Chapter 8

The maid took the child her _mid_,[43] And stole away in an even tide, And passed over a wild heath; Thorough field and thorough wood she _geth_,[44] All the winter-long night. The weather was clear, the moon was light, So that she com by a forest side; She wox all weary, and gan abide. Soon after she gan heark, Cockes crow, and dogs bark; She arose, and thither wold; Near and nearer, she gan behold, Walls and houses fell the seigh, A church, with steeple fair and high; Then was there nother street no town, But an house of religion; An order of nuns, well y-dight, To servy God both day and night. The maiden abode no _lengore_;[45] But yede her to the church door, And on her knees she sate her down, And said, weepand, her orisones. "O Lord," she said, "Jesus Christ, That sinful mannes _bedes_,[46] _Underfong_[47] this present, And help this seli innocent! That it mote y-christen'd be, For Marie love, thy mother free!" She looked up, and by her seigh An asche, by her, fair and high, Well y-boughed, of mickle price; The body was hollow, as many one is. Therin she laid the child for cold, In the _pel_,[48] as it was, _byfold_[49] And blessed it with all her might. With that it gan to dowe light. The fowles up, and sung on bough, And acre-men yede to the plough, The maiden turned again anon, And took the way she had ere gon. The porter of the abbey arose, And did his office in the close; Rung the bells and tapers light, Laid forth books, and all ready dight. The church door be undid, And seigh anon, in the _stede_,[50] The pel liggen in the tree, And thought well that it might be, That thieves had y-robbed somewhere, And gone there forth, and let it there. Therto he yede, and it unwound, And the maiden child therin he found. He took it up between his honde, And thanked Jesu Christes sonde, And home to his house he it brought, And took it to his daughter, and her besought That she should keep it as she con, For she was _melche, and couthe thon._[51] She bade it suck, and it wold, For it was nigh dead for cold. Anon, fire she a-light, And warmed it well _aplight_,[52] She gave it suck upon her _barm_,[53] And siththen, laid it to sleep warm. And when the mass was y-done, The porter to the abbesse com full soon. "Madame, what rede ye of this thinge? To-day, right in the morning, Soon after the first _stound_,[54] A little maiden child ich found In hollow ash thin out And a pel her about; A ring of gold also was there; How it came thither I wot ne'er." The abbesse was a-wondered of this thing. "Go," she said, "on _hying_[55] And fetch it hither, I pray thee; It is welcome to God and me. Ich will it helpen as I can, And segge it to my kinswoman." The porter anon it gan forth bring, With the pel, and with the ring. The abbesse let clepe a priest anon, And let it christen in function. And for it was in an ash y-found, She cleped it _Frain_ in that stound. The name[56] of the ash is a frain, After the language of Bretayn; _Forthy_[57] Le Frain men clepeth this lay, More than ash, in each country. This Frain thriv'd from year to year; The abbess niece men ween'd it were. The abbess her gan teach, and _beld._[58] By that she was twelve winter eld, In all England there was none A fairer maiden than she was one. And when she couthe ought of _manhede,_[59] She bade the abbesse her _wisse_[60] and rede, Which were her kin, one or other, Father or mother, sister or brother. The abbesse her in council took, To tellen her she nought forsook, How she was founden in all thing; And took her the cloth and the ring, And bade her keep it in that stede; And, therwhiles she lived, so she did. Then was there, in that cuntré, A rich knight of land and fee, Proud, and young, and jollif, And had not yet y-wedded wife. He was stout, of great renown, And was y-cleped Sir Guroun. He heard praise that maiden free, And said, he would her see. He dight him in the way anon, And jolliflich thither is gone, And bode his man segge, verament, He should toward a tournament. The abbesse, and the nonnes all, Fair him grette in the guest-hall; And damsel Frain, so fair of mouth, Grette him fair, as she well couth. And swithe well he gan devise, Her semblant, and her gentrise, Her lovesome eyen, her _rode_[61] so bright. And commenced to love her anon-right; And thought how he might take on, To have her for his lemon [Errata: leman]. He thought, "Gificcome her to More than ich have y-do, The abbesse will _souchy_[62] guile, And _wide_[63] her away in a little while." He compassed another _suchesoun;_[64] To be brother of that religion. "Madam," he said to the abbesse, _"I-lovi_[65] well, in all goodness, Ich will give one and other Londes and rentes, to become your brother,[66] That ye shall ever fare the _bet_[67] When I come to have recet."[68] At few wordes they ben _at one._ He graithes him[69], and forth is gone. Oft he com, by day and night, To speak with that maiden bright; So that, with his fair _behest_,[70] And with his glosing, at lest She granted him to don his will, When he will, loud and still. "Leman," he said, "thou must let be The abbesse _thy neice_,[71] and go with me; For ich am riche, of swich powere, Ye finde bet than thou hast here." The maiden grant, and to him trist, And stole away, that no man wist; With her took she no thing But her pel and her ring. When the abbess gan aspy That she was with the knight _owy_,[72] She made mourning in her thought, And her _bement_,[73] and gained nought. So long she was in his castel, That all his meynie loved her well. To rich and poor she gan her 'dress, That all her loved more and less; And thus she led with him her life, Right as she had been his wedded wife. His knightes com, and to him speke, And holy church commandeth eke, Some lordis daughter for to take, And his leman all forsake. And said, him were well more fair In wedlock to get him an heir, Than lead his life with swiche one, Of whose kin he knew none. And said, "Here besides, is a knight That hath a daughter fair and bright, That shall bear his heritage, Taketh her in marriage!" Loth him was for that deed to do, Oc, at last, he granted therto. The _forward_[74] was y-marked aright, And were at one, and troth plight. Allas! that he no had y-wit, Ere the forward were y-suit! That she, and his leman also, Sistren were, and twinnes two! Of o father begeten they were, Of o mother born _y-fere_:[75] That _hi_[76] so were ne wist none, Forsooth, I say, but God alone. The new bride was graithed with oil, And brought home to the lord is host, Her father come with her also, The levedi her mother, and other mo. The bishop of the lond, withouten fail, Come to do the spousail.

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The young rival of Le Frain was distinguished like her sister, by a sylvan appellation; her name was _Le Codre_ (Corylus, the Hazel), and the knight's tenants had sagaciously drawn a most favourable prognostic of his future happiness, from the superiority of nuts to vile ash-keys; but neither he nor any of his household were disposed to augur favourably of a marriage which tended to deprive them of the amiable orphan. The feast was magnificent, but dull; and never were apparent rejoicings more completely marred by a general feeling of constraint and formality. Le Frain alone, concealing the grief which preyed on her heart, was all zeal and activity; and, by her unceasing attentions, conciliated the pity and esteem of the bride, and even of her mother, who had hitherto felt the utmost anxiety to procure her dismissal. At the conclusion of the banquet she employed herself in the decoration of the bridal chamber, and having observed that the covering of the bed was not sufficiently costly, spread over it the magnificent mantle she had received from the abbess, and had hitherto preserved with the utmost solicitude. She had scarcely left the room when the bride entered it accompanied by her mother, who casting her eyes on this splendid mantle, surveyed it with feelings of the most poignant remorse, and immediately recognized the testimony of her crime. She questioned the chamberlains, who were unable to explain the appearance of an ornament they had never before beheld; she then interrogated Le Frain, and, at the end of a short examination, fell into a swoon, exclaiming, "Fair child, thou art my daughter!" Her husband was then summoned, and she confessed to him with tears, and every expression of penitence, the sinful act she had committed, and the providential discovery of her daughter by means of the mantle and the ring, both of which were presents from himself. The knight embraced his child with the utmost tenderness, and prevailed on the bishop to dissolve the just solemnized marriage, and unite their son-in-law to the original object of his affections. The other sister was shortly after bestowed on a neighbouring lord, and the adventures of Le Frain and Le Codre were formed into a Lay, which received its name from the former.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Jests.

[34] Perhaps a mistake in the MS. for ge, i.e. go.

[35] Gossip, godfather.

[36] Health, safety.

[37] Yesterday.

[38] Full of frowardness, each mis-saying or reviling.

[39] Each an end, i.e. in every quarter.

[40] A rich mantle, lined with fur.

[41] Constantinople.

[42] Plaited, twisted.

[43] With.

[44] Goeth.

[45] Longer.

[46] Prayers.

[47] Receive.

[48] Fur.

[49] Folded.

[50] Place.

[51] She had milk, and was able to suckle it.

[52] Certainly, I plight; I promise you.

[53] Lap.

[54] Hour.

[55] In haste.

[56] In the MS. it is "freyns," which maybe a mistake of the transcriber.

[57] Therefore.

[58] Protect, defend.

[59] Manhood, here used for the relation of consanguinity.

[60] Teach and advise her.

[61] Complexion.

[62] Suspect.

[63] Void, carry away.

[64] Excuse.

[65] Beloved.

[66] Of the same religious fraternity.

[67] Better.

[68] Lodging, abode.

[69] Agreed.

[70] Promise.

[71] It should be _thy aunt._

[72] Away.

[73] Bemoaned.

[74] Contract.

[75] Together.

[76] They, Sax.

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No. IV.--BISCLAVERET.

This is the Breton name for an animal, which the Normans call Garwolf; into whose form men were often formerly metamorphosed; and during such times were the most ferocious and destructive inhabitants of the forest.

There lived formerly in Bretagne a baron, comely in his person, wise, courteous, adored by his neighbours, much beloved by his sovereign, and married to a noble and beautiful lady, for whom he felt the warmest affection, which she appeared to return. But she had observed, her husband was regularly absent during three days in the week; and, suspecting there must be something mysterious in this periodical disappearance, resolved, if possible, to extort the secret. She redoubled her expressions of tenderness, bitterly lamented her frequent intervals of solitude, and, affecting to be persuaded that they were spent with a mistress, conjured him to calm her apprehensions by a disclosure of the truth. The good baron in his turn begged her to desist from an enquiry which would only lead to their permanent separation, and the extinction of all her fondness; but her tears and blandishments prevailed, and he confessed that, during half the week, he became a Bisclaveret. The lady, though she felt a secret horror at finding herself the wife of a wolf, pursued her enquiry;--Were his clothes also transformed at the same time? the baron answered, that he was naked: where, then, did he leave his dress? To this question he endeavoured to avoid giving an answer; declaring, should that be discovered, he should be condemned to wear his brute form through life; and observing that, if she loved him, she could have no wish to learn a secret, useless to her, and in its disclosure fatal to himself. But obstinacy is always an over-match for rational argument: she still insisted; and the good-natured husband ultimately told that, "by the side of an old chapel, situated on the road to the thickest part of the forest, was a bush, which overhang and concealed an excavated stone, in which he constantly deposited his garments." The wife, now mistress of his fate, quickly sent for a gallant, whose love she had hitherto rejected; taught him the means of confirming the baron's metamorphosis; and, when their friends had renounced all hope of his return, married her new favourite, and conveyed to him a large inheritance, the fruit of their joint treachery. In about a year the king went to hunt in the forest, and after a chase which lasted the whole day, had nearly run down the unfortunate Bisclaveret, when the persecuted animal rushed from the thicket, and running straight up to him, seized his stirrup with his fore-paw, began to lick his feet, and with the most piteous whinings to implore his protection. The king was, at first dreadfully frightened, but his fear gave way to pity and admiration. He called his attendants to witness the miracle; ordered the dogs to be whipped off, solemnly took the brute under his royal protection; and returned to his palace, closely followed by his savage attendant. Bisclaveret became an universal favourite; he was fed with the greatest care, slept in the royal apartments, and though indefatigable in attentions to his master, returned the caresses of the courtiers, who admired and esteemed, without envying his superior intelligence and accomplishments. At length, the king having summoned a plenar at court, his barons flocked from all quarters, and, among the rest the husband of the false lady. No one had thought of paying the least attention to Bisclaveret, whose gentleness was even more remarkable than his sagacity; but no sooner did the knight make his appearance than the animal attacked him with the greatest fury, and was scarcely prevented, even by the interposition of the king himself, from tearing him to pieces. The same scene occurred a second time, and occasioned infinite surprise. Not long after this, the king went to hunt in the same forest, and the wicked wife, as lady of the manor, having sent before her a magnificent present, set forth to pay her court to her sovereign. Bisclaveret saw her approach, flew upon her, and instantly tore her nose from her face. This act of discourtesy to a lady excited universal indignation: even the king took part against his favourite, who would have been punished with instant death, but for the interference of an aged counsellor. "This lady, Sir," said he to the king, "is wife of that knight whom you so tenderly loved, and whose unaccountable disappearance you have so long regretted." The baron whom Bisclaveret first assaulted is her present husband. He becomes ferocious only on the appearance of these two; there is some mystery in this, which the lady, if imprisoned and interrogated would probably discover. Britany is the country of wonders--

Mainte marveille avuns veu Qui en Bretaigne est avenu.

In compliance with this advice the lady was put in close confinement, the whole secret extorted, and the clothes of Bisclaveret duly restored. But when they were brought before him the animal appeared to survey them with listlessness and inattention; and the king had again recourse to his sapient counsellor, by whose advice they were transferred to the royal bed-chamber, where Bisclaveret was left, without witnesses, to effect, if possible, his metamorphosis. In due time the king, attended with two of his barons, repaired to the chamber, and found the knight in his natural form, asleep on the royal bed. His master immediately embraced him with the utmost affection, restored all his estates; added more, and banished the wicked wife, together with her paramour, from the country. It is remarkable that afterwards she had several children, all of whom were females, and distinguished by the disagreeable singularity of being born without noses. Be assured that this adventure is strictly true, and that the Lay of Bisclaveret was composed for the purpose of making it known to the latest posterity.

* * * * *

No. V.--_The Lay of SIR LANVAL_.

It was the time of Pentecost the bless'd, When royal Arthur held the accustom'd feast, When Carduel's walls contained the vast resort That press'd from every land to grace his plenar court. There did the sovereign's copious hand dispense Large boons to all with free magnificence, To all but one; from Bretany he came, A goodly knight, Sir Lanval was his name. Long had the king, by partial temper sway'd, His loyal zeal with cold neglect repaid; Yet from a throne Sir Lanval drew his birth, Nor could all England boast more comeliness and worth. Whate'er the cause, no gift the monarch gave, The knight with honest pride forbore to crave, Till at the last, his substance all forespent, From his lord's court the hopeless liegeman went. No leave he took, he told no mortal wight, Scarce had he thought to guide his steps aright, But all at random, reckless of his way, He wander'd on the better half of day. Ere evening fell he reached a pleasant mead, And there he loos'd his beast, at will to rest or feed; Then by a brook-side down his limbs he cast And, pondering on the waters as they pass'd, The while his cloak his bended arm sustain'd, Sadly he sat, and much in thought complain'd. So mus'd he long, till by the frequent tread Of quickening feet constrain'd, he turn'd his head; Close by his side there stood a female pair, Both richly clad, and both enchanting fair; With courteous guise the wondering knight they greet With winning speech, with invitation sweet From their kind mistress, where at ease she lay, And in her tent beguil'd the lingering day. Awhile Sir Lanval reft of sense appear'd; Then up at once his mailed limbs he rear'd, And with his guides impatient to proceed, Though a true knight, for once forgot his steed. And now with costliest silk superbly dight, A gay pavilion greets the warrior's sight; Its taper spire a towering eagle crown'd, In substance gold, of workmanship renown'd. Within, recumbent on a couch, was laid A form more perfect than e'er man survey'd: The new-blown rose, the lily's virgin prime, In the fresh hour of fragrant summer-time, Though of all flowers the fairest of the fair, With this sweet paragon might ill compare; And o'er her shoulders flow'd with graceful pride, Though for the heat some little cast aside, A crimson pall of Alexandria's dye, With snowy ermine lin'd, befitting royalty; Yet was her skin, where chance bewray'd the sight, Far purer than the snowy ermine's white. 'Lanval!' she cried, as in amazed mood, Of speech and motion void, the warrior stood, 'Lanval!' she cried, ''tis you I seek for here; Your worth has won me: knight, I love thee dear; And of my love such proof will soon impart, Shall wing with envy thy proud sovereign's heart: Then slighted merit shall be fully known, And kings repine at wealth beyond their own.' Words such as these arous'd the astonish'd knight, He felt love's kindling flame inspire his spright, And, 'O pure paragon,' he straight replied, 'Thy love is all! I hold no wish beside! If bliss so rare thy favouring lips decree, No deed shall foil thy champion's chivalry; No toil shall wear, no danger shall dismay, Let my queen will, and Lanval must obey: So may I thrive as, from this moment bless'd, One hope I cherish, one sole boon request, Thy winning form, thy fostering smiles to see, And never, never more to part from thee.'

So speaking ceas'd awhile the enraptur'd knight, For now the two fair damsels met his sight; Each on her arm resplendent vestments brought, Fresh from the loom, magnificently wrought: Enrob'd in them, with added grace he mov'd, As one by nature form'd to be belov'd; And, by the fairy to the banquet led, And placed beside her on one genial bed, Whiles the twain handmaids every want supplied, Cates were his fare to mortal man denied: Yet was there one, the foremost of the feast, One food there was far sweeter than the rest, One food there was did feed the warriors flame, For from his lady's lovely lips it came.

What feeble wit of man might here suffice, To point with colours dim Sir Lanval's extacies! There lapt in bliss he lies, there fain would stay, There dream the remnant of his life away: But o'er their loves his dew still evening shed, Night gathered on amain, and thus the fairy said; 'Rise, knight! I may not longer keep thee here; Back to the court return and nothing fear, There, in all princely cost, profusely free, Maintain the honour of thyself and me; There feed thy lavish fancies uncontroul'd, And trust the exhaustless power of fairy gold. 'But should reflection thy soft bosom move, And wake sad wishes for thy absent love; (And sure such wishes thou canst never frame, From any place where presence would be shame), Whene'er thou call thy joyful eyes shall see This form, invisible to all but thee. One thing I warn thee; let the blessing rest An unrevealed treasure in thy breast; If here thou fail, that hour my favours end, Nor wilt thou ever more behold thy friend:'-- Here, with a parting kiss, broke off the fay, 'Farewell!' she cried, and sudden pass'd away. The knight look'd up, and just without the tent Beheld his faithful steed, and forth he went; Light on his back he leap'd with graceful mein, And to the towers of Carduel turn'd the rein; Yet ever and anon he look'd behind With strange amaz'd uncertainty of mind, As one who hop'd some further proofs to spy If all were airy dream or just reality.

And now great Arthur's court beheld the knight In sumptuous guise magnificently dight; Large were his presents, cost was nothing spar'd, And every former friend his bounty shar'd. Now ransom'd thralls, now worthy knights supplied With equipage their scanty means denied; Now minstrels clad their patron's deeds proclaim, And add just honour to Sir Lanval's name. Nor did his kindness yield a sparing meed To the poor pilgrim, in his lowly weed; Nor less to those who erst, in fight renown'd, Had borne the bloody cross, and warr'd on paynim ground: Yet, as his best belov'd so lately told, His unexhausted purse o'erflow'd with gold. But what far dearer solace did impart, And thrill'd with thankfulness his loyal heart, Was the choice privilege, that, night or day, Whene'er his whisper'd prayer invok'd the fay, That loveliest form, surpassing mortal charms, Bless'd his fond eyes, and fill'd his circling arms.

Now shall ye hear how these delights so pure Chang'd all to trouble and discomfiture.