In Arthur's House

*

An Arthurian Miscellany
In Arthur's house whileome was I

When happily the time went by

In midmost glory of his days.

He held his court then in a place

Wher ye shall not find the name

In any story of his fame:

Caerliel good sooth men called it not,

Nor London Town, nor Camelot;

Yet therein had we bliss enow.

--Ah, far off was the overthrow

Of all that Britain praised and loved;

And though among us lightly moved

A love that could but lead to death,

Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,

A fear to sting a lady's lip,

No ruin of goodly fellowship,

No shame and death of all things good.

Forgive the old carle's babbling mood;

As here I sit grey-haired and old,

My life gone as a story told,

Ye bid me tell a story too;

And then the evil days and few,

That yet were overlong for me

Rise up so clear I may not see

The pictures of my minstrel lore.

Well hearken! on a day of yore

From prime of morn the court did ride

Amidmost of the summertide

To search the dwellings of the deer

Until the heat of noon was near;

Then slackening speed awhile they went

Adown a ragged thorn-bushed bent

At whose feet grew a tangled wood

Of oak and holly nowise good:

But therethrough with some pain indeed

And rending of the ladies' weed

They won at last, and after found

A space of green-sward grown around

By oak and holly set full close;

And in the midst of it arose

Two goodly sycamores that made

A wide and little sun-pierced shade

About their high boles straight and green:

A fount was new-born there-between,

And running on as clear as glass,

Flowed winding on amid the grass

Until the thick wood swallowed it.

A place for happy folk to sit

While the hot day grew hotter still

Till eve began to work his will.

--So might those happy people think

Who grudged to see the red sun sink

And end another day of bliss

Although no joy tomorn should miss --

They laughed for joy as they drew nigh

The shade and fount: but lo, thereby

A man beside the fountain laid

The while his horse 'twixt sun and shade

Cropped the sweet grass: but little care

Had these of guile or giant's lair,

And scarce a foot before the Queen

Rode Gawain o'er the daisied green

To see what man his pleasure took;

Who rose up in meanwhile and shook

His tangled hair aback, as one

Who e'en but now his sleep hath done.

Rough-head and yellow-haired was he

Great-eyed, as folk have told to me,

And big and stout enow of limb:

As one who thinks no harm he smiled,

And cried out: "Well met in the wild,

Fair King and Queen; and ye withal

Sweet dames and damsels! Well befal

This day, whereon I see thee nigh,

O Lancelot, before I die!

And surely shall my heart rejoice

Sir Gawain, when I hear thy voice!"

Then Lancelot laughed: "Thou knowest us then

Full well among a many men?"

"As quoth the lion to the mouse,"

The man said; "in King Arthur's House

Men are not names of men alone,

But coffers rather of deeds done."

The Queen smiled blithe of heart, and spake:

"Hast thou done deeds for ladies' sake?"

"Nay Dame," he said, "I am but young;

A little have I lived and sung

And seen thy face this happy noon."

The King said: "May we hearken soon

Some merry tale of thee? for I

Am skilled to know men low and high

And deem thee neither churl nor fool."

Said he, "My fathers went to school

Where folk are taught a many things,

But not by bliss: men called them kings

In days when kings were near to seek;

But as a long thread waxeth weak,

So is it with our house; and now

I wend me home from oaken bough

Unto a stead where roof and wall

Shall not have over far to fall

When their last day comes."

As he spake

He reddened: "Nathless for their sake,

Whom the world loved once, mock not me

O King, if thence I bring to thee

A morsel and a draught of wine,

Though nothing king-like here thou dine."

Of some kind word King Arthur thought,

But ere he spake the woodman caught

His forest-nag and leapt thereon,

And through the tangled brake was gone.

Then leapt the King down, glad at heart,

Thinking, This day shall not depart

Without some voice from days that were;

And lightly leapt down Guenevere,

And man and maid lay presently

Neath the bee-laden branches high,

And sweet the scent of trodden grass

Amid the blossoms' perfume was.

There long they lay, and little spake,

As folk right loth the calm to break;

Till lo upon the forest-breeze

A noise of folk, and from the trees

They came: the first-seen forester,

A grizzled carle in such-like gear,

And then two maidens poorly clad

Though each a silver chaplet had

And round her neck a golden chain:

And last two varlets led a wain

Drawn by white oxen well bedight

With oaken boughs and lilies white;

Therein there lay a cask of wine

And baskets piled with bread full fine,

And flesh of hart and roe and hare;

And in the midst upon a chair

Done over with a cloth of gold

There sat a man exceeding old

With long white locks: and clad was he

No other than his company

Save that a golden crown he bore

Full fairly fashioned as of yore,

And with a sword was girt about

Such as few folk will see I doubt.

Right great it was: the scabbard thin

Was fashioned of a serpent's skin,

In every scale a stone of worth;

Of tooth of sea-lion of the north

The cross was, and the blood-boot stone

That heals the hurt the blade hath done

Hung down therefrom in silken purse:

The ruddy kin of Niblung's curse

O'er tresses of a sea-wife's hair

Was wrapped about the handle fair;

And last a marvellous sapphire stone

Amidst of the great pommel shone,

A blue flame in the forest green.

And Arthur deemed he ne'er had seen

So fair a sword: nay not when he

The wonder of the land-locked sea

Drew from the stone that Christmas-tide.

Now forth the forest youth did ride,

Leapt down beside the King, and spake:

"King Arthur for thy greatness' sake

My grandsire comes to look on thee;

My father standeth here by me;

These maidens are my sisters twain;

My brethren draw out from the wain

Somewhat thy woodland cheer to mend."

Thereat his sire the knee did bend

Before the King, who o'er the brown

Rough sleeve of the man's homespun gown

Beheld a goodly golden ring:

And fell to greater marvelling

When he beheld how fine and fair

The woodman's kneeling sisters were.

And all folk thereby deemed in sooth

That (save indeed the first seen youth)

These folk were nobler e'en than those

Of Arthur's wonder of a house.

But now the elder drew anigh,

By half a head was he more high

Than Arthur or than Lancelot,

Nor had eld bent him: he kneeled not

Before the King, but smiling took

His hands in hands that nowise shook;

And the King joyed as he who sees

One of his fathers' images

Stand glad before him in a dream.

Then down beside the bubbling stream

They sat together, and the King

Was loth to fall a questioning;

So first the elder spake and said:

"It joys me of thy goodlihead

O great king of our land; and though

Our blood within thee doth not flow,

And I who was a king of yore

May scarcely kneel thy feet before,

Yet do I deem thy right the best

Of all the kings who rule the West.

I love thy name and fame: behold,

King Arthur, I am grown so old

In guilelessness, the Gods have sent,

Be I content or uncontent,

This gift unto my latter days

That I may see as through a haze

The lives and deeds of days to come:

I laugh for some, I weep for some --

I neither laugh nor weep for thee,

But trembling through the clouds I see

Thy life and glory to the end;

And how the sweet and bitter blend

Within the cup that thou must drink.

Good is it that thou shalt not shrink

From either: that the afterdays

Shall still win glory from thy praise

And scarce believe thee laid asleep

When o'er thy deeds the days lie deep."

He ceased but his old lips moved still,

As though they would the tale fulfil

His heart kept secret: Arthur's eyes

Gleamed with the pride that needs would rise

Up from his heart, and low he said:

"I know the living by the dead

I know the future by the past."

Wise eyes and kind the elder cast

Upon him; while a nameless fear

Smote to the heart of Guenevere,

And, fainting there, was turned to love:

And thence a nameless pain did move

The noble heart of Lancelot,

The store of longing unforgot.

-- And west a little moved the sun

And noon began, and noon was done.

But as the elder's grey eyes turned

On Guenevere's, her sweet face burned

With sweet shame; as though she knew

He read her story through and through.

Kindly he looked on her and said:

"O Queen, the chief of goodlihead,

Be blithe and glad this day at least

When in my fathers' house ye feast:

For surely in their ancient hall

Ye sit now: look, there went the wall

Where yon turf ridge runs west-away:

Time was I heard my grand-dame say

She saw this stream run bubbling down

The hall-floor shut in trench of stone;

Therein she washed her father's cup

That last eve e'er the fire went up

O'er ridge and rafter and she passed

Betwixt the foeman's spears the last

Of all the women, wrapping round

This sword the gift of Odin's ground."

He shook the weapon o'er his knee,

Thereon gazed Arthur eagerly.

"Draw it, my lord," quoth Guenevere,

"Of such things have we little fear

In Arthur's house." And Lancelot rose

To look upon the treasure close.

But grimly smiled the ancient man:

"E'en as the sun arising wan

In the black sky when Heimdall's horn

Screams out and the last day is born,

This blade to eyes of men shall be

On that dread day I shall not see --"

Fierce was his old face for a while:

But once again he 'gan to smile

And took the Queen's slim lily hand

And set it on the deadly brand

Then laughed and said: "Hold this, O Queen,

Thine hand is where God's hands have been,

For this is Tyrfing: who knows when

His blade was forged? Belike ere men

Had dwelling on the middle-earth.

At least a man's life is it worth

To draw it out once: so behold

These peace-strings wrought of pearl and gold

The scabbard to the cross that bind

Lest a rash hand and heart made blind

Should draw it forth unwittingly."

Blithe laughed King Arthur: "Sir," said he,

"We well may deem in days by gone

This sword, the blade of such an one

As thou hast been, would seldom slide

Back to its sheath unsatisfied.

Lo now how fair a feast thy kin

Have dight for us and might we win

Some tale of thee in Tyrfing's praise,

Some deed he wrought in greener days,

This were a blithesome hour indeed."

"Sir," said the elder, "little need

To pray me her. Please ye dine

And drink a cup of woodman's wine,

Surely meantime some tale shall stir

Within my heart of days that were."

Then to their meat they gat and there

Feasted amid the woodland fair

The fairest folk of all the land.

Ah me when first the Queen's fair hand

Drew near the kneeling forest youth

New-wrought the whole world seemed in sooth

And nothing left therein of ill.

So at the last the Queen did fill

A cup of wine, and drank and said:

"In memory of thy fathers dead

I drink, fair lord, drink now with me

And then bethink thee presently

Of deeds that once won prize and praise

The glory of thy fathers' days."

He drank and laughed and said," Nay, nay,

Keep we the peace-strings whole today.

This draught from where thy lips have been

Within mine old heart maketh green

The memory of a love full true,

The first recorded deed that drew

My fathers' house from dark to light.

If thus my grandame told aright,

A rougher place our land was then,

Quoth she, than with us living men,

And other trees were in the wood

And folk of somewhat other blood

Than ours: then were the small-eyed bears

More plenty in the woodland lairs

Than badgers now: no holiday

It was to chase the wolves away,

Yea there were folk who had to tell

Of lyngworms lying on the fell,

And fearful things by lake and fen,

And manlike shapes that were not men.

Then fay-folk roamed the woods at noon,

And on the grave-mound in the moon

Faint gleamed the flickering treasure-flame.

Days of the world that won no fame,

Yet now, quoth she, folk looking back

Across the tumult and the wrack

And swelling up of windy lies

And dull fool-fashioned cruelties,

Deem that in those days God abode

On earth and shared ill times and good

And right and wrong with that same folk

Their hands had fashioned for the yoke.

Quoth she, of such nought tells my tale,

Yet saith that such as should prevail

In those days o'er the fears of earth

Must needs have been some deal of worth,

And saith that had ye seen a kin

Who dwelt these very woods within

Them at the least ye would have told

For cousins of the Gods of old.

Amongst all these it tells of one,

The goodman's last-begotten son,

Some twenty summers old: as fair

As any flower that blossomed there

In sun and rain, and strong therewith

And lissom as a willow withe.

Now through these woods amidst of June

This youngling went until at noon

From out of the thicket his fair face

Peered forth upon this very place;

For he had been a-hunting nigh

And wearied thought a while to lie

Beside the freshness of the stream.

But lo as in a morning dream

The place was changed, for there was dight

A fair pavilion blue and white

E'en where we play, and all around

Was talk of men and diverse sound,

Tinkling of bit and neigh of steed

Clashing of arms and iron weed.

For round about the painted tent

Armed folk a many came or went,

Or on the fresh grass lay about.

Surely our youth at first had doubt

If 'twere not better to be gone

Than meet these stranger folk alone --

But wot ye well such things as these

Were new to him born mid the trees

And wild things: and he thought, Maybe

The household of the Gods I see:

Who for as many tales as I

Have heard of them, I ne'er saw nigh.

If they be men, I wotted not

That such fair raiment men had got;

They will be glad to show them then.

For one thing taught these woodland men

Whatever wisdom they let fall

Men since have won Fear nought at all.

So from the holly brake he strode

Shouldering the while his hunter's load,

A new slain roe; but there arose

To meet him half a score of those

Whom in fair words he greeted well.

Now was he clad in a sheep's fell

And at his back his quiver hung,

His woodknife on his thigh: unstrung

His bow he held in a staff's stead.

An oaken wreath was round his head

From whence his crispy locks of brown

Well nigh unto his belt hung down,

And howso frank his eyes might be

A half-frown soothly might you see

As these men handled sword or spear

And cried out, "Hold, what dost thou here?"

"Ah," said he, "then no Gods ye are.

Fear not, I shall not make you war."

Therewith his hunting-knife he drew

And the long blade before them he threw.

Then loud they laughed; one sheathed his sword:

"Thanks, army-leader, for that word!

We are not Gods e'en as thou say'st,

Nor thou a devil of the waste

But e'en a devil's a friend belike."

Something [of] hate hereat did strike

Unto the woodsman's unused heart,

Yet he spake softly for his part:

"What men are ye and where dwell ye?

What is the wondrous house I see?"

"In the fair southland is our home

Yet from the north as now we come,"

Said one: then with a mocking smile,

"And in our house there dwells awhile

A very Goddess of the north.

But lo you, take a thing of worth

For that thy quarry, and begone."

But as he spake another one

Spake softly in his ear: and so

The word from this to that did go,

With laughing that seemed nowise good

Unto the dweller of the wood,

Who saying nought moved toward the tent.

But they came round him as he went

And said: "Nay, pagan, stay thy feet;

Thou art not one our dame to greet

[The poem ends at this point.]