and smoothing his head and neck, felt the letter that was hidden
beneath its feathers. The blood pricked in her veins, for well she
knew that the writing was sent her by her friend. She caused the
fowler to be given of her bounty, and bade the men to go forth from
her chamber. When they had parted the lady called a maiden to her aid.
She broke the seal, and unfastening the letter, came upon the name of
Milon at the head. She kissed the name a hundred times through her
tears. When she might read the writing she learned of the great pain
and dolour that her lover suffered by day and by night. In you--he
wrote--is all my pleasure, and in your white hands it lies to heal me
or to slay. Strive to find a plan by which we may speak as friend to
friend, if you would have me live. The knight prayed her in his letter
to send him an answer by means of the swan. If the bird were well
guarded, and kept without provand for three days, he would of a surety
fly back to the place from whence he came, with any message that the
lady might lace about his neck.
When the damsel had considered the writing, and understood what was
put therein, she commanded that her bird should be tended carefully,
and given plenteously to eat and to drink. She held him for a month
within her chamber, but this was less from choice, than for the craft
that was necessary to obtain the ink and parchment requisite for her
writing. At the end she wrote a letter according to her heart, and
sealed it with her ring. The lady caused the swan to fast for three
full days; then having concealed the message about his neck, let him
take his flight. The bird was all anhungered for food, and remembering
well the home from which he drew, he returned thither as quickly as
his wings might bear him.
He knew again his town, and his master's house, and descended to the
ground at Milon's very feet. Milon rejoiced greatly when he marked his
own. He caught the bird by his wings, and crying for his steward, bade
him give the swan to eat. The knight removed the missive from the
messenger's neck. He glanced from head to head of the letter, seeking
the means that he hoped to find, and the salutation he so tenderly
wished. Sweet to his heart was the writing, for the lady wrote that
without him there was no joy in her life, and since it was his desire
to hear by the swan, it would be her pleasure also.
For twenty years the swan was made the messenger of these two lovers,
who might never win together. There was no speech between them, save
that carried by the bird. They caused the swan to fast for three days,
and then sent him on his errand. He to whom the letter came, saw to
it that the messenger was fed to heart's desire. Many a time the swan
went upon his journey, for however strictly the lady was held of her
husband, there was none who had suspicion of a bird.
The dame beyond the Humber nourished and tended the boy committed to
her charge with the greatest care. When he was come to a fitting age
she made him to be knighted of her lord, for goodly and serviceable
was the lad. On the same day the aunt read over to him the letter, and
put in his hand the ring. She told him the name of his mother, and his
father's story. In all the world there was no worthier knight, nor a
more chivalrous and gallant gentleman. The lad hearkened diligently to
the lady's tale. He rejoiced greatly to hear of his father's prowess,
and was proud beyond measure of his renown. He considered within
himself, saying to his own heart, that much should be required of his
father's son, and that he would not be worthy of his blood if he did
not endeavour to merit his name. He determined therefore that he would
leave his country, and seek adventure as a knight errant, beyond the
sea. The varlet delayed no longer than the evening. On the morrow he
bade farewell to his aunt, who having warned and admonished him for
his good, gave him largely of her wealth, to bring him on his way. He
rode to Southampton, that he might find a ship equipped for sea, and
so came to Barfleur. Without any tarrying the lad went straight to
Brittany, where he spent his money and himself in feasts and in
tourneys. The rich men of the land were glad of his friendship, for
there was none who bore himself better in the press with spear or with
sword. What he took from the rich he bestowed on such knights as were
poor and luckless. These loved him greatly, since he gained largely
and spent freely, granting of his wealth to all. Wherever this knight
sojourned in the realm he bore away the prize. So debonair was he and
chivalrous that his fame and praise crossed the water, and were noised
abroad in his own land. Folk told how a certain knight from beyond the
Humber, who had passed the sea in quest of wealth and honour, had so
done, that by reason of his prowess, his liberality, and his modesty,
men called him the Knight Peerless, since they did not know his name.
This praise of the good knight, and of his deeds, came to be heard of
Milon. Very dolent was he and sorely troubled that so young a knight
should be esteemed above his fathers. He marvelled greatly that the
stout spears of the past had not put on their harness and broken a
lance for their ancient honour. One thing he determined, that he
would cross the sea without delay, so that he might joust with the
dansellon, and abate his pride. In wrath and anger he purposed to
fight, to beat his adversary from the saddle, and bring him at last
to shame. After this was ended he would seek his son, of whom he had
heard nothing, since he had gone from his aunt's castle. Milon caused
his friend to know of his wishes. He opened out to her all his
thought, and craved her permission to depart. This letter he sent by
the swan, commending the bird to her care.
When the lady heard of her lover's purpose, she thanked him for his
courtesy, for greatly was his counsel to her mind. She approved his
desire to quit the realm for the sake of his honour, and far from
putting let and hindrance in his path, trusted that in the end he
would bring again her son. Since Milon was assured of his friend's
goodwill, he arrayed himself richly, and crossing the sea to Normandy,
came afterwards into the land of the Bretons. There he sought
the friendship of the lords of that realm, and fared to all the
tournaments of which he might hear. Milon bore himself proudly, and
gave graciously of his wealth, as though he were receiving a gift.
He sojourned till the winter was past in that land, he, and a brave
company of knights whom he held in his house with him. When Easter
had come, and the season that men give to tourneys and wars and the
righting of their private wrongs, Milon considered how he could meet
with the knight whom men called Peerless. At that time a tournament
was proclaimed to be held at Mont St. Michel. Many a Norman and Breton
rode to the game; knights of Flanders and of France were there in
plenty, but few fared from England. Milon drew to the lists amongst
the first. He inquired diligently of the young champion, and all men
were ready to tell from whence he came, and of his harness, and of the
blazon on his shield. At length the knight appeared in the lists and
Milon looked upon the adversary he so greatly desired to see. Now in
this tournament a knight could joust with that lord who was set over
against him, or he could seek to break a lance with his chosen foe. A
player must gain or lose, and he might find himself opposed either
by his comrade or his enemy. Milon did well and worshipfully in the
press, and was praised of many that day. But the Knight Peerless
carried the cry from all his fellows, for none might stand before him,
nor rival him in skill and address. Milon observed him curiously. The
lad struck so heavily, he thrust home so shrewdly, that Milon's hatred
changed to envy as he watched. Very comely showed the varlet, and
much to Milon's mind. The older knight set himself over against the
champion, and they met together in the centre of the field. Milon
struck his adversary so fiercely, that the lance splintered in his
gauntlet; but the young knight kept his seat without even losing a
stirrup. In return his spear was aimed with such cunning that he bore
his antagonist to the ground. Milon lay upon the earth bareheaded, for
his helmet was unlaced in the shock. His hair and beard showed
white to all, and the varlet was heavy to look on him whom he had
overthrown. He caught the destrier by the bridle, and led him before
the stricken man.
"Sir," said he, "I pray you to get upon your horse. I am right grieved
and vexed that I should have done this wrong. Believe me that it was
wrought unwittingly."
Milon sprang upon his steed. He approved the courtesy of his
adversary, and looking upon the hand that held his bridle, he knew
again his ring. He made inquiry of the lad.
"Friend," said he, "hearken to me. Tell me now the name of thy sire.
How art thou called; who is thy mother? I have seen much, and gone to
and fro about the world. All my life I have journeyed from realm to
realm, by reason of tourneys and quarrels and princes' wars, yet never
once by any knight have I been borne from my horse. This day I am
overthrown by a boy, and yet I cannot help but love thee."
The varlet answered, "I know little of my father. I understand that
his name is Milon, and that he was a knight of Wales. He loved the
daughter of a rich man, and was loved again. My mother bore me in
secret, and caused me to be carried to Northumberland, where I was
taught and tended. An old aunt was at the costs of my nourishing. She
kept me at her side, till of all her gifts she gave me horse and arms,
and sent me here, where I have remained. In hope and wish I purpose to
cross the sea, and return to my own realm. There I would seek out my
father, and learn how it stands between him and my mother. I will show
him my golden ring, and I will tell him of such privy matters that he
may not deny our kinship, but must love me as a son, and ever hold me
dear."
When Milon heard these words he could endure them no further. He got
him swiftly from his horse, and taking the lad by the fringe of his
hauberk, he cried, "Praise be to God, for now am I healed. Fair
friend, by my faith thou art my very son, for whom I came forth from
my own land, and have sought through all this realm."
The varlet climbed from the saddle, and stood upon his feet. Father
and son kissed each other tenderly, with many comfortable words. Their
love was fair to see, and those who looked upon their meeting, wept
for joy and pity.
Milon and his son departed from the tournament so soon as it came
to an end, for the knight desired greatly to speak to the varlet at
leisure, and to open before him all his mind. They rode to their
hostel, and with the knights of their fellowship, passed the hours in
mirth and revelry. Milon spoke to the lad of his mother. He told him
of their long love, and how she was given by her father in marriage to
a baron of his realm. He rehearsed the years of separation, accepted
by both with a good heart, and of the messenger who carried letters
between them, when there was none they dared to trust in, save only
the swan.
The son made answer,
"In faith, fair father, let us return to our own land. There I will
slay this husband, and you shall yet be my mother's lord."
This being accorded between them, on the morrow they made them ready
for the journey, and bidding farewell to their friends, set forth for
Wales. They embarked in a propitious hour, for a fair wind carried the
ship right swiftly to its haven. They had not ridden far upon their
road, when they met a certain squire of the lady's household on his
way to Brittany, bearing letters to Milon. His task was done long
before sundown in chancing on the knight. He gave over the sealed
writing with which he was charged, praying the knight to hasten to his
friend without any tarrying, since her husband was in his grave. Milon
rejoiced greatly when he knew this thing. He showed the message to his
son, and pressed forward without pause or rest. They made such speed,
that at the end they came to the castle where the lady had her
lodging. Light of heart was she when she clasped again her child.
These two fond lovers sought neither countenance of their kin, nor
counsel of any man. Their son handselled them together, and gave the
mother to his sire. From the day they were wed they dwelt in wealth
and in sweetness to the end of their lives.
Of their love and content the minstrel wrought this Lay. I, also, who
have set it down in writing, have won guerdon enough just by telling
over the tale.
XIII
THE LAY OF YONEC
Since I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold.
The stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now to
rehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother's
first born child.
In days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full of
years, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town is
builded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of many
ancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well stricken
in years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have children
to come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowed
on this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind and
courteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of her
beauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln,
yea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married the
maiden to this aged man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fast
within his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He set
in charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her more
surely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, together
with their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel might
have speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. More
than seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children for
her solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet her
kinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that when
she sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in her
chamber to light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spent
her days in sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for she
gave no thought to her person. Indeed at times she hated the very
shadow of that beauty which had spoiled all her life.
Now when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord rose
early on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his sister
to rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did his
will, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she carried
in her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the sun with
her tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the chamber,
so she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.
"Alas," said she, "in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to be
shut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Of
whom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison?
Great is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may be
deceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. If
I might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I should
show the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatly
are my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous old
man, and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow,
for he will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly he
was plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, and
his veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heard
that in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought their
sorrows to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fair
to his desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave,
and were blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen of
any, except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy!
Perchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, such
adventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would but
shape the world to my wish!"
When the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of a
great bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what it
might mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed and
hooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilst
the lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comely
knight before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at this
sorcery. Her blood turned to water within her, and because of her
dread she hid her face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy the
knight first sought to persuade her to put away her fears.
"Lady," said he, "be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be as
gentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to make
plain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your tower
that I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. I
have loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love above
anything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid,
and I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should have
sought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm,
till you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as your
friend."
The lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words.
Presently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said that
perchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only she
had assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear,
but in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty.
Never in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight more
fair.
"Lady," he replied, "you ask rightly. For nothing that man can give
would I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God,
the Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by our
father Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and was
and ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If you
still give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell him
that since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Service
appointed by God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take your
semblance, and receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus be
certified of my faith, and never have reason to mistrust me more."
When the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to the
chamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since it
was time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture.
The lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn the
chaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The agèd dame
replied,
"You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods,
and none will enter in the tower, save me."
Right distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called a
woman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. This
was seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She set
wide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplain
came as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. The
knight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; then
the priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behind
him.
The knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and a
blither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other,
but the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again to
his own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and she
sweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to return
often to her side.
"Lady," he made answer, "so you please to require me at any hour, you
may be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you to
observe such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. This
old woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes our
friendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evil
come upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely,
death."
The knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest lady
in the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went lightly
through the week. She took such heed to her person, that her former
beauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as her
prison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would not
leave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see her
friend at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber.
Early and late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God grant
her joy was long, against the evil day that came.
The husband of the lady presently took notice of the change in
his wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, and
misdoubting his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day.
He told her of his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, and
inquired what this should mean. The crone answered that she knew no
more than he, "for we have very little speech one with another. She
sees neither kin nor friend; but, now, she seems quite content to
remain alone in her chamber."
The husband made reply,
"Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we must
do all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning when
I have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, make
pretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hide
yourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shall
then learn the secret of this new found joy."
Having devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for those
who were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon be
tangled in the net.
Three days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house.
He told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court,
but that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, making
fast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind her
curtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desired
to know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for her
friend. The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, nor
cherish her more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them,
both in word and tenderness, till he could no longer stay. All this
the crone saw with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched the
fashion in which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she was
altogether fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear the
semblance of a hawk. When the husband returned to his house--for
he was near at hand--his sister told him that of which she was the
witness, and of the truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was he
and wrathful. Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slaying
of this bird. He caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, with
point and edge sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastened
firmly together, and set them securely within that window, by which
the tercel would come to his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fair
might not see nor hear of this wrong, and that there should be none to
show him of such treason.
On the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying that
he should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behind
him, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn.
The lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved so
loyally. Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any long
tarrying the bird came flying at her will. He flew in at the open
window, and was entangled amongst the blades of steel. One blade
pierced his body so deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound.
When the falcon knew that his hurt was to death, he forced himself to
pass the barrier, and coming before his lady fell upon her bed, so
that the sheets were dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon her
friend and his wound, and was altogether anguished and distraught.
"Sweet friend," said the knight, "it is for you that my life is lost.
Did I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely I
should be slain?"