The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Part 17

"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-fis.h.i.+ng. 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 bawc.o.c.ks, 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 j.a.peful 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 n.o.ble 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 c.o.c.k-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 Ca.n.a.lise. So is he to hang at c.o.c.k-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 l.u.s.ty 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!