HE: And wherefore moan and perish?
SHE: For that I am so minded, being a maid forlorn and desolate, a poor
wanderer destitute of kith, of kin, of hope, of love, and all that maketh
life sweet. And thou art sour-faced and--
HE: Grievous maid, is, among thy many wants, a lack of money?
SHE: That also. And thou art cold of eye, fierce of mouth, hooked of nose,
flinty of heart, stony of soul, and I a perishing maid.
At this Sir Pertinax blinked and caught his breath; thereafter he laid down
his rod, whereupon the fish incontinent filched his worm all unnoticed
while the Knight opened the wallet at his girdle and took thence certain
monies.
HE: Dolorous damsel, behold six good, gold pieces! Take them and go, get
thee to eat--eat much, so shall thy dolour wax less, eat beef--since beef
is a rare lightener of sorrow, by beef shall thy woes be comforted.
SHE: Alas! I love not beef.
Now here Sir Pertinax was dumb a space for wonder at her saying, while she
stole a glance at him betwixt slender fingers.
HE (_after some while_): Maid, I tell thee beef, fairly cooked and aptly
seasoned, is of itself a virtue whereby the body is strengthened and
nourished, whereby cometh content, and with content kindliness, and with
kindliness charity, and therewith all other virtues small and eke great;
therefore eat beef, maiden, for the good of thy soul.
“How?” said she, viewing him bright-eyed 'twixt her fingers again. “Dost
think by beef one may attain to paradise?”
HE: Peradventure.
SHE: Then no beef, for I would not live a saint yet awhile.
HE: Nathless, take thou these monies and go buy what thou wilt.
So saying, Sir Pertinax set the coins beside her shapely foot and took up
his neglected rod.
SHE: And is this gold truly mine?
HE: Verily.
SHE: Then I pray thee keep it for me lest I lose it by the way and so--let
us begone.
Here Sir Pertinax started.
“Begone?” quoth he. “Begone--in truth? Thou and I in faith? Go whither?”
SHE: Any whither.
HE: Alone? Thou and I?
“Nay, not alone,” she sighed; “let us go together.”
Sir Pertinax dropped his fishing-rod and watched it idly float away down
the stream:
“Together, maiden?” said he at last.
“Truly!” she sighed. “For thou art lonely even as I am lonely, and thou
art, methinks, one a lonely maid may trust.”
“Ha--trust!” quoth he. “And wherefore would'st trust me, maiden?”
SHE: For two reasons--thou art of age mature and something ill-favoured.
Now, at this Sir Pertinax grew angered, grew thoughtful, grew sad and,
beholding his image mirrored in the waters, sighed for his grim, unlovely
look and, in his heart, cursed his vile garb anew. At last he spoke:
HE: Truly thou may'st trust me, maiden.
SHE: And wherefore sighest thou, sad soldier?
HE: Verily for thy two reasons. Though, for mine age, I am not forty
turned.
Saying which, he sighed again, and stared gloomily into the murmurous
waters. But presently, chancing to look aside, he beheld a head low down
amid the underwood, a head huge and hairy with small, fierce eyes that
watched him right bodefully, and a great mouth that grinned evilly; and now
as he stared, amazed by this monstrous head, it nodded grimly, speaking
thus:
“Lob, Lobkyn he
Commandeth thee
To let her be
And set her free,
Thou scurvy, cutpurse, outlaw knave,
Lest hanged thou be
Upon a tree
For roguery
And villainy,
Thou knavish, misbegotten slave;
For proud is she
Of high degree,
As unto ye
Explicitly--”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, rising and drawing sword. “Now, be thou imp of
Satan, fiend accursed, or goblin fell, come forth, and I with steel will
try thee, Thing!”
Out from the leaves forthwith crawled a dwarf bowed of leg, mighty of
shoulder, humped of back, and with arms very long and thick and hairy. In
one great fist he grasped a ponderous club shod with iron spikes, and now,
resting his hands on this and his chin on his hands, he scowled at the
Knight, yet grinned also.
“Ho!” he cried, rolling big head in threatening fashion:
“Vile dog, thy rogue's sconce cracked shall be, Thy base-born bones
be-thwacked shall be. I'll deal thee many a dour ding For that thou darest
name me--Thing!”
“Now, as I live!” said Sir Pertinax, scowling also. “Here will I, and with
great joyance, cleave me thine impish mazzard and split thee to thy beastly
chine. And for thy ill rhyming:
“I with this goodly steel will halve thee
And into clammy goblets carve thee.
So stand, Thing, to thy club betake thee,
And soon, Thing, I will no-thing make thee.”
But, as they closed on each other with eager and deadly intent, the maid
stepped lightly betwixt.
“Stay, soldier--hold!” she commanded. “Here is none but Lobkyn Lollo--poor,
brave Lob, nor will I suffer him to harm thee.”
“How, maiden?” snorted the good Knight fiercely. “Harm me, say'st thou--yon
puny Thing?”
“Truly, soldier!” said she, roguish-eyed. “For though thou art very
ungentle, harsh of tongue, of visage grim and manners rude--I would not
have Lob harm thee--yet!”
Now hereupon our bold Sir Pertinax
With indignation red of face did wax.
The needful word his tongue was vainly seeking,
Since what he felt was quite beyond the speaking.
Though quick his hand to ward or give a blow,
His tongue all times unready was and slow,
Therefore he speechless looked upon the maid,
Who viewed him 'neath her lashes' dusky shade,
Whence Eros launched a sudden beamy dart
That 'spite chain-mail did reach and pierce his heart.
And in that instant Pertinax grew wise,
And trembled 'neath this forest-maiden's eyes;
And trembling, knew full well, seek where he might,
No eyes might hold for him such magic light,
No lips might hold for him such sweet allure,
No other hand might his distresses cure,
No other voice might so console and cheer,
No foot, light-treading, be so sweet to hear
As the eyes, lips, hand, voice, foot of her who stood
Before him now, cheek flushing 'neath her hood.
All this Sir Pertinax had in his thought,
And, wishing much to say to her, said nought,
By reason that his tongue was something slow,
And of smooth phrases he did little know.
But yet 't is likely, though he nothing said,
She, maid-like, what he spake not, guessed or read
In his flushed brow, his sudden-gentle eyes,
Since in such things all maids are wondrous wise.
Now suddenly the brawny Dwarf did cry:
“Beware, my old great-grand-dam creepeth nigh!”
Thus speaking, 'mid the bushes pointed he,
Where crook'd old woman crouched beneath a tree
Whence, bowed upon a staff, she towards them came,
An ancient, wrinkled, ragged, hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below.
Mutt'ring she came and mowing she drew near,
And straightway seized the Dwarf by hairy ear:
Fast by the ear this ancient dame did tweak him,
And cuffed his head and, cuffing, thus did speak him:
“Ha, dolt! Bad elf, and wilt thou slay, indeed,
This goodly man did aid me in my need?
For this was one that fought within the gate
And from Black Lewin saved thy grannam's pate!
Down, down, fool-lad, upon thy knees, I say,
And full forgiveness of this soldier pray.”
But Sir Pertinax, perceiving how the old dame
did thus tweak and wring at the Dwarf's great,
hairy ear even until his eyes watered, interceded,
saying:
“Good, ancient soul, humble not the sturdy, unlovely,
mis-shapen, rascally imp for such small
matter.”
“Nay, but,” croaked the old woman, tightening
claw-like fingers, “kind master, he would doubtless
have slain thee.” At this, Sir Pertinax scowled,
and would have sworn great oath but, meeting the
maid's bright eyes, checked himself, though with
much ado:
“Art so sure,” he questioned, “so sure man of
my inches may be slain by thing so small?”
At this the maid laughed, and the old woman,
sighing, loosed the ear she clutched:
“Shew thy strength, Lob,” she commanded and,
drawing the maiden out of ear-shot, sat down beside
her on the sward and fell to eager, whispered talk.
Meantime the Dwarf, having cherished his ear,
sulkily though tenderly, seized hold upon his great
club with both hairy hands:
And whirling it aloft, with sudden might
A fair, young tree in sunder he did smite,
That 'neath the blow it swayed and crashing fell.
Quoth Pertinax: “Good Thing, 't is very well.
Par Dex, and by the Holy Rood,” quoth he,
“'T is just as well that I was not yon tree!”
And whirling his long sword as thus he spoke,
Shore through another at a single stroke.
“Here's tree for tree, stout manling!” he did say.
“What other trick canst show to me, I pray?”
Then Lobkyn stooped the broken stump to seize,
Bowed brawny back and with a wondrous ease
Up by the roots the rugged bole he tore
And tossed it far as it had been a straw.
Sad grew our knight this mighty feat perceiving,
Since well he knew't was past his own achieving.
But anon he smiled and clapped the mighty Dwarf on shoulder, saying:
“Greeting to thee, lusty Lob, for by Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within
the Wood, ne'er saw I thine equal, since thou, being man so small, may do
what man o' my goodly inches may nowise perform. Thou should'st make a
right doughty man-at-arms!”
Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he:
“Aha, good master, and Oho,
As man-at-arms fain would I go;
Aye, verily, I would be so,
But that my grannam sayeth 'No!'
“And, sir, my grand-dam I obey
Since she's a potent witch, they say;
Can cast ye spells by night or day
And charmeth warts and such away.
“Love philtres too she can supply
For fools that fond and foolish sigh,
That wert thou foul as hog in sty
Fair women must unto thee fly.
“Then deadly potions she can make,
Will turn a man to wriggling snake,
Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake,
Or loathly frog that croaks in lake.
“And she can curse beyond compare,
Can curse ye here, or curse ye there;
She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare,
In fine, can curse ye anywhere.
“And she can summon, so 't is said,
From fire and water, spirits dread,
Strong charms she hath can wake the dead
And set the living in their stead.
“So thus it is, whate'er she say,
My grand-dam, master, I obey.”
“Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in
spells and such black arts--the which is an ill thing--thou hast a powerful
gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this
distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?”
“O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn,
“Like many such diseases, 't is inborn.
For even as a baby, I
Did pule in rhyme and versify;
And the stronger that I grew,
My rhyming habit strengthened too,
Until my sad sire in despair
Put me beneath the Church's care.
The holy fathers, 't is confessed,
With belt and sandal did their best,
But, though they often whipped me sore,
I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,
Till, finding all their efforts vain,
They sadly sent me home again.”
“A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's
rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?”
“Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,
To cipher and to read right well;
They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,
Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.”
“And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!”
Cried LOB:
“What matter that? Heaven save the mark,
Far better be a soldier than a clerk,
Far rather had I be a fighter
Than learned reader or a writer,
Since they who'd read must mope in schools,
And they that write be mostly fools.
So 'stead of pen give me a sword,
And set me where the battle's toward,
Where blood--”
But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very
suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again.
“Talk not of blood and battles, naughty one!” she cried. “Think not to
leave thy old grannam lone and lorn and helpless--nor this our fair maid.
Shame on thee, Lob, O shame!” saying the which she cuffed him again and
soundly.
“Master,” he sighed, “thou seest I may not go,
Since that my grand-dam will not have it so.”
“Good mother, wise mother,” said the maid, viewing Sir Pertinax smilingly
askance, “why doth poor soldier go bedight in fine linen 'neath rusty
hauberk? Why doth poor soldier wear knightly chain about his neck and swear
by knightly oath? Good mother, wise mother, rede me this.”
The old woman viewed Pertinax with her bright, quick eyes, but, ere she
could answer, he sheathed sword, drew ragged mantle about him, and made to
go, but, turning to the maid, bent steel-clad head.
“Most fair damosel,” said he gently, “evening cometh on, and now, since
thou art no longer forlorn, I will away.”
“Nay, first, I pray thee, what is thy name?”
“Pertinax, madam.”
“So then doth Melissa thank Pertinax. And now--out alas! Will Pertinax
leave Melissa, having but found her?”
Sir Pertinax looked up, looked down, fidgeted with his cloak, and knew not
how to answer; wherefore she sighed again, though with eyes full merry
'neath drooping lashes and reached out to him her slender hand. “Aye me,
and shall we meet no more, poor soldier?” she questioned softly.
“This I know not,” he answered.
“For thy brave rescue I do give thee my humble thanks, poor soldier.”
“Thy rescue, child?” cried the old woman. “Alack and wert thou seen? Thy
rescue, say'st thou?”
“Indeed, good mother, from Sir Agramore's rough foresters. But for thee,
thou needy soldier, my gratitude is thine henceforth. Had I aught else to
give thee, that were thine also. Is there aught I may? Speak.”
Now Sir Pertinax could not but heed all the rich, warm beauty of her--these
eyes so sombrely sweet, her delicate nose, the temptation of her vivid
lips--and so spake hot with impulse:
“Aye, truly, sweet maid, truly I would have of thee a--” Her eyes grew
bright with laughter, a dimple played wanton in her cheek, and Sir
Pertinax was all suddenly abashed, faint-hearted and unsure; thus, looking
down, he chanced to espy a strange jewel that hung tremulous upon her
moving bosom: a crowned heart within a heart of crystal.
“Well, thou staid and sorry soldier, what would'st have of me?” she
questioned.
“Verily,” he muttered, “I would have of thee yon trinket from thy bosom.”
Now at his words she started, caught her breath and stared at him
wide-eyed; but, seeing his abashment, laughed and loosed off the jewel with
quick, small fingers.
“Be it so!” said she. But hereupon the old woman reached out sudden hand.
“Child!” she croaked, “Art mad? Mind ye not the prophecy? Beware the
prophecy--beware!
'He that taketh Crystal Heart,
Taketh all and every part!'
Beware, I say, Oh, beware!”
“Nay, good mother, have I not promised? And for this crystal it hath
brought me nought but unease hitherto. Take it, soldier, and for the sake
of this poor maid that giveth, break it not, dishonour it not, and give it
to none but can define for thee the secret thereof--and so, poor, brave,
fearful soldier--fare thee well!”
Saying which this fair maiden turned, and clasping the Witch's bony arm
about her slender loveliness, passed away into the denser wood with Lobkyn
Lollo marching grimly behind, his mighty club across his shoulder.
Long stood Sir Pertinax, staring down at the strange jewel in his hand yet
seeing it not, for, lost in his dreams, he beheld again two eyes,
dusky-lashed and softly bright, a slender hand, a shapelyfoot, while in
his ears was again the soft murmur of a maid's voice, a trill of girlish
laughter. So lost in meditation was he that becoming aware of a shadow
athwart the level sunset-glory, he started, glanced up and into the face
of a horseman who had ridden up unheard upon the velvet ling; and this
man was tall and armed at points like a knight; the vizor of his plumed
casque was lifted, and Sir Pertinax saw a ruddy face, keen-eyed,
hawk-nosed, thin-lipped.
“Fellow,” questioned the haughty knight, “what hold ye there?”
“Fellow,” quoth Sir Pertinax, haughty and gruff also, “'t is no matter to
thee!” And speaking, he buttoned the jewel into the wallet at his belt.
“Fool!” exclaimed the Knight, staring in amaze, “wilt dare name me
'fellow'? Tell me, didst see three foresters hereabout?”
“Poltroon, I did.”
“Knave, wilt defy me?”
“Rogue, I do!”
“Slave, what did these foresters?”
“Villain, they ran away!”
“Ha, varlet! and wherefore?”
“Caitiff, I drubbed them shrewdly.”
“Dared ye withstand them, dog?”
“Minion, I did.”
“Saw ye not the badge they bore?” demanded the fierce stranger-knight.
“'T was the like of that upon thy shield!” nodded Sir Pertinax grimly.
“Know ye who and what I am, dunghill rogue?”
“No, dog's-breakfast--nor care!” growled Sir Pertinax, whereat the
stranger-knight grew sudden red and clenched mailed fist.
“Know then, thou kennel-scourer, that I am Sir
Agramore of Biename, Lord of Swanscote and Hoccom, Lord Seneschal of
Tissingors and the March.”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “So do I know thee for a very rogue
ingrain and villain manifest.”
“How!” roared Sir Agramore. “This to my face, thou vile creeper of ditches,
thou unsavoury tavern-haunter--this in my teeth!”
“Heartily, heartily!” nodded Sir Pertinax. “And may it choke thee for the
knavish carcass thou art.”
At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and
therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward
among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring
his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax
arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again;
thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it
thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it
solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword,
set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as
follows:
“Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and
zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I
incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him
and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will
forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the
body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement,
his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves
as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax,
“Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the
which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of
Shene Chapel within the Wood--Amen!”
Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed
his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of
Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and
confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a
wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour
and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as:
“Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!”
By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a
way until--surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn
and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry--he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled
and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb
with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing
this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding
the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue
eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and
lost in the fierce, jostling throng.
My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:
GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought
It was a poem of a sort.
MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?
GILL: Of course--the sort folks love to read.
But in the last part we have heard
Of poetry there's scarce a word.
MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read,
You'll find that, oft as not, indeed,
The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped,
Into plain prose quite often jumped.
GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me
All prose--as prosy as can be--
MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest
Our Geste for you lacks interest?
GILL: Not for a moment, father, though
Sir Pertinax was much too slow.
When fair Melissa “laughing stood,”
He should have kissed--you know he
should--Because, of course, she wished him to.
MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true?
GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right,
And you're as slow as your slow knight.
Were you as slow when you were young?
MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue.
You may be sure, in my young days,
I was most dutiful always.
Grown up, I was, it seems to me,
No slower than I ought to be.
And now, miss, since you pine for verse,
Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse;
And, like a doting father, I
To hold your interest will try.