agreeing, as if with one voice,
to love the way the devil shows.
You’ll have to pay for it, you know,
this very day. The hour of pain!
I’ve told you time and time again,
but now no more – I’ve said my word –
and now it’s in the hands of God.
Perhaps He’ll change your minds today
to live your lives the proper way,
and maybe show His mercy too,
and moderate His doom on you.
COUNT
Just get yourself from here, and quick,
or else you’re sure to get a kick.
You think your prophecies of doom
and ravings full of direst gloom
might even make God turn about
and force God’s hand to carry out
what you want – God would work for you,
not for Himself! It will not do!
Will you not grasp? We don’t believe
your stuff, and so you’ve got to leave.
Get out of here – you’d better run
the rest of us want wine and fun!
NOAH
God won’t pardon your attitude,
your arrogance and all your crude
behaviour. And on this very day
you’ll have a different bill to pay.
Just wait – only an hour or two –
the wrath of God will come to you!
[The play ends with the ultimate act of social cleansing for a decadent society, as the court is drowned in mid-party. In that Bible-conscious age, though, one wonders whether anyone remembered that the first scene involving drunkenness in the Bible comes after the flood and involves none other than Noah himself?]
SEX
Courtly love is one of the phenomena that everyone associates with the Middle Ages, but even though it is predicated upon an adultery (in theory, at least), it is not necessarily wicked. If you have marriages arranged without love, then you are bound to get a reaction that is equal and opposite. In any case, the literary expression of courtly love was highly conventional, and sometimes so formalised that the pedestal upon which the adored lady was placed was so high that you wouldn’t have been able to see her even if she had really existed in the first place, which often she didn’t. Nor, really, is there genuine evil in all the one-off adulterers and cuckolded husbands in the comic tales, the fabliaux. Misuse or abuse of power is definitely a sign of decadence, however, be it regal or religious, and so is glorying in excess. ‘Brazening it out’ is also wicked, as in the very early version, given here, of the snow-baby story.
The tale of the snow-baby is one of the most familiar in the Middle Ages. The anecdote of the woman’s attempt to explain away a supernumerary child acquired while her husband was away on a protracted business trip, and of his subsequent revenge, is told concisely in a Latin poem from the so-called Cambridge Songs; one of the earliest versions (eleventh century), it is probably also the best. The manuscript is in Cambridge now, but was copied in Canterbury from a Rhineland original, and the copyist managed to insert a quite extraneous stanza into our poem. Here the characters are Swabian, from Constance; but the balance is perfect between the woman’s tale of Alpine thirst and the husband’s counter-tale of the burning sun.
The Cambridge Songs
The Snow-Baby
Come gather round, people,
and you’ll hear a story,
a jolly tale that I’ve to tell,
how a woman once cheated
her Swabian husband
who cheated her back just as well.
The Swabian came from
the city of Constance,
but went overseas all the time
(in import-and-export);
his wife was a sex-pot
whom he left (far too often) behind.
Hardly had he
dipped an oar
into the sea
when suddenly
a storm-wind rose,
the tempest roared
the waters raged
and much, much more,
until the weary
traveller
made landfall on
a distant shore.
Meanwhile at home
his wife refused
to sit and brood.
Actors dropped in,
and all the clan
helped her forget
her absent man.
One night after
a party, she
got pregnant and
gave birth (improperly)
within the proper time.
Two years having
gone, our weary
traveller returned
with joy.
Found his faithless
wife awaiting
carrying a little boy.
They embraced and
then he asked her
where she’d got the lad.
He said:
‘Come my dear, you’d
better tell me,
else I shall knock off your head.’
Very fearful
of her husband,
she resorted to
a lie.
‘Husband dear,’
she said, ‘dear husband,
once, up in the Alps, on high,
I was trapped and
very thirsty,
slaked my thirst with snow, and I
found that it had made me pregnant,
so I bore this wretched boy!’
When five years had passed,
the merchant
thought he’d take
another trip.
Got it all prepared and took the
snow-child with him
on his ship.
In the southern seas
arriving,
he brought out
the lad, and sold
him to an Arab for a hundred
pounds, and came home
with the gold.
He went
to his house and
he said
to his wife:
‘For sorrow you must be prepared.
For the child is lost
that you so much loved,
and for which I, like you
greatly cared.
For a
tempest rose up
and tossed
us in its rage,
till there on a sandbank we lay.
The hot sun beat down,
and tormented us all,
but the snow-baby
melted away.’
That’s how the husband
defeated the lady,
out-cheated the cheater
and won.
For the child born of snow
of course had to go,
and was melted away by
the sun.
Marie de France
Lady Mary from France composed her poetry at the court of the Norman kings (to whom she may have been related) in London in the last part of the twelfth century. She wrote a number of lais, verse narratives for which she usually claimed Celtic origin, and in this one the scenario is old. Admittedly the best-known abuser of royal power – King David – actually got away with it, or at least got off with a caution from Nathan, but here there is a savage twist to the bath motif. This is not conventionalised dalliance. It is abuse of power, and the vengeance is justified.
Marie de France
The Tale of King Equitan
How many noble lords once dwelt
in Brittany! The Bretons felt
in former times that it would be
a benefit and courtesy
that famous deeds be kept in mind
–the deeds of men of every kind –
so they composed their rhyming lays
to give these tales to later days,
and of these pieces, I recall
one that was unforgettable,
abou
t King Equitan, ruler
of Nantes, a chivalrous seigneur.
King Equitan was noble, and
much loved throughout his own homelands,
fond, too, of amorous delights,
a worthy and a courteous knight.
Now: life’s a wasteland, that’s for sure,
if you’ve no interest in l’amour.
Here’s what love is: when in its sway,
you can’t think in a rational way.
Equitan had a seneschal,
a knight unfailingly loyal,
administrator of his land,
who ruled for him with even hand,
because (except when fighting wars
or following some urgent cause)
the king would never put aside
his pleasures – to the hunt he’d ride.
The seneschal was married, and
his wife would suffer in that land,
but she was beautiful, and she
was of well-bred gentility;
her form was shapely, and her face
was filled by nature with pure grace;
her eyes were grey, her features shone –
a mouth like none had looked upon! –
no-one could match her in those days!
The king had often heard her praised,
and used to greet her courteously,
and send her presents privately;
he pined for her, and often would
sit and talk with her, if he could.
For hunting and for private sport
the king would go far from the court,
and once he lodged in the castle
owned by his worthy seneschal,
when he returned from hunting deer.
The lady – she was living there.
The king could now converse with her
at length, show what his feelings were.
He found her courteous and wise,
lovely in body, face and eyes,
and well-disposed and debonnaire.
Love had the king well in her snare!
Cupid had fired the fatal dart,
wounded the king right to the heart,
and left him vanquished on the field.
Now thought and reason had to yield.
He took the lady by surprise,
and made her pensive. With sad sighs
she listened to his love intense,
and she could put up no defence.
The king got no repose that night,
but blamed himself for this new plight
and said: ‘Alas, what destiny
has brought me here to this country?
Seeing this lady once again
has been the cause of so much pain
that all my body trembles so.
I think that she must love me, though,
but if I love her, on my life
I sin – she is my bondsman’s wife.
With him my faith and honesty
must rest – and likewise his with me.
If he by some chance should find out
then it would grieve him, without doubt.
However, would it not be worse
if he deflect me from my course?
This lady needs to love someone,
or have a lover. What will come
of all her beauty if she can
not take a lover? Any man
under the vault of heaven would
through love of her, aspire to good!
From what I hear, the seneschal
should cause no problem here at all.
If he can’t guard her properly
then he shall share his wife with me!’
The king sighed loudly and, this said,
he lay back thinking on his bed,
and then, after a while, said: ‘Why
should I be suffering, when I
have no idea if she will take
me for her lover? But I’ll make
a move to find out rapidly.
If she does feel the same, for me
the sorrow will be past and gone.
My God, but this long night drags on!
I get no rest, I toss in pain,
how many hours since darkness came!’
The king watched all the night away
in sorrow, till the break of day.
He rose, and rode out normally
but soon returned. He said that he
was sad and was oppressed by gloom
and so withdrew into his room.
The seneschal was wondering
what sadness might afflict his king
so greatly. But he could not guess
that his wife caused the king’s distress.
The king, for comfort, very soon
summoned the lady to his room
and poured his heart out to her there,
saying he’d die for love of her.
She could restore his life and breath,
or she could drive him to his death.
‘Lord King,’ the lady answered him,
‘you must allow a little time,
for now, when I am faced with you
I’ve no idea what I should do.
You are king, of noble line.
I am not rich enough, or fine,
for you not to choose someone higher
for your love, or for your desire.
If once you had your will of me,
I know, and know it certainly,
my lord, that you would leave me. Then
sorrow is all I’d have, and pain.
If I should take this love from you,
submit just as you wish me to,
then it would be unfair to me –
I’d bear my share unequally.
You are a king, strong in command,
my husband is your vassal, and
you think this power should confer
rights to my love, as a seigneur.
But love unequal is no love;
a poor, but loyal knight may prove
a better man, if he is just,
and worthier of love and trust
than any king or prince may be,
if he is without loyalty.
If someone loves above his state,
more highly than his wealth would rate,
he’ll be in anguish day and night.
A rich man thinks he has the right
to keep a lover as his own,
by virtue of his rank alone.’
King Equitan said right away:
‘Lady, enough. No more, I say.
This is not talk worthy of you,
but haggling, like a merchant, who,
in his concern for wealth and fee,
sells goods of shoddy quality.
No lady anywhere, if she
be wise and full of courtesy,
and holds love worthy of her kind,
and is not fickle in her mind,
though poor, would fail to be worth
that any great prince here on earth
should come and woo her honestly,
and serve her well, and loyally.
Those who are fickle in their hearts,
and who deceive, try to outsmart
their lovers – they’re the cheated ones!
How many times has this been done –
it’s not surprising if a man
is rightly paid back for such plans.
Most dear lady, I beg of you
to see me as your lover true,
not as your king. I am your man.
In loyalty I swear I can
do all you ask of me, and I
will do it! Help me, or I die!
You shall be mistress, I the slave,
you proud, whilst I your mercy crave.’
The king pleaded with her, and he
begged mercy of her constantly
until she gave her love in full –
he had her heart and body too.
They pledged their trust; with hand to hand
they swore love to each other, and
in that way they both kept this faith.
One day it led them to their death.
Their love endured a long time then,
but hidden from the eyes of men.
When they would meet together, they
would do it covertly, this way:
the king spoke to his men, and said
that he was going to be bled.
The doors were closed behind him there.
There was no courtier who would dare
be bold enough to venture in,
unless commanded by the king.
The seneschal sat in the court,
and judged cases of every sort.
The king cherished his lover, and
would have no other in that land,
nor would he marry. The idea
could not be voiced when he might hear.
His subjects, though, took that amiss.
His mistress came to hear of this
and found it greatly troubling,
and feared that she would lose the king.
When next to speak she saw her chance,
and he came seeking dalliance,
to hug and kiss and hold her tight,
and lie with her throughout the night,
she wept and sighed and showed her pain.
The king tried to calm her again
and find the cause of all her tears.
The lady told him of her fears:
‘My lord, it’s for our love I cry,
which robs me of my every joy.
You’ll take a wife, wed some princess,
and then you’ll leave me in distress.
I’ve heard it all. I know it’s true.
But what is there for me to do?
For love of you I’ll pine away
and die – there is no other way.’
The king was filled with love, and said:
‘My dearest one, don’t be afraid!
I’ve no desire to take a wife,
nor shall I leave you all my life.
Know and believe these words, my dear:
if your husband were no more here,
I’d make you queen without delay.
No man should then stand in my way.’
The lady thanked him lovingly,
and said it pleased her mightily
to hear of this, and to believe
that her love he would never leave.
The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature Page 14
