The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 - Maurice Hewlett (i wanna iguana read aloud txt) 📗

Whom There Are Few Better Qualified To Speak. He

Grudged Richard Everything--His Beauty, His Knit And Graceful Body, His

Brain Like A Sword, His Past Exploits, His Present Content. What It Was

Contented Him He Knew Not Altogether, Though A Letter From Saint-Pol Had

In Part Advised Him; But He Was Sure He Had Wherewithal To Discontent

Him. 'Foh! A Juicy Orange Indeed,' He Said To Himself, 'But I Can Wring

Him Dry.' If Richard Hugged One Thought, Bertran Hugged Another, And

Took It To Bed With Him O' Nights. Now, Therefore, When Richard Spoke Of

Jehane, Bertran Said Nothing, Waiting His Time; But When He Went On To

Madame Alois And His Duty (Which Really Coloured All The Former Thought)

Bertran Made A Grimace.

 

'Rascal,' Says Richard, Shamming Rough, 'Why Do You Make Faces At Me?'

 

Bertran Began Jerking About Like The Lid Of A Boiling Pot, And Presently

Sends A Boy For His Viol. At This, When It Came, He Snatched, And Set To

Plucking A Chord Here And A Chord There, Grinning Fearfully All The

Time.

 

'A _Tenzon!_ A _Tenzon!_ Beau Sire!' Cries He. 'Now A _Tenzon_ Between

You And Me!'

 

'Let It Be So,' Says Richard; 'Have At You. I Sing Of The Calm Day, Of

The Sweets Of True Love.'

 

'Accorded,' Says The Other. 'And I Sing Of The Sours Of False Love. Do

You Set The Mode, Prince Of Blood Royal As You Are.'

 

Richard Took The Viol Without After-Thought And Struck A Few Chords. A

Great Tenderness Was In His Heart; He Saw Duty And Himself Hand In Hand

Walking A Long Road By Night; Two Large Stars Beaconed The Way; These

Were Jehane's Eyes. A Watcher Or Two Stole Into The Upper Gallery,

Leaned On The Parapet And Listened, For Both Men Were Renowned Singers.

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Richard Began To Sing Of Green-Eyed Jehane, Who Wore The Gold Girdle,

Whose Hair Was Red Gold. His Song Was--

 

     Li Dous Consire

     Quem Don' Amors Soven--

 

But I English It Thus--

 

'That Gentle Thought Which Love Will Give Sometimes Is Like A Plait Of

Silk And Gold, And So Is This Song Of Mine To Be; Wherein You Shall Find

A Red Deep Cry Which Cometh From The Heart, And A Thin Blue Cry Which Is

The Cry Of What Is Virgin In My Soul, And A Golden Long Cry, The Cry Of

The King, And A Cry Clear As Crystal And Colder Than A White Moon: And

That Is The Cry Of Jehane.'

 

Bertran, Trembling, Snatched At The Viol. 'Mine To Sing, Richard, Mine

To Sing! Ha, Love Me No More!'

 

     Cantar D' Amors Non Voilh,

 

He Began--

 

'Your Strands Are Warped And Will Not Accord, For Love Will Warp Any

Song. It Turneth The Heart Of A Man Black, And The Soul It Eateth Up. At

Fourteen Goes The Virgin First A-Wallowing; And Soon The King Croaks

Like A Hog. A Plait! Love Is A Fetter Of Hot Iron; So My Song Shall Be

Iron-Cruel Like The Bidding Of Jehane. Say Now, Shall I Set The Song?

The Love-Cry Is The Cry Of A Man Who Drags His Way With His Side Torn;

And The Colour Of It Is Dry Red, Like Old Blood; And The Sound Thereof

Maketh The Hearers Ache, So It Quavers And Shrills. For It Cries Only

Two Things: Sorrow And Shame.'

 

He Misconceived His Adversary Who Thought To Quell Him By Such Vapours.

Richard Took The Viol.

 

'Bertran, It Is Well Seen That Thou Art Pinched And Have A Torn Side;

But Ask Of Thy Itching Fingers Who Graved The Wound. Dry Thou Art,

Bertran, For Thy Trough Is Dry; The Husks Prick Thy Gums, But There Is

No Other Meat. Well May The Hearers' Ears Go Aching; For Thy Cry, Man,

Proceedeth From Thy Aching Belly. But Now I Will Set The Song Again, And

Tell Thee Of A Lady Girdled With Fine Gold. Beneath The Girdle Beats A

Red Heart; But Her Spirit Is Like A Spire Of Blue Smoke, That Comes From

A Fire, Indeed, But Strains Up To Heaven. Warmed By That Fire, Like That

Smoke I Fly Up; And So I Lie Among The Stars With Jehane.'

 

Bertran's Jaw Was At Work, Mashing His Tongue. 'Ah, Richard, Is It So

With Thee? Wait Now While I Strike A Blow.' He Made The Viol Scream.

 

'What If I Twist The Song Awry, And Give Thee Good Cause To Limp The

Sorrowful Way? What If For My Aching Belly I Give Thee An Aching Heart?

Eh, If My Fingers Scratch My Side, There Are Worse Talons At Thine.

Watch For The Lion's Claw, Richard, Which Tears Not Flesh But Honour,

And Gives More Pain Than Any Knife. Pain! He Is King Of Pain! Mend

That, Then Face Sorrow And Shame.'

 

Ending With A Snap, He Grinned More Knowledge Out Of His Red Eyes Than

He Pronounced With His Mouth. His Terrible Excitement, The Labour And

Sweat Of It, Set Richard's Brows Knitting. He Stretched Out His Hand For

The Viol Slowly; And His Eyes Were Cold On Bertran, And Never Off Him

For A Moment As He Sang To This Enemy, And Judged Him While He Sang. The

Note Was Changed.

 

'The Lion Is A Royal Beast, A King, Whose Son Am I. We Maul Not Each

Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 5 (How Bertran De Born And Count Richard Strove In A Tenzon) Pg 31

Other In Anjou, Save When The Jackal From The South Cometh Snarling

Between. Then, When We See The Unclean Beast, Saith One, "Faugh! Is This

Your Friend?" And The Other, "Thou Dost Ill To Say So." Then The Blood

May Flow And The Jackal Get A Meal. But Here There Is None To Come

Licking Blood. The Prize Is The White Roe Of France, Fed On The French

Lilies, And Now In Safe Harbour. She Shall Lie By The Leopard, And The

Lion Rule The Forest In Peace Because Of The Peace About Him; And Like A

Harvest Moon Above Us, Clear Of The Trees, Will Be Jehane.'

 

'Listen, Richard, I Will Be Clearer Yet,' Came From Between Bertran's

Teeth. He Fairly Ground Them Together. Having The Viol, He Struck But

One Note Upon It, With Such Rudeness That The String Broke. He Threw The

Thing Away And Sang Without It, Leaning His Hands On His Knees, And

Craning Forward That He Might Spit The Words.

 

'This Is The Bite Of The Song: She Is Forsworn. Harbour? She Kept

Harbour Too Long; She Is Mangled, She Is Torn. Touch Not The Lion's

Prey, Leopard. You Go Hunting Too Late--For All But Sorrow And Shame.'

 

Richard Stretched Not His Hand Again; His Jaw Dropped And Most Of The

Strong Colour Died Down In His Face. Turned To Stone, Stiff And

Immovable, He Sat Staring At The Singer, While Bertran, Biting His Lip,

Still Grinning And Twitching With His Late Effort, Watched Him.

 

'Give Me The Truth, Thou.' His Voice Was Like An Old Man's, Hollow.

 

'As God Is In Heaven That Is The Truth, Richard,' Said Bertran De Born.

 

The Count's Head Went Up, As When A Hound Yelps To The Sky: Laughter

Ensued, Barking Laughter--Not Mirth, Not Grief Disguised, But Mockery,

The Worst Of All. One On The Gallery Nudged His Fellow; That Other

Shrugged Him Off. Richard Stretched His Long Arms, His Clenched Fists To

The Dumb Sky. 'Have I Bent The Knee To Good Issues Or Not? Have I Abased

My Head? O Clement Prince! O Judge In Israel! O Father Of Kings! Hear

Now A Parable Of The Prodigal: Father, I Have Sinned Against Heaven And

Before Thee, And Thou Art No More Worthy To Be Called My Father. O

Glutton! O Filching Dog!'

 

'By The Torch Of The Gospel, Count Richard, What I Sang Is True,' Said

Bertran, Still Tensely Grinning, And Now Also Wringing At His

Hang-Nails. Richard, Checked By The Voice, Turned Blazing Upon Him.

 

'Why, Thou School-Boy Rhymester, That Is The Only Merit Thou Hast, And

That Not Thine Own! Thy Japes Are Nought, Thy Tragics The Mewing Of

Cats; But Thy News, Fellow, Thy News Is Too Rich Matter For Thy Sewer

Of A Throat. Tragic? No, It Is Worse: It Is Comic, O Heaven! Heed You

Now--' In His Bitter Shame He Began Pantomiming With His Fingers:--'Here

Are Two Persons, Father By The Grace Of God, Son By The Grace Of The

Father. Saith Father, "Son, Thou Art Sprung From Kings; Take This Woman

That Is Sprung From Kings, For I Have No Further Use For Her." Anon

Cometh A White Rag Thinly From The Inner Tent--Mark Her Provenance. Son

Kneeleth Down. "Wilt Thou Have My Son, Cony?" Saith Father. "Yea, Dear

Heart," Saith She. "'Tis My Counterpart, Mark You," Saith Father.

"Better Than Nothing At All," Saith She. Benevolent Father, Supple-Kneed

Son, Convenient Lady. Here Is Agreement. And Thus It Ends.' Again He

Laughed Outright At The Steel-Blue Face Of The Sky, Then Jumped In A

Flash From His Seat To The Throat Of Bertran. Bertran Tumbled Backwards

With A Strangled Cry, And Richard Pegged Him To The Ground.

 

'Thou Yapping Cur, Bertran,' He Grated, 'Thou Sick Dog Of My Kennel, If

This Snarl Of Thine Goes True Thou Hast Done A Service To Me And Mine

Thou Knowest Not Of. There Is Little To Do Before I Am The Richest Man

In Christendom. Why, Dull Rogue, Thou Hast Set Me Free!' He Looked Up

Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 5 (How Bertran De Born And Count Richard Strove In A Tenzon) Pg 32

Exulting From His Work At The Man's Throat To Shout This Word. 'But If

It Is Not True, Bertran'--He Shook Him Like A Rat--'If It Is Not True, I

Return, O Bertran, And Tear This False Gullet Out Of Its Case, And With

Thy Speckled Heart Feed The Crows Of Périgord.' Bertran Had Foam On His

Lips, But Richard Showed Him No Mercy. 'As It Is, Bertran,' He Went On

With His Teeth On Edge, 'I Am Minded To Finish Thee. But That I Need

Something From Thee I Think I Should Do It. Tell Me Now Whence Came Thy

News. Tell Me, Bertran, Or Thou Art In Hell In A Moment.'

 

He Had To Let Him Up To Win From Him After A Time That His Informant Was

The