Heroines of the French Epic

by Newth, Michael A. H. ;

  And Richier disdained to take it as his prize,

  Or anything of his, except his spear of iron –

  Because its tip was sharp and all its shaft incised,

  He stooped beneath the trees and seized it with delight:

  Before the darkness fell he’d need it to survive!

  Young Floovant, with the maid, was pressing on the while,

  And, breaking from the wood, came up against a knight

  350 Ferocious in his look, and fearsome in his size:

  The shield around his neck would break a peasant’s spine!

  His name was Fernagu, and in his restless pride

  He’d left his father’s ranks, King Galien, behind,

  And hewn a dozen heads from hapless Christian hides –

  His saddlebows displayed their faces in a line.

  Young Floovant’s courage sank on seeing such a sight.

  The Saracen exclaimed: “And who are you, Sir Mild?”

  Our hero said: “My lord, I’ve no desire to lie.

  I come from Laon and am a simple serving-squire

  360 Of Didier, a lord and seneschal, whom I

  Have served for two whole years to earn the name of knight.

  I bring his daughter forth to her fiancé’s side.”

  “My friend, ride on in peace,” the fierce Fernagu cried:

  “For holding her so dear, I’ll spare your little life!

  But I would hold her too – and boldly, like a wife:

  Beneath this olive-tree I’ll lie with her a while.

  Mahomet, I am sure, will bless the place and time –

  If only for the shame it brings the Law of Christ!”

  Young Floovant said at once: “ I dare you just to try!

  370 If you’re so keen to prove your manhood and your might –

  A bravery you’d show by wronging tender brides –

  I swear I’ll make you feel the strength of what is right!

  I’m not afraid of you or him you call divine,

  Who, centuries ago, was fodder fit for swine!”

  On hearing this, the Moor was almost driven wild:

  “And who are you, in truth?” with ringing voice he cried:

  “I swear by good Mahom, my god who lives on high,

  You’ll lose your head as well, for what you would deny!”

  AS FERNAGU saw Floovant, his rising anger flooded

  380 And drove his charger forward, of Carthage breed and courage.

  But Floovant matched the heathen, in hatred and in hurry!

  What heavy blows they bartered against their golden bucklers!

  They struck beneath the bosses and tore the boards asunder.

  Their hauberks didn’t sever – they must have been a wonder –

  And wonderful the horsemen who didn’t fall or fumble

  Withdrawing swords from scabbard to carry on the struggle.

  Prince Fernagu in fury was like a rabid mongrel.

  PRINCE FERNAGU in fury was like a man possessed:

  His swarthy face was savage, his countenance was dread.

  390 His body loomed enormous and full of fierce intent.

  He drew his sword and brandished its blade of razor-edge,

  Then swung it down at Floovant and struck his pointed helm

  So sweetly that it severed three laces end to end,

  Then slit the youngster’s hauberk and clipped his shield as well.

  It passed within a whisker of Floovant’s naked neck.

  The will of God Almighty was all that saved him then:

  The deadly blade deflected and struck the ground instead.

  Young Floovant knew exactly how close he’d come to death,

  And spurred his horse to counter with all his angry strength.

  400 He struck his fierce opponent upon his pointed helm

  So fiercely that he scattered its gems and floral hems.

  The weapon split his helmet, to naked bone and flesh,

  And, had it not deflected, it would have split his head.

  WITH ALL HIS ANGRY temper, young Floovant spurred his steed.

  He drew his sword and brandished its blade of shining steel.

  Upon his banded helmet he struck a blow so sweet

  That first of all it severed three laces like a leaf,

  Then sheared away a hand-span of flesh above the ear

  Before it crossed his cheekbone and shaved him to the teeth,

  410 Then hit him on the shoulder and bit a hefty piece!

  The crimson blood erupted and bled about his seat.

  The Pagan cried in anguish: “There’s murder in your zeal!

  Defend me, Lord Mahomet, from death and from defeat!

  I’ll sell my honour dearly before I perish here!”

  PRINCE FERNAGU was shaken when he beheld his blood.

  He drew his cutting weapon that glittered in the sun

  And swung it at the helmet of Floovant, which it crushed

  So cruelly the youngster was stunned from back to front.

  The awful blow descended, towards the right it swung

  420 And, severing his hauberk and ermine coat in one,

  Drove on towards his shoulder, where all the muscle was.

  It would have gone right through it, without the Lord, Whose love

  And power steered the weapon away from it at once.

  The blade of steel went flashing towards the floor and struck

  As brightly and as brashly as lightning from above.

  On seeing it, young Floovant was horrified and clutched

  His hands towards the Heavens and prayed to Mary’s Son,

  In fear of mortal torment from matching blows to come

  From this gigantic Pagan, whose bravery was such.

  430 IN EVERYTHING, however, the will of God prevails.

  It did at time’s beginning and will do every day,

  With Fernagu and Floovant and you and me the same.

  As Floovant prayed to Jesus for comfort and for aid,

  The strength of God Almighty went flooding through his veins.

  As Fernagu approached him to send him to his grave,

  Young Floovant, full of courage, flung upwards with his blade

  And with a twist he slew him and threw his soul away!

  The youngster, and Floretta, were full of thankful praise,

  And yet, you know the saying, and true it is, I say –

  Before the evening’s over, you shouldn’t praise the day!

  While Floovant had been fighting, four Pagans on the trail

  Of Fernagu, whose father was the emir of Spain,

  Had heard the noise of fighting and seen their master slain,

  While crossing through a thicket and up behind the maid.

  When Floovant fell, exhausted, and fainted from the strain,

  Those blackguards seized the moment – and fair Floretta’s waist!

  The maid was more than startled, and shrieking out, she wailed

  Her woe across the forest, the valleys and the glades!

  Young Floovant woke in panic, and when he saw that Fate

  Had spun its wheel against them, he sprang up straightaway

  To teach another lesson – and save the maid again!

  How lustily he chased them, how lustily he faced

  And fought them for the maiden, for right and honour’s sake.

  But Floovant was exhausted from all he’d done that day,

  And they were fresh and eager and overfilled with hate

  Against him for the slaughter of Fernagu the great.

  The maiden wailed in terror, the Pagans wailed in rage,

  As Floovant strove to m
uster whatever strength remained

  Within him at that moment to swing his bloodied blade.

  He sweated from the effort, he fretted from the pain,

  And I am far from certain he would have won the fray,

  When suddenly, from nowhere, rode noble Richier!

  The loyal squire had covered, with courage and with faith,

  The open trails and any he thought his lord would take.

  And then he’d heard the clashing of voices and of blades,

  And hastened through the forest to follow whence it came.

  On bursting through the woodland, how glad and sad the same

  He was to find his master in such a sorry state!

  At once he spurred towards him, and as he did he raised

  His shining sword and swung it to right and left, the way

  A reaper swings his sickle when harvesting the grain.

  Our hero saw him coming, as did the maid, and they

  Were filled with joy and courage – the Moors, however, changed

  Their mind about the harvest, whose seed was sown in vain!

  They left the field all fallow, not wanting to be hay!

  The four of them departed; the trio who remained

  Were blithe and joyful-hearted, and thankful all were safe.

  The maiden said: “You’ve saved me from capture and from shame.

  I swear to you my father, King Flores, will repay

  Your bravery and kindness in any way you crave,

  In shining gold and silver, or in some other way.

  So take me back to Belfort, the seat of his domains,

  And you shall meet my father, and he shall learn your names.”

  The Frenchmen were contented and willingly obeyed

  The wishes of the maiden – for theirs had been the same!

  My friends, there’s little purpose in spinning out a tale

  That has enough adventure to keep you entertained!

  They journeyed on to Belfort, and nothing more took place

  To joy them or annoy them, or so the record says.

  How happily King Flores received them at the gates

  Of Belfort’s noble castle, from where he ruled his states!

  How happily his daughter was able to relate

  The tale of her adventures, her capture and escape

  From Pagans who had caught her and Frenchmen who had saved

  Her liberty and honour, whose bravery and grace

  Deserved his royal guerdon, in riches or estates!

  The king was glad to listen – and she as glad to praise.

  THE PRINCESS TOLD the king, who listened to her story:

  “These men have risked their lives to save your only daughter,

  And you can plainly see that they have suffered for it!

  They’ve taken many blows from Pagans low and haughty

  With evil on their minds and venom in their voices.

  The pair of them has helped the pair of us this morning:

  For both of us they’ve drawn their weapons and employed them.

  As they have brought me here, so I bring them before you,

  For I have pledged my word that both shall be rewarded.

  May God deny your right to be a king henceforward

  If you should let them go with no increase of fortune.”

  “Good daughter, they shall stay and thrive,” replied King Flores,

  “For I shall give them gifts of destriers and palfreys,

  Of armour and of arms, and gold and silver coinage.”

  On saying this, he turned, and leaving gate and porter,

  He motioned both his guests, and fair Floretta also,

  To walk with him in talk until they reached his fortress.

  King Flores of Alsace was nobly bred and courtly:

  He gave Floovant a seat beside him and his daughter,

  And Richier the same, befitting one so loyal.

  He gave them food and drink, without delay, or talking,

  Until they were refreshed, and then addressed them warmly:

  “MY FRIEND, I’d like to know your name and whence you’ve come.”

  The youth replied: “My lord, my native town is Laon,

  Where I was born and bred a wealthy townsman’s son.

  My godfather, the King, gave me the name Floovant,

  Because that was the name of one of his own sons.”

  King Flores said: “My friend, in faith that’s true enough.

  I know the King of Laon’s a gallant man and just,

  And that his lovely wife has given him four sons.

  Prince Floovant was the first. I saw the infant once

  Upon the hills of Laon – a handsome lad he was.

  I’ll wager now he fights as well as anyone!

  I wish to God, Who knows and watches all above,

  I had him here with me – and some four thousand such!

  If he would fight for me, by God, I’d give him much:

  My daughter, wealth galore, and half the land I’ve won.”

  “God willing, that may be!” the youth replied at once.

  “My friend,” the king replied, “the will of God be done!”

  “MY FRIEND,” THE KING continued, “I suffer heavy loss.

  When I arise each morning I scan the land in shock:

  I see my country burning in more than thirty spots.

  The Moors have turned against me for spurning false Mahom.

  Beyond this very terrace, some four leagues further on,

  Their pride has built a castle, well garrisoned and strong,

  With parapets and ditches and fences all along.

  They’ve sworn to take my kingdom before it’s Pentecost,

  Then sing their way to Paris before the grass is long,

  And cleave the head of Clovis, the gallant lord of Laon.”

  “Then we must change,” said Floovant, “the measure of their song,

  And bring them something sadder to tune their hearts upon!”

  On saying this he beckoned the Princess with a nod

  And said to her:“My lady, I call upon you not

  To falter on the promise you offered as your bond,

  When you were held in danger by those we freed you from.

  My squire has earned his knighthood – will you supply his wants?”

  “Most willingly and swiftly,” she answered – and ran off!

  THE MAIDEN TURNED at once, of noble heart and mind,

  And ran towards a room, of which, when she arrived,

  She turned her private key and flung the door aside

  To hasten to a chest, secured and out of sight.

  Then, with another key, she opened it up wide

  And drew a hauberk forth, whose mail was golden-white,

  And then a helm so bright it filled the room with light.

  Then, matching with the two, she drew her finest prize:

  A sword that had been forged by fair Ysor the sprite.

  Upon its blade the name of Jesus was inscribed.

  When first it had been made, its temper had been tried

  By striking it against the heavy anvil’s iron:

  It split the anvil’s head and all the rest besides!

  How hardy was the grip that held in such a strike!

  A thieving hand, alas, removed it in the night

  And sold it to a king prepared to pay its price:

  One thousand silver marks, or so the record writes.

  This monarch asked Floretta if she would be his wife,

  And when the courts agreed that everything was right,

  Their pledges were exchanged in everybody’s sight,


  And he gave her the sword, to cherish as his bride.

  But then – it’s sad but true – this gallant monarch died:

  With hatred in their hearts, some foes of his contrived

  To slay him in his sleep one dark and dreadful night.

  The maiden kept the sword within its sheath of hide,

  Releasing it to none, however close or kind,

  Except to Floovant now, because he’d saved her life.

  He took it, glad of heart – as well a hero might,

  And, holding it, withdrew the lovely blade inside.

  As soon as he beheld the name of Jesus Christ,

  He knew no pagan Moor could ever match its might.

  He named the sword Joyeuse – for very joy – that’s why,

  And no amount of gold could take it from his side.

  Great Charlemagne himself received the sword in time

  And with it won Palermo and Hungary the prized,

  Calabria, Apulia, and Sicily the Isle,

  And Saxony and Lombardy, and Spain in all its pride,

  And all the land from Laon up to the Sea of Ice.

  But it was Floovant’s first – yes, once upon a time

  He’d drawn it from its sheath and borne its blessed Light!

  YOUNG FLOOVANT spoke aloud and told the king his thoughts:

  “With this in hand I’ll save your land against the Moors!”

  The king replied: “My lord, I do not doubt at all

  Your readiness and skill in wielding arms of war,

  And thank you from my heart for your direct support.

  But you are here alone, and my resources poor

  To match the Pagan might and counter wrongs they’ve wrought.”

  The youth replied at once: “But right is might, my lord,

  And I am not alone – there’s Richier, whose sword

  Has shown what it can do for one who’s bravely born.”

  The king replied: “Indeed, this gallant squire of yours

  Deserves to be a knight – and that I can perform.

  Tomorrow, when the light has risen on the morn,

  I’ll summon every man remaining in my force

  Whose hand can hold a spear, and legs bestride a horse,

  To gather here at once; and when they’re in my hall,

  I’ll knight your noble squire then tell my vavasours

  That I have chosen you to lead a fresh assault

  Against the Pagan host at Avenant their fort.