8
.CD
CO
1494
L3E5
1900
Unre
**".<:,
PQ
1900
573830
preface
HE previous volumes which
have been published in
this series have contained
versions belonging to what
we may call the conscious
period of romantic litera-
ture ; the writers had not
only a story to tell, but
had also a very distinct
feeling for the literary
form of that story and the
characterisation of the actors in it. In this
present volume we go behind the work of
these masters of their craft to that great mass
of floating popular tradition from which
the Arthurian epic gradually shaped itself,
and of which fragments remain to throw
here and there an unexpected light on
vi preface
certain features of the story, and to
tantalise us with hints of all that has been
lost past recovery.
All who have any real knowledge of the
Arthurian cycle are well aware that the
Breton lais, .representing as they do the
popular tradition and folk-lore
wprp current, are of
value as affording indications of the original
fornT and lneaning~ of much of the com-
pleted leffendyjjut of how much or how
little value has not yet be^nexactly^eter-
InTned. An earlier generaEoh~6f scholars
egarded them as of great, perhaps too
great, importance. They were inclined
indiscriminately to regard the Arthurian
romances as being but a series of con-
nected la is. A later school practically
ignores them, and sees in the Arthurian
romances the conscious production of
literary invention, dealing with materials
gathered from all sources, and remodelled
by the genius of a Northern French poet.
I believe, myself, that the eventual
result of criticism will be to establish a
position midway between these two points,
and to show that though certain of the early
Celticists exaggerated somewhat, they were,
in the main, correct their theory did not
account for all the varied problems of the
Arthurian story, but it was not for that to
be lightly dismissed. The true note of the
Arthurian legend is evolution not invention;
the roots of that goodly growth spring alike
from history, myth, and faery j whether
the two latter were not, so far as the dis-
tinctively Celtic elements of the legend are
concerned, originally one y is a question
which need not here be debated.*
This much is quite certain ; while the
mythic element in the Arthurian story is
yet a matter for discussion, while we are as
yet undecided whether Arthur was, or was
not, identical with the Mercurius Artusius
of the Gauls ; whether he was, or was not,
a Culture Hero ; whether Gawain does, or
does not, represent the same hero as
Cuchullin, and both alike find origin in a
solar myth ; we at least know that both
Arthur and Gawain are closely connected
with, and as their final destination found
rest in, Fairyland. It is, therefore, no
matter for surprise if we find such defi-
nitely fairy stories as the lais of Guingamor
* In this connection, cf. Mr. Nutt's '* Fairy Mythology
of Shakespeare " Popular Studies, No. 6.
and Lanval (which, be it noted, represent a
whole family of kindred tales) connected
with the Arthurian cycle, and their heroes
figuring as knights of Arthur's court.*
At that court the fairy, whether she be
Mprgain, -the Lady of the JLake, or the
Mistress of Graalent, Lanval, or Gawain,
is at home, to be distinguished by nothing,
save her superior beauty and wisdom, from
the mortals who surround her. (It is
scarcely necessary to remark that the fairies
of the mediaeval French romance writers
are not the pigmies of the Teutonic sagas
and of Shakespeare.) The role of these^
maidens is, generally speaking;, a clearly
- . - a. fe /__ _c - fe> . - ^ J
denned one : they aje immortals in search
of a~mortal love,t^nc[ in this'charactfirltSe
"liafjdlcls t ca~fa?L-US-fer back to the_earliest
stages of Celtic ~
ancientIrj"
_
special feature of these Breton !ais y to
be noted in this connection, is that they
often combine two features which are more
generally found apart, and which, as repre-
sented by their most famous mediaeval
* Cf. Dr. Schofield's studies of the lais of Guingamor,
Graalent, and Lanval, referred to in the Notes.
f To this rule Nimue, = the Lady of the Lake, appears
to be the only exception.
(preface" i*
forms, are wont to be considered by us as
belonging to two different families of
tradition, /.>., the Tnnnhauser legend (the
carrying off of-H knight by the queen of the
other world), and the Lohengrin legend (the
rupture of a union between a mortal and an
immortal, and the penalties incurred by the
former by the transgression of a prohibition
imposed bv the latter). Two of the stories
given in this volume, Guingamor and
Lauval) in common with others which will
be found noted in Dr. Schofield's studies,
combine both motifs.
Now that such tales as these, in them-
selves independent ^poflular folk-tales^
tjmes becamein^ocpoxated
timei^y -ihe-loaa^fJncjHem and feature
s tron gly_jnjjjejicjed*^
cannotlthhik be demecD Fafnes such as
the mistresses of Guingamor and Lanval
were, as I have said above, residents or
visitors at Arthur's court. ^Arthuj.hiniself^
is^ like thos^jyiigh^carrjejLt^ \/
~even~as Guingamor in the extremity of
mortal weakness. That like Guingamor
he was thought of as recovering, and
reigning with undiminished vigour over
his fairy kingdom, is clear from numerous
x" (preface
conclusion that the Arthurian legend, in
the process of evolution, borrowed with
both hands from already existing stores of
popular folk-lore and tradition ; and an
examination of the parallels with this folk-
lore element makes it equally clear that it
was largely of Celtic origin.
But in what form was this popular
tradition when the literary masterpieces
of the Arthurian cycle, the poems of
Chretien de Troyes and his German rivals,
were composed ? We know that many of
these tales were told as Breton lais^ and in
this original form they have practically
disappeared. Those we possess are French
translations, and of these the best and
largest collection we owe to the skill and
industry of Marie de France, an Anglo-
Norman poetess who lived in the reign of
Henry II. and was therefore a con-
temporary of Chretien de Troyes. Of
the four lals here given, two, Lanval and
Were-Wolf (Bmlaveret\ are undoubtedly
by her, and Guingamor is very generally
considered to be also her work. The
metre in which she wrote was the eight-
syllable verse, in rhymed pairs, adopted
also by Chretien in common with most of
preface xiit
he poets of his time. As we see, Marie,,
ike Chretien, connected some of these lals
with Arthur. They are Breton lais $
Arthur is a Breton king ; his legend
certainly came to the Northern French
poets partly, if not entirely, from Breton
sources ; the probability, therefore, is that
:he connection took place, in the first
nstance, on Breton rather than on French
ground /.*., it is due neither to Marie
nor to Chretien, but to the sources they
used.
Setting hypothesis aside, however, this
may be stated as an absolute matter of fact :
at the time that the longer Arthurian-
omances took shape there were alsa
current a number of short poems, both in
Breton and in French, the latter in the
precise metre adopted for the longer
poems, connecting the Arthurian story
with a great mass of floating popular folk-
tale, which short poems were known to
the writers of the longer and more elabo-
rate romances. Are we seriously called
upon to believe that they made absolutely
no use of them ? That they left all this
wealth of material rigidly on one side,
and combined for themselves out of their
xiv preface
inventive faculties and classical knowledge
the romances that won such deserved
repute ? Such a solution of the Arthu-
rian problem I can scarcely think likely in
the long run to be accepted by serious
students ; certainly not by those whom
the study of comparative religion and folk-
lore has taught how widely diffused in
extension, and how persistent in character,
are the tales which belong to the childhood
of the race. That a large and important
body of genuine existing tradition shb'uIcT
be, not merely superseded, but practically
beaten out of the field and destroyed by
the power of mere literary invention, would
be a curious phenomenon at any date ; in
the twelfth century it is absolutely incon-
ceivable. The Arthurian legend has its
roots in folk-tradition, and the abiding
charm of its literary presentment is in
reality due to the persistent vitality and
pervasive quality of that folk-lore element.
Children of a land of eternal youth,
Arthur and his knights are ever young ;
it is true that some of the romances tell
us that in the last great war with Lancelot
Arthur was over ninety years old and
Gawain above seventy, but one feels that
preface *v
even for the writer such figures had no
significance; their words and actions are
the words and actions of youth we have
here no Charlemagne and his veterans h la
bar be fleurle.
But this is an element which in our
rightful appreciation of the literary master-
pieces of the cycle we are apt to ignore,
nor is it other than scantily represented in
English literature; it has therefore been
thought well, in such a series as this to
include a volume which shall direct atten-
tion less to the completed Arthurian epic
than to the materials from which that epic
was formed, since if we mistake not, it is
to the nature of that material even more
than to the skill of its fashioners, that the
unexampled popularity of the Arthurian
legend is due.
BOURNEMOUTH, May 1900.
(EJuingamor
<J5uingamor 5
" Graislemiers de Tine Post erne
I amena conpeignons vint,
Et Guigomars ses frere i vint;
De r Isle <T Avalon fu sire.
De cestui avons oi dire
Qtfilfu amis ZMorgain la fee,
Et cefu veritez provee"
CHRETIEN DE TROVES. Erec. w. 1952-58.
WILL tell ye here a fair adven-
ture, nor think ye that
'tis but mine own inven-
tion, for 'tis truth, this
tale I tell ye, and men
call the lav wherein 'tis
writ the
gamor.
lay of Gum-
In Brittany of old
time there reigned a
king who held all the land in his sway,
and was lord of many noble barons his
name I cannot tell ye. This king had a
nephew who was both wise and courteous,
a very brave and skilful knight, and Guin-
gamor was he called. For his bravery
and his beauty the king held him passing
dear, and thought to make him his heir
since he had no son. All men loved Guin-
.
gamor j he knew how to promise, and how
to give ; knights and squires alike honoured
him for his frankness and his courtesy ;
and his praises went abroad throughout
all that land.
One day the king went forth to hunt
and to disport himself in the forest. His
nephew had that morn been bled and was
still feeble, so might not go forth into the
woodland, but would abide in his hostel,
and with him were many of the king's
companions.
At prime Guingamor arose and went
forth to the castle to seek solace. The
seneschal met him and threw his arm
, around his neck, and they spake together
awhile, and then sat them down to play at
chess. And as they sat there the queen
came even to the door of the chamber,
on her way to the chapel. She was
tall and fair and graceful ; and there she
stood awhile to gaze on the knight whom
she saw playing chess, and stayed her still
and moved not.
Very fair did he seem to her in form
and face and feature ; he sat over against
a window, and a ray of sunlight fell upon
his face and illumined it with a fair colour.
(Sutngamor 7
And the queen looked upon him till her /
thoughts were changed within her, and
she was seized with love for him, for his
beauty and his courtesy.
Then the queen turned her back, and
called a maiden, and said : " Go thou to
the knight who sitteth within playing
chess, Guingamor, the king's nephew, and
bid him come to me straightway."
So the maiden went her way to the
knight, and bare him her lady's greeting,
and her prayer that he come forthwith
and speak with her ; and Guingamor let
his game be, and went with the maiden.
The queen greeted him courteously,
and bade him sit beside her ; but little did &
he think wherefore she made such fair ; .
semblance to him.
The queen spake first : " Guingamor,
thou art very valiant, brave and courteous
and winning a fair adventure awaits thee
thou canst set thy love in high places !
Thou hast a fair and courteous friend, I
know neither dame nor damsel in the
kingdom her equal ! She loveth thee
dearly, and thou canst have her for thy
love."
The knight answered : " Lady, I know
8 (Kutngamot
not how I can dearly love one whom I have
never seen nor known ; never have I heard
speak of this aforetime, nor have I besought
love from any."
And the queen spake : " Friend, be not
so shamefaced; me canst thou very well love,
for of a sooth J am not to be refused ; I love
thee well and will love thee all my days."
Then Guingamor was much abashed,
and answered discreetly : " Well do I
know, lady, that I ought to love thee ; thou
art wife to my lord the king, and I am
bound to honour thee as my liege lady."
But the queen answered: " I say not that
thou shalt love me thus, but I would love
thee as my lover, and be thy lady. Thou
art fair, and I am gracious ; if it be thy
will to love me very joyful shall we both
be," and she drew him towards her and
kissed him.
Guingamor understood well what she
said, and what love she desired of him, and
thereof had he great shame, and blushed
rosy-red, and sprang up thinking to go
forth from the chamber. The queen would
fain keep him with her, and laid hold on
his mantle, so that the clasp broke and he
came forth without it.
(Buingatnor 9
Then Guingamor went back to the chess-
board, and seated himself, much troubled at
heart ; so startled had he been that he had no
thought for his mantle, but turned to his
game without it.
The queen was much terrified when she
thought of the king, for when Guingamor
had so spoken, and showed her his mind
she feared lest he should accuse her to his
uncle. Then she called a maiden whom
she trusted much, and gave her the mantle,
and bade her bear it to the knight ; and
she laid it around his shoulders, but so
troubled in mind was he that he knew
not when she brought it to him ; and the
maiden returned to the queen.
So were the two in great fear till vesper-
tide, when the king returned from the chase
and sat him down to meat. They had
had good sport that day, and he and his
comrades were very joyful. After meat
they laughed and made sport, and told their
adventures, each spake of his deeds, who
had missed, who had hit fair. Guingamor
had not been with them, whereof he was
sorrowful. So he held his peace, and spake
no word.
But the queen watched him, and thinking
to make him wrathful, she devised words
of which each one should weigh heavily.
She turned herself to the knights and spake:
"Much do I hear ye boast, and tell of your
adventures, yet of all whom I see here is
none brave enough (were one to give him a
thousand pounds of gold) to dare hunt or
wind horn in the forest here without,
where the white boar wanders. Marvellous
praise would he win who should take that
boar ! "
Then all the knights held their peace,
for none would assay that venture. Guin-
gamor knew well that it was for him she
spake thus. Throughout the hall all were
silent, there was nor sound nor strife.
The king answered her first : " Lady,
thou hast often heard of the adventure of
the forest, and this thou knowest ; it dis-
pleaseth me much when in any place I
hear it spoken of. No man may go thither
to hunt the boar who may return there-
from, so adventurous is the land, and so
perilous the river. Much mischief have I
already suffered ; ten knights, the best of
the land, have I lost ; they set forth to seek
the boar and came never again."
Then he said no more, but the company
n
departed from each other, the knights went
to their hostel to slumber and the king
betook himself to his couch.
Guingamor did not forget the word
which he had heard, but went his way to
the king's chamber and knelt before him.
" Sire," he said, " I ask of thee somewhat
whereof I have great need, and which I
pray thee to grant me, nor in any wise to
refuse the gift."
The king said: "Fair nephew, I grant
thee what thou prayest from me, ask
securely, for in naught would I deny thy
will."
The knight thanked him, and said :
" This is that which I demanded, and the
gift which thou hast given me. I go to
hunt in the forest." Then he prayed him
to lend him his horse, his bloodhound, his
brachet, and his pack of hounds.
When the king heard what his nephew
said, and knew the gift he had given, he
was very sorrowful and knew not what to
do. Fain would he have taken back his
word and bade him let the matter be, for
such a gift should he not have asked; never
would he suffer him, even for his weight
in gold, to go chase the white boar, for
12 (Butngamor
never might he return. And if he lent
him his good brachet and his steed then
would he lose them both and never see
them again, and naught had he that he
valued so highly j there was nothing on
earth he would have taken for them
" an I lose them I shall grieve all the days
of my life."
And Guingamor answered the king :
" Sire, by the faith I owe thee, for naught
that thou could'st give me, were it the
wide world, would I do other than I have
said and chase the boar to-morrow. If
thou wilt not lend me thy steed, and the
brachet thou dost hold dear, thy hound
and thine other dogs, then must I e'en take
my own, such as they are."
With that came the queen who had
heard what Guingamor desired (and know
ye that it pleased her well), and she prayed
the king that he would do as the knight
required, for she thought thus to be de-
livered from him, and never, in all her life,
to see him again. So earnestly did she
make her prayer that at length the king
granted all she might ask. Then Guingamor
prayed leave, and went joyful to his dwel-
ling ; naught might he sleep that night,
(Butngamor 13
but when he saw dawn he arose in haste
and made ready, and called to him all his
companions, the king^s household, who were
in much fear for him, and would gladly
have hindered his going an they might. He
bade them bring him the king's steed
which he had lent him the night before,
and his brachet, and his good horn, which
he would not have given for its weight in
gold. Two packs of the king's good dogs
did Guingamor take with him, and forgat
not the bloodhound. The king himself
would accompany him forth from the town,
and with him came the burghers and the
courtiers, rich and poor, making great cry
and lamentation, and with them too were
many ladies sorrowing sorely.
To the thicket nearest the city went all
the huntsmen, taking with them the blood-
hound, and seeking for the track of the
wild boar, for they knew well where he
was wont to haunt. They found the
track and knew it, for many a time had
they seen it, and traced the beast to his
lair in the thick bushes and loosed the
bloodhound, and by force drove forth the
boar.
Then Guingamor sounded his horn and
14 (gutngatnot
bade them uncouple one pack of dogs and
the other lead forward to await him near
the forest, but they should not enter
therein. Thus Guingamor began the
chase and the boar fled before him, leaving
his lair unwillingly. The dogs followed,
giving tongue, and hunted him to the
verge of the forest, but further might
they not go, since they were weary, where-
fore they uncoupled the others. Guin-
gamor rode on winding his horn, and the
pack ran yelping on the boar's track ;
return to his lair he might not, but
plunged into the forest, and the knight
followed after, carrying the brachet which
he had borrowed from the king.
They who had borne him company, the
king and his fellowship and the men of
the city, stayed without the wood, nor
would go further. There they abode so
long as they might hear the blast of the
horn and the barking of the dogs, and
then they commended the knight to
God and turned them back to the
town.
The boar ran further and further till he
had wearied out the dogs, then Guingamor
took the brachet and loosened the ieash,
(Butngamot 15
and set it on the track, which it followed
of right good will, while the knight did
what he might to aid and encourage his
uncle's dog by blowing gaily on his horn.
Much did the sounds of the chase please
him, but ere long he had lost both brachet
and boar, he heard neither yelp nor cry
and became sorrowful and much displeased ;
he deemed he had lost the brachet through
the thickness of the forest, and he was
passing sorrowful for the sake of his uncle
who loved the dog so well. So he went
still forward into the forest, and coming
to a high hill he stayed awhile, very
sorrowful and much at a loss.
The sky was clear and the day fair, all
around him sang the birds but he hearkened
not to their song. Ere long he heard the
brachet give tongue afar off and he began
to wind his horn, troubled at heart till he
saw the dog. Through a little plantation
towards the open ground he saw the
brachet and the boar come swiftly, and
thought to reach them easily. He spurred
his steed to a gallop, nor would delay,
rejoicing much at heart and saying to
himself that might he take the boar, and
return whole and unharmed to court, he
16 <t?uin<jamor
would win much fame, and his deed would
be spoken of for all time.
In the joy of his heart he set the horn
to his lips and blew a marvellous great
blast. Afore him passed the boar with the
brachet close upon its track. Guingamor
rode after swiftly, through the adventurous
land, across the perilous river, over the
meadowland where the turf was green and
flowery ; well nigh had he overtaken his
prey when he looked ahead and saw the
walls of a great palace, well built, yet
without mortar. 'Twas all enclosed of
green marble, and above the entry was a
tower which seemed to him of silver, so
great was the clearness it gave. The doors
were of fine ivory, inlaid with golden
trefoils, nor was there bar nor lock.
Guingamor came on swiftly, and when
he saw the door stand wide and the
entrance free, he thought him he would
go within and find the goodman who kept
the gate, for fain would he know who was
lord of the palace, since 'twas the fairest he
had ever seen. Much it pleased him to
look upon its beauties, for he thought he
might lightly overtake the boar ere it had
run far, since it was wearied by the chase.
(Buingamot 17
So he rode within and drew bridle in the
palace, and looked all around, but no man
might he see, naught was there about him
but fine gold ; and the chambers which
opened from the hall seemed of stones of
Paradise. That he found neither man nor
woman there pleased him not, else was he
glad that he had found so fair an adventure
to tell again in his own land.
Then he turned him back, and rode
quickly through the meadows by the river,
but naught did he see of his boar, quarry
and dog were alike -lost. Then was Guin-
gamor wrathful. " Of a truth," he said, " I
am betrayed, men may well hold me for a
fool. Methinks that to look upon a house
have I lost all my labour. If I find not
my dog and my boar little joy or pleasure
shall I have henceforward, and never more
may I return to my own land." Much
troubled, he betook himself to the high
ground of the forest, and began to listen if
he might hear the cry of the dog.
Then he heard the brachet give tongue
afar off to his right hand, and he waited
and hearkened till he surely heard both dog
and boar. Then he began again to wind
his horn, and rode towards them. The
E
boar passed before him, and Guingamor
rode after, encouraging the brachet with
hue and cry.
Thus he came into the open country,
and found a spring beneath an olive tree,
wide-spreading, and covered with leaves.
The water of the spring was clear and
fair, and the gravel thereof gold and silver.
In the water a maiden was bathing herself
while another combed her hair and washed
her feet and hands. Fair was she, long-
limbed and softly rounded, in all the world
was there nothing so fair, neither lily nor
rose, as that naked maiden.
As soon as Guingamor beheld her he
was stirred by her beauty. He saw her
garments on a bush, and turned his horse's
bridle thither ; he stayed not, but taking
her robes, set them high in the fork of a
great oak. When he had taken the boar,
he thought to return and speak with the
maiden, for he knew well that she would
not go thence naked. But the maiden saw
his deed, and called the knight to her, and
spake proudly : " Guingamor, let be my
robes ; an God will, never shall it be told
among knights that thou didst so dis-
courteous a deed as to hide the garments
(Butngatnot 19
of a maiden in the fork of a tree ! Come
hither, and fear not. To-day shalt thou
abide with me, thou hast laboured all day
and hast had but ill success."
Then Guingamor went towards her, and
proffered her robe, and thanked her for her
courtesy, and said he might not lodge with
her, since he must seek the boar and the
brachet which he had lost.
The maiden answered him : " Friend, all
the knights in the world let them labour
as they might should not find those two,
an I gave them not mine aid. Let that
folly be, and make this covenant with me ;
come with me and I pledge thee loyally
that I will give thee the boar as a prize,
and the brachet shalt thou have again to
take with thee into thine own land, on the
third day hence.'
" Fair lady," said the knight, " by this
covenant will I gladly abide even as thou
hast spoken."
Then he dismounted, and the maiden
clad herself in a short space, and she who
was with her brought her a mule well and
richly harnessed, and a palfrey, better had
never count nor king. Guingamor lifted
the maiden to her saddle, and rode beside
20
her, holding her bridle in his hand. Often
did he look upon her, and seeing her so
fair and tall and graceful of good will
would he become her lover. He looked upon
her gently, and prayed her earnestly that
she would grant him her love ; never afore-
time had his heart been troubled for any
woman he had looked upon, nor had he
thought of love.
The maiden, who was wise and courteous,
answered Guingamor that she would
willingly grant him her love, whereof the
knight was joyful, and since she had
pledged herself to be his lady, he laid his
arm around her and kissed her.
The waiting maiden had ridden on
quickly to the palace wherein Guingamor
had entered, and they had decked it richly,
and bidden the knights mount and ride
out to meet their lady, to do honour to the
lover whom she brought with her. Three
hundred or more of them there were, nor
was there one but was clad in vest of silk
wrought with gold thread. Each knight
led with him his lady. 'Twas a passing
fair company. There were squires with
hawks, and fair falcons that had passed
their moulting. In the palace were
(Sutngamor 21
there as many playing at chess and other
games.
When Guingamor dismounted he beheld
the ten knights who had gone forth to chase
the boar, and been lost from his land.
They rose from their seats to meet him,
and greeted him right joyfully, and Guin-
gamor kissed them each one. A fair
lodging was his that night, great plenty of
rich meats, with much rejoicing, and great
state ; there was the sound of harps and
viols, the song of youths and maidens.
Much did he marvel at the noble fare, the
beauty and the richness of all around. He
bethought him that he would abide there
two days, and on the third would take his
way homeward ; the dog and the boar
would he take, and make known to his
uncle the adventure which had befallen
him, then would he return again to his
lady.
Yet otherwise than he deemed had it
chanced to him ; not three days but three
hundred years had he been in that palace ;
dead was the king, and dead his household
and the men of his lineage, and the cities
he had known had fallen into destruction
and ruin.
22 (Buingamor
On the third day Guingamor prayed
leave of his love that he might go to his
own land, and that she would give him the
brachet and the boar, according to her
covenant ; and the maiden answered :
" Friend, thou shalt have them, but know
that thou wilt go hence for naught ; 'tis
three hundred years past since thou earnest
hither, thine uncle and his folk are dead ;
neither friends nor kinsmen shalt thou find.
One thing I tell thee, ask where thou wilt,
nowhere shalt thou find a man so old that
he may tell thee aught of those thou
seekest."
" Lady," quoth Guingamor, " I may not
believe that thou sayest sooth, but if the
thing be so then I swear to thee that I will
straightway return hither."
And she answered, " I charge thee when
thou hast passed the river to return to thine
own land, that thou neither eat nor drink,
however great may be thy need, till thou
return once more to this land, otherwise
art thou undone."
Then she bade them bring his steed, and
the great boar, and the brachet which she
gave him in leash, and Guingamor took the
boar's head, more might he not carry, and
mounted his steed and went forth. His
lady rode with him to the river, and had
him put across in a boat, then she com-
mended him to God and left him.
The knight rode forward and wandered
till midday in the forest, nor might he find
a way out. 'Twas all so ill-looking and
overgrown that he might know the way no
longer. Then afar to the left he heard the
axe of a wood-cutter, who had made a fire
and burnt charcoal, and he spurred towards
the sound, and gave the man greeting, and
asked where his uncle the king abode, and
at what castle he should seek for him.
But the charcoal-burner answered : "Of
a faith, sire, I know naught ; the king of
whom thou speakest 'tis over three hundred
years since he died, he and all his folk,
and the castles of which thou askest have
long been in ruins. There are certain of
the old folk who full oft tell tales of that
king, and of his nephew who was a
wondrous valiant knight, how he went one
day to hunt within this forest and was seen
no more." Guingamor heard what he said,
and a great pity seized him for the king
his uncle, whom he had thus lost, and he
to the charcoal-burner : " Hearken
24 <E>uingamot
what I say to thee, for I will tell thee what
has befallen me. / am he who went
hunting in this forest, and I thought to
return and bring with me the white boar."
Then he began to tell of the palace he had
found, and the maiden whom he had met,
how she had lodged him royally for two
days ; " and on the third did I depart, and
she gave me my dog and the boar." Then
he gave him the boar's head and bade him
keep it well till he returned to his home,
and might tell the folk of the land how he
had seen and spoken with Guingamor the
king's nephew.
The poor man thanked him, and Guin-
gamor bade him farewell, and turned him
back and left him. 'Twas already past
nones and the day drew towards vesper-tide ;
so great a hunger seized the knight that he
became well-nigh ravening; by the road-
side as he went there grew a wild apple tree,
the boughs well laden with fruit ; he drew
near and plucked three and ate them. He
did ill in that he forgat his lady's command,
for even as he tasted the fruit he was aged
and undone, so feeble of limb that he fell
from his steed, and might move neither
hand nor foot; when he might speak
(Sutngamot 25
he began in a feeble voice to bemoan him-
self.
The charcoal-burner had followed him
and seen what had chanced, and it seemed
to him that he might scarce live till the
evening. But as he would go to his aid
there came riding two fair maidens, well
and richly dressed, who dismounted beside
Guingamor, and blamed him much, and
reproached him for that he had so ill kept
his lady's command. Gently they lifted
the knight and set him on his horse, and
led him to the river, where they placed
him, his steed, and his dog, in a boat and
rowed them over.
The peasant turned him back, and that
night he sought his home bearing with
him the boar's head ; far and wide he
told the tale, and affirmed it by his oath.
The head he gave unto the king, who
caused it to be shown at many a feast ; and
that none might forget the adventure the
king bade make a lay which bare the name
of Guingamor and so do the Bretons
call it.
|5ir feaunfaf 31
This is the adventure of the rich and noble knight
Sir Launfal) even as the Breton lay recounts it
HE valiant and courteous
King, Arthur, was so-
journing at Carduel, be-
cause of the Picts and the
Scots who had greatly
destroyed the land, for
they were in the king-
dom of Logres and often
wrought mischief therein.
In Carduel, at Pente-
cost, the King held his
summer court, and gave rich gifts to the
counts, the barons, and all the knights of
the Round Table. Never before in all the
world were such gifts given. Honours
and lands he shared forth to all, save to one
alone, of those who served him.
This was Sir Launfal ; of him and his
the King thought not ; and yet all men
loved him, for worthy he was, free of hand,
very valiant, and fair to look upon. Had
any ill happened to this knight, his fellows
would have been but ill-pleased.
Launfal was son to a king or high
descent, but his heritage was far hence
3* JMr feaunfaf
in a distant land ; he was of the household
of King Arthur, but all his money was
spent, for the King gave him nothing, and
nothing would Launfalask from him. But
now Sir Launfal was much perplexed, very
sorrowful, and heavy of heart. Nor need
ye wonder at it, for one who is a stranger
and without counsel is but sorrowful in a
foreign land when he knows not where to
seek for aid.
This knight of whom I tell ye, who
had served the King so well, one day
mounted his horse and rode forth for
diversion. He left the city behind him,
and came all alone into a fair meadow
through which ran a swift water. As he
rode downwards to the stream, his horse
shivered beneath him. Then the knight
dismounted, and loosening the girth let
the steed go free to feed at its will on the
grass of the meadow. Then folding his
mantle beneath his head he laid himself
down ; but his thoughts were troubled by
his ill fortune, and as he lay on the grass he
knew nothing that might pleasure him.
Suddenly, as he looked downward
towards the bank of the river, he saw two
maidens coming towards him ; never before
tt feaunfaf 33
had he seen maidens so fair. They were
richly clad in robes of purple grey, and their
faces were wondrous beautiful. The elder
bore in her hands a basin of gold finely
wrought (indeed it is but truth I tell you) ;
the other held a snow-white towel.
They came straight to where the knight
was lying, and Launfal, who was well
taught in courteous ways, sprang to his feet
in their presence. Then they saluted him,
and delivered to him their message. " Sir
Launfal," said the elder, " my lady, who is
most fair and courteous, has sent us to you,
for she wills that you shall return with
us. See, her pavilion is near at hand, we
will lead you thither in all safety."
Then Launfal went with them, taking
no thought for his steed, which was grazing
beside him in the meadow. The maidens
led him to the tent, rich it was and well
placed. Not even the Queen Semiramis in
the days of her greatest wealth and power
and wisdom, nor the Emperor Octavian,
could have equalled from their treasures
the drapery alone.
Above the tent was an eagle of gold, its
worth I know not how to tell you ; neither
can I tell that of the silken cords and
34 ^tt feaunfaf
shining lances which upheld the tent ;
there is no king under heaven who could
purchase its equal, let him offer what he
would for it.
Within this pavilion was a maiden, of
beauty surpassing even that of the lily and
the new-blown rose, when they flower in
the fair summer-tide. She lay upon a rich
couch, the covering of which was worth
the price of a castle, her fair and gracious
body clothed only in a simple vest. Hef
costly mantle of white ermine, covered
with purple of Alexandria, had she cast
from her for the heat, and face and throat
and neck were whiter than flower of the
thorn. Then the maiden called the knight
to her, and he came near and seated himself
beside the couch.
" Launfal," she said, " fair friend, for
you have I come forth from my own land ;
even from Lains have I come to seek
you. If you be of very truth valiant and
courteous then neither emperor count
nor king have known such joy as shall be
yours, for I love you above all things."
Then Love smote him swiftly, and
seized and kindled his heart, and he
answered :
J}tr fcaunfaf 35
<c Fair lady, if it so please you, and such
joy may be my portion that you deign to
love me, then be the thing folly or wisdom
you can command nothing that J will not
do to the utmost of my power. All your
wishes will I fulfil, for you I wil renounce
my folk and my land, nor will I ever ask
to leave you, if that be what you most
desire of me."
When the maiden heard him whom she
could love well speak thus she granted him
all her heart and her love.
And now was Launfal in the way to
good fortune. A gift the lady bestowed
upon him : there should be nothing so
costly but that it might be his if he so
willed it. Let him give or spend as freely
as he would he should always have enough
for his need. Happy indeed was Launfal,
for the more largely he spent the more
gold and silver should he have.
"Friend," said the maiden, "of on*.
thing must I now warn you, nay more, I
command and pray you, reveal this your
adventure to no man. The reason will I
tell you ; if this our love be known you
would lose me for ever, never again might
you look upon me, never again embrace me."
3^ J5!tt feaunfaf
Then he answered that he would keep
faithfully all that she should command him.
Thus were the two together even till
the vesper-tide, and if his lady would have
consented fain would Launfal have re-
mained longer.
" Friend," said she, " rise up, no longer
may you linger here, you must go and I
must remain. But one thing will I tell
you, when you wish to speak with me
(and I would that may ever be when a
knight may meet his lady without shame
and without reproach) I shall be ever there
at your will, but no man save you shall see
me, or hear me speak."
When the knight heard that he was
joyful, and he kissed his lady and rose up,
and the maidens who had led him to the
tent brought him new and rich garments,
and when he was clad in them there was
no fairer knight under heaven. Then they
brought him water for his hands, and a
towel whereon to dry them, and laid food
before him, and he supped with his lady.
Courteously were they served, and great
was the joy of Sir Launfal, for ever and
again his love kissed him and he embraced
her tenderly.
^tt feaunfaf 37
When they were risen from supper his
horse was brought to him, saddled and
bridled ; right well had they tended it.
Then the knight took leave of his lady,
and mounted and rode towards the city ;
but often he looked behind him, for he
marvelled greatly at all that had befallen
him, and he rode ever thinking of his
adventure, amazed and half-doubting, for
he scarcely knew what the end thereof
should be.
Then he entered his hostel and found
all his men well clad, and he held great
state but knew not whence the money
came to him. In all the city there was no
knight that had need of lodging but Laun-
fal made him come unto him and gave
him rich service. Launfal gave costly
gifts ; Launfal ransomed prisoners ; Laun-
fal clothed the minstrels ; Launfal lavished
wealth and honours ; there was neither
friend nor stranger to whom he gave not
gifts. Great were his joy and gladness, for
whether by day or by night he might full
often look upon his lady, and all things
were at his commandment.
Now in the self-same year, after the
feast of St. John, thirty of the knights
38 JJtt aunfaf
went forth to disport themselves in a
meadow, below the tower wherein the
queen had her lodging. With them went
Sir Gawain and his cousin, the gallant
Iwein. Then said Gawain, the fair and
courteous, who was loved of all : " Pardieu,
my lords, we do ill in that we have not
brought with us our companion, Sir
Launfal, who is so free-handed and cour-
teous, and son to so rich a king." Then
they turned back to his hostelry, and by
their prayers persuaded Launfal to come
with them.
It so chanced that the queen leant forth
from an open casement, and three of her
chosen ladies with her. She looked upon
Sir Launfal and knew him. Then she
called one of her ladies, and bade her
command the fairest and most graceful of
her maidens to make ready and come forth
with her to the meadow. Thirty or
more she took with her, and descended
the stairway of the tower. The knights
were joyful at their coming, and hastened
to meet them, and took them by the hand
with all courtesy. But Sir Launfal went
apart from the others, for the time seemed
long to him ere he could see his lady, kiss
JJtr feaunfaf 39
her, and hold her in his arms. All other
joys were but small to him if he had not
that one delight of his heart.
When the queen saw him alone she
went straight towards him, and seated
herself beside him ; then, calling him by his
name, she opened her heart to him.
"Launfal," she said, "greatly have I
honoured, cherished and loved you. All
my love is yours if you will have it, and if
I thus grant you my favour, then ought you
to be joyful indeed."
"Lady," said the knight, "let me be;
I have small desire of your love. Long
have I served King Arthur ; I will not now
deny my faith. Neither for you nor for
your love will I betray my liege lord."
The queen was angry, and in her
wrath she spoke scoffingly. "They but
spake the truth," she said, " who told me
that you knew not how to love. Coward
and traitor, false knight, my lord has done
ill to suffer you so long about him ; he loses
much by it, to my thinking."
When Sir Launfal heard that he was
wroth, and answered her swiftly, and by mis-
fortune he said that of which he afterwards
repented sorely. "Lady," he said, " you have
4 t
been ill-advised. I love and I am loved by
one who deserves the prize of beauty above
all whom I know. One thing I will tell
you, hear and mark it well; one of her
serving maidens, even the meanest among
them, is worth more than you, my lady
queen, in face and figure, in beauty,
wisdom, and goodness."
Then the queen rose up and went
weeping to her chamber, shamed and
angered that Launfal should have thus
insulted her. She laid herself down on her
bed as if sick ; never, she said, would she
arise off it till the king did justice on the
plaint she would lay before him.
King Arthur came back from the woods
after a fair day's hunting and sought the
queen's chamber. When she saw him she
cried out, and fell at his feet, beseeching
his favour, and saying that Sir Launfal had
shamed her, for he had asked her love, and
when she refused him had mocked and
insulted her, for he had boasted of his lady
that she was so fair, so noble, and so proud
that even the lowest of her waiting women
was worth more than the queen.
At this King Arthur fell into a rage,
and swore a solemn oath that unless the
knight could defend himself well and fully
in open court, he should be hanged or
burnt.
Forth from the chamber went the king,
and called three of his barons to him, and
bade them fetch Sir Launfal, who indeed
was now sad and sorry enough. He had
returned to his hostelry, but alas ! he learnt
all too soon that he had lost his lady, since
he had revealed the secret of their love.
He was all alone in his chamber, full of
anguish. Again and again he called upon
his love, but it availed him nothing. He
wept and sighed, and once and again fell
on the ground in his despair. A hundred
times he besought her to have mercy on
him, and to speak once more to her true
knight. He cursed his heart and his mouth
that had betrayed him ; 'twas a marvel he
did not slay himself. But neither cries nor
blows nor lamentations sufficed to awaken
her pity, and make her show herself to his
eyes.
Alas, what comfort might there be for
the unhappy knight who had thus made an
enemy of his king ? The barons came and
bade him follow them to court without
delay, for the queen had accused him, and
4 2 J5it feaunfaf
the king, by their mouth, commanded his
presence. Launfal followed them, sorrow-
ing greatly ; had they slain him it wouW
have pleased him well. He stood before
the king, mute and speechless, his counten-
ance changed for sorrow.
The king spoke in anger : "Vassal," he
said, " you have greatly wronged me j an
evil excuse have you found to shame and
injure me, and insult the queen. Foolish
was your boast, and foolish must be your
lady to hold that her maid-servant is fairer
than my queen."
Sir Launfal denied that he had dis-
honoured himself or insulted his liege lord.
Word by word he repeated what the queen
had said to him ; but of the words he him-
self had spoken, and the boast he had made
concerning his love, he owned the truth ;
sorrowful enough he was, since by so doing
he had lost her. And for this speech he
would make amends, as the court might
require.
The king was sorely enraged against
him, and conjured his knights to say what
might rightfully be done in such a case, and
how Launfal should be punished. And the
knights did as he bade them, and some
43
spake fair, and some spake ill. Then they
all took counsel together and decreed that
judgment should be given on a fixed day ;
and that Sir Launfal should give pledges to
his lord that he would return to his hostelry
and await the verdict. Otherwise, he
should be held a prisoner till the day came.
The barons returned to the king, and told
him what they had agreed upon ; and
King Arthur demanded pledges, but Laun- ,
fal was alone, a stranger in a strange land, /
without friend or kindred.
Then Sir Gawain came near, with all his
companions, and said to the king : " Take
pledges of all ye hold of mine and these my
friends, fiefs or lands, each for himself."
And when they had thus given pledges for
him who had nothing of his own, he was
free to go to his hostelry. The knights
bore Sir Launfal company, chiding him as
they went for his grief, and cursing the
mad love that had brought him to this pass.
Every day they visited him that they might
see if he ate and drank, for they feared
much that he would go mad for sorrow.
At the day they had named the barons
were all assembled, the king was there,
and the queen, and the sureties de-
44 gkit feaunfaf
livered up Launfal. Very sorrowful they
were for him. I think there were even
three hundred of them who had done all in
their power without being able to deliver
him from peril. Of a great offence did
they accuse him, and the king demanded
that sentence should be given according
to the accusation and the defence.
Then the barons went forth to consider
their judgment, heavy at heart, many or
them, for the gallant stranger who was in
such stress among them. Others, indeed,
were ready to sacrifice Launfal to the will
of their seigneur.
Then spoke the Duke of Cornwall, for
the right was his, whoever might weep or
rage, to him it pertained to have the first
word, and he said :
"The king lays his plea against a
vassal, Launfal ye call him, of felony
and misdeed he accuses him in the matter
of a love of which he boasted himself, thus
making my lady, the queen, wrathful.
None, save the king, has aught against
him ; therefore do ye as I say, for he who
would speak the truth must have respect
unto no man, save only such honour as
shall be due to his liege lord. Let Launfal
45
be pat upon his oath (the king will surely
have naught against it) and if he can prove
his words, and bring forward his lady, and
chat which he said and which so angered
the queen be true, then he shall be
pardoned ; 'twas no villainy that he spake.
But if he cannot bring proof of his word,
then shall we make him to know that the
king no longer desires his service and gives
him dismissal from his court."
Then they sent messengers to the
knight, and spake, and made clear to him
that he must bring forth his lady that his
word might be proved, and he held guiltless.
But he told them that was beyond his
power, never through her might succour
come to him. Then the messengers re-
turned to the judges, who saw there was
no chance of aid, for the king pressed them
hard, urged thereto by the queen, who was
weary of awaiting their judgment.
But as they arose to seek the king they
saw two maidens come riding on white
palfreys. Very fair they were to look
upon, clad in green sendal over their
white skin. The knights beheld them
gladly, and Gawain, with three others,
hastened to Sir Launfal and told him what
4-6 |5if feaunfaf
had chanced, and bade him look upon the
maidens ; and they prayed him eagerly to
say whether one of the twain were his lady,
but he answered them nay.
The two, so fair to look upon, had gone
forward to the palace, and dismounted
before the daYs whereon King Arthur was
seated. If their beauty was great, so also
was their speech courteous.
"King," they said, "command that
chambers be assigned to us, fair with silken
hangings, wherein our mistress can fitly
lodge, for with you will she sojourn
awhile."
They said no more, and the king called
two knights, and bade them lead the
maidens to the upper chambers.
Then the king demanded from his
barons their judgment and their verdict,
and said he was greatly wroth with them
for their long delay.
" Sire," they answered, " we were stayed
by the coming of the damsels. Our de-
cision is not yet made, we go but now to
take counsel together." Then they re-
assembled, sad and thoughtful, and great
was the clamour and strife among them.
While they were yet in perplexity, they
JJt* feaunfaf 47
saw, descending the street, two maidens of
noble aspect, clad in robes broidered with
gold, and mounted on Spanish mules. Then
all the knights were very joyful, and said
each to the other : " Surely now shall Sir
Launfal, the valiant and courteous, be
safe."
Gawain and six companions went to seek
the knight. " Sir," they said, " be of good
courage, for the love of God speak to us.
Hither come two damsels, most beautiful,
and richly clad, one of them must of a
truth be your lady ! " But Launfal
answered simply : " Never before to-day
have I looked upon, or known, or loved
them."
Meantime, the maidens had come to the
palace and stood before the king. Many
praised them for their beauty and bright
colour, and some deemed them fairer even
than the queen.
The elder was wise and courteous, and
she delivered her message gracefully.
" King," she said, " bid your folk give us
chambers wherein we may lodge with our
lady ; she comes hither to speak with
you."
Then the king commanded that they
48 j&it feaunfaf
should be led to their companions who had
come before them. Nor as yet was the
judgment spoken. So when the maidens
had left the hall, he commanded his barons
to deliver their verdict, their judgment
already tarried too long, and the queen
waxed wrathful for their delay.
But even as they sought the king,
through the city came riding a maiden, in
all the world was none so fair. She rode a
white palfrey, that bore her well and easily.
Well shaped were its head and neck, no
better trained steed was there in all the
world. Costly were the trappings of that
palfrey, under heaven was there no king
rich enough to purchase the like, save that
he sold or pledged his land.
And thus was the lady clad : her raiment
was all of white, laced on either side.
Slender was her shape, and her neck whiter
than snow on the bough. Her eyes were
blue, her skin fair. Straight was her nose,
and lovely her mouth. Her eyebrows
were brown, her forehead white, and her
hair fair and curling. Her mantle was of
purple, and the skirts were folded about
her ; on her hand she bare a hawk, and a
hound followed behind her.
JH* feaunfaf 49
In all the Burg there was no one, small
nor great, young nor old, but was eager to
look upon her as she passed. She came
riding swiftly, and her beauty was no mere
empty boast, but all men who looked upon
her held her for a marvel, and not one of
those who beheld her but felt his heart
verily kindled with love.
Then those who loved Sir Launfal went
to him, and told him of the maiden who
came, if by the will of heaven she might
deliver him. " Sir knight and comrade,
hither comes one, no nutbrown maid is
she, but the fairest of all fair women in
this world." And Launfal heard, and
sighed, for well he knew her. He raised
his head and the blood flew to his cheek as
he made swift answer : " Of a faith," he
said, " this is my lady ! Now let them
slay me if they will and she has no mercy
on me. I am whole if I do but see her."
The maiden reached the palace ; fairer
was she than any who had entered there.
She dismounted before the king that all
might behold her ; she had let her mantle
fall that they might the better see her
beauty. King Arthur, in his courtesy, had
risen to meet her, and all around him
D
50
sprang to their feet, and were eager to
offer their service. When they had looked
well upon her, and praised her beauty, she
spoke in these words, for no will had she to
delay :
" King Arthur, I have loved one or your
knights, behold him there, seigneur, Sir
Launfal. He hath been accused at your
court, but it is not my will that harm
shall befall him. Concerning that which
he said, know that the queen was in the
wrong ; never on any day did he pray her
for her love. Of the boast that he hath
made, if he may by me be acquitted, then
shall your barons speak him free, as they
have rightfully engaged to do."
The king granted that so it might be,
nor was there a single voice but declared
that Launfal was guiltless of wrong, for
their own eyes had acquitted him.
And the maiden departed; in vain did
the king pray her to remain ; and many
there were who would fain have served
her. Without the hall was there a great
block of grey marble, from which the chief
knights of the king's court were wont to
mount their steeds; on this Launfal took
his stand, and when the maiden rode forth
|5ir feaunfaf 51
from the palace he sprang swiftly upon the
palfrey behind her. Thus, as the Bretons
tell us, he departed with her for that most
fair island, Avalon ; thither the fairy maiden
had carriecT her knight, and none hath heard
man speak further of Sir Launfal. Nor
know I more of his story.
Sgofef
57
This is the Lay of Tyo/et
FORETIME when King
Arthur reigned over the
country of Britain, which
is now called England,
there were, I think me,
far fewer folk in the land
than there are to-day.
B ut Arthur, whose valour
men highly praise, had in
his company many brave
and noble knights. Of
a sooth there are even now knights of high
fame and renown, yet are they not such
manner of men as they were of old time.
For then the best and bravest knights
were wont to wander through the land
seeking adventures by day and by night,
with never a squire for company, and it
might well be that in the day's journey
they found neither house nor tower, or
again perchance they would find two or
three such. Or by dusky night they might
find fair adventures, the which they would
tell again at court, even as they had be-
fallen. And the clerks of the court would
write them fairly on parchment in the
5
Latin tongue, so that in days to come,
men, an they would, might hearken to
them.
And these tales were turned from Latin
into Romance, and from them, as our
ancestors tell us, did the Britons make
many a lay.
And one lay they made will I tell ye,
even as I myself heard the tale. 'Twas of
a lad, fair and skilful, proud and brave and
valiant. Tyolet was he called, and he knew
strange wiles, for by whistling could he
call the beasts of the woodland to him and
trap them, even as many as he would. A
fairy had taught him this skill, and never
a beast that God had made but would
come to him at his whistle. A lady had
he for mother, who dwelt in the wide
woodland where her lord had made his
abode by day and by night, and the spot
was passing lonely, for ten leagues round
was there no other dwelling.
Now the knight, his father, had been
dead fifteen years, and Tyolet had grown
fair and tall, but never an armed knight
had he seen in all his days, and but rarely
other folk in that wide woodland where
his mother dwelt. Never had he gone
59
forth into the world beyond, for his mother
held him passing dear, but in the forest
might he wander as it pleased him, and
no other pastime had he ever known.
When he whistled as the fay had taught
him, and the beasts heard him, then they
came to him swiftly and he slew what he
would and bore them home to his mother,
and on this they lived, they twain alone,
for neither brother nor sister had he, and
his mother was a noble and courteous lady
of good and loyal life.
One day she called her son unto her and
prayed him gently (for she loved him
much) to go into the wood and slay her a
stag ; and the lad at her command went
straightway into the forest and wandered
the groves till noontide, but neither stag
nor beast of any kind might he see. Then
he was sorely vexed at heart and bethought
him to turn again homewards, since nothing
might he find in the woodland, when under
a tree he saw a stag which was both great
and fair, and at once he whistled to it.
The stag heard his whistle and looked
towards him, but it came not at his call
nor awaited his coming, but at a gentle
pace issued forth from the wood, and
60
Tyolet followed it till it came to a water
and passed over. The stream was deep
and swift - flowing, wide - reaching and
perilous to pass, and the stag stood safe
upon the further shore. Tyolet looked up
and down, and saw a roebuck fat and well-
grown coming towards him, then he stayed
his steps and whistled, and as the deer came
closer he put forth his hand and drew his
knife and plunged it into its body, and so
slew it straightway.
But even as he did so he looked across
the river, and lo ! the stag which had
passed the water changed its shape and
became a knight, fully armed as a knight
should be, and mounted on a gallant war-
horse. Thus he stood on the river bank,
and the lad, who never in his life had seen
the like, deemed it a great marvel and
stood silent, gazing long upon him, and
wondering what might be the meaning of
this strange gear.
Then the knight spake to him across
the water with gentle words, courteously
asking his name, and who he was and
what he sought. And Tyolet answered
him : " Son am I to the widow lady who
dwelleth in the great forest, and Tyolet do
they call me who would name my name.
Now tell me who thou art, and what may
be thy name ? "
Then he who stood on the bank of the
river spake : " Knight do men call me."
" What manner of beast may Knight be,"
quoth Tyolet ; " where doth it dwell and
whence doth it come ? "
" Of a faith that will I tell thee, truly
and with no lie. 'Tis a beast that is
greatly feared for it taketh and eateth other
beasts. Oft-times doth it abide in the
wood and oft-times in the open lands."
" Of a faith," said Tyolet, " 'tis a marvel
for never since I might wander in the
wilderness have I seen such a beast ; yet
know I bears and lions, and every sort of
venison. Nor is there a beast in all the
forest that I know not, but I take them all
without pain or trouble ; thou alone I may
not know. Yet thou seemest a brave beast.
Tell me, thou Knight-Beast, what dost
thou bear on thy head ? And what is it
that hangeth at thy neck, and is red and
shining ? "
" Of a truth I will tell thee, and lie not.
That which I bear on my head is a coif,
which men call helmet, with steel all
62
around ; and this is a mantle in which I
am wrapped, and this at my neck a shield,
banded with gold."
" And with what hast thou clad thyself,
it seemeth me pierced through with little
holes ? "
" 'Tis a coat of wrought mail, men call
it a hauberk."
" And with what art thou shod ? Tell
me of thy friendship."
" Shoes and greaves of iron have I, right
well wrought."
" And what hast thou girt at thy side ?
Tell me an thou wilt."
" Men call it a sword, 'tis fair to look
upon, and the blade is hard and keen."
" And that long wood thou boldest ?
Tell me, and hide it not from me."
" Dost wish to know ? "
"Yea, of a truth."
" 'Tis a lance, this that I bear with me.
Now have I told thee the truth of all thou
hast required of me."
" Sir," quoth Tyolet, " I thank thee, and
I would to God that I had also such
vesture as thou hast, so fair and so comely ;
a coat and a coif and mantle even as thou
wearest. Tell me, Knight-Beast, for the
63
love of God and His fair Feast, if there be
other beasts such as thou and as fair to
look upon ? "
" Of a truth," spake the knight, " I
will shew thee more than a hundred such."
For as the tale telleth in a little space
there came through the meadow two hun-
dred armed knights, all of the king's court ;
they had even taken a stronghold at his
command, and set it in fire and flames,
and now they went their way homeward
riding in three ranged squadrons.
The Knight-Beast spake to Tyolet and
bade him come forward a little step and
look beyond the river ; and the lad did as
he bade him, and saw the knights ride
armed on their chargers ; and cried aloud,
" Now see the beasts who all bear coifs on
their heads ! Ne'er have I seen such a
sight ! If it please God and His fair Feast
I too will be a Knight-Beast ! "
Then the knight who stood on the bank
of the river spake again and said : " Wilt
thou be brave and valiant ? "
" Yea, of a truth, I swear it to thee."
"Then go thy way, and when thy mother
seeth thee, she will say, c Fair son, tell me,
what aileth thee, and of what art thou
64
thinking ? ' and thou shalt answer that
thou hast much to think on, for thou
would'st fain be like a Knight -Beast
which thou hast seen in the forest, and
for that art thou thoughtful j and she will
tell thee that it grieveth her much that
thou hast seen such a beast which deceiveth
and devoureth others. Then shalt thou
say, Of a faith little joy shall she have of
thee if thou may'st not be even such a
beast, and wear such a coif on thy head ;
and when she heareth that, swiftly will she
bring thee other raiment, coat and mantle,
helm and sword, greaves, and a long lance,
even as thou hast seen here."
Then Tyolet departed, for it seemed to
him long ere he might be at home, and
he gave his mother the roebuck he had
brought, and told her all his adventures
even as they had chanced. And his mother
answered that it grieved her much that he
had seen such a beast, " For it taketh and
devoureth many another."
" Of a truth," said Tyolet, " now is it
thus : if I may not be even such a beast as
I saw, little joy shalt thou have of me
henceforward." When his mother heard
that she answered straightway that all the
65
arms she had would she bring him, and she
brought those which had belonged to her
lord, and armed her son therewith, and
when he was mounted on his horse he
seemed indeed to be a Knight-Beast.
u Now," said she, " fair son, dost know
what thou must do ? Thou shalt go straight
to King Arthur, and take good heed to my
words, company not with man or woman
save with those of gentle birth and breed-
ing." Then she embraced and kissed
him, and the lad went on his way, and
journeyed for many days over hills and
plains and valley, till he came to the court
of King Arthur, that valiant and courteous
monarch.
The King was seated at meat, for he was
wont to be richly served, but Tyolet waited
not at the hall entrance ; clad even as he
was in his armour and mounted on his
steed, he rode up to the dais, whereon sat
Arthur the King, and spake no word, nor
gave greeting to any man.
" Friend," quoth the King, " dismount,
and come, eat with us. Then shalt thou
tell me what thou seekest, and who thou
art, and what men call thee."
"Of a truth," said the lad, "I will tell
E
66
thee that ere ever I eat. King, my name is
Knight-Beast ; many a beast have I slain,
and men call me Tyolet. Well do I know
how to catch venison, for, an it please thee,
sire, I am son to the widow of the forest,
and of a surety she hath sent me to thee to
learn skill and wisdom and courtesy. I
would learn of knighthood, of tourney,
and jousting, how I may spend, and how I
may give, for never aforetime came I in a
king's court, and I think me well that
never again shall I come where I may learn
such fair nurture and courtesy. Now have
I told thee what I seek. What is thy mind
thereon, Sir King ? "
And Arthur said, " Sir Knight, thou shalt
be my man, come now and eat."
"Sire," he said, "I thank thee well."
Then Tyolet dismounted, and they dis-
armed him and clothed him in a surcoat
and light mantle, and brought water for his
hands and he sat down to meat.
With that there entered a maiden, a
proud and noble lady ; of her beauty I may
not speak, but I deem well that neither
Dido nor Helen herself was so fair. She
was daughter unto the King of Logres, and
came riding upon a snow-white palfrey,
67
bearing with her a white brachet of smooth
and shining hair, at whose neck hung a
little golden bell. Thus she rode up before
the King, and gave him greeting : " King
Arthur, God the all powerful who reigneth
on high have thee in His keeping."
" Fair friend, may He who counteth the
faithful for His own guard thee."
"Sire, I am a maiden, daughter unto
king and queen, and my father ruleth over
Logres. I ask of thee for love, as of a right
valiant monarch, if there be one among thy
knights who is of such prowess that for me
he will smite off the white foot of a certain
stag. If there be give him to me, I pray
thee, sire, and I will take him for my lord;
for indeed, none other will I have. For no
man may win my favour if he bring me
not the white foot of that great and fair
stag, the hair of which shineth like gold,
and which is guarded by seven lions."
"Of a faith," said the King, "such
covenant will I make with thee that he
who bringeth hither the stag's foot shall
have thee for wife."
"And I, Sir King, swear to thee that
such shall be the covenant."
So they made the pact fast between them,
68
and never a knight in the hall who was of
any praise or renown but said he would go
and seek the stag, did he but know where
it might be found.
The maiden spake : " This brachet shall
guide ye where the stag is wont to have his
dwelling-place."
Then Lodoer, who desired greatly to be
the first to seek the stag, prayed the boon
from Arthur, and the King would not say
him nay. So he took the brachet, and
mounted and set forth to seek the stag's
foot. But the dog which went with him
led him straight to a water which was
great and wide, black, swollen, and hideous
to look upon, four hundred fathoms was it
wide, and well on a hundred deep, and the
brachet sprang straightway into the flood,
deeming perchance, as a dog may, that the
knight was following it closely.
But follow it would Lodoer in no wise :
he had no mind to enter the stream, for he
had little desire of death, and he said
within himself : " He who hath not himself
hath naught ; he keepeth a castle well, I
think me, who taketh heed that it be not
mishandled."
Then the dog came forth out of the
69
water, and returned to Lodoer, and Lodoer
turned himself again and took the brachet,
and went swiftly on his way to the court,
where was a great company assembled, and
gave back her brachet to the maiden, the
King's daughter of Logres.
Then King Arthur asked him if he had
brought the foot; and Lodoer answered
that an another would risk his life, the
venture yet awaited him. Then they
mocked at him throughout the hall, but he
wagged his head at them and bade them go
seek the foot, if by hap they might bring it
back.
Then many set forth to seek the stag,
and to win the damsel, but never a one
might sing another song than that which
Lodoer of need must sing (for he was indeed
a valiant knight) save one only, who was
brave and swift-footed, and whom men
called Knight-Beast^ though his name, as ye
know well, was Tyolet. For this knight
went his way to King Arthur, and prayed
him straitly that the maiden be held at the
court for him, since he would go forth to
conquer the adventure of the stag's foot ;
never, he said, would he return till he had
smitten off the white right foot of the stag.
70
The King gave him leave, and Tyolet
armed himself right well, and went to the
maiden and prayed of her the loan of her
white brachet, which she granted him
freely, and he took leave of her. When he
had ridden and roved long enough he came
to the ford of that great and rushing water
which was deep and deadly to look upon ;
the brachet sprang into the stream, and
swam straightway, and Tyolet plunged in
after it and thus mounted on his steed he
followed the dog till he came forth on dry
land. And the brachet ran ever before him
and guided him till he came to where he
might see the stag ; seven lions they were
that guarded it, and loved it with a great
love.
Then Tyolet looked, and saw the stag
where it fed alone in a meadow, and none
of the lions were near at hand ; and he set
spurs to his horse, and passed before it
whistling as he went. The stag came
swiftly towards him, and when Tyolet had
whistled seven times it stood still. Then
Tyolet drew his sword, and taking the
white right foot in his hand smote it off at
the joint, and hid it within his robe. The
stag at this gave a loud cry, and the lions,
71
who were none too far off, came swiftly to
its aid and beheld the knight.
One of the lions sprang upon the steed
Tyolet bestrode, and wounded it so sorely
that it tore away all the skin and flesh from
the right shoulder, and when Tyolet saw it
he smote the lion a mighty blow in the
chest, cleaving asunder nerve and sinew
and with that lion had he no more ado.
The steed fell to the ground, and even as
the knight sprang clear the lions were upon
him on all sides. They tore the good
hauberk from his back, and the flesh from
his arms and ribs, and wounded him so
sorely that they went nigh to devour him
altogether. Sorely was he torn, but at last
he slew them, though scarce might he be
delivered from their claws. Then he fell
senseless beside the lions, for so torn and
mauled was he that he might not stand
upright.
Now as he lay senseless there came
thither a knight mounted upon an iron-
grey steed, and drew his bridle, and looked
upon the young knight, and lamented over
him. Then Tyolet opened his eyes, and
told him all that had chanced, and bade
him take the foot from out his breast.
This the knight did, rejoicing greatly
within himself, for much had he longed to
win that foot.
But as he turned his bridle to ride away,
he bethought him that by chance the
young knight might even yet live, and if
he did, then ill would it be for him ; so he
turned himself back thinking to slay the
knight there and then lest he challenge
him later. So he drew his sword, and
thrust Tyolet through the body, and
went his way, thinking that he had slain
him.
Then came that traitor knight to the
court of King Arthur, and shewed the
white foot, and demanded the hand of the
maiden. But the white brachet, which
had led Tyolet to the stag had he not
brought of that knew he naught.
Then he claimed by covenant that fair
maiden, since, he said, he had smitten off
the white foot of the stag and brought it
to court. But the King, who was wise
enow, demanded eight days' grace to await
Tyolet's return, ere he would assemble his
court, for he had with him but those of his
household good knights all, frank and
courteous. So the knight must needs grant
73
that respite and abide at court till the
eight days were ended.
But he knew not that that good and
courteous knight, Sir Gawain, had set
forth secretly to seek Tyolet, for the
brachet had come back to court alone, and
Gawain deemed surely it would guide him
to the knight. And indeed it led him
truly to the meadow where he found
Tyolet lying lifeless among the lions.
When Gawain saw the knight and the
slaughter he had wrought, he mourned
the ill-chance greatly, and dismounting
spake softly to his friend, and Tyolet
answered him feebly, telling him what had
brought him to this pass ; and as he spake
there rode up a maiden, fair to look upon,
mounted upon a mule, and greeted Gawain
courteously. Then Gawain returned her
greeting, and called her to him, and em-
braced her, praying her very gently and
very courteously that she would bear this
knight, who was indeed a right valiant
knight, to the leech of the Black Moun-
tain ; and the maiden did even as he be-
sought her, and bare Tyolet to the leech,
praying him to care for him for the sake
of Sir Gawain.
74
The leech willingly received the knight,
and did off his armour, laying him on a
table. Then he washed his wounds, and
freed them from the clotted blood which
was all around them, and saw that he
would do well, and would be whole again
within the month. But Sir Gawain went
his way back to court and dismounted
within the hall. And he found there the
knight who had brought the white foot ;
he had dwelt at court till the eight days
were passed, and now he came to the
King, saluting him, and praying him to
keep the covenant which the maiden of
Logres had herself devised, and to which
King Arthur had given consent to wit,
that whosoever should bring her the white
foot, him would she take for lord ; and
King Arthur said, u 'Tis the truth."
But when Gawain heard this he sprang
forward swiftly, and said to the King :
" Sire, 'tis not so ; were it not that here
before thee who art the king I may not
give the lie to any man, be he knight or
squire, I would say that he doth lie, and
never won the white foot of the stag in the
manner of which he vaunteth himself.
Great shame doth he do to knights who
75
would boast himself of another's deeds and
clothe himself with another's mantle ; who
would steal the goods from another's store,
and deck himself with that which belongeth
to another ; who by the hand of another
would joust, and draw forth from the thicket
the fearsome serpent. Nor shall it thus be
seen in this court ; what thou sayest is worth
naught, make thine assault elsewhere, seek
elsewhere for what thou desirest, this maiden
is not for thee ! "
" Of a faith," quoth the knight, " Sir
Gawain, now dost thou hold me for a
coward and a villain, since thou sayest that
I dare not lay lance in rest for jousting,
and know how to steal goods from another's
store, and draw the serpent from the
thicket by another's hand. But thou
speakest falsely as thou wilt find, if thou
thinkest to prove thy words by force of
arms, and deemest that thou wilt not find
me in the field ! "
While they thus strove together behold
Tyolet, who had come thither in haste and
had dismounted without the hall. The
King rose from his seat to meet him, and
threw his arms around his neck, and kissed
him for the great love which he bare to
him ; and Tyolet bowed before him as
fitting before his lord.
Then Gawain embraced him, and Urian,
and Kay, and Yvain the son of Morgain,
and the good knight Lodoer, and all the
other knights.
But the knight who would fain win the
maiden through the foot which Tyolet had
given to him, and which he had brought
thither, spake again to Arthur, and again
made request.
But Tyolet, when he knew that he de-
manded the maiden, spake courteously to
him, and asked him gently : " Sir Knight,
tell me here in the presence of the King, by
what right dost thou claim this maiden ?
"Of a faith," he said, "I will tell thee.
It is because I brought her the white foot
of the stag ; the King and she herself had
so pledged it."
" Didst thou then smite off the foot ?
If it be true, it may not be denied."
"Yea, I smote it off, and brought it
hither with me."
" And who then slew the seven lions ? "
The knight looked upon him and said
never a word, but reddened, and waxed
wrathful.
77
Then Tyolet spake again : "Sir Knight,
who was he who was smitten with the
sword, and who was he who smote him ?
Tell me, I pray thee, for of a truth I think
me that last wast thou ! " And the knight
frowned, as one ashamed.
" But that was, methinks, to return evil
for good when thou didst that deed. In
all good faith I gave thee the foot which I
had smitten from off the stag, and for that
didst thou give me such guerdon as went
nigh to slay me ; dead ought I to be in very
truth. I gave thee a gift : of that do I
now repent me. With the sword thou
didst carry didst thou smite me through
the body, thinking to have slain me. If
thou would'st deny it, here will I tend to
King Arthur my gage that I will prove
it before this noble company."
But when the knight heard that, since
he feared death more than shame, he cried
him mercy, knowing that he spake truth.
Nothing dared he gainsay, but yielded
himself to King Arthur to do his com-
mandment.
Then Tyolet, taking counsel with the
King and his barons, pardoned him, and the
knight fell on his knees and kissed his feet.
78
Then Tyolet raised him up and kissed
him, and from that day forward they spake
no more of that matter. The knight gave
back the stag's foot, and Tyolet gave it to
the damsel.
The lily and the new-blown rose, when
it bloometh first in the fair summer-time,
are less fair than was that maiden. Then
Tyolet prayed her hand in marriage, and
with her consent did King Arthur give
her to him. She led him back with her to
her land, there was he king, and she queen
and here the lay of Tyolet findeth
ending.
WerezWoff
" Sir {Marrok, the good knight that was be-
trayed with his wife, for she made him sewn year
a Werwolf" MORTE D'ARTHUR, book xix.
chap. ii.
k N the days of King Arthur
there lived in Brittany a
valiant knight of noble
birth and fair to look
upon ; in high favour
with his lord and much
loved by all his fellows.
This knight was wedded
to a fair and gracious
lady whom he loved
tenderly, and she too
loved her lord, but one thing vexed her
sorely three days in every week would
her husband leave her, and none knew
whither he went, or what he did while
thus absent.
And every time the lady vexed herself
more and more, till at last she could no
longer keep silence, and when her husband
came back, joyful and glad at heart after
one of these journeys, she said to him :
"My dear lord, there is somewhat I
would fain ask thee, and yet I scarce dare,
for I fear lest thou be angry with me."
*4
Then her lord drew her to him, and
kissed her tenderly. u Lady," he said,
"fear not to ask me, there is nothing I
would not gladly tell thee, if it be in my
power."
"F faith," she said, "now is my heart
at rest. My lord, didst thou but know
how terrified 1 am in the days I am left
alone ; I rise in the morning affrighted,
and lie down at night in such dread of
losing thee that if I be not soon reassured
I think me I shall die of it. Tell me, I
pray thee, where thou goest, and on what
errand, that I who love thee may be at
rest during thine absence."
" Lady," he answered, " for the love ot
God ask me no more, for indeed if I told
thee evil would surely come of it ; thou
would'st cease to love me, and I should be
lost."
When the lady heard this she was but
ill-pleased, nor would she let her lord be
at peace, but day by day she besought him
with prayers and caresses, till at length he
yielded and told her all the truth. " Lady,"
he said, " there is a spell cast upon me :
three days in the week am I forced to
become a were-wolf j and when I feel the
85
change coming upon me I hide me in the
thickest part of the forest, and there I live
on prey and roots till the time has ex-
pired."
When he had told her this his wife
asked him what of his garments ? Did he
still wear them in his wolfs shape ?
" Nay," he said, " I must needs lay them
aside."
" And what dost thou do with them ? "
" Ah, that I may not tell thee, for if I
were to lose them, or they should be
stolen from me, then must I needs be a
wolf all my days, nothing could aid me
save that the garments be brought to me
again. So for my own safety I must
needs keep the matter secret."
" Ah, my dear lord, why hide it from
me ? Surely thou hast no fear of me who
love thee above all else in the world ?
Little love canst thou have for me !
What have I done ? What sin have I
committed that thou should'st withdraw
thy confidence ? Thou wilt do well to
tell me."
Thus she wept and entreated till at
length the knight yielded, and told her
all.
86 <t$(
"Wife," he said, "without the forest
on the highway, at a cross road, is an old
chapel wherein I have often found help
and succour. Close to it, under a thick
shrub, is a large stone with a hollow beneath
it ; under that stone I hide my garments
till the enchantment hath lost its power,
and I may turn me homewards."
Now when the lady had heard this
story it fell out even as her husband had
foretold, for her love was changed to
loathing, and she was seized with a great
dread and fear of him. She was terrified
to be in his presence, yet he was her lord,
and she knew not how she might escape
from him.
Then she bethought her of a certain
knight of that country, who had loved her
long, and wooed her in vain ere she
wedded her lord ; and one time when her
husband went forth, she sent for him in
secret, and bade him come and give her
counsel on a matter that troubled her
much. When he came she bade him
swear an oath to keep secret what she .
might tell him, and when he had sworn *
she told him all the story, and prayed him
for the sake of the love he once bore her
to free her from one who was neither
beast nor man, and yet was both.
The knight, who loved her still, was
ready to do all she might desire, and she
said, "'Tis but to steal his clothes, for
then he can no more become a man, but
must dwell in the forest as a wolf all his
days, and some one will assuredly slay
him." So he went forth, and did after
her bidding and brought her the garments,
and she hid them away saying, " Now am
I safe, and that monster can return no
more to terrify me."
When the time went on, and her
husband came not, the lady feigned to be
anxious for his welfare, and she sent his
men forth to seek him ; they went through
all the country but could find no trace of
their lord, so at length they gave up the
search, and all deemed he had been slain
on one of his mysterious journeys. And
when a year had passed, and the lady
thought the wolf had surely been killed,
she wedded the knight who had aided her
and thought no more of the husband she
had betrayed.
But the poor were-wolr roamed the
forest in suffering and sorrow, for though a
88
beast outwardly yet he had the heart and
brain of a man, and knew well what had
happened, and he grieved bitterly, for he
had loved his wife truly and well.
Now it chanced one day that the king
of that land rode a-hunting in that very
forest, and the hounds came on the track
of the were-wolf and roused him from his
lair and gave chase to him. All day he
fled before them through the woodland,
and at last when they were close upon
him and he was in sore peril of being
overtaken and torn in pieces the king
came riding after the hounds, and the wolf
swerved aside and fled to him, seizing him
by the stirrup, and licking his foot in sign
of submission.
The king was much astonished, and
called to his companions to come swiftly.
" See here, my lords," he said, " what
think ye of this marvel ? See how this
beast entreats mercy of me ; he hath the
sense of a man ! Drive off the dogs, for I
will not have him injured. Turn we
homewards, I take this beast in my peace,
and will hunt no more in this forest lest
by chance he be slain."
9
With that they turned their bridles and
rode homewards ; but the wolf followed
behind, and would not be driven back, even
when they came to the royal castle. The
king was greatly pleased, for he thought
the matter strange and marvellous ; no such
tale had he ever heard before ; and since
he had taken a great liking for the beast
he bade his knights not merely to do the
wolf no harm, but to treat him with all
care and kindness, on pain of losing the
royal favour. So all day the wolf roamed
the court, free among the knights, and at
night he slept in the king's own chamber.
Wherever the king went, there he would
have his wolf go too, and all the courtiers
made much of the beast, seeing that it
pleased their lord, and finding that he did
no harm to any man among them.
Now when a long time had passed the
king had occasion to hold a solemn court ;
he summoned all his barons from far and
near, and among them came the knight
who had betrayed the were-wolf, and
wedded his lady ; he had little thought
that his rival was yet in life, still less that
he was so near at hand. But as soon as
the wolf beheld him he sprang upon him
90
savagely, tearing him with his teeth, and
would have slain him if the king had not
called him off, and even then twice again
he would have seized him.
Every one in the castle was astonished
at the rage shown by the beast, which had
always been so tame and gentle, and a
whisper went round that surely there must
be something which no one knew against
the knight, for the wolf would scarce have
attacked him without cause. All the time
the court lasted the wolf had to be kept in
close guard. When at length it broke up
the knight who had been attacked was one
of the first to leave and small marvel it
he were. But when the knight had gone
the wolf was once more as tame and
friendly as he had been from the first, and
all the courtiers made a pet of him as they
had done aforetime, and forgot, as time went
on, that he had ever shown himself so savage.
At length the king bethought him that
he would make a progress through his
kingdom, and at the same time hunt for a
while in the forest where he had found the
wolf. As his custom was he took the beast
with him.
91
Now the lady, the were-wolfs treacher-
ous wife, hearing that the king would
abide some time in that part of the country,
prayed for an audience that she might win
the royal favour by presenting rich gifts,
for she knew well that the king loved not
her second husband as he had loved the
first.
The king appointed a day and hour for
the audience, but when the lady entered
the presence chamber suddenly the wolf
flew upon her, and before any could hinder
had bitten the nose from off her face. The
courtiers drew out their weapons and would
have slain the beast, when a wise man,
one of the king's councillors, stayed them.
" Sire," he said, " hearken to me this wolf
has been long with us, there is not one of
us here who has not been near to him, and
caressed him, over and over again ; yet not
a man of us has he ever touched, or even
shown ill-will to any. But two has he
ever attacked, this lady here and the lord,
her husband. Now, sire, bethink thee
well this lady was the wife of the knight
thou didst hold dear aforetime, and who
was lost long since, no man knowing what
came to him. Take my counsel, put this
92
lady in guard, and question her closely as
to whether she can give any reason why
the wolf should hate her. Many a marvel
hath come to pass in Brittany, and methinks
there is something stranger than we wot of
here."
The king thought the old lord's counsel
good ; he caused the lady and her husband
to be put in prison apart, and questioned
separately with threats if they kept silence ;
till at length the lady, terrified, confessed
how she had betrayed her first husband, by
causing his garments to be stolen from him
when he was in a wolfs shape. Since that
time he had disappeared; she knew not
whether he were alive or dead, but she
thought that perchance this wolf was he.
When the king heard this he commanded
them to fetch the garments belonging to
the lost knight, whether it were pleasing to
the lady or no ; and when they were brought
he laid them before the wolf and waited
to see what would chance.
But the wolf made as if he saw them
not, and the wise councillor said, "Sire, if
this beast 4 be indeed a were-wolf he will
not change shapes while there are any to
behold him; since it is only with great
0e TOeresWoff 93
pain and difficulty he can do so. Bid them
take wolf and garments into thine own
chamber, and fasten the doors upon him;
then leave him for a while, and we shall
see if he become man."
The king thought this counsel good, and
he himself took the beast into his chamber
and made the doors fast.
Then they waited for a space that seemed
long enough to the king, and when the old
lord told him he might well do so, he took
two nobles with him, and unlocked the
doors, and entered, and lo, on the king's
couch lay the long lost knight in a deep
slumber !
The king ran to him and embraced him
warmly; and when the first wonder had
somewhat passed, he bade him take back
all the lands of which he had been robbed,
and over and above he bestowed upon him
many rich gifts.
The treacherous wife and her second
husband were banished from the country ;
many years they lived in a strange land,
and had children and grand-children but all
their descendants might be known by this,
that the maidens were born without noses,
so that they won the surname of tnastes.
94
And the old books say that this adventure
was verily true, and that it was in order that
the memory of it should be preserved to all
time that the Bretons put it in verse, and
called it The Lai of the Were- Wolf."
GUINGAMOR.
THIS charming lay was first published by M. Gaston Paris
(Romania VIII.) from the same MS. collection as the
Lay of Tyolet. The author is unnamed, but the general
consensus of critical opinion has attributed it to Marie de
France, the famous Anglo-Norman poetess. Certainly
both in manner and matter it is a remarkably favourable
specimen of the Breton lay.
The story of Guingamor evidently represents a very
favourite class of tales ; setting aside the numerous parallels
cited by Dr. Schofield in his study of the lay (The Lay oj
Guingamor, " Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and
Literature," vol. v.), we have among the French trans-
lations of Breton lays which have descended to us no fewer
than three which closely correspond in subject and treat-
ment, the lays of Guingamor, Graalent, and Lanval. In
each of these the hero is tempted by a queen j rejects her
proffered love j wins a fairy bride, and departs to dwell
with her in her own land. Guingamor and Graalent
agree in the circumstances under which the knight meets
the fairy maiden (a feature in which Dr. Schofield sees
the influence of the JVayland story cf. The Lays of Graa-
lent and Latrval, and the Story of Way land, W. H. Scho-
field) ; while Lanval and Graalent agree in the subsequent
development of the story.
Of the three, Guingamor is distinctly the most tragic.
The knight who after two days spent in the delights
love and the festivities of the wondrous palace retur
on the third day to his own land to find that kinsmen
and friends have passed away, and his own name and fate
but a folk-tale centuries old, is a really pathetic figure.
We need not wonder that the story was a popular one ; not
only does Chretien de Troyes in the quotation prefixed to
my translation mention it, but it is again referred to as a
well-known tale by Gautier de Doulens, one of the con-
tinuators of Chretien's unfinished Conte del Graal. The
knight who is coupled with Guingamor in our extract,
Graislemiers de Fine Posterne, is by Prof. Foerster and
other scholars identified with Gradient mor, and it seems
probable that it was the close resemblance between their
stories, noted above, which led the French poet to re-
present them as brothers.
PAGE 6. He knew how to promise and haw to give.
" Bien sot promestre et bien doner." This should be com-
pared with Wace's description of Gawain, " plus volt faire
que il ne dist, Et plus doner qu'il ne promist." It is
impossible not to feel that Arthur's gallant nephew, who
had a fairy for his love, and who according to Chaucer
found his final home in fairy-land, stands in very close
connection with these heroes of the earlier stratum of
Arthurian legend.
PAGZ 1 8. Taking her robes set them high in the fork of a
great oak. This apparently unknightly proceeding on the
part of the hero was doubtless originally connected with
the supernatural character of the lady, and seems to have
taken its rise in a confusion between a fay and a swan-
maiden. As we know from Northern tradition (Brynhild's
Hell-reid and the Wieland-saga} to steal the "swan-shift "
of such a maiden was the recognised means of effecting
her capture. This has been well discussed by Dr. Scho-
field in the study quoted above.
PAGZ 22. / charge thee that thou neither eat nor drink.
97
This is evidently a somewhat confused introduction of the
well-known feature that partaking of food in any land
brings the eater under the operation of the laws of that land,
but we generally find the incident of reverse application,
as in the case of Persephone, who having tasted of the
pomegranate seeds must needs continue an inhabitant of
the other world. Guingamor having already eaten of the
food of faery, would, one would think, be incapable of
returning to the other world. Such a fate as befalls him
is, however, often brought about by coming in contact
with the earth , thus in the Voyage of Bran, when the hero
and his companions return from the Magic Isles, they are
warned not to set foot on the shore of Ireland ; one of the
company disobeys the injunction and immediately falls to
ashes, as one many years dead. Mr. Hartland, in his work
on The Science of Fairy-tales t gives other instances of this
belief. From the references made to the story by later
writers, however, it is quite clear that Guingamor was
supposed to have regained his youth on his return to Fairy-
land, and to enjoy practical immortality as the lord of its
queen.
SIR LAUNFAL.
This is a translation of the Lai de Lanval, by Marie
de France, the original source being, as in the case of all
the other stories, a Breton lal which the Anglo-Norman
poetess translated into French.
The English poem of the same name, by Thomas of
Chester, is not, strictly speaking, a translation of Marie's
!ai, but an adaptation, into which features borrowed from
other sources have been worked. Thus the author evi-
dently knew the lay of Graalent, which, as I have statea
in the note to Guingamor, recites precisely the same story
as Lanval, only with certain variations in the incidents.
Dr. Schofield, in the study to which I have previously re-
ferred, decides that the original hero is Lanval.
C
The Graalent version contains a weirdly pathetic feature
which was either unknown to Marie or disregarded by
her. The hero rides off, not on the lady's steed, but on
his own 5 crossing the river he is swept from the saddle,
and only saved from drowning by his mistress, who takes
him up behind her on her palfrey. The knight's charger,
reaching the shore, vainly seeks for his master, and the
Bretons tell how yearly, on the anniversary of Graalent's
disappearance, the horse may be heard neighing loudly for
the vanished knight. Thomas of Chester refers to this
story evidently, but appears to think that the steed had
rejoined its master, as after telling how " every yer, upon a
certayn day, Men may here Launfale't stede nay," he goes on
to tell how any who desires a joust to keep his arms from
rusting "may fynde iuttes anow ivyth Syr Launfal the
TYOLET.
This lay is the translation of one published by M.Gaston
Paris (Romania VIII. 1879) from a MS. in the Biblio-
theque Nationale, and previously unknown. It will be icen
that it really consists of two distinct stories : (a) Tyolet's
Enfances ; (&) his achieving of the adventure of the white-
footed stag. Whether these two stories originally related
to the same hero is doubtful, but both are of considerable
importance for the criticism of the Arthurian legend.
(a) Tyolet's Enfances. This story certainly bears a strong
resemblance to the " Perceval " story as related by Chretien
de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbachj but while in
some points it seems to have preserved more archaic
features, in others it is distinctly more modern. Thus
the lad's confusion of the knight with a beast seems a
primitive trait, as does also his fairy gift of attracting beasts
by whistling, and the curious transformation of the stag,
while his behaviour on arriving at court, on the other
hand, is far more civilised than that of Perceval. Onr
99
naturally asks where had he learnt of tourneys and joust-
ings and the knightly duty of "largesse"? The proba-
bility is that we have here a revised, and independent,
version of the popular folk-tale which under the hands
of certain twelfth-century poets developed into the Perceval
romance.
(6) Le cerfau pied blanc. This story is also found in the
vast compilation of Arthurian romance known as the
Dutch Lancelot. There the adventure is attributed to
Lancelot, but with certain variants e.g., Kay, and not
Lodoer, is the first to attempt the adventure, and to fail
through cowardice (a trait entirely in accord with the role
played by Kay in the later Arthurian story) j Lancelot
slays the lions before cutting off the foot of the stag; and
he does not marry the lady, who in this version has not
herself visited Arthur's court but has sent a messenger,
This at once points to a later redaction of the story ; the
hero certainly ought to marry the maiden at whose in-
stigation he undertakes the adventure.
The part played by the traitor knight did not, I venture
to think, originally belong to the story j it is part of a
very widely spread Aryan folk-tale, generally relating to
the slaying of a dragon or similar monster. Mr. Hartland
has given a long list of the variants of this in The Legend
of Pertevt, voL iii. A very fine specimen is contained
in the early Tristan poems, notably that of Gottfried von
Strassburg, and another version, that contained in the
oem of Morten ascribes the adventure to Lancelot. It
may be remarked that in both the "Lancelot " versions,
as in this la't of Tyolet, it is Gawain who seeks the hero,
and chivalrously defends his claim against that of the
traitor. The story certainly must have become connected
with the Arthurian legend at a time when Gawain wa
still the beau-ideal of knightly couttesy.
The original tale at the root of the Cerf au pied blanc
was, I believe, a transformation tale j the stag was the
enchanted relative of the lady who instigated the adven-
ioo (ftofes
ture, and the spell could only be broken by smiting off
the animal's foot (as in many instances it is necessary to
cut off the head of the victim of magic spells) ; this seems
to me the only explanation of what is here a pointless act
of cruelty. Probably the connecting link with the tale
of Tyolet is the mysterious stag-knight of the first part,
not the fairy gift of whistling as M. Gaston Paris sug-
gested. I believe the story to be the origin of the white
stag guarded by six lions in the Prose Lancelot, which in
the '* Queste " changes with its four attendant lions into
Our Lord and the Four Evangelists. The real meaning
of the story has here been preserved. This solution is
also indicated by the fact that one of the shapes assumed
by Merlin in his numerous transformations is that of a
stag with one 'white foot (cf. " Merlin," Sommer's edition,
xxiii. p. 302).
In connection with this it may be noted that a story
published in the Scottish Celtic Review, vol. i., " Macphie's
Black Dog," contains a striking parallel to Tyolet. The
hero goes forth to shoot and sees a royal stag, but whenever
he .raises his gun to fire the animal changes into a woman.
I think it is clear that in Tyolet we have the Perceval
Enfances plus a transformation tale.
THE WERE-WOLF.
The source of this is the Lai du Bisclavarct, by Marie
de France. She was evidently relating a popular tradition,
and there can be little doubt that it is the story referred to
by Malory in the passage quoted at the heading of the
tale. In Marie's Lai none of the characters are named.
The same story appears to be at the root of a Celtic
folk-tale, Morraha, published by Mr. Jacobs in his collec-
tion entitled, " More Celtic Fairy Tales," here, however,
being only subsidiary, a story within a story. Elsewhere
I have found no trace of it, but the reference in Malory
appeared to justify its inclusion among Arthurian tales.
Since writing this note Mr. Nutt has drawn my attention
to a tale published in the ScottisA Celtic Review, referred to
above, " How the Great Tuairisgeul was put to Death."
This tale strongly resembles Morraha, only the trans-
formation is brought about by the spells of a witch em-
ployed by the stepmother, and is not the deed of the wife.
Morraha seems to occupy a position between our tale
and this. It may be suggested that there is a certain
resemblance between the name Morraha, and that given
by Malory for the hero of the story Marrok. It is worth
noting that in both these tales the sympathy of the reader
is invited for the wolf. As a rule a were- wolf is an object
of dread and abhorrence.
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