Troubadour Tales 9

Troubadour Tales 9

As Hugo, followed by his retinue, crossed the courtyard, there was a

great bowing and scraping from Monsieur Jean and all the inn servants;

the peacocks spread their gorgeous tails and screamed at the tops of

their voices; the pigeons puffed and pouted and strutted about; the

cockatoo shrieked loudly and flourished his silver spoon; and the

rabbits ran away with their ears flat to their heads with fright, and

hid under the cabbage leaves in the garden until the commotion of the

count’s arrival had somewhat subsided.

 

But at last the great man had been ushered into his rooms, where he had

breakfasted on the most elaborate products of the cooks’ skill; while

on the spits in the great inn kitchen huge haunches of venison and

beef were turning and browning in front of the blazing fire, and the

white-capped and aproned scullions were running about with big ladles

and spoons in their hands making ready the dinner for the large company

of guests.

 

Geoffrey had, at their bidding, done many errands, and last of all had

brought up from the garden a great basket of vegetables. He had wished,

as he tragically jerked them out of the ground and brandished them in

the air, that each separate carrot, leek and radish might stick in

Count Hugo’s wicked throat, and stay there forever! Now at length tired

out, he sat down to rest on his bench under the plane-tree.

 

As he sat there, presently through the arched gateway there entered

a man dressed in a frayed waistcoat of ragged satin, knee breeches

of blue plush much the worse for wear, and leather leggings from

which half the buckles were gone. Slung around his neck by a gay

green ribbon hung a viol, and in one hand he grasped a slender little

chain that held in leash a small monkey wearing a tiny red cap. This

motley figure was one of the strolling jongleurs, half juggler,

half troubadour, who flourished at that time in all parts of France,

and managed to eke out a living from the pranks of their monkeys and

the practice of the “gay science,” as it was called; that is, by the

singing of songs which they themselves usually made up and set to music.

 

As this particular jongleur entered the courtyard, he spied Geoffrey,

and strolling over to the bench amiably seated himself beside the boy

with a friendly “Good morrow, my lad!”

 

“Good morrow, sir,” answered Geoffrey, rather absently.

 

The jongleur then caught sight of the coach drawn up by the inn wall.

 

“Ah,” he said, “small wonder none came forth to welcome us. Other

guests are ahead of me, I perceive.” And, as the monkey climbed upon

his knee, he added: “Had thou and I fared hither in yonder yellow cart,

Pippo, we should have had the whole inn at our feet. And monsieur, the

landlord, would have been down on his knees humbly beseeching to know

when my Lord Pippo would be pleased to dine! Hey! Pippo! is’t not true?”

 

But Pippo, paying no attention to him, began mischievously to finger

the strings of the viol with his little brown claws, and the jongleur,

with a gay laugh, turning to Geoffrey, inquired:

 

“To whom does yonder gaud belong?”

 

“It is the coach of Count Hugo,” said Geoffrey; “he came to-day, and

is to fight a duel with Count Boni, of Château Beauvias, to-morrow

morning.”

 

“So!” said the jongleur with a short whistle; “well, then, their

countships had better let no grass grow under their noble feet, for the

king hath but just issued an edict forbidding all such dueling from now

on, henceforth and forever.”

 

“What, sir?” said Geoffrey, suddenly rousing up excitedly; “what is

that thou sayest?”

 

“Well, well, little man! thou seemest to take this matter somewhat to

heart! I was merely mentioning the new edict of our blessed King Louis

Ninth, God save his soul, which forbids dueling! It seems our sovereign

lord hath grown weary of the foolish practice whereby he hath lost so

many noble subjects, and moreover, being a wise monarch, hath become

convinced that all disputes should be settled in the courts of law,

which he hath been studying much since his return from Constantinople,

where the law is held in high esteem—in short, he will have no more

‘judicial duels’; and yesterday when I and Pippo were in Rouen, we

heard the king’s heralds as they solemnly proclaimed the new edict to

the people.”

 

“Oh!” exclaimed Geoffrey delightedly, “thank the blessed saints, then,

the duel can not be fought to-morrow!”

 

“Hold, hold,” said the jongleur, “not so fast, my lad—”

 

“Nay,” cried Geoffrey, “but how dare they when the king forbids?” and,

dragging the jongleur up by the hand, he added: “Come with me now and

we will seek the wicked Count Hugo, and tell him the news! Come!”

 

“Nay, nay,” the jongleur replied, “not I!”

 

“Why, is it not true?” demanded Geoffrey.

 

“True as gospel,” said the jongleur, “but thou art but a child; dost

thou fancy two noble lords, bent on the sword play, would for one

moment be stayed by the word of a poor strolling jongleur? Nay, I

should but receive a drubbing for my pains if I sought to inform that

cruel Hugo. I prefer, thank you, to keep my bones whole; especially

as I could do no good. Moreover, let them spit each other, if they so

desire! I do not care, youngster, how many duels they fight!”

 

But when he looked down and saw the grief in Geoffrey’s eyes, he

softened, and added: “But since thou seemest to care so much, little

one, I would risk the drubbing, by my faith, I would! if ’twere to any

purpose. But I am older than thou, and somewhat a man of the world,”

here the jongleur straightened himself up; “and I swear to thee,

’twould work naught but mischief were I to seek out yonder count and

strive to prevent his encounter to-morrow. He would simply be angered,

and would not believe me, or would pretend not to, because he does not

wish to be stopped till he hath killed this Count Boni you tell me

of, and got his lands. Naught but the king’s heralds themselves could

hinder that affair.” And then, as he meditated, he added: “’Tis a

monstrous pity, though! When didst thou say they fight, little one? In

the morning? A monstrous pity! For the heralds will no doubt arrive in

Dives to-morrow afternoon; they were to come hither on leaving Rouen.

Thou knowest they must proclaim the edict through all the cities of the

realm!”

 

Six hundred years ago printing and newspapers and the telegraph were

unknown; and so when a war was to be undertaken, or peace settled

upon, or a new law made, the king sent his heralds about through all

his dominions, and they made proclamation to the people, with a great

flourish of trumpets and much quaint ceremony.

 

But here Pippo became engaged in a squabble with a fat peacock, and the

jongleur rising, separated them, and then strolled off toward the inn

kitchen; for he had journeyed far, and the savory smells wafted out

into the courtyard suddenly reminded him that he was very hungry.

 

Geoffrey, thus left alone, fell to thinking, and he thought and thought

as never before in all his life. So the heralds were on their way to

Dives, if what the jongleur told was true, and he believed it was; and

the jongleur had said, moreover, that these heralds could stop even the

wicked Hugo from carrying out his designs. Geoffrey felt that this was

true also, for he knew that not even noblemen dared openly defy the

king. And then he reasoned, perhaps more wisely than he knew, that

Hugo stirred up and fought these “judicial duels” merely to increase

his property and not to satisfy his personal honor; and that if nothing

were to be gained, Hugo would surely not fight. The king had forbidden

his subjects to acquire property that way; the great thing, therefore,

was to prevent the encounter in the morning, so that the heralds might

have time to come to Dives and make their proclamation, which would

certainly put an end to the whole affair. But how, how could he,

Geoffrey, do this?

 

At last, however, an idea occurred to him that made his eyes brighten

and his cheeks flush. If he could only get hold of that bewitched

Saracen sword of Count Hugo’s, and hide it, why, probably, as the count

was known superstitiously to prefer it to any other weapon, he might be

delayed hunting for it till the heralds came.

 

As Geoffrey thought over this plan, he reflected that if he got

possession of the sword it must be that night, as the count wore it

constantly all day long; and though he felt like a highwayman and a

robber even to plan it, for he was an honest little lad, yet he said to

himself there was no other way to save Isabeau’s father.

 

And so, full of his project, as a preliminary, he got up and sauntered

past that part of the inn where he knew was the count’s sleeping

chamber, and noticed that it had one window opening upon one of the

little wooden galleries which was approached from the outside by a

winding stair. The window was barred with heavy wooden rounds; but as

Geoffrey measured with his eye the distance between these bars, he felt

sure that if he made himself as flat as possible, he could squeeze in

through them. It would not be so easy to get the sword out, but perhaps

he could manage it somehow; he _must_ manage it!

 

Having thus made up his mind as to what he would do, Geoffrey passed

the rest of the afternoon and evening in a fever of impatience. After

supper was over he hid himself in the garden behind a rose bush, and as

he watched the inn it seemed as if the last of the clatter would never

die away, and people would never settle down and go to sleep! But at

length—after weeks, it seemed to Geoffrey—the last candle flickered

out and the inn became quiet.

 

He waited, however, an hour or two longer, knowing the habit of the

maids to lie awake and gossip in the dark. But when he heard the Dives

watchman passing the inn gateway and calling out, “Midnight! and all’s

well!” he crept out, and keeping close in the shadow of the wall,

reached the stairway to the gallery by the count’s sleeping room.

The moon had risen and might have betrayed him as he mounted it, but

fortunately the stair was overhung by vines. He made his way along the

gallery to the count’s window. There was no glass in it, and, as it was

summer time, the heavy wooden shutter that guarded it was wide open,

the bars seeming quite enough protection from ordinary intruders. But

they could not keep out this little boy, who drew in his breath and