Alone behind his ancient walls, he waits.
The candles burn low; in the roof-vaults, vast
Foreboding shadows grow. The die is cast:
He made his choice. Now his and others’ fates
Hang by a thread, and hope is fading fast.
Alone behind his ancient walls, he waits.
No welcome hail or hoofbeats at his gates;
Word will not come, for night is almost past.
This scarlet dawn, he knows, will be his last.
Alone behind his ancient walls, he waits.
Another Chaucerian rondel, with (I hope) a suitably medieval feel. N.
Gonecycling (again) 
Indeed a perfect feel to the poem.
This is very interesting Nick. And a convincing pathos.