Hearken, oh gentles, to the words of Marie. When the minstrel tells
his tale, let the folk about the fire heed him willingly. For his part
the singer must be wary not to spoil good music with unseemly words.
Listen, oh lordlings, to the words of Marie, for she pains herself
grievously not to forget this thing. The craft is hard—then approve
the more sweetly him who carols the tune. But this is the way of the
world, that when a man or woman sings more tunably than his fellows,
those about the fire fall upon him, pell-mell, for reason of their
envy. They rehearse diligently the faults of his song, and steal away
his praise with evil words. I will brand these folk as they deserve.
They, and such as they, are like mad dogs—cowardly and felon—who
traitorously bring to death men better than themselves. Now let the
japer, and the smiler with his knife, do me what harm they may. Verily
they are in their right to speak ill of me.
Hearken, oh gentles, to the tale I set before you, for thereof the
Bretons already have made a Lay. I will not do it harm by many words,
and here is the commencement of the matter. According to text and
scripture, now I relate a certain adventure, which bechanced in the
realm of Brittany, in days long gone before.
In that time when Arthur maintained his realm, the now in peace, the
now in war, the King counted amongst his vassals a certain baron, named
Oridial. This knight was lord of Leon, and was very near to his
prince's heart, both in council chamber and in field. From his wife he
had gotten two children, the one a son and the other a fair daughter.
Nogent, he had called the damsel at the font, and the dansellon was
named Gugemar—no goodlier might be found in any realm. His mother had
set all her love upon the lad, and his father shewed him every good
that he was able. When the varlet was no more a child, Oridial sent him
to the King, to be trained as a page in the courtesies of the Court.
Right serviceable was he in his station, and meetly praised of all. The
term of his service having come, and he being found of fitting years
and knowledge, the King made him knight with his own hand, and armed
him in rich harness, according to his wish. So Gugemar gave gifts to
all those about his person, and bidding farewell, took leave, and
departed from the Court. Gugemar went his way to Flanders, being
desirous of advancement, for in that kingdom ever they have strife and
war. Neither in Loraine nor Burgundy, Anjou nor Gascony, might be found
in that day a better knight than he, no, nor one his peer. He had but
one fault, since of love he took no care. There was neither dame nor
maiden beneath the sky, however dainty and kind, to whom he gave
thought or heed, though had he required her love of any damsel, very
willingly would she have granted his desire. Many there were who prayed
him for his love, but might have no kiss in return. So seeing that he
refrained his heart in this fashion, men deemed him a strange man, and
one fallen into a perilous case.
In the flower of his deeds the good knight returned to his own land,
that he might see again his father and lord, his mother and his sister,
even as he very tenderly desired. He lodged with them for the space of
a long month, and at the end of that time had envy to hunt within the
wood. The night being come, Gugemar summoned his prickers and his
squires, and early in the morning rode within the forest. Great
pleasure had Gugemar in the woodland, and much he delighted in the
chase. A tall stag was presently started, and the hounds being
uncoupled, all hastened in pursuit—the huntsmen before, and the good
knight following after, winding upon his horn. Gugemar rode at a great
pace after the quarry, a varlet riding beside, bearing his bow, his
arrows and his spear. He followed so hotly that he over-passed the
chase. Gazing about him he marked, within a thicket, a doe hiding with
her fawn. Very white and wonderful was this beast, for she was without
spot, and bore antlers upon her head. The hounds bayed about her, but
might not pull her down. Gugemar bent his bow, and loosed a shaft at
the quarry. He wounded the deer a little above the hoof, so that
presently she fell upon her side. But the arrow glanced away, and
returning upon itself, struck Gugemar in the thigh, so grievously, that
straightway he fell from his horse upon the ground. Gugemar lay upon
the grass, beside the deer which he had wounded to his hurt. He heard
her sighs and groans, and perceived the bitterness of her pity. Then
with mortal speech the doe spake to the wounded man in such fashion as
this, “Alas, my sorrow, for now am I slain. But thou, Vassal, who hast
done me this great wrong, do not think to hide from the vengeance of
thy destiny. Never may surgeon and his medicine heal your hurt. Neither
herb nor root nor potion can ever cure the wound within your flesh: For
that there is no healing. The only balm to close that sore must be
brought by a woman, who for her love will suffer such pain and sorrow
as no woman in the world has endured before. And to the dolorous lady,
dolorous knight. For your part you shall do and suffer so great things
for her, that not a lover beneath the sun, or lovers who are dead, or
lovers who yet shall have their day, but shall marvel at the tale. Now,
go from hence, and let me die in peace.”
Gugemar was wounded twice over—by the arrow, and by the words he
was dismayed to hear. He considered within himself to what land he must
go to find this healing for his hurt, for he was yet too young to die.
He saw clearly, and told it to his heart, that there was no lady in his
life to whom he could run for pity, and be made whole of his wound. He
called his varlet before him,
“Friend,” said he, “go forthwith, and bring my comrades to this
place, for I have to speak with them.”
The varlet went upon his errand, leaving his master sick with the
heat and fever of his hurt. When he was gone, Gugemar tore the hem from
his shirt, and bound it straitly about his wound. He climbed painfully
upon the saddle, and departed without more ado, for he was with child
to be gone before any could come to stay him from his purpose. A green
path led through the deep forest to the plain, and his way across the
plain brought him to a cliff, exceeding high, and to the sea. Gugemar
looked upon the water, which was very still, for this fair harbourage
was land-locked from the main. Upon this harbour lay one only vessel,
bearing a rich pavilion of silk, daintily furnished both without and
within, and well it seemed to Gugemar that he had seen this ship
before. Beneath the sky was no ship so rich or precious, for there was
not a sail but was spun of silk, and not a plank, from keel to mast,
but showed of ebony. Too fair was the nave for mortal man, and Gugemar
held it in sore displeasure. He marvelled greatly from what country it
had come, and wondered long concerning this harbour, and the ship that
lay therein. Gugemar got him down from his horse upon the shore, and
with mighty pain and labour climbed within the ship. He trusted to find
merchantmen and sailors therein, but there was none to guard, and none
he saw. Now within the pavilion was a very rich bed, carved by cunning
workmen in the days of King Solomon. This fair bed was wrought of
cypress wood and white ivory, adorned with gold and gems most precious.
Right sweet were the linen cloths upon the bed, and so soft the pillow,
that he who lay thereon would sleep, were he sadder than any other in
the world. The counterpane was of purple from the vats of Alexandria,
and over all was set a right fair coverlet of cloth of gold. The
pavilion was litten by two great waxen torches, placed in candlesticks
of fine gold, decked with jewels worth a lord's ransom. So the wounded
knight looked on ship and pavilion, bed and candle, and marvelled
greatly. Gugemar sat him down upon the bed for a little, because of the
anguish of his wound. After he had rested a space he got upon his feet,
that he might quit the vessel, but he found that for him there was no
return. A gentle wind had filled the sails, and already he was in the
open sea. When Gugemar saw that he was far from land, he was very heavy
and sorrowful. He knew not what to do, by reason of the mightiness of
his hurt. But he must endure the adventure as best he was able; so he
prayed to God to take him in His keeping, and in His good pleasure to
bring him safe to port, and deliver him from the peril of death. Then
climbing upon the couch, he laid his head upon the pillow, and slept as
one dead, until, with vespers, the ship drew to that haven where he
might find the healing for his hurt.
Gugemar had come to an ancient city, where the King of that realm
held his court and state. This King was full of years, and was wedded
to a dame of high degree. The lady was of tender age, passing fresh and
fair, and sweet of speech to all. Therefore was the King jealous of his
wife beyond all measure. Such is the wont of age, for much it fears
that old and young cannot mate together, and that youth will turn to
youth. This is the death in life of the old.
The castle of this ancient lord had a mighty keep. Beneath this
tower was a right fair orchard, together with a close, shut in by a
wall of green marble, very strong and high. This wall had one only
gate, and the door was watched of warders, both night and day. On the
other side of this garden was the sea, so that none might do his errand
in the castle therefrom, save in a boat. To hold his dame in the
greater surety, the King had built a bower within the wall; there was
no fairer chamber beneath the sun. The first room was the Queen's
chapel. Beyond this was the lady's bedchamber, painted all over with
shapes and colours most wonderful to behold. On one wall might be seen
Dame Venus, the goddess of Love, sweetly flushed as when she walked the
water, lovely as life, teaching men how they should bear them in loyal
service to their lady. On another wall, the goddess threw Ovid's book
within a fire of coals. A scroll issuing from her lips proclaimed that
those who read therein, and strove to ease them of their pains, would
find from her neither service nor favour. In this chamber the lady was
put in ward, and with her a certain maiden to hold her company. This
damsel was her niece, since she was her sister's child, and there was
great love betwixt the twain. When the Queen walked within the garden,
or went abroad, this maiden was ever by her side, and came again with
her to the house. Save this damsel, neither man nor woman entered in
the bower, nor issued forth from out the wall. One only man possessed
the key of the postern, an aged priest, very white and frail. This
priest recited the service of God within the chapel, and served the
Queen's plate and cup when she ate meat at table.
Now, on a day, the Queen had fallen asleep after meat, and on her
awaking would walk a little in the garden. She called her companion to
her, and the two went forth to be glad amongst the flowers. As they
looked across the sea they marked a ship drawing near the land, rising
and falling upon the waves. Very fearful was the Queen thereat, for the
vessel came to anchorage, though there was no helmsman to direct her
course. The dame's face became sanguine for dread, and she turned her
about to flee, because of her exceeding fear. Her maiden, who was of
more courage than she, stayed her mistress with many comforting words.
For her part she was very desirous to know what this thing meant. She
hastened to the shore, and laying aside her mantle, climbed within this
wondrous vessel. Thereon she found no living soul, save only the knight
sleeping fast within the pavilion. The damsel looked long upon the
knight, for pale he was as wax, and well she deemed him dead. She
returned forthwith to the Queen, and told her of this marvel, and of
the good knight who was slain.
“Let us go together on the ship,” replied the lady. “If he be dead
we may give him fitting burial, and the priest shall pray meetly for
his soul. Should he be yet alive perchance he will speak, and tell us
of his case.”
Without more tarrying the two damsels mounted on the ship, the lady
before, and her maiden following after. When the Queen entered in the
pavilion she stayed her feet before the bed, for joy and grief of what
she saw. She might not refrain her eyes from gazing on the knight, for
her heart was ravished with his beauty, and she sorrowed beyond
measure, because of his grievous hurt. To herself she said, “In a bad
hour cometh the goodly youth.” She drew near the bed, and placing her
hand upon his breast, found that the flesh was warm, and that the heart
beat strongly in his side. Gugemar awoke at the touch, and saluted the
dame as sweetly as he was able, for well he knew that he had come to a
Christian land. The lady, full of thought, returned him his salutation
right courteously, though the tears were yet in her eyes. Straightway
she asked of him from what realm he came, and of what people, and in
what war he had taken his hurt.
“Lady,” answered Gugemar, “in no battle I received this wound. If it
pleases you to hear my tale I will tell you the truth, and in nothing
will I lie. I am a knight of Little Brittany. Yesterday I chased a
wonderful white deer within the forest. The shaft with which I struck
her to my hurt, returned again on me, and caused this wound upon my
thigh, which may never be searched, nor made whole. For this wondrous
Beast raised her plaint in a mortal tongue. She cursed me loudly, with
many evil words, swearing that never might this sore be healed, save by
one only damsel in the world, and her I know not where to find. When I
heard my luckless fate I left the wood with what speed I might, and
coming to a harbour, not far from thence, I lighted on this ship. For
my sins I climbed therein. Then without oars or helm this boat ravished
me from shore; so that I know not where I have come, nor what is the
name of this city. Fair lady, for God's love, counsel me of your good
grace, for I know not where to turn, nor how to govern the ship.”
The lady made answer, “Fair sir, willingly shall I give you such
good counsel as I may. This realm and city are the appanage of my
husband. He is a right rich lord, of high lineage, but old and very
full of years. Also he is jealous beyond all measure; therefore it is
that I see you now. By reason of his jealousy he has shut me fast
between high walls, entered by one narrow door, with an ancient priest
to keep the key. May God requite him for his deed. Night and day I am
guarded in this prison, from whence I may never go forth, without the
knowledge of my lord. Here are my chamber and my chapel, and here I
live, with this, my maiden, to bear me company. If it pleases you to
dwell here for a little, till you may pass upon your way, right gladly
we shall receive you, and with a good heart we will tend your wound,
till you are healed.”
When Gugemar heard this speech he rejoiced greatly. He thanked the
lady with many sweet words, and consented to sojourn in her hall
awhile. He raised himself upon his couch, and by the courtesy of the
damsels left the ship. Leaning heavily upon the lady, at the end he won
to her maiden's chamber, where there was a fair bed covered with a rich
dossal of broidered silk, edged with fur. When he was entered in this
bed, the damsels came bearing clear water in basins of gold, for the
cleansing of his hurt. They stanched the blood with a towel of fine
linen, and bound the wound strictly, to his exceeding comfort. So after
the vesper meal was eaten, the lady departed to her own chamber,
leaving the knight in much ease and content.
Now Gugemar set his love so fondly upon the lady that he forgot his
father's house. He thought no more of the anguish of his hurt, because
of another wound that was beneath his breast. He tossed and sighed in
his unrest, and prayed the maiden of his service to depart, so that he
might sleep a little. When the maid was gone, Gugemar considered within
himself whether he might seek the dame, to know whether her heart was
warmed by any ember of the flame that burned in his. He turned it this
way and that, and knew not what to do. This only was clear, that if the
lady refused to search his wound, death, for him, was sure and speedy.
“Alas,” said he, “what shall I do! Shall I go to my lady, and pray
her pity on the wretch who has none to give him counsel? If she refuse
my prayer, because of her hardness and pride, I shall know there is
nought for me but to die in my sorrow, or, at least, to go heavily all
the days of my life.”
Then he sighed, and in his sighing lighted on a better purpose; for
he said within himself that doubtless he was born to suffer, and that
the best of him was tears. All the long night he spent in vigil and
groanings and watchfulness. To himself he told over her words and her
semblance. He remembered the eyes and the fair mouth of his lady, and
all the grace and the sweetness, which had struck like a knife at his
heart. Between his teeth he cried on her for pity, and for a little
more would have called her to his side. Ah, had he but known the fever
of the lady, and how terrible a lord to her was Love, how great had
been his joy and solace. His visage would have been the more sanguine,
which was now so pale of colour, because of the dolour that was his.
But if the knight was sick by reason of his love, the dame had small
cause to boast herself of health. The lady rose early from her bed,
since she might not sleep. She complained of her unrest, and of Love
who rode her so hardly. The maiden, who was of her company, saw clearly
enough that all her lady's thoughts were set upon the knight, who, for
his healing, sojourned in the chamber. She did not know whether his
thoughts were given again to the dame. When, therefore, the lady had
entered in the chapel, the damsel went straightway to the knight. He
welcomed her gladly, and bade her be seated near the bed. Then he
inquired, “Friend, where now is my lady, and why did she rise so early
from her bed?”
Having spoken so far, he became silent, and sighed.
“Sir,” replied the maiden softly, “you love, and are discreet, but
be not too discreet therein. In such a love as yours there is nothing
to be ashamed. He who may win my lady's favour has every reason to be
proud of his fortune. Altogether seemly would be your friendship, for
you are young, and she is fair.”
The knight made answer to the maiden, “I am so fast in the snare,
that I pray the fowler to slay me, if she may not free me from the net.
Counsel me, fair sweet friend, if I may hope of kindness at her hand.”
Then the maiden of her sweetness comforted the knight, and assured
him of all the good that she was able. So courteous and debonair was
the maid.
When the lady had heard Mass, she hastened back to the chamber. She
had not forgotten her friend, and greatly she desired to know whether
he was awake or asleep, of whom her heart was fain. She bade her maiden
to summon him to her chamber, for she had a certain thing in her heart
to show him at leisure, were it for the joy or the sorrow of their
days.
Gugemar saluted the lady, and the dame returned the knight his
courtesy, but their hearts were too fearful for speech. The knight
dared ask nothing of his lady, for reason that he was a stranger in a
strange land, and was adread to show her his love. But—as says the
proverb—he who will not tell of his sore, may not hope for balm to his
hurt. Love is a privy wound within the heart, and none knoweth of that
bitterness but the heart alone. Love is an evil which may last for a
whole life long, because of man and his constant heart. Many there be
who make of Love a gibe and a jest, and with specious words defame him
by boastful tales. But theirs is not love. Rather it is folly and
lightness, and the tune of a merry song. But let him who has found a
constant lover prize her above rubies, and serve her with loyal
service, being altogether at her will. Gugemar loved in this fashion,
and therefore Love came swiftly to his aid. Love put words in his
mouth, and courage in his heart, so that his hope might be made plain.
“Lady,” said he, “I die for your love. I am in fever because of my
wound, and if you care not to heal my hurt I would rather die. Fair
friend, I pray you for grace. Do not gainsay me with evil words.”
The lady hearkened with a smile to Gugemar's speech. Right daintily
and sweetly she replied, “Friend, yea is not a word of two letters. I
do not grant such a prayer every day of the week, and must you have
your gift so quickly?”
“Lady,” cried he, “for God's sake pity me, and take it not amiss.
She, who loves lightly, may make her lover pray for long, so that she
may hide how often her feet have trodden the pathway with another
friend. But the honest dame, when she has once given her heart to a
friend, will not deny his wish because of pride. The rather she will
find her pride in humbleness, and love him again with the same love he
has set on her. So they will be glad together, and since none will have
knowledge or hearing of the matter, they will rejoice in their youth.
Fair, sweet lady, be this thy pleasure?”
When the lady heard these words well she found them honest and true.
Therefore without further prayings and ado she granted Gugemar her love
and her kiss. Henceforward Gugemar lived greatly at his ease, for he
had sight and speech of his friend, and many a time she granted him her
embrace and tenderness, as is the wont of lovers when alone.
For a year and a half Gugemar dwelt with his lady, in solace and
great delight. Then Fortune turned her wheel, and in a trice cast those
down, whose seat had been so high. Thus it chanced to them, for they
were spied upon and seen.
On a morning in summer time the Queen and the damoiseau sat fondly
together. The knight embraced her, eyes and face, but the lady stayed
him, saying, “Fair sweet friend, my heart tells me that I shall lose
you soon, for this hidden thing will quickly be made clear. If you are
slain, may the same sword kill me. But if you win forth, well I know
that you will find another love, and that I shall be left alone with my
thoughts. Were I parted from you, may God give me neither joy, nor
rest, nor peace, if I would seek another friend. Of that you need have
no fear. Friend, for surety and comfort of my heart deliver me now some
sark of thine. Therein I will set a knot, and make this covenant with
you, that never will you put your love on dame or maiden, save only on
her who shall first unfasten this knot. Then you will ever keep faith
with me, for so cunning shall be my craft, that no woman may hope to
unravel that coil, either by force or guile, or even with her knife.”
So the knight rendered the sark to his lady, and made such bargain
as she wished, for the peace and assurance of her mind.
For his part the knight took a fair girdle, and girt it closely
about the lady's middle. Right secret was the clasp and buckle of this
girdle. Therefore he required of the dame that she would never grant
her love, save to him only, who might free her from the strictness of
this bond, without injury to band or clasp. Then they kissed together,
and entered into such covenant as you have heard.
That very day their hidden love was made plain to men. A certain
chamberlain was sent by that ancient lord with a message to the Queen.
This unlucky wretch, finding that in no wise could he enter within the
chamber, looked through the window, and saw. Forthwith he hastened to
the King, and told him that which he had seen. When the aged lord
understood these words, never was there a sadder man than he. He called
together the most trusty sergeants of his guard, and coming with them
to the Queen's chamber, bade them to thrust in the door. When Gugemar
was found therein, the King commanded that he should be slain with the
sword, by reason of the anguish that was his. Gugemar was in no whit
dismayed by the threat. He started to his feet, and gazing round,
marked a stout rod of fir, on which it is the use for linen to be hung.
This he took in hand, and faced his foes, bidding them have a care, for
he would do a mischief to them all. The King looked earnestly upon the
fearless knight, inquiring of him who he was, and where he was born,
and in what manner he came to dwell within his house. So Gugemar told
over to him this story of his fate. He showed him of the Beast that he
had wounded to his hurt; of the nave, and of his bitter wound; of how
he came within the realm, and of the lady's surgery. He told all to the
ancient lord, to the last moment when he stood within his power. The
King replied that he gave no credence to his word, nor believed that
the story ran as he had said. If, however, the vessel might be found,
he would commit the knight again to the waves. He would go the more
heavily for the knight's saining, and a glad day would it be if he made
shipwreck at sea. When they had entered into this covenant together,
they went forth to the harbour, and there discovered the barge, even as
Gugemar had said. So they set him thereon, and prayed him to return
unto his own realm.
Without sail or oar the ship parted from that coast, with no further
tarrying. The knight wept and wrung his hands, complaining of his
lady's loss, and of her cherishing. He prayed the mighty God to grant
him speedy death, and never to bring him home, save to meet again with
her who was more desirable than life. Whilst he was yet at his orisons,
the ship drew again to that port, from whence she had first come.
Gugemar made haste to get him from the vessel, so that he might the
more swiftly return to his own land. He had gone but a little way when
he was aware of a squire of his household, riding in the company of a
certain knight. This squire held the bridle of a destrier in his hand,
though no man rode thereon. Gugemar called to him by name, so that the
varlet looking upon him, knew again his lord. He got him to his feet,
and bringing the destrier to his master, set the knight thereon. Great
was the joy, and merry was the feast, when Gugemar returned to his own
realm. But though his friends did all that they were able, neither song
nor game could cheer the knight, nor turn him from dwelling in his
unhappy thoughts. For peace of mind they urged that he took to himself
a wife, but Gugemar would have none of their counsel. Never would he
wed a wife, on any day, either for love or for wealth, save only that
she might first unloose the knot within his shirt. When this news was
noised about the country, there was neither dame nor damsel in the
realm of Brittany, but essayed to unfasten the knot. But there was no
lady who could gain to her wish, whether by force or guile.
Now will I show of that lady, whom Gugemar so fondly loved. By the
counsel of a certain baron the ancient King set his wife in prison. She
was shut fast in a tower of grey marble, where her days were bad, and
her nights worse. No man could make clear to you the great pain, the
anguish and the dolour, that she suffered in this tower, wherein, I
protest, she died daily. Two years and more she lay bound in prison,
where warders came, but never joy or delight. Often she thought upon
her friend.
“Gugemar, dear lord, in an evil hour I saw you with my eyes. Better
for me that I die quickly, than endure longer my evil lot. Fair friend,
if I could but win to that coast whence you sailed, very swiftly would
I fling myself in the sea, and end my wretched life.” When she had said
these words she rose to her feet, and coming to the door was amazed to
find therein neither bolt nor key. She issued forth, without challenge
from sergeant or warder, and hastening to the harbour, found there her
lover's ship, made fast to that very rock, from which she would cast
her down. When she saw the barge she climbed thereon, but presently
bethought her that on this nave her friend had gone to perish in the
sea. At this thought she would have fled again to the shore, but her
bones were as water, and she fell upon the deck. So in sore travail and
sorrow, the vessel carried her across the waves, to a port of Brittany,
guarded by a castle, strong and very fair. Now the lord of this castle
was named Meriadus. He was a right warlike prince, and had made him
ready to fight with the prince of a country near by. He had risen very
early in the morning, to send forth a great company of spears, the more
easily to ravage this neighbour's realm. Meriadus looked forth from his
window, and marked the ship which came to port. He hastened down the
steps of the perron, and calling to his chamberlain, came with what
speed he might to the nave. Then mounting the ladder he stood upon the
deck. When Meriadus found within the ship a dame, who for beauty seemed
rather a fay than a mere earthly woman, he seized her by her mantle,
and brought her swiftly to his keep. Right joyous was he because of his
good fortune, for lovely was the lady beyond mortal measure. He made no
question as to who had set her on the barge. He knew only that she was
fair, and of high lineage, and that his heart turned towards her with
so hot a love as never before had he put on dame or damsel. Now there
dwelt within the castle a sister of this lord, who was yet unwed.
Meriadus bestowed the lady in his sister's chamber, because it was the
fairest in the tower. Moreover he commanded that she should be meetly
served, and held in all reverence. But though the dame was so richly
clothed and cherished, ever was she sad and deep in thought. Meriadus
came often to cheer her with mirth and speech, by reason that he wished
to gain her love as a free gift, and not by force. It was in vain that
he prayed her for grace, since she had no balm for his wound. For
answer she showed him the girdle about her body, saying that never
would she give her love to man, save only to him who might unloose the
buckle of that girdle, without harm to belt or clasp. When Meriadus
heard these words, he spoke in haste and said,
“Lady, there dwells in this country a very worthy knight, who will
take no woman as wife, except she first untie a certain crafty knot in
the hem of a shirt, and that without force or knife. For a little I
would wager that it was you who tied this knot.”
When the lady heard thereof her breath went from her, and near she
came to falling on the ground. Meriadus caught her in his arms, and cut
the laces of her bodice, that she might have the more air. He strove to
unfasten her girdle, but might not dissever the clasp. Yea, though
every knight in the realm essayed to unfasten that cincture, it would
not yield, except to one alone.
Now Meriadus made the lists ready for a great jousting, and called
to that tournament all the knights who would aid him in his war. Many a
lord came at his bidding, and with them Gugemar, amongst the first.
Meriadus had sent letters to the knight, beseeching him, as friend and
companion, not to fail him in this business. So Gugemar hastened to the
need of his lord, and at his back more than one hundred spears. All
these Meriadus welcomed very gladly, and gave them lodging within his
tower. In honour of his guest, the prince sent two gentlemen to his
sister, praying her to attire herself richly, and come to hall,
together with the dame whom he loved so dearly well. These did as they
were bidden, and arrayed in their sweetest vesture, presently entered
in the hall, holding each other by the hand. Very pale and pensive was
the lady, but when she heard her lover's name her feet failed beneath
her, and had not the maiden held her fast, she would have fallen on the
floor. Gugemar rose from his seat at the sight of the dame, her fashion
and her semblance, and stood staring upon her. He went a little apart,
and said within himself, “Can this be my sweet friend, my hope, my
heart, my life, the fair lady who gave me the grace of her love? From
whence comes she; who might have brought her to this far land? But I
speak in my folly, for well I know that this is not my dear. A little
red, a little white, and all women are thus shapen. My thoughts are
troubled, by reason that the sweetness of this lady resembles the
sweetness of that other, for whom my heart sighs and trembles. Yet
needs must that I have speech of the lady.”
Gugemar drew near to the dame. He kissed her courteously, and found
no word to utter, save to pray that he might be seated at her side.
Meriadus spied upon them closely, and was the more heavy because of
their trouble. Therefore he feigned mirth.
“Gugemar, dear lord, if it pleases you, let this damsel essay to
untie the knot of your sark, if so be she may loosen the coil.”
Gugemar made answer that very willingly he would do this thing. He
called to him a squire who had the shirt in keeping, and bade him seek
his charge, and deliver it to the dame. The lady took the sark in hand.
Well she knew the knot that she had tied so cunningly, and was so
willing to unloose; but for reason of the trouble at her heart, she did
not dare essay. Meriadus marked the distress of the damsel, and was
more sorrowful than ever was lover before.
“Lady,” said he, “do all that you are able to unfasten this coil.”
So at his commandment she took again to her the hem of the shirt,
and lightly and easily unravelled the tie.
Gugemar marvelled greatly when he saw this thing. His heart told him
that of a truth this was his lady, but he could not give faith to his
eyes.
“Friend, are you indeed the sweet comrade I have known? Tell me
truly now, is there about your body the girdle with which I girt you in
your own realm?”
He set his hands to her waist, and found that the secret belt was
yet about her sides.
“Fair sweet friend, tell me now by what adventure I find you here,
and who has brought you to this tower?”
So the lady told over to her friend the pain and the anguish and the
dolour of the prison in which she was held; of how it chanced that she
fled from her dungeon, and lighting upon a ship, entered therein, and
came to this fair haven; of how Meriadus took her from the barge, but
kept her in all honour, save only that ever he sought for her love;
“but now, fair friend, all is well, for you hold your lady in your
arms.”
Gugemar stood upon his feet, and beckoned with his hand.
“Lords,” he cried, “hearken now to me. I have found my friend, whom
I have lost for a great while. Before you all I pray and require of
Meriadus to yield me my own. For this grace I give him open thanks.
Moreover I will kneel down, and become his liege man. For two years, or
three, if he will, I will bargain to serve in his quarrels, and with
me, of riders, a hundred or more at my back.”
Then answered Meriadus, “Gugemar, fair friend, I am not yet so
shaken or overborne in war, that I must do as you wish, right humbly.
This woman is my captive. I found her: I hold her: and I will defend my
right against you and all your power.”
When Gugemar heard these proud words he got to horse speedily, him
and all his company. He threw down his glove, and parted in anger from
the tower. But he went right heavily, since he must leave behind his
friend. In his train rode all those knights who had drawn together to
that town for the great tournament. Not a knight of them all but
plighted faith to follow where he led, and to hold himself recreant and
shamed if he failed his oath.
That same night the band came to the castle of the prince with whom
Meriadus was at war. He welcomed them very gladly, and gave them
lodging in his tower. By their aid he had good hope to bring this
quarrel to an end. Very early in the morning the host came together to
set the battle in array. With clash of mail and noise of horns they
issued from the city gate, Gugemar riding at their head. They drew
before the castle where Meriadus lay in strength, and sought to take it
by storm. But the keep was very strong, and Meriadus bore himself as a
stout and valiant knight. So Gugemar, like a wary captain, sat himself
down before the town, till all the folk of that place were deemed by
friend and sergeant to be weak with hunger. Then they took that high
keep with the sword, and burnt it with fire. The lord thereof they slew
in his own hall; but Gugemar came forth, after such labours as you have
heard, bearing his lady with him, to return in peace to his own land.
From this adventure that I have told you, has come the Lay that
minstrels chant to harp and viol—fair is that song and sweet the tune.