Clemence Housman - The Life of Sir Aglovale de Galis - Chapter XXI lyrics

THESE records of the life of Aglovale are here unhappily poor and incomplete. Some details remain in fragments past piecing, and some remain to be gathered up to place in the records of other lives. So to let lie or to lay over must be the telling of how Sir Lamiel stole Mariet away and delivered him to Arthur, and how the child with his simple guile won back to Sir Aglovale. Also telling of John the ba*tard; how he was set against Sir Aglovale, but turned again to worship him before departing from him on a scruple of pride. Also telling of Sir Lamiel's daughter Bonamy; how she played her father false, and he smote her, and thereafter knew her to be verily his own child. Also how Bonamy with her stringent charm in unloveliness was beloved of Michael and John, and herself loved neither, and of the virgin huntress life she led with her two loyal lovers. As to the tale of the empoisoned apples that the Queen of the Waste Lands purveyed, there is little cause to add more than may be read in the books of my most dear Master. Other fragments await the tale of King Bagdemagus' daughter; how her brother Meliagraunce came to a bad end, how Sir Aglovale faced King Arthur for leave to bury his old friend, and how above his tomb he met King Bagdemagus' daughter, and she knew him, naming him again Misericors, and blessing him. These present records carry on the tale after that burial, when Aglovale departed from Westminster and rode north for the distant earldom of his brother Tor, whom he sought at that time with a certain purpose in mind ripe for unfolding. Down a moorland road came an old woman on horseback, led at a gentle pace by a young man afoot. She rode astride, upright as a larch, her full skirts dressing her well in the saddle. Milk-white locks lay under cap and hat, red engrain freshened withered cheeks, and eyes noticeably blue looked at Sir Aglovale attentively as she pa**ed. He spoke hail on her fair winter day, and she uttered blessing in return, right fair and womanly. A mile further on came down a great herd of kine swinging slow. Again, a mile further a ruck of bullocks drove by, wild and jostling; and then, brought along in solitary state, came a mighty bull, his hoofs splaying under his weight, surly-eyed, his head held low with ring and staff by sturdy men. Goats followed and some sheep, and then more kine, and so on for more miles. For this was the season for shifting herds to their winter quarters, and voiding the upland farms. A good seven miles above the dale homestead Sir Agio- vale came past the moorland farm. Voices from within the yard reached him: a man said, remonstrant, "Now, Laykin, Laykin!" and a girl cried, "Uncle, uncle!" imploring. Then at the open gateway he had sight of two men, two women, and a young maid, whose hand was on the neck of a dun heifer. She was praying for its life. Came answer: "But, Laykin, the poor beast is past mending." She did but plead the faster. Sir Aglovale paused for a second look, and knew it must be in vain. The maiden was a wonder in that rude place. She was, maybe, but fifteen, but tall and full-breasted as a woman; her head was finely set, her hair very beautiful, fair and abundant; colour, skin, grace, and mien all marked her from the homely churls about her. Before Sir Aglovale moved on, one spoke behind him. "Serve you, sir?" He beheld two men, who stood and fronted him respectfully. By their square build and their honest, bearded faces he knew them for two who had pa**ed him leading the bull. Though that was miles further back, here they were now at his heels. Then those within the yard were aware of him, and the men there came forward promptly and stood at the gateway, while the two women went and spoke to the maiden, and drew up her hood over her hair. She looked up once, her eyes brimful of distress, and then bent fondling to the dun heifer. The men saluted meetly and waited with deference to know his pleasure, but it was plain enough they were sturdy and wary keepers, who were very suspicious. And for cause: she was a pa**ing fair maid! Sir Aglovale put them from doubt lightly, asking his line across the moor. "Sir," said one, readily, "I will set you in the way. Be you pleased to follow." He led at a round pace, and before long bettered it and ran; for, said he, brisk going was needful were that moor to be pa**ed before nightfall. From high ground he pointed the way: so far till you came past a hut on the right by seven springs; and so on by the water-run. "My father you may meet yonder. He is out with lads after hares. Sir, should mists come on, better bid one of them to be your guide." The honest churl turned home again, but Sir Aglovale was well aware he would be watching with a jealous eye to see the way he took. And, truly, she was a pa**ing fair maid. In his mind he looked again upon that scene, for a picture of woe it was that was in a manner pleasing: maid and beast, fellow-creatures in distress; she weeping, cheek and hands against the sleek hide; the dumb beast with large gentle eyes, muzzling to her and moaning for its hurt. And there was no remedy but slaughter. But she: "No, no, good uncle. Oh, cruel! Gramfer could mend this; I know he could. Ask Gramfer!" Her speech was pure and clear, not like theirs. Her dress was finer stuff, fresher, trimmer, though it was but a simple bodice and kirtle of woad blue linen, and a cloak and hood of grey frieze. The clasp was silver; her shoes, laced high, were of dressed leather. Those uncles cherished her well, though with simple cunning that was rather foolishness. Surely some strain of noble blood had been grafted upon churl stock. She pa**ed out of mind. Two nimble lads went by with white-bellied hares slung upon staves; and in due course Sir Aglovale came by the hut, where a hale old man, gnarled and weather-beaten, stood by the door with a couple of fair grey hounds; and he pointed the way afresh. Sir Aglovale looked at the hounds attentively, and praised them. "Aye, rare hounds they be. Sure, sir, you never saw the like." "Not so sure, good-man. I have hounds of that breed, and so had my father before me." The old man looked hard into the distance. "Ah," he said, "there be dog-stealers! One I know was a knight, saving your presence." Said Sir Aglovale, "You I wot have bred rarely, an all so many sturdy drovers of a like make be sons of yours, and namely an a maid I have seen be your grandchild." The old man co*ked an eye at him and pursed up his mouth. Then, with sudden force, he said, "No, that she is not! For there be ravishers. One I know was a knight, saving your presence." "So, so!" said Sir Aglovale. "Some sons of yours were, forsooth, pa**ing saving of my presence!" Said the old man then: "Well, well, the best and truest man I know is a knight; and I say it who have twelve sons of my own as good and true as they can stand." Then he brisked, and said: "Sir, you had best be stirring, for I smell mist. I had thought to night it out here, and course at dawn; but my bones can't abide mist, so I go for home." He chirruped his hounds and went. He said sooth. Before long the mists came down and hid the moor, and Sir Aglovale rode through a white blind. The whiteness grew grey and then black, and the damp struck very chill with the night. He went afoot to warm his blood, and tramped hour after hour till the blackness turned to grey and to white again, and he guessed that the moon was up. So weary was he that any hollow would have been shelter good enough for him, but on the bare upland there was none. Again he mounted, for he found he was treading an uncertain track, and could trust his horse to follow it better than himself. And so at last his wise beast stopped beside a dark shade of mist; and lighting down he felt walls and a door, knocked and had no answer, broke open the door and entered. And then he was well-nigh sure he had traversed a great round, and was come again to the hut he had pa**ed. He felt all about: the place was bare; charred turf was on the hearth, but not a spark; a standing crib by the wall was bedded with heather, bunched upright, springy and fragrant, and a sheepskin hung on a nail. So he was thankful, set his spear by the door, led in his horse, unsaddled and took off the beast's harness, then his own, lay down and slept. He woke again at a sound: one beat at the door and shook it. Came a voice: "Gramfer, Gramfer, oh let me in! let me in, or I shall die!" With that the door gave in. Cried Aglovale: "Who comes?" But he knew by the pure clear tone it was Laykin, the fair maid. At his voice she caught her breath with a gasp of terror, and before he could reach the door she was off scurry-footed into the night. Out he strode and stood to listen. A half-uttered cry reached him, and the souse of a body into water; and lightly he went forward, and found her lying in the water-run, stunned or swooning. He lifted her and carried her up to the hut. She was drenched with mist and stream, and very cold. As quickly as he could in the dark he loosed and stripped off her wet clothing, cloak and hood, bodice, kirtle, and smock, and laid her naked in the warmed crib, and the warmed fleece over her. He took off his own coat, leather, well lined and wadded, and added that for her comfort. He broke the shoe-thongs, unshod ice-cold feet, and sat down to chafe them strongly with his hands. Then he thought heavily, for he knew quite well how maidens take their terrors, and he doubted how to deal, and he dreaded the trial. She moaned a little as she came to herself. Poor maid! her terrors took her hard. A strange man held her by the feet; a beast was snuffing and shifting close; she breathed a heavy aroma horse, peat, heather, and the man's leather coat blent their odours. And she lay stripped: even in the dark the sense of nakedness was sharp and bitter. Suddenly she tried to pluck away her feet, but they were held fast, and at that she uttered a woeful sound, weak and pitiful, as the cry of a trapped rabbit, and fell to shuddering. "Peace, peace," said Aglovale, "you shall have no harm." He laid her feet between his knees, and chafed on steadily from knee to ankle as he would soothe a frightened horse. She whispered prayers while her teeth chattered. "Mother Mary, pity! Ah, dear God, pity! Look down and save me." Aglovale said, "Amen." She moaned, "Let me go! let me go!" and writhed and beat vainly, and sank again, shuddering. Said Aglovale: "Fair maid, I think you to be Laykin of the farm?" "Yes," she said faintly. "But who are you?" Now Aglovale had no mind to tell her his name, for it might happen to sound little a**urance to a maid. "I am a knight of Galis," he said, "and I serve God and King Arthur as truly as I can." It was pitiful then to hear her entreat him by his knighthood to do her no wrong. "Marry! fair Laykin, but hold your peace and lie still. I promise you by my knighthood, so help me God! to take you home to-morn good a maid as your mother bore you." "Ah! sir, why do you hold my feet and force me against my will? Why have you taken my clothes and put me to shame?" She broke into tears and sobbed in terror and distress. Aglovale put down her feet and stood up, grieved and troubled; for a many foul wrong on his conscience told him he deserved her mistrust, and as he was a sinful man he remembered pleasures. Would to God he did not! He took up her wet clothes, opened the door, and, standing outside, wrung them out one by one; and he put them to drain, some on a nail, and some he laid over the door's edge. Dry fleece brushed him. He caught at it, and as she slid past and left it in his hand he caught her by the hair. She cried out for pain, for his handling was not gentle then; he gripped her fast and swung her from her feet; her lithe body was hard to hold, and she strove with him. He set to the door and bore her back to the crib. "For God's sake, maiden," he said fiercely, "spare me as you would be spared. You will make me my truth overhard to keep." She dropped still and inert as he put her down on the heather, for she had swooned again. Thick moisture was on his hand; he tasted and found it was blood. Then Aglovale knew not what to do. As he caught her by the door, short he trowed that he must go out into the night and leave her to shake alone. His clothes he could leave her, and his horse, whose great furnace of a body shed warmth. The short close had stirred him; there was very danger he knew. But she was bleeding, swooning, a forlorn and frightened child, and he deemed it would be unworthy to avoid and leave her out of dread. He kneeled down and prayed hard till she stirred. "Poor maid, you are hurt?" "My head, my head," she moaned. "No, no, never touch me. It is nothing, but it hurts. Oh, my head!" She was weeping and shaking like ague with cold and fear just as before. "Laykin, child, listen! I have prayed and promised to use you as I would, put case I had a daughter here in this plight. God has set us here doubtless for our good. Pray you to mighty God for me that I father you well in thought and deed." She lay quiet, weeping softly. "Oh, my father! oh, my own father!" "Child," said Aglovale, "my body is warm and yours is very cold. Cover in and lie close to me and get warmth." He lay down by her side. The touch of him blotted out every word he had used. She was up again, desperate in her terrors. "This shall end!" said Aglovale. "There is but one remedy. God can keep me my will true though the Devil burn my body." He drew her down, roughly covered her, and held her helpless from head to foot with more force than enough. She shrieked only once; she made but one frenzied effort, then she lay panting, lax and spent. The man against her lay as quiet as in sleep. So they rested together awhile without stir or speech. Came a sigh from Laykin, and she quavered meek, "Sir, you are so heavy." Aglovale shifted a little, happed her about well with coat and fleece, and said gently, with a broken voice, "Praise God and go to sleep. We are safe enough." He felt her grow warm by degrees, her breathing became soft and regular, and at last she slept like a child in his arms. Half asleep she turned and nestled against him. Aglovale in his heart laughed for joy. He felt no trouble at all. He had lain down with her ready to endure a night of fires, and, lo! peace and exultation came. All night he lay awake and enjoyed sinless, soft and warm and fragrant, though she lay against him. With the creep of dawn he too slept.