My lok was fixed upon oon single form,
The beauteous Lady Beatha, splendent stille.
Age hadde enhanced hire beautee, more dyvyne,
She personified al lovelinesse and grace.
Upon hire palfrey, she was radiaunce ryve,
A portreyt of superbe magnyficence.
In that on moment, love unbounded grewe,
An endeles tyde within myn herte and soule.
Swich was hire spelle, I scarse koude drawe breth,
My herte did pound as if to breste and burste.
In that swift stounde, I roode faste to hire,
Where hire proude palfrey stood among the men.
I lep from hors to grounde, and prostrate knelte,
Remoeved my cap, my salutaciouns poured,
Profuse and bountiful, from tremblynge lippes.
At that moment an odd aventure bifel,
A swart man, y-clad in monkes habite,
With hunting horn about his nekke slung,
Rood up to Lady Beatha. As he spak,
Her prive feloiship was ful y-knowe,
More than of right sholde been bitwixen hem,
A noble lady and a lowely monk.
Swiftly kast he hoode and scapuler,
To schewen muscles bulgyng, armes lyke tho
Of warriors, nat men of mylde avowe.
In turn, I doffed myn doublet, faced myn fo.
Cautelous, we gripped, with limes yentwyne,
As strif of strengthe and wyl began ful yore.
With Lady Beatha and hir courtly thrang
As witnesse to oure conflict, we wrastled there,
Firme lippes pressyd, oure muscles strak and taute.
We bette, we threshed, ayens oure fates we wroght,
And writhed, and tottered, spente oure strengthe yn tire.
Heore the geaunt monk yede with batel-ax,
In hope to make an ende of me with a strook.
But swiftly kaught I the blow with craft,
Upon the bak of myn eigene shyning ax.
No strook yelded I, but myn point prest,
Agenst the visere of myn mighte foon,
As thogh to percen the barres that warden his face.
This sotel yift hym to stumblen bak,
Til trestel met his forme and adoun he clatered,
With hall resounding from the clatter of steel.
He lay unmeven, wheither by choise or fate,
Beneathe myn ax, for-touched to sunder heved,
Yet poised, I held myn hand aboven the monk.
Thus parted d’Arcy from the other two,
And with the weeping maiden at his back,
Did gallop with directions eager given,
Towards the darkened tower that soon arose,
Forbidding in its awful magnitude,
And casting all about a dreadful dread,
A portent of the evil deep within.
Yet as Sir d’Arcy paced slow back and forth,
To wait within an outer vestibule,
The floor gave way beneath his displaced feet,
Precipitating him sharp down upon,
A straw strewn floor within a darkened pit,
And then it was, and only then became,
A recognition that he had been trapped,
Deceived and misled by the weeping maid,
To find himself an unknown prisoner.
Thus days merged into nights, as nights to days,
As did the time pass from these days to weeks,
And only broken by a time of day,
When through the opened grille a plate appeared,
Delivering such meagre sustenance,
That barely kept the Surgeon-Knight alive.
Yet curiosity was still his aim,
As peering through the tiny slitted grill,
His gaze fell on a shapely youthful girl,
A plump and rounded, fully buxomed lass,
Who was the steward’s daughter of the Tower.
So deadly was Sir d’Arcy’s pointed spear,
As Modred toppled from his shying horse,
To fall upon the deadly meadow’s swathe.
The instant next Sir d’Arcy reached his prey,
And jumping from his horse, his sword held high,
With such ferocity he’d never known,
Did with a blow strike off Sir Modred’s head,
To hold it forwards with its dripping blood,
To demonstrate in all its gory form,
The fate awaiting those who would attempt,
Dishonour of the queenly Guinevere.
Thus to the chapel did he make his way,
And there behind a screed confessed his sins,
And asked the priest forgiveness for his soul,
That he might once more find the righteous way,
To live a life of rectitude and grace.
He told of how an accidental fate,
Had found him in the arms of Guinevere,
And such had been the weakness of his soul,
That much against the conscience of his will,
He had succumbed to gratifying lust,
That afterwards had left him all bereft,
Though not exonerating his gross sin.
For as Peene’s eyes began, more clear,
To focus on the thief,
The transformation that he saw,
Was quite beyond belief.
As in the instant, there was now,
A fully featured man,
Who held a dagger in his hand.
With obvious deadly plan.
For as he raised the mortal blade,
To strike the Surgeon dead,
His terrifying voice was loud,
As final words he said -
“At last released into the World,
By your ill-timed demise,
MERLINUS is my valid name,,
And SORCERY my prize!”