The Golden Helm Part 7

Yet look you not on me with eyes that burn; I would not stay you when you go to greet The rider of the dawn on his return.

Think you I leave my bed at break of day-- I, Hild the Queen--to thwart a lover's kiss?

Think you my love of you could stoop to this, Though you would wed a fledgling, deedless Knight?

Nay, shrink you not from me, turn not away; Because my heart has never known love's light, I fain would hear your happy tale of love, That I may prosper you and your fair youth.

Will you not trust me?" Blind with love's glad truth, Christine sank down within Hild's outstretched arms.

Speechless, awhile, with sobbing breath she strove; Then poured out all the tale of love's alarms, Raptures, despairs, and deathless ecstasies, In one quick torrent from her br.i.m.m.i.n.g heart; Then, quaking, ceased, and drew herself apart, Dismayed that she so easily had revealed To this white, cold-eyed Queen love's sanct.i.ties.

Yet Hild moved not, but stood, with hard lips sealed, Until, the chiming of the turret-bell Recalling her, she spake with far-off voice: "I, loveless, in your innocent love rejoice.

May nothing stem its eager raptured course!

Oh, that my barren heart could love so well, And feel the surge of love's subduing force!

Yet even I from out my dearth may give To you, Christine. Would you that Geoffrey's name Shall shine, unchallenged, on the lists of fame?

If you would have him win for you the crown Of knightly immortality, and live Triumphant on men's tongues in high renown, Follow me now." With cold, exulting eyes She raised the arras, opening to the light An unknown stair-way clambering into night.

Within the caverned wall she swiftly pa.s.sed.

Christine for one brief moment in surprise Uncertain paused; then, wondering, followed fast.

The falling arras shutting out the day, She stumbled blindly through the soaring gloom-- Enclosing dank and chilly as the tomb Her panting life; and unto her it seemed That ever, as she climbed, more sheer the way Before her rose, and ever fainter gleamed The wan, white star of light that overhead Hovered remote. Far up the stair she heard A silken rustling as, without a word, Relentlessly Queen Hild before her sped For ever up the ever-soaring steep.

But when it almost seemed that she must fall-- So loudly in her ears the pulses beat, And each step seemed to sink beneath her feet-- She heard the shrilly grating of a key, And saw, above her, in the unseen wall, A dazzling square of day break suddenly.

Within the lighted doorway Queen Hild turned To reach a helping hand, and, as she bent To clutch the swooning maiden, well-nigh spent, And drew her to the chamber, weak and faint, Through her gold hair so rare a l.u.s.tre burned, It seemed to Christine that an aureoled saint Leaned out from heaven to s.n.a.t.c.h her from the deep.

Then, dizzily, she sank upon the floor, Dreaming that toil was over evermore, And she secure in Love's celestial fold; Till, waking gradually as from a sleep, Her dark eyes opened on a blaze of gold.

She sat within a chamber hung around With glistering tapestry, whereon a knight, Who bore a golden helm above the fight, For ever triumphed o'er a.s.sailing swords, Or led the greenwood chase with horse and hound, While far behind him lagged the dames and lords And all the hunting train; till he, at length, Brought low the antlered quarry on the brink Of some deep, craggy cleft, wherefrom did shrink The quailing hounds with lathered flanks aquake.

As Christine looked on them, her maiden-strength Returned to her; and now, more broad awake, She saw, within the centre of the room, A golden table whereon glittered bright A casket of wrought gold, and, in the light, Queen Hild, awaiting her, with smiling lips, And laughing words: "Is this then love's sad doom, To perish, fainting, in light's brief eclipse Between a curtain and a closed door?

Shall this bright casket ever hold, unsought, The golden helm--in elfin-ages wrought For some star-destined knight--because love's heart Grows faint within her? Shall the world no more Acclaim its helmed lord?" But, with a start, Christine arose, and swiftly forward came With eager eyes, and stooped with fluttering breast-- Her slender, shapely hands together pressed In tense expectancy, and all her face With quivering light of wondering love aflame.

The Queen bent down, and in a breathing s.p.a.ce Unlocked the casket with a golden key, And deftly loosed a little golden pin; The heavy lid swung open and, within, To Christine's eyes revealed the golden helm.

Then spake Queen Hild, once more: "Your love-gift see!

Think you that any smith in all the realm Can beat dull metal to so fair a casque?

In jewelled caverns of enchantment old This helm was wrought of magic-tempered gold To yieldless strength, by elfin-hammers chased, That toiled unwearied at their age-long task, And over it an unknown legend traced In letters of some world-forgotten tongue.

At noon, with careful footing, down the stair Unto the hall the casket you must bear, When King and knight are gathered round the board, And, ere the tales be told or songs be sung, Acclaim your love the golden-helmed lord."

Christine, awhile, in speechless wonderment, Hung o'er the glistering helm, and silence fell Within the arrased chamber like a spell; While softly, on some distant, sunlit roof, The basking pigeons cooed with deep content; Till, far below, a sudden-clanging hoof Startled the morn. The women's lifted eyes One moment met in kindred ecstasy; Then Hild, with hopeless shudder, shaking free, With strained voice spake: "Why do you longer wait?

Your love returns; shall he, in sad surprise, Find no glad face to greet him at the gate?"

III.

As some new jest was tossed from tongue to tongue, Light laughter rippled round the midday board, Beneath the bannered rafters: dame and lord And maid and squire with merry chattering Sat feasting; though no motley humour wrung A smile from Hild, where she, beside the King, Watched pale and still. She saw on Geoffrey's face Grave wonder that he caught not anywhere Among the maids the dusk of Christine's hair, Or sunlight of her glance. His eyes, between The curtained doorway and her empty place, Kept eager, anxious vigil for Christine.

But when, at last, the lingering meal nigh o'er, The waking harp-notes trembled through the hush, Like the light, fitful prelude of the thrush Ere his full song enchant the domed elm; The arras parting, through the open door She came. Before her borne, the golden helm Within the dim-lit hall shone out so bright, That lord and dame in rustling wonder rose, And squire and maiden sought to gather close, With questioning lips, about the love-bright maid.

Christine, unheeding, turned nor left nor right; With lifted head and eager step unstayed, She strode to Geoffrey, while he stood alone, Radiant with wondering love--as one who sees The light of high, eternal mysteries Illume awhile the mortal shade that moves From out oblivion unto night unknown, Hugging a little grace of joys and loves.

Before him now she came and, kneeling, spake, With slow, clear-welling voice: "In ages old This helm was wrought from elfin-hammered gold, For one who, in the after-days, should be Supreme above his kind, as, in the brake Of branching fern, the solitary tree That crests the fell-top. Unto you I bring The gift of destiny, that, as the sun New-risen of your knighthood, newly-won, The wondering world may see its glory shine."

As Christine spake, with questioning glance the King Turned to the Queen, who gave no answering sign.

Then, stretching forth his arm, he cried: "Sir knight, I know not by what evil chance this maid Has climbed the secret newell-stair unstayed And reached the casket-chamber, and has borne From thence the Helm of Strife, whereon the light Of day has never fallen, night or morn, For seven hundred years; but, ere you take The doomful gift, know this: he who shall dare To don the golden helm must ever fare Upon the edge of peril, ever ride Between dark-ambushed dangers, ever wake Unto the thunderous crash of battle-tide.

Oh, pause before you take the fateful helm.

Will you, so young, forego, for evermore, The sheltered haven-raptures of the sh.o.r.e, To strive in ceaseless tempest, till, at last, The fury-crested wave shall overwhelm Your broken life on death's dark crag upcast?"

He ceased, and stood with eyes of hot appeal; An aching silence shuddered through the hall; None stirred nor spake, though, swaying like to fall, Christine, in mute, imploring agony, Wavered nigh death. As glittering points of steel Queen Hild's eyes gleamed in bitter victory.

But all were turned to Geoffrey, where he stood In pillared might of manhood, very fair; His face a little paled beneath his hair, Though bright his eyes with all the light of day.

At length he spake: "For evil or for good, I take the Helm of Strife; let come what may."

IV.

Dawn shivered coldly through the meadowlands; The ever-trembling aspens by the stream Quivered with chilly light and fitful gleam; Ruffling the heavy foliage of the plane, Until the leaves turned, like pale, lifted hands, A cold gust stirred with presage of near rain.

Coldly the light on Geoffrey's hauberk fell; But yet more cold on Christine's heart there lay The winter-clutch of grief, as, far away, She saw him ride, and in the stirrup rise And, turning, wave to her a last farewell.

Beyond the ridge he vanished, and her eyes Caught the far flashing of the helm of gold One moment as it glanced with mocking light; Then naught but tossing pine-trees filled her sight.

Yet darker gloomed the woodlands 'neath the drench Of pillared showers; colder and yet more cold Her heart had shuddered since the last, hot wrench Of parting overnight. Though still her mouth Felt the mute impress of love's sacred seal; Though still through all her senses seemed to steal The heavy fume of wound-wort that had hung All night about the hedgerows--parched with drouth; Though the first notes the missel-c.o.c.k had sung, Ere darkness fled, resounded in her ears; Yet no hot tempest of tumultuous woe Shook her young body. As night-fallen snow Burdens with numb despair young April's green, Her sorrow lay upon her; hopes and fears Within her slept. As something vaguely seen Nor realised--since yesterday's dread noon Had shattered all love's triumph--life had pa.s.sed About her like a dream by doom o'ercast.

Long hours she sat, with silent, folded hands, And face that glimmered like a winter moon In cloudy hair. Across the rain-grey lands She gazed with eyes unseeing; till she heard A step within her chamber, and her name Fell dully on her ear; then like a flame Sharp anguish shot through every aching limb With keen remembrance. Suddenly she stirred, And, turning, looked on Hild. "Grieve you for him..."

The Queen began; then, with a little gasp, Her voice failed, and she shrank before the gaze Of Christine's eyes, and, shrivelled by the blaze Of fires her hand had kindled, all her pride Fell shredded, and not even the gold clasp Of queenhood held, her naked deed to hide.

She quailed, and, turning, fled from out the room.

Soon Christine's wrath was drowned in whelming grief, And in the fall of tears she found relief-- As brooding skies in sweet release of rain.

All day she wept, until, at length, the gloom Of eve laid soothing hands upon her pain.

Then, once again, she rose, calm-browed, and sped Downstairs with silent step, and reached, unstayed, The Grey Nun's Walk, where all alone a maid Drank in the rain-cooled air. With low-breathed words, They whispered long together, while, o'erhead, From rain-wet branches rang the song of birds.

The maiden often paused as in alarm; Then, with uncertain, half-delaying pace, She left Christine, returning in a s.p.a.ce With Philip, Christine's brother, a young squire, Who strode by her with careless, swinging arm And eager face, with keen, blue eyes afire.

Then all three stood, with whispering heads bent low, In eager converse cl.u.s.tered; till, at last, They parted, and, with high hopes beating fast, Christine unto her turret-room returned-- Her dark eyes bright and all her face aglow, As if some new-lit rapture in her burned.

About her little chamber swift she moved, Until, at length, in travelling array, She paused to rest, and all-impatient lay Upon her snow-white bed, and watched the light Fail from the lilied arras that she loved Because her hand had wrought each petal white And slender, emerald stem. The falling night Was lit for her with many a memory Of little things she could no longer see, That had been with her in old, happy hours, Before her girlish joys had taken flight As morning dews from noon-unfolding flowers.

For her, with laggard pace the minutes trailed, Till night seemed to eternity outdrawn.

At last, an hour before the summer-dawn, She rose and once again, with noiseless tread, Crept down the stair, grey-cloaked and closely veiled, While every shadow struck her cold with dread Lest, drawing back the arras, Hild should stand With mocking smile before her; but, unstayed, She reached the stair-foot, and, no more afraid, She sought a low and shadow-hidden door, Slid back the silent bolts with eager hand, And stepped into the garden dim once more.

She quickly crossed a dewy-plashing lawn, And, pa.s.sing through a little wicket-gate, She reached the road. Not long had she to wait Ere, with two bridled horses, Philip came.

Silent they mounted; far they fared ere dawn Burnished the castle-weatherc.o.c.k to flame.

V.

Northward they climbed from out the valley mist; Northward they crossed the sun-enchanted fells; Northward they plunged down deep, fern-hidden dells; And northward yet--until the sapphire noon Had burned and glowed to thunderous amethyst Of evening skies about an opal moon; Northward they followed fast the loud-tongued fame Of young Sir Geoffrey of the golden helm; Until it seemed that storm must overwhelm Their weary flight. They sought a lodging-place, And soon upon a lonely cell they came Wherein a hermit laboured after grace.

On beds of withered bracken, soft and warm, He housed them, and himself, all night, alone, Knelt in long vigil on the aching stone, Within his little chapel, though, all night, His prayers were drowned by thunders of the storm, And all about him flashed blue, pulsing light.

Christine in calm, undreaming slumber lay, Nor stirred till, clear and glittering, the morn Sang through the forest; though, with roots uptorn, The mightiest-limbed and highest-soaring oak Had fallen charred, with green leaves shrivelled grey.

At tinkling of the matin-bell she woke, And soon with Philip left the woodland boughs For barer uplands. Over tawny bent And purpling heath they rode till day was spent; When, down within a broad, green-dusking dale, They sought the shelter of the holy house Of G.o.d's White Sisters of the Virgin's Veil.

So, day by day, they ever northward pressed, Until they left the lands of peace behind, And rode among the border-hills, where blind Insatiate warfare ever rages fierce; Where night-winds ever fan a fiery crest, And dawn's light breaks on bright, embattled spears: A land whose barren hills are helmed with towers; A lone, grey land of battle-wasted shires; A land of blackened barns and empty byres; A land of rock-bound holds and robber-hordes, Of slumberous noons and wakeful midnight hours, Of ambushed dark and moonlight flashing swords.

With hand on hilt and ever-kindling eyes, Flushed face and quivering nostril, Philip rode; But nought a.s.sailed them; every lone abode Forsaken seemed; all empty lay the land Beneath the empty sky; only the cries Of plovers pierced the blue on either hand; Until, at sudden cresting of a hill, The clang of battle sounded on their ears, And, far below, they saw a surge of spears Crash on unyielding ranks; while, from the sea Of striving steel, with deathly singing shrill, A spray of arrows flickered fitfully.

Amazed they stood, wide-eyed, with holden breath; When, of a sudden, flashed upon their sight The golden helm in midmost of the fight, Where, with high-lifted head and undismayed, Sir Geoffrey rode, a very lord of death, With ever-leaping, ever-crashing blade.

Christine watched long, now cold with quaking dread, Now hot with hope as each a.s.sailant fell; The bright sword held her gaze as by a spell; Because love blinded her to all but love, Unmoved she watched the foemen shudder dead, She whose heart erst the meanest woe could move.

Then, dazed, she saw a solitary shaft, Unloosed with certain aim from out the bow, Strike clean through Geoffrey's hauberk, and bring low The golden helm, while o'er him swiftly met The tides of fight. Christine a little laughed With rattling throat, and stood with still eyes set.

Scarce Philip dared to raise his eyes to hers To see the terror there. No word she spake, But leaned a little forward through the brake That bloomed about her in a golden blaze; Her hands were torn to bleeding by the furze, Yet nothing could disturb that dreadful gaze.

Then, gradually, the heaving battle swerved To northward, faltering broken, and afar It closed again, where, round a jutting scar, The flashing torrent of the river curved.

With eager step Christine ran down the hill, And sped across the late-forsaken field To where, with shattered sword and splintered shield, Among the mounded bodies Geoffrey lay.

She loosed his helm, but deathly pale and still His young face gleamed within the light of day.

Christine beside him knelt, as Philip sought A draught of water from the peat-born stream; When, in his eyes, at last, a fitful gleam Flickered, and bending low, with straining ears, The laboured breathing of her name she caught; And over his dead face fell fast her tears.

Once more towards them the tide of battle swept; Christine moved not. Young Philip on her cried, And strove, in vain, to draw her safe aside.

A random shaft in her unshielded breast-- Though hot to stay its course her brother leapt-- Struck quivering, and she slowly sank to rest.

VI.

Queen Hild sat weaving in her garden-close, When on her startled ear there fell the news Of Christine's flight before the darkling dews Had thrilled with dawn. A strand of golden thread Slipped from her trembling fingers as she rose And hastened to the castle with drooped head.

All morn she paced within her blinded room, Unresting, to and fro, her white hands clenched; All morn within her tearless eyes, unquenched, Blue fires of anger smouldered, yet no moan Escaped her lips. Without, in summer bloom, The garden murmured with bliss-burdened drone Of hover-flies and lily-charmed bees; Sometimes a finch lit on the window-ledge, With shrilly pipe, or, from the rose-hung hedge, A blackbird fluted; yet she neither heard Nor heeded aught; until, by rich degrees, Drowsed into noon the noise of bee and bird.

Yea, even when, without her chamber, stayed A doubtful step, and timid fingers knocked, She answered not, but, swiftly striding, locked Yet more secure, with angry-clicking key, The bolted door, and the affrighted maid Unto the waiting hall fled, fearfully.

Wearied at last, upon her bed Queen Hild In fitful slumber sank; but evil dreams Of battle-stricken lands and blood-red streams Swirled through her brain. Then, suddenly, she woke, Wide-eyed, and sat upright, with body chilled, Though in her throat the hot air seemed to choke.

Swiftly she rose; then, binding her loosed hair, She bathed her throbbing brows, and, cold and calm, Downstairs she glided, while the evening-psalm In maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet, And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air, The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.

She strode into the hall where yet the King Sat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred Cool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird, From his soft-stringed lute. With scornful eyes Hild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing sting Your slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?

Must only stripling-knights and maidens ride To battle, where, unceasing, foemen wage War on your marches, and your wardens rage In impotent despair with desperate swords, While you, O King, with sheathed arms abide?"

She paused, and, wondering, the King and lords Looked on her mutely; then, again, she spake: "Shall I, then, and my maidens sally forth With battle-brands to conquer the wild north?

Yea, I will go! Who follows after me?"

As by a blow struck suddenly awake, The King leapt up, and, like a clamorous sea, The knights about him. Scornfully the Queen Looked on them: "So my woman's words have roused The hands that slumbered and the hearts that drowsed.

Make ready then for battle; ere seven days Have pa.s.sed, the dawn must light your armour's sheen, And in the sun your pennoned lances blaze."

Her voice ceased; and a pulsing flame of light Flashed through the hall; in crashing thunder broke The heavy, hanging heat; the rafters woke In echo as the rainy torrent poured; Bright gleamed the rapid lightning; yet more bright The war-l.u.s.t kindled hot in every lord.

To clang of armour the seventh morning stirred From slumber; restless hoof and champing bit Aroused the garth; and day, arising, lit A hundred lances, as, each bolt withdrawn, The courtyard-gate swung wide with noise far-heard, And flickering pennons rode into the dawn-- Before his knights, the King, and at his side, Queen Hild, with ever-northward-gazing eyes; But, ere they far had fared, in mute surprise They stayed and all drew rein, as down the road They saw a little band of warriors ride-- Sore travel-stained--who bore a heavy load Upon a branch-hung litter; while before Came Philip, bearing a war-broken lance.