John o' the Green

Jeffery Farnol

Description

King Tristan's plan was to unite the neighboring kingdoms and duchies—with himself as ruler. The local kings and rulers, however, proved unwilling to be deposed in favor of Tristan and the plan seemed likely to fail until John o' the Green, a noble and an outlaw, was captured by King Tristan's men. Not to save his own life but for the sake of his nine captured comrades John agreed to his captor's proposal. With chain mail under his innocent minstrel's costume he set out for a neighboring duchy in the hope of winning it by cunning or by courage. He did not suspect that within its high-walled, many-towered chief city he would find a girl as its ruler, who by her courage would command his respect and by her youth and loveliness would win his love. He could not foresee that her troubles would become more important to him than his own and that her happiness and safety would be his chief care.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Romance
• Historical
• Medieval

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781773236384
• Langue: English

Extrait

John o’ the Green
by Jeffery Farnol
First published in 1935
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.























JOHN o’ the GREEN
A Romance

by JEFFERY FARNOL











To NYDIA, that is NAN,
whose other name is
SYMPATHY
this Romance is humbly dedicated
BRIGHTON, SUSSEX February 10, 1935
CHAPTER I
Telleth How John Talked with the King
Ten were they that languished in King Tristan’s great dungeon at Fovant within Gerance, nine wild-seeming fellows, hairy and unkempt, and the one,—a lean comely man who sat apart, hands tight clenched, the sweat of anguish on his furrowed brow, haggard eyes turning almost furtively to watch where his companions, muttering together, peered in turn from the narrow loophole of their prison.
Now presently to this man came a slender youth, his fetters jangling, who, casting himself upon his knees, reached forth hands in passionate supplication crying:
“Oh, Master, good Master John, the townsfolk do throng them about the gallows down yonder … ah, will they hang us today, think ye?”
“This only God knoweth, boy.”
“Shall they hang us … all, Master?”
“‘Tis so the King hath willed.”
“Jesu!” gasped the youth, blenching. “Oh, Master, is’t very evil death … to hang?”
“Why, ‘tis soon over, Sim lad, and here’s some small comfort.”
“Nay but … death frights me, good Master…. The rope … I grow sick! I’ve watched folk hang … kick they did and I … laughed! Oh, Blessed Mary … sweet Mother o’ Mercy … I laughed! And now … ah, Master, Master, let me not hang …” And sinking upon his face, this youth Sim crouched thus, shivering and wailing in his misery.
“Now God forgive me!” groaned John, and would have lifted the woeful lad to the solace of his arms, but to them and making great clash of his shackles, strode a squat, burly, red-headed fellow.
“What’s ado?” quoth he harshly. “Ha, Sim lad, Simkyn, my chicken-hearted, lily-livered younker, d’ ye quake for fear o’ death now? D’ ye yap and whine at blink o’ noose and gallows—”
“Let be, Martin,—peace, old Redhead!” quoth John, setting long arm about the fearful youth. “‘Tis but a very lad—”
“Yea, so, Master, and yet outlaw and wolf’s-head accursed even as we, and to die anon by steel or hemp is common lot of outlawry. So an’ he outlaw live, let him like outlaw die bold and cheery. How say ye, comrades all?”
Now at this came the others, and chief among them one who, though pale with imminent death, yet bore himself with a prideful arrogance.
“Death,” cried he, “‘tis the outlaws’ friend, no matter what guise it wear, say I. So let Death come whenso he will … a dance in air and so—to sleep. But for the nonce, ha, John, sweet messire and comrade, abate thy dolour and sing us cheerily—”
“Ay, Master, a song … a song!” cried they in chorus.
“Sing us thy song of outlawry, good John.”
“Nay,” he answered, “no heart have I to singing, Reynold, since I am he that is the death of ye, every one.”
But at this they brake out all together in clamourous dissent:
“No, no, John!”
“Never say so, comrade!”
“Us was betrayed and never no blame on thee, John!”
“Howbeit,” answered John, shaking his head, “‘tis no other than John hath brought ye to this so grievous peradventure, and ‘tis now my bitter dole that I can no more than die with ye. But look now, as we be men and Man is of God, I have read and do verily believe, by death Man unto God returneth. Thus, though as outlaws we hang unshriven of our sins, yet God He shall take us poor souls unto Himself, showing us how we may win redemption hereafter, and greater life, making this shameful death a very Door of Life unto us. Now is there not some comfort in this? Speak,—thou, Martin.”
“Why, John,” answered the squat fellow, shaking his red head gloomily, “I have heard tell a man is damned to everlasting fire except his sins be loosed and soul annealed by Holy Church.”
“And thou, Reynold?”
“Oh, as for me, John, being of knightly lineage and bred to arms, I care and know me nought o’ such scholarly matters and to my comfort had liefer hear thee sing.”
Now hereupon John sighed amain, looking on them, one and all, with troubled eyes; but when he would have spoken, was clank of bar and bolt, the massy door swung open, and to them entered divers men in bright mail who with shouts and blows marshalled the doomed ten and marched them forth of the mighty keep, up and out into the sunny marketplace, where a double rank of armoured pikemen held back the eager concourse, folk of all conditions who, beholding this sorry company, began to murmur against them, a dreadful muttering that swelled to a fierce shout, a merciless roar:
“Death … death to the wolves’-heads! Death on all outlaws! Let them hang!”
Jangling in their fetters, the doomed ten were hustled through this clamourous populace and halted where, for their dying, a great new gallows had been set up. Then a trumpet blared and all voices hushed, only young Simkyn whimpered in his misery. Now spake a herald, very loud and clear:
“Good people, hear ye! Thus saith Tristan the King: John o’ the Green, rogue and outlaw and of all outlaws chief, being about to die an’ ye have ought to say, speak and be done now and forever.”
“Nay, John,” cried red-headed Martin, fierce and defiant, “speak them not but sing, sing for us thy comrades; troll us ditty o’ death, good John, a song o’ farewell,—sing, brother!”
And so, glancing from grimly gallows up to radiant heaven and round about upon the pale, set faces of his companions, John sang in voice richly sweet and clear, these words:
“Here now ten dying men stand we
Yet comrades one and all.
Ten that shall soon on gallows tree
From tribulation win us free,
So joyous should our passing be,
My comrades one and all.
“For Death methinks our souls shall mend,
Our sorrows, pains and troubles end.
Thus let us greet Death like a friend.
“To life mayhap kind Death shall light us,
Yet if a while the dark benight us,
Still, faithful be and naught shall fright us.
“So, let us quit ourselves like men
Come now, my comrades all,
Take we a leap in air—and then
Awake belike to live again
Still faithful comrades all.”
His song ended, John was aware of a strange silence and looking about, beheld one approaching who limped, a smallish, high-shouldered, black-avised man, whose deep-set eyes showed bright as the gems that sparkled in cap and girdle. Heads were bared; knees touched the cobblestones; spearpoints swung glittering in salute, but this sombre man, all unheeding, looked only towards John and pausing, questioned him soft-voiced:
“Shall sinful rogues, dying on gallows, live again, fellow?”
“Ay, Majesty, e’en as shall sinful king, an’ they repent them of their sinning.”
“So! And wilt dare name me ‘sinful king’, then?”
“That will I, High Mightiness, since being man thou’rt no more than child o’ sin, maugre thy kingship.”
Tristan the King limped nearer and stood, a silent-brooding, sinister shape, staring upon John beneath knit brows.
“A gallows!” quoth he at last, between curling lips.
“Yea, verily, thy gallows, Sir King!” answered John. “Thus ‘tis disease engendered o’ thee. Well, ‘tis a death kindly swift, I’ve heard.”
“True!” murmured the King. “Yet there is also death less kindly … by the torment.” John’s grey eyes widened, his sinewy hands clenched themselves, but his voice was steady as he answered.
“So shall death prove the more welcome, most kingly Sire.”
Awhile the King stood mute and pensive, chin ‘twixt finger and thumb, then beckoning to John, he turned and limped back through the silent crowd. And forthwith John was led after,—beneath a frowning embattled gateway, across an echoing courtyard, up a narrow stair; and thus presently found himself in a small, panelled chamber, alone with the King, who sat frowning on vacancy.
“Thou art John o’ the Green, these days?”
“So men do call me, Sire.”
“Yet do I know thee for Aymery John, only son of Aymery, one-time Lord of High Morven.”
“Your Majesty is well instruct.”
“So today Fulk Fitz-Urse doth usurp your heritage.”
“Most true, Sire. This befell in my absence.”
“Ay, John o’ Green. Ye were learned youth that went overseas to consort with monkish schoolmen. Well, this youth tarried overlong, and home returning finds his noble sire treacherously slain and in High Morven, ruling in his stead, Fulk Roger Fitz-Urse. Thus did Aymery John for his scholarship barter a rich and noble heritage. How sayst thou, John o’ Green?”
“Yea, my lord.”
“And, being thus destitute and landless, hies him to the wildwood with his harp and there consorts with rogues and outlawed men. He singeth to them, fighteth and so brings order among them; he learns them arts of warfare, forms them into companies; in fine, becometh a menace, wherefore I, being a king politic that loveth peace, do purpose to suppress him, and thus end this growing menace. And so it is I would hang thee, John o’ the Green.”
“As afore said, Sire.”
“And yet,” quoth the King, eyeing John, his lean might and proud, high look, “I hear this same rogue hath a quick wit, a subtle tongue and can on rote, gittern and mandora play right skillfully, can rhyme couplets featly and sing them rarely. Well, I might use such a man.”
“Now as for myself, Sir King,” said John serenely, “though very paladin of blood and conquest, thou art a lame man, a discomfortable solitary soul woeful and aweary!” The King arose and limped impatient to and fro, plucking at his long chin and scowling down at the sweet-scented herbs that strewed the floor.
“Solitary?” he repeat