GILL: 'Twould be the most dignified action to take!
MYSELF: Pray, what in the world of such things do you know?
GILL: Well, father, like you--each day older I grow.
But, instead of discussing poor me,
I think you would much nicer be
To get on with our Geste.
MYSELF: I obey your behest!
Said Yolande to the duchess, said she:
“Nay, my Benedicta, these be only dreams, but life is real and dreams a
very emptiness!”
“And is 't so, forsooth?” exclaimed the Duchess. “Then am I nought but a
duchess and lonely, thou a maid fearful of her own heart, and yon singer of
love only a very futile knight, Sir Palamon of Tong, nothing esteemed by
thee for wit or valour and little by his peers--see how his challengers do
throng. How think you?” But the lady Yolande sat very still and silent,
only she stared, great-eyed, where danced the scarlet plume.
And indeed many and divers were the knights who, beholding the blazon of
Tong, sent the bearer their defiance, eager to cope with him; and each
and every challenge Sir Palamon accepted by mouth of his tall esquire who
(vizor closed, even as his lord's) spake the Chief Herald in loud, merry
voice, thus:
“Sir Herald, whereas and forinasmuch as this, my Lord of Tong himself,
himself declaring fool, is so himself-like as to meet in combat each and
every of his challengers--themselves ten, my lord that is fool, himself
himself so declaring, now declareth by me that am no fool but only humble
esquire--messire, I say, doth his esquire require that I, the said
esquire, should on his part impart as followeth, namely and to wit: That
these ten gentle knights, the said challengers, shall forthwith of
themselves choose of themselves, themselves among themselves thereto
agreeing, which of themselves, among themselves of themselves so chosen,
shall first in combat adventure himself against my Lord of Tong himself.
And moreover, should Fortune my lord bless with victory, the nine
remaining shall among themselves choose, themselves agreeing, which of
themselves shall next, thus chosen of themselves, themselves represent in
single combat with this very noble, fool-like Lord of Tong, my master.
Furthermore, whereas and notwithstanding--”
“Hold, sir!” cried the Chief Herald, fingering harassed brow. “Pray thee
'bate--O, abate thy speechful fervour. Here forsooth and of truth is
notable saying--O, most infallibly--and yet perchance something discursive
and mayhap a little involved.”
“Nay, Sir Herald,” quoth the esquire, “if involved 'twill be resolved if
revolved, thus: Here be ten lords would fight one, and one--that is my lord
who is but one--ten fight one by one. But that ten, fighting one, may as
one fight, let it be agreed that of these ten one be chosen one to fight,
so shall one fight one and every one be satisfied--every one of these ten
fighting one, one by one. Thus shall ten be one, and one ten fight one by
one till one be discomfited. Shall we accord the matter simply, thus?”
“Sir,” quoth the Chief Herald, gasping a little, “Amen!”
“O!” cried the Duchess, clapping her hands, “O Yolande, hark to this rare
esquire! Surely, I have heard yon cunning tongue ere this?”
But Yolande gazed ever where Sir Palamon, having taken his station, set
himself in array. For now, the ten knights having chosen one to represent
them, forth rode their champion resplendent in shining mail and green
surcoat with heralds before to proclaim his name and rank.
“Yolande,” quoth the Duchess softly, “pray--pray this Lord of Tong may
tilt as bravely as he doth sing, for Sir Thomas of Thornydyke is a notable
jouster.”
The trumpets blew a fanfare and, levelling their pointless lances, both
knights gave spur, their great horses reared, broke into a gallop and
thundered towards each other.
But hard midway upon the green surcoat,
Sir Palamon's stout lance so truly smote,
That, 'neath the shock, the bold Sir Thomas reeled
And, losing stirrups, saddle, lance and shield,
Down, down upon the ling outstretched he fell
And, losing all, lost breath and speech as well.
Thus, silent all, the bold Sir Thomas lay,
Though much, and many things, he yearned to say,
Which things his squires and pages might surmise
From the expression of his fish-like eyes
E'en as they bore him from that doleful place;
While, near and far, from all the populace,
Rose shout on shout that echoed loud and long:
“Sir Palamon! Sir Palamon of Tong!”
So came these ten good knights, but, one by one,
They fell before this bold Sir Palamon,
Whose lance unerring smote now helm, now shield,
That many an one lay rolling on the field.
But each and all themselves did vanquished yield;
And loud and louder did the plaudits grow,
That one knight should so many overthrow.
Even Sir Gui, within his silken tent
Scowled black in ever-growing wonderment.
But the Knight of Tong, his gaudy shield a little battered, his fine
surcoat frayed and torn, leaped from his wearied steed and forthwith
mounted one held by his tall esquire, a mighty charger that tossed proud
head and champed his bit, pawing impatient hoof.
“Aha!” quoth the esquire, pointing to ten fair steeds held by ten fair
pages. “Oho, good brother, most puissant Knight of Tong, here is good and
rich booty--let us begone!”
“Nay,” answered the Knight, tossing aside his blunt tilting-spear, “here is
an end to sportful dalliance--reach me my lance!”
“Ha, is't now the Red Gui's turn, brother? The Saints aid thee, in especial
two, that, being women, are yet no saints yet awhile--see how they watch
thee, sweet, gentle dames! Their prayers go with thee, methinks, brother,
and mine also, for the Red Gui is forsooth a valiant rogue!”
And now, mounted on the great black war-horse, the Knight of Tong rode up
the lists:
His scarlet plume 'bove shining helm a-dance,
His bannerole a-flutter from long lance,
Till he was come where, plain for all to spy,
Was hung the shield and blazon of Sir Gui,
With bends and bars in all their painted glory,
Surcharged with hand ensanguined--gules or gory.
Full upon this bloody hand smote the sharp point of Sir Palamon's lance;
whereupon the watching crowd surged and swayed and hummed expectant, since
here was to be no play with blunted weapons but a deadly encounter.
Up started Sir Gui and strode forth of his tent, grim-smiling and
confident. Quoth he:
“Ha, my Lord of Tong, thou'rt grown presumptuous and over-venturesome,
methinks. But since life thou dost hold so cheap prepare ye for death
forthright!”
So spake the Lord of Ells and, beckoning to his esquires, did on his great
tilting-helm and rode into the lists, whereon was mighty roar of welcome,
for, though much hated, he was esteemed mighty at arms, and the accepted
champion of the Duchy. So while the people thundered their acclaim the two
knights galloped to their stations and, reining about, faced each other
from either end of the lists,
And halted thus, their deadly spears they couched,
With helms stooped low, behind their shields they crouched;
Now rang the clarions; goading spurs struck deep,
The mighty chargers reared with furious leap
And, like two whirlwinds, met in full career,
To backward reel 'neath shock of splintering spear:
But, all unshaken, every eye might see
The bloody hand, the scarred gules falcons three.
Thrice thus they met, but at the fourth essay,
Rose sudden shout of wonder and dismay,
For, smitten sore through riven shield, Sir Gui
Thudded to earth there motionless to lie.
Thus Sir Gui, Lord of Ells and Seneschal of Raddemore, wounded and utterly
discomfited, was borne raging to his pavilion while the air rang with the
blare of trumpet and clarion in honour of the victor. Thereafter, since no
other knight thought it prudent to challenge him, Sir Palamon of Tong was
declared champion of the tournament, and was summoned by the Chief
Herald to receive the victor's crown. But even as he rode towards the
silk-curtained balcony, a distant trumpet shrilled defiance, and into the
lists galloped a solitary knight.
Well-armed was he in proud and war-like trim,
Of stature tall and wondrous long of limb;
'Neath red surcoat black was the mail he wore;
His glitt'ring shield a rampant leopard bore,
Beholding which the crowd cried in acclaim,
“Ho for Sir Agramore of Biename!”
But from rosy-red to pale, from pale to rosy-red flushed the Duchess
Benedicta, and clenching white teeth, she frowned upon Sir Agramore's
fierce and warlike figure. Quoth she:
“Oh, sure there is no man so vile or so unworthy in all Christendom as this
vile Lord of Biename!”
“Unless,” said Yolande, frowning also, “unless it be my Lord Gui of Ells!”
“True, my Yolanda! Now, as thou dost hate Sir Gui so hate I Sir Agramore,
therefore pray we sweet maid, petition we the good Saints our valiant
singer shall serve my hated Sir Agramore as he did thy hated Sir Gui--may
he be bruised, may he be battered, may--”
“Oho, 'tis done, my sweeting! A-hee--a-hi, 'tis done!” croaked a voice, and
starting about, the Duchess beheld a bent and hag-like creature,
With long, sharp nose that showed beneath her hood,
A nose that curved as every witch's should,
And glittering eye, before whose baleful light,
The fair Yolande shrank back in sudden fright.
“Nay, my Yolande,” cried the Duchess, “hast forgot old Mopsa, my
foster-mother, that, being a wise-woman, fools decry as witch, and my
ten grave and learned guardians have banished therefor? Hast forgot my
loved and faithful Mopsa that is truly the dearest, gentlest, wisest
witch that e'er witched rogue or fool? But O Mopsa, wise
mother--would'st thou might plague and bewitch in very truth yon base
caitiff knight, Sir Agramore of Biename!”
“'Tis done, loved daughter, 'tis done!” chuckled the Witch.
“He groaneth,
He moaneth,
He aileth,
He waileth,
Lying sighing,
Nigh to dying,
Oho,
I know
'Tis so.
With bones right sore,
Both 'hind and fore,
Sir Agramore
Doth ache all o'er.
“He aileth sore yet waileth more--oho! I know, I have seen--in the chalk,
in the ink, in the smoke--I looked and saw
“Sir Agramore,
By bold outlaw,
Bethwacked most sore
As told before--”
“Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder,
plain to my sight.”
“Child, I have told thee sooth,” croaked the Witch. “Have patience, watch
and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa--mayhap--in time.
“For, 'tis written in the chalk,
Sore is he and may not walk.
O, sing heart merrily!
I have seen within the smoke
Bones bethwacked by lusty stroke,
Within the ink I looked and saw,
Swathed in clouts, Sir Agramore;
Dread of him for thee is o'er,
By reason of a bold outlaw.
Sing, heart, and joyful be!”
“Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!” quoth the Duchess. “For yonder is this hated
lord very strong and hale, and in well-being whiles thou dost rave! Truly
thou'rt run mad, methinks!”
But the old Witch only mumbled and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones as
is the custom of witches.
Meantime, Sir Agramore, checking his fiery charger and brandishing heavy
lance fiercely aloft, roared loud defiance:
“What ho! Ye knights, lords, esquires, and lovers of lusty blows, hither
come I with intent, sincere and hearty, to bicker with, fight, combat and
withstand all that will--each and every, a-horse or a-foot, with sword,
battleaxe or lance. Now all ye that love good blows--have at ye!”
Here ensued great clamour and a mighty blowing of trumpets that waxed yet
louder when it was proclaimed that Sir Palamon, as champion of the day, had
accepted Sir Agramore's haughty challenge.
And now all was hushed as these two doughty knights faced each other and,
as the trumpets brayed, charged furiously to meet with thunderous shock of
breaking lances and reeling horses that, rearing backwards, fell crashing
upon the torn and trampled grass. But their riders, leaping clear of
lashing hooves, drew their swords and, wasting no breath in words, beset
each other forthwith, smiting with right good will.
Sir Agramore's leopard shield was riven in twain by a single stroke, Sir
Palamon's scarlet plume was shorn away, but they fought only the fiercer
as, all untiring, the long blades whirled and flashed until their armour
rang, sparks flew, and the populace rocked and swayed and roared for very
joy. Once Sir Agramore was beaten to his knees, but rising, grasped his
sword in two hands and smote a mighty swashing blow, a direful stroke that
burst the lacing of Sir Palamon's great helm and sent it rolling on the
sward. But, beholding thus his adversary's face, Sir Agramore, crying in
sudden amaze, sprang back; for men all might see a visage framed in long,
black-curled hair, grey-eyed, but a face so direly scarred that none,
having seen it but once, might well forget.
“Par Dex!” panted Sir Agramore, lifting his vizor.
“Pertinax!” gasped Duke Jocelyn. “O Pertinax--thou loved and lovely
smiter--ne'er have I been so sore battered ere now!”
Hereupon all folk stared in hugeous wonderment to behold these two
champions drop their swords and leap to clasp and hug each other in mighty
arms, to pat each other's mailed shoulders and grasp each other's mailed
hands. Quoth Sir Pertinax:
“Lord, how came ye in this guise?”
“My Pertinax, whence stole ye that goodly armour?”
“Lord, oath made I to requite one Sir Agramore of Biename for certain felon
blow. Him sought I latterly therefore, and this day met him journeying
hither, and so, after some disputation, I left him lying by the way, nor
shall he need armour awhile, methinks--wherefore I took it and rode hither
seeking what might befall--”
But here, Sir Gui, all heedless of his wound, started up from his couch,
raising great outcry:
“Ha--roguery, roguery! Ho, there, seize me yon knave that beareth the
cognizance of Tong. Ha--treason, treason!” At this, others took up the cry
and divers among the throng, beholding Duke Jocelyn's scarred features,
made loud tumults: “The Fool! The Fool! 'Tis the Singing Motley! 'Tis the
rogue-Fool that broke prison--seize him! Seize him!” And many, together
with the soldiery, came running.
“Lord,” quoth Sir Pertinax, catching up his sword, “here now is like to be
a notable, sweet affray!” But even as these twain turned to meet their many
assailants was thunder of hoofs, a loud, merry voice reached them, and they
saw Robin hard by who held two trampling chargers.
“Mount, brothers--mount!” he cried. “Mount, then spur we for the barriers!”
So they sprang to saddle and, spurring the rearing horses, galloped for
the barriers, all three, nor was there any who dare stay them or abide the
sweep of those long swords. Thus, leaping the barriers, they galloped away
and left behind roaring tumult and dire confusion.
And amid all this, hid by the silken curtains of her balcony, the Duchess
Benedicta uttered a joyous cry and, clasping Yolande in her arms, kissed
her rapturously.
“Yolande!” she cried, “O dear my friend, thou didst see--even as did I--a
sorry fool and a poor rogue-soldier at hand-strokes with each other--O wise
Fool! O knightly Rogue! Come, let us fly, Yolande, let us to the wild-wood
and, lost therein, love, True-love, methinks, shall find us. Nay--ask me
nothing, only hear this. Be thou to thine own heart true, be thou brave and
Shame shall fly thee since True-love out-faceth Shame! How say'st thou,
Mopsa, thou wise witch-mother?”
“Ah, sweet children!” croaked the Witch, touching each with claw-like hand
yet hand wondrous gentle. “True-love shall indeed find ye, hide where ye
will. For True-love, though blind, they say, hath eyes to see all that is
good and sweet and true. A poor man-at-arms in rusty mail may yet be true
man and a fool, for all his motley, wise. To love such seemeth great folly,
yet to the old, love is but folly. Nath'less, being old I do love ye, and
being wise I charge ye:
“Follow Folly and be wise,
In such folly wisdom lies;
Love's blind, they say, but Love hath eyes,
So follow Folly--follow!”
My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:
GILL: “Stop! Your tournament, father, seems too long drawn out,
With quite too much combating and knocking about.
MYSELF: I hope you're wrong, my dear, although
Who knows? Perhaps, it may be so.
GILL: And such scrappy bits of love-making you write;
You seem to prefer much describing a fight.
All authors should write what their readers like best;
But authors are selfish, yes--even the best
And you are an author!
MYSELF: Alack, that is true,
And, among other things, I'm the author of you.
GILL: Then, being my author, it's plain as can be
That you are to blame if I'm naughty--not me.
But, father, our Geste, though quite corking in places,
Has too many fights and too little embraces.
You've made all our lovers so frightfully slow,
You ought to have married them pages ago.
The books that are nicest are always the sort
That, when you have read them, seem always too short!
If you make all your readers impatient like me,
They'll buy none of your books--and then where shall we be?
All people like reading of love when they can,
So write them a lot, father, that is the plan.
Go on to the love, then, for every one's sake,
And end with a wedding--
MYSELF: Your counsel I 'll take.
I can woo them and wed them in less than no time,
I can do it in prose, in blank verse, or in rhyme;
But since, my dear, you are for speed,
To end our Geste I will proceed.
In many ways it may be done,
As I have told you--here is one:
A short two years have elapsed and we find our hero Jocelyn tenderly
playing with a golden-haired prattler, his beloved son and heir, while his
beautiful spouse Yolande busied with her needle, smiles through happy
tears.
GILL: O, hush, father! Of course, that is simply absurd!
Such terrible piffle--
MYSELF: I object to that word!
GILL: Well, then, please try a little verse.
MYSELF: With pleasure:
“My own at last!” Duke Joc'lyn fondly cried,
And kissed Yolande, his blooming, blushing bride.
“My own!” he sighed. “My own--my very own!”
“Thine, love!” she murmured. “Thine and thine alone,
Thy very own for days and months and years--”
GILL: O, stop! I think that's even worse!
MYSELF: Beyond measure.
Then here's a style may be admired
Since brevity is so desired:
So he married her and she married him,
and everybody married each other
and lived happy ever after.
Or again, and thus, my daughter,
Versified it may be shorter:
So all was marriage, joy and laughter,
And each lived happy ever after.
Or:
If for High Romance you sigh,
Here's Romance that's over high:
Shy summer swooned to autumn's sun-burned arms,
Swoon, summer, swoon!
While roses bloomed and blushing sighed their pain,
Blush, roses, blush!
Filling the world with perfume languorous,
Sighing forth their souls in fragrant amorousness;
And fair Yolande, amid these bloomful languors,
Blushing as they, as languorous, as sweet,
Sighed in the arms that passioned her around:
O Jocelyn, O lord of my delight,
See how--
GILL: Stop, father, stop, I beg of you.
Such awful stuff will never do,
I suppose you must finish it in your own way--
MYSELF: I suppose that I shall, child, that is--if I may.
GILL: But father, wait--I must insist
Whatever else you do
It's time that somebody was kissed
It doesn't matter who--
I mean either Yolande the Fair
Or else the Duchess--I don't care.
MYSELF: In these next two Fyttes both shall kiss
And be well kissed, I promise this.
Two Fyttes of kisses I will make
One after t' other, for your sake.
Two Fyttes of love I will invent
And make them both quite different,
Which is a trying matter rather
And difficult for any father--
But then, as well you know, my Gillian,
You have a father in a million;
And Oh, methinks 'tis very plain
You ne'er shall meet his like again.