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In this silken shroud she wrapped the small, sad body of the slain bird and gave it in charge of a trusty servant to bear to her lover. The messenger told the knight what had occurred. The news was heavy to him, but now, having insight to the vengeful nature of her husband, he feared to jeopardize the lady’s safety, so he remained silent. But he caused a rich coffer to be made in fine gold, set with precious stones, in which he laid the body of the nightingale, and this small funeral urn he carried about with him on all occasions, nor could any circumstance hinder him from keeping it constantly beside him.
Wrap me love’s ashes in a golden clothTo carry next my heart. Love’s fire is out,And these poor embers grey, but I am loathTo quench remembrance also: I shall putHis relics over that they did consume.Ah, ’tis too bitter cold these cinders to relume!Place me love’s ashes in a golden cup,To mingle with my wine. Ah, do not fearThe old flame in my soul shall flicker upAt the harsh taste of what was once so dear.I quaff no fire: there is no fire to meetThis bitterness of death and turn it into sweet.
Wrap me love’s ashes in a golden clothTo carry next my heart. Love’s fire is out,And these poor embers grey, but I am loathTo quench remembrance also: I shall putHis relics over that they did consume.Ah, ’tis too bitter cold these cinders to relume!
Wrap me love’s ashes in a golden cloth
To carry next my heart. Love’s fire is out,
And these poor embers grey, but I am loath
To quench remembrance also: I shall put
His relics over that they did consume.
Ah, ’tis too bitter cold these cinders to relume!
Place me love’s ashes in a golden cup,To mingle with my wine. Ah, do not fearThe old flame in my soul shall flicker upAt the harsh taste of what was once so dear.I quaff no fire: there is no fire to meetThis bitterness of death and turn it into sweet.
Place me love’s ashes in a golden cup,
To mingle with my wine. Ah, do not fear
The old flame in my soul shall flicker up
At the harsh taste of what was once so dear.
I quaff no fire: there is no fire to meet
This bitterness of death and turn it into sweet.
In the tale of Eliduc we have in all probability a genuine product of native Breton romance. So at least avers Marie, who assures us that it is “a very ancient Breton lay,” and we have no reason to doubt her word, seeing that, had she been prone to literary dishonesty, it would have been much easier for her to have passed off the tale as her own original conception. There is, of course, the probability that it was so widely306known in its Breton version that to have done so would have been to have openly courted the charge of plagiarism—an impeachment which it is not possible to bring against this most charming and delightful poetess.
Eliduc, a knight of Brittany, was happy in the confidence of his King, who, when affairs of State caused his absence from the realm, left his trusted adherent behind him as viceroy and regent. Such a man, staunch and loyal, could scarcely be without enemies, and the harmless pleasure he took in the chase during the King’s absence was construed by evil counsellors on the monarch’s return as an unwarranted licence with the royal rights of venery. The enemies of Eliduc so harped upon the knight’s supposed lack of reverence for the royal authority that at length the King’s patience gave way and in an outburst of wrath he gave orders for Eliduc’s banishment, without vouchsafing his former friend and confidant the least explanation of this petulant action.
Dismayed by the sudden change in his fortunes, Eliduc returned to his house, and there acquainted his friends and vassals with the King’s unjust decree. He told them that it was his intention to cross the sea to the kingdom of Logres, to sojourn there for a space. He placed his estates in the hands of his wife and begged of his vassals that they would serve her loyally. Then, having settled his affairs, he took ten knights of his household and started upon his journey. His wife, Guildeluec, accompanied him for several miles, and on parting they pledged good faith to one another.
In due time the cavalcade came to the seashore and took ship for the realm of Logres. Near Exeter, in307this land, dwelt an aged king who had for his heir a daughter called Guillardun. This damsel had been asked in marriage by a neighbouring prince, and as her father had refused to listen to his proposals the disappointed suitor made war upon him, spoiling and wasting his land. The old King, fearful for his child’s safety, had shut her up in a strong castle for her better security and his own peace of mind.
Now Eliduc, coming to that land, heard the tale of the quarrel between the King and his neighbour, and considered as to which side he should take. After due deliberation he arranged to fight on the side of the King, with whom he offered to take service. His offer was gratefully accepted, and he had not been long in the royal host when he had an opportunity of distinguishing himself. The town wherein he was lodged with his knights was attacked by the enemy. He set his men in ambush in a forest track by which it was known the enemy would approach the town, and succeeded in routing them and in taking large numbers of prisoners and much booty. This feat of arms raised him high in the estimation of the King, who showed him much favour, and the Princess, hearing of his fame, became very desirous of beholding him. She sent her chamberlain to Eliduc saying that she wished to hear the story of his deeds, and he, quite as anxious to see the imprisoned Princess of whom he had heard so much, set out at once. On beholding each other they experienced deep agitation. Eliduc thought that never had he seen so beautiful and graceful a maiden, and Guillardun that this was the most handsome and comely knight she had ever met.
For a long time they spoke together, and then Eliduc308took his leave and departed. He counted all the time lost that he had remained in the kingdom without knowing this lady, but he promised himself that now he would frequently seek her society. Then, with a pang of remorse, he thought of his good and faithful wife and the sacred promise he had made her.
Guillardun, on her part, was none the less ill at ease. She passed a restless night, and in the morning confided her case to her aged chamberlain, who was almost a second father to her, and he, all unwitting that Eliduc was already bound in wedlock to another, suggested that the Princess should send the knight a love-token to discover by the manner in which he received it whether or not her love was returned. Guillardun took this advice, and sent her lover a girdle and a ring by the hands of the chamberlain. On receiving the token Eliduc showed the greatest joy, girded the belt about his middle, and placed the ring on his finger. The chamberlain returned to the Princess and told her with what evident satisfaction Eliduc had received the gifts. But the Princess in her eagerness showered questions upon him, until at last the old man grew impatient.
“Lady,” he said, somewhat testily, “I have told you the knight’s words; I cannot tell you his thoughts, for he is a prudent gentleman who knows well what to hide in his heart.”
Although he rejoiced at the gifts Eliduc had but little peace of mind. He could think of nothing save the vow he had made to his wife before he left her. But thoughts of the Princess would intrude themselves upon him. Often he saw Guillardun, and although he saluted her with a kiss, as was the custom of the time, he never spoke a single word of love to her, being fearful on the309one hand of breaking his conjugal vow and on the other of offending the King.
One evening when Eliduc was announced the King was in his daughter’s chamber, playing at chess with a stranger lord. He welcomed the knight heartily, and much to the embarrassment of the lovers begged his daughter to cherish a closer friendship for Eliduc, whom he brought to her notice as a right worthy knight. The pair withdrew somewhat from the others, as if for the purpose of furthering the friendship which the old King so ardently seemed to desire, and Eliduc thanked the Princess for the gifts she had sent him by the chamberlain. Then the Princess, taking advantage of her rank, told Eliduc that she desired him for her husband, and that, did he refuse her, she would die unwed.
“Lady,” replied the knight, “I have great joy in your love, but have you thought that I may not always tarry in this land? I am your father’s man until this war hath an end. Then shall I return unto mine own country.” But Guillardun, in a transport of love, told him she would trust him entirely with her heart, and passing great was the affection that grew between them.
Eliduc, in spite of his love for the Princess, had by no means permitted his conduct of the war to flag. Indeed, if anything, he redoubled his efforts, and pressed the foe so fiercely that at length he was forced to submit. And now news came to him that his old master, the King who had banished him from Brittany, was sore bestead by an enemy and was searching for his former vice-regent on every hand, who was so mighty a knight in the field and so sage at the council-board. Turning upon the false lords who had spoken evil of his favourite, he outlawed them from the land for ever. He sent310messengers east and west and across the seas in search of Eliduc, who when he heard the news was much dismayed, so greatly did he love Guillardun. These twain had loved with a pure and tender passion, and never by word or deed had they sullied the affection they bore one another. Dearly did the Princess hope that Eliduc might remain in her land and become her lord, and little did she dream that he was wedded to a wife across the seas. For his part Eliduc took close counsel with himself. He knew by reason of the fealty he owed to his King that he must return to Brittany, but he was equally aware that if he parted from Guillardun one or other of them must die.
Deep was the chagrin of the King of Logres when he learned that Eliduc must depart from his realm, but deeper far was his daughter’s grief when the knight came to bid her farewell. In moving words she urged him to remain, and when she found that his loyalty was proof even against his love, she begged of him to take her with him to Brittany. But this request he turned aside, on the plea that as he had served her father he could not so offend him as by the theft of his daughter. He promised, however, by all he held most dear that he would return one day, and with much sorrow the two parted, exchanging rings for remembrance.
Eliduc took ship and swiftly crossed the sea. He met with a joyous reception from his King, and none was so glad at his return as his wife. But gradually his lady began to see that he had turned cold to her. She charged him with it, and he replied that he had pledged his faith to the foreign lord whom he had served abroad.
Very soon through his conduct the war was brought311to a victorious close, and almost immediately thereafter Eliduc repaired across the sea to Logres, taking with him two of his nephews as his squires. On reaching Logres he at once went to visit Guillardun, who received him with great gladness. She returned with him to his ship, which commenced the return voyage at once, but when they neared the dangerous coast of Brittany a sudden tempest arose, and waxed so fierce that the mariners lost all hope of safety. One of them cried out that the presence of Guillardun on board the ship endangered all their lives and that the conduct of Eliduc, who had already a faithful wife, in seeking to wed this foreign woman had brought about their present dangerous position. Eliduc grew very wroth, and when Guillardun heard that her knight was already wedded she swooned and all regarded her as dead. In despair Eliduc fell upon his betrayer, slew him, and cast his body into the sea. Then, guiding the ship with a seaman’s skill, he brought her into harbour.
When they were safely anchored, Eliduc conceived the idea of taking Guillardun, whom he regarded as dead, to a certain chapel in a great forest quite near his own home. Setting her body before him on his palfrey, he soon came to the little shrine, and making a bier of the altar laid Guillardun upon it. He then betook him to his own house, but the next morning returned to the chapel in the forest. Mourning over the body of his lady-love, he was surprised to observe that the colour still remained in her cheeks and lips. Again and again he visited the chapel, and his wife, marvelling whither he went, bribed a varlet to discover the object of his repeated absences. The man watched Eliduc312and saw him enter the chapel and mourn over the body of Guillardun, and, returning, acquainted his lady with what he had seen.
Guildeluec—for such, we will remember, was the name of Eliduc’s wife—set out for the shrine, and with astonishment beheld the lifelike form of Guillardun laid on the altar. So pitiful was the sight that she herself could not refrain from the deepest sorrow. As she sat weeping a weasel came from under the altar and ran across Guillardun’s body, and the varlet who attended Guildeluec struck at it with his staff and killed it. Another weasel issued, and, beholding its dead comrade, went forth from the chapel and hastened to the wood, whence it returned, bearing in its mouth a red flower, which it placed on the mouth of its dead companion. The weasel which Guildeluec had believed to be dead at once stood up. Beholding this, the varlet cast his staff at the animals and they sped away, leaving the red flower behind them.
ELIDUC CARRIES GUILLARDUN TO THE FOREST CHAPEL
ELIDUC CARRIES GUILLARDUN TO THE FOREST CHAPEL
Guildeluec immediately picked the flower up, and returning with it to the altar where Guillardun lay, placed it on the maiden’s mouth. In a few moments she heard a sigh, and Guillardun sat up, and inquired if she had slept long. Guildeluec asked her name and degree, and Guillardun in reply acquainted her with her history and lineage, speaking very bitterly of Eliduc, who, she said, had betrayed her in a strange land. Guildeluec declared herself the wife of Eliduc, told Guillardun how deeply the knight had grieved for her, and declared her intention of taking the veil and releasing Eliduc from his marriage vow. She conducted Guillardun to her home, where they met Eliduc, who rejoiced greatly at the restoration of his lady-love. His wife founded313a convent with the rich portion he bestowed upon her, and Eliduc, in thankfulness for Guillardun’s recovery, built a fair church close by his castle and endowed it bountifully, and close beside it erected a great monastery. Later Guillardun entered the convent of which Guildeluec was the abbess, and Eliduc, himself feeling the call of the holy life, devoted himself to the service of God in the monastery. Messages passed between convent and monastery in which Eliduc and the holy women encouraged each other in the pious life which they had chosen, and by degrees the three who had suffered so greatly came to regard their seclusion as far preferable to the world and all its vanities.
The Lay of Equitan is one of Marie’s most famous tales. Equitan was King of Nantes, in Brittany, and led the life of a pleasure-seeker. To win approval from the eyes of fair ladies was more to him than knightly fame or honour.
Equitan had as seneschal a trusty and faithful knight, who was to the pleasure-loving seigneur as his right hand. This faithful servant was also captain of Equitan’s army, and sat as a judge in his courts. To his undoing he had a wife, as fair a dame as any in the duchy of Brittany. “Her eyes,” says the old lay, “were blue, her face was warm in colour, her mouth fragrant and her nose dainty.” She was ever tastefully dressed and courtly in demeanour, and soon attracted the attention of such an admirer of the fair sex as Equitan, who desired to speak with her more intimately. He therefore, as a subterfuge, announced314that a great hunt would take place in that part of his domains in which his seneschal’s castle was situated, and this gave him the opportunity of sojourning at the castle and holding converse with the lady, with whom he became so charmed that in a few days he fell deeply in love with her. On the night of the day when he first became aware that he loved her Equitan lay tossing on his bed, in a torment of fiery emotion. He debated with himself in what manner he should convey to his seneschal’s wife the fact that he loved her, and at length prepared a plot which he thought would be likely to succeed.
Next day he rose as usual and made all arrangements to proceed with the chase. But shortly after setting out he returned, pleading that he had fallen sick, and took to his bed. The faithful seneschal could not divine what had occurred to render his lord so seriously indisposed as he appeared to be, and requested his wife to go to him to see if she could minister to him and cheer his drooping spirits.
The lady went to Equitan, who received her dolefully enough. He told her without reserve that the malady from which he suffered was none other than love for herself, and that did she not consent to love him in return he would surely die. The dame at first dissented, but, carried away by the fiery eloquence of his words, she at last assured him of her love, and they exchanged rings as a token of troth and trust.
The love of Equitan and the seneschal’s wife was discovered by none, and when they desired to meet he arranged to go hunting in the neighbourhood of the seneschal’s castle. Shortly after they had plighted their troth the great barons of the realm approached315the King with a proposal that he should marry, but Equitan would have none of this, nor would he listen to even his most trusted advisers with regard to such a subject. The nobles were angered at his curt and even savage refusal to hearken to them, and the commons were also greatly disturbed because of the lack of a successor. The echoes of the disagreement reached the ears of the seneschal’s wife, who was much perturbed thereby, being aware that the King had come to this decision for love of her.
At their next meeting she broached the subject to her royal lover, lamenting that they had ever met.
“Now are my good days gone,” she said, weeping, “for you will wed some king’s daughter as all men say, and I shall certainly die if I lose you thus.”
“Nay, that will not be,” replied Equitan. “Never shall I wed except your husband die.”
The lady felt that he spoke truly, but in an evil moment she came to attach a sinister meaning to the words Equitan had employed regarding her husband. Day and night she brooded on them, for well she knew that did her husband die Equitan would surely wed her. By insensible degrees she came to regard her husband’s death as a good rather than an evil thing, and little by little Equitan, who at first looked upon the idea with horror, became converted to her opinion. Between them they hatched a plot for the undoing of the seneschal. It was arranged that the King should go hunting as usual in the neighbourhood of his faithful servant’s castle. While lodging in the castle, the King and the seneschal would be bled in the old surgical manner for their health’s sake, and three days after would bathe before leaving the chamber they occupied,316and the heartless wife suggested that she should make her husband’s bath so fiercely hot that he would not survive after entering it. One would think that the seneschal would easily have been able to escape such a simple trap, but we must remember that the baths of Norman times were not shaped like our own, but were exceedingly deep, and indeed some of them were in form almost like those immense upright jars such as the forty thieves were concealed in in the story of Ali Baba, so that in many cases it was not easy for the bather to tell whether the water into which he was stepping was hot or otherwise.
The plot was carried out as the lady had directed, but not without much misgiving on the part of Equitan. The King duly arrived at the castle, and announced his intention to be bled, requesting that the seneschal should undergo the same operation at the same time, and occupy the same chamber by way of companionship. Then after the leech had bled them the King asked that he might have a bath before leaving his apartment, and the seneschal requested that his too should be made ready. Accordingly on the third day the baths were brought to the chamber, and the lady occupied herself with filling them. While she was doing so her lord left the chamber for a space, and during his absence the King and the lady were clasped in each other’s arms. So rapt were the pair in their amorous dalliance that they failed to notice the return of the seneschal, who, when he saw them thus engaged, uttered an exclamation of surprise and wrath. Equitan, turning quickly, saw him, and with a cry of despair leapt into the bath that the lady had prepared for the seneschal, and there perished miserably, while the enraged husband, seizing his faithless317wife, thrust her headlong into the boiling water beside her lover, where she too was scalded to death.
In olden times there dwelt in Brittany two knights who were neighbours and close friends. Both were married, and one was the father of twin sons, one of whom he christened by the name of his friend. Now this friend had a wife who was envious of heart and rancorous of tongue, and on hearing that two sons had been born to her neighbour she spoke slightingly and cruelly about her, saying that to bear twins was ever a disgrace. Her evil words were spread abroad, and at last as a result of her malicious speech the good lady’s husband himself began to doubt and suspect the wife who had never for a moment given him the least occasion to do so.
Strangely enough, within the year two daughters were born to the lady of the slanderous tongue, who now deeply lamented the wrong she had done, but all to no purpose. Fearful of the gossip which she thought the event would occasion, she gave one of the children to a faithful handmaiden, with directions that it should be laid on the steps of a church, where it might be picked up as a foundling and nourished by some stranger. The babe was wrapped in a linen cloth, which again was covered with a beautiful piece of red silk that the lady’s husband had purchased in the East, and a handsome ring engraved with the family insignia and set with garnets was bound to the infant’s arm with silken lace. When the child had thus been attired the damsel took it and carried it for many miles into the country, until at last she came to a city where there was a large and fair abbey. Breathing a prayer that the child might318have proper guardianship, the girl placed it on the abbey steps as her mistress had ordered her to do, but, afraid that it might catch cold on such a chilly bed, she looked around and saw an ash-tree, thick and leafy, with four strong branches, among the foliage of which she deposited the little one, commending it to the care of God, after which she returned to her mistress and acquainted her with what had passed.
In the morning the abbey porter opened the great doors of the house of God so that the people might enter for early Mass. As he was thus engaged his eye caught the gleam of red silk among the leaves of the ash-tree, and going to it he discovered the deserted infant. Taking the babe from its resting-place, he returned with it to his house, and, awaking his daughter, who was a widow with a baby yet in the cradle, he asked her to cherish it and care for it. Both father and daughter could see from the crimson silk and the great signet ring that the child was of noble birth. The porter told the abbess of his discovery, and she requested him to bring the child to her, dressed precisely as it had been found. On beholding the infant a great compassion was aroused in the breast of the holy woman, who resolved to bring up the child herself, calling her her niece, and since she was taken from the ash giving her the name of Frêne.
Frêne grew up one of the fairest damsels in Brittany. She was frank in manner, yet modest and discreet in bearing and speech. At Dol, where, as we have read, there is a great menhir and other prehistoric monuments, there lived a lord called Buron, who, hearing reports of Frêne’s beauty and sweetness, greatly desired to behold her. Riding home from a tournament, he passed near319the convent, and, alighting there, paid his respects to the abbess, and begged that he might see her niece. Buron at once fell in love with the maiden, and in order to gain favour with the abbess bestowed great riches upon the establishment over which she presided, requesting in return that he might be permitted to occupy a small apartment in the abbey should he chance to be in the neighbourhood.
In this way he frequently saw and spoke with Frêne, who in turn fell in love with him. He persuaded her to fly with him to his castle, taking with her the silken cloth and ring with which she had been found.
But the lord’s tenants were desirous that he should marry, and had set their hearts upon his union with a rich lady named Coudre, daughter of a neighbouring baron. The marriage was arranged, greatly to the grief of Frêne, and duly took place. Going to Buron’s bridal chamber, she considered it too mean, blinded with love as she was, for such as he, and placed the wondrous piece of crimson silk in which she had been wrapped as an infant over the coverlet. Presently the bride’s mother entered the bridal chamber in order to see that all was fitting for her daughter’s reception there. Gazing at the crimson coverlet, she recognized it as that in which she had wrapped her infant daughter. She anxiously inquired to whom it belonged, and was told that it was Frêne’s. Going to the damsel, she questioned her as to where she had obtained the silk, and was told by Frêne that the abbess had given it to her along with a ring which had been found upon her when, as an infant, she had been discovered within the branches of the ash-tree.
The mother asked anxiously to see the ring, and on320beholding it told Frêne of their relationship, which at the same time she confessed to her husband, the baron. The father was overjoyed to meet with a daughter he had never known, and hastened to the bridegroom to acquaint him with Frêne’s story. Great joy had Buron, and the archbishop who had joined him to Coudre gave counsel that they should be parted according to the rites of the Church and that Buron should marry Frêne. This was accordingly done, and when Frêne’s parents returned to their own domain they found another husband for Coudre.
Graelent was a Breton knight dwelling at the Court of the King of Brittany, a very pillar to him in war, bearing himself valiantly in tourney and joust. So handsome and brave was he that the Queen fell madly in love with him, and asked her chamberlain to bring the knight into her presence. When he came she praised him greatly to his face, not only for his gallantry in battle, but also for his comeliness; but at her honeyed words the youth, quite abashed, sat silent, saying nothing. The Queen at last questioned him if his heart was set on any maid or dame, to which he replied that it was not, that love was a serious business and not to be taken in jest.
“Many speak glibly of love,” he said, “of whom not one can spell the first letter of its name. Love should be quiet and discreet or it is nothing worth, and without accord between the lovers love is but a bond and a constraint. Love is too high a matter for me to meddle with.”
The Queen listened greedily to Graelent’s words, and321when he had finished speaking she discovered her love for him; but he turned from her courteously but firmly.
“Lady,” he said, “I beg your forgiveness, but this may not be. I am the King’s man, and to him I have pledged my faith and loyalty. Never shall he know shame through any conduct of mine.”
With these words he took his leave of the Queen. But his protestations had altered her mind not at all. She sent him messages daily, and costly gifts, but these he refused and returned, till at last the royal dame, stung to anger by his repulses, conceived a violent hatred for him, and resolved to be revenged upon him for the manner in which he had scorned her love.
The King of Brittany went to war with a neighbouring monarch, and Graelent bore himself manfully in the conflict, leading his troops again and again to victory. Hearing of his repeated successes, the Queen was exceedingly mortified, and made up her mind to destroy his popularity with the troops. With this end in view she prevailed upon the King to withhold the soldiers’ pay, which Graelent had to advance them out of his own means. In the end the unfortunate knight was reduced almost to beggary by this mean stratagem.
One morning he was riding through the town where he was lodged, clad in garments so shabby that the wealthy burgesses in their fur-lined cloaks and rich apparel gibed and jeered at him, but Graelent, sure of his own worth, deigned not to take notice of such ill-breeding, and for his solace quitted the crowded streets of the place and took his way toward the great forest which skirted it. He rode into its gloom deep in thought, listening to the murmur of the river which flowed through the leafy ways.
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He had not gone far when he espied a white hart within a thicket. She fled before him into the thickest part of the forest, but the silvern glimmer of her body showed the track she had taken. On a sudden deer and horseman dashed into a clearing among the trees where there was a grassy lawn, in the midst of which sprang a fountain of clear water. In this fountain a lady was bathing, and two attendant maidens stood near. Now Graelent believed that the lady must be a fairy, and knowing well that the only way to capture such a being was to seize her garments, he looked around for these, and seeing them lying upon a bush he laid hands upon them.
The attendant women at this set up a loud outcry, and the lady herself turned to where he sat his horse and called him by name.
“Graelent, what do you hope to gain by the theft of my raiment?” she asked. “Have you, a knight, sunk so low as to behave like a common pilferer? Take my mantle if you must, but pray spare me my gown.”
Graelent laughed at the lady’s angry words, and told her that he was no huckster. He then begged her to don her garments, as he desired to have speech with her. After her women had attired her, Graelent took her by the hand and, leading her a little space away from her attendants, told her that he had fallen deeply in love with her. But the lady frowned and seemed at first offended.
“You do not know to whom you proffer your love,” she said. “Are you aware that my birth and lineage render it an impertinence for a mere knight to seek to ally himself with me?”
But Graelent had a most persuasive tongue, and the deep love he had conceived for the lady rendered him323doubly eloquent on this occasion. At last the fairy-woman, for such she was, was quite carried away by his words, and granted him the boon he craved.
“There is, however, one promise I must exact from you,” she said, “and that is that never shall you mention me to mortal man. I on my part shall assist you in every possible manner. You shall never be without gold in your purse nor costly apparel to wear. Day and night shall I remain with you, and in war and in the chase will ride by your side, visible to you alone, unseen by your companions. For a year must you remain in this country. Now noon has passed and you must go. A messenger shall shortly come to you to tell you of my wishes.”
Graelent took leave of the lady and kissed her farewell. Returning to his lodgings in the town, he was leaning from the casement considering his strange adventure when he saw a varlet issuing from the forest riding upon a palfrey. The man rode up the cobbled street straight to Graelent’s lodgings, where he dismounted and, entering, told the knight that his lady had sent him with the palfrey as a present, and begged that he would accept the services of her messenger to take charge of his lodgings and manage his affairs.
The serving-man quickly altered the rather poor appearance of Graelent’s apartment. He spread a rich coverlet upon his couch and produced a well-filled purse and rich apparel. Graelent at once sought out all the poor knights of the town and feasted them to their hearts’ content. From this moment he fared sumptuously every day. His lady appeared whenever he desired her to, and great was the love between them. Nothing more had he to wish for in this life.
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A year passed in perfect happiness for the knight, and at its termination the King held a great feast on the occasion of Pentecost. To this feast Sir Graelent was bidden. All day the knights and barons and their ladies feasted, and the King, having drunk much wine, grew boastful. Requesting the Queen to stand forth on the daïs, he asked the assembled nobles if they had ever beheld so fair a dame as she. The lords were loud in their praise of the Queen, save Graelent only. He sat with bent head, smiling strangely, for he knew of a lady fairer by far than any lady in that Court. The Queen was quick to notice this seeming discourtesy, and pointed it out to the King, who summoned Graelent to the steps of the throne.
“How now, Sir Knight,” said the King; “wherefore did you sneer when all other men praised the Queen’s beauty?”
“Sire,” replied Graelent, “you do yourself much dishonour by such a deed. You make your wife a show upon a stage and force your nobles to praise her with lies when in truth a fairer dame than she could very easily be found.”
Now when she heard this the Queen was greatly angered and prayed her husband to compel Graelent to bring to the Court her of whom he boasted so proudly.
“Set us side by side,” cried the infuriated Queen, “and if she be fairer than I before men’s eyes, Graelent may go in peace, but if not let justice be done upon him.”
The King, stirred to anger at these words, ordered his guards to seize Graelent, swearing that he should never issue from prison till the lady of whom he had boasted should come to Court and pit herself against the Queen. Graelent was then cast into a dungeon, but he thought325little of this indignity, fearing much more that his rashness had broken the bond betwixt him and his fairy bride. After a while he was set at liberty, on pledging his word that he would return bringing with him the lady whom he claimed as fairer than the Queen.
Leaving the Court, he betook himself to his lodging, and called upon his lady, but received no answer. Again he called, but without result, and believing that his fairy bride had utterly abandoned him he gave way to despair. In a year’s time Graelent returned to the Court and admitted his failure.
“Sir Graelent,” said the King, “wherefore should you not be punished? You have slandered the Queen in the most unknightly manner, and given the lie to those nobles who must now give judgment against you.”
The nobles retired to consider their judgment upon Graelent. For a long time they debated, for most of them were friendly to him and he had been extremely popular at Court. In the midst of their deliberations a page entered and prayed them to postpone judgment, as two damsels had arrived at the palace and were having speech with the King concerning Graelent. The damsels told the King that their mistress was at hand, and begged him to wait for her arrival, as she had come to uphold Graelent’s challenge. Hearing this, the Queen quitted the hall, and shortly after she had gone a second pair of damsels appeared bearing a similar message for the King. Lastly Graelent’s young bride herself entered the hall.
At sight of her a cry of admiration arose from the assembled nobles, and all admitted that their eyes had never beheld a fairer lady. When she reached the King’s side she dismounted from her palfrey.
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“Sire,” she said, addressing the King, “hasty and foolish was Graelent’s tongue when he spoke as he did, but at least he told the truth when he said that there is no lady so fair but a fairer may be found. Look upon me and judge in this quarrel between the Queen and me.”
When she had spoken every lord and noble with one voice agreed that she was fairer than her royal rival. Even the King himself admitted that it was so, and Sir Graelent was declared a free man.
Turning round to seek his lady, the knight observed that she was already some distance away, so, mounting upon his white steed, he followed hotly after her. All day he followed, and all night, calling after her and pleading for pity and pardon, but neither she nor her attendant damsels paid the slightest attention to his cries. Day after day he followed her, but to no purpose.
At last the lady and her maidens entered the forest and rode to the bank of a broad stream. They set their horses to the river, but when the lady saw that Graelent was about to follow them she turned and begged him to desist, telling him that it was death for him to cross that stream. Graelent did not heed her, but plunged into the torrent. The stream was deep and rapid, and presently he was torn from his saddle. Seeing this, the lady’s attendants begged her to save him. Turning back, the lady clutched her lover by the belt and dragged him to the shore. He was well-nigh drowned, but under her care he speedily recovered, and, say the Breton folk, entered with her that realm of Fairyland into which penetrated Thomas the Rhymer, Ogier the Dane, and other heroes. His white steed when it escaped from the river grieved greatly for its master, rushing up and down the bank, neighing loudly, and pawing with its327hoofs upon the ground. Many men coveted so noble a charger, and tried to capture him, but all in vain, so each year, “in its season,” as the old romance says, the forest is filled with the sorrowful neighing of the good steed which may not find its master.
The story of Graelent is one of those which deal with what is known to folk-lorists as the ‘fairy-wife’ subject. A taboo is always placed upon the mortal bridegroom. Sometimes he must not utter the name of his wife; in other tales, as in that of Melusine, he must not seek her on a certain day of the week. The essence of the story is, of course, that the taboo is broken, and in most cases the mortal husband loses his supernatural mate.
Another incident in the generalmotifis the stealing of the fairy-woman’s clothes. The idea is the same as that found in stories where the fisherman steals the sea-woman’s skin canoe as a prelude to making her his wife, or the feather cloak of the swan-maiden is seized by the hunter when he finds her asleep, thus placing the supernatural maiden in his power. Among savages it is quite a common and usual circumstance for the spouses not to mention each other’s names for months after marriage, nor even to see one another’s faces. In the story under consideration the taboo consists in the mortal bridegroom being forbidden to allude in any circumstances to his supernatural wife, who is undoubtedly the same type of being encountered by Thomas the Rhymer and Bonny Kilmeny in the ballads related of them. They are denizens of a country, a fairy realm, which figures partly as an abode of the dead, and which we are certainly justified in identifying with the Celtic Otherworld. The river which the fairy-woman crosses bears a certain resemblance to the Styx,328or she tells Graelent plainly that should he reach its opposite bank he is as good as dead. Fairyland in early Celtic lore may be a place of delight, but it is none the less one of death and remoteness.
Once more the scene is laid in Nantes, and “some harpers,” says Marie, “call it the Lay of the Four Sorrows.” In this city of Brittany dwelt a lady on whom four barons of great worship had set their love. They were not singular in this respect, as the damsel’s bright eyes had set fire to the hearts of all the youths of the ancient town. She smiled upon them all, but favoured no one more than another. Out of this great company, however, the four noblemen in question had constituted themselves her particular squires. They vied with one another in the most earnest manner to gain her esteem; but she was equally gracious to all and it was impossible to say that she favoured any.
It was not surprising, then, that each one of the four nobles believed that the lady preferred him to the others. Each of them had received gifts from her, and each cried her name at tournaments. On the occasion of a great jousting, held without the walls of Nantes, the four lovers held the lists, and from all the surrounding realms and duchies came hardy knights to break a spear for the sake of chivalry.
From matins to vespers the friendly strife raged fiercely, and against the four champions of Nantes four foreign knights especially pitted themselves. Two of these were of Hainault, and the other two were Flemings. The two companies charged each other so desperately that the horses of all eight men were overthrown. The329four knights of Nantes rose lightly from the ground, but the four stranger knights lay still. Their friends, however, rushed to their rescue, and soon the challengers were lost in a sea of steel.
Now the lady in whose honour the lists were defended by these four brave brethren in arms sat beholding their prowess in the keenest anxiety. Soon the knights of Nantes were reinforced by their friends, and the strife waxed furiously, sword to sword and lance to lance. First one company and then the other gained the advantage, but, urged on by rashness, the four challenging champions charged boldly in front of their comrades and became separated from them, with the dire result that three of them were killed and the fourth was so grievously wounded that he was borne from the press in a condition hovering between life and death. So furious were the stranger knights because of the resistance that had been made by the four champions that they cast their opponents’ shields outside the lists. But the knights of Nantes won the day, and, raising their three slain comrades and him who was wounded, carried all four to the house of their lady-love.
When the sad procession reached her doors the lady was greatly grieved and cast down. To her three dead lovers she gave sumptuous burial in a fair abbey. As for the fourth, she tended him with such skill that ere long his wounds were healed and he was quite recovered. One summer day the knight and the lady sat together after meat, and a great sadness fell upon her because of the knights who had been slain in her cause. Her head sank upon her breast and she seemed lost in a reverie of sorrow. The knight, perceiving her distress, could not well understand what had wounded her so deeply.
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“Lady,” said he, “a great sorrow seems to be yours. Reveal your grief to me, and perchance I can find you comfort.”
“Friend,” replied the lady, “I grieve for your companions who are gone. Never was lady or damsel served by four such valiant knights, three of whom were slain in one single day. Pardon me if I call them to mind at this time, but it is my intention to make a lay in order that these champions and yourself may not be forgotten, and I will call it ‘The Lay of the Four Sorrows.’”
“Nay, lady,” said the knight, “call it not ‘The Lay of the Four Sorrows,’ but rather ‘The Lay of the Dolorous Knight.’ My three comrades are dead. They have gone to their place; no more hope have they of life; all their sorrows are ended and their love for you is as dead as they. I alone am here in life, but what have I to hope for? I find my life more bitter than they could find the grave. I see you in your comings and goings, I may speak with you, but I may not have your love. For this reason I am full of sorrow and cast down, and thus I beg that you give your lay my name and call it ‘The Lay of the Dolorous Knight.’”
The lady looked earnestly upon him. “By my faith,” she said, “you speak truly. The lay shall be known by the title you wish it to be.”
So the lay was written and entitled as the knight desired it should be. “I heard no more,” says Marie, “and nothing more I know. Perforce I must bring my story to a close.”
The end of this lay is quite in the medieval manner, and fitly concludes this chapter. We are left absolutely in the dark as to whether the knight and the lady came331together at last. I for one do not blame Marie for this, as with the subtle sense of the fitness of things that belongs to all great artists she saw how much more effective it would be to leave matters as they were between the lovers. There are those who will blame her for her inconclusiveness; but let them bear in mind that just because of what they consider her failing in this respect they will not be likely to forget her tale, whereas had it ended with wedding-bells they would probably have stored it away in some mental attic with a thousand other dusty memories.
332CHAPTER XII: THE SAINTS OF BRITTANY
Animportant department in Breton folk-lore is the hagiology of the province—the legendary lore of its saints. This, indeed, holds almost as much of the marvellous as its folk-tales, ballads, and historical legends, and in perusing the tales of Brittany’s saintly heroes we have an opportunity of observing how themotifsof popular fiction and even of pagan belief reflect upon religious romance.
Just as some mythology is not in itself religious, but very often mere fiction fortuitously connected with the names of the gods, so hagiology is not of sacerdotal but popular origin. For the most part it describes the origin of its heroes and accounts for their miracles and marvellous deeds by various means, just as mythology does. It must be remembered that the primitive saint was in close touch with paganism, that, indeed, he had frequently to fight the Druid and the magician with his own weapons, and therefore we must not be surprised if in some of these tales we find him somewhat of a magician himself. But he is invariably on the side of light, and the things of darkness and evil shrink from contact with him.
Overlooking the valley of the Ellé, near the beautiful and historic village of Le Faouet, is a ledge of rock, approached by an almost inaccessible pathway. On this ledge stands the chapel of St Barbe, one of the strangest and most ‘pagan’ of the Breton saints. She protects those who seek her aid from sudden death,333especially death by lightning. Of recent years popular belief has extended her sphere of influence to cover those who travel by automobile! She is also regarded as the patroness of firemen, at whose annual dinner her statue, surrounded by flowers, presides. She is extremely popular in Brittany, and once a year, on the last Sunday of June, pilgrims arrive at Le Faouet to celebrate her festival. Each, as he passes the belfry which stands beside the path, pulls the bell-rope, and the young men make the tour of a small neighbouring chapel, dedicated to St Michel, Lord of Heights. Then they drink of a little fountain near at hand and purchase amulets, which are supposed to be a preservative against sudden death and which are known as ‘Couronnes de Ste Barbe.’ St Barbe is said to have been the daughter of a pagan father, and to have been so beautiful that he shut her up in a tower and permitted no one to go near her. She succeeded, however, in communicating with the outer world, and sent a letter to Origen of Alexandria, entreating him to instruct her in the Christian faith, as she had ceased to believe in the gods of her fathers. Origen dispatched one of his monks to her, and under his guidance she became a Christian. She was called upon to suffer for her faith, for she was brought before the Gallo-Roman proconsul, and, since she refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods, was savagely maltreated, and sentenced to be beaten as she walked naked through the streets; but she raised her eyes to heaven and a cloud descended and hid her from the gaze of the impious mortals who would otherwise have witnessed her martyrdom. Subsequently she was spirited away to the top of a mountain, where, however, her presence was betrayed by a shepherd. Her pagan334father, learning of her hiding-place, quickly ascended the height and beheaded her with his own hand. The legends of St Barbe abound in strange details, which are more intelligible if we regard the Saint as being the survival of some elemental goddess connected with fire. The vengeance of heaven descended upon her enemies, for both her father and the shepherd who betrayed her were destroyed, the former being struck by lightning on his descent from the mountain, and the latter being turned into marble.
The legend of the foundation of the chapel at Le Faouet is illustrative of the strange powers of this saint. A Lord of Toulboudou, near Guémené, was overtaken by a severe thunderstorm while hunting. No shelter was available, and as the storm increased in fury the huntsmen trembled for their lives, and doubtless repeated with much fervour the old Breton charm: