space she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. He
prayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son who
would be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. He
would prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him by
slaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he was
bleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body he
flew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrill
cries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window.
Marvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window was
fully twenty feet from the ground. When the lady made her perilous
leap she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she set
herself to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped from
his wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till she
lighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it was
stained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarec
had refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he was
yet within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, and
since she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. She
went so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow. She
followed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a city
near at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls.
There was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver,
so rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a still
water. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near by
the keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew to
their anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in the
haven. The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts of
freshly fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. None
challenged her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in the
streets; she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of red
blood lay on the staircase of the palace. The lady entered and found
herself within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on a
pallet. She looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within a
larger room, empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight who
slept thereon. But when the lady entered in the third chamber she saw
a stately bed, that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was of
inwrought gold, and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. The
furniture was worth the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconces
of silver lighted the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as the
lady had come she knew again her friend, directly she saw him with her
eyes. She hastened to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief.
The knight clasped her in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, but
when she came to her mind, he comforted her as sweetly as he might.
"Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly as
you are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, in
their wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle.
They are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to my
death. Fair friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you."
The lady made answer, "Friend, the best thing that can befall me is
that we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If he
finds me again he will certainly slay me with the sword."
The knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon his
friend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husband
would think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seek
to revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered it
to the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it to
the hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthy
knight. When that time was come she and her lord would go--together
with the son--to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where should
be seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death;
there he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall be
rehearsed the tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitter
wrong. And then shall be seen what he will do.
When the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, he
gave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, and
get her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command,
bearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precious
treasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the city
when she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamented
the death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell four
separate times upon the road, and four times she came from out her
swoon. She bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshed
him, and rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her own
land, and returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, she
dwelt in peace, since--as Eudemarec foretold--her lord gave no thought
to her outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her any
more.
In due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec.
Very sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not his
like for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear.
When he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now,
what chanced to them all, that self-same year.
It was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron with
great pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husband
rode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont.
Together with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As the
roads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose their
way, they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straight
path. The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none so
fair. Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks in
their holy habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and the
pilgrims were welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat and
drink near by the Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they would
have gone their way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little,
since he would show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all the
offices of the Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously,
the husband did according to his wish.
Immediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose from
table, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapter
house they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great,
covered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twenty
torches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, and
the sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung in
that chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims saw
the great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of the
guardians as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who lay
therein. The monks commenced to weep, and told with tears, that in
that place was laid the body of the best, the bravest, and the fairest
knight who ever was, or ever should be born. "In his life he was King
of this realm, and never was there so worshipful a lord. He was slain
at Caerwent for the love of a lady of those parts. Since then the
country is without a King. Many a day have we waited for the son of
these luckless lovers to come to our land, even as our lord commanded
us to do."
When the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud voice
before them all.
"Fair son," said she, "you have heard why God has brought us to this
place. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was he
slain by this ancient Judas at your side."
With these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him the
glaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as she
might she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with his
friend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his death
by the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the end
she fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any further
word until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that his
mother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's sword
and smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. In
that hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gave
quittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings were
published abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting the
body of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with due
rite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May God
grant them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the people
acclaimed him for their lord, as he departed from the church.
Those who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many days
shaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolour
that these two friends suffered by reason of their love.
XIV
THE LAY OF THE THORN
Whosoever counts these Lays as fable, may be assured that I am not of
his mind. The dead and past stories that I have told again in divers
fashions, are not set down without authority. The chronicles of these
far off times are yet preserved in the land. They may be read by the
curious at Caerleon, or in the monastery of St. Aaron. They may be
heard in Brittany, and in many another realm besides. To prove how
the remembrance of such tales endures, I will now relate to you the
adventure of the Two Children, making clear what has remained hidden
to this very hour.
In Brittany there lived a prince, high of spirit, fair of person,
courteous and kind to all. This Childe was a King's son, and there
were none to cherish him but his father and his father's wife, for
his mother was dead. The King held him dearer than aught else in the
world, and close he was to the lady's heart. The lady, for her part,
had a daughter by another husband than the King. Very dainty was the
maiden, sweet of colour and of face, passing young and fair. Both
these children, born to so high estate, were right tender of age, for
the varlet, who was the elder of the twain, was but seven years. The
two children loved together very sweetly. Nothing seemed of worth to
one, if it were not shared with the other. They were nourished at the
same table, went their ways together, and lived side by side. The
guardians who held them in ward, seeing their great love, made no
effort to put them apart, but allowed them to have all things in
common. The love of these children increased with their years, but
Dame Nature brought another love to youth and maid than she gave to
the child. They delighted no more in their old frolic and play. Such
sport gave place to clasp and kisses, to many words, and to long
silences. To savour their friendship they took refuge in an attic of
the keep, but all the years they had passed together, made the new
love flower more sweetly in their hearts, as each knew well. Very pure
and tender was their love, and good would it have been if they could
have hidden it from their fellows. This might not be, for in no great
while they were spied upon, and seen.
It chanced upon a day that this prince, so young and debonair, came
home from the river with an aching head, by reason of the heat. He
entered in a chamber, and shutting out the noise and clamour, lay
upon his bed, to ease his pain. The Queen was with her daughter in a
chamber, instructing her meetly in that which it becomes a maid to
know. Closer to a damsel's heart is her lover than her kin. So soon as
she heard that her friend was come again to the house, she stole forth
from her mother, without saying word to any, and accompanied by none,
went straight to the chamber where he slept. The prince welcomed her
gladly, for they had not met together that day. The lady, who thought
no wrong, condoled with him in his sickness, and of her sweetness gave
him a hundred kisses to soothe his hurt. Too swiftly sped the time
in this fashion. Presently the Queen noticed that the damsel was no
longer with her at her task. She rose to her feet, and going quickly
to the chamber of the prince, entered therein without call or knock,
for the door was unfastened on the latch. When the Queen saw these two
lovers fondly laced in each other's arms, she knew and was certified
of their love. Right wrathful was the Queen. She caught the maiden
by the wrist, and shut her fast in her room. She prayed the King to
govern his son more strictly, and to hold him in such ward about the
Court that he might get no speech with the damsel. Since he could have
neither sight nor word of his friend, save only the sound of weeping
from her chamber, the prince determined to tarry no further in the
palace. He sought his father the self-same hour, and showed him what
was in his mind.
"Sire," said he, "I crave a gift. If it pleases you to be a father to
your son, make me now a knight. I desire to seek another realm, and to
serve some prince for guerdon. The road calls me, for many a knight
has won much riches with his sword."
The King did not refuse the lad's request, but accorded it should be
even as he wished. He prayed the prince to dwell for a year about the
Court, that he might the more readily assist at such tourneys and
follow such feats of arms as were proclaimed in the kingdom. This the
prince agreed to do--the more readily because there was nothing else
to be done. He remained therefore at the Court, moving ever by his
father's side. The maiden, for her part, was in the charge of her
mother, who reproached her always for that she had done amiss. The
Queen did not content herself with reproaches and threats. She used
the sharp discipline upon her, so that the maiden suffered grievously
in her person. Sick at heart was the varlet whilst he hearkened to the
beatings, the discipline and the chastisement wherewith her mother
corrected the damsel. He knew not what to do, for well he understood
that his was the fault, and that by reason of him was her neck bowed
down in her youth. More and more was he tormented because of his
friend.
More and more the stripes with which she was afflicted became heavier
for him to bear. He shut himself close within his chamber, and making
fast the door, gave his heart over to tears.
"Alas," cried he, "what shall I do! How may the ill be cured that I
have brought on us by my lightness and folly! I love her more than
life, and, certes, if I may not have my friend I will prove that I can
die for her, though I cannot live without her."
Whilst the prince made this lamentation, the Queen came before the
King.
"Sir," said she, "I pledge my oath and word as a crowned lady that I
keep my daughter as strictly as I may. Think to your own son, and see
to it that he cannot set eyes on the maid. He considers none other
thing but how to get clasp and speech of his friend."
For this reason the King guarded his son about the Court as closely as
the Queen held the maiden in her chamber. So vigilant was the watch
that these pitiful lovers might never have word together. They had no
leisure to meet; they never looked one on the other; nor heard tidings
of how they did, whether by letter or by sergeant.
They lived this death in life till the same year--eight days before
the Feast of St. John--the varlet was dubbed knight. The King spent
the day in the chase, and returning, brought with him great store of
fowl and venison that he had taken. After supper, when the tables were
removed, the King seated himself for his delight upon a carpet spread
before the dais, his son and many a courteous lord with him. The fair
company gave ear to the Lay of Alys, sweetly sung by a minstrel from
Ireland, to the music of his rote. When his story was ended, forthwith
he commenced another, and related the Lay of Orpheus; none being so
bold as to disturb the singer, or to let his mind wander from the
song. Afterwards the knights spoke together amongst themselves. They
told of adventures which in ancient days had chanced to many, and were
noised about Brittany. Amongst these lords sat a damsel, passing sweet
of tongue. In her turn she told of a certain adventure which awaited
the adventurous at the Ford of the Thorn, once every year, on the
vigil of St. John, "but much I doubt whether now there be knights
so bold as to dare the perils of that passage." When the newly made
knight heard these words his pride quickened within him. He considered
that although he was belted with the sword, he had as yet done no deed
to prove his courage in the eyes of men. He deemed the time had come
to show his hardihood, and to put to silence the malicious lips. He
stood upon his feet, calling upon damsel, King and barons to hearken
to his voice, and spake out manfully in the ears of great and small.
"Lords," cried he, "whatever says the maiden, I boast before you all
that on St. John's Eve I will ride alone to the Ford of the Thorn, and
dare this adventure, whether it bring me gain or whether it bring me
loss."
The King was right heavy to hear these words. He thought them to be
the gab and idle speech of a boy.
"Fair son," said he, "put this folly from your mind."
But when the King was persuaded that whether it were foolishness or
wisdom the lad was determined to go his way, and abide the issue of
the adventure,
"Go swiftly," said he, "in the care of God. Since risk your life you
must, play it boldly like a pawn, and may God grant you heart's desire
and happy hours."
The self-same night, whilst the lad lay sleeping in his bed, that
fair lady, his friend, was in much unrest in hers. The tidings of her
lover's boast had been carried quickly to her chamber, and sorely was
she adread for what might chance. When the Eve of St. John was come,
and the day drew towards evening, the varlet, with all fair hopes,
made him ready to ride to the Ford Adventurous. He had clad himself
from basnet to shoes in steel, and mounted on a strong destrier, went
his road to essay the Passage of the Thorn. Whilst he took his path
the maiden took hers. She went furtively to the orchard, that she
might importune God to bring her friend again, safe and sound to his
own house. She seated herself on the roots of a tree, and with sighs
and tears lamented her piteous case.
"Father of Heaven," said the girl, "Who was and ever shall be, be
pitiful to my prayer. Since it is not to Thy will that any man should
be wretched, be merciful to a most unhappy maid. Fair Sire, give back
the days that are gone, when my friend was at my side, and grant that
once again I may be with him. Lord God of Hosts, when shall I be
healed? None knows the bitterness of my sorrow, for none may taste
thereof, save such as set their heart on what they may not have. These
only, Lord, know the wormwood and the gall."
Thus prayed the maiden, seated on the roots of that ancient tree, her
feet upon the tender grass. At the time of her orisons much was she
sought and inquired after in the palace, but none might find where she
had hidden. The damsel herself was given over altogether to her love
and her sorrow, and had no thought for anything, save for prayers and
tears. The night wore through, and dawn already laced the sky, when
she fell on a little slumber, in the tree where she was sheltered. She
woke with a start, but returned to her sleep more deeply than before.
She had not slept long, when herseemed she was ravished from the
tree--but I cannot make this plain for I know no wizardry--to that
Ford of the Thorn, where her friend and lover had repaired. The knight
looked upon the sleeping maiden, and marvelled at so fair a sight. All
adread was the lady when she came from her slumber, for she knew not
where she lay, and wondered greatly. She covered her head by reason of
her exceeding fear, but the knight consoled her courteously.
"Diva," said he, "there is no reason for terror. If you are an earthly
woman, speaking with a mortal tongue, tell me your story. Tell me in
what guise and manner you came so suddenly to this secret place."
The maiden began to be of more courage, till she remembered that she
was no longer in the orchard of the castle. She inquired of the knight
to what haunt she had come.
"Lady," he made answer, "you are laid at the Ford of the Thorn, where
adventures chance to the seeker, sometimes greatly against the mind,
and sometimes altogether according to the heart."
"Ah, dear God," cried the lady, "now shall I be made whole. Sir, look
a little closer upon me, for I have been your friend. Thanks be to
God, who so soon has heard my prayer."
This was the beginning of adventures which happened that night to the
seeker. The maiden hastened to embrace her lover. He got him nimbly
from his horse, and taking her softly between his arms, kissed her
with more kisses than I can tell. Then they sat together beneath the
thorn, and the damsel told how she fell asleep within that old tree in
the pleasaunce, of how she was rapt from thence in her slumber, and of
how, yet sleeping, he came upon her by the Ford. When the knight had
hearkened to all that she had to say, he looked from her face, and
glancing across the river, marked a lord, with lifted lance, riding
to the ford. This knight wore harness of a fair vermeil colour, and
bestrode a horse white of body, save for his two ears, which were red
as the rider's mail. Slender of girdle was this knight, and he made no
effort to enter the river, but drew rein upon the other side of the
passage, and watched. The varlet said to his friend that it became
his honour to essay some feats of arms with this adversary. He got to
horse, and rode to the river, leaving the maiden beneath the thorn.
Had she but found another horse at need, very surely would she have
ridden to his aid. The two knights drew together as swiftly as their
steeds could bear them. They thrust so shrewdly with the lance, that
their shields were split and broken. The spears splintered in the
gauntlet, and both champions were unhorsed by the shock, rolling on
the sand; but nothing worse happened to them. Since they had neither
squire nor companion to help them on their feet, they pained them
grievously to get them from the ground. When they might climb upon
their steeds, they hung again the buckler about the neck, and lowered
their ashen spears. Passing heavy was the varlet, for shame that his
friend had seen him thrown. The two champions met together in the
onset, but the prince struck his adversary so cunningly with the
lance, that the laces of his buckler were broken, and the shield fell
from his body. When the varlet saw this he rejoiced greatly, for he
knew that the eyes of his friend were upon him. He pressed his quarrel
right fiercely, and tumbling his foe from the saddle, seized his horse
by the bridle.[2]
The two knights passed the ford, and the prince feared sorely because
of the skill and mightiness of his adversary. He could not doubt that
if they fell upon him together he would perish at their hands. He put
the thought from mind, for he would not suspect them of conduct so
unbecoming to gentle knight, and so contrary to the laws of chivalry.
If they desired some passage of arms, doubtless they would joust as
gentlemen, and each for himself alone. When these three knights were
mounted on their steeds, they crossed the ford with courtesy and
order, each seeking to give precedence to his companion. Having come
to the bank the stranger knights prayed the prince to run a course for
their pleasure. He answered that it was his wish, too, and made him
ready for the battle. The prince rejoiced greatly when he saw one of
these two adversaries ride a little apart, that he might the more
easily observe the combat. He was assured that he would suffer no
felony at their hands. For their part the two knights were persuaded
that they had to do with an errant who had ridden to the ford for no
other gain than honour and praise. The two adversaries took their
places within the lists. They lowered their lance, and covering their
bodies with the shield, smote fiercely together. So rude was the shock
that the staves of the spears were broken, and the strong destriers
were thrown upon their haunches. Neither of the good knights had lost
his saddle. Each of the combatants got him to his feet, and drawing
the sword, pressed upon his fellow, till the blood began to flow. When
the knight who judged this quarrel saw their prowess, he came near,
and commanded that the battle should cease. The adversaries drew
apart, and struck no further blow with the sword. Right courteously
and with fair words he spake to the prince. "Friend," said the knight,
"get to your horse, and break a lance with me. Then we can go in
peace, for our time grows short. You must endure till the light be
come if you hope to gain the prize. Do your devoir, valiantly,
for should you chance to be thrown in this course, or slain by
misadventure, you have lost your desire. None will ever hear of this
adventure; all your life you will remain little and obscure. Your
maiden will be led away by the victor, seated on the good Castilian
horse you have gained by right of courage. Fight bravely. The
trappings of the destrier are worth the spoil of a king's castle, and
as for the horse himself he is the swiftest and the fairest in the
world. Be not amazed that I tell you of these matters. I have watched
you joust, and know you for a hardy knight and a gallant gentleman.
Besides I stand to lose horse and harness equally with you."
[Footnote 2: There is here some omission in the manuscript.]