who loves lightly, may make her lover pray for long, so that she may
hide how often her feet have trodden the pathway with another friend.
But the honest dame, when she has once given her heart to a friend,
will not deny his wish because of pride. The rather she will find her
pride in humbleness, and love him again with the same love he has
set on her. So they will be glad together, and since none will have
knowledge or hearing of the matter, they will rejoice in their youth.
Fair, sweet lady, be this thy pleasure?"
When the lady heard these words well she found them honest and true.
Therefore without further prayings and ado she granted Gugemar her
love and her kiss. Henceforward Gugemar lived greatly at his ease, for
he had sight and speech of his friend, and many a time she granted him
her embrace and tenderness, as is the wont of lovers when alone.
For a year and a half Gugemar dwelt with his lady, in solace and great
delight. Then Fortune turned her wheel, and in a trice cast those
down, whose seat had been so high. Thus it chanced to them, for they
were spied upon and seen.
On a morning in summer time the Queen and the damoiseau sat fondly
together. The knight embraced her, eyes and face, but the lady stayed
him, saying, "Fair sweet friend, my heart tells me that I shall lose
you soon, for this hidden thing will quickly be made clear. If you are
slain, may the same sword kill me. But if you win forth, well I know
that you will find another love, and that I shall be left alone with
my thoughts. Were I parted from you, may God give me neither joy, nor
rest, nor peace, if I would seek another friend. Of that you need have
no fear. Friend, for surety and comfort of my heart deliver me now
some sark of thine. Therein I will set a knot, and make this covenant
with you, that never will you put your love on dame or maiden, save
only on her who shall first unfasten this knot. Then you will ever
keep faith with me, for so cunning shall be my craft, that no woman
may hope to unravel that coil, either by force or guile, or even with
her knife."
So the knight rendered the sark to his lady, and made such bargain as
she wished, for the peace and assurance of her mind.
For his part the knight took a fair girdle, and girt it closely about
the lady's middle. Right secret was the clasp and buckle of this
girdle. Therefore he required of the dame that she would never grant
her love, save to him only, who might free her from the strictness of
this bond, without injury to band or clasp. Then they kissed together,
and entered into such covenant as you have heard.
That very day their hidden love was made plain to men. A certain
chamberlain was sent by that ancient lord with a message to the Queen.
This unlucky wretch, finding that in no wise could he enter within the
chamber, looked through the window, and saw. Forthwith he hastened
to the King, and told him that which he had seen. When the agèd lord
understood these words, never was there a sadder man than he. He
called together the most trusty sergeants of his guard, and coming
with them to the Queen's chamber, bade them to thrust in the door.
When Gugemar was found therein, the King commanded that he should be
slain with the sword, by reason of the anguish that was his. Gugemar
was in no whit dismayed by the threat. He started to his feet, and
gazing round, marked a stout rod of fir, on which it is the use for
linen to be hung. This he took in hand, and faced his foes, bidding
them have a care, for he would do a mischief to them all. The King
looked earnestly upon the fearless knight, inquiring of him who he
was, and where he was born, and in what manner he came to dwell within
his house. So Gugemar told over to him this story of his fate. He
showed him of the Beast that he had wounded to his hurt; of the nave,
and of his bitter wound; of how he came within the realm, and of the
lady's surgery. He told all to the ancient lord, to the last moment
when he stood within his power. The King replied that he gave no
credence to his word, nor believed that the story ran as he had said.
If, however, the vessel might be found, he would commit the knight
again to the waves. He would go the more heavily for the knight's
saining, and a glad day would it be if he made shipwreck at sea. When
they had entered into this covenant together, they went forth to the
harbour, and there discovered the barge, even as Gugemar had said. So
they set him thereon, and prayed him to return unto his own realm.
Without sail or oar the ship parted from that coast, with no further
tarrying. The knight wept and wrung his hands, complaining of his
lady's loss, and of her cherishing. He prayed the mighty God to grant
him speedy death, and never to bring him home, save to meet again
with her who was more desirable than life. Whilst he was yet at his
orisons, the ship drew again to that port, from whence she had first
come. Gugemar made haste to get him from the vessel, so that he might
the more swiftly return to his own land. He had gone but a little way
when he was aware of a squire of his household, riding in the company
of a certain knight. This squire held the bridle of a destrier in his
hand, though no man rode thereon. Gugemar called to him by name, so
that the varlet looking upon him, knew again his lord. He got him to
his feet, and bringing the destrier to his master, set the knight
thereon. Great was the joy, and merry was the feast, when Gugemar
returned to his own realm. But though his friends did all that they
were able, neither song nor game could cheer the knight, nor turn him
from dwelling in his unhappy thoughts. For peace of mind they urged
that he took to himself a wife, but Gugemar would have none of their
counsel. Never would he wed a wife, on any day, either for love or for
wealth, save only that she might first unloose the knot within his
shirt. When this news was noised about the country, there was neither
dame nor damsel in the realm of Brittany, but essayed to unfasten the
knot. But there was no lady who could gain to her wish, whether by
force or guile.
Now will I show of that lady, whom Gugemar so fondly loved. By the
counsel of a certain baron the ancient King set his wife in prison.
She was shut fast in a tower of grey marble, where her days were bad,
and her nights worse. No man could make clear to you the great pain,
the anguish and the dolour, that she suffered in this tower, wherein,
I protest, she died daily. Two years and more she lay bound in prison,
where warders came, but never joy or delight. Often she thought upon
her friend.
"Gugemar, dear lord, in an evil hour I saw you with my eyes. Better
for me that I die quickly, than endure longer my evil lot. Fair
friend, if I could but win to that coast whence you sailed, very
swiftly would I fling myself in the sea, and end my wretched life."
When she had said these words she rose to her feet, and coming to
the door was amazed to find therein neither bolt nor key. She issued
forth, without challenge from sergeant or warder, and hastening to the
harbour, found there her lover's ship, made fast to that very rock,
from which she would cast her down. When she saw the barge she climbed
thereon, but presently bethought her that on this nave her friend had
gone to perish in the sea. At this thought she would have fled again
to the shore, but her bones were as water, and she fell upon the deck.
So in sore travail and sorrow, the vessel carried her across the
waves, to a port of Brittany, guarded by a castle, strong and very
fair. Now the lord of this castle was named Meriadus. He was a right
warlike prince, and had made him ready to fight with the prince of a
country near by. He had risen very early in the morning, to send forth
a great company of spears, the more easily to ravage this neighbour's
realm. Meriadus looked forth from his window, and marked the ship
which came to port. He hastened down the steps of the perron, and
calling to his chamberlain, came with what speed he might to the nave.
Then mounting the ladder he stood upon the deck. When Meriadus found
within the ship a dame, who for beauty seemed rather a fay than a mere
earthly woman, he seized her by her mantle, and brought her swiftly to
his keep. Right joyous was he because of his good fortune, for lovely
was the lady beyond mortal measure. He made no question as to who had
set her on the barge. He knew only that she was fair, and of high
lineage, and that his heart turned towards her with so hot a love as
never before had he put on dame or damsel. Now there dwelt within the
castle a sister of this lord, who was yet unwed. Meriadus bestowed the
lady in his sister's chamber, because it was the fairest in the tower.
Moreover he commanded that she should be meetly served, and held
in all reverence. But though the dame was so richly clothed and
cherished, ever was she sad and deep in thought. Meriadus came often
to cheer her with mirth and speech, by reason that he wished to gain
her love as a free gift, and not by force. It was in vain that he
prayed her for grace, since she had no balm for his wound. For answer
she showed him the girdle about her body, saying that never would she
give her love to man, save only to him who might unloose the buckle of
that girdle, without harm to belt or clasp. When Meriadus heard these
words, he spoke in haste and said,
"Lady, there dwells in this country a very worthy knight, who will
take no woman as wife, except she first untie a certain crafty knot in
the hem of a shirt, and that without force or knife. For a little I
would wager that it was you who tied this knot."
When the lady heard thereof her breath went from her, and near she
came to falling on the ground. Meriadus caught her in his arms, and
cut the laces of her bodice, that she might have the more air. He
strove to unfasten her girdle, but might not dissever the clasp. Yea,
though every knight in the realm essayed to unfasten that cincture, it
would not yield, except to one alone.
Now Meriadus made the lists ready for a great jousting, and called to
that tournament all the knights who would aid him in his war. Many a
lord came at his bidding, and with them Gugemar, amongst the first.
Meriadus had sent letters to the knight, beseeching him, as friend and
companion, not to fail him in this business. So Gugemar hastened to
the need of his lord, and at his back more than one hundred spears.
All these Meriadus welcomed very gladly, and gave them lodging within
his tower. In honour of his guest, the prince sent two gentlemen to
his sister, praying her to attire herself richly, and come to hall,
together with the dame whom he loved so dearly well. These did as they
were bidden, and arrayed in their sweetest vesture, presently entered
in the hall, holding each other by the hand. Very pale and pensive was
the lady, but when she heard her lover's name her feet failed beneath
her, and had not the maiden held her fast, she would have fallen on
the floor. Gugemar rose from his seat at the sight of the dame, her
fashion and her semblance, and stood staring upon her. He went a
little apart, and said within himself, "Can this be my sweet friend,
my hope, my heart, my life, the fair lady who gave me the grace of her
love? From whence comes she; who might have brought her to this far
land? But I speak in my folly, for well I know that this is not my
dear. A little red, a little white, and all women are thus shapen.
My thoughts are troubled, by reason that the sweetness of this lady
resembles the sweetness of that other, for whom my heart sighs and
trembles. Yet needs must that I have speech of the lady."
Gugemar drew near to the dame. He kissed her courteously, and found
no word to utter, save to pray that he might be seated at her side.
Meriadus spied upon them closely, and was the more heavy because of
their trouble. Therefore he feigned mirth.
"Gugemar, dear lord, if it pleases you, let this damsel essay to untie
the knot of your sark, if so be she may loosen the coil."
Gugemar made answer that very willingly he would do this thing. He
called to him a squire who had the shirt in keeping, and bade him seek
his charge, and deliver it to the dame. The lady took the sark in
hand. Well she knew the knot that she had tied so cunningly, and was
so willing to unloose; but for reason of the trouble at her heart, she
did not dare essay. Meriadus marked the distress of the damsel, and
was more sorrowful than ever was lover before.
"Lady," said he, "do all that you are able to unfasten this coil."
So at his commandment she took again to her the hem of the shirt, and
lightly and easily unravelled the tie.
Gugemar marvelled greatly when he saw this thing. His heart told him
that of a truth this was his lady, but he could not give faith to his
eyes.
"Friend, are you indeed the sweet comrade I have known? Tell me truly
now, is there about your body the girdle with which I girt you in your
own realm?"
He set his hands to her waist, and found that the secret belt was yet
about her sides.
"Fair sweet friend, tell me now by what adventure I find you here, and
who has brought you to this tower?"
So the lady told over to her friend the pain and the anguish and the
dolour of the prison in which she was held; of how it chanced that she
fled from her dungeon, and lighting upon a ship, entered therein, and
came to this fair haven; of how Meriadus took her from the barge, but
kept her in all honour, save only that ever he sought for her love;
"but now, fair friend, all is well, for you hold your lady in your
arms."
Gugemar stood upon his feet, and beckoned with his hand.
"Lords," he cried, "hearken now to me. I have found my friend, whom
I have lost for a great while. Before you all I pray and require of
Meriadus to yield me my own. For this grace I give him open thanks.
Moreover I will kneel down, and become his liege man. For two years,
or three, if he will, I will bargain to serve in his quarrels, and
with me, of riders, a hundred or more at my back."
Then answered Meriadus, "Gugemar, fair friend, I am not yet so shaken
or overborne in war, that I must do as you wish, right humbly. This
woman is my captive. I found her: I hold her: and I will defend my
right against you and all your power."
When Gugemar heard these proud words he got to horse speedily, him and
all his company. He threw down his glove, and parted in anger from
the tower. But he went right heavily, since he must leave behind his
friend. In his train rode all those knights who had drawn together
to that town for the great tournament. Not a knight of them all but
plighted faith to follow where he led, and to hold himself recreant
and shamed if he failed his oath.
That same night the band came to the castle of the prince with whom
Meriadus was at war. He welcomed them very gladly, and gave them
lodging in his tower. By their aid he had good hope to bring this
quarrel to an end. Very early in the morning the host came together to
set the battle in array. With clash of mail and noise of horns they
issued from the city gate, Gugemar riding at their head. They drew
before the castle where Meriadus lay in strength, and sought to take
it by storm. But the keep was very strong, and Meriadus bore himself
as a stout and valiant knight. So Gugemar, like a wary captain, sat
himself down before the town, till all the folk of that place were
deemed by friend and sergeant to be weak with hunger. Then they took
that high keep with the sword, and burnt it with fire. The lord
thereof they slew in his own hall; but Gugemar came forth, after such
labours as you have heard, bearing his lady with him, to return in
peace to his own land.
From this adventure that I have told you, has come the Lay that
minstrels chant to harp and viol--fair is that song and sweet the
tune.
III
THE LAY OF THE DOLOROUS KNIGHT
Hearken now to the Lay that once I heard a minstrel chanting to his
harp. In surety of its truth I will name the city where this story
passed. The Lay of the Dolorous Knight, my harper called his song,
but of those who hearkened, some named it rather, The Lay of the Four
Sorrows.
In Nantes, of Brittany, there dwelt a dame who was dearly held of
all, for reason of the much good that was found in her. This lady was
passing fair of body, apt in book as any clerk, and meetly schooled in
every grace that it becometh dame to have. So gracious of person was
this damsel, that throughout the realm there was no knight could
refrain from setting his heart upon her, though he saw her but one
only time. Although the demoiselle might not return the love of so
many, certainly she had no wish to slay them all. Better by far that
a man pray and require in love all the dames of his country, than run
mad in woods for the bright eyes of one. Therefore this dame gave
courtesy and good will to each alike. Even when she might not hear a
lover's words, so sweetly she denied his wish that the more he held
her dear and was the more her servant for that fond denial. So because
of her great riches of body and of heart, this lady of whom I tell,
was prayed and required in love by the lords of her country, both by
night and by day.
Now in Brittany lived four young barons, but their names I cannot
tell. It is enough that they were desirable in the eyes of maidens for
reason of their beauty, and that men esteemed them because they were
courteous of manner and open of hand. Moreover they were stout and
hardy knights amongst the spears, and rich and worthy gentlemen of
those very parts. Each of these four knights had set his heart upon
the lady, and for love of her pained himself mightily, and did all
that he was able, so that by any means he might gain her favour. Each
prayed her privily for her love, and strove all that he could to make
him worthy of the gift, above his fellows. For her part the lady was
sore perplexed, and considered in her mind very earnestly, which of
these four knights she should take as friend. But since they all were
loyal and worthy gentlemen, she durst not choose amongst them; for
she would not slay three lovers with her hand so that one might have
content. Therefore to each and all, the dame made herself fair and
sweet of semblance. Gifts she gave to all alike. Tender messages she
sent to each. Every knight deemed himself esteemed and favoured above
his fellows, and by soft words and fair service diligently strove to
please. When the knights gathered together for the games, each of
these lords contended earnestly for the prize, so that he might be
first, and draw on him the favour of his dame. Each held her for his
friend. Each bore upon him her gift--pennon, or sleeve, or ring. Each
cried her name within the lists.
Now when Eastertide was come, a great tournament was proclaimed to be
held beyond the walls of Nantes, that rich city. The four lovers were
the appellants in this tourney, and from every realm knights rode
to break a lance in honour of their dame. Frenchman and Norman and
Fleming; the hardiest knights of Brabant, Boulogne and Anjou; each
came to do his devoir in the field. Nor was the chivalry of Nantes
backward in this quarrel, but till the vespers of the tournament was
come, they stayed themselves within the lists, and struck stoutly for
their lord. After the four lovers had laced their harness upon them,
they issued forth from the city, followed by the knights who were of
their company in this adventure. But upon the four fell the burden of
the day, for they were known of all by the embroidered arms upon their
surcoat, and the device fashioned on the shield. Now against the four
lovers arrayed themselves four other knights, armed altogether in
coats of mail, and helmets and gauntlets of steel. Of these stranger
knights two were of Hainault, and the two others were Flemings. When
the four lovers saw their adversaries prepare themselves for the
combat, they had little desire to flee, but hastened to join them in
battle. Each lowered his spear, and choosing his enemy, met him so
eagerly that all men wondered, for horse and man fell to the earth.
The four lovers recked little of their destriers, but freeing their
feet from the stirrups bent over the fallen foe, and called on him to
yield. When the friends of the vanquished knights saw their case,
they hastened to their succour; so for their rescue there was a great
press, and many a mighty stroke with the sword.
The damsel stood upon a tower to watch these feats of arms. By their
blazoned coats and shields she knew her knights; she saw their
marvellous deeds, yet might not say who did best, nor give to one the
praise. But the tournament was no longer a seemly and ordered battle.
The ranks of the two companies were confused together, so that every
man fought against his fellow, and none might tell whether he struck
his comrade or his foe. The four lovers did well and worshipfully, so
that all men deemed them worthy of the prize. But when evening was
come, and the sport drew to its close, their courage led them to
folly. Having ventured too far from their companions, they were set
upon by their adversaries, and assailed so fiercely that three were
slain outright. As to the fourth he yet lived, but altogether mauled
and shaken, for his thigh was broken, and a spear head remained in his
side. The four bodies were fallen on the field, and lay with those who
had perished in that day. But because of the great mischief these
four lovers had done their adversaries, their shields were cast
despitefully without the lists; but in this their foemen did
wrongfully, and all men held them in sore displeasure.
Great were the lamentation and the cry when the news of this mischance
was noised about the city. Such a tumult of mourning was never before
heard, for the whole city was moved. All men hastened forth to the
place where the lists were set. Meetly to mourn the dead there rode
nigh upon two thousand knights, with hauberks unlaced, and uncovered
heads, plucking upon their beards. So the four lovers were placed each
upon his shield, and being brought back in honour to Nantes, were
carried to the house of that dame, whom so greatly they had loved.
When the lady knew this distressful adventure, straightway she fell
to the ground. Being returned from her swoon, she made her complaint,
calling upon her lovers each by his name.
"Alas," said she, "what shall I do, for never shall I know happiness
again. These four knights had set their hearts upon me, and despite
their great treasure, esteemed my love as richer than all their
wealth. Alas, for the fair and valiant knight! Alas, for the loyal and
generous man! By gifts such as these they sought to gain my favour,
but how might lady bereave three of life, so as to cherish one. Even
now I cannot tell for whom I have most pity, or who was closest to my
mind. But three are dead, and one is sore stricken; neither is there
anything in the world which can bring me comfort. Only this is there
to do--to give the slain men seemly burial, and, if it may be, to heal
their comrade of his wounds."
So, because of her great love and nobleness, the lady caused these
three distressful knights to be buried well and worshipfully in a
rich abbey. In that place she offered their Mass penny, and gave rich
offerings of silver and of lights besides. May God have mercy on them
in that day. As for the wounded knight she commanded him to be carried
to her own chamber. She sent for surgeons, and gave him into their
hands. These searched his wounds so skilfully, and tended him with so
great care, that presently his hurt commenced to heal. Very often was
the lady in the chamber, and very tenderly she cherished the stricken
man. Yet ever she felt pity for the three Knights of the Sorrows, and
ever she went heavily by reason of their deaths.
Now on a summer's day, the lady and the knight sat together after
meat. She called to mind the sorrow that was hers; so that, in a
space, her head fell upon her breast, and she gave herself altogether
to her grief. The knight looked earnestly upon his dame. Well he might
see that she was far away, and clearly he perceived the cause.
"Lady," said he, "you are in sorrow. Open now your grief to me. If you
tell me what is in your heart perchance I may find you comfort."
"Fair friend," replied she, "I think of what is gone, and remember
your companions, who are dead. Never was lady of my peerage, however
fair and good and gracious, ever loved by four such valiant gentlemen,
nor ever lost them in one single day. Save you--who were so maimed and
in such peril--all are gone. Therefore I call to mind those who loved
me so dearly, and am the saddest lady beneath the sun. To remember
these things, of you four I shall make a Lay, and will call it the Lay
of the Four Sorrows."