Under King Constantine.

by Katrina Trask.

To My Husband.

_The following tales, which have no legendary warrant, are supposed to belong to the time, lost in obscurity, immediately subsequent to King Arthur's death; when, says Malory, in the closing chapter of LA MORT D'ARTHURE, "Sir Constantine, which was Sir Cadors son of Cornwaile, was chosen king of England; and hee was a full n.o.ble knight, and worshipfully hee ruled this realme"_

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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sing n.o.ble knight Whose bearing doth bespeak heroic deeds, There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.

Sir Torm, the husband of fair Gwendolaine, Is all unconscious of aught else beside The outward seeming, 'tis enough for him That she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.

He has a nature small and limited By sight, and sense, and self, and his desires; A heart as open as the day to all That touches his quick impulse, when it costs Him naught of sacrifice. The needy poor Flock to his castle for the careless gift Of falling dole, but his esquire is faint From his exacting service, night and day His Lady Gwendolaine is satiate With costly gems, palfreys, and samite thick With threads of gold and silver, but the sweet Heart subtleties and fair observances Are lost in the _of course_ of married life.

He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile, But never sees the shadow in her eyes His hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath, And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.

His va.s.sals know not if, from day to day, He will approve, or strike them with a curse.

His humours are the byword of the court, And, were it not for his good-heartedness, His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms, Men would speak lightly of him in disdain; He is so often in a stormy rage, Or supplicating humour to atone,-- Too petty to repent in very truth, Too light and yielding in repentance, when His temper's force is spent, for dignity Of truest knighthood. No one feels his faults So quickly, with such flushing of regret And shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife, His honour is her own, and she would hide From all the world, and even from herself, His pettiness and narrowness of soul.

So she forgets, or doth pretend forget, Where he has failed, save when he pa.s.ses bounds; Then her swift scorn--a piercing force he dreads-- Flashes upon him like a probing lance, To silence merriment if it be coa.r.s.e, To hush his wrath when it is violent.

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, "G.o.d'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.

Now at last, the hunt has come, The day is golden, and her beauty fair,-- And Sir Sanpeur is riding with Ettonne.

A sudden conflict wages in her heart As she talks lightly to each courtier gay, Jealous impatience that the Gwendolaine Whom all men flatter, should be thwarted, fights A tender yearning to defy all pride And call him to her for one spoken word.

The world seems better when he talks with her, No one has ever lifted her above The empty nothings of a courtly life As Sir Sanpeur, who makes both life and death More grandly solemn, yet more simply clear.

In a steep curving of the road, he turns To meet her smile, which deepens as he comes.

Sanpeur, bronzed by the eastern sun, is tall, Straight as a javelin, in each n.o.ble line His knighthood is revealed. Slighter than Torm, Whose strength is in his size, but full as strong, Sanpeur's unrivalled strength is in his sinew His scarlet garb, deep furred with miniver, Is broidered with the cross which leaves untold The fame he won in lands of which it tells Upon his breast he wears the silver dove, The sacred Order of the Holy Ghost, Which Gwendolaine once noted with the words, "What famous honours you have won, my lord!"

And he had answered with all knightly grace, "My Lady Gwendolaine, I seldom think Of the high honour, though I greatly prize This recognition, far beyond my worth; My thought is ever what it signifieth.

It is my consecration I belong To G.o.d the Father, and this is the sign Of His most Holy Spirit, sent to us By our ascended Saviour, Jesu Christ, By Whom alone I live from day to day."

His quiet words, amid the laughing court, Had startled her, as if a solemn peal Of full cathedral music had rung clear Above the jousting cry of "Halt and Ho!"

Then, as she wondered if he were a man Like other men, or priest in knightly garb, He spoke of her rich jewels with delight And worldly wisdom, telling her the tale Of many jewelled mysteries she wore "In the far East, the sapphire stone is held To be the talisman for Love and Truth, So is it fitly placed upon your robe; It is the stone of stones to girdle you"

"A man, indeed," she thought, "but not like men."

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 gra.s.s; It is but seldom I have time to seek Refreshment, save of labour changed."

"My King,"-- She pa.s.sed 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 n.o.bly, 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sume a wilful shallowness, To hide the soul she was afraid to face.