"for I speak French featly and other tongues also, so I will bring you
to a good end."
They made such swift passage by day and by night, that according to
the will of Our Lord they came quickly to Brindisi. The ship cast
anchor safely in the harbour, and they lighted on the shore, being
welcomed gladly by the folk of that country. The lady, who was very
shrewd, drew her captives apart, and said, "Sirs, I desire you to
call to mind the pledge and the covenant you have made. I must now be
certain that you are true men, remembering your oaths and plighted
words. I pray you to let me know, by all that you deem of God, whether
you will abide or not by our covenant together; for it is yet not too
late to return to my home."
They answered, "Lady, know beyond question that the bargain we have
made we will carry out loyally. By our faith in God and as christened
men we will abide by this covenant; so be in no doubt of our
assurance."
"I trust you wholly," replied the lady; "but, sirs, see here my son,
whom I had of the Soudan, what shall we do with him?"
"Lady, the boy is right welcome, and to great honour shall he come in
our own land."
"Sirs," said the dame, "I have dealt mischievously with the Soudan,
for I have stolen my person from him, and the son who was so dear to
his heart."
The lady went again to the shipmen, and lifting her hand, said to
them, "Sirs, return to the Soudan whence you came, and greet him with
this message. Tell him that I have taken from him my body and the son
he loved so well, that I might deliver my father, my lord, and my
brother from the prison where they were captive."
When the sailors heard this they were very dolent, but there was
naught that they might do. They set sail for their own country, sad
and very heavy by reason of the lady, of the young lad, whom they
loved greatly, and of the captives who were escaped altogether from
their hand.
For his part the Count arrayed himself meetly by grace of merchants
and Templars, who lent him gladly of their wealth. He abode in the
town, together with his fellowship, for their solace, till they made
them ready for the journey, and took the road to Rome. The Count
sought the Pontiff, and his company with him. Each confessed him
of the secrets of his heart, and when the Bishop heard thereof,
he accepted their devotion, and comforted them right tenderly. He
baptised the child, who was named William. He reconciled the lady with
Holy Church, and confirmed the lady and Messire Thibault her lord, in
their marriage bond, reknitting them together, giving penance to each,
and absolution for their sins. After this they made no long sojourn
in Rome, but took their leave of the Apostle who had honoured them so
greatly. He granted them his benison, and commended them to God. So
they went their way in great solace and delight, praising God and His
Mother, and all the calendar of saints, and rendering thanks for the
mercies which had been vouchsafed to them. Journeying thus they
came at last to the country of their birth, and were met by a fair
procession of bishops and abbots, monks and priests, who had desired
them fervently. But of all these welcomes they welcomed most gladly
her who was recovered from death, and had delivered her sire, her
lord, and her brother from the hands of the Paynim, even as you have
heard. There we leave them for awhile, and will tell you of the
shipmen and Saracens who had fared with them across the sea.
The sailors and Saracens who had carried them to Brindisi, returned
as quickly as they were able, and with a fair wind cast anchor before
Aumarie. They got them to land, very sad and heavy, and told their
tidings to the Soudan. Right sorrowful was the Soudan, and neither for
time nor reason could he forget his grief. Because of this mischief he
loved that daughter the less who tarried with him, and showed her the
less courtesy. Nevertheless the maiden increased in virtue and in
wisdom, so that the Paynim held her in love and honour, praising her
for the good that was known of her. But now the story is silent as to
that Soudan who was so tormented by reason of the flight of his dame
and captives; and comes again to the Count of Ponthieu, who was
welcomed to his realm with such pomp and worship, as became a lord of
his degree.
In no long while after his return the son of the Count was dubbed
knight, and rich was the feast. He became a knight both chivalrous and
brave. Greatly he loved all honourable men, and gladly he bestowed
fair gifts on the poor knights and poor gentlewomen of the country.
Much was he esteemed of lord and hind, for he was a worthy knight,
generous, valiant and debonair, proud only to his foes. Yet his days
on earth were but a span, which was the sorer pity, for he died
lamented of all.
Now it befell that the Count held high Court, and many a knight and
lord sat with him at the feast. Amongst these came a very noble man
and knight, of great place, in Normandy, named my lord Raoul des
Preaux. This Raoul had a daughter, passing sweet and fair. The Count
spoke so urgently to Raoul and to the maiden's kin that a marriage
was accorded between William, his grandson, the son of the Soudan of
Aumarie, and the daughter of my lord Raoul, the heiress to all his
wealth. William wedded the damsel with every rich observance, and in
right of his wife this William became Lord of Preaux.
For a long while the realm had peace from its foes.
Messire Thibault dwelt with the lady, and had of her two sons, who
in later days were worthy gentlemen of great worship. The son of the
Count of Ponthieu, of whom we have spoken much and naught but good,
died shortly after, to the grief of all the land. The Count of St. Pol
was yet alive; therefore the two sons of my lord Thibault were heirs
to both these realms, and attained thereto in the end. That devout
lady, their mother, because of her contrite heart, gave largely to
the poor; and Messire Thibault, like the honourable gentleman he was,
abounded in good works so long as he was quick.
Now it chanced that the daughter of the lady, who abode with the
Soudan her father, increased greatly in favour and in virtue. She was
called The Fair Captive, by reason that her mother had left her in
the Soudan's keeping, as you have heard. A certain brave Turk in the
service of the Soudan--Malakin of Baudas by name--saw this damsel, so
fair and gracious, and desired her dearly in his heart, because of the
good men told of her. He came before his master, and said to him,
"Sire, in return for his labour your servant craves a gift."
"Malakin," returned the Soudan, "what gift would you have?"
"Sire, I would dare to tell it to your face, if only she were not so
high above my reach."
The Sultan who was both shrewd and quick witted made reply,
"Say out boldly what is in your mind, for I hold you dear, and
remember what you have done. If there is aught it beseems me to
grant--saving only my honour--be assured that it is yours."
"Sire, well I know that your honour is without spot, nor would I seek
anything against it. I pray you to bestow on your servant--if so it be
your pleasure--my lady your daughter, for she is the gift I covet most
in all the world."
The Soudan kept silence, and considered for a space. He knew well that
Malakin was both valiant and wise, and might easily come to great
honour and degree. Since the servant was worthy of his high desire,
the Soudan said, "By my law you have required of me a great thing, for
I love my daughter dearly, and have no other heir. You know well, and
it is the simple truth, that she comes of the best and bravest blood
in France, for her mother is the child of the Count of Ponthieu. But
since you too are valiant, and have done me loyal service, for my part
I will give her to you willingly, save only that it be to the maiden's
mind."
"Sire," said Malakin, "I would not take her against her wish."
The Soudan bade the girl be summoned. When she came, he said, "Fair
daughter, I have granted you in marriage, if it pleases you."
"Sir," answered the maiden, "my pleasure is in your will."
The Soudan took her by the hand, saying, "Take her, Malakin, the maid
is yours."
Malakin received her with a glad heart, and wedded her according to
the Paynim rite, bringing her to his house right joyously, with the
countenance of all his friends. Afterwards he returned with her to his
own land. The Soudan escorted them upon their way, with such a fair
company of his household as seemed good to him. Then he bade farewell
to his child and her lord, and returned to his home. But a great part
of his fellowship he commanded to go with her for their service,
Malakin came back to his own land, where he was welcomed right gladly
of his friends, and served and honoured by all the folk of his realm.
He lived long and tenderly with his wife, neither were they childless,
as this story testifies. For of this lady, who was called the Fair
Captive, was born the mother of that courteous Turk, the Sultan
Saladin, an honourable, a wise, and a conquering lord.
XVII
THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI
There are divers men who make a great show of loyalty, and pretend to
such discretion in the hidden things they hear, that at the end folk
come to put faith in them. When by their false seeming they have
persuaded the simple to open out to them their love and their deeds,
then they noise the matter about the country, and make it their song
and their mirth. Thus it chances that the lesser joy is his who has
bared to them his heart. For the sweeter the love, the more bitter is
the pang that lovers know, when each deems the other to have bruited
abroad the secret he should conceal. Oftentimes these blabbers do such
mischief with their tongue, that the love they spoil comes to its
close in sorrow and in care. This indeed happened in Burgundy to a
brave and worthy knight, and to the Lady of Vergi. This knight loved
his lady so dearly that she granted him her tenderness, on such
covenant as this--that the day he showed her favour to any, that very
hour he would lose the love and the grace she bestowed on him. To seal
this bond they devised together that the knight should come a days to
an orchard, at such hour as seemed good to his friend. He must remain
coy in his nook within the wall till he might see the lady's lapdog
run across the orchard. Then without further tarrying he should enter
her chamber, knowing full well she was alone, whom so fondly he
desired to greet. This he did, and in this fashion they met together
for a great while, none being privy to their sweet and stolen love,
save themselves alone.
The knight was courteous and fair, and by reason of his courage was
right welcome to that Duke who was lord of Burgundy. He came and went
about the Court, and that so often that the Duchess set her mind upon
him. She cared so little to hide her thought, that had his heart not
been in another's keeping, he must surely have perceived in her eyes
that she loved him. But however tender her semblance the knight showed
no kindness in return, for he marked nothing of her inclination.
Passing troubled was the dame that he should treat her thus; so that
on a day she took him apart, and sought to make him of her counsel.
"Sir, as men report, you are a brave and worthy knight, for the which
give God thanks. It would not be more than your deserts, if you had
for friend a lady in so high a place that her love would bring to you
both honour and profit. How richly could such a lady serve you!"
"Lady," said he, "I have never yet had this in my thought."
"By my faith," she answered, "it seems to me that the longer you wait,
the less is your hope. Perchance the lady will stoop very readily from
her throne, if you but kneel at her knee."
The knight replied, "Lady, by my faith, I know little why you speak
such words, and I understand their meaning not at all. I am neither
duke nor count to dare to set my love in so high a seat. There is
nought in me to gain the love of so sovereign a dame, pain me how I
may."
"Such things have been," said she, "and so may chance again. Many more
marvellous works have been wrought than this, and the day of miracles
is not yet past. Tell me, know you not yet that you have gained the
love of some high princess, even mine?"
The knight made answer forthwith, "Lady, I know it not. I would desire
to have your love in a fair and honourable fashion; but may God keep
me from such love between us, as would put shame upon my lord. In no
manner, nor for any reason, will I enter on such a business as would
lead me to deal my true and lawful lord so shrewd and foul a wrong."
Bitter at heart was the dame to see her love so scorned.
"Fie upon you," she cried, "and who required of you any such thing?"
"Ah, lady, to God be the praise; you have said enough to make your
meaning passing plain."
The lady strove no more to show herself kind to him. Great was the
wrath and sharp the malice that she hid within her heart, and well she
purposed that, if she might, she would avenge herself speedily. All
the day she considered her anger. That night as she lay beside the
Duke she began to sigh, and afterwards to weep. Presently the Duke
inquired of her grief, bidding her show it him forthwith.
"Certes," said the dame, "I make this great sorrow because no prince
can tell who is his faithful servant, and who is not. Often he gives
the more honour and wealth to those who are traitors rather than
friends, and sees nothing of their wrong."
"In faith, wife," answered the Duke, "I know not why you speak these
words. At least I am free of such blame as this, for in nowise would I
nourish a traitor, if only a traitor I knew him to be."
"Hate then this traitor," cried she,--and she named a name--"who gives
me no peace, praying and requiring me the livelong day that I should
grant him my love. For a great while he had been in this mind--as he
says--but did not dare to speak his thoughts. I considered the whole
matter, fair lord, and resolved to show it you at once. It is likely
enough to be true that he cherished this hope, for we have never heard
that he loves elsewhere. I entreat you in guerdon, to look well to
your own honour, since this, as you know, is your duty and right."
Passing grievous was this business to the Duke. He answered to the
lady,
"I will bring it to a head, and very quickly, as I deem."
That night the Duke lay upon a bed of little ease. He could neither
sleep nor rest, by reason of that lord, his friend, who, he was
persuaded, had done him such bitter wrong as justly to have forfeited
his love. Because of this he kept vigil the whole night through. He
rose very early on the morrow, and bade him come whom his wife had put
to blame, although he had done nothing blameworthy. Then he took him
to task, man to man, when there were but these two together.
"Certes," he said, "it is a heavy grief that you who are so comely
and brave, should yet have no honour in you. You have deceived me the
more, for I have long believed you to be a man of good faith, giving
loyalty, at least, to me, in return for the love I have given to you.
I know not how you can have harboured such a felon's wish, as to pray
and require the Duchess to grant you her grace. You are guilty of such
treachery that conduct more vile it would be far to seek. Get you
hence from my realm. You have my leave to part, and it is denied to
you for ever. If you return here it will be at your utmost peril, for
I warn you beforehand that if I lay hands upon you, you will die a
shameful death."
When the knight heard this judgment, such wrath and mortification
were his that his members trembled beneath him. He called to mind his
friend, of whom he would have no joy, if he might not come and go and
sojourn in that realm from which the Duke had banished him. Moreover
he was sick at heart that his lord should deem him a disloyal traitor,
without just cause. He knew such sore discomfort that he held himself
as dead and betrayed.
"Sire," said he, "for the love of God believe this never, neither
think that I have been so bold. To do that of which you wrongfully
charge me, has never entered my mind, not one day, nor for one single
hour. Who has told you this lie has wrought a great ill."
"You gain nothing by such denials," answered the Duke, "for of a
surety the thing is true. I have heard from her own lips the very
guise and fashion in which you prayed and required her love, like the
envious traitor that you are. Many another word it may well be that
you spoke, as to which the lady of her courtesy keeps silence."
"My lady says what it pleases her to say," replied the dolorous
knight, "and my denials are lighter than her word. Naught is there for
me to say; nothing is left for me to do, so that I may be believed
that this adventure never happened."
"Happen it did, by my soul," said the Duke, remembering certain words
of his wife. Well he deemed that he might be assured of the truth,
if but the lady's testimony were true that this lord had never loved
otherwhere. Therefore the Duke said to the knight, "If you will pledge
your faith to answer truly what I may ask, I shall be certified by
your words whether or not you have done this deed of which I misdoubt
you."
The knight had but one desire--to turn aside his lord's wrath, which
had so wrongfully fallen upon him. He feared only lest he should be
driven from the land where lodged the dame who was the closest to his
mind. Knowing nothing of what was in the Duke's thought, he considered
that his question could only concern the one matter; so he replied
that without fraud or concealment he would do as his lord had said.
Thus he pledged his faith, and the Duke accepted his affiance.
When this was done the Duke made question,
"I have loved you so dearly that at the bottom of my heart I cannot
believe you guilty of such shameless misdoing as the Duchess tells me.
I would not credit it a moment, if you yourself were not the cause of
my doubtfulness. From your face, the care you bestow upon your person,
and a score of trifles, any who would know, can readily see that you
are in love with some lady. Since none about the Court perceives
damsel or dame on whom you have set your heart, I ask myself whether
indeed it may not be my wife, who tells me that you have entreated her
for love. Nothing that any one may do can take this suspicion from my
mind, except you tell me yourself that you love elsewhere, making it
so plain that I am left without doubt that I know the naked truth. If
you refuse her name you will have broken your oath, and forth from my
realm you go as an outlawed man."
The knight had none to give him counsel. To himself he seemed to stand
at the parting of two ways, both one and the other leading to death.
If he spoke the simple truth (and tell he must if he would not be a
perjurer) then was he as good as dead; for if he did such wrong as to
sin against the covenant with his lady and his friend, certainly he
would lose her love, so it came to her knowledge. But if he concealed
the truth from the Duke, then he was false to his oath, and had lost
both country and friend. But little he recked of country, so only he
might keep his Love, since of all his riches she was the most dear.
The knight called to heart and remembrance the fair joy and the solace
that were his when he had this lady between his arms. He considered
within himself that if by reason of his misdoing she came to harm, or
were lost to him, since he might not take her where he went, how could
he live without her. It would be with him also, as erst with the
Castellan of Couci, who having his Love fast only in his heart, told
over in his song,
Ah, God, strong Love, I sit and weep alone,
Remembering the solace that was given;
The tender guise, the semblance that was shown
By her, my friend, my comrade, and my Heaven.
When grief brings back the joy that was mine own,
I would the heart from out my breast were riven.
Ah, Lord, the sweet words hushed, the beauty flown;
Would God that I were dead, and low, and shriven.
The knight was in anguish such as this, for he knew not whether to
make clear the truth, or to lie and be banished from the country.
Whilst he was deep in thought, turning over in his mind what it were
best to do, tears rose in his heart and flowed from his eyes, so that
his face was wet, by reason of the sorrow that he suffered. The Duke
had no more mirth than the knight, deeming that his secret was so
heavy that he dared not make it plain. The Duke spoke swiftly to his
friend,
"I see clearly that you fear to trust me wholly, as a knight should
trust his lord. If you confess your counsel privily to me, you cannot
think that I shall show the matter to any man. I would rather have my
teeth drawn one by one, than speak a word."
"Ah," cried the knight, "for God's love, have pity, Sire. I know not
what I ought to say, nor what will become of me; but I would rather
die than lose what lose I shall if she only hears that you have the
truth, and that you heard it from my lips, whilst I am a living man."
The Duke made answer,
"I swear to you by my body and my soul, and on the faith and love I
owe you again by reason of your homage, that never in my life will I
tell the tale to any creature born, or even breathe a word or make a
sign about the business."
With the tears yet running down his face the knight said to him,
"Sire, right or wrong, now will I show my secret. I love your niece of
Vergi, and she loves me, so that no friends can love more fondly."
"If you wish to be believed," replied the Duke, "tell me now, if any,
save you two alone, knows anything of this joy?"
And the knight made answer to him,
"Nay, not a creature in the world."
Then said the Duke,
"No love is so privy as that. If none has heard thereof, how do you
meet together, and how devise time and place?"
"By my faith, Sire, I will tell you all, and keep back nothing, since
you know so much of our counsel."
So he related the whole story of his goings to and fro within the
pleasaunce; of that first covenant with his friend, and of the office
of the little dog.
Then said the Duke,
"I require of you that I may be your comrade at such fair meeting.
When you go again to the orchard, I too, would enter therein, and
mark for myself the success of your device. As for my niece she shall
perceive naught."
"Sire, if it be your will it is my pleasure also; save, only, that you
find it not heavy or burdensome. Know well that I go this very night."
The Duke said that he would go with him, for the vigil would in no
wise be burdensome, but rather a frolic and a game. They accorded
between them a place of meeting, where they would draw together on
foot, and alone. When nightfall was come they fared to the hostel of
the Duke's niece, for her dwelling was near at hand. They had not
tarried long in the garden, when the Duke saw his niece's lapdog run
straight to that end of the orchard where the knight was hidden.
Wondrous kindness showed the knight to his lady's dog. Immediately he
took his way to her lodging, and left his master in his nook by the
wall. The Duke followed after till he drew near the chamber, and held
himself coy, concealing him as best he might. It was easy enough to
do this, for a great tree stood there, high and leafy, so that he was
covered close as by a shield. From this place he marked the little dog
enter the chamber, and presently saw his niece issue therefrom, and
hurry forth to meet her lover in the pleasaunce. He was so close that
he could see and hear the solace of that greeting, the salutation of
her mouth and of her hands. She embraced him closely in her fair white
arms, kissing him more than a hundred times, whilst she spoke many
comforting words. The knight for his part kissed her again, and held
her fast, praising her with many tender names.
"My lady, my friend, my love," said he, "heart and mistress and hope,
and the sum of all that I hold dear, know well that I have yearned to
be with you as we are now, every day and all day long since we met."
"Sweet lord, sweet friend, sweet love," replied the lady, "never has a
day nor an hour gone by but I was awearied of its length. But I grieve
no longer over the past, for I have my heart's desire when you are
with me, joyous and well. Right welcome are you to your friend."
And the knight made answer,
"Love, you are welcome and wellmet."