The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (best books to read all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Maurice Hewlett
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Grudged Richard Everything--His Beauty, His Knit And Graceful Body, His
Brain Like A Sword, His Past Exploits, His Present Content. What It Was
Contented Him He Knew Not Altogether, Though A Letter From Saint-Pol Had
In Part Advised Him; But He Was Sure He Had Wherewithal To Discontent
Him. 'Foh! A Juicy Orange Indeed,' He Said To Himself, 'But I Can Wring
Him Dry.' If Richard Hugged One Thought, Bertran Hugged Another, And
Took It To Bed With Him O' Nights. Now, Therefore, When Richard Spoke Of
Jehane, Bertran Said Nothing, Waiting His Time; But When He Went On To
Madame Alois And His Duty (Which Really Coloured All The Former Thought)
Bertran Made A Grimace.
'Rascal,' Says Richard, Shamming Rough, 'Why Do You Make Faces At Me?'
Bertran Began Jerking About Like The Lid Of A Boiling Pot, And Presently
Sends A Boy For His Viol. At This, When It Came, He Snatched, And Set To
Plucking A Chord Here And A Chord There, Grinning Fearfully All The
Time.
'A _Tenzon!_ A _Tenzon!_ Beau Sire!' Cries He. 'Now A _Tenzon_ Between
You And Me!'
'Let It Be So,' Says Richard; 'Have At You. I Sing Of The Calm Day, Of
The Sweets Of True Love.'
'Accorded,' Says The Other. 'And I Sing Of The Sours Of False Love. Do
You Set The Mode, Prince Of Blood Royal As You Are.'
Richard Took The Viol Without After-Thought And Struck A Few Chords. A
Great Tenderness Was In His Heart; He Saw Duty And Himself Hand In Hand
Walking A Long Road By Night; Two Large Stars Beaconed The Way; These
Were Jehane's Eyes. A Watcher Or Two Stole Into The Upper Gallery,
Leaned On The Parapet And Listened, For Both Men Were Renowned Singers.
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 5 (How Bertran De Born And Count Richard Strove In A Tenzon) Pg 30Richard Began To Sing Of Green-Eyed Jehane, Who Wore The Gold Girdle,
Whose Hair Was Red Gold. His Song Was--
Li Dous Consire
Quem Don' Amors Soven--
But I English It Thus--
'That Gentle Thought Which Love Will Give Sometimes Is Like A Plait Of
Silk And Gold, And So Is This Song Of Mine To Be; Wherein You Shall Find
A Red Deep Cry Which Cometh From The Heart, And A Thin Blue Cry Which Is
The Cry Of What Is Virgin In My Soul, And A Golden Long Cry, The Cry Of
The King, And A Cry Clear As Crystal And Colder Than A White Moon: And
That Is The Cry Of Jehane.'
Bertran, Trembling, Snatched At The Viol. 'Mine To Sing, Richard, Mine
To Sing! Ha, Love Me No More!'
Cantar D' Amors Non Voilh,
He Began--
'Your Strands Are Warped And Will Not Accord, For Love Will Warp Any
Song. It Turneth The Heart Of A Man Black, And The Soul It Eateth Up. At
Fourteen Goes The Virgin First A-Wallowing; And Soon The King Croaks
Like A Hog. A Plait! Love Is A Fetter Of Hot Iron; So My Song Shall Be
Iron-Cruel Like The Bidding Of Jehane. Say Now, Shall I Set The Song?
The Love-Cry Is The Cry Of A Man Who Drags His Way With His Side Torn;
And The Colour Of It Is Dry Red, Like Old Blood; And The Sound Thereof
Maketh The Hearers Ache, So It Quavers And Shrills. For It Cries Only
Two Things: Sorrow And Shame.'
He Misconceived His Adversary Who Thought To Quell Him By Such Vapours.
Richard Took The Viol.
'Bertran, It Is Well Seen That Thou Art Pinched And Have A Torn Side;
But Ask Of Thy Itching Fingers Who Graved The Wound. Dry Thou Art,
Bertran, For Thy Trough Is Dry; The Husks Prick Thy Gums, But There Is
No Other Meat. Well May The Hearers' Ears Go Aching; For Thy Cry, Man,
Proceedeth From Thy Aching Belly. But Now I Will Set The Song Again, And
Tell Thee Of A Lady Girdled With Fine Gold. Beneath The Girdle Beats A
Red Heart; But Her Spirit Is Like A Spire Of Blue Smoke, That Comes From
A Fire, Indeed, But Strains Up To Heaven. Warmed By That Fire, Like That
Smoke I Fly Up; And So I Lie Among The Stars With Jehane.'
Bertran's Jaw Was At Work, Mashing His Tongue. 'Ah, Richard, Is It So
With Thee? Wait Now While I Strike A Blow.' He Made The Viol Scream.
'What If I Twist The Song Awry, And Give Thee Good Cause To Limp The
Sorrowful Way? What If For My Aching Belly I Give Thee An Aching Heart?
Eh, If My Fingers Scratch My Side, There Are Worse Talons At Thine.
Watch For The Lion's Claw, Richard, Which Tears Not Flesh But Honour,
And Gives More Pain Than Any Knife. Pain! He Is King Of Pain! Mend
That, Then Face Sorrow And Shame.'
Ending With A Snap, He Grinned More Knowledge Out Of His Red Eyes Than
He Pronounced With His Mouth. His Terrible Excitement, The Labour And
Sweat Of It, Set Richard's Brows Knitting. He Stretched Out His Hand For
The Viol Slowly; And His Eyes Were Cold On Bertran, And Never Off Him
For A Moment As He Sang To This Enemy, And Judged Him While He Sang. The
Note Was Changed.
'The Lion Is A Royal Beast, A King, Whose Son Am I. We Maul Not Each
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 5 (How Bertran De Born And Count Richard Strove In A Tenzon) Pg 31Other In Anjou, Save When The Jackal From The South Cometh Snarling
Between. Then, When We See The Unclean Beast, Saith One, "Faugh! Is This
Your Friend?" And The Other, "Thou Dost Ill To Say So." Then The Blood
May Flow And The Jackal Get A Meal. But Here There Is None To Come
Licking Blood. The Prize Is The White Roe Of France, Fed On The French
Lilies, And Now In Safe Harbour. She Shall Lie By The Leopard, And The
Lion Rule The Forest In Peace Because Of The Peace About Him; And Like A
Harvest Moon Above Us, Clear Of The Trees, Will Be Jehane.'
'Listen, Richard, I Will Be Clearer Yet,' Came From Between Bertran's
Teeth. He Fairly Ground Them Together. Having The Viol, He Struck But
One Note Upon It, With Such Rudeness That The String Broke. He Threw The
Thing Away And Sang Without It, Leaning His Hands On His Knees, And
Craning Forward That He Might Spit The Words.
'This Is The Bite Of The Song: She Is Forsworn. Harbour? She Kept
Harbour Too Long; She Is Mangled, She Is Torn. Touch Not The Lion's
Prey, Leopard. You Go Hunting Too Late--For All But Sorrow And Shame.'
Richard Stretched Not His Hand Again; His Jaw Dropped And Most Of The
Strong Colour Died Down In His Face. Turned To Stone, Stiff And
Immovable, He Sat Staring At The Singer, While Bertran, Biting His Lip,
Still Grinning And Twitching With His Late Effort, Watched Him.
'Give Me The Truth, Thou.' His Voice Was Like An Old Man's, Hollow.
'As God Is In Heaven That Is The Truth, Richard,' Said Bertran De Born.
The Count's Head Went Up, As When A Hound Yelps To The Sky: Laughter
Ensued, Barking Laughter--Not Mirth, Not Grief Disguised, But Mockery,
The Worst Of All. One On The Gallery Nudged His Fellow; That Other
Shrugged Him Off. Richard Stretched His Long Arms, His Clenched Fists To
The Dumb Sky. 'Have I Bent The Knee To Good Issues Or Not? Have I Abased
My Head? O Clement Prince! O Judge In Israel! O Father Of Kings! Hear
Now A Parable Of The Prodigal: Father, I Have Sinned Against Heaven And
Before Thee, And Thou Art No More Worthy To Be Called My Father. O
Glutton! O Filching Dog!'
'By The Torch Of The Gospel, Count Richard, What I Sang Is True,' Said
Bertran, Still Tensely Grinning, And Now Also Wringing At His
Hang-Nails. Richard, Checked By The Voice, Turned Blazing Upon Him.
'Why, Thou School-Boy Rhymester, That Is The Only Merit Thou Hast, And
That Not Thine Own! Thy Japes Are Nought, Thy Tragics The Mewing Of
Cats; But Thy News, Fellow, Thy News Is Too Rich Matter For Thy Sewer
Of A Throat. Tragic? No, It Is Worse: It Is Comic, O Heaven! Heed You
Now--' In His Bitter Shame He Began Pantomiming With His Fingers:--'Here
Are Two Persons, Father By The Grace Of God, Son By The Grace Of The
Father. Saith Father, "Son, Thou Art Sprung From Kings; Take This Woman
That Is Sprung From Kings, For I Have No Further Use For Her." Anon
Cometh A White Rag Thinly From The Inner Tent--Mark Her Provenance. Son
Kneeleth Down. "Wilt Thou Have My Son, Cony?" Saith Father. "Yea, Dear
Heart," Saith She. "'Tis My Counterpart, Mark You," Saith Father.
"Better Than Nothing At All," Saith She. Benevolent Father, Supple-Kneed
Son, Convenient Lady. Here Is Agreement. And Thus It Ends.' Again He
Laughed Outright At The Steel-Blue Face Of The Sky, Then Jumped In A
Flash From His Seat To The Throat Of Bertran. Bertran Tumbled Backwards
With A Strangled Cry, And Richard Pegged Him To The Ground.
'Thou Yapping Cur, Bertran,' He Grated, 'Thou Sick Dog Of My Kennel, If
This Snarl Of Thine Goes True Thou Hast Done A Service To Me And Mine
Thou Knowest Not Of. There Is Little To Do Before I Am The Richest Man
In Christendom. Why, Dull Rogue, Thou Hast Set Me Free!' He Looked Up
Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 5 (How Bertran De Born And Count Richard Strove In A Tenzon) Pg 32Exulting From His Work At The Man's Throat To Shout This Word. 'But If
It Is Not True, Bertran'--He Shook Him Like A Rat--'If It Is Not True, I
Return, O Bertran, And Tear This False Gullet Out Of Its Case, And With
Thy Speckled Heart Feed The Crows Of Périgord.' Bertran Had Foam On His
Lips, But Richard Showed Him No Mercy. 'As It Is, Bertran,' He Went On
With His Teeth On Edge, 'I Am Minded To Finish Thee. But That I Need
Something From Thee I Think I Should Do It. Tell Me Now Whence Came Thy
News. Tell Me, Bertran, Or Thou Art In Hell In A Moment.'
He Had To Let Him Up To Win From Him After A Time That His Informant Was
The
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