A cut for the lady
“It’s not, my love, a sign of my mistrust,
but wearing this will keep you safe from harm.
The castle guards and serfs who work the farm
bow low before their lady, full of lust.”
“Sire, lock the iron girdle if you must.
I’ll pray for you and chant a daily psalm
for your return – but as you go to arm
against the foe, would it not be unjust,
in case God wills your bones be foreign dust,
your soul forever bathed in heaven’s balm,
to let the key that lies upon your palm
in pagan hands corrode to heathen rust?”
“Godstruth, it stays in England! I’ll adjust
my plans. Here, page! Don’t eye me with alarm.
Look to your mistress. Take this lucky charm
and guard her honour with your own.” He thrust
the key towards the winsome youth. Nonplussed
she smiled to hear Tom swear, “I’ll serve you, ma’am.”
Her sly lord sheathed his sword without a qualm;
He knew his page viewed females with disgust.
But canny Tom had really got it sussed.
With her consent the key that could disarm
his lady’s keep was hired out. His smarm
thus hoodwinked both: so noble trust was cussed.