The Romance Of Britomarte

As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration.     Ill tell you a story; but pass the jack,     And let us make merry to-night, my men.     Aye, those were the days when my beard was black,     I like to remember them now and then,     Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there,     On his lip was never a sign of down;     But I carry about some braided hair,     That has not yet changed from the glossy brown     That it showed the day when I broke the heart     Of that bravest of destriers, Britomarte.     Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace!)     In the fray that was neither lost nor won     At Edgehill, then to St. Huberts Chase     Lord Goring despatched a garrison,     But men and horses were ill to spare,     And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast.     As for me, I never was quartered there     Till Marston Moor had been lost; at last,     As luck would have it, alone, and late     In the night, I rode to the northern gate.     I thought, as I passed through the moonlit park,     On the boyish days I used to spend     In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark,     Thought on his lady, my fathers friend     (Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar,     But with that my story has naught to do),     She died the winter before the war,     Died giving birth to the baby Hugh.     He passd ere the green leaves clothed the bough,     And the orphan girl was the heiress now.     When I was a rude and a reckless boy,     And she a brave and a beautiful child,     I was her page, her playmate, her toy,     I have crownd her hair with the field-flowers wild,     Cowslip and crow-foot and colts-foot bright,     I have carried her miles when the woods were wet,     I have read her romances of dame and knight;     She was my princess, my pride, my pet,     There was then this proverb us twain between,     For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.     She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair,     But for years I had scarcely seen her face.     Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare,     Old Miles kept guard at St. Huberts Chase,     And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth,     Sir Hughs half-sister, an ancient dame,     But a mettlesome soul had she forsooth,     As she showd when the time of her trial came.     I bore despatches to Miles and to her,     To warn them against the bands of Kerr.     And mine would have been a perilous ride     With the rebel horsemen, we knew not where     They were scattered over that country side,     If it had not been for my brave brown mare.     She was iron-sinewd and satin-skinnd,     Ribbd like a drum and limbd like a deer,     Fierce as the fire and fleet as the wind,     There was nothing she couldnt climb or clear,     Rich lords had vexd me, in vain, to part,     For their gold and silver, with Britomarte.     Next morn we musterd scarce half a score,     With the serving men, who were poorly armd,     Five soldiers, counting myself, no more,     And a culverin, which might well have harmd     Us, had we used it, but not our foes,     When, with horses and foot, to our doors they came,     And a psalm-singer summond us (through his nose),     And deliverd, This, in the peoples name,     Unto whoso holdeth this fortress here,     Surrender! or bide the siege, John Kerr.     Twas a mansion built in a style too new,     A castle by courtesy, he lied     Who called it a fortress, yet, Tis true,     It had been indifferently fortified,     We were well provided with bolt and bar,     And while I hurried to place our men,     Old Miles was calld to a council of war     With Mistress Ruth and with her, and when     They had argued loudly and long, those three,     They sent, as a last resource, for me.     In the chair of state sat erect Dame Ruth;     She had cast aside her embroidery;     She had been a beauty, they say, in her youth,     There was much fierce fire in her bold black eye.     Am I deceived in you both? quoth she.     If one spark of her fathers spirit lives     In this girl here, so, this Leigh, Ralph Leigh,     Let us hear what counsel the springald gives.     Then I stammerd, somewhat taken aback,     (Simon, you ale-swiller, pass the jack).     The dame waxd hotter, Speak out, lad, say,     Must we fall in that canting caitiffs power?     Shall we yield to a knave and a turncoat? Nay,     I had liever leap from our topmost tower.     For a while we can surely await relief;     Our walls are high and our doors are strong.     This Kerr was indeed a canting thief,     I know not rightly, some private wrong     He had done Sir Hugh, but I know this much,     Traitor or turncoat, he sufferd as such.     Quoth Miles, Enough! your will shall be done;     Relief may arrive by the merest chance,     But your house ere dusk will be lost and won;     They have got three pieces of ordnance.     Then I cried, Lord Guy, with four troops of horse,     Even now is biding at Westbrooke town;     If a rider could break through the rebel force,     He would bring relief ere the sun goes down;     Through the postern door could I make one dart,     I could baffle them all upon Britomarte.     Miles mutterd Madness! Dame Ruth lookd grave,     Said, True, though we cannot keep one hour     The courtyard, no, nor the stables save,     They will have to batter piecemeal the tower,     And thus - But suddenly she halted there.     With a shining hand on my shoulder laid     Stood Gwendoline. She had left her chair,     And, Nay, if it needs must be done, she said,     Ralph Leigh will gladly do it, I ween,     For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.     I had undertaken a heavier task     For a lighter word. I saddled with care,     Nor cumberd myself with corselet nor casque     (Being loth to burden the brave brown mare).     Young Clare kept watch on the wall, he cried,     Now, haste, Ralph! this is the time to seize;     The rebels are round us on every side,     But here they straggle by twos and threes.     Then out I led her, and up I sprung,     And the postern door on its hinges swung.     I had drawn this sword, you may draw it and feel,     For this is the blade that I bore that day,     Theres a notch even now on the long grey steel,     A nick that has never been raspd away.     I bowd my head and I buried my spurs,     One bound brought the gliding green beneath;     I could tell by her back-flung, flattend ears,     She had fairly taken the bit in her teeth,     (What, Jack, have you draind your namesake dry,     Left nothing to quench the thirst of a fly?)     These things are done, and are done with, lad,     In far less time than your talker tells;     The sward with their hoof-strokes shook like mad,     And rang with their carbines and petronels;     And they shouted, Cross him and cut him off,     Surround him, Seize him, Capture the clown,     Or kill him, Shall he escape to scoff     In your faces? Shoot him or cut him down.     And their bullets whistled on every side;     Many were near us and more were wide.     Not a bullet told upon Britomarte;     Suddenly snorting, she launched along;     So the osprey dives where the seagulls dart,     So the falcon swoops where the kestrels throng.     And full in my front one pistol flashd,     And right in my path their sergeant got.     How are jack-boots jarrd, how are stirrups clashd,     While the mare like a meteor past him shot;     But I clove his skull with a backstroke clean,     For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.     And as one whom the fierce wind storms in the face,     With spikes of hail and with splinters of rain,     I, while we fled through St. Huberts Chase,     Bent till my cheek was amongst her mane.     To the north, full a league of the deer-park lay,     Smooth, springy turf, and she fairly flew,     And the sound of their hoof-strokes died away,     And their far shots faint in the distance grew.     Loudly I laughed, having won the start,     At the folly of following Britomarte.     They had posted a guard at the northern gate,     Some dozen of pikemen and musketeers.     To the tall park palings I turnd her straight;     She veerd in her flight as the swallow veers.     And some blew matches and some drew swords,     And one of them wildly hurld his pike,     But she cleard by inches the oaken boards,     And she carried me yards beyond the dyke;     Then gaily over the long green down     We gallopd, heading for Westbrooke town.     The green down slopes to the great grey moor,     The grey moor sinks to the gleaming Skelt,     Sudden and sullen, and swift and sure,     The whirling water was round my belt.     She breasted the bank with a savage snort,     And a backward glance of her bloodshot eye,     And Our Lady of Andovers flashd like thought,     And flitted St. Agathas nunnery,     And the firs at The Ferngrove fled on the right,     And Falconers Tower on the left took flight.     And over The Ravenswold we raced,     We rounded the hill by The Hermits Well,     We burst on the Westbrooke Bridge, What haste?     What errand? shouted the sentinel.     To Beelzebub with the Brewers knave!     Carolus Rex and he of the Rhine!     Galloping past him, I got and gave     In the gallop password and countersign,     All soakd with water and soild with mud,     With the sleeve of my jerkin half drenchd in blood.     Now, Heaven be praised that I found him there,     Lord Guy. He said, having heard my tale,     Leigh, let my own man look to your mare,     Rest and recruit with our wine and ale;     But first must our surgeon attend to you;     You are somewhat shrewdly stricken, no doubt.     Then he snatched a horn from the wall and blew,     Making Boot and Saddle ring sharply out.     Have I done good service this day? quoth I.     Then I will ride back in your troop, Lord Guy.     In the street I heard how the trumpets peald,     And I caught the gleam of a morion     From the window, then to the door I reeld;     I had lost more blood than I reckond upon;     He eyed me calmly with keen grey eyes,     Stern grey eyes of a steel-blue grey,     Said, The wilful man can never be wise,     Nathless, the wilful must have his way,     And he pourd from a flagon some fiery wine;     I draind it, and straightway strength was mine.     .         .         .         .         .     I was with them all the way on the brown,     Guy to the rescue! God and the king!     We were just in time, for the doors were down;     And didnt our sword-blades rasp and ring,     And didnt we hew and didnt we hack?     The sport scarce lasted minutes ten,     (Aye, those were the days when my beard was black;     I like to remember them now and then).     Though they fought like fiends, we were four to one,     And we captured those that refused to run.     We have not forgotten it, Cuthbert, boy!     That supper scene when the lamps were lit;     How the women (some of them) sobbd for joy,     How the soldiers drank the deeper for it;     How the dame did honours, and Gwendoline,     How grandly she glided into the hall,     How she stoopd with the grace of a girlish queen,     And kissd me gravely before them all;     And the stern Lord Guy, how gaily he laughd,     Till more of his cup was spilt than quaffd.     Brown Britomarte lay dead in her straw     Next morn, we buried her, brave old girl!     John Kerr, we tried him by martial law,     And we twisted some hemp for the traitrous churl;     And she, I met her alone, said she,     You have riskd your life, you have lost your mare,     And what can I give in return, Ralph Leigh?     I replied, One braid of that bright brown hair.     And with that she bowd her beautiful head,     You can take as much as you choose, she said.     And I took it, it may be, more than enough,     And I shore it rudely, close to the roots.     The wine or wounds may have made me rough,     And men at the bottom are merely brutes.     Three weeks I slept at St. Huberts Chase;     When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine,     I could scarce believe that the ghastly face     That the glass reflected was really mine.     I sought the hall, where a wedding had been,     The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline.     The romance of a grizzled old troopers life     May make you laugh in your sleeves: laugh out,     Lads; we have most of us seen some strife;     We have all of us had some sport, no doubt.     I have won some honour and gaind some gold,     Now that our king returns to his own;     If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold,     And if friends have faded and loves have flown,     Then the greater reason is ours to drink,     And the more we swallow the less we shall think.     At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain,     And Huntly sank from his wounds that week;     We left young Clare upon Worcester plain,     How the Ironside gashd his girlish cheek.     Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew,     Gay gallants, now that the war is done!     They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due),     We fought like fops, it was thus they won.     Holdsworth is living for aught I know,     At least he was living two years ago,     And Guy, Lord Guy, so stately and stern,     He is changed, I met him at Winchester;     He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn.     Gwendoline! why do you ask for her?     Died as her mother had died before,     Died giving birth to the baby Guy!     Did my voice shake? Then am I fool the more.     Sooner or later we all must die;     But, at least, let us live while we live to-night.     The days may be dark, but the lamps are bright.     For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan:     The sun, he is losing his splendour now,     He can never shine as of old he shone     On her glorious hair and glittering brow.     Ah! those days that were, when my beard was black,     Now I have only the nights that are.     What, landlord, ho! bring in haste burnt sack,     And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh.     You, Cuthbert! surely you know by heart     The story of her and of Britomarte.