The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 7

_In an English Castle in Poictou._

Sir Peter Harpdon, _a Gascon knight in the English service, and_ John Curzon, _his lieutenant_.

JOHN CURZON.

Of those three prisoners, that before you came We took down at St. John's hard by the mill, Two are good masons; we have tools enough, And you have skill to set them working.

SIR PETER.

So: What are their names?

JOHN CURZON.

Why, Jacques Aquadent, And Peter Plombiere, but,

SIR PETER.

What colour'd hair Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

JOHN CURZON.

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair, Or Peter's legs to us?

SIR PETER.

O! John, John, John!

Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, Hang Peter up and Jacques; They're no good, We shall not build, man.

JOHN CURZON (_going_).

Shall I call the guard To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

[_Muttering as he goes._ What have I done that he should j.a.pe at me?

And why not build? the walls are weak enough, And we've two masons and a heap of tools.

[_Goes, still muttering._

SIR PETER.

To think a man should have a lump like that For his lieutenant! I must call him back, Or else, as surely as St. George is dead, He'll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!

JOHN CURZON.

At your good service, sir.

SIR PETER.

Come now, and talk This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.

JOHN CURZON.

There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.

SIR PETER.

We are not strong enough to send ten men Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.

In three hours' time they would be taken or slain, The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.

JOHN CURZON.

But we can send some villaynes to get stone.

SIR PETER.

Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back, They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere, And tell them we were weak in walls and men, Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed, And now no longer does the country shake At sound of English names; our captains fade From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge I daresay you may even yet see the hole That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here; Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse; Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone; The Captal died in prison; and, over all, Edward the prince lies underneath the ground, Edward the king is dead, at Westminster The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.

Everything goes to rack--eh! and we too.

Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French, Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?

A man can die but once, will you die then, Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart Of all the deeds we have done here in France-- And yet may do? So G.o.d will have your soul, Whoever has your body.

JOHN CURZON.

Why, sir, I Will fight till the last moment, until then Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps They're stronger than I think for; pity, though!

For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.

SIR PETER.

Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well, I doubt them.

JOHN CURZON.

Truly, sir, I will watch well. [_Goes._

SIR PETER.

Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, 'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes; Some dozen stones from his petrariae, And, under shelter of his crossbows, just An hour's steady work with pickaxes, Then a great noise--some dozen swords and glaives A-playing on my basnet all at once, And little more cross purposes on earth For me.

Now this is hard: a month ago, And a few minutes' talk had set things right 'Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt, As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had, 'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears, Of how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge: And how he was grown moody of late days; And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend, His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess That Peter's talk tended towards the French, Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of, Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side.

Well, If I could but have seen her on that day, Then, when they sent me off!

I like to think, Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what, If I had seen her, what I should have said, What she, my darling, would have said and done.

As thus perchance.

To find her sitting there, In the window-seat, not looking well at all, Crying perhaps, and I say quietly: Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave, Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks, Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees, And say: O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight?

That still you ever let me walk alone In the rose garden, that you sing no songs When I am by, that ever in the dance You quietly walk away when I come near?

Now that I have you, will you go, think you?

Ere she could answer I would speak again, Still kneeling there.

What! they have frighted you, By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets, Round my good name; but afterwards, my love, I will say what this means; this moment, see!

Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea: For she would put her hands upon my face: Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed?

And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips!

And afterwards as I sat there would say: