Complete works of willia.., p.363
Complete Works of William Morris, page 363
She caught her hand, and not in vain
She prayed; for now some kindly thought
To Cecily’s brow fair colour brought,
And quickly ‘gan her heart to beat
As love drew near those eyes to greet,
Who knew him not till that sweet hour.
So over the fair, pink-edged flower,
Softly she stepped; but when she came
Anigh the sleeper, lovely shame
Cast a soft mist before her eyes
Full filled of many fantasies.
But when she saw him lying there
She smiled to see her mate so fair;
And in her heart did Love begin
To tell his tale, nor thought she sin
To gaze on him that was her own,
Not doubting he was come alone
To woo her, whom midst arms and gold
She deemed she should at first behold;
And with that thought love grew again
Until departing was a pain,
Though fear grew with that growing love;
And with her lingering footsteps strove
As from the place she turned to go,
Sighing and murmuring words full low.
But as her raiment’s hem she raised,
And for her merry fellow gazed
Shamefaced and changed, she met her eyes
Turned grave and sad with ill surprise;
Who while the princess mazed did stand
Had drawn from Michael’s loosened band
The king’s scroll, which she held out now
To Cecily, and whispered low,
“Read, and do quickly what thou wilt,
Sad, sad! such fair life to be spilt:
Come further first.”
With that they stepped
A pace or two from where he slept,
And then she read,
“Lord Seneschal,
On thee and thine may all good fall;
Greeting hereby the king sendeth,
And biddeth thee to put to death
His enemy who beareth this;
And as thou lovest life and bliss,
And all thy goods thou holdest dear,
Set thou his head upon a spear
A good half furlong from the gate,
Our coming hitherward to wait —
So perish the King’s enemies!”
She read, and scarcely had her eyes
Seen clear her father’s name and seal,
Ere all love’s power her heart did feel,
That drew her back in spite of shame,
To him who was not e’en a name
Unto her a short hour agone.
Panting she said, “Wait thou alone
Beside him, watch him carefully
And let him sleep if none draw nigh:
If of himself he waketh, then
Hide him until I come again,
When thou hast told him of the snare —
If thou betrayest me beware!
For death shall be the least of all
The ills that on thine head shall fall —
What say I, thou art dear to me,
And doubly dear now shalt thou be,
Thou shalt have power and majesty,
And be more queen in all than I —
Few words are best, be wise, be wise!”
Withal she turned about her eyes
Once more, and swiftly as a man
Betwixt the garden trees she ran,
Until, her own bower reached at last,
She made good haste, and quickly passed
Unto her secret treasury.
There, hurrying since the time was nigh
For folk to come from meat, she took
From ‘twixt the leaves of a great book
A royal scroll, signed, sealed, but blank,
Then, with a hand that never shrank
Or trembled, she the scroll did fill
With these words, writ with clerkly skill, —
“Unto the Seneschal, Sir Rafe,
Who holdeth our fair castle safe,
Greeting and health! O well-beloved,
Know that at this time we are moved
To wed our daughter, so we send
Him who bears this, our perfect friend,
To be her bridegroom; so do thou
Ask nought of him, since well we know
His race and great nobility,
And how he is most fit to be
Our son; therefore snake no delay,
But wed the twain upon the day
Thou readest this: and see that all
Take oath to him, whate’er shall fall
To do his bidding as our heir;
So doing still be lief and dear
As I have held thee yet to be.”
She cast the pen down hastily
At that last letter, for she heard
How even now the people stirred
Within the hall: nor dared she think
What bitter potion she must drink
If now she failed, so falsely bold
That life or death did she enfold
Within its cover, making shift
To seal it with her father’s gift,
A signet of cornelian.
Then swiftly down the stairs she ran
And reached the garden; but her fears
Brought shouts and thunder to her ears,
That were but lazy words of men
Full-fed, far off; nay, even when
Her limbs caught up her flying gown
The noise seemed loud enough to drown
The twitter of the autumn birds,
And her own muttered breathless words
That to her heart seemed loud indeed.
Yet therewithal she made good speed
And reached the fountain seen of none
Where yet abode her friend alone,
Watching the sleeper, who just now
Turned in his sleep and muttered low.
Therewith fair Agnes saying nought
From out her hand the letter caught;
And while she leaned against the stone
Stole up to Michael’s side alone,
And with a cool, unshrinking hand
Thrust the new scroll deep in his band,
And turned about unto her friend;
Who having come unto the end
Of all her courage, trembled there
With face upturned for fresher air,
And parted lips grown grey and pale,
And limbs that now began to fail,
And hands wherefrom all strength had gone,
Scarce fresher than the blue-veined stone
That feeble still she strove to clutch.
But when she felt her lady’s touch,
Feebly she said, “Go! let me die
And end this sudden misery
That in such wise has wrapped my life,
I am too weak for such a strife,
So sick I am with shame and fear;
Would thou hadst never brought me here!”
But Agnes took her hand and said,
“Nay, queen, and must we three be dead
Because thou fearest; all is safe
If boldly thou wilt face Sir Rafe.”
So saying, did she draw her hence,
Past tree and bower, and high pleached fence
Unto the garden’s further end,
And left her there and back did wend,
And from the house made haste to get
A gilded maund wherein she set
A flask of ancient island wine,
Ripe fruits and wheaten manchets fine,
And many such a delicate
As goddesses in old time ate,
Ere Helen was a Trojan queen;
So passing through the garden green
She cast her eager eyes again
Upon the spot where he had lain,
But found it empty, so sped on
Till she at last the place had won
Where Cecily lay weak and white
Within that fair bower of delight.
Her straight she made to eat and drink,
And said, “See now thou dost not shrink
From this thy deed; let love slay fear
Now, when thy life shall grow so dear,
Each minute should seem loss to thee
If thou for thy felicity
Couldst stay to count them; for I say,
This day shall be thy happy day.”
Therewith she smiled to see the wine
Embraced by her fingers fine;
And her sweet face grow bright again
With sudden pleasure after pain.
Again she spoke, “What is this word
That dreaming, I perchance, have heard,
But certainly remember well;
That some old soothsayer did tell
Strange things unto my lord, the King,
That on thy hand the spousal ring
No Kaiser’s son, no King should set,
But one a peasant did beget —
What sayst thou?”
But the Queen flushed red;
“Such fables I have heard,” she said;
“And thou — is it such scathe to me,
The bride of such a man to be?”
“Nay,” said she, “God will have him King;
How shall we do a better thing
With this or that one than He can;
God’s friend must be a goodly man.”
But with that word she heard the sound
Of folk who through the mazes wound
Bearing the message; then she said,
“Be strong, pluck up thine hardihead,
Speak little, so shall all be well,
For now our own tale will they tell.”
And even as she spoke they came
And all the green place was aflame
With golden raiment of the lords;
While Cecily, noting not their words,
Rose up to go; and for her part
By this had fate so steeled her heart,
Scarce otherwise she seemed, than when
She passed before the eyes of men
At Tourney or high festival.
But when they now had reached the hall,
And up its very steps they went,
Her head a little down she bent;
Nor raised it till the dais was gained
For fear that love some monster feigned
To be a god, and she should be
Smit by her own bolt wretchedly.
But at the rustling, crowded dais
She gathered heart her eyes to raise,
And there beheld her love, indeed,
Clad in her father’s serving weed,
But proud, and flushed, and calm withal,
Fearless of aught that might befal,
Nor too astonied, for he thought, —
“From point to point my life is brought
Through wonders till it comes to this;
And trouble cometh after bliss,
And I will bear all as I may,
And ever as day passeth day,
My life will hammer from the twain,
Forging a long enduring chain.”
But midst these thoughts their young eyes met,
And every word did he forget
Wherewith men name unhappiness,
As read again those words did bless
With double blessings his glad ears,
And if she trembled with her fears,
And if with doubt, and love, and shame,
The rosy colour went and came
In her sweet cheeks and smooth bright brow,
Little did folk think of it now,
But as of maiden modesty,
Shamefaced to see the bridegroom nigh.
And now when Rafe the Seneschal
Had read the message down the Hall,
And turned to her, quite calm again,
Her face had grown, and with no pain
She raised her serious eyes to his
Grown soft and pensive with his bliss,
And said,
“Prince, thou art welcome here,
Where all my father loves is dear,
And full trust do I put in thee,
For that so great nobility
He knoweth in thee; be as kind
As I would be to thee, and find
A happy life from day to day,
Till all our days are past away.”
What more than found the bystanders
He found within this speech of hers,
I know not; some faint quivering
In the last words; some little thing
That checked the cold words’ even flow.
But yet they set his heart aglow,
And he in turn said eagerly: —
“Surely I count it nought to die
For him who brought me unto this;
For thee, who givest me this bliss;
Yea, even dost me such a grace
To look with kind eyes in my face,
And send sweet music to my ears.”
But at his words she, mazed with tears,
Seemed faint, and failing quickly, when
Above the low hum of the men
Uprose the sweet bells’ sudden clang,
As men unto the chapel rang;
While just outside the singing folk
Into most heavenly carols broke.
And going softly up the hall
Boys bore aloft the verges tall
Before the bishop’s gold-clad head.
Then forth his bride young Michael led,
And nought to him seemed good or bad
Except the lovely hand he had;
But she the while was murmuring low,
“If he could know, if he could know,
What love, what love, his love should be!”
But while mid mirth and minstrelsy
The ancient Castle of the Rose
Such pageant to the autumn shows
The King sits ill at ease at home,
For in these days the news is come
That he who in his line should wed,
Lies in his own town stark and dead,
Slain in a tumult in the street.
Brooding on this he deemed it meet,
Since nigh the day was come, when she
Her bridegroom’s visage looked to see,
To hold the settled day with her.
And bid her at the least to wear
Dull mourning guise for gold and white.
So on another morning bright,
When the whole promised month was past,
He drew anigh the place at last
Where Michael’s dead head, looking down
Upon the highway with a frown,
He doubted not at last to see.
So ‘twixt the fruitful greenery
He rode, scarce touched by care the while,
Humming a roundel with a smile.
Withal, ere yet he drew anigh,
He heard their watch-horn sound from high
Nor wondered, for their wont was so,
And well his banner they might know
Amidst the stubble lands afar:
But now a distant point of war
He seemed to hear, and bade draw rein,
But listening cried, “Push on again!
They do but send forth minstrelsy
Because my daughter thinks to see
The man who lieth on his bier.”
So on they passed, till sharp and clear
They heard the pipe and shrill fife sound;
And restlessly the King glanced round
To see that he had striven for,
The crushing of that sage’s lore,
The last confusion of that fate.
But drawn still nigher to the gate
They turned a sharp bend of the road,
And saw the pageant that abode
The solemn coming of the King.
For first on each side, maids did sing,
Dressed in gold raiment; then there came
The minstrels in their coats of flame;
And then the many-coloured lords,
The knights’ spears, and the swordmen’s swords,
Backed by the glittering wood of bills.
So now, presaging many ills,
The King drew rein, yet none the less
He shrank not from his hardiness,
But thought, “Well, at the worst I die,
And yet perchance long life may lie
Before me — I will hold my peace;
The dumb man’s borders still increase.”
But as he strengthened thus his heart
He saw the crowd before him part,
And down the long melodious lane,
Hand locked in hand there passed the twain,
As fair as any earth has found,
Clad as king’s children are, and crowned.
Behind them went the chiefest lords,
And two old knights with sheathed swords
The banners of the kingdom bore.
But now the King had pondered sore,
By when they reached him, though, indeed,
The time was short unto his need,
Betwixt his heart’s first startled pang
And those old banner-bearers’ clang
Anigh his saddle-bow: but he
Across their heads scowled heavily,
Not saying aught awhile: at last,
Ere any glance at them he cast,
He said, “Whence come ye? what are ye?
What play is this ye play to me?”
None answered, — Cecily, faint and white,
The rather Michael’s hand clutched tight,
And seemed to speak, but not one word
The nearest to her could have heard.
Then the King spoke again,— “Sir Rafe,
Meseems this youngling came here safe
A week agone?”
“Yea, sir,” he said;
“Therefore the twain I straight did wed,
E’en as thy letters bound me to.”
“And thus thou diddest well to do,”
The King said. “Tell me on what day
Her old life she did put away.”
“Sire, the eleventh day this is
Since that they gained their earthly bliss;”
Quoth old Sir Rafe. The King said nought,
But with his head bowed down in thought,
Stood a long while; but at the last
Upward a smiling face he cast,
And cried aloud above the folk,
“Shout for the joining of the yoke
Betwixt these twain; And thou, fair lord,
Who dost so well my every word,
Nor makest doubt of anything,
Wear thou the collar of thy King;
And a duke’s banner, cut foursquare,
