{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11417/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11417","id":"gutenberg_11417","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11417","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Lays -- Translations into English","Marie, de France, active 12th century -- Translations into English","Romances -- Translations into English"],"text":"FRENCH MEDIAEVAL ROMANCES\n\n_From the Lays of Marie de France_\n\n_Translated by Eugene Mason_.\n\n\n\n1911\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe tales included in this little book of translations are derived\nmainly from the \"Lays\" of Marie de France. I do not profess them to be\na complete collection of her stories in verse. The ascription varies.\nPoems which were included in her work but yesterday are withdrawn\nto-day, and new matter suggested by scholars to take the place of the\nold. I believe it to be, however, a far fuller version of Marie's\n\"Lays\" than has yet appeared, to my knowledge, in English. Marie's\npoems are concerned chiefly with love. To complete my book I have\nadded two famous mediaeval stories on the same excellent theme.\nThis, then, may be regarded as a volume of French romances, dealing,\ngenerally, with one aspect of mediaeval life.\n\nAn age so feminist in its sympathies as ours should be attracted the\nmore easily to Marie de France, because she was both an artist and a\nwoman. To deliver oneself through any medium is always difficult. For\na woman of the Middle Ages to express herself publicly by any means\nwhatever was almost impossible. A great lady, a great Saint or\nchurch-woman, might do so very occasionally. But the individuality\nof the ordinary wife was merged in that of her husband, and for one\nAbbess of Shrewsbury or Whitby, for one St. Clare or St. Hilda, there\nwere how many thousand obscure sisters, who were buried in the daily\nroutine of a life hidden with Christ in God! Doubtless the artistic\ntemperament burst out now and again in woman, and would take no\ndenial. It blew where it listed, appearing in the most unexpected\nplaces. A young nun in a Saxon convent, for instance, would write\nlittle dramas in Latin for the amusement and edification of the noble\nmaidens under her charge. These comedies, written in the days of the\nEmperor Otho, can be read with pleasure in the reign of King George,\nby those who find fragrant the perfumes of the past. They deal with\nthe pious legends of the Saints, and are regarded with wistful\nadmiration by the most modern of Parisian playwrights. In their\ncombination of audacity and simplicity they could only be performed by\nSaxon religious in the times of Otho, or by marionettes in the more\nself-conscious life of to-day. Or, again, an Abbess, the protagonist\nof one of the great love stories of the world, by sheer force of\npersonality, would compose letters to one--how immeasurably her moral\ninferior, in spite of his genius--expressing with an unexampled\npoignancy the most passionate emotions of the heart. Or, to take my\nthird illustration, here are a woman's poems written in an age when\nliterature was almost entirely in the hands of men. Consider the\nstrength of character which alone induced these three ladies to stray\nfrom the beaten paths of their sex. To the average woman it was\nenough to be an object of art herself, or to be the inspiration of\nmasterpieces by man. But these three women of the Middle Ages--and\nsuch as they--shunned the easier way, and, in their several spheres,\nwere by deliberate effort, self-conscious artists.\n\nThe place and date of birth of Marie de France are unknown--indeed\nthe very century in which she lived has been a matter of dispute. Her\npoems are written in the French of northern France; but that does not\nprove her necessarily to be a Frenchwoman. French was the tongue\nof the English Court, and many Englishmen have written in the same\nlanguage. Indeed, it is a very excellent vehicle for expression.\nOccasionally, Marie would insert English words in her French text, the\nbetter to convey her meaning; but it does not follow therefrom that\nthe romances were composed in England. It seems strange that so\nfew positive indications of her race and home are given in her\npoems--nothing is contained beyond her Christian name and the bare\nstatement that she was of France. She took great pride in her work,\nwhich she wrought to the best of her ability, and was extremely\njealous of that bubble-reputation. Yet whilst this work was an\nexcellent piece of self-portraiture, it reveals not one single fact\nor date on which to go. A consensus of critical opinion presumes that\nMarie was a subject of the English Crown, born in an ancient town\ncalled Pitre, some three miles above Rouen, in the Duchy of Normandy.\nThis speculation is based largely on the unwonted topographical\naccuracy of her description of Pitre, given in \"The Lay of the Two\nLovers.\" Such evidence, perhaps, is insufficient to obtain a judgment\nin a Court of Law. The date when Marie lived was long a matter of\ndispute. The Prologue to her \"Lays\" contains a dedication to some\nunnamed King; whilst her \"Fables\" is dedicated to a certain Count\nWilliam. These facts prove her to have been a person of position and\nrepute. The King was long supposed to be Henry the Third of England,\nand this would suggest that she lived in the thirteenth century.\nAn early scholar, the Abb\u00e9 de La Rue, in fact, said that this was\n\"undoubtedly\" the case, giving cogent reasons in support of his\ncontention. But modern scholarship, in the person of Gaston Paris,\nhas decided that the King was Henry the Second, of pious memory; the\nCount, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, his natural son by Fair\nRosamund; and that Marie must be placed in the second half of the\ntwelfth century. This shows that scholarship is not an exact science,\nand that such words as \"doubtless\" should not be employed more than\nnecessary. A certain Eastern philosopher, when engaged in instructing\nthe youth of his country, used always to conclude his lectures with\nthe unvarying formula, \"But, gentlemen, all that I have told you is\nprobably wrong.\" This sage was a wise man (not always the same thing),\nand his example should be had in remembrance. It seems possible (and\none hesitates to use a stronger word) that the \"Lays\" of Marie were\nactually written at the Court of Henry of England. From political\nambition the King was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine, a lady of\nliterary tastes, who came from a family in which the patronage of\nsingers was a tradition. Her husband, too, had a pronounced liking for\nliterature. He was fond of books, and once paid a visit to Glastonbury\nto visit King Arthur's tomb. These, perhaps, are limited virtues, but\nHenry the Second had need of every rag. It is somewhat difficult to\nrecognise in that King of the Prologue, \"in whose heart all gracious\nthings are rooted,\" the actual King who murdered Becket; who turned\nover picture-books at Mass, and never confessed or communicated. It is\nyet more difficult to perceive \"joy as his handmaid\" who, because of\nthe loss of a favourite city, threatened to revenge himself on God, by\nrobbing Him of that thing--_i.e._, the soul--He desired most in him;\nand whose very last words were an echo of Job's curse upon the day\nthat he was born. Marie's phrases may be regarded, perhaps, as a\ncourtly flourish, rather than as conveying truth with mathematical\nprecision. If not, we should be driven to suggest an alternative to\nthe favourite simile of lying like an epitaph. But I think it unlikely\nthat Marie suffered with a morbidly sensitive conscience. There is\nlittle enough real devotion to be met with in her \"Lays\"; and if\nher last book--a translation from the Latin of the Purgatory of St.\nPatrick--is on a subject she avoids in her earlier work, it was\nwritten under the influence of some high prelate, and may be regarded\nas a sign that she watched the shadows cast by the western sun\nlengthening on the grass.\n\nGaston Paris suggests 1175 as an approximate date for the composition\nof the \"Lays\" of Marie de France. Their success was immediate and\nunequivocal, as indeed was to be expected in the case of a lady\nsituated so fortunately at Court. We have proof of this in the\ntestimony of Denis Pyramus, the author who wrote a Life of St. Edmund\nthe King, early in the following century. He says, in that poem, \"And\nalso Dame Marie, who turned into rhyme and made verses of 'Lays' which\nare not in the least true. For these she is much praised, and her\nrhyme is loved everywhere; for counts, barons, and knights greatly\nadmire it, and hold it dear. And they love her writing so much, and\ntake such pleasure in it, that they have it read, and often copied.\nThese Lays are wont to please ladies, who listen to them with delight,\nfor they are after their own hearts.\" It is no wonder that the lords\nand ladies of her century were so enthralled by Marie's romances, for\nher success was thoroughly well deserved. Even after seven hundred\nyears her colours remain surprisingly vivid, and if the tapestry is\nnow a little worn and faded in places, we still follow with interest\nthe movements of the figures wrought so graciously upon the arras. Of\ncourse her stories are not original; but was any plot original at\nany period of the earth's history? This is not only an old, but an\niterative world. The source of Marie's inspiration is perfectly clear,\nfor she states it emphatically in quite a number of her Lays. This\nadventure chanced in Brittany, and in remembrance thereof the Bretons\nmade a Lay, which I heard sung by the minstrel to the music of his\nrote. Marie's part consisted in reshaping this ancient material in her\nown rhythmic and coloured words. Scholars tell us that the essence of\nher stories is of Celtic rather than of Breton origin. It may be so;\nthough to the lay mind this is not a matter of great importance one\nway or the other; but it seems better to accept a person's definite\nstatement until it is proved to be false. The Breton or Celtic\nimagination had peculiar qualities of dreaminess, and magic and\nmystery. Marie's mind was not cast in a precisely similar mould.\nOccasionally she is successful enough; but generally she gives the\neffect of building with a substance the significance of which she does\nnot completely realise. She may be likened to a child playing with\nsymbols which, in the hand of the enchanter, would be of tremendous\nimport. Her treatment of Isoude, for example, in \"The Lay of the\nHoneysuckle,\" is quite perfect in tone, and, indeed, is a little\nmasterpiece in its own fashion. But her sketch of Guenevere in \"The\nLay of Sir Launfal\" is of a character that one does not recall with\npleasure. To see how Arthur's Queen might be treated, we have but\nto turn to the pages of a contemporary, and learn from Chrestien de\nTroyes' \"Knight of the Cart,\" how an even more considerable poet\nthan Marie could deal with a Celtic legend. The fact is that Marie's\nromances derive farther back than any Breton or Celtic dream. They\nwere so old that they had blown like thistledown about the four\nquarters of the world. Her princesses came really neither from Wales\nnor Brittany. They were of that stuff from which romance is shaped.\n\"Her face was bright as the day of union; her hair dark as the night\nof separation; and her mouth was magical as Solomon's seal.\" You can\nparallel her \"Lays\" from folklore, from classical story and antiquity.\nFather and son fight together unwittingly in \"The Lay of Milon\";\nbut Rustum had striven with Sohrab long before in far Persia, and\nCuchulain with his child in Ireland. Such stories are common property.\nThe writer takes his own where he finds it. Marie is none the less\nadmirable because her stories were narrated by the first man in Eden;\nneither are Boccaccio and the Countess D'Aulnoy blameworthy since they\ntold again what she already had related so well. Marie, indeed, was an\nadmirable narrator. That was one of her shining virtues. As a piece of\nartful tale telling, a specimen of the craft of keeping a situation in\nsuspense, the arrival of the lady before Arthur's Court, in \"The Lay\nof Sir Launfal,\" requires a deal of beating. The justness and fineness\nof her sentiment in all that concerns the delicacies of the human\nheart are also remarkable. But her true business was that of the\nstoryteller. In that trade she was almost unapproachable in her day.\nThere may have been--indeed, there was--a more considerable poet\nliving; but a more excellent writer of romances, than the author of\n\"Eliduc,\" it would have been difficult to find.\n\nThe ladies who found the \"Lays\" of Marie after their own hearts\nwere not only admirers of beautiful stories; they had the delicate\nprivilege also of admiring themselves in their habit as they\nlived--perhaps even lovelier than in reality--amidst their accustomed\nsurroundings. The pleasure of a modern reader in such tales as these\nis enhanced by the light they throw on the household arrangements and\ncustoms of the gentlefolk of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It\nmay be of interest to consider some of these domestic arrangements, as\nillustrated by stories included in the present volume.\n\nThe corporate life of a mediaeval household centered in the hall. It\nwas office and dining and billiard room, and was common to gentle and\nsimple alike. The hall was by far the largest room in the house. It\nwas lighted by windows, and warmed by an open fire of logs. The smoke\ndrifted about the roof, escaping finally by the simple means of a\nlantern placed immediately above the hearth. A beaten floor was\ncovered by rushes and fresh hay, or with rugs in that part affected by\nthe more important members of the household. The lord himself and his\nwife sat in chairs upon a raised da\u00efs. The retainers were seated\non benches around the wall, and before them was spread the dining\ntable--a mere board upon trestles--which was removed when once the\nmeal was done. After supper, chess and draughts were played, or (as\nwe may see in \"The Lay of the Thorn\") minstrels sang ballads and the\nguest contributed to the general entertainment by the recital of such\njests and adventures as commended themselves to his taste. If the hall\nmay be considered as the dining room of the mediaeval home, the garden\nmight almost be looked upon as the drawing room. You would probably\nget more real privacy in the garden than in any other part of the\ncrowded castle, including the lady's chamber. It is no wonder that\nwe read of Guenevere taking Launfal aside for a little private\nconversation in her pleasaunce. It was not only the most private,\nbut also the most delightful room in the house--ceiled with blue and\ncarpeted with green. The garden was laid out elaborately with a perron\nand many raised seats. Trees stood about the lawn in tubs, and there\nwas generally a fountain playing in the centre, or possibly a pond,\nstocked with fish. Fruit trees and flower beds grew thickly about the\ngarden, and a pleasanter place of perfume and colour and shade it\nwould be difficult to imagine in the summer heat. The third room of\nwhich we hear continually in these romances is the lady's chamber. It\nserved the purpose of a boudoir as well as that of a sleeping room,\nand consequently had little real privacy. It contained the marriage\nchest with its store of linen, and also the bed. This bed recurs\neternally in medi\u00e6val tales. It was used as a seat during the day, and\nas a resting-place of nights. It was a magnificent erection, carved\nand gilded, and inlaid with ivory. Upon it was placed a mattress of\nfeathers, and a soft pillow. The sheets were of linen or silk, and\nover all was spread a coverlet of some precious material. An excellent\ndescription of such a couch is given in \"The Lay of Gugemar.\" This\nchamber served also as a bath room, and there the bath was taken,\npiping hot, in the strange vessel, fashioned somewhat like a churn,\nthat we see in pictures of the Middle Ages.\n\nOf the dress of the ladies who moved about the castle, seeing\nthemselves reflected from Marie's pages as in a polished mirror, I\nam not competent to speak. The type of beauty preferred by the old\nromancers was that of a child's princess of fairy tale--blue-eyed,\ngolden-haired, and ruddy of cheek. The lady would wear a shift of\nlinen, \"white as meadow flower.\" Over this was worn a garment of fur\nor silk, according to the season; and, above all, a vividly coloured\ngown, all in one line from neck to feet, shapen closely to the figure,\nor else the more loosely fitting bliaut. Her girdle clipped her\nclosely about the waist, falling to the hem of her skirt, and her feet\nwere shod in soundless shoes, without heels. The hair was arranged in\ntwo long braids, brought forward over her shoulders; as worn by those\nsmiling Queens wrought upon the western porch of Chartres Cathedral.\nOut of doors, and, indeed, frequently within, as may be proved by a\nreference to \"The Lay of the Ash Tree,\" the lady was clad in a mantle\nand a hood. It must have taken a great deal of time and travail to\nappear so dainty a production. But to become poetry for others, it is\nnecessary for a woman first to be prose to herself.\n\nI am afraid the raw material of this radiant divinity had much to\nendure before she suffered her sea change. In mediaeval illustrations\nwe see the maiden sitting demurely in company, with downcast eyes, and\nhands folded modestly in her lap. This unnatural restraint was induced\nby the lavish compulsion of the rod. If there was one text, above all\nothers, approved and acted upon by fathers and mothers of the Middle\nAges, it was that exhorting parents not to cocker their child, neither\nto wink at his follies, but to beat him on the sides with a stick.\nTurn to \"The Lay of the Thorn,\" and mark the gusto with which a mother\ndisciplines her maid. Parents trained their children with blows.\nHusbands (ah, the audacity of the mediaeval husband) scattered the\nlike seeds of kindness on their wives. In a book written for the\nedification of his unmarried daughters, Chaucer's contemporary, the\nKnight of La Tour Landry, tells the following interesting anecdote.\nA man had a scolding wife, who railed ungovernably upon him before\nstrangers, \"and he that was angry of her governance smote her with his\nfirst down to the earth; and then with his foot he struck her on the\nvisage, and broke her nose; and all her life after that she had her\nnose crooked, the which shent and disfigured her visage after, that\nshe might not for shame show her visage, it was so foul blemished. And\nthis she had for her evil and great language that she was wont to say\nto her husband. And therefore the wife ought to suffer, and let the\nhusband have the words, and to be master.\" May I give yet another\nillustration before we pass from the subject. This time it is taken\nnot from a French knight, but from a sermon of the great Italian\npreacher, St. Bernardino of Siena. \"There are men who can bear more\npatiently with a hen that lays a fresh egg every day than with their\nown wives; and sometimes when the hen breaks a pipkin or a cup he\nwill spare it a beating, simply for love of the fresh egg which he\nis unwilling to lose. Oh, raving madmen! who cannot bear a word from\ntheir own wives, though they bear them such fair fruit; but when the\nwoman speaks a word more than they like, then they catch up a stick,\nand begin to cudgel her; while the hen that cackles all day, and gives\nyou no rest, you take patience with her for the sake of her miserable\negg--and sometimes she will break more in your house than she herself\nis worth, yet you bear it in patience for the egg's sake. Many\nfidgetty fellows, who sometimes see their wives turn out less neat and\ndainty than they would like, smite them forthwith; and meanwhile the\nhen may make a mess on the table, and you suffer her. Have patience;\nit is not right to beat your wife for every cause, no!\"\n\nAt the commencement of this Introduction I stated that Marie's\nromances are concerned mainly with love. Her talent was not very\nwide nor rich, and I have no doubt that there were facets of her\npersonality which she was unable to get upon paper. The prettiest\ngirl in the world can only give what she has to give. By the time any\nreader reaches the end of this volume he will be assured that the\nstories are stories of love. Probably he will have noticed also that,\nin many cases, the lady who inspires the most delicate of sentiments\nis, incidentally, a married woman. He may ask why this was so; and in\nanswer I propose to conclude my paper with a few observations upon the\nsubject of mediaeval love.\n\nI doubt in my own mind whether romance writers do not exaggerate what\nwas certainly a characteristic of the Middle Ages. To be ordinary\nis to be uninteresting; and it is obvious that the stranger the\nexperience, the more likely is it to attract the interest and\nattention of the hearer. Blessed is the person--as well as the\ncountry--who has no history. But it was really very difficult for\nthe twelfth century poet to write a love story, with a maiden as the\ncentral figure. The noble maiden seldom had a love story. It is\ntrue enough that she was sometimes referred to in the choice of her\nhusband: two young ladies in \"A Story of Beyond the Sea\" are both\nconsulted in the matter. As a rule, however, her inclination was not\npermitted to stand in the way of the interests of her parents or\nguardians. She was betrothed in childhood, and married very young, for\nmercenary or political reasons, to a husband much older than herself.\nWe read of a girl of twelve being married to a man of fifty. There was\nno great opportunity for a love story here; and the strange entreaty,\non the part of the nameless French poet, to love the maidens for the\nsake of Christ's love, passed over the heads of the romance writers.\nNot that the medi\u00e6val maidens showed any shrinking from matrimony.\n\"Fair daughter, I have given you a husband.\" \"Blessed be God,\" said\nthe damsel. There spoke a contented spirit. Things have changed, and\nwe can but sigh after the good old times.\n\nBut the maiden inevitably became the wife, and the whirligig of Time\nbrought in his revenges. The lady now found herself the most important\nmember of her sex, in a dwelling filled with men. She had few women\nabout her person, and the confidant of a great dame in old romance is,\nfrequently enough, her chamberlain. These young men had no chance of\nmarriage, and naturally strove to gain the attention of a lady, whose\nfavour was to them so important a matter. A medi\u00e6val knight was the\nsworn champion of God and the ladies--but more especially the latter.\nThe chatelaine, herself, found time hang heavily on her hands.\nAmusements were few; books limited in number; a husband not of\nabsorbing interest; so she turned to such distractions as presented\nthemselves. The prettier a lady, the sweeter the incense and flattery\nswung beneath her nose; for this was one of the disadvantages of\nmarrying an attractive woman. \"It is hard to keep a wife whom everyone\nadmires; and if no one admires her it is hard to have to live with her\nyourself.\" One of these distractions took the shape of Courts of Love,\nwhere the bored but literary chatelaine discussed delicate problems of\nconduct pertaining to the heart. The minstrel about the lady's castle,\nfor his part, sought her favourable notice not only by his songs but\nalso by giving an object lesson of his melancholy condition. One would\nimagine that his proceedings were not always calculated to further\ntheir purpose. A famous singer, for instance, in honour of a lady who\nwas named Lupa, caused himself to be sewn in a wolf's skin, and ran\nbefore the hounds till he was pulled down, half dead. Another great\nminstrel and lover bought a leper's gown and bowl and clapper from\nsome afflicted wretch. He mutilated his forefinger, and sat before his\nlady's door, in the company of a piteous crowd of sick and maimed, to\nawait her alms. No doubt he trusted that his devotion would procure\nhim a different kind of charity. From such discussions as these, and\nfrom conduct such as this, a type of love came into being which was\npeculiar to the period. Since the lovers were not bound in the sweet\nand common union of children and home, since on the side of the lady\nall was of grace and nought of debt, they searched out other bands to\nunite them together. These they found in a system of devotion, silence\nand faithfulness, which added a dignity to their relations. These\nvirtues they took so seriously that we find the Chatelaine of Vergi\ndying because she believed her lover to have betrayed her trust. The\nmediaeval romancer contemplated such unions with joy and pity; but\nfor all their virtues we must not deceive ourselves with words. Such\nhonour was rooted in dishonour, and the measure of their guilt was\nthat they debased the moral currency. Presently the greatest of all\nthe poets of the Middle Ages would arise, to teach a different fashion\nof devotion. His was a love that sought no communion with its object,\nneither speech nor embrace. It was sufficient for Dante to contemplate\nBeatrice from afar, as one might kneel before the picture of a saint.\nI do not say that a love like this--so spiritual and so aloof--will\never be possible to men. It did not suffice even to Dante, for all\nhis tremendous moral muscle. Human love must always and inevitably be\nfounded on a physical basis. But the burning drop of idealism that\nDante contributed to the passion of the Middle Ages has made possible\nthe love of which we now and again catch a glimpse in the union of\nselect natures. And that the seed of such flowering may be carried\nabout the world is one of the fairest hopes and possibilities of the\nhuman race.\n\nEUGENE MASON.\n\nThe originals of these narratives are to be found in Roquefort's\nedition of the Po\u00e9sies de Marie de France; in a volume of the\nNouvelles Fran\u00e7oises en Prose, edited by Moland and D'H\u00e9ricault; and\nin M. Gaston Raynaud's text of La Chatelaine de Vergi.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nI. PROLOGUE BY WAY OF DEDICATION\n\nII. THE LAY OF GUGEMAR\n\nIII. THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT\n\nIV. THE LAY OF ELIDUC\n\nV. THE LAY OF THE NIGHTINGALE\n\nVI. THE LAY OF SIR LAUNFAL\n\nVII. THE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS\n\nVIII. THE LAY OF THE WERE-WOLF\n\nIX. THE LAY OF THE ASH TREE\n\nX. THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE\n\nXI. THE LAY OF EQUITAN\n\nXII. THE LAY OF MILON\n\nXIII. THE LAY OF YONEC\n\nXIV. THE LAY OF THE THORN\n\nXV. THE LAY OF GRAELENT\n\nXVI. A STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA\n\nXVII. THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI\n\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nBY WAY OF DEDICATION\n\nThose to whom God has given the gift of comely speech, should not hide\ntheir light beneath a bushel, but should willingly show it abroad. If\na great truth is proclaimed in the ears of men, it brings forth fruit\na hundred-fold; but when the sweetness of the telling is praised of\nmany, flowers mingle with the fruit upon the branch.\n\nAccording to the witness of Priscian, it was the custom of ancient\nwriters to express obscurely some portions of their books, so that\nthose who came after might study with greater diligence to find the\nthought within their words. The philosophers knew this well, and were\nthe more unwearied in labour, the more subtle in distinctions, so that\nthe truth might make them free. They were persuaded that he who would\nkeep himself unspotted from the world should search for knowledge,\nthat he might understand. To set evil from me, and to put away my\ngrief, I purposed to commence a book. I considered within myself\nwhat fair story in the Latin or Romance I could turn into the common\ntongue. But I found that all the stories had been written, and\nscarcely it seemed the worth my doing, what so many had already done.\nThen I called to mind those Lays I had so often heard. I doubted\nnothing--for well I know--that our fathers fashioned them, that men\nshould bear in remembrance the deeds of those who have gone before.\nMany a one, on many a day, the minstrel has chanted to my ear. I would\nnot that they should perish, forgotten, by the roadside. In my turn,\ntherefore, I have made of them a song, rhymed as well as I am able,\nand often has their shaping kept me sleepless in my bed.\n\nIn your honour, most noble and courteous King, to whom joy is a\nhandmaid, and in whose heart all gracious things are rooted, I have\nbrought together these Lays, and told my tales in seemly rhyme. Ere\nthey speak for me, let me speak with my own mouth, and say, \"Sire, I\noffer you these verses. If you are pleased to receive them, the fairer\nhappiness will be mine, and the more lightly I shall go all the days\nof my life. Do not deem that I think more highly of myself than I\nought to think, since I presume to proffer this, my gift.\" Hearken now\nto the commencement of the matter.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF GUGEMAR\n\nHearken, oh gentles, to the words of Marie. When the minstrel tells\nhis tale, let the folk about the fire heed him willingly. For his part\nthe singer must be wary not to spoil good music with unseemly words.\nListen, oh lordlings, to the words of Marie, for she pains herself\ngrievously not to forget this thing. The craft is hard--then approve\nthe more sweetly him who carols the tune. But this is the way of the\nworld, that when a man or woman sings more tunably than his fellows,\nthose about the fire fall upon him, pell-mell, for reason of their\nenvy. They rehearse diligently the faults of his song, and steal away\nhis praise with evil words. I will brand these folk as they deserve.\nThey, and such as they, are like mad dogs--cowardly and felon--who\ntraitorously bring to death men better than themselves. Now let the\njaper, and the smiler with his knife, do me what harm they may. Verily\nthey are in their right to speak ill of me.\n\nHearken, oh gentles, to the tale I set before you, for thereof the\nBretons already have made a Lay. I will not do it harm by many words,\nand here is the commencement of the matter. According to text and\nscripture, now I relate a certain adventure, which bechanced in the\nrealm of Brittany, in days long gone before.\n\nIn that time when Arthur maintained his realm, the now in peace, the\nnow in war, the King counted amongst his vassals a certain baron,\nnamed Oridial. This knight was lord of Leon, and was very near to his\nprince's heart, both in council chamber and in field. From his wife he\nhad gotten two children, the one a son and the other a fair daughter.\nNogent, he had called the damsel at the font, and the dansellon was\nnamed Gugemar--no goodlier might be found in any realm. His mother had\nset all her love upon the lad, and his father shewed him every good\nthat he was able. When the varlet was no more a child, Oridial sent\nhim to the King, to be trained as a page in the courtesies of the\nCourt. Right serviceable was he in his station, and meetly praised\nof all. The term of his service having come, and he being found of\nfitting years and knowledge, the King made him knight with his own\nhand, and armed him in rich harness, according to his wish. So Gugemar\ngave gifts to all those about his person, and bidding farewell, took\nleave, and departed from the Court. Gugemar went his way to Flanders,\nbeing desirous of advancement, for in that kingdom ever they have\nstrife and war. Neither in Loraine nor Burgundy, Anjou nor Gascony,\nmight be found in that day a better knight than he, no, nor one his\npeer. He had but one fault, since of love he took no care. There was\nneither dame nor maiden beneath the sky, however dainty and kind, to\nwhom he gave thought or heed, though had he required her love of any\ndamsel, very willingly would she have granted his desire. Many there\nwere who prayed him for his love, but might have no kiss in return. So\nseeing that he refrained his heart in this fashion, men deemed him a\nstrange man, and one fallen into a perilous case.\n\nIn the flower of his deeds the good knight returned to his own land,\nthat he might see again his father and lord, his mother and his\nsister, even as he very tenderly desired. He lodged with them for the\nspace of a long month, and at the end of that time had envy to hunt\nwithin the wood. The night being come, Gugemar summoned his prickers\nand his squires, and early in the morning rode within the forest.\nGreat pleasure had Gugemar in the woodland, and much he delighted in\nthe chase. A tall stag was presently started, and the hounds being\nuncoupled, all hastened in pursuit--the huntsmen before, and the good\nknight following after, winding upon his horn. Gugemar rode at a great\npace after the quarry, a varlet riding beside, bearing his bow, his\narrows and his spear. He followed so hotly that he over-passed the\nchase. Gazing about him he marked, within a thicket, a doe hiding with\nher fawn. Very white and wonderful was this beast, for she was without\nspot, and bore antlers upon her head. The hounds bayed about her, but\nmight not pull her down. Gugemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaft\nat the quarry. He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so that\npresently she fell upon her side. But the arrow glanced away, and\nreturning upon itself, struck Gugemar in the thigh, so grievously,\nthat straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground. Gugemar lay\nupon the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt. He\nheard her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity.\nThen with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in such\nfashion as this, \"Alas, my sorrow, for now am I slain. But thou,\nVassal, who hast done me this great wrong, do not think to hide from\nthe vengeance of thy destiny. Never may surgeon and his medicine heal\nyour hurt. Neither herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the wound\nwithin your flesh: For that there is no healing. The only balm to\nclose that sore must be brought by a woman, who for her love will\nsuffer such pain and sorrow as no woman in the world has endured\nbefore. And to the dolorous lady, dolorous knight. For your part you\nshall do and suffer so great things for her, that not a lover beneath\nthe sun, or lovers who are dead, or lovers who yet shall have their\nday, but shall marvel at the tale. Now, go from hence, and let me die\nin peace.\"\n\nGugemar was wounded twice over--by the arrow, and by the words he was\ndismayed to hear. He considered within himself to what land he must go\nto find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die. He\nsaw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in his\nlife to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound. He\ncalled his varlet before him,\n\n\"Friend,\" said he, \"go forthwith, and bring my comrades to this place,\nfor I have to speak with them.\"\n\nThe varlet went upon his errand, leaving his master sick with the heat\nand fever of his hurt. When he was gone, Gugemar tore the hem from his\nshirt, and bound it straitly about his wound. He climbed painfully\nupon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was with child\nto be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose. A green\npath led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across the\nplain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea. Gugemar\nlooked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbourage\nwas land-locked from the main. Upon this harbour lay one only vessel,\nbearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without and\nwithin, and well it seemed to Gugemar that he had seen this ship\nbefore. Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there was\nnot a sail but was spun of silk, and not a plank, from keel to mast,\nbut showed of ebony. Too fair was the nave for mortal man, and Gugemar\nheld it in sore displeasure. He marvelled greatly from what country it\nhad come, and wondered long concerning this harbour, and the ship that\nlay therein. Gugemar got him down from his horse upon the shore, and\nwith mighty pain and labour climbed within the ship. He trusted to\nfind merchantmen and sailors therein, but there was none to guard, and\nnone he saw. Now within the pavilion was a very rich bed, carved by\ncunning workmen in the days of King Solomon. This fair bed was wrought\nof cypress wood and white ivory, adorned with gold and gems most\nprecious. Right sweet were the linen cloths upon the bed, and so soft\nthe pillow, that he who lay thereon would sleep, were he sadder than\nany other in the world. The counterpane was of purple from the vats\nof Alexandria, and over all was set a right fair coverlet of cloth of\ngold. The pavilion was litten by two great waxen torches, placed in\ncandlesticks of fine gold, decked with jewels worth a lord's ransom.\nSo the wounded knight looked on ship and pavilion, bed and candle, and\nmarvelled greatly. Gugemar sat him down upon the bed for a little,\nbecause of the anguish of his wound. After he had rested a space he\ngot upon his feet, that he might quit the vessel, but he found that\nfor him there was no return. A gentle wind had filled the sails, and\nalready he was in the open sea. When Gugemar saw that he was far from\nland, he was very heavy and sorrowful. He knew not what to do, by\nreason of the mightiness of his hurt. But he must endure the adventure\nas best he was able; so he prayed to God to take him in His keeping,\nand in His good pleasure to bring him safe to port, and deliver him\nfrom the peril of death. Then climbing upon the couch, he laid his\nhead upon the pillow, and slept as one dead, until, with vespers, the\nship drew to that haven where he might find the healing for his hurt.\n\nGugemar had come to an ancient city, where the King of that realm held\nhis court and state. This King was full of years, and was wedded to\na dame of high degree. The lady was of tender age, passing fresh and\nfair, and sweet of speech to all. Therefore was the King jealous of\nhis wife beyond all measure. Such is the wont of age, for much it\nfears that old and young cannot mate together, and that youth will\nturn to youth. This is the death in life of the old.\n\nThe castle of this ancient lord had a mighty keep. Beneath this tower\nwas a right fair orchard, together with a close, shut in by a wall of\ngreen marble, very strong and high. This wall had one only gate, and\nthe door was watched of warders, both night and day. On the other side\nof this garden was the sea, so that none might do his errand in the\ncastle therefrom, save in a boat. To hold his dame in the greater\nsurety, the King had built a bower within the wall; there was no\nfairer chamber beneath the sun. The first room was the Queen's chapel.\nBeyond this was the lady's bedchamber, painted all over with shapes\nand colours most wonderful to behold. On one wall might be seen Dame\nVenus, the goddess of Love, sweetly flushed as when she walked the\nwater, lovely as life, teaching men how they should bear them in loyal\nservice to their lady. On another wall, the goddess threw Ovid's book\nwithin a fire of coals. A scroll issuing from her lips proclaimed that\nthose who read therein, and strove to ease them of their pains, would\nfind from her neither service nor favour. In this chamber the lady was\nput in ward, and with her a certain maiden to hold her company. This\ndamsel was her niece, since she was her sister's child, and there was\ngreat love betwixt the twain. When the Queen walked within the garden,\nor went abroad, this maiden was ever by her side, and came again with\nher to the house. Save this damsel, neither man nor woman entered in\nthe bower, nor issued forth from out the wall. One only man possessed\nthe key of the postern, an aged priest, very white and frail. This\npriest recited the service of God within the chapel, and served the\nQueen's plate and cup when she ate meat at table.\n\nNow, on a day, the Queen had fallen asleep after meat, and on her\nawaking would walk a little in the garden. She called her companion to\nher, and the two went forth to be glad amongst the flowers. As they\nlooked across the sea they marked a ship drawing near the land, rising\nand falling upon the waves. Very fearful was the Queen thereat, for\nthe vessel came to anchorage, though there was no helmsman to direct\nher course. The dame's face became sanguine for dread, and she turned\nher about to flee, because of her exceeding fear. Her maiden, who was\nof more courage than she, stayed her mistress with many comforting\nwords. For her part she was very desirous to know what this thing\nmeant. She hastened to the shore, and laying aside her mantle, climbed\nwithin this wondrous vessel. Thereon she found no living soul, save\nonly the knight sleeping fast within the pavilion. The damsel looked\nlong upon the knight, for pale he was as wax, and well she deemed\nhim dead. She returned forthwith to the Queen, and told her of this\nmarvel, and of the good knight who was slain.\n\n\"Let us go together on the ship,\" replied the lady. \"If he be dead we\nmay give him fitting burial, and the priest shall pray meetly for his\nsoul. Should he be yet alive perchance he will speak, and tell us of\nhis case.\"\n\nWithout more tarrying the two damsels mounted on the ship, the lady\nbefore, and her maiden following after. When the Queen entered in the\npavilion she stayed her feet before the bed, for joy and grief of what\nshe saw. She might not refrain her eyes from gazing on the knight,\nfor her heart was ravished with his beauty, and she sorrowed beyond\nmeasure, because of his grievous hurt. To herself she said, \"In a bad\nhour cometh the goodly youth.\" She drew near the bed, and placing her\nhand upon his breast, found that the flesh was warm, and that the\nheart beat strongly in his side. Gugemar awoke at the touch, and\nsaluted the dame as sweetly as he was able, for well he knew that he\nhad come to a Christian land. The lady, full of thought, returned him\nhis salutation right courteously, though the tears were yet in her\neyes. Straightway she asked of him from what realm he came, and of\nwhat people, and in what war he had taken his hurt.\n\n\"Lady,\" answered Gugemar, \"in no battle I received this wound. If it\npleases you to hear my tale I will tell you the truth, and in nothing\nwill I lie. I am a knight of Little Brittany. Yesterday I chased a\nwonderful white deer within the forest. The shaft with which I struck\nher to my hurt, returned again on me, and caused this wound upon my\nthigh, which may never be searched, nor made whole. For this wondrous\nBeast raised her plaint in a mortal tongue. She cursed me loudly, with\nmany evil words, swearing that never might this sore be healed, save\nby one only damsel in the world, and her I know not where to find.\nWhen I heard my luckless fate I left the wood with what speed I might,\nand coming to a harbour, not far from thence, I lighted on this ship.\nFor my sins I climbed therein. Then without oars or helm this boat\nravished me from shore; so that I know not where I have come, nor what\nis the name of this city. Fair lady, for God's love, counsel me of\nyour good grace, for I know not where to turn, nor how to govern the\nship.\"\n\nThe lady made answer, \"Fair sir, willingly shall I give you such good\ncounsel as I may. This realm and city are the appanage of my husband.\nHe is a right rich lord, of high lineage, but old and very full of\nyears. Also he is jealous beyond all measure; therefore it is that I\nsee you now. By reason of his jealousy he has shut me fast between\nhigh walls, entered by one narrow door, with an ancient priest to keep\nthe key. May God requite him for his deed. Night and day I am guarded\nin this prison, from whence I may never go forth, without the\nknowledge of my lord. Here are my chamber and my chapel, and here I\nlive, with this, my maiden, to bear me company. If it pleases you to\ndwell here for a little, till you may pass upon your way, right gladly\nwe shall receive you, and with a good heart we will tend your wound,\ntill you are healed.\"\n\nWhen Gugemar heard this speech he rejoiced greatly. He thanked the\nlady with many sweet words, and consented to sojourn in her hall\nawhile. He raised himself upon his couch, and by the courtesy of the\ndamsels left the ship. Leaning heavily upon the lady, at the end he\nwon to her maiden's chamber, where there was a fair bed covered with a\nrich dossal of broidered silk, edged with fur. When he was entered in\nthis bed, the damsels came bearing clear water in basins of gold, for\nthe cleansing of his hurt. They stanched the blood with a towel of\nfine linen, and bound the wound strictly, to his exceeding comfort. So\nafter the vesper meal was eaten, the lady departed to her own chamber,\nleaving the knight in much ease and content.\n\nNow Gugemar set his love so fondly upon the lady that he forgot his\nfather's house. He thought no more of the anguish of his hurt, because\nof another wound that was beneath his breast. He tossed and sighed in\nhis unrest, and prayed the maiden of his service to depart, so that\nhe might sleep a little. When the maid was gone, Gugemar considered\nwithin himself whether he might seek the dame, to know whether her\nheart was warmed by any ember of the flame that burned in his. He\nturned it this way and that, and knew not what to do. This only was\nclear, that if the lady refused to search his wound, death, for him,\nwas sure and speedy.\n\n\"Alas,\" said he, \"what shall I do! Shall I go to my lady, and pray her\npity on the wretch who has none to give him counsel? If she refuse\nmy prayer, because of her hardness and pride, I shall know there is\nnought for me but to die in my sorrow, or, at least, to go heavily all\nthe days of my life.\"\n\nThen he sighed, and in his sighing lighted on a better purpose; for he\nsaid within himself that doubtless he was born to suffer, and that\nthe best of him was tears. All the long night he spent in vigil and\ngroanings and watchfulness. To himself he told over her words and her\nsemblance. He remembered the eyes and the fair mouth of his lady, and\nall the grace and the sweetness, which had struck like a knife at his\nheart. Between his teeth he cried on her for pity, and for a little\nmore would have called her to his side. Ah, had he but known the fever\nof the lady, and how terrible a lord to her was Love, how great had\nbeen his joy and solace. His visage would have been the more sanguine,\nwhich was now so pale of colour, because of the dolour that was his.\nBut if the knight was sick by reason of his love, the dame had small\ncause to boast herself of health. The lady rose early from her bed,\nsince she might not sleep. She complained of her unrest, and of Love\nwho rode her so hardly. The maiden, who was of her company, saw\nclearly enough that all her lady's thoughts were set upon the knight,\nwho, for his healing, sojourned in the chamber. She did not know\nwhether his thoughts were given again to the dame. When, therefore,\nthe lady had entered in the chapel, the damsel went straightway to the\nknight. He welcomed her gladly, and bade her be seated near the bed.\nThen he inquired, \"Friend, where now is my lady, and why did she rise\nso early from her bed?\"\n\nHaving spoken so far, he became silent, and sighed.\n\n\"Sir,\" replied the maiden softly, \"you love, and are discreet, but be\nnot too discreet therein. In such a love as yours there is nothing to\nbe ashamed. He who may win my lady's favour has every reason to be\nproud of his fortune. Altogether seemly would be your friendship, for\nyou are young, and she is fair.\"\n\nThe knight made answer to the maiden, \"I am so fast in the snare, that\nI pray the fowler to slay me, if she may not free me from the net.\nCounsel me, fair sweet friend, if I may hope of kindness at her hand.\"\n\nThen the maiden of her sweetness comforted the knight, and assured him\nof all the good that she was able. So courteous and debonair was the\nmaid.\n\nWhen the lady had heard Mass, she hastened back to the chamber. She\nhad not forgotten her friend, and greatly she desired to know whether\nhe was awake or asleep, of whom her heart was fain. She bade her\nmaiden to summon him to her chamber, for she had a certain thing in\nher heart to show him at leisure, were it for the joy or the sorrow of\ntheir days.\n\nGugemar saluted the lady, and the dame returned the knight his\ncourtesy, but their hearts were too fearful for speech. The knight\ndared ask nothing of his lady, for reason that he was a stranger in a\nstrange land, and was adread to show her his love. But--as says the\nproverb--he who will not tell of his sore, may not hope for balm to\nhis hurt. Love is a privy wound within the heart, and none knoweth of\nthat bitterness but the heart alone. Love is an evil which may last\nfor a whole life long, because of man and his constant heart. Many\nthere be who make of Love a gibe and a jest, and with specious words\ndefame him by boastful tales. But theirs is not love. Rather it is\nfolly and lightness, and the tune of a merry song. But let him who\nhas found a constant lover prize her above rubies, and serve her with\nloyal service, being altogether at her will. Gugemar loved in this\nfashion, and therefore Love came swiftly to his aid. Love put words in\nhis mouth, and courage in his heart, so that his hope might be made\nplain.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"I die for your love. I am in fever because of my\nwound, and if you care not to heal my hurt I would rather die. Fair\nfriend, I pray you for grace. Do not gainsay me with evil words.\"\n\nThe lady hearkened with a smile to Gugemar's speech. Right daintily\nand sweetly she replied, \"Friend, yea is not a word of two letters. I\ndo not grant such a prayer every day of the week, and must you have\nyour gift so quickly?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" cried he, \"for God's sake pity me, and take it not amiss. She,\nwho loves lightly, may make her lover pray for long, so that she may\nhide how often her feet have trodden the pathway with another friend.\nBut the honest dame, when she has once given her heart to a friend,\nwill not deny his wish because of pride. The rather she will find her\npride in humbleness, and love him again with the same love he has\nset on her. So they will be glad together, and since none will have\nknowledge or hearing of the matter, they will rejoice in their youth.\nFair, sweet lady, be this thy pleasure?\"\n\nWhen the lady heard these words well she found them honest and true.\nTherefore without further prayings and ado she granted Gugemar her\nlove and her kiss. Henceforward Gugemar lived greatly at his ease, for\nhe had sight and speech of his friend, and many a time she granted him\nher embrace and tenderness, as is the wont of lovers when alone.\n\nFor a year and a half Gugemar dwelt with his lady, in solace and great\ndelight. Then Fortune turned her wheel, and in a trice cast those\ndown, whose seat had been so high. Thus it chanced to them, for they\nwere spied upon and seen.\n\nOn a morning in summer time the Queen and the damoiseau sat fondly\ntogether. The knight embraced her, eyes and face, but the lady stayed\nhim, saying, \"Fair sweet friend, my heart tells me that I shall lose\nyou soon, for this hidden thing will quickly be made clear. If you are\nslain, may the same sword kill me. But if you win forth, well I know\nthat you will find another love, and that I shall be left alone with\nmy thoughts. Were I parted from you, may God give me neither joy, nor\nrest, nor peace, if I would seek another friend. Of that you need have\nno fear. Friend, for surety and comfort of my heart deliver me now\nsome sark of thine. Therein I will set a knot, and make this covenant\nwith you, that never will you put your love on dame or maiden, save\nonly on her who shall first unfasten this knot. Then you will ever\nkeep faith with me, for so cunning shall be my craft, that no woman\nmay hope to unravel that coil, either by force or guile, or even with\nher knife.\"\n\nSo the knight rendered the sark to his lady, and made such bargain as\nshe wished, for the peace and assurance of her mind.\n\nFor his part the knight took a fair girdle, and girt it closely about\nthe lady's middle. Right secret was the clasp and buckle of this\ngirdle. Therefore he required of the dame that she would never grant\nher love, save to him only, who might free her from the strictness of\nthis bond, without injury to band or clasp. Then they kissed together,\nand entered into such covenant as you have heard.\n\nThat very day their hidden love was made plain to men. A certain\nchamberlain was sent by that ancient lord with a message to the Queen.\nThis unlucky wretch, finding that in no wise could he enter within the\nchamber, looked through the window, and saw. Forthwith he hastened\nto the King, and told him that which he had seen. When the ag\u00e8d lord\nunderstood these words, never was there a sadder man than he. He\ncalled together the most trusty sergeants of his guard, and coming\nwith them to the Queen's chamber, bade them to thrust in the door.\nWhen Gugemar was found therein, the King commanded that he should be\nslain with the sword, by reason of the anguish that was his. Gugemar\nwas in no whit dismayed by the threat. He started to his feet, and\ngazing round, marked a stout rod of fir, on which it is the use for\nlinen to be hung. This he took in hand, and faced his foes, bidding\nthem have a care, for he would do a mischief to them all. The King\nlooked earnestly upon the fearless knight, inquiring of him who he\nwas, and where he was born, and in what manner he came to dwell within\nhis house. So Gugemar told over to him this story of his fate. He\nshowed him of the Beast that he had wounded to his hurt; of the nave,\nand of his bitter wound; of how he came within the realm, and of the\nlady's surgery. He told all to the ancient lord, to the last moment\nwhen he stood within his power. The King replied that he gave no\ncredence to his word, nor believed that the story ran as he had said.\nIf, however, the vessel might be found, he would commit the knight\nagain to the waves. He would go the more heavily for the knight's\nsaining, and a glad day would it be if he made shipwreck at sea. When\nthey had entered into this covenant together, they went forth to the\nharbour, and there discovered the barge, even as Gugemar had said. So\nthey set him thereon, and prayed him to return unto his own realm.\n\nWithout sail or oar the ship parted from that coast, with no further\ntarrying. The knight wept and wrung his hands, complaining of his\nlady's loss, and of her cherishing. He prayed the mighty God to grant\nhim speedy death, and never to bring him home, save to meet again\nwith her who was more desirable than life. Whilst he was yet at his\norisons, the ship drew again to that port, from whence she had first\ncome. Gugemar made haste to get him from the vessel, so that he might\nthe more swiftly return to his own land. He had gone but a little way\nwhen he was aware of a squire of his household, riding in the company\nof a certain knight. This squire held the bridle of a destrier in his\nhand, though no man rode thereon. Gugemar called to him by name, so\nthat the varlet looking upon him, knew again his lord. He got him to\nhis feet, and bringing the destrier to his master, set the knight\nthereon. Great was the joy, and merry was the feast, when Gugemar\nreturned to his own realm. But though his friends did all that they\nwere able, neither song nor game could cheer the knight, nor turn him\nfrom dwelling in his unhappy thoughts. For peace of mind they urged\nthat he took to himself a wife, but Gugemar would have none of their\ncounsel. Never would he wed a wife, on any day, either for love or for\nwealth, save only that she might first unloose the knot within his\nshirt. When this news was noised about the country, there was neither\ndame nor damsel in the realm of Brittany, but essayed to unfasten the\nknot. But there was no lady who could gain to her wish, whether by\nforce or guile.\n\nNow will I show of that lady, whom Gugemar so fondly loved. By the\ncounsel of a certain baron the ancient King set his wife in prison.\nShe was shut fast in a tower of grey marble, where her days were bad,\nand her nights worse. No man could make clear to you the great pain,\nthe anguish and the dolour, that she suffered in this tower, wherein,\nI protest, she died daily. Two years and more she lay bound in prison,\nwhere warders came, but never joy or delight. Often she thought upon\nher friend.\n\n\"Gugemar, dear lord, in an evil hour I saw you with my eyes. Better\nfor me that I die quickly, than endure longer my evil lot. Fair\nfriend, if I could but win to that coast whence you sailed, very\nswiftly would I fling myself in the sea, and end my wretched life.\"\nWhen she had said these words she rose to her feet, and coming to\nthe door was amazed to find therein neither bolt nor key. She issued\nforth, without challenge from sergeant or warder, and hastening to the\nharbour, found there her lover's ship, made fast to that very rock,\nfrom which she would cast her down. When she saw the barge she climbed\nthereon, but presently bethought her that on this nave her friend had\ngone to perish in the sea. At this thought she would have fled again\nto the shore, but her bones were as water, and she fell upon the deck.\nSo in sore travail and sorrow, the vessel carried her across the\nwaves, to a port of Brittany, guarded by a castle, strong and very\nfair. Now the lord of this castle was named Meriadus. He was a right\nwarlike prince, and had made him ready to fight with the prince of a\ncountry near by. He had risen very early in the morning, to send forth\na great company of spears, the more easily to ravage this neighbour's\nrealm. Meriadus looked forth from his window, and marked the ship\nwhich came to port. He hastened down the steps of the perron, and\ncalling to his chamberlain, came with what speed he might to the nave.\nThen mounting the ladder he stood upon the deck. When Meriadus found\nwithin the ship a dame, who for beauty seemed rather a fay than a mere\nearthly woman, he seized her by her mantle, and brought her swiftly to\nhis keep. Right joyous was he because of his good fortune, for lovely\nwas the lady beyond mortal measure. He made no question as to who had\nset her on the barge. He knew only that she was fair, and of high\nlineage, and that his heart turned towards her with so hot a love as\nnever before had he put on dame or damsel. Now there dwelt within the\ncastle a sister of this lord, who was yet unwed. Meriadus bestowed the\nlady in his sister's chamber, because it was the fairest in the tower.\nMoreover he commanded that she should be meetly served, and held\nin all reverence. But though the dame was so richly clothed and\ncherished, ever was she sad and deep in thought. Meriadus came often\nto cheer her with mirth and speech, by reason that he wished to gain\nher love as a free gift, and not by force. It was in vain that he\nprayed her for grace, since she had no balm for his wound. For answer\nshe showed him the girdle about her body, saying that never would she\ngive her love to man, save only to him who might unloose the buckle of\nthat girdle, without harm to belt or clasp. When Meriadus heard these\nwords, he spoke in haste and said,\n\n\"Lady, there dwells in this country a very worthy knight, who will\ntake no woman as wife, except she first untie a certain crafty knot in\nthe hem of a shirt, and that without force or knife. For a little I\nwould wager that it was you who tied this knot.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard thereof her breath went from her, and near she\ncame to falling on the ground. Meriadus caught her in his arms, and\ncut the laces of her bodice, that she might have the more air. He\nstrove to unfasten her girdle, but might not dissever the clasp. Yea,\nthough every knight in the realm essayed to unfasten that cincture, it\nwould not yield, except to one alone.\n\nNow Meriadus made the lists ready for a great jousting, and called to\nthat tournament all the knights who would aid him in his war. Many a\nlord came at his bidding, and with them Gugemar, amongst the first.\nMeriadus had sent letters to the knight, beseeching him, as friend and\ncompanion, not to fail him in this business. So Gugemar hastened to\nthe need of his lord, and at his back more than one hundred spears.\nAll these Meriadus welcomed very gladly, and gave them lodging within\nhis tower. In honour of his guest, the prince sent two gentlemen to\nhis sister, praying her to attire herself richly, and come to hall,\ntogether with the dame whom he loved so dearly well. These did as they\nwere bidden, and arrayed in their sweetest vesture, presently entered\nin the hall, holding each other by the hand. Very pale and pensive was\nthe lady, but when she heard her lover's name her feet failed beneath\nher, and had not the maiden held her fast, she would have fallen on\nthe floor. Gugemar rose from his seat at the sight of the dame, her\nfashion and her semblance, and stood staring upon her. He went a\nlittle apart, and said within himself, \"Can this be my sweet friend,\nmy hope, my heart, my life, the fair lady who gave me the grace of her\nlove? From whence comes she; who might have brought her to this far\nland? But I speak in my folly, for well I know that this is not my\ndear. A little red, a little white, and all women are thus shapen.\nMy thoughts are troubled, by reason that the sweetness of this lady\nresembles the sweetness of that other, for whom my heart sighs and\ntrembles. Yet needs must that I have speech of the lady.\"\n\nGugemar drew near to the dame. He kissed her courteously, and found\nno word to utter, save to pray that he might be seated at her side.\nMeriadus spied upon them closely, and was the more heavy because of\ntheir trouble. Therefore he feigned mirth.\n\n\"Gugemar, dear lord, if it pleases you, let this damsel essay to untie\nthe knot of your sark, if so be she may loosen the coil.\"\n\nGugemar made answer that very willingly he would do this thing. He\ncalled to him a squire who had the shirt in keeping, and bade him seek\nhis charge, and deliver it to the dame. The lady took the sark in\nhand. Well she knew the knot that she had tied so cunningly, and was\nso willing to unloose; but for reason of the trouble at her heart, she\ndid not dare essay. Meriadus marked the distress of the damsel, and\nwas more sorrowful than ever was lover before.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"do all that you are able to unfasten this coil.\"\n\nSo at his commandment she took again to her the hem of the shirt, and\nlightly and easily unravelled the tie.\n\nGugemar marvelled greatly when he saw this thing. His heart told him\nthat of a truth this was his lady, but he could not give faith to his\neyes.\n\n\"Friend, are you indeed the sweet comrade I have known? Tell me truly\nnow, is there about your body the girdle with which I girt you in your\nown realm?\"\n\nHe set his hands to her waist, and found that the secret belt was yet\nabout her sides.\n\n\n\"Fair sweet friend, tell me now by what adventure I find you here, and\nwho has brought you to this tower?\"\n\nSo the lady told over to her friend the pain and the anguish and the\ndolour of the prison in which she was held; of how it chanced that she\nfled from her dungeon, and lighting upon a ship, entered therein, and\ncame to this fair haven; of how Meriadus took her from the barge, but\nkept her in all honour, save only that ever he sought for her love;\n\"but now, fair friend, all is well, for you hold your lady in your\narms.\"\n\nGugemar stood upon his feet, and beckoned with his hand.\n\n\"Lords,\" he cried, \"hearken now to me. I have found my friend, whom\nI have lost for a great while. Before you all I pray and require of\nMeriadus to yield me my own. For this grace I give him open thanks.\nMoreover I will kneel down, and become his liege man. For two years,\nor three, if he will, I will bargain to serve in his quarrels, and\nwith me, of riders, a hundred or more at my back.\"\n\nThen answered Meriadus, \"Gugemar, fair friend, I am not yet so shaken\nor overborne in war, that I must do as you wish, right humbly. This\nwoman is my captive. I found her: I hold her: and I will defend my\nright against you and all your power.\"\n\nWhen Gugemar heard these proud words he got to horse speedily, him and\nall his company. He threw down his glove, and parted in anger from\nthe tower. But he went right heavily, since he must leave behind his\nfriend. In his train rode all those knights who had drawn together\nto that town for the great tournament. Not a knight of them all but\nplighted faith to follow where he led, and to hold himself recreant\nand shamed if he failed his oath.\n\n\nThat same night the band came to the castle of the prince with whom\nMeriadus was at war. He welcomed them very gladly, and gave them\nlodging in his tower. By their aid he had good hope to bring this\nquarrel to an end. Very early in the morning the host came together to\nset the battle in array. With clash of mail and noise of horns they\nissued from the city gate, Gugemar riding at their head. They drew\nbefore the castle where Meriadus lay in strength, and sought to take\nit by storm. But the keep was very strong, and Meriadus bore himself\nas a stout and valiant knight. So Gugemar, like a wary captain, sat\nhimself down before the town, till all the folk of that place were\ndeemed by friend and sergeant to be weak with hunger. Then they took\nthat high keep with the sword, and burnt it with fire. The lord\nthereof they slew in his own hall; but Gugemar came forth, after such\nlabours as you have heard, bearing his lady with him, to return in\npeace to his own land.\n\nFrom this adventure that I have told you, has come the Lay that\nminstrels chant to harp and viol--fair is that song and sweet the\ntune.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT\n\nHearken now to the Lay that once I heard a minstrel chanting to his\nharp. In surety of its truth I will name the city where this story\npassed. The Lay of the Dolorous Knight, my harper called his song,\nbut of those who hearkened, some named it rather, The Lay of the Four\nSorrows.\n\nIn Nantes, of Brittany, there dwelt a dame who was dearly held of\nall, for reason of the much good that was found in her. This lady was\npassing fair of body, apt in book as any clerk, and meetly schooled in\nevery grace that it becometh dame to have. So gracious of person was\nthis damsel, that throughout the realm there was no knight could\nrefrain from setting his heart upon her, though he saw her but one\nonly time. Although the demoiselle might not return the love of so\nmany, certainly she had no wish to slay them all. Better by far that\na man pray and require in love all the dames of his country, than run\nmad in woods for the bright eyes of one. Therefore this dame gave\ncourtesy and good will to each alike. Even when she might not hear a\nlover's words, so sweetly she denied his wish that the more he held\nher dear and was the more her servant for that fond denial. So because\nof her great riches of body and of heart, this lady of whom I tell,\nwas prayed and required in love by the lords of her country, both by\nnight and by day.\n\nNow in Brittany lived four young barons, but their names I cannot\ntell. It is enough that they were desirable in the eyes of maidens for\nreason of their beauty, and that men esteemed them because they were\ncourteous of manner and open of hand. Moreover they were stout and\nhardy knights amongst the spears, and rich and worthy gentlemen of\nthose very parts. Each of these four knights had set his heart upon\nthe lady, and for love of her pained himself mightily, and did all\nthat he was able, so that by any means he might gain her favour. Each\nprayed her privily for her love, and strove all that he could to make\nhim worthy of the gift, above his fellows. For her part the lady was\nsore perplexed, and considered in her mind very earnestly, which of\nthese four knights she should take as friend. But since they all were\nloyal and worthy gentlemen, she durst not choose amongst them; for\nshe would not slay three lovers with her hand so that one might have\ncontent. Therefore to each and all, the dame made herself fair and\nsweet of semblance. Gifts she gave to all alike. Tender messages she\nsent to each. Every knight deemed himself esteemed and favoured above\nhis fellows, and by soft words and fair service diligently strove to\nplease. When the knights gathered together for the games, each of\nthese lords contended earnestly for the prize, so that he might be\nfirst, and draw on him the favour of his dame. Each held her for his\nfriend. Each bore upon him her gift--pennon, or sleeve, or ring. Each\ncried her name within the lists.\n\nNow when Eastertide was come, a great tournament was proclaimed to be\nheld beyond the walls of Nantes, that rich city. The four lovers were\nthe appellants in this tourney, and from every realm knights rode\nto break a lance in honour of their dame. Frenchman and Norman and\nFleming; the hardiest knights of Brabant, Boulogne and Anjou; each\ncame to do his devoir in the field. Nor was the chivalry of Nantes\nbackward in this quarrel, but till the vespers of the tournament was\ncome, they stayed themselves within the lists, and struck stoutly for\ntheir lord. After the four lovers had laced their harness upon them,\nthey issued forth from the city, followed by the knights who were of\ntheir company in this adventure. But upon the four fell the burden of\nthe day, for they were known of all by the embroidered arms upon their\nsurcoat, and the device fashioned on the shield. Now against the four\nlovers arrayed themselves four other knights, armed altogether in\ncoats of mail, and helmets and gauntlets of steel. Of these stranger\nknights two were of Hainault, and the two others were Flemings. When\nthe four lovers saw their adversaries prepare themselves for the\ncombat, they had little desire to flee, but hastened to join them in\nbattle. Each lowered his spear, and choosing his enemy, met him so\neagerly that all men wondered, for horse and man fell to the earth.\nThe four lovers recked little of their destriers, but freeing their\nfeet from the stirrups bent over the fallen foe, and called on him to\nyield. When the friends of the vanquished knights saw their case,\nthey hastened to their succour; so for their rescue there was a great\npress, and many a mighty stroke with the sword.\n\nThe damsel stood upon a tower to watch these feats of arms. By their\nblazoned coats and shields she knew her knights; she saw their\nmarvellous deeds, yet might not say who did best, nor give to one the\npraise. But the tournament was no longer a seemly and ordered battle.\nThe ranks of the two companies were confused together, so that every\nman fought against his fellow, and none might tell whether he struck\nhis comrade or his foe. The four lovers did well and worshipfully, so\nthat all men deemed them worthy of the prize. But when evening was\ncome, and the sport drew to its close, their courage led them to\nfolly. Having ventured too far from their companions, they were set\nupon by their adversaries, and assailed so fiercely that three were\nslain outright. As to the fourth he yet lived, but altogether mauled\nand shaken, for his thigh was broken, and a spear head remained in his\nside. The four bodies were fallen on the field, and lay with those who\nhad perished in that day. But because of the great mischief these\nfour lovers had done their adversaries, their shields were cast\ndespitefully without the lists; but in this their foemen did\nwrongfully, and all men held them in sore displeasure.\n\nGreat were the lamentation and the cry when the news of this mischance\nwas noised about the city. Such a tumult of mourning was never before\nheard, for the whole city was moved. All men hastened forth to the\nplace where the lists were set. Meetly to mourn the dead there rode\nnigh upon two thousand knights, with hauberks unlaced, and uncovered\nheads, plucking upon their beards. So the four lovers were placed each\nupon his shield, and being brought back in honour to Nantes, were\ncarried to the house of that dame, whom so greatly they had loved.\nWhen the lady knew this distressful adventure, straightway she fell\nto the ground. Being returned from her swoon, she made her complaint,\ncalling upon her lovers each by his name.\n\n\"Alas,\" said she, \"what shall I do, for never shall I know happiness\nagain. These four knights had set their hearts upon me, and despite\ntheir great treasure, esteemed my love as richer than all their\nwealth. Alas, for the fair and valiant knight! Alas, for the loyal and\ngenerous man! By gifts such as these they sought to gain my favour,\nbut how might lady bereave three of life, so as to cherish one. Even\nnow I cannot tell for whom I have most pity, or who was closest to my\nmind. But three are dead, and one is sore stricken; neither is there\nanything in the world which can bring me comfort. Only this is there\nto do--to give the slain men seemly burial, and, if it may be, to heal\ntheir comrade of his wounds.\"\n\nSo, because of her great love and nobleness, the lady caused these\nthree distressful knights to be buried well and worshipfully in a\nrich abbey. In that place she offered their Mass penny, and gave rich\nofferings of silver and of lights besides. May God have mercy on them\nin that day. As for the wounded knight she commanded him to be carried\nto her own chamber. She sent for surgeons, and gave him into their\nhands. These searched his wounds so skilfully, and tended him with so\ngreat care, that presently his hurt commenced to heal. Very often was\nthe lady in the chamber, and very tenderly she cherished the stricken\nman. Yet ever she felt pity for the three Knights of the Sorrows, and\never she went heavily by reason of their deaths.\n\nNow on a summer's day, the lady and the knight sat together after\nmeat. She called to mind the sorrow that was hers; so that, in a\nspace, her head fell upon her breast, and she gave herself altogether\nto her grief. The knight looked earnestly upon his dame. Well he might\nsee that she was far away, and clearly he perceived the cause.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"you are in sorrow. Open now your grief to me. If you\ntell me what is in your heart perchance I may find you comfort.\"\n\n\"Fair friend,\" replied she, \"I think of what is gone, and remember\nyour companions, who are dead. Never was lady of my peerage, however\nfair and good and gracious, ever loved by four such valiant gentlemen,\nnor ever lost them in one single day. Save you--who were so maimed and\nin such peril--all are gone. Therefore I call to mind those who loved\nme so dearly, and am the saddest lady beneath the sun. To remember\nthese things, of you four I shall make a Lay, and will call it the Lay\nof the Four Sorrows.\"\n\nWhen the knight heard these words he made answer very swiftly, \"Lady,\nname it not the Lay of the Four Sorrows, but, rather, the Lay of the\nDolorous Knight. Would you hear the reason why it should bear this\nname? My three comrades have finished their course; they have nothing\nmore to hope of their life. They are gone, and with them the pang of\ntheir great sorrow, and the knowledge of their enduring love for you.\nI alone have come, all amazed and fearful, from the net wherein they\nwere taken, but I find my life more bitter than my comrades found the\ngrave. I see you on your goings and comings about the house. I may\nspeak with you both matins and vespers. But no other joy do I get--\nneither clasp nor kiss, nothing but a few empty, courteous words.\nSince all these evils are come upon me because of you, I choose death\nrather than life. For this reason your Lay should bear my name, and be\ncalled the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. He who would name it the Lay\nof the Four Sorrows would name it wrongly, and not according to the\ntruth.\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" replied the lady, \"this is a fair saying. So shall the\nsong be known as the Lay of the Dolorous Knight.\"\n\nThus was the Lay conceived, made perfect, and brought to a fair birth.\nFor this reason it came by its name; though to this day some call it\nthe Lay of the Four Sorrows. Either name befits it well, for the story\ntells of both these matters, but it is the use and wont in this land\nto call it the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. Here it ends; no more is\nthere to say. I heard no more, and nothing more I know. Perforce I\nbring my story to a close.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nTHE LAY OF ELIDUC\n\nNow will I rehearse before you a very ancient Breton Lay. As the tale\nwas told to me, so, in turn, will I tell it over again, to the best of\nmy art and knowledge. Hearken now to my story, its why and its reason.\n\nIn Brittany there lived a knight, so courteous and so brave, that in\nall the realm there was no worthier lord than he. This knight was\nnamed Eliduc. He had wedded in his youth a noble lady of proud race\nand name. They had long dwelt together in peace and content, for their\nhearts were fixed on one another in faith and loyalty. Now it chanced\nthat Eliduc sought his fortune in a far land, where there was a great\nwar. There he loved a Princess, the daughter of the King and Queen of\nthose parts. Guillardun was the maiden's name, and in all the realm\nwas none more fair. The wife of Eliduc had to name, Guildeluec, in her\nown country. By reason of these two ladies their story is known as the\nLay of Guildeluec and Guillardun, but at first it was rightly called\nthe Lay of Eliduc. The name is a little matter; but if you hearken to\nme you shall learn the story of these three lovers, in its pity and\nits truth.\n\nEliduc had as lord and suzerain, the King of Brittany over Sea. The\nknight was greatly loved and cherished of his prince, by reason of his\nlong and loyal service. When the King's business took him from his\nrealm, Eliduc was his master's Justice and Seneschal. He governed the\ncountry well and wisely, and held it from the foe with a strong hand.\nNevertheless, in spite of all, much evil was appointed unto him.\nEliduc was a mighty hunter, and by the King's grace, he would chase\nthe stag within the woods. He was cunning and fair as Tristan, and\nso wise in venery, that the oldest forester might not gainsay him in\naught concerning the shaw. But by reason of malice and envy, certain\nmen accused him to the King that he had meddled with the royal\npleasaunce. The King bade Eliduc to avoid his Court. He gave no reason\nfor his commandment, and the knight might learn nothing of the cause.\nOften he prayed the King that he might know whereof he was accused.\nOften he begged his lord not to heed the specious and crafty words of\nhis foes. He called to mind the wounds he had gained in his master's\nwars, but was answered never a word. When Eliduc found that he might\nget no speech with his lord, it became his honour to depart. He\nreturned to his house, and calling his friends around him, opened\nout to them this business of the King's wrath, in recompense for his\nfaithful service.\n\n\"I did not reckon on a King's gratitude; but as the proverb says, it\nis useless for a farmer to dispute with the horse in his plough. The\nwise and virtuous man keeps faith to his lord, and bears goodwill to\nhis neighbour, not for what he may receive in return.\"\n\nThen the knight told his friends that since he might no longer stay in\nhis own country, he should cross the sea to the realm of Logres, and\nsojourn there awhile, for his solace. His fief he placed in the hands\nof his wife, and he required of his men, and of all who held him dear,\nthat they would serve her loyally. Having given good counsel to the\nutmost of his power, the knight prepared him for the road. Right heavy\nwere his friends and kin, that he must go forth from amongst them.\n\nEliduc took with him ten knights of his household, and set out on his\njourney. His dame came with him so far as she was able, wringing her\nhands, and making much sorrow, at the departure of her husband. At the\nend he pledged good faith to her, as she to him, and so she returned\nto her own home. Eliduc went his way, till he came to a haven on the\nsea. He took ship, and sailed to the realm of Totenois, for many kings\ndwell in that country, and ever there were strife and war. Now, near\nto Exeter, in this land, there dwelt a King, right rich and strong,\nbut old and very full of years. He had no son of his body, but one\nmaid only, young, and of an age to wed. Since he would not bestow this\ndamsel on a certain prince of his neighbours, this lord made mortal\nwar upon his fellow, spoiling and wasting all his land. The ancient\nKing, for surety, had set his daughter within a castle, fair and very\nstrong. He had charged the sergeants not to issue forth from the\ngates, and for the rest there was none so bold as to seek to storm the\nkeep, or even to joust about the barriers. When Eliduc was told of\nthis quarrel, he needed to go no farther, and sojourned for awhile\nin the land. He turned over in his mind which of these princes dealt\nunjustly with his neighbour. Since he deemed that the ag\u00e8d king was\nthe more vexed and sorely pressed in the matter, he resolved to aid\nhim to the best of his might, and to take arms in his service. Eliduc,\ntherefore, wrote letters to the King, telling him that he had quitted\nhis own country, and sought refuge in the King's realm. For his part\nhe was willing to fight as a mercenary in the King's quarrel, and if a\nsafe conduct were given him, he and the knights of his company would\nride, forthwith, to their master's aid. This letter, Eliduc sent by\nthe hands of his squires to the King. When the ancient lord had read\nthe letter, he rejoiced greatly, and made much of the messengers. He\nsummoned his constable, and commanded him swiftly to write out the\nsafe conduct, that would bring the baron to his side. For the rest he\nbade that the messengers meetly should be lodged and apparelled, and\nthat such money should be given them as would be sufficient to their\nneeds. Then he sealed the safe conduct with his royal seal, and sent\nit to Eliduc, straightway, by a sure hand.\n\nWhen Eliduc came in answer to the summons, he was received with great\nhonour by the King. His lodging was appointed in the house of a grave\nand courteous burgess of the city, who bestowed the fairest chamber on\nhis guest. Eliduc fared softly, both at bed and board. He called to\nhis table such good knights as were in misease, by reason of prison or\nof war. He charged his men that none should be so bold as to take pelf\nor penny from the citizens of the town, during the first forty days of\ntheir sojourn. But on the third day, it was bruited about the streets,\nthat the enemy were near at hand. The country folk deemed that they\napproached to invest the city, and to take the gates by storm. When\nthe noise and clamour of the fearful burgesses came to the ears of\nEliduc, he and his company donned their harness, and got to horse,\nas quickly as they might. Forty horsemen mounted with him; as to the\nrest, many lay sick or hurt within the city, and others were captives\nin the hands of the foe. These forty stout sergeants waited for no\nsounding of trumpets; they hastened to seek their captain at his\nlodging, and rode at his back through the city gate.\n\n\"Sir,\" said they, \"where you go, there we will follow, and what you\nbid us, that shall we do.\"\n\n\"Friends,\" made answer the knight, \"I thank you for your fellowship.\nThere is no man amongst us but who wishes to molest the foe, and do\nthem all the mischief that he is able. If we await them in the town,\nwe defend ourselves with the shield, and not with the sword. To my\nmind it is better to fall in the field than to hide behind walls; but\nif any of you have a wiser counsel to offer, now let him speak.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" replied a soldier of the company, \"through the wood, in good\nfaith, there runs a path, right strict and narrow. It is the wont of\nthe enemy to approach our city by this track. After their deeds of\narms before the walls, it is their custom to return by the way they\ncame, helmet on saddle bow, and hauberk unbraced. If we might catch\nthem, unready in the path, we could trouble them very grievously, even\nthough it be at the peril of our lives.\"\n\n\"Friends,\" answered Eliduc, \"you are all the King's men, and are bound\nto serve him faithfully, even to the death. Come, now, with me where\nI will go, and do that thing which you shall see me do. I give you my\nword as a loyal gentleman, that no harm shall hap to any. If we gain\nspoil and riches from the foe, each shall have his lot in the ransom.\nAt the least we may do them much hurt and mischief in this quarrel.\"\n\nEliduc set his men in ambush, near by that path, within the wood. He\ntold over to them, like a cunning captain, the crafty plan he had\ndevised, and taught them how to play their parts, and to call upon\nhis name. When the foe had entered on that perilous path, and were\naltogether taken in the snare, Eliduc cried his name, and summoned his\ncompanions to bear themselves like men. This they did stoutly, and\nassailed their enemy so fiercely that he was dismayed beyond measure,\nand his line being broken, fled to the forest. In this fight was the\nconstable taken, together with fifty and five other lords, who owned\nthemselves prisoners, and were given to the keeping of the squires.\nGreat was the spoil in horse and harness, and marvellous was the\nwealth they gained in gold and ransom. So having done such great deeds\nin so short a space, they returned to the city, joyous and content.\n\nThe King looked forth from a tower. He feared grievously for his men,\nand made his complaint of Eliduc, who--he deemed--had betrayed him in\nhis need. Upon the road he saw a great company, charged and laden with\nspoil. Since the number of those who returned was more than those who\nwent forth, the king knew not again his own. He came down from the\ntower, in doubt and sore trouble, bidding that the gates should be\nmade fast, and that men should mount upon the walls. For such coil as\nthis, there was slender warrant. A squire who was sent out, came back\nwith all speed, and showed him of this adventure. He told over the\nstory of the ambush, and the tale of the prisoners. He rehearsed how\nthe constable was taken, and that many a knight was wounded, and many\na brave man slain. When the King might give credence thereto, he had\nmore joy than ever king before. He got him from his tower, and going\nbefore Eliduc, he praised him to his face, and rendered him the\ncaptives as a gift. Eliduc gave the King's bounty to his men. He\nbestowed on them besides, all the harness and the spoil; keeping, for\nhis part, but three knights, who had won much honour in the battle.\nFrom this day the King loved and cherished Eliduc very dearly. He held\nthe knight, and his company, for a full year in his service, and at\nthe end of the year, such faith had he in the knight's loyalty, that\nhe appointed him Seneschal and Constable of his realm.\n\nEliduc was not only a brave and wary captain; he was also a courteous\ngentleman, right goodly to behold.\n\nThat fair maiden, the daughter of the King, heard tell of his deeds,\nand desired to see his face, because of the good men spake of him. She\nsent her privy chamberlain to the knight, praying him to come to her\nhouse, that she might solace herself with the story of his deeds, for\ngreatly she wondered that he had no care for her friendship. Eliduc\ngave answer to the chamberlain that he would ride forthwith, since\nmuch he desired to meet so high a dame. He bade his squire to saddle\nhis destrier, and rode to the palace, to have speech with the lady.\nEliduc stood without the lady's chamber, and prayed the chamberlain to\ntell the dame that he had come, according to her wish. The chamberlain\ncame forth with a smiling face, and straightway led him in the\nchamber. When the princess saw the knight, she cherished him very\nsweetly, and welcomed him in the most honourable fashion. The knight\ngazed upon the lady, who was passing fair to see. He thanked her\ncourteously, that she was pleased to permit him to have speech with so\nhigh a princess. Guillardun took Eliduc by the hand, and seated him\nupon the bed, near her side. They spake together of many things, for\neach found much to say. The maiden looked closely upon the knight, his\nface and semblance; to her heart she said that never before had she\nbeheld so comely a man. Her eyes might find no blemish in his person,\nand Love knocked upon her heart, requiring her to love, since her time\nhad come. She sighed, and her face lost its fair colour; but she cared\nonly to hide her trouble from the knight, lest he should think her the\nless maidenly therefore. When they had talked together for a great\nspace, Eliduc took his leave, and went his way. The lady would have\nkept him longer gladly, but since she did not dare, she allowed him\nto depart. Eliduc returned to his lodging, very pensive and deep in\nthought. He called to mind that fair maiden, the daughter of his\nKing, who so sweetly had bidden him to her side, and had kissed him\nfarewell, with sighs that were sweeter still. He repented him right\nearnestly that he had lived so long a while in the land without\nseeking her face, but promised that often he would enter her palace\nnow. Then he remembered the wife whom he had left in his own house. He\nrecalled the parting between them, and the covenant he made, that good\nfaith and stainless honour should be ever betwixt the twain. But the\nmaiden, from whom he came, was willing to take him as her knight! If\nsuch was her will, might any pluck him from her hand?\n\nAll night long, that fair maiden, the daughter of the King, had\nneither rest nor sleep. She rose up, very early in the morning, and\ncommanding her chamberlain, opened out to him all that was in her\nheart. She leaned her brow against the casement.\n\n\"By my faith,\" she said, \"I am fallen into a deep ditch, and sorrow\nhas come upon me. I love Eliduc, the good knight, whom my father made\nhis Seneschal. I love him so dearly that I turn the whole night upon\nmy bed, and cannot close my eyes, nor sleep. If he assured me of his\nheart, and loved me again, all my pleasure should be found in his\nhappiness. Great might be his profit, for he would become King of this\nrealm, and little enough is it for his deserts, so courteous is he and\nwise. If he have nothing better than friendship to give me, I choose\ndeath before life, so deep is my distress.\"\n\nWhen the princess had spoken what it pleased her to say, the\nchamberlain, whom she had bidden, gave her loyal counsel.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"since you have set your love upon this knight, send\nhim now--if so it please you--some goodly gift-girdle or scarf or\nring. If he receive the gift with delight, rejoicing in your favour,\nyou may be assured that he loves you. There is no Emperor, under\nHeaven, if he were tendered your tenderness, but would go the more\nlightly for your grace.\"\n\nThe damsel hearkened to the counsel of her chamberlain, and made\nreply, \"If only I knew that he desired my love! Did ever maiden woo\nher knight before, by asking whether he loved or hated her? What if he\nmake of me a mock and a jest in the ears of his friends! Ah, if the\nsecrets of the heart were but written on the face! But get you ready,\nfor go you must, at once.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the chamberlain, \"I am ready to do your bidding.\"\n\n\"You must greet the knight a hundred times in my name, and will place\nmy girdle in his hand, and this my golden ring.\"\n\nWhen the chamberlain had gone upon his errand, the maiden was so\nsick at heart, that for a little she would have bidden him return.\nNevertheless, she let him go his way, and eased her shame with words.\n\n\"Alas, what has come upon me, that I should put my heart upon a\nstranger. I know nothing of his folk, whether they be mean or high;\nnor do I know whether he will part as swiftly as he came. I have done\nfoolishly, and am worthy of blame, since I have bestowed my love very\nlightly. I spoke to him yesterday for the first time, and now I pray\nhim for his love. Doubtless he will make me a song! Yet if he be the\ncourteous gentleman I believe him, he will understand, and not deal\nhardly with me. At least the dice are cast, and if he may not love me,\nI shall know myself the most woeful of ladies, and never taste of joy\nall the days of my life.\"\n\n\nWhilst the maiden lamented in this fashion, the chamberlain hastened\nto the lodging of Eliduc. He came before the knight, and having\nsaluted him in his lady's name, he gave to his hand the ring and the\ngirdle. The knight thanked him earnestly for the gifts. He placed the\nring upon his finger, and the girdle he girt about his body. He said\nno more to the chamberlain, nor asked him any questions; save only\nthat he proffered him a gift. This the messenger might not have, and\nreturned the way he came. The chamberlain entered in the palace and\nfound the princess within her chamber. He greeted her on the part of\nthe knight, and thanked her for her bounty.\n\n\"Diva, diva,\" cried the lady hastily, \"hide nothing from me; does he\nlove me, or does he not?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the chamberlain, \"as I deem, he loves you, and truly.\nEliduc is no cozener with words. I hold him for a discreet and prudent\ngentleman, who knows well how to hide what is in his heart. I gave him\ngreeting in your name, and granted him your gifts. He set the ring\nupon his finger, and as to your girdle, he girt it upon him, and\nbelted it tightly about his middle. I said no more to him, nor he to\nme; but if he received not your gifts in tenderness, I am the more\ndeceived. Lady, I have told you his words: I cannot tell you his\nthoughts. Only, mark carefully what I am about to say. If Eliduc had\nnot a richer gift to offer, he would not have taken your presents at\nmy hand.\"\n\n\"It pleases you to jest,\" said the lady. \"I know well that Eliduc does\nnot altogether hate me. Since my only fault is to cherish him too\nfondly, should he hate me, he would indeed be blameworthy. Never again\nby you, or by any other, will I require him of aught, or look to him\nfor comfort. He shall see that a maiden's love is no slight thing,\nlightly given, and lightly taken again--but, perchance, he will not\ndwell in the realm so long as to know of the matter.\"\n\n\"Lady, the knight has covenanted to serve the King, in all loyalty,\nfor the space of a year. You have full leisure to tell, whatever you\ndesire him to learn.\"\n\nWhen the maiden heard that Eliduc remained in the country, she\nrejoiced very greatly. She was glad that the knight would sojourn\nawhile in her city, for she knew naught of the torment he endured,\nsince first he looked upon her. He had neither peace nor delight, for\nhe could not get her from his mind. He reproached himself bitterly.\nHe called to remembrance the covenant he made with his wife, when he\ndeparted from his own land, that he would never be false to his oath.\nBut his heart was a captive now, in a very strong prison. He desired\ngreatly to be loyal and honest, but he could not deny his love for the\nmaiden--Guillardun, so frank and so fair.\n\nEliduc strove to act as his honour required. He had speech and sight\nof the lady, and did not refuse her kiss and embrace. He never spoke\nof love, and was diligent to offend in nothing. He was careful in\nthis, because he would keep faith with his wife, and would attempt no\nmatter against his King. Very grievously he pained himself, but at the\nend he might do no more. Eliduc caused his horse to be saddled, and\ncalling his companions about him, rode to the castle to get audience\nof the King. He considered, too, that he might see his lady, and learn\nwhat was in her heart. It was the hour of meat, and the King having\nrisen from table, had entered in his daughter's chamber. The King was\nat chess, with a lord who had but come from over-sea. The lady sat\nnear the board, to watch the movements of the game. When Eliduc came\nbefore the prince, he welcomed him gladly, bidding him to seat himself\nclose at hand. Afterwards he turned to his daughter, and said,\n\"Princess, it becomes you to have a closer friendship with this lord,\nand to treat him well and worshipfully. Amongst five hundred, there is\nno better knight than he.\"\n\nWhen the maiden had listened demurely to her father's commandment,\nthere was no gayer lady than she. She rose lightly to her feet, and\ntaking the knight a little from the others, seated him at her side.\nThey remained silent, because of the greatness of their love. She did\nnot dare to speak the first, and to him the maid was more dreadful\nthan a knight in mail. At the end Eliduc thanked her courteously for\nthe gifts she had sent him; never was grace so precious and so kind.\nThe maiden made answer to the knight, that very dear to her was the\nuse he had found for her ring, and the girdle with which he had belted\nhis body. She loved him so fondly that she wished him for her husband.\nIf she might not have her wish, one thing she knew well, that she\nwould take no living man, but would die unwed. She trusted he would\nnot deny her hope.\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the knight, \"I have great joy in your love, and thank\nyou humbly for the goodwill you bear me. I ought indeed to be a\nhappy man, since you deign to show me at what price you value our\nfriendship. Have you remembered that I may not remain always in your\nrealm? I covenanted with the King to serve him as his man for the\nspace of one year. Perchance I may stay longer in his service, for I\nwould not leave him till his quarrel be ended. Then I shall return to\nmy own land; so, fair lady, you permit me to say farewell.\"\n\nThe maiden made answer to her knight, \"Fair friend, right sweetly I\nthank you for your courteous speech. So apt a clerk will know, without\nmore words, that he may have of me just what he would. It becomes my\nlove to give faith to all you say.\"\n\nThe two lovers spoke together no further; each was well assured of\nwhat was in the other's heart. Eliduc rode back to his lodging, right\njoyous and content. Often he had speech with his friend, and passing\ngreat was the love which grew between the twain.\n\nEliduc pressed on the war so fiercely that in the end he took captive\nthe King who troubled his lord, and had delivered the land from its\nfoes. He was greatly praised of all as a crafty captain in the field,\nand a hardy comrade with the spear. The poor and the minstrel counted\nhim a generous knight. About this time that King, who had bidden\nEliduc avoid his realm, sought diligently to find him. He had sent\nthree messengers beyond the seas to seek his ancient Seneschal. A\nstrong enemy had wrought him much grief and loss. All his castles were\ntaken from him, and all his country was a spoil to the foe. Often and\nsorely he repented him of the evil counsel to which he had given ear.\nHe mourned the absence of his mightiest knight, and drove from his\ncouncils those false lords who, for malice and envy, had defamed him.\nThese he outlawed for ever from his realm. The King wrote letters to\nEliduc, conjuring him by the loving friendship that was once between\nthem, and summoning him as a vassal is required of his lord, to hasten\nto his aid, in that his bitter need. When Eliduc heard these tidings\nthey pressed heavily upon him, by reason of the grievous love he bore\nthe dame. She, too, loved him with a woman's whole heart. Between the\ntwo there was nothing but the purest love and tenderness. Never by\nword or deed had they spoiled their friendship. To speak a little\nclosely together; to give some fond and foolish gift; this was the sum\nof their love. In her wish and hope the maiden trusted to hold the\nknight in her land, and to have him as her lord. Naught she deemed\nthat he was wedded to a wife beyond the sea.\n\n\"Alas,\" said Eliduc, \"I have loitered too long in this country, and\nhave gone astray. Here I have set my heart on a maiden, Guillardun,\nthe daughter of the King, and she, on me. If, now, we part, there is\nno help that one, or both, of us, must die. Yet go I must. My lord\nrequires me by letters, and by the oath of fealty that I have sworn.\nMy own honour demands that I should return to my wife. I dare not\nstay; needs must I go. I cannot wed my lady, for not a priest in\nChristendom would make us man and wife. All things turn to blame. God,\nwhat a tearing asunder will our parting be! Yet there is one who will\never think me in the right, though I be held in scorn of all. I will\nbe guided by her wishes, and what she counsels that will I do. The\nKing, her sire, is troubled no longer by any war. First, I will go to\nhim, praying that I may return to my own land, for a little, because\nof the need of my rightful lord. Then I will seek out the maiden, and\nshow her the whole business. She will tell me her desire, and I shall\nact according to her wish.\"\n\nThe knight hesitated no longer as to the path he should follow. He\nwent straight to the King, and craved leave to depart. He told him\nthe story of his lord's distress, and read, and placed in the King's\nhands, the letters calling him back to his home. When the King had\nread the writing, and knew that Eliduc purposed to depart, he was\npassing sad and heavy. He offered the knight the third part of his\nkingdom, with all the treasure that he pleased to ask, if he would\nremain at his side. He offered these things to the knight--these, and\nthe gratitude of all his days besides.\n\n\"Do not tempt me, sire,\" replied the knight. \"My lord is in such\ndeadly peril, and his letters have come so great a way to require me,\nthat go I must to aid him in his need. When I have ended my task, I\nwill return very gladly, if you care for my services, and with me a\ngoodly company of knights to fight in your quarrels.\"\n\nThe King thanked Eliduc for his words, and granted him graciously the\nleave that he demanded. He gave him, moreover, all the goods of his\nhouse; gold and silver, hound and horses, silken cloths, both rich and\nfair, these he might have at his will. Eliduc took of them discreetly,\naccording to his need. Then, very softly, he asked one other gift.\nIf it pleased the King, right willingly would he say farewell to the\nprincess, before he went. The King replied that it was his pleasure,\ntoo. He sent a page to open the door of the maiden's chamber, and to\ntell her the knight's request. When she saw him, she took him by\nthe hand, and saluted him very sweetly. Eliduc was the more fain of\ncounsel than of claspings. He seated himself by the maiden's side, and\nas shortly as he might, commenced to show her of the business. He had\ndone no more than read her of his letters, than her face lost its fair\ncolour, and near she came to swoon. When Eliduc saw her about to fall,\nhe knew not what he did, for grief. He kissed her mouth, once and\nagain, and wept above her, very tenderly. He took, and held her fast\nin his arms, till she had returned from her swoon.\n\n\"Fair dear friend,\" said he softly, \"bear with me while I tell you\nthat you are my life and my death, and in you is all my comfort. I\nhave bidden farewell to your father, and purposed to go back to my own\nland, for reason of this bitter business of my lord. But my will is\nonly in your pleasure, and whatever the future brings me, your counsel\nI will do.\"\n\n\"Since you cannot stay,\" said the maiden, \"take me with you, wherever\nyou go. If not, my life is so joyless without you, that I would wish\nto end it with my knife.\"\n\nVery sweetly made answer Sir Eliduc, for in honesty he loved honest\nmaid, \"Fair friend, I have sworn faith to your father, and am his man.\nIf I carried you with me, I should give the lie to my troth. Let this\ncovenant be made between us. Should you give me leave to return to my\nown land I swear to you on my honour as a knight, that I will come\nagain on any day that you shall name. My life is in your hands.\nNothing on earth shall keep me from your side, so only that I have\nlife and health.\"\n\nThen she, who loved so fondly, granted her knight permission to\ndepart, and fixed the term, and named the day for his return. Great\nwas their sorrow that the hour had come to bid farewell. They gave\nrings of gold for remembrance, and sweetly kissed adieu. So they\nsevered from each other's arms.\n\nEliduc sought the sea, and with a fair wind, crossed swiftly to the\nother side. His lord was greatly content to learn the tidings of his\nknight's return. His friends and his kinsfolk came to greet him, and\nthe common folk welcomed him very gladly. But, amongst them all, none\nwas so blithe at his home-coming as the fair and prudent lady who was\nhis wife. Despite this show of friendship, Eliduc was ever sad, and\ndeep in thought. He went heavily, till he might look upon his friend.\nHe felt no happiness, nor made pretence of any, till he should meet\nwith her again. His wife was sick at heart, because of the coldness of\nher husband. She took counsel with her soul, as to what she had done\namiss. Often she asked him privily, if she had come short or offended\nin any measure, whilst he was without the realm. If she was accused by\nany, let him tell her the accusation, that she might purge herself of\nthe offence.\n\n\"Wife,\" answered Eliduc, \"neither I, nor any other, charge you with\naught that is against your honour to do. The cause of my sorrow is\nin myself. I have pledged my faith to the King of that country, from\nwhence I come, that I will return to help him in his need. When my\nlord the King has peace in his realm, within eight days I shall be\nonce more upon the sea. Great travail I must endure, and many pains I\nshall suffer, in readiness for that hour. Return I must, and till then\nI have no mind for anything but toil; for I will not give the lie to\nmy plighted word.\"\n\nEliduc put his fief once more in the hands of his dame. He sought\nhis lord, and aided him to the best of his might. By the counsel and\nprowess of the knight, the King came again into his own. When the term\nappointed by his lady, and the day she named for his return drew near,\nEliduc wrought in such fashion that peace was accorded between the\nfoes. Then the knight made him ready for his journey, and took thought\nto the folk he should carry with him. His choice fell on two of his\nnephews, whom he loved very dearly, and on a certain chamberlain of\nhis household. These were trusted servitors, who were of his inmost\nmind, and knew much of his counsel. Together with these went his\nsquires, these only, for Eliduc had no care to take many. All these,\nnephew and squire and chamberlain, Eliduc made to promise, and confirm\nby an oath, that they would reveal nothing of his business.\n\nThe company put to sea without further tarrying, and, crossing\nquickly, came to that land where Eliduc so greatly desired to be. The\nknight sought a hostel some distance from the haven, for he would\nnot be seen of any, nor have it bruited that Eliduc was returned. He\ncalled his chamberlain, and sent him to his friend, bearing letters\nthat her knight had come, according to the covenant that had been\nmade. At nightfall, before the gates were made fast, Eliduc issued\nforth from the city, and followed after his messenger. He had clothed\nhimself in mean apparel, and rode at a footpace straight to the city,\nwhere dwelt the daughter of the King. The chamberlain arrived before\nthe palace, and by dint of asking and prying, found himself within the\nlady's chamber. He saluted the maiden, and told her that her lover\nwas near. When Guillardun heard these tidings she was astonied beyond\nmeasure, and for joy and pity wept right tenderly. She kissed the\nletters of her friend, and the messenger who brought such welcome\ntidings. The chamberlain prayed the lady to attire and make her ready\nto join her friend. The day was spent in preparing for the adventure,\naccording to such plan as had been devised. When dark was come,\nand all was still, the damsel stole forth from the palace, and the\nchamberlain with her. For fear that any man should know her again,\nthe maiden had hidden, beneath a riding cloak, her silken gown,\nembroidered with gold. About the space of a bow shot from the city\ngate, there was a coppice standing within a fair meadow. Near by this\nwood, Eliduc and his comrades awaited the coming of Guillardun. When\nEliduc saw the lady, wrapped in her mantle, and his chamberlain\nleading her by the hand, he got from his horse, and kissed her right\ntenderly. Great joy had his companions at so fair a sight. He set\nher on the horse, and climbing before her, took bridle in glove,\nand returned to the haven, with all the speed he might. He entered\nforthwith in the ship, which put to sea, having on board none, save\nEliduc, his men, and his lady, Guillardun. With a fair wind, and a\nquiet hour, the sailors thought that they would swiftly come to shore.\nBut when their journey was near its end, a sudden tempest arose on the\nsea. A mighty wind drove them far from their harbourage, so that their\nrudder was broken, and their sail torn from the mast. Devoutly they\ncried on St. Nicholas, St. Clement, and Madame St. Mary, to aid them\nin this peril. They implored the Mother that she would approach her\nSon, not to permit them to perish, but to bring them to the harbour\nwhere they would come. Without sail or oar, the ship drifted here and\nthere, at the mercy of the storm. They were very close to death, when\none of the company, with a loud voice began to cry, \"What need is\nthere of prayers! Sir, you have with you, her, who brings us to our\ndeath. We shall never win to land, because you, who already have a\nfaithful wife, seek to wed this foreign woman, against God and His\nlaw, against honour and your plighted troth. Grant us to cast her in\nthe sea, and straightway the winds and the waves will be still.\"\n\nWhen Eliduc heard these words he was like to come to harm for rage.\n\n\"Bad servant and felon traitor,\" he cried, \"you should pay dearly for\nyour speech, if I might leave my lady.\"\n\nEliduc held his friend fast in his arms, and cherished her as well as\nhe was able. When the lady heard that her knight was already wedded\nin his own realm, she swooned where she lay. Her face became pale and\ndiscoloured; she neither breathed nor sighed, nor could any bring\nher any comfort. Those who carried her to a sheltered place, were\npersuaded that she was but dead, because of the fury of the storm.\nEliduc was passing heavy. He rose to his feet, and hastening to his\nsquire, smote him so grievously with an oar, that he fell senseless on\nthe deck. He haled him by his legs to the side of the ship and flung\nthe body in the sea, where it was swiftly swallowed by the waves. He\nwent to the broken rudder, and governed the nave so skilfully, that it\npresently drew to land. So, having come to their fair haven, they cast\nanchor, and made fast their bridge to the shore. Dame Guillardun lay\nyet in her swoon, and seemed no other than if she were really dead.\nEliduc's sorrow was all the more, since he deemed that he had slain\nher with his hand. He inquired of his companions in what near place\nthey might lay the lady to her rest, \"for I will not bid her farewell,\ntill she is put in holy ground with such pomp and rite as befit the\nobsequies of the daughter of a King.\" His comrades answered him never\na word, for they were all bemused by reason of what had befallen.\nEliduc, therefore, considered within himself to what place he should\ncarry the lady. His own home was so near the haven where he had come,\nthat very easily they could ride there before evening. He called to\nmind that in his realm there was a certain great forest, both long and\ndeep. Within this wood there was a little chapel, served by a holy\nhermit for forty years, with whom Eliduc had oftimes spoken.\n\n\"To this holy man,\" he said, \"I will bear my lady. In his chapel he\nshall bury her sweet body. I will endow him so richly of my lands,\nthat upon her chantry shall be founded a mighty abbey. There some\nconvent of monks or nuns or canons shall ever hold her in remembrance,\npraying God to grant her mercy in His day.\"\n\nEliduc got to horse, but first took oath of his comrades that never,\nby them, should be discovered, that which they should see. He set his\nfriend before him on the palfrey, and thus the living and the dead\nrode together, till they had entered the wood, and come before the\nchapel. The squires called and beat upon the door, but it remained\nfast, and none was found to give them any answer. Eliduc bade that one\nshould climb through a window, and open the door from within. When\nthey had come within the chapel they found a new made tomb, and writ\nthereon, that the holy hermit having finished his course, was made\nperfect, eight days before Passing sad was Eliduc, and esmayed. His\ncompanions would have digged a second grave, and set therein, his\nfriend; but the knight would in no wise consent, for--he said--he\npurposed to take counsel of the priests of his country, as to building\nsome church or abbey above her tomb. \"At this hour we will but lay her\nbody before the altar, and commend her to God His holy keeping.\"\nHe commanded them to bring their mantles and make a bed upon the\naltar-pace. Thereon they laid the maiden, and having wrapped her close\nin her lover's cloak, left her alone. When the moment came for Eliduc\nto take farewell of his lady, he deemed that his own last hour had\ncome. He kissed her eyes and her face.\n\n\"Fair friend,\" said he, \"if it be pleasing to God, never will I bear\nsword or lance again, or seek the pleasures of this mortal world. Fair\nfriend, in an ill hour you saw me! Sweet lady, in a bitter hour you\nfollowed me to death! Fairest, now were you a queen, were it not for\nthe pure and loyal love you set upon me? Passing sad of heart am I for\nyou, my friend. The hour that I have seen you in your shroud, I will\ntake the habit of some holy order, and every day, upon your tomb, I\nwill tell over the chaplet of my sorrow.\"\n\nHaving taken farewell of the maiden, Eliduc came forth from the\nchapel, and closed the doors. He sent messages to his wife, that he\nwas returning to his house, but weary and overborne. When the dame\nheard these tidings, she was happy in her heart, and made ready to\ngreet him. She received her lord tenderly; but little joy came of her\nwelcome, for she got neither smiles in answer, nor tender words in\nreturn. She dared not inquire the reason, during the two days Eliduc\nremained in the house. The knight heard Mass very early in the\nmorning, and then set forth on the road leading to the chapel where\nthe maiden lay. He found her as he had parted, for she had not come\nback from her swoon, and there was neither stir in her, nor breath. He\nmarvelled greatly, for he saw her, vermeil and white, as he had known\nher in life. She had lost none of her sweet colour, save that she was\na little blanched. He wept bitterly above her, and entreated for her\nsoul. Having made his prayer, he went again to his house.\n\nOn a day when Eliduc went forth, his wife called to her a varlet of\nher household, commanding him to follow his lord afar off, and mark\nwhere he went, and on what business. She promised to give him harness\nand horses, if he did according to her will. The varlet hid himself in\nthe wood, and followed so cunningly after his lord, that he was not\nperceived. He watched the knight enter the chapel, and heard the\ncry and lamentation that he made. When Eliduc came out, the varlet\nhastened to his mistress, and told her what he had seen, the tears and\ndolour, and all that befell his lord within the hermitage. The lady\nsummoned all her courage.\n\n\"We will go together, as soon as we may, to this hermitage. My lord\ntells me that he rides presently to the Court to speak with the King.\nI knew that my husband loved this dead hermit very tenderly, but I\nlittle thought that his loss would make him mad with grief.\"\n\nThe next day the dame let her lord go forth in peace. When, about\nnoon, Eliduc rode to the Court to greet his King, the lady rose\nquickly, and carrying the varlet with her, went swiftly to the\nhermitage. She entered the chapel, and saw the bed upon the\naltar-pace, and the maiden thereon, like a new sprung rose. Stooping\ndown the lady removed the mantle. She marked the rigid body, the long\narms, and the frail white hands, with their slender fingers, folded on\nthe breast. Thus she learned the secret of the sorrow of her lord. She\ncalled the varlet within the chapel, and showed him this wonder.\n\n\"Seest thou,\" she said, \"this woman, who for beauty shineth as a gem!\nThis lady, in her life, was the lover of my lord. It was for her that\nall his days were spoiled by grief. By my faith I marvel little at\nhis sorrow, since I, who am a woman too, will--for pity's sake or\nlove--never know joy again, having seen so fair a lady in the dust.\"\n\nSo the wife wept above the body of the maiden. Whilst the lady\nsat weeping, a weasel came from under the altar, and ran across\nGuillardun's body. The varlet smote it with his staff, and killed it\nas it passed. He took the vermin and flung it away. The companion of\nthis weasel presently came forth to seek him. She ran to the place\nwhere he lay, and finding that he would not get him on his feet,\nseemed as one distraught. She went forth from the chapel, and hastened\nto the wood, from whence she returned quickly, bearing a vermeil\nflower beneath her teeth. This red flower she placed within the mouth\nof that weasel the varlet had slain, and immediately he stood upon his\nfeet. When the lady saw this, she cried to the varlet,\n\n\"Throw, man, throw, and gain the flower.\"\n\nThe servitor flung his staff, and the weasels fled away, leaving that\nfair flower upon the floor. The lady rose. She took the flower, and\nreturned with it swiftly to the altar pace. Within the mouth of the\nmaiden, she set a flower that was more vermeil still. For a short\nspace the dame and the damsel were alike breathless. Then the maiden\ncame to herself, with a sigh. She opened her eyes, and commenced to\nspeak.\n\n\"Diva,\" she said, \"have I slept so long, indeed!\"\n\nWhen the lady heard her voice she gave thanks to God. She inquired of\nthe maiden as to her name and degree. The damsel made answer to her,\n\"Lady, I was born in Logres, and am daughter to the King of that\nrealm. Greatly there I loved a knight, named Eliduc, the seneschal of\nmy sire. We fled together from my home, to my own most grievous fault.\nHe never told me that he was wedded to a wife in his own country, and\nhe hid the matter so cunningly, that I knew naught thereof. When I\nheard tell of his dame, I swooned for pure sorrow. Now I find that\nthis false lover, has, like a felon, betrayed me in a strange land.\nWhat will chance to a maiden in so foul a plight? Great is that\nwoman's folly who puts her trust in man.\"\n\n\"Fair damsel,\" replied the lady, \"there is nothing in the whole world\nthat can give such joy to this felon, as to hear that you are yet\nalive. He deems that you are dead, and every day he beweeps your swoon\nin the chapel. I am his wife, and my heart is sick, just for looking\non his sorrow. To learn the reason of his grief, I caused him to\nbe followed, and that is why I have found you here. It is a great\nhappiness for me to know that you live. You shall return with me to my\nhome, and I will place you in the tenderness of your friend. Then I\nshall release him of his marriage troth, since it is my dearest hope\nto take the veil.\"\n\nWhen the wife had comforted the maiden with such words, they went\ntogether to her own house. She called to her servitor, and bade him\nseek his lord. The varlet went here and there, till he lighted on\nEliduc. He came before him, and showed him of all these things. Eliduc\nmounted straightway on his horse, and waiting neither for squire or\ncompanion, that same night came to his hall. When he found alive, her,\nwho once was dead, Eliduc thanked his wife for so dear a gift. He\nrejoiced beyond measure, and of all his days, no day was more happy\nthan this. He kissed the maiden often, and very sweetly she gave him\nagain his kiss, for great was the joy between the twain. The dame\nlooked on their happiness, and knew that her lord meetly had bestowed\nhis love. She prayed him, therefore, that he would grant her leave to\ndepart, since she would serve God as a cloistered nun. Of his wealth\nshe craved such a portion as would permit her to found a convent. He\nwould then be able to wed the maiden on whom his heart was set, for it\nwas neither honest nor seemly that a man should maintain a wife with\neither hand.\n\nEliduc could do no otherwise than consent. He gave the permission she\nasked, and did all according to her will. He endowed the lady of his\nlands, near by that chapel and hermitage, within the wood. There he\nbuilt a church with offices and refectory, fair to see. Much wealth he\nbestowed on the convent, in money and estate. When all was brought to\na good end, the lady took the veil upon her head. Thirty other ladies\nentered in the house with her, and long she ruled them as their\nAbbess, right wisely and well.\n\nEliduc wedded with his friend, in great pomp, and passing rich was the\nmarriage feast. They dwelt in unity together for many days, for ever\nbetween them was perfect love. They walked uprightly, and gave alms of\ntheir goods, till such a time as it became them to turn to God. After\nmuch thought, Eliduc built a great church close beside his castle.\nHe endowed it with all his gold and silver, and with the rest of his\nland. He set priests there, and holy layfolk also, for the business of\nthe house, and the fair services of religion.\n\nWhen all was builded and ordered, Eliduc offered himself, with them,\nthat he--weak man--might serve the omnipotent God. He set with the\nAbbess Guildeluec--who once was his dame--that wife whom he loved so\ndearly well. The Abbess received her as a sister, and welcomed her\nright honourably. She admonished her in the offices of God, and taught\nher of the rules and practice of their holy Order. They prayed to God\nfor their friend, that He would grant him mercy in His day. In turn,\nhe entreated God for them. Messages came from convent and monastery as\nto how they fared, so that each might encourage the other in His way.\nEach strove painfully, for himself and his, to love God the more\ndearly, and to abide in His holy faith. Each made a good end, and the\nmercy of God was abundantly made clear to all.\n\nOf the adventure of these three lovers, the courteous Bretons made\nthis Lay for remembrance, since they deemed it a matter that men\nshould not forget.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE NIGHTINGALE\n\nNow will I tell you a story, whereof the Breton harper already has\nmade a Lay. Laustic, I deem, men name it in that country, which, being\ninterpreted, means rossignol in French, and nightingale in good plain\nEnglish.\n\nIn the realm of Brittany stands a certain rich and mighty city, called\nSaint Malo. There were citizens of this township two knights, so well\nspoken and reputed of all, that the city drew therefrom great profit\nand fame. The houses of these lords were very near the one to the\nother. One of the two knights had to wife a passing fair lady, right\ngracious of manner and sweet of tongue. Wondrous pleasure found this\ndame to array herself richly, after the wont and fashion of her time.\nThe other knight was yet a bachelor. He was well accounted of amongst\nhis fellows as a hardy knight and as an honourable man. He gave\nhospitality gladly. Largely he gained, largely he spent, and willingly\nbestowed gifts of all that he had.\n\nThis bachelor set his love upon his neighbour's wife. By reason of his\nurgent prayers, his long suit and service, and by reason that all men\nspake naught of him but praise--perchance, also, for reason that he\nwas never far from her eye--presently this lady came to set her heart\non him again. Though these two friends loved right tenderly, yet were\nthey so private and careful in their loves that none perceived what\nwas in their hearts. No man pried on them, or disturbed their goings\nand comings. These were the more easy to devise since the bachelor and\nthe lady were such near neighbours. Their two houses stood side by\nside, hall and cellar and combles. Only between the gardens was built\na high and ancient wall, of worn gray stone. When the lady sat within\nher bower, by leaning from the casement she and her friend might speak\ntogether, he to her, and she to him. They could also throw messages in\nwriting, and divers pretty gifts, the one to the other. Little enough\nhad they to displease them, and greatly were they at their ease, save\nonly that they might not take their pleasure together, so often as\ntheir hearts had wished. For the dame was guarded very straitly when\nher husband was abroad. Yet not so strictly but that they might have\nword and speech, the now by night and now by day. At least, however\nclose the watch and ward, none might hinder that at times these fair\nlovers stood within their casements, and looked fondly on the other's\nface.\n\nNow after these friends had loved for a great space it chanced that\nthe season became warm and sweet. It was the time when meadow and\ncopse are green; when orchards grow white with bloom, and birds break\ninto song as thickly as the bush to flower. It is the season when he\nwho loves would win to his desire. Truly I tell you that the knight\nwould have done all in his power to attain his wish, and the lady, for\nher part, yearned for sight and speech of her friend. At night, when\nthe moon shone clearly in the sky, and her lord lay sleeping at her\nside, often the dame slipped softly from her bed, and hastening to the\ncasement, leaned forth to have sight of him who watched. The greater\npart of the dark they kept vigil together, for very pleasant it is to\nlook upon your friend, when sweeter things are denied.\n\nThis chanced so often, and the lady rose so frequently from her bed,\nthat her lord was altogether wrathful, and many a time inquired the\nreason of her unrest.\n\n\"Husband,\" replied the dame, \"there is no dearer joy in this world,\nthan to hear the nightingale sing. It is to hearken to the song that\nrises so sweetly on the night, that I lean forth from the casement.\nWhat tune of harp or viol is half so fair! Because of my delight in\nhis song, and of my desire to hear, I may not shut my eyes till it be\nmorn.\"\n\nWhen the husband heard the lady's words he laughed within himself for\nwrath and malice. He purposed that very soon the nightingale should\nsing within a net. So he bade the servants of his house to devise\nfillets and snares, and to set their cunning traps about the orchard.\nNot a chestnut tree nor hazel within the garth but was limed and\nnetted for the caging of this bird. It was not long therefore ere the\nnightingale was taken, and the servants made haste to give him to the\npleasure of their lord. Wondrous merry was the knight when he held him\nliving in his hand. He went straightway to the chamber of his dame,\nand entering, said,\n\n\"Wife, are you within? Come near, for I must speak with you. Here is\nthe nightingale, all limed and taken, who made vigil of your sleeping\nhours. Take now your rest in peace, for he will never disturb you\nmore.\"\n\nWhen the lady understood these words she was marvellously sorrowful\nand heavy. She prayed her lord to grant her the nightingale for a\ngift. But for all answer he wrung his neck with both hands so fiercely\nthat the head was torn from the body. Then, right foully, he flung the\nbird upon the knees of the dame, in such fashion that her breast\nwas sprinkled with the blood. So he departed, incontinent, from the\nchamber in a rage.\n\nThe lady took the little body in her hands, and wept his evil fate.\nShe railed on those who with nets and snares had betrayed the\nnightingale to his death; for anger and hate beyond measure had gained\nhold on her heart.\n\n\"Alas,\" cried she, \"evil is come upon me. Never again may I rise from\nmy bed in the night, and watch from the casement, so that I may see my\nfriend. One thing I know full well, that he will deem my love is no\nmore set upon him. Woe to her who has none to give her counsel. This I\nwill do. I will bestow the nightingale upon him, and send him tidings\nof the chance that has befallen.\"\n\nSo this doleful lady took a fair piece of white samite, broidered with\ngold, and wrought thereon the whole story of this adventure. In this\nsilken cloth she wrapped the body of the little bird, and calling to\nher a trusty servant of her house, charged him with the message, and\nbade him bear it to her friend. The varlet went his way to the knight,\nand having saluted him on the part of the lady, he told over to him\nthe story, and bestowed the nightingale upon him. When all had been\nrehearsed and shown to him, and he had well considered the matter,\nthe knight was very dolent; yet in no wise would he avenge himself\nwrongfully. So he caused a certain coffret to be fashioned, made not\nof iron or steel, but of fine gold and fair stones, most rich and\nprecious, right strongly clasped and bound. In this little chest he\nset the body of the nightingale, and having sealed the shrine, carried\nit upon him whenever his business took him abroad.\n\nThis adventure could not long be hid. Very swiftly it was noised about\nthe country, and the Breton folk made a Lay thereon, which they\ncalled the Lay of the Laustic, in their own tongue.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nTHE LAY OF SIR LAUNFAL\n\nI will tell you the story of another Lay. It relates the adventures\nof a rich and mighty baron, and the Breton calls it, the Lay of Sir\nLaunfal.\n\nKing Arthur--that fearless knight and courteous lord--removed to\nWales, and lodged at Caerleon-on-Usk, since the Picts and Scots did\nmuch mischief in the land. For it was the wont of the wild people of\nthe north to enter in the realm of Logres, and burn and damage at\ntheir will. At the time of Pentecost, the King cried a great feast.\nThereat he gave many rich gifts to his counts and barons, and to the\nKnights of the Round Table. Never were such worship and bounty shown\nbefore at any feast, for Arthur bestowed honours and lands on all his\nservants--save only on one. This lord, who was forgotten and misliked\nof the King, was named Launfal. He was beloved by many of the Court,\nbecause of his beauty and prowess, for he was a worthy knight, open of\nheart and heavy of hand. These lords, to whom their comrade was dear,\nfelt little joy to see so stout a knight misprized. Sir Launfal was\nson to a King of high descent, though his heritage was in a distant\nland. He was of the King's household, but since Arthur gave him\nnaught, and he was of too proud a mind to pray for his due, he had\nspent all that he had. Right heavy was Sir Launfal, when he considered\nthese things, for he knew himself taken in the toils. Gentles, marvel\nnot overmuch hereat. Ever must the pilgrim go heavily in a strange\nland, where there is none to counsel and direct him in the path.\n\nNow, on a day, Sir Launfal got him on his horse, that he might take\nhis pleasure for a little. He came forth from the city, alone,\nattended by neither servant nor squire. He went his way through a\ngreen mead, till he stood by a river of clear running water. Sir\nLaunfal would have crossed this stream, without thought of pass or\nford, but he might not do so, for reason that his horse was all\nfearful and trembling. Seeing that he was hindered in this fashion,\nLaunfal unbitted his steed, and let him pasture in that fair meadow,\nwhere they had come. Then he folded his cloak to serve him as a\npillow, and lay upon the ground. Launfal lay in great misease, because\nof his heavy thoughts, and the discomfort of his bed. He turned from\nside to side, and might not sleep. Now as the knight looked towards\nthe river he saw two damsels coming towards him; fairer maidens\nLaunfal had never seen. These two maidens were richly dressed in\nkirtles closely laced and shapen to their persons and wore mantles\nof a goodly purple hue. Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in\nraiment and in face. The elder of these ladies carried in her hands a\nbasin of pure gold, cunningly wrought by some crafty smith--very fair\nand precious was the cup; and the younger bore a towel of soft white\nlinen. These maidens turned neither to the right hand nor to the left,\nbut went directly to the place where Launfal lay. When Launfal saw\nthat their business was with him, he stood upon his feet, like a\ndiscreet and courteous gentleman. After they had greeted the knight,\none of the maidens delivered the message with which she was charged.\n\n\"Sir Launfal, my demoiselle, as gracious as she is fair, prays that\nyou will follow us, her messengers, as she has a certain word to speak\nwith you. We will lead you swiftly to her pavilion, for our lady is\nvery near at hand. If you but lift your eyes you may see where her\ntent is spread.\"\n\nRight glad was the knight to do the bidding of the maidens. He gave no\nheed to his horse, but left him at his provand in the meadow. All his\ndesire was to go with the damsels, to that pavilion of silk and divers\ncolours, pitched in so fair a place. Certainly neither Semiramis in\nthe days of her most wanton power, nor Octavian, the Emperor of all\nthe West, had so gracious a covering from sun and rain. Above the tent\nwas set an eagle of gold, so rich and precious, that none might count\nthe cost. The cords and fringes thereof were of silken thread, and the\nlances which bore aloft the pavilion were of refined gold. No King on\nearth might have so sweet a shelter, not though he gave in fee the\nvalue of his realm. Within this pavilion Launfal came upon the Maiden.\nWhiter she was than any altar lily, and more sweetly flushed than the\nnew born rose in time of summer heat. She lay upon a bed with napery\nand coverlet of richer worth than could be furnished by a castle's\nspoil. Very fresh and slender showed the lady in her vesture of\nspotless linen. About her person she had drawn a mantle of ermine,\nedged with purple dye from the vats of Alexandria. By reason of the\nheat her raiment was unfastened for a little, and her throat and the\nrondure of her bosom showed whiter and more untouched than hawthorn in\nMay. The knight came before the bed, and stood gazing on so sweet a\nsight. The Maiden beckoned him to draw near, and when he had seated\nhimself at the foot of her couch, spoke her mind.\n\n\"Launfal,\" she said, \"fair friend, it is for you that I have come from\nmy own far land. I bring you my love. If you are prudent and discreet,\nas you are goodly to the view, there is no emperor nor count, nor\nking, whose day shall be so filled with riches and with mirth as\nyours.\"\n\nWhen Launfal heard these words he rejoiced greatly, for his heart was\nlitten by another's torch.\n\n\"Fair lady,\" he answered, \"since it pleases you to be so gracious, and\nto dower so graceless a knight with your love, there is naught that\nyou may bid me do--right or wrong, evil or good--that I will not do to\nthe utmost of my power. I will observe your commandment, and serve in\nyour quarrels. For you I renounce my father and my father's house.\nThis only I pray, that I may dwell with you in your lodging, and that\nyou will never send me from your side.\"\n\nWhen the Maiden heard the words of him whom so fondly she desired to\nlove, she was altogether moved, and granted him forthwith her heart\nand her tenderness. To her bounty she added another gift besides.\nNever might Launfal be desirous of aught, but he would have according\nto his wish. He might waste and spend at will and pleasure, but in his\npurse ever there was to spare. No more was Launfal sad. Right merry\nwas the pilgrim, since one had set him on the way, with such a gift,\nthat the more pennies he bestowed, the more silver and gold were in\nhis pouch.\n\nBut the Maiden had yet a word to say.\n\n\"Friend,\" she said, \"hearken to my counsel. I lay this charge upon\nyou, and pray you urgently, that you tell not to any man the secret of\nour love. If you show this matter, you will lose your friend, for ever\nand a day. Never again may you see my face. Never again will you have\nseisin of that body, which is now so tender in your eyes.\"\n\nLaunfal plighted faith, that right strictly he would observe this\ncommandment. So the Maiden granted him her kiss and her embrace, and\nvery sweetly in that fair lodging passed the day till evensong was\ncome.\n\nRight loath was Launfal to depart from the pavilion at the vesper\nhour, and gladly would he have stayed, had he been able, and his lady\nwished.\n\n\"Fair friend,\" said she, \"rise up, for no longer may you tarry. The\nhour is come that we must part. But one thing I have to say before you\ngo. When you would speak with me I shall hasten to come before your\nwish. Well I deem that you will only call your friend where she may\nbe found without reproach or shame of men. You may see me at your\npleasure; my voice shall speak softly in your ear at will; but I must\nnever be known of your comrades, nor must they ever learn my speech.\"\n\nRight joyous was Launfal to hear this thing. He sealed the covenant\nwith a kiss, and stood upon his feet. Then there entered the two\nmaidens who had led him to the pavilion, bringing with them rich\nraiment, fitting for a knight's apparel. When Launfal had clothed\nhimself therewith, there seemed no goodlier varlet under heaven, for\ncertainly he was fair and true. After these maidens had refreshed him\nwith clear water, and dried his hands upon the napkin, Launfal went\nto meat. His friend sat at table with him, and small will had he to\nrefuse her courtesy. Very serviceably the damsels bore the meats, and\nLaunfal and the Maiden ate and drank with mirth and content. But one\ndish was more to the knight's relish than any other. Sweeter than the\ndainties within his mouth, was the lady's kiss upon his lips.\n\nWhen supper was ended, Launfal rose from table, for his horse stood\nwaiting without the pavilion. The destrier was newly saddled and\nbridled, and showed proudly in his rich gay trappings. So Launfal\nkissed, and bade farewell, and went his way. He rode back towards the\ncity at a slow pace. Often he checked his steed, and looked behind\nhim, for he was filled with amazement, and all bemused concerning this\nadventure. In his heart he doubted that it was but a dream. He was\naltogether astonished, and knew not what to do. He feared that\npavilion and Maiden alike were from the realm of faery.\n\nLaunfal returned to his lodging, and was greeted by servitors, clad\nno longer in ragged raiment. He fared richly, lay softly, and spent\nlargely, but never knew how his purse was filled. There was no lord\nwho had need of a lodging in the town, but Launfal brought him to\nhis hall, for refreshment and delight. Launfal bestowed rich gifts.\nLaunfal redeemed the poor captive. Launfal clothed in scarlet the\nminstrel. Launfal gave honour where honour was due. Stranger and\nfriend alike he comforted at need. So, whether by night or by day,\nLaunfal lived greatly at his ease. His lady, she came at will and\npleasure, and, for the rest, all was added unto him.\n\nNow it chanced, the same year, about the feast of St. John, a company\nof knights came, for their solace, to an orchard, beneath that tower\nwhere dwelt the Queen. Together with these lords went Gawain and his\ncousin, Yvain the fair. Then said Gawain, that goodly knight, beloved\nand dear to all,\n\n\"Lords, we do wrong to disport ourselves in this pleasaunce without\nour comrade Launfal. It is not well to slight a prince as brave as he\nis courteous, and of a lineage prouder than our own.\"\n\nThen certain of the lords returned to the city, and finding Launfal\nwithin his hostel, entreated him to take his pastime with them in that\nfair meadow. The Queen looked out from a window in her tower, she and\nthree ladies of her fellowship. They saw the lords at their pleasure,\nand Launfal also, whom well they knew. So the Queen chose of her Court\nthirty damsels--the sweetest of face and most dainty of fashion--and\ncommanded that they should descend with her to take their delight in\nthe garden. When the knights beheld this gay company of ladies come\ndown the steps of the perron, they rejoiced beyond measure. They\nhastened before to lead them by the hand, and said such words in their\near as were seemly and pleasant to be spoken. Amongst these merry and\ncourteous lords hasted not Sir Launfal. He drew apart from the throng,\nfor with him time went heavily, till he might have clasp and greeting\nof his friend. The ladies of the Queen's fellowship seemed but kitchen\nwenches to his sight, in comparison with the loveliness of the maiden.\nWhen the Queen marked Launfal go aside, she went his way, and seating\nherself upon the herb, called the knight before her. Then she opened\nout her heart.\n\n\"Launfal, I have honoured you for long as a worthy knight, and have\npraised and cherished you very dearly. You may receive a queen's whole\nlove, if such be your care. Be content: he to whom my heart is given,\nhas small reason to complain him of the alms.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the knight, \"grant me leave to go, for this grace is\nnot for me. I am the King's man, and dare not break my troth. Not for\nthe highest lady in the world, not even for her love, will I set this\nreproach upon my lord.\"\n\nWhen the Queen heard this, she was full of wrath, and spoke many hot\nand bitter words.\n\n\"Launfal,\" she cried, \"well I know that you think little of woman and\nher love. There are sins more black that a man may have upon his soul.\nTraitor you are, and false. Right evil counsel gave they to my lord,\nwho prayed him to suffer you about his person. You remain only for his\nharm and loss.\"\n\nLaunfal was very dolent to hear this thing. He was not slow to take up\nthe Queen's glove, and in his haste spake words that he repented long,\nand with tears.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"I am not of that guild of which you speak. Neither\nam I a despiser of woman, since I love, and am loved, of one who would\nbear the prize from all the ladies in the land. Dame, know now and be\npersuaded, that she, whom I serve, is so rich in state, that the very\nmeanest of her maidens, excels you, Lady Queen, as much in clerkly\nskill and goodness, as in sweetness of body and face, and in every\nvirtue.\"\n\nThe Queen rose straightway to her feet, and fled to her chamber,\nweeping. Right wrathful and heavy was she, because of the words that\nhad besmirched her. She lay sick upon her bed, from which, she said,\nshe would never rise, till the King had done her justice, and righted\nthis bitter wrong. Now the King that day had taken his pleasure within\nthe woods. He returned from the chase towards evening, and sought the\nchamber of the Queen. When the lady saw him, she sprang from her bed,\nand kneeling at his feet, pleaded for grace and pity. Launfal--she\nsaid--had shamed her, since he required her love. When she had put him\nby, very foully had he reviled her, boasting that his love was already\nset on a lady, so proud and noble, that her meanest wench went more\nrichly, and smiled more sweetly, than the Queen. Thereat the King\nwaxed marvellously wrathful, and swore a great oath that he would set\nLaunfal within a fire, or hang him from a tree, if he could not deny\nthis thing, before his peers.\n\nArthur came forth from the Queen's chamber, and called to him three\nof his lords. These he sent to seek the knight who so evilly had\nentreated the Queen. Launfal, for his part, had returned to his\nlodging, in a sad and sorrowful case. He saw very clearly that he had\nlost his friend, since he had declared their love to men. Launfal sat\nwithin his chamber, sick and heavy of thought. Often he called upon\nhis friend, but the lady would not hear his voice. He bewailed his\nevil lot, with tears; for grief he came nigh to swoon; a hundred times\nhe implored the Maiden that she would deign to speak with her knight.\nThen, since the lady yet refrained from speech, Launfal cursed his hot\nand unruly tongue. Very near he came to ending all this trouble with\nhis knife. Naught he found to do but to wring his hands, and call upon\nthe Maiden, begging her to forgive his trespass, and to talk with him\nagain, as friend to friend.\n\nBut little peace is there for him who is harassed by a King. There\ncame presently to Launfal's hostel those three barons from the Court.\nThese bade the knight forthwith to go with them to Arthur's presence,\nto acquit him of this wrong against the Queen. Launfal went forth, to\nhis own deep sorrow. Had any man slain him on the road, he would\nhave counted him his friend. He stood before the King, downcast and\nspeechless, being dumb by reason of that great grief, of which he\nshowed the picture and image.\n\nArthur looked upon his captive very evilly.\n\n\"Vassal,\" said he, harshly, \"you have done me a bitter wrong. It was a\nfoul deed to seek to shame me in this ugly fashion, and to smirch the\nhonour of the Queen. Is it folly or lightness which leads you to boast\nof that lady, the least of whose maidens is fairer, and goes more\nrichly, than the Queen?\"\n\nLaunfal protested that never had he set such shame upon his lord.\nWord by word he told the tale of how he denied the Queen, within the\norchard. But concerning that which he had spoken of the lady, he owned\nthe truth, and his folly. The love of which he bragged was now lost to\nhim, by his own exceeding fault. He cared little for his life, and was\ncontent to obey the judgment of the Court.\n\nRight wrathful was the King at Launfal's words. He conjured his barons\nto give him such wise counsel herein, that wrong might be done to\nnone. The lords did the King's bidding, whether good came of the\nmatter, or evil. They gathered themselves together, and appointed a\ncertain day that Launfal should abide the judgment of his peers. For\nhis part Launfal must give pledge and surety to his lord, that he\nwould come before this judgment in his own body. If he might not give\nsuch surety then he should be held captive till the appointed day.\nWhen the lords of the King's household returned to tell him of their\ncounsel, Arthur demanded that Launfal should put such pledge in his\nhand, as they had said. Launfal was altogether mazed and bewildered at\nthis judgment, for he had neither friend nor kindred in the land. He\nwould have been set in prison, but Gawain came first to offer himself\nas his surety, and with him, all the knights of his fellowship. These\ngave into the King's hand as pledge, the fiefs and lands that they\nheld of his Crown. The King having taken pledges from the sureties,\nLaunfal returned to his lodging, and with him certain knights of his\ncompany. They blamed him greatly because of his foolish love, and\nchastened him grievously by reason of the sorrow he made before men.\nEvery day they came to his chamber, to know of his meat and drink, for\nmuch they feared that presently he would become mad.\n\nThe lords of the household came together on the day appointed for this\njudgment. The King was on his chair, with the Queen sitting at his\nside. The sureties brought Launfal within the hall, and rendered him\ninto the hands of his peers. Right sorrowful were they because of his\nplight. A great company of his fellowship did all that they were able\nto acquit him of this charge. When all was set out, the King demanded\nthe judgment of the Court, according to the accusation and the answer.\nThe barons went forth in much trouble and thought to consider this\nmatter. Many amongst them grieved for the peril of a good knight in\na strange land; others held that it were well for Launfal to suffer,\nbecause of the wish and malice of their lord. Whilst they were thus\nperplexed, the Duke of Cornwall rose in the council, and said,\n\n\"Lords, the King pursues Launfal as a traitor, and would slay him with\nthe sword, by reason that he bragged of the beauty of his maiden,\nand roused the jealousy of the Queen. By the faith that I owe this\ncompany, none complains of Launfal, save only the King. For our part\nwe would know the truth of this business, and do justice between the\nKing and his man. We would also show proper reverence to our own liege\nlord. Now, if it be according to Arthur's will, let us take oath of\nLaunfal, that he seek this lady, who has put such strife between him\nand the Queen. If her beauty be such as he has told us, the Queen will\nhave no cause for wrath. She must pardon Launfal for his rudeness,\nsince it will be plain that he did not speak out of a malicious heart.\nShould Launfal fail his word, and not return with the lady, or should\nher fairness fall beneath his boast, then let him be cast off from our\nfellowship, and be sent forth from the service of the King.\"\n\nThis counsel seemed good to the lords of the household. They sent\ncertain of his friends to Launfal, to acquaint him with their\njudgment, bidding him to pray his damsel to the Court, that he might\nbe acquitted of this blame. The knight made answer that in no wise\ncould he do this thing. So the sureties returned before the judges,\nsaying that Launfal hoped neither for refuge nor for succour from\nthe lady, and Arthur urged them to a speedy ending, because of the\nprompting of the Queen.\n\nThe judges were about to give sentence upon Launfal, when they saw\ntwo maidens come riding towards the palace, upon two white ambling\npalfreys. Very sweet and dainty were these maidens, and richly clothed\nin garments of crimson sendal, closely girt and fashioned to their\nbodies. All men, old and young, looked willingly upon them, for fair\nthey were to see. Gawain, and three knights of his company, went\nstraight to Launfal, and showed him these maidens, praying him to\nsay which of them was his friend. But he answered never a word. The\nmaidens dismounted from their palfreys, and coming before the dais\nwhere the King was seated, spake him fairly, as they were fair.\n\n\"Sire, prepare now a chamber, hung with silken cloths, where it is\nseemly for my lady to dwell; for she would lodge with you awhile.\"\n\nThis gift the King granted gladly. He called to him two knights of his\nhousehold, and bade them bestow the maidens in such chambers as were\nfitting to their degree. The maidens being gone, the King required of\nhis barons to proceed with their judgment, saying that he had sore\ndispleasure at the slowness of the cause.\n\n\"Sire,\" replied the barons, \"we rose from Council, because of the\ndamsels who entered in the hall. We will at once resume the sitting,\nand give our judgment without more delay.\"\n\nThe barons again were gathered together, in much thought and trouble,\nto consider this matter. There was great strife and dissension amongst\nthem, for they knew not what to do. In the midst of all this noise and\ntumult, there came two other damsels riding to the hall on two Spanish\nmules. Very richly arrayed were these damsels in raiment of fine\nneedlework, and their kirtles were covered by fresh fair mantles,\nembroidered with gold. Great joy had Launfal's comrades when they\nmarked these ladies. They said between themselves that doubtless they\ncame for the succour of the good knight. Gawain, and certain of his\ncompany, made haste to Launfal, and said, \"Sir, be not cast down.\nTwo ladies are near at hand, right dainty of dress, and gracious of\nperson. Tell us truly, for the love of God, is one of these your\nfriend?\"\n\nBut Launfal answered very simply that never before had he seen these\ndamsels with his eyes, nor known and loved them in his heart.\n\nThe maidens dismounted from their mules, and stood before Arthur, in\nthe sight of all. Greatly were they praised of many, because of their\nbeauty, and of the colour of their face and hair. Some there were who\ndeemed already that the Queen was overborne.\n\nThe elder of the damsels carried herself modestly and well, and\nsweetly told over the message wherewith she was charged.\n\n\"Sire, make ready for us chambers, where we may abide with our lady,\nfor even now she comes to speak with thee.\"\n\nThe King commanded that the ladies should be led to their companions,\nand bestowed in the same honourable fashion as they. Then he bade the\nlords of his household to consider their judgment, since he would\nendure no further respite. The Court already had given too much time\nto the business, and the Queen was growing wrathful, because of the\nblame that was hers. Now the judges were about to proclaim their\nsentence, when, amidst the tumult of the town, there came riding to\nthe palace the flower of all the ladies of the world. She came mounted\nupon a palfrey, white as snow, which carried her softly, as though she\nloved her burthen. Beneath the sky was no goodlier steed, nor one more\ngentle to the hand. The harness of the palfrey was so rich, that no\nking on earth might hope to buy trappings so precious, unless he sold\nor set his realm in pledge. The Maiden herself showed such as I will\ntell you. Passing slim was the lady, sweet of bodice and slender of\ngirdle. Her throat was whiter than snow on branch, and her eyes were\nlike flowers in the pallor of her face. She had a witching mouth, a\ndainty nose, and an open brow. Her eyebrows were brown, and her golden\nhair parted in two soft waves upon her head. She was clad in a shift\nof spotless linen, and above her snowy kirtle was set a mantle of\nroyal purple, clasped upon her breast. She carried a hooded falcon\nupon her glove, and a greyhound followed closely after. As the Maiden\nrode at a slow pace through the streets of the city, there was none,\nneither great nor small, youth nor sergeant, but ran forth from his\nhouse, that he might content his heart with so great beauty. Every man\nthat saw her with his eyes, marvelled at a fairness beyond that of any\nearthly woman. Little he cared for any mortal maiden, after he had\nseen this sight. The friends of Sir Launfal hastened to the knight, to\ntell him of his lady's succour, if so it were according to God's will.\n\n\"Sir comrade, truly is not this your friend? This lady is neither\nblack nor golden, mean nor tall. She is only the most lovely thing in\nall the world.\"\n\nWhen Launfal heard this, he sighed, for by their words he knew again\nhis friend. He raised his head, and as the blood rushed to his face,\nspeech flowed from his lips.\n\n\"By my faith,\" cried he, \"yes, she is indeed my friend. It is a small\nmatter now whether men slay me, or set me free; for I am made whole of\nmy hurt just by looking on her face.\"\n\nThe Maiden entered in the palace--where none so fair had come\nbefore--and stood before the King, in the presence of his household.\nShe loosed the clasp of her mantle, so that men might the more easily\nperceive the grace of her person. The courteous King advanced to meet\nher, and all the Court got them on their feet, and pained themselves\nin her service. When the lords had gazed upon her for a space, and\npraised the sum of her beauty, the lady spake to Arthur in this\nfashion, for she was anxious to begone.\n\n\"Sire, I have loved one of thy vassals,--the knight who stands in\nbonds, Sir Launfal. He was always misprized in thy Court, and his\nevery action turned to blame. What he said, that thou knowest; for\nover hasty was his tongue before the Queen. But he never craved her in\nlove, however loud his boasting. I cannot choose that he should come\nto hurt or harm by me. In the hope of freeing Launfal from his bonds,\nI have obeyed thy summons. Let now thy barons look boldly upon my\nface, and deal justly in this quarrel between the Queen and me.\"\n\nThe King commanded that this should be done, and looking upon her\neyes, not one of the judges but was persuaded that her favour exceeded\nthat of the Queen.\n\nSince then Launfal had not spoken in malice against his lady, the\nlords of the household gave him again his sword. When the trial had\ncome thus to an end the Maiden took her leave of the King, and made\nher ready to depart. Gladly would Arthur have had her lodge with him\nfor a little, and many a lord would have rejoiced in her service, but\nshe might not tarry. Now without the hall stood a great stone of dull\nmarble, where it was the wont of lords, departing from the Court, to\nclimb into the saddle, and Launfal by the stone. The Maiden came\nforth from the doors of the palace, and mounting on the stone, seated\nherself on the palfrey, behind her friend. Then they rode across the\nplain together, and were no more seen.\n\nThe Bretons tell that the knight was ravished by his lady to an\nisland, very dim and very fair, known as Avalon. But none has had\nspeech with Launfal and his faery love since then, and for my part I\ncan tell you no more of the matter.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS\n\nOnce upon a time there lived in Normandy two lovers, who were passing\nfond, and were brought by Love to Death. The story of their love was\nbruited so abroad, that the Bretons made a song in their own tongue,\nand named this song the Lay of the Two Lovers.\n\nIn Neustria--that men call Normandy--there is verily a high and\nmarvellously great mountain, where lie the relics of the Two Children.\nNear this high place the King of those parts caused to be built a\ncertain fair and cunning city, and since he was lord of the Pistrians,\nit was known as Pistres. The town yet endures, with its towers and\nhouses, to bear witness to the truth; moreover the country thereabouts\nis known to us all as the Valley of Pistres.\n\nThis King had one fair daughter, a damsel sweet of face and gracious\nof manner, very near to her father's heart, since he had lost his\nQueen. The maiden increased in years and favour, but he took no heed\nto her trothing, so that men--yea, even his own people--blamed him\ngreatly for this thing. When the King heard thereof he was passing\nheavy and dolent, and considered within himself how he might be\ndelivered from this grief. So then, that none should carry off his\nchild, he caused it to be proclaimed, both far and near, by script and\ntrumpet, that he alone should wed the maid, who would bear her in his\narms, to the pinnacle of the great and perilous mountain, and that\nwithout rest or stay. When this news was noised about the country,\nmany came upon the quest. But strive as they would they might not\nenforce themselves more than they were able. However mighty they were\nof body, at the last they failed upon the mountain, and fell with\ntheir burthen to the ground. Thus, for a while, was none so bold as to\nseek the high Princess.\n\nNow in this country lived a squire, son to a certain count of that\nrealm, seemly of semblance and courteous, and right desirous to win\nthat prize, which was so coveted of all. He was a welcome guest at the\nCourt, and the King talked with him very willingly. This squire had\nset his heart upon the daughter of the King, and many a time spoke in\nher ear, praying her to give him again the love he had bestowed upon\nher. So seeing him brave and courteous, she esteemed him for the gifts\nwhich gained him the favour of the King, and they loved together in\ntheir youth. But they hid this matter from all about the Court. This\nthing was very grievous to them, but the damoiseau thought within\nhimself that it were good to bear the pains he knew, rather than\nto seek out others that might prove sharper still. Yet in the end,\naltogether distraught by love, this prudent varlet sought his friend,\nand showed her his case, saying that he urgently required of her that\nshe would flee with him, for no longer could he endure the weariness\nof his days. Should he ask her of the King, well he knew that by\nreason of his love he would refuse the gift, save he bore her in his\narms up the steep mount. Then the maiden made answer to her lover, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Fair friend, well I know you may not carry me to that high place.\nMoreover should we take to flight, my father would suffer wrath and\nsorrow beyond measure, and go heavily all his days. Certainly my love\nis too fond to plague him thus, and we must seek another counsel, for\nthis is not to my heart. Hearken well. I have kindred in Salerno, of\nrich estate. For more than thirty years my aunt has studied there the\nart of medicine, and knows the secret gift of every root and herb.\nIf you hasten to her, bearing letters from me, and show her your\nadventure, certainly she will find counsel and cure. Doubt not that\nshe will discover some cunning simple, that will strengthen your body,\nas well as comfort your heart. Then return to this realm with your\npotion, and ask me at my father's hand. He will deem you but a\nstripling, and set forth the terms of his bargain, that to him alone\nshall I be given who knows how to climb the perilous mountain, without\npause or rest, bearing his lady between his arms.\"\n\nWhen the varlet heard this cunning counsel of the maiden, he rejoiced\ngreatly, and thanking her sweetly for her rede, craved permission to\ndepart. He returned to his own home, and gathering together a goodly\nstore of silken cloths most precious, he bestowed his gear upon the\npack horses, and made him ready for the road. So with a little company\nof men, mounted on swift palfreys, and most privy to his mind, he\narrived at Salerno. Now the squire made no long stay at his lodging,\nbut as soon as he might, went to the damsel's kindred to open out his\nmind. He delivered to the aunt the letters he carried from his friend,\nand bewailed their evil case. When the dame had read these letters\nwith him, line by line, she charged him to lodge with her awhile, till\nshe might do according to his wish. So by her sorceries, and for\nthe love of her maid, she brewed such a potion that no man, however\nwearied and outworn, but by drinking this philtre, would not be\nrefreshed in heart and blood and bones. Such virtue had this medicine,\ndirectly it were drunken. This simple she poured within a little\nflacket, and gave it to the varlet, who received the gift with great\njoy and delight, and returned swiftly to his own land.\n\nThe varlet made no long sojourn in his home. He repaired straightway\nto the Court, and, seeking out the King, required of him his fair\ndaughter in marriage, promising, for his part, that were she given\nhim, he would bear her in his arms to the summit of the mount. The\nKing was no wise wrath at his presumption. He smiled rather at his\nfolly, for how should one so young and slender succeed in a business\nwherein so many mighty men had failed. Therefore he appointed a\ncertain day for this judgment. Moreover he caused letters to be\nwritten to his vassals and his friends--passing none by--bidding them\nto see the end of this adventure. Yea, with public cry and sound of\ntrumpet he bade all who would, come to behold the stripling carry his\nfair daughter to the pinnacle of the mountain. And from every region\nround about men came to learn the issue of this thing. But for her\npart the fair maiden did all that she was able to bring her love to a\ngood end. Ever was it fast day and fleshless day with her, so that by\nany means she might lighten the burthen that her friend must carry in\nhis arms.\n\nNow on the appointed day this young dansellon came very early to the\nappointed place, bringing the flacket with him. When the great company\nwere fully met together, the King led forth his daughter before them;\nand all might see that she was arrayed in nothing but her smock. The\nvarlet took the maiden in his arms, but first he gave her the flask\nwith the precious brewage to carry, since for pride he might not\nendure to drink therefrom, save at utmost peril. The squire set forth\nat a great pace, and climbed briskly till he was halfway up the mount.\nBecause of the joy he had in clasping his burthen, he gave no thought\nto the potion. But she--she knew the strength was failing in his\nheart.\n\n\"Fair friend,\" said she, \"well I know that you tire: drink now, I pray\nyou, of the flacket, and so shall your manhood come again at need.\"\n\nBut the varlet answered,\n\n\"Fair love, my heart is full of courage; nor for any reason will I\npause, so long as I can hold upon my way. It is the noise of all this\nfolk--the tumult and the shouting--that makes my steps uncertain.\nTheir cries distress me, I do not dare to stand.\"\n\nBut when two thirds of the course was won, the grasshopper would have\ntripped him off his feet. Urgently and often the maiden prayed him,\nsaying,\n\n\"Fair friend, drink now of thy cordial.\"\n\nBut he would neither hear, nor give credence to her words. A mighty\nanguish filled his bosom. He climbed upon the summit of the mountain,\nand pained himself grievously to bring his journey to an end. This he\nmight not do. He reeled and fell, nor could he rise again, for the\nheart had burst within his breast.\n\nWhen the maiden saw her lover's piteous plight, she deemed that he had\nswooned by reason of his pain. She kneeled hastily at his side, and\nput the enchanted brewage to his lips, but he could neither drink nor\nspeak, for he was dead, as I have told you. She bewailed his evil lot,\nwith many shrill cries, and flung the useless flacket far away. The\nprecious potion bestrewed the ground, making a garden of that desolate\nplace. For many saving herbs have been found there since that day by\nthe simple folk of that country, which from the magic philtre derived\nall their virtue.\n\nBut when the maiden knew that her lover was dead, she made such\nwondrous sorrow, as no man had ever seen. She kissed his eyes and\nmouth, and falling upon his body, took him in her arms, and pressed\nhim closely to her breast. There was no heart so hard as not to be\ntouched by her sorrow; for in this fashion died a dame, who was fair\nand sweet and gracious, beyond the wont of the daughters of men.\n\nNow the King and his company, since these two lovers came not again,\npresently climbed the mountain to learn their end. But when the King\ncame upon them lifeless, and fast in that embrace, incontinent he fell\nto the ground, bereft of sense. After his speech had returned to him,\nhe was passing heavy, and lamented their doleful case, and thus did\nall his people with him.\n\nThree days they kept the bodies of these two fair children from earth,\nwith uncovered face. On the third day they sealed them fast in a\ngoodly coffin of marble, and by the counsel of all men, laid them\nsoftly to rest on that mountain where they died. Then they departed\nfrom them, and left them together, alone.\n\nSince this adventure of the Two Children this hill is known as the\nMountain of the Two Lovers, and their story being bruited abroad, the\nBreton folk have made a Lay thereof, even as I have rehearsed before\nyou.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE WERE-WOLF\n\nAmongst the tales I tell you once again, I would not forget the Lay of\nthe Were-Wolf. Such beasts as he are known in every land. Bisclavaret\nhe is named in Brittany; whilst the Norman calls him Garwal.\n\nIt is a certain thing, and within the knowledge of all, that many a\nchristened man has suffered this change, and ran wild in woods, as\na Were-Wolf. The Were-Wolf is a fearsome beast. He lurks within the\nthick forest, mad and horrible to see. All the evil that he may, he\ndoes. He goeth to and fro, about the solitary place, seeking man, in\norder to devour him. Hearken, now, to the adventure of the Were-Wolf,\nthat I have to tell.\n\nIn Brittany there dwelt a baron who was marvellously esteemed of all\nhis fellows. He was a stout knight, and a comely, and a man of office\nand repute. Right private was he to the mind of his lord, and dear to\nthe counsel of his neighbours. This baron was wedded to a very worthy\ndame, right fair to see, and sweet of semblance. All his love was set\non her, and all her love was given again to him. One only grief had\nthis lady. For three whole days in every week her lord was absent from\nher side. She knew not where he went, nor on what errand. Neither did\nany of his house know the business which called him forth.\n\nOn a day when this lord was come again to his house, altogether\njoyous and content, the lady took him to task, right sweetly, in\nthis fashion, \"Husband,\" said she, \"and fair, sweet friend, I have a\ncertain thing to pray of you. Right willingly would I receive this\ngift, but I fear to anger you in the asking. It is better for me to\nhave an empty hand, than to gain hard words.\"\n\nWhen the lord heard this matter, he took the lady in his arms, very\ntenderly, and kissed her.\n\n\"Wife,\" he answered, \"ask what you will. What would you have, for it\nis yours already?\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" said the lady, \"soon shall I be whole. Husband, right\nlong and wearisome are the days that you spend away from your home.\nI rise from my bed in the morning, sick at heart, I know not why. So\nfearful am I, lest you do aught to your loss, that I may not find any\ncomfort. Very quickly shall I die for reason of my dread. Tell me now,\nwhere you go, and on what business! How may the knowledge of one who\nloves so closely, bring you to harm?\"\n\n\"Wife,\" made answer the lord, \"nothing but evil can come if I tell you\nthis secret. For the mercy of God do not require it of me. If you but\nknew, you would withdraw yourself from my love, and I should be lost\nindeed.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard this, she was persuaded that her baron sought to\nput her by with jesting words. Therefore she prayed and required\nhim the more urgently, with tender looks and speech, till he was\noverborne, and told her all the story, hiding naught.\n\n\"Wife, I become Bisclavaret. I enter in the forest, and live on prey\nand roots, within the thickest of the wood.\"\n\nAfter she had learned his secret, she prayed and entreated the more as\nto whether he ran in his raiment, or went spoiled of vesture.\n\n\"Wife,\" said he, \"I go naked as a beast.\"\n\n\"Tell me, for hope of grace, what you do with your clothing?\"\n\n\"Fair wife, that will I never. If I should lose my raiment, or even be\nmarked as I quit my vesture, then a Were-Wolf I must go for all the\ndays of my life. Never again should I become man, save in that hour my\nclothing were given back to me. For this reason never will I show my\nlair.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" replied the lady to him, \"I love you better than all the\nworld. The less cause have you for doubting my faith, or hiding any\ntittle from me. What savour is here of friendship? How have I made\nforfeit of your love; for what sin do you mistrust my honour? Open now\nyour heart, and tell what is good to be known.\"\n\nSo at the end, outwearied and overborne by her importunity, he could\nno longer refrain, but told her all.\n\n\"Wife,\" said he, \"within this wood, a little from the path, there is a\nhidden way, and at the end thereof an ancient chapel, where oftentimes\nI have bewailed my lot. Near by is a great hollow stone, concealed by\na bush, and there is the secret place where I hide my raiment, till I\nwould return to my own home.\"\n\nOn hearing this marvel the lady became sanguine of visage, because of\nher exceeding fear. She dared no longer to lie at his side, and turned\nover in her mind, this way and that, how best she could get her from\nhim. Now there was a certain knight of those parts, who, for a great\nwhile, had sought and required this lady for her love. This knight had\nspent long years in her service, but little enough had he got thereby,\nnot even fair words, or a promise. To him the dame wrote a letter, and\nmeeting, made her purpose plain.\n\n\"Fair friend,\" said she, \"be happy. That which you have coveted so\nlong a time, I will grant without delay. Never again will I deny your\nsuit. My heart, and all I have to give, are yours, so take me now as\nlove and dame.\"\n\nRight sweetly the knight thanked her for her grace, and pledged her\nfaith and fealty. When she had confirmed him by an oath, then she told\nhim all this business of her lord--why he went, and what he became,\nand of his ravening within the wood. So she showed him of the chapel,\nand of the hollow stone, and of how to spoil the Were-Wolf of his\nvesture. Thus, by the kiss of his wife, was Bisclavaret betrayed.\nOften enough had he ravished his prey in desolate places, but from\nthis journey he never returned. His kinsfolk and acquaintance came\ntogether to ask of his tidings, when this absence was noised abroad.\nMany a man, on many a day, searched the woodland, but none might find\nhim, nor learn where Bisclavaret was gone.\n\nThe lady was wedded to the knight who had cherished her for so long a\nspace. More than a year had passed since Bisclavaret disappeared. Then\nit chanced that the King would hunt in that self-same wood where the\nWere-Wolf lurked. When the hounds were unleashed they ran this way and\nthat, and swiftly came upon his scent. At the view the huntsman winded\non his horn, and the whole pack were at his heels. They followed him\nfrom morn to eve, till he was torn and bleeding, and was all adread\nlest they should pull him down. Now the King was very close to the\nquarry, and when Bisclavaret looked upon his master, he ran to him for\npity and for grace. He took the stirrup within his paws, and fawned\nupon the prince's foot. The King was very fearful at this sight, but\npresently he called his courtiers to his aid.\n\n\"Lords,\" cried he, \"hasten hither, and see this marvellous thing. Here\nis a beast who has the sense of man. He abases himself before his foe,\nand cries for mercy, although he cannot speak. Beat off the hounds,\nand let no man do him harm. We will hunt no more to-day, but return to\nour own place, with the wonderful quarry we have taken.\"\n\nThe King turned him about, and rode to his hall, Bisclavaret following\nat his side. Very near to his master the Were-Wolf went, like any dog,\nand had no care to seek again the wood. When the King had brought him\nsafely to his own castle, he rejoiced greatly, for the beast was fair\nand strong, no mightier had any man seen. Much pride had the King in\nhis marvellous beast. He held him so dear, that he bade all those who\nwished for his love, to cross the Wolf in naught, neither to strike\nhim with a rod, but ever to see that he was richly fed and kennelled\nwarm. This commandment the Court observed willingly. So all the day\nthe Wolf sported with the lords, and at night he lay within the\nchamber of the King. There was not a man who did not make much of the\nbeast, so frank was he and debonair. None had reason to do him wrong,\nfor ever was he about his master, and for his part did evil to none.\nEvery day were these two companions together, and all perceived that\nthe King loved him as his friend.\n\nHearken now to that which chanced.\n\nThe King held a high Court, and bade his great vassals and barons, and\nall the lords of his venery to the feast. Never was there a goodlier\nfeast, nor one set forth with sweeter show and pomp. Amongst those who\nwere bidden, came that same knight who had the wife of Bisclavaret for\ndame. He came to the castle, richly gowned, with a fair company, but\nlittle he deemed whom he would find so near. Bisclavaret marked his\nfoe the moment he stood within the hall. He ran towards him, and\nseized him with his fangs, in the King's very presence, and to the\nview of all. Doubtless he would have done him much mischief, had not\nthe King called and chidden him, and threatened him with a rod. Once,\nand twice, again, the Wolf set upon the knight in the very light of\nday. All men marvelled at his malice, for sweet and serviceable was\nthe beast, and to that hour had shown hatred of none. With one consent\nthe household deemed that this deed was done with full reason, and\nthat the Wolf had suffered at the knight's hand some bitter wrong.\nRight wary of his foe was the knight until the feast had ended, and\nall the barons had taken farewell of their lord, and departed, each to\nhis own house. With these, amongst the very first, went that lord whom\nBisclavaret so fiercely had assailed. Small was the wonder that he was\nglad to go.\n\nNo long while after this adventure it came to pass that the courteous\nKing would hunt in that forest where Bisclavaret was found. With the\nprince came his wolf, and a fair company. Now at nightfall the King\nabode within a certain lodge of that country, and this was known of\nthat dame who before was the wife of Bisclavaret. In the morning the\nlady clothed her in her most dainty apparel, and hastened to the\nlodge, since she desired to speak with the King, and to offer him a\nrich present. When the lady entered in the chamber, neither man nor\nleash might restrain the fury of the Wolf. He became as a mad dog in\nhis hatred and malice. Breaking from his bonds he sprang at the lady's\nface, and bit the nose from her visage. From every side men ran to the\nsuccour of the dame. They beat off the wolf from his prey, and for a\nlittle would have cut him in pieces with their swords. But a certain\nwise counsellor said to the King,\n\n\"Sire, hearken now to me. This beast is always with you, and there is\nnot one of us all who has not known him for long. He goes in and out\namongst us, nor has molested any man, neither done wrong or felony to\nany, save only to this dame, one only time as we have seen. He has\ndone evil to this lady, and to that knight, who is now the husband of\nthe dame. Sire, she was once the wife of that lord who was so close\nand private to your heart, but who went, and none might find where he\nhad gone. Now, therefore, put the dame in a sure place, and\nquestion her straitly, so that she may tell--if perchance she knows\nthereof--for what reason this Beast holds her in such mortal hate. For\nmany a strange deed has chanced, as well we know, in this marvellous\nland of Brittany.\"\n\nThe King listened to these words, and deemed the counsel good. He laid\nhands upon the knight, and put the dame in surety in another place. He\ncaused them to be questioned right straitly, so that their torment was\nvery grievous. At the end, partly because of her distress, and partly\nby reason of her exceeding fear, the lady's lips were loosed, and she\ntold her tale. She showed them of the betrayal of her lord, and how\nhis raiment was stolen from the hollow stone. Since then she knew not\nwhere he went, nor what had befallen him, for he had never come\nagain to his own land. Only, in her heart, well she deemed and was\npersuaded, that Bisclavaret was he.\n\nStraightway the King demanded the vesture of his baron, whether this\nwere to the wish of the lady, or whether it were against her wish.\nWhen the raiment was brought him, he caused it to be spread before\nBisclavaret, but the Wolf made as though he had not seen. Then that\ncunning and crafty counsellor took the King apart, that he might give\nhim a fresh rede.\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"you do not wisely, nor well, to set this raiment\nbefore Bisclavaret, in the sight of all. In shame and much tribulation\nmust he lay aside the beast, and again become man. Carry your wolf\nwithin your most secret chamber, and put his vestment therein. Then\nclose the door upon him, and leave him alone for a space. So we shall\nsee presently whether the ravening beast may indeed return to human\nshape.\"\n\nThe King carried the Wolf to his chamber, and shut the doors upon\nhim fast. He delayed for a brief while, and taking two lords of his\nfellowship with him, came again to the room. Entering therein, all\nthree, softly together, they found the knight sleeping in the King's\nbed, like a little child. The King ran swiftly to the bed and taking\nhis friend in his arms, embraced and kissed him fondly, above a\nhundred times. When man's speech returned once more, he told him of\nhis adventure. Then the King restored to his friend the fief that was\nstolen from him, and gave such rich gifts, moreover, as I cannot tell.\nAs for the wife who had betrayed Bisclavaret, he bade her avoid his\ncountry, and chased her from the realm. So she went forth, she and her\nsecond lord together, to seek a more abiding city, and were no more\nseen.\n\nThe adventure that you have heard is no vain fable. Verily and indeed\nit chanced as I have said. The Lay of the Were-Wolf, truly, was\nwritten that it should ever be borne in mind.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE ASH TREE\n\nNow will I tell you the Lay of the Ash Tree, according to the story\nthat I know.\n\nIn ancient days there dwelt two knights in Brittany, who were\nneighbours and close friends. These two lords were brave and worthy\ngentlemen, rich in goods and lands, and near both in heart and home.\nMoreover each was wedded to a dame. One of these ladies was with\nchild, and when her time was come, she was delivered of two boys. Her\nhusband was right happy and content. For the joy that was his, he sent\nmessages to his neighbour, telling that his wife had brought forth two\nsons, and praying that one of them might be christened with his name.\nThe rich man was at meat when the messenger came before him. The\nservitor kneeled before the dais, and told his message in his ear. The\nlord thanked God for the happiness that had befallen his friend,\nand bestowed a fair horse on the bringer of good tidings. His wife,\nsitting at board with her husband, heard the story of the messenger,\nand smiled at his news. Proud she was, and sly, with an envious heart,\nand a rancorous tongue. She made no effort to bridle her lips, but\nspoke lightly before the servants of the house, and said,\n\n\"I marvel greatly that so reputable a man as our neighbour, should\npublish his dishonour to my lord. It is a shameful thing for any wife\nto have two children at a birth. We all know that no woman brings\nforth two at one bearing, except two husbands have aided her therein.\"\n\nHer husband looked upon her in silence for awhile, and when he spoke\nit was to blame her very sternly.\n\n\"Wife,\" he said, \"be silent. It is better to be dumb, than to utter\nsuch words as these. As you know well, there is not a breath to\ntarnish this lady's good name.\"\n\nThe folk of the house, who listened to these words, stored them in\ntheir hearts, and told abroad the tale, spoken by their lady. Very\nsoon it was known throughout Brittany. Greatly was the lady blamed for\nher evil tongue, and not a woman who heard thereof--whether she were\nrich or poor--but who scorned her for her malice. The servant who\ncarried the message, on his return repeated to his lord of what he had\nseen and heard. Passing heavy was the knight, and knew not what to\ndo. He doubted his own true wife, and suspected her the more sorely,\nbecause she had done naught that was in any way amiss.\n\nThe lady, who so foully slandered her fellow, fell with child in the\nsame year. Her neighbour was avenged upon her, for when her term was\ncome, she became the mother of two daughters. Sick at heart was she.\nShe was right sorrowful, and lamented her evil case.\n\n\"Alas,\" she said, \"what shall I do, for I am dishonoured for all\nmy days. Shamed I am, it is the simple truth. When my lord and his\nkinsfolk shall hear of what has chanced, they will never believe me\na stainless wife. They will remember how I judged all women in my\nplight. They will recall how I said before my house, that my neighbour\ncould not have been doubly a mother, unless she had first been doubly\na wife. I have the best reason now to know that I was wrong, and I am\ncaught in my own snare. She who digs a pit for another, cannot tell\nthat she may not fall into the hole herself. If you wish to speak\nloudly concerning your neighbour, it is best to say nothing of him\nbut in praise. The only way to keep me from shame, is that one of my\nchildren should die. It is a great sin; but I would rather trust to\nthe mercy of God, than suffer scorn and reproach for the rest of my\nlife.\"\n\nThe women about her comforted her as best they might in this trouble.\nThey told her frankly that they would not suffer such wrong to be\ndone, since the slaying of a child was not reckoned a jest. The lady\nhad a maiden near her person, whom she had long held and nourished.\nThe damsel was a freeman's daughter, and was greatly loved and\ncherished of her mistress. When she saw the lady's tears, and heard\nthe bitterness of her complaint, anguish went to her heart, like a\nknife. She stooped over her lady, striving to bring her comfort.\n\n\"Lady,\" she said, \"take it not so to heart. Give over this grief, for\nall will yet be well. You shall deliver me one of these children, and\nI will put her so far from you, that you shall never see her again,\nnor know shame because of her. I will carry her safe and sound to the\ndoor of a church. There I will lay her down. Some honest man shall\nfind her, and--please God--will be at the cost of her nourishing.\"\n\nGreat joy had the lady to hear these words. She promised the maiden\nthat in recompense of her service, she would grant her such guerdon\nas she should wish. The maiden took the babe--yet smiling in her\nsleep--and wrapped her in a linen cloth. Above this she set a piece of\nsanguine silk, brought by the husband of this dame from a bazaar in\nConstantinople--fairer was never seen. With a silken lace they bound\na great ring to the child's arm. This ring was of fine gold, weighing\nfully an ounce, and was set with garnets most precious.\n\nLetters were graven thereon, so that those who found the maid might\nunderstand that she came of a good house. The damsel took the child,\nand went out from the chamber. When night was come, and all was still,\nshe left the town, and sought the high road leading through the\nforest. She held on her way, clasping the baby to her breast, till\nfrom afar, to her right hand, she heard the howling of dogs and the\ncrowing of cocks. She deemed that she was near a town, and went the\nlighter for the hope, directing her steps, there, whence the noises\ncame. Presently the damsel entered in a fair city, where was an Abbey,\nboth great and rich. This Abbey was worshipfully ordered, with many\nnuns in their office and degree, and an Abbess in charge of all. The\nmaiden gazed upon the mighty house, and considered its towers and\nwalls, and the church with its belfry. She went swiftly to the door,\nand setting the child upon the ground, kneeled humbly to make her\nprayer.\n\n\"Lord,\" said she, \"for the sake of Thy Holy Name, if such be Thy will,\npreserve this child from death.\"\n\nHer petition ended, the maiden looked about her, and saw an ash tree,\nplanted to give shadow in a sunny place. It was a fair tree, thick and\nleafy, and was divided into four strong branches. The maiden took the\nchild again in her arms, and running to the ash, set her within the\ntree. There she left her, commending her to the care of God. So she\nreturned to her mistress, and told her all that she had done.\n\nNow in this Abbey was a porter, whose duty it was to open the doors of\nthe church, before folk came to hear the service of God. This night\nhe rose at his accustomed hour, lighted candles and lamps, rang the\nbells, and set wide the doors. His eyes fell upon the silken stuff\nwithin the ash. He thought at first that some bold thief had hidden\nhis spoil within the tree. He felt with his hand to discover what it\nmight be, and found that it was a little child. The porter praised\nGod for His goodness; he took the babe, and going again to his house,\ncalled to his daughter, who was a widow, with an infant yet in the\ncradle.\n\n\"Daughter,\" he cried, \"get from bed at once; light your candle, and\nkindle the fire. I bring you a little child, whom I have found within\nour ash. Take her to your breast; cherish her against the cold, and\nbathe her in warm water.\"\n\nThe widow did according to her father's will. She kindled a fire, and\ntaking the babe, washed and cherished her in her need. Very certain\nshe was, when she saw that rich stuff of crimson samite, and the\ngolden ring about the arm, that the girl was come of an honourable\nrace. The next day, when the office was ended, the porter prayed the\nAbbess that he might have speech with her as she left the church. He\nrelated his story, and told of the finding of the child. The Abbess\nbade him to fetch the child, dressed in such fashion as she was\ndiscovered in the ash. The porter returned to his house, and showed\nthe babe right gladly to his dame. The Abbess observed the infant\nclosely, and said that she would be at the cost of her nourishing,\nand would cherish her as a sister's child. She commanded the porter\nstrictly to forget that he took her from the ash. In this manner it\nchanced that the maiden was tended of the Abbess. The lady considered\nthe maid as her niece, and since she was taken from the ash, gave her\nthe name of Fr\u00eane. By this name she was known of all, within the Abbey\nprecincts, where she was nourished.\n\nWhen Fr\u00eane came to that age in which a girl turns to woman, there was\nno fairer maiden in Brittany, nor so sweet a damsel. Frank, she was,\nand open, but discreet in semblance and in speech. To see her was to\nlove her, and to prize her smile above the beauty of the world. Now at\nDol there lived a lord of whom much good was spoken. I will tell you\nhis name. The folk of his country called him Buron. This lord heard\nspeak of the maiden, and began to love her, for the sweetness men\ntold of her. As he rode home from some tournament, he passed near the\nconvent, and prayed the Abbess that he might look upon her niece. The\nAbbess gave him his desire. Greatly was the maiden to his mind.\nVery fair he found her, sweetly schooled and fashioned, modest and\ncourteous to all. If he might not win her to his love, he counted\nhimself the more forlorn. This lord was at his wits end, for he knew\nnot what to do. If he repaired often to the convent, the Abbess would\nconsider of the cause of his comings, and he would never again see the\nmaiden with his eyes. One thing only gave him a little hope. Should he\nendow the Abbey of his wealth, he would make it his debtor for ever.\nIn return he might ask a little room, where he might abide to have\ntheir fellowship, and, at times, withdraw him from the world. This he\ndid. He gave richly of his goods to the Abbey. Often, in return, he\nwent to the convent, but for other reasons than for penitence and\npeace. He besought the maiden, and with prayers and promises,\npersuaded her to set upon him her love. When this lord was assured\nthat she loved him, on a certain day he reasoned with her in this\nmanner.\n\n\"Fair friend,\" said he, \"since you have given me your love, come with\nme, where I can cherish you before all the world. You know, as well\nas I, that if your aunt should perceive our friendship, she would be\npassing wrath, and grieve beyond measure. If my counsel seems good,\nlet us flee together, you with me, and I with you. Certes, you shall\nnever have cause to regret your trust, and of my riches you shall have\nthe half.\"\n\nWhen she who loved so fondly heard these words, she granted of her\ntenderness what it pleased him to have, and followed after where he\nwould. Fr\u00eane fled to her lover's castle, carrying with her that silken\ncloth and ring, which might do her service on a day. These the Abbess\nhad given her again, telling her how one morning at prime she was\nfound upon an ash, this ring and samite her only wealth, since she was\nnot her niece. Right carefully had Fr\u00eane guarded her treasure from\nthat hour. She shut them closely in a little chest, and this coffret\nshe bore with her in her flight, for she would neither lose them nor\nforget.\n\nThe lord, with whom the maiden fled, loved and cherished her very\ndearly. Of all the men and servants of his house, there was not\none--either great or small--but who loved and honoured her for her\nsimplicity. They lived long together in love and content, till the\nfair days passed, and trouble came upon this lord. The knights of his\nrealm drew together, and many a time urged that he should put away his\nfriend, and wed with some rich gentlewoman. They would be joyous if a\nson were born, to come after to his fief and heritage. The peril was\ntoo great to suffer that he remained a bachelor, and without an heir.\nNever more would they hold him as lord, or serve him with a good\nheart, if he would not do according to their will.\n\nThere being naught else to do, the lord deferred to this counsel of\nhis knights, and begged them to name the lady whom he needs must wed.\n\n\"Sir,\" answered they, \"there is a lord of these parts, privy to our\ncounsel, who has but one child, a maid, his only heir. Broad lands\nwill he give as her dowry. This damsel's name is Coudre, and in all\nthis country there is none so fair. Be advised: throw away the ash rod\nyou carry, and take the hazel as your staff.[1] The ash is a barren\nstock; but the hazel is thick with nuts and delight. We shall be\ncontent if you take this maiden as your wife, so it be to the will of\nGod, and she be given you of her kinsfolk.\"\n\nBuron demanded the hand of the lady in marriage, and her father and\nkin betrothed her to the lord. Alas! it was hid from all, that these\ntwo were twin sisters. It was Fr\u00eane's lot to be doubly abandoned, and\nto see her lover become her sister's husband. When she learned that\nher friend purposed taking to himself a wife, she made no outcry\nagainst his falseness. She continued to serve her lord faithfully, and\nwas diligent in the business of his house. The sergeant and the varlet\nwere marvellously wrathful, when they knew that she must go from\namongst them. On the day appointed for the marriage, Buron bade his\nfriends and acquaintance to the feast. Together with these came\nthe Archbishop, and those of Dol who held of him their lands. His\nbetrothed was brought to his home by her mother. Great dread had the\nmother because of Fr\u00eane, for she knew of the love that the lord bore\nthe maiden, and feared lest her daughter should be a stranger in her\nown hall. She spoke to her son-in-law, counselling him to send Fr\u00eane\nfrom his house, and to find her an honest man for her husband. Thus\nthere would be quittance between them. Very splendid was the feast.\nWhilst all was mirth and jollity, the damsel visited the chambers, to\nsee that each was ordered to her lord's pleasure. She hid the torment\nin her heart, and seemed neither troubled nor downcast. She compassed\nthe bride with every fair observance, and waited upon her right\ndaintily.\n\n[Footnote 1: This is a play on words; Fr\u00eane in the French, meaning\nash, and Coudre meaning hazel.]\n\nHer courage was marvellous to that company of lords and ladies, who\nobserved her curiously. The mother of the bride regarded her also, and\npraised her privily. She said aloud that had she known the sweetness\nof this lady, she would not have taken her lover from her, nor spoiled\nher life for the sake of the bride. The night being come the damsel\nentered in the bridal chamber to deck the bed against her lord. She\nput off her mantle, and calling the chamberlains, showed them how\ntheir master loved to lie. His bed being softly arrayed, a coverlet\nwas spread upon the linen sheets. Fr\u00eane looked upon the coverlet:\nin her eyes it showed too mean a garnishing for so fair a lord.\nShe turned it over in her mind, and going to her coffret she took\ntherefrom that rich stuff of sanguine silk, and set it on the couch.\nThis she did not only in honour of her friend, but that the Archbishop\nmight not despise the house, when he blessed the marriage bed,\naccording to the rite. When all was ready the mother carried the bride\nto that chamber where she should lie, to disarray her for the night.\nLooking upon the bed she marked the silken coverlet, for she had never\nseen so rich a cloth, save only that in which she wrapped her child.\nWhen she remembered of this thing, her heart turned to water. She\nsummoned a chamberlain.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she said, \"tell me in good faith where this garniture was\nfound.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" he made reply, \"that you shall know. Our damsel spread it on\nthe bed, because this dossal is richer than the coverlet that was\nthere before.\"\n\nThe lady called for the damsel. Fr\u00eane came before her in haste, being\nyet without her mantle. All the mother moved within her, as she plied\nher with questions.\n\n\"Fair friend, hide it not a whit from me. Tell me truly where this\nfair samite was found; whence came it; who gave it to you? Answer\nswiftly, and tell me who bestowed on you this cloth?\"\n\nThe damsel made answer to her:\n\n\"Lady, my aunt, the Abbess, gave me this silken stuff, and charged me\nto keep it carefully. At the same time she gave me a ring, which those\nwho put me forth, had bound upon me.\"\n\n\"Fair friend, may I see this ring?\"\n\n\"Certes, lady, I shall be pleased to show it.\"\n\nThe lady looked closely on the ring, when it was brought. She knew\nagain her own, and the crimson samite flung upon the bed. No doubt was\nin her mind. She knew and was persuaded that Fr\u00eane was her very child.\nAll words were spoken, and there was nothing more to hide.\n\n\"Thou art my daughter, fair friend.\"\n\nThen for reason of the pity that was hers, she fell to the ground, and\nlay in a swoon. When the lady came again to herself, she sent for her\nhusband, who, all adread, hastened to the chamber. He marvelled the\nmore sorely when his wife fell at his feet, and embracing him closely,\nentreated pardon for the evil that she had done.\n\nKnowing nothing of her trespass, he made reply, \"Wife, what is this?\nBetween you and me there is nothing to call for forgiveness. Pardon\nyou may have for whatever fault you please. Tell me plainly what is\nyour wish.\"\n\n\"Husband, my offence is so black, that you had better give me\nabsolution before I tell you the sin. A long time ago, by reason of\nlightness and malice, I spoke evil of my neighbour, whenas she bore\ntwo sons at a birth. I fell afterwards into the very pit that I had\ndigged. Though I told you that I was delivered of a daughter, the\ntruth is that I had borne two maids. One of these I wrapped in our\nstuff of samite, together with the ring you gave me the first time we\nmet, and caused her to be laid beside a church. Such a sin will out.\nThe cloth and the ring I have found, and I have recognised our maid,\nwhom I had lost by my own folly. She is this very damsel--so fair and\namiable to all--whom the knight so greatly loved. Now we have married\nthe lord to her sister.\"\n\nThe husband made answer, \"Wife, if your sin be double, our joy is\nmanifold. Very tenderly hath God dealt with us, in giving us back our\nchild. I am altogether joyous and content to have two daughters for\none. Daughter, come to your father's side.\"\n\nThe damsel rejoiced greatly to hear this story. Her father tarried no\nlonger, but seeking his son-in-law, brought him to the Archbishop, and\nrelated the adventure. The knight knew such joy as was never yet. The\nArchbishop gave counsel that on the morrow he would part him and her\nwhom he had joined together. This was done, for in the morning he\nsevered them, bed and board. Afterwards he married Fr\u00eane to her\nfriend, and her father accorded the damsel with a right good heart.\nHer mother and sister were with her at the wedding, and for dowry her\nfather gave her the half of his heritage. When they returned to their\nown realm they took Coudre, their daughter, with them. There she was\ngranted to a lord of those parts, and rich was the feast.\n\nWhen this adventure was bruited abroad, and all the story, the Lay of\nthe Ash Tree was written, so called of the lady, named Fr\u00eane.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE\n\nWith a glad heart and right good mind will I tell the Lay that men\ncall Honeysuckle; and that the truth may be known of all it shall be\ntold as many a minstrel has sung it to my ear, and as the scribe hath\nwritten it for our delight. It is of Tristan and Isoude, the Queen.\nIt is of a love which passed all other love, of love from whence came\nwondrous sorrow, and whereof they died together in the self-same day.\n\nKing Mark was sorely wrath with Tristan, his sister's son, and bade\nhim avoid his realm, by reason of the love he bore the Queen. So\nTristan repaired to his own land, and dwelt for a full year in South\nWales, where he was born. Then since he might not come where he would\nbe, Tristan took no heed to his ways, but let his life run waste to\nDeath. Marvel not overmuch thereat, for he who loves beyond measure\nmust ever be sick in heart and hope, when he may not win according\nto his wish. So sick in heart and mind was Tristan that he left his\nkingdom, and returned straight to the realm of his banishment, because\nthat in Cornwall dwelt the Queen. There he hid privily in the deep\nforest, withdrawn from the eyes of men; only when the evening was\ncome, and all things sought their rest, he prayed the peasant and\nother mean folk of that country, of their charity to grant him shelter\nfor the night. From the serf he gathered tidings of the King. These\ngave again to him what they, in turn, had taken from some outlawed\nknight. Thus Tristan learned that when Pentecost was come King Mark\npurposed to hold high Court at Tintagel, and keep the feast with pomp\nand revelry; moreover that thither would ride Isoude, the Queen.\n\nWhen Tristan heard this thing he rejoiced greatly, since the Queen\nmight not adventure through the forest, except he saw her with his\neyes. After the King had gone his way, Tristan entered within the\nwood, and sought the path by which the Queen must come. There he cut a\nwand from out a certain hazel-tree, and having trimmed and peeled it\nof its bark, with his dagger he carved his name upon the wood. This he\nplaced upon her road, for well he knew that should the Queen but mark\nhis name she would bethink her of her friend. Thus had it chanced\nbefore. For this was the sum of the writing set upon the wand, for\nQueen Isoude's heart alone: how that in this wild place Tristan had\nlurked and waited long, so that he might look upon her face, since\nwithout her he was already dead. Was it not with them as with the\nHoneysuckle and the Hazel tree she was passing by! So sweetly laced\nand taken were they in one close embrace, that thus they might remain\nwhilst life endured. But should rough hands part so fond a clasping,\nthe hazel would wither at the root, and the honeysuckle must fail.\nFair friend, thus is the case with us, nor you without me, nor I\nwithout you.\n\nNow the Queen fared at adventure down the forest path. She spied the\nhazel wand set upon her road, and well she remembered the letters\nand the name. She bade the knights of her company to draw rein, and\ndismount from their palfreys, so that they might refresh themselves a\nlittle. When her commandment was done she withdrew from them a space,\nand called to her Brangwaine, her maiden, and own familiar friend.\nThen she hastened within the wood, to come on him whom more she loved\nthan any living soul. How great the joy between these twain, that once\nmore they might speak together softly, face to face. Isoude showed him\nher delight. She showed in what fashion she strove to bring peace\nand concord betwixt Tristan and the King, and how grievously his\nbanishment had weighed upon her heart. Thus sped the hour, till it\nwas time for them to part; but when these lovers freed them from\nthe other's arms, the tears were wet upon their cheeks. So Tristan\nreturned to Wales, his own realm, even as his uncle bade. But for the\njoy that he had had of her, his friend, for her sweet face, and for\nthe tender words that she had spoken, yea, and for that writing upon\nthe wand, to remember all these things, Tristan, that cunning harper,\nwrought a new Lay, as shortly I have told you. Goatleaf, men call this\nsong in English. Ch\u00e8vrefeuille it is named in French; but Goatleaf\nor Honeysuckle, here you have the very truth in the Lay that I have\nspoken.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nTHE LAY OF EQUITAN\n\nIn ancient days many a noble lord lived in Brittany beyond the Seas.\nBy reason of their courtesy and nobleness they would gladly keep\nin remembrance the deeds that were done in the land. That these\nmarvellous things should not be forgotten they fashioned them into\nLays. Amongst these Lays I have heard tell of one which is not made to\ndie as though it had never been.\n\nEquitan, lord of Nantes, was a loyal and courteous gentleman, of great\nworth, beloved by all in his own country. He was set on pleasure, and\nwas Love's lover, as became a gentle knight. Like many others who dote\non woman, he observed neither sense nor measure in love. But it is in\nthe very nature of Love that proportion cannot enter into the matter.\n\nEquitan had for seneschal a right brave and loyal knight, who was\ncaptain of his army, and did justice in his realm. He was often abroad\nupon his master's business, for the King would not forego his delight\nfor any reason whatever. To dance, to hunt, to fish within the\nriver--this was all his joy. This seneschal was married to a wife,\nby whom great evil came upon the land. Very desirable was the lady;\npassing tender of body, and sweet of vesture, coiffed and fretted with\ngold. Her eyes were blue; her face warmly coloured, with a fragrant\nmouth, and a dainty nose. Certainly she had no peer in all the realm.\nThe King had heard much in praise of this lady and many a time\nsaluted her upon the way. He had also sent her divers gifts. Often he\nconsidered in his mind how best he might get speech with the dame. For\nhis privy pleasure this amorous King went to chase in that country\nwhere the seneschal had his castle. The lady being in her own house,\nEquitan craved a lodging for the night. By this means when the hunt\nwas done, he could speak with her, and show what was in his heart.\nEquitan found the lady as discreet as courteous. He looked closely\nupon her, for she was fair of face and person, and sweet of semblance\nand address. Love bound him captive to his car. The god loosed a shaft\nwhich entered deeply in his breast. The arrow pierced to his heart,\nand from thenceforth he cared nothing for measure, or kingship, or\ndelight. Equitan was so surprised of the lady, that he remained silent\nand pensive. He heard nothing, and nothing he could do. All night he\nlay in unrest upon the bed, reproaching himself for what had come to\npass.\n\n\"Alas,\" said he, \"what evil fate has led me into this land! The sight\nonly of this lady has put such anguish into my heart that my members\nfail beneath me. It is Love, I deem, who rides me thus cruelly. But\nif I love this lady I shall do a great wrong. She is the wife of my\nseneschal, and it is my duty to keep the same love and faith to him as\nI would wish him to observe with me. If by any means I could know what\nis in her mind, I should be the easier, for torment is doubled that\nyou bear alone. There is not a dame, however curst, but would rather\nlove than not; for if she were a contemner of love where would be her\ncourtesy? But if she loves, there is not a woman under the sky who\nwould not suck thereout all the advantage that she may. If the matter\ncame to the ears of the seneschal, he ought not to think too hardly\nof me. He cannot hope to keep such treasure for himself alone; and,\ncertes, I shall claim my portion.\"\n\nEquitan tossed on his bed, and sighed. His thoughts were still on the\nlady, so that in a little he said, \"I think of the ford, before I come\nto the river. I go too quickly, for I know not yet whether the lady\nwill take me as her friend. But know I will as swiftly as I can, since\nI cannot get rest or sleep. I will come before her as soon as it is\nday, and if she feels as I feel, the sooner I shall be rid of my\npain.\"\n\nThe King kept vigil till the daylight came at last. He arose and went\nforth, as if to the chase. He returned presently, telling that he\nwas sick, and going straight to his chamber, lay upon his bed. The\nseneschal was very troubled, for he could not imagine the sickness of\nwhich his master felt the pangs. He counselled his wife to seek their\nguest, that she might cheer and comfort him in his trouble. When they\nwere alone the King opened to her his heart. He told her that he was\ndying for her love, and that if she had no more than friendship to\noffer, he preferred death before life.\n\n\"Sire,\" replied the dame, \"I require a little time to think of what\nyou say, for I cannot answer yes or no, without thought, in a business\nof this moment. I am not of your wealth, and you are too high a lord,\nfor your love to do more than rest lightly on me. When you have had\nyour desire, it will as lightly fly away. My sorrow would be overlong,\nif I should love you, and grant you what you wish. It is much the\nbest that between you and me love should not be spoken of. You are\na puissant prince; my husband is one of your vassals, and faith and\ntrust should bind us--not the dangerous bond of love. Love is only\nlasting between like and like. Better is the love of an honest man--so\nhe be of sense and worth--than that of a prince or king, with no\nloyalty in him. She who sets her love more highly than she can reach,\nmay pluck no fruit from the tree. The rich man deems that love is his\nof right. He prays little of his friend, for he thinks none dare\ntake her from his hand, and that her tenderness is his by prize of\nlordship.\"\n\nWhen she had ceased, Equitan made answer, \"Lady, I can offer you but\nshort thanks for your words, since they savour of scant courtesy. You\nspeak of love as a burgess makes a bargain. Those who desire to get,\nrather than to give, often find that they have the worser half of the\nbusiness. There is no lady under heaven--so she be courteous and kind\nand of a good heart--but would grant her grace to a true lover, even\nthough she have beneath her cloak only a rich prince in his castle.\nThose who care but for a fresh face--tricksters in love as a cozener\nwith dice--are justly flouted and deceived, as oftentimes we see. None\nwastes pity on him who receives the stripes he deserves. Dear lady,\nlet me make myself plain. Do not regard me as your King; look on me as\nyour servant and your friend. I give my word and plight my troth that\nall my happiness shall be found in your pleasure. Let me not die for\nyour love. You shall be the Dame, and I the page; you shall be the\nscornful beauty, and I the prayer at your knee.\"\n\nThe King prayed the lady so urgently, so tenderly he sued for grace,\nthat at the last she assured him of her love, and gave him the gift\nof her heart. They granted rings one to another, and pledged affiance\nbetween them. They kept this faith, and guarded this love, till they\ndied together, and there was an end to all.\n\nEquitan and the lady loved for a great while without it coming to the\nears of any. When the King desired to have speech of his friend,\nhe told his household that he would be alone, since it was the day\nappointed for his bleeding. The King having shut the doors of his\nchamber, there was none so bold as to enter therein, save he were\nbidden of his lord. Whilst he was busied in this fashion, the\nseneschal sat in open court to hear the pleas and right the wrong. He\nwas as much to the King's mind, as his wife was to the King's heart.\nThe lord was so assotted upon the lady that he would neither take\nto himself a wife, nor listen to a word upon the matter. His people\nblamed him loudly, so loudly that it came to the ears of the lady. She\nwas passing heavy, for she feared greatly that the barons would have\ntheir way. When next she had speech with Equitan, in place of the kiss\nand sweetness of her customary greeting, she came before him making\ngreat sorrow and in tears. The King inquiring the reason of her\ndolour, the lady replied, \"Sire, I lament our love, and the trouble I\nalways said would be mine. You are about to wed the daughter of some\nKing, and my good days are over. Everybody says so, and I know it to\nbe true. What will become of me when you put me away! I will die,\nrather than lose you, for I may have no other comfort.\"\n\nThe King made answer very tenderly, \"Fair friend, you need not fear.\nThere will never be wife of mine to put you from me. I shall never\nwed, except your husband die, and then it is you who would be my queen\nand lady. I will leave you for no other dame.\"\n\nThe lady thanked him sweetly for his words. Much was she beholden to\nhim in her heart. Since she was assured that he would not leave her\nfor any other, she turned over swiftly in her mind the profit that\nwould come from her husband's death. Much happiness might be bought at\na little cost, if Equitan would lend his aid.\n\nThe King made answer that he would do her will to the utmost of his\npower, whether her counsel were for good or evil.\n\n\"Sire,\" said the lady, \"let it please you to hunt the forest within\nthe country where I dwell. You can lodge in my lord's castle, and\nthere you must be bled. Three days after your surgery is done, you\nmust call for your bath. My lord shall be bled with you, so that he\nmay go to his bathing at the same time. It will be your part to keep\nhim at your side, and make him your constant companion. It will be\nmine to heat the water, and to carry the baths to your chamber. My\nhusband's bath shall boil so fiercely, that no breathing man, having\nentered therein, may come forth living. When he is dead you must call\nfor your people, and show them how the seneschal has died suddenly in\nhis bath.\"\n\nBecause of his love the King granted her desire, and promised to do\naccording to her will. Before three months were done the King rode to\nthe chase within the lady's realm. He caused surgeons to bleed him for\nhis health, and the seneschal with him. He said that he would take his\nbath on the third day, and the seneschal required his, too, to be made\nready. The lady caused the water to be heated, and carried the baths\nto the chamber. According to her device she set a bath beside each\nbed, filling with boiling water that bath which her lord should enter.\nHer lord had gone forth for a little, so for a space the King and the\nlady were alone. They sat on the husband's bed, and looked tenderly\neach on the other, near by that heated bath. The door of the chamber\nwas kept by a young damsel to give them warning. The seneschal made\nhaste to return, and would have struck on the door of the chamber, but\nwas stayed by the maiden. He put her by, and in his impatience flung\nthe door wide open. Entering he found his master and his wife clasped\nin each other's arms. When the King saw the seneschal he had no\nthought but to hide his dishonour. He started up, and sprang with\njoined feet in the bath that was filled with boiling water. There he\nperished miserably, in the very snare he had spread for another, who\nwas safe and sound. The seneschal marked what had happened to the\nKing. In his rage he turned to his wife, and laying hands upon her\nthrust her, head first, in the self-same bath. So they died together,\nthe King first, and the lady afterwards, with him.\n\nThose who are willing to listen to fair words, may learn from this\nensample, that he who seeks another's ill often brings the evil upon\nhimself.\n\nAs I have told you before, of this adventure the Bretons made the Lay\nof Equitan, the lady whom he loved, and of their end.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF MILON\n\nHe who would tell divers tales must know how to vary the tune. To\nwin the favour of any, he must speak to the understanding of all. I\npurpose in this place to show you the story of Milon, and--since few\nwords are best--I will set out the adventure as briefly as I may.\n\nMilon was born in South Wales. So great was his prowess that from the\nday he was dubbed knight there was no champion who could stand before\nhim in the lists. He was a passing fair knight, open and brave,\ncourteous to his friends, and stern to his foes. Men praised his name\nin whatever realm they talked of gallant deeds--Ireland, Norway, and\nWales, yea, from Jutland even to Albania. Since he was praised by the\nfrank, he was therefore envied of the mean. Nevertheless, by reason of\nhis skill with the spear, he was counted a very worshipful knight, and\nwas honourably entreated by many a prince in divers lands.\n\nIn Milon's own realm there lived a lord whose name has gone from\nmind. With this baron dwelt his daughter, a passing fair and gracious\ndamsel. Much talk had this maiden heard of Milon's knightly deeds, so\nthat she began to set her thoughts upon him, because of the good men\nspoke of him. She sent him a message by a sure hand, saying that if\nher love was to his mind, sweetly would it be to her heart. Milon\nrejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He thanked the lady for her\nwords, giving her love again in return for her own, and swearing that\nhe would never depart therefrom any day of his days. Beyond this\ncourteous answer Milon bestowed on the messenger costly gifts, and\nmade him promises that were richer still.\n\n\"Friend,\" said he, \"of your charity I pray you that I may have speech\nwith my friend, in such a fashion that none shall know of our meeting.\nCarry her this, my golden ring. Tell her, on my part, that so she\npleases she shall come to me, or, if it be her better pleasure, I will\ngo to her.\"\n\nThe messenger bade farewell, and returned to his lady. He placed the\nring in her hand, saying that he had done her will, as he was bidden\nto do.\n\nRight joyous was the damsel to know that Milon's love was tender as\nher own. She required her friend to come for speech within the private\ngarden of her house, where she was wont to take her delight. Milon\ncame at her commandment. He came so often, and so dearly she loved\nhim, that in the end she gave him all that maid may give. When the\ndamsel perceived how it was with her, she sent messages to her friend,\ntelling him of her case, and making great sorrow.\n\n\"I have lost my father and all his wealth,\" said the lady, \"for when\nhe hears of this matter he will make of me an example. Either I shall\nbe tormented with the sword, or else he will sell me as a slave in a\nfar country.\"\n\n(For such was the usage of our fathers in the days of this tale).\n\nMilon grieved sorely, and made answer that he would do the thing the\ndamsel thought most seemly to be done.\n\n\"When the child is born,\" replied the lady, \"you must carry him\nforthwith to my sister. She is a rich dame, pitiful and good, and is\nwedded to a lord of Northumberland. You will send messages with the\nbabe--both in writing and by speech--that the little innocent is her\nsister's child. Whether it be a boy or girl his mother will have\nsuffered much because of him, and for her sister's sake you will pray\nher to cherish the babe. Beyond this I shall set your signet by a lace\nabout his neck, and write letters wherein shall be made plain the name\nof his sire, and the sad story of his mother. When he shall have grown\ntall, and of an age to understand these matters, his aunt will give\nhim your ring, and rehearse to him the letter. If this be done,\nperchance the orphan will not be fatherless all his days.\"\n\nMilon approved the counsel of the lady, and when her time had come she\nwas brought to bed of a boy. The old nurse who tended her mistress\nwas privy to the damsel's inmost mind. So warily she went to work, so\ncunning was she in gloss and concealment, that none within the palace\nknew that there was aught to hide. The damsel looked upon her boy, and\nsaw that he was very fair. She laced the ring about his neck, and set\nthe letter that it were death to find, within a silken chatelaine. The\nchild was then placed in his cradle, swathed close in white linen. A\npillow of feathers was put beneath his head, and over all was laid a\nwarm coverlet, wadded with fur. In this fashion the ancient nurse\ngave the babe to his father, who awaited him within the garden. Milon\ncommended the child to his men, charging them to carry him loyally, by\nsuch towns as they knew, to that lady beyond the Humber. The servitors\nset forth, bearing the infant with them. Seven times a day they\nreposed them in their journey, so that the women might nourish\nthe babe, and bathe and tend him duly. They served their lord so\nfaithfully, keeping such watch upon the way, that at the last they\nwon to the lady to whom they were bidden. The lady received them\ncourteously, as became her breeding. She broke the seal of the letter,\nand when she was assured of what was therein, marvellously she\ncherished the infant. These having bestowed the boy in accordance with\ntheir lord's commandment, returned to their own land.\n\nMilon went forth from his realm to serve beyond the seas for guerdon.\nHis friend remained within her house and was granted by her father in\nmarriage to a right rich baron of that country. Though this baron was\na worthy knight, justly esteemed of all his fellows, the damsel was\ngrieved beyond measure when she knew her father's will. She called to\nmind the past, and regretted that Milon had gone from the country,\nsince he would have helped her in her need.\n\n\"Alas!\" said the lady, \"what shall I do? I doubt that I am lost, for\nmy lord will find that his bride is not a maid. If this becomes known\nthey will make me a bondwoman for all my days. Would that my friend\nwere here to free me from this coil. It were good for me to die rather\nthan to live, but by no means can I escape from their hands. They\nhave set warders about me, men, old and young, whom they call my\nchamberlains, contemners of love, who delight themselves in sadness.\nBut endure it I must, for, alas, I know not how to die.\"\n\nSo on the appointed day the lady was wedded to the baron, and her\nhusband took her to dwell with him in his fief.\n\nWhen Milon returned to his own country he was right heavy and\nsorrowful to learn of this marriage. He lamented his wretched case,\nbut in this he found comfort, that he was not far from the realm where\nthe lady abode whom so tenderly he loved. Milon commenced to think\nwithin himself how best he might send letters to the damsel that he\nwas come again to his home, yet so that none should have knowledge\nthereof. He wrote a letter, and sealed it with his seal. This message\nhe made fast to the neck, and hid within the plumage of a swan that\nwas long his, and was greatly to his heart. He bade his squire to\ncome, and made him his messenger.\n\n\"Change thy raiment swiftly,\" said he, \"and hasten to the castle of my\nfriend. Take with thee my swan, and see that none, neither servant nor\nhandmaid, delivers the bird to my lady, save thyself alone.\"\n\nThe squire did according to his lord's commandment. He made him ready\nquickly, and went forth, bearing the swan with him. He went by the\nnearest road, and passing through the streets of the city, came before\nthe portal of the castle. In answer to his summons the porter drew\nnear.\n\n\"Friend,\" said he, \"hearken to me. I am of Caerleon, and a fowler by\ncraft. Within my nets I have snared the most marvellous swan in the\nworld. This wondrous bird I would bestow forthwith upon your lady, but\nperforce I must offer her the gift with my own hand.\"\n\n\"Friend,\" replied the porter, \"fowlers are not always welcomed of\nladies. If you come with me I will bring you where I may know whether\nit pleases my lady to have speech with you and to receive your gift.\"\n\nThe porter entered in the hall, where he found none but two lords\nseated at a great table, playing chess for their delight. He swiftly\nreturned on his steps, and the fowler with him, so furtively withal\nthat the lords were not disturbed at their game, nor perceived aught\nof the matter. They went therefore to the chamber of the lady. In\nanswer to their call the door was opened to them by a maiden, who\nled them before her dame. When the swan was proffered to the lady\nit pleased her to receive the gift. She summoned a varlet of her\nhousehold and gave the bird to his charge, commanding him to keep it\nsafely, and to see that it ate enough and to spare.\n\n\"Lady,\" said the servitor, \"I will do your bidding. We shall never\nreceive from any fowler on earth such another bird as this. The swan\nis fit to serve at a royal table, for the bird is plump as he is\nfair.\"\n\nThe varlet put the swan in his lady's hands. She took the bird kindly,\nand smoothing his head and neck, felt the letter that was hidden\nbeneath its feathers. The blood pricked in her veins, for well she\nknew that the writing was sent her by her friend. She caused the\nfowler to be given of her bounty, and bade the men to go forth from\nher chamber. When they had parted the lady called a maiden to her aid.\nShe broke the seal, and unfastening the letter, came upon the name of\nMilon at the head. She kissed the name a hundred times through her\ntears. When she might read the writing she learned of the great pain\nand dolour that her lover suffered by day and by night. In you--he\nwrote--is all my pleasure, and in your white hands it lies to heal me\nor to slay. Strive to find a plan by which we may speak as friend to\nfriend, if you would have me live. The knight prayed her in his letter\nto send him an answer by means of the swan. If the bird were well\nguarded, and kept without provand for three days, he would of a surety\nfly back to the place from whence he came, with any message that the\nlady might lace about his neck.\n\nWhen the damsel had considered the writing, and understood what was\nput therein, she commanded that her bird should be tended carefully,\nand given plenteously to eat and to drink. She held him for a month\nwithin her chamber, but this was less from choice, than for the craft\nthat was necessary to obtain the ink and parchment requisite for her\nwriting. At the end she wrote a letter according to her heart, and\nsealed it with her ring. The lady caused the swan to fast for three\nfull days; then having concealed the message about his neck, let him\ntake his flight. The bird was all anhungered for food, and remembering\nwell the home from which he drew, he returned thither as quickly as\nhis wings might bear him.\n\nHe knew again his town, and his master's house, and descended to the\nground at Milon's very feet. Milon rejoiced greatly when he marked his\nown. He caught the bird by his wings, and crying for his steward, bade\nhim give the swan to eat. The knight removed the missive from the\nmessenger's neck. He glanced from head to head of the letter, seeking\nthe means that he hoped to find, and the salutation he so tenderly\nwished. Sweet to his heart was the writing, for the lady wrote that\nwithout him there was no joy in her life, and since it was his desire\nto hear by the swan, it would be her pleasure also.\n\nFor twenty years the swan was made the messenger of these two lovers,\nwho might never win together. There was no speech between them, save\nthat carried by the bird. They caused the swan to fast for three days,\nand then sent him on his errand. He to whom the letter came, saw to\nit that the messenger was fed to heart's desire. Many a time the swan\nwent upon his journey, for however strictly the lady was held of her\nhusband, there was none who had suspicion of a bird.\n\nThe dame beyond the Humber nourished and tended the boy committed to\nher charge with the greatest care. When he was come to a fitting age\nshe made him to be knighted of her lord, for goodly and serviceable\nwas the lad. On the same day the aunt read over to him the letter, and\nput in his hand the ring. She told him the name of his mother, and his\nfather's story. In all the world there was no worthier knight, nor a\nmore chivalrous and gallant gentleman. The lad hearkened diligently to\nthe lady's tale. He rejoiced greatly to hear of his father's prowess,\nand was proud beyond measure of his renown. He considered within\nhimself, saying to his own heart, that much should be required of his\nfather's son, and that he would not be worthy of his blood if he did\nnot endeavour to merit his name. He determined therefore that he would\nleave his country, and seek adventure as a knight errant, beyond the\nsea. The varlet delayed no longer than the evening. On the morrow he\nbade farewell to his aunt, who having warned and admonished him for\nhis good, gave him largely of her wealth, to bring him on his way. He\nrode to Southampton, that he might find a ship equipped for sea, and\nso came to Barfleur. Without any tarrying the lad went straight to\nBrittany, where he spent his money and himself in feasts and in\ntourneys. The rich men of the land were glad of his friendship, for\nthere was none who bore himself better in the press with spear or with\nsword. What he took from the rich he bestowed on such knights as were\npoor and luckless. These loved him greatly, since he gained largely\nand spent freely, granting of his wealth to all. Wherever this knight\nsojourned in the realm he bore away the prize. So debonair was he and\nchivalrous that his fame and praise crossed the water, and were noised\nabroad in his own land. Folk told how a certain knight from beyond the\nHumber, who had passed the sea in quest of wealth and honour, had so\ndone, that by reason of his prowess, his liberality, and his modesty,\nmen called him the Knight Peerless, since they did not know his name.\n\nThis praise of the good knight, and of his deeds, came to be heard of\nMilon. Very dolent was he and sorely troubled that so young a knight\nshould be esteemed above his fathers. He marvelled greatly that the\nstout spears of the past had not put on their harness and broken a\nlance for their ancient honour. One thing he determined, that he\nwould cross the sea without delay, so that he might joust with the\ndansellon, and abate his pride. In wrath and anger he purposed to\nfight, to beat his adversary from the saddle, and bring him at last\nto shame. After this was ended he would seek his son, of whom he had\nheard nothing, since he had gone from his aunt's castle. Milon caused\nhis friend to know of his wishes. He opened out to her all his\nthought, and craved her permission to depart. This letter he sent by\nthe swan, commending the bird to her care.\n\nWhen the lady heard of her lover's purpose, she thanked him for his\ncourtesy, for greatly was his counsel to her mind. She approved his\ndesire to quit the realm for the sake of his honour, and far from\nputting let and hindrance in his path, trusted that in the end he\nwould bring again her son. Since Milon was assured of his friend's\ngoodwill, he arrayed himself richly, and crossing the sea to Normandy,\ncame afterwards into the land of the Bretons. There he sought\nthe friendship of the lords of that realm, and fared to all the\ntournaments of which he might hear. Milon bore himself proudly, and\ngave graciously of his wealth, as though he were receiving a gift.\nHe sojourned till the winter was past in that land, he, and a brave\ncompany of knights whom he held in his house with him. When Easter\nhad come, and the season that men give to tourneys and wars and the\nrighting of their private wrongs, Milon considered how he could meet\nwith the knight whom men called Peerless. At that time a tournament\nwas proclaimed to be held at Mont St. Michel. Many a Norman and Breton\nrode to the game; knights of Flanders and of France were there in\nplenty, but few fared from England. Milon drew to the lists amongst\nthe first. He inquired diligently of the young champion, and all men\nwere ready to tell from whence he came, and of his harness, and of the\nblazon on his shield. At length the knight appeared in the lists and\nMilon looked upon the adversary he so greatly desired to see. Now in\nthis tournament a knight could joust with that lord who was set over\nagainst him, or he could seek to break a lance with his chosen foe. A\nplayer must gain or lose, and he might find himself opposed either\nby his comrade or his enemy. Milon did well and worshipfully in the\npress, and was praised of many that day. But the Knight Peerless\ncarried the cry from all his fellows, for none might stand before him,\nnor rival him in skill and address. Milon observed him curiously. The\nlad struck so heavily, he thrust home so shrewdly, that Milon's hatred\nchanged to envy as he watched. Very comely showed the varlet, and\nmuch to Milon's mind. The older knight set himself over against the\nchampion, and they met together in the centre of the field. Milon\nstruck his adversary so fiercely, that the lance splintered in his\ngauntlet; but the young knight kept his seat without even losing a\nstirrup. In return his spear was aimed with such cunning that he bore\nhis antagonist to the ground. Milon lay upon the earth bareheaded, for\nhis helmet was unlaced in the shock. His hair and beard showed\nwhite to all, and the varlet was heavy to look on him whom he had\noverthrown. He caught the destrier by the bridle, and led him before\nthe stricken man.\n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"I pray you to get upon your horse. I am right grieved\nand vexed that I should have done this wrong. Believe me that it was\nwrought unwittingly.\"\n\nMilon sprang upon his steed. He approved the courtesy of his\nadversary, and looking upon the hand that held his bridle, he knew\nagain his ring. He made inquiry of the lad.\n\n\"Friend,\" said he, \"hearken to me. Tell me now the name of thy sire.\nHow art thou called; who is thy mother? I have seen much, and gone to\nand fro about the world. All my life I have journeyed from realm to\nrealm, by reason of tourneys and quarrels and princes' wars, yet never\nonce by any knight have I been borne from my horse. This day I am\noverthrown by a boy, and yet I cannot help but love thee.\"\n\nThe varlet answered, \"I know little of my father. I understand that\nhis name is Milon, and that he was a knight of Wales. He loved the\ndaughter of a rich man, and was loved again. My mother bore me in\nsecret, and caused me to be carried to Northumberland, where I was\ntaught and tended. An old aunt was at the costs of my nourishing. She\nkept me at her side, till of all her gifts she gave me horse and arms,\nand sent me here, where I have remained. In hope and wish I purpose to\ncross the sea, and return to my own realm. There I would seek out my\nfather, and learn how it stands between him and my mother. I will show\nhim my golden ring, and I will tell him of such privy matters that he\nmay not deny our kinship, but must love me as a son, and ever hold me\ndear.\"\n\nWhen Milon heard these words he could endure them no further. He got\nhim swiftly from his horse, and taking the lad by the fringe of his\nhauberk, he cried, \"Praise be to God, for now am I healed. Fair\nfriend, by my faith thou art my very son, for whom I came forth from\nmy own land, and have sought through all this realm.\"\n\nThe varlet climbed from the saddle, and stood upon his feet. Father\nand son kissed each other tenderly, with many comfortable words. Their\nlove was fair to see, and those who looked upon their meeting, wept\nfor joy and pity.\n\n\nMilon and his son departed from the tournament so soon as it came\nto an end, for the knight desired greatly to speak to the varlet at\nleisure, and to open before him all his mind. They rode to their\nhostel, and with the knights of their fellowship, passed the hours in\nmirth and revelry. Milon spoke to the lad of his mother. He told him\nof their long love, and how she was given by her father in marriage to\na baron of his realm. He rehearsed the years of separation, accepted\nby both with a good heart, and of the messenger who carried letters\nbetween them, when there was none they dared to trust in, save only\nthe swan.\n\nThe son made answer,\n\n\"In faith, fair father, let us return to our own land. There I will\nslay this husband, and you shall yet be my mother's lord.\"\n\nThis being accorded between them, on the morrow they made them ready\nfor the journey, and bidding farewell to their friends, set forth for\nWales. They embarked in a propitious hour, for a fair wind carried the\nship right swiftly to its haven. They had not ridden far upon their\nroad, when they met a certain squire of the lady's household on his\nway to Brittany, bearing letters to Milon. His task was done long\nbefore sundown in chancing on the knight. He gave over the sealed\nwriting with which he was charged, praying the knight to hasten to his\nfriend without any tarrying, since her husband was in his grave. Milon\nrejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He showed the message to his\nson, and pressed forward without pause or rest. They made such speed,\nthat at the end they came to the castle where the lady had her\nlodging. Light of heart was she when she clasped again her child.\nThese two fond lovers sought neither countenance of their kin, nor\ncounsel of any man. Their son handselled them together, and gave the\nmother to his sire. From the day they were wed they dwelt in wealth\nand in sweetness to the end of their lives.\n\nOf their love and content the minstrel wrought this Lay. I, also, who\nhave set it down in writing, have won guerdon enough just by telling\nover the tale.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nTHE LAY OF YONEC\n\nSince I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold.\nThe stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now to\nrehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother's\nfirst born child.\n\nIn days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full of\nyears, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town is\nbuilded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of many\nancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well stricken\nin years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have children\nto come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowed\non this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind and\ncourteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of her\nbeauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln,\nyea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married the\nmaiden to this aged man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fast\nwithin his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He set\nin charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her more\nsurely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, together\nwith their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel might\nhave speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. More\nthan seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children for\nher solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet her\nkinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that when\nshe sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in her\nchamber to light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spent\nher days in sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for she\ngave no thought to her person. Indeed at times she hated the very\nshadow of that beauty which had spoiled all her life.\n\nNow when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord rose\nearly on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his sister\nto rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did his\nwill, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she carried\nin her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the sun with\nher tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the chamber,\nso she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.\n\n\"Alas,\" said she, \"in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to be\nshut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Of\nwhom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison?\nGreat is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may be\ndeceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. If\nI might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I should\nshow the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatly\nare my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous old\nman, and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow,\nfor he will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly he\nwas plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, and\nhis veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heard\nthat in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought their\nsorrows to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fair\nto his desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave,\nand were blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen of\nany, except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy!\nPerchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, such\nadventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would but\nshape the world to my wish!\"\n\nWhen the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of a\ngreat bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what it\nmight mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed and\nhooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilst\nthe lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comely\nknight before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at this\nsorcery. Her blood turned to water within her, and because of her\ndread she hid her face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy the\nknight first sought to persuade her to put away her fears.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be as\ngentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to make\nplain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your tower\nthat I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. I\nhave loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love above\nanything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid,\nand I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should have\nsought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm,\ntill you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as your\nfriend.\"\n\nThe lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words.\nPresently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said that\nperchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only she\nhad assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear,\nbut in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty.\nNever in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight more\nfair.\n\n\"Lady,\" he replied, \"you ask rightly. For nothing that man can give\nwould I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God,\nthe Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by our\nfather Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and was\nand ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If you\nstill give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell him\nthat since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Service\nappointed by God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take your\nsemblance, and receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus be\ncertified of my faith, and never have reason to mistrust me more.\"\n\nWhen the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to the\nchamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since it\nwas time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture.\nThe lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn the\nchaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The ag\u00e8d dame\nreplied,\n\n\"You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods,\nand none will enter in the tower, save me.\"\n\nRight distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called a\nwoman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. This\nwas seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She set\nwide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplain\ncame as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. The\nknight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; then\nthe priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behind\nhim.\n\nThe knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and a\nblither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other,\nbut the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again to\nhis own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and she\nsweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to return\noften to her side.\n\n\"Lady,\" he made answer, \"so you please to require me at any hour, you\nmay be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you to\nobserve such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. This\nold woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes our\nfriendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evil\ncome upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely,\ndeath.\"\n\nThe knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest lady\nin the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went lightly\nthrough the week. She took such heed to her person, that her former\nbeauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as her\nprison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would not\nleave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see her\nfriend at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber.\nEarly and late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God grant\nher joy was long, against the evil day that came.\n\nThe husband of the lady presently took notice of the change in\nhis wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, and\nmisdoubting his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day.\nHe told her of his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, and\ninquired what this should mean. The crone answered that she knew no\nmore than he, \"for we have very little speech one with another. She\nsees neither kin nor friend; but, now, she seems quite content to\nremain alone in her chamber.\"\n\nThe husband made reply,\n\n\"Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we must\ndo all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning when\nI have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, make\npretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hide\nyourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shall\nthen learn the secret of this new found joy.\"\n\nHaving devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for those\nwho were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon be\ntangled in the net.\n\nThree days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house.\nHe told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court,\nbut that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, making\nfast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind her\ncurtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desired\nto know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for her\nfriend. The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, nor\ncherish her more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them,\nboth in word and tenderness, till he could no longer stay. All this\nthe crone saw with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched the\nfashion in which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she was\naltogether fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear the\nsemblance of a hawk. When the husband returned to his house--for\nhe was near at hand--his sister told him that of which she was the\nwitness, and of the truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was he\nand wrathful. Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slaying\nof this bird. He caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, with\npoint and edge sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastened\nfirmly together, and set them securely within that window, by which\nthe tercel would come to his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fair\nmight not see nor hear of this wrong, and that there should be none to\nshow him of such treason.\n\nOn the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying that\nhe should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behind\nhim, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn.\nThe lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved so\nloyally. Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any long\ntarrying the bird came flying at her will. He flew in at the open\nwindow, and was entangled amongst the blades of steel. One blade\npierced his body so deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound.\nWhen the falcon knew that his hurt was to death, he forced himself to\npass the barrier, and coming before his lady fell upon her bed, so\nthat the sheets were dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon her\nfriend and his wound, and was altogether anguished and distraught.\n\n\"Sweet friend,\" said the knight, \"it is for you that my life is lost.\nDid I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely I\nshould be slain?\"\n\nOn hearing these words the lady's head fell upon the pillow, and for a\nspace she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. He\nprayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son who\nwould be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. He\nwould prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him by\nslaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he was\nbleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body he\nflew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrill\ncries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window.\nMarvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window was\nfully twenty feet from the ground. When the lady made her perilous\nleap she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she set\nherself to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped from\nhis wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till she\nlighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it was\nstained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarec\nhad refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he was\nyet within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, and\nsince she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. She\nwent so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow. She\nfollowed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a city\nnear at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls.\nThere was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver,\nso rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a still\nwater. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near by\nthe keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew to\ntheir anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in the\nhaven. The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts of\nfreshly fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. None\nchallenged her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in the\nstreets; she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of red\nblood lay on the staircase of the palace. The lady entered and found\nherself within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on a\npallet. She looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within a\nlarger room, empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight who\nslept thereon. But when the lady entered in the third chamber she saw\na stately bed, that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was of\ninwrought gold, and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. The\nfurniture was worth the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconces\nof silver lighted the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as the\nlady had come she knew again her friend, directly she saw him with her\neyes. She hastened to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief.\nThe knight clasped her in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, but\nwhen she came to her mind, he comforted her as sweetly as he might.\n\n\"Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly as\nyou are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, in\ntheir wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle.\nThey are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to my\ndeath. Fair friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you.\"\n\nThe lady made answer, \"Friend, the best thing that can befall me is\nthat we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If he\nfinds me again he will certainly slay me with the sword.\"\n\nThe knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon his\nfriend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husband\nwould think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seek\nto revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered it\nto the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it to\nthe hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthy\nknight. When that time was come she and her lord would go--together\nwith the son--to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where should\nbe seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death;\nthere he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall be\nrehearsed the tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitter\nwrong. And then shall be seen what he will do.\n\nWhen the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, he\ngave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, and\nget her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command,\nbearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precious\ntreasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the city\nwhen she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamented\nthe death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell four\nseparate times upon the road, and four times she came from out her\nswoon. She bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshed\nhim, and rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her own\nland, and returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, she\ndwelt in peace, since--as Eudemarec foretold--her lord gave no thought\nto her outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her any\nmore.\n\nIn due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec.\nVery sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not his\nlike for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear.\nWhen he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now,\nwhat chanced to them all, that self-same year.\n\nIt was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron with\ngreat pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husband\nrode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont.\nTogether with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As the\nroads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose their\nway, they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straight\npath. The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none so\nfair. Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks in\ntheir holy habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and the\npilgrims were welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat and\ndrink near by the Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they would\nhave gone their way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little,\nsince he would show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all the\noffices of the Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously,\nthe husband did according to his wish.\n\nImmediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose from\ntable, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapter\nhouse they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great,\ncovered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twenty\ntorches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, and\nthe sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung in\nthat chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims saw\nthe great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of the\nguardians as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who lay\ntherein. The monks commenced to weep, and told with tears, that in\nthat place was laid the body of the best, the bravest, and the fairest\nknight who ever was, or ever should be born. \"In his life he was King\nof this realm, and never was there so worshipful a lord. He was slain\nat Caerwent for the love of a lady of those parts. Since then the\ncountry is without a King. Many a day have we waited for the son of\nthese luckless lovers to come to our land, even as our lord commanded\nus to do.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud voice\nbefore them all.\n\n\"Fair son,\" said she, \"you have heard why God has brought us to this\nplace. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was he\nslain by this ancient Judas at your side.\"\n\nWith these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him the\nglaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as she\nmight she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with his\nfriend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his death\nby the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the end\nshe fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any further\nword until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that his\nmother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's sword\nand smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. In\nthat hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gave\nquittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings were\npublished abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting the\nbody of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with due\nrite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May God\ngrant them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the people\nacclaimed him for their lord, as he departed from the church.\n\nThose who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many days\nshaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolour\nthat these two friends suffered by reason of their love.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nTHE LAY OF THE THORN\n\nWhosoever counts these Lays as fable, may be assured that I am not of\nhis mind. The dead and past stories that I have told again in divers\nfashions, are not set down without authority. The chronicles of these\nfar off times are yet preserved in the land. They may be read by the\ncurious at Caerleon, or in the monastery of St. Aaron. They may be\nheard in Brittany, and in many another realm besides. To prove how\nthe remembrance of such tales endures, I will now relate to you the\nadventure of the Two Children, making clear what has remained hidden\nto this very hour.\n\nIn Brittany there lived a prince, high of spirit, fair of person,\ncourteous and kind to all. This Childe was a King's son, and there\nwere none to cherish him but his father and his father's wife, for\nhis mother was dead. The King held him dearer than aught else in the\nworld, and close he was to the lady's heart. The lady, for her part,\nhad a daughter by another husband than the King. Very dainty was the\nmaiden, sweet of colour and of face, passing young and fair. Both\nthese children, born to so high estate, were right tender of age, for\nthe varlet, who was the elder of the twain, was but seven years. The\ntwo children loved together very sweetly. Nothing seemed of worth to\none, if it were not shared with the other. They were nourished at the\nsame table, went their ways together, and lived side by side. The\nguardians who held them in ward, seeing their great love, made no\neffort to put them apart, but allowed them to have all things in\ncommon. The love of these children increased with their years, but\nDame Nature brought another love to youth and maid than she gave to\nthe child. They delighted no more in their old frolic and play. Such\nsport gave place to clasp and kisses, to many words, and to long\nsilences. To savour their friendship they took refuge in an attic of\nthe keep, but all the years they had passed together, made the new\nlove flower more sweetly in their hearts, as each knew well. Very pure\nand tender was their love, and good would it have been if they could\nhave hidden it from their fellows. This might not be, for in no great\nwhile they were spied upon, and seen.\n\nIt chanced upon a day that this prince, so young and debonair, came\nhome from the river with an aching head, by reason of the heat. He\nentered in a chamber, and shutting out the noise and clamour, lay\nupon his bed, to ease his pain. The Queen was with her daughter in a\nchamber, instructing her meetly in that which it becomes a maid to\nknow. Closer to a damsel's heart is her lover than her kin. So soon as\nshe heard that her friend was come again to the house, she stole forth\nfrom her mother, without saying word to any, and accompanied by none,\nwent straight to the chamber where he slept. The prince welcomed her\ngladly, for they had not met together that day. The lady, who thought\nno wrong, condoled with him in his sickness, and of her sweetness gave\nhim a hundred kisses to soothe his hurt. Too swiftly sped the time\nin this fashion. Presently the Queen noticed that the damsel was no\nlonger with her at her task. She rose to her feet, and going quickly\nto the chamber of the prince, entered therein without call or knock,\nfor the door was unfastened on the latch. When the Queen saw these two\nlovers fondly laced in each other's arms, she knew and was certified\nof their love. Right wrathful was the Queen. She caught the maiden\nby the wrist, and shut her fast in her room. She prayed the King to\ngovern his son more strictly, and to hold him in such ward about the\nCourt that he might get no speech with the damsel. Since he could have\nneither sight nor word of his friend, save only the sound of weeping\nfrom her chamber, the prince determined to tarry no further in the\npalace. He sought his father the self-same hour, and showed him what\nwas in his mind.\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"I crave a gift. If it pleases you to be a father to\nyour son, make me now a knight. I desire to seek another realm, and to\nserve some prince for guerdon. The road calls me, for many a knight\nhas won much riches with his sword.\"\n\nThe King did not refuse the lad's request, but accorded it should be\neven as he wished. He prayed the prince to dwell for a year about the\nCourt, that he might the more readily assist at such tourneys and\nfollow such feats of arms as were proclaimed in the kingdom. This the\nprince agreed to do--the more readily because there was nothing else\nto be done. He remained therefore at the Court, moving ever by his\nfather's side. The maiden, for her part, was in the charge of her\nmother, who reproached her always for that she had done amiss. The\nQueen did not content herself with reproaches and threats. She used\nthe sharp discipline upon her, so that the maiden suffered grievously\nin her person. Sick at heart was the varlet whilst he hearkened to the\nbeatings, the discipline and the chastisement wherewith her mother\ncorrected the damsel. He knew not what to do, for well he understood\nthat his was the fault, and that by reason of him was her neck bowed\ndown in her youth. More and more was he tormented because of his\nfriend.\n\nMore and more the stripes with which she was afflicted became heavier\nfor him to bear. He shut himself close within his chamber, and making\nfast the door, gave his heart over to tears.\n\n\"Alas,\" cried he, \"what shall I do! How may the ill be cured that I\nhave brought on us by my lightness and folly! I love her more than\nlife, and, certes, if I may not have my friend I will prove that I can\ndie for her, though I cannot live without her.\"\n\nWhilst the prince made this lamentation, the Queen came before the\nKing.\n\n\"Sir,\" said she, \"I pledge my oath and word as a crowned lady that I\nkeep my daughter as strictly as I may. Think to your own son, and see\nto it that he cannot set eyes on the maid. He considers none other\nthing but how to get clasp and speech of his friend.\"\n\nFor this reason the King guarded his son about the Court as closely as\nthe Queen held the maiden in her chamber. So vigilant was the watch\nthat these pitiful lovers might never have word together. They had no\nleisure to meet; they never looked one on the other; nor heard tidings\nof how they did, whether by letter or by sergeant.\n\nThey lived this death in life till the same year--eight days before\nthe Feast of St. John--the varlet was dubbed knight. The King spent\nthe day in the chase, and returning, brought with him great store of\nfowl and venison that he had taken. After supper, when the tables were\nremoved, the King seated himself for his delight upon a carpet spread\nbefore the dais, his son and many a courteous lord with him. The fair\ncompany gave ear to the Lay of Alys, sweetly sung by a minstrel from\nIreland, to the music of his rote. When his story was ended, forthwith\nhe commenced another, and related the Lay of Orpheus; none being so\nbold as to disturb the singer, or to let his mind wander from the\nsong. Afterwards the knights spoke together amongst themselves. They\ntold of adventures which in ancient days had chanced to many, and were\nnoised about Brittany. Amongst these lords sat a damsel, passing sweet\nof tongue. In her turn she told of a certain adventure which awaited\nthe adventurous at the Ford of the Thorn, once every year, on the\nvigil of St. John, \"but much I doubt whether now there be knights\nso bold as to dare the perils of that passage.\" When the newly made\nknight heard these words his pride quickened within him. He considered\nthat although he was belted with the sword, he had as yet done no deed\nto prove his courage in the eyes of men. He deemed the time had come\nto show his hardihood, and to put to silence the malicious lips. He\nstood upon his feet, calling upon damsel, King and barons to hearken\nto his voice, and spake out manfully in the ears of great and small.\n\n\"Lords,\" cried he, \"whatever says the maiden, I boast before you all\nthat on St. John's Eve I will ride alone to the Ford of the Thorn, and\ndare this adventure, whether it bring me gain or whether it bring me\nloss.\"\n\nThe King was right heavy to hear these words. He thought them to be\nthe gab and idle speech of a boy.\n\n\"Fair son,\" said he, \"put this folly from your mind.\"\n\nBut when the King was persuaded that whether it were foolishness or\nwisdom the lad was determined to go his way, and abide the issue of\nthe adventure,\n\n\"Go swiftly,\" said he, \"in the care of God. Since risk your life you\nmust, play it boldly like a pawn, and may God grant you heart's desire\nand happy hours.\"\n\nThe self-same night, whilst the lad lay sleeping in his bed, that\nfair lady, his friend, was in much unrest in hers. The tidings of her\nlover's boast had been carried quickly to her chamber, and sorely was\nshe adread for what might chance. When the Eve of St. John was come,\nand the day drew towards evening, the varlet, with all fair hopes,\nmade him ready to ride to the Ford Adventurous. He had clad himself\nfrom basnet to shoes in steel, and mounted on a strong destrier, went\nhis road to essay the Passage of the Thorn. Whilst he took his path\nthe maiden took hers. She went furtively to the orchard, that she\nmight importune God to bring her friend again, safe and sound to his\nown house. She seated herself on the roots of a tree, and with sighs\nand tears lamented her piteous case.\n\n\"Father of Heaven,\" said the girl, \"Who was and ever shall be, be\npitiful to my prayer. Since it is not to Thy will that any man should\nbe wretched, be merciful to a most unhappy maid. Fair Sire, give back\nthe days that are gone, when my friend was at my side, and grant that\nonce again I may be with him. Lord God of Hosts, when shall I be\nhealed? None knows the bitterness of my sorrow, for none may taste\nthereof, save such as set their heart on what they may not have. These\nonly, Lord, know the wormwood and the gall.\"\n\nThus prayed the maiden, seated on the roots of that ancient tree, her\nfeet upon the tender grass. At the time of her orisons much was she\nsought and inquired after in the palace, but none might find where she\nhad hidden. The damsel herself was given over altogether to her love\nand her sorrow, and had no thought for anything, save for prayers and\ntears. The night wore through, and dawn already laced the sky, when\nshe fell on a little slumber, in the tree where she was sheltered. She\nwoke with a start, but returned to her sleep more deeply than before.\nShe had not slept long, when herseemed she was ravished from the\ntree--but I cannot make this plain for I know no wizardry--to that\nFord of the Thorn, where her friend and lover had repaired. The knight\nlooked upon the sleeping maiden, and marvelled at so fair a sight. All\nadread was the lady when she came from her slumber, for she knew not\nwhere she lay, and wondered greatly. She covered her head by reason of\nher exceeding fear, but the knight consoled her courteously.\n\n\"Diva,\" said he, \"there is no reason for terror. If you are an earthly\nwoman, speaking with a mortal tongue, tell me your story. Tell me in\nwhat guise and manner you came so suddenly to this secret place.\"\n\nThe maiden began to be of more courage, till she remembered that she\nwas no longer in the orchard of the castle. She inquired of the knight\nto what haunt she had come.\n\n\"Lady,\" he made answer, \"you are laid at the Ford of the Thorn, where\nadventures chance to the seeker, sometimes greatly against the mind,\nand sometimes altogether according to the heart.\"\n\n\"Ah, dear God,\" cried the lady, \"now shall I be made whole. Sir, look\na little closer upon me, for I have been your friend. Thanks be to\nGod, who so soon has heard my prayer.\"\n\nThis was the beginning of adventures which happened that night to the\nseeker. The maiden hastened to embrace her lover. He got him nimbly\nfrom his horse, and taking her softly between his arms, kissed her\nwith more kisses than I can tell. Then they sat together beneath the\nthorn, and the damsel told how she fell asleep within that old tree in\nthe pleasaunce, of how she was rapt from thence in her slumber, and of\nhow, yet sleeping, he came upon her by the Ford. When the knight had\nhearkened to all that she had to say, he looked from her face, and\nglancing across the river, marked a lord, with lifted lance, riding\nto the ford. This knight wore harness of a fair vermeil colour, and\nbestrode a horse white of body, save for his two ears, which were red\nas the rider's mail. Slender of girdle was this knight, and he made no\neffort to enter the river, but drew rein upon the other side of the\npassage, and watched. The varlet said to his friend that it became\nhis honour to essay some feats of arms with this adversary. He got to\nhorse, and rode to the river, leaving the maiden beneath the thorn.\nHad she but found another horse at need, very surely would she have\nridden to his aid. The two knights drew together as swiftly as their\nsteeds could bear them. They thrust so shrewdly with the lance, that\ntheir shields were split and broken. The spears splintered in the\ngauntlet, and both champions were unhorsed by the shock, rolling on\nthe sand; but nothing worse happened to them. Since they had neither\nsquire nor companion to help them on their feet, they pained them\ngrievously to get them from the ground. When they might climb upon\ntheir steeds, they hung again the buckler about the neck, and lowered\ntheir ashen spears. Passing heavy was the varlet, for shame that his\nfriend had seen him thrown. The two champions met together in the\nonset, but the prince struck his adversary so cunningly with the\nlance, that the laces of his buckler were broken, and the shield fell\nfrom his body. When the varlet saw this he rejoiced greatly, for he\nknew that the eyes of his friend were upon him. He pressed his quarrel\nright fiercely, and tumbling his foe from the saddle, seized his horse\nby the bridle.[2]\n\nThe two knights passed the ford, and the prince feared sorely because\nof the skill and mightiness of his adversary. He could not doubt that\nif they fell upon him together he would perish at their hands. He put\nthe thought from mind, for he would not suspect them of conduct so\nunbecoming to gentle knight, and so contrary to the laws of chivalry.\nIf they desired some passage of arms, doubtless they would joust as\ngentlemen, and each for himself alone. When these three knights were\nmounted on their steeds, they crossed the ford with courtesy and\norder, each seeking to give precedence to his companion. Having come\nto the bank the stranger knights prayed the prince to run a course for\ntheir pleasure. He answered that it was his wish, too, and made him\nready for the battle. The prince rejoiced greatly when he saw one of\nthese two adversaries ride a little apart, that he might the more\neasily observe the combat. He was assured that he would suffer no\nfelony at their hands. For their part the two knights were persuaded\nthat they had to do with an errant who had ridden to the ford for no\nother gain than honour and praise. The two adversaries took their\nplaces within the lists. They lowered their lance, and covering their\nbodies with the shield, smote fiercely together. So rude was the shock\nthat the staves of the spears were broken, and the strong destriers\nwere thrown upon their haunches. Neither of the good knights had lost\nhis saddle. Each of the combatants got him to his feet, and drawing\nthe sword, pressed upon his fellow, till the blood began to flow. When\nthe knight who judged this quarrel saw their prowess, he came near,\nand commanded that the battle should cease. The adversaries drew\napart, and struck no further blow with the sword. Right courteously\nand with fair words he spake to the prince. \"Friend,\" said the knight,\n\"get to your horse, and break a lance with me. Then we can go in\npeace, for our time grows short. You must endure till the light be\ncome if you hope to gain the prize. Do your devoir, valiantly,\nfor should you chance to be thrown in this course, or slain by\nmisadventure, you have lost your desire. None will ever hear of this\nadventure; all your life you will remain little and obscure. Your\nmaiden will be led away by the victor, seated on the good Castilian\nhorse you have gained by right of courage. Fight bravely. The\ntrappings of the destrier are worth the spoil of a king's castle, and\nas for the horse himself he is the swiftest and the fairest in the\nworld. Be not amazed that I tell you of these matters. I have watched\nyou joust, and know you for a hardy knight and a gallant gentleman.\nBesides I stand to lose horse and harness equally with you.\"\n\n[Footnote 2: There is here some omission in the manuscript.]\n\nThe prince listened to these words, and accorded that the knight spoke\nwisely and well. He would willingly have taken counsel of the maiden,\nbut first, as surely he knew, he must joust with this knight. He\ngathered the reins in his glove, and choosing a lance with an ashen\nstaff, opposed himself to his adversary. The combatants met together\nso fiercely that the lance pierced the steel of the buckler; yet\nneither lost stirrup by the shock. When the prince saw this he smote\nthe knight so shrewdly that he would have fallen from the saddle, had\nhe not clung to the neck of his destrier. Of his courtesy the prince\npassed on, and refrained his hand until his enemy had recovered his\nseat. On his return he found the knight full ready to continue his\ndevoir. Each of the champions plucked forth his sword, and sheltered\nhim beneath his shield. They struck such mighty blows that the\nbucklers were hewn in pieces, but in spite of all they remained firm\nin the saddle. The maiden was aghast whilst she watched the mel\u00e9e. She\nhad great fear for her friend, lest mischief should befall him, and\nshe cried loudly to the knight that, for grace, he should give over\nthis combat, and go his way. Very courteous was the knight, and meetly\nschooled in what was due to maidens. He saluted the damsel, and,\ntogether with his companion, rode straightway from the ford. The\nprince watched them pass for a little, then without further tarrying\nhe went swiftly to the maiden, where, all fearful and trembling, she\nknelt beneath the thorn. The lady stood upon her feet as her lover\ndrew near. She climbed behind him on the saddle, for well she knew\nthat their pains were done. They fared so fast that when it was yet\nscarce day they came again to the palace. The King saw them approach,\nand rejoiced greatly at his son's prowess; but at this he marvelled\nmuch, that he should return with the daughter of the Queen.\n\nThe self-same day of this home-coming--as I have heard tell--the King\nhad summoned to Court his barons and vassals because of a certain\nquarrel betwixt two of his lords. This quarrel being accorded between\nthem, and come to a fair end, the King related to that blithe company\nthe story of this adventure. He told again that which you know, of how\nthe prince defended the Ford, of the finding of the maiden beneath the\nthorn, of the mighty joust, and of that white horse which was taken\nfrom the adversary.\n\nThe prince both then and thereafter caused the horse to be entreated\nwith the greatest care. He received the maiden to wife, and cherished\nher right tenderly. She, and the steed on which she would always ride,\nwere his richest possessions. The destrier lived many years in much\nhonour, but on a day when his master was taking the harness from his\nhead, he fell and died forthwith.\n\nOf the story which has been set before you the Bretons wrought a Lay.\nThey did not call the song the Lay of the Ford, although the adventure\ntook place at a river; neither have they named it The Lay of the Two\nChildren. For good or ill the rhyme is known as the Lay of the Thorn.\nIt begins well and endeth better, for these kisses find their fruition\nin marriage.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nTHE LAY OF GRAELENT\n\nNow will I tell you the adventure of Graelent, even as it was told to\nme, for the Lay is sweet to hear, and the tune thereof lovely to bear\nin mind.\n\nGraelent was born in Brittany of a gentle and noble house, very comely\nof person and very frank of heart. The King who held Brittany in that\nday, made mortal war upon his neighbours, and commanded his vassals to\ntake arms in his quarrel. Amongst these came Graelent, whom the King\nwelcomed gladly, and since he was a wise and hardy knight greatly was\nhe honoured and cherished by the Court. So Graelent strove valiantly\nat tourney and at joust, and pained himself mightily to do the enemy\nall the mischief that he was able. The Queen heard tell the prowess of\nher knight, and loved him in her heart for reason of his feats of arms\nand of the good men spoke of him. So she called her chamberlain apart,\nand said, \"Tell me truly, hast thou not often heard speak of that fair\nknight, Sir Graelent, whose praise is in all men's mouths?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" answered the chamberlain, \"I know him for a courteous\ngentleman, well spoken of by all.\"\n\n\"I would he were my friend,\" replied the lady, \"for I am in much\nunrest because of him. Go thou, and bid him come to me, so he would be\nworthy of my love.\" \"Passing gracious and rich is your gift, lady, and\ndoubtless he will receive it with marvellous joy. Why, from here to\nTroy there is no priest even, however holy, who in looking on your\nface would not lose Heaven in your eyes.\"\n\nThereupon the chamberlain took leave of the Queen, and seeking\nGraelent within his lodging saluted him courteously, and gave him the\nmessage, praying him to come without delay to the palace.\n\n\"Go before, fair friend,\" answered the knight, \"for I will follow you\nat once.\"\n\nSo when the chamberlain was gone Graelent caused his grey horse to be\nsaddled, and mounting thereon, rode to the castle, attended by his\nsquire. He descended without the hall, and passing before the King\nentered within the Queen's chamber. When the lady saw him she embraced\nhim closely, and cherished and honoured him sweetly. Then she made the\nknight to be seated on a fair carpet, and to his face praised him\nfor his exceeding comeliness. But he answered her very simply and\ncourteously, saying nothing but what was seemly to be said. Then the\nQueen kept silence for a great while, considering whether she should\nrequire him to love her for the love of love; but at the last, made\nbold by passion, she asked if his heart was set on any maid or dame.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"I love no woman, for love is a serious business,\nnot a jest. Out of five hundred who speak glibly of love, not one\ncan spell the first letter of his name. With such it is idleness,\nor fulness of bread, or fancy, masking in the guise of love. Love\nrequires of his servants chastity in thought, in word and in deed. If\none of two lovers is loyal, and the other jealous and false, how may\ntheir friendship last, for Love is slain! But sweetly and discreetly\nlove passes from person to person, from heart to heart, or it is\nnothing worth. For what the lover would, that would the beloved; what\nshe would ask of him that should he go before to grant. Without accord\nsuch as this, love is but a bond and a constraint. For above all\nthings Love means sweetness, and truth, and measure; yea, loyalty to\nthe loved one and to your word. And because of this I dare not meddle\nwith so high a matter.\"\n\nThe Queen heard Graelent gladly, finding him so tripping of tongue,\nand since his words were wise and courteous, at the end she discovered\nto him her heart.\n\n\"Friend, Sir Graelent, though I am a wife, yet have I never loved my\nlord. But I love you very dearly, and what I have asked of you will\nyou not go before to grant?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"give me pity and forgiveness, but this may not be.\nI am the vassal of the King, and on my knees have pledged him loyalty\nand faith, and sworn to defend his life and honour. Never shall he\nhave shame because of me.\"\n\nWith these words Sir Graelent took his leave of the Queen, and went\nhis way.\n\nSeeing him go in this fashion the Queen commenced to sigh. She was\ngrieved in her heart, and knew not what to do. But whatever chanced\nshe would not renounce her passion, so often she required his love by\nmeans of soft messages and costly gifts, but he refused them all. Then\nthe Queen turned from love to hate, and the greatness of her passion\nbecame the measure of her wrath, for very evilly she spoke of Graelent\nto the King. So long as the war endured Graelent remained in that\nrealm. He spent all that he had upon his company, for the King grudged\nwages to his men. The Queen persuaded the King to this, counselling\nhim that by withholding the pay of the sergeants, Graelent might in no\nwise flee the country, nor take service with another lord. So at the\nend Graelent was wonderfully downcast, nor was it strange that he was\nsad, for there remained nothing which he might pledge, but one poor\nsteed, and when this was gone, no horse had he to carry him from the\ncountry.\n\nIt was now the month of May, when the hours are long and warm. The\nburgess, with whom Graelent lodged, had risen early in the morning,\nand with his wife had gone to eat with neighbours in the town. No one\nwas in the house except Graelent, no squire, nor archer, nor servant,\nsave only the daughter of his host, a very courteous maid. When the\nhour for dinner was come she prayed the knight that they might sit at\nboard together. But he had no heart for mirth, and seeking out his\nsquire bade him bridle and saddle his horse, for he had no care to\neat.\n\n\"I have no saddle,\" replied the squire.\n\n\"Friend,\" said the demoiselle, \"I will lend you bridle and saddle as\nwell.\"\n\nSo when the harness was done upon him, Graelent mounted his horse, and\nwent his way through the town, clad in a cloak of sorry fur, which\nhe had worn overlong already. The townsfolk in the street turned and\nstared upon him, making a jest of his poverty, but of their jibes\nhe took no heed, for such act but after their kind, and seldom show\nkindliness or courtesy.\n\nNow without the town there spread a great forest, thick with trees,\nand through the forest ran a river. Towards this forest Graelent rode,\ndeep in heavy thought, and very dolent. Having ridden for a little\nspace beneath the trees, he spied within a leafy thicket a fair white\nhart, whiter even than snow on winter branches. The hart fled before\nhim, and Graelent followed so closely in her track that man and deer\npresently came together to a grassy lawn, in the midst of which sprang\na fountain of clear, sweet water. Now in this fountain a demoiselle\ndisported herself for her delight. Her raiment was set on a bush near\nby, and her two maidens stood on the bank busied in their lady's\nservice. Graelent forgot the chase at so sweet a sight, since never\nin his life had he seen so lovely a dame. For the lady was slender in\nshape and white, very gracious and dainty of colour, with laughing\neyes and an open brow, certainly the most beautiful thing in all the\nworld. Graelent dared not draw nigh the fountain for fear of troubling\nthe dame, so he came softly to the bush to set hands upon her raiment.\nThe two maidens marked his approach, and at their fright the lady\nturned, and calling him by name, cried with great anger,\n\n\"Graelent, put my raiment down, for it will profit you little even if\nyou carry it away, and leave me naked in this wood. But if you are\nindeed too greedy of gain to remember your knighthood, at least return\nme my shift, and content yourself with my mantle, since it will bring\nyou money, as it is very good.\"\n\n\"I am not a merchant's son,\" answered Graelent merrily, \"nor am I a\nhuckster to sell mantles in a booth. If your cloak were worth the\nspoil of three castles I would not now carry it from the bush. Come\nforth from your bathing, fair friend, and clothe yourself in your\nvesture, for you have to say a certain word to me.\"\n\n\"I will not trust myself to your hand, for you might seize upon me,\"\nanswered the lady, \"and I tell you frankly that I put no faith in your\nword, nor have had any dealings with your school.\"\n\nThen Graelent answered still more merrily, \"Lady, needs must I suffer\nyour wrath. But at least I will guard your raiment till you come forth\nfrom the well and, fairest, very dainty is your body in my eyes.\"\n\nWhen the lady knew that Graelent would not depart, nor render again\nher raiment, then she demanded surety that he would do her no hurt.\nThis thing was accorded between them, so she came forth from the\nfountain, and did her vesture upon her. Then Graelent took her gently\nby the left hand, and prayed and required of her that she would grant\nhim love for love. But the lady answered, \"I marvel greatly that you\nshould dare to speak to me in this fashion, for I have little reason\nto think you discreet. You are bold, sir knight, and overbold, to seek\nto ally yourself with a woman of my lineage.\"\n\nSir Graelent was not abashed by the dame's proud spirit, but wooed and\nprayed her gently and sweetly, promising that if she granted him her\nlove he would serve her in all loyalty, and never depart therefrom\nall the days of his life. The demoiselle hearkened to the words of\nGraelent, and saw plainly that he was a valiant knight, courteous and\nwise. She thought within herself that should she send him from her,\nnever might she find again so sure a friend. Since, then, she knew him\nworthy of her love, she kissed him softly, and spoke to him in this\nmanner, \"Graelent, I will love you none the less truly, though we have\nnot met until this day. But one thing is needful that our love may\nendure. Never must you speak a word by which this hidden thing may\nbecome known. I will furnish you with deniers in your purse, with\ncloth of silk, with silver and with gold. Night and day will I stay\nwith you, and great shall be the love between us twain. You shall\nsee me riding at your side; you may talk and laugh with me at your\npleasure, but I must never be seen of your comrades, nor must they\nknow aught concerning your bride. Graelent, you are loyal, brave, and\ncourteous, and comely enough to the view. For you I spread my snare\nat the fountain; for you shall I suffer heavy pains, as well I knew\nbefore I set forth on this adventure. Now must I trust to your\ndiscretion, for if you speak vainly and boastfully of this thing then\nam I undone. Remain now for a year in this country, which shall be for\nyou a home that your lady loves well. But noon is past, and it is time\nfor you to go. Farewell, and a messenger shortly shall tell you that\nwhich I would have you do.\"\n\nGraelent took leave of the lady, and she sweetly clasped and kissed\nhim farewell. He returned to his lodging, dismounted from his steed,\nand entering within a chamber, leaned from the casement, considering\nthis strange adventure. Looking towards the forest he saw a varlet\nissue therefrom riding upon a palfrey. He drew rein before Graelent's\ndoor, and taking his feet from the stirrup, saluted the knight. So\nGraelent inquired from whence he rode, and of his name and business.\n\n\"Sir,\" answered he, \"I am the messenger of your lady. She sends you\nthis destrier by my hand, and would have me enter in your service, to\npay your servitors their wages and to take charge of your lodging.\"\n\nWhen Graelent heard this message he thought it both good and fair. He\nkissed the varlet upon the cheek, and accepting his gift, caused the\ndestrier--which was the noblest, the swiftest and the most speedy\nunder the sun--to be led to the stable. Then the varlet carried his\nbaggage to his master's chamber, and took therefrom a large cushion\nand a rich coverlet which he spread upon the couch. After this he drew\nthereout a purse containing much gold and silver, and stout cloth\nfitting for the knight's apparel. Then he sent for the host, and\npaying him what was owing, called upon him to witness that he was\nrecompensed most largely for the lodging. He bade him also to seek out\nsuch knights as should pass through the town to refresh and solace\nthemselves in the company of his lord. The host was a worthy man. He\nmade ready a plenteous dinner, and inquired through the town for such\npoor knights as were in misease by reason of prison or of war. These\nhe brought to the hostelry of Sir Graelent, and comforted them with\ninstruments of music, and with all manner of mirth. Amongst them sat\nGraelent at meat, gay and debonair, and richly apparelled. Moreover,\nto these poor knights and the harpers Graelent gave goodly gifts, so\nthat there was not a citizen in all the town who did not hold him in\ngreat worship, and regard him as his lord.\n\nFrom this moment Graelent lived greatly at his ease, for not a cloud\nwas in his sky. His lady came at will and pleasure; all day long they\nlaughed and played together, and at night she lay softly at his side.\nWhat truer happiness might he know than this? Often, besides, he rode\nto such tournaments of the land as he was able, and all men esteemed\nhim for a stout and worthy knight. Very pleasant were his days, and\nhis love, and if such things might last for ever he had nothing else\nto ask of life.\n\nWhen a full year had passed by, the season drew to the Feast of\nPentecost. Now it was the custom of the King to summon at that tide\nhis barons and all who held their fiefs of him to his Court for a rich\nbanquet. Amongst these lords was bidden Sir Graelent. After men had\neaten and drunk the whole day, and all were merry, the King commanded\nthe Queen to put off her royal robes, and to stand forth upon the\ndais. Then he boasted before the company,\n\n\"Lord barons, how seems it to you? Beneath the sky is there a lovelier\nQueen than mine, be she maid, lady or demoiselle?\"\n\nSo all the lords made haste to praise the Queen, and to cry and affirm\nthat in all the world was neither maid nor wife so dainty, fresh and\nfair. Not a single voice but bragged of her beauty, save only that\nof Graelent. He smiled at their folly, for his heart remembered his\nfriend, and he held in pity all those who so greatly rejoiced in the\nQueen. So he sat with covered head, and with face bent smiling to the\nboard. The Queen marked his discourtesy, and drew thereto the notice\nof the King.\n\n\"Sire, do you observe this dishonour! Not one of these mighty lords\nbut has praised the beauty of your wife, save Graelent only, who makes\na mock of her. Always has he held me in envy and despite.\"\n\nThe King commanded Graelent to his throne, and in the hearing of all\nbade the knight to tell, on his faith as vassal to his liege, for what\nreason he had hid his face and laughed.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered Graelent to the King, \"Sire, hearken to my words. In\nall the world no man of your lineage does so shameful a deed as this.\nYou make your wife a show upon a stage. You force your lords to praise\nher just with lies, saying that the sun does not shine upon her peer.\nOne man will tell the truth to your face, and say that very easily can\nbe found a fairer dame than she.\"\n\nRight heavy was the King when he heard these words. He conjured\nGraelent to tell him straightly if he knew a daintier dame.\n\n\"Yes, Sire, and thirty times more gracious than the Queen.\"\n\nThe Queen was marvellously wrathful to hear this thing, and prayed her\nhusband of his grace to compel the knight to bring that woman to the\nCourt of whose beauty he made so proud a boast.\n\n\"Set us side by side, and let the choice be made between us. Should\nshe prove the fairer let him go in peace; but if not, let justice be\ndone on him for his calumny and malice.\"\n\nSo the King bade his guards to lay hands on Graelent, swearing that\nbetween them never should be love nor peace, nor should the knight\nissue forth from prison, until he had brought before him her whose\nbeauty he had praised so much.\n\nGraelent was held a captive. He repented him of his hasty words, and\nbegged the King to grant him respite. He feared to have lost his\nfriend, and sweated grievously with rage and mortification. But though\nmany of the King's house pitied him in his evil case, the long days\nbrought him no relief, until a full year went by, and once again the\nKing made a great banquet to his barons and his lieges. Then was\nGraelent brought to hall, and put to liberty on such terms that he\nwould return bringing with him her whose loveliness he had praised\nbefore the King. Should she prove so desirable and dear, as his boast,\nthen all would be well, for he had naught to fear. But if he returned\nwithout his lady, then he must go to judgment, and his only hope would\nbe in the mercy of the King.\n\nGraelent mounted his good horse, and parted from the Court sad and\nwrathful. He sought his lodging, and inquired for his servant, but\nmight not find him. He called upon his friend, but the lady did not\nheed his voice. Then Graelent gave way to despair, and preferred death\nto life. He shut himself within his chamber, crying upon his dear one\nfor grace and mercy, but from her he got neither speech nor comfort.\nSo seeing that his love had withdrawn herself from him by reason of\nhis grievous fault, he took no rest by night or day, and held his life\nin utter despite. For a full year he lived in this piteous case, so\nthat it was marvellous to those about him that he might endure his\nlife.\n\nOn the day appointed the sureties brought Graelent where the King was\nset in hall with his lords. Then the King inquired of Graelent where\nwas now his friend.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the knight, \"she is not here, for in no wise might I\nfind her. Now do with me according to your will.\"\n\n\"Sir Graelent,\" said the King, \"very foully have you spoken. You have\nslandered the Queen, and given all my lords the lie. When you go from\nmy hands never will you do more mischief with your tongue.\"\n\nThen the King spoke with a high voice to his barons.\n\n\"Lords, I pray and command you to give judgment in this matter. You\nheard the blame that Graelent set upon me before all my Court. You\nknow the deep dishonour that he fastened on the Queen. How may such a\ndisloyal vassal deal honestly with his lord, for as the proverb tells,\n'Hope not for friendship from the man who beats your dog!'\"\n\nThe lords of the King's household went out from before him, and\ngathered themselves together to consider their judgment. They kept\nsilence for a great space, for it was grievous to them to deal harshly\nwith so valiant a knight. Whilst they thus refrained from words a\ncertain page hastened unto them, and prayed them not to press the\nmatter, for (said he) \"even now two young maidens, the freshest maids\nin all the realm, seek the Court. Perchance they bring succour to\nthe good knight, and, so it be the will of God, may deliver him from\nperil.\" So the lords waited right gladly, and presently they saw two\ndamsels come riding to the palace. Very young were these maidens, very\nslender and gracious, and daintily cloaked in two fair mantles. So\nwhen the pages had hastened to hold their stirrup and bridle, the\nmaidens dismounted from their palfreys and entering within the hall\ncame straight before the King.\n\n\"Sire,\" said one of the two damsels, \"hearken now to me. My lady\ncommands us to pray you to put back this cause for a while, nor to\ndeliver judgment therein, since she comes to plead with you for the\ndeliverance of this knight.\"\n\nWhen the Queen heard this message she was filled with shame, and made\nspeed to get her from the hall Hardly had she gone than there entered\ntwo other damsels, whiter and more sweetly flushed even than their\nfellows. These bade the King to wait for a little, since their\nmistress was now at hand. So all men stared upon them, and praised\ntheir great beauty, saying that if the maid was so fair, what then\nmust be the loveliness of the dame. When, therefore, the demoiselle\ncame in her turn, the King's household stood upon their feet to give\nher greeting. Never did woman show so queenly to men's sight as did\nthis lady riding to the hall. Passing sweet she was to see, passing\nsimple and gracious of manner, with softer eyes and a daintier face\nthan girl of mother born. The whole Court marvelled at her beauty, for\nno spot or blemish might be found in her body. She was richly dressed\nin a kirtle of vermeil silk, broidered with gold, and her mantle was\nworth the spoil of a king's castle. Her palfrey was of good race,\nand speedy; the harness and trappings upon him were worth a thousand\nlivres in minted coin. All men pressed about her, praising her face\nand person, her simplicity and queenlihead. She came at slow pace\nbefore the King, and dismounting from the palfrey, spoke very\ncourteously in this fashion.\n\n\"Sire,\" said she, \"hearken to me, and you, lord barons, give heed to\nmy pleading. You know the words Graelent spake to the King, in the\nears of men, when the Queen made herself a show before the lords,\nsaying that often had he seen a fairer lady. Very hasty and foolish\nwas his tongue, since he provoked the King to anger. But at least he\ntold the truth when he said that there is no dame so comely but that\nvery easily may be found one more sweet than she. Look now boldly upon\nmy face, and judge you rightly in this quarrel between the Queen and\nme. So shall Sir Graelent be acquitted of this blame.\"\n\nThen gazing upon her, all the King's household, lord and lackey,\nprince and page, cried with one voice that her favour was greater than\nthat of the Queen. The King himself gave judgment with his barons that\nthis thing was so; therefore Sir Graelent was acquitted of his blame,\nand declared a free man.\n\nWhen judgment was given the lady took her leave of the King, and\nattended by her four damsels departed straightway from the hall upon\nher palfrey. Sir Graelent caused his white horse to be saddled, and\nmounting, followed hotly after her through the town. Day after day\nhe rode in her track, pleading for pity and pardon, but she gave him\nneither good words nor bad in answer. So far they fared that at last\nthey came to the forest, and taking their way through a deep wood rode\nto the bank of a fair, clear stream. The lady set her palfrey to the\nriver, but when she saw that Graelent also would enter therein she\ncried to him,\n\n\"Stay, Graelent, the stream is deep, and it is death for you to\nfollow.\"\n\nGraelent took no heed to her words, but forced his horse to enter the\nriver, so that speedily the waters closed above his head. Then the\nlady seized his bridle, and with extreme toil brought horse and rider\nback again to land.\n\n\"Graelent,\" said she, \"you may not pass this river, however mightily\nyou pain yourself, therefore must you remain alone on this bank.\"\n\nAgain the lady set her palfrey to the river, but Graelent could not\nsuffer to see her go upon her way alone. Again he forced his horse to\nenter the water; but the current was very swift and the stream was\nvery deep, so that presently Graelent was torn from his saddle, and\nbeing borne away by the stream came very nigh to drown. When the four\nmaidens saw his piteous plight they cried aloud to their lady, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Lady, for the love of God, take pity on your poor friend. See, how he\ndrowns in this evil case. Alas, cursed be the day you spake soft words\nin his ear, and gave him the grace of your love. Lady, look how the\ncurrent hurries him to his death. How may your heart suffer him to\ndrown whom you have held so close! Aid him, nor have the sin on your\nsoul that you endured to let the man who loved you die without your\nhelp.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard the complaint of her maidens, no longer could\nshe hide the pity she felt in her heart. In all haste she turned her\npalfrey to the river, and entering the stream clutched her lover by\nthe belt. Thus they won together to the bank. There she stripped the\ndrowned man of his raiment, and wrapping him fast in her own dry\nmantle cherished him so meetly that presently he came again to life.\nSo she brought him safely into her own land, and none has met Sir\nGraelent since that day.\n\nBut the Breton folk still hold firmly that Graelent yet liveth with\nhis friend. His destrier, when he escaped him from the perilous river,\ngrieved greatly for his master's loss. He sought again the mighty\nforest, yet never was at rest by night or day. No peace might he find,\nbut ever pawed he with his hoofs upon the ground, and neighed so\nloudly that the noise went through all the country round about. Many a\nman coveted so noble a steed, and sought to put bit and bridle in his\nmouth, yet never might one set hands upon him, for he would not suffer\nanother master. So each year in its season the forest was filled with\nthe cry and the trouble of this noble horse which might not find its\nlord.\n\nThis adventure of the good steed and of the stout knight, who went\nto the land of faery with his love, was noised abroad throughout all\nBrittany, and the Bretons made a Lay thereof which was sung in\nthe ears of many people, and was called a Lay of the Death of Sir\nGraelent.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nA STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA\n\nIn times gone by there lived a Count of Ponthieu, who loved chivalry\nand the pleasures of the world beyond measure, and moreover was a\nstout knight and a gallant gentleman. In the self-same day there lived\na Count of St. Pol, who was lord of much land, and a right worthy man.\nOne grief he had, that there was no heir of his body; but a sister was\nhis, a prudent woman and a passing good gentlewoman, who was dame of\nDommare in Ponthieu. This lady had a son, Thibault by name, who was\nheir to this County of St. Pol, but he was a poor man so long as his\nuncle lived. He was a prudent knight, valiant and skilled with the\nspear, noble and fair. Greatly was he loved and honoured of all honest\npeople, for he was of high race and gentle birth.\n\nThe Count of Ponthieu, of whom the tale hath spoken, had to wife a\nvery worthy lady. He and his dame had but one child, a daughter,\nvery good and gracious, who increased with her days in favour and in\nvirtues; and the maid was of some sixteen years. The third year after\nher birth her mother died, whereof she was sorely troubled and right\nheavy. The Count, her father, took to himself another wife with no\nlong tarrying, a dame of gentle race and breeding. Of this lady he got\nhim quickly a son; very near was the boy to his father's heart. The\nlad grew with his years in stature and in valour, and gave promise to\nincrease in all good qualities.\n\nThe Count of Ponthieu marked my lord Thibault of Dommare. He summoned\nthe knight to his castle, and made him of his house for guerdon. When\nSir Thibault was of his fellowship he rejoiced greatly, for the Count\nprospered in goods and in praise by reason of his servant's deeds. As\nthey came from a tournament on a day, the Count and my lord Thibault\ntogether, the Count required of his companion and said,\n\n\"Thibault, by the aid of God tell me truly which jewel of my crown\nshines the fairest in your eyes!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" replied Messire Thibault, \"I am only a beggar, but so help me\nGod, of all the jewels in your crown I love and covet none, save only\nmy demoiselle, your daughter.\"\n\nWhen he heard this thing the Count had great content. He laughed in\nhis heart and said,\n\n\"Thibault, I will grant her to the beggar, if it be to her mind.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered he, \"thanks and gramercy. May God make it up to you.\"\n\nThen went the Count to his daughter, and said,\n\n\"Fair daughter, I have promised you in marriage, so it go not against\nyour heart.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" inquired the maid, \"to whom?\"\n\n\"In the name of God, to a loyal man, and a true man, of whom much is\nhoped; to a knight of my own household, Thibault of Dommare.\"\n\n\"Dear sir,\" answered the maiden sweetly, \"if your county were a\nkingdom, and I were the king's only child, I would choose him as my\nhusband, and gladly give him all that I had.\"\n\n\"Daughter,\" said the Count, \"blessed be your pretty person, and the\nhour that you were born.\"\n\nThus was this marriage made. The Count of Ponthieu and the Count of\nSt. Pol were at the feast, and many another honourable man besides.\nGreat was the joy in which they met, fair was the worship, and\nmarvellous the delight. The bride and groom lived together in all\nhappiness for five years. This was their only sorrow, that it pleased\nnot our Lord Jesus Christ that they should have an heir to their\nflesh.\n\nOn a night Sir Thibault lay in his bed. He considered within himself\nand said,\n\n\"Lord, whence cometh it that I love this dame so fondly, and she me,\nyet we may have no heir of our bodies to serve God and to do a little\ngood in the world?\"\n\nThen he remembered my lord St. James, the Apostle of Spain, who gives\nto the fervent supplicant that which rightly he desires. Earnestly, to\nhis own heart, he promised that he would walk a pilgrim in his way.\nHis wife lay sleeping at his side, but when she came from out her\nsleep, he took her softly in his arms, and required of her that she\nwould bestow on him a gift.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the lady, \"what gift would you have?\"\n\n\"Wife,\" he made answer, \"that you shall know when it is mine.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"if it be mine to grant, I will give it you,\nwhatever the price.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" he said, \"I pray you to grant me leave to seek my lord St.\nJames the Apostle, that he may intercede with our Lord Jesus Christ to\nbestow on us an heir of our flesh, whereby God may be served in this\nworld and Holy Church glorified.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" cried the lady, \"sweet and dear it is that you should crave\nsuch bounty, and I grant the permission you desire right willingly.\"\n\nDeep and long was the tenderness that fell betwixt these twain. Thus\npassed a day, and another day, and yet a third. On this third day it\nchanced that they lay together in their bed, and it was night. Then\nsaid the dame,\n\n\"Husband, I pray and require of you a gift.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" he replied, \"ask, and I will give it you, if by any means I\ncan.\"\n\n\"Husband,\" she said, \"I require leave to come with you on this errand\nand journey.\"\n\nWhen Messire Thibault heard this thing he was right sorrowful, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Wife, grievous would be the journey to your body, for the way is very\nlong, and the land right strange and perilous.\"\n\nSaid she,\n\n\"Husband, be not in doubt because of me. You shall be more hindered of\nyour squire than of your wife.\"\n\n\"Dame,\" said he, \"as God wills and as you wish.\"\n\nThe days went, and these tidings were so noised abroad that the Count\nof Ponthieu heard thereof. He commanded my lord Sir Thibault to his\nhouse, and said,\n\n\"Thibault, you are a vowed pilgrim, as I hear, and my daughter too!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered he, \"that is verily and truly so.\"\n\n\"Thibault,\" replied the Count, \"as to yourself what pleases you is to\nmy mind also, but concerning my daughter that is another matter.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" made answer Sir Thibault, \"go she must, and I cannot deny her.\"\n\n\"Since this is so,\" said the Count, \"part when you will. Make ready\nfor the road your steeds, your palfreys, and the pack horses, and I\nwill give you riches and gear enough for the journey.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Messire Thibault, \"thanks and gramercy.\"\n\nThus these pilgrims arrayed them, and sought that shrine with\nmarvellous joy. They fared so speedily upon the way, that at length\nthey came near to my lord St. James, by less than two days faring.\nThat night they drew to a goodly town. After they had eaten in the\nhostel, Sir Thibault called for the host and inquired of him the road\nfor the morrow, how it ran, and whether it were smooth.\n\n\"Fair sir,\" replied the innkeeper to the knight, \"at the gate of this\ntown you will find a little wood. Beyond the wood a strong smooth road\nruns for the whole day's journey.\"\n\nHearing this they asked no more questions, but the beds being laid\ndown, they went to their rest. The morrow broke full sweetly. The\npilgrims rose lightly from their beds as soon as it was day, and made\nmuch stir and merriment. Sir Thibault rose also, since he might not\nsleep, but his head was heavy. He therefore called his chamberlain,\nand said,\n\n\"Rise quickly, and bid the company to pack the horses and go their\nway. Thou shalt remain with me, and make ready our harness, for I am a\nlittle heavy and disquieted.\"\n\nThe chamberlain made known to the sergeants the pleasure of their\nlord, so that presently they took the road. In no great while Messire\nThibault and his dame got them from the bed, and arraying their\npersons, followed after their household. The chamberlain folded the\nbed linen, and it was yet but dawn, though warm and fair. The three\nwent forth through the gate of the city, those three together, with no\nother companion save God alone, and drew near to the forest. When they\ncame close they found two roads, the one good, the other ill; so that\nSir Thibault said to his chamberlain,\n\n\"Put spurs to your horse, and ride swiftly after our people. Bid them\nawait our coming, for foul it is for lady and knight to pass through\nthis wood with so little company.\"\n\nThe servitor went speedily, and Messire Thibault entered the forest.\nHe drew rein beside the two roads, for he knew not which to follow.\n\n\"Wife,\" he said, \"which way is ours?\"\n\n\"Please God, the good,\" she answered.\n\nNow in this wood were robbers, who spoiled the fair way, and made wide\nand smooth the false, so that pilgrims should mistake and wander from\nthe path. Messire Thibault lighted from his horse. He looked from one\nto the other, and finding the wrong way broader and more smooth than\nthe true, he cried,\n\n\"Wife, come now; in the name of God, this.\"\n\nThey had proceeded along this road for some quarter of a mile when the\npath grew strict and narrow, and boughs made dark the way.\n\n\"Wife,\" said the knight, \"I fear that we fare but ill.\"\n\nWhen he had thus spoken he looked before him, and marked four armed\nthieves, seated on four strong horses, and each bore lance in hand.\nThereupon he glanced behind him, and, lo, four other robbers, armed\nand set in ambush, so he said,\n\n\"Dame, be not affrighted of aught that you may see from now.\"\n\nRight courteously Sir Thibault saluted the robbers in his path, but\nthey gave no answer to his greeting. Afterwards he sought of them\nwhat was in their mind, and one replied that he should know anon.\nThe thief, who had thus spoken, drew towards my lord Thibault, with\noutstretched sword, thinking to smite him in the middle. Messire\nThibault saw the blow about to fall, and it was no marvel if he feared\ngreatly. He sprang forward nimbly, as best he might, so that the\nglaive smote the air. Then as the robber staggered by, Sir Thibault\nseized him fiercely, and wrested the sword from his hand. The knight\nadvanced stoutly against those three from whom the thief had come. He\nstruck the foremost amidst the bowels, so that he perished miserably.\nThen he turned and went again to that one who had first come against\nhim with the sword, and slew him also. Now it was decreed of God that\nafter the knight had slain three of this company of robbers, that\nthe five who were left, encompassed him round about, and killed his\npalfrey. Sir Thibault tumbled flat upon his back, although he was not\nwounded to his hurt. Since he had neither sword nor other harness\nhe could do no more. The thieves therefore stripped him to his very\nshirt, his boots and hosen, and binding him hand and foot with a\nbaldrick, cast him into a thorn bush, right thick and sharp. When\nthey had done this they hastened to the lady. From her they took her\npalfrey and her vesture, even to the shift. Passing fair was the lady;\nshe wept full piteously, and never was dame more sorrowful than she.\nNow one of these bold robbers stared upon the lady, and saw that she\nwas very fair. He spoke to his companions in this fashion,\n\n\"Comrades, I have lost my brother in this broil. I will take this\nwoman for his blood money.\"\n\nBut the others made answer,\n\n\"I, too, have lost my kin. I claim as much as you, and my right is\ngood as yours.\"\n\nSo said a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Then spake yet another.\n\n\"In keeping of the lady will be found neither peace nor profit. Rather\nlet us lead her from here within the forest, there do our pleasure\nupon her, and then put her again upon the path, so that she may go her\nway.\"\n\nThus they did as they had devised together, and left her on the road.\n\nRight sick at heart was Messire Thibault when he saw her so entreated,\nbut nothing could he do. He bore no malice against his wife by reason\nof that which had befallen, for well he knew that it, was by force,\nand not according to her will. When he saw her again, weeping bitterly\nand altogether shamed, he called to her, and said,\n\n\"Wife, for God's love unloose me from these bonds, and deliver me from\nthe torment that I suffer, for these thorns are sharper than I can\nendure.\"\n\nThe lady hastened to the place where Sir Thibault lay, and marked a\nsword flung behind the bush, belonging to one of those felons that\nwere slain. She took the glaive, and went towards her lord, filled\nfull of wrath and evil thoughts because of what had chanced to her.\nShe feared greatly lest her husband should bear malice for that which\nhe had seen, reproaching her upon a day, and taunting her for what was\npast. She said,\n\n\"Sir, you are out of your pain already.\"\n\nShe raised the sword, and came towards her husband, thinking to strike\nhim midmost the body. When he marked the falling glaive he deemed that\nhis day had come, for he was a naked man, clad in nought but his shirt\nand hosen. He trembled so sorely that his bonds were loosed, and the\nlady struck so feebly that she wounded him but little, severing that\nbaldrick with which his hands were made fast. Thereat the knight brake\nthe cords about his legs, and leaping upon his feet, cried, \"Dame,\nby the grace of God it is not to-day that you shall slay me with the\nsword.\"\n\nThen she made answer, \"Truly, sir, the sorer grief is mine.\"\n\nSir Thibault took the sword, and set it again in the sheath,\nafterwards he put his hand upon the lady's shoulder, and brought her\nback by the path they had fared. At the fringe of the woodland he\nfound a large part of his fellowship, who were come to meet him. When\nthese saw their lord and lady so spoiled and disarrayed they inquired\nof them, \"Sir, who hath put you in this case?\"\n\nHe set them by, saying that they had fallen amongst felons who had\ndone them much mischief.\n\nMightily the sergeants lamented; but presently they fetched raiment\nfrom the packs, and arrayed them, for enough they had and to spare. So\nthey climbed into the saddle, and continued their journey.\n\nThey rode that day, nor for aught that had chanced did Messire\nThibault show sourer countenance to the lady. At nightfall they came\nto a goodly town, and there took shelter in an inn. Messire Thibault\nsought of his host if there was any convent of nuns in those parts\nwhere a lady might repose her. The host made answer to him,\n\n\"Sir, you are served to your wish. Just beyond the walls is a right\nfair religious house, with many holy women.\"\n\nOn the morrow Messire Thibault went to this house, and heard Mass.\nAfterwards he spoke to the Abbess and her chapter, praying that he\nmight leave his lady in their charge, until his return; and this they\naccorded very willingly. Messire Thibault bestowed the lady in this\nconvent, with certain of his house to do her service, and went his way\nto bring his pilgrimage to a fair end. When he had knelt before the\nshrine, and honoured the Saint, he came again to the convent and the\nlady. He gave freely of his wealth to the house, and taking to himself\nhis wife, returned with her to their own land, in the same joy and\nhonour as he had brought her forth, save only that they lay not\ntogether.\n\nGreat was the gladness of the folk of that realm when Sir Thibault\nreturned to his home. The Count of Ponthieu, the father of his wife\nwas there, and there, too, was his uncle the Count of St. Pol. Many\nworthy and valiant gentlemen came for his welcome, and a fair company\nof dames and maidens likewise honoured the lady. That day the Count\nof Ponthieu sat at meat with my lord Thibault, and ate from the same\ndish, the two together. Then it happed that the Count spake to him,\n\n\"Thibault, fair son, he who journeys far hears many a strange matter\nand sees many strange sights, which are hidden from those who sit over\nthe fire. Tell me therefore, of your favour, something of all you have\nseen and heard since you went from amongst us.\"\n\nMessire Thibault answered shortly that he knew no tale worth the\ntelling. The Count would take no denial, but plagued him so sorely,\nbegging him of his courtesy to tell over some adventure, that at the\nlast he was overborne.\n\n\"Sir, I will narrate a story, since talk I must; but at least let it\nbe in your private ear, if you please, and not for the mirth of all.\"\n\nThe Count replied that his pleasure was the same. After meat, when men\nhad eaten their fill, the Count rose in his chair, and taking my lord\nThibault by the hand, entreated,\n\n\"Tell me now, I pray, that which it pleases you to tell, for there are\nfew of the household left in hall.\"\n\nThen Messire Thibault began to relate that which chanced to a knight\nand a dame, even as it has been rehearsed before you in this tale;\nonly he named not the persons to whom this lot was appointed. The\nCount, who was wise and sober of counsel, inquired what the knight had\ndone with the lady. Thibault made answer that the knight had brought\nthe lady back by the way she went, with the same joy and worship as he\nled her forth, save only that they slept not together.\n\n\"Thibault,\" said the Count, \"your knight walked another road than I\nhad trod. By my faith in God and my love for you, I had hanged this\ndame by her tresses to a tree. The laces of her gown would suffice if\nI could find no other cord.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Messire Thibault, \"you have but my word. The truth can\nonly be assured if the lady might bear witness and testify with her\nown mouth.\"\n\n\"Thibault,\" said the Count, \"know you the name of this knight?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" cried Messire Thibault, \"I beg you again to exempt me from\nnaming the knight to whom this sorrow befell. Know of a truth that his\nname will bring no profit.\"\n\n\"Thibault,\" said the Count, \"it is my pleasure that his name should\nnot be hid.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered Thibault, \"tell I must, as you will not acquit me; but\nI take you to witness that I speak only under compulsion, since gladly\nI would have kept silence, had this been your pleasure, for in the\ntelling there is neither worship nor honour.\"\n\n\"Thibault,\" replied the Count, \"without more words I would know\nforthwith who was the knight to whom this adventure chanced. By the\nfaith that you owe to your God and to me, I conjure you to tell me his\nname, since it is in your mind.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" replied Messire Thibault, \"I will answer by the faith I owe\nmy God and you, since you lay this charge upon me. Know well, and be\npersuaded, that I am the knight on whom this sorrow lighted. Hold it\nfor truth that I was sorely troubled and sick of heart. Be assured\nthat never before have I spoken to any living man about the business,\nand moreover that gladly would I have held my peace, had such been\nyour will.\"\n\nWhen the Count heard this adventure he was sore astonied, and\naltogether cast down. He kept silence for a great space, speaking\nnever a word. At the last he said, \"Thibault, was it indeed my child\nwho did this thing?\"\n\n\"Sir, it is verily and truly so.\"\n\n\"Thibault,\" said the Count, \"sweet shall be your vengeance, since you\nhave given her again to my hand.\"\n\nBecause of his exceeding wrath the Count sent straightway for his\ndaughter, and demanded of her if those things were true of which\nMessire Thibault had spoken. She inquired of the accusation, and her\nfather answered, \"That you would have slain him with the sword, even\nas he has told me?\"\n\n\"Sir, of a surety.\"\n\n\"And wherefore would you slay your husband?\"\n\n\"Sir, for reason that I am yet heavy that he is not dead.\"\n\nWhen the Count heard the lady speak in this fashion, he answered her\nnothing, but suffered in silence until the guests had departed. After\nthese were gone, the Count came on a day to Rue-sur-Mer, and Messire\nThibault with him, and the Count's son. With them also went the lady.\nThen the Count caused a ship to be got ready, very stout and speedy,\nand he made the dame to enter in the boat. He set also on the ship an\nuntouched barrel, very high and strong. These three lords climbed into\nthe nave, with no other company, save those sailors who should labour\nat the oar. The Count commanded the mariners to put the ship to sea,\nand all marvelled greatly as to what he purposed, but there was none\nso bold as to ask him any questions. When they had rowed a great way\nfrom the land, the Count bade them to strike the head from out the\nbarrel. He took that dame, his own child, who was so dainty and so\nfair, and thrust her in the tun, whether she would or whether she\nwould not. This being done he caused the cask to be made fast again\nwith staves and wood, so that the water might in no manner enter\ntherein. Afterwards he dragged the barrel to the edge of the deck, and\nwith his own hand cast it into the sea, saying,\n\n\"I commend thee to the wind and waves.\"\n\nPassing heavy was Messire Thibault at this, and the lady's brother\nalso, and all who saw. They fell at the Count's feet, praying him of\nhis grace that she might be delivered from the barrel. So hot was his\nwrath that he would not grant their prayer, for aught that they might\ndo or say. They therefore left him to his rage, and turning to the\nHeavenly Father, besought our Lord Jesus Christ that of His most sweet\npity He would have mercy on her soul, and give her pardon for her\nsins.\n\nThe ship came again to land, leaving the lady in sore peril and\ntrouble, even as the tale has told you. But our Lord Jesus Christ, who\nis Lord and Father of all, and desireth not the death of a sinner, but\nrather that he should turn from his wickedness and live--as each day\nHe showeth us openly by deed, by example and by miracle--sent succour\nto this lady, even as you shall hear. For a ship from Flanders, laden\nwith merchandise, marked this barrel drifting at the mercy of winds\nand waters, before ever the Count and his companions were come ashore.\nOne of the merchants said to his comrades,\n\n\"Friends, behold a barrel drifting in our course. If we may reach it,\nperchance we may find it to our gain.\"\n\nThis ship was wont to traffic with the Saracens in their country, so\nthe sailors rowed towards the barrel, and partly by cunning and partly\nby strength, at the last got it safely upon the deck. The merchants\nlooked long at the cask. They wondered greatly what it could be, and\nwondering, they saw that the head of the barrel was newly closed. They\nopened the cask, and found therein a woman at the point of death, for\nair had failed her. Her body was gross, her visage swollen, and the\neyes started horribly from her head. When she breathed the fresh air\nand felt the wind blow upon her, she sighed a little, so that the\nmerchants standing by, spoke comfortably to her, but she might not\nanswer them a word. In the end, heart and speech came again to her.\nShe spoke to the chapmen and the sailors who pressed about her, and\nmuch she marvelled how she found herself amongst them. When she\nperceived that she was with merchants and Christian men she was the\nmore easy, and fervently she praised Jesus Christ in her heart,\nthanking Him for the loving kindness which had kept her from death.\nFor this lady was altogether contrite in heart, and earnestly desired\nto amend her life towards God, repenting the trespass she had done\nto others, and fearing the judgment that was rightly her due. The\nmerchants inquired of the lady whence she came, and she told them the\ntruth, saying that she was a miserable wretch and a poor sinner, as\nthey could see for themselves. She related the cruel adventure which\nhad chanced to her, and prayed them to take pity on a most unhappy\nlady, and they answered that mercy they would show. So with meat and\ndrink her former beauty came to her again.\n\nNow this merchant ship fared so far that she came to the land of the\nPaynims, and cast anchor in the port of Aumarie. Galleys of these\nSaracens came to know their business, and they answered that they were\ntraffickers in divers merchandise in many a realm. They showed them\nalso the safe conduct they carried of princes and mighty lords that\nthey might pass in safety through their countries to buy and sell\ntheir goods. The merchants got them to land in this port, taking the\nlady with them. They sought counsel one of the other to know what it\nwere best to do with her. One was for selling her as a slave, but his\ncompanion proposed to give her as a sop to the rich Soudan of Aumarie,\nthat their business should be the less hindered. To this they all\nagreed. They arrayed the lady freshly in broidered raiment, and\ncarried her before the Soudan, who was a lusty young man. He accepted\ntheir gift, receiving the lady with a right glad heart, for she was\npassing fair. The Soudan inquired of them as to who she was.\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the merchants, \"we know no more than you, but\nmarvellous was the fashion in which she came to our hands.\"\n\nThe gift was so greatly to the Soudan's mind that he served the\nchapmen to the utmost of his power. He loved the lady very tenderly,\nand entreated her in all honour. He held and tended her so well, that\nher sweet colour came again to her, and her beauty increased beyond\nmeasure. The Soudan sought to know by those who had the gift of\ntongues as to the lady's home and race, but these she would not reveal\nto any. He was the more thoughtful therefore, because he might see\nthat she was a dame of birth and lineage. He inquired of her as to\nwhether she were a Christian woman, promising that if she would deny\nher faith, he would take her as his wife, since he was yet unwed. The\nlady saw clearly that it were better to be converted by love than\nperforce; so she answered that her religion was to do her master's\npleasure. When she had renounced her faith, and rejected the Christian\nlaw, the Soudan made her his dame according to the use and wont of\nthis country of the Paynim. He held her very dear, cherishing her in\nall honour, for his love waxed deeper as the days wore on.\n\nIn due time it was with this lady after the manner of women, and she\ncame to bed of a son. The Soudan rejoiced greatly, being altogether\nmerry and content. The lady, for her part, lived in fair fellowship\nwith the folk of her husband's realm. Very courteous was she, and\nvery serviceable, so that presently she was instructed in the Saracen\ntongue. In no long while after the birth of her son she conceived of\na maid, who in the years that befell grew passing sweet and fair, and\nrichly was she nurtured as became the daughter of so high a prince.\nThus for two years and a half the lady dwelt with the Paynim in much\nsoftness and delight.\n\nNow the story keeps silence as to the lady and the Soudan, her\nhusband, till later, as you may hear, and returns to the Count of\nPonthieu, the son of the Count, and to my lord Thibault of Dommare,\nwho were left grieving for the dame who was flung into the sea, as you\nhave heard, nor knew aught of her tidings, but deemed that she were\nrather dead than alive. Now tells the story--and the truth bears\nwitness to itself and is its own confirmation--that the Count was in\nPonthieu, together with his son, and Messire Thibault. Very heavy was\nthe Count, for in no wise could he get his daughter from his mind,\nand grievously he lamented the wrong that he had done her. Messire\nThibault dared not take to himself another wife, because of the\nanguish of his friend. The son of the Count might not wed also;\nneither durst he to become knight, though he was come to an age when\nsuch things are greatly to a young man's mind.\n\nOn a day the Count considered deeply the sin that he had committed\nagainst his own flesh. He sought the Archbishop of Rheims in\nconfession, and opened out his grief, telling in his ear the crime\nthat he had wrought. He determined to seek those holy fields beyond\nthe sea, and sewed the Cross upon his mantle. When Messire Thibault\nknew that his lord, the Count, had taken the Cross, he confessed him,\nand did likewise. And when the Count's son was assured of the purpose\nof his sire and of Messire Thibault, whom he loved dearly, he took the\nCross with them. Passing heavy was the Count to mark the Sign upon his\nson's raiment.\n\n\"Fair son, what is this you have done; for now the land remains\nwithout a lord!\"\n\nThe son answered, and said, \"Father, I wear the Sign first and\nforemost for the love of God; afterwards for the saving of my soul,\nand by reason that I would serve and honour Him to the utmost of my\npower, so long as I have life in my body.\"\n\nThe Count put his realm in ward full wisely. He used diligence in\nmaking all things ready, and bade farewell to his friends. Messire\nThibault and the son of the Count ordered their business, and the\nthree set forth together, with a fair company. They came to that holy\nland beyond the sea, safe of person and of gear. There they made\ndevout pilgrimage to every place where they were persuaded it was meet\nto go, and God might be served. When the Count had done all that\nhe was able, he deemed that there was yet one thing to do. He gave\nhimself and his fellowship to the service of the Temple for one year;\nand at the end of this term he purposed to seek his country and his\nhome. He sent to Acre, and made ready a ship against his voyage. He\ntook his leave of the Knights Templar, and other lords of that land,\nand greatly they praised him for the worship that he had brought them.\nWhen the Count and his company were come to Acre they entered in the\nship, and departed from the haven with a fair wind. But little was\ntheir solace. For when they drew to the open sea a strong and horrible\ntempest sprang suddenly upon them, so that the sailors knew not where\nthey went, and feared each hour that all would be drowned. So piteous\nwas their plight that, with ropes, they bound themselves one to\nanother, the son to the father, the uncle to the nephew, according as\nthey stood. The Count, his son, and Messire Thibault for their part,\nfastened themselves together, so that the same end should chance to\nall. In no long time after this was done they saw land, and inquired\nof the shipmen whither they were come. The mariners answered that this\nrealm belonged to the Paynim, and was called the Land of Aumarie. They\nasked of the Count,\n\n\"Sire, what is your will that we do? If we seek the shore, doubtless\nwe shall be made captives, and fall into the hands of the Saracen.\"\n\nThe Count made answer, \"Not my will, but the will of Jesus Christ be\ndone. Let the ship go as He thinks best. We will commit our bodies and\nour lives to His good keeping, for a fouler and an uglier death we\ncannot die, than to perish in this sea.\"\n\nThey drove with the wind along the coast of Aumarie, and the galleys\nand warships of the Saracens put out to meet them. Be assured that\nthis was no fair meeting, for the Paynims took them and led them\nbefore the Soudan, who was lord of that realm. There they gave him\nthe goods and the bodies of these Christians as a gift. The Soudan\nsundered this fair fellowship, setting them in many places and in\ndivers prisons; but since the Count, his son, and Messire Thibault\nwere so securely bound together, he commanded that they should be cast\ninto a dungeon by themselves, and fed upon the bread of affliction and\nthe water of affliction. So it was done, even as he commanded. In this\nprison they lay for a space, till such time as the Count's son fell\nsick. His sickness was so grievous that the Count and Messire Thibault\nfeared greatly that this sorrow was to death.\n\nNow it came to pass that the Soudan held high Court because of the day\nof his birth, for such was the custom of the Saracens. After they had\nwell eaten, the Saracens stood before the Soudan, and said,\n\n\"Sire, we require of you our right.\"\n\nHe inquired of what right they were speaking, and they answered,\n\n\"Sire, a Christian captive to set as a mark for our arrows.\"\n\nWhen the Soudan heard this he gave no thought to such a trifle, but\nmade reply,\n\n\"Get you to the prison, and take out that captive who has the least of\nlife in him.\"\n\nThe Paynim hastened to the dungeon, and brought forth the Count,\nbearded, unkempt and foredone. The Soudan marked his melancholy case,\nso he said to them, \"This man has not long to live; take him hence,\nand do your will on him.\"\n\nThe wife of the Soudan, of whom you have heard, the daughter of this\nvery Count, was in the hall, when they brought forth her father to\nslay him. Immediately that her eyes fell upon him the blood in her\nveins turned to water; not so much that she knew him as her sire, but\nrather that Nature tugged at her heart strings. Then spake the dame to\nthe Soudan, \"Husband, I, too, am French, and would gladly speak with\nthis poor wretch ere he die, if so I may.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered the Soudan, \"truly, yes; it pleases me well.\"\n\nThe lady came to the Count. She took him apart, and bidding the\nSaracens fall back, she inquired of him whence he was.\n\n\"Lady, I am from the kingdom of France, of a county that men call\nPonthieu.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard this her bowels were moved. Earnestly she demanded\nhis name and race.\n\n\"Of a truth, lady, I have long forgotten my father's house, for I have\nsuffered such pain and anguish since I departed, that I would rather\ndie than live. But this you may know, that I--even the man who speaks\nto you--was once the Count of Ponthieu.\"\n\nThe lady hearkened to this, but yet she made no sign. She went from\nthe Count, and coming to the Soudan, said,\n\n\"Husband, give me this captive as a gift, if such be your pleasure. He\nknows chess and draughts and many fair tales to bring solace to the\nhearer. He shall play before you, and we will make our pastime of his\nskill.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered the Soudan, \"I grant him to you very willingly; do\nwith him as you wish.\"\n\nThe lady took the captive, and bestowed him in her chamber. The\ngaolers sought another in his stead, and brought forth my lord\nThibault, the husband to the dame. He came out in tatters, for he was\nclothed rather in his long hair and great beard, than in raiment. His\nbody was lean and bony, and he seemed as one who had endured pain and\nsorrow enough, and to spare. When the lady saw him she said to the\nSoudan,\n\n\"Husband, with this one also would I gladly speak, if so I may.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered the Soudan, \"it pleases me well.\"\n\nThe lady came to my lord Thibault, and inquired of him whence he was.\n\n\"Lady, I am of the realm of that ancient gentleman who was taken from\nprison before me. I had his daughter to wife, and am his knight.\"\n\nThe lady knew well her lord, so she returned to the Soudan, and said\nto him, \"Husband, great kindness will you show me, if you give me this\ncaptive also.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said the Soudan, \"I grant him to you very willingly.\"\n\nShe thanked him sweetly, and bestowed the gift in her chamber, with\nthe other.\n\nThe archers hastened together, and drawing before the Soudan said,\n\"Sire, you do us wrong, for the day is far spent.\"\n\nThey went straight to the prison, and brought forth the son of the\nCount, shagged and filthy, as one who had not known of water for many\na day. He was a young man, so young that his beard had not come on\nhim, but for all his youth he was so thin and sick and weak, that\nhe scarce could stand upon his feet. When the lady saw him she had\ncompassion upon him. She came to him asking whose son he was and of\nhis home, and he replied that he was son to that gentleman, who was\nfirst brought out of the dungeon. She knew well that this was her\nbrother, but she made herself strange unto him.\n\n\"Husband,\" said she to the Soudan, \"verily you will shew kindness to\nyour wife beyond measure if you grant me this captive. He knows chess\nand draughts and other delights passing fair to see and hear.\"\n\nAnd the Soudan made answer, \"Wife, by our holy law if they were a\nhundred I would give them all to you gladly.\"\n\nThe lady thanked him tenderly, and bestowed the captive swiftly in\nher chamber. The Saracens went again to the prison and fetched out\nanother, but the lady left him to his fate, when she looked upon his\nface. So he won a martyr's crown, and our Lord Jesus Christ received\nhis soul. As for the dame, she hid herself from the sight, for it gave\nher little joy, this slaying of the Christian by the Paynims.\n\nThe lady came to her chamber, and at her coming the captives would\nhave got them to their feet, but she made signs that they should\nremain seated. Drawing close she made gestures of friendship. The\nCount, who was very shrewd, asked at this, \"Lady, when will they slay\nus?\"\n\nShe answered that their time had not yet come.\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"the sorer grief is ours, for we are so anhungered,\nthat for a little our souls would leave our bodies.\"\n\nThe lady went out, and bade meat to be made ready. This she carried\nin, giving to each a little, and to each a little drink. When they had\neaten, they had yet greater hunger than before. In this manner she fed\nthem, little by little, ten times a day, for she deemed that should\nthey eat to their desire, they would die of repletion. For this reason\nshe caused them to break their fast temperately. Thus the good lady\ndealt with them for the first seven days, and at nights, by her grace,\nthey lay softly at their ease. She did away with their rags, and clad\nthem in seemly apparel. When the week was done she set before them\nmeat and drink to their heart's desire, so that their strength\nreturned to them again. They had chess and draughts, and played these\ngames to their great content. The Soudan was often with them. He\nwatched the play, and took pleasure in their gladness. But the lady\nrefrained, so that none might conceive, either by speech or fashion,\nthat he had known her before.\n\nNow a short while after this matter of the captives, the story tells\nthat the Soudan had business enough of his own, for a mighty Sultan\nlaid waste his realm, and sought to do him much mischief. To avenge\nhis wrong the Soudan commanded his vassals from every place, and\nassembled a great host. When the lady knew this, she entered the\nchamber where the captives lay, and sitting amidst them lifted her\nhand, and said, \"Sirs, you have told me somewhat of your business; now\nwill I be assured whether you are true men or not. You told me that in\nyour own land you were once the Count of Ponthieu, that this man was\nwedded to your daughter, and that this other was your son. Know that I\nam a Saracen, having the science of astrology; so I tell you plainly\nthat you were never so near to a shameful death, as you are now, if\nyou hide from me the truth. What chanced to your daughter, the wife of\nthis knight?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" replied the Count, \"I deem her to be dead.\"\n\n\"How came she to her death?\"\n\n\"Certes, lady,\" said the Count, \"because for once she received her\ndeserts.\"\n\n\"Tell me of these deservings,\" said the dame.\n\nThen the Count began to tell, with tears, of how she was wedded, but\nwas yet a barren wife; how the good knight vowed pilgrimage to my lord\nSt. James in Galicia, and how the lady prayed that she might go with\nhim, which prayer he granted willingly. He told how they went their\nway with joy, till alone, in the deep wood, they met with sturdy\nfelons who set upon them. The good knight might do nothing against so\nmany, for he was a naked man; but despite of all, he slew three, and\nfive were left, who killed his palfrey, and spoiling him to the very\nshirt, bound him hands and feet, and flung him into a thorn bush. They\nspoiled the lady also and stole her palfrey from her. When they looked\nupon her, and saw that she was fair, each would have taken her.\nAfterwards they accorded that she should be to all, and having\nhad their will in her despite, they departed and left her weeping\nbitterly. This the good knight saw, so he besought her courteously to\nunloose his hands, that they might get them from the wood. But the\nlady marked a sword belonging to one of these felons that were slain.\nShe handselled it, and hastening where he lay, cried in furious\nfashion, \"You are unbound already.\" Then she raised the naked sword,\nand struck at his body. But by the loving kindness of God, and the\nvigour of the knight, she but sundered the bonds that bound him, so\nthat he sprang forth, and wounded as he was, cried, \"Dame, by the\ngrace of God it is not to-day that you shall kill me with the sword.\"\n\nAt this word that fair lady, the wife of the Soudan, spoke suddenly,\nand said,\n\n\"Ah, sir, you have told the tale honestly, and very clear it is why\nshe would have slain him.\"\n\n\"For what reason, lady?\"\n\n\"Certes,\" answered she, \"for reason of the great shame which had\nbefallen her.\"\n\nWhen Messire Thibault heard this he wept right tenderly, and said,\n\"Alas, what part had she in this wickedness! May God keep shut the\ndoors of my prison if I had shown her the sourer face therefore,\nseeing that her will was not in the deed.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the lady, \"she feared your reproach. But tell me which is\nthe more likely, that she be alive or dead?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said Thibault, \"we know not what to think.\"\n\n\"Well I know,\" cried the Count, \"of the great anguish we have\nsuffered, by reason of the sin I sinned against her.\"\n\n\"If it pleased God that she were yet living,\" inquired the lady, \"and\ntidings were brought which you could not doubt, what would you have to\nsay?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said the Count, \"I should be happier than if I were taken from\nthis prison, or were granted more wealth than ever I have had in my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said Messire Thibault, \"so God give me no joy of my heart's\ndearest wish, if I had not more solace than if men crowned me King of\nFrance.\"\n\n\"Certes, lady,\" said the dansellon, who was her brother, \"none could\ngive or promise me aught so sweet, as the life of that sister, who was\nso fair and good.\"\n\nWhen the lady hearkened to these words her heart yearned with\ntenderness. She praised God, rendering Him thanks, and said to them,\n\"Be sure that you speak with unfeigned lips.\"\n\nAnd they answered and said that they spoke with unfeigned lips. Then\nthe lady began to weep with happy tears, and said to them, \"Sir, now\nmay you truly say that you are my father, for I am that daughter on\nwhom you wrought such bitter justice. And you, Messire Thibault, are\nmy lord and husband; and you, sir dansellon, are my brother.\"\n\nThen she rehearsed to them in what manner she was found of the\nchapmen, and how they bestowed her as a gift on the Soudan. They were\nvery glad, and rejoiced mightily, humbling themselves before her, but\nshe forbade them to show their mirth, saying, \"I am a Saracen, and\nhave renounced the faith; otherwise I should not be here, but were\ndead already. Therefore I pray and beseech you as you love your lives\nand would prolong your days, whatever you may see or hear, not to show\nme any affection, but keep yourselves strange to me, and leave me to\nunravel the coil. Now I will tell why I have revealed myself to you.\nMy husband, the Soudan, rides presently to battle. I know well,\nMessire Thibault, that you are a hardy knight, and I will pray the\nSoudan to take you with him. If ever you were brave, now is the time\nto make it plain. See to it that you do him such service that he have\nno grievance against you.\"\n\nThe lady departed forthwith, and coming before the Soudan, said,\n\"Husband, one of my captives desires greatly to go with you, if such\nbe your pleasure.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered he, \"I dare not put myself in his hand, for fear that\nhe may do me a mischief.\"\n\n\"Husband, he will not dare to be false, since I hold his companions as\nhostages.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said he, \"I will take him with me, because of your counsel,\nand I will deliver him a good horse and harness, and all that warrior\nmay require.\"\n\nThe lady returned straightway to the chamber. She said to Messire\nThibault, \"I have persuaded the Soudan to bring you to the battle. Act\ntherefore manfully.\"\n\nAt this her brother knelt at her knee, praying her to plead with the\nSoudan that he might go also.\n\n\"That I may not do,\" said she, \"or the thing will be too clear.\"\n\nThe Soudan ordered his business, and went forth, Messire Thibault\nbeing with him, and came upon the enemy. According to his word, the\nSoudan had given to the knight both horse and harness. By the will of\nJesus Christ, who faileth never such as have faith and affiance in\nHim, Messire Thibault did such things in arms that in a short space\nthe enemies of the Soudan were put under his feet. The Soudan rejoiced\ngreatly at his knight's deeds and his victory, and returned bringing\nmany captives with him. He went straight to the dame, and said, \"Wife,\nby my law I have naught but good to tell of your prisoner, for he has\ndone me faithful service. So he deny his faith, and receive our holy\nreligion, I will grant him broad lands, and find him a rich heiress in\nmarriage.\"\n\n\"Husband, I know not, but I doubt if he will do this thing.\"\n\nNo more was spoken of the matter; but the lady set her house in order,\nas best she was able, and coming to her captives said, \"Sirs, go\nwarily, so that the Saracens see nothing of what is in our mind; for,\nplease God, we shall yet win to France and the county of Ponthieu.\"\n\nOn a day the lady came before the Soudan. She went in torment, and\nlamented very grievously.\n\n\"Husband, it is with me as it was before. Well I know it, for I have\nfallen into sore sickness, and my food has no relish in my mouth, no,\nnot since you went to the battle.\"\n\n\"Wife, I am right glad to hear that you are with child, although your\ninfirmity is very grievous unto me. Consider and tell me those things\nthat you deem will be to your healing, and I will seek and procure\nthem whatever the cost.\"\n\nWhen the lady heard this, her heart beat lightly in her breast. She\nshowed no semblance of joy, save this only, that she said, \"Husband,\nmy old captive tells me that unless I breathe for awhile such air as\nthat of my native land, and that quickly, I am but dead, for in nowise\nhave I long to live.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" said the Soudan, \"your death shall not be on my conscience.\nConsider and show me where you would go, and there I will cause you to\nbe taken.\"\n\n\"Husband, it is all one to me, so I be out of this city.\"\n\nThen the Soudan made ready a ship, both fair and strong, and garnished\nher plenteously with wines and meats.\n\n\"Husband,\" said the lady to the Soudan, \"I will take of my captives\nthe aged and the young, that they may play chess and draughts at my\nbidding, and I will carry with me my son for my delight.\"\n\n\"Wife,\" answered he, \"your will is my pleasure. But what shall be done\nwith the third captive?\"\n\n\"Husband, deal with him after your desire.\"\n\n\"Wife, I desire that you take him on the ship; for he is a brave man,\nand will keep you well, both on land and sea, if you have need of his\nsword.\"\n\nThe lady took leave of the Soudan, bidding him farewell, and urgently\nhe prayed her to return so soon as she was healed of her sickness. The\nstores being put upon the ship and all things made ready, they entered\ntherein and set sail from the haven. With a fair wind they went very\nswiftly, so that the shipmen sought the lady, saying, \"Madam, this\nwind is driving the boat to Brindisi. Is it your pleasure to take\nrefuge there, or to go elsewhere?\"\n\n\"Let the ship keep boldly on her course,\" answered the lady to them,\n\"for I speak French featly and other tongues also, so I will bring you\nto a good end.\"\n\nThey made such swift passage by day and by night, that according to\nthe will of Our Lord they came quickly to Brindisi. The ship cast\nanchor safely in the harbour, and they lighted on the shore, being\nwelcomed gladly by the folk of that country. The lady, who was very\nshrewd, drew her captives apart, and said, \"Sirs, I desire you to\ncall to mind the pledge and the covenant you have made. I must now be\ncertain that you are true men, remembering your oaths and plighted\nwords. I pray you to let me know, by all that you deem of God, whether\nyou will abide or not by our covenant together; for it is yet not too\nlate to return to my home.\"\n\nThey answered, \"Lady, know beyond question that the bargain we have\nmade we will carry out loyally. By our faith in God and as christened\nmen we will abide by this covenant; so be in no doubt of our\nassurance.\"\n\n\"I trust you wholly,\" replied the lady; \"but, sirs, see here my son,\nwhom I had of the Soudan, what shall we do with him?\"\n\n\"Lady, the boy is right welcome, and to great honour shall he come in\nour own land.\"\n\n\"Sirs,\" said the dame, \"I have dealt mischievously with the Soudan,\nfor I have stolen my person from him, and the son who was so dear to\nhis heart.\"\n\nThe lady went again to the shipmen, and lifting her hand, said to\nthem, \"Sirs, return to the Soudan whence you came, and greet him with\nthis message. Tell him that I have taken from him my body and the son\nhe loved so well, that I might deliver my father, my lord, and my\nbrother from the prison where they were captive.\"\n\nWhen the sailors heard this they were very dolent, but there was\nnaught that they might do. They set sail for their own country, sad\nand very heavy by reason of the lady, of the young lad, whom they\nloved greatly, and of the captives who were escaped altogether from\ntheir hand.\n\nFor his part the Count arrayed himself meetly by grace of merchants\nand Templars, who lent him gladly of their wealth. He abode in the\ntown, together with his fellowship, for their solace, till they made\nthem ready for the journey, and took the road to Rome. The Count\nsought the Pontiff, and his company with him. Each confessed him\nof the secrets of his heart, and when the Bishop heard thereof,\nhe accepted their devotion, and comforted them right tenderly. He\nbaptised the child, who was named William. He reconciled the lady with\nHoly Church, and confirmed the lady and Messire Thibault her lord, in\ntheir marriage bond, reknitting them together, giving penance to each,\nand absolution for their sins. After this they made no long sojourn\nin Rome, but took their leave of the Apostle who had honoured them so\ngreatly. He granted them his benison, and commended them to God. So\nthey went their way in great solace and delight, praising God and His\nMother, and all the calendar of saints, and rendering thanks for the\nmercies which had been vouchsafed to them. Journeying thus they\ncame at last to the country of their birth, and were met by a fair\nprocession of bishops and abbots, monks and priests, who had desired\nthem fervently. But of all these welcomes they welcomed most gladly\nher who was recovered from death, and had delivered her sire, her\nlord, and her brother from the hands of the Paynim, even as you have\nheard. There we leave them for awhile, and will tell you of the\nshipmen and Saracens who had fared with them across the sea.\n\nThe sailors and Saracens who had carried them to Brindisi, returned\nas quickly as they were able, and with a fair wind cast anchor before\nAumarie. They got them to land, very sad and heavy, and told their\ntidings to the Soudan. Right sorrowful was the Soudan, and neither for\ntime nor reason could he forget his grief. Because of this mischief he\nloved that daughter the less who tarried with him, and showed her the\nless courtesy. Nevertheless the maiden increased in virtue and in\nwisdom, so that the Paynim held her in love and honour, praising her\nfor the good that was known of her. But now the story is silent as to\nthat Soudan who was so tormented by reason of the flight of his dame\nand captives; and comes again to the Count of Ponthieu, who was\nwelcomed to his realm with such pomp and worship, as became a lord of\nhis degree.\n\nIn no long while after his return the son of the Count was dubbed\nknight, and rich was the feast. He became a knight both chivalrous and\nbrave. Greatly he loved all honourable men, and gladly he bestowed\nfair gifts on the poor knights and poor gentlewomen of the country.\nMuch was he esteemed of lord and hind, for he was a worthy knight,\ngenerous, valiant and debonair, proud only to his foes. Yet his days\non earth were but a span, which was the sorer pity, for he died\nlamented of all.\n\nNow it befell that the Count held high Court, and many a knight and\nlord sat with him at the feast. Amongst these came a very noble man\nand knight, of great place, in Normandy, named my lord Raoul des\nPreaux. This Raoul had a daughter, passing sweet and fair. The Count\nspoke so urgently to Raoul and to the maiden's kin that a marriage\nwas accorded between William, his grandson, the son of the Soudan of\nAumarie, and the daughter of my lord Raoul, the heiress to all his\nwealth. William wedded the damsel with every rich observance, and in\nright of his wife this William became Lord of Preaux.\n\nFor a long while the realm had peace from its foes.\n\nMessire Thibault dwelt with the lady, and had of her two sons, who\nin later days were worthy gentlemen of great worship. The son of the\nCount of Ponthieu, of whom we have spoken much and naught but good,\ndied shortly after, to the grief of all the land. The Count of St. Pol\nwas yet alive; therefore the two sons of my lord Thibault were heirs\nto both these realms, and attained thereto in the end. That devout\nlady, their mother, because of her contrite heart, gave largely to\nthe poor; and Messire Thibault, like the honourable gentleman he was,\nabounded in good works so long as he was quick.\n\nNow it chanced that the daughter of the lady, who abode with the\nSoudan her father, increased greatly in favour and in virtue. She was\ncalled The Fair Captive, by reason that her mother had left her in\nthe Soudan's keeping, as you have heard. A certain brave Turk in the\nservice of the Soudan--Malakin of Baudas by name--saw this damsel, so\nfair and gracious, and desired her dearly in his heart, because of the\ngood men told of her. He came before his master, and said to him,\n\n\"Sire, in return for his labour your servant craves a gift.\"\n\n\"Malakin,\" returned the Soudan, \"what gift would you have?\"\n\n\"Sire, I would dare to tell it to your face, if only she were not so\nhigh above my reach.\"\n\nThe Sultan who was both shrewd and quick witted made reply,\n\n\"Say out boldly what is in your mind, for I hold you dear, and\nremember what you have done. If there is aught it beseems me to\ngrant--saving only my honour--be assured that it is yours.\"\n\n\"Sire, well I know that your honour is without spot, nor would I seek\nanything against it. I pray you to bestow on your servant--if so it be\nyour pleasure--my lady your daughter, for she is the gift I covet most\nin all the world.\"\n\nThe Soudan kept silence, and considered for a space. He knew well that\nMalakin was both valiant and wise, and might easily come to great\nhonour and degree. Since the servant was worthy of his high desire,\nthe Soudan said, \"By my law you have required of me a great thing, for\nI love my daughter dearly, and have no other heir. You know well, and\nit is the simple truth, that she comes of the best and bravest blood\nin France, for her mother is the child of the Count of Ponthieu. But\nsince you too are valiant, and have done me loyal service, for my part\nI will give her to you willingly, save only that it be to the maiden's\nmind.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" said Malakin, \"I would not take her against her wish.\"\n\nThe Soudan bade the girl be summoned. When she came, he said, \"Fair\ndaughter, I have granted you in marriage, if it pleases you.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered the maiden, \"my pleasure is in your will.\"\n\nThe Soudan took her by the hand, saying, \"Take her, Malakin, the maid\nis yours.\"\n\nMalakin received her with a glad heart, and wedded her according to\nthe Paynim rite, bringing her to his house right joyously, with the\ncountenance of all his friends. Afterwards he returned with her to his\nown land. The Soudan escorted them upon their way, with such a fair\ncompany of his household as seemed good to him. Then he bade farewell\nto his child and her lord, and returned to his home. But a great part\nof his fellowship he commanded to go with her for their service,\nMalakin came back to his own land, where he was welcomed right gladly\nof his friends, and served and honoured by all the folk of his realm.\nHe lived long and tenderly with his wife, neither were they childless,\nas this story testifies. For of this lady, who was called the Fair\nCaptive, was born the mother of that courteous Turk, the Sultan\nSaladin, an honourable, a wise, and a conquering lord.\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nTHE CHATELAINE OF VERGI\n\nThere are divers men who make a great show of loyalty, and pretend to\nsuch discretion in the hidden things they hear, that at the end folk\ncome to put faith in them. When by their false seeming they have\npersuaded the simple to open out to them their love and their deeds,\nthen they noise the matter about the country, and make it their song\nand their mirth. Thus it chances that the lesser joy is his who has\nbared to them his heart. For the sweeter the love, the more bitter is\nthe pang that lovers know, when each deems the other to have bruited\nabroad the secret he should conceal. Oftentimes these blabbers do such\nmischief with their tongue, that the love they spoil comes to its\nclose in sorrow and in care. This indeed happened in Burgundy to a\nbrave and worthy knight, and to the Lady of Vergi. This knight loved\nhis lady so dearly that she granted him her tenderness, on such\ncovenant as this--that the day he showed her favour to any, that very\nhour he would lose the love and the grace she bestowed on him. To seal\nthis bond they devised together that the knight should come a days to\nan orchard, at such hour as seemed good to his friend. He must remain\ncoy in his nook within the wall till he might see the lady's lapdog\nrun across the orchard. Then without further tarrying he should enter\nher chamber, knowing full well she was alone, whom so fondly he\ndesired to greet. This he did, and in this fashion they met together\nfor a great while, none being privy to their sweet and stolen love,\nsave themselves alone.\n\nThe knight was courteous and fair, and by reason of his courage was\nright welcome to that Duke who was lord of Burgundy. He came and went\nabout the Court, and that so often that the Duchess set her mind upon\nhim. She cared so little to hide her thought, that had his heart not\nbeen in another's keeping, he must surely have perceived in her eyes\nthat she loved him. But however tender her semblance the knight showed\nno kindness in return, for he marked nothing of her inclination.\nPassing troubled was the dame that he should treat her thus; so that\non a day she took him apart, and sought to make him of her counsel.\n\n\"Sir, as men report, you are a brave and worthy knight, for the which\ngive God thanks. It would not be more than your deserts, if you had\nfor friend a lady in so high a place that her love would bring to you\nboth honour and profit. How richly could such a lady serve you!\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said he, \"I have never yet had this in my thought.\"\n\n\"By my faith,\" she answered, \"it seems to me that the longer you wait,\nthe less is your hope. Perchance the lady will stoop very readily from\nher throne, if you but kneel at her knee.\"\n\nThe knight replied, \"Lady, by my faith, I know little why you speak\nsuch words, and I understand their meaning not at all. I am neither\nduke nor count to dare to set my love in so high a seat. There is\nnought in me to gain the love of so sovereign a dame, pain me how I\nmay.\"\n\n\"Such things have been,\" said she, \"and so may chance again. Many more\nmarvellous works have been wrought than this, and the day of miracles\nis not yet past. Tell me, know you not yet that you have gained the\nlove of some high princess, even mine?\"\n\nThe knight made answer forthwith, \"Lady, I know it not. I would desire\nto have your love in a fair and honourable fashion; but may God keep\nme from such love between us, as would put shame upon my lord. In no\nmanner, nor for any reason, will I enter on such a business as would\nlead me to deal my true and lawful lord so shrewd and foul a wrong.\"\n\nBitter at heart was the dame to see her love so scorned.\n\n\"Fie upon you,\" she cried, \"and who required of you any such thing?\"\n\n\"Ah, lady, to God be the praise; you have said enough to make your\nmeaning passing plain.\"\n\nThe lady strove no more to show herself kind to him. Great was the\nwrath and sharp the malice that she hid within her heart, and well she\npurposed that, if she might, she would avenge herself speedily. All\nthe day she considered her anger. That night as she lay beside the\nDuke she began to sigh, and afterwards to weep. Presently the Duke\ninquired of her grief, bidding her show it him forthwith.\n\n\"Certes,\" said the dame, \"I make this great sorrow because no prince\ncan tell who is his faithful servant, and who is not. Often he gives\nthe more honour and wealth to those who are traitors rather than\nfriends, and sees nothing of their wrong.\"\n\n\"In faith, wife,\" answered the Duke, \"I know not why you speak these\nwords. At least I am free of such blame as this, for in nowise would I\nnourish a traitor, if only a traitor I knew him to be.\"\n\n\"Hate then this traitor,\" cried she,--and she named a name--\"who gives\nme no peace, praying and requiring me the livelong day that I should\ngrant him my love. For a great while he had been in this mind--as he\nsays--but did not dare to speak his thoughts. I considered the whole\nmatter, fair lord, and resolved to show it you at once. It is likely\nenough to be true that he cherished this hope, for we have never heard\nthat he loves elsewhere. I entreat you in guerdon, to look well to\nyour own honour, since this, as you know, is your duty and right.\"\n\nPassing grievous was this business to the Duke. He answered to the\nlady,\n\n\"I will bring it to a head, and very quickly, as I deem.\"\n\nThat night the Duke lay upon a bed of little ease. He could neither\nsleep nor rest, by reason of that lord, his friend, who, he was\npersuaded, had done him such bitter wrong as justly to have forfeited\nhis love. Because of this he kept vigil the whole night through. He\nrose very early on the morrow, and bade him come whom his wife had put\nto blame, although he had done nothing blameworthy. Then he took him\nto task, man to man, when there were but these two together.\n\n\"Certes,\" he said, \"it is a heavy grief that you who are so comely\nand brave, should yet have no honour in you. You have deceived me the\nmore, for I have long believed you to be a man of good faith, giving\nloyalty, at least, to me, in return for the love I have given to you.\nI know not how you can have harboured such a felon's wish, as to pray\nand require the Duchess to grant you her grace. You are guilty of such\ntreachery that conduct more vile it would be far to seek. Get you\nhence from my realm. You have my leave to part, and it is denied to\nyou for ever. If you return here it will be at your utmost peril, for\nI warn you beforehand that if I lay hands upon you, you will die a\nshameful death.\"\n\nWhen the knight heard this judgment, such wrath and mortification\nwere his that his members trembled beneath him. He called to mind his\nfriend, of whom he would have no joy, if he might not come and go and\nsojourn in that realm from which the Duke had banished him. Moreover\nhe was sick at heart that his lord should deem him a disloyal traitor,\nwithout just cause. He knew such sore discomfort that he held himself\nas dead and betrayed.\n\n\"Sire,\" said he, \"for the love of God believe this never, neither\nthink that I have been so bold. To do that of which you wrongfully\ncharge me, has never entered my mind, not one day, nor for one single\nhour. Who has told you this lie has wrought a great ill.\"\n\n\"You gain nothing by such denials,\" answered the Duke, \"for of a\nsurety the thing is true. I have heard from her own lips the very\nguise and fashion in which you prayed and required her love, like the\nenvious traitor that you are. Many another word it may well be that\nyou spoke, as to which the lady of her courtesy keeps silence.\"\n\n\"My lady says what it pleases her to say,\" replied the dolorous\nknight, \"and my denials are lighter than her word. Naught is there for\nme to say; nothing is left for me to do, so that I may be believed\nthat this adventure never happened.\"\n\n\"Happen it did, by my soul,\" said the Duke, remembering certain words\nof his wife. Well he deemed that he might be assured of the truth,\nif but the lady's testimony were true that this lord had never loved\notherwhere. Therefore the Duke said to the knight, \"If you will pledge\nyour faith to answer truly what I may ask, I shall be certified by\nyour words whether or not you have done this deed of which I misdoubt\nyou.\"\n\nThe knight had but one desire--to turn aside his lord's wrath, which\nhad so wrongfully fallen upon him. He feared only lest he should be\ndriven from the land where lodged the dame who was the closest to his\nmind. Knowing nothing of what was in the Duke's thought, he considered\nthat his question could only concern the one matter; so he replied\nthat without fraud or concealment he would do as his lord had said.\nThus he pledged his faith, and the Duke accepted his affiance.\n\nWhen this was done the Duke made question,\n\n\"I have loved you so dearly that at the bottom of my heart I cannot\nbelieve you guilty of such shameless misdoing as the Duchess tells me.\nI would not credit it a moment, if you yourself were not the cause of\nmy doubtfulness. From your face, the care you bestow upon your person,\nand a score of trifles, any who would know, can readily see that you\nare in love with some lady. Since none about the Court perceives\ndamsel or dame on whom you have set your heart, I ask myself whether\nindeed it may not be my wife, who tells me that you have entreated her\nfor love. Nothing that any one may do can take this suspicion from my\nmind, except you tell me yourself that you love elsewhere, making it\nso plain that I am left without doubt that I know the naked truth. If\nyou refuse her name you will have broken your oath, and forth from my\nrealm you go as an outlawed man.\"\n\nThe knight had none to give him counsel. To himself he seemed to stand\nat the parting of two ways, both one and the other leading to death.\nIf he spoke the simple truth (and tell he must if he would not be a\nperjurer) then was he as good as dead; for if he did such wrong as to\nsin against the covenant with his lady and his friend, certainly he\nwould lose her love, so it came to her knowledge. But if he concealed\nthe truth from the Duke, then he was false to his oath, and had lost\nboth country and friend. But little he recked of country, so only he\nmight keep his Love, since of all his riches she was the most dear.\nThe knight called to heart and remembrance the fair joy and the solace\nthat were his when he had this lady between his arms. He considered\nwithin himself that if by reason of his misdoing she came to harm, or\nwere lost to him, since he might not take her where he went, how could\nhe live without her. It would be with him also, as erst with the\nCastellan of Couci, who having his Love fast only in his heart, told\nover in his song,\n\n  Ah, God, strong Love, I sit and weep alone,\n    Remembering the solace that was given;\n  The tender guise, the semblance that was shown\n    By her, my friend, my comrade, and my Heaven.\n\n  When grief brings back the joy that was mine own,\n    I would the heart from out my breast were riven.\n  Ah, Lord, the sweet words hushed, the beauty flown;\n    Would God that I were dead, and low, and shriven.\n\nThe knight was in anguish such as this, for he knew not whether to\nmake clear the truth, or to lie and be banished from the country.\n\nWhilst he was deep in thought, turning over in his mind what it were\nbest to do, tears rose in his heart and flowed from his eyes, so that\nhis face was wet, by reason of the sorrow that he suffered. The Duke\nhad no more mirth than the knight, deeming that his secret was so\nheavy that he dared not make it plain. The Duke spoke swiftly to his\nfriend,\n\n\"I see clearly that you fear to trust me wholly, as a knight should\ntrust his lord. If you confess your counsel privily to me, you cannot\nthink that I shall show the matter to any man. I would rather have my\nteeth drawn one by one, than speak a word.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the knight, \"for God's love, have pity, Sire. I know not\nwhat I ought to say, nor what will become of me; but I would rather\ndie than lose what lose I shall if she only hears that you have the\ntruth, and that you heard it from my lips, whilst I am a living man.\"\n\nThe Duke made answer,\n\n\"I swear to you by my body and my soul, and on the faith and love I\nowe you again by reason of your homage, that never in my life will I\ntell the tale to any creature born, or even breathe a word or make a\nsign about the business.\"\n\nWith the tears yet running down his face the knight said to him,\n\n\"Sire, right or wrong, now will I show my secret. I love your niece of\nVergi, and she loves me, so that no friends can love more fondly.\"\n\n\"If you wish to be believed,\" replied the Duke, \"tell me now, if any,\nsave you two alone, knows anything of this joy?\"\n\nAnd the knight made answer to him,\n\n\"Nay, not a creature in the world.\"\n\nThen said the Duke,\n\n\"No love is so privy as that. If none has heard thereof, how do you\nmeet together, and how devise time and place?\"\n\n\"By my faith, Sire, I will tell you all, and keep back nothing, since\nyou know so much of our counsel.\"\n\nSo he related the whole story of his goings to and fro within the\npleasaunce; of that first covenant with his friend, and of the office\nof the little dog.\n\nThen said the Duke,\n\n\"I require of you that I may be your comrade at such fair meeting.\nWhen you go again to the orchard, I too, would enter therein, and\nmark for myself the success of your device. As for my niece she shall\nperceive naught.\"\n\n\"Sire, if it be your will it is my pleasure also; save, only, that you\nfind it not heavy or burdensome. Know well that I go this very night.\"\n\nThe Duke said that he would go with him, for the vigil would in no\nwise be burdensome, but rather a frolic and a game. They accorded\nbetween them a place of meeting, where they would draw together on\nfoot, and alone. When nightfall was come they fared to the hostel of\nthe Duke's niece, for her dwelling was near at hand. They had not\ntarried long in the garden, when the Duke saw his niece's lapdog run\nstraight to that end of the orchard where the knight was hidden.\nWondrous kindness showed the knight to his lady's dog. Immediately he\ntook his way to her lodging, and left his master in his nook by the\nwall. The Duke followed after till he drew near the chamber, and held\nhimself coy, concealing him as best he might. It was easy enough to\ndo this, for a great tree stood there, high and leafy, so that he was\ncovered close as by a shield. From this place he marked the little dog\nenter the chamber, and presently saw his niece issue therefrom, and\nhurry forth to meet her lover in the pleasaunce. He was so close that\nhe could see and hear the solace of that greeting, the salutation of\nher mouth and of her hands. She embraced him closely in her fair white\narms, kissing him more than a hundred times, whilst she spoke many\ncomforting words. The knight for his part kissed her again, and held\nher fast, praising her with many tender names.\n\n\"My lady, my friend, my love,\" said he, \"heart and mistress and hope,\nand the sum of all that I hold dear, know well that I have yearned to\nbe with you as we are now, every day and all day long since we met.\"\n\n\"Sweet lord, sweet friend, sweet love,\" replied the lady, \"never has a\nday nor an hour gone by but I was awearied of its length. But I grieve\nno longer over the past, for I have my heart's desire when you are\nwith me, joyous and well. Right welcome are you to your friend.\"\n\nAnd the knight made answer,\n\n\"Love, you are welcome and wellmet.\"\n\nFrom his place of hiding, near the entrance to the chamber, the Duke\nhearkened to every word. His niece's voice and face were so familiar\nto him, that he could not doubt that the Duchess had lied. Greatly was\nhe content, for he was now assured that his friend had not done amiss\nin that of which he had misdoubted him. All through the night he kept\nwatch and ward. But during his vigil the dame and the knight, close\nand sleepless in the chamber, knew such joy and tenderness as it is\nnot seemly should be told or heard, save of those who hope themselves\nto attain such solace, when Love grants them recompense for all their\npains. For he who desires nothing of this joy and quittance, even\nif it were told him, would but listen to a tongue he could not\nunderstand, since his heart is not turned to Love, and none can know\nthe wealth of such riches, except Love whisper it in his ear. Of such\nkingdom not all are worthy: for there joy goes without anger, and\nsolace is crowned with fruition. But so fleet are things sweet, that\nto the lover his joy seems to find but a brief content. So pleasant\nis the life he passes that he wishes his night a week, his week to\nstretch to a month, the month become a year, and one year three, and\nthree years twenty, and the twenty attain to a hundred. Yea, when the\nterm and end were reached, he would that the dusk were closing, rather\nthan the dawn had come.\n\nThis was the case with the lover whom the Duke awaited in the orchard.\nWhen day was breaking, and he durst remain no longer, he came with his\nlady to the door. The Duke marked the fashion of their leave-taking,\nthe kisses given and granted, the sighs and the weeping as they bade\nfarewell. When they had wept many tears, and devised an hour for their\nnext meeting, the knight departed in this fashion, and the lady shut\nthe door. But so long as she might see him, she followed his going\nwith her pretty eyes, since there was nothing better she could do.\n\nWhen the Duke knew the postern was made fast, he hastened on his road\nuntil he overtook the knight, who to himself was making his complaint\nof the season, that all too short was his hour. The same thought\nand the self same words were hers from whom he had parted, for the\nbriefness of the time had betrayed her delight, and she had no praises\nfor the dawn. The knight was deep in his thought and speech, when he\nwas overtaken by the Duke. The Duke embraced his friend, greeting him\nvery tenderly. Then he said to him,\n\n\"I pledge my faith that I will love you all the days of my life, never\non any day seeking to do you a mischief, for you have told me the very\ntruth, and have not lied to me by a single word.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" he made answer, \"thanks and gramercy. But for the love of\nGod I require and pray of you that it be your pleasure to hide this\ncounsel; for I should lose my love, and the peace and comfort of my\nlife--yea, and should die without sin of my own, if I deemed that any\nother in this realm than yourself knew aught of the business.\"\n\n\"Now speak of it never,\" replied the Duke. \"Know that the counsel\nshall be kept so hidden, that by me shall not a syllable be spoken.\"\n\nOn this covenant they came again whence they had set forth together.\nThat day, when men sat at meat, the Duke showed to his knight a\nfriendlier semblance and a fairer courtesy than ever he had done\nbefore. The Duchess felt such wrath and despitefulness at this,\nthat--without any leasing--she rose from the table, and making\npretence of sudden sickness, went to lie upon her bed, where she found\nlittle softness. When the Duke had eaten and washed and made merry, he\nafterwards sought his wife's chamber, and causing her to be seated on\nher bed, commanded that none should remain, save himself. So all men\nwent forth at his word, even as he had bidden. Thereupon the Duke\ninquired of the lady how this evil had come to her, and of what she\nwas sick. She made answer,\n\n\"As God hears me, never till I ate at table did I deem that you had so\nlittle sense or decency, as when I saw you making much of him, who, I\nhave told you already, strove to bring shame and disgrace on me. When\nI watched you entreat him with more favour than even was your wont,\nsuch great sorrow and such great anger took hold on me, that I could\nnot contain myself in the hall.\"\n\n\"Sweet friend,\" replied the Duke, \"know that I shall never\nbelieve--either from your lips or from those of any creature in the\nworld--that the story ever happened as you rehearsed it. I am so deep\nin his counsel that he has my quittance, for I have full assurance\nthat he never dreamed of such a deed. But as to this you must ask of\nme no more.\"\n\nThe Duke went straightway from the chamber, leaving the lady sunk in\nthought. However long she had to live, never might she know an hour's\ncomfort, till she had learnt something of that secret of which the\nDuke forbade her to seek further. No denial could now stand in her\nway, for in her heart swiftly she devised a means to unriddle this\ncounsel, so only she might endure until the evening, and the Duke was\nin her arms. She was persuaded that, beyond doubt, such solace would\nwin her wish more surely than wrath or tears. For this purpose she\nheld herself coy, and when the Duke came to lie at her side she betook\nherself to the further side of the bed, making semblance that his\ncompany gave her no pleasure. Well she knew that such show of anger\nwas the device to put her lord beneath her feet. Therefore she turned\nher back upon him, that the Duke might the more easily be drawn by\nthe cords of her wrath. For this same reason when he had no more than\nkissed her, she burst out,\n\n\"Right false and treacherous and disloyal are you to make such a\npretence of affection, who yet have never loved me truly one single\nday. All these years of our wedded life I have been foolish enough to\nbelieve, what you took such pains in the telling, that you loved\nme with a loyal heart. To-day I see plainly that I was the more\ndeceived.\"\n\n\"In what are you deceived?\" inquired the Duke.\n\n\"By my faith,\" cried she, who was sick of her desire, \"you warn me\nthat I be not so bold as to ask aught of that of which you know the\nsecret.\"\n\n\"In God's name, sweet wife, of what would you know?\"\n\n\"Of all that he has told you, the lies and the follies he has put in\nyour mind, and led you to believe. But it matters little now whether I\nhear it or not, for I remember how small is my gain in being your true\nand loving wife. For good or for ill I have shown you all my counsel.\nThere was nothing that was known and seen of my heart that you were\nnot told at once; and of your courtesy you repay me by concealing your\nmind. Know, now, without doubt, that never again shall I have in you\nsuch affiance, nor grant you my love with such sweetness, as I have\nbestowed them in the past.\"\n\n\nThereat the Duchess began to weep and sigh, making the most tender\nsorrow that she was able. The Duke felt such pity for her grief that\nhe said to her,\n\n\"Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I can\nbear; but learn that I cannot tell what you wish me to say without\nsinning against my honour too grievously.\"\n\nThen she replied forthwith,\n\n\"Husband, if you do not tell me, the reason can only be that you do\nnot trust me to keep silence in the business. I wonder the more sorely\nat this, because there is no matter, either great or small, that you\nhave told me, which has been published by me. I tell you honestly that\nnever in my life could I be so indiscreet.\"\n\nWhen she had said this, she betook her again to her tears. The Duke\nkissed and embraced her, and was so sick of heart that strength failed\nhim to keep his purpose.\n\n\"Fair wife,\" he said to her, \"by my soul I am at my wits' end. I have\nsuch trust and faith in you that I deem I should hide nothing, but\nshow you all that I know. Yet I dread that you will let fall some\nword. Know, wife--and I tell it you again--that if ever you betray\nthis counsel you will get death for your payment.\"\n\nThe Duchess made answer,\n\n\"I agree to the bargain, for it is not possible that I should deal you\nso shrewd a wrong.\"\n\nThen he who loved her, because of his faith and his credence in her\nword, told all this story of his niece, even as he had learned it from\nthe knight. He told how those two were alone together in the shadow of\nthe wall, when the little dog ran to them. He showed plainly of that\ncoming forth from the chamber, and of the entering in; nothing was\nhid, he concealed naught of that he had heard and seen. When the\nDuchess understood that the love of a mighty dame was despised for the\nsake of a lowly gentlewoman, her humiliation was bitter in her mouth\nas death. She showed no semblance of despitefulness, but made covenant\nand promise with the Duke to keep the matter close, saying that should\nshe repeat his tale he might hang her from a tree.\n\nTime went very heavily with the lady, till she could get speech with\nher, whom she hated from the hour she knew her to be the friend of him\nwho had caused her such shame and grief. She was persuaded that for\nthis reason he would not give her love, in return for that she set on\nhim. She confirmed herself in her purpose, that at such time and place\nshe saw the Duke speaking with his niece, she would go swiftly to the\nlady, and tell out all her mind, hiding nothing because it was evil.\nNeither time nor place was met, till Pentecost was come, and the Duke\nheld high Court, commanding to the feast all the ladies of his realm,\namongst the first that lady, his niece, who was the Chatelaine of\nVergi. When the Duchess looked on her, the blood pricked in her veins,\nfor reason that she hated her more than aught else in the world. She\nhad the courage to hide her malice, and greeted the lady more gladly\nthan ever she had done before. But she yearned to show openly the\nanger that burned in her heart, and the delay was much against her\nmind. On Pentecost, whilst the tables were removed, the Duchess\nbrought the ladies to her chamber with her, that, apart from the\nthrong, they might the more graciously attire them for the dance. She\ndeemed her hour had come, and having no longer the power to refrain\nher lips, she said gaily, as if in jest,\n\n\"Chatelaine, array yourself very sweetly, since there is a fair and\nworthy lord you have to please.\"\n\nThe lady answered right simply,\n\n\"In truth, madam, I know not what you are thinking of; but for my part\nI wish for no such friendship as may not be altogether according to my\nhonour and to that of my lord.\"\n\n\"I grant that readily,\" replied the Duchess, \"you are a good mistress,\nand have an apt pupil in your little dog.\"\n\nThe ladies returned with the Duchess to the hall, where the dances\nwere already set. They had listened to the tale, but could not mark\nthe jest. The chatelaine remained in the chamber. Her colour came and\nwent, and because of her wrath and trouble the heart throbbed thickly\nin her breast. She passed within a tiring chamber, where a little\nmaiden was lying at the foot of the bed; but for grief she might not\nperceive her. The chatelaine flung herself upon the bed, bewailing her\nevil plight, for she was exceedingly sorrowful. She said,\n\n\"Ah, Lord God, take pity on me! What may this mean, that I have\nlistened to my lady's reproaches because of the training of my little\ndog! This she can have learned from none--as well I know--save from\nhim whom I have loved, and who has betrayed me. He would never have\nshown her this thing, except that he was her familiar friend, and\ndoubtless loves her more dearly than me, whom he has betrayed. I see\nnow the value of his oaths, since he finds it so easy to fail in his\ncovenant. Sweet God, and I loved him so fondly, more fondly than any\nwoman has loved before; who never had him from my thoughts one single\nhour, whether it were night or day. For he was my mirth and my carol;\nin him were my joy and my pleasure; he alone was my solace and\ncomfort. Ah, my friend, how can this have come; you who were always\nwith me, even when I might not see you with my eyes! What ill has\nbefallen you, that you durst prove false to me? I deemed you more\nfaithful--God take me in His keeping--than ever was Tristan to Isoude.\nMay God pity a poor fool, I loved you half as much again than I had\nlove for myself. From the first to the last of our friendship, never\nby thought, or by word, or by deed, have I done amiss; there is no\nwrong doing, trifling or great, to make plain your hatred, or to\nexcuse so vile a betrayal as this scorning of our love for a fresher\nface, this desertion of me, this proclaiming of our secret. Alas, my\nfriend, I marvel greatly; for as God is my witness my heart was not\nthus towards you. If God had offered me all the kingdoms of the world,\nyea, and His Heaven and its Paradise besides, I would have refused\nthem gladly, had my gain meant the losing of you. For you were my\nwealth and my song and my health, and nothing can hurt me any more,\nsince my heart has learnt that yours no longer loves me. Ah, lasting,\nprecious love! Who could have guessed that he would deal this blow, to\nwhom I gave the grace of my tenderness--who said that I was his lady\nboth in body and in soul, and he the slave at my bidding. Yea, he told\nit over so sweetly, that I believed him faithfully, nor thought in any\nwise that his heart would bear wrath and malice against me, whether\nfor Duchess or for Queen. How good was this love, since the heart in\nmy breast must always cleave to his! I counted him to be my friend, in\nage as in youth, our lives together; for well I knew that if he died\nfirst I should not dare to endure long without him, because of the\ngreatness of my love. The grave, with him, would be fairer, than life\nin a world where I might never see him with my eyes. Ah, lasting,\nprecious love! Is it then seemly that he should publish our counsel,\nand destroy her who had done him no wrong? When I gave him my love\nwithout grudging, I warned him plainly, and made covenant with him,\nthat he would lose me the self same hour that he made our tenderness a\nsong. Since part we must, I may not live after so bitter a sorrow; nor\nwould I choose to live, even if I were able. Fie upon life, it has no\nsavour in it. Since it pleases me naught, I pray to God to grant me\ndeath, and--so truly as I have loved him who requites me thus--to have\nmercy on my soul. I forgive him his wrong, and may God give honour and\nlife to him who has betrayed and delivered me to death. Since it\ncomes from his hand, death, meseems, is no bitter potion; and when I\nremember his love, to die for his sake is no grievous thing.\"\n\nWhen the chatelaine had thus spoken she kept silence, save only that\nshe said in sighing,\n\n\"Sweet friend, I commend you to God.\"\n\nWith these words she strained her arms tightly across her breast, the\nheart failed her, and her face lost its fair colour. She swooned in\nher anguish, and lay back, pale and discoloured in the middle of the\nbed, without life or breath.\n\nOf this her friend knew nothing, for he sought his delight in the\nhall, at carol and dance and play. But amongst all those ladies he had\nno pleasure in any that he saw, since he might not perceive her to\nwhom his heart was given, and much he marvelled thereat. He took the\nDuke apart, and said in his ear,\n\n\"Sire, whence is this that your niece tarries so long, and comes not\nto the dancing? Have you put her in prison?\"\n\nThe Duke looked upon the dancers, for he had not concerned himself\nwith the revels. He took his friend by the hand, and led him directly\nto his wife's chamber. When he might not find her there he bade the\nknight seek her boldly in the tiring chamber; and this he did of his\ncourtesy that these two lovers might solace themselves with clasp and\nkiss. The knight thanked his lord sweetly, and entered softly in the\nchamber, where his friend lay dark and discoloured upon the bed. Time\nand place being met together, he took her in his arms and touched her\nlips. But when he found how cold was her mouth, how pale and rigid her\nperson, he knew by the semblance of all her body that she was quite\ndead. In his amazement he cried out swiftly,\n\n\"What is this? Alas, is my dear one dead?\"\n\nThe maiden started from the foot of the bed where she still lay,\nmaking answer,\n\n\"Sir, I deem truly that she be dead. Since she came to this room\nshe has done nothing but call upon death, by reason of her friend's\nfalsehood, whereof my lady assured her, and because of a little dog,\nwhereof my lady made her jest. This sorrow brought her to her death.\"\n\nWhen the knight understood from this that the words he had spoken to\nthe Duke had slain his friend, he was discomforted beyond measure.\n\n\"Alas,\" said he, \"sweet love, the most gracious and the best that ever\nknight had, loyal and true, how have I slain you, like the faithless\ntraitor that I am! It were only just that I should receive the wages\nfor my deed, so that you could have gone free of blame. But you were\nso faithful of heart that you took it on yourself to pay the price.\nThen I will do justice on myself for the treason I have wrought.\"\n\nThe knight drew from its sheath a sword that was hanging from the\nwall, and thrust it throught his heart. He pained himself to fall\nupon his lady's body; and because of the mightiness of his hurt, bled\nswiftly to death. The maiden fled forth from the chamber, when she\nmarked these lifeless lovers, for she was all adread at what she saw.\nShe lighted on the Duke, and told him all that she had heard and seen,\nkeeping back nothing. She showed him the beginning of the matter, and\nalso of the little dog, whereof the Duchess had spoken.\n\nHearken all to what befell. The Duke went straightway to the tiring\nchamber, and drew from out the wound that sword by which the knight\nlay slain. He said no word, but hastened forthwith to the hall where\nthe guests were yet at their dancing. Entering there he acquitted\nhimself of his promise, for he smote the Duchess on the head with the\nnaked sword he carried in his hand. He struck the blow without one\nword, since his wrath was too deep for speech. The Duchess fell at his\nfeet, in the sight of the barons of his realm, whereat the feast was\nsorely troubled, for in place of mirth and carol, now were blood and\ndeath. Then the Duke told loudly and swiftly, before all who cared to\nhear, this pitiful story, in the midst of his Court. There was not one\nbut wept, and his tears were the more piteous when he beheld those two\nlovers who lay dead in the chamber, and the Duchess in her hall. So\nthe Court broke up in dole and anger, for of this deed came mighty\nmischief. On the morrow the Duke caused the lovers to be laid in one\ntomb, and the Duchess in a place apart. But of this adventure the Duke\nhad such bitterness that never was he known to laugh again. He took\nthe Cross, and went beyond the sea, where joining himself to the\nKnights Templar, he never returned to his own realm.\n\nAh, God! all this mischief and encumbrance chanced to the knight by\nreason of his making plain that he should have hid, and of publishing\nwhat his friend forbade him to speak, if he would keep her love. From\nthis ensample we may learn that it is not seemly to love, and tell. He\nwho blabs and blazons his friendship gets not one kiss the more; but\nhe who goes discreetly preserves life and love and fame. For the\nfriendship of the discreet lover falls not before the mine of such\nfalse and felon pryers as burrow privily into their neighbour's secret\nlove.","title":"French Mediaeval Romances from the Lays of Marie de France","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":73790}