XIII
THE LAY OF YONEC
Since I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold.The stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now torehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother'sfirst born child.
In days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full ofyears, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town isbuilded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of manyancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well strickenin years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have childrento come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowedon this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind andcourteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of herbeauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln,yea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married themaiden to this aged man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fastwithin his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He setin charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her moresurely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, togetherwith their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel mighthave speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. Morethan seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children forher solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet herkinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that whenshe sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in herchamber to light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spenther days in sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for shegave no thought to her person. Indeed at times she hated the veryshadow of that beauty which had spoiled all her life.
Now when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord roseearly on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his sisterto rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did hiswill, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she carriedin her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the sun withher tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the chamber,so she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.
"Alas," said she, "in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to beshut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Ofwhom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison?Great is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may bedeceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. IfI might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I shouldshow the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatlyare my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous oldman, and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow,for he will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly hewas plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, andhis veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heardthat in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought theirsorrows to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fairto his desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave,and were blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen ofany, except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy!Perchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, suchadventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would butshape the world to my wish!"
When the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of agreat bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what itmight mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed andhooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilstthe lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comelyknight before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at thissorcery. Her blood turned to water within her, and because of herdread she hid her face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy theknight first sought to persuade her to put away her fears.
"Lady," said he, "be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be asgentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to makeplain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your towerthat I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. Ihave loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love aboveanything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid,and I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should havesought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm,till you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as yourfriend."
The lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words.Presently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said thatperchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only shehad assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear,but in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty.Never in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight morefair.
"Lady," he replied, "you ask rightly. For nothing that man can givewould I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God,the Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by ourfather Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and wasand ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If youstill give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell himthat since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Serviceappointed by God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take yoursemblance, and receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus becertified of my faith, and never have reason to mistrust me more."
When the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to thechamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since itwas time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture.The lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn thechaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The agèd damereplied,
"You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods,and none will enter in the tower, save me."
Right distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called awoman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. Thiswas seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She setwide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplaincame as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. Theknight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; thenthe priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behindhim.
The knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and ablither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other,but the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again tohis own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and shesweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to returnoften to her side.
"Lady," he made answer, "so you please to require me at any hour, youmay be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you toobserve such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. Thisold woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes ourfriendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evilcome upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely,death."
The knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest ladyin the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went lightlythrough the week. She took such heed to her person, that her formerbeauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as herprison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would notleave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see herfriend at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber.Early and late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God granther joy was long, against the evil day that came.
The husband of the lady presently took notice of the change inhis wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, andmisdoubting his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day.He told her of his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, andinquired what this should mean. The crone answered that she knew nomore than he, "for we have very little speech one with another. Shesees neither kin nor friend; but, now, she seems quite content toremain alone in her chamber."
The husband made reply,
"Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we mustdo all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning whenI have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, makepretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hideyourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shallthen learn the secret of this new found joy."
Having devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for thosewho were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon betangled in the net.
Three days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house.He told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court,but that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, makingfast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind hercurtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desiredto know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for herfriend. The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, norcherish her more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them,both in word and tenderness, till he could no longer stay. All thisthe crone saw with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched thefashion in which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she wasaltogether fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear thesemblance of a hawk. When the husband returned to his house--forhe was near at hand--his sister told him that of which she was thewitness, and of the truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was heand wrathful. Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slayingof this bird. He caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, withpoint and edge sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastenedfirmly together, and set them securely within that window, by whichthe tercel would come to his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fairmight not see nor hear of this wrong, and that there should be none toshow him of such treason.
On the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying thathe should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behindhim, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn.The lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved soloyally. Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any longtarrying the bird came flying at her will. He flew in at the openwindow, and was entangled amongst the blades of steel. One bladepierced his body so deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound.When the falcon knew that his hurt was to death, he forced himself topass the barrier, and coming before his lady fell upon her bed, sothat the sheets were dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon herfriend and his wound, and was altogether anguished and distraught.
"Sweet friend," said the knight, "it is for you that my life is lost.Did I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely Ishould be slain?"
On hearing these words the lady's head fell upon the pillow, and for aspace she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. Heprayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son whowould be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. Hewould prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him byslaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he wasbleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body heflew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrillcries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window.Marvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window wasfully twenty feet from the ground. When the lady made her perilousleap she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she setherself to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped fromhis wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till shelighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it wasstained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarechad refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he wasyet within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, andsince she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. Shewent so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow. Shefollowed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a citynear at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls.There was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver,so rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a stillwater. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near bythe keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew totheir anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in thehaven. The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts offreshly fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. Nonechallenged her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in thestreets; she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of redblood lay on the staircase of the palace. The lady entered and foundherself within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on apallet. She looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within alarger room, empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight whoslept thereon. But when the lady entered in the third chamber she sawa stately bed, that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was ofinwrought gold, and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. Thefurniture was worth the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconcesof silver lighted the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as thelady had come she knew again her friend, directly she saw him with hereyes. She hastened to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief.The knight clasped her in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, butwhen she came to her mind, he comforted her as sweetly as he might.
"Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly asyou are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, intheir wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle.They are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to mydeath. Fair friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you."
The lady made answer, "Friend, the best thing that can befall me isthat we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If hefinds me again he will certainly slay me with the sword."
The knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon hisfriend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husbandwould think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seekto revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered itto the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it tothe hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthyknight. When that time was come she and her lord would go--togetherwith the son--to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where shouldbe seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death;there he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall berehearsed the tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitterwrong. And then shall be seen what he will do.
When the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, hegave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, andget her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command,bearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precioustreasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the citywhen she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamentedthe death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell fourseparate times upon the road, and four times she came from out herswoon. She bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshedhim, and rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her ownland, and returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, shedwelt in peace, since--as Eudemarec foretold--her lord gave no thoughtto her outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her anymore.
In due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec.Very sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not hislike for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear.When he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now,what chanced to them all, that self-same year.
It was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron withgreat pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husbandrode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont.Together with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As theroads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose theirway, they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straightpath. The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none sofair. Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks intheir holy habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and thepilgrims were welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat anddrink near by the Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they wouldhave gone their way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little,since he would show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all theoffices of the Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously,the husband did according to his wish.
Immediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose fromtable, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapterhouse they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great,covered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twentytorches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, andthe sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung inthat chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims sawthe great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of theguardians as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who laytherein. The monks commenced to weep, and told with tears, that inthat place was laid the body of the best, the bravest, and the fairestknight who ever was, or ever should be born. "In his life he was Kingof this realm, and never was there so worshipful a lord. He was slainat Caerwent for the love of a lady of those parts. Since then thecountry is without a King. Many a day have we waited for the son ofthese luckless lovers to come to our land, even as our lord commandedus to do."
When the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud voicebefore them all.
"Fair son," said she, "you have heard why God has brought us to thisplace. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was heslain by this ancient Judas at your side."
With these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him theglaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as shemight she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with hisfriend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his deathby the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the endshe fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any furtherword until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that hismother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's swordand smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. Inthat hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gavequittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings werepublished abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting thebody of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with duerite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May Godgrant them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the peopleacclaimed him for their lord, as he departed from the church.
Those who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many daysshaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolourthat these two friends suffered by reason of their love.
