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    Under King Constantine
    Under King Constantine
    Under King Constantine
    Ebook72 pages52 minutes

    Under King Constantine

    By Katrina Trask

    ()

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    About this ebook

    "Under King Constantine" is a collection of poems written in the Arthurian tradition by Katrina Trask. It's an excellent book for everyone interested in medieval times. The stories tell of King Arthur, his successor King Constantine and their environment. All the stories are about love and tragedy and share the romantic mood of the Arthurian era.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateDec 24, 2019
    ISBN4064066133665
    Under King Constantine

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      Book preview

      Under King Constantine - Katrina Trask

      Katrina Trask

      Under King Constantine

      Published by Good Press, 2022

      goodpress@okpublishing.info

      EAN 4064066133665

      Table of Contents

      SANPEUR.

      KATHANAL.

      CHRISTALAN.

      SANPEUR.

      Table of Contents

      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,

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