CHAPTER XI: THE BRETON LAYS OF MARIE DE FRANCE

The wonderful _Lais_ of Marie de France must ever hold a deep interest

for all students of Breton lore, for though cast in the literary mould

of Norman-French and breathing the spirit of Norman chivalry those of

them which deal with Brittany (as do most of them) exhibit such

evident marks of having been drawn from native Breton sources that we

may regard them as among the most valuable documents extant for the

study and consideration of Armorican story.

Of the personal history of Marie de France very little is known. The

date and place of her birth are still matters for conjecture, and

until comparatively recent times literary antiquaries were doubtful

even as to which century she flourished in. In the epilogue to her

_Fables_ she states that she is a native of the Ile-de-France, but

despite this she is believed to have been of Norman origin, and also

to have lived the greater part of her life in England. Her work, which

holds few suggestions of Anglo-Norman forms of thought or expression,

was written in a literary dialect that in all likelihood was widely

estranged from the common Norman tongue, and from this (though the

manuscripts in which they are preserved are dated later) we may judge

her poems to have been composed in the second half of the twelfth

century. The prologue of her _Lais_ contains a dedication to some

unnamed king, and her _Fables_ are inscribed to a certain Count

William, circumstances which are held by some to prove that she was of

noble origin and not merely a _trouvère_ from necessity.

Until M. Gaston Paris decided that this mysterious king was Henry II

of England, and that the 'Count William' was Longsword, Earl of

Salisbury, Henry's natural son by the 'Fair Rosamond,' the mysterious

monarch was believed to be Henry III. It is highly probable that the

_Lais_ were actually written at the Court of Henry II, though the

'King' of the flowery prologue is hardly reconcilable with the stern

ruler and law-maker of history. Be that as it may, Marie's poems

achieved instant success. "Her rhyme is loved everywhere," says Denis

Pyramus, the author of a life of St Edmund the King; "for counts,

barons, and knights greatly admire it and hold it dear. And they love

her writing so much, and take such pleasure in it, that they have it

read, and often copied. These Lays are wont to please ladies, who

listen to them with delight, for they are after their own hearts."

This fame and its attendant adulation were very sweet to Marie, and

she was justly proud of her work, which, inspired, as she herself

distinctly states, by the lays she had heard Breton minstrels sing,

has, because of its vivid colouring and human appeal, survived the

passing of seven hundred years. The scenes of the tales are laid in

Brittany, and we are probably correct in regarding them as culled from

original traditional material. As we proceed with the telling of these

ancient stories we shall endeavour to point out the essentially Breton

elements they have retained.

_The Lay of the Were-Wolf_

In the long ago there dwelt in Brittany a worshipful baron, for whom

the king of that land had a warm affection, and who was happy in the

esteem of his peers and the love of his beautiful wife.

One only grief had his wife in her married life, and that was the

mysterious absence of her husband for three days in every week. Where

he disappeared to neither she nor any member of her household knew.

These excursions preyed upon her mind, so that at last she resolved to

challenge him regarding them.

"Husband," she said to him pleadingly one day after he had just

returned from one of these absences, "I have something to ask of you,

but I fear that my request may vex you, and for this reason I hesitate

to make it."

The baron took her in his arms and, kissing her tenderly, bade her

state her request, which he assured her would by no means vex him.

"It is this," she said, "that you will trust me sufficiently to tell

me where you spend those days when you are absent from me. So fearful

have I become regarding these withdrawals and all the mystery that

enshrouds them that I know neither rest nor comfort; indeed, so

distraught am I at times that I feel I shall die for very anxiety. Oh,

husband, tell me where you go and why you tarry so long!"

In great agitation the husband put his wife away from him, not daring

to meet the glance of her imploring, anxious eyes.

"For the mercy of God, do not ask this of me," he besought her. "No

good could come of your knowing, only great and terrible evil.

Knowledge would mean the death of your love for me, and my everlasting

desolation."

"You are jesting with me, husband," she replied; "but it is a cruel

jest. I am all seriousness, I do assure you. Peace of mind can never

be mine until my question is fully answered."

But the baron, still greatly perturbed, remained firm. He could not

tell her, and she must rest content with that. The lady, however,

continued to plead, sometimes with tenderness, more often with tears

and heart-piercing reproaches, until at length the baron, trusting to

her love, decided to tell her his secret.

"I have to leave you because periodically I become a bisclaveret," he

said. ('Bisclaveret' is the Breton name for were-wolf.) "I hide myself

in the depths of the forest, live on wild animals and roots, and go

unclad as any beast of the field."

When the lady had recovered from the horror of this disclosure and had

rallied her senses to her aid, she turned to him again, determined at

any cost to learn all the circumstances connected with this terrible

transformation.

"You know that I love you better than all the world, my husband," she

began; "that never in our life together have I done aught to forfeit

your love or your trust. So do, I beseech you, tell me all--tell me

where you hide your clothing before you become a were-wolf?"

"That I dare not do, dear wife," he replied, "for if I should lose my

raiment or even be seen quitting it I must remain a were-wolf so long

as I live. Never again could I become a man unless my garments were

restored to me."

"Then you no longer trust me, no longer love me?" she cried. "Alas,

alas that I have forfeited your confidence! Oh that I should live to

see such a day!"

Her weeping broke out afresh, this time more piteously than before.

The baron, deeply touched, and willing by any means to alleviate her

distress, at last divulged the vital secret which he had held from her

so long.

But from that hour his wife cast about for ways and means to rid

herself of her strange husband, of whom she now went in exceeding

fear. In course of time she remembered a knight of that country who

had long sought her love, but whom she had repulsed. To him she

appealed, and right gladly and willingly he pledged himself to aid

her. She showed him where her lord concealed his clothing, and begged

him to spoil the were-wolf of his vesture on the next occasion on

which he set out to assume his transformation. The fatal period soon

returned. The baron disappeared as usual, but this time he did not

return to his home. For days friends, neighbours, and menials sought

him diligently, but no trace of him was to be found, and when a year

had elapsed the search was at length abandoned, and the lady was

wedded to her knight.

Some months later the King was hunting in the great forest near the

missing baron's castle. The hounds, unleashed, came upon the scent of

a wolf, and pressed the animal hard. For many hours they pursued him,

and when about to seize him, Bisclaveret--for it was he--turned with

such a human gesture of despair to the King, who had ridden hard upon

his track, that the royal huntsman was moved to pity. To the King's

surprise the were-wolf placed its paws together as if in supplication,

and its great jaws moved as if in speech.

"Call off the hounds," cried the monarch to his attendants. "This

quarry we will take alive to our palace. It is too marvellous a thing

to be killed."

Accordingly they returned to the Court, where the were-wolf became an

object of the greatest curiosity to all. So frolicsome yet so gentle

was he that he became a universal favourite. At night he slept in the

King's room, and by day he followed him with all the dumb faithfulness

of a dog. The King was extremely attached to him, and never permitted

his shaggy favourite to be absent from his side for a moment.

One day the monarch held a high Court, to which his great vassals and

barons and all the lords of his broad demesnes were bidden. Among them

came the knight who had wed the wife of Bisclaveret. Immediately upon

sight of him the were-wolf flew at him with a savage joy that

astonished those accustomed to his usual gentleness and docility. So

fierce was the attack that the knight would have been killed had not

the King intervened to save him. Later, in the royal hunting-lodge she

who had been the wife of Bisclaveret came to offer the King a rich

present. When he saw her the animal's rage knew no bounds, and despite

all restraint he succeeded in mutilating her fair face in the most

frightful manner. But for a certain wise counsellor this act would

have cost Bisclaveret his life. This sagacious person, who knew of the

animal's customary docility, insisted that some evil must have been

done him.

"There must be some reason why this beast holds these twain in such

mortal hate," he said. "Let this woman and her husband be brought

hither so that they may be straitly questioned. She was once the wife

of one who was near to your heart, and many marvellous happenings have

ere this come out of Brittany."

[Illustration: THE WERE-WOLF]

The King hearkened to this sage counsel, for he loved the were-wolf,

and was loath to have him slain. Under pressure of examination

Bisclaveret's treacherous wife confessed all that she had done, adding

that in her heart she believed the King's favourite animal to be no

other than her former husband.

Instantly on learning this the King demanded the were-wolf's vesture

from the treacherous knight her lover, and when this was brought to

him he caused it to be spread before the wolf. But the animal behaved

as though he did not see the garments.

Then the wise counsellor again came to his aid.

"You must take the beast to your own secret chamber, sire," he told

the King; "for not without great shame and tribulation can he become a

man once more, and this he dare not suffer in the sight of all."

This advice the King promptly followed, and when after some little

time he, with two lords of his fellowship in attendance, re-entered

the secret chamber, he found the wolf gone, and the baron so well

beloved asleep in his bed.

With great joy and affection the King aroused his friend, and when the

baron's feelings permitted him he related his adventures. As soon as

his master had heard him out he not only restored to him all that had

been taken from him, but added gifts the number and richness of which

rendered him more wealthy and important than ever, while in just anger

he banished from his realm the wife who had betrayed her lord,

together with her lover.

_The Were-Wolf Superstition_

The were-wolf superstition is, or was, as prevalent in Brittany as in

other parts of France and Europe. The term 'were-wolf' literally means

'man-wolf,' and was applied to a man supposed to be temporarily or

permanently transformed into a wolf. In its origins the belief may

have been a phase of lycanthropy, a disease in which the sufferer

imagines himself to have been transformed into an animal, and in

ancient and medieval times of very frequent occurrence. It may, on the

other hand, be a relic of early cannibalism. Communities of

semi-civilized people would begin to shun those who devoured human

flesh, and they would in time be ostracized and classed with wild

beasts, the idea that they had something in common with these would

grow, and the belief that they were able to transform themselves into

veritable animals would be likely to arise therefrom.

There were two kinds of were-wolf, voluntary and involuntary. The

voluntary included those persons who because of their taste for human

flesh had withdrawn from intercourse with their fellows, and who

appeared to possess a certain amount of magical power, or at least

sufficient to permit them to transform themselves into animal shape at

will. This they effected by merely disrobing, by taking off a girdle

made of human skin, or putting on a similar belt of wolf-skin

(obviously a later substitute for an entire wolf-skin; in some cases

we hear of their donning the skin entire). In other instances the body

was rubbed with magic ointment, or rain-water was drunk out of a

wolf's footprint. The brains of the animal were also eaten. Olaus

Magnus says that the were-wolves of Livonia drained a cup of beer on

initiation, and repeated certain magical words. In order to throw off

the wolf-shape the animal girdle was removed, or else the magician

merely muttered certain formulæ. In some instances the transformation

was supposed to be the work of Satan.

The superstition regarding were-wolves seems to have been exceedingly

prevalent in France during the sixteenth century, and there is

evidence of numerous trials of persons accused of were-wolfism, in

some of which it was clearly shown that murder and cannibalism had

taken place. Self-hallucination was accountable for many of the cases,

the supposed were-wolves declaring that they had transformed

themselves and had slain many people. But about the beginning of the

seventeenth century native common sense came to the rescue, and such

confessions were not credited. In Teutonic and Slavonic countries it

was complained by men of learning that the were-wolves did more damage

than real wild animals, and the existence of a regular 'college' or

institution for the practice of the art of animal transformation among

were-wolves was affirmed.

Involuntary were-wolves, of which class Bisclaveret was evidently a

member, were often persons transformed into animal shape because of

the commission of sin, and condemned to pass a certain number of years

in that form. Thus certain saints metamorphosed sinners into wolves.

In Armenia it was thought that a sinful woman was condemned to pass

seven years in the form of a wolf. To such a woman a demon appeared,

bringing a wolf-skin. He commanded her to don it, and from that moment

she became a wolf, with all the nature of the wild beast, devouring

her own children and those of strangers, and wandering forth at night,

undeterred by locks, bolts, or bars, returning only with the morning

to resume her human form.

In was, of course, in Europe, where the wolf was one of the largest

carnivorous animals, that the were-wolf superstition chiefly gained

currency. In Eastern countries, where similar beliefs prevailed,

bears, tigers, and other beasts of prey were substituted for the

lupine form of colder climes.

_The Lay of Gugemar_

Oridial was one of the chief barons of King Arthur, and dwelt in

Brittany, where he held lands in fief of that monarch. So deeply was

he attached to his liege lord that when his son Gugemar was yet a

child he sent him to Arthur's Court to be trained as a page. In due

time Arthur dubbed Gugemar knight and armed him in rich harness, and

the youth, hearing of war in Flanders, set out for that realm in the

hope of gaining distinction and knightly honour.

After achieving many valorous deeds in Flanders Gugemar felt a strong

desire to behold his parents once more, so, setting his face homeward,

he journeyed back to Brittany and dwelt with them for some time,

resting after his battles and telling his father, mother, and sister

Nogent of the many enterprises in which he had been engaged. But he

shortly grew weary of this inactive existence, and in order to break

the monotony of it he planned a great hunt in the neighbouring

forest.

Early one morning he set out, and soon a tall stag was roused from its

bed among the ferns by the noise of the hunters' horns. The hounds

were unleashed and the entire hunt followed in pursuit, Gugemar the

foremost of all. But, closely as he pursued, the quarry eluded the

knight, and to his chagrin he was left alone in the forest spaces with

nothing to show for his long chase. He was about to ride back in

search of his companions when on a sudden he noticed a doe hiding in a

thicket with her fawn. She was white from ear to hoof, without a

spot. Gugemar's hounds, rushing at her, held her at bay, and their

master, fitting an arrow to his bow, loosed the shaft at her so that

she was wounded above the hoof and brought to earth. But the

treacherous arrow, glancing, returned to Gugemar and wounded him

grievously in the thigh.

As he lay on the earth faint and with his senses almost deserting him,

Gugemar heard the doe speak to him in human accents:

"Wretch who hast slain me," said she, "think not to escape my

vengeance. Never shall leech nor herb nor balm cure the wound which

fate hath so justly inflicted upon thee. Only canst thou be healed by

a woman who loves thee, and who for that love shall have to suffer

such woe and sorrow as never woman had to endure before. Thou too

shalt suffer equally with her, and the sorrows of ye twain shall be

the wonder of lovers for all time. Leave me now to die in peace."

Gugemar was in sore dismay at hearing these words, for never had he

sought lady's love nor had he cared for the converse of women. Winding

his horn, he succeeded in attracting one of his followers to the spot,

and sent him in search of his companions. When he had gone Gugemar

tore his linen shirt in pieces and bound up his wound as well as he

might. Then, dragging himself most painfully into the saddle, he rode

from the scene of his misadventure at as great a pace as his injury

would permit of, for he had conceived a plan which he did not desire

should be interfered with.

Riding at a hand-gallop, he soon came in sight of tall cliffs which

overlooked the sea, and which formed a natural harbour, wherein lay a

vessel richly beseen. Its sails were of spun silk, and each plank and

mast was fashioned of ebony. Dismounting, Gugemar made his way to the

shore, and with much labour climbed upon the ship. Neither mariner nor

merchant was therein. A large pavilion of silk covered part of the

deck, and within this was a rich bed, the work of the cunning

artificers of the days of King Solomon. It was fashioned of cypress

wood and ivory, and much gold and many gems went to the making of it.

The clothes with which it was provided were fair and white as snow,

and so soft the pillow that he who laid his head upon it, sad as he

might be, could not resist sleep. The pavilion was lit by two large

waxen candles, set in candlesticks of gold.

As the knight sat gazing at this splendid couch fit for a king he

suddenly became aware that the ship was moving seaward. Already,

indeed, he was far from land, and at the sight he grew more sorrowful

than before, for his hurt made him helpless and he could not hope

either to guide the vessel or manage her so that he might return to

shore. Resigning himself to circumstances, he lay down upon the ornate

bed and sank into a deep and dreamless slumber.

[Illustration: GUGEMAR COMES UPON THE MAGIC SHIP]

When he awoke he found to his intense surprise that the ship had come

to the port of an ancient city. Now the king of this realm was an aged

man who was wedded to a young, fair lady, of whom he was, after the

manner of old men, intensely jealous. The castle of this monarch

frowned upon a fair garden enclosed from the sea by a high wall of

green marble, so that if one desired to come to the castle he must do

so from the water. The place was straitly watched by vigilant

warders, and within the wall so carefully defended lay the Queen's

bower, a fairer chamber than any beneath the sun, and decorated with

the most marvellous paintings. Here dwelt the young Queen with one of

her ladies, her own sister's child, who was devoted to her service and

who never quitted her side. The key of this bower was in the hands of

an aged priest, who was also the Queen's servitor.

One day on awaking from sleep the Queen walked in the garden and

espied a ship drawing near the land. Suddenly, she knew not why, she

grew very fearful, and would have fled at the sight, but her maiden

encouraged her to remain. The vessel came to shore, and the Queen's

maiden entered it. No one could she see on board except a knight

sleeping soundly within the pavilion, and he was so pale that she

thought he was dead. Returning to her mistress, she told her what she

had seen, and together they entered the vessel.

No sooner did the Queen behold Gugemar than she was deeply smitten

with love for him. In a transport of fear lest he were dead she placed

her hand upon his bosom, and was overjoyed to feel the warmth of life

within him and that his heart beat strongly. At her touch he awoke and

courteously saluted her. She asked him whence he came and to what

nation he belonged.

"Lady," he replied, "I am a knight of Brittany. But yesterday, or so

it seems to me, for I may have slumbered more than a day, I wounded a

deer in the forest, but the arrow with which I slew her rebounded and

struck me sorely. Then the beast, being, I trow, a fairy deer, spake,

saying that never would this wound be healed save by one damsel in the

whole world, and her I know not where to find. Riding seaward, I came

to where this ship lay moored, and, entering it, the vessel drifted

oceanward. I know not to what land I have come, nor what name this

city bears. I pray you, fair lady, give me your best counsel."

The Queen listened to his tale with the deepest interest, and when

Gugemar made his appeal for aid and counsel she replied: "Truly, fair

sir, I shall counsel you as best I may. This city to which you have

come belongs to my husband, who is its King. Of much worship is he,

but stricken in years, and because of the jealousy he bears me he has

shut me up between these high walls. If it please you you may tarry

here awhile and we will tend your wound until it be healed."

Gugemar, wearied and bewildered at the strange things which had

happened to him in the space of a day, thanked the Queen, and accepted

her kind offer of entertainment with alacrity. Between them the Queen

and her lady assisted him to leave the ship and bore him to a chamber,

where he was laid in a fair bed and had his wound carefully dressed.

When the ladies had withdrawn and the knight was left to himself he

knew that he loved the Queen. All memory of his home and even of his

tormenting wound disappeared, and he could brood only upon the fair

face of the royal lady who had so charmingly ministered to him.

Meanwhile the Queen was in little better case. All night she could not

sleep for pondering upon the handsome youth who had come so

mysteriously into her life, and her maiden, seeing this, and marking

how she suffered, went to Gugemar's chamber and told him in a frank

and almost childlike manner how deeply her mistress had been smitten

with love for him.

"You are young," she said, "so is my lady. Her lord is old and their

union is unseemly. Heaven intended you for one another and has brought

you together in its own good time."

Shortly, after she had heard Mass, the Queen summoned Gugemar into her

presence. At first both were dumb with confusion. At last his passion

urged Gugemar to speak, and his love-words came thick and fast. The

Queen hearkened to them, and, feeling that they rang true, admitted

that she loved him in return.

For a year and a half Gugemar dwelt in the Queen's bower. Then the

lovers met with misfortune.

For some days before the blow fell the Queen had experienced a feeling

of coming evil. So powerfully did this affect her that she begged

Gugemar for a garment of his. The knight marvelled at the request, and

asked her playfully for what reason she desired such a keepsake as a

linen shift.

"Friend," she replied, "if it chance that you leave me or that we are

separated I shall fear that some other damsel may win your love. In

this shift which you give me I shall make a knot, and shall ask you to

vow that never will you give your love to dame or damsel who cannot

untie this knot."

The knight complied with her request, and she made such a cunning knot

in the garment as only she could unravel. For his part Gugemar gave

the Queen a wonderfully fashioned girdle which only he could unclasp,

and he begged her that she would never grant her love to any man who

could not free her from it. Each promised the other solemnly to

respect the vows they had made.

That same day their hidden love was discovered. A chamberlain of the

King's observed them through a window of the Queen's bower, and,

hastening to his master, told him what he had seen. In terrible wrath

the King called for his guards, and, coming upon the lovers unaware,

commanded them to slay Gugemar at once. But the knight seized upon a

stout rod of fir-wood on which linen was wont to be dried, and faced

those who would slay him so boldly that they fell back in dismay.

The King questioned him as to his name and lineage, and Gugemar

fearlessly related his story. The King was incredulous at first, but

said that could the ship be found in which Gugemar had arrived he

would place him upon it and send him once more out to sea. After

search had been made the vessel was found, and Gugemar was placed on

it, the ship began to move, and soon the knight was well at sea.

Ere long the ship came to that harbour whence she had first sailed,

and as Gugemar landed he saw to his surprise one of his own vassals

holding a charger and accompanied by a knight. Mounting the steed,

Gugemar swiftly rode home, where he was received with every

demonstration of joy. But though his parents and friends did

everything possible to make him happy, the memory of the fair Queen

who had loved him was ever with him night and day, so that he might

not be solaced by game or tilting, the chase or the dance. In vain

those who wished him well urged him to take a wife. At first he

roundly refused to consider such a step, but when eagerly pressed by

his friends he announced that no wife should he wed who could not

first unloose the knot within his shift. So sought after was Gugemar

that all the damsels in Brittany essayed the feat, but none of them

succeeded and each retired sorrowfully from the ordeal.

Meanwhile the aged King had set his wife in a tower of grey marble,

where she suffered agonies because of the absence of her lover. Ever

she wondered what had happened to him, if he had regained his native

shore or whether he had been swallowed up by the angry sea. Frequently

she made loud moan, but there were none to hear her cries save

stony-hearted gaolers, who were as dumb as the grey walls that

enclosed her.

One day she chanced in her dolour to lean heavily upon the door of her

prison. To her amazement it opened, and she found herself in the

corridor without. Hastening on impulse, and as if by instinct, to the

harbour, she found there her lover's ship. Quickly she climbed upon

its deck, and scarcely had she done so than the vessel began to move

seaward. In great fear she sat still, and in time was wafted to a part

of Brittany governed by one named Meriadus, who was on the point of

going to war with a neighbouring chieftain.

From his window Meriadus had seen the approach of the strange vessel,

and, making his way to the seashore, entered the ship. Struck with the

beauty of the Queen, he brought her to his castle, where he placed her

in his sister's chamber. He strove in every way to dispel the sadness

which seemed to envelop her like a mantle, but despite his efforts to

please her she remained in sorrowful and doleful mood and would not be

comforted. Sorely did Meriadus press her to wed him, but she would

have none of him, and for answer showed him the girdle round her

waist, saying that never would she give her love to any man who could

not unloose its buckle. As she said this Meriadus seemed struck by her

words.

"Strange," he said, "a right worthy knight dwells in this land who

will take no woman to his wife save she who can first untie a certain

crafty knot in his shift. Well would I wager that it was you who tied

this knot."

When the Queen heard these words she well-nigh fainted. Meriadus

rushed to succour her, and gradually she revived. Some days later

Meriadus held a high tournament, at which all the knights who were to

aid him in the war were to be present, among them Gugemar. A festival

was held on the night preceding the tournament, at which Meriadus

requested his sister and the stranger dame to be present. As the Queen

entered the hall Gugemar rose from his place and stared at her as at a

vision of the dead. In great doubt was he whether this lady was in

truth his beloved.

"Come, Gugemar," rallied Meriadus, "let this damsel try to unravel the

knot in your shift which has puzzled so many fair dames."

Gugemar called to his squire and bade him fetch the shift, and when it

was brought the lady, without seeming effort, unravelled the knot. But

even yet Gugemar remained uncertain.

"Lady," he said, "tell me, I pray you, whether or not you wear a

girdle with which I girt you in a realm across the sea," and placing

his hands around her slender waist, he found there the secret belt.

All his doubts dispelled, Gugemar asked his loved one how she had come

to the tower of Meriadus. When he had heard, he then and there

requested his ally to yield him the lady, but the chieftain roundly

refused. Then the knight in great anger cast down his glove and took

his departure, and, to the discomfiture of Meriadus, all those knights

who had gathered for the tournament and had offered to assist Meriadus

accompanied Gugemar.

[Illustration: GUGEMAR'S ASSAULT ON THE CASTLE OF MERIADUS]

In a body they rode to the castle of the prince who was at war with

Meriadus, and next day they marched against the discourteous

chieftain. Long did they besiege his castle, but at last when the

defenders were weak with hunger Gugemar and his men assailed the place

and took it, slaying Meriadus within the ruins of his own hall.

Gugemar, rushing to that place where he knew his lady to be, called

her forth, and in peace brought her back with him to his own demesne,

where they were wed and dwelt long and happily.

There are several circumstances connected with this beautiful old tale

which deeply impress us with a belief in its antiquity. The incident

of the killing of the deer and the incurable nature of Gugemar's wound

are undoubtedly legacies from very ancient times, when it was believed

to be unlucky under certain circumstances to kill a beast of the

chase. Some savage races, such as the North American Indians, consider

it to be most unlucky to slay a deer without first propitiating the

great Deer God, the chief of the Deer Folk, and in fact they attribute

most of the ills to which flesh is heir to the likelihood that they

have omitted some of the very involved ritual of the chase. It will be

remembered that Tristrem of Lyonesse also had an incurable wound, and

there are other like instances in romance and myth.

The vessel which carries Gugemar over the sea is undoubtedly of the

same class as those magic self-propelled craft which we meet with very

frequently in Celtic lore, and the introduction of this feature in

itself is sufficient to convince us of the Celtic or Breton origin of

Marie's tale. We have such a craft in the Grail legend in the _Morte

d'Arthur_, in which Galahad finds precisely such a bed. The vessel in

the Grail legend is described as "King Solomon's Ship," and it is

obvious that Marie or her Breton original must have borrowed the idea

from a Grail source.

Lastly, the means adopted by the lovers to ensure one another's

constancy seem very like the methods of taboo. The knot that may not

or cannot be untied has many counterparts in ancient lore, and the

girdle that no man but the accepted lover may loose is reminiscent of

the days when a man placed such a girdle around his wife or sweetheart

to signify his sole possession of her. If a man could succeed in

purloining a mermaid's girdle she was completely in his power. So is

it with fairies in an Algonquin Indian tale. Even so late as Crusading

times many knights departing to fight in the Holy Land bound a girdle

round their ladies' waists in the hope that the gift would ensure

their faithfulness.

_The Lay of Laustic_

The Lay of Laustic, or the Nightingale, is purely of Breton origin,

and indeed is proved to be so by its title. "Laustic, I deem, men name

it in that country" (Brittany), says Marie in her preface to the lay,

"which being interpreted means _rossignol_ in French and 'nightingale'

in good plain English." She adds that the Breton harper has already

made a lay concerning it--added evidence that the tale is of Celtic

and not of French origin.

In the ancient town of Saint-Malo, in Brittany, dwelt two knights

whose valour and prowess brought much fame to the community. Their

houses were close to one another, and one of them was married to a

lady of surpassing loveliness, while the other was a bachelor. By

insensible degrees the bachelor knight came to love his neighbour's

wife, and so handsome and gallant was he that in time she returned his

passion. He made every possible excuse for seeking her society, and on

one pretext or another was constantly by her side. But he was

exceedingly careful of her fair fame, and acted in such a way that not

the slightest breath of scandal could touch her.

Their houses were separated by an ancient stone wall of considerable

height, but the lovers could speak together by leaning from their

casements, and if this was impossible they could communicate by

sending written messages. When the lady's husband was at home she was

guarded carefully, as was the custom of the time, but nevertheless she

contrived to greet her lover from the window as frequently as she

desired.

In due course the wondrous time of spring came round, with white drift

of blossom and stir of life newly awakened. The short night hours grew

warm, and often did the lady arise from bed to have speech with her

lover at the casement. Her husband grew displeased by her frequent

absences, which disturbed his rest, and wrathfully inquired the reason

why she quitted his side so often.

"Oh, husband," she replied, "I cannot rest because of the sweet song

of the nightingale, whose music has cast a spell upon my heart. No

tune of harp or viol can compare with it, and I may not close my eyes

so long as his song continues in the night."

Now the lady's husband, although a bold and hardy knight, was

malicious and ungenerous, and, disliking to have his rest disturbed,

resolved to deal summarily with the nightingale. So he gave orders to

his servants to set traps in the garden and to smear every bough and

branch with birdlime in order that the bird might speedily be taken.

His orders were at once carried out, and the garden was filled with

nets, while the cruel lime glittered upon every tree. So complete were

the preparations of the serving-men that an unfortunate nightingale

which had made the garden its haunt and had filled it with music for

many a night while the lovers talked was taken and brought to the

knight.

Swiftly he bore the hapless bird to his wife's chamber, his eyes

sparkling with malicious glee.

"Here is your precious songster," he said, with bitter irony. "You

will be happy to learn that you and I may now spend our sleeping hours

in peace since he is taken."

"Ah, slay him not, my lord!" she cried in anguish, for she had grown

to associate the bird's sweet song with the sweeter converse of her

lover--to regard it as in a measure an accompaniment to his

love-words. For answer her husband seized the unhappy bird by the neck

and wrung its head off. Then he cast the little body into the lap of

the dame, soiling her with its blood, and departed in high anger.

The lady pitifully raised what was left of the dead songster and

bitterly lamented over it.

"Woe is me!" she cried. "Never again can I meet with my lover at the

casement, and he will believe that I am faithless to him. But I shall

devise some means to let him know that this is not so."

Having considered as to what she should do, the lady took a fine piece

of white samite, broidered with gold, and worked upon it as on a

tapestry the whole story of the nightingale, so that her knight might

not be ignorant of the nature of the barrier that had arisen between

them.

In this silken shroud she wrapped the small, sad body of the slain

bird and gave it in charge of a trusty servant to bear to her lover.

The messenger told the knight what had occurred. The news was heavy to

him, but now, having insight to the vengeful nature of her husband, he

feared to jeopardize the lady's safety, so he remained silent. But he

caused a rich coffer to be made in fine gold, set with precious

stones, in which he laid the body of the nightingale, and this small

funeral urn he carried about with him on all occasions, nor could any

circumstance hinder him from keeping it constantly beside him.

Wrap me love's ashes in a golden cloth

To carry next my heart. Love's fire is out,

And these poor embers grey, but I am loath

To quench remembrance also: I shall put

His relics over that they did consume.

Ah, 'tis too bitter cold these cinders to relume!

Place me love's ashes in a golden cup,

To mingle with my wine. Ah, do not fear

The old flame in my soul shall flicker up

At the harsh taste of what was once so dear.

I quaff no fire: there is no fire to meet

This bitterness of death and turn it into sweet.

_The Lay of Eliduc_

In the tale of Eliduc we have in all probability a genuine product of

native Breton romance. So at least avers Marie, who assures us that it

is "a very ancient Breton lay," and we have no reason to doubt her

word, seeing that, had she been prone to literary dishonesty, it would

have been much easier for her to have passed off the tale as her own

original conception. There is, of course, the probability that it was

so widely known in its Breton version that to have done so would have

been to have openly courted the charge of plagiarism--an impeachment

which it is not possible to bring against this most charming and

delightful poetess.

Eliduc, a knight of Brittany, was happy in the confidence of his King,

who, when affairs of State caused his absence from the realm, left his

trusted adherent behind him as viceroy and regent. Such a man, staunch

and loyal, could scarcely be without enemies, and the harmless

pleasure he took in the chase during the King's absence was construed

by evil counsellors on the monarch's return as an unwarranted licence

with the royal rights of venery. The enemies of Eliduc so harped upon

the knight's supposed lack of reverence for the royal authority that

at length the King's patience gave way and in an outburst of wrath he

gave orders for Eliduc's banishment, without vouchsafing his former

friend and confidant the least explanation of this petulant action.

Dismayed by the sudden change in his fortunes, Eliduc returned to his

house, and there acquainted his friends and vassals with the King's

unjust decree. He told them that it was his intention to cross the sea

to the kingdom of Logres, to sojourn there for a space. He placed his

estates in the hands of his wife and begged of his vassals that they

would serve her loyally. Then, having settled his affairs, he took ten

knights of his household and started upon his journey. His wife,

Guildeluec, accompanied him for several miles, and on parting they

pledged good faith to one another.

In due time the cavalcade came to the seashore and took ship for the

realm of Logres. Near Exeter, in this land, dwelt an aged king who

had for his heir a daughter called Guillardun. This damsel had been

asked in marriage by a neighbouring prince, and as her father had

refused to listen to his proposals the disappointed suitor made war

upon him, spoiling and wasting his land. The old King, fearful for his

child's safety, had shut her up in a strong castle for her better

security and his own peace of mind.

Now Eliduc, coming to that land, heard the tale of the quarrel between

the King and his neighbour, and considered as to which side he should

take. After due deliberation he arranged to fight on the side of the

King, with whom he offered to take service. His offer was gratefully

accepted, and he had not been long in the royal host when he had an

opportunity of distinguishing himself. The town wherein he was lodged

with his knights was attacked by the enemy. He set his men in ambush

in a forest track by which it was known the enemy would approach the

town, and succeeded in routing them and in taking large numbers of

prisoners and much booty. This feat of arms raised him high in the

estimation of the King, who showed him much favour, and the Princess,

hearing of his fame, became very desirous of beholding him. She sent

her chamberlain to Eliduc saying that she wished to hear the story of

his deeds, and he, quite as anxious to see the imprisoned Princess of

whom he had heard so much, set out at once. On beholding each other

they experienced deep agitation. Eliduc thought that never had he seen

so beautiful and graceful a maiden, and Guillardun that this was the

most handsome and comely knight she had ever met.

For a long time they spoke together, and then Eliduc took his leave

and departed. He counted all the time lost that he had remained in the

kingdom without knowing this lady, but he promised himself that now he

would frequently seek her society. Then, with a pang of remorse, he

thought of his good and faithful wife and the sacred promise he had

made her.

Guillardun, on her part, was none the less ill at ease. She passed a

restless night, and in the morning confided her case to her aged

chamberlain, who was almost a second father to her, and he, all

unwitting that Eliduc was already bound in wedlock to another,

suggested that the Princess should send the knight a love-token to

discover by the manner in which he received it whether or not her love

was returned. Guillardun took this advice, and sent her lover a girdle

and a ring by the hands of the chamberlain. On receiving the token

Eliduc showed the greatest joy, girded the belt about his middle, and

placed the ring on his finger. The chamberlain returned to the

Princess and told her with what evident satisfaction Eliduc had

received the gifts. But the Princess in her eagerness showered

questions upon him, until at last the old man grew impatient.

"Lady," he said, somewhat testily, "I have told you the knight's

words; I cannot tell you his thoughts, for he is a prudent gentleman

who knows well what to hide in his heart."

Although he rejoiced at the gifts Eliduc had but little peace of mind.

He could think of nothing save the vow he had made to his wife before

he left her. But thoughts of the Princess would intrude themselves

upon him. Often he saw Guillardun, and although he saluted her with a

kiss, as was the custom of the time, he never spoke a single word of

love to her, being fearful on the one hand of breaking his conjugal

vow and on the other of offending the King.

One evening when Eliduc was announced the King was in his daughter's

chamber, playing at chess with a stranger lord. He welcomed the knight

heartily, and much to the embarrassment of the lovers begged his

daughter to cherish a closer friendship for Eliduc, whom he brought to

her notice as a right worthy knight. The pair withdrew somewhat from

the others, as if for the purpose of furthering the friendship which

the old King so ardently seemed to desire, and Eliduc thanked the

Princess for the gifts she had sent him by the chamberlain. Then the

Princess, taking advantage of her rank, told Eliduc that she desired

him for her husband, and that, did he refuse her, she would die

unwed.

"Lady," replied the knight, "I have great joy in your love, but have

you thought that I may not always tarry in this land? I am your

father's man until this war hath an end. Then shall I return unto mine

own country." But Guillardun, in a transport of love, told him she

would trust him entirely with her heart, and passing great was the

affection that grew between them.

Eliduc, in spite of his love for the Princess, had by no means

permitted his conduct of the war to flag. Indeed, if anything, he

redoubled his efforts, and pressed the foe so fiercely that at length

he was forced to submit. And now news came to him that his old master,

the King who had banished him from Brittany, was sore bestead by an

enemy and was searching for his former vice-regent on every hand, who

was so mighty a knight in the field and so sage at the council-board.

Turning upon the false lords who had spoken evil of his favourite, he

outlawed them from the land for ever. He sent messengers east and

west and across the seas in search of Eliduc, who when he heard the

news was much dismayed, so greatly did he love Guillardun. These twain

had loved with a pure and tender passion, and never by word or deed

had they sullied the affection they bore one another. Dearly did the

Princess hope that Eliduc might remain in her land and become her

lord, and little did she dream that he was wedded to a wife across the

seas. For his part Eliduc took close counsel with himself. He knew by

reason of the fealty he owed to his King that he must return to

Brittany, but he was equally aware that if he parted from Guillardun

one or other of them must die.

Deep was the chagrin of the King of Logres when he learned that Eliduc

must depart from his realm, but deeper far was his daughter's grief

when the knight came to bid her farewell. In moving words she urged

him to remain, and when she found that his loyalty was proof even

against his love, she begged of him to take her with him to Brittany.

But this request he turned aside, on the plea that as he had served

her father he could not so offend him as by the theft of his daughter.

He promised, however, by all he held most dear that he would return

one day, and with much sorrow the two parted, exchanging rings for

remembrance.

Eliduc took ship and swiftly crossed the sea. He met with a joyous

reception from his King, and none was so glad at his return as his

wife. But gradually his lady began to see that he had turned cold to

her. She charged him with it, and he replied that he had pledged his

faith to the foreign lord whom he had served abroad.

Very soon through his conduct the war was brought to a victorious

close, and almost immediately thereafter Eliduc repaired across the

sea to Logres, taking with him two of his nephews as his squires. On

reaching Logres he at once went to visit Guillardun, who received him

with great gladness. She returned with him to his ship, which

commenced the return voyage at once, but when they neared the

dangerous coast of Brittany a sudden tempest arose, and waxed so

fierce that the mariners lost all hope of safety. One of them cried

out that the presence of Guillardun on board the ship endangered all

their lives and that the conduct of Eliduc, who had already a faithful

wife, in seeking to wed this foreign woman had brought about their

present dangerous position. Eliduc grew very wroth, and when

Guillardun heard that her knight was already wedded she swooned and

all regarded her as dead. In despair Eliduc fell upon his betrayer,

slew him, and cast his body into the sea. Then, guiding the ship with

a seaman's skill, he brought her into harbour.

When they were safely anchored, Eliduc conceived the idea of taking

Guillardun, whom he regarded as dead, to a certain chapel in a great

forest quite near his own home. Setting her body before him on his

palfrey, he soon came to the little shrine, and making a bier of the

altar laid Guillardun upon it. He then betook him to his own house,

but the next morning returned to the chapel in the forest. Mourning

over the body of his lady-love, he was surprised to observe that the

colour still remained in her cheeks and lips. Again and again he

visited the chapel, and his wife, marvelling whither he went, bribed a

varlet to discover the object of his repeated absences. The man

watched Eliduc and saw him enter the chapel and mourn over the body

of Guillardun, and, returning, acquainted his lady with what he had

seen.

Guildeluec--for such, we will remember, was the name of Eliduc's

wife--set out for the shrine, and with astonishment beheld the

lifelike form of Guillardun laid on the altar. So pitiful was the

sight that she herself could not refrain from the deepest sorrow. As

she sat weeping a weasel came from under the altar and ran across

Guillardun's body, and the varlet who attended Guildeluec struck at it

with his staff and killed it. Another weasel issued, and, beholding

its dead comrade, went forth from the chapel and hastened to the wood,

whence it returned, bearing in its mouth a red flower, which it placed

on the mouth of its dead companion. The weasel which Guildeluec had

believed to be dead at once stood up. Beholding this, the varlet cast

his staff at the animals and they sped away, leaving the red flower

behind them.

[Illustration: ELIDUC CARRIES GUILLARDUN TO THE FOREST CHAPEL]

Guildeluec immediately picked the flower up, and returning with it to

the altar where Guillardun lay, placed it on the maiden's mouth. In a

few moments she heard a sigh, and Guillardun sat up, and inquired if

she had slept long. Guildeluec asked her name and degree, and

Guillardun in reply acquainted her with her history and lineage,

speaking very bitterly of Eliduc, who, she said, had betrayed her in a

strange land. Guildeluec declared herself the wife of Eliduc, told

Guillardun how deeply the knight had grieved for her, and declared her

intention of taking the veil and releasing Eliduc from his marriage

vow. She conducted Guillardun to her home, where they met Eliduc, who

rejoiced greatly at the restoration of his lady-love. His wife

founded a convent with the rich portion he bestowed upon her, and

Eliduc, in thankfulness for Guillardun's recovery, built a fair church

close by his castle and endowed it bountifully, and close beside it

erected a great monastery. Later Guillardun entered the convent of

which Guildeluec was the abbess, and Eliduc, himself feeling the call

of the holy life, devoted himself to the service of God in the

monastery. Messages passed between convent and monastery in which

Eliduc and the holy women encouraged each other in the pious life

which they had chosen, and by degrees the three who had suffered so

greatly came to regard their seclusion as far preferable to the world

and all its vanities.

_The Lay of Equitan_

The Lay of Equitan is one of Marie's most famous tales. Equitan was

King of Nantes, in Brittany, and led the life of a pleasure-seeker. To

win approval from the eyes of fair ladies was more to him than

knightly fame or honour.

Equitan had as seneschal a trusty and faithful knight, who was to the

pleasure-loving seigneur as his right hand. This faithful servant was

also captain of Equitan's army, and sat as a judge in his courts. To

his undoing he had a wife, as fair a dame as any in the duchy of

Brittany. "Her eyes," says the old lay, "were blue, her face was warm

in colour, her mouth fragrant and her nose dainty." She was ever

tastefully dressed and courtly in demeanour, and soon attracted the

attention of such an admirer of the fair sex as Equitan, who desired

to speak with her more intimately. He therefore, as a subterfuge,

announced that a great hunt would take place in that part of his

domains in which his seneschal's castle was situated, and this gave

him the opportunity of sojourning at the castle and holding converse

with the lady, with whom he became so charmed that in a few days he

fell deeply in love with her. On the night of the day when he first

became aware that he loved her Equitan lay tossing on his bed, in a

torment of fiery emotion. He debated with himself in what manner he

should convey to his seneschal's wife the fact that he loved her, and

at length prepared a plot which he thought would be likely to

succeed.

Next day he rose as usual and made all arrangements to proceed with

the chase. But shortly after setting out he returned, pleading that he

had fallen sick, and took to his bed. The faithful seneschal could not

divine what had occurred to render his lord so seriously indisposed as

he appeared to be, and requested his wife to go to him to see if she

could minister to him and cheer his drooping spirits.

The lady went to Equitan, who received her dolefully enough. He told

her without reserve that the malady from which he suffered was none

other than love for herself, and that did she not consent to love him

in return he would surely die. The dame at first dissented, but,

carried away by the fiery eloquence of his words, she at last assured

him of her love, and they exchanged rings as a token of troth and

trust.

The love of Equitan and the seneschal's wife was discovered by none,

and when they desired to meet he arranged to go hunting in the

neighbourhood of the seneschal's castle. Shortly after they had

plighted their troth the great barons of the realm approached the

King with a proposal that he should marry, but Equitan would have none

of this, nor would he listen to even his most trusted advisers with

regard to such a subject. The nobles were angered at his curt and even

savage refusal to hearken to them, and the commons were also greatly

disturbed because of the lack of a successor. The echoes of the

disagreement reached the ears of the seneschal's wife, who was much

perturbed thereby, being aware that the King had come to this decision

for love of her.

At their next meeting she broached the subject to her royal lover,

lamenting that they had ever met.

"Now are my good days gone," she said, weeping, "for you will wed some

king's daughter as all men say, and I shall certainly die if I lose

you thus."

"Nay, that will not be," replied Equitan. "Never shall I wed except

your husband die."

The lady felt that he spoke truly, but in an evil moment she came to

attach a sinister meaning to the words Equitan had employed regarding

her husband. Day and night she brooded on them, for well she knew that

did her husband die Equitan would surely wed her. By insensible

degrees she came to regard her husband's death as a good rather than

an evil thing, and little by little Equitan, who at first looked upon

the idea with horror, became converted to her opinion. Between them

they hatched a plot for the undoing of the seneschal. It was arranged

that the King should go hunting as usual in the neighbourhood of his

faithful servant's castle. While lodging in the castle, the King and

the seneschal would be bled in the old surgical manner for their

health's sake, and three days after would bathe before leaving the

chamber they occupied, and the heartless wife suggested that she

should make her husband's bath so fiercely hot that he would not

survive after entering it. One would think that the seneschal would

easily have been able to escape such a simple trap, but we must

remember that the baths of Norman times were not shaped like our own,

but were exceedingly deep, and indeed some of them were in form almost

like those immense upright jars such as the forty thieves were

concealed in in the story of Ali Baba, so that in many cases it was

not easy for the bather to tell whether the water into which he was

stepping was hot or otherwise.

The plot was carried out as the lady had directed, but not without

much misgiving on the part of Equitan. The King duly arrived at the

castle, and announced his intention to be bled, requesting that the

seneschal should undergo the same operation at the same time, and

occupy the same chamber by way of companionship. Then after the leech

had bled them the King asked that he might have a bath before leaving

his apartment, and the seneschal requested that his too should be made

ready. Accordingly on the third day the baths were brought to the

chamber, and the lady occupied herself with filling them. While she

was doing so her lord left the chamber for a space, and during his

absence the King and the lady were clasped in each other's arms. So

rapt were the pair in their amorous dalliance that they failed to

notice the return of the seneschal, who, when he saw them thus

engaged, uttered an exclamation of surprise and wrath. Equitan,

turning quickly, saw him, and with a cry of despair leapt into the

bath that the lady had prepared for the seneschal, and there perished

miserably, while the enraged husband, seizing his faithless wife,

thrust her headlong into the boiling water beside her lover, where she

too was scalded to death.

_The Lay of the Ash-Tree_

In olden times there dwelt in Brittany two knights who were neighbours

and close friends. Both were married, and one was the father of twin

sons, one of whom he christened by the name of his friend. Now this

friend had a wife who was envious of heart and rancorous of tongue,

and on hearing that two sons had been born to her neighbour she spoke

slightingly and cruelly about her, saying that to bear twins was ever

a disgrace. Her evil words were spread abroad, and at last as a result

of her malicious speech the good lady's husband himself began to doubt

and suspect the wife who had never for a moment given him the least

occasion to do so.

Strangely enough, within the year two daughters were born to the lady

of the slanderous tongue, who now deeply lamented the wrong she had

done, but all to no purpose. Fearful of the gossip which she thought

the event would occasion, she gave one of the children to a faithful

handmaiden, with directions that it should be laid on the steps of a

church, where it might be picked up as a foundling and nourished by

some stranger. The babe was wrapped in a linen cloth, which again was

covered with a beautiful piece of red silk that the lady's husband had

purchased in the East, and a handsome ring engraved with the family

insignia and set with garnets was bound to the infant's arm with

silken lace. When the child had thus been attired the damsel took it

and carried it for many miles into the country, until at last she came

to a city where there was a large and fair abbey. Breathing a prayer

that the child might have proper guardianship, the girl placed it on

the abbey steps as her mistress had ordered her to do, but, afraid

that it might catch cold on such a chilly bed, she looked around and

saw an ash-tree, thick and leafy, with four strong branches, among the

foliage of which she deposited the little one, commending it to the

care of God, after which she returned to her mistress and acquainted

her with what had passed.

In the morning the abbey porter opened the great doors of the house of

God so that the people might enter for early Mass. As he was thus

engaged his eye caught the gleam of red silk among the leaves of the

ash-tree, and going to it he discovered the deserted infant. Taking

the babe from its resting-place, he returned with it to his house,

and, awaking his daughter, who was a widow with a baby yet in the

cradle, he asked her to cherish it and care for it. Both father and

daughter could see from the crimson silk and the great signet ring

that the child was of noble birth. The porter told the abbess of his

discovery, and she requested him to bring the child to her, dressed

precisely as it had been found. On beholding the infant a great

compassion was aroused in the breast of the holy woman, who resolved

to bring up the child herself, calling her her niece, and since she

was taken from the ash giving her the name of Frêne.

Frêne grew up one of the fairest damsels in Brittany. She was frank in

manner, yet modest and discreet in bearing and speech. At Dol,

where, as we have read, there is a great menhir and other prehistoric

monuments, there lived a lord called Buron, who, hearing reports of

Frêne's beauty and sweetness, greatly desired to behold her.

Riding home from a tournament, he passed near the convent, and,

alighting there, paid his respects to the abbess, and begged that he

might see her niece. Buron at once fell in love with the maiden, and

in order to gain favour with the abbess bestowed great riches upon the

establishment over which she presided, requesting in return that he

might be permitted to occupy a small apartment in the abbey should he

chance to be in the neighbourhood.

In this way he frequently saw and spoke with Frêne, who in turn fell

in love with him. He persuaded her to fly with him to his castle,

taking with her the silken cloth and ring with which she had been

found.

But the lord's tenants were desirous that he should marry, and had set

their hearts upon his union with a rich lady named Coudre, daughter of

a neighbouring baron. The marriage was arranged, greatly to the grief

of Frêne, and duly took place. Going to Buron's bridal chamber, she

considered it too mean, blinded with love as she was, for such as he,

and placed the wondrous piece of crimson silk in which she had been

wrapped as an infant over the coverlet. Presently the bride's mother

entered the bridal chamber in order to see that all was fitting for

her daughter's reception there. Gazing at the crimson coverlet, she

recognized it as that in which she had wrapped her infant daughter.

She anxiously inquired to whom it belonged, and was told that it was

Frêne's. Going to the damsel, she questioned her as to where she had

obtained the silk, and was told by Frêne that the abbess had given it

to her along with a ring which had been found upon her when, as an

infant, she had been discovered within the branches of the ash-tree.

The mother asked anxiously to see the ring, and on beholding it told

Frêne of their relationship, which at the same time she confessed to

her husband, the baron. The father was overjoyed to meet with a

daughter he had never known, and hastened to the bridegroom to

acquaint him with Frêne's story. Great joy had Buron, and the

archbishop who had joined him to Coudre gave counsel that they should

be parted according to the rites of the Church and that Buron should

marry Frêne. This was accordingly done, and when Frêne's parents

returned to their own domain they found another husband for Coudre.

_The Lay of Graelent_

Graelent was a Breton knight dwelling at the Court of the King of

Brittany, a very pillar to him in war, bearing himself valiantly in

tourney and joust. So handsome and brave was he that the Queen fell

madly in love with him, and asked her chamberlain to bring the knight

into her presence. When he came she praised him greatly to his face,

not only for his gallantry in battle, but also for his comeliness; but

at her honeyed words the youth, quite abashed, sat silent, saying

nothing. The Queen at last questioned him if his heart was set on any

maid or dame, to which he replied that it was not, that love was a

serious business and not to be taken in jest.

"Many speak glibly of love," he said, "of whom not one can spell the

first letter of its name. Love should be quiet and discreet or it is

nothing worth, and without accord between the lovers love is but a

bond and a constraint. Love is too high a matter for me to meddle

with."

The Queen listened greedily to Graelent's words, and when he had

finished speaking she discovered her love for him; but he turned from

her courteously but firmly.

"Lady," he said, "I beg your forgiveness, but this may not be. I am

the King's man, and to him I have pledged my faith and loyalty. Never

shall he know shame through any conduct of mine."

With these words he took his leave of the Queen. But his protestations

had altered her mind not at all. She sent him messages daily, and

costly gifts, but these he refused and returned, till at last the

royal dame, stung to anger by his repulses, conceived a violent hatred

for him, and resolved to be revenged upon him for the manner in which

he had scorned her love.

The King of Brittany went to war with a neighbouring monarch, and

Graelent bore himself manfully in the conflict, leading his troops

again and again to victory. Hearing of his repeated successes, the

Queen was exceedingly mortified, and made up her mind to destroy his

popularity with the troops. With this end in view she prevailed upon

the King to withhold the soldiers' pay, which Graelent had to advance

them out of his own means. In the end the unfortunate knight was

reduced almost to beggary by this mean stratagem.

One morning he was riding through the town where he was lodged, clad

in garments so shabby that the wealthy burgesses in their fur-lined

cloaks and rich apparel gibed and jeered at him, but Graelent, sure of

his own worth, deigned not to take notice of such ill-breeding, and

for his solace quitted the crowded streets of the place and took his

way toward the great forest which skirted it. He rode into its gloom

deep in thought, listening to the murmur of the river which flowed

through the leafy ways.

He had not gone far when he espied a white hart within a thicket. She

fled before him into the thickest part of the forest, but the silvern

glimmer of her body showed the track she had taken. On a sudden deer

and horseman dashed into a clearing among the trees where there was a

grassy lawn, in the midst of which sprang a fountain of clear water.

In this fountain a lady was bathing, and two attendant maidens stood

near. Now Graelent believed that the lady must be a fairy, and knowing

well that the only way to capture such a being was to seize her

garments, he looked around for these, and seeing them lying upon a

bush he laid hands upon them.

The attendant women at this set up a loud outcry, and the lady herself

turned to where he sat his horse and called him by name.

"Graelent, what do you hope to gain by the theft of my raiment?" she

asked. "Have you, a knight, sunk so low as to behave like a common

pilferer? Take my mantle if you must, but pray spare me my gown."

Graelent laughed at the lady's angry words, and told her that he was

no huckster. He then begged her to don her garments, as he desired to

have speech with her. After her women had attired her, Graelent took

her by the hand and, leading her a little space away from her

attendants, told her that he had fallen deeply in love with her. But

the lady frowned and seemed at first offended.

"You do not know to whom you proffer your love," she said. "Are you

aware that my birth and lineage render it an impertinence for a mere

knight to seek to ally himself with me?"

But Graelent had a most persuasive tongue, and the deep love he had

conceived for the lady rendered him doubly eloquent on this occasion.

At last the fairy-woman, for such she was, was quite carried away by

his words, and granted him the boon he craved.

"There is, however, one promise I must exact from you," she said, "and

that is that never shall you mention me to mortal man. I on my part

shall assist you in every possible manner. You shall never be without

gold in your purse nor costly apparel to wear. Day and night shall I

remain with you, and in war and in the chase will ride by your side,

visible to you alone, unseen by your companions. For a year must you

remain in this country. Now noon has passed and you must go. A

messenger shall shortly come to you to tell you of my wishes."

Graelent took leave of the lady and kissed her farewell. Returning to

his lodgings in the town, he was leaning from the casement considering

his strange adventure when he saw a varlet issuing from the forest

riding upon a palfrey. The man rode up the cobbled street straight to

Graelent's lodgings, where he dismounted and, entering, told the

knight that his lady had sent him with the palfrey as a present, and

begged that he would accept the services of her messenger to take

charge of his lodgings and manage his affairs.

The serving-man quickly altered the rather poor appearance of

Graelent's apartment. He spread a rich coverlet upon his couch and

produced a well-filled purse and rich apparel. Graelent at once sought

out all the poor knights of the town and feasted them to their hearts'

content. From this moment he fared sumptuously every day. His lady

appeared whenever he desired her to, and great was the love between

them. Nothing more had he to wish for in this life.

A year passed in perfect happiness for the knight, and at its

termination the King held a great feast on the occasion of Pentecost.

To this feast Sir Graelent was bidden. All day the knights and barons

and their ladies feasted, and the King, having drunk much wine, grew

boastful. Requesting the Queen to stand forth on the daïs, he asked

the assembled nobles if they had ever beheld so fair a dame as she.

The lords were loud in their praise of the Queen, save Graelent only.

He sat with bent head, smiling strangely, for he knew of a lady fairer

by far than any lady in that Court. The Queen was quick to notice this

seeming discourtesy, and pointed it out to the King, who summoned

Graelent to the steps of the throne.

"How now, Sir Knight," said the King; "wherefore did you sneer when

all other men praised the Queen's beauty?"

"Sire," replied Graelent, "you do yourself much dishonour by such a

deed. You make your wife a show upon a stage and force your nobles to

praise her with lies when in truth a fairer dame than she could very

easily be found."

Now when she heard this the Queen was greatly angered and prayed her

husband to compel Graelent to bring to the Court her of whom he

boasted so proudly.

"Set us side by side," cried the infuriated Queen, "and if she be

fairer than I before men's eyes, Graelent may go in peace, but if not

let justice be done upon him."

The King, stirred to anger at these words, ordered his guards to seize

Graelent, swearing that he should never issue from prison till the

lady of whom he had boasted should come to Court and pit herself

against the Queen. Graelent was then cast into a dungeon, but he

thought little of this indignity, fearing much more that his rashness

had broken the bond betwixt him and his fairy bride. After a while he

was set at liberty, on pledging his word that he would return bringing

with him the lady whom he claimed as fairer than the Queen.

Leaving the Court, he betook himself to his lodging, and called upon

his lady, but received no answer. Again he called, but without result,

and believing that his fairy bride had utterly abandoned him he gave

way to despair. In a year's time Graelent returned to the Court and

admitted his failure.

"Sir Graelent," said the King, "wherefore should you not be punished?

You have slandered the Queen in the most unknightly manner, and given

the lie to those nobles who must now give judgment against you."

The nobles retired to consider their judgment upon Graelent. For a

long time they debated, for most of them were friendly to him and

he had been extremely popular at Court. In the midst of their

deliberations a page entered and prayed them to postpone judgment,

as two damsels had arrived at the palace and were having speech with

the King concerning Graelent. The damsels told the King that their

mistress was at hand, and begged him to wait for her arrival, as she

had come to uphold Graelent's challenge. Hearing this, the Queen

quitted the hall, and shortly after she had gone a second pair of

damsels appeared bearing a similar message for the King. Lastly

Graelent's young bride herself entered the hall.

At sight of her a cry of admiration arose from the assembled nobles,

and all admitted that their eyes had never beheld a fairer lady. When

she reached the King's side she dismounted from her palfrey.

"Sire," she said, addressing the King, "hasty and foolish was

Graelent's tongue when he spoke as he did, but at least he told the

truth when he said that there is no lady so fair but a fairer may be

found. Look upon me and judge in this quarrel between the Queen and

me."

When she had spoken every lord and noble with one voice agreed that

she was fairer than her royal rival. Even the King himself admitted

that it was so, and Sir Graelent was declared a free man.

Turning round to seek his lady, the knight observed that she was

already some distance away, so, mounting upon his white steed, he

followed hotly after her. All day he followed, and all night, calling

after her and pleading for pity and pardon, but neither she nor her

attendant damsels paid the slightest attention to his cries. Day after

day he followed her, but to no purpose.

At last the lady and her maidens entered the forest and rode to the

bank of a broad stream. They set their horses to the river, but when

the lady saw that Graelent was about to follow them she turned and

begged him to desist, telling him that it was death for him to cross

that stream. Graelent did not heed her, but plunged into the torrent.

The stream was deep and rapid, and presently he was torn from his

saddle. Seeing this, the lady's attendants begged her to save him.

Turning back, the lady clutched her lover by the belt and dragged him

to the shore. He was well-nigh drowned, but under her care he speedily

recovered, and, say the Breton folk, entered with her that realm of

Fairyland into which penetrated Thomas the Rhymer, Ogier the Dane, and

other heroes. His white steed when it escaped from the river grieved

greatly for its master, rushing up and down the bank, neighing loudly,

and pawing with its hoofs upon the ground. Many men coveted so noble

a charger, and tried to capture him, but all in vain, so each year,

"in its season," as the old romance says, the forest is filled with

the sorrowful neighing of the good steed which may not find its

master.

The story of Graelent is one of those which deal with what is known to

folk-lorists as the 'fairy-wife' subject. A taboo is always placed

upon the mortal bridegroom. Sometimes he must not utter the name of

his wife; in other tales, as in that of Melusine, he must not seek her

on a certain day of the week. The essence of the story is, of course,

that the taboo is broken, and in most cases the mortal husband loses

his supernatural mate.

Another incident in the general _motif_ is the stealing of the

fairy-woman's clothes. The idea is the same as that found in stories

where the fisherman steals the sea-woman's skin canoe as a prelude to

making her his wife, or the feather cloak of the swan-maiden is seized

by the hunter when he finds her asleep, thus placing the supernatural

maiden in his power. Among savages it is quite a common and usual

circumstance for the spouses not to mention each other's names for

months after marriage, nor even to see one another's faces. In the

story under consideration the taboo consists in the mortal bridegroom

being forbidden to allude in any circumstances to his supernatural

wife, who is undoubtedly the same type of being encountered by Thomas

the Rhymer and Bonny Kilmeny in the ballads related of them. They are

denizens of a country, a fairy realm, which figures partly as an abode

of the dead, and which we are certainly justified in identifying with

the Celtic Otherworld. The river which the fairy-woman crosses bears a

certain resemblance to the Styx, or she tells Graelent plainly that

should he reach its opposite bank he is as good as dead. Fairyland in

early Celtic lore may be a place of delight, but it is none the less

one of death and remoteness.

_The Lay of the Dolorous Knight_

Once more the scene is laid in Nantes, and "some harpers," says Marie,

"call it the Lay of the Four Sorrows." In this city of Brittany dwelt

a lady on whom four barons of great worship had set their love. They

were not singular in this respect, as the damsel's bright eyes had set

fire to the hearts of all the youths of the ancient town. She smiled

upon them all, but favoured no one more than another. Out of this

great company, however, the four noblemen in question had constituted

themselves her particular squires. They vied with one another in the

most earnest manner to gain her esteem; but she was equally gracious

to all and it was impossible to say that she favoured any.

It was not surprising, then, that each one of the four nobles believed

that the lady preferred him to the others. Each of them had received

gifts from her, and each cried her name at tournaments. On the

occasion of a great jousting, held without the walls of Nantes, the

four lovers held the lists, and from all the surrounding realms and

duchies came hardy knights to break a spear for the sake of chivalry.

From matins to vespers the friendly strife raged fiercely, and against

the four champions of Nantes four foreign knights especially pitted

themselves. Two of these were of Hainault, and the other two were

Flemings. The two companies charged each other so desperately that the

horses of all eight men were overthrown. The four knights of Nantes

rose lightly from the ground, but the four stranger knights lay still.

Their friends, however, rushed to their rescue, and soon the

challengers were lost in a sea of steel.

Now the lady in whose honour the lists were defended by these four

brave brethren in arms sat beholding their prowess in the keenest

anxiety. Soon the knights of Nantes were reinforced by their friends,

and the strife waxed furiously, sword to sword and lance to lance.

First one company and then the other gained the advantage, but, urged

on by rashness, the four challenging champions charged boldly in front

of their comrades and became separated from them, with the dire result

that three of them were killed and the fourth was so grievously

wounded that he was borne from the press in a condition hovering

between life and death. So furious were the stranger knights because

of the resistance that had been made by the four champions that they

cast their opponents' shields outside the lists. But the knights of

Nantes won the day, and, raising their three slain comrades and him

who was wounded, carried all four to the house of their lady-love.

When the sad procession reached her doors the lady was greatly grieved

and cast down. To her three dead lovers she gave sumptuous burial in a

fair abbey. As for the fourth, she tended him with such skill that ere

long his wounds were healed and he was quite recovered. One summer day

the knight and the lady sat together after meat, and a great sadness

fell upon her because of the knights who had been slain in her cause.

Her head sank upon her breast and she seemed lost in a reverie of

sorrow. The knight, perceiving her distress, could not well understand

what had wounded her so deeply.

"Lady," said he, "a great sorrow seems to be yours. Reveal your grief

to me, and perchance I can find you comfort."

"Friend," replied the lady, "I grieve for your companions who are

gone. Never was lady or damsel served by four such valiant knights,

three of whom were slain in one single day. Pardon me if I call them

to mind at this time, but it is my intention to make a lay in order

that these champions and yourself may not be forgotten, and I will

call it 'The Lay of the Four Sorrows.'"

"Nay, lady," said the knight, "call it not 'The Lay of the Four

Sorrows,' but rather 'The Lay of the Dolorous Knight.' My three

comrades are dead. They have gone to their place; no more hope have

they of life; all their sorrows are ended and their love for you is as

dead as they. I alone am here in life, but what have I to hope for? I

find my life more bitter than they could find the grave. I see you in

your comings and goings, I may speak with you, but I may not have your

love. For this reason I am full of sorrow and cast down, and thus I

beg that you give your lay my name and call it 'The Lay of the

Dolorous Knight.'"

The lady looked earnestly upon him. "By my faith," she said, "you

speak truly. The lay shall be known by the title you wish it to be."

So the lay was written and entitled as the knight desired it should

be. "I heard no more," says Marie, "and nothing more I know. Perforce

I must bring my story to a close."

The end of this lay is quite in the medieval manner, and fitly

concludes this chapter. We are left absolutely in the dark as to

whether the knight and the lady came together at last. I for one do

not blame Marie for this, as with the subtle sense of the fitness of

things that belongs to all great artists she saw how much more

effective it would be to leave matters as they were between the

lovers. There are those who will blame her for her inconclusiveness;

but let them bear in mind that just because of what they consider her

failing in this respect they will not be likely to forget her tale,

whereas had it ended with wedding-bells they would probably have

stored it away in some mental attic with a thousand other dusty

memories.