Читать книгу John o' the Green - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 4

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He was very young, most splendidly equipped and armed, yet very full of woe, for as he sat, the new-risen sun bright upon knightly hauberk, he made a groaning the while with dagger blade he defaced the painted blazon of his shield. Thus wrought he a while, then casting shield aside, he turned the dagger this way and that, staring on the bright blade with eyes wide beneath haggard brow until, roused by slow plodding hoof strokes, he started and glanced around. And thus he espied approaching at laggard pace a tall, bony horse that lacked an eye, a very unlovely steed ridden by a slim, shapely man hooded and clad in garments of fine, soft leather, neath which was wink of ring mail; slung before this man was a small lute or mandora, by his side a long, heavy sword; a fellow this whose grave, wistful eyes seemed at odds with his grim mouth that yet had a whimsical twist. The man checked his horse and spake in voice strangely pleasant to hear.

"Fair knight," said he, glancing down at the defaced shield, "God give thee joy o' this sweet world."

"Fellow," answered the young knight, scowling, "'tis a most vile world, 'tis very doghole wherefrom this my dagger shall presently free me."

"Why then, may the saints and thy dagger speed thee to world better to thy liking and so, thou poor, fond youth, thou dolorous wretch and imminent crow's-meat, fare thee well!"

"Fellow, I am spurred knight and of gentle blood!"

"Then I pray the crows deal reverently with thy so lordly carcass, yet I doubt it--for a crow is but a crow--"

"Hast a beastly tongue, fellow, and a fancy base."

"Yet 'tis tongue now waggeth a blessing on thy perishing body, and my fancy is to leave thee to thy murderous self."

"Fellow--hold! Who and what art thou--thy name?"

"Youthful Sire, some do call me 'John', others 'fool'; yet do I esteem myself but sorry rogue, being pledged to roguery. As to the 'what' o' me, I am a blown leaf upon the wind of Circumstance, a whirled twig upon the stream of Fate, borne I know not whither. But now for thyself, Sir Misery,--thou'rt pining lover and lately from the Duchess and Pelynt."

"Cog's wounds! Fellow, how know ye this?"

"Noble, youthful sire, thy shield yonder lately bore neath thy scutcheon the red leopards of Pelynt, methinks."

"Ah, verily!" sighed the young knight. "And this day my service endeth."

"Why, truly," nodded John, "for today, according to thyself, thy high-born flesh shall be no more than common clay to rot and rot--in fine, thou'll be dead."

"Dead!" muttered the youth, glancing unhappily from solemn John to gleaming dagger and back again.

"Dead and carrion, sir, unless 'stead o' dying a miserable boy, thou'rt minded to live and grow into a man--mayhap--somewhen."

"Bold fellow, dare ye mock me?"

"Young lord, not so. I'd have thee older and therefore something wiser and, being a man, die when ye must, in sort more honourable." Up sprang the young knight and fell pacing to and fro like one distraught.

"How," cried he suddenly, "how shall one dishonoured win back to honour?"

"Never," answered John, "except by honourable living. He that, dishonoured, slayeth himself, wrongeth himself that might himself have redeemed."

"Shall not such death, then, wipe out dishonour?"

"Not so, for the greater the sin, the more need of life to wipe out the evil by good works."

"Ha, and what--what call ye 'good works'?"

"Lording," answereth John, "he that hath relieved one soul's need, comforted one sorrow, waked one smile, hath not lived in vain, I trow. These and such be good works, methinks."

The young knight halted in his restless pacing to look upon John very earnestly; and John, sitting his tall horse, saw he was indeed very young and exceeding troubled. Now, even as they eyed each other thus, the knight bowed his head and throwing wide his mailed arms, spake with sudden, strange humility:

"Messire," said he, "what manner of man thou art that beareth gleeman's lute, carrieth sword like gentle man-at-arms, yet speaketh like neither, this I know not, yet am I minded to tell thee my grievous trouble, seeking thy counsel, an I may."

"Sir," replied John, shaking his head, "God made me what I was, my folly what I am; what I shall be, God alone knoweth, but such as I am is at thy service." So saying, he got nimbly to earth, tethered his steed and sitting on grassy bank, beckoned the young knight beside him, who, shaking head, took to his pacing again, yet presently spake on this wise:

"Messire, three days since I, that am Raymond Lord of Fordham Shene in Pelynt ... killed a man ... and he a son of Holy Church ... one Dom Gregorius of the Friars Minors!" Here Sir Raymond paused to stare at John with look of haggard expectancy. "Messire," said he in wistful, eager question, "wilt not shrink from me, then? Wilt not curse me for this holy blood?"

"Sir," answered John, rubbing at shaven chin, "all friars be but men ... and some men must needs be killed, 'twould seem,--there was one Sir Geoffrey de Broham ... But how came this?"

"Friend, I ... I love and ... was betrothed to fair and noble lady, Adelisa hight, that is the Duchess Ippolita's chiefest bower maiden and most loved companion and bedfellow. Not long since, at dead hour of night, the Duchess her bedchamber took fire, since when she hath changed her lodgement to the new wing of her palace on the hither side of the pleasaunce, and with her my lady Adelisa--"

"How came this fire, Sir Raymond?"

"Sir, it is not known, though my lady Adelisa voweth she espied the shape of one that crept furtive mid the shadows of the garden; whereat the Duchess but laughed and mocked, being of nature something bold and arrogant. Howbeit, since that time, I made it my wont each night to sit for an hour within the pleasaunce ... and thus ... alas, oh, friend, upon a night I beheld one that moved as by stealth i' the rose garden hard beside my lady's lodgement! So followed I, creeping as crept this dim-seen shape ... and yet he heard me and turned and as I leapt, he grappled me. And in that moment ... ah, God forgive me ... I plucked dagger and smote and, speechless, he fell!... Forth of the shadows I dragged him where the moon played and saw at my feet the face of Dom Gregorius and him ... dead ... the saints pity me! So fled I and, taking horse and arms, rode at speed, not cared I whither, meaning to slay myself, trusting to God His mercy.... And now here stand I, stained by this sacred blood ... damned by Holy Church, a desperate man, being beyond hope--"

"Ay, but," quoth John, rubbing chin a little harder, "what should bring this same holy friar into the pleasaunce at such unholy hour?"

"Alas, sire, thereby is a little oratory wherein he was wont to pray a nights.... And now all's told, so--an thou canst find compassion for such as I, speak me some comfort, tell me what I must do."

"Hum!" quoth John, chin in fist. "What manner o' man was this friar?"

"Sir, I cannot tell, save that he hath travelled and preached the world over, they say."

"Was he of Pelynt, in the household of the Duchess?"

"Nay, he came thither out of the West, in the train of Lord Julian of Weare, a noble and something prideful knight that, like so many, wooeth the Duchess."

"Out of the West," nodded John. "Well, High Morven lieth westerly! But this Duchess, being fair lady and duchess both, shall not lack for wooers, I guess?"

"Indeed, they be enow and to spare.... But of myself now, what shall I--?"

"Patience, sir! Of all these lordly wooers, which doth she most favour, think ye?"

"Why, none. She maketh a mock of all, of love disdainful. Ah, love! Oh, friend!" cried Sir Raymond, with despairing gesture, "My lady Adelisa is so white and innocent ... and I fouled by this holy blood ... am man accursed ... lost, for ever lost!"

"Didst speak of this evil hap to thy lady or the Duchess?"

"To none ... to none--"

"Ha!" quoth John, shaking grave head, "so shall thy flight peradventure make thee suspect, and this lord of Weare demand vengeance--"

"So were I better dead! For am I not damned? My dear lady for ever lost to me ... a man sad and forlorn henceforth ... a thing o' misery--"

"This," answered John, silencing his companion with a gesture, "this dependeth on thyself, thy lady and, in some measure, on one that would be thy friend, to wit--myself."

"How so? Speak, friend, speak!"

"Then, Sir Raymond, first,--thy dagger, aimed at night prowler, struck friar that prowled by night! Think on this, for herein shouldst find some small comfort. Secondly, I give unto thee this notable talisman!" Speaking, John reached forth and from adjacent bush broke a twig, whence he stripped all leaves save three, while the young knight watched in mute wonderment.

"Now," quoth John, twiddling twig between thumb and finger, "'stead o' dying dishonourably for thy honour, live for it and thy lady. But, since this dead friar shall doubtless make some stir awhile, and his friends and thy Duchess raise hue and cry for thee, spur hence north and west to Bracton Thicket, hard by Morven Vale, and ask for one Jenkyn a Thorn. Say thou wert bid to him by him he knoweth, in proof whereof give him this token. So shall Jenkyn make thee free o' the good wildwood where shalt lie secure from the avengers o' blood. Is't understood?"

"Yea, messire," answered Sir Raymond, setting the three-leafed twig within the gypsire at his girdle, "but whiles I bide thus idle in the forest ... what of Adelisa--my dear lady?"

"Content thee, sir, I will comfort her with news o' thy safety and contrive she get word to thee at Bracton--"

"Oh, friend!" cried Sir Raymond, his young eyes bright as the morning. "Good friend John, give me thy hand, for friend art thou in very truth.... And hast not lived this day in vain, for by thee I am alive and come out from the shadows of death ... and methinks 'tis a 'good work', John. Now the saints keep thee and send I may one day serve thee in thy need. Howbeit, Raymond of Fordham Shene shall forget thee never." So they gripped hands, looking into each other's eyes.

Then Sir Raymond leapt lightly to saddle, saluted John with flash of sword and rode on his way.

But John sat there, chin on fist, brows knit, deep in thought, until at last his quick ears caught the stealthy rustle of leaves and, stirring not, he glanced up, hither and yon, neath bent brows and so espied a man peering at him from adjacent thicket.

John's dagger flashed from sheath and, holding it balanced lightly on open palm, he spoke, albeit his voice was gentle:

"Come forth, Hog-gob! Trip hither, Puck, or this i' the throat o' thee!"

The man's obedience was instant.