"I will get your book for you," he said, and suddenly raised his voice in a call: "Hey, fellow!"
The sleep serving man had reappeared, and now came lumbering up to them.
"Fetch a ladder."
"Please you, worshipful sir, the master of the house has bidden me find for my lord Count of Barberghe ... in fact, I am sent to bring…"
"I am the Count of Ger. Fetch a ladder."
"Oh – oh, my good lord, I crave your pardon – I was nowise aware–"
"You and your awareness be damned in one heap, but fetch a ladder!"
Like an unwieldly crossbow quarrel the man went hurtling into a doorway. The young count chuckled and looked down again. Juhel was kneeling now, with dark disordered hair framing a grubby face aglow with gratitude and half-incredulous worship.
"My – my lord Count, I – I – I–"
"It is nothing, boy. I once lost a ballad book myself. Come, stand up!"
"It was – I could not bear to lose it, my lord. I will pray God to guard you against all dangers forever – but–"
"But what?"
When Juhel was on his feet his head came above the count's shoulder; he looked the rescuer of his treasure up and down with a hungry, dazzled glare.
"But, my lord, you said you were the–"
"So I did. So I am."
"It was you who destroyed the Easterlings and took the great hold of Campscapel…"
"I with a hundred brave men. But what is the use of taking the hold of Campscapel if I cannot have a ladder when I want one?"
"My lord Count…"
But the page's husky voice was interrupted; Gavin bounded into the courtyard, raising a derisive yell.
"Juhel, you fool, the comptroller wants you – and you are going to catch it hot!"
The Cound Raoul of Ger in his plain leather garments made no better first impression on the page than on the serving man. Not until he was caught by the ear did sprightly Gavin connect Juhel's loitering with the handsome stranger.
"Ow, let go!" he squealed. "Who the devil are you?"
"Hush, you silly clown," spluttered Juhel, standing on one leg in shocked distress. "My lord is my lord Count of Ger!"
"Be off," said the count, loosing goggle-eyed Gavin with a box on the ear. "My compliments to my lord of Barberghe, and tell him his page shall follow with me."
As the end of the ladder came wildly through a doorway Juhel snorted and looked up at the count's face.
"And now," he said, "Gavin will boast forever that you, my lord, clouted his head for him."
"Fame indeed. But tell me, what is your name?"
"Juhel de Ath, my lord."
"How old?"
"fourteen, my lord."
"Do the bigger pages bully you often?"
"N-not often, my lord."
"Tell me the rhyme you made about Gavin."
"My lord:
"Listen to Gaven
And think of thunder…"
The Count of Ger smiled, and Juhel suffered bewitchment. The face of Yolande de Volsberghe fell to second place of honour in his heart; here seemed something more worshipful than all the ladies in the land.
Then he grabbed and pouched his ballad book, and caught at the count's hand and kissed it violently.
"Gavin has some reason for wrath," said the young nobleman reflectively.
"My lord, he – he keeps away until midnight with his tales; he believes half the ladies are in love with him. It was mean of me to make fun of his legs, but–"
"Each to his weapon, hey? Can you arm a chevalier, and ride?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And serve at board, and stand still, and hold your tongue?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And swim, and read a blazon, and play the lute, and hit back with a quarterstaff, and blow your nose in season?"
"Y-yes, my lord."
"Well, follow me."
"Juhel was pale and shivering with excitement, but when he followed Count Raoul into the chamber reserved for those of gentle blood his face went a proud crimson. Throughout the meal, when his duties allowed, he kept his dark eyes fixed on the face of the young war captain; the curious regard of Gavin and Guy could not disturb Juhel, for as Raoul of Ger seated himself he said to Barberghe beside him: "Excuse your page, my lord; he and I were delayed by a slight exchange of courtesy."
"The lad is Robin's" replied Barberghe, after one glance aside at Juhel, "but I am glad to hear of his behaviour."
"I also," added the Viscount Robing quickly; and he and his father set themselves to use great civility toward their fellow guest.
Toward the end of the meal they were talking of horses, and Robin complimented Count Raoul on his great gray destrier that stood in the stables below.
"That is Noureddin," said the count, "own brother to my Safadin. Sixteen hands high, and five years old, and trained as ever war horse could be. Robin, here is a bargain – take Noureddin as a gift, and lend me your brown owlet of a page until he be eighteen; I warrant you will then find him a trim squire."
Juhel paled and trembled again, scarcely believing his ears; and he saw the Fox of Barberghe elbow his son gently in the ribs.
"Why, willingly, Raoul," cried the Viscount robin. "I take it as a great grace in you, for the bargain is more generous than just. Juhel, come hither; my lord Count of Ger has saved you from a drubbing, but I dare tell he knows how to administer one at need. Serve him as cleanly and well as is in you, and guard the honour of his choice. Raoul, I render you Juhel de Ath; Juhel, bow to may lord."
Juhel made the supreme bow of his fourteen years; and behind the backs of two counts and a viscount he stuck out a deliberate tongue at Gavin and Guy, plucking up the edge of the ballad book so that it showed for a moment at the square-cut neck of his tunic.
His tunic! Half an hour after breakfast Juhel tugged the garment off and danced on it, so that Piers du Veranger permitted himself a first smile as he laid his own best tunic out for Juhel to take up. Juhel was fellow page to Piers now; Piers was darker even than he, grave and gentle and self-contained; Juhel looked for jealousy in Piers and was slightly disturbed to find none.
"What is this?" he asked, pointing to the little silken escutcheon – azure charged with a golden swan – sewn on the left breast of the yellow cloth whose main device was a black gerfalcon with extended wings.
"The badge of Marckmont," replied Piers. "Marckmont is my lord Count's barony; there is a little castle which he loves more than the great hold of Ger. At Ger there are four pages; but I am the only page of Marckmont … yet … and only I have the Marckmont badge on my clothes; and only I came with my lord on this journey. What are you looking at?"
"Marckmont," repeated Juhel, wide-eyed and still-voiced. "Marckmont at the crossing of the marshes."
"Yes, that is right. There is a long causeway. But what do you mean?"
"Nothing," said Juhel. "That is – only something I heard last night. But I hope my lord Count makes me a page of Marckmont."
"Hurry up," advised Piers; and a moment later he asked: "Are you glad to come from the Barberghes then?"
"Glad!" grunted Juhel, involved with his black borrowed hose. "I hate the lot of them. But my lord Count – of Ger, that is – seems to me…"
"Seems to you what?" inquired Piers, with tone suddenly edged.
Juhel plunged.
"The best and nobles lord and chevalier in Christendom," he muttered, flushing up to the roots of his hair.
"Of course," said the other, half surprised, but tranquil and good-natured as before, so that Juhel was emboldened to ask a question.
"The household," he began diffidently, "do they – are you often beaten?"
Piers stared.
"Tuck your shirt in at the back," he ordered, "and tie up those Barberghe clothes in a bundle. Why should I be beaten?"
"Well – I was," mumbled Juhel, stricken by the difference between life and life.
"Ah – the Barberghes," said Piers, as though the
name explained everything. "And now come with me; there is a groom waiting to take your bundle back to the noble viscount."
"Curse you, clothes," whispered Juhel, as the bundle vanished from his sight. Then he caressed the silken badge of Marckmont on his breast, and twirled upon one finger the cap which Piers had lent him – a black-and-yellow cap, with a pheasant's tail feather clasped to the crown by a little bronze gerfalcon.
"Take care of that," commanded Piers, indicating the clasp. "It was a gift to me from Master Nino Chiostra, who fashioned it."
"Who is he?" inquired Juhel curiously. "An Italian smith?"
"Comptroller to my lord Count. They lived together in Belsaunt once, before my lord was even viscount. Yes, Master Nino is a Tuscan, and a graver of gems; it is marvellous to watch him. Also he is a deadly swordsman. Also…"
The two boys were advancing toward the door at the end of a long upper passage. The door was ajar; from behind it came a thrumming of lutestrings and a man's sweet tenor voice.
"Sing ho, six comely demoiselles,
Carim-cara, cara-carim.
In each a differing charm excel,
And each a partial love compels,
Carim, cara, carissima."
"That also," whispered Piers as he knocked on the door, "is Master Nino Chiostra."
"Come in!" boomed a second and greater voice, so that Juhel jumped before he followed Piers into the room.
"Now, by the harrowing of hell!" said the second voice in a lower key. "It is not yet the hour of terce, and I have sipped one scurvy half flagon, yet already our Piers goes double!"
The speaker sat half armoured on a truckle-bed; he was barely above average height, but broader than any man Juhel had seen, with straw-coloured hair and a pink square-jawed slab of a face. the little tight-lipped mouth above his formidable chin went strangely with the laughter in his small blues eyes; Juhel's glance flew over the great should to the big estoc, or two-handed sword, in the corner behind the bed.
"Master Nino, Captain John, Master Hubriton," piped Piers evenly, "my lord Count bade me introduce to you his new page, Juhel de Ath."
"Your servant, my masters," muttered Juhel, with a comprehensive bow that failed by only an inch or two to match his other in the breakfast chamber. Timidly he straightened up, to meet in turn the honey-coloured eyes of the handsome comptroller and the black eyes of the gaunt secretary.
Master Nino Chiostra, too, wore half armour for the journey; his plum-red velvet cloak lay on the table at his elbow, and a pearl shone blandly on one of the fingers that danced up and down the strings of his great lute. Beneath black curly hair his face was very brown.
"Whence come you, Juhel?" he asked kindly; and while Juhel told him he looked the boy over.
"Serve my lord Count well," he said at length, "and all here are your friends. This is no Barberghe school of valour, where a blow resounds six times until it reaches a kitchen lad. Follow Piers carefully, and nothing will go amiss. Away now, the pair of you; while you are arming my lord Count we will fins another horse."
"Straight in the back and full in the calf," growled fair-haired Captain John "He will do."
And when Juhel slipped out with Piers the second verse of Nino's song pursued them down the passage.
"A doleful doom I bear in mind.
Carim-cara, cara-carim;
When that my true live I shall find,
Six charms in her must go combin'd.
Carim, cara, carissima."
"Who – who is that great soldier?" asked Juhel as they went.
"Captain John Doust, the Englishman, who took the head off Jehen de Campscapel. No man in Neustria, I dare wager, would stand up in his best suit of plate for Captain John to take one blow at him with that grim double-handed sword. It is merry when they are together, my lord Count and he and Master Nino. Even Master Hubriton will enter into their jesting, and he is glum enough for the most part. Now silence."
In a fever of hushed devotion Juhel helped Piers to buckle the bright armour upon Raoul of Ger.
"Easier with two of you," commented the young count absently. Then he turned his eyes from the thronged street beyond the slatted window to the two dark heads bobbing about him.
"Juhel, you are strange to cities," he observed. "Mark this – be courteous to the burgher folk as to any priest or chevalier. Their way of life is not a better way, or yet a worse way, than mine and yours; it is a different way. Up there, in Street of Anvils, I had upon a time great kindliness and comfort shown me. I would have all burghers know that my coats mark their friends. You understand?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good boy. You are deft with the armour, but still you touch it with hot palms, which will not do. Piers works with fingers only, and so must you. Piers, take my shield to-day; Juhel, the helm and cloak. Follow on."
How different this sally and this mounting from every occasion gone before! The great courtyard of the Four Swords was bright with yellow surcoats; men wearing other couloirs – among them chevrons red and black – formed a mere fringe of groundlings. A fringe admiring, sullen, critical … and, to Juhel, utterly negligible.
To-day Count Raoul sat his great iron-gray stallion Safadin; Juhel felt that he would like to whisper an apologetic explanation in the ear of dapple-gray Noureddin, parted from his more famous brother to make a page happy.
For Juhel felt that he was going to be happy. Dimly he knew that he had met those who were gentle, and yet not fools or weaklings. In a world of bullies and clods and cowards he had inwardly mocked at the duties preached to him; amid the crowding sable falcons he suddenly saw those duties as proud and shining things. Serve and obey, yes – but first be sure that what you served was worthy.
The count's trumpets shrilled. Juhel tightened rein of the black gelding set apart for his use. Forward through the summer air, into the shadowed streets of Belsaunt – Gavin and Guy bareheaded and respectful at the great inn gateway; Juhel, with cap pulled tight on his curls, sparing them one contemptuous glance as he rode forth to Hautarroy.
CHAPTER IX. THE SPIRES OF HAUTARROY
Night in the ancient city. The moon a glittering silver disk emerging from swift translucent cloud. Beyond the open doors the archbishop's terrace, flagged and dully gleaming, with shrubs in stone vases; beyond again, mysterious blackness of trees, where a nightingale had sung and fallen silent. Beneath each door and window the dainty shadows of clambering roses, dancing in shapes of moonlight that slanted across the floor.
Juhel, curled up in a window seat of the dim antechamber, paid dreamy heed to the wind song, sniffing the blown perfume as he dared not sniff its counterpart in Belsaunt hours before. For this was his third night with a strange household, and no one had yet made any attempt to kick him. All afternoon, since their arrival in the city, Piers had run and ridden on the count's errands; now Piers was in bed at the Sign of the Burning Bush, and Juhel all alone had followed their lord on his visit of respect to the aged prelate.
They – the tired old man and the grave young one – wee in there, behind the purple-curtained door; on the other window seat in the antechamber dozed a page of the archbishop'' household, and Juhel felt himself to be alone.
To-morrow his own clothes were to be ready – and with a swan upon the breast of each tunic, for Juhel was appointed second page of Marckmont. To-morrow he would see the Prince Thorismund at archery practice. To-morrow the lords who had met in conclave at Belsaunt would have flowed to the capital; ah, he must tell the Count of Ger what he overheard in the Hotel de Ahun. So many things had crowded in his mind since then.
To-morrow, therefore, he night also see again the Lady Yolande de Volsberghe. He made a faint grimace at the thought: even here, in Hautarroy, you must come to the archbishop's palace before you escaped from women, at the Burning Bush the serving maids giggled and squeaked round corners, thrusting themselves in the way of men-at-arms, cursing roundly when the latter clipped and kissed them; at the Burning Bush, too, the fat wife of the taver
n master had licked her lips and beckoned to him; but Juhel had pretended not to see. And although the Lady Yolande was so fair that it had hurt him to touch her, and almost hurt him to remember her, Juhel had that in his blood which recoiled from all reminder of fleshly violence.
"Great lords seem mightily pleased to be away from their ladies," he had sneered to Piers at noon, when they saw a painted but elderly nobleman stand in his stirrups to accost a grinning woman of the town at her window above him.
"H'mph," snorted Piers. "Wait until you see my lord Count ride again to Ger."
Juhel was silenced, and in part discomfited; already adoring his master, he had not faced the fact of a countess in the background. Vaguely he shrank from having to respect a side of life that hitherto had shown him nothing but ugliness.
Yet Ger was far away, and that new trouble very misty. Now, in the shadowy antechamber, his colourful daydreams of war and chase and delicate brushwork came coiling upon him; very quietly he began to croon the lilting verses of Mater Nino Chiostra, that went with streaming banners and jingling spurs and bridles.
"First to enchant me she must bear,
Carim-cara, cara-carim,
The nimbus of Olivia's hair,
But not Olivia's nose, I swear,
Carim, cara, carissima.
"Next must I claim, and she allow,
Carim-cara, cara-carim,
Costanza's calm and steadfast brow,
Yet not Costanza's ears, I vow,
Carim, cara, carissima.
"And by the Mustering of the Ships,
Carim-cara, cara-carim,
My love must put Elena's lips
Yet shame Elena's narrow hips,
Carim, cara, carissima.
That, if any, was the way to sing about women. There was always something wrong about them … but here came the Sieur Count, escorted by the archbishop's chaplain.
Juhel leaped to his feet, shook the other page awake, and stood respectfully tendering the count's sword belt and rich cloak and feathered bonnet. Behind the shapely head of Raoul of Ger he caught a glimpse of the archbishop's black-and-orange hangings, of the great bronze candelabra and the high blue ceiling starred with bronze and gold. The count's wide eyes and aquiline nose and big well-carved mouth chimed in Juhel's heart, even as the great cathedral bells began in that moment to chime upon his ear.
Joris of the Rock [The Neustrian Cycle, Book II] (Forgotten Fantasy Library) Page 18