: Under King Constantine by Trask Katrina - Knights and knighthood Poetry

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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Under King Constantine

Third Edition

To My Husband.

SANPEUR.

The great King Constantine is at the hunt; The brilliant cavalcade of knights and dames, On palfreys and on chargers trapped in gold And silver and red purple, ride in mirth Along the winding way, by hill and tarn And violet-sprinkled dell. Impatient hounds Sniff the keen morning air, and startled birds Rustle the foliage redolent with spring.

From time to time some courtier reins his steed Beside the love-enkindling Gwendolaine, Whose wayward moods do vary as the winds,-- Now wooing with her soft, seductive grace; Now fascinating with her stately pride; Anon, bewitching by her recklessness Of wilful daring in some wild caprice Which no one could anticipate or stay. How fair she is to-day! How beautiful! Her hunting-robe is bluer than the sky,-- Matching one phase of her great, changeful eyes,-- Clasped with twin falcons of unburnished gold, The colour of her brown hair in the sun. The white plumes, drooping from her hunting-cap, Leave her alluring lips in tempting sight, But hide the growing shadow in her eyes. For she marks none of all the court to-day Save Sir Sanpeur, the passing noble knight Whose bearing doth bespeak heroic deeds, There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.

Though powerful to check, she ne'er could change The underflow and current of their life. In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown A woman of the world, she had essayed To stem the tide of shallow vanity, To realise her girlhood's high ideal, And make her home more reverent, and more fine. Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn Romance and sweet simplicity were well For harper minstrel, singing in the hall, But not for courtiers living in the world. Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,-- For some brief days of sweet expectancy Never fulfilled for her,--she was aware Of thirst for living water, and a dread Of the light, shallow life she led, fell on her; She went to Torm, and spoke, in broken words, The unformed longing of her dawning soul. He lightly laughed, filliped her ear, called her "My Lady Abbess," "pretty saint," and then Said, later, jesting, before all the court, "Behold a lady too good for her lord!" The blood swept up her cheeks to lose itself In her hair's gold, then ebbed again to leave Her paler than before. She stood in silent, Momentary hate of Torm, all impotent. He saw her pallor and her eyes down-dropt, Came quickly, flung his arm around her, saying, "God's faith, my girl, you do not mind a jest! Where are the spirits you are wont to have?" "My lord, they shall not fail you any more," She answered bitterly, and after that Torm did not see her soul unveiled again. Thenceforth she turned her strivings after truth To winning outward charm the more complete, And hid her inner self more deeply 'neath The sparkling surface of her brilliant life.

To-day he wearies her with brutal jest Upon the hunted boar, and calls her dull That she laughs not as ever.

While Sanpeur Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous, She thought with secret longing of the hour When once again together they should ride. He has returned triumphant, having won Fresh honours.

As on his foam-flecked charger, Carn-Aflang, He rides to-day towards Lady Gwendolaine, She draws her rein more tightly, arching more Her palfrey's head, and all unconsciously Uplifts her own,--for she has waited long.

"Good morrow, my fair Lady Gwendolaine."

"Good morrow, Sir Sanpeur, pray do you mark My new gerfalcon, from beyond the sea? Your eyes are just the colour of her wings."

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