Once upon a time, more than a hundred years ago, there lived a rich villein whose name I cannot now tell, who owned meadows and woods and waters, and all things which go to the making of a rich man. His manor was so fair and so delightsome that all the world did not contain its peer. My true story would seem to you but idle fable if I set its beauty before you, for verily I believe that never yet was built so strong a keep and so gracious a tower. A river flowed around this fair domain, and enclosed an orchard planted with all manner of fruitful trees. This sweet fief was builded by a certain knight, whose heir sold it to a villein; for thus pass baronies from hand to hand, and town and manor change their master, always falling from bad to worse. The orchard was fair beyond content. Herbs grew there of every fashion, more than I am able to name. But at least I can tell you that so sweet was the savour of roses and other flowers and simples, that sick persons, borne within that garden in a litter, walked forth sound and well for having passed the night in so lovely a place. Indeed, so smooth and level was the sward, so tall the trees, so various the fruit, that the cunning gardener must surely have been a magician, as appears by certain infallible proofs.
Now in the middle of this great orchard sprang a fountain of clear, pure water. It boiled forth out of the ground, but was always colder than any marble. Tall trees stood about the well, and their leafy branches made a cool shadow there, evenduring the longest day of summer heat. Not a ray of the sun fell within that spot, though it were the month of May, so thick and close was the leafage. Of all these trees the fairest and the most pleasant was a pine. To this pine came a singing bird twice every day for ease of heart. Early in the morning he came, when monks chant their matins, and again in the evening, a little after vespers. He was smaller than a sparrow, but larger than a wren, and he sang so sweetly that neither lark nor nightingale nor blackbird, nay, nor siren even, was so grateful to the ear. He sang lays and ballads, and the newest refrain of the minstrel and the spinner at her wheel. Sweeter was his tune than harp or viol, and gayer than the country dance. No man had heard so marvellous a thing; for such was the virtue in his song that the saddest and the most dolent forgot to grieve whilst he listened to the tune, love flowered sweetly in his heart, and for a space he was rich and happy as any emperor or king, though but a burgess of the city or a villein of the field. Yea, if that ditty had lasted a hundred years, yet would he have stayed the century through to listen to so lovely a song, for it gave to every man whilst he hearkened, love, and riches, and his heart's desire.
But all the beauty of the pleasaunce drew its being from the song of the bird; for from his chant flowed love which gives its shadow to the tree, its healing to the simple, and its colour to the flower. Without that song the fountain would have ceased to spring, and the green garden become a little dry dust, for in its sweetness lay all their virtue.
The villein, who was lord of this domain, walked every day within his garden to hearken to the bird. On a certain morning he came to the well to bathe his face in the cold spring, and the bird, hiddenclose within the pine branches, poured out his full heart in a delightful lay, from which rich profit might be drawn.
"Listen," chanted the bird in his own tongue, "listen to my voice oh, knight, and clerk, and layman, ye who concern yourselves with love, and suffer with its dolours: listen, also, ye maidens, fair and coy and gracious, who seek first the gifts and beauty of the world. I speak truth and do not lie. Closer should you cleave to God than to any earthly lover, right willingly should you seek His altar, more firmly should you hold to His commandment than to any mortal's pleasure. So you serve God and Love in such fashion, no harm can come to any, for God and Love are one. God loves sense and chivalry; and Love holds them not in despite. God hates pride and false seeming; and Love loveth loyalty. God praiseth honour and courtesy; and fair Love disdaineth them not. God lendeth His ear to prayer; neither doth Love refuse it her heart. God granteth largesse to the generous; but the grudging man, and the envious, the felon and the wrathful, doth He abhor. But courtesy and honour, good sense and loyalty, are the leal vassals of Love, and so you hold truly to them, God and the beauty of the world shall be added to you besides."
Thus told the bird in his song.
But when he saw the villein beneath the pine hearkening to his words, straight he changed his note, for well he knew him to be covetous and disloyal, and so he sang in quite another fashion.
"Oh, river, cease to flow; crumble, thou manor, keep and tower; let the grass wither with the rose, and the tall tree stand bare, for the gentle dames and knights come no more who once delighted in my song, and to whom this fountain was dear.In place of the brave and generous knights, set upon honour, stands this envious churl, greedy of naught but money. Those came to hear my song for solace, and for love of love; he but to eat and drink the more, and for ease of his gluttony."
And when the bird had thus spoken he took his flight.
Now the villein, who had listened to this song, thought within himself that might he snare so marvellous a bird, very easily could he sell him at a great price; or if he might not sell him, at least he could set him fast in a cage and hearken his lay at pleasure both early and late. So he climbed within the tree and sought and searched and pried until he marked the branch from whence the bird was wont to sing. There he set a cunning snare, and waited to see what time should make clear. At the hour of vespers the bird returned to the orchard, and lighting upon the branch was fast taken in the net. Then the villein came forth, and mounting quickly, joyously seized him in his hand.
"Small profit will you have of your labour," said the bird, "for I can pay but a poor ransom."
"At least I shall be paid in songs," answered the villein. "You were wont to sing for your own pleasure, now you will carol for mine."
"Think not so," replied the bird. "He who is used to the freedom of wood and meadow and river cannot live prisoned in a cage. What solace may I find there, or joy? Open your hand, fair sweet friend, for be assured no captive has a heart for songs."
"By my faith, then, you shall be served at table."
"Never will you have dined worse, for there isnothing of me. I pray you to let me go, for it were a sin to slay me."
"By my faith, you talk and talk; the more you plead, the less will I grant."
"Certes," answered the bird, "you are in your right, for such is the law. Many a time have I heard tell that the uncharitable granteth no alms. But there is a proverb that teaches that often man gives in his own interest what cannot be taken from him by force. Now, if you release me from this net I will make you free of three secrets which are little known to men of your lineage, and from which you may draw much profit."
"Tell me these secrets," said the villein, "and I will open my hand."
"Such faith have I in you," answered the bird, "that I will speak only when you free me from the snare."
The villein opened his hand, and the bird flew to a place of surety. His feathers were all ruffled, for he had been grossly handled by a glove not of silk but of wool, so he preened and plumed himself carefully with his beak. But the villein grew impatient, and urged him to pay his ransom. Now the bird was full of guile, so presently he made answer to the churl.
"Hear now the first of my three weighty secrets—Do not believe all that you may hear."
The villein frowned with anger, and answered that he knew it well.
"Fair friend, forget it never," replied the bird.
"Much I fear that I did foolishly in letting you from the snare. This secret was plain to me before; but now tell me the two others."
"They are fair and wise," said the bird. "Listen well to my second weighty secret—Do not regret what you have never lost."
"You mock me," cried the villein, "and do wrong to the faith you plighted with me. You pledged your word to tell me three secrets known but little to men of such lineage as mine, and you give me musty proverbs told over by all the world. Certes, what manner of man is he who weeps over what he has never had!"
"Shall I tell it once again," replied the bird, "for great fear have I lest it should travel from your mind."
"By my head," answered the villein, "I am a fairer scholar than you think. These two proverbs have naught to teach me; but hold truly to our covenant and bargain, and let the third secret contain a graver matter."
"Listen well to my third secret," said the bird, "for he who receives it shall never be poor."
"Ah, tell me this secret quickly," cried the churl, "for it draws near the hour of meat, and truly, beyond all things, do I desire to grow rich."
Now when the bird heard him—
"This be thy punishment, oh, thou false churl—What you hold in your hand, never throw between your feet."
Then was the villein all wrathful; but when words came to him to speak, he said—
"And are these your three mighty secrets! Why, these are but children's riddles, which I have known ever since I was born. You have but lied to me, and of all your teaching had I full knowledge long before."
"By my faith," responded the bird, "had you known my third secret never would you have let me from your hand."
"You say well," said the villein, "but at least knew I the two other proverbs."
"Ah," said the bird, with malice, "but this proverb was worth a hundred of the others."
"In what manner?" inquired the villein.
"What, know you not what has chanced to you? Had you slain me when I was in your power that day would have been the happiest of your life. For in my body is a jewel, so precious and so rare, that it weighs at least three ounces. Yea, the virtue of this stone is such that he who owns it has but to wish, and lo, his desire is fulfilled."
When the villein heard this thing he beat upon his breast, he tore his raiment, and disfigured his face with his nails, crying out that he was wretched and undone. The bird from his refuge in the tree rejoiced greatly to observe the churl's miserable plight, and said nothing till his enemy's clothes were torn to rags, and his hands sore wounded in many places. Then he spake—
"Miserable churl, when you held me fast in your rude hand, easy was it to know that I was no larger than a sparrow or a finch, and weighed less than half an ounce. How, then, could a precious stone, three ounces in weight, be hid in my body? Now will I prove to you that of my three secrets you understood not a single one. You asked me what man was fool enough to weep over that which he had never lost, and even now I watch your tears fall for a jewel which was never yours, nor will be ever. You had faith in all that I was pleased to tell you, trusting all you heard; and in your folly you flung the bird you held in hand between your very feet. Fair friend, con over my three secrets, and learn wisdom even from the counsel of a bird."
When he had spoken thus he took his flight, and from that hour the orchard knew him no more. With the ceasing of his song the leaves withered from the pine, the garden became a little dry dust, and the fountain forgot to flow. Thus the rich villein lost his pleasaunce, which once was fairbeyond content. And remember well, fair lords and dames, that truly speaks the proverb, "He who covet another's good, oft loses his own," as we may learn from the "Lay of the Little Bird."
Each owes it to his fellows to tell as best he may, or, better still, to write with fair enticing words, such deeds and adventures as are good and profitable for us to know. For as men come and go about their business in the world, many things are told them which it is seemly to keep in remembrance. Therefore, it becomes those who say and relate, diligently and with fair intent to keep such matters in thought and study, even as did our fathers before us. Theirs is the school to which we all should pass, and he who would prove an apt scholar, and live beyond his day, must not be idle at his task. But the world dims our fine gold: the minstrel is slothful, and singers forget to sing, because of the pain and travail which go to the finding of their songs. So without waiting for any to-morrow, I will bring before you a certain adventure which chanced, even as it was told to me.
Some seven years ago it befell that a rich burgess of Abbeville departed from the town, together with his wife, his only son, and all his wealth, his goods and plenishing. This he did like a prudent man, since he found himself at enmity with men who were stronger and of more substance than he. So, fearing lest a worse thing should bechance him, from Abbeville he went up to Paris. There he sought a shop and dwelling, and paying his service, made himself vassal and burgess of the King. The merchant was diligent and courteous, his wife smiling and gracious, and their son was not given over to folly, but went soberly, even ashis parents taught him. Much were they praised of their neighbours, and those who lived in the same street often set foot in their dwelling. For very greatly are those loved and esteemed by their fellows who are courteous in speech and address. He who has fair words in his mouth receives again sweet words in his ear, and foul words and foul deeds bring naught but bitterness and railing. Thus was it with this prudent merchant. For more than seven years he went about his business, buying and selling, concerning himself with matters of which he had full knowledge, putting by of his earnings a little every day, like a wise and worthy citizen. So this wealthy merchant lived a happy blameless life, till, by the will of God, his wife was taken from him, who had been his companion for some thirty years. Now these parents had but one only child, a son, even as I have told you before. Very grievously did he mourn the death of her who had cherished him so softly, and lamented his mother with many tears, till he came nigh to swoon. Then, to put a little comfort in his heart, his father said to him—
"Fair son, thy mother is dead, and we will pray to God that He grant her mercy in that day. But dry now thine eyes and thy face, for tears can profit thee nothing. By that road we all must go, neither can any man pass Death upon the way, nor return to bring us any word. Fair son, for thee there is goodly comfort. Thou art a young bachelor, and it is time to take thee a wife. I am full of years, and so I may find thee a fair marriage in an honourable house I will endow thee with my substance. I will now seek a bride for thee of birth and breeding—one of family and descent, one come of ancient race, with relations and friends a gracious company, a wife from honest folk and from an honest home. There, where it is goodand profitable to be, I will set thee gladly, nor of wealth and moneys shalt thou find a lack."
Now in that place were three brethren, knights of high lineage, cousins to mighty lords of peerage, bearing rich and honourable blazons on their shields. But these knights had no heritage, since they had pawned all that they owned of woods and houses and lands, the better to take their pleasure at the tourney. Passing heavy and tormented were these brethren because in no wise might they redeem their pledge. The eldest of these brothers had a daughter, but the mother of the maid was dead. Now this damsel owned in Paris a certain fair house, over against the mansion of the wealthy merchant. The house was not of her father's heritage, but came to her from her mother, who had put the maid in ward to guardians, so that the house was free from pledge. She received in rent therefrom the sum of twenty Paris pounds every year, and her dues were paid her right willingly. So the merchant, esteeming her a lady of family and estate, demanded her hand in marriage of her father and of all her friends. The knight inquired in his turn of the means and substance of the merchant, who answered very frankly—
"In merchandise and in moneys I have near upon fifteen hundred pounds. Should I tell you that I had more, I should lie, and speak not the truth. I have besides one hundred Paris pounds, which I have gained in honest dealings. Of all this I will give my son the half."
"Fair sir," made answer the knight, "in no wise can this be agreed to. Had you become a Templar, or a White or a Black monk you would have granted the whole of your wealth either to the Temple or your Abbey. By my faith, we cannot consent to so grudging an offer, certes, sir merchant, no."
"Tell me then what you would have me do."
"Very willingly, fair, dear sir. We would that you grant to your son the sum and total of your substance, so that he be seised of all your wealth, and this in such fashion that neither you, nor any in your name, may claim return of any part thereof. If you consent to this the marriage can be made, but otherwise he shall never wed our child and niece."
The merchant turned this over for a while, now looking upon his son, now deep in thought. But very badly he was served of all his thought and pondering. For at the last he made reply to him and said—
"Lord, it shall even be done according to your will. This is our covenant and bargain, that so your daughter is given to my son I will grant him all that I have of worth. I take this company as witness that here I strip myself of everything I own, so that naught is mine, but all is his, of what I once was seised and possessed."
Thus before the witnesses he divested himself utterly of all his wealth, and became naked as a peeled wand in the eyes of the world, for this merchant now had neither purse nor penny, nor wherewithal to break his fast, save it were given him by his son. So when the words were spoken and the merchant altogether spoiled, then the knight took his daughter by the hand and handfasted her with the bachelor, and she became his wife.
For two years after this marriage the husband and the dame lived a quiet and peaceful life. Then a fair son was born to the bachelor, and the lady cherished and guarded him fondly. With them dwelt the merchant in the same lodging, but very soon he perceived that he had given himself a mortal blow in despoiling himself of his substance to live on the charity of others. But perforce heremained of their household for more than twelve years, until the lad had grown up tall, and began to take notice, and to remember that which often he heard of the making of his father's marriage. And well he promised himself that it should never go from mind.
The merchant was full of years. He leaned upon his staff, and went bent with age, as one who searches for his lost youth. His son was weary of his presence, and would gladly have paid for the spinning of his shroud. The dame, who was proud and disdainful, held him in utter despite, for greatly he was against her heart. Never was she silent, but always was she saying to her lord—
"Husband, for love of me, send your father upon his business. I lose all appetite just for the sight of him about the house."
"Wife," answered he, "this shall be done according to your wish."
So because of his wife's anger and importunity, he sought out his father straightway, and said—
"Father, father, get you gone from here. I tell you that you must do the best you can, for we may no longer concern ourselves with you and your lodging. For twelve years and more we have given you food and raiment in our house. Now all is done, so rise and depart forthwith, and fend for yourself, as fend you must."
When the father heard these words he wept bitterly, and often he cursed the day and the hour in which he found he had lived too long.
"Ah, fair, sweet son, what is this thou sayest to me! For the love of God turn me not from thy door. I lie so close that thou canst not want my room. I require of thee neither seat in the chimney corner, nor soft bed of feathers, no, nor carpet on the floor; but only the attic, where I may bide on a little straw. Throw me not from thyhouse because I eat of thy bread, but feed me without grudging for the short while I have to live. In the eyes of God this charity will cover all thy sins better than if thou went in haircloth next the flesh."
"Fair father," replied the bachelor, "preach me no preachings, but get you forth at once, for reason that my wife would have you gone."
"Fair son, where then shall I go, who am esteemed of nothing worth?"
"Get you gone to the town, for amongst ten thousand others very easily you may light on good fortune. Very unlucky you will be if there you cannot find a way to live. Seek your fortune bravely. Perchance some of your friends and acquaintance will receive you into their houses."
"Son, how then shall men take me to their lodging, when you turn me from the house which I have given you? Why should the stranger welcome that guest whom the son chases from his door? Why should I be received gladly by him to whom I have given naught, when I am evilly entreated of the rich man for whose sake I go naked?"
"Father," said he, "right or wrong, I take the blame upon my own head; but go you must because it is according to my will."
Then the father grieved so bitterly that for a little his very heart would have broken. Weak as he was, he raised himself to his feet and went forth from the house, weeping.
"Son," said he, "I commend thee to God; but since thou wilt that I go, for the love of Him give me at least a portion of packing cloth to shelter me against the wind. I am asking no great matter; nothing but a little cloth to wrap aboutme, because I am but lightly clad, and fear to die for reason of the cold."
Then he who shrank from any grace of charity made reply—
"Father, I have no cloth, so neither can I bestow, nor have it taken from me."
"Fair, sweet son, my heart trembles within me, so greatly do I dread the cold. Give me, then, the cloth you spread upon your horse, so that I come to no evil."
So he, seeing that he might not rid himself of his father save by the granting of a gift, and being desirous above all that he should part, bade his son to fetch this horsecloth. When the lad heard his father's call he sprang to him, saying—
"Father, what is your pleasure?"
"Fair son," said he, "get you to the stable, and if you find it open give my father the covering that is upon my horse. Give him the best cloth in the stable, so that he may make himself a mantle or a habit, or any other sort of cloak that pleases him."
Then the lad, who was thoughtful beyond his years, made answer—
"Grandsire, come now with me."
So the merchant went with him to the stable, exceedingly heavy and wrathful. The lad chose the best horsecloth he might find in the stable, the newest, the largest, and the most fair; this he folded in two, and drawing forth his knife, divided the cloth in two portions. Then he bestowed on his grandfather one half of the sundered horsecloth.
"Fair child," said the old man, "what have you done? Why have you cut the cloth that your father has given me? Very cruelly have you treated me, for you were bidden to give me thehorsecloth whole. I shall return and complain to my son thereof."
"Go where you will," replied the boy, "for certainly you shall have nothing more from me."
The merchant went forth from the stable.
"Son," said he, "chastise now thy child, since he counts thy word as nothing but an idle tale, and fears not to disobey thy commandment. Dost thou not see that he keeps one half of the horsecloth?"
"Plague take thee!" cried the father; "give him all the cloth."
"Certes," replied the boy, "that will I never do, for how then shall you be paid? Rather will I keep the half until I am grown a man, and then give it to you. For just as you have chased him from your house, so I will put you from my door. Even as he has bestowed on you all his wealth, so, in my turn, will I require of you all your substance. Naught from me shall you carry away, save that only which you have granted to him. If you leave him to die in his misery, I wait my day, and surely will leave you to perish in yours."
The father listened to these words, and at the end sighed heavily. He repented him of the evil that he purposed, and from the parable that his child had spoken took heed and warning. Turning himself about towards the merchant, he said—
"Father, return to my house. Sin and the Enemy thought to have caught me in the snare, but, please God, I have escaped from the fowler. You are master and lord, and I render all that I have received into your hands. If my wife cannot live with you in quiet, then you shall be served and cherished elsewhere. Chimney corner, and carpet, pillow and bed of feathers, at your ease you shall have pleasure in them all. I take St. Martin towitness that never will I drink stoup of wine, never carve morsel from dish, but that yours shall be the richer portion. Henceforth you shall live softly in the ceiled chamber, near by a blazing fire, clad warmly in your furred robe, even as I. And all this is not of charity, but of your right, for, fair sweet father, if I am rich it is because of your substance."
Thus the brave witness and the open remonstrance of a child freed his father from the bad thoughts that he harboured. And deeply should this adventure be considered of those who are about to marry their children. Let them not strip themselves so bare as to have nothing left. For he who gives all, and depends upon the charity of others, prepares a rod for his own back.
In the years when Saladin was King, there lived a Prince in Galilee, who was named Sir Hugh of Tabarie. On a day he was with other Christian men who gave battle to the Turks, and, since it pleased God to cast His chivalry behind Him, Sir Hugh was taken prisoner, and many another stout knight with him. When dusk closed down on the field, the Prince was led before Saladin, who, calling him straightway to mind, rejoiced greatly and cried—
"Ah, Sir Hugh, now are you taken."
"Sire," answered the brave knight, "the greater grief is mine."
"By my faith, Hugh, every reason have you for grief, since you must either pay your ransom or die."
"Sire, I am more fain to pay ransom than to die, if by any means I may find the price you require of me."
"Is that truly so?" said the King.
"Sire," said Sir Hugh, "in the fewest words, what is the sum you demand of me?"
"I ask of you," replied the King, "one hundred thousand besants."
"Sire, such a sum is too great a ransom for a man of my lands to pay."
"Hugh," said the King, "you are so good a knight, and so hardy, that there is none who hears of your prison and this ransom, but will gladly send of his riches for your ease."
"Sire," said he, "since thus it must be, I promise to pay the sum you require, but what time do you grant me to find so mighty a ransom?"
"Hugh," said the King, "I accord you the grace of one year. If within the year you count me out the tale of these besants, I will take it gladly; but if you fail to gain it, then must you return to your prison, and I will hold you more willingly still."
"Sire, I pledge my word and my faith. Now deliver me such a safe conduct that I may return in surety to my own land."
"Hugh, before you part I have a privy word to speak to you."
"Sire, with all my heart, and where?"
"In this tent, close by."
When they were entered into the pavilion, the Emperor Saladin sought to know of Sir Hugh in what fashion a man was made knight of the Christian chivalry, and required of him that he should show it to his eyes.
"Sire, whom then should I dub knight?"
"Myself," answered the King.
"Sire, God forbid that I should be so false as to confer so high a gift and so fair a lordship even upon the body of so mighty a prince as you."
"But wherefore?" said the King.
"For reason, sire, that your body is but an empty vessel."
"Empty of what, Sir Hugh?"
"Sire, of Christianity and of baptism."
"Hugh," said he, "think not hardly of me because of this. You are in my hand, and if you do the thing that I require of you, what man is there to blame you greatly when you return to your own realm. I seek this grace of you, rather than of another, because you are the stoutest and most perfect knight that ever I may meet."
"Sire," said he, "I will show you what you seek to know, for were it but the will of God that you were a christened man, our chivalry would bear in you its fairest flower."
"Hugh," said he, "that may not be."
Thereupon Sir Hugh made ready all things necessary for the making of a knight; and having trimmed the hair and beard of the King in seemly fashion, he caused him to enter within a bath, and inquired—
"Sire, do you understand the meaning of this water?"
"Hugh, of this I know nothing."
"Sire, as the little child comes forth from the waters of baptism clean of sin, so should you issue from this bath washed pure of all stain and villainy."
"By the law of the Prophet, Sir Hugh, it is a fair beginning."
Then Sir Hugh brought the Sultan before an untouched bed, and having laid him therein, he said—
"Sire, this bed is the promise of that long rest in Paradise which you must gain by the toils of chivalry."
So when the King had lain softly therein for a little space, Sir Hugh caused him to stand upon his feet, and having clothed him in a fair white vesture of linen and of silk, said—
"Sire, this spotless stole you first put on is but the symbol of a body held and guarded clean."
Afterwards he set upon the King a gown of scarlet silk, and said—
"Sire, this vermeil robe keeps ever in your mind the blood a knight must shed in the service of his God and the defence of Holy Church."
Then taking the King's feet in his hands, he drew thereon shoes of brown leather, saying—
"Sire, these brown shoes with which you are shod, signify the colour of that earth from which you came, and to which you must return; for whatever degree God permits you to attain, remember, O mortal man, that you are but dust."
Then Sir Hugh raised the Sultan to his feet, and girt him with a white baldrick, saying—
"Sire, this white cincture I belt about your loins is the type of that chastity with which you must be girded withal. For he who would be worthy of such dignity as this must ever keep his body pure as any maid."
After this was brought to Sir Hugh a pair of golden spurs, and these he did upon the shoes with which the Sultan was shod, saying—
"Sire, so swiftly as the destrier plunges in the fray at the prick of these spurs, so swiftly, so joyously, should you fight as a soldier of God for the defence of Holy Church."
Then at the last Hugh took a sword, and holding it before the King, said—
"Sire, know you the three lessons of this glaive?"
"What lessons are these?"
"Courage, justice and loyalty. The cross at the hilt of his sword gives courage to the bearer, for when the brave knight girds his sword upon him he neither can, nor should, fear the strong Adversary himself. Again, sire, the two sharp edges of the blade teach loyalty and justice, for the office of chivalry is this, to sustain the weak against the strong, the poor before the rich, uprightly and loyally."
The King listened to all these words very heedfully, and at the end inquired if there was nothing more that went to the making of a knight.
"Sire, there is one thing else, but that I dare not do."
"What thing is this?"
"It is the accolade."
"Grant me now this accolade, and tell me the meaning thereof."
"Sire, the accolade is a blow upon the neck given with a sword, and the significance thereof is that the newly made knight may always bear in mind the lord who did him that great courtesy. But such a stroke will I not deal to you, for it is not seemly, since I am here your prisoner."
That night Saladin, the mighty Sultan, feasted in his chamber, with the fifty greatest lords of his realm, emirs, governors and admirals, and Sir Hugh of Tabarie sat on a cushion at his feet. At the close of the banquet Sir Hugh rose up before the King and said—
"Sire, grant me grace. I may not forget that you bade me to seek out all fair and honourable lords, since there is none who would not gladly come to my help in this matter of my ransom. But, fair Sir King, in all the world shall I never find a lord so wise, so hardy, and so courteous as yourself. Since you have taught me this lesson, it is but just and right that I should pray you to be the first to grant me aid herein."
Then Saladin laughed loudly out of a merry heart, and said—
"Pray God that the end be as sweet as the beginning. Truly, Sir Hugh, I will not have it on my conscience that you miss your ransom because of any meanness of mine, and therefore, without guile, for my part I will give you fifty thousand good besants."
Then the great Sultan rose from his throne, and taking Prince Hugh with him, came to each of thelords in turn—emir, governor and admiral—and prayed of him aid in the business of this ransom. So all the lords gave largely out of a good heart, in such measure that Sir Hugh presently acquitted himself of his ransom, and returned to his own realm from amongst the Paynim.
Here begins the story of a certain King who was named King Florus of Ausay. This King Florus was a very stout knight, and a gentleman of proud descent. He was wedded to the daughter of the Prince of Brabant, a gentlewoman of high lineage. Very fair was the maid when she became his dame, slender of shape and dainty of fashion, and the story telleth that she was but fifteen summers old when King Florus became her lord, and he was but of seventeen years. A right happy life they passed together, as becometh bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth; yet because he might have no child of her King Florus was often dolent, and she for her part was vexed full grievously. This lady was very gracious of person, and very devout towards God and Holy Church. She gave alms willingly, and was so charitable that she nourished and clothed the needy, kissing their hands and feet. Moreover, so constant and private in service was she to the lepers of the lazar house, both men and women, that the Holy Ghost dwelt within her. Her lord, King Florus, so long as his realm had peace, rode forth as knight-errant to all the tournaments in Allemaigne and France and many other lands of which the noise reached him; thereon he spent much treasure, and gained great honour thereby.
But now my tale ceases to speak of him, and telleth of a knight who dwelt in the marches ofFlanders and of Hainault. This knight was wise in counsel, and brave of heart, very sure and trusty. He had to wife a right fair lady, of whom he had one daughter, young and fresh, named Jehane, a maid of some twelve years. Many sweet words were spoken of this maiden, for in all the country round was none so fair. Her mother prayed often to her lord that he should grant the girl in marriage, but so given were all his thoughts to the running of tourneys that he considered nothing of the trothing of his child, though his wife admonished him ever on his return from the jousts.
This knight had for squire a man named Robert, the bravest squire in any Christian realm. His prowess and his praise were such that oft he aided his lord to bear away the prize from the tournaments whereat he ran. So great was his praise that his lady spake him thus—
"Robert, more careth my lord for these joustings than for any words I speak, which thing is grievous to me, for I would that he gave care and pains to wed this daughter of mine. I pray you, therefore, for love of me, that if you may, you tell him that very ill he does, and is greatly to be blamed, not to marry his own fair child, for there is no knight of these parts, however rich his state, who would not gladly welcome such a bride."
"Lady," said Robert, "you have well spoken. Very readily will I speak thereof, and since my lord asks often of my counsel, every hope have I that he will take heed to my words."
"Robert," said the lady, "you will find me no niggard, so you do this task."
"Lady," said Robert, "your prayer is guerdon enough for me. Be assured I will do all that I may."
"I am content," returned the lady.
Now within a little space the knight made readyto fare to a tournament very far from his land. When he came to the field, he (with a certain knight in whose company he rode) was joined to one party, and his banner was carried to the lodging of his lord. The tilting began, and such deeds did the knight, by the cunning service of his squire, that he bore off the honour and the prize of that tourney from the one side and the other. On the second day the knight prepared to return to his own country; so Robert took him often to task and blamed him greatly that he had not bestowed his fair daughter in marriage. Having heard this many times, at the end his lord replied—
"Robert, thou and thy lady give me no peace in the matter of the marriage of my daughter; but at present I see and know of none in my parts to whom I am content to give her."
"Ah, sir," cried Robert, "there is no knight in your realm who would not receive her right joyously."
"Robert, fair friend, they are worth nothing, not one of them; neither will I bestow her there with my good will. I know of no man in the world who is worthy of her, save one man only, and he, forsooth, is no knight."
"Sir, tell me his name," answered Robert, "and I will find means to speak to him so privily that the marriage shall be made."
"Certes, Robert," returned the knight, "meseems thou art very desirous that my daughter shall be wedded."
"Sir," quoth Robert, "you speak truly, for it is full time."
"Robert," said the knight, "since thou art so hot to carol at her wedding, she shall soon enough be married if thou accord thereto."
"Certes, sir," said Robert, "right willingly will I consent thereto."
"To that you pledge your word?" demanded the knight.
"Truly, sir, yes," answered Robert.
"Robert, thou hast served me very faithfully, and ever have I found thee skilled and true. Such as I am, that thou hast made of me; for by thine aid at the tourneys have I gained five hundred pounds of rent. 'Twas but a short time since that I had but five hundred; whereas now I have one thousand pounds from rent of land. This, therefore, I owe to thee, and I acquit me of my debt by giving thee my fair daughter, so thou art willing to take her at my hand."
"Ah, sir," cried Robert, "for the pity of God, say not thus. I am too low a man to snatch at so high a maiden, nor dare I pretend to one so rich and gracious as my demoiselle, since there is no knight in all the realm, whate'er his breeding, who would not count it honour to be her lord."
"Robert, know of a surety that never shall knight of this country call her his; but I will bestow her on thee, if thou refusest her not, and for her dowry shall she bring thee four hundred pounds from rent of my lands."
"Ah, sir," said Robert, "you are pleased to make a mock of me."
"Robert," said the knight, "be assured this is no jest."
"Ah, sir, neither my lady nor her mighty kin will endure to consent thereto."
"Robert," said the knight, "this matter concerns none of them. Hold, I give thee my glove, and I invest thee with four hundred pounds of my land, and this is my warrant for the delivery thereof."
"Sir," said Robert, "I will not refuse so goodly a gift, since it is given with so true a heart."
"Robert," replied the knight, "the grant is sealed."
So the knight granted him his glove, and invested him with rights in that fair maiden and her land.
Thus they passed upon their ways until it fortuned that this knight returned to his own house. When he was entered therein, his wife—that comely dame—received him right sweetly, and said—
"Husband, for the love of God, give thought at this time to the marriage of our maid."
"Dame," said her lord, "thou hast spoken so often of this matter that I have trothed her already."
"Sir," inquired the lady, "to whom?"
"Certes, dame, I have pledged her to a man who will ever be loyal and true. I have given her to Robert, my squire."
"To Robert! Alas the day," quoth the lady. "Robert is but a naked man, nor is there a knight, however noble, in all this realm who would not have taken her gladly. Certainly Robert shall have none of her."
"Dame, have her he shall, for I have delivered to him as my daughter's portion four hundred pounds in rent of land, and all his rights therein I warrant and will maintain."
When the lady heard this thing she was sore troubled, and said to her lord that of a surety should Robert never possess her maid.
"Dame," said her husband, "have her he shall, with good will or with bad will, for I have made a covenant with him, and will carry out my bargain."
When the lady heard these words of her lord she sought her chamber, and wept and lamented very grievously. After her tears were shed then she sent to seek her brothers and other kinsmen of her house, and showed them of that thing her lord would do, and they said—
"Lady, what have we to do herein? We have no care to go counter to your lord, for he is a stout knight, weighty of counsel and heavy of hand. Moreover, can he not do as he will with his daughter, and his land besides? Know you well that for this cause will none of us hang shield about his neck."
"Alas," said the lady, "never may my heart find happiness again, if thus I lose my child. At the least, fair lords, I pray and require you to show him that should he make this marriage he acts not rightly, nor after his own honour."
"Lady," said they, "this we will do full willingly."
So they sought out the knight and acquitted themselves of their task, and he answered them in courteous wise—
"Fair lords, I will tell you what I can do for your love. So it be your pleasure, I will defer this marriage on such understanding as I now declare. You are great lords, and are rich in gold and lands. Moreover, you are near of kin to this fair maid of mine, whom very tenderly I love. If on your part you will endue her with four hundred pounds of rent on your lands, I, on mine, will disavow this bond of marriage, and will wed the girl according to your wise counsel."
"In the name of God," answered they with one accord, "would you spoil us of all the wealth in our wallets?"
"Since, then," replied the knight, "you may not do this thing, suffer me to do as I will with my own."
"Sir, with right good mind," answered they.
Then the knight sent for his chaplain, and before him affianced Robert and his fair daughter together, appointing a certain day for the marriage. But on the third day Robert prayed his lord thathe would dub him knight, since it was not seemly that he should take a wife so fair and of such high station till he was of her degree. His lord agreed thereto with a glad heart, and on the morrow granted him his desire; therefore after the third day he married the fair maid with great joy and festival.
At the hour Messire Robert was made knight he spake thus to his lord—
"Sir, once when I was in grievous peril of death, I vowed to seek St. James's shrine on the morrow of that day I gained my spurs. I pray you be not wroth with me if to-morrow morn it becomes my honour to wend thither directly after this marriage, for in no wise will I fail to observe my vow."
"Certes, Messire Robert, if you do this despite to my daughter, and go lonely upon your road, very rightly will you be held to blame."
"Sir," said he, "so it pleases God, I shall soon return, but go I must on peril of my soul."
When a certain knight of the lord's household heard these words, greatly he reproached Messire Robert for parting from his bride at such an hour, but Robert answered him that he durst not break his oath.
"Truly," said the knight, who was named Raoul, "truly if you wend thus to St. James's shrine, leaving so fair a bride but a wedded maid, very surely will I win her love ere you return. Certain proofs, moreover, will I give that I have had my way with her; and to this will I pledge my lands against the lands our lord has granted you, for mine are fully worth the rents of yours."
"My wife," answered Messire Robert, "does not come of a race to deal me so shrewd a wrong, and since I give no credence to your words, willingly will I make the wager, if so it pleases you."
"Yes," said Raoul, "and to this you pledge your faith?"
"Yea," said Messire Robert, "willingly. And you?"
"I, too, pledge my faith. Now let us seek our lord forthwith, and set before him our bargain."
"That is my desire also," said Messire Robert.
Then they went straight to their lord and laid before him this wager, and plighted troth to observe their covenant. So in the morning Messire Robert was married to the fair maiden, and when the bridal Mass was ended, incontinent he parted from the hall, without tasting the wedding meats, and set forth on his way, a pilgrim to Compostella.
Now ceaseth the tale to speak of him, and telleth of Raoul, who was hot in thought as to how he might gain the wager and have to do with the fair lady. So relateth the tale that the lady behaved very discreetly whilst her husband was on pilgrimage, for she spent much time upon her knees in church, praying God to bring her lord again. For his part Messire Raoul was in a heat in what manner he might win the wager, for more and more it seemed to him that he should lose his land. He sought speech with an old dame who attended on the lady, promising that so she brought him in such a place and hour that he might speak privily to Madame Jehane, and have his will, then he would deal so largely with her, that never in her life should she be poor.
"Certes, sir," said the crone, "you are so lovely a knight, so sweet in speech and so courteous, that verily it is my lady's duty to set her love upon you, and it will be my pleasure to toil in your service."
So the knight took forty sous from his pouch, and gave them to her that she might buy a kirtle. The old woman received them greedily, and hiding the money in a secret place promised to speak toher lady. The knight bade farewell, and went his way, but the crone tarried in that place, and when her lady entered from the church said straitly—
"Lady, for God's love, tell me truly, when my lord went to Compostella did he leave you a maid?"
"Why ask you such a question, Dame Hersent?"
"Because, lady, I believe you to be a virgin wife!"
"Certes, Dame Hersent, and that I am, nor do I know woman who would be aught else in my case."
"Lady," returned Dame Hersent, "ah, the pity of it! If you but knew the joy that women have in company of the man they love, you would say that there is no fonder happiness to be found on earth. Greatly I marvel, therefore, that you love not,par amours, seeing that every lady loveth with her friend. Were the thing but pleasing to you, fair falleth the chance, for well I know a knight, comely of person, sweet and wise of speech, who asks naught better than to set on you his love. Very rich is he, and lovelier far than the shamed recreant who has left you in this plight. If you are not too fearful to grant him grace, you can have of him all that you please to ask, and such joy moreover as no lady can hope for more."
Whilst the crone was speaking, the lady, who was but a woman, felt her senses stir within. Curiously she inquired who this knight should be.
"Who is he, lady? God above! one has no fear to cry his name! Who should it be but that lovely lord, so courteous, so bold, Messire Raoul, of your father's house, the sweetest heart of all the world."
"Dame Hersent," said the lady, "you will do well to let these words be, for I have no wish to do myself such wrong, neither come I of such stock as goes after shame."
"Dame," replied the old woman, "I know it well; but never can you have the joy of maid with man."
Thus ended their discourse; but presently Sir Raoul came again to the crone, and she made plain to him how she had spoken to her lady, and in what fashion she was answered.
"Dame Hersent," said the knight, "so should a virtuous lady reply; but I pray you speak again with her of this matter, for the archer does not wing the bird with a first arrow; and, stay, take these twenty sous, and buy a lining to your coat."
So that ancient dame took the gift, and wearied the lady with enticing words, but nothing came of all her proffers.
Slowly or quickly thus passed the days, till came the tidings that Sir Robert was on his way from Compostella, and was already near to Paris. Very speedily this news was noised abroad, and Sir Raoul, fearing greatly to lose his lands, again sought speech with the crone. Then said the old woman that in no wise could she snare the bird, but that for the great love she bore him this thing she would do—so he would recompense her service—namely, that she would put matters in such a case that none should be in the house save himself and the lady, and then he could act according to his pleasure, whether she would or whether she would not. So Raoul answered that he desired no other thing.
"This I will do," said the old woman. "Messire shall come again in eight days, and on that day shall my lady bathe within her bower. I will see that all her household are forth from the castle, so may you come privily to her chamber, and have your desire of her, whether she cry yea or whether she cry nay."
"You have fairly spoken," answered he.
Hard upon this came letters from Messire Robertthat he would be at the castle on Sunday. On the Thursday, therefore, the crone caused the bath to be heated in the bower, and the lady disarrayed herself to enter therein. Then the old woman sent messages to Sir Raoul that he should come speedily, and moreover she caused all the household to go forth from that place. Sir Raoul came to the bower, and entering, saluted the lady, but she deigned no reply to his greeting, and said—
"Sir Raoul, of a truth I thank you for this courtesy, yet you might have asked if such a visit would be according to my wish. Accursed may you be for a most ungentle knight."
But Sir Raoul made reply—
"Madame, for God's sake have pity upon me, for I die for love of you. Lady, as you hope for grace, so grant grace to me."
"Sir Raoul," cried she, "never for pity will I grant you this day, or any day, the grace of my love. Know well that if you do not leave me alone in peace certainly will I tell your lord, my father, the honour that you require of me, for I am no such woman as you think."
"Nay, lady, is it so indeed?"
"Yes, and very surely," replied she.
Then Sir Raoul sprang forward, and clasping her in his arms (for he was very mighty) bore her towards her bed. As they strove he saw beneath her right breast a black spot upon the groin, and thought within himself that here was certain proof that he had had to do with her. But as he carried her towards the bed his spurs caught within the serge valence about the foot thereof, so that they fell together, the lord below and the lady above; whereupon she rose lightly to her feet, and seizing a billet of wood from the hearth, smote him upon the head so shrewdly that the blood dropped upon the rushes from the wound. When Sir Raoul knewhis wound to be both deep and large no more he desired to play, so he arose from the floor and departed straightway from that chamber to his own lodging, a long mile thence, and sought a surgeon for his hurt. For her part the faithful lady called upon Dame Hersent, and returning to her bath, complained to her of this strange adventure with the knight.
Very great and rich was the feast that the father of the fair lady ordained against the home-coming of Sir Robert. Many a lord was bidden to his hall, and amongst these my lord, Sir Raoul, his knight; but he sent messages that he might not come, for reason of his sickness. On the Sunday came Sir Robert, and was sweetly welcomed of all; but the father of the fair lady sought out Sir Raoul, nor would hold him excused from the feast because of his grievous wound. Therefore he tired his face and his wound the best that he was able, and went to hall, where all day long the lords and ladies sat at meat and drink, and rose for morris and to dance.
When closed the night Sir Robert sought his chamber, and very graciously the lady received him, as it becometh every wife to receive her husband. On the morrow again the guests were gathered about the board, but after dinner uprose Sir Raoul demanding that Messire Robert should pay his wager, since he had had to do with his wife, by sign and token of a certain black spot beneath her right breast.
"Of that I know nothing," answered Sir Robert, "for I have not looked so boldly upon her."
"I require you by the faith that you have pledged me to take heed, and to do me justice herein."
"That will I, truly," answered Sir Robert.
When came the night once more, then Sir Robertobserved his wife curiously, and marked the black spot upon her white body, whereat the greater grief was his. In the morning he sought out Sir Raoul, and owned before his lord that he had lost the bet. Sick at heart was he throughout the day. When darkness came he went to the stable, and saddling his palfrey, issued forth from the courtyard, taking with him what he might carry of his wealth. So he set forth on the road to Paris, and coming to the city sojourned therein for some three days. There the tale ceaseth to speak of him, and telleth of his wife.
Very dolent and right heavy was the fair lady that thus her lord had fled his house. Very long and right greatly she considered the reason of his flight. She wept and lamented her widowhood, even till such time as her father entered her chamber, and said that it were much better that she had never wed, since she had brought him to shame, him, and all her house, and told her how and why. When she heard this thing she was sick of heart, and swore that never had she done such deed; but her words profited her nothing, for though a woman gave her body to be burned, yet would none believe her clean of sin, once such blame is set upon her.
Very early in the night the lady rose from the bed, and taking what wealth she had in her coffer, saddled a palfrey and took the road. She had sheared her dainty tresses to the shoulder, and in all points was clad as a boy. In this manner came she to Paris, seeking for her husband, for to her heart she declared that never would she give over her search until they were met together once more. So she rode at adventure, a squire searching for her lord. Now on a morning she departed from Paris, and riding on the way to Orleans came to Tombe Isoire, and there met with Sir Robert, her husband.Her heart was very full as she drew close and saluted him, and he rendered her greeting for greeting, saying—
"Fair friend, God give you heart's desire."
"Sir," said she, "from whence come you?"
"Certes, fair friend, I am of Hainault."
"Sir, and whither go you?"
"Forsooth, fair friend, little I know where my path may lead me, nor have I home where I may dwell. Where Fortune hales me, thither I must go, and the Dame looks not kindly on me, for I have lost the thing that most I loved in all the world, and she hath lost me. Moreover with her went house and lands that were fair and deep. But tell me, what is your name, and whither doth God bring you?"
"Certes, sir," answered Jehane, "I purpose to seek Marseilles, near by the sea, where as I hope there is noise of war. There, if I may, will I enter the service of some hardy captain and learn the trade of arms, so it be God's pleasure. For such is my plight that in nowise can I stay in my own country. To my eyes, sir, you seem a knight whom I would serve very gladly, if such was your will, nor of my fellowship could you take any harm."
"Fair friend," answered Messire Robert, "truly am I a belted knight, and in what place the battle is set, there would I gladly ride. But tell me now, what is your name?"
"Sir, my name is John."
"It is right welcome," said the knight.
"And you, sir, what is your name?"
"John, my name is Robert."
"Sir Robert, join me to your company as squire, and I will serve you to the utmost of my power."
"John, so would I do gladly, but I have so little money in my pouch, that ere three days are gone Imust sell my very steed; therefore I may take no squire."
"Sir," said John, "be not troubled thereat, for God will provide, if so it seems good to Him. But where are you set to dine?"
"John, my dinner is a simple business, for I have nothing in my purse save three sous of Paris."
"Sir, be not troubled thereat, for on my part I have with me nearly ten pounds of Tournay money, and these are as your own, since your wallet is not heavy to your wish."
"Fair friend, thanks, and thanks again."
The two comrades rode at a brisk pace to Montlhery, where John found meat for his lord, and they ate together. When they had eaten they sought their chamber, the knight lying in a fair bed, and John sleeping in another, at his feet. Refreshed with sleep, John rose and did the harness upon their horses, so they mounted and passed upon their way. Journeying thus at last they lighted at Marseilles upon the Sea, but to their grief they might not hear the rumour of any war. There for the time my story ceases to speak of the two of them, and returns to Messire Raoul, that false knight, who, by leasing, had wrongly gained the land of Sir Robert.
For more than seven years did Messire Raoul hold the lands of Sir Robert against law and right. Then a sore sickness took hold upon him, and afflicted him so grievously that very near he came to death. Much he feared the wrong he had wrought to that fair lady, the daughter of his lord, and to her husband besides, for by reason of his malice were they utterly undone. So great was his sin that he dared not show the matter to the priest, but tossed upon his bed in utter unrest. On a certain day when his sickness lay too heavy uponhim he bade his chaplain draw near his bed, for this priest was a wise confessor, loyal and true, and very close to the sick man's heart. Then he spake—
"Father—my father in God, if not according to the flesh—the time is come when I must die. For God's love give me now your counsel, as you are a ghostly man, for on my soul there lies a sin so ugly and so black that scarcely may I hope to be anealed."
The priest prayed him to speak more plainly, so that he might aid him to the utmost of his power, wherefore Sir Raoul brought himself to tell the story that you have heard. At the end he begged the chaplain for the love of God to show him what he must do to obtain the grace of pardon for a sin so dark.
"Sir," said the priest, "be not altogether cast down, for so you are willing to do such penance as I lay upon you, I will take your sin on me and on my own soul, and you shall be clean."
"Now tell me of this penance," said the knight.
"Sir, within a year of your recovery from this sickness must you take the cross and pass beyond the sea, and in all places where men ask the reason of your pilgrimage, there you must tell the story of this bitter wrong. Moreover, this day must you give hostages to God that thus you will do."
"All this will I do gladly."
"Sir, what rich pledge can you offer, therefore?"
"The best," replied the knight. "You, yourself, shall be hostage and surety for me; and on my honour as a knight well will I redeem my pledge."
"Sir," said the priest, "in the hand of God am I set as your pledge."
The sick man turned from death to life, and soon was altogether healed. A full year passed away, and yet he had not taken the cross. Right oftenthe holy man reminded him of his bond, but he treated the covenant as a jest. Then the chaplain told him straitly that except he discharged him as his surety before God, he would tell the whole matter to the father of the fair lady whom he had utterly destroyed. When the knight heard this he said to the chaplain that within six months would he seek the sea for the springtide crossing, and thereto he plighted faith. But now the story ceases to speak of Messire Raoul, and returns to King Florus of Ausay, of whom it has told nought for a great while.
A right happy life led King Florus and his wife together, as becomes bride and groom who wed fondly in their youth, but very dolent and sore of heart were they that they might get no child. The lady caused Masses to be sung, and was urgent in prayer for her desire, but since it was not according to the will of God, no gain she got thereby. On a day there came to the castle of King Florus a holy hermit who dwelt deep within the great forest of Ausay, in a very desolate place. The queen received him very gladly, and because he was a wise man and a holy, would be shriven by him of her sins. So she bared him her secret wound, and told him of her grief that she might have no child by her lord.
"Ah, madame," said the holy man, "it becometh you patiently to suffer the pleasure of our Lord. When it is His will, then shall the barren become a joyful mother of children."
"Certes, sir," said the lady, "would that it were now, for less dear am I to my lord therefor. Moreover the high barons of this realm cast the thing against me, and give counsel to my lord that he should put the barren woman away and take another bride."
"Truly, madame," said the holy man, "grievouslywould he sin against God and Holy Church by such a deed."
"Ah, sir, pray you to God for me that I may bear a child to my lord, for much I doubt that he will put me away."
"Madame," said the holy man, "prayers of mine are little worth, save by the will of God, yet such as they are you shall have them willingly."
Hardly had this holy man departed from the lady, when the barons of the realm drew together before the King, and counselled him that he should put away his wife, since by her he might have no child, and take another bride. Moreover, if he would not abide by their counsel, then would they withdraw their fealty, for in no case should the kingdom remain without an heir. King Florus feared his barons greatly, and gave credence to their word, so he promised to send his wife to her kindred, and prayed the lords to seek him another queen, which thing was accorded between them. When the lady knew thereof she was stricken to the heart, but nothing might she do, for well she understood that her lord was purposed to forsake her. Therefore she sent to seek that hermit who was her confessor, and when he was come she set before him this business of the barons, and how they would bring another wife to her husband. "So I pray you, fair father, to aid me with counsel as to what I must do."
"Lady," said the holy man, "if it be thus, you must suffer it as best you may, for against king and barons you can make no head."
"Sir," said the gentle lady, "you speak truly; so, if it pleases God, I will dwell as an anchoress near to you, for then shall I serve God all the days of my life, and yet draw some stay and comfort from your presence."
"Lady," said the prudent man, "that were toohazardous a thing, for you are too tender in years, and fair and fresh. But I will tell you what to do. Near by my hermitage is a convent of White Nuns, very quiet and devout. If you go thither, right gladly will they receive you, as well by reason of your blameless life as of your high degree."
"Sir," said she, "wisely have you spoken, and this I will do, since so you counsel me."
On the morrow King Florus spake to his wife, and said—