The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature

by Brian Murdoch

sewn on it by the ladies. Father, no,

  out to the fields I will no longer go!’

  The father said: ‘Son, stay here by my side

  and I shall tell you something else beside.

  The Farmer Ruprecht says he’ll give to you

  his daughter, and some sheep and livestock too,

  pigs, and ten cows from his herd, old and younger,

  but if you go to court, then you’ll feel hunger,

  and you won’t get soft beds of any sort

  and nobody will give you his support.

  Just listen to my words – they’re fair and true,

  and they could mean honour and worth to you.

  No one has ever managed yet to last

  when he tries moving up out of his class.

  Your proper station, son, is at the plough.

  You’ll meet plenty of gentry anyhow,

  and anywhere on earth that you may go

  you’ll just increase your shamefulness, I know.

  My son, I tell you by the Trinity,

  at court you’ll only be a mockery

  for all the proper courtiers. And so,

  my son, listen to me and do not go.’

  The son replied: ‘If I ride there as planned

  I’ll soon pick up the courtly manners, and

  adapt myself to anything I find,

  and regular courtiers will never mind,

  as soon as they all see my splendid cape

  upon my head and shoulders. They’ll all gape,

  and never in a million years believe

  (indeed they never ever could conceive)

  that I had ever walked behind the plough

  or turned a furrow with the oxen now.

  I only have to dress myself well in

  fine clothes and all the other splendid things

  that I was given by that lovely pair,

  mother and Gotelind, my sister fair,

  and I shall never – of this I’m quite sure –

  be taken for a farm-boy any more.

  I’ll never look as if I had been born

  to till the soil and go and thresh the corn,

  or make the flour, or hump the heavy sacks

  around the place and nearly break my back.

  Now I’ve a well-turned ankle, and my feet

  are shod with slippers that are fine and neat,

  my hose are silk, my shoes of finest suede,

  so nobody could ever be betrayed

  into suspecting me of having toiled

  for you or anybody in the fields.

  If you would just give me the horse, then I

  can bid old Ruprecht a last fond goodbye.

  I really do not want to take a wife –

  he’s lost me as a son-in-law for life!’

  The father said: ‘Son, just a short while stay

  and listen to the things I have to say.

  A man who listens to well-meant advice

  gets usefulness and respect out of life,

  but if a child ignores his parents’ plea,

  and if he just goes on pigheadedly,

  he’ll end up on the gibbet, yes he will,

  in shame and scandal up on gallows hill.

  If you really persist in your intent

  and want to match yourself against the men

  born rightfully to courtly life, you’ll see

  that it’s a sheer impossibility.

  The proper courtier will despise you

  (you ought to know by now that this is true)

  and then, a farmer never can complain

  against a nobleman in law, and win;

  but if a courtier robs a farmer, he

  might steal from him his total property,

  yet in a court he would still win, I’m sure,

  more easily than we would at the law.

  But if you rob the gentry just so you

  can eat, my dear son, just make sure you do

  not fall into their hands at any time,

  or you’ll be charged for every single crime

  against them, anything that’s gone and more,

  and you’ll not be allowed to plead at law.

  Don’t be deceived, they soon draw up the bill,

  God’s on their side, and it will be ‘God’s will’

  if they should kill you when you’re in the act.

  Well son, there really is no going back.

  Stay here and have an honest working life,

  live on the farm and take an honest wife.’

  He said: ‘Father, let things come as they may,

  I will not be deflected from the way

  I’ve chosen, living with the noble ones.

  I’ll leave you here with all your other sons

  to toil away behind the plough. The only time

  that I’ll see cattle is when stealing them,

  and driving them away for us to share.

  There’s only one thing left that keeps me here

  and that’s the fact I haven’t got a steed,

  so I can’t go out raiding as I need

  with all the others, hunting all around

  harrying farmers, yes, to cut them down

  and drag them through the hedges by the hair.

  I can’t do that yet, and it isn’t fair!

  I’ve simply had enough of being poor

  I cannot bear the idea any more

  of looking after our sheep and our cow –

  that isn’t what I wanted anyhow;

  no, I want to go thieving every day

  so I can get for myself in that way

  the sort of food that I should like to eat,

  and I can keep the frost off of my feet

  and keep myself warm in the winter’s chill.

  So father, let me beg you, if you will,

  to hurry up and go this very day

  and see to it – for I’ll brook no delay –

  and get the horse you said you’d buy for me,

  for I can’t wait for it eternally!’

  I’ll try to trim the telling of my tale.

  The father had some wool – a good half-bale

  (at least that’s what is written in my source)

  and this wool-bale was very fine, of course,

  amongst the best that you would ever need,

  and this he sold to buy young Helmbrecht’s steed,

  but had to add four dairy cows as well,

  two oxen and three heifers, and to sell

  four bushels of his very finest corn.

  Alas, that all this useful stuff has gone

  to waste. He bought one for ten pounds, you see,

  and truth to tell, its value was just three.

  That’s what he would have got for it at best,

  so seven pounds were wasted – all the rest!

  But now the son at last was quite ready

  to go. He put on all his finery

  and then declared – but listen what he said,

  shaking his golden and his curly head

  so that his hair fell to his shoulders: ‘I

  could fight a lion, pull stars from the sky,

  and I’m in such a ranting, raving mood

  I could eat iron bars and call them food.

  The emperor would have to call it handsome

  if I don’t capture him and ask for ransom,

  and squeeze a mint of money, vast amounts,

  from all the lords and dukes and knights and counts

  and viscounts too – I’ll kidnap every one,

  and rage around the countryside for fun,

  with no regard for my own skin at all.

  The world’s my oyster and I want it all.

  And so: dismiss me from paternal care!

  From now on I’ll be catered for elsewhere.

  Father, I tell you in all honesty

  a wildman would be easier than me

  to rear, a Saxon from the northern wilds.’

  The
father said: ‘I therefore shall, my child

  dismiss you from my care here, and I say

  I leave you now to fate, to come-what-may.

  And since my words were neither here nor there,

  and all you think of is your golden hair

  which suits your cape – well, take good care of it,

  and all those silken doves that on it flit,

  that no-one steals it or destroys the thing,

  nor damages it, nor causes anything

  to happen to all your accoutrements.

  And if it still really is your intent

  to ignore me and go away from here

  for good, I have to tell you that I fear

  that you will walk on crutches one fine day

  and a small beggar-boy will lead your way.’

  Old Helmbrecht went on: ‘Son, my dearest boy,

  you still could give your parents so much joy

  by change of mind. Come, live the way we do,

  I and your mother, and I tell you true,

  drink water, son, that’s honest, clean and fine,

  before you rob and steal to get some wine.

  I know down south in Austria they may

  break the sumptuary laws each day –

  not just the fools, even the smarter sort –

  they eat and drink far better than they ought.

  But you should eat, my son, good honest fare

  before you go off robbing anywhere

  or steal a cow from someone that you’ll swap

  to get a chicken dinner. Here we sup

  on barley-broth that lasts a week or two,

  and that’s quite good enough for us – and you!

  You ought to eat that kind of healthy course

  before you go and steal somebody’s horse

  and swap that for a roasted goose. My son,

  if you would keep my precepts, every one,

  you’d live a life of honour and esteem,

  a welcome guest wherever you are seen.

  My son, eat ryebread, oatmeal porridge, groats,

  before you eat a salmon that you’ve poached.

  A thief may not in any honour live –

  that’s all the teaching that I have to give.

  If you should take that message you’ll live well.

  If not, then that’s the very road to hell,

  and that’s a path you’ll have to walk alone.

  I can’t go with you there – that much I own.

  So if you take that path and that descent

  you’ll have to bear the dreadful consequence.’

  The son said: ‘You drink water, father,

  if you like. But wine is what I’d rather

  take. And you eat up all that old barley,

  I tell you, a roast chicken is for me,

  and I’ll not be told otherwise. White bread

  is what I’m going to eat until I’m dead.

  Oatmeal is good enough for you and yours,

  but I read in the Book of Roman Law

  that in youth a child gets all his desires

  from his godfather, not his natural sire.

  Now my godfather was a noble knight

  (a man of worthy standing in God’s sight);

  I have nobility in me through him, I swear,

  so I can aim so high in my career.’

  The father said: ‘Believe that if you will.

  I know that I would rather honour still

  someone who knew his place within God’s scheme,

  and stayed there, sticking to this way of things.

  Even if he were born in lowly state,

  amongst the people he’d more highly rate

  than somebody of royal birth, who’d use

  his power and privilege to abuse.

  If you should place a man, low-born but true

  beside a man of better stock, but who

  has no esteem whatever of his own,

  and put them somewhere where they’re both unknown,

  then folk will always place the low-born child

  above the one who’s better-born, but wild,

  the one who chose to live a life of shame

  rather than live up to his noble name.

  Son, if you want to be a noble man

  I’ll give the best advice I ever can:

  just act as nobly as you think you might.

  For real nobility – you’ll see I’m right –

  lies in noble behaviour, nothing more.

  This is the truth; of nothing I’m more sure.’

  Young Helmbrecht said: ‘Father, your words are fair

  indeed. My fine cape and my lovely hair

  and all my clothes, all done in such good taste,

  mean that I cannot stay here in this place.

  My clothes, which draw every admiring glance,

  just need to be shown off at some great dance,

  and not be used to plough the filthy earth.’

  ‘Alas that your mother ever gave birth

  to you, my son,’ the father said.

  ‘You miss what’s good, go for the bad instead.

  Son, you are still a fine, well-built young man,

  so tell me just one thing if you but can

  (that is, if you should have just enough wit):

  who lives a better life, this man or that –

  the one upon whom curses always fall,

  and who brings damages to one and all,

  and causes suffering and fear and pain,

  paying no heed to God’s great holy name –

  does that one lead a better life than he

  pwho differs from this very thoroughly,

  a man useful to others in his deeds,

  who tries his best and usually succeeds

  in helping people by day and by night,

  and who keeps God’s commandment in his sight,

  so everywhere he finds himself on earth,

  God and the people all respect his worth?

  Dear son, what I should like you now to do

  is tell me honestly, and tell me true

  which of the men that I have placed before

  you – which of them pleases you more?’

  ‘Dear father, surely it is very clear –

  the man who does no mischief is more dear

  because he gives his fellow-men his aid;

  yes, surely he lives better in all ways.’

  ‘My own dear son – you could be like that too

  if you’d listen to all I’ve said to you.

  All you need do is plough and dig like me,

  and you’ll be useful to society.

  That way you’d benefit the human race

  both rich and poor, and you’d enjoy their grace

  and all God’s creatures then would know your worth –

  the wolf, the eagle, everything on earth

  that God has put there for the use of man,

  called into being as only He can.

  My son, my son, just stay and plough the field!

  Lords and ladies are raised up from its yield –

  society rests upon the farmer’s toil,

  even the emperor owes his crown as well

  to all the farmer’s labours and his tithes;

  no other worker could be set so high.

  Yes, all the empire’s glory were as nought,

  but for the land and the farmer’s support.’

  Young Helmbrecht said: ‘Father, don’t preach to me!

  Enough of all your sermons! I can see

  that you should really be a preacher, too –

  your homilies would surely get a few

  hundred to go on a pilgrimage each time,

  off to Jerusalem and to the holy shrine.

  But listen, father, what I want to say

  is this: when farmers work so hard today

  it only means that they eat all the more.

  Whatever shall befall me, I’m quite
sure

  that farming really holds nothing for me,

  and if I have to soil my hands, you see,

  by following the plough, then you should know

  that I’d betray myself on earth below

  and also God above! A sad mischance,

  if a ploughman led a lady out to dance.’

  The father said: ‘Now just ask yourself this

  and try and work out what the answer is,

  as if you were amongst wise men, my lad,

  and tell the meaning of a dream I had.

  I saw you with two torches in your hand

  that burned so brightly that the very land

  was dazzled with their radiance and gleam.

  But son, just then I had another dream

  (a while ago) – I dreamed about someone

  who walked a poor blind beggar in the sun.’

  Young Helmbrecht said: ‘Father, that’s as may be,

  no story like that ever will set me

  against my plans for what I have in mind.

  I’d have to be one of the weakest kind!’

  The father’s warning being thus ignored,

  old Helmbrecht went on: ‘Son, I dreamed much more;

  I dreamed you limped everywhere on one leg

  and for the other had a wooden peg

  that stuck out from your garment down below,

  and had to hobble everywhere you’d go.

  I tell you, take not of this other dream,

  and ask of wiser people what it means.’

  The son said: ‘It means only that I’m right

  for earthly joys and heavenly delight.’

  The father said: ‘But there is even more,

  another dream, one far worse than before.

  I saw you over hills and woods, flying,

  but men then tore from you one of your wings,

  ripped it clear from you, and with that your flight

  was broken, and you fell into the night.

  Now what of this dream – can that be good news?

  Alas, for all the limbs that you could lose!’

  ‘Father, father, all these dreams you see

  mean nothing but joy and delight for me.’

  With that the youth said: ‘What you must do now

  is find somebody else to steer your plough,

  because you’re wasting time for both of us

  with all these dreams and all this fearful fuss.’

  Old Helmbrecht said: ‘Son, never mind those dreams!

  I had one more. Just think what this one means,

  a dream the like of none I’ve had before.

  It seemed to me that in my sleep I saw

  you by a tree and – now, this is the worst –

  light could be seen between your feet and earth,