The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Geste of Duke Jocelyn, by Jeffery Farnol This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Geste of Duke Jocelyn Author: Jeffery Farnol Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8165] This file was first posted on June 24, 2003 Last Updated: March 15, 2018 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GESTE OF DUKE JOCELYN *** Text file produced by Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team HTML file produced by David Widger THE GESTE OF DUKE JOCELYN 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;