Chapter 5

pitte: the watche of the citie (because they swette and the night was very hot), being drie and thirstie came to the pitte to drinke. The other twoo perceiuing the watche at hande, left Andreuccio in the pitte and ranne awaye. The watche whiche was come thether to drinke, perceiued not those two that were fledde; and Andreuccio being still in the bottome, when he had clensed him selfe, began to wagge the rope. The watche sitting downe by the pittes syde caste of their clokes and layde downe their halbardes and other weapons, and began to drawe vp the rope, thinking that the bucket full of water was tied to the same. When Andreuccio was haled vp, to the brincke of the pitte, hee forsoke the rope, and cast him selfe with one of his handes vpon the syde of the same. When the watche sawe that, they for feare ranne away so faste as they could without speaking any worde. Wherof Andreuccio did marueile very much: and if he had not taken good holde, he had fallen agayne downe to the bottome, to his great hurt, and peraduenture not without peril of his life. Notwithstanding being out of the pitte, and finding halberdes and other weapons there, which he knew wel his fellowes brought not with them: he then began muche more to wonder. But betwene feare and ignoraunce of that which happened, complaining him self of his harde fortune, without touching of any thing, he determined to go from thence, and wandred he could not tell whether. But as he was departing from that place, he met his fellowes, retiring backe to drawe him vp. And when they perceiued him alredie haled out of the pitte, they wer wonderfully abashed, and asked who drewe him out? Andreuccio made aunswere, that he coulde not tell, rehearsing to them in order, what had chaunced, and of the things he founde without. They vnderstanding the matter, laughed and tolde him againe the cause, wherefore they ran awaye, and what they were that drewe him vp. And without further talke (being then about midnight, they repaired to the great churche: into the whiche they easely entred: and wente to the Tombe, whiche was of Marble, verie huge and weightie: the couer whereof being verye great, with their crowes of yron, and other tooles, they lifted vp so farre, as one man was able to enter, which doen, one asked an other, who should goe in? “Not I” quod one: “And not I” (quod the other) “No, nor I” quod Andreuccio. The other twoo hearing Andreuccio saye so, stepped vnto hym, saying: “Wilte thou not goe in? by the faythe wee owe to God: if thou goe not in, we will so beate thee, with one of these yron barres, as thou shalt neuer sturre againe out of this place.” Andreuccio being made their common riding foole, greately fearing when he heard them saye so, went in: and when he was in the graue, he sayde vnto him selfe. “These good felowes do make me goe in, because they would deceiue me: for when I haue geuen them all that is here, and I readie to come out, they meane to runne awaie to saue them selues, and to leaue me behinde without any parte thereof.” Wherfore he purposed first, to take his owne porcion to him selfe: and remembring the Ring of great valour, whereof they tolde him: so sone as he was in the graue, he pulled it of from the Archebishop’s finger, and put it vpon his own: and afterwardes taking the Crosse, the Miter and the Gloues, dispoyling him euen to his shyrt, he gaue them all saying. “That there was nothing els.” But they pressing vpon him that there was a ring behinde, willed him throughly to make searche for it: howebeit he still aunswered that he could not finde it. And because he would make them to tarie a litle longer, he fained as though he had made a further searche. The other so subtile and malicious as he, bad him to seke stil: and when they saw time, they toke away the proppes that staied vp the Tombe, and ran awaye, leauing poore Andreuccio fast shutte in the graue. Whiche when Andreuccio perceiued, what chaunced to him then, eche man may consider: then he assaied some times with his shoulders, sometimes with his head, to remoue the couer, but all was in vaine. Wherefore euen for verie sorowe, he fell in a sownde vpon the dead bodie of the Bishop. And if a man had seene them both at that instant, it coulde not well haue bene discerned, whether was the dead corps, the Archebishhope dead, or poore Andreuccio dying: but after he was come to him self, he began piteously to complaine, seing hee was arriued to one of these twoo endes, either in the Tombe to die for hunger, and with the stenche of the dead bodie, putrifying with wormes, if no man came to open it: or els to be hanged as a thiefe, if hee were founde within: and as he was in these considerations tormented with sorowe: he heard a noyse in the church of diuers men, who as he thought came to the like facte, that he and his felowes had done before, wherewith his feare began much more to augmente. But after they had opened the graue and stayed it vp, it came in question amongs them who should go in. And when they had contended a good space about the same, a priest that was in the companie sayde. “Why are ye afrayde? doe ye thinke that hee will eate you? the dead neuer eate men: I will go in my selfe.” And when he had sayde so, he laied him downe vpon his breste at the side of the graue, and thrusting his feete in before, he went downe. Andreuccio seeing that, erected him selfe vpright and caught the Priest by one of the legges, making as though he would haue drawen him in: which when the priest perceiued, he cried out a loude, speeding him self out so fast as he could. Wherewithal the reste dismaied almoste out of their wittes, leauing the graue open, toke their legges and ran, as though a hundred thousand deuels had bene at their tailes: whiche seing, Andreuccio (more ioyful then he looked for) lepte out of the graue, and ran as faste as he could out of the Churche, at the place where he came in. At what time dayelight began to appeare, and he with the ringe on his finger, wandred he wiste not whether, tyll he came to the Seaside, and at length recouered his Inne, where he founde his companie and his hoste al that night, taking greate care for him. To whome recompting that whiche chaunced, his hoste gaue him aduise incontinently, to get him out of Naples, whiche presently he did: and retourned to Perugia, hauing bestowed his v. C. crownes vpon a rynge, whiche he thought to haue imploied vpon horses: for whiche cause he made that iourney.

THE THIRTY-SEUENTH NOUELL.

_The erle of Angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of Fraunce, and left his two sonnes in sondry places in Englande, and retourning (vnknowen) by Scotlande, founde theim in great authoritie, afterwardes he repayred in the habite of a seruaunte, to the Frenche kinges armie, and being knowen to be innocent, was againe aduaunced to his first estate._

The Romaine Empire being transferred from the Frenche, vnto the Almanes, there rose a great discencion betwene both the nacions, and in the ende a cruell and continuall warre. For whiche cause, as well for the defence of his kingdome, as to offende his ennemies, the Frenche king and one of his sonnes, with all the power of their owne Realme and of their frendes and allies, assembled a great hoste of menne to encountre with their enemies: and before they proceaded, because they would not leaue their realme without a gouernour, knowing Gualtieri, Erie of Anglers, to be a gentle and sage knight, and their moste trustie frend, and that he was a man moste expert in the art of warfare, seming vnto them (notwithstanding) more apt to pleasure, then paine, lefte him Lieutenaunt generall in their place, for the gouernement of the whole kingdome of Fraunce: and preceded in their enterprise. The Erle then began with great knowledge, and by good order, to execute his office committed vnto hym, doynge nothinge withoute the consente of the Queene and her fayre daughter in lawe, althoughe they were lefte to be vnder his custodie and gouernement, yet neuertheles, he honoured them as his Maistresses and superiours. The Erle Gaultieri was a beautiful personage, about the age of fourtie yeares, so familiar and well condicioned, as any gentleman could be, and be sides that, hee was the moste excellent and trimmest knight that was knowen in those dayes, and one moste comelie in his apparell. It chaunced that the king and his sonne, being at the warres aforesaide, the wife of the Erle died in the meane whyle, leauing him onely twoo litle yong children, a sonne and a doughter, whiche he had by her. He then frequenting the court of the aforesaid ladies, talking many times with theim about the affaires of the Realme: the wife of the kinges sonne, fixed her eyes vpon him, and with great affection (for his persone and vertues) feruently embraced hym with secrete loue. And knowing her selfe to bee yonge and freshe, and him to be without a wyfe, thought (sodainly) to bring to passe, that whiche shee desired, and thinking that nothing could lette it but onelye shame to discouer it, shee purposed vtterlye to abandone the same. And vppon a daye beyng alone, shee sente one to seeke the Erle, as though shee would haue communicated with him of other matters. The Erle whose mynde was farre different from the Ladies, incontinentlye came vnto her: who beyng sette downe together vppon a bedde (whiche she desired) alone in a chamber, he asked her twyse vpon what occasion she sent for hym: and she hauing nothing to saye vnto hym, pressed in the ende, and rapte with loue waxed verie shamefaste and almoste wepinge, and quaking for feare, with faynte woordes, began to saye as foloweth. “My derely beloued and louing frende, and Lorde, you may easely knowe (beyng a wyse man as you bee) the frailtie of men and women: and by diuers considerations, the weakenesse to be more in the one, then in the other. Wherefore (before a iust iudge) one fault of diuerse qualities, ought not of reason to receiue one like punishement. Moreouer who is he that will saye, that a poore man or woman, which getteth their liuing with the labour of their bodie, ought not more to be reprehended if they become amourous, and subiect to their lustes, then the riche Ladye whiche taketh no care for her liuing, or wanteth any thing that shee desireth. Truely I beleue there is none that will saye so: for which reason I suppose that the things beforesayd, ought to serue the greatest part of the excuse to the aduauntage of her that doth possesse them: if it happen that shee geue her selfe fully to the conductions of loue: and the superflusage of her saide excuse ought to consiste, in that shee hath chosen her a sage and vertuous frende, if shee that loueth hath done so in dede. Whiche twoo thinges as they ought to be (in my iudgement) so they are in me, and many other also: whiche ought to induce me to loue, accordingly as my youth requireth, and the great distaunce that is betweene my husbande and mee. It behoueth nowe then, that they should aduaunce them selues in your presence, for the defence of my burning loue: and if the same do raine in you, whiche haue power in the wise, then I beseche you to geue me counsayle and aide in the thing which I shal demaunde. True it is, that for the long absence of my husbande (not able to resist the prickes of the fleshe, and the force of loue) whiche be of suche great effect, that they haue many times past and yet daily do vanquishe and ouercome, not only feble and weake women, but also the strongest men. I liuing in ease and idlenes as you se, and forced to folowe the pleasures of loue and to become amourous: and as I do knowe well, that suche thinges (if they were knowen) should not be reputed honest. Neuerthelesse, the same being kepte secrete, I truste shall not be reprocheful. Notwithstanding dame Loue is so fauourable vnto mee, that not onely shee hath geuen me true iudgement in choise of a frende, but hath reueiled vnto me that it is you whiche is worthy to be beloued, of such a Ladie as I am. For if I be not greatlye deceiued, I doe make accompte that you be the fayrest personage, the semeliest, the moste curteous, and wysest gentleman, in all the Realme of Fraunce. And as I maye saye, by reason of his absence, that I am without a husband so may you affirme that you be without a wife: wherefore I beseche you, for the loue that I beare vnto you, that you will not denye me your loue and frendship, and that you will haue pitie vpon my young yeares, whiche doubtles do consume for you, as I see against the fierie flames.” At which worde the teares ran downe in such aboundance, as where she thought to make further supplication and praiers, she had no more power to speake. But holding downe her head, like one that was ouercome, she threw her self downe into the Erles lappe, who like a faithfull knight, began to blame (with sharpe rebukes) her fonde and foolishe loue: pushing her from hym, as shee was about to clepe him aboute the necke, and swoore great othes, that rather hee woulde be drawen in peces then consent to suche a thing, to bee done by him, or any other, against the honour of his Lorde and maister. Whiche woordes the Ladie hearing, sodainly forgat her loue, and in great rage, sayde vnto him: “Shall I then be frustrate, thou arrent villayne, in this wyse of my desired ioye? but sithens thou goest about, to seke my destruction, I will cause thee to be put to death, or els to be banyshed the worlde.” When she had sayde so, by and by she caught her selfe by the heare of the head, and almoste tare it of cleane, and then layde handes vppon her garmentes, renting the same in peeces, and afterwardes cried out aloude: “Helpe, helpe, the Erle of Angiers wil rauyshe me by force.” The Earle seeing that (and farre more doubting of the enuie, and malice of the Courte, then his owne conscience, for any committed facte, fearing also, that more credite would be geuen to the wickednesse of the Ladie, then to his innocencie) conueighed him selfe from that place, and so soone as hee coulde, hee wente out of the palace, and fledde home to his owne house, where without any further aduise, he placed his children on horsebacke, and so well as he coulde caried them to Callice. At the brute and noyse of the ladie, many people assembled: who seing and hearing the occasion of her crie, not onely beleued her wordes, but also affirmed, that the pompouse state of the Erle, was vsed by him to bring to passe, th’effect of his desire. Then they ranne to the houses of the Erle, in great furie, to arreste his persone: but not finding hym there, they firste sacked his houses, and afterwardes ouerthrewe them to the grounde. The newes hereof (so wicked as might be deuised) arriued at the king and dolphins Campe, whereof they were so troubled and offended, as they condempned the Earle, and all his progenie to perpetuall exile: promising great giftes and rewardes, to them that would present them quicke or dead. The Erle being offended in his conscience, for that he was fled, innocent of the facte, made himself culpable therof, and arriued at Callice with his children, dissembling what he was, and sodainlye passed ouer into England, and in poore apparell, trauailed vp to London. And before he entred the citie, he gaue his children diuers admonicions, but specially of two things: First, that they should beare paciently the pouertie, wherunto fortune (without their offence) had brought theim. Afterwardes, that wisely they should take hede, at no time to manifeste and declare from whence they came, and whose children they were, as they loued the price of their owne lyues. The sonne was named Lewes, almoste of the age of nyne yeares, and the doughter called Violenta, was about the age of VII. bothe whiche chyldren, as their age could suffer them, did well obserue their fathers hest, as afterwardes it did right wel appeare. And because that this might the better be brought to passe, it semed good vnto him, to alter their names, naming the son Perotto, and the doughter Gianetta. And when they were arriued at London, in maner of beggers, they craued their almosse, and being by fortune for that purpose, one morning at a church doore, it came to passe that a great Lady, which was one of the Marshalles of Englandes wiues, in going out of the church, sawe the Erle and his two litle children begging their almose, of whom she demaunded, what countrie man he was, and whether those children were his owne, or not. To whom the Erle answered, that he was a Picarde, and by reason of a wicked facte, done by his eldest sonne (that was an vnhappie boye) he was forced to departe his countrie, with those his twoo children. The Ladie whiche was pitifull, fixed her eyes vpon the girle, who pleased her verie much, because she was beautifull, gentil, and amiable, saying: “Good man, if thou be content to leaue vnto mee, this thy litle doughter, which hath a good face, I will willingly take her, and if she become a duetiful maiden, when shee is mariagable, I wil marie her in honest wise.” This demaunde greatly pleased the Erle, who redely aunswered, that hee was contented, and with teares trickeling downe his eyes he deliuered and commended his pretie doughter vnto her. And when he had thus well bestowed her, he determined to tarrie no longer there, but in begging his almose, traueiled through the countrie, with his sonne Perotto, and went into Wales, not without great labour and paine, as one neuer accustomed to trauayle on foote. Where dwelte one other of the kyng of Englandes Marshalles, that was of great authoritie, and kepte a noble house: to whose courte the Erle and his sonne oftentymes repayred, to practise and begge their liuing: where one of the Marshalles sonnes, and other Gentlemens chyldren, doyng certayne chyldyshe sportes and pastymes, as to runne and leape, Perotto began to entermedle hym selfe amonges them (who in those games dyd so excellentlye well, as none was his better) whiche thyng diuers tymes the Marshall perceiuing, well pleased with the order of the chylde, asked of whence hee was. It was tolde him that hee was a poore man’s sonne, which many tymes came thyther, to begge his almose. The Marshall desiring to haue the childe, the Erle, whiche prayed vnto God for nothing els, liberallye gaue hym vnto hym, although it greeued hym to departe from him. The Erle then hauing bestowed his sonne and his doughter, determined no longer to tarrie in England, but so well as he coulde, he passed ouer into Irelande, and when he was arriued at Stanforde, he placed him selfe in the seruice of a man of armes, belonging to an Erle of that countrie, doing all thinges that did belong vnto a seruing man, or page: and not knowen to any man, hee continued there a long time, with great paine and toile. Violenta named Gianetta, that dwelt with the Ladie at London, grewe so in yeares, in beautie, in personage, and in such grace and fauour of her lord and lady, and of all the reste of the house, and so well beloued of al them that knew her, that it was maruailous to see. All men that sawe her maners and countenaunce, iudged her to be worthy of great honour and possessions, by reason wherof, the lady that receiued her of her father, not knowing what shee was, but by his reporte, purposed to marrie her honourablie, according to her worthinesse. But God the rewarder of all mens desertes, knowing her to be a noble woman, and to beare (without cause) the penaunce of an other man’s offence, disposed her otherwise, and to the intent, that this noble gentlewoman might not come into the handes of a man of ill condicions, it must be supposed that that whiche came to passe was by God’s own will and pleasure, suffred to be done. The gentlewoman, with whome Gianetta dwelte, had but one onely sonne by her husband, whiche both shee and the father, loued verie dearelye: as well because hee was a sonne, as also that in vertue and good merites hee greatlye excelled. For hee surpassed all other in good condicions, valiaunce, goodnes, and beautie of personage, being about sixe yeares elder then Gianetta: who seyng the mayden, to be both fayre and comelye, became so farre in loue with her, as he estemed her aboue all thinges of the worlde. And because he thought her to be of base parentage, he durst not demaunde her of his father and mother to wyfe. But fearing that he should lose their fauour, he kept his loue secret, wherby he was worse tormented, then if it had bene openly knowen. And thereby it chaunced, through Loue’s malice, he fel sore sicke: for whose preseruation, were many Phisitions sent for, who marking in him all signes and tokens of sickenes, and not knowing the disease, were altogether doubtfull of his health: wherof the father and mother tooke so great sorowe and griefe, as was possible, and many times with pitifull praiers, they demaunded of him the occasion of his disease. To whome he gaue for aunswere, nothing els but heauie sighes, and that he was like to consume, and die for weakenesse. It chaunced vpon a daye there was brought vnto him a Phisicion, that was very yonge, but in his science profoundlie learned, and as he was holding him by the poulces, Gianetta (who for his mother’s sake, attended him very carefully, entered vpon occasion into the chamber, where he lay sicke, and so sone as the yonge gentleman perceiued her, and that she spake neuer a woorde, or made any signe, or demonstration towardes him, he felte in his hart to arise his most amorous desire, wherefore his poulces began to beate aboue their common custome: whiche thing the Phisicion immediatly perceiued and marueiled, standing still to see howe long that fitte would continue. Gianetta was no soner gone out of the Chamber, but the beating of the poulces ceased: wherefore the Phisicion thought, that he had founde out some part of the gentleman’s disease, and a litle while after seming to take occasion to speake to Gianetta holding him still by the armes, he caused her to bee called in, and she incontinently came, but she was no soner entred the chambre but the poulces began to beate againe: and when she departed, the beating ceased. Wherupon the Phisicion was throughly perswaded that he vnderstode the effecte of his sickenes, and therwithall rose vp and taking the father and mother aside, sayde vnto them: “The health of your sonne doth not consiste in the helpe of Phisicions, but remaineth in the handes of Gianetta your maide, as I haue perceiued by moste manifest signes, which maide the yong man feruently doth loue. And yet (so farre as I perceiue) the maide doth not knowe it: you therfore vnderstand now what to doe, if you loue his life.” The gentleman and his wife hearing this, was somewhat satisfied: for so muche as remedy might be founde to saue his life, although it greued theim greatly, that the thing whereof they doubted, should come to passe, whiche was the mariage betwene Gianetta and their sonne. The Phisicion departed, and they repaired to their sicke sonne, the mother saying vnto him in this wyse: “My sonne, I would neuer haue thought, that thou wouldest haue kept secret from mee, any parte of thy desire: specially, seing that without the same thou doest remaine in daunger of death. For thou art, or ought to be assured, that there is nothing that may be gotten, for thy contentment, whatsoeuer it had bene, but it should haue bene prouided for thee, in as ample maner as for my selfe. But sithe thou hast thus done, it chaunceth that our Lord God, hath shewed more mercy vpon thee, then thou hast done vpon thy selfe. And to the ende thou shalt not die of this disease, he hath declared vnto me the cause of the same: whiche is none other, but the great loue that thou bearest to a yonge maiden, wheresoeuer she bee. And in deede thou oughtest not to be ashamed, to manifest thy loue, because it is meete and requisite for thyne age. For if I wist thou couldest not loue, I would the lesse esteme thee. Now then my good sonne, be not afraid, franckly to discouer thine affection. Driue away the furie and thought which thou hast taken, and wherof this sickenes commeth, and comfort thy selfe. Being assured, that thou shalt desire nothing at my handes, that may be done, but it shall be accomplished of mee, that loueth thee better then mine owne life: and therefore expell from thee this shame and feare. And spare not to tell me, if I be able to doe any thing, in that whiche thou louest. And if thou perceiue, that I be not carefull to bring it to passe, repute me for the cruellest mother that euer bare childe.” The yonge gentleman hearing these woordes of his mother, was first ashamed, but after thinking with him selfe, that none was so well able to pleasure him as shee (driuing awaye all shame) sayed to her in this wise: “Madame, there is none other thing that hath made me to kepe my loue so secrete, but that, which I see by commune proofe in many, who after they be growen to yeares of discretion, doe neuer remembre that they haue bene yonge. But for so much as herein I doe see your Ladiship discrete and wyse, I will not onely affirme that to be true, whiche you haue perceiued in me, but also I will confesse what it is, vpon condicion that the effect shall folowe your promise, so farre as lieth in you, and whereby you shalbe able to recouer my life.” Whereunto the mother trusting to much in that, which she ought not to haue accomplished, for certaine consideracions, which afterwardes came into her minde, answered him liberally: “That he might boldly discouer all his desire, and that forthwith she would bring the same to passe.” “Madame (sayde the yonge man then) the great beautie and commendable qualities of your maiden Gianetta, whom as yet not only I haue no power to intreate, to take pitie vpon me, but also I haue made no wight in the world priuie of this my loue. The not disclosing and secrecie of whose loue, hath brought me in case you see: and if so be the thing, whiche you haue promised, doe not by one meane or other come to passe, assure your selfe that my life is but shorte.” The Ladie knowing, that it was more tyme to comforte, then to reprehende, sayd vnto him smiling: “Alas, my sonne, were you sicke for this? Bee of good chere and when you are whole let me alone.” The yonge gentleman being put in good hope, shewed in litle time tokens and signes of great amendement. Wherof the mother was marueilous glad, disposing her selfe to proue, howe she might obserue that which she had promised. And on a day calling Gianetta vnto her, demaunded in gentle wise, by waye of mery talke, “If she had not gotten her a louer.” Gianetta with face al blushing, aunswered: “Madame, I haue no nede therof, and much more vnsemely for so poore a damosell as I am, to meditate or thincke vpon louers, which am banished from my frendes and kinsfolke, remaining in seruice as I doe.” To whom the Lady saide: “If you haue none, wee will bestowe one vpon you, whiche shall content your minde, and make your life more delectable and pleasaunt: for it is not meete that so faire a maide as you be, should continue without a louer.” Whereunto Gianetta answered: “Madame, waying with my selfe, that you haue taken me from my poore father, and brought me vp as your doughter, it becommeth me to do that whiche pleaseth you. Notwithstanding, I intende neuer to make any complaint to you for lacke of such, but if it please you, to geue me a husbande, I purpose dutifully to loue and honour him. For my progenitours haue left me none other inheritaunce but honestie, whiche I meane to kepe, so long as my life indureth.” These woordes to the Ladye, semed contrary to that whiche shee desired to knowe, to atchieue her promyse made to her sonne, although (lyke a wyse Ladie) to her selfe, shee greatly praysed the Damosell, and sayde vnto her. “But Gianetta, what if my Lorde the Kyng (whiche is a younge Prince, and you a fayre mayden) would take pleasure in your loue, woulde you refuse him?” Whereunto the mayde sodaynlye aunswered. “The Kyng maye well force mee, but by consent he shall neuer obtayne the thing of mee that is dishoneste.” The Ladye conceyuyng the courage, and stoutnesse of the mayden in good parte, sayde no more vnto her, but thinking to put the matter in proofe, she tolde her sonne, that when he was whole, she woulde put them both in a chamber that he mighte haue his pleasure vppon her. For she thought it dishonest to intreate her maide for her sonne, because it was the office of a Ruffian. The yong man was nothing contented therewith, whereby hee sodainlye waxed sicke againe: which the ladye perceiuinge, opened her whole intent to Gianetta: but finding her more constant than euer she was before, she told her husband all that she had done, whoe agreed (althoughe against their willes) to giue her to be his wife, thinkinge it better (their sonne lyuing) to haue a wife vnagreeable to his estate, then to suffer him to die for her sake. Which after great consultation, they concluded, whereof Gianetta was maruelouslye well pleased, and with deuout harte gaue thankes to God for that he had not forgotten her. And yet for all that, shee woulde neuer name her selfe otherwise, then the doughter of a Picarde. The yong sonne waxed whole incontinently, and was maried, the best contented man aliue, and began to dispose himselfe, louingly to lead his life with her. Perotto which did remaine in Wales with the other Marshall of the king of England, semblably increased, and was welbeloued of his maister, and was a very comely and valiaunt personage, that the like of him was not to be found in all the Island, in such wise as at Torneis, Iustes, and other factes of armes, there was none in al the Countrie, comparable vnto him: wherefore by the name of Perotto the Picarde, hee was knowen and renowmed. And like as God had not forgotten his sister, euen so he shewed his mercifull remembraunce of him. For a certaine plague and mortalitie, happened in that countrie, which consumed the one halfe of the people there: besides that the most part of them that liued, were fledde for feare into other countries, wherby the whole prouince, seemed to be abandoned and desolate. Of which plague, the Marshall his maister, his wife, and his sonne and many other brothers, neuewes, and kinsfolk died, of whom remained no more, but his onely daughter, which was mariageable, and some of his seruauntes, together with Perotto, whom (after the plagues was somewhat ceased) the yong gentlewoman toke for her husband, through the counsaile and consente of certaine of the countrie people that were aliue, because he was a valiaunt and honest personage, and of all that inheritaunce which her father lefte, shee made him lord. A litle while after, the king of Englande vnderstanding that the Marshall was dead, and knowing the valour and stoutnesse of Perotto the Picarde, he made him to supplye the rowme of the deade Marshall. In this sort in short time, it chaunced to the two innocent children of the Erle of Angiers, which were left by him as lost and quite forlorne. It was then the XVIII. yeare sithens the Erle fledde from Paris, hauing in miserable sorte suffred manye aduentures. Who seinge himselfe to begin to waxe olde, was desirous (being yet in Irelande) to knowe (if hee could) what was become of his children. Wherefore, perceyuinge that he was wholy altred from his wonted forme, and feeling himselfe more lustie (throughe the longe exercise and labour which he had susteined in seruice) then he was in the idle time of his youth, he departed from his maister (verye poore and in ill apparel) with whom hee had continued in seruice a long time, and came into England to that place where he had left Perotto, and founde him to be Marshall of the countrie, and saw that he was in health, lustie, and a comelye personage, which reioysed him maruelously, but he would not make himselfe to be knowen to him, till hee had seene what was become of his doughter Gianetta: wherfore taking his iourney, he rested in no place, till he came to London. And there secretely inquyring of the Lady, with whom he had left his daughter, and of her state, he learned that his doughter was her sonnes wife, whereof hee toke exceding great pleasure. And from that time forth, he compted his aduersities past as nothing, sith he had found his children liuing and in such great honour. And desirous to see her (began like a poore man) to harbour himselfe neare vnto her house, whereuppon a certaine daye, beinge seene of Giacchetto Lamyens: (for that was the name of the husbande of Gianetta,) who hauinge pitie vppon him because he was poore and old, commaunded one of his seruaunts, to haue him into the house and to giue him meate for God’s sake, which the seruaunt willingly did accomplish. Gianetta had many children by Giacchetto, of which the eldest was but eight yeares olde: the fayrest and beste fauoured children of the worlde. Who when they sawe the Erle eate meate, they all came about him and began to make much of him, as though by nature’s instruction they had knowen him to be their Graundfather. And hee knowinge his nephewes, began to shew them tokens of loue and kindnesse. By reason whereof the children would not go from him, although their gouernour did call them away: wherfore the mother beinge tolde the same, came oute of a chamber vnto the place where the Erle was, and threatned to beate them if they would not do as their maister bad them. The children began to crie, and said that they would tary by that good man, that loued them better then their maister did, wherat the Lady and the Erle began to laugh. The Erle not as a father but like a poore man, rose vp to doe honour to his daughter because shee was a noble woman: conceyuing marueilous ioy in his minde to see her: but she knewe him not at all, neither at that instant, nor after, because he was so wonderfully transformed and chaunged from that forme he was wonte to be: Like one that was old and gray headed, hauinge a bearde leane and weather beaten, resembling rather a common personne then an Erle. And the Ladye seinge that the children woulde not departe from him, but still cryed when they were fetched awaye, shee willed the maister to let them alone. The children remayning in this sort with the honest poore man, the father of Giacchetto came in the meane time, and vnderstode this of their maister: He that cared not for Gianetta, said, “Let them alone with a mischiefe, to keepe companye with beggers, of whom they come: for of the mothers side, they be but verlettes children, and therfore it is no marueile, though they loue their company.” The Erle hearing those words, was very sorowfull, notwithstanding (holding downe his head) he suffred that iniurie, as well as he had done manye other. Giacchetto which knew the mirth and ioy that the children made to the poore man (althoughe he was offended with those words) neuerthelesse, made as much of the poore Erle as he did before. And when hee sawe him to weepe he commaunded that if the honest poore man would dwel there to do some seruice, he should be reteyned. Who aunsweared, that he wouid tarrie there with a good will, but he said that he coulde do nothinge els but keepe horse, whereunto he was accustomed all the dayes of his life. To whom a horse was appointed to keepe, and dailye when he had dressed his horse, he gaue himselfe to play with the children. Whiles that Fortune thus dealt (according to the maner abouesaid with the Erle of Angiers and his children, it chaunced that the French king (after many truces made with the Almaynes) died, and in his place was crowned his sonne, whose wife shee was that caused the Erle to be banished. When the last truce with the Almaynes was expired, the warres began to grow more sharpe, for whose aide the king of England sent vnto him (as to his new kinseman) a greate nomber of people vnder the gouernement of Perotto his Marshall, and of Giacchetto Lamyens, sonne of his other Marshall, with whom the poore Erle went: and not knowen of any manne, remained a greate while in the Campe as a seruaunt, where notwithstanding, like a valiaunt man, with his aduise and deedes he accomplished notable thinges (more then hee was required.) It chaunced that in the time of the warres, the Frenche Queene was very sore sicke, and perceyuing herselfe at the point of death, repenting her of all her sinnes, and was confessed deuoutly to the Archbishop of Roane, who of all men was reputed an holye and vertuous man: and amonges all her other sinnes she tolde him of the great wronge that she had done to the Erle of Angiers, and was not onely contented to reueale the same to him alone, but also rehearsed the whole matter before many other personages of great honour, desiring them that they would worke so with the king, that if the Erle were yet liuinge or anye of his children, they might be restored to their state againe. Not long after the Queene departed, and was honourablie buried. Which confession reported to the Kinge, (after certaine sorowfull sighes, for the iniuries done to the valiaunt man) hee made Proclamation throughout all the Campe and in many other places, that whosoeuer could bring forth the Erle of Angiers, or any of his children, shoulde for euery of them receiue a great rewarde, because he was innocente of that matter for which he was exiled, by the onely confession of the Queene: and that he entended to exalte him to his former estate, and more higher then euer hee was. Which thing the Erle hearing (being in the habite of a seruaunt) knowing it to be true, by and by he wente to Giacchetto, and prayed him to repaire to Perotto that they might come together, because he woulde manifest vnto them the thinge which the kinge sent to seeke for. And when they were all three assembled together in a chamber the Erle saide to Perotto, that now he thought to let him vnderstand what he was, saying these woordes: “Perotto, Giacchetto whoe thou seest here hath espoused thy sister and neuer had yet any dowrie. And because she maye not be destitute of her Dowrie, I purpose that he and none other shall haue the reward, which the king hath promised to be so great. Thou shalt manifest thy selfe Perotto, to be the sonne of the Erle of Angiers, and Violenta the wife of Giacchetto to be thy sister, and me to be the Erle of Angiers thy father.” Perotto hearing this and stedfastly beholding him, began to know him, and weeping, threw himselfe downe at his feete, and afterwards imbracing him, said: “My deare father, you are right hartely welcome.” Giacchetto hearing first what the Erle had saide, and after seinge what Perotto did, he was incontinently surprised with so great marueile and ioye that he knew not what to do: notwithstandinge, geuinge credite to his words, as being ashamed of the opprobrious talke, which he had vsed towards the Erle, as to a seruaunt, weeping, fell downe at his feete and humblie asked pardon for all his rashe behauiours towards him: which was curteously graunted vnto him by the Erle, who toke him vp. And after euerye of them had a while debated of their Fortune, and had well bewailed the same, and reioysed one with another, Perotto and Giacchetto would haue newly apparrelled the Erle, but he in no wise would suffer them. And beinge desirous that Giacchetto mighte haue assurance of the rewarde promised, he woulde that he shoulde first present him to the king after that sort in the habite of a seruaunte as he was, that hee mighte make him the more ashamed. Then Giacchetto with the Erle (and Perotto after) came before the king, and offred to present the Erle and his children if it should please him to reward him according to the Proclamation. The king incontinently caused to be brought forth a reward of marueilous value, (as Giacchetto thoughte) and commaunded him forthwith to present the Erle and his children according to his promise. Giacchetto then tourned about, and placed before him the Erle his seruaunt, and Perotto, saying: “Sir, beholde the father and the sonne, the doughter which is my wyfe, is not here. But by God’s helpe you shal see her shortly.” The king hearing this, behelde the Erle: and albeit he was so greatlye chaunged from his former fauour, after hee had well viewed him, he knew him, and with teares standinge in his eyes, hee caused the Erle to rise vp, that kneeled before him, kissing and imbrasing him, and very graciouslye receiued Perotto: and commaunded forthwith that the Erle should be restored to apparell, seruaunt, horses and furniture, according to his state and degree, which incontinentlye was done: And moreouer the kinge greatly honoured Giacchetto, and forthwith desired to know all their Fortunes passed. And when Giacchetto had taken the great reward for bringing forth the Erle and his children, the Erle said vnto him: “Take these royall rewards of the king, my soueraigne Lord, and remember to tel thy father, that thy children, his nephewes and mine, be no beggers borne of their mother’s syde.” Giacchetto toke the reward, and caused his wife and his mother in Lawe to come to Paris: likewise thither came the wife of Perotto, where, with great ioy and triumphe, they taried a certaine space wyth the Erle, to whom the kinge had rendred all his goodes, and had placed him in greater aucthoritie, then euer hee was before. Then euery of them toke their leaue and retourned home to their owne houses: and from that time forth the said Erle, to thende of his life, liued in Paris, in greater honour and aucthority, then euer he did before.

THE THIRTY-EIGHTH NOUELL.

_Giletta a Phisition’s daughter of Narbon, healed the French King of a Fistula, for reward whereof she demaunded Beltramo Counte of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte being maried against his will, for despite fled to Florence and loued another. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his louer, and was begotten with childe of two sonnes: which knowen to her husband, he receiued her againe, and afterwards he liued in great honour and felicitie._

In Fraunce there was a gentleman called Isnardo, the Counte of Rossiglione, who because he was sickely and diseased, kepte alwayes in his house a Phisition, named maister Gerardo of Narbona. This Counte had one onely sonne called Beltramo, a very yonge childe, amiable and fayre. With whom there was nourished and brought vppe, many other children of his age: amonges whom one of the doughters of the said Phisition, named Giletta, who feruently fill in loue with Beltramo, more then was meete for a maiden of her age. This Beltramo, when his father was deade, and left vnder the royall custody of the king, was sente to Paris, for whose departure the maiden was very pensife. A litle while after, her father being likewise deade, shee was desirous to go to Paris, onelye to see the yonge Counte, if for that purpose she could get any good occasion. But being diligently loked vnto by her kinsfolke (because she was riche and fatherlesse) she could see no conuenient waye for her intended iourney: and being now mariageable, the loue she bare to the Counte was neuer out of her remembraunce, and refused manye husbandes with whom her kinsfolke woulde haue matched her, without making them priuie to the cause of her refusall. Now it chaunced that she burned more in loue with Beltramo than euer shee did before, because she hearde tell that hee was growen to the state of a goodly yong gentleman. She heard by report, that the French king had a swelling vpon his breast, which by reason of ill cure was growen to be a Fistula, which did put him to marueilous paine and griefe, and that there was no Phisition to be found (although many were proued) that could heale it, but rather did impaire the griefe and made it worse and worse. Wherfore the king, like one in dispaire, would take no more counsell or helpe. Wherof the yong mayden was wonderfull glad, thinckinge to haue by this meanes, not onely a lawfull occasion to go to Paris, but if the disease were such (as she supposed,) easelye to bringe to passe that shee mighte haue the Counte Beltramo to her husbande. Whereuppon with such knowledge as she had learned at her father’s hands before time, shee made a pouder of certaine herbes, which she thought meete for that disease and rode to Paris. And the first thing she went about when she came thither was to see the Counte Beltramo. And then she repayred to the king, praying his grace to vouchsafe to shew her his griefe. The king perceyuing her to be a fayre yonge maiden and a comelie, would not hide it, but opened the same vnto her. So soone as shee saw it shee put him in comforte, that shee was able to heale him, saying: “Sir, if it maye please your grace, I truste in God without anye greate paine vnto your highnesse, within eighte dayes to make you whole of this disease.” The king hearing her say so, began to mocke her, saying: “How is it possible for thee, beinge a yong woman, to do that which the beste renowmed Phisitions in the world can not?” Hee thancked her for her good will and made her a direct aunsweare, that hee was determined no more to followe the counsaile of any Phisition. Whereunto the maiden aunsweared: “Sir, you dispise my knowledge because I am yonge and a woman, but I assure you that I do not minister Phisicke by profession, but by the aide and helpe of God: and with the cunninge of maister Gerardo of Narbona, who was my father, and a Phisition of great fame so longe as he liued.” The king hearing those words, sayd to himselfe: “This woman peraduenture, is sente vnto me of God, and therefore why should I disdaine to proue her cunninge? for so muche as she promiseth to heale me within a litle spac, without any offence or griefe vnto me.” And being determined to proue her, he said: “Damosel, if thou doest not heale me, but make me to breake my determination, what wilt thou shal folow therof.” “Sir,” said the maiden: {“}Let me be kept in what guard and keeping you list: and if I do not heale you within these eight dayes, let me be burnt: but if I do heale your grace what recompence shall I haue then?” To whom the kinge aunswered: “Because thou art a maiden and vnmaried, if thou heale me according to thy promise, I wil bestow thee vppon some gentleman, that shalbe of right good worship and estimation.” To whom she aunsweared: “Sir, I am very well content that you bestow me in mariage: but I beseech your grace let me haue such a husband as myselfe shall demaund, without presumption to any of your children or other of your bloud.” Which request the king incontinently graunted. The yong maiden began to minister her Phisicke, and in short space before her appointed time, she had throughly cured the king. And when the king perceiued himselfe whole, said vnto her: “Thou hast well deserued a husbande (Giletta) euen such a one as thy selfe shalt chose.” “I haue then my Lord (quoth she) deserued the Countie Beltramo of Rossiglione, whom I haue loued from my youth.” The king was very loth to graunt him vnto her: but for that he had made a promise which he was loth to breake, he caused him to be called forth, and said vnto him: “Sir Countie, knowing full well that you are a gentleman of great honour, oure pleasure is, that you returne home to your owne house to order your estate according to your degree: and that you take with you a Damosell which I haue appointed to be your wife.” To whom the Countie gaue his humble thanks, and demaunded what she was? “It is she (quoth the king) that with her medecines hath healed me.” The Counte knew her wel and had already seen her, although she was faire, yet knowing her not to be of a stocke conuenable to his nobility, skornefully said vnto the king, “Will you then (sir) giue me a Phisition to wife? It is not the pleasure of God that euer I should in that wise bestow my selfe.” To whom the king said: “Wilt thou then, that wee should breake our faith, which wee to recouer health haue giuen to the damosell, who for a reward asked thee to husband?” “Sir (quoth Beltramo) you may take from me all that I haue, and giue my person to whom you please because I am your subiect: but I assure you I shal neuer be contented with that mariage.” “Wel, you shall haue her, (said the king) for the maiden is faire and wise, and loueth you most intirely: thinking verely you shal leade a more ioyful life with her, then with a Lady of a greater house.” The Countie therewithal held his peace, and the kinge made great preparation for the mariage. And when the appointed day was come, the counte in the presence of the king (although it were against his wil) maried the maiden, who loued him better then her owne selfe. Which done, the Counte determining before what he would do, praied licence to retourne to his countrye to consummat the mariage. And when he was on horsebacke hee went not thither but toke his iourney into Tuscane, where vnderstanding that the Florentines and Senois were at warres, he determined to take the Florentines parte, and was willingly receiued and honourablie intertaigned, and was made captaine of a certaine nomber of men, continuing in their seruice a long time. The new maried gentlewoman, scarce contented with his vnkindnes, hopinge by her well doinge to cause him to retourne into his countrye, went to Rossiglione, where she was receiued of all his subiects for their Lady. And perceyuing that through the Countes absence all thinges were spoiled and out of order, shee like a sage Ladye, with greate diligence and care, disposed his thinges in order againe: whereof the subiects reioysed very much, bearing to her their harty loue and affection, greatly blaming the Counte because he coulde not content himselfe with her. This notable gentlewoman hauing restored all the countrie againe to their auncient liberties, sent word to the Counte her husband, by two knights, to signifie vnto him, that if it were for her sake that hee had abandoned his countrie, vppon retourne of aunsweare, she to do him pleasure, would departe from thence. To whom he chorlishly replyed: “Let her do what she liste: for I do purpose to dwell with her, when she shall haue this ring (meaning a ring which he wore) vpon her finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by mee.” He greatly loued that ring, and kepte it very carefully, and neuer toke it from his finger, for a certaine vertue that he knew it had. The knights hearinge the harde condition of two thinges impossible: and seinge that by them he could not be remoued from his determination, retourned againe to the Lady, tellinge her his aunsweare: who, very sorowfull, after shee had a good while bethoughte her, purposed to finde meanes to attaine the two thinges, that thereby she might recouer her husbande. And hauinge aduised her selfe what to doe, shee assembled the noblest and chiefeste of her Countrie, declaring vnto them in lamentable wyse what shee had alreadye done, to winne the loue of the Counte, shewinge them also what folowed thereof. And in the ende saide vnto theim, that shee was lothe the Counte for her sake should dwell in perpetuall exile: therefore shee determined to spende the reste of her time in Pilgrimages and deuotion, for preseruation of her Soule, prayinge theim to take the charge and gouernemente of the Countrie, and that they would let the Counte vnderstande, that shee had forsaken his house, and was remoued farre from thence: with purpose neuer to returne to Rossiglione againe. Many teares were shed by the people, as she was speaking those wordes, and diuers supplications were made vnto him to alter his opinion, but all in vaine. Wherefore commending them all vnto God, she toke her way with her maide, and one of her kinsemen, in the habite of a pilgrime, well furnished with siluer and precious Jewels: telling no man whither shee wente, and neuer rested till shee came to Florence: where arriuinge by Fortune at a poore widowes house, shee contented her selfe with the state of a poore pilgrime, desirous to heare newes of her Lord, whom by fortune she sawe the next day passing by the house (where she lay) on horsebacke with his company. And althoughe shee knewe him well enoughe, yet shee demaunded of the good wife of the house what hee was: who aunsweared that hee was a straunge gentleman, called the Counte Beltramo of Rossiglione, a curteous knight, and wel beloued in the City, and that he was maruelously in loue with a neighbour of her’s, that was a gentlewoman, verye poore and of small substance, neuerthelesse of right honest life and good report, and by reason of her pouerty was yet vnmaried, and dwelte with her mother, that was a wise and honest Ladye. The Countesse well noting these wordes, and by litle and litle debating euery particular point thereof, comprehending the effecte of those newes, concluded what to do, and when she had well vnderstanded which was the house, and the name of the Ladye, and of her doughter that was beloued of the Counte: vppon a day repaired to the house secretely in the habite of a pilgrime, where finding the mother and doughter in poore estate amonges their familie, after she had saluted them, told the mother that shee had to saye vnto her. The gentlewoman rysing vp, curteously intertayned her, and being entred alone in a chamber, they sate downe and the Countesse began to speake vnto her in this wise. “Madame, me thincke that ye be one vpon whom Fortune doth frowne, so wel as vpon me: but if you please, you may both comfort me and your selfe.” The lady answered, “That there was nothing in the world wherof she was more desirous then of honest comfort.” The Countesse proceeding in her talke, said vnto her. “I haue neede now of your fidelitie and truste, whereuppon if I do staye, and you deceiue mee, you shall both vndoe me and your selfe.” “Tell me then what it is hardlie (said the gentlewoman:) for you shall neuer bee deceiued of mee.” Then the Countesse beganne to recite her whole estate of loue: tellinge her what she was, and what had chaunced to that present daye, in such perfite order as the gentlewoman beleeuinge her, because shee had partly heard report before; began to haue compassion vppon her, and after that the Countesse had rehearsed the whole circumstaunce, she continued her purpose, saying: “Now you haue heard amonges other my troubles, what two things they bee, which behoueth mee to haue, if I doe recouer my husband, which I know none can helpe me to obtaine, but onelye you, if it be true that I heare, which is, that the Counte my husband, is farre in loue with your doughter.” To whom the gentlewoman sayd: “Madame, if the Counte loue my doughter, I knowe not, albeit the likelyhoode is greate: but what am I able to doe, in that which you desire?” “Madame, aunsweared the Countesse, I will tell you: but first I will declare what I meane to doe for you, if my purpose be brought to effecte: I see your faire doughter of good age, readie to marie, but as I vnderstande the cause, why shee is vnmaried, is the lacke of substance to bestowe her. Wherefore I purpose, for recompence of the pleasure, which you shall doe for mee, to giue so much readie money to marie her honourablie, as you shall thincke sufficient.” The Countesse’ offer was very well liked of the Ladie, because she was poore: yet hauing a noble hart, she said vnto her. “Madame, tell me wherein I may do you seruice: and if it be a thinge honest, I will gladlye performe it, and the same being brought to passe, do as it shall please you.” Then said the Countesse: “I thincke it requisite, that by some one whom you truste, you giue knowledge to the Counte my husband, that your doughter is, and shalbe at his commaundement: and to the intent she may be well assured that hee loueth her in deede aboue anye other, she must pray him to sende her a ring that hee weareth vppon his finger, which ring as she knoweth, he loueth very dearely: and when he sendeth the ringe, you shal giue it vnto me, and afterwards sende him woorde, that your doughter is readie to accomplishe his pleasure, and then you shall cause him secretelye to come hither, and place me by him (in steede of your doughter) peraduenture God will giue me the grace, that I may be with child, and so hauing this ring on my finger, and the childe in mine armes begotten by him, I maye recouer him, and by your meanes continue with him, as a wife ought to do with her husbande.” This thinge seemed difficulte vnto the Gentlewoman: fearing that there woulde folowe reproche vnto her doughter. Notwithstandinge, considering what an honest part it were, to be a meane that the good Ladie might recouer her husbande, and that shee mighte doe it for a good purpose, hauinge affiaunce in her honest affection, not onely promised the Countesse to bring this to passe, but in fewe dayes with greate subtiltie, folowing the order wherein she was instructed, she had gotten the ringe, although it was with the Countes ill will, and toke order that the Countesse in steede of her doughter did lye with him. And at the first meeting, so effectuously desired by the Counte: God so disposed the matter that the Countesse was begotten with child, of two goodly sonnes, and her deliuery chaunced at the due time. Whereuppon the gentlewoman, not onelye contented the Countesse at that time with the companye of her husbande, but at manye other times so secretly as it was neuer knowen: the Counte not thinkinge that he had lien with his wife, but with her whom he loued. To whom at his vprising in the morning, he vsed many curteous and amiable woords, and gaue diuers faire and precious Jewels, which the Countesse kept most carefully: and when she perceiued herselfe with child, she determined no more to trouble the gentlewoman, but said vnto her. “Madame, thanckes be to God and you, I haue the thing that I desire, and euen so it is time to recompence your desert, that afterwards I may depart.” The gentlewoman said vnto her, that if she had done anye pleasure agreeable to her minde, she was right glad thereof which she did, not for hope of reward, but because it appertayned to her by well doing so to doe. Whereunto the Countesse said: “Your sayinge pleaseth me well, and for my part, I doe not purpose to giue vnto you the thing you shal demaunde in reward, but for consideration of your well doing, which dutie forceth me to do.” The gentlewoman then constrained with necessity, demaunded of her with great bashfulnesse, an hundred poundes to marie her daughter. The countesse perceiuinge the shamefastnesse of the gentlewoman, and her curteous demaunde, gaue her fiue hundred poundes, and so many faire and costly Jewels, as almost amounted to like valour. For which the gentlewoman more then contented, gaue most harty thankes to the Countesse, who departed from the gentlewoman and retourned to her lodging. The gentlewoman to take occasion from the Counte of anye farther repaire, or sendinge to her house, toke her doughter with her, and went into the country to her frends. The Counte Beltramo, within fewe dayes after, being reuoked home to his owne house by his subiectes, (hearinge that the Countesse was departed from thence) retourned. The Countesse knowinge that her husbande was goone from Florence and retourned home, was verye gladde, continuing in Florence till the time of her childbedde, being brought a bedde of twoo sonnes, whiche were very like vnto their father, and caused them carefully to be noursed and brought vp, and when she sawe time, she toke her iourney (vnknowen to anie) and arriued at Montpellier, and resting her selfe there for certayne dayes, hearing newes of the Counte, and where he was, and that vpon the daye of Al Sainctes, he purposed to make a great feaste, and assembly of Ladies and Knightes, in her pilgrimes weede she repaired thither. And knowing that they were all assembled, at the palace of the Counte, readie to sitte downe at the table, shee passed through the people without chaunge of apparell, with her twoo sonnes in her armes: and when shee was come vp into the hall, euen to the place where the Counte sat, falling downe prostrate at his feete, weeping, saying vnto hym: “My Lorde, I am thy poore infortunate wyfe, who to th’intent thou mightest retourne and dwel in thine owne house, haue bene a great whyle begging aboute the worlde. Therefore I nowe beseche thee, for the honoure of God, that thou wilt obserue the conditions, which the twoo (knightes that I sent vnto thee) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde, here in myne armes, not onely one sonne begotten by thee, but twayne, and likwyse thy Ryng. It is nowe time then (if thou kepe promise) that I should be receiued as thy wyfe.” The Counte hearing this, was greatly astonned, and knewe the Ryng, and the children also, they were so like hym. “But tell me (quod he) howe is this come to passe?” The Countesse to the great admiration of the Counte, and of all those that were in presence, rehersed vnto them in order all that, whiche had bene done, and the whole discourse thereof. For which cause the Counte knowing the thinges she had spoken to be true (and perceiuing her constant minde and good witte, and the twoo faire young boyes to kepe his promise made, and to please his subiectes, and the Ladies that made sute vnto him, to accept her from that tyme foorth as his lawefull wyfe, and to honour her) abiected his obstinate rigour: causing her to rise vp, and imbraced and kissed her, acknowledging her againe for his lawefull wyfe. And after he had apparelled her according to her estate, to the great pleasure and contentation of those that were there, and of al his other frendes not onely that daye, but many others, he kept great chere, and from that time forth, hee loued and honoured her, as his dere spouse and wyfe.

THE THIRTY-NINTH NOUELL.

_Tancredi Prince of Salerne, caused his daughter’s louer to be slayne, and sente his harte vnto her in a cup of golde: whiche afterwardes she put into poysoned water, and drinking thereof died._

Tancredi Prince of Salerne, (an vniuersitie in the region of Italie) was a curteous Lorde, and of gentle nature: had he not in his age imbrued his handes with the bloud of his owne doughter. It chaunced that this Prince in al his life time, had but that doughter: but more happie had he ben if she had neuer ben borne. That doughter he loued so well, as a father might loue his childe: and for the tender loue he bare her, he was not able to suffer her to be out of his sight. And could not finde in his harte to marie her, although she had many yeres passed the time that she was mariageable: notwithstanding, in thende he gaue her to wife to one of the sonnes of the Duke of Capua, with whom she continued no long time, but was a widowe, and then retourned vnto her fathers house againe. This Ladie was very faire and comely of bodie and face, as any creature could be, yonge, lustie, and more wise peraduenture then a woman ought to be. And thus dwelling with her louing father, she liued like a noble Ladie, in great pleasure: and seing that her father for the loue he bare vnto her, had no mynde or care to marie her agayne, and also she thinking it skarce honest to require him thereunto, deuised secretly (if it were possible) to retaine some valiaunt man to be her louer. And seyng manye gentlemen and others, frequenting her fathers court (as we commonly see in the courtes of princes) and marking the behauiour and order of many (amonges all) there was a young man, one of her fathers seruauntes that liked her well, whose name was Guiscardo, of very base birth (but in vertue and honest condicions more noble then the reste) and many times when she sawe him, she wonderfully delited in him, alwayes praysing his doinges aboue all others. The younge man, not hauing good consideration of him selfe, perceiuing her feruent affection, so fixed his minde that he disposed the same vpon nothing els but to loue her. One louing an other secretly in this sorte, and the Ladie verie studious to finde occasion that she might talke with him, vnwilling to committe the secrecie of her loue to any man, she imagined a newe deuise to geue him knowledge thereof. And wrote a letter signifying vnto him, what he should doe the next day, and howe he might vse himselfe to come to talke with her: and then putting the letter into the cane of a rede, she gaue it vnto Guiscardo in sporting wise, and said. “Thou shalt this night make a paire of Bellowes for thy seruaunt wherwith she may kindle the fire.” Guiscardo toke it, and thought that shee did not geue it vnto him, without some special purpose went to his chamber, and loking vpon the Cane perceiued it to be hollowe, and openyng it founde the letter within whiche shee had written. And when he had well perused it, vnderstandyng the tenour thereof, hee thought hym selfe the happiest man in the worlde, and began to put hym selfe in readinesse, to mete with his Ladie, by suche wayes and meanes, as shee had to him appointed. There was in the corner of the Princes palace a Caue, long time before made vnder the syde of a hille, whiche Caue receiued light by certayne ventes made of force within the sayd mountaine, and because the same was not frequented and vsed, it was ouergrowen with busshes and thornes. Into which Caue was a discent by a secrete payre of stayers, into one of the lowest chambers of the Palaice, wherin the Ladie lay, which was out of all men’s minde, because it was not occupied many a day before, and shut vp with a very strong doore. But Loue (in the eyes wherof nothing is so secrete, but will come to knoweledge) had brought the same againe into the remembraunce of the amorous Lady. The opening of which doore (that no man might knowe it) many dayes did trouble her wittes: afterwarde when she had founde the waye, she went downe alone into the Caue, and viewing the vente, whereunto she had geuen order for Guiscardo to come, she tolde him of what height it was from the ground: for the execution whereof, Guiscardo prepared a rope with knots and degrees to goe vp and downe, and putting vpon him a leather coate, to kepe him from the thornes and bushes, went downe the next night at the saide vente, vnknowen of any man: and fastening one of the endes of the rope, to the stocke of a tree, that grewe at the mouth of the vente, hee slipte downe into the Caue, and taried there for the Ladie, who the next daye faining her selfe to slepe after dinner, sent her maydes out of her chamber, and locked her selfe within alone: and then opened the doore, and went downe into the Caue, where finding Guiscardo, they marueilously reioysed one with an other. And from thence went vp together into her chamber: where they remained togethers, the moste parte of that day, to their great delight. And hauing geuen good order for the affaires of their loue, and the secrete vse therof, Guiscardo retourned into the Caue, and the Ladie locked the doore, and came out amonges her maides. The next night after, Guiscardo issued out of the vente vpon the rope, wherewith he descended and conueied him selfe into his chamber. And hauing learned the waye, he resorted thither many times after. But Fortune enuious of that pleasure, so long and great, with dolorous successe, tourned the ioye of those twoo louers into heauie and sorowefull ende. The Prince accustomed sometimes to resorte alone into his doughter’s chamber, and there for a whyle to tarie and talke with her, and so to departe. Vpon a daye after dinner, when the Ladie (whose name was Gismonda) was in the garden with all her maidens, he repaired vnknowen or seene of any man into her chamber. But being loth to trouble his doughter of her pleasure, and finding the wyndowes of her chamber shut and the curtens of her bedde drawen, he satte down vpon a stoole at the beddes feete, and leaning his head to the bedde the Curteine drawen ouer him (as he had bene hidden of purpose) he fel a slepe. And the king being thus a slepe, Gismonda that (in euill time) the same day had appointed Guiscardo to come, left her maydens in the Gardeine, and entred very secretly into her chamber, locking fast the doore after her, and not knowing any man to be there, shee opened the doore of the Caue to Guiscardo, who was redie to wayte for her comming. Then they caste them selues vpon the bedde, as they were wonte to doe, solacing the time together, vntill it chaunced that the Prince awaked, heard and sawe what Guiscardo and his doughter did. Whereof being verie sorowfull, he would vpon the first sight haue cried out: but that he thought it better for that time to holde his peace, still to kepe him selfe secrete, to the intent that he might more priuelie, and with lesse shame, accomplishe that which he purposed to do. The twoo louers continued togethers a great time, as they were wont to do, without any knowledge of the Prince his being there, and when they saw time, they went downe from the bedde: and Guiscardo retourning to the Caue, shee went foorthe of her chamber, from whence Tancredi (as olde as he was) conueyed him selfe into the Gardeine out at a wyndowe of the same, vnseen and not perceiued of any. Who like a pensife man, and carefull euen vnto death, repaired to his owne chamber, and the next night, about one of the clocke, he caused Guiscardo to be apprehended, by an order that he had prescribed, at his comming forth of the Caue, euen clothed as he was, with his leather coate: and by twoo men was secretly conueyed to the Prince. Who so sone as he sawe him, sayd vnto him with teares standing in his eies: “Guiscardo, the beneuolence and goodnes towardes thee, haue not merited this outrage and shame, that thou hast committed this daye in mine owne house, which I sawe with mine owne eyes.” To whom Guiscardo gaue no other aunswere, but that Loue was of greater force, then either any Prince or hym selfe. Then the Prince commaunded him to be kept, in a chamber adioyning. The next day the king (Gismonda being ignoraunt hereof) reuolued in his minde, diuers and sundrye matters, and after diner as he was accustomed, he wente into his doughter’s chamber, and caused her to be called vnto him, and shutting the chamber doore, in lamentable speche sayd vnto her. “Gismonda, I had so much affiaunce and truste in thy vertue and honestie, that it coulde neuer haue entred into my mynde (althoughe it had bene tolde me, if I had not sene it with mine owne propre eyes) but that thou haddest not onely in deede, but also in thought, abandoned the companie of all men, except it had bene thy husbande: whereof I shalbe right pensife and sorowefull so longe as this litle remnaunt of life (that mine olde age doth preserue) indureth in mee. And sithe thou couldest not conteyne from suche dishonest loue, I woulde it had pleased God, that thou haddest taken a manne, equall to thyne estate. But amonges so many that do frequente my court, thou hast chosen this young man Guiscardo, whose birthe is very vile and base, and brought vp (as it were for God’s sake) from a childe to this present daye, in our Court. For which consideration I am verie sore disquieted, not knowing how to take this at thy handes: for with him (whom I haue caused to be taken this nighte in going out of the Caue, and nowe kepte as prisoner) I have already concluded what to do. But with thee what I shal do, God knoweth: of the one side, the loue that I still beare thee, more then any father euer bare to his doughter, doth drawe me: on the other side, a iust displeasure and indignation, taken for thy great follie, doth moue me. The one mocion would that I should pardon thee, the other forceth me against my nature, to be cruell vnto thee. Notwithstanding, before I doe make any certaine resolucion, I desire to heare what thou canst saye for thy selfe.” When hee had spoken those woordes, he kissed her face, weping verie bitterly like a childe that had ben beaten. Gismonda hearing her father, and knowing that not only her secret loue was discouered, but also her louer Guiscardo to be in pryson, conceiued an inestimable sorowe, vttering the same many times, with outcries and schreches, according to the maner of women, howe beit, her great courage surpassed her weakenesse, and did sette a bolde face on the matter, with marueilous stoutnesse determining, before she made any sute for her selfe, no longer to liue, seing that her frende Guiscardo was alreadie dead. Wherefore not like a sorowefull woman, or one taken in any faulte, but as a desperate persone, with a drie and stoute countenaunce, not troubled or vexed, she said thus to her father: “I doe not purpose, deare father, to stande in deniall, nor yet by humble sute to make requeste: for the one wyll nothyng auayle mee, and the other is to none effecte. Moreouer I doe not intende by any meanes, to beseche your clemencie and loue towardes mee, to be beneuolente and bontifull, but confessinge the trouthe, I will first with true reasons and argumentes, defende myne honour, and afterwardes prosecute in vertuous wyse, by effectes, the stoutnesse of my courage. True it is, that I haue loued and do loue Guiscardo, and will loue him so long as I liue, which shalbe but a litle time. And if so be that a woman may loue a man after death, I will not cease to loue him. But womanly frailtie and feminine weakenesse hath not so much induced me hereunto, as the litle care you haue had to bestow me in mariage, and the great vertues that daily I haue seene in Guiscardo. You ought deare father to knowe, that your selfe is of fleshe, and of fleshe you haue engendred me your doughter, and not of Stone or Iron. In likewyse you ought, and must remember (although now you be arriued to olde yeares) what yonge folkes bee, and of what great power the lawe of youth is: and although you were (during the force of your youthlie dayes) trayned and exercised in factes of armes, yet nowe you oughte to knowe what great puissaunce resteth in the idle and delicate life, as well in the aged, as amonges yonge people. I am then as you be, begotten of fleshe, and my yeres so few, as yet but yonge, and thereby full of lust and delight. Wherunto the knowledge which I haue had alredy in mariage, forceth me to accomplishe that desire: and to the same be added marueilous forces, against whiche it is impossible for me to resiste, but rather to folowe, whereunto they drawe me. I am become amorous like a yonge woman, and like a woman as I am, and certainly I would haue imploied my whole force that waye, so farre as I could not to committe any shame to you, or to my selfe in that, whereunto my naturall offence hath forced me. To which thing, pitiful loue, and gentle fortune haue founde out, and shewed a waye secret enough, whereby without knowledge of any man, I am come to the effecte of my desires: which thing I will not denie (who so euer tolde you of it, or by what meanes so euer you are come to the knowledge of it) I haue not taken Guiscardo to be my louer by chaunce, as many women haue done, but I haue chosen him by long aduise and deliberation, aboue all others, and haue brought him into me in this wise, inioying with our wise continuance of longe time, the accomplishment of my desire, wherof me thincke (althoughe I haue not offended but by loue) that you doe purpose to prosecute rather the vulgar opinion, then the truth, purposinge in this wise moste bitterly to comptroll me, saying: ‘That you had not had such an occasion of anger, if I had chosen one that had been a gentleman.’ Wherein you do not consider, that the faulte is not mine, but rather to be ascribed to fortune, who ought to be blamed because many times shee exalteth the vnworthie, and treadeth vnder foote those that be most worthie: but nowe let vs leaue of further talke of this matter, and consider the beginninge hereof. First of all you see, that of one masse of fleshe we haue all receiued flesh, and that one Creatour hath created euery lyuing creature, with force and puissaunce equally, and wyth equall vertue: which vertue was the first occasion that made the difference and distinction of vs all that were borne, and be borne equall, and they that obtayned the greatest part of vertue, and did the workes of her, were called noble, the rest continuing vnnoble. And albeit contrary vse afterwards obscured this Law, yet therefore, shee is not remoued ne abandoned from nature, or good maners. In likewise hee that by vertue performeth all his doinges, doth manifestlie shewe himselfe to be noble: and he that doth otherwise terme him, doth commit the faulte, and not he that is so called. Behold all your gentlemen, and examine well their vertue, their conditions and maner of doinges. On the other part, behold the qualities and condicions of Guiscardo: then if you please to giue iudgement wythout affection, you shall say that he is righte noble: and that all your gentlemen be villaines in respecte of him. The vertuous and excellencie of whom, I beleeue cannot be placed in any other wight, as in hym, as well by your owne report as by the choyse of mine owne eyes. Who euer praysed man so, and with such ample commendacions praise worthie, wherein an honest man ought to be praised, as you haue done? and truly not without cause: for, if mine eyes be not deceiued, you neuer gaue hym anye praise but that I haue knowen more in him then your wordes were able to expresse. Notwithstanding, if I haue bin deceiued herein, it was you by whom I haue bin deceiued: wil you then say that I couple myselfe with a man of base condicion? Truly you cannot well say so. But if you will saye, perchaunce with a poore man, I confesse it: and verely it is to your shame, that you haue not vouchsafed to place in highe estate a man so honest, being your owne seruaunt. Neuerthelesse, pouertie doth not depriue anye parte of nobilitie, but riches hath. Manye kinges and greate Princes, haue bin poore in olde time, and manye ploughmen and sheepeheardes in times past, haue bin aduaunced to riche estate. And the last doubt which troubleth you, is, that you be doubtfull what to doe with me: caste boldly out of your minde that doubte, and if you do intend in thextremity of your age to vse that which in your youth you neuer did, I purpose to become cruel also. Use your cruelty against me, for the auoyding whereof I haue not determined to make any supplication to you as giltie of this faulte, if faultes may be rehearsed. Assuring you, that if you do not vnto me, that which you haue done or will doe to Guiscardo, mine owne handes shall doe it. Wherefore goe to, and let fall your teares with women, and if you purpose to be cruell, kill him and let me also drincke of the same Cuppe, if you thincke we haue deserued it.” The king hearing the stout words of his doughter, thoughte not that shee woulde haue done in deede, as her wordes pretended, and as she said she would doe. Wherefore departing from her, and not willing to vse any maner of crueltie towards her, hee thoughte by the destruction and slaughter of Guiscardo, to coole her burning loue. And therefore commaunded two of his seruauntes (that had Guiscardo in keeping) without any noise, to strangle him the next nighte, and afterwardes plucking his harte out of his bodie, to bringe it vnto him: who did as they were commaunded. And the next day the king caused a faire Cuppe of gold to be broughte vnto him, wherein he laid the harte of Guiscardo, which he sent (by one of his trustiest seruauntes) vnto his doughter: and commaunded him, when hee presented the same vnto her to say these wordes: “Thy father hath sent thee this presente, to comforte thy selfe with the thing, which thou doest chiefle loue, as thou haste comforted him of that which he loued most.” Gismonda not amoued from her cruel determination, caused to be brought vnto her (after her father was gone) venemous herbes and rootes, which she distilled together, and made water thereof to drincke sodenly if that came to passe which she doubted. And when the kinges seruaunte was come vnto her, and deliuered his presente, he said as he was commaunded. Gismonda toke the Cuppe with stoute countenaunce, and couering it, so soone as she sawe the harte, and vnderstoode the woordes, shee thoughte verelye that it was the hart of Guiscardo, wherefore beholding the seruaunt, she saide vnto him: “Truly it behoueth that such a hart as this is, shoulde be intombed in no worse graue then in golde, which my father hath most wisely done.” Afterwards lifting the Cuppe to her mouth, she kissed it, saying: “I haue in all thinges, euen vnto this time (being the last ende of my life) alwayes found the tender loue of my father towards mee: but nowe I knowe it to be greater, then euer I did before. And therefore in my behalfe, you shall render vnto him, the last thanckes that euer I shall giue him, for so great a presente.” After those wordes, tourning herselfe towardes the Cuppe, which shee helde faste, beholdinge the hart, shee said thus: “Oh sweete harboroughe of my pleasures, cursed be the crueltye of him that hath caused mee at this time to loke vppon thee with the eyes of my face: it was pleasure ynoughe, to see thee euery hower, amonges people of knowledge and vnderstanding. Thou hast finished thy course, and by that ende, which fortune vouchsafed to giue thee, thou art dispatched, and arriued to the ende wherunto all men haue recourse: thou hast forsaken the miseries and traueyles of this world, and haste had by the enemy himselfe such a sepulture as thy worthinesse deserueth. There needeth nothing els to accomplishe thy funerall, but onely the teares of her whom thou diddest hartelye loue all the dayes of thy lyfe. For hauing wherof, our Lord did put into the head of my vmercifull father to send thee vnto me, and truly I will bestow some teares vppon thee, although I was determined to die, without sheading any teares at all, stoutlie, not fearefull of any thinge. And when I haue powred them out for thee, I will cause my soule, which thou hast heretofore so carefully kepte, to be ioyned wyth thine. For, in what company can I trauell, more contented, or in better safegard in places vnknowen, then with thy soule? Truly I am well assured, that it is yet here within, that hath respecte to the place, aswell of his owne pleasures, as of mine, being assured (as she who is certaine, that yet he looueth me) that he attendeth for myne, of whom he is greatly beloued.” When she had thus sayd, she beganne to let fall (as thoughe there had been a fountaine in her head) so many teares, as it was a myracle to beholde her, oftentimes kissing the deade harte. Her maydens that stoode aboute her, knewe not what hart that was, nor whereunto those woords did tende: but being moued with compassion they all wepte: pitifullie demaundinge (althoughe in vayne) the occasion of her sorowfull plaintes: and comforted her so well as they could. Who after she had powred forth sufficient teares, lifted vppe her heade and when she had wiped her eyes, she sayd: “Oh louing hart, all my dutie is fulfilled towardes thee, hauinge nowe nothinge to doe but onely to yelde foorth my ghoste, to accompany thyne.” And this sayd, she caused the glasse of water, which she had made the daye before, to be brought vnto her: and poured it out into the cuppe where the hart laye, all bained with a multitude of teares: whiche shee putting to her mouthe, without feare, dronke vp all. And that done went into her bedde, with the cuppe in her hand, tossing her bodie as decently as she could vppon the same, holding the harte of her dead frende, so nere as shee coulde, vnto her owne. Her maidens seing this (although they knewe not what water it was, that she dranke) sent worde to the king, who fearing that whiche happened, incontinentlye wente downe into his doughters chamber: where he arriued euen at that instante that she had cast her selfe vpon the bedde, and being come to late to succour her, with sweete woordes he began (seing her in those pangues) to wepe bitterly. To whome his doughter sayde: “Father, kepe in those vndesired teares and bestowe them not vpon me, for I desire them not: who euer sawe man beside you, to bewayle the wilfulnesse of his owne facte. Howe be it, if there do yet reste in you any sparke of that loue, which you haue alwayes borne towardes me: graunt me this last requeste, that although you were not contented that I should liue secretly and couertly with Guiscardo, yet at lest, cause our bodies to bee openly buried togethers, where it pleaseth you to bestowe them.” The anguishe and sorowe would not suffer the Prince to aunsweare one worde for weping. And the Ladie perceiuing her ende approche, cleped and strained the dead hart harde to her stomacke, saying: “Farewell sweete harte in God, for I am going to him.” And therewithall she closed her eyes, and lost her senses, departing out of this dolorous life. In this maner sorowefully ended the loue of Gismonda and Guiscardo, as you haue hearde, whome the prince after he had wepte his fill, and taken to late repentaunce for his crueltie: caused honorablie to be buried, and intombed both in one graue, not without great sorowe of all the people of Salerne.

THE FORTYETH NOUELL.

_Mahomet one of the Turkishe Emperours, executeth curssed crueltie vpon a Greeke maiden, whome hee tooke prisoner, at the wynning of Constantinople._

If you doe euer make any proofe of trial, to knowe of what trampe the Arrowes of Loue be, and what fruite they brynge to them, that doe vse and practise them: I am assured you shall be touched with some pitie when ye vnderstande the beastlie crueltie of an Infidell louer towards his Ladie. He of whome I wyll declare the historie, is Mahomet, not the false Prophete, but the great graundfather of Soliman Otiman, Emperoure of the Turkes, whiche raigned at that tyme. He it is, that to the shame and eternall infamie of all Christian Princes of his tyme, did wynne Constantinople, and tooke awaye the Easte Empire from Constantine, a Christian Emperour, the yeare of our Lord 1453. Mahomet then hauing obteined so great victorie at Constantinople, amonges the spoyle of that riche Citie, there was founde a Greeke mayden, of suche rare and excellent beautie, as she allured the eyes of euery wight, to wonder and beholde her, as a thing miraculous, whose name was Hyerenee, of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares: whom a Capitaine to gratifie his Lorde, did presente, a Iewell, (as hee thought) moste acceptable to him, aboue all thinges of the worlde. The Emperour Mahomet, young and wanton beyonde measure, after he had caste his eye upon the mayden, and had grauen her beautie in his harte, gaue a straighte charge that shee shoulde bee kepte for hym, hopinge after the tumulte of the warre was ended, to bestowe conuenient tyme vpon her. The retracte sounded, and the affaires of the Empire reduced to sure estate, remembring him selfe of the beautie of Hyerenee, whiche had made a breache and entrie into his harte, commaunded that shee should be brought foorth vnto him, and hauing viewed her at his pleasure, hee felte him selfe so surprised with that newe flame, that hee conceived none other delight but to playe and dallie with her, in suche sorte as his spirites being in loues full possession, loue dealt with hym so cruellie, as he coulde take no reste daye nor night. Who yelded him selfe suche a praie to his darling Hyerenee, that he felte none other contentation in his mynde but that whiche he receiued of her. And this amorous passion indured the space of three continuall yeares, taking suche vigor and increase by litle and litle, that he began to forget that whiche appertained to the ornament and honour of his Empire, leauing the whole administration of publique causes to his Baschats, he him selfe being so negligent, as he reposed in them all matters concerning the state of the Empire. During this disorder, the vulgar people began secretly to grudge, as well for the confusion and disorder of the Empire, as for the il gouernment of the same, (and specially, because the Baschats corrupted with auarice imployed them selues to their particuler profite, and to inriche them selues with the spoile of the people.) The Ianissaries on the other side, a warlike people, and brought vp in continuall exercise of Armes, began with open voyce, to detracte and slaunder their lorde, commonlie complaining howe hee consumed his life like an effeminate persone, without inferring or doyng anye profite to the Empire. To bee shorte, the matter came to suche desolation, as it might rather haue bene called a sedition then a murmure: and yet there was none so hardie as durst attempte to declare the same to the Emperour, knowing him to be of nature terrible, cruell, and rigorous, that with a woorde woulde put him to death that went about to withdrawe him from his desire. Therewithall he was so dronke with the beautie of the Greeke, that the leste matter, wherewith they might geue occasion to withdrawe him from his negligent life, was enough to driue him into rage and furie. This poore Emperour was so bewitched, as not onely hee consumed dayes and nightes with her, but he burned with continual ielousie, whose beautie was so liuelie painted in the inward partes of his hart and minde, that he remained thus ouerwhelmed in beastly pleasure, euery man in particuler and all in generall conspired against him, with one determinate minde, to yelde no more obedience vnto him in time to come, and purposed to chose some Emperour, that were more marciall and warlike, through whose succour and counsaile they might not onely conserue the thinges gotten, but also amplifie the boundes and limites of their Empire. Mustapha which was brought vp with the Emperour, a gentle personage, franke of talke, and so nere to his maiestie that he might go into his chamber, although the Greeke was present: when he perceiued conuenient time, suche as he desired to haue, repaired to the Emperour vpon a daye, who liking well his deuises, walked with him alone in his Gardeine, to whom after he had made great reuerence, according to their custome, he sayde: “My souereigne lorde and maister, if I might speake freely, without seruile feare, which staieth mee, or if the terrour of your displeasure might not abash me, I would willingly declare vnto your maiestie that which concerneth not onely your securitie and saulfegarde, but (which is more) the saulfetie of your whole Empire.” Whom Mahomet aunswered with merie countenance in these wordes. “Cast away such colde feare as staieth thee, and speake hardly thy minde: Shewe me what it is that toucheth me.” “I doubt, and it shall please your maiestie, leste I shall seeme ouer presumptuous and rashe, if I discouer the secretes of my hart: but our auncient education, the dutie of my conscience, with the experience that you haue alwayes had of my fidelitie, haue so much forced mee, as being no longer able to rule my selfe, (I am constrained, by what vertuous prouocation I know not) to manifest thinges vnto you, that both time and necessitye will make you to thincke them good and necessarie: althoughe (it may so be) that now your eyes be so bounde vppe, in the vaile of your disordinate affection, that you cannot digeste, or take the same in good part. The life (my lorde) which you haue ledde, sithens the taking of Constantinople, and the excessiue pleasures wherin you haue bin plunged these three yeares, is occassion that not onely your Souldiours and the rest of your popular people, but the most faithful Lords of your Empire, do murmure, conspire, and coniure against you. And pardon me (my lord) if I speake so vnreuerently, in thinges touching your preseruation. For there is no man but doth very much marueile of this great and newe alteration that appeareth in you, which doth so abase you, and maketh you to degenerate from your auncient generositie and valiaunce. Your owne selfe hath giuen ouer your selfe to be a spoile and praye to a simple woman: that you wholie depend vpon her flatteries and allurementes: reason or counsaile can take no place in your passionate and afflicted hart. But I humblie beseech your maiestie to enter a little into your selfe, and make a suruey of your life, that you haue ledde these three yeares paste. The glory of your auncestours and predecessours, acquired and wonne by sheading of so much bloud, kepte by so great prudence, conserued by so happy counsell, haue they no representation, or shew before your face? The remembraunce of theyr memorable victories, doth it not touche the depthe of your conscience? The magnanimitie and valiaunce whereby they be immortalized, and their fame regestred throughe the whole world, is it extinguished in you? Their Trophees and Monumentes grauen and aduaunced to all the corners of the earth, be they throwen downe and defaced from the siege of your remembraunce? But where is now the ardent desire which boiled in you from your infancie, to make Italie tributarie vnto you, and to cause your selfe to be crowned at Rome, Emperour aswel of Thorient, as of the Occidente? This is not the way to amplifie and inlarge your Empire, but rather to restraine and diminish the same. This is not the meane to preserue it, but to dispoile it and make it lesse. If Ottoman the first tronke or stocke of your gentle familye and kinred, had thus giuen himselfe to be corrupted in idlenes, you had not now inherited the noble kingdom of Greece, nor gouerned the countries of Galatia and Bithinia, and many other prouinces, which enuironne the greate sea. Semblablie his sonne Orcan (a liuely Image of his father and a folower of his valiaunt factes) had not triumphed ouer Licaonia, Phrigia, Caria, nor dilated the boundes of his Empyre to Hellesponte. What shall I speake of Amurates, the successour of Orcan, who was the first that inuaded Europa, conquered Thracia, Syria, Rafia and Bulgaria? And Baiazet likewyse, did not he cut of the head of the greate Tamburlain, which called himselfe the scourge of God, and brought into the field foure hundred thousande Scithians a horsebacke, and sixe hundred thousande footmen? Shall I passe ouer with silence the vertuous exploites of your grandfather Mahomet, who conquered Macedonia and made the Countries to feele the edge of his sword, euen to the sea Ionicum, lettinge passe many wonderfull expeditions and iourneis by him made against the Lidians and Scicilians? But nowe I cannot reuiue the memorie of your father Amurate, but to my great sorow and griefe, who by the space of XL. yeres made the Sea and earth to tremble and quake, and with the furie of his stronge hand vsed such cruell reuengment ouer the Grekes, that the memorie of the woundes do remaine at this present, euen to the mountaines of Thomao and Pindus: he subiugated the Phocians, made tributarie Athenes, Beotia, Aetolia, Caramania, and all the barbarous nations, from Morea to the straits of Corinthe. What neede I here to bring in the cruel battell that he fought with the Emperour Sigismunde and Philip Duke of Burgundia wherin he ouerthrew the whole force of the Christians, toke the Emperour prisoner, and the Duke of Burgundie also, whom he sent to Andrionopolis? or to remember other fierce armies which he sent into Hungarie, wherof your maiesty is a faithfull witnes, your selfe being stil there in your owne person. Iudge, then, my Lord, what diligence and intollerable trauell he vsed in his manifolde glorious enterprises and famous victories. Do you thincke that if hee had bin idle in his palace, amonges the Ladyes, you had inherited your Empyre, or had nowe bin Lord of so many excellent Prouinces: which he is not sufficient to rule, that cannot prouide to confirme and establish the same. There be many of your subiectes and vassals at this day, which do obey and honour your maiestie (more for feare then good loue they beare you) that woulde rebell against you, if Fortune would turne her backe. The Christians of longtime (as you know) haue sworne your ruine and destruction. Moreouer they say that their high bishop the pope of Rome hath conuocated all his prelates to vnitie, and reconciled the Princes and Monarches of Christendome together, to ouer run you, and to take the Scepter out of your hands, and to dispoile you of your Empire. But what know we whither they wil ioyne their force with the power of the Persian Sophi, your capital enemie, or with the Souldan or Aegipt, your auncient aduersary: which if they come to passe (as God forbid) your Empire wilbe consumed. Gather your wits then together from henceforth my Lord, and call againe reason, which so many yeres you haue banished from you. Awake out of the deepe sleepe which hath sealed vp your eyes: imitate and folow the trade of your auncestors, which euer loued better one day of honour then a hundred liuing yeares of shame and reproch. Attend to the gouernment of your Empire: leaue of this effeminate life; receiue againe the smell of your generosity and vertue: and if you cannot at one time cutte of and remoue all that amorous heate which vndermineth so your hart, moderate the same by litle and litle, and giue some hope to your people, which thincke you to be vtterlye loste and desperate of recouerie. Or if so be the Greeke do delighte you so much, who shall let you to carye her with you in all your iourneis and expeditions? Why cannot you together both enioy her beauty and vse the practise of armes? Mee thincke that your pleasure shalbe greater after you haue wonne some victory, and subdued some countrye to inioye her in your armes, then to remaine in a house with eternal infamie and continuall grudging of your subiectes. But proue I pray you, to separate your selfe certaine dayes from her and you shall certainly iudge, how farre more passing the pleasures be so differred, then those that be daily vsed. Yet one thinge more, and it please your Maiestie, there resteth to be saide, which is, that all the victories of your progenitours, or the conquestes which your selfe hath made be to small purpose, if you doe not keepe them and increase them, the keeping of a thing gotten being of no lesse glory and praise then the conquest. Be now then a conquerour of your selfe, humblie beseching your Maiestie, that if I haue spoken any thing disagreable to your minde, according to your wonted clemencie to pardon the same, and to impute the faulte to my bounden duty and the care that I haue of your honour and safetye.” Mahomet after he had heard the longe discourse of his slaue, stoode as still as a blocke, and fixing his eyes vppon the grounde, with sodaine chaunge of colour, declared by outward signes, the agitations and vnquietnes of his minde in such wise, as the poore slaue Mustapha, seing in him those alterations, was in doubt of his life: whose woords so pricked the Emperour’s harte, that he knew not what to do, or whereupon to be resolued, and feeling his conscience troubled with a furious battel: knowing euidentlye that Mustapha had spoken the truth, and that he vttered the same like a trustie seruaunt to his maister. But on the other side the beautie of the Greeke, was still before his eyes, and the minde he had to abandon her, gaue him suche alarme, that he seemed at that instante as though his hart had been torne out of his belly. And thus moued with diuers tempestes, and disquieted with sundry thoughtes, hauing his eyes inflamed with great rage and furie, he said vnto him. “Althoughe thou hast spoken vnreuerently inough, yet our education together, and the fidelitie that I haue proued in thee in time paste, shalbe thy pardon for this time. To the purpose. Before the Sunne doth compasse the Zodiacke, I will let it be knowen to thee and other, what puissaunce and power I haue ouer my selfe: whether I am able to bridle mine affection or not. Take order in the meane time that all my noble men, the Baschats and the principall of my men of warre, be assembled together to morowe, in the middes of the greate halle of my palace.” This determination finished, the Emperour went into the Greeke, with whom he reioysed all that day and night, and made more of her than euer he did before. And the more to flatter her, he dined with her, and commaunded that after dinner, she should adorne herselfe with her most precious Iewels, and decke her with the costliest apparell shee had. Whereunto the poore wenche obeied, not knowinge that it was her funeral garmentes. On the other side, Mustapha vncertaine of the Emperour’s minde, at the houre appointed caused all the nobilitie to be assembled in the hall, euerye of theym marueilinge what moued the Emperour so to do, sithens he had so long time shut vp himselfe, without shewing his person abrode. Being thus assembled, and euerye man talking diuerslye of this matter, accordinge as their affection serued: beholde, the Emperour entred the hall, leading the Greeke by the hand, who being adorned otherwise then she was wont to be, was accompanied and garnished with beautie, so rare and excellent as she resembled rather an heauenly Goddesse then a humaine creature. The Turke being come into the hall, after that the Lords had made their reuerence, according to their wonted maner, he holding still the faire Greeke by the left hande, and stoode still in the middest of the same, loking furiously round about him, he said vnto them. “So farre as I vnderstand, all ye do mutine and grudge, because I (being vanquished with Loue) cannot be deuided nor yet content my selfe day nor night, from the presence of this Greeke. But I do know none of you all so continente and chaste in Loue, that if hee had in possession a thing so rare and precious, so amiable, indowed with beautie so excellent, but before he could forget her, and giue her ouer, hee would three times be well aduised. What say you to the matter? Euery of you shall haue free liberty franckly to tel me your minde.” But they rapt with an incredible admiration, to see so faire a thing, sayde that he had with greate reason passed his time wyth her. Wherunto the barbarous cruel Prince aunsweared. “Well, now then I will make you to vnderstand, that there is no earthlie thing that can bind vp, or captiuate my sences so much, but that from henceforth I will folow the glorie of mine auncestours, and immitate the valiaunce of the Ottomans, which is so fixed in my breaste as nothinge but death is able to blotte it out of my remembraunce.” Those wordes finished, incontinently with one of his handes, hee catched the Greeke by the heare of the head, and with his other hand he drew out his falchion from his side, and folding his handes about her golden lockes, at one blow hee strake of her head, to the great terrour of them all. When he had so done, he said vnto them: “Now ye know, whether your Emperour is able to represse and bridle his affections or not?” Within a while after, meaninge to discharge the rest of his cholere, he addressed a Campe of foure score, or an hundred thousand men: with whom percing Bousline, he besieged Belgrade, where Fortune was so contrary vnto him, that he was put to flight, and loste there a notable battaile against the Cristians, vnder the conduct of Iohn Huniades, surnamed le Blanck, who was father of the worthie and glorious king Mathie Coruin.

THE FORTY-FIRST NOUELL.

_A Ladie falslie accused of adultrie, was condempned to be deuoured of Lions: the maner of her deliuerie, and how (her innocencie being knowen) her accuser felt the paines for her prepared._

In the countrie of Aquitane, there was sometime a Lord, whose lands and lordships laye betweene Lismosine and Poictou, and for the antiquitye of his house was renowmed both for bloude and wealth, amonges the chiefe of all the Countrie. Being allied in kindred wyth the best, hee had full accesse and fauour as well in the houses of the aunciente Dukes of Guienne, and Countes of Poictou, as in the Royall Courtes of the French kinges. This Lorde (whom Bandello the aucthour of this history affirmeth to be Signor de la Rocca Soarda, but the translatour and augmentor of the same in French called Francois de Belle Forest, leaueth out his name, for good respect as he alleageth) kept a great Court and liberal household, and singularlie delighted (after the maner of the French nobilitie) in huntinge and hawking. His house also was had in greater admiracion (the rudenes and ignoraunce of that tyme was such) because he had gotten beastes of straunge countries, cheflie Lions, wherein he had great pleasure aswell for the rarenesse of that beast in Fraunce, as for a certain generositie that he knew to be in the same, which resembled the magnanimitie and courage of noble men, whose minds and spirites doe not esteeme thinges that be vaine and cannot be affraide in doing of deedes, whereunto honour is offred for reward. This Lord maried a Ladie, the doughter of one of his neighbours, a woman worthie for such a husbande: whose beautie was so rare as there was none comparable vnto her: which the more increased for that shee was indued with perfite vertue, and furnished with so good behauiour as right good mindes and wittes should be occupied, naie rather put to their shiftes to decide, whether gifte were greatest, either the exquisite workemanshippe of her excelling beautie, or whether nature had imploied al her cunning, to frame a body to appeare before men miraculous, or els her honest porte, her good grace, curtesie and graue mildnes, accompanied with vertue, not vulgare or common to many men, which made this Ladie to shine like the glisteringe Planet of Mars, amonges other the wanderinge starres. In such wife as the very sauage and brute were forced with splendent fame, to praise her to be such a woman whose equall they neuer knew to be in all their Countrie, who made the house of her husband glorious and him a contented man, to beholde such a starre to lie by his side, which sufficed to illustrate and beautifie a whole countrie by her onely presence, and to nobilitate a race, althoughe the bloud of auncestours did faile, for the accomplishmente of their perfection. Such is the great force of vertue which not onely did aduaunce her aboue other creatures, but also did constraine the enuious to haue her in admiration. But these admiratours and praisers of vertue, doe not vse like indeuour for the merites of vertue, rather they imploie their onely industrie to gather some profite of vertue and then (followinge the nature of the dogge) they retourne to their vomite, and vomite forth their venime hidden in their serpent’s breast. As it came to passe and was euident in a certaine man, that was Stewarde of this nobleman’s house (truly a very happye house, as well for the honest loue betwene the Lord and the Lady, as for the vertue and clemency wherewith both the one and the other were accompanied) who in the beginninge, as honestie and dutie did require, was a louer of good maners and commendable demeanour of his Lady and maistresse, afterwardes (forgetting the fidelitie which he did owe vnto his Lorde, the nobilitie of his predecessours, and the perill of his owne life) began to loue her and serue her in harte, and to wishe for the fairest thing which outwardlye did appeare to be in her, where he oughte not so much as with the loke of his eye, to giue any atteint of liking, for the reuerence of him which was the right owner and iuste possessor of the same. This maister foole then, not measuring his forces, and lesse followinge the instincte of reason, became so amourous of his Madame, as continually he imagined by what meanes he mighte giue her to understand the paines and languores wherein he liued for the loue of her. But (alas) these deuises vanished, like a litle dispersed cloude at the rysinge of the Sunne: for thinking vppon the vertue of his maistresse, his desires were soner remoued from his hart, then he was able to impresse them in the seat of his iudgement, therby to take anye certaine assuraunce. Notwithstandinge his heade ceased not to builde Castels in the ayre, and made a promise to himselfe to enjoye her whom he worshipped in his hart. For he toke such paynes by his humble seruice, that in the ende he acquired some part of his Laydes good grace and fauour. And for that he durste not be so bolde to manifest vnto her the vehemence of his griefe, he was contented a long time to shew a counterfaict ioy, which raised vnto him a liuely spring of sorowes and displeasures, which ordinarily did frette and boyle his minde so muche: as the force of his weping for vaine hope, was able to suffocate the remnant of life, that rested in his tormented hart, which caused certaine litle brokes of teares to streame downe, assailing the minde of this foolishe Louer. This faire and chaste Ladie was so resolued in the loue of her husbande, that she toke no regarde of the countenaunces and foolishe fashiones of this maister Louer. Who seing his mishappe to growe to dispaire, and from thence foorthe no remedie, that whether by reioyse, well hoping of better lucke, or for sodaine and miserable death, he determined to proue Fortune: and to see if the water of his hope coulde finde any passage, stedfastlye determined that if he were throwen downe hedlong into the bottome of Refusal, and contempned for his seruice, not to retire againe, but rather further to plondge for the accelerating of the ruine of him self, and his desires: for he thought it impossible that his harte could indure more intollerable heate of that invisible fier, then it had felt alreadie, if he founde no meanes for the smoke to haue some vent and issue. For whiche consideration, cleane besides him selfe, bewitched with foolish Loue, like a beast throughly transformed into a thing, that had no sense of a a reasonable man (such as they be accustomably, that be inrolled in the muster bookes of Venus’ sonne) was purposed to open to the Ladie (when occasion serued) both the euill, and also the griefe that he susteined in bearing towarde her, so great and extreme affection. Behold here one of the effects of humane follie: this was the firste acte of the Tragedie, wherein loue maketh this brainlesse man to playe the first and principall parte vpon the Stage. This poore gentleman (otherwyse a good seruaunt, and carefull for the profite and honoure of his maister) is nowe so voyde of him selfe and blinde in vnderstanding as hee maketh no conscience to assaile her (to defraude her of her greatest vertue) the simple name of whom ought to haue made him tremble for feare, and to blushe for shame, rather then for her beautie sake and naturall curtesie, to dispoyle her of her honestie, and to attempte a thing vncertaine to winne and also more daungerous to practise. Nowe whiles he liued in the attemte of his hoped occasion, it chaunced that the Lady (thinking no malice at all) began to beholde the Stewarde with a better eie and looke more familier, then any of the gentlemen and domesticall seruauntes of the house, as well for the painted honestie of this Galant, as to se him so prompte and readie to obey her: and therefore vpon a daye as she walked in the Gallerie she called him vnto her, and verie familierly communicated certaine affaires touching the profite of the house. He that marched not but vpon one foote, and burned with Loue, and whose harte leapte for ioye, and daunced for gladnesse, thought that he had nowe obteined the toppe of his felicitie, and the whole effect of his desire: sodainly he cast away the dispaire of his former conceiptes, obiecting him selfe to the daunger wherin he was to bee ouerwhelmed, if the Ladie accepted not his request with good digestion. In the end, recouering force, he discoursed in minde this wicked opinion, wherwith foolish and wilfull fleshly louers doe blason and displaye the honour and chastitie of Ladies, when they make their vaunte that there is no woman, be she neuer so chaste, continente, or honest, but in the ende yeldeth, if she be throughly pursued. O, the wordes and opinion of a beast, rather then of a man knowing vertue. Is the nomber of chaste women so diminished that their renowme at this daye is like a Boate in the middes of some tempestious sea, whereunto the mariners do repaire to saue them selues? It is the only vertue of Ladies which doeth constraine them to vomite foorthe their poyson, when they see them selues deceiued, of their fonde and vncomely demaundes. A man shall neuer heare those woordes precede, but from the mouthes of the moste lasciuious, which delight in nothing els, but to corrupte the good names of Ladies, afterward to make them ridiculous to the worlde. Retourne we then to our purpose, this valiaunt souldier of loue, willing to geue the first onset vpon his swete enemie, began to waxe pale and to tremble like the Reede blowen with the wynde, and knoweth not in what part, or by what meanes, to bestowe the firste strokes of his assault. At length with foltring tongue and trembling voyce, he speaketh to his Ladie in this wyse. “Alas, madame, how happie were the course of our transitorie life, if the common passions received no increase of troubles, by newe and diuers accidents, which seme to take roote in vs, for the very great diminution of that libertie, which euery man doth studie so much to conserue. But truly that studie is vain, and the paine thereof vnprofitablie bestowed: for he inforceth him selfe to liue free from passion, which in the middes of his inforcement, feeleth him selfe to be violently constrained, and seeth the taking away of his libertie, to be a certaine impeachemente, whiche thereunto hee would geue. Alacke, I haue proued that mischiefe, and am yet in the greatest excesse and pangues of my disease. I fele (alas) a diuersitie of anguishes, and a sea of troubles, which tormente my minde, and yet I dare not discouer the cause, seing that the thing, which is the fountaine of my grief, to be of suche desert as my seruice paste, and all that is to come, is not able to geue the proofe, if one speciall grace and fauour, do not inlarge, the litle power that is in mee, to counteruaile the greatnesse, and perfection of that which thus doth variat and alter bothe my thoughtes and passions. Pardon mee (madame) if I doe speake obscurelye, for the confusion of my minde maketh my woordes correspondent to the qualitie of the same. Notwithstanding I wyll not kepe silente from you that whiche I doe suffer, and muche lesse dissemble what passion I indure, beyng assured for your vertue and gentlenes, that you (moued with compassion) will succour me so muche as shall lie in you, for preseruacion of the life of him that is the best and most obedient seruaunt amonges them all that do you humble seruice.” The Lady which neuer thought of the wickednesse which this insensate man began to imagine, aunswered him verye curteously: “I am sorie trulye for your mishap, and do marueile what should be the effect of that passion which as you say, you feele with such dimunicion of that which is perfect and accomplished in you: for I do see no cause that ought to moue you to so straunge infirmitie, whereof you told mee, and wherewith I had alreadie found fault although you had said nothing. I would to God I knew which way to helpe you, aswel for my lord my husbandes sake, whoe I am sure doth beare you good will, as for the honestie which hetherto I haue knowen to be in you, wherein I thincke all other resembling you, for vertue and good conditions doe deserue that accompt and consideration.” He that thought her already to be taken in his nettes, seing so faire a waye open and cleare, to disclose that which he had kept couerte so long, in the depth of his hart, aunsweared. “Ah, madame, are ye ignoraunte of the forces of Loue, and how much his assaultes can debilitate the liuelihoode of the bodies and spirites of men? Knowe ye not that he is blinde and naked, not caring whither hee goeth; manifesting himselfe there, wher occasion is offred? Alas, madame, if you haue not pitie vppon mee, and doe not regard that, which I do suffer for the loue of you, I know not how I am able to auoyde death, which will approche so sone to cutte of, and abridge my yeares, as I shall vnderstande a refusall of that which the extreme Loue I beare you (madame) forceth mee to require: which is to receiue a new seruice of your auncient and faithfull seruiture: who inflamed by the brighte beames of your diuine face, knoweth not how to chaunge his affection, and much lesse to receiue helpe, but of the place where hee receiued the pricke. Excuse (madame I beseech you) my rashnesse, and pardon my follie: accuse rather, either your celestiall beautie, or els that tyrant Loue who hath wounded me so luckelie, as I esteme mine euill fortunate, and my wounde happie: sithe by his meane my thoughtes and cogitations doe onelye tende to do you seruice, and to loue you in mine hart, which is the Phenix of the fairest and moste curteous Ladies within all our Prouince. Alas, that excellencie, which thus maketh me your seruaunt shall one daye be my ruine, if by your good grace (speaking it with weaping teares) you doe not fauour him, which liueth not, but to obey you, and which lesing your good grace, will attempte to depriue him selfe of life, which being depriued through your crueltie, will go to complaine of his bolde attempt, and also of your rigor amonges the ghostes and shadowes of them that bee alreadie dead for like occassion.” The chaste Ladie was so wrapt of wittes for the straungenes of the case, and for the griefe whiche she concerned, to see the vnshamefast hardinesse of the varlette, as she could not tell how to make him aunswere: but in the ende breaking silence, and fetching a great sighe from the bottome of her harte, her face stayned with a freshe Vermilion rudde, which beautified her colour, by reason of disdaine conceiued against this impudent Orator, she aunswered him verie seuerely. “O God, who would haue thought, that from a hart nobly brought vp, and deriued from an honourable race, a vilanie so greate could haue taken roote and spring vp with such detestable fruite? What maister Stewarde? have ye forgotten the dutie of a seruaunt towarde his Lorde and maister? Haue ye forgotten I saye, the dutie of a vertuous gentleman, wel nourished and trayned vp towarde suche and so great a ladie as I am? Ah, Thefe and Traitour! Is this the venime which thou kepest so couert and secrete, vnder the swetenesse of thy counterfaicte vertue? A vaunte varlet, a vaunt: goe vtter thy stuffe to them that be like thy self, whose honour and honestie is so farre spent, as thy loialtie is light and vayn. For if I heare thee speake any more of these follies be assured that I wil mortifie that raging flame, which burneth thy light beleuing harte, and wil make thee feele by effecte what manner of death that is, wherein thou reposest the reste of thy trauell.” As this deceiued Oratour was framing his excuse, and about to moderate the iust wrath of his Ladie, displeased vpon good occasion, she not able to abyde any more talke, sayde further. “And what signes of dishonestie haste thou seen in mee, that moue thee to perswade a thing so wicked, and vncomely for mine estate: yea and so preiudiciall to me, to my frendes, and the house of thy maister, my Lorde and spouse? I can not tell what it is that letteth me, from causing thee to be caste foorthe amonges the Lions (cruell and capitall enemies of adulterie, amonges themselues) sithe thy pretence is, by violating my chastitie to dishonour the house, whereunto thou owest no lesse, then al the aduancements thou hast: from the taste whereof thou hast abandoned Vertue, the best thing wherwith thou were affected. Auoyde nowe, therefore, let me heare no more of this, vppon paine of thy life, otherwyse thou shalt feele the rewarde of thy temerite, and vnderstande the bitternesse of the litle pleasure, whiche I haue conceiued of thy follies.” So the good Ladie held her peace, reseruing in her harte, that whiche should bee her helpe in time and place: howbeit she sayde nothing hereof vnto her husbande, aswell for raising offence or slaunder, as for prouoking him against him whiche susteined the punishement him selfe, sithe that this refuse, did more straungely pinche him, nerer at the harte then euer the Egle of Caucasus (whereof the Poetes haue talked so muche) did tier the mawe of the subtile thefe Prometheus. And yet the vnhappie stewarde not contented, with the mischiefe committed against the honour of his maister, seing that it was but lost time to continue his pursute, and that his gaine would bee no lesse then death, if she according to her promised threates did therof aduertise her husband, being a cholericke man, and lighte of beliefe, and because the said Steward for such an enterprise had receiued a simple recompence, althoughe correspondent to his desert, premeditated worse mischiefes, more noisome then the first. He was in doubte, whether it were better for him to tarie or to departe, sith two thinges in a maner, were intollerable for him to suffer. For he coulde not forsake the house where from his cradle he had been so finely brought vp, the lord wherof made so much of him, as of his owne person. On the other side, he knewe that so long as the Lady was aliue, he could haue no maner of ioy or contentation. For that cause, conuerting extreeme loue (which once he bare to the lady) into cruel hatred, vnseemly for a brutal beaste, and into an insaciable desire of reueng, he determined to addresse so strong an ambushe, trained with so great subteltie, that she was not able to escape without daunger of her life and honour, whereof she declared herselfe to be so carefull. Alas, what blindnes is that, which captiuateth the wittes and spirite of him, that feedeth himselfe of nothing els, but vpon the rage of fantastical despite and vpon the furie of dispaire. Do wee not see, that after Reason giueth place to desired reuenge of wrong thought to be receiued, man dispoyleth himselfe of that, which appertayneth to the kinde of man, to put on the fierce nature of the moste brute and cruell beastes, to runne headlonge without reason toward the place wher the disordinate appetite of affections, doth conduct him? whereof I will not aduouche any other example, but of this traitour, who passionated not with Loue, but rather with rage and fury, ceaseth not to espie all the actions and behauiour of his Ladie, to the intente he mighte bringe to ende his deuised treason against her, that thoughte (perchaunce) no more of his follies, but honestlie to passe the time with her deare and wel beloued husbande. Truly, if this Lady had been of the disposition of some women (that care not to moleste theyr husbands, for the first Flie that buzzeth before their eyes, conceyuing a friuolous and sodaine opinion of their chastitie, not so much assailed, or to sharpely defended, chaunting glorious Hympnes and high prayses of their victorie) certainly she had not tombled herselfe into the daunger, wherunto afterwards she fell. Not for that I will blame them that do reueale to theyr husbandes the assaults which they receiue of importunate suters, that doe assaie to deflower their Chastitie. Yet I will saye that Modestie in the same (as in euery other humaine action) is greatly to be required, sith that such a one, by thincking to extolle her honour and honestie, and to make proofe of her Chastitye, rendreth the same suspicious, and giueth occasion to talke to the people that is more apt and redie to slaunder and defame, then by good report to prayse them, which by vertue do deserue commendation, bringing the lyfe and fame of her husband, to such extremitie, as it had been better vertuously to haue resisted the force of Loue, and the flattering sute of such louers, then to manifest that which might haue been kept secrete without preiudice of eyther. And truly that woman deserueth greater glorie, which of herselfe defendeth her honestie, and quencheth the flames liuelye kindled in the hartes of other, with the coldnes of continencie, by that meanes vanquishing two, then she doth, which manifesting the vice of an other, discloseth as it were, a certaine apparaunce of her frailtie, and the litle reason wherewith she is indewed, to vanquish him that confesseth to be her seruaunt, and whose wil dependeth at her commaundement. And when the whole matter shalbe rightlye iudged, shee that reuealeth imperfection of a Suter, sheweth her opinion and minde to be more pliant to yelde, then indewed with reason to abandone pleasure and to reiect the insolencie of the same, sith Reason’s force doth easely vanquish light affections of sensuall partes, whose fancies imprinted wyth ficklenes, do make them so inconstant, as they perswade themselues to be so puissaunte and mightie, as all thinges be, and rest at their commaundement. Retourning nowe then to our former discourse, the Steward so laboured with might and maine, till he had found meanes to be reuenged of the receiued refusall, with such subtilty and Diuelish inuention as was possible for man to deuise, which was this. Among the seruauntes of this greate Lorde there was one no lesse yonge of witte and vnderstanding, then of age. And albeit that he was fare and comely, yet so simple and foolishe as hee had much a do to tell the nomber of sixe. This foole by reason of his follye and simplicitye, was the onelye sporte and pastime of the Lord and Lady. The Lady many times toke pleasure, to talke with this maister foole, to bring him into a choler and chaufe, thereby to prouoke laughter. And therefore all the houshold vsed to call him in mockerie, my Ladyes darlinge. In whom the Lorde toke singular pleasure and delighte, esteeming him so well as any of his other seruaunts. The malicious Steward, seing the familiaritie of the lady with the foole (like one that had already catched his pray within his snares) began also to make much of that yonge Cockescome, in such wyse as he had brought him into such fooles paradise, as he mighte make him do and saye what he liste. Who seing him diligent to his desire, one day toke him aside, and after he had whitled him well, he sayd vnto him. “Dicke, I can tell thee a knacke, that thou shalt make my Lady laugh wel, but thou must say nothing, till she do perceiue it.” The poore idiot glad to please his maistres, was desirous to knowe what it was, and promised to doe whatsouer he would bidde him. “Thou must (sayd the steward) in the eueninge before she go into her chamber, hyde thy selfe vnder her bedde, and tarry there till it be an hower or two before day, and then I wil tell thee what thou must doe besides.” This plat deuised the foole the same euening executed the deuise of hys diuelish counsaylour, who seing his desire to take effecte, went to an olde gentleman, that was of great honestie and vertue, for which he was of all men so wel knowen, as they esteemed his word so true as the Gospell. To that gentleman this craftie villaine, full of poison and malice, wholy bent to mischiefe, told and reported the facte, not as it was in deede, but to the great preiudice and dishonour of the Lady, geuing him to vnderstand how much she had forgotten herselfe, how without the feare of God, reuerence of her husband, and respect of her owne honesty, she had filthely giuen herselfe ouer to him which was called her Dareling. The good gentleman hearing this straung case, was astonned like one that had been stroken with a flashe of lightening, then drawing nere to the accuser, he aunswered. “Is it possible that suche wickednes can lye hidden in the breast of our Madame? I sweare vnto thee by God, that if any other had told it me besides you, I would not haue beleued it, and truly yet I am in doubt thereof.” “No, no,” said this wicked blasphemer, “I will make you see that, which you cannot beleue:” and hauing lessoned his foole, in his conceiued follie, the next day he procured the gentleman thyther, who seing the Ladies minion, going out of her chamber (which many times lay seuerally from her husband) could not refraine weeping, lamenting the ill fortune of his Lord, who thinkinge that he had had an honest wyfe, was abused with an impudent and vnshamefast whore. Then he began to frame a long Oracion, against the incontinencie of women, moued rather through the good will hee bare to his mayster, then to the truth of the matter, which vndiscretely he spake against the order of women kynd. So ignorant was he of the treason and indeuour of the Steward, who demaunded of him what was to be done in that matter? “What,” sayd the old gentleman, “such wickednesse ought not to be vnpunished. My Lorde must be aduertised hereof, that the house maye be purged of suche a plague and infection, that he maye euidentlye vnderstande the hypocrisye of her that so longe time hath kept close her incontinencie, vnder the vaile of fayned chastitie. But the righteous God made openly to appeare before mens eyes the secrete sinnes of the wicked, to thintent greater slaunders should not increase.{”} The steward very ioyful that he had gotten so honeste a man to be a witnesse of his accusation, approued his aduise, for that it agreed wel with his intent. So they two together went to the Lord, with countenaunce sad and heauie, correspondent to their minde, and specially the Traitour, whose sense was so confounded with gladnesse, that thinking to begin his tale his wordes so stucke in his mouth as he was not able to vtter a word. Whereat the Lorde was wonderfully abashed, marueyling what that timidite did meane, till he had heard the vnfaithfull Stewarde tell his tale, who sayde to him in this maner. “My Lord, I am sory that it is my lotte to declare vnto you a matter hitherto vnknowen and not marked or taken heede of by any, which wyl so much offend you, as any pleasure that euer till this day, did please and content you. And God knoweth what griefe it is to me (in your presence) to be an accuser of a person in the world, which I haue esteemed nexte vnto you aboue anye other creature that lyueth: but being in that place I am, I might (by good deserte) be accused of treason and felonie if concealing such a detestable crime, I should leaue the dutie of fidelitie to an other, lesse desirous to do you seruice then I am. Who beleueth there is no second person, that desireth better to acquite the goodnes and preferment which I haue receyued of your Lordship, then I do. This it is my Lord: my lady misprising her duty to your Lordship, and the honour of the house whereof shee came, hath not disdayned to receiue into her chamber at inconuenient time, the foole that is called her Darelinge, and in the place into which none but your honour, ought to haue peaceable entrie: whereof this gentleman present (whom you know to be without comparison) shalbe witnesse: touching myselfe the fayth and trust, which alwayes I haue vsed in all vour affayres, and the litle affection which I haue to things contrary to vertue, shal giue true testimonie of that which I haue saide.” The Lorde hearing these pitiful newes, which pearced his harte more deepe then anye two edged sword, at the first was so astonied, that he could not tell what to say or do, sauing the ardente furie of Cholere made him distill a certaine Melancholique humour into his eyes, which receyued the superfluous vapours of his braine. At length breakinge that forth, which troubled him within, and grindinge his teethe for furie, with stutteringe and vncertaine voice, fetching sighes betweene, saide: “O God, what newes be these that I heare? Is it possible, that the fairest and chastest Lady that liueth, hath in this wise defaced her honour: and so wickedly blemished my reputation? Alas, if it so be, that she hath in this wise disparaged herselfe, no trust is to be reposed in any other, what soeuer she bee. Ah, God! vnder what Planet was I borne, that after so longe pleasure receiued with my beloued fere and companion, I should by her feele a displeasure, an hundred times worse then death? Is there no remedie but that my house muste receiue and see an enterprise so vilanous, but her onely meane, which ought rather to haue been the ornamente and beautie of the same?” Then he chaused vp and downe the chamber, without speaking any more wordes, with his eyes rolling in his heade, making straunge countenaunces, which did well expresse the griefe that vexed and tormented his minde. In the ende halfe pacifyed, he tourned his face toward the accuser, saying: “My frende, if this be true, which thou hast told mee, I sweare by God, that I will make her feele the smarte, of such greeuous punishmente, as shalbe spoken of for euer. But if my wyfe be slaundred, and accused wrongfully, assure thy selfe that I will be reuenged vppon thee. I know the vertue of this gentleman very well (hauing had good proofe thereof) and of thy fidelitie I am nothing at all in doubt. But, alas! the loue that I beare vnto my wife, and her former vertue, which maketh me to loue and esteeme her so much, doth throughlye pearce my hart, and much adoe I haue to liue hearing this reporte: which doth deface and blotte all the honestie and vertue that euer remaiued in mee.” “And that was it my Lord, (answeared the traitour) which did deceiue you. For the shewe of that painted vertue did so delude you, that you be almoste bewitched from vnderstanding the wronge, so manifestlye perpetrated against you, and all your house. Now to thend, that you thincke not the accusacion to be false, I trust (if it please you to assist me) to let you see the thing, whereof wee haue giuen you intelligence.” “I will do (sayd the Lord) what you will haue me, although it be to my great griefe and sorow.” “To morow morning then (answeared the Traitour) one hower before day, I will let you see the varlet goinge out of her chamber with so great ioy, as I do conceiue heauines and griefe for the simple remembraunce of so greate wickednes.” When they were agreed hereupon, this knaue most detestable, weauing the toile wherin he himselfe was caughte, wente to suborne the personage of his foole, holy made and instructed in his trumperie: leauinge the poore Lord with a hamer working in his head, that he was lyke to runne out of his wittes. So great is the furious force of the poison of Ialosie, whych ones hauing dispersed the vemine ouer the harte and intrayles of men, the wysest sorte haue lost the due discretion of their wittes. In the morning about the hower that the amourous foole (ignoraunt wherfore he went in) should issue out of his maistresse chamber, the Stewarde rauished with inexplicable ioye and gladnesse, like to the pleasure of hym that had attaynde the summe of his desires, called hys Lorde to see that heauye and dolourous sighte. The good gentleman, perceyuing the report to be true, and thincking that she had vsed the foole to be her bedfelowe, was like to haue dyed for sorow, or els to haue torne in peeces that vnhappy sotte, innocent of the euill suspected by the Lorde, who durst not so much as thincke to do such a wicked fact. In the ende geuing place to reason, he caused the poore foole to be apprehended, and put in the bottome of a dongeon, and beyonde measure was offended wyth his wyfe, for that he thought the simplicitie of the imprisoned wretche, had not the face to demaund the question, and therefore did verely beleeue that it was she that had induced him to do the deede to satisfie her vnbrideled and filthy lust, and therefore caused her to be shut vp, within a darke and stincking prison, not meaninge to see her, or to heare her speake for her iustification, ne yet woulde suffer that any man should take vppon hym to stand in her defence, to bring witnesse of her innocency. “For” (sayd he, replete wyth wrath and anger): “I do better beleue that which I haue seene, and knowen by myne owne presence, then your wordes, vayne reasons, and complaintes of no good ground and effecte as founden vppon her, that hath to muche forgotten herselfe, and her dutye towardes mee.” Moreouer vanquished with the Cholere (not without cause truly) of a husband that thought himselfe by her onely meanes deceyued and betrayed, sent word to the poore captiue, that she should then prouide for her soules health, sith he was determined the very same day to make her play a Tragedy, more cruell then that was pleasant, which she had already done wyth her beloued, in extruding her to be deuoured of hys Lions, which were the ministers for the execution of the Iustice ordayned against her, as thoughe she had bin the most lasciuious and detestable woman that euer the earth brought forth. The fayre and innocent lady, knowing the humour and Cholere of her husband, and likewyse seing (contrary to right order of all Iudgement) that she could not be heard or suffred to make aunsweare, passed through the rigorous law of hym, that thoughte her to be an Adultresse: and coulde not tell what to doe but to lamente her ill fortune, gushing forth teares in such abundance, as the most part of her attyre were wet and bedewed with the same, then fortefying herselfe in the hope of the mercifull hande of Almightye God the father of all consolacion, who neuer forgetteth them, which with intire faith do call vppon him, and appeale to the succour of the holy and precious name of his sonne Iesus Christe our sauiour, she with compunction of hart, and sincere deuocion, with ioyned handes and knees vppon the grounde, addressing her eyes to the heauens, prayed in this wyse: “Alas, my God, I do knowe and confesse, that the multitude of my sinnes do surpasse the sea sands, and am not ignoraunt, that this vnhappie time is chaunced vnto me, for the punishment of my forepassed offences. Notwithstandinge (Lord) accordinge to thy greate goodnes, haue no respecte vnto my demerites and wickednes (whereof my life is ful) but rather extende thy fauour and mercy vppon thy poore creature, whose innocencie thou (which art the searcher of mennes hartes) doest well vnderstande and knowe, I do not desire prolongation of miserable lyfe, onely maye it please thee (O God) for thy goodnes and iustice sake, to saue mine honour, and to graunt that my husbande maye see with what integritie I haue alwayes honoured the holy band of mariage, by thee ordayned, to thintent he may liue from henceforth quiet of his suspicion conceyued of mee, and that my parentes may not sustaine the blot of ignominie, which will make theym blushe, when they shall heare reporte of my forepassed life.” She beinge in these contemplacions and holye prayers, preparinge herselfe to receyue death, her husband caused her to be conueyed into the Parke of Lions, which being straunge and terrible at the first sight, did marueylouslie affray her, but remembring how innocent she was, putting her hope in God, she went thither with such constancie and courage, as if she had bin ledde to some ioyous banquet, and the people which neuer heard tell before of suche a kinde of death, was assembled in great multitude, tarying to see the ende of that execution, and talking diuersly of that sodaine iudgement, prayed all with one voyce, for the preseruation of the Ladie, of whose chastitie they were alredy right well assured. Now as they attended for the time of execution, the Lady was placed in the mid of the Parke, not without teares and sighes of the Assistantes who murmured at the remembraunce of the horror of a sight so furious. The innocent Ladye kneeled downe vpon her knees, and both by gesture and mery countenaunce, shewed how ioyful she went to suffer that which she had neuer deserued: then recommending her soule to God, for whose saluation she stedfastly hoped, she pronounced this praier a loude: “O my Lorde God, whiche diddest ones deliuer Daniell from a daunger like to this, wherunto the false accusation of the wicked, haue wrongfully cast me hedlond: and diddest discharge Susanna from the slaunder of the peruerse and adulterous Iudges, pleaseth the pitifully to behold thy poore creature. Pardon, O Lorde! forgiue I humblie beseche thee, the simplicitie of my deare husband, who dealeth thus with mee, rather through the circumuention of deceiptfull cauilling slaunderers, then by his owne malice and crueltie. Receiue, O my God, and mercifull father, receiue my soule betwene thy blessed handes, which thou hast redemed by the bloudshedding of thy sonne Iesus, vpon the Tree of the Crosse!” As she had ended these wordes, she sawe the Lions come forth ramping, and bristling vp their heare, stretching forth their pawes with roaring voice, cruelly looking round about them, of whom the Lady thought to be the present pray. But the goodnesse of God, who is a iust Iudge, and suffreth his owne elect to be proued to the extremitie, of purpose to make their glorie the greater, and the ruine of the wicked more apparaunt, manifested there an euident miracle. For the Lions (being cruell of nature, and that time hungrie and gredie of pray) in lieu of tearing the Ladie in pieces, to gorge their rauening paunche, they fill to licking and fawning vppon her, making so much of her as if they had familiarly ben nourished with her own breastes. A thing no lesse pleasaunt to the Ladye then merueilous to all the people standing round about, who seing a chaunce so miraculous cried out, incontinently for the deliuerie of the Ladie, and for vengeaunce to be taken of him, which so wickedly had protruded her into that daunger: which for her vertue, ought to be extolled and praised of the whole world. When the noble man was certified of this straunge aduenture, hee caused his Steward to be apprehended and imprisoned, whose conscience forced great remorse, yet not knowing the ende of the Tragedie, condempned himselfe by his countenaunce. During his imprisonement the deposition of the beloued foole was taken, who saide: “That by the suggestion of the malicious Steward, many times (ignoraunt to the Lady) he conueied himself in her chamber, not knowing wherunto the intent of him that caused him so to do did tende.” The other gentleman made excuse (although he was blame worthy) that he was deceiued by the same false practise, that the Lorde himselfe was. The Steward openly confessed the treason, which he had deuised against the Ladie, and the whole occasion thereof, and thinking to be reuenged of the refusall of loue by her denied, he framed this slaunder to make her lose her life. Which the Lord hearing could not abide that his death should any longer be respected, but without other forme of Lawe, he was thrust out to the Lions, and was presently seased vpon, and torne in peeces by those beastes, which by God’s iuste iudgement, did absteine from the good ladie, for the punishement of the detestable sinne of this varlet. In the meane time the chaste and innocent Ladie, being brought before her husbande, after he had kissed and imbrased her, with humble reuerence she sayde vnto him: “My Lorde, I render my humble thankes to God, for that through his holy grace, and inscrutable Iustice, he hath let you to vnderstande, twoo diuers affections, in two seuerall persones of this worlde, which you loue so well. In one, the treason so pernicious, which prouoked you to soile and imbrue your handes (not without cause till this daye proued contrarie) in the bloud of your faithfull and dere beloued wife. In thother, a will and minde so good to obey you, and to persist in continuation of that effecte, which maketh her generally to be praysed, and worthy of your earnest loue, for so much as she is your very affectionate spouse. Notwithstanding, iustly may I make my complaint of you, for that without excuse for my discharge, or hearing any thing that might serue for my purgation, you condempned her, for whose honour and defence you ought to haue imployed both goodes and life. But God shalbe iudge betwene your litle discretion, and my righteousnesse, betwene mine obedience and your crueltie, wherewith you haue abused the nobilitie, of the race whereof I came.” The husbande hearing this wise and iust complaint, on the one side transported with ioye, leapt and rejoysed, to see his deare companion in libertie, and declared to be innocent, on the other part he blushed for shame, that hee had so lightly, and without better proofe and triall condempned her, whom God by his grace had preserued from the lions throates, and durste not lift vp his head, by reason his harte freated at the remembraunce of his light credite and furie immoderate. Finallie imbracing his wife, and kissing her louingly, said vnto her: “Madame, and deare beloued wife, I can not denye but foolishely I haue attempted to blemishe the honor of her, that whilome made me to shine and glister amongst the best and chief of al this countrey, but he that doth wel marke and beholde the galle and disdaine of a husband louing his wyfe, and then vnderstandyng her litle care and greate forgetfulnesse whiche shee hath, bothe of his honour and glorie of his comforte, will easely excuse and pardon my fault, whiche I will not by any meanes colour and cloke, but rather craue pardon at your handes, assuring you that I will amende and requite the same, so well and in suche wise as you and yours shall haue no cause but to be content and satisfied.” “It suffiseth me, sir, (quod she) that my giltlesse offence is knowen vnto you, and that I haue recouered place in your fauourable acceptation: for I doe accompte mine aduersitie well imployed, sith thereby you and your friendes may glorie, of the seuere iustice ministred against malefacters, and I reioyce in resistaunce of the assaultes of loue, and of death to guarde and kepe my chastitie pure and inuiolable: and may serue for example to euery honourable Ladie, being assailed with suche strong and mightie aduersaries, to kepe them selues honest. For the croune is not due but to her that shall lawfully combate to the ende.” After this the lorde by perswasion of his wife, commaunded that the foole should be auoided the house, that his presence might not grieue or torment her, ne yet renewe the memorie of a thing that neuer was thought or doen. And not without cause: for the Lorde, whiche reclined his eare to euery trifling report, and credited the woordes of euery whistling pikethanke, had much a do to escape from doing thinges unworthy his estate and calling. Of so great force truely is the venime of such Serpentes, that seasing by little and little, the harte of him disposed to receiue it in furie, maketh it to be in effect like the nature of poyson and drogues corrupt: whereof men ought to be no lesse, but rather more diligent and carefull then of meates, amonges persones whom they suspect and feare, sithens that maladies and infections of minde, be farre more daungerous then outward passions which torment the body. Whereunto if the said nobleman was not hedefull, he felt the dammage for penaunce of his inconsideration. Howbeit as thinges, both good and ill amonges men, bee not still durable and perpetuall. Certaine daies after, he began to solace hymselfe with his wife, and rode an huntinge abroade, visited his neighbours, and at home made great feastes and banquettes, whereunto his kindred and frends were inuited, to congratulate this newe alliaunce, indeuouring thereby to satifye the fault committed, and the better to gratifie and pleasure his wyfe, to make her know how much more hee esteemed and regarded her then before: hee caused the successe of his present historie to be ingrauen with great industrie, and marueilous cunning in Marble, which he placed ouer the gate of the first entrie into his Castell, aswell to immortalizate the great chastitie of this fayre and vertuous wife, as to set forth a Mirrour and example to euerye housholde seruaunt, and to all other whatsoeuer they bee, to beware how they attempt any thing against the honour of Ladies. For many times it chaunceth, that he which diggeth a ditch, and setteth vp a Gallowes, is the first that doth fall, or is stretched thereuppon. As you may see by this present discourse, which setteth before your eyes what ende the fonde loue of them ordinarily haue, which without reason, not measureing their owne ability, doe suffer themselues to be guided and led into their sensuall lustes and appetites: for ill successe faileth not in a beginning, the grounde whereof abhorring reason, is planted and layed vppon the sandie foundacion of pleasure, which is shaken and ouerthrowen, by the least winde and tempest that Fortune can bluster against such building.

THE FORTY-SECOND NOUELL.

_Didaco a Spaniarde, is in loue with a poore maiden of Valencia, and secretly marieth her, afterwardes lothinge his first mariage, because she was of base parentage, he marieth an other of noble birth. His first wyfe, by secrete messenger prayeth his company, whose request he accomplisheth. Beinge a bedde, shee and her maide killeth him. She throweth him into the streate: shee in desperate wise confesseth the facte before the Maiestrates, and is put to death._

There is no man but doth knowe, that Valencia is at this day, the chiefe and onelye Rampar of Spaine, the true seate of Faith, Iustice and humanity. And amonges all the rare and excellent ornamentes, that Citie is wel furnished with so trimme Ladies and curteous gentlewomen, as they know how to baite and feede yong men with foolish daliaunce, and idle passetime. So that if there be any beetlehead or grosse person, the better to allure and prouoke him to those follies, they tell him by a common Prouerbe: That he must go to Valencia. In this citie there was in old time as it is at this day, a verye aunciente stocke and familie called Ventimiglia, oute of which be descended a great nomber of riche and honourable knightes. Amonges whom, not long time paste, there was one named Didaco, verye famous and renowmed to be the most liberall and familiar gentleman of the City, who (for want of better businesse) walked vppe and downe the citie, and so consumed his youth in triumphes, maskes, and other expences, common and apte for such pilgrimes, addressing his loue indifferently to al women, without greater affection to one, then to an other, and continued that order, till vppon an holy daye, he espyed a yonge maide of fimal yeares, but of very exquisite beauty: which maiden sodainlye castinge her eye vppon him, so pearced the knighte Didaco with her looke, that from that time forth shee entred more neare his hart than any other. And after he had well marked her dwelling place, he many times passed and repassed before the doore, to espie if he might get some loke or other fauour of her, that began already to gouerne the bridle of his thoughtes, and if it chaunced that the gentleman beheld her, she shewed herselfe curteous and amiable, indued with grace so good as he neuer departed ill contented out of the streate. The gentleman continuing certaine time in those vanities, was desirous to know a far of what she was, of what lineage and of what vocation. And after he had curiously searched out all her original, he vnderstoode by diuers reporte, that she was a Goldsmithes doughter, whose father was dead certaine yeares before, hauinge no more but her mother aliue, and two brethren, both of their father’s science. Notwithstanding, of life she was chaste and honest, defamed with none, although she was pursued of many. Her outward beautie did not so much set her forth, as her grace and order of talke, who although brought vp in a Citizen’s house, yet no Lady or gentlewoman in the Citie, was comparable to her in vertue and behauiour. For from her tender yeares, she was not onely giuen to her nedle (a meete exercise for mayds of her degre,) but also was trayned vp to write and reade, wherein she toke so greate pleasure, as ordinarilie shee caried a booke in her hande, which she neuer gaue ouer, till she had gathered som fruit thereof. This knight hauing receyued that first impression, of the valor and vertue of Violenta (for that was her name) was further in loue then before: and that which added more oile to the matche, was the continuall lookes, wherewith she knew how to delighte him: and wyth them shee was so liberall, that so oft as he passed through the streate she shot them forth so cruelly, as his poore hart (feeling it selfe so tormented) could not indure that new onset. By reason whereof, thincking to quench the fire, that by litle and litle consumed him, he attempted her chastity, with giftes, letters, and messengers, which he continued the space of halfe a yeare or more. Whereunto Violenta geuing no place, in the ende hee was constrayned to assayle her with his owne presence: and one daye finding her alone at the doore, after he had made a verye humble reuerence vnto her, he sayde: “Maistresse Violenta, considering your order and the colde regard that you haue to my letters and messages, I do remember the subtiltye that is attributed to the Serpente, who with his taile stoppeth his eares, because he will not heare the words, which hath power to constraine him to do against his wil, which hath made me to leaue to write vnto you, and to desire specially to speake vnto you, that mine affectuous accentes, my sorowful words and feruent sighes mighte certifie you better then paper, the rest of my passion, beleuing verely, that if the heauy sound of my greuous complaints, may come to your delicate eares, they will make you to vnderstand a part of that good and euill, which I feele continually in my harte, although the loue which I beare you, be such as I cannot giue such liuely experience outwardly, being but litle in comparison of them, which may be seene within.” And pronouncing those words, there followed so many teares, sobbes and sighes, as they gaue sufficient testimony, that his tongue was the true and faithfull messenger of his hart. Whereof Violenta some what ashamed, with a constante grace said vnto him: “Senior Didaco, if you do yet remember your life past, and mine honesty (which peraduenture you haue thought either rude or cruell) I doubt not, that you haue any cause to maruaile of my presumption and to attribute that to vice, which is familiar with vertue. For although that you haue sollicited mee to loue you, by an infinite nomber of letters and messages, yet it is so, that following the nature of maydes of my degree, I haue neither allowed them, nor yet condempned them, as wherunto accordingly I haue made no aunswere: not for despite or contempt, but to let you know more certainly, that by fauouring your enterprises, I should increase your griefe, which can receiue none ende by the waye you pretende. For although that I haue made the firste proofe vpon my selfe, and therefore of reason I ought to lamente them, whiche be in semblable paine, yet I will not let slippe the bridle in suche wise to my passion, that mine honestie shall remain in an other man’s power, and (so it may be) at the mercie and curtesie of them, who not knowing howe dere it is to me, shall thinke they haue made a pretie conquest. And that I maye haue no cause to repent to late, I haue stopped mine eares for feare, that I be not arested and stayed with the violence of your charmes, a thing as you say proper to Serpentes. But I haue fortefied my harte, and so armed my inwarde minde, as if God continue that grace in me, which hitherto he hath done, I hope not to be surprised. Although that I must needes confesse (to my shame) that I haue receiued marueilous assaultes of loue, not onely for the common renowme of your vertues, and through the curtesie and gentlenesse dayly imparted to me by your letters, but specially by your presence, whiche hath yelded vnto me experience and assuraunce of that, whiche all the letters of the world could not do, nor all other messages were not able to conceiue. And to the ende that I may not be vtterly ingrate, and that you doe not departe from me, altogether miscontent, I doe promise you nowe that from henceforth, you shall inioye the first place of my harte, whereunto another shall neuer enter: if so be you can be content with honest amitie, wherein you shall finde me in time to come so liberall, in all that whiche honestie shall permitte, that I am contente to forgoe the name of a presumptuous or cruell Damosell for your sake. But if you meane to abuse me, or hope for anye thing of me, contrarie to mine honour, you be meruailously deceiued. Wherefore if you thinke your worthinesse to great to cary away a recompence so small, you shall doe very wel both for me and yourselfe, in forgetting that is past, to cut of all hope in time to come.” And she thinking to prolonge a further discourse, the mother of Violenta which stil stode at the wyndowe al the time that Senior Didaco was with her doughter, came downe to the doore, interrupting their talke, saide to Didaco: “Sir, I suppose you take great pleasure in the follie of my doughter, because you tarie and abide here, rather to contriue your tyme, then for any other contentacion you can receiue. For she is so euill taught, and of suche rude behauiour, that her demeanour will rather trouble you, than geue you cause of delight.” “Maistresse,” said Didaco, “although in the beginning I purposed not to tary so long, yet when I entered in more familiar acquaintaunce and had well experienced her good graces, I confesse that I haue staied here longer then I thought. And were hee neuer so great a Lorde, that liueth at this daie, I dare auouche that he might thinke his tyme well spente, in hearing suche sober and honest talke, wherewith I thinke my selfe so well satisfied and instructed, as all the daies of my life I wyll witnesse, that vertue, curtesie, and sober behauiour is to bee founde, as well in meane degrees and houses, as in them that be right noble, amonges which meane families, although she be one (it maye so be) that one more illustre and noble, can not bee more excellente, and accomplished with better manners, then she: whiche is nowe well manifested to me in this little discourse.” And after certaine other common talke, Didaco took his leaue, and went home to his house, where hee lyued fourtene or fiftene monethes without any reste, assaying by all meanes to mortifie his desires, but it auayled not: For although he was ryche, a trymme Courtiar, and an eloquent gentleman, and had opportunitie to speake vnto her many times, and she gentle enough to heare him, and to vnderstande his errantes, and was assured by frendes that she for her part was also in loue, yet he was not able by humane arte and pollicie, to conuerte her to his mynde. Wherewithall hee was long tyme molested, and at lengthe pressed with griefe and annoyance, hee was aduised to sende sixe hundred ducates to the mother, for a reliefe to the mariage of her doughter, promising besides, that he would assigne her an honest dowrie, when she found a man worthy to be her husbande: vppon condicion that she would yelde to him some comforte, to ease his affection. But shee whiche could not be wonne with loue, was not able to be recouered with money: and was offended that Senior Didaco had forgotten himselfe so farre as to thinke to gaine that for money, which with so great paine, teares and sighes, had bene denied him. And to make him vnderstande howe she was offended, shee sent woorde by him that brought her the money, that he should goe and proue hereafter to deceiue them that measured their honour with the price of profite, and not to sette trappes to deceiue other that would buye nothing hurtfull to vertue. And after Didaco was aduertised of her minde, and perceiued that he lost time in all his enterprises, and was able no longer to susteine his extreme paine and sorowe, whiche daily augmented, and when hee had debated in his minde all the successe of his loue, he resolued in the end vpon that which he thought moste profitable for his quiet, whiche was to marye her. And although she was of no suche house, and yet lesse indowed with substaunce, as he deserued, yet her beautie and vertue, and other giftes of grace, wherewith she was inriched, made her worthie of a great lorde. And resolued vpon this, hee repaired to Violenta, to whom he said: “Maistresse Violenta, if the true touchstone to knowe them that be perfecte louers (amonges other) is mariage, certainly you haue gotten a husbande of me, if it please you to accepte me for suche one, whom in time you shall make to vnderstande the difference betweene goodes and vertue, and betweene honestie and richesse.” Violenta then rauished with ioye, and incredible contentation, somewhat abashed, sayd vnto him: “Senior Didaco, I knowe not whether you pretende by woordes to proue my constancie, or els to bring me into fooles paradise: but of one thing I can assure you, that although I acknowledge my selfe inferiour to you in merites, goodes and vertue, yet if that come to passe which you promise, I will not geue place to you in loue, trusting if God sende us life together, you shall well vnderstande one daye that you would not exchaunge my persone for a greater Ladie, what so euer she be.” For confirmation whereof, Didaco plucked from his finger an Emeralde of great value, which (when he had kissed her) he gaue vnto her in the waye of mariage, praying her that she would not disclose it for a certaine time, vntill he him selfe had made all his frendes priuie vnto it. Notwithstanding, he willed her to imparte the same to her twoo brethren, and to her mother, and he would get some Priest of the countrie to solempnize the mariage within their house: which was doen in a chamber, about fower of the clocke in the morning, being onely present the mother, the brethren, the Prieste, and a seruaunt of the house, brought vp there from her youthe, and his own man, without making any other preparation of coste, requisite for suche a matter. In this sorte they spent the day in great ioye and mirthe (which they can conceiue, that be of base birth, and exalted to some highe degree of honour) till night was come, and then euery man withdrewe them selues, leauing the bride and her husbande to the mercie of loue, and order of the night. Who being alone receiued equal ioye, and like contentation, which they fele that being pressed with ardent and greuous thirste, doe in the ende afterwardes with liuely ioye, and all kinde of libertie, quenche that cruell discommoditie. And continued in those pleasures till morning, that daye began to appeare, to whome Violenta saide: “My honourable Lorde and dere husbande, sithe that you be nowe in possession of that which you haue so greatly desired, I humbly beseeche you, to consider for the time to come, howe and what wyse your pleasure is that I shall vse my selfe. For if God graunt me the grace to be so discrete in pleasing you, as I shalbe readie and desirous to obey you, in all that you shall commaunde mee, there was neuer gentleman’s seruaunt, that did more willingly please his maister, then I hope to doe you.” Whereunto Didaco aunswered: “My sweete and welbeloued wife, let vs leaue this humblenesse and seruice for this time, to them whiche delight in them: for I promise you of my faith, that I haue you in no lesse reuerence and estimation, then if you had come of the greatest house in Cathalongne: as I will make you vnderstande some other time, at more leasure. But till I haue giuen order to certaine of mine affaires, I praye you to kepe our mariage secrete, and bee not offended if many times I do resorte home to mine own house, although ther shall no day passe (by my wil) but at night I wil kepe you companie. In the mean time to buye you necessaries, I will sende you a thousande, or twelue hundred Ducates, to imploye not vpon apparell, or other things requisite to your degree (for I will prouide the same my selfe at an other time) but vpon small trifles, such as be apt and conuenient for householde.” And so departed Senior Didaco from his wiue’s house: who did so louingly interteigne him as by the space of a yeare, there was no daye wherein he was content without the view and sight of his wife. And vpon his ofte resorte to their house, the neighbours began to suspect that he kept the mayden, and rebuked her mother and brethren, but specially Violenta, for suffering Didaco to vse their house in suche secrete wise: and aboue al they lamented the ill happe of Violenta, who being so wel brought vp till she was twentie yeares of age, and maiden of such beautie, that there was none in all the citie of Valencia but greatly did esteme her to be of singuler honestie and reputation. Notwithstanding, degenerating from her accustomed vertue, they iudged her to be light of behauiour, giuen to lasciuious loue: and albeit that verie many times, such checkes and tauntes were obiected, yet she made smal accompte of them, knowing that her conscience by anye meanes was not charged with such reproch: hoping therwithall that one daye she would make them to give ouer that false opinion when her mariage should be published and knowen. But certaine times feeling her selfe touched, and her honestie appaired, could not conteine but when she sawe time with her husband, she prayed him verie earnestlie to haue her home to his own house, to auoyde slaunder and defamacion of neighbours. But sir Didaco knewe so well howe to vse his wife by delaies and promises, as she agreed vnto him in all thinges, and had rather displease the whole world together then offende him alone. Being now so attached with the loue of the knight as she cared for nothing els, but to please and content him in al things wherunto she sawe him disposed, and like as in the beginning she was harde and very slacke in loue, nowe she became so feruent and earnest in her affections as she receiued no pleasure but in the sight of Didaco, or in that which might content and please him best. Which the knight did easely perceiue, and seing him selfe in full possession of her harte, began by litle and litle to waxe cold, and to be grieued at that which before he compted deare and precious, perswading himself that he should do wrong to his reputation, if that mariage vnworthy of his estate, were discouered and knowen in the citie: and to prouide for the same, he more seldome tymes repaired to visite his wife Violenta: yea and when soeuer he resorted to her, it was more to satisfie his carnall pleasure, then for any loue he bare her. And thus forgetting both God and his own conscience, he frequented other companies in diuerse places, to winne the good will of some other gentlewoman. In the ende by sundrie sutes, dissimulations, and hipocrisies, he so behaued him self, as he recouered the good wil of the doughter of Senior Ramyrio Vigliaracuta, one of the chiefest knightes, and of moste auncient house of Valentia. And (as we haue declared before) because he was ritche and wealthie, and issued of a noble race, her parentes did easely agree to the mariage: and the father hauing assigned an honourable dowrie to his doughter, the Nupcials were celebrated publikely with greate pompe and solemnitie, to the singuler contentation of all men. The mariage done and ended, Sir Didaco and his newe wife continued at the house of his father in lawe, where he liued a certaine time in suche pleasure and delectation as they do that be newly maried. Wherof the mother and brethren of Violenta being aduertised, conceiued like sorowe, as accustomably they doe, that see the honor of them that be issued of their owne bloud vniustly and without cause to be dispoiled. And these poore miserable creatures, not knowing to whom to make their complainte, liued in straunge perplexitie, bicause they knew not the priest which did solempnise their mariage. On the other side they had no sufficient proofe of the same. And albeit they were able to verifie in some poinctes the first mariage of Didaco, yet they durst not prosecute the lawe against two of the greatest Lordes of their citie: and knowing the stoute hart of Violenta, they thought to conceale the same from her for a time, but it was in vaine: for not long after shee was certified thereof, not onely by the next neighbours, but by the common brute of the Citie, which reported that in tenne yeres space, there was not seen in Valencia, a Mariage more honourable or royall, nor frequented with a nobler companie of Gentlemen and Ladies, then the same was of the yong knight Didaco, with the doughter of Senior Ramyrio. Wherewithall Violenta vexed beyonde measure pressed with yre and furie, withdrewe herselfe into her chamber alone, and there began to scratche and teare her face and heare, like one that was madde and out of her wittes, saying: “Alas, alas, what payne and trouble, what vnmeasurable tormentes suffreth nowe my poore afflicted mynde, without comfort or consolation of any creature liuing? what dure and cruell penaunce doe I susteine, for none offence at all? Ah! fortune, fortune, the enemy of my felicitie and blisse, thou haste so depriued me of all remedie, as I dare not so muche as to make any man know or vnderstand my mishap that the same might be reuenged, which being doen would render such content to my minde, that I should departe out of this worlde the beste satisfied mayden that euer died. Alas, that the Goddes did not graunte me the benefite, that I might haue come of noble kinde, to the intente I might haue caused that trayterous ruffien, to feele the grieuous paine and bitter tormentes, which my poore harte susteineth. Ah wretched caitife that I am, abandoned and forlorne of all good fortune: nowe I doe see that with the eies of my minde, which with those of my body daseled and deceiued I could not see or perceiue. Ah cruell enemy of all pitie, doest thou not knowe and feele in thy minde, the heauie and sorowfull sounde of my bitter plaintes? Vnderstandest not thou my voyce that crieth vengeaunce vpon thee for thy misdede? Can not thy crueltie in nothing be diminished seing me dismembred with the terrour of a thousand furious martirdomes? Ah ingrate wretche, is this nowe the rewarde of my loue, of my faithfull seruice, and mine obedience?” And as she thus bitterly tormented her selfe, her mother and brethren, and her maide, whiche was brought vp with her from her tender yeres, went vp to the chamber to Violenta, where they found her then so deformed with rage and furie, that almoste she was out of their knowledge. And when they went about to reduce her by al meanes possible from those furious panges, and saw that it nothing auailed, they lefte her in the keeping of the olde maiden, whom she loued aboue any other. And after the maiden had vttered vnto her particularly many reasons, for the appeasing of her griefe, she told her that if she would be quiet a litle while, she would go and speake to the knight Didaco, and make him to vnderstand his fault. And would with discrete order so deale with him, that he should come home to her house, and therefore shee prayed her to arme herselfe against this wickednes, and to dissemble the matter for a time, that hereafter she might vse vpon him iust reuenge. “No, no Ianique” answered Violenta, “that offence is very small and lighte, where counsaile is receiued: and albeit that I cannot chose, but confesse thine aduise to be very meete, yet there wanteth in me a minde to followe it: that if I did feele any part in me disposed to obeye the same, I would euen before thy face, separate that minde from my wretched bodie: for I am so resolued in the mallice and hatred of Didaco, as he cannot satisfie me without life alone. And I beliue the gods did cause me to be borne with mine owne hands to execute vengeaunce of their wrath and the losse of mine honour. Wherefore, Ianique, if from my youth thou diddest euer loue me, shew now the same to me by effect, in a matter whereunto thy helpe is moste necessary: for I am so outraged in my mischiefe, as I do enuie the miserablest creatures of the world, remayning no more in me to continue life in wailing and continuall sighes, but the title of a vile and abhominable whore. Thou art a straunger and liuest here a beastly life, ioyned with continuall labour: I haue twelve hundred crownes with certaine Iewelles, which that false traitour gaue me, which he predestinated by the heauens for none other purpose but to paie them their hire, which shall do the vengeaunce vpon his disloyall persone. I doe put the same money nowe into thy hands, if thou wilte helpe mee to make sacrifice with the bodye of poore Didaco: but if thou doest denie me thy helpe I will execute the same alone: and in case he do not die, as I do intende, he shalbe murdred as I may, for the first time that I shal see him with mine eyes, come of it what will, his life shalbe dispatched with these two trembling hands which thou seest.” Ianique seing her maistresse in these termes, and knowinge her stoute nature, indued with a manly and inuincible stomacke, after shee had debated manye thinges in her minde, she determined wholie to imploye herselfe for her maistres in that shee was able to doe. Moued partly with pitie to see her maistres dishonored with a defamed mariage, and partly prouoked with couetousnes to gaine so great a summe of money, which her maistres did offer if she would condiscende to her enterprise (thinking after the facte committed, to flee into some other countrie.) And when shee was throughlye resolued vppon the same, shee imbraced Violenta, and said vnto her: “Maistres, if you will be ruled by mee, and giue ouer the vehemencie of your wrathe and displeasure, I haue found a way for you to be reuenged vppon Didaco, who hath so wickedly deceyued you: and albeit the same cannot be doen secretly, but in the end it must be knowen, yet I doubte not but the cause declared before the iudges, and they vnderstandinge the wronge hee hath doen you, they wil haue compassion vpon your miserie: who know right well that alwayes you haue been knowen and esteemed for a very honest and vertuous maiden: and to the ende that you be informed how this matter may be broughte to passe, first you must learne to dissemble your griefe openlye, and to faine your selfe in anye wise not to bee offended with the new mariage of the knight. Then you shall write vnto him a letter with your owne hande, letting him therby to vnderstande the paine that you suffer for the great loue you beare him, and ye shal humblie beseech him, some times to come and visite you. And sithe that frowarde fortune will not suffre you to be his wife, yet that it would please him to vse you as his louer, that you maye possesse the second place of his loue, sith by reason of his new wife you cannot inioy the first. Thus the deceiuour shalbe begiled by thinkinge to haue you at his commaundment as he was wont to doe: and being come hither to lie with you, we will handle him in such wise, as I haue inuented, that in one nighte he shal lose his life, his wife, and her whom hee thinketh to haue for his louer: for when he is a bedde with you, and fallen into his first sleepe, we will sende him into another place where in a more sonder sleepe hee shall euerlastinglie continue.” Violenta all this time which fed her bloudie and cruell harte with none other repaste but with rage and disdaine, began to bee appeased, and founde the counsaile of Ianique so good, as she wholy purposed to follow the same. And to begin her enterprise, shee prayde Ianique for a time to withdrawe her selfe, vntill shee had written her letter, by the tenor whereof shee should vnderstande with what audacitie shee would prosecute the reste: and being alone in her chamber, takinge penne and paper, she wrote to Didaco, with fayned hart as followeth. “Senior Didaco I am perswaded, that if you wil vouchsafe to read and peruse the contentes of these my sorowful letters, you shalbe moued with some compassion and pitie, by beholdinge the true Image of my miserable life, pourtrayed and painted in the same, which through your disloyaltie and breach of promise is consumed and spent with so many teares, sighes, tormentes and griefes, that diuers times I maruaile howe Nature can so long support and defende the violente assaultes of so cruell a martyrdome, and that she hath not many times torne my feeble spirite out of this cruell and mortall prison: which maketh me to thinke and beleeue by continuinge life, that death himselfe hath conspired my miserie, and is the companion of my affliction: considering that by no torment she is able to make diuision betweene my soule and body. Alas, how many tenne hundred thousande times in a day haue I called for death, and yet I cannot make her to recline her eares vnto my cries. Alas, how many times am I vanquished with the sharpe tormentes of sorowe, readie to take my leaue and last farewell of you, being arriued to the extreme panges of death. Behold Didaco mine ordinary delites, behold my pleasures, behold all my pastime. But yet this is but litle in respect of that which chaunceth in the night: for if it happen that my poore eyes doe fall a sleepe, weary with incessaunt drawing forth of well springes of teares, slombring dreames cease not then to vexe and afflict my minde, wyth the cruellest tormentes that are possible to be deuised, representing vnto me by their vglie and horrible visions, the ioye and contentacion of her, which inioyeth my place: wherby the greatest ioy which I conceiue is not inferior to cruell death. Thus my life maintayned with continuacion of sorowes and griefes, is persecuted in most miserable wise: now (as you know) I dailye passe my sorow, vnder painefull silence, thinkinge that your olde promisses, confirmed with so many othes, and the assured proof which you still haue had of my faith and constancie, would haue brought you to some order, but now seing with mine eyes, the hard metall of your harte, and the crueltie of my fate, which wholie hath subdued mee to your obedience, for respect of mine honour: I am forced to complaine of him that beateth mee and thereby despoileth mee both of mine honour and life, not vouchsafing onely so much as ones to come vnto mee. And vncertaine to whom I may make recourse, or where to finde redresse, I appeale vnto you, to thende that seing in what leane and vglie state I am, your cruelty maye altogether be satisfied, which beholdinge a sighte so pitifull, wherein the figure of my tormente is liuely expressed, it may be moued to some compassion. Come hither then thou cruell manne, come hither I saye, to visite her whom with some signe of humanitie, thou maiest staye or at least wise mollifie and appease the vengeaunce which shee prepareth for thee: and if euer sparke of pitie did warme thy frosen hart, arme thy selfe with greater crueltie then euer thou was wont to doe, and come hither to make her sobbe her laste and extreme sighes, whom thou haste wretchedly deceiued: for in doing otherwise thou maiest peraduenture to late, bewaile my death and thy beastlye crueltie.” And thinking to make a conclusion of her letter, the teares made her woords to die in her mouth, and woulde not suffer her to write any more: wherefore she closed and sealed the same, and then calling Ianique vnto her she said: “Holde, gentle Ianique, carye these letters vnto him, and if thou canste so well play thy part as I haue doen mine, I hope wee shall haue shortly at our commaundemente him that is the occasion of this my painfull life, more greuous vnto me then a thousand deathes together.” Ianique hauing the letter, departed with diligence, and went to the house of the father in lawe of Didaco, where quietly shee waited till shee mighte speake with some of the house, which was within a while after: for one of the seruauntes of Didaco whom she knew right well, wente about certaine his maisters busines, and meeting Ianique was abashed. Of whom she demaunded if the Lord Didaco were within, and saide that she would faine speake with him: but if it were possible she would talke with him secretly. Whereof Didaco aduertised, came forth to her into the streate, to whom smilingly (hauing made to him a fayned reuerence) she said: “Senior Didaco, I can neither write nor reade, but I dare laie my life, ther is sute made vnto you by these letters, which Madame Violenta hath sent vnto you. And in deede to say the truth, there is great iniurie doen vnto her of your parte, not in respecte of your new mariage: (for I neuer thought that Violenta was a wife meete for you, considering the difference of your estates) but because you wil not vouchsafe to come vnto her, seeming that you make no more accompte of her and speciallye for that you prouide no mariage for her in som other place. And assure your selfe she is so farre in loue with you, that she is redie to die as she goeth, in such wise that making her complaint vnto me this day weeping, she said vnto me: ‘Well, for so much then as I cannot haue him to be my husbande, I would to God he would mainteigne me for his frende, and certaine times in the weeke to come to see mee specially in the night, lest he should be espied of the neighbours.’ And certainly if you would followe her minde herein, you shall do very well: for the case standeth thus, you may make your auaunte that you be prouided of so faire a wife, and with so beautifull a frende as any gentleman in Valentia.” And then Ianique deliuered him the letter, which he receiued and redde, and hauing well considered the tenor of the same he was incontinently surprised with a sodaine passion: for hatred and pitie, loue and disdaine (as within a Cloude be conteined hotte and colde, with many contrary winds) began to combate together, and to vexe his hart with contrary minds, then pawsinge vpon answere, he said vnto her: “Ianique, my dere frende recommende mee to the good grace and fauour of thy maistres, and say vnto her, that for this time I will make her no answere, but to morow at fower of the clocke in the morning I will be at her house, and keepe her companie all the daye and nighte, and then I will tell her what I haue doen sithens I departed last from her, trusting shee shall haue no cause to be offended with me.” And then Ianique taking her leaue, retourned towarde Violenta, telling her what shee had doen. To whom Violenta answeared: “Ianique, if thou hast made a good beginninge to our plotted enterprise, I likewise for my part haue not slept. For I haue deuised that wee must prouide for a stronge roape, which wee will fasten to the beddes side, and when hee shalbe a sleepe, I will caste the other ende of the rope to thee, ouerthwart the bedde, that thou maiest plucke the same with all thy mighte, and before thou beginnest to pull I will with a knife cutte his throate, wherefore thou muste prepare two great kniues, what soeuer they cost, but I pray thee let me alone with doing of the facte, that I may dispatche him of his life, which alone did make the first assault to the breach of mine honour.” Ianique knew so well how to prouide for all that was requisite for the execution of their enterprise, as there rested nothing but opportunitie, to sort their cruel purpose to effect. The knight sir Didaco, at the houre appointed, tolde his new wife that he must go into the countrie, to take order for the state of his land, and that he could not retourne, til the next day in the morning. Which she by and by beleued: and the better to couer his fact, he caused two horse to be made redie, and rode forth when the clocke strake iiii. And when he had riden through a certain streat, he said to his man, which was wonte to serue his tourne in loue matters: “Carie my horse to such a manour in the countrie, and tarrie there all this day, and to morowe morning come seeke mee in suche a place, when I am gone from the house of Violenta. In the meane time set my horse in some Inne: for in any wise I will haue no man know that I doe lie there.” Which doen the maister and the seruaunte wente two seuerall wayes. The knight being come to the house of Violenta, he found Ianique tarying for him, with good deuocion to vse him according to his desert, and conueyed him to the chamber of Violenta, and then she retourned about her busines. The knighte kissed Violenta and bad her good morowe, asking her how she did? Whom Violenta aunsweared: “Sir Didaco, you bid me good morrow in words, but in deede you go about to prepare for me a heuie and sorowfull life. I beleeue that your minde beareth witnes, of the state of my welfare: for you haue broughte me to such extremitie, that you see right wel how nothing els but my voice declareth me to be a woman, and therewithall so feeble a creature, as I still craue and call for death or for pitie, although both of thone and of the other, I am not heard at all: and yet thincke not Didaco, that I am so farre out of my wittes to beleeue that the cause of my writing the letter was for hope, that (you remembring my bitter paines, and your owne hainous crime) I coulde euer moue you to pitie: for I am perswaded that you wil neuer cease to exhauste and sucke the bloud, honor, and life of them that credite your trumperies and deceiptes, as nowe by experience I know by my selfe, with such deadly sorow that I still attende and loke for the sorowful ende of my life.” Didaco seing her thus afflicted, fearing that her cholere woulde further inflame, began to cull her, and to take her now into his armes, telling her that his mariage with the doughter of Vigliaracuta, was concluded more by force then his owne will and minde, because they pretended to haue a gift of all the lande and goods he had in succession after his father was dead, which if they did obtain by law he should be a begger all the dayes of his life, and that the same was doen to prouide for the quiet state of them both, and notwithstanding hee had maried an other wife, yet hee purposed to loue none but her, and meant in time to poison his wife, and to spend the rest of his life with her. And thus seeming to remedie his former fault, by surmised reports, chauntinge vppon the cordes of his pleasaunt tongue, hee thought with Courtlike allurements, to appease her, which had her wittes to well sharpened to be twise taken in one trap, howbeit for feare of driuing him awaye, and to loose the meane to accomplish that which she intended, she said vnto him with forced smiling: “Sir Didaco, although you haue so ill vsed mee in time paste, as I haue no greate cause to beleeue your presente woordes, yet the loue that I beare you, is so rooted in my harte, as the faulte muste be verye greate, which shoulde remoue the same: in consideration whereof, I will constraine myselfe to beleeue that your woords be true, vpon condicion that you will sweare and promise to lie with me here ones or twyse a weeke. For me thinke that if I might at times inioye your presence, I should remaine in some part of your grace and fauour, and liue the best contented woman a liue.” Whereunto hee willingly agreed, with a great nomber of other like protestations, prompte and redy in them which meane deceipt. But in the poore miserable woman had perced the same in the depth of her harte, and had credited all that he spake, no doubte he woulde haue chaunged his minde. Thus either partes spente the daye in cold and dissembled flatteries till darke nighte, with his accustomed silence, did deliuer them the meane to exercise their cruell facte. So sone as supper was doen, Didaco and Violenta walked vp and downe together, talking of certaine common matters, till the knight (pressed with slepe) commaunded his bed to be made redie: it neded not then to inquire with what diligence Violenta and Ianique obeyed his requeste: in whome onely as they thought consisted the happe, or mishappe of their intent: to whom because Violenta might shewe her selfe more affectionate, went first to bedde, and so sone as they were layde, Ianique drewe the curteines and tooke away Didaco his swoorde, and making as though she had a thing to do vnder the bedde, she fastened the rope and raked vp the fire which was in the chimney, carying a stoole to the beddes side, and layd vpon the same twoo great kechin knifes, which doen she put out the candle, and, fayning to goe out of the chamber, she shut the dore and went in againe. And then the poore infortunate knight, thinking that he was alone in the chamber with Violenta, began to clepe and kisse her, whereunto she made no refusal, but desirous to renew his old priuate toies, she prayed him of al loue that he bare vnto her to kepe truce for twoo or three howers, for that the night was long inough to satisfie his desires, affirming that it was impossible for her to wake, because fiue or sixe dayes before by reason of her griefes, she had not slept at all, notwithstanding, she said, that after her first sleepe she would willingly obey him: wherunto the gentleman was easely perswaded, aswell bicause he hadde els where sufficiently staunched his thurst, as also for that he was loth to displease her: and faining her selfe to sleepe, she turned her face to the other side, and in that wyse continued, till the poore gentleman was fallen into his sound slepe. Then Ianique softly conueyed the rope ouer his bodye, and gaue it to Violenta, and after she had placed it according to her minde, as they together had deuised before, she deliuered thende to Ianique, who being at the beddes side satte down vpon the grounde, and folding the rope about her armes, hoisted her twoo feete against the bedde to pull with greater force when nede required. Not long after, Violenta toke one of the great knifes, and lifting her selfe vp softlye, she proued with her hand, to seke a place most meete for her to stabbe a hole into her enemies fleshe. And inchaunted with wrath, rage and furie, like another Medea, thrust the poincte of the knife with suche force into his throte as shee perced it through, and the poore vnhappie man thinking to resiste the same, by geuing some repulse against that aduerse and heauie fortune, was appalled, who feeling a new charge geuen vpon him againe, specially being intricated with the roape, was not able to sturre hande nor foote, and through the excessiue violence of the paine, his speache and power to crie, was taken away: in such sorte that after he had receiued tenne or twelue mortall woundes one after an other, his poore martired soule departed from his sorowfull body. Violenta hauing ended her determined enterprise, commaunded Ianique to light the candle, and approching nere the knightes face, shee sawe by and by that he was without life. Then not able to satisfie her bloudye harte, ne yet to quenche her furious rage which boiled in her stomacke, she with the poinct of the knife tare out the eyes from his head, crying out vpon them with hideous voice, as if they had ben aliue: “Ah traiterous eyes, the messengers of a minde most villanous that euer seiorned within the bodie of man: come out of your shamelesse siege for euer, for the spring of your fained teares is now exhausted and dried vp.” Then shee played the Bocher vppon those insensible members, continuing still her rage, and cruelly seazed vpon the tongue, which with her bloudy handes she haled out of his mouth, and beholding the same with a murderous eie as she was cutting it of, sayd: “Oh abhominable and periured tongue, how many lies diddest thou frame in the same, before thou couldest with the canon shot of this poysoned member, make breache into my virginitie: whereof now being depriued by thy meanes, I franckly accelerate my self to death, wherunto thou presently hast opened the way.” And when shee had separated this litle member from the reste of the body (insaciable of crueltie) with the knife ripped a violent hole into his stomacke, and launching her cruel handes vpon his harte she tare it from the place, and gashing the same with many blowes, she said: “Ah, vile hart, harder then the Diamont whose andeuile forged the infortunate trappes of these my cruel destenies! oh that I could haue discoured thy cogitations in time past, as I doe now thy materiall substaunce, that I might haue bene preserued from thine abhominable treason, and detestable infidelitie.” Then fleashing her selfe vpon the dead body, as a hungry lion vpon his praye, she lefte no parte of him vnwounded: and when shee had mangled his bodye all ouer, with an infinite number of gashes, she cried out: “O infected carrion, whilom an organ and instrumente of the moste vnfaithfull and trayterous minde that euer was vnder the coape of heauen. Nowe thou art payed with deserte, worthy of thy merites!” Then shee sayed to Ianique (whiche with great terrour, had all this whyle viewed her play this pageant) “Ianique I feele my selfe now so eased of payne that come death when he will, he shal find me strong and lustie to indure his furious assault, which of long time I haue assaied. Helpe me then to traine this corps out of my father’s house, wherein I was first defloured, then will I tell thee what thou shalt doe: for like as mine honestie is stayned and published abrode, euen so will I the reuenge to be manifeste, crauing that his bodie may be exponed to the viewe of all men.” Whose request Ianique obeied: and then she and Violenta toke the body, and threwe it out at one of the chamber wyndowes down vpon the pauement of the streate, with all the partes which she had cut of. That done she sayd to Ianique: “Take this casket with all the money within the same, and shippe thy selfe at the next port thou shalt come to, and get thee ouer into Africa to saue thy life so spedely as thou canst, and neuer come into these partes again, nor to any other wher thou art knowen.” Which Ianique purposed to doe, although Violenta had not consailed her thereunto: and ready to departe, shee gaue a sorowefull farewell to her maistres, and betoke her selfe to her good fortune: and from that time forth, no man could tell whether she went, for all the persute made after her. So sone as daye appeared, the firste that passed by the streate espied the dead bodie, whiche by reason of the noyse and brute made throughout the towne, caused many people to come and see it: but no man knew what he was, being disfiguered as well by reason of the eyes torne out of his head, as for other partes mutilated and deformed. And about eight of the clocke in the morning, there was suche a multitude of people assembled, as it was in maner impossible to come nere it. The moste parte thought that some theues in the nighte had committed that murder: whiche opinion seemed to be true, because he was in his shurte: other some were of contrary opinion: and Violenta, whiche was at the wyndowe, hearing their sundrie opinions came downe and with a bolde courage and stoute voyce, that euery man might heare, said; “Sirs, you do contend vpon a thing whereof (if I were demaunded the question of the magistrates of this citie) I am able to render assured testimonie: and without great difficultie this murder can not be discouered by any other but by me.” Whiche woordes the people did sone beleue, thinking that diuers gentlemen ielous of Violenta had made a fraye: for she had now loste her auncient reputacion by meanes of Didaco, who (as the fame and common reporte was bruted) did keepe her. When she had spoken those wordes, the Iudges were incontinently aduertised as well of the murder as of that whiche Violenta had said, and went thither with Sergeauntes and Officers, where they founde Violenta, more stoute then any of the standers by: and inquired of her immediatlye howe that murder came to passe, but shee without feare or appallement, made this aunswere: “Hee that you see here dead, is the Lorde Didaco: and because it apperteineth to many to vnderstand the trouth of his death (as his father in lawe, his wife and other kinsmen) I would in their presence, if it please you to cause them to be called hither declare what I knowe.” The Magistrates amased to see so great a Lorde so cruelly slayne, committed her to warde til after dinner, and commaunded that all the before named should bee summoned to appeare: who assembled in the palace, with such a number of the people, as the iudges could skant haue place: Violenta in the presence of them all, without any rage or passion, first of all recompted vnto them the chast loue betwene Didaco and her, whiche hee continued the space of fourtene or fiftene monethes, without receiuing any fruicte or commoditie thereof. Within a whyle after (he being vanquished with loue) maried her secretly at her house, and solempnized the nuptialles by a Prieste vnknowen: declaring moreouer, how they had liued a yere together in householde, without any occasion of offence, on her part geuen vnto him. Then she rehersed before them his seconde mariage with the doughter of such a man, being there present, adding for conclusion, that sith he had made her to lose her honestie, shee had sought meanes to make him to loose his life: which she executed with the helpe of Ianique her mayde: who by her aduise being loth to liue any longer, had drowned her selfe. And after she had declared the true state of the matter, passed betwene them, shee sayd for conclusion, that all that she had rehersed was not to incite or moue them to pitie or compassion, thereby to prolong her life, whereof shee iudged her self vnworthy: “For if you (quoth she) do suffer me to escape your handes, thinking to saue my body, you shalbe the cause and whole ruine of my soule, for with these mine owne handes, which you see before you, I will desperatly cut of the thred of this my life.” And with those wordes she held her peace: wherat the people amased, and moued with pitie, let fall the luke warme teares from their dolourouse eyes and lamented the misfortune of that poore creature: imputing the fault vppon the dead knight, which vnder colour of mariage had deceiued her. The Magistrates determining further to deliberate vpon the matter, caused the dead bodie to be buried, and committed Violenta againe to warde, taking away from her kniues and other weapons, wherewith they thought shee might hurt her selfe. And vsed such diligent search and inquirie, that the Priest which maried them was found out, and the seruaunt of Didaco that was present at the mariage of Violenta, being examined, deposed how by his maister’s commaundement he caried his horse into the countrie, and how he commaunded him to come to him againe the nexte morning to the house of Violenta. And all thinges were so well brought to light, as nothing wanted for further inuestigation of the truthe, but onely the confession of him that was dead. And Violenta by the common opinion of the Judges was condempned to be beheaded: not only for that she had presumed to punishe the knightes tromperie and offence, but for her excessiue crueltie doen vpon the dead body. Thus infortunate Violenta ended her life, her mother and brethren being acquited: and was executed in the presence of the duke of Calabria, the sonne of king Frederic of Aragon: which was that time the Viceroy there, and afterwardes died at Torry in Fraunce: who incontinently after caused this historie to be registred, with other thinges worthy of remembraunce, chaunced in his time at Valencia. Bandell doth wryte, that the mayde Ianique was put to death with her maistres: but Paludanus a Spaniard, a liue at that time, writeth an excellent historie in Latine, wherin he certainly declareth that she was neuer apprehended, which opinion (as most probable) I haue folowed.

THE FORTY-THIRD NOUELL.

_Wantones and pleasaunt life being guides of insolencie, doth bring a miserable end to a faire ladie of Thurin, whom a noble man aduaunced to high estate: as appereth by this historie, wherein he executeth great crueltie vpon his sayde ladie, taken in adulterie._

The auncient and generall custome of the gentlemen, and gentlewomen of Piedmonte, was daily to abandon famous cities and murmures of common wealthes to retire to their Castels in the countrie, and other places of pleasure, of purpose to beguile the troublesome turmoyles of life, with greatest rest and contentation. The troubles and griefes wherof they do feele, that intermedle with businesse of common wealth, which was with great care obserued before the warres had preposterated the order of auncient gouernement, til which time a harde matter it had ben to finde an idle gentleman in a hole citie. Who rather did resort to their countrie houses with their families, which were so well gouerned and furnished, that you should haue departed so well satisfied and instructed, from a simple gentleman’s house as you should haue doen from a great citie, were it neuer so wel ruled by some wife and prouident Senatour. But sithens the world began to waxe olde, it is come again to very infancie, in suche sorte that the greatest nomber of cities are not peopled in these dayes but with a many of Carpet Squiers, that make their refiance and abode there, not to profite, but to continew their delicate life, and they do not onely corrupt themselues, but (which is worse) they infecte them that keepe them companie, whiche I will discourse somewhat more at large, for so much as the gentlewoman, of whome I describe this historie, was brought vp al the time of her youth, in one of the finest and most delicate cities of Piedmonte. And feeling as yet some sparke of her former bringing vp, she could not be reformed (being in the countrie with her husbande) but that in the ende she fill into great reproche and shame, as you shall vnderstande by the content of that whiche foloweth. In the time that Madame Margaret of Austriche, doughter of Maximilian the Emperour, went in progresse into Sauoie, towardes her husbande: there was a great Lorde, a valiaunt and courteous gentleman, in a certaine countrie of Piedmonte, whose name I will not disclose, aswell for the reuerence of his nerest kynne, which doe yet liue, as for the immoderate cruell punishemente, that he deuised towards his wife, when he toke her in the fault. This great Lorde, although he had goodly reuenues and Castelles in Piedmonte, yet for the most parte of his time, he followed the Courte, by commaundement of the Duke, that interteyned him next his owne persone, vsing commonly his aduise in all his greatest affaires. This Lorde at that tyme maried a mayden in Thurin, of meane beautie, for his pleasure, not esteming the place from whence shee came. And because he was well nere fiftie yeares of age when he maried her, she attired her selfe with such modestie, as she was more like a wydow then a maried woman: and knewe so well how to vse her husbande, the space of a yere or two, as he thought him selfe the happiest man aliue, that he had founde out so louing a wyfe. This woman being serued, and reuerenced with great honour, waxed werie of to muche reste and quiet, and began to be inamoured of a Gentleman her neighbour, whom in a litle tyme she knewe so well to vse by lookes, and other wanton toies, as he did easely perceiue it, notwithstanding for the honour of her husband, he would not seme to knowe it, but a farre of. Nowe this warme loue by litle and litle, afterwardes began to grow hot, for the yong woman wearie of such long delay, not able to content her self with lookes, vpon a day finding this yong gentleman in conuenient place, as he was walking harde by her house, began to reason with him of termes, and matters of loue: telling hym that he liued to solitarie, in respect of his yong yeares, and howe shee had alwayes bene brought vp in Townes, and places of great companie and resorte, in such wyse as now being in the Countrie, shee could not easely digeste the incommoditie of being a lone, specially for the continuall absence of her husbande, who scarce three monethes in a yeare remayned at home in his owne house. And so falling from one matter to another, loue pricked them so sore, as in fine they opened a waye to that whiche troubled them so mutch, and specially the woman: who forgetting her honour, which ordinarily dothe accompanie great Ladies, priuely she told hym the loue that she had borne hym of long tyme, whiche notwithstanding shee had dissembled, wayting when hee should haue geuen the fyrst onsette, for that Gentlemen ought rather to demaunde, then to be requyred of Ladies. This Gentleman vnderstanding (by halfe a woorde) the cause of her disease, told her: “That although his loue was extreme, neuerthelesse, deming himself vnworthy of so high degree, he stil concealed his grief, which because he thought it coulde not come to passe, feare forced him to kepe it silent. But sithe it pleased her so much to abase her selfe, and was disposed to doe him so much honour to accepte him for her seruaunte, he would imploye his indeuour, to recompence that with humilitie and humble seruice, whiche fortune had denied hym in other thinges.” And hauing framed this foundacion to their loue, for this tyme they vsed no other contentment one of an other but onely deuise. But they so prouyded for their affaires to come, that they neded not to vse longer oration. For beyng neyghbours, and the husbande manye tymes absent, the hyghe waye was open to bryng their enterpryses to desired affecte. Which they full well acquieted, and yet vnable wysely to maister and gouerne their passions, or to moderate theim selues by good discretion, the seruauntes of the house (by reason of the frequented communication of the Gentleman with the Gentlewoman) began to suspecte theim, and to conceiue sinister opinion of their maistresse, although none of theim durste speake of it, or make other semblaunce of knowledge. Loue holding in full possession the hartes of these twoo louers, blynded theim so muche, as leauing the brydle to large for their honour, they vsed theimselues priuely and apertlye at all tymes one with an other, without anye respect. And when vpon a tyme, the Lorde retourned home to his owne house (from a certayne voyage, wherein he had bene in the Duke’s seruice) he found his wyfe to be more fine and gorgeous then she was wont to be, whiche in the beginning dyd wonderfully astonne him. And perceiuing her sometimes to vtter wanton woordes, and to applie her mynde on other thynges, when he spake vnto her, he began diligently to obserue her countenaunce and order, and being a man broughte vp in courtlye trade, and of good experience, hee easely was perswaded that there was some ele vnder that stone, and to come to the trouthe of the matter, hee made a better countenaunce, then he was wonte to doe, which she knewe full well howe to requite and recompence: and liuing in this simulation, either of them attempted to beguile the other, that the simplest and leste craftie of them both could not be discouered. The yong gentleman, neighbour of the Lord, grieued beyond measure, for that he was come home, passed and repaired many tymes before his Castell gate, thinking to get some looke of his Ladie’s eye: but by any meanes she could not for feare of her husbande, who was not so foolishe, that after he sawe him goe before his gate so many times, without some occasion, but that he easely iudged there was a secret amitie betwene them. Certaine dayes after, the gentleman to insinuate himselfe into the Lord’s fauour, and to haue accesse to his house, sent him a very excellent Tercelet of a Faucon, and at other times he presented him with Veneson, and vmbles of Dere, which he had killed in hunting. But the Lorde (which well knew that flatterie many times serued the torne of diuerse, to beguile foolish husbands of their faire wiues) that he might not seme vngrateful, sent him also certain straung things. And these curtesies continued so long, that the Lorde desirous to lay a baite, sent to praye him to come to dyner: to which requeste the other accorded liberally, for the deuocion he had to the sainct of the Castell. And when the table was taken vp, they went together to walk abroade in the fieldes. And that more frendly to welcome him, he prayed his wife to goe with them, whereunto she made no great deniall. And when they had debated of many thinges, the Lord said vnto him: “Neighbour and frende, I am an old man and Melancholie, as you know, wherfore I had neede from henceforth to reioyce my self. I pray you hartely therefore to come hither many times, to visit vs and therewithal to participate such fare as God doth send. Vsing the thinges of my house, as they were your owne.” Whiche the other gratefully accepted, humblie praying that his Lordshyp would commaunde him and that he had, when he pleased, and to commaunde him as his very humble and obedient seruaunt. This Pantere layed, the yong gentleman ordinarely came ones a daye to visite the Lorde and his wife. So long this pilgrimage continued, vntill the Lorde (vpon a time, faining himselfe to be sicke) commaunded that no man should come into his chamber, because all the night before he was ill at ease, and could take no reste. Whereof the gentleman was incontinently aduertised by an old woman hired of purpose for a common messenger, of whom a none we purpose to make remembraunce. Being come to the Castell, he demaunded how the Lord did, and whether he might go see him, to whom aunswer was made, that he could not, for that he was fallen into a slomber. Madame now was in the garden alone, roming vp and down for her pleasure, and was aduertised that the Gentleman was come. Who being brought into the gardeine, and certified of the Lordes indisposition, began to renew his old daliaunce with the Ladie, and to kisse her many times, eftsones putting his hand into her bosome, and vsing other pretie preparatifes of loue, which ought not to be permitted but only to the husband. In the meane time, while they twoo had ben there a good space, the husband slept not, but was departed out of his chamber, the space of two houres and more, and was gone vp to the highest place of all his Castell, wher at a very litle window, he might discrie al that was done, within the compasse of his house. And there seing al their curteous offers and proffers, hee waited but when the gentleman should haue indeuoured himself to precede further, that he might haue then discharged his mortal malice vpon them both. But they fearing that their long abode in the gardein might ingender some displeasure, retourned into the Castell, with purpose in time to content their desires, so sone as opportunitie serued. The Lorde noting all the demeanour betwene them, retourned to his chamber, and so went againe to his bed, faining to be sicke, as he did all the daye before. Supper time come, the lady went to know his pleasure, whether he would sup in his chamber or in the hall: he answered (with a disguised cherefull face) that he began to feele himselfe well, and that he had slept quietly sithens diner, and was determined to suppe beneth, sending that night for the gentleman, to beare him companie at supper: and could so well disemble his iust anger, as neither his wife, nor the Gentleman perceiued it by any meanes. And so the Lorde with his Lady still continued, the space of fiftene dayes, or three wekes, making so much of her (as though it had ben the firste moneth that he maried her) in suche sorte, as when the poore miserable woman thought to haue gotten victorie ouer her husband and frend, it was the houre that fortune did weaue the toyle and nette to intrappe her. The Lorde which no longer could abide this mischief, driuen into an extreame choler, seing that he was able to finde no meanes to take them (himselfe being at home) deliberated either sone to die or to prouide for the matter: and the better to execute his determination, he counterfaited a letter from the Duke of Sauoie, and bare it secretly to the post him selfe alone, and commaunded him next daye to bring it to his Castell, whereby he fained that the Duke had sent the same vnto him. Whiche matter the post did handle so well, as he brought the letter, when he was at supper, with botes on his legges all durtie and raied, as though he were newly lighted from his horse. And the better to maintain his wife in her error, after he had reade the letter, he gaue it to her to reade: which conteined no other thing but that the Duke commaunded him presently with all diligence, himselfe and his traine to come vnto him, to be dispatched vpon ambassage into Fraunce. That doen he said vnto her: “Wife, you see how I am constrayned to depart with spede (to my great grief) bid my men therfore to be ready in the morning, that they may go before and wayte for me at Thurin, where my Lord the Duke is at this present. I my self will departe from hence to morow at night after supper, and will ride in post in the freshe of the night.” And the better to deceiue this poore vnhappie woman, he went into his Closet, and took his caskette, wherin was the moste parte of his treasure, and deliuering the same vnto her, sayde: “That fearing leste hee shoulde tarie long in Fraunce, he would leaue the same with her to help her when she wanted.” And after all this traine was gone, hee caused one of the yeomen of his chamber to tary behynde, whose fidelitie he had at other times proued: and all that daye he ceased not to cherishe and make much of his wyfe. But the poore soule did not forsee, that they were the flatteries of the Crocodile, which reioyseth when he seeth one deceiued. When he had supped, he made a particuler remembraunce to his wife how the affaires of his house should be disposed in his absence: and then toke his leaue, giuing her a Iudas kisse. The lorde vnethes had ridden twoo or thre miles, but that his wife had sent the olde woman to carye worde to her louer, of the departure of her husband, and that he might saufly come and lie with her in the castell, for that all the seruauntes were ridden forth with their maister, sauing one yeoman and her twoo maydes, whiche doe neuer vse to lie in her chamber. Vpon this glad newes the Gentleman thought no scorne to appeare vppon that warning, and the old woman knew the way so well, as she brought him straight into the ladies chamber, whom loue inuegled in such wise, as they lay together in the bedde where the lord was wont to lye. And the olde woman laye in an other bed in that chamber, and shut the dore within. But while these twoo poore passionate louers thought they had attayned the toppe of all felicitie, and had inioyed with full saile the fauours of the litle God Cupide, Fortune desirous to departe them, for the last messe of the feast prepared so bitter Comfettes, as it cost them both their liues, with such cruell death, as if they which make profession of semblable things doe take example, wyues will get them better names, and husbandes shalbe lesse deceiued. The Lorde that night made no longer tracte of time, but lighted from his horse, at the keper of one of his Castles houses, whom he knewe to be faythfull. To whome in the presence of the yeoman of his chamber, he discoursed the loue betwene the gentleman and his wyfe, and commaunded them with all spede to arme themselues, and with a case of pistolets to follow him, whom they obeyed. And beyng come to the Castell gate he saide to the keper of his castell: “Knocke at the gate, and fayne thy selfe to be alone, and saye that I passing by thy house did leaue a remembraunce with thee, to cary to my ladie. And because it is a matter of importaunce, and requireth hast, thou were compelled to bring it this night.” Knocking at the gate somewhat softely (for feare lest they whiche were in the chambers should heare) a yeoman rose whiche laye in the courte, knowing the voyce of the keper (because he was one, whome his lorde and maister dyd greatly fauour) opened the gate, and the firste thyng they did, they lyghted a torche, and wente vp all three to the Lordes chamber, not sufferyng anye man to cary newes to the Ladie, of theyr approche. Being come to the chamber doore, the keeper knocked, whiche immediatly the olde woman hearde, and without opening the doore, asked who was there. “It is I (quod the keeper,) that haue brought a letter to my ladie, from my Lorde my maister, who ryding this nyght in post to Thurin, passed by my house, and very earnestly charged me by no meanes to fayle but to deliuer it this night.” The Ladie aduertised hereof, who could not mistruste that her owne man (whome she tooke to bee simple, and voyde of guyle) would haue framed a platte for suche a treason, sayde to the olde woman: “Receiue the letter at the doore, but in any wyse let him not come in, and I will accomplishe the contentes.” The olde woman, which thought onely but to receiue the letter betwene the doore, was astoned when the keper who (giuing her a blow with his foote vpon the stomacke) threwe her backward, where she laie more then a quarter of an houre, without speaking or mouing. And then they three entring the chamber in great rage, with their pistolets in their handes, found the two miserable louers starke naked, who seing them selues surprysed in that state, were so sore ashamed as Eue and Adam were, when their sinne was manifested before God. And not knowing what to doe, reposed their refuge in lamenting and teares, but at the verie same instaunt, they bounde the armes and legges together, of the poore gentleman with the chollers of their horse, which they brought with them of purpose. And then the Lorde commaunded that the twoo maydes, which were in the Castell, and the reste of the seruantes, should be called to assiste them, to take example of that faire fight. And all the meane people being gathered in this sort together, the lorde tourning him self vnto his wife, saied vnto her: “Come hither thou vnshamefast, vile, and detestable whore, like as thou hast had a harte so traiterous and vnfaithfull, to bring this infamous ruffian in the night into my castell, not only to robbe and dispoile me of mine honour, which I preferre and esteme more then life: but also (whiche is more to be abhorred) to infring and breake for euer, the holie and precious bande of mariage, wherewithall wee be vnited and knit together. So will I forthwith, that with these thyne owne handes, with whiche thou gauest me the firste testimonie of thy faith, that he presently shalbe hanged and strangled in the presence of all menne, not knowing howe to deuise anye other greater punishimente, to satisfie thyne offence, then to force thee to murder hym, whome thou haste preferred before thy reputation, aboue myne honour, and estemed more then thine owne life.” And hauing pronounced this fatall iudgement, he sent one to seeke for a greate naile of a Carte, which he caused to be fastened to the beame of the chamber, and a ladder to be fetched, and then made her to tie a Coller of the order belonginge to theeues and malefactours, about the necke of her sorowfull louer. And because she alone was not able to do that greuous and waightie charge, hee ordayned that like as the olde woman had bin a faithfull minister of his wiue’s loue, so shee should put her hand in performing the vttermost of that worke. And so these two wretched women, were by that meanes forced to suche extremitie, as with their owne handes, they strangled the infortunate Gentleman: with whose death the Lord not yet satisfyed, caused the bedde, the clothes, and other furnitures (wherupon they had taken their pleasures past) to be burned. He commaunded the other vtensiles of the chamber to be taken away, not suffring so much straw, as would serue the couche of two dogges, to be left vnconsumed. Then he said to his wife: “Thou wicked woman, amonges al other most detestable: for so much as thou hast had no respecte to that houourable state, whereunto fortune hath aduaunced thee, being made by my meanes of a simple damosell, a greate Ladie, and because thou hast preferred the lasciuious acquaintaunce of one of my subiects, before the chast loue, that thou oughtest to haue borne me: my determination is, that from henceforth thou shalt kepe continuall company with him, to the vttermost day of thy life: because his putrified carcase hath giuen occasion to ende thy wretched body.” And then hee caused all the windowes and doores to be mured, and closed vp in such wyse, as it was impossible for her to go oute, leauing onely a litle hole open, to giue her bread and water: appointing his Steward to the charge thereof. And so this poore miserable woman, remained in the mercie of that obscure and darke prison, without any other company, then the deade body of her louer. And wheu shee had continued a certaine space in that stinking Dongeon, without aire or comfort, ouercome with sorrow and extreme paine, she yelded her soule to God.

THE FORTY-FOURTH NOUELL.

_The loue of Alerane of Saxone, and of Adelasia the daughter of the Emperour Otho the thirde of that name. Their flight and departure into Italie, and how they were known againe, and what noble houses of Italie descended of their race._

The auncient histories of Princes (as wel vnder the name of kinge, as of the title of Duke, which in time paste did gouerne the Countrie of Saxone) do reporte that Otho the seconde of that name, which was the first Emperour that lawfullye raigned (after the Empire ceassed in the stock of Charles the great) had of his wife Matilde doughter of the king of Saxone, one sonne which succeded him in the Imperial crowne, called Otho the third, who for his vertuous education and gentle disposition, acquired of all men the surname of _The loue of the world_. The same Emperour was curteous and mercifull, and neuer (to any man’s knowledge) gaue occasion of griefe to any person, he did good to euery man, and hurt none: likewise he thought that kingdome to be well gotten, and gotten to be better kept, where the king, Prince or Ruler therof, did studie and seeke meanes to be beloued, rather then feared, sith loue ingendreth in it selfe a desire of obedience in the people. And contrary wise, that Prince which by tyrannic maketh himself to be feared, liueth not one houre at rest, hauing his conscience tormented indifferently, both with suspition and feare, thinking stil that a thousand swords be hanging ouer his head, to kill and destroye him. Otho then vnder his name of Emperour, couered his clemencie with a certaine sweete grauite and Princely behauiour. Who notwithstanding declared an outward shew of curtesie, to make sweete the egreness of displeasure, which they feele and taste that be subiect to the obeysaunce of any new Monarchie. Man being of his owne nature so louing of himselfe, that an immoderate libertie seemeth vnto him sweeter, more iust and indurable, than aucthorities rightly ordained, the establishment whereof seemeth to represente the onely gouernment of that first kinge, which from his high throne, giueth being aud mouing to al thinges. That good Emperour then knowinge verye well the mallice of men, who although he was a good man of warre, hardye of his hands, and desirous of glorie, yet moderated so well the happie successe of his enterprises, as his grace and gentlenes principally appeared, when he had the vpper hand, for that he cherished and well vsed those whom he had subdued vnder his obedience: his force and felicitie was declared when he corrected and chastised rebells, and obstinate persons, which wilfully would proue the greate force of a Princes arme iustly displeased, and to others what fauour a king could vse towards them, whom he knew to be loyal and faithfull: giuing cause of repentaunce to them which at other times had done him displeasure. And to say the truth, he mighte be placed in the ranke of the most happie princes that euer were, if the priuate affaires of his owne house had so happily succeeded, as the renowme which hee wanne in the science of warfare, and in the administration of the common wealth. But nothing being stable in the life of man, this emperour had in him, that which diminished the glorie of his wisedome, and (resembling an Octauius Augustus) the vnhappie successe of his owne house did somewhat obscure the fame of his noble factes, and those insolent doinges serued vnto him as a counterpoyse to prosperous fortune, which may be easely perceiued, by the progresse and continuation of this historie. This good Prince had one daughter, in whom nature had distributed her giftes in such wise, as she alone might haue vaunted her self to attaine the perfection of all them, which euer had any thing, worthy of admiration, were it in the singularitie of beauty, fauour and courtesie, or in her disposition and good bringing vp. The name of this fayre Princesse was Adelasia. And when this Ladie was very yong, one of the children of the Duke of Saxone, came to the Emperour’s seruice, whose kinsman he was. This yonge Prince, besides that he was one of the fayrest and comliest gentlemen of Almaigne, had therwithall, together with knowledge of armes, a passing skill in good sciences, which mitigated in him the ferocitie both of his warlike knowledge, and of the nature of his countrey. His name was Alerane, who seing himsefe the yongest of his house, and his inheritaunce very small, indeuoured to conciliate every man’s fauour and good will, to remoue his owne fortune, and to bring himselfe in esteemation with the Emperour, wherein all thinges hee imployed so well his indeuour, as through his worthines he wanne commendation and report, to be the most valiaunte and stoutest gentleman in all the Emperour’s Court, which praise did greatly commend the tendernes of his yong yeares, and was therewithall so sober, and of so gentle spirite, that although he excelled his companions in all things, yet he auoyded cause of offence (shewinge himselfe familiar amonge all the Courtiers.) Euery man (which is a greate matter) praised him and loued him, and he thought himself most happie, that by any meanes could fashion himself to imitate the vertue that made Alerane’s name so renowmed. And that which made him fuller of admiracion, and brought him into fauour with his Lord and maister was, that vpon a day the Emperour being in hunting alone in the middes of a launde, and in a desert place, it chaunced that a Beare issuinge out of her caue, was assayled of Hunters: the fierce beaste, auoyding the toyles and flyinge the pursute of the dogges, came with greate vehemencie and speede from a mountaine, and was vpon the Emperour or he was ware, separated from his companie and without his sword. But Alerane by good fortune was at hand, who more careful for the safetie of his Prince than for his owne life, encountred the beare, and killed him in the presence of the Emperour and many other. All which beholding (to their great astonishmente) the dexteritie and hardines of Alerane at those small yeares, (for then hee was not aboue the age of XVII.) the Emperour imbracing him, did highly commende him, tellinge them that were by, that his life was saued chiefely by God’s assistaunce, and nexte by the prowesse of Alerane. The newes hereof was so bruted abroade, as there was no talke but of the valiaunce and stoutenes of this yong man of warre, which caused fair Adelasia (moued by naturall instigation, and with the opinion and reporte of the vertue toward in that yonge Prince) to feele a certaine thing (I cannot tell what) in her minde, which inflamed her senses and hart. And she had no sooner cast her eyes vpon Alerane, but loue, which had prepared the ambushe, so pearsed her delicate breast, as he toke ful possession of her: in such wyse as the Princesse was so straungelye in loue wyth the yonge Prince, that she neuer founde pleasure and contentment but in that which was done or said by her louer, whom she accompted the chiefe of all the men of his time. In this burning heate, she felt the passions of Loue so vehement, and his pricks so sharpe, that she could not euaporate the cloudes which darkened her spirites and continually tormented her minde. And albeit that the little occasion, which she saw, for their comminge together in time to come, did disswade her from pursuing the thing which she most desired: yet the tyrant Loue shewed himselfe very extreame in that diuersitie of thoughts, and variety of troubles which vexed the spirite of the Princesse: for shee could not so well dissemble that, which honour and age commaunded her to keepe secrete, but that Alerane which was (as we haue alreadie said) well expert and subtile, perceiued the inwarde disease of Adelasia. Moreouer there was betweene them a naturall conformitie and likelyhode of conditions, which made them to agree in equall desires, to feede of like meates, their passionate mindes were martired with equall sorowe and paine, departed as wel in the one as in the other. For Alerane by taking careful heede to the lookes which the Princesse continually did stealingly cast vpon him, saw the often and sodaine chaunces of colour, wherein sometimes appeared ioye, which by and by did ende with infinite nomber of sighes, and with a countenance agreeable to that, which the hart kept secrete and couert, whereby he assured himselfe vnfainedly to be beloued, which caused him to do no lesse (for satisfaction of such like merite and desert done by Adelasia) but to beare vnto her like affection, forcinge her by all diligence and seruice to continue still that good will toward him, yelding himselfe a pray to the selfe same Loue. Who ruling thaffections of the Princesse, (as braue and pleasaunt as she was) made her sorowfull and pensife, and altered her in such wise as she thought the companie wherein she was did impeach her ioy, which companie she imagined to conceiue the like pleasure that she did, when at libertie and alone shee reuolued her troubles, and fansied her contentation in her minde. Alerane on the other side slept not, but as though he had receiued the first wound by the handes of the blinde little archer Cupide, ceassed not to thincke of her, whose image ordinarelye appeared before his eyes, as engrauen more liuely in his minde than anye forme may be insculped vppon mettall or marble. And yet neither the one nor the other, durste discouer the least passion of a greate nomber which oppressed their besieged hartes, and which suffered not to liue in anye reste this faire couple of loyall louers. The eyes alone did thoffice of the handes and tongue, as trustie secretaries, and faithful messengers of the effects of the minde. That which kindled the fier moste, was their frequente talke together, which was but of common matters, withoute vtteraunce of that which the hart knewe well enoughe, and whereof the eyes gaue true testimonie. A passion truly most intollerable for a yonge Princesse, as well because she neuer had experience of semblable sorow, as for her tender age, and yet more for a naturall abashmente and shame, which with the vaile of honor doth serue, or ought to serue for a bridle, to euery Ladie couetous of fame, or like to be the ornament or beauty of her race. Adelasia then floting in the tempestuous seas of her appetites, guided by a maister which delighteth in the shipwracke of them he carieth, vanquished with an immoderate rage of loue, tormented with grief vnspeakeable, offended with her owne desires, beinge alone in her chamber, began to complaine her sorowes, and saide: “Ah, what passion is it that is vnknowen vnto me, that ingendreth an obliuion of that which was wont to delighte and contente me? From whence commeth this new alteration, and desire vnaccustomed, for solitarie being alone, is the reste and argumente of my troubles? What diuersities and chaunges be these that in this sorte do poise and weigh my thought? Ah, Adelasia, what happie miserie dost thou finde in this free prison, where pleasure hath no place till the enemies haue disquieted the life, with a Million of painefull aud daungerous trauailes? What is this to say, but that againste the nature of maidens of my yeres I will not, or cannot be quiet day nor night, but take my repast and feeding vpon cares and thoughtes? Alacke, I thought then to finishe my sorowes and griefes, when (being alone) I began to frame the plot of my tormentes and paines, with so many formes and deuises in my fansie, as I do make wishes and requestes vpon the thing I loue and esteeme aboue all, vppon which all mine affections do depende and take their beginning. What is this to saye, but that my maydes do offende mee, when with discrete wordes they go about to diuert me from my follies and pleasaunt noysome thoughtes? Wherefore should not I take in good part the care which they haue of my health, and the paine which they take to remember me of my torment? Alas, they know not wherein consisteth the force of mine euil, and much lesse is it in their power to remedie the same. Euen so I would haue none other plaister but him that hath giuen me the wound, nor none other meate but the hunger that drieth me vp, I craue none other comfort but the fire which burneth mee continuallye, the force wherof pearceth the sucke and marie within my bones. Ah Alerane, Alerane, the floure and mirror of all prowesse and beautie: it is thou alone that liueste in mee, of whom my minde conceyueth his hope, and the hart his nourishment. Alas: that thy worthines should be the ouerthrow of mine honour, and thy perfection the imperfection of my life. Ah Loue, Loue, how diuersly thou dealest with mee. For seing mine Alerane, I am attached with heate in the middes of ise that is full oolde. In thinking of him, I do both rest and trauaile continually. Nowe I flee from him, and sodainly againe I desire him. In hearing him speake, the suger and hony, that distilleth from his mouth, is the contentmente of my minde, till such time as his words appeare to be different from my desire. For then, ah Lord: my rest is conuerted into extreme trauaile, thy honye into gall, and wormewoode more bitter than bitternes it selfe, the hope of my minde is become dispayre so horrible, as the same onely wil breede vnto me, (if God haue not pittie vpon me) a short recourse of death.” After these wordes, shee rested a longe time without speaking, her armes a crosse, and her eyes eleuate on highe, which ranne downe like a Ryuer of teares, and seemed to be so rauished, as a man would haue iudged her rather a thing withoute life, than a creature sensible, and labouring for life, till, recouering her spirites againe, as comming from an extasie and sounde, she beganne her plaintes againe in this sort: “What? must such a Princesse as I am, abase my selfe to loue her owne subiect, yea and her kinseman, and specially not knowing yet how his minde is disposed? Shall I be so vnshamefast, and voyde of reason, to surrender my selfe to anye other but to him, whom God and fortune hath promised to be my espouse? Rather death shall cut of the threde of my yeres, than I wil contaminate my chastitie, or that any other enioy the floure of my virginitie, than he to whom I shal be tied in mariage. Ah: I say and promise muche, but there is a tormenter in my minde which dealeth so rigorouslie with my reason, as I cannot tel wherupon wel to determine. I dare not thincke (which also I ought not to do) that Alerane is so foolish to despise the loue of one, that is the chiefeste of the doughters of the greatest Monarches of the world, and much lesse that hee should forget himselfe, in such wise to forsake mee, hauing once enioyed the best and dearest thing that is in mee, and whereof I meane to make him the onelye and peaceable possessor. Truly the vertue, gentlenes, and good nurriture of Alerane, doe not promise suche treason in him, and that great beautie of his, cannot tell how to hyde such rigor as hee will refuse one that is no deformed and ill fauoured creature, and which loueth him with such sinceritie, as wher she shall lose the meanes to inioy him, there shee shal feele, euen forthwith, the miserable ende of her sorowfull dayes.” And then againe she helde her peace, tossed and turmoiled with diuers thoughtes fleetinge betweene hope and feare: by and by she purposed to deface from her hart the memorie of Loue, which alreadie had taken to faste footinge, and would not be separated from the thing, which heauen himselfe seemed to haue prepared, for the perfection and glorie of his triumphe. Loue then constrayned her, to resolue vppon her laste determination. Then continuinge her talke, sighing without ceasing, she said: “Chaunce what may to the vttermost, I can but wander like a Vagabonde and fugitiue with mine owne Alerane (if hee will shew me so much pleasure to accept mee for his own): for sure I am, the Emperour wil neuer abide the mariage, which I haue promised: and sooner will I die, than another shall possesse that which Alerane alone deserueth: hauinge a long time vowed and dedicated the same vnto him. And afterwards let the vulgar sort blabbe what they liste of the bolde and foolishe enterprises of Adelasia, when my harte is contented and desire satisfied, and Alerane enioyeth her that loueth him more than her selfe. Loue verily is not liable to the fansie of the parentes, nor yet to the will euen of them that subiungate themselues to his lawes. And besides that I shall not be alone amongest Princesses, that haue forsaken parentes and countries, to folow their loue into straunge regions. Faire Helena the Greeke, did not she abandon Menelaus her husbande and the rich citie of Sparta, to follow the faire Troian, Alexander sailing to Troie? Phedria and Ariadne, despised the delicates of Creta, lefte her father a very old man, to go with the Cecropian Theseus. None forced Medea the wise furious lady (but loue) to departe the isle of Colchos, her owne natiue countrey, wyth the Argonaute Iason. O good God, who can resist the force of loue, to whom so many kinges, so many Monarches, so many wise men of al ages haue done their homage? Surely the same is the onely cause that compelleth me (in makinge my selfe bolde) to forget my dutie towardes my parentes, and specially mine honour, which I shall leaue to be reasoned vpon by the ignoraunt which considereth nothing but that which is exteriourly offred to the viewe of the sighte. Ah: how much I deceiue my selfe, and make a reckeninge of much without mine hoste: and what know I if Alerane (although hee do loue me) will loose the good grace of the Emperour; and forsake his goods, and (so it maye bee) to hazard his life, to take so poore and miserable a woman as I am? Notwithstanding I wil proue fortune, death is the worst that can chaunce, which I wil accelerate rather than my desire shall loose his effecte.” Thus the fayre and wise Princesse concluded her vnhappie state: and all this time her best frende Alerane, remained in greate affliction, and felt such feare as cannot be expressed with woordes, onely true louers know the force, altogether like to that wherof the yong Prince had experience, and durst not discouer his euill to her, that was able to giue him her allegeaunce, much lesse to disclose it to any deare frende of his, into whose secrecie he was wont to commit the most parte of his cares, which was the cause that made him feele his hart to burne like a litle fier in the middes of a cleare riuer, and saw him selfe ouerwhelmed within the waters, hotter than those that be intermixed with Sulphure, and do euaporate and sende forth ardente smokes in an Æthna hill or Vesuue mountaine. The Princesse impaciente to endure so long, could no longer keepe secrete the flames hidden within her, without telling and vtteringe them to some, whom her minde liked best, and there to render them wher she thought they toke their essense and beinge, casting away all shame and feare, which accustomablie doth associate Ladies of her estate and age. One day, she toke secretly aside, one that was her gouernesse named Radegonde, a gentlewoman, so vertuous, wise and sober, as anye other that was in the Emperour’s Courte, who for her approued manners and chaste life, had the charge of the bringing vppe and nourishing of Adelasia, from her infancie. To this gentlewoman then the amorous princesse deliberated to communicate her secretes, and to let her vnderstande her passion, that shee might find some remedie. And for that purpose they two retired alone within a closet, the poore louer tremblinge like a leafe (at the blaste of the westerne winde, when the Sunne beginneth to spread his beames) sighinge so strangely, as if her bodye and soule would haue departed, said thus: “The trust which euer I haue found in that naturall goodnes that appeareth to be in you, my mother and welbeloued Ladie, ioyned with discretion and fidelitie, wherwith all your actes and affayres be recommended, do presently assure me, and make me bolde in this my trouble, to participate vnto you my secretes, which be of greater importance without comparison, than anye that euer I tolde you, perswading my selfe that the thing which I shall tell you, whatsoeuer it be (be it good or ill) you will accept it in suche wyse, as your wysedome requireth, and to keepe it so close as the secrete of such a Ladie as I am doth deserue. And that I maye not holde you longe in doubte what it is, know ye, that of late the valor, prowesse, beautye, and curtesie, of Senior Alerane of Saxon, hath founde such place in my hart, as (in despite of my self) I am so in loue with him, that my life is not deare vnto me but for his sake, my hart taketh no pleasure but in his glorie and vertue, hauing chosen him so vertuous a Prince for my frend, and one day (by God’s sufferaunce) for my lawfull spouse and husband. I haue assaied a thousand meanes, and so many wayes, to cast him of and to blot him out of my remembraunce: but, alas! vnhappie caytife, fortune is so froward and so vnmercifull to my endeuour, as the more I labour and go aboute to extinguishe in me, the memorie of his name and commendable vertues, so much the more I do enlarge and augmente them, the flames of which loue do take such increase, as I do litle or nothinge esteeme my life without the enioyinge the effecte of my desire, and the taste of suche licour, which nourishing my hope in pleasure, may quenche the fier that doth consume me: otherwise I see no meanes possible but that I am constrayned, either to lose my good wittes (whereof already I feele some alienation) or to ende my dayes with extreme anguishe, and insupportable hartes sorowe. Alas, I know well that I shall loose my time, if I attempt to pray the Emperour my father to giue me Alerane to husbande, sith he doth already practise a mariage betwene the king of Hungarie and me: and also that Alerane (although he be a Prince of so noble bloud and honourable house, as the Saxon is) yet he is to base to be sonne in lawe to an Emperour. In these my distresses, it is of you alone, of whom I looke for ayde and counsaile, beinge certaine of your prudence and good iudgement: and therefore I pray you to haue pitie vpon mee, and haue remorse vpon this immoderate passion that doth tormente mee beyonde measure.” Radegonde hearing Adelasia disclose this talke, wherof she would neuer haue thought, was so confounded and astoned, that of long time she could not speake a word, holding her head downe, reuoluing a thousand diuers matters in her minde, knewe not well what to aunswere the Princesse. Finally gatheringe her spirites vnto her, shee aunswered her with teares in her eyes, saying: “Alas, madame, what is that you saye? Is it possible that the wisest, vertuous, and most curteous Princesse of Europa could suffer herselfe in this sort (through her onely aduise) to be transported to her owne affections and sensuall appetites? Is it well doen that you seing in me, a discretion and modestie, doe not imitate the puritie thereof? Be these the godly admonicions which heretofore I haue giuen you, that you will so lightly defile your father’s house with the blot of infamie, and your self with eternal reproch? Would you, Madame, that vpon the ende of my yeares I should begin to betraye my Lord the Emperour, who hath committed to my hands the most precious iewell of his house? Shal I be so vnconstant in mine old dayes to become an vnshamefast minister of your fonde and foolishe loue, a thing which I neuer did in the ardent time of youth? Alas, madame, forget I beseech you this foolish order, cast vnder your feete this determination wickedly begonne, such as to the blemishinge of the honourable brightnes of your fame, maye cause the ruine of vs all. Follow the counsell of your deare nourice Radegonde, whoe loueth you better than her owne soule. Quenche these noisome and parchinge flames which haue kindled, and throwen forth their sparkes into your chaste and tender harte. Take heede, I beseech you, that a vaine hope doe not deceiue you, and a foolishe desire abuse you. Alas, thincke that it is the parte of a sage and prudente minde, to restraine the first motions of euerye passion, and to resiste the rage that riseth in our willes, and the same very oft by succession of time, bringeth to it selfe to late and noysome repentance. This your thought procedeth not of loue: for hee that thincketh to sustain himselfe with venim sugred with that drogue, in the ende he seeth himselfe so desperately impoysoned, as onely death is the remedie for suche disease: a louer truly may be called the slaue of a tyrant most violent, cruell, and bloudie that may be found, whose yoke once put on, can not be put of, but with painful sorrowe and vnspeakeable displeasure. Do you not know Madame, that loue and follie be two passions so like one an other, that they engender like effectes in the minds of those that do possesse them: in such wise as the affection of the paciente cannot be concealed? Alas, what shall become of you and him that you loue so well, if the Emperour do know and perceiue your light and fond determinations. Shew Madame, for God’s sake, what you be. Let the ripe fruits of your prudence so long time tilled, appeare abrode to the worlde: expell from you this vnruled loue, which if you suffer frankly to enter into your hart, assure your selfe he wil take such holdfaste of the place, that when you thincke to extrude the enemie out, it is he that will driue away that small portion of force and reason that resteth in you: and then the comfort of your miseries, wil be the lamentation of your losses, and a folowing repentaunce for that which cannot be by any meanes recouered.” Adelasia burning in loue and fretting with anger, not able to abide contrarie replie to her minde, began to loke furiouslie vppon the Ladie that gave her suche holsome admonicion, to whom she said with more than womanly stoutnes, these words: “And what are you, good gentlewoman, that dare so hardly prescribe lawes to Loue that is not subiect or tied vnto the fantasie of men? Who hath giuen you commission to take the matter so hote against that I haue determined to doe, say you what you can? No, no, I loue Alerane and wil loue him whatsoeuer come of it: and sithe I can haue none other helpe at your handes, or meete counselle for mine ease and comfort: be assured that I will endeauour to finde it in my selfe: and likewise to prouide so well as I can for mine affaires, that eschewing the alliaunce which the Emperour prepareth, I will liue at hartes ease with him, whom (in vaine) you go about to put out of my remembraunce: and if so be I chaunce to fayle of my purpose, I haue a medicine for my calamities which is death, the laste refuge of all miseries: which will be right pleasaunt vnto me, ending my life, in the contemplation and memorie of the sincere and perfecte loue that I beare to mine Alerane.” Radegonde no lesse abashed, than surprised with feare, hearinge the resolution of the Princesse, could not at the first make any aunswere, but to make her recourse to teares, the most familiar weapons that women haue. Then seing by the countenaunces of Adelasia, that the passion had set in foote to deepe for any to attempt to plucke oute the rootes, from that time forth shee wiped her eyes, not without euident demonstration (for all that) of her great griefe conceyued, with infinite sighes, turning her face to the Ladie, shee said to her with pleasaunter countenaunce than before: “Madame, sith your mishap is such as withoute Alerane you cannot bee quiet or pacifyed in minde, appease your plaintes, wipe awaye your teares, shew your countenaunce ioyful, and setting aside all care, put on good corage, and repose in mee all your anguishe and trouble. For I doe promise you and sweare by the fayth that I do owe you Madame, come whatsoeuer shall vnto me, I will deuise in practising your rest to beginne mine owne sorow. And then you shall see how much I am your frend, and that the words which I haue spoken do not proceede els where, but from the desire that I haue to doe you seruice, seeking al wayes possible your aduauncement.” Adelasia at these last words felt such a motion in her minde, as much a doe she had for the exceeding great ioy and pleasure she conceiued, to staie her soule from leapinge forth of that corporall prison (like the spirite of that Romaine Ladie which once lefte the bodye to descende into the Elisien fields, to vse the perfection of her ioy with the blessed soules there, when she saw her sonne retorne safe and sounde from the battaile of Thrasimene besides the lake of Peruse, where the Consull Flaminius was ouercome by Hanniball): but in the ende, the hope to haue that which Radegonde had promised, made her to receiue hart againe, and to clepe her counseler, sayinge: “God forbid, deare mother, that the thing you do for me should rebound to your mishap or discontentmente, sithe the affection which you haue consisteth in the onely pitie and conseruation of a poore afflicted maiden. And your desire tendeth to the deliuerance of the most passionate Princesse that euer was borne of mother: and beleeue that fortune will bee so fauourable, that what mischiefe soeuer chaunce, you remayninge without paine, I shall be shee that alone shal beare the penaunce: wherefore once againe I beseech you, (sayd shee embracinge Radegonde) to bringe that to passe whereof you giue assured hope.” “Care not you Madame,” sayde Radegonde “I truste within a while to make you proue the effecte of my promise: and will cause you to speake vnto him whom you desire so muche: onely be meerye and forgette these straunge fashions, in tormentinge your selfe so muche before your maides, to the intente that, which hitherto hath bin kepte secrete, maye not be reueyled to your great shame and hinderaunce, and to the vtter ruine and ouerthrow of me.” During all this time, Alerane liued in despaire, and hardy cowardise, for although he saw the amorous gestes of Adelasia, yet he durst fixe no certain iudgement of his owne satisfaction, although his harte tolde him, that he was her onely fauoured friend, and promised him that, which almost he feared to thinke, whiche was to haue her one day for friend, if the name of spouse were refused. Thus tormented with ioye and displeasure, wandering betwene doubt and assuraunce of that he hoped, the selfe same daye that Adelasia pratised with Radegonde, for the obtaining of her ioye, and secrete ministerie of her loue, he entred alone into a garden, into whiche the Princesse chamber had prospect, and after he had walked there a good space in an Alley, viewing diligently the order of the fruitful trees of so diuers sortes, as there be varietie of colours, within a faire meade, during the verdure of the spring time, and of so good and sauorours taste as the harte of man could wyshe: he repaired vnder a Laurel tree so well spred and adorned with leaues, about whiche tree you might haue seene an infinite number of Myrtle trees of smell odoriferous and sweete, of Oringe trees laden with vnripe fruite, of pliable Mastickes and tender Tameriskes: and there he fetched his walkes a long the thycke and greene herbes, beholding the varietie of floures, whiche decked and beautified the place, with their liuely and naturall colours. He then rauished in this contemplation, remembring her which was the pleasure and torment of his minde, in sighing wise began to saye: “O that the heauens be not propitious and fauourable to my indeuours: sithe that in the middes of my iolities, I fele a new pleasaunt displeasure, which doth adnihilate all other solace, but that which I receiue through the Image painted in my harte, of that diuine beautie, whiche is more varieted in perfection of pleasures, than this paradise and delicious place, in varietie of enamel and painting, although that nature and art of man, haue workemanlye trauailed to declare and set forth their knowledge and diligence. Ah, Adelasia, the fairest Lady of al faire and most excellent Princesse of the earth: is it not possible for me to feede so well of the viewe and contemplation of thy heauenly and angelicall face, as I doe of the sight of these faire and sundry coloured floures? may it not be brought to passe that I may smell that sweet breath which respireth through thy delicate mouth, being none other thing than Baulme, Muske, and aumbre, yea and that which is more precious, and for the raritie and valour hath no name, euen as I do smell the Roses, Pincks, and Violets, hanging ouer my head, frankely offering themselues into my handes? Ah, infortunate Alerane, there is no floure that ought to be so handled, nor sauor, the sweetnesse whereof ought not to bee sented without desert merited before. Ah! Loue, Loue, that thou hast fixed my minde vpon so high thinges: alas I feare an offence so daungerous, which in the ende will breede my death: and yet I can not withdrawe my harte from that sincke of Loue, although I would force my selfe to expell it from me: alas, I haue red of him so many times, and haue heard talke of his force, as I am afraide to boorde him, and yet feare I shall not escape his gulfe. Alas, I knowe well it is he, of whom is engendred a litle mirth and laughing, after whiche doth followe a thousand teares and weapinges, which for a pleasure that passeth away so sone as the whirlewinde, doth giue vs ouer to great repentaunce, the sorowe whereof endureth a long time, and sometimes his bitternesse accompanieth vs euen to the graue. The pacientes that be tainted with that amorous feuer, although continually they dye, yet they can not wholy see and perceiue the default and lacke of their life, albeit they do wyshe and desire it still. But, alas, what mishap is this that I doe see the poyson whiche causeth my mischiefe, and doe knowe the waye to remedye the same, and yet neuerthelesse I can not or will not recouer the helpe: did euer man heare a thing so straunge as a sicke man seking helpe and fynding recouerie, should yet reiecte it?” Saying so, he wepte and syghed so piteously as a litle chylde threated by his mother the nourice. Then roming vp and downe vppon the grasse, he seemed rather to be a man straught and bounde with chaines, than like one that had his wittes and vnderstanding. Afterwardes being come againe to himselfe, hee retourned to his first talke, saying: “But what? am I more wyse, more constant and perfecte, than so many Emperours, kynges, Princes, and greate lordes, who notwithstanding their force, wisedome, or riches, haue bene tributarie to loue? The tamer and subduer of monsters and tyrants, Hercules (vanquished by the snares of loue), did not he handle the distaffe in stead of his mightie mace? The strong and inuincible Achilles, was not he sacrificed to the shadowe of Hector vnder the colour of loue, to celebrate holy mariage with Polixena, doughter to king Priamus? The great dictator Iulius Cæsar, the Conquerour of so many people, Armies, Captaines, and Kinges, was ouercome with the beautie and good grace of Cleopatra, Queene of Egipt. Augustus his successour, attired lyke a woman, by a yoeman of his chamber, did he not take away Liuia from him that was first maried vnto her? and that common enemy of man and of all curtesie, Claudius Nero, appeased yet some of his furie for the loue of his Ladie? What straunge things did the learned, wise, and vertuous Monarche Marcus Aurelius indure of his well beloued Faustine? and that greate Captaine Marcus Antonius the very terror of the Romaine people and the feare of straung and barbarous nations did homage to the child Cupido for the beautie of Queene Cleopatra, which afterwardes was the cause of his vtter ouerthrow. But what meane I to alledge and remember the number of louers, being so infinite as they be? Wherefore haue the poetes in time past fained in their learned and deuine bookes the loues of Iupiter, Apollo, and Mars, but that euery man may knowe the force of loue to be so puissaunt as the Gods themselues have felt his force to be inuincible and ineuitable? Ah: if sometimes a gentleman be excused for abassing himself to loue a woman of base birth and bloud, why should I bee accused or apprehended for louing the daughter of the chiefest Prince of Europe? Is it for the greatnesse of her house and antiquitie of her race? Why, that is all one betwene vs twoo, and toke his original of the place, whereof at this daye, my father is the chiefe and principall. And admitte that Adelasia be the doughter of an emperour: ah, loue hath no regarde to persons, houses, or riches, rather is he of greater commendation whose enterpryses are most famous and haute gestes extende their flight farre of. Now resteth then to devise meanes how to make her vnderstand my payne: for I am assured that she loueth me, sauing that her honour and yong yeres doe let her to make it appeare more manifest: but it is my propre dutie to make requeste for the same, considering her merites and my small desertes in respect of her perfections. Ah: Alerane, thou must vnlose the tongue which so long time hath ben tied vp, through to much fonde and fearful shame. Set aside the feare of perill, whatsoeuer it be, for thou canst not employe thy selfe more gloriously than vpon the pursuit of suche a treasure that semeth to be reserued for the fame of thy mind so highly placed, which can not attaine greater perfections, except the heauens do frame in their impressions a second Adelasia (of whom I think dame nature her selfe hath broken the moulde) who can not shake of Alerane from the chiefest place, in whom he hath laid the foundation of his ioye that he hopeth to finde in Loue.” During these complaintes, Radegonde, that sawe him rauished in that extasie, coniecturing the cause of his being alone, caused him to be called by a page: who hearing that, was surprised with a new feare intermixt with a secrete pleasure, knowing very well, that she being the gouernesse of his lady, vnderstode the greatest priuities of her harte, hoping also that she brought him gladsome newes, and setting a good chere vpon his face all mated and confused for troubles past, hee repayred to the lady messanger, who was no lesse ashamed, for the tale that she must tell, than he was afeard and dombe, by sight of her whom he thought did bring the areste and determination, either of ioye or of displeasure. After curtesie and welcoms done betwene them, the lady preambled a certayne short discourse touching the matter, to do the Saxone Prince to vnderstande the good will and harty loue of Adelasia towarde him, praying him that the same might not be discouered, sith the honor of his lady did consiste in the secrecie thereof, assuring him, that he was so in fauour with the Princesse as any true and faithfull louer could desire to be for his content. I leaue to your consideration, in what sodayne ioye Alerane was, hearing suche gladsome newes whiche he loked not for, and thought he was not able to render sufficient thankes to the messanger, and much lesse to extolle the beautie and curtesie of his Lady, who without any of his merites done before, (as he thought) had him in so good remembraunce. Beseching moreouer Radegonde, that she would in his name do humble commendations to his Lady, and therewith to confirme her in the assuraunce of his perfect good will, and immutable desire, euerlastingly at her commaundement, onely praying her that he might saye vnto Adelasia three wordes in secrete, to thintent shee might perceiue his harte, and see the affection wherewith he desired to obey her al the dais of his life. The messanger assured him of al that he required, and instructed him what he had to doe for the accomplishement of that he loked for, which was, that the next day at night she would cause him to come into her warderobe, which was adioyning to the Chamber of his Lady, to the ende that when her maydes were a bed, he might repaire to the place where he might easely visite his maistresse, and say vnto her what he thought good. The compact thus made, the Lady returned to the Princesse, that wayted with good deuotion for the newes of her beloued. And hearing the reporte of Radegonde, shee was not contente that she should make repeticion of the same, twise or thrise but a Million of times and euen till nighte, that she slept vpon that thought with the greatest rest, that she had receiued in long time before. The morrowe at the houre that Alerane should come, Adelasia fayning her self to be ill at ease, caused her maydes to goe to bed, making her alone to tarie with her that was the messanger of her loue, who a litle while after went to seeke Alerane, whiche was a building of Castels in the ayre, fantasying a thousand deuises in his minde: what might befall of that enterprise he went about: notwithstanding he was so blinded in folly, as without measuring the fault which he committed, he thought vpon nothing but vppon the present pleasure, which semed to him so great as the chambre wherein hee was, seemed not sufficient to comprehend the glory of his good houre. But the Princesse on the other part, felte a maruellous trouble in her minde, and almoste repented that she had so hardely made Alerane to come into a place vndecent for her honour, and at a time so inconuenient. Howbeit seing that the stone was throwen, shee purposed not to pretermitte the occasion, which being balde can not easely be gotten againe if she be once let slip. And whiles she traueiled in these meditations and discoursed vppon that shee had to doe, Radegonde came in, leading Alerane by the hande, whom she presented to the Princesse, saying to her with a verie good grace: “Madame, I deliuer you this prysoner, whom euen nowe I founde here, betwene your chambre and that wherin your maydes lye: now consider what you haue to doe.” Alerane in the meane tyme, was fallen downe vpon his knees before his sainct, wholly bent to contemplate her excellent beautie and good grace, which made him as dumbe as an Image. Shee lykewyse beholding hym that made her thus to erre in her honestie, forced through shame and loue, could not forbeare to beholde him, the power of her mynde wholy transferred into her eyes, that then yelded contentation of her harte whiche shee so long desired. In the ende Alerane holding the handes of Adelasia many tymes did kisse them, then receiuing courage, he brake of that long silence and began to saye thus: “I neuer thought (madame) that the sight of a thing so long desired, had bene of such effect, as it would haue rauished both the mynde and bodye of their propre duties and naturall actions, if nowe I had not proued it in beholding the diuinitie of your beautie moste excellent. And truely madame Radegonde dyd rightly terme this place here, my pryson, considering that of long tyme I haue partly loste this my libertie, of the whiche I feele nowe an intire alienation: of one thing sure I am, that being your prysoner as I am in deede, I may make my vaunt and boast, that I am lodged in the fairest and pleasauntest pryson that a man can wyshe and desire. For which cause Madame, be wel aduised how you do vse and entreate your captive and slaue, that humbly maketh petition vnto you, to haue pitie vpon his weakenesse, which he will accept as a grace vnspeakeable, if of your accustomed goodnesse it may please you to receiue him for your owne, for that henceforth hee voweth and consecrateth his life, goodes, and honour, to your commaundemente and seruice.” And saying so, his stomake panted with continuall sighes and from his eyes distilled a ryuer of teares, the better to expresse and declare the secret force, that made hym to vtter these woordes. Which was the cause that Adelasia embrasing hym very louingly made aunswere thus: “I knowe not (Lorde Alerane) what pryson that is, where the prisoner is in better case, than the pryson of whom he termeth himselfe to be the slaue, considering that I fele in me such a losse of my selfe, as I can not tell whether to go, or where to retire, but euen to him that craueth the same fredome, whereof I my selfe doe make requeste. Alas, my welbeloued Alerane, into what extremity am I brought: the very great loue that I beare you, forceth me to forget my dutie, and the ligneage wherof I come, yea and mine honor, which is more to bee estemed than all the reste. But I repose in you such affiance, as you will not deceiue so simple a Ladie as I am, vtterly voyde of guyle and deceit. Who, if you be tormented, liueth not without griefe and sorrowe altogether like vnto yours. If you doe sighe, I am wholly spent and consumed in teares. Do you desire reste? Alas: I wishe and craue the same vnto vs both, that be now sundred and deuided, whiche can not be aquired except they be vnited which before were wholly separated.” Radegonde interrupting their talke, smilingly said: “And how can this separation be combined, where the parties them selues do liue in such disiunctions?” “You say true, madame,” saide Alerane, “for the perfection of vnitie consisteth in the knitting of that which is separated. Wherfore madame (sayd he to Adelasia) I humbly besech you, aswel for your comfort as my rest, not to suffer this diuision to be to long, sith the outward bound shall combine the same so inwardly, as very death shall not bee able hereafter to deface or diminishe the same.” “If I may assure my selfe,” sayde she, “of your fidelitie, it so may come to passe, as I wold giue you a very great libertie, but hearing tell so many times of the inconstancie and fickle trust of men, I will be contented with my first fault, without adding any further aggrauation, to fasten and binde that, which I do specially esteme.” “Alas, madame,” sayd Alerane, “doe you thinke that the prouf of my fidelitie may receiue greater perfection, by enioying the pleasure, that I hope for than it doth alredy? No, no, madame, and therefore be sure of my harte and stedfastnesse: for soner shall my body fayle, than defaulte in me to serue and honor you, if not according to the worthinesse of your estate, yet by al meanes, so farre as my power shal stretch. And can you finde in your hart to conceiue, that your Alerane would play the traitour with her, for whose seruice he feareth not to aduenture a thousand liues if God had geuen him so many?” Adelasia be sprent all with teares, was in an extasy or traunce. Which Alerane perceiuing and saw that Radegonde was gone into the warderobe, to suffer them to talke their fill, he began to take possession of her mouthe, redoubling kisse vpon kisse, sometimes washed with teares, sometime dried vp, with frequent vse thereof, leauing neither eye nor cheke vnkissed: and seing the pacience of his Ladye, he seased vpon her white, harde, and round breastes, whose pappes with sighes moued and remoued, yelding a certaine desire of Alerane to passe further. Which Adelasia perceiuing, dissembling a swete anger and such a chase as did rather accende the flames of the amorous Prince, than with moiste licour extinguishe the same, and making him to geue ouer the enterprise, she fiercely sayd unto him: “How now, (Sir Alerane) how dare you thus malapertly abuse this my secret frendship, in suffering you to come so frankely into my chamber. Thinke not that although I haue vsed you thus familiarly, that I can be able to suffer you to attempt any further: for (if God be fauourable to conserue me in my right wittes) neuer man shal haue that aduauntage to gather the floure of my virginitie, but he with whom I shall be ioyned in mariage. Otherwyse I shall bee unworthy, bothe of my honourable state, and also of that man what soeuer he be, worthy of estimation and preferrement.” “So I thynke to Madame,” aunswered Alerane: {“}for if it woulde please you to doe me that honour, to receiue me for your faythfull and loyall espouse, I sweare vnto you by him that seeth and heareth all thynges, that neuer any other shall bee maistresse of Alerane’s harte, but the fayre Princesse Adelasia.” She that asked no better, after mutche talke betwene them, in the ende condescended that Alerane should geue his faith to marrie her, and to conuey her out of the Courte, till the Emperour were appeased for their committed fault. Thus had the Saxon Prince, the full possession of his desires, and carried away the pray so long time sought for. Radegonde was she, that receiued the othes of their espousalles, and capitulated the articles of their secrete mariage. And after the determination made of their flying awaye, and a daye thereunto appointed, the two louers entred the campe, to make proufe by combate of their hardinesse and assaye of their trauayle in time to come, wherein they thought for euer to perseuere and continue. Beyng a bedde then together, they did consumate the bande that strayghtly doth bynde the harte of louers together, intiring the vnion diuided, whiche before they thought imperfect and could not be accomplished but by inward affections of the minde. And God knoweth howe this new maried couple vsed their mutuall contentation: but sure it is, that they continued together vntil the morning had vncouered from the night her darkenes, euen to the point of day, that Alerane was somoned by Radegonde to depart, who to conclude his former ioye, very louingly kissed his newe wife, and sayd vnto her: “Madame, the felicitie that I fele nowe, by enioying that which vniteth me so nerely being indissoluble and neuer hereafter to be broken, semeth so great that no perill whatsoeuer doth happen, can make me forget the least part of my ioye. So it is that seing the state of our present affaires, and fearing the daunger that may chaunce, I will for this time take my leaue of you, and goe about to put the same in order, that no negligence may slacke your ioye and desired pleasure.” “Ah, sir,” (saith she) “that my harte forethinketh both the best and worste of our intended enterprise. But to the intent we may proue our fortune, by whose conduction we must passe, I doe submitte my selfe to the wisedome of your mynde, and to the good successe that hetherto hath accompaignied all your indeuours.” And then they kissed and embraced again, drinking vp one anothers teares, which distilled from them in such aboundaunce. Thus Alerane departed from his Ladies chamber, and went home to his owne house, where he solde all his goodes at small price, making men to vnderstand, that he would employ the money otherwise in things whereof he hoped to recouer greater gaine. With that money he bought precious stones, and pretie Iewels, that he might not be burdened with cariage of to much gold, or other money, and then he put his males and bougets in readinesse to go with his wife, either of them in the habite and apparell of pilgrimes, faire and softly a foote, that they might not be discouered: which was done in the night. The Princesse faining her selfe to be sicke, made her maydes to withdrawe themselues into their chamber, and then she went into the garden where Alerane firste made his plaintes, as you haue heard before: in whiche place her husbande taried for her. God knoweth whether they renewed their pastime begon the daye of their mariage, but fearing to be taken, they began to playe the comedie, the actes whereof were very long, and the scrolle of their miseries to prolixe to carie, before they came to the catastrope and ende of their comicall action. For leauing their sumptuous and riche apparell, they clothed themselves with pilgrims attire, taking the skallop shell and staffe, like to them that make their pilgrimage to S. Iames in Gallisia. The Princesse toke the personage of a yong wench, ruffling her heare whiche she had in time past so carefully kempt, curled, and trimmed with gold and Iewels of inestimable value, wherein consisteth the chiefest grace of the beautie and ornament of the woman. Who is able to deny, but that this naturall humour and passion, borne so sone as we, whiche they call Loue, is not a certayne essence and being, the force and vigor whereof, not able to abide comparison? Is it no small matter, that by the only instinction of loue’s force, the doughter of so great a Prince, as the Emperour of the Romaines was, shoulde wander like a vagabonde in dissembled tire, and poorely cladde, to experiment and proue the long trauaile of iourneyes, the intemperature of the ayre, the hazarde to meete with so many theeues and murderers, which wayte in all places for poore passengers, and moreouer, to feele the bitternesse of trauayle, neuer tasted before, the rage of hunger, the intollerable alteration of thirst, the heate of hotte Sommer, the coldenesse of wynter’s yce, subiect to raines, and stormy blastes: doth it not plainely demonstrate that loue hath either a greater perfection, than other passions, or els that they which feele that alteration, be out of the number of reasonable men, endued with the brightnesse of that noble qualitie. This fayre Lady recouering the fields with her husband, with determination to take their flight into Italie, was more ioyfull, freshe, and lusty, than when she liued at ease amonges the delicates and pleasures, which she tasted in her father’s court. See howe fortune and loue are content to be blinde, closing vp the eyes of them, that followe their trace, and subdue themselues to their edictes, and vnstable dispositions. And truely this rage of loue was the only meane to dulcorate and make swete the bitter gal of griefe whiche those twoo louers felte, defatigated almoste with tedious trauaile, iudging their wearinesse a pastime and pleasure, being guided by that vnconstante captaine, whiche maketh dolts and fooles wyse men, emboldeneth the weake hearted and cowardes, fortifieth the feeble, and to be shorte, vntieth the pursses and bagges of couetous Carles and miserable Misers. Nowe whyles our faire pilgrimes, without any vowed deuocion, were abrode at their pleasures (beyng wery with the waye they had traueyled all nighte) the morrowe after their departure, all the Emperour’s house was in a great hurly burly and stirre for the absence of Adelasia. The wayting maydes cried out, and raged without measure, with such shrichinges, that the Emperour moued with pitie, although his griefe and anger was great, yet he caused euery place there aboutes to be searched and sought, but all that labour was in vaine. In the ende, perceiuing the absence of Alerane, suspected that it was he that had stolen away his fayre doughter, whiche brought him into such passion and frensie, as he was like to runne out of his wyttes and transgresse the bondes of reason. “Ah, traytour,” sayd the good Prince, “is this the guerdon of good turnes, bestowed vpon thee, and of the honour thou hast receiued in my company? Do not thinke to escape scot free thus without the rigorous iustice of a father, deserued by disobedience, and of a Prince, against whom his subiect hath committed villany. If God geue me lyfe, I wyll take such order, as the posteritie shall take example by that iuste vengeaunce whiche I hope to take of thee (arrant theefe, and despoyler of my honor and consolation.) And thou vnkynde doughter shalte smartely feele the wrong done to thy kynde, and welbeloued father, who thought to prouide for thee, more honourably than thy disloyaltie and incontinencie, so farre as I see, doe merite and deserue, sythe that without my leaue, and respect of thy vocation, thou hast gotten thee a husband worthy of thy folly, with whom I hope to make thee vnderstand thy fault, and my displeasure whiche I receiue through thy shamefull acte, so reprochfull, specially in her which is the doughter of such a father as I am, descended of the moste royall race within the circuit of Europe.” Many other things the Emperour sayd, in great rage and furie: and in thend commaunded, that one should go into Saxone, to knowe if Alerane had conueied his stolen doughter thither: but he could bring no newes at all from thence. He assaied then if he could learne any tidinges of them by other meanes, causing by sound of Trumpet to be cried in all the townes confining that if any persone could bring him worde, or do him to vnderstande certaine and sure newes of those twoo fugitiues, he would geue them that, wherewith they should be contented all the daies of their life. But he wan so much by this thirde serche, as he did by the firste twoo. Whiche thing the Maiestie of God, semed to permit and suffer as wel for the happie successe that chaunced afterwardes, as for the punishing of the rashe enterprise of two louers, whiche liued not very long in prosperitie and ioy, but that they felte the hande of God, who sometime suffereth the faithfull to fall, to make him acknowledge his imbecillitie, to the ende he may confesse, that all health, sustenaunce, reste, and comfort, is to be attended and looked for at the handes of God. When Alerane and his Lady were gone out of a citie with in the Emperour’s lande called Hispourge being come into a certaine wilde and desert place, they fell into the lapse of certaine theues, whiche stripped Alerane into his shirte, and had done as mutch to the poore princesse, if certaine Marchauntes had not come betwene, which forced the theues to flie. Alerane was succoured with some clothes to couer his bodie, and releued with a litle summe of money, which being spent, those twoo kinges children were constrained to begge, and aske for God’s sake reliefe to sustaine their infortunate life. Whiche distresse was so difficulte for Alerane to disgest, as he was like (standing vppon his feete) to die for sorrowe and want, not so mutch for the aduersitie whereunto he was brought through his owne fault, as the pitie that he toke vpon his deare beloued Lady, whome he sawe in so lamentable state, and knew that she might attaine her auncient dignitie and honour againe, if she listed to preferre rewarde or prise before his life, for which she spared not the very last drop of her bloud. She knowing the dolor and anguishe that her husband endured, comforted him very wisely with ioyfull countenaunce, saying: “Howe now, deare husband, thinke you that fortune is or ought to be still fauourable to Princes and greate Lordes? Do you not knowe that great bulkes and shippes do soner perishe and drowne in maine seas and riuers amiddes the raging waues and surges, than in narrow floudes and brookes, where the water is still and calme? Doe you not see great trees, whose toppes doe rise aloft, aboue high hilles and stepe mountaines, soner shaken and tossed with blustering windie blastes, than those that be planted, in fertile dales and low valleis? Haue you forgotten so many histories, by you perused and read with so great delight, when you were in the Emperour’s Court? Doe not they describe the chaunge of Monarches, the ruine of houses, the destruction of one realme acquired, by the establishing and raigne of an other? What Prince, Monarch or Captaine was euer so happy, as hath not felt some griefe and misfortune? Alas, sweete heart, thinke that God doth chastise vs with his roddes of tribulation, to make vs to know him: but in the meane time, he kepeth for vs a better fortune that wee looke not for. Moreouer he neuer forsaketh them which with a good heart do go vnto him, hauing their affiaunce in his great goodnesse and infinite mercie.” Alerane hearing the wise talke of his wife, could not forbear weeping, and sighing aunswered her in this maner: “Ah, Lady, in beautie and wisedom incomparable, it is not the present fortune that causeth my minde to wander and straye from the siege of constancie, knowing well the qualities and number of fortune’s snares, and how ielous she is of humaine ioye and felicitie. I am not ignorant that she layeth her ambushes, and doeth beset the endeuours, soner of personages that bee noble and of highe parentage, than of those whose heartes be base and vnnoble, and their victories not able to attain any iote of honour and fame. But, good God, (saide he, embracing his deare beloued spouse) it is for you, madame, that I endure tormente, hauing made you to abandon the pompe of your estate, and bereued from you a king to be your husband, causing you thus to feele an horrible and new kinde of punishmente, hunger and famine (I meane) in the middes of the deserts and wilde places, and therewithall haue ioyned you in companie with an infortunate felowshippe, who in stead of comfort and solace, ministreth teares and sighes. O God, most high and puissant, howe profounde and darke are thy iudgementes, and howe righteous is thy iustice. I acknowledge mine offence to be the cause of thyne anger, and the originall of our trespasse, and that this paine chauncheth to vs for our sinnes, which haue so wickedly betraied the best Prince of the world, and forsaken the companie of him, at whose bountifull handes I haue receiued better entertainement and greater honour, than I deserued. Ah, Emperour Otho, that thou art so well reuenged nowe, with cowardly fraude and deceipt committed against thee by Alerane of Saxone, taking away her from thee, which was the staffe and future staye of thy reuerend age.” And as he was perseuering in this talke, Adelasia (seeing him in that contemplation) plucked him by the arme, saying: “Sir, it is time to consider our own affaires: we haue trauailed I can not tell howe farre without rest, me think (our fortune being no better) that we ought to remaine in some place attending for the grace and mercy of God, who (I hope) wil not forsake vs.{”} They were then in Liguria in the desarts, betweene Ast and Sauonne, a countrie in that time well peopled, and furnished with huge and darke forestes, garnished with many trees, great and highe. By the aduise then of Adelasia, the Saxone Prince forced by necessitie (the maistresse of all artes) retired into those forestes where he practised the occupation of a Collier, and some said that nature taught him the order howe to cutte his woode, to make readie his pittes, and to knowe the season and tyme when his coales were burned enough. Great paines he susteined about his businesse, and went himself to sell his coales, which he bare vpon his shoulders, to the next market townes, tyll he had gayned so mutche as bought him an asse, wherewith he dayly trauailed to vtter his coales, and other deuises which neede had forced him to learne. In this time Adelasia was deliuered of a goodly child, whom they named William. And afterwards, by succession of time, she bare sixe sonnes more. For they dwelt almost XVIII. or XX. yeares in that poore and miserable life, and had dressed vp a litle lodging within a caue, that was faire and brode, wherein verye trimly and well they had bestowed themselues. When the eldest of their sonnes was growen to the stature of a pretie stripling, the father sent him sometime to Sauonne, and sometime to Ast, to sell their litle merchandise, for reliefe of their houshold. But the boy, whose bloud could not conceale and hide the nobilitie of his birth, hauing one day sold certaine burdens and loades of woode and coale: bought with that money a faire yong hauke, which he caried vnto his father. The good man gently rebuked his sonne, and said, that suche game belonged not to men of their degree, and that they had muche a do to liue, without employing their money vppon such trifles. Long time after, William being arriued to the age of XVI yeares, went to Sauonne, to sell certaine ware by his father’s commaundement, and with the money he bought a very fayre sword, which when his father saw, with teares in his eyes, he went aside and said to himselfe: “Ah vnfortunate ladde, that thy hard lucke should do thee this great wrong: truely neither the pouertie of thy parentes, nor the place of thy bringinge vp, can deface in thee the secrete shining brightnes of thine auncestors vertue, nor the prediction of thy courage and manhode in time to come, if God giue the grace to aduaunce thee, to the seruice of some noble Prince.” Notwithstanding for that time he ceassed not sharply to rebuke and threaten his sonne, in such wyse as the yong man hauing a harte greater than his force, determined secretly to depart from his parentes. Now fortune chaunced so wel and apt for his purpose as then and at the verye same time, the Hongarians were entred Italye to spoile and robbe the countrie, against whom the Emperour marched in greate expedicion, with an huge and goodly armie, of purpose to force them to leaue his lande in peace. William hauinge knowledge hereof, proceeded towarde the Emperour’s campe, where hee shewed in deede great hope (being of so smal yeares) of his future valiaunce and prowesse, by the deedes of armes that hee did, during that warre. Which ended and the enemie put to flighte, the Emperour wente into Prouance, to put in order his affaires in his realme of Arles, which then was subiecte to the Empire. Afterwards he retired into Italy with deliberation to seiorne at Sauonne for a certaine time, which displeased William nothing at all, because he should remaine harde by his parentes, who were very carefull for his well doing, vtterly ignoraunt where he was become. And notwithstanding a hope (what I knowe not) made them expect of their sonne som good fortune in time to come, who was now grown great and of goodly perfection, one of the most valiaunt souldiours that were in the wages and seruice of his Maiestie. Which very brauely he declared in a combate, that he fought man to man with an Almaine souldiour, that was hardy, big made, and feared of all men, whom neuerthelesse he ouercame in the presence of the Emperor his graundfather. Who, I know not by what natural inclination, daily fixed his eye vpon that yong champion, and began to bear him more good will than anye other in his courte, which was an occasion, that an auncient gentleman, serving in the Princes Courte, stedfastly beholding the face, behauiour and countenaunce of William, seemed to see a picture of the Emperour when he was of his age, which was more exactlye viewed by diuers other, that were broughte vp in their youth with Otho. Wherof being aduertised, he caused the yong man to be called forth, of whom he demaunded the names of his parentes, and the place where hee was borne. William that was no lesse curteous, humble and welmanered, than wise, valiant and hardie, kneeled before the Emperour with a stoute countenaunce, resemblinge the nobilitie of his auncestours, answered: “Most sacred and renowmed Emperour, I haue nothinge whereof to render thanckes to fortune, but for the honour that your Maiestie hath done vnto me, to receiue mee into your noble seruice. For the fortune and condition of my parentes, be so base, that I blushe for shame to declare them vnto you. Howbeit being your humble seruaunte, and hauing receiued fauour of your maiestie, not commonly emploied, your commaundement to tell you what I am, I will accomplish as well for my bounden dutie, wherewith I am tied to your maiestie, and to satisfie that which it pleaseth you to commaund me. Be it knowen therefore vnto your maiestie, that I am the sonne of two poore Almaines, who flying their owne countrie, withdrew themselues into the desarts of Sauonne, where (to beguile their hard fortune) they make coals, and sel them, to sustaine and relieue their miserable life: In which exercise I spent all my childhod, although it were to my great sorowe. For my hart thought (Sir) that a state so vile, was vnworthy of my coragious minde, which dailye aspired to greater thinges, and leauing my father and mother, I am come to your seruice, to learne chiualry and vse of armes, and (mine obedience saued to your maiestie) to find a way to illustrate the base and obscure education, wherein my parents haue brought me vp.” The Emperour seinge the courteous behauiour of the yonge man, by this wise aunswere, remembring the similitude of his face, which almoste resembled them both, suspected that he was the sonne of Alerane and his doughter Adelasia, whoe for feare to be knowen, made themselues citizens of those desertes, albeit that William had told him other names, and not the proper appellations of his father and mother. For which cause his hart began to throbbe, and felte a desire to see his doughter, and to cherishe her with like affection, as thoughe he had neuer conceiued offence and displeasure. He caused then to be called vnto him a gentleman, the nere kinsmanne of Alerane, to whom he said with merie countenaunce and ioyful cheere: “You do know as I thincke, the wrong and displeasure that your cosin Alerane hath done me, by the rape and robberie committed vppon the person of my doughter: you are not ignoraunt also of the reproch wherwith he hath defiled all your house, committed a felonie so abhominable in my courte, and againste mine owne person, which am his so soueraigne Lorde. Notwithstanding, sith it is the force of Loue, that made me forget him till this time, rather than desire of displeasure, I am very desirous to see him, and to accepte him for my sonne in lawe, and good kinsman, verye willing to aduaunce him to that estate in my house, which his degree and bloud do deserue. I tell you not this without speciall purpose. For this yong souldiour, which this daye so valiantly and with such dexteritie vanquished hys aduersary, by the consente of all men, which haue knowen me from my youth, doth represente so well my figure and lineamentes of face, which I had when I was of his age, as I am persuaded, and do stedfastly beleeue, that he is my neuew, the sonne of your cosin Alerane and my doughter Adelasia. And therefore I will haue you to goe with this yonge man, into the place where hee shall bring you, and to see them that be his parents, because I purpose to do them good, if they be other than those whom I take them. But if they be those two that I so greatly desire to see, doe mee so much pleasure as I may satisfie my hart with that contentation, swearing vnto you by the crowne of my Empire, that I will do no worse to them, nor otherwise vse them, than mine own proper person.” The gentleman hearing the louing and gentle tearmes of the Emperour, saide vnto him: “Ah, Sir, I render humble thankes vnto your maiestie, for the pitie that you haue, vpon our dishonored race and ligneage of Saxone, dedecorated and blemished throughe Alerane’s trespasse against you. I pray to God to recompence it (we being vnable) and to giue you the ioye that you desire, and to mee the grace that I may do some agreeable seruice both in this and in all other things. I am readie (Sir) not onely to go seeke my cosin (if it be he that you thincke it is) to carie vnto him those beneficiall newes which your maiestie hath promised by word, but rather to render him into your hands, that you may take reuengement vppon him for the iniurie that he hath done to the whole Empire.” “No, no,” said the Emperour, “the desired time of reuenge is paste, and my mallice against Alerane hath vomited his gall. If in time paste I haue thristed to pursue the ruine and ouerthrowe of those two offenders, nowe I goe about to forsee and seeke their aduauncement and quiet, considering the longe penaunce they haue taken for their fault, and the fruite that I see before mine eyes, which is such that it maye by the smell and fragrant odour thereof, supporte the weaknesse and debilitie of my olde yeares, and constraineth mee (by the vertue thereof) to haue pittie vpon his parents, which (through their owne ouerthrowe) haue almost vtterly consumed me.” Those words ended the good Prince gaue euident testimonie of desire to see his onely doughter, by the liuely colour that rose in his face, and by certaine teares running downe along his hoare and frostie beard. Then he caused William to come before him, and commaunded him to conduct the gentleman to that part of the forest where his father dwelled. Whereunto the yonge man readily and with all his harte obeyed. Thus the Lorde Gunforde (for so was Alerane’s cosin called) accompanied with his litle cosin, and manye other gentlemen, went toward the place, wher the collier princes remained. And when they were neere the craggie caue, the lodging of Alerane, the whole companie lighted of their horse, and espied him busie about the lading of his coales to sende to Ast. For the arriuall of the Emperour to Sauonne, staied Alerane from going thither himselfe, by reason his conscience still grudged for his fault committed against him. Alerane seing this goodly companie, was abashed, as though hornes had sodenly started out of his head, and yet the sighte of his sonne richly furnished, and in the company of Gunfort his cosin, did more astonne him. For he suspected incontinentlye that hee was discouered, and that the Emperour had sente for him to be reuenged of the faulte so long time paste committed. And as he had imagined diuers thinges vppon his harde fortune within his fancie, his sonne came to embrace him vppon his knees, and to kisse his hands, with an honest and humble reuerence, saying to Gunfort: “Sir, this is he of whom I told the Emperour, and of him I toke my being: This is my father.” All this while the good father embraced his sonne very hard, and weeping for extreme ioy, said vnto him: “Alas, my sonne, if thy comming be so happie vnto mee as it is ioyfull, if thy newes be good and prosperous, which thou bringest: thou doest reuiue thy father half deade, and from lamentable despaire thou doest replenishe and fill him with suche hope, as one day shall be the staie of his age, and the recouery of his greatest losses.” The sonne not able to abide the discourse of his parents affaires, could not comprehend any thing at that pitiful meting: but stode stil so astonned, as though he had bin fallen from the clouds. Now during this time, that the father and the sonne thus welcomed one an other: Gunfort toke heede to al the countenaunce and gestures of Alerane. There was no part of the collier’s bodie that he forgat to view: and yet remembring the voyce of his cosin, and seing a wound that he had in his face, was sure that it was hee. And then with his armes stretched forth he came to clepe Alerane about the necke, whom he made to loke redde with his warme teares, saying: “Ah: Alerane, the present torment now, but in time past, the pleasaunce rest, of oure race. What eclipse hath so longe obscured the shining sunne of thy valiaunt prowesse? why haste thou concealed so longe time, thy place of retire from him, which desired so much thine aduauncement? Hast thou the harte to see the teares of thy cosin Gunfort running downe from his eies vppon thy necke, and his armes embracinge thee with such loue and amitie, as he cannot receiue the like, except he be something moued by thee, in seing thy louing entertainment? Wilt thou denie that, which I knowe, by a certaine instinct and naturall agreement, which is, that thou art Alerane the sonne of the Duke of Saxone, and so renowmed throughout all Germany? Doest thou pretende (throughe thine owne misfortune so rooted in thy harte by liuinge in these wildernesse) to depriue thy sonne of the honor, which the heauens and his good fortune haue prepared for him? Ah cruel and pitilesse father, to suffer thy progenie to be buried in the tombe of obliuion, with eternall reproche. O vnkinde kinsman toward thy kindred, of whom thou makest so small accompte, that wilt not vouchsafe to speake to thy cosin Gunfort, that is com hither for thy comfort, and the aduauncement of thy familie.” Alerane sore ashamed, as well for the remembrance of his auncient fault, as to see himselfe in so poore estate before the emperour’s gallants, answered Gunfort, saying: “My Lord and cosin, I beseech you to beleeue, that want of desire to make my complaint vnto you, and lacke of curtesie to entertaine you, haue not made me to forget my dutie towardes you, being as well my neare kinseman, as such one to whom I haue done wrong and very great iniurie by offending the Emperour. But you do knowe of what puissance the prickes of conscience bee, and with what worme she gnaweth the harte of them, which feele themselves culpable of crime. I am (as you saide) the present missehap of our house, for the opinion that the Emperour hath conceiued of my folly, and shal be the rest (if you wil do me so much pleasure to rid me out of this miserable life) both of you and of the minde of a father iustly displeased against his doughter, and the quiet of a Prince offended with his subiecte: for I sweare vnto you by my fayth, that I neuer soe much desired life, as I nowe do couet death, for that I am assured, that I being deade, my poore companion and welbeloued wife, shall liue at her ease, enioyinge the presence and good grace of her father.” “What meane you so to saye,” answered Gunfort, “the Emperour is so well pleased and appeased, as he hath sworne vnto mee to receiue you as his sonne in law, and my Lady your wife as his deare beloued doughter, whom I pray you to cause to come before vs, or to signifie vnto vs where shee is, that I may doe reuerence unto her as to my Princesse and soueraigne Ladie.” William was all amased, and almost besides himselfe, hearing this discourse, and thought hee was either in a dreame or els inchaunted, till that Alerane called his wife by her proper name, who was so appalled to hear the word of Adelasia, that her hart was sodainly attached with terror and feare, when she saw so great a company about her husband: and then her sonne came to doe his dutie, not as to his mother onely, but as to the doughter of an Emperour, and the wife of a Prince of Saxon. She againe embraced and kissed him, although shee was surprised with feare and shame, and so moued with that sodaine sighte, as she had much a doe to keepe herselfe from fainting and falling downe betweene the armes of her sonne, and thought that she had passed the place where Gunfort was, who going towarde her, after his reuerence and deutie done, made her vnderstand the charge hee had, and the good will of the Emperour, which determined to receiue her againe with so good order and entertainement as might be deuised. Which earnest words made them to resolue vppon the proufe of fortune, and to credite the promises that Gunfort made them in the Emperour’s behalfe. Thus they forsoke the Caue, their Coales and fornaces, to reenter their former delightes and pleasures. That nighte they lodged at a village not farre from the foreste, where they tarried certaine dayes, to make apparell for these straunge Princes, and so wel as they could to adorne and furnish Adelasia, (who being of the age almost of XXXIV. or XXXV. yeares, yet manifested some part of the perfection of that deuine beautie, and modest grauitie, which once made her marueilous and singuler aboue all them that liued in her dayes.) In the time that this royle company had furnished and prepared themselues in readinesse, Gunfort sente a gentleman of that troupe toward the Emperour, to aduertise him of the successe of their iourney. Wherof he was exceeding ioyful, and attended for the comming of his children, with purpose to entertaine them in louing and honourable wise. When all thinges were in readinesse and the traine of Adelasia in good order, according to the worthines of the house whereof she came, they rode toward Sauonne, which iourney seemed to them but a sport, for the pleasure mixte with compassion that eche man conceiued, in the discourse that Alerane made vpon his misfortunes and chaunces, as well in his iourneis, as of his abode and continuaunce in the desarts. Which William calling to remembraunce, praised God, and yelded him thanckes for that it had pleased him to inspire into his minde, the forsaking of his parentes, considering that the same onely fault, was the cause of their restitution, and of his aduauncement and glorie, being the sonne of such a father, and the neuew of so great a Monarche. The fame of whose name made all men quake and tremble, and who then had commaunded all the troupe of the Gentlemen of his Court, to go and seeke the forlorne louers, so long time lost and vnknowen. To be short, their entrie into Sauonne, was so royal and triumphant, as if the Emperor himself would haue receiued the honour of such estate, and pompe. Which he commaunded to be done as well for the ioy that he had recouered the thing, which he accompted lost, as to declare and acknowledge to euery wight, that vertue cannot make herselfe better knowen: than at that time, when the actions and deedes of great personages be semblable in raritie and excellencie to their nobilitie. For a Prince is of greater dignitie and admiration than he commonly sheweth himselfe, which can neuer enter into the heade of the popular sort, who waie the affections of other with the balance of their owne rude and beastly fansies. As the Greeke poet Euripides in his tragedie of Medea, doth say:

_Ill luck and chaunce thou must of force endure, Fortune’s fickle stay needs thou must sustaine: To grudge therat it booteth not at all, Before it come the witty wise be sure: By wisedom’s lore, and counsell not in vaine, To shun and eke auoyde. The whirling ball, Of fortune’s threates, the sage may well rebound By good foresight, before it light on ground._

The Emperour then hauing forgotten, or wisely dissembling that which he could not amende, met his doughter and sonne in lawe at the Palace gate, with so pleasaunt cheere and ioyfull countenance, as the like long time before he did not vse. Where Alerane and Adelasia being light of from their horse, came to kisse his handes (and both vppon their knees) began to frame an oration for excuse of their fault, and to pray pardon of his maiestie. The good Prince rauished with ioy, and satisfied with repentaunce, stopped their mouthes with sweete kisses and hard embracings. “O happie ill time (said he) and sorowful ioy, which now bringeth to me a pleasure more great than euer was my heauy displeasure. From whence commeth this my pleasaunt ioye? O wel deuised flight, by the which I gaine that (by preseruinge my losse once made and committed) which I neuer had: if I may say so, considering the ornament of my house, and quietnesse of my life.” And saying so, hee kissed and embraced his litle neuewes, and was loth that Adelasia should make rehersall of other talke but of mirthe and pleasure. “For (said he) it sufficeth me that I haue ouerpassed and spent the greatest part of my life in heauinesse, vtterly vnwilling to renewe olde sores and wounds.” Thus the mariage begon, vnknowen and againste the Emperour’s will, was consummate and celebrated with great pompe and magnificence, by his owne commaundement, in the Citie of Sauonne, where he made sir William knight, with his owne hand. Many goodly factes at the tourney and tilte were done and atchieued, whereat William almost euery day bare away the prise and victorie, to the great pleasure of his father and contentacion of his graundfather, who then made him marques of Monferrat. To the second sonne of Alerane, he gaue the Marquisat of Sauonne, with all the appurtenances and iurisdictions adioyning, of whom be descended the Marqueses of Caretto. The third he made Marques of Saluce, the race of whom is to this daye of good fame and nobilitie. Of the fourth sonne sprange out the original of the house of Cera. The fifte was Marques of Incise, whose name and progeny liueth to this daye. The sixt sonne did gouerne Pouzon. The seuenth was established Senior of Bosco, vnder the name and title of Marques. And Alerane was made and constituted ouerseer of the goods and dominions of his children, and the Emperor’s Lieutenaunt of his possessions which he had in Liguria. Thus the emperoure by moderatinge his passion vanquished himselfe, and gaue example to the posteritie to pursue the offence before it do take roote: but when the thinge cannot be corrected, to vse modestie and mercie which maketh kinges to liue in peace, and their Empire in assuraunce. Hauinge taken order with all his affayres in Italye, hee tooke leaue of his doughter and children, and retired into Almaine. And Alerane liued honourably amonges his people, was beloued of his father in lawe, and in good reputacion and fame, arriued to old yeares, still remembring that aduersitie oughte not to bring us to dispaire, nor prosperitie to insolencie or ill behauiour, and contempt of thinges that seeme small and base, sithe there is nothing vnder the heauens that is stable and sure. For he that of late was great and made all men to stoupe before him, is become altogether such a one as though he had never beene, and the poore humble man aduaunced to that estate, from whence the firste did fall and was deposed, makinge lawes sometimes for him, vnder whom he liued a subiect. And behold of what force the prouidence of God is, and what poise his balance doth containe, and how blame worthy they be that referre the effectes of that deuine counsel to the inconstant and mutable reuolucion of fortune that is blinde and vncertaine.

THE FORTY-FIFTH NOUELL.

_The Duchesse of Sauoie, being the kinge of England’s sister, was in the Duke her husbandes absence, vniustlye accused of adulterie, by a noble man, his Lieutenaunte: and shoulde haue beene put to death, if by the prowesse and valiaunt combate of Don Iohn di Mendozza, (a gentleman of Spaine) she had not beene deliuered. With a discourse of maruelous accidentes, touchinge the same, to the singuler praise and commendation of chaste and honest Ladies._

Loue commonly is counted the greatest passion amongs all the most greuous, that ordinarily do assault the sprites of men, which after it hath once taken hold of anye gentle subiecte, followeth the nature of the corrupt humour, in those that haue a feauer, which taking his beginning at the harte, desperseth it selfe incurablye, through all the other sensible partes of the bodie: whereof this present historie giueth vs amplie to vnderstand, being no lesse maruelous than true. Those that haue read the aunciente histories and chronicles of Spaine, haue sene in diuers places the occasion of the cruell ennimitie which raigned by the space of XL. yeares, betweene the houses of Mendozza and Tolledo, families not onely righte noble and aunciente, but also most aboundante in riches, subiectes and seignories of all the whole realme. It happened one day that their armies being redie to ioyne in battaile, the Lord Iohn of Mendozza chief of his armie, a man much commended by al histories, had a widow to his sister, a very deuout Lady, who after she vnderstode the heauie newes of that battaile, falling downe vppon her knees, praied God incessauntly, that it would please him to reconcile the two families together, and to make an ende of so manye mischiefes. And as she vnderstode that they were in the chiefest of the conflicte, and that there were a greate nomber slaine on both partes, she made a vow to God, that if her brother retorned victorious from that enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foote. The ouerthrowe fell (after much bloudshead vpon them of Tolledo. Mendozza brought away the victorie, with the lesse losse of his people. Wherof Isabell aduertised, declared vnto her brother the vow that she had made. Which seemed very straung vnto him, specially how she durst enterprise so longe a voyage on foote, and thoughte to turne her purpose, howbeit she was so importunate vppon him, as in the ende hee gaue her leaue, with charge that she should go wel accompanied and by small iourneis, for respect of her health. The Ladie Isabell being departed from Spaine, hauing trauersed the mountaines Pirenees, passed by Fraunce, went ouer the Alpes, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Sauoye had then for wyfe, a sister of the kinge of Englande, whoe was bruted to be the fairest creature of the weste partes of the world. For this cause the Lady Isabel desired greatly in passing by to see her, to know whether truth did aunswere the great renowne of her beauty. Wherein she had fortune so fauourable, that entring into Thurin, she found the Duchesse vpon her Coche, goinge abroade to take the ayre of the fields: which the Lady Isabell vnderstandinge, stayde to behold her, being by fortune at that present at the doore of her Coche. And then with great admiration, considering the wonderfull beautie of that princesse, iudging her the chiefest of beautie of al those that she had euer seene, she spake somewhat loude in the Spanish tongue, to those of her companie, in this maner: “If God woulde haue permitted that my brother and this Princesse might haue married together, euery man might well haue said, that there had bin mette the moste excellente couple for perfection of beautie, that were to be found in all Europa.” And her wordes in deede were true: for the Lord Mendozza was euen one of the fairest knightes that in his time was to be found in all Spaine. The Duchesse whoe vnderstoode the Spanishe tongue very well, passing forth, behelde all that companie: and fayninge as thoughe shee had not vnderstande those woordes, thoughte that shee surely was some greate Lady. Wherefore when shee was a litle paste her, she saide to one of her pages: “Marke whether that ladye and her companye go to their lodging, and say vnto her, that I desire her, (at my returne) to come and see mee at my Castell.” Which the page did. So the Duchesse walking a long the riuer of Poo, mused vppon the words spoken by the Spanishe Ladye, which made her not longe to tarie there, but toke the waye backe againe to her Castel, where being arriued, she founde the Lady Isabell, who at the Duchesse request, attended her with her company: and after dutiful reuerence, the Duchesse with like gratulacion, receiued her very courteouslie, taking her a part, and demaunding her of what prouince of Spaine shee was, of what house, and what fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabell made her to vnderstand, from the beginninge, the occasion of her long voyage, and of what house she was: the duchesse vnderstanding her nobilitie, excused her selfe, for that shee had not done her that honour which shee deserved, imputinge the faulte vpon the ignorance of her estate. And after diuers other curteous communications the Duchesse pressed her to know whereunto the wordes tended that shee had spoken of her, and of the beautie of her brother. The Spanishe lady somewhat abashed, saide vnto her: “Madame, if I had knowen so much of your skill in our tongue, as now I do, I would haue beene better aduised before I had soe exalted the beautie of my brother, whose praise had beene more commendable in the mouth of another: yet thus much I dare affirme (without affection be it spoken), as they that know him can report, that hee is one of the comliest Gentlemen that Spaine hath bredde these twenty yeares. But of that which I haue saide touching your beautie, if I haue offended, muche a doe shall I haue to get the same pardoned, because I cannot repent mee, nor say otherwise, except I should speake contrary to truth. And that durste I enterprise to be verified by yourselfe, if it were possible that nature for one quarter of one houre onelye had transported into some other that which with right great wonder she sheweth to be in you.” Wherunto the Duchesse to the ende shee woulde seeme to excuse her prayse, aunswered with a litle bashfulnes, which beautified much her liuely colour, saying: “Madame if you continue in these termes, you will constraine me to thincke, that by chaunging of place you haue also chaunged your iudgemente: for I am one of the leaste to be commended for beauty of all this lande, or els I will beleeue that you haue the beautie and valour of my Lorde your brother soe printed in your minde, as all that whiche presenteth it selfe vnto you, hauinge anye apparaunce of beautie, you measure by the perfection of his.” And at that instante the Ladie Isabell, whoe thoughte that the duchesse had taken in euill parte the comparison that she had made betweene her brother and her, somwhat in choler and heate, said vnto her: “Madame, you shall pardon mee for that I haue so much forgotten my selfe, to presume to compare your beautie to his: whereof if he be to be commended, yet I maye well be blamed, being his sister, to publishe the same in an vnknowen place: notwithstanding, I am wel assured, that when you shall speake, euen with his enemies, that yet besides his beautie, they will well assure him to be one of the gentlest and best condicioned gentlemen that liueth.” The Duchesse seinge her in these alterations, and so affected to the praise of her brother, toke great pleasure in her speach, and willingly woulde haue had her to passe further, had it not bin for feare to offende her, and to put her in a choler. And to thintent to turne her from that matter, she commaunded the table to be couered for supper, where she caused her to be serued honourably of all the most delicate and most exquisite meates that were possible to be gotten. Supper done, and the tables vncouered, after they had a little talked together, and that it was time to withdrawe themselues, the Duchesse the more to honor her, would that she should lodge in her chamber with her, where the pilgrime (wearied with the way) toke very good rest. But the Duchesse pricked with the strange talke of the Lady Isabell, hauing a hammer working in her head, could not sleepe. And had so wel the beauty of the unknowen knight graued in the bottom of her hart, as thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flew continuallye before her like a certaine fansie or shadowe. In sorte, that to know further what he was, she would gladly haue made greater inquirie. Then sodainlye after a little shame and feare intermingled with a certain womanhoode longe obserued by her, and therewithall the fidelitie which shee bare to the Duke her husbande, presentinge it selfe before her, shee buried altogether her first counsell which died and tooke ende, euen so sone almoste as it was borne. And so tossed with an infinite number of diuers thoughtes passed the night, vntill the daye beginning to lighten the world with his burning lampe, constrained her to ryse. And then the Lady Isabel, ready to departe, went to take leaue of the Duchesse, who willingly would haue wished that she had neuer sene her, for the newe flame that she felt at her harte. Neuerthelesse, dissembling her euill, not able to holde her any longer, made her to promise by othe, at her retourne from her voyage, to repasse by Thurin, and after she had made her a very liberall offer of her goodes, taking her leaue, she left her to the tuicion of God. Certaine dayes after the departing of the Spanish lady, the Duchesse thinking to quenche this new fier, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed her, the more did desire encrease in her. And after an infinite number of sundrie cogitacions, Loue got the victorie. And she resolued with her selfe in the ende, whatsoeuer might come thereof, to communicate her cause to one of her beloued damsels called Emilia, and to haue her aduise, in whom she wonted to repose her trust in all her secrete affaires, and causing her to be called for secretely, she said vnto her: “Emilia, I beleue that if thou hast taken any good heede to my auncient maner of behauiour, euer since I departed from England, thou haste knowen me to be the very ramper and refuge of all afflicted persons. But now my destenies be turned contrarie. For I haue nowe more neede of counsel than any other liuing creature, and hauing no person about me worthy to be priuie of my misfortune, but thou, my first and last refuge is to thee alone: of whom I hope to receiue consolation in a matter whiche toucheth me no lesse than my life and honour.” And then the Duchesse declared vnto her priuily, how since the departing of the Lady Isabell she had had no reste in her minde, and how she was enamoured of a knight whome she neuer sawe, whose beautie and good grace had touched her so nere, as being altogether vnable any longer to resiste her mishap, she knew not to whom to haue recourse, but to the fidelitie of her counsell: adding thereunto for conclusion, that she loued him not dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfie any lasciuious appetite, but onely to haue a sight of him: whiche (as shee thought) would bring unto her such contentation, as ther by her grief shoulde take ende. Emilia who euer loued her maistresse as she did her owne heart, had great compassion vpon her, when she vnderstode the light foundation of her straunge loue: neuerthelesse desiring to please her euen to the last point of her life, she said vnto her: “Madame if it wil please you to recreate your selfe from these your sorrowes, and to respite me onely twoo dayes, I hope to prouide by some good meanes that you shal shortly see him who vndeseruedly doth worke you all this euill.” The Duchesse nourished with this hope, desired her effectually to thinke vppon it: promising vnto her, that if her woordes came to good effect, she would make her such recompence as she her self should confesse she had not done pleasure to an ingrate or vnthankefull woman. Emilia which had the brute to be one of the moste subtile and sharpe witted dames of all Thurin, slept not during the time of her prescription. But after she had searched an infinite number of meanes to come to that which she desired, there was one that semed moste expedient for that purpose, and of least perill aboue other. And her time of delaye expired, shee went to Madame the Duchesse, and sayd: “Madame, God knoweth howe many troubles my minde hath sustayned, and how much I haue striued with mine own conscience to satisfie your commaundement, neuerthelesse, after I had debated thinges so substantially as was possible, I coulde deuise nothing more worthy your contente, than that whiche I wyll nowe declare vnto you, if it wyll please you to heare mee. Whiche to be short is, that for the execution of this our enterpryse, it behoueth you to fayne your selfe to be sicke, and to suffer your selfe to be trayned into suche maladies as there shall rather appeare in you token of death, than hope of lyfe. And being brought into such extremitie, you shall make a vowe (your health recouered) to go within a certayne time to Saint Iames on pilgrimage, which thing you may easely obtayne of the Duke your husbande. And then may you make your voyage liberally with the Ladye Isabell, who will passe this waye vpon her retourne, without discouering your affection vnto her, and wyll not fayle by reknowledging the curtesie that you haue vsed towardes her in these partes, to conduct you by her brother’s house, wher you may see him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer this great torment. And I will aduertise you furthermore of one thing, which till this time I haue kept close, whiche is: that for as mutch as we two togethers cannot without great difficultie accomplishe our businesse, it hath seemed good vnto me to know of you, if you would that a third persone shalbe called hereunto, who is so much at my commaundement as I dare comit my trust vnto him. It is maister Fraunces Appian the Millanor, your phisitian, who (to say the very truth vnto you) hath bene so affectioned to mee this yeare or two, as he hath not ceassed by al meanes possible, to wynne me (but to honest loue) for he pretendeth to marry me. And because that hetherto I haue made small accompt of him, and haue not vsed any fauour towards him, nor hitherto any good entertainement, I assure my self seing the great amitie that he beareth me, that if I did but fauorably behold him fiue or sixe times with pleasaunt lookes, adding therunto a few kisses, he would hazard a thousand liues for my sake if he had them, to content me. And for as much as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great reputation, and one that may stande vs to great stead in this busines, I thought good not to conceale or kepe from your knowledge my aduise herein.” The Duchesse vnderstanding all this pretie discourse, so apt for her affections (rauished with great ioye) embraced hard Emilia, and saide vnto her: “Emilia my deare friend, if thou diddest knowe in what wise I do esteme thee, and what I meane in time to come, to bestowe vpon thee, I am well assured, albeit thou hast hetherto sufficiently shewed thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter doe me greater pleasure promising thee, by the faithe of a Prince, that if our enterprise doe well succeede, I will not vse thee as a seruaunt, but as my kinswoman and the best beloued frend I haue. For I holde my selfe so satisfied with that thou hast sayd vnto me, as if fortune be on our side, I see no maner of impediment that may let our enterprise. Goe thy way then, and entertaine thy Phisitian, as thou thinkest best, for it is very expedient that he be a partie, and for the rest let me alone: for neuer was there any Lazar that better coulde dissemble his impotencye, than I knowe how to counterfeit to be sicke.” The Duchesse being departed from Emilia, began to plaine her selfe bitterly, faining sometime to fele a certain paine in her stomack, sometime to haue a disease in her head, in such sort, as after diuers womanly plaintes (propre to those that feele themselues sicke) she was in the end constrayned to laye her self downe, and knew so well howe to dissemble her sicknesse, as (after she had certaine dayes kept her bedde) there was mutch doubt of her health. And during this time Emilia had layed so many amorous baytes to seede her Phisitian, that he whiche knewe very well the moste happy remedies for the body, could not now finde out any that was able to heale the maladie of his owne minde. Emilia hauing noseled maister Appian with amorous toyes, began to make him vnderstande the originall of the Duchesse sickenesse, the effectes of her passion, the order that she had vsed during the furious course of the same: adding thereunto for conclusion, that if he would keepe the matter secrete, and ayde them with his counsell, she would by and by promise hym mariage by woordes, for the present tyme, and that from thenceforth she would neuer denie him any fauour or priuitie. That onely reserued which no man can honestly demaunde, till the mariage be solempnized in the face of the church. In witnesse wherof she kissed him with great affection. The Phisitian more eased there withall, than if he had sene his Hippocrates or Galen, raysed againe from death, promised rather to lose his life than she should want his helpe. And for the better beginning of this enterprise, they wente presentlye to visite the Duchesse: in whom they found her pulse so to beate, the tongue so charged, the stomacke so weakened by continuall suffocation of the matrice, that the pacient was in verye great perill of death. Whereunto euery man did easely geue credite for the reputation and great experience of the Phisitian: and maister Appian hauing commauuded all the chamber to be voyded, made the Duchesse to vnderstande in fewe wordes, how it behoued her to gouerne her selfe. And the better to cloke her cause, he brought her at that instant a little perfume, by receiuing the sauour wherof she should often times fal into certaine litle soundinges, and by vsing the perfume it woulde diminishe her colour for a time, and make her looke as though she had kepte her bed halfe a yeare before: neuerthelesse it should doe her no other displeasure, and that in three or foure dayes, with certaine other drugges, hee would restore her colour so freshe as euer it was. Whiche counsell the Duchesse liked best of any thing in the world. And they three together played their partes so wel, as the common brute throughout all the citie was, that the Duchesse was in great daunger of death. The duke being aduertised of these thinges, caused all the phisitians of Thurin to assemble, to prouide for the health of the Duchesse: who being come together, with the Duke into her bedde chamber, a litle after she had receiued maister Appian’s perfumes: and seing her to sowne diuers times before them, were in great dispaire of her health. And after they had somewhat debated the matter with Maister Appian, not knowing wherupon to resolue, they said vnto the Duke, that it behoued him to prouide for her soule, for that they saw in her the ordinarie tokens and messangers of death. The poore Duke being sorowfull beyond measure, for that he loued the Duchesse entierly, sent for the Suffragane of the Bishop of Thurin, a man of uery holy life, to thintent he might geue her ghostly councell. To whom she confessed her self with a voyce so feeble, that it seemed to be more than halfe dead. Her talke was not long, but yet she made him beleue that nature failed her, and that by litle and litle she drewe towardes her ende: desiring him to haue her and her poore soule in remembraunce when he made his orisons and praiers. The Suffragan being gone, the Duke and others, with a great number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chamber. But she began then to enter into so great rauing, as euery body was afeard of her. And after that she had tossed her selfe in her bed like a senselesse creature, her speach fayled her. Whereat those present, stricken with no smal wonder, thinking the soule would straight wayes haue departed the body, some of them cried vpon her, Madame remember Iesus, som other S. Barbara. But wilie Emilia more priuie of her counsell than the rest, taking her tenderly by the arme, cried upon her with a loude voice: “Madame call vpon S. Iames, who hath so often succoured you in youre aduersities.{”} And with that the Duchesse awaked as it wer out of a heauy sleepe, and rowling her eyes to and fro, with a straunge trembling of all her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voyce: “O glorious Apostle, in whome from my tender youth, I haue euer had my stedfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruel assault of death, to Iesus Christ. And I make a vowe nowe vnto thee, that if I may recouer health, I will my self in person, go honor thy sacred body, in the proper place where it reposeth.” And hauing ended her fayned prayer, she counterfaited a sleepe, and so continued the space of twoo or three houres, whiche caused all the companie to withdrawe themselues, excepte the poore Duke, who would not depart from her vntil she waked, and in the meane time ceassed not to praye to God for the health of his loyall spouse. After shee had so well plaied this pageaunt by the space of an houre or twoo, faining then to awake, she began to stretche forth her armes and legges with suche force, as whosoeuer had heard the noyse, would easely haue iudged that she had bene deliuered from some great torment. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitifull eye (who had leaned his head nere vnto her’s in the bed) she cast her stretched armes negligently vpon his neck, and kissing him sayd; “Now may I safely kisse you my Lorde, that within these three houres was in such pitifull plight, as I thought my self for euer depriued of that benefit. Thankes be geuen to God and that good Sainct to whom I made my vow I am presently so wel eased, as if I fele myself no worse, I will yet deteine you (husband) a while from an other mariage.” But the poore Duke altogether rauished with ioye, hauing his white beard all tempered with teares, knew not what answere to make, but behelde her with such admiration, as he seemed to be besides himself. And in the meane time certayn whiche wer at the dore, hearing them speake, entred the chamber, who finding the Duchesse somwhat better then she was, published her recouerie incontinently throw al the citie, whereof the citizens being aduertised (because they loued her dearly) made processions and other thankesgeuing to God, as in cases like are accustomed. Within a whyle after, the Duchesse began by litle and litle to taste her meates, and to vse suche diet as shee recouered her former health. Except the newe plague which pynched her tender harte for the Lorde Mendozza, whiche she could not cure, but by the presence of him that bare the oyntment boxe for that sore. And so long she continued in the amorous thoughtes, till the Lady Isabell retourned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castell according to her promise. And after friendly gretinges one of an other, the Duchesse made her to vnderstande how since her departure she had neuer almost commen out of her bed, for that she had been afflicted with a moste grieuous sickenesse. Neuerthelesse by the helpe of God, and the intercession of good S. Iames (to whom she had vowed her selfe) she had recouered health. And if she could obtaine leaue of the Duke her husband, she would thinke her selfe happy to make a voyage thither in her companie. Which the Spanishe Lady persuaded by all meanes possible, shewing vnto her many commodities, she should finde in Spayne, and the honorable company of Gentlemen and Ladies, who at her arriuall there (if it would please her to doe them so muche honor as to visite them in passing by) would leaue nothing vndone for the best manner of entertainement that possibly might be deuised. And by this meane the Ladye Isabell thought to pricke her forward, who was in dede but to quicke of the spurre already, and thinking euery houre VII. determined one morning thereof to moue the Duke her husbande, to whom she sayd: “My Lorde, I beleue that you doe sufficiently well remember my trouble paste, and the extreme martyredome that I suffred in my late sickenesse, and namely of the vowe whiche I made for recouery of my health. Nowe finding my selfe whole and strong, my desire is that with your licence I might accomplishe my voyage, specially with so good opportunitie: for the noble woman of Spayne of whome I have heretofore told you, is returned, and it should be a great ease to vs both to go in companie together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessitie, and that early or late, I must aduenture to paye my vowed debte, it is best both for my commoditie and also for my honour, to goe in her companie.” Whereunto the good Duke did willingly accorde: who neuer had any manner of suspicion that sutch a treason was lodged in the harte of so great a Princesse. And hauing giuen order for all things requisite for her departing, she tooke a certaine number of Gentlemen and damsels, amongst which, Maister Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all apparelled in pilgrimes weedes, by long trauaile and weary iourneis, after they had passed the cold Alpes, they came into the countie of Rossilion, and entred into Spayne: and then the Duchesse feling her selfe to approche the place where her harte of long tyme had taken hold, desired the Lady Isabell and her company earnestly, not to make it knowen to any persone what she was. And so traueiling by small iourneyes, and deuising of diuerse matters, they arriued within two litle dayes iourney to the place where the Lorde of Mendozza kept his ordinarie housholde. For which cause the Spanishe lady entreated the Duchesse not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to geue aduertisement of their comming, which the Duchesse graunted. And the messenger finding the Lord of Mendozza readie to receiue them, and hauing done him to vnderstand of the coming of the Duchesse, of the first talke betwene her and his syster, of the great entertainement that she had geuen them, of the singuler beautie with the which she was adorned: he was not so grosse but that he knewe by and by, that the Duchesse at those yeares, had not bene so liberall of her labour, to make such a voiage one foote, without some other respect: and dissembling what he thought, caused thirty or fortie of his gentlemen incontinently to make them ready. To whome making as though hee would goe hunte the Hare, he went to meete the Duchesse: and hauing discouered them a farre of in a fielde, the Lady Isabelle did forthwith knowe theim. Who aduertised the Duchesse that he which ridde vppon the whyte Ienet of Spayne, was the Lorde of Mendozza her brother, and that the other were his servauntes. The Prince then after he had made his horse to vaute three or foure times aloft in the ayre, with an excellent grace and marueilous dexteritie lighted from his horse, and kissing her hand, sayd vnto her: “Madame, I beleue that if the wandering knightes of olde tyme, who haue eternized their memorie, by an infinite numbre of renowmed victories, had had so muche good lucke, as many tymes in their aduentures to meete with such pilgrimes as you be, they woulde willinglye haue abandoned the Launce and Murrion, to take the Staffe and Scrippe.” The Duchesse then beyng comparable with anye ladye of her tyme, for her education and comely talke, assayled with ioye, feare, and shame, that no lacke of dutie might be founde in her, sayde vnto hym: “And in deede my Lorde like as if the knightes of whom you speake, had tasted of some good hap (as you terme it) by meting with such pilgrimes: so also we hope that the Saint to whome we be vowed, in the honor of whom we haue enterprised this perillous voyage, will receiue vs in good parte: otherwyse our payne were altogether loste, and our iourney euil imployed.” And after they had geuen this first amorous atteint, the Lord of Mendozza taking her by the arme, conducted her vnto his castell, deuising of pleasaunt matters. And he was greatlye astonned, to see so rare a beautie, as appeared in the Princesse: whiche neither the wearinesse of the waye, nor the parching beames of the Sunne, coulde in any wyse so appaire, but that there rested ynough, to drawe vnto her the very hartes of the moste colde and frosen men of the world. And albeit the Lorde of Mendozza tooke great pleasure and admiration in beholding her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchesse: who after she had aduised and well marked the beautie, excellency, and other good giftes of grace, in the Lorde of Mendozza, she confessed that al that which she had heard of his sister, was but a dreame in comparison of the proufe, which discouered it selfe vpon the first viewe: seeming vnto her by good iudgement, that all the beauties of the worlde were but paintinges, in respect of the perfection of that whiche shee sawe with her eyes. Wherin she was not deceiued, albeit that her feruent loue might haue bewitched her senses. For all the histories in Latine, Spanishe, and Italian, the whiche make mention of Mendozza, geue vnto him the firste place in beautie of all the Princes and Lordes that were in his tyme. The poore Duchesse, after she had manifested by outwarde gestures, and countenaunces, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inward part of her harte, without receiuing the full satisfaction of his sight, whiche she desired, determined (hauing soiourned three dayes in his castell) to departe the nexte morning (vnwares to the knight), to performe her voyage. And so soone as the light of the daye began to appeare, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabell, whom she thanked affectuously, aswell for her good companye, as for the great courtesie and humanitie, that she had receiued in her house. And hauing taken leaue of her, departed with her traine. The knight Mendozza, about an houre or two after her departure, aduertised thereof, was greatly troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking leaue of him. And after that he had a little thought therupon, he easely perceiued, that all the fault therof was in him selfe: and that this great Princesse had abandoned her countrie, of purpose by all iudgement to visite him, and that he had shewed himself very slacke for her satisfaction, in that he had not offred her his seruice: wherat being iustly greued, she did not vouchsafe to geue him a farewell. And so accusing himselfe, he determined to followe after her, accompanied onelye with twoo pages. And beyng on horsebacke, it was not long before hee espied her in the hyghe waye to Saint Iames, where lighting, hee walked twoo myles with her, reasonyng the matter without intermission: desiring her amonges other thynges, to let hym vnderstand what displeasure shee had concerned in his house, that caused her so spedy and secret a departure: adding thereunto, that if her pleasure were, he would accompanie her to the place whether she was vowed, and would also reconduct her in his owne persone to Thurin, in so honourable sorte, as she should finde cause to be contented. Then passing further, with sighes sayd vnto her: “Madame, fortune had done me a great benefite, if when my sister made her vowe to go to Rome, I had lost the battaile against mine enemies, and that her vowe had bene without effect. For it might haue bene that I should haue remained quiet by the losse of some of my people. But alas, I fele now, since your comming into this countrie, a battaile so cruel, and assault so furious in my harte, as not being able any longer to resiste it, I finde my selfe vanquished, and caught captiue, in such sorte as I know not to whom to complain, but to you, which is the motion of all my disquietnesse: and yet, which grieueth me most, you dissemble as though you did not vnderstand it. And to bring me to my last end, you are departed this day out of my house, not daining to see me, or to appease me with one farewel, which hath so further inflamed my passion, as I die a thousand times a day. Beseching you for the time to come, to entreate me more fauourably, or you shall see me, in that state, wherein you would be loth to see your enemy: which is, most cruel death.” And in dede, he shewed sufficiently, how great the grief was that pressed him, and how well the passion that he felt, was agreable to the wordes which he spake: for in pronouncing his wordes he sighed so in his tale, and changed his colour so often, and had his face so besprent with teares, as it semed his soule attached with superfluous sorrowe, would at that very instant haue abandoned his bodye. Which the Princesse perceiuinge, touching at the quicke the very spring of all his euill, sayd vnto him: “Seignior Mendozza, I know not what you wold that I should do more for you, nor for what occasion you do pretende, that I should be the cause of your death: for if the occasion thereof should happen through my default, my life by strengthe or abilitie, could not endure one houre after, for the sorowe I should conceiue therof. Thinke me to be yours, and be not offended, I besech you, if openly I doe no longer talke with you: for I would not to winne al the goodes in the world, that any of this traine which doth accompany me, should perceiue any one sparke of the great kindled fire, wherin my harte burneth day and night for you, being assured that if you had felt one houre of my payne, in place to accuse me of crueltie, your self complaining, wold pitie the griefe whiche I haue sustained for your long absence: for without the continual presence of your persone, representing it selfe in the eyes of mine understanding, with a firme hope once to haue seen you: it had bene impossible for me, to resist the long and hard assaulte, wherwith loue hath euery houre assailed me. But one thing I must nedes confesse vnto you, that by reason of the cold welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it preceded of some euill opinion conceiued of me or peraduenture that you had thought me ouer liberall of mine honour, to haue left the countrie where I commaunde, to render my selfe subiect to your good grace, which caused me without leaue to depart your house. But now that I do know by your countenaunce and teares, the contrarie, I acknowledge my fault, and desire you to forget it. With full promise that vppon my retourne from my voiage of S. Iames, I will make you amendes, in the very same place, wher I committed the fault: and remaining your prisoner for a certaine time, I wil not depart from you, vntill I have satisfied, by sufficient penance the greatnes of my trespas. In the meane time you shal content your selfe with my good will: and without passing any further retorne againe home to your castell, for feare least some suspicious persone in my company should conceiue that in me, which all the dayes of my life I neuer gaue occasion so much as once to thinke.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza obeied, more to content her than otherwise, for hee had the beauties and good behauiours of the Princesse, so imprinted in the moste pleasaunt place of his harte, as he would haue desired neuer to haue departed her companie. But like as they determined iocundly, to imploy and satisfie their desire, at her retorne from her voyage, euen so fortune in the meane while did beset the same, and so fully brake the threde of their enterprises, as the issue had not so good successe, as was their prefixed hope. Now leaue we the Duchesse to perfourme her voyage, and the Lord of Mendozza to entertain his amorous passions, and let vs digresse to the duke, who about X. or XII. dayes after the Duchesse his wife was departed, began to fele her absence, which not being able to susteine for the great loue he bare vnto her, and specially knowing the great fault that he had committed (being the sister of a king and wife of such a Prince) so to let her go like an vnfeathered shaft, in so long a voyage: determined with him selfe (for feare least if any misfortune happening vnto her, the same should touch his honour) to call together his counsel, and to prouide some remedie. The counsel assembled, and the cause proponed, euerie of them told the Duke that he had ouer lightly consented to the will of the Duchesse, and that if she should chaunce to incure any inconuenience, all men would impute it to his reproch wherof they would haue aduertised him at the beginning, sauing for feare they had to displease him: adding for conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himselfe on the sea to goe seeke her in Galisia. Which he did, and imbarked him selfe with a great companie of gentlemen, to whome the winde was so fauourable, as he ariued at S. Iames before her: and hauing made enquirie for her, vnderstode she was not come. Neuerthelesse he was aduertised by certaine pilgrims, that it could not be long before she would be there, for that they had left her not paste three or foure dayes iourney from thence, traueiling with her trayne, by small iourneis: wherof the Duke was exceading glad, and sent certaine of his gentlemen to mete her vpon the way, as she came, who rode not farre before they met the Duchesse with her companie, and did her to vnderstand of the Duke’s arriuall, and of the cause of his comming from Thurin. Which tidinges was not very ioyfull to her, and by her will would have wished that he had not taken so much paynes: neuerthelesse, preferring honor before affection, she made the more haste to see him, and at her arriuall seemed to bee glad of his comming, and to lament the payne that he had taken by committing himselse in so many daungers for her sake. Afterwardes they entred into the churche with great deuotion, where when the Duchesse had made certaine particuler praiers, shee began to perceiue that God had withstanded her lasciuious wil, and pitying the good Duke her husband, would not permit him to be deceiued in suche disloyal sort, repentantly bewayling her forepassed faulte. And feling herself pressed euen at the very soule with a certaine remorse of conscience, she was so victorious over her affections, as she determined wholly to forget Mendozza and his beautie: praysing God neuerthelesse that it had pleased him to graunt her the grace so well to dispose her matters, that her affections had not exceeded the bondes of honor: determining from thenceforth, not onely to put Mendozza in vtter obliuion, but also for euer clerely to cut of his amorous prastise, and therfore would not so much as bid him once farewell, nor yet to let him in any wise vnderstand those newes. And so settled in this deliberation, solicited her husbande very instantly to departe, whiche he did, and all thinges prepared to the Sea, they toke againe their course to Thurin, and had the wynde so prosperous, as from thence in fewe dayes after, they arriued at Marsellis; and wearye of the Seas, he caused horses to be prepared to ryde from thence to Thurin by land, wher he and his wife liued together in right great ioy and amitie. The Lorde of Mendozza greatly payned with the long absence of the Duchesse, sent a gentleman of purpose to Galisia to know the cause of her long tarying. Who brought certain newes that the Duke was comen in persone to fetche his wife, and that he caried her awaye with him by Sea; wherewithal he was marueilously out of pacience, determining neuerthelesse one daye when his affaires were in good order, to go visite her at Thurin. During the time that these thinges remained in this estate, as well of the one side, as of the other: the Almaines prepared a great army, and entred into Fraunce, where they wasted and burned al the countrey as they passed. The king being aduertised hereof, sent for the Duke of Savoie, to goe mete them with the men of armes of Fraunce. But before his departure from Thurin, he lefte for his Lieutenant generall, the Earle of Pancalier, by the aduise and counsell of whome he intended that all the affaires of the Duchie should be ruled and gouerned in his absence, and that he should in so ample wyse be honoured and obeyed, as his owne persone. This Earle of Pancalier was a nobleman, verie prudent in his doinges, and knewe right well how to gouerne the common wealth, who seing that hee had the whole countrie at his commaundement, and hym selfe many tymes in presence of the Duchesse, viewing her so fayre and comelie, could not so well rule his affections, but that by litle and litle he fell into loue with her, in such wyse as hee forgat hym selfe, making no conscience to offer his seruice vnto her. But the Princesse, who was resolued to lyue a good woman, abhorred all his lasciuious orations, requiring hym to bee better aduysed another tyme, before he presumed to vtter sutche talke, excepte to sutch that were his equals. Telling hym that a man ought not to bee so vnshamfast to offer his seruice to anye great Ladie, or to make other sute vnto her, before hee hadde fyrste knowen by her gesture or woordes, some lykelyhoode of loue: which he could not deeme in her, for so much as she neither to him or to any other had euer, (til that day in all her life) shewed such fauour, as other suspicion could be conceiued, but that which was conuenable and meete for her honour. Which when the Countie of Pancalier vnderstoode, he toke his leaue of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he folowing the custome of louers, not thinking himselfe cast of for the first refuse, eftsones renewed his requestes: and framing a louing stile, besought her to haue pitie vppon him, and to respect the greatnesse of his passion: and that he could not prolonge his life without the fauour of her good grace, who onely was the very remedie of his euill. The Duchesse pestred with such like talke, said vnto him: “Sir Countie, me thinke you ought to haue satisfyed your selfe with my first deniall, without further continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise. Haue you forgotten the place that you keepe, and the honour whereunto my Lorde the Duke my husbande hath exalted you? Is this nowe the loyall reward that you render vnto him for creating you his Lieutenaunt ouer all his landes and seignories, to demaund the preheminence of his bedde? Assure your selfe for final warning, that if euer hereafter you shal againe fall into like error, I sweare vnto you by the faith of a Princesse, that I will make you to be chastised in suche sort, as al semblable traytors and disloyal seruants shal take example.” The Earle seeing himselfe refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the Princesse woulde make her husbande to vnderstande his enterprise upon his retourne, chaunging his greate loue into hatred more then mortall, determined whatsoeuer should come thereof, to inuente all meanes possible, vtterly to destroye the Duchesse. And after that he fansied diuers thinges in minde, he deuised (by the instinct of the deuil) to cause one of his nephewes, being of the age of XVIII. or twentie yeares, which was his heire apparant, for that he had no children, and was one of the fayrest and best condicioned gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort that deuilish attempt to purpose. And finding opportunitie, one daye hee saide to the yonge man (that depended wholly vppon him) these words: “Nephew, thou knowest that all the hope of liuing thou hast in this world resteth in me alone, of whom I make so good accompte as of my childe. And for that it pleased God to giue me no children, I haue constituted and ordeined thee my sole and ouely heyre with ful hope that from henceforth thou wilt dutifully acknowledge thy selfe most bounde vnto mee, and therefore obedient in all thinges which I shal commaunde thee, specially in that which may be most for thine aduancemente. The Duke as thou knowest, is absent, olde, and crooked, and at all houres in the mercy of death throughe the daungers of the warres. Nowe if he should chaunce to die, my desire is to mary thee with some great Lady: yea and if it were possible with the Duchesse her selfe, which God knoweth what profite it would bring both to thee and thy frendes, and in my iudgement an easie matter to compasse, if thou wilt dispose thy selfe after my counsell, or at leaste wise, if thou canst not come to the title of husband, thou maiest not faile to be receiued as her frend. Thou art a comly gentleman, and in good fauour with the Duchesse, as I haue oftentimes percieued by her communication, albeit that holdinge fast the bridle of her honor, shee hath been afraid hetherto to open herselfe vnto thee. Spare not my goods, make thy selfe braue and gallant from henceforth whatsoeuer it coste, and be dilligente to please her in all that thou maiest, and time shall make thee know that which thy tender yeares hath hitherto hidden from thee.” The poore yonge man giuing faith to the vnfaithfull inuentions of his vncle (whom hee counted as his father) began oft to frequent the presence of the Duchesse, and shamefastlye to solicite her by lookes and other offices of humanitie, as nature had taught him, continuing that order the space of a moneth. Which by the Duchesse wel viewed and marked, she was diligent for her part to accept the honest and affectionate seruice which the yong man dailye did vnto her, and shewed vnto him likewise a certaine more curteous fauour than to the rest of the pages, as wel for the birth and beautie wherwithal nature had enriched him, as for that she saw him enclined to do her better seruice than the rest, not thinking of any dishonest appetite in the yong man, nor the malice of his vncle, who conceiued none other felicitie but in reuenge of the Duchesse, his ennemie, and not able to beare the cruell mallice rooted in his harte, determined to play double or quit. And callinge his nephew before him he said vnto him: “My childe, I do perceiue and see that thou art one of the most happiest gentlemen of al Europe, if thou knewest how to folow thine owne good luck. For the Duchesse not onely is amorous of thee, but also consumeth for the earnest loue shee beareth thee. But as thou knowest women be shamefast and woulde be sued vnto in secrete, and do delight to be deceiued of men, to thend it might seeme how with deceit or force they were constrained to yeld to that which of their own minds they would willingly offer, were it not for a litle shamefastnes that doth withdrawe them. And thereof assure thy sefe, for I haue oftentimes experimented the same, to my great good lucke. Wherfore credite my councel, and follow mine aduise. And thou thy selfe shalt confesse vnto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou art the happiest man of the world. I will, then, that this night when thou seest conuenient time, thou shalt conueye thy selfe secretlye into the chamber of the Duchesse, and there hide thy selfe vnder her bedde, for feare of being espied: where thou shalt remaine vntil an houre after midnight, when all men be in the depth of their sleepe. And when thou perceiuest euery man at rest, thou shalte closely rise, and approching the Duchesse bed, thou shalt tell what thou art, and I am sure for the earnest loue she beareth thee, and for the long absence of her husband, she wil curteouslie receiue thee betwene her armes, and feast thee with such delights as amorous folke doe embrace their louers.” The simple yong man giuing faith to the words of his vncle that was honoured as a king (thinking perhaps that it proceeded by the perswasion of the Duchesse) followed his commaundement, and obeied whollie his traiterous and abhominable hest. Who (oportunitie found) accomplished from pointe to point, that which his cruel vncle had commaunded. And a litle before midnight, fearing least his treason shoulde be discouered, toke with him three councellors, and certaine other of the guarde of the castell. Whereunto as Lieutenaunt to the Duke, he might both enter and issue at al times when he list, and not opening the cause of his intent, went straight to the portall of the Duchesse chamber, and knockinge at the dore, said that the Duke was come. Which being opened, hee entred in with a nomber of lightes, accompanied with the guarde, hauinge a rapier readye drawen in his hande, like a furious man besides himselfe, began to looke rounde about, and vnder the bedde of the Duchesse: from whence he caused his owne proper nephew to be drawne. To whom, without geuing him leisure to speake, for feare lest his malice should be discouered, he saide: “O detestable villaine thou shalt die.” And therewithall he thruste the rapier into him, to the hard hiltes, and doubling another blowe to make him faile of his speache, hee pearced his throte, so fiercely, as the poore innocente after he had a little staggered, fell downe deade to the grounde. When he had put up his rapier, he turned towards the Counsellers, and saide vnto them: “My frends, this is not the first time I haue espied the lasciuious and dishonest loue betweene this my lecherous nephew and the Duchesse, whom I haue caused to die to honourably in respect of his desert, for by the very rigor of the law, he deserued to haue bin burnt quick, or els to be torne in peeces with foure horses. But my Ladie the Duchesse I meane not to punishe, or to prouide chastisement for her: For you be not ignoraunt, that the auncient custome of Lombardie and Sauoye requireth that euery woman taken in adulterie, shal be burned aliue, if within a yeare and a day she finde not a Champion to fight the combate for her innocencie. But for the bounden duetie that I beare to my Lord the Duke, and for respect of the estate which he hath committed to my charge, I will tomorrow dispatch a poaste, to make him vnderstande the whole accident as it is come to passe. And the Duchesse shall remaine in this chamber, with certaine of her maids, vnder sure keeping and safegarde.” All this time the Duchesse who had both iudgemente and spirite so good as any Princesse that raigned in her time, suspected by and by the treason of the Earle. And with a pitifull eye beholding the dead body of her page, fetching a deepe sighe, cried out: “Oh, innocent soule: which sometime gauest life to this bodye that nowe is but earth, thou art nowe in place where thou seest clearelye the iniquitie of the murderer, that latelye did put thee to death.” And hauing made an ende of this exclamation with her armes a crosse, shee remained as in a sowne with out mouing either hande or foote. And after she had continued a while in that state, shee desired the Counsellers to cause the bodye to be buried, and to restore it to the earth whereof it had the first creation. “For (quoth she) it hath not deserued to be tied to the gibet, and to be foode for birds of the ayre.” Which they graunted not without a certaine greuous suspicion betweene her and the page. For so muche as she excused not herselfe, but the innocencie of him, without speaking any worde of her owne particular iustification. This pitifull aduenture was out of hande published through all the Citie, with so great sorrow and murmure of the people, as it seemed the enemies had sacked the towne. For there was not one, from the very least to the greateste of al, but did both loue and reuerence the Duchesse, in such sort as it seemed vnto them, that this misfortune was fallen vpon euery one of their children. The Earle of Pancalier did nothing all that day, but dispatch the poastes. And hauing caused all the whole matter to be registred as it was seen to be done, he commaunded the Counsellers, and them of the Garde, to subscribe his letters. And all the matter being put in order he sent away two currors with diligence, the one into Englande to aduertise the king her brother, and the other to the Duke: who being arriued, ech man in his place, presented their charges. Whereunto both the brother and the husband gaue full credite without any maner of difficultie: perswaded principally thereunto by the death of the nephew: who (as it was very likely) had not been put to death by his owne vncle, and of whom he was also the very heire, without his most greueous fault, praysinge greatly the fidelitie of the Earle, that had not pardoned his owne proper bloud, to conserue his dutie and honour to his soueraigne Lorde. And it was concluded betweene them, by deliberate aduise and counsaile, as well of those of the king of England, as by a great nomber of learned men of Fraunce, whom the French kinge made to assemble for that respect in fauour of the Duke, that the custome should be so inuiolably kepte, as if the Duchesse were the most simple damsell of all the countrie: to the ende that in time to come, greate Lordes and Ladyes which be as it were lampes to giue lighte to others, might take example. And that from thenceforth they should not suffer their vertues to be obscured by the clouds of such execrable vices. The king of England to gratifie the Earle of Pancalier: who (in his iudgement) had shewed himself right noble in this act, sent him an excellent harnesse, with a sword of the selfe same trampe by the Currour, with letters of aunsweare written with his owne hand, how he vnderstode the maner of his proceedings. And the messenger vsed such diligence, as within few daies he arriued at Thurin. Shortly after that the king of England had sent back the Currour, the Duke of Sauoie retorned his, whom he staied so much the longer, because the matter touched him most neere: for he would that the matter should be debated by most graue and deliberate counsell. And when he had resolued what to do, he wrote to the counsellers and other Magistrates of Thurin, aboue al things to haue respecte that the custome should be inuiolably obserued, and that they should not in any case fauour the adultery of his wife, vpon paine of death. Then in particuler, hee wrote his letters to the Earle, whereby he did greatly allow his fidelitie, for the which he hoped to make him suche recompence, as both he and his should taste therof during their liues. The Currour of the duke arriued, and the matter proponed in counsell, it was iudged, that (followinge the auncient custome) a piller of marble should be placed in the fieldes neere Thurin: which is betweene the bridge of the riuer Poo and the Citie, wherupon should be written the accusation of the Earle of Pancalier against the Duchesse, which the Duchesse vnderstanding (hauing none other companie but Emilia, and a yong damsell) dispoiled herselfe of her silken garmentes, and did put on mourninge weede, martired with an infinite nomber of sondrie tormentes, seing herselfe abandoned of al worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with teares to be protector of her innocencie. Emilia who vnderstode by her that shee was vniustlie accused, and seing the iminent perill that was prepared for her, determined by her accustomed prudence to prouide therfore. And after she had a litle comforted her she saide vnto her: “Madame, the case so requireth that now you must not consume time in teares and other womanish plaints, which can nothing diminishe your euill. It seemes most expediente vnto mee, that you fortefie your selfe againste your enemye, and finde some meane to sende maister Appian in poaste to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the best renowmed in prowesse of all the knightes in Spaine, whoe being aduertised of your misfortune, wyll prouide so well for your affaires, (that your honour being recouered) your life shall remaine assured. Wherefore if you will follow mine aduise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you know right wel how to indite) which Appian shal present on your behalfe. For if you follow not this counsel, I know none els (as the world goeth now) that will hazarde his life vnder the condicion of so straunge a lotte as yours is, specially hauing respect to the renowne and magnanimitie of the Earle, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the most valiaunt men and most happy in armes that is in all Sauoie or Lombardie.” “My deare frende (quoth the Duchesse) doe what thou wilt: for I am so resolued and confirmed in my sorowe, as I haue no care either of death or life, no more than if I had neuer been borne. For neither in the one nor in the other, can I forsee anye remedie for mine honour alreadie lost.{”} “Madame (quoth Emilia) let us for this time leaue the care of honour in the hands of God, who knoweth both howe to keepe it and restore it, as shall seeme good vnto him. And let vs giue order for our parte that there be no want of diligence, for feare of being ouertaken.” And hauing made an ende of her tale, shee gaue her incke and paper, sayinge vnto her: “Now Madame I shall see at this pinche, if your harte will serue you at a neede or no.” The Duchesse withdrew her selfe a part, and after she had longe discoursed in her minde of that which was paste betweene the knight and her, she wrote vnto him as followeth: “My Lord Mendozza, I do not write these letters vnto you, vppon any hope to be deliuered by your meane from the poinaunt pricke of fierce death which doth now besiege me, knowing death alwayes to be the true port and sure refuge of all afflicted persons. For since that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heauie fortune consenteth to it, I will receiue it with righte good will, knowinge that the graue is none other but a strong rampier and impregnable cartel, wherein we close our selues against the assaults of life, and the furious stormes of fortune. It is farre better (as appeareth manifestly by me) with eyes shut to waite in graue, than no longer to experimente life (the eyes beinge open) liuing with so many troubles vpon earth. But gladly woulde I bringe to remembraunce, and set before your eyes how sometime I abandoned the place which was no lesse deare vnto me than mine owne country where I was borne, and delicatelye nourished in honor and delightes, to extende my selfe into an infinite nomber of perills, contrarye to the deutie of those that be of mine estate, losinge the name of a Princesse to take the title of a caytife pilgrim, for the onely seruent and vnmeasured loue which I bare you, before I did euer see you, or by anye meanes bounde thereunto by any your preceding benefites. The remembraunce whereof (as I thinke) ought now to deliuer such an harde enterprise, to the port of your conscience, that breaking the vaile of your tender hart, you shoulde therefore take pitie and compassion of my straunge and cruell fortune. Which is not onely reduced to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and resteth in the power of a bloudie and mercilesse tyrant: but (which is worse) in the continuall hazarde of a shamefull death. Which I do not much lament hauing long desired to accelerate the same with mine owne hands, to finde rest in an other worlde: were it not that by death I shoulde leaue an eternall blot to my good name, and a perpetuall heritage of infamie to my house and kindred. Wherefore if it so be, that frendship loketh for no rewarde, or that frendship cannot be paid but by the tribute of an other, make me now to taste the auncient fruite of frendship. And if pitie be the sole and onely keye of Paradise, displaye it now on the behalfe of her, who (forsaken of al humaine succour) attendeth but the fatall houre to be throwen into the fier as a poore innocent lambe in sacrifice. And for that the bearer shal make you vnderstand the rest by mouth (whom it may please you to credite as mine owne selfe) I will make an ende of my heauie letter. Beseching God to giue a good life vnto you, and to mee an honorable death.” The letter closed and sealed vp with the seale of the Duchesse, shee commaunded Emilia to deliuer it to Appian, and to require him to vse diligence, not ceasing to ride day and night vntil he come to the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giuinge charge to make him vnderstande (at length) her innocencie and false accusation. Appian being dispatched, was so affected to please his maistresse, and so desirous to see her deliuered of her imprisonmente, as hee ceassed not to trauaile day and night, till he came within the frontiers of Spaine. And after that he had ridden yet two or three dayes iourney, approching nere the place wher he thought to find the knight Mendozza, he began to inquire of the host of the inne where he laye that nighte, as well of his good health, as of his other affayres, whoe made him aunswere, that it wente euen so euill with him at that present, as with the poorest gentleman of al Spaine: although that he were in deede a very great Lorde. “For (quoth he) within these few monethes past, his ennemies of Tolledo, whom he hath diuers times vanquished, have so wel allied themselues together out of al partes of Spaine, that they haue brought a great armie to the field. And fortune of the warre hath been so fauourable unto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his armie. Who hath retired himselfe, with those few of his people that hee could saue aliue, into a litle towne of his, where yet to this present he is besieged. And so it is (as euery man sayth) that he doth his endeuour maruellouslie well, in such sort as his ennemies cannot enter the towne.” Master Appian then demaunded of him, if the towne besieged were farre of. And he answered, that it was about VII. or VIII. poastes. Then withoute making any longer inquirie, he toke a guide that accompanied him euen almoste to the campe. And when he sawe the towne a farre of, he sent the guide backe againe, and went the same daye to offer his seruice to a certaine captaine of lighte horsemen, who receiued him into wages, and then he bought armour to serue his purpose. And maister Appian besides his learning was a wise and polliticke man, and determined so sone as any skirmishe did begin to be formost, and in deede he vsed the matter so well, as hee suffred himselfe to be taken prisoner and to be caried into the towne. And being within, he desired those that had taken him, to conduct him to the Lorde of Mendozza their chieftaine: whoe knew him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchesse made into Spaine, he saw him euer more neere her then any other of her gentlemen. And after that the Lord of Mendozza had demaunded of him by what meanes he entred the towne, vpon his aunswere, he perceyued that he was a man of good experience, and well affected to the seruice of his maistres, that durst hazard his life in such wise to obey her desire. Incontinently maister Appian deliuered vnto him the Duchesse letter: which when he had read, he retired into his chamber with maister Appian, hauing his face all bedewed with teares: and because that the letter did import credite, he prayed maister Appian to declare his charge. Who said unto him, “My lady the Duchesse which is at this day the most afflicted Princesse vnder the coape of Heauen, commendeth herselfe vnto your honour, and doth humbly besech you not to be offended for that at her last being in Galisia, shee departed withoute accomplishing her promise made vnto you: prayinge you to impute the fault vpon the importunitie of the Duke her husband: whom being constrained to obey, she could not satisfye the good will that she bare vnto you.{”} Then he began to declare in order howe the Earle of Pancalier fell in loue with her, and not beinge able to obtaine his desire, caused his nephew to hide him vnder her bedde: and how hee had slaine him with his owne handes. Finallye, the imprisonmente of the Duchesse, and the iudgemente giuen againste her. Wherat the Lord of Mendozza was greatly astonned: and when hee had heard the whole discourse, hee began to conceiue some euill opinion of the duchesse: thinkinge it to be incredible, that the earle of Pancalier woulde so forget himselfe, as to murder his owne proper nephewe and adopted sonne, to be reuenged of a seely woman. Neuerthelesse, he dissembled that which he thoughte, in the presence of maister Appian, and said vnto him: “Appian my frende, if mine aduerse fortune did not speake sufficiently for me, I could tel thee here a long tale of my miseries: but thou seest into what extremitie I am presently reduced, in sorte that I am vtterly vnable to succour thy maistresse, I my selfe stil attending the houre of death: and all the pleasures which presentlye I can doe for thee, is to set thee at libertie from the perill prepared for vs.” And without longer talke, hee caused a hot skirmishe to be giuen to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being issued forth, made certaine of his men to conduct him to place of suretie. Appian seinge no way for Mendozza to abandon his citie for peril of death prepared for him and his, thoughte his excuse reasonable. And to attempt some other fortune, he vsed such diligence, as he in short time was retourned to Thurin, wher hauing communicated the whole matter to Emilia, she went straight to the Duchesse, to whom she said: “Madame, God giue you the grace to be so constant in your aduersities, as you haue an occasion to be miscontented with the heauy newes that Appian hath brought you.” And then she began to recompt vnto her the misfortune of Mendozza, the thraldome wherunto his enemies had brought him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of helpe to be expected at his handes. Which when the Duchesse vnderstoode she cryed out: “Oh, poore vnhappy woman, amongste all the most desolate and sorowfull: thou mayst well now say that the lighte of thy life from henceforth beginneth to extinguishe and growe to an ende: seing the succour of him, vpon whom depended thine assuraunce, is denied thee. Ah, ingrate knight: now knowe I righte well (but it is to late) that of the extreme loue which I did beare thee, sprong the first roote of all mine euil, which came not by any accident of fortune, but from celestiall dispensation and deuine prouidence of my God: who now doth permit that mine hipocrisie and counterfaite deuotion shall receiue condigne chastisemente for my sinne.” And then Emilia, seing her so confounded in teares, said vnto her: “Madame, it doth euil become a greate and wise Princesse, (as you hitherto haue euer been reputed) to tormente her selfe, sith that you know howe all the afflictions which we receive from heauen, be but proues of oure fidelitie: or as your selfe confesseth by your complaintes, to bee iust punishment for our sinnes. Nowe then be it the one or the other, you ought to be fortified against the hard assault of your sorow: and to remit the whole to the mercie of God, who of his aboundant grace, will deliuer you of your trouble, as he hath done many others when they thought themselues forsaken of all helpe, by causinge certaine dropps of his pitie to raine down vpon them.” “Alas, deare hart,” (quoth the Duchesse,) “how easie a matter it is for one that that is hole to comforte her that is sicke: but if thou feltest my griefe thou wouldest helpe me to complaine: so greuous a matter it is vnto mee, with life to loose mine honour. And I must confesse vnto thee, that I sustaine a very cruel assault both againste death and life, and I cannot either with the one or with the other, haue peace or truce in my selfe. Ne yet do know how to dissemble my sorrowe, but that in the ende the same will be discouered by the fumes of myne ardente sighes, which thinking to constraine or retaine, I do nothinge els but burie my selfe within mine owne bodye: assuringe thee, that greater is one droppe of bloude that swelteth the harte within, then all the teares that maye be wept in the whole life without. Wherefore I pray thee leaue mee a litle to complaine my dolor, before I go to the place from whence I shal neuer retorne.” Emilia, that willingly would haue sacrificed herselfe to redeeme the Princesse from perill, not beinge able anye longer to endure the hard attempte wherewith pitie constrayned her hart, was forced to goe forth and to withdraw herselfe into another chamber, where she began to lament after so straunge maner, as it seemed that it had been shee that was destened to death. Whiles these ladies continued thus in their sorowes, the knight Mendozza toke no rest by day or night, ne ceassed continually to thincke vpon the distresse of the Duchesse. And after that he had well considered the same, hee accused himselfe for fayling her at that greate neede, saying: “Now do I well knowe that I am for euer hereafter vtterly vnworthy to beare armes, or to haue the honourable title of knight, sith the same order was giuen me, wyth charge to succour afflicted persons, specially Ladies, whose force onely consisteth in teares. And yet neuerthelesse, I (like a caytife) haue so shamefullye neglected my dutye towards the chiefe person of the worlde, to whom I am greatly bounden, as I die a thousand times that day wherein I thincke vpon the same. It behoueth mee then from henceforth to establishe new lawes to my deliberation, and that I breake the gate of mine auncient rigor: louing much better to die in honour, poore, and disinherited, than to liue puissant, vnhappie, and a cowarde. Wherfore let fortune worke her wil: sithens the Duchesse did forsake her countrie, to come to see me in her prosperitie, I may no lesse do now, but visite her in her aduersitie.” Pressed and solicited inwardlye with this newe desire, determined whatsoeuer happened to go to her rescue, and hauinge giuen order to all that was necessary for the defence of the Citie: putting his confidence in the fidelitie of those that were within, caused all his Captaynes to be called before him: whom hee did to vnderstande, how he was determined to go seeke succour, to leuie the siege of his enemies. Duringe which time he constituted his nere kinsman, his Liefetenaunte generall, and the nexte morning before the daye appeared hee gaue a great alarme to his ennemies, wherein hee escaped vnknowen. Being mounted vppon a Ienet of Spaine and out of daunger, he toke post horse, and made such expedition as hee arriued at Lions, where he prouided the beste armour that he could get for money, and two excellent good horses, whereof the one was a courser of Naples. And hauing gotten a certaine unknowen page, toke his waye to Thurin, where beinge arriued, hee lodged in the suburbs, demaunding of his host if there dwelt anye Spaniards in the towne, whoe made aunsweare, that hee knewe but one, which was a good olde religious father, that for the space of twentie yeares was neuer out of Thurin, a man of vertuous life, and welbeloued of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certaine conuente. Neuerthelesse his lodginge was aparte from his brethren, to solace himselfe, and to auoide the incommoditie of his age. The knight hauinge learned of his hoste the place wher this good father dwelled, went with diligence betimes in the morning, to see him, and said vnto him in the Spanish tongue: “Father, God saue you: I am a Spaniarde comen hither into this country for certaine mine affaires, towardes whom you mighte doe a charitable deede, if it woulde please you to suffer mee to remayne with you foure or fiue dayes onelye, crauinge nothinge els but lodginge: for my seruaunte shall prouide for other necessaries.” Whiche the good father willingly graunted, muche maruelling at his goodlye personage. And whiles the seruante was gone to the towne to bye victualls, the good father demaunded of him, of what countrye in Spaine hee was, whiche the knighte francklye confessed. And the fatherlye man then hauinge his face all be sprent with teares, sayde: “Praysed be the name of GOD, that he hath giuen mee the grace before I dye, to see so great a Lorde in my poore house, of whom I am both the subiecte and neighbour.” And then he began to tell him how for deuocion he had forsaken his natiue countrey and had bestowed himselfe there, the better to withdrawe him from worldly vanitie. Neuerthelesse he said: that he knew his father, his mother, and his graundfather. Desiring him to vse his house at commaundement, where he should be obeyed as if he were in his owne: and then the lord of Mendozza said vnto him, that he was departed from Spaine of purpose to see Fraunce, and there to make his abode for a time. And that passing by Lions one aduertised him of the infortunate chaunce of the Duchesse, whom if he thought to be innocent of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defend her to the sheading of the last drop of his bloude. Neuerthelesse he would not hazard his life or soule to defend her, if he knew her to be guiltie. Which wordes the good man greatly allowed, saying vnto him: “My Lord, touchinge her innocencie, I beleue there is at this day no man liuing, but herselfe and the Earle, her accuser, that can iudge. But one thinge I can well assure you, that wee heere, do deeme her to be one of the beste Princesses, that euer raigned in this countrie, specially for that a yeare paste she went on foote to S. Iames, with suche deuotion and humilitie, as there was no man but pitied to see her so mortified for her soules healthe. And to combate with the Earle of Pancalier, you seeme vnto me very yong: for besides the continual exercise that he hath alwayes had in armes, he is withal esteemed to be one of the strongest, readiest, and most redoubted knights of all Lombardie: the victorie notwithstanding is in the hand of God, who can giue it to whom he pleaseth: which hee made manifest in the yong infante Dauid, against the monstrous Giante Golias.” To whome the knighte aunswered: “Father, I have deuised a waye how to prouide against the scruple of my conscience, touchinge the doubte conceyued by mee, whether the combat that I shall take in hande against the earle of Pancalier, be iust or not, which is, that I vnder colour of confession, might vnderstand of the duchesse, the trouth of the matter. And therfore if you thinke good I may cause my head and beard to be shauen, and apparelling my selfe in such habite as you do weare, we two may easely (as I thinke) with the leaue of her keepers, go into the Duchesse Chamber, to exhort her to pacience: for about this time of the yeare, the day is expired.” Wherunto the good father without any great difficultie, consented, aswell for respect of his good zeale, as for his reuerent duty to the nobility of the stock whereof he came. And so all things prouided, they wente together towards the castle of the Duchesse. And he that had seen the knight Mendozza in his fryer’s apparell, would vnethes haue discerned him, to be so great a Lorde as he was: for besides his dissembled gestures and countenaunces, wherwith he knew right wel how to behaue himselfe, he was so leane and poore, aswell for the care of the battell he lost, and ouerthrowe of his people, as for the mishap of the Duchesse, and the peril of his life at hand, by reason of the combate betweene the Earle and him, as he resembled rather a holy S. Hierome, mortified in some desert, then a Lorde, so noble and valiaunt as he was. Arriued at the castell, the olde father addressed himself to the guarde and sayd: “Maisters, because the time for the death of the miserable duchesse doth approche, we be come hither to geue her such spirituall comforte, as wherwith God hath inspired vs, hoping that hee will this daye geue vs the grace to induce her to die paciently, to the intent that by losse of the bodye, her soule may be saued.” Wherunto they accorded willinglye, and caused the chamber to be opened vnto them. They within the chamber went forth incontinently, thinking that the Gouernour had caused the good fathers to come to heare the last confession of the poore Duchesse, who was so sorowefull and pensife as she was forced to kepe her bed: which came very well to passe, for the knight Mendozza, comming neare vnto her bedde, with his face towardes her, so counterfayted hym selfe as he coulde not in any manner of wyse be knowen. And the good olde father fryer taried in a corner of the chamber a farre of, that he might heare none of their talke: and as the Lorde of Mendozza leaned vpon her bedsyde, he sayde vnto her in the Italian tongue, which was so familiar to him as the Spanishe: “Madame, the peace of our Lorde be with you.” Wherunto the lady aunswered: “Father why speake you of peace, sithe I am in continuall warre, depriued of al contentation, and doe but attende the last end of my calamitie, whiche is a moste cruell and shamefull death, without desert.” And then the Lorde of Mendozza, who had consumed the moste parte of his youthe in good letters, saide vnto her: “I beleue madame you be not ignoraunt howe miseries and tribulations, fall not by accident or fortune, but by the prouidence or dispensation of God, before whome one litle sparrowe onely is not forgotten, as the prophete Amos doth manifeste vnto vs when he sayth: ‘there is none euil in the Citie that I haue not sent thither:’ whiche is also apparaunt in Job, whome the Deuil could not afflicte before he had first obtayned licence of God. And it is necessarye for you to knowe, that tribulations and affliction bee tokens of the fore chosen and elected people of God, and the true markes of our saluation: so that if you consider the order of all the Scriptures, from the beginning of the worlde vntyll this tyme, you shall fynde that they whome God hath alwayes best loued and cherished, he hath commaunded to drinke of the cup of his passion, and to be more afflicted than others: examples whereof be common in the Scriptures. As when Abell was afflicted by Caine his brother, Isaac by his brother Ismaell, Ioseph by his brethren, Dauid by Absolon his sonne, the children of Israel (the electe people of God) by Pharao: whiche thinges beinge profoundlye considered by Sainct Paule, he sayde: ‘If we had not an other hope in Iesus Christe, than in the lyfe present, we might well say that we were the most miserable of al others. And yet moreouer, saith he, it is litle or nothing that we endure, in respect of that which Iesus Christe hath suffered.’ Who (although he framed the whole worke of the worlde) was called the Carpenter’s sonne, for preaching he was sclaundered, he was caried vp to a mountaine to be throwen down, he was called Glotton, Dronkard, louer of Publicanes and sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Diuell: saying, that in the name of Belzebub he did cast out Diuels. But let vs consider, madame, a litle further, what thinges were done vnto him, hee was naked to clothe vs, prisoner and bounde to vnbinde vs from the chain of the Diuell, made a sacrifice to cleanse vs of all our inward filth, we doe see that he suffred his side to be opened, to close vp hell from vs, we see his handes whiche in so comely order made both heauen and earth for the loue of vs, pearced with pricking nailes, his head crowned with three sharped thornes to crowne vs with heauenly glorie. Let vs way that by his dolour came our ioye, our health grew of his infirmitie, of his death was deriued our life: and should we be ashamed to haue our head touched with a fewe thornes of trouble? Strengthen your self then (madame) in the name of God, and make you ready to receiue death in the name of him that was not ashamed to indure it for you. Is his strong hande any thing weakened? Is it not in him to ouerthrow the furie of your enemie, and so to humble your aduersarie that he shall neuer be able to be relieued? How many poore afflicted persones haue there bene seene to be abandoned of all succour, whom he hath behelde with his pitiful eye, and restored to greater ease and contentation, then euer they were in before? learne then from henceforth, to comforte your selfe in God, and say as the great doctor holy Ignatius sayd in his Epistle to the Romaines: ‘I desire that the fier, the gallowes, the beastes, and all the tormentes of the Diuil might exercise their crueltie vpon me, so as I may haue fruition of my Lorde God.’” And after that the knight had made an ende of his consolation, the Duchesle was so rapte in contentation, as it seemed her soule had already tasted of the celestiall delightes, and would flie euen vp into heauen. And then feeling her selfe lightened like one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to confesse her selfe vnto him from point to point, without omitting any thing of that whiche she thought might greue her conscience. And when she came to the accusation of the Earle, she prayed God not to pardon her sinnes, if she had committed in deede or thought, any thing contrarie to the dutie of mariage, except it were one dishonest affection that she had borne to a knight of Spaine, whom vnder pretence of a fained deuotion she had visited in Spayne, not committing any thing sauing good will whiche shee bare vnto him. “Which maketh me thinke (quod she) that God being moued against myne hypocrisie, hath permitted this false accusation to be raysed against me by the Earle of Pancalier, whiche I will paciently suffer, sithe his will is so.” Her confession finished, she plucked of a rich diamonde from her finger, saying: “Good father, albeit I haue heretofore bene a riche Princesse, as you knowe, yet nowe myne ennemies haue taken awaye all my goodes from me (this diamond except) which my brother the kyng of Englande gaue me, when I was maried to the Duke of Sauoie. And because I can not otherwise doe you good, I geue it vnto you, praying you to remember me in your prayers, and to kepe it for my sake: for it is of a greater price then you thinke, and may serue one daie to supply the necessitie of your conuent.” The confession ended and the diamond receiued, the twoo friers retourned home to their conuent. And so sone as they were arriued there, the Lorde of Mendozza sayde vnto hym: “Father, nowe doe I know certainly, that this poore woman is innocent, wherefore I am resolued to defende her so long as life doth last. And I feele my selfe so touched and pressed in mynde, as I thinke it long till I be at the combat. Wherefore I praye you if it chaunce that fortune be contrary vnto me, after my death, make it to be openly knowen what I am, and chiefly that the Duchesse may vnderstande it, for speciall purpose. And if it fortune that I escape with life (which can not be but by the death of the Earle) be secrete vnto me in these thinges which I haue declared vnder the vayle of confession.” The good father promised so to doe. And hauing passed all that day and night in praiers and supplications, he armed himselfe, and made ready his courser. And when the dawning of the daye began to appeare, he went in his armour to the gates of the Citie, and calling one of the Guarde, he sayd vnto him: “Good fellowe, I pray thee bidde the Counte of Pancalier to prepare him selfe, to mainteine the false accusation, which he hath falsely forged against the Duchesse of Sauoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will make him to denie his horrible vilany before hee parte the fielde, and will in the presence of al the people cut out that periured toung, which durst commit such treason against an innocent Princesse.” This matter was in a moment published throughout all the citie, in such sorte, as you might haue sene the churches full of men and women, praying to God for the redemption of their maistresse. During the time that the guarde had done his ambassage, the Lord of Mendozza went towardes the piller where the accusation was written, attending when the accuser should come forth. The Earle of Pancalier aduertised hereof, began incontinently to feele a certaine remorse of conscience, which inwardly gript hym so nere, as he endured a torment lyke to very death. And being vnable to discharge himself therof, would willingly haue wished that he had neuer attempted the dishonour of the Lady. Neuerthelesse that he might not seeme slacke in that he had begonne, he sent woorde to the knight, that he mould write his name vppon the Piller, to whome Mendozza made aunswere, that he might not know his name, but the combat he would make him feele before the daye went downe. The Earle of Pancalier made difficultie of the combat, if firste he knewe not the name of hym with whom he should haue to doe. The matter well aduised, it was clearely resolued by the Iudges, that the statutes made no mention of the name, and therefore he was not bounde thereunto, but that the statute did expreslye fauour the defendant, geuing vnto him the election of the armour, and semblablie it was requisite that the persone accused should be brought forth in the presence of the twoo Champions. Which thinges vnderstanded by the Earle, albeit that he trusted not his quarell, yet making a vertue of necessitie, and not vnlearned in the order of such conflictes, forthwith armed hymselfe, and came into the place ordayned for the campe, where he founde his enemy armed in a black armour, in token of mourning. Immediately after they sent for the Duchesse, who ignoraunt of the matter wondered much when she vnderstode that there was a knight in the field all armed in black, seming to be a noble man, that promised some great matter by his dexteritie and bolde countenaunce, and would also mainteine against the Earle of Pancalier his accusation to be false. The poore Duchesse then not being able to imagine what he should be, greatly troubled in mind, and comming forth of the Castel was conducted in a litter couered with black cloth, accompanied with more then two hundreth ladies and damsels, in semblable attire vnto the place where the Iudges, the people and the two knightes were, who did but attend her comming. And after they had wayted her going vp to a litle stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies for the assurance of the campe, demaunded of her these wordes, saying: “Madam, for that you be accused of adulterie by the Earle of Pancalier here present, and the custome requireth that you present a Knight within the yeare and daye, by force of armes to trye your right: are you determined to accepte him that is here present, and to repose your selfe vpon him, both for your fault and innocencie?” The Duchesse aunswered: that shee committed all her right into the mercie of God, who knew the inwarde thoughtes of her harte, and to the manhode of the knight, albeit she thought that she had neuer seen him. And when she had ended those woordes, she fell downe vppon her knees, then lifting vp her eyes all blubbered with teares towardes heauen, she prayed: “O Lorde God, which art the very veritie it self, and knowest the bytternesse that I fele in my harte, to see my self falsely accused, shew forth now the treasure of thy grace vpon me wretched Princesse: and as thou diddest deliuer Susanna from her trouble, and Iudith from Holofernes, deliuer me from the hande of a tiraunt: who like a lion hungrie for my bloud, deuoureth both myne honour and life.” And hauing made an ende of her prayer, shee remained vnmoueable as if shee had bene in a traunce. And nowe the knight Mendozza, offended to see the Earle to praunce his horse vp and downe the campe, making him to vaut and leape, with a countenaunce very furious sayd vnto him: “Traytour Counte, because I am certayne that the accusation which thou hast forged against this Princesse, is inuented by the greatest villany of the world, I do maintaine here before al the people, that thou hast falsely accused her, and that thou liest in thy throte, in all that thou hast contriued against her, and that thou haste deserued to bee put into a sacke, to bee caste into the Riuer for the murder that thou haste committed vppon thy Nephewe, the innocent bloud of whom doth nowe crie for vengeance to be taken for thy synne before God.” And scarce had he made an ende of his woordes, but the Earle aunswered him with a marueilous audacitie: “Infamous villain, which hidest thy name for feare lest thy vices should be knowen, thou arte nowe fouly deceiued by thinking to warrant her, who hath offended against the Duke her husbande, by her whoredome and adulterie: and for that thou hast parled so proudly, and wilt not be knowen, I can not otherwyse thinke but that thou art some one of her ruffians: and therefore I doe mainteine, that thou thy selfe doest lie, and that thou deseruest to be burnt in the same fire with her, or els to be drawen with foure horses by the crosse pathes of this towne, to serue for an example in the worlds to come, not onely for all lasciuious Ladies and Damsels, but also for such abhominable whoremongers, as be lyke thy selfe.” Incontinently after, the Harraulde of armes began to make the accustomed crie, and the Knightes to put their launces in their restes: they let run their horses with such violence, as ioyning together their shieldes, their bodies and heads, they brake their staues, euen to their Gauntlets, so roughly, as they fel both down to the ground without losing, neuerthelesse, the raines of the bridles. But the heate of the harte, and desire to vanquishe, made them readily to get vp againe, and hauing cast away the troncheons of their staues, layd handes on their swordes, and there began so straunge and cruell a sturre betwene them, as they which were the beholders were affrighted to see them able to endure so much: for they were so fleshed one vppon another, and did so thicke bestowe their strokes without breathing, as the lookers on confessed neuer to haue seene any combat in Piemonte betwene twoo single persons, so furious, nor better followed then that of the Earle and of the knight Mendozza. But the Spanishe knight encouraged with the Iustice of his quarell, and the rewarde of his fight, seemed to redouble his force: for euen when euery man thought that power must needes fayle him, it was the houre wherin he did best behaue himselfe. In such sort, as his enemy not being able any longer to susteine his puissaunt strokes, being wounded in diuers partes of his bodye, did nowe no more but defende himselfe, and beare of the blowes which were bestowed vpon hym without intermission: whiche the Spanishe knight perceiuing, desirous to make an ende of the combat, made so full a blowe with all his force ypon the top of his helmet, as he wounded his head very sore. Wherewithall the harte of the Earle began very muche to faint, and staggering here and there like a dronken man or troubled in his senses, was constrained to fall downe from his horse: and then the Lorde of Mendozza dismounting him selfe, and takyng holde vpon the corps of his shield, plucked it so rudely to him, as he ouerturned him on his other syde. Then with the pomell of his sworde he did so swetely bumbast him, as he made his helmet to flye of his head: and setting his foote vpon his throte, made as though with the point of his swearde he woulde haue killed hym, saying: “Counte, the houre is now come that thou must goe make an accompt with God of thine vntrouth and treason which thou hast committed against the Duchesse.” “Ah, sir knight (quoth the Earle) haue pitie vpon me, and kil me not I beseche thee, before I haue a litle bethought me of my conscience.” “Villaine (quoth the Spaniard) if I had any hope of thine amendement, I would willingly geue thee dalay of life: but being a traytour as thou art, thou wilt neuer ceasse to afflicte innocentes. Neuerthelesse if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publikely, and require pardon of the Duchesse, I wil willingly leaue thee to the mercy of the Duke, although that if I did obserue the rigour of the lawe, I should cause the presently to receiue the payne prepared for the Duchesse.” To whom he obeied for safegarde of his life, and kneeling on his knees before the Duchesse in the presence of al the people, made a long discourse of his loue towardes her, of the repulse that she gaue him, and that for reuenge, he ayded him self with his nephewe, thinking to ouerthrowe her chastitie. Finally, howe he had slayne his Nephewe, to induce the Duke to iudge her to be culpable of the adulterie. And then tourning his face towardes the Duchesse, sayde vnto her: “Madame it behoueth me to confesse that the losse of this one life is to litle to paye the tribute of the curelesse faulte that I haue committed against you. Yet sithe it is so, I beseche you by preferring pitie and mercy before the rigor of your iustice, you will permit that I may liue yet certayn dayes to make a view of my life past, and to prouide for the scruple of my conscience.” Then new ioye approched to garnishe the spirite of the Duchesse, and both the soule and the harte began to shewe theim selues ioyful, in such wyse, as she was a long tyme without power to speake, and did nothing els but ioyne her handes and lifte vp her eyes to heauen, saying: “O Lorde God, praysed be thy holy name, for that thou hast caused the bright beames of thy diuinitie, to shyne vpon the darkenesse of my sorrowfull life, enforcing so well the mynde of this traytour the murderer of mine honour by the prickes of thy rigorous iustice, openly to acknowledge before all men, the iniurie that he hath done me.” And without speaking any more wordes, she torned her face for feare lest she should make him any other aunswere. Then all the people began to laude and magnifie God, and to sing psalmes for ioye of the deliueaunce of their Duchesse, who was brought backe and reconducted into the Citie, with so great triumphe, as if she had made a seconde entrie. Whilest these things were adoing, the Deputies for the suretie of the campe caused the wounded Earle to be borne to pryson. The knight Mendozza stale secretly awaye, and after that he had in the next village dressed certaine small woundes that he had receiued in the combat, he toke his way into Spain. In the meane time, the Duchesse caused him to be sought for in euery place, but it was not possible to know any more newes of him, than if he had ben neuer seene. Whereat being grieued beyond measure, she made her mone to Emilia, to know wherefore he should so absent himself from her. “Madame (quoth Emilia,) he is sure some French knight, or els it may be some kinsman of your own, that is come out of England into these partes for certayne other affaires: and fearing least he should bee staied here, will not be knowen, reseruing the manifestation of himself till an other tyme more apte for his purpose.” “Let him bee what he may bee (sayde the Duchesse) for so long as my soule shall remayne within this bodye, I wyll doe hym homage during life: for the whiche I am so duelye bounde debtour vnto him, as neuer subiecte was to his soueraigne Lorde.” In this tyme whylest these matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of Sauoie, the Lieutenant generall for the king against the Almaines, encountring with his enemies in a skirmishe, by fortune was slayne: whereof the king of England being aduertised, and specially of the deliuerie of his syster, desirous to haue her about him, sente for her to marrie her agayne, and to leaue vnto her the entier gouernement of his householde: and to gratifie her at her firste arriuall, he gaue the rule of his daughter vnto her, which was of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares, with whom by certayne meanes there was a mariage practized for the Prince of Spayne. Let vs now leaue the Duchesse to liue in honor with her brother, and retorne we to the Lorde of Mendozza, who being arriued nere vnto his Citie, vnderstode incontinently that they which had besiedged it had leuied their campe. For that they of the towne had so well done their endeauour as not onely their enemies were not able to enter, but also they had in a certain skirmishe taken the Lord Ladolpho their chieftaine prisoner, who was yet to that present detained: because meanes were made for peace to be concluded on al sides: neuerthelesse they durst doe nothing without hym: whereat the Lorde of Mendozza beyng replenyshed with greate ioye to see his affaires prosper so well in all partes, entred the Citie: and the articles of the peace communicated vnto him, hee founde them verie profitable for him: and being concluded and approued by him he began to solace himselfe in his owne house, without taking care for any thing saue onely from thenceforth to thinke by what meane he might goe to see the Duchesse, and recount vnto her the issue of his affaires. But fortune prepared him a more readie occasion than he thought of: for the kyng of Spaine being aduertised of certaine talkes that had bene bruted of the mariage of his sonne with the daughter of the king of Englande, determined with speede to send a great companie of noble men thyther, to demaunde his daughter in mariage: of the which the Lorde of Mendozza, as wel for his nobilitie, as for the knowledge he had in languages and other good disciplines, was elected chiefe, with speciall commission to accorde the mariage in case it should so please the kyng. The Ambassadours vsed suche expedition, that they arriued at London, where the kynge for that presente made his abode: who aduertised of their comming, gaue commandement to the Princesse his daughter, and to the Duchesse his sister, to prepare them selues to receyue a great companye of Lordes of Spayne, whiche that daye would come to his Courte to treate of the aforesayde mariage. And God knoweth if the ladies spared oughte of that, whiche they thought might augmente their beautie. The king also for his part, to doe them more honour, wente to meete them in persone, and at their arriuall, gaue them a moste friendly welcome: but sodaynly as they presented themselues to doe their reuerence to the ladies, the Duchesse who incontinently knew the Lord of Mendozza, began so to deteste him as she was not able to rule her selfe, but (with a sodayne mutation of colour) she abandoned the companie: the Lorde of Mendozza knowyng the originall of her griefe, lefte not his dutie vndone towardes the Princesse and other ladyes which accompanied her, dissembling to haue taken no regarde to the absence of the Duchesse. And Emilia, who had followed her mistresse into the chambre, fearynge leaste there were some sodaine mischaunce happened, demaunded of her, wherfore she was retired from a company so honourable: and sayd that she did great wrong to her owne estimation: to whom the Duchesse (with extreme choler) made aunswere: “Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I haue the harte to suffer my hand to be kissed by that moste trayterous and moste cowardly knight of the world, who made no conscience to abandone me in the greatest necessitie of my life? where as I, contrary to the dutie of all the lawes of honour, and contrary to my sexe, did so muche abase my selfe as to visite hym in Spayne. Naye rather my dayes shall ceasse their course than myne affection shall euer reuiue in him: he shall neuer receiue any other fauour of me, but as of his most cruell and mortall enemy.” And then Emilia smiling, sayd vnto her: “In good earnest, madame, I thought that the sharpenesse of your imprisonement, with the other tormentes paste, whiche you indured, might haue put all these matters quite in obliuion, and woulde so haue mortified you, that you had wholly lost all desire of reuenge: but so farre as I can perceiue, I am deceiued of mine accompte, seying that sodaynly so soone as you behelde the knight Mendozza, you began to flie, as if your ghostly enemie had come before you, in his moste hideous and horrible forme.” Yet could not Emilia perswade her, to shewe her selfe abroade before dynner, tyll the king sent for her, with woorde that if she came not, he would himselfe fetche her. And then a little shamefast colour began to renew her alablaster cheekes, which rendred her so ruddye and fayre, as the Spanyards confessed neuer to haue seene in any parte of the worlde, where they had bene, one so faire and beautifull a wydow. The tables couered for dynner, the king tooke his place, and for their more honourable entertaynement, caused them to be set at his owne table: and made the Lorde of Mendozza to be placed right ouer against the Duchesse his sister: who was so inflamed and moued with choler, as shee duste not lift vp her eyes for feare least vpon the sodayne she should bee perceyued: whiche eyes sparkeling sometymes with greate yre, resembled properlye twoo starres of the night, that shoote forth their brightnesse vpon the earth, when all thinges be in silence. And all this tyme the Lorde of Mendozza conceyued suche pleasure at these pretie toyes, as he would not haue chaunged his ioy for the best Citie in all Englande: and as the Duchesse in this order did firmely fix her eyes, shee sawe by fortune a ryche diamonde that Mendozza ware vpon his finger, wherupon hauing oftentymes caste her eyes, she sodaynly knew that it was the very same that shee had geuen to the good father that confessed her at Thurin, the daye before shee was leadde to the Piller, and began then to imagine with her selfe, how it might be that he could come by the same: and not knowing what to saye, immediatly after shee had dyned and the tables taken vp, she caused maister Appian her Phisitian to be called vnto her: whome she desyred to know of the Lord of Mendozza, by what meanes he came by the Diamonde that he ware vpon his finger: which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of certain common matters, he sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, you haue a very fayre Diamonde there, whiche as I thinke I haue sene before this tyme, wherefore sir I praye you tel me where you had it.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza answered in laughing wise: “Maister Appian, where I had the ring, is to secret for you to know, but tell my lady the Duchesse, that the knowledge thereof onely appertayneth vnto her.” Whiche aunswere Appian declared to the Duchesse: and albeit that she tooke no great pleasure in the aunswere, yet neuerthelesse very desyrous to vnderstande the truth, she repayred to the Knight whiche the same time walked alone in a Gallerie, who after he had kyssed her handes, began to discourse of his fortunes past, declaring vnto her, that he repented of the refusall that he made to maister Appian for her succour, and howe within a while after he rode to Thurin: adding the deuise whereby he had heard her confession, and how the Diamonde came into his handes, putting her in remembraunce from worde to worde, of all his talke with her, during the tyme that he was in frier’s weede, then finally his victorie against the Earle, his secret flyght, and all the whole as before hath bene declared. Whereat the Duchesse no lesse abashed than rapt with ioy and admiration, fel downe in a swoune betwene his armes, holding her mouth so faste closed against his, that it seemed she would drawe the soule out of his bodye, to ioyne and vnite with her’s: and after she had remayned a whyle in this traunce, shee cried out: “O poore harte so long tyme plagued, whiche hast for the space of a yeare nowe passed, bene tossed with so many tempestes and diuers assaultes of fortune: receiue at this present the medicine apt for thy health, sithens thou enioyest him betwene thine armes, that by the pryce of his blood, valiant force and extreme trauailes, hath raised thee from death to life: let fortune from henceforth doe her will in that she is able to deuise against me: and yet wyll I, for this onely benefite, confesse my selfe this daye to be eternally bounde vnto her.” “Madame (quod the knight) I pray you let vs not renewe the memorie of our former griefes: wherein, if by any meane I haue done you good, I was but the organe or instrumente thereof: for God, who is the righter of all wrong, did neuer suffer iustice without his due acquitall, howe long so euer he taried. So (you not beyng in any wyse culpable) if I had neuer enterprysed the combate whereunto I was bounde, our Lorde God would haue raysed some other to achieue the same.” “Well then my Lord, (quoth the Duchesse) sithens it pleaseth you not, that I renewe my dolours past, which have taken ende by your meane, I shall humbly beseche you to excuse mee, if this daye I haue not geuen you that honour and good entertainement whiche you deserued: assuring you that before you shall departe this countrey, I wyll make you amendes according vnto your own discretion.” “Madame, (quod the knyght) for all the wronges that euer you did vnto me, (if they may be called wronges) the curtesie, fauour and gentlenesse which alreadie I haue receiued, doth at one instant requite and recompence. Neuerthelesse if it may please you to receyue me for your seconde husbande, sithe it hath pleased God to call your first out of this lyfe into an other: that is and shal bee the fulnesse of all the felicitie that I looke for in this worlde.” “My Lorde Mendozza, (sayd the Duchesse) the recompence whiche you demaunde of me, is very little in respect of the amendes and satisfaction whiche I ought to make you. But of one thing I can well assure you, that if I had the whole world at my commaundement, and that I were the greatest Princesse of the earth, in all kinde of beauties and giftes of grace, I would willingly submitte my self vnto you, in consideration of your worthinesse, and benefits bestowed vpon me with so willing a minde, as presently I do yelde vnto your request: and I must nedes confesse, that I am now greatly bounde to fortune, that hath deliuered me into your handes, from whome I hope never to be seuered so long as my soule shall reste within my body: being predestinated as I beleue to no other ende but to serue and obey you.” And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talke, Emilia told them that the king was in counsell, and that the other Lordes of Spaine attended his comming: who with his company being come before the king, and hauing done their reuerence vnto him, he began to declare his charge, and how they were of purpose sente to his maiestie in the behalfe of the king of Spaine, to demaunde the Lady his doughter in mariage, for his sonne the Prince of Spaine: which he had chosen aswel to haue his alliance (a matter by him only desired) as for the beautie and good grace, for the which she was specially recommended. And if so bee, he had willed to haue chosen his matche els where, that there was not at that day any Prince in al Europa, that woulde not willingly haue accorded vnto him. To whom the king answered: “My frendes, I feele my selfe so much honored, for that it hath pleased the king to send vnto me, as if he had not preuented me, I had thought to haue sent vnto him for the same purpose. And albeit that herein he hath vanquished me in ciuilitie and courtesie, yet I will not faile if I can to surmount him in amitie. For he hath bound me during life, in such wise as he, and my Lord his sonne, may boldly vaunt themselves to haue a king of England and a realme from henceforth at their commaundement.” The mariage concluded, the Duchesse diligentlye made sute to talke with the king alone, to communicate vnto him the agreement betweene the Lord of Mendozza and her. And perceiuing that the king was gone into his chamber, she went vnto him, and being alone with him, hauing her face al bedewed with teares, kneling, she said vnto him: “My Lord, when I consider my miseries paste, and the cruell assaultes that I haue receiued of fortune, being not onely committed to the mercy of a moste cruell prison, but (which is more) at the very last point of a shamefull death, I am so afflicted, that the onely remembraunce of those miseries terrifieth me, and causeth a certaine extreme bitternesse to rise in my hart. And when on the other side, I thinke of the great goodnesse that Almightie God hath shewed vnto me, by stretching forth his mighty hand to deliuer me out of that perill, chieflie to make mee triumphe ouer the death of mine enemy: I feele such comforte of minde as all the delightes of the world be but griefes, in respect of the ioye, pleasure and contentacion that I receiue: wherein nothing offendeth me so much as hetherto that I haue not acknowledged the benefit receiued of him, who was elected of God to be my deliuerer: neuerthelesse sir, by your onely word, you may both satisfie him, and content mee, yea and (as it were) prolong the dayes of my life.” The king, who loued his sister no lesse than his daughter, seeing her pitifull complainte and teares, and to speake with such affection, toke her vppe, and holdinge her by the arme, said vnto her: “Deare sister and frende, if I have not to this present satisfied him that was the cause of your deliueraunce, I cannot be accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I haue not knowen him, ne yet your selfe doth knowe what he is, (as you haue oftentimes tolde me:) but of one thing you maye be assured, and I sweare vnto you at this present, by my Scepter, that so sone as I shall vnderstande what he is, I will vse him in such wise as he shall thincke himselfe satisfied and contented, thoughe it did coste me the one halfe of my kingdome: for the pleasure which he hath done vnto you bindeth not you alone, but mee also, to be partaker of that band, both our honours being iointly bound thereunto.” “Alas, my Lord, (said the Duchesse) it is the knighte Mendozza, chiefe of this ambassade, to whom, if it please you to giue your consent that we two might marrie, all auncient bands and debtes shal remain extinct, and so by a smal reward you shal restore life to two persons, almost dead, for the excessiue loue which one beareth the other.” And therewithal she began to declare to the king, thoriginal and processe of the whole discourse. First, the voyage of the sister of Mendozza into Piemont: her owne peregrination to S. Iames, the honest amitie betweene her and Mendozza, the message of maister Appian to Mendozza, his refusall of that request, his retorne after to Thurin, her confession, the Diamonde knowen againe, finally, how all the whole had passed betwene them: the counterfaite deuocion to Sainct Iames onelye reserued, which, for her honour’s sake, shee woulde not tell him. The kinge vnderstanding this straunge discourse, was so rapte with ioye and appalled with gladnesse, as hee could not for a longe time make any aunswere. When his passion was moderated, hee said to his sister: “But be you well assured, that hee will receiue you for his wyfe.” “Yea, my Lord, (quoth shee) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himselfe hath made the requeste.” “And truly, (quoth the kinge) GOD forbidde that I should be the cause to breake so holy an accorde: for if the Lorde of Mendozza were inferiour in qualitie, nobility, and goods, than hee is: yet hath hee so much done both for you and mee, as we may not honestlie refuse him. Howe much more then be we bounde to him: being a greate Lorde as hee is, issued of noble and famous families of Spaine, rich in goodes, and hauinge hazarded his life for the conseruation of your honour: and therewithall seeketh mine alliaunce. Goe your wayes, (dere sister and frend) goe your wayes, make much of him, and entreate him as you thincke beste. And when I haue walked two or three tornes here, I will come vnto him, to communicate more amplie of these matters.” Scarce had the Duchesse leysure to aduertise the Lorde of Mendozza of that which was concluded betweene the kinge and her, but he came downe into the hall, where the moste parte of the Spanishe gentlemen walked, and with a very ioyfull countenaunce wente to the knight. To whom hee said: “My Lorde Mendozza, I praye you to embrace mee: for so farre as I see, I haue a better intereste in you than I thought.” And the Lorde of Mendozza thinking to embrace him, his knee vppon the ground, was immediatelye desired to stand vp, Whom the kinge cleeping aboute the necke, saide vnto him so loude as euerye man mighte heare: “Sir knighte, by the GOD of Heauen, since that I might commaunde in the realme of Englande, I haue not entertayned Gentleman nor Prince, to whom I have bin more endebted than to you: nor neuer was there any dearer vnto mee than you, for the greate gratitude and kindnesse, wherewith you haue bound me, and wherby I shal not from henceforth be satisfied, vntil I haue in some thinge acknowledged the bonde wherein I am bounde vnto you.” When hee had spoken those woordes, hee began to declare from point to point, in the presence of all the assemblie, the contentes of the whole before declared historie. Whereat there was none in all the company, but was greatly astonned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so well dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making them manifest. And the king of Englande commaunded that the mariage of him and his sister shoulde be published throughe out his realme, that all his nobilitie might be assembled. And for his greater honour, the kinge did from thenceforth constitute him his high Constable of England, and reposed himselfe in him, as vppon a firme piller, for the administration of the wayghtiest affaires of his realme. The mariage solempnized and consummate with the Duchesse, he retourned into Spaine, to accompanye the Prince into England, whose mariage was celebrated at London, with the king of England’s daughter, in such pompe and solempnitie, as semblable Princes be commonlie accustomed to do in such like cases.

THE FORTY-SIXTH NOUELL.

_A King of England loued the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countesse of Salesburie, who after great sute to atchieue that he could not winne, for the entire loue he bare her, and her greate constancie, hee made her his queene and wife._

This historie ensuinge, describing the perfect figure of womanhode, the naturall qualitie of loue incensinge the hartes indifferentlye of all nature’s children, the liuely image of a good condicioned Prince, the zealous loue of parentes and the glorious reward that chastitie conduceth to her imbracers, I deeme worthie to be annexed to the former Nouell, wherein as you haue hearde, bee contayned the straunge aduentures of a fayre and innocente Duchesse: whose life tried like gould in the fornace, glittereth at this daye like a bright starry planet, shining in the firmament with moste splendent brightnesse aboue all the rest, to the eternal prayse of feminine kinde. And as a noble man of Spaine, by heate of Loue’s rage, pursued the louinge trace of a king of England’s sister: euen so a renowmed and most victorious Prince (as the Auctour of theim both affirmeth) thorow the furie of that passion, which (as Apuleus sayth) in the firste heate is but small, but aboundinge by increase, doth set all men on fier, maketh earnest sute by discourse of wordes to a Lady herselfe, a Countesse, and Earle’s doughter, a beautifull and faire wighte, a creature incomparable, the wife of a noble man his own subiect: who seing her constante forte to be impregnable, after pleasaunte sute and milde requeste, attempteth by vndermining to inuade, and when with siege prolixe, hee perceiueth no ingenious deuise can atchieue that long and painfull worke, he threateth mighte and maine, dire and cruell assaultes, to winne and gette the same: and laste of all surrendred into his hands, and the prisoner cryinge for mercie, he mercifully is contented to mitigate his conceyued rigour, and pitifully to release the Lady, whom for her womanlye stoutnesse and coragious constancie hee imbraceth and entertayneth for his owne. This greate and worthy king, by the first viewe of a delicate Ladie, thorowe the sappe of loue soaked into his noble harte, was transported into manye passions, and rapte with infinite pangues, which afterwards bredde him great disquietnes. This worthie Prince (I say) who before that time like an Alexander, was able to conquere and gain whole kingdomes, and made all Fraunce to quake for feare, at whose approch the gates of euery Citie did flie open, and fame of him prouoked ech Frenchman’s knee to bowe, whose helmet was made of manhods trampe, and mace well steeled with stoute attemptes, was by the weakest staye of dame Nature’s frame, a woman (shaped with no visage sterne or vglie loke) affrighted and appalled: whose harte was armed with no lethal sworde or deadly launce, but with a curat of honour and weapon of womanhode, and for all his glorious conquests, she durst by singuler combat to giue refusall to his face: which singuler perseueration in defence of her chastitie inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flocke of womankinde the brighte beames of wisedome, vertue and honestie. No prayers, intreatie, suplication, teares, sobbes, sighes, or other like humaine actions, poured forth of a Princesse hart, could withdrawe her from the boundes of honestie. No promise, present, practise, deuise, sute, freinde, parent, letter or counsellour, could make her to stray oute of the limites of vertue. No threate, menace, rigour, feare, punishmente, exile, terror, or other crueltie, could diuert her from the siege of constancie. In her youthly time till her mariage day, shee delighted in virginitie: from her mariage day during her widow state, she reioysed in chastity: the one she conserued like a hardie Cloelia, the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable historie therfore I haue purposed to make common, aswel for encouragement of Ladies to imbrace constancie, as to imbolden them in the refusal of dishonest sutes, for which if they do not acquire semblable honour, as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due reward incidente to honour, which is fame and immortall prayse. Gentlemen may learne by the successe of this discourse, what tormentes be in Loue, what trauailes in pursute, what passions like ague fittes, what disconueniences, what loste labour, what plaints, what griefes: what vnnatural attemptes be forced. Many other notorious examples be contayned in the same, to the greate comforte and pleasure as I trust, of the wel aduised reader: and although the auctour of the same, perchaunce hath not rightlye touched the proper names of the aucthours of this tragedie, by perfecte appellations: as Edward the third for his eldest sonne Edward the Prince of Wales (who as I read in Fabian) maried the Countesse of Salesburie, which before was Countesse of Kent, and wife vnto sir Thomas Holland: and whose name, (as Polidore sayth) was Iane, daughter to Edmond Earle of Kent, of whom the same Prince Edward begat Edward that died in his childish yeres, and Richard that afterwards was king of England the second of that name, and for that she was kin to him, was deuorced: whose sayde father maried Philip, daughter to the earle of Henault, and had by her VII. sonnes: and Ælips for the name of the sayde Countesse, beinge none suche amonges our vulgare termes, but Frosard remembreth her name to be Alice, which in deede is common amonges vs: and the Castell of Salesburie, where there is none by that name, vppon the frontiers of Scotlande, albeit the same Frosard doth make mention of a castell of the Earle of Salesburie’s, giuen vnto him by Edward the third when he was sir William Montague and maried the saide Lady Alice for his seruice and prowesse against the Scottes: and Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the said Edwarde when hee saw that hee could not by loue and other perswasions attaine the Countesse but by force, maried the same Countesse, which is altogether vntrue, for that Polydore and other aucthors do remember but one wife that hee had, which was the sayde vertuous Queene Philip, with other like defaults: yet the grace of the historie for all those errours is not diminished. Whereof I thoughte good to giue this aduertisemente: and waying with my selfe that by the publishing hereof no dishonour can dedounde to the illustre race of our noble kinges and Princes, ne yet to the blemishinge of the fame of that noble kinge, eternized for his victories and vertues in the auncient Annales, Chronicles and Monuments, forren and domesticall, (because all nature’s children be thral and subiecte to the infirmities of their first parentes,) I do with submission humblie referre the same to the iudgement and correction of them, to whom it shall appartaine: which beinge considered, the Nouell doth begin in this forme and order.

There was a kinge of Englande named Edwarde, which had to his first wyfe the doughter of the Counte of Henault of whom hee had children, the eldest whereof was called also Edward, the renowmed Prince of Wales, who besides Poictiers subdued the French men, toke Iohn the French king prisoner, and sent him into England. This Edwarde father of the Prince of Wales, was not onely a capitall eunemie of the Frenchmen, but also had continual warres with the Scottes his neighbours, and seing himself so disquieted on euery side, ordayned for his Lieutenant vpon the frontiers of Scotland, one of his Captaynes, named William, Lord Montague: to whom because he had fortified Roxborough, and addressed many enterprises against the enemies, he gaue the Earledome of Sarisburie, and maried him honourablie with one of the fairest Ladies of England. Certaine dayes after, kinge Edward sent him into Flaunders, in the companie of the Earle of Suffolke, where fortune was so contrarie, as they were both taken prisoners, by the Frenchmen, and sente to the Louure at Paris. The Scottes hearing tell of their discomfiture, and how the marches were destitute of a gouernour, they speedely sente thether an armie, with intente to take the Countesse prisoner, to rase her Castle, and to make bootie of the riches that was there. But the Earle of Sarisburie before his departure, had giuen so good order, that their successe was not such as they hoped: for they wer so liuely repelled by them that wer within, as not able to endure their furie, in steede of making their approches, they were constrayned to go further of. And hauinge intelligence by certaine spies, that the king of England was departed from London, with a great armie, to come to succour the Countesse, perceyuing that a farre of, they were able to do litle good, they were faine shortly to retire home again to their shame. King Edward departed from London, trauayling by great iourneyes with his armye towardes Sarisburie, was aduertized, that the Scottes were discamped, and fled againe into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoyled the castle in manye places, as the markes gaue sufficiente witnesse, what their intente and meaning was. And althoughe the kinge had thoughte to retourne backe againe vppon their retire, yet being aduertised of the great battrie, and of the hotte assault they had giuen to the Castell, he went foorth to visit the place. The Countesse whose name was Ælips, vnderstanding of the kinge’s comming, causing all things to bee in so good readinesse, as the shortnesse of the time could serue, furnished her selfe so well as shee could with a certaine nomber of Gentlewomen and Souldiours that remained, to issue forth to meete the king, who besides her natural beautie, for the which she was recommended aboue all the Ladies of her prouince, was enriched with the furniture of vertue and curtesie, which made her so incomparable, that at one instante, she rauished the hartes of all the Princes and Lordes that did behold her, in such wise, as there was no talke in all the armie but of her graces and vertue, and specially of her excellent and surpassing beauty. The kinge hauing made reuerence vnto her, after hee had well viewed all her gestures and countenaunces, thoughte that hee had neuer seen a more goodlier creature. Then rapte with an incredible admiration he said vnto her: “Madame Countesse, I do beleeue, that if in this attire and furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellente beautie, ye had beene placed vppon one of the rampiers of your Castell, you had made more breaches with the lokes and beames of your sparkling eyes, in the hartes of your ennemyes, than they had beene able to haue done in your castel, with their thundring ordinaunce.” The Countesse somewhat shamefast and abashed, to heare herselfe so greatly praysed of a Prince so greate, began to blushe and taint with roseall colour, the whitenesse of her alablaster face. Then lifting vp her bashfull eyes, somewhat towards the king, she said vnto him: “My soueraigne Lord, your grace may speake your pleasure, but I am well assured, that if you had seen the nomber of shotte, which by the space of XII. houres were bestowed so thicke as hayle, vpon euery part of the fort, you might haue iudged what good wil the Scots did beare vnto mee and my people. And for my selfe I am assured, that if I had made proufe of that which you saye, and submitted myselfe to their mercie, my bodye nowe had been dissolued into duste.” The king astonned with so sage and wise aunswere, chaunging his minde, went towarde the castell: where after interteignement and accustomed welcome, he began by litle and litle, to feele himselfe attached wyth a newe fier. Which the more he laboured to resist, the more it inflamed: and feelinge this new mutacion in himselfe, there came into his mind, an infinite nomber of matters, balancing betwene hope and feare, somtimes determining to yeld vnto his passions, and somtimes thinking clerely to cut them of, for feare least by committinge himselfe to his affections, the vrgent affayres of the warres, wherewith hee was inuolued, should haue ill successe. But in the ende vanquished wyth Loue, hee purposed to proue the hart of the Countesse, and the better to attayne the same he toke her by the hande, and prayed her to shewe him the commodities of the fortresse. Which shee did so well, and with so good grace intertaigne them all the whyle wyth infinite talke of diuers matters, that the litle grifts of loue which were scarcely planted, began to growe so farre as the rootes remayned fast grounded in the depthe of his harte. And the kyng not able any longer to endure such a charge in his minde, pressed with griefe, deuised by what meanes he might enioye her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countesse seing him so pensife, without any apparaunt occasion, sayde vnto him: “Sir, I doe not a litle maruell to see you reduced into these alterations: for (me thincke) your grace is maruelously chaunged within these two or thre houres, that your highnes vouchsaued to enter into this castel for my succour and reliefe in so good time, as al the dayes of my life, both I and mine be greatly bound vnto you, as to him which is not onely content liberally to haue bestowed vpon vs the goods which we possesse, but also by his generositie, doth conserue and defend vs from the incursions of the enemie. Wherein your grace doth deserue double prayse, for a deede so charitable: but I cannot tell nor yet deuise, what should bee the cause that your highnesse is so pensife and sorowful, sith without great losse on your parte, your enemies vnderstandinge of your stoute approche, be retired, which ought, as I suppose, to driue awaye the Melancholie from your Stomacke, and to revoke your former ioy, for so much as victorie acquired withoute effusion of bloud, is alwayes most noble and acceptable before God.” The king hearing this angel’s voyce, so amiably pronouncing these words, thinking that of her owne accord shee came to make him mery, determined to let her vnderstand his griefe, vpon so conueniente occasion offred. Then with a trembling voice he said vnto her: “Ah Madame, how farre be my thoughtes farre differente from those which you do thincke me to haue: I feele my hart so opprest with care, as it is impossible to tell you what it is, howbeit the same hath not beene of long continuance, being attached therewithall, since my comminge hether, which troubleth me so sore, as I cannot tell whereupon well to determine.” The Countesse seing the king thus moued, not knowing the cause whye, was vncertaine what aunswere to make. Which the king perceyuing, said vnto her, fetching a deepe sighe from the bottome of his stomacke: “And what say you Madame thereunto, can you giue mee no remedie?” The Countesse, which neuer thoughte that any such discurtesie could take place in the kinge’s hart, taking things in good part, said vnto him: “Syr, I know not what remedie to giue you, if first you do not discouer vnto me the griefe. But if it trouble you, that the Scottishe kinge hath spoyled your countrie, the losse is not soe greate, as therewith a Prince so mightie as you be, neede to be offended: sithens by the grace of God, the vengeaunce lieth in your handes, and you may in time chasten him, as at other times you haue done.” Whereunto the kinge seinge her simplicitie, aunsweared: “Madame, the beginninge of my griefe ryseth not of that, but my wounde resteth in the inwarde parte of my harte, which pricketh mee so soore, as if I desire from henceforth to prolonge my life, I muste open the same vnto you, reseruing the cause thereof so secrete, as none but you and I must be partakers. I must now then confesse vnto you, that in comminge to your Castell, and castinge downe my head to behold your celestiall face, and the rest of the graces, wherewith the heauens haue prodigally endued you, I haue felt (vnhappie man as I am) such a sodaine alteration, in al the most sensible partes of my body, as knowing my forces diminished, I cannot tel to whom to make complaint of my libertie lost (which of long time I haue so happily preserued) but onely to you, that like a faithfull keeper and onely treasurer of my hart, you may by some shining beame of pitie bring againe to his former mirth and ioye, that which you desire in me: and by the contrarie, you may procure to me a life more painefull and greeuous than a thousand deathes together.” When he had ended these woordes, hee helde his peace, to let her speake, attendinge none other thing by her aunswere, but the last decree either of death or life. But the Countesse with a grauitie conformable to her honestie and honour, without other mouing, said vnto him: “If any other besides your grace had been so forgetful of himself to enter in these termes, or to vse such talke vnto me, I knowe what should be mine aunswere, and so it might be, that he shoulde haue occasion not to be well contented, but knowing this your attempt to proceede rather from the pleasantnes of your hart, than for other affection, I wil beleue from henceforth, and perswade my selfe, that a Prince so renowmed and gentle as you be, doth not thincke, and much lesse meane, to attempt any thing against mine honour, which is a thousand times dearer vnto mee than life. And I am perswaded, that you do not so litle esteeme my father and my husband, who is for your seruice prisoner in the hands of the Frenchmen, our mortal enemies, as in their absence to procure vnto them such defamation and slaunder. And by making this request your grace doth swarue from the bounds of honestie very farre, and you do greate iniury to your fame, if men should know what termes you do vse vnto me. In like maner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I haue giuen to my husband, but I intend to keepe the same vnspotted, so long as my soule shalbe caried in the Chariot of this mortall body. And if I should so far forget my self, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your grace oughte for the loyal seruice of my father and husband toward you, sharpely to rebuke me, and to punish me according to my desert. For this cause (most dradde soueraigne Lord) you which are accustomed to vanquishe and subdue other, bee nowe a conquerour ouer your selfe, and throughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) vnder the raynes of reason, that being quenched and ouercome, they may no more reuiue in you, and hauing liuely resisted the first assaultes, the victorie is but easie, which shalbe a thousande times more glorious and gainefull for you, than if you had conquered a kingdome.{”} The Countesse had scarce made an ende of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were couered for dinner: the king well fedde with Loue, dined for that time very soberly, and not able to eate but vppon amorous dishes, did caste his lokes inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last loke vppon that part of the table where the Countesse sate, meaninge thereby to extinguish the boiling flames, which incessantly did burne him, howbeit by thinking to coole them, he further plonged himselfe therein. And wandering thus in diuers cogitacions, the wise aunsweare that the Countesse made, like a vaunt currour, was continually in his remembraunce, and was well assured of her inuincible chastitie. By reason whereof, seing that so hard an enterprise required a longer abode, and that a hart so chast, could not so quickly be remoued from purpose, carefull on the other side to giue order to the waightie affayres of his realme, disquieted also on euery side, through the turmoile of warres, determined to depart the next day in the morning, reseruing till another time more conuenient the pursute of his loue. Hauing taken order for his departure, in the morning he wente to seeke the Countesse, and taking his leaue of her, praied her to thinke better of the talke made vnto her the daye before, but aboue al, he besought her to haue pitie vpon him. Wherunto the Countesse aunswered, that not onely shee praied God incessantly to giue him victory ouer his outward enemies, but also grace to tame the carnal passion, which did so torment him. Certaine dayes after that king Edward was arriued at London, which was the place of his ordinarie abode, the Countesse of Sarisburie was aduertised, that the Earle her husband, being out of pryson, consumed with griefe and sicknes, died by the way homewards. And because they had no children, the Earledome retourned to the kinge, which first gaue the same vnto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husband the space of manye dayes, shee returned to her father’s house, which was Earle of Warwike. And for so much as he was one of the king’s priuie Counsel, and the most part of the affayres of the Realme passed by his aduise and counsell, he continued at London, that hee might be more neare vnto the kinge’s person. The king aduertised of the comming of the Countesse, thoughte that fortune had opened a way to bring his enterprise to desired effect, specially for that the death of her husband, and the witnesse of his earnest good will, woulde make her more tractable. The kinge seing all thing (as he thought) to succede after his desire, began to renue his first affections, seeking by all meanes to practise the good will of the Countesse, who then was of the age of XXVI. yeares. Afterwards he ordeyned many triumphes at the Tilt and Torney, Maskes, Momeries, Feastes, Banquettes, and other like pastimes, whereat ladies accustomablye doe assemble, who made much of theym all, and secretely talked wyth them. Notwithstanding he could not so well disguise and counterfaite his passions, but that he still shewed himselfe to beare beste good will to the Countesse. Thus the kinge could not vse such discretion in loue, but that from his secret fier, some euident flames did issue oute: but the Countesse which was a wise and curteous Ladye, did easely perceiue, how the king by chaunging the place, had not altered his affection, and that hee still prosecuted his talke begon at Sarisburie. She despising all his amorous countenaunces, continued her firme and chaste minde: and if it chaunced that sometimes the king made more of her than discretion required, sodainly might haue been discried a certaine palenesse in her face, which declared the litle pleasure that she toke in his toyes, with a certaine rigour appearinge, that yelded to the king an assured testimonie that he laboured in vaine. Neuerthelesse, she, to cut of all meanes of the kinges pursute, kept still her father’s house, shewinge herself in no place where the king mighte see her. The king offended, seing himselfe depriued and banished her presence, whom he esteemed as the comfort of his life, made his secretarie priuie to the whole matter, whose fidelity he had wel proued in matters daungerous, with mind to pursue her by other way, if it chaunced that she persisted in her wonted rigor and refusal. Howbeit before he preceded any further, sithe he could not secretely talke with her, he purposed to send her a letter, the tenor whereof insueth:

“Madame, if you please by good aduise to consider the beginning of my Loue, the continuance of the same, and then the last issue wherunto it tendeth, I am assured that laying your hand on your hart, you wil accuse your selfe, not only of your curst and froward stomacke hitherto appearing, but also of that newe ingratitude, which you shewe vnto me at this houre, whoe not contented to bathe and plondge mee into the missehappe of my paines paste, but by a newe onset, to abandon your selfe from my presence, as from the sighte of your mortall eunemie: wherein I finde that heauen and all his influences, doe crie out for myne ouerthrowe, whereunto I doe agree, since my life taking no vigor and increase, being onely sustained by the fauour of your diuine graces, can not be maintained one onely minute of a daye, without the liberall helpe of your sweetenesse and vertue: beseching you, that if the hartie prayers of any mortal tormented man, may euer haue force and power to moue you to pitie, it may please you miraculously to deliuer from henceforth this my poore miserable afflicted mynde, either from death or martyrdome:

He that is more yours than his ownne, Edward, the desolate king of England.”

The letter written with his own hande, and sealed with his seale, he commaunded the Secretarie to go to the Countesse, at her father’s house, and secretly to deliuer the same. The Countesse hauing red and perused it, sayd to the Secretarie: “My frende, you shall tell the kyng, that I doe besech him most humbly, to sende me no more letters or messages touching the matters whereof he hath written: for I am in such wyse resolued in the aunswere, which I made him in my castle, as I wyll persiste immutable, to the ende of my life.” The Secretaire retorninge the aunswere of the Countesse, the king rapte with an impacient and extreme choler, desired eftsones to giue another attempt: and consuming by litle and litle in this amorous fier, began to sort out of the limits of reason. And almoste out of his wittes, demaunded of his Secretarie: “Do you thinke it expedient that I make request to her father, whose counsell I want in other thinges?” To whome the Secretarie boldly aunswered, that he thought it vnreasonable to seeke ayde at a father’s handes to corrupt the doughter: faithfully telling to the king, the reproche and infamie that would followe thereof, as well for the olde seruice, that her father hadde done to his auncestours, as for his great prowesse in armes for which he was so greatly commended. But loue, the mortall enemie of all good counsell, so blinded the eyes of the kyng, that without anye further deliberation, he commaunded the Secretarie to go seke the father, to demande his counsell for matters of importance: whiche the Earle vnderstanding, obeyed incontinently, where the king alone in a chamber lying vpon a bed, after hee had commaunded him to shut the dore and to sit downe by him, sayde these wordes: “My lorde, I haue caused you to come hither for a certaine occasion, whiche toucheth me so nighe, as the losse or preseruation of my life. For neuer through any assaut of fortune (the sharpenesse wherof I haue often felt) haue I bene vanquished with so great disquiet, as nowe. For I am so vexed with my passions, as being ouercome by them, I haue none other refuge, but to a most unhappie death that euer man can suffer, if presently I bee not holpen. Knowe ye therefore, that I deeme him onely to be happy that by Reason can rule his wyttes, not suffering hym selfe to be caried into vayne desires: in whiche pointe wee do differ from beastes, who being lead onely by naturall order, doe indifferently runne headlong, whether their appetite doth guide them: but we with the measure of Reason, ought to moderate our doinges with suche prouidence, as without straying we may choose the right way of equitie and iustice: and if at any time, the weake fleshe doth faint and giue ouer, we haue none to blame but our selues: who deceiued by the fading shadow and false apparaunce of things, fal into the ditche by our selues prepared. And that which I do alleage, is proued, not without manifest reason, wherof I nowe doe fele experience, hauing let slip the raynes of the bridle to farre ouer my disordinate affections, beyng drawen from the right hande, and traiterously deceiued. And neuerthelesse I can not tell howe to retire to take the right waye, or howe to retourne my back from that which doth me hurt. Wherefore nowe (vnfortunate and miserable that I am) I acknowledge my selfe to be like vnto him, that followeth his game in the thicket of a woode, rushing through thicke and thynne at all aduentures, not knowing howe to finde the waye he entred in, but rather the more he desireth to follow the trace, the more in the ende he is wrapped in the bushes. So it is my Lorde, that I can not and may not for all my foresayd allegations, so colour my fault, or purge myne error, but that I must confesse and acknowledge it to be in me: but I speake to this ende, that seeking a farre of the originall of my griefe, you would helpe me to complayne, and thereby to take pitie vpon me. For to tell you the truthe, I am so intricated in the labarinthe of my vnbrideled will, as the more I doe aspire to the better (alas) the worsse I am. Haue not I good cause to complaine my Lorde, that after so manye famous victories achieued by Sea and Lande, wherewith I haue renowmed the memorie of my name in all places, am now bound and daunted with an appetite so outragious, as I can not helpe my selfe, whereby myne owne life, or rather death, is consumed in suche anguishe and mortall paine, as I am become the very mansion of all mischiefs, and onely receptacle of all miseries? What sufficient excuse for my fault may I henceforth alleage, that in the end will not display it to be both vnprofitable and voyde of reason? But what shall be the buckeler of my shame, if not my youthly age, which pricketh me forewarde to loue like a sharpe nedle, the force whereof I haue so ofte repelled, as nowe being vanquished, I haue no place for rest, but in thy mercy, who in my father’s dayes diddest liberally spende thy bloud, in manye notable enterprises in his seruice, whiche afterwardes thou haste so well continued, that in many daungerous affaires, I haue diuers times proued the fidelitie of thy counsell, whereby I haue brought to passe thinges of great importaunce, and therein hitherto neuer founde thee slacke and vnfaythfull. Whiche when I remember doe prouoke me to be bolde to declare vnto you mine entent, whiche by youre onely worde you may procure, the fruite whereof being gotten, you shall winne the heart of a king, to be vsed as you liste for euer. And the more the thing shal seeme harde, difficult or painefull, the greater shall your merite be, and the more firmely shall he be bounde, whiche doth receive it. Consider then my Lorde, howe profitable it is, to haue a king at your commaundement. You haue also foure sonnes, whom you cannot honourably aduaunce with out my fauour: swearing unto you by my regall Scepter, that if you comfort me in these my troubles, I will endue the three yongest with so large possessions, as they shall haue no cause to be offended with their eldest brother. Remember likewyse, what rewardes I haue bestowed vpon them that serue me. And if you haue knowen how liberall I haue bene towardes other, thinke then I praye you, how bountifully you bynde me towardes you, vpon whome my life and deathe dependeth.” The king ending his sorowfull complainte, stopped by sobbes and sighes, helde his peace. And the Earle who tenderly loued his Prince, hearing this pitifull discourse, (the faithfull witnesse of his inward passion) and not able to coniecture the occasion, was maruellously troubled in him selfe, and without longer aduise, ouercome with pitie, he made a liberall and very sodayne offer to the king of his life, his children, and of all that he was able to doe. “Commaunde, my soueraigne Lorde (quod he with weaping teares) what it shall please you to haue me doe, if it be, euen to bestowe my life for your sake. For by the faithe and fealtie that I do owe to God and to your grace, I sweare, that many dayes and yeares paste, I haue bound my selfe inuiolably, and all mine abilitie without exception, so long as this tongue is able to sturre, and breathe shall remaine within this bodye, faithfully and truely to serue your maiestie, not onely for that dutie bindeth me, but if it were for your sake, to transgresse and exceede the bondes of mine honour.” But the good olde Earle, whiche neuer thought that a request so vniust and dishonest would haue proceeded out of the mouth of a king, with franke and open harte made that liberall offer. The king then hauing sounded the depth of the Earle’s affection, chaunging colour, his eyes fixed on the grounde, sayde vnto him: “Your doughter the Countesse of Sarisburie, (my Lorde) is the onely medicine of my trauayles, whome I doe loue better than mine owne life, and doe feele my selfe so inflamed with her heauenly beautie, as without her grace and fauour I am not able hereafter to liue: for this consideration, sith you desire to doe me seruice, and to preserue my life, I praye you to deale with her, that she with compassion may looke vpon me. Crauiug this request at your handes, not without extreme shame, considering as well your honorable state, as your auncient merites imploied vpon me and my progenitours: but according to your modestie and accustomed goodnesse, impute the faulte vpon amorous loue, which in such wise hath alienated my libertie, and confounded my heart, that now ranging out of the boundes of honour and reason, I feele my selfe tormented and vexed in mynde. Whereby I am prouoked to make this request, and not able to expel the mortall poyson out of my hart, which hath diminished my force, intoxicated my sense, and hath depriued my minde from all good counsell, as I can not tell what to doe but to seeke to you for helpe, hauing no kinde of rest but when I see her, when I speake of her, or thinke vppon her. And I am at this present reduced into so pitiful plight as being not able to wynne her by intreaties, offers, presentes, sutes, ambassages and letters, my onely and last refuge and assured port of all my miseries, resteth in you, either by death to ende my life, or by force to obtayne my desire.” The Earle hearing the vnciuile and beastly demaunde of his soueraigne Lorde, blushing for shame, and throughly astonned, filled also with a certaine honest and vertuous disdayne, was not able to dissolue his tongue to render a worthy aunswere to the afflicted Prince. Finally, like one awaked from his dead sleepe, he said vnto him: “Sir, my wittes fayle, my vertue reuolteth, my tongue is mute, at the wordes that proceede from you, whereby I fele my selfe brought into two straunge and perillous pointes, as passing either by one or other, I must nedes fall into very great daunger. But to resolue vpon that which is most expedient, hauing geuen vnto you my faithe in pledge, to succour and helpe you euen to the abandoning of honor and life, I will not be contrarie to my woordes. And touching my daughter, for whom you make request, I will reueale vnto her the effecte of your demaunde: yet of one thing I must tell you, sir, power I haue to entreate her, but none at all to force her. Inough it is that she vnderstand of me, what hart and affection you beare vnto her. But I doe maruell, yea and complaine of you, pardon me (most drad soueraigne) and suffer me without offence to discharge my grief before your presence, rather than to your shame and mine eternal infamie, it should be manifested and published abrode by other. I say, that I maruell, sir, what occasion moued you to commit such reproch in my stock and bloud, and by an act so shamefull and lasciuious, to dishonour the same: whiche neuer disdained to serue both you and yours, to the vttermost of their powers. Alas, vnhappy father that I am, is this the guerdon and recompence that I and my children shall expect for our trusty and faithfull seruice? O sir, for God’s sake, if you liste not to be liberall of your owne, seke not to dishonour vs, and to inflict vpon our race such notable infamie. But who can loke for worse at the handes of his mortall and cruell enemie? It is you, euen you it is (most noble Prince) that doth rauishe my daughter’s honor, dispoyle me of my contentation, ye take from my children hardinesse to shewe their faces, and from all our whole house, the auncient fame and glorie. It is you that doth obscure the clearenesse of my bloud, with an attempt so dishonest and detestable, as the memorie thereof shall neuer be forgotten. It is you that doth constraine me to be the infamous minister of the totall destruction of my progenie, and to be a shamelesse Pandarus of my daughter’s honor. Doe you thinke to helpe and succour me, when others shall attempt to obiect vnto my face this slaunder and reproche? but if your selfe doe hurt me, where shall I hereafter seke reliefe and succour. If the hande which ought to helpe me, be the very same that doth giue me the wounde, where shall the hope bee of my recouerie? For this cause, may it please your maiestie, whether iustlie I do make my complainte, and whether you geue me cause to aduaunce my cries vp into the heauens, your selfe shall be the iudge: for, if like a iudge in deede you doe geue ouer your disordinate affection, I then appeale to the iudgement of your inuincible minde, of late accomplished with all curtesie and gentlenesse. On the other side, I doe lament your fortune, when I thinke vpon the reasons which you haue alleaged, and the greater cause I haue to plaine, because I haue knowen you from your youth, and haue alwayes deemed you at libertie and free from such passions, not thral or subiect to the flames of loue, but rather geuen to exercise of armes. And nowe seing you to become a prisoner of an affection vnworthy your estate, I can not tell what to thinke, the noueltie of this sodain chaunce semeth to be so straunge. Remember sir, that for a litle suspicion of adulterie, you caused Roger Mortimer to be put to death. And (being skarce able to tell it without teares) you caused your owne mother miserablie to die in pryson: and God knoweth howe simple your accusations were, and vpon howe light ground your suspicion was conceived. Do not you knowe howe wounderfully you be molested with warres, and that your enemies, trauell day and night to circumuent you, both by Sea and Lande? Is it nowe tyme then to geue your selfe to delightes, and to captiuate your mynde in the pleasures of Ladies? Where is the auncient generositie and nobilitie of your bloud? Wher is magnanimitie and valour, wherewith you haue astonned your eunemies, shewed your selfe amiable to your frends, and wonderfull to your subiects? Touching the last point, wherin you threaten, that if my doughter doe not agree to your desire, you will forcibly enioye her, I can neuer confesse that to be the fact of a valiaunt and true king, but of a vile, cowardly, cruell and libidinous Tryaunt. I trust it be not the pleasure of God, that nowe at the age you be of, you wil begin to force Gentlewomen that be your humble subiects, which if you do, this iland shall lose the name of a Realme, and hereafter shalbe deemed none other, but a sanctuarie of theues and murderers. If then, (to conclude this my sorowefull and heauie complaint) you may, or can by your flatteries, promisses and presentes, allure my doughter to your vnbrideled appetites, I shall haue occasion to bewayle her dishonestie, and to deeme her, as an incontinent daughter, degenerated from the vertues of her progenitors. But touching your owne persone, I haue nothing to saye, but that herein you doe followe the common sort of men, that be sutors to Ladies, willing to please their fansies. There resteth onely nowe for me to aunswere the fauour, whiche in time to come you promise to me and my children: I couet not after any thing reprochfull to me or them, or to any of our posteritie, that may make vs ashamed, knowing in what contempt and reputation they be, which being borne of base parentage, be arriued to goods and honour, by gratifying and obeying Princes and kinges in their dishonest lustes and appetites. Remember sir, that within these fewe dayes, being in campe against the Scottes, you vpbrayded a certaine man (which shalbe namelesse) for being a minister of your father’s loue, who from the state of a barber, was aduaunced to the degree of an Earle, and how you sayd, that if in time to come he amended not his manners, you would sende him to the shop againe. And for my part, I am of opinion, that honest pouertie hath euer bene the auncient and greatest inheritaunce amonges the noble Romaines, which if it be condemned by the ignoraunt multitude, and if we therefore should geue place, making greater accompt and estimation of richesse and treasures, then of vertue: I doe say for mine own part, that by the grace of God, I am abundantly prouided, for the maintenance of me and mine, not like an ambicious man or couetous, but as one satisfied with the good wil of fortune. I do most humbly then besech you (sir) for conclusion, to take in good parte, that which my dutie and honour do constraine me to speake. And so by your grace’s leaue, I will departe towarde my daughter, to let her vnderstande from point to point your maiestie’s pleasure.” And without tarying for other replie of the kyng, he went his way discoursing diuers thinges in his minde, vpon that which had passed betwene the king and him. The reasons which the Earle had made, so pearced the affections of the passionate Prince, as vncertaine what to saye, he condemned himselfe, knowing verie well, that the Earle not only vpon right and iust cause, had pronounced these wordes: but also that he had done the office of a faithfull seruaunt and trustie counseller, in such sort, as feling his conscience touched at the quicke, he could not excuse himself from committing a dishonest charge to a father so commendable and vertuous in the behalfe of his daughter. Thus he determined to chaunge his opinion. Afterwardes when he had throwen forth many sighes, hee spake these wordes to himselfe. “O miserable man, cut of this amorous practise, howe arte thou defrauded of right sense to cast thy mynd vpon her, whom thou oughtest to vse with such reuerence as thou wouldest doe thine own proper sister, for the seruice which thou and thy progenitors haue receiued of the good Earle her father? Open the eyes of thine vnderstanding and knowe thy selfe, geue place to reason, and reforme thy vnshamefull and disordinate appetites. Resist with al thy power this wanton will which doth enuiron thee. Suffer not this tyraunt loue to bewitch or deceiue thee.” Sodainly after he had spoken those wordes, the beautie of the Countesse representing it self before his eyes, made him to alter his minde again, and to reiect that which he before allowed, saying thus: “I feele in minde the cause of mine offence, and thereby doe acknowledge the wrong, but what shall I doe? sithe I am not able any longer to withstande beautie, that cruell murderer, whiche doth force and maister me so much? Let fortune then and loue doe what they list, the faire Countesse shalbe myne, whatsoeuer come of it. Is it a notable vice in a king to loue his subiecte’s daughter? Am I the first vpon whome such inconuenience hath come?” This talke ended, he deluded himself, and thinking vpon the contrary, he accused himself again, and then from this he altered again to the other. And being in this perplexitie, he passed daye and night, with such anguish and dolor, as euery man doubted his health: and floting thus betwene hope and dispaire, he resolued in thend to attend the father’s answere. The Earle then being gone out of the king’s chambre, aggrauated with sorowfull thoughtes, full of rage and discontent, thought good to delay the matter till the next day, before he spake to his daughter: and then calling her vnto him, and causing her to sit against him, he reasoned the matter in such wise. “I am assured, deare daughter, that you will no lesse maruell than be astonned to heare what I shal say vnto you, and so much the more, when you doe see, how farre my tale shall exceade the order of Reason. But for so much as of twoo euils the least is to be chosen, I doubt not, but like a sage and wise woman, which I haue alwayes knowen you to be, you will stay vpon that whiche I haue determined. Touching my self, sith it hath pleased God to geue me knowledge of good and il, hitherto I haue still preferred honour before life, bicause (after mine opinion) it is a lesse matter to die innocently, than to liue in dishonour and shame of the worlde. But you know what libertie he hath, which is vnder the power of another, being sometime constrayned to make faire weather of thinges not onely cleane contrarie to his mynde, but also (which is worse) against his owne conscience, being oftentymes forced according to the qualitie of the tyme, and pleasure of the state, to chaunge his maners, and to put on newe affections. Whereof I haue thought good to put you in remembraunce, because it toucheth the matter, whiche I purpose to tell you. Thus it is (deare daughter) that yesterday after dynner, the kyng sent for mee, and being come before him, with a very instant and pitiful prayer, he required me (his eyes full of teares) to doe a thing for hym that touched his life. I whiche (besides that I am his subiect and seruaunt) haue alwayes borne a particuler affection to his father and him, without deliberation what the matter should be, betrothed to him my faith to obey his request, if it coste me the price of mine honour and life. He assuring himselfe of my liberall promise, after many wordes ioyned with an infinite number of sighes, discouering vnto me the secrete of his harte, told me, that the torment which he indured, proceded no where els but of the feruent loue that he bare vnto you. But, O immortall God, what man of any discretion would haue thought that a king could be so impudent and vnshamefast, as to committe to a father a charge so dishonest towardes his own daughter?” The Earle hauing recited in order the historie past betwene hym and the kyng, sayde thus vnto her: “Consider you, swete daughter, myne vnaduised and simple promisse, and the vnbrideled mynde of an amorous kyng, to whome I made aunswere, that intreate you thereunto I was able, but force you I coulde not. For this cause (deare daughter) I doe praye you at this instant to obeye the kynge’s pleasure, and thereby to make a present by your father of your honest chastitie, so dearely estemed and regarded by you, specially, that the thing may so secretly be done as the fault be not bruted in the eares of other. Neuerthelesse, the choyse resteth in you, and the key of your honour is in your own hands, and that which I haue sayde vnto you, is but to kepe promise with the king.” The Countesse all the while that her father thus talked, chaunged her colour with a comly shamefastnesse, inflamed with a vertuous disdaine, that he whiche had behold her then, would haue thought her rather some celestial goddesse than a humaine creature: and after long silence, with an humble grauitie she began thus to make her aunswere: “Your wordes haue so confounded me, and brought me into such admiration (my Lorde and right honourable father) that if all the partes of my bodie were conuerted into tongues, they could not bee sufficient worthely to expresse the least part of my sorrowe and disquietnesse: and truely very iustly may I complayne of you, for the litle estimation you haue of me, which am deriued of your owne fleshe: and for the ransome of the fraile and transitorie life which you haue geuen me vpon earth, you wyll for recompence nowe defraude me of myne honour: whereby I do perceiue that not onely al nature’s lawes be cancelled and mortified in you, but which is worse, you doe exceede therin the cruelties of beastes, who for all their brutishenesse be not so vnnatural to do wrong to their owne yong, or to offer their fruite to the mercie of an other, as you haue done yours to the pleasure of a Kyng: for notwithstandynge the straight charge and aucthoritie whiche you haue ouer mee, to commaunde me being your right humble and very obedient daughter, yet you oughte to thinke and remember, that you haue neuer seene in mee any acte, mocion, signe, or woorde, to incite you to moue sutch dishonest talk. And although the king many times, with infinite number of prayers, presentes, messages and other such allurementes of persuasion hath displayed and vttered all the art of his mynde to seduce and corrupt me, yet he was neuer able to receiue other aunswere of me, but that honor was a thousand times derer vnto me then life, which still I meant to kepe secret from your knowledge euen as I haue done from other of mine aliaunce, for feare least you should be induced to commit some trespas, or conspire against our king, foreseing the straunge accidentes whiche haue chaunced for like matters, to the ruine of many cities and prouinces. But, good God, my doubt is nothing to purpose, sithe that your selfe is the shamelesse post of an act so dishonest: and to conclude in fewe wordes, daily I had good hope, that the king seing me at a point still to conserue my chastitie inuiolable he would give ouer to pursue me any longer, and would haue suffered me hereafter to liue in quiet with mine equals, but if so be he doe continue obstinate in his olde folly, I am determined rather to die, than to doe the thing that shall hurt me and pleasure him: and for feare that he take from me by force that which of mine owne accord I will not graunt, following your counsell, of twoo euilles I will chose the least, thinking it more honourable to destroy and kill my selfe with mine own handes, then to suffer such blot or shame to obscure the glorie of my name, being desirous to committe nothing in secrete, that sometime hereafter being published, may make me ashamed and chaunge colour. And wher you say that you haue sworne and gaged your faith to the king, for the assuraunce of your promise, it was very ill done, before you did consider, what power fathers haue ouer their children, whiche is so well defined by the lawe of God, as they be not bound to their parentes in that which is against his deuine commaundementes: much lesse may they bynde vs to things incestuous and dishonest, which specially and straightly be inioyned vs not to perfourme, if we therunto be required: and it had bene farre more decent, and excusable before God, if when you made that foolyshe promise to the kyng you had promised him, rather to strangle mee with youre owne handes, than to consent to let me fall into a faulte so abhominable: and to thend I may tell you the last determination, and conclusion of that whiche I am determined by good aduise and immutable counsell: thus it is. You shall tell the king, that I had rather lose my life after the moste cruell and shameful maner that may be deuised, then to consent to a thing so dishonest, hauing long time fixed this saying in mind, ‘_That honest death doth honor and beautifie the forepassed life._’” The father hearing the wise aunswere of his daughter, gaue her his blessing, in his hart praysing her godly minde, beseching God to helpe her and to kepe her vnder his protection, and to confirme her in that holy and vertuous determination. Then feling him greatly comforted, he repaired to the king, to whom he said: “Pleaseth your grace, to thintent I might obserue my promise, I sweare by the faith that I doe owe vnto God and you, that I haue done what I can with my daughter, disclosing vnto her your whole minde and pleasure, and exhorting her to satisfy your request, but for a resolute aunswere she saith, that rather she is contented to suffer most cruel death than to commit a thing so contrarie to her honour. You know (sir) what I sayd vnto you still, that I might entreate her, but force her I could not: hauing then obeied your commaundement, and accomplished my promise, it may please you to geue me leaue to go home to one of my Castels, from henceforth to recline my selfe to quietnesse, and to ease my decrepite and feeble age.” Which the king willingly graunted. The same daye hee departed from the Courte with his sonnes and went home to his Countrie, leauing at London his wife and daughter and the reste of his housholde, thinking therby to discharge himself of those thinges with out the kinge’s displeasure. The king on the other side was no soner aduertised of the Earle’s departure, and that he had left his daughter behinde him at London, but he knew the father’s minde and purpose, and fell in suche dispaire of his loue, as he was like to haue runne out of his wittes for sorrowe. The nightes and dayes were all one to him, for hee could take no rest, he gaue ouer vse of armes and administration of iustice, hunting and hauking, wherin before that time he had great delight: and all his study was many times to passe and repasse before the gate of the Countesse, to proue if he might attaine to haue some sight of her: and thinges were brought to so pitifull state, that within fewe dayes the citizens and other gentlemen began to perceiue the raging loue of their Prince, euery of them with common voice blaming the crueltie of the Countesse that was vnmarried, who the more she proued the king inflamed with her loue, the more squeymish she was of her beautie. The peres and noble men seing their king reduced to such extremitie, moued with pitie and compassion, began secretly to pratise for him, some with threatninges, some with flatteries and persuasions: some went to the mother, declaring vnto her the eternall rest and quiet prepared for her and all her friendes, if she would persuade her daughter to encline to the kinge’s mind, and contrariwyse the daunger iminent ouer her head. But all these deuises were in vayne, for the Countesse moued no more then a harde rocke beaten with diuerse tempestes: and at lengthe seing that euery man spake diuersly, as their affections ledde them, shee was so troubled and pensife in harte, as fearing to bee taken, and that the kyng vanquished with his strong passion, by succession of tyme would vse his force, and violentlye oppresse her, founde meanes to get a great sharpe knife, whiche she caried about her secretly vnder her gowne, of purpose, that if she sawe perill to be defloured, shee might kill her selfe. The Courtiers offended with the martyrdome of their master, and desyrous to gratifie and seeke meanes to doe hym pleasure, conspyred all against the Earle’s familie, lettyng the kynge to vnderstande that it were most expedient, for that thinges were out of hope, to cause Ælips to be brought to his Palace, that there he might vse her by force. Wherunto the king (being dronke in his own passion) did willingly agree: notwithstanding, before hee passed any further, for that hee faithfully loued the Countesse, he determined to aduertise her mother of that whiche he intended to doe, and commaunded his Secretarie to go seke her with diligence, and without concealing any thing from her knowledge, to instructe her of the whole. The Secretarie finding the mother of the countesse, said vnto her: “Madame, the king hath willed me to say vnto you that he hath done what he can, and more then his estate requireth, to win the grace and loue of your daughter, but for that she hath despised his long sute, disdained his presence, and abhorred his griefes and complaintes, knowing not what to do any more, his last refuge is in force, doing you to vnderstande hereof, to the intent that you and shee may consider what is to be done in this behalf: for he hath determined whether you will or no, to fetch her out openly by force, to the great dishonour, slaunder and infamie of al your kinne. And where in time past, he hath loued and fauoured the Earle your husband, he meaneth shortly to make him vnderstand what is the effect of the iust indignation of such a Prince as he is.” The good Lady hearing this sodaine and cruell message, was astonned in such wise, as she thought how she sawe her daughter already trained by the heares of her head, her garmentes haled and torne in pieces, with rufull and lamentable voyce crying out to him for mercy: for this cause with blubbering teares, trembling for feare, she fell down at the Secretarie’s feete, and straightlye imbracing his knees, sayde vnto hym: “Maister Secretarie, my deare louing friend: beseche the king in my name to remember the payne and seruice done by our auncestours. Intreate him not to dishonoure my house in the absence of the Earle my husbande: and if you be not able by your perswasion to molifie his hard hart, desire him for a while to take pacience, vntill I haue aduertised my daughter of his will and pleasure, whom I hope to perswade, that shee shall satisfie the kinge’s request.” When she had made this aunswere, the Secretary declared the same to the kinge, who madde with anger and passioned with loue, was content, and neuerthelesse commaunded his gentlemen to be in readinesse to seeke the Countesse. In the meane time the mother of faire Ælips went to her daughter’s chamber, and after she had commaunded all her maids, which accompanied her, to withdraw themselues out of the chamber, shee began in few woordes to recite vnto her the message done vnto her by the Secretary: finally with sobbinge sighes she said vnto her: “The dayes haue been (deare daughter) that I haue seene thee to keepe thy state amonges the chiefeste of all the Ladies of this Realme: and I haue counted my self most happie that euer I did beare the in my wombe, and haue thoughte, by meanes of thy beautie and vertue, one day to see thee become the ioye and comfort of all thy frendes: but now my cogitacions be turned cleane contrary, through thine vnluckie fate: nowe I thincke thee to be borne not onely for the vniuersall ruine of all oure familie, but also (which greeueth me most) to be an occasion and instrument of my death, and desolation of all thy frendes: but if thou wilt somewhat moderate thy rygor all this heauines shortly may be tourned to ioye: for our king and soueraign Lorde is not onely in loue with thee, but for the ardent affection and amitie that he beareth thee, is out of his wittes, and now doth conspire against vs, as though we were traytors and murderers of our Prince: in whose handes (as thou knowest) doth rest the life, honor and goods both of thy selfe and of vs all: and what glory and triumphe shall be reported of thee to our posterity, when they shal know how by thy obstinate crueltie, thou haste procured the death of thine old father, the death of thy hooreheaded mother, and the destruction of thy valiaunt and coragious brethren, and dispoyled the rest of thy bloud of their possessions and abilitie? But what sorrowe and griefe will it be, to see them wander in the world like vagabounds banished from their liuings, and remaine in continuall pouertie, without place and refuge of their miserie? who in steede of blessing or praysinge the houre of thy birth, will cursse the in their minds a thousand times, as the cause of all their ouerthrow and ill fortune. Thinke and consider vpon the same (deare daughter) for in thee alone resteth the conseruacion of our liues, and hope of all our frendes.” This lamentable discourse ended, the afflicted Countesse not able anye longer to resiste that pangue, began to waxe so faint as wyth her armes a crosse she fell downe halfe deade vpon her doughter: who seinge her without mouinge and without any apparaunce of life, and all the partes of her bodye to waxe cold, she quicklye layde her downe, and then with helpe and other thinges apt for sowninges, shee made her come to herselfe againe, and thinking wholy to recouer her, she earnestly promised to do what she would haue her, saying vnto her: “Do awaye your teares (Madame) moderate your tormentes, reuoke your former ioye, and be of good cheere, for I am disposed to obey you. God defende that I should be the cause of the paine which I see you to suffer: nowe am I ready to goe with you to the kinge, where if it shall please you, wee two withoute other company will do our owne errande and attempt the beginning of our enterprise.” The mother full of ioye, lifting vp her hands to the heauens, tenderly embraced her daughter, and manye times did kisse her, and after shee had commaunded her Coche to be made readye, she wente forth with her doughter, accompanied onelye with two Gentlewomen to the kinge’s Palace. Being come thither, they sente worde to the Secretary, that brought her the message, who conducted them to the kinge’s chamber, and presenting them before him, sayde: “Syr, beholde the companye which you haue so long time desired: who are come to do your grace humble reuerence.” The king greatly astonied, went forth to meete them, and with ioyful countinaunce saide: “Welcome, Lady Countesse, and your long desired company. But what good fortune hath broughte you hither nowe?” The Countesse hauing made her obeysance, yet all frighted with feare, aunswered him: “Beholde here my Lorde your fayre Ælips so long time wished for, who taking repentaunce for her former cruelty and rigor, is come to render herselfe at your commaundement.” Then the king beholding the yong Countesse tremblinge for feare, like a leafe shaken with the winde (with her eyes fixed on the grounde) approching neer her, toke her by the hande, and kissing her, sayd: “Welcome, my life and soule.” But she no more moued than a fierce lion enuironed with cruell beastes, stood still and helde her peace, her harte so constrayned for sorrow and despite, as she was not able to aunsweare a word. The kinge who thoughte that such passion proceeded of shame, commaunded the Gentlewomen, that were in her company, to departe the chamber, sauing the mother which broughte her to the entrie of his chamber, who withdrawing herselfe backe, left her to the mercy of loue and the kinge. So sone as the king was entred the chamber he shutte the doore after him. Which Ælips perceiuinge beganne to feele a furious combate betweene her honour and life, fearing to be defloured, and seing her abandoned of al humaine succour, falling downe prostrate at his feete, she sayd vnto him: “Gracious and redoubted Prince, sithe my heauy fortune hath broughte mee hither, like an innocente Lambe to the sacrifice, and that my parents amazed through your furie, are become rauishers of me against my will, and contrary to the duety of their honor, haue deliuered me into your handes, I humbly beseech your maiestie, if there remaine in your noble personage any sparke of vertue and Princely affection, before you passe any further to satisfy your desire, to let me proue and vnderstande by effecte, if your loue be such, as oftentimes by letters and mouth you haue declared vnto me. The requeste which I will make vnto you shall be but easie, and yet shall satisfie mee more than all the contentacion of the world. Otherwise (sir) doe not thinke that so longe as my life doth continue, I am able to do that which can contente your desire. And if my sute shall seeme reasonable, and grounded vppon equitie, before I doe open and declare the same more at large, assure the performaunce thereof vnto me by oth.” The king hearing her prayer to be so reasonable, wherunto rather then to refuse it, he swore by his Scepter, taking God to witnesse and all the heauenly powers for confirmacion of that which he pretended to promise: saide vnto her: “Madame, the onely maistresse and keper of my louing harte, sith of your grace and curtesie you haue vouchsafed to come vnto my Palace, to make request of my onely fauoure and good will, which now I irreuocably do consent and graunt, swearing vnto you by that honourable sacramente of Baptism, whereby I was incorporated to the Church of God, and for the loue that I beare you (for greater assuraunce I cannot giue) I will not refuse any thing, that is in my power and abilitie, to the intent you may not be in doubt whether I do loue you, and intend hereafter to imploy my selfe to serue and pleasure you: for otherwyse I should falsify my faith, and more feruently I cannot bind my selfe if I shoulde sweare by all the othes of the worlde.” The fayre Countesse sitting still vpon her knees, although the king many times prayed her to rise vp, reuerently toke the king by the hand, saying: “And I do kisse this royal hand for loyall testimonie of the fauour which vour grace doth shew me.” Then plucking out a sharpe knife, which was hidden under her kirtle, all bathed and washed in teares, reclining her pitifull eyes towardes the king, that was appalled with that sight, she said vnto him: “Sir, the gift that I require, and wherfore your faith is bound, is this. I most humblie desire you, that rather then to dispoile me of mine honour, with the sworde girded by your side, you do vouchsafe to ende my life, or to suffer me presently, with this sharpe pointed knife in my hand to thrust it to my hart, that mine innocent bloud, doing the funerall honour, may beare witnesse before God of my vndefiled chastity, as being vtterly resolued honourablie to die. And that rather then to lose mine honoure, I may murther my selfe before you wyth this blade and knife in present hand.” The king burning with amorous heate, beholding this pitifull spectacle, and consideringe the inuincible constancie and chastitie of the Countesse, vanquished by remorse of conscience, ioyned with like pitie, taking her by the hand, said: “Rise vp Lady, and liue from henceforth assured: for I will not ne yet pretende all the dayes of my life, to commit any thing in you against your will.” And plucking the knife out of her hand, exclaimed: “This knife hereafter shall bee the pursiuant before God and men of this thine inexpugnable chastitie, the force whereof wanton loue was not able to endure, rather yelding place to vertue, which being not alienated from me, hath made me at one instant victorious ouer my selfe, which by and by I will make you to vnderstande to your greate contentacion and greater maruel. For assuraunce wherof I desire none other thing of you, but a chaste kisse.” Which receyued, hee opened the doore and caused the Countesse to come in with the Secretarie and the gentlewomen, and the same time hee called also the Courtiers and Piers of the Realme, which were then in the base Court of the Palace, among whom was the Archbishop of Yorke, a man of great reputacion and singuler learning, to whom with the knife in his hand he recited particulerly the discourse of his loue: and after he toke the Countesse by the hande, and sayde vnto her: “Madame, the houre is come that for recompence of your honest chastity and vertue, I wil and consent to take you to wife, if you thincke good.” The Countesse hearinge those wordes began to recoloure her bleake and pale face with a vermilion teinte and roseal rudde, and accomplished with incredible delight and ioye, falling downe at his feete, said vnto him “My Lord, for asmuch as I neuer loked to be aduaunced to so honourable state as fortune nowe doth offer, for merite of a benefit so high and great which you present vnto me, vouchsauing to abase your selfe to the espousal of so poore a Lady, your maiesties pleasure being such, behold me ready at your commaundement.” The king taking her vp from kneeling on the ground, commaunded the Bishop to pronounce with highe voice the vsual words of Matrimonie. Then drawing a riche Diamond from his finger hee gaue it to the Countesse, and kissing her, saide: “Madame, you be Queene of England, and presently I doe giue you thirty thousande angells by the yeare for your reuenew. And the Duchie of Lancaster being by confiscation fallen into my hands, I guie also vnto you, to bestowe vppon your selfe and your frends.” Al which inrolled according to the maner of the countrie, the king (accomplishing the mariage) rewarded the Countesse for the rigorous interestes of his so long loue, with suche hap and content as they may iudge which haue made assay of like pleasure, and recouered the fruite of so long pursute. And the more magnificentlye to solemnize the mariage, the kinge assembled all the Nobilitie of Englande, and somoned them to be at London the first day of July then folowinge, to beautifie and assist the Nupcialles and coronation of the Queene. Then he sente for the father and brethren of the Queene, whom he embraced one after an other, honouring the Earle as his father, and his sonnes as his brethren, wherof the Earle wonderfully reioysed, seinge the conceyued hope of his daughter’s honour sorted to so happie effecte, as well to the perpetual fame of him and his, as to the euerlasting aduauncement of his house. At the appointed day the Queene was broughte from her father’s house apparelled with Royall vestures, euen to the Palace, and conducted with an infinite nomber of Lords and Ladies to the Church, where when seruice was done, the kinge was maried (againe) openly, and the same celebrated, shee was conueyed vp into a publike place, and proclamed Queene of England, to the exceedinge gratulacion and ioye incredible of all the subiectes.

AN ADUERTISEMENT

To the Reader.

After these tragicall Nouelles and dolorous Histories of Bandello, I haue thoughte good for thy recreacion, to refresh thy mind with some pleasaunt deuises and disportes: least thy spirites, and sences should be apalled and astonned with the sondrie kindes of cruelties remembred in the vij. of the former nouelles. Which be so straunge and terrible as they be able to affright the stoutest. And yet considering that they be very good lessons for auoyding like inconueniences, and apt examples for continuacion of good and honest life, they are the better to be borne with, and may with lesse astonnishment be read and marked. They that follow, be mitigated and sweetened with pleasure, not altogether so sower as the former be. Prayinge thee moste hartely, paciently to beare with those that shall occure, either in these that folow, or in the other that are past before.

END OF VOL I.

BALLANTYNE PRESS: EDINBURGH AND LONDON.

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[The following seven pages, here separated by single rows of asterisks, originally appeared at the beginning of the printed book.]

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Anglistica & Americana

Georg Olms Hildesheim

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WILLIAM PAINTER

THE PALACE OF PLEASURE

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Anglistica & Americana

A Series of Reprints Selected by Bernhard Fabian, Edgar Mertner, Karl Schneider and Marvin Spevack

3

1968

Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung Hildesheim

* * * * *

WILLIAM PAINTER

The Palace of Pleasure

Edited by Joseph Jacobs

(1890)

Vol. I

1968 Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung Hildesheim

* * * * *

Note

The present slightly reduced facsimile is reproduced from a copy in the possession of the University of Münster (Englisches Seminar).

Shelfmark: XVI 4043/4.

M. S.

Reprographischer Nachdruck der Ausgabe London 1890 Printed in Germany Herstellung: fotokop wilhelm weihert, Darmstadt Best-Nr. 5101932

* * * * *

THE PALACE OF PLEASURE

VOL. I.

* * * * *

_Of this Edition five hundred and fifty copies have been printed, five hundred of which are for sale._

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_Errors and Anomalies (transcriber’s list)_

The printed book did not include an Errata list. It is therefore impossible to tell whether irregularities of spelling, punctuation and typography in the primary text are unique to the Jacobs edition (1890), or whether they were deliberately carried over from Haslewood (1813) and/or Painter (1566 and later).

Brackets [ ] and footnotes: Brackets are used to demarcate footnotes and Transcriber’s Notes, each of which is clearly identified. All other bracketed text is in the original. Footnote labels were changed from symbols (*, †, ‡ ...) to continuous numbering. Note that the bracketed numerals [89] and [95] are in the original text; footnote numbering ends at [68].

Braces { }: In older texts quoted in the introduction, letters originally printed as superscripts are shown in braces. In the primary text, missing or invisible punctuation--chiefly quotation marks--is shown in {braces}. Braces do not occur in the original.

Parentheses ( ): In older texts quoted in the introduction, expanded abbreviations are shown in parentheses. All other parentheses are in the original.

Asterisks *: In the Bibliographical Notices and on the title page, text originally printed in blackletter (“Gothic”) type is shown between asterisks. Single asterisks are in the original text.

Slash /: All slashes / are in the original.

_Inconsistencies_

at least five children : their six children _The first reference is from Jacobs’s introduction, the second from Haslewood’s._

Giovanne : Giovanni (Boccaccio) _Jacobs’s introduction favors the spelling in “e”._

renowm(e) : renown(e) _In the primary text, the word is spelled with “m” far more often than with “n”._ the end(e) : thend(e) and similar pairs _both forms are used_

_Introduction, including quotations of older material_

See above about {braces} and (parentheses).

[Table of Contents] Randolpho Ruffolo _novel has “Landolpho”_ Footnote 3: See Burckhardt, _Cultur der Renaisance in Italien_ _spelling “Renaisance” unchanged_ the number comes from the _Cento novelle antichi_ _text reads “autichi”_ _Inglese italianato è un / diabolo incarnato_ (in Jacobs text) _accent on “è” missing in original_ doth easelie allure / the mynde to false opinions _“t” in “the” printed upside-down_ by the time Shakespeare / began to write _text reads “Shakepeare”_ At any rate / it is a tolerably easy task _text reads “any-/rate” at line break_ See Cens. Lit. Vol. II. / p. 212. Where it appears _punctuation and capitalization unchanged_ Willm Paint{er} confesseth _printed “Paint confesseth” with curved line over “t”_ as brought into her maties Store _text unchanged: error for ma{ties} with superscript?_ _Source._--Boccaccio, _Decamerone_ _text reads “Boccaccio’s, _Decamerone_”_ _Source and Origin._--Herod, iv. 110. _text reads “Origen”_ that had abused hir, and promised her mariage _text reads “marlage”_

_Introduction: Punctuation_

at the Dominican monastery of Sta. Maria delle / Grazie _period after “Sta.” missing in original_ “In case I dye _text appears to have single quote for double_ PENSE.] | 1566. | _JMPRINTED AT_--*London, by Henry Denham,* _closing bracket after “PENSE.” missing in original_ Anno. 1567.--Imprinted &c. _text has close quote at end of paragraph_ Deceaved by him of the some of one{C} xliij{lb}. _period (full stop) at end of paragraph missing or invisible_ [... in 1577 (Fleay, _Hist. of Stage_, p. 380).] _text has final period (full stop) outside closing bracket_ _Parallels._--Justin, i. 7. _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_ _Painter_, I. i. 27; II. i. 25; III. i. 44; IV. i. 58. _text has closing bracket at end of line_ Val. Max., viii. 13, 5; Sueton. _Tib._, 2 _text has colon : for semicolon ;_ _Painter_, I. i. 48; II. i. 45; III. i. 81; IV. i. 95. _text has closing bracket at end of line_ _Parallels_.--Val. Max. v. 7 _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_ _Parallels_.--Erasmus, _Adagio_; _period (full stop) after “Parallels” missing_ Footnote 66: Landau, _Quellen_{2}, p. 331 _text reads “_Quellen_,{2}” (comma before superscript numeral)_ _Denks. K. Akad._ _final period (full stop) missing or invisible_ _Amorous hysterie of Guistard_, 1532; Howell, _Letters_ _text reads “... Guistard_; 1532, Howell”_

_Primary Text_

_Missing or invisible punctuation--chiefly quotation marks--is shown in {braces} without further annotation._

De beneuolentia autem, quam quisq’; habeat erganos _abbreviation for “quisque”_ he that is daily resiant / in a Palace of renowmed fame _variant form of “resident”_ I my selfe haue already done many other of thesame _error for “the same” (two-word form used consistently)_ pssiang by the Albanes campe in the night _error for “passing”_ if I may speake rather the truthe, / then vtter any glosing woordes _probably a variant spelling of “glozing”_ and the valiaunt deliuerie thereof by Mutius Scœuola [4939 _error for “Scævola” (spelling used elsewhere)_ King Cræsus of Lydia [5655 _spelling consistent throughout story_ she is tickle and can not be / holden against her will [6429 _error for “fickle”?_ infect the the same wyth the degenerate food [7039 _duplicate “the the” in original at line break_ their beades / in their handes [7725 _not an error_ whom the Marques Azzo lou d / as his life [8072 _“e” invisible: “loued”_ he gaue them all saying. “That there was nothing els.” _error for “saying, ” with comma?_ that had no sense of a a reasonable man _duplicate “a a” in original at line break_ he espyed a yonge maide of fimal yeares _word “fimal” unidentified_ maister Appian hauing commauuded _error for “commaunded”_ _this and the following four items (through the first “alablaster”) all occur in story XLV_ my sole and ouely heyre _error for “onely”_ “how easie a matter it is for one that that is hole _duplicate “that that” in original at mid-line_ and to sing psalmes for ioye of the deliueaunce of their Duchesse _error for “deliueraunce”_ colour began to renew her alablaster cheekes whitenesse of her alablaster face _standard spelling for the period_ the fauour which vour grace doth shew me _error for “your” or physical flaw; in the font used, “v” is indistinguishable from the top part of “y”_ I guie also vnto you _error for “giue”_