VII. Yonec

As long as I am recording these

lays, I’ll set down, if you please,

a tale not many people know

of what took place long years ago,

explaining the strange circumstance

of Yonec’s birth — not here in France

but in the British Isles. I’ll tell

what I heard and remember well:

how it was that his mother came

to meet his father, a knight by the name

of Muldumarec whom she had

as a lover to keep from going mad.

There was a very rich old man

who, toward the end of his life span,

admitted at last to his mortal state

and desired to pass on his great

holdings to someone who bore his name

in order to maintain his claim

even after death. It stood

to reason that a marriage could

provide him with a son and heir.

He found a maiden, young and fair,

courtly, and from a noble line —

exactly suited for his design.

Her beauty was great enough to excite

if not his desires in the night

his suspicions and jealousy.

To put his mind at rest, then, he

recruited his sister, a widow, severe

and loyal, to keep an eye and ear

open and be companion and guard

to the bride. In a tower, the windows barred,

the young wife lived a solitary

life like that in a monastery

or cloister with never a visitor

to divert, amuse, or comfort her.

There were servants of course; they had been told

not to converse with their mistress — the old

woman’s instructions were crystal clear.

In this way time passed, year by year,

and the poor wife bewailed her plight and cried.

She longed for death but suicide

was out of the question. The holy books

forbid it. Still, she lost her looks

as women do, however fair,

who ignore their maquillage and hair.

There was no child. An older man,

whatever he wants, must do as he can,

and that, no doubt, was why he kept

her locked away alone. She wept

as she often did. One day the crone,

fetching a psalter, left her alone

to complain aloud — how she would be

captive until death set her free.

She cursed his red eyes filled with rheum,

and her callous parents who’d given her to him.

But mostly it was the husband she

despised and cursed elaborately.

He’d not been baptized, she was sure,

except in the rivers of hell or a sewer.

Errant knights, valiant and bold,

rescue maidens in stories told

to children, but could she believe

in them? Was there no reprieve

that God might somehow deign to grant

a miserable supplicant?

The poor girl’s eyelids, as she prayed,

were closed. But, then, at the moment she made

the sign of the cross and said Amen,

a large bird approached and then

entered her room. It looked like a hawk

but unlike most birds it could talk.

The creature alit on the chamber floor

and folded its wings. Then, before

her eyes, it changed its form to that

of a noble knight — exactly what

she had been praying might appear.

She was stricken nonetheless with fear

and she covered her eyes. But into her ear

the creature spoke: “Be not afraid,

for I am the one for whom you prayed.

I mean you no harm. A hawk, as you know,

is a noble bird. I swear this is so,

and I also swear that my love for you

is as ardent and steadfast as it is true.

I have never loved another but I

could not come to you save by

your invitation. I heard your words

floating upon the air where birds

soar and swoop. And now I am here.”

The lady was calmed and feeling her fear

diminish, managed at last to reply.

“Sir knight,” she said, “I welcome you,

but before I decide what I must do,

I ask if you believe in the Lord.”

(The question was not quite absurd,

for he was a handsome young man and she

feared evil and duplicity.)

“Assure me,” she said, “if you can.”

He then revealed to her a plan,

a demonstration, and a test

that would put all her doubts to rest.

She could feign illness and, in her fear,

send for a priest so she could hear

the sacred service and be shriven

so that her sins might be forgiven.

“I shall assume your form,” he said,

“and receive the consecrated bread

that is the body of Christ, and you

will hear me recite the Credo, too.”

This was a proof she could not question,

and she agreed to his suggestion.

He took her place in the bed and when

the sister-in-law came back again

with the psalter she had gone for, he

asked that with all celerity

a priest be summoned. The woman shook

her head and with an angry look

said that their lord was out in the wood

hunting, and that therefore nobody could

be allowed to enter the room.

“What good can a priest do in the tomb?”

the knight inquired. The crone, in fright,

supposed that a priest would be all right,

and sent for one. Promptly he

arrived with the corpus domini,

which the knight received. He also drained

the wine that the chalice had contained.

Thereupon the priest withdrew

as did the guardian woman, too,

leaving the knight and lady there.

I’ve never seen a couple so fair.

All night long, they exchanged embraces,

endearments, and laughter that those in their places

always have and always will.

Time, as a courtesy, stood still,

but then, in the east, the light of dawn

came inexorably on.

The knight took his leave. The lady entreated

him to return. He gave her a heated

kiss and promised whenever she

invited him, he would instantly

appear, but he warned that she should be

careful and moderate. Otherwise he

might be discovered. The woman might

see or at least suspect and indict

the two before her jealous brother,

and, one thing following on the other,

the knight would have no power to

resist: there’d be nothing he could do

to prevent his death. “This being the case,

be cautious,” he said. A final embrace

and he was a hawk again and flew

out of the window and into the blue.

The next day and the day after

that her mood was better. Her laughter

she had to suppress but she could smile

in cautious silence once in a while.

She took better care of her hair and nails

and no longer filled her chamber with wails,

for she was content to wait until

her lover returned so they could fill

the night with pleasure. What more could there be

for woman’s perfect felicity?

She never had any awkward wait

for her lover who came to her, early or late,

and all she had to do to preserve

this happiness was, with some nerve,

maintain her usual reticent

demeanor and drop no slightest hint.

Still, she could not conceal her returned

radiance from the love that burned

within her bosom. Her eagle-eyed

husband noticed. He took aside

his sister in his uneasiness

to ask, but she could not venture a guess

as to what could have happened, but she

agreed to do exactly as he

instructed, pretend to go out one day

while in reality she’d stay,

watching the young wife to see

what kind of mischief it could be.

How could the lady know what these two

were conspiring and plotting to do?

It is only a matter of two or three days

before they act. The sister stays

while the husband says he’s summoned to court

and pretends to leave. The trip will be short,

he tells his wife, and she sees him ride

away in a coach. (She assumes he’s inside.)

Eager to learn if she would embarrass

herself, the old woman, behind an arras,

waited and watched to satisfy

her curiosity. By and by,

the hawk appeared and became a knight,

handsome and more than average in height,

and he and the lady with warm embraces

and words of endearment that in such cases

are usual took advantage of their

delightful moment together to share.

The old woman was not surprised

at what took place that her brother surmised

was likely, but the change from bird

to man and back required a word

at least of explanation and she

swore it had happened mysteriously.

The husband, not so full of awe

about what his sister said she saw,

set about devising a way

by which he might make the intruder pay.

He had his smithy forge steel spikes

with razor sharp points at the ends the likes

of which we have never seen or heard

to inconvenience this bird.

These he had his workmen secure

on the sides of the window’s embrasure

through which the knight had come. Mon Dieu,

it was a wicked answer to

the knight who was unaware

of the danger that was waiting there.

Confident and with passionate speed

when the lady longed for his visit he’d

appear, as he did, this time, pell-mell,

but it did not work out quite so well

as hitherto, and as he sailed

into the window, a spike impaled

his feathered breast from which his blood

erupted in a mortal flood.

He lay down on the bed, which he

stained as he bled copiously,

and he said to her, “Alas, I die,

just as I predicted to you

I would. There is nothing we can do.

She sighed and wept and fainted away,

but he roused her and she heard him say

that it would not help them to grieve,

but she had been able to conceive

and would soon bear a valiant son

who would avenge what had been done

to them as soon as the right time came.

“Yonec,” he said, “shall be his name.

Until then he shall comfort you,

as a son and heir is supposed to do.”

He was in great pain and therefore had

to leave her. The lady, driven mad,

followed, risking a terrible fall

of twenty feet, which did not at all

discourage her. Barefoot, wearing a lacy

nightgown she followed the bloody trace he

left as he progressed until

it terminated at a hill.

But, no, there was, as she could see,

an opening in it through which she

could follow after each crimson mark

But in the tunnel it was dark

and she had to grope her way, a blind

woman who was trying to find

her stricken lover. She went as fast

as she could until there was light at last

and she emerged into a green

meadow that would have seemed serene

if it had not been for the dismal red

trail along which she now sped.

She reached a dazzling city where

the silver spires in the air

glittered in pride. Around the wall

a river provided a natural

moat. At last she found a gate

unlocked and she did not hesitate

but entered at once, not did she stop

her pursuit as, drop after crimson drop,

the blood led her to the palace. No

one challenged her or said hello

but let her pass at once into

room after room. She hurried through

until she found a knight asleep,

but not her knight. She had to keep

going and then, in another room

she could make out in the gloom

another knight, but not yet him

for whom she searched. In the next dim

chamber, richer than any before

with gold and silken bedclothes, more

opulent than I can say

she recognized him, ashen gray

but still alive. He welcomed her

and took her in his arms. They were

together again, but he told her he

would die that night. “You have to flee

or the citizens in their grief will blame

you for their loss instead of my

passion for you.” “I’d rather die

here with you than go back to him,she said. “My prospects there are dim!”

“No, no,” he answered. “Take this ring

and wear it always. It will bring

protection to you. He will not recall

what happened with us. Nothing at all

will trouble him. You have my word.

But also, darling, take my sword.

Let no man touch it but keep it until

my son has grown, for then he will

make proper use of it.” Then he

gave her a tunic to wear as she

traveled. When they exchanged their goodbyes

tears were streaming from their eyes.

As she left the palace and town

copious tears were streaming down

and to her sighs the funeral bell

added its voice with the knight’s death knell.

She collapsed and only an act of will

could keep her going on until

she came to the hill and its passage to

her home town. There, it all came true

as the knight had said it would. The old

man did not accuse or scold,

slander, or mock, but was quite correct

in his dealings with her in every respect.

In time, the son was born, a strong

lad with a sense of right and wrong,

handsome, generous, worthy, kind.

One could not in that kingdom find

Yonec’s better, and he grew

up to be a fine man who

was dubbed a knight. And now you shall hear

what happened to him in that same year.

The custom there was that one goes

on the feast of St. Aaron the martyr to those

places where the saint had prayed

or had captured, or had stayed

hidden. The husband, wife, and now

the young man, too, set out. Allow

a day or two to travel there

but they reached a castle and abbey where

they spent the night. Then at dawn

they went to mass. But before they were gone

the abbot invited them to see

the chapter house and its finery.

This they agreed to do and he took

them all around to admire and . . . Look!

At that elegant tomb with the rich brocade

surrounded by its colonnade

of candelabras of amethyst.

“Who is buried there?” They inquired.

“A knight, much loved here and admired,

the strongest and bravest ever born,

whom the monks and the townspeople mourn

even today,” the abbot replied.

“He was our ruler, but he died

for the love of a lady. It was his fate.

Since his death we have had to wait

for the son he said would come to rule

over us one day and who’ll

avenge his murder.” Hearing this

the lady sobbed and said, “It is

the plan of the Lord that took us here.

Your father is buried in this great

tomb.” She explained about the bird

who was really a knight, and, keeping her word,

handed him the sword she had kept

for him, and she fell on the tomb and wept,

and died. She did not live to see

the vengeance her son then took as he

repaid the old man for the two

deaths — of his father and now the new

death of his mother. Born and bred

for this moment he cut off the head

of Muldemarec. When the people heard

what had happened, their hearts were stirred

and they welcomed Yorec, demanding that

he accept the throne where his father had sat.

This story of love’s consequence

of grief has been often told and, hence,

composed from its details this lay

is what I set down for you today.