The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 8

Please a poor silly girl by telling me What all those things they talk of really were, For it is true you did not help Chandos, And true, poor love! you could not come to me When I was in such peril.

I should say: I am like Balen, all things turn to blame.

I did not come to you? At Bergerath The constable had held us close shut up, If from the barriers I had made three steps, I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too, We struggled in a marish half the day, And came too late at last: you know, my love, How heavy men and horses are all arm'd.

All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd, Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love.

She, holding tight my hand as we sat there, Started a little at Sir Lambert's name, But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes, And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, She said: I love you.

Other words were few, The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about My face, and through the tangles of my beard Her little fingers crept!

O G.o.d, my Alice, Not this good way: my lord but sent and said That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, Therefore that day I was to start, and keep This hold against the French; and I am here: [_Looks out of the window._ A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes, Or any other.

There's a pennon now!

At last.

But not the constable's: whose arms, I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood!

Well, I should like to kill him, certainly, But to be kill'd by him: [_A trumpet sounds._ That's for a herald; I doubt this does not mean a.s.saulting yet.

_Enter_ John Curzon.

What says the herald of our cousin, sir?

JOHN CURZON.

So please you, sir, concerning your estate, He has good will to talk with you.

SIR PETER.

Outside, I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives.

Is he unarm'd?

JOHN CURZON.

Yea, sir, in a long gown.

SIR PETER.

Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown With the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear, By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail; And will you lend me, John, your little axe?

I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade?

And I will carry it inside my sleeve, Good to be ready always; you, John, go And bid them set up many suits of arms, Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and Yourself, from the south postern setting out, With twenty men, be ready to break through Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George!

JOHN CURZON.

How, sir! will you attack him unawares, And slay him unarm'd?

SIR PETER.

Trust me, John, I know The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown, Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [_They go._

_Outside the castle by the great gate;_ Sir Lambert _and_ Sir Peter _seated; guards attending each, the rest of_ Sir Lambert's _men drawn up about a furlong off._

SIR PETER.

And if I choose to take the losing side Still, does it hurt you?

SIR LAMBERT.

O! no hurt to me; I see you sneering, Why take trouble then, Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house (Which, taken altogether, I love much) Had better be upon the right side now, If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule As such a house should: cousin, you're too wise To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France Will ever draw two ways again; this side The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar With envious longings; and the other side The order'd English, orderly led on By those two Edwards through all wrong and right, And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed, The true French win, on either side you have Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match, And good at setting battles in array, And good at squeezing taxes at due time; Therefore by nature we French being here Upon our own big land: [_Sir Peter laughs aloud._ Well, Peter! well!

What makes you laugh?

SIR PETER.

Hearing you sweat to prove All this I know so well; but you have read The siege of Troy?

SIR LAMBERT.

O! yea, I know it well.

SIR PETER.

There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be For, as I think, they found it such delight To see fair Helen going through their town; Yea, any little common thing she did (As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, So new in its great beauty, that they said: Here we will keep her living in this town, Till all burns up together. And so, fought, In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, Over some great height, did they struggle sore, Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note How almost all men, reading that sad siege, Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least, Thought Hector the best knight a long way: Now Why should I not do this thing that I think; For even when I come to count the gains, I have them my side: men will talk, you know (We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,) When I am dead, of how this Peter clung To what he thought the right; of how he died, Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed Few men would care do now, and this is gain To me, as ease and money is to you.

Moreover, too, I like the straining game Of striving well to hold up things that fall; So one becomes great. See you! in good times All men live well together, and you, too, Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up?

Why then, but just to fight as I do now, A halter round my neck, would be great bliss.

O! I am well off. [_Aside._ Talk, and talk, and talk, I know this man has come to murder me, And yet I talk still.

SIR LAMBERT.

If your side were right, You might be, though you lost; but if I said, 'You are a traitor, being, as you are, Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you, Or Richards?

SIR PETER.

Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold!

For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, Don't call me traitor.

SIR LAMBERT.

Furthermore, my knight, Men call you slippery on your losing side, When at Bordeaux I was amba.s.sador, I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay.

[_He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises._

SIR PETER, _rising_.

They lied: and you lie, not for the first time.

What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, A stolen purse?

SIR LAMBERT.

Nay, liar in your teeth!

Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert!

[_Strikes at_ Sir Peter _with a dagger_.

SIR PETER, _striking him flatlings with his axe_.