailer now appeared,
A sombre man who sighed through tangled beard.
“How now, rogue-lads,” said he, “grow ye merry in sooth by reason o' this
Fool! Aye me, all men do grow merry save only I, Ranulph, Chief Torturer,
Ranulph o' the Keys, o' the Gibbet, o' the City Axe--poor Ranulph the
Headsman. Good lack! I've cut off the head o' many a man merrier than I--
aye, that have I, and more's the pity! And now, ye that are to die so soon
can wax joyous along o' this motley Fool! Why, 't is a manifest good Fool,
and rare singer o' songs, 't is said, though malapert, with no respect for
his betters and over-quick at dagger-play. So 't is a Fool must die and
sing no more, and there's the pity on't for I do love a song, I--being a
companionable soul and jovial withal, aye, a very bawcock of a boy, I.
To-morrow Red Gui doth hale ye to his Castle o' the Rock, there to die all
five for his good pleasure, as is very fitting and proper, so be merry
whiles ye may. Meantime, behold here another rogue, a youngling imp. So is
five become six, and six may laugh louder than five, methinks, so laugh
your best.”
Then Ranulph o' the Keys sighed, closed the great door and went his way,
leaving the new captive to their mercies. Fair he was and slender, and of
a timid seeming, for now he crouched against the wall, his face hid 'neath
the hood of ragged mantle; wherefore the “saintly” three incontinent
scowled upon him, roared at him and made a horrid clashing with their
fetters:
“Ha, blood and bones!” cried Rick the Ploughman. “What murderous babe art
thou to go unshackled in presence o' thy betters?”
“Aye, forsooth,” growled Will the Tanner, “who 'rt thou to come hither
distressing the last hours o' we poor, perishing mortals? Discourse, lest I
bite the heart o' thee!”
“Pronounce, imp!” roared Gurth the Dyer, “lest I tear thy liver!”
“Sit ye, here beside me, youth,” said Jocelyn, “and presently thou shalt
know these tearers of livers and biters of hearts for lambs of innocence
and doves of gentleness--by their own confessions. For, remark now, gentle
boy, all we are prisoners and therefore guiltless of every offence--indeed,
where is the prisoner, but who, according to himself, is not more sinned
against than sinner, and where the convicted rogue but, with his tongue,
shall disprove all men's testimony? So here sit three guileless men,
spotless of soul and beyond all thought innocent of every sin soever.
Yonder is Rob, a robber, and here sit I, a Fool.”
“Ha!” cried Rick. “Yet murderous Fool art thou and apt to dagger-play!
Belike hast slain a man this day in way o' folly--ha?”
“Two!” answered Jocelyn, nodding. “These two had been more but that my
dagger brake.”
Here was silence awhile what time Jocelyn hummed the line of a song and his
companions eyed him with looks askance.
“Why then, good Folly,” said Rick at last, “'t is for a little spilling o'
blood art here, a little, pretty business o' murder--ha?”
“'T is so they name it,” answered Jocelyn.
“Bones o' me!” growled Will, “I do begin to love this Fool.”
“And didst pronounce thyself our brother, Fool?” questioned Gurth.
“Aye, verily!”
“Then brethren let us be henceforth, and comrades to boot!” cried Rick.
“Jolly Clerks o' Saint Nicholas to share and share alike--ha? So then 't is
accorded. And now what o' yon lily-livered imp? 'T is a sickly youth and
I love him not. But he hath a cloak, look'ee--a cloak forsooth and poor
Rick's a-cold! Ho, lad--throw me thy cloak!”
“Beshrew me!” roared Gurth. “But he beareth belt and wallet! Ha, boy, give
thy wallet and girdle--bestow!”
“And by sweet Saint Nick,” growled Will, “the dainty youngling disporteth
himself to mine eyes in a gold finger-ring! Aha, boy! Give now thy trinket
unto an honest tanner.”
Hereupon and with one accord up started the three, fierce-eyed; but
Jocelyn, laughing, rose up also.
“Back, corpses!” quoth he, swinging the heavy fetters to and fro between
shackled wrists. “Stand, good Masters Dry-bones; of what avail cloak, or
wallet, or ring to ye that are dead men? Now, since corpses ye are
insomuch as concerneth this world, be ye reasonable and kindly corpses.
Sit ye then, Masters Dust-and-Ashes, and I will incontinent sing ye, chant
or intone ye a little song of organs and graves and the gallows-tree
whereon we must dance anon; as, hearken:
“Sing a song of corpses three
That ere long shall dancing be,
On the merry gallows-tree--
High and low,
To and fro,
Leaping, skipping,
Turning, tripping,
Wriggling, whirling,
Twisting, twirling:
Sing hey for the gallows-tree.”
“Stint--stint thy beastly song now!” cried Will, pale of cheek. But Jocelyn
sang the louder:
“Sing a song of dying groans,
Sing a song of cries and moans,
Sing a song of dead men's bones,
That shall rest,
All unblest,
To rot and rot,
Remembered not,
For dogs to gnaw
And battle for,
Sing hey for the dead rogue's bones.”
“Abate--ha--abate thy fiendish rant!” cried Rick, glancing fearfully over
shoulder.
“Aye, Fool--beseech thee! Fair flesh may not abide it!” cried Gurth,
shivering, while Robin grinned no more and the fearful youth leaned
wide-eyed to behold the singer, this strange, scarred face beneath its
battered cock's-comb, these joyous eyes, these smiling lips as Jocelyn
continued:
“Now ends my song with ghosts forlorn,
Three gibbering ghosts that mope and mourn,
Then shrieking, flee at breath of dawn,
Where creatures fell
In torment dwell,
Blind things and foul,
That creep and howl,
That rend and bite
And claw and fight.
Where fires red-hot
Consume them not,
And they in anguish
Writhe and languish
And groan in pain
For night again.
Sing hey for pale ghosts forlorn.”
Now when the song was ended, the three looked dismally on one another and,
bethinking them of their cruel end, they groaned and sighed lamentably:
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: Father, I like that song, it's fine;
But let me ask about this line:
“Blind things and foul,
That creep and howl.”
Now tell me, please, if you don't mind,
Why were the little horrors blind?
MYSELF: The beastly things, as I surmise,
Had scratched out one another's eyes.
GILL:
I suppose this place where creatures fell
In torments dwell is meant for--
MYSELF:
Well,
I think, my Gill, the place you've guessed,
So let me get on with our Geste.
... they groaned and sighed lamentably--
My daughter GILLIAN interjecteth:
GILL: Father--now don't get in a huff--
But don't you think they've groaned enough?
MYSELF: My Gillian--no! Leave well alone;
This is the place for them to groan.
Lamentably they did together moan,
And uttered each full many a hollow groan.
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: But, father, groans are so distressing,
And groans in verse are most depressing--
MYSELF:
Then peace, child, and in common prose
I'll let the poor rogues vent their woes:
... they groaned and they sighed lamentably--
My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:
GILL: What, father, are they groaning still?
MYSELF:
Of course they are, and so they will,
And so shall I; so, girl, take heed,
And cease their groaning to impede.
Is it agreed?
GILL: Oh, yes, indeed!
MYSELF: Then with our Geste I will proceed.
... they groaned and sighed lamentably.
“Alack!” cried Gurth, “I had not greatly minded till now, but this
vile-tongued Fool hath stirred Fear to wakefulness within me. Here's me,
scarce thirty turned, hale and hearty, yet must die woefully and with a
maid as do love me grievously!”
“And me!” groaned Rick. “No more than twenty and five, I--a very lad--and
with two maids as do languish for me fain and fond!”
“Ha, and what o' me?” mourned dismal, redheaded Will. “A lusty, proper
fellow I be and wi' maids a score as do sigh continual. And me to die--O
woe! And I a tanner!”
“Content ye, brothers!” said Jocelyn. “Look now, here's Gurth hath lived
but thirty years, and now must die--good: so shall he die weighted with
less of sin than had he lived thirty more. Be ye comforted in this,
distressful rogues, the shorter our life the less we sin, the which is a
fair, good thing. As for these shackles, though our bodies be 'prisoned our
souls go free, thus, while we languish here, our souls astride a sunbeam
may mount aloft, 'bove all pains and tribulations soever. Thus if we must
dance together in noose, our souls, I say, escaping these fleshy bonds,
shall wing away to freedom everlasting. Bethink ye of this, grievous
knaves, and take heart. Regarding the which same truths I will, for thy
greater comforting, incontinent make ye a song--hearken!
“Let Folly sing a song to cheer
All poor rogues that languish here,
Doomed in dismal dungeon drear,
Doomed in dungeon dim.
“Though flesh full soon beneath the sod
Doth perish and decay,
Though cherished body is but clod,
Yet in his soul man is a God,
To do and live alway.
So hence with gloom and banish fear,
Come Mirth and Jollity,
Since, though we pine in dungeon drear,
Though these, our bodies, languish here,
We in our minds go free.”
Thus cheerily sang Jocelyn until, chancing to see how the youth leaned
forward great-eyed, watching as he sung, he broke off to question him
blithely:
“How now, good youth, hast a leaning to Folly e'en though Folly go
fettered, and thyself in dungeon?”
“Fool,” answered the youth, soft-voiced, “me-thinks 't is strange Folly can
sing thus in chains! Hast thou no fear of death?”
“Why truly I love it no more than my fellow-fools. But I, being fool
uncommon, am wise enough to know that Death, howsoe'er he come, may come
but once--and there's a comfortable thought!”
So saying, Jocelyn seated himself beside the youth and watched him
keen-eyed.
“And thou canst sing of Freedom, Fool, to the jangle of thy fetters?”
“Truly, youth, 't is but my baser part lieth shackled, thus while body
pineth here, soul walketh i' the kindly sun--aye, e'en now as I do gaze on
thee, I, in my thought, do stand in a fair garden--beside a lily-pool,
where she I love cometh shy-footed to meet me, tall and gracious and sweet,
as her flowers. A dream, belike, yet in this dream she looketh on me with
eyes of love and love is on her lips and in her heart--so is my dream very
precious.”
At this, the youth shrank beneath his cloak while in an adjacent corner the
three rolled dice with Robin and quarrelled hoarse and loud.
“Youth,” said Jocelyn, “I pray thee, tell me thy name.”
Without lifting head the youth answered:
“Hugo!”
“Look up, Hugo!” But Hugo bowed his head the lower.
“Hast wondrous hair, Hugo--red gold 'neath thy hood!”
Here came a slim, white hand to order the rebellious tress but, finding
none, trembled and hid itself. Then very suddenly Jocelyn leaned near and
caught this hand, clasping it fast yet with fingers very gentle, and spake
quick and eager:
“Hugo--alas, Hugo! What bringeth thee in this evil place? Art in danger?
Speak, speak!”
“Nay, here is no harm for me, Joconde. And I am hither come for sake of a
poor Fool that is braver than the bravest--one did jeopardise his foolish
life for sake of a maid, wherefore I, Hugo, do give him life. Take now this
wallet, within is good store of gold and better--a potent charm to close
all watchful eyes. Hist, Joconde, and mark me well! Ranulph o' the Axe is
a mighty drinker--to-night, drawn by fame of thy wit, he cometh with his
fellows. This money shall buy them wine, in the wine cast this powder so
shall they sleep and thou go free.”
“Aye!” said Jocelyn, “and then?”
“There will meet thee a dwarf shall free thee of thy fetters, and by secret
ways set thee without the city--then, tarry not, but flee for thy life--”
“Now by the Holy Rood!” quoth Jocelyn softly, “never in all this world was
there prisoner so happy as this poor Fool! But, Hugo, an I win free by
reason of a brave and noble lady, so long as she bide in Canalise, so long
must I--”
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: O, father, now I understand--
Of course, this Hugo is Yolande!
MYSELF: Exactly, miss, the fact is clear;
But how on earth did she get here?
I don't want her here--
GILL: Why not?
MYSELF: Because, being here, she spoils my plot,
Which would drive any author frantic--
GILL: I think it's fine, and most romantic.
Besides, you know, you wrote her there--
MYSELF: She came--before I was aware--
GILL: She couldn't, father, for just think,
You've made her all of pen and ink.
So you, of course, can make her do
Exactly as you want her to.
MYSELF: Dear innocent! You little know
The trials poor authors undergo.
How heroines, when they break loose,
Are apt to play the very deuce,
Dragging their authors to and fro,
And where he wills--they will not go.
GILL: Well, since she's here, please let her be,
She wants to set Duke Joc'lyn free.
MYSELF: Enough--enough, my plans are made,
I'll set him free without her aid,
And in a manner, I apprise you,
As will, I fancy, quite surprise you.
Besides, a dungeon no fit place is
For a dainty lady's graces.
So, since she's in, 't is very plain
I now must get her out again.
“To bide in Canalise, 't is folly!” cried Hugo. “O, 't were a madness fond!”
“Aye,” sighed Jocelyn, “some do call love a madness--thus mad am I,
forsooth!”
“Hush!” whispered Hugo, as from without came the tramp of heavy feet.
“Fare-thee-well and--ah, be not mad, Joconde!”
The door creaked open, and six soldiers entered bringing a prisoner,
chained and fettered, and therewith fast bound and gagged, whom they set
ungently upon the stone floor; then straightway seizing upon Robin, they
haled him to his feet.
“Come, rogue,” said one, “thou art to hang at cockcrow!”
“Is't so, good fellows?” quoth Robin,
“Then cock be curst
That croweth first!
As for thee, good Motley, peradventure when, by hangman's noose, our souls
enfranchised go, they shall company together, thine and mine! Till then
--farewell, Folly!”
So Robin was led forth of the dungeon and the heavy door crashed shut; but
when Jocelyn looked for Hugo--lo! he was gone also.
Evening was come and the light began to fail, therefore Jocelyn crouched
beneath the narrow loophole and taking from his bosom the wallet, found
therein good store of money together with the charm or philtre: and bowing
his head above this little wallet, he fell to profound meditation.
But presently, roused by hoarse laughter, he glanced up to find the three
plaguing the helpless prisoner with sundry kicks and buffets; so Jocelyn
crossed the dungeon, and putting the tormentors aside, stood amazed to
behold in this latest captive none other than Sir Pertinax. Straightway he
loosed off the gag, whereupon the good knight incontinent swore a gasping
oath and prayed his limbs might be loosed also; the which done, he
forthwith sprang up, and falling on the astonished three, he beat and
clouted them with fist and manacles, and drave them to and fro about the
dungeon.
“Ha, dogs! Wilt spurn me with they vile feet, buffet me with thy beastly
hands, forsooth!” roared he and kicked and cuffed them so that they,
thinking him mad, cried aloud in fear until Sir Pertinax, growing a-weary,
seated himself against the wall, and folding his arms, scowled indignant
upon Jocelyn who greeted him merrily:
“Hail and greeting to thee, my Pertinax; thy gloomy visage is a joy!”
Sir Pertinax snorted, but spake not; wherefore the Duke questioned him full
blithe: “What fair, good wind hath blown thee dungeon-wards, sweet soul?”
“Ha!” quoth the knight. “Fetters, see'st thou, a dungeon, and these foul
knaves for company--the which cometh of thy fool's folly, messire! So
prithee ha' done with it!”
“Stay, gentle gossip, thou'rt foolish, methinks; thou frettest 'gainst
fate, thou kickest unwisely 'gainst the pricks, thou ragest pitifully
'gainst circumstance--in fine, thou'rt a very Pertinax, my Pertinax!”
“Aye troth, that am I and no dog to lie thus chained in noisome pit, par
Dex! So let us out, messire, and that incontinent!”
“Why here is a bright thought, sweet lad, let us out forthwith--but how?”
“Summon the town-reeve, messire, the burgesses, the council, declare thy
rank, so shall we go free--none shall dare hold thus a prince of thy
exalted state and potent might! Declare thyself, lord.”
“This were simple matter, Pertinax, but shall they believe us other than we
seem, think ye?”
Quoth Pertinax: “We can try!”
“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “this very moment!” So saying, he turned to the
three who sat in a corner muttering together.
“Good brothers, gentle rogues,” said he, “behold and regard well this
sturdy cut-throat fellow that sitteth beside me, big of body, unseemly of
habit, fierce and unlovely of look--one to yield the wall unto, see ye! And
yet--now heed me well, this fellow, ragged and unkempt, this ill-looking
haunter of bye-ways, this furtive snatcher of purses (hold thy peace,
Pertinax!). I say this unsavoury-seeming clapper-claw is yet neither one
nor other, but a goodly knight, famous in battle, joust and tourney, a
potent lord of noble heritage, known to the world as Sir Pertinax of Shene
Castle and divers rich manors and demesnes. Furthermore, I that do seem a
sorry jesting-fellow, I that in antic habit go, that cut ye capers with
ass's ears a-dangle and languish here your fellow in bonds, am yet no
antic, no poor, motley Fool, but a duke and lord of many fair towns
and rich cities beyond Morfeville and the Southward March. How say ye,
brothers?”
“That thou'rt a fool!” quoth Rick.
“True!” nodded Jocelyn.
“Most true!” sighed Sir Pertinax.
“And a liar!” growled Gurth.
“And a murderous rogue!” cried Will, “and shall hang, along of us--as I'm a
tanner!”
“Alack, Sir Knight,” smiled Jocelyn, “of what avail rank or fame or both
'gainst a motley habit and a ragged mantle. Thus, Pertinax, thou art
no more than what thou seemest, to wit--a poor, fierce rogue, and I, a
beggarly stroller.”
“And like to have our necks stretched, lord, by reason of a fond and
foolish whim!”
“Unless, Pertinax, having naught to depend on but our native wit we, by our
wit, win free. Other poor rogues in like case have broke prison ere now,
and 'tis pity and shame in us if thou, a knight so potent and high-born,
and I, a prince, may not do the like.”
“Messire, unlearned am I in the breaking o' prisons so when my time cometh
to die in a noose I can but die as knight should--though I had rather 't
were in honest fight.”
“Spoken like the very fool of a knight!” quoth Jocelyn. “So now will I
show thee how by the wit of a brave and noble lady we may yet 'scape the
hangman. Hearken in thine ear!”
But, when Jocelyn had told him all and shown money and sleeping-charm, Sir
Pertinax grew thoughtful, sighing deep and oft, yet speaking not, wherefore
the Duke questioned him.
“Good gossip, gasp not!” quoth he. “How think'st thou of prison-breaking
now--expound!”
“Why, sir, I think when all do charmed and spellbound
snore,
Then will we shrewdly choke them that they wake
no more!”
“Nay, Pertinax, here shall be no need of choking, forsooth!” Sir Pertinax
bowed chin on fist and sighed again.
“Pertinax, prithee puff not! Yet, an puff ye will, pronounce me then the
why and wherefore of thy puffing.”
“Lord, here is neither gasp nor puff, here is honest sighing. I can sigh as
well as another.”
“Since when hast learned this so tender art, my Pertinax?”
“And I do sigh by reason of memory.”
“As what, Pertinax?”
“Eyes, lord--her eyes so darkly bright and, as I do think--black!”
“Nay, blue, Pertinax--blue as heaven!”
“Black, messire, black as--as black!”
“Blue, boy, blue!”
“Lord, they are black!”
“Speak'st thou of Yolande?”
“Messire, of one I speak, but whom, I know not. She came to me i' the
greenwood as I sat a-fishing. Her hair long and black--ay, black and
curled, her eyes dark, and for beauty ne'er saw I her like.”
“And yet hast seen my Lady Yolande oft!”
“Her voice, messire, her voice soft and sweet as the murmur of waters, and
very full of allure.”
“Why, how now!” cried Jocelyn. “Art thou--thou, my Pertinax, become
at last one of Cupid's humble following? All joy to thee, my lovely
lover--here in truth is added bond betwixt us! For since thou dost love a
maid, even as I do love a maid, so being lovers twain needs must we love
each other the better therefore.”
“Nay, out alack, my lord!” sighed Sir Pertinax. “For though I do love her,
she, by reason o' my ill-favoured looks, the which, woe's me, I may not
alter, loveth not me, as I do judge.”
“How judge ye this?”
“Lord, she giveth me hard names. She, all in a breath, hath pictured me
thus: 'Hooked of nose, fierce-eyed, of aspect grim--ungentle, unlovely,
harsh o' tongue, dour o' visage, hard o' heart, flinty o' soul and of
manners rude.'”
“Good! But was this all, my Pertinax?”
“Nay, lord, and with a wannion--there was more to like purpose.”
“Excellent, my lovely knight--let hope sing in thee. For look now, if she
named thee hooked of nose, fierce-eyed and of aspect grim--she speaketh
very truth, for so thou art, my Pertinax. Now truth is a fair virtue in man
or maid, so is she both virtuous and fair! Nay, puff not, sighful Pertinax,
but for thy comforting mark this--she hath viewed and heeded thy outward
man narrowly--so shall she not forget thee soon; she with woman's eye hath
marked the great heart of thee through sorry habit and rusty mail, and
found therein the love thy harsh tongue might not utter; and thus,
methinks, she hath thee in mind--aye, even now, mayhap. Lastly, good,
lovely blunderbore--mark this! 'Tis better to win a maid's anger than she
should heed thee none at all. Let love carol i' thy heart and be ye worthy,
so, when ye shall meet again, 'tis like enough, despite thy hooked nose,
she shall find thine eyes gentle, thy unloveliness lovely, thy harsh tongue
wondrous tender and thy flinty soul the soul of a man.”
“Why, faith, lord,” quoth Pertinax, his grim lips softening to a smile,
“despite her words, she spake in voice full sweet, and her eyes--ah,
messire, her eyes were wondrous kind--gentle eyes--aye, her eyes were--”
“Eyes, my Pertinax--black eyes!”
“And gentle! By which same token, lord, she did give to me this token--this
most strange trinket.”
But all at once, was the creak of hinges, and the ponderous door opening,
Ranulph o' the Axe appeared, followed by divers of the warders bearing
torches.
“Oho!” sighed Ranulph, doleful of visage. “Aha, good bawcocks, here come
I, and these my fellows, for love o' thee, good Fool, thy quips, thy
quirks, thy songs and antics capersome. For troth I'm a merry dog, I--a
wanton wag, a bully boy and jovial, though woeful o' look!”
“Wherefore woeful!”
“For that I am not joyous, good Motley. Look 'ee--here's me born with a
rare, merry heart, but sad and sober of head! Here's a heart bubbling with
kindliness and soft and tender as sucking lamb, wedded to head and face
full o' gloom! Here's laughter within me and woe without me, so am I ever
at odds with myself--and there's my sorrow. Regarding the which same I will
now chaunt ye song I made on myself; 'twas meant for merry song and blithe,
but of itself turned mournful song anon as ye shall hear.”
So saying, Ranulph o' the Axe threw back grim head and sang gruff, albeit
plaintive, thus:
“O! merry I am and right merry I'll be,
Ho-ho for block, gibbet and rack--oho!
To hang or behead ye there's none like to me,
For I'm headsman, tormentor, and hangman, all three,
And never for work do I lack--oho!
“I live but to torture since torment's my trade,
But my torment well meant is, I trow;
If I hang or behead ye, it can't be gainsaid,
Though my head for the head of a headsman was made,
Still I'm all loving-kindness below.
“But if ever I strive merry story to tell,
Full of japeful and humorsome graces,
'T is as though I were tolling a funeral bell
As if dismally, dolefully tolling a knell,
So solemn and sad grow all faces.
“I hang, burn and torture the best that I may,
Ho pincers and thumbscrews and rack--oho!
And all heads I cut off in a headsmanlike way;
So I'll hang, burn and torment 'till cometh the day
That my kind heart within me shall crack--oho!
Well-a-wey! Well-a-wey!
Woe is me for the day
That my poor heart inside me shall crack! Oho!
“So there's my song! 'T is dull song and, striving to be merry song, is sad
song, yet might be worse song, for I have heard a worse song, ere now--but
't is poor song. So come, Fool, do thou sing us merry song to cheer us
'gainst my sad song.”
“Why truly, Sir Headsman,” said Jocelyn, “here be songs a-many, yet if thou
'rt for songs, songs will we sing thee, each and every of us. But first,
behold here is money shall buy us wine in plenty that we may grow merry
withal in very sooth.”
“Oho!” cried Ranulph. “Spoken like a noble Motley, a fair, sweet Fool! Go
thou, Bertram, obey this lord-like Fool--bring wine, good wine and much,
and haste thee, for night draweth on and at cock-crow I must away.”
“Aye,” nodded Jocelyn, “in the matter of one--Robin?”
“Verily, Fool. A cheery soul is Robin, though an outlaw, and well beloved
in Canalise. So is he to hang at cock-crow lest folk make disturbance.”
“Where lieth he now?”
“Where but in the watch-house beside the gallows 'neath Black Lewin's
charge. But come, good Motley, sing--a pretty song, a merry ditty, ha!”
So forthwith Jocelyn took his lute and sang:
“With dainty ditty
Quaint and pretty
I will fit ye,
So heed and mark me well,
And who we be
That here ye see
Now unto ye
Explicit I will tell:
“Then here first behold one Gurth, a worthy, dying
Dyer,
Since he by dyeing liveth, so to dye is his desire:
For being thus a very Dyer, he liveth but to dye,
And dyeing daily he doth all his daily wants
supply.
Full often hath he dyed ere now to earn his
daily bread,
Thus, dyeing not, this worthy Dyer must soon,
alas! be dead.
“Here's Rick--a saintly ploughman, he
Hath guided plough so well,
That here, with rogues the like of me,
He pines in dungeon cell.
“Here's Red-haired Will--O fie!
That Will should fettered lie
In such base, cruel manner!
For though his hair be red,
Brave Will, when all is said,
Is--hark 'ee--Will's a tanner!”
“Enough, Fool!” cried Will. “An thou must sing, sing of thyself, for
thyself, to thyself, and I will sing of myself an' need be!”
Laughed JOCELYN:
Why then, brave Will,
Come, sing thy fill.
Whereupon Will cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and rumbling a
note or so to fix the key, burst into songful roar:
“A tanner I, a lusty man,
A tanner men call Will,
And being tanner true, I tan,
Would I were tanning still;
Ho derry, derry down,
Hey derry down,
Would I were tanning still.”
“Aye, verily!” growled Sir Pertinax. “And choked in thy vile tan-pit, for
scurvier song was never heard, par Dex!”
“Why 'tis heard, forsooth,” said Jocelyn, “and might be heard a mile hence!
Chant on, brave Will.”
The Tanner, nothing loth, wiped his mouth, clenched his fists and standing
square and rigid, continued:
“How gaily I a-tanning went,
No tanner blithe as I,
No tanner e'er so innocent,
Though here in chains I lie.
Ho derry down,
Hey derry down,
In grievous chains I lie.
“No more, alack, poor Will will tan,
Since Will will, all unwilling,
Though tanner he and proper man,
A gloomy grave be filling.
Hey derry down,
Ho derry down,
A gloomy grave be filling.”
“Now out upon thee, Tanner!” sighed Ranulph. “Here's sad song, a song o'
graves, and therefore most unlovely, a song I--Saints and Angels!” he
gasped:
And pointed where Sir Pertinax did stand,
The Heart of Crystal shining in his hand.
“The Heart-in-Heart! The Crystal Heart!” cried he,
And crying thus, sank down on bended knee,
While jailers all and scurvy knaves, pell-mell,
Betook them to their marrow-bones as well;
Whereat Sir Pertinax oped wond'ring eyes,
And questioned him 'twixt anger and surprise.
Then answered Ranulph, “Sir, though chained ye go,
Yet to thee we do all obedience owe
By reason of that sacred amulet,
That crystal heart in heart of crystal set:
'For he that holdeth Crystal Heart
Holdeth all and every part,
And by night or eke by day
The Heart-in-Heart all must obey!”'
“Obey?” quoth Pertinax. “Ha! Let us see
If in thy vaunt there aught of virtue be:
For by this Heart of Crystal that I bear,
I charge ye loose the chains the Fool doth wear,
Then off with these accursèd gyves of mine,
Or--”
Ranulph to the warders gave a sign,
And they to work did go with such good speed,
That Joc'lyn soon with Pertinax stood freed,
“Now by my halidome!” quoth Pertinax,
“This talisman methinks no magic lacks,
So knaves, I bid ye--by this magic Heart,
Draw bolt and bar that hence we may depart--”
But now the scurvy knaves made dismal cry.
“Good sir!” they wailed, “Ah, leave us not to die!”
“Aye, by Heav'n's light!” fierce quoth Sir Pertinax,
“Ye're better dead by gibbet or by axe,
Since naught but scurvy, coward rogues are ye,
And so be hanged--be hanged to ye, all three!”
“Knight!” Joc'lyn sighed, “'neath Heaven's light
somewhere
Doth live a dark-eyed maid with black-curled hair--
Her voice is soft and full of sweet allure,
And thou, perchance, one day may humbly woo her;
So these poor rogues now woo their lives of thee,
Show mercy then and mercy find of she.”
At this Sir Pertinax rubbed chin and frowned,
Red grew his cheek, his fierce eyes sought the ground,
Then, even as he thus pinched chin and scowled,
“Loose, then, the dismal knaves!” at last he
growled.
But now grim Ranulph tangled beard tore
And wrung his hands and sighed and groaned and
swore
With loud complaints and woeful lamentations,
With muttered oaths and murmured objurgations,
With curses dire and impious imprecations.
“Beshrew me, masters all!” quoth he. “Now here's ill prank to play a poor
hangman, may I ne'er quaff good liquor more, let me languish o' the
quartern ague and die o' the doleful dumps if I ever saw the like o' this!
For look 'ee now, if I set these three rogues free, how may I hang 'em as
hang 'em I must, since I by hanging live to hang again, and if I don't
hang 'em whom shall I hang since hang I must, I being hangman? Bethink ye
o' this, sirs, and show a little pity to a poor hangman.”
“Why then, mark ye this, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “since on hanging doth thy
hangman's reputation hang, then hang thou must; therefore, an ye lack rogue
to hang, go hang thyself, so, hanging, shall thy hanging be done with and
thou having lived a hangman, hangman die, thus, hangman hanging hangman,
hangman hanging shall be hangman still, and being still, thus hanging,
shall hang no more.”
“Aye, verily!” quoth Sir Pertinax, “there it is in a nutshell--hangman, be
hanged to thee! So off with their fetters, Master Gallows, by Crystal Heart
I charge thee!”
Hereupon the scurvy knaves were freed, to their great joy, and following
the bold knight, made haste to quit their gloomy dungeon. Reaching the
guardroom above, Sir Pertinax called lustily for sword and bascinet, and
thereafter chose divers likely weapons for his companions who, with axe and
pike and guisarme on shoulder, followed him out into the free air.
Now it was night and very dark, but Gurth, who was a man of the town,
brought them by dim and lonely alleys and crooked ways until at last they
halted within a certain dark and narrow street.
“Whither now?” questioned Sir Pertinax.
“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “where but to the gatehouse--”
“Not so,” muttered Gurth, “'tis overly well guarded--”
“Aye,” growled Will, “which is true, as I'm a tanner!”
“Howbeit,” said Jocelyn, “I'm for the gatehouse!”
“And wherefore?” demanded Sir Pertinax.
“In cause of one Rob, a robber.”
“Aye, but,” said Gurth, “he is to hang at crow-o'-cock and 'tis nigh
cock-crow now.”
“The more need for haste,” said Jocelyn.
But, even now, as they together spoke,
A sullen tramp the sleeping echoes woke,
Behind them in the gloom dim forms they saw,
While others grimly barred the way before;
And so, by reason that they could not fly,
They grasped their weapons and prepared to die.
Then in the darkness of that narrow street,
Broad axe and pike and flashing sword did meet.
Duke Jocelyn full many a thrust drave home,
Till whirling pike-staff smote him on cock's-comb,
And staggering back to an adjacent wall,
In deep-sunk doorway groaning he did fall.
My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:
GILL: Now, father, please don't let him die--
MYSELF: No, no, indeed, my Gill, not I,
My heroes take a lot of killing--
GILL: Then go on quick, it's very thrilling!
I hope he vanquishes his foes,
And let him do it, please, in prose.
“O woe!” said a quavering voice. “Alack, and well-a-wey--”
My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:
GILL: No, father--that's not right at all.
You'd got to where you'd made him fall.
MYSELF: Well, then, Duke Joc'lyn, from his swoon awaking,
Found that his head confoundedly was aching;
Found he was bruised all down from top to toe--
GILL: A bruise, father, and he a duke? No, no!
Besides, you make
A frightful mistake--
A hero's head should never ache;
And, father, now, whoever knew
A hero beaten black and blue?
And then a bruise, it seems to me,
Is unromantic as can be.
He can't be bruised,
And shan't be bruised,
For, if you bruise him,
And ill-use him,
I'll refuse him--
No reader, I am sure, would choose
A hero any one can bruise.
So, father, if you want him read,
Don't bruise him, please--
MYSELF: Enough is said!
At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber
dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman,
a very hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below;
and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.
“Lady,” said he, “where am I?”
“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid. “Thou didst fall 'gainst the door
yonder. But speak low, they that seek thy life may yet be nigh.”
“Nay, then,” quoth Jocelyn, reaching for his sword, “I must out and aid my
comrades.”
“Alack!” sighed the old woman. “Thy comrades do without lie all slain save
one that groaneth--hearken!”
“O, woe!” mourned a quavering voice beyond the door. “O, woe, sore hurted I
be, and like to die--and I a tanner!”
Very heedfully, Jocelyn unbarred the door, and peering into the narrow
street, found it deserted and empty save for certain outstretched forms
that stirred not; looking down on these dim shapes he knew one for Rick the
Ploughman, whose ploughing days were sped and, huddled in a corner hard by,
he found Will the Tanner, who groaned fitfully; but of Sir Pertinax and
Gurth he saw nothing. So Jocelyn made shift to bear the Tanner within the
house, and here Will, finding his hurts of small account, sat up, and while
the wise old woman bandaged his wound, answered Jocelyn's eager questions,
and told how Sir Pertinax and Gurth the Dyer had broken through their
assailants and made good their escape.
Now, when the old woman had thus cherished their hurts, Jocelyn would
fain have given her money, but she mumbled and mowed and cracked her
finger-joints and shook grey head.
“Not so, good Fool!” she croaked, “for I do know thee for that same gentle
Motley did save me from Black Lewin--a murrain seize him! So now will I
save thee--behold!” So saying she set bony hand to wall; and lo! in the
wall yawned a square opening narrow and dark, whence issued a cold wind.
“Begone, thou brave merryman!” quoth she. “Yonder safety lieth; this
darksome way shall carry thee out beneath the city wall!”
“Gramercy, thou kindly Witch!” said Jocelyn. “Yet first must I to the
watch-house beside the gate for one Robin that lieth 'prisoned there.”
“How, Fool, dost mean Robin-a-Green that is to hang?”
“In truth!”
“But Rob o' the Green is outlawed, banned o' Church, a very rogue!”
“But a man, wherefore I would save him alive.”
“Nay, Fool, o' thy folly be wise and seek ye safety instead. Would'st peril
thy body for a thief?”
“Verily, dame, even as I did for a Witch.”
Now, here the old woman scowled and mumbled and cracked her finger-bones
angrily. But the beauteous young maid viewed Jocelyn with bright, approving
eyes:
“But, Fool,” cried she, “O wondrous Fool, wilt adventure thyself in cause
so desperate?”
“Blithely, fair lady!”
“But, alas! the guards be many and thou but one--”
“Nay!” cried a voice:
“For thou may'st see
That two are we!”
And forth of the dark opening in the wall strode Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf,
his great, spiked club on brawny shoulder. Jocelyn viewed the monstrous
little man in awed wonder; but beholding his mighty girth and determined
aspect, wonder changed to kindliness; quoth he:
“Fair greeting, comrade! If thou'rt for a little bickering and disputation
with that goodly club o' thine, come thy ways for methinks I do smell the
dawn.”
“Aha, thou naughty little one!” cried the Witch, shaking bony fist. “Art
for fighting for rogue's life along of a Fool, then?”
Quoth LOBKYN:
Aye, grannam, though ye slap me, still,
Fight and aid this Fool I will--
“And talking o' Will,” quoth Will, “what o' me, for though I'm a tanner I'm
a man, aye, verily, as I'm a tanner.”
“And methinks a better man than tanner!” said Jocelyn. “So here we stand
three goodly wights and well armed. Let's away--”
“Nay, then, wild Madcap,” croaked the Witch, “an my Lobkyn go I go, and,
though I be old and feeble, shalt find my craft more potent than sword or
club--wait!”
Here the old woman, opening a dingy cupboard, took thence a small crock
over which she muttered spells and incantations with look and gesture so
evil that Lobkyn eyed her askance, Will the Tanner cowered and whispered
fragments of prayers, and even Jocelyn crossed himself.
“Come!” croaked the Witch. “Now do I go to save rogue from gallows for sake
of thee, tall Fool. Come ye, come and do as I bid ye in all things--come!”
FYTTE 6
Tells how for Robin a good fight was fought
And our old Witch a spell mysterious wrought.
* * * * *
Phoebus, the young and gladsome god of day,
His fiery steeds had yoked to flaming car
(By which, my Gill, you may surmise
The sun was just about to rise)
And that be-feathered, crook-billed harbinger,
The rosy-wattled herald of the dawn,
Red comb aflaunt, bold-eyed and spurred for strife,
Brave Chanticleer, his strident summons raised
(By which fine phrase I'd have you know,
The cock had just begun to crow)
And gentle Zephyr, child of Boreas,
Stole soft the hush of dewy leaves,
And passing kissed the flowers to wakefulness.
Thus, laden with their sweetness, Zephyr came
O'er hill and dale, o'er battlement and wall,
Into the sleeping town of Canalise,
Through open lattice and through prison-bars,
To kiss the cheek of sleeping Innocence
And fevered brows of prisoners forlorn,
Who, stirring 'neath sweet Zephyr's soft caress,
Dreamed themselves young, with all their sins unwrought.
So, gentle Zephyr, messenger of dawn,
Fresh as the day-spring, of earth redolent,
Through narrow loophole into dungeon stole,
Where Robin the bold outlaw fettered lay,
Who, sighing, woke to feel her fragrant kiss,
And, breathing in this perfume-laden air,
He seemed to smell those thousand woodland scents
He oft had known, yet, knowing, never heeded:
Of lofty bracken, golden in the sun,
Of dewy violets shy that bloomed dim-seen
Beside some merry-laughing, woodland brook
Which, bubbling, with soft music filled the air;
The fragrant reek of smouldering camp-fire
Aglow beside some dark, sequestered pool
Whose placid waters a dim mirror made
To hold the glister of some lonely star;
He seemed to see again in sunny glade
The silky coats of yellow-dappled deer,
With branching antlers gallantly upborne;
To hear the twang of bow, the whizz of shaft,
And cheery sound of distant-winded horn.
Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought,
And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude,
He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see,
Shed bitter tears.
My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth:
GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise me
To save him from the gallows-tree.
He's much too nice a man to kill;
So save him, father; say you will!
MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang!
GILL: Ranulph's song was top-hole, but--
MYSELF: You know I hate slang--
GILL: Yes, father--but then I hate Ranulph much more,
With his nasty great beard that in tangles he wore.
So, father, if you must have some one to slay,
Instead of poor Robin, hang Ranulph--
MYSELF: Why, pray?
GILL: In nice books the nasty folks only should die;
Those are the kind of books nice people buy.
I like a book that makes me glad,
And loathe a book that makes me sad;
So, as this Geste is made for me,
Make it as happy as can be.
MYSELF: And is it, so far, as you'd wish?
GILL: Well, father, though it's rather swish,
I think it needs a deal more love--
MYSELF: Swish? How--what's this? Great heavens
above!
Will you, pray, miss, explain to me
How any story “swish” may be?
And why, my daughter, you must choose
A frightful word like “swish” to use?
What hideous language are you talking?
GILL: Sorrow, father! “Swish” means “corking.”
I think our Geste is “out of sight,”
Except that, to please me, you might
Put in more love--
MYSELF: Now, how can Joc'lyn go love-making
When his head is sore and aching?
Besides, this is no place to woo;
He'll love-make when I want him to.
GILL: But, father, think--in all this time,
In all this blank-verse, prose and rhyme,
The fair Yolande he's never kissed,
And you've done nothing to assist;
And, as I'm sure they're both inclined,
I think your treatment most unkind.
MYSELF: This Geste I'll write in my own way,
That is, sweet Prattler, if I may;
When I'm ready for them to kiss,
Then kiss they shall; I promise this.
Now I'll to Rob return, if you,
My Gillian, will permit me to!
Thus in his prison pent, poor woeful Rob,
Since none might see or hear, scorned not to sob,
And mightily, in stricken heart, did grieve
That he so soon so fair a world must leave.
And all because the morning wind had brought
Earth's dewy fragrance with sweet mem'ries fraught.
So Robin wept nor sought his grief to stay,
Yearning amain for joys of yesterday;
Till, hearing nigh the warder's heavy tread,
He sobbed no more but strove to sing instead.
“A bow for me, a bow for me,
All underneath the greenwood tree,
Where slaves are men, and men are free;
Give me a bow!
“Give me a bow, a bow of yew,
Good hempen cord and arrows true,
When foes be thick and friends be few,
Give me a bow!”
Thus cheerily sang Robin the while he dried his bitter tears, as the
door of his prison was flung wide and Black Lewin strode in and with him
men-at-arms bearing torches.
“What ho, rogue Robin!” cried he. “The cock hath crowed. Ha! Will ye sing,
knave, will ye sing, in faith?”
“In faith, that will I!” laughed Robin.
“Here come we to bring ye to the gallows, Robin--how say ye?”
“The more reason for singing since my singing must soon be done!” So, with
pikemen before him and behind, bold Robin marched forth to die, yet sang
full blithely as he went:
“So lay my bones 'neath good yew-tree,
Thus Rob and yew soon one shall be,
Where all true men may find o' we
A trusty bow!”
“Ha' done!” growled Black Lewin, shivering in the chilly air of dawn.
“Quit--quit thy singing, rogue, or by the foul fiend I--”
“Who dareth name the fiend?” croaked an awful voice, whereat Black Lewin
halted, gaped and stood a-tremble, while beneath steel cap and bascinet
all men's hair stirred and rose with horror; for before them was a ghastly
shape, a shape that crouched in the gloom with dreadful face aflame with
smouldering green fire.
“Woe!” cried the voice. “Woe unto thee, Lewin the Black, that calleth on
fiend o' the pit!”
And now came a fiery hand that, hovering in the air, pointed lambent finger
at gaping Lewin and at each of the shivering pike-men in turn.
“Woe--sorrow and woe to one and all, ye men of blood, plague and pest, pain
o' flesh, and grief of soul seize ye, be accursed and so--begone! Hence
ho--away!
“Rommani hi! Avaunt, I say,
Prendraxon!
Thus direst curse on ye I lay
Shall make flesh shrink and bone decay,
To rot and rot by night and day
Till flesh and bone do fall away,
Mud unto mud and clay to clay.
A spell I cast,
Shall all men blast.
Hark ye,
Mark ye,
Rommani hi--prendraxon!”
Down fell pike and guisarme from nerveless fingers and, gasping with fear,
Black Lewin and his fellows turned and fled nor stayed for one look
behind; only Robin stood there (since he might not run away by reason of
his bonds) babbling prayers between chattering teeth and with all his
fingers crossed.
“Oho, Fool, aha!” cried the voice. “Thus have I, a poor, feeble old woman,
wrought better than all thy valiance or Lobkyn's strength. So, by potency
of my spells and magic are we quits, thou and I. Bring, then, thy rogue
outlaw and haste ye!”
So saying the old Witch muffled her awful, fiery face in ragged mantle and
turned away; and in that moment Robin was aware of three forms about him in
the grey dawn-light, felt his bonds loosed off by quick, strong hands and
drew a great, joyous breath.
“How, Fool, thou brave and noble Motley,” quoth he, “is it thou again? And
I to live?”
“Aye, marry, Robin! But come apace, the day breaketh and the city is
astir--hark to yon shouts! Follow!”
So with the Tanner on one side and Lobkyn on the other, Robin ran, hard on
Jocelyn's heels; and ever the dawn brightened until up came the sun chasing
away sullen shadow and filling street and alley with his glory.
But now, and just as they reached that narrow street where safety lay,
they heard a shout, a scream, a rush of feet and roar of fierce voices and
beheld, amid a surge of armed men, the old woman struggling in the cruel
grip of Black Lewin who (like many others I wot of, my Gill) was brave
enough by daylight. Vainly the old creature strove, screaming for mercy as
Black Lewin whirled aloft his sword; but his blade clashed upon another as
Jocelyn sprang, and for a while the air rang with the sound of fierce-
smiting steel until, throwing up his arms, Black Lewin fell and lay there.
But, roaring vengeance, the soldiery closed about Jocelyn who, beset by
blows on every side, sank in turn, yet, even as he fell, two short though
mighty legs bestrode his prostrate form and Lobkyn Lollo, whirling huge
club, smote down the foremost assailant and, ever as he smote, he
versified and chanted--thus:
“I'm Lollo hight,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I,
I'm Lollo hight,
'Tis my delight
By day or night
In honest fight
With main and might
Good blows to smite,
And where they light
'Tis sorry plight
For that poor wight,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.
“Bows, swords and staves,
Come, lusty knaves,
And fit for graves
Brave Lobkyn soon will make ye;
So fight, say I,
Nor turn and fly,
Or, when ye die,
Then may old Horny take ye.”
Fierce raged the conflict, but in that narrow street they made good play
against their many assailants, the valiant Dwarf's mighty club, backed by
the Tanner's darting pike and Robin's flashing sword, which he had
snatched from a loosened grasp. But Jocelyn lay prone upon his face,
between Lobkyn's firm-planted feet, and stirred not. So club whirled,
sword flashed and pike darted while, high above the tumult, rose Lobkyn's
fierce chant:
“Hot blood I quaff,
At death I laugh,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.
Come all that may,
And all I'll slay,
And teach ye how to die.”
“Lob--Lobkyn!” screamed the Witch. “Thou that drinkest nought but
milk--talk not of blood, thou naughty poppet. Back now--stand back, I do
command thee!”
Lobkyn smote a man to earth and, sighing regretful, stepped aside.
“Back!” screamed the Witch. “Stand back, I say, all three,
And leave this wicked rabblement to me.
Now shall they learn the terror of my curse,
Black magic shall they feel--and something worse!”
Then uttered she a sudden, hideous cry,
And, leaping, whirled her bony hands on high,
And lo! a choking dust-cloud filled the air;
That wreathed in whirling eddies here and there.
“Perendewix!” she cried. “Oh Radzywin--
Thraxa! Behold, my witchcraft doth begin!”
Back shrank their foes, back reeled they one and all,
They choked, they gasped, they let their weapons fall;
And some did groan, and some did fiercely sneeze,
And some fell prone, some writhed upon their knees;
Some strove to wipe the tears from blinded eyes,
But one and all gave voice to awful cries.
“Come!” cried the Witch, “to the door--the door. Lobkyn, bear ye the brave
Fool--and tenderly! Haste, naughty bantling, haste--I hear the tread of
more soldiers!”
So Lobkyn stooped and, lifting Jocelyn's inanimate form, tucked it beneath
one arm, and with Robin and Will the Tanner, followed the old Witch into
the house.
My daughter GILLIAN commandeth:
GILL: Go on, father, do; why will you keep stopping?
I think the old Witch is just perfectly topping.
And what frightful words she uses for curses!
MYSELF: Very frightful, indeed, though your slang still much worse is,
With your “topping,” “top-holing,” your “swishing” and “clipping,”
GILL: Well, I merely intended to say it was ripping;
But, if you object to my praises--
MYSELF: I only object to your phrases,
For there's no author but will own
He “liveth not by bread alone.”
As for myself, if what I write
Doth please--then praise with all your might.
GILL: Well, then, the Witch is splendid, though
I'm very curious to know
Just how her face all fiery grew,
And what the stuff was that she threw--
The stuff that made the soldiers sneeze
And brought them choking to their knees
It sounds as though it might be snuff.
MYSELF: My dear, they'd not found out such stuff.
But grisly witches long ago
Did many strange devices know.
Indeed, my Gill, they knew much more
Than wise folk gave them credit for.
GILL: Well, what was it? You haven't said.
MYSELF: I'll get on with our Geste instead.
FYTTE 7
That telleth to the patient reader nought,
Save how the Duke was to the wild-wood brought.
* * * * *
With sleepy eyes Duke Jocelyn watched afar,
In deep, blue void a solitary star,
That, like some bright and wakeful eye, did seem
To watch him where he lay 'twixt sleep and dream.
And, as he viewed it winking high above,
He needs must think of Yolande and his love,
And how, while he this twinkling star did view,
She, wakeful lying, might behold it too,
Whereas she lay a spotless maid and fair,
Clothed in the red-gold glory of her hair;
And, thinking thus, needs must he fondly sigh,
Then frowned to hear a lusty snore hard by--
--and looking whence came this sound, the Duke sat up and his wonder grew;
for by light of a fire that glowed in a blackened fissure of rock he beheld
himself couched on a bed of bracken within a roomy cave. Beside the fire
leaned a mighty, iron-shod club, and beyond this, curled up like a dog,
snored Lobkyn Lollo, the Dwarf. Hereupon Jocelyn reached out and shook Lob
to wakefulness, who grunted sleepily, rubbed his eyes drowsily and yawned
mightily:
Quoth JOCELYN: Good Dwarf, where am I?
Answered LOBKYN:
Safe, Fool, safe art thou, I trow,
Where none but Lob and friends do know.
JOCELYN: But how am I hither?
LOBKYN: Why, truly thou art hither, Fool,
Because thou art not thither, Fool!
In these two arms, thy life to save,
I bore thee to this goodly cave.
JOCELYN: How may one of thy inches bear man of mine so far?
LOBKYN: Why, Fool, though I of inches lack,
I'm mighty strong, both arm and back,
Thou that art longer man than me,
Yet I am stronger man than thee,
Though, lusty Fool, big fool you be,
I'd bear thee, Fool, if thou wert three.
And mark, Fool, if my grammar seemeth weak,
Pray license it since I in verse must speak.
JOCELYN: And pray why must thou speak in verse?
LOBKYN: Nature hath on me laid this curse,
And, though to speak plain prose I yearn,
My prose to verse doth ever turn.
Therefore I grieve, as well I might,
Because of my poetic plight--
Though bards and rhymers all I scorn,
Alack! I was a rhymer born.
JOCELYN: Alack! poor Dwarf, as thou must versify,
By way of courtesy, then, so will I.
LOBKYN: How, Fool, then canst thou rhyme?
JOCELYN: Aye, Dwarf, at any time!
In dark, in light,
By day, by night,
Standing, sitting,
As be fitting,
Verses witty,
Quaint or pretty,
Incontinent I'll find.
Verses glad, Dwarf,
Verses sad, Dwarf,
Every sort, Lob,
Long or short, Lob
Or verses ill,
Yet verses still
Which might be worse,
I can rehearse
When I'm for verse inclined.
So, Lob, first speak me what became
Of our old Witch, that potent dame.
LOBKYN: Why, Fool, in faith she wrought so well
With direful curse and blasting spell
That every howling soldier-knave,
Every rogue and base-born slave
That by chance I did not slay,
From my grand-dam ran away.
JOCELYN: A noble Witch! Now, Lobkyn, tell
What hap'd when in the fight I fell,
And how alive I chance to be.
LOBKYN: Fool, I was there to succour thee.
I smote those pike-men hip and thigh,
That they did mangled pike-men lie;
Their arms, their legs, their skulls I broke,
Two, three, and four at every stroke.
I drave them here, I smote them there,
I smote, I slew, I none did spare,
I laughed, I sang, I--
“Ha, Lob!” growled a sleepy voice. “Now, as I'm a tanner, here's a-many
I's! By Saint Crispin, meseemeth thou'rt all I's--for as thou fought I
fought, or thought I fought, forsooth!”
LOBKYN: True, Will, did'st fight in goodly manner,
Though fightedst, Will, like any tanner;
But I did fight, or I'm forsworn,
Like one unto the manner born.
I fought, forsooth, with such good will,
'Tis marvel I'm not fighting still.
And so I should be, by my fay,
An I had any left to slay;
But since I slew them all--
“Hold there!” cried the Tanner. “I slew one or two, Lob, and Robin
likewise. Thou'rt a lusty fighter, but what o' me and Robin--ha, what o'
we?”
LOBKYN: In faith, ye're proper men and tall,
And I'm squat man, my stature small,
Nath'less, though small and squat I be,
I am the best man of the three.
“Why, as to that,” quoth the Tanner, “'tis but you says so! As to me I
think what I will, and I do think--”
But here Lobkyn started up and seized the great club; quoth he:
“Hark and mark,
Heard ye nought there i' the dark?”
“Not I!” answered Will.
“Methought I heard an owl hoot,” said Jocelyn.
“Aye,” nodded Lobkyn:
“Aye, Fool, and yet this owl I 'll swear,
Hath ne'er a feather anywhere.
This owl hath ne'er a wing to fly,
But goes afoot like thou and I.
Now mark,
And hark!”
Hereupon the Dwarf laid finger to lip and uttered an owl-cry so dismal,
so tremulous and withal so true to nature that it was wonder to hear.
Instantly, from the dimness beyond the cavern-mouth, the cry was repeated,
and presently was heard a panting and 'plaining, a snuffling and a
shuffling, and into the light of the fire hobbled the old Witch. Beholding
Jocelyn sitting cross-legged on his couch of fern, she paused and, leaning
on her crooked stick, viewed him with her wise, old eyes.
“Aha, Motley!” she croaked. “Oho, thou flaunting jackanapes, didst peril
thy foolish flesh for me that am poor and old and feeble, and cursed by
all for witchcraft! So have I with my potions ministered to thee in thy
sickness, and behold thou'rt alive, hale and strong again. Give me thy
hand! Aha, here's cool, unfevered blood! Show me thy tongue. Oho! Aha! A
little sup o' my black decoction--roots gathered at full o' moon--a little
sup and shall be thyself by to-morrow's dawn. But--as for thee, thou
good-for-naught, thou wicked elf--aha! would'st dare leave thy poor old
grannam weak and 'fenceless? Give me thy rogue-ear!” Obediently, the mighty
Dwarf arose and sighfully suffered the old woman to grasp him by the ear
and to tweak and wring and twist it as she would.
“What dost thou here i' the wild-wood, thou imp, thou poppet o' plagues,
thou naughty wap-de-staldees?”
To which Lobkyn, writhing and watering at the eyes, answered thus:
“Stay, prithee grannam, loose thy hold!
I would but be an outlaw bold,
An outlaw fierce that men shall fear--
Beseech thee, grand-dam, loose mine ear!”
“An outlaw, naughty one!” screeched the Witch, tweaking ear the harder.
“Dare ye tell me so, elf?”
LOBKIN: Aye, grand-dam--cuff me an ye will,
Nath'less an outlaw I'll be still,
And many a wicked rogue I'll kill--
O grand-dam, loose mine ear!
And day and night I'll slay until
All rogues my name do fear.
For grand-dam, I'm a fighter--O,
Beseech thee, let my ear go!
And bones shall crack and blood shall flow,
If any dare resist me.
And all the world my name shall know,
Pray by the ear don't twist me!
All men before my club shall fly,
All on their knees shall “mercy” cry,
Or mangled in their gore shall lie--
Ah, grand-dam, pray don't clout me!
Don't beat me, grannam dear, but try
To do awhile without me--
“Without thee, thou piece o' naughtiness?” screamed the old woman. “Now
will I lay my stick about thee--hold still, Rogue!”
Saying which, she proceeded to belabour the poor Dwarf with her knotted
stick, clutching him fast by his ear the while. Thus she be-thwacked him
soundly until he roared for mercy.
“Why, how now--how now?” cried a merry voice, and Robin strode into the
firelight. “Gentle Witch, sweet dame,” quoth he, “what do ye with poor
Lob?”
“Thwack him shrewdly!”
“Which is, Witch, that which none but witch the like o' thee might do, for
lustier fighter and mightier dwarf never was. Thus, but for thy witch-like
witcheries, the which, Witch, witch do prove thee, but for this and the
power and potency of thy spells, now might he crack out thy life 'twixt
finger and thumb--”
“Ha, forest-rogue, 'tis a bad brat, a very naughty elf would run off into
the wild to be rogue like thee--an outlaw, forsooth!”
“Forsooth, Witch,” laughed Robin, “outlaw is he in very truth, in sooth and
by my troth! Outlaw is Lob, banned by Church and Council of Ten, and so
proclaimed i' the market square of Canalise this very morn by sound o'
trumpet and--”
“How? How?” cried the old woman, wringing her trembling hands. “My Lobkyn
outlawed? My babe, my lovely brat, my pretty bantling, woe and alas! My
dear ugly one an outlaw?”
“Aye, marry is he, Witch, outlaw proclaimed, acclaimed, announced,
pronounced and denounced; as such described, ascribed and proscribed by
Master Gregory Bax, the port-reeve, for the late slaying and maiming of
divers of the city guard. So outlaw is Lobkyn, his life henceforth forfeit
even as mine.”
“My Lobkyn an hairy outlaw i' the wild-wood! Out alas! And what of his poor
old grannam? What o' me--?”
“Content thee, sweet hag, since thou'rt outlawed along with him and, as
witch, doomed to die unpleasantly by fire and flame and faggot, if thou'rt
caught.”
“Alack! Wala-wa! Woe 's me!” groaned the Witch, cracking her finger-bones.
“And all this by reason o' the Fool yonder.”
“Why, the Fool is dubbed outlaw likewise, Witch,” quoth Robin. “Outlaw is
he along o' thee and Tanner Will.”
“And all by reason that this Fool must needs peril our lives for sake of
rogue-outlaw, of forest-robber, of knavish woodland-lurker--”
“Hight Robin!” laughed Robin, leaning on his long bow-stave. “Now, this
brave Fool having saved Robin his life, Witch, the which, Witch, was good
thing for Robin, our Fool next saved thee, Witch, which was nought to
Robin, in the which, Witch, Robin did not joy; for thou, old Witch, being
witch, art therefore full o' witcheries which be apt to be-devil a man and
fright his reason, for the which reason, being reasonable man, I reason,
for this reason, that, so reasoning, I love thee not. But thou art old,
Witch, which is good reason to reasonably reason thou art wise, Witch,
and, being wise, I on this wise would seek counsel of thy wisdom, Witch.
Imprimis, then--”
“Hold!” commanded the Witch; “here's a whirl o' windy wind! Hast more of
such-like, forester?”
“Some little, Witch, which I will now, Witch--”
“Nay, then, Robin-a-Green, suffer me to rest my old bones whiles thy mill
clacks.” Hereupon the old Witch seated herself beside the fire, with bony
knees up-drawn to bony chin. “Speak, outlaw Robin,” she croaked, blinking
her red eyes, “and speak ye plain.”
“Why, then, wise Witch, look 'ee: since we be outlaws each and every, with
all men's hands against us, with none to succour, and death watchful for
us, 'tis plain, and very plain, we, for our harbourage and defence, must in
the wild-wood bide--”
“Ho!” cried Lobkyn:
“It soundeth good,
The brave wild-wood,
Where flowers do spring
And birds do sing.
To slay the deer
And make good cheer,
With mead and beer,
The livelong year,
And--”
“Roar not, toad!” cried the Witch. “Say on--Rogue-Robin!”
“Why, mark me, good Witch, here's where buskin chafeth! Not long since I
ruled i' the wild-wood, a very king, with ten-score lusty outlaw-rogues
to do my will. To-day is there never an one, and for this reasonable
reason--to wit, I am hanged, and, being hanged, am dead, and, being dead,
am not, and thus Robin is nobody; and yet again, perceive me, Witch, being
Robin, I am therefore somebody; thus is nobody somebody, and yet somebody
that nobody will believe anybody. The which, Witch, is a parlous case,
methinks, for here am I, somebody, nobody and Robin altogether and at the
same time; therefore, Witch, o' thy witchful wisdom--who am I, what and
which, Witch?”
Here the Witch blinked and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones one after
another. Quoth she:
“For thy first, thou'rt thyself; for the second, a rogue; and for the
third, a wind-bag. I would thy second might tie up thy first in thy third.”
“So should Robin choke Robin with Robin. But hark 'ee again, good, patient
dame. It seemeth that Ranulph the executioner betaketh him at cock-crow to
hang poor me; but, finding me not, made great outcry, insomuch that the
city guard, such as mighty Lob and Will had left alive, sought counsel
together; and taking one of their slain fellows, Ranulph hanged him in my
stead, and there he hangeth now, above the city gate, his face so marred
that he might be me or any other.”
“Ha, Robin--well?”
“This day, at sunset, came I unto the trysting-oak, and by blast of horn
summoned me my outlaw company. They came apace and in great wonderment,
for, seeing me, they fell to great awe and dread, thinking me dead, since
many had seen my body a-dangle on the gallows; wherefore, seeing me
manifestly alive, they took me for ghoulish ghost 'stead o' good flesh and
blood, and fled from me amain. So, by reason of my dead body, that is no
body o' mine, yet that nobody will believe is no body o' mine, they believe
that this my body is yet no body, but a phantom; the which is out of
reason; yet thus unreasonably do the rogues reason by reason of the body
that hangeth in place of my body above the city gate. Wherefore I reason
there is yet reason in their unreason, seeing this body was somebody, yet
no body o' mine, but which nobody among them can swear to. Which, Witch,
is a matter which none but wise witch may counsel me in. How say'st thou,
Witch?”
But for a while the old Witch scowled on the fire, bony chin on bony knees,
and dreamily cracked her finger-joints.
“Oho!” she cried suddenly. “Aha--a body that nobody's is, yet body that
everybody knoweth for body o' thine--aha! So must nobody know that nobody's
body is not thy body. Dost see my meaning, Robin-a-Green?”
“No whit, Witch! Thou growest involved, thy talk diffuse, abstruse and
altogether beyond one so obtuse as simple Rob--”
“Then hark 'ee again, Addlepate! Everybodymust believe nobody's body thy
body, so by dead body will I make thy live body of so great account to
everybody that nobody henceforth shall doubt dead body made live body, by
my witchcraft, and thou be feared, therefore, of everybody. Dost follow me
now, numskull?”
“Aye, truly, mother! And truly 'tis a rare subtlety, a notable wile, and
thou a right cunning witch and wise. But how wilt achieve this wonder?”
“Since dead thou art, I to life will bring thee. Oho, I will summon thee
through fire and flame; aha, I will make thee more dreaded than heretofore;
thy fame shall fill the wild-wood and beyond. Know'st thou the Haunted
Wood, hard by Thraxby Waste?”
Now here Robin's merry smile languished, and he rubbed nose with dubious
finger.
“Aye, I do,” quoth he sombrely; “an ill place and--demon-rid, they say--”
“Come ye there to-morrow at midnight.”
“Alone?” says Robin, starting.
“Alone!”
“Nay, good Witch, most gentle, potent dame, I--though phantom accounted, I
love not phantoms, and Thraxby Waste--”
“Come ye there--at midnight!”
“Why, then, good Witch, an come I must, suffer that I bring the valiant
Fool and mighty Lob--prithee, now!”
At this the old Witch scowled and mumbled and crackled her finger-bones
louder than ever.
“Oho!” cried she at last, “thou great child, afraid-o'-the-dark, bring
these an ye will--but none other!”
“Good mother, I thank thee!”
“Tchak!” cried the Witch, and, struggling to her feet, hobbled to Jocelyn
and laid bony finger on wrist and brow, nodded, mumbled, and so, bent on
her staff, hobbled away; but, reaching the cave-mouth, she paused, and
smote stick to earth fiercely.
“To-morrow!” she croaked. “Midnight! Re--member!”
FYTTE 8
Tells how the Witch, with incantations dire,
In life to life brought Robin through the fire.
* * * * *
The wind was cold--indeed 'twas plaguy chill--
That furtive crept and crept, like something ill
Stealing with dreadful purpose in the dark,
With scarce a sound its stealthy course to mark;
While pallid moon did seem to swoon, as though
It ghastly things beheld on earth below;
And Robin gripped the good sword by his side,
And Joc'lyn looked about him watchful-eyed;
While Lobkyn Lollo felt and looked the bolder
By reason of the club across his shoulder.
“Here,” whispered Robin, peering through the gloom,
“Is dismal place, I've heard, of death and doom.
Here do be ghosts and goblins, so 'tis said,
Demons, phantoms, spectres of the dead--”
“Aye, verily,” quoth Lob, “and what is worse,
'Tis here my grand-dam oft doth come to curse,
And haunteth it with spiteful toads and bats,
With serpents fell, with ewts and clawful cats.
Here doth she revel hold o' moony nights,
With grave-rank ghouls and moaning spectral sprites;
And ... Saints! what's that?
A hook-winged bat?
Not so; perchance, within its hairy body fell
Is man or maid transformed by magic spell.
O, brothers, heedful be, and careful tread
Lest magic gin should catch and strike us dead!
O would my grannam might go with us here.
Since, being witch, she doth no witchcraft fear.”
So came the three at last to Haunted Wood,
Where mighty trees in gloomy grandeur stood,
Their wide-flung boughs so closely interweaving
Scarce space between for ghostly moonbeams leaving;
But, snake-like, round each other closely twined,
In shuddering wind did mournful voices find,
And, groaning, writhed together to and fro
Like souls that did the fiery torment know.
Thus, in the wood, 'twas dark and cold and dank,
And breathed an air of things long dead and rank;
While shapes, dim-seen, did creep and flit and fly
With sudden squeak, and bodeful, wailing cry.
At last they reached a clearing in the wood,
Where, all at once, as 'mid the leaves they stood,
From Lobkyn's lips, loud, tremulous, and high,
There rose and swelled the owlet's shuddering cry.
Scarce on the air this dismal sound had died,
When they the Witch's hobbling form espied.
Beholding Robin, by the arm she caught him,
And to a place of rocks in haste she brought him;
And here, where bosky thickets burgeoned round,
She pointed to a chasm in the ground.
“Go down!” she hissed. “Go down, thou thing of clay,
Thou that art dead--into thy grave I say.
Since thou 'rt hanged, a dead man shalt thou be
Till from thy grave my spells shall summon thee--”
“My grave?” gasped Robin, blenching from her frown.
“Aye, Rogue!” she croaked. “Behold thy grave! Go down!”
So shiv'ring Robin, in most woeful plight,
Crept into gloom and vanished from their sight.
“O, Robin, Robin!” the old Witch softly cried,
“Alack, I'm here!” faint voice, below, replied.
“Thou dead,” croaked she, “thou ghostly shade forlorn,
From charnel-vault sound now thy spectral horn,
Sound now thy rallying-note, then silent be
Till from thy mouldering tomb I summon thee!”
Now, on the stillness rose the ghostly sound
Of Robin's hunting horn that through the ground
Rang thin and high, unearthly-shrill and clear,
That thrilled the shivering woodland far and near,
And shuddering to silence, left behind
A whisper as of leaves in stealthy wind.
A rustling 'mid the underbrush they heard
Where, in the gloom about them, dim things stirred--
Vague, stealing shapes that softly nearer drew,
Till from the tree-gloom crept a ragged crew,
Wild men and fierce, a threatening, grimly herd,
Who stood like shadows, speaking not a word;
And the pale moon in fitful flashes played
On sword and headpiece, pike and broad axe-blade.
While the old hag, o'er witch-fire crouching low,
Puffed at the charcoal till it was aglow;
Then hobbling round and round her crackling fire,
She thus began her incantations dire:
“Come ye long-dead,
Ye spirits dread,
Ye things of quaking fear,
Ye poor, lost souls,
Ye ghosts, ye ghouls,
Haxwiggin bids ye here!
By one by two, by two by three,
Spirits of Night, I summon ye,
By three by four, by four by five,
Come ye now dead that were alive,
Come now I bid ye
From grave-clods rid ye,
Come!
From South and North,
I bid ye forth,
From East, from West,
At my behest--
Come!
Come great, come small,
Come one, come all,
Heed ye my call,
List to my call, I say,
From pitchy gloom
Of mouldered tomb
Here find ye room
For sport and holiday.
Come grisly ghosts and goblins pale,
Come spirits black and grey,
Ye shrouded spectres--Hail, O Hail!
Ho! 'tis your holiday.
Come wriggling snakes
From thorny brakes,
Hail!
Come grimly things
With horny wings,
That flit, that fly,
That croak, that cry,
Hail!
“Come ghouls, come demons one and all,
Here revel whiles ye may;
Ye noisome things that creep and crawl,
Come, sport and round me play.
Ho, claw and wing and hoof and horn,
Here revel till the clammy dawn.
“Peeping, creeping,
Flying, crying,
Fighting, biting,
Groaning, moaning,
Ailing, wailing,
Spirits fell,
Come to my spell,
Ho! 'tis your holiday!
So, are ye there,
High up in air,
The moonbeams riding
'Mid shadows hiding?
“Now gather round, ye spectral crew,
This night have we brave work to do--
Bold Robin o' the Green, 'tis said,
On gallows hangeth cold and dead
Beneath the sky
On gibbet high,
They in a noose did swing him.
Go, goblins, go,
And ere they know,
Unto me hither bring him.”
Here paused the Witch to mend her glowing fire,
While each man to his neighbour shuffled nigher,
As witch-flame leapt and ever brighter grew,
Till, to their horror, sudden it burned blue;
Whereat each silent, fearful beholder
Felt in the gloom to touch his fellow's shoulder,
Yet, in that moment, knew an added dread
To see the fire from blue turn ghastly red;
Then, as the Witch did o'er it crooning lean,
Behold! it changed again to baleful green.
Whereat the Witch flung bony arms on high,
As though with claw-like hands she 'd rend the sky;
And while the lurid flames leapt ever higher,
She thus invoked the Spirit of the Fire.
“As fire doth change, yet, changed, unchanged doth burn,
By fiery spell shall dead to life return!
“Ho, goblins yonder--'neath the moon,
Have ye brought me the dead so soon?
Ha! is it Bxibin that ye bring,
That pale, that stiff, that clammy thing?
Now work we spell with might and main,
Shall make it live and breathe again.
“Now in and out,
And round about,
Ye wriggling rout,
With hoof and claw and wing;
Now high, now low,
Now fast, now slow,
Now to and fro
Tread we a magic ring.
“Thus, while the frighted moon doth peep,
We 'll wake this cold, dead thing from sleep,
Till Robin back to life shall leap.
And when he from the fire shall spring,
Ye outlaws hail him for your King.
“For on that wight
Who, day or night,
Shall Robin disobey
With purpose fell
I'll cast a spell
Shall wither him away.
“Ho, Robin! Ope thy death-cold eyes,
Ho, Robin! From thy grave arise,
Ho, Robin! Robin, ho!
Robin that doth bide so near me,
Robin, Robin, wake and hear me,
Ho, Robin! Robin, ho!
“Back to life I summon thee,
Through the fire thy path must be,
Through the fire that shall not harm thee,
Through flame that back to life shall charm thee,
Shall warm thy body all a-cold,
And make grim Death loose clammy hold.
Ho, Robin-a-Green,
Ho, Robin-a-Green,
Leap back to life by all men seen!”
Through curling smoke-wreaths and through writhing flame,
With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came,
And by the Witch did in the fire-light stand,
Sword by his side and bugle-horn in hand,
And laughed full blithe as he was wont to do,
And, joyous, hailed his wild and ragged crew:
“What lads, are ye there forsooth? Is't Myles I see with lusty Watt and
John and Hal o' the Quarterstaff? God den t' ye, friends, and merry hunting
to one and all, for by oak and ash and thorn here stand I to live with
thee, aye, good lads, and to die with ye here in the good greenwood--”
But now and all at once from that grim and silent company a mighty shout
went up:
“'Tis Robin--'tis Robin, 'tis bold Robin-a-Green! 'Tis our Robin himself
come back to us!”
And fearful no longer, they hasted to him and clasped him in brawny arms,
hugging him mightily and making great rejoicing over him.
FYTTE 9
That tells almost as fully as it should,
The joys of living in the good greenwood.
* * * * *
Deep-hidden in the trackless wild the outlaws had made them a haven of
refuge, a camp remote and well sequestered. Here were mossy, fern-clad
rocks that soared aloft, and here green lawns where ran a blithesome brook;
it was indeed a very pleasant place shut in by mighty trees. Within this
leafy boskage stood huts of wattle, cunningly wrought; beneath the steep
were many caves carpeted with dried fern and fragrant mosses, while
everywhere, above and around, the trees spread mighty boughs, through which
the sun darted golden beams be-dappling the sward, and in whose leafy
mysteries the birds made joyous carolling.
And here beneath bending willows arched over this merry brook, one
sun-bright morning riotous with song of birds, sat Jocelyn with Robin
a-sprawl beside him.
“O brother,” says Robin, “O brother, 't is a fair place the greenwood, a
fair, sweet place to live--aye, or to die in methinks, this good greenwood,
whereof I have made a song--hark 'ee!”
“Oho, it is a right good thing
When trees do bud and flowers do spring
All in the wood, the fair, green wood,
To hear the birds so blithely sing,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the good, green wood.
“Who cometh here leaves grief behind,
Here broken man hath welcome kind,
All in the wood, the fair, green wood.
The hopeless here new hope may find,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the kind, green wood.
“Ho, friend, 'tis pleasant life we lead,
No laws have we, no laws we need
Here i' the good, green wood.
For every man's a man indeed,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
Here i' the good, green wood.
“All travellers that come this way
Must something in fair tribute pay
Unto the wood, the fair, green wood.
Or here in bonds is like to stay,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
Lost in the good, green wood.
“Full many a lord, in boastful pride,
This tribute, scornful, hath denied
Unto the wood, the fair, green wood.
And thereupon hath sudden died,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the fair, green wood.
“And when our time shall come to die
Methinks we here may softly lie
Deep in the fair, green wood.
With birds to sing us lullaby,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the good, green wood.”
“So there it is, brother--and life and death in a nutshell, as 'twere. Now,
wherefore wilt not join us and turn outlaw, good Fool?”
“For that I am a fool belike, Robin. Howbeit, I'm better Fool than outlaw.”
“Say, rather, greater fool, Fool, for foresters' life is better than life
o' folly, and payeth better to boot, what with booty--ha! Moreover, I do
love thee, since, Fool, though fool, art wise in counsel and valiant beyond
thought--so 'tis I would not lose thee. Stay, therefore, and live my
comrade and brother, equal with me in all things. How say'st thou?”
“Why, Robin, I say this: True friendship is a goodly thing and a rare in
this world, and, therefore, to be treasured; 'tis thing no man may buy or
seek, since itself is seeker and cometh of itself; 'tis a prop--a staff
in stony ways, a shield 'gainst foes, a light i' the dark. So do I love
friendship, Robin, and thou'rt my friend, yet must leave thee, though
friendship shall abide.”
Quoth ROBIN: How abide an we be parted?
“In heart and mind and memory, Robin. Moreover, though I go, yet will I
return anon, an life be mine.”
“And wherefore go ye, brother?”
“First to seek my comrade.”
“Thy comrade--ha! I mind him, a fierce great fellow with hawk's beak and a
fighting eye. And whither trend ye?”
“To Canalise.”
“Art crazed, brother? 'Tis there death waiteth thee!”
“Yet must I go, Robin, since there my heart waiteth me.”
“A maid, brother?”
“A maid, Robin.”
“Heigho! So wilt thou go, come joy, come pain, come life or death, since a
maid is made to make man saint or devil, some days glad and some days sad,
but ever and always a fool. And thou art Fool by profession, and, being
lover professed and confessed, art doubly a fool; and since, good Folly,
love's but folly and thou, a Fool, art deep in folly, so is thy state most
melancholy.”
“And dost think love so great folly, Robin?” said a soft voice, and,
looking round, they beheld the lovely, dark-tressed Melissa, who viewed
them bright-eyed and pouted red mouth, frowning a little.
“Aye, verily, lady,” laughed Robin, as she sank on the grass beside them.
“Forsooth, 'tis a madness fond. For see, now, a man being in love is out of
all else.”
“As how, Sir Outlaw?”
“Marry, on this wise--when man's in love he mopeth apart and is ill
company, so is he out o' friends; he hangeth humble head abashed, so is he
out o' countenance; he uttereth frequent, windy, sighful suspirations,
so is he out o' breath; he lavisheth lucre on his love, so is he out o'
pocket; he forsweareth food, despiseth drink, scorneth sleep, so is he
out o' health--in fine, he is out of all things, so is he out of himself;
therefore he is mad, and so may go hang himself!”
MELISSA: And hast thou loved, Robin?
ROBIN: Ever and always, and none but Robin!
MELISSA: And none more worthy, Robin?
ROBIN: And none more, as I am worthy Robin.
MELISSA: Lovest thou not Love, Robin?
ROBIN: Love, love not I.
MELISSA: Then Love canst thou know not.
ROBIN: Then if I love Love for Love's sake, must Love then love me,
therefore?
MELISSA: If thy love for Love be true love, so shall Love love thee true.
ROBIN: Then if Love should love me for my sake, then would I love Love for
Love's sake; but since Love ne'er hath sought me for my sake, ne'er will I
seek Love for Love's sake for my sake, since Love, though plaguy sweet, is
a sweet plague, I judge and, so judging, will by my judgment stand.
MELISBA: And how think you, Sir Fool?
JOCELYN: I think if Love find Robin and Robin, so found of Love, shall
learn to love Love for Love's sake, Love shall teach Robin how, hi loving
Love--Love, if a plague, doth but plague him lovingly to his better
judgment of Love, till, being on this wise, wise--he shall judge of Love
lovingly, loving Love at last for Love's own lovely sake, rather than for
his own selfish self. For as there is the passion of love, the which is a
love selfish, so there is the true Spirit of Love, the which forgetteth
self in Love's self, thus, self-forgotten, Love is crowned by Love's true
self.
MELISSA: How think ye of this, Robin?
ROBIN: By Cupid, we are so deep in love that we are like to drown of love
and we be not wary. Here hath my lovely jowlopped-crested brother so beset
poor Robin with Love and self and Robin, that Robin kens not which is Love,
Love's self or himself.
MELISSA: And yet I do think 'tis very plain! Yet an thou canst express this
plainer, prithee do, Sir Fool.
“Blithely, sweet lady, here will I frame my meaning in a rhyme, thus:
“Who loveth Love himself above,
With Love base self transcending
Love, Love shall teach how Love may reach
The Love that hath no ending.
“'Tis thus Love-true, Love shall renew,
Love's love thus waning never,
So love each morn of Love new-born,
Love shall live loving ever.”
ROBIN: Aye, verily, there's Love and yet such a love as no man may find
methinks, brother.
JOCELYN: Never, Robin, until it find him. For true love, like friendship,
cometh unsought, like all other good things.
ROBIN: 'Las! then needs must I be no good thing since I am sought e'en now
of old Mopsa the Witch yonder!
And he pointed where the old creature hobbled towards them bent on her
crooked staff. Up rose Robin and, hasting to meet her, louted full low,
since she was held in great respect of all men by reason of her potent
spells. Chuckling evilly, she drew down Robin's tall head to whisper in his
ear, whereupon he laughed, clapped hand to brawny thigh, and taking old
Mopsa's feeble arm, hastened away with her. But Melissa, reclining 'neath
the willow-shade, gazed down into the murmurous waters of the brook with
eyes of dream whiles Jocelyn struck soft, sweet chords upon his lute. And
presently she turned to view him thoughtfully--his strange, marred face;
his eyes so quick and keen 'neath battered cock's-comb; his high, proud
bearing despite his frayed and motley habit; and ever her wonder grew
until, at last, she must needs question him:
“Fools, Sir Fool, have I seen a-many, both in the motley and out, but thou
art rare among all fools, I do think.”
JOCELYN: Gramercy, lady! Truly fool am I of all fools singular.
MELISSA: Thou'rt he I heard, upon a day, sing strange, sweet songs, within
the marketplace of Canalise!
JOCELYN: The same, lady.
MELISSA: That soused my lord Gui head over ears in a lily-pool?
JOCELYN: Verily, lady.
MELISSA: O! Would one might do as much for Sir Agramore of Biename!
JOCELYN: One doubtless will, lady.
MELISSA: Thyself?
JOCELYN: Nay--one that loveth the disputatious bickering of sharp steel
better than I--one had rather fight than eat, and rather fight three men
than one--
“Three men?” cried Melissa, starting.
“Aye, lady--and six men than three!”
“There was such an one, Fool, in truth a very brave man, did fight three of
my Lord Agramore's foresters on my behalf. Dost know of such an one, Fool?”
“Methinks he is my comrade, Lady.”
“Thy comrade--in truth? Then, pray you, speak me what seeming hath he.”
“Ill, lady.”
“How so, Fool?”
“A great, fierce rogue is he, unlovely of look, bleak of eye, harsh of
tongue, hooked of nose, flinty of soul, stony of heart, of aspect grim and
manners rude!”
“Then, verily, thy comrade have I never seen!” quoth Melissa, flushing and
with head up-flung. “He that saved me is nothing the like of this.”
“And yet,” said Jocelyn slyly, “'tis thus he hath been named ere now!”
“Nay, Fool, indeed he that saved me was tall and seemly man, very fierce
and strong in fight, but to me wondrous gentle--in truth, something
timorous, and, 'spite rusty mail, spake and looked like a noble knight.”
“Then forsooth, lady, thy champion is no comrade of mine, for he is but a
poor rogue, ill-beseen, ill-kempt, ill-spoken, ill-mannered and altogether
ill, save only that he is my friend--”
“And thou speakest ill of thy ill friend, the which is ill in thee--ill
Fool!” and the fair Melissa rose.
“And pray, lady, didst learn thy preserver's name?”
“Indeed, for I asked him.”
“And it was--?”
“Pertinax!” she sighed.
“Pertinax!” said Jocelyn, both in the same moment; the dark-browed Melissa
sat down again.
“So thy comrade and--he are one, Fool?”
“Indeed, lady. Yet here we have him, on the one hand, a man noble and
seemly, and, on the other, a poor rogue, hook-nosed, ill-beseen, ill--”
“'Tis thou hast miscalled him, Fool!” said she, frowning.
“Not I, lady.”
“Who, then?”
“A maid--”
“Ah!” said Melissa, frowning blacker than ever. “A maid, Fool? What maid?”
“A wandering gipsy o' the wood, lady--a dark-eyed damsel with long, black
curling hair and 'voice of sweet allure'--'tis so he named her--”
“This was belike some wicked witch!” said Melissa, clenching white fist.
“Aye, belike it was, lady, for she bestowed on him a strange jewel, a heart
in heart of crystal, that wrought for us in Canalise marvels great as our
wondrous Witch herself.”
Now here the lovely Melissa's frown vanished, and her red lips curved to
sudden smile.
“Belike this was no witch after all!” said she gently.
“Howbeit, lady,” quoth Jocelyn slyly, “my poor comrade is surely bewitched
by her none the less. She hath wrought on him spell so potent that he
groweth mopish and talketh of her eyes, her hair, her sweet and gentle
voice, her little foot, forsooth.”
“And doth he so, indeed?” said Melissa softly, and, twiddling one of
her own pretty feet, she smiled at it. “Doth he sigh o'er much?” she
questioned.
“Consumedly! By the minute!”
“Poor soldier!” she murmured.
“Aye, poor rogue!” said Jocelyn; whereupon she frowned again, and turned
her back upon him.
“And he is thy comrade.”
“Even so--poor knave!”
“And destitute--even as thou?”
“Aye, a sorry clapper-claw--even as I, lady.”
“Then, pray thee, why doth he wear gold chain about his neck?”
“Chain, lady--?”
“Such as only knights do wear!”
“Belike he stole it, lady--”
“Aye--belike he did!” said she, rising; then she sighed and laughed, and so
turned and left him.
And in a while Jocelyn rose also, and went on beside the brook; but as he
walked deep in thought, there met him Robin, he full of mirth and laughter.
“Oho, brother, good brother!” cried he joyfully, clapping hand on Jocelyn's
broad shoulder, “come away, now, and see what the good wind hath blown
hither--come thy ways and see!”
So came they where rose a great tree of huge girth, whose gnarled branches
spread far and wide, a veryforest of leaves, beneath whose shade were many
of the outlaws grouped about one who crouched miserably on his knees, his
arms fast bound and a halter about his neck; and, as obedient to Robin's
words the fierce company fell back, Jocelyn saw this torn and pallid
captive was none other than Ranulph the Hangman.
“Woe's me, my masters!” quoth he 'twixt chattering teeth. “'Tis pity poor
Ranulph must die before his time, for ne'er shall be found hangman,
headsman or torturer the like o' Ranulph--so dainty i' the nice adjustment
o' noose! So clean and delicate wi' the axe! So tender and thoughtful wi'
pincers, thumbscrew, rack or red-hot iron! A hangman so kindly o' soul, so
merry o' heart, alack, so free, so gay, so merry--forsooth a very wanton,
waggish, jovial bawcock-lad--”
“Why, then, good, merry wag,” laughed Robin, “now shalt thou cut us an
antic aloft in air, shalt caper and dance in noose to our joyance! Up with
him, bully lads, and gently, that he may dance the longer!”
But as Ranulph was dragged, shivering, to his feet, Jocelyn stepped
forward.
“Stay!” he cried. “Look, now, here's hangman did but hang since hang he
must; must he hang therefore?”
ROBIN: Aye, marry, since hanging shall his hanging end!
JOCELYN: But if to hang his duty is, must he for duty hang? Moreover, if ye
hang this hangman, unhanged hangmen shall hang still, and since ye may not
all hangmen hang, wherefore should this hangman hang?
ROBIN: Brother, an this hangman hang, fewer hangmen shall there be to hang,
forsooth.
JOCELYN: Not so, Robin, for hangman dead begetteth hangman new; this
hangman hanged, hangman in his place shall hang men after him. Shall this
hangman hang for hanging as in duty bound, whiles other hangmen, unhanged,
hang still? Here, methinks, is small wisdom, little reason, and less of
justice, Robin.
ROBIN: Beshrew me, brother--but here's so much of hanging hanging on
hanging plaguy hangman that hang me if I get the hang on't--
JOCELYN: Plainly, Robin--wilt hang a man for doing his duty?
ROBIN: Plainly, brother--no. But--
JOCELYN: Then canst not hang this hangman, since hanging his duty is--
ROBIN: Yet 'tis base, vile duty--
JOCELYN: Yet duty it is--wherefore, an there be any justice in the good
greenwood, this hangman unhanged must go.
Now here Robin scowled, and his brawny fellows scowled likewise, and began
to mutter and murmur against Jocelyn, who, leaning back to tree, strummed
his lute and sang:
“O, Life is sweet, but Life is fleet,
O'er quick to go, alack!
And on
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