The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
THE EMPRESS GOES RIDING
IN the morning, prowling, as his wont was for news, he heard that in the night a party of horsemen had come to the main gate and asked lodging, swearing that they were the King's men. But the guard made them out a large party, and according to the custom of that troubled time bade them draw off till morning. And when Sir Odo was told: "Splendour of God," says he, "you did well, Walter. And if you had done other you should hang. No man, not the King's self, comes into hold of mine by night." Whereat a dog barked and Odo kicked him and the fool laughed. "How now, rogue?"
"Why thus, cousin. The fool treads on the hound's tail, the hound yelps and Lord Odo kicks the hound. And so the world goes on—and on—and on," and he flung himself on his hands and turned round and round like a wheel.
Odo kicked a stool into him and brought him down with a crash and laughed at him, and laughed the louder as he huddled himself together and hugged his elbows and whined. "Up with you rogue, up," he lashed out with his riding whip, and the fool yelled and scrambled up and ran limping out. Whereupon Sir Odo mounted and hunted him round the courtyard, flogging him till he fell.
So the fool did not go hawking with Sir Odo that day. He was in the kitchen rubbing his bruises with fat and thinking after his fashion; thinking that if only pain did not hurt him he would be a very great man, thinking that whatever happens there are always a thousand other things to happen, thinking that the finest song in the world is the Magnificat.
But when Sir Odo and his troop came back he saw and shaded his eyes to see tied to the stirrup of Hugues le Roux the girl Judith. So he bustled up to help old Robert the falconer. "What sport, brother?"
"Spavined sport, fool."
"You have struck one gay heron, at least."
"That piece?" he scowled at the girl. "Your right sister, fool. Do you know how we took her? The churl which Odo pinned to the oak at the cross-roads yesterday, he is there yet, and the spear in him and the tree. None of his folk were fools enough to dare loose him. But by my faith, when we came there this morning, this witless wench is pulling at him and calling for help. And Odo must needs put her in the bag. St. Joseph, it was empty enough! But an unfledged woman! Sport! And young Hugues, the soft lad, must needs stick the churl's throat, he screamed so to die. Odo knocked a tooth out of him for that."
"You have been merry, brother," said the fool, and turned away to the hall.
Odo sat there sprawling his bulk, and the girl, her hands tied behind her back, stood in front of him, straight and still. She was unkempt, her fair hair and her clothes covered with dust, but something in her puzzled him. "Who in the fiend's name?" he roared out. "You are no villein's brat. Who are you, wench?"
"Untie my hands, churl," she said, and her eyes met his, fierce and proud.
"Churl?" That was startled out of him.
"Churl and coward and naught. No knight uses a woman so."
"Woman? Say wild cat. All one. I know how to deal with women, be sure. Splendour of God, I can tame you, girl. Come, save your hide. Who are you?" She did not answer. "What knave set you on to meddle with my man?"
"Your man? You lie. You are a robber and a villain. A landless man."
Sir Odo started up and swore at length. "There is only one way with women all. Go think on it. Keep her hungry and thirsty, Walter. Put her in the chest. You will speak me fair before I have done with you, wench."
So she was dragged out, and into the chest she was thrust. Now the nature of the chest was this: a box which would hardly hold the body of a man doubled up was lined with iron wrought into points and rough edges, and the prisoner being put in the lid was shut down upon him and bolted so that he was tortured by the pressure and bruised and pierced. The girl Judith, being smaller than a man, suffered less, yet enough. But when Odo and his band were at dinner into the cell where the chest stood the fool came limping and he pulled back the bolt and threw up the lid.
She lifted her head and through the tangle of hair he saw her face flushed dark and damp with sweat. She stared at him and her eyes were wild and empty of thought. Then she groaned. He put a pewter cup to her lips and she drained the broth. Then passionately, "Holy Christ, I hoped it was water," she cried. "Oh fool, fool."
"Oh woman, woman. Woman every way."
She began painfully to get out of the chest.
"Nenny, nenny," said the fool, and put his great hands on her and thrust her down again. "Thus bad were worse. If they find you loose, you were better dead." Then the child bade him go, and cowered down and fell a-weeping. "Help the poor fool, lady," says he in a most piteous voice. She looked up then: "Tell poor fool what brought lady into Malmesbury. Oh, Holy Cross, to come back into the jaws of the fiend!"
"The Empress sent me to buy her a flask of wine."
The fool gaped. "Empress? God ha' mercy, lady. Bran knows no Empress. Bran knows Goody Mold."
"She is the Empress."
"The foul fiend fly away with her and burn her in hell," says Bran, and the girl stared at him he spoke so like a natural man. "She will send a child to death lest her proud stomach should drink water."
"She is ill," the child said.
"Nenny, nenny, lady. Empresses and queens they cannot be ill, they are great ones. It is poor you and poor I who are ill and very ill. Yea, faith, and so Goody Mold is Goody Empress! Now who had thought on that?" he giggled. "Why, but that is the end of the cord that is tangled. Here is Sir Odo hunting Madame Empress, and would give his soul to have her. And Sir Odo hath caught you and will torture your life away. Why then, tell him where he may find Madame Empress and you go free."
"Oh, base!" the child cried. "It is a treachery. You—you are a mean thing and naught."
"Yea, yea. Yet think, child. He means the worst that a man can. But you have a way of deliverance, and it is no virtue to give yourself to suffer sin. Save yourself, then, for blessed Mother Mary's sake."
"It is you who are like the fiend," the child cried.
"Not Bran, no. God help poor Bran, who means you well. Bran is but a fool. What is that gold about your neck, lady?"
She stared at him and put her hand to her bosom. "The Empress gave it me. It is her own chain."
The fool's big hands shot out. He tore it from her, pressed her down again into the chest and shot the bolt and ran away.
But he found the castle in a commotion. A great company of horsemen were before the walls, and among them a banner which bore gold upon red, a Sagittarius, the banner of King Stephen. Sir Odo heavy with wine would not believe, though one and another bore him news, and when he heard the trumpets must needs climb the gate tower to see for himself, and the while a herald summoned the castle in the King's name, yet no man dared open without Odo's word. So the King was left to wait.
Down from the tower, his bloated face bowed and wrought in perplexities, came Sir Odo, and cursing bade undo the gate. The first of the horsemen rode in and formed up on either side the courtyard while Odo's men scurried out of the way. The King's banner advanced, and Odo came heavily forward to meet the King.
"Sir, I give you loyal welcome to this hold of mine."
"You, aye, I swore it was you," the King said. "What brought you here?"
"Please you enter my hall, sir."
"Your hall!" the King muttered, but swung down and strode on before.
The hall was littered and foul with the mess of dinner. Dogs were growling over the broken meat. "Pardieu, you keep high state for me," said the King, curling the nostril, and serving men scurried out. But the fool, huddled on a stool by the cold hearth, stayed.
"I promise you good cheer, sir," Odo leered. "There is old wine in Malmesbury."
"Good cheer for swine in a sty. God's body, sirrah, why do I find you wallowing here?"
Odo stared at him and the fool looked sideways. King Stephen had the body for a king, tall and strong and stately; he had the face of a king in a picture-book, handsome, benign, but weak.
"Sir, you do me a wrong. Do me reason," says Odo, glowering at him. "Splendour of God, I am worth what I take."
"Who bade you take Malmesbury?"
Odo shrugged. "The place was fair game, sir. The Bishop of Salisbury had it in hold. Your friends must live upon your enemies."
"God have mercy, what are you to set Holy Church against me?"
"The Church?" Odo laughed. "By my faith, a king may laugh at the Church while such men as I am ride with his banner."
The King swore and checked himself and shifted his feet, and the fool looked at him and rocked to and fro. "You have done a great wrong," says the King. "Let it go. God's body, man, who sent you to Malmesbury? You were sent to watch the roads."
"I am not a boy to be schooled. I must ride my hunt my own way. I have won Malmesbury for you. That is my answer to all."
"Is it so?" the King flamed out again. "Are you fool, or are you rogue, sirrah?" And Odo flinched as the big man strode upon him. "While you waste time plundering here the Empress slips by. And you, you keep no guard of the roads. You turn my men away when they come here for word of her."
"They came by night. I open no gate o' nights. For the rest, it is false, sir. Madame Empress has not come by this way."
"Oh, the lady, the great lady, the tall lady with the gold lilies on her cloak," the fool giggled.
They both turned on him. "Out, you dog!" Odo roared.
"What said he?" said the King.
The fool grinned at Odo, and nodded and began to shuffle out muttering to himself, "The lady, the tall lady with the gold lilies on her cloak and the black Barbary mare."
"By the rood, it is she!" the King cried. "Come hither, lad," and he turned upon Odo. "So, my lord! She has not come by this way!"
And Odo had not words in his surprise, and then they tumbled over each other. "The fellow is a fool, my lord, the veriest fool. He knows not what he says. There is no drain of wit in him. He means nothing. He knows not how to mean. He"
"Be silent, you. Come, lad; when did you see the lady?"
The fool, watching Odo's furious brow, shrank away, putting up a hand to guard his head: "Na, na, Bran is a poor fool. Bran said naught. Bran has seen naught. Bran sees naught but what lord Odo wants. Bran is a good fool."
"No man shall hurt thee, lad," the King said.
"Yea, yea. No one hurts Bran when Bran says naught," and he fell to talking gibberish.
Odo wiped his face. "Will you listen to a fool, my lord?" he said, and tried to laugh heartily.
"I have listened to a knave," said the King.
Odo bit his lip, and then seeing the fool staring from one to the other with a vacant grin struck at him and bade him out. The fool shunned the blow, stumbled over the high chair where Odo sat and picking himself up put upon the table a great gold chain, as if he had knocked it down. He went out in a shambling run.
"Splendour of God!" quoth Odo, reaching for the chain. But the King was first. For the chain was wrought with the letters Matilda Imperatrix. He held it aloft.
"You foul traitor!" he said, and shouted, "Grimbald! Hugolin!"
But Odo did not understand, for he could not read. "I swear I never saw the thing before, my lord," he stammered.
And then the King laughed. "Ay, lie it out to the end. You never saw her chain, no more than you have seen her. Her chain wrought with her own name that she bought you with! God's body, man, do you think you can cheat me still? Take your lies to the fiend. Grimbald!" He flung round upon the men-at-arms who were running in. "Take the fellow and hang him."
"Sir Odo, my lord?"
"Sir Odo! Strike off his spurs and hang him like a churl."
Now by this time the fool was slunk into the kitchen, and to the scullions who spoke to him he answered whining and howling that there was great work afoot, great and very terrible, and poor Bran was afraid. So they ran out to see and he broke up a fowl and lay down and gnawed it and thought. Then he filled his pouch with food and stole out. In the courtyard Odo's men were huddled together apart and the King's men kept their ranks and all were gazing up at the gate tower where could be seen a little company gathered close. The fool crept along from door to door and went to ground in the little chapel. The chief desire in his mind was to hide. So, cowering by the altar: "While the fool is the fool all men know him," says he, "King's men and Odo's men all. If the fool is some other man no man knows who he is. King's men think he is Odo's man. Odo's men think he is King's man. Ergo, dear fool, ergo"—and he fell to rummaging. In a curtained archway he found a chest, but it had been pillaged already, and priestly vestments strewed the ground. He grimaced at them, yet turning them over found among them an ample-hooded cloak such as a priest might wear in walking. He put it on and preened himself. "Now is Bran a learned clerk. Yea, yea. Cucullus facit monachum. The gown, it makes a priest of me as motley made a fool of me, and many sorrier fools there be and many a naughtier priest I see, so God send I and myself go free." He stole to the door. In the red light of sunset Odo swung a black bulk from the tower.
Bran shrunk back and crossed himself, and went to the altar and said a prayer for Sir Odo his soul.
And while he prayed, he heard busy movements in the courtyard. The King's men were taking over the castle, sending out parties, unsaddling, seeking lodging and food. Bran stayed on his knees till all was quiet. Then in the twilight he stole out and sought the cell where the girl was prisoned. He opened the chest and she raised herself, staring through the dark. "Silent, silent for the love of God, lady," he whispered, and lifted her out and laid her on the ground. She groaned and turned her face, stretching her cramped, bruised body. He pulled a flask of wine from his pouch and made her drink. "Have good heart. Odo is dead and all goes merrily. But the King is here, and we must do stealthily." He left her and peered out. "Can you walk, child?" She struggled to her feet. "Wait awhile, wait awhile." He stole out and scouted on the way to the postern. There was no guard on the stair. He drew her after him.
They were out on the open hill-side under the stars. She turned and looked in his face. "It is you! The fool!" And she began to laugh weakly and caught at him and hung heavy on his arm.
He laid her down fainting. "Yea, yea. Bran is a fool," said he, and giggled and looked helplessly about him in the dark. And therewith an ass brayed. "Holy Cross! The monks are at vespers," quoth he, and suddenly ran on. Beyond a bank on the abbey's ground the monks' asses were at pasture. Bran came back holding two of them by the ears. He rubbed the girl's temples with wine and set her on one and himself mounting the other they rode away.
So through the moonlight they came again to that cave in the valley and found the boy quarrelling with Madame Empress because she would not have him go look for his sister but commanded him by his gentle blood stay and guard his liege lady. And indeed Jocelin had come near forswearing both gentlehood and allegiance when Judith and the fool, having left their asses by the river, toiled up to the cave.
"Is it you, child? God's word, you have taken long enough of your' errand," says the Empress. "Have you brought us Christian food and drink at last?"
"Goody Mold, you have a proud stomach," the fool said. "Yea, and how be your poor bones, Goody Mold?"
The girl flung herself down, "I have naught, madame, and I have almost died for it," she said, and cried in her weariness. "He has it. He has everything, the fool."
"She has said. Yea, and verily and out of the mouths of babes and sucklings," said Bran in a voice like thunder. "He has all things, the fool." And then it was the girl he fed first, and while she ate she stammered out her tale.
"God's word," said the Empress. "Stephen is in Malmesbury?"
"I do not know, madame. I was in that foul chest."
"Speak out, fool. You have your story to tell."
"King Stephen is a goodly knight, he came to the castle in armour bright, he hanged Sir Odo against the light, he will march on Goody Mold with his might, pray God you do not come in his sight, that is the tale I tell."
She was silent awhile, then suddenly: "Where is my chain, sirrah? The chain you took from the child?"
"Pardie, Goody, that chain hanged cousin Odo. How, saith Goody? Marry thus. Because it lay by Odo's platter for the King to see," and he cackled laughter.
"Rogue, you have betrayed me!"
"God have mercy, Goody. Which is the fool here? Goody or I? Are you me or I you? Well, God mend all!" He flung himself down and snuggled into his cloak and began to snore.
In the morning the Empress was feverish to be gone, and there was but one mind to it; whether King Stephen hunted them out or not they could be no worse off by seeking a roof and food. She promised them safety if she could but come within the country that Bristol held or Gloucester. But when she tried to walk she made a bad business of it and the girl was little the lighter. Yet she gave trouble at being set upon an ass. "Nay, faith. Goody, ride or stay, all is one upon Judgment Day," said the fool. "Yet an ass was good enough for Christ our Lord to ride."
So mount she did, and they trudged off up the valley and all the long morning met no man but some charcoal burners who sold them poached venison with a leer and a blessing. But awhile after noon drawing into a broader track they sighted a banner.
"Or and two bends gules and what is it, child? A scallop sable. God's word, it is de Tracy's banner. They are Stephen's men. Now are we sped," the Empress laughed a little grimly and stopped the ass and stood.
The fool swung himself up into a tree. "Yea, yea, they are horsemen, a company. They watch the road," he said, and slipped down to earth and grinned at the Empress. "Will you trust poor Bran, mother?"
"You can do me no hurt, fool, nor any good. Go your ways. I can meet what comes to me."
"Yea, yea. And these little ones?" She did not answer. She turned away. "I know and you know," Bran said.
"We stand by our lady, fool," the boy said.
"Why so do I, lord. Thus. Let you lie across the ass, mother, like to one dead, and I will be the priest that takes you to burial. Yea, yea, I can talk it and more Latin than mitred abbot. So go we through their lines to Gloucester."
"Madame, it is not fit," the girl cried.
The woman's eyes dwelt on her.
"And these be your children, mother," the fool said.
"I will do it," the Empress said. Then she lay upon the ass, and they bound her with the cord of the fool's cloak so that she hung safe, and the fool covered her own cloak with dust and they went on.
Then when the horsemen challenged them, "Peace be with you," Bran drawled Latin through his nose. "Pray for the soul of this your sister."
"Who are ye?"
"My son, I am the priest of St. Samson's cell by Avon and this a poor woman which burnt charcoal in the woods. But she is dead of a putrid fever"—the horsemen reined back in a hurry—"being stricken down in foul torments and in one hour living and dead and full of corruption. So that, rest her soul, she died unshriven. These be her children and we take her to bury her in holy ground." And he began a Latin prayer.
"Go your ways in God's name,"—the horsemen drew off to windward.
"Benedicite," said Bran and strode on; and for a good mile still in gait and manner acted the priest.
Then the girl plucked his arm. "Let her up now, for God's sake."
"What, what, what! is Goody not dead after all? By my faith, I thought she was dead in sooth and I true priest. Nenny, nenny. Bran is a fool now and for ever." So he unlashed the Empress and set her on her feet, and she holding her flushed head swore like a man. "Nay, Goody, was it not featly done?"
"Do me no more such feats," said she.
"Now I know you are royal," said he.
So they went on again, working through the high hills to the safety beyond, seeing no man but lonely shepherds afar, till in the late afternoon a shout rang through the stillness and out of the bosom of the hills horsemen swept down on them. "Here is not even time to die, Goody," said Bran.
But she cried out: "No time nor need. See, it is the lions and the bar sinister. It is my brother's banner. These are mine own people. They are Robert's men," and she fell to dusting her cloak and patting at her coif, and slipping from the ass strode on before and she called out, "Who is your captain?"
There was parley, and a knight galloped forward who as soon as he made her out saluted her and coming up dismounted and fell on his knee with a "God be praised, lady."
"You are well met." She gave him her hand. "You will be my escort to Bristol, sir."
He kissed her hand again. "You are alone, lady?"
"Have these two children in care," she said. He lifted her to his saddle, and calling to his men-at-arms gave the boy and the girl. The company clattered off down the hill.
The fool sat himself down on the turf and kissed his hand to their backs. And he laughed and talked to himself in Latin thus: "'Now there was found in it a poor wise man and he by his wisdom delivered the city. Yet no man remembered that same poor man.'" He started and turned. The two asses were nuzzling against his shoulder.