attended by her four damsels departed straightway from the hall upon
her palfrey. Sir Graelent caused his white horse to be saddled, and
mounting, followed hotly after her through the town. Day after day
he rode in her track, pleading for pity and pardon, but she gave him
neither good words nor bad in answer. So far they fared that at last
they came to the forest, and taking their way through a deep wood rode
to the bank of a fair, clear stream. The lady set her palfrey to the
river, but when she saw that Graelent also would enter therein she
cried to him,
"Stay, Graelent, the stream is deep, and it is death for you to
follow."
Graelent took no heed to her words, but forced his horse to enter the
river, so that speedily the waters closed above his head. Then the
lady seized his bridle, and with extreme toil brought horse and rider
back again to land.
"Graelent," said she, "you may not pass this river, however mightily
you pain yourself, therefore must you remain alone on this bank."
Again the lady set her palfrey to the river, but Graelent could not
suffer to see her go upon her way alone. Again he forced his horse to
enter the water; but the current was very swift and the stream was
very deep, so that presently Graelent was torn from his saddle, and
being borne away by the stream came very nigh to drown. When the four
maidens saw his piteous plight they cried aloud to their lady, and
said,
"Lady, for the love of God, take pity on your poor friend. See, how he
drowns in this evil case. Alas, cursed be the day you spake soft words
in his ear, and gave him the grace of your love. Lady, look how the
current hurries him to his death. How may your heart suffer him to
drown whom you have held so close! Aid him, nor have the sin on your
soul that you endured to let the man who loved you die without your
help."
When the lady heard the complaint of her maidens, no longer could
she hide the pity she felt in her heart. In all haste she turned her
palfrey to the river, and entering the stream clutched her lover by
the belt. Thus they won together to the bank. There she stripped the
drowned man of his raiment, and wrapping him fast in her own dry
mantle cherished him so meetly that presently he came again to life.
So she brought him safely into her own land, and none has met Sir
Graelent since that day.
But the Breton folk still hold firmly that Graelent yet liveth with
his friend. His destrier, when he escaped him from the perilous river,
grieved greatly for his master's loss. He sought again the mighty
forest, yet never was at rest by night or day. No peace might he find,
but ever pawed he with his hoofs upon the ground, and neighed so
loudly that the noise went through all the country round about. Many a
man coveted so noble a steed, and sought to put bit and bridle in his
mouth, yet never might one set hands upon him, for he would not suffer
another master. So each year in its season the forest was filled with
the cry and the trouble of this noble horse which might not find its
lord.
This adventure of the good steed and of the stout knight, who went
to the land of faery with his love, was noised abroad throughout all
Brittany, and the Bretons made a Lay thereof which was sung in
the ears of many people, and was called a Lay of the Death of Sir
Graelent.
XVI
A STORY OF BEYOND THE SEA
In times gone by there lived a Count of Ponthieu, who loved chivalry
and the pleasures of the world beyond measure, and moreover was a
stout knight and a gallant gentleman. In the self-same day there lived
a Count of St. Pol, who was lord of much land, and a right worthy man.
One grief he had, that there was no heir of his body; but a sister was
his, a prudent woman and a passing good gentlewoman, who was dame of
Dommare in Ponthieu. This lady had a son, Thibault by name, who was
heir to this County of St. Pol, but he was a poor man so long as his
uncle lived. He was a prudent knight, valiant and skilled with the
spear, noble and fair. Greatly was he loved and honoured of all honest
people, for he was of high race and gentle birth.
The Count of Ponthieu, of whom the tale hath spoken, had to wife a
very worthy lady. He and his dame had but one child, a daughter,
very good and gracious, who increased with her days in favour and in
virtues; and the maid was of some sixteen years. The third year after
her birth her mother died, whereof she was sorely troubled and right
heavy. The Count, her father, took to himself another wife with no
long tarrying, a dame of gentle race and breeding. Of this lady he got
him quickly a son; very near was the boy to his father's heart. The
lad grew with his years in stature and in valour, and gave promise to
increase in all good qualities.
The Count of Ponthieu marked my lord Thibault of Dommare. He summoned
the knight to his castle, and made him of his house for guerdon. When
Sir Thibault was of his fellowship he rejoiced greatly, for the Count
prospered in goods and in praise by reason of his servant's deeds. As
they came from a tournament on a day, the Count and my lord Thibault
together, the Count required of his companion and said,
"Thibault, by the aid of God tell me truly which jewel of my crown
shines the fairest in your eyes!"
"Sir," replied Messire Thibault, "I am only a beggar, but so help me
God, of all the jewels in your crown I love and covet none, save only
my demoiselle, your daughter."
When he heard this thing the Count had great content. He laughed in
his heart and said,
"Thibault, I will grant her to the beggar, if it be to her mind."
"Sir," answered he, "thanks and gramercy. May God make it up to you."
Then went the Count to his daughter, and said,
"Fair daughter, I have promised you in marriage, so it go not against
your heart."
"Sir," inquired the maid, "to whom?"
"In the name of God, to a loyal man, and a true man, of whom much is
hoped; to a knight of my own household, Thibault of Dommare."
"Dear sir," answered the maiden sweetly, "if your county were a
kingdom, and I were the king's only child, I would choose him as my
husband, and gladly give him all that I had."
"Daughter," said the Count, "blessed be your pretty person, and the
hour that you were born."
Thus was this marriage made. The Count of Ponthieu and the Count of
St. Pol were at the feast, and many another honourable man besides.
Great was the joy in which they met, fair was the worship, and
marvellous the delight. The bride and groom lived together in all
happiness for five years. This was their only sorrow, that it pleased
not our Lord Jesus Christ that they should have an heir to their
flesh.
On a night Sir Thibault lay in his bed. He considered within himself
and said,
"Lord, whence cometh it that I love this dame so fondly, and she me,
yet we may have no heir of our bodies to serve God and to do a little
good in the world?"
Then he remembered my lord St. James, the Apostle of Spain, who gives
to the fervent supplicant that which rightly he desires. Earnestly, to
his own heart, he promised that he would walk a pilgrim in his way.
His wife lay sleeping at his side, but when she came from out her
sleep, he took her softly in his arms, and required of her that she
would bestow on him a gift.
"Sir," said the lady, "what gift would you have?"
"Wife," he made answer, "that you shall know when it is mine."
"Husband," said she, "if it be mine to grant, I will give it you,
whatever the price."
"Wife," he said, "I pray you to grant me leave to seek my lord St.
James the Apostle, that he may intercede with our Lord Jesus Christ to
bestow on us an heir of our flesh, whereby God may be served in this
world and Holy Church glorified."
"Sir," cried the lady, "sweet and dear it is that you should crave
such bounty, and I grant the permission you desire right willingly."
Deep and long was the tenderness that fell betwixt these twain. Thus
passed a day, and another day, and yet a third. On this third day it
chanced that they lay together in their bed, and it was night. Then
said the dame,
"Husband, I pray and require of you a gift."
"Wife," he replied, "ask, and I will give it you, if by any means I
can."
"Husband," she said, "I require leave to come with you on this errand
and journey."
When Messire Thibault heard this thing he was right sorrowful, and
said,
"Wife, grievous would be the journey to your body, for the way is very
long, and the land right strange and perilous."
Said she,
"Husband, be not in doubt because of me. You shall be more hindered of
your squire than of your wife."
"Dame," said he, "as God wills and as you wish."
The days went, and these tidings were so noised abroad that the Count
of Ponthieu heard thereof. He commanded my lord Sir Thibault to his
house, and said,
"Thibault, you are a vowed pilgrim, as I hear, and my daughter too!"
"Sir," answered he, "that is verily and truly so."
"Thibault," replied the Count, "as to yourself what pleases you is to
my mind also, but concerning my daughter that is another matter."
"Sir," made answer Sir Thibault, "go she must, and I cannot deny her."
"Since this is so," said the Count, "part when you will. Make ready
for the road your steeds, your palfreys, and the pack horses, and I
will give you riches and gear enough for the journey."
"Sir," said Messire Thibault, "thanks and gramercy."
Thus these pilgrims arrayed them, and sought that shrine with
marvellous joy. They fared so speedily upon the way, that at length
they came near to my lord St. James, by less than two days faring.
That night they drew to a goodly town. After they had eaten in the
hostel, Sir Thibault called for the host and inquired of him the road
for the morrow, how it ran, and whether it were smooth.
"Fair sir," replied the innkeeper to the knight, "at the gate of this
town you will find a little wood. Beyond the wood a strong smooth road
runs for the whole day's journey."
Hearing this they asked no more questions, but the beds being laid
down, they went to their rest. The morrow broke full sweetly. The
pilgrims rose lightly from their beds as soon as it was day, and made
much stir and merriment. Sir Thibault rose also, since he might not
sleep, but his head was heavy. He therefore called his chamberlain,
and said,
"Rise quickly, and bid the company to pack the horses and go their
way. Thou shalt remain with me, and make ready our harness, for I am a
little heavy and disquieted."
The chamberlain made known to the sergeants the pleasure of their
lord, so that presently they took the road. In no great while Messire
Thibault and his dame got them from the bed, and arraying their
persons, followed after their household. The chamberlain folded the
bed linen, and it was yet but dawn, though warm and fair. The three
went forth through the gate of the city, those three together, with no
other companion save God alone, and drew near to the forest. When they
came close they found two roads, the one good, the other ill; so that
Sir Thibault said to his chamberlain,
"Put spurs to your horse, and ride swiftly after our people. Bid them
await our coming, for foul it is for lady and knight to pass through
this wood with so little company."
The servitor went speedily, and Messire Thibault entered the forest.
He drew rein beside the two roads, for he knew not which to follow.
"Wife," he said, "which way is ours?"
"Please God, the good," she answered.
Now in this wood were robbers, who spoiled the fair way, and made wide
and smooth the false, so that pilgrims should mistake and wander from
the path. Messire Thibault lighted from his horse. He looked from one
to the other, and finding the wrong way broader and more smooth than
the true, he cried,
"Wife, come now; in the name of God, this."
They had proceeded along this road for some quarter of a mile when the
path grew strict and narrow, and boughs made dark the way.
"Wife," said the knight, "I fear that we fare but ill."
When he had thus spoken he looked before him, and marked four armed
thieves, seated on four strong horses, and each bore lance in hand.
Thereupon he glanced behind him, and, lo, four other robbers, armed
and set in ambush, so he said,
"Dame, be not affrighted of aught that you may see from now."
Right courteously Sir Thibault saluted the robbers in his path, but
they gave no answer to his greeting. Afterwards he sought of them
what was in their mind, and one replied that he should know anon.
The thief, who had thus spoken, drew towards my lord Thibault, with
outstretched sword, thinking to smite him in the middle. Messire
Thibault saw the blow about to fall, and it was no marvel if he feared
greatly. He sprang forward nimbly, as best he might, so that the
glaive smote the air. Then as the robber staggered by, Sir Thibault
seized him fiercely, and wrested the sword from his hand. The knight
advanced stoutly against those three from whom the thief had come. He
struck the foremost amidst the bowels, so that he perished miserably.
Then he turned and went again to that one who had first come against
him with the sword, and slew him also. Now it was decreed of God that
after the knight had slain three of this company of robbers, that
the five who were left, encompassed him round about, and killed his
palfrey. Sir Thibault tumbled flat upon his back, although he was not
wounded to his hurt. Since he had neither sword nor other harness
he could do no more. The thieves therefore stripped him to his very
shirt, his boots and hosen, and binding him hand and foot with a
baldrick, cast him into a thorn bush, right thick and sharp. When
they had done this they hastened to the lady. From her they took her
palfrey and her vesture, even to the shift. Passing fair was the lady;
she wept full piteously, and never was dame more sorrowful than she.
Now one of these bold robbers stared upon the lady, and saw that she
was very fair. He spoke to his companions in this fashion,
"Comrades, I have lost my brother in this broil. I will take this
woman for his blood money."
But the others made answer,
"I, too, have lost my kin. I claim as much as you, and my right is
good as yours."
So said a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Then spake yet another.
"In keeping of the lady will be found neither peace nor profit. Rather
let us lead her from here within the forest, there do our pleasure
upon her, and then put her again upon the path, so that she may go her
way."
Thus they did as they had devised together, and left her on the road.
Right sick at heart was Messire Thibault when he saw her so entreated,
but nothing could he do. He bore no malice against his wife by reason
of that which had befallen, for well he knew that it, was by force,
and not according to her will. When he saw her again, weeping bitterly
and altogether shamed, he called to her, and said,
"Wife, for God's love unloose me from these bonds, and deliver me from
the torment that I suffer, for these thorns are sharper than I can
endure."
The lady hastened to the place where Sir Thibault lay, and marked a
sword flung behind the bush, belonging to one of those felons that
were slain. She took the glaive, and went towards her lord, filled
full of wrath and evil thoughts because of what had chanced to her.
She feared greatly lest her husband should bear malice for that which
he had seen, reproaching her upon a day, and taunting her for what was
past. She said,
"Sir, you are out of your pain already."
She raised the sword, and came towards her husband, thinking to strike
him midmost the body. When he marked the falling glaive he deemed that
his day had come, for he was a naked man, clad in nought but his shirt
and hosen. He trembled so sorely that his bonds were loosed, and the
lady struck so feebly that she wounded him but little, severing that
baldrick with which his hands were made fast. Thereat the knight brake
the cords about his legs, and leaping upon his feet, cried, "Dame,
by the grace of God it is not to-day that you shall slay me with the
sword."
Then she made answer, "Truly, sir, the sorer grief is mine."
Sir Thibault took the sword, and set it again in the sheath,
afterwards he put his hand upon the lady's shoulder, and brought her
back by the path they had fared. At the fringe of the woodland he
found a large part of his fellowship, who were come to meet him. When
these saw their lord and lady so spoiled and disarrayed they inquired
of them, "Sir, who hath put you in this case?"
He set them by, saying that they had fallen amongst felons who had
done them much mischief.
Mightily the sergeants lamented; but presently they fetched raiment
from the packs, and arrayed them, for enough they had and to spare. So
they climbed into the saddle, and continued their journey.
They rode that day, nor for aught that had chanced did Messire
Thibault show sourer countenance to the lady. At nightfall they came
to a goodly town, and there took shelter in an inn. Messire Thibault
sought of his host if there was any convent of nuns in those parts
where a lady might repose her. The host made answer to him,
"Sir, you are served to your wish. Just beyond the walls is a right
fair religious house, with many holy women."
On the morrow Messire Thibault went to this house, and heard Mass.
Afterwards he spoke to the Abbess and her chapter, praying that he
might leave his lady in their charge, until his return; and this they
accorded very willingly. Messire Thibault bestowed the lady in this
convent, with certain of his house to do her service, and went his way
to bring his pilgrimage to a fair end. When he had knelt before the
shrine, and honoured the Saint, he came again to the convent and the
lady. He gave freely of his wealth to the house, and taking to himself
his wife, returned with her to their own land, in the same joy and
honour as he had brought her forth, save only that they lay not
together.
Great was the gladness of the folk of that realm when Sir Thibault
returned to his home. The Count of Ponthieu, the father of his wife
was there, and there, too, was his uncle the Count of St. Pol. Many
worthy and valiant gentlemen came for his welcome, and a fair company
of dames and maidens likewise honoured the lady. That day the Count
of Ponthieu sat at meat with my lord Thibault, and ate from the same
dish, the two together. Then it happed that the Count spake to him,
"Thibault, fair son, he who journeys far hears many a strange matter
and sees many strange sights, which are hidden from those who sit over
the fire. Tell me therefore, of your favour, something of all you have
seen and heard since you went from amongst us."
Messire Thibault answered shortly that he knew no tale worth the
telling. The Count would take no denial, but plagued him so sorely,
begging him of his courtesy to tell over some adventure, that at the
last he was overborne.
"Sir, I will narrate a story, since talk I must; but at least let it
be in your private ear, if you please, and not for the mirth of all."
The Count replied that his pleasure was the same. After meat, when men
had eaten their fill, the Count rose in his chair, and taking my lord
Thibault by the hand, entreated,
"Tell me now, I pray, that which it pleases you to tell, for there are
few of the household left in hall."
Then Messire Thibault began to relate that which chanced to a knight
and a dame, even as it has been rehearsed before you in this tale;
only he named not the persons to whom this lot was appointed. The
Count, who was wise and sober of counsel, inquired what the knight had
done with the lady. Thibault made answer that the knight had brought
the lady back by the way she went, with the same joy and worship as he
led her forth, save only that they slept not together.
"Thibault," said the Count, "your knight walked another road than I
had trod. By my faith in God and my love for you, I had hanged this
dame by her tresses to a tree. The laces of her gown would suffice if
I could find no other cord."
"Sir," said Messire Thibault, "you have but my word. The truth can
only be assured if the lady might bear witness and testify with her
own mouth."
"Thibault," said the Count, "know you the name of this knight?"
"Sir," cried Messire Thibault, "I beg you again to exempt me from
naming the knight to whom this sorrow befell. Know of a truth that his
name will bring no profit."
"Thibault," said the Count, "it is my pleasure that his name should
not be hid."
"Sir," answered Thibault, "tell I must, as you will not acquit me; but
I take you to witness that I speak only under compulsion, since gladly
I would have kept silence, had this been your pleasure, for in the
telling there is neither worship nor honour."
"Thibault," replied the Count, "without more words I would know
forthwith who was the knight to whom this adventure chanced. By the
faith that you owe to your God and to me, I conjure you to tell me his
name, since it is in your mind."
"Sir," replied Messire Thibault, "I will answer by the faith I owe
my God and you, since you lay this charge upon me. Know well, and be
persuaded, that I am the knight on whom this sorrow lighted. Hold it
for truth that I was sorely troubled and sick of heart. Be assured
that never before have I spoken to any living man about the business,
and moreover that gladly would I have held my peace, had such been
your will."
When the Count heard this adventure he was sore astonied, and
altogether cast down. He kept silence for a great space, speaking
never a word. At the last he said, "Thibault, was it indeed my child
who did this thing?"
"Sir, it is verily and truly so."
"Thibault," said the Count, "sweet shall be your vengeance, since you
have given her again to my hand."
Because of his exceeding wrath the Count sent straightway for his
daughter, and demanded of her if those things were true of which
Messire Thibault had spoken. She inquired of the accusation, and her
father answered, "That you would have slain him with the sword, even
as he has told me?"
"Sir, of a surety."
"And wherefore would you slay your husband?"
"Sir, for reason that I am yet heavy that he is not dead."
When the Count heard the lady speak in this fashion, he answered her
nothing, but suffered in silence until the guests had departed. After
these were gone, the Count came on a day to Rue-sur-Mer, and Messire
Thibault with him, and the Count's son. With them also went the lady.
Then the Count caused a ship to be got ready, very stout and speedy,
and he made the dame to enter in the boat. He set also on the ship an
untouched barrel, very high and strong. These three lords climbed into
the nave, with no other company, save those sailors who should labour
at the oar. The Count commanded the mariners to put the ship to sea,
and all marvelled greatly as to what he purposed, but there was none
so bold as to ask him any questions. When they had rowed a great way
from the land, the Count bade them to strike the head from out the
barrel. He took that dame, his own child, who was so dainty and so
fair, and thrust her in the tun, whether she would or whether she
would not. This being done he caused the cask to be made fast again
with staves and wood, so that the water might in no manner enter
therein. Afterwards he dragged the barrel to the edge of the deck, and
with his own hand cast it into the sea, saying,
"I commend thee to the wind and waves."
Passing heavy was Messire Thibault at this, and the lady's brother
also, and all who saw. They fell at the Count's feet, praying him of
his grace that she might be delivered from the barrel. So hot was his
wrath that he would not grant their prayer, for aught that they might
do or say. They therefore left him to his rage, and turning to the
Heavenly Father, besought our Lord Jesus Christ that of His most sweet
pity He would have mercy on her soul, and give her pardon for her
sins.
The ship came again to land, leaving the lady in sore peril and
trouble, even as the tale has told you. But our Lord Jesus Christ, who
is Lord and Father of all, and desireth not the death of a sinner, but
rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live--as each day
He showeth us openly by deed, by example and by miracle--sent succour
to this lady, even as you shall hear. For a ship from Flanders, laden
with merchandise, marked this barrel drifting at the mercy of winds
and waters, before ever the Count and his companions were come ashore.
One of the merchants said to his comrades,
"Friends, behold a barrel drifting in our course. If we may reach it,
perchance we may find it to our gain."