his best armour, and rode forth to the gate of the great palace of
Synadown; and with him for escort came Lambard and his knights.
They found the gate open, but no further durst any man go save Le Beau
Disconus and his squire Gyfflet; and Le Beau Disconus made Gyfflet
also turn back with the rest.
Then he rode alone into the palace, and alighted at the great hall. He
saw minstrels before the dais, and a fire burning brightly, but no
lord of the palace was there. Le Beau Disconus paced through all the
chambers, and saw no one but minstrels who made merry. Le Beau
Disconus went further, seeking those whom he should fight. He peered
into all the corners, and looked on wondrous pillars of jasper and
fine crystal; but never a foe did he see.
At last he sat him down at the dais in the great hall. As he sat, the
minstrels ceased their music and vanished, and the torches were
extinguished; doors and windows shook like thunder, and the very
stones of the walls fell round him. The dais began to quake, and the
roof above opened.
As he sat thus dismayed, believing that he was betrayed by magic, he
heard horses neigh. "Yet may I hope to joust," he said, better
pleased. He looked out into a field, and there he saw two knights come
riding with spear and shield; their armour was of rich purple, with
golden garlands. One of the knights rode into the hall. "Sir knight,"
he cried, "proud though you be, you must fight with us."
"I am ready to fight," answered Le Beau Disconus, and he leapt into
his saddle, and rode against the knight. His might bore Mabon (for it
was he) over his horse's tail: the hinder saddle-bow broke, and he
fell. With that rode in Irayn fully armed, fresh for the fight, and
meaning with main and might to assail Sir Le Beau Disconus. But Le
Beau Disconus was aware of him, and bore down on him with his spear,
leaving Mabon where he had fallen. They broke their lances at the
first stroke, and fell to with swords. As they fought, Mabon rose up
from the ground, and ran to aid Irayn. But Le Beau Disconus fought
both, and kept himself back warily.
When Irayn saw Mabon, he smote fiercely at Le Beau Disconus and struck
his steed. But Sir Le Beau Disconus returned his blow, and shore off
his thigh, skin and bone and all: of no avail were his arms or his
enchantments then!
Then Le Beau Disconus turned swiftly again to Mabon; and Mabon with a
great blow broke the knight's sword. But Le Beau Disconus ran to
Irayn, where he lay dying, and drew from him his sword, and rushed
fiercely upon Mabon once more, and smote off his left arm with the
shield.
"Hold, gentle knight," said Mabon, "and I will yield that to your
will, and will take you to the fair lady. Through the wound from that
sword I am undone, for I poisoned both it and mine, to make certain of
slaying you."
"I will have none of your gifts, were I to win all this world by
them," said Le Beau Disconus. "Lay on. One of us shall die."
Then they fell to again, and so fiercely did Le Beau Disconus fight
that in a little while he cleft Mabon's head and helmet in twain.
When Mabon was slain, he ran to where he had left Irayn, meaning to
cleave his head also. But Irayn was not there; he had been borne away,
whither Le Beau Disconus did not know. He sought him everywhere, and
when he found him not, he believed that he was caught in a snare, and
fell on his knees and prayed. As he prayed a marvel came to pass. In
the stone wall a window opened, and a great dragon issued therefrom.
It had the face of a woman, fair and young, her body and wings shone
like gold; her tail was loathly, and her paws grim and great.
Le Beau Disconus's heart sank within him, and he trembled. Ere he
could think, the dragon clasped him by the neck and kissed him; and
lo! as it kissed him, the tail and wings fell from it, and he saw
before him the fairest lady that ever he looked upon.
"Gentle knight," she said, "you have slain the two magicians, my
foes. They changed me into a dragon, and bade me keep that shape till
I had kissed Sir Gawain or some other knight of kin to Sir Gawain. You
have saved my life: I will give you fifteen castles and myself for
wife, if it be King Arthur's will."
Then was Le Beau Disconus glad and blithe, and leapt on his horse and
rode back to Sir Lambard to bring him these good tidings; and
presently there came to him from the palace the lady herself, richly
clad, and all the people of the town made a fair procession in her
train. Every knight in Synadown did her homage and fealty as was due
to her. Seven nights did they abide in the castle with Lambard, and
then Sir Le Beau Disconus returned with the fair lady to King Arthur,
and at his court gave thanks to God for their adventures. King Arthur
gave the lady to Le Beau Disconus for wife; and the joy of that bridal
can be told in no tale or song.
TALES TOLD BY CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS
Geoffrey Chaucer, born about 1340, was the first great English poet.
The immense popularity of the Canterbury Tales is shown by the number
of manuscript copies still in existence. It was one of the first books
printed in England.
The vividness with which the author describes scenes and events and
people, as if he had them before his eyes, is one of his greatest
charms as a writer. Those who know him best place him second only to
Shakespeare as a writer of delightful English.
The spelling of Chaucer's time differs so much from ours that the
difficulty of reading it discourages a great many people. The few
stories here given are retold in the language of to-day.
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE KNIGHT
Retold by F. J. H. Darton
In the old days of King Arthur all the land was filled with fairies,
and the elf queen and her merry company held many a dance in the green
meadows where now you will see never one of them. But that was many
hundred years ago.
It happened that there was at King Arthur's court a young knight, in
the full vigour and pride of his strength, who one day, as he was
riding out, came upon a maiden walking all alone. She was very
beautiful, and the sight of her made him forget his knighthood.
He went up to her, and tried to carry her off with him by force; but
before he could succeed help came, and he was seized and taken before
the king.
The king sentenced him to die, according to the law at that time, and
he would surely have been put to death if the queen and her ladies had
not long and earnestly prayed for mercy. The king at last relented and
granted him his life, and left it to the queen to say what punishment
should be given him.
When the queen had thanked King Arthur she sent for the knight. She
did not wish to let him go wholly free.
"You are still in danger of losing your life," she said to him; "but I
will give you your freedom on one condition: you must find me the
answer to the question--'What is it that women most desire?' If you
cannot now give me the answer that I have in my mind you shall have a
year and a day in which to learn it. Do your best, and take great
care, for if at the end of that time you still cannot answer, you must
die."
The knight pondered awhile, but he could not guess the answer at once.
So he pledged himself to return to the court at the end of a year and
a day, and went away very sorrowfully.
How was he to find the answer to the riddle? He thought for a long
time by himself, and then asked every one he met what it was that
women loved best. But nowhere could he discover two people who agreed
in saying the same thing. Some told him the answer was honour; some,
riches; others, fine clothing; others, again, flattery. But none of
these replies pleased the knight, and he could not guess anyhow what
it was that the queen had in her mind as the right answer.
He wandered far and wide in his mournful search for some one wise
enough to help him. At length the time came when he had to turn
homewards again, in order to return to the queen by the appointed
day. His way lay through a forest, and he was riding along sadly
enough when suddenly he saw a strange sight. In a little glade just in
front of him was a ring of fair ladies dancing, four-and-twenty or
more of them; but as he drew nigh eagerly to look at them more
closely, and see if by chance lie might gain an answer from them, they
all vanished.
In the place where they had been not a living thing remained except an
old woman sitting on the grass. When he came near to her he saw that
she was withered and ugly, and as horrible a sight as could be
imagined,
"Sir knight," she said to him, standing up, "this road leads to no
place. Whither are you going? Tell me your errand, and perchance I
can help you. We old folk have knowledge of many things."
"Old mother," he said, "my trouble is this: I am as good as dead if I
cannot discover what it is that women love best. If you could help me
I would reward you well." And he told her the conditions on which his
life was spared.
"Give me your word here and now that you will do the next thing that I
ask of you, whatever it is, if it is in your power," said the hag when
she heard the story, "and I will tell you the answer."
"I give my word," the knight replied.
"Then your life is safe. I promise you that my answer will be that
which the queen wishes to have, and the proudest lady of all her court
will not dare gainsay it. Let us go on our journey without any more
talking."
She whispered a word or two in his ear, and bade him pluck up heart;
and together they rode to the court.
The knight came before the queen, and said that he was ready to give
his answer, and a great company of noble ladies gathered to hear what
he would reply to the riddle. Silence was proclaimed, and he was
called upon to speak.
"I have kept my word faithfully," he said in a manly voice that was
heard all over the hall, "and I am here on the day appointed, prepared
to answer the queen's question. The answer she desired was that women
love power best, whether it be over husband or lover. If that is not
the right answer do with me as you wish. I am here ready to die if you
so will it."
They all agreed that he had saved his life by his reply. But when
their verdict was made known up started the old hag who had told the
knight the answer.
"Give me justice, lady queen, before your court departs," she
cried. "I told the knight that answer, and he gave me his word that he
would do the first thing that I asked of him if it lay in his
power. Now, before all this court, I ask you, sir knight, to take me
to be your wife; and remember it is I who have saved your life."
"Alas!" said the knight; "truly I gave my word, but will you not ask
some other thing of me? Take all my riches, and let me go."
"No," insisted the old woman. "Though I be old and poor and ugly I
would not let you go for all the gold on earth. I will be your wife
and your love."
"My love!" he cried; "nay, rather my death! Alas that any of my race
should suffer such dishonour."
All the knight's prayers and entreaties were of no avail. He had to
keep his word and marry the hideous old hag; and a mournful wedding he
made of it. He took his new bride home to his house, feeling not at
all like a happy lover; and his woe was increased by her first words
to him.
"Dear husband, will you not kiss me? Is it the custom of the king's
court for every knight to neglect his wife? I am your own love, who
saved you from death, and I have done you no wrong. Yet you act
towards me like a madman who has lost his senses, with your groans and
your glum looks. Tell me what I have done amiss, and I will set it
right."
"You cannot set it right," said the knight sorrowfully. "Do you
wonder that I am ashamed to have married one of such mean birth, so
poor and old and ugly?"
"Is that the cause of your grief?" she asked.
"Yes," answered he.
"I could set it right," said his wife. "But you speak so proudly of
your high birth and old family. Such pride is worth nothing, for
poverty and low birth are no sin. Look rather at him who leads the
best life both in secret and in the open, who strives always to do
gentle and honourable deeds; take him for the truest gentleman, and be
sure that a noble nature like his is not made only by high birth or
the wealth of his fathers. But you say that I am low-born, old, and
ugly. Well, choose now which you would desire me to be--as I am, poor,
old, and ugly, but a true and faithful wife who will obey you always;
or young and fair, but fickle and fond of vain pleasures, always
emptying your purse and wounding your love?"
The knight did not know which to choose. He was moved to shame by his
wife's words, and after long thought he said: "My lady, my dear wife,
I put myself in your hands. Choose for yourself; that will do honour
to you, and what you wish is enough for me."
"Then I have gained the mastery! I have power over you," said she, "if
I may choose as I please."
"Yes, dear wife," he answered, "I think that best."
"Kiss me," she said, "and let us quarrel no longer. I will be both to
you--both fair and true. I will be as good a wife as ever there was
since the beginning of the world; and if I am not as beautiful as any
lady, queen, or empress in the whole earth, from east to west, then
slay me or do with my life as you wish."
The knight looked up at her again. But instead of the withered old
crone he expected to see, his eyes fell upon the most beautiful wife
that could be imagined; for the old woman was a fairy, and had wished
to give him a lesson before he knew her as she really was. No longer
now was he ashamed of her, and they lived together happily to their
lives' end.
DEATH AND THE THREE REVELLERS
Retold by F. J. H. Darton
There was once in Flanders a company of young men who spent much time
in drinking and rioting among the taverns, wasting their lives in
gambling and dancing day and night.
Early one morning a certain three of these revellers were sitting in a
tavern drinking, and making a great noise with their horrible talk. As
they jested idly with one another they heard a bell tolling outside
for a dead man who was about to be buried.
"Run quickly," one of them called to his servant-boy, "and ask the
name of the man whose body is being carried out to burial. Take care
to tell it us aright."
"I need not go, sirs," answered the boy. "I heard two hours before you
came here that this man who is now dead was an old comrade of yours,
slain last night as he lay in a drunken sleep. There came to him a
stealthy old thief named Death, who kills many folk in this country;
he pierced your comrade's heart with a spear, and went his way without
a word. He has slain a thousand or more in the pestilence here. I
think it would be well for you; my masters, to beware of coming into
the presence of such a foe, and to be ready to meet him."
"Yes," said the keeper of the tavern, "the boy speaks truly. Death has
this year slain men, women, and children, pages and peasants,
throughout the whole of a great village a mile from here. I think he
dwells in that place. It would be wise to be prepared before he does
one any evil."
"Is it so great a danger to meet him, then?" cried one of the
revellers with an oath. "I will go myself, and seek him high and low
in the streets and lanes. Listen, comrades: there are three of us; let
us join together and slay this false traitor Death. We will swear to
be true to one another, and before night-time we will slay him who
kills so many others."
The other two agreed, and the three swore to be to one another as
brothers. Up they started, and went forth towards the village where
Death was said by the innkeeper to live.
"Death shall die," they cried, with many a boastful oath, "if we once
lay hold of him!"
They had not gone half a mile on their way when they met an old,
poor-looking man, who greeted them meekly and bade them God-speed.
"Who are you, you ragged old beggar?" cried the proudest of the
rioters to him. "Why are you so well wrapped up, except for your face?
Why is an old man like you allowed to live so long?"
The old man looked him in the face, and said: "I must needs keep my
old age myself. I can find no man anywhere--no, not even if I walked
to India--who would exchange his youth for my age. Death himself
refuses to take my life; so I walk restlessly up and down the world,
old and weary, tapping the ground with my staff early and late, and
begging Mother Earth to take me to her again. 'Look how I am slowly
vanishing,' I cry to her; 'I feel myself wasting, flesh and skin and
blood and all. Receive me into the dust again, Mother Earth, for my
bones are tired.' But the earth will not hear my prayer yet, and I
must wander on. I beseech you, therefore, do not harm an old man, good
sirs, and may the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"
"Nay, old churl," said one of the revellers, "you shall not get off so
lightly. You spoke just now of the traitor Death, who slays all our
friends in this district. Tell us where he is to be seen, or you shall
rue it. I believe that you must be one of his friends yourself, and
anxious to slay us young folk, since you talk so lovingly of him."
"Sirs," answered the old man, "if you are so eager to find Death, turn
up this crooked path. In that grove yonder, upon my faith, I left him,
under a tree. There he will await you. He will not hide himself from
you for all your boasts. Do you see the oak? You shall find Death
there. God save you and make you better men!"
Thus spoke the old stranger. They paid no more heed to him, but ran
off straightway to search for Death by the oak tree. There they found,
not Death himself, but a great heap of fine golden florins piled up,
well-nigh eight bushels of them. No longer had they any thought about
Death, but were so glad at the sight of the fair bright florins that
they sat down there by the precious heap to think what should be done.
The worst of the three was the first to speak. "Listen to me,
brethren. I am no fool, for all that I spend my life in folly. Fortune
has given us this great treasure, so that we can live the rest of our
lives in mirth and jollity. It has come to us easily, and easily we
will spend it. But there is one thing which we must do to make our
happiness sure: we must get the gold away from this place to my house,
or else to one of yours--for, of course, the treasure is ours. But we
cannot do this by day; men would say that we were thieves, and we
should be hanged for stealing our own treasure. It must be done by
night, as secretly and carefully as we can, and we must wait here all
day. Let us therefore draw lots to see which of us shall go to the
town and bring food and drink hither as quickly as he can for the
other two. The others must stay by the treasure, for we cannot leave
it unguarded. Then, when night comes, we will carry it all away
safely."
They agreed to this, and drew lots. The lot fell on the youngest of
them, who left them at once and went towards the town.
As soon as he was gone, one of those who remained with the gold said
to the other: "You know that we have sworn to be true to one another
like brothers. Hear, then, how can we win profit for ourselves: our
comrade is gone, and has left us here with this gold, of which there
is great plenty. We are to divide it among the three of us, by our
agreement. But if I can contrive that we divide it between us two
alone, will not that be doing you a friendly turn?"
"How can it be?" asked the other. "He knows that the gold is with us;
what could we say to him?"
"Will you keep a secret?" said his comrade. "If so, I will tell you in
a few words what we must do."
"Yes," answered the other; "trust me not to betray you."
"Look you, then, there are two of us, and two are stronger than one.
When he comes back and sits down, do you rise and go to him as if for
a friendly wrestling bout. I will stab him in the side as you struggle
in play; see that you also do the like with your dagger. Thus shall
the treasure be divided between us two, dear friend, and we shall live
in ease and plenty for the rest of our lives."
The two rogues agreed on this plan for getting rid of their comrade;
but he, as he went on his way to the town, could not take his mind
away from the bright golden florins.
"If only I could have this treasure all for myself," he thought, "no
man on earth would live so merrily as I." And at last the idea of
poisoning his comrades came into his head.
When he reached the town, he went without hesitating any more to an
apothecary, and asked him to sell him some poison to kill the rats in
his house; and there was a polecat also, he said, which ate his
chickens.
"You shall have a poison," answered the apothecary, "the like of which
is not to be found on earth. It is so strong that if a man does but
taste a little piece of it, the size of a grain of wheat, he shall die
at once; before you can walk a mile he will be dead, so strong and
violent is this poison."
The man took the poison in a box and went into the next street. There
he borrowed three large bottles, and into two he put the poison; the
third he kept clean for his own drink, thinking that he would be
working hard that night, carrying the gold all by himself to his own
house. Then he filled all the bottles up with wine, and went back to
his comrades.
Why should a long tale be made of it? When he came back the other two
set upon him, and killed him as they had planned.
"Now let us eat and drink," said one to the other. "When we have made
merry we will bury him."
With that word, he took one of the bottles; it happened to be one of
those containing the poisoned wine. He drank, and gave it to his
fellow; and in a little while they both fell dead beside the body of
their comrade.
Thus the three revellers met Death, whom they set out to kill.
PATIENT GRISELDA
Retold by F. J. H. Darton
There is on the western side of Italy a large and fertile plain,
wherein lie a tower and town founded long ago by the men of the olden
days. The name of this noble country is Saluzzo. A worthy marquis
called Walter was once lord of it, as his fathers had been before
him. He was young, strong, and handsome, but he had several faults for
which he was to blame; he took no thought for the future, but in his
youth liked to do nothing but hawk and hunt all day, and let all other
cares go unheeded. And the thing which seemed to the people of Saluzzo
to be worst of all was that he would not marry.
At length his subjects came to him in a body to urge him to take a
wife. The wisest of them spoke on behalf of the rest.
"Noble marquis," he said, "you are ever kind to us, and so we now dare
to come to you and tell you our grief. Of your grace, my lord, listen
to our complaint. Bethink you how quickly our lives pass, and that no
man can stop the swift course of time. You are in your youth now, but
age will creep upon you in a day which you cannot foresee. We pray
you therefore to marry, that you may leave an heir to rule over us
when you are gone. If you will do this, lord marquis, we will choose
you a wife from among the noblest in the land. Grant our boon, and
deliver us from our fears, for we could not live under a lord of a
strange race."
Their distress and grief filled the marquis with pity. "My own dear
people," he answered, "you are asking of me that which I thought never
to do. I rejoice to be free, and like not to have my freedom cut short
by marriage. But I see that your prayer is just and truly meant, and
that it is my duty to take a wife. Therefore I consent to marry as
soon as I may. But as for your offer to choose a wife for me, of that
task I acquit you. The will of God must ordain what sort of an heir I
shall have, and be your choice of a wife never so wise, the child may
yet be amiss, for goodness is of God's gift alone. To Him, therefore,
I trust to guide my choice. You must promise also to obey and
reverence my wife, and not to rebel against her so long as she lives,
whosoever she may be."
With hearty goodwill they promised to do as he bade them, and to obey
his wife, but before they went away they begged him to fix a day for
the wedding.
Walter appointed a day for his marriage, saying that this, too, he did
because they wished it; and they fell on their knees and thanked him,
and went away to their homes again, while he gave orders to his
knights and officers to prepare a great wedding-feast, with every kind
of splendour and magnificence. But he told no one who was to be his
bride.