À TOURNON-SUR-RHÔNE

POUR COMMEMORER LE TRÉPAS DU DAUPHIN FRANÇOIS
(ET DE SON ÉCHANSON, SÉBASTIEN DI MONTECUCCOLI)

À TOURNON-SUR-RHÔNE
Une tragédie royale historique
en sept chants plus un...



CHANT 0.
INTRODUCTION.
Je connais une petite ville
de province de vieille France,
où j'étais le passé lustre
et j'ai eu beaucoup de chance:
j'ai resté, ce soir, rêveuse,
sur le pont sur Rhône debout...
pendant ce si bref séjour là
il me semblait que partout
il y avait une présence
veillant sur moi à Tournon:
quelq'un jeune, beau, brave, affable,
qui semblait crier mon nom...
Ce soir, j'avais l'impression
qu'il veillait alors sur moi...
et, malgré que de cette affaire
il y a passé un lustre déjà,
du récit qu'il racontait donc
je me souviens encore;
son histoire -- remplait mes rêves --
du coucher jusqu'à l'aurore...

CHANT I.
L'ÉPOQUE.
Tournon était un village,
et la France un vaste royaume:
c'était des Valois le siècle,
des châteaux, du jeu de paume...
il y avait un dans ces terres,
quand le Roi et son entourage
s'arrêteront un beau jour d'août
dans le château du village --
des soldats, dans les chaumières --
des lieutenants, dans les manoirs --
car c'était en temps de guerre,
de ces guerres, par hasard!
Tous donc à Tournon-sur-Rhône
sont venus passer la nuit,
s'arrêtant dans cette longue marche
qui porte jusqu'au Midi,
à affronter le Kaïser Charles,
qui est parti en Provence,
et venger l'ancienne défaite
de Pavie: cette fois, la France
n'allait pas sonner la rétraite!
Avant ça, d'autres batailles
ont eu des victoires françaises bien faites!

CHANT II.
OÙ EST-IL?
C'est jour de conseil de guerre
dans le château de Tournon:
le Roi et ses généraux là
causant sur la guerre sont --
mais, autour de la grande table,
il y manque un jeune garçon!
Où est l'héritier au trône,
où est ce joli trilustre,
du royaume de vieille France
le garçon le plus illustre?
Où est le Dauphin, appellé
comme l'auguste père, François --
cet adolescent, espoir vif
de la Maison de Valois?
Quand on arrive à la mer, ça
sera son baptême de feu,
et le garçon un jeune homme
sera, brave et courageux,
combattant dans des vraies batailles...
"Tenant en main sa raquette,
il a tôt quitté sa chambre --
-- quand il a une idée dans la tête,
le dissuader est impossible --
Donc, sans nous dire au revoir,
il se trouve au jeu de paume,
il retournera avec le soir".
Le roi François cela écoute,
on suspend le conseil de guerre --
"parfois demain il viendra donc,
il n y a pas rien a faire".
On va donc lire, peindre, danser...
et plusieurs grands du royaume
ont pris aussi leurs raquettes
pour aller au jeu de paume.
Et après eux vient aussi, donc,
un blond garçon de livrée,
qui porte dans la main droite
un beau flacon argenté,
et des verres dans la senestre...
"Il doit déjà être altéré...
N'attendez pas donc, Altesse,
on va donc vous désaltérer!"
Ce garçon, aussi trilustre,
qui s'appelle Sébastien,
est le fidèle confidant
et l'échanson du Dauphin:
le jeune François ne cache
de son Ganymède pas rien.
Il sait que toujours son maître
partira avec la raquette,
il porte toujours, on sait, donc,
de l'eau de roses fraîche, prête,
pour rafraîchir celui qu'il aime.
C'est alors que ce serviteur
envers le jeu de paume part
qu'il trouve un garçon plus jeune,
plus sérieux, aux idées noires,
et salute tout souriant donc
l'austère prince cadet, Henri,
qui croit que le droit est sien à
hériter la dynastie...
qui a été jusqu'à aujourd'hui l'ombre
de l'aîné, du favori...
Et, quand près du prince cadet, donc,
passe le jeune échanson,
sans qu'il ça rémarque, Henri verse
quelque chose dans son flacon --
après ça, un regard sinistre
brille dans les yeux du cadet,
en pensant, sans dir pas rien, à
la sort de son frère aîné...

CHANT III.
LE JEU DE PAUME.
Le soleil d'août très brûle
les belles collines de Tournon
-- c'est l'été plus sec et chaud, oui,
qu'a connu cette région --
pendant qu'au jeu de paume
marche le jeune échanson --
son maître a pris la raquette
et joue au plein jour d'été...
mais François, ardent et jeune,
est toujours prince héritier!
Des raquettes qui frappent les balles,
des plus hauts cris de bonheur --
"Qu'il remporte la victoire,
que cette eau passe à son coeur!"
On voit des coups de raquette
dans ce nuage de poussière
qui couvre le jeu de paume --
on ne pense pas à la guerre,
mais aux coups et aux services,
à droite et à gauche courant,
à frapper la balle de paume
loin des bras du contrincant.
"Pourquoi pendre la raquette
et se ceignir donc l'épée;
pourquoi, sur les champs de guerre,
un régiment commander?"
Il veut plus de jeu de paume,
pas du tout en guerre aller.
Il n'a que vie dans les veines,
il est presque infatigable,
il est en parfaite santé...
Ce jeune prince suivant au trône,
doux et confiant de coeur,
aux manières vives et pétulantes,
à la taille mince, flexible et résistante,
brave de ces jours estivaux, donc,
la plus ardente chaleur:
dans ses veines adolescentes
est pareil, ou plus, l'ardeur.
Sans sa chemise, laissant voire
quel demi-dieu était là,
d'un zèle d'écolier jouait donc
là l'héritier des Valois:
ses yeux fixes sur la balle,
tenses ses jambes et ses bras,
au front transpirant collés
ses boucles châtains foncés.
L'avantage dans cette partie est
doublement divertissant:
l'embonpoint de l'adversaire
rend sa réposte fatigante --
ainsi, le jeune partenaire,
François, s'amuse doublement.

IV.
LA SOIF ÉTANCHÉE.
N'est pas étrange, que François est
le vainqueur de cette partie,
mais il est loin de pas exhauste,
malgré qu'il est jeune et hardi:
avant la proxime partie, il
faut réposer tout son être:
il sent le coeur qui lui frappe
fort les côtes du sein senestre;
son bras droit n'a pas de forces
même pour lever la raquette,
ses jambes sont donc trop lourdes, 
tout danse autour de sa tête;
il transpire, il suffoque;
la poussière qu'il a aspiré
lui serre et lui laisse sèches
la bouche, la gorge, le gosier...
"Ah, Sébastien, quelle chance!
Viens, mon fidèle échanson!
Viens ici, remple mon verre
et porte aussi le flacon!"
"Les voeux de Son Altesse sont ordres",
et, ainsi dit, ainsi fait --
rapprochant le verre aux lèvres,
altéré, François de Valois
vide son verre d'un seul trait --
et puis, après que le visage
transpirant il s'a lavé,
il absorbe un autre verre:
oui, qu'il était assoiffé!
Oui, qu'il vide un troisième verre;
ça n'est pas boire, c'est trinquer!
Oui, que cette fraîche eau de roses
coule aisément par le gosier!
Puis les deux garçons y causent
du jeu de paume, de ces terres,
de comment seront les choses
à l'heure de partir en guerre...
sa raquette tenue en main droite,
dans la senestre son verre...
et puis, une autre partie --
d'une courte vie la dernière!
La soif qui l'oppresse ardente
est à peine étanchée du verseau
que la fraîcheur de cette eau
glace ses sens et sa tête brûlante!

CHANT V.
L'ACCUSATION
Le soleil n'a pas se couché
quand un nombreux entourage
est arrivé au jeu de paume
des prochains château et village...
des courtisans et des dames,
des soldats et des valets,
et aussi des officiers,
venus de Tournon-sur-Rhône
pour ordres du roi son père;
on réclame l'héritier, donc,
dans un autre conseil de guerre...
"mais on doit attendre une heure", donc:
une subite indisposition
survenue a François de Valois
retarde le retour a Tournon:
On l'entoure, et on s'alarme --
ça n'est pas un canular --
il avance pâle, chancelant,
deux officiers le soutenant,
il jette à terre sa raquette
et se trouble son regard!
"Il me faut rejoindre mon père,
il me faut, bien tôt... aussi...
qu'on rétablisse et soulage
mes entrailles endolories...
pourfendues comme d'une arme blanche...
comme d'un brûlant... coup d'épée..."
Il respire très difficilement
et sent son ventre frappé:
on s'alarme tout à l'heure --
le Dauphin est empoisonné!
"Cherche-moi un cordial, Sébastien,
une boisson édulcorante,
que mon corps brûle au-dedans!"
Et ces sensations alarmantes
ont fait que l'échanson, à la hâte,
parfois accusé de traître,
s'empêche au soin d'étancher
la soif de son pauvre maître!
Mais, pendant qu'il est parti,
on écoute les chuchoter
autour du même prince Henri...
Et courtisans et officiers
pensent au jeune échanson,
le favori étranger,
ce petit comte italien
des terres de Charles-Premier...
et donc, frappés de stupeur,
a cette intrigue ils ont pensé:
"Où était celui pendant
que son maître s'amusait?
Bien sûr, caché dans sa chambre,
le flacon il préparait...
Voilà l'ennemi vaincu,
qui empoisonne donc nôtre espoir!"
Cette fausse accusation
plonge dans tous eux ce soir...
"Voilà, le Dauphin pâlit
et se tord sous la douleur:
il faut arrêter le traître
pour nous porter le bonheur!"
Couché sur un siège long,
en proie aux plus vives souffrances,
le royal joueur de paume
ne sait pas rien de cette malchance,
en perdant la connaissance!
Les courtisans et officiers,
au retour de l'échanson,
s'ont empêchés à lui prendre
et lui arracher le flacon!
"Souffrirez-vous qu'on vous enlève
vôtre plus fidèle serviteur?"
Ce voeu brise, dans François,
l'inconscience et la douleur,
puis, en respirant à la hâte,
il plonge encore dans le rien!
Mais il a dit, d'une voix faible:
"N'accusez pas mon bon Sébastien,
je ne suis pas empoisonné..."
Maintenant, on a décidé
que le comte Sébastien
restera prisonnier jusqu'au parfait
rétablissement du Dauphin!
L'échanson, mal accusé,
dut alors se résigner,
mais il démande un dernier voeu,
et baise, en forme d'adieu,
la main droite de l'héritier...
Celui se réveille et dit,
sa voix faible, mais douce encore:
"Patience, mon loyal échanson,
dans trois jours tout sera fini,
et tu viendras me rejoindre."
Puis, il ferme ses yeux d'azur,
et on prend le comte, bien sûr.
Et la raquette avec lui
(car parfois, en transpirant,
par la main droite serrée si fortement,
par la peau, jusqu'au sang, pénétra
une drogue cachée dans le manche aussi!)...
maintenant que, dans Son Altesse,
dans ses jeunes veines, passe
du poison l'ardente trace.

CHANT VI.
LES TRÉPAS
Trois jours après cette partie,
au beau château de Tournon,
et pas de conseils de guerre...
car quelle indisposition
du prince héritier va pire --
dans son lit, il s'agite, il délire,
difficilement il respire,
et son coeur, si jeune et ardent,
frappe ses côtes, pas s'arrêtant!
Maintenant, le faux accusé,
l'échanson emprisonné,
dans une celle, dans une tour,
a dit, sur le lit de Procuste,
que les généraux des Habsbourg
lui ont fait un joli offre --
cela n'est pas vrai, mais il
voulait laisser le Roi tranquille,
et, d'autrefois, on trouva
un sauf-conduit impérial
et des livres d'empoisonnement
dans sa chambre --ne pas là
que c'est l'endroit où les trouver--
c'était oeuvre du prince cadet!
Et ce troisième jour, enfin,
entouré de médecins,
dans son beau lit de brocard,
le prince trilustre, François,
l'espoir de tous les Valois,
plonge par toujours dans le noir.
Son coeur, sa respiration,
le feu qui brûle ses entrailles,
les joues roses, les yeux qui brillent...
de ses souffrances délivré,
il reste immobile, changé,
tout son être est pâle, glacé:
on ne dit pas endormi!
Là-dans, le sang était si ardent,
et le coeur plein, réchauffant,
d'espoir et d'inspiration,
d'élan, d'intense rêverie...
où sont parties cettes passions?
Cette raquette pour lui si chère,
la peur de partir en guerre...
pour lui, n'importe pas rien.
Après trois jours de lutte honnête,
la vie a trouvé sa défaite.
Et le comte Sébastien?
De lui, on ne dit pas rien --
après qu'il eut son châtissement:
un cheval à chaque éxtremité,
sur l'esplanade, on lui a lié:
l'échanson fut écartelé vivant!
Il eut donc la mort d'un traître --
et son jeune royal maître
est pleuré dans toute la France:
dans chaque ville, en deuil toutes les fenêtres,
en lit de parade on promène son être
et pleure la fin de sa chance.
Comme une flamme dans l'orage,
comme un arc-en-ciel dans les nuages,
comme dans les glaces une fleur --
mort avant sa première guerre,
l'aîné royal est porté en terre --
à Vienne, l'église eut et a son coeur.
Mais pas de Charles la capitale --
-- la petite Vienne de vieille France --.
Le corps sans coeur reste à Paris,
enterré a Saint-Denis.
Les monarques réclament la trêve:
le Valois se sent coupable
de ce qu'à son fils aîné a fait Charles
et de l'avoir adverti rêve...
L'Habsbourg comprend cette tristesse,
car son épouse Isabelle,
décédée, dans la même détresse
lui a plongé...
c'est un autre roi blessé...
Et la guerre fut aplacée,
et Henri prince héritier,
déjà sans son frère aîné,
et puis couronné roi de France...
(Mais décades après, on verra,
d'un autre coup de malchance,
une lance plonger dans son oeil droit:
de cette forme brutale il mourra!)

CHANT VII.
ÉPILOGUE
En me réveillant, ce jour donc,
en prenant congé de Tournon,
je pris congé de deux présences:
car c'étaient deux adolescents,
habillés comme dans une pièce de Shakespeare,
qui, en me regardant et souriant,
m'ont souhaité toutes les chances.
L'un était châtain foncé,
dans sa main droite une raquette --
il portait bien haute la tête;
l'autre, blond et plus fragile,
tenait des verres et un flacon,
comme si il était un échanson...
Et moi, née sur le Verseau,
et jeune, et rêveuse, ces beaux
garçons j'ai voulu décrire --
la trame de leur tragédie,
la fin de leurs courtes vies,
jusquà leur ensevelir.
Alors, un beau lustre après
les évenéments de Tournon,
je les ai décrits --voit-on!
Et, si vous passez pour là,
pensez à François de Valois
et à son fidèle échanson.



Ceci est une histoire réelle.
François de Valois et Sébastien (Sebastiano) di Montecuccoli
sont décedés des manières décrites ici avant la vingtaine d'ans,
le 10 août 1536.

CEINOS (FAIRYTALE WARFARE, F/F)

One day, Leoine was summoned by Alacia without a pretext—an unusual event. When she arrived at Alacia’s rooms, the princess was looking more serious than Leoine had seen her before.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting on the chair Alacia usually reserved for her.
There was a long pause before Alacia answered her. “The hill tribes have banded together under a single warleader. There are usually raids around this time of year. But never all of them at once. One tribe at a time, my father’s troops can handle. This is closer to all-out war. My father’s men are preparing to fight them, and they’ll ride out tomorrow, but I don’t think there’s any way they can win.”
Leoine comforted her friend as well as she could, then left and went down to the stables. Men there were saddling horses, preparing weapons and armor for the battle the next day. Leoine ignored all of them. Instead, she approached a man who held himself as though accustomed to giving orders, the captain, perhaps.
“I want to fight,” she said without preamble. “I want to help tomorrow. You’ll need everyone you can get on the battlefield, and I want to be there.”
The captain looked her up and down as though surprised. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, and gestured to one of the stalls. “This is the only horse who’ll be riderless by the time these men are done, and she’s hardly fit for battle.” The horse he indicated was skinny and old, and from the way she stood she walked with a limp as well. Leoine saw there was no use arguing.
~~~
That evening, in the gardener’s cabin, Leoine examined the wooden horse thoroughly, searching every inch of it for something that would reveal the name to call it. When that served with no success, she tried every variant and synonym of “horse” she could imagine. None of those worked either.
“Ye say the man as gave it to ye told ye to call it by name?” the gardener asked. He had been watching as she attempted to awaken the magic within the horse carving. “Why d’ye not use the ancient tongue? Such a thing would be made before our speech existed.”
Leoine looked at him, startled. “You think that’d work?” she asked. She barely remembered her lessons on the ancient language that was precursor to theirs from when she was a child.
“If ye have the knowin’ of such things,” the gardener replied. “It’s not something I’d know, for certain.”
Leoine turned the horse between her hands, thinking back to those days of outwitting her tutors for a short-lived adventure in the city. Half-remembered bits of information rose from her memory, but she discarded most of them. Finally, the word she was searching for came to mind.“Hrusson,” she muttered, and the wood became warm beneath her hands, as though the wood had gained blood of its own. Quickly, Leoine moved outside and set the three-colored horse on the ground, and within minutes it had become a copper-colored horse, not wood but blood and bone and skin. Quietly, Leoine gathered the other preparations she had acquired throughout the day, and quickly armored herself as a mounted archer. The helm covered most of her face, for which she was grateful, and the arrows and bow she had brought from the woods and hidden when she sought a position with the king were of her own making, and she trusted nothing more. She mounted the horse, and rode out to meet the king’s company as they left for the battle.
The sentry spotted her, and called out a warning. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” she replied. “That’s all you need to know.”
~~~
The battle the next morning was a victory. A close victory, but a victory nonetheless. The soldiers all admitted they would have lost, except for the mysterious archer riding a copper-colored steed, whose arrows never seemed to miss their targets. “He did half the work of their defeat,” the soldiers would say. “Without him, there’d be nothing left of our country to speak of.”
While the soldiers camped out on the fields of battle that evening, no sign could be found of their mysterious ally. They set guards to watch the flickering torchlight of the hillsmen, desperately hoping for the appearance of the mounted archer. That night was a long and anxious one, but the men survived to see the dawn.
As the sun cleared the horizon, a tent burst into flame, and a second arrow thudded into the ground nearby, extinguishing itself on the earth. The men, half-armed and half prepared, swung onto their horses and charged the ambushing hillspeople, getting inside the range of their archers as quickly as they could. The hillsmen were ready for this, though, and surrounded the king’s troops immediately. Though the king’s soldiers fought on valiantly, they feared they were lost.
Then one tribesman fell from his horse, followed by another. Slowly, the king’s men were able to fight their way out of the trap they had ridden into, and meet forces with the same mysterious archer as the day before, though today their ally rode a tall white horse, not the chestnut of the day before. The army rallied to the archer and again defeated their enemies, pushing them back beyond the hilltop on which that day’s battle had taken place. They made camp there that night and again watched their enemy’s fires with wary eyes, and again wondered at the vanishing of the hero of that day’s battle. The army was braver that night, happy with their victory. They made plans to attack the enemy camp at first light, confident in their previous successes.
Before dawn, the king’s army was ready to move. They were about to depart for the enemy camp when a black horse appeared, bearing a rider wearing the light leather armor of a mounted archer and carrying a bow. The archer and the black horse led the charge, and the hillmen were quickly routed and driven back. The army pressed until the hillmen turned and fled for their homeland, to look for an easier land to raid.
The king’s soldiers returned to their own realm, all whispering of the mysterious rider who had in some accounts led the soldiers to victory through cunning stratagems, and in others singlehandedly and alone defeated the raiders with force of strength. The gardener’s boy listened to these stories as the troops entered the keep, and smiled slightly, face hidden beneath the brim of his cap.
Within a week, an announcement had been spread that the king was to hold a contest: three days of sports and games, hunting, riding and the like. The winner of each contest would receive a golden token, with the king’s seal imprinted on it, and the winner of three of these tokens would be granted a special prize.
“He’s trying to draw out that archer who all the soldiers say won the war for them,” Alacia said to Leoine the afternoon before the first day of contests, as they sat in the garden. “He wants to give a reward for bravery or somesuch, and he thinks this’ll draw out anyone it could’ve been. Everyone’s heard the rumors by now that he’s going to grant a knighthood to the winner.”
Leoine laughed with her at the ridiculousness of a contest revealing one so intent on keeping a secret identity, but she kept her hand in her pocket, wrapped firmly around a carved wooden horse.
That night, she dreamed of the road she had walked to find this place. Just inside the curve of the road, a blanket was spread, with food laid out on it. “Looks like someone’s expecting me,” she said to herself with a half-smile, walking over to the blanket and sitting on it.
“Indeed, child, I was,” said a familiar voice. The old man who had given her the horse—the Tinker—sat cross-legged on the blanket across from her. “And now that you have achieved the purpose I sent you for, what do you plan to do? Travel around the lands as a mysterious rider who rescues the needy and guards those weaker? Return to the forest to live with the wild things and the spirits?”
Leoine laughed. “I’d thought to join in the king’s contests and try for a knighthood,” she said. “After that, who knows?” She absentmindedly shredded a piece of bread between her fingers as she thought. “I’d need a horse for the trials, though. Most of the contests are done from horseback, hunting and jousting and such.”
The Tinker gave her a secretive smile and extended a hand. “I think I can help with that,” he said. “Just this one time, though. I can’t extend the life of something like this forever. You’ll have to get your own horse after this.”
Leoine reached into her pocket and found the figurine of the wooden horse there. Pulling it out and handing it to the man sitting opposite her, she replied, “If I win a knighthood, I’ll be able to afford my own horse after this.”
The Tinker laughed, loud and clear. Then, cradling the wooden horse in his hands, he gently blew on it, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever. Handing it back to Leoine, he said, “Three more uses. As a reward for your dutiful service. Good luck, my daughter, and fare well.”
The roadside, the food, and the man in front of her faded into white, and then Leoine was awake, blinking in the sunlight streaming into her eyes from the window to the gardener’s cabin.

...

Leoine vaguely recognized the armor of the swordsman who was winning the majority of the bouts. He’d won the golden medallion in jousting the previous day. He seemed a fairly strong swordfighter, as far as she could tell—he won quickly and decisively, never getting entangled in drawn-out battles like some of the other fighters. His feet seemed to always be where they needed to be, precise and never off-balance. Leoine wondered half-heartedly where he had been when the army had fought the hill raiders, but she could tell swordfighting from horseback would be very different than on foot, and certainly different than these carefully controlled bouts.
The skilled swordsman defeated his last opponent to cheers from the crowd. He sheathed his sword, then bowed before the king’s seats and received his medallion. He was walking in her direction, she realized; he approached the piebald horse who stood next to her black one. He stowed the medallion in a leather saddlebag and swung up onto the horse’s back. “Here for the riding challenge, archer?” he asked. “Better hurry up then, it’s about to start.” He kicked his horse’s side and trotted off. Leoine mounted and followed him.
The competition was nothing other than she had expected—the riders had to trot, canter and gallop through a course that had ben set up within the arena. Leoine guided her horse through the course fairly easily, whatever residual magic making it easy for her to communicate her wishes. At one point she felt one of her horse’s hooves clip a barricade that had been set up as one of the obstacles, but that was the only mistake she felt she had made. She watched other riders pick their way through the course, some making many mistakes. The swordsman’s horse stumbled several times in the more difficult portion of the course, but many riders did a good job. She drifted into her own thoughts of the hunt tomorrow while the judges conferred—the prize would have originally gone to the hunter who brought back the most game, but reports from outlying farms told of a boar that had been seen in the area of woodland designated for the hunt. The king had announced shortly thereafter that the medallion would instead go to the person who brought back the boar’s tusks, as proof that it had been killed and a danger to the area removed. She was jolted out of her thoughts when the swordsman laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “They mean you, archer.” The crowd was cheering, the king in his booth holding the medallion above his head so everyone could see it. “Well ridden,” the swordsman said, giving her a half-smile.
Leoine realized what had happened, and mounted her horse to receive the prize. She and the swordsman were now tied in the competition, two medallions each.

...

“And so it is to our mysterious ally that we present the prize—a knighthood and free roam of this country, wherever he should wish to go.” The king finished his rousing speech, made to the watching populace after Leoine and the swordsman detailed what had happened in the forest.
Leoine tapped the side of her leg nervously. She hadn’t expected the king to behave so trustingly; she thought before elevating the status of a stranger he would at least ask his identity. “Sire?” she said. “I don’t believe I am worthy of that which you offer me. You see, I’ve lied.” She removed her helmet, revealing her face and distinctive hair.
“The gardener’s lad?” She heard the confused voice from the crowd but could not identify the speaker.
“Not even that,” she said. “I’ve been concealing my identity in more ways than one. I’m a woman.”
“And you think that makes you unworthy of a knighthood?” the king said in answer. “You not only excel in competitions of skill and strength, and save the life of one of our best fighters, but you helped save the kingdom as well! That far outweighs any lie you may have told.” He hesitated a moment. “What is your true name, then?”
“Leoine,” she answered.
“Then kneel, Leoine,” said the king. She started to protest, but he interrupted more forcefully. “Kneel. “ She obeyed.
The king drew his sword, lowered it to touch one shoulder, the other, and then rested the flat of it on the crown of her head. “Rise, Sir Leoine Archer,” he said, sheathing the sword.
Leoine stood, confused, as the crowd cheered, voices mingling chaotically. And then one quiet voice cut through them all, drawing the entirety of the crowd’s attention.
“Father,” said Alacia, stepping forward from where she had stood beside the king’s throne. “You’ve been telling me for a while that I should be thinking about choosing who to marry, so that you can have a quieter job and I can begin learning how to rule.”
“I can hardly deny it,” said the king, with a smile that seemed to say he knew what his daughter would say next.
“I’ve made my decision,” Alacia said. “I would like to marry the savior of my future kingdom. If she’ll have me, I’d like to marry Sir Leoine.”
Leoine hardly hesitated. She knew how much she cared about the princess, and was glad that Alacia cared in return. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”
Alacia threw herself forward and kissed Leoine, who caught her around the waist, not quite overbalancing, and kissed her back. If she had not been so involved, she would have heard the crowd cheer even louder than before.

The original -- straight and more vague-- fairytale:
Not long afterwards, the country was overrun by war. The king gathered together his people, not knowing whether or not fight back against the enemy, who was more powerful and had a large army.
Then the gardener's lad said, "I am grown up, and I want to go to war as well. Just give me a horse."
The others laughed and said, "After we have left, then look for one by yourself. We will leave one behind for you in the stable."
After they had left, he went into the stable, and led the horse out. It had a lame foot, and it limped higgledy-hop, higgledy-hop.
Nevertheless he mounted it, and rode away into the dark woods. When he came to the edge of the woods, he called "Iron Hans" three times so loudly that it sounded through the trees.
The wild man appeared immediately, and said, "What do you need?"
"I need a strong steed, for I am going to war."
"That you shall have, and even more than you are asking for."
Then the wild man went back into the woods, and before long a stable-boy came out of the woods leading a horse. It was snorting with its nostrils, and could hardly be restrained. Behind them followed a large army of warriors, outfitted with iron armor, and with their swords flashing in the sun.
The youth left his three-legged horse with the stable-boy, mounted the other horse, and rode at the head of the army. When he approached the battlefield, a large number of the king's men had already fallen, and before long the others would have to retreat. Then the youth galloped up with his iron army and attacked the enemies like a storm, beating down all who opposed him. They tried to flee, but the youth was right behind them, and did not stop, until not a single man was left.
However, instead of returning to the king, he led his army on a roundabout way back into the woods, and then called for Iron Hans.
"What do you need?" asked the wild man.
"Take back your steed and your army, and give me my three-legged horse again."
It all happened just as he had requested, and he rode home on his three-legged horse.
When the king returned to his castle, his daughter went to meet him, and congratulated him for his victory.
"I am not the one who earned the victory," he said, "but a strange knight who came to my aid with his army."
The daughter wanted to hear who the strange knight was, but the king did not know, and said, "He pursued the enemy, and I did not see him again."
She asked the gardener where his aide was, but he laughed and said, "He has just come home on his three-legged horse. The others have been making fun of him and shouting, 'Here comes our higgledy-hop back again.' They also asked him, 'Under what hedge have you been lying asleep all this time?' But he said, 'I did better than anyone else. Without me it would have gone badly.' And then they laughed at him all the more."
The king said to his daughter, "I will proclaim a great festival. It shall last for three days, and you shall throw a golden apple. Perhaps the unknown knight will come."
When the festival was announced, the youth went out into the woods and called Iron Hans.
After the revels...
 The king had him summoned, and he appeared, again with his cap on his head. But the princess went up to him and took it off. His golden hair fell down over his shoulders, and he was so handsome that everyone was amazed.
"Are you the knight who came to the festival every day, each time in a different color, and who caught the three golden apples?" asked the king.
"Yes," he answered, "and here are the apples," taking them out of his pocket, and returning them to the king. "If you need more proof, you can see the wound that your men gave me when they were chasing me. But I am also the knight who helped you to your victory over your enemies."
"If you can perform deeds like these then you are not a gardener's lad. Tell me, who is your father?"
"My father is a powerful king, and my mother is his queen. I have as much gold as I might need."
"I can see," said the king, "that I owe you thanks. Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes," he answered. "You can indeed. Give me your daughter for my wife."
The maiden laughed and said, "He does not care much for ceremony, but I already had seen from his golden hair that he was not a gardener's lad," and then she went and kissed him.
His father and mother came to the wedding, and were filled with joy, for they had given up all hope of ever seeing their dear only son again.
While they sitting at the wedding feast, the music suddenly stopped, the doors opened, and a proud king came in with a great retinue. He walked up to the youth, embraced him, and said, "I am Iron Hans. I had been transformed into a wild man by a magic spell, but you have broken the spell. All the treasures that I possess shall belong to you."

IN THE WHITE-FLOWERED HAWTHORN BRAKE

William Morris (1834–96) SONG.

SHE   In the white-flower’d hawthorn brake, Love, be merry for my sake; Twine the blossoms in my hair, Kiss me where I am most fair— Kiss me, love! for who knoweth         5 What thing cometh after death? HE   Nay, the garlanded gold hair Hides thee where thou art most fair; Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow— Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!         10 Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death? SHE   Shall we weep for a dead day, Or set Sorrow in our way? Hidden by my golden hair,         15 Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear? Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death? HE Weep, O Love, the days that flit,   Now, while I can feel thy breath;         20 Then may I remember it   Sad and old, and near my death. Kiss me, love! for who knoweth What thing cometh after death?

THE RETINUE OF ARES (AND SOME EXTRA MORRIS)

Fragment from a folktale retold by William Morris, explaining all the dire consequences of warfare, presented as the entourage of the god of war himself. If illustrated, the scene would be worth the paintbrush of a Goya in 1808:

A noise like echoes of a shout
Seemed in the cold air all about,
And therewithal came faint and thin
What seemed a far-off battle's din,
And on a sight most terrible
His eyes in that same minute fell,—
The images of slaughtered men,
With set eyes and wide wounds, as when
Upon the field they first lay slain;
And those who there had been their bane
With open mouths as if to shout,
And frightful eyes of rage and doubt,
And hate that never more should die.
Then went the shivering fleers by,
With death's fear ever in their eyes;
And then the heaped-up fatal prize,
The blood-stained coin, the unset gem,
The gold robe torn from hem to hem,
The headless, shattered golden god,
The dead priest's crushed divining-rod;
The captives, weak from blow and wound,
Toiling along; the maiden, bound
And helpless, in her raiment torn;
The ancient man's last day forlorn:
Onward they pressed, and though no sound
Their footfalls made upon the ground,
Most real indeed they seemed to be.
The spilt blood savoured horribly,
Heart-breaking the dumb writhings were,
Unuttered curses filled the air;
Yea, as the wretched band went past,
A dreadful look one woman cast
On Laurence, and upon his breast
A wounded blood-stained hand she pressed.

   But on the heels of these there came
A King, that through the night did flame,
For something more than steel or brass
The matter of his armour was;
Its fashion strange past words to say;
Who knows where first it saw the day?
On a red horse he rode; his face
Gave no more hope of any grace
Than through the blackness of the night
The swift-descending lightning might;
And yet therein great joy indeed
The brightness of his eyes did feed;—
A joy as of the leaping fire
Over the house-roof rising higher
To greet the noon-sun, when the glaive
Forbids all folk to help or save.

--------------------------------------------------------

In another poem by Morris, a retelling of the Psyche legend, warfare is also omnipresent:

Whose husbands wring from miserable hinds
What the first battle scatters to the winds;
............
   Thenceforth her back upon the world she turned
As she had known it; in her heart there burned
Such deathless love, that still untired she went:
The huntsman dropping down the woody bent,
In the still evening, saw her passing by,
And for her beauty fain would draw anigh,
But yet durst not; the shepherd on the down
Wondering, would shade his eyes with fingers brown,
As on the hill's brow, looking o’er the lands,
She stood with straining eyes and clasped hands,
While the wind blew the raiment from her feet;
The wandering soldier her grey eyes would meet,
That took no heed of him, and drop his own;
Like a thin dream she passed the clattering town;
On the thronged quays she watched the ships come in
Patient, amid the strange outlandish din;
Unscared she saw the sacked towns' miseries,
And marching armies passed before her eyes.
And still of her the god had such a care
None did her wrong, although alone and fair.
Through rough and smooth she wandered many a day,
Till all her hope had well-nigh passed away.

......................................................
So in a third homoerotic poem by the same author, where an overprotected teenage prince --just like Balder or Sleeping Beauty-- is exceedingly sheltered from an untimely fate, yet to no avail. Enter another, foreign prince, a twentyish exiled brother-slayer who has sought death on the battlefield and whose wartime yarns soon excite the younger prince... who is violently killed by chance by his more than friend. The whole story reminds me of Eugene Onegin or Apollo and Hyacinth:

The other one, that Atys had to name,
Grew up a fair youth, and of might and worth,
And well it seemed the race wherefrom he came
From him should never get reproach or shame:
But yet no stroke he struck before his death,
In no war-shout he spent his latest breath. 
   Now Crœsus, lying on his bed a-night,
Dreamed that he saw this dear son lying low,
And folk lamenting he was slain outright,
And that some iron thing had dealt the blow;
By whose hand guided he could nowise know,
Or if in peace by traitors it were done,
Or in some open war not yet begun.
 Three times one night this vision broke his sleep,
So that at last he rose up from his bed,
That he might ponder how he best might keep
The threatened danger from so dear a head;
And, since he now was old enough to wed,
The King sent men to search the lands around,
Until some matchless maiden should be found;
   That in her arms this Atys might forget
The praise of men, and fame of history,
Whereby full many a field has been made wet
With blood of men, and many a deep green sea
Been reddened therewithal, and yet shall be;
That her sweet voice might drown the people's praise,
Her eyes make bright the uneventful days.
So when at last a wonder they had brought,
From some sweet land down by the ocean's rim,
Than whom no fairer could by man be thought,
And ancient dames, scanning her limb by limb,
Had said that she was fair enough for him,
To her was Atys married with much show,
And looked to dwell with her in bliss enow.
   And in meantime afield he never went,
Either to hunting or the frontier war,
No dart was cast, nor any engine bent
Anigh him, and the Lydian men afar
Must rein their steeds, and the bright blossoms mar
If they have any lust of tourney now,
And in far meadows must they bend the bow.
   And also though the palace everywhere
The swords and spears were taken from the wall
That long with honour had been hanging there,
And from the golden pillars of the hall;
Lest by mischance some sacred blade should fall,
And in its falling bring revenge at last
For many a fatal battle overpast.
...
  Then did Adrastus rise and thank the King,
And the next day when yet low was the sun,
The sacrifice and every other thing
That unto these dread rites belonged, was done;
And there Adrastus dwelt, hated of none,
And loved of many, and the King loved him
For brave and wise he was and strong of limb.
   But chiefly amongst all did Atys love
The luckless stranger, whose fair tales of war
The Lydian's heart abundantly did move,
And much they talked of wandering afar
Some day, to lands where many marvels are,
With still the Phrygian through all things to be
The leader unto all felicity.
...
  And with that promise must they be content,
And so departed, having feasted well.
And yet some god or other ere they went,
If they were silent, this their tale must tell
To more than one man; therefore it befell,
That at the last Prince Atys knew the thing,
And came with angry eyes unto the King.
   "Father," he said, "since when am I grown vile?
Since when am I grown helpless of my hands?
Or else what folk, with words enwrought with guile,
Thine ears have poisoned; that when far-off lands
My fame might fill, by thy most strange commands
I needs must stay within this slothful home,
Whereto would God that I had never come?
   "What! wilt thou take mine honour quite away?
Wouldst thou, that, as with her I just have wed
I sit among thy folk at end of day,
She should be ever turning round her head
To watch some man for war apparelled,
Because he wears a sword that he may use,
Which grace to me thou ever wilt refuse?
   "Or dost thou think, when thou hast run thy race
And thou art gone, and in thy stead I reign,
The people will do honour to my place,
Or that the lords leal men will still remain,
If yet my father's sword be sharp in vain?
If on the wall his armour still hang up,
While for a spear I hold a drinking-cup?"
   "O Son!" quoth Crœsus, "well I know thee brave,
And worthy of high deeds of chivalry;
Therefore the more thy dear life would I save,
Which now is threatened by the gods on high;
Three times one night I dreamed I saw thee die,
Slain by some deadly iron-pointed thing,
While weeping lords stood round thee in a ring."
   Then loud laughed Atys, and he said again,
"Father, and did this ugly dream tell thee
What day it was on which I should be slain?
As may the gods grant I may one day be,
And not from sickness die right wretchedly,
Groaning with pain, my lords about my bed,
Wishing to God that I were fairly dead;
   "But slain in battle, as the Lydian kings
Have died ere now, in some great victory,
While all about the Lydian shouting rings
Death to the beaten foemen as they fly.
What death but this, O father! should I die?
But if my life by iron shall be done,
What steel to-day shall glitter in the sun? 
   "Yea, father, if to thee it seemeth good
To keep me from the bright steel-bearing throng,
Let me be brave at least within the wood;
---

But Atys drew the bright sword from his side,
   And to the tottering beast he drew anigh:
But as the sun's rays ran adown the blade
Adrastus threw a javelin hastily,
For of the mighty beast was he afraid,
Lest by his wounds he should not yet be stayed,
But with a last rush cast his life away,
And dying there, the son of Crœsus slay.
   But even as the feathered dart he hurled,
His strained, despairing eyes, beheld the end,
And changed seemed all the fashion of the world,
And past and future into one did blend,
As he beheld the fixed eyes of his friend,
That no reproach had in them, and no fear,
For Death had seized him ere he thought him near.
   Adrastus shrieked, and running up he caught
The falling man, and from his bleeding side
Drew out the dart, and seeing that death had brought
Deliverance to him, he thereby had died;
But ere his hand the luckless steel could guide,
And he the refuge of poor souls could win,
The horror-stricken huntsmen had rushed in.
   And these, with blows and cries he heeded nought,
His unresisting hands made haste to bind;
Then of the alder-boughs a bier they wrought,
And laid the corpse thereon, and ’gan to wind
Homeward amidst the tangled wood and blind,
And going slowly, at the eventide,
Some leagues from Sardis did that day abide.
   Onward next morn the slaughtered man they bore,
With him that slew him, and at end of day
Toward the king's palace did they take their way.
He in an open western chamber lay
Feasting, though inwardly his heart did burn
Until that Atys should to him return.
   And when those wails first smote upon his ear
He set the wine-cup down, and to his feet
He rose, and bitter all-consuming fear
Swallowed his joy, and nigh he went to meet
That which was coming through the weeping street:
But in the end he thought it good to wait,
And stood there doubting all the ills of fate. 
   But when at last up to that royal place
Folk brought the thing he once had held so dear,
Still stood the King, staring with ghastly face
As they brought forth Adrastus and the bier,
But spoke at last, slowly without a tear,
"O Phrygian man, that I did purify,
Is it through thee that Atys came to die?"
   "O King," Adrastus said, "take now my life,
With whatso torment seemeth good to thee,
As my word went, for I would end this strife,
And underneath the earth lie quietly;
Nor is it my will here alive to be:
For as my brother, so Prince Atys died,
And this unlucky hand some god did guide."
   Then as a man constrained, the tale he told
From end to end, nor spared himself one whit:
And as he spoke, the wood did still behold,
The trodden grass, and Atys dead on it;
And many a change o’er the King's face did flit
Of kingly rage, and hatred and despair,
As on the slayer's face he still did stare.
   At last he said, "Thy death avails me nought,
The gods themselves have done this bitter deed,
That I was all too happy was their thought,
Therefore thy heart is dead and mine doth bleed,
And I am helpless as a trodden weed:
Thou art but as the handle of the spear,
The caster sits far off from any fear.
   "Yet, if thy hurt they meant, I can do this,—
—Loose him and let him go in peace from me—
I will not slay the slayer of all my bliss;
Yet go, poor man, for when thy face I see
I curse the gods for their felicity.
Surely some other slayer they would have found,
If thou hadst long ago been under ground.
   "Alas, Adrastus! in my inmost heart
I knew the gods would one day do this thing,
But deemed indeed that it would be thy part
To comfort me amidst my sorrowing;
Make haste to go, for I am still a King!
Madness may take me, I have many hands
Who will not spare to do my worst commands."
   With that Adrastus’ bonds were done away,
And on the road where they had been that day
Rushed through the gathering night; and some lone man
Beheld next day his visage wild and wan,
Peering from out a thicket of the wood
Where he had spilt that well-beloved blood.

-------------------------------------
In Morris's version of the Holger Danske/Holger the Dane mythos, the bulk of it takes place in war-torn 100YW-era France:
[···] think that now ye are
In France, made dangerous with wasting war;
In Paris, where about each guarded gate,
Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait,
And press around each new-come man to learn
If Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn,
Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain,
Or Pont de l’Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?
Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?
That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?
When will they come? or rather is it true
That a great band the Constable o’erthrew
Upon the marshes of the lower Seine,
And that their long ships, turning back again,
Caught by the high-raised waters of the bore
Were driven here and there and cast ashore?
   Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh men
Came hurrying in, they asked them o’er again,
And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant,
Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.
---
But his changed life he needs must carry on;
For ye shall know the Queen was gathering men
To send unto the good King, who as then
In Rouen lay, beset by many a band
Of those who carried terror through the land,
And still by messengers for help he prayed:
Therefore a mighty muster was being made,
Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous,
Before the Queen anigh her royal house.
So thither on this morn did Holger turn,
Some certain news about the war to learn;
And when he came at last into the square,
And saw the ancient palace great and fair
Rise up before him as in other days,
And in the merry morn the bright sun's rays
Glittering on gathering helms and moving spears,
He ’gan to feel as in the long-past years,
And his heart stirred within him. Now the Queen
Came from within, right royally beseen,
And took her seat beneath a canopy,
With lords and captains of the war anigh;
And as she came a mighty shout arose,
And round about began the knights to close,
Their oath of fealty there to swear anew,
And learn what service they had got to do.
But so it was, that some their shouts must stay
To gaze at Holger as he took his way
Through the thronged place; and quickly too he gat
Unto the place whereas the Lady sat,
For men gave place unto him, fearing him:
For not alone was he most huge of limb,
And dangerous, but something in his face,
As his calm eyes looked o’er the crowded place,
Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days,
When men might hope alive on gods to gaze,
They would have thought, 'the Gods yet love our town,
And from the heavens have sent a great one down.'
   Withal unto the throne he came so near,
That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear;
And swiftly now within him wrought the change
That first he felt amid those faces strange;
And his heart burned to taste the hurrying life
With such desires, such changing sweetness rife.
While fainter still with love the Queen did grow
Hearing his words, beholding his grey eyes
Flashing with fire of warlike memories;
Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeed
That she could give him now the charge, to lead
One wing of the great army that set out
From Paris’ gates, midst many a wavering shout,
Midst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears,
And slender hopes and unresisted fears.
   Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay,
Newly awakened at the dawn of day,
Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing,
When, midst the carol that the birds did sing
Unto the coming of the hopeful sun,
He heard a sudden lovesome song begun
’Twixt two young voices in the garden green,
That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.

SONG.

SHE.

   In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,
Love, be merry for my sake;
Twine the blossoms in my. hair,
Kiss me where I am most fair—
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

HE.

   Nay, the garlanded gold hair
Hides thee where thou art most fair;
Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow—
Ah, sweet love, I have thee now!
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

SHE.

   Shall we weep for a dead day,
Or set Sorrow in our way?
Hidden by my golden hair,
Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear?
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?

HE.

Weep, O Love, the days that flit,
   Now, while I can feel thy breath;
Then may I remember it
   Sad and old, and near my death.
Kiss me, love! for who knoweth
What thing cometh after death?
Soothed by the pleasure that the music brought
And sweet desire, and vague and dreamy thought
Of happiness it seemed to promise him,
He lay and listened till his eyes grew dim,
And o’er him ’gan forgetfulness to creep
Till in the growing light he lay asleep,
Nor woke until the clanging trumpet-blast
Had summoned him all thought away to cast:
Yet one more joy of love indeed he had
Ere with the battle's noise he was made glad;
For, as on that May morning forth they rode
And passed before the Queen's most fair abode,
There at a window was she waiting them
In fair attire with gold in every hem,
And as the Ancient Knight beneath her passed
A wreath of flowering white-thorn down she cast,
And looked farewell to him, and forth he set
Thinking of all the pleasure he should get
From love and war, forgetting Avalon
And all that lovely life so lightly won;
Yea, now indeed the earthly life o’erpast
Ere on the loadstone rock his ship was cast
Was waxing dim, nor yet at all he learned
To ’scape the fire that erst his heart had burned.
And he forgat his deeds, forgat his fame,
Forgat the letters of his ancient name
As one waked fully shall forget a dream,
That once to him a wondrous tale did seem.
   Now I, though writing here no chronicle
E’en as I said, must nathless shortly tell
That, ere the army Rouen's gates could gain
By a broad arrow had the King been slain,
And helpless now the wretched country lay
Beneath the yoke, until the glorious day
When Holger fell at last upon the foe,
And scattered them as helplessly as though
They had been beaten men without a name:
So when to Paris town once more he came
Few folk the memory of the King did keep
Within their hearts, and if the folk did weep
At his returning, ’twas for joy indeed
That such a man had risen at their need
To work for them so great deliverance,
And loud they called on him for King of France.

   But if the Queen's heart were the more a-flame
For all that she had heard of his great fame,
I know not; rather with some hidden dread
Of coming fate, she heard her lord was dead,
And her false dream seemed coming true at last,
For the clear sky of love seemed overcast
With clouds of God's great judgments, and the fear
Of hate and final parting drawing near.
   So now when he before her throne did stand
Amidst the throng as saviour of the land,
And she her eyes to his kind eyes did raise,
And there before all her own love must praise;
Then did she fall a-weeping, and folk said,
"See, how she sorrows for the newly dead!
Amidst our joy she needs must think of him;
Let be, full surely shall her grief wax dim
And she shall wed again."