Only by the dim light of the stars could she see,
The slightest movement in the door as he turned the key,
For her eyesight had always been as keen as the falcon,
But now like the owl she sits this night so quiet and alone.
The wisest course of action is rarely the easiest to do,
To her King she must remain honest and true,
Yet the pressures of her heart tempt her off course,
As a boat on the river she drifts towards the source.
Her emerald green eyes catch the glimmer of the moon,
A pulse that is racing means she is likely to swoon,
She unwittingly fondles the golden cross round her neck,
A gift from her Champion bound to go down in this wreck.
For the stormy sea of love in the tempest of this night,
Will take no prisoners and promises little of delight,
For her lips quiver at the thought of her treachery,
There can be no good to come from such lechery.
Her long blonde hair like corn in the wind,
Blows first one way then the other as if it has sinned,
Like the madman who runs and knows not where he goes,
Her conscience has wavered and her reasoning slows.
She knows she should tell him to desist from spreading lies,
Can see no reason or gain for him all logic it defies,
But truly there is something between them and she is so lonely,
She yearns to have that playful passion that comes with a new love only.
In a dress of red velvet that echoes the shame in her face,
The cuffs of her cloak are delicately trimmed with lace,
A mockery of frailty she wears when she pleases,
With passion her blood boils but with conflicting interest it freezes.
Her pallor makes her beauty only more beguiling,
Those full lips turned as if they are always smiling,
A curvaceous body rarely exposed for modesty's sake,
No wonder she has so many true Knights caught in her wake.
A hoot in the distance brings her composure back again,
Reminding her she must not pursue her desire she must refrain,
She will always have her husband to govern her thoughts,
To be dreamed of at night and admired in stately courts.
At the sight of the lantern and the groaning of the gate,
She throws caution to the wind and in this seals her fate,
From out of the dark shadows and her tangled self doubt and lies,
Steps forth his beauty towards her shameful surprise.
Like Aphrodite newly bathed in starlight and crowned in glory,
Stands the Queen of every hero's tale and epic story,
Guinevere the fairest daughter in all of Camelot,
Arms held open in embrace to do what she should not.
Even the old wooden entrance protests at this intrusion,
Summoned by a secret note and veiled in confusion,
A man whose honesty is like a beacon in all but this,
For only he knows that the king's marriage is not wedded bliss.
So the stalwart warrior is beckoned to his Queen,
And there he takes her soft and frightened hand so keen,
For cruel it is the hand of fate she has offered,
Behold how easy the lamb to the slaughter is proffered.
She sees his noble face as clean shaven as any youth,
And in his slate grey eyes is captured all his truth,
For surely his are the windows of the soul as any poet speaks,
A tear involuntarily glistens in resistence but is lost on her cheeks.
Sad that it should come to this when all other methods fail,
How easily the mighty fall to lover's tryst from Holy Grail,
In one hand he holds a torch like the burning sun up high,
In the other is she as meek as the hart when the end is nigh.
"You came," she whispered as she knew she must,
And pulled him towards her pressed close to her bust,
So that the warmth or their bodies kept out the chill,
His breath cooled her face which brightened with the thrill.
Passion inflamed him and he caught her in a heated kiss,
All caution gone they both merged like molten metal with a hiss,
As contented rapture entwined their bodies and they fell to the ground,
Where they consumated their desire daring hardly to make a sound.
There were soft blankets already layed there by someone,
And as they lay naked and spent the lamplight danced and shone,
Two bodies seemingly made to fit perfectly together,
Repeatedly riding the storm of love like wild horses without tether.
It was then that his heavy body slumped into hers,
His voice broke the silence but the words he slurs,
A trickle of blood flows from his mouth onto her dress,
Where now against her bosom his head is carelessly pressed.
She had seen the white feather shafts at the last minute,
Sne wanted to scream but her heart was not in it,
Letting his body gently fall to the ground,
She picked up the note in his pocket which searching had found.
How calmly she regained her composure in fear of her life,
No husband could excuse or forgive such a compromised wife,
Caught out at night with a lover in a secret assignation of deceit,
She must be calm, he's dead, neither's reputation would stay complete.
So she did the most shameful act of her life more than adultery,
For she left an honest and good man behind whilst she fled free,
Ran flustered back to her bedchamber where as alibi it would be sound,
Left him naked and bleeding right there on the ground.
Now the act was done and there was no turning back,
She extinguished the torch and was devoured in black,
With the hood of her cloak up hiding the look on her face,
The Queen fled the scene and with her went disgrace.
As the First Watch came up into the tower from below,
A new day was dawning and with it a shimmering glow,
For as the sun's light uncovered the assassin's art,
It revealed the victim was lying wrapped in a blanket only in part.
And as they ran to him to render their meagre aid,
Hope did not burn in their hearts for they were only afraid,
Because the face that was known to all of them as Lancelot,
Was staring up at them and each felt they too had been shot.
Such empathy in men like these is not won very easily,
Under Arthur's rule each and every man is considered free,
It is the deeds and actions of all the noble knights,
That binds these men in loyalty to uphold honour and rights.
With the awkwardness of men in shock they fetched a litter,
Slowly bearing him away as the early birds twitter,
Nesting in the turret opposite the swallows speak of his doom,
But their tales seem too bitter to ever willingly consume.
And so the rush of people who wake below all dewy eyed,
Come alive more quickly with news someone may have died,
How ironic that the trumpets that herald this early warning,
Should rouse such dark interest on a lovely Summer's morning.
The royal bed chamber had a fire still burning in the grate,
Like an eternal flame of hope it seemed to burn lower of late,
Which paralleled the passion of the room's members,
For though love is at the heart it's burnt down to its embers.
In a bed of polished walnut that the King himself has made,
Surrounded by a canopy and curtains the best fabrics of trade,
Cosseted within the matrimonial bed each one feels secure,
Intimate yet lonely and loving yet demure.
Guinevere like a ghostly vision resplendent in white silk gown,
Is lost in horrific dreams and her face wears a frantic frown,
The King beside her as dark as she is fair,
Dreams of friendship and heroic deeds without a worry or care.
His sculpted chest of manly pride does ebb and flow,
Yet the tide of fate is soon to be against him don't you know,
Strong and magnificent an accomplished soldier and diplomat,
Who amongst all his subjects could not love a man like that?
Yet Arthur has his weakness and love for his ambitions is at the root,
It started to grow out of control from the tiniest shoot,
Yet Cupid's arrow claims the mightiest oak in the ground,
For the truth that Arthur personifies is love knows no bounds.
The hounds had been sleeping at the foot of the bed,
When their ears pricked up with each raised head,
As heavy boots on the solid floor of the hallway outside,
Roused them in time to see the door flung wide.
Only such calamitous news as this would dare rally servants so,
Bursting in without a knock with news of certain woe,
Then all hell let loose at once with trumpets, barks and cries,
Catching the royal couple in bewilderment and grave surprise.
Much to the testament of his reactions and troubled life,
Arthur reached for his sword and shielded his wife,
And she as wary as the doe protecting a fawn,
Gave the semblance of one about to be forlorn.
"Your Highness," they wailed with much heartfelt grief,
"It's Sir Lancelot, he's been shot by a thief!"
At which news the king fell to his knees,
"Quickly," they urged, "he barely lives, you must come please."
At this two reactions would have clove the room in two,
For the tirst time in his life Arthur was unsure what to do,
It hit him harder than any lethal battle stroke could,
And his usual healthy complexion was now drained of blood.
Yet Guinevere, having been prepared for the sad tiding,
Had no trouble feigning the guilt she was hiding,
Concern touched her face and then abject horror hit her,
Surely no life from the deathly tips could manage to stir?
If she had not run to save herself and with her absence all guilt dispell,
She may have given him a better chance to avoid the funeral bell,
She swooned and her maids rushed to get her something,
How she anguished over duty to her Champion or to her King.
