Under King Constantine

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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
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.