By Jeffery Farnol

Illustrations in color by Eric Pape (Illustrations not included in this edition) Copyright, 1920, By Little, Brown, And Company. All rights reserved Published September, 1920 Norwood Press Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

PRELUDE

FYTTE I

FYTTE 2

FYTTE 3

FYTTE 4

FYTTE 5

FYTTE 6

FYTTE 7

FYTTE 8

FYTTE 9

FYTTE 10

FYTTE 11

FYTTE 12

My GILLIAN, thou child that budding woman art For whom to-day and yesterday lie far apart Already thou, my dear, dost longer dresses wear And bobbest in most strange, new-fangled ways thy hair; Thou lookest on the world with eyes grown serious And rul'st thy father with a sway imperious Particularly as regards his socks and ties Insistent that each with the other harmonise. Instead of simple fairy-tales that pleased of yore Romantic verse thou read'st and novels by the score And very oft I've known thee sigh and call them “stuff” Vowing of love romantic they've not half enough. Wherefore, like fond and doting parent, I Will strive this want romantic to supply. I'll write for thee a book of sighing lover Crammed with ROMANCE from cover unto cover; A book the like of which 't were hard to find Filled with ROMANCE of every sort and kind. I'll write it as the Gestours wrote of old, In prose, blank-verse, and rhyme it shall be told. And GILLIAN— Some day perhaps, my dear, when you are grown A portly dame with children of your own You'll gather all your troop about your knee

And read to them this Geste I made for thee.

ILLUSTRATIONS “Nobles of Brocelaunde, salute your Duchess Yolande”

They saw afar the town of Canalise

“Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed

“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid.

With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came

The long blades whirled and flashed

PRELUDE

Long, long ago when castles grim did frown, When massy wall and gate did 'fend each town; When mighty lords in armour bright were seen, And stealthy outlaws lurked amid the green And oft were hanged for poaching of the deer, Or, gasping, died upon a hunting spear; When barons bold did on their rights insist And hanged or burned all rogues who dared resist; When humble folk on life had no freehold And were in open market bought and sold; When grisly witches (lean and bony hags) Cast spells most dire yet, meantime, starved in rags; When kings did lightly a-crusading fare And left their kingdoms to the devil's care— At such a time there lived a noble knight Who sweet could sing and doughtily could fight, Whose lance thrust strong, whose long sword bit full deep With darting point or mighty two-edged sweep. A duke was he, rich, powerful—and yet Fate had on him a heavy burden set, For, while a youth, as he did hunt the boar, The savage beast his goodly steed did gore, And as the young duke thus defenceless lay, With cruel tusk had reft his looks away,

Had marred his comely features and so mauled him That, 'hind his back, “The ugly Duke” folk called him—

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

GILL: An ugly hero?

MYSELF: That is so.

GILL: An ugly hero, father? O, absurd! Whoever of an “ugly” hero heard?

MYSELF: I'll own, indeed, I've come across but few—

GILL: But a duke—and ugly! Father, this from you?

MYSELF: My duke is ugly, very, for good reason, As shall appear in due and proper season!

GILL: I'm sure no one will want to read him then, For “heroes” all should be most handsome men. So make him handsome, please, or he won't do.

MYSELF: By heaven, girl—no, plain heroes are too few!

GILL: Then ev'ry one will leave him on the shelf!

MYSELF: Why, then, I'll read the poor fellow myself.

GILL: I won't!

MYSELF: Then don't! Though, I might say, since you're set on it, child, My duke was not so ugly when he smiled—

GILL: Then make him smile as often as you can.

MYSELF: I might do that, 't is none so bad a plan.

GILL: And the lady—she must be a lady fair.

MYSELF: My dear, she's beautiful beyond compare.

GILL: Why, then—

MYSELF: My pen!

So here and now I do begin The tale of young Duke Jocelyn, For critics, schools, And cramping rules, Heedless and caring not a pin. The title here behold On this fair page enrolled, In letters big and bold, As seemeth fit— To wit:—

FYTTE I

Upon a day, but when it matters not, Nor where, but mark! the sun was plaguy hot Falling athwart a long and dusty road In which same dust two dusty fellows strode. One was a tall, broad-shouldered, goodly wight In garb of motley like a jester dight, Fool's cap on head with ass's ears a-swing, While, with each stride, his bells did gaily ring; But, 'neath his cock's-comb showed a face so marred With cheek, with brow and lip so strangely scarred As might scare tender maid or timid child Unless, by chance, they saw him when he smiled, For then his eyes, so deeply blue and bright, Did hold in them such joyous, kindly light, That sorrow was from heavy hearts beguiled— This jester seemed less ugly when he smiled. Here, O my Gill, right deftly, in a trice I've made him smile and made him do it—twice. That 't was the Duke of course you've guessed at once Since you, I know, we nothing of a dunce. But, what should bring a duke in cap and bells? Read on and mark, while he the reason tells. Now, 'spite of dust and heat, his lute he strummed, And snatches of a merry song he hummed,

The while askance full merrily he eyed The dusty knave who plodded at his side. A bony fellow, this, and long of limb, His habit poor, his aspect swart and grim; His belt to bear a long broad-sword did serve, His eye was bold, his nose did fiercely curve Down which he snorted oft and (what is worse) Beneath his breath gave vent to many a curse. Whereat the Duke, sly laughing, plucked lutestring And thus, in voice melodious did sing:

“Sir Pertinax, why curse ye so? Since thus in humble guise we go We merry chances oft may know, Sir Pertinax of Shene.” “And chances woeful, lord, also!” Quoth Pertinax of Shene. “To every fool that passeth by These foolish bells shall testify That very fool, forsooth, am I, Good Pertinax of Shene!” “And, lord, methinks they'll tell no lie!” Growled Pertinax of Shene. Then spake the Knight in something of a pet, “Par Dex, lord Duke—plague take it, how I sweat, By Cock, messire, ye know I have small lust Like hind or serf to tramp it i' the dust! Per De, my lord, a parch-ed pea am I— I'm all athirst! Athirst? I am so dry My very bones do rattle to and fro And jig about within me as I go! Why tramp we thus, bereft of state and rank? Why go ye, lord, like foolish mountebank? And whither doth our madcap journey trend? And wherefore? Why? And, prithee, to what end?” Then quoth the Duke, “See yonder in the green Doth run a cooling water-brook I ween, Come, Pertinax, beneath yon shady trees, And there whiles we do rest outstretched at ease

Thy 'wherefores' and thy 'whys' shall answered be, And of our doings I will counsel thee.” So turned they from the hot and dusty road Where, 'mid green shade, a rill soft-bubbling flowed, A brook that leapt and laughed in roguish wise, Whereat Sir Pertinax with scowling eyes Did frown upon the rippling water clear, And sware sad oaths because it was not beer; Sighful he knelt beside this murmurous rill, Bent steel-clad head and bravely drank his fill. Then sitting down, quoth he: “By Og and Gog, I'll drink no more—nor horse am I nor dog To gulp down water—pest, I hate the stuff!” “Ah!” laughed the Duke, “'tis plain hast had enough, And since well filled with water thou dost lie To answer thee thy questions fain am I. First then—thou art in lowly guise bedight, For that thou art my trusty, most-loved knight, Who at my side in many a bloody fray, With thy good sword hath smit grim Death away—” “Lord,” quoth the Knight, “what's done is past return, 'Tis of our future doings I would learn.” “Aye,” said the Duke, “list, Pertinax, and know

'Tis on a pilgrimage of love we go: Mayhap hast heard the beauty and the fame Of fair Yolande, that young and peerless dame

“For whom so many noble lovers sigh And with each other in the lists do vie? Though much I've dreamed of sweet Yolanda's charms My days have passed in wars and feats of arms, For, Pertinax, this blemished face I bear, Should fright, methinks, a lady young and fair. And so it is that I have deemed it wiser To hide it when I might 'neath casque and visor—” Hereat Sir Pertinax smote hand to knee And, frowning, shook his head. “Messire,” said he, “Thou art a man, and young, of noble race, And, being duke, what matter for thy face? Rank, wealth, estate—these be the things I trow Can make the fairest woman tender grow. Ride unto her in thy rich armour dight, With archer, man-at-arms, and many a knight To swell thy train with pomp and majesty, That she, and all, thy might and rank may see; So shall all folk thy worthiness acclaim, And her maid's heart, methinks, shall do the same. Thy blemished face shall matter not one jot; To mount thy throne she'll think a happy lot. So woo her thus—” “So will I woo her not!” Quoth Jocelyn, “For than I'd win her so,

Alone and loveless all my days I'd go. Ha, Pertinax, 'spite all thy noble parts, 'Tis sooth ye little know of women's hearts!” “Women?” quoth Pertinax, and scratched his jaw, “'Tis true of dogs and horses I know more, And dogs do bite, and steeds betimes will balk, And fairest women, so they say, will talk.”

“And so dost thou, my Pertinax, and yet, 'Spite all thy talk, my mind on this is set— Thus, in all lowliness I'll e'en go to her And 'neath this foolish motley I will woo her. And if, despite this face, this humble guise, I once may read love's message in her eyes, Then Pertinax—by all the Saints, 'twill be The hope of all poor lovers after me, These foolish bells a deathless tale shall ring, And of Love's triumph evermore shall sing. “So, Pertinax, ne'er curse ye so For that in lowly guise we go, We many a merry chance may know, Sir Pertinax of Shene.” “And chances evil, lord, also!” Quoth Pertinax of Shene. Now on a sudden, from the thorny brake, E'en as Sir Pertinax thus doleful spake, Leapt lusty loons and ragged rascals four, Rusty their mail, yet bright the swords they bore. Up sprang Sir Pertinax with gleeful shout, Plucked forth his blade and fiercely laid about. “Ha, rogues! Ha, knaves! Most scurvy dogs!” he cried. While point and edge right lustily he plied And smote to earth the foremost of the crew, Then, laughing, pell-mell leapt on other two.

The fourth rogue's thrust, Duke Joc'lyn blithely parried Right featly with the quarter-staff he carried. Then 'neath the fellow's guard did nimbly slip And caught him in a cunning wrestler's grip. Now did they reel and stagger to and fro, And on the ling each other strove to throw; Arm locked with arm they heaved, they strove and panted, With mighty shoulders bowed and feet firm-planted. So on the sward, with golden sunlight dappled, In silence grim they tussled, fiercely grappled. Thus then Duke Jocelyn wrestled joyously, For this tall rogue a lusty man was he, But, 'spite his tricks and all his cunning play, He in the Duke had met his match this day, As, with a sudden heave and mighty swing, Duke Jocelyn hurled him backwards on the ling, And there he breathless lay and sore amazed, While on the Duke with wonderment he gazed: “A Fool?” he cried. “Nay, certes fool, per De, Ne'er saw I fool, a fool the like o' thee!” But now, e'en as the Duke did breathless stand, Up strode Sir Pertinax, long sword in hand: “Messire,” he growled, “my rogues have run away,

So, since you've felled this fellow, him I'll slay.” “Not so,” the Duke, short-breathing, made reply, “Methinks this rogue is too much man to die.” “How?” cried the Knight; “not slay a knave—a thief? Such clemency is strange and past belief! Mean ye to let the dog all scathless go?” “Nay,” said the Duke, square chin on fist, “not so, For since the rogue is plainly in the wrong The rogue shall win his freedom with a song, And since forsooth a rogue ingrain is he, So shall he sing a song of roguery. Rise, roguish rogue, get thee thy wind and sing, Pipe me thy best lest on a tree ye swing!” Up to his feet the lusty outlaw sprang, And thus, in clear melodious voice, he sang: “I'll sing a song not over long, A song of roguery. For I'm a rogue, and thou'rt a rogue, And so, in faith, is he. And we are rogues, and ye are rogues, All rogues in verity. “As die we must and turn to dust, Since each is Adam's son, A rogue was he, so rogues are we, And rascals every one. “The Abbot sleek with visage meek, With candle, book and bell,

Our souls may curse, we're none the worse, Since he's a rogue as well. “My lord aloft doth hang full oft Poor rogues the like o' me, But all men know where e'er he go A greater rogue is he. “The king abroad with knight and lord Doth ride in majesty, But strip him bare and then and there A shivering rogue ye'll see, “Sirs, if ye will my life to spill, Then hang me on a tree, Since rogue am I, a rogue I'll die, A roguish death for me. “But i' the wind the leaves shall find Small voices for my dole, “And when I'm dead sigh o'er my head Prayers for my poor rogue soul; For I'm a rogue, and thou 'rt a rogue, And so in faith is he, As we are rogues, so ye are rogues, All rogues in verity.” The singing done, the Duke sat lost in thought, What time Sir Pertinax did stamp and snort: “Ha, by the Mass! Now, by the Holy Rood! Ne'er heard I roguish rant so bold and lewd! He should be whipped, hanged, quartered, flayed alive—” “Then,” quoth the Duke, “pay him gold pieces five,” “How—pay a rogue?” the Knight did fierce retort.

“A ribald's rant—give good, gold pieces for't? A plague! A pest! The knave should surely die—” But here he met Duke Joc'lyn's fierce blue eye, And silent fell and in his poke did dive, And slowly counted thence gold pieces five, Though still he muttered fiercely 'neath his breath, Such baleful words as: “'S blood!” and “'S bones!” and “'S death!” Then laughed the Duke and from the greenwood strode; But scarce was he upon the dusty road, Than came the rogue who, louting to his knee: “O Fool! Sir Fool! Most noble Fool!” said he. “Either no fool, or fool forsooth thou art, That dareth thus to take an outlaw's part. Yet, since this day my rogue's life ye did spare, So now by oak, by ash, by thorn I swear— “And mark, Sir Fool, and to my saying heed— Shouldst e'er lack friends to aid thee in thy need Come by this stream where stands a mighty oak, Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke, Hid in this cleft a hunting-horn ye'll see, Take then this horn and sound thereon notes three. So shall ye find the greenwood shall repay

The roguish life ye spared a rogue this day.” So spake he; then, uprising from his knees, Strode blithe away and vanished 'mid the trees. Whereat Sir Pertinax shook doleful head: “There go our good gold pieces, lord!” he said. “Would that yon rogue swung high upon a tree, And in my poke our gold again might be. Full much I marvel, lord, and fain would know Wherefore and why unhanged didst let him go?” Then answered the Duke singing on this wise: “Good Pertinax, if on a tree Yon rogue were swinging high A deader rogue no man could see— 'He's but a rogue!' says you to me, 'But a living rogue!' says I. “And since he now alive doth go More honest he may die, Yon rogue an honest man may grow, If we but give him time, I trow, Says I to you, says I.” At this, Sir Pertinax growled in his beard—

My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:

GILL: A beard? O father—beard will never do! No proper knight a beard ever grew.' No knight could really romantic be Who wore a beard! So, father, to please me, No beard; they are, I think, such scrubby things— MYSELF: Yet they are worn, sometimes, by poets and kings. GILL: But your knight— MYSELF: Oh, all right, My Gill, from your disparagement to save him, I, like a barber, will proceed to shave him. Sir Pertinax, then, stroked his smooth-shaved chin, And thus to curse he softly did begin, “Par Dex, my lord—”

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

GILL: Your knight, dear father, seems to love to curse. MYSELF: He does. A difficult matter, child, in verse— GILL: Of verse I feel a little tired— MYSELF: Why, if you think a change desired, A change we'll have, for, truth to tell, This rhyming bothers me as well. So here awhile we'll sink to prose. Now, are you ready? Then here goes!

“Par Dex, my lord!” growled Sir Pertinax. “A malison on't, says I, saving thy lordly grace, yet a rogue is a rogue and, being rogue, should die right roguishly as is the custom and the law. For if, messire, if—per De and by Our Sweet Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, if, I say, in thy new and sudden-put-on attitude o' folly, thou wilt save alive all rogues soever, then by Saint Cuthbert his curse, by sweet Saint Benedict his blessed bones, by—”

“Hold now, Pertinax,” said the Duke, slipping his lute into leathern bag and slinging it behind wide shoulders, “list ye, Sir Knight of Shene, and mark this, to wit: If a rogue in roguery die then rogue is he forsooth; but, mark this again, if a rogue be spared his life he may perchance and peradventure forswear, that is, eschew or, vulgarly speaking, turn from his roguish ways, and die as honest as I, aye, or even—thou!”

Here Sir Pertinax snorted as they strode on together, yet in a little they turned aside from the hot and dusty road and journeyed on beneath the trees that grew thereby.

“By all the fiends, my lord, and speaking vulgarly in turn, this belly o' mine lacketh, these my bowels do yearn consumedly unto messes savoury and cates succulent—”

Whereat the Duke, smiling merry-eyed, chanted roguishly:

“A haunch o' venison juicy from the spit now?” “Aha!” groaned the Knight, “Lord, let us haste—” “A larded capon to thee might seem fit now?” “Saints!” sighed the Knight, “but for one little taste.” “Or, Pertinax, a pasty plump and deep—” “Ha—pasty, by the Mass!” the Knight did cry. “Or pickled tongue of neat, Sir Knight, or sheep—” “Oh, for a horse! For wings wherewith to fly—” “Or breast of swan—”

“Stay! nay, my lord, ha' mercy!” groaned Sir Pertinax, wiping moist brow. “Picture no more toothsome dainties to my soul lest for desire I swoon and languish by the way. I pray thee, let us haste, sire, so may we reach fair Canalise ere sunset—yet stay! Hearken, messire, hear ye aught? Sure, afar the tocsin soundeth?”

Now hearkening thus, they both became aware Of distant bells that throbbed upon the air, A faint, insistent sound that rose and fell, A clamour vague that ominous did swell. As thus they stood, well hidden from the road, Footsteps they heard of feet that briskly strode. And, through the leaves, a small man they espied, Who came apace, a great sword by his side. Large bascinet upon his head he bore, 'Neath which his face a scowl portentous wore; While after toiled a stout but reverend friar Who, scant of breath, profusely did perspire And, thus perspiring, panted sad complaints Thus—on the heat, his comrade and the Saints. “O Bax, O Bax! Saint Cuthbert aid me now! O Bax, see how to sweat thou'st made me now! Thy speed abate! O sweet Saint Dominic! Why pliest thou thy puny shanks so quick; O day! O Bax! O hot, sulphurous day, My flesh betwixt ye melteth fast away. Come, sit ye, Bax, in shade of yon sweet tree, And, sitting soft, I'll sagely counsel thee.” “Not so, in faith,” the small man, scowling, said, “What use for counsel since the cause be fled?