The Choices
by
“Sest fable es en aquest mon
Semblans al homes que i son;
Que el mager sen qu’om pot aver
So es amar Dieu et sa mer,
E gardar sos comendamens.”
YSABEAU OF FRANCE, DESIROUS OF
DISTRACTION, LOOKS FOR RECREATION IN THE TORMENT
OF A CERTAIN KNIGHT, WHOM SHE PROVES TO BE NO MORE
THAN HUMAN; BUT IN THE OUTCOME OF HER HOLIDAY
HE CONFOUNDS THIS QUEEN BY THE WIT OF HIS REPLY.
In the year of grace 1327 (thus Nicolas begins) you could have found in all England no lovers more ardent in affection or in despair more affluent than Rosamund Eastney and Sir Gregory Darrell. She was Lord Berners’ only daughter, a brown beauty, and of extensive repute, thanks to such among her retinue of lovers as were practitioners of the Gay Science and had scattered broadcast innumerable Canzons in her honor; and Lord Berners was a man who accepted the world as he found it.
“Dompnedex!” the Earl was wont to say; “in sincerity I am fond of Gregory Darrell, and if he chooses to make love to my daughter that is none of my affair. The eyes and the brain preserve a proverbial warfare, which is the source of all amenity, for without lady-service there would be no songs and tourneys, no measure and no good breeding; and, in a phrase, a man delinquent in it is no more to be valued than an ear of corn without the grain. Nay, I am so profoundly an admirer of Love that I can never willingly behold him slain, of a surfeit, by Matrimony; and besides, the rapscallion could not to advantage exchange purses with Lazarus; and, moreover, Rosamund is to marry the Earl of Sarum a little after All Saints’ day.”
“Sarum!” people echoed. “Why, the old goat has had two wives already!”
And the Earl would spread his hands. “One of the wealthiest persons in England,” he was used to submit.
Thus it fell out that Sir Gregory came and went at his own discretion as concerned Lord Berners’ fief of Ordish, all through those gusty times of warfare between Sire Edward and Queen Ysabeau, until at last the Queen had conquered. Lord Berners, for one, vexed himself not inordinately over the outcome of events, since he protested the King’s armament to consist of fools and the Queen’s of rascals; and had with entire serenity declined to back either Dick or the devil.
It was in the September of this year, a little before Michaelmas, that they brought Sir Gregory Darrell to be judged by the Queen, for notoriously the knight had been Sire Edward’s adherent. “Death!” croaked Adam Orleton, who sat to the right hand, and, “Young de Spencer’s death!” amended the Earl of March, with wild laughter; but Ysabeau leaned back in her great chair–a handsome woman, stoutening now from gluttony and from too much wine–and regarded her prisoner with lazy amiability, and devoted the silence to consideration of how scantily the man had changed.
“And what was your errand in Figgis Wood?” she demanded in the ultimate–“or are you mad, then, Gregory Darrell, that you dare ride past my gates alone?”
He curtly said, “I rode for Ordish.”
Followed silence. “Roger,” the Queen ordered, sharply, “give me the paper which I would not sign.”
The Earl of March had drawn an audible breath. The Bishop of London somewhat wrinkled his shaggy brows, as a person in shrewd and epicurean amusement, what while she subscribed the parchment within the moment, with a great scrawling flourish.
“Take, in the devil’s name, the hire of your dexterities,” said Ysabeau, and pushed this document with her wet pen-point toward March, “and ride for Berkeley now upon that necessary business we know of. And do the rest of you withdraw, saving only my prisoner–my prisoner!” she said, and laughed not very pleasantly.