Tales from the Old French

COPYRIGHT 1910 BY ISABEL BUTLER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE LAY OF THE BIRD 3 THE WOFUL KNIGHT Marie de France 17 THE TWO LOVERS Marie de France 26 ELIDUC Marie de France 35 MELION 73 THE LAY OF THE HORN Robert Biquet 93
THE DIVIDED BLANKET Bernier 111 OF THE CHURL WHO WON PARADISE 125 THE GRAY PALFREY Huon Leroi 131
THE KNIGHT OF THE LITTLE CASK 173 THE ANGEL AND THE HERMIT 207 THE JOUSTING OF OUR LADY 228 THE ORDER OF CHIVALRY 232
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Lais

The Lay of the Bird

Once upon a time, a hundred years and more agone, there lived a rich villein; his name I know not

for certain, but he was rich as beseemeth a great lord in woodland, stream and meadow, and in whatsoever else longeth to a puissant man. And to tell you the sum thereof, his manor was so goodly no town, or burg, or castle hath its like, for to tell you true, in all the world is none other so fair and delectable; and if any were to show you its form and fashion, the tale would seem to you but fable, for none, methinketh, could ever make such a keep, or so mighty a tower. Round about it ran a river, encircling all the close, that the orchard, which was of great price, was all walled in by wood and water. Wise was the gentle knight who contrived it, but from him it went to his son, who sold it to this villein; so passed it from hand to hand: and wit ye well, an ill heir ofttimes bringeth thorpe and manor into dishonour.

Fair as man can desire was that orchard, and therein grew many an herb whose name I know not; yet may I tell you of a truth there were roses and flowers that gave forth a strong and pleasant fragrance; and such manner of spices grew there that if any creature, suffering from sickness and infirmity, were brought thither in a litter, and lay in that orchard but for the space of a single night, he would go forth healed and strong; so rich it was in goodly herbs. And the meadow was so level even that in it was neither hill nor hollow, and all the tree-tops were of one height; no other orchard close so fair was there in all the world. Ask ye not of its fruit, for none such shall ye find; but in the garden they ripened in every season. Wise was he who contrived it, and by enchantment he wrought it, whereof within was many a proof.

Full great was the orchard and wide, like a round ring in its form; and in its midst was a fountain whose waters were clear and fresh, and ran so swiftly they seemed to boil in fury, yet was it colder than marble. A goodly tree gave shade there, wide reaching were the branches and cunningly trained; good store of leaves there were, for in the longest day of summer, when came the month of May, ye could not see a ray of the sun, so leafy was it. Full dear should that tree be held, for its kind was such that it kept its leaves in all seasons, and neither wind nor storm had might to strip its bark or its branches.

Pleasant and delectable was that green tree; and to it twice each day, and no more, came a bird to sing, in the morning namely, and again at eventide. So wondrous fair was the bird it were over long to tell you all its fashion. More small it was than the sparrow, yet somewhat greater than the wren, and it sang so sweetly and fairly that know ye of a sooth, not nightingale, nor merle, nor mavis, nor starling, methinketh, nor voice of lark or calender, were so good to hear as was its song. And it was so ready with refrains and lays and songs and new tunes, that harp, or viol, or rebec were as nought beside it. So wondrous was its song that never before was its like heard of living man, for such was its virtue that no man might be so sorrowful, but if he heard it sing, he must straightway rejoice, and forget all heaviness and grief; and though he had never before spoken of love, now was he kindled by it, and deemed himself worshipful as king or emperor, though he were but villein or burgess; and even had he passed his hundredth year, if, as he yet lingered in the world, he heard the song of the bird, he deemed himself then but as a youth and a stripling, and so comely, he must be loved of ladies and maids and damsels. But yet another wondrous virtue had it; for that orchard might not endure, if the bird came not thither to sing its sweet refrain; for out of song issueth love, which giveth their virtue to flower and tree and coppice; whereas, if the bird were gone, the orchard would straightway wither, and the fountain run dry, for that they kept their virtue only by reason of the song.

Now it was the wont of the villein, who was master there, to come twice each day to hear this sweetness. So on a morning, he came to the fountain beneath the tree to wash his face in the waters; and from the branches the bird sang to him loud and clear a song of most delectable cadence; good was the lay to hear, and ensample might one draw therefrom whereby one were bettered at the last. For in his language the bird said: "Listen ye to my song, both knight and clerk and layman, all ye who have to do with love, and suffer his torments; and to ye likewise I speak, ye maids fair and sweet, who would have the world for your own. And I tell you of a sooth, ye should love God before all things, and hold his law and his commandments; go ye with good heart to the minster, and give heed to the holy office, for to hear God's service cometh not amiss to any man; and to tell you true, God and love are of one accord. For God loveth honour and courtesy, and true Love despiseth them not; God hateth pride and treachery, and Love likewise holdeth them in despite; God giveth ear to sweet prayer, and from it Love turneth not away; and above all else God desireth largesse, for in him is nought of ill, but good only. The misers are the envious hearted, and it is the jealous who are the covetous; the churlish are the wicked, and the traitors are the vile; but wisdom and courtesy, honour and loyalty uphold Love; and if ye hold to this ye may have both God and the world." So sang the bird his lay.

But when he saw the churl, who was cruel and envious, sit listening beneath the tree, then sang he in another manner: "Flow ye no more, O river; waste to ruin, ye donjons; and towers, fall ye down; fade, ye flowers; dry and wither, ye herbs; bear no more fruit, ye trees; for here, of old, clerks and knights and ladies were wont to give ear to me, who held the fountain full dear, and drew delight from my song, and loved the better par amors; and by reason of it they did much largess, and practised courtesy and prowess, and upheld chivalry; but now am I heard only by a churl, who is full of envy, and to whom silver and gold are more dear than the service of Love; the knights and ladies came to hear me for delight, and for Love's sake, and to lighten their hearts, but this man cometh only that he may eat the better and drink the better."

And when the bird had so sung it flew away; and the churl, who yet lingered there, bethought him if he might not take it; easily might he sell it full dear, or, if he could not sell it, he would shut it up in a cage that it might sing to him early and late. So he contrived a device, and arranged it; he sought and looked and spied until he made sure of the branches whereon the bird sat oftenest; then he maketh a snare and spread it,—well hath he contrived the thing. And when eventide came, the bird returned again to the orchard, and so soon as it lighted on the tree was straightway taken in the net. Thereupon the villein, the caitiff, the felon, climbeth up and taketh the bird. "Such reward hath he ever that serveth a churl, methinketh," saith the bird. "Now ill hast thou done in that thou hast taken me, for of me shalt thou get small ransom." "Yet shall I have many a song of this capture," quoth the villein; "before, ye served according to your own will, but now shall ye serve after mine."

"This throw is evilly divided, and the worser half falleth to me," saith the bird. "Of old, I had field and wood and river and meadow, according to my desire, but now shall I be prisoned in a cage; never again shall I know joy and solace. Of old, I was wont to live by prey, now must I, like any prisoner, have my meat doled out to me. Prithee, fair, sweet friend, let me go; for be ye sage and certain never will I sing as prisoner." "By my faith, then I will eat you up; on no

other terms shall ye escape." "Poor victual shall ye find in me, so small and slight am I; and if ye kill so frail a thing, in no wise shall your worship be increased. To slay me were very sin, but it were a good deed to set me free." "By my faith, ye speak idly, for the more you beseech me the less will I do." "Certes," saith the bird, "ye say well, for so runneth the law; and often have we heard it said that fair reasoning angers the churl. But a proverb teacheth and showeth us that necessity is a hard master; here my strength may not avail me, but if you will set me free, I will make you wise with three wisdoms that were never yet known to any man of your lineage, and which would much avail you." "If I may have surety thereof, I will do it straightway," saith the villein. "Thereto I pledge you all my faith," the bird made answer; and forthright the villein let him go.

So the bird that had won his freedom by ready speech, taketh flight to the tree; all spent he was, and ruffled, for he had been rudely handled, and all his plumage turned awry. With his beak as best he might, he smoothed and ordered his feathers; but the churl, who was fain of the three wisdoms, admonished him to speak. Full of craft was that bird, and he saith: "If thou givest good heed, great lore shalt thou learn: Set not thy trust in all thou hearest." But the villein frowned in anger: "That knew I already," quoth he. "Fair friend, henceforth hold it well in mind, and forget it not." Quoth the churl: "Now in sooth may I look to learn wisdom! He who biddeth me bear this in mind, doth but jibe; but certes, when you escape me again, no man else shall you mock:—but I brag over late. Wherefore, now tell me the next wisdom, for this one I know well."

"Give good heed," saith the bird, "fair and goodly is the second: Weep not for that thou hast never had." Then the churl could not hold his peace, but answered all in anger: "Thou hast belied thy pledge to me; three wisdoms thou wert to teach me—so thou didst promise me—that were never yet known to any of my kin; but every man knoweth this, for there is none so foolish, or ever was, that he would weep for what was never his. Sorely hast thou lied to me." Thereupon the bird made answer: "Wouldst thou that I say them over to thee lest thou forget them? Ye are so ready of speech I fear for thy memory; methinketh ye will not bear the wisdoms in mind." "I know them better than you yourself," quoth the churl, "and long ago knew them. Foul fall him who shall ever thank you for showing him that in which he was already wise. By my head, I am not so untaught as ye deem me, and it is but because ye have escaped me that ye now mock me. But if ye hold by your covenant with me, ye will tell me the third wisdom, for of these two I have full understanding. Now speak out at your will, in that I have no power over you; tell me its substance, and I will give heed to it."

"Listen well, and I will tell you: the third is of such a nature that whosoever knoweth it will never be a poor man." Greatly the churl rejoiced when he heard the virtue of that wisdom, and saith: "This I needs must know, for riches I dearly desire." Lo, how he urgeth the bird, and saith: "It is time to eat, so tell me now speedily." And when the bird heard him, it maketh answer: "I warn thee, churl, that ye Let not fall to your feet that which you hold in your hand." All angry was the villein: for a long time he spoke not, and then he asketh: "And is there nought else? These are the sooth-sayings of children, for well I ween that many a man poor and in want knoweth this, even as thou knowest; ye have duped me and lied to me, for all that ye have shown me I was wise in before."

Then the bird maketh answer: "By my faith, and if thou hadst known this last wisdom, never wouldst thou have let me go, for if thou hadst killed me as thou didst think to do, never, by my eyes, had there dawned a day ye had not been the better for it." "Ha, in God's name, what good had ye been?" "Ahi, foul churl, ill son of an ill race, thou knowest not what hath befallen thee; thou hast sorely miscarried. In my body is a gem of great worth and price, and of the weight of three ounces; its virtue is so great that whoso hath it in his possession may never wish for aught, but straightway he hath it at his hand."

Now when the churl heard this, he beat his breast, and tore his garments, and rent his face with his nails, and cried out woe and alas. But the bird, who watched him from the tree, had great joy thereof. It waited until he had torn all his raiment, and wounded himself in many a place; then it said to him: "Wretched churl, when thou didst hold me in thy hand I was smaller than sparrow, or tit, or finch, which weigheth not so much as half an ounce." And the villein who groaneth in anger, saith: "By my faith, ye say true." "Churl, now mayest thou see well I have lied to thee concerning the gem." "Now I know it of a sooth, but certes, at first I believed thee." "Churl, now have I proved to thee on the spot thou knewest not the three wisdoms; and, for what thou didst say to me, that no man is, or ever was, so foolish he would weep for that he had never had, now, meseemeth, thou thyself makest lament for what was never thine and never will be. And when you had me in your snare, then did you cast down to your feet that which you held in your hand. So have you been brought to shame by the three wisdoms; henceforth, fair friend, hold them in mind. Good it is to learn goodly lore, for many a one heareth yet understandeth not, many a one speaketh of wisdom who is yet no whit wise in thought, many a one speaketh of courtesy who knoweth nought of the practice thereof, and many a man holdeth himself for wise who is given over to folly."

Now when the bird had so spoken, it took flight, and departed, never to return again to the garden. The leaves fell from the tree, the orchard failed and withered, the fountain ran dry, whereby the churl lost all his delight. Now know ye one and all that the proverb showeth us clearly that he who covets all, loses all.

explicit li Lais de l'Oiselet.

The Woful Knight

Gladly would I call to remembrance a lay whereof I have heard men speak; I will tell you its name and its story, and show you the city whence it sprang. Some call it The Woful Knight, but many there are who name it The Four Sorrows.

At Nantes in Bretaigne dwelt a lady who was rich in beauty and wisdom and all seemliness. And in that land was no knight of prowess who, and if he did but see her, straightway loved her not and besought her. She could in no wise love them all, yet none did she wish to renounce. And better it is to love and woo all the ladies of the land than to rob one fool of his motley, for he will speedily fall to fighting over it, whereas a lady doth pleasure to all in fair friendliness. And though it be not her will to hearken to them, yet ought she not to give them ill words, but rather hold them dear and honour them, and render them service and thanks. Now the lady of whom I would tell you was so besought in love by reason of her beauty and worth that many a one had a hand therein.

In Bretaigne,

in those days, lived four barons; their names I cannot tell you, but though they were young of age, yet were they comely, brave, and valiant knights, generous, courteous, and free-handed; of gentle birth were they in that land, and held in high honour. These four loved the lady, and strove in well doing for her sake; and each did his uttermost to win her and her love. Each sought her by himself, and set thereto all his intent; and there was not one but thought to succeed above all the rest.

Now the lady was of right great discretion, and much bethought her to inquire and discover which it were best to love; for all alike were of such great worship that she knew not how to choose the best among them. And in that she was not minded to lose three for one, she made fair semblance to each, and gave them tokens, and sent them messengers; of the four not one knew how it stood with other, and none could she bring herself to reject. So each one hoped by entreaty and loyal service to speed better than the rest. And wheresoever knights come together, each wished to be the first in well doing, if that he might, to thereby please his lady. All alike called her their love, each one wore her favour, whether ring or sleeve or pennon, and each cried her name in the tourney.

And she on her part loved them all, and bore them all in hand, until it fell that after an Easter time, a tournament was cried before the city of Nantes. To learn the worth of the four lovers, many a man came from other lands,—Frenchmen and Normans, Flemings and Angevins, and men of Brabant, and of Boulogne, and likewise those from near at hand; all alike came thither with good will, and long time sojourned there. And on the evening of the tourney they joined battle full sharply.

The four lovers had armed themselves and issued out of the city: and though their knights followed after, on them fell the burden. Those from abroad knew them by their pennons and shields, and against them they sent four knights, two Flemings and two Hainaulters, ready dight for the onset; not one but was keen to join battle. And the four lovers on their part, when they saw the knights come against them, were of no mind to give back. At full speed, with lowered lance, each man chooseth his fellow, and they come together so stoutly that the four out-landers are brought to ground. No care had the four comrades for the horses, rather they let them run free, and they took their stand above the fallen knights, who anon are rescued by their fellows. Great was the press in that rescue, and many a blow was struck with sword.

The lady, meantime, was on a tower, whence she might well behold her men and their followers; she seeth her lovers bear themselves right bravely, and which among them deserveth best she knoweth not.

So the tourney was begun, and the ranks increased and thickened; and many a time that day before the gate was the battle renewed. The four lovers did right valiantly, that they won praise above all the rest, till evening fell and it was time to dispart. Then far from their men, too recklessly they set their lives in jeopardy; dearly they paid for it, for there three were slain, and the fourth hurt and so wounded in thigh and body that the lance came out at his back. Right through were they smitten, and all four fell to ground. They who had slain them threw down their shields upon the field; unwittingly had they done it, and right heavy were they therefor. So the noise arose and the cry; never was sorrow heard like unto that. They of the city hasted thither, for no whit did they fear those outlanders. Two thousand were there that for sorrow for the four knights unlaced their ventails, and tore their hair and their beards. All alike shared that grief.

Then each of those four was laid upon a shield, and carried into the city to the lady who had loved them, and so soon as she heard the adventure, she fell down on the hard ground in a swoon. When she recovered her wit, she made sore lament for each by name. "Alas," saith she, "what shall I do? Never more shall I know gladness. These four knights I loved, and each by himself I desired, for of great worship were they, and they loved me more than aught else that liveth. By reason of their beauty and prowess, their valour and generosity, I led them to set their thoughts on love of me, and I would not lose all three by taking one. Now I know not which I should pity most; yet can I not feign or disemble herein. One I see wounded and three slain; nothing have I in the world to comfort me. Now will I let bury the dead; and if the wounded knight may be healed, gladly will I do what I may herein, and fetch him good doctors of physic." So she made him be carried into her own chambers. Then she directed that the others be made ready; richly and nobly she appareled them with great love. And to a rich abbey, wherein they were buried, she made great gifts and offerings. Now may God grant them sweet mercy.

Meantime she had summoned wise leeches, and had set them in charge of the knight, who lay wounded in her own chamber until he began to mend. Often she went to see him, and sweetly she comforted him; but much she regretted the other three, and made great lament for them.

And one summer day after meat, when she was talking with the knight, she remembered her of her great sorrow, and bent low her head. So she fell deep in thought, and he, beginning to watch her, perceived her thoughtfulness. Courteously he addressed her: "Lady, you are in distress. What is in your thoughts? Tell me, and let be your sorrow. Surely you should take comfort." "Friend," saith she, "I fell a-thinking, and remembered me of your comrades. Never will any lady of my lineage, however fair and worthy and wise she may be, love another such four, or in one day lose them all, as I lost all,—save you alone, who were wounded and in sore jeopardy of death. And in that I have so loved ye four, I would that my griefs were held in remembrance, wherefore of you I will make a lay, and call it The Four Sorrows." When he had heard her, quickly the knight made answer: "Dame, make the new lay, but call it The Woful Knight. And I will show you why it should be so named: the other three long since died, and spent all their worldly life in the great torment they endured by reason of the love they bore you. But I, who have escaped with life, all uncounselled and all woful, often see her whom I love most in the world come and go, and speak to me morning and evening, yet may I have neither kiss nor embrace, nor any joy of her, save that of speech only. A hundred such sorrows you make me endure; rather had I suffer death. For this reason shall the lay be named for me; The Woful Knight shall it be called, and whosoever termeth it The Four Sorrows will change its true name." "By my faith," saith she, "this pleaseth me well; now let us call it The Woful Knight."

Thus was the lay begun, and thereafter ended and spread abroad; but of those that carried it through the land some called it The Four Sorrows. Each of the names suiteth the lay well, for the matter demandeth both; but commonly it is called The Woful Knight. Here it endeth and goeth no farther; more there is not so far as I have heard or known, and no more will I tell you.

The Two Lovers

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In Normandy, of old, there fell an adventure oft recounted; 'tis a tale of two children who loved one another, and how both through their love died. Of this the Bretons made a lay and called it "Les Dous Amanz."

Know ye that in Neustria, which we call Normandy, is a great mountain marvellous high, and on its summit lie the two lovers. Near to this mountain on one side, a king with great care and counsel built him a city; lord he was of the Pistreis, and because of his folk he called the town Pitres. Still has the name endured, and there to this day may ye see houses and city; and all that region, as is well known, men call the Vale of Pitres.

This king had a daughter, a fair damsel and a courteous; no other child had he, and much he loved and cherished her. She was sought for in marriage by many a great lord, who would gladly have taken her to wife; but the king would give her to none, for that he could not bear to part with her. No other companion had he, but kept her with him night and day, for since the death of the queen she was his only solace. Yet many a one held it ill done on his part, and even his own household blamed him for it. And when he knew that men talked thereof, much it grieved and troubled him; and he began to bethink him how he might so contrive that none would willingly seek his daughter. And he let it be known far and wide, that whosoever would have the maiden, must know one thing of a sooth: it was decreed and appointed that her suitor should carry her in his arms, with no stop for rest upon the way, to the summit of the mountain without the city. When the news thereof were made known and spread abroad through the land, many a one assayed the feat but none might achieve it. Some there were who with much striving carried her midway up the mountain; then they could go no farther but must needs let be. So for a long space the damsel remained unwedded, and no man would ask her in marriage.

In that same land was a damoiseau, son to a count he was, and full fresh and fair; and much he strove in well doing that he might have praise above all others. He frequented the king's court and often sojourned there; and he grew to love the king's daughter, and ofttimes besought her that she would grant him her favour, and love him with all her love. And in that he was brave and courteous, and much praised of the king, she granted him her grace, and in all humility he rendered her thanks therefor.

Often they held speech together, and loyally each loved the other, yet they concealed it as best they might, that none should know thereof. Grievous was this time to them, but the youth bethought him that it was better to endure this evil than to make haste over much only to fail; yet was he brought to sore anguish through love. And it fell on a time that the damoiseau who was so fair and valiant came unto his love, and speaking, made her his plaint. Piteously he besought her that she should flee thence with him, for he could no longer endure his pain; yet he knew full well that were he to ask her of her father, he loved her so much he would give her to none who did not first bear her in his arms to the top of the mountain. Then the damsel made answer: "Dear heart, I know full well you could not carry me so far, for your strength is not great enough; yet were I to flee with you my father would suffer so great dolour and grief it were torment for him to live; and of a sooth I hold him so dear and love him so much I would not willingly bring him sorrow. Other counsel must you find, for to this I will not hearken. But in Salerno I have a kinswoman, a rich dame and a wealthy; more than thirty years has she dwelt there, and she is so practised in the art of physic that she is wise in medicines and healing. So learned is she in herbs and roots, that if you will but go to her, taking with you letters from me, and tell her all your plight, she will give you help and counsel. Such electuaries will she prepare for you, and such cordials will she give you that they will comfort you and renew your strength. When you return again to this land, seek ye my father. He will deem you but a child, and will show you the covenant whereby he will give me to no man or take thought of none, save him who shall carry me in his arms to the top of the mountain, without once resting by the way; and ye shall freely agree with him that only in such wise may ye win me."

The youth hearkened to the words and the counsel of the damsel; full glad was he thereof, and gave her his thanks. And thereafter he asked leave of her; and straightway returned into his own land, and speedily gathered together money and rich stuffs, palfreys and sumpters; and took with him such of his men as were most worthy of trust. So he goeth to Salerno, and seeketh speech with the aunt of his sweet friend, and giveth her the letter. And when she had read it from end to end, she kept him with her till he had told her all his plight. Thereafter she strengthened him with medicines, and gave him such a draught that were he ever so weary and spent and fordone, it would yet refresh all his body, alike his bones and his sinews, that so soon as he had drunk it, he would have his full strength again. Then, bearing the draught in a phial, he returned to his own country.

Joyous and glad of heart was the damoiseau when he was come again to his own land; yet he lingered not in his domain, but went straightway to the king to ask of him his daughter, and that he might take her and carry her up the mountain. The king did not deny him, yet he deemed it but folly, for the youth was young of age and many a sage and valiant man had assayed the feat, yet none might achieve it. But he named and appointed a day, and summoned all his friends and vassals, and all those whom he could assemble together, nor would he suffer any to disobey his call. So, for the sake of the king's daughter and the youth who would assay the adventure of carrying her to the top of the mountain, they came from all the country round about. The damsel on her part prepared herself, and to lighten her weight oft she fasted and forebore from meat, for she would fain help her friend.

On the appointed day, of all those that came thither the damoiseau was the first, nor did he forget his draught. Then into the meadow beside the Seine, among all the great folk there assembled, the king led forth his daughter; no garment wore she save her shift only. And so the youth took her in his arms; and in that he knew she would not betray him, he gave her the phial that contained the potion, to carry in her hand. Yet I fear it will avail him nought, for he hath in him no measure.

With the damsel in his arms he set off at a swift pace, and climbed midway up the mountain, and for the joy that he had of her he took no thought of his draught. But she felt that he was growing weary, and said: "Dear heart, I pray you drink. I know that ye are weary; drink and renew your strength." But the youth made answer: "Sweet, I feel my heart strong within me; for no price would I stop long enough to drink, while I am yet able to go three steps. The folk would cry out to us, and their noise would confound me, and so might they hinder us. I will not stop here." But when he had gone two thirds of the way, he was near to falling. Ofttimes the maid besought him, "Dear heart, drink now the potion." But he would not heed or hearken to her, and in sore pain he yet pressed forward. Thus he came at last to the top of the mountain, but so wearied and spent was he that there he fell down and rose up no more, for his heart failed within him.

The maid as she looked on her love

deemed him in a swoon; so she knelt down at his side, and sought to give him the drink. But he could speak no word to her, and so he died even as I tell you. With great outcry she lamented him, and she cast from her the vessel containing the potion that it was scattered abroad. By it the mount was well sprinkled, whereby all the land and country was much bettered, for many a precious herb hath been found there that sprang from that potion.

But now speak we again of the damsel. Never was she so woful as now in losing her love. She lieth down beside him, and taketh him in her arms and straineth him close, and many a time she kisseth him on eyes and mouth, till her grief for him pierceth her heart. There died the maid who had been so valiant, wise and fair.

Now when the king and those that were awaiting them saw that the twain came not again, they followed after and found them. And there the king fell to the ground in a swoon; and when he recovered his speech he made great lament, and so did all the stranger folk. Three days they kept the twain above earth; and caused two coffins of marble to be brought, and in them they laid the two lovers, and by the counsel of all, buried them upon the top of the mountain; and then they all went their ways.

Because of the adventure of these twain the mountain is still called by the name of Les Deux Amants. So it fell, even as I have told you, and the Bretons turned it into a lay.

Eliduc

Now will I tell you all the matter and story of a most ancient Breton lay, even as I have heard it, and hold it for true.

In Bretaigne dwelt a knight, brave and courteous, hardy and bold; Eliduc was his name, methinketh, and in all the land was no other man so valiant. And he had for wife a woman wise and honourable, of high parentry and goodly lineage. Long they lived together, and loyally they loved one another; but at length it fell that by reason of strife the knight went to seek service abroad, and there he grew to love a maid, daughter to a king and queen; Guilliadun was the name of the damsel, and she was the fairest of that realm. Now Eliduc's wife was called among her own folk Guildeluëc, and from these twain the lay hath taken the name of Guildeluëc and Guilliadun; of old it was called Eliduc, but now is its title changed, in that the adventure from which the lay is drawn turneth upon the two dames. Now even as it befell so will I recite it, and tell you all the truth thereof.

Eliduc had for liege lord the king of Britain the Less, who showed him much love and favour, and to whom he gave faithful service. Whenever the king must needs be absent, it was given to him to guard the land, and hold it by his prowess. Yet even better fortune befell him, for he was made free to hunt in the king's forest, nor was there any forester therein so bold he dared gainsay him, or speak him grudgingly. But as often falleth through other men's envy of our fortune, he was estranged from his lord, and so slandered and belied, that without hearing he was banished from the court, though on what grounds he knew not. Ofttimes he besought the king not to give ear to calumny, but to show him justice, in that he had long served him with right good will; yet ever the king would give him no answer.

Now when Eliduc saw he could win no hearing, he must needs depart. He went back to his own house, and called all his friends together, and told them of the wrath of the king, his liege lord, whom he had served as best he might,—never should the king have borne him hate. But as the villein saith in proverb when he chideth his plowman, "Lord's love is no fief"; so is he wise and discreet who keeps faith with his liege lord, yet spendeth his love on his good friends. Now the knight was minded to abide no more in that land, but would, he said, cross the sea and go into the kingdom of Logres, to solace himself there for a space. His wife he would leave in his domain, and bade his friends and liegemen that they guard her loyally.

So he abode by this judgment, and prepared him full richly for the journey; but his friends were right sorrowful that he should depart from them. He took with him ten knights, and his wife conducted him on the way. At parting with her lord she made exceeding great dole, but he assured her he would keep good faith with her. With that she left him, and he held straight on his way till he came to the sea, and passed over it, and came into Totness.

In that land were divers kings, and between them was war and strife. One dwelt near Exeter, full puissant, but an old man and an ancient. No heir male had he, but only a daughter yet unwedded; and in that he would not give her in marriage to his neighbor, that other made war upon him, and laid waste all his land, and besieged him in his castle; nor was there among those within any man who dared issue out to risk onset and battle. When Eliduc heard thereof, he was fain to go no farther, but to abide in that land wherein was war, and to seek service with, and help as best he might, the king who was so harried and hard pressed and beset. Wherefore he sent messengers thither, and by letter showed the king how he had issued out of his own land and stood ready to his aid; furthermore, he prayed him to make known his pleasure herein, and if he would have none of him, to grant him safe conduct through the land, that he might seek service elsewhere.

Now when the king saw the messengers, he looked on them kindly and made them good cheer. He called his constable to him, and bade him straightway make ready an escort to bring thither the knight, and prepare a hostel where he and his men might lodge, and furthermore, bade give and grant them as much as they would spend for a month. The escort made them ready, and set out to fetch Eliduc; and he was received with great honour, for right welcome was he to the king. He was given lodging in the house of a burgess full discreet and courteous, who gave up to his guest his own fair tapestried chamber. Eliduc bade the board be well set forth, and invited all needy knights that lodged in the town to share his victual. And moreover, he commanded his men that none be so forward that he take either gift or denier for the first forty days.

Now three days after his coming, a cry arose in the city that their enemies were upon them, and overspread all the land thereabouts, and pressed up to the very gates, for that they would assail the town. Eliduc heard the noise of the folk, who were sore dismayed, and forthright he armed himself, and his comrades likewise. Now though many a man had been slain and many a one made prisoner, fourteen mounted knights were yet left in the town, and when they saw Eliduc get him to horseback, they hastened to their lodgings to arm themselves; and with him they issued out of the gate, without waiting for summons. "Sir," they cried to him, "we will go with thee, and what thou dost we likewise will do." "Gramercy," he made answer. "Now is there none among you who knows of some hidden way or ambush where we may take them unawares? If we await them here, it may be we shall do battle with them, but to no purpose, if any have better counsel." And they made answer: "In faith, sir, near this wood through a bed of reeds runneth a narrow cart-road, whereby they are wont

to take their way back. When they have won their booty they will repair thither; ofttimes they ride there unarmed upon their palfreys, and so put themselves in jeopardy of speedy death; right soon could we do them damage, and hurt and annoy." And Eliduc answered them: "Friends, I give you my word, he who doth not often venture where he thinketh to lose, will never win much, nor achieve high honour. Ye are all the king's liegemen, and ye should keep good faith with him. Come with me where I shall go, and what I do, do ye in likewise; I pledge you my faith, ye shall suffer no hurt so long as I can help you in aught. And if it chance we win somewhat, the damage we do to the foe will be turned to our praise." Thereupon they all made pledge, and thereafter drew towards the wood.

Thus they took ambush near the roadside until those others should return; and Eliduc commanded his men, and showed and devised to them how they should cry out upon their foes, and how they should spur against them. So when the outlanders drew near to the pass ... Eliduc cried his cry, and called to his comrades, and bade them do their best. Rudely they laid on with their swords, and spared no whit, that their enemies were all abashed,—speedily were they broken and scattered, and within short time vanquished. Their constable was taken, and likewise many another knight, and Eliduc's men gave them into the charge of their squires. Twenty-five were they of the town, and thirty they captured of those without; eagerly they seized upon the armour, and good booty had they therein. So they returned again, and glad were they in that they had well prospered.

The king was upon a tower, in sore dread because of his men; and much he complained of Eliduc, who, he feared, had brought his knights into jeopardy through treason. And now they draw near, riding close ranked and laden with spoils. Many more were they at the return than at the outgoing, wherefore the king knew them not, but was full of fear and misgiving. He bade the gates be closed, and commanded his folk that they mount the walls to draw their bows and cast down missiles,—but of this there will be no need. Eliduc had sent before a squire spurring fast, who now made known the adventure to the king, and told him of Eliduc, how he had vanquished the besiegers, and how bravely he had borne himself; he had wounded many and slain many, and had taken captive their constable and nine-and-twenty more,—never was there such a knight. Great joy had the king of these tidings; he left the tower and rode out to meet Eliduc, and thanked him for his well doing. And Eliduc on his part gave over the prisoners to the king, and divided the armour among the knights; his own share he dealt out to the prisoners and other folk, nought kept he for his profit save three of the horses he had heard well praised.

After the deed whereof I have told you, he was loved and cherished of the king, who retained him in his service a whole year, and his comrades likewise. And Eliduc gave his oath to the king, and was made warden of the land.

Eliduc was wise and courteous, a comely knight, brave and free-handed. So it fell the king's daughter heard him named, and his valour recounted; and she sent one of her own chamberlains to him, to pray and entreat that he come to her for talk and for disport, that they might learn to know one another,—much she marveled that he had not yet sought her. Eliduc made answer he would go, gladly would he make her acquaintance. So he mounted his horse, and taking with him one knight, goeth forth to speak with the damsel. But when he was about to enter her bower, he sent the chamberlain before, and lingered somewhat, delaying until the man returned again.

Then with gentle bearing, frank courtesy, and right noble cheer he addressed Guilliadun that fair damsel, as one ready of speech, and gave her his thanks for that it had pleased her to call him to speak with her. The damsel hath taken him by the hand, and side by side they sat upon a couch, speaking of many things. The maiden looked at him long, at face and body and bearing, and to herself she said: "He hath in him no fault"; greatly she commended him in her heart. And love sent thither his messenger, who commanded her that she love the knight, and caused her to sigh and turn pale. Yet she would not speak her thought, lest he should misprize her.

He tarried there a long space, then asked leave to go away; sorrowfully she granted it, and he hath departed and returned again to his hostel. Heavy was he and full of thought, and sore disquieted by reason of the fair damsel, the daughter of the king his lord, for that she had so sweetly summoned him, and that she had sighed. Much it misliked him that he had been so long in the land, and yet had not often seen her; but when he had so thought, much he repented him, and he called to remembrance his wife, how he had pledged him to keep good faith with her, and to live loyally.

Now when the maiden had seen him she would fain have had him for her lover; none had ever seemed to her so goodly, and if she may she will bind him fast to her. Thus she lay awake all night long, and neither rested nor slept. On the morrow she rose early, and went to the window, and called to the chamberlain, and showed him all her thought. "By my faith," saith she, "it goes hardly with me, I have fallen into an evil plight, for I love the new man of arms, Eliduc, the good knight. No rest had I this night, nor once closed my eyes in sleep. If he will but love me in very love, and give himself to me, I will do all his desire, and he shall win great good thereby, for he shall be king of all this land. But if he will not give himself to me, I must die in great dolour, for love of his wisdom and courtesy." When she had said what she would, the chamberlain gave her true counsel,—let none blame him therefor. "Lady," saith he, "if you love him, send to him and tell him. And it were well done to give him a girdle, a ring, or a scarf; if he receive it gladly, and if he have joy of the sending, you may be sure of his love. There is no emperor under heaven who would not be rejoiced if you chose to love him." When she heard his counsel, the damsel made answer: "But how shall I know by my gift whether he hath desire to love me? I never yet saw knight who, whether he loved or hated, had to be prayed in like matter, or would not willingly keep the gift sent him. Much would it mislike me that he should scorn me. Yet none the less, can one learn somewhat from a look; so make yourself ready and go." "I am ready now," saith he. "Take him a ring of gold, and give him my girdle, greet him from me a thousand times!"

Thereupon the chamberlain set forth, but the damsel was in such a plight that well nigh had she called him back to her; yet none the less she let him go, and thus began to lament her: "Woe is me, how is my heart taken captive by a man from a strange land. I know not even if he be of high kindred, and belike he will go hence suddenly, and I shall be left unhappy. Foolishly have I set my heart. Never till yesterday did I speak with him, and now I would beseech his love. I fear lest he scorn me; yet if he be courteous, he will show me grace. Now have I set all at adventure, and if he desire not my love I shall be in an evil plight. Never in all my life shall I know joy."

Now while she made lament the chamberlain went on in all haste until he came unto Eliduc. Privately he gave him greetings from the damsel, and offered him the ring and the girdle. The knight said him thanks; the golden ring he put on his finger, and the girdle he bound about him.

Nought else said he to the varlet, nor asked him aught, save that he offered him somewhat of his own treasure, but the youth would take nothing, and went his way and returned again to his lady. In her chamber he found her, and gave her the knight's greetings and thanks for her gift. "Say on," saith she, "and hide nought from me; will he love me in very love?" "So I believe," he answered; "but the knight is not light minded, rather I deem him to be wise and courteous, one who knoweth well how to hold his own counsel. I gave him your greetings and your gifts; your girdle he bound about him; tightly he girt it around his waist, and the ring he set on his finger. Nought else said I to him, or he to me." "And he did not take it for love? If this be so, I am undone." "By my faith," saith he, "I know not. Yet hear me; if he had not wished you well, he would have had nought to do with your gifts." "Ye speak folly," saith she, "I know right well he doth not hate me, for never have I done him any ill, save that I love him bitterly, and if he hate me for this, then is he worthy of death. Never again by you or any other will I ask him aught till I may have speech with him: I myself will tell him how I am constrained by love. But I know not if he is to abide here." "Lady," the chamberlain maketh answer, "the king hath bound him by oath to a year's loyal service. Thus you will have time in plenty to make known your pleasure to him."

When she heard the knight was to stay she rejoiced greatly, right glad was she of his sojourn. But nought knew she of the trouble he endured since seeing her; never knew he joy or delight save only as he thought of her. And for this he deemed himself given over to evil, in that before he left his own land he had promised his wife to love none save her only. Now is his heart in sore torment; he would fain keep faith, yet can he not withhold him from loving the damsel, Guilliadun, who was so fair to see and hold speech withal, to clip and kiss. Yet hath he resolved not to seek her love, deeming that dishonour, in that he would keep faith with his wife, and in that he was in the king's service. In sore distress was Eliduc. But now he tarries no longer; he mounts his horse, and calls his comrades to him, and goeth to the castle to speak with the king. And if he may he will see the damsel likewise; it was for this chance he went.

The king had risen from meat, and entered into his daughter's chamber; and now he played at chess with a knight from over sea, and thereby taught his daughter who sat on the other side of the board. Eliduc came forward, and the king made him fair semblance, and gave him a place at his side. "Damsel," he saith to his daughter, "you should in truth know this knight, and do him great honour, for among five hundred you will find none better." Now when the maid heard her father's command, she was right glad; and she riseth and calleth to her the knight, and they sat together apart from the rest. Both were kindled with love; she dared not speak to him, and he feared to address her, save to thank her for the gift she had sent him,—none had he ever had so dear and goodly. She answered the knight that of this she was right glad, for she had sent him the ring and the girdle in token she had given herself to him, for she loved him with such a love that she longed to make him her lord; and if she might not have him, one thing she knew of a sooth, never would she have living man,—now let him make known his will. "Lady," said he, "grateful am I for your love, and great joy have I therein; that I am so prized by you maketh me dearly glad, and on my side there will be no withholding. Yet though I remain a year with the king—for I have given him my word not to depart until his war is ended—thereafter I must go back into my own land, for I would not longer remain here, if I may have my leave of you." "Friend, good thanks to you," the damsel maketh answer. "Before that time you, who are so wise and courteous, will well devise what to do with me; I love and trust in you beyond all living creature." Thus they came to good accord, and at that time spoke no more together.

Eliduc goeth to his hostel glad at heart, in that he hath well prospered. Often may he have speech with his friend, and great is the love between them. And thereafter he so bestirred himself in the strife that he seized and captured him who had made war upon the king, and brought peace to all the land. Greatly was he honoured for his prowess, wisdom and largess; and high fortune was his.

Now in time already past, the king of Bretaigne, his liege lord, had sent three messengers from out his land to seek him, in that he was beset and beleagered and harried and pillaged; many of his castles were taken, and all his land laid waste. Right often he repented him that he had parted with Eliduc; ill counsel had been his when that he looked askance upon him. But now the traitors who had slandered and accused him had been banished from the land, and exiled forever; and now he conjured him by his great need, and summoned and besought him by the faith he owed as liegeman and by the oath of his vassalage, that he come now to aid him, for right great was his need.

Eliduc heard the message, and he was full heavy of heart because of the damsel, for he loved her sorely, and she him so much it might not be more. But between them was no lightness or folly or wrong doing, and their love showed itself only in speech and sweet customs and goodly gifts. Her hope and thought was that he should be wholly hers, and that she would hold him to her; for she knew nought of his wife. "Alas," saith he, "ill have I done; too long have I tarried in this region, and on an ill day saw I this land. Here have I loved a maiden, Guilliadun the king's daughter, right sorely, and she me. If I needs must part with her, one of us will die, or both mayhap. And yet it behooves me to go; my liege lord hath sent for me by letter, and conjured me by my oath, and so hath my wife likewise. Now it beseems me to have care. I may not longer abide here, but must needs depart. Were I to marry my love, christianity would not suffer it; all paths lead to ill; on all sides lieth sorrow. God! how she feareth the parting. But I will deal fairly with her, let whoso will blame me; I will do her will, and act according to her counsel. The king her father hath fair peace; no man, I think, will again make war upon him; and so because of my liege lord's need, I will ask leave of him before the day of the term set for my service, and I will go to the damsel and make known to her this matter; she shall tell me her desire herein, and I will fulfil it as well as in me lieth."

The knight tarried no longer, but goeth to ask leave of the king. He speaketh and telleth all the story, and showed and read him his liege lord's letter that had summoned him at need. The king heard the summons, and that the knight would abide there no longer, and he was right grieved and sorry. He offered him good share of his havings, the third part of his heritage, and what was left of his treasure. "If you will but abide here," he saith, "I will do so much for you that you will thank me all the days of your life." "In God's name," saith the knight, "in that my liege is so hard pressed, and hath sent to me from afar off, I must go to him in his need; nor will I in anywise abide here at this time; but if you again have need of my service, I will gladly return unto you, and with good force of knights." For this the king gave him thanks and sweetly granted him leave. And the king further made him free of all the goods of his household, gold and silver, horses and dogs, and stuffs of silk goodly and fair; and

of all these he took in measure.

Then he said courteously to the king that with his leave he would gladly go speak with his daughter. "Right willingly," the king made answer, and sent with him a damsel to open the chamber. So Eliduc goeth to speak with the maiden, and so soon as she saw him she called him to her, and gave him greeting a thousand times. He showed her his affair, and briefly maketh known to her his going; but before he had told her all, or had asked leave of her, she lost her colour, and swooned for very sorrow. Now when Eliduc saw her swoon, he began to make lament; many times he kissed her on the mouth, and weepeth right tenderly; and he took her and held her in his arms until she recovered her senses. "In God's name, sweet friend," saith he, "suffer me to speak to you for a little; you are my life and my death, and in you lies all my comfort, wherefore now I would take counsel with you because of the faith that is between us. 'Tis for dire need that I return into my own land and have asked leave of your father; yet will I do your pleasure herein, whatsoever may befall me." "Take me with you," saith she, "sith ye will not remain here; or if you will not have it so, then will I slay myself, for without you never shall I know joy or gladness." Eliduc answered her gently, for much he loved her with true love: "Fair one, I am of a truth pledged by oath to your father's service until the day when our term was set, and if I take you with me now I shall belie my faith. But truly I swear and promise you that if you will grant me leave, and appoint a respite, and name a day when you would have me return to you again, nothing in the world shall keep me from you if I be a living man and sound. My life is wholly in your hands." When the damsel heard his great love, she appointed a term, and named a day when he should come and take her away with him. Great sorrow they made at parting; they exchanged rings of gold, and sweetly each kissed the other.

Then Eliduc rode down to the sea. The wind was fair and the passage short; and when he was come into his own land again, his liege lord rejoiced and made merry. So did his friends and kinsmen, and other folk likewise, but more than all others his good wife who was so fair and wise and valiant. But always he was sad because of the love by which he was held captive, and never for any thing he saw would he show joy or gladness; never will he be of good cheer till he see his sweet friend again. Well he guarded his secret and ever he kept his own counsel. His wife was grieved at heart and knew not what it might mean, and to herself made great lament. Often she asked him if he had heard any say that she had misdone while he was out of the land; willingly would she clear herself before his people, whensoever it should please him. "Lady," saith he, "none hath accused you of fault or misdeed. But in the land where I have been I have given oath and pledge to the king that I will return to him again, for that he hath right great need of me. If the king my lord were at peace I should not abide here eight days. Sore travail must I endure before I can return thither, and never shall I know joy or gladness until I have so done, for I would not belie my oath." Thereafter the dame let be.

Eliduc, meantime, was with his lord; much he aided and strengthened him, and the king acted ever after his counsel and maintained all the land. But when the term drew near that the damsel had appointed, he set himself to make peace, and brought all his enemies to accord. Thereafter he made him ready to set forth, together with such folk as he desired to take with him,—his two nephews whom he greatly loved, his squire, and one of his chamberlains, who was in the counsel of those twain and carried their messages. He had no care for other folk, and these he made swear and promise to keep his counsel.

He tarried no longer, but took the sea, and speedily won the other shore, and came into the country where he was so sore desired. Eliduc was right cunning, and took lodging far from the haven, for that he desired not to be seen or known or discovered. He made ready his chamberlain and sent him to his love, and made known to her that he had come, well had he obeyed her commandment; and he bade her that night, when all was dark, that she should issue out of the city, together with the chamberlain, and that he would meet her. The messenger changed his garments and set forth on foot in all haste; straight to the city he went where dwelt the king's daughter, and he so sought and contrived that he entered into her chamber. He gave greeting to the damsel and told her that her love had come. When she heard the news she was sore abashed and shaken, full softly she wept for joy, and many a time she kissed the messenger. He told her how at dusk she was to go with him; and all day they were together and devised well concerning their going. At night when it was wholly dusk, the youth issued out of the city and the damsel with him, and none other save those two only. She was dressed in stuff of silk but scantly broidered with gold, and all wrapped about in a short mantle; in great fear was she lest she be seen.

A bow's shot from the gate was a wood enclosed by a goodly paling, and beside it her friend awaited their coming. Thither the chamberlain brought her, and the knight lighted down from his horse and kissed her; great joy was theirs at being together again. Then he set her upon his horse, and mounted likewise, and took the reins and rode off in all haste. They came unto the haven of Totness, and entered into the ship forthright; no other company was there save only Eliduc's followers and Guilliadun his friend. The wind was fresh and fair and the weather serene.

But when they were about to come to land, there was a storm upon the sea, and a head wind arose that drave them far from the haven, and broke and splintered their masts, and tore all their sails. They called devotely upon God and Saint Nicolas and Saint Clement, and Our Lady, Saint Mary, that she beseech aid of her son, that he save them from destruction and suffer them to come into the haven. Now forward and now back, so are they driven along the shore; right sore was their peril. Then one of the shipmen cried aloud: "What can we do? Sir, here within you have with you her by reason of whom we perish; never shall we reach land. You are married to a loyal wife, yet besides, you carry with you this other, against God and the law, against right and faith and justice. Let us cast her into the sea, then shall we straightway come to shore." Eliduc heareth what he saith and is well nigh burnt with anger. "Dog," he saith, "foul traitor, say not so a second time. If I could leave my love I would make you pay dear." But even then he was holding her in his arms, and was giving such comfort as he might against the sickness she had from the sea, and for that she had heard her lord had a wife other than herself in his own land. She turned all pale and fell down in a swoon, and so she remained, and neither revived nor breathed forth even a sigh. And those who helped her friend bear her thence thought of a truth that she was dead. As for him he made great sorrow; and sprang to his feet and ran swiftly towards the sailor who had spoken, and struck him with an oar that he felled him flat, then he seized him by the leg and cast him over the ship's side that the waves bore away his body. Then after he had cast him into the sea, he took the helm, and so guided and directed the boat that he brought her into the haven and came to land; and when she rode safe, they lowered the bridge and cast anchor.

But Guilliadun still lay in a swoon and seemed

as one dead. Eliduc made right great sorrow and was full fain of death likewise. He asked of his companions what counsel they could give him as to where he might carry the damsel, for he would not part with her, and she should be buried in holy ground with great honour and high estate, in that she was a king's daughter, and such was her right. But his comrades were all abashed and could in no wise counsel him. So Eliduc set himself to think to what spot he should bear her. His house was so near the sea he might be there at the hour of meat, and round about his house lay a forest a good thirty leagues of length. Therewithin dwelt a hermit, and near his cell he had a chapel; forty years had he dwelt there, and Eliduc had ofttimes spoken with him. To him, he saith, he will bear the damsel, and bury her there in the chapel, and he will give of his land enough to found an abbey, and to establish there a convent of monks and nuns and chanons, who every day shall pray for her that God grant her sweet mercy. Then he let bring the horses, and bade all mount, but first he had them all give oath that they would keep his secret. Thereafter they set out, and he himself bore his love before him on his palfrey.

They followed the highroad so long that they entered into the forest and came to the chapel; there they knocked and called, but found none to answer or open to them, and at last the knight sent one of his men forward to unbar the door. Eight days before, the holy hermit, that perfect one, had died, and within they found the new made tomb. Right sorry was Eliduc and sore troubled; his comrades would fain have made ready a grave wherein he might lay his friend, but he thrust them back, saying: "This shall not be until I have taken counsel with the wise folk of the land how I may sanctify this place with abbey and minster. Meanwhile, we will lay her before the altar and commend her to God."