I. Guigemar

A good story deserves to be

well told. My gracious lords, Marie

understands her obligation

on such a fortunate occasion

when an interesting story

presents itself. And yet I worry

that any show of excellence

invites envy of women’s or men’s

achievements. Slanders, insults, and lies

attend me. Everybody tries

to sneer at whatever one composes —

they joke and even thumb their noses.

They are cowardly dogs that bite,

mean, malicious, and full of spite.

But I refuse to be deterred

as, line by line and word by word,

I do my best to compose my lay,

whatever the jealous critics say.

I shall relate some tales to you

from Brittany that I know are true

and worthy of your attention. In

a friendly spirit, let us begin.

This was back in Hoilas’s reign,

when in battles men were slain

or badly wounded. One of the king’s

barons, trusted in all things,

was lord of Liun: his given name

was Oridial. He enjoyed great fame

for valour. His wife had borne him two

children, a beautiful daughter who

was called Noguent and a son,

a smart and very handsome one,

named Guigemar. His mother doted

on him, and his father was devoted.

Too soon he grew to the proper age

to be sent away to serve as page

in the court of a distant king. The lad

excelled there because he had

courtesy and charm and wit

and with them he showed that he was fit

for knighthood. The king’s ceremonial sword

touched his shoulder and that lord

promoted him deservedly

to the ranks of noble chivalry

and gave him a set of armor, too,

to equip him for fighting and derring-do.

Guigemar gave gifts to those

who had been kind to him. He chose

to go to Flanders, which was inviting

because of its continual fighting,

which was the road to fame. He showed

allegiance to the chivalric code

and a puissance which was such that he

had no equal in Burgundy,

Gascony, Lorraine, Anjou,

or anywhere else. The whole world knew

that Guigemar was brave and above

reproach — except in matters of love,

to which he was indifferent. He

had many an opportunity

from beautiful noble ladies who

made it clear that if he would woo

he would win them instantly.

But somehow he seemed not to be

interested or even aware.

It puzzled his friends; he didn’t care,

but went on his solitary way

and there was nothing they could say.

Having earned great fame as a knight,

he decided after a while that he might

go home to visit his parents and his

sister whom he’d begun to miss,

and they were longing to see him, too,

but after a month with them he grew

restless and thought it might be wise

to engage in some strenuous exercise

like hunting. He called on friendly knights

and summoned beaters and when the lights

of the stars gave way to the rising sun

they set out together for the one

kind of venery he found

agreeable. It was at the sound

of a horn that the grooms let the hounds go

to quarter the ground with their noses low

to catch the scent of a suitable stag.

Guigemar and the knights would lag

behind with weapons at the ready,

hoping for a stag, but he

found a hind, completely white,

with a fawn beside her. At this sight

the hounds bayed and the hind darted

out of the bush. As soon as she started

Guigemar fired an arrow that found

the animal’s forehead. She fell to the ground

but the arrow somehow ricocheted

returning to the knight where it made

a passage through his thigh and through

his horse’s skin from which it drew

a trickle of blood. The knight fell down

into the thick grass on the ground

close to the hind, that said somehow,

“I am fatally wounded, and now

as long as you live you will feel

pain from your wound that will not heal.

No root or herb or elixir will

ever be of help until

you find a woman willing to

suffer even more pain than you

can imagine, more pain than any other

woman has felt, wife or mother,

for the sake of your love, and you’ll undergo

equal anguish — so much so

that lovers will be astonished by

your torments. Now go and let me die.”

The knight was dismayed hearing this

and wondered what would alleviate his

suffering and if there could be

a woman anywhere whom he

could love or be loved by. Appalled

by what the hind had said, he called

his page and ordered him to ride

to fetch his companions. Then he tried

to bind the wound as well as he could,

remounted his horse that stood

nearby and managed to ride away.

It’s inconsistent: what can I say?

He felt ashamed at having been

so badly wounded and in chagrin

was reluctant to be seen in this

condition. He did not stay for his

friends but disappeared into

the wood on a path that led him through

the trees to an open space where he

found a stream that ran to the sea.

He came to a harbor that he did not

remember (or had he forgot?)

in which was a ship ready to sail.

The planks of her decks were ebony and

her sail was silk and very grand.

He advanced to the shore and climbed aboard

this mysterious vessel, called out a word

of greeting but heard no reply.

The ship was deserted. He wondered why,

but he saw a bed of cypress wood

inlaid with gold and ivory, good

enough for Solomon of old.

In the silken bedclothes were threads of gold

and the pillow was such that any knight

whose head had touched it would never turn white.

The coverlet was sable lined

with satin. Guigemar reclined

on the bed in need of a few minutes’ rest —

but he slept for an hour, or so he guessed.

He was about to disembark

but he could make out in the dark

that the ship was now on the high seas

with its sail bellied out in the breeze.

He was not afraid but he realized

his helplessness — which he despised.

He was in pain but this he could bear.

He prayed to God to take good care

of him and help him to survive

and guide the vessel to let it arrive

at some safe harbor. Exhausted, he

lay down again and amazingly

fell asleep as the ship progressed

heading generally west

even with no one at the helm

to arrive at last at an unknown realm.

The lord who ruled over it was old

and very jealous. He controlled

his wife who was so beautiful

that he doubted she was dutiful

(although he had no reason to

but still this is what old men do).

He’d built her a lovely garden at

the foot of the keep, with high walls that

enclosed it — except for its view of the sea.

There were guards, as you would expect, in three

shifts around the clock. Also

there was a chapel where she could go

for solace, with paintings high above

on the walls. Venus, the goddess of love,

was shown in one in the act of throwing

a volume of Ovid into the glowing

fire that waits for sinners who read

its naughty pages and pay them heed.

As her companion, the husband supplied

a niece of his to be at her side

for entertainment. Add to this mise

en scène a priest whose privities’

wounds made his vows of chastity

superfluous entirely.

He recited masses and was able

as well to wait on the women at table.

Late one afternoon, the wife

as she did almost every day of her life

went after dinner to take her ease

in the garden, dozing under the trees.

When she awoke the women talked

of this and that and, as they walked

they noticed a ship that lay hove to

without any apparent crew.

The lady thought that this was queer

and felt apprehension and even fear,

but her companion, curious,

bolder, and more adventurous,

proposed that they should take together

a further look to discover whether

it might be good. Her show of spirit

encouraged the lady and they drew near it

and boarded the vessel: a ghost ship but

for the knight on the bed with his eyes shut.

Asleep? Wounded? Dead? The two

conferred about what they should do.

The lady thought that if he was dead

they should fetch the priest: a mass should be said

and he should be buried. “But if he is not,

we can speak with him and ask him what

brought him here and who he is.”

The two of them decided that this

was correct and they advanced to the bed

where the knight was lying, in some dread

that the youth with this beautiful body had faced

danger and died. What a great waste!

She put her hand upon his chest.

It was warm! There were heartbeats, too! She guessed

he was alive . . . And then he woke,

looked up into her face, and spoke,

rejoicing to find that the ship had come

to rest in a place where there seemed to be some

hope of care for the wound he bore.

The lady asked him from what war

he had arrived here. He told her how he

had shot the hind that had to be

charmed for the arrow somehow bounced

and wounded his thigh. And the hind announced

that its only possible cure could come

from the hand of a damsel. (He omitted some

details about how she would suffer

as he would also. This was enough for

the moment, he thought.) He told her how

he boarded the vessel that pointed its prow

to bring him here and he asked her for

help. He was tired. His leg was sore.

He did not know how to steer

the ship that had managed to bring him here.

She in her turn explained to him

about her husband and the grim

constraints he had put on her, increased

by the watchful eye of her jailor-priest.

“If you wish to remain until you are healed,

we shall be happy to keep you concealed

and take care of you as well as we can.”

The knight thanked her for her generous plan

and he raised himself up from the bed. The two

women helped him to take a few

steps and then a few more until,

relying on them and on sheer will,

he reached their chamber at last where he

fell down on the maiden’s bed. Then she

and her mistress brought water in bowls

to wash his wound and bind it in towels

of finest linen. They gave him care

and attention, and set aside a share

of their food for him. His gratitude

transmogrified into a mood

he admitted to himself at last

was love for the lady, and, downcast,

he remembered what the hind had said

in her dying threat. As he lay in bed

he could not imagine what he

should do. What if he were to be

rejected? He would die of a grief

from which there could be no relief.

He recalled her speech, her sparkling eyes,

and proceeded then to anatomize

the many aspects of her perfection

that had inspired his affection.

He had not dared imagine — let

alone expect — that she might yet

find in her heart the same affection.

Hopelessly and in deep dejection

he was unwilling to betray

his passion for her in any way

and he feared to make any mention of

this onset of unexpected love,

which he thought would be a great mistake.

The lady, who’d spent all night awake,

arose in the morning fearfully

to face another day when she

would have to dissimulate and hide

the feelings of passion that inside

her breast were burning. Her niece could see

her pallor by which her misery

betrayed itself. It hardly took

more than a fleeting, cursory look.

She decided that she would

help the couple if she could

and went to the bed where Guigemar lay,

for candor is often the only way

to sort these matters out, and she

was the soul of kindness and decency.

She entered his room and sat down near

the bed. Delighted to see her here,

he asked where his lady had gone and why

she’d risen so early. The maiden’s reply

was, “You are in love, and should not conceal

the fact from her or yourself. What you feel,

she feels also. What you must do

is think of her constantly and be true,

which will not be difficult, for she

is beautiful and she can see

that you are handsome.” To this the knight

listened in transports of delight

and said he’d be in a sorry state

if she did not reciprocate.

“Help me, sweet friend. I am at the brink

of madness and am unable to think.

The maiden assured him that she would do

what he and her mistress would want her to.

Whatever was possible she would try

to accomplish for them, and he could rely

on her good will. At once he could see

her courtliness and nobility.

As soon as the lady was done with mass,

she inquired of the obliging lass

how the knight was doing, how

he had slept through the night, and now

how he looked. The maid replied

that she should go to Guigemar’s side

and ask him directly. “He would receive

you graciously, I do believe.”

It was not so simple as she’d expected,

for the knight was afraid of being rejected

and did not want to presume or press

too hard, although in great distress.

He was afraid she might take offence

at what he said and order him hence.

Still, one who keeps his infirmity

concealed is not very likely to be

cured. On the other hand, he thought

of the ladies’ men of the court who ought

to behave better and how they flirt

with women who are playful and pert

as this one was so clearly not.

He could not decide exactly what

to say or how to say it. His pain

decided the question. He could not remain

in this discomfort for years and years.

Having no choice then, he confessed

to the passion for her that in his breast

blazed in fury. “If you will not

cure me of this ailment I’ve got,

I shall perish. I do implore

your mercy. I languish and am heartsore.”

The lady replied that she would need

time to reflect. The question he’d

put to her was not of the kind

to which she was accustomed. Inclined

one way by her heart and another by

her head, she allowed herself a sigh

to which he answered: “In God’s name,

some women play at love as a game,

enjoying the courtship that gives them a feeling

of beauty and makes them more appealing.

A wiser woman should be prepared

to rejoice in a love that is privately shared.

If she loves a man and is sure that he

loves her too, what can there be

but joy and delight that are the goal

of every philosophical soul?

This argument seemed so persuasive

that she felt no need to be evasive

but granted him her love as she

kissed his mouth repeatedly,

and his response to this was to press

forward manfully to address

their mutual discomfort. Then

they lay together as women and men

do to fondle and embrace

each other, emboldened now to face

their future together. Joy beyond measure

we wish them both and every pleasure.

The arrangement lasted for a year

and a half, but we all learn to fear

Fortune’s vicissitudes as she

turns her wheel capriciously

in her reversals and surprises.

One man falls; another rises

Eventually they were found out.

(Did anyone have any doubt?)

One morning as they lay beside

each other, the thoughtful lady sighed

and suggested that sooner or later they

would run out of luck. She went on to say,

“If you die, I, too, wish to die.

If you manage somehow to fly

away and survive, I am quite sure

that among the many ladies who’re

able to see your beauty you

will find a suitable one. Or two.

But I shall have to remain here, sad,

lonely, bereft, and nearly mad.”

Guigemar answered, “Do not say

such things. I swear there is no way

that I could turn to another. May

I find no peace or joy if I

break this promise. You may rely

on what I am telling you.” “My dear,

allay, if you can, my nagging fear.

Give me your shirt and allow me to

put a knot in its tail. One who,

without the use of scissors or knife,

can undo the knot you may take as a wife,

mistress, or concubine with my

permission.” Guigemar in reply

asked for the same kind of pledge from her,

and gave her a belt on which there were

intricate buckles here and there.

A man who did not cut or tear

the belt but contrive to remove it somehow

he would approve for her and allow

her to take as a lover. The two

agreed and found other things to do.

That of course was the very day when

the lord sent one of his serving men

to deliver a message. When he could not gain

entry he peered through a window pane

high off the ground and there he spied

the lovers. To say what he’d seen inside

the room he ran back to his lord

to report. The master reached for his sword,

took three burly men along,

and went to the chamber to right this wrong.

They broke down the door and entered in

to the scene of the couple’s sordid sin.

He ordered his men to kill the knight,

who stood up to meet them and, to fight,

grabbed a laundry pole that he

could use as a weapon. If he were to be

killed he could at least take one

or two with him, if only for fun.

The lord, impressed by this, asked who

he was and how he had managed to

enter the lady’s chamber. The knight

explained about how he’d shot the white

hind, and what it had said, and then

the ship that appeared without any men

to steer it that had brought him here.

The lord thought this was rather queer,

either nonsense or else a joke.

He thought for a moment and then spoke,

telling the knight that if he could

summon that vessel back, it would

be permitted that he embark.

To this he added a last remark,

that if the knight on that ghost ship

were somehow to survive the trip,

he would be distressed to hear

the news. But it would give him cheer

to be informed that the knight had drowned.

They went to the harbor and there they found

the vessel waiting. Without delay

Guigemar boarded and sailed away.

Kneeling on the polished deck

the knight prayed for a storm and a wreck

that would take his life if he could not see

his sweetheart again. Mortality

was the only relief he could think of for

his ailment. But he reached the shore

of his homeland and left the ship behind

as he made his way up the shingle to find

a youth he had raised who was now a squire

to another knight from a nearby shire.

The youth recognized him at once and he

dismounted and bowed, delighted to see

Guigemar again. At a canter

they rode together exchanging banter

while the young man assured him that he would be

welcomed home with sincerity.

He was, but the knight, nevertheless

seemed downcast and in some distress.

A few of his friends, concerned for him,

suggested he marry: he took a dim

view of this suggestion. He said

he’d promised not to romance or wed

any maiden or dame who could not

without violence undo the knot

someone had made in the tail of his shirt.

It was an unlikely thing to assert

and news of this extraordinary

requirement was broadcast very

far and wide. Many women came

to make an attempt at the strange game

in which Guigemar himself would be

the prize for someone’s dexterity.

I hardly need report that none

was successful. It simply couldn’t be done.

Meanwhile, the lady he’d left behind

was locked in a tower and confined

to a single room in which her tears

flowed as she prayed for death. Two years

she spent this way. Indeed, her only

hope was to put an end to a lonely

existence: if she could get to the sea

she could drown herself and it would be

done with. She imagined this

and in her dreams whispered into his

ear of her grief and her despair.

Could he not help her? Did he not care?

She arose one day as if in a trance

to discover that by some curious chance

the door had been left unbolted and she

was able to pass through it, free

and unhindered. She headed rapidly for

a large rock that stood on the shore

from which she planned to leap to her death.

She ran until she was out of breath

and there was that ghost ship tied up beside

it, waiting for an outgoing tide.

She boarded it for she knew it was how

Guigemar had left and now

it would take her as well. She would

have thrown herself overboard if she could,

but she was exhausted, an utter wreck,

and she collapsed upon the deck.

The vessel carried her, as we

might have expected, to Brittany

and either through fate or merely luck

to the fortified castle of Mariaduc.

Looking out of his window he

noticed the ship — a mystery

for there seemed to be no sailors aboard.

He summoned his chamberlain, took his sword,

and, in the brief inspection he made, he

found, of course, the beautiful lady

whom he led to his castle. He gave

her every comfort she might crave.

She was, he could see, of noble blood

and beautiful. She would be a good

wife and mother, he thought, and fell

in love with her. He had her dwell

in her own apartments in which she

had his sister for company.

She was richly dressed and fed with rare

dainties he had his cooks prepare.

He professed his love for her in many

ways but she did not pay any

heed to his declarations. Sad

and distracted, she told him at last

of the belt she wore that bound her fast

to another man — or it was both

the belt she had on and also the oath

she had taken. This news was not

at all welcome. He wondered what

was going on, for he’d had word

of a knight with a similarly absurd

constraint — a knot someone had made

in his shirt tail no one could undo.

“And I think that that someone was you.”

Hearing this, the lady sighed,

and her tears fell fast to make two wide

rivulets down her cheeks. But he

took no notice and brutally

undid the laces of her dress

to unfasten the belt, but without success.

In a fit of petulance he invited

others to try it, but no knight did

better. Each night after dinner

they played the game, but with never a winner.

There came in time a threat of war,

which Meriaduc was ready for,

but he proposed instead to hold

a tournament with brave and bold

knights of each side to joust and decide

the casus belli and take great pride

in what they’d done. From near and far

he invited knights, and Guigemar

was one of these. (He was promised a great

reward in order to compensate

him for his trouble.) With this went

every kind of compliment

and protestations of friendship. These

pleasant words and courtesies

brought Guigemar, accompanied by

a hundred knights, each ready to try

his luck and skill. Lodging them all

in a tower richly decked with all

kinds of tapestries, the host

welcomed them and gave a most

persuasive expression of gratitude.

He sent then for his sister, as you’d

expect, and the lady with her whom

he longed for. The two entered the room

hand in hand. Hearing his name

the lady almost fainted. The same

Guigemar? The name is rare.

How many other gentlemen bear

that odd cognomen? But then he spoke,

“Sweetheart! Darling! My heart broke

when I sailed away.” But can it be

she? The similarity

is great but how did she come here?

Is she an illusion as I fear?

Uncertain as he was, he guessed

that he might put her to the test

by sitting beside her. Casual chat

between them about this and that

would make it clear. He took a chair

close to her but a silent stare

was all he was able to get from her.

Meriaduc saw how they were

nonplussed, and said the knight should see

whether the woman beside him could be

the one to untie the challenging knot

in the tail of his shirt. On the spot

Guigemar ordered that it be brought

and given to the lady he thought

would be able to untie it, but she

was afraid and, full of misery,

refused even to try unless

Meriaduc permitted. “Yes,”

he said, “do what you can with it.”

Instantly, without a whit

of trouble, she untied the knot,

delighting Guigemar. But what

about the belt? If this was she,

she would have it still, and he

placed his hands on her hips to feel

for the belt. It was there, and she was real!

“Beloved,” he said, “my fondest dreams

are realized, for indeed it seems

that you are here beside me. Who

brought you here?” Her answer to

these questions you all know: how she

found herself at liberty,

went to drown herself but then

saw the ship. This best of men

had housed her here with all respect

and behaviour that was quite correct,

although he kept proposing to her

as constantly he tried to woo her.

But here was Guigemar, and she

at last was as happy as she could be.

Guigemar rose and said, “I implore

you, Meriaduc, to restore

my love to me. I shall be your

vassal for three years or four

with my hundred knights.” But the latter replied,

“I am not in need of vassals. I’d

rather keep her. I was the one

who found her and I declare that none

shall take her away from me.” But when

Guigemar heard this, he had his men

mount and ride away. With him

came other knights who took a dim

view of Meriaduc’s deportment.

They were a most impressive assortment

and they all went to join the foe

of Meriaduc — which meant, you know,

that the war was ended before it began.

But Guigemar, a determined man,

returned to Meriaduc to lay

siege to his town and in this way

force him to give the lady back.

Others appeared. There was no lack

of spirited knights to give him aid

in his cause. Their numbers made

an overwhelming force. Inside

the town many men and women died,

slowly starving to death. At last,

made desperate by the protracted fast,

and having lost heart as well as weight,

someone opened the main gate.

Guigemar stormed the castle and slew

its lord, as we would expect him to.

With joy he took his lady and their

troubles vanished into thin air.

With harp and zither this fine story

has come into the repertory.