We Speak No Treason Vol 1

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘We’ll have wine,’ she decided. I bought honey cakes to go with the thin sour brew. I watched Agnes drinking, her full creamy throat tipped back. Pink drops escaped the flagon’s lip and trickled on her white bosom. I told her she was fair and she laughed.

  ‘There’s your great lord, Agnes.’ I pointed towards a corpulent squire of sixty. ‘Or him, look!’ turning to a man who, skinny as a thong, contorted his body into horrible shapes before an admiring crowd.

  ‘Nay, sweeting, he’d make too restless a bedfellow.’ She pulled me on. A juggler threw up coloured platters. Two bold-faced women balanced themselves upside down on sword-points, their skirts falling about naked thighs. A group of ’prentices stood over-close, gibing shrilly. ‘Flemish whores,’ Agnes muttered.

  Lovers there were, too. Walking close-twined, sitting lip-to-lip on benches. And from the depths of a scented bush came a rustling and a soft cry. At the entrance to a side street, I saw two soldiers gazing at the Fair. Their stare was a mixture of longing and feigned disinterest.

  We sat down to watch the mummers. First the Green Giant, then Robin! I sat with hands clasped, loving him. In his suit of Kendal Green, he strutted and bragged, showing his prowess in archery. Maid Marian, a pretty boy with long golden hair, piped of her love. She followed him languidly, all over the green. Wherever he went, so did she. Robin sprang into easy attitudes; Marian tripped on her gown. They performed a courtly dance, and one of Marian’s false breasts crept round the back of her waist. She fell prey to the Sheriff; Robin hammered with his broadsword, and the pair were united by Friar Tuck, much the worse for ale. Agnes and I shared a bench with four ’prentices, who leaped to their feet every minute to whistle and shoot peas at Maid Marian. Once, they upset the seat completely and began fighting among themselves. As Robin bore off his bride, the crowd bawled and chanted for more. A troupe of bagpipers who came next were hounded from the green in fury.

  A strange creature capered into view. Clad in sparkling motley, one leg red, the other yellow, he frisked around the hem of the watching circle, tweaking the noses of the men, patting the women’s cheeks. He had a face so comical that even had he not pulled it into hideous grimaces, men would have smiled at him. He rolled his eyes so high that only the whites showed, and pulled down his nose with his tongue.

  ‘Certes! ’Tis the King’s fool!’ said a low voice behind me. ‘Poor Patch. The richest man at court.’

  ‘Edward must be hereabouts.’

  ‘Leicester,’ said the first voice cryptically. ‘Ah, Jesu!’ liquid with laughter. ‘Will you look! He does my soul good!’

  He was not a tall man, this jester; only about a head higher than I, and Agnes would have dwarfed him standing. Neither was he old, he was lithe and supple, but his face was patterned with lines, like a withered fruit. He came skipping, and stood before us, duck-fashion; he pinned the pike of one shoe to the ground with the other, scratching his head; he looked mournfully about, cried: ‘Succour!’ bent bow-legged and, agile as a monkey, seized the offending foot and tossed a backward somersault.

  ‘Ah, bravely done!’ cried Agnes.

  The fool’s head turned. Unerringly, he pranced over to Agnes, and grasped her hand. He pressed a lingering kiss into the palm, gazing into her face, with lifted, mocking brows. I stared at the fretted cheeks, the temples with the heavy painted lines from each eyelid, the curling mouth, still kiss-puckered. The eyes were a clear dove-grey, and shrewd. He took my hand next. I felt his teeth nip my thumb.

  ‘You’re gallant, Sir Fool,’ I said shyly.

  The fool gave a great cry of passion and clasped his breast. ‘Beauty has spoken soft words,’ he declared. Everyone watched, grinning. ‘Madame, my heart is yours. Keep it.’ He delved in his overlarge scrip and drew out the glistening, blood-clotted heart of some animal, sheep or calf, or man! I know not what it was, save that it made me scream. The men roared. I felt sick, as the horrid thing dripped before my face. And he knew it instantly—no fool, this fool—for he dropped the offal on the grass and bent close, asking: ‘What ails the little maid?’ his voice deeper than the high whine he gave his audience.

  ‘It’s a weakness,’ Agnes sounded vexed. ‘A certain delicacy.’ They were giving me wine. ‘And she hates cock-fights. And bear-baiting.’

  We had already passed the bear, with his poor burned feet, stamping a chained, ceaseless circle. And that was only a dancer.

  ‘Strange, but forgive me,’ said the fool. ‘’Twas a crude jest. Am I pardoned, fair one?’ This in a loud whine; the crowd was impatient for him to continue. I looked in his grey eyes, saw tenderness, touched his gay shoulder with a trembling hand. He sprang away, tipping himself on to his hands, and sped thus around the eager circle. The hobby-horse, gaudy-ribboned, chased the fool across the green as the Moorish dancers ran before us in a straggling file. They wore green and red fustian, dagged sleeves, bells. ‘Clack!’ went their staves as they feinted in the dance. The smell of trodden grass rose sweet and sour. But my joy in it was dulled by the fool’s nasty jest. Though I had forgiven him, the bad taste of it lay heavy in my mouth, and when he bounded back to us I looked upon him without pleasure. He had a bauble on a stick, a monstrous moon-face, gilded with a smile on one side, a frown on the other.

  ‘Ladies, follow me!’ he pleaded, and Agnes rose from the bench. The fool’s eyes travelled up her height.

  ‘By the Rood, maiden, you are lofty,’ he remarked.

  ‘’Tis you that is low,’ she said haughtily, but I could see he charmed her in the same way as did the young birds, the flowers. He stretched out a hand to me, as I sat motionless.

  ‘Marry! the little maid’s still wroth,’ he said. ‘Come, my honeycomb. We’ll find a friend of mine.’

  He skipped ahead, Agnes admonishing him, but smiling, for as he went he sang about a lustful friar, and most of the words were nonsense. I lagged behind; Agnes nudged me on, like a dog herding sheep. Patch prodded a passing belly with his bauble; an important, a fine belly at that, clothed in murrey and fur with a broad gold pouch. And the belly’s owner merely loosed a great guffaw and slapped Patch round the shoulders.

  ‘Jesu, Agnes!’ said I. ‘He’s bold.’

  She gave a knowing little grin. ‘Well ’tis the King’s fool, forget it not,’ she said; and I ran after him, eager at last, wanting to ask about the King, the unknown magnificences that were his daily fare. He threaded through the revellers, supple and broad in his motley, and once he turned with a grimace like some evil sprite leading me on to danger. I ran beneath the sun. Red and yellow, the day.

  I thought he might be taking us to meet a courtier, but he halted at an old man’s bench. Despite the fierce heat, this man was cowled to the ears in threadbare wool so that little of his face was visible. Across his knees he cradled a harp of most ancient design. Pale as lilies, his hands were translucent and veined. The fool stretched out a hand to pluck one string of the lyre. The sound was a drop of silver rain falling.

  ‘Old friend, how goes it?’ he said softly.

  The minstrel opened eyes clear as water. ‘’Tis you, rascal,’ he murmured. ‘Methought I felt a cold wind blowing then.’

  ‘Aged blood runs thin,’ said Patch cheerily. ‘How many summers, old one?’

  With a twitching smile, he said: ‘I know not. Yet I remember the second Richard, and the day Wat Tyler rode on London. Richard saved that day of blood. Sweet Richard, they called him.’

  This is truth: I felt a strange little pang. It would be easy for me to seek sensation, to say that in an instant the future showed itself to me, but it was naught like that... Only something in me which heard those words, and moved to tenderness.

  Patch pulled off his tight scarlet cap, and I saw that he was indeed young, no more than eighteen. Tight buttery curls covered his head. He said: ‘I’ve brought you two fair maids. To mind you of other May Days!’ and laughed, a whit churlishly, and nudged the minstrel with his elbow. The hood fell back. I felt the clear wise eyes upon my face. Thin
he was, and passing frail. Any lusty wind could have taken him up like a puffball. One hand left the harp and beckoned to me.

  ‘He has written a fair ballad,’ Patch breathed in my ear. ‘The ending troubles him. Is it finished, master?’ he bawled.

  ‘Sit by me, little maid,’ said the minstrel. ‘I have a song in mind, certes, it has lived in me for months. A tale of lovers. The knight, I know him well, child of my mind as he is. But the woman...’ his head drooped, wearily.

  ‘Is she a good maid?’ I asked.

  He said, with eyes closed: ‘I am deathly sick.’ Then: ‘Yea, she is one who loved so true that she followed her love into the wilds and the desolate places. I knew such a one, once...’

  Patch spat delicately. ‘Nay, master!’ he said challengingly. ‘These creatures are things of song and romance. Angels, to haunt the imaginings of men—in truth I vow they’re wayward harlots to draw a man’s soul from his body. Then they depart, leaving him sick from lust and longing.’

  ‘If only I could complete it,’ said the old man, uncaring. ‘The maiden’s name escapes me... I cannot see her. The Forest Maid,’ he murmured. ‘The Faithful Maid. The Lily Maid... nay, nay!’ he twanged his harp, vexed. ‘Lilies are cold and holy—this maid is warm.’

  Suddenly, Patch crouched close to me.

  ‘Look, master!’ he whispered. ‘Look at her hair! Does this not inspire you?’

  The veined hand stretched out. Taking a lock of my hair in his fingers, the old man gazed as it lay like a live thing, shining and reddening in his palm.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, after a long space. ‘Nut-brown hair! A Nut-Brown Maid. Brown eyes, brown hair, sheen as a fairy woman’s, and a heart faithful to death. Is that your nature?’ he asked sharply. ‘Before the dedication, I must know. Are you a true maid to your lover?’

  ‘I have no lover,’ I said. He smiled, a kind, veiled smile. ‘Only a dream of one, to which I’m true.’

  ‘A fair answer.’ Sweet uneven chords issued from the harp. Patch cried: ‘Sing! Make her immortal!’

  ‘Cynical Sir Fool,’ murmured the minstrel. ‘My first verse then, shall echo your philosophy.’

  ‘Be it right or wrong, these men among

  On women do complain,

  Affirming this, how that it is

  A labour spent in vain

  To love them well, for never a dele

  They love a man again;

  For let a man do what he can

  Their favour to attain,

  Yet if a new to them pursue,

  Their first true lover then

  Laboureth for naught; for from her thought

  He is a banished man.’

  I felt Patch stroking my hair, gently.

  ‘We will have it in two voices,’ said the rhymer. ‘That first shall be sung by the man, in his ignorance. Now the damsel sets him right.’

  ‘I say not nay, but that all day

  It is both written and said

  That woman’s faith is, as who saith,

  All utterly decayed.

  But nevertheless, right good witness

  In this case might be laid...’

  His strange acute gaze fell on me, sweeping my hair, my face, my body. ‘Can you write?’ he asked. Someone thrust pen and paper before me. ‘Set this down,’ he said. ‘I have but a little time.’

  ‘That they love true and continue:

  Record the Nut-Brown Maid,

  Which, when her love came her to prove,

  To her to make his moan,

  Would not depart, for in her heart

  She loved but him alone.’

  A circle of listeners formed about us. They were quiet. The slow voice’s tune was passing soft. The verses flowed by. I wrote feverishly, knowing my spelling poor. I blessed the nuns of Leicester, who had taught me my letters.

  ‘It standeth so: a deed is do

  Whereof great harm shall grow;

  My destiny is for to die

  A shameful death, I trow.

  Or else to flee. The t’one must be:

  None other way I know

  But to withdraw as an outlaw

  And take me to my bow.

  Wherefore adieu, my own heart true!

  None other rede I can;

  For I must to the greenwood go,

  Alone, a banished man.’

  ‘’Tis Robin Hood!’ mocked Patch. His nose was out of joint by the attention the crowd was giving to the old ballad-maker, who only smiled.

  ‘This is an allegory,’ he said softly. ‘Know you not that every tale can have two, three, an hundred meanings?’

  ‘Are we not in the greenwood?’ demanded Patch.

  ‘Your mind is no sharper than it seems,’ said the harpist. ‘The greenwood can be the battlefield; the tomb, even. He of whom I sing, simple or noble. Construe it as you will.’

  He struck a chord, I gripped the quill. Three or four filled sheets already lay on the grass. I found myself trembling at the words’ beauty, glad that I should have aided their birth, if this was indeed truth and not the guile of a cunning showman. Then, glancing at the white fingers like crabbed stalks, I knew him too kindly, too much upon the next world’s threshold to be counterfeit.

  ‘Now sith that ye have showed to me

  The secret of your mind,

  I shall be plain to you again,

  Like as ye shall me find.

  Sith it is so that ye will go,

  I will not leave behind.

  Shall never be said the Nut-Brown Maid

  Was to her love unkind.

  Make you ready, for so am I,

  Although it were anone,

  For in my mind, of all mankind

  I love but you alone.’

  ‘Yea, that I do,’ said Patch suddenly, close.

  Rhyme snapped at the heels of rhyme. Frantic, I wrote.

  ‘By Venus and St Valentine, I love thee, maiden,’ he said, whispering.

  ‘What next, what next?’ chanted the crowd, as the ballad-maker paused.

  ‘Good people, give me space to wet my throat,’ he said wearily.

  ‘I do not speak false,’ muttered Patch. ‘You’ve robbed me of wit. I think you even rob me of my soul. I love you.’

  ‘Peace, Sir Fool,’ I said, full of impatience. ‘I cannot hear the minstrel’s words. I’ll laugh at your clowning later.’

  But he leaped from the grass with an oath and swung away, broke through the crowd and was gone. A few turned to look after him, with little interest.

  ‘I counsel you, remember how

  It is no maiden’s law

  Nothing to doubt, but to run out

  To wood with an outlaw.

  For ye must there in your hand bear

  A bow ready to draw;

  And as a thief thus must you live

  Ever in dread and awe;

  Whereby to you great harm might grow:

  Yet had I liefer than

  That had I to the greenwood go,

  Alone, a banished man.’

  The tale of the Nut-Brown Maid leaped lightly from the ballad-maker’s tongue, across the strings like sparkling rain, grew strong, sweet under my pen. She was constant and true, as I would be. She would cut her hair off by her ear, her kirtle at her knee, and so would I. The sheets of verse lay scattered like flowers. Now the lover tested his maid, tempered her steel with sorrow.

  ‘If that ye went, ye should repent;

  For in the forest now,

  I have purveyed me of a maid

  Whom I love more than you;

  Another more fair than ever ye were

  I dare it well avow,

  And of you both each should be wroth

  With other, as I trow;

  It were mine ease to live in peace

  So will I, if I can;

  Wherefore I to the wood will go,

  Alone, a banished man.’

  Someone cried: ‘Shame!’ I set down my pen. ‘Master, I am unworthy of the song,’ I said. ‘I
think I could not brook such a betrayal.’

  The ancient eyes scanned my face.

  ‘Yea,’ he said, softly, smiling. ‘Yea. You could, you will. A loving woman does not cease to love. Child, so will it be, even though your tears flow; flow like wine on a feast day.’

  I thought: how should he know? And then: I must strive to be the brave maid of his dreaming. I thought on my petty failings, and was ashamed.

  ‘But a happy ending, I pray,’ I breathed.

  His mouth quirked on a smile. ‘How fortunate that we can shape our romances to fit our will!’

  ‘Though in the wood I understood

  Ye had a paramour,

  All this may nought remove my thought,

  But that I will be your.

  And she shall find me soft and kind

  And courteous every hour;

  Glad to fufil all that she will

  Command me, to my power:

  For had ye, lo, an hundred mo’,

  Yet would I be that one,

  For in my mind, of all mankind

  I love but you alone.

  Mine own dear love, I see the prove

  That ye be kind and true;

  Of maid, of wife, in all my life,

  The best that ever I knew.

  Be merry and glad, be no more sad,

  The case is changed new,

  For it were ruth that for your truth

  Ye should have cause to rue.

  Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said

  To you when I began:

  I will not to the greenwood go,

  I am no banished man.’

  Fainter, the minstrel’s words murmured on.

  ‘...I will you bring, and with a ring

  By way of marriage

  I will you take, and lady make,

  As shortly as I can:

  Thus have you won an Earles son,

  And not a banished man...’

  His hand crept to his breast, as if it sought something long-lost. The wan face grew paler. I touched the hand gently.

  ‘Are we finished?’ I asked. Before my eyes, he was fading. Shrinking into the coarse cloth of his habit.

  ‘The heavenly dedication,’ he whispered. ‘One verse more...’ I could scarcely catch the words.