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Ebook has 217 lines and 18790 words, and 5 pages

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."

"Now, by my troth, I challenge any knight To say precisely what that colour is."

"'Tis there the likeness serves so well, Sanpeur."

"My Lady Gwendoline, your speech is, far Beyond your purpose, gracious, for right well I mind me that you told me, once, your heart Often rebelled against the well-defined, And I should be content to have my eyes The motley colour of your falcon's plume, Lest they make you rebel."

"Ah, Sir Sanpeur, Your memory is far too steadfast!"

"Naught Can be too steadfast for your grace, fair dame."

Now he has come, the wayward Gwendolaine Is fain to punish him for his delay. "Methinks," she says, in pique, against her will, "The beautiful Ettonne looks for her knight; It scarce seems chivalrous to leave her thus."

"'Tis true, my lady, I came not to stay, But for a greeting, which I now have said."

He left her, the light shadow darker grew Within her eyes, and golden hawking bells Upon her jesses clashed with sudden clink, As her fair hand had closed impatiently.

Betimes came Constantine, who looked a man Of hard-won conquests, not the least, o'er self. Before his stately presence Gwendolaine Bowed low with heartfelt loyalty.

"My King, Care rides beside you, banish him, to-day, He will but spoil the sunshine and the hunt."

"Alas! he is the Sovereign of the King, And stays, defying all command, fair Gwendolaine." Then, smiling grimly,--"My great heritage, As heir to fragments of the Table Round, Brings me no wealth of ease."

In converse light They rode together. When the hunt was done, The King, all courteous, said, "My gracious dame, Well have you learned of nature her great laws; The sun, that warms with its intensity The earth to fruitage, is the same that throws Stray sportive gleams to beautify alone; And you, who meet my purposes of state With a responsive thought and sympathy, As no dame of the court,--and scarcely knight,-- Has ever done, are first in making me Forget their weight. Gramercy for your grace! It has revived me as a summer shower Revives the parched and under-trodden grass; It is but seldom I have time to seek Refreshment, save of labour changed."

"My King,"-- She passed from gay to grave,--"my own heart aches With life's vexed questions, and its stern demands, Full often even in my sheltered state; And you, my liege, must be well-nigh o'ercome With the vast load of duties you fulfil So nobly, to the glory of the realm. Would I could serve you, as you well deserve; But I am only woman, so I smile In lieu of fighting for you, as I would Unto the death, if I were but a knight." And this same dame who spoke so earnestly To Constantine, said when she next had speech With Sir Sanpeur, "Life is a merry play To me, naught else, I seldom think beyond The fashion of the robe I wear!"

Sanpeur, Alone of all the men who came within Her circle, varied not at smiles or frowns, And when he would not humour passing mood, And when she felt within her wayward heart The silent protest of his calm reserve,-- Although a longing she had never known Awoke in her,--her pride, in arms, cried truce To striving spirit, and she laughed the more. And oftentimes the stirring of new life, Without its recognition, made her quick To war against the wall that Sir Sanpeur Confronted to some phases of her charm; Made her assume a wilful shallowness, To hide the soul she was afraid to face.

One day, at court, her restless spirits rose To a defiant mood of recklessness, And half because she wanted to be true, And half because she could not act the false Except to overdo it, her clear laugh Rang out at witty words her heart disdained; Some knights, ignoble, hating noble men, Were loud decrying virtue, Gwendolaine With laugh-begetting words made quick assent To the unworthy wit

She scarce had spoken, Ere Sanpeur raised his penetrating eyes,-- The only ones, in all that laughing group, Which were not bright with an approving smile,-- To meet her own, with silent gravity, A swift arrest within their shining depths To one more word unworthy of herself. And Gwendolaine, the peerless queen of dames, Cast down her eyes, for once, before Sanpeur.

Later, he stood beside her, as she passed, "My Lady Gwendolaine,--incomparable,-- 'Tis not your wont to be so cowardly."

"No? Sanpeur," answered Gwendolaine, "nor yours, It seems, to be well mannered; may I ask Where I have failed in bravery, forsooth?"

"You were a coward to your better self In your light answer to the empty words Your nature disavowed."

"Alack, my lord! That is my armour; warriors ever wear A cuirass of strong steel before their breasts; A woman carries but a little shield Of scorn and badinage, to break the force On her weak woman-heart, of javelins hurled."

"That is well said, my Lady Gwendolaine, But it is not the same, by your fair grace; Our armour is our armour, nothing more; Your shield of scorn is lasting lance of harm, For every word a noble woman says, And every act and influence from her, Live on forever, to the end of time; Your true soul is too true to be belied."

"Who told you, Sir Sanpeur?"

Although no word Was said between them, as they moved apart, She knew he loved her, and he wist she knew.

Then she awoke to joy; all things became Pregnant with deep significance. The sky Flushed with the coming of the rosy dawn; The mountains reaching heavenward; the sun That warmed the flowers, and drank their dew; the birds That built their nests well hid in leafy shade; The grass that bent in homage to the wind,-- All touched her heart anew with subtle thoughts; And joy brought rich unfolding in her life.

She had more pity for the men she scorned, More quick forgiveness for the envious dames, And when the little children crossed her path, She stooped, and kissed them, as was not her wont.

Alas! too often, this new harmony Of life was clashed by discord. Sir Torm flung Upon the homage Sanpeur rendered her Unworthy jest and spiteful words, for well He hated him with grudge despiteous. Full oft his wrath was roused to such a point He could not hold his peace; even to the King He jeered one day at visionary knights. The keen-eyed King, with intuition, knew The motive of his speech,--"Our knight, Sanpeur, But contradicts your verdict, Torm, and proves That which the great King Arthur taught,--the man Is strongest who can claim a strength divine From whence to draw his own." Sir Torm had grown More wrathful in his heart at this, and kept Sanpeur long while from word with Gwendolaine. Then, when Torm's anger did not baffle her, Sometimes a doubt would come, and doubt hides joy. Sir Sanpeur honoured her before the court With chivalrous and frankest loyalty. At the great tournament of Christmas-tide, He cried, "Such peerless presence in our midst As the unrivalled Lady Gwendolaine Strengthens the arm to prove her without peer! Let him who will dispute it!" Those who did, But proved it by their fall, for worshipfully He overthrew them with so simple ease His cause seemed justice rather than love's boast. Then when they met for converse face to face, He spoke from his unsullied, fearless soul Straight to her own, without reserve or fear. Yet he was wrapped in a calm self-control; No word, no whisper of his love for her Had ever passed his lips to tell, in truth, The love that she was sure of in her heart. And when he lingered by some maiden fair, With that true-hearted careful courtesy He never for a moment's space forgot To any woman, queen or serving-maid; And when the maiden's eyes gave bright response To his fair words of thought-betaking grace, The heart of Gwendolaine would faster beat, And all her waywardness would quick return; Then, if Sanpeur approached her, she would mock At life, and love, and fling the gauntlet down As challenge for a tournament of speech.

"And pray, Sanpeur," she said one eve to him, When they were at a feast at Camelot, "Why is your life so lone and incomplete, When any lovely maiden of the court Would follow you most gladly at your call?"

"You know full well, my Lady Gwendolaine."

"Because I love you only, evermore; You long have felt it, known it; and I thought Cared not to hear me say it with my voice; But, as you wish it, I have said it now, My Lady Gwendolaine."

They stood among The knights and ladies, therefore he spoke low, In quiet dignity, as he might say "How well the colour of your robe beseems Your beauty";--not a trace of passionate Intensity, save in his lucent eyes. No passion nor embrace could so have moved her, As this calm telling her in quiet words The secret of all secrets in God's world, As though it were a part of daily life; This power to hold a passion in his hand,-- Which his true eyes declared was measureless,-- As though he were its master, utterly. True women are like Nature, their great mother, Stirred on the surface by each passing wind, But ruled by silent forces at the heart. She caught her breath a moment in surprise,-- For naught has to the mind more of surprise Than the sweet long-expected, if it come When one expects it not,--and paused a space, With downcast eyes; and then her woman-soul Went out in sudden impulse, graciously, In boundless thought for him who gave her all. "O Sanpeur, love one worthier than I, And where your love will not be guerdonless!"

"To love you is a guerdon of itself, You are so well worth loving, Gwendolaine."

He passed with knightly bow, and joined the court, And left her with a glory in her eyes. Never was Gwendolaine so radiant As on that evening; courtiers one by one Drew near, and marvelled at her loveliness. When the great feast was ended, she was well Content to leave the court for Tormalot; For, in the quiet of her chamber, when Sir Torm had slept, she lived in thought again The sure triumphant moment when she knew, Beyond all peradventure, of a love That her heart told her was above all love Of other men in strength and purity. And on the morrow, when she woke, her joy Woke with her, and encompassed her soul.

In strides Sir Torm, equipped for tournament. The Lady Gwendolaine goes not to-day, For it will be a savage tournament, "Unfit for ladies," Torm had said to her, "Unworthy men," she thought, but did not say.

"Come, Gwendolaine, my beauty, ere I go, I wait to have you buckle on my sword."

Smiling, she does his bidding.

"Ha! Gwendolaine, by the great Holy Grail I caught an eagle when I caught that dove, For now you are the queen of all the dames, Even King Constantine, who seldom marks A lady of the court, comes to your side And flatters you with royal courtesies, Which you receive with far too proud a grace; For, wit ye well, I would not let it slip, This honour of his preference for you."

"My lord, save that I reverence him as man, I do not care for favour of the King."

"I care, that is enough for you," said Torm. "No knight has charger like my Roanault, No knight has castle like my Tormalot, And none has mistress like my Gwendolaine-- I choose that none approach her but the King."

He laughed a loud and taunting laugh, and turned And kissed her with a loud resounding kiss.

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