Whosoever counts these Lays as fable, may be assured that I am not
of his mind. The dead and past stories that I have told again in divers
fashions, are not set down without authority. The chronicles of these
far off times are yet preserved in the land. They may be read by the
curious at Caerleon, or in the monastery of St. Aaron. They may be
heard in Brittany, and in many another realm besides. To prove how the
remembrance of such tales endures, I will now relate to you the
adventure of the Two Children, making clear what has remained hidden to
this very hour.
In Brittany there lived a prince, high of spirit, fair of person,
courteous and kind to all. This Childe was a King's son, and there were
none to cherish him but his father and his father's wife, for his
mother was dead. The King held him dearer than aught else in the world,
and close he was to the lady's heart. The lady, for her part, had a
daughter by another husband than the King. Very dainty was the maiden,
sweet of colour and of face, passing young and fair. Both these
children, born to so high estate, were right tender of age, for the
varlet, who was the elder of the twain, was but seven years. The two
children loved together very sweetly. Nothing seemed of worth to one,
if it were not shared with the other. They were nourished at the same
table, went their ways together, and lived side by side. The guardians
who held them in ward, seeing their great love, made no effort to put
them apart, but allowed them to have all things in common. The love of
these children increased with their years, but Dame Nature brought
another love to youth and maid than she gave to the child. They
delighted no more in their old frolic and play. Such sport gave place
to clasp and kisses, to many words, and to long silences. To savour
their friendship they took refuge in an attic of the keep, but all the
years they had passed together, made the new love flower more sweetly
in their hearts, as each knew well. Very pure and tender was their
love, and good would it have been if they could have hidden it from
their fellows. This might not be, for in no great while they were spied
upon, and seen.
It chanced upon a day that this prince, so young and debonair, came
home from the river with an aching head, by reason of the heat. He
entered in a chamber, and shutting out the noise and clamour, lay upon
his bed, to ease his pain. The Queen was with her daughter in a
chamber, instructing her meetly in that which it becomes a maid to
know. Closer to a damsel's heart is her lover than her kin. So soon as
she heard that her friend was come again to the house, she stole forth
from her mother, without saying word to any, and accompanied by none,
went straight to the chamber where he slept. The prince welcomed her
gladly, for they had not met together that day. The lady, who thought
no wrong, condoled with him in his sickness, and of her sweetness gave
him a hundred kisses to soothe his hurt. Too swiftly sped the time in
this fashion. Presently the Queen noticed that the damsel was no longer
with her at her task. She rose to her feet, and going quickly to the
chamber of the prince, entered therein without call or knock, for the
door was unfastened on the latch. When the Queen saw these two lovers
fondly laced in each other's arms, she knew and was certified of their
love. Right wrathful was the Queen. She caught the maiden by the wrist,
and shut her fast in her room. She prayed the King to govern his son
more strictly, and to hold him in such ward about the Court that he
might get no speech with the damsel. Since he could have neither sight
nor word of his friend, save only the sound of weeping from her
chamber, the prince determined to tarry no further in the palace. He
sought his father the self-same hour, and showed him what was in his
mind.
“Sire,” said he, “I crave a gift. If it pleases you to be a father
to your son, make me now a knight. I desire to seek another realm, and
to serve some prince for guerdon. The road calls me, for many a knight
has won much riches with his sword.”
The King did not refuse the lad's request, but accorded it should be
even as he wished. He prayed the prince to dwell for a year about the
Court, that he might the more readily assist at such tourneys and
follow such feats of arms as were proclaimed in the kingdom. This the
prince agreed to do—the more readily because there was nothing else to
be done. He remained therefore at the Court, moving ever by his
father's side. The maiden, for her part, was in the charge of her
mother, who reproached her always for that she had done amiss. The
Queen did not content herself with reproaches and threats. She used the
sharp discipline upon her, so that the maiden suffered grievously in
her person. Sick at heart was the varlet whilst he hearkened to the
beatings, the discipline and the chastisement wherewith her mother
corrected the damsel. He knew not what to do, for well he understood
that his was the fault, and that by reason of him was her neck bowed
down in her youth. More and more was he tormented because of his
friend.
More and more the stripes with which she was afflicted became
heavier for him to bear. He shut himself close within his chamber, and
making fast the door, gave his heart over to tears.
“Alas,” cried he, “what shall I do! How may the ill be cured that I
have brought on us by my lightness and folly! I love her more than
life, and, certes, if I may not have my friend I will prove that I can
die for her, though I cannot live without her.”
Whilst the prince made this lamentation, the Queen came before the
King.
“Sir,” said she, “I pledge my oath and word as a crowned lady that I
keep my daughter as strictly as I may. Think to your own son, and see
to it that he cannot set eyes on the maid. He considers none other
thing but how to get clasp and speech of his friend.”
For this reason the King guarded his son about the Court as closely
as the Queen held the maiden in her chamber. So vigilant was the watch
that these pitiful lovers might never have word together. They had no
leisure to meet; they never looked one on the other; nor heard tidings
of how they did, whether by letter or by sergeant.
They lived this death in life till the same year—eight days before
the Feast of St. John—the varlet was dubbed knight. The King spent the
day in the chase, and returning, brought with him great store of fowl
and venison that he had taken. After supper, when the tables were
removed, the King seated himself for his delight upon a carpet spread
before the dais, his son and many a courteous lord with him. The fair
company gave ear to the Lay of Alys, sweetly sung by a minstrel from
Ireland, to the music of his rote. When his story was ended, forthwith
he commenced another, and related the Lay of Orpheus; none being so
bold as to disturb the singer, or to let his mind wander from the song.
Afterwards the knights spoke together amongst themselves. They told of
adventures which in ancient days had chanced to many, and were noised
about Brittany. Amongst these lords sat a damsel, passing sweet of
tongue. In her turn she told of a certain adventure which awaited the
adventurous at the Ford of the Thorn, once every year, on the vigil of
St. John, “but much I doubt whether now there be knights so bold as to
dare the perils of that passage.” When the newly made knight heard
these words his pride quickened within him. He considered that although
he was belted with the sword, he had as yet done no deed to prove his
courage in the eyes of men. He deemed the time had come to show his
hardihood, and to put to silence the malicious lips. He stood upon his
feet, calling upon damsel, King and barons to hearken to his voice, and
spake out manfully in the ears of great and small.
“Lords,” cried he, “whatever says the maiden, I boast before you all
that on St. John's Eve I will ride alone to the Ford of the Thorn, and
dare this adventure, whether it bring me gain or whether it bring me
loss.”
The King was right heavy to hear these words. He thought them to be
the gab and idle speech of a boy.
“Fair son,” said he, “put this folly from your mind.”
But when the King was persuaded that whether it were foolishness or
wisdom the lad was determined to go his way, and abide the issue of the
adventure,
“Go swiftly,” said he, “in the care of God. Since risk your life you
must, play it boldly like a pawn, and may God grant you heart's desire
and happy hours.”
The self-same night, whilst the lad lay sleeping in his bed, that
fair lady, his friend, was in much unrest in hers. The tidings of her
lover's boast had been carried quickly to her chamber, and sorely was
she adread for what might chance. When the Eve of St. John was come,
and the day drew towards evening, the varlet, with all fair hopes, made
him ready to ride to the Ford Adventurous. He had clad himself from
basnet to shoes in steel, and mounted on a strong destrier, went his
road to essay the Passage of the Thorn. Whilst he took his path the
maiden took hers. She went furtively to the orchard, that she might
importune God to bring her friend again, safe and sound to his own
house. She seated herself on the roots of a tree, and with sighs and
tears lamented her piteous case.
“Father of Heaven,” said the girl, “Who was and ever shall be, be
pitiful to my prayer. Since it is not to Thy will that any man should
be wretched, be merciful to a most unhappy maid. Fair Sire, give back
the days that are gone, when my friend was at my side, and grant that
once again I may be with him. Lord God of Hosts, when shall I be
healed? None knows the bitterness of my sorrow, for none may taste
thereof, save such as set their heart on what they may not have. These
only, Lord, know the wormwood and the gall.”
Thus prayed the maiden, seated on the roots of that ancient tree,
her feet upon the tender grass. At the time of her orisons much was she
sought and inquired after in the palace, but none might find where she
had hidden. The damsel herself was given over altogether to her love
and her sorrow, and had no thought for anything, save for prayers and
tears. The night wore through, and dawn already laced the sky, when she
fell on a little slumber, in the tree where she was sheltered. She woke
with a start, but returned to her sleep more deeply than before. She
had not slept long, when herseemed she was ravished from the tree—but
I cannot make this plain for I know no wizardry—to that Ford of the
Thorn, where her friend and lover had repaired. The knight looked upon
the sleeping maiden, and marvelled at so fair a sight. All adread was
the lady when she came from her slumber, for she knew not where she
lay, and wondered greatly. She covered her head by reason of her
exceeding fear, but the knight consoled her courteously.
“Diva,” said he, “there is no reason for terror. If you are an
earthly woman, speaking with a mortal tongue, tell me your story. Tell
me in what guise and manner you came so suddenly to this secret place.”
The maiden began to be of more courage, till she remembered that she
was no longer in the orchard of the castle. She inquired of the knight
to what haunt she had come.
“Lady,” he made answer, “you are laid at the Ford of the Thorn,
where adventures chance to the seeker, sometimes greatly against the
mind, and sometimes altogether according to the heart.”
“Ah, dear God,” cried the lady, “now shall I be made whole. Sir,
look a little closer upon me, for I have been your friend. Thanks be to
God, who so soon has heard my prayer.”
This was the beginning of adventures which happened that night to
the seeker. The maiden hastened to embrace her lover. He got him nimbly
from his horse, and taking her softly between his arms, kissed her with
more kisses than I can tell. Then they sat together beneath the thorn,
and the damsel told how she fell asleep within that old tree in the
pleasaunce, of how she was rapt from thence in her slumber, and of how,
yet sleeping, he came upon her by the Ford. When the knight had
hearkened to all that she had to say, he looked from her face, and
glancing across the river, marked a lord, with lifted lance, riding to
the ford. This knight wore harness of a fair vermeil colour, and
bestrode a horse white of body, save for his two ears, which were red
as the rider's mail. Slender of girdle was this knight, and he made no
effort to enter the river, but drew rein upon the other side of the
passage, and watched. The varlet said to his friend that it became his
honour to essay some feats of arms with this adversary. He got to
horse, and rode to the river, leaving the maiden beneath the thorn. Had
she but found another horse at need, very surely would she have ridden
to his aid. The two knights drew together as swiftly as their steeds
could bear them. They thrust so shrewdly with the lance, that their
shields were split and broken. The spears splintered in the gauntlet,
and both champions were unhorsed by the shock, rolling on the sand; but
nothing worse happened to them. Since they had neither squire nor
companion to help them on their feet, they pained them grievously to
get them from the ground. When they might climb upon their steeds, they
hung again the buckler about the neck, and lowered their ashen spears.
Passing heavy was the varlet, for shame that his friend had seen him
thrown. The two champions met together in the onset, but the prince
struck his adversary so cunningly with the lance, that the laces of his
buckler were broken, and the shield fell from his body. When the varlet
saw this he rejoiced greatly, for he knew that the eyes of his friend
were upon him. He pressed his quarrel right fiercely, and tumbling his
foe from the saddle, seized his horse by the bridle.[2]
The two knights passed the ford, and the prince feared sorely
because of the skill and mightiness of his adversary. He could not
doubt that if they fell upon him together he would perish at their
hands. He put the thought from mind, for he would not suspect them of
conduct so unbecoming to gentle knight, and so contrary to the laws of
chivalry. If they desired some passage of arms, doubtless they would
joust as gentlemen, and each for himself alone. When these three
knights were mounted on their steeds, they crossed the ford with
courtesy and order, each seeking to give precedence to his companion.
Having come to the bank the stranger knights prayed the prince to run a
course for their pleasure. He answered that it was his wish, too, and
made him ready for the battle. The prince rejoiced greatly when he saw
one of these two adversaries ride a little apart, that he might the
more easily observe the combat. He was assured that he would suffer no
felony at their hands. For their part the two knights were persuaded
that they had to do with an errant who had ridden to the ford for no
other gain than honour and praise. The two adversaries took their
places within the lists. They lowered their lance, and covering their
bodies with the shield, smote fiercely together. So rude was the shock
that the staves of the spears were broken, and the strong destriers
were thrown upon their haunches. Neither of the good knights had lost
his saddle. Each of the combatants got him to his feet, and drawing the
sword, pressed upon his fellow, till the blood began to flow. When the
knight who judged this quarrel saw their prowess, he came near, and
commanded that the battle should cease. The adversaries drew apart, and
struck no further blow with the sword. Right courteously and with fair
words he spake to the prince. “Friend,” said the knight, “get to your
horse, and break a lance with me. Then we can go in peace, for our time
grows short. You must endure till the light be come if you hope to gain
the prize. Do your devoir, valiantly, for should you chance to be
thrown in this course, or slain by misadventure, you have lost your
desire. None will ever hear of this adventure; all your life you will
remain little and obscure. Your maiden will be led away by the victor,
seated on the good Castilian horse you have gained by right of courage.
Fight bravely. The trappings of the destrier are worth the spoil of a
king's castle, and as for the horse himself he is the swiftest and the
fairest in the world. Be not amazed that I tell you of these matters. I
have watched you joust, and know you for a hardy knight and a gallant
gentleman. Besides I stand to lose horse and harness equally with you.”
[Footnote 2: There is here some omission in the manuscript.]
The prince listened to these words, and accorded that the knight
spoke wisely and well. He would willingly have taken counsel of the
maiden, but first, as surely he knew, he must joust with this knight.
He gathered the reins in his glove, and choosing a lance with an ashen
staff, opposed himself to his adversary. The combatants met together so
fiercely that the lance pierced the steel of the buckler; yet neither
lost stirrup by the shock. When the prince saw this he smote the knight
so shrewdly that he would have fallen from the saddle, had he not clung
to the neck of his destrier. Of his courtesy the prince passed on, and
refrained his hand until his enemy had recovered his seat. On his
return he found the knight full ready to continue his devoir. Each of
the champions plucked forth his sword, and sheltered him beneath his
shield. They struck such mighty blows that the bucklers were hewn in
pieces, but in spite of all they remained firm in the saddle. The
maiden was aghast whilst she watched the melee. She had great fear for
her friend, lest mischief should befall him, and she cried loudly to
the knight that, for grace, he should give over this combat, and go his
way. Very courteous was the knight, and meetly schooled in what was due
to maidens. He saluted the damsel, and, together with his companion,
rode straightway from the ford. The prince watched them pass for a
little, then without further tarrying he went swiftly to the maiden,
where, all fearful and trembling, she knelt beneath the thorn. The lady
stood upon her feet as her lover drew near. She climbed behind him on
the saddle, for well she knew that their pains were done. They fared so
fast that when it was yet scarce day they came again to the palace. The
King saw them approach, and rejoiced greatly at his son's prowess; but
at this he marvelled much, that he should return with the daughter of
the Queen.
The self-same day of this home-coming—as I have heard tell—the
King had summoned to Court his barons and vassals because of a certain
quarrel betwixt two of his lords. This quarrel being accorded between
them, and come to a fair end, the King related to that blithe company
the story of this adventure. He told again that which you know, of how
the prince defended the Ford, of the finding of the maiden beneath the
thorn, of the mighty joust, and of that white horse which was taken
from the adversary.
The prince both then and thereafter caused the horse to be entreated
with the greatest care. He received the maiden to wife, and cherished
her right tenderly. She, and the steed on which she would always ride,
were his richest possessions. The destrier lived many years in much
honour, but on a day when his master was taking the harness from his
head, he fell and died forthwith.
Of the story which has been set before you the Bretons wrought a
Lay. They did not call the song the Lay of the Ford, although the
adventure took place at a river; neither have they named it The Lay of
the Two Children. For good or ill the rhyme is known as the Lay of the
Thorn. It begins well and endeth better, for these kisses find their
fruition in marriage.