NICHOL the Jester having left this world for, we trust, a better, and thereto we cry “God rest his soul,” Peregrine his son reigned in his stead.

This was in accordance with custom. Six times had cap and bells descended from father to son: we see Peregrine as the seventh inheritor thereto, which, perchance, holds some significance. Pythagorus would doubtless have told us it held much; would have told us we find in seven the last of the limited numbers, a mere step from it to the free vibrations. Also he would have seen double significance in that Peregrine’s own name held the same vibration. And who are we to say him nay?

For my part I would no more dream of venturing to gainsay him than I would venture to gainsay the old sage who read the message of the stars at his birth. This sage, finding him born under the third decanate of Sagittarius, with Uranus in the ascendant, and having muttered of houses, and cusps, and aspects, and signs, and I know not what besides,—and if I did would refrain from further enumeration lest I should weary you,—proclaimed him one born to wander, a seeker after that which is not easily found,—of the sign of Sagittarius, and the planet Uranus are antiquarians and alchemists. He gave him also favours from one of high birth, which favours should wither like June roses when picked; gave him sorrow as companion for a space,—though truly there is no mother’s son of us knows not that companion for a while,—and the end of his life’s journey he saw not. Whereat I, for one, rejoice, since—though I would not venture to gainsay the old sage—I believe that the ordering of a man’s destiny lies not with the stars, but with One Who holds the universe in the Hollow of His Hand.

Lisette, wife of Nichol the Jester, gave however full credence to the sage, a credence equal to that she gave to the dogmas of Holy Church, therein showing herself illogical after the manner of women, since our Mother the Church has ever bade us have no dealing with omens, dreams, the riddle of the stars, and such-like fooleries. Despite this, and having given, as we have seen, credulous ear to the sage’s prophecy, she named the boy Peregrine.

When first breeched he was costumed as a miniature edition of his sire, half black, half white, in cognizance of the rÔle he would later play in truth. The cap surrounded a chubby face, not yet outgrown the solemnity of babyhood. His hand, fat and dimpled, grasped the belled bauble. Borne aloft on his father’s shoulder to the great hall, he was set in the midst of the squires and dames,—more particularly the dames, since the squires for the most part were that day following their lord over Exmoor in pursuit of the wild red deer.

They saw in him a pretty enough plaything; found, for a time at least, greater novelty in his solemn silences and rare smiles than in his father’s jests. The Lady Clare de Belisle entering with her own child, a girl babe of two summers, touched the tiny jester’s cheek with one jewelled finger, commended him for a bonny boy. The two children gazed at each other solemn-eyed, till Isabel, the girl, putting forth her hand was for taking the young jester’s bauble from him. Thereat Peregrine clutched it jealously to his breast, having no mind to part with his toy.

“I want,” said Isabel, one fat finger pointed towards the treasure clutched by the scowling boy. That was the way with Isabel in childhood as in later years, knowing what she desired she hesitated not to demand it, and obtain it by whatever means came best to hand.

It is not becoming that the son of a Jester should deny the desire of his Lady’s daughter. Nichol, the dames, my Lady even, were prepared for insistence, a ruthless seizing of the treasure from the baby grasp; when suddenly and without compulsion, the child’s mien changed. Of his own accord he tendered the bauble to Isabel.

She took it, smiling. Even babes can be gracious when their wish is granted. For a moment she held it examining it with curiosity, a curiosity soon satiated, since after a brief space she held it in a listless hand, tendered it again.

“I don’t like it.”

Peregrine backed away from her. Perhaps—in fact I am sure—there was reproach in his blue eyes. So for a moment they stood. Then Isabel cast the bauble upon the ground. And herein some may read an omen. The squires and dames laughed; my Lady murmured a gentle word of chiding; Nichol picked up the bauble; but Peregrine still looked at Isabel.

This, then, was Peregrine’s introduction to that society wherein later he was to wear the cap and bells as no mere pastime but in very truth. Nor was it at this time his last appearance therein. For the first few years of his life he played, in a manner, the rÔle of zany to his father, gaining thereby much favour. Candour, a virtue allowed both children and fools, was a marked characteristic of Peregrine’s. If at moments the recipients of his frank speeches felt a trifle of embarrassment there was always the knowledge that their own blush or wince would presently be superseded by a laugh at the blush or wince of another. This squared all accounts, made the momentary embarrassment worth enduring.

Yet what may well pass as the artlessness of a child, the privilege of a fool, is of other brand from the boy. With the loss of his milk teeth—and he was full late in parting with them—Peregrine’s candour began to lose its charm. Outspoken speeches when issuing from between cherry lips and pearls are of different ilk when the pearls are lacking. Herein we see the injustice of the world.

The day came when an outspoken speech of Peregrine’s, exceeding apt, perchance of over-candour,—though assuredly a year ago it would have gained him high applause,—was taken in ill part. True, there were some who tittered, yet surreptitiously, feeling the atmosphere somewhat charged with unfriendly omen, an omen none could overlook, seeing that it emanated from the guest of note who sat frowning at the insouciant Peregrine. Had the guest been of less importance it is possible the affair might have been settled by a slight rebuke, but with her rank and dignity in view no such flimsy method was of avail.

Peregrine was dismissed the hall wherein he had been a petted favourite since his first breeching; and, before being deprived of cap and bells, was breeched—and soundly—after other fashion, the distinguished guest having made it evident that the smart of her wounded feelings could only be eased by the smarting of Peregrine’s small body.

Sore and sobbing he sought his mother, wept out his woes, his perplexities, his hot face buried in her lap. Thus with pain of body, though with but dim realization of mind, Peregrine first became acquainted with the injustice of the world.

For a time Peregrine saw the hall no more. Clad after the ordinary manner of his kind he kept out of the way of the noblesse, the gentry, ill at ease when he by chance crossed their path, found what human companionship he would among the servitors alone,—excepting always that of his father and mother, in whose company he at all times found pleasure.

He took now to frequenting the woods and moors which lay around the castle. Lying on the heather, its scent and the scent of the golden gorse warm and fragrant in his nostrils, he would gaze over the surrounding country, see the blue channel below him gleaming in the sunlight, the Welsh coast dim and hazy beyond, look northwards to the small town nestling at the foot of the hill which rises some eight hundred feet above it.

Roaming the woods he would watch for the first hint of Spring in the swelling buds of the larch trees, would rejoice in the faint shimmer of green flung over them when she first shows a shy face, would seek among brown leaves scattered on the ground for the pale primrose, the delicate windflower, the fragile wood sorrel with its tiny white petals lightly veined in mauve. Here he learned of the ways of the wild creatures of nature, rather than the ways of men, and found them more to his liking. What we give that shall we receive, so are we told, though verily there are times when the giving will appear to outweigh all receipts. Possibly this is because we look to reward to follow hard upon bestowal, trust not to the finding after many days. Here in the woods, however, Peregrine found swift reward. The love he bestowed upon the woodland creatures gained him their love in return. The birds would feed from his hand, the animals brought their young to play at his feet; confidence between them and him reached a very pretty note of harmony.

Wandering further afield he would watch the red deer which in daylight found hiding-place in distant combes, see them in moonlight moving in great herds across the moor. In the combes he would go boldly up to them, feed them with pieces of coarse bread, and bunches of freshly pulled grass. Only in the mating season he left them alone, knowing the wild jealousy of the stag.

When, as frequently happened, he heard the huntsman’s horn, caught a glimpse of hounds, horses, and their riders in full cry, he would clench his brown fists, his young jaw set in a grim line, his whole body a-quiver with rage. Even so might a man feel who saw his friend hunted to his death.

Once when the harriers were out after a hare, and being close on her heels, the frighted creature, seeing Peregrine, turned, crouching at his feet. In a twinkling he had her in his arms, swarmed, still holding her, up an oak, whence hidden in the topmost branches, too slender to bear aught but a boy’s weight, he heard angry baying at the tree’s base. Presently up came the huntsmen. There was a colloquy, a debating. The foliage was too thick to allow of Peregrine being perceived, perched as he was aloft, one arm entwining a bough, the other clutching the hare, which for the moment lay panting, too frightened for struggle. It is not in the nature of things for hares to climb trees; nor was the actual occurrence one likely to dawn on the unaided imagination. Baffled, perplexed, the huntsmen stood among the baying harriers, scratching their heads, flicking their boots with their riding crops, swearing meanwhile each after his own particular form and fancy. And the dogs, who might have told them the manner of the happening, being dumb of human speech but bayed the louder. A hole in the oak’s trunk some four feet or so from the ground offered a solution, an unlikely one enough, yet at this juncture better than none. Madam Hare, so they asseverated among themselves, had sprung for the hole and by ill chance for their sport had reached it. No doubt she was now crouched within the hollow of the oak. To get her out was impossible, short of felling the tree; and in very sooth she had found a worse death within that prison than the quick end the dogs would have made of her.

Yet, in spite of seeing Madam Hare as escaped from their clutches, a victim of a slow death by starvation, they still lingered, muttering, jabbering, swearing; the dogs still making loud din, causing Peregrine’s heart to beat with fear, knowing not of the hole in the tree which had doubtless saved his skin, and the life of the trembling creature in his arm. The weight of the animal was no light one, and his muscles began to suffer cramp. Feeling extremity at hand he put up a small prayer, which possibly was heard by Saint Francis, seeing he had once rescued a like creature from the hounds. Whether it was the advocacy of the prayer, or whether the huntsmen were weary of their sojourn beneath the tree, you may settle as it best pleases you; for my part I will maintain that the Saint himself drew them away, caused them to call off the dogs, and ride baulked of their prey away from wood and moor.

Silence had fallen for the space of some ten or fifteen minutes before Peregrine thought safe to descend; and in that the hare had lain quiet so long we may likewise see the hand of the gentle Saint. Twenty yards or so away from the tree, clear from the scent of the dogs, Peregrine deposited his burden upon the ground. A moment she crouched while his hand caressed her soft fur, then leaping, vanished down the glade.

Yet this freedom of wood and moorland, this sojourning with wild creatures, that I have shown you, belonged in main to Peregrine’s boyhood. As he grew older it was not thought well, by those who had a say in the matter, that he should roam in idleness. Those who eat bread must needs earn it after some fashion, save those who are born, as the saying is, with a silver spoon in the mouth. Peregrine after a while found his hours of roaming curtailed. Armourer, falconer, grooms, alike pressed him into service. No special calling allotted him in view of the one rÔle he should later play—though if the truth be known he looked to it with but little favour—he became the server of many. This, as may be imagined, irked him somewhat. He had no mind to await any man’s behest, yet mind or not he found it must needs be done. Being no fool he brought, then, to his tasks what good grace he might. Besides his work with armourer, falconer, and grooms, he learned to play the tabor, and had a very pretty skill thereon.

Of these years I have little to record. They were in the main uneventful. Their chief incident as far as Peregrine was concerned, and one of deep sorrow to him, was his mother’s death. That was a sorrow which lay heavy for many a long month, till time at length began imperceptibly to ease the burden of his grief.

Peregrine had come to man’s estate, had seen, I take it, four and twenty summers or thereabouts, when Nichol was stricken of the ague which was to end for him this mortal life. Lying gaunt and hollow-eyed on his bed, the cap and bells on an oak chest near, he called his son to him, pointed with one wasted hand towards the motley dress.

“To-morrow, or the next day, you will be wearing it,” he said.

Peregrine bowed his head. Finding it ill to lie, even for comfort’s sake, in the face of Death, he was silent.

“A jest more often than not holds truth,” said Nichol, “yet now, between you and me, the truth may be spoken without need of jest.” His eyes, blue like Peregrine’s, sought his son’s eyes, but Peregrine’s were lowered.

“Look at me,” said his father.

Peregrine raised his eyes.

“You like not the thought. That I have long known. Yet, what will you? Fate made of me a Jester, as she made a Jester of my father and his sires before me, as she now makes one of you. I accepted my rÔle as in the nature of things. With you it is otherwise. Submitting outwardly to the decree of fate, inwardly your spirit rebels. It will be hard for you. The rÔle of Jester is no easy one. Dogs are we, waiting with a dog’s wistfulness on the smile of our master’s lips, the pat of our master’s hand. And if, rather than smile and pat, we receive frown and blow, yet may we not bite, since that is of the manner of a cur; nor cringe, since cringing is likewise of a cur. We must accept the frown and blow submissively, should e’en return with wagging tail to fawn upon the hand that struck us; and if we are wise dogs will learn new tricks better suited to please. And the man’s heart in us we should drug, if we cannot kill it, lest it grow to torment us. I drugged mine, or tried to. It was, perchance, too strong to kill. Yet for all the drugging there were times when it pulsed less sluggishly. That day when they took the cap and bells from you, when they beat you, poor miserable little fool, I jested my best. Had I not jested I would have flung my bauble in the face of the woman who sat there smiling as your cries reached the hall. And the man’s heart suffered torment that day in the dog’s body. Yet Jester I was then, Jester I have been since. Now at last I am man, and wholly man. Death, when his shadow touches us, grants us that much solace.”

He stopped. Peregrine, kneeling by the bed, found no words.

“Custom,” went on Nichol, “is strong upon man; strongest of all, perchance, upon the Jester. Despite our moments of resentment we look for applause. It is our life, our breath. We long for the favour of our master. I have said we are dogs, and when that is said, all is said. Yet the man’s heart may outgrow the dog’s body. You will don the motley; you, too, will fawn upon the hand that strikes you; you, too, will watch with wistful eyes on the desire of your master. Yet if, as I fancy, the day dawns when drugs no longer bring their soothing anodyne to your man’s heart, when the soul within the motley is a soul in prison, then remember that I now have asked your pardon for the heritage you will accept from me. That is all. Now, son, fetch me a priest.”

Of Peregrine’s words e’er he went to fulfil his father’s last behest, I make no record. They were not intended, as may well be guessed, for you or me to know. When they were spoken he rose from his knees, set out for the Abbey of Our Lady of the Cliff.