Читать книгу John o' the Green - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 8

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It was as he watered his horse at a stream that murmured pleasantly between ferny banks that he heard it,--a woman's scream, sudden and passionate. John glanced about, shortening lax reins, then out flickered sword, in went spurs and his powerful horse reared, snorted and leapt through flying gems of spray and up the opposite steep.

And presently he saw her, a woman who strove with three men, a desperate creature who broke half-naked from their clutching hands to turn and front them undismayed and in one white fist the glitter of her ready steel.... Then came John amain with thunder of hoofs, long sword aloft to smite, but the three, staying not his onset, plunged into the denser green and were suddenly gone, crashing headlong through bush and thicket. So John, sheathing useless sword, rode forward, open hand upraised to seeming-dazzled eyes, as was the courtly fashion. Now, viewing her askance neath his fingers, he saw she was taller, younger than he had thought and of a stately presence, and in her look neither fear of men nor shame of her nakedness; only she shook proud head, veiling her bosom's splendour in the tumbling red-gold glory of her hair and so stood viewing him, sullen-eyed. And she saw him for lean, brown, shapely man, something careworn, who, glancing on her vivid loveliness, looked away as scarce heeding, and therefore she frowned.

"What would ye?" she demanded, quick-breathing.

Answered John lightly:

"No more than ye would I should, for should ye fear I would that ye would not, then would I remove."

"God's light!" cried she in mellow voice, yet mocking. "What wondrous, wordful thing is here?"

"A man!" sighed John.

"How, but mere man,--no more?"

"More may not be, madam, for man, they say, is the noblest handiwork o' God."

"Oh, verily and indeed," quoth she scornfully, "three such noble handiworks would ha' wronged me but now!"

"Nay," answered John, shaking solemn head, "these were no men but rather creatures male, and therein lieth vasty difference."

"And thou, art not of their roguish fellowhood?"

"Must judge o' this thyself," he answered, "for were I indeed rogue, then, like all other rogues, I should protest myself very angel o' light. Thus, since to myself myself can be no witness nor trumpet forth the bright virtue, peerless honour and thousand noble qualities that myself possesseth, let thy two bright eyes bear witness for me."

Now, as she stood regarding him in no little wonder, John took harp and thrumming it gently, sang in murmurous voice:

"A man ye see,

Nay, verily

I'll vow a saint am I;

Since none be near

My vow to hear

Or witness an I lie.

"For here in earth

A man's true worth

By tongue may ne'er be shown.

Tried he must be

His worth to see;

By deeds a man is known."

"Howbeit, damozel, whatsoever I am, that am I that shall nothing harm thee; safe art thou--at the least from such as I, and, such as I am, mayst count thy friend--"

"Nay," cried she, "I fear thee not--nor any man!"

"Oh, most valiant, youthful dame," murmured John.

"And to my defence here's trusty friend--behold!" And she flashed her dagger at him.

"Why, then," quoth John, gathering reins, "to thy friend and thee--farewell!"

"Ah, wilt begone--thou--man?"

"Damozel most heroical, even so."

"Wouldst leave me here--alone?"

"Nay, with thy friend."

"In this solitude where danger lurketh and ... am I not a woman--?"

"There be evidence o' this for such as have eyes."

"Hast scarce looked on me."

"And yet my poor eyes be dazzled all!" sighed John, whereat she laughed suddenly, yet shrinking instinctive within the shining mantle of her hair. "But," continued John, shapely lips atwitch, "within thy woman's body dwelleth spirit of such unlovely boldness, in thy port and gesture I read a valiance so virile, that whether thou'rt mortal maid or potent goddess o' these groves is question debatable."

Now here, scowling down at the dagger, she hid it.

"How an I be a goddess indeed?" she demanded.

"Then right humbly will I sue the blessing of thy kindly aid."

"And how an I be but merest woman?"

"Then would I counsel thee go hide thy beauty lest the bold sun scorch thee with his kisses."

At this she laughed again and, sinking down upon the grass, bowed shapely head, the while with nimble fingers, hid behind veiling tresses, she ordered her attire, rustic gown and wimple; then winding up her long hair she fastened it with jewelled clasp and looked up at John, who, from his tall horse, looked down on her. At last, with gesture imperious, she beckoned him and spoke:

"Light down, Messire, light down and let us talk, for I do perceive thy tongue, like thine eyes, is even sharper than methought."

"Nay, but," said John, glancing about them apprehensively, "how an yon rogues come back--and others with them?"

"They shall not dare; yet an they do--I have my dagger and thou thy sword. Come sit ye here and speak me who thou art, what, whence come, whither going and to what purpose?"

Answered he:

"John. A gleeman. From the north. Pelynt. To sing." Then dismounting, he tethered his horse and sitting down, viewed his companion with glance of speculation where she nestled against the rugged tree bole, head back thrown, eyes half-closed as in weariness or dreamful languour, long, slumberous eyes of blue wide-set beneath low brows and for all their seeming languour, bright and keen as his own. And after some while, finding him silent, she turned to glance on him and in her look a faint scorn; quoth she:

"Well, thou man, what dost ask of me? What fee wilt thou demand, what payment must I make thee?"

"Payment?" questioned John, opening his grey eyes very wide and rubbing square chin.

"Indeed," sighed she wearily. "Having saved me from vile harms, how must I requite thee?"

John scowled, then laughed and shook his head.

"Tush and fie!" said he. "I traffic not in such little oddments, a bard errant I--"

"How?" cried she, forgetting her languour. "A little oddment--this my body ... my honour ... my very life? Oddments, quotha?"

"Why," said John, pondering, "mayhap 'tis shapely as women's bodies go, yet compared with yon tree, or great and noble mountain, 'tis but a small matter, I wot. As for me--"

"Thou?" quoth she, with scorn no longer faint. "Thou art a man o' windy words, a very indifferent singer o' poor rhymes and jingles, and all such be needy wretches; moreover, thou'rt a man and all men be avid creatures coveting somewhat."

"Ha, Minerva is come to judgment!" laughed John. "Pallas Athena propoundeth! ... And thou, child, so young yet so passing learned in men! Oh, maid o' miracles! Woman o' wonder! And yet, of men, a man is there like to gentle bird, to tender flower and this man--I!"

"A bird?" said she, frowning at him. "A flower--thou?"

"Even so, harsh goddess o' wayward wisdom! Hark thou, mark thou,--prick up, stretch wide those two ears pretty and learn ye wisdom in a ditty."

Then plucking little harp, John sang this:

"A bird remote sings sweet and clear

Though not a soul be there to hear,

Yet what cares he?

A floweret blooms although no eye

May e'er her fragrant beauty spy,

Yet nought recks she.

Beauty and sweetness these dispense

With ne'er a thought of recompense.

Thus flower doth bloom and bird doth trill

Because 'tis so their Maker's will.

Wherein like bird and floweret shy

Is Rhyming John, and--John am I."

"Thus of myself. Now of thyself tell, an thou so minded be."

"What wouldst know, thou Jingling John?"

"No more than thou canst tell, as--thy name, thy home, estate, condition, loves, hates, fears, hopes, dreams, ambitions, in a word--thyself."

"To tell all this should outlast the night," sighed she.

"And the weather is fair!" saith John.

Now, at this she viewed him frowning and askance; and then, frowning still, made answer:

"Know then I am a maid, a creature of loneliness--ah, verily, in all this big world is none so solitary as I!"

"Content thee, wedlock shall amend this--"

"Oh, man, dost speak like fool--without knowledge--"

"So am I ready to learn, as--what do ye here thus remote within these leafy solitudes?"

"Forget awhile my solitude."

"Paradoxical maid, how so?"

"By dreaming I am--other than I am."

"By this I reason thou'rt somebody--"

"Ay, truly!" cried she in sudden passion. "Slave am I, serf--thrall, nay, a poor creature to be hunted to loathed wedlock or slain!"

"Hum!" quoth John. "Wedlock or death! Here be two evils with a difference, for the one is soon over!... And yet a thrall, sayst thou, a serf? On that white throat I see no iron collar, no badge o' servitude."

"'Tis on my heart!" cried she, slim hands clenched on rounded bosom. "Here upon my heart!"

"The which is thing well hid from me," he nodded.

"From all the world and so must ever be,--alas, poor heart!"

"Child, whence come ye?"

"From servitude I hate and yet must back to anon, for no child am I, alas!"

"Nay, thou'rt riddle beyond my poor wit."

"Being a woman!" sighed she. "Ay--a very woman, to my woe."

"And pray," questioned John, staring down at the slender foot that gleamed so strangely white through its rustic sandal of rough tanned leather, "how doth thy womanhood irk thee?"

"For that life is so cruel and perilous to any woman in this evil world, in especial to one born a--" Here, noting the direction of John's gaze, she hid that white foot 'neath her coarse gown.

Quoth John, nodding:

"In very sooth, 'tis small and slim and marvellous white; 'tis foot at odds with thy so rustical habit--"

"Folly!" quoth she, and frowned at him.

"Lady, indeed I--"

"Fond fool, here is no lady!"

"And thy so white foot hath hid itself!"

"Well, how now?" she demanded, for John had risen. "What would ye?"

"Eat!" he answered, and coming to his horse, took from cantle a wallet of promising dimensions.

"Eat, quo' he!" said she, in lofty scorn. "Spoke like a man, forsooth, that is creature of appetite and little else."

"To eat," retorted John, unbuckling the wallet, "is good for man, for beast, and for maid--more especially maid an she be aught peevish! To eat is man's (and woman's) duty to himself (and herself) and his (and her) neighbour. For he (or she) that is replete and full-paunched, is ever the readier to cherish and comfort all and sundry, to smile glad-eyed upon the day and take Fortune's buffets undismayed. Moreover, food is life's chiefest inspiration, lacking the which we perish and all our soaring ambitions and passionate purposes do vanish, alas, and are gone like smoke of long-dead fire! Food,--aha, good, lusty meat, 'tis the power universal, 'tis rare subject for poesy whereon I might make and sing thee notable good song--"

"Nay, spare me!"

"Not so, lady, for the Spirit of Poesy compelleth, as thus:

"The gentle radiance of those eyes

The balmy fragrance of thy sighs

All that in thee is fair and sweet

From beauteous head to pretty feet

All, lady, all thy beauty's pride

Is truly but meat glorified."

"So, come--eat!"

"Oh," cried she in fury, "here is base, vile song!"

"Yet here too is cheese and bread, with neat's tongue delicately smoked, very succulent and grateful. Come, thou'rt peevish and I'm an hungered, so let us feed!"

"Not I!" said she, with flash of bright eyes.

"Heigho!" sighed John. "Now stint thy pride, plague not thy paunch, lady, nor scorn to eat with poor John, for truly in this bread, this cheese, this meat doth lie tomorrow's thou and I, the future us, the we that is to be. So eat, lest, since this meat meet is for song, song again I sing ye." And then all suddenly she laughed, a sound very joyous and sweet to hear and, so laughing, reached him her two hands.

"Oh, John," she said, "oh, Jingling John, hast won me from evil thoughts, from doubts and black suspicions. So whiles my troubles sleep awhile, feed me, John, feed me, for truly I am hungered even as thou."

And thus seated together cross-legged upon the pleasant greensward, they ate and talked in right good fellowship, for now instead of frowns were smiles and in her eyes, sullen no longer, a youthful, laughing joyance. And presently, seeing how she plied small knife and dainty fingers, eating with hearty appetite, John took pinch of salt, scattering it between them; quoth he:

"Madam, lady, donzel, maiden, lass, child ... how else may I now name thee?"

"Some do call me Lia," she answered.

"Oh, rare!" cried John. "Lia! 'Tis name sweet as note o' piping bird, it trippeth light as elf in twilit wood, and, best of all, 'tis marvellous apt for rhyming; 'tis name shall sing in line poetical anon. I would Pelynt's proud Duchess carried one as sweet."

"Oh, and wherefore?"

"'Tis to the Duchess I ride, with proffers of songful service--but--Ippolita! What brain shall scheme rhyme to such name? 'Tis difficult as the lady herself."

"What know ye of her?"

"No thing save by report that trumpeteth her fame to heaven for bold and warlike lady, right valiant and stout--"

"She soundeth like swashing termagant! Yet what more of her, I pray?"

"She is, they tell, red-haired, snow and flame, proud and passionate, in fine, such doughty dame that poor Jingling John must needs jingle his best in hers and his own behoof. And yet--Ippolita!"

"Red hair!" said Lia, frowning.

"Ay, and 'tis fighting colour and sorteth well with her nature, for--"

"And ye love not her name, fool John?"

"Fair Lia, no whit! ... Ippolita! Hark to it! Verily 'tis neigh of horse, 'tis sneeze, 'tis hiccough,--and who shall rhyme to a hiccough?" Lia caught her breath, gazed on him a moment great-eyed, then threw back beauteous head and laughed peal on peal of joyous, bubbling mirth, while careful John, their meal ended, set back in wallet such food as yet remained.

Now presently her merriment subsiding, she sat clasping her rounded limbs in shapely arms, watching him thus busied,--his comely shape, the supple, hidden strength of him, his quick, sure movements, his lean dark face with its swift changes,--wistfully whimsical, dreamy and abstracted or grimly watchful.... And he was watching her now with his wry smile, wherefore she flushed; whereat John chuckled and she, flushing rosier, frowned, lifted head with arrogant gesture and then, or ever she might speak, a woman's voice afar called:

"Lia! Lia!"

"One shouts thy name!" said John, for his companion had turned away and sat plucking at the grass.

"Indeed," she answered. "'Tis one I call 'Mother.'"

"Thy mother? Here i' the wild?"

"Nay, yonder in the mill."

"Mill?" he repeated, glancing about.

"A bowshot hence beside the stream," she explained and then the voice called again:

"Lia--oh, Lia!"

"Wilt not to thy mother, like dutiful maid?" asked John. "Come, let us go!" At this she turned to scowl at him, still plucking at the grass with petulant fingers, and now her vivid mouth and long-lashed eyes shewed more petulant than ever. Then the afternoon's drowsy hush was pierced by the shattering blare of a trumpet in sudden, urgent summons and, almost in that moment, John was afoot.

"Lady," said he, hitching at sword belt, "canst tell me what meaneth yon trumpet?"

"Bide and learn!" she answered sullenly, plucking yet at the grass. And almost as she spake was ring of arms and into this small, sunny glade stepped a tall, grim-visaged man upon whose mailed breast flamed the three scarlet leopards of Pelynt and who, beholding John, halted and laid hand on sword. Quoth he:

"Noble lady, of your grace who is this man?"

"Ha, Tomalyn," said she, scarce deigning the questioner a glance, "wherefore trouble me?"

"Lady, I am here and divers o' thy vassalage, with news of moment--"

"Then save it for some other moment--nay, speak, man, and ha' done!"

"But, gracious mistress," said he, gesturing towards John, "this fellow ... who is he and what?"

"Nay, rather, tell me who and what art thou, Tomalyn?"

"Noble lady," answered Tomalyn, baring grizzled head and falling to knee, "thy Chief Forester, I--"

"So wert thou in my noble father's time and with but fifty men to thy command; today hast an hundred, yet today, here in mine own forests, I am beset and mishandled by three lewd rogues! Well, my Chief Forester, how cometh this? Methought we had made of Pelynt a place where Innocence might walk all unharmed."

Tomalyn's head sank lower and he answered, sighing:

"Dear, my lady, I do my best, but o' late the world and Pelynt do seem direly changing ... there bloweth a troublous air ... I smell blood i' the wind ... threats and omens. And this Dom Gregorius--"

"What of him, man?"

"He preacheth hard, lady, he goeth to and fro in town and country ... and preacheth."

"Well, 'tis so his duty."

"Nay, but gracious lady, the folk begin to look askance ... to mutter together--"

"Heaven's light!" cried she angrily. "Is it to plague me with such idle fancies ye sought me?"

"Not so, lady," he answered, shaking his head despondently, "'twas to say death had smit us again--"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, in hissing whisper, "who now? How ... was it?"

"Osbert, lady, that bore thy noble sire's banner when we conquered Fitz-Urse aforetime and withstood King Tristan's might,--stout Osbert, lady, that was my friend. We found him hard by Hangstone Waste ... rent by foul beast."

"When was this, Tomalyn?"

"Last night, noble mistress."

"Oh!" she cried, leaping nimbly afoot, "'tis place accursed!"

"Ay, verily!"

"How many have died there of late, Tomalyn?"

"Nine, lady, men these of high and low degree, yet all tried and trusty men of the Duke thy father's following. Ah, would God the Duke thy father yet lived!"

"Nay, but his daughter liveth, man! I am alive and by God his light, men shall die for this right soon. So I charge thee--find me men to hang! Bring me rogues for my gibbets and soon, Tomalyn, I charge thee, or that head of thine shall answer. Ah, God, that such evil should be ... and I here! Ay, I ran away a while, fled to my old Melisse at the mill to play at freedom ... to dream myself happy, careless child again--and whiles I play ... Murder leaps again. Yet ... oh, to be a child once more!"

"E'en as I do mind thee so well!" nodded the grey-headed Chief Forester.

"Tomalyn, oh, Tomalyn," she cried, reaching him her hand, "was I harsh with thee? Few are there left to me like thyself ... and they dying, it seems ... and in such hideous fashion! So be thou wary, look to thyself, for thee have I loved all my troublous days.... And now our good Osbert is dead ... and a death so fearful! ... He too was my playfellow ... He shall lie in Pentavalon Minster ... daily shall they sing masses for the faithful soul of him ... But for his murderers, they shall be found that I may hang them from our walls ... Come, Tomalyn, let us go."

Rising, she took Tomalyn's ready hand then, pausing, glanced back at silent John across rounded shoulder.

"Art there yet, Sir Gleeman?" said she. "Get thee from Pelynt, for here anon mayhap shall be clash of steel 'stead of twang o' harp, so--away with thee, Jingling John."

So she left him, and John, staring after her, saw rise before his mind's eye, as it were, the shadowy vision of a gallows. Then, leaning back against tree bole, he took himself by the chin, wagging head as one in rueful dismay, until roused by touch from the velvety muzzle of his hammer-headed horse.

"Apollo," said he, as the unlovely steed blinked at him with its one good eye, "all's amiss, friend, for here is the noble chance of winning freedom woefully lost ... 'stead of cruel outlawry--honours; 'stead of Tristan's shameful gallows--life, and some little happiness, mayhap.... For here, Apollo, here sat Pelynt's fierce and scornful Duchess ... and I--sang songs!"

And after some while, he slung wallet to saddle and, mounting, rode slowly away; and ever as he went, before him loomed the misty threat of King Tristan's waiting gallows.