The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 9

How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there, St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan!

You French, you are but dead, unless you lay Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!

Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.

_In the Castle._

JOHN CURZON.

What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir?

SIR PETER.

Why, put them all to ransom, those that can Pay anything, but not too light though, John, Seeing we have them on the hip: for those That have no money, that being certified, Why, turn them out of doors before they spy; But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.

JOHN CURZON.

I will, fair sir. [_He goes._

SIR PETER.

I do not wish to kill him, Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd, By all the saints, though!

_Enter_ Lambert _guarded_.

Now, Sir Lambert, now!

What sort of death do you expect to get, Being taken this way?

SIR LAMBERT.

Cousin! cousin! think!

I am your own blood; may G.o.d pardon me!

I am not fit to die; if you knew all, All I have done since I was young and good.

O! you would give me yet another chance, As G.o.d would, that I might wash all clear out, By serving you and Him. Let me go now!

And I will pay you down more golden crowns Of ransom than the king would!

SIR PETER.

Well, stand back, And do not touch me! No, you shall not die, Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high, Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out To all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!'

Take me my knight, and set him up thereon, And let the hangman shave his head quite clean, And cut his ears off close up to the head; And cause the minstrels all the while to play Soft music, and good singing; for this day Is my high day of triumph; is it not, Sir Lambert?

SIR LAMBERT.

Ah! on your own blood, Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare, With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back And take the lady Alice?

SIR PETER.

Say her name Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.

Why should I talk with you? I'm master here, And do not want your schooling; is it not My mercy that you are not dangling dead There in the gateway with a broken neck?

SIR LAMBERT.

Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?

To die is nothing; but to live that all May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.

JOHN CURZON.

Why, will it make you any uglier man To lose your ears? they're much too big for you, You ugly Judas!

SIR PETER.

Hold, John! [_To_ Lambert.

That's your choice, To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine, I thank you now for choosing this so well, It saves me much perplexity and doubt; Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count This sparing traitors is an ill deed.

Well, Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends.

SIR LAMBERT, _grovelling_.

O G.o.d! this is a fiend and not a man; Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!

I will not die.

SIR PETER.

Why, what is this I see?

A man who is a knight, and bandied words So well just now with me, is lying down, Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.

I should have guess'd this from a man like you.

Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin, Yea, all a man can have for simple life, And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, Who needs must know that when he dies, deep h.e.l.l Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, 'Would rather die,' all that. Now sir, get up!

And choose again: shall it be head sans ears, Or trunk sans head?

John Curzon, pull him up!

What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.

Lambert, I hope that never on this earth We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, And mend the life I give you, so farewell, I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch.

_In the French camp before the Castle._

Sir Peter _prisoner_, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert.

SIR PETER.

So now is come the ending of my life; If I could clear this sickening lump away That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, Guesclin might listen.

GUESCLIN.

Tell me, fair sir knight, If you have been clean liver before G.o.d, And then you need not fear much; as for me, I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath, And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing.

SIR PETER.

I knew you could not hate me, therefore I Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause To hang knights of good name, harms here in France I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter Men will remember you another way Than I should care to be remember'd, ah!

Although hot lead runs through me for my blood, All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords, Give back my falcon!

See how young I am, Do you care altogether more for France, Say rather one French faction, than for all The state of Christendom? a gallant knight, As (yea, by G.o.d!) I have been, is more worth Than many castles; will you bring this death, For a mere act of justice, on my head?

Think how it ends all, death! all other things Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; Then somehow will I get me other clothes, And somehow will I get me some poor horse, And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, Will ride and smite among the serried glaives, Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well, Let me not say I could; I know all tricks, That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, How in the trodden corn by Chartres town, When you were nearly swooning from the back Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord!