Aucassin and Nicolete Part 2

So speak they, say they, tell they the Tale:

Auca.s.sin was armed and mounted as ye have heard tell. G.o.d! how goodly sat the s.h.i.+eld on his shoulder, the helm on his head, and the baldric on his left haunch! And the damoiseau was tall, fair, featly fas.h.i.+oned, and hardy of his hands, and the horse whereon he rode swift and keen, and straight had he spurred him forth of the gate. Now believe ye not that his mind was on kine, nor cattle of the booty, nor thought he how he might strike a knight, nor be stricken again: nor no such thing. Nay, no memory had Auca.s.sin of aught of these; rather he so dreamed of Nicolete, his sweet lady, that he dropped his reins, forgetting all there was to do, and his horse that had felt the spur, bore him into the press and hurled among the foe, and they laid hands on him all about, and took him captive, and seized away his spear and s.h.i.+eld, and straightway they led him off a prisoner, and were even now discoursing of what death he should die.

And when Auca.s.sin heard them,

"Ha! G.o.d," said he, "sweet Saviour. Be these my deadly enemies that have taken me, and will soon cut off my head? And once my head is off, no more shall I speak with Nicolete, my sweet lady, that I love so well.

Natheless have I here a good sword, and sit a good horse unwearied. If now I keep not my head for her sake, G.o.d help her never, if she love me more!"

The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat was right eager. And he laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right and left, and smote through helm and _nasal_, and arm and clenched hand, making a murder about him, like a wild boar when hounds fall on him in the forest, even till he struck down ten knights, and seven be hurt, and straightway he hurled out of the press, and rode back again at full speed, sword in hand. The Count Bougars de Valence heard say they were about hanging Auca.s.sin, his enemy, so he came into that place, and Auca.s.sin was ware of him, and gat his sword into his hand, and lashed at his helm with such a stroke that he drave it down on his head, and he being stunned, fell grovelling. And Auca.s.sin laid hands on him, and caught him by the _nasal_ of his helmet, and gave him to his father.

"Father," quoth Auca.s.sin, "lo here is your mortal foe, who hath so warred on you with all malengin. Full twenty years did this war endure, and might not be ended by man."

"Fair son," said his father, "thy feats of youth shouldst thou do, and not seek after folly."

"Father," saith Auca.s.sin, "sermon me no sermons, but fulfil my covenant."

"Ha! what covenant, fair son?"

"What, father, hast thou forgotten it? By mine own head, whosoever forgets, will I not forget it, so much it hath me at heart. Didst thou not covenant with me when I took up arms, and went into the stour, that if G.o.d brought me back safe and sound, thou wouldst let me see Nicolete, my sweet lady, even so long that I may have of her two words or three, and one kiss? So didst thou covenant, and my mind is that thou keep thy word."

"I!" quoth the father, "G.o.d forsake me when I keep this covenant! Nay, if she were here, I would let burn her in the fire, and thyself shouldst be sore adread."

"Is this thy last word?" quoth Auca.s.sin.

"So help me G.o.d," quoth his father, "yea!"

"Certes," quoth Auca.s.sin, "this is a sorry thing meseems, when a man of thine age lies!"

"Count of Valence," quoth Auca.s.sin, "I took thee?"

"In sooth, Sir, didst thou," saith the Count.

"Give me thy hand," saith Auca.s.sin.

"Sir, with good will."

So he set his hand in the other's.

"Now givest thou me thy word," saith Auca.s.sin, "that never whiles thou art living man wilt thou avail to do my father dishonour, or harm him in body, or in goods, but do it thou wilt?"

"Sir, in G.o.d's name," saith he, "mock me not, but put me to my ransom; ye cannot ask of me gold nor silver, horses nor palfreys, _vair_ nor _gris_, hawks nor hounds, but I will give you them."

"What?" quoth Auca.s.sin. "Ha, knowest thou not it was I that took thee?"

"Yea, sir," quoth the Count Bougars.

"G.o.d help me never, but I will make thy head fly from thy shoulders, if thou makest not troth," said Auca.s.sin.

"In G.o.d's name," said he, "I make what promise thou wilt."

So they did the oath, and Auca.s.sin let mount him on a horse, and took another and so led him back till he was all in safety.

Here one singeth:

When the Count Garin doth know That his child would ne'er forego Love of her that loved him so, Nicolete, the bright of brow, In a dungeon deep below Childe Auca.s.sin did he throw.

Even there the Childe must dwell In a dun-walled marble cell.

There he waileth in his woe Crying thus as ye shall know.

"Nicolete, thou lily white, My sweet lady, bright of brow, Sweeter than the grape art thou, Sweeter than sack posset good In a cup of maple wood!

Was it not but yesterday That a palmer came this way, Out of Limousin came he, And at ease he might not be, For a pa.s.sion him possessed That upon his bed he lay, Lay, and tossed, and knew not rest In his pain discomforted.

But thou camest by the bed, Where he tossed amid his pain, Holding high thy sweeping train, And thy kirtle of ermine, And thy smock of linen fine, Then these fair white limbs of thine, Did he look on, and it fell That the palmer straight was well, Straight was hale--and comforted, And he rose up from his bed, And went back to his own place, Sound and strong, and full of face!

My sweet lady, lily white, Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes, And the mirth of thy replies.

Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face, Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow, And the touch of thine embrace.

Who but doth in thee delight?

I for love of thee am bound In this dungeon underground, All for loving thee must lie Here where loud on thee I cry, Here for loving thee must die For thee, my love."

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale:

Auca.s.sin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolete, of her part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer time, the month of May, when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the night still and serene.

Nicolete lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon s.h.i.+ne clear through a window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, so she minded her of Auca.s.sin her lover whom she loved so well. Then fell she to thoughts of Count Garin de Biaucaire, that hated her to the death; therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, for that, if she were told of, and the Count knew whereas she lay, an ill death would he make her die. Now she knew that the old woman slept who held her company. Then she arose, and clad her in a mantle of silk she had by her, very goodly, and took napkins, and sheets of the bed, and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she might, so knitted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down into the garden, then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and before, and kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the gra.s.s, and so went her way down through the garden.

Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue and smiling, her face featly fas.h.i.+oned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red than cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; her b.r.e.a.s.t.s so firm that they bore up the folds of her bodice as they had been two apples; so slim she was in the waist that your two hands might have clipped her, and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as she went tip- toe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against her feet, so white was the maiden. She came to the postern gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of Biaucaire, keeping always on the shadowy side, for the moon was s.h.i.+ning right clear, and so wandered she till she came to the tower where her lover lay. The tower was flanked with b.u.t.tresses, and she cowered under one of them, wrapped in her mantle.

Then thrust she her head through a crevice of the tower that was old and worn, and so heard she Auca.s.sin wailing within, and making dole and lament for the sweet lady he loved so well. And when she had listened to him she began to say:

Here one singeth:

Nicolete the bright of brow On a pillar leanest thou, All Auca.s.sin's wail dost hear For his love that is so dear, Then thou spakest, shrill and clear, "Gentle knight withouten fear Little good befalleth thee, Little help of sigh or tear, Ne'er shalt thou have joy of me.

Never shalt thou win me; still Am I held in evil will Of thy father and thy kin, Therefore must I cross the sea, And another land must win."

Then she cut her curls of gold, Cast them in the dungeon hold, Auca.s.sin doth clasp them there, Kissed the curls that were so fair, Them doth in his bosom bear, Then he wept, even as of old, All for his love!

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale:

When Auca.s.sin heard Nicolete say that she would pa.s.s into a far country, he was all in wrath.

"Fair sweet friend," quoth he, "thou shalt not go, for then wouldst thou be my death. And the first man that saw thee and had the might withal, would take thee straightway into his bed to be his leman. And once thou camest into a man's bed, and that bed not mine, wit ye well that I would not tarry till I had found a knife to pierce my heart and slay myself.

Nay, verily, wait so long I would not: but would hurl myself on it so soon as I could find a wall, or a black stone, thereon would I dash my head so mightily, that the eyes would start, and my brain burst. Rather would I die even such a death, than know thou hadst lain in a man's bed, and that bed not mine."

"Auca.s.sin," she said, "I trow thou lovest me not as much as thou sayest, but I love thee more than thou lovest me."

"Ah, fair sweet friend," said Auca.s.sin, "it may not be that thou shouldst love me even as I love thee. Woman may not love man as man loves woman, for a woman's love lies in the glance of her eye, and the bud of her breast, and her foot's tip-toe, but the love of man is in his heart planted, whence it can never issue forth and pa.s.s away."

Now while Auca.s.sin and Nicolete held this parley together, the town's guards came down a street, with swords drawn beneath their cloaks, for the Count Garin had charged them that if they could take her they should slay her. But the sentinel that was on the tower saw them coming, and heard them speaking of Nicolete as they went, and threatening to slay her.

"G.o.d!" quoth he, "this were great pity to slay so fair a maid! Right great charity it were if I could say aught to her, and they perceive it not, and she should be on her guard against them, for if they slay her, then were Auca.s.sin, my damoiseau, dead, and that were great pity."

_Here one singeth_:

Valiant was the sentinel, Courteous, kind, and practised well, So a song did sing and tell Of the peril that befell.

"Maiden fair that lingerest here, Gentle maid of merry cheer, Hair of gold, and eyes as clear As the water in a mere, Thou, meseems, hast spoken word To thy lover and thy lord, That would die for thee, his dear; Now beware the ill accord, Of the cloaked men of the sword, These have sworn and keep their word, They will put thee to the sword Save thou take heed!"