Since I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold.
The stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now to
rehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother's
first born child.
In days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full of
years, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town is
builded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of many
ancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well stricken in
years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have children to
come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowed on
this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind and
courteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of her
beauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln,
yea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married the
maiden to this aged man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fast
within his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He set
in charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her more
surely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, together
with their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel might
have speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. More
than seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children for
her solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet her
kinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that when she
sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in her chamber to
light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spent her days in
sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for she gave no thought
to her person. Indeed at times she hated the very shadow of that beauty
which had spoiled all her life.
Now when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord
rose early on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his
sister to rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did
his will, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she
carried in her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the
sun with her tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the
chamber, so she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.
“Alas,” said she, “in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to be
shut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Of
whom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison?
Great is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may be
deceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. If
I might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I should
show the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatly are
my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous old man,
and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow, for he
will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly he was
plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, and his
veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heard that
in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought their sorrows
to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fair to his
desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave, and were
blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen of any,
except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy!
Perchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, such
adventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would but shape
the world to my wish!”
When the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of
a great bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what it
might mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed and
hooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilst the
lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comely knight
before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at this sorcery. Her
blood turned to water within her, and because of her dread she hid her
face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy the knight first sought to
persuade her to put away her fears.
“Lady,” said he, “be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be as
gentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to make
plain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your tower
that I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. I
have loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love above
anything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid,
and I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should have
sought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm,
till you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as your
friend.”
The lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words.
Presently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said that
perchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only she
had assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear,
but in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty.
Never in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight more
fair.
“Lady,” he replied, “you ask rightly. For nothing that man can give
would I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God,
the Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by our
father Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and was
and ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If you
still give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell him that
since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Service appointed by
God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take your semblance, and
receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus be certified of my faith,
and never have reason to mistrust me more.”
When the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to
the chamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since
it was time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture. The
lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn the
chaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The aged dame
replied,
“You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods,
and none will enter in the tower, save me.”
Right distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called a
woman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. This
was seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She set
wide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplain
came as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. The
knight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; then
the priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behind
him.
The knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and a
blither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other,
but the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again to his
own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and she
sweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to return
often to her side.
“Lady,” he made answer, “so you please to require me at any hour,
you may be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you to
observe such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. This old
woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes our
friendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evil come
upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely, death.”
The knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest
lady in the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went
lightly through the week. She took such heed to her person, that her
former beauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as
her prison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would not
leave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see her friend
at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber. Early and
late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God grant her joy was
long, against the evil day that came.
The husband of the lady presently took notice of the change in his
wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, and misdoubting
his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day. He told her of
his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, and inquired what this
should mean. The crone answered that she knew no more than he, “for we
have very little speech one with another. She sees neither kin nor
friend; but, now, she seems quite content to remain alone in her
chamber.”
The husband made reply,
“Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we
must do all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning
when I have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, make
pretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hide
yourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shall
then learn the secret of this new found joy.”
Having devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for those
who were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon be
tangled in the net.
Three days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house.
He told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court,
but that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, making
fast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind her
curtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desired to
know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for her friend.
The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, nor cherish her
more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them, both in word
and tenderness, till he could no longer stay. All this the crone saw
with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched the fashion in
which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she was altogether
fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear the semblance of
a hawk. When the husband returned to his house—for he was near at
hand—his sister told him that of which she was the witness, and of the
truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was he and wrathful.
Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slaying of this bird. He
caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, with point and edge
sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastened firmly together, and
set them securely within that window, by which the tercel would come to
his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fair might not see nor hear of this
wrong, and that there should be none to show him of such treason.
On the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying that
he should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behind
him, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn. The
lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved so loyally.
Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any long tarrying the bird
came flying at her will. He flew in at the open window, and was
entangled amongst the blades of steel. One blade pierced his body so
deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound. When the falcon knew
that his hurt was to death, he forced himself to pass the barrier, and
coming before his lady fell upon her bed, so that the sheets were
dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon her friend and his wound,
and was altogether anguished and distraught.
“Sweet friend,” said the knight, “it is for you that my life is
lost. Did I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely I
should be slain?”
On hearing these words the lady's head fell upon the pillow, and for
a space she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. He
prayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son who
would be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. He
would prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him by
slaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he was
bleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body he
flew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrill
cries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window.
Marvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window was
fully twenty feet from the ground. When the lady made her perilous leap
she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she set herself
to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped from his
wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till she
lighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it was
stained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarec
had refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he was yet
within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, and since
she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. She went
so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow. She
followed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a city
near at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls.
There was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver, so
rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a still
water. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near by
the keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew to
their anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in the haven.
The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts of freshly
fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. None challenged
her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in the streets;
she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of red blood lay
on the staircase of the palace. The lady entered and found herself
within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on a pallet. She
looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within a larger room,
empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight who slept thereon.
But when the lady entered in the third chamber she saw a stately bed,
that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was of inwrought gold,
and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. The furniture was worth
the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconces of silver lighted
the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as the lady had come she
knew again her friend, directly she saw him with her eyes. She hastened
to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief. The knight clasped her
in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, but when she came to her mind,
he comforted her as sweetly as he might.
“Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly as
you are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, in
their wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle. They
are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to my death. Fair
friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you.”
The lady made answer, “Friend, the best thing that can befall me is
that we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If he finds
me again he will certainly slay me with the sword.”
The knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon his
friend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husband
would think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seek
to revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered it
to the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it to the
hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthy
knight. When that time was come she and her lord would go—together
with the son—to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where should be
seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death; there
he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall be rehearsed the
tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitter wrong. And then
shall be seen what he will do.
When the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, he
gave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, and
get her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command,
bearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precious
treasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the city when
she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamented the
death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell four separate
times upon the road, and four times she came from out her swoon. She
bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshed him, and
rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her own land, and
returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, she dwelt in
peace, since—as Eudemarec foretold—her lord gave no thought to her
outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her any more.
In due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec.
Very sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not his
like for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear.
When he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now,
what chanced to them all, that self-same year.
It was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron
with great pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husband
rode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont.
Together with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As the
roads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose their way,
they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straight path.
The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none so fair.
Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks in their holy
habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and the pilgrims were
welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat and drink near by the
Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they would have gone their
way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little, since he would
show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all the offices of the
Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously, the husband did
according to his wish.
Immediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose
from table, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapter
house they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great,
covered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twenty
torches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, and
the sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung in
that chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims saw the
great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of the guardians
as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who lay therein. The monks
commenced to weep, and told with tears, that in that place was laid the
body of the best, the bravest, and the fairest knight who ever was, or
ever should be born. “In his life he was King of this realm, and never
was there so worshipful a lord. He was slain at Caerwent for the love
of a lady of those parts. Since then the country is without a King.
Many a day have we waited for the son of these luckless lovers to come
to our land, even as our lord commanded us to do.”
When the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud
voice before them all.
“Fair son,” said she, “you have heard why God has brought us to this
place. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was he
slain by this ancient Judas at your side.”
With these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him the
glaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as she
might she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with his
friend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his death
by the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the end
she fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any further
word until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that his
mother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's sword
and smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. In that
hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gave
quittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings were
published abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting the
body of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with due
rite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May God grant
them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the people acclaimed him
for their lord, as he departed from the church.
Those who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many days
shaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolour
that these two friends suffered by reason of their love.