"Arouse you, lords, for day is here."
Then those, yet drowsy with sleep, and heavy with last night's wine,
got them from their beds all bewildered. The squires, too, made haste
to set saddles upon the horses, believing that daybreak had come,
though before the dawn would rise very easily might the horses go five
miles, ambling right pleasantly. So when the company which should bring
this demoiselle to the chapel deep within the forest were got to horse,
her father commended his maid to the most trusty of his friends. Then
the saddle was put upon the grey palfrey; but when it was brought
before the damsel her tears ran faster than they had fallen before. Her
guardian recked nothing of her weeping, for he knew little of maidens,
and considered that she wept because of leaving her father and her
father's house. So her tears and sadness were accounted as nought, and
she mounted upon her steed, making great sorrow. They took their way
through the forest, but the road was so narrow that two could not ride
together side by side. Therefore the guardian put the maiden before,
and he followed after, because of the straitness of the path. The road
was long, and the company were tired and weary for want of sleep. They
rode the more heavily, because they were no longer young, and had the
greater need for rest. They nodded above the necks of their chargers,
and up hill and down dale for the most part went sleeping. The surest
of this company was in charge of the maiden, but this night he had
taken so little sleep in his bed that he proved an untrusty warder,
for he forgot everything, save his desire to sleep. The maiden rode,
bridle in hand, thinking of nought except her love and her sorrow.
Whilst she followed the narrow path, the barons who went before had
already come forth upon the high road. They dozed in their saddles, and
the thoughts of those few who were awake were otherwhere, and gave no
heed to the demoiselle. The maiden was as much alone as though she
fared to London. The grey palfrey knew well this ancient narrow way,
for many a time he had trodden it before. The palfrey and the maiden
drew near a hillock within the forest, where the trees stood so close
and thick that no moonlight fell within the shadow of the branches. The
valley lay deeply below, and from the high road came the noise of the
horses' iron shoes. Of all that company many slept, and those who were
awake talked together, but none gave a thought to the maiden. The grey
palfrey knew nothing of the high road, so turning to the right he
entered within a little path which led directly to the house of Messire
William, But the knight, in whose charge the damsel was placed had
fallen into so heavy a slumber that his horse stood at his pleasure on
the way. Therefore she was guarded of none--save of God--and dropping
the rein upon the palfrey's neck, she let him have his will. The
knights who preceded her rode a great while before they found that she
was not behind them, and he who came after kept but a poor watch and
ward. Nevertheless she had not escaped by her choice, for she recked
nought of the path that she followed, nor of the home to which she
would come. The palfrey followed the track without hesitation, for many
a time he had journeyed therein, both winter and summer. The weeping
maiden looked this way and that, but could see neither knight nor
baron, and the forest was very perilous, and all was dark and obscure.
Much she marvelled what had become of all her company, and it was no
wonder that she felt great fear. None regarded her safety, save God and
the grey palfrey, so she commended herself to her Maker, whilst the
horse ambled along the road. Nevertheless she had dropped the rein from
her fingers, and kept her lips from uttering one single cry, lest she
should be heard of her companions. For she chose rather to die in the
woodlands than to endure such a marriage as this. The maiden was hid in
thought, and the palfrey, in haste to reach his journey's end, and
knowing well the path, ambled so swiftly, that soon he came to the
borders of the forest. A river ran there both dark and deep, but the
horse went directly to the ford, and passed through as quickly as he
was able. He had won but little beyond when the maiden heard the sound
of a horn, blown from that place where she was carried by the grey
palfrey. The warder on his tower blew shrilly on his horn, and the
demoiselle felt herself utterly undone, since she knew not where she
had come, nor how to ask her way. But the palfrey stayed his steps on a
bridge which led over the moat running round the manor. When the watch
heard the noise of the palfrey thereon, he ceased his winding, and
coming from the tower demanded who it was who rode so hardily on the
bridge at such an hour. Then the demoiselle made reply--
"Certes, it is the most unlucky maid of mother born. For the love of
God give me leave to enter in your house to await the day, for I know
not where to go."
"Demoiselle," answered he, "I dare not let you or any other in this
place, save at the bidding of my lord, and he is the most dolorous
knight in all the world, for very foully has he been betrayed."
Whilst the watch spoke of the matter he set his eye to a chink in the
postern. He had neither torch nor lantern, but the moon shone very
clear, and he spied the grey palfrey, which he knew right well. Much he
marvelled whence he came, and long he gazed upon the fair lady who held
the rein, and was so sweetly clad in her rich new garnishing. Forthwith
he sought his lord, who tossed upon his bed with little delight.
"Sire," said he, "be not wrath with me. A piteous woman, tender of
years and semblance, has come forth from the woodland, attired right
richly. It seems to me that she is cloaked in a scarlet mantle, edged
with costly fur. This sad and outworn lady is mounted on your own grey
palfrey. Very enticing is her speech; very slim and gracious is her
person. I know not, sire, if I am deceived, but I believe there is no
maiden in all the country who is so dainty, sweet and fair. Well I deem
that it is some fay whom God sends you, to bear away the trouble which
is spoiling your life. Take now the gold in place of the silver you
have lost."
Messire William hearkened to these words. He sprang forth from his bed
without further speech, and with nothing but a surcoat on his back
hastened to the door. He caused it to be opened forthwith, and the
demoiselle cried to him pitifully in a loud voice--
"Woe is me, gentle lord, because of the sorrow I have endured this
night. Sire, for the love of God turn me not away, but suffer me to
enter in your house. I beg for shelter but a little while. But much I
fear by reason of a company of knights who are pained greatly, since
they have let me from their hands. Sir Knight, be surety for the maid
whom Fortune has guided to your door, for much am I sorrowful and
perplexed."
When Messire William heard her voice he was like to swoon with joy. He
knew again the palfrey which was so long his own. He gazed upon the
lady, and knew her in his heart. I tell you truly that never could man
be more happy than was he. He lifted her from the palfrey and brought
her within his home. There he took her by the right hand, kissing her
more than twenty times; and for her part the lady let him have his way,
because she had looked upon his face. When the two sought each other's
eyes, very great was the joy that fell between the twain, and all their
sorrow was as if it had never been. So when the damsel had put aside
her mantle, they seated themselves merrily on silken cushions, fringed
with gold. They crossed their brows again and yet again, lest they
should wake and find this thing a dream. Then the maiden told her
bachelor this strange adventure, and said--
"Blessed be the hour in which God brought me to this place, and
delivered me from him who sought to add my marriage chest to his own
coffers."
When morning was come Messire William arrayed himself richly, and led
the demoiselle within the chapel of his own house. Then, without delay,
he called his chaplain to him, and was forthwith wedded to the fair
lady by a rite that it was not lawful to call in question. So when the
Mass was sung, blithe was the mirth of that household, squire and
maiden and man-at-arms.
Now when that company which so lightly had lost the maiden came
together at the ancient chapel, they were very weary by having ridden
all the night, and were sore vexed and utterly cast down. The old
Prince demanded his daughter of him who had proved so untrusty a
guardian. Knowing not what to say, he made answer straightly--
"Sire, because of the strictness of the way I put the maid before, and
I followed after. The forest was deep and dark, and I know not where
she turned from the path. Moreover I nodded in my saddle till I was
waked by my companions, for I deemed that she was yet in my company,
but she was altogether gone. I cannot tell what has become of the
damsel, for very basely have we kept our trust."
The old Prince sought his daughter in every place, and inquired of her
from every person, but he might not find her whereabouts, nor hear of
any who had seen the maid. Yet all men marvelled at her loss, for none
was able to bring him any news. The ancient bridegroom, that the
demoiselle should have wed, grieved yet more at the loss of his bride,
but to no purpose did he seek her, for the hind had left no slot. Now
as the two lords were riding with their company in such fear as this,
they saw upon the road a certain squire making towards them in all
haste. When he was come to them he said--
"Sire, Messire William sends by me assurance of the great friendship he
bears you. He bids me say that early this morning, at the dawn of day,
he married your daughter, to his great happiness and content. Sire, he
bids you welcome to his house. He also charged me to say to his uncle,
who betrayed him so shamefully, that he pardons him the more easily for
his treason, since your daughter has given him herself as a gift."
The old Prince hearkened to this wonder, but said no word in reply. He
called together all his barons, and when they were assembled in hall,
he took counsel as to whether he should go to the house of Sir William,
and bring with him the lord to whom his daughter was betrothed. Yet
since the marriage was done, nothing could make the bride again a maid.
So, making the best of a bad bargain, he got to horse forthwith, and
all his barons with him. When the company came to the manor they were
welcomed with all fair observance, for right pleasing was this to
Messire William, since he had all things to his own desire. Whether he
would, or whether he would not, nought remained to the old Prince but
to embrace his son-in-law; whilst as to that greybeard of a bridegroom,
he consoled himself with what crumbs of comfort he could discover.
Thus, since it was the will of God that these lovers should be wed, it
pleased the Lord God also that the marriage should prove lasting.
Messire William, that courteous and chivalrous knight, lost not his
hardihood in marriage, but ever sought advancement, so that he was
esteemed of the counts and princes of his land. In the third year of
his marriage the old Prince (as the tale tells us) died, because his
time was come. So all that he died possessed of in wealth and lands and
manors, together with the rich garnishing thereof, became the heritage
of the knight. After this, Death laid hands upon his uncle, who, too,
was very rich. And Sir William, who was not simple, nor grudging of
heart, nor little of soul, nor blusterous with his neighbours,
inherited all the goods that were his.
So the story which I have told you endeth in this fashion, in
accordance with the truth, and to your pleasure.