Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
MASTERS OF THE GUILD
By L. Lamprey
Author of “In the Days of the Guild”
Illustrated by Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis
New York
1920
CONTENTS
To Dorothy
I
PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS
Bellerophon
II
A TOURNAMENT IN THE CLOUDS
The Jesters
III
THE PUPPET PLAYERS
The Abbot's Lesson
IV
PADRAIG OF THE SCRIPTORIUM
Cap O' Rushes
V
THE TAPESTRY CHAMBER
The Castle
VI
THE FAIRIES' WELL
Lullaby of the Pict Mother
VII
THE WOLVES OF OSSORY
St. Hugh and the Birds
VIII
THE ROAD OF THE WILD SWAN
The Lances
IX
THE SWORD OF DAMASCUS
Awakening
X
FOOL'S GOLD
To Josian from Prison
XI
ARCHIATER'S DAUGHTER
New Altars
XII
COLD HARBOR
Galley Song
XIII
THE WISDOM OF THE GALLEYS
Harbor Song
XIV
SOLOMON'S SEAL
The Leprechaun
XV
BLACK MAGIC IN THE TEMPLE
The Ebbing Tide
XVI
THE END OF A PILGRIMAGE
The Crusaders
NOTES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard”
Frontispiece
“'You have your choice--to remain here quietly, alive, or to remain
permanently, dead'”
“'How now, Master Stephen! What foolery is this?'”
“It was the first time Padraig had seen anyone write”
“'Every inch of this linen will be covered with embroidery'” (in colors)
“''Tis the brat of a scatter-brained woman'”
“Directly in front sounded the unmistakable snarl of a wolf”
“An immense boar stumbled out and charged at Eleanor's horse”
“'Belike he got it where he's been--in the Holy Land'” (in colors)
“'I know all about your search for treasure'”
“'He called me his mouse and if I kept still I had cheese for my
dinner'”
“Nothing would do but that they all should go immediately to see what
had come to light”
“Andrea was at work upon the carving of the doorway”
“A siffle of indrawn breath was heard in the crowd as he carried it to
the fire” (in colors)
“There was shouting and laughter in the courtyard”
DEDICATION
TO DOROTHY
O little girl who used to be,
Come down the Old World road with me,
And watch the galleons leaping home
Deep-laden, through the rainbow foam,
And the far-glimmering lances reel
Where clashes battle-axe on steel,
When the long shouts of triumph ring
Around the banner of the King!
To elfin harps those minstrels rime
Who live in Once-upon-a-Time!
In that far land of Used-to-Be,
Strange folk were known to you and me,--
Mowgh and Puck, and all their kin,
Launcelot, and Huckleberry Finn,
Wise Talleyrand, brave Ivanhoe,
Juliet, and Lear, and Prospero,
Alleyne and his White Company,
And trooping folk of Faerie!
People of every race and clime
Are found in Once-upon-a-Time!
And in those days that used to be
The gypsy wind that raced the sea
Came singing of enchanted lands,
Of sapphire waves on golden sands,
Of wind-borne fleets that race the swallow,
Of Squirrel-fairy in her hollow,
Of brooklets full of scattered stars,
And odorous herbs by pasture-bars
Where to the cow-bells' tinkling chime
Come dreams of Once-upon-a-Time!
O little girl who used to be,
The days are long in Faerie,--
Their garnered sunshine's wealth of gold
No royal treasure-vault may hold.
And now, as if our earth possessed
Alchemy's fabled Alkahest,
Our harbors blaze with jewelled light,
Our air-ships wing their circling flight,
And we ourselves are in the rime
That sings of Once-upon-a-Time!
I
PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS
It was a great day in Count Thibaut's castle. Every one knew that,
down to the newest smallest scullery-maid. The Count had come home from
England with Lady Philippa, his daughter, and there would be feasting
and song and laughter for days and days and days.
Ranulph the troubadour, who had arrived in their company, was glad of a
quiet hour in the garden before supper was served. He knew that he would
have to sing that evening, and he wished to go over the melodies he had
in mind, for he might on the spur of the moment compose new words
to them. In fact a song in honor of his hostess was already in his
thoughts. The very birds of the air seemed to welcome her. The warm
southern winds were full of their warbling--beccafico, loriot, merle,
citronelle, woodlark, nightingale,--every tree, copse and tuft of
grass held a tiny minstrel. When the great gate opened to a fanfare of
trumpets, from the castle walls there came the murmur of innumerable
doves. A castle had its dove-cote as it had its poultry-yard or
rabbit-warren, but the birds were not always so fearless or so many.
The song was nearly finished when the singer became aware that some one
else was in the garden. A small boy, with serious dark eyes and a white
pigeon in his arms, stood close by. Ranulph smiled a persuasive smile
which few children could resist.
“And who are you, my lad?”
“Peirol, the gooseherd's boy,” the youngster replied composedly. “You're
none of the family, are you?”
“Only a jongleur. You have a great many pigeons here.”
“That's why I came in when I heard you playing. Does she--Lady
Philippa--like pigeons?”
“I think she does. In fact I know she does. Why?”
“Grandfather said she would not care how many pigeons were killed to
make pies. Nobody really loves them much, but me. They're fond of me
too.”
The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard in every
direction. Pigeons flew from tree-top, tower, parapet and gable,
alighting on his head and arms until he looked like a little pigeon-tree
in full bloom.
“Some of them are voyageurs,” he said, strewing salted pease for the
strutting, cooing, softly crowding birds. “I'm training them every
day. Some day I shall know more about pigeons than any one else in the
world.”
Ranulph had some ado not to smile; the speaker was so small and the tone
so assured. “Perhaps you will,” he said. “Are they as tame with others
as they are with you?” “Some others,” answered Peirol gravely. “People
who are patient and know how to keep still. They like you.”
A slaty-blue pigeon was already pecking at Ranulph's pointed scarlet
shoe for a grain lodged there. The troubadour bent down, held out his
hand, and the bird walked into it. He had played with birds often enough
in his vagabond early years to know their feelings. But now a wave of
merry voices broke upon the garden paths.
“Peirol,” he said, “I will see you again. I have a little plan for you
and the pigeons which will, I think, give pleasure to Lady Philippa.”
One of the entertainments arranged to take place was a feast out
of doors, in a woodland glade especially suited to it. Ranulph's
inspiration had to do with this.
Among the guests the only stranger was Sir Gualtier (or Walter) Giffard,
younger son of a Norman family. One of his ancestors had gone to England
with Duke William a hundred years before, but the family had not been on
good terms with later kings and its fortunes had somewhat fallen. Every
one, however, spoke with respect of this knight and his elder brother,
Sir Stephen, and they had been of service to Count Thibaut during his
stay in England. This Giffard had never been so far south before, and he
seemed to feel that he had got into some sort of enchanted realm. He
was more soldier than courtier, but his eyes said a great deal. The
luxurious abundance of a Provencal castle, the smooth ease of the
serving, the wit and gaiety of the people, all were new to him. He had
attended state banquets, but they were as unlike the entertainment here
provided as was the stern simplicity of his boyhood home in Normandy, or
the rough-and-tumble camp life of recent years.
The out-of-door dinner was not a hap-hazard picnic, but neither was it
in the least stiff or formal. The servants went by a short cut across
the meadow to prepare the tables, while knights and ladies followed
the more leisurely path along the river bank. It was a walk through
fairyland. The very waters were in a holiday mood. The current strayed
from one side to the other, leaving clear still pools and enticing
little backwaters, and singing past the elfin islets and huge
overshadowing trees, like a gleeful spirit.
Lady Philippa had never looked more lovely. As the party was not to be
seen on a public road, veils and wimples were discarded, and her bright
brown hair, braided in two long braids, was crowned only by a circlet
of gold set with pearls and emeralds. The trailing robes worn at formal
dinners would also be out of place, and she wore a bliaut or outer robe
of her favorite rose-colored silk, a wide border of gold embroidery
giving it weight enough to make it hang in graceful lines. The sleeves
were loose and long, the ends almost touching the hem of the gown. Under
this was a violet silk robe of heavier material with bands of ermine
at the neck and on the small close sleeves. Under this again the
embroidered edges of a fine white linen robe could be seen at throat and
wrists. The girdle was of braided violet silk, the ends weighted with
amethyst and emerald ornaments. A white mantle of silk and wool, trimmed
with fur of the black squirrel, and fastened under the chin with a gold
button, and an embroidered alms-purse, completed the costume. The other
ladies of the party were attired as carefully, and the dress of the men
was as rich and brilliant as that of the women. They passed through
the wavering light and shadow of the woodlands like a covey of
bright-plumaged birds.
In the level open space where the feast was spread the servants had
placed trestles, over which long boards were fitted. Benches covered
with silken cushions served as seats. The cloth was of linen dyed
scarlet in the rare Montpellier dye, and over it was spread another of
white linen, embroidered in open-work squares. At each end of the table
was a large silver dish, one containing a meat-pie, the other a pie made
of the meat of various fowls with savory seasoning. On silver plates
were slices of cold chicken and meat. Glass trays contained salad,
lettuces, radishes and olives. The salt, pepper and spices were in
silver and gold dishes of fanciful shapes. Here and there were crystal
vases of freshly gathered roses and violets. On the corners of the table
were trenchers of white bread--wastel, cocket, manchet, of fine wheaten
flour,--and brown bread of barley, millet and rye. For dessert there
were the spicy apples of Auvergne, Spanish oranges, raisins, figs,
little sweet cakes, wine white and red, and nuts in a great carved brass
dish of the finest Saracen work, with carved wood nut-crackers. Ewers
and basins of decorated brass, for washing the hands after the meal,
were ready. Eastern carpets and cushions, placed upon a bank under
the trees, would afford a place where the company, after dining, might
linger for hours, enjoying the gay give-and-take of conversation, the
songs of artists who knew their art, and the constant musical undertone
of winds, birds and waters. The surprise which Ranulph had planned was
designed for the moment when the guests began to dally with nuts and
wine, reluctant to leave the table. Some one called upon the troubadour
to sing. He had counted upon this. Rising, he bowed to the Count and his
daughter, and began:
“In the month of Arcady
Green the summer meadows be,--
When the dawn with fingers light
Lifts the curtains of the night,
And from tented crimson skies
Glorious doth the sun arise,--
Who are these who give him greeting,
On swift wings approaching, fleeting,--
Who but birds whose carols bring
Homage to their gracious King!
“Lo! the Queen of Arcady
From the land of Faery
Gladdens our adoring eyes,
Fair and gentle, sweet and wise,
Her companions here on earth
Love and Loyalty and Mirth!
Who, the joyous tidings hearing,
Fly to greet her, now appearing?
Aphrodite's pigeons fleet,--
See, they gather at her feet.”
No one had heard a low clear call from the boughs of the tree overhead,
or seen the figure of a small boy in a fantastic tunic of goatskins,
slipping down the tree-trunk near Ranulph. As the company rose from the
table the troubadour moved away a little, still thrumming his refrain,
and in that moment there was a whir of sudden wings and the air was dark
with pigeons. As the birds alighted Lady Philippa was surrounded by the
pretty creatures, and in a graceful little speech Ranulph presented to
her Peirol as a Faun, the Master of the Pigeons, who had brought them to
do homage to their sovereign lady.
It was just the sort of informal pageant to delight the heart of
Provence. No more dainty and captivating interlude had been seen at a
festival.
There was a great deal of wonderment about the way in which the scene
had been arranged, but it was really quite simple. According to the
usual fashion the guests were seated on only one side of the table,
the other side being left free for the servants to present the various
dishes. The company faced the river, and the trees that canopied the
table were behind them. Nothing, therefore, hindered Peirol from luring
his pigeons to a point within hearing of his voice, and concealing
himself in the thick leafage until Ranulph gave the signal for them to
be brought upon the stage. Most of the afternoon was spent in watching
and discussing Peirol and the pigeons.
“A pigeon has certain advantages,” observed Gualtier Giffard, as he
and the troubadour, sitting a little way from the others, watched the
carriers rise and circle in the air. “He need only rise high enough to
see his goal,--and fly there.”
“Pity but a man might do the same,” said Ranulph lightly. The eyes of
the two young men met for an instant in unspoken understanding. Under
some conditions they might have felt themselves rivals. But neither the
penniless younger son of a Norman house, nor a landless troubadour of
Avignon, had much hope of meeting Count Thibaut's views for his only
daughter.
“It would be rather absurd,” Ranulph went on, stroking the feathers of
the little dun pigeon Rien-du-Tout, “for a bird to outdo a man. Perhaps
some day we shall even sail the air as now we sail the seas. Picture to
yourself a winged galleon with yourself at the helm--about to discover a
world beyond the sunset. It is all in having faith, I tell you. Unbelief
is the dragon of the ancient fables.”
The Norman smiled rather sadly. “Meanwhile,” he said, “having no flying
ships and no new crusades to prove our mettle, we spend ourselves on
such errands as we have, or beat the air vainly--like the pigeons. Were
it not that a man owes loyalty to his house and to his King I would
enlist under the piebald banner of the Templars. But my brother and
I have set ourselves to win back the place that our fathers lost, and
until that is done I have no errand with dragons.”
Ranulph nodded, thoughtfully. “The King would be glad of more such
service,” he said. “Good fortune be with you!”
BELLEROPHON
Hail, Poet--and farewell! Our day is past,
Yet may we hear new songs before we die,
The chanteys of the mightiest and the last,--
The squadrons of the sky.
We knew the rhythm of myriad marching feet,
Gray tossing seas that rocked the wind-whipped sail,
The drumming hoofs of horses, and the beat
Of stern hearts clad in mail.
But you--earth-fettered we shall watch your wings
Topping the mountains, battling winds,--to dare
Challenge the lammergeyer where she swings
Down the long lanes of air.
And when you take the skylark for your guide,
And soar straight up to sun-drenched shores of Time,
Immortal singers there shall, eager-eyed,
Await your new-born rhyme.
Their songs are charm-songs, a divine caress,
Or torrents that no power of man could tame,
Or time-hushed gardens of grave loveliness,
But yours,--a leaping flame!
Hail, Poet! Yours the Dream Interpreted,
Earth's haunting fairy-tale since life began,--
The Dragon of Unfaith, his magic dead,
Slain by the Flying Man!
II
A TOURNAMENT IN THE CLOUDS
Alazais de Montfaucon was to be married, and had chosen her dearest
friend Philippa to be maid of honor. None of her friends except Philippa
had seen the bridegroom; he was an English knight, Hugh l'Estrange.
He had lands on the Welsh marches, and the charming Alazais was to
be carried off by him, to live among savages. This, at least, was the
impression of Beatriz d'Acunha and Catalina d'Anduze, who were also to
be bridesmaids. Philippa, having lived in England, looked at the matter
less dolefully. Still, when all was said, it was an immense change for
Alazais, and she herself declared that if any one but Hugh had proposed
it she would not think of such a thing.
“We must provide you with a flock of these voyageur pigeons,” said
Savaric de Marsan. “Then, when you are shut up in your stronghold with
the Welsh on one side and Saxon outlaws on the other, you can appeal to
your friends for help.”
Alazais laughed her pretty rippling laugh.
“The fortress is not yet built,” she said with a toss of her golden
head. “We are not going to live among the heathen.”
“You men!” pouted Beatriz. “You are always thinking of battles and
sieges, wars and jousting. Perhaps you would like a tournament of
pigeons!”
“Why not?” queried Savaric undisturbed. “It would be highly amusing.”
“I lay my wager on Blanchette here,” said Peire d'Acunha. “She is as
graceful as a lady. She shows her breeding.”
“Endurance, my friend, is what counts in a carrier,” said Bertrand
d'Aiguerra. “Pere Azuli yonder will forget the miles behind him--as you
forget your debts.”
“You are both wrong,” said Savaric. “It is spirit that wins. Little
Sieur Rien-du-Tout, the pigeon without a pedigree, will make fools of
all of you.”
The pigeon-tournament was actually planned, with much laughter and
light-hearted nonsense. It was to take place at Montfaucon during the
week of the wedding. Each knight should adorn his bird with his lady's
colors, and the little feathered messengers were to carry love-letters
written in verse. Afterward, the pigeons were all to be presented to
Lady Alazais for her dovecote in the barbarous land to which she was
exiled.
Pigeons were very much the fashion for a time. Dainty demoiselles
preened and paced on the short sweet turf, petting and feeding the
birds, and looking rather like pigeons themselves. But no one became
really intimate with the carriers except Ranulph the troubadour, Lady
Philippa, and Sir Gualtier Giffard, who loved them for her sake.
The guests at the castle were all going to the wedding except Ranulph
and the Norman knight. Ranulph expected to accompany King Henry to
England, and Gualtier Giffard had to take a report from Count Thibaut to
friends in Normandy, touching certain matters of state.
Then the Count was invited to a hastily arranged banquet in a town some
leagues away, where various important persons were to be guests, among
them Henry Plantagenet himself. The way to Montfaucon lying in the same
direction, it was decided that Alazais and her bridesmaids should return
to her home under escort of the Count and his friends. When the banquet
was over and the conference between Henry and his vassals in Guienne was
concluded, the wedding guests would assemble at Montfaucon.
Gossip about the banquet and the conference flew like tennis-balls among
the guests. It was said that one of the matters discussed would be the
claim of the deposed King of Leinster, Dermot MacMurragh, who was
even now at the heels of the English King, trying to interest him in a
possible Norman invasion of Ireland.
“I have seen this Dermot,” said de Marsan, “and a choice group of
cut-throats he had collected about him. Garin de Biterres was one of
them, by the way.”
“He was always over-fond of laying wagers,” yawned d'Acunha. “He is
probably betting his head on this Irish wild-goose chase.”
“I will burn a candle,” said Bertrand d'Aiguerra, “to any god of luck
who will send that caitiff where he gets himself killed. If he were not
one of us he would not be such a nuisance. His mercenaries will be the
ruin of us. The people were touchy enough before, but now they begin to
think we are all birds of the same black feather.”
“He is only half Auvergnais,” objected Savaric. “The other half is
Sicilian, I believe. A man cannot be half a gentleman, can he? I will
admit that Biterres desires to live like a gentleman,--according to his
own ideas of one. He has not been the same man since he was taken by the
Moors. He was never honest, but that seemed to warp his nature as well
as his body. He learned things that it does no man any good to know.”
“Let us hope that Saint Patrick will dispose of him for the good of his
Irish,” remarked Enrique de Montfaucon. “They say that the Plantagenet
will do no more than give letters patent to any Norman adventurer who
takes up Dermot's cause. I think he has his hands full with his own
sons.”
Ranulph listened to this conversation with interest. The ill-famed
leader of mercenaries had aspired to the hand of Lady Philippa while
she was yet a child--and had been brusquely dismissed by her father. He
lived now by hiring himself and his troops to any ruler who had a war on
hand and would pay his price. In peaceful intervals they lived as they
could.
The Count was talking to Gualtier Giffard about the Irish venture.
“If the Normans rule Ireland,” he observed, “your fortunes may improve.
A grant of land there might be worth your while.”
The young knight met the Count's searching glance fearlessly. “I would
not take it,” he answered. “Dermot lost his realm by his own fault.
There is no honor in serving him.”
“Ah,” said the Count with a quizzical lift of the eyebrow, “in that case
you are very right.”
Ranulph often acted as an unofficial unrecognized envoy in state
matters, and it did not surprise him when he received a message from
King Henry to the effect that he was to meet the monarch at Montfaucon
after the conference. Peirol, who knew every mile of the country, was to
take the pigeons thither for the tournament and be Ranulph's guide. It
was altogether a very pleasant prospect for perfect summer weather.
By brisk riding the troubadour and his little companion reached
Montfaucon late in the afternoon of the day following the departure of
the Count's guests. The porter, a surly looking fellow, hesitated about
admitting them, and before opening the wicket gate consulted some one
within. The castle seemed to be in a somewhat disorderly state. Soldiers
were playing dice by the gateway, and horses were stamping and feeding
in the outer bailey. Peirol was evidently taken for the troubadour's
servant, and an unkempt lad ushered them into a small room with a barred
window, in one of the older towers. Ranulph was not wont to think of his
own dignity, but this lack of courtesy did a little surprise him. Almost
at once the youth poked his head in, without knocking, to say that the
lord of the castle would see him in the great hall.
More mystified than before, Ranulph obeyed the summons, for it amounted
to that. In the master's chair sat a man of about thirty, dark-skinned,
with dense black hair and eyes, one leg somewhat malformed, the
knee being bowed and the foot turned slightly inward. He looked
the troubadour over with a sarcastic smile. Ranulph was still in
riding-dress, and might have been mistaken for a joglar or wandering
minstrel, calling himself by the more dignified title of troubadour or
trouvere.
“I think,” began the knight in a harsh drawl, “that one can often do
no better than to tell the truth, is it not so? I am the lord of this
castle--for the present. Of course I could not refuse you admittance,
or you might go off and spread inconvenient rumors. I must ask you
therefore to accept our hospitality unquestioning, like a courteous
guest. We cannot allow you to depart until we ourselves are gone.
You have your choice--to remain here quietly, alive, or to remain
permanently, dead.
“Naturally you will not communicate with any ladies whom you may see,
but if you can afford them some entertainment you shall be paid. They
have had but a dull time thus far, I fear, and I would not have them
think us barbarians, soldiers of fortune though we are. When I am
through with this castle I shall leave it as I found it, except for the
temporary detention of the inmates in various rooms, where I suppose
they will stay until some one finds them. If anybody is found dead
it will be his own fault. Now, which horn of the dilemma is your
choice--troubadour?”
During this extraordinary speech Ranulph had done some rapid thinking.
From the man's appearance he believed him to be Garin de Biterres. The
castle had evidently been taken by surprise after the Count's party had
escorted the maidens thither and ridden away. Perhaps the marauders had
been lurking somewhere about awaiting the opportunity. They must know
that they could not hold it after the friends of the rightful lord knew
what had been done, and their leader was too cool-headed a man to have
attempted so bold a raid without some important reason. The abduction of
four young girls, two of whom at least were heiresses, might seem such
a reason to such a man. Evidently he did not suspect Ranulph's character
as a man of some reputation and the confidential messenger of the King
of England. This was a piece of luck. The chance of his being useful to
the captives was all the better.
With the elaborate meekness proper to his supposed low station he
answered, “You leave me no choice, my lord. To resist your will would be
suicide, and that is a mortal sin.”
The knight grinned like a sour-tempered dog. “Take care,” he said,
“that you change not your very praise-worthy views. Have you any little
diversion which may enliven a tedious hour at supper-time?”
Ranulph's quick mind had been turning over plans. He thanked a hard Fate
that his early experience in camps, markets, inn-yards and fairs had
been so thorough and so varied. In those days he had been what Biterres
now supposed him--one of those vagabond singers who sang popular
songs and often did tricks of jugglery, or danced, or gave acrobatic
exhibitions, wherever they found an audience. The panier in which the
pigeons drowsed was probably taken for a collection of costumes and
properties.
The pigeons could not get through the barred window of his room. If they
were let loose in the courtyard and recognized as carriers, a bowman
could easily bring them down. But now he saw a way to elude suspicion.
“I have a trick,” he ventured humbly, “which is most amusing, but it
requires a large shell or cofyn of pastry. When this pie is cut, live
birds fly out. But perhaps it would not be convenient to have your
lordship's cook troubled with this?”
Biterres made an impatient gesture. “Child's play--but it will serve.
The cook shall come for your orders. Have it ready before the drinking
begins or the men will not know whether you have larks or peacocks in
the pie.”
Ranulph bowed very low and left the hall.
“Peirol,” he said when he re-entered the cell-like room, “we are
prisoners to a caitiff knight who has taken this castle and undoubtedly
holds your mistress and her friends also captive. I think he intends to
carry off the ladies, and I am not sure what will happen to the rest
of us. If we can get word to Count Thibaut's castle we may spoil the
fellow's game. No one must suspect, of course, that we have carriers
with us. He takes us for strolling mountebanks and desires us to amuse
the company at supper. Now, I have a plan.”
He was already writing the letters to be sent by the winged couriers,
putting all his hard-won skill with words into the task of getting all
the information possible into a little space. If the rescuing party did
not come before Biterres took his prisoners away--and it was hardly
to be hoped that they could--at least they should have a fair start in
pursuit of him and evidence enough to punish him, if they received even
one of these missives.
Peirol heard the scheme with wide-eyed gravity. At the end he nodded.
“That fellow asked what we had here,” he said pointing to the panier,
“and I told him when the pie was cut he would see.”
“Good!” laughed the troubadour. “That was a lucky answer, Peirol. And
here comes the cook to make the pie.”
The cook, a stout beady-eyed little man, eyed the two somewhat sulkily,
but went away grinning over Ranulph's jokes and fingering Ranulph's
generous fee. Furthermore he vouchsafed the information that the leader
of the mercenaries intended to leave the castle next day for the nearest
seaport, where he and his men would take a ship for Ireland. Lady
Philippa was destined to be the bride of Biterres himself; Alazais
was to marry the second in command, Griffon de Malemort. The other two
demoiselles were to be taken to Ireland, where the King would doubtless
find them husbands. If they would not agree to this they were to be sold
to a Moslem slave-dealer whose galley was somewhere about. The servants
and defenders of the castle had been herded into various rooms and
locked up. The cook himself did not mind a little recklessness on the
part of military adventurers such as these routiers, but he felt that
this sort of thing was perilous. He intended to give them the slip at
the first opportunity, and they could cook their own soup if they liked.
The plot, infamous as it was, had unfortunately nothing impossible about
it. Four unprotected girls could be taken in guarded litters to the
sea-coast and shipped to Ireland or to Cadiz, Valencia, Alexandria or
Morocco with no difficulty whatever unless some one got wind of the
fact. As for the Irish King, a man who had the sort of record he had,
was not likely to quibble over the means used by Biterres in getting
himself a bride. And before the captives within the castle could reach
even the nearest of their friends and bring help, the whole troop would
have left the country.
Through the huge carved open-work screen at the end of the hall, after
supper was served, Ranulph had a view of the scene within. Biterres,
with the fantastic formality it pleased him to use, had insisted on the
attendance of his prisoners at supper, and the meal was served with all
due ceremony. Biterres and Malemort appeared to be acting with
studied politeness. The maidens were behaving with the dignity and
self-possession which became daughters of soldiers, although they were
pale and woe-begone. The troopers at the lower table were noisy and rude
enough, and Ranulph suspected that his entertainment had been ordered
partly to keep them from getting out of hand with drinking and rioting.
He had contrived a clown's costume from some of his belongings, aided
by a little flour and paint, and a bauble made of a toasting fork stuck
through an apple. When he pranced into the hall the soldiers yelled with
surprise and delight. Behind him at a discreet distance came a small
boy, also attired in antic fashion, carrying carefully in both hands a
huge pie. The cook was peeping through the screen to see what was going
to happen.
Neither Ranulph nor Peirol gave so much as a glance at the captives,
who were too much amazed to say anything at first, and quickly saw the
danger of any betraying comment. The troubadour marched up to Biterres,
asked permission to sing, and began a doggerel ballad about one Sir
Orpheus and his magic harp. The harp, as the song explained, had the
power of luring pigeons, rabbits, wild geese, lambs, sucking-pigs and
even fish from the stewponds, into its owner's dinner-pot, so
that Orpheus never lacked for good living and became very fat. The
bouillabaisse of Marseilles, the Norman ragout of eels, the roast goose
of Arles, the pigs' feet of Spain, the partridge pasty of Periguex,--all
the luscious dishes of a land of good eating were described in a
way that made these old campaigners howl with reminiscent joy. The
rollicking, impudent tune, the allusions to camp customs more notorious
than honest, went straight to the heart of the blackguard audience, and
half the voices in the room promptly joined the chorus. Eurydice, the
singer went on, was an excellent cook, so renowned that the prince
of the lower regions abducted her, and Orpheus was allowed to regain
possession of her only on the solemn condition that she should make a
pie for that sovereign every twelvemonth. This pie, according to the
final verse of the song, would now be cut, so that the company could see
exactly what a Plutonian banquet was like.
The troubadour borrowed a dagger from a man-at-arms, made one or two
slashes at the ornate crust of the pie--and out flew four live pigeons.
Then Peirol gave his birdlike call, and eluding the hands raised to
catch them the pigeons swooped down to him. Ranulph began to dance,
playing his lute at the same time, and the boy followed, with the doves
flying above him just out of reach. In saucy improvised couplets the
troubadour called upon one and another to join the dancing, until before
any one quite knew what was happening, the company in the lower hall was
drawn into a winding lengthening line following the leaders in a sort of
farandole. The hall was not large enough for this to go on indefinitely,
and Ranulph suddenly bolted into the outer air, where the shouting,
laughing crowd paused for breath--and the pigeons went soaring into the
sky.
The party from the table on the dais came out to look on, and Garin de
Biterres, as he saw the mounting birds, grew suspicious. “Here, Jean!
Michaud!” he said sharply. “Loose the hunting hawks!”
Ranulph's heart missed a beat, but he dared not betray himself by a
tremor. Hawks could be trained to pursue carriers, but the doves had a
fair start and might be able to get away. The two birds of prey which
the men brought were moreover not the type of hawk used especially to
hunt pigeons, but young falcons or tercels. The men bungled in handling
them; they evidently belonged to the castle, not to the troop. When
they finally rose into the air, Pere Azuli, the veteran blue pigeon,
and Rien-du-Tout, the little dun-colored stray Peirol had trained, were
almost out of sight. The luckless Blanchette was lagging, and despite
her frantic attempts to escape her enemy she was soon struggling in the
falcon's grip. Clair de la Lune, the other white pigeon, seemed about to
meet the same fate when something unexpected happened.
Two wild hawks, beating up from the south, spied the pigeons, and
pounced one upon the tercel with the dove in his talons, the other upon
Clair de la Lune. In the scrimmage which followed Blanchette's little
body fell into the river, and the strange hawk gave chase to Pere Azuli,
while her mate began to devour Clair de la Lune at his leisure. The
ruffled and bewildered tercels were whistled back, and neither Garin de
Biterres nor his prisoners could be certain in the gathering twilight
whether any of the pigeons had escaped their pursuers.
The pigeon-chase had taken the attention of de Biterres and his men so
completely for a few minutes that Ranulph, without seeming to do so,
came near to Lady Philippa. A tiny roll of paper encased in a withered
leaf dropped from his fingers on the furred edge of her mantle. She bent
to shake off the leaf and her hand closed quietly over the letter. When
Ranulph had gone to sing ballads of the camp among the troopers, and the
young girls had been ceremoniously escorted to their guarded room,
she unrolled and read the missive. It was not long. “Dear and Honored
Lady--I pray you pardon the fooleries of the night, since in this way
only could I hope to escape the surveillance of these miscreants and do
you service. The pigeons we are loosing bear messages telling of your
doleful plight, and I doubt not that when it becomes known, help will
come to you. Sir Gualtier Giffard is, as you know, at your father's
castle awaiting messages from him, and we have thus every reason to hope
that there will be no mishap. For the rest, sweet lady, I rejoice that
I am within these walls, because you are here, and yet would I gladly go
to the ends of the earth if so I might hasten your deliverance.
“Ever your servant,
“RANULPH D'AVIGNON.”
The loyal and generous words were like balm upon wounds. The last speech
that Garin de Biterres had made to her that night conveyed a terrifying
possibility.
“Lady Philippa,” his cold harsh voice had fallen upon her ears like the
grating of a key in a prison door, “your father once refused me your
hand. I hope to find you more gracious, or at least more compliant. My
captain, Malemort, stands ready to wed the Lady Alazais as I would wed
you, at high noon to-morrow. The fate of the others depends upon you.
As good Christian maidens ye should all prefer Christian marriage to
slavery among the Moslems,--but gold in the purse is better than an
unwilling bride.”
It was not long after sunset when old Grimaud, Count Thibaut's
gooseherd, was aroused from a light sleep by a fluttering at his window.
He found huddled on the sill a small dun pigeon under whose wing nestled
a roll of writing. According to instructions, he took it at once to Sir
Gualtier Giffard, who found therein Ranulph's statement of the tragedy
impending at Montfaucon. It was like the crater of a volcano suddenly
opened in what had seemed a bright and fertile valley. On the very
borders of this paradise of luxury and delight lay a world where a thing
like this was possible. He strode hastily into the hall, told the news
to the old knight, a cousin of Count Thibaut's, who had charge of
the castle for the time, and left him to order out the garrison. Five
minutes later he was riding at a breakneck pace on his own fleet horse,
to rouse the men who had so short a time since been guests of the Count,
to the rescue of his daughter and her companions.
Thus it came to pass that early next morning a sentinel at Montfaucon
hurried from his watch-tower to make report to Malemort, and Malemort
lost no time in reporting to his chief. Peering from an upper window
they could see a strong force under the banner of Count Thibaut, flanked
by the devices of half Auvergne, coming at a sharp trot toward the
castle. There was neither delay nor discussion. Garin de Biterres had
not found life altogether pleasant, but he had no wish to end it with a
rope around his neck. If some peasant had carried a report of his doings
to Count Thibaut there was nothing to do but flee the vengeance now on
the way, and that instantly. Without waiting even to close the gates
the whole troop of mercenaries went galloping away. When the rescuers
clattered into the courtyard they found no one stirring save a little
stout man in a cook's apron, who was concocting something in a huge
saucepan.
“I am Martin,” he said to Savaric de Marsan. “I cook. But I do not cook
for cannibals, and my faith! I think that robber captain will end by
devouring his fellow-men. I have no mind to poison the food of his
enemies, either, so when they went away I hid in the great tun. I am at
your service, master.”
Savaric was so much amused at the explanation that he then and there
decided to rescue Martin from further evil company and place him in his
own kitchen.
“There is some consolation for not catching Biterres,” he observed to
Ranulph later, “in getting a cook like that little man. He deserves
something, truly, for giving you the information he did. And then, we
are rid of Garin for good now. He will never come back to Auvergne.
“You should have seen that Norman madman when your message came. He had
us under arms and riding for dear life before we fairly understood what
had happened. Yet from what Martin says, but for your daring and ready
wit no message could have come. You will not allow me to say what I
think of that, and therefore I suppose we must give all the credit
to the victor in our tournament of the pigeons,--little Sieur
Rien-du-Tout!”
THE JESTERS
Where through the dapple of wood-shadows dreaming
Faun-footsteps pattering run,
Where the swift mountain-brooks silvery-gleaming
Carol through rain and through sun,
Thee do we follow, O Spirit of Gladness,--
Thee to whom Laughter gave suck.
We are thy people by night or by noontide,--
We are thy loves, O Puck!
Lips thou hast kissed have no pleasure in sadness,
Bitterness, cant nor disdain.
Hearts to thy piping beat bravely in gladness
Through poverty, exile or pain.
Gold is denied us--thine image we fashion
Out of the slag or the muck.
We are thy people in court or by campfire,--
We are thy slaves, O Puck!
We are the dancers whose morris-bells ringing
Sound the death-knell of our years.
We are the harpers who turn into singing
Our hopes and our foves and our fears.
Thine is the tribute wrung hard from our anguish
After the death blows are struck.
We are thy bondmen who jest while we languish,--
We are thy souls, O Puck!
III
THE PUPPET PLAYERS
In a blinding snow-storm that blotted out the roads and obscured the
outlines of the densely forested mountains, two youths and a small
donkey struggled over a mountain trail. Twice the donkey had to be
pulled bodily out of a drift, and once for an hour or more the wayfarers
were racked by the fear that they had lost their direction altogether.
But at last, in the edge of the evening, they saw the lights of the city
twinkling like a miniature Milky Way, and urged on their tired beast in
the certainty of food and shelter at the end of the day.
They were very unlike, these two strangers. He who seemed the leader was
a slender lad, dark and keen of face, who might from his looks have
been either French or Italian. In reality he was a Milanese, Giovanni
Bergamotto, the only survivor of one of the families driven out of Milan
when Barbarossa took the city. He had lived nearly half his life in
France and in England, and spoke several languages nearly or quite as
well as his own.
The other was a big-shouldered, sullen-looking fellow with black eyes
and hair and a skin originally brown and now still darker from his
out-of-door life--a Pyrenean mountaineer known as Cimarron. It was
doubtful if he himself knew what his name originally had been; to
all who knew him now he was Cimarron, the mountain sheep,--strong,
sure-footed, and silent, and not half as stupid as people often thought.
The two had been in Brittany, in Paris, in Sicily and in Castile during
the past months, and in each country they had made their way directly to
the place in which the ruler happened to be holding court. At court
they had exhibited the marionette show now packed away in the donkey's
saddle-bags, once, twice or thrice as the case might be, until Giovanni
had succeeded in gaining audience with the wife of the ruler. He carried
pedlar's goods of very choice varieties, which might well appeal to
ladies of the court in those days of slow transportation and few shops.
Now the King of England had three daughters, each of them being married
to some prince of importance on the Continent of Europe, and he had
adopted this means of sending certain letters to be given into their
hands. The letter was carried inside a marionette, the head of the
little carved wooden figure being so made as to unscrew and reveal a
deep narrow hole in the body. The last of the three was Matilda, wife
of Henry the Lion Duke of Saxony, the most powerful vassal of Frederick
Barbarossa; and Barbarossa and his court now occupied Goslar, the walled
city of Prussia which the two comrades were approaching. Giovanni wished
to have the Emperor's permission to go on to Saxony. It might save his
being detained as a spy or interfered with in some other way.
He wished also to discover how far the preparations for the invasion of
Italy had gone. From what he had heard he thought that Barbarossa was
about to gather his forces. He himself intended to join the army of the
Lombard League as soon as he had delivered his letter.
There was not much difficulty in finding an inn where they could have
supper, and sleep, rolled up in their cloaks, on the floor in a corner
of the common room. The donkey was unloaded and fed, and the saddle-bags
were brought in to serve as pillows. Having eaten, they lay down to the
dreamless sleep of healthy youth. Cimarron's mountain-bred ears caught
the sound, two hours after, of clanking swords and trampling horses,
and he signaled silently to Giovanni. Troopers clattered in, laughing,
cursing, calling for this and that, and not seeing the two motionless
figures in the dark corner at all. When all was still again Cimarron
whispered,
“Who are they?”
“They are Swabian cavalry,” answered the other. “We were none too soon.
The army is mustering already.”
Next morning Giovanni cast about for means to get inside the walls of
the great castle, where the Imperial banner floated in the cold blue
air. But there seemed to be no disposition to encourage foreigners.
Cimarron, who could sometimes gain admittance as a horse-boy, was
kicked out. There was tumult and excitement in the streets. Giovanni,
retreating to a narrow alley to brush mud off his doublet, was aware
that a man with keen observant eyes was regarding him from the doorway
of a wine-shop. The man wore the cap and bells of a jester, and his
fantastic costume was gorgeously colored and ornamented. He was drinking
a cup of wine, and when that was finished he poured another for himself
and began to sip it slowly. Catching Giovanni's eye, he asked,
“What's in those great saddle-bags, my friend?”
Giovanni nearly jumped, for the question was in his own native
dialect--not only Lombard but the variety peculiar to Milan itself. But
remembering that he must not betray his blood he answered meekly, in
French,
“I crave your pardon, master. I do not understand your question.”
“I asked you,” said the jester, “what you had in your luggage. It was an
idle question, but you might be a showman of Milan.”
Giovanni laughed with mingled amusement and horror. “Milan, do you say?
Is it safe to say that name in Goslar? No, master, I am a poor showman
from Paris, asking only the opportunity to display my puppets before the
great folk. 'Tis a goodly show, I assure you, master--the play of the
Ten Virgins. Having but six lady-figures I am forced to make them serve
for the wise and the foolish virgins and the bride, but there are also
a King, who in this play is the bridegroom, the Merchant, the Monk, the
Jester--who is most amusing and can dance upon his head or his heels as
you will. The figures were carved by the most skilful wood-carvers of
Paris, and the play was written by a pious monk of the Benedictines.”
(Padraig the scribe would have hooted at this.) “It is a most wise and
diverting entertainment, master, I do assure you.” The jester seemed not
to be listening very attentively. He twirled the stem of the wine-cup in
his hand, crooning,
“'Fantoccini, fantoccino,--
Chi s'arrischia baldacchino,
Ognuno per se,
Diavolo per tutti.'”
Only long practice in self-control could have kept Giovanni from
starting. The rhyme was a common street-song which every lad in Milan,
the city of puppet-shows, would recognize, and not only did it refer to
the puppets as “fantoccini” instead of marionettes, but the significance
of the last two lines, “Each for himself and the fiend for all,” was
rather too pointed to be pleasant. But he only bowed uncomprehendingly
and awaited the further comment of the singer with more interest than
comfort.
“I have a mind to speak a word for your puppet-show,” said the jester,
cradling his bauble in his arms. “The Emperor gives little thought to
such toys; nevertheless he may be graciously pleased to spend a few
minutes in that way to-night after supper. Follow me.”
He strutted away, a small pompous figure in scarlet and orange, and
Giovanni noted the mingled deference and contempt with which he was
regarded by the crowd. No more trouble was experienced in getting the
donkey along the crowded streets. The fool's discordantly-clashing bells
opened a way everywhere. The porter at the castle gate grinned and flung
a jest at him, but admitted him and those who followed in his train,
without question.
A few steps farther on they were halted by a tall, thin, sour-looking
man in the elaborate headgear and robes of a dignitary of the household.
“How now, Master Stephen!” he said sternly. “What foolery is this?”
“Only a showman, Conrad,” grinned the jester. “He has a puppet-show
in those fat bags of his. Did you think I was trying to smuggle
meat-puddings out of the kitchens for my own solitary meals?”
The steward was not satisfied. “Show me the puppets,” he ordered.
Giovanni obeyed.
The steward scrutinized the bride and her maidens, pulled the strings
which moved the humpbacked jester, fingered the costumes, and then with
a curt nod bade them go on. “But mind you, Master Stephen,” he said,
shaking a long finger at the fool, “you are to be responsible for these
fellows and keep them in sight from now until the time of the feast. If
aught goes amiss you shall be whipt.”