The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Part 32

Hereupon all folk stared in hugeous wonderment to behold these two champions drop their swords and leap to clasp and hug each other in mighty arms, to pat each other's mailed shoulders and grasp each other's mailed hands. Quoth Sir Pertinax:

"Lord, how came ye in this guise?"

"My Pertinax, whence stole ye that goodly armour?"

"Lord, oath made I to requite one Sir Agramore of Biename for certain felon blow. Him sought I latterly therefore, and this day met him journeying hither, and so, after some disputation, I left him lying by the way, nor shall he need armour awhile, methinks--wherefore I took it and rode hither seeking what might befall--"

But here, Sir Gui, all heedless of his wound, started up from his couch, raising great outcry:

"Ha--roguery, roguery! Ho, there, seize me yon knave that beareth the cognizance of Tong. Ha--treason, treason!" At this, others took up the cry and divers among the throng, beholding Duke Jocelyn's scarred features, made loud tumults: "The Fool! The Fool! 'Tis the Singing Motley! 'Tis the rogue-Fool that broke prison--seize him! Seize him!" And many, together with the soldiery, came running.

"Lord," quoth Sir Pertinax, catching up his sword, "here now is like to be a notable, sweet affray!" But even as these twain turned to meet their many a.s.sailants was thunder of hoofs, a loud, merry voice reached them, and they saw Robin hard by who held two trampling chargers.

"Mount, brothers--mount!" he cried. "Mount, then spur we for the barriers!"

So they sprang to saddle and, spurring the rearing horses, galloped for the barriers, all three, nor was there any who dare stay them or abide the sweep of those long swords. Thus, leaping the barriers, they galloped away and left behind roaring tumult and dire confusion.

And amid all this, hid by the silken curtains of her balcony, the d.u.c.h.ess Benedicta uttered a joyous cry and, clasping Yolande in her arms, kissed her rapturously.

"Yolande!" she cried, "O dear my friend, thou didst see--even as did I--a sorry fool and a poor rogue-soldier at hand-strokes with each other--O wise Fool! O knightly Rogue! Come, let us fly, Yolande, let us to the wild-wood and, lost therein, love, True-love, methinks, shall find us. Nay--ask me nothing, only hear this. Be thou to thine own heart true, be thou brave and Shame shall fly thee since True-love out-faceth Shame! How say'st thou, Mopsa, thou wise witch-mother?"

"Ah, sweet children!" croaked the Witch, touching each with claw-like hand yet hand wondrous gentle. "True-love shall indeed find ye, hide where ye will. For True-love, though blind, they say, hath eyes to see all that is good and sweet and true. A poor man-at-arms in rusty mail may yet be true man and a fool, for all his motley, wise. To love such seemeth great folly, yet to the old, love is but folly. Nath'less, being old I do love ye, and being wise I charge ye:

"Follow Folly and be wise, In such folly wisdom lies; Love's blind, they say, but Love hath eyes, So follow Folly--follow!"

My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:

GILL: "Stop! Your tournament, father, seems too long drawn out, With quite too much combating and knocking about.

MYSELF: I hope you're wrong, my dear, although Who knows? Perhaps, it may be so.

GILL: And such sc.r.a.ppy bits of love-making you write; You seem to prefer much describing a fight.

All authors should write what their readers like best; But authors are selfish, yes--even the best And you are an author!

MYSELF: Alack, that is true, And, among other things, I'm the author of you.

GILL: Then, being my author, it's plain as can be That you are to blame if I'm naughty--not me.

But, father, our Geste, though quite corking in places, Has too many fights and too little embraces.

You've made all our lovers so frightfully slow, You ought to have married them pages ago.

The books that are nicest are always the sort That, when you have read them, seem always too short!

If you make all your readers impatient like me, They'll buy none of your books--and then where shall we be?

All people like reading of love when they can, So write them a lot, father, that is the plan.

Go on to the love, then, for every one's sake, And end with a wedding--

MYSELF: Your counsel I 'll take.

I can woo them and wed them in less than no time, I can do it in prose, in blank verse, or in rhyme; But since, my dear, you are for speed, To end our Geste I will proceed.

In many ways it may be done, As I have told you--here is one:

A short two years have elapsed and we find our hero Jocelyn tenderly playing with a golden-haired prattler, his beloved son and heir, while his beautiful spouse Yolande busied with her needle, smiles through happy tears.

GILL: O, hush, father! Of course, that is simply absurd!

Such terrible piffle--

MYSELF: I object to that word!

GILL: Well, then, please try a little verse.

MYSELF: With pleasure:

"My own at last!" Duke Joc'lyn fondly cried, And kissed Yolande, his blooming, blushing bride.

"My own!" he sighed. "My own--my very own!"

"Thine, love!" she murmured. "Thine and thine alone, Thy very own for days and months and years--"

GILL: O, stop! I think that's even worse!

MYSELF: Beyond measure.

Then here's a style may be admired Since brevity is so desired:

So he married her and she married him, and everybody married each other and lived happy ever after.

Or again, and thus, my daughter, Versified it may be shorter:

So all was marriage, joy and laughter, And each lived happy ever after.

Or: If for High Romance you sigh, Here's Romance that's over high:

Shy summer swooned to autumn's sun-burned arms, Swoon, summer, swoon!

While roses bloomed and blushing sighed their pain, Blush, roses, blush!

Filling the world with perfume languorous, Sighing forth their souls in fragrant amorousness; And fair Yolande, amid these bloomful languors, Blushing as they, as languorous, as sweet, Sighed in the arms that pa.s.sioned her around: O Jocelyn, O lord of my delight, See how--

GILL: Stop, father, stop, I beg of you.

Such awful stuff will never do, I suppose you must finish it in your own way--

MYSELF: I suppose that I shall, child, that is--if I may.

GILL: But father, wait--I must insist Whatever else you do It's time that somebody was kissed It doesn't matter who-- I mean either Yolande the Fair Or else the d.u.c.h.ess--I don't care.

MYSELF: In these next two Fyttes both shall kiss And be well kissed, I promise this.

Two Fyttes of kisses I will make One after t' other, for your sake.

Two Fyttes of love I will invent And make them both quite different, Which is a trying matter rather And difficult for any father-- But then, as well you know, my Gillian, You have a father in a million; And Oh, methinks 'tis very plain You ne'er shall meet his like again.

FYTTE 11

How Pertinax fell out with Robin and with Friar, Yet, in that very hour, came by his heart's desire.