In the Days of the Guild

  IV

  THE GRASSHOPPERS' LIBRARY

  HOW RANULPH LE PROVENCAL CEASED TO BE A MINSTREL AND BECAME A TROUBADOUR

  On a hillside above a stone-terraced oval hollow, a youth lay singingsoftly to himself and making such music as he could upon a rote. Theinstrument was of the sort which King David had in mind when he said,"Awake, psaltery and harp; I myself will awake early." It was abox-shaped thing like a zither, which at one time had probably owned tenstrings. The player was adapting his music as best he might to favor itspeculiarities. Notwithstanding his debonair employment, he did not lookas if he were on very good terms with life. His cloak and hose wereshabby and weather-stained, his doublet was still less presentable,his cheeks were hollow, and there were dark circles under his eyes.Presently he abandoned the song altogether, and lay, chin in hand,staring down into the grass-grown, ancient pit.

  It had begun its history as a Roman amphitheater, a thousand yearsbefore. Gladiators had fought and wild beasts had raged in that arena,whose encircling wall was high enough to defy the leap of the mostagile of lions. Up here, on the hillside, in the archways outside theoutermost ring of seats, the slaves had watched the combats. The youthhad heard something about these old imperial customs, and he hadguessed that he had come upon a haunt of the Roman colonists who hadfounded a forgotten town near by. He wondered, as he lay there, if hehimself were in any better ease than those unknown captives, who hadfought and died for the amusement of their owners.

  Ranulph le Provencal, as he was one day to be known, was the son of aProvencal father and a Norman mother. In the siege of a town his fatherhad been killed and his mother had died of starvation, and he himselfhad barely escaped with life. That had been the penalty of being onthe wrong side of the struggle between the Normans of Anjou and theirunwilling subjects in Aquitaine. At the moment the rebellious countsof Aquitaine were getting the best of it. Ranulph knew little of thetangled politics of the time, but it seemed to him that all France wasturned into a cockpit in which the sovereign counts of France, who werejealous of their independence, and the fierce pride of the Angevindukes who tried to keep a foothold in both France and England, and thedetermined ambition of the King who sat in Paris, were warring over theenslavement of an unhappy people. He himself had no chance of becominga knight; his life was broken off before it had fairly begun. He gothis living by wandering from one place to another making songs. He hada voice, and could coax music out of almost any sort of instrument; andhe had a trick of putting new words to familiar tunes that made folklaugh and listen.

  Neighborhood quarrels had drained money and spirit out of the part ofthe country where he was, and he had almost forgotten what it was liketo have enough to eat. The little dog that had followed him throughhis wanderings for a year foraged for scraps and fared better than hismaster; but now small Zipero was hungry too. The little fellow had beenmauled by a mastiff that morning, and a blow from a porter's staff hadbroken his leg. Ranulph had rescued his comrade at some cost to himself,and might not have got off so easily if a sudden sound of trumpets hadnot cleared the way for a king's vanguard. As the soldiers rode in atthe gates the young minstrel folded his dog in his cloak and limped outalong the highway. Up here in the shade of some bushes by the desertedruins, he had done what he could for his pet, but the little whimperZipero gave now and then seemed to go through his heart.

  Life had been difficult before, but he had been stronger, or moreignorant. He had made blithe songs when he was anything but gay atheart; he had laughed when others were weeping and howling; he haddanced to his own music when every inch of his body ached withweariness; and it had all come to this. He had been turned out of hispoor lodgings because he had no money; he had been driven out of thetown because he would not take money earned in a certain way. He seemedto have come to the end.

  If that were the case he might as well make a song about it and see whatit would be like. He took up the rote, and began to work out a refrainthat was singing itself in his head. Zipero listened; he was quieterwhen he heard the familiar sound. The song was flung like a challengeinto the silent arena.

  The Planet of Love in the cloud-swept night Hangs like a censer of gold, And Venus reigns on her starlit height Even as she ruled of old. Yet the Planet of War is abroad on earth In a chariot of scarlet flame, And Mercy and Loyalty, Love and Mirth Must die for his grisly fame.

  Ravens are croaking and gray wolves prowl On the desolate field of death, The smoke of the burning hangs like a cowl-- Grim Terror throttles the breath. Yet a white bird flies in the silent night To your window that looks on the sea, To bear to my Lady of All Delight This one last song from me.

  "Princess, the planets that rule our life Are the same for beggar or King,-- We may win or lose in the hazard of strife, There is ever a song to sing! We are free as the wind, O heart of gold! The stars that rule our lot Are netted fast in a bond ninefold,-- The twist of Solomon's Knot."

  "So you believe that, my son?" asked a voice behind him. He sat up andlooked about; an old man in a long dusky cloak and small flat cap hadcome over the brow of the hill. He answered, a trifle defiantly,"Perhaps I do. At any rate, that is the song."

  "Oh, it is true," the old man said quietly as he knelt beside Ziperoon the turf. He examined the bandages on the little dog's neck andforelegs, undid them, laid some bruised leaves from his basket on thewounds. The small creature, with his eyes on his master's face, lickedthe stranger's hand gratefully to show that he was more at ease. "Manalone is free. This herb cannot change itself; it must heal; that onemust slay. Saturn is ever the Greater Malignant; our Lady Venus cannotrule war, nor can Mars rule a Court of Love. The most uncertaincreature in the world is a man. The stars themselves cannot force meto revile God."

  Ranulph was silent. After months and years among rude street crowds,the dignity and kindliness of the old man's ways were like a voice fromanother world.

  "I can cure this little animal," the stranger went on presently, "ifyou will let me take him to my lodgings, where I have certain salvesand medicines. I shall be pleased if you will come also, unless youare occupied."

  Ranulph laughed; that was absurd. "I am a street singer," he said. "Mytime is not in demand at present. I must tell you, however, that theCount is my enemy--if a friendless beggar can have such a thing. One ofhis varlets set his ban-dog on us both, this morning."

  "He will give me no trouble," said the old man quietly. "Come,children."

  Ranulph got to his feet and followed with Zipero in his arms. At thefoot of the hill on the other side was a nondescript building which hadgrown up around what was left of a Roman house. The unruined pillarsand strongly cemented stone-work contrasted oddly with the thatch andtile of peasant workmen. They passed through a gate where an old andwrinkled woman peered through a window at them, then they went up aflight of stairs outside the wall to a tower-room in the third story.A chorus of welcome arose from a strange company of creatures, cagedand free: finches, linnets, a parrot, a raven which sidled up atonce to have its head scratched, pigeons strutting and cooing on thewindow-ledge, and a large cat of a slaty-blue color with solemn, topazeyes, which took no more note of Zipero than if he had been a dog ofstone. A basket was provided for the small patient, near the window thatlooked out over the hills; the old servingwoman brought food, simple butwell-cooked and delicious, and Ranulph was motioned to a seat at thetable. It was all done so easily and quickly that dinner was over beforeRanulph found words for the gratitude which filled his soul.

  "Will you not tell me," he said hesitatingly at last, "to whom I mayoffer my thanks--and service--if I may not serve you in some way?"

  "Give to some one else in need, when you can," said his host calmly."I am Tomaso of Padua. A physician's business is healing, wherever hefinds sickness in man or beast. Your little friend there needed certainthings; your need is for other things; the man who is now coming up thestairs needs something else."
Taking a harp from a corner he added,"Perhaps you will amuse yourself with this for an hour, while I seewhat that knock at the door means, this time."

  Whoever the visitor was, he was shown into another room, and Ranulphpresently forgot all his troubles and almost lost the consciousnessof his surroundings, as the harp sang under his hand. He began to putinto words a song which had been haunting him for days,--a ballad of acaptive knight who spent seven long years in Fairyland, but in spite ofall that the Fairy Queen's enchantment could do, never forgot his ownpeople. Many of the popular romances of the time were fairy-tales fullof magic spells, giants, caverns within the hills, witches and wood-folkhoofed and horned like Pan, sea-monsters, palaces which appeared andvanished like moon-shine. When they were sung to the harp-music of atroubadour who knew his work, they seemed very real.

  "That is a good song," said a stranger who had come in so quietly thatRanulph did not see him. "Did you find it in Spain?"

  Ranulph stood up and bowed with the grace that had not left him in allhis wandering life. "No," he said, his dark eyes glinting with laughter,"I learned it in the Grasshoppers' Library. I beg your pardon,master,--that is a saying we have in Provence. You will guess themeaning. A learned physician found me there, studying diligently thoughperhaps not over-profitably upon a hillside."

  "Not bad at all," said the stranger, sitting down by Ranulph in thewindow and running over the melody on the harp. His fingers swept thestrings in a confident power that showed him a master-musician, and hebegan a song so full of wonder, mystery and sweetness that Ranulphlistened spellbound. Neither of them knew that for centuries after theysat there singing in a ruined Roman tower, the song would be known toall the world as the legend of Parzifal.

  "I too have studied in the Grasshoppers' Library," said the singer, "butI found in an ancient book among the infidels in Spain this tale of acup of enchantment, and made use of it. I think that it is one of thosesongs which do not die, but travel far and wide in many disguises, andend perhaps in the Church. You are one of us, are you not?"

  "I am a street singer," Ranulph answered, "a jongleur--a jester. I makesongs for this,"--he took up his battered rote and hummed a camp-chorus.

  "Do you mean to say that you play like that--on that?" asked the other."Your studies must have led you indeed to Fairyland. You ought to go toEngland. The Plantagenets are friendly to us troubadours, and theEnglish are a merry people, who delight in songs and the hearing oftales."

  Ranulph did not answer. Going to England and going to Fairyland werenot in the same class of undertaking. Fairyland might be just over theborder of the real world, but it cost money to cross the seas.

  Tomaso came in just then, his deep-set eyes twinkling. "It is allright," he said, nodding to the troubadour.

  "I have been telling our friend here that he should go to England," saidthe latter, rising and putting on his cloak. "If, as you say, his fatherwas loyal to the House of Anjou, Henry will remember it. He is a wiseold fox, is Henry, and he needs men whom he can trust. He is changinglaws, and that is no easy thing to do when you have a stubborn peoplewith all sorts of ideas in their heads about custom, and tradition, andwhat not. He wants to make things safe for his sons, and the throne onwhich he sits is rocking. The French king is greedy and the Welsh aresavage, and Italian galleys crowd the very Pool of London. I rememberme when I was a student in Paris, a Welsh clerk--he calls himself nowGiraldus Cambrensis, but his name then was Gerald Barri,--had the roomover mine, the year that Philip was born. We woke up one night to findthe whole street ablaze with torches and lanterns, and two old cronesdancing under our windows with lighted torches in their hands, howlingfor joy. Barri stuck his head out of window and asked what ailed them,and one of them screamed in her cracked voice, 'We have got a Prince nowwho will drive you all out of France some day, you Englishmen!' I cansee his face now as he shouted back something that assuredly was notFrench. I tell you, Philip will hate the English like his father beforehim, and these are times when a troubadour who can keep a merry face anda close tongue will learn much."

  As the door closed the physician sat down in his round-backed chair,resting his long, wrinkled hands upon the arms. "Well, my son," he saidin his unperturbed voice, "I find somebody yonder is very sorry that youwere thrown out of the gates this morning."

  Ranulph glanced up quickly, but said nothing.

  "He had no idea that you were here, of course. He came to get me to askthe stars what had become of you, as you could not be found on the road.When he found that you would not serve him in the matter of the daggerand the poison, he never intended to let you leave the town, but as youknow, your dog, seeing you mishandled, flew at his varlet, and thethick-headed fellow drove you out before he had any further orders. Bysuch small means," old Tomaso stroked Zipero's head, "are evil plansmade of no account."

  Ranulph drew a long breath. He had lost color.

  "But you," he faltered, "you must not shelter me if he is thusdetermined. He will take vengeance on you."

  The physician smiled. "He dares not. He is afraid of the stars. He knowsalso that I hold the death of every soul in his house in some small vialsuch as this--and he does not know which one. He knows that I have onlyto reveal to any minstrel what I know of his plans and his doings, andhe would be driven from the court of his own sovereign. He can neverbe sure what I am going to do, and he does not know himself what he isgoing to do, so that he fears every one. By the twelve Houses of Fate,it must be unpleasant to be so given over to hatred!

  "Now, my son, let us consider. You heard what Christian said but now ofthe need of the House of Anjou for faithful service. A trouvere can gowhere others cannot. He knows what others dare not ask. He can say whatothers cannot. Were it not for that prince of mischief and minstrelsy,Bertran de Born, Henry and his folk would have been at peace long ago.Know men's hearts, and though you are a beggar in the market-place, youcan turn them as a man turns a stream with a wooden dam. You shall gowith Christian to Troyes and thence to Tours, and I will keep yourlittle friend here until he is restored, and bring him to you when Icome to that place. If search is made for you it will be made in Venice,where they think you have gone."

  Ranulph, with the aid of his new friends, went forth with proper harpand new raiment a day or two afterward, and repaid the loan of oldTomaso when he met the latter in Tours some six months later. He didnot give up his studies in the Grasshoppers' Library, but the lean yearswere at an end both for him and for Zipero.