So it was that here, in the very bosom of the forest, lured by the pipe the fool played, Lempriere burst forth into song, in one hand a bottle of canary, in the other a handful of comfits:
“Duke William was a Norman
(Spread the sail to the breeze!)
That did to England ride;
At Hastings by the Channel
(Drink the wine to the lees!)
Our Harold the Saxon died.
If there be no cakes from Normandy,
There’ll be more ale in England!”
“Well sung, nobility, and well said,” cried Buonespoir, with a rose by the stem in his mouth, one hand beating time to the music, the other clutching a flagon of muscadella; “for the Normans are kings in England, and there’s drink in plenty at the Court of our Lady Duchess.”
“Delicio shall never want while I have a penny of hers to spend,” quoth the fool, feeling for another tune. “Should conspirators prevail, and the damnedest be, she hath yet the Manor of Rozel and my larder,” urged Lempriere, with a splutter through the canary.
“That shall be only when the Fifth wind comes—it is so ordained, Nuncio!” said the fool blinking. Buonespoir set down his flagon. “And what wind is the Fifth wind?” he asked, scratching his bullethead, his child-like, widespread eyes smiling the question.
“There be now four winds—the North wind and his sisters, the East, the West, and South. When God sends a Fifth wind, then conspirators shall wear crowns. Till then Delicio shall sow and I shall reap, as is Heaven’s will.”
Lempriere lay back and roared with laughter. “Before Belial, there never was such another as thou, fool. Conspirators shall die and not prevail, for a man may not marry his sister, and the North wind shall have no progeny. So there shall be no Fifth wind.”
“Proved, proved,” cried the fool. “The North wind shall go whistle for a mate—there shall be no Fifth wind. So, Delicio shall still sail by the compass, and shall still compass all, and yet be compassed by none; for it is written, Who compasseth Delicio existeth not.”
Buonespoir watched a lark soaring, as though its flight might lead him through the fool’s argument clearly. Lempriere closed his eye, and struggled with it, his lips outpursed, his head sunk on his breast. Suddenly his eyes opened, he brought the bottle of canary down with a thud on the turf. “‘Fore Michael and all angels, I have it, fool; I travel, I conceive. De Carteret of St. Ouen’s must have gone to the block ere conceiving so. I must conceive thus of the argument. He who compasseth the Queen existeth not, for compassing, he dieth.”
“So it is by the hour-glass and the fortune told in the porringer. You have conceived like a man, Nuncio.”