Chapter IX: Part 9

In this manner the knight bewailed his heavy sorrow. Then he caused a saddle to be set upon the palfrey, and calling the servitor delivered the horse to his keeping. So the varlet forthwith went upon his way.

Messire William, yet heavy and wrathful, shut himself fast within his chamber to brood upon his grief. He charged his household that if there was a man so bold as to seek to hearten him in his sorrow he would cause him to be hanged. For his part he had no care for mirth, and would live withdrawn from men, since he might never lose the pain and sorrow that weighed upon his heart.

But whilst the knight was in this case, the servant in custody of the palfrey returned with all the speed he might to the castle of the old Prince, where all was merriment and noise.

The night was still and serene, and the house was filled with a great company of ancient lords. When they had eaten their full, the Prince commanded the watch that, without fail, all men should be roused and apparelled before the breaking of the day. He bade, too, that the palfrey and the horses should be saddled and made ready at the same hour, without confusion or disarray. Then they went to repose themselves and sleep. But one amongst them had no hope to sleep, because of the great unrest she suffered by reason of her love. All the night she could not close her eyes. Others might rest: she alone remained awake, for her heart knew no repose.

Now shortly after midnight the moon rose very bright, and shone clearly in the heavens. When the warder saw this thing, being yet giddy with the wine that he had drunken, he deemed that the dawn had broken.

"Pest take it," said he, "the lords should be about already."

He sounded his horn and summoned and cried--

"Arouse you, lords, for day is here."

Then those, yet drowsy with sleep, and heavy with last night's wine, got them from their beds all bewildered. The squires, too, made haste to set saddles upon the horses, believing that daybreak had come, though before the dawn would rise very easily might the horses go five miles, ambling right pleasantly. So when the company which should bring this demoiselle to the chapel deep within the forest were got to horse, her father commended his maid to the most trusty of his friends. Then the saddle was put upon the grey palfrey; but when it was brought before the damsel her tears ran faster than they had fallen before. Her guardian recked nothing of her weeping, for he knew little of maidens, and considered that she wept because of leaving her father and her father's house. So her tears and sadness were accounted as nought, and she mounted upon her steed, making great sorrow. They took their way through the forest, but the road was so narrow that two could not ride together side by side. Therefore the guardian put the maiden before, and he followed after, because of the straitness of the path. The road was long, and the company were tired and weary for want of sleep. They rode the more heavily, because they were no longer young, and had the greater need for rest. They nodded above the necks of their chargers, and up hill and down dale for the most part went sleeping. The surest of this company was in charge of the maiden, but this night he had taken so little sleep in his bed that he proved an untrusty warder, for he forgot everything, save his desire to sleep. The maiden rode, bridle in hand, thinking of nought except her love and her sorrow. Whilst she followed the narrow path, the barons who went before had already come forth upon the high road. They dozed in their saddles, and the thoughts of those few who were awake were otherwhere, and gave no heed to the demoiselle. The maiden was as much alone as though she fared to London. The grey palfrey knew well this ancient narrow way, for many a time he had trodden it before. The palfrey and the maiden drew near a hillock within the forest, where the trees stood so close and thick that no moonlight fell within the shadow of the branches. The valley lay deeply below, and from the high road came the noise of the horses' iron shoes. Of all that company many slept, and those who were awake talked together, but none gave a thought to the maiden. The grey palfrey knew nothing of the high road, so turning to the right he entered within a little path which led directly to the house of Messire William, But the knight, in whose charge the damsel was placed had fallen into so heavy a slumber that his horse stood at his pleasure on the way. Therefore she was guarded of none--save of God--and dropping the rein upon the palfrey's neck, she let him have his will. The knights who preceded her rode a great while before they found that she was not behind them, and he who came after kept but a poor watch and ward. Nevertheless she had not escaped by her choice, for she recked nought of the path that she followed, nor of the home to which she would come. The palfrey followed the track without hesitation, for many a time he had journeyed therein, both winter and summer. The weeping maiden looked this way and that, but could see neither knight nor baron, and the forest was very perilous, and all was dark and obscure. Much she marvelled what had become of all her company, and it was no wonder that she felt great fear. None regarded her safety, save God and the grey palfrey, so she commended herself to her Maker, whilst the horse ambled along the road. Nevertheless she had dropped the rein from her fingers, and kept her lips from uttering one single cry, lest she should be heard of her companions. For she chose rather to die in the woodlands than to endure such a marriage as this. The maiden was hid in thought, and the palfrey, in haste to reach his journey's end, and knowing well the path, ambled so swiftly, that soon he came to the borders of the forest. A river ran there both dark and deep, but the horse went directly to the ford, and passed through as quickly as he was able. He had won but little beyond when the maiden heard the sound of a horn, blown from that place where she was carried by the grey palfrey. The warder on his tower blew shrilly on his horn, and the demoiselle felt herself utterly undone, since she knew not where she had come, nor how to ask her way. But the palfrey stayed his steps on a bridge which led over the moat running round the manor. When the watch heard the noise of the palfrey thereon, he ceased his winding, and coming from the tower demanded who it was who rode so hardily on the bridge at such an hour. Then the demoiselle made reply--

"Certes, it is the most unlucky maid of mother born. For the love of God give me leave to enter in your house to await the day, for I know not where to go."

"Demoiselle," answered he, "I dare not let you or any other in this place, save at the bidding of my lord, and he is the most dolorous knight in all the world, for very foully has he been betrayed."

Whilst the watch spoke of the matter he set his eye to a chink in the postern. He had neither torch nor lantern, but the moon shone very clear, and he spied the grey palfrey, which he knew right well. Much he marvelled whence he came, and long he gazed upon the fair lady who held the rein, and was so sweetly clad in her rich new garnishing. Forthwith he sought his lord, who tossed upon his bed with little delight.

"Sire," said he, "be not wrath with me. A piteous woman, tender of years and semblance, has come forth from the woodland, attired right richly. It seems to me that she is cloaked in a scarlet mantle, edged with costly fur. This sad and outworn lady is mounted on your own grey palfrey. Very enticing is her speech; very slim and gracious is her person. I know not, sire, if I am deceived, but I believe there is no maiden in all the country who is so dainty, sweet and fair. Well I deem that it is some fay whom God sends you, to bear away the trouble which is spoiling your life. Take now the gold in place of the silver you have lost."

Messire William hearkened to these words. He sprang forth from his bed without further speech, and with nothing but a surcoat on his back hastened to the door. He caused it to be opened forthwith, and the demoiselle cried to him pitifully in a loud voice--

"Woe is me, gentle lord, because of the sorrow I have endured this night. Sire, for the love of God turn me not away, but suffer me to enter in your house. I beg for shelter but a little while. But much I fear by reason of a company of knights who are pained greatly, since they have let me from their hands. Sir Knight, be surety for the maid whom Fortune has guided to your door, for much am I sorrowful and perplexed."

When Messire William heard her voice he was like to swoon with joy. He knew again the palfrey which was so long his own. He gazed upon the lady, and knew her in his heart. I tell you truly that never could man be more happy than was he. He lifted her from the palfrey and brought her within his home. There he took her by the right hand, kissing her more than twenty times; and for her part the lady let him have his way, because she had looked upon his face. When the two sought each other's eyes, very great was the joy that fell between the twain, and all their sorrow was as if it had never been. So when the damsel had put aside her mantle, they seated themselves merrily on silken cushions, fringed with gold. They crossed their brows again and yet again, lest they should wake and find this thing a dream. Then the maiden told her bachelor this strange adventure, and said--

"Blessed be the hour in which God brought me to this place, and delivered me from him who sought to add my marriage chest to his own coffers."

When morning was come Messire William arrayed himself richly, and led the demoiselle within the chapel of his own house. Then, without delay, he called his chaplain to him, and was forthwith wedded to the fair lady by a rite that it was not lawful to call in question. So when the Mass was sung, blithe was the mirth of that household, squire and maiden and man-at-arms.

Now when that company which so lightly had lost the maiden came together at the ancient chapel, they were very weary by having ridden all the night, and were sore vexed and utterly cast down. The old Prince demanded his daughter of him who had proved so untrusty a guardian. Knowing not what to say, he made answer straightly--

"Sire, because of the strictness of the way I put the maid before, and I followed after. The forest was deep and dark, and I know not where she turned from the path. Moreover I nodded in my saddle till I was waked by my companions, for I deemed that she was yet in my company, but she was altogether gone. I cannot tell what has become of the damsel, for very basely have we kept our trust."

The old Prince sought his daughter in every place, and inquired of her from every person, but he might not find her whereabouts, nor hear of any who had seen the maid. Yet all men marvelled at her loss, for none was able to bring him any news. The ancient bridegroom, that the demoiselle should have wed, grieved yet more at the loss of his bride, but to no purpose did he seek her, for the hind had left no slot. Now as the two lords were riding with their company in such fear as this, they saw upon the road a certain squire making towards them in all haste. When he was come to them he said--

"Sire, Messire William sends by me assurance of the great friendship he bears you. He bids me say that early this morning, at the dawn of day, he married your daughter, to his great happiness and content. Sire, he bids you welcome to his house. He also charged me to say to his uncle, who betrayed him so shamefully, that he pardons him the more easily for his treason, since your daughter has given him herself as a gift."

The old Prince hearkened to this wonder, but said no word in reply. He called together all his barons, and when they were assembled in hall, he took counsel as to whether he should go to the house of Sir William, and bring with him the lord to whom his daughter was betrothed. Yet since the marriage was done, nothing could make the bride again a maid. So, making the best of a bad bargain, he got to horse forthwith, and all his barons with him. When the company came to the manor they were welcomed with all fair observance, for right pleasing was this to Messire William, since he had all things to his own desire. Whether he would, or whether he would not, nought remained to the old Prince but to embrace his son-in-law; whilst as to that greybeard of a bridegroom, he consoled himself with what crumbs of comfort he could discover. Thus, since it was the will of God that these lovers should be wed, it pleased the Lord God also that the marriage should prove lasting.

Messire William, that courteous and chivalrous knight, lost not his hardihood in marriage, but ever sought advancement, so that he was esteemed of the counts and princes of his land. In the third year of his marriage the old Prince (as the tale tells us) died, because his time was come. So all that he died possessed of in wealth and lands and manors, together with the rich garnishing thereof, became the heritage of the knight. After this, Death laid hands upon his uncle, who, too, was very rich. And Sir William, who was not simple, nor grudging of heart, nor little of soul, nor blusterous with his neighbours, inherited all the goods that were his.

So the story which I have told you endeth in this fashion, in accordance with the truth, and to your pleasure.

THE END

THE TEMPLE PRESS LETCHWORTH ENGLAND]

EVERYMAN, I WILL GO WITH THEE & BE THY GVIDE IN THY MOST NEED TO GO BY THY SIDE]

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Transcriber's note:

Page 23: Added closing quotes: Sister, sweet friend."