The Haystack in the Floods

Had she come all the way for this,To part at last without a kiss?Yea, had she borne the dirt and rainThat her own eyes might see him slainBeside the haystack in the floods?

Along the dripping leafless woods,The stirrup touching either shoe,She rode astride as troopers do;With kirtle kilted to her knee,To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;And the wet dripp'd from every treeUpon her head and heavy hair,And on her eyelids broad and fair;The tears and rain ran down her face.By fits and starts they rode apace,And very often was his placeFar off from her; he had to rideAhead, to see what might betideWhen the roads cross'd; and sometimes, whenThere rose a murmuring from his men,Had to turn back with promises.Ah me! she had but little ease;And often for pure doubt and dreadShe sobb'd, made giddy in the headBy the swift riding; while, for cold,Her slender fingers scarce could holdThe wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,She felt the foot within her shoeAgainst the stirrup: all for this,To part at last without a kissBeside the haystack in the floods.

For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,They saw across the only wayThat Judas, Godmar, and the threeRed running lions dismallyGrinn'd from his pennon, under whichIn one straight line along the ditch,They counted thirty heads.

So then,While Robert turn'd round to his men,She saw at once the wretched end,And, stooping down, tried hard to rendHer coif the wrong way from her head,And hid her eyes; while Robert said:Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,At Poictiers where we made them runSo fast: why, sweet my love, good cheer,The Gascon frontier is so near,Nought after this.

But: O! she said,My God! my God! I have to treadThe long way back without you; thenThe court at Paris; those six men;The gratings of the Chatelet;The swift Seine on some rainy dayLike this, and people standing by,And laughing, while my weak hands tryTo recollect how strong men swim.All this, or else a life with him,For which I should be damned at last,Would God that this next hour were past!

He answer'd not, but cried his cry,St. George for Marny! cheerily;And laid his hand upon her rein.Alas! no man of all his trainGave back that cheery cry again;And, while for rage his thumb beat fastUpon his sword-hilt, some one castAbout his neck a kerchief long,And bound him.

Then they went alongTo Godmar; who said: Now, Jehane,Your lover's life is on the waneSo fast, that, if this very hourYou yield not as my paramour,He will not see the rain leave off:Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoffSir Robert, or I slay you now.

She laid her hand upon her brow,Then gazed upon the palm, as thoughShe thought her forehead bled, and: No!She said, and turn'd her head away,As there were nothing else to say,And everything were settled: redGrew Godmar's face from chin to head:Jehane, on yonder hill there standsMy castle, guarding well my lands;What hinders me from taking you,And doing that I list to doTo your fair wilful body, whileYour knight lies dead?

A wicked smileWrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,A long way out she thrust her chin:You know that I should strangle youWhile you were sleeping; or bite throughYour throat, by God's help: ah! she said,Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!For in such wise they hem me in,I cannot choose but sin and sin,Whatever happens: yet I thinkThey could not make me eat or drink,And so should I just reach my rest.Nay, if you do not my behest,O Jehane! though I love you well,Said Godmar, would I fail to tellAll that I know? Foul lies, she said.Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head,At Paris folks would deem them true!Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!Give us Jehane to burn or drown!Eh! gag me Robert! Sweet my friend,This were indeed a piteous endFor those long fingers, and long feet,And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;An end that few men would forgetThat saw it. So, an hour yet:Consider, Jehane, which to takeOf life or death!

So, scarce awake,Dismounting, did she leave that place,And totter some yards: with her faceTurn'd upward to the sky she lay,Her head on a wet heap of hay,And fell asleep: and while she slept,And did not dream, the minutes creptRound to the twelve again; but she,Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,And strangely childlike came, and said:I will not. Straightway Godmar's head,As though it hung on strong wires, turn'dMost sharply round, and his face burn'd.

For Robert, both his eyes were dry,He could not weep, but gloomilyHe seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,His lips were firm; he tried once moreTo touch her lips; she reached out, soreAnd vain desire so tortured them,The poor grey lips, and now the hemOf his sleeve brush'd them.

With a startUp Godmar rose, thrust them apart;From Robert's throat he loosed the bandsOf silk and mail; with empty handsHeld out, she stood and gazed, and saw,The long bright blade without a flawGlide out from Godmar's sheath, his handIn Robert's hair; she saw him bendBack Robert's head; she saw him sendThe thin steel down; the blow told well,Right backward the knight Robert fell,And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,Unwitting, as I deem: so thenGodmar turn'd grinning to his men,Who ran, some five or six, and beatHis head to pieces at their feet.

Then Godmar turn'd again and said:So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!Take note, my lady, that your wayLies backward to the Chatelet!She shook her head and gazed awhileAt her cold hands with a rueful smile,As though this thing had made her mad.

This was the parting that they hadBeside the haystack in the floods.