III. Le Fresne 
I shall tell you the lay of Le Fresne
or, if you’ve heard it, tell it again.
There lived in Brittany in the past
two knights, neighbours, and, if not fast
friends, then friendly. Both had much
wealth and were worthy and valiant, with such
qualities as knights display.
Both were recently married and they
lived in amity, till one day
one of the wives conceived and then
gave birth to two sons. Thank God, and Amen.
Full of joy the father sent
word to his neighbour of friendly intent —
to ask that he be godfather to one
who would bear his name as his godson.
The messenger knelt as he brought word
to the knight who, as soon as he heard,
offered the messenger a fine steed
as a token of thanks and wished him Godspeed.
The wife, however, an envious, proud
and deceitful woman, wondered aloud
that this was a shame and blot upon
the neighbour’s honour. To father a son
is a splendid thing, but no woman can
give birth to twin sons of one man,
and it followed that there would have to be
a question about their paternity.
The husband was taken aback. He glared
at his wife to whom he at once declared,
“The lady’s reputation is
unblemished, and to speak like this
is wicked.” All the servants heard
their master’s disapproval, and word
of his remarks immediately
spread throughout all Brittany
in which all women, rich and poor,
were either roused to anger or
contempt that in their bosoms burned.
The messenger, when he returned
to the knight, his master, made a short,
precise, and accurate report
of what he’d heard. The knight was sad,
felt betrayed, and wished he had
been less trusting. Had she done wrong?
Had his wife deceived him all along?
She had been utterly blameless, but he
confined her now under lock and key
and appointed faithful servants to keep
watch over her both awake and asleep.
That same year, the neighbour who had
for mischievous reasons started the bad
rumor discovered that, for her sins,
she had conceived and was bearing twins,
girls as it happened, but even so,
the words she had said not long ago
remained to indict her. Who could dream
of such a reversal? Honour, esteem . . .
all gone — because of her jest
(to which the woman had never confessed)
about how twins were proof that she
had indulged in some promiscuity.
Retribution was only fair,
except that her husband would have a share
that he did not deserve in her disgrace.
What could she do to save his face?
She decided that she could murder one
of the babies and, when that was done,
make amends to God. This would
maintain her repute as a loyal and good
wife. What other way could she
avoid the smirks and calumny?
Her serving women were horrified
by the prospect of this infanticide
and wept bitterly in the hope
that she might find other ways to cope
with her difficulty. One lady in waiting
suggested a way of extricating
herself: “Give one of the children to me,
and I’ll take her away. You’ll never see
the girl again or undergo
slanders. There is a church I know
to which I shall take her and there God can
find for her some worthy man
to care for her and treat her well.
The lady thanked the mademoiselle
and offered her a reward if she
could perform this act of charity.
They swaddled the child in a piece of fine
linen, and then, providing a sign
to the world of the baby’s noble birth,
wrapped her in a brocade of great worth
from Constantinople. One more thing:
tied by a piece of ribbon, a ring
made of an ounce of gold and set
with a large ruby in a baguette
cut. Its band was inscribed with small
letters — as we shall have cause to recall.
That night, when darkness had fallen, the maid
took the baby and, unafraid,
followed a path that led into
a wood she had to travel through
to get to the town on the other side
and its abbey where pious nuns abide.
Large it was and well endowed,
and the sisters and their abbess were proud
of their good works. This was her aim,
and by the time the sun rose she came
to the outskirts of the town with farms
from which watchdogs sounded alarms.
She reached the abbey and at the door
knelt down with the infant to implore
God for his mercy by which he might keep
safe the child who lay asleep
in its little bundle. Close by there stood
an ash tree that would be a good
safe place to deposit the child,
protected from roving packs of wild
dogs. In the tree, she could be hidden
away but not too well. As bidden,
she left the child and returned to tell
her mistress how all things were well.
A porter, at dawn of the following day,
readied the abbey for people to pray,
lighting the candles, ringing the bells,
and paying attention to whatever else
had to be done in the church. At last
he opened the doors and as he cast
his eyes about he happened to see
the bundle someone had put in the tree.
A penitent thief returning what
he had stolen — his gains ill got?
The cautious porter went to look
more closely and found there in the crook
of a branch the baby. Thank God! He
carried it home with him carefully
to his widowed daughter suckling her
newborn child — so that they were
able to help the foundling. The porter
appealed to the kindness of his daughter,
who cradled the infant in her arm,
bathed her, dried her so she would be warm,
and gave her mother’s milk. The poor thing
was hungry! When they found the ring
and the fine brocade they were impressed
and not unreasonably they guessed
that she had come from nobility.
Therefore the porter went to see
the abbess after she’d said her prayers
to inform the lady of these affairs
and seek her advice. The abbess thought
he had done well so far but ought
to bring it to her for her first hand
inspection. The porter, at her command
fetched the child. The abbess took
her into her arms and at first look
decided to raise her herself. “She’ll be
my niece, we’ll say. Do you agree?”
The porter promised his silence, and then
the abbess said, “We’ll name her “Le Fresne,”
for the ash tree in which she was put.
But whatever happens, keep your mouth shut.”
The girl grew up in the abbey’s pleasant
lands. It was clear that she was no peasant,
but, graceful, charming, and quick to learn,
showed breeding one could at once discern.
At length she grew to the age when Nature
transforms young girls, giving them stature
and beauty, to which she also brought
a talent for speaking that she’d been taught
by the sisters who were devoted
to her, for on her each one doted.
There was in the nearby town of Dol
a knight named Gurun, a noble soul,
who heard reports of this demoiselle
of whom so many spoke so well.
This was more than enough to pique
his curiosity — he would seek
an audience with her on his journey
back from an impending tourney.
The abbess was happy enough to show
her prize pupil off who was so
intelligent and even wise,
as he saw in her lovely eyes.
He was smitten but also aware
that if he dallied too long there
or returned too often the abbess might
tighten the reins that were already tight
and he might never again be allowed
to see her. That thought was a cloud
marring an otherwise azure sky.
But Gurun devised a plan whereby
he might establish himself as a great
benefactor, enlarge their estate,
and in return would be given his
own rooms in the premises,
where he could come and go as he
liked with all impunity.
There would be no unseemly grins
for a gift like this for remission of sins.
This arrangement allowed him free
access and the liberty
to speak to the girl whenever the whim
crossed his mind or prompted him.
Interest, attraction, and then passion
possessed him in the usual fashion,
Then, as sometimes can occur,
reciprocal feelings were roused in her.
At last, when he thought the time was right
to speak to the girl forthrightly, the knight
took her hand in his and declared
that he adored her and thought she cared
for him as well. She said she did.
He then said it was time to bid
farewell to the abbey to consummate
their love. “If you should hesitate
you might in time conceive and be
an embarrassment for the nunnery.
We ought not risk offending your
aunt whom I know you adore.
I shall love you and I swear
that you shall be as happy there
in my castle as you have been here
in this otherworldly atmosphere.
It was flattering to be thus addressed
by a great knight whom she loved as the best
of men. She also was excited
to see this world he had invited
her to explore with him and share.
Agreeing to follow him anywhere,
she fetched her brocade and the gold
ring she had from the abbess who told
the story of how these were with her when she
was found on a branch of that ash tree
for whom she’d been named. These relics were
puzzling mementos of her
previous life and she put them in
a casket, setting out to begin
yet another life she could
not imagine. The knight was good
and kind and loved her as did also
his companions and servants from high to low.
But some of the other knight and peers
disapproved and into his ears
there came whispers of those who thought
his life was improper and that he ought
to marry a woman of noble line
who could give him an heir, as a concubine
could never do. To them, it was clear
that he wasn’t behaving as a peer
must do. To press him on this question
they made a more specific suggestion
about a worthy man who had
a suitable daughter, not at all bad
looking, and also rich. His heir,
she would bring with her a clear
title to many hectares of land,
woods and pastures that her hand
would put in his. Her name, they said,
was La Codre, and they urged him to wed
this sensible paragon and put by
his present woman. With a sly
play on the names, they said that he
must bear in mind that the hazel tree —
la codre — bears fruit, but ash trees can’t.
A man can’t always do as he’d want
and finally Gudrun had to yield
to these demands. What was concealed
from all of them was how the two
girls were twins (even though you
may have already intuited this).
La Fresne did not even take it amiss
when the other young lady arrived to be
married to Gudrun. Amazingly, she
continued there as a servant might
as a part of the household of the knight.
The only words of doubt were those
of the bride’s mother who had to suppose
that there might be friction between the two
women, and she expressed the view
that Gudrun should marry her off and be
rid of her so that tranquility
might be maintained in his household.
Le Fresne, however, was good as gold
and welcomed and waited upon the bride,
whatever she might have felt inside.
The whole court was astonished to see
how generous a young woman could be,
and even the bride’s mother (hers too)
was amazed and wished that she might undo
her demand that Le Fresne be sent away.
On the evening before the wedding day
Le Fresne and others went to prepare
the bridal chamber with every care.
As they worked, she supervised
their labors with attentive eyes,
and when she saw them making the bed
she interrupted and shook her head.
The bed linen was dull and not
pretty enough. She cared a lot
about her lord, so she remade
the bed with a coverlet of her brocade
to honour him and wish them both
well as they came to plight their troth.
The Archbishop of Dol appeared
at the bedside to ask God’s blessing.
The bride in another room was dressing
and now with her mother entered the room.
The mother in the relative gloom
(only a few candles were lit)
glanced at the bed, then stared at it.
The brocade was familiar. She
had given a piece of it once to be
a token of her love for the twin
she had given away — a sin
she had regretted with bitter tears
she had been shedding now for years.
She asked the major domo from whom
the fabric had come. “I must assume
the master’s lady brought it here
to give the room a touch of cheer.”
She asked the girl then, who told her that
it was from the abbess who’d told her not
to lose it. “And there was another thing
she gave me with it — a golden ring.”
The mother asked if she might see
the jewel. At first suspiciously
she studied it and she realized
with certainty what she’d surmised.
“You are my daughter!” she managed to say
before she fainted dead away.
When she recovered she asked that her
husband be summoned instanter.
He hurried to her, and on her knees
she offered her apologies
and begged him to pardon her if he could.
He had supposed all things were good
and could not imagine what she had done
either to him or to anyone.
“You have my pardon,” he said. “But for what
I’ve no idea. What fault have you got
to confess to me?” She told him at once
about the neighbour who’d had two sons
and how she had slandered the woman and then
was all too nicely punished when
she became pregnant with girl twins.
One she sent away and since
then has regretted the evil thing
she did. She mentioned the gold ring
and the piece of brocade by which they could see
that their long-lost daughter was she.
This is the damsel with whom the knight
fell in love, although in spite
of his affection for her he is wed
to our other daughter instead.
He could have been angry but the lord
seemed pleased and for concord
and peace all around he sent for the knight
and archbishop to set things right,
which both of them were pleased to do.
The archbishop suggested a way
to dissolve the marriage the following day
when Gurun could marry the one he had first
loved until he had been coerced
to make this match that was said to be better.
The father was delighted and let her
be heiress to half of his estate.
After this wedding he, his spouse,
and his other daughter returned to their house.
La Codre not long afterwards made
a rich marriage — and this time stayed
happily married. Again and again
the vicissitudes of our Le Fresne
have been told by firesides and they
are what I offer you now as my lay.