FullReads

“That is very remarkable,” Messire Heleigh observed. “I was hideously afraid, and am yet shaking. But you, madame, laughed.”

The Queen replied: “I laughed because I know that some day I shall have Lord Falmouth’s head. It will be very sweet to see it roll in the dust, my Osmund.”

Messire Heleigh somewhat dryly observed that tastes differed.

At Jessop Minor a more threatening adventure befell. Seeking food at the Cat and Hautbois in that village, they blundered upon the same troop at dinner in the square about the inn. Falmouth and his lieutenants were somewhere inside the house. The men greeted the supposed purveyors of amusement with a shout; and one among them–a swarthy rascal with his head tied in a napkin–demanded that the jongleurs grace their meal with a song.

At first Osmund put him off with a tale of a broken viol.

But, “Haro!” the fellow blustered; “by blood and by nails! you will sing more sweetly with a broken viol than with a broken head. I would have you understand, you hedge-thief, that we gentlemen of the sword are not partial to wordy argument.” Messire Heleigh fluttered inefficient hands as the men-at-arms gathered about them, scenting some genial piece of cruelty. “Oh, you rabbit!” the trooper jeered, and caught him by the throat, shaking him. In the act this rascal tore open Messire Heleigh’s tunic, disclosing a thin chain about his neck and a small locket, which the fellow wrested from its fastening. “Ahoi!” he continued. “Ahoi, my comrades, what species of minstrel is this, who goes about England all hung with gold like a Cathedral Virgin! He and his sweetheart”–the actual word was grosser–“will be none the worse for an interview with the Marquess.”

The situation smacked of awkwardness, for Lord Falmouth was familiar with the Queen, and to be brought specifically to his attention meant death for two detected masqueraders. Hastily Osmund Heleigh said:

“Messire, the locket contains the portrait of a lady whom in youth I loved very greatly. Save to me, it is valueless. I pray you, do not rob me of it.”

But the trooper shook his head with drunken solemnity. “I do not like the looks of this. Yet I will sell it to you, as the saying is, for a song.”

“It shall be the king of songs,” said Osmund–“the song that Arnaut Daniel first made. I will sing for you a Sestina, messieurs–a Sestina in salutation of Spring.”

The men disposed themselves about the dying grass, and presently he sang.

Sang Messire Heleigh:

“Awaken! for the servitors of Spring
Marshal his triumph! ah, make haste to see
With what tempestuous pageantry they bring
Mirth back to earth! hasten, for this is he
That cast out Winter and the woes that cling
To Winter’s garments, and bade April be!

“And now that Spring is master, let us be
Content, and laugh as anciently in Spring
The battle-wearied Tristan laughed, when he
Was come again Tintagel-ward–to bring
Glad news of Arthur’s victory and see
Ysoude, with parted lips, that waver and cling.

“Anon in Brittany must Tristan cling
To this or that sad memory, and be
Alone, as she in Cornwall, for in Spring
Love sows, and lovers reap anon–and he
Is blind, and scatters baleful seed that bring
Such fruitage as blind Love lacks eyes to see!”

Osmund paused here for an appreciable interval, staring at the Queen. You saw his flabby throat a-quiver, his eyes melting, saw his cheeks kindle, and youth ebb back into the lean man like water over a crumbling dam. His voice was now big and desirous.

Sang Messire Heleigh:

“Love sows, and lovers reap; and ye will see
The loved eyes lighten, feel the loved lips cling
Never again when in the grave ye be
Incurious of your happiness in Spring,
And get no grace of Love there, whither he
That bartered life for love no love may bring.