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Under King Constantine

By Katrina Trask

Third Edition

1893







To My Husband.




_The following tales, which have no legendary warrant, are supposed to
belong to the time, lost in obscurity, immediately subsequent to King
Arthur's death; when, says Malory, in the closing chapter of LA MORT
D'ARTHURE, "Sir Constantine, which was Sir Cadors son of Cornwaile, was
chosen king of England; and hee was a full noble knight, and worshipfully
hee ruled this realme"_




SANPEUR.


The great King Constantine is at the hunt;
The brilliant cavalcade of knights and dames,
On palfreys and on chargers trapped in gold
And silver and red purple, ride in mirth
Along the winding way, by hill and tarn
And violet-sprinkled dell. Impatient hounds
Sniff the keen morning air, and startled birds
Rustle the foliage redolent with spring.

From time to time some courtier reins his steed
Beside the love-enkindling Gwendolaine,
Whose wayward moods do vary as the winds,--
Now wooing with her soft, seductive grace;
Now fascinating with her stately pride;
Anon, bewitching by her recklessness
Of wilful daring in some wild caprice
Which no one could anticipate or stay.
How fair she is to-day! How beautiful!
Her hunting-robe is bluer than the sky,--
Matching one phase of her great, changeful eyes,--
Clasped with twin falcons of unburnished gold,
The colour of her brown hair in the sun.
The white plumes, drooping from her hunting-cap,
Leave her alluring lips in tempting sight,
But hide the growing shadow in her eyes.
For she marks none of all the court to-day
Save Sir Sanpeur, the passing noble knight
Whose bearing doth bespeak heroic deeds,
There where he rides with the sweet maid Ettonne.

Sir Torm, the husband of fair Gwendolaine,
Is all unconscious of aught else beside
The outward seeming, 'tis enough for him
That she is gay and beautiful, and smiles.
He has a nature small and limited
By sight, and sense, and self, and his desires;
A heart as open as the day to all
That touches his quick impulse, when it costs
Him naught of sacrifice.  The needy poor
Flock to his castle for the careless gift
Of falling dole, but his esquire is faint
From his exacting service, night and day
His Lady Gwendolaine is satiate
With costly gems, palfreys, and samite thick
With threads of gold and silver, but the sweet
Heart subtleties and fair observances
Are lost in the _of course_ of married life.
He sees, too quickly, does she fail to smile,
But never sees the shadow in her eyes
His hounds are beaten till they scarce draw breath,
And then caressed beyond the worth of hounds.
His vassals know not if, from day to day,
He will approve, or strike them with a curse.
His humours are the byword of the court,
And, were it not for his good-heartedness,
His prowess, and undaunted strength at arms,
Men would speak lightly of him in disdain;
He is so often in a stormy rage,
Or supplicating humour to atone,--
Too petty to repent in very truth,
Too light and yielding in repentance, when
His temper's force is spent, for dignity
Of truest knighthood. No one feels his faults
So quickly, with such flushing of regret
And shame, as Gwendolaine. But she is wife,
His honour is her own, and she would hide
From all the world, and even from herself,
His pettiness and narrowness of soul.
So she forgets, or doth pretend forget,
Where he has failed, save when he passes bounds;
Then her swift scorn--a piercing force he dreads--
Flashes upon him like a probing lance,
To silence merriment if it be coarse,
To hush his wrath when it is violent.

Though powerful to check, she ne'er could change
The underflow and current of their life.
In the first years, gone by, ere she had grown
A woman of the world, she had essayed
To stem the tide of shallow vanity,
To realise her girlhood's high ideal,
And make her home more reverent, and more fine.
Sir Torm had overborne her words with jest
And noisy laughter, vowing she would learn
Romance and sweet simplicity were well
For harper minstrel, singing in the hall,
But not for courtiers living in the world.
Once, when she faced the thought of motherhood,--
For some brief days of sweet expectancy
Never fulfilled for her,--she was aware
Of thirst for living water, and a dread
Of the light, shallow life she led, fell on her;
She went to Torm, and spoke, in broken words,
The unformed longing of her dawning soul.
He lightly laughed, filliped her ear, called her
"My Lady Abbess," "pretty saint," and then
Said, later, jesting, before all the court,
"Behold a lady too good for her lord!"
The blood swept up her cheeks to lose itself
In her hair's gold, then ebbed again to leave
Her paler than before. She stood in silent,
Momentary hate of Torm, all impotent.
He saw her pallor and her eyes down-dropt,
Came quickly, flung his arm around her, saying,
"God's faith, my girl, you do not mind a jest!
Where are the spirits you are wont to have?"
"My lord, they shall not fail you any more,"
She answered bitterly, and after that
Torm did not see her soul unveiled again.
Thenceforth she turned her strivings after truth
To winning outward charm the more complete,
And hid her inner self more deeply 'neath
The sparkling surface of her brilliant life.

To-day he wearies her with brutal jest
Upon the hunted boar, and calls her dull
That she laughs not as ever.

                             While Sanpeur
Was far upon a distant quest, all perilous,
She thought with secret longing of the hour
When once again together they should ride.
He has returned triumphant, having won
Fresh honours.

               Now at last, the hunt