Journeys Through Bookland Volume V Part 14

[Footnote 2: _Vermeil-white_ means _red and white_, or _reddish white_.]

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, tho' ruin'd, 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 reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel[3] bore

[Footnote 3: A _costrel_ was a leather, wooden or earthenware bottle, provided with ears, by which it might be hung at the side.]

The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.

And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil unfolded, manchet[4] bread.

[Footnote 4: _Manchet bread_ is fine white bread.]

And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boil'd 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 return'd 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 unarm'd 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 guess'd you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall at 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 ask'd 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 woo'd; and be he dead I know not, but he pa.s.sed 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 I that knew him fierce and turbulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sow'd a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not render'd to him; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Thro' open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd 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 answer'd, "Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thine 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 earn'd 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, Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.

And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnish'd 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 stol'n away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And fondling 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 disarray'd as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told her 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 fail'd 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; ousts 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 thro' these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flow'd 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 Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd "Advance and take as fairest of the fair.

For I these two years past have won it for thee, The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, "Forbear: there is a worthier," and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule So burnt he was with pa.s.sion, crying out "Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears.

Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands.

So twice they fought, and twice they brathed, and still The dew of their great labor, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force.

But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry "Remember that great insult done the Queen,"

Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast And said, "Thy name?" To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, "Edyrn, son of Nudd!

Ashamed am I that I should tell it them.

My pride is broken: men have seen my fall."

"Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied Geraint, "These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.

First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.

These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die."

And Edyrn answered, "These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!"

And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, And there the Queen forgave him easily.

And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King.

But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendor in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint-- So bent he seem'd on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given-- To ride with him this morning to the court, And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all ceremony.

At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had look'd so mean.

For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it was in mid-October, seem'd The dress that now she look'd on to the dress She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint.

And still she look'd, and still the terror grew Of that strange, bright and dreadful thing, a court, All staring at her in her faded silk: And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

"This n.o.ble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!

Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, To seek a second favor at his hands.

Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him."

And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago.

That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, And scatter'd all they had to all the winds: For while the mother show'd it, and the two Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on, Which being sold and sold had bought them bread: And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, And placed them in this ruin; and she wish'd The Prince had found her in her ancient home; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; And one was patch'd and blurr'd and l.u.s.treless Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king; And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks; And while she thought "They will not see me," came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, "If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And cast it on the mixen[5] that it die."

And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

[Footnote 5: _Mixen_ is an old word for _dunghill_]

"See here, my child, how fresh the colors look, How fast they hold like colors of a sh.e.l.l That keeps the wear and polish of the wave.

Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow: Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it."

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answer'd, "Yea, I know it; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift!" "Yea, surely," said the dame, "And gladly given again this happy morn.

For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere He found the sack and plunder of our house All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again; and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, Because we have our earldom back again.

And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.

Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?

For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his.

Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all That appertains to n.o.ble maintenance.

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need Constrain'd us, but a better time has come; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old.

And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden; but I know, When my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, tho' they sought Thro' all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match."

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye, Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair. * * *

"And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.'"

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answer'd: "Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk."

Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying l.u.s.ty corn: For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, But rested with her sweet face satisfied; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said,

"O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my pet.i.tion to her.

When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.

Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud--and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A n.o.bler friend? Another thought was mine; I came among you here so suddenly, That tho' her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; And such a sense might make her long for court And all its perilous glories: and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Link'd with such love for me, that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendor dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts: And for my strange pet.i.tion I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows? another gift of the high G.o.d, Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks."