"Madame, for God's sake have pity upon me, for I die for love of you.
Lady, as you hope for grace, so grant grace to me."
"Sir Raoul," cried she, "never for pity will I grant you this day, or
any day, the grace of my love. Know well that if you do not leave me
alone in peace certainly will I tell your lord, my father, the honour
that you require of me, for I am no such woman as you think."
"Nay, lady, is it so indeed?"
"Yes, and very surely," replied she.
Then Sir Raoul sprang forward, and clasping her in his arms (for he was
very mighty) bore her towards her bed. As they strove he saw beneath
her right breast a black spot upon the groin, and thought within
himself that here was certain proof that he had had to do with her. But
as he carried her towards the bed his spurs caught within the serge
valence about the foot thereof, so that they fell together, the lord
below and the lady above; whereupon she rose lightly to her feet, and
seizing a billet of wood from the hearth, smote him upon the head so
shrewdly that the blood dropped upon the rushes from the wound. When
Sir Raoul knew his wound to be both deep and large no more he desired
to play, so he arose from the floor and departed straightway from that
chamber to his own lodging, a long mile thence, and sought a surgeon
for his hurt. For her part the faithful lady called upon Dame Hersent,
and returning to her bath, complained to her of this strange adventure
with the knight.
Very great and rich was the feast that the father of the fair lady
ordained against the home-coming of Sir Robert. Many a lord was bidden
to his hall, and amongst these my lord, Sir Raoul, his knight; but he
sent messages that he might not come, for reason of his sickness. On
the Sunday came Sir Robert, and was sweetly welcomed of all; but the
father of the fair lady sought out Sir Raoul, nor would hold him
excused from the feast because of his grievous wound. Therefore he
tired his face and his wound the best that he was able, and went to
hall, where all day long the lords and ladies sat at meat and drink,
and rose for morris and to dance.
When closed the night Sir Robert sought his chamber, and very
graciously the lady received him, as it becometh every wife to receive
her husband. On the morrow again the guests were gathered about the
board, but after dinner uprose Sir Raoul demanding that Messire Robert
should pay his wager, since he had had to do with his wife, by sign and
token of a certain black spot beneath her right breast.
"Of that I know nothing," answered Sir Robert, "for I have not looked
so boldly upon her."
"I require you by the faith that you have pledged me to take heed, and
to do me justice herein."
"That will I, truly," answered Sir Robert.
When came the night once more, then Sir Robert observed his wife
curiously, and marked the black spot upon her white body, whereat the
greater grief was his. In the morning he sought out Sir Raoul, and
owned before his lord that he had lost the bet. Sick at heart was he
throughout the day. When darkness came he went to the stable, and
saddling his palfrey, issued forth from the courtyard, taking with him
what he might carry of his wealth. So he set forth on the road to
Paris, and coming to the city sojourned therein for some three days.
There the tale ceaseth to speak of him, and telleth of his wife.
Very dolent and right heavy was the fair lady that thus her lord had
fled his house. Very long and right greatly she considered the reason
of his flight. She wept and lamented her widowhood, even till such time
as her father entered her chamber, and said that it were much better
that she had never wed, since she had brought him to shame, him, and
all her house, and told her how and why. When she heard this thing she
was sick of heart, and swore that never had she done such deed; but her
words profited her nothing, for though a woman gave her body to be
burned, yet would none believe her clean of sin, once such blame is set
upon her.
Very early in the night the lady rose from the bed, and taking what
wealth she had in her coffer, saddled a palfrey and took the road. She
had sheared her dainty tresses to the shoulder, and in all points was
clad as a boy. In this manner came she to Paris, seeking for her
husband, for to her heart she declared that never would she give over
her search until they were met together once more. So she rode at
adventure, a squire searching for her lord. Now on a morning she
departed from Paris, and riding on the way to Orleans came to Tombe
Isoire, and there met with Sir Robert, her husband. Her heart was very
full as she drew close and saluted him, and he rendered her greeting
for greeting, saying--
"Fair friend, God give you heart's desire."
"Sir," said she, "from whence come you?"
"Certes, fair friend, I am of Hainault."
"Sir, and whither go you?"
"Forsooth, fair friend, little I know where my path may lead me, nor
have I home where I may dwell. Where Fortune hales me, thither I must
go, and the Dame looks not kindly on me, for I have lost the thing that
most I loved in all the world, and she hath lost me. Moreover with her
went house and lands that were fair and deep. But tell me, what is your
name, and whither doth God bring you?"
"Certes, sir," answered Jehane, "I purpose to seek Marseilles, near by
the sea, where as I hope there is noise of war. There, if I may, will I
enter the service of some hardy captain and learn the trade of arms, so
it be God's pleasure. For such is my plight that in nowise can I stay
in my own country. To my eyes, sir, you seem a knight whom I would
serve very gladly, if such was your will, nor of my fellowship could
you take any harm."
"Fair friend," answered Messire Robert, "truly am I a belted knight,
and in what place the battle is set, there would I gladly ride. But
tell me now, what is your name?"
"Sir, my name is John."
"It is right welcome," said the knight.
"And you, sir, what is your name?"
"John, my name is Robert."
"Sir Robert, join me to your company as squire, and I will serve you to
the utmost of my power."
"John, so would I do gladly, but I have so little money in my pouch,
that ere three days are gone I must sell my very steed; therefore I
may take no squire."
"Sir," said John, "be not troubled thereat, for God will provide, if so
it seems good to Him. But where are you set to dine?"
"John, my dinner is a simple business, for I have nothing in my purse
save three sous of Paris."
"Sir, be not troubled thereat, for on my part I have with me nearly ten
pounds of Tournay money, and these are as your own, since your wallet
is not heavy to your wish."
"Fair friend, thanks, and thanks again."
The two comrades rode at a brisk pace to Montlhery, where John found
meat for his lord, and they ate together. When they had eaten they
sought their chamber, the knight lying in a fair bed, and John sleeping
in another, at his feet. Refreshed with sleep, John rose and did the
harness upon their horses, so they mounted and passed upon their way.
Journeying thus at last they lighted at Marseilles upon the Sea, but to
their grief they might not hear the rumour of any war. There for the
time my story ceases to speak of the two of them, and returns to
Messire Raoul, that false knight, who, by leasing, had wrongly gained
the land of Sir Robert.
For more than seven years did Messire Raoul hold the lands of Sir
Robert against law and right. Then a sore sickness took hold upon him,
and afflicted him so grievously that very near he came to death. Much
he feared the wrong he had wrought to that fair lady, the daughter of
his lord, and to her husband besides, for by reason of his malice were
they utterly undone. So great was his sin that he dared not show the
matter to the priest, but tossed upon his bed in utter unrest. On a
certain day when his sickness lay too heavy upon him he bade his
chaplain draw near his bed, for this priest was a wise confessor, loyal
and true, and very close to the sick man's heart. Then he spake--
"Father--my father in God, if not according to the flesh--the time is
come when I must die. For God's love give me now your counsel, as you
are a ghostly man, for on my soul there lies a sin so ugly and so black
that scarcely may I hope to be anealed."
The priest prayed him to speak more plainly, so that he might aid him
to the utmost of his power, wherefore Sir Raoul brought himself to tell
the story that you have heard. At the end he begged the chaplain for
the love of God to show him what he must do to obtain the grace of
pardon for a sin so dark.
"Sir," said the priest, "be not altogether cast down, for so you are
willing to do such penance as I lay upon you, I will take your sin on
me and on my own soul, and you shall be clean."
"Now tell me of this penance," said the knight.
"Sir, within a year of your recovery from this sickness must you take
the cross and pass beyond the sea, and in all places where men ask the
reason of your pilgrimage, there you must tell the story of this bitter
wrong. Moreover, this day must you give hostages to God that thus you
will do."
"All this will I do gladly."
"Sir, what rich pledge can you offer, therefore?"
"The best," replied the knight. "You, yourself, shall be hostage and
surety for me; and on my honour as a knight well will I redeem my
pledge."
"Sir," said the priest, "in the hand of God am I set as your pledge."
The sick man turned from death to life, and soon was altogether healed.
A full year passed away, and yet he had not taken the cross. Right
often the holy man reminded him of his bond, but he treated the
covenant as a jest. Then the chaplain told him straitly that except he
discharged him as his surety before God, he would tell the whole matter
to the father of the fair lady whom he had utterly destroyed. When the
knight heard this he said to the chaplain that within six months would
he seek the sea for the springtide crossing, and thereto he plighted
faith. But now the story ceases to speak of Messire Raoul, and returns
to King Florus of Ausay, of whom it has told nought for a great while.
A right happy life led King Florus and his wife together, as becomes
bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth, but very dolent and sore
of heart were they that they might get no child. The lady caused Masses
to be sung, and was urgent in prayer for her desire, but since it was
not according to the will of God, no gain she got thereby. On a day
there came to the castle of King Florus a holy hermit who dwelt deep
within the great forest of Ausay, in a very desolate place. The queen
received him very gladly, and because he was a wise man and a holy,
would be shriven by him of her sins. So she bared him her secret wound,
and told him of her grief that she might have no child by her lord.
"Ah, madame," said the holy man, "it becometh you patiently to suffer
the pleasure of our Lord. When it is His will, then shall the barren
become a joyful mother of children."
"Certes, sir," said the lady, "would that it were now, for less dear am
I to my lord therefor. Moreover the high barons of this realm cast the
thing against me, and give counsel to my lord that he should put the
barren woman away and take another bride."
"Truly, madame," said the holy man, "grievously would he sin against
God and Holy Church by such a deed."
"Ah, sir, pray you to God for me that I may bear a child to my lord,
for much I doubt that he will put me away."
"Madame," said the holy man, "prayers of mine are little worth, save by
the will of God, yet such as they are you shall have them willingly."
Hardly had this holy man departed from the lady, when the barons of the
realm drew together before the King, and counselled him that he should
put away his wife, since by her he might have no child, and take
another bride. Moreover, if he would not abide by their counsel, then
would they withdraw their fealty, for in no case should the kingdom
remain without an heir. King Florus feared his barons greatly, and gave
credence to their word, so he promised to send his wife to her kindred,
and prayed the lords to seek him another queen, which thing was
accorded between them. When the lady knew thereof she was stricken to
the heart, but nothing might she do, for well she understood that her
lord was purposed to forsake her. Therefore she sent to seek that
hermit who was her confessor, and when he was come she set before him
this business of the barons, and how they would bring another wife to
her husband. "So I pray you, fair father, to aid me with counsel as to
what I must do."
"Lady," said the holy man, "if it be thus, you must suffer it as best
you may, for against king and barons you can make no head."
"Sir," said the gentle lady, "you speak truly; so, if it pleases God, I
will dwell as an anchoress near to you, for then shall I serve God all
the days of my life, and yet draw some stay and comfort from your
presence."
"Lady," said the prudent man, "that were too hazardous a thing, for
you are too tender in years, and fair and fresh. But I will tell you
what to do. Near by my hermitage is a convent of White Nuns, very quiet
and devout. If you go thither, right gladly will they receive you, as
well by reason of your blameless life as of your high degree."
"Sir," said she, "wisely have you spoken, and this I will do, since so
you counsel me."