The Defence of Guenevere, by William Morris

Sir Peter Harpdon’s End

In an English Castle in Poictou.
Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

Of those three prisoners, that before you came

We took down at St. John’s hard by the mill,

Two are good masons; we have tools enough,

And you have skill to set them working.



What are their names?


Why, Jacques Aquadent,

And Peter Plombiere, but,


What colour’d hair

Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?


Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques’ hair,

Or Peter’s legs to us?


O! John, John, John!

Throw all your mason’s tools down the deep well,

Hang Peter up and Jacques; They’re no good,

We shall not build, man.

JOHN CURZON (going).

Shall I call the guard

To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,

We’d better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

[Muttering as he goes.

What have I done that he should jape at me?

And why not build? the walls are weak enough,

And we’ve two masons and a heap of tools.

[Goes, still muttering.


To think a man should have a lump like that

For his lieutenant! I must call him back,

Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,

He’ll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!


At your good service, sir.


Come now, and talk

This weighty matter out; there, we’ve no stone

To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.


There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.


We are not strong enough to send ten men

Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.

In three hours’ time they would be taken or slain,

The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.


But we can send some villaynes to get stone.


Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back,

They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere,

And tell them we were weak in walls and men,

Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed,

And now no longer does the country shake

At sound of English names; our captains fade

From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge

I daresay you may even yet see the hole

That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain

Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here;

Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse;

Oliver Clisson turn’d these years agone;

The Captal died in prison; and, over all,

Edward the prince lies underneath the ground,

Edward the king is dead, at Westminster

The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.

Everything goes to rack — eh! and we too.

Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French,

Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?

A man can die but once, will you die then,

Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart

Of all the deeds we have done here in France —

And yet may do? So God will have your soul,

Whoever has your body.


Why, sir, I

Will fight till the last moment, until then

Will do whate’er you tell me. Now I see

We must e’en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps

They’re stronger than I think for; pity, though!

For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.


Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well,

I doubt them.


Truly, sir, I will watch well. [Goes.


Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said,

’Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes;

Some dozen stones from his petrariae,

And, under shelter of his crossbows, just

An hour’s steady work with pickaxes,

Then a great noise — some dozen swords and glaives

A-playing on my basnet all at once,

And little more cross purposes on earth

For me.

Now this is hard: a month ago,

And a few minutes’ talk had set things right

‘Twixt me and Alice; if she had a doubt,

As, may Heaven bless her! I scarce think she had,

’Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears,

Of how Sir Peter fail’d at Lusac Bridge:

And how he was grown moody of late days;

And how Sir Lambert, think now! his dear friend,

His sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess

That Peter’s talk tended towards the French,

Which he, for instance Lambert, was glad of,

Being, Lambert, you see, on the French side.


If I could but have seen her on that day,

Then, when they sent me off!

I like to think,

Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what,

If I had seen her, what I should have said,

What she, my darling, would have said and done.

As thus perchance.

To find her sitting there,

In the window-seat, not looking well at all,

Crying perhaps, and I say quietly:

Alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave,

Changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks,

Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees,

And say: O lady, have I sinn’d, your knight?

That still you ever let me walk alone

In the rose garden, that you sing no songs

When I am by, that ever in the dance

You quietly walk away when I come near?

Now that I have you, will you go, think you?

Ere she could answer I would speak again,

Still kneeling there.

What! they have frighted you,

By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets,

Round my good name; but afterwards, my love,

I will say what this means; this moment, see!

Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea:

For she would put her hands upon my face:

Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed?

And she would say: Good knight, come, kiss my lips!

And afterwards as I sat there would say:

Please a poor silly girl by telling me

What all those things they talk of really were,

For it is true you did not help Chandos,

And true, poor love! you could not come to me

When I was in such peril.

I should say:

I am like Balen, all things turn to blame.

I did not come to you? At Bergerath

The constable had held us close shut up,

If from the barriers I had made three steps,

I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too,

We struggled in a marish half the day,

And came too late at last: you know, my love,

How heavy men and horses are all arm’d.

All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix’d,

Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love.

She, holding tight my hand as we sat there,

Started a little at Sir Lambert’s name,

But otherwise she listen’d scarce at all

To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes,

And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak,

She said: I love you.

Other words were few,

The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth’d down

My foolish head; she kiss’d me all about

My face, and through the tangles of my beard

Her little fingers crept!

O God, my Alice,

Not this good way: my lord but sent and said

That Lambert’s sayings were taken at their worth,

Therefore that day I was to start, and keep

This hold against the French; and I am here:

[Looks out of the window.

A sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls,

And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes,

Or any other.

There’s a pennon now!

At last.

But not the constable’s: whose arms,

I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings

On a red ground; my cousin’s by the rood!

Well, I should like to kill him, certainly,

But to be kill’d by him: [A trumpet sounds.

That’s for a herald;

I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.

Enter John Curzon.

What says the herald of our cousin, sir?


So please you, sir, concerning your estate,

He has good will to talk with you.



I’ll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives.

Is he unarm’d?


Yea, sir, in a long gown.


Then bid them bring me hither my furr’d gown

With the long sleeves, and under it I’ll wear,

By Lambert’s leave, a secret coat of mail;

And will you lend me, John, your little axe?

I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade?

And I will carry it inside my sleeve,

Good to be ready always; you, John, go

And bid them set up many suits of arms,

Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and

Yourself, from the south postern setting out,

With twenty men, be ready to break through

Their unguarded rear when I cry out, St. George!


How, sir! will you attack him unawares,

And slay him unarm’d?


Trust me, John, I know

The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown,

Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go. [They go.

Outside the castle by the great gate; Sir Lambert and Sir Peter seated; guards attending each, the rest of Sir Lambert’s men drawn up about a furlong off.


And if I choose to take the losing side

Still, does it hurt you?


O! no hurt to me;

I see you sneering, Why take trouble then,

Seeing you love me not? Look you, our house

(Which, taken altogether, I love much)

Had better be upon the right side now,

If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule

As such a house should: cousin, you’re too wise

To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France

Will ever draw two ways again; this side

The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar

With envious longings; and the other side

The order’d English, orderly led on

By those two Edwards through all wrong and right,

And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth

With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed,

The true French win, on either side you have

Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match,

And good at setting battles in array,

And good at squeezing taxes at due time;

Therefore by nature we French being here

Upon our own big land: [Sir Peter laughs aloud.

Well, Peter! well!

What makes you laugh?


Hearing you sweat to prove

All this I know so well; but you have read

The siege of Troy?


O! yea, I know it well.


There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be

For, as I think, they found it such delight

To see fair Helen going through their town;

Yea, any little common thing she did

(As stooping to pick a flower) seem’d so strange,

So new in its great beauty, that they said:

Here we will keep her living in this town,

Till all burns up together. And so, fought,

In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong;

Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man

That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands,

Over some great height, did they struggle sore,

Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note

How almost all men, reading that sad siege,

Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least,

Thought Hector the best knight a long way:


Why should I not do this thing that I think;

For even when I come to count the gains,

I have them my side: men will talk, you know

(We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,)

When I am dead, of how this Peter clung

To what he thought the right; of how he died,

Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed

Few men would care do now, and this is gain

To me, as ease and money is to you.

Moreover, too, I like the straining game

Of striving well to hold up things that fall;

So one becomes great. See you! in good times

All men live well together, and you, too,

Live dull and happy: happy? not so quick,

Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up?

Why then, but just to fight as I do now,

A halter round my neck, would be great bliss.

O! I am well off. [Aside.

Talk, and talk, and talk,

I know this man has come to murder me,

And yet I talk still.


If your side were right,

You might be, though you lost; but if I said,

‘You are a traitor, being, as you are,

Born Frenchman.’ What are Edwards unto you,

Or Richards?


Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold!

For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm,

Don’t call me traitor.


Furthermore, my knight,

Men call you slippery on your losing side,

When at Bordeaux I was ambassador,

I heard them say so, and could scarce say: Nay.

[He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises.

SIR PETER, rising.

They lied: and you lie, not for the first time.

What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve,

A stolen purse?


Nay, liar in your teeth!

Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert!

[Strikes at Sir Peter with a dagger.

SIR PETER, striking him flatlings with his axe.

How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there,

St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan!

You French, you are but dead, unless you lay

Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!

Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.

In the Castle.


What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir?


Why, put them all to ransom, those that can

Pay anything, but not too light though, John,

Seeing we have them on the hip: for those

That have no money, that being certified,

Why, turn them out of doors before they spy;

But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.


I will, fair sir. [He goes.


I do not wish to kill him,

Although I think I ought; he shall go mark’d,

By all the saints, though!

Enter Lambert guarded.

Now, Sir Lambert, now!

What sort of death do you expect to get,

Being taken this way?


Cousin! cousin! think!

I am your own blood; may God pardon me!

I am not fit to die; if you knew all,

All I have done since I was young and good.

O! you would give me yet another chance,

As God would, that I might wash all clear out,

By serving you and Him. Let me go now!

And I will pay you down more golden crowns

Of ransom than the king would!


Well, stand back,

And do not touch me! No, you shall not die,

Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause

Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high,

Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out

To all good folks, ‘Come, see a traitor punish’d!’

Take me my knight, and set him up thereon,

And let the hangman shave his head quite clean,

And cut his ears off close up to the head;

And cause the minstrels all the while to play

Soft music, and good singing; for this day

Is my high day of triumph; is it not,

Sir Lambert?


Ah! on your own blood,

Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,

With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back

And take the lady Alice?


Say her name

Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.

Why should I talk with you? I’m master here,

And do not want your schooling; is it not

My mercy that you are not dangling dead

There in the gateway with a broken neck?


Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?

To die is nothing; but to live that all

May point their fingers! yea, I’d rather die.


Why, will it make you any uglier man

To lose your ears? they’re much too big for you,

You ugly Judas!


Hold, John! [To Lambert.

That’s your choice,

To die, mind! Then you shall die: Lambert mine,

I thank you now for choosing this so well,

It saves me much perplexity and doubt;

Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count

This sparing traitors is an ill deed.


Lambert, die bravely, and we’re almost friends.

SIR LAMBERT, grovelling.

O God! this is a fiend and not a man;

Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!

I will not die.


Why, what is this I see?

A man who is a knight, and bandied words

So well just now with me, is lying down,

Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought

You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.

I should have guess’d this from a man like you.

Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin,

Yea, all a man can have for simple life,

And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this,

Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell

Will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk,

‘Would rather die,’ all that. Now sir, get up!

And choose again: shall it be head sans ears,

Or trunk sans head?

John Curzon, pull him up!

What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.

Lambert, I hope that never on this earth

We meet again; that you’ll turn out a monk,

And mend the life I give you, so farewell,

I’m sorry you’re a rascal. John, despatch.

In the French camp before the Castle.

Sir Peter prisoner, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert.


So now is come the ending of my life;

If I could clear this sickening lump away

That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word,

Guesclin might listen.


Tell me, fair sir knight,

If you have been clean liver before God,

And then you need not fear much; as for me,

I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath,

And cousin Lambert’s ears here clench the thing.


I knew you could not hate me, therefore I

Am bold to pray for life; ’twill harm your cause

To hang knights of good name, harms here in France

I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter

Men will remember you another way

Than I should care to be remember’d, ah!

Although hot lead runs through me for my blood,

All this falls cold as though I said, Sweet lords,

Give back my falcon!

See how young I am,

Do you care altogether more for France,

Say rather one French faction, than for all

The state of Christendom? a gallant knight,

As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth

Than many castles; will you bring this death,

For a mere act of justice, on my head?

Think how it ends all, death! all other things

Can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth

Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here;

Then somehow will I get me other clothes,

And somehow will I get me some poor horse,

And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms,

Will ride and smite among the serried glaives,

Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well,

Let me not say I could; I know all tricks,

That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you,

You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days

Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind,

How in the trodden corn by Chartres town,

When you were nearly swooning from the back

Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once

From off my sword’s edge; pray for me, my lord!


Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die.

My Lord the Constable, I pray you note

That you are losing some few thousand crowns

By slaying this man; also think: his lands

Along the Garonne river lie for leagues,

And are right rich, a many mills he has,

Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him:

Though wishing well for Clement, as we do,

I know the next heir, his old uncle, well,

Who does not care two deniers for the knight

As things go now, but slay him, and then see,

How he will bristle up like any perch,

With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord,

You’ll get the money, this man saved my life,

And I will buy him for two thousand crowns;

Well, five then: eh! what! No again? well then,

Ten thousand crowns?


My sweet lord, much I grieve

I cannot please you, yea, good sooth, I grieve

This knight must die, as verily he must;

For I have sworn it, so men take him out,

Use him not roughly.

SIR LAMBERT, coming forward.

Music, do you know,

Music will suit you well, I think, because

You look so mild, like Laurence being grill’d;

Or perhaps music soft and slow, because

This is high day of triumph unto me,

Is it not, Peter?

You are frighten’d, though,

Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much,

Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine,

You ruin’d wretch! Men mock me in the streets,

Only in whispers loud, because I am

Friend of the constable; will this please you,

Unhappy Peter? once a-going home,

Without my servants, and a little drunk,

At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets.

A whore came up and spat into my eyes,

Rather to blind me than to make me see,

But she was very drunk, and tottering back,

Even in the middle of her laughter fell

And cut her head against the pointed stones,

While I lean’d on my staff, and look’d at her,

And cried, being drunk.

Girls would not spit at you.

You are so handsome, I think verily

Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes,

And yet you will be hung like a cur dog

Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face,

And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad.

Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now,

With Guesclin getting ready to play chess,

And Clisson doing something with his sword,

I can’t see what, talking to Guesclin though,

I don’t know what about, perhaps of you.

But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard,

Let me say this, I’d like to tell you now

That your life hung upon a game of chess,

That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat,

Why you should live, but hang if I beat him;

Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then:

Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let

My squire Robert beat me, then you would think

That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all,

But I should keep you three days in some hold,

Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind,

Considering the tax there is on salt;

And afterwards should let you go, perhaps?

No I should not, but I should hang you, sir,

With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope.

But I forgot, you have not told me yet

If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus,

Instead of drinking wine while you are hang’d?

You are not quick at guessing, give it up.

This is the reason; here I hold your hand,

And watch you growing paler, see you writhe

And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear,

I cannot by all striving tell you how

I love it, nor I think, good man, would you

Quite understand my great delight therein;

You, when you had me underneath you once,

Spat as it were, and said, ‘Go take him out,’

That they might do that thing to me whereat,

E’en now this long time off I could well shriek,

And then you tried forget I ever lived,

And sunk your hating into other things;

While I: St. Denis! though, I think you’ll faint,

Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless

You let it out and weep like a hurt child;

Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet,

For I am Alice, am right like her now,

Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love?


You filthy beast, stand back and let him go,

Or by God’s eyes I’ll choke you!

[Kneeling to Sir Peter.

Fair sir knight

I kneel upon my knees and pray to you

That you would pardon me for this your death;

God knows how much I wish you still alive,

Also how heartily I strove to save

Your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well,

(I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would,

If it were possible, give up my life

Upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although,

He knowing all things knows this thing too, well,

Yet when you see his face some short time hence,

Tell him I tried to save you.


O! my lord,

I cannot say this is as good as life,

But yet it makes me feel far happier now,

And if at all, after a thousand years,

I see God’s face, I will speak loud and bold,

And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself;

Sir, may God bless you!

Did you note how I

Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think

That Lambert’s taunts did this, I hardly heard

The base things that he said, being deep in thought

Of all things that have happen’d since I was

A little child; and so at last I thought

Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem’d

No longer gone than yesterday, that this

Was the sole reason God let me be born

Twenty-five years ago, that I might love

Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her;

This seem’d so yesterday, today death comes,

And is so bitter strong, I cannot see

Why I was born.

But as a last request,

I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man,

Some good man, mind you, to say how I died,

And take my last love to her: fare-you-well,

And may God keep you; I must go now, lest

I grow too sick with thinking on these things;

Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth,

From whence I shall be lifted upright soon.

[As he goes.

Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death;

And yet not so, I only wept because

There was no beautiful lady to kiss me

Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed

From her dear lips. O for some lady, though

I saw her ne’er before; Alice, my love,

I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind,

If he had been a woman, I should die

Without this sickness: but I am all wrong,

So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die.

There, I will go.

My God! how sick I am,

If only she could come and kiss me now.

The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux.

The Lady Alice de la Barde looking out of a window into the street.

No news yet! surely, still he holds his own:

That garde stands well; I mind me passing it

Some months ago; God grant the walls are strong!

I heard some knights say something yestereve,

I tried hard to forget: words far apart

Struck on my heart something like this; one said:

What eh! a Gascon with an English name,

Harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: Poictou.

As one who answers to a question ask’d,

Then carelessly regretful came: No, no.

Whereto in answer loud and eagerly,

One said: Impossible? Christ, what foul play!

And went off angrily; and while thenceforth

I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard:

Guesclin; Five thousand men-at-arms; Clisson.

My heart misgives me it is all in vain

I send these succours; and in good time there

Their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights,

God up in Heaven keep you.

If they come

And find him prisoner, for I can’t believe

Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm.

The last horse turns the corner.

God in Heaven!

What have I got to thinking of at last!

That thief I will not name is with Guesclin,

Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love!

O, if I lose you after all the past,

What shall I do?

I cannot bear the noise

And light street out there, with this thought alive,

Like any curling snake within my brain;

Let me just hide my head within these soft

Deep cushions, there to try and think it out.

[Lying in the window-seat.

I cannot hear much noise now, and I think

That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim

And faint, and I shall soon forget most things;

Yea, almost that I am alive and here;

It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel

On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway,

And soft and slow it rises and it falls,

Still going onward.

Lying so, one kiss,

And I should be in Avalon asleep,

Among the poppies, and the yellow flowers;

And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread

Far out among the stems; soft mice and small

Eating and creeping all about my feet,

Red shod and tired; and the flies should come

Creeping o’er my broad eyelids unafraid;

And there should be a noise of water going,

Clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates,

Likewise the flies should creep: God’s eyes! God help!

A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown

The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight.


I was half dreaming, but the trumpet’s true;

He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms?

Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart,

And be quite gentle till he is gone out;

And afterwards: but he is still alive,

He must be still alive.

Enter a Squire of Clisson’s.

Good day, fair sir,

I give you welcome, knowing whence you come.


My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come

From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord,

Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope

You will not count me villain, even if

They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate;

For I am but a mouthpiece after all,

A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well

To you and your’s.


Can you talk faster, sir,

Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes

On mine, I pray you, and whate’er you see,

Still go on talking fast, unless I fall,

Or bid you stop.


I pray your pardon then,

And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say

I am unhappy that your knight is dead.

Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all.

We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms,

And scant five hundred had he in that hold:

His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain,

And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit;

Yet for three days about the barrier there

The deadly glaives were gather’d, laid across,

And push’d and pull’d; the fourth our engines came;

But still amid the crash of falling walls,

And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts,

The steady bow-strings flash’d, and still stream’d out

St. George’s banner, and the seven swords,

And still they cried: St. George Guienne! until

Their walls were flat as Jericho’s of old,

And our rush came, and cut them from the keep.


Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then,

And where he died, if you can really mean

That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead?


Fair lady, in the base-court:


What base-court?

What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on;

’Twas only something gone within my head:

Do you not know, one turns one’s head round quick,

And something cracks there with sore pain? go on,

And still look at my eyes.


Almost alone,

There in the base-court fought he with his sword,

Using his left hand much, more than the wont

Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back,

For wheresoever he hit a downright blow,

Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold

Against the sway of body and great arm;

Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I,

I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!)

Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees,

And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost;

Many fell on him, crying out their cries,

Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and:


Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live,

Fair God, so let me die!

You have done well,

Done all your message gently, pray you go,

Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take

This bag of franks for your expenses.

[The Squire kneels.


You do not go; still looking at my face,

You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then?

You need not tell me who has set you on,

But tell me only, ’tis a made-up tale.

You are some lover may-be or his friend;

Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved,

Think, is it not enough that I kneel down

And kiss your feet? your jest will be right good

If you give in now; carry it too far,

And ’twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep

Almost, as though you loved me; love me then,

And go to Heaven by telling all your sport,

And I will kiss you then with all my heart,

Upon the mouth: O! what can I do then

To move you?


Lady fair, forgive me still!

You know I am so sorry, but my tale

Is not yet finish’d:

So they bound his hands,

And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin’s tent,

Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand,

And ponder’d somewhile, afterwards, looking up:

Fair dame, what shall I say?


Yea, I know now,

Good squire, you may go now with my thanks.


Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this,

Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson’s sake.

When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,

Within a while he lifted up his head

And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though,

As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet

Sullenly brave as many a thief will die,

Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:

Few words he spoke; not so much what he said

Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played

Strange tenderness from that big soldier there

About his pleading; eagerness to live

Because folk loved him, and he loved them back,

And many gallant plans unfinish’d now

For ever. Clisson’s heart, which may God bless!

Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;

Wherefore I bring this message:

That he waits,

Still loving you, within the little church

Whose windows, with the one eye of the light

Over the altar, every night behold

The great dim broken walls he strove to keep!

There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.

Now, lady, I will go: God give you rest!


Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!

And now to keep myself from going mad.

Christ! I have been a many times to church,

And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,

Have used them daily, but today I wish

To pray another way; come face to face,

O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray

I know not what; at any rate come now

From one of many places where you are,

Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings,

Or sitting on the altar strange with gems,

Or high up in the duskness of the apse;

Let us go, You and I, a long way off,

To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church.

While you sit on the coffin in the dark,

Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone

Between your feet, and chatter anything

I have heard long ago. What matters it

So I may keep you there, your solemn face

And long hair even-flowing on each side,

Until you love me well enough to speak,

And give me comfort? yea, till o’er your chin,

And cloven red beard the great tears roll down

In pity for my misery, and I die,

Kissed over by you.

Eh Guesclin! if I were

Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss’d the knight,

Across the salt sea come to fight for her:

Ah! just to go about with many knights,

Wherever you went, and somehow on one day,

In a thick wood to catch you off your guard,

Let you find, you and your some fifty friends,

Nothing but arrows wheresoe’er you turn’d,

Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them;

And so, between a lane of my true men,

To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with

My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith,

And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin;

And then: alas! alas! when all is said,

What could I do but let you go again,

Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge,

Whatever happens; and I get no comfort:

I am but weak, and cannot move my feet,

But as men bid me.

Strange I do not die.

Suppose this has not happen’d after all?

I will lean out again and watch for news.

I wonder how long I can still feel thus,

As though I watch’d for news, feel as I did

Just half-an-hour ago, before this news.

How all the street is humming, some men sing,

And some men talk; some look up at the house,

Then lay their heads together and look grave:

Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart;

Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round:

Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing?

Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death:

They ought to sing of him who was as wight

As Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail’d

Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail,

And so at last to die and leave me here,

Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will,

When many years are past, make songs of us:

God help me, though, truly I never thought

That I should make a story in this way,

A story that his eyes can never see.

[One sings from outside.]

Therefore be it believed

Whatsoever he grieved,

When his horse was relieved,

This Launcelot,

Beat down on his knee,

Right valiant was he

God’s body to see,

Though he saw it not.

Right valiant to move,

But for his sad love

The high God above

Stinted his praise.

Yet so he was glad

That his son, Lord Galahad,

That high joyaunce had

All his life-days.

Sing we therefore then

Launcelot’s praise again,

For he wan crownés ten,

If he wan not twelve.

To his death from his birth

He was mickle of worth,

Lay him in the cold earth,

A long grave ye may delve.

Omnes homines benedicite!

This last fitte ye may see,

All men pray for me

Who made this history

Cunning and fairly.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:58