Female Poets-Marie de France- lay of the Thorn

XIV
THE LAY OF THE THORN
Whosoever counts these Lays as fable, may be assured that I am not ofhis mind. The dead and past stories that I have told again in diversfashions, are not set down without authority. The chronicles of thesefar off times are yet preserved in the land. They may be read by thecurious at Caerleon, or in the monastery of St. Aaron. They may beheard in Brittany, and in many another realm besides. To prove howthe remembrance of such tales endures, I will now relate to you theadventure of the Two Children, making clear what has remained hiddento this very hour.
In Brittany there lived a prince, high of spirit, fair of person,courteous and kind to all. This Childe was a King's son, and therewere none to cherish him but his father and his father's wife, forhis mother was dead. The King held him dearer than aught else in theworld, and close he was to the lady's heart. The lady, for her part,had a daughter by another husband than the King. Very dainty was themaiden, sweet of colour and of face, passing young and fair. Boththese children, born to so high estate, were right tender of age, forthe varlet, who was the elder of the twain, was but seven years. Thetwo children loved together very sweetly. Nothing seemed of worth toone, if it were not shared with the other. They were nourished at thesame table, went their ways together, and lived side by side. Theguardians who held them in ward, seeing their great love, made noeffort to put them apart, but allowed them to have all things incommon. The love of these children increased with their years, butDame Nature brought another love to youth and maid than she gave tothe child. They delighted no more in their old frolic and play. Suchsport gave place to clasp and kisses, to many words, and to longsilences. To savour their friendship they took refuge in an attic ofthe keep, but all the years they had passed together, made the newlove flower more sweetly in their hearts, as each knew well. Very pureand tender was their love, and good would it have been if they couldhave hidden it from their fellows. This might not be, for in no greatwhile they were spied upon, and seen.
It chanced upon a day that this prince, so young and debonair, camehome from the river with an aching head, by reason of the heat. Heentered in a chamber, and shutting out the noise and clamour, layupon his bed, to ease his pain. The Queen was with her daughter in achamber, instructing her meetly in that which it becomes a maid toknow. Closer to a damsel's heart is her lover than her kin. So soon asshe heard that her friend was come again to the house, she stole forthfrom her mother, without saying word to any, and accompanied by none,went straight to the chamber where he slept. The prince welcomed hergladly, for they had not met together that day. The lady, who thoughtno wrong, condoled with him in his sickness, and of her sweetness gavehim a hundred kisses to soothe his hurt. Too swiftly sped the timein this fashion. Presently the Queen noticed that the damsel was nolonger with her at her task. She rose to her feet, and going quicklyto the chamber of the prince, entered therein without call or knock,for the door was unfastened on the latch. When the Queen saw these twolovers fondly laced in each other's arms, she knew and was certifiedof their love. Right wrathful was the Queen. She caught the maidenby the wrist, and shut her fast in her room. She prayed the King togovern his son more strictly, and to hold him in such ward about theCourt that he might get no speech with the damsel. Since he could haveneither sight nor word of his friend, save only the sound of weepingfrom her chamber, the prince determined to tarry no further in thepalace. He sought his father the self-same hour, and showed him whatwas in his mind.
"Sire," said he, "I crave a gift. If it pleases you to be a father toyour son, make me now a knight. I desire to seek another realm, and toserve some prince for guerdon. The road calls me, for many a knighthas won much riches with his sword."
The King did not refuse the lad's request, but accorded it should beeven as he wished. He prayed the prince to dwell for a year about theCourt, that he might the more readily assist at such tourneys andfollow such feats of arms as were proclaimed in the kingdom. This theprince agreed to do--the more readily because there was nothing elseto be done. He remained therefore at the Court, moving ever by hisfather's side. The maiden, for her part, was in the charge of hermother, who reproached her always for that she had done amiss. TheQueen did not content herself with reproaches and threats. She usedthe sharp discipline upon her, so that the maiden suffered grievouslyin her person. Sick at heart was the varlet whilst he hearkened to thebeatings, the discipline and the chastisement wherewith her mothercorrected the damsel. He knew not what to do, for well he understoodthat his was the fault, and that by reason of him was her neck boweddown in her youth. More and more was he tormented because of hisfriend.
More and more the stripes with which she was afflicted became heavierfor him to bear. He shut himself close within his chamber, and makingfast the door, gave his heart over to tears.
"Alas," cried he, "what shall I do! How may the ill be cured that Ihave brought on us by my lightness and folly! I love her more thanlife, and, certes, if I may not have my friend I will prove that I candie for her, though I cannot live without her."
Whilst the prince made this lamentation, the Queen came before theKing.
"Sir," said she, "I pledge my oath and word as a crowned lady that Ikeep my daughter as strictly as I may. Think to your own son, and seeto it that he cannot set eyes on the maid. He considers none otherthing but how to get clasp and speech of his friend."
For this reason the King guarded his son about the Court as closely asthe Queen held the maiden in her chamber. So vigilant was the watchthat these pitiful lovers might never have word together. They had noleisure to meet; they never looked one on the other; nor heard tidingsof how they did, whether by letter or by sergeant.
They lived this death in life till the same year--eight days beforethe Feast of St. John--the varlet was dubbed knight. The King spentthe day in the chase, and returning, brought with him great store offowl and venison that he had taken. After supper, when the tables wereremoved, the King seated himself for his delight upon a carpet spreadbefore the dais, his son and many a courteous lord with him. The faircompany gave ear to the Lay of Alys, sweetly sung by a minstrel fromIreland, to the music of his rote. When his story was ended, forthwithhe commenced another, and related the Lay of Orpheus; none being sobold as to disturb the singer, or to let his mind wander from thesong. Afterwards the knights spoke together amongst themselves. Theytold of adventures which in ancient days had chanced to many, and werenoised about Brittany. Amongst these lords sat a damsel, passing sweetof tongue. In her turn she told of a certain adventure which awaitedthe adventurous at the Ford of the Thorn, once every year, on thevigil of St. John, "but much I doubt whether now there be knightsso bold as to dare the perils of that passage." When the newly madeknight heard these words his pride quickened within him. He consideredthat although he was belted with the sword, he had as yet done no deedto prove his courage in the eyes of men. He deemed the time had cometo show his hardihood, and to put to silence the malicious lips. Hestood upon his feet, calling upon damsel, King and barons to hearkento his voice, and spake out manfully in the ears of great and small.
"Lords," cried he, "whatever says the maiden, I boast before you allthat on St. John's Eve I will ride alone to the Ford of the Thorn, anddare this adventure, whether it bring me gain or whether it bring meloss."
The King was right heavy to hear these words. He thought them to bethe gab and idle speech of a boy.
"Fair son," said he, "put this folly from your mind."
But when the King was persuaded that whether it were foolishness orwisdom the lad was determined to go his way, and abide the issue ofthe adventure,
"Go swiftly," said he, "in the care of God. Since risk your life youmust, play it boldly like a pawn, and may God grant you heart's desireand happy hours."
The self-same night, whilst the lad lay sleeping in his bed, thatfair lady, his friend, was in much unrest in hers. The tidings of herlover's boast had been carried quickly to her chamber, and sorely wasshe adread for what might chance. When the Eve of St. John was come,and the day drew towards evening, the varlet, with all fair hopes,made him ready to ride to the Ford Adventurous. He had clad himselffrom basnet to shoes in steel, and mounted on a strong destrier, wenthis road to essay the Passage of the Thorn. Whilst he took his paththe maiden took hers. She went furtively to the orchard, that shemight importune God to bring her friend again, safe and sound to hisown house. She seated herself on the roots of a tree, and with sighsand tears lamented her piteous case.
"Father of Heaven," said the girl, "Who was and ever shall be, bepitiful to my prayer. Since it is not to Thy will that any man shouldbe wretched, be merciful to a most unhappy maid. Fair Sire, give backthe days that are gone, when my friend was at my side, and grant thatonce again I may be with him. Lord God of Hosts, when shall I behealed? None knows the bitterness of my sorrow, for none may tastethereof, save such as set their heart on what they may not have. Theseonly, Lord, know the wormwood and the gall."
Thus prayed the maiden, seated on the roots of that ancient tree, herfeet upon the tender grass. At the time of her orisons much was shesought and inquired after in the palace, but none might find where shehad hidden. The damsel herself was given over altogether to her loveand her sorrow, and had no thought for anything, save for prayers andtears. The night wore through, and dawn already laced the sky, whenshe fell on a little slumber, in the tree where she was sheltered. Shewoke with a start, but returned to her sleep more deeply than before.She had not slept long, when herseemed she was ravished from thetree--but I cannot make this plain for I know no wizardry--to thatFord of the Thorn, where her friend and lover had repaired. The knightlooked upon the sleeping maiden, and marvelled at so fair a sight. Alladread was the lady when she came from her slumber, for she knew notwhere she lay, and wondered greatly. She covered her head by reason ofher exceeding fear, but the knight consoled her courteously.
"Diva," said he, "there is no reason for terror. If you are an earthlywoman, speaking with a mortal tongue, tell me your story. Tell me inwhat guise and manner you came so suddenly to this secret place."
The maiden began to be of more courage, till she remembered that shewas no longer in the orchard of the castle. She inquired of the knightto what haunt she had come.
"Lady," he made answer, "you are laid at the Ford of the Thorn, whereadventures chance to the seeker, sometimes greatly against the mind,and sometimes altogether according to the heart."
"Ah, dear God," cried the lady, "now shall I be made whole. Sir, looka little closer upon me, for I have been your friend. Thanks be toGod, who so soon has heard my prayer."
This was the beginning of adventures which happened that night to theseeker. The maiden hastened to embrace her lover. He got him nimblyfrom his horse, and taking her softly between his arms, kissed herwith more kisses than I can tell. Then they sat together beneath thethorn, and the damsel told how she fell asleep within that old tree inthe pleasaunce, of how she was rapt from thence in her slumber, and ofhow, yet sleeping, he came upon her by the Ford. When the knight hadhearkened to all that she had to say, he looked from her face, andglancing across the river, marked a lord, with lifted lance, ridingto the ford. This knight wore harness of a fair vermeil colour, andbestrode a horse white of body, save for his two ears, which were redas the rider's mail. Slender of girdle was this knight, and he made noeffort to enter the river, but drew rein upon the other side of thepassage, and watched. The varlet said to his friend that it becamehis honour to essay some feats of arms with this adversary. He got tohorse, and rode to the river, leaving the maiden beneath the thorn.Had she but found another horse at need, very surely would she haveridden to his aid. The two knights drew together as swiftly as theirsteeds could bear them. They thrust so shrewdly with the lance, thattheir shields were split and broken. The spears splintered in thegauntlet, and both champions were unhorsed by the shock, rolling onthe sand; but nothing worse happened to them. Since they had neithersquire nor companion to help them on their feet, they pained themgrievously to get them from the ground. When they might climb upontheir steeds, they hung again the buckler about the neck, and loweredtheir ashen spears. Passing heavy was the varlet, for shame that hisfriend had seen him thrown. The two champions met together in theonset, but the prince struck his adversary so cunningly with thelance, that the laces of his buckler were broken, and the shield fellfrom his body. When the varlet saw this he rejoiced greatly, for heknew that the eyes of his friend were upon him. He pressed his quarrelright fiercely, and tumbling his foe from the saddle, seized his horseby the bridle.[2]
The two knights passed the ford, and the prince feared sorely becauseof the skill and mightiness of his adversary. He could not doubt thatif they fell upon him together he would perish at their hands. He putthe thought from mind, for he would not suspect them of conduct sounbecoming to gentle knight, and so contrary to the laws of chivalry.If they desired some passage of arms, doubtless they would joust asgentlemen, and each for himself alone. When these three knights weremounted on their steeds, they crossed the ford with courtesy andorder, each seeking to give precedence to his companion. Having cometo the bank the stranger knights prayed the prince to run a course fortheir pleasure. He answered that it was his wish, too, and made himready for the battle. The prince rejoiced greatly when he saw one ofthese two adversaries ride a little apart, that he might the moreeasily observe the combat. He was assured that he would suffer nofelony at their hands. For their part the two knights were persuadedthat they had to do with an errant who had ridden to the ford for noother gain than honour and praise. The two adversaries took theirplaces within the lists. They lowered their lance, and covering theirbodies with the shield, smote fiercely together. So rude was the shockthat the staves of the spears were broken, and the strong destrierswere thrown upon their haunches. Neither of the good knights had losthis saddle. Each of the combatants got him to his feet, and drawingthe sword, pressed upon his fellow, till the blood began to flow. Whenthe knight who judged this quarrel saw their prowess, he came near,and commanded that the battle should cease. The adversaries drewapart, and struck no further blow with the sword. Right courteouslyand with fair words he spake to the prince. "Friend," said the knight,"get to your horse, and break a lance with me. Then we can go inpeace, for our time grows short. You must endure till the light become if you hope to gain the prize. Do your devoir, valiantly,for should you chance to be thrown in this course, or slain bymisadventure, you have lost your desire. None will ever hear of thisadventure; all your life you will remain little and obscure. Yourmaiden will be led away by the victor, seated on the good Castilianhorse you have gained by right of courage. Fight bravely. Thetrappings of the destrier are worth the spoil of a king's castle, andas for the horse himself he is the swiftest and the fairest in theworld. Be not amazed that I tell you of these matters. I have watchedyou joust, and know you for a hardy knight and a gallant gentleman.Besides I stand to lose horse and harness equally with you."
[Footnote 2: There is here some omission in the manuscript.]
The prince listened to these words, and accorded that the knight spokewisely and well. He would willingly have taken counsel of the maiden,but first, as surely he knew, he must joust with this knight. Hegathered the reins in his glove, and choosing a lance with an ashenstaff, opposed himself to his adversary. The combatants met togetherso fiercely that the lance pierced the steel of the buckler; yetneither lost stirrup by the shock. When the prince saw this he smotethe knight so shrewdly that he would have fallen from the saddle, hadhe not clung to the neck of his destrier. Of his courtesy the princepassed on, and refrained his hand until his enemy had recovered hisseat. On his return he found the knight full ready to continue hisdevoir. Each of the champions plucked forth his sword, and shelteredhim beneath his shield. They struck such mighty blows that thebucklers were hewn in pieces, but in spite of all they remained firmin the saddle. The maiden was aghast whilst she watched the melée. Shehad great fear for her friend, lest mischief should befall him, andshe cried loudly to the knight that, for grace, he should give overthis combat, and go his way. Very courteous was the knight, and meetlyschooled in what was due to maidens. He saluted the damsel, and,together with his companion, rode straightway from the ford. Theprince watched them pass for a little, then without further tarryinghe went swiftly to the maiden, where, all fearful and trembling, sheknelt beneath the thorn. The lady stood upon her feet as her loverdrew near. She climbed behind him on the saddle, for well she knewthat their pains were done. They fared so fast that when it was yetscarce day they came again to the palace. The King saw them approach,and rejoiced greatly at his son's prowess; but at this he marvelledmuch, that he should return with the daughter of the Queen.
The self-same day of this home-coming--as I have heard tell--the Kinghad summoned to Court his barons and vassals because of a certainquarrel betwixt two of his lords. This quarrel being accorded betweenthem, and come to a fair end, the King related to that blithe companythe story of this adventure. He told again that which you know, of howthe prince defended the Ford, of the finding of the maiden beneath thethorn, of the mighty joust, and of that white horse which was takenfrom the adversary.
The prince both then and thereafter caused the horse to be entreatedwith the greatest care. He received the maiden to wife, and cherishedher right tenderly. She, and the steed on which she would always ride,were his richest possessions. The destrier lived many years in muchhonour, but on a day when his master was taking the harness from hishead, he fell and died forthwith.
Of the story which has been set before you the Bretons wrought a Lay.They did not call the song the Lay of the Ford, although the adventuretook place at a river; neither have they named it The Lay of the TwoChildren. For good or ill the rhyme is known as the Lay of the Thorn.It begins well and endeth better, for these kisses find their fruitionin marriage.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of Yonec

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.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of Milon

XII
THE LAY OF MILON
He who would tell divers tales must know how to vary the tune. Towin the favour of any, he must speak to the understanding of all. Ipurpose in this place to show you the story of Milon, and--since fewwords are best--I will set out the adventure as briefly as I may.
Milon was born in South Wales. So great was his prowess that from theday he was dubbed knight there was no champion who could stand beforehim in the lists. He was a passing fair knight, open and brave,courteous to his friends, and stern to his foes. Men praised his namein whatever realm they talked of gallant deeds--Ireland, Norway, andWales, yea, from Jutland even to Albania. Since he was praised by thefrank, he was therefore envied of the mean. Nevertheless, by reason ofhis skill with the spear, he was counted a very worshipful knight, andwas honourably entreated by many a prince in divers lands.
In Milon's own realm there lived a lord whose name has gone frommind. With this baron dwelt his daughter, a passing fair and graciousdamsel. Much talk had this maiden heard of Milon's knightly deeds, sothat she began to set her thoughts upon him, because of the good menspoke of him. She sent him a message by a sure hand, saying that ifher love was to his mind, sweetly would it be to her heart. Milonrejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He thanked the lady for herwords, giving her love again in return for her own, and swearing thathe would never depart therefrom any day of his days. Beyond thiscourteous answer Milon bestowed on the messenger costly gifts, andmade him promises that were richer still.
"Friend," said he, "of your charity I pray you that I may have speechwith my friend, in such a fashion that none shall know of our meeting.Carry her this, my golden ring. Tell her, on my part, that so shepleases she shall come to me, or, if it be her better pleasure, I willgo to her."
The messenger bade farewell, and returned to his lady. He placed thering in her hand, saying that he had done her will, as he was biddento do.
Right joyous was the damsel to know that Milon's love was tender asher own. She required her friend to come for speech within the privategarden of her house, where she was wont to take her delight. Miloncame at her commandment. He came so often, and so dearly she lovedhim, that in the end she gave him all that maid may give. When thedamsel perceived how it was with her, she sent messages to her friend,telling him of her case, and making great sorrow.
"I have lost my father and all his wealth," said the lady, "for whenhe hears of this matter he will make of me an example. Either I shallbe tormented with the sword, or else he will sell me as a slave in afar country."
(For such was the usage of our fathers in the days of this tale).
Milon grieved sorely, and made answer that he would do the thing thedamsel thought most seemly to be done.
"When the child is born," replied the lady, "you must carry himforthwith to my sister. She is a rich dame, pitiful and good, and iswedded to a lord of Northumberland. You will send messages with thebabe--both in writing and by speech--that the little innocent is hersister's child. Whether it be a boy or girl his mother will havesuffered much because of him, and for her sister's sake you will prayher to cherish the babe. Beyond this I shall set your signet by a laceabout his neck, and write letters wherein shall be made plain the nameof his sire, and the sad story of his mother. When he shall have growntall, and of an age to understand these matters, his aunt will givehim your ring, and rehearse to him the letter. If this be done,perchance the orphan will not be fatherless all his days."
Milon approved the counsel of the lady, and when her time had come shewas brought to bed of a boy. The old nurse who tended her mistresswas privy to the damsel's inmost mind. So warily she went to work, socunning was she in gloss and concealment, that none within the palaceknew that there was aught to hide. The damsel looked upon her boy, andsaw that he was very fair. She laced the ring about his neck, and setthe letter that it were death to find, within a silken chatelaine. Thechild was then placed in his cradle, swathed close in white linen. Apillow of feathers was put beneath his head, and over all was laid awarm coverlet, wadded with fur. In this fashion the ancient nursegave the babe to his father, who awaited him within the garden. Miloncommended the child to his men, charging them to carry him loyally, bysuch towns as they knew, to that lady beyond the Humber. The servitorsset forth, bearing the infant with them. Seven times a day theyreposed them in their journey, so that the women might nourishthe babe, and bathe and tend him duly. They served their lord sofaithfully, keeping such watch upon the way, that at the last theywon to the lady to whom they were bidden. The lady received themcourteously, as became her breeding. She broke the seal of the letter,and when she was assured of what was therein, marvellously shecherished the infant. These having bestowed the boy in accordance withtheir lord's commandment, returned to their own land.
Milon went forth from his realm to serve beyond the seas for guerdon.His friend remained within her house and was granted by her father inmarriage to a right rich baron of that country. Though this baron wasa worthy knight, justly esteemed of all his fellows, the damsel wasgrieved beyond measure when she knew her father's will. She called tomind the past, and regretted that Milon had gone from the country,since he would have helped her in her need.
"Alas!" said the lady, "what shall I do? I doubt that I am lost, formy lord will find that his bride is not a maid. If this becomes knownthey will make me a bondwoman for all my days. Would that my friendwere here to free me from this coil. It were good for me to die ratherthan to live, but by no means can I escape from their hands. Theyhave set warders about me, men, old and young, whom they call mychamberlains, contemners of love, who delight themselves in sadness.But endure it I must, for, alas, I know not how to die."
So on the appointed day the lady was wedded to the baron, and herhusband took her to dwell with him in his fief.
When Milon returned to his own country he was right heavy andsorrowful to learn of this marriage. He lamented his wretched case,but in this he found comfort, that he was not far from the realm wherethe lady abode whom so tenderly he loved. Milon commenced to thinkwithin himself how best he might send letters to the damsel that hewas come again to his home, yet so that none should have knowledgethereof. He wrote a letter, and sealed it with his seal. This messagehe made fast to the neck, and hid within the plumage of a swan thatwas long his, and was greatly to his heart. He bade his squire tocome, and made him his messenger.
"Change thy raiment swiftly," said he, "and hasten to the castle of myfriend. Take with thee my swan, and see that none, neither servant norhandmaid, delivers the bird to my lady, save thyself alone."
The squire did according to his lord's commandment. He made him readyquickly, and went forth, bearing the swan with him. He went by thenearest road, and passing through the streets of the city, came beforethe portal of the castle. In answer to his summons the porter drewnear.
"Friend," said he, "hearken to me. I am of Caerleon, and a fowler bycraft. Within my nets I have snared the most marvellous swan in theworld. This wondrous bird I would bestow forthwith upon your lady, butperforce I must offer her the gift with my own hand."
"Friend," replied the porter, "fowlers are not always welcomed ofladies. If you come with me I will bring you where I may know whetherit pleases my lady to have speech with you and to receive your gift."
The porter entered in the hall, where he found none but two lordsseated at a great table, playing chess for their delight. He swiftlyreturned on his steps, and the fowler with him, so furtively withalthat the lords were not disturbed at their game, nor perceived aughtof the matter. They went therefore to the chamber of the lady. Inanswer to their call the door was opened to them by a maiden, wholed them before her dame. When the swan was proffered to the ladyit pleased her to receive the gift. She summoned a varlet of herhousehold and gave the bird to his charge, commanding him to keep itsafely, and to see that it ate enough and to spare.
"Lady," said the servitor, "I will do your bidding. We shall neverreceive from any fowler on earth such another bird as this. The swanis fit to serve at a royal table, for the bird is plump as he isfair."
The varlet put the swan in his lady's hands. She took the bird kindly,and smoothing his head and neck, felt the letter that was hiddenbeneath its feathers. The blood pricked in her veins, for well sheknew that the writing was sent her by her friend. She caused thefowler to be given of her bounty, and bade the men to go forth fromher chamber. When they had parted the lady called a maiden to her aid.She broke the seal, and unfastening the letter, came upon the name ofMilon at the head. She kissed the name a hundred times through hertears. When she might read the writing she learned of the great painand dolour that her lover suffered by day and by night. In you--hewrote--is all my pleasure, and in your white hands it lies to heal meor to slay. Strive to find a plan by which we may speak as friend tofriend, if you would have me live. The knight prayed her in his letterto send him an answer by means of the swan. If the bird were wellguarded, and kept without provand for three days, he would of a suretyfly back to the place from whence he came, with any message that thelady might lace about his neck.
When the damsel had considered the writing, and understood what wasput therein, she commanded that her bird should be tended carefully,and given plenteously to eat and to drink. She held him for a monthwithin her chamber, but this was less from choice, than for the craftthat was necessary to obtain the ink and parchment requisite for herwriting. At the end she wrote a letter according to her heart, andsealed it with her ring. The lady caused the swan to fast for threefull days; then having concealed the message about his neck, let himtake his flight. The bird was all anhungered for food, and rememberingwell the home from which he drew, he returned thither as quickly ashis wings might bear him.
He knew again his town, and his master's house, and descended to theground at Milon's very feet. Milon rejoiced greatly when he marked hisown. He caught the bird by his wings, and crying for his steward, badehim give the swan to eat. The knight removed the missive from themessenger's neck. He glanced from head to head of the letter, seekingthe means that he hoped to find, and the salutation he so tenderlywished. Sweet to his heart was the writing, for the lady wrote thatwithout him there was no joy in her life, and since it was his desireto hear by the swan, it would be her pleasure also.
For twenty years the swan was made the messenger of these two lovers,who might never win together. There was no speech between them, savethat carried by the bird. They caused the swan to fast for three days,and then sent him on his errand. He to whom the letter came, saw toit that the messenger was fed to heart's desire. Many a time the swanwent upon his journey, for however strictly the lady was held of herhusband, there was none who had suspicion of a bird.
The dame beyond the Humber nourished and tended the boy committed toher charge with the greatest care. When he was come to a fitting ageshe made him to be knighted of her lord, for goodly and serviceablewas the lad. On the same day the aunt read over to him the letter, andput in his hand the ring. She told him the name of his mother, and hisfather's story. In all the world there was no worthier knight, nor amore chivalrous and gallant gentleman. The lad hearkened diligently tothe lady's tale. He rejoiced greatly to hear of his father's prowess,and was proud beyond measure of his renown. He considered withinhimself, saying to his own heart, that much should be required of hisfather's son, and that he would not be worthy of his blood if he didnot endeavour to merit his name. He determined therefore that he wouldleave his country, and seek adventure as a knight errant, beyond thesea. The varlet delayed no longer than the evening. On the morrow hebade farewell to his aunt, who having warned and admonished him forhis good, gave him largely of her wealth, to bring him on his way. Herode to Southampton, that he might find a ship equipped for sea, andso came to Barfleur. Without any tarrying the lad went straight toBrittany, where he spent his money and himself in feasts and intourneys. The rich men of the land were glad of his friendship, forthere was none who bore himself better in the press with spear or withsword. What he took from the rich he bestowed on such knights as werepoor and luckless. These loved him greatly, since he gained largelyand spent freely, granting of his wealth to all. Wherever this knightsojourned in the realm he bore away the prize. So debonair was he andchivalrous that his fame and praise crossed the water, and were noisedabroad in his own land. Folk told how a certain knight from beyond theHumber, who had passed the sea in quest of wealth and honour, had sodone, that by reason of his prowess, his liberality, and his modesty,men called him the Knight Peerless, since they did not know his name.
This praise of the good knight, and of his deeds, came to be heard ofMilon. Very dolent was he and sorely troubled that so young a knightshould be esteemed above his fathers. He marvelled greatly that thestout spears of the past had not put on their harness and broken alance for their ancient honour. One thing he determined, that hewould cross the sea without delay, so that he might joust with thedansellon, and abate his pride. In wrath and anger he purposed tofight, to beat his adversary from the saddle, and bring him at lastto shame. After this was ended he would seek his son, of whom he hadheard nothing, since he had gone from his aunt's castle. Milon causedhis friend to know of his wishes. He opened out to her all histhought, and craved her permission to depart. This letter he sent bythe swan, commending the bird to her care.
When the lady heard of her lover's purpose, she thanked him for hiscourtesy, for greatly was his counsel to her mind. She approved hisdesire to quit the realm for the sake of his honour, and far fromputting let and hindrance in his path, trusted that in the end hewould bring again her son. Since Milon was assured of his friend'sgoodwill, he arrayed himself richly, and crossing the sea to Normandy,came afterwards into the land of the Bretons. There he soughtthe friendship of the lords of that realm, and fared to all thetournaments of which he might hear. Milon bore himself proudly, andgave graciously of his wealth, as though he were receiving a gift.He sojourned till the winter was past in that land, he, and a bravecompany of knights whom he held in his house with him. When Easterhad come, and the season that men give to tourneys and wars and therighting of their private wrongs, Milon considered how he could meetwith the knight whom men called Peerless. At that time a tournamentwas proclaimed to be held at Mont St. Michel. Many a Norman and Bretonrode to the game; knights of Flanders and of France were there inplenty, but few fared from England. Milon drew to the lists amongstthe first. He inquired diligently of the young champion, and all menwere ready to tell from whence he came, and of his harness, and of theblazon on his shield. At length the knight appeared in the lists andMilon looked upon the adversary he so greatly desired to see. Now inthis tournament a knight could joust with that lord who was set overagainst him, or he could seek to break a lance with his chosen foe. Aplayer must gain or lose, and he might find himself opposed eitherby his comrade or his enemy. Milon did well and worshipfully in thepress, and was praised of many that day. But the Knight Peerlesscarried the cry from all his fellows, for none might stand before him,nor rival him in skill and address. Milon observed him curiously. Thelad struck so heavily, he thrust home so shrewdly, that Milon's hatredchanged to envy as he watched. Very comely showed the varlet, andmuch to Milon's mind. The older knight set himself over against thechampion, and they met together in the centre of the field. Milonstruck his adversary so fiercely, that the lance splintered in hisgauntlet; but the young knight kept his seat without even losing astirrup. In return his spear was aimed with such cunning that he borehis antagonist to the ground. Milon lay upon the earth bareheaded, forhis helmet was unlaced in the shock. His hair and beard showedwhite to all, and the varlet was heavy to look on him whom he hadoverthrown. He caught the destrier by the bridle, and led him beforethe stricken man.
"Sir," said he, "I pray you to get upon your horse. I am right grievedand vexed that I should have done this wrong. Believe me that it waswrought unwittingly."
Milon sprang upon his steed. He approved the courtesy of hisadversary, and looking upon the hand that held his bridle, he knewagain his ring. He made inquiry of the lad.
"Friend," said he, "hearken to me. Tell me now the name of thy sire.How art thou called; who is thy mother? I have seen much, and gone toand fro about the world. All my life I have journeyed from realm torealm, by reason of tourneys and quarrels and princes' wars, yet neveronce by any knight have I been borne from my horse. This day I amoverthrown by a boy, and yet I cannot help but love thee."
The varlet answered, "I know little of my father. I understand thathis name is Milon, and that he was a knight of Wales. He loved thedaughter of a rich man, and was loved again. My mother bore me insecret, and caused me to be carried to Northumberland, where I wastaught and tended. An old aunt was at the costs of my nourishing. Shekept me at her side, till of all her gifts she gave me horse and arms,and sent me here, where I have remained. In hope and wish I purpose tocross the sea, and return to my own realm. There I would seek out myfather, and learn how it stands between him and my mother. I will showhim my golden ring, and I will tell him of such privy matters that hemay not deny our kinship, but must love me as a son, and ever hold medear."
When Milon heard these words he could endure them no further. He gothim swiftly from his horse, and taking the lad by the fringe of hishauberk, he cried, "Praise be to God, for now am I healed. Fairfriend, by my faith thou art my very son, for whom I came forth frommy own land, and have sought through all this realm."
The varlet climbed from the saddle, and stood upon his feet. Fatherand son kissed each other tenderly, with many comfortable words. Theirlove was fair to see, and those who looked upon their meeting, weptfor joy and pity.
Milon and his son departed from the tournament so soon as it cameto an end, for the knight desired greatly to speak to the varlet atleisure, and to open before him all his mind. They rode to theirhostel, and with the knights of their fellowship, passed the hours inmirth and revelry. Milon spoke to the lad of his mother. He told himof their long love, and how she was given by her father in marriage toa baron of his realm. He rehearsed the years of separation, acceptedby both with a good heart, and of the messenger who carried lettersbetween them, when there was none they dared to trust in, save onlythe swan.
The son made answer,
"In faith, fair father, let us return to our own land. There I willslay this husband, and you shall yet be my mother's lord."
This being accorded between them, on the morrow they made them readyfor the journey, and bidding farewell to their friends, set forth forWales. They embarked in a propitious hour, for a fair wind carried theship right swiftly to its haven. They had not ridden far upon theirroad, when they met a certain squire of the lady's household on hisway to Brittany, bearing letters to Milon. His task was done longbefore sundown in chancing on the knight. He gave over the sealedwriting with which he was charged, praying the knight to hasten to hisfriend without any tarrying, since her husband was in his grave. Milonrejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He showed the message to hisson, and pressed forward without pause or rest. They made such speed,that at the end they came to the castle where the lady had herlodging. Light of heart was she when she clasped again her child.These two fond lovers sought neither countenance of their kin, norcounsel of any man. Their son handselled them together, and gave themother to his sire. From the day they were wed they dwelt in wealthand in sweetness to the end of their lives.
Of their love and content the minstrel wrought this Lay. I, also, whohave set it down in writing, have won guerdon enough just by tellingover the tale.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of Equitan

XI
THE LAY OF EQUITAN
In ancient days many a noble lord lived in Brittany beyond the Seas.By reason of their courtesy and nobleness they would gladly keepin remembrance the deeds that were done in the land. That thesemarvellous things should not be forgotten they fashioned them intoLays. Amongst these Lays I have heard tell of one which is not made todie as though it had never been.
Equitan, lord of Nantes, was a loyal and courteous gentleman, of greatworth, beloved by all in his own country. He was set on pleasure, andwas Love's lover, as became a gentle knight. Like many others who doteon woman, he observed neither sense nor measure in love. But it is inthe very nature of Love that proportion cannot enter into the matter.
Equitan had for seneschal a right brave and loyal knight, who wascaptain of his army, and did justice in his realm. He was often abroadupon his master's business, for the King would not forego his delightfor any reason whatever. To dance, to hunt, to fish within theriver--this was all his joy. This seneschal was married to a wife,by whom great evil came upon the land. Very desirable was the lady;passing tender of body, and sweet of vesture, coiffed and fretted withgold. Her eyes were blue; her face warmly coloured, with a fragrantmouth, and a dainty nose. Certainly she had no peer in all the realm.The King had heard much in praise of this lady and many a timesaluted her upon the way. He had also sent her divers gifts. Often heconsidered in his mind how best he might get speech with the dame. Forhis privy pleasure this amorous King went to chase in that countrywhere the seneschal had his castle. The lady being in her own house,Equitan craved a lodging for the night. By this means when the huntwas done, he could speak with her, and show what was in his heart.Equitan found the lady as discreet as courteous. He looked closelyupon her, for she was fair of face and person, and sweet of semblanceand address. Love bound him captive to his car. The god loosed a shaftwhich entered deeply in his breast. The arrow pierced to his heart,and from thenceforth he cared nothing for measure, or kingship, ordelight. Equitan was so surprised of the lady, that he remained silentand pensive. He heard nothing, and nothing he could do. All night helay in unrest upon the bed, reproaching himself for what had come topass.
"Alas," said he, "what evil fate has led me into this land! The sightonly of this lady has put such anguish into my heart that my membersfail beneath me. It is Love, I deem, who rides me thus cruelly. Butif I love this lady I shall do a great wrong. She is the wife of myseneschal, and it is my duty to keep the same love and faith to him asI would wish him to observe with me. If by any means I could know whatis in her mind, I should be the easier, for torment is doubled thatyou bear alone. There is not a dame, however curst, but would ratherlove than not; for if she were a contemner of love where would be hercourtesy? But if she loves, there is not a woman under the sky whowould not suck thereout all the advantage that she may. If the mattercame to the ears of the seneschal, he ought not to think too hardlyof me. He cannot hope to keep such treasure for himself alone; and,certes, I shall claim my portion."
Equitan tossed on his bed, and sighed. His thoughts were still on thelady, so that in a little he said, "I think of the ford, before I cometo the river. I go too quickly, for I know not yet whether the ladywill take me as her friend. But know I will as swiftly as I can, sinceI cannot get rest or sleep. I will come before her as soon as it isday, and if she feels as I feel, the sooner I shall be rid of mypain."
The King kept vigil till the daylight came at last. He arose and wentforth, as if to the chase. He returned presently, telling that hewas sick, and going straight to his chamber, lay upon his bed. Theseneschal was very troubled, for he could not imagine the sickness ofwhich his master felt the pangs. He counselled his wife to seek theirguest, that she might cheer and comfort him in his trouble. When theywere alone the King opened to her his heart. He told her that he wasdying for her love, and that if she had no more than friendship tooffer, he preferred death before life.
"Sire," replied the dame, "I require a little time to think of whatyou say, for I cannot answer yes or no, without thought, in a businessof this moment. I am not of your wealth, and you are too high a lord,for your love to do more than rest lightly on me. When you have hadyour desire, it will as lightly fly away. My sorrow would be overlong,if I should love you, and grant you what you wish. It is much thebest that between you and me love should not be spoken of. You area puissant prince; my husband is one of your vassals, and faith andtrust should bind us--not the dangerous bond of love. Love is onlylasting between like and like. Better is the love of an honest man--sohe be of sense and worth--than that of a prince or king, with noloyalty in him. She who sets her love more highly than she can reach,may pluck no fruit from the tree. The rich man deems that love is hisof right. He prays little of his friend, for he thinks none daretake her from his hand, and that her tenderness is his by prize oflordship."
When she had ceased, Equitan made answer, "Lady, I can offer you butshort thanks for your words, since they savour of scant courtesy. Youspeak of love as a burgess makes a bargain. Those who desire to get,rather than to give, often find that they have the worser half of thebusiness. There is no lady under heaven--so she be courteous and kindand of a good heart--but would grant her grace to a true lover, eventhough she have beneath her cloak only a rich prince in his castle.Those who care but for a fresh face--tricksters in love as a cozenerwith dice--are justly flouted and deceived, as oftentimes we see. Nonewastes pity on him who receives the stripes he deserves. Dear lady,let me make myself plain. Do not regard me as your King; look on me asyour servant and your friend. I give my word and plight my troth thatall my happiness shall be found in your pleasure. Let me not die foryour love. You shall be the Dame, and I the page; you shall be thescornful beauty, and I the prayer at your knee."
The King prayed the lady so urgently, so tenderly he sued for grace,that at the last she assured him of her love, and gave him the giftof her heart. They granted rings one to another, and pledged affiancebetween them. They kept this faith, and guarded this love, till theydied together, and there was an end to all.
Equitan and the lady loved for a great while without it coming to theears of any. When the King desired to have speech of his friend,he told his household that he would be alone, since it was the dayappointed for his bleeding. The King having shut the doors of hischamber, there was none so bold as to enter therein, save he werebidden of his lord. Whilst he was busied in this fashion, theseneschal sat in open court to hear the pleas and right the wrong. Hewas as much to the King's mind, as his wife was to the King's heart.The lord was so assotted upon the lady that he would neither taketo himself a wife, nor listen to a word upon the matter. His peopleblamed him loudly, so loudly that it came to the ears of the lady. Shewas passing heavy, for she feared greatly that the barons would havetheir way. When next she had speech with Equitan, in place of the kissand sweetness of her customary greeting, she came before him makinggreat sorrow and in tears. The King inquiring the reason of herdolour, the lady replied, "Sire, I lament our love, and the trouble Ialways said would be mine. You are about to wed the daughter of someKing, and my good days are over. Everybody says so, and I know it tobe true. What will become of me when you put me away! I will die,rather than lose you, for I may have no other comfort."
The King made answer very tenderly, "Fair friend, you need not fear.There will never be wife of mine to put you from me. I shall neverwed, except your husband die, and then it is you who would be my queenand lady. I will leave you for no other dame."
The lady thanked him sweetly for his words. Much was she beholden tohim in her heart. Since she was assured that he would not leave herfor any other, she turned over swiftly in her mind the profit thatwould come from her husband's death. Much happiness might be bought ata little cost, if Equitan would lend his aid.
The King made answer that he would do her will to the utmost of hispower, whether her counsel were for good or evil.
"Sire," said the lady, "let it please you to hunt the forest withinthe country where I dwell. You can lodge in my lord's castle, andthere you must be bled. Three days after your surgery is done, youmust call for your bath. My lord shall be bled with you, so that hemay go to his bathing at the same time. It will be your part to keephim at your side, and make him your constant companion. It will bemine to heat the water, and to carry the baths to your chamber. Myhusband's bath shall boil so fiercely, that no breathing man, havingentered therein, may come forth living. When he is dead you must callfor your people, and show them how the seneschal has died suddenly inhis bath."
Because of his love the King granted her desire, and promised to doaccording to her will. Before three months were done the King rode tothe chase within the lady's realm. He caused surgeons to bleed him forhis health, and the seneschal with him. He said that he would take hisbath on the third day, and the seneschal required his, too, to be madeready. The lady caused the water to be heated, and carried the bathsto the chamber. According to her device she set a bath beside eachbed, filling with boiling water that bath which her lord should enter.Her lord had gone forth for a little, so for a space the King and thelady were alone. They sat on the husband's bed, and looked tenderlyeach on the other, near by that heated bath. The door of the chamberwas kept by a young damsel to give them warning. The seneschal madehaste to return, and would have struck on the door of the chamber, butwas stayed by the maiden. He put her by, and in his impatience flungthe door wide open. Entering he found his master and his wife claspedin each other's arms. When the King saw the seneschal he had nothought but to hide his dishonour. He started up, and sprang withjoined feet in the bath that was filled with boiling water. There heperished miserably, in the very snare he had spread for another, whowas safe and sound. The seneschal marked what had happened to theKing. In his rage he turned to his wife, and laying hands upon herthrust her, head first, in the self-same bath. So they died together,the King first, and the lady afterwards, with him.
Those who are willing to listen to fair words, may learn from thisensample, that he who seeks another's ill often brings the evil uponhimself.
As I have told you before, of this adventure the Bretons made the Layof Equitan, the lady whom he loved, and of their end.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of the Honey suckle

X
THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE
With a glad heart and right good mind will I tell the Lay that mencall Honeysuckle; and that the truth may be known of all it shall betold as many a minstrel has sung it to my ear, and as the scribe hathwritten it for our delight. It is of Tristan and Isoude, the Queen.It is of a love which passed all other love, of love from whence camewondrous sorrow, and whereof they died together in the self-same day.
King Mark was sorely wrath with Tristan, his sister's son, and badehim avoid his realm, by reason of the love he bore the Queen. SoTristan repaired to his own land, and dwelt for a full year in SouthWales, where he was born. Then since he might not come where he wouldbe, Tristan took no heed to his ways, but let his life run waste toDeath. Marvel not overmuch thereat, for he who loves beyond measuremust ever be sick in heart and hope, when he may not win accordingto his wish. So sick in heart and mind was Tristan that he left hiskingdom, and returned straight to the realm of his banishment, becausethat in Cornwall dwelt the Queen. There he hid privily in the deepforest, withdrawn from the eyes of men; only when the evening wascome, and all things sought their rest, he prayed the peasant andother mean folk of that country, of their charity to grant him shelterfor the night. From the serf he gathered tidings of the King. Thesegave again to him what they, in turn, had taken from some outlawedknight. Thus Tristan learned that when Pentecost was come King Markpurposed to hold high Court at Tintagel, and keep the feast with pompand revelry; moreover that thither would ride Isoude, the Queen.
When Tristan heard this thing he rejoiced greatly, since the Queenmight not adventure through the forest, except he saw her with hiseyes. After the King had gone his way, Tristan entered within thewood, and sought the path by which the Queen must come. There he cut awand from out a certain hazel-tree, and having trimmed and peeled itof its bark, with his dagger he carved his name upon the wood. This heplaced upon her road, for well he knew that should the Queen but markhis name she would bethink her of her friend. Thus had it chancedbefore. For this was the sum of the writing set upon the wand, forQueen Isoude's heart alone: how that in this wild place Tristan hadlurked and waited long, so that he might look upon her face, sincewithout her he was already dead. Was it not with them as with theHoneysuckle and the Hazel tree she was passing by! So sweetly lacedand taken were they in one close embrace, that thus they might remainwhilst life endured. But should rough hands part so fond a clasping,the hazel would wither at the root, and the honeysuckle must fail.Fair friend, thus is the case with us, nor you without me, nor Iwithout you.
Now the Queen fared at adventure down the forest path. She spied thehazel wand set upon her road, and well she remembered the lettersand the name. She bade the knights of her company to draw rein, anddismount from their palfreys, so that they might refresh themselves alittle. When her commandment was done she withdrew from them a space,and called to her Brangwaine, her maiden, and own familiar friend.Then she hastened within the wood, to come on him whom more she lovedthan any living soul. How great the joy between these twain, that oncemore they might speak together softly, face to face. Isoude showed himher delight. She showed in what fashion she strove to bring peaceand concord betwixt Tristan and the King, and how grievously hisbanishment had weighed upon her heart. Thus sped the hour, till itwas time for them to part; but when these lovers freed them fromthe other's arms, the tears were wet upon their cheeks. So Tristanreturned to Wales, his own realm, even as his uncle bade. But for thejoy that he had had of her, his friend, for her sweet face, and forthe tender words that she had spoken, yea, and for that writing uponthe wand, to remember all these things, Tristan, that cunning harper,wrought a new Lay, as shortly I have told you. Goatleaf, men call thissong in English. Chèvrefeuille it is named in French; but Goatleafor Honeysuckle, here you have the very truth in the Lay that I havespoken.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of the ash tree

IX
THE LAY OF THE ASH TREE
Now will I tell you the Lay of the Ash Tree, according to the storythat I know.
In ancient days there dwelt two knights in Brittany, who wereneighbours and close friends. These two lords were brave and worthygentlemen, rich in goods and lands, and near both in heart and home.Moreover each was wedded to a dame. One of these ladies was withchild, and when her time was come, she was delivered of two boys. Herhusband was right happy and content. For the joy that was his, he sentmessages to his neighbour, telling that his wife had brought forth twosons, and praying that one of them might be christened with his name.The rich man was at meat when the messenger came before him. Theservitor kneeled before the dais, and told his message in his ear. Thelord thanked God for the happiness that had befallen his friend,and bestowed a fair horse on the bringer of good tidings. His wife,sitting at board with her husband, heard the story of the messenger,and smiled at his news. Proud she was, and sly, with an envious heart,and a rancorous tongue. She made no effort to bridle her lips, butspoke lightly before the servants of the house, and said,
"I marvel greatly that so reputable a man as our neighbour, shouldpublish his dishonour to my lord. It is a shameful thing for any wifeto have two children at a birth. We all know that no woman bringsforth two at one bearing, except two husbands have aided her therein."
Her husband looked upon her in silence for awhile, and when he spokeit was to blame her very sternly.
"Wife," he said, "be silent. It is better to be dumb, than to uttersuch words as these. As you know well, there is not a breath totarnish this lady's good name."
The folk of the house, who listened to these words, stored them intheir hearts, and told abroad the tale, spoken by their lady. Verysoon it was known throughout Brittany. Greatly was the lady blamed forher evil tongue, and not a woman who heard thereof--whether she wererich or poor--but who scorned her for her malice. The servant whocarried the message, on his return repeated to his lord of what he hadseen and heard. Passing heavy was the knight, and knew not what todo. He doubted his own true wife, and suspected her the more sorely,because she had done naught that was in any way amiss.
The lady, who so foully slandered her fellow, fell with child in thesame year. Her neighbour was avenged upon her, for when her term wascome, she became the mother of two daughters. Sick at heart was she.She was right sorrowful, and lamented her evil case.
"Alas," she said, "what shall I do, for I am dishonoured for allmy days. Shamed I am, it is the simple truth. When my lord and hiskinsfolk shall hear of what has chanced, they will never believe mea stainless wife. They will remember how I judged all women in myplight. They will recall how I said before my house, that my neighbourcould not have been doubly a mother, unless she had first been doublya wife. I have the best reason now to know that I was wrong, and I amcaught in my own snare. She who digs a pit for another, cannot tellthat she may not fall into the hole herself. If you wish to speakloudly concerning your neighbour, it is best to say nothing of himbut in praise. The only way to keep me from shame, is that one of mychildren should die. It is a great sin; but I would rather trust tothe mercy of God, than suffer scorn and reproach for the rest of mylife."
The women about her comforted her as best they might in this trouble.They told her frankly that they would not suffer such wrong to bedone, since the slaying of a child was not reckoned a jest. The ladyhad a maiden near her person, whom she had long held and nourished.The damsel was a freeman's daughter, and was greatly loved andcherished of her mistress. When she saw the lady's tears, and heardthe bitterness of her complaint, anguish went to her heart, like aknife. She stooped over her lady, striving to bring her comfort.
"Lady," she said, "take it not so to heart. Give over this grief, forall will yet be well. You shall deliver me one of these children, andI will put her so far from you, that you shall never see her again,nor know shame because of her. I will carry her safe and sound to thedoor of a church. There I will lay her down. Some honest man shallfind her, and--please God--will be at the cost of her nourishing."
Great joy had the lady to hear these words. She promised the maidenthat in recompense of her service, she would grant her such guerdonas she should wish. The maiden took the babe--yet smiling in hersleep--and wrapped her in a linen cloth. Above this she set a piece ofsanguine silk, brought by the husband of this dame from a bazaar inConstantinople--fairer was never seen. With a silken lace they bounda great ring to the child's arm. This ring was of fine gold, weighingfully an ounce, and was set with garnets most precious.
Letters were graven thereon, so that those who found the maid mightunderstand that she came of a good house. The damsel took the child,and went out from the chamber. When night was come, and all was still,she left the town, and sought the high road leading through theforest. She held on her way, clasping the baby to her breast, tillfrom afar, to her right hand, she heard the howling of dogs and thecrowing of cocks. She deemed that she was near a town, and went thelighter for the hope, directing her steps, there, whence the noisescame. Presently the damsel entered in a fair city, where was an Abbey,both great and rich. This Abbey was worshipfully ordered, with manynuns in their office and degree, and an Abbess in charge of all. Themaiden gazed upon the mighty house, and considered its towers andwalls, and the church with its belfry. She went swiftly to the door,and setting the child upon the ground, kneeled humbly to make herprayer.
"Lord," said she, "for the sake of Thy Holy Name, if such be Thy will,preserve this child from death."
Her petition ended, the maiden looked about her, and saw an ash tree,planted to give shadow in a sunny place. It was a fair tree, thick andleafy, and was divided into four strong branches. The maiden took thechild again in her arms, and running to the ash, set her within thetree. There she left her, commending her to the care of God. So shereturned to her mistress, and told her all that she had done.
Now in this Abbey was a porter, whose duty it was to open the doors ofthe church, before folk came to hear the service of God. This nighthe rose at his accustomed hour, lighted candles and lamps, rang thebells, and set wide the doors. His eyes fell upon the silken stuffwithin the ash. He thought at first that some bold thief had hiddenhis spoil within the tree. He felt with his hand to discover what itmight be, and found that it was a little child. The porter praisedGod for His goodness; he took the babe, and going again to his house,called to his daughter, who was a widow, with an infant yet in thecradle.
"Daughter," he cried, "get from bed at once; light your candle, andkindle the fire. I bring you a little child, whom I have found withinour ash. Take her to your breast; cherish her against the cold, andbathe her in warm water."
The widow did according to her father's will. She kindled a fire, andtaking the babe, washed and cherished her in her need. Very certainshe was, when she saw that rich stuff of crimson samite, and thegolden ring about the arm, that the girl was come of an honourablerace. The next day, when the office was ended, the porter prayed theAbbess that he might have speech with her as she left the church. Herelated his story, and told of the finding of the child. The Abbessbade him to fetch the child, dressed in such fashion as she wasdiscovered in the ash. The porter returned to his house, and showedthe babe right gladly to his dame. The Abbess observed the infantclosely, and said that she would be at the cost of her nourishing,and would cherish her as a sister's child. She commanded the porterstrictly to forget that he took her from the ash. In this manner itchanced that the maiden was tended of the Abbess. The lady consideredthe maid as her niece, and since she was taken from the ash, gave herthe name of Frêne. By this name she was known of all, within the Abbeyprecincts, where she was nourished.
When Frêne came to that age in which a girl turns to woman, there wasno fairer maiden in Brittany, nor so sweet a damsel. Frank, she was,and open, but discreet in semblance and in speech. To see her was tolove her, and to prize her smile above the beauty of the world. Now atDol there lived a lord of whom much good was spoken. I will tell youhis name. The folk of his country called him Buron. This lord heardspeak of the maiden, and began to love her, for the sweetness mentold of her. As he rode home from some tournament, he passed near theconvent, and prayed the Abbess that he might look upon her niece. TheAbbess gave him his desire. Greatly was the maiden to his mind.Very fair he found her, sweetly schooled and fashioned, modest andcourteous to all. If he might not win her to his love, he countedhimself the more forlorn. This lord was at his wits end, for he knewnot what to do. If he repaired often to the convent, the Abbess wouldconsider of the cause of his comings, and he would never again see themaiden with his eyes. One thing only gave him a little hope. Should heendow the Abbey of his wealth, he would make it his debtor for ever.In return he might ask a little room, where he might abide to havetheir fellowship, and, at times, withdraw him from the world. This hedid. He gave richly of his goods to the Abbey. Often, in return, hewent to the convent, but for other reasons than for penitence andpeace. He besought the maiden, and with prayers and promises,persuaded her to set upon him her love. When this lord was assuredthat she loved him, on a certain day he reasoned with her in thismanner.
"Fair friend," said he, "since you have given me your love, come withme, where I can cherish you before all the world. You know, as wellas I, that if your aunt should perceive our friendship, she would bepassing wrath, and grieve beyond measure. If my counsel seems good,let us flee together, you with me, and I with you. Certes, you shallnever have cause to regret your trust, and of my riches you shall havethe half."
When she who loved so fondly heard these words, she granted of hertenderness what it pleased him to have, and followed after where hewould. Frêne fled to her lover's castle, carrying with her that silkencloth and ring, which might do her service on a day. These the Abbesshad given her again, telling her how one morning at prime she wasfound upon an ash, this ring and samite her only wealth, since she wasnot her niece. Right carefully had Frêne guarded her treasure fromthat hour. She shut them closely in a little chest, and this coffretshe bore with her in her flight, for she would neither lose them norforget.
The lord, with whom the maiden fled, loved and cherished her verydearly. Of all the men and servants of his house, there was notone--either great or small--but who loved and honoured her for hersimplicity. They lived long together in love and content, till thefair days passed, and trouble came upon this lord. The knights of hisrealm drew together, and many a time urged that he should put away hisfriend, and wed with some rich gentlewoman. They would be joyous if ason were born, to come after to his fief and heritage. The peril wastoo great to suffer that he remained a bachelor, and without an heir.Never more would they hold him as lord, or serve him with a goodheart, if he would not do according to their will.
There being naught else to do, the lord deferred to this counsel ofhis knights, and begged them to name the lady whom he needs must wed.
"Sir," answered they, "there is a lord of these parts, privy to ourcounsel, who has but one child, a maid, his only heir. Broad landswill he give as her dowry. This damsel's name is Coudre, and in allthis country there is none so fair. Be advised: throw away the ash rodyou carry, and take the hazel as your staff.[1] The ash is a barrenstock; but the hazel is thick with nuts and delight. We shall becontent if you take this maiden as your wife, so it be to the will ofGod, and she be given you of her kinsfolk."
Buron demanded the hand of the lady in marriage, and her father andkin betrothed her to the lord. Alas! it was hid from all, that thesetwo were twin sisters. It was Frêne's lot to be doubly abandoned, andto see her lover become her sister's husband. When she learned thather friend purposed taking to himself a wife, she made no outcryagainst his falseness. She continued to serve her lord faithfully, andwas diligent in the business of his house. The sergeant and the varletwere marvellously wrathful, when they knew that she must go fromamongst them. On the day appointed for the marriage, Buron bade hisfriends and acquaintance to the feast. Together with these camethe Archbishop, and those of Dol who held of him their lands. Hisbetrothed was brought to his home by her mother. Great dread had themother because of Frêne, for she knew of the love that the lord borethe maiden, and feared lest her daughter should be a stranger in herown hall. She spoke to her son-in-law, counselling him to send Frênefrom his house, and to find her an honest man for her husband. Thusthere would be quittance between them. Very splendid was the feast.Whilst all was mirth and jollity, the damsel visited the chambers, tosee that each was ordered to her lord's pleasure. She hid the tormentin her heart, and seemed neither troubled nor downcast. She compassedthe bride with every fair observance, and waited upon her rightdaintily.
[Footnote 1: This is a play on words; Frêne in the French, meaningash, and Coudre meaning hazel.]
Her courage was marvellous to that company of lords and ladies, whoobserved her curiously. The mother of the bride regarded her also, andpraised her privily. She said aloud that had she known the sweetnessof this lady, she would not have taken her lover from her, nor spoiledher life for the sake of the bride. The night being come the damselentered in the bridal chamber to deck the bed against her lord. Sheput off her mantle, and calling the chamberlains, showed them howtheir master loved to lie. His bed being softly arrayed, a coverletwas spread upon the linen sheets. Frêne looked upon the coverlet:in her eyes it showed too mean a garnishing for so fair a lord.She turned it over in her mind, and going to her coffret she tooktherefrom that rich stuff of sanguine silk, and set it on the couch.This she did not only in honour of her friend, but that the Archbishopmight not despise the house, when he blessed the marriage bed,according to the rite. When all was ready the mother carried the brideto that chamber where she should lie, to disarray her for the night.Looking upon the bed she marked the silken coverlet, for she had neverseen so rich a cloth, save only that in which she wrapped her child.When she remembered of this thing, her heart turned to water. Shesummoned a chamberlain.
"Tell me," she said, "tell me in good faith where this garniture wasfound."
"Lady," he made reply, "that you shall know. Our damsel spread it onthe bed, because this dossal is richer than the coverlet that wasthere before."
The lady called for the damsel. Frêne came before her in haste, beingyet without her mantle. All the mother moved within her, as she pliedher with questions.
"Fair friend, hide it not a whit from me. Tell me truly where thisfair samite was found; whence came it; who gave it to you? Answerswiftly, and tell me who bestowed on you this cloth?"
The damsel made answer to her:
"Lady, my aunt, the Abbess, gave me this silken stuff, and charged meto keep it carefully. At the same time she gave me a ring, which thosewho put me forth, had bound upon me."
"Fair friend, may I see this ring?"
"Certes, lady, I shall be pleased to show it."
The lady looked closely on the ring, when it was brought. She knewagain her own, and the crimson samite flung upon the bed. No doubt wasin her mind. She knew and was persuaded that Frêne was her very child.All words were spoken, and there was nothing more to hide.
"Thou art my daughter, fair friend."
Then for reason of the pity that was hers, she fell to the ground, andlay in a swoon. When the lady came again to herself, she sent for herhusband, who, all adread, hastened to the chamber. He marvelled themore sorely when his wife fell at his feet, and embracing him closely,entreated pardon for the evil that she had done.
Knowing nothing of her trespass, he made reply, "Wife, what is this?Between you and me there is nothing to call for forgiveness. Pardonyou may have for whatever fault you please. Tell me plainly what isyour wish."
"Husband, my offence is so black, that you had better give meabsolution before I tell you the sin. A long time ago, by reason oflightness and malice, I spoke evil of my neighbour, whenas she boretwo sons at a birth. I fell afterwards into the very pit that I haddigged. Though I told you that I was delivered of a daughter, thetruth is that I had borne two maids. One of these I wrapped in ourstuff of samite, together with the ring you gave me the first time wemet, and caused her to be laid beside a church. Such a sin will out.The cloth and the ring I have found, and I have recognised our maid,whom I had lost by my own folly. She is this very damsel--so fair andamiable to all--whom the knight so greatly loved. Now we have marriedthe lord to her sister."
The husband made answer, "Wife, if your sin be double, our joy ismanifold. Very tenderly hath God dealt with us, in giving us back ourchild. I am altogether joyous and content to have two daughters forone. Daughter, come to your father's side."
The damsel rejoiced greatly to hear this story. Her father tarried nolonger, but seeking his son-in-law, brought him to the Archbishop, andrelated the adventure. The knight knew such joy as was never yet. TheArchbishop gave counsel that on the morrow he would part him and herwhom he had joined together. This was done, for in the morning hesevered them, bed and board. Afterwards he married Frêne to herfriend, and her father accorded the damsel with a right good heart.Her mother and sister were with her at the wedding, and for dowry herfather gave her the half of his heritage. When they returned to theirown realm they took Coudre, their daughter, with them. There she wasgranted to a lord of those parts, and rich was the feast.
When this adventure was bruited abroad, and all the story, the Lay ofthe Ash Tree was written, so called of the lady, named Frêne.

Female Poets-Marie de France -Lay of the two lovers

VII
THE LAY OF THE TWO LOVERS
Once upon a time there lived in Normandy two lovers, who were passingfond, and were brought by Love to Death. The story of their love wasbruited so abroad, that the Bretons made a song in their own tongue,and named this song the Lay of the Two Lovers.
In Neustria--that men call Normandy--there is verily a high andmarvellously great mountain, where lie the relics of the Two Children.Near this high place the King of those parts caused to be built acertain fair and cunning city, and since he was lord of the Pistrians,it was known as Pistres. The town yet endures, with its towers andhouses, to bear witness to the truth; moreover the country thereaboutsis known to us all as the Valley of Pistres.
This King had one fair daughter, a damsel sweet of face and graciousof manner, very near to her father's heart, since he had lost hisQueen. The maiden increased in years and favour, but he took no heedto her trothing, so that men--yea, even his own people--blamed himgreatly for this thing. When the King heard thereof he was passingheavy and dolent, and considered within himself how he might bedelivered from this grief. So then, that none should carry off hischild, he caused it to be proclaimed, both far and near, by script andtrumpet, that he alone should wed the maid, who would bear her in hisarms, to the pinnacle of the great and perilous mountain, and thatwithout rest or stay. When this news was noised about the country,many came upon the quest. But strive as they would they might notenforce themselves more than they were able. However mighty they wereof body, at the last they failed upon the mountain, and fell withtheir burthen to the ground. Thus, for a while, was none so bold as toseek the high Princess.
Now in this country lived a squire, son to a certain count of thatrealm, seemly of semblance and courteous, and right desirous to winthat prize, which was so coveted of all. He was a welcome guest at theCourt, and the King talked with him very willingly. This squire hadset his heart upon the daughter of the King, and many a time spoke inher ear, praying her to give him again the love he had bestowed uponher. So seeing him brave and courteous, she esteemed him for the giftswhich gained him the favour of the King, and they loved together intheir youth. But they hid this matter from all about the Court. Thisthing was very grievous to them, but the damoiseau thought withinhimself that it were good to bear the pains he knew, rather thanto seek out others that might prove sharper still. Yet in the end,altogether distraught by love, this prudent varlet sought his friend,and showed her his case, saying that he urgently required of her thatshe would flee with him, for no longer could he endure the wearinessof his days. Should he ask her of the King, well he knew that byreason of his love he would refuse the gift, save he bore her in hisarms up the steep mount. Then the maiden made answer to her lover, andsaid,
"Fair friend, well I know you may not carry me to that high place.Moreover should we take to flight, my father would suffer wrath andsorrow beyond measure, and go heavily all his days. Certainly my loveis too fond to plague him thus, and we must seek another counsel, forthis is not to my heart. Hearken well. I have kindred in Salerno, ofrich estate. For more than thirty years my aunt has studied there theart of medicine, and knows the secret gift of every root and herb.If you hasten to her, bearing letters from me, and show her youradventure, certainly she will find counsel and cure. Doubt not thatshe will discover some cunning simple, that will strengthen your body,as well as comfort your heart. Then return to this realm with yourpotion, and ask me at my father's hand. He will deem you but astripling, and set forth the terms of his bargain, that to him aloneshall I be given who knows how to climb the perilous mountain, withoutpause or rest, bearing his lady between his arms."
When the varlet heard this cunning counsel of the maiden, he rejoicedgreatly, and thanking her sweetly for her rede, craved permission todepart. He returned to his own home, and gathering together a goodlystore of silken cloths most precious, he bestowed his gear upon thepack horses, and made him ready for the road. So with a little companyof men, mounted on swift palfreys, and most privy to his mind, hearrived at Salerno. Now the squire made no long stay at his lodging,but as soon as he might, went to the damsel's kindred to open out hismind. He delivered to the aunt the letters he carried from his friend,and bewailed their evil case. When the dame had read these letterswith him, line by line, she charged him to lodge with her awhile, tillshe might do according to his wish. So by her sorceries, and forthe love of her maid, she brewed such a potion that no man, howeverwearied and outworn, but by drinking this philtre, would not berefreshed in heart and blood and bones. Such virtue had this medicine,directly it were drunken. This simple she poured within a littleflacket, and gave it to the varlet, who received the gift with greatjoy and delight, and returned swiftly to his own land.
The varlet made no long sojourn in his home. He repaired straightwayto the Court, and, seeking out the King, required of him his fairdaughter in marriage, promising, for his part, that were she givenhim, he would bear her in his arms to the summit of the mount. TheKing was no wise wrath at his presumption. He smiled rather at hisfolly, for how should one so young and slender succeed in a businesswherein so many mighty men had failed. Therefore he appointed acertain day for this judgment. Moreover he caused letters to bewritten to his vassals and his friends--passing none by--bidding themto see the end of this adventure. Yea, with public cry and sound oftrumpet he bade all who would, come to behold the stripling carry hisfair daughter to the pinnacle of the mountain. And from every regionround about men came to learn the issue of this thing. But for herpart the fair maiden did all that she was able to bring her love to agood end. Ever was it fast day and fleshless day with her, so that byany means she might lighten the burthen that her friend must carry inhis arms.
Now on the appointed day this young dansellon came very early to theappointed place, bringing the flacket with him. When the great companywere fully met together, the King led forth his daughter before them;and all might see that she was arrayed in nothing but her smock. Thevarlet took the maiden in his arms, but first he gave her the flaskwith the precious brewage to carry, since for pride he might notendure to drink therefrom, save at utmost peril. The squire set forthat a great pace, and climbed briskly till he was halfway up the mount.Because of the joy he had in clasping his burthen, he gave no thoughtto the potion. But she--she knew the strength was failing in hisheart.
"Fair friend," said she, "well I know that you tire: drink now, I prayyou, of the flacket, and so shall your manhood come again at need."
But the varlet answered,
"Fair love, my heart is full of courage; nor for any reason will Ipause, so long as I can hold upon my way. It is the noise of all thisfolk--the tumult and the shouting--that makes my steps uncertain.Their cries distress me, I do not dare to stand."
But when two thirds of the course was won, the grasshopper would havetripped him off his feet. Urgently and often the maiden prayed him,saying,
"Fair friend, drink now of thy cordial."
But he would neither hear, nor give credence to her words. A mightyanguish filled his bosom. He climbed upon the summit of the mountain,and pained himself grievously to bring his journey to an end. This hemight not do. He reeled and fell, nor could he rise again, for theheart had burst within his breast.
When the maiden saw her lover's piteous plight, she deemed that he hadswooned by reason of his pain. She kneeled hastily at his side, andput the enchanted brewage to his lips, but he could neither drink norspeak, for he was dead, as I have told you. She bewailed his evil lot,with many shrill cries, and flung the useless flacket far away. Theprecious potion bestrewed the ground, making a garden of that desolateplace. For many saving herbs have been found there since that day bythe simple folk of that country, which from the magic philtre derivedall their virtue.
But when the maiden knew that her lover was dead, she made suchwondrous sorrow, as no man had ever seen. She kissed his eyes andmouth, and falling upon his body, took him in her arms, and pressedhim closely to her breast. There was no heart so hard as not to betouched by her sorrow; for in this fashion died a dame, who was fairand sweet and gracious, beyond the wont of the daughters of men.
Now the King and his company, since these two lovers came not again,presently climbed the mountain to learn their end. But when the Kingcame upon them lifeless, and fast in that embrace, incontinent he fellto the ground, bereft of sense. After his speech had returned to him,he was passing heavy, and lamented their doleful case, and thus didall his people with him.
Three days they kept the bodies of these two fair children from earth,with uncovered face. On the third day they sealed them fast in agoodly coffin of marble, and by the counsel of all men, laid themsoftly to rest on that mountain where they died. Then they departedfrom them, and left them together, alone.
Since this adventure of the Two Children this hill is known as theMountain of the Two Lovers, and their story being bruited abroad, theBreton folk have made a Lay thereof, even as I have rehearsed beforeyou.

VIII
THE LAY OF THE WERE-WOLF
Amongst the tales I tell you once again, I would not forget the Lay ofthe Were-Wolf. Such beasts as he are known in every land. Bisclavarethe is named in Brittany; whilst the Norman calls him Garwal.
It is a certain thing, and within the knowledge of all, that many achristened man has suffered this change, and ran wild in woods, asa Were-Wolf. The Were-Wolf is a fearsome beast. He lurks within thethick forest, mad and horrible to see. All the evil that he may, hedoes. He goeth to and fro, about the solitary place, seeking man, inorder to devour him. Hearken, now, to the adventure of the Were-Wolf,that I have to tell.
In Brittany there dwelt a baron who was marvellously esteemed of allhis fellows. He was a stout knight, and a comely, and a man of officeand repute. Right private was he to the mind of his lord, and dear tothe counsel of his neighbours. This baron was wedded to a very worthydame, right fair to see, and sweet of semblance. All his love was seton her, and all her love was given again to him. One only grief hadthis lady. For three whole days in every week her lord was absent fromher side. She knew not where he went, nor on what errand. Neither didany of his house know the business which called him forth.
On a day when this lord was come again to his house, altogetherjoyous and content, the lady took him to task, right sweetly, inthis fashion, "Husband," said she, "and fair, sweet friend, I have acertain thing to pray of you. Right willingly would I receive thisgift, but I fear to anger you in the asking. It is better for me tohave an empty hand, than to gain hard words."
When the lord heard this matter, he took the lady in his arms, verytenderly, and kissed her.
"Wife," he answered, "ask what you will. What would you have, for itis yours already?"
"By my faith," said the lady, "soon shall I be whole. Husband, rightlong and wearisome are the days that you spend away from your home.I rise from my bed in the morning, sick at heart, I know not why. Sofearful am I, lest you do aught to your loss, that I may not find anycomfort. Very quickly shall I die for reason of my dread. Tell me now,where you go, and on what business! How may the knowledge of one wholoves so closely, bring you to harm?"
"Wife," made answer the lord, "nothing but evil can come if I tell youthis secret. For the mercy of God do not require it of me. If you butknew, you would withdraw yourself from my love, and I should be lostindeed."
When the lady heard this, she was persuaded that her baron sought toput her by with jesting words. Therefore she prayed and requiredhim the more urgently, with tender looks and speech, till he wasoverborne, and told her all the story, hiding naught.
"Wife, I become Bisclavaret. I enter in the forest, and live on preyand roots, within the thickest of the wood."
After she had learned his secret, she prayed and entreated the more asto whether he ran in his raiment, or went spoiled of vesture.
"Wife," said he, "I go naked as a beast."
"Tell me, for hope of grace, what you do with your clothing?"
"Fair wife, that will I never. If I should lose my raiment, or even bemarked as I quit my vesture, then a Were-Wolf I must go for all thedays of my life. Never again should I become man, save in that hour myclothing were given back to me. For this reason never will I show mylair."
"Husband," replied the lady to him, "I love you better than all theworld. The less cause have you for doubting my faith, or hiding anytittle from me. What savour is here of friendship? How have I madeforfeit of your love; for what sin do you mistrust my honour? Open nowyour heart, and tell what is good to be known."
So at the end, outwearied and overborne by her importunity, he couldno longer refrain, but told her all.
"Wife," said he, "within this wood, a little from the path, there is ahidden way, and at the end thereof an ancient chapel, where oftentimesI have bewailed my lot. Near by is a great hollow stone, concealed bya bush, and there is the secret place where I hide my raiment, till Iwould return to my own home."
On hearing this marvel the lady became sanguine of visage, because ofher exceeding fear. She dared no longer to lie at his side, and turnedover in her mind, this way and that, how best she could get her fromhim. Now there was a certain knight of those parts, who, for a greatwhile, had sought and required this lady for her love. This knight hadspent long years in her service, but little enough had he got thereby,not even fair words, or a promise. To him the dame wrote a letter, andmeeting, made her purpose plain.
"Fair friend," said she, "be happy. That which you have coveted solong a time, I will grant without delay. Never again will I deny yoursuit. My heart, and all I have to give, are yours, so take me now aslove and dame."
Right sweetly the knight thanked her for her grace, and pledged herfaith and fealty. When she had confirmed him by an oath, then she toldhim all this business of her lord--why he went, and what he became,and of his ravening within the wood. So she showed him of the chapel,and of the hollow stone, and of how to spoil the Were-Wolf of hisvesture. Thus, by the kiss of his wife, was Bisclavaret betrayed.Often enough had he ravished his prey in desolate places, but fromthis journey he never returned. His kinsfolk and acquaintance cametogether to ask of his tidings, when this absence was noised abroad.Many a man, on many a day, searched the woodland, but none might findhim, nor learn where Bisclavaret was gone.
The lady was wedded to the knight who had cherished her for so long aspace. More than a year had passed since Bisclavaret disappeared. Thenit chanced that the King would hunt in that self-same wood where theWere-Wolf lurked. When the hounds were unleashed they ran this way andthat, and swiftly came upon his scent. At the view the huntsman windedon his horn, and the whole pack were at his heels. They followed himfrom morn to eve, till he was torn and bleeding, and was all adreadlest they should pull him down. Now the King was very close to thequarry, and when Bisclavaret looked upon his master, he ran to him forpity and for grace. He took the stirrup within his paws, and fawnedupon the prince's foot. The King was very fearful at this sight, butpresently he called his courtiers to his aid.
"Lords," cried he, "hasten hither, and see this marvellous thing. Hereis a beast who has the sense of man. He abases himself before his foe,and cries for mercy, although he cannot speak. Beat off the hounds,and let no man do him harm. We will hunt no more to-day, but return toour own place, with the wonderful quarry we have taken."
The King turned him about, and rode to his hall, Bisclavaret followingat his side. Very near to his master the Were-Wolf went, like any dog,and had no care to seek again the wood. When the King had brought himsafely to his own castle, he rejoiced greatly, for the beast was fairand strong, no mightier had any man seen. Much pride had the King inhis marvellous beast. He held him so dear, that he bade all those whowished for his love, to cross the Wolf in naught, neither to strikehim with a rod, but ever to see that he was richly fed and kennelledwarm. This commandment the Court observed willingly. So all the daythe Wolf sported with the lords, and at night he lay within thechamber of the King. There was not a man who did not make much of thebeast, so frank was he and debonair. None had reason to do him wrong,for ever was he about his master, and for his part did evil to none.Every day were these two companions together, and all perceived thatthe King loved him as his friend.
Hearken now to that which chanced.
The King held a high Court, and bade his great vassals and barons, andall the lords of his venery to the feast. Never was there a goodlierfeast, nor one set forth with sweeter show and pomp. Amongst those whowere bidden, came that same knight who had the wife of Bisclavaret fordame. He came to the castle, richly gowned, with a fair company, butlittle he deemed whom he would find so near. Bisclavaret marked hisfoe the moment he stood within the hall. He ran towards him, andseized him with his fangs, in the King's very presence, and to theview of all. Doubtless he would have done him much mischief, had notthe King called and chidden him, and threatened him with a rod. Once,and twice, again, the Wolf set upon the knight in the very light ofday. All men marvelled at his malice, for sweet and serviceable wasthe beast, and to that hour had shown hatred of none. With one consentthe household deemed that this deed was done with full reason, andthat the Wolf had suffered at the knight's hand some bitter wrong.Right wary of his foe was the knight until the feast had ended, andall the barons had taken farewell of their lord, and departed, each tohis own house. With these, amongst the very first, went that lord whomBisclavaret so fiercely had assailed. Small was the wonder that he wasglad to go.
No long while after this adventure it came to pass that the courteousKing would hunt in that forest where Bisclavaret was found. With theprince came his wolf, and a fair company. Now at nightfall the Kingabode within a certain lodge of that country, and this was known ofthat dame who before was the wife of Bisclavaret. In the morning thelady clothed her in her most dainty apparel, and hastened to thelodge, since she desired to speak with the King, and to offer him arich present. When the lady entered in the chamber, neither man norleash might restrain the fury of the Wolf. He became as a mad dog inhis hatred and malice. Breaking from his bonds he sprang at the lady'sface, and bit the nose from her visage. From every side men ran to thesuccour of the dame. They beat off the wolf from his prey, and for alittle would have cut him in pieces with their swords. But a certainwise counsellor said to the King,
"Sire, hearken now to me. This beast is always with you, and there isnot one of us all who has not known him for long. He goes in and outamongst us, nor has molested any man, neither done wrong or felony toany, save only to this dame, one only time as we have seen. He hasdone evil to this lady, and to that knight, who is now the husband ofthe dame. Sire, she was once the wife of that lord who was so closeand private to your heart, but who went, and none might find where hehad gone. Now, therefore, put the dame in a sure place, andquestion her straitly, so that she may tell--if perchance she knowsthereof--for what reason this Beast holds her in such mortal hate. Formany a strange deed has chanced, as well we know, in this marvellousland of Brittany."
The King listened to these words, and deemed the counsel good. He laidhands upon the knight, and put the dame in surety in another place. Hecaused them to be questioned right straitly, so that their torment wasvery grievous. At the end, partly because of her distress, and partlyby reason of her exceeding fear, the lady's lips were loosed, and shetold her tale. She showed them of the betrayal of her lord, and howhis raiment was stolen from the hollow stone. Since then she knew notwhere he went, nor what had befallen him, for he had never comeagain to his own land. Only, in her heart, well she deemed and waspersuaded, that Bisclavaret was he.
Straightway the King demanded the vesture of his baron, whether thiswere to the wish of the lady, or whether it were against her wish.When the raiment was brought him, he caused it to be spread beforeBisclavaret, but the Wolf made as though he had not seen. Then thatcunning and crafty counsellor took the King apart, that he might givehim a fresh rede.
"Sire," said he, "you do not wisely, nor well, to set this raimentbefore Bisclavaret, in the sight of all. In shame and much tribulationmust he lay aside the beast, and again become man. Carry your wolfwithin your most secret chamber, and put his vestment therein. Thenclose the door upon him, and leave him alone for a space. So we shallsee presently whether the ravening beast may indeed return to humanshape."
The King carried the Wolf to his chamber, and shut the doors uponhim fast. He delayed for a brief while, and taking two lords of hisfellowship with him, came again to the room. Entering therein, allthree, softly together, they found the knight sleeping in the King'sbed, like a little child. The King ran swiftly to the bed and takinghis friend in his arms, embraced and kissed him fondly, above ahundred times. When man's speech returned once more, he told him ofhis adventure. Then the King restored to his friend the fief that wasstolen from him, and gave such rich gifts, moreover, as I cannot tell.As for the wife who had betrayed Bisclavaret, he bade her avoid hiscountry, and chased her from the realm. So she went forth, she and hersecond lord together, to seek a more abiding city, and were no moreseen.
The adventure that you have heard is no vain fable. Verily and indeedit chanced as I have said. The Lay of the Were-Wolf, truly, waswritten that it should ever be borne in mind.