VI
In autumn, when the wind and seaRejoice to live and laugh to be,And scarce the blast that curbs the treeAnd bids before it quail and fleeThe fiery foliage, where its brandIs radiant as the seal of spring,Sounds less delight, and waves a wingLess lustrous, life’s loud thanksgivingPuts life in sea and land.
High hope in Balen’s heart alightLaughed, as from all that clamorous fightHe passed and sought not Arthur’s sight,Who fain had found his kingliest knightAnd made amend for Balen’s wrong.But Merlin gave his soul to seeFate, rising as a shoreward sea,And all the sorrow that should beEre hope or fear thought long.
“O where are they whose hands upboreMy battle,” Arthur said, “beforeThe wild Welsh host’s wide rage and roar?Balen and Balan, Pellinore,Where are they?” Merlin answered him:“Balen shall be not long awayFrom sight of you, but night nor dayShall bring his brother back to sayIf life burn bright or dim.”
“Now, by my faith,” said Arthur then,“Two marvellous knights are they, whose kenToward battle makes the twain as ten,And Balen most of all born menPasseth of prowess all I knowOr ever found or sought to see:Would God he would abide with me,To face the times foretold of theeAnd all the latter woe.”
For there had Merlin shown the kingThe doom that songs unborn should sing,The gifts that time should rise and bringOf blithe and bitter days to springAs weeds and flowers against the sun.And on the king for fear’s sake fellSickness, and sorrow deep as hell,Nor even might sleep bid fear farewellIf grace to sleep were won.
Down in a meadow green and stillHe bade the folk that wrought his willPitch his pavilion, where the chillSoft night would let not rest fulfilHis heart wherein dark fears lay deep.And sharp against his hearing castCame a sound as of horsehoofs fastPassing, that ere their sound were pastAroused him as from sleep.
And forth he looked along the grassAnd saw before his portal passA knight that wailed aloud, “AlasThat life should find this dolorous passAnd find no shield from doom and dole!”And hearing all his moan, “Abide,Fair sir,” the king arose and cried,“And say what sorrow bids you rideSo sorrowful of soul.”
“My hurt may no man heal, God wot,And help of man may speed me not,”The sad knight said, “nor change my lot.”And toward the castle of MelyotWhose towers arose a league awayHe passed forth sorrowing: and anon,Ere well the woful sight were gone,Came Balen down the meads that shone,Strong, bright, and brave as day.
And seeing the king there stand, the knightDrew rein before his face to alightIn reverence made for love’s sake brightWith joy that set his face alightAs theirs who see, alive, above,The sovereign of their souls, whose nameTo them is even as love’s own flameTo enkindle hope that heeds not fameAnd knows no lord but love.
And Arthur smiled on him, and said,“Right welcome be thou: by my head,I would not wish me better sped.For even but now there came and fledBefore me like a cloud that fliesA knight that made most heavy cheer,I know not wherefore; nor may fearOr pity give my heart to hearOr lighten on mine eyes.
“But even for fear’s and pity’s sakeFain were I thou shouldst overtakeAnd fetch again this knight that spakeNo word of answering grace to makeReply to mine that hailed him: thou,By force or by goodwill, shalt bringHis face before me.” “Yea, my king,”Quoth Balen, “and a greater thingWere less than is my vow.
“I would the task required and heardWere heavier than your sovereign wordHath laid on me:” and thence he spurredElate at heart as youth, and stirredWith hope as blithe as fires a boy:And many a mile he rode, and foundFar in a forest’s glimmering boundThe man he sought afar aroundAnd seeing took fire for joy.
And with him went a maiden, fairAs flowers aflush with April air.And Balen bade him turn him thereTo tell the king what woes they wereThat bowed him down so sore: and heMade woeful answer: “This should doGreat scathe to me, with nought for youOf help that hope might hearken toFor boot that may not be.”
And Balen answered: “I were lothTo fight as one perforce made wrothWith one that owes by knighthood’s oathOne love, one service, and one trothWith me to him whose gracious handHolds fast the helm of knighthood hereWhereby man’s hope and heart may steer:I pray you let not sorrow or fearAgainst his bidding stand.”
The strange knight gazed on him, and spake:“Will you, for Arthur’s royal sake,Be warrant for me that I takeNo scathe from strife that man may make?Then will I go with you.” And heMade joyous answer: “Yea, for IWill be your warrant or will die.”And thence they rode with hearts as highAs men’s that search the sea.
And as by noon’s large light the twainBefore the tented hall drew rein,Suddenly fell the strange knight, slainBy one that came and went againAnd none might see him; but his spearClove through the body, swift as fire,The man whose doom, forefelt as dire,Had darkened all his life’s desire,As one that death held dear.
And dying he turned his face and said,“Lo now thy warrant that my headShould fall not, following forth where ledA knight whose pledge hath left me dead.This darkling manslayer hath to nameGarlon: take thou my goodlier steed,Seeing thine is less of strength and speed,And ride, if thou be knight indeed,Even thither whence we came.
“And as the maiden’s fair behestShall bid you follow on my quest,Follow: and when God’s will sees best,Revenge my death, and let me restAs one that lived and died a knight,Unstained of shame alive or dead.”And Balen, wrung with sorrow, said,“That shall I do: my hand and headI pledge to do you right.”
And thence with sorrowing heart and cheerHe rode, in grief that cast out fearLest death in darkness yet were near,And bore the truncheon of the spearWherewith the woful knight lay slainTo her with whom he rode, and sheStill bare it with her, fain to seeWhat righteous doom of God’s might beThe darkling manslayer’s bane.
And down a dim deep woodland wayThey rode between the boughs aswayWith flickering winds whose flash and playMade sunlight sunnier where the dayLaughed, leapt, and fluttered like a birdCaught in a light loose leafy netThat earth for amorous heaven had setTo hold and see the sundawn yetAnd hear what morning heard.
There in the sweet soft shifting lightAcross their passage rode a knightFlushed hot from hunting as from fight,And seeing the sorrow-stricken sightMade question of them why they rodeAs mourners sick at heart and sad,When all alive about them badeSweet earth for heaven’s sweet sake be gladAs heaven for earth’s love glowed.
“Me lists not tell you,” Balen said.The strange knight’s face grew keen and red“Now, might my hand but keep my head,Even here should one of twain lie deadWere he no better armed than I.”And Balen spake with smiling speed,Where scorn and courtesy kept heedOf either: “That should little need:Not here shall either die.”
And all the cause he told him throughAs one that feared not though he knewAll: and the strange knight spake anew,Saying: “I will part no more from youWhile life shall last me.” So they wentWhere he might arm himself to ride,And rode across wild ways and wideTo where against a churchyard sideA hermit’s harbour leant.
And there against them riding cameFleet as the lightning’s laugh and flameThe invisible evil, even the sameThey sought and might not curse by nameAs hell’s foul child on earth set free,And smote the strange knight through, and fled,And left the mourners by the dead.“Alas, again,” Sir Balen said,“This wrong he hath done to me.”
And there they laid their dead to sleepRoyally, lying where wild winds keepKeen watch and wail more soft and deepThan where men’s choirs bid music weepAnd song like incense heave and swell.And forth again they rode, and foundBefore them, dire in sight and sound,A castle girt about and boundWith sorrow like a spell.
Above it seemed the sun at noonSad as a wintry withering moonThat shudders while the waste wind’s tuneCraves ever none may guess what boon,But all may know the boon for dire.And evening on its darkness fellMore dark than very death’s farewell,And night about it hung like hell,Whose fume the dawn made fire.
And Balen lighted down and passedWithin the gateway, whence no blastRang as the sheer portcullis, castSuddenly down, fell, and made fastThe gate behind him, whence he spiedA sudden rage of men withoutAnd ravin of a murderous routThat girt the maiden hard aboutWith death on either side.
And seeing that shame and peril, fearBade wrath and grief awake and hearWhat shame should say in fame’s wide earIf she, by sorrow sealed more dearThan joy might make her, so should die:And up the tower’s curled stair he sprangAs one that flies death’s deadliest fang,And leapt right out amid their gangAs fire from heaven on high.
And they thereunder seeing the knightUnhurt among their press alightAnd bare his sword for chance of fightStood from him, loth to strive or smite,And bade him hear their woful word,That not the maiden’s death they sought;But there through years too dire for thoughtHad lain their lady stricken, and noughtMight heal her: and he heard.
For there a maiden clean and wholeIn virgin body and virgin soul,Whose name was writ on royal roll,That would but stain a silver bowlWith offering of her stainless blood,Therewith might heal her: so they stayedFor hope’s sad sake each blameless maidThere journeying in that dolorous shadeWhose bloom was bright in bud.
No hurt nor harm to her it wereIf she should yield a sister thereSome tribute of her blood, and fareForth with this joy at heart to bear,That all unhurt and unafraidThis grace she had here by God’s grace wrought.And kindling all with kindly thoughtAnd love that saw save love’s self nought,Shone, smiled, and spake the maid.
“Good knight of mine, good will have ITo help this healing though I die.”“Nay,” Balen said, “but love may tryWhat help in living love may lie.—I will not lose the life of herWhile my life lasteth.” So she gaveThe tribute love was fain to crave,But might not heal though fain to save,Were God’s grace helpfuller.
Another maid in later MaysWon with her life that woful praise,And died. But they, when surging day’sDeep tide fulfilled the dawn’s wide ways,Rode forth, and found by day or nightNo chance to cross their wayfaringTill when they saw the fourth day springA knight’s hall gave them harbouringRich as a king’s house might.
And while they sat at meat and spakeWords bright and kind as grace might makeSweet for true knighthood’s kindly sake,They heard a cry beside them breakThe still-souled joy of blameless rest.“What noise is this?” quoth Balen. “Nay,”His knightly host made answer, “mayOur grief not grieve you though I sayHow here I dwell unblest.
“Not many a day has lived and diedSince at a tournay late I triedMy strength to smite and turn and rideAgainst a knight of kinglike pride,King Pellam’s brother: twice I smoteThe splendour of his strength to dust:And he, fulfilled of hate’s fierce lust,Swore vengeance, pledged for hell to trust,And keen as hell’s wide throat.
“Invisible as the spirit of nightThat heaven and earth in depth and heightMay see not by the mild moon’s lightNor even when stars would grant them sight,He walks and slays as plague’s blind breathSlays: and my son, whose anguish hereMakes moan perforce that mars our cheer,He wounded, even ere love might fearThat hate were strong as death.
“Nor may my son be whole till heWhose stroke through him hath stricken meShall give again his blood to beOur healing: yet may no man seeThis felon, clothed with darkness roundAnd keen as lightning’s life.” ThereonSpake Balen, and his presence shoneEven as the sun’s when stars are goneThat hear dawn’s trumpet sound.
“That knight I know: two knights of mine,Two comrades, sealed by faith’s bright sign,Whose eyes as ours that live should shine,And drink the golden sunlight’s wineWith joy’s thanksgiving that they live,He hath slain in even the same blind wise:Were all wide wealth beneath the skiesMine, might I meet him, eyes on eyes,All would I laugh to give.”
His host made answer, and his gazeGrew bright with trust as dawn’s moist mazeWith fire: “Within these twenty days,King Pellam, lord of Lystenayse,Holds feast through all this country cried,And there before the knightly kingMay no knight come except he bringFor witness of his wayfaringHis paramour or bride.
“And there that day, so soon to shine,This knight, your felon foe and mine,Shall show, full-flushed with bloodred wine,The fierce false face whereon we pineTo wreak the wrong he hath wrought us, bareAs shame should see and brand it.” “Then,”Said Balen, “shall he give againHis blood to heal your son, and menShall see death blind him there.”
“Forth will we fare to-morrow,” saidHis host: and forth, as sunrise led,They rode; and fifteen days were fledEre toward their goal their steeds had sped.And there alighting might they findFor Balen’s host no place to rest,Who came without a gentler guestBeside him: and that household’s hestBade leave his sword behind.
“Nay,” Balen said, “that do I not:My country’s custom stands, God wot,That none whose lot is knighthood’s lot,To ride where chance as fire is hotWith hope or promise given of fight,Shall fail to keep, for knighthood’s part,His weapon with him as his heart;And as I came will I depart,Or hold herein my right.”
Then gat he leave to wear his swordBeside the strange king’s festal boardWhere feasted many a knight and lordIn seemliness of fair accord:And Balen asked of one beside,“Is there not in this court, if fameKeep faith, a knight that hath to nameGarlon?” and saying that word of shame,He scanned that place of pride.
“Yonder he goeth against the light,He with the face as swart as night,”Quoth the other: “but he rides to fightHid round by charms from all men’s sight,And many a noble knight he hath slain,Being wrapt in darkness deep as hellAnd silence dark as shame.” “Ah, well,”Said Balen, “is that he? the spellMay be the sorcerer’s bane.”
Then Balen gazed upon him long,And thought, “If here I wreak my wrong,Alive I may not scape, so strongThe felon’s friends about him throng;And if I leave him here alive,This chance perchance may life not giveAgain: much evil, if he live,He needs must do, should fear forgiveWhen wrongs bid strike and strive.”
And Garlon, seeing how Balen’s eyeDwelt on him as his heart waxed highWith joy in wrath to see him nigh,Rose wolf-like with a wolfish cryAnd crossed and smote him on the face,Saying, “Knight, what wouldst thou with me? Eat,For shame, and gaze not: eat thy meatDo that thou art come for: stands thy seatNext ours of royal race?”
“Well hast thou said: thy rede rings true;That which I came for will I do,”Quoth Balen: forth his fleet sword flew,And clove the head of Garlon throughClean to the shoulders. Then he criedLoud to his lady, “Give me hereThe truncheon of the shameful spearWherewith he slew your knight, when fearBade hate in darkness ride.”
And gladly, bright with grief made glad,She gave the truncheon as he bade,For still she bare it with her, sadAnd strong in hopeless hope she had,Through all dark days of thwarting fear,To see if doom should fall arightAnd as God’s fire-fraught thunder smiteThat head, clothed round with hell-faced night,Bare now before her here.
And Balen smote therewith the deadDark felon’s body through, and saidAloud, “With even this truncheon, redWith baser blood than brave men bledWhom in thy shameful hand it slew,Thou hast slain a nobler knight, and nowIt clings and cleaves thy body: thouShall cleave again no brave man’s brow,Though hell would aid anew.”
And toward his host he turned and spake;“Now for your son’s long-suffering sakeBlood ye may fetch enough, and takeWherewith to heal his hurt, and makeDeath warm as life.” Then rose a cryLoud as the wind’s when stormy springMakes all the woodland rage and ring:“Thou hast slain my brother,” said the king,“And here with him shalt die.”
“Ay?” Balen laughed him answer. “Well,Do it then thyself.” And the answer fellFierce as a blast of hate from hell,“No man of mine that with me dwellShall strike at thee but I their lordFor love of this my brother slain.”And Pellam caught and grasped amainA grim great weapon, fierce and fainTo feed his hungering sword.
And eagerly he smote, and spedNot well: for Balen’s blade, yet redWith lifeblood of the murderous dead,Between the swordstroke and his headShone, and the strength of the eager strokeShore it in sunder: then the knight,Naked and weaponless for fight,Ran seeking him a sword to smiteAs hope within him woke.
And so their flight for deathward fastFrom chamber forth to chamber passedWhere lay no weapon, till the lastWhose doors made way for Balen castUpon him as a sudden spellWonder that even as lightning leaptAcross his heart and eyes, and sweptAs storm across his soul that keptWild watch, and watched not well.
For there the deed he did, being nearDeath’s danger, breathless as the deerDriven hard to bay, but void of fear,Brought sorrow down for many a yearOn many a man in many a land.All glorious shone that chamber, brightAs burns at sunrise heaven’s own height:With cloth of gold the bed was dight,That flamed on either hand.
And one he saw within it lie:A table of all clear gold therebyStood stately, fair as morning’s eye,With four strong silver pillars, highAnd firm as faith and hope may be:And on it shone the gift he sought,A spear most marvellously wrought,That when his eye and handgrip caughtSmall fear at heart had he.
Right on King Pellam then, as fireTurns when the thwarting winds wax higher,He turned, and smote him down. So direThe stroke was, when his heart’s desireStruck, and had all its fill of hate,That as the king fell swooning downFell the walls, rent from base to crown,Prone as prone seas that break and drownShips fraught with doom for freight.
And there for three days’ silent spaceBalen and Pellam face to faceLay dead or deathlike, and the placeWas death’s blind kingdom, till the graceThat God had given the sacred seerFor counsel or for comfort ledHis Merlin thither, and he said,Standing between the quick and dead,“Rise up, and rest not here.”
And Balen rose and set his eyesAgainst the seer’s as one that triesHis heart against the sea’s and sky’sAnd fears not if he lives or dies,Saying, “I would have my damosel,Ere I fare forth, to fare with me.”And sadly Merlin answered, “SeeWhere now she lies; death knows if sheShall now fare ill or well.
“And in this world we meet no more,Balen.” And Balen, sorrowing sore,Though fearless yet the heart he boreBeat toward the life that lay before,Rode forth through many a wild waste landWhere men cried out against him, madWith grievous faith in fear that badeTheir wrath make moan for doubt they hadLest hell had armed his hand.
For in that chamber’s wondrous shrineWas part of Christ’s own blood, the wineShed of the true triumphal vineWhose growth bids earth’s deep darkness shineAs heaven’s deep light through the air and sea;That mystery toward our northern shoreArimathean Joseph boreFor healing of our sins of yore,That grace even there might be.
And with that spear there shrined apartWas Christ’s side smitten to the heart.And fiercer than the lightning’s dartThe stroke was, and the deathlike smartWherewith, nigh drained of blood and breath,The king lay stricken as one long dead:And Joseph’s was the blood there shed,For near akin was he that bled,Near even as life to death.
And therefore fell on all that landSorrow: for still on either hand,As Balen rode alone and scannedBright fields and cities built to standTill time should break them, dead men lay;And loud and long from all their folkLiving, one cry that cursed him broke;Three countries had his dolorous strokeSlain, or should surely slay.