all the lords of his venery to the feast. Never was there a goodlier
feast, nor one set forth with sweeter show and pomp. Amongst those who
were bidden, came that same knight who had the wife of Bisclavaret for
dame. He came to the castle, richly gowned, with a fair company, but
little he deemed whom he would find so near. Bisclavaret marked his
foe the moment he stood within the hall. He ran towards him, and
seized him with his fangs, in the King's very presence, and to the
view of all. Doubtless he would have done him much mischief, had not
the King called and chidden him, and threatened him with a rod. Once,
and twice, again, the Wolf set upon the knight in the very light of
day. All men marvelled at his malice, for sweet and serviceable was
the beast, and to that hour had shown hatred of none. With one consent
the household deemed that this deed was done with full reason, and
that the Wolf had suffered at the knight's hand some bitter wrong.
Right wary of his foe was the knight until the feast had ended, and
all the barons had taken farewell of their lord, and departed, each to
his own house. With these, amongst the very first, went that lord whom
Bisclavaret so fiercely had assailed. Small was the wonder that he was
glad to go.
No long while after this adventure it came to pass that the courteous
King would hunt in that forest where Bisclavaret was found. With the
prince came his wolf, and a fair company. Now at nightfall the King
abode within a certain lodge of that country, and this was known of
that dame who before was the wife of Bisclavaret. In the morning the
lady clothed her in her most dainty apparel, and hastened to the
lodge, since she desired to speak with the King, and to offer him a
rich present. When the lady entered in the chamber, neither man nor
leash might restrain the fury of the Wolf. He became as a mad dog in
his hatred and malice. Breaking from his bonds he sprang at the lady's
face, and bit the nose from her visage. From every side men ran to the
succour of the dame. They beat off the wolf from his prey, and for a
little would have cut him in pieces with their swords. But a certain
wise counsellor said to the King,
"Sire, hearken now to me. This beast is always with you, and there is
not one of us all who has not known him for long. He goes in and out
amongst us, nor has molested any man, neither done wrong or felony to
any, save only to this dame, one only time as we have seen. He has
done evil to this lady, and to that knight, who is now the husband of
the dame. Sire, she was once the wife of that lord who was so close
and private to your heart, but who went, and none might find where he
had gone. Now, therefore, put the dame in a sure place, and
question her straitly, so that she may tell--if perchance she knows
thereof--for what reason this Beast holds her in such mortal hate. For
many a strange deed has chanced, as well we know, in this marvellous
land of Brittany."
The King listened to these words, and deemed the counsel good. He laid
hands upon the knight, and put the dame in surety in another place. He
caused them to be questioned right straitly, so that their torment was
very grievous. At the end, partly because of her distress, and partly
by reason of her exceeding fear, the lady's lips were loosed, and she
told her tale. She showed them of the betrayal of her lord, and how
his raiment was stolen from the hollow stone. Since then she knew not
where he went, nor what had befallen him, for he had never come
again to his own land. Only, in her heart, well she deemed and was
persuaded, that Bisclavaret was he.
Straightway the King demanded the vesture of his baron, whether this
were to the wish of the lady, or whether it were against her wish.
When the raiment was brought him, he caused it to be spread before
Bisclavaret, but the Wolf made as though he had not seen. Then that
cunning and crafty counsellor took the King apart, that he might give
him a fresh rede.
"Sire," said he, "you do not wisely, nor well, to set this raiment
before Bisclavaret, in the sight of all. In shame and much tribulation
must he lay aside the beast, and again become man. Carry your wolf
within your most secret chamber, and put his vestment therein. Then
close the door upon him, and leave him alone for a space. So we shall
see presently whether the ravening beast may indeed return to human
shape."
The King carried the Wolf to his chamber, and shut the doors upon
him fast. He delayed for a brief while, and taking two lords of his
fellowship with him, came again to the room. Entering therein, all
three, softly together, they found the knight sleeping in the King's
bed, like a little child. The King ran swiftly to the bed and taking
his friend in his arms, embraced and kissed him fondly, above a
hundred times. When man's speech returned once more, he told him of
his adventure. Then the King restored to his friend the fief that was
stolen from him, and gave such rich gifts, moreover, as I cannot tell.
As for the wife who had betrayed Bisclavaret, he bade her avoid his
country, and chased her from the realm. So she went forth, she and her
second lord together, to seek a more abiding city, and were no more
seen.
The adventure that you have heard is no vain fable. Verily and indeed
it chanced as I have said. The Lay of the Were-Wolf, truly, was
written that it should ever be borne in mind.
IX
THE LAY OF THE ASH TREE
Now will I tell you the Lay of the Ash Tree, according to the story
that I know.
In ancient days there dwelt two knights in Brittany, who were
neighbours and close friends. These two lords were brave and worthy
gentlemen, rich in goods and lands, and near both in heart and home.
Moreover each was wedded to a dame. One of these ladies was with
child, and when her time was come, she was delivered of two boys. Her
husband was right happy and content. For the joy that was his, he sent
messages to his neighbour, telling that his wife had brought forth two
sons, and praying that one of them might be christened with his name.
The rich man was at meat when the messenger came before him. The
servitor kneeled before the dais, and told his message in his ear. The
lord thanked God for the happiness that had befallen his friend,
and bestowed a fair horse on the bringer of good tidings. His wife,
sitting at board with her husband, heard the story of the messenger,
and smiled at his news. Proud she was, and sly, with an envious heart,
and a rancorous tongue. She made no effort to bridle her lips, but
spoke lightly before the servants of the house, and said,
"I marvel greatly that so reputable a man as our neighbour, should
publish his dishonour to my lord. It is a shameful thing for any wife
to have two children at a birth. We all know that no woman brings
forth two at one bearing, except two husbands have aided her therein."
Her husband looked upon her in silence for awhile, and when he spoke
it was to blame her very sternly.
"Wife," he said, "be silent. It is better to be dumb, than to utter
such words as these. As you know well, there is not a breath to
tarnish this lady's good name."
The folk of the house, who listened to these words, stored them in
their hearts, and told abroad the tale, spoken by their lady. Very
soon it was known throughout Brittany. Greatly was the lady blamed for
her evil tongue, and not a woman who heard thereof--whether she were
rich or poor--but who scorned her for her malice. The servant who
carried the message, on his return repeated to his lord of what he had
seen and heard. Passing heavy was the knight, and knew not what to
do. He doubted his own true wife, and suspected her the more sorely,
because she had done naught that was in any way amiss.
The lady, who so foully slandered her fellow, fell with child in the
same year. Her neighbour was avenged upon her, for when her term was
come, she became the mother of two daughters. Sick at heart was she.
She was right sorrowful, and lamented her evil case.
"Alas," she said, "what shall I do, for I am dishonoured for all
my days. Shamed I am, it is the simple truth. When my lord and his
kinsfolk shall hear of what has chanced, they will never believe me
a stainless wife. They will remember how I judged all women in my
plight. They will recall how I said before my house, that my neighbour
could not have been doubly a mother, unless she had first been doubly
a wife. I have the best reason now to know that I was wrong, and I am
caught in my own snare. She who digs a pit for another, cannot tell
that she may not fall into the hole herself. If you wish to speak
loudly concerning your neighbour, it is best to say nothing of him
but in praise. The only way to keep me from shame, is that one of my
children should die. It is a great sin; but I would rather trust to
the mercy of God, than suffer scorn and reproach for the rest of my
life."
The women about her comforted her as best they might in this trouble.
They told her frankly that they would not suffer such wrong to be
done, since the slaying of a child was not reckoned a jest. The lady
had a maiden near her person, whom she had long held and nourished.
The damsel was a freeman's daughter, and was greatly loved and
cherished of her mistress. When she saw the lady's tears, and heard
the bitterness of her complaint, anguish went to her heart, like a
knife. She stooped over her lady, striving to bring her comfort.
"Lady," she said, "take it not so to heart. Give over this grief, for
all will yet be well. You shall deliver me one of these children, and
I will put her so far from you, that you shall never see her again,
nor know shame because of her. I will carry her safe and sound to the
door of a church. There I will lay her down. Some honest man shall
find her, and--please God--will be at the cost of her nourishing."
Great joy had the lady to hear these words. She promised the maiden
that in recompense of her service, she would grant her such guerdon
as she should wish. The maiden took the babe--yet smiling in her
sleep--and wrapped her in a linen cloth. Above this she set a piece of
sanguine silk, brought by the husband of this dame from a bazaar in
Constantinople--fairer was never seen. With a silken lace they bound
a great ring to the child's arm. This ring was of fine gold, weighing
fully an ounce, and was set with garnets most precious.
Letters were graven thereon, so that those who found the maid might
understand that she came of a good house. The damsel took the child,
and went out from the chamber. When night was come, and all was still,
she left the town, and sought the high road leading through the
forest. She held on her way, clasping the baby to her breast, till
from afar, to her right hand, she heard the howling of dogs and the
crowing of cocks. She deemed that she was near a town, and went the
lighter for the hope, directing her steps, there, whence the noises
came. Presently the damsel entered in a fair city, where was an Abbey,
both great and rich. This Abbey was worshipfully ordered, with many
nuns in their office and degree, and an Abbess in charge of all. The
maiden gazed upon the mighty house, and considered its towers and
walls, and the church with its belfry. She went swiftly to the door,
and setting the child upon the ground, kneeled humbly to make her
prayer.
"Lord," said she, "for the sake of Thy Holy Name, if such be Thy will,
preserve this child from death."
Her petition ended, the maiden looked about her, and saw an ash tree,
planted to give shadow in a sunny place. It was a fair tree, thick and
leafy, and was divided into four strong branches. The maiden took the
child again in her arms, and running to the ash, set her within the
tree. There she left her, commending her to the care of God. So she
returned to her mistress, and told her all that she had done.
Now in this Abbey was a porter, whose duty it was to open the doors of
the church, before folk came to hear the service of God. This night
he rose at his accustomed hour, lighted candles and lamps, rang the
bells, and set wide the doors. His eyes fell upon the silken stuff
within the ash. He thought at first that some bold thief had hidden
his spoil within the tree. He felt with his hand to discover what it
might be, and found that it was a little child. The porter praised
God for His goodness; he took the babe, and going again to his house,
called to his daughter, who was a widow, with an infant yet in the
cradle.
"Daughter," he cried, "get from bed at once; light your candle, and
kindle the fire. I bring you a little child, whom I have found within
our ash. Take her to your breast; cherish her against the cold, and
bathe her in warm water."
The widow did according to her father's will. She kindled a fire, and
taking the babe, washed and cherished her in her need. Very certain
she was, when she saw that rich stuff of crimson samite, and the
golden ring about the arm, that the girl was come of an honourable
race. The next day, when the office was ended, the porter prayed the
Abbess that he might have speech with her as she left the church. He
related his story, and told of the finding of the child. The Abbess
bade him to fetch the child, dressed in such fashion as she was
discovered in the ash. The porter returned to his house, and showed
the babe right gladly to his dame. The Abbess observed the infant
closely, and said that she would be at the cost of her nourishing,
and would cherish her as a sister's child. She commanded the porter
strictly to forget that he took her from the ash. In this manner it
chanced that the maiden was tended of the Abbess. The lady considered
the maid as her niece, and since she was taken from the ash, gave her
the name of Frêne. By this name she was known of all, within the Abbey
precincts, where she was nourished.
When Frêne came to that age in which a girl turns to woman, there was
no fairer maiden in Brittany, nor so sweet a damsel. Frank, she was,
and open, but discreet in semblance and in speech. To see her was to
love her, and to prize her smile above the beauty of the world. Now at
Dol there lived a lord of whom much good was spoken. I will tell you
his name. The folk of his country called him Buron. This lord heard
speak of the maiden, and began to love her, for the sweetness men
told of her. As he rode home from some tournament, he passed near the
convent, and prayed the Abbess that he might look upon her niece. The
Abbess gave him his desire. Greatly was the maiden to his mind.
Very fair he found her, sweetly schooled and fashioned, modest and
courteous to all. If he might not win her to his love, he counted
himself the more forlorn. This lord was at his wits end, for he knew
not what to do. If he repaired often to the convent, the Abbess would
consider of the cause of his comings, and he would never again see the
maiden with his eyes. One thing only gave him a little hope. Should he
endow the Abbey of his wealth, he would make it his debtor for ever.
In return he might ask a little room, where he might abide to have
their fellowship, and, at times, withdraw him from the world. This he
did. He gave richly of his goods to the Abbey. Often, in return, he
went to the convent, but for other reasons than for penitence and
peace. He besought the maiden, and with prayers and promises,
persuaded her to set upon him her love. When this lord was assured
that she loved him, on a certain day he reasoned with her in this
manner.
"Fair friend," said he, "since you have given me your love, come with
me, where I can cherish you before all the world. You know, as well
as I, that if your aunt should perceive our friendship, she would be
passing wrath, and grieve beyond measure. If my counsel seems good,
let us flee together, you with me, and I with you. Certes, you shall
never have cause to regret your trust, and of my riches you shall have
the half."
When she who loved so fondly heard these words, she granted of her
tenderness what it pleased him to have, and followed after where he
would. Frêne fled to her lover's castle, carrying with her that silken
cloth and ring, which might do her service on a day. These the Abbess
had given her again, telling her how one morning at prime she was
found upon an ash, this ring and samite her only wealth, since she was
not her niece. Right carefully had Frêne guarded her treasure from
that hour. She shut them closely in a little chest, and this coffret
she bore with her in her flight, for she would neither lose them nor
forget.
The lord, with whom the maiden fled, loved and cherished her very
dearly. Of all the men and servants of his house, there was not
one--either great or small--but who loved and honoured her for her
simplicity. They lived long together in love and content, till the
fair days passed, and trouble came upon this lord. The knights of his
realm drew together, and many a time urged that he should put away his
friend, and wed with some rich gentlewoman. They would be joyous if a
son were born, to come after to his fief and heritage. The peril was
too great to suffer that he remained a bachelor, and without an heir.
Never more would they hold him as lord, or serve him with a good
heart, if he would not do according to their will.
There being naught else to do, the lord deferred to this counsel of
his knights, and begged them to name the lady whom he needs must wed.
"Sir," answered they, "there is a lord of these parts, privy to our
counsel, who has but one child, a maid, his only heir. Broad lands
will he give as her dowry. This damsel's name is Coudre, and in all
this country there is none so fair. Be advised: throw away the ash rod
you carry, and take the hazel as your staff.[1] The ash is a barren
stock; but the hazel is thick with nuts and delight. We shall be
content if you take this maiden as your wife, so it be to the will of
God, and she be given you of her kinsfolk."
Buron demanded the hand of the lady in marriage, and her father and
kin betrothed her to the lord. Alas! it was hid from all, that these
two were twin sisters. It was Frêne's lot to be doubly abandoned, and
to see her lover become her sister's husband. When she learned that
her friend purposed taking to himself a wife, she made no outcry
against his falseness. She continued to serve her lord faithfully, and
was diligent in the business of his house. The sergeant and the varlet
were marvellously wrathful, when they knew that she must go from
amongst them. On the day appointed for the marriage, Buron bade his
friends and acquaintance to the feast. Together with these came
the Archbishop, and those of Dol who held of him their lands. His
betrothed was brought to his home by her mother. Great dread had the
mother because of Frêne, for she knew of the love that the lord bore
the maiden, and feared lest her daughter should be a stranger in her
own hall. She spoke to her son-in-law, counselling him to send Frêne
from his house, and to find her an honest man for her husband. Thus
there would be quittance between them. Very splendid was the feast.
Whilst all was mirth and jollity, the damsel visited the chambers, to
see that each was ordered to her lord's pleasure. She hid the torment
in her heart, and seemed neither troubled nor downcast. She compassed
the bride with every fair observance, and waited upon her right
daintily.
[Footnote 1: This is a play on words; Frêne in the French, meaning
ash, and Coudre meaning hazel.]
Her courage was marvellous to that company of lords and ladies, who
observed her curiously. The mother of the bride regarded her also, and
praised her privily. She said aloud that had she known the sweetness
of this lady, she would not have taken her lover from her, nor spoiled
her life for the sake of the bride. The night being come the damsel
entered in the bridal chamber to deck the bed against her lord. She
put off her mantle, and calling the chamberlains, showed them how
their master loved to lie. His bed being softly arrayed, a coverlet
was spread upon the linen sheets. Frêne looked upon the coverlet:
in her eyes it showed too mean a garnishing for so fair a lord.
She turned it over in her mind, and going to her coffret she took
therefrom that rich stuff of sanguine silk, and set it on the couch.
This she did not only in honour of her friend, but that the Archbishop
might not despise the house, when he blessed the marriage bed,
according to the rite. When all was ready the mother carried the bride
to that chamber where she should lie, to disarray her for the night.
Looking upon the bed she marked the silken coverlet, for she had never
seen so rich a cloth, save only that in which she wrapped her child.
When she remembered of this thing, her heart turned to water. She
summoned a chamberlain.
"Tell me," she said, "tell me in good faith where this garniture was
found."
"Lady," he made reply, "that you shall know. Our damsel spread it on
the bed, because this dossal is richer than the coverlet that was
there before."
The lady called for the damsel. Frêne came before her in haste, being
yet without her mantle. All the mother moved within her, as she plied
her with questions.
"Fair friend, hide it not a whit from me. Tell me truly where this
fair samite was found; whence came it; who gave it to you? Answer
swiftly, and tell me who bestowed on you this cloth?"
The damsel made answer to her:
"Lady, my aunt, the Abbess, gave me this silken stuff, and charged me
to keep it carefully. At the same time she gave me a ring, which those
who put me forth, had bound upon me."
"Fair friend, may I see this ring?"
"Certes, lady, I shall be pleased to show it."
The lady looked closely on the ring, when it was brought. She knew
again her own, and the crimson samite flung upon the bed. No doubt was
in her mind. She knew and was persuaded that Frêne was her very child.
All words were spoken, and there was nothing more to hide.
"Thou art my daughter, fair friend."
Then for reason of the pity that was hers, she fell to the ground, and
lay in a swoon. When the lady came again to herself, she sent for her
husband, who, all adread, hastened to the chamber. He marvelled the
more sorely when his wife fell at his feet, and embracing him closely,
entreated pardon for the evil that she had done.
Knowing nothing of her trespass, he made reply, "Wife, what is this?
Between you and me there is nothing to call for forgiveness. Pardon
you may have for whatever fault you please. Tell me plainly what is
your wish."
"Husband, my offence is so black, that you had better give me
absolution before I tell you the sin. A long time ago, by reason of
lightness and malice, I spoke evil of my neighbour, whenas she bore
two sons at a birth. I fell afterwards into the very pit that I had
digged. Though I told you that I was delivered of a daughter, the
truth is that I had borne two maids. One of these I wrapped in our
stuff of samite, together with the ring you gave me the first time we
met, and caused her to be laid beside a church. Such a sin will out.
The cloth and the ring I have found, and I have recognised our maid,
whom I had lost by my own folly. She is this very damsel--so fair and
amiable to all--whom the knight so greatly loved. Now we have married
the lord to her sister."
The husband made answer, "Wife, if your sin be double, our joy is
manifold. Very tenderly hath God dealt with us, in giving us back our
child. I am altogether joyous and content to have two daughters for
one. Daughter, come to your father's side."
The damsel rejoiced greatly to hear this story. Her father tarried no
longer, but seeking his son-in-law, brought him to the Archbishop, and
related the adventure. The knight knew such joy as was never yet. The
Archbishop gave counsel that on the morrow he would part him and her
whom he had joined together. This was done, for in the morning he
severed them, bed and board. Afterwards he married Frêne to her
friend, and her father accorded the damsel with a right good heart.
Her mother and sister were with her at the wedding, and for dowry her
father gave her the half of his heritage. When they returned to their
own realm they took Coudre, their daughter, with them. There she was
granted to a lord of those parts, and rich was the feast.
When this adventure was bruited abroad, and all the story, the Lay of
the Ash Tree was written, so called of the lady, named Frêne.
X
THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE