Chapter VIII: Part 8

With these words the knight refrained from further speech, and turning himself again towards the altar took refuge in the holy liturgy, till the last prayer came to a close with the last chant. Then they got to horse, as was their bounden duty, and rode with speed towards that place where the lists were set for the great play. So, presently, the knights who were returning from the tournament, discomfited and overborne, met him who had carried off all the prizes of the game. They saluted the knight who was on his way from the Divine Offerings, and, joining themselves to his company, praised him to his face, affirming that never before had knight done such feats of arms as he had wrought that day, to his undying fame. Moreover many amongst them drew near and yielded themselves his captives, saying--

"We are your prisoners, for truly we may not deny that you have overthrown us in the field."

Then, taking thought, the knight was amazed no more, for quickly he perceived that She had been upon his business in the press, about whose business he had been within the chapel.

So he called these knights and his fellowship around him, and said right courteously--

"I pray you, one and all, to hearken to my words, for I have that to tell you which never has been heard of ears."

Then he told over to them, word for word, how that he had not jousted in the tournament, neither had broken lance nor hung shield about his neck, by reason of those Masses he had heard, but verily he believed that the Maiden, whom humbly he had besought within the chapel, had worn his harness in the lists. "Altogether lovely in my eyes is this tournament wherein She has done my devoir; but very foully shall I requite such gracious service if I seek another Lady, or in my folly return to the vanities of the world. Therefore I pledge my word to God in truth, that henceforth I will never fight, save in that tourney where He sits, the one true Judge, Who knows the loyal knight, and recompenses him according to his deeds."

Then he bade them farewell right piteously, and many of his company wept tenderly as they took their leave. But he, parting from them, went his way to an abbey, to become the servant of the Handmaid of the Lord, and to follow in that path which leadeth to a holy end.

So, clearly we may perceive from this ensample, that the gracious God, in Whom we put our faith, loves, cherishes, and delights to honour that man who gladly tarries before His holy altar at the offering of the Mass, and who willingly serves His Mother, so gentle and so dear. Of much profit is this custom, and he who is quiet in the land and wise, will always continue to walk in the way his feet were set in youth, yea, even to that time when he is old and grey-headed.

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRIES

A certain priest having need to go to market, caused his mare to be saddled and brought to his door. The mare had carried her master for two years, and was high and well nourished, for during these years never had she known thirst nor hunger, but of hay and of oats ever had she enough and to spare. The priest climbed to the saddle and set out upon his journey, and well I remember that it was the month of September, for in that season mulberries grow upon the bushes in great plenty and abundance. The priest rode upon his way repeating his hours, his matins and his vigils. As he drew near the gate of the town the path ran through a certain deep hollow, and raising his eyes from his book the priest marked a bush thick with mulberries, bigger, blacker and more ripe than any he had ever seen. Desire entered his heart, for very covetous was he of this fair fruit, and gradually checking the pace of his mare, he presently caused her to stand beside the bush. Yet one thing still was wanting to his delight. The mulberries near the ground were set about with spines and thorns, whilst the sweetest of all hung so high upon the tree that in no wise could he reach them from his seat. This thing the priest saw, so in a while he climbed up, and stood with his two feet upon the saddle, whence by leaning over a little he could pluck the fruit. Then he chose the fairest, the ripest, and the sweetest of all these mulberries, eating them as swiftly and greedily as he might, whilst the mare beneath him moved never a whit. Now, when this priest had eaten as many mulberries as he was able, he glanced downwards, and saw that the mare was standing still and coy, with her head turned towards the bank of that deep road. Thereat the priest rejoiced very greatly, for his two feet were yet upon the saddle, and the mare was very tall.

"God!" said he, "if any one now should cry 'Gee up!'" He thought and spoke the words at the same moment, whereat the mare was suddenly frighted, and springing forward on the instant tumbled the luckless priest into the bush where the thorns and briars grew sharpest and thickest. There he lay in that uneasy bed, nor might move from one side to the other, backwards or forwards, for all the money in the mint.

The mare galloped straight to her own stable, but when the priest's household saw her return in this fashion they were greatly discomforted. The servants cursed her for an evil and a luckless jade, whilst the cook maid swooned like any dame, for well she believed that her master was dead. When they were returned a little to themselves they ran to and fro, here and there, about the country searching for the priest, and presently on their way to the market town they drew near to that bush where their master yet lay in much misease. On hearing their words bewailing his piteous case, the priest raised a lamentable voice, and cried--

"Diva, Diva, do not pass me by. This bush is an uneasy bed, and here I lie very hurt and troubled and utterly cast down. Do you not see how my blood is staining these thorns and briars a vermeil red?"

The servants hurried to the bush, and stared upon the priest.

"Sir," said they, "who has flung you herein?"

"Alas," answered he, "'tis sin that has undone me. This morning when I rode this way reading in my Book of Hours, I desired over greatly to eat of the mulberries growing hereon, and so I fell into the sin of gluttony. Therefore this bush gat hold upon me. But help me forth from this place, for I wish now for no other thing but to have a surgeon for my hurts, and to rest in my own house."

Now by this little story we may learn that the prudent man does not cry aloud all he may think in his heart, since by so doing many an one has suffered loss and shame, as we may see by this fable of the Priest and the Mulberries.

THE STORY OF ASENATH

In the first of the seven years of great plenty Pharaoh sent forth Joseph to lay up corn, and gather food within the cities. So Joseph went out over all the land of Egypt, and came in the country of Heliopolis, where lived Poti-pherah, the priest, and chief counsellor of the great King. His daughter, Asenath, was the fairest of all the virgins of the earth; and seemed rather to be a daughter of Israel than an Egyptian. But Asenath was scornful and proud, and a despiser of men. No man of all the sons of men had seen her with his eyes, for she lodged within a strong tower, tall and wide, near by the habitation of Poti-pherah, the priest. Now high upon this tower were ten chambers. The first chamber was fair and great, and was builded of marble blocks of divers colours; the walls were of precious stones set in a chasing of gold, and the ceiling thereof was golden. There stood the gods of the Egyptians in metal of silver and gold, and Asenath bowed before them and offered sacrifice, every day of all the days. The second chamber was the habitation of Asenath, and was adorned cunningly with ornaments of gold and silver, with costly gems, and with arras and stuffs most precious. In the third chamber was brought together the wealth of all the world, and in that place also were set the aumbries of Asenath. Seven virgins, her fellows, lodged in the seven other chambers. They were very fair, and no man had spoken with them, nor any male child.

The chamber of Asenath was pierced with three windows; the first, which was very wide, looked towards the east, the second looked towards the south, and the third was set towards the north. Here was spread a couch of gold, covered with a purple coverlet, embroidered with golden thread, and hemmed with jacinths. There slept Asenath, with no bed-fellow, neither had man sat ever upon her bed. About this house was a goodly garden, closed round with a very strong wall, and entered by four iron gates. Each door had for warders eighteen men, very mighty and young, well armed and full of valour. At the right side of the garden sprang a fountain of living water, and near by the fountain a cistern which gave of this water to all the trees of the garden, and these trees bore much fruit. And Asenath was queenly as Sarah, gracious as Rebecca, and fair as Rachel.

_How Joseph rebuked Asenath because she worshipped idols._

Joseph sent a message to Poti-pherah that he would come to his house. So Poti-pherah rejoiced greatly, saying to his daughter, "Joseph, the friend of God, enters herein. I would give thee to him as his wife."

But Asenath was sore vexed when she heard these words, and said--

"No captive shall ever be my husband, but only the son of a king."

Whilst they spake thus together, a messenger came before them and cried, "Joseph is here"; so Asenath fled to her chamber high within the tower. Now Joseph was seated in Pharaoh's own chariot of beaten gold, and it was drawn by four horses, white as snow, with bridles and harness of gold. Joseph was clad in a vesture of fine linen, white and glistering, and his mantle was of purple, spun with gold. He wore a golden circlet upon his head, and in this crown were set twelve stones, most precious, each stone having for ornament a golden star. Moreover he held in his hand the royal sceptre, and an olive branch charged with fruit. Poti-pherah and his wife hastened to meet him, and bowed before him to the ground. They led him within the garden, and caused the doors to be shut. But when Asenath regarded Joseph from on high the tower, she repented her of the words she spoke concerning him, and said--

"Behold the sun and the chariot of the sun! Certainly this Joseph is the child of God; for what father could beget so fair an offspring, and what womb of woman could carry such light."

Joseph entered in the house of Poti-pherah, and whilst they washed his feet he asked what woman had looked forth from the window of the tower.

"Let her go forth from the house," he commanded.

This he said because he feared lest she should desire him, and should send him messages and divers gifts, even as other women of her nation, whom he had refused with holy indignation. But Poti-pherah replied--

"Sire, this is my daughter, who is a virgin, and hateth men; neither hath she seen any man save me, her father, and thyself this very day. If thou wilt, she shall come before thee and salute thee."

Then Joseph thought within himself, "Since she hateth man, she will not cast her eyes upon me." So he answered to her father--

"Since your daughter is a virgin, I will cherish her even as my sister."

Then her mother went out to seek Asenath, and brought her before Joseph.

"Salute thy brother," said Poti-pherah, "who hateth the strange woman, even as thou hatest man."

"God keep thee," replied Asenath, "for thou art blessed of God most high."

And Joseph answered, "May the God of life bless thee evermore."

Then commanded Poti-pherah that she should kiss Joseph; but as she drew near Joseph set his hand against her breast and said--

"It is not meet that a man who worships the living God, and eateth the bread of life and drinketh from the chalice without corruption, should embrace the strange woman, who bows down before deaf and dumb idols; who serves them with the kisses of her mouth; is anointed with their reprobate oil, and eats an accursed bread, and drinks unsanctified wine from their table."

_Of the penitence of Asenath, and of the consolation of an
angel; how he came from Heaven to the chamber of Asenath,
and spake with her and sweetly comforted her._

When Asenath heard Joseph speak these words she was sore vexed, even unto tears; wherefore Joseph took pity upon her and blessed her, laying his hand upon her head. Asenath rejoiced greatly at the benediction. She sought her bed, sick with fear and joy, and renounced the gods before whom she bowed, and humbled herself to the ground. So Joseph ate and drank, and when he rose to go Poti-pherah prayed him to tarry till the morrow; but he might not, and parted, having promised to return within eight days.

Then Asenath put on sad raiment, such as she wore at the death of her brother, and went clothed in a garment of heaviness. She closed the doors of her chamber upon her and wept. Moreover she flung forth all her idols by the window set towards the north; all the royal meat she gave to the dogs; she put dust upon her head, lay upon the ground, and lamented bitterly for seven days.

But the eighth morning, at the hour when the cock crows and the dogs howl at the breaking of the day, Asenath looked forth from the window giving to the east, and saw a star shining clear, and the heavens open, and there appeared a great light. She fell to earth with her face in the dust, and a man descended from the heavens and stood by her head, calling on her by her name. But Asenath answered nothing, because of the greatness of her fear. Then the man called her a second time, saying, "Asenath! Asenath!" and she replied--

"Lord, here am I. Tell me whom thou art."

And he said--

"I am Prince of the House of God and Captain of His Host. Rise, stand upon thy feet, for I have to speak with thee."

Then Asenath raised her head, and saw a man by her side who in all points was, as it were, Joseph. He was clad in a white stole, and bore the royal sceptre in his hand, and a crown was upon his brow. His face was as the lightning, his eyes as rays of the sun, and the hair of his head like a flame of fire. At the sight of him Asenath was sore afraid, and hid her face upon the ground. But the Angel raised her to her feet, and comforted her, saying--

"Put off this black raiment with which thou art clothed, and this girdle of sadness. Remove the sackcloth from thy body, and the dust from thine head; cleanse thy face and thy hands with living water, and adorn thee with fair apparel, for I have somewhat to say to thee."

So she adorned herself with speed, and when she came to him again he said--

"Asenath, take off this ornament from thine head, for thou art virgin. Rejoice, and be of good cheer, for thy name is written in the Book of Life, and shall never be taken away. Thou art born again this very day and quickened anew. For thou shalt receive the Bread of Blessing, and drink of the Wine without corruption; and be anointed with the Holy Chrism. Yea, I have given thee for wife to Joseph, and thou no more shall be called Asenath, but a name shall be given thee of fair refuge, for thy Penitance hath come before the High King, of whom she is the daughter, and thou shalt ever live before Him in mirth and gladness."

Then inquired she of the Angel his name, but he answered--

"My name is written by the finger of God in the Book of the most high King, but all that is written therein may not be told, neither is it proper for the hearing of mortal man."

_Of the table and of the honey that Asenath set before the
Angel, and how the Angel blessed Asenath._

But Asenath caught the angel by his mantle, and said--

"If I have found favour in thine eyes, sit for a little space upon this bed, where never man has sat, and I will spread the table before my lord."

And the Angel replied, "Do quickly."

So Asenath set a fair linen cloth upon the table, and put thereon new bread of a sweet savour. Then said the Angel--

"Give me also a little honey in the honeycomb."

So Asenath was grievously troubled because she had no honey to set before her guest. But the Angel comforted her, saying--

"Look within thine aumbrey, and thou shalt find withal to furnish thy table."

Then she hastened thereto, and found a store of virgin honey, white as snow, of sweetest savour. So she spake to the Angel--

"Sire, I had no honey, but thou spakest the word, and it is there, and the perfume thereof is as the breath of thy mouth."

The Angel smiled at the understanding of Asenath, and placed his hand upon her head, and said--

"Blessed be thou, O Asenath, because thou hast forsaken thy idols, and believed in our living Lord. Yea, blessed are they whom Penitence bringeth before Him, for they shall eat of this honey gathered by the bees of Paradise from the dew of the roses of Heaven; and those who eat thereof shall never see death, but shall live for evermore."

Then the Angel stretched forth his hand and took of the honeycomb and break it; and he ate a little, and gave the rest to the mouth of Asenath, saying--

"This day hast thou eaten of the Bread of Life, and art anointed with the Holy Chrism. Beauty is given thee for ashes; for virtue shall never go from thee, neither shall thy youth wither, nor thy fairness fail; but thou shalt be as the strong city builded as a refuge for the children of our Lord, Who is King for ever more."

Then the Angel touched the honeycomb, and it became unbroken as before. Again he stretched forth his hand, and with his finger signed the cross thereon, and there where his finger touched came forth blood. So he spake to Asenath, and said--

"Behold this honey!"

Whilst she gazed thereon, she saw bees come forth from that honey, some white as snow, others vermeil as jacinths, and they gathered about her, and set virgin honey in the palm of her hand; and she ate thereof, and the Angel with her.

"Bees," said the Angel, "return now to your own place."

So they passed through that window which gave upon the east, and took their way to Paradise.

"Faithful as these bees are the words which I have spoken."

Then the Angel put forth his hand three times, and touched the honey, and fire came forth and consumed the honey without singeing the table, and the perfume which came from the honey and the fire was very sweet.

_Of the blessing of the seven maidens, and of the marriage of Asenath, as set forth in the story._

Asenath said to the Angel--

"Lord, I have with me seven virgins, born in one night, and nourished with me from my childhood until now. I will seek them, and thou shalt bless them, even as thou hast blessed me."

So she brought them before him, and he blessed them, saying--

"May the most high God bless you, and make you to be seven strong columns of the City of Refuge."

Afterwards he bade Asenath to carry forth the table, and whilst she went about her task, the Angel vanished from her eyes. But looking towards the east she saw, as it were, a chariot drawn by four horses ascending towards Heaven. So Asenath prayed to God right humbly that He would pardon the boldness with which she had spoken to the Captain of His Host.

Whilst she prayed thus a messenger came to Poti-pherah saying that Joseph, the friend of God, sought his house, and was even then at his door. Asenath hastened to meet him, and awaited his coming before the offices of the house. When Joseph entered the garden she bowed herself before him, and washed the dust from his feet, telling him the words which the Angel had spoken concerning her. The next day Joseph prayed Pharaoh that he might have Asenath to wife, and Pharaoh gave him the woman. He set also garlands of gold upon their heads, the fairest that cunning smiths could fashion, and caused them to embrace in the sight of men. So for seven days was kept high feast and festival, nor might any man labour for those days. He also gave them new names, calling Joseph, the Son of God, and Asenath, Daughter of the Most High King.

Before the time of the seven lean years Asenath bore two sons. And Joseph called the name of the firstborn Manasseh, which is to say Forgetfulness; "For," said he, "God hath made me to forget all my toil, and all my father's house." And the name of the second was called Ephraim, which is to say Fruitfulness; "For," said he, "God hath caused me to be fruitful in the land of my affliction."

THE PALFREY

That men may bear in mind the fair deeds that woman has done, and to tell of her sweetness and frankness, this tale is here written. For very right it is that men should hold in remembrance the excellent virtues that can so easily be perceived in her. But grievous is it, and very heavy to me, that all the world does not laud and praise women to the height which is their due. Ah, God, if but they kept their hearts whole and unspotted, true and strong, the world would not contain so rich a treasure. The greater pity and sorrow, then, that they take not more heed to their ways, and that so little stay and stability are to be found in them. Too often the heart of a woman seems but a weathercock upon a steeple, whirled about in every wind that blows; so variable is woman's heart, and more changeable than any wind. But the story that I have taken upon me to narrate shall not remain untold because of the fickle-hearted, nor for reason of those who grudge praise to the frank and pure; therefore, give ear to this Lay of the Marvellous Palfrey.

Once upon a time a certain knight, courteous and chivalrous, rich of heart, but poor in substance, had his dwelling in the county of Champagne. So stout of heart was this lord, so wise in counsel, and so compact of honour and all high qualities, that had his fortune been equal to his deserts he would have had no peer amongst his fellows. He was the very pattern of the fair and perfect knight, and his praise was ever in the mouth of men. In whatever land he came he was valued at his proper worth, since strangers esteemed him for the good that was told of him, and rumour but increased his renown. When he had laced the helmet on his head, and ridden within the lists, he did not court the glances of the dames, nor seek to joust with those who were of less fame than he, but there where the press was thickest he strove mightily in the heart of the stour. In the very depths of winter he rode upon his horse, attired in seemly fashion (since in dress may be perceived the inclinations of the heart) and this although his substance was but small. For the lands of this knight brought him of wealth but two hundred pounds of rent, and for this reason he rode to tourneys in hope of gain as well as in quest of honour.

This knight had set all his earthly hope and thoughts on gaining the love of a certain noble lady. The father of the damsel was a puissant Prince, lacking nought in the matter of wealth, and lord of a great house furnished richly as his coffers. His fief and domain were fully worth one thousand pounds a year, and many an one asked of him his fair daughter in marriage, because her exceeding beauty was parcel of the loveliness of the world. The Prince was old and frail; he had no other child than the maiden, and his wife had long been dead. His castle was builded in a deep wood, and all about it stretched the great forest, for in the days of my tale Champagne was a wilder country then than now.

The gentle knight who had set his heart on the love of the fair lady was named Messire William, and he lived within the forest in an ancient manor some two miles from the palace of the Prince. In their love they were as one, and ever they fondly dreamed one upon the other; but the Prince liked the matter but little, and had no mind that they should meet. So when the knight would gaze upon the face of his mistress, he went secretly by a path that he had worn through the profound forest, and which was known of none save him. By this path he rode privily on his palfrey, without gossip or noise, to visit the maiden, many a time. Yet never might these lovers see each other close, however great was their desire, for the wall of the courtyard was very high, and the damsel was not so hardy as to issue forth by the postern. So for their solace they spoke together through a little gap in the wall, but ever between them was the deep and perilous fosse, set thickly about with hedges of thorn and spine, so that never closer might they meet. The castle of the Prince was builded upon a high place, and was strongly held with battlement and tower; moreover bridge and portcullis kept his door. The ancient knight, worn by years and warfare, seldom left his lodging, for he might no longer get him to horse. He lived within his own house, and ever would have his daughter seated at his side, to cheer his lonely age with youth. Often this thing was grievous to her, for she failed to come to that fair spot where her heart had taken root. But the brave knight in nowise forgot the road that he had worn, and asked for nothing more than to see her somewhat closer with his eyes.

Now the tale tells that in spite of his poverty the knight owned one thing that was marvellously rich. The palfrey on which he rode had not his like in all the world. It was grey and of a wonderful fair colour, so that no flower was so bright in semblance, nor did any man know of so beautiful a steed. Be assured that not in any kingdom could be discovered so speedy a horse, nor one that carried his rider so softly and so surely. The knight loved his palfrey very dearly, and I tell you truly that in nowise would he part with him for any manner of wealth, though the rich folk of that country, and even from afar, had coveted him for long. Upon this fair palfrey Messire William went often to his lady, along the beaten path through the solitary forest, known but to these two alone. Right careful was he to keep this matter from the father of the demoiselle; and thus, though these two lovers had such desire one of the other, they might not clasp their arms about the neck, nor kiss, nor embrace, nor for their solace, even, hold each other by the hand. Nought could they do but speak, and hearken softly to such sweet words, for well they knew that should the old Prince know thereof, very swiftly would he marry his daughter to some rich lord.

Now the knight considered these things within himself, and day by day called to remembrance the wretched life that was his, for he might not put the matter from his mind. So at the end he summoned all his courage, and for weal or woe resolved that he would go to the aged Prince and require of him his daughter for his wife, let that betide what may. For very clear it was to him that such a life he could not lead for every day of the week. On a certain day he made himself ready, and repaired to the castle where the demoiselle dwelt with her father. He was welcomed very gladly by the Prince and his company, for he was esteemed a courteous and gentle knight, and bragged of by all men as a valiant gentleman, who was lacking in no good qualities.

"Sire," said the knight, "I ask you of your grace to listen to my words. I enter in your house to crave of you such a gift as may God put it in your heart to bestow."

The old man looked upon him fixedly, and afterwards inquired--

"What is it you would have? Tell me now, for by my faith I will aid you if I may, yet in all things saving my honour."

"Yea, sire, very easily you may do this thing, if so you please. May God but grant that such is your pleasure."

"I will grant you the gift if it seems to me well, and I will refuse you the boon if it seems to me ill. Nothing will you get from me, neither gift, nor promise, nor blame, that it is not fitting for me to bestow."

"Sire," answered he, "I will tell you the gift I crave at your hand. You know who I am, and right well you knew my father. Well, too, you know my manor and my household, and all those things wherein I take my pleasure and delight. In guerdon of my love, I pray--so it may please you, sire--your daughter as my wife. God grant that my prayer may not disturb your heart, and that my petition may not be refused to my shame. For I will not hide from you that although I am not of her fellowship, yet have I spoken from afar with my demoiselle, and perceived those fair virtues which all men praise. Greatly is my lady loved and esteemed in these parts, for truly there is not her like in all the world. I have been too rash, since I have dared to require so gracious a gift, but so you deign to give to my asking, joyous and merry shall I go for all my days. Now have I told you my petition; so answer me according to my hope and your good pleasure."

The old man had no need for counsel in this matter, so without delay he made answer to the knight--

"I have heard with patience what you had to tell. Certes, and without doubt, my daughter is fair, and fresh, and pure, and a maiden of high descent. For myself, I am a rich vavasour, and come of noble ancestry, having fief and land worth fully one thousand pounds each year in rent. Think you I am so besotted as to give my daughter to a knight who lives by play! I have no child but one, who is close and dear to my heart, and after I am gone all my wealth will be hers. She shall wed no naked man, but in her own degree; for I know not any prince of this realm, from here even to Lorraine, however wise and brave, of whom she would not be more than worthy. It is not yet a month agone since such a lord as this prayed her at my hand. His lands were worth five hundred pounds in rent, and right willingly would he have yielded them to me, had I but hearkened to his suit. But my daughter can well afford to wait, for I am so rich that she may not easily lose her price, nor miss the sacrament of marriage. Too high is this fruit for your seeking, for there is none in this realm, nor from here to Allemaigne, however high his race, who shall have her, save he be count or king."

The knight was all abashed at these proud words. He did not wait for further shame, but took his leave, and went as speedily as he might. But he knew not what to do, for Love, his guide, afflicted him very grievously, and bitterly he complained him thereof. When the maiden heard of this refusal, and was told the despiteful words her father had spoken, she was grieved in her very heart, for her love was no girl's light fancy, but was wholly given to the knight, far more than any one can tell. So when the knight--yet heavy and wrathful--came to the accustomed trysting place to speak a little to the maiden, each said to the other what was in the mind. There he opened out to her the news of his access to her father, and of the disaccord between the twain.

"Sweet my demoiselle," said the knight, "what is there to do? It seems better to me to quit my home, and to dwell henceforth amongst strangers in a far land, for my last hope is gone. I may never be yours, neither know I how these things will end. Cursed be the great wealth with which your father is so puffed up. Better had it been that you were not so rich a dame, for he would have looked upon my poverty with kinder eyes if his substance were not so great."

"Certes," answered she, "very gladly would I be no heiress, but only simple maid, if all things were according to my will. Sire, if my father took heed only to your good qualities, by my faith he would not pain himself to prevent your coming to me. If he but weighed your little riches in the balance against your great prowess, right soon would he conclude the bargain. But his heart cannot be moved: he does not wish what I would have, nor lament because I may wring my hands. If he accorded with my desire, right speedily would this matter be ended. But age and youth walk not easily together, for in the heart is the difference between the old and young. Yet so you do according to my device, you shall not fail to gain what you would have."

"Yea, demoiselle, by my faith, I will not fail herein; so tell me now your will."

"I have determined on a thing to which I have given thought many a time and oft. Very surely you remember that you have an uncle who is right rich in houses and in goods. He is not less rich than my father; he has neither child, wife nor brother, nor any kindred of his blood nearer than you. Well is it known that all his wealth is yours when he is dead, and this in treasure and in rent is worth sixty marks of virgin gold. Now go to him without delay, for he is old and frail; tell him that between my father and yourself is such a business that it may not come to a good end unless he help therein. But that if he would promise you three hundred pounds of his land, and come to require grace of my father, very soon can the affair be ended. For my father loves him dearly, and each counts the other an honourable man. Your uncle holds my father as prudent and wise: they are two ancient gentlemen, of ripe years, and have faith and affiance the one in the other. Now if for love of you your uncle would fairly seek my father and speak him thus, 'I will deliver to my nephew three hundred pounds of my lands, so that you give him your child,' why, the marriage will be made. I verily believe that my father would grant your uncle his request, if only he would ask me of him. And when we are wedded together, then you can render again to your uncle all the land that he has granted you. And so sweetly do I desire your love, that right pleasing I shall find the bargain."

"Fairest," cried the knight, "verily and truly there is nothing I crave in comparison with your love; so forthwith I will find my uncle, and tell him this thing."

The knight bade farewell, and went his way, yet thoughtful and bewildered and sad, by reason of the shame which had been put upon him. He rode at adventure through the thick forest upon his grey palfrey. But as he rode fear left him, and peace entered in his heart, because of the honest and wise counsel given him by the fair maiden. He came without hindrance to Medet, where his uncle had his dwelling, but when he was entered into the house he bewailed his lot, and showed himself all discomforted. So his uncle took him apart into a privy chamber, and there he opened out his heart, and made plain to him all this business.

"Uncle," said he, "if you will do so much as to speak to her sire, and tell him that you have granted me three hundred pounds of your land, I will make this covenant with you, and plight you my faith, my hand in yours, that when I have wedded her who is now denied me, that I will render again and give you quittance for your land. Now I pray that you will do what is required of you."

"Nephew," answered the uncle, "this I will do willingly, since it pleases me right well. By my head, married you shall be, and to the pearl of all the country, for good hope have I to bring this matter to an end."

"Uncle," said the knight, "put your hand to my task, and so press on with the business that time may go swiftly to the wedding. For my part I will arm me richly, and ride to the tournament at Galardon, where, by the aid of God, I trust to gain such ransom as will be helpful to me. And I pray you to use such diligence that I may be married on my return."

"Fair nephew, right gladly," answered he, "for greatly it delights me that so gracious and tender a lady shall be your bride."

So without further tarrying Messire William went his way, merry of heart because of his uncle's promise that without let he should have as wife that maid whom so dearly he desired. For of other happiness he took no heed. Thus blithe and gay of visage he rendered him to the tournament, as one who had no care in all the world.

On the morrow, very early in the morning, the uncle got to horse, and before the hour of prime came to the rich mansion of that old Prince, and of her whose beauty had no peer. He was welcomed with high observance, for the ancient lord loved him very dearly, seeing that they were both of the same years, and were rich and puissant princes, near neighbours in that land. Therefore he rejoiced greatly that one so high in station did honour to his house, and spread before him a fair banquet, with many sweet words, for the old Prince was frank and courteous of heart, and knew to praise meetly where honour was due. When the tables were cleared, the two spake together of old faces and old stories, shields, and swords and spears, and of many a doughty deed, in the most loving fashion. But the uncle of the good knight would not forget his secret thought, and presently discovered it to the Prince in saying--

"What go I now to tell you? I love you very truly, as you may easily perceive. I am come to require a favour at your hand. May God put it into your heart to lend your ear to my prayer in such a fashion that the matter may be brought to a right fair end."

"By my head," answered the old Prince, "you are so near to my heart that you are not likely to be refused aught that you may ask of me. Tell me, that I may grace you with the gift."

"Sire, thanks and thanks again, for I would do the same by you," returned the uncle of the knight, who no longer cared to hide his privy mind. "I am come to pray of you, fair sire, the hand of your virtuous maid in marriage. When we once were wed I would endow her with my wealth to the utmost of my power. You know well that I have no heir of my body, which troubles me sorely; and I will keep good faith with you herein, for I am he who loves you dearly. When your daughter is bestowed upon me, it would not be my care to separate father and child, nor to withdraw my wealth from yours, but all our substance should be as one, and we would enjoy together in common that which God has given us."

When he whose heart was crafty heard these words, he rejoiced greatly, and made reply--

"Sire, I will give her to you right gladly, for you are a loyal and an honourable man. I am more content that you have required her of me than if the strongest castle of these parts had been rendered to my hand. To none other in the world would I grant my maid so willingly as to you, for you are prudent and hardy, and many a time have I proved ere now that I may have confidence in your faith."

Then was promised and betrothed the damsel to a husband of whom she had little envy, for she was persuaded that another had asked her as his wife. When the maiden knew the truth thereof she was altogether amazed and sorrowful, and often she swore by St. Mary that never should she be wedded of him. Right heavy was she, and full of tears, and grievously she lamented her fate.

"Alas, unhappy wretch, for now I am dead. What foul treason has this old traitor done, for which he justly should be slain! How shamefully he has deceived that brave and courteous knight, whose honour is untouched by spot. By his wealth this aged, ancient man has bought me at a price. May God requite it to his bosom, for he purposes to commit a great folly, since the day we are wed he takes his mortal foe to wife. How may I endure that day! Alas, may God grant that I shall never see that hour, for too great is the anguish that I suffer because of this treason. If I were not fast in prison, right swiftly would I get quit of this trouble, but nought is there for me to do, since in no wise can I flee from this manor. So stay I must, and suffer as my father wills, but truly my pain is more than I can bear. Ah, God, what will become of me, and when shall he return who so foully is betrayed. If he but knew the trick his uncle has set on him, and how, too, I am taken in the snare, well I know that he would die of grief. Ah, if he but knew! Sure I am that he would ride with speed, and that soon these great woes would be as they had never been. Too sorely is my heart charged with sorrow, and better I love to die than to live. Alas, that this old man ever should cast his thought upon me, but none may deliver me now, for my father loves him because of his wealth. Fie on age! Fie upon riches! Never may bachelor wed with loving maid save he have money in his pouch. Cursed be the wealth which keeps me from him wherein I have my part, for truly my feet are caught in a golden net."

In this wise the maiden bewailed her lot, by reason of her great misease. For so sweetly was her heart knit in the love of her fair bachelor, that in nowise might she withdraw her thoughts from him. Therefore she held in the more despite him to whom her father had given her. Old he was, very aged, with a wrinkled face, and red and peering eyes. From Chalons to Beauvais there was no more ancient knight than he, nor from there to Sens a lord more rich, for that matter. But all the world held him as pitiless and felon; whilst so beautiful and brave was the lady, that men knew no fairer heiress, nor so courteous and simple a maiden, no, not within the Crown of France. How diverse were these twain. On one side was light, and on the other darkness; but there was no spot in the brightness, and no ray within the dark. But the less grief had been hers had she not set her love on so perilous a choice.

Now he to whom the damsel was betrothed, because of his exceeding content, made haste to appoint some near day for the wedding. For he knew little that she was as one distraught by reason of the great love she bore his nephew, as you have heard tell. So her father made all things ready, very richly, and when the third day was come he sent letters to the greybeards, and to those he deemed the wisest of that land, bidding them to the marriage of his daughter, who had bestowed her heart elsewhere. Since he was well known to all the country round, a great company of his friends came together to the number of thirty, to do honour to his house, since not one of them but owed him service for his lands. Then it was accorded between them that the demoiselle should be wedded early on the morrow, and her maidens were bidden to prepare their lady for the wedding on the appointed day and hour. But very wrathful and troubled in heart were the maidens by reason of this thing.

The Prince inquired of the damsels if his daughter was fitly arrayed against her marriage, and had content therein, or was in need of aught that it became her state to have.

"Nothing she needs, fair sire," made answer one of her maidens, "so far as we can see; at least so that we have palfreys and saddles enow to carry us to the church, for of kinsfolk and of cousins are a many near this house."

"Do not concern yourself with the palfreys," replied the Prince, "for I trow we shall have to spare. There is not a lord bidden to the wedding whom I have not asked to lend us from his stables."

Then, making no further tarrying, he returned to his own lodging, with peace and confidence in his heart.

Messire William, that brave and prudent knight, had little thought that this marriage was drawing so near its term. But Love held him so fast that he made haste to return, for ever the remembrance of her face was before his eyes. Since love flowered so sweetly within his heart, he parted from the tournament in much content, for he deemed that he rode to receive the gift he desired beyond all the world. Such he hoped was the will of God, and such the end of the adventure. Therefore he awaited in his manor, with what patience he might, the fair and pleasant tidings his uncle must presently send him, to hasten to the spousal of his bride. Since he had borne off all the prizes of the tourney, he bade a minstrel to his hall, and sang joyously to the playing of the viol. Yet, though all was revelry and merriment, often he looked towards the door to see one enter therein with news. Much he marvelled when the hour would bring these welcome words, and often he forgot to mark the newest refrains of the minstrel, because his thoughts were otherwhere. At the time hope was growing sick a varlet came into the courtyard. When Messire William saw him the heart in his breast leaped and fluttered for joy.

"Sire," said the varlet, "God save you. My lord, your friend, whom well you know, has sent me to you in his need. You have a fair palfrey, than which none goes more softly in the world. My lord prays and requires of you that for love of him you will lend him this palfrey, and send it by my hand forthwith."

"Friend," answered the knight, "for what business?"

"Sire, to carry his lady daughter to the church, who is so dainty-sweet and fair."

"For what purpose rides she to church?"

"Fair sire, there to marry your uncle to whom she is betrothed. Early to-morrow morn my lady will be brought to the ancient chapel deep within the forest. Hasten, sire, for already I tarry too long. Lend your palfrey to your uncle and my lord. Well we know that it is the noblest horse within the realm, as many a time has been proved."

When Messire William heard these words--

"God," said he, "then I am betrayed by him in whom I put my trust; to whom I prayed so much to help me to my hope. May the Lord God assoil him never for his treasonable deed. Yet scarcely can I believe that he has done this wrong. It is easier to hold that you are telling me lies."

"Well, you will find it truth to-morrow at the ringing of prime; for already is gathered together a company of the ancient lords of these parts."

"Alas," said he, "how, then, am I betrayed and tricked and deceived."

For a very little Messire William would have fallen swooning to the earth, had he not feared the blame of his household. But he was so filled with rage and grief that he knew not what to do, nor what to say. He did not cease lamenting his evil case till the varlet prayed him to control his wrath.

"Sire, cause the saddle to be set forthwith on your good palfrey, so that my lady may be carried softly to the church."

Then Messire William considered within himself to know whether he should send his grey palfrey to him whom he had cause to hate more than any man.

"Yea, without delay," said he, "since she who is the soul of honour has nothing to do with my trouble. My palfrey shall bear her gladly, in recompense of the favours she has granted me, for naught but kindness have I received of her. Never shall I have of her courtesies again, and all my joy and happiness are past. Now must I lend my palfrey to the man who has betrayed me to my death, since he has robbed me of that which I desired more than all the world. No man is bound to return love for treason. Very rash is he to require my palfrey of me, when he scrupled not to take the sweetness, the beauty and the courtesy with which my demoiselle is endowed. Alas, now have I served her in vain, and my long hope is altogether gone. No joy in my life is left, save to send her that thing which it breaks my heart to give. Nevertheless, come what may, my palfrey shall go to the most tender of maidens. Well I know that when she sets her eyes upon him she will bethink her of me; of me and of my love, for I love and must love her all the days of my life, yea, though she has given her heart to those who have wounded mine. But sure am I that this thing is not seemly to her, for Cain, who was brother to Abel, wrought no fouler treason."