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ARTHURIAN ROMANCES
Unrepresented in Malory's
"Morte d'Arthur"
_No. III_
Guingamor, Lanval, Tyolet,
Le Bisclaveret.
ARTHURIAN ROMANCES
UNREPRESENTED IN MALORY'S
"MORTE D'ARTHUR"
I. SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT.
A Middle-English Romance retold in Modern Prose, with Introduction
and Notes, by JESSIE L. WESTON. With Designs by M. M. CRAWFORD. 2nd
Edition, 1909. 2s. net.
II. TRISTAN AND ISEULT.
Rendered into English from the German of Gottfried of Strassburg
by JESSIE L. WESTON. With Designs by CAROLINE WATTS. Two vols. 4th
Edition, 1910. 4s. net.
III. GUINGAMOR, LANVAL, TYOLET, LE BISCLAVERET.
Four Lays rendered into English Prose from the French of Marie de
France and others by JESSIE L. WESTON. With Designs by CAROLINE WATTS.
2nd Edition, 1910. 2s. net.
IV. MORIEN.
Translated for the first time from the original Dutch by JESSIE L.
WESTON. With Frontispiece and Designed Title-Page by CAROLINE WATTS.
1901. 2s. net.
V. LE BEAUS DESCONNUS. CLIGES.
Two Old English Metrical Romances rendered into prose by JESSIE L.
WESTON. With Designs by CAROLINE M. WATTS. 1902. 2s. net.
VI. SIR GAWAIN AT THE GRAIL CASTLE.
Three Versions from the Conte del Graal, Diu Crone, and the Prose
Lancelot. By JESSIE L. WESTON. 1903. 2s. net.
VII. SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY OF LYS.
Translated for the first time from Wauchier de Denain's section of
the Conte del Graal by JESSIE L. WESTON. With Designs by MORRIS M.
WILLIAMS. 1907. 2s. net.
[Illustration]
Guingamor Lanval Tyolet Bisclaveret
[Illustration]
FoUR LAIS RENDERED INTo ENgLISH PRoSE
FRoM THE FRENcH oF MARIE DE FRANcE
AND oTHERS BY JESSIE L. WESToN.
WITH DESIGNS BY CARoLINE WATTS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY DAVID NUTT AT THE SIGN OF
THE PHOENIX, LONG ACRE, LONDON. MCMX
_Second Impression, 1910_
Preface
The previous volumes which have been published in this series have
contained versions belonging to what we may call the _conscious_ period
of romantic literature; the writers had not only a story to tell, but
had also a very distinct feeling for the literary form of that story
and the characterisation of the actors in it. In this present volume we
go behind the work of these masters of their craft to that great mass
of floating popular tradition from which the Arthurian epic gradually
shaped itself, and of which fragments remain to throw here and there an
unexpected light on certain features of the story, and to tantalise us
with hints of all that has been lost past recovery.
All who have any real knowledge of the Arthurian cycle are well aware
that the Breton _lais_, representing as they do the popular tradition
and folk-lore of the people among whom they were current, are of value
as affording indications of the original form and meaning of much of
the completed legend, but of how much or how little value has not yet
been exactly determined. An earlier generation of scholars regarded
them as of great, perhaps too great, importance. They were inclined
indiscriminately to regard the Arthurian romances as being but a series
of connected _lais_. A later school practically ignores them, and
sees in the Arthurian romances the conscious production of literary
invention, dealing with materials gathered from all sources, and
remodelled by the genius of a Northern French poet.
I believe, myself, that the eventual result of criticism will be to
establish a position midway between these two points, and to show that
though certain of the early Celticists exaggerated somewhat, they
were, in the main, correct--their theory did not account for all the
varied problems of the Arthurian story, but it was not for that to be
lightly dismissed. The true note of the Arthurian legend is evolution
_not_ invention; the roots of that goodly growth spring alike from
history, myth, and faery; whether the two latter were not, so far
as the distinctively _Celtic_ elements of the legend are concerned,
originally _one_, is a question which need not here be debated.[1]
[1] In this connection, _cf._ Mr. Nutt's "Fairy Mythology of
Shakespeare"--Popular Studies, No. 6.
This much is quite certain; while the mythic element in the Arthurian
story is yet a matter for discussion, while we are as yet undecided
whether Arthur was, or was not, identical with the _Mercurius Artusius_
of the Gauls; whether he was, or was not, a _Culture Hero_; whether
Gawain does, or does not, represent the same hero as Cuchullin, and
both alike find origin in a solar myth; we at least know that both
Arthur and Gawain are closely connected with, and as their final
destination found rest in, Fairyland. It is, therefore, no matter for
surprise if we find such definitely fairy stories as the _lais_ of
_Guingamor_ and _Lanval_ (which, be it noted, represent a whole family
of kindred tales) connected with the Arthurian cycle, and their heroes
figuring as knights of Arthur's court.[2]
[2] _Cf._ Dr. Schofield's studies of the _lais_ of _Guingamor_,
_Graalent_, and _Lanval_, referred to in the Notes.
At that court the fairy, whether she be Morgain, the Lady of the Lake,
or the Mistress of Graalent, Lanval, or Gawain, is at home, to be
distinguished by nothing, save her superior beauty and wisdom, from the
mortals who surround her. (It is scarcely necessary to remark that the
fairies of the mediaeval French romance writers are not the pigmies of
the Teutonic sagas and of Shakespeare.) The role of these maidens is,
generally speaking, a clearly defined one: they are immortals in search
of a mortal love,[3] and in this character the parallels carry us far
back to the earliest stages of Celtic tradition as preserved in ancient
Irish romance.
[3] To this rule _Nimue_, = the Lady of the Lake, appears to be the
only exception.
A special feature of these Breton _lais_, to be noted in this
connection, is that they often combine two features which are more
generally found apart, and which, as represented by their most famous
mediaeval forms, are wont to be considered by us as belonging to two
different families of tradition, _i.e._, the _Tannhaeuser_ legend (the
carrying off of a knight by the queen of the other world), and the
_Lohengrin_ legend (the rupture of a union between a mortal and an
immortal, and the penalties incurred by the former by the transgression
of a prohibition imposed by the latter). Two of the stories given in
this volume, _Guingamor_ and _Lanval_, in common with others which will
be found noted in Dr. Schofield's studies, combine both _motifs_.
Now that such tales as these, in themselves independent popular
folk-tales, sometimes became incorporated with, at other times by
the loan of incident and feature strongly influenced, the Arthurian
story, cannot I think be denied. Fairies such as the mistresses of
_Guingamor_ and _Lanval_ were, as I have said above, residents or
visitors at Arthur's court. Arthur himself is, like those knights,
carried to Avalon; even as _Guingamor_ in the extremity of mortal
weakness. That like Guingamor he was thought of as recovering, and
reigning with undiminished vigour over his fairy kingdom, is clear from
numerous references in mediaeval romance. The authors of _La Bataille
de Loquifer_ and _Ogier le Danois_ knew him as King of Avalon; in _Huon
de Bordeaux_ he has been promised the reversion of Oberon's kingdom;
in _Lohengrin_ he reigns with Parzival, in a mysterious other-world
realm; he is as completely lord of Fairyland as any knight beloved of
fairy queen. The boyhood of _Tyolet_ is the boyhood of Perceval; the
mysterious stag guarded by lions wanders in and out of the mazes of
Arthurian romance.
Some might, of course, suggest that these stories are really
fragmentary borrowings from the Arthurian legend; but such a view is
scarcely compatible with the fact that in their earlier forms they are
entirely unconnected with that story. Thus we see that the _lai_ of
_Guingamor_ in the solitary version we possess knows nothing of Arthur;
neither the king or the queen, the fairy or her kingdom is named;
Chretien de Troyes knew the lady as Morgain, and her land as Avalon,
and brings Guingamor to Arthur's court. The same remark applies to
_Graalent_, while _Lanval_ is in an Arthurian setting. If the stories
had originally formed part of the cycle it is difficult to see why
they should have been separated from it; while we can well understand
that already existing folk-tales would be swept into the vortex of an
increasingly popular tradition.
The story of _Tyolet_ as preserved in the _lai_ is certainly not in
its earliest form; it is in some points incomprehensible, and as I
have suggested in the Notes, the real meaning of the tale has been
already forgotten. But _Tyolet_ is never elsewhere mentioned as one of
Arthur's knights, and the adventure achieved by him when transferred to
Lancelot loses even the measure of coherence and plausibility it had
preserved. Thus Lancelot, though knowing what is to be the guerdon of
the successful knight, and voluntarily undertaking the adventure, when
achieved, leaves the lady under the pretext of summoning his kinsmen
and never returns; on no account would he be faithless to Guinevere.
In the _Were-Wolf_, again, the characters are anonymous; but Malory's
reference leaves no room for doubt that the hero later on figured as
one of Arthur's knights.
It is, I think, impossible to avoid the conclusion that the Arthurian
legend, in the process of evolution, borrowed with both hands from
already existing stores of popular folk-lore and tradition; and an
examination of the parallels with this folk-lore element makes it
equally clear that it was largely of Celtic origin.
But in what form was this popular tradition when the literary
masterpieces of the Arthurian cycle, the poems of Chretien de Troyes
and his German rivals, were composed? We know that many of these
tales were told as Breton _lais_, and in this original form they have
practically disappeared. Those we possess are French translations,
and of these the best and largest collection we owe to the skill and
industry of Marie de France, an Anglo-Norman poetess who lived in the
reign of Henry II. and was therefore a contemporary of Chretien de
Troyes. Of the four _lais_ here given, two, _Lanval_ and _Were-Wolf_
(_Bisclaveret_), are undoubtedly by her, and _Guingamor_ is very
generally considered to be also her work. The metre in which she wrote
was the eight-syllable verse, in rhymed pairs, adopted also by Chretien
in common with most of the poets of his time. As we see, Marie, like
Chretien, connected some of these _lais_ with Arthur. They are Breton
_lais_; Arthur is a Breton king; his legend certainly came to the
Northern French poets partly, if not entirely, from Breton sources; the
probability, therefore, is that the connection took place, in the first
instance, on Breton rather than on French ground--_i.e._, it is due
neither to Marie nor to Chretien, but to the sources they used.
Setting hypothesis aside, however, this may be stated as an absolute
matter of fact: at the time that the longer Arthurian romances took
shape there were also current a number of short poems, both in Breton
and in French, the latter in the precise metre adopted for the longer
poems, connecting the Arthurian story with a great mass of floating
popular folk-tale, which short poems were known to the writers of the
longer and more elaborate romances. Are we seriously called upon to
believe that they made absolutely _no_ use of them? That they left
all this wealth of material rigidly on one side, and combined for
themselves out of their inventive faculties and classical knowledge
the romances that won such deserved repute? Such a solution of the
Arthurian problem I can scarcely think likely in the long run to be
accepted by serious students; certainly not by those whom the study
of comparative religion and folk-lore has taught how widely diffused
in extension, and how persistent in character, are the tales which
belong to the childhood of the race. That a large and important body
of genuine existing tradition should be, not merely superseded, but
practically beaten out of the field and destroyed by the power of mere
literary invention, would be a curious phenomenon at any date; in the
twelfth century it is absolutely inconceivable. The Arthurian legend
has its roots in folk-tradition, and the abiding charm of its literary
presentment is in reality due to the persistent vitality and pervasive
quality of that folk-lore element. Children of a land of eternal youth,
Arthur and his knights are ever young; it is true that some of the
romances tell us that in the last great war with Lancelot Arthur was
over ninety years old and Gawain above seventy, but one feels that
even for the writer such figures had no significance; their words and
actions are the words and actions of youth--we have here no Charlemagne
and his veterans _a la barbe fleurie_.
But this is an element which in our rightful appreciation of the
literary masterpieces of the cycle we are apt to ignore, nor is it
other than scantily represented in English literature; it has therefore
been thought well, in such a series as this to include a volume which
shall direct attention less to the completed Arthurian epic than to the
materials from which that epic was formed, since if we mistake not, it
is to the nature of that material even more than to the skill of its
fashioners, that the unexampled popularity of the Arthurian legend is
due.
BOURNEMOUTH, _May 1900_.
Guingamor
[Illustration]
"_Graislemiers de Fine Posterne
I amena conpeignons vint,
Et Guigomars ses frere i vint;
De l'Isle d'Avalon fu sire.
De cestui avons oi dire
Qu'il fu amis Morgain la fee,
Et ce fu veritez, provee._"
CHRETIEN DE TROYES.--_Erec._ vv. 1952-58.
I will tell ye here a fair adventure, nor think ye that 'tis but mine
own invention, for 'tis truth, this tale I tell ye, and men call the
lay wherein 'tis writ the lay of Guingamor.
* * * * *
In Brittany of old time there reigned a king who held all the land in
his sway, and was lord of many noble barons--his name I cannot tell ye.
This king had a nephew who was both wise and courteous, a very brave
and skilful knight, and Guingamor was he called. For his bravery and
his beauty the king held him passing dear, and thought to make him his
heir since he had no son. All men loved Guingamor; he knew how to
promise, and how to give; knights and squires alike honoured him for
his frankness and his courtesy; and his praises went abroad throughout
all that land.
One day the king went forth to hunt and to disport himself in the
forest. His nephew had that morn been bled and was still feeble, so
might not go forth into the woodland, but would abide in his hostel,
and with him were many of the king's companions.
At prime Guingamor arose and went forth to the castle to seek solace.
The seneschal met him and threw his arm around his neck, and they spake
together awhile, and then sat them down to play at chess. And as they
sat there the queen came even to the door of the chamber, on her way
to the chapel. She was tall and fair and graceful; and there she stood
awhile to gaze on the knight whom she saw playing chess, and stayed her
still and moved not.
Very fair did he seem to her in form and face and feature; he sat
over against a window, and a ray of sunlight fell upon his face and
illumined it with a fair colour. And the queen looked upon him till
her thoughts were changed within her, and she was seized with love for
him, for his beauty and his courtesy.
Then the queen turned her back, and called a maiden, and said: "Go thou
to the knight who sitteth within playing chess, Guingamor, the king's
nephew, and bid him come to me straightway."
So the maiden went her way to the knight, and bare him her lady's
greeting, and her prayer that he come forthwith and speak with her; and
Guingamor let his game be, and went with the maiden.
The queen greeted him courteously, and bade him sit beside her; but
little did he think wherefore she made such fair semblance to him.
The queen spake first: "Guingamor, thou art very valiant, brave and
courteous and winning--a fair adventure awaits thee--thou canst set
thy love in high places! Thou hast a fair and courteous friend, I know
neither dame nor damsel in the kingdom her equal! She loveth thee
dearly, and thou canst have her for thy love."
The knight answered: "Lady, I know not how I can dearly love one
whom I have never seen nor known; never have I heard speak of this
aforetime, nor have I besought love from any."
And the queen spake: "Friend, be not so shamefaced; _me_ canst thou
very well love, for of a sooth I am not to be refused; I love thee well
and will love thee all my days."
Then Guingamor was much abashed, and answered discreetly: "Well do I
know, lady, that I ought to love thee; thou art wife to my lord the
king, and I am bound to honour thee as my liege lady."
But the queen answered: "I say not that thou shalt love me thus, but I
would love thee as my lover, and be thy lady. Thou art fair, and I am
gracious; if it be thy will to love me very joyful shall we both be,"
and she drew him towards her and kissed him.
Guingamor understood well what she said, and what love she desired of
him, and thereof had he great shame, and blushed rosy-red, and sprang
up thinking to go forth from the chamber. The queen would fain keep him
with her, and laid hold on his mantle, so that the clasp broke and he
came forth without it.
Then Guingamor went back to the chessboard, and seated himself, much
troubled at heart; so startled had he been that he had no thought for
his mantle, but turned to his game without it.
The queen was much terrified when she thought of the king, for when
Guingamor had so spoken, and showed her his mind she feared lest he
should accuse her to his uncle. Then she called a maiden whom she
trusted much, and gave her the mantle, and bade her bear it to the
knight; and she laid it around his shoulders, but so troubled in mind
was he that he knew not when she brought it to him; and the maiden
returned to the queen.
So were the two in great fear till vesper-tide, when the king returned
from the chase and sat him down to meat. They had had good sport that
day, and he and his comrades were very joyful. After meat they laughed
and made sport, and told their adventures, each spake of his deeds, who
had missed, who had hit fair. Guingamor had not been with them, whereof
he was sorrowful. So he held his peace, and spake no word.
But the queen watched him, and thinking to make him wrathful, she
devised words of which each one should weigh heavily. She turned
herself to the knights and spake: "Much do I hear ye boast, and tell of
your adventures, yet of all whom I see here is none brave enough (were
one to give him a thousand pounds of gold) to dare hunt or wind horn
in the forest here without, where the white boar wanders. Marvellous
praise would he win who should take that boar!"
Then all the knights held their peace, for none would assay that
venture. Guingamor knew well that it was for him she spake thus.
Throughout the hall all were silent, there was nor sound nor strife.
The king answered her first: "Lady, thou hast often heard of the
adventure of the forest, and this thou knowest; it displeaseth me much
when in any place I hear it spoken of. No man may go thither to hunt
the boar who may return therefrom, so adventurous is the land, and so
perilous the river. Much mischief have I already suffered; ten knights,
the best of the land, have I lost; they set forth to seek the boar and
came never again."
Then he said no more, but the company departed from each other, the
knights went to their hostel to slumber and the king betook himself to
his couch.
Guingamor did not forget the word which he had heard, but went his way
to the king's chamber and knelt before him. "Sire," he said, "I ask of
thee somewhat whereof I have great need, and which I pray thee to grant
me, nor in any wise to refuse the gift."
The king said: "Fair nephew, I grant thee what thou prayest from me,
ask securely, for in naught would I deny thy will."
The knight thanked him, and said: "This is that which I demanded, and
the gift which thou hast given me. I go to hunt in the forest." Then he
prayed him to lend him his horse, his bloodhound, his brachet, and his
pack of hounds.
When the king heard what his nephew said, and knew the gift he had
given, he was very sorrowful and knew not what to do. Fain would he
have taken back his word and bade him let the matter be, for such a
gift should he not have asked; never would he suffer him, even for his
weight in gold, to go chase the white boar, for never might he return.
And if he lent him his good brachet and his steed then would he lose
them both and never see them again, and naught had he that he valued so
highly; there was nothing on earth he would have taken for them--"an I
lose them I shall grieve all the days of my life."
And Guingamor answered the king: "Sire, by the faith I owe thee, for
naught that thou could'st give me, were it the wide world, would I do
other than I have said and chase the boar to-morrow. If thou wilt not
lend me thy steed, and the brachet thou dost hold dear, thy hound and
thine other dogs, then must I e'en take my own, such as they are."
With that came the queen who had heard what Guingamor desired (and know
ye that it pleased her well), and she prayed the king that he would
do as the knight required, for she thought thus to be delivered from
him, and never, in all her life, to see him again. So earnestly did she
make her prayer that at length the king granted all she might ask. Then
Guingamor prayed leave, and went joyful to his dwelling; naught might
he sleep that night, but when he saw dawn he arose in haste and made
ready, and called to him all his companions, the king's household, who
were in much fear for him, and would gladly have hindered his going an
they might. He bade them bring him the king's steed which he had lent
him the night before, and his brachet, and his good horn, which he
would not have given for its weight in gold. Two packs of the king's
good dogs did Guingamor take with him, and forgat not the bloodhound.
The king himself would accompany him forth from the town, and with him
came the burghers and the courtiers, rich and poor, making great cry
and lamentation, and with them too were many ladies sorrowing sorely.
To the thicket nearest the city went all the huntsmen, taking with them
the bloodhound, and seeking for the track of the wild boar, for they
knew well where he was wont to haunt. They found the track and knew it,
for many a time had they seen it, and traced the beast to his lair in
the thick bushes and loosed the bloodhound, and by force drove forth
the boar.
Then Guingamor sounded his horn and bade them uncouple one pack of
dogs and the other lead forward to await him near the forest, but they
should not enter therein. Thus Guingamor began the chase and the boar
fled before him, leaving his lair unwillingly. The dogs followed,
giving tongue, and hunted him to the verge of the forest, but further
might they not go, since they were weary, wherefore they uncoupled the
others. Guingamor rode on winding his horn, and the pack ran yelping on
the boar's track; return to his lair he might not, but plunged into the
forest, and the knight followed after, carrying the brachet which he
had borrowed from the king.
They who had borne him company, the king and his fellowship and the men
of the city, stayed without the wood, nor would go further. There they
abode so long as they might hear the blast of the horn and the barking
of the dogs, and then they commended the knight to God and turned them
back to the town.
The boar ran further and further till he had wearied out the dogs,
then Guingamor took the brachet and loosened the leash, and set it on
the track, which it followed of right good will, while the knight did
what he might to aid and encourage his uncle's dog by blowing gaily on
his horn. Much did the sounds of the chase please him, but ere long
he had lost both brachet and boar, he heard neither yelp nor cry and
became sorrowful and much displeased; he deemed he had lost the brachet
through the thickness of the forest, and he was passing sorrowful for
the sake of his uncle who loved the dog so well. So he went still
forward into the forest, and coming to a high hill he stayed awhile,
very sorrowful and much at a loss.
The sky was clear and the day fair, all around him sang the birds but
he hearkened not to their song. Ere long he heard the brachet give
tongue afar off and he began to wind his horn, troubled at heart till
he saw the dog. Through a little plantation towards the open ground he
saw the brachet and the boar come swiftly, and thought to reach them
easily. He spurred his steed to a gallop, nor would delay, rejoicing
much at heart and saying to himself that might he take the boar, and
return whole and unharmed to court, he would win much fame, and his
deed would be spoken of for all time.
In the joy of his heart he set the horn to his lips and blew a
marvellous great blast. Afore him passed the boar with the brachet
close upon its track. Guingamor rode after swiftly, through the
adventurous land, across the perilous river, over the meadowland where
the turf was green and flowery; well nigh had he overtaken his prey
when he looked ahead and saw the walls of a great palace, well built,
yet without mortar. 'Twas all enclosed of green marble, and above the
entry was a tower which seemed to him of silver, so great was the
clearness it gave. The doors were of fine ivory, inlaid with golden
trefoils, nor was there bar nor lock.
Guingamor came on swiftly, and when he saw the door stand wide and the
entrance free, he thought him he would go within and find the goodman
who kept the gate, for fain would he know who was lord of the palace,
since 'twas the fairest he had ever seen. Much it pleased him to look
upon its beauties, for he thought he might lightly overtake the boar
ere it had run far, since it was wearied by the chase. So he rode
within and drew bridle in the palace, and looked all around, but no
man might he see, naught was there about him but fine gold; and the
chambers which opened from the hall seemed of stones of Paradise. That
he found neither man nor woman there pleased him not, else was he glad
that he had found so fair an adventure to tell again in his own land.
Then he turned him back, and rode quickly through the meadows by the
river, but naught did he see of his boar, quarry and dog were alike
lost. Then was Guingamor wrathful. "Of a truth," he said, "I am
betrayed, men may well hold me for a fool. Methinks that to look upon
a house have I lost all my labour. If I find not my dog and my boar
little joy or pleasure shall I have henceforward, and never more may I
return to my own land." Much troubled, he betook himself to the high
ground of the forest, and began to listen if he might hear the cry of
the dog.
Then he heard the brachet give tongue afar off to his right hand, and
he waited and hearkened till he surely heard both dog and boar. Then he
began again to wind his horn, and rode towards them. The boar passed
before him, and Guingamor rode after, encouraging the brachet with hue
and cry.
Thus he came into the open country, and found a spring beneath an
olive tree, wide-spreading, and covered with leaves. The water of the
spring was clear and fair, and the gravel thereof gold and silver. In
the water a maiden was bathing herself while another combed her hair
and washed her feet and hands. Fair was she, long-limbed and softly
rounded, in all the world was there nothing so fair, neither lily nor
rose, as that naked maiden.
As soon as Guingamor beheld her he was stirred by her beauty. He
saw her garments on a bush, and turned his horse's bridle thither;
he stayed not, but taking her robes, set them high in the fork of a
great oak. When he had taken the boar, he thought to return and speak
with the maiden, for he knew well that she would not go thence naked.
But the maiden saw his deed, and called the knight to her, and spake
proudly: "Guingamor, let be my robes; an God will, never shall it be
told among knights that thou didst so discourteous a deed as to hide
the garments of a maiden in the fork of a tree! Come hither, and fear
not. To-day shalt thou abide with me, thou hast laboured all day and
hast had but ill success."
Then Guingamor went towards her, and proffered her robe, and thanked
her for her courtesy, and said he might not lodge with her, since he
must seek the boar and the brachet which he had lost.
The maiden answered him: "Friend, all the knights in the world let them
labour as they might should not find those two, an I gave them not mine
aid. Let that folly be, and make this covenant with me; come with me
and I pledge thee loyally that I will give thee the boar as a prize,
and the brachet shalt thou have again to take with thee into thine own
land, on the third day hence."
"Fair lady," said the knight, "by this covenant will I gladly abide
even as thou hast spoken."
Then he dismounted, and the maiden clad herself in a short space, and
she who was with her brought her a mule well and richly harnessed,
and a palfrey, better had never count nor king. Guingamor lifted the
maiden to her saddle, and rode beside her, holding her bridle in his
hand. Often did he look upon her, and seeing her so fair and tall and
graceful of good will would he become her lover. He looked upon her
gently, and prayed her earnestly that she would grant him her love;
never aforetime had his heart been troubled for any woman he had looked
upon, nor had he thought of love.
The maiden, who was wise and courteous, answered Guingamor that she
would willingly grant him her love, whereof the knight was joyful, and
since she had pledged herself to be his lady, he laid his arm around
her and kissed her.
The waiting maiden had ridden on quickly to the palace wherein
Guingamor had entered, and they had decked it richly, and bidden the
knights mount and ride out to meet their lady, to do honour to the
lover whom she brought with her. Three hundred or more of them there
were, nor was there one but was clad in vest of silk wrought with
gold thread. Each knight led with him his lady. 'Twas a passing fair
company. There were squires with hawks, and fair falcons that had
passed their moulting. In the palace were there as many playing at
chess and other games.
When Guingamor dismounted he beheld the ten knights who had gone forth
to chase the boar, and been lost from his land. They rose from their
seats to meet him, and greeted him right joyfully, and Guingamor kissed
them each one. A fair lodging was his that night, great plenty of rich
meats, with much rejoicing, and great state; there was the sound of
harps and viols, the song of youths and maidens. Much did he marvel at
the noble fare, the beauty and the richness of all around. He bethought
him that he would abide there two days, and on the third would take his
way homeward; the dog and the boar would he take, and make known to his
uncle the adventure which had befallen him, then would he return again
to his lady.
Yet otherwise than he deemed had it chanced to him; not three days but
three hundred years had he been in that palace; dead was the king, and
dead his household and the men of his lineage, and the cities he had
known had fallen into destruction and ruin.
On the third day Guingamor prayed leave of his love that he might go
to his own land, and that she would give him the brachet and the boar,
according to her covenant; and the maiden answered: "Friend, thou shalt
have them, but know that thou wilt go hence for naught; 'tis three
hundred years past since thou camest hither, thine uncle and his folk
are dead; neither friends nor kinsmen shalt thou find. One thing I tell
thee, ask where thou wilt, nowhere shalt thou find a man so old that he
may tell thee aught of those thou seekest."
"Lady," quoth Guingamor, "I may not believe that thou sayest sooth, but
if the thing be so then I swear to thee that I will straightway return
hither."
And she answered, "I charge thee when thou hast passed the river to
return to thine own land, that thou neither eat nor drink, however
great may be thy need, till thou return once more to this land,
otherwise art thou undone."
Then she bade them bring his steed, and the great boar, and the brachet
which she gave him in leash, and Guingamor took the boar's head, more
might he not carry, and mounted his steed and went forth. His lady
rode with him to the river, and had him put across in a boat, then she
commended him to God and left him.
The knight rode forward and wandered till midday in the forest, nor
might he find a way out. 'Twas all so ill-looking and overgrown that he
might know the way no longer. Then afar to the left he heard the axe of
a wood-cutter, who had made a fire and burnt charcoal, and he spurred
towards the sound, and gave the man greeting, and asked where his uncle
the king abode, and at what castle he should seek for him.
But the charcoal-burner answered: "Of a faith, sire, I know naught;
the king of whom thou speakest 'tis over three hundred years since he
died, he and all his folk, and the castles of which thou askest have
long been in ruins. There are certain of the old folk who full oft
tell tales of that king, and of his nephew who was a wondrous valiant
knight, how he went one day to hunt within this forest and was seen
no more." Guingamor heard what he said, and a great pity seized him
for the king his uncle, whom he had thus lost, and he spake to the
charcoal-burner: "Hearken what I say to thee, for I will tell thee
what has befallen me. _I_ am he who went hunting in this forest, and
I thought to return and bring with me the white boar." Then he began
to tell of the palace he had found, and the maiden whom he had met,
how she had lodged him royally for two days; "and on the third did I
depart, and she gave me my dog and the boar." Then he gave him the
boar's head and bade him keep it well till he returned to his home,
and might tell the folk of the land how he had seen and spoken with
Guingamor the king's nephew.
The poor man thanked him, and Guingamor bade him farewell, and turned
him back and left him. 'Twas already past nones and the day drew
towards vesper-tide; so great a hunger seized the knight that he became
well-nigh ravening; by the roadside as he went there grew a wild apple
tree, the boughs well laden with fruit; he drew near and plucked three
and ate them. He did ill in that he forgat his lady's command, for even
as he tasted the fruit he was aged and undone, so feeble of limb that
he fell from his steed, and might move neither hand nor foot; when he
might speak he began in a feeble voice to bemoan himself.
The charcoal-burner had followed him and seen what had chanced, and it
seemed to him that he might scarce live till the evening. But as he
would go to his aid there came riding two fair maidens, well and richly
dressed, who dismounted beside Guingamor, and blamed him much, and
reproached him for that he had so ill kept his lady's command. Gently
they lifted the knight and set him on his horse, and led him to the
river, where they placed him, his steed, and his dog, in a boat and
rowed them over.
The peasant turned him back, and that night he sought his home bearing
with him the boar's head; far and wide he told the tale, and affirmed
it by his oath. The head he gave unto the king, who caused it to be
shown at many a feast; and that none might forget the adventure the
king bade make a lay which bare the name of Guingamor--and so do the
Breton call it.
Sir Launfal
[Illustration]
_This is the adventure of the rich and noble knight Sir Launfal, even
as the Breton lay recounts it._
The valiant and courteous King, Arthur, was sojourning at Carduel,
because of the Picts and the Scots who had greatly destroyed the land,
for they were in the kingdom of Logres and often wrought mischief
therein.
In Carduel, at Pentecost, the King held his summer court, and gave
rich gifts to the counts, the barons, and all the knights of the Round
Table. Never before in all the world were such gifts given. Honours and
lands he shared forth to all, save to one alone, of those who served
him.
This was Sir Launfal; of him and his the King thought not; and yet all
men loved him, for worthy he was, free of hand, very valiant, and fair
to look upon. Had any ill happened to this knight, his fellows would
have been but ill-pleased.
Launfal was son to a king of high descent, but his heritage was far
hence in a distant land; he was of the household of King Arthur, but
all his money was spent, for the King gave him nothing, and nothing
would Launfal ask from him. But now Sir Launfal was much perplexed,
very sorrowful, and heavy of heart. Nor need ye wonder at it, for one
who is a stranger and without counsel is but sorrowful in a foreign
land when he knows not where to seek for aid.
This knight of whom I tell ye, who had served the King so well, one day
mounted his horse and rode forth for diversion. He left the city behind
him, and came all alone into a fair meadow through which ran a swift
water. As he rode downwards to the stream, his horse shivered beneath
him. Then the knight dismounted, and loosening the girth let the steed
go free to feed at its will on the grass of the meadow. Then folding
his mantle beneath his head he laid himself down; but his thoughts were
troubled by his ill fortune, and as he lay on the grass he knew nothing
that might pleasure him.
Suddenly, as he looked downward towards the bank of the river, he saw
two maidens coming towards him; never before had he seen maidens so
fair. They were richly clad in robes of purple grey, and their faces
were wondrous beautiful. The elder bore in her hands a basin of gold
finely wrought (indeed it is but truth I tell you); the other held a
snow-white towel.
They came straight to where the knight was lying, and Launfal, who was
well taught in courteous ways, sprang to his feet in their presence.
Then they saluted him, and delivered to him their message. "Sir
Launfal," said the elder, "my lady, who is most fair and courteous, has
sent us to you, for she wills that you shall return with us. See, her
pavilion is near at hand, we will lead you thither in all safety."
Then Launfal went with them, taking no thought for his steed, which was
grazing beside him in the meadow. The maidens led him to the tent, rich
it was and well placed. Not even the Queen Semiramis in the days of her
greatest wealth and power and wisdom, nor the Emperor Octavian, could
have equalled from their treasures the drapery alone.
Above the tent was an eagle of gold, its worth I know not how to tell
you; neither can I tell that of the silken cords and shining lances
which upheld the tent; there is no king under heaven who could purchase
its equal, let him offer what he would for it.
Within this pavilion was a maiden, of beauty surpassing even that
of the lily and the new-blown rose, when they flower in the fair
summer-tide. She lay upon a rich couch, the covering of which was worth
the price of a castle, her fair and gracious body clothed only in a
simple vest. Her costly mantle of white ermine, covered with purple of
Alexandria, had she cast from her for the heat, and face and throat and
neck were whiter than flower of the thorn. Then the maiden called the
knight to her, and he came near and seated himself beside the couch.
"Launfal," she said, "fair friend, for you have I come forth from my
own land; even from Lains have I come to seek you. If you be of very
truth valiant and courteous then neither emperor, count nor king have
known such joy as shall be yours, for I love you above all things."
Then Love smote him swiftly, and seized and kindled his heart, and he
answered:
"Fair lady, if it so please you, and such joy may be my portion that
you deign to love me, then be the thing folly or wisdom you can command
nothing that I will not do to the utmost of my power. All your wishes
will I fulfil, for you I will renounce my folk and my land, nor will I
ever ask to leave you, if that be what you most desire of me."
When the maiden heard him whom she could love well speak thus she
granted him all her heart and her love.
And now was Launfal in the way to good fortune. A gift the lady
bestowed upon him: there should be nothing so costly but that it might
be his if he so willed it. Let him give or spend as freely as he would
he should always have enough for his need. Happy indeed was Launfal,
for the more largely he spent the more gold and silver should he have.
"Friend," said the maiden, "of one thing must I now warn you, nay more,
I command and pray you, reveal this your adventure to no man. The
reason will I tell you; if this our love be known you would lose me for
ever, never again might you look upon me, never again embrace me."
Then he answered that he would keep faithfully all that she should
command him.
Thus were the two together even till the vesper-tide, and if his lady
would have consented fain would Launfal have remained longer.
"Friend," said she, "rise up, no longer may you linger here, you must
go and I must remain. But one thing will I tell you, when you wish to
speak with me (and I would that may ever be when a knight may meet his
lady without shame and without reproach) I shall be ever there at your
will, but no man save you shall see me, or hear me speak."
When the knight heard that he was joyful, and he kissed his lady and
rose up, and the maidens who had led him to the tent brought him new
and rich garments, and when he was clad in them there was no fairer
knight under heaven. Then they brought him water for his hands, and a
towel whereon to dry them, and laid food before him, and he supped with
his lady. Courteously were they served, and great was the joy of Sir
Launfal, for ever and again his love kissed him and he embraced her
tenderly.
When they were risen from supper his horse was brought to him, saddled
and bridled; right well had they tended it. Then the knight took leave
of his lady, and mounted and rode towards the city; but often he looked
behind him, for he marvelled greatly at all that had befallen him, and
he rode ever thinking of his adventure, amazed and half-doubting, for
he scarcely knew what the end thereof should be.
Then he entered his hostel and found all his men well clad, and he held
great state but knew not whence the money came to him. In all the city
there was no knight that had need of lodging but Launfal made him come
unto him and gave him rich service. Launfal gave costly, gifts; Launfal
ransomed prisoners; Launfal clothed the minstrels; Launfal lavished
wealth and honours; there was neither friend nor stranger to whom he
gave not gifts. Great were his joy and gladness, for whether by day or
by night he might full often look upon his lady, and all things were at
his commandment.
Now in the self-same year, after the feast of St. John, thirty of the
knights went forth to disport themselves in a meadow, below the tower
wherein the queen had her lodging. With them went Sir Gawain and his
cousin, the gallant Iwein. Then said Gawain, the fair and courteous,
who was loved of all: "Pardieu, my lords, we do ill in that we have not
brought with us our companion, Sir Launfal, who is so free-handed and
courteous, and son to so rich a king." Then they turned back to his
hostelry, and by their prayers persuaded Launfal to come with them.
It so chanced that the queen leant forth from an open casement, and
three of her chosen ladies with her. She looked upon Sir Launfal and
knew him. Then she called one of her ladies, and bade her command the
fairest and most graceful of her maidens to make ready and come forth
with her to the meadow. Thirty or more she took with her, and descended
the stairway of the tower. The knights were joyful at their coming, and
hastened to meet them, and took them by the hand with all courtesy. But
Sir Launfal went apart from the others, for the time seemed long to him
ere he could see his lady, kiss her, and hold her in his arms. All
other joys were but small to him if he had not that one delight of his
heart.
When the queen saw him alone she went straight towards him, and seated
herself beside him; then, calling him by his name, she opened her heart
to him.
"Launfal," she said, "greatly have I honoured, cherished and loved you.
All my love is yours if you will have it, and if I thus grant you my
favour, then ought you to be joyful indeed."
"Lady," said the knight, "let me be; I have small desire of your love.
Long have I served King Arthur; I will not now deny my faith. Neither
for you nor for your love will I betray my liege lord."
The queen was angry, and in her wrath she spoke scoffingly. "They but
spake the truth," she said, "who told me that you knew not how to love.
Coward and traitor, false knight, my lord has done ill to suffer you so
long about him; he loses much by it, to my thinking."
When Sir Launfal heard that he was wroth, and answered her swiftly,
and by misfortune he said that of which he afterwards repented sorely.
"Lady," he said, "you have been ill-advised. I love and I am loved by
one who deserves the prize of beauty above all whom I know. One thing I
will tell you, hear and mark it well; one of her serving maidens, even
the meanest among them, is worth more than you, my lady queen, in face
and figure, in beauty, wisdom, and goodness."
Then the queen rose up and went weeping to her chamber, shamed and
angered that Launfal should have thus insulted her. She laid herself
down on her bed as if sick; never, she said, would she arise off it
till the king did justice on the plaint she would lay before him.
King Arthur came back from the woods after a fair day's hunting and
sought the queen's chamber. When she saw him she cried out, and fell at
his feet, beseeching his favour, and saying that Sir Launfal had shamed
her, for he had asked her love, and when she refused him had mocked and
insulted her, for he had boasted of his lady that she was so fair, so
noble, and so proud that even the lowest of her waiting women was worth
more than the queen.
At this King Arthur fell into a rage, and swore a solemn oath that
unless the knight could defend himself well and fully in open court,
he should be hanged or burnt.
Forth from the chamber went the king, and called three of his barons to
him, and bade them fetch Sir Launfal, who indeed was now sad and sorry
enough. He had returned to his hostelry, but alas! he learnt all too
soon that he had lost his lady, since he had revealed the secret of
their love. He was all alone in his chamber, full of anguish. Again and
again he called upon his love, but it availed him nothing. He wept and
sighed, and once and again fell on the ground in his despair. A hundred
times he besought her to have mercy on him, and to speak once more to
her true knight. He cursed his heart and his mouth that had betrayed
him; 'twas a marvel he did not slay himself. But neither cries nor
blows nor lamentations sufficed to awaken her pity, and make her show
herself to his eyes.
Alas, what comfort might there be for the unhappy knight who had thus
made an enemy of his king? The barons came and bade him follow them to
court without delay, for the queen had accused him, and the king, by
their mouth, commanded his presence. Launfal followed them, sorrowing
greatly; had they slain him it would have pleased him well. He stood
before the king, mute and speechless, his countenance changed for
sorrow.
The king spoke in anger: "Vassal," he said, "you have greatly wronged
me; an evil excuse have you found to shame and injure me, and insult
the queen. Foolish was your boast, and foolish must be your lady to
hold that her maid-servant is fairer than my queen."
Sir Launfal denied that he had dishonoured himself or insulted his
liege lord. Word by word he repeated what the queen had said to him;
but of the words he himself had spoken, and the boast he had made
concerning his love, he owned the truth; sorrowful enough he was, since
by so doing he had lost her. And for this speech he would make amends,
as the court might require.