Heroines of the French Epic
Page 13
Before the city’s belfries for morning prayers had rung.
The king himself had mounted an ambling mule to come
To old St Vincent’s abbey, where Mass was said and sung.
Astride, his gaze alighted upon the field, as young
Sir Richier came running, in hose and shirt un-cuffed,
And scything with his sword-blade at any stalk or stump.
On seeing him, King Flores rode up to him at once
And asked him what had happed at Fortress Avenant:
“The worst that could,” he fretted, “for you and all of us!
880 Two traitors have betrayed us –and, sire, they are your sons!
Your fortress lies in ruins, your forces in their blood,
And Floovant has been captured, the liege-lord that I love.”
On hearing this, King Flores was stricken dumb and numb,
And fainted on his donkey, his agony was such.
I’m sure he would have fallen if helpers hadn’t rushed.
WHEN FLORES HEARD again that in their evil envy
His sons had burnt the fort and slaughtered all its tenants,
He cried: “What have you done, my sons, and why, by Heaven?
890 I pray to God above and good St James, together
With every Christian saint, for justice to be rendered!”
He never made a prayer more fervent, or successful,
For in the end they gained a bitter wage, I tell you –
As you will surely hear, if I obtain a better!
THE SORROW IN the town was terrible and deep.
Surpassing all the rest was young Floretta’s grief.
In tender tones she called on Richier to speak:
“Good-hearted, gallant knight, explain it all to me!
Was Floovant really caught, the knight I thought to be
900 The fairest, finest count who ever mounted steed?”
“My lady,” said the lad, “he had no choice indeed!
Your brothers played us false! With devilish deceit
They’ve sold us all for gain to Spain and its Emir!
But by the saint in Rome that holy pilgrims seek,
I swear I’ll hang the pair ere thirty days have ceased!”
“I cannot wish it else,” Floretta said, in tears.
But then she led him off to chambers underneath
And dressed the youth again in satin from the East,
In hauberk and a helm that set the room a-gleam,
910 Then bound around his neck a golden-banded shield.
She gave him back Joyeuse inside a newer sheath,
Then led him forth to view a newly saddled steed.
He thanked the courtly maid for all that he’d received.
Well-armed again, he yearned with all his might and means
To be at Floovant’s side, his gallant-visaged liege.
THE KING WAS IN his city, his face a mask of rage,
And those who shared his table went silently away
To wash their hands, returning to eat in silent haste.
But Flores, he ate nothing, for he was full of pain,
920 And Richier touched nothing they placed upon his plate.
He asked to have a bed made, and left without delay –
He tried to sleep, but couldn’t, whichever way he lay:
Instead he wept, lamenting his master’s sorry fate:
“Alas,” he sighed, “fair noble! Benighted were your days!
And I must go to Clovis, bereft and bitter-faced,
A rod upon my shoulder, like any common knave.
The Peerage and the princes will meet me on the way,
Fine ladies, noble maidens and matriarchs the same,
In company with Clovis, his gallant face ablaze,
930 To ask for news of Floovant, for whom his love was great.
Alas! How can I tell them where last I saw his face?
They’ll think I have betrayed him, whatever I can say.
But by the saints beloved of God above, I’ll take
Most gladly fifteen gashes from any Pagan blade,
If that is what is needed to free my lord again!”
He rose and put his chausses on – God help his fevered brain –
He donned his heavy hauberk and tied the helmet’s lace,
Then girt his sword about him, whose hilt was gold-engraved,
Then took his shield and hurried across the hall to make
940 His way across the city before the light of day.
He took no leave or greeting, from any man or maid,
And when he left the city he rode with every haste.
He galloped through a forest, a tall, tremendous place,
And when at last he left it he met upon his way
A knight who was the son of Duke Emelon the brave,
A lord the Moors had driven from his ancestral place.
This son had gone out hunting, for pleasure, and had ranged
Through fifteen leagues of forest in search of any game –
By then the Moors had vanished and none of them remained –
950 And, looking up while walking, he saw young Richier!
With lightning speed he mounted his rested destrier
And rode it straight towards him, his spear and buckler raised.
As neither deigned to challenge, or ask each other’s name,
The only greeting given was done with ringing blades
That split apart their bucklers and flung them both away!
If Richier was startled, he didn’t show afraid –
And if his foe was angry, then so was he the same!
Without a word they flourished their golden-hilted blades
To barter blows on helmets of banded green and grey.
960 There never was a battle so bitterly engaged
As this one, so they tell me, and so the record states,
Until Joyeuse was lifted and left its mortal trace:
It struck the hunter’s helmet so heavily and straight
It slit him when it hit him, then split him to the waist
As Richier withdrew it and threw him to his grave.
Young Richier was happy to see the other slain,
For he had fought him thinking he fought a Pagan knave!
How sad it is when valour is used in a mistake!
Without the help of Jesus and His redeeming grace,
970 The prowess of a moment can prove an endless bane!
He left the open roadway and kept to little lanes
That led him willy-nilly until at last he came
Before the very castle of him whose son he’d slain.
Beneath a shady bower, of pine-tree and of bay,
Good Richier dismounted and, as he did, his gaze
Fell straight upon the father, Duke Emelon the brave,
Who’d spent the day in riding, for simple pleasure’s sake,
With thirty knights in tunics and ermine-bordered capes.
They’d carried moulted falcons and sparrowhawks uncaged
980 To sport with by a river, the Ienor its name.
On hearing them approaching, and slipping from the shade,
The youth, in courtly manner, addressed them straightaway:
“May God, Who dwells above us, in glorious array,
Bless every Peer and part of this noble cavalcade!
I do not know your leader – forgive me any blame –
For I have never seen him or ever been this way.
God bless you all, however, and him the first, I say!
I’m on a weary journey that worsens every day
I cannot find my liege lord in ot
her lords’ domains:
990 Galeen the Moor has caught him and holds him in his jail.
My lords, allow me shelter, for God our Saviour’s sake!
I’ve ridden through this forest for two whole nights and days.
My destrier’s not eaten one fist of oats or hay.”
Duke Emelon looked closely and saw his gallant face,
And so he answered nobly: “Dismount your destrier,
And I shall give you shelter for Christ our Saviour’s sake.
Come, lodge with me till morning, without a penny paid!”
He called upon a marshal in whom his trust was great
And said to him: “Take hold of this noble horse’s rein.
1000 Escort it to our stables, then feed it well with grains.
Then bring its gallant rider inside my hall of state
And dress him in my ermine, the finest that you may,
Then have him eat whatever his heart and hunger crave.
As you would serve your master, I want him served the same.”
His marshal answered swiftly: “Most willingly, your grace!”
And led off by its bridle the noble destrier.
The chamberlain brought forward a gown of costly make
And draped an ermine mantle around the Frenchman’s nape.
They led him off with honour towards the hall of state,
1010 Where, after bringing water, they served him straightaway
With venison a-plenty and claret finely aged.
The seneschal in person attended on his plate.
Alas he ever sat there! Alas he ever ate!
Without the help of Jesus and His redeeming grace,
He’d never feel more sorry for anything again,
Nor ever in his lifetime be sated with such pain!
WITH VENISON a-plenty and claret wine the best
Young Richier was feasted at Emelon’s behest.
But soon there came a servant who bore in great lament
1020 The body of his master –whom Richier had met –
And very soon the duchy knew all about his death.
When Emelon beheld him, his royal heart was rent,
And gazing, ever gazing, he swooned about his neck.
But soon he asked the servant: “Who did this? Where, and when?”
“My lord, as I’m a Christian, he fought a prince of men –
A knight of shining courage and valiant prowess.
My master charged him wrongly, and paid a mortal debt!”
“My lord, as we are Christians,” his angry cronies said,
“We’ll wager it’s the stranger you’ve welcomed as your guest!
1030 Let justice be his steward! Cut off his cruel head!”
At this, the grieving father grew wilder in regret,
And when his knights and barons had armed themselves, he went,
His visage white with anger, inside the hall where yet
Young Richier was dining and wining with the rest.
The barons would have slain him, I’m certain, there and then,
But Emelon swore loudly, by St Denis the blest,
That no one was to clutch him or touch him but himself!
His heart a-glow with anger, he leapt the marble steps
And, snatching up the dagger his seneschal had held,
1040 He went within a whisker of striking Richier dead.
But Emelon was noble, and kept himself in check
By thinking of his honour, and how it would be spent
If he should spill the blood of a freely bidden guest.
And so he struck the wine-bowl upon the table’s edge
And spilled the crimson claret on Richier instead.
“You evil-hearted villain! You callous, scheming wretch!
I had a son – one only – and from a world of men
You chose my one and only to kill in cold contempt!
Before this day is over, you’ll suffer my revenge!”
1050 On hearing this, a tremor transfixed the Frenchman’s flesh,
His hunger disappearing as he was filled with dread!
YOUNG RICHIER looked up at good Duke Emelon,
Who glowed with hate and woe because of his dead son.
He saw the knife he held and felt a tremor run
Right through his flesh to think he’d kill him in cold blood.
Beside him lay Joyeuse and, seizing it, he sprung
So nimbly to his feet he forced the duke to jump!
The Frenchman said: “My lord, I swear by God above,
I’ll not be killed or caught before my sword has struck,
1060 Or I have said my word on what occurred with us:
This morning, when I rode across the heath-land scrub,
I met a haughty knight whose arrogance was such
That, seeing me well armed, he rode for me at once,
Without a word of cheer or any challenge flung.
He struck my buckler’s right – a mighty blow it was –
And I struck him, of course, as any would have done,
In self-defence. Although I killed him with my thrust,
He would have done the same, if he had had the luck.
No man I’ve ever met displayed so fierce a lust
1070 To slay me without cause and lay me in the dust!
My lord, allow me this – as courtesy instructs –
And every court will praise your name in times to come:
Return the arms I bear, and wearing those you love,
Let fighting show who’s right between the two of us!
If I should lose, and you resolve the matter thus,
No royal court will say you broke a loyal trust.”
“You rogue!” replied the duke, “Restrain your flapping tongue,
And save it for the rope whereon I’ll have you hung!”
“Then you would be a rogue, my lord, and live as one
1080 That every dawning day exposes to the sun!
You welcomed me last night and said I’d be as snug
And safe within your land as any hand in glove!
In self-defence I’ve slain a man who was your son,
As he’d have slaughtered me, if God had willed it thus.
And he attacked me first, when I had hurt him none!
If you dispute my word, then let our swords adjudge!”
On hearing this, the duke, at first, was stricken dumb,
But quickly finding voice, he answered loud enough:
“The charge is mine to give, and yours to take it up!”
1090 Said Richer: “I do! Let Jesus be our judge!”
He gave his pledge at once, and so did Emelon,
To let the Word of God be heard through combat done
Between the pair, and theirs be silenced till it was!
Young Richier sought leave to arm himself at once,
And when they’d brought his horse he saw it hadn’t touched
The fodder-oats and hay they’d fed it in a tub.
To him this was a sign, and raised his spirits much.
God help our youngster’s cause – although the duke’s was just!
DUKE EMELON himself took Richier and led him
1100 Across the hall and down the marble steps to shelter
Beneath the olive trees, where many were already,
And many more arrived from each and all directions,
Prepared to slay the youth, if Emelon would let them!
Instead, he swore aloud to God and good St Leonard:
“Let no one lay a hand upon this noble Frenchman,
For he has pledged to me that it was in defending
His own life that he slew the son and heir I cherished.
Now he and I shall fight before the court of Heaven!”
On saying this, he donned a byrnie ringed with metal,
1110 And girded on a sword whose name was ‘Sweet Avenger’.
With shield around his neck and spear-head at the ready,
The duke bestrode his steed – as brave a man as any!
And so he’d have to be, good people, let me tell you,
To bear such mighty blows as those Joyeuse would render!
DUKE EMELON was noble, and like a gallant knight
Returned his glowing armour and weaponry alike
To Richier, who swiftly prepared himself to fight,
And, when his steed was saddled, jumped speedily astride.
He left the hall as quickly as spurring heel can drive,
1120 And Emelon, as swiftly, went spurring hard behind,
Afraid that if he didn’t, the youth would take to flight!
In truth, he’d no desire to – it never crossed his mind.
THE FRENCHMAN spurred his horse amid the heather’s spray.
He saw the duke, of course, before him as he came,
And called upon the Lord, in Whom his trust remained:
”I see before me here a father filled with hate
Because, alas, I killed his son the other day.
His rancour seeks revenge, and I may well be slain,
For he has done no wrong and I’ve no right to claim.
1130 And yet I pray to Him Who bore the Cross’s bane,
That He may spare my life and keep me whole and hale
Until I’ve seen my liege, Prince Floovant, once again.
To fight this duke at all will be a great mistake.
So let me do at least one noble thing today,
That every man and knight will count to my acclaim:
I shall submit to him, in hope that in this way
He’ll know I share his woe, and seek alike such grace
As he does for his son, from God and him the same.
But if his thirsty pride refuses to be slaked,
1140 I’ll strike such lusty blows with sharp Joyeuse my blade
That he will grow so loath to ever fight again
His trusty sword, I swear, will rust inside its case!”
As this was said, the duke approached Sir Richier
And cried: “Sir knight, at least you’re honest and you’re brave!
You’ve scorned the choice and chance you had to run away,