Another festal day had come and gone. The crimson shafts of the dying sun had succumbed to the lengthening shadows of dusk, and the pigeons were wending their way homeward to the castle parapets and battlements, when, toward the arched entrance on the front, strode the duke's fool. Beyond the castle walls and the inclosure of the pleasure grounds the peace of twilight rested on the land; the great fields lay becalmed; the distant forests were bivouacs of rest.
The afternoon had been a labor of pleasure; about the great basin of the fountain had passed an ever-varying shifting of moving figures; between the trees bright colors appeared and vanished, and from the heart of concealed bowers had come peals of laughter or strains of music. Unnoticed among the merry throng in palace and park, the jester had moved aimlessly about; unobserved now, he turned his back upon the gray walls, satiated, perhaps, with the fêtes inaugurated by the kingly entertainer. But as he attempted to pass the gate, a stalwart guard stepped forward, presenting a formidable-looking glave.
"Your permit to leave?" he said.
"A permit? Of course!" replied the fool, and felt in his coat. "But what a handsome weapon you have; the staff all covered with velvet and studded with brass tacks!"
"Has the Emperor Charles, then, no such weapons?" asked the gratified soldier.
"None so handsome! May I see it?" The guard unsuspiciously handed the glave to the jester, who immediately turned it upon the sentinel.
"Give it back, fool!" cried the alarmed guard.
"Nay; I am minded to call out and show a soldier of France disarmed by a foreign fool."
"As well chop off my head with it!" sighed the man.
"And if I wish to walk without the gate?" suggested the jester.
"Go, good fool!" replied the other, without hesitation.
"Well, here is the glave. If any one admires it again, let him study the point. But why may no one pass out?"
"Because so many soldiers and good citizens have been beaten and robbed by those who hover around the palace. But you may go in peace," he added. "No one will harm a fool. If 'tis amusement you seek, there's a camp on the verge of the forest where a dark-haired, good-looking baggage dances and tells cards. You can find the place from the noise within, and if you're merry, they'll welcome you royally. Go; and God be with you!"
The jester turned from the good-natured guard and quickly walked down the road, which wound gracefully through the valley and lost itself afar in a fringe of woodland. A light pattering on the hard earth behind caused him to look about. Following was a dog that now sprang forward with joyous demonstration. The fool stooped and gravely caressed the hound which last he had seen at the princess' feet.
"Why," he said, "thou art now the fool's only friend at court."
When again he moved on with rapid, nervous stride, the animal came after. Darker grew the road; deeper hued the fields and stubble; more somber the distant castle against the gloaming. Only the cry of a diving night-bird startled the stillness of the tranquil air; a rapacious filcher that quickly rose, and swept onward through the sea of night. Its melancholy note echoed in the breast of the fool; mechanically, without relaxing his swift pace, he looked upward to follow it, when a short, sharp bark behind him and a premonition of impending danger caused him to spring suddenly aside. At the same time a dagger descended in the empty air, just grazing the shoulder of the jester, who, recovering himself, grasped the arm of his assailant and grappled with him. Finding him a man of little strength, the fool easily threw him to the earth and kneeling on his breast in turn menaced the assailant with the weapon he had wrested from him.
"Have you any reason, knave, why I should spare you?" asked the fool.
"If I had—for want of breath—it would fail me!" answered the miscreant with some difficulty.
The duke's jester arose. "Get up, rogue!" he said, and the man obeyed.
He was a pale, gaunt fellow, with long hair, unshaven face, hollow cheeks, and dark eyes, set deeply in his head and shaded by thick, black brows. His dress consisted of a rough doublet, with lappet sleeves, carried down to a point, tight leggings, broad shoes and the puffed upper hose; the entire raiment frayed and worn; his flesh, or, rather, his bones, showing through the scanty covering for his legs, while his feet were no better protected than those of a trooper who has been long on the march. He displayed no fear or enmity; on the contrary, his manner was rather friendly than otherwise, as though he failed to understand the enormity of his offense and the position in which he was placed. Shifting from one foot to another, he crossed his great, thin hands before him and patiently awaited his captor's pleasure. The latter surveyed him curiously, and, noting his woebegone features and beggarly attire, pity, perhaps, assuaged his just anger toward this starveling.
"Why did you wish to kill me?" asked the jester quietly, if somewhat impatiently.
"It was not my wish, Master Fool," gently replied the other, but even as he spoke the resignation in his manner gave way to a look of apprehension. Lifting his hand, he felt in his breast and glanced about him on the road. Then his face brightened.
"With your permission—I have e'en dropped something—"
And stooping, the scamp-scholar picked up a small, leathern-bound volume from the ground, where it had fallen during the struggle, and held it tightly clutched in his hand. "Ah," he muttered with a glad sigh, "I feared I had lost it—my Horace! And now, Sir Jester, what would you with me?"
"A question I might answer with a question," replied the fool. "Having failed in your enterprise, why should I spare you?"
"You shouldn't," returned the vagabond-student. "The ancients teach but the irrevocable law of retribution."
To hear a would-be assassin, a castaway out of pocket and heels and elbows, calmly proclaiming the Greek doctrine of inevitableness, under such circumstances, would have surprised an observer even more experienced and worldly than the duke's fool. Involuntarily his face softened; thispauvre diablegazed upon eternity with the calm eyes of a Socrates.
"You do not then beg for life?" said theplaisant, his former impatience merging into mild curiosity.
"Is it worth begging for?" asked the straitened book-worm. "Life means a pinched stomach, a cold body; Death, no hunger to fear, and a bed that, though cold, chills us not. What we know not doth not exist—for us; ergo, to lie in the earth is to rest in the lap of luxury, for all our consciousness of it. But to be unconscious of the ills of this perishable frame, Horace likewise must be as dead to us as our aches and pains. Thus is life made preferable to death. Yes; I would live. Hold, though—" he again hesitated in deep thought—"what avails Horace if—" he began.
"Why, what new data have entered in the premises?" observed the wondering jester.
"Nanette!" was the gloomy answer.
"Who, pray, is Nanette?" asked the fool, thrusting his assailant's weapon in his jerkin.
"A wanton haggard whose tongue will run post sixteen stages together! Who would make the devil himself malleable; then, work, hammer and wire-draw him!"
"And what is she to you?"
"My wife! That is, she claims that exalted place, having married me one night when I was in my cups through a false priest who dresses as a Franciscan monk. 'Fools in the court of God' are these priests called, and truly he is a jester, for certainly is he no true monk. But Nanette, nevertheless, asserts she is the lawful partner of my sorrows. So work your will on me. A stroke, and the shivering spirit is wafted across the Styx."
"And if I gave you not only your life—for a consideration hereafter to be mentioned—but a small silver piece as well?" suggested the jester, who had been for some moments buried in thought.
"Ha!" ejaculated the scamp-student, brightening. "Your gift would match the piece I already have and which—dolt that I was!—I overlooked to include in my chain of reasoning." And thrusting his hand into his ragged doublet, after some search he extracted a diminutive disk upon which he gazed not without ardor. "Thus are we forced to start the chain of reasoning anew," he remarked, "with Horace and this bit of metal on one side of the scales and Nanette on the other. Now unless the devil sits on the beam with Nanette—which he's like to do—the book and the bit of dross will outweigh her and we arrive at the certitude that life, qualified as to duration, may be happily endured."
"What argument does the dross carry, knave?" demanded the fool, looking down at the hound that crouched at his feet.
"With it may be purchased that which warms the pinched stomach. With it may be bought an elixir, so strong and magical, it may breed defiance even of Nanette. Sir Fool, I have concluded to accept life and the small silver piece."
"Well and good," commented the jester. "But there are conditions attached to my clemency."
"Conditions!" retorted the vagabond. "What are conditions to a philosopher, once he has reached a logical assurance?"
"First, you must find me a horse. Your Nanette, as I take it, is a gipsy and in the camp, are, surely, horses."
"But why should you want a horse? 'Tis not far to the castle?" said the puzzled scholar.
"No; but 'tis far away from it. Next, tell me where you got that small piece of silver, like the one I have promised you?"
"From Nanette."
"What for?"
"To accomplish that which I have failed to do," replied the student, willingly. "But, alas, not having earned it, have I the right idly to spend it?" he added, dolefully, half to himself.
"Why did Nanette—" began the jester.
But the other raised his arm with an expostulatory gesture. "Many things I know," he interrupted; "odds and ends of erudition, but a woman's mind I know not, nor want to know. I had as soon question Beelzebub as her; yea, to stir up the devil with a stick. If sparing my life is contingent on my knowing why she does this, or that, then let me pay the debt of nature."
"No; 'tis slight punishment to take from a man that which he values so little he must reason with himself to learn if he value it at all," returned the duke's jester, slowly. "We'll waive the question, if you find me the horse."
"'Tis Nanette you must ask. There's but one, old, yet serviceable—"
"Then take me to Nanette."
"Very well. Follow me, sir; and if you're still of a mind when you see her, you can question her."
"Why, is she so weird and witch-like to look upon?" said the fool.
"Nay; the devil hides his claws behind the daintiest fingers, all pink and white. He conceals his cloven hoof in a slipper, truly sylph-like."
"You arouse my curiosity. I would fain meet this fair monster."
"Come then, Master Fool," replied the scamp-student, leaving the road for the field to the right, and the jester, after a moment's deliberation, turned likewise into the stubble, while the hound, as if satisfied with the service it had performed, slowly retraced its way toward the castle, stopping, however, now and then to look around after the two men, whose figures grew smaller and smaller in the distance. For some space they walked in silence; then the scholar paused, and, pointing to a low, rambling house that once had been a hunter's lodge and now had fallen into decay, exclaimed:
"There's where she lives, fool. I'll warrant she's not alone."
At the same time a clamor of voices and a chorus of rough melody, coming from the cottage, confirmed the assurance his spouse was not, indeed, holding solitary vigil.
"'Tis e'en thus every night," murmured the scamp student in a melancholy tone. "She gathers 'round her the scum of all rudeness; ragged alchemists of pleasure, who sing incessantly, like grasshoppers on a summer day."
"Where is the horse?" said the jester, abruptly.
"Stalled in one of the rooms for safe keeping. There are so many rascals and thieves around, you see—"
"They e'en rob one another!" returned the fool.
Advancing more cautiously, the two men approached the ancient forester's dwelling, the hue and cry sounding louder as they drew near, a mingled discord of laughter, shouting and caterwauling, with a woman's piercing voice at times dominating the general vociferation. The philosopher shook his head despondingly, while, creeping to one of the windows, the jester looked in.
Near the fire was a misshapen creature, a sort of monstrous imbecile that chattered and moaned; a being that bore some resemblance to the ancient morios once sold at the olden Forum Morionum to the ladies who desired these hideous animals for their amusement. At his feet gamboled a dwarf that squeaked and screeched, distorting its face in hideous grimaces. Scattered about the room, singing, bawling or brawling, were indigent morris dancers; bare-footed minstrels; a pinched and needy versificator; a reduced mountebank; a swarthy clown, with a hare's mouth; joculators of the streets, poor as rats and living as such, straitened, heedless fellows, with heads full of nonsense and purses empty, poor in pocket, but rich inplaisanterie.
Upon the table, with cards in her lap, which she studied idly, sat a hard-featured, deep-bosomed woman, neither old nor uncomely, with thick, black hair, coarse as a horse's mane, cheeks red as a berry, glowing with health. In her pose was a certain savage grace, an untrammeled freedom which revealed the vigorous outlines of a well-proportioned figure. Her eye was bright as a diamond and bold as a trooper's; when she lifted her head she looked disdainfully, scornfully, fiercely, upon the strange and monstrous company of which she was queen.
"Where can the thief-friar be?" muttered the student. "He is usually not far off from sweet Nanette."
"You mean the monk who had a hand in your nuptials?"
"Who else? He, the source of all ill. He who gave her the money of which she e'en presented me a moiety. Whoever employed him—was it your friends, gentle sir?—rewarded him with gold. Being a craven rogue, I e'en suspect him of shifting the task to myself for a beggarly pittance, whilst he is off with the lion's share."
The jester, watching the company within, made no reply. From the student to the woman, to the friar, was a chain leading—where? He found it not difficult to surmise. Suddenly Nanette threw down the cards and laughed harshly.
"Neither the devil nor his imps could read the things that are happening in the castle!"
Then abruptly springing from the table, she made her way to the fire, over which hung a pot of some savory stew, a magnet to the company's sharp desire; for throughout all the boisterous merriment wandering glances had invariably returned to it. To reach the kettle and make herself mistress of the culinary preparations, she cuffed a dwarf with such vigor that he hobbled howling from a suspicious proximity to the appetizing mess to a safe refuge beneath the table. With equally dauntless spirit, she pushed aside the herculean morio who had been childishly standing over the pot, licking his fingers in eager anticipation; whereupon the imbecile set up a sharp cry that blended with the deeper roar of the lilliputian.
"And I caught the rabbit!" piteously bellowed the latter from his retreat.
"And I found the turnips!" cried the colossal idiot, tears running down his lubberly cheeks.
"Peace, you demons!" exclaimed the woman, waving the spoon at them, "or, by the hell-born, you'll ne'er taste morsel of it!"
Quieted by this stupendous threat, they closed their mouths and opened their eyes but the wider, while the gipsy spouse of the student stirred and stirred the mixture in the iron pot, gazing at the fire with frowning brow as though she would read some page of the future in the leaping flames.
"Saw you but now how she served the dwarf and the overgrown lump?" whispered the student to the duke's fool. "Are you still minded to meet her?"
For answer the jester left the window, stepped to the door, and, opening it, strode into the room.
As the duke's fool suddenly appeared in the crowded apartment, the hubbub abruptly ceased; the minstrels and mountebanks gazed in surprise at the slender figure of the alien jester whose rich garments proclaimed him a personage of importance, one who had reached that pinnacle in buffoonery, the high office of courtplaisant. The morio crouched against the wall, his fear of the new-comer as great as his body was large; the garret minstrels stopped strumming their instruments, while the woman at the fire uttered a quick exclamation and dropped the spoon with a clatter to the floor, where it was promptly seized by the dwarf, who, taking advantage of the woman's consternation, thrust it greedily to his lips. But soon recovering from her wonderment, the gipsy soundly boxed the dwarf's ears, recovered her spoon and set herself once more to stirring the contents of the pot.
The jester observed her for a moment—the heavy, bare arm moving round and round over the kettle; her sunburnt legs uncovered to the knee; the masculine attitude of her figure with the torn and worn garments that covered her—and she seemed to him a veritable trull of disorder and squalor. The gipsy, too, looked at him over her shoulder, and, as she gazed, her hand went slower and slower, until all motion ceased, and the spoon lay on the edge of the pot, when she turned deliberately, offering him the full sight of her bold cheeks and shameless eyes.
"Are you Nanette, wife of this philosopher?" asked the duke's fool, approaching, and indicating the miserable scamp who clung near the doorway as one undecided whether to enter or run away.
"Yes; I am Nanette, his true and lawful spouse," she answered with a shrill laugh. "Wilt come to me, true-love?" she called out to her apprehensive yoke-mate.
"Nay; I'll go out in the air a while," hurriedly replied the vagabond-scholar, and quickly vanished.
"Ah, how he loves me!" she continued.
"So much he prefers a cony-burrow to his own fireside," said the fool dryly.
"A hole i' the earth is too good for such a scurvy fellow," she retorted. "But what would you here, fool? A song, a jest, a dance? Or have you come to learn a new story, or ballad, for the lordlings you must entertain?" Unabashed, she approached a step nearer.
"Your stories, mistress, would be unsuited for the court, and your ballads best unsung," he retorted. "I came, not to sharpen my wits, but to learn from whom the thief-friar got the small piece of silver you gave your consort, and, also, to procure a horse."
Her brazen eyes wavered. "A horse and a fool flying," she muttered. "Even what the cards showed. The fool seeking the duke!" A puzzled look crossed her face. "But the duke is here?" she continued to herself. "A strange riddle! All the signs show devilment, but what it is—"
"Good Nanette," interrupted the jester, satirically, "I have no time for spells or incantation."
"How dared you come here," she said, hoarsely, "after—"
"After your mate proved but an indifferent servant of yours?" he concluded, meeting her sullen gaze with one so stern and inflexible that before it her eyes fell.
"Do you not know," she said, endeavoring to maintain a hardened front, "I have but to say the word, and all these friends of mine would tear you to pieces? What would you do, my pretty fellows, an I ask you?" she cried out, her voice rising audaciously. "Would you suffer this duke's jester to stand against me?"
Glances of suspicion and animosity shot from a score of eyes; fists were half-clenched; knives appeared in a trice from the concealment of rags, and a low murmur arose from the gathering. Even the imbecile morio, nature's trembling coward, became suddenly valiant, and, with huge frame uplifted, seemed about to spring savagely upon the fool. An expression of disgust replaced all other feeling on the features of the duke'splaisant.
"Spare me your threats, Nanette," he replied, coldly. "Had you intended to set them on me, you would have done it long ere this."
The woman hesitated. His calm, almost contemptuous, confidence was not without its effect upon her. Had he trembled, she would have spoken, but before his disdain, and the gay splendor of his attire, conspicuous amid rags from rubbish heaps, she felt a sudden consciousness of her own unclean environment; at the same time unusual warnings in her conjurations recurred to her. Something about him—was it dignity or pride or a nameless fear she herself experienced but could not understand?—beat down her eyes and she turned them doggedly away.
Abruptly she moved to the fire and again began to stir the mess, while the suppressed excitement in the room at once subsided. A minstrel lightly touched his battered dulcimer; a poet hummed a song in the dialect of thieves; a juggler began practising some deft work for hand and eye, and he of the hare lip sank quietly into a corner and patiently watched the simmering pot. The dwarf, with some misgiving, as a dog that is beaten crawls cautiously out of its kennel, crept from beneath the table.
"Oh, mistress," he whimpered, "some of it has boiled over!"
"Boiled over!" echoed the morio, mournfully.
At the same time the woman grasped the handle of the heavy kettle, lifted it from the jack, displaying in her bared arms the muscles of a man, and, staggering beneath the load, bore it steaming to the table. Amid the subsequent confusion, the gipsy held aloof from the demolition of the rabbit, and, seating herself at the foot of the table, began moodily once more to turn the cards.
A merry droll acted as host and dipped freely for all with the long spoon, commenting the while he dispensed the mess according to the wants of the miscellaneous gathering: "Pot-luck! 'Tis luck, and they're no field mice in it! There's everything else!" or "A bit of rabbit, my masters! I'll warrant he'll hop down your throats as fast as e'er he jumped a hillock." And, when one ate too greedily, slap went a spoonful of gravy o'er him with: "I thought you would catch it, knave!"
"Are they not blithe devils 'round the caldron?" muttered the woman. "There it is again!"—Bending over the bits of pasteboard on the table. "The duke here! And the fool on horseback! What do the cards mean?"
"That I must have the horse, Nanette," said the duke's jester, standing motionless and firm before the fireplace.
"Are you the fool?" she asked, more to herself than him. "Why does he wish to ride away?"
"Will you sell me the horse?" he demanded.
She hesitated. Around them danced the shadows of the kettle-gourmands:
"A kern and a drole, a varlet and a bladeA drab and a rep, a skit and a jade—"
sang the street poet; the dwarf and the morio (a lilliputian and Gulliver) fought a mimic combat; the juggler and the clown, who could eat no more, were keeping time to a chorus by beating with their empty trenchers on the table.
"Sell you the horse? For what?" asked the gipsy.
"For five gold pieces."
"A fool with five gold pieces!" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Here! You may see them." And he opened a purse he carried at his girdle.
"Do not let them know," she said, hurriedly. "They would kill you and—"
"You would not get the money," he added, significantly. "If you act quickly, find me a horse and let me go; it is you, not they, who will profit."
Abruptly she rose. "It is fate," she remarked, her eyes greedy.
His glance, as he stood there, proud and stern, cut her sharply. "Say cupidity, Nanette!" he laughed softly. "It is more profitable not to betray me. In the one case you get much; in the other, little."
"Stay here," she replied, hastily. "I'll fetch the horse." And vanished.
A moment he remained, then resolutely turning to the door through which she had disappeared, opened it, and found himself in a combined sleeping-room and stable; a dark apartment, with floor of hardened earth and a single window, open to wind and weather. The atmosphere in this chamber for man and beast was impregnated with the smell of mold and dry-rot, mingled with the livelier effluvium of dirt and grime of years; but amid the malodor and mustiness, on a couch under the window, slumbered and snored the false Franciscan monk. By his side was a tankard, half-filled with stale sack, and in his hand he clutched a gold piece as though he had had an intimation it would be safer there than elsewhere on his person during the pot-valiant sleep he had deliberately courted. His hood had fallen back, displaying a bullet head, red cheeks and purple nose, while the wooden beads of this sottish counterfeit of a friar trailed from his girdle on the ground. From a stall in a far corner a large, bony-looking nag turned its head reproachfully, as if mentally protesting against such foul quarters and the poor company they offered. Its melancholy whinny upon the appearance of the woman was a sigh for freedom; a sad suspiration to the memory of radiant clover fields or poppy-starred meadows.
"Why, here's a holy man worn out by too many paternosters," commented the duke's fool, standing on the threshold; and then gazed from the gold piece in the monk's hand to the woman. "I need not ask where you got the silver, Nanette. 'Tis a chain of evidence leading—where?"
The gipsy replied only with dark looks, regarding his intrusion in this inner sanctuary as a fresh provocation for her just displeasure. The jester, however, paid no attention to these signs of new acerbity on her face.
Crossing to the couch, he shook the monk vigorously, but the latter only held his piece of money tighter like a miser whose treasure is threatened, and snored the louder. Again the fool essayed to waken him, and this time he opened his eyes, felt for his beads and commenced to mutter a prayer in Latin words, strung together in meaningless phrases.
"Why," commented the jester, "his learning is as false as his cloak. Wake up, sirrah! Would you approach Heaven's gate with a feigned prayer on your lips and a toss-pot in your hand?"
"Christe tuum—I absolve you! I absolve you!" muttered the friar. "Go your way in peace."
"Hear me, thou trumped-up monk; do you want another piece of gold?"
"Gold!" repeated the other, tipsily. "What—what for? To—to help some fool to paradise—or purgatory? 'Tis for the Church I beg, good people. The holy Church—Church I say!"
Winking and blinking, seeing nothing before him, he held out a trembling hand. "The piece of gold—give it to me!" he mumbled.
"Yes; in exchange for your cloak," answered the jester.
"My cloak, thou horse-leech! Sell my skin for—piece of gold! Want my cloak? Take it!" And the dissembler rolled over, extending his arms. The jester grasped the garment by the sleeves and with some difficulty whipped it from him.
"Now hand me—the money and—cover me with rags that—I may sleep," continued the beer-bibber. "So"—as he grasped the money the fool gave him and stretched himself luxuriously beneath a noisome litter of cast-off clothes and rubbish—"I languish in ecstasies! The angels—are singing around me."
With growing surprise and ill-humor had the woman observed this novel proceeding, and now, when the jester had himself donned the false friar's gown, she said grudgingly:
"You did not give him one of the five pieces?"
"No; there are still five left."
"A bit of gold for a cloak!" she grumbled. "It is overmuch. But there!" Unfastening a door that looked out upon the field. "Give me the money and be gone."
He grasped the bridle of the horse, handed her the promised reward, and, drawing the hood of the monk's garment over his head, led the nag out into the open air. The door closed quickly behind him and he heard the wooden bolt as it shot into place. Above the dark outlines of the forest, the moon, full-orbed, now shone in the sky, with a myriad attendant stars, its silver beams flooding the open spaces and revealing every detail, soft, dreamy, yet distinct. A languorous, redolent air just stirred the waving grain, on which rested a glossy shimmer.
As the fool was about to spring upon the horse, a shadow suddenly appeared around the corner of the house and the animal danced aside in affright. Before the jester could quiet and mount the nag, the shadow resolved itself into a man, and, behind him, came a numerous band, the play of light on helmet, sword and dagger revealing them as a party of troopers. Doubtless having indulged freely, they had become inclined to new adventures, and accordingly had bent their footsteps toward the "little house on the verge of the wood," where merry company was always to be found. At the sight of the duke's fool and the horse they pressed forward, and, with one accord, surrounded him.
"The Franciscan monk!" cried one.
"Where is he going so late with the nag?" asked another.
"He's off to confess some one," exclaimed a third.
"A petticoat, most likely, the rogue!" rejoined the second speaker.
"Well, what have we to do with his love affairs?" laughed the first trooper. "Ride on, good father, and keep tryst."
"Yes, ride on!" the others called out.
The monk bowed. An interruption which had promised to defeat his designs seemed drawing to a harmless conclusion. His hopes ran high; the soldiers had not yet penetrated beneath the costume; he had already determined to leap upon the horse in a rush for freedom when a heavy, detaining hand was laid on his shoulder.
"One moment, knave!" said a deep voice, and, wheeling sharply, the fool looked into the keen, ferret eyes of the trooper with the red mustaches. "I have a question to ask. Have you done that which you were to do?"
The friar nodded his assent. "The fool will trouble the duke no more," he answered.
"Ah, he is"—began the soldier.
"Even so. And now pray let me pass."
"Yes; let him pass!" urged one of the soldiers. "Would you keep some longing trollop waiting?"
The leader of the troopers did not answer; his glance was bent upon the ground. "Yes, you may go," he commented, "when—" and suddenly thrust forth an arm and pulled back the enshrouding cloak.
"The duke's fool!" he cried. "Close in, rogues! Let him not escape."
Fiercely the fool's hand sought his breast; then, swiftly realizing that it needed but a pretext to bring about the end desired by the pretender in the castle, with an effort he restrained himself, and confronted his assailants, outwardly calm.
"'Tis a poor jest which fails," he said, easily.
"Jest!" grimly returned he of the red mustaches. "Call you it a jest, this monk's disguise? Once on the horse, it would have been no jest, and I'll warrant you would soon have left the castle far behind. Yes; and but for the cloven foot, the jest, as you call it, would have succeeded, too. Had it not been," he added, "for the pointed, silken shoe, peeping out from beneath the holy robe—a covering of vanity, instead of holy nakedness—you would certainly have deceived me, and"—with a brusque laugh—"slipped away from your master, the duke."
"The duke?" said the jester, as casting the now useless cloak from him, he deliberately scrutinized the rogue.
"The duke," returned the man, stolidly. "Well, this spoils our sport for to-night, knaves," he went on, turning to the other troopers, "for we must e'en escort the jester back to the castle."
"Beshrew him!" they answered, of one accord. "A plague upon him!"
And slowly the fool and the soldiers began to retrace their way across the moon-lit fields, the trooper with the red mustaches grumbling as they went: "Such luck to turn back now, with all those mad-caps right under our nose! A curse to a dry march over a dusty meadow! An unsanctified dog of a monk! 'Tis like a campaign, with naught but ditch water to drink. The devil take the friar and the jester! Forward! the fool in the center, and those he would have fooled around him!"
And when they disappeared in the distance the gipsy woman might have been seen leaving the house by the stable door and leading in the horse.
Between Caillette and the duke's jester had arisen one of those friendships which spring more from similitude than unlikeness; an amity of which each had been unconscious in its inception, but which had gradually grown into a sentiment of comradeship. Caillette was of noble mien, graceful manner and elegant address; a soldier by preference; a jester against his will, forced to the office by the nobleman who had cared for and educated him. In the duke's fool he had found his other self; a man who like himself lent dignity to the gentle art of jesting; who could turn a rhyme and raise a laugh without resorting to grossness.
The line of demarcation between the clown and the merry-and-wise wit was, in those days, not clearly drawn. The stories of the former, which made the matrons look down and the maidens to hide their faces, were often more appreciated by the inebriate nobles than some subtile comicality or nimble lines of poetry, that would serve to take home and think over, and which improved with time like a wine of sound body. Triboulet abused the ancient art of foolery, thought Caillette; the duke'splaisantplayed upon it with true drollery, and as a master who has a delicate ear for an instrument, so Caillette, being sensitive to broadness or stupidity which masked as humor or pleasantry, turned naturally from the mountebank to the true jester.
Moreover, Caillette experienced a superior sadness, sifted through years of infestivity and gloom, beginning when Diane was led to the altar by the grand seneschal of Normandy, that threw an actual, albeit cynical, interest about the love-tragedy of the duke's fool which the other divined and—from his own past heart-throbs—understood. Theplaisantto the princess' betrothed, Caillette would have sworn, was of gentle birth; his face, manner and bearing proclaimed it; he was, also, a scholar and a poet; his courage, which Caillette divined, fitted him for the higher office of arms. Certainly, he became an interesting companion, and the French jester sought his company on every occasion. And this fellowship, or intimacy, which he courted was destined to send Caillette forth on a strange and adventuresome mission.
The day following the return of the duke's fool to the castle, Francis, who early in his reign had sought to model his life after the chivalrous romances, inaugurated a splendid and pompous tournament. Some time before, the pursuivants had proclaimed the event and distributed to the knights who were to take active part the shields of arms of the fourjuges-diseurs, or umpires of the field. On this gala occasion the scaffolds and stands surrounding the arena were bedecked in silks of bright colors; against the cloudless sky a thousand festal flags waved and fluttered in the gentle breeze; beneath the tasseled awning festoons of bright flowers embellished gorgeous hangings and tapestries.
The king rode from the castle under a pavilion of cloth of gold and purple velvet, with the letters F and R, boldly outlined, followed by ladies and courtiers, pages and attendants. Amid the shouts and huzzas of the people, the monarch and his retinue took their places in the center of the stand, the royal box hung with ornate brocades and trimmings.
In an inclosure of white, next to that of the king, was seated the Lady of the Tournament, the Princess Louise, and her maids of honor, arrayed all in snowy garb, and, against the garish brilliancy of the general background, a pompous pageantry of colors, the decoration of this dainty nook shone in silvery contrast. A garland of flowers was the only crown the lady wore; no other adornment had her fair shoulders save their own argent beauty, of which the fashion of the day permitted a discernible suggestion. One arm hung languorously across the railing, as she leaned forward with seeming carelessness, but intently directed her glance to the scene below, where the attendants were arranging the ring or leading the wondrously pranked-out chargers to their stalls.
Behind her, motionless as a statue, with face that looked paler, and lips the redder, and hair the blacker, stood the maid Jacqueline. If the casual glance saw first the blond head, the creamy arms and sunny blue eyes of the princess, it was apt to linger with almost a start of wonder upon the striking figure of the jestress, a nocturnal touch in a pearly picture.
"On my word, there's a decorative creature for any lord to have in his house," murmured the aged chancellor of the kingdom, sitting near the monarch. "Who is she?"
"A beggar's brat Francis found here when he took the castle," replied the beribboned spark addressed. "You know the story?"
"Yes," said the white-haired diplomat, half-sadly. "This castle once belonged to the great Constable of Dubrois. When he fell from favor the king besieged him; the constable fled and died in Spain. That much, of course, I—and the world—know. But the girl—"
"When our victorious monarch took possession of this ancient pile," explained the willing courtier, "the only ones left in it were an old gamekeeper and his daughter, a gipsy-like maid who ran wild in the woods. Time hath tamed her somewhat, but there she stands."
"And what sad memories of a noble but unfortunate gentleman cluster around her!" muttered the chancellor. "Alas, for our brief hour of triumph and favor! Yesterday was he great; I, nothing. To-day, what am I, while he—is nothing."
A great murmur, resolving itself into shouts and resounding outcry, interrupted the noble's reminiscent mood, as a thick-set figure in richly chased armor, mounted on a massive horse, crossed the arena.
"Bon Vouloir!" they cried. "Bon Vouloir!"
It was the name assumed by the free baron for the day, while other knights were known for the time being by such euphonious and chivalrous appellations asVaillant Desyr,Bon EspoirorCoeur Loyal.Bon Vouloir, upon this popular demonstration, reined his steed, and, removing his head-covering, bowed reverently to the king and his suite, deeply to the Lady of the Tournament and her retinue, and carelessly to the vociferous multitude, after which he retired to a large tent of crimson and gold, set apart for his convenience and pleasure.
From the purple box the monarch had nodded graciously and from the silver bower the lady had smiled softly, so that the duke had no reason for dissatisfaction; the attitude of the crowd was of small moment, an unmusical accompaniment to the potent pantomime, of which the principal figures were Francis, the King Arthur of Europe, and the princess, queen of beauty's unbounded realm.
In front of the duke's pavilion was hung his shield, and by its side stood his squire, fancifully dressed in rich colors. Behind ranged the men of arms, whose lances formed a fence to hold in check the people from far and wide, among whom the pick-purses, light-fingered scamps, and sturdy beggars conscientiously circulated, plying themselves assiduously. The fashion of the day prescribed carrying the purse and the dagger dangling from the girdle, and many a good citizen departed from the tourney without the one and with the other, and it is needless to say which of the two articles the filcher left its owner. And none was more enthusiastic or demonstrative of the features of the lists than these rapacious riflers, who loudly cheered the merry monarch or shouted for his gallant knights, while deftly cutting purse-cords or despoiling honest country dames of brooches, clasps or other treasured articles of adornment.
Near the duke's pavilion, to the right, had been pitched a commodious tent of yellow material, with ropes of the same color, and a fool's cap crowning the pole in place of the customary banner. Over the entrance was suspended the jester's gilded wand and a staff, from which hung a blown bladder. Here were quartered the court jesters whom Francis had commanded to be fittingly attired for the lists and to take part in the general combat. In vain had Triboulet pleaded that they would occasion more merriment if assigned to the king's box than doomed to the arena.
"That may be," Francis had answered, "but on this occasion all the people must witness your antics."
"Antics!" Triboulet had shuddered. "An I should be killed, your Majesty?"
"Then it will be amusing to see you quiet for once in your life," had been the laughing reply.
And with this poor assurance the dwarf had been obliged to content himself—not merrily, 'tis true, but with much inward disquietude, secretly execrating his monarch for this revival of ancient and barbarous practices.
Now, in the rear of the jesters' pavilion, his face was yellow with trepidation, as the armorer buckled on the iron plates about his stunted figure, fastening and riveting them in such manner, he mentally concluded he should never emerge from that frightful shell.
"The worst of it is," dryly remarked the hunchback's valet as he briskly plied his little hammer, "these clothes are so heavy you couldn't run away if you wanted to."
"Oh, that the duke were married and out of the kingdom!" Triboulet fervently wished, and the fiery comments of Marot, Villot and those other reckless spirits, who seemed to mind no more the prospect of being spitted on a lance than if it were but a novel and not unpleasant experience to look forward to, in no wise served to assuage his heart-sinking.
At the entrance of the pavilion stood Caillette, who had watched the passing ofBon Vouloirand now was gazing upward into a sea of faces from whence came a hum of voices like the buzzing of unnumbered bees.
"Certes," he commented, "the king makes much of this unmannered, lumpish, beer-drinking noble who is going to wed the princess."
"Caillette," said the low voice of the duke's jester at his elbow, "would you see a woman undone?"
"Why,mon ami!" lightly answered the French fool, "I've seen many undone—by themselves."
"Ah," returned the other, "I appeal to your chivalry, and you answer with a jest."
"How else," asked Caillette, with a peculiar smile that was at once sweet and mournful, "can one take woman, save as a jest—a pleasant mockery?"
"Your irony precludes the test of friendship—the service I was about to ask of you," retorted the duke's fool, gravely.
"Test of friendship!" exclaimed the poet. "'Tis the only thing I believe in. Love! What is it? A flame! a breath! Look out there—at the flatterers and royal sycophants. Those are your emissaries of love. Ye gods! into the breasts of what jack-a-dandies and parasites has descended the unquenchable fire of Jove! Now as for comradeship"—placing his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder—"by Castor and Pollux, and all the other inseparables, 'tis another thing. But expound this strange anomaly—a woman wronged. Who is the woman?"
"The Princess Louise!"
Caillette glanced from the place where he stood to the center of the stand and the white bower, inclining from which was a woman, haughty, fair, beautiful; one whose face attracted the attention of the multitude and who seemed not unhappy in being thus scrutinized and admired. Shaking his head slowly, the court poet dropped his eyes and studied the sand at his feet.
"She looks not wronged," he said, dryly. "She appears to enjoy her triumphs."
"And yet, Caillette, 'tis all a farce," answered the duke's jester.
"So have I—thought—on other occasions."
And again his gaze flew upward, not, however, to the lady whom Francis had gallantly chosen for Queen of Beauty, but, despite his alleged cynicism, to a corner of the king's own box, where sat she who had once been a laughing maid by his side and with whom he had played that diverting pastoral, called "First Love." It was only an instant's return into the farcical but joyous past, and a moment later he was sharply recalled into the arid present by the words of his companion.
"The man the Princess Louise is going to marry is no more Robert, the Duke of Friedwald, than you are!" exclaimed the foreign fool. "He is the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld, the so-called free baron of Hochfels. His castle commands the road between the true duke and Francis' domains. He made himself master of all the correspondence, conceived the plan to come here himself and intends to carry off the true lord's bride. Indeed, in private, he has acknowledged it all to me, and, failing to corrupt me to his service, last night set an assassin to kill me."
His listener, with folded arms and attentive mien, kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the narrator, as if he doubted the evidence of his senses. Without, the marshals had taken their places in the lists and another stentorian dissonance greeted these officers of the field from the good-humored gathering, which, basking in the anticipation of the feast they knew would follow the pageantry, clapped their hands and flung up their caps at the least provocation for rejoicing. Upon the two jesters this scene of jubilation was lost, Caillette merely bending closer to the other, with:
"But why have you not denounced him to the king?"
"Because of my foolhardiness in tacitly accepting at first this free-booter as my master."
Caillette shot a keen glance at the other and smiled. His eyes said: "Foolhardiness! Was it not, rather, some other emotion? Had not the princess leaned more than graciously toward her betrothed and—"
"I thought him but some flimsy adventurer," went on the duke's fool, hastily, "and told myself I would see the play played out, holding the key to the situation, and—"
"You underestimated him?"
"Exactly. His plans were cunningly laid, and now—who am I that the king should listen to me? At best, if I denounce him, they would probably consider it a bit of pleasantry, or—madness."
"Yes," reluctantly assented Caillette, Triboulet's words, "a fool in love with the princess!" recurring to him; "it would be undoubtedly even as you say."
The duke's jester looked down thoughtfully. He had only half-expressed to the Frenchplaisantthe doubts which had assailed him since his interview with Louis of Hochfels. Who could read the minds of monarchs? The motives actuating them? Should he be able to convince Francis of the deception practised upon him, was it altogether unlikely that the king might not be brought to condone the offense for the sake of an alliance with this bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld and the other unconquerable free barons of the Austrian border against Charles himself? Had not Francis in the past, albeit openly friendly with the emperor, secretly courted the favor of the powerful German nobles in Charles' own country? Had not his covenant with the infidel, Solyman, been a covert attempt to undermine the emperor's power?
From the day when, as young men, both had been aspirants for the imperial throne of Germany and Francis had suffered defeat, the latter had assiduously devoted himself to the retributory task of gaining the ascendancy over his successful rival. And now, although the tempering years had assuaged their erstwhile passions and each had professed to eschew war and its violence, might not this temptation prove too great for Francis to resist a last blow at the emperor's prestige? How easy to affect disbelief of a fool, to overthrow the fabric of friendship between Charles and himself, and at the same time apparently not violate good faith or conscience!
The voice of Caillette broke in upon his thoughts.
"You will not then attempt to denounce him?"
The fool hesitated. "Alone—out of favor with the king, I like not to risk the outcome—but—if I may depend upon you—"
"Did ever friend refuse such a call?" exclaimed Caillette, promptly. A quick glance of gratitude flashed from the other's eyes.
"There is one flaw in the free baron's position," resumed the duke's fool, more confidently; "a fatal one 'twill prove, if it is possible to carry out my plans. He thinks the emperor is in Austria, and his followers guard the road through the mountains. He tells himself not only are the emperor and the Duke of Friedwald too far distant to hear of the pretender and interfere with the nuptials, but that he obviates even the contingency of their learning of that matter at all by controlling the way through which the messengers must go. Thus rests he in double security—but an imaginary one."
"What mean you?" asked Caillette, attentively, from his manner giving fuller credence to the extraordinary news he had just learned.
"That Charles, the emperor, is not in Austria, but in Aragon at Saragossa, where he can be reached in time to prevent the marriage. Just before my leaving, the emperor, to my certain knowledge, secretly departed for Spain on matters pertaining to the governing of Aragon. Charles plays a deep game in the affairs of Europe, though he works ever silently and unobtrusively. Is he not always beforehand with your king? When Francis was preparing the gorgeous field of the cloth of gold for his English brother, did not Charles quietly leave for the little isle, and there, without beat of drum, arrange his own affairs before Henry was even seen by your pleasure-loving monarch? Yes; to the impostor and to Francis, Charles is in Austria; to us—for now you share my secret—is he in Spain, where by swift riding he may be found, and yet interdict in this matter."
"Then why—haven't you ere this fled to the emperor with the news?"
"Last night I had determined to get away, when first I was assaulted by an assassin of the impostor, and next detained by his troop and brought back to the castle. I had even left on foot, trusting to excite less suspicion, and hoping to find a horse on the way, but fortune was with the pretender. So here am I, closely watched—and waiting," he added grimly.
The listener's demeanor was imperturbability itself. He knew why the other had taken him into his confidence, and understood the silent appeal as plainly as though words had uttered it. Perhaps he duly weighed the perils of a flight without permission from the court of the exacting and capricious monarch, and considered the hazards of the trip itself through a wild and brigand-infested country. Possibly, the thought of the princess moved him, for despite his irony, it was his mocking fate to entertain in his breast, against his will, a covert sympathy for the gentler sex; or, looking into the passionate face of his companion, he may have been conscious of some bond of brotherhood, a fellow-feeling that could not resist the call upon his good-will and amicable efforts. The indifference faded from Caillette's face and almost a boyish enthusiasm shone in his eyes.
"Mon ami, I'll do it!" he exclaimed, lightly. "I'll ride to the emperor for you."
Silently the jester of the duke wrung his hand. "I've long sighed for an adventure," laughed Caillette. "And here is the opportunity. Caillette, a knight-errant! But"—his face falling—"the emperor will look on me as a madman."
"Nay," replied the duke'splaisant, "here is a letter. When he reads it he will, at least, think the affair worth consideration. He knows me, and trusts my fidelity, and will be assured I would not jest on such a serious matter. Believe me, he will receive you as more than a madman."
"Why, then, 'twill be a rare adventure," commented the other. "Wandering in the country; the beautiful country, where I was reared; away from the madness of courts. Already I hear the wanton breezes sighing in Sapphic softness and the forests' elegiac murmur. Tell me, how shall I ride?"
"As a knight to the border; thence onward as a minstrel. In Spain there's always a welcome for a blithe singer."
"'Tis fortunate I learned some Spanish love songs from a fair señora who was in Charles' retinue the time he visited Francis," added Caillette. "An I should fail?" he continued, more gravely.
"You will not fail," was the confident reply.
"I am of your mind, but things will happen—sometimes—and why do you not speak to the princess herself—to warn her—"
"Speak to her!" repeated the duke's jester, a shadow on his brow. "When he has appealed to her, perhaps—when—" He broke off abruptly. His tone was proud; in his eyes a look which Caillette afterward understood. As it was, the latter nodded his head wisely.
"A woman whose fancy is touched is—what she is," he commented, generally. "Truly it would be a more thankless task, even, than approaching the king. For women were ever creatures of caprice, not to be governed by any court of logic, but by the whimsical, fantastic rules of Marguerite's court. Court!" he exclaimed. "The word suggests law; reason; where merit hath justice. Call it not Love's Court, but love's caprice, or crochet. But look you, there's another channel to the princess' mind—yonder black-browed maid—our ally in motley—when she chooses to wear it—Jacqueline."
"She likes me not," returned the fool. "Would she believe me in such an important matter?"
"I'm afraid not," tranquilly replied Caillette, "in view of the improbability of your tale and the undoubted credentials held by this pretender. For my part, to look at the fellow was almost enough. But to the ladies, his brutality signifieth strength and power; and his uncouthness, originality and genius. Marguerite, even, is prepossessed in his favor and has written a platonic poem in his honor. As for the princess"—pressing the other's arm gently—"do you not know,mon ami, that women are all alike? There is but one they obey—the king—that is as high as their ambitions can reach—and even him they deceive. Why, the Countess d'Etampes—but this is no time for gossip. We are fools, you and I, and love, my friend, is but broad farce at the best."
Even as he spoke thus, however, from the lists came the voices of the well-instructed heralds, secretaries of the occasion, who had delved deeply into the practices of the merry and ancient pastime: "Love of ladies! For you and glory! Chivalry but fights for love. Look down, fair eyes!" a peroration which was answered with many pieces of silver from the galleries above, and which the gorgeously dressed officials readily unbent to gather. Among the fair hands which rewarded this perfunctory apostrophe to the tender passion none was more lavish in offerings than those matrons and maids in the vicinity of the king. A satirical smile again marred Caillette's face, but he kept his reflections to himself, reverting to the business of the moment.
"I should be off at once!" he cried. "But what can we do? The king hath commanded all the jesters to appear in the tournament to-day, properly armed and armored, the better to make sprightlier sport amid the ponderous pastime of the knights. Here am I bound to shine on horseback, willy-nilly. Yet this matter of yours is pressing. Stay! I have it. I can e'en fall from my horse, by a ruse, retire from the field, and fly southward."
"Then will I wish you Godspeed, now," said the duke's fool. "Never was a stancher heart than thine, Caillette, or a truer friend."
"One word," returned the other, not without a trace of feeling which even his cynicism could not hide. "Beware of the false duke in the arena! It will be his opportunity to—"
"I understand," answered the duke's fool, again warmly pressing Caillette's hand, "but with the knowledge you are fleeing to Spain I have no fear for the future. If we meet not after to-day—"
"Why, life's but a span, and our friendship has been short, but sweet," added the other.
Now without sounded a flourish of trumpets and every glance was expectantly down-turned from the crowded stand, as with a clatter of hoofs and waving of plumes France's young chivalry dashed into the lists, divided into two parties, took their respective places and, at a signal from the musicians, started impetuously against one another.