Idylls of the King Part 6

With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse And thou are weary; yet not less I felt Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.

Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answered graciously, And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!'

And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.

But all about it flies a honeysuckle.

Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found, Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.

'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.

Wake l.u.s.ty! Seem I not as tender to him As any mother? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep-- Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hushed night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!

O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-- 'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and n.o.ble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pa.s.s, To bring thee back to do the battle with him.

Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.'

Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name, May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said, 'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.'

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield; 'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!

Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!-- Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.

O n.o.ble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.

Hence: let us go.'

Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.

A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'

An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'

Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, 'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: I curse the tongue that all through yesterday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done; Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow In having flung the three: I see thee maimed, Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.'

'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.

You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from the quest.'

'Nay, Prince,' she cried, 'G.o.d wot, I never looked upon the face, Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watched him have I like a phantom pa.s.s Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.

Always he made his mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still reported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, ma.s.sacring Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!

Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh, Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.'

Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this, Belike he wins it as the better man: Thus--and not else!'

But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.

Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one-- To dash against mine enemy and win.

Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust, And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette.

Then for a s.p.a.ce, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'

And all the three were silent seeing, pitched Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.

Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And m.u.f.fled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids, The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince Three times had blown--after long hush--at last-- The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.

High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps-- In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.

But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, Canst thou not trust the limbs thy G.o.d hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity?' But he spake no word; Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death; Sir Gareth's head p.r.i.c.kled beneath his helm; And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.

At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed, And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.

Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.

But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.

Half fell to right and half to left and lay.

Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight, Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, To make a horror all about the house, And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.

They never dreamed the pa.s.ses would be past.'

Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.

They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend, They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dreamed the pa.s.ses could be past.'

Then sprang the happier day from underground; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy.

So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.

And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette.

The Marriage of Geraint

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great Order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.

And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day, In crimsons and in purples and in gems.

And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself, Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, Loved her, and often with her own white hands Arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court.

And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth.

And seeing them so tender and so close, Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.

But when a rumour rose about the Queen, Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, Through that great tenderness for Guinevere, Had suffered, or should suffer any taint In nature: wherefore going to the King, He made this pretext, that his princedom lay Close on the borders of a territory, Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, a.s.sa.s.sins, and all flyers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law: And therefore, till the King himself should please To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches; and the King Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to the sh.o.r.es Of Severn, and they past to their own land; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, He compa.s.sed her with sweet observances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the King, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name, Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.

And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.

And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness.

And this she gathered from the people's eyes: This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they saddened her the more: And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy; While he that watched her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat through the blindless cas.e.m.e.nt of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The ma.s.sive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it.

And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he?

Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said:

'O n.o.ble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I am the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name.

Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his n.o.ble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darkened from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord through me should suffer shame.

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, And maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy?

O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong pa.s.sion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she feared she was not a true wife.

And then he thought, 'In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.'

Then though he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right through his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.

At this he hurled his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 'My charger and her palfrey;' then to her, 'I will ride forth into the wilderness; For though it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fallen so low as some would wish.

And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid asked, amazed, 'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'

But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.'

Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and arrayed herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.

There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told the King.

Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.

And when the King pet.i.tioned for his leave To see the hunt, allowed it easily.

So with the morning all the court were gone.

But Guinevere lay late into the morn, Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gained the wood; There, on a little knoll beside it, stayed Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford Behind them, and so galloped up the knoll.

A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Swayed round about him, as he galloped up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday.

Low bowed the tributary Prince, and she, Sweet and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answered him: 'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later than we!'