[Day the Fifth]
PIETRO BOCCAMAZZA, FLEEING WITH AGNOLELLA, FALLETH AMONG
THIEVES; THE GIRL ESCAPETH THROUGH A WOOD AND IS LED [BY
FORTUNE] TO A CASTLE, WHILST PIETRO IS TAKEN BY THE THIEVES,
BUT PRESENTLY, ESCAPING FROM THEIR HANDS, WINNETH, AFTER
DIVERS ADVENTURES, TO THE CASTLE WHERE HIS MISTRESS IS AND
ESPOUSING HER, RETURNETH WITH HER TO ROME
There was none among all the company but commended Emilia's story,
which the queen seeing to be finished, turned to Elisa and bade her
follow on. Accordingly, studious to obey, she began: "There occurreth
to my mind, charming ladies, an ill night passed by a pair of
indiscreet young lovers; but, for that many happy days ensued thereon,
it pleaseth me to tell the story, as one that conformeth to our
proposition.
There was, a little while agone, at Rome,--once the head, as it is
nowadays the tail of the world,[275]--a youth, called Pietro
Boccamazza, of a very worshipful family among those of the city, who
fell in love with a very fair and lovesome damsel called Agnolella,
the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a plebeian, but very dear to
the Romans, and loving her, he contrived so to do that the girl began
to love him no less than he loved her; whereupon, constrained by
fervent love and himseeming he might no longer brook the cruel pain
that the desire he had of her gave him, he demanded her in marriage;
which no sooner did his kinsfolk know than they all repaired to him
and chid him sore for that which he would have done; and on the other
hand they gave Gigliuozzo to understand that he should make no account
of Pietro's words, for that, an he did this, they would never have him
for friend or kinsman. Pietro seeing that way barred whereby alone he
deemed he might avail to win to his desire, was like to die of
chagrin, and had Gigliuozzo consented, he would have taken his
daughter to wife, in despite of all his kindred. However, he
determined, an it liked the girl, to contrive to give effect to their
wishes, and having assured himself, by means of an intermediary, that
this was agreeable to her, he agreed with her that she should flee
with him from Rome.
[Footnote 275: Clement V. early in the fourteenth century removed the
Papal See to Avignon, where it continued to be during the reigns of
the five succeeding Popes, Rome being in the meantime abandoned by the
Papal Court, till Gregory XI, in the year 1376 again took up his
residence at the latter city. It is apparently to this circumstance
that Boccaccio alludes in the text.]
Accordingly, having taken order for this, Pietro arose very early one
morning and taking horse with the damsel, set out for Anagni, where he
had certain friends in whom he trusted greatly. They had no leisure to
make a wedding of it, for that they feared to be followed, but rode
on, devising of their love and now and again kissing one another. It
chanced that, when they came mayhap eight miles from Rome, the way not
being overwell known to Pietro, they took a path to the left, whereas
they should have kept to the right; and scarce had they ridden more
than two miles farther when they found themselves near a little
castle, wherefrom, as soon as they were seen, there issued suddenly a
dozen footmen. The girl, espying these, whenas they were already close
upon them, cried out, saying, 'Pietro, let us begone, for we are
attacked'; then, turning her rouncey's head, as best she knew, towards
a great wood hard by, she clapped her spurs fast to his flank and held
on to the saddlebow, whereupon the nag, feeling himself goaded, bore
her into the wood at a gallop.
Pietro, who went gazing more at her face than at the road, not having
become so quickly aware as she of the new comers, was overtaken and
seized by them, whilst he still looked, without yet perceiving them,
to see whence they should come. They made him alight from his hackney
and enquired who he was, which he having told, they proceeded to take
counsel together and said, 'This fellow is of the friends of our
enemies; what else should we do but take from him these clothes and
this nag and string him up to one of yonder oaks, to spite the
Orsini?' They all fell in with this counsel and bade Pietro put off
his clothes, which as he was in act to do, foreboding him by this of
the ill fate which awaited him, it chanced that an ambush of good
five-and-twenty footmen started suddenly out upon the others, crying,
'Kill! Kill!' The rogues, taken by surprise, let Pietro be and turned
to stand upon their defence, but, seeing themselves greatly
outnumbered by their assailants, betook themselves to flight, whilst
the others pursued them.
Pietro, seeing this, hurriedly caught up his gear and springing on his
hackney, addressed himself, as best he might, to flee by the way he
had seen his mistress take; but finding her not and seeing neither
road nor footpath in the wood neither perceiving any horse's hoof
marks, he was the woefullest man alive; and as soon as himseemed he
was safe and out of reach of those who had taken him, as well as of
the others by whom they had been assailed, he began to drive hither
and thither about the wood, weeping and calling; but none answered him
and he dared not turn back and knew not where he might come, an he
went forward, more by token that he was in fear of the wild beasts
that use to harbour in the woods, at once for himself and for his
mistress, whom he looked momently to see strangled of some bear or
some wolf. On this wise, then, did the unlucky Pietro range all day
about the wood, crying and calling, whiles going backward, when as he
thought to go forward, until, what with shouting and weeping and fear
and long fasting, he was so spent that he could no more and seeing the
night come and knowing not what other course to take, he dismounted
from his hackney and tied the latter to a great oak, into which he
climbed, so he might not be devoured of the wild beasts in the night.
A little after the moon rose and the night being very clear and
bright, he abode there on wake, sighing and weeping and cursing his
ill luck, for that he durst not go to sleep, lest he should fall,
albeit, had he had more commodity thereof, grief and the concern in
which he was for his mistress would not have suffered him to sleep.
Meanwhile, the damsel, fleeing, as we have before said, and knowing
not whither to betake herself, save whereas it seemed good to her
hackney to carry her, fared on so far into the wood that she could not
see where she had entered, and went wandering all day about that
desert place, no otherwise than as Pietro had done, now pausing [to
hearken] and now going on, weeping the while and calling and making
moan of her illhap. At last, seeing that Pietro came not and it being
now eventide, she happened on a little path, into which her hackney
turned, and following it, after she had ridden some two or more miles
she saw a little house afar off. Thither she made her way as
quickliest she might and found there a good man sore stricken in years
and a woman, his wife alike old, who, seeing her alone, said to her,
'Daughter, what dost thou alone at this hour in these parts?' The
damsel replied, weeping, that she had lost her company in the wood and
enquired how near she was to Anagni. 'Daughter mine,' answered the
good man, 'this is not the way to go to Anagni; it is more than a
dozen miles hence.' Quoth the girl, 'And how far is it hence to any
habitations where I may have a lodging for the night?' To which the
good man answered, 'There is none anywhere so near that thou mayst
come thither by daylight.' Then said the damsel, 'Since I can go no
otherwhere, will it please you harbour me here to-night for the love
of God?' 'Young lady,' replied the old man, 'thou art very welcome to
abide with us this night; algates, we must warn you that there are
many ill companies, both of friends and of foes that come and go about
these parts both by day and by night, who many a time do us sore annoy
and great mischief; and if, by ill chance, thou being here, there come
any of them and seeing thee, fair and young as thou art, should offer
to do thee affront and shame, we could not avail to succour thee
therefrom. We deem it well to apprise thee of this, so that, an it
betide, thou mayst not be able to complain of us.'
The girl, seeing that it was late, albeit the old man's words
affrighted her, said, 'An it please God, He will keep both you and me
from that annoy; and even if it befall me, it were a much less evil to
be maltreated of men than to be mangled of the wild beasts in the
woods.' So saying, she alighted from the rouncey and entered the poor
man's house, where she supped with him on such poor fare as they had
and after, all clad as she was, cast herself, together with them, on a
little bed of theirs. She gave not over sighing and bewailing her own
mishap and that of Pietro all night, knowing not if she might hope
other than ill of him; and when it drew near unto morning, she heard a
great trampling of folk approaching, whereupon she arose and betaking
herself to a great courtyard, that lay behind the little house, saw in
a corner a great heap of hay, in which she hid herself, so she might
not be so quickly found, if those folk should come thither. Hardly had
she made an end of hiding herself when these, who were a great company
of ill knaves, came to the door of the little house and causing open
to them, entered and found Agnolella's hackney yet all saddled and
bridled; whereupon they asked who was there and the good man, not
seeing the girl, answered, 'None is here save ourselves; but this
rouncey, from whomsoever it may have escaped, came hither yestereve
and we brought it into the house, lest the wolves should eat it.'
'Then,' said the captain of the troop, 'since it hath none other
master, it is fair prize for us.'
Thereupon they all dispersed about the little house and some went into
the courtyard, where, laying down their lances and targets, it chanced
that one of them, knowing not what else to do, cast his lance into the
hay and came very near to slay the hidden girl and she to discover
herself, for that the lance passed so close to her left breast that
the steel tore a part of her dress, wherefore she was like to utter a
great cry, fearing to be wounded; but, remembering where she was, she
abode still, all fear-stricken. Presently, the rogues, having dressed
the kids and other meat they had with them and eaten and drunken, went
off, some hither and some thither, about their affairs, and carried
with them the girl's hackney. When they had gone some distance, the
good man asked his wife, 'What befell of our young woman, who came
thither yestereve? I have seen nothing of her since we arose.' The
good wife replied that she knew not and went looking for her,
whereupon the girl, hearing that the rogues were gone, came forth of
the hay, to the no small contentment of her host, who, rejoiced to see
that she had not fallen into their hands, said to her, it now growing
day, 'Now that the day cometh, we will, an it please thee, accompany
thee to a castle five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but
needs must thou go afoot, for yonder ill folk, that now departed
hence, have carried off thy rouncey.' The girl concerned herself
little about the nag, but besought them for God's sake to bring her to
the castle in question, whereupon they set out and came thither about
half tierce.
Now this castle belonged to one of the Orsini family, by name Lionello
di Campodifiore, and there by chance was his wife, a very pious and
good lady, who, seeing the girl, knew her forthright and received her
with joy and would fain know orderly how she came thither. Agnolella
told her all and the lady, who knew Pietro on like wise, as being a
friend of her husband's, was grieved for the ill chance that had
betided and hearing where he had been taken, doubted not but he was
dead; wherefore she said to Agnolella, 'Since thou knowest not what is
come of Pietro, thou shalt abide here till such time as I shall have a
commodity to send thee safe to Rome.'
Meanwhile Pietro abode, as woebegone as could be, in the oak, and
towards the season of the first sleep, he saw a good score of wolves
appear, which came all about his hackney, as soon as they saw him. The
horse, scenting them, tugged at his bridle, till he broke it, and
would have fled, but being surrounded and unable to escape, he
defended himself a great while with his teeth and his hoofs. At last,
however, he was brought down and strangled and quickly disembowelled
by the wolves, which took all their fill of his flesh and having
devoured him, made off, without leaving aught but the bones, whereat
Pietro, to whom it seemed he had in the rouncey a companion and a
support in his troubles, was sore dismayed and misdoubted he should
never avail to win forth of the wood. However, towards daybreak, being
perished with cold in the oak and looking still all about him, he
caught sight of a great fire before him, mayhap a mile off, wherefore,
as soon as it was grown broad day, he came down from the oak, not
without fear, and making for the fire, fared on till he came to the
place, where he found shepherds eating and making merry about it, by
whom he was received for compassion.
After he had eaten and warmed himself, he acquainted them with his
misadventure and telling them how he came thither alone, asked them if
there was in those parts a village or castle, to which he might betake
himself. The shepherds answered that some three miles thence there was
a castle belonging to Lionello di Campodifiore, whose lady was
presently there; whereat Pietro was much rejoiced and besought them
that one of them should accompany him to the castle, which two of them
readily did. There he found some who knew him and was in act to
enquire for a means of having search made about the forest for the
damsel, when he was bidden to the lady's presence and incontinent
repaired to her. Never was joy like unto his, when he saw Agnolella
with her, and he was all consumed with desire to embrace her, but
forbore of respect for the lady, and if he was glad, the girl's joy
was no less great. The gentle lady, having welcomed him and made much
of him and heard from him what had betided him, chid him amain of that
which he would have done against the will of his kinsfolk; but, seeing
that he was e'en resolved upon this and that it was agreeable to the
girl also, she said in herself, 'Why do I weary myself in vain? These
two love and know each other and both are friends of my husband. Their
desire is an honourable one and meseemeth it is pleasing to God, since
the one of them hath scaped the gibbet and the other the lance-thrust
and both the wild beasts of the wood; wherefore be it as they will.'
Then, turning to the lovers, she said to them, 'If you have it still
at heart to be man and wife, it is my pleasure also; be it so, and let
the nuptials be celebrated here at Lionello's expense. I will engage
after to make peace between you and your families.' Accordingly, they
were married then and there, to the great contentment of Pietro and
the yet greater satisfaction of Agnolella, and the gentle lady made
them honourable nuptials, in so far as might be in the mountains.
There, with the utmost delight, they enjoyed the first-fruits of their
love and a few days after, they took horse with the lady and returned,
under good escort, to Rome, where she found Pietro's kinsfolk sore
incensed at that which he had done, but contrived to make his peace
with them, and he lived with his Agnolella in all peace and pleasance
to a good old age."