JOCELYN: Yet duty it is--wherefore, an there be any justice in the good
greenwood, this hangman unhanged must go.
Now here Robin scowled, and his brawny fellows scowled likewise, and began
to mutter and murmur against Jocelyn, who, leaning back to tree, strummed
his lute and sang:
“O, Life is sweet, but Life is fleet,
O'er quick to go, alack!
And once 'tis spilt, try as thou wilt,
Thou canst not call it back!
“So bethink thee, bold Robin, and, as thou 'rt king o' the wild-wood, be
thou just king and merciful--”
“Now out upon thee, brother!” cried Robin, forgetting to scowl. “Out on
thee with thy honied phrases, thy quipsome lilting rhymes! Here go I to do
a thing I ha' no lust to do--and all by reason o' thee! Off--off wi' the
halter, lads--loose the hangman-claws of him! Hereafter, since he can pay
no ransom, he shall be our serf; to have a hangman fetch and carry shall
be rare, methinks!”
Quoth JOCELYN: How much should hangman's flesh be worth i' the greenwood,
Robin?
“Why, brother, 'tis poor, sad and dismal knave; five gold pieces shall buy
him, aye--halter and all, and 'tis fair, good halter, look you!”
“Why, then,” said Jocelyn, opening his wallet, “behold the monies, so do I
buy him of thee--”
“Now, by Saint Nick!” cried Robin, amazed. “Nay, brother, an thou'lt buy so
sorry a thing, give thy money to the merry lads; I'll none on't. And now,”
said he, the money duly paid, “what wilt do wi' thy hangman?”
“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, falling on his knees at Jocelyn's feet, “fain
would I serve thee--e'en to the peril o' the life thou hast saved. Bid me
labour for thee and in labour shall be my joy, bid me fight for thee and I
will fight whiles life is in me; bid me follow thee and I will follow even
unto--”
“Nay, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “I bid thee rise and sing for us, and so be
gone wheresoever thou wilt.”
Then Ranulph arose and glancing round upon the fierce company, from the
noose at his feet to Jocelyn's scarred face, he drew a great breath; quoth
he:
“Sir Fool, since 'tis thy will fain would I give thee song blithe and
joyful since joy is in my heart, but alack, though my songs begin in merry
vein they do grow mournful anon; howbeit, for thy joy now will I sing my
cheeriest;” whereupon Ranulph brake into song thus:
“I am forsooth a merry soul,
Hey deny down, ho ho!
I love a merry song to troll,
I love to quaff a cheery bowl,
And yet thinks I, alas!
Such things too soon do pass,
And proudest flesh is grass.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it should be so!
“A goodly lover I might be,
Merrily, ho ho!
But pretty maids in terror flee,
When this my hangman's head they see.
But woe it is, thinks I,
All fair, sweet dames must die,
And pale, sad corpses lie.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it should be so!
“Fairest beauty is but dust,
Shining armour soon will rust,
All good things soon perish must,
Look around, thinks I, and see
All that, one day, dead must be,
King and slave and you and me.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it must be so!”
“Out!” cried Robin. “Here forsooth is dolorous doleful dirge--out on thee
for sad and sorry snuffler!”
“Aye, verily,” sighed Ranulph, “'tis my curse. I begin with laugh and end
in groan. I did mean this for merry song, yet it turned of itself sad song
despite poor I, and there's the pity on't--”
“Enough!” growled Robin, “away with him. Brand, do you hoodwink him in his
'kerchief and give him safe conduct to beyond the ford, and so set Master
Hangman Grimglum-grief on his road--”
“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, “God den t'ye and gramercy. Should it be e'er
thy fate to die o' the gallows, may I have thy despatching--I will contrive
it so sweetly shalt know nought of it--oho! 'twould be my joy.”
“Off!” cried Robin. “Off, thou pestiferous fungus lest I tread on
thee--hence, away!”
So the outlaws blindfolded Ranulph and led him off at speed.
“Away,” quoth Jocelyn, nodding, “so now in faith must I, Robin--”
“What, is't indeed farewell, brother?”
“Aye, Robin.”
“Why, then, what may I give thee in way o' love and friendship?”
“Thy hand.”
“Behold it, brother! And what beside? Here is purse o' good pieces--ha?”
“Nay, Robin, prithee keep them for those whose need is greater.”
“Can I nought bestow--dost lack for nothing, brother?”
“What thou, methinks, may not supply--”
“And that?”
“Horse and armour!” Now at this, Robin laughed and clapped hand to thigh;
quoth he:
“Come with Robin, brother!” So he brought Jocelyn into a cave beneath the
steep and, lighting a torch from fire that burned there, led him on through
other caves and winding passages rough-hewn in the rock, and so at last to
a vasty cavern.
And here was great store of merchandise of every sort,--velvets, silks,
and rich carpets from the Orient; vases of gold and silver, and coffers
strong-clamped with many iron bands. And here also, hanging against the
rocky walls, were many and divers suits of armour with helms and shields
set up in gallant array; beholding all of which Jocelyn paused to eye merry
Robin askance; quoth he soberly:
“Sir Rogue, how came ye by all this goodly furniture?”
“By purest chance, brolher,” laughed Robin, “for hark 'ee--
“Chance is a wind to outlaws kind,
And many fair things blows us,
It--merchants, priors, lords, knights and squires,
And like good things bestows us--”
“Aye,” said Jocelyn, “but what of all those knights and squires whose
armour hangeth here?”
“Here or there, brother, they come and they go. Ha, yonder soundeth
Ralfwyn's horn--three blasts which do signify some right fair windfall.
Come, let us see what this jolly wind hath blown us this time!” So
saying, Robin laughed and led the way out into the sunny green. And here,
surrounded by a ring of merry forest rogues, they beheld a knight right
gallantly mounted and equipped, his armour blazing in the sun, his gaudy
bannerole a-flutter from long lance, his shield gaudy and brave with new
paint; beholding which, Robin chuckled gleefully; quoth he:
“Oho! On a field vert three falcons gules, proper, charged with heart
ensanguined--aha, here's good booty, methinks!”
Now, as this splendid knight rode nearer, contemptuous of his brawny
captors, Robin stared to see that on his helmet he wore a wreath of
flowers, while lance and sword, mace and battle-axe were wreathed in
blooming roses.
“Ho, Jenkyn, Cuthbert!” cried Robin, “what Sir Daintiness have ye here?”
But ere his grinning captors could make reply, the knight himself spake
thus:
“Behold a very gentle knight,
Sir Palamon of Tong,
A gentle knight in sorry plight,
That loveth love and hateth fight,
A knight than fight had rather write,
And strophes to fair dames indite,
Or sing a sighful song.
“By divers braggarts I'm abused,
'Tis so as I've heard tell,
Because, since I'm to fight unused,
I many a fight have bold refused,
And, thereby, saved my bones unbruised,
Which pleaseth me right well.
“No joy have I in steed that prances,
True gentle man am I
To tread to lutes slow, stately dances.
'Stead of your brutish swords and lances,
I love love's lureful looks and glances,
When hand to hand, unseen, advances,
And eye caresseth eye.”
“And how a plague, Sir Gentleness,” questioned Robin, “may eye caress eye?”
“E'en as lips voiceless may wooing speak, Sir Roguery, and tongue unwagging
tell tales o' love, Sir Ferocity.”
ROBIN: Then had I the trick o' voiceless speech, now would I, with silly
tongue, tell thee thou art our prisoner to ransom, Sir Silken Softness.
SIR PALAMON: And I joy therefore, Sir Forest Fiend.
ROBIN: And wherefore therefore?
SIR PALAMON: For that therefore I need not to the joust, to that
bone-shattering sport of boastful, brutal braggadocios, but here, lapped
soft in the gentle green, woo the fair Yolande--
JOCELYN: How, knight, the fair lady Yolande, say'st thou?
SIR PALAMON: Even she.
JOCELYN: But here she is not and thou art, how then may one that is, woo
one is not?
SIR PALAMON: Gross mountebank, by thought--I woo in thought, breathe my
thought upon the balmy air and air beareth it to her feet.
ROBIN: And she treadeth on't, so there's an end o' thy love! But pray you,
Sir Downy Daintiness, how come ye that are so gentle so ungently dight?
Discourse, Sir Dove!
SIR PALAMON: In two words then, thou lewd lurcher o' the thickets; I ride
thus in steely panoply--the which doth irk me sore--by reason of the tongue
of my mother (good soul!) the which doth irk me more. For she (worthy
lady!) full-fed o' fatuous fantasies and fables fond, fuddled i' faith
o' faddling fictions as--gestes of jongleurs, tales told by tramping
troubadours, ballades of babbling braggarts, romances of roysterous
rhymers, she (good gossip!) as I say, having hearkened to and perused the
works of such-like pelting, paltry prosers and poets wherein sweep of sword
and lunge o' lance is accompted of worthier repute than the penning of
dainty distich and pretty poesies pleasingly passionate. She, I say--my
mother (God rest her!), e'en she with tongue most harsh, most bitter and
most unwearying, hath enforced me, her son (whom Venus bless!)--e'en I that
am soul most transcendental--I that am a very wing-ed Mercury--me, I say
she hath, by torrential tongueful tumult (gentle lady!), constrained to don
the habit of a base, brawling, beefy and most material Mars! Wherefore at
my mother's behest (gracious dame!) I ride nothing joyful to be bruised and
battered by any base, brutal braggart that hath the mind to try a tilt with
me. Moreover--
ROBIN: Hold! Take breath, gentle sir, for thine own sweet sake draw thy
wind.
SIR PALAMON: 'Tis done, fellow, 'tis done! And now in three words will
I--
ROBIN: Cry ye mercy, sir, thy two words do yet halloo “Buzz-buzz” in mine
ears.