French Mediaeval Romances from the Lays of Marie de France
by
Marie de France
Part 3 out of 4
desire to quit the realm for the sake of his honour, and far from
putting let and hindrance in his path, trusted that in the end he
would bring again her son. Since Milon was assured of his friend's
goodwill, he arrayed himself richly, and crossing the sea to Normandy,
came afterwards into the land of the Bretons. There he sought
the friendship of the lords of that realm, and fared to all the
tournaments of which he might hear. Milon bore himself proudly, and
gave graciously of his wealth, as though he were receiving a gift.
He sojourned till the winter was past in that land, he, and a brave
company of knights whom he held in his house with him. When Easter
had come, and the season that men give to tourneys and wars and the
righting of their private wrongs, Milon considered how he could meet
with the knight whom men called Peerless. At that time a tournament
was proclaimed to be held at Mont St. Michel. Many a Norman and Breton
rode to the game; knights of Flanders and of France were there in
plenty, but few fared from England. Milon drew to the lists amongst
the first. He inquired diligently of the young champion, and all men
were ready to tell from whence he came, and of his harness, and of the
blazon on his shield. At length the knight appeared in the lists and
Milon looked upon the adversary he so greatly desired to see. Now in
this tournament a knight could joust with that lord who was set over
against him, or he could seek to break a lance with his chosen foe. A
player must gain or lose, and he might find himself opposed either
by his comrade or his enemy. Milon did well and worshipfully in the
press, and was praised of many that day. But the Knight Peerless
carried the cry from all his fellows, for none might stand before him,
nor rival him in skill and address. Milon observed him curiously. The
lad struck so heavily, he thrust home so shrewdly, that Milon's hatred
changed to envy as he watched. Very comely showed the varlet, and
much to Milon's mind. The older knight set himself over against the
champion, and they met together in the centre of the field. Milon
struck his adversary so fiercely, that the lance splintered in his
gauntlet; but the young knight kept his seat without even losing a
stirrup. In return his spear was aimed with such cunning that he bore
his antagonist to the ground. Milon lay upon the earth bareheaded, for
his helmet was unlaced in the shock. His hair and beard showed
white to all, and the varlet was heavy to look on him whom he had
overthrown. He caught the destrier by the bridle, and led him before
the stricken man.
"Sir," said he, "I pray you to get upon your horse. I am right grieved
and vexed that I should have done this wrong. Believe me that it was
wrought unwittingly."
Milon sprang upon his steed. He approved the courtesy of his
adversary, and looking upon the hand that held his bridle, he knew
again his ring. He made inquiry of the lad.
"Friend," said he, "hearken to me. Tell me now the name of thy sire.
How art thou called; who is thy mother? I have seen much, and gone to
and fro about the world. All my life I have journeyed from realm to
realm, by reason of tourneys and quarrels and princes' wars, yet never
once by any knight have I been borne from my horse. This day I am
overthrown by a boy, and yet I cannot help but love thee."
The varlet answered, "I know little of my father. I understand that
his name is Milon, and that he was a knight of Wales. He loved the
daughter of a rich man, and was loved again. My mother bore me in
secret, and caused me to be carried to Northumberland, where I was
taught and tended. An old aunt was at the costs of my nourishing. She
kept me at her side, till of all her gifts she gave me horse and arms,
and sent me here, where I have remained. In hope and wish I purpose to
cross the sea, and return to my own realm. There I would seek out my
father, and learn how it stands between him and my mother. I will show
him my golden ring, and I will tell him of such privy matters that he
may not deny our kinship, but must love me as a son, and ever hold me
dear."
When Milon heard these words he could endure them no further. He got
him swiftly from his horse, and taking the lad by the fringe of his
hauberk, he cried, "Praise be to God, for now am I healed. Fair
friend, by my faith thou art my very son, for whom I came forth from
my own land, and have sought through all this realm."
The varlet climbed from the saddle, and stood upon his feet. Father
and son kissed each other tenderly, with many comfortable words. Their
love was fair to see, and those who looked upon their meeting, wept
for joy and pity.
Milon and his son departed from the tournament so soon as it came
to an end, for the knight desired greatly to speak to the varlet at
leisure, and to open before him all his mind. They rode to their
hostel, and with the knights of their fellowship, passed the hours in
mirth and revelry. Milon spoke to the lad of his mother. He told him
of their long love, and how she was given by her father in marriage to
a baron of his realm. He rehearsed the years of separation, accepted
by both with a good heart, and of the messenger who carried letters
between them, when there was none they dared to trust in, save only
the swan.
The son made answer,
"In faith, fair father, let us return to our own land. There I will
slay this husband, and you shall yet be my mother's lord."
This being accorded between them, on the morrow they made them ready
for the journey, and bidding farewell to their friends, set forth for
Wales. They embarked in a propitious hour, for a fair wind carried the
ship right swiftly to its haven. They had not ridden far upon their
road, when they met a certain squire of the lady's household on his
way to Brittany, bearing letters to Milon. His task was done long
before sundown in chancing on the knight. He gave over the sealed
writing with which he was charged, praying the knight to hasten to his
friend without any tarrying, since her husband was in his grave. Milon
rejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He showed the message to his
son, and pressed forward without pause or rest. They made such speed,
that at the end they came to the castle where the lady had her
lodging. Light of heart was she when she clasped again her child.
These two fond lovers sought neither countenance of their kin, nor
counsel of any man. Their son handselled them together, and gave the
mother to his sire. From the day they were wed they dwelt in wealth
and in sweetness to the end of their lives.
Of their love and content the minstrel wrought this Lay. I, also, who
have set it down in writing, have won guerdon enough just by telling
over the tale.
XIII
THE LAY OF YONEC
Since I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold.
The stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now to
rehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother's
first born child.
In days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full of
years, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town is
builded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of many
ancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well stricken
in years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have children
to come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowed
on this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind and
courteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of her
beauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln,
yea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married the
maiden to this aged man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fast
within his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He set
in charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her more
surely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, together
with their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel might
have speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. More
than seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children for
her solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet her
kinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that when
she sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in her
chamber to light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spent
her days in sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for she
gave no thought to her person. Indeed at times she hated the very
shadow of that beauty which had spoiled all her life.
Now when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord rose
early on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his sister
to rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did his
will, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she carried
in her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the sun with
her tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the chamber,
so she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.
"Alas," said she, "in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to be
shut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Of
whom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison?
Great is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may be
deceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. If
I might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I should
show the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatly
are my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous old
man, and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow,
for he will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly he
was plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, and
his veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heard
that in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought their
sorrows to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fair
to his desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave,
and were blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen of
any, except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy!
Perchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, such
adventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would but
shape the world to my wish!"
When the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of a
great bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what it
might mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed and
hooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilst
the lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comely
knight before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at this
sorcery. Her blood turned to water within her, and because of her
dread she hid her face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy the
knight first sought to persuade her to put away her fears.
"Lady," said he, "be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be as
gentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to make
plain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your tower
that I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. I
have loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love above
anything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid,
and I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should have
sought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm,
till you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as your
friend."
The lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words.
Presently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said that
perchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only she
had assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear,
but in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty.
Never in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight more
fair.
"Lady," he replied, "you ask rightly. For nothing that man can give
would I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God,
the Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by our
father Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and was
and ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If you
still give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell him
that since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Service
appointed by God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take your
semblance, and receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus be
certified of my faith, and never have reason to mistrust me more."
When the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to the
chamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since it
was time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture.
The lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn the
chaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The aged dame
replied,
"You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods,
and none will enter in the tower, save me."
Right distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called a
woman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. This
was seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She set
wide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplain
came as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. The
knight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; then
the priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behind
him.
The knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and a
blither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other,
but the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again to
his own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and she
sweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to return
often to her side.
"Lady," he made answer, "so you please to require me at any hour, you
may be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you to
observe such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. This
old woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes our
friendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evil
come upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely,
death."
The knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest lady
in the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went lightly
through the week. She took such heed to her person, that her former
beauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as her
prison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would not
leave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see her
friend at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber.
Early and late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God grant
her joy was long, against the evil day that came.
The husband of the lady presently took notice of the change in
his wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, and
misdoubting his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day.
He told her of his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, and
inquired what this should mean. The crone answered that she knew no
more than he, "for we have very little speech one with another. She
sees neither kin nor friend; but, now, she seems quite content to
remain alone in her chamber."
The husband made reply,
"Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we must
do all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning when
I have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, make
pretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hide
yourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shall
then learn the secret of this new found joy."
Having devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for those
who were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon be
tangled in the net.
Three days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house.
He told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court,
but that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, making
fast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind her
curtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desired
to know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for her
friend. The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, nor
cherish her more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them,
both in word and tenderness, till he could no longer stay. All this
the crone saw with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched the
fashion in which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she was
altogether fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear the
semblance of a hawk. When the husband returned to his house--for
he was near at hand--his sister told him that of which she was the
witness, and of the truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was he
and wrathful. Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slaying
of this bird. He caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, with
point and edge sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastened
firmly together, and set them securely within that window, by which
the tercel would come to his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fair
might not see nor hear of this wrong, and that there should be none to
show him of such treason.
On the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying that
he should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behind
him, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn.
The lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved so
loyally. Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any long
tarrying the bird came flying at her will. He flew in at the open
window, and was entangled amongst the blades of steel. One blade
pierced his body so deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound.
When the falcon knew that his hurt was to death, he forced himself to
pass the barrier, and coming before his lady fell upon her bed, so
that the sheets were dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon her
friend and his wound, and was altogether anguished and distraught.
"Sweet friend," said the knight, "it is for you that my life is lost.
Did I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely I
should be slain?"
On hearing these words the lady's head fell upon the pillow, and for a
space she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. He
prayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son who
would be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. He
would prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him by
slaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he was
bleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body he
flew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrill
cries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window.
Marvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window was
fully twenty feet from the ground. When the lady made her perilous
leap she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she set
herself to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped from
his wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till she
lighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it was
stained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarec
had refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he was
yet within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, and
since she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. She
went so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow. She
followed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a city
near at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls.
There was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver,
so rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a still
water. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near by
the keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew to
their anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in the
haven. The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts of
freshly fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. None
challenged her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in the
streets; she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of red
blood lay on the staircase of the palace. The lady entered and found
herself within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on a
pallet. She looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within a
larger room, empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight who
slept thereon. But when the lady entered in the third chamber she saw
a stately bed, that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was of
inwrought gold, and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. The
furniture was worth the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconces
of silver lighted the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as the
lady had come she knew again her friend, directly she saw him with her
eyes. She hastened to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief.
The knight clasped her in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, but
when she came to her mind, he comforted her as sweetly as he might.
"Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly as
you are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, in
their wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle.
They are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to my
death. Fair friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you."
The lady made answer, "Friend, the best thing that can befall me is
that we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If he
finds me again he will certainly slay me with the sword."
The knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon his
friend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husband
would think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seek
to revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered it
to the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it to
the hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthy
knight. When that time was come she and her lord would go--together
with the son--to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where should
be seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death;
there he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall be
rehearsed the tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitter
wrong. And then shall be seen what he will do.
When the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, he
gave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, and
get her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command,
bearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precious
treasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the city
when she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamented
the death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell four
separate times upon the road, and four times she came from out her
swoon. She bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshed
him, and rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her own
land, and returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, she
dwelt in peace, since--as Eudemarec foretold--her lord gave no thought
to her outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her any
more.
In due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec.
Very sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not his
like for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear.
When he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now,
what chanced to them all, that self-same year.
It was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron with
great pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husband
rode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont.
Together with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As the
roads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose their
way, they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straight
path. The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none so
fair. Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks in
their holy habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and the
pilgrims were welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat and
drink near by the Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they would
have gone their way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little,
since he would show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all the
offices of the Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously,
the husband did according to his wish.
Immediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose from
table, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapter
house they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great,
covered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twenty
torches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, and
the sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung in
that chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims saw
the great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of the
guardians as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who lay
therein. The monks commenced to weep, and told with tears, that in
that place was laid the body of the best, the bravest, and the fairest
knight who ever was, or ever should be born. "In his life he was King
of this realm, and never was there so worshipful a lord. He was slain
at Caerwent for the love of a lady of those parts. Since then the
country is without a King. Many a day have we waited for the son of
these luckless lovers to come to our land, even as our lord commanded
us to do."
When the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud voice
before them all.
"Fair son," said she, "you have heard why God has brought us to this
place. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was he
slain by this ancient Judas at your side."
With these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him the
glaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as she
might she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with his
friend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his death
by the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the end
she fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any further
word until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that his
mother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's sword
and smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. In
that hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gave
quittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings were
published abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting the
body of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with due
rite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May God
grant them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the people
acclaimed him for their lord, as he departed from the church.
Those who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many days
shaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolour
that these two friends suffered by reason of their love.
XIV
THE LAY OF THE THORN
Whosoever counts these Lays as fable, may be assured that I am not of
his mind. The dead and past stories that I have told again in divers
fashions, are not set down without authority. The chronicles of these
far off times are yet preserved in the land. They may be read by the
curious at Caerleon, or in the monastery of St. Aaron. They may be
heard in Brittany, and in many another realm besides. To prove how
the remembrance of such tales endures, I will now relate to you the
adventure of the Two Children, making clear what has remained hidden
to this very hour.
In Brittany there lived a prince, high of spirit, fair of person,
courteous and kind to all. This Childe was a King's son, and there
were none to cherish him but his father and his father's wife, for
his mother was dead. The King held him dearer than aught else in the
world, and close he was to the lady's heart. The lady, for her part,
had a daughter by another husband than the King. Very dainty was the
maiden, sweet of colour and of face, passing young and fair. Both
these children, born to so high estate, were right tender of age, for
the varlet, who was the elder of the twain, was but seven years. The
two children loved together very sweetly. Nothing seemed of worth to
one, if it were not shared with the other. They were nourished at the
same table, went their ways together, and lived side by side. The
guardians who held them in ward, seeing their great love, made no
effort to put them apart, but allowed them to have all things in
common. The love of these children increased with their years, but
Dame Nature brought another love to youth and maid than she gave to
the child. They delighted no more in their old frolic and play. Such
sport gave place to clasp and kisses, to many words, and to long
silences. To savour their friendship they took refuge in an attic of
the keep, but all the years they had passed together, made the new
love flower more sweetly in their hearts, as each knew well. Very pure
and tender was their love, and good would it have been if they could
have hidden it from their fellows. This might not be, for in no great
while they were spied upon, and seen.
It chanced upon a day that this prince, so young and debonair, came
home from the river with an aching head, by reason of the heat. He
entered in a chamber, and shutting out the noise and clamour, lay
upon his bed, to ease his pain. The Queen was with her daughter in a
chamber, instructing her meetly in that which it becomes a maid to
know. Closer to a damsel's heart is her lover than her kin. So soon as
she heard that her friend was come again to the house, she stole forth
from her mother, without saying word to any, and accompanied by none,
went straight to the chamber where he slept. The prince welcomed her
gladly, for they had not met together that day. The lady, who thought
no wrong, condoled with him in his sickness, and of her sweetness gave
him a hundred kisses to soothe his hurt. Too swiftly sped the time
in this fashion. Presently the Queen noticed that the damsel was no
longer with her at her task. She rose to her feet, and going quickly
to the chamber of the prince, entered therein without call or knock,
for the door was unfastened on the latch. When the Queen saw these two
lovers fondly laced in each other's arms, she knew and was certified
of their love. Right wrathful was the Queen. She caught the maiden
by the wrist, and shut her fast in her room. She prayed the King to
govern his son more strictly, and to hold him in such ward about the
Court that he might get no speech with the damsel. Since he could have
neither sight nor word of his friend, save only the sound of weeping
from her chamber, the prince determined to tarry no further in the
palace. He sought his father the self-same hour, and showed him what
was in his mind.
"Sire," said he, "I crave a gift. If it pleases you to be a father to
your son, make me now a knight. I desire to seek another realm, and to
serve some prince for guerdon. The road calls me, for many a knight
has won much riches with his sword."
The King did not refuse the lad's request, but accorded it should be
even as he wished. He prayed the prince to dwell for a year about the
Court, that he might the more readily assist at such tourneys and
follow such feats of arms as were proclaimed in the kingdom. This the
prince agreed to do--the more readily because there was nothing else
to be done. He remained therefore at the Court, moving ever by his
father's side. The maiden, for her part, was in the charge of her
mother, who reproached her always for that she had done amiss. The
Queen did not content herself with reproaches and threats. She used
the sharp discipline upon her, so that the maiden suffered grievously
in her person. Sick at heart was the varlet whilst he hearkened to the
beatings, the discipline and the chastisement wherewith her mother
corrected the damsel. He knew not what to do, for well he understood
that his was the fault, and that by reason of him was her neck bowed
down in her youth. More and more was he tormented because of his
friend.
More and more the stripes with which she was afflicted became heavier
for him to bear. He shut himself close within his chamber, and making
fast the door, gave his heart over to tears.
"Alas," cried he, "what shall I do! How may the ill be cured that I
have brought on us by my lightness and folly! I love her more than
life, and, certes, if I may not have my friend I will prove that I can
die for her, though I cannot live without her."
Whilst the prince made this lamentation, the Queen came before the
King.
"Sir," said she, "I pledge my oath and word as a crowned lady that I
keep my daughter as strictly as I may. Think to your own son, and see
to it that he cannot set eyes on the maid. He considers none other
thing but how to get clasp and speech of his friend."
For this reason the King guarded his son about the Court as closely as
the Queen held the maiden in her chamber. So vigilant was the watch
that these pitiful lovers might never have word together. They had no
leisure to meet; they never looked one on the other; nor heard tidings
of how they did, whether by letter or by sergeant.
They lived this death in life till the same year--eight days before
the Feast of St. John--the varlet was dubbed knight. The King spent
the day in the chase, and returning, brought with him great store of
fowl and venison that he had taken. After supper, when the tables were
removed, the King seated himself for his delight upon a carpet spread
before the dais, his son and many a courteous lord with him. The fair
company gave ear to the Lay of Alys, sweetly sung by a minstrel from
Ireland, to the music of his rote. When his story was ended, forthwith
he commenced another, and related the Lay of Orpheus; none being so
bold as to disturb the singer, or to let his mind wander from the
song. Afterwards the knights spoke together amongst themselves. They
told of adventures which in ancient days had chanced to many, and were
noised about Brittany. Amongst these lords sat a damsel, passing sweet
of tongue. In her turn she told of a certain adventure which awaited
the adventurous at the Ford of the Thorn, once every year, on the
vigil of St. John, "but much I doubt whether now there be knights
so bold as to dare the perils of that passage." When the newly made
knight heard these words his pride quickened within him. He considered
that although he was belted with the sword, he had as yet done no deed
to prove his courage in the eyes of men. He deemed the time had come
to show his hardihood, and to put to silence the malicious lips. He
stood upon his feet, calling upon damsel, King and barons to hearken
to his voice, and spake out manfully in the ears of great and small.
"Lords," cried he, "whatever says the maiden, I boast before you all
that on St. John's Eve I will ride alone to the Ford of the Thorn, and
dare this adventure, whether it bring me gain or whether it bring me
loss."
The King was right heavy to hear these words. He thought them to be
the gab and idle speech of a boy.
"Fair son," said he, "put this folly from your mind."
But when the King was persuaded that whether it were foolishness or
wisdom the lad was determined to go his way, and abide the issue of
the adventure,
"Go swiftly," said he, "in the care of God. Since risk your life you
must, play it boldly like a pawn, and may God grant you heart's desire
and happy hours."
The self-same night, whilst the lad lay sleeping in his bed, that
fair lady, his friend, was in much unrest in hers. The tidings of her
lover's boast had been carried quickly to her chamber, and sorely was
she adread for what might chance. When the Eve of St. John was come,
and the day drew towards evening, the varlet, with all fair hopes,
made him ready to ride to the Ford Adventurous. He had clad himself
from basnet to shoes in steel, and mounted on a strong destrier, went
his road to essay the Passage of the Thorn. Whilst he took his path
the maiden took hers. She went furtively to the orchard, that she
might importune God to bring her friend again, safe and sound to his
own house. She seated herself on the roots of a tree, and with sighs
and tears lamented her piteous case.
"Father of Heaven," said the girl, "Who was and ever shall be, be
pitiful to my prayer. Since it is not to Thy will that any man should
be wretched, be merciful to a most unhappy maid. Fair Sire, give back
the days that are gone, when my friend was at my side, and grant that
once again I may be with him. Lord God of Hosts, when shall I be
healed? None knows the bitterness of my sorrow, for none may taste
thereof, save such as set their heart on what they may not have. These
only, Lord, know the wormwood and the gall."
Thus prayed the maiden, seated on the roots of that ancient tree, her
feet upon the tender grass. At the time of her orisons much was she
sought and inquired after in the palace, but none might find where she
had hidden. The damsel herself was given over altogether to her love
and her sorrow, and had no thought for anything, save for prayers and
tears. The night wore through, and dawn already laced the sky, when
she fell on a little slumber, in the tree where she was sheltered. She
woke with a start, but returned to her sleep more deeply than before.
She had not slept long, when herseemed she was ravished from the
tree--but I cannot make this plain for I know no wizardry--to that
Ford of the Thorn, where her friend and lover had repaired. The knight
looked upon the sleeping maiden, and marvelled at so fair a sight. All
adread was the lady when she came from her slumber, for she knew not
where she lay, and wondered greatly. She covered her head by reason of
her exceeding fear, but the knight consoled her courteously.
"Diva," said he, "there is no reason for terror. If you are an earthly
woman, speaking with a mortal tongue, tell me your story. Tell me in
what guise and manner you came so suddenly to this secret place."
The maiden began to be of more courage, till she remembered that she
was no longer in the orchard of the castle. She inquired of the knight
to what haunt she had come.
"Lady," he made answer, "you are laid at the Ford of the Thorn, where
adventures chance to the seeker, sometimes greatly against the mind,
and sometimes altogether according to the heart."
"Ah, dear God," cried the lady, "now shall I be made whole. Sir, look
a little closer upon me, for I have been your friend. Thanks be to
God, who so soon has heard my prayer."
This was the beginning of adventures which happened that night to the
seeker. The maiden hastened to embrace her lover. He got him nimbly
from his horse, and taking her softly between his arms, kissed her
with more kisses than I can tell. Then they sat together beneath the
thorn, and the damsel told how she fell asleep within that old tree in
the pleasaunce, of how she was rapt from thence in her slumber, and of
how, yet sleeping, he came upon her by the Ford. When the knight had
hearkened to all that she had to say, he looked from her face, and
glancing across the river, marked a lord, with lifted lance, riding
to the ford. This knight wore harness of a fair vermeil colour, and
bestrode a horse white of body, save for his two ears, which were red
as the rider's mail. Slender of girdle was this knight, and he made no
effort to enter the river, but drew rein upon the other side of the
passage, and watched. The varlet said to his friend that it became
his honour to essay some feats of arms with this adversary. He got to
horse, and rode to the river, leaving the maiden beneath the thorn.
Had she but found another horse at need, very surely would she have
ridden to his aid. The two knights drew together as swiftly as their
steeds could bear them. They thrust so shrewdly with the lance, that
their shields were split and broken. The spears splintered in the
gauntlet, and both champions were unhorsed by the shock, rolling on
the sand; but nothing worse happened to them. Since they had neither
squire nor companion to help them on their feet, they pained them
grievously to get them from the ground. When they might climb upon
their steeds, they hung again the buckler about the neck, and lowered
their ashen spears. Passing heavy was the varlet, for shame that his
friend had seen him thrown. The two champions met together in the
onset, but the prince struck his adversary so cunningly with the
lance, that the laces of his buckler were broken, and the shield fell
from his body. When the varlet saw this he rejoiced greatly, for he
knew that the eyes of his friend were upon him. He pressed his quarrel
right fiercely, and tumbling his foe from the saddle, seized his horse
by the bridle.[2]
The two knights passed the ford, and the prince feared sorely because
of the skill and mightiness of his adversary. He could not doubt that
if they fell upon him together he would perish at their hands. He put
the thought from mind, for he would not suspect them of conduct so
unbecoming to gentle knight, and so contrary to the laws of chivalry.
If they desired some passage of arms, doubtless they would joust as
gentlemen, and each for himself alone. When these three knights were
mounted on their steeds, they crossed the ford with courtesy and
order, each seeking to give precedence to his companion. Having come
to the bank the stranger knights prayed the prince to run a course for
their pleasure. He answered that it was his wish, too, and made him
ready for the battle. The prince rejoiced greatly when he saw one of
these two adversaries ride a little apart, that he might the more
easily observe the combat. He was assured that he would suffer no
felony at their hands. For their part the two knights were persuaded
that they had to do with an errant who had ridden to the ford for no
other gain than honour and praise. The two adversaries took their
places within the lists. They lowered their lance, and covering their
bodies with the shield, smote fiercely together. So rude was the shock
that the staves of the spears were broken, and the strong destriers
were thrown upon their haunches. Neither of the good knights had lost
his saddle. Each of the combatants got him to his feet, and drawing
the sword, pressed upon his fellow, till the blood began to flow. When
the knight who judged this quarrel saw their prowess, he came near,
and commanded that the battle should cease. The adversaries drew
apart, and struck no further blow with the sword. Right courteously
and with fair words he spake to the prince. "Friend," said the knight,
"get to your horse, and break a lance with me. Then we can go in
peace, for our time grows short. You must endure till the light be
come if you hope to gain the prize. Do your devoir, valiantly,
for should you chance to be thrown in this course, or slain by
misadventure, you have lost your desire. None will ever hear of this
adventure; all your life you will remain little and obscure. Your
maiden will be led away by the victor, seated on the good Castilian
horse you have gained by right of courage. Fight bravely. The
trappings of the destrier are worth the spoil of a king's castle, and
as for the horse himself he is the swiftest and the fairest in the
world. Be not amazed that I tell you of these matters. I have watched
you joust, and know you for a hardy knight and a gallant gentleman.
Besides I stand to lose horse and harness equally with you."
[Footnote 2: There is here some omission in the manuscript.]
The prince listened to these words, and accorded that the knight spoke
wisely and well. He would willingly have taken counsel of the maiden,
but first, as surely he knew, he must joust with this knight. He
gathered the reins in his glove, and choosing a lance with an ashen
staff, opposed himself to his adversary. The combatants met together
so fiercely that the lance pierced the steel of the buckler; yet
neither lost stirrup by the shock. When the prince saw this he smote
the knight so shrewdly that he would have fallen from the saddle, had
he not clung to the neck of his destrier. Of his courtesy the prince
passed on, and refrained his hand until his enemy had recovered his
seat. On his return he found the knight full ready to continue his
devoir. Each of the champions plucked forth his sword, and sheltered
him beneath his shield. They struck such mighty blows that the
bucklers were hewn in pieces, but in spite of all they remained firm
in the saddle. The maiden was aghast whilst she watched the melee. She
had great fear for her friend, lest mischief should befall him, and
she cried loudly to the knight that, for grace, he should give over
this combat, and go his way. Very courteous was the knight, and meetly
schooled in what was due to maidens. He saluted the damsel, and,
together with his companion, rode straightway from the ford. The
prince watched them pass for a little, then without further tarrying
he went swiftly to the maiden, where, all fearful and trembling, she
knelt beneath the thorn. The lady stood upon her feet as her lover
drew near. She climbed behind him on the saddle, for well she knew
that their pains were done. They fared so fast that when it was yet
scarce day they came again to the palace. The King saw them approach,
and rejoiced greatly at his son's prowess; but at this he marvelled
much, that he should return with the daughter of the Queen.
The self-same day of this home-coming--as I have heard tell--the King
had summoned to Court his barons and vassals because of a certain
quarrel betwixt two of his lords. This quarrel being accorded between
them, and come to a fair end, the King related to that blithe company
the story of this adventure. He told again that which you know, of how
the prince defended the Ford, of the finding of the maiden beneath the
thorn, of the mighty joust, and of that white horse which was taken
from the adversary.
The prince both then and thereafter caused the horse to be entreated
with the greatest care. He received the maiden to wife, and cherished
her right tenderly. She, and the steed on which she would always ride,
were his richest possessions. The destrier lived many years in much
honour, but on a day when his master was taking the harness from his
head, he fell and died forthwith.
Of the story which has been set before you the Bretons wrought a Lay.
They did not call the song the Lay of the Ford, although the adventure
took place at a river; neither have they named it The Lay of the Two
Children. For good or ill the rhyme is known as the Lay of the Thorn.
It begins well and endeth better, for these kisses find their fruition
in marriage.
XV
THE LAY OF GRAELENT
Now will I tell you the adventure of Graelent, even as it was told to
me, for the Lay is sweet to hear, and the tune thereof lovely to bear
in mind.
Graelent was born in Brittany of a gentle and noble house, very comely
of person and very frank of heart. The King who held Brittany in that
day, made mortal war upon his neighbours, and commanded his vassals to
take arms in his quarrel. Amongst these came Graelent, whom the King
welcomed gladly, and since he was a wise and hardy knight greatly was
he honoured and cherished by the Court. So Graelent strove valiantly
at tourney and at joust, and pained himself mightily to do the enemy
all the mischief that he was able. The Queen heard tell the prowess of
her knight, and loved him in her heart for reason of his feats of arms
and of the good men spoke of him. So she called her chamberlain apart,
and said, "Tell me truly, hast thou not often heard speak of that fair
knight, Sir Graelent, whose praise is in all men's mouths?"
"Lady," answered the chamberlain, "I know him for a courteous
gentleman, well spoken of by all."
"I would he were my friend," replied the lady, "for I am in much
unrest because of him. Go thou, and bid him come to me, so he would be
worthy of my love." "Passing gracious and rich is your gift, lady, and
doubtless he will receive it with marvellous joy. Why, from here to
Troy there is no priest even, however holy, who in looking on your
face would not lose Heaven in your eyes."
Thereupon the chamberlain took leave of the Queen, and seeking
Graelent within his lodging saluted him courteously, and gave him the
message, praying him to come without delay to the palace.
"Go before, fair friend," answered the knight, "for I will follow you
at once."
So when the chamberlain was gone Graelent caused his grey horse to be
saddled, and mounting thereon, rode to the castle, attended by his
squire. He descended without the hall, and passing before the King
entered within the Queen's chamber. When the lady saw him she embraced
him closely, and cherished and honoured him sweetly. Then she made the
knight to be seated on a fair carpet, and to his face praised him
for his exceeding comeliness. But he answered her very simply and
courteously, saying nothing but what was seemly to be said. Then the
Queen kept silence for a great while, considering whether she should
require him to love her for the love of love; but at the last, made
bold by passion, she asked if his heart was set on any maid or dame.
"Lady," said he, "I love no woman, for love is a serious business,
not a jest. Out of five hundred who speak glibly of love, not one
can spell the first letter of his name. With such it is idleness,
or fulness of bread, or fancy, masking in the guise of love. Love
requires of his servants chastity in thought, in word and in deed. If
one of two lovers is loyal, and the other jealous and false, how may
their friendship last, for Love is slain! But sweetly and discreetly
love passes from person to person, from heart to heart, or it is
nothing worth. For what the lover would, that would the beloved; what
she would ask of him that should he go before to grant. Without accord
such as this, love is but a bond and a constraint. For above all
things Love means sweetness, and truth, and measure; yea, loyalty to
the loved one and to your word. And because of this I dare not meddle
with so high a matter."
The Queen heard Graelent gladly, finding him so tripping of tongue,
and since his words were wise and courteous, at the end she discovered
to him her heart.
"Friend, Sir Graelent, though I am a wife, yet have I never loved my
lord. But I love you very dearly, and what I have asked of you will
you not go before to grant?"
"Lady," said he, "give me pity and forgiveness, but this may not be.
I am the vassal of the King, and on my knees have pledged him loyalty
and faith, and sworn to defend his life and honour. Never shall he
have shame because of me."
With these words Sir Graelent took his leave of the Queen, and went
his way.
Seeing him go in this fashion the Queen commenced to sigh. She was
grieved in her heart, and knew not what to do. But whatever chanced
she would not renounce her passion, so often she required his love by
means of soft messages and costly gifts, but he refused them all. Then
the Queen turned from love to hate, and the greatness of her passion
became the measure of her wrath, for very evilly she spoke of Graelent
to the King. So long as the war endured Graelent remained in that
realm. He spent all that he had upon his company, for the King grudged
wages to his men. The Queen persuaded the King to this, counselling
him that by withholding the pay of the sergeants, Graelent might in no
wise flee the country, nor take service with another lord. So at the
end Graelent was wonderfully downcast, nor was it strange that he was
sad, for there remained nothing which he might pledge, but one poor
steed, and when this was gone, no horse had he to carry him from the
country.
It was now the month of May, when the hours are long and warm. The
burgess, with whom Graelent lodged, had risen early in the morning,
and with his wife had gone to eat with neighbours in the town. No one
was in the house except Graelent, no squire, nor archer, nor servant,
save only the daughter of his host, a very courteous maid. When the
hour for dinner was come she prayed the knight that they might sit at
board together. But he had no heart for mirth, and seeking out his
squire bade him bridle and saddle his horse, for he had no care to
eat.
"I have no saddle," replied the squire.
"Friend," said the demoiselle, "I will lend you bridle and saddle as
well."
So when the harness was done upon him, Graelent mounted his horse, and
went his way through the town, clad in a cloak of sorry fur, which
he had worn overlong already. The townsfolk in the street turned and
stared upon him, making a jest of his poverty, but of their jibes
he took no heed, for such act but after their kind, and seldom show
kindliness or courtesy.
Now without the town there spread a great forest, thick with trees,
and through the forest ran a river. Towards this forest Graelent rode,
deep in heavy thought, and very dolent. Having ridden for a little
space beneath the trees, he spied within a leafy thicket a fair white
hart, whiter even than snow on winter branches. The hart fled before
him, and Graelent followed so closely in her track that man and deer
presently came together to a grassy lawn, in the midst of which sprang
a fountain of clear, sweet water. Now in this fountain a demoiselle
disported herself for her delight. Her raiment was set on a bush near
by, and her two maidens stood on the bank busied in their lady's
service. Graelent forgot the chase at so sweet a sight, since never
in his life had he seen so lovely a dame. For the lady was slender in
shape and white, very gracious and dainty of colour, with laughing
eyes and an open brow, certainly the most beautiful thing in all the
world. Graelent dared not draw nigh the fountain for fear of troubling
the dame, so he came softly to the bush to set hands upon her raiment.
The two maidens marked his approach, and at their fright the lady
turned, and calling him by name, cried with great anger,
"Graelent, put my raiment down, for it will profit you little even if
you carry it away, and leave me naked in this wood. But if you are
indeed too greedy of gain to remember your knighthood, at least return
me my shift, and content yourself with my mantle, since it will bring
you money, as it is very good."
"I am not a merchant's son," answered Graelent merrily, "nor am I a
huckster to sell mantles in a booth. If your cloak were worth the
spoil of three castles I would not now carry it from the bush. Come
forth from your bathing, fair friend, and clothe yourself in your
vesture, for you have to say a certain word to me."
"I will not trust myself to your hand, for you might seize upon me,"
answered the lady, "and I tell you frankly that I put no faith in your
word, nor have had any dealings with your school."
Then Graelent answered still more merrily, "Lady, needs must I suffer
your wrath. But at least I will guard your raiment till you come forth
from the well and, fairest, very dainty is your body in my eyes."
When the lady knew that Graelent would not depart, nor render again
her raiment, then she demanded surety that he would do her no hurt.
This thing was accorded between them, so she came forth from the
fountain, and did her vesture upon her. Then Graelent took her gently
by the left hand, and prayed and required of her that she would grant
him love for love. But the lady answered, "I marvel greatly that you
should dare to speak to me in this fashion, for I have little reason
to think you discreet. You are bold, sir knight, and overbold, to seek
to ally yourself with a woman of my lineage."
Sir Graelent was not abashed by the dame's proud spirit, but wooed and
prayed her gently and sweetly, promising that if she granted him her
love he would serve her in all loyalty, and never depart therefrom
all the days of his life. The demoiselle hearkened to the words of
Graelent, and saw plainly that he was a valiant knight, courteous and
wise. She thought within herself that should she send him from her,
never might she find again so sure a friend. Since, then, she knew him
worthy of her love, she kissed him softly, and spoke to him in this
manner, "Graelent, I will love you none the less truly, though we have
not met until this day. But one thing is needful that our love may
endure. Never must you speak a word by which this hidden thing may
become known. I will furnish you with deniers in your purse, with
cloth of silk, with silver and with gold. Night and day will I stay
with you, and great shall be the love between us twain. You shall
see me riding at your side; you may talk and laugh with me at your
pleasure, but I must never be seen of your comrades, nor must they
know aught concerning your bride. Graelent, you are loyal, brave, and
courteous, and comely enough to the view. For you I spread my snare
at the fountain; for you shall I suffer heavy pains, as well I knew
before I set forth on this adventure. Now must I trust to your
discretion, for if you speak vainly and boastfully of this thing then
am I undone. Remain now for a year in this country, which shall be for
you a home that your lady loves well. But noon is past, and it is time
for you to go. Farewell, and a messenger shortly shall tell you that
which I would have you do."
Graelent took leave of the lady, and she sweetly clasped and kissed
him farewell. He returned to his lodging, dismounted from his steed,
and entering within a chamber, leaned from the casement, considering
this strange adventure. Looking towards the forest he saw a varlet
issue therefrom riding upon a palfrey. He drew rein before Graelent's
door, and taking his feet from the stirrup, saluted the knight. So
Graelent inquired from whence he rode, and of his name and business.
"Sir," answered he, "I am the messenger of your lady. She sends you
this destrier by my hand, and would have me enter in your service, to
pay your servitors their wages and to take charge of your lodging."
When Graelent heard this message he thought it both good and fair. He
kissed the varlet upon the cheek, and accepting his gift, caused the
destrier--which was the noblest, the swiftest and the most speedy
under the sun--to be led to the stable. Then the varlet carried his
baggage to his master's chamber, and took therefrom a large cushion
and a rich coverlet which he spread upon the couch. After this he drew
thereout a purse containing much gold and silver, and stout cloth
fitting for the knight's apparel. Then he sent for the host, and
paying him what was owing, called upon him to witness that he was
recompensed most largely for the lodging. He bade him also to seek out
such knights as should pass through the town to refresh and solace
themselves in the company of his lord. The host was a worthy man. He
made ready a plenteous dinner, and inquired through the town for such
poor knights as were in misease by reason of prison or of war. These
he brought to the hostelry of Sir Graelent, and comforted them with
instruments of music, and with all manner of mirth. Amongst them sat
Graelent at meat, gay and debonair, and richly apparelled. Moreover,
to these poor knights and the harpers Graelent gave goodly gifts, so
that there was not a citizen in all the town who did not hold him in
great worship, and regard him as his lord.
From this moment Graelent lived greatly at his ease, for not a cloud
was in his sky. His lady came at will and pleasure; all day long they
laughed and played together, and at night she lay softly at his side.
What truer happiness might he know than this? Often, besides, he rode
to such tournaments of the land as he was able, and all men esteemed
him for a stout and worthy knight. Very pleasant were his days, and
his love, and if such things might last for ever he had nothing else
to ask of life.
When a full year had passed by, the season drew to the Feast of
Pentecost. Now it was the custom of the King to summon at that tide
his barons and all who held their fiefs of him to his Court for a rich
banquet. Amongst these lords was bidden Sir Graelent. After men had
eaten and drunk the whole day, and all were merry, the King commanded
the Queen to put off her royal robes, and to stand forth upon the
dais. Then he boasted before the company,
"Lord barons, how seems it to you? Beneath the sky is there a lovelier
Queen than mine, be she maid, lady or demoiselle?"
So all the lords made haste to praise the Queen, and to cry and affirm
that in all the world was neither maid nor wife so dainty, fresh and
fair. Not a single voice but bragged of her beauty, save only that
of Graelent. He smiled at their folly, for his heart remembered his
friend, and he held in pity all those who so greatly rejoiced in the
Queen. So he sat with covered head, and with face bent smiling to the
board. The Queen marked his discourtesy, and drew thereto the notice
of the King.
"Sire, do you observe this dishonour! Not one of these mighty lords
but has praised the beauty of your wife, save Graelent only, who makes
a mock of her. Always has he held me in envy and despite."
The King commanded Graelent to his throne, and in the hearing of all
bade the knight to tell, on his faith as vassal to his liege, for what
reason he had hid his face and laughed.
"Sire," answered Graelent to the King, "Sire, hearken to my words. In
all the world no man of your lineage does so shameful a deed as this.
You make your wife a show upon a stage. You force your lords to praise
her just with lies, saying that the sun does not shine upon her peer.
One man will tell the truth to your face, and say that very easily can
be found a fairer dame than she."
Right heavy was the King when he heard these words. He conjured
Graelent to tell him straightly if he knew a daintier dame.
"Yes, Sire, and thirty times more gracious than the Queen."
The Queen was marvellously wrathful to hear this thing, and prayed her
husband of his grace to compel the knight to bring that woman to the
Court of whose beauty he made so proud a boast.
"Set us side by side, and let the choice be made between us. Should
she prove the fairer let him go in peace; but if not, let justice be
done on him for his calumny and malice."
So the King bade his guards to lay hands on Graelent, swearing that
between them never should be love nor peace, nor should the knight
issue forth from prison, until he had brought before him her whose
beauty he had praised so much.
Graelent was held a captive. He repented him of his hasty words, and
begged the King to grant him respite. He feared to have lost his
friend, and sweated grievously with rage and mortification. But though
many of the King's house pitied him in his evil case, the long days
brought him no relief, until a full year went by, and once again the
King made a great banquet to his barons and his lieges. Then was
Graelent brought to hall, and put to liberty on such terms that he
would return bringing with him her whose loveliness he had praised
before the King. Should she prove so desirable and dear, as his boast,
then all would be well, for he had naught to fear. But if he returned
without his lady, then he must go to judgment, and his only hope would
be in the mercy of the King.
Graelent mounted his good horse, and parted from the Court sad and
wrathful. He sought his lodging, and inquired for his servant, but
might not find him. He called upon his friend, but the lady did not
heed his voice. Then Graelent gave way to despair, and preferred death
to life. He shut himself within his chamber, crying upon his dear one
for grace and mercy, but from her he got neither speech nor comfort.
So seeing that his love had withdrawn herself from him by reason of
his grievous fault, he took no rest by night or day, and held his life
in utter despite. For a full year he lived in this piteous case, so
that it was marvellous to those about him that he might endure his
life.
On the day appointed the sureties brought Graelent where the King was
set in hall with his lords. Then the King inquired of Graelent where
was now his friend.
"Sire," answered the knight, "she is not here, for in no wise might I
find her. Now do with me according to your will."
"Sir Graelent," said the King, "very foully have you spoken. You have
slandered the Queen, and given all my lords the lie. When you go from
my hands never will you do more mischief with your tongue."
Then the King spoke with a high voice to his barons.
"Lords, I pray and command you to give judgment in this matter. You
heard the blame that Graelent set upon me before all my Court. You
know the deep dishonour that he fastened on the Queen. How may such a
disloyal vassal deal honestly with his lord, for as the proverb tells,
'Hope not for friendship from the man who beats your dog!'"
The lords of the King's household went out from before him, and
gathered themselves together to consider their judgment. They kept
silence for a great space, for it was grievous to them to deal harshly
with so valiant a knight. Whilst they thus refrained from words a
certain page hastened unto them, and prayed them not to press the
matter, for (said he) "even now two young maidens, the freshest maids
in all the realm, seek the Court. Perchance they bring succour to
the good knight, and, so it be the will of God, may deliver him from
peril." So the lords waited right gladly, and presently they saw two
damsels come riding to the palace. Very young were these maidens, very
slender and gracious, and daintily cloaked in two fair mantles. So
when the pages had hastened to hold their stirrup and bridle, the
maidens dismounted from their palfreys and entering within the hall
came straight before the King.
"Sire," said one of the two damsels, "hearken now to me. My lady
commands us to pray you to put back this cause for a while, nor to
deliver judgment therein, since she comes to plead with you for the
deliverance of this knight."
When the Queen heard this message she was filled with shame, and made
speed to get her from the hall Hardly had she gone than there entered
two other damsels, whiter and more sweetly flushed even than their
fellows. These bade the King to wait for a little, since their
mistress was now at hand. So all men stared upon them, and praised
their great beauty, saying that if the maid was so fair, what then
must be the loveliness of the dame. When, therefore, the demoiselle
came in her turn, the King's household stood upon their feet to give
her greeting. Never did woman show so queenly to men's sight as did
this lady riding to the hall. Passing sweet she was to see, passing
simple and gracious of manner, with softer eyes and a daintier face
than girl of mother born. The whole Court marvelled at her beauty, for
no spot or blemish might be found in her body. She was richly dressed
in a kirtle of vermeil silk, broidered with gold, and her mantle was
worth the spoil of a king's castle. Her palfrey was of good race,
and speedy; the harness and trappings upon him were worth a thousand
livres in minted coin. All men pressed about her, praising her face
and person, her simplicity and queenlihead. She came at slow pace
before the King, and dismounting from the palfrey, spoke very
courteously in this fashion.
"Sire," said she, "hearken to me, and you, lord barons, give heed to
my pleading. You know the words Graelent spake to the King, in the
ears of men, when the Queen made herself a show before the lords,
saying that often had he seen a fairer lady. Very hasty and foolish
was his tongue, since he provoked the King to anger. But at least he
told the truth when he said that there is no dame so comely but that
very easily may be found one more sweet than she. Look now boldly upon
my face, and judge you rightly in this quarrel between the Queen and
me. So shall Sir Graelent be acquitted of this blame."
Then gazing upon her, all the King's household, lord and lackey,
prince and page, cried with one voice that her favour was greater than
that of the Queen. The King himself gave judgment with his barons that
this thing was so; therefore Sir Graelent was acquitted of his blame,
and declared a free man.
When judgment was given the lady took her leave of the King, and
attended by her four damsels departed straightway from the hall upon
her palfrey. Sir Graelent caused his white horse to be saddled, and
mounting, followed hotly after her through the town. Day after day
he rode in her track, pleading for pity and pardon, but she gave him
neither good words nor bad in answer. So far they fared that at last
they came to the forest, and taking their way through a deep wood rode
to the bank of a fair, clear stream. The lady set her palfrey to the
river, but when she saw that Graelent also would enter therein she
cried to him,
"Stay, Graelent, the stream is deep, and it is death for you to
follow."
Graelent took no heed to her words, but forced his horse to enter the
river, so that speedily the waters closed above his head. Then the
lady seized his bridle, and with extreme toil brought horse and rider
back again to land.
"Graelent," said she, "you may not pass this river, however mightily
you pain yourself, therefore must you remain alone on this bank."
Again the lady set her palfrey to the river, but Graelent could not
suffer to see her go upon her way alone. Again he forced his horse to
enter the water; but the current was very swift and the stream was
very deep, so that presently Graelent was torn from his saddle, and
being borne away by the stream came very nigh to drown. When the four
maidens saw his piteous plight they cried aloud to their lady, and
said,
"Lady, for the love of God, take pity on your poor friend. See, how he
drowns in this evil case. Alas, cursed be the day you spake soft words
in his ear, and gave him the grace of your love. Lady, look how the
current hurries him to his death. How may your heart suffer him to
drown whom you have held so close! Aid him, nor have the sin on your
soul that you endured to let the man who loved you die without your
help."
When the lady heard the complaint of her maidens, no longer could
she hide the pity she felt in her heart. In all haste she turned her
palfrey to the river, and entering the stream clutched her lover by
the belt. Thus they won together to the bank. There she stripped the
drowned man of his raiment, and wrapping him fast in her own dry
mantle cherished him so meetly that presently he came again to life.
So she brought him safely into her own land, and none has met Sir
Graelent since that day.
But the Breton folk still hold firmly that Graelent yet liveth with
his friend. His destrier, when he escaped him from the perilous river,
grieved greatly for his master's loss. He sought again the mighty
forest, yet never was at rest by night or day. No peace might he find,
but ever pawed he with his hoofs upon the ground, and neighed so
loudly that the noise went through all the country round about. Many a
man coveted so noble a steed, and sought to put bit and bridle in his
mouth, yet never might one set hands upon him, for he would not suffer
another master. So each year in its season the forest was filled with
the cry and the trouble of this noble horse which might not find its
lord.
This adventure of the good steed and of the stout knight, who went
to the land of faery with his love, was noised abroad throughout all
Brittany, and the Bretons made a Lay thereof which was sung in
the ears of many people, and was called a Lay of the Death of Sir
Graelent.
XVI
A STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA
In times gone by there lived a Count of Ponthieu, who loved chivalry
and the pleasures of the world beyond measure, and moreover was a
stout knight and a gallant gentleman. In the self-same day there lived
a Count of St. Pol, who was lord of much land, and a right worthy man.
One grief he had, that there was no heir of his body; but a sister was
his, a prudent woman and a passing good gentlewoman, who was dame of
Dommare in Ponthieu. This lady had a son, Thibault by name, who was
heir to this County of St. Pol, but he was a poor man so long as his
uncle lived. He was a prudent knight, valiant and skilled with the
spear, noble and fair. Greatly was he loved and honoured of all honest
people, for he was of high race and gentle birth.
The Count of Ponthieu, of whom the tale hath spoken, had to wife a
very worthy lady. He and his dame had but one child, a daughter,
very good and gracious, who increased with her days in favour and in
virtues; and the maid was of some sixteen years. The third year after
her birth her mother died, whereof she was sorely troubled and right
heavy. The Count, her father, took to himself another wife with no
long tarrying, a dame of gentle race and breeding. Of this lady he got
him quickly a son; very near was the boy to his father's heart. The
lad grew with his years in stature and in valour, and gave promise to
increase in all good qualities.
The Count of Ponthieu marked my lord Thibault of Dommare. He summoned
the knight to his castle, and made him of his house for guerdon. When
Sir Thibault was of his fellowship he rejoiced greatly, for the Count
prospered in goods and in praise by reason of his servant's deeds. As
they came from a tournament on a day, the Count and my lord Thibault
together, the Count required of his companion and said,
"Thibault, by the aid of God tell me truly which jewel of my crown
shines the fairest in your eyes!"
"Sir," replied Messire Thibault, "I am only a beggar, but so help me
God, of all the jewels in your crown I love and covet none, save only
my demoiselle, your daughter."
When he heard this thing the Count had great content. He laughed in
his heart and said,
"Thibault, I will grant her to the beggar, if it be to her mind."
"Sir," answered he, "thanks and gramercy. May God make it up to you."
Then went the Count to his daughter, and said,
"Fair daughter, I have promised you in marriage, so it go not against
your heart."
"Sir," inquired the maid, "to whom?"
"In the name of God, to a loyal man, and a true man, of whom much is
hoped; to a knight of my own household, Thibault of Dommare."
"Dear sir," answered the maiden sweetly, "if your county were a
kingdom, and I were the king's only child, I would choose him as my
husband, and gladly give him all that I had."
"Daughter," said the Count, "blessed be your pretty person, and the
hour that you were born."
Thus was this marriage made. The Count of Ponthieu and the Count of
St. Pol were at the feast, and many another honourable man besides.
Great was the joy in which they met, fair was the worship, and
marvellous the delight. The bride and groom lived together in all
happiness for five years. This was their only sorrow, that it pleased
not our Lord Jesus Christ that they should have an heir to their
flesh.
On a night Sir Thibault lay in his bed. He considered within himself
and said,
"Lord, whence cometh it that I love this dame so fondly, and she me,
yet we may have no heir of our bodies to serve God and to do a little
good in the world?"
Then he remembered my lord St. James, the Apostle of Spain, who gives
to the fervent supplicant that which rightly he desires. Earnestly, to
his own heart, he promised that he would walk a pilgrim in his way.
His wife lay sleeping at his side, but when she came from out her
sleep, he took her softly in his arms, and required of her that she
would bestow on him a gift.
"Sir," said the lady, "what gift would you have?"
"Wife," he made answer, "that you shall know when it is mine."
"Husband," said she, "if it be mine to grant, I will give it you,
whatever the price."
"Wife," he said, "I pray you to grant me leave to seek my lord St.
James the Apostle, that he may intercede with our Lord Jesus Christ to
bestow on us an heir of our flesh, whereby God may be served in this
world and Holy Church glorified."
"Sir," cried the lady, "sweet and dear it is that you should crave
such bounty, and I grant the permission you desire right willingly."
Deep and long was the tenderness that fell betwixt these twain. Thus
passed a day, and another day, and yet a third. On this third day it
chanced that they lay together in their bed, and it was night. Then
said the dame,
"Husband, I pray and require of you a gift."
"Wife," he replied, "ask, and I will give it you, if by any means I
can."
"Husband," she said, "I require leave to come with you on this errand
and journey."
When Messire Thibault heard this thing he was right sorrowful, and
said,
"Wife, grievous would be the journey to your body, for the way is very
long, and the land right strange and perilous."
Said she,
"Husband, be not in doubt because of me. You shall be more hindered of
your squire than of your wife."
"Dame," said he, "as God wills and as you wish."
The days went, and these tidings were so noised abroad that the Count
of Ponthieu heard thereof. He commanded my lord Sir Thibault to his
house, and said,
"Thibault, you are a vowed pilgrim, as I hear, and my daughter too!"
"Sir," answered he, "that is verily and truly so."
"Thibault," replied the Count, "as to yourself what pleases you is to
my mind also, but concerning my daughter that is another matter."
"Sir," made answer Sir Thibault, "go she must, and I cannot deny her."
"Since this is so," said the Count, "part when you will. Make ready
for the road your steeds, your palfreys, and the pack horses, and I
will give you riches and gear enough for the journey."
"Sir," said Messire Thibault, "thanks and gramercy."
Thus these pilgrims arrayed them, and sought that shrine with
marvellous joy. They fared so speedily upon the way, that at length
they came near to my lord St. James, by less than two days faring.
That night they drew to a goodly town. After they had eaten in the
hostel, Sir Thibault called for the host and inquired of him the road
for the morrow, how it ran, and whether it were smooth.
"Fair sir," replied the innkeeper to the knight, "at the gate of this
town you will find a little wood. Beyond the wood a strong smooth road
runs for the whole day's journey."
Hearing this they asked no more questions, but the beds being laid
down, they went to their rest. The morrow broke full sweetly. The
pilgrims rose lightly from their beds as soon as it was day, and made
much stir and merriment. Sir Thibault rose also, since he might not
sleep, but his head was heavy. He therefore called his chamberlain,
and said,
"Rise quickly, and bid the company to pack the horses and go their
way. Thou shalt remain with me, and make ready our harness, for I am a
little heavy and disquieted."
The chamberlain made known to the sergeants the pleasure of their
lord, so that presently they took the road. In no great while Messire
Thibault and his dame got them from the bed, and arraying their
persons, followed after their household. The chamberlain folded the
bed linen, and it was yet but dawn, though warm and fair. The three
went forth through the gate of the city, those three together, with no
other companion save God alone, and drew near to the forest. When they
came close they found two roads, the one good, the other ill; so that
Sir Thibault said to his chamberlain,
"Put spurs to your horse, and ride swiftly after our people. Bid them
await our coming, for foul it is for lady and knight to pass through
this wood with so little company."
The servitor went speedily, and Messire Thibault entered the forest.
He drew rein beside the two roads, for he knew not which to follow.
"Wife," he said, "which way is ours?"
"Please God, the good," she answered.
Now in this wood were robbers, who spoiled the fair way, and made wide
and smooth the false, so that pilgrims should mistake and wander from
the path. Messire Thibault lighted from his horse. He looked from one
to the other, and finding the wrong way broader and more smooth than
the true, he cried,
"Wife, come now; in the name of God, this."
They had proceeded along this road for some quarter of a mile when the
path grew strict and narrow, and boughs made dark the way.
"Wife," said the knight, "I fear that we fare but ill."
When he had thus spoken he looked before him, and marked four armed
thieves, seated on four strong horses, and each bore lance in hand.
Thereupon he glanced behind him, and, lo, four other robbers, armed
and set in ambush, so he said,
"Dame, be not affrighted of aught that you may see from now."
Right courteously Sir Thibault saluted the robbers in his path, but
they gave no answer to his greeting. Afterwards he sought of them
what was in their mind, and one replied that he should know anon.
The thief, who had thus spoken, drew towards my lord Thibault, with
outstretched sword, thinking to smite him in the middle. Messire
Thibault saw the blow about to fall, and it was no marvel if he feared
greatly. He sprang forward nimbly, as best he might, so that the
glaive smote the air. Then as the robber staggered by, Sir Thibault
seized him fiercely, and wrested the sword from his hand. The knight
advanced stoutly against those three from whom the thief had come. He
struck the foremost amidst the bowels, so that he perished miserably.
Then he turned and went again to that one who had first come against
him with the sword, and slew him also. Now it was decreed of God that
after the knight had slain three of this company of robbers, that
the five who were left, encompassed him round about, and killed his
palfrey. Sir Thibault tumbled flat upon his back, although he was not
wounded to his hurt. Since he had neither sword nor other harness
he could do no more. The thieves therefore stripped him to his very
shirt, his boots and hosen, and binding him hand and foot with a
baldrick, cast him into a thorn bush, right thick and sharp. When
they had done this they hastened to the lady. From her they took her
palfrey and her vesture, even to the shift. Passing fair was the lady;
she wept full piteously, and never was dame more sorrowful than she.
Now one of these bold robbers stared upon the lady, and saw that she
was very fair. He spoke to his companions in this fashion,
"Comrades, I have lost my brother in this broil. I will take this
woman for his blood money."
But the others made answer,
"I, too, have lost my kin. I claim as much as you, and my right is
good as yours."
So said a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Then spake yet another.
"In keeping of the lady will be found neither peace nor profit. Rather
let us lead her from here within the forest, there do our pleasure
upon her, and then put her again upon the path, so that she may go her
way."
Thus they did as they had devised together, and left her on the road.
Right sick at heart was Messire Thibault when he saw her so entreated,
but nothing could he do. He bore no malice against his wife by reason
of that which had befallen, for well he knew that it, was by force,
and not according to her will. When he saw her again, weeping bitterly
and altogether shamed, he called to her, and said,
"Wife, for God's love unloose me from these bonds, and deliver me from
the torment that I suffer, for these thorns are sharper than I can
endure."
The lady hastened to the place where Sir Thibault lay, and marked a
sword flung behind the bush, belonging to one of those felons that
were slain. She took the glaive, and went towards her lord, filled
full of wrath and evil thoughts because of what had chanced to her.
She feared greatly lest her husband should bear malice for that which
he had seen, reproaching her upon a day, and taunting her for what was
past. She said,
"Sir, you are out of your pain already."
She raised the sword, and came towards her husband, thinking to strike
him midmost the body. When he marked the falling glaive he deemed that
his day had come, for he was a naked man, clad in nought but his shirt
and hosen. He trembled so sorely that his bonds were loosed, and the
lady struck so feebly that she wounded him but little, severing that
baldrick with which his hands were made fast. Thereat the knight brake
the cords about his legs, and leaping upon his feet, cried, "Dame,
by the grace of God it is not to-day that you shall slay me with the
sword."
Then she made answer, "Truly, sir, the sorer grief is mine."
Sir Thibault took the sword, and set it again in the sheath,
afterwards he put his hand upon the lady's shoulder, and brought her
back by the path they had fared. At the fringe of the woodland he
found a large part of his fellowship, who were come to meet him. When
these saw their lord and lady so spoiled and disarrayed they inquired
of them, "Sir, who hath put you in this case?"
He set them by, saying that they had fallen amongst felons who had
done them much mischief.
Mightily the sergeants lamented; but presently they fetched raiment
from the packs, and arrayed them, for enough they had and to spare. So
they climbed into the saddle, and continued their journey.
They rode that day, nor for aught that had chanced did Messire
Thibault show sourer countenance to the lady. At nightfall they came
to a goodly town, and there took shelter in an inn. Messire Thibault
sought of his host if there was any convent of nuns in those parts
where a lady might repose her. The host made answer to him,
"Sir, you are served to your wish. Just beyond the walls is a right
fair religious house, with many holy women."
On the morrow Messire Thibault went to this house, and heard Mass.
Afterwards he spoke to the Abbess and her chapter, praying that he
might leave his lady in their charge, until his return; and this they
accorded very willingly. Messire Thibault bestowed the lady in this
convent, with certain of his house to do her service, and went his way
to bring his pilgrimage to a fair end. When he had knelt before the
shrine, and honoured the Saint, he came again to the convent and the
lady. He gave freely of his wealth to the house, and taking to himself
his wife, returned with her to their own land, in the same joy and
honour as he had brought her forth, save only that they lay not
together.
Great was the gladness of the folk of that realm when Sir Thibault
returned to his home. The Count of Ponthieu, the father of his wife
was there, and there, too, was his uncle the Count of St. Pol. Many
worthy and valiant gentlemen came for his welcome, and a fair company
of dames and maidens likewise honoured the lady. That day the Count
of Ponthieu sat at meat with my lord Thibault, and ate from the same
dish, the two together. Then it happed that the Count spake to him,
"Thibault, fair son, he who journeys far hears many a strange matter
and sees many strange sights, which are hidden from those who sit over
the fire. Tell me therefore, of your favour, something of all you have
seen and heard since you went from amongst us."
Messire Thibault answered shortly that he knew no tale worth the
telling. The Count would take no denial, but plagued him so sorely,
begging him of his courtesy to tell over some adventure, that at the
last he was overborne.
"Sir, I will narrate a story, since talk I must; but at least let it
be in your private ear, if you please, and not for the mirth of all."
The Count replied that his pleasure was the same. After meat, when men
had eaten their fill, the Count rose in his chair, and taking my lord
Thibault by the hand, entreated,
"Tell me now, I pray, that which it pleases you to tell, for there are
few of the household left in hall."
Then Messire Thibault began to relate that which chanced to a knight
and a dame, even as it has been rehearsed before you in this tale;
only he named not the persons to whom this lot was appointed. The
Count, who was wise and sober of counsel, inquired what the knight had
done with the lady. Thibault made answer that the knight had brought
the lady back by the way she went, with the same joy and worship as he
led her forth, save only that they slept not together.
"Thibault," said the Count, "your knight walked another road than I
had trod. By my faith in God and my love for you, I had hanged this
dame by her tresses to a tree. The laces of her gown would suffice if
I could find no other cord."
"Sir," said Messire Thibault, "you have but my word. The truth can
only be assured if the lady might bear witness and testify with her
own mouth."
"Thibault," said the Count, "know you the name of this knight?"
"Sir," cried Messire Thibault, "I beg you again to exempt me from
naming the knight to whom this sorrow befell. Know of a truth that his
name will bring no profit."
"Thibault," said the Count, "it is my pleasure that his name should
not be hid."
"Sir," answered Thibault, "tell I must, as you will not acquit me; but
I take you to witness that I speak only under compulsion, since gladly
I would have kept silence, had this been your pleasure, for in the
telling there is neither worship nor honour."
"Thibault," replied the Count, "without more words I would know
forthwith who was the knight to whom this adventure chanced. By the
faith that you owe to your God and to me, I conjure you to tell me his
name, since it is in your mind."
"Sir," replied Messire Thibault, "I will answer by the faith I owe
my God and you, since you lay this charge upon me. Know well, and be
persuaded, that I am the knight on whom this sorrow lighted. Hold it
for truth that I was sorely troubled and sick of heart. Be assured
that never before have I spoken to any living man about the business,
and moreover that gladly would I have held my peace, had such been
your will."
When the Count heard this adventure he was sore astonied, and
altogether cast down. He kept silence for a great space, speaking
never a word. At the last he said, "Thibault, was it indeed my child
who did this thing?"
"Sir, it is verily and truly so."
"Thibault," said the Count, "sweet shall be your vengeance, since you
have given her again to my hand."
Because of his exceeding wrath the Count sent straightway for his
daughter, and demanded of her if those things were true of which
Messire Thibault had spoken. She inquired of the accusation, and her
father answered, "That you would have slain him with the sword, even
as he has told me?"
"Sir, of a surety."
"And wherefore would you slay your husband?"
"Sir, for reason that I am yet heavy that he is not dead."
When the Count heard the lady speak in this fashion, he answered her
nothing, but suffered in silence until the guests had departed. After
these were gone, the Count came on a day to Rue-sur-Mer, and Messire
Thibault with him, and the Count's son. With them also went the lady.
Then the Count caused a ship to be got ready, very stout and speedy,
and he made the dame to enter in the boat. He set also on the ship an
untouched barrel, very high and strong. These three lords climbed into
the nave, with no other company, save those sailors who should labour
at the oar. The Count commanded the mariners to put the ship to sea,
and all marvelled greatly as to what he purposed, but there was none
so bold as to ask him any questions. When they had rowed a great way
from the land, the Count bade them to strike the head from out the
barrel. He took that dame, his own child, who was so dainty and so
fair, and thrust her in the tun, whether she would or whether she
would not. This being done he caused the cask to be made fast again
with staves and wood, so that the water might in no manner enter
therein. Afterwards he dragged the barrel to the edge of the deck, and
with his own hand cast it into the sea, saying,
"I commend thee to the wind and waves."
Passing heavy was Messire Thibault at this, and the lady's brother
also, and all who saw. They fell at the Count's feet, praying him of
his grace that she might be delivered from the barrel. So hot was his
wrath that he would not grant their prayer, for aught that they might
do or say. They therefore left him to his rage, and turning to the
Heavenly Father, besought our Lord Jesus Christ that of His most sweet
pity He would have mercy on her soul, and give her pardon for her
sins.
The ship came again to land, leaving the lady in sore peril and
trouble, even as the tale has told you. But our Lord Jesus Christ, who
is Lord and Father of all, and desireth not the death of a sinner, but
rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live--as each day
He showeth us openly by deed, by example and by miracle--sent succour
to this lady, even as you shall hear. For a ship from Flanders, laden
with merchandise, marked this barrel drifting at the mercy of winds
and waters, before ever the Count and his companions were come ashore.
One of the merchants said to his comrades,
"Friends, behold a barrel drifting in our course. If we may reach it,
perchance we may find it to our gain."
This ship was wont to traffic with the Saracens in their country, so
the sailors rowed towards the barrel, and partly by cunning and partly
by strength, at the last got it safely upon the deck. The merchants
looked long at the cask. They wondered greatly what it could be, and
wondering, they saw that the head of the barrel was newly closed. They
opened the cask, and found therein a woman at the point of death, for
air had failed her. Her body was gross, her visage swollen, and the
eyes started horribly from her head. When she breathed the fresh air
and felt the wind blow upon her, she sighed a little, so that the
merchants standing by, spoke comfortably to her, but she might not
answer them a word. In the end, heart and speech came again to her.
She spoke to the chapmen and the sailors who pressed about her, and
much she marvelled how she found herself amongst them. When she
perceived that she was with merchants and Christian men she was the
more easy, and fervently she praised Jesus Christ in her heart,
thanking Him for the loving kindness which had kept her from death.
For this lady was altogether contrite in heart, and earnestly desired
to amend her life towards God, repenting the trespass she had done
to others, and fearing the judgment that was rightly her due. The
merchants inquired of the lady whence she came, and she told them the
truth, saying that she was a miserable wretch and a poor sinner, as
they could see for themselves. She related the cruel adventure which
had chanced to her, and prayed them to take pity on a most unhappy
lady, and they answered that mercy they would show. So with meat and
drink her former beauty came to her again.
Now this merchant ship fared so far that she came to the land of the
Paynims, and cast anchor in the port of Aumarie. Galleys of these
Saracens came to know their business, and they answered that they were
traffickers in divers merchandise in many a realm. They showed them
also the safe conduct they carried of princes and mighty lords that
they might pass in safety through their countries to buy and sell
their goods. The merchants got them to land in this port, taking the
lady with them. They sought counsel one of the other to know what it
were best to do with her. One was for selling her as a slave, but his
companion proposed to give her as a sop to the rich Soudan of Aumarie,
that their business should be the less hindered. To this they all
agreed. They arrayed the lady freshly in broidered raiment, and
carried her before the Soudan, who was a lusty young man. He accepted
their gift, receiving the lady with a right glad heart, for she was
passing fair. The Soudan inquired of them as to who she was.
"Sire," answered the merchants, "we know no more than you, but
marvellous was the fashion in which she came to our hands."
The gift was so greatly to the Soudan's mind that he served the
chapmen to the utmost of his power. He loved the lady very tenderly,
and entreated her in all honour. He held and tended her so well, that
her sweet colour came again to her, and her beauty increased beyond
measure. The Soudan sought to know by those who had the gift of
tongues as to the lady's home and race, but these she would not reveal
to any. He was the more thoughtful therefore, because he might see
that she was a dame of birth and lineage. He inquired of her as to
whether she were a Christian woman, promising that if she would deny
her faith, he would take her as his wife, since he was yet unwed. The
lady saw clearly that it were better to be converted by love than
perforce; so she answered that her religion was to do her master's
pleasure. When she had renounced her faith, and rejected the Christian
law, the Soudan made her his dame according to the use and wont of
this country of the Paynim. He held her very dear, cherishing her in
all honour, for his love waxed deeper as the days wore on.
In due time it was with this lady after the manner of women, and she
came to bed of a son. The Soudan rejoiced greatly, being altogether
merry and content. The lady, for her part, lived in fair fellowship
with the folk of her husband's realm. Very courteous was she, and
very serviceable, so that presently she was instructed in the Saracen
tongue. In no long while after the birth of her son she conceived of
a maid, who in the years that befell grew passing sweet and fair, and
richly was she nurtured as became the daughter of so high a prince.
Thus for two years and a half the lady dwelt with the Paynim in much
softness and delight.
Now the story keeps silence as to the lady and the Soudan, her
husband, till later, as you may hear, and returns to the Count of
Ponthieu, the son of the Count, and to my lord Thibault of Dommare,
who were left grieving for the dame who was flung into the sea, as you
have heard, nor knew aught of her tidings, but deemed that she were
rather dead than alive. Now tells the story--and the truth bears
witness to itself and is its own confirmation--that the Count was in
Ponthieu, together with his son, and Messire Thibault. Very heavy was
the Count, for in no wise could he get his daughter from his mind,
and grievously he lamented the wrong that he had done her. Messire
Thibault dared not take to himself another wife, because of the
anguish of his friend. The son of the Count might not wed also;
neither durst he to become knight, though he was come to an age when
such things are greatly to a young man's mind.
On a day the Count considered deeply the sin that he had committed
against his own flesh. He sought the Archbishop of Rheims in
confession, and opened out his grief, telling in his ear the crime
that he had wrought. He determined to seek those holy fields beyond
the sea, and sewed the Cross upon his mantle. When Messire Thibault
knew that his lord, the Count, had taken the Cross, he confessed him,
and did likewise. And when the Count's son was assured of the purpose
of his sire and of Messire Thibault, whom he loved dearly, he took the
Cross with them. Passing heavy was the Count to mark the Sign upon his
son's raiment.
"Fair son, what is this you have done; for now the land remains
without a lord!"
The son answered, and said, "Father, I wear the Sign first and
foremost for the love of God; afterwards for the saving of my soul,
and by reason that I would serve and honour Him to the utmost of my
power, so long as I have life in my body."
The Count put his realm in ward full wisely. He used diligence in
making all things ready, and bade farewell to his friends. Messire
Thibault and the son of the Count ordered their business, and the
three set forth together, with a fair company. They came to that holy
land beyond the sea, safe of person and of gear. There they made
devout pilgrimage to every place where they were persuaded it was meet
to go, and God might be served. When the Count had done all that
he was able, he deemed that there was yet one thing to do. He gave
himself and his fellowship to the service of the Temple for one year;
and at the end of this term he purposed to seek his country and his
home. He sent to Acre, and made ready a ship against his voyage. He
took his leave of the Knights Templar, and other lords of that land,
and greatly they praised him for the worship that he had brought them.
When the Count and his company were come to Acre they entered in the
ship, and departed from the haven with a fair wind. But little was
their solace. For when they drew to the open sea a strong and horrible
tempest sprang suddenly upon them, so that the sailors knew not where
they went, and feared each hour that all would be drowned. So piteous
was their plight that, with ropes, they bound themselves one to
another, the son to the father, the uncle to the nephew, according as
they stood. The Count, his son, and Messire Thibault for their part,
fastened themselves together, so that the same end should chance to
all. In no long time after this was done they saw land, and inquired
of the shipmen whither they were come. The mariners answered that this
realm belonged to the Paynim, and was called the Land of Aumarie. They
asked of the Count,
"Sire, what is your will that we do? If we seek the shore, doubtless
we shall be made captives, and fall into the hands of the Saracen."
The Count made answer, "Not my will, but the will of Jesus Christ be
done. Let the ship go as He thinks best. We will commit our bodies and
our lives to His good keeping, for a fouler and an uglier death we
cannot die, than to perish in this sea."
They drove with the wind along the coast of Aumarie, and the galleys
and warships of the Saracens put out to meet them. Be assured that
this was no fair meeting, for the Paynims took them and led them
before the Soudan, who was lord of that realm. There they gave him
the goods and the bodies of these Christians as a gift. The Soudan
sundered this fair fellowship, setting them in many places and in
divers prisons; but since the Count, his son, and Messire Thibault
were so securely bound together, he commanded that they should be cast
into a dungeon by themselves, and fed upon the bread of affliction and
the water of affliction. So it was done, even as he commanded. In this
prison they lay for a space, till such time as the Count's son fell
sick. His sickness was so grievous that the Count and Messire Thibault
feared greatly that this sorrow was to death.
Now it came to pass that the Soudan held high Court because of the day
of his birth, for such was the custom of the Saracens. After they had
well eaten, the Saracens stood before the Soudan, and said,
"Sire, we require of you our right."
He inquired of what right they were speaking, and they answered,
"Sire, a Christian captive to set as a mark for our arrows."
When the Soudan heard this he gave no thought to such a trifle, but
made reply,
"Get you to the prison, and take out that captive who has the least of
life in him."
The Paynim hastened to the dungeon, and brought forth the Count,
bearded, unkempt and foredone. The Soudan marked his melancholy case,
so he said to them, "This man has not long to live; take him hence,
and do your will on him."
The wife of the Soudan, of whom you have heard, the daughter of this
very Count, was in the hall, when they brought forth her father to
slay him. Immediately that her eyes fell upon him the blood in her
veins turned to water; not so much that she knew him as her sire, but
rather that Nature tugged at her heart strings. Then spake the dame to
the Soudan, "Husband, I, too, am French, and would gladly speak with
this poor wretch ere he die, if so I may."
"Wife," answered the Soudan, "truly, yes; it pleases me well."
The lady came to the Count. She took him apart, and bidding the
Saracens fall back, she inquired of him whence he was.
"Lady, I am from the kingdom of France, of a county that men call
Ponthieu."
When the lady heard this her bowels were moved. Earnestly she demanded
his name and race.
"Of a truth, lady, I have long forgotten my father's house, for I have
suffered such pain and anguish since I departed, that I would rather
die than live. But this you may know, that I--even the man who speaks
to you--was once the Count of Ponthieu."
The lady hearkened to this, but yet she made no sign. She went from
the Count, and coming to the Soudan, said,
"Husband, give me this captive as a gift, if such be your pleasure. He
knows chess and draughts and many fair tales to bring solace to the
hearer. He shall play before you, and we will make our pastime of his
skill."
"Wife," answered the Soudan, "I grant him to you very willingly; do
with him as you wish."
The lady took the captive, and bestowed him in her chamber. The
gaolers sought another in his stead, and brought forth my lord
Thibault, the husband to the dame. He came out in tatters, for he was
clothed rather in his long hair and great beard, than in raiment. His
body was lean and bony, and he seemed as one who had endured pain and
sorrow enough, and to spare. When the lady saw him she said to the
Soudan,
"Husband, with this one also would I gladly speak, if so I may."
"Wife," answered the Soudan, "it pleases me well."
The lady came to my lord Thibault, and inquired of him whence he was.
"Lady, I am of the realm of that ancient gentleman who was taken from
prison before me. I had his daughter to wife, and am his knight."
The lady knew well her lord, so she returned to the Soudan, and said
to him, "Husband, great kindness will you show me, if you give me this
captive also."
"Wife," said the Soudan, "I grant him to you very willingly."
She thanked him sweetly, and bestowed the gift in her chamber, with
the other.
The archers hastened together, and drawing before the Soudan said,
"Sire, you do us wrong, for the day is far spent."
They went straight to the prison, and brought forth the son of the
Count, shagged and filthy, as one who had not known of water for many
a day. He was a young man, so young that his beard had not come on
him, but for all his youth he was so thin and sick and weak, that
he scarce could stand upon his feet. When the lady saw him she had
compassion upon him. She came to him asking whose son he was and of
his home, and he replied that he was son to that gentleman, who was
first brought out of the dungeon. She knew well that this was her
brother, but she made herself strange unto him.
"Husband," said she to the Soudan, "verily you will shew kindness to
your wife beyond measure if you grant me this captive. He knows chess
and draughts and other delights passing fair to see and hear."
And the Soudan made answer, "Wife, by our holy law if they were a
hundred I would give them all to you gladly."
The lady thanked him tenderly, and bestowed the captive swiftly in
Back to Full Books
|