If I Were King | Page 2

the brotherhood, wild men in withered frippery, wine-stained to the
very bones.
They were five in number, and four of them were huddled round a table
in the cosiest corner of the room, the corner that was sheltered from the
heat of the fire by the high-backed settle, the corner that was nearest to

the main door if one desired--as one often did--to slip out in a hurry,
and to the red-curtained windows, if one desired--as one seldom did--a
mouthful of fresh air. Robin Turgis knew them all, admired them all,
feared them all, and yet he held head against them because his Beaune
wine was so adorable, and because he could keep his own counsel.
Slender René de Montigny, in a jerkin of rubbed and faded purple
velvet, with his malign, Italianate face and his delicate Italianate grace;
rotund Guy Tabarie, bluff, red and bald; Casin Cholet, tall and bird-like,
with the figure of a stork and the features of a bird of prey; Jehan le
Loup, who looked as vulpine as his nickname; these Robin Turgis eyed
and catalogued with a kind of pride. It was a fearsome privilege for the
Fircone to boast such patronage. On the settle, with his face to the fire,
Colin de Cayeulx sprawled in a drunken sleep, forgetting and forgotten,
a harmless looking, good-natured looking knave who was neither
harmless nor good-natured.
For every man of the gang there was a woman, and there was a woman
over, who was easily the central star of the flaunting galaxy. The
shabby bravery of the men was matched by the shabby bravery of five
out of the six women. Gaudy, painted, assertive strumpets with young,
fair, shameless faces--worthy Jills of the ill-favoured Jacks who
cuddled them--Jehanneton, the fair helm-maker; Denise, Blanche,
Isabeau, and Guillemette, the landlord's daughter, who consorted gaily
enough with these brightly-plumaged birds of a rogue's paradise. But
the sixth woman was a bird of quite another feather.
Over all the clatter this woman's voice rose suddenly as clear as the call
of a thrush, and the hot space seemed to cool and the hot air to clean as
she sang. She who sang was a girl of five and twenty, whom it had
pleased to clothe her ripe womanhood in a boy's habit, that clasped her
fine body as close as a second skin, and she might have passed for a
man no otherwhere than in a madhouse. She looked very charming in
the stained and faded daintiness of her male attire. She wore a green
velvet doublet and green woollen hose, with a scarlet girdle and pouch
about her waist, and a scarlet feather stuck defiantly in her green cap,
beneath which her long fair hair tumbled in liberal confusion about her
shoulders. She sat on the edge of a table swinging one shapely leg loose

and strained upon its fellow while she nursed her lute as if it had been a
baby, and carolled as if there were no other work in the world to do
than to sing. The men and women who sat and sprawled around the
table kept quiet, listening to her and staring at her; sleepy Colin pricked
his ears; Robin Turgis was alert to hear, for he knew that it was worth
while to listen when Huguette du Hamel chose to sing. Robin Turgis
knew all about her. Her gentle blood was wild blood, and in spite of her
birth and her name she had drifted on the stream of strange pleasure to
be the idol of the Fircone's shrine. Her voice was sweet and the tune
had a tender, appealing grace, with a little minor wail in it that brought
tears into the singer's eyes, and she mouthed the words as if she found
them sweet as honey. And this is what she sang:
"Daughters of pleasure, one and all, Of form and feature delicate, Of
bodies slim, and bosoms small, With feet and fingers white and straight,
Your eyes are bright, your grace is great To hold your lovers' hearts in
thrall; Use your red lips before too late, Love ere love flies beyond
recall."
Her voice dropped and her fingers tinkled over the strings. René de
Montigny turned his dark, well-featured face in a sweeping leer that
seemed to taste the familiar graces with gusto. "Devilish good advice,
Dollies," he shouted, and as he spoke he hugged the nearest girl close
to him, and tilting up her chin with his free hand, kissed her noisily.
The girl squealed a little at his roughness; the other pairs laughed and
clasped after his example, only the singer, unheeding, lifted her sweet
voice again, and this time there was a savour of gall in the sweetness of
the honey:
"For soon the golden hair is grey,