Читать книгу John o' the Green - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 5

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A sorry fellow of doleful aspect this who, capering on spindleshanks, made profound obeisance, louting full low.

"Sweet, gentle master," quoth he, posturing, "God save and keep thee from all harms, more especial in regard to such madcap innocent as I--"

"Innocent, forsooth," nodded John, "a long-eared, sly-creeping innocent, meseems, that peepeth furtive from bush!"

"Beau sire, I but peeped as peepeth timid hind or shy bird--to know an thou wert thing o' menace to be fled, or kindly soul attemptible--to be sued and wooed to small bestowal, e'en though it be no more than one silver penny. For messire, behold in me one Wiglaf, poor Wig a woeful wight, a wag o' wit, that yet so witless is that his poor belly crieth shame upon its emptiness. Alack, a needy fellow I, yet in my need here stand I the very man to thy need."

"How so?" questioned John, and sheathed his dagger.

"Gentle master, by thy dolorous visage, thy brow o' heavy portent, I judge thee beset by humours melancholic, so will I sing ye, dance ye, jest, quip or jape ye to jocund laughter and all for but one small piece of silver, bartering wit divine for base coin."

"Then, 'spite rueful visage, thou'rt a merryman?"

"Oh, noble master, I am Wit's Wonder,--jongleur, gestour, troubadour, buffoon and fool o' fools, these in one am I--yet go a-hungered! Oh, 'tis naughty world!"

"Whence art thou?"

"From bower and hall, town, city and village green, hither and yon, but lately from Swansmere within Pelynt."

"Hast thou seen Pelynt's young Duchess, this lady Ippolita?"

"Daily! Hourly! Good sooth, full oft have I, by my transcendental wit--"

"What like is she?"

"Very like a woman, beau sire, save that she is fairer than most. Red, red is she, snow and fire, a dame o' pride and passion,--"

"Lived ye at her court?"

"A year, my master, one fat and fulsome year, until upon a day--alas, the day--she had me stripped, whipped and driven forth, and this, mark me, sire, for no more than jape unseasonable upon a friar! A quaint conceit and rarely witty--"

"Ha--a friar?" quoth John.

"Nay, sir, my jape, my quip or quiddity upon this friar, this shaveling that, being stabbed, dieth not but maketh of his blood great profit."

"A friar?" repeateth John, rubbing shaven chin. "And stabbed? Mean ye Dom Gregorius?"

The merryman started back, eyes staring and mouth agape.

"Thou?" he whispered, pointing to the dagger on John's hip. "Was it--thou?"

"Not so!" answered John, scowling. "No stabber o' friars, I."

Wiglaf rubbed his head, rubbed his chin, winked, nodded and bowed, all in as many moments; quoth he:

"Pardon, sweet master, I did but bow at venture draw--"

"Tell me," demanded John, "speak and fear nought--what know ye o' this business?"

"Nought, good master, nought i' the world--save only that Friar Greg was stabbed or dagger smit, three nights since, i' the very seat of his devotions, to wit--the oratory--"

"How? Within the oratory, say ye?"

"Not I, my master, he--'twas so he said. 'Struck by murderous steel,' quo' he, 'at the very altar.' And who shall say he speaketh lies? Not I, master, not I!"

"Struck down--at the altar?" repeated John.

"So affirmeth friar ... though I, beau sire, chancing to walk within the pleasaunce i' the rose garden hard beside my lady's lodgment, did espy the sweet flowerets sadly trampled as by feet furiously a-striving--yet who shall say whose feet, which, what, why or wherefore? Not a soul!"

"And why, Sir Wary Discretion, should this friar crawl thither at night, think ye?"

"Night, sweet master, sly, secret night! Aha, 'tis season when creepeth gloating Lechery abroad or crawleth--black Murder! Now let him pronounce that may, for I, being no more than I am, know nought."

"Also," quoth John, musing, "but a little while since the Duchess knew a peril by fire; what knowest thou o' this, Wiglaf?"

"Wind, my master! A puff o' wind i' the arras,--the arras to flame o' taper and so--fire! And, mark me--all by reason o' the wind! And yet, an one dared so think, here was wind should ha' blown good to ... someone, ha?"

"Ay," nodded John, "to Fulk Fitz-Urse."

"Or Limping Tristan, the King!" whispered Wiglaf leaning suddenly near. "Though be thou my witness, good my master, that I, being fool, know nothing and say less."

"By reason, Wiglaf, that ye think much and suspect more."

Now at this, Wiglaf glanced furtively round about and, coming yet nearer, stared into John's face, viewing the steadfast eyes, the resolute mouth of him; then, nodding as if assured, spake whispering in voice changed as his look:

"Much do I suspect and much do fear for Pelynt and her Duchess ... fire ... ravishment ... terrors by night ... a waxing menace in the dark that creepeth ever nearer! Death hath been busy o' late ... men ha' died in strange fashion hard beside Hangstone Waste ... yet wherefore slain and by whom--or what, none may tell, save that this death was swift and terrible ... torn and jagged as by claws o' monster! There be tales of a great beast ... an ogre ... dragons ... fell spirits. But who shall say? Not I; poor Wig knoweth nought and moreover--"

Wiglaf stopped suddenly to shrink and peer with eyes of quick terror, for from somewhere upon this winding, forest road was ring and clash that told of mounted men coming at speed; a scurry of feet, a rustle of leaves and John sat there alone.

And presently was thunder of hoofs and mid billowing dust, the flash and flicker of steel where rode seven heavily armed men.

"Ha--thou!" cried their leader, reining up before John. "Saw ye ever a knight-at-arms riding this way--a young lording, his escutcheon a falcon above the leopards of Pelynt?"

"Verily," answered John, "one such is ridden north-westerly to Bracton Thicket."

"Is 't far hence?"

"Four hours for such as know the forest, and ye are strangers, by your blazon. Also at Bracton and the woods thereby be many wild men, outlaws all that love not strangers, so, an ye adventure thither, there are ye like to bide or come hardly off--"

"Fool!" cried the Knight. "We be of Lord Robert de Gysbourne his following, so harm or let us that dare! On to Bracton Thicket--forward!"

"And so, Amen t' ye!" quoth John, whereat the knight turned to scowl and so thundered off, he and his six, in rolling dust cloud. And after some while John arose, but, in the act of mounting horse paused, as from amid the dense boskages that bordered the way rose a wild babblement,--prayers, cries, breathless supplications.

So John leapt nimbly up the grassy bank and, stealing in amid the leaves, flitted from thicket to thicket with scarce a sound, like the skilled forester he was, and guided by these dismal cries, suddenly espied two sturdy fellows, steel-capped and in shirts of mail, and between them on his knees Wiglaf the merryman, who writhed and choked, plucking at the strangling cord about his throat.

Silent and all unseen John leapt, smote down one man with the heavy pommel of his sword, dropped it and catching the second man in deadly wrestling grip, brought him violently to earth.

Half-stunned, the fallen man stared up to see a fierce face bent over him, a dagger point within an inch of his eyes while powerful knees crushed the scant breath from him.

"Whose dogs ... are ye?" a voice panted.

"Mercy!" gasped the man, flinching from the threatening dagger point.

"Whom ... d' ye serve? Speak ... or go blind of an eye!"

"Piers ... Lord of Deneholm ... Oh, mercy--"

"And whom doth he serve?"

"The Black Bear ... Fitz-Urse ... Oh, pity ... pity ..."

"Loose off thy belt, rogue!"

The belt was off in a moment.

"Turn o' thy face!" The man obeyed and John strapped his arms fast behind him, which done he turned to the other fellow, who yet lay witless and inert, and having secured him in like fashion, glanced up and about for Wiglaf, but the merryman had vanished. Then took John the hangman's rope and therewith fast bound his two captives, back to back; quoth he:

"Thus do I save ye from further sinning a while, sparing ye life, for that a live rogue may amend and perchance die man o' some worth. But now, should ye ever win free o' these bonds, of the which I have some small doubt,--seek ye other master, for he that serveth Fulk Fitz-Urse, the Bear, serveth the devil. So be ye warned and, unless ye chance to perish here by hunger, do more worthily hereafter."

Then, catching up sword, he sheathed it and deaf to the alternate prayers and curses of the two, strode back in quest of his horse.