The Geste of Duke Jocelyn

by Jeffery Farnol

“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—”