The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (best books to read all time TXT) 📖

Name Of This Knight, Jehane?' She Told Him, Gilles De

Gurdun.

 

Then He Said, 'Come Hither, De Gurdun,' And Gilles Knelt Down Before The

Son Of His Overlord. Jehane Would Have Knelt To Him Too, But That He

Held Her By The Hand And Would Not Suffer It.

 

'Now, Gilles, Listen To What I Shall Tell You,' Said Richard. 'There Is

No Lady In The World More Noble Than This One, And No Man Living Who

Means More Faithfully By Her Than I. I Will Do Her Will This Day, And

That Speedily, Lest The Devil Be Served. Are You A True Man, Gilles?'

 

'Lord,' Said Gurdun, 'I Try To Be So. Your Father Made Me A Knight. I

Have Loved This Lady Since She Was Twelve Years Old.'

 

'Are You A Man Of Substance, My Friend?'

 

'We Have A Good Fief, My Lord. My Father Holds Of The Church Of Rouen,

And The Church Of The Duke. I Serve With A Hundred Spears Where I May, A

_Routier_ If Nothing Better Offer.'

 

'If I Give You Jehane, What Do You Give Me?'

 

'Thanks, My Good Lord, And Faith, And Long Service.'

 

'Get Up, Gilles,' Said Richard.

 

Gilles Kissed His Knee, And Rose. Richard Put Jehane's Hand Into His And

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Held The Two Together.

 

'God Serve Me As I Shall Serve You, Gilles, If Any Harm Come Of This,'

He Said Shrewdly, With Words That Whistled In The Air; And As Gilles

Looked Him Squarely In The Face, Richard Ran An Eye Over Him. Gilles Was

Found Honest. Richard Kissed Jehane On The Forehead, And Went Out

Without A Look Back. At The Edge Of The Wood He Found Gaston Of Béarn

Sucking His Fingers.

 

'There Went By Here,' Said The Gay Youth, 'A Black Knight With A Face Of

A Raw Meat Colour, And The Most Villainous Scowl Ever You Saw. I

Consider Him To Be Dead Already.'

 

'I Have Given Him Something Which Should Cure Him Of The Scowl And

Justify His Colour,' Answered Him The Count. 'Moreover, I Have Given Him

The Chance Of Eternal Life.' Then With A Cry--'Oh, Gaston, Let Us Get

To The South, See The Sun Fleck The Roads, Smell The Oranges! Let Us Get

To The South, Man! It Seems I Have Entertained An Angel. And Now That I

Have Given Her Wings, And Now That She Is Gone, I Know How Much I Love

Her. Speed, Gaston! We Will Go To The South, See Bertran, And Make Some

Songs Of Good Women And Men In Want!'

 

'Pardieu,' Said Gaston. 'I Am With You, Richard, For I Am In Want. I

Have Eaten Nothing For Two Days.'

 

So They Rode Out Of The Woods Of Saint-Pol-La-Marche, And Richard Began

To Sing Songs Of Jehane The Fair-Girdled; Never Truly Her Lover Until He

Might Love Her No More.

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Day-Long And Night-Long He Sang Of Her, Being Now In The Poetic Mood,

Highly Exalted, Out Of Himself. The Country Took Tints Of Jehane, Her

Shape, Her Fine Nobility. The Thrust Hills Of The Vexin Were Her

Breasts; The Woods, Being Hot Gold, Her Russet Hair; In Still Green

Water He Read The Secrets Of Her Eyes; In The Milk Of October Dawns Her

Calm Brows Had Been Dipped. The Level Light Of The Beauce, So Beneficent

Yet So Austere, Figured Her Soul. Fair-Girdled Was Touraine By Vienne

And Loire; Fair-Girdled Jehane, Who Wore Virgin Candour About Her Loins

And Over Her Heart A Shield Of Blue Ice. As Far Southwards As Tours The

Dithyrambic Prevailed; Richard Was Untiring In The Hunt For Analogues.

Thence On To Poictiers, Where The Country (Being His Own) Was Perhaps

More Familiar; Indeed, While He Was Climbing The Grey Peaks Of

Montagrier With His Goal Almost In Sight, He Turned Scholiast And

Glossed His Former Raptures.

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'You Are Not To Tell Me, Gaston,' He Declared, 'That My Jehane Has Been

Untrue. She Was Never More Wholly Mine Than When She Gave Herself To

That Other, Never Loved Me More Dearly. Such Power Is Given To Women To

Lead This World. It Is The Power Of The Word, Who Cut Himself Off And

Made Us His Butchers In Pure Love. I Shall Do My Part. I Shall Wed The

French Girl, Who In My Transports Will Never Guess That In Reality

Jehane Will Be In My Arms.' Tears Filled His Eyes. 'For We Shall Be

Wedded In The Sight Of Heaven,' He Said Sighing.

 

'Deus!' Cried Gaston Here, 'Such Marriages May Be More To The Taste Of

Heaven Than Of Men, Richard. Man Is A Creature Of Sense.'

 

'He Hath A Spiritual Part,' Said Richard, 'So Rarely Hidden That Only

The Thin Fingers Of A Girl May Get In To Touch It. Then, Being Touched,

He Knows That It Is Quick. Let Me Alone; I Am Not All Mud Nor All Devil.

I Shall Do My Duty, Marry The French Girl, And Love My Golden Jehane

Until I Die.'

 

'That Is The Saying Of A Poet And King At Once, Said Gaston, And Really

Believed It.

 

So They Came At Dusk To Autafort, A Rock Castle On The Confines Of

Perigord, Held By Bertran De Born.

 

It Looked, And Was, A Robber's Hold, Although It Had A Poet For

Castellan. Its Walls Merely Prolonged The Precipices On Which They Were

Founded, Its Towers But Lifted The Mountain Spurs More Sharply To The

Sky. It Dominated Two Watersheds, Was Accessible Only On One Side, And

Then By A Ridgeway; From It The Valley Roads And Rockstrewn Hillsides

Could Be Seen For Many Leagues. Long Before Richard Was At The Gate The

Lord Of Autafort Had Had Warning, And Had Peered Down Upon His Suzerain

At His Clambering. 'The Crows Shall Have Richard Before Richard Me,'

Said Bertran De Born; So He Had His Bridge Pulled Up And Portcullis Let

Down, And Autafort Showed A Bald Face To The Newcomers.

 

Gaston Grinned. 'Hospitality Of Aquitaine! Hospitality Of Your Duchy,

Richard.'

 

'By My Head,' Said The Count, 'If I Sleep Under The Stars I Sleep At

Autafort This Night. But Hear Me Charm This Plotter.' He Called At The

Top Of His Voice, 'Ha, Bertran! Come You Down, Man.' The Surrounding

Hills Echoed His Cries, The Jackdaws Wheeled About The Turrets; But

Presently Came One And Put His Eye To The Grille. Richard Saw Him.

 

'Is That You, Then, Bertran?' He Shouted. There Was No Answer, But The

Spyer Was Heard Breathing Hard At His Vent.

 

'Come Out Of Your Earth, Red Fox,' Richard Chid Him. 'Show Your Grievous

Snout To The Hills; Do Your Snuffling Abroad To The Clear Sky. I Have

Whipped Off The Hounds; My Father Is Not Here. Will You Let Starve Your

Liege-Lord?'

 

At This The Bolts Were Drawn, The Bridge Went Down With A Clatter, And

Bertran De Born Came Out--A Fine Stout Man, All In A Pother, With A Red,

Perplexed Face, Angry Eyes, Hair And Beard Cut In Blocks, A Body Too Big

For His Clothes--A Man Of Hot Blood, Fumes And Rages. Richard At Sight

Of Him, This Unquiet Sniffer Of Offences, This Whirled About With

Stratagems, Threw Back His Head And Laughed Long And Loud.

 

'O Thou Plotter Of Thine Own Dis-Ease! O Rider Of Nightmares, What Harm

Can I Do Thee? Not, Believe Me, A Tithe Of Thy Desert. Come Thou Here

Straightly, Master Bertran, And Take What I Shall Give Thee.'

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'By God, Lord Richard--' Said Bertran, And Boggled Horribly; But The

Better Man Waited, And In The End He Came Up Sideways. Richard Swung

From His Horse, Took His Host By The Shoulders, Shook Him Well, And

Kissed Him On Both Cheeks. 'Spinner Of Mischief, Red Robber, Singer Of

The Thoughts Of God!' He Said, 'I Swear I Love Thee Through It All,

Bertran, Though I Should Do Better To Wring Thy Neck. Now Give Us Food

And Drink And Clean Beds, For Gaston At Least Is A Dead Man Without

Them. Afterwards We Will Sing Songs.'

 

'Come In, Come In, Richard,' Said Bertran De Born.

 

 

For A Day Or Two Richard Was Bathed In Golden Calm, Hugging His Darling

Thought, Full Of Jehane, Fearful To Share Her. Often He Remembered It In

Later Life; It Held A Place And Commanded A Mood Which No Hour Of His

Wildest Possession Could Outvie. The Mountain Air, Still, But Latently

Nimble, The Great Mountains Themselves Dreaming In The Sunlight, The

Sailing Birds, Hinted A Peace To His Soul Whither His Last Conquest Of

His Baser Part Assured Him He Might Soar. Now He Could Guess (Thought

He) That Quality In Love Which It Borrows From God And Shares With The

Angels, Ministers Of God, The Steady Burning Of A Flame Keen And Hard.

So On An Afternoon Of Weather Serene Beyond All Belief Of The North,

Mild, Tired, Softly Radiant, Still As A Summer Noon; As He Sat With

Bertran In A Courtyard Where Were Lemon-Trees And A Fountain, And Above

The Old White Walls, And Above The Strutting Pigeons, A Square Of Blue,

He Began To Speak Of His Affairs, Of What He Had Done And Of What Was To

Do.

 

Bertran's Was A Grudging Spirit: You Shall Hear The Abbot Milo Upon That

Matter Anon, Than