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Aucassin & Nicolette, and Other Mediæval Romances and Legends

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Title: Aucassin & Nicolette, and Other Mediæval Romances and Legends

Translator: Eugene Mason


        
Release date: November 23, 2011 [eBook #38110]

Language: English

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Everyman's Library
Edited by Ernest Rhys

Romance

AUCASSIN & NICOLETTE
And Other Mediaeval Romances and Legends.

With an Introduction by

EUGENE MASON

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[Illustration:

A ROMANCE,
AND IT
ME TOOK
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& DRIVE
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CHAUCER]


AUCASSIN & NICOLETTE
and other Mediaeval Romances and Legends
translated from the French by

EUGENE MASON







London & Toronto
Published By J. M. Dent
& Sons Ltd & in New York
by E. P. Dutton & Co

First Issue Of This Edition      1910
Reprinted                        1912, 1915




INTRODUCTION


The little tales brought together in this volume are drawn from the
literature of the Middle Ages, and in many cases were written in France
of the thirteenth century. I hope that they may be found interesting in
themselves, but to appreciate them fully they should be considered in
their relations to a definite historical background. Their conceptions
of society, of religion, of politics, of humour--that precious gift
which always dies so young--are not common to all of us to-day. They
are of the thirteenth century, and we of the twentieth. We may not be
better than our forefathers, but a great chasm of seven hundred years
yawns between us and them. To enjoy their work without reserve it is
necessary for a time to breathe the same air that was breathed--roughly
speaking--by the subjects of St. Louis of France.

It is possible to love the period known as the Middle Ages, or it is
possible to detest it. But you cannot ignore it, nor find it
flavourless on the palate, because that period possesses character,
"character, that personal quality, that idiosyncrasy which, no doubt,
you are the richer for possessing, be it morally bad or good--for it is
surely better to have a bad character than none, and if you are a
church, better to be like the Badia than the City Temple." Indeed, it
is evident that the personal equation must largely determine what any
writer's conception of the Middle Ages is. A great modern poet, for
instance, loved the Middle Ages because economic conditions pressed
less hardly on the poor; because London was small and white and clean;
because chivalry afforded opportunity for that decorative treatment of
knightly episodes which makes his poetry so attractive. Yet across the
Channel, much at the same time, an equally distinguished poet treated
of the same period in a book of poems which it is instructive to
consider side by side with the work of William Morris, and the
Frenchman's verse is lurid with fire and bigotry, and the tale of
man's inhumanity to man. And the strange point is that both writers
could give chapter and verse for the very different type of story they
selected. Again, the religious temperament is apt to look back fondly
to the Middle Ages as the "Age of Faith." To such minds mediaevalism is
a period of easy acquiescence in spiritual authority, a state of health
before the world grew sick with our modern disease of doubt. Certainly
these centuries produced saints whose arresting examples and haunting
words must always be the glory of Christianity, and it is equally
certain that the offices and doctrines of the Church entered far more
intimately into the lives of the common folk than they do to-day. But
side by side with faith there was a "spirit of rebellion and revolt
against the moral and religious ideas of the time." It may be found in
many strangely different shapes: in the life of Abelard; in the
extraordinary spread of witchcraft; and--in its supreme literary
expression, perhaps--in a famous passage of "Aucassin and Nicolette."
And, to take a third illustration of the same difficulty, were the
Middle Ages years of sheer lyric beauty, or rather years of
inexpressible ugliness and filth? "If you love the very words 'Middle
Age'; if they conjure up to your mind glowing old folios of black
letter with gilt and florid initials; crimson and green and blue pages
in which slim ladies with spiked head-dresses walk amid sparse flowers
and trees like bouquets, or where men-at-arms attack walled cities no
bigger than themselves, or long-legged youths with tight waists and
frizzed hair kiss girls under apple-trees; or a king is on a dais with
gold lilies for his background, minstrels on their knees before him,
lovers in the gallery"--well, if you accept all this dainty
circumstance, you get sheer lyric beauty, and nothing else. Only there
is another side, a side not very pleasant to dwell upon, and it may
perhaps be hinted at by saying that such a necessary of the toilet as a
pocket-handkerchief was not generally known in this Age of Beauty.
Perhaps it would be truer to hold that the Middle Ages comprised all
these things--the knight-errant and the tormentor; the altar and the
witch's Sabbath; a dream of loveliness having its roots in slime and
squalor. These centuries were both "enormous and delicate." They were
great enough to include opposites, and to square the circle. You may
love them, or you may hate them; but they cannot be given the go-by.

The philosophy of the Middle Ages--that is to say, the idea which
governed their political and theological conceptions--was both simple
and profound. The Emperor or King was considered to be the guardian of
the temporal order of things, just as the Pope was held to be the
supreme authority in matters of eternal and spiritual concern. It was
an idea fascinating in its simplicity, but life is a tangled and
complex matter, and in practice, planets, which in theory moved
strictly in their own orbits, were continually striking across each
other's path. Even St. Louis, the King, who carried saintliness to the
extreme limit permitted to man, was involved in frequent political
quarrels with the supreme head of his Church, and by one of the little
ironies of fate came within measurable distance of excommunication. The
King--again in theory--was the owner of all his realm. This was
necessary to abolish Heptarchies. But for the support of the Crown he
parcelled out his realm amongst great lords, and thus established
Heptarchies again. The great barons, in their turn, divided their
estates amongst knights, bound to assist them in their quarrels, and to
furnish a certain number of soldiers to their service. Amongst these
knights sprang up one of the supreme institutions of the Middle
Ages--the institution of chivalry. "It took its birth in the interior
of the feudal mansions, without any set purpose beyond that of
declaring, first, the admission of the young man to the rank and
occupation of the warrior; secondly, the tie which bound him to his
feudal superior--his lord, who conferred upon him the arms of
knighthood. But when once the feudal society had acquired some degree
of stability and confidence, the usages, the feelings, the
circumstances of every kind which attended the young man's admission
among the vassal warriors, came under two influences, which soon gave
them a fresh direction, and impressed them with a novel character.
Religion and imagination, poetry and the Church, laid hold on chivalry,
and used it as a powerful means of attaining the objects they had in
view, of meeting the moral wants which it was their business to provide
for." Throughout a long apprenticeship, in a castle which contained
practically but one woman, the wife of his lord and she removed how
infinitely from him in distance and in station, the young squire was
trained to feel towards all women something of the dreamy devotion with
which art and religion taught him to regard Our Lady herself. And the
apprenticeship culminated in the ceremony of knighthood, with all the
mystical significance of the symbolism preserved for us in the little
story of Sir Hugh of Tabarie and the Sultan Saladin, carefully
calculated to impress the recipient in the highest degree. Devotion to
God, to his king, and to his lady--these were the ideals of knighthood,
not always, unfortunately, its realities. But ideals are difficult of
realization in so faulty a world as ours. The Black Prince was the very
pattern of chivalry in his youth, yet Froissart remarks in his account
of the battle of Poitiers that "the Prince of Wales, who was as
courageous and cruel as a lion, took great pleasure this day in
fighting and chasing his enemies." The conduct of that perfect gentle
knight, Sir Graelent, towards the lady he discovered bathing in the
fountain, was far from chivalrous, according to modern notions, and yet
I can assure the reader that I have walked delicately as Agag, and gone
to the verge of weakness, in recounting the incident. Finally, here is
a passage from a letter written by a knight of the fourteenth century
to the Tyrant of Mantua, relating to a French girl, Jeannette, which is
sufficiently explicit. "Let her be detained at my suit, for if you
should have a thousand golden florins spent for her, I will pay them
without delay, for if I should have to follow her to Avignon I will
obtain this woman. Now, my lord, should I be asking a trifle contrary
to law, yet ought you not to cross me in this, for some day I shall do
more for you than a thousand united women could effect; and if there be
need of me in a matter of greater import, you shall have for the asking
a thousand spears at my back." Ah, well, ideals that are realized cease
to be ideals.

Just as this worship of woman was the great social note of the Middle
Ages, so the devotion to the Blessed Virgin was the distinguishing
religious feature of those times. In honour of Our Lady were erected
the magnificent Gothic cathedrals--those masterpieces of moral
elevation--which stud the fair land of France like painted capitals
upon a written page. In these buildings the genius of the Middle Ages
found its supreme expression. Above the crowded market-place and narrow
mediaeval street rose those incomparable churches, "like Gothic queens
at prayer, alone, silent and adorned." In her honour, too, they were
made beautiful with glass and statuary, so that never before nor since
were churches filled with such an entrancing congregation, never had
buildings such wonderful eyes. And at a time when masons built to her
honour and theologians defined her position, the story-tellers were not
slack in her praise. The three legends relating to the Virgin, which I
have included in this book of translations, are but specimens of an
immense literature devoted to her service. "Our Lady's Tumbler" is, to
the modern taste, one of the most appealing of all these legends, but
there are others nearly, if not quite, so beautiful. Once upon a time
there was a monk who was so ignorant that he was exposed to the rebuke
of his brethren. But in his devotion to Our Lady he took for his
meditation five psalms, each commencing with a letter of her name. And
when it pleased God that his end should come, there happened a very
beauteous miracle, for from his mouth came forth five fresh roses,
sweet, crimson and leafy, in honour of the five letters of the name of
Maria. Again, how exquisite is the story of the nun who by frailty of
heart fled from her cloister to give herself over to sin. After many
long years she returned to the nunnery, having lost her innocence, but
not her faith, for during all her wanderings she had never omitted her
habit of prayer to Our Lady. But, to her surprise, always she was
addressed by her sisters as if she had never gone from amongst them.
For the Blessed Virgin, having clothed herself with the vesture and
seeming of the truant who loved her, even in sin, took also upon her
the duties of a sacristan from which she had fled, so that no single
person had noticed the absence from her cloister of the faithless nun.

Yet, after all, the Middle Ages delighted to honour Our Lady as the
tender Mother rather than as the Queen of Heaven. In numberless
miniatures, and on the portals of the cathedrals raised to her glory,
she stands presenting her Child to the adoration of men. It is as the
instrument of the Incarnation that her ultimate dignity consists.
Indeed, the religion of the Middle Ages can only be appreciated by
regarding it in the light of the doctrine of the Incarnation. Christ is
God. The Mass--the popular service instituted by Himself--is an
extension of His Incarnation. The Blessed Virgin is to be held in
peculiar veneration as the Mother of God. The two threads can easily be
seen twined together in that story of how Our Lady tourneyed whilst the
knight was at Mass. But belief in the Incarnation is the keystone of
mediaeval theology, and the only explanation of the lives of those
saints who poured out their years like water in the service of God and
man.

The authors of the stories brought together in this book from various
sources are, in some cases, identified, but in others are unknown. They
may, perhaps, be regarded as representative of the three classes who
are responsible for this kind of fiction--the monk, the trouvere and
the professional minstrel. The monk, for his part, wrote in French
seldom enough. He was a scholar, and when he had something to say,
preferred to deliver himself in Latin, the language common to all
educated men. But, for once, in the thirteenth century, a monk of
Soissons, named Gautier de Coinci, translated into French verse a great
collection of the miracles of Our Lady. From this garner I have
selected the legend "Of a Jew who took as Surety the Image of Our
Lady." Gautier de Coinci may not have been a supreme poet--that saving
grace comes seldom enough--but his industry was certainly abnormal. His
labour of love must have been the occupation of a lifetime, and it is
pleasant to recall the old monk, in silent scriptorium and shady
cloister, turning the Latin legends into fluent and pious verse.

The trouvere was drawn from the same class as the troubadour, and the
circumstances of their lives were in essentials much the same. He lived
very probably in some nobleman's castle, where he composed his stories
as a sort of amateur, and recited the verses to an audience more or
less select. His pride forbade him to appear personally before the
populace, but it permitted him to provide wandering minstrels with
copies of these poems, and so entertain the common folk by deputy. In
the lord's castle it was, of course, another matter. On summer
afternoons he would recite before the baron's household, where they
were seated on the steps of the garden terrace, each in his order and
degree. You can feel the hush and heat of the Provencal evening, whilst
the sombre cypresses spire into the sky, and the olives whisper, and,
far below, the broad stretches of the Rhone are suffused with the
lovely light and colour of southern France. Or, in winter, after
supper, when the tables were cleared, the trouvere would recite in
hall. At the feet of the ladies sat their knights on silken cushions,
fettered with silver chains, each to his friend. It was an audience
rich and idle, familiar with the fantastic lives of the troubadours,
and with the wanton judgments of the Courts of Love. For such a company
no flower of sentiment could be too highly scented, and no tale come
amiss, save only that it spoke of love.

If the trouveres were "the aristocracy of this literature," the
minstrel was its "democracy." Sometimes he rose almost to the status of
the trouvere, composing his own stories, and reciting them even in
kings' houses. Generally, however, the minstrel was but a strolling
player, speaking other men's thoughts, and wandering over the length
and breadth of the land. Occasionally he went alone with his viol. At
other times he was accompanied by bears, or a little troupe of singing
boys or dancing girls. The minstrel might have the good fortune to give
his entertainment before some knight or count. At any rate, the common
folk heard him gladly, before the church or on the village green. If he
was lucky, the homeless minstrel got free lodgings for the night at
some hospitable monastery, but occasionally he was turned from the
door, with hard words, because of St. Bernard's saying that "the tricks
of the jongleurs can never please God." Once upon a time such a
minstrel as this knocked at a monastery door, and asked for
hospitality. He was received without indecent joy, and the
guest-master, forgetting that a grace conferred unwillingly is no
favour at all, provided the guest with black bread, salted vegetables,
cold water, and a hard and dirty pallet. The abbot obviously felt no
passion for strolling vagabonds, and had appointed a guest-master after
his own heart. On the morrow, when the minstrel was leaving the
monastery, he met the abbot returning from a short journey. To revenge
himself, at any rate, on one of the two, the minstrel accosted him
effusively. "My lord," said he, "I thank you and all the community from
the bottom of my heart, for Brother such-an-one has welcomed me like
Christ Himself last night. He lighted a fire in my chamber, and served
me with choice wines, excellent fish, and more dishes than I am able to
recall. And this morning when he bade me farewell he gave me shoes,
and these leathern laces, and a knife." When the abbot heard this he
was filled with anger, and, parting shortly from the minstrel, he
hastened to the monastery, and promptly relieved the guest-master of
his office, before the latter could offer a word of explanation. Thus
was the minstrel revenged on this grudging heart.

If, however, any reader would like to see closer the actual life of a
minstrel of the thirteenth century, I would suggest that he obtain the
excellent little book on Rutebeuf, one of the most famous of them all,
published in the Grands Ecrivains Francais series. There he may read of
the poet's bare cupboard, and the unfurnished lodging, where he lived
with his ugly and dowerless old wife, who brought him but fifty years
with her soup. He coughs with cold and gapes with hunger. He has no
mattress, but only straw, and a bed of straw is not a bed. He fears to
face his wife without money for food and rent. If he cannot dig,
emphatically, to beg he is not ashamed. All his goods are in pawn, and
his time is wasted in the tavern, playing dice, which are his curse and
his downfall. Well, Rutebeuf is not the first nor the last to be ruined
by dice. How the Devil must smile! Do you remember the legend of the
making of these little figures? A merchant who sold himself to the
Devil was bidden by him to make a six-sided piece of bone, and to mark
each side with a number. One point was to insult the only true God. Two
points were to insult God and the Blessed Virgin. Three points to
insult the Holy Trinity. Four points to insult the four Evangelists.
Five points to insult the Sacred Wounds; and six points to insult the
Days of Creation. From that hour the little figures spread rapidly
through the world, to man's confusion. Such is the picture Rutebeuf
paints of his life--a life curiously anticipative of that of many a
Bohemian poet since. It is not a very attractive picture, and though
for artistic and other reasons the shadows may be unduly darkened, yet
in the main it is doubtless substantially correct.

The stories written by such men as these are racy of their soil, and
give the very form and pressure of their times. I have tried to make my
little selection representative, and have included in this book not
only romances of love and chivalry, but legends of devotion and
moralities. Greatly daring, I have translated a specimen of their
humour even--not too characteristic, I hope, of the robust merriment
of the feudal period. These stories will be found illustrative of some
of the ideas with which the mind of the Middle Ages was concerned. The
devotion to the Blessed Sacrament and to Our Lady; the languid and
overwrought sentiment of love; the mystical ceremonies of knighthood;
all these things are illuminated by the tales which follow this
Introduction. Bound up with them are customs and ideas which to the
modern mind are, perhaps, less happy. It seems odd, for instance, that
the feudal knight should see nothing repugnant in accepting money and
clothing from the lady who had given him already the supreme favour of
her love. It is possible to entertain a high ideal of friendship
without being prepared to cut the throats of your children for the sake
of your friend. Yet this is what Amile did for Amis in the great epic
of friendship of the Middle Ages. In its stark adherence to a
superhuman standard, it puts one in mind of the animal-like patience of
Griselda--which story (not included here) may perhaps be regarded as
the modest ideal of the mediaeval husband. It is strange, too, to find
in stories so concerned with the knightly exercises of the tourney and
the joust, no hint of the singular disfavour in which these games (or,
perhaps, pursuits) were held by the Church. Popes prohibited them; St.
Louis forbade them. Those slain therein were refused burial in
consecrated ground. The Church testified, "Of those who fell in
tournament there is no question but that they go down to hell, unless
they are aided by the great benefit of absolution." At Cologne sixty
knights and squires were killed, and the cries were heard all about of
demons carrying off their souls to perdition. Apparently all this
tremendous machinery failed utterly in its purpose. The most pious
knights strove in tournaments equally with the most reckless,
and--according to Miss Knox, to whose admirable _Court of a Saint_ I am
indebted--a son of St. Louis himself was thrown at a tourney, and was
afterwards weak in intellect as a consequence.

Nor is it only with the lives of the rich that the mediaeval minstrel
was concerned. He dealt, too, with the lives and aspirations of that
yet more numerous class, the poor. Such a story as "The Three Thieves"
is indeed a picture of the home of the hind. We see the mean mud and
timber hovel, into which the thieves broke so easily, with its
cauldron upon the fire of fagots, its big bedstead, and the little
lean-to byre. The peasant's tools stood around the wall, whilst outside
was the garden, in which a wise ordinance of St. Louis required that
pot-herbs should be planted. And if the tale of "The Three Thieves"
shows us the home of the peasant, his soul is stripped for us to the
quick, in--of all places in the world of literature--"Aucassin and
Nicolette." Amongst the full-blown flowers of sentiment in that
incomparable love-story is placed an episode which, in its violence and
harsh realism, has been likened to a spot of blood and mud on a silver
ground. Possibly it was inserted merely to show the hero's good heart,
or is simply an instance of that artistic use of contrast so noticeable
throughout the book. Any way, there are few things in feudal literature
more striking than the meeting of the "dansellon" with the tattered,
hideous ploughman, the one weeping in delicate grief, the other
telling, dry-eyed, the sordid story of the abject poor. It is very far
from being the happiest incident in the romance, but it is certainly
one of the most memorable. One wonders how it was taken by an audience
that concerned itself so little with the interests of the serf, and
whose literature never mentioned that class, except in scorn. Was the
author possibly of the ploughman's kindred, like Chaucer's parish
priest in _The Canterbury Tales_? Had the stinging whips of captivity
taught him sympathy with unpoetical sorrows; or is this an early hint
of the coming storm! "They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their
furs and their ermines, while we are covered with rags. They have wine
and spices and fair bread; and we, oat-cake and straw, and water to
drink. They have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and labour, the
rain and the wind in the fields." We cannot tell; but comparing this
dainty make-belief with that tragic misery, we feel the significance of
the peasant's cry, "Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such
as these."

I hope I have not dwelt unduly on these stories considered as pictures
of the customs and philosophy of their times. Perhaps, after all, these
matters are of interest to the archaeologist and the ecclesiologist
rather than to the general reader. Not being a scholar myself, I have
no pretension to write for scholars. My object is more modest. I have
tried to bring together a little garland for the pleasure of the
amateurs of beautiful tales. To me these mediaeval stories are
beautiful, and I have striven to decant them from one language into
another with as little loss as may be. To this end I have refined a
phrase, or, perhaps, softened an incident here and there. I do not
pretend that they are perfect works of art. "All poets are unequal,
except the bad, and they are uniformly bad." Sometimes a story drags,
or there are wearisome repetitions. The psychology occasionally strikes
a modern reader as remarkably summary. When Amis, for example, became a
leper, we are gravely told that his wife held him in bitter hatred, and
many a time strove to strangle him. Here is an author who, obviously,
is astonished at nothing. But in reading these narratives you will
remember how they have delighted, and been used by, writers in some
cases greater than their own authors. Is it possible, for instance, to
peruse "The Lay of the Little Bird" without recalling Shelley's
"Sensitive Plant"? The tale of "The Divided Horsecloth" is told, in
another version, both by Montaigne and Browning. The principal incident
of "King Florus and the Fair Jehane" is used by Shakespeare in
"Cymbeline." "Our Lady's Tumbler" and "A Jew who took as Surety the
Image of Our Lady" have been re-written by Monsieur Anatole France with
such perfection of art and artistry as to be the admiration and despair
of all who come after him.

It should not be forgotten that the majority of these stories were
intended to be recited, and not read. Repetition, therefore, is the
more easily excused. This also accounts for the dramatic use of
dialogue, so noticeable in "The Palfrey" and in "Aucassin and
Nicolette." But it is evident that this Introduction, already
over-long, will not permit me to go _seriatim_ through these tales,
"Item, a grey eye or so. Item, two lips, indifferent red." Let me
therefore content myself with appreciating the most lovely of them all,
"Aucassin and Nicolette."

A single copy of "Aucassin and Nicolette," transcribed in the
thirteenth century, and preserved as by miracle, has retained for us
not only a charming tale, but also an unique specimen of the minstrel's
craft. Without it we could not have gathered that so elaborate a
blending of prose and verse was possible to a strolling player of
mediaeval France. The cante-fable was designed for recitation, with
illustrative gesture, to the accompaniment of viol and pipes. In this,
and not only in this, it seems to suggest an Eastern origin, and
to-day, in any Moorish coffee-house, the tales of the _Arabian Nights_
are delivered in a manner very similar to that witnessed in Provence
seven hundred years ago. The peculiar quality of pleasure afforded by
"Aucassin and Nicolette" is not to be found in the story itself. That,
indeed, is very simple, and, perhaps, a trifle hackneyed. Aucassin, the
only son of the Count of Beaucaire, is passionately in love with
Nicolette, a beautiful girl of unknown parentage, bought of the
Saracens, whom his father will not permit him to marry. The story turns
on the adventures of these fond lovers, until at the end their common
fidelity is rewarded. Portions have faded sadly, like old tapestry, and
the laughter sounds especially hollow, for of all precious things fun
dies soonest. But in "Aucassin" the part is emphatically greater than
the whole, and its charm must rather be sought in its graceful turns of
speech--jewels, five words long--and in the pictorial quality which
makes it more a series of pictures than a narrative. Who can forget the
still night of May on which Nicolette escapes from her prison, and
hurries through the garden, kilting her skirt against the dew; or the
ruined tower in whose kindly shadow she remains hidden, whilst the
watch march along the moonlit street, their swords beneath their
mantles; or that bower of branches, built by her own white hands,
through the trellis-work of which her lover looks upon the stars! In
such felicitous picture-making the dainty little classic is equalled by
no work of its period.

May I express the pious wish that every reader may find it all as
delightful to read as I have found it to transcribe?

EUGENE MASON.

     NOTE.--The originals of these narratives are to be found in
     Romania; in the _Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Francois_,
     edited by Barbazan et Meon; in two volumes of the _Nouvelles
     Francoises en prose_, edited by Moland and D'Hericault; and
     in _Les Miracles de la Sainte Vierge_, by Gautier de Coinci.




CONTENTS


                                                        PAGE

'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE                          1

THE STORY OF KING CONSTANT, THE EMPEROR                   39

OUR LADY'S TUMBLER                                        53

THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD                                67

THE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH                                    75

SIR HUGH OF TABARIE                                       85

THE STORY OF KING FLORUS AND OF THE FAIR JEHANE           91

OF THE COVETOUS MAN AND OF THE ENVIOUS MAN               129

OF A JEW WHO TOOK AS SURETY THE IMAGE OF OUR LADY        133

THE LAY OF GRAELENT                                      145

THE THREE THIEVES                                        161

THE FRIENDSHIP OF AMIS AND AMILE                         173

OF THE KNIGHT WHO PRAYED WHILST OUR LADY TOURNEYED
IN HIS STEAD                                             195

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRIES                            199

THE STORY OF ASENATH                                     203

THE PALFREY                                              213




MEDIAEVAL ROMANCE




'TIS OF AUCASSIN AND OF NICOLETTE


     Who will deign to hear the song
     Solace of a captive's wrong,
     Telling how two children met,
     Aucassin and Nicolette;
     How by grievous pains distraught,
     Noble deeds the varlet wrought
     For his love, and her bright face!
     Sweet my rhyme, and full of grace,
     Fair my tale, and debonair.
     He who lists--though full of care,
     Sore astonied, much amazed,
     All cast down, by men mispraised,
     Sick in body, sick in soul,
     Hearing shall be glad and whole,
         So sweet the tale.

Now they say and tell and relate:

How the Count Bougars of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire,
war so great, so wonderful, and so mortal, that never dawned the day
but that he was at the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a
hundred knights and ten thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horse. So
he burned the Count's land, and spoiled his heritage, and dealt death
to his men. The Count Garin of Beaucaire was full of years, and frail;
he had long outworn his day. He had no heir, neither son nor daughter,
save one only varlet, and he was such as I will tell you. Aucassin was
the name of the lad. Fair he was, and pleasant to look upon, tall and
shapely of body in every whit of him. His hair was golden, and curled
in little rings about his head; he had grey and dancing eyes, a clear,
oval face, a nose high and comely, and he was so gracious in all good
graces that nought in him was found to blame, but good alone. But Love,
that high prince, so utterly had cast him down, that he cared not to
become knight, neither to bear arms, nor to tilt at tourneys, nor yet
to do aught that it became his name to do.

His father and his mother spake him thus--

"Son, don now thy mail, mount thy horse, keep thy land, and render aid
to thy men. Should they see thee amongst them the better will the
men-at-arms defend their bodies and their substance, thy fief and
mine."

"Father," said Aucassin, "why speakest thou in such fashion to me? May
God give me nothing of my desire if I become knight, or mount to horse,
or thrust into the press to strike other or be smitten down, save only
that thou give me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well."

"Son," answered the father, "this may not be. Put Nicolette from mind.
For Nicolette is but a captive maid, come hither from a far country,
and the Viscount of this town bought her with money from the Saracens,
and set her in this place. He hath nourished and baptized her, and held
her at the font. On a near day he will give her to some young bachelor,
who will gain her bread in all honour. With this what hast thou to do?
Ask for a wife, and I will find thee the daughter of a king, or a
count. Were he the richest man in France his daughter shalt thou have,
if so thou wilt."

"Faith, my father," said Aucassin, "what honour of all this world would
not Nicolette, my very sweet friend, most richly become! Were she
Empress of Byzantium or of Allemaigne, or Queen of France or England,
low enough would be her degree, so noble is she, so courteous and
debonair, and gracious in all good graces."

Now is sung:

     Aucassin was of Beaucaire,
     Of the mighty castle there,
     But his heart was ever set
     On his fair friend, Nicolette.
     Small he heeds his father's blame,
     Or the harsh words of his dame.
         "Fool, to weep the livelong day,
     Nicolette trips light and gay.
     Scouring she from far Carthage,
     Bought of Paynims for a wage.
     Since a wife beseems thee good
     Take a wife of wholesome blood."
     "Mother, naught for this I care,
     Nicolette is debonair;
     Slim the body, fair the face,
     Make my heart a lighted place;
     Love has set her as my peer,
         Too sweet, my dear."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When the Count Garin of Beaucaire found that in nowise could he
withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolette, he sought out the
Viscount of the town, who was his man, and spake him thus--

"Sir Count, send Nicolette your god-child straightly from this place.
Cursed be the land wherefrom she was carried to this realm; for because
of her I lose Aucassin, who will not become knight, nor do aught that
it becometh knight to do. Know well that were she once within my power
I would hurry her to the fire; and look well to yourself, for you stand
in utmost peril and fear."

"Sire," answered the Viscount, "this lies heavy upon me, that ever
Aucassin goes and he comes seeking speech with my ward. I have bought
her with my money, and nourished and baptized her, and held her at the
font. Moreover, I am fain to give her to some young bachelor, who will
gain her bread in all honour. With this Aucassin your son had nought to
do. But since this is your will and your pleasure, I will send her to
so far a country that nevermore shall he see her with his eyes."

"Walk warily," replied the Count Garin, "for great evil easily may fall
to you of this."

So they went their ways.

Now the Viscount was a very rich man, and had a rich palace standing
within a garden. In a certain chamber of an upper floor he set
Nicolette in ward, with an old woman to bear her company, and to watch;
and he put there bread and meat and wine and all things for their need.
Then he placed a seal upon the door, so that none might enter in, nor
issue forth, save only that there was a window looking on the garden,
strict and close, whereby they breathed a little fresh air.

Now is sung:

     Nicolette is prisoned fast,
     In a vaulted chamber cast,
     Shaped and carven wondrous well,
     Painted as by miracle.
     At the marble casement stayed
     On her elbow leaned the maid;
     Golden showed her golden hair,
     Softly curved her eyebrows rare,
     Fair her face, and brightly flushed,
     Sweeter maiden never blushed.
     In the garden from her room
     She might watch the roses bloom,
     Hear the birds make tender moan;
     Then she knew herself alone.
     "'Lack, great pity 'tis to place
     Maid in such an evil case.
     Aucassin, my liege, my squire,
     Friend, and dear, and heart's desire,
     Since thou dost not hate me quite
     Men have done me foul despite,
     Sealed me in this vaulted room,
     Thrust me to this bitter doom.
     But by God, Our Lady's Son,
     Soon will I from here begone,
         So it be won."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Nicolette was prisoned in the chamber, as you have heard and known. The
cry and the haro went through all the land that Nicolette was stolen
away. Some said that she had fled the country, and some that the Count
Garin of Beaucaire had done her to death. Whatever man may have
rejoiced, Aucassin had no joy therein, so he sought out the Viscount of
the town and spake him thus--

"Sir Viscount, what have you done with Nicolette, my very sweet friend,
the thing that most I love in all the world? Have you borne her off, or
hidden her from my sight? Be sure that should I die hereof, my blood
will be required of you, as is most just, for I am slain of your two
hands, since you steal from me the thing that most I love in all the
world."

"Fair sire," answered the Viscount, "put this from mind. Nicolette is a
captive maid whom I brought here from a far country. For her price I
trafficked with the Saracens, and I have bred and baptized her, and
held her at the font. I have nourished her duly, and on a day will give
her to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in honourable
fashion. With this you have nought to do; but only to wed the daughter
of some count or king. Beyond this, what profit would you have, had
you become her lover, and taken her to your bed? Little enough would be
your gain therefrom, for your soul would lie tormented in Hell all the
days of all time, so that to Paradise never should you win."

"In Paradise what have I to do? I care not to enter, but only to have
Nicolette, my very sweet friend, whom I love so dearly well. For into
Paradise go none but such people as I will tell you of. There go those
aged priests, and those old cripples, and the maimed, who all day long
and all night cough before the altars, and in the crypts beneath the
churches; those who go in worn old mantles and old tattered habits; who
are naked, and barefoot, and full of sores; who are dying of hunger and
of thirst, of cold and of wretchedness. Such as these enter in
Paradise, and with them have I nought to do. But in Hell will I go. For
to Hell go the fair clerks and the fair knights who are slain in the
tourney and the great wars, and the stout archer and the loyal man.
With them will I go. And there go the fair and courteous ladies, who
have friends, two or three, together with their wedded lords. And there
pass the gold and the silver, the ermine and all rich furs, harpers and
minstrels, and the happy of the world. With these will I go, so only
that I have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, by my side."

"Truly," cried the Viscount, "you talk idly, for never shall you see
her more; yea, and if perchance you spoke together, and your father
heard thereof, he would burn both me and her in one fire, and yourself
might well have every fear."

"This lies heavy upon me," answered Aucassin.

Thus he parted from the Viscount making great sorrow.

Now is sung:

     Aucassin departed thus
     Sad at heart and dolorous;
     Gone is she his fairest friend,
     None may comfort give or mend,
     None by counsel make good end.
     To the palace turned he home,
     Climbed the stair, and sought his room.
     In the chamber all alone
     Bitterly he made his moan,
     Presently began to weep
     For the love he might not keep.
     "Nicolette, so gent, so sweet,
     Fair the faring of thy feet,
     Fair thy laughter, sweet thy speech,
     Fair our playing each with each,
     Fair thy clasping, fair thy kiss,
     Yet it endeth all in this.
     Since from me my love is ta'en
     I misdoubt that I am slain;
         Sister, sweet friend."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Whilst Aucassin was in the chamber lamenting Nicolette, his friend, the
Count Bougars of Valence, wishful to end the war, pressed on his
quarrel, and setting his pikemen and horsemen in array, drew near the
castle to take it by storm. Then the cry arose, and the tumult; and the
knights and the men-at-arms took their weapons, and hastened to the
gates and the walls to defend the castle, and the burgesses climbed to
the battlements, flinging quarrels and sharpened darts upon the foe.
Whilst the siege was so loud and perilous the Count Garin of Beaucaire
sought the chamber where Aucassin lay mourning, assotted upon
Nicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he loved so well.

"Ha, son," cried he, "craven art thou and shamed, that seest thy best
and fairest castle so hardly beset. Know well that if thou lose it
thou art a naked man. Son, arm thyself lightly, mount to horse, keep
thy land, aid thy men, hurtle into the press. Thou needest not to
strike another, neither to be smitten down, but if they see thee
amongst them, the better will they defend their goods and their bodies,
thy land and mine. And thou art so stout and strong that very easily
thou canst do this thing, as is but right."

"Father," answered Aucassin, "what sayest thou now? May God give me
nought that I require of Him if I become knight, or mount to horse, or
thrust into the press to strike knight or be smitten down, save only
thou givest me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well."

"Son," replied the father, "this can never be. Rather will I suffer to
lose my heritage, and go bare of all, than that thou shouldest have
her, either as woman or as dame."

So he turned without farewell. But when Aucassin saw him part he stayed
him, saying--

"Father, come now, I will make a true bargain with thee."

"What bargain, fair son?"

"I will arm me, and thrust into the press on such bargain as this, that
if God bring me again safe and sound, thou wilt let me look on
Nicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I may have with her two words
or three, and kiss her one only time."

"I pledge my word to this," said the father.

Of this covenant had Aucassin much joy.

Now is sung:

     Aucassin the more was fain
     Of the kiss he sought to gain,
     Rather than his coffers hold
     A hundred thousand marks of gold.
     At the call his squire drew near,
     Armed him fast in battle gear;
     Shirt and hauberk donned the lad,
     Laced the helmet on his head,
     Girt his golden-hilted sword,
     Came the war-horse at his word,
     Gripped the buckler and the lance,
     At the stirrups cast a glance;
     Then most brave from plume to heel
     Pricked the charger with the steel,
     Called to mind his absent dear,
     Passed the gateway without fear
         Straight to the fight.

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin was armed and horsed as you have heard. God! how bravely
showed the shield about his neck, the helmet on his head, and the
fringes of the baldric upon his left thigh. The lad was tall and
strong, slender and comely to look upon, and the steed he bestrode was
great and speedy, and fiercely had he charged clear of the gate. Now
think not that he sought spoil of oxen and cattle, nor to smite others
and himself escape. Nay, but of all this he took no heed. Another was
with him, and he thought so dearly upon Nicolette, his fair friend,
that the reins fell from his hand, and he struck never a blow. Then the
charger, yet smarting from the spur, bore him into the battle, amidst
the thickest of the foe, so that hands were laid upon him from every
side, and he was made prisoner. Thus they spoiled him of shield and
lance, and forthwith led him from the field a captive, questioning
amongst themselves by what death he should be slain. When Aucassin
marked their words,

"Ha, God," cried he, "sweet Creature, these are my mortal foes who lead
me captive, and who soon will strike off my head; and when my head is
smitten, never again may I have fair speech with Nicolette, my sweet
friend, whom I hold so dear. Yet have I a good sword, and my horse is
yet unblown. Now if I defend me not for her sake, may God keep her
never, should she love me still."

The varlet was hardy and stout, and the charger he bestrode was right
fierce. He plucked forth his sword, and smote suddenly on the right
hand and on the left, cutting sheer through nasal and headpiece,
gauntlet and arm, making such ruin around him as the wild boar deals
when brought to bay by hounds in the wood; until he had struck down ten
knights, and hurt seven more, and won clear of the _melee_, and rode
back at utmost speed, sword in his hand.

The Count Bougars of Valence heard tell that his men were about to hang
Aucassin, his foe, in shameful wise, so he hastened to the sight, and
Aucassin passed him not by. His sword was yet in hand, and he struck
the Count so fiercely upon the helm, that the headpiece was cleft and
shattered upon the head. So bewildered was he by the stroke that he
tumbled to the ground, and Aucassin stretched forth his hand, and took
him, and led him captive by the nasal of the helmet, and delivered him
to his father.

"Father," said Aucassin, "behold the foe who wrought such war and
mischief upon you! Twenty years hath this war endured, and none was
there to bring it to an end."

"Fair son," replied his father, "better are such deeds as these than
foolish dreams."

"Father," returned Aucassin, "preach me no preachings; but carry out
our bargain."

"Ha, what bargain, fair son?"

"How now, father, hast thou returned from the market? By my head, I
will remember, whosoever may forget; so close is it to my heart. Didst
thou not bargain with me when I armed me and fared into the press, that
if God brought me again safe and sound, thou wouldst grant me sight of
Nicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I might have with her two
words or three, and kiss her once? Such was the bargain, so be thou
honest dealer."

"I," cried the father, "God aid me never should I keep such terms. Were
she here I would set her in the flames, and thou thyself might well
have every fear."

"Is this the very end?" said Aucassin.

"So help me God," said his father; "yea."

"Certes," said Aucassin, "grey hairs go ill with a lying tongue."

"Count of Valence," said Aucassin, "thou art my prisoner?"

"Sire," answered the Count, "it is verily and truly so."

"Give me thy hand," said Aucassin.

"Sire, as you wish."

So each took the other's hand.

"Plight me thy faith," said Aucassin, "that so long as thou drawest
breath, never shall pass a day but thou shalt deal with my father in
shameful fashion, either in goods or person, if so thou canst!"

"Sire, for God's love make me not a jest, but name me a price for my
ransom. Whether you ask gold or silver, steed or palfrey, pelt or fur,
hawk or hound, it shall be paid."

"What!" said Aucassin; "art thou not my prisoner?"

"Truly, sire," said the Count Bougars.

"God aid me never," quoth Aucassin, "but I send thy head flying, save
thou plight me such faith as I said."

"In God's name," cried he, "I plight such affiance as seems most meet
to thee."

He pledged his troth, so Aucassin set him upon a horse, and brought him
into a place of surety, himself riding by his side.

Now is sung:

     When Count Garin knew his son
     Aucassin still loved but one,
     That his heart was ever set
     Fondly on fond Nicolette;
     Straight a prison he hath found,
     Paved with marble, walled around,
     Where in vault beneath the earth
     Aucassin made little mirth,
     But with wailing filled his cell
     In such wise as now I tell.
     "Nicolette, white lily-flow'r,
     Sweetest lady found in bow'r;
     Sweet as grape that brimmeth up
     Sweetness in the spiced cup.
     On a day this chanced to you;
     Out of Limousin there drew
     One, a pilgrim, sore adread,
     Lay in pain upon his bed,
     Tossed, and took with fear his breath,
     Very dolent, near to death.
     Then you entered, pure and white,
     Softly to the sick man's sight,
     Raised the train that swept adown,
     Raised the ermine-bordered gown,
     Raised the smock, and bared to him
     Daintily each lovely limb.
     Then a wondrous thing befell,
     Straight he rose up sound and well,
     Left his bed, took cross in hand,
     Sought again his own dear land.
     Lily-flow'r, so white, so sweet,
     Fair the faring of thy feet,
     Fair thy laughter, fair thy speech,
     Fair our playing each with each.
     Sweet thy kisses, soft thy touch,
     All must love thee over much.
     'Tis for thee that I am thrown
     In this vaulted cell alone;
     'Tis for thee that I attend
     Death, that comes to make an end,
         For thee, sweet friend."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin was set in prison as you have heard tell, and Nicolette for
her part was shut in the chamber. It was in the time of summer heat, in
the month of May, when the days are warm, long and clear, and the
nights coy and serene. Nicolette lay one night sleepless on her bed,
and watched the moon shine brightly through the casement, and listened
to the nightingale plain in the garden. Then she bethought her of
Aucassin, her friend, whom she loved so well. She called also to mind
the Count Garin of Beaucaire, her mortal foe, and feared greatly to
remain lest her hiding-place should be told to him, and she be put to
death in some shameful fashion. She made certain that the old woman who
held her in ward was sound asleep. So she rose, and wrapped herself in
a very fair silk mantle, the best she had, and taking the sheets from
her bed and the towels of her bath, knotted them together to make so
long a rope as she was able, tied it about a pillar of the window, and
slipped down into the garden. Then she took her skirt in both hands,
the one before, and the other behind, and kilted her lightly against
the dew which lay thickly upon the grass, and so passed through the
garden. Her hair was golden, with little love-locks; her eyes blue and
laughing; her face most dainty to see, with lips more vermeil than ever
was rose or cherry in the time of summer heat; her teeth white and
small; her breasts so firm that they showed beneath her vesture like
two rounded nuts; so frail was she about the girdle that your two hands
could have spanned her, and the daisies that she brake with her feet in
passing, showed altogether black against her instep and her flesh, so
white was the fair young maiden.

She came to the postern, and unbarring the gate, issued forth upon the
streets of Beaucaire, taking heed to keep within the shadows, for the
moon shone very bright, and thus she fared until she chanced upon the
tower where her lover was prisoned. The tower was buttressed with
pieces of wood in many places, and Nicolette hid herself amongst the
pillars, wrapped close in her mantle. She set her face to a crevice of
the tower, which was old and ruinous, and there she heard Aucassin
weeping within, making great sorrow for the sweet friend whom he held
so dear; and when she had hearkened awhile she began to speak.

Now is sung:

     Nicolette, so bright of face,
     Leaned within this buttressed place,
     Heard her lover weep within,
     Marked the woe of Aucassin.
     Then in words her thought she told,
     "Aucassin, fond heart and bold,
     What avails thine heart should ache
     For a Paynim maiden's sake.
     Ne'er may she become thy mate,
     Since we prove thy father's hate,
     Since thy kinsfolk hate me too;
     What for me is left to do?
     Nothing, but to seek the strand,
     Pass o'er sea to some far land."
     Shore she then one golden tress,
     Thrust it in her love's duress;
     Aucassin hath seen the gold
     Shining bright in that dark hold,
     Took the lock at her behest,
     Kissed and placed it in his breast,
     Then once more his eyes were wet
         For Nicolette.

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would fare into another
country, he was filled with anger.

"Fair sweet friend," said he, "this be far from thee, for then wouldst
thou have slain me. And the first man who saw thee, if so he might,
would take thee forthwith and carry thee to his bed, and make thee his
leman. Be sure that if thou wert found in any man's bed, save it be
mine, I should not need a dagger to pierce my heart and slay me.
Certes, no; wait would I not for a knife; but on the first wall or the
nearest stone would I cast myself, and beat out my brains altogether.
Better to die so foul a death as this, than know thee to be in any
man's bed, save mine."

"Aucassin," said she, "I doubt that thou lovest me less than thy words;
and that my love is fonder than thine."

"Alack," cried Aucassin, "fair sweet friend, how can it be that thy
love should be so great? Woman cannot love man, as man loves woman; for
woman's love is in the glance of her eye, and the blossom of her
breast, and the tip of the toe of her foot; but the love of man is set
deep in the hold of his heart, from whence it cannot be torn away."

Whilst Aucassin and Nicolette were thus at odds together, the town
watch entered the street, bearing naked swords beneath their mantles,
for Count Garin had charged them strictly, once she were taken, to put
her to death. The warder from his post upon the tower marked their
approach, and as they drew near heard them speaking of Nicolette,
menacing her with death.

"God," said he, "it is great pity that so fair a damsel should be
slain, and a rich alms should I give if I could warn her privily, and
so she escape the snare; for of her death Aucassin, my liege, were
dead already, and truly this were a piteous case."

Now is sung:

     Brave the warder, full of guile,
     Straight he sought some cunning wile;
     Sought and found a song betime,
     Raised this sweet and pleasant rhyme.
     "Lady of the loyal mind,
     Slender, gracious, very kind,
     Gleaming head and golden hair,
     Laughing lips and eyes of vair!
     Easy, Lady, 'tis to tell
     Two have speech who love full well.
     Yet in peril are they met,
     Set the snare, and spread the net.
     Lo, the hunters draw this way,
     Cloaked, with privy knives, to slay.
     Ere the huntsmen spie the chace
     Let the quarry haste apace
         And keep her well."

Now they say and tell and relate.

"Ah," said Nicolette, "may the soul of thy father and of thy mother
find sweetest rest, since in so fair and courteous a manner hast thou
warned me. So God please, I will indeed keep myself close, and may He
keep me too."

She drew the folds of her cloak about her, and crouched in the darkness
of the pillars till the watch had passed beyond; then she bade farewell
to Aucassin, and bent her steps to the castle wall. The wall was very
ruinous, and mended with timber, so she climbed the fence, and went her
way till she found herself between wall and moat. Gazing below, she saw
that the fosse was very deep and perilous, and the maid had great fear.

"Ah, God," cried she, "sweet Creature, should I fall, my neck must be
broken; and if I stay, to-morrow shall I be taken, and men will burn
my body in a fire. Yet were it better to die, now, in this place, than
to be made a show to-morrow in the market."

She crossed her brow, and let herself slide down into the moat, and
when she reached the bottom, her fair feet and pretty hands, which had
never learned that they could be hurt, were so bruised and wounded that
the blood came from them in places a many; yet knew she neither ill nor
dolour because of the mightiness of her fear. But if with pain she had
entered in, still more it cost her to issue forth. She called to mind
that it were death to tarry, and by chance found there a stake of
sharpened wood, which those within the keep had flung forth in their
defence of the tower. With this she cut herself a foothold, one step
above the other, till with extreme labour she climbed forth from the
moat. Now the forest lay but the distance of two bolts from a crossbow,
and ran some thirty leagues in length and breadth; moreover, within
were many wild beasts and serpents. She feared these greatly, lest they
should do her a mischief; but presently she remembered that should men
lay hands upon her, they would lead her back to the city to burn her at
the fire.

Now is sung:

     Nicolette the fair, the fond,
     Climbed the fosse and won beyond;
     There she kneeled her, and implored
     Very help of Christ the Lord.
     "Father, King of majesty,
     Where to turn I know not, I.
     So, within the woodland gloom
     Wolf and boar and lion roam,
     Fearful things, with rav'ning maw,
     Rending tusk and tooth and claw.
     Yet, if all adread I stay,
     Men will come at break of day,
     Treat me to their heart's desire,
     Burn my body in the fire.
     But by God's dear majesty
     Such a death I will not die;
     Since I die, ah, better then
     Trust the boar than trust to men.
     Since all's evil, men and beast,
         Choose I the least."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Nicolette made great sorrow in such manner as you have heard. She
commended herself to God's keeping, and fared on until she entered the
forest. She kept upon the fringes of the woodland, for dread of the
wild beasts and reptiles; and hiding herself within some thick bush,
sleep overtook her, and she slept fast until six hours of the morn,
when shepherds and herdsmen come from the city to lead their flocks to
pasture between the wood and the river. The shepherds sat by a clear,
sweet spring, which bubbled forth on the outskirts of the greenwood,
and spreading a cloak upon the grass, set bread thereon. Whilst they
ate together, Nicolette awoke at the song of the birds and the
laughter, and hastened to the well.

"Fair children," said she, "God have you in His keeping."

"God bless you also," answered one who was more fluent of tongue than
his companions.

"Fair child," said she, "do you know Aucassin, the son of Count Garin
of this realm?"

"Yes, we know him well."

"So God keep you, pretty boy," said she, "as you tell him that within
this wood there is a fair quarry for his hunting; and if he may take
her he would not part with one of her members for a hundred golden
marks, nor for five hundred, nay, nor for aught that man can give."

Then looking upon her steadfastly, their hearts were troubled, the maid
was so beautiful.

"Will I tell him?" cried he who was readier of word than his
companions. "Woe to him who speaks of it ever, or tells Aucassin what
you say. You speak not truth but faery, for in all this forest there is
no beast--neither stag, nor lion, nor boar--one of whose legs would be
worth two pence, or three at the very best, and you talk of five
hundred marks of gold. Woe betide him who believes your story, or shall
spread it abroad. You are a fay, and no fit company for such as us, so
pass upon your road."

"Ah, fair child," answered she, "yet you will do as I pray. For this
beast is the only medicine that may heal Aucassin of his hurt. And I
have here five sous in my purse, take them, and give him my message.
For within three days must he hunt this chace, and if within three days
he find not the quarry, never may he cure him of his wound."

"By my faith," said he, "we will take the money, and if he comes this
way we will give him your message, but certainly we will not go and
look for him."

"As God pleases," answered she.

So she bade farewell to the shepherds, and went her way.

Now is sung:

     Nicolette as you heard tell
     Bade the shepherd lads farewell,
     Through deep woodlands warily
     Fared she 'neath the leafy tree;
     Till the grass-grown way she trod
     Brought her to a forest road,
     Whence, like fingers on a hand,
     Forked sev'n paths throughout the land.
     There she called to heart her love,
     There bethought her she would prove
     Whether true her lover's vows.
     Plucked she then young sapling boughs,
     Grasses, leaves that branches yield,
     Oak shoots, lilies of the field;
     Built a lodge with frond and flow'r,
     Fairest mason, fairest bow'r!
     Swore then by the truth of God
     Should her lover come that road,
     Nor for love of her who made
     Dream a little in its shade,
     'Spite his oath no true love, he,
         Nor fond heart, she.

Now they say and tell and relate:

Nicolette builded the lodge, as you have heard; very pretty it was and
very dainty, and well furnished, both outside and in, with a tapestry
of flowers and of leaves. Then she withdrew herself a little way from
the bower, and hid within a thicket to spy what Aucassin would do. And
the cry and the haro went through all the realm that Nicolette was
lost. Some had it that she had stolen away, and others that Count Garin
had done her to death. Whoever had joy thereof, Aucassin had little
pleasure. His father, Count Garin, brought him out of his prison, and
sent letters to the lords and ladies of those parts bidding them to a
very rich feast, so that Aucassin, his son, might cease to dote. When
the feast was at its merriest, Aucassin leaned against the musicians'
gallery, sad and all discomforted. No laugh had he for any jest, since
she, whom most he loved, was not amongst the ladies set in hall. A
certain knight marked his grief, and coming presently to him, said--

"Aucassin, of such fever as yours I, too, have been sick. I can give
you good counsel, if you are willing to listen."

"Sir knight," said Aucassin, "great thanks; good counsel, above all
things, I would hear."

"Get to horse," said he; "take your pleasure in the woodland, amongst
flowers and bracken and the songs of the birds. Perchance, who knows?
you may hear some word of which you will be glad."

"Sir knight," answered Aucassin, "great thanks; this I will do."

He left the hall privily, and went down-stairs to the stable where was
his horse. He caused the charger to be saddled and bridled, then put
foot in stirrup, mounted, and left the castle, riding till he entered
the forest, and so by adventure came upon the well whereby the shepherd
lads were sitting, and it was then about three hours after noon. They
had spread a cloak upon the grass, and were eating their bread, with
great mirth and jollity.

Now is sung:

     Round about the well were set
     Martin, Robin, Esmeret;
     Jolly shepherds, gaily met,
     Frulin, Jack and Aubriet.
     Laughed the one, "God keep in ward
     Aucassin, our brave young lord.
     Keep besides the damsel fair,
     Blue of eye and gold of hair,
     Gave us wherewithal to buy
     Cate and sheath knife presently,
     Horn and quarter staff and fruit,
     Shepherd's pipe and country flute;
         God make him well."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Aucassin marked the song of the herdboys he called to heart
Nicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he held so dear. He thought she
must have passed that way, so he struck his horse with the spurs and
came quickly to the shepherds.

"Fair children, God keep you."

"God bless you," replied he who was readier of tongue than his fellows.

"Fair children," said he, "tell over again the song that you told but
now."

"We will not tell it," answered he who was more fluent of speech than
the others; "sorrow be his who sings it to you, fair sir."

"Fair children," returned Aucassin, "do you not know me?"

"Oh yes, we know well that you are Aucassin, our young lord; but we are
not your men; we belong to the Count."

"Fair children, sing me the song once more, I pray you!"

"By the Wounded Heart, what fine words! Why should I sing for you, if I
have no wish to do so? Why, the richest man in all the land--saving the
presence of Count Garin--would not dare to drive my sheep and oxen and
cows from out his wheatfield or his pasture, for fear of losing his
eyes. Wherefore, then, should I sing for you, if I have no wish to do
so?"

"God keep you, fair children; yet you will do this thing for me. Take
these ten sous that I have here in my purse."

"Sire, we will take the money; but I will not sing for you, since I
have sworn not to do so; but I will tell it in plain prose, if such be
your pleasure."

"As God pleases," answered Aucassin; "better the tale in prose than no
story at all."

"Sire, we were in this glade between six and nine of the morn, and were
breaking our bread by the well, just as we are doing now, when a girl
came by, the loveliest thing in all the world, so fair that we doubted
her a fay, and she brimmed our wood with light. She gave us money, and
made a bargain with us that if you came here we would tell you that you
must hunt in this forest, for in it is such a quarry that if you may
take her you would not part with one of her members for five hundred
silver marks, nor for aught that man can give. For in the quest is so
sweet a salve that if you take her you shall be cured of your wound;
and within three days must the chace be taken, for if she be not found
by then, never will you see her more. Now go to your hunting if you
will, and if you will not, let it go, for truly have I carried out my
bargain with her."

"Fair children," cried Aucassin, "enough have you spoken, and may God
set me on her track."

Now is sung:

     Aucassin's fond heart was moved
     When this hidden word he proved
     Sent him by the maid he loved.
     Straight his charger he bestrode,
     Bade farewell, and swiftly rode
     Deep within the forest dim,
     Saying o'er and o'er to him;
     "Nicolette, so sweet, so good,
     'Tis for you I search this wood;
     Antlered stag nor boar I chase,
     Hot I follow on your trace.
     Slender shape and deep, blue eyes,
     Dainty laughter, low replies,
     Fledge the arrow in my heart.
     Ah, to find you, ne'er to part!
     Pray God give so fair an end,
         Sister, sweet friend."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin rode through the wood in search of Nicolette, and the charger
went right speedily. Do not think that the spines and thorns were
pitiful to him. Truly it was not so; for his raiment was so torn that
the least tattered of his garments could scarcely hold to his body, and
the blood ran from his arms and legs and flanks in forty places, or at
least in thirty, so that you could have followed after him by the blood
which he left upon the grass. But he thought so fondly of Nicolette,
his sweet friend, that he felt neither ill nor dolour. Thus all day
long he searched the forest in this fashion, but might learn no news of
her, and when it drew towards dusk he commenced to weep because he had
heard nothing. He rode at adventure down an old grass-grown road, and
looking before him saw a young man standing, such as I will tell you.
Tall he was, and marvellously ugly and hideous. His head was big and
blacker than smoked meat; the palm of your hand could easily have gone
between his two eyes; he had very large cheeks and a monstrous flat
nose with great nostrils; lips redder than uncooked flesh; teeth yellow
and foul; he was shod with shoes and gaiters of bull's hide, bound
about the leg with ropes to well above the knee; upon his back was a
rough cloak; and he stood leaning on a huge club. Aucassin urged his
steed towards him, but was all afeared when he saw him as he was.

"Fair brother, God keep you."

"God bless you too," said he.

"As God keeps you, what do you here?"

"What is that to you?" said he.

"Truly, naught," answered Aucassin. "I asked with no wish to do you
wrong."

"And you, for what cause do you weep?" asked the other, "and make such
heavy sorrow? Certainly, were I so rich a man as you are, not the whole
world should make me shed a tear."

"Do you know me, then?" said Aucassin.

"Yes, well I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count, and if you
will tell me why you weep, well, then I will tell you what I do here."

"Certes," said Aucassin, "I will tell you with all my heart. I came
this morning to hunt in the forest, and with me a white greyhound, the
swiftest in the whole world. I have lost him, and that is why I weep."

"Hear him," cried he, "by the Sacred Heart, and you make all this
lamentation for a filthy dog! Sorrow be his who shall esteem you more.
Why, there is not a man of substance in these parts who would not give
you ten or fifteen or twenty hounds--if so your father wished--and be
right glad to make you the gift. But for my part I have full reason to
weep and cry aloud."

"And what is your grief, brother?"

"Sire, I will tell you. I was hired by a rich farmer to drive his
plough, with a yoke of four oxen. Now three days ago, by great
mischance, I lost the best of my bullocks, Roget, the very best ox in
the plough. I have been looking for him ever since, and have neither
eaten nor drunk for three days, since I dare not go back to the town,
because men would put me into prison, as I have no money to pay for my
loss. Of all the riches of the world I have nought but the rags upon my
back. My poor old mother, too, who had nothing but one worn-out
mattress, why, they have taken that from under her, and left her lying
on the naked straw. That hurts me more than my own trouble. For money
comes and money goes; if I have lost to-day, why, I may win to-morrow;
and I will pay for my ox when pay I can. Not for this will I wring my
hands. And you--you weep aloud for a filthy cur. Sorrow take him who
shall esteem you more."

"Certes, thou art a true comforter, fair brother, and blessed may you
be. What is the worth of your bullock?"

"Sire, the villein demands twenty sous for his ox. I cannot beat the
price down by a single farthing."

"Hold out your hand," said Aucassin; "take these twenty sous which I
have in my purse, and pay for your ox."

"Sire," answered the hind, "many thanks, and God grant you find that
for which you seek."

So they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode upon his way. The
night was beautiful and still, and so he fared along the forest path
until he came to the seven cross-roads where Nicolette had builded her
bower. Very pretty it was, and very dainty, and well furnished both
outside and in, ceiling and floor, with arras and carpet of freshly
plucked flowers; no sweeter habitation could man desire to see. When
Aucassin came upon it he reined back his horse sharply, and the
moonbeams fell within the lodge.

"Dear God," cried Aucassin, "here was Nicolette, my sweet friend, and
this has she builded with her fair white hands. For the sweetness of
the house and for love of her, now will I dismount, and here will I
refresh me this night."

He withdrew his foot from the stirrup, and the charger was tall and
high. He dreamed so deeply on Nicolette, his very sweet friend, that he
fell heavily upon a great stone, and his shoulder came from its socket.
He knew himself to be grievously wounded, but he forced him to do all
that he was able, and fastened his horse with the other hand to a
thorn. Then he turned on his side, and crawled as best he might into
the lodge. Looking through a crevice of the bower he saw the stars
shining in the sky, and one brighter than all the others, so he began
to repeat--

Now is sung:

     Little Star I gaze upon
     Sweetly drawing to the moon,
     In such golden haunt is set
     Love, and bright-haired Nicolette.
     God hath taken from our war
     Beauty, like a shining star.
     Ah, to reach her, though I fell
     From her Heaven to my Hell.
     Who were worthy such a thing,
     Were he emperor or king?
     Still you shine, oh, perfect Star,
         Beyond, afar.

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Nicolette heard Aucassin speak these words she hastened to him
from where she was hidden near by. She entered in the bower, and
clasping her arms about his neck, kissed and embraced him straitly.

"Fair sweet friend, very glad am I to find you."

"And you, fair sweet friend, glad am I to meet."

So they kissed, and held each other fast, and their joy was lovely to
see.

"Ah, sweet friend," cried Aucassin, "it was but now that I was in
grievous pain with my shoulder, but since I hold you close I feel
neither sorrow nor wound."

Nicolette searched his hurt, and perceived that the shoulder was out of
joint. She handled it so deftly with her white hands, and used such
skilful surgery, that by the grace of God (who loveth all true lovers)
the shoulder came back to its place. Then she plucked flowers, and
fresh grass and green leafage, and bound them tightly about the setting
with the hem torn from her shift, and he was altogether healed.

"Aucassin," said she, "fair sweet friend, let us take thought together
as to what must be done. If your father beats the wood to-morrow, and
men take me, whatever may chance to you, certainly I shall be slain."

"Certes, fair sweet friend, the sorer grief would be mine. But so I may
help, never shall you come to his hands."

So he mounted to horse, and setting his love before him, held her fast
in his arms, kissing her as he rode, and thus they came forth to the
open fields.

Now is sung:

     Aucassin, that loving squire,
     Dainty fair to heart's desire,
     Rode from out the forest dim
     Clasping her he loved to him.
     'Laced upon the saddle bow
     There he kissed her, chin and brow,
     There embraced her, mouth and eyes.
     But she spake him, sweetly wise;
     "Love, a term to dalliance,
     Since for us no home in France
     Seek we Rome or far Byzance?"
     "Sweet my love, all's one to me,
     Dale or woodland, earth or sea;
     Nothing care I where we ride
     So I hold you at my side."
     So, enlaced, the lovers went,
     Skirting town and battlement,
     Rocky scaur, and quiet lawn;
     Till one morning, with the dawn,
     Broke the cliffs down to the shore,
     Loud they heard the surges roar,
         Stood by the sea.

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin dismounted upon the sand, he and Nicolette together, as you
have heard tell. He took his horse by the bridle, and his damsel by the
hand, and walked along the beach. Soon they perceived a ship,
belonging to merchants of those parts, sailing close by, so Aucassin
made signs to the sailors, and presently they came to him. For a
certain price they agreed to take them upon the ship, but when they had
reached the open sea a great and marvellous storm broke upon the
vessel, and drove them from land to land until they drew to a far-off
country, and cast anchor in the port of the castle of Torelore. Then
they asked to what realm they had fared, and men told them that it was
the fief of the King of Torelore. Then inquired Aucassin what manner of
man was this king, and whether there was any war, and men answered--

"Yes, a mighty war."

So Aucassin bade farewell to the merchants, and they commended him to
God. He belted his sword about him, climbed to horse, taking his love
before him on the saddle bow, and went his way till he came to the
castle. He asked where the King might be found, and was told that he
was in child-bed.

"Where, then, is his wife?"

And they answered that she was with the host, and had carried with her
all the armed men of those parts. When Aucassin heard these things he
marvelled very greatly. He came to the palace door and there
dismounted, bidding Nicolette to hold the bridle. Then, making his
sword ready, he climbed the palace stair, and searched until he came to
the chamber where the King lay.

Now is sung:

     Hot from searching, Aucassin
     Found the room and entered in;
     There before the couch he stayed
     Where the King, alone, was laid,
     Marked the King, and marked the bed,
     Marked this lying-in, then said,
     "Fool, why doest thou this thing?"
     "I'm a mother," quoth the King:
     "When my month is gone at length,
     And I come to health and strength,
     Then shall I hear Mass once more
     As my fathers did before,
     Arm me lightly, take my lance,
     Set my foe a right fair dance,
         Where horses prance."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Aucassin heard the King speak thus he took the linen from the bed,
and flung it about the chamber. He saw a staff in the corner, so he
seized it, returned to the bed, and beat the King so rudely therewith,
that he was near to die.

"Ha, fair sire," cried the King, "what do you require of me? Are you
mad that you treat me thus in my own house?"

"By the Sacred Heart," said Aucassin, "bad son of a shameless mother, I
will strike with the sword if you do not swear to me that man shall
never lie in child-bed in your realm again."

He plighted troth, and when he was thus pledged, "Sire," required
Aucassin, "bring me now where your wife is with the host."

"Sire, willingly," said the King.

He got to horse, and Aucassin mounted his, leaving Nicolette at peace
in the Queen's chamber. The King and Aucassin rode at adventure until
they came to where the Queen was set, and they found that the battle
was joined with roasted crab-apples and eggs and fresh cheeses. So
Aucassin gazed upon the sight and marvelled greatly.

Now is sung:

     Aucassin hath drawn his rein,
     From the saddle stared amain,
     Marked the set and stricken field,
     Cheered the hearts that would not yield.
     They had carried to the fight
     Mushrooms, apples baked aright,
     And for arrows, if you please,
     Pelted each with good fresh cheese.
     He who muddied most the ford
     Bore the prize in that award.
     Aucassin, the brave, the true,
     Watched these deeds of derring do,
         Laughed loudly too.

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Aucassin saw this strange sight he went to the King and asked of
him--

"Sire, are these your foes?"

"Yea, sire," answered the King.

"And would you that I should avenge you on them?"

"Yea," answered he, "right willingly."

So Aucassin took sword in hand, and throwing himself in the _melee_,
struck fiercely on the right and on the left, and slew many. When the
King saw the death that Aucassin dealt he snatched at his bridle and
cried--

"Hold, fair sire, deal not with them so cruelly."

"What," said Aucassin, "was it not your wish that I should avenge you
on your enemies?"

"Sire," replied the King, "too ready is such payment as yours. It is
not our custom, nor theirs, to fight a quarrel to the death."

Thereon the foemen fled the field.

The King and Aucassin returned in triumph to the castle of Torelore,
and the men of the country persuaded the King that he should cast
Aucassin forth from the realm, and give Nicolette to his son, for she
seemed a fair woman of high lineage. When Nicolette heard thereof she
had little comfort, so began to say--

Now is sung:

     Simple folk, and simple King,
     Deeming maid so slight a thing.
     When my lover finds me sweet,
     Sweetly shapen, brow to feet,
     Then know I such dalliance,
     No delight of harp, or dance,
     Sweetest tune, or fairest mirth,
     All the play of all the earth
         Seems aught of worth.

Now they say and tell and relate:

Aucassin abode in the castle of Torelore in ease and great delight,
having with him Nicolette his sweet friend, whom he loved so well.
Whilst his days passed in so easy and delightful a manner a great
company of Saracens came in galleys oversea and beset the castle, and
presently took it by storm. They gathered together the spoil, and bore
off the townsfolk, both men and women, into captivity. Amongst these
were seized Nicolette and Aucassin, and having bound Aucassin, both
hands and feet, they flung him into one vessel, and bestowed Nicolette
upon another. Thereafter a great tempest arose at sea, and drove these
galleys apart. The ship whereon Aucassin lay bound, drifted idly, here
and there, on wind and tide, till by chance she went ashore near by the
castle of Beaucaire, and the men of that part hurrying to the wreck,
found Aucassin, and knew him again. When the men of Beaucaire saw their
lord they had much joy, for Aucassin had lived at the castle of
Torelore in all ease for three full years, and his father and his
mother were dead. They brought him to the castle of Beaucaire, and
knelt before him; so held he his realm in peace.

Now is sung:

     Aucassin hath gained Beaucaire,
     Men have done him homage there;
     Holds he now in peace his fief,
     Castellan and count and chief.
     Yet with heaviness and grief
     Goeth he in that fair place,
     Lacking love and one sweet face;
     Grieving more for one bright head
     Than he mourneth for his dead.
     "Dearest love, and lady kind,
     Treasure I may never find,
     God hath never made that strand
     Far o'er sea or long by land,
     Where I would not seek such prize
         And merchandize."

Now they say and tell and relate:

Now leave we Aucassin and let us tell of Nicolette. The ship which
carried Nicolette belonged to the King of Carthage, and he was her
father, and she had twelve brothers, all princes or kings in the land.
When they saw the beauty of the girl, they made much of her, and bore
her in great reverence, and questioned her straitly as to her degree,
for certainly she seemed to them a very gracious lady and of high
lineage. But she could not tell them aught thereof, for she was but a
little child when men sold her into captivity. So the oarsmen rowed
until the galley cast anchor beneath the city of Carthage, and when
Nicolette gazed on the battlements and the country round about, she
called to mind that there had she been cherished, and from thence borne
away when but an unripe maid; yet she was not snatched away so young
but that she could clearly remember that she was the daughter of the
King of Carthage, and once was nourished in the city.

Now is sung:

     Nicolette, that maid demure,
     Set her foot on alien shore;
     Marked the city fenced with walls,
     Gazed on palaces and halls.
     Then she sighed, "Ah, little worth
     All the pomp of all the earth,
     Since the daughter of a king,
     Come of Sultan's blood, they bring
     Stripped to market, as a slave.
     Aucassin, true heart and brave,
     Sweet thy love upon me steals,
     Urges, clamours, pleads, appeals;
     Would to God that peril past
     In my arms I held you fast;
     Would to God that in this place
     We were stayed in one embrace,
     Fell your kisses on my face,
         My dear, my fere."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When the King of Carthage heard Nicolette speak in this wise he put his
arms about her neck.

"Fair sweet friend," said he, "tell me truly who you are, and be not
esmayed of me."

"Sire," answered she, "truly am I daughter to the King of Carthage, and
was stolen away when but a little child, full fifteen years ago."

When they heard her say this thing they were assured that her words
were true, so they rejoiced greatly, and brought her to the palace in
such pomp as became the daughter of a king. They sought to give her
some king of those parts as husband and baron, but she had no care to
marry. She stayed in the palace three or four days, and considered in
her mind by what means she might flee and seek Aucassin. So she
obtained a viol, and learned to play thereon; and when on a certain day
they would have given her in marriage to a rich king among the Paynim,
she rose at night and stole away secretly, wandering until she came to
the seaport, where she lodged with some poor woman in a house near the
shore. There, by means of a herb, she stained her head and face, so
that her fairness was all dark and discoloured; and having made herself
coat and mantle, shirt and hose, she equipped her in the guise of a
minstrel. Then, taking her viol, she sought out a sailor, and persuaded
him sweetly to grant her a passage in his ship. They hoisted sail, and
voyaged over the rough seas until they came to the land of Provence;
and Nicolette set foot on shore, carrying her viol, and fared playing
through the country, until she came to the castle of Beaucaire, in the
very place where Aucassin was.

Now is sung:

     'Neath the keep of strong Beaucaire
     On a day of summer fair,
     At his pleasure, Aucassin
     Sat with baron, friend and kin.
     Then upon the scent of flow'rs,
     Song of birds, and golden hours,
     Full of beauty, love, regret,
     Stole the dream of Nicolette,
     Came the tenderness of years;
     So he drew apart in tears.
     Then there entered to his eyes
     Nicolette, in minstrel guise,
     Touched the viol with the bow,
     Sang as I will let you know.
     "Lords and ladies, list to me,
     High and low, of what degree;
     Now I sing, for your delight,
     Aucassin, that loyal knight,
     And his fond friend, Nicolette.
     Such the love betwixt them set
     When his kinsfolk sought her head
     Fast he followed where she fled.
     From their refuge in the keep
     Paynims bore them o'er the deep.
     Nought of him I know to end.
     But for Nicolette, his friend,
     Dear she is, desirable,
     For her father loves her well;
     Famous Carthage owns him king,
     Where she has sweet cherishing.
     Now, as lord he seeks for her,
     Sultan, Caliph, proud Emir.
     But the maid of these will none,
     For she loves a dansellon,
     Aucassin, who plighted troth.
     Sworn has she some pretty oath
     Ne'er shall she be wife or bride,
     Never lie at baron's side
         Be he denied."

Now they say and tell and relate:

When Aucassin heard Nicolette sing in this fashion he was glad at
heart, so he drew her aside, and asked--

"Fair sweet friend," said Aucassin, "know you naught of this Nicolette,
whose ballad you have sung?"

"Sire, truly, yes; well I know her for the most loyal of creatures, and
as the most winning and modest of maidens born. She is daughter to the
King of Carthage, who took her when Aucassin also was taken, and
brought her to the city of Carthage, till he knew for certain that she
was his child, whereat he rejoiced greatly. Any day he would give her
for husband one of the highest kings in all Spain; but rather would she
be hanged or burned than take him, however rich he be."

"Ah, fair sweet friend," cried the Count Aucassin, "if you would return
to that country and persuade her to have speech with me here, I would
give you of my riches more than you would dare to ask of me or to take.
Know that for love of her I choose not to have a wife, however proud
her race, but I stand and wait; for never will there be wife of mine
if it be not her, and if I knew where to find her I should not need to
grope blindly for her thus."

"Sire," answered she, "if you will do these things I will go and seek
her for your sake, and for hers too; because to me she is very dear."

He pledged his word, and caused her to be given twenty pounds. So she
bade him farewell, and he was weeping for the sweetness of Nicolette.
And when she saw his tears--

"Sire," said she, "take it not so much to heart; in so short a space
will I bring her to this town, and you shall see her with your eyes."

When Aucassin knew this he rejoiced greatly. So she parted from him,
and fared in the town to the house of the Viscountess, for the
Viscount, her god-father, was dead. There she lodged, and opened her
mind fully to the lady on all the business; and the Viscountess
recalled the past, and knew well that it was Nicolette whom she had
cherished. So she caused the bath to be heated, and made her take her
ease for fully eight days. Then Nicolette sought a herb that was called
celandine, and washed herself therewith, and became so fair as she had
never been before. She arrayed her in a rich silken gown from the
lady's goodly store; and seated herself in the chamber on a rich stuff
of broidered sendal; then she whispered the dame, and begged her to
fetch Aucassin, her friend. This she did. When she reached the palace,
lo, Aucassin in tears, making great sorrow for the long tarrying of
Nicolette, his friend; and the lady called to him, and said--

"Aucassin, behave not so wildly; but come with me, and I will show you
that thing you love best in all the world; for Nicolette, your sweet
friend, is here from a far country to seek her love."

So Aucassin was glad at heart.

Now is sung:

     When he learned that in Beaucaire
     Lodged his lady, sweet and fair,
     Aucassin arose, and came
     To her hostel, with the dame:
     Entered in, and passed straightway
     To the chamber where she lay.
     When she saw him, Nicolette
     Had such joy as never yet;
     Sprang she lightly to her feet
     Swiftly came with welcome meet.
     When he saw her, Aucassin
     Oped both arms, and drew her in,
     Clasped her close in fond embrace,
     Kissed her eyes and kissed her face.
     In such greeting sped the night,
     Till, at dawning of the light,
     Aucassin, with pomp most rare,
     Crowned her Countess of Beaucaire.
     Such delight these lovers met,
     Aucassin and Nicolette.
     Length of days and joy did win,
     Nicolette and Aucassin,
     Endeth song and tale I tell
         With marriage bell.




THE STORY OF KING CONSTANT, THE EMPEROR


Now telleth the tale that once upon a time there lived an Emperor of
Byzantium, the which town is now called Constantinople, but in ancient
days it was called Byzantium. In days long since there reigned in this
city an Emperor; a Paynim he was, and was held to be a great clerk in
the laws of his religion. He was learned in a science called astronomy,
and knew the courses of the stars, the planets and the moon; moreover,
in the stars he read many marvels; he had knowledge of many things
which the Paynims study deeply, and had faith in divinations, and in
the answers of the Evil One--that is to say, the Adversary. He knew,
besides, much of enchantments and sorceries, as many a Paynim doth to
this very day.

Now it chanced that the Emperor Muselin fared forth one night, he and a
certain lord of his together, and went their ways about this city of
Constantinople, and the moon shone very clear. They heard a Christian
woman, travailing of child, cry aloud as they passed before her house;
but the husband of this dame was set in the terrace upon his roof, and
now he prayed God to deliver her from her peril, and again he prayed
that she might not be delivered. When the Emperor had listened to his
words for a long time, he said to the knight--

"Have you heard this caitif who prays now that his wife may not be
delivered of her child, and again that she may be delivered? Surely he
is viler than any thief, for every man should show pity to woman, and
the greater pity to her in pain with child. But may Mahound and
Termagaunt aid me never if I hang him not by the neck, so he give me
not fair reason for this deed. Let us now go to him."

So they went, and the Emperor spake him thus, "Caitif, tell me truly
why thou prayest thy God in this fashion, now that He should deliver
thy wife in her labour, and again that she should not be delivered;
this must I know!"

"Sire," answered he, "I will tell you readily. Truly I am a clerk, and
know much of a science that men call astrology. I have learned, too,
the courses of the stars and the planets, and thus I knew well that
were my wife delivered in that hour when I prayed God to close her
womb, then the child must be for ever lost, and certainly would he be
hanged, or drowned, or set within the fire. But when I saw the hour was
good, and the case fair, then I prayed God that she might be delivered;
and I cried to Him, so that of His mercy He heard my prayer, and now
the boy is born to a goodly heritage; blessed be God and praised be His
Name."

"Now tell me," said the King, "to what fair heritage is this child
born?"

"Sire," said he, "with all my heart. Know, sire, of a truth that the
child born in this place shall have to wife the daughter of the Emperor
of this town, she who was born but eight days since, and shall become
Emperor and lord of this city, and of the whole world."

"Caitif," cried the Emperor, "never can it come to pass as thou
sayest."

"Sire," answered he, "so shall it be seen, and thus behoveth it to be."

"Certes," said the Emperor, "great faith hath he who receives it."

Then they went from the house, but the Emperor commanded his knight
that he should bear away the child in so privy a manner, if he were
able, that none should see the deed. The knight came again to the
house, and found two women in the chamber, diligently tending the
mother in her bed, but the child was wrapt in linen clothes, and was
laid upon a stool. Thereupon the knight entered the room, and set hands
upon the child, and placed him on a certain table used for chess, and
carried him to the Emperor, in so secret a fashion that neither nurse
nor mother saw aught thereof. Then the Emperor struck the child with a
knife, wounding him from the stomach to the navel, protesting to the
knight that never should son of such a miscreant have his daughter to
wife, nor come to sit upon his throne. He would even have plucked the
heart from out the breast, but the knight dissuaded him, saying--

"Ah, sire, for the love of God, what is this thing that you would do!
Such a deed becomes you naught, and if men heard thereof, great
reproach would be yours. Enough have you done, for he is more than dead
already. But if it be your pleasure to take further trouble in the
matter, give him to me, and I will cast him in the sea."

"Yea," cried the Emperor, "throw him in the water, for I hate him too
much."

The knight took the child, wrapped him in a piece of broidered silk,
and went with him towards the water. But on his way, pity came into his
heart, and he thought within himself that never should new-born babe be
drowned by him; so he set him, swathed in the silken cloth, on a warm
muck-heap, before the gate of a certain abbey of monks, who at that
hour were chanting matins. When the monks kept silence from their
singing, they heard the crying of the child, and carried him to the
Lord Abbot, who commanded that so fair a boy should be cherished of
them. So they unswathed him from the piece of stuff, and saw the grisly
wound upon his body. As soon, therefore, as it was day the Abbot sent
for physicians, and inquired of them at what cost they would cure the
child of his hurt; and they asked of him one hundred pieces of gold.
But he answered that such a sum was beyond his means, and that the
saving of the child would prove too costly. Then he made a bargain with
the surgeons to heal the child of his wound for eighty golden pieces;
and afterwards he brought him to the font, and caused him to be named
COUSTANT, because of his costing the abbey so great a sum to be made
whole.

Whilst the doctors were about this business, the Abbot sought out a
healthy nurse, in whose breast the infant lay till he was healed of his
hurt, for his flesh was soft and tender, and the knife wound grew
together quickly, but ever after on his body showed the gash. The child
grew in stature, and to great beauty. When he was seven years old the
Abbot put him to school, where he proved so fair a scholar that he
passed all his class-mates in aptness and knowledge. When he was twelve
years of age the boy had come to marvellous beauty; no fairer could you
find in all the land; and when the Abbot saw how comely was the lad and
how gracious, he caused him to ride in his train when he went abroad.

Now it chanced that the Abbot wished to complain to the Emperor of a
certain wrong that his servants had done to the abbey. So the Abbot
made ready a rich present, for the abbey and monastery were his
vassals, although this Emperor was but a Saracen. When the Abbot had
proffered his goodly gift, the Emperor appointed a time, three days
thence, to inquire into the matter, when he would lie at a castle of
his, some three miles out from the city of Byzantium. On the day fixed
by the Emperor, the Abbot got to horse, with his chaplain, his squire,
and his train; and amongst them rode Constant, so goodly in every whit
that all men praised his exceeding beauty, and said amongst themselves
that certainly he came of high peerage, and would rise to rank and
wealth. Thus rode the Abbot towards the castle where the Emperor lay,
and when they met, he greeted him and did him homage, and the Emperor
bade him to enter within the castle, where he would speak with him of
his wrong. The Abbot bowed before him and answered--

"Sire, as God wills."

The Abbot called Constant to him, for the lad carried the prelate's hat
of felt, whilst he talked with the Emperor, and the Emperor gazed on
the varlet, and saw him so comely and winning, that never before had he
seen so fair a person. Then he asked who the boy was; and the Abbot
answered that he knew little, save that he was his man, and that the
abbey had nourished him from his birth--"and truly were this business
of ours finished, I could relate fine marvels concerning him."

"Is this so?" said the Emperor; "come now with me to the castle, and
there you shall tell me the truth."

The Emperor returned to the castle, and the Abbot was ever at his side,
as one who had a heavy business, and he made the best bargain that he
might, for the Emperor was his lord and suzerain. But the matter did
not put from the Emperor's mind the great beauty of the lad, and he
commanded the Abbot to bring the varlet before him. So the boy was sent
for, and came with speed. When Constant stood in the presence, the
Emperor praised his beauty, and said to the Abbot that it was a great
pity that so fair a child should be a Christian. The Abbot replied that
it was rather a great happiness, for one day he would render to God an
unspotted soul. When the Emperor heard this thing he laughed at his
folly, saying the laws of Christ were of nothing worth, and that hell
was the portion of such as put faith in them. Sorely grieved was the
Abbot when he heard the Paynim jest in this fashion, but he dared not
to answer as he wished, and spake soft words to him right humbly.

"Sire, so it pleases the Almighty, such souls are not lost, for, with
all sinners, they go to the mercy of the Merciful."

The Emperor inquired when the boy came to his hands, and the Abbot
replied that fifteen years before he was found by night on the
muck-heap before the abbey door.

"Our monks heard the wail of a tiny child as they came from chanting
matins, so they searched for him, and carried him to me. I looked on
the child, and he was very fair, so that I bade them to take him to the
font and to cherish him duly. He was swathed in a rich stuff of scarlet
silk, and when he was unwrapped I saw on his stomach a grievous wound;
so I sent for doctors and surgeons, and bargained with them to cure him
of his hurt for eighty pieces of gold. Afterwards we baptized him, and
gave him the name of COUSTANT, because of his costing so great a sum to
be made whole. Yet, though he be healed of his wound, never will his
body lose the mark of that grisly gash."

When the Emperor heard this story he knew well that it was the child
whom he had sought to slay in so felon a fashion; so he prayed the
Abbot to give the lad to his charge. Then replied the Abbot that he
would put the matter before his Chapter, but that for his own part the
boy should be given to the King very willingly. Never a word, for good
or evil, spake the King; so the Abbot took leave, and returned to the
monastery, and calling a Chapter of his monks, told them that the
Emperor demanded Constant from their hands.

"But I answered that I must speak to you to know your pleasure therein.
Now answer if I have done aright."

"What, sire, done rightly!" cried the gravest and wisest of all the
monks; "evilly and foolishly have you done in not giving him just what
he asked at once. If you will hear our counsel, send Constant to him
now as he requires, lest he be angry with us, for quickly can he do us
much mischief."

Since it seemed to all the Chapter good that Constant should be sent to
the Emperor, the Abbot bade the prior to go upon this errand, and he
obeyed, saying, "As God pleases."

He got to horse, and Constant with him, and riding to the Emperor,
greeted him in the name of the Abbot and the abbey; then taking
Constant by the hand, gave him to the Emperor formally, in such names
and in their stead. The Paynim received him as one angered that a
nameless man and vagabond must have a king's daughter to wife, and well
he thought in his heart to serve him some evil turn.

When the Emperor held Constant in his power, he pondered deeply how he
might slay him, and no man speak a word. It chanced at this time that
the Emperor had business which called him to the frontier of his realm,
a very long way off, a full twelve days' journey. He set forth,
carrying Constant in his train, yet brooding how to do him to death;
and presently he caused letters to be written in this wise to the
castellan of Byzantium.

     "I, the Emperor of Byzantium, and lord of Greece, make him,
     the governor of my city, to know that as soon as he shall
     read this letter he shall slay, or cause to be slain, the
     bearer of this letter, forthwith, upon the delivery thereof.
     As your proper body to you is dear, so fail not this
     command."

Such was the letter Constant carried, and little he knew that it was
his death he held in hand. He took the warrant, which was closely
sealed, and set out upon his way, riding in such manner that in less
than fifteen days he reached Byzantium, the town we now call
Constantinople. When the varlet rode through the gate it was the
dinner-hour, so (by the will of God) he thought he would not carry his
letter to table, but would wait till men had dined. He came with his
horse to the palace garden, and the weather was very hot, for it was
near to Midsummer day. The pleasaunce was deep and beautiful, and the
lad unbitted his horse, loosened the saddle, and let him graze; then he
threw himself down beneath the shelter of a tree, and in that sweet and
peaceful place presently fell sound asleep.

Now it happened that when the fair daughter of the Emperor had dined,
she entered the garden, and with her four of her maidens, and soon they
began to run one after the other, in such play as is the wont of
damsels when alone. Playing thus, the fair daughter of the Emperor
found herself beneath the tree where Constant lay sleeping, and he was
flushed as any rose. When the Princess saw him, she would not willingly
withdraw her eyes, saying to her own heart that never in her life had
she beheld so comely a person. Then she called to her that one of her
companions who was her closest friend, and made excuses to send the
others forth from the garden. The fair maiden took her playfellow by
the hand, and brought her towards the slumbering youth, saying--

"Sweet friend, here is rich and hidden treasure. Certes, never in all
my days have I seen so gracious a person. He is the bearer of letters,
and right willingly would I learn his news."

The two damsels came near the sleeping lad, and softly withdrew the
letter. When the Princess read the warrant she began to weep very
bitterly, and said to her companion, "Certainly this is a heavy
matter."

"Ah, madame," said her fellow, "tell me all the case."

"Truly," answered the Princess, "could I but trust you fully, such
heaviness should soon be turned to joy."

"Lady," replied she, "surely you may trust me; never will I make known
that which you desire to be hid."

So that maiden, the daughter of the Emperor, caused her fellow to
pledge faith by all that she held most dear, and then she revealed what
the letter held; and the girl answered her--

"Lady, what would you do herein?"

"I will tell you readily," said the Princess. "I will put within his
girdle another letter from my father in place of this, bidding the
castellan to give me as wife to this comely youth, and to call all the
people of this realm to the wedding banquet; for be sure that the youth
is loyal and true, and a man of peerage."

When the maiden heard this she said within herself that such a turn
were good to play.

"But, Lady, how may you get the seal of your father to the letter?"

"Very easily," answered the Princess; "ere my father left for the
marches he gave me eight sheets of parchment, sealed at the foot with
his seal, but with nothing written thereon, and there will I set all
that I have told you."

"Lady," said she, "right wisely have you spoken; but lose no time, and
hasten lest he awake."

"I will go now," said the Princess.

The fair maiden, the daughter of the Emperor, went straight to her
wedding chest, and drew therefrom one of the sealed parchments left her
by her father, so that she might borrow moneys in his name should
occasion arise. For, always was this king and his people at war with
felon and mighty princes whose frontiers were upon his borders. Thereon
she wrote her letter in such manner as this--

     "I, King Muselin, Emperor of Greece and of Byzantium the
     great city, to my Castellan of Byzantium greeting. I command
     you to give the bearer of this letter to my fair daughter in
     marriage, according to our holy law; for I have heard, and
     am well persuaded, that he is of noble descent and right
     worthy the daughter of a king. And, moreover, at such time
     grant holiday and proclaim high festival to all burgesses of
     the city, and throughout my realm."

In such fashion wrote and witnessed the letter of that fair maiden the
daughter of the Emperor. So when her letter was finished she hastened
to the garden, she and her playmate together, and finding Constant yet
asleep, placed privily the letter beneath his girdle. Then the two
girls began to sing and to make such stir as must needs arouse him. The
lad awoke from his slumber, and was all amazed at the beauty of the
lady and her companion. They drew near, and the Princess gave him
gracious greeting, whereupon Constant got to his feet and returned her
salutation right courteously. She inquired of him as to his name and
his business, and he answered that he was the bearer of letters from
the Emperor to the governor of the city. The girl replied that she
would bring him at once to the presence of the castellan; so she took
him by the hand and led him within the palace; and all within the hall
rose at the girl's approach, and did reverence to their Lady.

The demoiselle sought after the castellan, who was in his chamber, and
there she brought the varlet, who held forth his letter, and added
thereto the Emperor's greeting. The seneschal made much of the lad,
kissing his hand; but the maid for her part kissed both letter and
seal, as one moved with delight, for it was long since she had learned
her father's news. Afterwards she said to the governor that it were
well to read the dispatch in counsel together, and this she said
innocently as one who knew nothing of what was therein. To this the
castellan agreed, so he and the maiden passed to the council chamber
alone. Thereupon the girl unfolded the letter, and made it known to the
governor, and she seemed altogether amazed and distraught as she read.
But the castellan took her to task.

"Lady, certainly the will of my lord your father must be done;
otherwise will his blame come upon us with a heavy hand."

But the girl made answer to this--

"How, then, should I be married, and my lord and father far away? A
strange thing this would be; and certainly will I not be wed."

"Ah, lady," cried the castellan, "what words are these? Your father's
letter biddeth you to marry, so give not nay for yea."

"Sire," said the demoiselle, to whom time went heavy till all was
done--"speak you to the lords and dignitaries of this realm, and take
counsel together. So they deem that thus it must be, who am I to
gainsay them?"

The castellan approved such modest and becoming words, so he took
counsel with the barons, and showed them his letter, and all agreed
that the letter must be obeyed, and the commandment of the Emperor
done. Thus was wedded according to Paynim ritual Constant, that comely
lad, to the fair daughter of the Emperor. The marriage feast lasted
fifteen days, and all Byzantium kept holiday and high festival; no
business was thought of in the city, save that of eating and drinking
and making merry. This was all the work men did.

The Emperor tarried a long time in the borders of his land, but when
his task was ended he returned towards Byzantium. Whilst he was about
two days' journey from the city, there met him a messenger with letters
of moment. The King inquired of him as to the news of the capital, and
the messenger made answer that there men thought of nought else but
drinking and eating and taking their ease, and had so done for a whole
fortnight.

"Why is this?" asked the Emperor.

"Why, sire, do you not remember?"

"Truly, no," said the Emperor; "so tell me the reason."

"Sire," replied the varlet, "you sent to your castellan a certain
comely lad, and he bore with him letters from you commanding that he
should be wed to your daughter, the fair Princess, since after your
death he would be Emperor in your stead, for he was a man of lineage,
and well worthy so high a bride. But your daughter refused to marry
such an one, till the castellan had spoken with the lords; so he showed
the council your letter, and they all advised him to carry out your
will. When your daughter knew that they were all of one mind, she dared
no longer to withstand you, and consented to your purpose. In just such
manner as this was your daughter wedded, and a merrier city than yours
could no man wish to see."

When the Emperor heard this thing from the messenger, he marvelled
beyond measure, and turned it over in his thoughts; so presently he
inquired of the varlet how long it was since Constant had wedded his
daughter, and whether he had bedded with her.

"Yea, sire," answered the varlet, "and since it is more than three
weeks that they were married, perchance one day will she be mother as
well as wife."

"Truly it were a happy hazard," said the Emperor, "and since the thing
has fallen thus, let me endure it with a smiling face, for nothing else
is left to do."

The Emperor went on his way until he reached Byzantium, and all the
city gave him loyal greeting. Amongst those who came to meet him was
the fair Princess with her husband, Constant, so gracious in person
that no man was ever goodlier. The Emperor, who was a wise prince, made
much of both of them, and laid his two hands on their two heads, and
held them so for long, for such is the fashion of blessing amongst the
Paynim. That night the Emperor considered this strange adventure, and
how it must have chanced, and so deeply did he think upon it that well
he knew that the game had been played him by his daughter. He did not
reproach her, but bade them bring the letter he sent to the governor,
and when it was shown him he read the writing therein, and saw that it
was sealed with his very seal. So, seeing the way in which the thing
had come to pass, he said within himself that he had striven against
those things which were written in the stars.

After this the Emperor made Constant, his newly wedded son, a belted
knight, and gave and delivered to him his whole realm in heritage after
his death. Constant bore himself wisely and well, as became a good
knight, bold and chivalrous, and defended the land right well against
all its foes. In no long while his lord the Emperor died, and was laid
in the grave, according to Paynim ritual, with great pomp and ceremony.
The Emperor Constant reigned in his stead, and greatly he loved and
honoured the Abbot who had cherished him, and he made him Chancellor of
his kingdom. Then, by the advice of the Abbot, and according to the
will of God, the All Powerful, the Emperor Constant brought his wife to
the font, and caused all men of that realm to be converted to the law
of Jesus Christ. He begot on his wife an heir, whom he christened
Constantine, and who became true Christian and a very perfect knight.
In his day was the city first called Constantinople, because of
Constant his father, who cost the abbey so great a sum, but before then
was the city known as Byzantium.

So endeth in this place the story of King Constant the Emperor.




OUR LADY'S TUMBLER


Amongst the lives of the ancient Fathers, wherein may be found much
profitable matter, this story is told for a true ensample. I do not say
that you may not often have heard a fairer story, but at least this is
not to be despised, and is well worth the telling. Now therefore will I
say and narrate what chanced to this minstrel.

He erred up and down, to and fro, so often and in so many places, that
he took the whole world in despite, and sought rest in a certain Holy
Order. Horses and raiment and money, yea, all that he had, he
straightway put from him, and seeking shelter from the world, was
firmly set never to put foot within it more. For this cause he took
refuge in this Holy Order, amongst the monks of Clairvaux. Now, though
this dancer was comely of face and shapely of person, yet when he had
once entered the monastery he found that he was master of no craft
practised therein. In the world he had gained his bread by tumbling and
dancing and feats of address. To leap, to spring, such matters he knew
well, but of greater things he knew nothing, for he had never spelled
from book--nor Paternoster, nor canticle, nor creed, nor Hail Mary, nor
aught concerning his soul's salvation.

When the minstrel had joined himself to the Order he marked how the
tonsured monks spoke amongst themselves by signs, no words coming from
their lips, so he thought within himself that they were dumb. But when
he learned that truly it was by way of penance that speech was
forbidden to their mouths, and that for holy obedience were they
silent, then considered he that silence became him also; and he
refrained his tongue from words, so discreetly and for so long a space,
that day in, day out, he spake never, save by commandment; so that the
cloister often rang with the brothers' mirth. The tumbler moved amongst
his fellows like a man ashamed, for he had neither part nor lot in all
the business of the monastery, and for this he was right sad and
sorrowful. He saw the monks and the penitents about him, each serving
God, in this place and that, according to his office and degree. He
marked the priests at their ritual before the altars; the deacons at
the gospels; the sub-deacons at the epistles; and the ministers about
the vigils. This one repeats the introit; this other the lesson;
cantors chant from the psalter; penitents spell out the Miserere--for
thus are all things sweetly ordered--yea, and the most ignorant amongst
them yet can pray his Paternoster. Wherever he went, here or there, in
office or cloister, in every quiet corner and nook, there he found
five, or three, or two, or at least one. He gazes earnestly, if so he
is able, upon each. Such an one laments; this other is in tears; yet
another grieves and sighs. He marvels at their sorrow. Then he said,
"Holy Mary, what bitter grief have all these men that they smite the
breast so grievously! Too sad of heart, meseems, are they who make such
bitter dole together. Ah, St. Mary, alas, what words are these I say!
These men are calling on the mercy of God, but I--what do I here! Here
there is none so mean or vile but who serves God in his office and
degree, save only me, for I work not, neither can I preach. Caitif and
shamed was I when I thrust myself herein, seeing that I can do nothing
well, either in labour or in prayer. I see my brothers upon their
errands, one behind the other; but I do naught but fill my belly with
the meat that they provide. If they perceive this thing, certainly
shall I be in an evil case, for they will cast me out amongst the dogs,
and none will take pity on the glutton and the idle man. Truly am I a
caitif, set in a high place for a sign." Then he wept for very woe, and
would that he was quiet in the grave. "Mary, Mother," quoth he, "pray
now your Heavenly Father that He keep me in His pleasure, and give me
such good counsel that I may truly serve both Him and you; yea, and may
deserve that meat which now is bitter in my mouth."

Driven mad with thoughts such as these, he wandered about the abbey
until he found himself within the crypt, and took sanctuary by the
altar, crouching close as he was able. Above the altar was carved the
statue of Madame St. Mary. Truly his steps had not erred when he sought
that refuge; nay, but rather, God who knows His own had led him thither
by the hand. When he heard the bells ring for Mass he sprang to his
feet all dismayed. "Ha!" said he; "now am I betrayed. Each adds his
mite to the great offering, save only me. Like a tethered ox, naught I
do but chew the cud, and waste good victuals on a useless man. Shall I
speak my thought? Shall I work my will? By the Mother of God, thus am I
set to do. None is here to blame. I will do that which I can, and
honour with my craft the Mother of God in her monastery. Since others
honour her with chant, then I will serve with tumbling."

He takes off his cowl, and removes his garments, placing them near the
altar, but so that his body be not naked he dons a tunic, very thin and
fine, of scarce more substance than a shirt. So, light and comely of
body, with gown girt closely about his loins, he comes before the Image
right humbly. Then raising his eyes, "Lady," said he, "to your fair
charge I give my body and my soul. Sweet Queen, sweet Lady, scorn not
the thing I know, for with the help of God I will essay to serve you in
good faith, even as I may. I cannot read your Hours nor chant your
praise, but at the least I can set before you what art I have. Now will
I be as the lamb that plays and skips before his mother. Oh, Lady, who
art nowise bitter to those who serve you with a good intent, that which
thy servant is, that he is for you."

Then commenced he his merry play, leaping low and small, tall and high,
over and under. Then once more he knelt upon his knees before the
statue, and meekly bowed his head. "Ha!" said he, "most gracious Queen,
of your pity and your charity scorn not this my service." Again he
leaped and played, and for holiday and festival, made the somersault of
Metz. Again he bowed before the Image, did reverence, and paid it all
the honour that he might. Afterwards he did the French vault, then the
vault of Champagne, then the Spanish vault, then the vaults they love
in Brittany, then the vault of Lorraine, and all these feats he did as
best he was able. Afterwards he did the Roman vault, and then, with
hands before his brow, danced daintily before the altar, gazing with a
humble heart at the statue of God's Mother. "Lady," said he, "I set
before you a fair play. This travail I do for you alone; so help me
God, for you, Lady, and your Son. Think not I tumble for my own
delight; but I serve you, and look for no other guerdon on my carpet.
My brothers serve you, yea, and so do I. Lady, scorn not your villein,
for he toils for your good pleasure; and, Lady, you are my delight and
the sweetness of the world." Then he walked on his two hands, with his
feet in the air, and his head near the ground. He twirled with his
feet, and wept with his eyes. "Lady," said he, "I worship you with
heart, with body, feet and hands, for this I can neither add to nor
take away. Now am I your very minstrel. Others may chant your praises
in the church, but here in the crypt will I tumble for your delight.
Lady, lead me truly in your way, and for the love of God hold me not in
utter despite." Then he smote upon his breast, he sighed and wept most
tenderly, since he knew no better prayer than tears. Then he turned him
about, and leaped once again. "Lady," said he, "as God is my Saviour,
never have I turned this somersault before. Never has tumbler done such
a feat, and, certes, it is not bad. Lady, what delight is his who may
harbour with you in your glorious manor. For God's love, Lady, grant me
such fair hostelry, since I am yours, and am nothing of my own." Once
again he did the vault of Metz; again he danced and tumbled. Then when
the chants rose louder from the choir, he, too, forced the note, and
put forward all his skill. So long as the priest was about that Mass,
so long his flesh endured to dance, and leap and spring, till at the
last, nigh fainting, he could stand no longer upon his feet, but fell
for weariness on the ground. From head to heel sweat stood upon him,
drop by drop, as blood falls from meat turning upon the hearth. "Lady,"
said he, "I can no more, but truly will I seek you again." Fire
consumed him utterly. He took his habit once more, and when he was
wrapped close therein, he rose to his feet, and bending low before the
statue, went his way. "Farewell," said he, "gentlest Friend. For God's
love take it not to heart, for so I may I will soon return. Not one
Hour shall pass but that I will serve you with right good will, so I
may come, and so my service is pleasing in your sight." Thus he went
from the crypt, yet gazing on his Lady. "Lady," said he, "my heart is
sore that I cannot read your Hours. How would I love them for love of
you, most gentle Lady! Into your care I commend my soul and my body."

In this fashion passed many days, for at every Hour he sought the crypt
to do service, and pay homage before the Image. His service was so much
to his mind that never once was he too weary to set out his most
cunning feats to distract the Mother of God, nor did he ever wish for
other play than this. Now, doubtless, the monks knew well enough that
day by day he sought the crypt, but not a man on earth--save God
alone--was aware of aught that passed there; neither would he, for all
the wealth of the world, have let his goings in be seen, save by the
Lord his God alone. For truly he believed that were his secret once
espied he would be hunted from the cloister, and flung once more into
the foul, sinful world, and for his part he was more fain to fall on
death than to suffer any taint of sin. But God considering his
simplicity, his sorrow for all he had wrought amiss, and the love which
moved him to this deed, would that this toil should be known; and the
Lord willed that the work of His friend should be made plain to men,
for the glory of the Mother whom he worshipped, and so that all men
should know and hear, and receive that God refuses none who seeks His
face in love, however low his degree, save only he love God and strive
to do His will.

Now think you that the Lord would have accepted this service, had it
not been done for love of Him? Verily and truly, no, however much this
juggler tumbled; but God called him friend, because he loved Him much.
Toil and labour, keep fast and vigil, sigh and weep, watch and pray,
ply the sharp scourge, be diligent at Matins and at Mass, owe no man
anything, give alms of all you have--and yet, if you love not God with
all your heart, all these good deeds are so much loss--mark well my
words--and profit you naught for the saving of your soul. Without
charity and love, works avail a man nothing. God asks not gold, neither
for silver, but only for love unfeigned in His people's hearts, and
since the tumbler loved Him beyond measure, for this reason God was
willing to accept his service.

Thus things went well with this good man for a great space. For more
years than I know the count of, he lived greatly at his ease, but the
time came when the good man was sorely vexed, for a certain monk
thought upon him, and blamed him in his heart that he was never set in
choir for Matins. The monk marvelled much at his absence, and said
within himself that he would never rest till it was clear what manner
of man this was, and how he spent the Hours, and for what service the
convent gave him bread. So he spied and pried and followed, till he
marked him plainly, sweating at his craft in just such fashion as you
have heard. "By my faith," said he, "this is a merry jest, and a fairer
festival than we observe altogether. Whilst others are at prayers, and
about the business of the House, this tumbler dances daintily, as
though one had given him a hundred silver marks. He prides himself on
being so nimble of foot, and thus he repays us what he owes. Truly it
is this for that; we chant for him, and he tumbles for us. We throw him
largesse: he doles us alms. We weep his sins, and he dries our eyes.
Would that the monastery could see him, as I do, with their very eyes;
willingly therefore would I fast till Vespers. Not one could refrain
from mirth at the sight of this simple fool doing himself to death with
his tumbling, for on himself he has no pity. Since his folly is free
from malice, may God grant it to him as penance. Certainly I will not
impute it to him as sin, for in all simplicity and good faith, I firmly
believe, he does this thing, so that he may deserve his bread." So the
monk saw with his very eyes how the tumbler did service at all the
Hours, without pause or rest, and he laughed with pure mirth and
delight, for in his heart was joy and pity.

The monk went straight to the Abbot and told him the thing from
beginning to end, just as you have heard. The Abbot got him on his
feet, and said to the monk, "By holy obedience I bid you hold your
peace, and tell not this tale abroad against your brother. I lay on you
my strict command to speak of this matter to none, save me. Come now,
we will go forthwith to see what this can be, and let us pray the
Heavenly King, and His very sweet, dear Mother, so precious and so
bright, that in her gentleness she will plead with her Son, her Father,
and her Lord, that I may look on this work--if thus it pleases Him--so
that the good man be not wrongly blamed, and that God may be the more
beloved, yet so that thus is His good pleasure." Then they secretly
sought the crypt, and found a privy place near the altar, where they
could see, and yet not be seen. From there the Abbot and his monk
marked the business of the penitent. They saw the vaults he varied so
cunningly, his nimble leaping and his dancing, his salutations of Our
Lady, and his springing and his bounding, till he was nigh to faint. So
weak was he that he sank on the ground, all outworn, and the sweat fell
from his body upon the pavement of the crypt. But presently, in this
his need, came she, his refuge, to his aid. Well she knew that
guileless heart.

Whilst the Abbot looked, forthwith there came down from the vault a
Dame so glorious, that certainly no man had seen one so precious, nor
so richly crowned. She was more beautiful than the daughters of men,
and her vesture was heavy with gold and gleaming stones. In her train
came the hosts of Heaven, angel and archangel also; and these pressed
close about the minstrel, and solaced and refreshed him. When their
shining ranks drew near, peace fell upon his heart; for they contended
to do him service, and were the servants of the servitor of that Dame
who is the rarest Jewel of God. Then the sweet and courteous Queen
herself took a white napkin in her hand, and with it, gently fanned her
minstrel before the altar. Courteous and debonair, the Lady refreshed
his neck, his body and his brow. Meekly she served him as a handmaid in
his need. But these things were hidden from the good man, for he
neither saw nor knew that about him stood so fair a company.

The holy angels honour him greatly, but they can no longer stay, for
their Lady turns to go. She blesses her minstrel with the sign of God,
and the holy angels throng about her, still gazing back with delight
upon their companion, for they await the hour when God shall release
him from the burden of the world, and they possess his soul.

This marvel the Abbot and his monk saw at least four times, and thus at
each Hour came the Mother of God with aid and succour for her man.
Never doth she fail her servants in their need. Great joy had the Abbot
that this thing was made plain to him. But the monk was filled with
shame, since God had shown His pleasure in the service of His poor
fool. His confusion burnt him like fire. "Dominus," said he to the
Abbot, "grant me grace. Certainly this is a holy man, and since I have
judged him amiss, it is very right that my body should smart. Give me
now fast or vigil or the scourge, for without question he is a saint.
We are witnesses to the whole matter, nor is it possible that we can be
deceived." But the Abbot replied, "You speak truly, for God has made us
to know that He has bound him with the cords of love. So I lay my
commandment upon you, in virtue of obedience, and under pain of your
person, that you tell no word to any man of that you have seen, save to
God alone and me." "Lord," said he, "thus I will do." On these words
they turned them, and hastened from the crypt; and the good man, having
brought his tumbling to an end, presently clothed himself in his habit,
and joyously went his way to the monastery.

Thus time went and returned, till it chanced that in a little while the
Abbot sent for him who was so filled with virtue. When he heard that he
was bidden of the Abbot, his heart was sore with grief, for he could
think of nothing profitable to say. "Alas!" said he, "I am undone; not
a day of my days but I shall know misery and sorrow and shame, for well
I trow that my service is not pleasing to God. Alas! plainly doth He
show that it displeases Him, since He causes the truth to be made
clear. Could I believe that such work and play as mine could give
delight to the mighty God! He had no pleasure therein, and all my toil
was thrown away. Ah me, what shall I do? what shall I say? Fair, gentle
God, what portion will be mine? Either shall I die in shame, or else
shall I be banished from this place, and set up as a mark to the world
and all the evil thereof. Sweet Lady, St. Mary, since I am all
bewildered, and since there is none to give me counsel, Lady, come thou
to my aid. Fair, gentle God, help me in my need. Stay not, neither
tarry, but come quickly with Your Mother. For God's love, come not
without her, but hasten both to me in my peril, for truly I know not
what to plead. Before one word can pass my lips, surely will they bid
me 'Begone.' Wretched that I am, what reply is he to make who has no
advocate? Yet, why this dole, since go I must?" He came before the
Abbot, with the tears yet wet upon his cheeks, and he was still weeping
when he knelt upon the ground. "Lord," prayed he, "for the love of God
deal not harshly with me. Would you send me from your door? Tell me
what you would have me do, and thus it shall be done." Then replied the
Abbot, "Answer me truly. Winter and summer have you lived here for a
great space; now, tell me, what service have you given, and how have
you deserved your bread?" "Alas!" said the tumbler, "well I knew that
quickly I should be put upon the street when once this business was
heard of you, and that you would keep me no more. Lord," said he, "I
take my leave. Miserable I am, and miserable shall I ever be. Never yet
have I made a penny for all my juggling." But the Abbot answered, "Not
so said I; but I ask and require of you--nay, more, by virtue of holy
obedience I command you--to seek within your conscience and tell me
truly by what craft you have furthered the business of our monastery."
"Lord," cried he, "now have you slain me, for this commandment is a
sword." Then he laid bare before the Abbot the story of his days, from
the first thing to the last, whatsoever pain it cost him; not a word
did he leave out, but he told it all without a pause, just as I have
told you the tale. He told it with clasped hands, and with tears, and
at the close he kissed the Abbot's feet, and sighed.

The holy Abbot leaned above him, and, all in tears, raised him up,
kissing both his eyes. "Brother," said he, "hold now your peace, for I
make with you this true covenant, that you shall ever be of our
monastery. God grant, rather, that we may be of yours, for all the
worship you have brought to ours. I and you will call each other
friend. Fair, sweet brother, pray you for me, and I for my part will
pray for you. And now I pray you, my sweet friend, and lay this bidding
upon you, without pretence, that you continue to do your service, even
as you were wont heretofore--yea, and with greater craft yet, if so you
may." "Lord," said he, "truly is this so?" "Yea," said the Abbot, "and
verily." So he charged him, under peril of discipline, to put all
doubts from his mind; for which reason the good man rejoiced so greatly
that, as telleth the rhyme, he was all bemused, so that the blood left
his cheeks, and his knees failed beneath him. When his courage came
back, his very heart thrilled with joy; but so perilous was that
quickening that therefrom he shortly died. But theretofore with a good
heart he went about his service without rest, and Matins and Vespers,
night and day, he missed no Hour till he became too sick to perform his
office. So sore was his sickness upon him that he might not rise from
his bed. Marvellous was the shame he proved when no more was he able to
pay his rent. This was the grief that lay the heaviest upon him, for of
his sickness he spake never a word, but he feared greatly lest he
should fall from grace since he travailed no longer at his craft. He
reckoned himself an idle man, and prayed God to take him to Himself
before the sluggard might come to blame. For it was bitter to him to
consider that all about him knew his case, so bitter that the burden
was heavier than his heart could bear, yet there without remedy he must
lie. The holy Abbot does him all honour; he and his monks chant the
Hours about his bed, and in these praises of God he felt such delight
that not for them would he have taken the province of Poitou, so great
was his happiness therein. Fair and contrite was his confession, but
still he was not at peace; yet why say more of this, for the hour had
struck, and he must rise and go.

The Abbot was in that cell with all his monks; there, too, was company
of many a priest and many a canon. These all humbly watched the dying
man, and saw with open eyes this wonder happen. Clear to their very
sight, about that lowly bed, stood the Mother of God, with angel and
archangel, to wait the passing of his soul. Over against them were set,
like wild beasts, devils and the Adversary, so they might snatch his
spirit. I speak not to you in parable. But little profit had they for
all their coming, their waiting, and their straining on the leash.
Never might they have part in such a soul as his. When the soul took
leave of his body, it fell not in their hands at all, for the Mother of
God gathered it to her bosom, and the holy angels thronging round,
quired for joy, as the bright train swept to Heaven with its burthen,
according to the will of God. To these things the whole of the
monastery was witness, besides such others as were there. So knew they
and perceived that God sought no more to hide the love He bore to His
poor servant, but rather would that his virtues should be plain to each
man in that place; and very wonderful and joyful seemed this deed to
them. Then with meet reverence they bore the body on its bier within
the abbey church, and with high pomp commended their brother to the
care of God; nor was there monk who did not chant or read his portion
that day within the choir of the mighty church.

Thus with great honour they laid him to his rest, and kept his holy
body amongst them as a relic. At that time spake the Abbot plainly to
their ears, telling them the story of this tumbler and of all his life,
just as you have heard, and of all that he himself beheld within the
crypt. No brother but kept awake during that sermon. "Certes," said
they, "easy is it to give credence to such a tale; nor should any doubt
your words, seeing that the truth bears testimony to itself, and
witness comes with need; yea, without any doubt have we full assurance
that his discipline is done." Great joy amongst themselves have all
within that place.

Thus endeth the story of the minstrel. Fair was his tumbling, fair was
his service, for thereby gained he such high honour as is above all
earthly gain. So the holy Fathers narrate that in such fashion these
things chanced to this minstrel. Now, therefore, let us pray to God--He
Who is above all other--that He may grant us so to do such faithful
service that we may win the guerdon of His love.

Here endeth the Tumbler of Our Lady.




THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD


Once upon a time, more than a hundred years ago, there lived a rich
villein whose name I cannot now tell, who owned meadows and woods and
waters, and all things which go to the making of a rich man. His manor
was so fair and so delightsome that all the world did not contain its
peer. My true story would seem to you but idle fable if I set its
beauty before you, for verily I believe that never yet was built so
strong a keep and so gracious a tower. A river flowed around this fair
domain, and enclosed an orchard planted with all manner of fruitful
trees. This sweet fief was builded by a certain knight, whose heir sold
it to a villein; for thus pass baronies from hand to hand, and town and
manor change their master, always falling from bad to worse. The
orchard was fair beyond content. Herbs grew there of every fashion,
more than I am able to name. But at least I can tell you that so sweet
was the savour of roses and other flowers and simples, that sick
persons, borne within that garden in a litter, walked forth sound and
well for having passed the night in so lovely a place. Indeed, so
smooth and level was the sward, so tall the trees, so various the
fruit, that the cunning gardener must surely have been a magician, as
appears by certain infallible proofs.

Now in the middle of this great orchard sprang a fountain of clear,
pure water. It boiled forth out of the ground, but was always colder
than any marble. Tall trees stood about the well, and their leafy
branches made a cool shadow there, even during the longest day of
summer heat. Not a ray of the sun fell within that spot, though it were
the month of May, so thick and close was the leafage. Of all these
trees the fairest and the most pleasant was a pine. To this pine came a
singing bird twice every day for ease of heart. Early in the morning he
came, when monks chant their matins, and again in the evening, a little
after vespers. He was smaller than a sparrow, but larger than a wren,
and he sang so sweetly that neither lark nor nightingale nor blackbird,
nay, nor siren even, was so grateful to the ear. He sang lays and
ballads, and the newest refrain of the minstrel and the spinner at her
wheel. Sweeter was his tune than harp or viol, and gayer than the
country dance. No man had heard so marvellous a thing; for such was the
virtue in his song that the saddest and the most dolent forgot to
grieve whilst he listened to the tune, love flowered sweetly in his
heart, and for a space he was rich and happy as any emperor or king,
though but a burgess of the city or a villein of the field. Yea, if
that ditty had lasted a hundred years, yet would he have stayed the
century through to listen to so lovely a song, for it gave to every man
whilst he hearkened, love, and riches, and his heart's desire.

But all the beauty of the pleasaunce drew its being from the song of
the bird; for from his chant flowed love which gives its shadow to the
tree, its healing to the simple, and its colour to the flower. Without
that song the fountain would have ceased to spring, and the green
garden become a little dry dust, for in its sweetness lay all their
virtue.

The villein, who was lord of this domain, walked every day within his
garden to hearken to the bird. On a certain morning he came to the well
to bathe his face in the cold spring, and the bird, hidden close
within the pine branches, poured out his full heart in a delightful
lay, from which rich profit might be drawn.

"Listen," chanted the bird in his own tongue, "listen to my voice oh,
knight, and clerk, and layman, ye who concern yourselves with love, and
suffer with its dolours: listen, also, ye maidens, fair and coy and
gracious, who seek first the gifts and beauty of the world. I speak
truth and do not lie. Closer should you cleave to God than to any
earthly lover, right willingly should you seek His altar, more firmly
should you hold to His commandment than to any mortal's pleasure. So
you serve God and Love in such fashion, no harm can come to any, for
God and Love are one. God loves sense and chivalry; and Love holds them
not in despite. God hates pride and false seeming; and Love loveth
loyalty. God praiseth honour and courtesy; and fair Love disdaineth
them not. God lendeth His ear to prayer; neither doth Love refuse it
her heart. God granteth largesse to the generous; but the grudging man,
and the envious, the felon and the wrathful, doth He abhor. But
courtesy and honour, good sense and loyalty, are the leal vassals of
Love, and so you hold truly to them, God and the beauty of the world
shall be added to you besides."

Thus told the bird in his song.

But when he saw the villein beneath the pine hearkening to his words,
straight he changed his note, for well he knew him to be covetous and
disloyal, and so he sang in quite another fashion.

"Oh, river, cease to flow; crumble, thou manor, keep and tower; let the
grass wither with the rose, and the tall tree stand bare, for the
gentle dames and knights come no more who once delighted in my song,
and to whom this fountain was dear. In place of the brave and generous
knights, set upon honour, stands this envious churl, greedy of naught
but money. Those came to hear my song for solace, and for love of love;
he but to eat and drink the more, and for ease of his gluttony."

And when the bird had thus spoken he took his flight.

Now the villein, who had listened to this song, thought within himself
that might he snare so marvellous a bird, very easily could he sell him
at a great price; or if he might not sell him, at least he could set
him fast in a cage and hearken his lay at pleasure both early and late.
So he climbed within the tree and sought and searched and pried until
he marked the branch from whence the bird was wont to sing. There he
set a cunning snare, and waited to see what time should make clear. At
the hour of vespers the bird returned to the orchard, and lighting upon
the branch was fast taken in the net. Then the villein came forth, and
mounting quickly, joyously seized him in his hand.

"Small profit will you have of your labour," said the bird, "for I can
pay but a poor ransom."

"At least I shall be paid in songs," answered the villein. "You were
wont to sing for your own pleasure, now you will carol for mine."

"Think not so," replied the bird. "He who is used to the freedom of
wood and meadow and river cannot live prisoned in a cage. What solace
may I find there, or joy? Open your hand, fair sweet friend, for be
assured no captive has a heart for songs."

"By my faith, then, you shall be served at table."

"Never will you have dined worse, for there is nothing of me. I pray
you to let me go, for it were a sin to slay me."

"By my faith, you talk and talk; the more you plead, the less will I
grant."

"Certes," answered the bird, "you are in your right, for such is the
law. Many a time have I heard tell that the uncharitable granteth no
alms. But there is a proverb that teaches that often man gives in his
own interest what cannot be taken from him by force. Now, if you
release me from this net I will make you free of three secrets which
are little known to men of your lineage, and from which you may draw
much profit."

"Tell me these secrets," said the villein, "and I will open my hand."

"Such faith have I in you," answered the bird, "that I will speak only
when you free me from the snare."

The villein opened his hand, and the bird flew to a place of surety.
His feathers were all ruffled, for he had been grossly handled by a
glove not of silk but of wool, so he preened and plumed himself
carefully with his beak. But the villein grew impatient, and urged him
to pay his ransom. Now the bird was full of guile, so presently he made
answer to the churl.

"Hear now the first of my three weighty secrets--Do not believe all
that you may hear."

The villein frowned with anger, and answered that he knew it well.

"Fair friend, forget it never," replied the bird.

"Much I fear that I did foolishly in letting you from the snare. This
secret was plain to me before; but now tell me the two others."

"They are fair and wise," said the bird. "Listen well to my second
weighty secret--Do not regret what you have never lost."

"You mock me," cried the villein, "and do wrong to the faith you
plighted with me. You pledged your word to tell me three secrets known
but little to men of such lineage as mine, and you give me musty
proverbs told over by all the world. Certes, what manner of man is he
who weeps over what he has never had!"

"Shall I tell it once again," replied the bird, "for great fear have I
lest it should travel from your mind."

"By my head," answered the villein, "I am a fairer scholar than you
think. These two proverbs have naught to teach me; but hold truly to
our covenant and bargain, and let the third secret contain a graver
matter."

"Listen well to my third secret," said the bird, "for he who receives
it shall never be poor."

"Ah, tell me this secret quickly," cried the churl, "for it draws near
the hour of meat, and truly, beyond all things, do I desire to grow
rich."

Now when the bird heard him--

"This be thy punishment, oh, thou false churl--What you hold in your
hand, never throw between your feet."

Then was the villein all wrathful; but when words came to him to speak,
he said--

"And are these your three mighty secrets! Why, these are but children's
riddles, which I have known ever since I was born. You have but lied to
me, and of all your teaching had I full knowledge long before."

"By my faith," responded the bird, "had you known my third secret never
would you have let me from your hand."

"You say well," said the villein, "but at least knew I the two other
proverbs."

"Ah," said the bird, with malice, "but this proverb was worth a hundred
of the others."

"In what manner?" inquired the villein.

"What, know you not what has chanced to you? Had you slain me when I
was in your power that day would have been the happiest of your life.
For in my body is a jewel, so precious and so rare, that it weighs at
least three ounces. Yea, the virtue of this stone is such that he who
owns it has but to wish, and lo, his desire is fulfilled."

When the villein heard this thing he beat upon his breast, he tore his
raiment, and disfigured his face with his nails, crying out that he was
wretched and undone. The bird from his refuge in the tree rejoiced
greatly to observe the churl's miserable plight, and said nothing till
his enemy's clothes were torn to rags, and his hands sore wounded in
many places. Then he spake--

"Miserable churl, when you held me fast in your rude hand, easy was it
to know that I was no larger than a sparrow or a finch, and weighed
less than half an ounce. How, then, could a precious stone, three
ounces in weight, be hid in my body? Now will I prove to you that of my
three secrets you understood not a single one. You asked me what man
was fool enough to weep over that which he had never lost, and even now
I watch your tears fall for a jewel which was never yours, nor will be
ever. You had faith in all that I was pleased to tell you, trusting all
you heard; and in your folly you flung the bird you held in hand
between your very feet. Fair friend, con over my three secrets, and
learn wisdom even from the counsel of a bird."

When he had spoken thus he took his flight, and from that hour the
orchard knew him no more. With the ceasing of his song the leaves
withered from the pine, the garden became a little dry dust, and the
fountain forgot to flow. Thus the rich villein lost his pleasaunce,
which once was fair beyond content. And remember well, fair lords and
dames, that truly speaks the proverb, "He who covet another's good, oft
loses his own," as we may learn from the "Lay of the Little Bird."




THE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH


Each owes it to his fellows to tell as best he may, or, better still,
to write with fair enticing words, such deeds and adventures as are
good and profitable for us to know. For as men come and go about their
business in the world, many things are told them which it is seemly to
keep in remembrance. Therefore, it becomes those who say and relate,
diligently and with fair intent to keep such matters in thought and
study, even as did our fathers before us. Theirs is the school to which
we all should pass, and he who would prove an apt scholar, and live
beyond his day, must not be idle at his task. But the world dims our
fine gold: the minstrel is slothful, and singers forget to sing,
because of the pain and travail which go to the finding of their songs.
So without waiting for any to-morrow, I will bring before you a certain
adventure which chanced, even as it was told to me.

Some seven years ago it befell that a rich burgess of Abbeville
departed from the town, together with his wife, his only son, and all
his wealth, his goods and plenishing. This he did like a prudent man,
since he found himself at enmity with men who were stronger and of more
substance than he. So, fearing lest a worse thing should bechance him,
from Abbeville he went up to Paris. There he sought a shop and
dwelling, and paying his service, made himself vassal and burgess of
the King. The merchant was diligent and courteous, his wife smiling and
gracious, and their son was not given over to folly, but went soberly,
even as his parents taught him. Much were they praised of their
neighbours, and those who lived in the same street often set foot in
their dwelling. For very greatly are those loved and esteemed by their
fellows who are courteous in speech and address. He who has fair words
in his mouth receives again sweet words in his ear, and foul words and
foul deeds bring naught but bitterness and railing. Thus was it with
this prudent merchant. For more than seven years he went about his
business, buying and selling, concerning himself with matters of which
he had full knowledge, putting by of his earnings a little every day,
like a wise and worthy citizen. So this wealthy merchant lived a happy
blameless life, till, by the will of God, his wife was taken from him,
who had been his companion for some thirty years. Now these parents had
but one only child, a son, even as I have told you before. Very
grievously did he mourn the death of her who had cherished him so
softly, and lamented his mother with many tears, till he came nigh to
swoon. Then, to put a little comfort in his heart, his father said to
him--

"Fair son, thy mother is dead, and we will pray to God that He grant
her mercy in that day. But dry now thine eyes and thy face, for tears
can profit thee nothing. By that road we all must go, neither can any
man pass Death upon the way, nor return to bring us any word. Fair son,
for thee there is goodly comfort. Thou art a young bachelor, and it is
time to take thee a wife. I am full of years, and so I may find thee a
fair marriage in an honourable house I will endow thee with my
substance. I will now seek a bride for thee of birth and breeding--one
of family and descent, one come of ancient race, with relations and
friends a gracious company, a wife from honest folk and from an honest
home. There, where it is good and profitable to be, I will set thee
gladly, nor of wealth and moneys shalt thou find a lack."

Now in that place were three brethren, knights of high lineage, cousins
to mighty lords of peerage, bearing rich and honourable blazons on
their shields. But these knights had no heritage, since they had pawned
all that they owned of woods and houses and lands, the better to take
their pleasure at the tourney. Passing heavy and tormented were these
brethren because in no wise might they redeem their pledge. The eldest
of these brothers had a daughter, but the mother of the maid was dead.
Now this damsel owned in Paris a certain fair house, over against the
mansion of the wealthy merchant. The house was not of her father's
heritage, but came to her from her mother, who had put the maid in ward
to guardians, so that the house was free from pledge. She received in
rent therefrom the sum of twenty Paris pounds every year, and her dues
were paid her right willingly. So the merchant, esteeming her a lady of
family and estate, demanded her hand in marriage of her father and of
all her friends. The knight inquired in his turn of the means and
substance of the merchant, who answered very frankly--

"In merchandise and in moneys I have near upon fifteen hundred pounds.
Should I tell you that I had more, I should lie, and speak not the
truth. I have besides one hundred Paris pounds, which I have gained in
honest dealings. Of all this I will give my son the half."

"Fair sir," made answer the knight, "in no wise can this be agreed to.
Had you become a Templar, or a White or a Black monk you would have
granted the whole of your wealth either to the Temple or your Abbey. By
my faith, we cannot consent to so grudging an offer, certes, sir
merchant, no."

"Tell me then what you would have me do."

"Very willingly, fair, dear sir. We would that you grant to your son
the sum and total of your substance, so that he be seised of all your
wealth, and this in such fashion that neither you, nor any in your
name, may claim return of any part thereof. If you consent to this the
marriage can be made, but otherwise he shall never wed our child and
niece."

The merchant turned this over for a while, now looking upon his son,
now deep in thought. But very badly he was served of all his thought
and pondering. For at the last he made reply to him and said--

"Lord, it shall even be done according to your will. This is our
covenant and bargain, that so your daughter is given to my son I will
grant him all that I have of worth. I take this company as witness that
here I strip myself of everything I own, so that naught is mine, but
all is his, of what I once was seised and possessed."

Thus before the witnesses he divested himself utterly of all his
wealth, and became naked as a peeled wand in the eyes of the world, for
this merchant now had neither purse nor penny, nor wherewithal to break
his fast, save it were given him by his son. So when the words were
spoken and the merchant altogether spoiled, then the knight took his
daughter by the hand and handfasted her with the bachelor, and she
became his wife.

For two years after this marriage the husband and the dame lived a
quiet and peaceful life. Then a fair son was born to the bachelor, and
the lady cherished and guarded him fondly. With them dwelt the merchant
in the same lodging, but very soon he perceived that he had given
himself a mortal blow in despoiling himself of his substance to live on
the charity of others. But perforce he remained of their household for
more than twelve years, until the lad had grown up tall, and began to
take notice, and to remember that which often he heard of the making of
his father's marriage. And well he promised himself that it should
never go from mind.

The merchant was full of years. He leaned upon his staff, and went bent
with age, as one who searches for his lost youth. His son was weary of
his presence, and would gladly have paid for the spinning of his
shroud. The dame, who was proud and disdainful, held him in utter
despite, for greatly he was against her heart. Never was she silent,
but always was she saying to her lord--

"Husband, for love of me, send your father upon his business. I lose
all appetite just for the sight of him about the house."

"Wife," answered he, "this shall be done according to your wish."

So because of his wife's anger and importunity, he sought out his
father straightway, and said--

"Father, father, get you gone from here. I tell you that you must do
the best you can, for we may no longer concern ourselves with you and
your lodging. For twelve years and more we have given you food and
raiment in our house. Now all is done, so rise and depart forthwith,
and fend for yourself, as fend you must."

When the father heard these words he wept bitterly, and often he cursed
the day and the hour in which he found he had lived too long.

"Ah, fair, sweet son, what is this thou sayest to me! For the love of
God turn me not from thy door. I lie so close that thou canst not want
my room. I require of thee neither seat in the chimney corner, nor soft
bed of feathers, no, nor carpet on the floor; but only the attic, where
I may bide on a little straw. Throw me not from thy house because I
eat of thy bread, but feed me without grudging for the short while I
have to live. In the eyes of God this charity will cover all thy sins
better than if thou went in haircloth next the flesh."

"Fair father," replied the bachelor, "preach me no preachings, but get
you forth at once, for reason that my wife would have you gone."

"Fair son, where then shall I go, who am esteemed of nothing worth?"

"Get you gone to the town, for amongst ten thousand others very easily
you may light on good fortune. Very unlucky you will be if there you
cannot find a way to live. Seek your fortune bravely. Perchance some of
your friends and acquaintance will receive you into their houses."

"Son, how then shall men take me to their lodging, when you turn me
from the house which I have given you? Why should the stranger welcome
that guest whom the son chases from his door? Why should I be received
gladly by him to whom I have given naught, when I am evilly entreated
of the rich man for whose sake I go naked?"

"Father," said he, "right or wrong, I take the blame upon my own head;
but go you must because it is according to my will."

Then the father grieved so bitterly that for a little his very heart
would have broken. Weak as he was, he raised himself to his feet and
went forth from the house, weeping.

"Son," said he, "I commend thee to God; but since thou wilt that I go,
for the love of Him give me at least a portion of packing cloth to
shelter me against the wind. I am asking no great matter; nothing but a
little cloth to wrap about me, because I am but lightly clad, and fear
to die for reason of the cold."

Then he who shrank from any grace of charity made reply--

"Father, I have no cloth, so neither can I bestow, nor have it taken
from me."

"Fair, sweet son, my heart trembles within me, so greatly do I dread
the cold. Give me, then, the cloth you spread upon your horse, so that
I come to no evil."

So he, seeing that he might not rid himself of his father save by the
granting of a gift, and being desirous above all that he should part,
bade his son to fetch this horsecloth. When the lad heard his father's
call he sprang to him, saying--

"Father, what is your pleasure?"

"Fair son," said he, "get you to the stable, and if you find it open
give my father the covering that is upon my horse. Give him the best
cloth in the stable, so that he may make himself a mantle or a habit,
or any other sort of cloak that pleases him."

Then the lad, who was thoughtful beyond his years, made answer--

"Grandsire, come now with me."

So the merchant went with him to the stable, exceedingly heavy and
wrathful. The lad chose the best horsecloth he might find in the
stable, the newest, the largest, and the most fair; this he folded in
two, and drawing forth his knife, divided the cloth in two portions.
Then he bestowed on his grandfather one half of the sundered
horsecloth.

"Fair child," said the old man, "what have you done? Why have you cut
the cloth that your father has given me? Very cruelly have you treated
me, for you were bidden to give me the horsecloth whole. I shall
return and complain to my son thereof."

"Go where you will," replied the boy, "for certainly you shall have
nothing more from me."

The merchant went forth from the stable.

"Son," said he, "chastise now thy child, since he counts thy word as
nothing but an idle tale, and fears not to disobey thy commandment.
Dost thou not see that he keeps one half of the horsecloth?"

"Plague take thee!" cried the father; "give him all the cloth."

"Certes," replied the boy, "that will I never do, for how then shall
you be paid? Rather will I keep the half until I am grown a man, and
then give it to you. For just as you have chased him from your house,
so I will put you from my door. Even as he has bestowed on you all his
wealth, so, in my turn, will I require of you all your substance.
Naught from me shall you carry away, save that only which you have
granted to him. If you leave him to die in his misery, I wait my day,
and surely will leave you to perish in yours."

The father listened to these words, and at the end sighed heavily. He
repented him of the evil that he purposed, and from the parable that
his child had spoken took heed and warning. Turning himself about
towards the merchant, he said--

"Father, return to my house. Sin and the Enemy thought to have caught
me in the snare, but, please God, I have escaped from the fowler. You
are master and lord, and I render all that I have received into your
hands. If my wife cannot live with you in quiet, then you shall be
served and cherished elsewhere. Chimney corner, and carpet, pillow and
bed of feathers, at your ease you shall have pleasure in them all. I
take St. Martin to witness that never will I drink stoup of wine,
never carve morsel from dish, but that yours shall be the richer
portion. Henceforth you shall live softly in the ceiled chamber, near
by a blazing fire, clad warmly in your furred robe, even as I. And all
this is not of charity, but of your right, for, fair sweet father, if I
am rich it is because of your substance."

Thus the brave witness and the open remonstrance of a child freed his
father from the bad thoughts that he harboured. And deeply should this
adventure be considered of those who are about to marry their children.
Let them not strip themselves so bare as to have nothing left. For he
who gives all, and depends upon the charity of others, prepares a rod
for his own back.




SIR HUGH OF TABARIE


In the years when Saladin was King, there lived a Prince in Galilee,
who was named Sir Hugh of Tabarie. On a day he was with other Christian
men who gave battle to the Turks, and, since it pleased God to cast His
chivalry behind Him, Sir Hugh was taken prisoner, and many another
stout knight with him. When dusk closed down on the field, the Prince
was led before Saladin, who, calling him straightway to mind, rejoiced
greatly and cried--

"Ah, Sir Hugh, now are you taken."

"Sire," answered the brave knight, "the greater grief is mine."

"By my faith, Hugh, every reason have you for grief, since you must
either pay your ransom or die."

"Sire, I am more fain to pay ransom than to die, if by any means I may
find the price you require of me."

"Is that truly so?" said the King.

"Sire," said Sir Hugh, "in the fewest words, what is the sum you demand
of me?"

"I ask of you," replied the King, "one hundred thousand besants."

"Sire, such a sum is too great a ransom for a man of my lands to pay."

"Hugh," said the King, "you are so good a knight, and so hardy, that
there is none who hears of your prison and this ransom, but will gladly
send of his riches for your ease."

"Sire," said he, "since thus it must be, I promise to pay the sum you
require, but what time do you grant me to find so mighty a ransom?"

"Hugh," said the King, "I accord you the grace of one year. If within
the year you count me out the tale of these besants, I will take it
gladly; but if you fail to gain it, then must you return to your
prison, and I will hold you more willingly still."

"Sire, I pledge my word and my faith. Now deliver me such a safe
conduct that I may return in surety to my own land."

"Hugh, before you part I have a privy word to speak to you."

"Sire, with all my heart, and where?"

"In this tent, close by."

When they were entered into the pavilion, the Emperor Saladin sought to
know of Sir Hugh in what fashion a man was made knight of the Christian
chivalry, and required of him that he should show it to his eyes.

"Sire, whom then should I dub knight?"

"Myself," answered the King.

"Sire, God forbid that I should be so false as to confer so high a gift
and so fair a lordship even upon the body of so mighty a prince as
you."

"But wherefore?" said the King.

"For reason, sire, that your body is but an empty vessel."

"Empty of what, Sir Hugh?"

"Sire, of Christianity and of baptism."

"Hugh," said he, "think not hardly of me because of this. You are in my
hand, and if you do the thing that I require of you, what man is there
to blame you greatly when you return to your own realm. I seek this
grace of you, rather than of another, because you are the stoutest and
most perfect knight that ever I may meet."

"Sire," said he, "I will show you what you seek to know, for were it
but the will of God that you were a christened man, our chivalry would
bear in you its fairest flower."

"Hugh," said he, "that may not be."

Thereupon Sir Hugh made ready all things necessary for the making of a
knight; and having trimmed the hair and beard of the King in seemly
fashion, he caused him to enter within a bath, and inquired--

"Sire, do you understand the meaning of this water?"

"Hugh, of this I know nothing."

"Sire, as the little child comes forth from the waters of baptism clean
of sin, so should you issue from this bath washed pure of all stain and
villainy."

"By the law of the Prophet, Sir Hugh, it is a fair beginning."

Then Sir Hugh brought the Sultan before an untouched bed, and having
laid him therein, he said--

"Sire, this bed is the promise of that long rest in Paradise which you
must gain by the toils of chivalry."

So when the King had lain softly therein for a little space, Sir Hugh
caused him to stand upon his feet, and having clothed him in a fair
white vesture of linen and of silk, said--

"Sire, this spotless stole you first put on is but the symbol of a body
held and guarded clean."

Afterwards he set upon the King a gown of scarlet silk, and said--

"Sire, this vermeil robe keeps ever in your mind the blood a knight
must shed in the service of his God and the defence of Holy Church."

Then taking the King's feet in his hands, he drew thereon shoes of
brown leather, saying--

"Sire, these brown shoes with which you are shod, signify the colour of
that earth from which you came, and to which you must return; for
whatever degree God permits you to attain, remember, O mortal man, that
you are but dust."

Then Sir Hugh raised the Sultan to his feet, and girt him with a white
baldrick, saying--

"Sire, this white cincture I belt about your loins is the type of that
chastity with which you must be girded withal. For he who would be
worthy of such dignity as this must ever keep his body pure as any
maid."

After this was brought to Sir Hugh a pair of golden spurs, and these he
did upon the shoes with which the Sultan was shod, saying--

"Sire, so swiftly as the destrier plunges in the fray at the prick of
these spurs, so swiftly, so joyously, should you fight as a soldier of
God for the defence of Holy Church."

Then at the last Hugh took a sword, and holding it before the King,
said--

"Sire, know you the three lessons of this glaive?"

"What lessons are these?"

"Courage, justice and loyalty. The cross at the hilt of his sword gives
courage to the bearer, for when the brave knight girds his sword upon
him he neither can, nor should, fear the strong Adversary himself.
Again, sire, the two sharp edges of the blade teach loyalty and
justice, for the office of chivalry is this, to sustain the weak
against the strong, the poor before the rich, uprightly and loyally."

The King listened to all these words very heedfully, and at the end
inquired if there was nothing more that went to the making of a
knight.

"Sire, there is one thing else, but that I dare not do."

"What thing is this?"

"It is the accolade."

"Grant me now this accolade, and tell me the meaning thereof."

"Sire, the accolade is a blow upon the neck given with a sword, and the
significance thereof is that the newly made knight may always bear in
mind the lord who did him that great courtesy. But such a stroke will I
not deal to you, for it is not seemly, since I am here your prisoner."

That night Saladin, the mighty Sultan, feasted in his chamber, with the
fifty greatest lords of his realm, emirs, governors and admirals, and
Sir Hugh of Tabarie sat on a cushion at his feet. At the close of the
banquet Sir Hugh rose up before the King and said--

"Sire, grant me grace. I may not forget that you bade me to seek out
all fair and honourable lords, since there is none who would not gladly
come to my help in this matter of my ransom. But, fair Sir King, in all
the world shall I never find a lord so wise, so hardy, and so courteous
as yourself. Since you have taught me this lesson, it is but just and
right that I should pray you to be the first to grant me aid herein."

Then Saladin laughed loudly out of a merry heart, and said--

"Pray God that the end be as sweet as the beginning. Truly, Sir Hugh, I
will not have it on my conscience that you miss your ransom because of
any meanness of mine, and therefore, without guile, for my part I will
give you fifty thousand good besants."

Then the great Sultan rose from his throne, and taking Prince Hugh with
him, came to each of the lords in turn--emir, governor and
admiral--and prayed of him aid in the business of this ransom. So all
the lords gave largely out of a good heart, in such measure that Sir
Hugh presently acquitted himself of his ransom, and returned to his own
realm from amongst the Paynim.




THE STORY OF KING FLORUS AND OF THE FAIR JEHANE


Here begins the story of a certain King who was named King Florus of
Ausay. This King Florus was a very stout knight, and a gentleman of
proud descent. He was wedded to the daughter of the Prince of Brabant,
a gentlewoman of high lineage. Very fair was the maid when she became
his dame, slender of shape and dainty of fashion, and the story telleth
that she was but fifteen summers old when King Florus became her lord,
and he was but of seventeen years. A right happy life they passed
together, as becometh bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth;
yet because he might have no child of her King Florus was often dolent,
and she for her part was vexed full grievously. This lady was very
gracious of person, and very devout towards God and Holy Church. She
gave alms willingly, and was so charitable that she nourished and
clothed the needy, kissing their hands and feet. Moreover, so constant
and private in service was she to the lepers of the lazar house, both
men and women, that the Holy Ghost dwelt within her. Her lord, King
Florus, so long as his realm had peace, rode forth as knight-errant to
all the tournaments in Allemaigne and France and many other lands of
which the noise reached him; thereon he spent much treasure, and gained
great honour thereby.

But now my tale ceases to speak of him, and telleth of a knight who
dwelt in the marches of Flanders and of Hainault. This knight was wise
in counsel, and brave of heart, very sure and trusty. He had to wife a
right fair lady, of whom he had one daughter, young and fresh, named
Jehane, a maid of some twelve years. Many sweet words were spoken of
this maiden, for in all the country round was none so fair. Her mother
prayed often to her lord that he should grant the girl in marriage, but
so given were all his thoughts to the running of tourneys that he
considered nothing of the trothing of his child, though his wife
admonished him ever on his return from the jousts.

This knight had for squire a man named Robert, the bravest squire in
any Christian realm. His prowess and his praise were such that oft he
aided his lord to bear away the prize from the tournaments whereat he
ran. So great was his praise that his lady spake him thus--

"Robert, more careth my lord for these joustings than for any words I
speak, which thing is grievous to me, for I would that he gave care and
pains to wed this daughter of mine. I pray you, therefore, for love of
me, that if you may, you tell him that very ill he does, and is greatly
to be blamed, not to marry his own fair child, for there is no knight
of these parts, however rich his state, who would not gladly welcome
such a bride."

"Lady," said Robert, "you have well spoken. Very readily will I speak
thereof, and since my lord asks often of my counsel, every hope have I
that he will take heed to my words."

"Robert," said the lady, "you will find me no niggard, so you do this
task."

"Lady," said Robert, "your prayer is guerdon enough for me. Be assured
I will do all that I may."

"I am content," returned the lady.

Now within a little space the knight made ready to fare to a
tournament very far from his land. When he came to the field, he (with
a certain knight in whose company he rode) was joined to one party, and
his banner was carried to the lodging of his lord. The tilting began,
and such deeds did the knight, by the cunning service of his squire,
that he bore off the honour and the prize of that tourney from the one
side and the other. On the second day the knight prepared to return to
his own country; so Robert took him often to task and blamed him
greatly that he had not bestowed his fair daughter in marriage. Having
heard this many times, at the end his lord replied--

"Robert, thou and thy lady give me no peace in the matter of the
marriage of my daughter; but at present I see and know of none in my
parts to whom I am content to give her."

"Ah, sir," cried Robert, "there is no knight in your realm who would
not receive her right joyously."

"Robert, fair friend, they are worth nothing, not one of them; neither
will I bestow her there with my good will. I know of no man in the
world who is worthy of her, save one man only, and he, forsooth, is no
knight."

"Sir, tell me his name," answered Robert, "and I will find means to
speak to him so privily that the marriage shall be made."

"Certes, Robert," returned the knight, "meseems thou art very desirous
that my daughter shall be wedded."

"Sir," quoth Robert, "you speak truly, for it is full time."

"Robert," said the knight, "since thou art so hot to carol at her
wedding, she shall soon enough be married if thou accord thereto."

"Certes, sir," said Robert, "right willingly will I consent thereto."

"To that you pledge your word?" demanded the knight.

"Truly, sir, yes," answered Robert.

"Robert, thou hast served me very faithfully, and ever have I found
thee skilled and true. Such as I am, that thou hast made of me; for by
thine aid at the tourneys have I gained five hundred pounds of rent.
'Twas but a short time since that I had but five hundred; whereas now I
have one thousand pounds from rent of land. This, therefore, I owe to
thee, and I acquit me of my debt by giving thee my fair daughter, so
thou art willing to take her at my hand."

"Ah, sir," cried Robert, "for the pity of God, say not thus. I am too
low a man to snatch at so high a maiden, nor dare I pretend to one so
rich and gracious as my demoiselle, since there is no knight in all the
realm, whate'er his breeding, who would not count it honour to be her
lord."

"Robert, know of a surety that never shall knight of this country call
her his; but I will bestow her on thee, if thou refusest her not, and
for her dowry shall she bring thee four hundred pounds from rent of my
lands."

"Ah, sir," said Robert, "you are pleased to make a mock of me."

"Robert," said the knight, "be assured this is no jest."

"Ah, sir, neither my lady nor her mighty kin will endure to consent
thereto."

"Robert," said the knight, "this matter concerns none of them. Hold, I
give thee my glove, and I invest thee with four hundred pounds of my
land, and this is my warrant for the delivery thereof."

"Sir," said Robert, "I will not refuse so goodly a gift, since it is
given with so true a heart."

"Robert," replied the knight, "the grant is sealed."

So the knight granted him his glove, and invested him with rights in
that fair maiden and her land.

Thus they passed upon their ways until it fortuned that this knight
returned to his own house. When he was entered therein, his wife--that
comely dame--received him right sweetly, and said--

"Husband, for the love of God, give thought at this time to the
marriage of our maid."

"Dame," said her lord, "thou hast spoken so often of this matter that I
have trothed her already."

"Sir," inquired the lady, "to whom?"

"Certes, dame, I have pledged her to a man who will ever be loyal and
true. I have given her to Robert, my squire."

"To Robert! Alas the day," quoth the lady. "Robert is but a naked man,
nor is there a knight, however noble, in all this realm who would not
have taken her gladly. Certainly Robert shall have none of her."

"Dame, have her he shall, for I have delivered to him as my daughter's
portion four hundred pounds in rent of land, and all his rights therein
I warrant and will maintain."

When the lady heard this thing she was sore troubled, and said to her
lord that of a surety should Robert never possess her maid.

"Dame," said her husband, "have her he shall, with good will or with
bad will, for I have made a covenant with him, and will carry out my
bargain."

When the lady heard these words of her lord she sought her chamber, and
wept and lamented very grievously. After her tears were shed then she
sent to seek her brothers and other kinsmen of her house, and showed
them of that thing her lord would do, and they said--

"Lady, what have we to do herein? We have no care to go counter to your
lord, for he is a stout knight, weighty of counsel and heavy of hand.
Moreover, can he not do as he will with his daughter, and his land
besides? Know you well that for this cause will none of us hang shield
about his neck."

"Alas," said the lady, "never may my heart find happiness again, if
thus I lose my child. At the least, fair lords, I pray and require you
to show him that should he make this marriage he acts not rightly, nor
after his own honour."

"Lady," said they, "this we will do full willingly."

So they sought out the knight and acquitted themselves of their task,
and he answered them in courteous wise--

"Fair lords, I will tell you what I can do for your love. So it be your
pleasure, I will defer this marriage on such understanding as I now
declare. You are great lords, and are rich in gold and lands. Moreover,
you are near of kin to this fair maid of mine, whom very tenderly I
love. If on your part you will endue her with four hundred pounds of
rent on your lands, I, on mine, will disavow this bond of marriage, and
will wed the girl according to your wise counsel."

"In the name of God," answered they with one accord, "would you spoil
us of all the wealth in our wallets?"

"Since, then," replied the knight, "you may not do this thing, suffer
me to do as I will with my own."

"Sir, with right good mind," answered they.

Then the knight sent for his chaplain, and before him affianced Robert
and his fair daughter together, appointing a certain day for the
marriage. But on the third day Robert prayed his lord that he would
dub him knight, since it was not seemly that he should take a wife so
fair and of such high station till he was of her degree. His lord
agreed thereto with a glad heart, and on the morrow granted him his
desire; therefore after the third day he married the fair maid with
great joy and festival.

At the hour Messire Robert was made knight he spake thus to his lord--

"Sir, once when I was in grievous peril of death, I vowed to seek St.
James's shrine on the morrow of that day I gained my spurs. I pray you
be not wroth with me if to-morrow morn it becomes my honour to wend
thither directly after this marriage, for in no wise will I fail to
observe my vow."

"Certes, Messire Robert, if you do this despite to my daughter, and go
lonely upon your road, very rightly will you be held to blame."

"Sir," said he, "so it pleases God, I shall soon return, but go I must
on peril of my soul."

When a certain knight of the lord's household heard these words,
greatly he reproached Messire Robert for parting from his bride at such
an hour, but Robert answered him that he durst not break his oath.

"Truly," said the knight, who was named Raoul, "truly if you wend thus
to St. James's shrine, leaving so fair a bride but a wedded maid, very
surely will I win her love ere you return. Certain proofs, moreover,
will I give that I have had my way with her; and to this will I pledge
my lands against the lands our lord has granted you, for mine are fully
worth the rents of yours."

"My wife," answered Messire Robert, "does not come of a race to deal me
so shrewd a wrong, and since I give no credence to your words,
willingly will I make the wager, if so it pleases you."

"Yes," said Raoul, "and to this you pledge your faith?"

"Yea," said Messire Robert, "willingly. And you?"

"I, too, pledge my faith. Now let us seek our lord forthwith, and set
before him our bargain."

"That is my desire also," said Messire Robert.

Then they went straight to their lord and laid before him this wager,
and plighted troth to observe their covenant. So in the morning Messire
Robert was married to the fair maiden, and when the bridal Mass was
ended, incontinent he parted from the hall, without tasting the wedding
meats, and set forth on his way, a pilgrim to Compostella.

Now ceaseth the tale to speak of him, and telleth of Raoul, who was hot
in thought as to how he might gain the wager and have to do with the
fair lady. So relateth the tale that the lady behaved very discreetly
whilst her husband was on pilgrimage, for she spent much time upon her
knees in church, praying God to bring her lord again. For his part
Messire Raoul was in a heat in what manner he might win the wager, for
more and more it seemed to him that he should lose his land. He sought
speech with an old dame who attended on the lady, promising that so she
brought him in such a place and hour that he might speak privily to
Madame Jehane, and have his will, then he would deal so largely with
her, that never in her life should she be poor.

"Certes, sir," said the crone, "you are so lovely a knight, so sweet in
speech and so courteous, that verily it is my lady's duty to set her
love upon you, and it will be my pleasure to toil in your service."

So the knight took forty sous from his pouch, and gave them to her that
she might buy a kirtle. The old woman received them greedily, and
hiding the money in a secret place promised to speak to her lady. The
knight bade farewell, and went his way, but the crone tarried in that
place, and when her lady entered from the church said straitly--

"Lady, for God's love, tell me truly, when my lord went to Compostella
did he leave you a maid?"

"Why ask you such a question, Dame Hersent?"

"Because, lady, I believe you to be a virgin wife!"

"Certes, Dame Hersent, and that I am, nor do I know woman who would be
aught else in my case."

"Lady," returned Dame Hersent, "ah, the pity of it! If you but knew the
joy that women have in company of the man they love, you would say that
there is no fonder happiness to be found on earth. Greatly I marvel,
therefore, that you love not, _par amours_, seeing that every lady
loveth with her friend. Were the thing but pleasing to you, fair
falleth the chance, for well I know a knight, comely of person, sweet
and wise of speech, who asks naught better than to set on you his love.
Very rich is he, and lovelier far than the shamed recreant who has left
you in this plight. If you are not too fearful to grant him grace, you
can have of him all that you please to ask, and such joy moreover as no
lady can hope for more."

Whilst the crone was speaking, the lady, who was but a woman, felt her
senses stir within. Curiously she inquired who this knight should be.

"Who is he, lady? God above! one has no fear to cry his name! Who
should it be but that lovely lord, so courteous, so bold, Messire
Raoul, of your father's house, the sweetest heart of all the world."

"Dame Hersent," said the lady, "you will do well to let these words be,
for I have no wish to do myself such wrong, neither come I of such
stock as goes after shame."

"Dame," replied the old woman, "I know it well; but never can you have
the joy of maid with man."

Thus ended their discourse; but presently Sir Raoul came again to the
crone, and she made plain to him how she had spoken to her lady, and in
what fashion she was answered.

"Dame Hersent," said the knight, "so should a virtuous lady reply; but
I pray you speak again with her of this matter, for the archer does not
wing the bird with a first arrow; and, stay, take these twenty sous,
and buy a lining to your coat."

So that ancient dame took the gift, and wearied the lady with enticing
words, but nothing came of all her proffers.

Slowly or quickly thus passed the days, till came the tidings that Sir
Robert was on his way from Compostella, and was already near to Paris.
Very speedily this news was noised abroad, and Sir Raoul, fearing
greatly to lose his lands, again sought speech with the crone. Then
said the old woman that in no wise could she snare the bird, but that
for the great love she bore him this thing she would do--so he would
recompense her service--namely, that she would put matters in such a
case that none should be in the house save himself and the lady, and
then he could act according to his pleasure, whether she would or
whether she would not. So Raoul answered that he desired no other
thing.

"This I will do," said the old woman. "Messire shall come again in
eight days, and on that day shall my lady bathe within her bower. I
will see that all her household are forth from the castle, so may you
come privily to her chamber, and have your desire of her, whether she
cry yea or whether she cry nay."

"You have fairly spoken," answered he.

Hard upon this came letters from Messire Robert that he would be at
the castle on Sunday. On the Thursday, therefore, the crone caused the
bath to be heated in the bower, and the lady disarrayed herself to
enter therein. Then the old woman sent messages to Sir Raoul that he
should come speedily, and moreover she caused all the household to go
forth from that place. Sir Raoul came to the bower, and entering,
saluted the lady, but she deigned no reply to his greeting, and said--

"Sir Raoul, of a truth I thank you for this courtesy, yet you might
have asked if such a visit would be according to my wish. Accursed may
you be for a most ungentle knight."

But Sir Raoul made reply--

"Madame, for God's sake have pity upon me, for I die for love of you.
Lady, as you hope for grace, so grant grace to me."

"Sir Raoul," cried she, "never for pity will I grant you this day, or
any day, the grace of my love. Know well that if you do not leave me
alone in peace certainly will I tell your lord, my father, the honour
that you require of me, for I am no such woman as you think."

"Nay, lady, is it so indeed?"

"Yes, and very surely," replied she.

Then Sir Raoul sprang forward, and clasping her in his arms (for he was
very mighty) bore her towards her bed. As they strove he saw beneath
her right breast a black spot upon the groin, and thought within
himself that here was certain proof that he had had to do with her. But
as he carried her towards the bed his spurs caught within the serge
valence about the foot thereof, so that they fell together, the lord
below and the lady above; whereupon she rose lightly to her feet, and
seizing a billet of wood from the hearth, smote him upon the head so
shrewdly that the blood dropped upon the rushes from the wound. When
Sir Raoul knew his wound to be both deep and large no more he desired
to play, so he arose from the floor and departed straightway from that
chamber to his own lodging, a long mile thence, and sought a surgeon
for his hurt. For her part the faithful lady called upon Dame Hersent,
and returning to her bath, complained to her of this strange adventure
with the knight.

Very great and rich was the feast that the father of the fair lady
ordained against the home-coming of Sir Robert. Many a lord was bidden
to his hall, and amongst these my lord, Sir Raoul, his knight; but he
sent messages that he might not come, for reason of his sickness. On
the Sunday came Sir Robert, and was sweetly welcomed of all; but the
father of the fair lady sought out Sir Raoul, nor would hold him
excused from the feast because of his grievous wound. Therefore he
tired his face and his wound the best that he was able, and went to
hall, where all day long the lords and ladies sat at meat and drink,
and rose for morris and to dance.

When closed the night Sir Robert sought his chamber, and very
graciously the lady received him, as it becometh every wife to receive
her husband. On the morrow again the guests were gathered about the
board, but after dinner uprose Sir Raoul demanding that Messire Robert
should pay his wager, since he had had to do with his wife, by sign and
token of a certain black spot beneath her right breast.

"Of that I know nothing," answered Sir Robert, "for I have not looked
so boldly upon her."

"I require you by the faith that you have pledged me to take heed, and
to do me justice herein."

"That will I, truly," answered Sir Robert.

When came the night once more, then Sir Robert observed his wife
curiously, and marked the black spot upon her white body, whereat the
greater grief was his. In the morning he sought out Sir Raoul, and
owned before his lord that he had lost the bet. Sick at heart was he
throughout the day. When darkness came he went to the stable, and
saddling his palfrey, issued forth from the courtyard, taking with him
what he might carry of his wealth. So he set forth on the road to
Paris, and coming to the city sojourned therein for some three days.
There the tale ceaseth to speak of him, and telleth of his wife.

Very dolent and right heavy was the fair lady that thus her lord had
fled his house. Very long and right greatly she considered the reason
of his flight. She wept and lamented her widowhood, even till such time
as her father entered her chamber, and said that it were much better
that she had never wed, since she had brought him to shame, him, and
all her house, and told her how and why. When she heard this thing she
was sick of heart, and swore that never had she done such deed; but her
words profited her nothing, for though a woman gave her body to be
burned, yet would none believe her clean of sin, once such blame is set
upon her.

Very early in the night the lady rose from the bed, and taking what
wealth she had in her coffer, saddled a palfrey and took the road. She
had sheared her dainty tresses to the shoulder, and in all points was
clad as a boy. In this manner came she to Paris, seeking for her
husband, for to her heart she declared that never would she give over
her search until they were met together once more. So she rode at
adventure, a squire searching for her lord. Now on a morning she
departed from Paris, and riding on the way to Orleans came to Tombe
Isoire, and there met with Sir Robert, her husband. Her heart was very
full as she drew close and saluted him, and he rendered her greeting
for greeting, saying--

"Fair friend, God give you heart's desire."

"Sir," said she, "from whence come you?"

"Certes, fair friend, I am of Hainault."

"Sir, and whither go you?"

"Forsooth, fair friend, little I know where my path may lead me, nor
have I home where I may dwell. Where Fortune hales me, thither I must
go, and the Dame looks not kindly on me, for I have lost the thing that
most I loved in all the world, and she hath lost me. Moreover with her
went house and lands that were fair and deep. But tell me, what is your
name, and whither doth God bring you?"

"Certes, sir," answered Jehane, "I purpose to seek Marseilles, near by
the sea, where as I hope there is noise of war. There, if I may, will I
enter the service of some hardy captain and learn the trade of arms, so
it be God's pleasure. For such is my plight that in nowise can I stay
in my own country. To my eyes, sir, you seem a knight whom I would
serve very gladly, if such was your will, nor of my fellowship could
you take any harm."

"Fair friend," answered Messire Robert, "truly am I a belted knight,
and in what place the battle is set, there would I gladly ride. But
tell me now, what is your name?"

"Sir, my name is John."

"It is right welcome," said the knight.

"And you, sir, what is your name?"

"John, my name is Robert."

"Sir Robert, join me to your company as squire, and I will serve you to
the utmost of my power."

"John, so would I do gladly, but I have so little money in my pouch,
that ere three days are gone I must sell my very steed; therefore I
may take no squire."

"Sir," said John, "be not troubled thereat, for God will provide, if so
it seems good to Him. But where are you set to dine?"

"John, my dinner is a simple business, for I have nothing in my purse
save three sous of Paris."

"Sir, be not troubled thereat, for on my part I have with me nearly ten
pounds of Tournay money, and these are as your own, since your wallet
is not heavy to your wish."

"Fair friend, thanks, and thanks again."

The two comrades rode at a brisk pace to Montlhery, where John found
meat for his lord, and they ate together. When they had eaten they
sought their chamber, the knight lying in a fair bed, and John sleeping
in another, at his feet. Refreshed with sleep, John rose and did the
harness upon their horses, so they mounted and passed upon their way.
Journeying thus at last they lighted at Marseilles upon the Sea, but to
their grief they might not hear the rumour of any war. There for the
time my story ceases to speak of the two of them, and returns to
Messire Raoul, that false knight, who, by leasing, had wrongly gained
the land of Sir Robert.

For more than seven years did Messire Raoul hold the lands of Sir
Robert against law and right. Then a sore sickness took hold upon him,
and afflicted him so grievously that very near he came to death. Much
he feared the wrong he had wrought to that fair lady, the daughter of
his lord, and to her husband besides, for by reason of his malice were
they utterly undone. So great was his sin that he dared not show the
matter to the priest, but tossed upon his bed in utter unrest. On a
certain day when his sickness lay too heavy upon him he bade his
chaplain draw near his bed, for this priest was a wise confessor, loyal
and true, and very close to the sick man's heart. Then he spake--

"Father--my father in God, if not according to the flesh--the time is
come when I must die. For God's love give me now your counsel, as you
are a ghostly man, for on my soul there lies a sin so ugly and so black
that scarcely may I hope to be anealed."

The priest prayed him to speak more plainly, so that he might aid him
to the utmost of his power, wherefore Sir Raoul brought himself to tell
the story that you have heard. At the end he begged the chaplain for
the love of God to show him what he must do to obtain the grace of
pardon for a sin so dark.

"Sir," said the priest, "be not altogether cast down, for so you are
willing to do such penance as I lay upon you, I will take your sin on
me and on my own soul, and you shall be clean."

"Now tell me of this penance," said the knight.

"Sir, within a year of your recovery from this sickness must you take
the cross and pass beyond the sea, and in all places where men ask the
reason of your pilgrimage, there you must tell the story of this bitter
wrong. Moreover, this day must you give hostages to God that thus you
will do."

"All this will I do gladly."

"Sir, what rich pledge can you offer, therefore?"

"The best," replied the knight. "You, yourself, shall be hostage and
surety for me; and on my honour as a knight well will I redeem my
pledge."

"Sir," said the priest, "in the hand of God am I set as your pledge."

The sick man turned from death to life, and soon was altogether healed.
A full year passed away, and yet he had not taken the cross. Right
often the holy man reminded him of his bond, but he treated the
covenant as a jest. Then the chaplain told him straitly that except he
discharged him as his surety before God, he would tell the whole matter
to the father of the fair lady whom he had utterly destroyed. When the
knight heard this he said to the chaplain that within six months would
he seek the sea for the springtide crossing, and thereto he plighted
faith. But now the story ceases to speak of Messire Raoul, and returns
to King Florus of Ausay, of whom it has told nought for a great while.

A right happy life led King Florus and his wife together, as becomes
bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth, but very dolent and sore
of heart were they that they might get no child. The lady caused Masses
to be sung, and was urgent in prayer for her desire, but since it was
not according to the will of God, no gain she got thereby. On a day
there came to the castle of King Florus a holy hermit who dwelt deep
within the great forest of Ausay, in a very desolate place. The queen
received him very gladly, and because he was a wise man and a holy,
would be shriven by him of her sins. So she bared him her secret wound,
and told him of her grief that she might have no child by her lord.

"Ah, madame," said the holy man, "it becometh you patiently to suffer
the pleasure of our Lord. When it is His will, then shall the barren
become a joyful mother of children."

"Certes, sir," said the lady, "would that it were now, for less 

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