The service begins.
He can neither see nor hear.
The people fall to prayer.
I. 295–301
Lime
His men gather him up.
He must play his part in the pranks and pleasures to come.
The day, the night, will be long.
He who takes flight without thought
Has to haul out of himself each word, each gesture
As love spreads through him like lime through feathers
And settles its weight.
I. 323–357
Troilus cannot move
What it is that pours from his heart
That he is lucky to find a woman who so deserves
His love. That the story of his love will be told
And that the story of his love will be no less glorious
If he fails.
That he can serve his love – whatever she feels –
And that if he can admit to having been shot through
Who will not admire his gaping wound?
I. 367–378
Seed
Night follows night.
His secret so full he cannot risk a sigh.
The air might creep with feeling.
What if someone – and there is always someone – close by
Were to taste it on their tongue and pass it on?
What fruit could grow from sweetness spread so thin?
Night follows night.
I. 384–385
Troilus cannot sleep
There is work to be done
Something to build strong enough to contain
The bird in his heart
That the wound has become.
He thinks of love as steps to a dance
And keeps breaking into song.
Rough-voiced
He must arm himself.
I. 381–389
Troilus attempts a strategy
If he ever fears he might not win her
He falls into some inward place of trees
Refusing any path that does not make of itself
The right answer. Hope will emerge
Like a gentle creature drawn from green shadows
To steady his gaze.
A fawn, soft in the wild,
Followed only by more of its kind.
I. 463–466
The sharp showers fall
He will not flinch or swerve.
In at the first, there to the last,
He sees it all from on high
Like a god. He sees this war is small.
Indifferent, invincible, sleepless, tireless
He thinks of the stories they’ll tell.
How could she then say no?
I. 470–484
Troilus in battle
Vapours
Whispering long ribbons of fear.
Reveries and sighs. At the fall of her name
He gives way like snow flung upon a fire.
People wish this?
He does not know that what he feels is feeling.
Should he declare himself? What is correct?
If so, not yet.
I. 435–462, 523–525
Troilus hesitates
Pandarus
A man who wanders the corridors
Who presses his ear to the wall
Who rushes in as if to the rescue.
Has the prince – flat out, sobbing – been hurt
Or has some devilry borne fruit?
He pulls up a chair.
He can taste the juice.
I. 547–560
At his friend’s insistence
I fear that to put this into words
Will break me down
But I must show you trust
So here it is. I love someone
And do not want this weakness
To be known. A thousand ships
Have sailed into my heart. Say nothing.
I. 596–616
Troilus speaks
Whet
Why have you kept this to yourself for so long?
My trials in love are renowned.
To be blunt
I’ve learnt what should – and should not – be done.
I may be well worn but I know how to sharpen.
Think of me as an instrument
On which to tune your song.
I. 617–632
Pandarus gives himself a role
Hover
This brother, this passer-by
Sees the highs and lows to come
And as he has no adventure of his own
Anticipates the sport:
How they will hover at the ready
Till she’s drawn forth.
How they will soar and swoop.
I. 670–671
Yet he nothing answers
He struggles to raise his head
Then subsides back into lethargy
Till his friend roars
Wake up!
Has fear folded up your breath?
So young, so green, so vigorous!
Serve this love. Devote yourself.
Are you not ready?
I. 722–730, 800–819
Troilus is challenged
Dropped
He’s on the edge of a precipice.
At its foot, dark water.
Who knows what lies beneath or if
He will survive the fall.
This is his trial.
He must name his grail.
He names her.
I. 869–875
To love well and in a worthy place
Flawless, as you already know,
And while not quite your equal
Beyond peer in her gentility.
Made for romance and while not susceptible
She will be feeling a certain vulnerability.
If there’s love in her then love we’ll find.
We just need to pinpoint what kind.
I. 876–889, 974–987
Pandarus explains that Criseyde is his niece
To have someone speak of it as if it could be done
He is told to concentrate
To be patient, to rehearse
To suffer the tide and to have faith
That the right conditions will arise.
All weather is changeable.
There will be a path
And it will be passable.
I. 954–961
Troilus listens
As a gentleman
If I have any fear
It is that I may be the cause
Of damage to her.
I will only go so far as is proper.
I put myself in your hands.
Commend me to she who me commands
But do not use force.
I. 1030–1057
Troilus draws a line
A construct
First measure out the work.
Do not rush into laying foundations.
Read the lie of the land
And draw whatever line you take
As if from the heart.
The right words will lend grace
To the right time and the right place.
I. 1065–1071
Pandarus gives himself some advice
High
He gallops out on his bay
And in battle is ever more brave
As if under a form of protection.
Otherwise he’s changed.
Remember his mockery? His disdain?
His thoughtfulness is remarked upon.
He may never be himself again.
I. 1072–1085
Troilus wakes
BOOK TWO
Out of these black waves for to sail
This plot (which has not been easy to steer)
Is finding its course.
The air has started to clear
For better or worse.
The prince and his friend are learning to rhyme
What might be s
aid with where and when.
So it begins. Day one.
II. 1–10
A form of speech
Stories change shape in the telling
As words alter through long use.
This is nothing new
But it’s close to home
Which might colour my view (were I to have one).
It’s not exactly light, not entirely dark.
I’m saying what happens not naming parts.
II. 15–24
The second of the four sweet months
The meadows quicken.
Life drifts across the walls.
What’s inside opens.
Consider the phase of the moon
The sun full-beam in the sign of the bull
The sharpness of the swallow’s song.
The time has come.
II. 50–75
Imperative
Listening in sleep to the swallow’s song
He hears small wheels in a vast machine
Doing their best to keep up.
Less of a beat, more of a ripple.
Something’s got caught. It spins and slaps.
He opens the back
And out comes spool after spool.
II. 64–68
Pandarus remembers his promise
Forgetful of all measurement
He yells for his servants to dress him now
And bulging with intent bounds forth
Without thought of what he might say
Or she.
He marches through his niece’s gates
As if he were about to rescue the people
From seven years’ battle.
II. 71–80
Within a paved parlour
She is at home among women
One of whom is reading aloud
A well-known tragedy:
A king’s death, the terrible act of a son
And a world where too much happens
And not enough to some. They laugh at it
But each is on the edge of her seat.
II. 81–105
Sits Criseyde among her companions
A red-letter day
He yanks her to her feet
Grinning as if about to announce the greatest
Good news.
Why indoors? Have you not seen the sun?
We must pay observance. Dance! Dance!
Uncle, please don’t rave.
You’re scaring me.
II. 103, 111–116
Barb
Take off the scarf drawn tight beneath your chin.
It hangs like a beard. Unbutton!
You know why I cover myself.
I am a widow, no longer womanly.
I should live in a cave and devote my days
To religious tracts. I cannot caper and twirl.
Still he caws: Oh lucky girl, lucky girl!
II. 110, 117–118
A corner
He sits her down as if about to announce whatever
It is but says that if he were able to tell her
There is something he could tell her
That would make her dance
Then he takes a sharp turn
Towards himself, the weather, the old romance
She’s reading and its other dozen versions . . .
II. 108, 121–133
Pandarus leads Criseyde out of earshot
Till she can bear no more and turns back
What is this great good luck?
This secret you’re trying so hard to keep.
Are the gates open? Are we without enemy?
Please don’t play games.
I find it hard to keep up.
Your poetry strains.
Just tell me.
II. 122–154
The king has more than one son
He winds one brother round the other
Speaks of Hector’s latest skirmish
And out of it the other’s splendour:
Troilus in superlatives.
This is not news, she’s already heard
From those to whom she most pays heed
All about this man, this shield.
II. 155–189
Glaze
Now the prince’s name is in the air
His friend keeps it spinning
Till noble deeds and bright lines blur
And neither crack nor fault can be discerned
In his image.
Judging the picture complete
He rises and says that he must leave.
II. 190–209
A serious matter
He thinks he has her but she wants only
Advice on the management of her money.
He tries to say the right things.
When her accounting comes to an end
He leaps up. They have to dance
Because Fortune has made her the offer
Of a future. And what a future!
II. 210–224
Criseyde says they must talk further
The strength in any story lies in its end
His theme demands elaboration
So on he rambles till his eyes fix upon her face
And he sees it clearly:
Her simplicity.
He takes the decorations down.
You’re being given a chance, he says.
Take it.
II. 246–294
He who strives to do right in all things
The noble Troilus does so love you
That his life is hell. In truth
I do not believe he will survive
His longing. There it is.
Do as you wish. Have him live or die.
She knows that life is about to change
And that in change lies danger.
II. 309–322
A knife
Say no and he will die
And I who failed to save his life
Will slit my throat with this very knife.
The prince and I offer only protection.
Imagine us gone. Feel how sharp the blade.
Such a man thrown away
As if he were ordinary.
II. 323–340
Pandarus presses
A stone
He warns her that her charms won’t stretch
To making amends for the prince’s loss.
She may be beauty’s root and crop
But like the most precious crystal
If she lacks the power to heal
Where’s the use?
She neither moves nor speaks.
II. 344–350
Transparency
If he came to her door it would not be often.
He knows how to govern himself.
Yes people might talk so why not be open?
This would be the visit of a friend.
No promises.
Just a little kindness.
The city is full of such friends.
II. 365–380
Pandarus releases
She turns the colour of the morning air
This is it? My great good luck?
Were I misguided enough to declare a passion
For a man of royal blood, for any man
Given who I am, you would be merciless
And I would be a laughing stock.
What is this painted process?
You call this a happy ending. In what version?
II. 410–427, IF II. 47
Criseyde reddens
Jeopardy
I must play my cards well
Or this will prove a dangerous game.
It might make things worse if I refuse to listen.
I’ve heard of the extremes men go to for love.
What if the prince killed himself?
What if he came here and slit his throat in front of me?
What would people say?
II. 456–462
Criseyde thinks
Yes
I will not offer
him my hand.
I will not lead him here.
I cannot love him if I do not love him.
Else I will try to light his day
As I can do so honourably.
I say now I will offer nothing more
Even if it destroys him, you, me.
II. 477–489
A puzzle
She lays out what’s been said
Turning each word over.
All she can remember.
She arranges shapes
And sees how pieces might fit together
And is astonished to find her fear gone
And this thing become what will happen.
II. 600–606
Criseyde retires to her chamber
Undone is the chain
The street on which she lives is closed
Yet now come shouts to give access
To what’s left of a company of soldiers
In need of a shortcut back to the palace.
She hears the clop and clank and groans
A Double Sorrow Page 2