by George Moore
So I entered into his service as head gleeman. We journeyed on, I by the Comte’s side, the gleemen singing in front and behind us, attracting the folk working in the fields, who came to the hedges to listen to us as we passed twanging our lutes, for our thoughts were set on the songs we would sing at the castle of Raymond of Castel-Rousillon some miles distant. We exchanged friendly greetings with the folk as we journeyed through the still sweet daytime, taking heed of all the sights and sounds of April. A very pleasant ride it was, so pleasant that thou wouldst have stopped often to snuff the fragrances that the breeze carried across the glades and the scent of the wallflowers when we passed under castle walls. A spring morning unfolding blue and white among lovely haze, with birds singing in every covert, is easier to remember than a spring evening, but one evening is still clear in memory, so quietly did it pass into night without vulgar lights shining through the park trees, only the drone of frogs in the rushy ponds and ditches as we approached the great gateway of Raymond’s castle, in front of which we blew our horns. At their blast, the sleepy rooks rose out of the branches, and they were still clamorous in the air when the Comte’s retainers began to run from the doorways and the projecting corners of the castle.
The Comte de Rodeboeuf was assisted from his horse and relieved of his armour. A cloak edged with fur was thrown about him, and we entered the castle and gave display of our art in the minstrel gallery, the Comte Raymond de Castel-Rousillon and his wife Margerita sitting at the end of the hall with the Comte de Rodeboeuf. My name was no longer Pierre Abélard, but Lucien de Marolle, and the song that had benn turning in my mind during the ride thither will be found written in the book kept for the recording of the songs composed in honour of the castle. About this castle there was a green sward spread with embroidered tapestries and the ladies sat thereon and we sang to them from time to time, Margherita listening so eagerly to the Comte de Rodeboeuf, who asked me to accompany him, that I knew she loved him and valued his praises more than any other thing. I learned too that the Comte Raymond de Castel-Rousillon was unsuspicious of his wife’s infidelity. But art thou sure, Abélard, of his wife’s infidelity? One is never sure of such things. But it seems as if it could not be otherwise. Be this as it may, the Comte de Rodebœuf was much pleased with me for the song that I wrote praising his lady’s beauty and for the care I took in casting no eye upon her that might tempt her thoughts from him.
One day we were up betimes, and in the same pleasant sunshine we started forth to journey to another castle where a court of love and a great tournament was to be held. A court of love, Héloïse, is a court in which all the quarrels of lovers and the rights of lovers and the wrongs of lovers are weighed and adjusted by great ladies assembled for the purpose. And the castle to which we were going was the Castle of Autoford. The Comte thereof was expecting the most celebrated troubadours, gleemen and knights-errant to rejoice in the recovery of Geoffrey of Camborne from his exceeding jealousy, a jealousy that had preyed upon him, leaving him no peace, a jealousy so cruel that he could not abide any man inside his castle — all were suspected of having designs upon his wife; and if the visitor stayed on for a while, the Comte would call to his servant to prepare his bath, saying that he bathed before dinner, and if the guest did not accept the intimation and hurry away, Geoffrey would ask him to stay for dinner, having care that the food set before him would be so bad that he would never return again. At last the Comte’s jealousy turned to a sort of madness, for ’tis certainly madness to keep a woman locked up in a tower with two maids to wait upon her, to forget all cleanliness of habit and go to her in rags and with a beard matted like a sheaf of oats badly tied together. Yet this was the wont of Geoffrey, and the unfortunate Flamietta, his wife, about whom all the country-side was speaking, telling stories of her, saying that her despair was so great that she had confessed to her maid-servants Alice and Margherita that she thought it was God’s great favour that she had not borne a child, for a child might have awakened love again; and that it was better that love should cease in her, she being without courage, without hope. At which telling her two maids, Alice and Margherita, wept, for they were attached to their mistress. No greater misfortune can befall me now, she said to them, than that one of you should leave me; at which they protested that neither had thought to do such a thing, that lovers did not tempt them, and that they would sooner die unloved than be separated from their beloved mistress.
Flamietta looked into their eyes and doubted them, as well she might, for Alice was at that moment planning to leave her, but she had no heart to tell her mistress of her design. But day by day her need of love became more pressing, till at last she came to the Comtesse Flamietta with the truth on her tongue, that she could no longer keep her thoughts from her betrothed, nor could he keep his from her: they must die or enjoy one another. Whereupon the unhappy Flamietta fell to weeping, saying that her heart had told her that the thing she dreaded was about to befall her. But Alice bent over her mistress, saying that she must not grieve so. For another servant will come, she said, who will serve you better than I. Give me service that thou hast not been able to give? What means this talk? It is as I say, mistress, Alice answered, and she spoke of a maidservant at the castle who had come into the service of the Lord of Camborne: so that she might see your beauty, madam, as it passes by on the terrace. But I never pass on the terrace, cried Flamietta. I am locked in this tower and see nobody except a man whose habit is unclean and whose beard is like grass in autumn. What story dost thou tell me? Alice was loath to answer. But Margherita came by and said: what Alice tells you, madam, is the truth; the new maidservant will bring to you a great joy. Bring a great joy to me? Flamietta repeated, vaguely disturbed in a reason that had nearly left her. But no entreaty enforced by tears could wean Alice from her design, and Flamietta cried out: thou goest to happiness leaving me in grief. The last words that Flamietta heard as she lay sobbing her grief away were: the new maid will be a better help to you, madam, than I can be — words that she could put no meaning upon. Nor did she try to understand what had befallen her when she heard the word alas! on the new maidservant’s lips. Is my lot so pitiful that even my servant maid pities me? She must not tie the latchet of my shoe again, she said to Margherita as soon as the new maid was out of hearing. And it was then that Margherita confided the truth into her mistress’s ear, saying: this servant maid who has just tied the latchet of your shoe, lady, is no servant maid at all, but Gerard de Montador, who by virtue of his youth and beauty is enabled to deceive all in this impersonation. The story of the Comte’s cruelty to you, madam, has gone abroad, and is told everywhere, and it has reached his ears in many stories which stirred his heart, and there being no other way to see you but to offer himself as maidservant in the castle in the hope that one day one of thy personal attendants might be dismissed, he engaged himself to the cook as scullery-maid. As no one was dismissed, he bribed Alice? Flamietta said. Yes, returned Margherita, and with a large sum of money that will enable her to make another man happy. So all is for your good, madam, if you will but believe. But it is a fairy tale thou’rt telling me, Margherita, for which thou deservest punishment, and if my lord should know — Hush, my lady, it is no untruthful story that I am telling you, but the very truth, as indeed it will be easy for you to ascertain this very night, for Matilda sleeps in my room and you have but to call her.
But a man who can disguise himself as a girl is not worthy to be called to a woman’s bed. On that matter I can tell you nothing, only you can test him fairly. At which Flamietta’s face flushed, and then turned to white, for she was sorely perplexed whether to believe Margherita and call Matilda to her bed or to tell the whole tale to the Comte and have the girl removed from her service. And two or three days passed in the perplexity thereof, for Matilda’s conduct was always what a girl’s should be, and the only difference in it from that of any other girl’s was her sadness, for each time she came near her mistress she sighed. Only once did their eyes meet, and the glan
ce awakened in Flamietta a desire to make an end of the matter for good or for evil by calling out in the night-time, saying that the crashing of the thunder frightened her. But the summer may pass without a storm. There are always noises in the turret, she said, and to-night the turret may be more disquieting than usual, and she fell to listening to the wind, which soon after began to rise. Every howl was welcomed by Flamietta as if it were a song. I am frightened. What sounds are these? I am frightened. Margherita, come to me. Myself, mistress, am too frightened by the noises to leave my bed, but I am sending Matilda, who is more courageous than I am. A dreadful moment it was for Flamietta while Matilda crossed the room. Margherita tells me that you are frightened, madam. In a quiver Flamietta answered: yes, Matilda; I am frightened by the wind in the tower. But hast thou no fear? None, mistress, when I am by you. Nor have I, Flamietta said, now that thou’rt here, but I quake as I lie alone, hearing strange sounds about me. Shall I sit by you, madam, till sleep comes? But it will be cold sitting by me. Would you have me for a bed companion? Matilda asked. For answer Flamietta lifted the bedclothes and Matilda entered the bed, and when they were close together side by side and fear had passed away from Flamietta she began to ask Matilda why she sighed so often and why the word alas! was often on her lips. To these questions Matilda answered that she was mortally in love and was without hope or strength or will. Margherita tells me a strange story that all this great love is given to me, and thou art not a woman, but I know not whether to believe it. Thou dost not answer, Matilda, Flamietta said, breaking a long pause. But lying beside each other words are not needed, the servant said. I am frightened, put thy arms about me, which Matilda did, and they lay still, only conscious of the other’s breath. So it is true, Flamietta cried suddenly, but at that moment there was a great scuffling of daws in the chimney, and Flamietta believed for a while that the Comte was at the door. But thou must have loved me very much to have accepted this disguise for my sake. But when I saw your beauty, lady, passing me on the terrace, I was recompensed. But was my beauty enough? A vain question indeed to ask me, since I am with you and have proven my love. Thou wouldst not withhold anything from me? Indeed thou hast earned all I have to give thee, Gerard. Whereupon sighs took the place of words, and for many nights afterwards the lovers enjoyed one another, for it so happened that the Comte was ill and kept to his chamber. On his return to his wife, Flamietta hated him more than she had done before, for he put the sweet presence of Gerard out of her reach, and while he was pressing her from behind the thought came to her that Gerard might be enjoying sweet felicity in Margherita’s arms. Flamietta trusted her maidservant, but Margherita must not be tried past her strength, and how was she to resist Gerard should he be moved to pass from his bed to hers, and the thought that Gerard should taste with another the joy he had tasted with her helped her to apprehend the torture that Gerard had suffered for her sake, becoming a kitchen wench for it. Moreover out of her jealousy came the knowledge of Geoffrey’s long agony. But her mood of pity was soon over, and the pillow was wet with her tears so frequently that the Comte began to believe that his wife had no heart to love any man. I am different now, she said, from what I was; have pity on me. And feeling that he was secure from all rivalry, he said to her one day: I see that such indifference to love has come upon thee that thou canst keep thyself strict as a virgin, and she answered him: I think that I can keep myself strict from wicked pleasures, words that caused Gerard, who was standing by with his mistress’s slippers in his hand, to drop one of them, a slight act indeed in itself, not meriting Geoffrey’s censure that she was an unmannerly wench to stand by while — so great was the Comte’s rage that he was not at pains to finish his sentence, but Gerard heard him say as he was thrown from the room — while I am talking with my wife. I did not notice her presence, the Comte said, when he returned to Flamietta; an untaught girl, no proper servant for thee. Flamietta mentioned that the girl understood little of what was being said and that it was not the Comte’s words that caused her to drop the slipper but fingers that could not be relied upon. Thou must have another maidservant, the Comte answered, to which Flamietta answered that though the girl dropped things occasionally she was devoted to her, especially in times of storm; when the wind sent the mortar clattering down the chimney and strange noises were heard in the turret Matilda’s presence pacified and soothed her with good sense. The old green light of jealousy came into the Comte’s eyes, and Flamietta turned aside, saying to herself: jealousy leaves us no repose of mind. It was then the thought came to her that the Comte might order Gerard a whipping, which would reveal all and bring him his death, but being devoured at the same time with the thought that every night he might be lying in sweet felicity in Margherita’s arms she came to an understanding the next day with Gerard that he must not waste his life in a girl’s habit for love of her, but must earn his love in a knightly combat. I shall weep for thee, Gerard, in secret. And I shall sing thy beauty where’er I go, Gerard answered.
And the next day, when the Comte asked: where is Matilda? Flamietta called her soul into her eyes and said: my dear husband, hast thou forgotten that she displeased thee yesterday by standing by whilst thou wast talking to me? She is gone? cried the Comte. In obedience to thy wishes, Flamietta answered, by these words plucking the last sting of jealousy out of the Comte’s heart, and wellnigh freeing herself from all suspicion of loitering passion by speaking of love with contempt whenever it came to be spoken of, almost daring to aver that she had never found pleasure in the naked battle. Are we not happier now that it is over? she asked him, adding that much else was in the world to admire, her voice sinking into carelessness as she spoke of chivalry and knight-errantry, for she did not wish it to be known to the Comte that tidings had reached her that a young knight, Gerard de Montador, was now winning great renown in all the lists in Provence. But of him the Comte did not fail to receive tidings, and not many weeks after he told her that no knight had been found to withstand Gerard in the field of chivalry and romance, for Gerard was as skilful with words as he was with the lance and sword. Wilt tell me, dear Geoffrey, if we shall see this renowned knight? she said; for one day I would see him and a noble rival coming to the clash.
The Comte bore her wish in mind, and was glad when a letter came to him from Comte Raymond of Chaudlieu telling that a young knight, Gerard de Montador, was coming from Provence to his castle and would give examples of his prowess in singing and in tilting. A great assembly was expected, but it would not be complete without the presence of Comte Geoffrey de Camborne, bringing with him his wife Flamietta. It is known far and widely that we have been at variance, Geoffrey said, and this occasion is felicitous to show that I no longer am afraid to trust thee. Flamietta’s instinct put appropriate answer into her mouth. I would be seen with thee in public, she said, for thou hast become the man again whom I wedded. Thy beard is trimmed and thou wearest raiment in keeping with thy nobility. And both happy in different anticipations, the twain drove in their great coach to the castle of Chaudlieu, where Flamietta met Gerard, who, with no sign of wit in his face or in his manner towards her, asked if he might wear her badge on his arm in the lists. And Flamietta, with an equal witlessness, turned to her husband: Gerard de Montador would wear my badge on his arm. To which the Comte answered that he, too, would be honoured if Gerard de Montador wore his wife’s badge in the lists, for he had heard of the young knight’s prowess and knew that there was no danger of his being overthrown.
And Flamietta’s beauty drew the knights about her. All were her suitors, and Geoffrey’s trust in his wife was praised in all the groups. It was remarked that never had a greater change come upon a man, and that much honour was due to Flamietta for the transformation of an unkempt madman into a courtly gentleman. Wherever she went Flamietta was followed by a crowd of knights; and Geoffrey and Gerard, as they walked together, were spoken of as souls created for one another, who had wandered for long apart and met at last. Gerard bore Flamietta’s badge through the
tournament without failure, and when the poems written by the knights in honour of the ladies whose badges they had worn were read, many were admired, but the poem that exceeded all the others in intricacy of metre and richness of rhyme was written by Gerard de Montador. It touched all hearts, and none was so deeply moved as Geoffrey, who thanked Gerard for having celebrated his wife in such noble words.
