The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature

by Brian Murdoch

  Report of the Judgement of the Court

  Gilles de Rais was condemned to be hanged and burned … [Gilles] made a request to the President of the Court: he and his servants, Henriet and Poitou, had committed enormous and terrible crimes, for which they were condemned to death, and he begged the President that he and his servants should die at the same hour on the same day, but that they should die just after him, who had been the principal cause of their misdeeds … for if they did not see him die, they might fall into despair, thinking that they were dying, but that he, the cause of their misfortune, might go unpunished … The President agreed to this.

  Report of the End of Gilles de Rais

  Gilles offered up several fine prayers to God, commending his soul to Him. Then, having given this good example to his servants, he chose to die first. His servants told him to be brave as a knight should, and trust in God’s love, and recall the Passion that led to our Redemption. Gilles died in a state of contrition. And before his body was burned, he was cut down and placed in a coffin, and taken to the church of Our Lady of Carmel in Nantes, where he was buried. Then Henriet and Poitou were hanged and burned to ashes. But they had shown much contrition and repented their misdeeds, and they persevered in this until the end.

  SOCIETY

  This section is inevitably broader than the rest, and it contains a whole rhymed novella about a medieval social climber, delinquent and tearaway. The Middle High German tale of Helmbrecht, a yeoman farmer and his son, was written at the end of the thirteenth century, probably in Bavaria, by Wernher der Gartenaere, who may well have been a Franciscan friar. The whole is an outspoken sermon against the wickedness of modern youth. The writer uses the farmer and his namesake son to contrast old courtly values with the new world at a time when society was breaking down and the feudal system was in decline. There is no doubt at all whose side the writer is on, and the medieval German work is a particularly vivid illustration of a society which is breaking down, with people leaving their proper stations for what are in all senses improper ones. Within the context of the work, the fact that young Helmbrecht gets a particularly horrid comeuppance provides for a satisfactory literary conclusion; but the rather desperate feudal and religious conservatism of the author and his conviction that God’s justice will triumph in the end is all a bit optimistic. Historically, of course, even the law enforcement officers (hangmen) can’t, couldn’t and didn’t hold back real social decay for long, and it was a while before the robber-barons and their private armies were brought under control in an empire that by now was well and truly un-holy.

  Wernher

  Helmbrecht – Father and Son

  One man will tell you things that he has seen,

  the next of happenings where he has been

  a witness. Then again, a third will tell

  a tale of love, a fourth of business well-conducted,

  and the fifth of property,

  then number six of the nobility.

  My story is of things well-known to me,

  of things that I, with my own eyes, could see.

  I saw (and I shall tell you nothing wrong!)

  a country farmer’s son with hair so long,

  so soft and gently curling, that it fell

  beyond his shoulders, blond and full as well,

  and thus he went – his hair was all his pride.

  He kept it dressed and lean, tucked up inside

  a hooded cape, embroidered like a book

  of stories. I bet you’d have far to look

  to see so many birds made out so fair

  again! Pigeons and popinjays were there

  embroidered well and finished beautifully.

  Shall I tell you what else was there to see?

  A yeoman farmer – Helmbrecht was his name –

  once had a son; he is the very same

  lad that this story tells of. His name too

  was Helmbrecht, like the father. That the two

  should have the same name was the custom then.

  So I shall do my best to turn my pen

  to show you all, briefly and carefully,

  the many wonders that there were to see

  upon young Helmbrecht’s cape. I’m telling you

  that all of this is absolutely true

  and I’m not making up a pack of lies.

  Right from the back, where the hood starts to rise,

  up to the top and back, from crown to nape

  along the middle seam, young Helmbrecht’s cape

  had little birds embroidered all around,

  as if they’d just alighted on the ground,

  having flown there out of the nearby woods

  just to come down upon this very hood,

  the finest anyone had ever seen,

  and far, far better than had ever been

  upon this kind of yokel’s head! Idiocy!

  But – well, let’s see what else was there to see.

  There was the story of the siege of Troy,

  when Paris, that quite impossible boy

  stole and seduced the wife of Greece’s king,

  (a lady he adored above all things),

  and how Troy fell after many a day,

  and from it how Aeneas fled away

  and took to ship, and to the seaways turned,

  while at his back the topless towers burned,

  and Troy’s great walls collapsed, were lost to sight.

  Alas, that such a yokel ever might

  wear such a cape, embroidered all so well

  of which there is so very much to tell.

  And now, perhaps, you’d like to hear beside

  what was depicted on the other side

  with silken threads and wonderful to see?

  The tale reports these details honestly.

  On Helmbrecht’s cape, and all on the right hand

  was Charlemagne and his Knight Roland,

  and Turpin and Sir Oliver, the four

  who fought so hard together, true and sure,

  and did heroic deeds of bravery

  against the Saracens and their army.

  The great lands of Provence, the land of Arles,

  fell to the forces of the mighty Charles,

  who fought with boldness and with strategy

  and with his forces set Galicia free,

  a land the pagans held for many a day.

  What else was there? One moment, and I’ll say.

  From one side of the binding to the next

  (it’s true – all this is in the story’s text)

  you’ll hear what he had tucked behind his ears.

  The tale of King Attila’s sons was there,

  and how they, on Ravenna’s battle-field,

  each fought so bravely, though each one was killed,

  felled by the hand of Witego, the knight,

  a brave and wild man, furious in the fight,

  who also slew Theoderic the king.

  If you like, I can tell you everything

  that this young cuckoo had depicted on

  his cape. Oh yes, I’ll tell you, everyone.

  The stupid child had (it’s true, I’m bound!)

  all down the seam, along and all around

  from his right ear and all the way along

  behind the left, and round the other one

  (I’m sure of this – the story tells me true,

  so listen and I’ll pass it on to you)

  such pictures! Every one a sight to see,

  fine knights and ladies, all of chivalry.

  Such pictures never ever were surpassed.

  And there were lovers there, each with his lass,

  outdoors, as they enjoyed a stately tread,

  the whole of this picked out in silken thread.

  Beside each knight two ladies took their stance

  (just as they do today in formal dance).

  One knight held firmly to the lady’s hand.

  And on the cape (embroide
red to the end)

  between the maidens stood a noble squire

  who held them by the hand, and rather higher

  in the field, well-drawn, a merry fiddler stood,

  with other musicians upon that hood.

  And now I’ll tell you how young Helmbrecht came

  to get this cape – the story’s very strange.

  Helmbrecht – the idiot, the stupid fool!

  Yes, how he got it I’ll reveal to you.

  So let me now narrate for those who hear

  the story of the cape itself, and where

  it came from. It was all embroidered by

  a sexy nun, who fancied chivalry

  more than her convent, ran away and fled,

  and this is what she got up to instead.

  These are strange things for any nun to do,

  but, well, I’ve seen, and it’s nothing new!

  Her lower abdomen led her astray,

  and took her reason with it, so they say.

  Helmbrecht had a sister, Gotelind,

  and she gave to the nun (she was so kind)

  a whole cow for the nun to have as meat.

  The nun’s embroidery was so neat

  that she by needlework earned all her food,

  by sewing capes and clothes like Helmbrecht’s hood.

  So Gotelind gave the nun a whole cow.

  But let me tell you what his mother now

  gave her – she gave the seamstress-nun

  more eggs and cheeses than she’d ever come

  by in her convent kitchen in a year;

  she’d not have seen so much, or even near.

  Indeed, she’d not have had so much good cheese

  within those walls – they see nothing like these.

  Beside all this, the sister gave Helmbrecht

  fine linen, white, the best she could collect,

  to make him look his best. No better weave

  could be found anywhere. I do believe

  that it was woven fine and tightly fit,

  and seven weavers worked full time on it

  to make a cloth so fine and white and rare,

  better than you might come on anywhere.

  Still trying to make Helmbrecht look his best,

  his mother gave young Helmbrecht even more

  to make the son look finer than before:

  best worsted cloth – no tailor ever held

  such cloth to work with in his life; as well

  she added in a measure of sheepskin

  straight from the animal, as a lining –

  the skin was from a pure merino lamb,

  and none so white was found in all the land.

  The worthy lady also gave the lad

  a chainmail coat, the best sword to be had,

  and these (the coat of mail and the blade)

  gave pleasure to the boy. And then she made

  his gear and his accoutrement complete

  with all the other things that he thought meet –

  a dagger and a leather side-bag – huge

  and too absurd for anyone to use!

  When they had clothed the boy so very well

  he said: ‘Mother, now listen and I’ll tell

  you what I need: a doublet fine and clean.

  If I should be without one I shall seem

  to be a bumpkin and a nobody.

  I know exactly how it ought to be.

  It should be such that when you get a sight

  of it, you’d say: ‘Yes, that will be quite right.’

  Your son will do you honour everywhere,

  a son who is so noble and so fair.’

  So in the clothes-chest that she had at home

  there was a cloth-length left, and only one,

  and she was sad when she was now required

  to sell it for the doublet he desired.

  She bought for it some other cloth of blue.

  I tell you this – and once more it is true –

  that never had a farmer or his type

  worn such a cloth, or anything quite like.

  Nothing as good as this would ever come their way.

  I do assure you that it’s true as day!

  Whoever told him how to dress up well

  certainly knew his stuff! All men could tell

  that this lad knew the image he must chance

  to get from all that much-approving glance.

  The doublet was like this: up Helmbrecht’s back

  right from his belt to the nape of his neck

  one button lay close to the next, I’m told,

  and every one was shiny, twinkling gold.

  So what about it? If you’d like to hear

  I’ll tell you all about his other gear.

  The doublet collar buttoned at the chin

  and there were buckles there that kept it in

  and they all shone like silver in the sun.

  The doublet was the best that anyone

  had seen in all their lifetime. Such a one

  was never worn by any farmer’s son.

  Nor had such effort ever gone to waste

  in this country, or any other place.

  Come on – just have a look at all this gear –

  three buttons were of crystal clear,

  neatly proportioned all and unsurpassed,

  and kept the doublet buttoned fast

  for this young idiot, this little loon!

  The front of his fine doublet was all strewn

  with sequins – you could see them shine and gleam

  from far off, blue, yellow and red and green,

  or black and white, as he had specified,

  and you could see them sparkling far and wide.

  They dazzled and they twinkled at a glance

  so that, whenever he got up to dance

  he was the cynosure of every eye,

  and girls and ladies saw him passing by

  and followed him with longing, loving looks –

  it’s true, I tell you! It’s all in the book.

  And I can tell you something else freely!

  Beside him, women would not look at me!

  And on his bodice, where it joined the sleeves,

  right up and down the seams, believe

  me, lots of little bells were sewn on here

  and you could hear them jingle, loud and clear

  when he went dancing, stepping in the line

  – a great hit with the ladies every time!

  One of the comic poets of yesteryear

  could really do this justice, were he here,

  better by far than I can manage. Well,

  just listen anyway. I’ve more to tell.

  His mother sold plenty of eggs and hens

  so that she could buy him some things again –

  fine hose, high-buckled shoes were for the boy

  to make him even finer, and her joy.

  And now he was completely kitted out

  and said: ‘I want to go off to the court,’

  and he went on: ‘Dear father, now I need

  some help from you, and your support indeed.

  My mother and my sister gave me lots

  of things – and this shall never be forgot –

  for giving me so much you can be sure

  they’ll have my gratitude for evermore.’

  The father was not pleased to hear this said,

  but then he thought, and to his son replied:

  ‘You have the clothing. You can have from me

  a horse, as proud and fine as he can be,

  a jumper or a courser, full of style,

  who’ll never tire, though you ride many a mile.

  This fine beast then will carry you to court

  –believe me, it will be most gladly bought,

  as soon as I can find one I can buy.

  But son, just let me say to you that I

  would rather that you gave up all these thoughts


  to go and dance attendance at some court.

  Please do not go – just listen to my words,

  for life at court is very, very hard

  for those not born to it – indeed, it’s tough

  for those who are familiar enough

  with it. Son, stay with me and steer the plough,

  and saddle up our packhorses, and now

  we’ll till the land together, you and I,

  and live in honour till the day we die,

  and you will be my right and proper heir,

  esteemed, as I am, honoured everywhere.

  I’ve kept faith with myself and other men,

  I’ve never borne false witness. Always when

  I have to pay my tithes each year, I do,

  and bring my tributes as and when they’re due.

  I’ve lived my life honestly as I can

  without envy, with hatred of no man.’

  The son said: ‘Father dear, I beg of you

  not to turn me from what I want to do,

  for things cannot be any other way.

  I have to go there and I have to stay

  and get a taste of how things are at court.

  As for those sacks of corn you’ve always bought,

  I’ll not be humping them onto my back

  or loading dung until my bones all crack,

  onto your dung-cart – no, never again,

  will you now catch me – never, in God’s name,

  yoking the oxen up before the plough

  sowing the fields and meadows – that I vow!

  I tell you father, it would not be fair

  on my long, flowing, fine and golden hair

  and on my curls and my complexion too,

  and on my clothes, so fitting and so new,

  and on my cape, the garment that I love,

  embroidered all around with silken doves