Heroines of the French Epic
Page 54
“My lady,” said the king, “since nothing seems to daunt you
When your resolve is made, then know that I implore you
To go with noble knights as wardens and supporters.
1710 One hundred of our best, all sterling men and stalwart,
The bravest men alive that bide inside our borders,
Shall go with you to France. The sum should not be smaller,
For Pepin rules a land where grandeur is important.”
On hearing this, his wife was very glad and joyful.
She wisely thanked her lord, as courtesy had taught her,
Then readied for her quest with no desire to dawdle.
Most wisely she prepared her journey in accordance
With everything the king suggested or had ordered,
And then, one day, she left as light of day was dawning,
1720 Escorted by her lord until the following morning.
When finally he turned, her husband kissed her warmly,
Commending her to God, our ever-present Warden.
Before they met again, her brain would be in torment,
Her heart a blend of pain and anger for her daughter.
Through many forest lands her party journeyed forward,
Through many ancient woods and vessel-bearing waters,
Until at last they came to mighty France’s border.
When people heard the news – for soon it was reported
That she was on the road – then no one blessed her for it!
1730 Indeed they wished to God some sickness would befall her
That laid her in a tomb in some accursed corner
And drove her soul to dwell in hell’s domain of torture:
For she had borne a queen who’d turned their mirth to mourning,
Whose wicked days and ways had made them suffer sorely
And curse not only her but her whose womb had borne her.
When Blancheflor was told, for soon it was reported
That everybody loathed her daughter Bertha Broad-Foot,
Her ears received a shock, the news was so appalling,
And, heavy as a rock, her buoyant spirit faltered.
1740 “Dear God above,” she cried, “what evil has befallen
My daughter, who was raised so graciously and surely
By parents who themselves were born of noble forebears,
Whose veins have always run with gallant blood and loyal?
What evil drop of dross has blighted so our daughter’s
It drives her now to bleed her people dry as corpses?
From Syria to here there rules no other royal
As fair to Peer and poor as is her father Floris.
And I myself abhor all traitors and despoilers.
My tongue is numb with shame, my heart with disappointment:
1750 And yet, ere I return, they’ll reprimand my daughter
So hotly she’ll return each item she’s extorted
And stolen from the poor to make them even poorer.
How badly she’s repaid the wealth of love we bore her!
SO BLANCHEFLOR rode onward, her heart, that God had made
So noble, now so angry, on hearing the complaints
Against her daughter Bertha she heard the people make:
Like that of one poor peasant she met upon her way,
Who saw her horse approaching and grasped it by the reins:
“Forgive me, please – but Bertha, your daughter, is to blame!
1760 I only had one workhorse and used it every day
To earn my bread and care for my honest wife Margain,
And feed our little children, whose hunger now is great!
I carry thatch to Paris, or logs of wood and hay,
And bought my horse a year back with sixty sous I made.
But now your greedy daughter has taken it away,
And feeds herself this winter upon the crop I raised!
Each evening and morning I curse Queen Bertha’s name,
And God above will fashion the vengeance that I crave,
As surely as from Adam He fashioned Eve his mate!”
1770 Queen Blanchflor was stricken with pity for his sake,
And filled his hands with pennies – one hundred – straightaway.
In joy he kissed her bridle and stirrups, and exclaimed:
“God bless you, noble lady, for lessening my pain!
By St Germain, I’ll never curse Bertha’s name again!”
A MONDAY MORN it was – the day the week awakens –
When Blancheflor the fair, God bear her every favour,
Was on the road that goes to Paris on the Seine there.
Arrayed she was in robes of rich and royal making,
Although beneath the clothes her heavy heart was breaking,
1780 As everyone complained of Bertha’s exploitation.
“Dear God above,” she cried, “Who sat at the Last Table,
And you, the Queen of queens, His blessed mother Mary,
How is it one more fair than Helen of the ancients
Has far and wide contrived to make herself so hated?
For when she left our land there lived no other maiden
From here to Aquitaine so loving or so able.
But now our noble blood has been forever tainted,
And no more hated queen was ever seen in sable!
Dear Jesus, guide my child back home to virtue’s haven!”
1790 QUEEN BLANCHEFLOR continued to Paris on the Seine,
And soon to royal Pepin a messenger was sent
To tell him Bertha’s mother was well inside his realm.
On hearing this, King Pepin was overjoyed and sped
To share the happy tidings – I’d say he went himself,
With her his wife, the servant, whose face had served her well!
On hearing what he told her, Aliste was very vexed,
But falsely laughed, pretending that she was most content.
The King, suspecting nothing, turned hastily and left,
While she, in consternation, and full of heavy dread,
1800 Without delay requested her mother to attend,
And Tybert too, her cousin – a curse upon the wretch!
All three sat on the carpets with which the room was spread.
“By St Denis, good mother,” Aliste the servant said,
“Queen Blancheflor is coming! Through Cambrai she has sped!
Our plot will be uncovered – the lot, from start to end!”
On hearing this, young Tybert began to shake and sweat,
But old Margiste responded: “Good children, never fret,
For I’ve a plan of action both subtle and direct!
Aliste shall feign a sickness so deadly if it spreads
1810 That no one must disturb her while she’s confined to bed.
If we frustrate this visit, with skill, and Heaven’s help,
Until its purpose falters and Blancheflor is pressed
To journey home, I promise, she’ll never come again!”
“Good aunt,” replied her nephew, “God bless your cleverness!
When any need arises your plans are always best!
Our clan, without you in it, would not be worth an egg!”
And so the three agreed on this counter-plan and went
With every haste to ready the patient and her bed –
Wherein she lay, God damn her, her face a mask of death!
1820 ALISTE TOOK TO her bed, the traitor, and pretended
To be one breath from death, of something so infectious
It seemed to make Margiste, her hardened mother, tremble:
<
br /> May God and St Denis both punish their deception!
“Dear God,” exclaimed the crone, “Defender of the helpless,
What evil hand has led the Queen in this direction?
A curse on him whose word has stirred her so to venture
And turn my daughter’s heart from rapture to repentance!”
To comfort her she sat beside her on the bedstead,
As every passing hour increased her daughter’s terror.
1830 “Good daughter,” said Margiste, “I’ve thought of something better!
A Jewess taught me once the varied use of venoms,
Until my skill therein was better far than any!
I’ll poison Blancheflor with venom very deftly
Concealed beneath the rind of juicy pears or cherries!”
On hearing this, Aliste was more alarmed than ever!
“THIS PLAN OF YOURS,” she answered, “is neither good nor wise!
I think it would be better if we escaped tonight!
I cannot lie here idly until the queen arrives.
My naked feet will show her at once that we have tried
1840 To trick her and committed some crime against her child –
For Bertha’s foot is fairer and wider far than mine:
Your plans will come to nothing when this is recognised,
And this is why I urge you to let us flee tonight
On horseback, taking sumpters with gold and silver piled!
My sons Rainfroi and Hadré can both be left behind
Without remorse, for neither is party to our crime.
Upon the hour of midnight, good mother, let us ride
For Puglia, Calabria, or even to the isle
Of Sicily, with Tybert, who is our kith and kind,
1850 And, having served us richly, deserves of us alike.
We three, as money-lenders, can lead a wealthy life.
I see no other option if we are to survive –
For when they know our treason, I know we’ll burn alive!”
“I swear, we’re going nowhere!”Margiste the crone replied.
“Leave all to me! If need be, I swear to God that I
Will poison Pepin also, if that is what’s required
To face this situation and save our enterprise!
Now, darken every doorway and every window’s light,
Then lie here, still and silent, while I patrol outside
1860 So none may catch a glimpse of your lovely feet or eyes!
I’m sure that in this manner we can conceal our crime.”
Aliste replied: “Good mother, I’ll do as you advise.
And in the name of Jesus, may God in Heaven High
Allow us and assist us to lead our double lives!
In truth, if we can manage to execute this guile
Successfully, our daring, I’d say, deserves to thrive!”
ABIDING BY this plan, exactly as decided,
Margiste the crone arose and started to apply it
By draping every door and window, and assigning
1870 Young Tybert to ensure that no one saw inside them.
She hastened to the King, lamenting much and sighing,
And, with a sign, besought to speak with him in private.
Approaching her, the King could see that she was crying,
And said: “Now, what’s amiss? I urge you, do not hide it!”
“Your Highness,” she replied, “I carry dreadful tidings!
Your wife is very ill! This moment she is lying
So rigidly in bed that nothing can revive her!
A sudden fit it was – I cannot else describe it.
I fear that Blancheflor may be too late arriving.”
1880 On hearing this, the King was horrified, combining
His sorrow with the crone’s, as she, alone retiring
Within her daughter’s room, encouraged her, describing
How much she’d pained the King but gained his full reliance!
The news of Bertha spread through Paris like a wildfire:
So sick she was it seemed their queen was close to dying!
Alas, not one who heard was other than delighted,
And cursed to Heaven high whoever might be trying
To give advice or skill that promised to revive her!
“A curse on all,” they cried, “who led her here so lightly,
1890 Who laid so black a cloud upon our bright horizon
By bringing her to wed King Pepin so unwisely!
A curse upon the nest that nourished such a viper,
And on the blighted geste that fathered such a tyrant!
There never was a queen, or woman, quite as spiteful!”
Let’s leave Aliste a while – her destiny will mind her –
And see the envoy, sent from Blancheflor, arriving
Before the King to say that soon her royal highness
Would hear Mass at Montmartre, if he would care to find her.
On hearing this, the King resolved at once to ride there,
1900 And did so straightaway, with both his sons beside him,
Attended by a guard of France’s first and finest:
Archbishops joined the train, whose bishops rode behind them,
And princes, dukes and counts. The cream of France’s knighthood
Rode forth to Blancheflor – whose sorrow will be mighty
As soon as she finds out what Bertha has abided!
THE NOBLE MONARCH Pepin, was angry and aghast
To think his wife had lost him the love of all he passed,
As on his way he hastened with all his entourage.
They met the queen and hailed her with courtesy and charm,
1910 And she returned the greeting with all her noble heart.
Approaching royal Pepin, she took him in her arms
Most sweetly to embrace him, and then at once she asked:
“But where’s my daughter Bertha, for whom I’ve travelled far?”
“Fine lady,” answered Pepin, “since word arrived in France
That you had come to see her, her pleasure was so vast
It passed her strength to bear it: her heart was overcharged.
She lies upon her sick-bed, and cannot rise, alas!
But I am sure she will do, on seeing you at last!”
On hearing this, her mother was stricken with alarm –
1920 She thought that it was Bertha – of course – who’d come to harm.
THE QUEEN WAS stricken dumb – alarmed and broken-hearted,
As every word was worse, of Bertha, than the last one!
King Pepin took her hand – as pale as alabaster –
And said: “My lady fair, do not despair, I charge you,
Or rue your visit here! Be glad of heart and hardy:
Your daughter will be well the moment that she marks you,
The moment that your arms reach tenderly to clasp her.”
At this, the Monarch’s sons rode up to join their father,
Beneath a shady tree dismounting and advancing
1930 To greet Queen Blancheflor with courtesy most charming.
“My lady, said the King, “here’s more to your advantage!
Behold, your daughter’s sons, and mine: Rainfroi and Hardré.”
On seeing them, she rose, but then she froze as sharply:
She felt no warmth at all or love for either party!
Her hand was loath and cold, although with sweat it sparkled.
QUEEN BLANCHEFLOR, whose nature held nothing but goodwill,
Looked hard at Pepin’s children, who both were youngsters still,
And gave her hand, bu
t coldly, with no embrace or kiss:
She felt no love for either – and that’s the truth of it.
1940 But everyone around her resented her for this:
They nudged each other slyly or, with a private wink
Conferred with one another, agreeing as they did,
That Blancheflor was evil: “No wonder, then,” they quipped,
“Her daughter, our Queen Bertha’s as wicked as she is!
The fruit of trees so blighted goes bad beneath the skin!
A curse upon whoever brought Bertha to our King!
We hear she’s on her sick-bed: if only death would bring
One hundred thousand devils to end the pain she’s in!”
The Monarchs stayed no longer; they left the church forthwith.
1950 The King and all his barons were dressed in rippled silk,
As were the dukes and clergy, the counts and either prince.
The queen, her men assisting, then mounted horse, and with
King Pepin there beside her, rode onward, down the hill.
My friends, I cannot hide it: the people cursed her still,
Because they hated Bertha – although it was Aliste!
Queen Blancheflor was stricken with grief and anger mixed:
She knew that if her daughter had not been very sick,
She would have come to meet her or sent some greeting wish.
But, riding down to Paris, that city rare and rich,
1960 She still looked all around her – and every single thing
Was lovely or astounding at every single glimpse.
The queen was at Montmartre, and, riding down the hillside,
She saw the length and breadth of that astounding city:
The hundreds of its halls, the thousands of its chimneys,
The mighty crenelled tower belonging to Montlhéry,
The mighty river Seine, so very wide and pretty,
And, planted on its sides, a plenitude of vineyards.
Upon the plain she saw Pontoise, Melun and Poissy,
And Marly in the fields, Conflans and Montmorency,
1970 Dammartin-en-Goële, that citadel of buildings,
And countless other towns that I’ll refrain from listing:
But everything she saw enthralled her noble spirit.
“Dear God above,” she cried, “Who made the world we live in,
How lucky was my child to come to such a kingdom,
To live here and be wed so nobly and so richly!”