BERTRAN AND RICHARD COUNT OF POITOU.
How this great influence over the young King was acquired the old
manuscripts do not tell us. The first time we hear of Bertran in history
is in connection with the quarrels between Richard, at that time Count
of Poitou, and his unruly barons in the south of France. Amongst these
Bertran de Born took a prominent position. His worldly possessions were
of comparatively small importance, but his fame as a poet, his personal
valour, his indomitable fierceness and love of war made up for this want,
and qualified him for the part of ringleader and prime intellectual mover
of the rebellious party. A cause of quarrel between such an overlord as
Richard and such a vassal as Bertran may easily be imagined; but beyond
these public grounds of mutual animosity there seems to have been some
personal grudge between them. The manuscripts speak of a lady in whose
heart the troubadour supplanted his princely rival, and in addition to
this fact—perhaps in consequence of it—we hear of Richard’s hostile
interference in his adversary’s private concerns.
Bertran de Born had a brother, Constantine by name, with whom he shared
the possession of Castle Autafort. He is described by the manuscripts
as ‘a good knight, but not a man to trouble himself much about valour
or honour.’ A man of this kind stood little chance of holding his own
against our troubadour, and internal evidence strongly points towards
the latter as the aggressor in the endless quarrels between the two
brothers. This, however, Bertran’s biographer does not acknowledge. He
goes on to say that Constantine ‘hated Bertran at all seasons, and wished
well to those who wished ill to Bertran, and he took from him the Castle
of Autafort, which belonged to them both in common. But Sir Bertran
soon recovered it, and drove his brother from all his possessions.’ At
this juncture Richard interfered in favour of Constantine. Together
with Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, and other powerful barons, he invaded
Bertran’s domains, which soon became the scene of atrocities such as
are the usual concomitants of civil feud. Castle Autafort itself was
threatened, but its master remained undaunted. In a powerful _sirventes_
he hurls defiance at his enemies. A war-song more recklessly bold, more
graphically real, has seldom been heard.
Let the reader judge. ‘All day long,’ Bertran says, ‘I fight, and am at
work, to make a thrust at them and defend myself, for they are laying
waste my land and burning my crops; they pull up my trees by the root
and mix my corn with the straw. Cowards and brave men are my enemies. I
constantly disunite and sow hatred amongst the barons, and then remould
and join them together again, and try to give them brave hearts and
strong; but I am a fool for my trouble, for they are made of base metal.’
In these last sentences the poet discloses the secret of his power. It
was the irresistible sway of his eloquence over men’s minds, his ‘don
terrible de la familiarité,’ as the elder Mirabeau puts it, which enabled
Bertran to play on men’s minds as on the strings of a lute, and to make
them form and vary their purpose according to his impulse. In this
very _sirventes_ we gain an idea of the manner in which he lashes the
hesitating barons into resistance against the common oppressor. Talairand
is accused of indolence—‘he does not trot nor gallop, motionless he
lies in his cot, neither lance nor arrow does he move. He lives like a
Lombard pedlar, and when others depart for the war he stretches himself
and yawns.’ Another baron, whose name, William of Gordon, strikes the
English ear with familiar note, is warned against Richard’s persuasive
statecraft. ‘I love you well,’ Bertran says, ‘but my enemies want to
make a fool and a dupe of you, and the time seems long to them before
they see you in their ranks.’ The _sirventes_ winds up with a climax of
fierce invective against Richard himself. ‘To Perigeux close to the wall,
so that I can throw my battle-axe over it, I will come well armed, and
riding on my horse Bayard; and if I find the glutton of Poitou he shall
know the cut of my sword. A mixture of brain and splinters of iron he
shall wear on his brow.’
Bertran’s assertions of his dangerous influence over men’s minds were not
the idle boastings of poetic vanity. A terrible conspiracy was formed
against Richard, and the greatest nobles of the country, the Viscounts of
Ventadorn, of Camborn, of Segur, and of Limoges, the Count of Perigord,
William of Gordon, the Lord of Montfort, besides many important cities,
are mentioned amongst the rebels. A meeting took place, and we may
imagine the picturesque scene when ‘in the old monastery of San Marsal
they swore on a missal’ to stand by each other and never to enter into
separate treaties with Richard. The special causes of this rebellion are
not known to us. We may surmise, and indeed know in a general way, that
the hand of their lion-hearted lord weighed heavily on the provinces of
Southern France. But the veil which covers this portion of Henry II.’s
reign has never yet been fully lifted, and till that is done we must
be satisfied with such hints as may be gleaned from scattered bits of
information in ancient writers. Our Provençal manuscript offers a clue
not without interest to the historical student. It speaks of certain
_rendas de caretas_, rates of carts or wagons, most likely a toll which
Richard had unlawfully appropriated, and which in reality belonged to the
‘Young King,’ that is to Prince Henry, to whom it had been given by his
father.
This latter circumstance connects our story with less obscure portions
of history. It is well known that in 1182 King Henry demanded of his
sons Richard and Geoffrey to do homage to their elder brother for the
possessions respectively held by them, a demand indignantly refused by
Richard. Hence the invasion of Aquitain by young Henry, and hence perhaps
also the latter’s intimacy with our poet, who, as the intellectual mover
of the rebellion against Richard, was an ally by no means to be despised.
Thus the war between the brothers went on raging for a time, Bertran
fighting in the foremost ranks, and at the same time fanning the flame
with his songs. We still possess _sirventeses_ in which he addresses the
chief barons by name, reminding them of their grievances, praising the
brave and castigating the waverers with his satire. Such were the means
of diplomatic pressure in those days. But primitive though such measures
of admonition may appear, they were none the less efficacious with those
concerned. Papiol, Bertran’s faithful minstrel, went about the country
boldly reciting his master’s taunts in the lordly hall of the baron or
at the gate of the castle, where the throng of the vassals would listen
to his song. Taking into account the excitability of the southern nature
further inflamed by the struggles of the time, together with the general
interest of the subject and the consummate art of treatment and delivery,
one can form some idea of the dangerous influence of the troubadours,
too dangerous and too generally acknowledged to be despised by the
mightiest princes of the time.
Bertran de Born is evidently quite conscious of the force of his songs,
and the use he makes of his power betrays great sagacity of political
purpose. But with him the love of war for war’s sake is so great that
sometimes every deeper design seems to vanish before this ruling passion.
His character is a psychological problem in this respect. A man who,
after a life of wildest storm and stress, passed in continual strife with
domestic and political foes, dies in peace and in the quiet possession
of his usurped dominion, must have been endowed in a more than usual
degree with calmness and deliberation. But there is no trace of this in
his songs. They breathe one and all the recklessness and animal buoyancy
of a savage chieftain who regards fighting as the only enjoyment and
true vocation of a man. One of his warlike _sirventeses_ ends with the
naïve exclamation by way of _tornada_ or _envoi_, ‘Would that the great
barons could always be inflamed against each other!’ In another he gives
vent to his insatiate pugnacity with most unqualified openness. ‘There
is peace everywhere,’ he says, ‘but I still retain a rag (_pans_) of
warfare; a sore in his eye (_pustella en son huelh_) to him who tries to
part me from it, although I may have begun the quarrel! Peace gives me no
pleasure, war is my delight. This is my law, other I have none. I don’t
regard Monday or Tuesday, or week, or month, or year: April or March
would not hinder me in doing damage to those who wrong me. Three of them
would not get the value of an old leather strap from me.’[24]
Things in Aquitain began in the meantime to take a more peaceful turn
than our warlike singer could wish or expect. King Henry appeared on the
scene as peacemaker between his sons, and by his command young Henry had
to declare himself satisfied with a money compensation for his claims of
overlordship. This compliance drew on him the momentary indignation of
the troubadour, who calls him ‘a king of cowards;’ and adds that ‘not by
lying asleep will he become master of Cumberland, or King of England,
or conqueror of Ireland.’ The defection of their leader proved fatal to
the league of the barons, who separately tried to make their peace with
Richard and quietly submitted to his punishing wrath. Not so Bertran
de Born. His first impulse was to give utterance to his contempt for
the nobles who by their want of courage and union destroyed their last
chance of safety. ‘I will sing a _sirventes_,’ Bertran exclaims, ‘of
the cowardly barons, and after that not waste another word upon them.
More than a thousand spurs have I broken in them, and never could I make
them trot or gallop. Now they allow themselves to be robbed without
saying a word. God’s curse upon them!’ His next thought must have been
to find a new head and centre for such remnants of the rebellious forces
as still remained unsubdued. In this endeavour he was more successful
than might have been expected under the circumstances. Geoffrey, Henry’s
younger brother, who had been commissioned by the King to facilitate
the reconciliation between Richard and his barons, suddenly declared
himself in favour of the latter, and began to invade Poitou with all the
forces at his disposal. We have no direct evidence of Bertran’s active
participation in this affair. But we know of his intimacy with Geoffrey,
whom, after the desertion of the cause by young Henry, he hails as a
worthy pretender to the crowns of England and Normandy. We are therefore
justified in conjecturing that the bold troubadour’s advice may have had
much weight with a prince of Geoffrey’s ambition.
But here the matter was not to end. In this emergency young Henry
offered his services to his father, promising to advise or if necessary
to enforce a reconciliation between his brothers. But no sooner had
he arrived at the seat of war than he also joined the league of the
barons. Richard in his extreme need implored the aid of his father, who
immediately entered into alliance with Alfonso of Aragon for the purpose
of subduing his rebellious sons. The princes sought the support of the
Count of Toulouse and other powerful nobles of the south of France. War
on a large scale became inevitable, and this prospect was greeted by
Bertran with an exuberance of joy. He revels beforehand in the brilliant
and terrible scenes of a field of battle. ‘As soon as we arrive,’ he
exclaims, ‘the tournament shall begin. The Catalans and the Aragonese
will fall to the ground fast and thick. The pommels of their saddles
will be of no use to them, for our friends strike long blows. And the
splinters will fly up to heaven, and silk and samite will be torn to
shreds, and tents and huts destroyed.’
But once more Bertran’s high hopes of victory were to be cut short by
the hand of fate. King Henry was laying siege to Limoges, and his two
rebellious sons were preparing a large expedition for the rescue of the
threatened city, when suddenly young Henry was taken ill with a violent
fever and died shortly afterwards. On his death-bed he implored his
father’s pardon and asked for a last interview, but the King, although
deeply moved, was persuaded by his counsellors to refuse this favour. It
is said that he feared a snare, and after his former experiences this
suspicion was but too easily accounted for. He, however, sent a ring in
token of forgiveness, which his son pressed to his dying lips. This death
was a blow to both contending parties. In spite of their dissensions,
King Henry had deeply loved his son, who, according to the unanimous
testimony of his contemporaries, was a high-spirited youth of undaunted
courage and noblest aspirations. Bertran’s grief also was true, and, for
the moment at least, unselfish. His unwavering friendship for young Henry
is the one redeeming feature in the reckless warrior’s character, and
this feeling, which death itself had not destroyed, now inspired him with
a song of noblest pathos. It is a dirge as sad and as true as ever friend
has sung for friend. I have attempted the following literal translation
of three stanzas, in which the metrical peculiarities of the original
are strictly adhered to. These peculiarities, which frequently serve the
troubadours for the display of their consummate skill, are here made
the vehicle of genuine emotion, and give truth and colour to the poem.
Note particularly the repetition of the same words at the end of the
first, fifth, and eighth lines of each stanza, which strikes the note of
unrelieved sadness with the monotony of a death-knell:—
PLANH.
Si tuit li dol el plor el marrimen
E las dolors el dan el caitivier
Que hom agues en est segle dolen,
Fosson ensems, sembleran tuit leugier
Contra la mort del jove rei engles,
Don reman pretz e jovens doloiros,
El mons escurs e tenhs e tenebros,
Sems de tot joi, pies de tristor e d’ira.
Estenta mort, plena de marrimen,
Vanar te pods quel melhor cavalier
As tolt al mon qu’anc fos de nulha gen;
Quar non es res qu’a pretz aja mestier,
Que tot no fos el jove rei engles:
E fora meils, s’a deu plagues razos,
Que visques el que mant autr’ enojos
Qu’anc no feron als pros mas dol et ira.
D’aquest segle flac, plen de marrimen,
S’amors s’en vai, son joi tenh mensongier,
Que ren noi a que non torn en cozen;
Totz jorns veiretz que val mens oi que ier:
Cascus se mir el jove rei engles
Qu’era del mon lo plus valens dels pros.
Ar es anatz sos gens cors amoros,
Dont es dolors e desconortz et ira.
_Translation._
COMPLAINT.
If all the pain, the grief, the bitter tears,
The sorrow, the remorse, the scornful slight,
Of which man in this life the burden bears
Were thrown a-heap, their balance would be light
Against the death of our young English King.
Valour and youth stand wailing at his loss;
The world is waste, and dark, and dolorous,
Void of all joy, full of regret and sorrow.
All-present death, cruel and full of tears,
Now mayst thou boast that of the noblest knight
Whose deeds were ever sung to human ears,
Thou hast deprived the world. No fame so bright
That it could darken our young English King.
’Twere better, if it pleased our Lord, to give
Life back to him, than that the traitors live
Who to good men cause but regret and sorrow.
The world is base and dark and full of tears.
Its love has fled, its pleasure passed away;
A falsehood is its truth. Each day appears,
But to regret its better yesterday.
Look up, ye all, to our young English King,
The best among the brave and valorous!
Now is his gentle heart afar from us,
And we are left to our regret and sorrow.
With the death of young Henry the rebellion was practically at an end.
Again the barons tried to make peace with Richard and the King; again
they submitted to the most humiliating terms of submission; but again
also Bertran de Born’s courage remained undaunted, although against him,
as the evil counsellor of young Henry, the wrath of the King was hottest.
Soon the army of the allies arrived before Castle Autafort, and little
hope of rescue remained. Still Bertran held out, and ultimately succumbed
only to the treachery of a friend.