Adventure Magazine Cover — page 81: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Son of Strife the circumstances of the attack on Nerak attracted the attention of the knights high- er up the board, until a group was clustered close around his seat, listening with avidity toa story that was only too frequent in that stormy land. Now, as it chanced, there were no guests on the dais that night, no tumblers, min- strels or trouveres to divert the lord and his lady. And marking the interest which Matteo aroused, the lady besought her lord to order the strange youth to appear before them. Soa page tapped Matteo on the shoulder, and presently, he found him- self bowing low to the two who sat alone at the high table. “‘Who are you, messer?” asked the lord. Matteo thought quickly. Quickly, he came to a decision. In a land where birth counted for all and chivalry was flowering to perfection, he might not bear to flaunt false colors. “My name is Matteo, lord,” he replied. “Tam son to Messer Gui de Taberie ey “The lord of Nerak!” exclaimed his host. “T wot him well! A brave knight and a sturdy!” “But, alas, no more,” sighed Matteo. “What? be my hearer! What is this?” “Nay, lord, he died not two days since.” “But how?” interrupted the lady eagerly, scenting a goodly tale. ‘“‘Nerak is strong.” Matteo’s eyes met hers, and strayed involuntarily to a gittern on a stool beside her chair. And as if by magic, without forethought on his part, a flow of words welled from his brain, fluttered on his tongue. The sad memories gathered in rhymes and verses, in orderly sentences and paragraphs, clamoring to be loosed. He caught up the gittern with a faint gesture of apology. “Ts it permitted to entertain so nobly- born a couple with a romaunt no less di- verting that ’tis true?” he asked in the fashion he had heard stray jongleurs use. ‘“‘Aye, and indeed, pretty boy,” replied the lady, well pleased at the prospect. “Do your devoir, and there shall be largesse for you, if largesse you crave.” “For myself I crave naught,’ answered Matteo, plucking the strings. “But I have a vengeance to seek, and aid for that I will not deny. Now, gentles, hark to my lay. “They sing: ‘Thick as was the evil night When the red flames leaped in my eyes, 73 And the paynims swarmed thro’ the castle And murdered my lord, the wise, The good, the brave, the valiant, The best spear of the king! Ah, God, give breath for the curses, Give strength for the hate that I bring! Ah, gentles, open your purses, For my tale is fitly told, If the red, red blood that seams it Is splashed with ruddy gold, Gold that I need for vengeance— The death of my father’s foes!”’ The lady of the castle sat enthralled with the tears dimming her eyes. Her lord’s bluff face was flushed with emotion. All around the dais clustered knight and squire, priest and clerk. In the dark background the men-at-arms, archers and varlets squat- ted on the rush-strewn floor, mouths gaping wide, eyes glued on the slender youth, whose ringing voice, now in verse and now in cadenced prose, swept them along a stream of emotion out beyond the hide-bound barriers of their little lives. They did not know it, but they were listening for the first time to ‘The Ro- maunt of Death,’ which was to become the corner-stone of Matteo’s future fame, which was to be sung at every court of Outremer and carried by wandering min- strels to the farthest confines of Europe, adapted and changed, pirated and altered out of its original shape, but persisting through the ages as a true remnant of the age of chivalry. And in after days the lord and lady of Karoon would recite with pride how the great jongleur, Matteo of Antioch, whose name was a household word in the Holy Land, had chanted his. first lay before them and received his first largesse in the shape of a golden bezant from the lord’s purse. By such slender threads are the currents of life diverted. Matteo had been invited to the high table. He was over-tensed by emotion. He chanced to see the gittern. An idea was born in his brain. Fate, which had begun the coil, had only to carry it on, and Fate was not loath to assume the task. But a truce to philosophy. We return to Matteo, flushed and exalted by his maiden effort, louting, gittern in hand, on the dais- step, his impromptu romaunt done. Hee SILENCE hung over the castle =<» hall. The lady was in ardent tears. Cay The lord extended a hand which fell in friendly grip on Matteo’s shoulder. “Well sung, lad!” he applauded. “Hast C@ Clooolkks ©