Idylls of the King Part 7

'Yea, n.o.ble Queen,' he answered, 'and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with me,' she said; 'For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: Here often they break covert at our feet.'

And while they listened for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and showed a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.

And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know.

'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said.

'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf; 'Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;'

And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she returned Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, 'Surely I will learn the name,'

Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him, Who answered as before; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.

The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure n.o.bility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrained From even a word, and so returning said:

'I will avenge this insult, n.o.ble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths: For though I ride unarmed, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fallen in fight. Farewell.'

'Farewell, fair Prince,' answered the stately Queen.

'Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love: But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.'

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The n.o.ble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, through many a gra.s.sy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three.

At last they issued from the world of wood, And climbed upon a fair and even ridge, And showed themselves against the sky, and sank.

And thither there came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine: And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night.

And onward to the fortress rode the three, And entered, and were lost behind the walls.

'So,' thought Geraint, 'I have tracked him to his earth.'

And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scoured His master's armour; and of such a one He asked, 'What means the tumult in the town?'

Who told him, scouring still, 'The sparrow-hawk!'

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

Who answered gruffly, 'Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.'

Then riding further past an armourer's, Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 'Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners.'

Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen: 'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!

t.i.ts, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead!

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me?

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!

Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harbourage for the night?

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!'

Whereat the armourer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answered, 'Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here tomorrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work.

Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.

Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine.

There musing sat the h.o.a.ry-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of frayed magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 'Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint replied, 'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.'

Then Yniol, 'Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.'

'Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint; 'So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the pa.s.sion of a twelve hours' fast.'

Then sighed and smiled the h.o.a.ry-headed Earl, And answered, 'Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him even in jest.'

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a p.r.i.c.kly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.

He looked and saw that all was ruinous.

Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern; And here had fallen a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And sucked the joining of the stones, and looked A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear through the open cas.e.m.e.nt of the hall, Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labour of his hands, To think or say, 'There is the nightingale;'

So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 'Here, by G.o.d's grace, is the one voice for me.'

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our h.o.a.rd is little, but our hearts are great.

'Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

'Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.'

'Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,'

Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.' Entering then, Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall, He found an ancient dame in dim brocade; And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 'Here by G.o.d's rood is the one maid for me.'

But none spake word except the h.o.a.ry Earl: 'Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; And we will make us merry as we may.

Our h.o.a.rd is little, but our hearts are great.'

He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught His purple scarf, and held, and said, 'Forbear!

Rest! the good house, though ruined, O my son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself.'

And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

So Enid took his charger to the stall; And after went her way across the bridge, And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel bore The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.

And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.

And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board, And stood behind, and waited on the three.

And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, That crost the trencher as she laid it down: But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made summer in his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, Now here, now there, about the dusky hall; Then suddenly addrest the h.o.a.ry Earl:

'Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.

His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it: For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn From his own lips to have it--I am Geraint Of Devon--for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she returned Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.

And all unarmed I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world; They would not hear me speak: but if ye know Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name, Avenging this great insult done the Queen.'

Then cried Earl Yniol, 'Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For n.o.ble deeds? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guessed you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall in Camelot.

Nor speak I now from foolish flattery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear; So grateful is the noise of n.o.ble deeds To n.o.ble hearts who see but acts of wrong: O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden: first Limours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead I know not, but he past to the wild land.

The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, My curse, my nephew--I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it--he, When that I knew him fierce and turbulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sowed a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not rendered to him; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Through open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid's birthday, sacked my house; From mine own earldom foully ousted me; Built that new fort to overawe my friends, For truly there are those who love me yet; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, But that his pride too much despises me: And I myself sometimes despise myself; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used my power: Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently.'

'Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, 'but arms, That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day's tourney I may break his pride.'

And Yniol answered, 'Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine.

But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except the lady he loves best be there.

Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is placed a silver wand, And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there.

And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.'

But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.'

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, 'Thy leave!

Let me lay lance in rest, O n.o.ble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Though having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.

And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnished as before; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife.'

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days, And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stolen away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And folding all her hand in his he said, 'Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood.

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.'

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told them all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart: but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever failed to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms Were on his princely person, but through these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists.

And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.