call Honeysuckle; and that the truth may be known of all it shall be
told as many a minstrel has sung it to my ear, and as the scribe hath
written it for our delight. It is of Tristan and Isoude, the Queen.
It is of a love which passed all other love, of love from whence came
wondrous sorrow, and whereof they died together in the self-same day.
King Mark was sorely wrath with Tristan, his sister's son, and bade
him avoid his realm, by reason of the love he bore the Queen. So
Tristan repaired to his own land, and dwelt for a full year in South
Wales, where he was born. Then since he might not come where he would
be, Tristan took no heed to his ways, but let his life run waste to
Death. Marvel not overmuch thereat, for he who loves beyond measure
must ever be sick in heart and hope, when he may not win according
to his wish. So sick in heart and mind was Tristan that he left his
kingdom, and returned straight to the realm of his banishment, because
that in Cornwall dwelt the Queen. There he hid privily in the deep
forest, withdrawn from the eyes of men; only when the evening was
come, and all things sought their rest, he prayed the peasant and
other mean folk of that country, of their charity to grant him shelter
for the night. From the serf he gathered tidings of the King. These
gave again to him what they, in turn, had taken from some outlawed
knight. Thus Tristan learned that when Pentecost was come King Mark
purposed to hold high Court at Tintagel, and keep the feast with pomp
and revelry; moreover that thither would ride Isoude, the Queen.
When Tristan heard this thing he rejoiced greatly, since the Queen
might not adventure through the forest, except he saw her with his
eyes. After the King had gone his way, Tristan entered within the
wood, and sought the path by which the Queen must come. There he cut a
wand from out a certain hazel-tree, and having trimmed and peeled it
of its bark, with his dagger he carved his name upon the wood. This he
placed upon her road, for well he knew that should the Queen but mark
his name she would bethink her of her friend. Thus had it chanced
before. For this was the sum of the writing set upon the wand, for
Queen Isoude's heart alone: how that in this wild place Tristan had
lurked and waited long, so that he might look upon her face, since
without her he was already dead. Was it not with them as with the
Honeysuckle and the Hazel tree she was passing by! So sweetly laced
and taken were they in one close embrace, that thus they might remain
whilst life endured. But should rough hands part so fond a clasping,
the hazel would wither at the root, and the honeysuckle must fail.
Fair friend, thus is the case with us, nor you without me, nor I
without you.
Now the Queen fared at adventure down the forest path. She spied the
hazel wand set upon her road, and well she remembered the letters
and the name. She bade the knights of her company to draw rein, and
dismount from their palfreys, so that they might refresh themselves a
little. When her commandment was done she withdrew from them a space,
and called to her Brangwaine, her maiden, and own familiar friend.
Then she hastened within the wood, to come on him whom more she loved
than any living soul. How great the joy between these twain, that once
more they might speak together softly, face to face. Isoude showed him
her delight. She showed in what fashion she strove to bring peace
and concord betwixt Tristan and the King, and how grievously his
banishment had weighed upon her heart. Thus sped the hour, till it
was time for them to part; but when these lovers freed them from
the other's arms, the tears were wet upon their cheeks. So Tristan
returned to Wales, his own realm, even as his uncle bade. But for the
joy that he had had of her, his friend, for her sweet face, and for
the tender words that she had spoken, yea, and for that writing upon
the wand, to remember all these things, Tristan, that cunning harper,
wrought a new Lay, as shortly I have told you. Goatleaf, men call this
song in English. Chèvrefeuille it is named in French; but Goatleaf
or Honeysuckle, here you have the very truth in the Lay that I have
spoken.
XI
THE LAY OF EQUITAN
In ancient days many a noble lord lived in Brittany beyond the Seas.
By reason of their courtesy and nobleness they would gladly keep
in remembrance the deeds that were done in the land. That these
marvellous things should not be forgotten they fashioned them into
Lays. Amongst these Lays I have heard tell of one which is not made to
die as though it had never been.
Equitan, lord of Nantes, was a loyal and courteous gentleman, of great
worth, beloved by all in his own country. He was set on pleasure, and
was Love's lover, as became a gentle knight. Like many others who dote
on woman, he observed neither sense nor measure in love. But it is in
the very nature of Love that proportion cannot enter into the matter.
Equitan had for seneschal a right brave and loyal knight, who was
captain of his army, and did justice in his realm. He was often abroad
upon his master's business, for the King would not forego his delight
for any reason whatever. To dance, to hunt, to fish within the
river--this was all his joy. This seneschal was married to a wife,
by whom great evil came upon the land. Very desirable was the lady;
passing tender of body, and sweet of vesture, coiffed and fretted with
gold. Her eyes were blue; her face warmly coloured, with a fragrant
mouth, and a dainty nose. Certainly she had no peer in all the realm.
The King had heard much in praise of this lady and many a time
saluted her upon the way. He had also sent her divers gifts. Often he
considered in his mind how best he might get speech with the dame. For
his privy pleasure this amorous King went to chase in that country
where the seneschal had his castle. The lady being in her own house,
Equitan craved a lodging for the night. By this means when the hunt
was done, he could speak with her, and show what was in his heart.
Equitan found the lady as discreet as courteous. He looked closely
upon her, for she was fair of face and person, and sweet of semblance
and address. Love bound him captive to his car. The god loosed a shaft
which entered deeply in his breast. The arrow pierced to his heart,
and from thenceforth he cared nothing for measure, or kingship, or
delight. Equitan was so surprised of the lady, that he remained silent
and pensive. He heard nothing, and nothing he could do. All night he
lay in unrest upon the bed, reproaching himself for what had come to
pass.
"Alas," said he, "what evil fate has led me into this land! The sight
only of this lady has put such anguish into my heart that my members
fail beneath me. It is Love, I deem, who rides me thus cruelly. But
if I love this lady I shall do a great wrong. She is the wife of my
seneschal, and it is my duty to keep the same love and faith to him as
I would wish him to observe with me. If by any means I could know what
is in her mind, I should be the easier, for torment is doubled that
you bear alone. There is not a dame, however curst, but would rather
love than not; for if she were a contemner of love where would be her
courtesy? But if she loves, there is not a woman under the sky who
would not suck thereout all the advantage that she may. If the matter
came to the ears of the seneschal, he ought not to think too hardly
of me. He cannot hope to keep such treasure for himself alone; and,
certes, I shall claim my portion."
Equitan tossed on his bed, and sighed. His thoughts were still on the
lady, so that in a little he said, "I think of the ford, before I come
to the river. I go too quickly, for I know not yet whether the lady
will take me as her friend. But know I will as swiftly as I can, since
I cannot get rest or sleep. I will come before her as soon as it is
day, and if she feels as I feel, the sooner I shall be rid of my
pain."
The King kept vigil till the daylight came at last. He arose and went
forth, as if to the chase. He returned presently, telling that he
was sick, and going straight to his chamber, lay upon his bed. The
seneschal was very troubled, for he could not imagine the sickness of
which his master felt the pangs. He counselled his wife to seek their
guest, that she might cheer and comfort him in his trouble. When they
were alone the King opened to her his heart. He told her that he was
dying for her love, and that if she had no more than friendship to
offer, he preferred death before life.
"Sire," replied the dame, "I require a little time to think of what
you say, for I cannot answer yes or no, without thought, in a business
of this moment. I am not of your wealth, and you are too high a lord,
for your love to do more than rest lightly on me. When you have had
your desire, it will as lightly fly away. My sorrow would be overlong,
if I should love you, and grant you what you wish. It is much the
best that between you and me love should not be spoken of. You are
a puissant prince; my husband is one of your vassals, and faith and
trust should bind us--not the dangerous bond of love. Love is only
lasting between like and like. Better is the love of an honest man--so
he be of sense and worth--than that of a prince or king, with no
loyalty in him. She who sets her love more highly than she can reach,
may pluck no fruit from the tree. The rich man deems that love is his
of right. He prays little of his friend, for he thinks none dare
take her from his hand, and that her tenderness is his by prize of
lordship."
When she had ceased, Equitan made answer, "Lady, I can offer you but
short thanks for your words, since they savour of scant courtesy. You
speak of love as a burgess makes a bargain. Those who desire to get,
rather than to give, often find that they have the worser half of the
business. There is no lady under heaven--so she be courteous and kind
and of a good heart--but would grant her grace to a true lover, even
though she have beneath her cloak only a rich prince in his castle.
Those who care but for a fresh face--tricksters in love as a cozener
with dice--are justly flouted and deceived, as oftentimes we see. None
wastes pity on him who receives the stripes he deserves. Dear lady,
let me make myself plain. Do not regard me as your King; look on me as
your servant and your friend. I give my word and plight my troth that
all my happiness shall be found in your pleasure. Let me not die for
your love. You shall be the Dame, and I the page; you shall be the
scornful beauty, and I the prayer at your knee."
The King prayed the lady so urgently, so tenderly he sued for grace,
that at the last she assured him of her love, and gave him the gift
of her heart. They granted rings one to another, and pledged affiance
between them. They kept this faith, and guarded this love, till they
died together, and there was an end to all.
Equitan and the lady loved for a great while without it coming to the
ears of any. When the King desired to have speech of his friend,
he told his household that he would be alone, since it was the day
appointed for his bleeding. The King having shut the doors of his
chamber, there was none so bold as to enter therein, save he were
bidden of his lord. Whilst he was busied in this fashion, the
seneschal sat in open court to hear the pleas and right the wrong. He
was as much to the King's mind, as his wife was to the King's heart.
The lord was so assotted upon the lady that he would neither take
to himself a wife, nor listen to a word upon the matter. His people
blamed him loudly, so loudly that it came to the ears of the lady. She
was passing heavy, for she feared greatly that the barons would have
their way. When next she had speech with Equitan, in place of the kiss
and sweetness of her customary greeting, she came before him making
great sorrow and in tears. The King inquiring the reason of her
dolour, the lady replied, "Sire, I lament our love, and the trouble I
always said would be mine. You are about to wed the daughter of some
King, and my good days are over. Everybody says so, and I know it to
be true. What will become of me when you put me away! I will die,
rather than lose you, for I may have no other comfort."
The King made answer very tenderly, "Fair friend, you need not fear.
There will never be wife of mine to put you from me. I shall never
wed, except your husband die, and then it is you who would be my queen
and lady. I will leave you for no other dame."
The lady thanked him sweetly for his words. Much was she beholden to
him in her heart. Since she was assured that he would not leave her
for any other, she turned over swiftly in her mind the profit that
would come from her husband's death. Much happiness might be bought at
a little cost, if Equitan would lend his aid.
The King made answer that he would do her will to the utmost of his
power, whether her counsel were for good or evil.
"Sire," said the lady, "let it please you to hunt the forest within
the country where I dwell. You can lodge in my lord's castle, and
there you must be bled. Three days after your surgery is done, you
must call for your bath. My lord shall be bled with you, so that he
may go to his bathing at the same time. It will be your part to keep
him at your side, and make him your constant companion. It will be
mine to heat the water, and to carry the baths to your chamber. My
husband's bath shall boil so fiercely, that no breathing man, having
entered therein, may come forth living. When he is dead you must call
for your people, and show them how the seneschal has died suddenly in
his bath."
Because of his love the King granted her desire, and promised to do
according to her will. Before three months were done the King rode to
the chase within the lady's realm. He caused surgeons to bleed him for
his health, and the seneschal with him. He said that he would take his
bath on the third day, and the seneschal required his, too, to be made
ready. The lady caused the water to be heated, and carried the baths
to the chamber. According to her device she set a bath beside each
bed, filling with boiling water that bath which her lord should enter.
Her lord had gone forth for a little, so for a space the King and the
lady were alone. They sat on the husband's bed, and looked tenderly
each on the other, near by that heated bath. The door of the chamber
was kept by a young damsel to give them warning. The seneschal made
haste to return, and would have struck on the door of the chamber, but
was stayed by the maiden. He put her by, and in his impatience flung
the door wide open. Entering he found his master and his wife clasped
in each other's arms. When the King saw the seneschal he had no
thought but to hide his dishonour. He started up, and sprang with
joined feet in the bath that was filled with boiling water. There he
perished miserably, in the very snare he had spread for another, who
was safe and sound. The seneschal marked what had happened to the
King. In his rage he turned to his wife, and laying hands upon her
thrust her, head first, in the self-same bath. So they died together,
the King first, and the lady afterwards, with him.
Those who are willing to listen to fair words, may learn from this
ensample, that he who seeks another's ill often brings the evil upon
himself.
As I have told you before, of this adventure the Bretons made the Lay
of Equitan, the lady whom he loved, and of their end.
XII
THE LAY OF MILON
He who would tell divers tales must know how to vary the tune. To
win the favour of any, he must speak to the understanding of all. I
purpose in this place to show you the story of Milon, and--since few
words are best--I will set out the adventure as briefly as I may.
Milon was born in South Wales. So great was his prowess that from the
day he was dubbed knight there was no champion who could stand before
him in the lists. He was a passing fair knight, open and brave,
courteous to his friends, and stern to his foes. Men praised his name
in whatever realm they talked of gallant deeds--Ireland, Norway, and
Wales, yea, from Jutland even to Albania. Since he was praised by the
frank, he was therefore envied of the mean. Nevertheless, by reason of
his skill with the spear, he was counted a very worshipful knight, and
was honourably entreated by many a prince in divers lands.
In Milon's own realm there lived a lord whose name has gone from
mind. With this baron dwelt his daughter, a passing fair and gracious
damsel. Much talk had this maiden heard of Milon's knightly deeds, so
that she began to set her thoughts upon him, because of the good men
spoke of him. She sent him a message by a sure hand, saying that if
her love was to his mind, sweetly would it be to her heart. Milon
rejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He thanked the lady for her
words, giving her love again in return for her own, and swearing that
he would never depart therefrom any day of his days. Beyond this
courteous answer Milon bestowed on the messenger costly gifts, and
made him promises that were richer still.
"Friend," said he, "of your charity I pray you that I may have speech
with my friend, in such a fashion that none shall know of our meeting.
Carry her this, my golden ring. Tell her, on my part, that so she
pleases she shall come to me, or, if it be her better pleasure, I will
go to her."
The messenger bade farewell, and returned to his lady. He placed the
ring in her hand, saying that he had done her will, as he was bidden
to do.
Right joyous was the damsel to know that Milon's love was tender as
her own. She required her friend to come for speech within the private
garden of her house, where she was wont to take her delight. Milon
came at her commandment. He came so often, and so dearly she loved
him, that in the end she gave him all that maid may give. When the
damsel perceived how it was with her, she sent messages to her friend,
telling him of her case, and making great sorrow.
"I have lost my father and all his wealth," said the lady, "for when
he hears of this matter he will make of me an example. Either I shall
be tormented with the sword, or else he will sell me as a slave in a
far country."
(For such was the usage of our fathers in the days of this tale).
Milon grieved sorely, and made answer that he would do the thing the
damsel thought most seemly to be done.
"When the child is born," replied the lady, "you must carry him
forthwith to my sister. She is a rich dame, pitiful and good, and is
wedded to a lord of Northumberland. You will send messages with the
babe--both in writing and by speech--that the little innocent is her
sister's child. Whether it be a boy or girl his mother will have
suffered much because of him, and for her sister's sake you will pray
her to cherish the babe. Beyond this I shall set your signet by a lace
about his neck, and write letters wherein shall be made plain the name
of his sire, and the sad story of his mother. When he shall have grown
tall, and of an age to understand these matters, his aunt will give
him your ring, and rehearse to him the letter. If this be done,
perchance the orphan will not be fatherless all his days."
Milon approved the counsel of the lady, and when her time had come she
was brought to bed of a boy. The old nurse who tended her mistress
was privy to the damsel's inmost mind. So warily she went to work, so
cunning was she in gloss and concealment, that none within the palace
knew that there was aught to hide. The damsel looked upon her boy, and
saw that he was very fair. She laced the ring about his neck, and set
the letter that it were death to find, within a silken chatelaine. The
child was then placed in his cradle, swathed close in white linen. A
pillow of feathers was put beneath his head, and over all was laid a
warm coverlet, wadded with fur. In this fashion the ancient nurse
gave the babe to his father, who awaited him within the garden. Milon
commended the child to his men, charging them to carry him loyally, by
such towns as they knew, to that lady beyond the Humber. The servitors
set forth, bearing the infant with them. Seven times a day they
reposed them in their journey, so that the women might nourish
the babe, and bathe and tend him duly. They served their lord so
faithfully, keeping such watch upon the way, that at the last they
won to the lady to whom they were bidden. The lady received them
courteously, as became her breeding. She broke the seal of the letter,
and when she was assured of what was therein, marvellously she
cherished the infant. These having bestowed the boy in accordance with
their lord's commandment, returned to their own land.
Milon went forth from his realm to serve beyond the seas for guerdon.
His friend remained within her house and was granted by her father in
marriage to a right rich baron of that country. Though this baron was
a worthy knight, justly esteemed of all his fellows, the damsel was
grieved beyond measure when she knew her father's will. She called to
mind the past, and regretted that Milon had gone from the country,
since he would have helped her in her need.
"Alas!" said the lady, "what shall I do? I doubt that I am lost, for
my lord will find that his bride is not a maid. If this becomes known
they will make me a bondwoman for all my days. Would that my friend
were here to free me from this coil. It were good for me to die rather
than to live, but by no means can I escape from their hands. They
have set warders about me, men, old and young, whom they call my
chamberlains, contemners of love, who delight themselves in sadness.
But endure it I must, for, alas, I know not how to die."
So on the appointed day the lady was wedded to the baron, and her
husband took her to dwell with him in his fief.
When Milon returned to his own country he was right heavy and
sorrowful to learn of this marriage. He lamented his wretched case,
but in this he found comfort, that he was not far from the realm where
the lady abode whom so tenderly he loved. Milon commenced to think
within himself how best he might send letters to the damsel that he
was come again to his home, yet so that none should have knowledge
thereof. He wrote a letter, and sealed it with his seal. This message
he made fast to the neck, and hid within the plumage of a swan that
was long his, and was greatly to his heart. He bade his squire to
come, and made him his messenger.
"Change thy raiment swiftly," said he, "and hasten to the castle of my
friend. Take with thee my swan, and see that none, neither servant nor
handmaid, delivers the bird to my lady, save thyself alone."
The squire did according to his lord's commandment. He made him ready
quickly, and went forth, bearing the swan with him. He went by the
nearest road, and passing through the streets of the city, came before
the portal of the castle. In answer to his summons the porter drew
near.
"Friend," said he, "hearken to me. I am of Caerleon, and a fowler by
craft. Within my nets I have snared the most marvellous swan in the
world. This wondrous bird I would bestow forthwith upon your lady, but
perforce I must offer her the gift with my own hand."
"Friend," replied the porter, "fowlers are not always welcomed of
ladies. If you come with me I will bring you where I may know whether
it pleases my lady to have speech with you and to receive your gift."
The porter entered in the hall, where he found none but two lords
seated at a great table, playing chess for their delight. He swiftly
returned on his steps, and the fowler with him, so furtively withal
that the lords were not disturbed at their game, nor perceived aught
of the matter. They went therefore to the chamber of the lady. In
answer to their call the door was opened to them by a maiden, who
led them before her dame. When the swan was proffered to the lady
it pleased her to receive the gift. She summoned a varlet of her
household and gave the bird to his charge, commanding him to keep it
safely, and to see that it ate enough and to spare.
"Lady," said the servitor, "I will do your bidding. We shall never
receive from any fowler on earth such another bird as this. The swan
is fit to serve at a royal table, for the bird is plump as he is
fair."