Chapter VI: Part 6

SIR PERTINAX: And, being man, myself unworthy know,
Yet must I love and my belovèd seek
And, finding her, no words of love dare speak.
For this my love beyond all words doth reach,
And I'm slow-tongued and lack the trick of speech.
Nor hope have I that she should stoop to bless,
A man so full of all unworthiness.
So am I dumb--

THE VOICE: And yet dost speak indeed,
Such words, methinks, as any maid might heed.

“Ha, think ye so in verity, sweet voice!” cried Sir Pertinax, and springing lightly to earth, strode forward on eager feet. And lo! from behind a certain tree stepped one who, letting fall shrouding cloak and hood, stood there a maid, dark-haired and darkly bright of eye, very shapely and fair to see in her simple tire. And beholding her thus, the tender curve of scarlet lips, the flutter of slender hands, the languorous bewitchment of her eyes, Sir Pertinax halted.

My daughter GILLIAN interpolateth:

GILL:

What, again? Father, that will never do.
Don't make him halt again, I beg of you.
Sir Pertinax has halted much too long,
To make him do it here would be quite
wrong!

MYSELF:

My child, I wish you would not interrupt
My halting muse in manner so abrupt--

GILL:

But here 's a chance at last to let them kiss,
And now you make him halt!

MYSELF: Exactly, miss!

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head abashed.

My daughter GILLIAN persisteth:

GILL:

Well, father, while he halts, then tell me,
pray,
Just what you mean by that line where you
say,
'The languorous bewitchment of her eyes'?

MYSELF:

My child, no child should authors catechise,
Especially, poor fellow, if, like me,
Father and author both at once is he.
Wise authors all such questions strictly ban,
And never answer--even if they can.
If of our good knight's wooing you would
hear,
Keep stilly tongue and hearken well, my
dear.

Sir Pertinax halted and bowed his head, abashed by her beauty.

“Melissa!” he whispered, “O Melissa!” and so stood mute.

“O Pertinax!” she sighed. “Art dumb at sight of me? O Pertinax, and wherefore?”

“All have I forgot save only thy loveliness, Melissa!”

“Methinks such--forgetfulness becometh thee well. Say on!”

“Ah, Melissa, I--do love thee.”

“Why this I knew when thou didst sit a-fishing!”

“But, indeed, then I dreamed not of loving thee or any maid.”

“Because thou art but a man.”

“Verily, and being man, now came I seeking thee for Love's sweet sake yet, finding thee, know not how to speak thee. Alas, I do fear I am but sorry wooer!”

“Alas, Pertinax, I do fear thou art! Yet thou shalt learn, perchance. How--art dumb again, canst speak me no more?”

“Nought--save only this, thou art beyond all maids fair, Melissa!”

“Why, I do think thou'lt make a wooer some day mayhap, by study diligent. 'T will take long time and yet--I would not have thee learn too soon! And hast thought of me? A little?”

“I have borne thee ever within my heart.”

“And wherefore wilt love maid so lowly?”

“For that thou art thyself and thyself--Melissa. And O, I love thy voice!”

“My voice? And what more?”

“Thine eyes. Thy little, pretty feet. Thy scarlet mouth. Thy gentle, small hands. Thy hair. All of thee!”

“O,” she murmured a little breathlessly, “if thou dost so love me--woo me--a little!”

“Alas!” he sighed, “I know not how.”

“Hast ne'er wooed maid ere this, big soldier?”

“Never!”

“Thou poor Pertinax! How empty--how drear thy life. For this do I pity thee with pity kin to love--”

“Love?” he whispered. “Ah, Melissa, couldst e'en learn to love one so unlovely, so rude, so rough and unmannered as I?”

“Never!” she sighed, “O, never--unless thou teach me?”

“Would indeed I might, Melissa. Ah, teach me how I may teach thee to love one so unworthy as Pertinax!”

Now hearkening to his harsh voice grown soft and tremulous, beholding the truth in his honest eyes, Melissa smiled, wondrous tender, and reaching out took hold upon his two hands.

“Kneel!” she commanded. “Kneel here upon the grass as I do kneel. Now, lay by thy cumbrous helmet. Now fold thy great, strong hands. Now bow thy tall, grim head and say in sweet, soft accents low and reverent: 'Melissa, I do love thee heart and soul, thee only do I love and thee only will I love now and for ever. So aid me, Love, amen!'” Then, closing his eyes, Sir Pertinax bowed reverent head, and, humbly folding his hands, spake as she bade him. Thereafter opening his eyes, he saw her watching him through gathering tears, and leaning near, he reached out eager arms, yet touched her not. Quoth he: “O maid beloved, what is thy sorrow?”

“'Tis joy--joy, and thou--thou art so strong and fierce yet so gentle and simple of heart! O, may I prove worthy thy love--”

“Worthy? Of my love?” he stammered. “But O Melissa, I am but he thou didst name harsh of tongue.”

“Aye, I did!” she sobbed.

“Hard of heart, flinty of soul, rude, unmannered and unlovely.”

“Aye--I did and--loved thee the while!” she whispered. “So now do I pray that I prove worthy.”

“Worthy? Thou? O my sweet maid--thou that art kin to the holy angels, thou so high and far removed 'bove me that I do tremble and--fear to touch thee--“.

“Nay, fear me not, Pertinax,” she sighed, “for though indeed I am all this, yet maid am I also and by times--very human. So Pertinax, thou great, fearless man-at-arms, lay by thy so great fears a while--I do beseech thee.” Then Sir Pertinax, beholding the tender passion of her eyes, forgot his fear in glad wonderment and, reaching out hands that trembled for all their strength, drew her to his close embracement.

And thus, kneeling together upon the sun-dappled sward, they forgot all things in this joyous world save only their love and the glory of it. And when they had kissed each other--

* * * * *

My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:

GILL: But, wait, they haven't yet, you know!

MYSELF: Indeed, they have, I've just said so.

GILL: Then, father, please to tell me this:
How can a person say a kiss?
And so, since kisses can't be said,
Please make them do it now instead.

Thus, cradled in his strong arms, she questioned him tenderly:

“Dost mind how, upon a day, my Pertinax, didst ask of me the amulet I bore within my bosom?”

“Aye,” he answered, “and sure 'tis charm of potent magic whose spell brought us out of the dungeon at Canalise--the which is great matter for wonder! But 'tis for thy dear sake I do cherish it--”

“Bear you it yet?”

“Here upon my heart.”

“And if I should ask it of thee again--wouldst render it back to me?”

“Never!” quoth he. “Never, until with it I give thee myself also!”

But presently she stirred in his embrace for upon the air was an approaching clamour, voices, laughter and the ring of mail.

“Come away!” whispered Melissa, upspringing to her feet. “Come, let thou and Love and I hide until these disturbers be gone and the sweet world hold but us three again.”

Now, as they stood, hand in hand, deep hidden 'mid the green, they beheld six merry woodland rogues who led an ambling ass whereon rode a friar portly and perspiring albeit he had a jovial eye. And as he rode he spake his captors thus in voice full-toned and deep:

“Have a care, gentle rogues and brethren, hurry not this ambulant animal unduly, poor, much-enduring beast. Behold the pensive pendulation of these auriculars so forlornly a-dangle! Here is ass that doth out-patience all asses, both four and two-legged. Here is meek ass of leisured soul loving not haste--a very pensive perambulator. So hurry not the ass, my brothers, for these several and distinct reasons or arguments. Firstly, dearly beloved, because I love haste no more than the ass; secondly, brethren, 't is property of Holy Church which is above all argument; and, thirdly, 't is bestridden by one Friar John, my very self, and I am forsooth weighty argument. Fourthly, beloved, 'tis an ass that--ha! O sweet vision for eyes human or divine! Do I see thee in very truth, thou damsel of disobedience, dear dame of discord, sweet, witching, wilful lady--is it thou in very truth, most loved daughter, or wraith conjured of thy magic and my perfervid imaginations--speak!”

“'T is I myself, Reverend Father!” laughed Melissa. “O my dear, good Friar John, methinks the kind Saints have brought thee to my need.”

“Saints, quotha!” exclaimed the Friar, rolling merry eye towards his several captors. “Call ye these--Saints? Long have I sought thee, thou naughty maid, and to-day in my quest these brawny 'saints' beset me with bow and quarterstaff and me constrained hither--but my blessing on them since they have brought me to thee. And now, sweet child and daughter, whiles the news yet runneth hot-foot or, like bird unseen, wingeth from lip to lip, I thy ghostly father have rare good news for thee--”

“Nay, Friar John, I will guess thy tidings: Sir Agramore of Biename lieth sorry and sore of a cudgelling.”

“How!” cried the Friar. “Thou dost know--so soon?”

“Verily, Reverend Father, nor have I or my worthy guardians aught to fear of him hereafter. And now have I right wondrous news for thee, news that none may guess. List, dear Friar John, thou the wisest and best loved of all my guardians ten; to-day ye are absolved henceforth all care of your wilful ward since to-day she passeth from the guardianship of ye ten to the keeping of one. Come forth, Pertinax, thou only one beloved of me for no reason but that thou art thou and I am I--as is ever the sweet, mad way of True-love--come forth, my dear-loved, poor soldier!” Out from the trees strode Pertinax but, beholding his face, Friar John scowled and, viewing his rich surcoat and goodly armour, fell to perspiring wonder and amaze.

“Now by the sweet Saint Amphibalus!” quoth he. “Surely these be the arms of Sir Agramore, dread Lord of Biename?”

“Most true, dear Friar John,” answered Melissa, “and by this same token Sir Agramore lieth sore bruised e'en now.”

“Aha!” quoth the Friar, mopping moist brow. “'T is well--'t is very well, so shall these two ears of mine, with eighteen others of lesser account, scathless go and all by reason of this good, tall fellow. Howbeit, I do know this same fellow for fellow of none account, and no fit mate for thee, noble daughter, love or no. A fierce, brawling, tatterdemalion this, that erstwhile tramped in company with long-legged ribald--a froward jesting fellow. Wherefore this fellow, though fellow serviceable, no fellow is for thee and for these sufficing reasons. Firstly--”

“Ha--enough!” quoth Sir Pertinax, chin out-thrust. “'Fellow' me no more, Friar--”

“Firstly,” continued Friar John, “because this out-at-elbows fellow is a rogue.”

“'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!” growled Sir Pertinax.

“Secondly,” continued Friar John, nothing abashed, “because this rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter, a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a--”

“Friar,” snorted Sir Pertinax, “thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o' breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this forest maiden.”

“Forest maiden, forsooth!” cried Friar John. “O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest maid, quotha! And wed her--and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho, begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid--”

“Hold there, shaveling!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “Now mark me this! Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene--”

“How!” cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. “O Pertinax, art indeed a great lord?”

“Why, sooth--forsooth and indeed,” he stammered, “I do fear I am.”

“Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?”

“Alack--no!” he groaned, regardful of her frown.

“Then basely hast thou tricked me--O cruel!”

“Nay, Melissa--hear me!” he cried, and, forgetful of friar and gaping outlaws, he clasped her fast 'prisoned 'gainst his heart. “Thee do I love, dear maid, 'bove rank, or fame, or riches, or aught this world may offer. So, an thou wouldst have me ragged and destitute and outlaw, all this will I be for thy sweet sake since life were nought without thee, O maid I do so love--how say'st thou?”

“I say to thee, Pertinax, that thy so great love hath loosed thy tongue at last, Love hath touched thy lips with eloquence beyond all artifice since now, methinks, it is thy very soul doth speak me. And who shall resist such wooing? Surely not I that do--love thee beyond telling. So take me, my lord, thy right hand in mine, the talisman in thy left--so! Now, my Pertinax, speak thy heart's wish.”

“Friar,” quoth Sir Pertinax, holding aloft the Crystal Heart, “as her love is mine and mine hers, wed and unite us in our love--by the magic of this jewel I do command thee!”

Here, beholding the talisman, Friar John gasped and stared round-eyed and incredulous.

“By Holy Rood!” he whispered, “'t is indeed the Crystal Heart!”

“And O!” sighed Melissa, “O Friar John, thou dost mind the saying:

“'He that taketh Crystal Heart,
Taketh all and every part!'”

“Aye, truly--truly!” nodded the Friar.

“'And by night, or eke by day,
The Crystal Heart all must obey!'”

So saying he got him down from the ass and, for all his corpulence, louted full low.

“Sir Knight of Shene,” quoth he, “by reason of this jewel potential thou dost bear, now must I perforce obey thy behest and wed thee unto this our gracious lady Benedicta, Duchess of Ambremont, Canalise, Tissingors, Fordyngstoke and divers other towns, villages and--”

“Duchess--a duchess?” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Duchess say'st thou--this, the Duchess Benedicta! O Melissa--thou--thou--a duchess!”

“Sooth and forsooth,” sighed she in pretty mockery, “I do fear I am!”

“Then thou 'rt no humble maid, distressful and forlorn, Melissa?”

“Yea, Pertinax--all this am I indeed unless thou love me, and loving me, wed me, and wedding me love me the better therefor, and loving me ever the better, thou may'st learn a little some day how a woman may love a man.”

“Par Dex!” mumbled Sir Pertinax, kissing her rosy finger-tips, “be thou duchess or witch-maid o' the wood, I do love thee heart and soul, body and mind, now and for ever, Melissa.”

Then Friar John, beholding the radiant joy of their faces, reached forth his hands in blessing.

“Kneel ye, my children!” he sighed. “For here methinks is true-love such as brighteneth this world all too seldom. So here, within the forest, the which is surely God's cathedral, this your love shall be sanctified unto you and the world be the better therefor! Kneel ye, my children!”

And thus, kneeling upon the flower-sprent turf hand in hand and with heads reverently bowed, they were wed, while the six outlaws stared in silent awe and the meek ass cropped the grass busily.

“O Pertinax,” sighed the Duchess as they rose, “so greatly happy am I that I will others shall be happy likewise; let us make this indeed a day of gladness. I pray thee sound the bugle that hangeth within the great oak, yonder.”

So Sir Pertinax took the horn and sounded thereon a mighty blast, loud and long and joyous. And presently came the outlaws, thronging in from all directions, until the sunny glade was full of their wild company, while in the green beyond pike-head twinkled and sword-blades glittered; and foremost was Robin with Lobkyn Lollo beside him.

“Robin,” said the Duchess, beckoning him near with white, imperious finger, “Robin a' Green, thou whose tongue is quick and ready as thy hand, hast ever been gentle to the weak and helpless as I do know, in especial to two women that sought thy protection of late.”

“Why, verily, lady, I mind them well,” nodded Robin, “and one was a maid passing fair and one an ancient dame exceeding wise. To aid such is ever a man's joy--or should be.”

“Knew ye who and what this maid was, Robin?”

“Aye, lady, I knew her then as now for that proud and noble lady the Duchess Benedicta.”

“And yet, Robin, knowing this and having me in thy power didst suffer me to go without let or hindrance or single penny of ransom?”

“My lady Duchess,” answered Robin, glancing round upon his wild company, “we be outlaws, 't is true, and rogues--mayhap, yet are we men and thou a lady passing fair, wherefore--though I knew thee for the Duchess Benedicta, thou wert safe with us since we war not with women and harm no maids be they of high or low degree!”

“Spoke like a very knight!” exclaimed the Duchess. “How think'st thou, my lord?”

“Par Dex!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “Aye, by Our Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood I swear it--thou 'rt a man, Robin! So now do I sue pardon of thee for my song o' rogues since no rogue art thou. And thou didst aid and shield her--this my wife that is the very eyes of me! So, by my troth, my good friend art thou henceforth, Rob o' the Green!”

“Nay, my lord,” answered Robin slyly, “for I am but Robin, and outlaw, and thou art the Duke!”

“Forsooth--and so I am!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “Ha--yet am I still a man, and therefore--”

“Wait, my lord!” said Benedicta. “Robin, give me thy sword!” So she took the weapon and motioning Robin to his knees, set the blade across his shoulder. “Robin a' Green,” said she, “since thou art knightly of word and deed, knight shalt thou be in very truth. Sir Robin a' Forest I make thee and warden over this our forest country. Rise up, Sir Robert.” Then up sprang Robin, bright-eyed and flushed of cheek.

“Dear my lady,” cried he, “since knight hast made me, thy knight will I be henceforth in life or in death--” But here his voice was lost in the joyous acclamations of his followers who shouted amain until the Duchess quelled them with lifted hand.

“Ye men of the wild-wood,” said she, looking round upon them gentle-eyed, “all ye that be homeless and desolate, lying without the law, this day joy hath found me, for this is my wedding-morn. And as I am happy I would see ye happy also. Therefore upon this glad day do we make proclamation, my Lord Duke and I--this day we lift from you each and every, the ban of outlawry--free men are ye to go and come as ye list--free men one and all and good citizens henceforth I pray!” Now here was silence awhile, then a hoarse murmur, swelling to a jubilant shout until the sunny woodland rang with the joy of it, near and far.

“And now, Sir Robert,” laughed the Duchess, “pray you where is this noble Fool, this gentle Motley, this most rare singer of songs and breaker of lances? Bid him to us.”

“Ha--the Fool!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax, starting.

“My lady,” answered Robin, “true, he was here, but when I sought him, a while since, there was Sir Palamon's armour he had worn, but himself gone --”

“Gone--gone say'st thou?” cried Sir Pertinax, glancing about. “Then needs must I go seek him--”

“And wherefore, my lord?” cried the Duchess.

“'T is my--my duty, Melissa!” stammered Sir Pertinax. “He is my--my friend and--sworn brother-in-arms!”

“And am I not thy wife, Pertinax?”

“Aye, most dearly loved, and I, thy husband--and yet--needs must I seek this Fool, Melissa.”

“O Pertinax--wilt leave me?”

“Leave thee?” groaned Sir Pertinax. “Aye--for a while! Leave thee? Aye--though it break my heart needs must I! He, my--brother-in-arms. My duty calleth--”

“And what of thy duty to me?”

Now as Sir Pertinax wrung his hands in an agony of indecision, rose a whisper of sweet sound, the murmur of softly-plucked lute-strings, and into the glade, cock's-comb aflaunt and ass's ears a-dangle Duke Jocelyn strode and sang as he came a song he had made on a time, a familiar air:

“Good Pertinax, why griev'st thou so?
Free of all duty thou dost go,
Save that which thou to Love dost owe,
My noble Pertinax.”

“And love from heaven hath stooped thus low To me!” quoth Pertinax.

But here came Robin with certain of his men leading a snow-white palfrey richly caparisoned.

“Right noble lady,” said he, “behold here a goodly, fair jennet to thy gracious acceptance.”

“And indeed--'t is rare, pretty beast!” exclaimed Benedicta. “But Robin, Robin, O Sir Robert, whence had you this?”

“Lady, upon a time I was an outlaw and lived as outlaws may, taking such things as Fate bestowed, and, lady:

“Fate is a wind
To outlaws kind:

But now since we be free-men all, I and my fellows, fain would we march hence in thy train to thy honour and our joyance. Wilt grant us this boon, lady?”

“Freely, for 'tis rare good thought, Robin! Surely never rode duke and duchess so attended. How the townsfolk shall throng and stare to see our wild following, and my worthy guardians gape and pluck their beards for very amaze! How think you, good Friar John?”

“Why, verily, daughter, I, that am chiefest of thy wardens ten, do think it wise measure; as for thy other guardians let them pluck and gape until they choke.

“In especial Greg'ry Bax,
Who both beard and wisdom lacks.

I say 'tis wise, good measure, for these that were outlaws be sturdy fellows with many friends in town and village, so shall this thy day of union be for them re-union, and they joy with thee.”

Now being mounted the Duchess rode where stood Jocelyn, and looked down on him merry-eyed.

“Sir Fool,” said she, “who thou art I know not, but I have hunted in Brocelaunde ere now, and I have eyes. And as thou 'rt friend to my dear lord, friend art thou of mine, so do we give thee joyous welcome to our duchy. And, being thy friend, I pray thou may'st find that wonder of wonders the which hideth but to be found, and once found, shall make wise Fool wiser.”

“Sweet friend and lady,” answered Jocelyn, “surely man so unlovely as I may not know this wonder for his very own until it first seek him. Is 't not so? Let now thy woman's heart counsel me.”

“How, Sir Wise Folly, have I not heard thee preach boldness in love ere now?”

“Aye--for others!” sighed Jocelyn. “But for myself--I fear--behold this motley! This scarred face!”

“Why as to thy motley it becometh thee well--”

“Aye, but my face? O, 't is a hideous face!”

“O Fool!” sighed Benedicta, “know'st thou not that True-love's eyes possess a magic whereby all loved things become fair and beauteous. So take courage, noble Motley, and may thy desires be crowned--even as our own.”

“Gramercy, thou sweet and gentle lady. Happiness companion thee alway and Love sing ever within thee. Now for ye twain is love's springtime, a season of sweet promise, may each promise find fulfilment and so farewell.”

“Why then, Sir Fool, an thou wilt tarry here in the good greenwood a while, may Love guide thee. Now here is my counsel: Follow where thy heart commandeth and--fear not! And now, Sir Robert a' Forest, form thy company, and since this is a day of gladness let them sing as they march.”

“In sooth, dear my lady, that will we!” cried Robin. “There is song o' spring and gladness I made that hath oft been our solace, and moreover it beginneth and endeth with jolly chorus well beknown to all. Ho, pikes to van and rear! Bows to the flanks--fall in! Now trusty friends o' the greenwood, free-men all, henceforth--now march we back to hearth and home and love, so sing ye--sing!”

Hereupon from the ragged, close-ordered ranks burst a shout that swelled to rolling chorus; and these the words:

The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily--hey!
And cheerily let us sing,
While youth is youth then youth is gay
And youth shall have his fling.

Robin: The merry merle on leafy spray,
The lark on fluttering wing
Do pipe a joyous roundelay,
To greet the blithesome spring.

Hence, hence cold Age, black Care--away!
Cold Age black Care doth bring;
When back is bowed and head is grey,
Black Care doth clasp and cling.

Black Care doth rosy Pleasure stay,
Age ageth everything;
'T is farewell sport and holiday,
On flowery mead and ling.

If Death must come, then come he may,
And wed with death-cold ring,
Yet ere our youth and strength decay,
Blithe Joy shall be our king.
The Men: Sing high, sing low, sing merrily--hey!
And cheerily we will sing.

So they marched blithely away, a right joyous company, flashing back the sunset glory from bright headpiece and sword-blade, while Jocelyn stood watching wistful-eyed until they were lost amid the green, until all sounds of their going grew to a hush mingling with the whisper of leaves and murmurous gurgle of the brook; and ever the shadows deepened about him, a purple solitude of misty trees and tangled thickets, depth on depth, fading to a glimmering mystery.

Suddenly amid these glooming shadows a shadow moved, and forth into the darkling glade, mighty club on mighty shoulder, stepped Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, and his eyes were pensive and he sighed gustily.

“Alack!” quoth he:

“So here's an end of outlawry,
And all along o' lady,
Yet still an outlaw I will be
Shut in o' shaws so shady.
And yet it is great shame, I trow,
That our good friends should freemen go
And leave us lonely to our woe,
And all along o' lady.

“And plague upon this love, I say,
For stealing thus thy friend away,
And since fast caught and wed is he
Thy friend henceforth is lost to thee,
And thou, poor Fool, dost mope and sigh,
And so a plague on love! say I.”

“Nay, good Lobkyn, what know you of love?” Answered LOBKYN:

“Marry, enough o' love know I
To steal away if love be nigh.

“For love's an ill as light as air,
Yet heavy as a stone;
O, love is joy and love is care,
A song and eke a groan.

“Love is a sickness, I surmise,
Taketh a man first by the eyes,
And stealing thence into his heart,
There gripeth him with bitter smart.
Alas, poor soul,
What bitter dole,
Doth plague his every part!

“From heart to liver next it goes,
And fills him full o' windy woes,
And, being full o' gusty pain,
He groaneth oft, and sighs amain,
Poor soul is he
In verity,
And for his freedom sighs in vain.”

“Miscall not love, Lobkyn, for sure True-love is
every man's birthright.”

Quoth LOBKYN:

“Why then, methinks there's many a wight
That cheated is of his birthright,
As, item first, here's Lobkyn Lollo
To prove thine argument quite hollow.
Dare I at maid to cast mine eye,
She mocketh me, and off doth fly,

And all because I'm humped o' back,
And something to my stature lack.
Thus, though I'm stronger man than three,
No maid may love the likes o' me.
Next, there's thyself--a Fool, I swear,
At fight or song beyond compare.
But--thou 'rt unlovely o' thy look,
And this no maid will ever brook.
So thou and I, for weal or woe,
To our lives' end unloved must go.
But think ye that I grieve or sigh?
Not so! A plague on love, say I!”

Now here Jocelyn sighed amain and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to sad and wistful thinking.

“Aye, verily,” he repeated, “I am 'unlovely of my
look.'”

Quoth Lobkyn heartily:

“In very sooth,
Fool, that's the truth!”

“Alas!” sighed Jocelyn, “'And this no maid
will ever brook!'”

Answered Lobkyn:

“And there dost speak, wise Fool, again,
A truth right manifest and plain,
Since fairest maids have bat-like eyes,
And see no more than outward lies.
And seeing thus, they nothing see
Of worthiness in you or me.
And so, since love doth pass us by,
The plague o' plagues on love, say I!”

“Nath'less,” cried the Duke, leaping to his feet. “I will put Love to the test--aye, this very hour!”

Lobkyn: Wilt go, good Motley? Pray thee where?

Jocelyn: To one beyond all ladies fair.

Lobkyn: Then dost thou need a friend about thee
To cheer and comfort when she flout thee.
So, an thou wilt a-wooing wend,
I'll follow thee like trusty friend.
In love or fight thou shalt not lack
A sturdy arm to 'fend thy back.
I'll follow thee in light or dark,
Through good or ill--Saints shield us!
Hark!

And Lobkyn started about, club poised for swift action, for, out-stealing from the shadows crept strange and dismal sound, a thin wail that sank to awful groaning rumble, and so died away.

“O!” whispered Lobkyn:

“Pray, Fool, pray with all thy might,
Here's goblin foul or woodland sprite
Come for to steal our souls away,
So on thy knees quick, Fool, and pray!”

But, as these dismal sounds brake forth again, Jocelyn stole forward, quarter-staff gripped in ready hand; thus, coming nigh the great oak, he espied a dim, huddled form thereby and, creeping nearer, stared in wonder to behold Mopsa, the old witch, striving might and main to wind the great hunting-horn.

“What, good Witch!” quoth he, “here methinks is that beyond all thy spells to achieve.”

“O Fool,” she panted, “kind Fool, sound me this horn, for I'm old and scant o' breath. Wind it shrill and loud, good Motley, the rallying-note, for there is ill work afoot this night. Sound me shrewd blast, therefore.”

“Nay, 't were labour in vain, Witch; there be no outlaws hereabout, free men are they henceforth and gone, each and every.”

“Out alas--alas!” cried the old woman, wringing her hands. “Then woe is me for the fair lady Yolande.”

“Ha! What of her, good Witch? Threateneth danger? Speak!”

“Aye, Fool, danger most dire! My Lord Gui yet liveth, and this night divers of his men shall bear her away where he lieth raging for her in his black castle of Ells--”

“Now by heaven's light!” swore Jocelyn, his eyes fierce and keen, “this night shall Fool be crowned of Love or sleep with kindly Death.”

“Stay, Fool, thy foes be a many! Wilt cope with them alone?”

“Nay!” cried a voice:

“Not so, grandam
For here I am!”

and Lobkyn stepped forward.

“Aha, my pretty poppet! Loved duck, my downy chick--what wouldst?”

“Fight, grandam,
Smite, grandam,
Sweet, blood-begetting blows.
Where Fool goeth
Well Fool knoweth
Lobkyn likewise goes.”

“Why, then, my bantling--loved babe, fight thy fiercest, for these be wicked men and 't will be an evil fray. And she is sweet and good, so, Lobkyn, be thy strongest--”

Saith Lobkyn:

“Aye that will I,
Or may I die.
By this good kiss
I vow thee this.

“And here is signal, Fool, shall shew
Each where the other chance to go.

“Croak like a frog,
Bark like a dog,
Grunt like a hog,
I'll know thee.

“Hoot like an owl,
Like grey wolf howl,
Or like bear growl,
'T will shew thee--”

“Then come, trusty Lob, and my thanks to thee!” cried Jocelyn, catching up his quarter-staff. “But haste ye, for I would be hence ere the moon get high. Come!”

So Duke Jocelyn strode away with Lobkyn Lollo at his heels; now as they went, the moon began to rise.

FYTTE 12

Which being the last Fytte of our Geste I hope may please my daughter best.

“O, Wind of Night, soft-creeping,
Sweet charge I give to thee,
Steal where my love lies sleeping
And bear her dreams of me;
And in her dream,
Love, let me seem
All she would have me be.

“Kind sleep! By thee we may attain
To joys long hoped and sought in vain,
By thee we all may find again
Our lost divinity.

“So, Night-wind, softly creeping,
This charge I give to thee,
Go where my love lies sleeping
And bear her dreams of me.”

Hearkening to this singing Yolande shivered, yet not with cold, and casting a cloak about her loveliness came and leaned forth into the warm, still glamour of the night, and saw where stood Jocelyn tall and shapely in the moonlight, but with hateful cock's-comb a-flaunt and ass's ears grotesquely a-dangle; wherefore she sighed and frowned upon him, saying nothing.

“Yolande?” he questioned. “O my lady, and wilt frown upon my singing?”

Answered she, leaning dimpled chin upon white fist and frowning yet:

“Nay, not--not thy--singing.”

“Is 't then this cap o' Folly--my ass's ears, Yolande? Then away with them! So shalt jester become very man as thou art very maid!” Forthwith he thrust back his cock's-comb and so stood gazing up at her wide-eyed.

But she, beholding thus his scarred face, shivered again, shrinking a little, whereupon Jocelyn bowed his head, hiding his features in his long, black-curling hair.

“Alas, my lady!” he said, “doth my ill face offend thee? This would I put off also for thy sake an it might be, but since this I may not do, close thou thine eyes a while and hear me speak. For now do I tell thee, Yolande, that I--e'en I that am poor jester--am yet a man loving thee with man's love. I that am one with face thus hatefully scarred do seek thee in thy beauty to my love--”

“Presumptuous Fool, how darest thou speak me thus?” she whispered.

“For that great love dareth greatly, Yolande.”

“And what of thy lord? How of Duke Jocelyn, thy master?”

“He is but man, lady, even as I. Moreover for thee he existeth not since thou hast ne'er beheld him--to thy knowing.”

“Nay, then--what of this?” she questioned, drawing the jewelled picture from her bosom.

“'T is but what it is, lady, a poor thing of paint!”

“But sheweth face of noble beauty, Fool!”

“Aye, nobly painted, Yolande! A thing of daubed colours, seeing naught of thy beauty, speaking thee no word of love, whiles here stand I, a sorry Fool of beauty none, yet therewithal a man to woo thee to my love--”

“Thy love? Ah, wilt so betray thy lord's trust?”

“Blithely, Yolande! For thee I would betray my very self.”

“And thyself art Fool faithless to thy lord, a rhyming jester, a sorry thing for scorn or laughter--and yet--thy shameful habit shames thee not, and thy foolish songs hold naught of idle folly! And thou--thou art the same I saw 'mid gloom of dungeon sing brave song in thy chains! Thou art he that overthrew so many in the lists! O Joconde, my world is upside down by reason of thee.”

“And thou, Yolande, didst stoop to me within my dungeon! And thou didst pray for me, Yolande, and now--now within this sweet night thou dost lean down to me through the glory of thy hair--to me in my very lowliness! And so it is I love thee, Yolande, love thee as none shall ever love thee, for man am I with heart to worship thee, tongue to woo thee, eyes to behold thy beauties, and arms to clasp thee. So am I richer than yon painted duke that needs must woo thee with my lips. And could I but win thee to love--ah, Yolande, could I, despite these foolish trappings, this blemished face, see Love look on me from thine eyes, O--then--”

“How--then--Joconde?”

“Then should Fool, by love exalted, change to man indeed and I--mount up to heaven--thus!” So saying, Jocelyn began to climb by gnarled ivy and carven buttress. And ever as he mounted she watched him through the silken curtain of her hair, wide of eye and with hands tight-clasped.

“Ah, Joconde!” she whispered, “'t is madness--madness! Ah, Joconde!” But swift he came and swung himself upon the balcony beside her and reached out his arms in mute supplication, viewing her wistfully but with scarred face transfigured by smile ineffably tender, and when he spoke his voice was hushed and reverent.

“I am here, Yolande, because methought to read within thy look the wonder of all wonders. But, O my lady, because I am but what I am, fain would I hear thee speak it also.”

“Joconde,” said she in breathless voice, “wouldst shame me--?”

“Shame?” he cried. “Shame? Can there be aught of shame in true love? Or is it that my ass's ears do shame thee, my cock's-comb and garments pied shame the worship of this foolish heart, and I, a Fool, worshipping thee, shame thee by such worship? Then--on, cock's-comb! Ring out, silly bells! Fool's love doth end in folly! Off love--on folly--a Fool can but love and die.”

“Stay, Joconde; ah, how may I tell thee--? Why dost thou start and fumble with thy dagger?”

“Heard you aught, lady?”

“I heard an owl hoot in the shadows yonder, no more.”

“True, lady, but now shall this owl croak like a frog--hearken! Aha--and now shall frog bark like dog--”

“And what meaneth this?”

“That thou, proud lady, must this night choose betwixt knightly rogue and motley Fool--here be two evils with yet a difference--”

“Here is strange, wild talk, Fool!”

“Here shall be wild doings anon, lady, methinks. Hush thee and listen!”

A jangle of bridle-chains, a sound of voices loud and rough, and a tread of heavy feet that, breaking rudely upon the gentle-brooding night, drove the colour from Yolande's soft cheek and hushed her voice to broken whisper:

“Heaven shield us, what now, Joconde?”

“Wolves, lady, wolves that come to raven--see yonder!” Even as he spake they espied armed men who, bold and assured by reason of the solitude, moved in the garden below; and on back and breast of each was the sign of the Bloody Hand.

“My Lord Gui's followers! Alas, Joconde, these mean thee ill--here is death for thee!” Now as she spake, Jocelyn thrilled to the touch of her hand upon his arm, a hand that trembled and stole to clasp his. “Alas, Joconde, they have tracked thee hither to slay thee--”

“And were this so, wouldst fly with me, Yolande? Wouldst trust thy beauties to a Fool's keeping?”

“Nay, nay, this were madness, Joconde; rather will I hide thee--aye, where none shall dare seek thee--come!”

“Yolande,” he questioned, “Yolande, wilt trust thyself to Love and me?” But seeing how she shrank away, his eager arms fell and he bowed his head. “Nay, I am answered,” quoth he, “even while thine eyes look love, thy body abhorreth Fool's embrace--I am answered. Nay, 't is enough, trouble not for words--ha, methinks it is too late, the wolves be hard upon us--hark ye to their baying!”

And now was sudden uproar, a raving clamour of fierce shouts, and a thundering of blows upon the great door below.

“Yolande--ha, Yolande, yield thee! Open! Open!”

“Ah--mercy of God! Is it me they seek?” she whispered.

“Thee, Yolande! To bear thee to their lord's embraces--”

“Rather will I die!” she cried, and snatched the dagger from his girdle.

“Not so!” quoth he, wresting the weapon from her grasp. “Rather shalt thou live a while--for thou art mine--mine to-night, Yolande--come!” And he clasped her in fierce arms. “Nay, strive not lest I kiss thee to submission, for thou art mine, though it be for one brief hour and death the next!” So, as she struggled for the dagger, he kissed her on mouth and eyes and hair until she lay all unresisting in his embrace; while ever and anon above the thunder of blows the night clamoured with the fierce shout:

“Open--open! Yolande, ha, Yolande!”

“There is death--and worse!” she panted. “Loose me!”

“Stay,” he laughed, “here thou 'rt in thy rightful place at last--upon my heart, Yolande. Now whither shall I bear thee? Where lieth safety?”

“Loose me!” she commanded.

“Never! Hark, there yields the good door at last!”

“Then here will we die!”

“So be it, Yolande! A sweet death thus, heart to heart and lip to lip!”

“O Fool--I hate thee!”

“Howbeit, Yolande--I love thee!”

“Yolande! Ha--Yolande!”

The cry was louder now and so near that she shivered and, hiding her face, spake below her breath:

“The turret-stair--behind the arras of my bed!”

Swiftly, lightly he bore her down the winding stair and by divers passage-ways until, thrusting open a narrow door, he found himself within the garden and, keeping ever amid the darkest shadows, hasted on to the postern hard by the lily-pool.

And now Yolande felt herself swung to lofty saddle, heard Jocelyn's warning shout drowned in a roar of voices and loud-trampling hoofs as the great horse reared, heard a fierce laugh and, looking up, saw the face above her grim and keen-eyed beneath its foolish cock's-comb as his vicious steel flashed to right and left, and ever as he smote he mocked and laughed:

“Ha--well smitten, Lob! Oho, here Folly rides with pointed jest keen and two-edged--make way, knaves--make way for Folly--”

The snorting charger, wheeled by strong hand, broke free, whereon rose an uproar of shouts and cries that sank to a meaningless babble swept backward on the rush of wind. Away, away they sped, through moonlight and shadow, with fast-beating hoofs that rang on paved walk, that thudded on soft grass, that trampled the tender flowers; and Yolande, swaying to the mighty arm that clasped her, saw the fierce, scarred face bent above her with eyes that gleamed under scowling brows and mouth grim-smiling; and shivering, she looked no more.

On they sped with loosened rein, o'er grassy mead, through ferny hollows, o'erleaping chattering rill that babbled to the moon, 'mid swaying reeds and whispering sedge, past crouching bush and stately tree, and so at last they reached the woods. By shadowy brake and thicket, through pools of radiant moonlight, through leafy, whispering glooms they held their way, across broad glade and clearing, on and on until all noise of pursuit was lost and nought was to hear save the sounds of their going.

Thus rode they, and with never a word betwixt them, deep and deeper into the wild until the moon was down and darkness shut them in; wherefore Jocelyn drew rein and sat a while to listen. He heard the good steed, deep-breathing, snuff at dewy grass; a stir and rustle all about him; the drowsy call of a bird afar; the soft ripple of water hard by and, over all, the deep hush of the wild-wood. Then upon this hush stole a whisper:

“O, 'tis very dark!”

He: Dark, Lady? Why so 'tis, and yet 'tis natural, for 'tis night, wherefore 'tis the bright god Phoebus is otherwhere, and Dian, sly-sweet goddess, hath stole her light from heaven, wherefore 'tis 'tis dark, lady.

She: Where are we?

He: The sweet Saints know that, lady--not I!

She (_scornfully_): Verily, thou art no saint--

He: Not yet, lady, not yet--witness these ass's ears.

She: True, thou 'rt very Fool!

He: In very truth, lady, and thou art lost with this same Fool, so art thou in very woeful case. As for me, a lost fool is no matter, wherefore Fool for himself grieveth no whit. But for thee--alas! Thou art a proud lady of high degree, very nice of thy dainty person, soft and delicate of body, so shall the greensward prove for thee uneasy couch, I judge, and thou sleep ill--

She: Sleep? No thought have I of sleep! Ride on, therefore. Why tarry we here?

He: Lady, for three sufficing reasons--our foes pursue not, I'm a-weary, and 'tis very dark--

She: No matter! Ride on, I do command thee.

He: Aye, but whither?

She: I care not so thou leave this place; 'tis an evil place!

He: Why, 'tis good place, very well secluded and with stream hard by that bubbleth. So here will we bide till dawn. Suffer me to aid thee down.

She: Touch me not! Never think I fear thee though I am alone.

He: Alone? Nay, thou 'rt with me, that is--I am with thee and thou art with a Fool. So is Fool care-full Fool since Fool hath care of thee. Suffer me now to aid thee down since here will we wait the day. Come, my arm about thee so, thy hand in mine--

She (_angrily_): O Fool most base--most vile--

He: Nay, hush thee, hush! and listen to yon blithesome, bubblesome, babbling brook how it sigheth 'mid the willows, whispereth under reedy bank and laugheth, rogue-like, in the shallows! Listen how it wooeth thee:

Though, lady, hard thy couch must be,
If thou should'st wakeful lie,
Here, from the dark, I'll sing to thee
A drowsy lullaby.
O lady fair--forget thy pride
Whiles thou within the greenwood bide.

And now suffer me to aid thee down.

She: Why wilt thou stay me in this evil place?

He (_patiently_): The wild is ill travelling in the dark, lady; there be quagmires and perilous ways--wherefore here must we bide till dawn. Suffer me to--

SHE (_breathlessly and shrinking from his touch_): But I fear not quagmires--there be greater perils--more shameful and--and--'tis so dark, so dark! 'Tis hateful place. Ride we till it be day--

He (_mockingly_): Perils, lady? Why certes there be perils--and perils. Perils that creep and crawl, perils that go on four legs and perils two-legged--e'en as I. But I, though two-legged, am but very fool of fools and nothing perilous in blazing day or blackest night. So stint thy fears, lady, for here bide we till dawn!

Herewith he caught her in sudden arms and lifted her to the ground; then, dismounting, he set about watering and cherishing the wearied steed and tethered him beside a dun stream that rippled beneath shadowy willows; and so doing, fell a-singing on this wise:

“'Fair lady, thou 'rt lost!' quoth he,
Sing derry, derry down.
'And O, 'tis dark--'tis dark!' quoth she,
'And in the dark dire perils be,'
O, derry, derry down!

“Quoth he: 'Fair lady, stint thy fear,'
Sing derry, derry down.
'I, being Fool, will sit me here,
And, till the kindly sun appear,
Sing derry, derry down.

“'I'll make for thee, like foolish wight,
Hey, derry, derry down,
A song that shall out-last dark night,
And put thy foolish fears to flight
With derry, derry down.

“'For 'tis great shame thou shouldst fear so,
Hey, derry, derry down,
A peril that two-legged doth go,
Since he's but humble Fool, I trow,
With derry, derry down.'”

Thus sang he, a dim figure beside dim stream and, having secured the horse, sat him down thereby and took forth his lute.

But Yolande, though he could not see, clenched white fists and, though he could not hear, stamped slim foot at him.

“Joconde,” quoth she, betwixt clenched teeth, “Joconde, I--scorn thee!”

“Alack!” he sighed. “Alack, and my lute hath taken sore scath of a sword-thrust!”

“Thou'rt hateful--hateful!” she cried. “Aye--hateful as thy hateful song, so do I contemn thee henceforth!”

“Say'st thou so, lady, forsooth?” sighed he, busied with his lute. “Now were I other than Fool, here should I judge was hope of winning thy love. But being only Fool I, with aid of woe-begone lute, will sing thee merry song to cheer thee of thy perilous fears--”

“Enough, ill Fool, I'll hear thee not!”

“So be it, dear lady! Then will we sit an list to the song of yon stream, for streams and rivers, like the everlasting hills, are passing wise with length of days--”

“And thou'rt a very Fool!” she cried angrily. “A fond Fool presumptuous in thy folly!”

“As how presumptuous, proud lady?” he questioned humbly.

“In that thou dreamest I--stoop to fear thee!”

“Aye, verily!” sighed he. “Alas, thou poor, solitary, foolish, fearful maid, thou art sick with fear of me! So take now my dagger! Thus Fool offenceless shall lie defenceless at thy mercy and, so lying, sleep until joyous day shall banish thy so virginal fears!” Which saying, he tossed off belt and dagger and setting them beside her, rolled his weather-worn cloak about him, stretched himself beneath the dim willows and straightway fell a-snoring. And after some while she questioned him in voice low and troubled:

“O Joconde, art truly sleeping?”

“Fair lady,” he answered, “let these my so loud snores answer thee.”

Up sprang Yolande and, coming beside him in the gloom, cast back his girdle, speaking quick and passionate:

“Take back thy dagger lest I be tempted to smite it to the cruel, mocking heart of thee!” Then turned she stately back and left him, but, being hid from view, cast herself down full length upon the sward, her pride and stateliness forgotten quite. Now Jocelyn, propped on uneasy elbow, peered amid the gloom for sight of her and hearkened eagerly for sound of her; but finding this vain, arose and, creeping stealthily, presently espied her where she lay, face hidden in the dewy grass. Thus stood he chin in hand disquieted and anxious-eyed and wist not what to do.

“Lady?” he questioned at last; but she stirred not nor spoke. “Yolande!” he murmured, drawing nearer; but still she moved not, though his quick ear caught a sound faint though very pitiful. “Ah, dost thou weep?” he cried. Yolande sobbed again, whereupon down fell he beside her on his knees, “Dear lady, why grievest thou?”

“O Joconde,” she sighed, “I am indeed solitary--and fearful! And thou--thou dost mock me!”

“Forgive me,” he pleaded humbly, “and, since thou'rt solitary, here am I. And, for thy fears, nought is here shall harm thee, here may'st thou sleep secure--”

“Stay, Joconde, the forest is haunted of wolves and--worse, 'tis said!”

“Then will I watch beside thee till the day. And now will I go cut bracken for thy bed.”

“Then will I aid thee.” So she arose forthwith and, amid the fragrant gloom, they laboured together side by side; and oft in the gloom her hand touched his, and oft upon his cheek and brow and lip was the silken touch of her wind-blown hair. Then beneath arching willows they made a bed, high-piled of springy bracken and sweet grasses, whereon she sank nestling, forthwith.

“O, 'tis sweet couch!” she sighed.

“Yet thou'lt be cold mayhap ere dawn,” quoth he, “suffer me to set my cloak about thee.”

“But how of thyself, Joconde?”

“I am a Fool well seasoned of wind and rain, heat and cold, lady, and 'tis night of summer.” So he covered her with his travel-stained cloak and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to his watch. And oft she stirred amid the fern, deep-sighing, and he, broad back against the tree, sighed oftener yet.

“Art there, Joconde?” she questioned softly.

“Here, lady.”

“'Tis very dark,” sighed she, “and yet, methinks, 'tis sweet to lie thus in the greenwood so hushed and still and the stars to watch like eyes of angels.”

“Why, 'tis night of summer, lady, a night soft and languorous and fragrant of sleeping flowers. But how of grim winter, how of rain and wind and lashing tempest--how think you?”

“That summer would come again, Joconde.”

“Truly here is brave thought, lady.”

“Hark, how still is the night, Joconde, and yet full of soft stir, a sighing amid the leaves! 'Tis like the trees whispering one another. O, 'tis sweet night!”

“Soon to pass away, alas!” he sighed, whereupon she, stirring upon her ferny couch, sighed also; thereafter fell they silent awhile hearkening to the leafy stirrings all about them in the dark, and the slumberous murmur of the stream that, ever and anon, brake into faint gurglings like a voice that laughed, soft but roguish.

SHE: I pray thee talk to me.

HE: Whereof, lady?

SHE: Thyself.

HE: I am a Fool--

SHE: And why sit so mumchance?

HE: I think.

SHE: Of what?

HE: Folly.

SHE: And why dost sigh so deep and oft?

HE: I grieve for thee.

SHE: For me! And wherefore?

HE: Being lost with a Fool thou'rt desolate, sad and woeful.

SHE: Am I, Joconde? And how dost know all this?

HE: 'Tis so I do think, lady.

SHE: Then are thy thoughts folly indeed. If thou must sigh, sigh for thyself.

HE: Why so I do, lady, and therewith grieve for myself and thyself, myself being Fool and thyself a dame of high degree, thus, betwixt whiles, I do fear thee also.

SHE: Thou fear! Thou fear me forsooth! And wherefore fear a helpless maid?

HE: There is the reason--she is helpless!

SHE: Ah, there doth Fool speak like chivalrous knight.

HE: Or very fool--a fool that fain would win fair Dian from high heaven. Alas, poor Fool, that, being fool, must needs look and sigh and sigh and look and leave her to the winning of some young Endymion!

SHE (_dreamily_): Endymion was but lowly shepherd, yet was he loved!

HE: Endymion was fair youth comely of feature, lady. Now had he worn ass's ears 'bove visage scarred--how then? On Ida's mount he had been sighing forlorn and lonely yet, methinks. For maids' hearts are ever governed by their eyes--