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THE JESTER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_By Leslie Moore_
-------
The Peacock Feather
The Jester
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“HAD SHE DEMANDED HIS SOUL FROM HIM AT THAT INSTANT HE HAD GIVEN IT.”
(_See page 108_)
Drawn By Robert Edwards.]
THE JESTER
by
LESLIE MOORE
Author of “The Peacock Feather,” etc.
[Illustration: Decoration.]
G. P. Putnam’S Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1915
Copyright, 1915.
by
Leslie Moore
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To
MRS. SAMUEL JORDAN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CAP AND BELLS 1
II. THE FOOL’S ENTRY 19
III. SWEET BONDAGE 35
IV. A WOMAN’S WILL 46
V. GOOD COMRADESHIP 54
VI. BALDA THE WITCH 68
VII. SANCTUARY 83
VIII. COUNCIL AT SANGDIEU 91
IX. THE CASTING OF THE NET 101
X. WITHERED ROSES 111
XI. OUTCASTE 124
XII. THE WANDERER 135
XIII. CASTLE SYRTES 145
XIV. THE QUEST 160
XV. SIMON OF THE BEES 169
XVI. ILLUSION 184
XVII. APHORISMS 190
XVIII. THE SAGE 205
XIX. THE CHOICE 214
XX. VIBRATIONS 229
XXI. MOON RITUAL 239
XXII. DEVIL WORSHIP 251
XXIII. ABBOT HILARY 265
XXIV. AT DIEUPORTE 279
XXV. AN ORCHARD EGOIST 287
XXVI. AELRED’S BELIEF 297
XXVII. THE RECLUSE 308
XXVIII. IN THE FOREST 323
XXIX. EASTER EVE AND EASTER MORNING 332
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“There was a man seeking Peace.”
_Fiona Macleod._
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The Jester
CHAPTER I
CAP AND BELLS
NICHOL the Jester having left this world for, we trust, a better, and
thereto we cry “God rest his soul,” Peregrine his son reigned in his
stead.
This was in accordance with custom. Six times had cap and bells
descended from father to son: we see Peregrine as the seventh inheritor
thereto, which, perchance, holds some significance. Pythagorus would
doubtless have told us it held much; would have told us we find in seven
the last of the limited numbers, a mere step from it to the free
vibrations. Also he would have seen double significance in that
Peregrine’s own name held the same vibration. And who are we to say him
nay?
For my part I would no more dream of venturing to gainsay him than I
would venture to gainsay the old sage who read the message of the stars
at his birth. This sage, finding him born under the third decanate of
Sagittarius, with Uranus in the ascendant, and having muttered of
houses, and cusps, and aspects, and signs, and I know not what
besides,—and if I did would refrain from further enumeration lest I
should weary you,—proclaimed him one born to wander, a seeker after that
which is not easily found,—of the sign of Sagittarius, and the planet
Uranus are antiquarians and alchemists. He gave him also favours from
one of high birth, which favours should wither like June roses when
picked; gave him sorrow as companion for a space,—though truly there is
no mother’s son of us knows not that companion for a while,—and the end
of his life’s journey he saw not. Whereat I, for one, rejoice,
since—though I would not venture to gainsay the old sage—I believe that
the ordering of a man’s destiny lies not with the stars, but with One
Who holds the universe in the Hollow of His Hand.
Lisette, wife of Nichol the Jester, gave however full credence to the
sage, a credence equal to that she gave to the dogmas of Holy Church,
therein showing herself illogical after the manner of women, since our
Mother the Church has ever bade us have no dealing with omens, dreams,
the riddle of the stars, and such-like fooleries. Despite this, and
having given, as we have seen, credulous ear to the sage’s prophecy, she
named the boy Peregrine.
When first breeched he was costumed as a miniature edition of his sire,
half black, half white, in cognizance of the rôle he would later play in
truth. The cap surrounded a chubby face, not yet outgrown the solemnity
of babyhood. His hand, fat and dimpled, grasped the belled bauble. Borne
aloft on his father’s shoulder to the great hall, he was set in the
midst of the squires and dames,—more particularly the dames, since the
squires for the most part were that day following their lord over Exmoor
in pursuit of the wild red deer.
They saw in him a pretty enough plaything; found, for a time at least,
greater novelty in his solemn silences and rare smiles than in his
father’s jests. The Lady Clare de Belisle entering with her own child, a
girl babe of two summers, touched the tiny jester’s cheek with one
jewelled finger, commended him for a bonny boy. The two children gazed
at each other solemn-eyed, till Isabel, the girl, putting forth her hand
was for taking the young jester’s bauble from him. Thereat Peregrine
clutched it jealously to his breast, having no mind to part with his
toy.
“I want,” said Isabel, one fat finger pointed towards the treasure
clutched by the scowling boy. That was the way with Isabel in childhood
as in later years, knowing what she desired she hesitated not to demand
it, and obtain it by whatever means came best to hand.
It is not becoming that the son of a Jester should deny the desire of
his Lady’s daughter. Nichol, the dames, my Lady even, were prepared for
insistence, a ruthless seizing of the treasure from the baby grasp; when
suddenly and without compulsion, the child’s mien changed. Of his own
accord he tendered the bauble to Isabel.
She took it, smiling. Even babes can be gracious when their wish is
granted. For a moment she held it examining it with curiosity, a
curiosity soon satiated, since after a brief space she held it in a
listless hand, tendered it again.
“I don’t like it.”
Peregrine backed away from her. Perhaps—in fact I am sure—there was
reproach in his blue eyes. So for a moment they stood. Then Isabel cast
the bauble upon the ground. And herein some may read an omen. The
squires and dames laughed; my Lady murmured a gentle word of chiding;
Nichol picked up the bauble; but Peregrine still looked at Isabel.
This, then, was Peregrine’s introduction to that society wherein later
he was to wear the cap and bells as no mere pastime but in very truth.
Nor was it at this time his last appearance therein. For the first few
years of his life he played, in a manner, the rôle of zany to his
father, gaining thereby much favour. Candour, a virtue allowed both
children and fools, was a marked characteristic of Peregrine’s. If at
moments the recipients of his frank speeches felt a trifle of
embarrassment there was always the knowledge that their own blush or
wince would presently be superseded by a laugh at the blush or wince of
another. This squared all accounts, made the momentary embarrassment
worth enduring.
Yet what may well pass as the artlessness of a child, the privilege of a
fool, is of other brand from the boy. With the loss of his milk
teeth—and he was full late in parting with them—Peregrine’s candour
began to lose its charm. Outspoken speeches when issuing from between
cherry lips and pearls are of different ilk when the pearls are lacking.
Herein we see the injustice of the world.
The day came when an outspoken speech of Peregrine’s, exceeding apt,
perchance of over-candour,—though assuredly a year ago it would have
gained him high applause,—was taken in ill part. True, there were some
who tittered, yet surreptitiously, feeling the atmosphere somewhat
charged with unfriendly omen, an omen none could overlook, seeing that
it emanated from the guest of note who sat frowning at the insouciant
Peregrine. Had the guest been of less importance it is possible the
affair might have been settled by a slight rebuke, but with her rank and
dignity in view no such flimsy method was of avail.
Peregrine was dismissed the hall wherein he had been a petted favourite
since his first breeching; and, before being deprived of cap and bells,
was breeched—and soundly—after other fashion, the distinguished guest
having made it evident that the smart of her wounded feelings could only
be eased by the smarting of Peregrine’s small body.
Sore and sobbing he sought his mother, wept out his woes, his
perplexities, his hot face buried in her lap. Thus with pain of body,
though with but dim realization of mind, Peregrine first became
acquainted with the injustice of the world.
For a time Peregrine saw the hall no more. Clad after the ordinary
manner of his kind he kept out of the way of the noblesse, the gentry,
ill at ease when he by chance crossed their path, found what human
companionship he would among the servitors alone,—excepting always that
of his father and mother, in whose company he at all times found
pleasure.
He took now to frequenting the woods and moors which lay around the
castle. Lying on the heather, its scent and the scent of the golden
gorse warm and fragrant in his nostrils, he would gaze over the
surrounding country, see the blue channel below him gleaming in the
sunlight, the Welsh coast dim and hazy beyond, look northwards to the
small town nestling at the foot of the hill which rises some eight
hundred feet above it.
Roaming the woods he would watch for the first hint of Spring in the
swelling buds of the larch trees, would rejoice in the faint shimmer of
green flung over them when she first shows a shy face, would seek among
brown leaves scattered on the ground for the pale primrose, the delicate
windflower, the fragile wood sorrel with its tiny white petals lightly
veined in mauve. Here he learned of the ways of the wild creatures of
nature, rather than the ways of men, and found them more to his liking.
What we give that shall we receive, so are we told, though verily there
are times when the giving will appear to outweigh all receipts. Possibly
this is because we look to reward to follow hard upon bestowal, trust
not to the finding after many days. Here in the woods, however,
Peregrine found swift reward. The love he bestowed upon the woodland
creatures gained him their love in return. The birds would feed from his
hand, the animals brought their young to play at his feet; confidence
between them and him reached a very pretty note of harmony.
Wandering further afield he would watch the red deer which in daylight
found hiding-place in distant combes, see them in moonlight moving in
great herds across the moor. In the combes he would go boldly up to
them, feed them with pieces of coarse bread, and bunches of freshly
pulled grass. Only in the mating season he left them alone, knowing the
wild jealousy of the stag.
When, as frequently happened, he heard the huntsman’s horn, caught a
glimpse of hounds, horses, and their riders in full cry, he would clench
his brown fists, his young jaw set in a grim line, his whole body
a-quiver with rage. Even so might a man feel who saw his friend hunted
to his death.
Once when the harriers were out after a hare, and being close on her
heels, the frighted creature, seeing Peregrine, turned, crouching at his
feet. In a twinkling he had her in his arms, swarmed, still holding her,
up an oak, whence hidden in the topmost branches, too slender to bear
aught but a boy’s weight, he heard angry baying at the tree’s base.
Presently up came the huntsmen. There was a colloquy, a debating. The
foliage was too thick to allow of Peregrine being perceived, perched as
he was aloft, one arm entwining a bough, the other clutching the hare,
which for the moment lay panting, too frightened for struggle. It is not
in the nature of things for hares to climb trees; nor was the actual
occurrence one likely to dawn on the unaided imagination. Baffled,
perplexed, the huntsmen stood among the baying harriers, scratching
their heads, flicking their boots with their riding crops, swearing
meanwhile each after his own particular form and fancy. And the dogs,
who might have told them the manner of the happening, being dumb of
human speech but bayed the louder. A hole in the oak’s trunk some four
feet or so from the ground offered a solution, an unlikely one enough,
yet at this juncture better than none. Madam Hare, so they asseverated
among themselves, had sprung for the hole and by ill chance for their
sport had reached it. No doubt she was now crouched within the hollow of
the oak. To get her out was impossible, short of felling the tree; and
in very sooth she had found a worse death within that prison than the
quick end the dogs would have made of her.
Yet, in spite of seeing Madam Hare as escaped from their clutches, a
victim of a slow death by starvation, they still lingered, muttering,
jabbering, swearing; the dogs still making loud din, causing Peregrine’s
heart to beat with fear, knowing not of the hole in the tree which had
doubtless saved his skin, and the life of the trembling creature in his
arm. The weight of the animal was no light one, and his muscles began to
suffer cramp. Feeling extremity at hand he put up a small prayer, which
possibly was heard by Saint Francis, seeing he had once rescued a like
creature from the hounds. Whether it was the advocacy of the prayer, or
whether the huntsmen were weary of their sojourn beneath the tree, you
may settle as it best pleases you; for my part I will maintain that the
Saint himself drew them away, caused them to call off the dogs, and ride
baulked of their prey away from wood and moor.
Silence had fallen for the space of some ten or fifteen minutes before
Peregrine thought safe to descend; and in that the hare had lain quiet
so long we may likewise see the hand of the gentle Saint. Twenty yards
or so away from the tree, clear from the scent of the dogs, Peregrine
deposited his burden upon the ground. A moment she crouched while his
hand caressed her soft fur, then leaping, vanished down the glade.
Yet this freedom of wood and moorland, this sojourning with wild
creatures, that I have shown you, belonged in main to Peregrine’s
boyhood. As he grew older it was not thought well, by those who had a
say in the matter, that he should roam in idleness. Those who eat bread
must needs earn it after some fashion, save those who are born, as the
saying is, with a silver spoon in the mouth. Peregrine after a while
found his hours of roaming curtailed. Armourer, falconer, grooms, alike
pressed him into service. No special calling allotted him in view of the
one rôle he should later play—though if the truth be known he looked to
it with but little favour—he became the server of many. This, as may be
imagined, irked him somewhat. He had no mind to await any man’s behest,
yet mind or not he found it must needs be done. Being no fool he
brought, then, to his tasks what good grace he might. Besides his work
with armourer, falconer, and grooms, he learned to play the tabor, and
had a very pretty skill thereon.
Of these years I have little to record. They were in the main
uneventful. Their chief incident as far as Peregrine was concerned, and
one of deep sorrow to him, was his mother’s death. That was a sorrow
which lay heavy for many a long month, till time at length began
imperceptibly to ease the burden of his grief.
Peregrine had come to man’s estate, had seen, I take it, four and twenty
summers or thereabouts, when Nichol was stricken of the ague which was
to end for him this mortal life. Lying gaunt and hollow-eyed on his bed,
the cap and bells on an oak chest near, he called his son to him,
pointed with one wasted hand towards the motley dress.
“To-morrow, or the next day, you will be wearing it,” he said.
Peregrine bowed his head. Finding it ill to lie, even for comfort’s
sake, in the face of Death, he was silent.
“A jest more often than not holds truth,” said Nichol, “yet now, between
you and me, the truth may be spoken without need of jest.” His eyes,
blue like Peregrine’s, sought his son’s eyes, but Peregrine’s were
lowered.
“Look at me,” said his father.
Peregrine raised his eyes.
“You like not the thought. That I have long known. Yet, what will you?
Fate made of me a Jester, as she made a Jester of my father and his
sires before me, as she now makes one of you. I accepted my rôle as in
the nature of things. With you it is otherwise. Submitting outwardly to
the decree of fate, inwardly your spirit rebels. It will be hard for
you. The rôle of Jester is no easy one. Dogs are we, waiting with a
dog’s wistfulness on the smile of our master’s lips, the pat of our
master’s hand. And if, rather than smile and pat, we receive frown and
blow, yet may we not bite, since that is of the manner of a cur; nor
cringe, since cringing is likewise of a cur. We must accept the frown
and blow submissively, should e’en return with wagging tail to fawn upon
the hand that struck us; and if we are wise dogs will learn new tricks
better suited to please. And the man’s heart in us we should drug, if we
cannot kill it, lest it grow to torment us. I drugged mine, or tried to.
It was, perchance, too strong to kill. Yet for all the drugging there
were times when it pulsed less sluggishly. That day when they took the
cap and bells from you, when they beat you, poor miserable little fool,
I jested my best. Had I not jested I would have flung my bauble in the
face of the woman who sat there smiling as your cries reached the hall.
And the man’s heart suffered torment that day in the dog’s body. Yet
Jester I was then, Jester I have been since. Now at last I am man, and
wholly man. Death, when his shadow touches us, grants us that much
solace.”
He stopped. Peregrine, kneeling by the bed, found no words.
“Custom,” went on Nichol, “is strong upon man; strongest of all,
perchance, upon the Jester. Despite our moments of resentment we look
for applause. It is our life, our breath. We long for the favour of our
master. I have said we are dogs, and when that is said, all is said. Yet
the man’s heart may outgrow the dog’s body. You will don the motley;
you, too, will fawn upon the hand that strikes you; you, too, will watch
with wistful eyes on the desire of your master. Yet if, as I fancy, the
day dawns when drugs no longer bring their soothing anodyne to your
man’s heart, when the soul within the motley is a soul in prison, then
remember that I now have asked your pardon for the heritage you will
accept from me. That is all. Now, son, fetch me a priest.”
Of Peregrine’s words e’er he went to fulfil his father’s last behest, I
make no record. They were not intended, as may well be guessed, for you
or me to know. When they were spoken he rose from his knees, set out for
the Abbey of Our Lady of the Cliff.
------------------------------------------------------------------------