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

  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.

  — 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.”

  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.”

  * * *

  There were not ten men in all the house

  Because of the deep peace in the land

  Such honor this King Louis hath

  None dares contrary his command

  Upon the walls we lay one noon

  Sweet Alice and I. St. James’ tower

  Kept off the hot September sun

  We read the Story of the Flower

  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

  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

  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

  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.

  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

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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

  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,

  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

 

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