while on a branch, where you were down below,
a raven sat, and next to him a crow.
Your hair was wild, and blowing far and wide
were bits torn out of it from either side;
on one side there the raven sat and hacked,
while on the other was the crow so black.
Alas, my son, such visions I should see!
Alas, my son, the horrid gallows-tree!
Alas the raven, and alas the crow!
That dream just spells disaster – this I know,
and I have let you grow up so unwise,
unless it be the dream is all pure lies.’
‘Father, father, in Christ’s name I declare,
you can dream anything you like or care,
both good and evil, any kind of thing.
You’ll not dissuade me from my travelling.
I swear it’s true, and hope that I may die
if I were unsure of my destiny.
Father, I leave. May God watch over you
and also over my dear mother too,
and may the blessing of the Lord of All
rest on the other children, great and small,
and may God keep us all till Judgement Day.’
With that he took his horse and rode away.
He took leave of his father, then he spurred
his horse across a gate, into the world.
If I would try to tell you what befell
him after that, and all his doings – well,
it would take me a good three days or more,
and probably a week, of that I’m sure.
He rode until he reached a castle where
the overlord had just one single care:
warfare, a robber-baron through and through,
always willing to take on someone new
provided he was well prepared to ride
and fight with all and sundry, at his side.
He took young Helmbrecht in to join his band
and go out robbing wildly through the land,
and Helmbrecht soon became the worst of all,
who stole things that the others might let fall,
–not him! It all went into Helmbrecht’s bag,
nothing was so small that he did not grab
it, nor was anything of such great size
that Helmbrecht would not claim it as his prize;
rough, smooth, bent, straight, or long or short –
young Helmbrecht took the lot without a thought.
The son of Farmer Helmbrecht – honest man –
just stole it all; he took the horses and
he took the cows, and never left a thing.
He took fine swords and then he took jerkins,
he took folk’s cloaks and then he took their coats,
he took their cattle and he took their goats
he took the ewes, he took the rams beside
(and one day he paid for it with his hide!)
but now he stole the skirts of ladies fair,
from off their very bodies everywhere
and all their robes and also all their furs
(and one day he got something rather worse
when the hangman at last caught up with him,
and then he wished he’d left the ladies’ things!)
I do assure you that my story is quite true!
Now all through that first year a fair wind blew
for him, and filled his sails fully, so
it took his ship where he wanted to go.
Too soon his confidence (that above all)
meant that he grabbed the best part of each haul,
the lion’s share of everything they stole.
But then one day he thought that he should go
back home; some instinct must have led him on
to think about his family, where he’d come from.
And so he took his leave, both from his lord
and from his thieving friends, and with a word
he blessed them as he set out the next day,
that God protect them while he was away.
And now occurred some very curious things,
events that are so very interesting
that they must now all be passed on to you.
I only hope that my poor skills will do
justice to how young Helmbrecht found the farm.
Did they welcome him? Yes, with open arms.
All ran towards him, jostling in a race
to see this young man come back to the place.
Each of the household hurried to the fore,
father and mother as never before
running (faster than to tend a sick cow!)
but who would win, and claim the first gift now?
The groom reached him first, and he got his share –
a fine shirt and some breeches, a fine pair.
Now, did the women and the steward come
and shout ‘Young Helmbrecht, welcome home?’
Not really. What they did I’ll tell you true.
Since this seemed not the proper thing to do,
their words of greeting all were rather more
effusive: ‘Pray be welcome, noble sir.’
He said: ‘A braw guid nicht to ane an’ a,
and may the guid lord keep ye evermair.’
Young Helmbrecht’s sister then came to the place
and put her arms around him in embrace.
With this young Helmbrecht spoke now to his sister
and said (another language!): ‘gracia vester.’
The younger folk had rushed to meet the son,
and after them the elders, one by one
were greeted by him most expansively.
To Farmer Helmbrecht he said ‘deu sal’ grandly
(in Portuguese!). His mother came along
and he said ‘dobra ytra’ in the Slavic tongue.
So now the folk all stared at one another,
young Helmbrecht’s old father and his mother.
The wife said: ‘Husband, I very much fear
that we are all sadly mistaken here.
This visitor is not our child Helmbrecht,
he sounds to be a Slovene or a Czech!’
The father said: ‘No, this is some Frenchman,
and hence the son that went away, this can
not be – I am as sure of that as anything,
although he really looks a lot like him.’
Gotelind, Helmbrecht’s sister spoke, and she
agreed that this man simply could not be
the son: ‘He spoke Latin to me at least.
It’s my opinion that he’ll be a priest.’
The groom then spoke up: ‘No, I’m sure he’s not.
To me he sounded something like a Scot,
or someone from up North of here, I know.
That’s where their speech is accented and slow,
say, Sweden, Saxony or somewhere similar,
at least it’s possible he comes from there.
He said ‘a braw guid nicht’ to me at first –
I’ll bet he is a Scotchman at the worst!’
Old Helmbrecht now came up to him and said:
‘If you are young Helmbrecht my son, instead
of these words, speak some of our language, come,
the language we have always used at home,
so that I understand who you may be
and you will then have done convincingly.
You say things like ‘deu sal’ – nonsense, it seems,
and we have no idea what that might mean.
Come, show respect to mother and to me
and for that you will gain our sympathy.
just speak a word or two of German, and
I’ll tend your horse for you with my own hand –
yes, I shall do it, for no groom I’ll call,
if you are my son Helmbrecht after all,
and welcome you back to our
home today.’
‘You grubby little peasant, keep away,
and that common old woman there beside!
My mount, my splendid prancer and my pride
shall never ever, and I tell you true,
be handled by someone as coarse as you.’
Farmer Helmbrecht was shaken, but his words
were kind against the insult he had heard:
‘If you are really Helmbrecht, it is right
that we should have roast chicken here tonight,
but if you are not our son Helmbrecht, then,
some Slav perhaps, or a Bohemian,
then go off to Bohemia and your kind,
for I’ve enough to do with me and mine
to keep us happy, well and healthy too.
Priests only get just what to them is due,
precisely what I owe, no less, no more.
So if you are not Helmbrecht, then be sure
you won’t sit at my board or share our food –
it’s quite impossible. It is no good –
however much I had, and of what worth,
if you’re a Saxon, or come from up North,
or if you are a Frenchman, well, I’d say
that you’ll have brought provisions for your way,
and you’ll have with you everything you need,
because from me you’ll get nothing indeed.
However long the night, you won’t be able
to get a single scrap from off my table.
I’ve got no beer, mead, wine or all the rest;
young lord, go to the nobles as their guest!’
By now the night was really drawing on.
Young Helmbrecht thought he had been there too long
to move now, so he said: ‘In God’s own name
I shall be glad to tell you who I am
and what they call me, for I see
there’s no-one near whose hospitality
I could enjoy. He thought, ‘a poor idea
to use my foreign languages down here.
It really hasn’t been much use to me,
and so I guess I’ll have to let it be.’
Aloud he said: ‘Yes, father, I’m your son.’
The father said: ‘So name yourself. Which one?’
‘The one whose name is just the same as yours.’
‘So tell me, I must hear it to be sure.’
‘Helmbrecht’s my name – the child you must know.
I worked for you here just a year ago.
This is the truth, of this you can be sure;
my name is Helmbrecht. I can say no more.’
The father said: ‘No, this I can’t believe.’
‘It’s true!’ ‘So you will simply have to give
the names of our four oxen, every one,
then I’ll believe that you can be my son.’
‘I shall be glad to do so; for besides
I’ve often used my stick across their hides.
Your lead-ox is called Toughie, and he’d be
well-valued in the whole community
on any farm. The richest in the land
would be well pleased to have that one on hand.
The second is called Rammer, but his name
deceives, because he’s really pretty tame,
no milder ox was ever yoked to plough.
The third one I shall name for you right now
and he’s called Ernest – it’s all in my brain,
and I can call them up for you again
and name them for you, every single one.
Now must I prove again that I’m your son?
The fourth ox in the team is Sunny Jim,
so if I’ve named them all well – also him –
then take me in and let me be your guest,
so I can come indoors and take my rest.’
The father said: ‘Here in the cold outside
my son, you need no minute longer bide.
Come in, come in, my doors and pantries too
will all be open now and free to you.’
You know, fate really is a fickle jade!
For I can say that in all my born days
I’ve never had quite such a reception
as now was given to the errant son.
His horse was led away, watered and fed
while he was found the softest of all beds –
see how his sister and his mother dote!
The father gave the horse a mass of oats
and didn’t stint the measure by a jot
(I’m sure they’d never give me such a lot
if I turned up at some place unannounced,
and wanted looking after! Not a chance!)
The mother shouted to her daughter busily:
‘Run to the linen cupboard now and find for me
a bolster and a pillow, soft and plump,
as quickly as you can, jump to it, jump!’
They settled him on cushions just above
the warmest place by their great central stove,
where he could simply take his ease and wait
till it was time for everyone to eat.
He dozed in comfort, lying warm and still
till it was time for them to start the meal.
He washed his hands, sat down, and they began.
Now listen, I’ll say how the menu ran!
I’ll tell you what came first upon that table
and if I were a lord, then I’d be able
to eat such dishes, prepared in this way,
myself, at my own table, every day.
Vegetables were chopped and well prepared
and, lean and juicy, on them was laid there
a splendid, thick and well-cooked piece of meat.
Now hear what next the people got to eat:
a large full-fat soft cheese was quickly served
but then came the veritable chef-d’oeuvre.
Now, how is this for culinary news!
There’d never ever been a fatter goose
well-roasted over fires on the spit
(they did it gladly; no-one grudged a bit
to welcome Helmbrecht back into the fold).
The goose was massive (that’s what I’ve been told)
much like a bustard – this they now put out
for hungry young Helmbrecht to set about.
They also had a chicken-roast, and stew,
as farmer Helmbrecht ordered his cook to.
The meal was served up for Helmbrecht’s delight –
a noble lord would glory in the sight
if he sat in his hunting-lodge at ease
and he were given dishes such as these.
Course after course came in, all this and more,
a yeoman’s table never saw before
the great delights they set before the son
for his enjoyment, each and every one.
The father said: ‘If I had any wine,
believe you me, tonight would be the time
I’d drink it. But, dear son, you must not mind
drinking spring water of the finest kind
that ever might be drawn out of the earth.
I know of few springs that could match its worth,
apart from one a mile or so away,
but no-one brings that water here today.’
When they had eaten and enjoyed their fill,
old Helmbrecht could resist no more: ‘Now, tell
me, son, tell me about the court and say
how they all spend their time from day to day,
and then I’ll tell you how it used to be –
at least, I’ll show you how it seemed to me
when I was young and used to visit them –
how men behaved at court away back then.’
‘Father, do tell me all you want to say,
then I’ll say what the court is like today.
Just ask me anything you want to know –
&
nbsp; I tell you how it is and what we do.’
‘A long way back, when I was just a lad
working for old Helmbrecht – your grandad,
my father, that is, named like me and you –
he sent me to the court to pay our dues.
I had to take a tithe of eggs and cheese
the way a yeoman farmer always does,
and there I got to see the knights at play
and watched the way that they behaved all day.
They were all courtly, genteel and polite
and free of all the wickedness that quite
spoils them today – you see it everywhere,
alas, in all the men and women there.
The knights all enjoyed one custom the most –
they all engaged in sport and at the joust;
the ladies all looked on in pure delight
(a courtier once explained to me the sights
when I asked him about these doings, all,
and what the various sports and games were called).
The knights – if all my memories are true –
would form two equal groups, and then the two
would ride against each other on the field
and each would try to make the other yield.
Of course, you know that in our social class
such fierce activities don’t come to pass
as those I saw there going on at court
(but still, indeed, all this is as it ought
to be). And after all these things were done
a stately formal dance was then begun
with lively singing and with music gay
and merrily the hours then passed away.
First a musician came into the ring
and he began a lively fiddling.
The ladies stood up in their finery
–now that was an impressive sight to see! –
and all the knights approached them, treading sure,
and took their hands, and led them to the floor.
I say again – that was a sight to see! –
the ladies, and the flower of chivalry.
Just watching them was like a magic charm,
young nobles, all with ladies on their arm
advancing merrily and happily,
the highest, and lesser nobility.
And when the stately dance was over, then
a bard came forward from the waiting men
and sang a tale of heroes for the rest,
while others did just what they liked the best,
each carried on with some activity;
one group, perhaps, practised their archery
and shot their arrows at a target true,
while others all found splendid things to do.
Some set off for the hunt. But I must say
The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature Page 9
