# The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 3

Chapters 3 & 4 were previously published as "Tale of the King's Heir," in Everybody's Magazine, June 1921.

### CHAPTER III
#### TELLING FORTUNES

"IT is ugly here," said the girl. "I hope it ends soon."
"Verily and amen," said the man. "An ugly world, though you are in it, Edith. Pray God it ends soon."
"You always take me wrong," said the girl. "You will always be solemn."
"For I am a fool," said the man.
The year of the Lord 1153 was drawing towards Michaelmas. They were riding through what was even eight centuries ago corn-land, but the fields were neither ripe to harvest nor bare stubble. The corn had been burnt, and all that country-side lay black and stinking.
"Then came the devil by night and sowed tares," the man said. "Oh, Mother Mary, Mother Mary, there will be hungry children in this shire before the corn is ripe again."
They made a bright patch of colour in the black land, he and the girl, for he wore a cloak of saffron-yellow with a red hood fashioned like a cock's comb and her mantle was green. He was on a pony and she astride a mule, and as they rode they jangled, for besides the bells on his hood their steeds were hung with much merry baggage, a little drum, a tambourine and two brass horns. Bran, jester, juggler and minstrel, was on his way to the harvest fair of St. Edmundsbury, where the girl would make music while he juggled and danced to his music. A pair well-matched to make folk gay: he was a little man and grotesque, bowed down by his big head, all arms and legs and hands and feet, and she was shapely, buxom for her youth, and of a soft smiling prettiness.
They came after a while to a town, a place of a hundred houses built of wattle and plaster and some two or three of stone, a town of dignity, and there they made a halt. Seeking out the hovel which by a pole thrust out above the door to bear a bunch of branches announced itself a tavern, they tied up pony and mule under a pent-house and went in to dine upon eels stewed with saffron and mustard and bread and wine, which cost them the great price of four silver pennies, so that Bran questioned the reckoning, and was told there was a cruel dearth of all food of man and beast. "Yea, yea," Bran nodded. "When the poor grudge the poor, hell is upon earth. Take up the moneys, good fellow." So the man of the tavern, knowing himself an extortioner, blessed him and warmed to him and asked where he was going. But when Bran spoke of the fair at St. Edmundsbury the taverner threw up his hands. "St. Edmund's fair! God have mercy, minstrel! Whence have you come that you know no better?"
"Out of the land where fools are born, brother. Tell me then, what ails St. Edmund?"
Then the man told him that Count Eustace, the King's son, claiming money and men of the abbot of Edmundsbury had ravaged all the lands of the abbey near and far and the land of every man who was reckoned loyal to the monks, so that the country was a desert without corn or beast, and there would be no fair at Edmundsbury but mourning and ruined folk asking alms of the empty abbey.
"Yea, yea," Bran nodded. "When wise men go crying, a fool must turn wise. When children go crying our life is but lies."
"I was to have a new coif at Edmundsbury," the girl said, "a new coif of silk. A thing always goes wrong with us."
"Na, na, na. All is well for us always, for God lets us laugh at ourselves," and he coaxed her and was droll till she put off pouting and he promised they would go back to London again and she was merry.
But when they went out into the market-place there were so many people there and they so wretched that Bran swore it was but God's charity to give them a dance and a jest. "They have not a penny among them," said Edith.
"Then God ha' mercy, child, let them forget it awhile. Play, play," and he beat a roll on the drum and struck up a merry ballad while she played on a lute, and then he plucked out his bagpipe and making it drone and squeak danced grotesquely. Soon they had a ring about them, and the girl slipped off her green cloak and stood out in a golden dress that clung about her and danced while he played upon the horn. Then Bran juggled with knives, and the poor folk forgot themselves and began to shout and stamp, and then he began to act a little play by himself, being by turns an old woman and a monk, and the old woman's pig and her lazy husband, and picking out folks in the crowd for each to talk to. They were merry at that, and when the girl stood out to sing them a love song they loved her and said so and she was the prettier. So Bran made fun for them like the men of his trade yesterday and to-day and for ever, coming out into the ring with an absurd gait and telling an absurd tale of nothing and breaking it off to turn to one and another, telling their fortunes and promising them the wildest nonsense. But in the midst of it, snatching a moment in the midst of laughter, "Who is the great lord, brother?" says he in a whisper to a grave fellow.
From the best house, the only stone house in the market-place, had come out some men richly dressed. They watched and one was drawing nearer. He walked unsteadily, a big man and young and of some beauty of face, but it was sunken already and flushed, and he frowned and made mouths. "Count Eustace it is, the King's son," the man muttered to Bran, and as he came the crowd fell apart from him and was hushed. "Aye, stand off, swine, you stink," he said. But Bran rattled on in a swift patter of nonsense. "What is this folly, fool? Do you tell fortunes? Tell mine, you rogue."
Bran came up to him in zigzags, like a dog conscious of sin, and grinning and squirming and bowing. Then on a sudden he stopped and shot out his long arm with his long finger pointing straight and shrieked and trembled all over: "Jesu, mercy!" he gasped and cried shrill, "What stands behind you, lord? Look, look! Oh, the black monk behind you and his eyes in his hood," and he put up his hands, making the sign of the evil eye and staggered back and back into the crowd.
Count Eustace started, looked round on this side and on that, turned about and turned again wildly and clutched at the air. He tried to speak and said no word. His face was wrought with terror. He swayed and he fell.
The people shrank from him, murmuring holy words, crossing themselves, and he was left lying alone. None too quickly his knights came to him and stood a little while fearing to touch him. Then the gaping lips closed and quivered and gave out a hoarse oath, and he raised himself and again looked over his shoulder and shuddered. Talking to each other with their eyes his knights drew near and bore him away.
Before that Bran and the girl were gone, making the best speed their beasts could give them. And when they were well away Bran laughed. "Yea, yea. Ever he stands my friend, good brother Fear. He is the great lord, big brother Fear."
But the girl looked at him askance. "Bran," she said timidly, "Bran, what did you see?"
"See, child?" he laughed again. "Naught but a lewd, drunken boy. He saw the rest. But he is a great lord. He can see things. Not Bran, no. Bran is but a poor fool."
"Sometimes I think you have the evil eye yourself," she said.
It was late in that day they met the man from the north. He wore a good cloak, but it was plain. He rode a good horse, but it was a beast for use not show. He might have been a merchant or some lord's steward. He was halted on a hill in the burnt country, gazing at it, and when they came up: "How call you this, good fellow?" he said. "Whose work is it?" So Bran told him. "A king's son!" said he and swore. "A man would say it was the King's work to make the corn grow, not to blast it."
"A man would say so, cousin—if no king could hear him," Bran grinned.
"I have ridden three hundred miles in England, and, by the rood, each mile is worse. Pray you, good fellow, what manner of king is this you have in your country?"
"By my faith, cousin, a very kingly king."
"Say you so? God's mercy, you are easy to please in England."
"Sing soft, cousin."
"I come from France where the corn is reaped and the king grow fat, and here"—he waved his hand to the black fields. "But they have a king in France."
"But one, cousin. But here there is Stephen who is King, and Eustace his son who hopes to be King, and one Henry of Anjou his cousin who would be King, and the land hath no peace."
"I have heard of it," says the Frenchman. "But which of them do you choose in England?"
"I am but a poor fool, cousin."
"God's mercy, it is time one of them made order. This is very hell." It was said vehemently, and thereafter he fell silent, glowering at the black land. And Bran looked at him. He was a very solid fellow, as tall as a man need be, but so thick everywhere that he seemed short, bull-necked, deep of chest and of belly, and massive in the leg. His face was handsome in a bold fierce kind but red all over, and his eyes were bloodshot and the redder it looked for the other red in his hair. No doubt of his vigour, none of his passions. And yet—suddenly he turned upon Bran: "What are you thinking of me, sirrah?"
"Why, cousin, I am wondering whether you are a boy or a man."
"Well said, fool," he laughed as loud as he talked. "That is the very heart of it. I like you for that." Then it was as if a veil were drawn over his staring grey eyes. "Well, know me, then. I am a Frenchman born and come to England to look at certain lands and traffic for them if I think well. And you? Who is your lord?"
"Nenny, nenny. Bran is a masterless man, cousin. Bran goes to and fro in the earth and walks up and down in it, all men's servant, no man's slave. Like a king, cousin."
The Frenchman laughed again and thrust out a big clumsy hand and gripped his arm. "I love you, I say."
"That is what no man has ever said." Bran looked at him wistfully.
"But a pretty wench on a time, rogue?" The Frenchman jerked his head at Edith.
"Fie then," says she, and laughed and looked away.
"Na, na. Edith is Bran's sister and Bran's daughter. Edith is my good maid who dances when I play."
"God's body it is what women are for," says the Frenchman. "And you, what is your part?"
"He talks his follies, sir," said Edith with a beckoning glance, and then smiling malice at Bran: "Yes, and he tells fortunes."
"Oh, a sage fool! By the stars, brother fool? By art magic? By——"
"Nay, brother, by the eyes," says Bran and looked into his.
"God's body, tell my fortune, then. I do not fear." He stopped his horse.
"Have your will," Bran said. "Come down to earth and eat bread with me. We are all one life then," and he slid off his pony and opening his scrip set bread and meat and salt upon the grass. The Frenchman laughed at him but sat down and held out his hand. "Eat, brother," says Bran, grave as a priest.
"Nay, faith, he is quite mad, sir," says the girl. "He will see death in your face as like as not."
"I defy him." The Frenchman began to munch, and Bran ate too and brought out a flask of wine and drank with him and looked. And after a long time: "Now have I eaten your salt, fool. And I am your man. What now?"
"Yea, yea," Bran said. "You do not fear. That is strange. The first man ever I saw you do not fear. You are sure, so sure, brother."
"Why man, I had a devil to my grandad's grandad. So the tale goes in my country."
"Yea, yea. The old tales are true tales. I see the devil, brother. He is your lord whiles. But you are greater. Only you have ever two souls in you. You love and you are cold. You are cruel and are gentle, rash and very wise, a wild rogue and good. I see a great fortune, brother, and sorrowful, sorrowful." He put out his hand and touched the man timidly and still gazed at him.
"God's blood, it is a fortune I like," the man cried. "What, brother, is that the devil speaks?"
"Nay, that is no devil. That is more like a fairy man," Bran smiled.
"Do you say so? My grandam's mother was a fairy and all in a night she was gone into the air. So they tell of us in—by the rood, man, you are a seer."
"Na, na. Bran is but a poor fool, brother."
Whatever persuaded him, whether he was taken by Bran or the girl's buxom prettiness or by the shrewd calculation that if he travelled with a minstrel and his wench he was not likely to be taken for a person of importance, and I suppose all these three reasons worked in him, he joined himself to their company. He too was going to London; he would be some days in London if all went well. They lodged in a tavern at Westminster? Why, he would like to see something of the court and this king of theirs.
"It is a boy that you are, brother," said Bran.
"He is a very comely man, King Stephen," said Edith.
"As comely as I, fair lady?"
She laughed. "I dare not look at you, you are so quick."
They found each other mighty pleasant, these two, and made a merry journey of it. And indeed the Frenchman was good company, a spirited fellow, taking his world with gusto, of ready mirth, full of talk, and the girl liked him none the worse for his restlessness and his sudden vehemence. But Bran was silent and distraught. In this fashion they came to their tavern and swearing that never was life so poor and drear it welcomed the old guests and the new with zeal.