The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Part 2

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 att.i.tude 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 Ma.s.s!" 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 Ca.n.a.lise 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 b.l.o.o.d.y-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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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--"