Читать книгу John o' the Green - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 11

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Deep-plunged in pensive melancholy went John but, schooled by life of constant danger and sudden perils, he watched his going with eyes quick and alert that quested ceaselessly to left and right, the while his busy brain pondered what was and what was yet to be. So rode he with lax rein and Apollo, being a horse of no looks but much horse sense, ambled at his leisured ease. Thus the full-orbed moon had begun to peep at them when John espied one who lay outstretched on grassy bank beside the way, upstaring at the sky where, against purpling dusk, stars were winking; a long, lank man this, hairy, ill-dight and something foul of person, very hermit-like.

"Reverend Sire," saith John, drawing rein, "by thy ill showing and sorry seeming, I guess thee to be a right holy man, and eke a very devil-chaser to exorcise spirits fiendly and dæmons fell--ha?" The hermit never so much as stirred; therefore John tried him again:

"Thou art, I judge, doubtless as potent 'gainst all black magic, witchcraft and spells soever?"

The recluse merely glanced at him and turned away; therefore John urged his Apollo a little nearer.

"Now, Reverend Holiness, an this be so, I would humbly crave thy saintly company, for--"

"Psst! Psst!" exclaimed the hermit, with gesture of arrogant disdain. "Heark ye to the stars, fool!"

Now at this, John surveyed him very earnestly, then, mutely obedient, lifted his gaze serenely heavenward, and having listened most attentively, hand to ear, he nodded, saying gravely:

"In troth, I never heard stars more eloquent."

The hermit started and sat up to stare.

"How? How say ye?" he demanded.

"Not I," answered John, gaze still raised skyward, "the stars, right Reverend, the stars! 'Calmaron,' says they, 'par Hangstone Waste shall High Morven attain Pelynt ... mayhap! A rich booty! Oh, rare!'"

The hermit arose and edged closer, peering, for John's hood was close drawn.

"Say the stars aught other?" the hermit questioned in altered tone.

"Ay, faith!" nodded John. "They tell me now of one that neath the poor piety of holy hermit, neath the sorry seeming of torn habit and spattered cloak, goeth like lusty man-at-arms, one that prayeth by day somewhat and watcheth by night ... and waiteth--for what? Aha, Pelynt sleepeth in a false security whiles destruction creepeth on her from the west,--ha, comrade? As for her Lady, this proud and valiant Duchess now,--eh, comrade, eh?"

"Ah!" groaned the hermit in sudden, strange fashion, lifting long arms to the starry heaven, his hairy fingers crooked like rending claws. "The Duchess! This proud Ippolita ... to break her ... trample her! Oh, Ippolita, one day shalt know all that woman's flesh may endure, and plead to die--"

"Nay, nay," laughed John, a little grimly, "most Reverend Holiness, thou art, methinketh, harsh wi' the lady, and she so young and tender. And yet these be but idle threats and such is wind--"

"Peace!" cried the hermit with imperious gesture better suited to lordly mail. "Though I know ye not, know thou that I am him ye look for, so give me that ye wot of and begone."

"Lord," said John humbly, "an I seek one indeed to give him aught, how shall I ken ye for that same one?"

"Do I not point ye to the stars?" cried the hermit. "See--yonder!"

"Ay, I see them," answered John, "yet now they are dumb and do but wink."

"Fool, I point ye to the Bear."

"Aha!" murmured John. "So! Ursa Major, the Great Bear, the which twinkleth very bright. And lo, hear him growl! 'I've claws,' saith he, 'to rend and tear!' Now they do say that in Hangstone Waste men ha' died by rip o' claw--"

"Ha' done!" cried the hermit impatiently. "For, by Ursus the Bear, an ye bring letter, scroll or parchment, I charge ye deliver it now unto me."

"Ay, verily," answered John, clapping his hand to the pouch at his girdle, "'tis parchment I bring. Yet first, Messire Holiness, of this grimly beast; prowls it in Hangstone Waste this night?" Deigning no answer, the hermit reached forth sinewy hand; so John drew the parchment from his scrip and unrolling it, seemed to peer thereat in the waxing moonlight.

"'Tis map, sire," quoth he, "a plan of Pentavalon's inner defences, or so 'twould seem and right clerkly done.... Now here fairly writ is a D with a cross,--this should stand for the Duchess Ippolita,--ha?"

"Ay, who else! Come, bestow!"

"A moment, fair Reverence,--for lo, here beneath the Duchess show two crosses and under the one is writ: 'Dead, two thousand,' and under the other: 'Alive, twenty thousand.' Now this shall also mean the Duchess, methinks?"

"Ay, fool, who else!" repeated the hermit impatiently. "Come, give it, I say."

"Now, out--alas!" cried John. "For--ah, gentle sir, I, this very day, might have slain or taken alive this same lady and so been rich--"

"Ha? And wherefore did ye not?"

"Holy Sire, for that I knew it not until came one Tomalyn hight and spake her name. Ah, woe's me!"

"Tomalyn? Is he not her Chief Verderer?"

"The same."

"So?" nodded the Hermit. "Then 'tis he dieth tonight."

"Dieth? Ay, but how--how?"

"In Hangstone Waste--"

"Good my lord, how know ye this?"

"Fool, how should I not? Now give me the missive and begone to say thy mission is accompt."

Back into pouch went the parchment and in that moment the hermit was upon him with flash of sudden steel; but John, ever wary, swayed back in the saddle and, as the murderous dagger missed, swayed forward with hard-swung fist that, buffetting his assailant beneath the ear, staggered, checked and felled him headlong. Then the great horse Apollo, rearing beneath goading spur, leapt away at furious gallop.