Idylls of the King Page 9

  And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard

  The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,

  A little vext at losing of the hunt,

  235 A little at the vile occasion, rode,

  By ups and downs, thro’ many a grassy glade

  And valley, with fixt eye following the three.

  At last they issued from the world of wood,

  And climb’d upon a fair and even ridge,

  240 And show’d themselves against the sky, and sank.

  And thither came Geraint, and underneath

  Beheld the long street of a little town

  In a long valley, on one side whereof,

  White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose;

  245 And on one side a castle in decay,

  Beyond a bridge that spann’d a dry ravine:

  And out of town and valley came a noise

  As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed

  Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks

  250 At distance, ere they settle for the night.

  And onward to the fortress rode the three,

  And enter’d, and were lost behind the walls.

  ‘So,’ thought Geraint, ‘I have track’d him to his earth.’

  And down the long street riding wearily,

  255 Found every hostel full, and everywhere

  Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss

  And bustling whistle of the youth who scour’d

  His master’s armour; and of such a one

  He ask’d, ‘What means the tumult in the town?’

  260 Who told him, scouring still, ‘The sparrow-hawk!’

  Then riding close behind an ancient churl,

  Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,

  Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,

  Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

  265 Who answer’d gruffly, ‘Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.’

  Then riding further past an armourer’s,

  Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d above his work,

  Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,

  He put the self-same query, but the man

  270 Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:

  ‘Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk

  Has little time for idle questioners.’

  Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen:

  ‘A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!

  275 Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead!

  Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg

  The murmur of the world! What is it to me?

  O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,

  Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!

  280 Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,

  Where can I get me harbourage for the night?

  And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!’

  Whereat the armourer turning all amazed

  And seeing one so gay in purple silks,

  285 Came forward with the helmet yet in hand

  And answer’d, ‘Pardon me, O stranger knight;

  We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,

  And there is scantly time for half the work.

  Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.

  290 Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,

  It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge

  Yonder.’ He spoke and fell to work again.

  Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,

  Across the bridge that spann’d the dry ravine.

  295 There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,

  (His dress a suit of fray’d magnificence,

  Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said:

  ‘Whither, fair son?’ to whom Geraint replied,

  ‘O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.’

  300 Then Yniol, ‘Enter therefore and partake

  The slender entertainment of a house

  Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door’d.’

  ‘Thanks, venerable friend,’ replied Geraint;

  ‘So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks

  305 For supper, I will enter, I will eat

  With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast’.

  Then sigh’d and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,

  And answer’d, ‘Graver cause than yours is mine

  To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk:

  310 But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,

  We will not touch upon him ev’n in jest.’

  Then rode Geraint into the castle court,

  His charger trampling many a prickly star

  Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.

  315 He look’d and saw that all was ruinous.

  Here stood a shatter’d archway plumed with fern;

  And here had fall’n a great part of a tower, Whole,

  like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,

  And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:

  320 And high above a piece of turret stair,

  Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound

  Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems

  Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms

  And suck’d the joining of the stones, and look’d

  325 A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

  And while he waited in the castle court,

  The voice of Enid, Yniol’s daughter, rang

  Clear thro’ the open casement of the hall,

  Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,

  330 Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,

  Moves him to think what kind of bird it is

  That sings so delicately clear, and make

  Conjecture of the plumage and the form;

  So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;

  335 And made him like a man abroad at morn

  When first the liquid note beloved of men

  Comes flying over many a windy wave

  To Britain, and in April suddenly

  Breaks from a coppice gemm’d with green and red,

  340 And he suspends his converse with a friend,

  Or it may be the labour of his hands,

  To think or say, ‘There is the nightingale;’

  So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,

  ‘Here, by God’s grace, is the one voice for me.’

  345 It chanced the song that Enid sang was one

  Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

  ‘Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

  Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;

  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

  350 ‘Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

  With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

  ‘Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

  Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

  355 For man is man and master of his fate.

  ‘Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

  Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.’

  ‘Hark, by the bird’s song ye may learn the nest,’

  360 Said Yniol; ‘enter quickly.’ Entering then,

  Right o’er a mount of newly-fallen stones,

  The dusky-rafter’d many-cobweb’d hall,

  He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;

  And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,

  365 That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,

  Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,

  Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,

  ‘Here by God’s rood is the one maid for me.’

  But none spake word except the hoary Earl:

  370 ‘Enid, the good knight’s horse stands in the court;

  Ta
ke him to stall, and give him corn, and then

  Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;

  And we will make us merry as we may.

  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.’

  375 He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain

  To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught

  His purple scarf, and held, and said, ‘Forbear!

  Rest! the good house, tho’ ruin’d, O my son,

  Endures not that her guest should serve himself.’

  380 And reverencing the custom of the house

  Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

  So Enid took his charger to the stall;

  And after went her way across the bridge,

  And reach’d the town, and while the Prince and Earl

  385 Yet spoke together, came again with one,

  A youth, that following with a costrel bore

  The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.

  And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,

  And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.

  390 And then, because their hall must also serve

  For kitchen, boil’d the flesh, and spread the board,

  And stood behind, and waited on the three.

  And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,

  Geraint had longing in him evermore

  395 To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb,

  That crost the trencher as she laid it down:

  But after all had eaten, then Geraint,

  For now the wine made summer in his veins,

  Let his eye rove in following, or rest

  400 On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work,

  Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;

  Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:

  ‘Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy;

  This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.

  405 His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it:

  For if he be the knight whom late I saw

  Ride into that new fortress by your town,

  White from the mason’s hand, then have I sworn

  From his own lips to have it – I am Geraint

  410 Of Devon – for this morning when the Queen

  Sent her own maiden to demand the name,

  His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,

  Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d

  Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore

  415 That I would track this caitiff to his hold,

  And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.

  And all unarm’d I rode, and thought to find

  Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;

  They take the rustic murmur of their bourg

  420 For the great wave that echoes round the world;

  They would not hear me speak: but if ye know

  Where I can light on arms, or if yourself

  Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn

  That I will break his pride and learn his name,

  425 Avenging this great insult done the Queen.’

  Then cried Earl Yniol, ‘Art thou he indeed,

  Geraint, a name far-sounded among men

  For noble deeds? and truly I, when first

  I saw you moving by me on the bridge,

  430 Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state

  And presence might have guess’d you one of those

  That eat in Arthur’s hall at Camelot.

  Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;

  For this dear child hath often heard me praise

  435 Your feats of arms, and often when I paused

  Hath ask’d again, and ever loved to hear;

  So grateful is the noise of noble deeds

  To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:

  never yet had woman such a pair

  440 Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours,

  A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,

  Drunk even when he woo’d; and be he dead

  I know not, but he past to the wild land.

  The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,

  445 My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name

  Slip from my lips if I can help it – he,

  When I that knew him fierce and turbulent

  Refused her to him, then his pride awoke;

  And since the proud man often is the mean,

  450 He sow’d a slander in the common ear,

  Affirming that his father left him gold,

  And in my charge, which was not render’d to him;

  Bribed with large promises the men who served

  About my person, the more easily

  455 Because my means were somewhat broken into

  Thro’ open doors and hospitality;

  Raised my own town against me in the night

  Before my Enid’s birthday, sack’d my house;

  From mine own earldom foully ousted me;

  460 Built that new fort to overawe my friends,

  For truly there are those who love me yet;

  And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,

  Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,

  But that his pride too much despises me:

  465 And I myself sometimes despise myself;

  For I have let men be, and have their way;

  Am much too gentle, have not used my power:

  Nor know I whether I be very base

  Or very manful, whether very wise

  470 Or very foolish; only this I know,

  That whatsoever evil happen to me,

  I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,

  But can endure it all most patiently.’

  ‘Well said, true heart,’ replied Geraint, ‘but arms,

  475 That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight

  In next day’s tourney I may break his pride.’

  And Yniol answer’d, ‘Arms, indeed, but old

  And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,

  Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, thine.

  480 But in this tournament can no man tilt,

  Except the lady he loves best be there.

  Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground,

  And over these is placed a silver wand,

  And over that a golden sparrow-hawk,

  485 The prize of beauty for the fairest there.

  And this, what knight soever be in field

  Lays claim to for the lady at his side,

  And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,

  Who being apt at arms and big of bone

  490 Has ever won it for the lady with him,

  And toppling over all antagonism

  Has earn’d himself the name of sparrow-hawk.

  But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.’

  To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,

  495 Leaning a little toward him, ‘Thy leave!

  Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,

  For this dear child, because I never saw,

  Tho’ having seen all beauties of our time,

  Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.

  500 And if I fall her name will yet remain

  Untarnish’d as before; but if I live,

  So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,

  As I will make her truly my true wife.’

  Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart

  505 Danced in his bosom, seeing better days.

  And looking round he saw not Enid there,

  (Who hearing her own name had stol’n away)

  But that old dame, to whom full tenderly

  And fondling all her hand in his he said,

  510 ‘Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,

  And best by her that bore her understood.

  Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest.

  Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.’

  So spake the kindly-heart
ed Earl, and she

  515 With frequent smile and nod departing found,

  Half disarray’d as to her rest, the girl;

  Whom first she kiss’d on either cheek, and then

  On either shining shoulder laid a hand,

  And kept her ofTand gazed upon her face,

  520 And told her all their converse in the hall,

  Proving her heart: but never light and shade

  Coursed one another more on open ground

  Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale

  Across the face of Enid hearing her;

  525 While slowly falling as a scale that falls,

  When weight is added only grain by grain,

  Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;

  Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,

  Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;

  530 So moving without answer to her rest

  She found no rest, and ever fail’d to draw

  The quiet night into her blood, but lay

  Contemplating her own unworthiness;

  And when the pale and bloodless east began

  535 To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised

  Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved

  Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,

  And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

  And thither came the twain, and when Geraint

  540 Beheld her first in held, awaiting him, He felt,

  were she the prize of bodily force,

  Himself beyond the rest pushing could move

  The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms

  Were on his princely person, but thro’ these

  545 Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights

  And ladies came, and by and by the town

  Flow’d in, and settling circled all the lists.

  And there they fixt the forks into the ground,

  And over these they placed the silver wand,

  550 And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.

  Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown,

  Spake to the lady with him and proclaim’d,

  ‘Advance and take, as fairest of the fair,

  What I these two years past have won for thee,

  555 The prize of beauty.’ Loudly spake the Prince,

  ‘Forbear: there is a worthier,’ and the knight

  With some surprise and thrice as much disdain

  Turn’d, and beheld the four, and all his face

  Glow’d like the heart of a great fire at Yule,

  560 So burnt he was with passion, crying out,

  ‘Do battle for it then,’ no more; and thrice

  They clash’d together, and thrice they brake their spears.

  Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash’d at each