MICHAEL YOST is a poet and essayist living in rural New Hampshire with his wife and children. His essays and poems have been published in places like Modern Age, First Things, The University Bookman, Dappled Things, The Brazen Head, and others. He substacks at The Weight of Form
The Red Knight of the Red Lands
“I say móre: the just man justices; / Keeps grace”
– G. M. Hopkins, As Kingfishers Catch Fire
Against the sky he saw the sycamore
The girl Lynet had screamed of in the night,
And red the dawn, and red the plain before.
Gareth’s heart quickened as he knew the sight;
For he had journeyed to avenge the dead,
And meet the Red Knight in his Lands of Red.
Old knights whose beards were traced with cunning grey
Hanged with their squires who still were counted boys
And nevermore would snivel, steal, or play,
Nor find in songs of honor short lived joys;
For he had found them, and they died in fear:
The Knight of Red who held the Crimson Spear.
Upon their armor shone the bleeding sun
As, like ripe fruit, they turned in driest wind;
For they had sought him and their prize had won,
Nor could they know how against him they had sinned.
For they had fought, and bled beneath his hands
And met the Red Knight in his own Red Lands.
The tree’s roots were black with relics of their blood
Who fought for Arthur and his royal name
And pled for mercy, kneeling in the mud,
Whom he had hanged to magnify their shame.
For in love’s madness, he had sworn a vow
Who hanged them there upon the leafless bough.
Then Gareth found, beside that tree, a horn
Of ivory, and blew one hard clear note
That broke the humming scarlet of the morn
And sounded deeply from the horn’s pale throat;
For glory drove him with its stern demands
To kill the Red Knight in his own Red Lands.
With groans of ancient wood and rusting steel,
The wide portcullis and the gate began
To open. No surrender, no appeal
Could save him from the sword and hand of man.
Beneath the shadow of his palisade,
The Red Knight rode, in armor all arrayed.
His roan destrier shook its crimson trap.
His shield was crimson, crimson was his helm.
His eyes were shot with red. Each plate and strap
Was crimson, for blood crimson was his realm.
He slew for love, his heart in passion’s chains;
The Red Knight, master of those wasted plains.
“Know, boy, that I have slain both dam and babe;
I have unbodied souls a thousand-fold,
And neither compass, map, nor astrolabe
Can chart my bosom. I am old and old.
It has been long since sleep has closed my eye.
I kill and kill; yet I can never die.”
“Christ mercy” uttered Gareth. Then he set
His spear. He gripped his shield and dug his spur
Into his horse’s flank. God saw him, yet
Their contest had but steel for arbiter.
So joined they in the morning on that plain;
The sun besmirching all in blood-red stain.
Their spears were shattered with a thunderclap,
So they dismounted, drawing each their blades
And striking fast at each and every gap.
Gareth sought vengeance for the hanged men’s shades
Who swung unseeing, knocking knee to knee
Upon the branches of the dying tree.
“Know this;” the Red Knight panted; “I shall grow
In strength until the noon; and then the power
Of seven courses through my frame; and know
That you will hang before that burning hour.”
“Then speak no further. Fight me to end.
Our wounds shall speak, and let our blades contend.”
They fought in sweat; each angry thrust and blow
Drew life’s own blood from each. The grass was wet
And steel rang out on steel, their eyes aglow
Beneath their visors. There they were well met.
Their swords grew hot with blows as fire-brands
As they did battle there in those Red Lands.
Time passed. They drew apart to catch their breath,
Each leaning on his sword, both weak with pain
And in the other’s eyes each saw his death.
They cried aloud; and crossed their blades again.
Three times they joined, three times they fell apart;
Their chests both pounding with a beating heart.
Gareth felt fire burn along his arm;
He dropped his sword and clutched his wounded limb.
The Red Knight pressed him; hot to work his harm;
And blow on vicious blow he dealt to him.
But Gareth would not fall, nor would he yield
And took the sword’s edge hard upon his shield.
Leaping, he reached and clutched again his battered sword
And gave again the strokes he had received.
His wrath was fire. Now his man was gored;
His edge fell fast, and as it fell, it cleaved.
He struck the Red Knight well about the head;
The red helm split. His foe lay like the dead.
Stooping to slay him, Gareth drew his dirk
Unlaced the helm, and pressed his throat, laid bare,
Swelling to catch at breath. The bloody work
Was nearly done. The Red Knight choked; “Christ: spare. . .
Please, spare me; for I can no longer fight.
I yield. . . I yield, myself, at last, to might.”
Then Gareth spoke: “No, murderer. In shame
You die, as you have killed those noble men
Who prayed for mercy in our Savior’s name
And hanged. Now pray. This blade shall say ‘Amen’”
“For love I swore. For war’s own sake I wrought
Evil on innocence. Pray, slay me not.”
“I will repent, and live to pray and fast,
And will to Arthur swear my loyalty.
And when this body meets its death, at last,
From fire my contrite heart shall set me free.”
“I spare. I spare. But much against my will.
Though it is noble to pay ill for ill;
Yet this waste land and others must revive,
And wrath and blood will only clear the weeds
But will not keep the crops and trees alive.
Justice demands your death. Yet mercy pleads;
And I give mercy. Strength must conquer strength;
But mercy lord it over wrath at length.”
MICHAEL YOST is a poet and essayist living in rural New Hampshire with his wife and children. His essays and poems have been published in places like Modern Age, First Things, The University Bookman, Dappled Things, The Brazen Head, and others. He substacks at The Weight of Form