Idylls of the King Part 10

His l.u.s.ty spearmen followed him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against his pavement, cast his lance aside, And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dressed in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears.

And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh: And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it.

Then he remembered her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat!

I never yet beheld a thing so pale.

G.o.d's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.

Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me?

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself.

And so there lived some colour in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.

But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.'

He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear What shall not be recorded--women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answered in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.'

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, a.s.sumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.'

She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?'

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.'

'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!'

(And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,) 'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot, G.o.d's curse, with anger--often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.'

'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.'

At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: 'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will.

Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye b.u.t.t against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more.

At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?

Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.'

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Played into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.

But Enid answered, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come; and Enid said:

'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun: In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gained: And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him: Yea, G.o.d, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be.'

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, 'I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, However lightly, smote her on the cheek.

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,'

Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood.

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow s.h.i.+eld), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Sh.o.r.e through the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.

So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.

And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said:

'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man; Done you more wrong: we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own: Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.

And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn-- You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife: I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'

And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return And slay you; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.'

And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a va.s.sal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair: and she Kissed the white star upon his n.o.ble front, Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away.

And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain: Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him.

Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!'

'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again, 'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.'

And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.

For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to h.e.l.l, By overthrowing me you threw me higher.

Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.'

'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,'

Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.

But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question asked: Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,'

'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went.

But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scattered in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn reined his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said:

'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.

Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturned him; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So waxed in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself.

I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him.

Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me, I should not less have killed him. And so you came,-- But once you came,--and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life.

There was I broken down; there was I saved: Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.

And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and n.o.ble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.

And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or marked not if you saw; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed; And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.'

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple n.o.ble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill.

And when they reached the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and returned, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like, And showed an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pa.s.s into it, turned to the Prince, and said:

'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was p.r.i.c.ked with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having looked too much through alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own: but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked At Edyrn? have ye seen how n.o.bly changed?

This work of his is great and wonderful.

His very face with change of heart is changed.

The world will not believe a man repents: And this wise world of ours is mainly right.

Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.

Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go.

I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our n.o.blest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient: and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, though he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death.'

So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt; And Enid tended on him there; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Filled all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King: He looked and found them wanting; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berks.h.i.+re hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Cleared the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.

There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day.

And though Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well.

Thence after tarrying for a s.p.a.ce they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the sh.o.r.es Of Severn, and they past to their own land.

And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They called him the great Prince and man of men.

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her fealty, till he crowned A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King.

Balin and Balan

Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot In that first war, and had his realm restored But rendered tributary, failed of late To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called His treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 'Go thou with him and him and bring it to us, Lest we should set one truer on his throne.

Man's word is G.o.d in man.'

His Baron said 'We go but harken: there be two strange knights Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side, A mile beneath the forest, challenging And overthrowing every knight who comes.