B. L. Add. MS. 45,328, ff. 150-83
[this seems to be a composite of several versions, ff. 150-54, ff. 155-59, and ff. 161-83, a version whose protagonist is named Hugh. FF. 155-83 could possibly also be an early version of The Story of the Glittering Plain.
[pencil draft; f. 150] You that rede this I do to wit
That I the clerk who scribbled it,
Came on of Upton on the Wold,
Write nought but what the teller told
The letters are mine own forsooth
Of what he [sic] they tell the truth
But nothing else. But how I heard
The tale, on warrant of my word<
Ye needs must take. Upon my way
Unto my stall I once made stay
At a fair house where oft in peace
Dwelleth the Baron of the Leas.
And nobly was I welcomed there
As one who oft in hand doth bear
The Lord of lords that made the earth
There on that eve was much of mirth
Though oer seas the valiant lord
Was brightening now his father's sword
And with the Abbess of St. Bride
Meanwhile his lady did abide
Now after we had supped full well
In the stone Hall the talking fell
Upon the draft of amories
Why some bore those and some bore these
And why they first were fashioned new
And divers minds hereof were told
Of which were bravest to behold
And which were noblest of renown.
Then said a chapman of the town
That to his mind the boar, the bear,
The pard, the lion and such deer,
The erne and slaughter-fowl—such-like
[f. 151] Of living things that rend and strike
Were meetest arms for barony,
"And therewithal meseems," quoth he,
"That helm and sword and bow and spear
Are charges good for lords to bear,
But nought methinks of flowers and trees,
Apples and grapes: things such as these
For lads and damsels are but meet
Amidst their toying dainty-sweet."
Some laughed, some scowled, for lo! upon
The stone hall's chimney was there done
The armour of the Lords of Leas,
And there amidst of carven trees
Upon the shield of silver white
Blossom and stem was done aright
A rose new-slipped; and one cried out
"What, carle! and wilt thou sit and flout
The noblest shield in all the land
When with my lord's meat thy fool's hand
Is e'en yet greasy? Hold thy peace!"
And much the blame of men encrease
About the carle. Till there stood up
An ancient squire, and filled his cup,
And cried," My masters, fill ye now
And drink unto the goodly bough,
The Leasome Rose, that I have seen
Besprent with red about the green
In many a death-begirded hour.
Hail O thou shield, hail O Flower!"
Therewith he drank and all stood up
And joyfully they drained the cup;
All cried "All hail the Flower!" and then
Loud for awhile was talk of men
About this goodly ancient shield
And all its deeds on fold and field,
And many an idle tale was told
[f. 152] Of how it first was borne of old
And who begat it. Till once more
Arose the squire the old and hoar
And stilled the noise and spake: "Ye tell
Of many a thing ye know not well,
But would ye hush and hearken me
I know a goodly history
Of this same battle-token old
That seldom yet hath all been told,
Therein forsooth is all the tale
That unto any may avail,
The story of the Flower of yore."
So now whereas they knew his lore
They bade him speak for they were fain
The learning of that shield to gain
So down he sat him and began
Now firstly let not any man
Missay the flower, unless the sword
He crave to see. For our good lord
Thrice for his goodly valiancey
Have Kings bestowed great gifts upon
And bade him take a new shield well won
Amidst the press; one bade to crown
His rose with gold, one bade him take
An augment for his honour's sake,
A sword in chief above the rose;
But ever he naysaid all those
And still in the old wonted way
The ancient flower he bears today,
And e'en so oft and o'er again
His fathers did and thought no gain
Of any gift on field or bower
That changed one whit the ancient flower.
Thereof Sir Chapman thou shalt learn
[f. 153] That ‘tis the deed that praise doth earn.
Which makes deed upon shield, rather than shield
That maketh story of the field.
But hearken so much hath been told
About the Flower that waxed of old
That I shall tell you somewhat now
Wherewith shall ye have all the lore
That is on earth about the Flower.
Or hath been unto this same hour
From thrice an hundred years agone
Or shall be till the world is done—
Of old days while yet but narrow land
The lords of Leas held neath their hands
Sir Hugh was lord. Men tell of him
That little he risked life or limb
In towne, or in striken field
And yet men loved him; though his shield
Scarce knew the dint of grinded sword
For first no man might doubt his word
Though his behest might hurt him sore
And next the trouble of men poor
Or sicke, or sorry whatso twere
Een as his own he needs must bear;
And if such ills he might amend—
As they were his he brought to end—
And whereas he was piteous
As are the saints of Gods own house
So did he love the saints as few
On earth have had the will to do.
And holy church he served so well
That many a tale ther were to tell
Thereof if time might serve for it
And oft in choir long would he sit
[f. 154] And sing the hours; the cross bare he
Full oft at the Epiphany
Or other feast. He would light down
From off his horse if midst the town
He met God's body, and would kneel
In mire and clay to pray for hele.
Shortly to say, suchwise he did
His holiness might not be hid
Till some men blamed him that he fared
Unlike a knight with war-sword bared
But rather as a clerk—forsooth
A many mocked him for his youth
Amidst the church as cast away,
But rich men, mighty men, were they;
The mouths of poor men had no word
Save blessings for the holy lord.
Withal this while he yet was young
He had not 'scaped the slanderous tongue
As in my tale now shall ye hear.
Beyond the wasteland of the weir
Lieth Long Whitton as ye know
And in those days past long ago
It lay all wholly neath the hand
Of a great lord of folk and land
Who hight Lord Lyon whose chief house
Was een that where the valorous
Lord Burgreve of Long Whitton dwells
On the last spur of Whiting [?] Fells
A lord who as ye full well wot
In the burg council thinketh not
To vex the Burg in word or deed
A mighty warrior fell at need
But nothing masterful withal
[f. 155]
Far otherwise was cast the ball
In those old days, the city’s mayor
The gild masters must sit and hear
Whatso lord Lyon spake, and do
Whatever deed he bid them to,
Or in his prison rot, or die
As martyrs of the crafts or cry
On bill and low and fare afield
And few durst see the Lyon shield
Lifted against them. Take this word
He was their master an their lord
And by his will alone they lived—
Now yet must wot that nobly wived
Was the Lord Lyon of those days
And of his dame was little praise
To say that she was best of all
Who ever trod the Lyons hall
Holy—fair & wise and kind
These are but words for deaf & blind—
There is no word hereof to tell
But this all people loved her well
All hearts of all men did she moved
Yet was she lovelier than their love
But wedded now this seventh year
And of her baron loved full dear
Nevertheless no child she had
To make his ancient lyniage glad
Wherefore he sat all gloomy-great
And ill-content his own heart ate
And by that meat was evil fed
So that strange fancies filled his head
Concerning his ill hap, until
This last fear all his heart must fill,
[f. 156] That by his wife he was beguiled.
That she whom all deemed undefiled
Holier than any wedded saint
Did with that seeming foulness paint
Or put it thus: so loved was she
So long had loved all patiently
That loved her, that at last her heart
Lost patience, and she set apart,
One of all men beloved on earth
To love her best and slay her mirth.
Who that might be Lord Lyon’s thought
Never one moment told him aught
But as in such-like tales ’twill fare
There lacked not tongues to lay that bare
Which peradventure ne’er had been
To show what never might be seen
Because it was not. An old squire
Who more for love than earthly hire
Had served lord Lyon een as erst
His fathers had through good deeds and accursed
But with all faith to do him good
Een as the longing of him would.
This man found out the tale & deed
To help his lord’s sore heart at need.
Whereas within this hall I see
Strangers who know not utterly
This countryside this much I say
There was once as there is today
Though greater far that home is now,
A church and house oer the hills brow
Which then the Lyons hold did crown
Long went the hillside thence adown
[f. 157]
So that some half a mile it was
From castle unto Church to pass
And thence another mile again
The hill sides died out in the plain
And down the plain a league or more
A sandy ridge the Burg upbore
Which for its stone walls long & white
As erst I said, Lord Whitton hight
Now that same church which looked adown
Across the plain twixt tower & town
Served of black friars Michael the bright
Was lord and friend, and there delight
He ha to hearken to the prayer
Of all his friends, and mighty there
Was he to bring the dedes about
Of them that dwelt in fear and doubt.
Therefore no wonder were it though
The castles Lady oft would go
Alone adown the wind-blown hill
And speak of matters good and ill
Of hope and fear to that same Lord
Nor was he heedless of her word;
So that at last it chanced of all the host
Of heaven, she trusted in him most.
Now hearken haps my masters all!
The Lord of this same house & hall
Lord Hugh the Good though love he had
For all the saints was oftenest glad
To show his whole hearts’ innermost
Unto that Captain of Gods Host.
(And ever fond was he to wend
Unto all houses of his friend
That he might come to
Shortly, his goodness was so great
His bedes so sore importunate
[f. 158]
That at the last of him was said
That whatsoever he asked of aid
Of Holy Michael given it was.
And saith the tale it came to pass
More times than twice that when there came
Some sightless man or blind or lame
To pray his prayer that he would say
Poor man, I am beset today
With over many things to do
But I to Michaels shrine may go.
But unto him my message bear
And say that if he holds me dear,
And counteth me a friend then he
Shall heal thee of thy misery
The tale saith that the man so sent
If he unto S. Michael went
Gat healing even at that word
So dear he held that holy lord.
No marvel then that Hugh was gain
More converse with the saint to gain
That ever did he list to wend
To every house where dwelt his friend
That he might come to. And heard tell
Of that S. Michael of the Fell
Midst other houses so one day
He unto Whitton went his way
With three men of his following
And to the Duke of Heavens high King
Knelt in the church whereof I told
And since the day was gotten old
When all was done and great & high
Lord Lyon’s castle rose anigh
[f. 159]
Thither for guesting of the night
He went: where all was done aright
To meet the king; and yet shall wot
As for Sir Hugh it irked him not
To miss the great man, who in sooth
Was over great to harbour ruth
Or think of any poor man’s need
To pray for aid to praise a deed
Or hope for any word of fame
Unless within his house it came.
So when Sir Hugh was washed and clad
As fitted him: with face full glad
As was his wont the most of days,
Into the hall he went his ways
And found much folk abiding him
To do him honour: tall and slim
He was of body fair and good
Goodly of pith although he would
As little strife as he might have
So that his honour he might save
Yet damsels fair in bower & hall
A lovely lord Sir Hugh would call.
Now twas that man of malice old
Geoffrey the squire of whom I told
Who led him up the hall: and said
Lo now my lady: by Gods head
She is of mind to honour thee
Sir Knight, to lay by majesty
And trip it down the hall as though
This were some cot-carls chamber low
And she his mate to welcome in
Haymaking carles that work do win
[f. 160]
When June hath brought the summer home
Een with thatword Sir Hugh was come
Unto the midway hall beneath
The luffer: there he held his breath
As one amazed, and stood astare
As though a marvel were laid bare.
Although the sight he saw for sooth
Was one oft seen on earth in youth
A woman fair and well-beloved.
Yea wondrously his heart was moved
Yet shall ye wonder not for this
Was her that wrought the peoples bliss
And lo, on him her eyes were set
As though she never would forget
His face first seen his hand, first felt
Speechless a little while she dwelt
While her cheek reddened: then she said
Welcome Lord Hugh: and well apaid
We deem us that thous somest to see
Our House of little Courtesy
Set on th4e edges of the Waste
Where men go up and down in haste
Nor bide except for gifts or gain.
She stayed her speech the red gain wane
From off her cheek; for close anight
Stood Geoffrey with his changeless eye
And shaven smile: again she spake
Humble and meek. Sir for thy sake
I grieve my baron is not here
Full surely fain of thee he were—
He spake therewith and heard his voice
Unlike his own. Dame I rejoice
That I have seen the noble shell
[f. 161]
Wherein two pearls of price do swell
But yet the one pearl I have seen
Maketh as though it had not been
The shell that holdeth it. He spake
This much for all the glories’ sake
Of the great hall wherein they were;
So noble was it and so fair.
Howbeit but outward from the teeth
He spake suchwise, his heart did seethe
With strong desire that fought and strove
With that sweet pleasure of new love
To make the sweetest sweeter still
And all his life with longing fill.
Speech fell betwixt them and Yoland
Now led him holding his bare hand
Unto the dais, and after them,
His foot nigh touching her gold hem,
Went Geoffrey till at last they came
Unto the pillared seat of fame
Wherein she set him by her side.
And as of some new-wedded bride
So were her hands and lips and eyes,
And all her garments' braveries,
Girdle and gown and wreathing flower,
Seemed made for nothing but the hour
Ere yet the bridal bed is seen.
The hall-folk said she ne'er had been
So proud and joyous. Not e'en when
The pest was heavy upon men
And 'twixt the living and the dead
With naked feet and uncrowned head.
Betwixt the March snow and the sun
She stood until her will was done
And all the saints who loved her well
Had slaked the death and shut back hell.
[f. 162] Of few words were those twain; low voiced
While loud the folk in hall rejoiced,
And chiefly great was Geoffrey's glee
And loud he laughed and joyously,
And whatsoe'er in hall betid
So fast the merry minutes slid
Into deep night, and came the cup;
And Yoland with Sir Hugh stood up
And took his hand and blessed them there
As one who says, Tomorrow's fair
And I no long way off from thee.
So was she gone, and dark with pain
But sweet with love was night again.
So was Lord Hugh to chamber led
With honour great, and by his bed
Two squires of good renown there lay
As a most mighty man he were;
Yet was not wily Geoffrey there.
So with the early morning-tide
Hugh bade his men be dight to ride;
And forth he went, and since the day
Was fair amidmost of the May,
Into the pleasance for a while
He went, the waiting to beguile
And nurse the longing of his heart
Amidst the flowers from folk apart.
So down the garden-path he went
And gazed adown the sunny bent
And saw the morning sunbeams smite
St. Michael's walls to gleaming white,
Then turned about unto the house
That dusked the garden plenteous
With shade of its great towers and tall.
[f. 163] And 'twixt the sunshine and the wall
He saw one coming from the gloom,
Bright with the blossoms of the loom,
Fair as a picture in a book.
His glad eyes caught her joyous look
As she beheld him tarrying there,
For it was Yoland slim and fair
Ruddy with freshness of the morn
And lovely with her love new-born.
Amid the sunlight there they met,
And in his palm her hand she set
And said in sweet and steady voice
O noble friend how I rejoice
To find thee on my garden green,
For in the bower the word hath been
That last nights word was but farewell
And none thy journeys tale should tell.
From head to foot he gazed on her
As he would fix her image dear
Within his heart: her eyes caress
Her lips that longed his own to bless
Her golden-girdled hair of gold
Her blossomed raiment fain to fold
The shapeliness of limbs so wrought
It made the ancient carver nought
Who as tales tell with Venus[’s] aide
Fashioned of stone a living maid
He spake no word but held her hand,
Beside a rose bush did they stand
Whose buds began to swell with May
Thereto she turned and fell to say
Yet faltering somewhat as she spake
Thy friends Sir Hugh their hearts will ache
When thou departest from their side
[f. 164]
To dwell a part a weary tide.
A long while—ever more may be
Is it not thus.
He said from thee
Is hard departing for all those
Who once have seen thee dear and close
He stood a tremble as he spake
She turned not to him straight but brake
A slip from off the bush where green
The barbs about the rose unseen
Were growing, and she said," See now,
The rose-buds into flowers shall grow
Unless the world shall end ere June;
But who knows through what watery moon,
What rending south-west wind, what storm,
What plague-struck noon to bring the worm,
What bitter nippings from the north
The flower [shall] pass ere it come forth
Ruddy and wide and summer-sweet?"
The spray fell down unto her feet
E'en as she spake. But he knelt down
And kissed the gold hem of her gown
And kissed her feet the while his hand
Took up the spray; still did she stand
Nor bent to him. He rose and she
Looking afar stood quietly,
And he drew closer and more close
Holding that promise of the rose.
Then she spake on
Since first she plucked that token green
Yet then een in its bloooming-tide
That Rose of Love had surely died
And been but outcaset who shall say
But this the unborn child of May
[f. 165]
[f. 166]
That meeting een so soon should end
In utter sundering. As she spake
With some new fear she fell to quake
Her voice sank low, her cheek grew pale
She said O friend the time doth fail
To tell thee more now needs must be
That thou no longer bide with me
Ill is at hand nor knowst thou yet
The periods that my life beset.
Now go we hence. She turned about
And he distraught with love and doubt
Paced by her silent. Softly then
She spake. Here are the eyes of men
Who love me not. A say there is
Though perilous to deal with this
St Marthas
A chapel is there up the fell
High up therein no man doth dwell
Tis oft my wont as all men know
Alone afoot thereto to go
And peradventure should thy way
Tomorrow at the nones of day
Lead thither therein might I be
And peradventure none with me
Her colour came and went as they
Beneath the lintel went their way
Her hands were busy for a while
Within her girdle: then the smile
Quiet and kind that day by day
All change was wont to overlay
On her sweet face all hope or pain
Unto her face came back again
But his was full of trouble yet
That not one moment could forget
The fear and love, of her last word
So midst the squires of bench and board
That thronged Lord Lyons house of fame
[167]
Into the hall at last they came
And changed indeed was Yoland now
From yester-eve proud was her brow
And proud her gait, and all her mien
Was as of some great kingdoms queen
So that folk wondered at the change.
Yet Geoffrey thought it nowise strange
Lo how my lady acts a part
She knew not erst since in her heart
Lies fear of me because of guilt
She dreadeth lest the cup be spilt
Which she so longeth for so with heed
She looks to hold it as is need
So to himself he spake, as now
He dight the fair and dainty show
Of bidding good speed to the guest
Since een to ride he deemed it best
A little while Sir Hugh did stand
Before the Dame, then took her hand
And said fair words with courteous grace
That went not with his troubled face
[That little matched his troubled face]
Then turned and went as Geoffrey led
Adown the hall with restless head
Looking to right and left as though
He heard her calling not to go.
So came he to the fore court door
Where for his honour a full score
Of men at arms about until
He went his ways adown the hill
He mounted and old Geoffry rode
At this right hand from that abode
And talked in cheerful voice and high
Of all the lions valiancy
[f. 168]
And Hugh not hearkening then at last
To other matter Geoffry passed
All suddenly, for thus he said
My dame is like a holy maid,
And yet how fair in all the land
When shall you see so fair a hand
As hers. And then her fair foot moves
As though the very earth she loves
That bears her up: the angry blood
In Lord Hughs very forehead stood
He turned to Geoffrey with a frown
But nowise was the squire cast down
Nor heeded he Sir Hugh at all
But into other talk gan fall.
And on they went: the church they passed
And by the fells foot at the last
Geoffrey bade his men draw rein.
And to the tower they turned again
When with much humble courtesy
The Squire had bidden Hugh good-bye.
Hugh rode on silent for a space
Until they reached a wooded place
Nigh to the ford, and there he stayed
Those men of his and shyly said,
"Ride on unto the House of Leas.
For me I go to pray for peace
And speak unto my friend and lord
Down in the Chapel of the Sword
That lieth by the river side
Beyond the wood; there may I bide
A day or twain, I know not well.
God keep you." No more was to tell:
Upon their way to Leas they rode,
And Hugh so left a while abode
[169]
Unto the fells, but wide about
He wended lest it so fall out
That any of the Lyon men
Should note him wandering back again
For in his mind overweening dread
Still ran of all Yoland had said.
So on by byway and lone lane
He rode and with the night did gain
The bare hillside below the fell,
Where now he knew the land full well.
There in a little dale he lay
And rose up with the earliest day
And through the downland rode for long
Nor met he aught to do him wrong,
Nay no man but some shepherd folk
With whom his night-long fast he broke,
Nor did they know him nor his name
So rode he till at last he came
E'en at the very nones of day
High up the fell. The limestone grey
Rose in a ridge of cliff above
A little plain where nought did move
That was alive. Great rocks lay strewed
Over the sward, amidst them showed
A little chapel much as grey
And weather-beaten as were they.
Then beat his heart because he knew
That now at last the die he threw
For good or ill. Swift he rode on
Up to the chapel-door but none
Stirred nigh it; from his horse he leapt
And clashed the ring-bolt as he stepped
Over the threshold: and a mist
[f. 170] Came o'er his eyes. Had she kept tryst
And would she be the true at need?
Yea there her very self indeed
She stood before him. Met their hands
And met their lips: no warring land
No deed of kings no ruin of earth
Could wholly stay now their love at brith.
So were those twain made one a while
And peace was with them for the nonce
[f. 171] It is the very sooth no more
She said. Here camest thou
This very tale to hearken now
He took her hand and said tell on
But soon shall our hour begone
And somewhat yet we have to say
Lest all be ended in a day.
Soon told she said my tale shall be
Now even thus it went with me.
Ere I was born my father died
He dwelt by a great waste land side
I and a carline old and grey
I called her mother: though today
I know she was not such indeed
Yet was she good to me at need.
And nourished me with all she might
So that I grew up strong and bright
When I was little. Little work
She bade me do and nought to irk
My childhood glad: yea furthermore
She taught me somewhat of good lore
And should me letters what they were
What meaning written words might bear:
So wore the days until I grew
Into a woman but scarce knew
More than a child few folk came nigh
Our lonely cot and orchard close
And poor and all unlearned were those
Save one or two. As once there came
A man who stirred my newborn shame
[f. 172] So the days wore
And nought there is to tell of more
Till unpeace fell upon the land
And other tiding came to hand.
For so it fell upon a day
That men-at-arms must come our way,
A score belike. How it befell
I know not: strange it is to tell
But true: our dame bade not hide
But sitting by the hearth abide
And heed not aught nor speak at all
Whatever matter might befall.
So sat I trembling. There and then
Into the cottage came three men
Clattering in arms, the while outside
A-horseback did the rest abide.
And now the gayest of the three
Looking about and close to me
[f. 173] Yet saw me not: but as for him
Though steel-clad now in breast and limb
I knew him for the selfsame lord,
Who now again took up the word:
"Well dame, now are we come to take
The damsel, even for her sake
And thine; and here I bring the gold."
And straightway on the board he told
Twenty gold pieces. The dame smiled
And said "Well, ye should have the child
If she were here, as she is not.
A merchant hath thy treasure got;
I sold her yesterday at eve."
I saw the fair lord's breast upheave
And his cheeks redden: "Whereaway
Went then thy chapman yesterday?"
She said "Why hide the man's abode?
Unto Much Allerton he rode."
Then hastily the knight turned round
And out was he and off the ground
And spurring hard or ere there came
The very last word from the dame;
And after him his meiny went,
Clattering and clashing. "Nought is spent
The peril yet," then muttered she;
"They will be wiser presently
And come aback." Withal she spake:
"My child, thy rock and spindle take
And sit without the door and spin,
Nor heed thou what man cometh in."
So did I wondering; sore afeard,
Until again the noise I heard
Of horse-hoofs drawing near the close,
And lo the knight and two of those
Who followed him; straight he gat
From offhis horse nor heeded what
[f. 174] Was by the door. I heard him say,
"Dame, thou art wise enough today,
Yet we grow wiser than we were.
Methinks ye have the damsel here."
"Yea?" said she; "not so over-great
Is this poor house but thou mayst wait
Whiles your men seek it up and down."
He knit his brows into a frown
Yet reddened too, and said, "We deem,
I and my men, that as a dream
Were things before us even now,
And that ye showed us but a show
Of what things were. We deem that there
Amidmost of the hearthside chair
Knee close to knee the damsel sat,
And seemed thy white-haired blue-eyed cat."
The dame laughed out: "Well well, Sir Knight,
Still may ye see the self-same sight
And for thy money mayst thou take
The beast and keep her for my sake."
He looked and scowled and then once more
He strode out through the open door
And gat to horse and rode away.
Then the dame called me in to say:
"Child, haste thee, strip thee to the skin
And stand beside the door within
And stir not, whatso thou mayst hear,
Nay loiter not for shame or fear."
What might I do but as she bade
But scarce stood I a naked maid
Beside the door-post ere once more
The armour clashed about the door
And in the knight strode. "Dame," he said,
"Ye play a close game by my head—
Where is the damsel?" " Nay by now
E'en at Much Allerton, I trow,"
[f. 175] The dame said," thou mayst win her yet
If swiftly unto horse ye get."
Then wild with wrath the fair knight spake
"Beware dame lest the fire we take
And burn the house and thee and all."
"Yea, that the nighest way I call
For finding a lost love," she said,
"Now ye grow wiser than well sped."
"Dame," said he, "yet I know thy guile.
When I departed hence erewhile
There sat she by the doorway side
And seemed to be thy yellow cat
Purring; nor stayed I aught thereat
But lo the hem of a grey gown
E'en as I turned seemed slipping down
About the beast—Where is she now?"
"Well, thou art wise enough to know,"
She said," there doth she yet abide,
Go take her for thy lovely bride."
Wood-wrath he grew and cried, "Well then,
Now shall ye burn, witch. Ho my men,
Take ye the brands from off the hearth
And burn up all to utter dearth,
And let your spears thrust through what e'er
Shall come abroad to greet you there."
His men 'gan stir, but therewithal
They heard a sudden trumpet-call
A blast of war, shrill loud and nigh;
And therewith 'gan one man to cry
"The King!—the King!" and down he cast
The kindled brand and gat him fast
From out the house; and all the rout
Delayed no whit but hurried out
From house and orchard. Yea the lord
Drew from its sheath his gleaming sword
And hewed hard at the Dame, and I
[f. 176] Scarce kept aback a frightened cry.
Nought happed of scathe save to our chair
That lost its old life then and there
Beneath the edges: while once more
The horn blew louder than before.
The knight turned cursing and strode out,
And past the garth we heard his shout
Unto his fleeing men. But for me
I stood there quaking timorously
Till from the Dame 1 heard a voice
Shrill yet but weak: "Child, rejoice
That thou art free: a phantom sound
Shall chase them o'er the grassy ground
And the bare rocks, o'er wet and dry,
Nor shall they come back hastily.
But draw nigh, sweetheart: for no more
May my craft hide thee as before.
Come hither then and hear me, maid."
So did I even as she bade
And found her lying down alow
Hard by the hearth now scarce aglow.
I knelt down by her and she said:
"No more again till I am dead
Shall such-like power from me go forth
Although my will may yet be worth
Thy blessing when the daisies grow
Above me: hearken—for I go
The longest and the roughest way
That any stout Eve's daughter may."
I wept because I loved her well,
And lonely fear upon me fell:
But she went on, " Short now is the space
For weeping. I have seen thy face
A litde while and now no more;
[f. 177] But long years lie thy life before,
Happy belike. Lo here the key
Of the great chest that unto thee
I opened on the day I showed
The treasure which therein abode,
The raiment of the great on earth
That many an orchard-croft is worth.
Go do it on without delay,
Time will be furthermore to say
What thou shalt do." E'en so I did
And my poor peasant's body hid
In that rich raiment of a queen
Where scarce for glistening gold were seen
The silken blossoms of the loom.
I came back lighting up the gloom
And knelt again. Again she said:
"What wilt thou do when I am dead?
Is that thy thought? Thou shalt do well
And oft of thee the folk shall tell
For days to come. Day wears apace,
I with it; get thee from this place
And through the wood go speedily
Nor bide thou the last breath of me—
I know my way.
Stay not for night
When in the wood thou art—aright
Shalt thou be led; but still press on
Till miles of woodland way be won
And miles of thicket lie between
This house where erst thou hast been seen
And so my heart is telling me
That ere dawn one shall meet with thee,
A mighty man, who shall behold
Thy beauty and more worth than gold
Shall deem thee, and shall bid thee come
Yet in all honour to his home.
If thou nay say him then is gone
[f. 178] Thy luck of life and all is done.
Speak gently to him, yet I bid
That nought of all thy life be hid,
Yea tell him all the very truth—
Yet nothing shall he trow forsooth
Thy simple tale, but deem of thee
That thou of some great house shall be.
What more? My sight is waxing dim
Yet seems to see thee wed with him—
And this moreover shall I tell
That art thou faring less than well
Then may it help thee somewhat yet
My name not wholly to forget.
Sad is this sundering now may be
But e'en what was awrought for me
By days thy fellowship made sweet.
Depart now, let me see thy feet
Pass o'er the threshold ere I die."
Dull sorrow on my heart did lie
As I rose up from her, yet so
Her bidding I was wont to do
Nor knew I how to naysay this.
My lips yet felt her clammy kiss
As I went forth most sick at heart
From all that peacefulness to part
Yet nought afeard, because the wood
To me had been a friend full good
For many a year by day and night.
So onward by the warming light
I went in the thicket path I knew
And and [sic] slide the thorny passes through
Untorn & free night came anon
Through the high trees the white moon shone
And warned we wend ere night should stay
My goings till the dawn of day.
[f. 179] Yet long before she sank adown
Weary at last my limbs were grown
And underneath a holly brake
I cast me down nor long did wake
The silence of the woodland hall
But that sleep on me did fall
Four leagues of woodland lay between
My head and where my home had been.
Dreamless I lay and woke at lasat
Just when the sun her first beams cast
Athwart the green sward of the glade
Whereby my body I had laid
Blinking I rose unto my feet
And there my slumbrous eyes did meet
The flashsing of his level ray
From somewhat thwart the forest way
And presntly I saw that there
Was laid a man in raiment fair
Dead or asleep; and had I not
That warning from the goodwife got
Then I had fled for fear of him.
But now when my eyes were no more dim
With sleepy sight I crossed the glade
To where the sleeping man was laid
And stood aloof a little way
And looked: nor doubted that there lay
The man whereof my dame had told
Yea een the man that was to hold
My life in his. So there I stood
And waited till my fate throught good
To wake him up to look on me
Of fourty [sic] years he seemed to be
Black bearded crisp haired strong & broad
The visage of a mighty lord
[f. 180] Yea een in sleep his face was [proud?]
I bode his pleasure sweet & loud
Beside us sang the black bird now
And yet no change came oer his brow
I stood and pondered how't would pass
That life that fated for us was,
And little joy I saw therein
But nought I saw whereby to win
To happier days to be mine own,
So was I helplessly alone.
So still I waited till the day
Grew hotter o'er the woodland way
And all the morning breeze was dead.
And so at last he raised his head
And dim-eyed looked about the place
Until he happed upon my face,
Then up he sprang and facing me
As if a marvel he did see
Stretched out his hands but spake no word.
Nor might my speech help such a lord
So lonely as my life had been
There stood we little space between
The bodies of us twain forsooth
It had been doom of greater ruth
If all the world betwixt had lain
The bodies of the hapless twain.
Her speech fell down awhile, and Hugh
Closer to him her fairness drew
And she nought loth, nor feigning shame
Till the wind like a footsteps the wind came [sic]
Across the door, and up she stood
And to her heart back shrank the blood
And left her pale till it was past
And Hugh reached out therewith & cast
His arms about her trembling knees
And spake yet low--love, be at peace
[f. 181] None cometh nigh--yet it were well
Mayhap if thou thy tale didst tell
When love our new found friend hath grown
Familiar and for long our own
She smiled yet standing een as he
Who is departing presently
And yet departs not, then she said
While yet his hands about her strayed--
Nay thou must hearken! think of this
It is of me the story is.
Thereefore of thee. Hearken again:
That lord strove with his speech in vain
A little while, then spake and said
"Who art thou—thou the unafraid
As by the eyes of thee I deem?
Or art thou e'en as thou dost seem
Or hast thou taken for a while
A woman's semblance to beguile
Good knights unto the fairies' land,
That thou before me there dost stand
So lovely and unmoved and strange?
Yea, then and if thou wilt not change
That thy fair body I will go
On whatso highway thou wilt show.
I looked on him. Fain had I been
To flee adown the woodland green
So cold I felt to his desire,
For sooth to say I knew the fire
Was in his ---- at sight of me.
Yet what the carline bade me be
That must I strive for; so I stayed
Abiding what should be, and said,
"By me thou shalt not be beguiled:
Nought am I but a cot-carle's child
And if I seem aught else today
Because of this fair-wrought array
[f. 182] Then am I nowise what I seem."
Doubtful he looked, yet did I deem
Wistful the more. "And canst thou then
Lead me to some abode of men,
Gold shalt thou have to thy content
If so thou wilt." Therewith there went
Some new thing through my heart, some scorn
Of all his hope so soon outworn
Of Queens and fays. Were my will free
I should have mocked him openly
In bitter words, but bound I was
And so belike no change did pass
Across the face he deemed so fair.
—O love, my babble mayst thou bear?
If thou couldst know how sweet it is
That these my lips that feel thy kiss
Still sweet upon them thus should tell
The things that in my life befell!
"Well," said he, " each new word belies
Thy story of churl's miseries,
So sweet thou speakest, wise withal
As one who knows the earlfolk's hall
And hath not learned to fear and quake
Though terror on the world awake."
[f. 183] Quoth I," My tale is told to thee,
If thou believ'st not, let it be;
It is too wearisome to say
The selfsame thing in one same way."
Then eagerly he took my hand
And held it. " Where in all the land
Are cot-carle's children made like this?"
So spake he and I felt his kiss
Upon my hand. And then he said,
"Lady, I see that now is dead
Thy tale of beggar-maid and cot,
But as to whence thou art and what,
Thy pleasure is to keep it hid;
So will I do as thou dost bid
But will not cover up my name
Nor hide from thee my house of fame:
No King nor Duke, no Earl of might,
But am I the Lord Lyon hight."
With swelling pride he spake the word,
But I who knew of king or lord
Nor name nor fame, changed face no whit
For all his boast, but smiled on it
For thinking had he known how true
My tale was, what then would he do.
"Yea," said he: "'tis but as I thought,
Thou changest thy demeanour nought
Though thou hast heard a name whereat
Great ones have quaked, and they that sat
On the spear-guarded thrones of earth.
Surely I see that thou art worth
All thou hast won which is to be
The earthly friend and mate of me,
My bedfellow, my very wife,
The lady of a glorious life.
[Ends 183, then two more brief fragments:]
I bade his pleasure: sweet & loud
Beside us sang the blackbird now
And yet no change came oer his brow
I stood and pondered how twould pass
That life that fated for us was
But nought I saw whereby to win
Days happier to be mine own
So still I waited till the day
Grew hotter oer the woodland way
And all the morning breeze was dead
And so at last he raised his head
And dim-eyed looked about the place
Until he happed upon my face
Then up he sprang, and facing me
Seemed as a marvel he did see
Stretched out his hands but spake no word
Nor might my speech help such a lord
So lonely as my life had been
There stood we little space between
The bodies of us twain forsooth
It had been doom of greater ruth
Of all the world betwixt had lain
The bodies of the hapless twain.
Her speech fell down awhile, and Hugh
Closer to him her fairness drew
And she nought loth, no feigning shame
Till the wind like a footstep the wind came
Across the door, and up she stood
And to her heart back shrank the blood
And left her pale till it was past
And Hugh reached out therewith & last
His arms about her trembling throws
And spake yet low—love, be at peace
|
CW, 24, xvi, xvii, 323-40
[this is on fn. 150 ff. in BL draft; many sections omitted]
[323]And divers minds hereof were told
Of which were bravest to behold
And which were noblest of renown.
Then said a chapman of the town
That to his mind the boar, the bear,
The pard, the lion and such deer,
The erne and slaughter-fowl—such-like
Of living things that rend and strike
Were meetest arms for barony,
"And therewithal meseems," quoth he,
"That helm and sword and bow and spear
Are charges good for lords to bear,
But nought methinks of flowers and trees,
Apples and grapes: things such as these
For lads and damsels are but meet
Amidst their toying dainty-sweet."
Some laughed, some scowled, for lo! upon
The stone hall's chimney was there done
The armour of the Lords of Leas,
And there amidst of carven trees
Upon the shield of silver white
Blossom and stem was done aright
A rose new-slipped; and one cried out
"What, carle! and wilt thou sit and flout
The noblest shield in all the land
When with my lord's meat thy fool's hand
Is e'en yet greasy? Hold thy peace!"
And much the blame of men encrease
[324] About the carle. Till there stood up
An ancient squire, and filled his cup,
And cried," My masters, fill ye now
And drink unto the goodly bough,
The Leasome Rose, that I have seen
Besprent with red about the green
In many a death-begirded hour.
Hail O thou shield, hail O Flower!"
Therewith he drank and all stood up
And joyfully they drained the cup;
All cried "All hail the Flower!" and then
Loud for awhile was talk of men
About this goodly ancient shield
And all its deeds on fold and field,
And many an idle tale was told
Of how it first was borne of old
And who begat it. Till once more
Arose the squire the old and hoar
And stilled the noise and spake: "Ye tell
Of many a thing ye know not well,
But would ye hush and hearken me
I know a goodly history
Of this same battle-token old
That seldom yet hath all been told,
Therein forsooth is all the tale
That unto any may avail,
The story of the Flower of yore."
An augment for his honour's sake,
A sword in chief above the rose;
But ever he naysaid all those
And still in the old wonted way
The ancient flower he bears today,
And e'en so oft and o'er again
[325]His fathers did and thought no gain
Of any gift on field or bower
That changed one whit the ancient flower.
Oft in choir long would he sit
And sing the hours; the cross bare he
Full oft at the Epiphany
Or other feast. He would light down
From offhis horse if midst the town
He met God's body, and would kneel
In mire and clay to pray for hele.
Shortly to say, suchwise he did
His holiness might not be hid
Till some men blamed him that he fared
Unlike a knight with war-sword bared
But rather as a clerk—forsooth
A many mocked him for his youth
Amidst the church as cast away,
But rich men, mighty men, were they;
The mouths of poor men had no word
Save blessings for the holy lord.
Withal this while he yet was young
He had not 'scaped the slanderous tongue
As in my tale now shall ye hear.
Yet was she lovelier than their love.
Wherefore he sat all gloomy-great
And ill-content his own heart ate
And by that meat was evil fed
[326]So that strange fancies filled his head
Concerning his ill hap, until
This last fear all his heart must fill,
That by his wife he was beguiled.
Yoland
Now led him holding his bare hand
Unto the dais, and after them,
His foot nigh touching her gold hem,
Went Geoffrey till at last they came
Unto the pillared seat of fame
Wherein she set him by her side.
And as of some new-wedded bride
So were her hands and lips and eyes,
And all her garments' braveries,
Girdle and gown and wreathing flower,
Seemed made for nothing but that hour
Ere yet the bridal bed is seen.
[327]The hall-folk said she ne'er had been
So proud and joyous—not e'en when
The pest was heavy upon men
And 'twixt the living and the dead
With naked feet and uncrowned head.
Betwixt the March snow and the sun
She stood until her will was done
And all the saints who loved her well
Had slaked the death and shut back hell.
Of few words were those twain; low voiced
While loud the folk in hall rejoiced,
And chiefly great was Geoffrey's glee
And loud he laughed and joyously,
And whatsoe'er in hall betid
So fast the merry minutes slid
Into deep night, and came the cup;
And Yoland with Sir Hugh stood up
And took his hand and blessed them there
As one who says, Tomorrow's fair
And I no long way off from thee.
So was she gone, and dark with pain
But sweet with love was night again.
So was Lord Hugh to chamber led
With honour great, and by his bed
Two squires of good renown there lay
As a most mighty man he were;
Yet was not wily Geoffrey there.
So with the early morning-tide
Hugh bade his men be dight to ride;
And forth he went, and since the day
Was fair amidmost of the May,
Into the pleasance for a while
He went, the waiting to beguile
And nurse the longing of his heart
Amidst the flowers from folk apart.
So down the garden-path he went
[328]And gazed adown the sunny bent
And saw the morning sunbeams smite
St. Michael's walls to gleaming white,
Then turned about unto the house
That dusked the garden plenteous
With shade of its great towers and tall.
And 'twixt the sunshine and the wall
He saw one coming from the gloom,
Bright with the blossoms of the loom,
Fair as a picture in a book.
His glad eyes caught her joyous look
As she beheld him tarrying there,
For it was Yoland slim and fair
Ruddy with freshness of the morn
And lovely with her love new-born.
· · · · · · ·
She turned not to him straight but brake
A slip from off the bush where green
The barbs about the rose unseen
Were growing, and she said," See now,
The rose-buds into flowers shall grow
Unless the world shall end ere June;
But who knows through what watery moon,
What rending south-west wind, what storm,
What plague-struck noon to bring the worm,
What bitter nippings from the north
The flower [shall] pass ere it come forth
Ruddy and wide and summer-sweet?"
The spray fell down unto her feet
E'en as she spake. But he knelt down
And kissed the gold hem of her gown
And kissed her feet the while his hand
Took up the spray; still did she stand
Nor bent to him. He rose and she
Looking afar stood quietly,
And he drew closer and more close
Holding that promise of the rose.
[329]Hugh rode on silent for a space
Until they reached a wooded place
Nigh to the ford, and there he stayed
Those men of his and shyly said,
"Ride on unto the House of Leas.
For me I go to pray for peace
And speak unto my friend and lord
Down in the Chapel of the Sword
That lieth by the river side
Beyond the wood; there may I bide
A day or twain, I know not well.
God keep you." No more was to tell:
Upon their way to Leas they rode,
And Hugh so left a while abode
Then through the wood he went a space
And coming out he set his face
Unto the fells.
· · · · · · ·
So on by byway and lone lane
He rode and with the night did gain
The bare hillside below the fell,
Where now he knew the land full well.
[330]There in a little dale he lay
And rose up with the earliest day
And through the downland rode for long
Nor met he aught to do him wrong,
Nay no man but some shepherd folk
With whom his night-long fast he broke,
Nor did they know him nor his name
So rode he till at last he came
E'en at the very nones of day
High up the fell. The limestone grey
Rose in a ridge of cliff above
A little plain where nought did move
That was alive. Great rocks lay strewed
Over the sward, amidst them showed
A little chapel much as grey
And weather-beaten as were they.
Then beat his heart because he knew
That now at last the die he threw
For good or ill. Swift he rode on
Up to the chapel-door but none
Stirred nigh it; from his horse he leapt
And clashed the ring-bolt as he stepped
Over the threshold: and a mist
Came o'er his eyes. Had she kept tryst
And would she be the true at need?
Yea there her very self indeed
She stood before him.
[331] So the days wore
And nought there is to tell of more
Till unpeace fell upon the land
And other tiding came to hand.
For so it fell upon a day
That men-at-arms must come our way,
A score belike. How it befell
I know not: strange it is to tell
But true: our dame bade not hide
But sitting by the hearth abide
And heed not aught nor speak at all
Whatever matter might befall.
So sat I trembling. There and then
Into the cottage came three men
Clattering in arms, the while outside
A-horseback did the rest abide.
And now the gayest of the three
Looking about and close to me
Yet saw me not: but as for him
Though steel-clad now in breast and limb
I knew him for the selfsame lord,
Who now again took up the word:
"Well dame, now are we come to take
The damsel, even for her sake
And thine; and here I bring the gold."
And straightway on the board he told
Twenty gold pieces. The dame smiled
And said "Well, ye should have the child
If she were here, as she is not.
A merchant hath thy treasure got;
I sold her yesterday at eve."
I saw the fair lord's breast upheave
[332]And his cheeks redden: "Whereaway
Went then thy chapman yesterday?"
She said "Why hide the man's abode?
Unto Much Allerton he rode."
Then hastily the knight turned round
And out was he and off the ground
And spurring hard or ere there came
The very last word from the dame;
And after him his meiny went,
Clattering and clashing. "Nought is spent
The peril yet," then muttered she;
"They will be wiser presently
And come aback." Withal she spake:
"My child, thy rock and spindle take
And sit without the door and spin,
Nor heed thou what man cometh in."
So did I wondering; sore afeard,
Until again the noise I heard
Of horse-hoofs drawing near the close,
And lo the knight and two of those
Who followed him; straight he gat
From offhis horse nor heeded what
Was by the door. I heard him say,
"Dame, thou art wise enough today,
Yet we grow wiser than we were.
Methinks ye have the damsel here."
"Yea?" said she; "not so over-great
Is this poor house but thou mayst wait
Whiles your men seek it up and down."
He knit his brows into a frown
Yet reddened too, and said, "We deem,
I and my men, that as a dream
Were things before us even now,
And that ye showed us but a show
Of what things were. We deem that there
Amidmost of the hearthside chair
Knee close to knee the damsel sat,
[333] And seemed thy white-haired blue-eyed cat."
The dame laughed out: "Well well, Sir Knight,
Still may ye see the self-same sight
And for thy money mayst thou take
The beast and keep her for my sake."
He looked and scowled and then once more
He strode out through the open door
And gat to horse and rode away.
Then the dame called me in to say:
"Child, haste thee, strip thee to the skin
And stand beside the door within
And stir not, whatso thou mayst hear,
Nay loiter not for shame or fear."
What might I do but as she bade
But scarce stood I a naked maid
Beside the door-post ere once more
The armour clashed about the door
And in the knight strode. "Dame," he said,
"Ye play a close game by my head—
Where is the damsel?" " Nay by now
E'en at Much Allerton, I trow,"
The dame said," thou mayst win her yet
If swiftly unto horse ye get."
Then wild with wrath the fair knight spake
"Beware dame lest the fire we take
And burn the house and thee and all."
"Yea, that the nighest way I call
For finding a lost love," she said,
"Now ye grow wiser than well sped."
"Dame," said he, "yet I know thy guile.
When I departed hence erewhile
There sat she by the doorway side
And seemed to be thy yellow cat
Purring; nor stayed I aught thereat
But lo the hem of a grey gown
E'en as I turned seemed slipping down
About the beast—Where is she now?"
[334]"Well, thou art wise enough to know,"
She said," there doth she yet abide,
Go take her for thy lovely bride."
Wood-wrath he grew and cried, "Well then,
Now shall ye burn, witch. Ho my men,
Take ye the brands from off the hearth
And burn up all to utter dearth,
And let your spears thrust through what e'er
Shall come abroad to greet you there."
His men 'gan stir, but therewithal
They heard a sudden trumpet-call
A blast of war, shrill loud and nigh;
And therewith 'gan one man to cry
"The King!—the King!" and down he cast
The kindled brand and gat him fast
From out the house; and all the rout
Delayed no whit but hurried out
From house and orchard. Yea the lord
Drew from its sheath his gleaming sword
And hewed hard at the Dame, and I
Scarce kept aback a frightened cry.
Nought happed of scathe save to our chair
That lost its old life then and there
Beneath the edges: while once more
The horn blew louder than before.
The knight turned cursing and strode out,
And past the garth we heard his shout
Unto his fleeing men. But for me
I stood there quaking timorously
Till from the Dame 1 heard a voice
Shrill yet but weak: "Child, rejoice
That thou art free: a phantom sound
Shall chase them o'er the grassy ground
And the bare rocks, o'er wet and dry,
Nor shall they come back hastily.
But draw nigh, sweetheart: for no more
May my craft hide thee as before.
[335] Come hither then and hear me, maid."
So did I even as she bade
And found her lying down alow
Hard by the hearth now scarce aglow.
I knelt down by her and she said:
"No more again till I am dead
Shall such-like power from me go forth
Although my will may yet be worth
Thy blessing when the daisies grow
Above me: hearken—for I go
The longest and the roughest way
That any stout Eve's daughter may."
I wept because I loved her well,
And lonely fear upon me fell:
But she went on, " Short now is the space
For weeping. I have seen thy face
A litde while and now no more;
But long years lie thy life before,
Happy belike. Lo here the key
Of the great chest that unto thee
I opened on the day I showed
The treasure which therein abode,
The raiment of the great on earth
That many an orchard-croft is worth.
Go do it on without delay,
Time will be furthermore to say
What thou shalt do." E'en so I did
And my poor peasant's body hid
In that rich raiment of a queen
Where scarce for glistening gold were seen
The silken blossoms of the loom.
I came back lighting up the gloom
And knelt again. Again she said:
"What wilt thou do when I am dead?
Is that thy thought? Thou shalt do well
And oft of thee the folk shall tell
[336]For days to come. Day wears apace,
I with it; get thee from this place
And through the wood go speedily
Nor bide thou the last breath of me—
I know my way.
Stay not for night
When in the wood thou art—aright
Shalt thou be led; but still press on
Till miles of woodland way be won
And miles of thicket lie between
This house where erst thou hast been seen
And so my heart is telling me
That ere dawn one shall meet with thee,
A mighty man, who shall behold
Thy beauty and more worth than gold
Shall deem thee, and shall bid thee come
Yet in all honour to his home.
If thou nay say him then is gone
Thy luck of life and all is done.
Speak gently to him, yet I bid
That nought of all thy life be hid,
Yea tell him all the very truth—
Yet nothing shall he trow forsooth
Thy simple tale, but deem of thee
That thou of some great house shall be.
What more? My sight is waxing dim
Yet seems to see thee wed with him—
And this moreover shall I tell
That art thou faring less than well
Then may it help thee somewhat yet
My name not wholly to forget.
Sad is this sundering now may be
But e'en what was awrought for me
By days thy fellowship made sweet.
Depart now, let me see thy feet
Pass o'er the threshold ere I die."
[337]Dull sorrow on my heart did lie
As I rose up from her, yet so
Her bidding I was wont to do
Nor knew I how to naysay this.
My lips yet felt her clammy kiss
As I went forth most sick at heart
From all that peacefulness to part
Yet nought afeard, because the wood
To me had been a friend full good
For many a year by day and night.
I stood and pondered how't would pass
That life that fated for us was,
And little joy I saw therein
But nought I saw whereby to win
To happier days to be mine own,
So was I helplessly alone.
So still I waited till the day
Grew hotter o'er the woodland way
And all the morning breeze was dead.
And so at last he raised his head
And dim-eyed looked about the place
Until he happed upon my face,
Then up he sprang and facing me
As if a marvel he did see
Stretched out his hands but spake no word.
· · · · · · ·
Hearken again:
That lord strove with his speech in vain
[338]A little while, then spake and said
"Who art thou—thou the unafraid
As by the eyes of thee I deem?
Or art thou e'en as thou dost seem
Or hast thou taken for a while
A woman's semblance to beguile
Good knights unto the fairies' land,
That thou before me there dost stand
So lovely and unmoved and strange?
· · · · · · ·
I looked on him. Fain had I been
To flee adown the woodland green
So cold I felt to his desire,
For sooth to say I knew the fire
Was in his barm at sight of me.
Yet what the carline bade me be
That must 1 strive for; so I stayed
Abiding what should be, and said,
"By me thou shalt not be beguiled:
Nought am I but a cot-carle's child
And if I seem aught else today
Because of this fair-wrought array
Then am I nowise what I seem."
Doubtful he looked, yet did I deem
Wistful the more. "And canst thou then
Lead me to some abode of men,
Gold shalt thou have to thy content
If so thou wilt." Therewith there went
Some new thing through my heart, some scorn
Of all his hope so soon outworn
Of Queens and fays. Were my will free
I should have mocked him openly
In bitter words, but bound I was
And so belike no change did pass
Across the face he deemed so fair.
[339]—O love, my babble mayst thou bear?
If thou couldst know how sweet it is
That these my lips that feel thy kiss
Still sweet upon them thus should tell
The things that in my life befell!
"Well," said he, " each new word belies
Thy story of churl's miseries,
So sweet thou speakest, wise withal
As one who knows the earlfolk's hall
And hath not learned to fear and quake
Though terror on the world awake."
Quoth I," My tale is told to thee,
If thou believ'st not, let it be;
It is too wearisome to say
The selfsame thing in one same way."
Then eagerly he took my hand
And held it. " Where in all the land
Are cot-carle's children made like this?"
So spake he and I felt his kiss
Upon my hand. And then he said,
"Lady, I see that now is dead
Thy tale of beggar-maid and cot,
But as to whence thou art and what,
Thy pleasure is to keep it hid;
So will I do as thou dost bid
But will not cover up my name
Nor hide from thee my house of fame:
No King nor Duke, no Earl of might,
But am I the Lord Lyon hight."
[340]With swelling pride he spake the word,
But I who knew of king or lord
Nor name nor fame, changed face no whit
For all his boast, but smiled on it
For thinking had he known how true
My tale was, what then would he do.
"Yea," said he: "'tis but as I thought,
Thou changest thy demeanour nought
Though thou hast heard a name whereat
Great ones have quaked, and they that sat
On the spear-guarded thrones of earth.
Surely I see that thou art worth
All thou hast won which is to be
The earthly friend and mate of me,
My bedfellow, my very wife,
The lady of a glorious life."
· · · · · · ·
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