There are divers men who make a great show of loyalty, and pretend
to such discretion in the hidden things they hear, that at the end folk
come to put faith in them. When by their false seeming they have
persuaded the simple to open out to them their love and their deeds,
then they noise the matter about the country, and make it their song
and their mirth. Thus it chances that the lesser joy is his who has
bared to them his heart. For the sweeter the love, the more bitter is
the pang that lovers know, when each deems the other to have bruited
abroad the secret he should conceal. Oftentimes these blabbers do such
mischief with their tongue, that the love they spoil comes to its close
in sorrow and in care. This indeed happened in Burgundy to a brave and
worthy knight, and to the Lady of Vergi. This knight loved his lady so
dearly that she granted him her tenderness, on such covenant as
this—that the day he showed her favour to any, that very hour he would
lose the love and the grace she bestowed on him. To seal this bond they
devised together that the knight should come a days to an orchard, at
such hour as seemed good to his friend. He must remain coy in his nook
within the wall till he might see the lady's lapdog run across the
orchard. Then without further tarrying he should enter her chamber,
knowing full well she was alone, whom so fondly he desired to greet.
This he did, and in this fashion they met together for a great while,
none being privy to their sweet and stolen love, save themselves alone.
The knight was courteous and fair, and by reason of his courage was
right welcome to that Duke who was lord of Burgundy. He came and went
about the Court, and that so often that the Duchess set her mind upon
him. She cared so little to hide her thought, that had his heart not
been in another's keeping, he must surely have perceived in her eyes
that she loved him. But however tender her semblance the knight showed
no kindness in return, for he marked nothing of her inclination.
Passing troubled was the dame that he should treat her thus; so that on
a day she took him apart, and sought to make him of her counsel.
“Sir, as men report, you are a brave and worthy knight, for the
which give God thanks. It would not be more than your deserts, if you
had for friend a lady in so high a place that her love would bring to
you both honour and profit. How richly could such a lady serve you!”
“Lady,” said he, “I have never yet had this in my thought.”
“By my faith,” she answered, “it seems to me that the longer you
wait, the less is your hope. Perchance the lady will stoop very readily
from her throne, if you but kneel at her knee.”
The knight replied, “Lady, by my faith, I know little why you speak
such words, and I understand their meaning not at all. I am neither
duke nor count to dare to set my love in so high a seat. There is
nought in me to gain the love of so sovereign a dame, pain me how I
may.”
“Such things have been,” said she, “and so may chance again. Many
more marvellous works have been wrought than this, and the day of
miracles is not yet past. Tell me, know you not yet that you have
gained the love of some high princess, even mine?”
The knight made answer forthwith, “Lady, I know it not. I would
desire to have your love in a fair and honourable fashion; but may God
keep me from such love between us, as would put shame upon my lord. In
no manner, nor for any reason, will I enter on such a business as would
lead me to deal my true and lawful lord so shrewd and foul a wrong.”
Bitter at heart was the dame to see her love so scorned.
“Fie upon you,” she cried, “and who required of you any such thing?”
“Ah, lady, to God be the praise; you have said enough to make your
meaning passing plain.”
The lady strove no more to show herself kind to him. Great was the
wrath and sharp the malice that she hid within her heart, and well she
purposed that, if she might, she would avenge herself speedily. All the
day she considered her anger. That night as she lay beside the Duke she
began to sigh, and afterwards to weep. Presently the Duke inquired of
her grief, bidding her show it him forthwith.
“Certes,” said the dame, “I make this great sorrow because no prince
can tell who is his faithful servant, and who is not. Often he gives
the more honour and wealth to those who are traitors rather than
friends, and sees nothing of their wrong.”
“In faith, wife,” answered the Duke, “I know not why you speak these
words. At least I am free of such blame as this, for in nowise would I
nourish a traitor, if only a traitor I knew him to be.”
“Hate then this traitor,” cried she,—and she named a name—“who
gives me no peace, praying and requiring me the livelong day that I
should grant him my love. For a great while he had been in this
mind—as he says—but did not dare to speak his thoughts. I considered
the whole matter, fair lord, and resolved to show it you at once. It is
likely enough to be true that he cherished this hope, for we have never
heard that he loves elsewhere. I entreat you in guerdon, to look well
to your own honour, since this, as you know, is your duty and right.”
Passing grievous was this business to the Duke. He answered to the
lady,
“I will bring it to a head, and very quickly, as I deem.”
That night the Duke lay upon a bed of little ease. He could neither
sleep nor rest, by reason of that lord, his friend, who, he was
persuaded, had done him such bitter wrong as justly to have forfeited
his love. Because of this he kept vigil the whole night through. He
rose very early on the morrow, and bade him come whom his wife had put
to blame, although he had done nothing blameworthy. Then he took him to
task, man to man, when there were but these two together.
“Certes,” he said, “it is a heavy grief that you who are so comely
and brave, should yet have no honour in you. You have deceived me the
more, for I have long believed you to be a man of good faith, giving
loyalty, at least, to me, in return for the love I have given to you. I
know not how you can have harboured such a felon's wish, as to pray and
require the Duchess to grant you her grace. You are guilty of such
treachery that conduct more vile it would be far to seek. Get you hence
from my realm. You have my leave to part, and it is denied to you for
ever. If you return here it will be at your utmost peril, for I warn
you beforehand that if I lay hands upon you, you will die a shameful
death.”
When the knight heard this judgment, such wrath and mortification
were his that his members trembled beneath him. He called to mind his
friend, of whom he would have no joy, if he might not come and go and
sojourn in that realm from which the Duke had banished him. Moreover he
was sick at heart that his lord should deem him a disloyal traitor,
without just cause. He knew such sore discomfort that he held himself
as dead and betrayed.
“Sire,” said he, “for the love of God believe this never, neither
think that I have been so bold. To do that of which you wrongfully
charge me, has never entered my mind, not one day, nor for one single
hour. Who has told you this lie has wrought a great ill.”
“You gain nothing by such denials,” answered the Duke, “for of a
surety the thing is true. I have heard from her own lips the very guise
and fashion in which you prayed and required her love, like the envious
traitor that you are. Many another word it may well be that you spoke,
as to which the lady of her courtesy keeps silence.”
“My lady says what it pleases her to say,” replied the dolorous
knight, “and my denials are lighter than her word. Naught is there for
me to say; nothing is left for me to do, so that I may be believed that
this adventure never happened.”
“Happen it did, by my soul,” said the Duke, remembering certain
words of his wife. Well he deemed that he might be assured of the
truth, if but the lady's testimony were true that this lord had never
loved otherwhere. Therefore the Duke said to the knight, “If you will
pledge your faith to answer truly what I may ask, I shall be certified
by your words whether or not you have done this deed of which I
misdoubt you.”
The knight had but one desire—to turn aside his lord's wrath, which
had so wrongfully fallen upon him. He feared only lest he should be
driven from the land where lodged the dame who was the closest to his
mind. Knowing nothing of what was in the Duke's thought, he considered
that his question could only concern the one matter; so he replied that
without fraud or concealment he would do as his lord had said. Thus he
pledged his faith, and the Duke accepted his affiance.
When this was done the Duke made question,
“I have loved you so dearly that at the bottom of my heart I cannot
believe you guilty of such shameless misdoing as the Duchess tells me.
I would not credit it a moment, if you yourself were not the cause of
my doubtfulness. From your face, the care you bestow upon your person,
and a score of trifles, any who would know, can readily see that you
are in love with some lady. Since none about the Court perceives damsel
or dame on whom you have set your heart, I ask myself whether indeed it
may not be my wife, who tells me that you have entreated her for love.
Nothing that any one may do can take this suspicion from my mind,
except you tell me yourself that you love elsewhere, making it so plain
that I am left without doubt that I know the naked truth. If you refuse
her name you will have broken your oath, and forth from my realm you go
as an outlawed man.”
The knight had none to give him counsel. To himself he seemed to
stand at the parting of two ways, both one and the other leading to
death. If he spoke the simple truth (and tell he must if he would not
be a perjurer) then was he as good as dead; for if he did such wrong as
to sin against the covenant with his lady and his friend, certainly he
would lose her love, so it came to her knowledge. But if he concealed
the truth from the Duke, then he was false to his oath, and had lost
both country and friend. But little he recked of country, so only he
might keep his Love, since of all his riches she was the most dear. The
knight called to heart and remembrance the fair joy and the solace that
were his when he had this lady between his arms. He considered within
himself that if by reason of his misdoing she came to harm, or were
lost to him, since he might not take her where he went, how could he
live without her. It would be with him also, as erst with the Castellan
of Couci, who having his Love fast only in his heart, told over in his
song,
Ah, God, strong Love, I sit and weep alone,
Remembering the solace that was given;
The tender guise, the semblance that was shown
By her, my friend, my comrade, and my Heaven.
When grief brings back the joy that was mine own,
I would the heart from out my breast were riven.
Ah, Lord, the sweet words hushed, the beauty flown;
Would God that I were dead, and low, and shriven.
The knight was in anguish such as this, for he knew not whether to
make clear the truth, or to lie and be banished from the country.
Whilst he was deep in thought, turning over in his mind what it were
best to do, tears rose in his heart and flowed from his eyes, so that
his face was wet, by reason of the sorrow that he suffered. The Duke
had no more mirth than the knight, deeming that his secret was so heavy
that he dared not make it plain. The Duke spoke swiftly to his friend,
“I see clearly that you fear to trust me wholly, as a knight should
trust his lord. If you confess your counsel privily to me, you cannot
think that I shall show the matter to any man. I would rather have my
teeth drawn one by one, than speak a word.”
“Ah,” cried the knight, “for God's love, have pity, Sire. I know not
what I ought to say, nor what will become of me; but I would rather die
than lose what lose I shall if she only hears that you have the truth,
and that you heard it from my lips, whilst I am a living man.”
The Duke made answer,
“I swear to you by my body and my soul, and on the faith and love I
owe you again by reason of your homage, that never in my life will I
tell the tale to any creature born, or even breathe a word or make a
sign about the business.”
With the tears yet running down his face the knight said to him,
“Sire, right or wrong, now will I show my secret. I love your niece
of Vergi, and she loves me, so that no friends can love more fondly.”
“If you wish to be believed,” replied the Duke, “tell me now, if
any, save you two alone, knows anything of this joy?”
And the knight made answer to him,
“Nay, not a creature in the world.”
Then said the Duke,
“No love is so privy as that. If none has heard thereof, how do you
meet together, and how devise time and place?”
“By my faith, Sire, I will tell you all, and keep back nothing,
since you know so much of our counsel.”
So he related the whole story of his goings to and fro within the
pleasaunce; of that first covenant with his friend, and of the office
of the little dog.
Then said the Duke,
“I require of you that I may be your comrade at such fair meeting.
When you go again to the orchard, I too, would enter therein, and mark
for myself the success of your device. As for my niece she shall
perceive naught.”
“Sire, if it be your will it is my pleasure also; save, only, that
you find it not heavy or burdensome. Know well that I go this very
night.”
The Duke said that he would go with him, for the vigil would in no
wise be burdensome, but rather a frolic and a game. They accorded
between them a place of meeting, where they would draw together on
foot, and alone. When nightfall was come they fared to the hostel of
the Duke's niece, for her dwelling was near at hand. They had not
tarried long in the garden, when the Duke saw his niece's lapdog run
straight to that end of the orchard where the knight was hidden.
Wondrous kindness showed the knight to his lady's dog. Immediately he
took his way to her lodging, and left his master in his nook by the
wall. The Duke followed after till he drew near the chamber, and held
himself coy, concealing him as best he might. It was easy enough to do
this, for a great tree stood there, high and leafy, so that he was
covered close as by a shield. From this place he marked the little dog
enter the chamber, and presently saw his niece issue therefrom, and
hurry forth to meet her lover in the pleasaunce. He was so close that
he could see and hear the solace of that greeting, the salutation of
her mouth and of her hands. She embraced him closely in her fair white
arms, kissing him more than a hundred times, whilst she spoke many
comforting words. The knight for his part kissed her again, and held
her fast, praising her with many tender names.
“My lady, my friend, my love,” said he, “heart and mistress and
hope, and the sum of all that I hold dear, know well that I have
yearned to be with you as we are now, every day and all day long since
we met.”
“Sweet lord, sweet friend, sweet love,” replied the lady, “never has
a day nor an hour gone by but I was awearied of its length. But I
grieve no longer over the past, for I have my heart's desire when you
are with me, joyous and well. Right welcome are you to your friend.”
And the knight made answer,
“Love, you are welcome and wellmet.”
From his place of hiding, near the entrance to the chamber, the Duke
hearkened to every word. His niece's voice and face were so familiar to
him, that he could not doubt that the Duchess had lied. Greatly was he
content, for he was now assured that his friend had not done amiss in
that of which he had misdoubted him. All through the night he kept
watch and ward. But during his vigil the dame and the knight, close and
sleepless in the chamber, knew such joy and tenderness as it is not
seemly should be told or heard, save of those who hope themselves to
attain such solace, when Love grants them recompense for all their
pains. For he who desires nothing of this joy and quittance, even if it
were told him, would but listen to a tongue he could not understand,
since his heart is not turned to Love, and none can know the wealth of
such riches, except Love whisper it in his ear. Of such kingdom not all
are worthy: for there joy goes without anger, and solace is crowned
with fruition. But so fleet are things sweet, that to the lover his joy
seems to find but a brief content. So pleasant is the life he passes
that he wishes his night a week, his week to stretch to a month, the
month become a year, and one year three, and three years twenty, and
the twenty attain to a hundred. Yea, when the term and end were
reached, he would that the dusk were closing, rather than the dawn had
come.
This was the case with the lover whom the Duke awaited in the
orchard. When day was breaking, and he durst remain no longer, he came
with his lady to the door. The Duke marked the fashion of their
leave-taking, the kisses given and granted, the sighs and the weeping
as they bade farewell. When they had wept many tears, and devised an
hour for their next meeting, the knight departed in this fashion, and
the lady shut the door. But so long as she might see him, she followed
his going with her pretty eyes, since there was nothing better she
could do.
When the Duke knew the postern was made fast, he hastened on his
road until he overtook the knight, who to himself was making his
complaint of the season, that all too short was his hour. The same
thought and the self same words were hers from whom he had parted, for
the briefness of the time had betrayed her delight, and she had no
praises for the dawn. The knight was deep in his thought and speech,
when he was overtaken by the Duke. The Duke embraced his friend,
greeting him very tenderly. Then he said to him,
“I pledge my faith that I will love you all the days of my life,
never on any day seeking to do you a mischief, for you have told me the
very truth, and have not lied to me by a single word.”
“Sire,” he made answer, “thanks and gramercy. But for the love of
God I require and pray of you that it be your pleasure to hide this
counsel; for I should lose my love, and the peace and comfort of my
life—yea, and should die without sin of my own, if I deemed that any
other in this realm than yourself knew aught of the business.”
“Now speak of it never,” replied the Duke. “Know that the counsel
shall be kept so hidden, that by me shall not a syllable be spoken.”
On this covenant they came again whence they had set forth together.
That day, when men sat at meat, the Duke showed to his knight a
friendlier semblance and a fairer courtesy than ever he had done
before. The Duchess felt such wrath and despitefulness at this,
that—without any leasing—she rose from the table, and making pretence
of sudden sickness, went to lie upon her bed, where she found little
softness. When the Duke had eaten and washed and made merry, he
afterwards sought his wife's chamber, and causing her to be seated on
her bed, commanded that none should remain, save himself. So all men
went forth at his word, even as he had bidden. Thereupon the Duke
inquired of the lady how this evil had come to her, and of what she was
sick. She made answer,
“As God hears me, never till I ate at table did I deem that you had
so little sense or decency, as when I saw you making much of him, who,
I have told you already, strove to bring shame and disgrace on me. When
I watched you entreat him with more favour than even was your wont,
such great sorrow and such great anger took hold on me, that I could
not contain myself in the hall.”
“Sweet friend,” replied the Duke, “know that I shall never
believe—either from your lips or from those of any creature in the
world—that the story ever happened as you rehearsed it. I am so deep
in his counsel that he has my quittance, for I have full assurance that
he never dreamed of such a deed. But as to this you must ask of me no
more.”
The Duke went straightway from the chamber, leaving the lady sunk in
thought. However long she had to live, never might she know an hour's
comfort, till she had learnt something of that secret of which the Duke
forbade her to seek further. No denial could now stand in her way, for
in her heart swiftly she devised a means to unriddle this counsel, so
only she might endure until the evening, and the Duke was in her arms.
She was persuaded that, beyond doubt, such solace would win her wish
more surely than wrath or tears. For this purpose she held herself coy,
and when the Duke came to lie at her side she betook herself to the
further side of the bed, making semblance that his company gave her no
pleasure. Well she knew that such show of anger was the device to put
her lord beneath her feet. Therefore she turned her back upon him, that
the Duke might the more easily be drawn by the cords of her wrath. For
this same reason when he had no more than kissed her, she burst out,
“Right false and treacherous and disloyal are you to make such a
pretence of affection, who yet have never loved me truly one single
day. All these years of our wedded life I have been foolish enough to
believe, what you took such pains in the telling, that you loved me
with a loyal heart. To-day I see plainly that I was the more deceived.”
“In what are you deceived?” inquired the Duke.
“By my faith,” cried she, who was sick of her desire, “you warn me
that I be not so bold as to ask aught of that of which you know the
secret.”
“In God's name, sweet wife, of what would you know?”
“Of all that he has told you, the lies and the follies he has put in
your mind, and led you to believe. But it matters little now whether I
hear it or not, for I remember how small is my gain in being your true
and loving wife. For good or for ill I have shown you all my counsel.
There was nothing that was known and seen of my heart that you were not
told at once; and of your courtesy you repay me by concealing your
mind. Know, now, without doubt, that never again shall I have in you
such affiance, nor grant you my love with such sweetness, as I have
bestowed them in the past.”
Thereat the Duchess began to weep and sigh, making the most tender
sorrow that she was able. The Duke felt such pity for her grief that he
said to her,
“Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I can
bear; but learn that I cannot tell what you wish me to say without
sinning against my honour too grievously.”
Then she replied forthwith,
“Husband, if you do not tell me, the reason can only be that you do
not trust me to keep silence in the business. I wonder the more sorely
at this, because there is no matter, either great or small, that you
have told me, which has been published by me. I tell you honestly that
never in my life could I be so indiscreet.”
When she had said this, she betook her again to her tears. The Duke
kissed and embraced her, and was so sick of heart that strength failed
him to keep his purpose.
“Fair wife,” he said to her, “by my soul I am at my wits' end. I
have such trust and faith in you that I deem I should hide nothing, but
show you all that I know. Yet I dread that you will let fall some word.
Know, wife—and I tell it you again—that if ever you betray this
counsel you will get death for your payment.”
The Duchess made answer,
“I agree to the bargain, for it is not possible that I should deal
you so shrewd a wrong.”
Then he who loved her, because of his faith and his credence in her
word, told all this story of his niece, even as he had learned it from
the knight. He told how those two were alone together in the shadow of
the wall, when the little dog ran to them. He showed plainly of that
coming forth from the chamber, and of the entering in; nothing was hid,
he concealed naught of that he had heard and seen. When the Duchess
understood that the love of a mighty dame was despised for the sake of
a lowly gentlewoman, her humiliation was bitter in her mouth as death.
She showed no semblance of despitefulness, but made covenant and
promise with the Duke to keep the matter close, saying that should she
repeat his tale he might hang her from a tree.
Time went very heavily with the lady, till she could get speech with
her, whom she hated from the hour she knew her to be the friend of him
who had caused her such shame and grief. She was persuaded that for
this reason he would not give her love, in return for that she set on
him. She confirmed herself in her purpose, that at such time and place
she saw the Duke speaking with his niece, she would go swiftly to the
lady, and tell out all her mind, hiding nothing because it was evil.
Neither time nor place was met, till Pentecost was come, and the Duke
held high Court, commanding to the feast all the ladies of his realm,
amongst the first that lady, his niece, who was the Chatelaine of
Vergi. When the Duchess looked on her, the blood pricked in her veins,
for reason that she hated her more than aught else in the world. She
had the courage to hide her malice, and greeted the lady more gladly
than ever she had done before. But she yearned to show openly the anger
that burned in her heart, and the delay was much against her mind. On
Pentecost, whilst the tables were removed, the Duchess brought the
ladies to her chamber with her, that, apart from the throng, they might
the more graciously attire them for the dance. She deemed her hour had
come, and having no longer the power to refrain her lips, she said
gaily, as if in jest,
“Chatelaine, array yourself very sweetly, since there is a fair and
worthy lord you have to please.”
The lady answered right simply,
“In truth, madam, I know not what you are thinking of; but for my
part I wish for no such friendship as may not be altogether according
to my honour and to that of my lord.”
“I grant that readily,” replied the Duchess, “you are a good
mistress, and have an apt pupil in your little dog.”
The ladies returned with the Duchess to the hall, where the dances
were already set. They had listened to the tale, but could not mark the
jest. The chatelaine remained in the chamber. Her colour came and went,
and because of her wrath and trouble the heart throbbed thickly in her
breast. She passed within a tiring chamber, where a little maiden was
lying at the foot of the bed; but for grief she might not perceive her.
The chatelaine flung herself upon the bed, bewailing her evil plight,
for she was exceedingly sorrowful. She said,
“Ah, Lord God, take pity on me! What may this mean, that I have
listened to my lady's reproaches because of the training of my little
dog! This she can have learned from none—as well I know—save from him
whom I have loved, and who has betrayed me. He would never have shown
her this thing, except that he was her familiar friend, and doubtless
loves her more dearly than me, whom he has betrayed. I see now the
value of his oaths, since he finds it so easy to fail in his covenant.
Sweet God, and I loved him so fondly, more fondly than any woman has
loved before; who never had him from my thoughts one single hour,
whether it were night or day. For he was my mirth and my carol; in him
were my joy and my pleasure; he alone was my solace and comfort. Ah, my
friend, how can this have come; you who were always with me, even when
I might not see you with my eyes! What ill has befallen you, that you
durst prove false to me? I deemed you more faithful—God take me in His
keeping—than ever was Tristan to Isoude. May God pity a poor fool, I
loved you half as much again than I had love for myself. From the first
to the last of our friendship, never by thought, or by word, or by
deed, have I done amiss; there is no wrong doing, trifling or great, to
make plain your hatred, or to excuse so vile a betrayal as this
scorning of our love for a fresher face, this desertion of me, this
proclaiming of our secret. Alas, my friend, I marvel greatly; for as
God is my witness my heart was not thus towards you. If God had offered
me all the kingdoms of the world, yea, and His Heaven and its Paradise
besides, I would have refused them gladly, had my gain meant the losing
of you. For you were my wealth and my song and my health, and nothing
can hurt me any more, since my heart has learnt that yours no longer
loves me. Ah, lasting, precious love! Who could have guessed that he
would deal this blow, to whom I gave the grace of my tenderness—who
said that I was his lady both in body and in soul, and he the slave at
my bidding. Yea, he told it over so sweetly, that I believed him
faithfully, nor thought in any wise that his heart would bear wrath and
malice against me, whether for Duchess or for Queen. How good was this
love, since the heart in my breast must always cleave to his! I counted
him to be my friend, in age as in youth, our lives together; for well I
knew that if he died first I should not dare to endure long without
him, because of the greatness of my love. The grave, with him, would be
fairer, than life in a world where I might never see him with my eyes.
Ah, lasting, precious love! Is it then seemly that he should publish
our counsel, and destroy her who had done him no wrong? When I gave him
my love without grudging, I warned him plainly, and made covenant with
him, that he would lose me the self same hour that he made our
tenderness a song. Since part we must, I may not live after so bitter a
sorrow; nor would I choose to live, even if I were able. Fie upon life,
it has no savour in it. Since it pleases me naught, I pray to God to
grant me death, and—so truly as I have loved him who requites me
thus—to have mercy on my soul. I forgive him his wrong, and may God
give honour and life to him who has betrayed and delivered me to death.
Since it comes from his hand, death, meseems, is no bitter potion; and
when I remember his love, to die for his sake is no grievous thing.”
When the chatelaine had thus spoken she kept silence, save only that
she said in sighing,
“Sweet friend, I commend you to God.”
With these words she strained her arms tightly across her breast,
the heart failed her, and her face lost its fair colour. She swooned in
her anguish, and lay back, pale and discoloured in the middle of the
bed, without life or breath.
Of this her friend knew nothing, for he sought his delight in the
hall, at carol and dance and play. But amongst all those ladies he had
no pleasure in any that he saw, since he might not perceive her to whom
his heart was given, and much he marvelled thereat. He took the Duke
apart, and said in his ear,
“Sire, whence is this that your niece tarries so long, and comes not
to the dancing? Have you put her in prison?”
The Duke looked upon the dancers, for he had not concerned himself
with the revels. He took his friend by the hand, and led him directly
to his wife's chamber. When he might not find her there he bade the
knight seek her boldly in the tiring chamber; and this he did of his
courtesy that these two lovers might solace themselves with clasp and
kiss. The knight thanked his lord sweetly, and entered softly in the
chamber, where his friend lay dark and discoloured upon the bed. Time
and place being met together, he took her in his arms and touched her
lips. But when he found how cold was her mouth, how pale and rigid her
person, he knew by the semblance of all her body that she was quite
dead. In his amazement he cried out swiftly,
“What is this? Alas, is my dear one dead?”
The maiden started from the foot of the bed where she still lay,
making answer,
“Sir, I deem truly that she be dead. Since she came to this room she
has done nothing but call upon death, by reason of her friend's
falsehood, whereof my lady assured her, and because of a little dog,
whereof my lady made her jest. This sorrow brought her to her death.”
When the knight understood from this that the words he had spoken to
the Duke had slain his friend, he was discomforted beyond measure.
“Alas,” said he, “sweet love, the most gracious and the best that
ever knight had, loyal and true, how have I slain you, like the
faithless traitor that I am! It were only just that I should receive
the wages for my deed, so that you could have gone free of blame. But
you were so faithful of heart that you took it on yourself to pay the
price. Then I will do justice on myself for the treason I have
wrought.”
The knight drew from its sheath a sword that was hanging from the
wall, and thrust it throught his heart. He pained himself to fall upon
his lady's body; and because of the mightiness of his hurt, bled
swiftly to death. The maiden fled forth from the chamber, when she
marked these lifeless lovers, for she was all adread at what she saw.
She lighted on the Duke, and told him all that she had heard and seen,
keeping back nothing. She showed him the beginning of the matter, and
also of the little dog, whereof the Duchess had spoken.
Hearken all to what befell. The Duke went straightway to the tiring
chamber, and drew from out the wound that sword by which the knight lay
slain. He said no word, but hastened forthwith to the hall where the
guests were yet at their dancing. Entering there he acquitted himself
of his promise, for he smote the Duchess on the head with the naked
sword he carried in his hand. He struck the blow without one word,
since his wrath was too deep for speech. The Duchess fell at his feet,
in the sight of the barons of his realm, whereat the feast was sorely
troubled, for in place of mirth and carol, now were blood and death.
Then the Duke told loudly and swiftly, before all who cared to hear,
this pitiful story, in the midst of his Court. There was not one but
wept, and his tears were the more piteous when he beheld those two
lovers who lay dead in the chamber, and the Duchess in her hall. So the
Court broke up in dole and anger, for of this deed came mighty
mischief. On the morrow the Duke caused the lovers to be laid in one
tomb, and the Duchess in a place apart. But of this adventure the Duke
had such bitterness that never was he known to laugh again. He took the
Cross, and went beyond the sea, where joining himself to the Knights
Templar, he never returned to his own realm.
Ah, God! all this mischief and encumbrance chanced to the knight by
reason of his making plain that he should have hid, and of publishing
what his friend forbade him to speak, if he would keep her love. From
this ensample we may learn that it is not seemly to love, and tell. He
who blabs and blazons his friendship gets not one kiss the more; but he
who goes discreetly preserves life and love and fame. For the
friendship of the discreet lover falls not before the mine of such
false and felon pryers as burrow privily into their neighbour's secret
love.