Hearken now to the Lay that once I heard a minstrel chanting to his
harp. In surety of its truth I will name the city where this story
passed. The Lay of the Dolorous Knight, my harper called his song, but
of those who hearkened, some named it rather, The Lay of the Four
Sorrows.
In Nantes, of Brittany, there dwelt a dame who was dearly held of
all, for reason of the much good that was found in her. This lady was
passing fair of body, apt in book as any clerk, and meetly schooled in
every grace that it becometh dame to have. So gracious of person was
this damsel, that throughout the realm there was no knight could
refrain from setting his heart upon her, though he saw her but one only
time. Although the demoiselle might not return the love of so many,
certainly she had no wish to slay them all. Better by far that a man
pray and require in love all the dames of his country, than run mad in
woods for the bright eyes of one. Therefore this dame gave courtesy and
good will to each alike. Even when she might not hear a lover's words,
so sweetly she denied his wish that the more he held her dear and was
the more her servant for that fond denial. So because of her great
riches of body and of heart, this lady of whom I tell, was prayed and
required in love by the lords of her country, both by night and by day.
Now in Brittany lived four young barons, but their names I cannot
tell. It is enough that they were desirable in the eyes of maidens for
reason of their beauty, and that men esteemed them because they were
courteous of manner and open of hand. Moreover they were stout and
hardy knights amongst the spears, and rich and worthy gentlemen of
those very parts. Each of these four knights had set his heart upon the
lady, and for love of her pained himself mightily, and did all that he
was able, so that by any means he might gain her favour. Each prayed
her privily for her love, and strove all that he could to make him
worthy of the gift, above his fellows. For her part the lady was sore
perplexed, and considered in her mind very earnestly, which of these
four knights she should take as friend. But since they all were loyal
and worthy gentlemen, she durst not choose amongst them; for she would
not slay three lovers with her hand so that one might have content.
Therefore to each and all, the dame made herself fair and sweet of
semblance. Gifts she gave to all alike. Tender messages she sent to
each. Every knight deemed himself esteemed and favoured above his
fellows, and by soft words and fair service diligently strove to
please. When the knights gathered together for the games, each of these
lords contended earnestly for the prize, so that he might be first, and
draw on him the favour of his dame. Each held her for his friend. Each
bore upon him her gift—pennon, or sleeve, or ring. Each cried her name
within the lists.
Now when Eastertide was come, a great tournament was proclaimed to
be held beyond the walls of Nantes, that rich city. The four lovers
were the appellants in this tourney, and from every realm knights rode
to break a lance in honour of their dame. Frenchman and Norman and
Fleming; the hardiest knights of Brabant, Boulogne and Anjou; each came
to do his devoir in the field. Nor was the chivalry of Nantes backward
in this quarrel, but till the vespers of the tournament was come, they
stayed themselves within the lists, and struck stoutly for their lord.
After the four lovers had laced their harness upon them, they issued
forth from the city, followed by the knights who were of their company
in this adventure. But upon the four fell the burden of the day, for
they were known of all by the embroidered arms upon their surcoat, and
the device fashioned on the shield. Now against the four lovers arrayed
themselves four other knights, armed altogether in coats of mail, and
helmets and gauntlets of steel. Of these stranger knights two were of
Hainault, and the two others were Flemings. When the four lovers saw
their adversaries prepare themselves for the combat, they had little
desire to flee, but hastened to join them in battle. Each lowered his
spear, and choosing his enemy, met him so eagerly that all men
wondered, for horse and man fell to the earth. The four lovers recked
little of their destriers, but freeing their feet from the stirrups
bent over the fallen foe, and called on him to yield. When the friends
of the vanquished knights saw their case, they hastened to their
succour; so for their rescue there was a great press, and many a mighty
stroke with the sword.
The damsel stood upon a tower to watch these feats of arms. By their
blazoned coats and shields she knew her knights; she saw their
marvellous deeds, yet might not say who did best, nor give to one the
praise. But the tournament was no longer a seemly and ordered battle.
The ranks of the two companies were confused together, so that every
man fought against his fellow, and none might tell whether he struck
his comrade or his foe. The four lovers did well and worshipfully, so
that all men deemed them worthy of the prize. But when evening was
come, and the sport drew to its close, their courage led them to folly.
Having ventured too far from their companions, they were set upon by
their adversaries, and assailed so fiercely that three were slain
outright. As to the fourth he yet lived, but altogether mauled and
shaken, for his thigh was broken, and a spear head remained in his
side. The four bodies were fallen on the field, and lay with those who
had perished in that day. But because of the great mischief these four
lovers had done their adversaries, their shields were cast despitefully
without the lists; but in this their foemen did wrongfully, and all men
held them in sore displeasure.
Great were the lamentation and the cry when the news of this
mischance was noised about the city. Such a tumult of mourning was
never before heard, for the whole city was moved. All men hastened
forth to the place where the lists were set. Meetly to mourn the dead
there rode nigh upon two thousand knights, with hauberks unlaced, and
uncovered heads, plucking upon their beards. So the four lovers were
placed each upon his shield, and being brought back in honour to
Nantes, were carried to the house of that dame, whom so greatly they
had loved. When the lady knew this distressful adventure, straightway
she fell to the ground. Being returned from her swoon, she made her
complaint, calling upon her lovers each by his name.
“Alas,” said she, “what shall I do, for never shall I know happiness
again. These four knights had set their hearts upon me, and despite
their great treasure, esteemed my love as richer than all their wealth.
Alas, for the fair and valiant knight! Alas, for the loyal and generous
man! By gifts such as these they sought to gain my favour, but how
might lady bereave three of life, so as to cherish one. Even now I
cannot tell for whom I have most pity, or who was closest to my mind.
But three are dead, and one is sore stricken; neither is there anything
in the world which can bring me comfort. Only this is there to do—to
give the slain men seemly burial, and, if it may be, to heal their
comrade of his wounds.”
So, because of her great love and nobleness, the lady caused these
three distressful knights to be buried well and worshipfully in a rich
abbey. In that place she offered their Mass penny, and gave rich
offerings of silver and of lights besides. May God have mercy on them
in that day. As for the wounded knight she commanded him to be carried
to her own chamber. She sent for surgeons, and gave him into their
hands. These searched his wounds so skilfully, and tended him with so
great care, that presently his hurt commenced to heal. Very often was
the lady in the chamber, and very tenderly she cherished the stricken
man. Yet ever she felt pity for the three Knights of the Sorrows, and
ever she went heavily by reason of their deaths.
Now on a summer's day, the lady and the knight sat together after
meat. She called to mind the sorrow that was hers; so that, in a space,
her head fell upon her breast, and she gave herself altogether to her
grief. The knight looked earnestly upon his dame. Well he might see
that she was far away, and clearly he perceived the cause.
“Lady,” said he, “you are in sorrow. Open now your grief to me. If
you tell me what is in your heart perchance I may find you comfort.”
“Fair friend,” replied she, “I think of what is gone, and remember
your companions, who are dead. Never was lady of my peerage, however
fair and good and gracious, ever loved by four such valiant gentlemen,
nor ever lost them in one single day. Save you—who were so maimed and
in such peril—all are gone. Therefore I call to mind those who loved
me so dearly, and am the saddest lady beneath the sun. To remember
these things, of you four I shall make a Lay, and will call it the Lay
of the Four Sorrows.”
When the knight heard these words he made answer very swiftly,
“Lady, name it not the Lay of the Four Sorrows, but, rather, the Lay of
the Dolorous Knight. Would you hear the reason why it should bear this
name? My three comrades have finished their course; they have nothing
more to hope of their life. They are gone, and with them the pang of
their great sorrow, and the knowledge of their enduring love for you. I
alone have come, all amazed and fearful, from the net wherein they were
taken, but I find my life more bitter than my comrades found the grave.
I see you on your goings and comings about the house. I may speak with
you both matins and vespers. But no other joy do I get— neither clasp
nor kiss, nothing but a few empty, courteous words. Since all these
evils are come upon me because of you, I choose death rather than life.
For this reason your Lay should bear my name, and be called the Lay of
the Dolorous Knight. He who would name it the Lay of the Four Sorrows
would name it wrongly, and not according to the truth.”
“By my faith,” replied the lady, “this is a fair saying. So shall
the song be known as the Lay of the Dolorous Knight.”
Thus was the Lay conceived, made perfect, and brought to a fair
birth. For this reason it came by its name; though to this day some
call it the Lay of the Four Sorrows. Either name befits it well, for
the story tells of both these matters, but it is the use and wont in
this land to call it the Lay of the Dolorous Knight. Here it ends; no
more is there to say. I heard no more, and nothing more I know.
Perforce I bring my story to a close.