26

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): The lady of Nantes

NOW I’ve a longing to unfold,

For you, a lay I once heard told.

All the adventure and the name

Of the fair city where that same

Was born and its title I will tell.

The lay is known as Chaitivel.

Many the folk though who claim

‘The Four Sorrows’ as its name.

At Nantes there once dwelt a lady,

Famed throughout all Brittany

For her beauty and learning too,

And every other kind of virtue.

In all the region, never a knight

Of any worth but, at first sight,

He lost his heart to her entire,

And her affection did desire.

She saw no way to satisfy them,

Yet was reluctant to deny them.

More joy’s in seeking love from any

Lady in a given country,

Than taking money from a fool,

For he’ll resent you, as a rule;

A lady welcomes close attention

More readily than I dare mention;

Though she may long for them to cease,

She ought not to scorn your pleas,

But honour them and hold them dear,

And give you thanks and good cheer.

Now she of whom I wish to speak

Received so many there to seek

Out her worth and beauty bright,

She was pestered day and night.

There were four barons in Brittany,

Whose names are all unknown to me,

But they were of a pleasing age,

All still at the handsome stage,

And all four brave and valorous

Free and open, and courteous;

Men of great worth you understand,

Among the nobles of that land.

All four barons came to woo,

Gave of their best efforts too;

Each for her sake, and her love,

Sought heaven and earth to move;

Each one asked for her affection,

Each gave her his full attention,

And not one of them but thought

That he was the best who sought.

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): Her suitors compete

THE lady, full of common sense,

Sought to know, in her defence,

Who might prove the better lover,

Yet between one and another,

Found each as worthy as the rest;

How then was she to choose the best?

She liked not to lose all for one;

She welcomed fairly every one,

Granted each of them her favours,

Sent them love-notes for their labours;

And no man thought of any other,

For none could forsake her ever;

By deeds, and pleading on his knees,

Each man tried his best to please.

At every gathering of the knights

Each one sought, in the fights,

To win the tourney if he could.

To please her, be it understood,

Each knight claimed her as his love,

Each bore her token so to prove;

With ring, sleeve, or banner came

Each man, calling out her name.

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): The tourney at Nantes

SHE loved all four, and held them dear,

Till after Easter-time that year,

Came the news of a grand tourney,

At Nantes twas held, before the city.

Keen to joust with her four lovers,

Many came there from some other

Region, Frenchmen, and Normans,

And the Flemish and the Brabants,

The Boulognais, the Angevins,

And closer neighbours; for their sins,

Brave knights gladly made the journey.

Long they’d waited for the tourney,

When, on the eve of that event,

They took to fighting with intent.

The four lovers armed, in state,

Issued forth from the city gate;

Their allies the fight contested,

But on these four their hopes rested;

Each man known to all the field,

By his fair banner and his shield.

Against them came to the assault,

Two from Flanders, two, Hainault;

Each well-clad, as became a knight,

None but was eager for the fight.

Now lances, lowered, at full tilt,

Each man picked out a foe at will.

All came together with such force

Each of the foes fell from his horse;

These they cared not to address,

But let the steeds run rider-less,

And over the fallen made a stand

Till their friends were close at hand.

All this prompted a grand melee

Many a sword-blow came their way.

The lady, from a tower, could see

The dispositions of every party,

Saw the aid they granted the four,

But as to the best was still unsure.

Now the true tournament began,

The ranks swelled, man by man,

And oft the tourney turned straight

To a loud brawl before the gate.

The four lovers, they did excel,

And had the upper hand as well,

Till evening came and then the night,

When twas time to end the fight.

Foolishly they were separated

From their allies and so fated

To be slain, at least the three,

And the fourth hurt grievously,

His thigh pierced, so the lance

Through his body did advance.

All were pierced, thus did yield,

And all four fell upon that field.

Those who’d conquered gathered round,

Threw their shields to the ground,

Great their grief, and nary a one

But regretted what he’d done.

They did cry aloud and moan,

Never was such sorrow known.

Those from the city hastened there,

Caring not how they might fare;

There were two thousand knights

Who stood and mourned the sight,

Each did his helmet-mail unlace

Ripping the beard from his face,

Tore his hair, in communal grief.

Upon his shield then, in disbelief,

They laid each knight, thus they bore

Them to the lady they’d longed for.

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): The lady mourns

AS soon as the lady was acquaint

With their fate, she fell in a faint;

And when she rose from the same

Then she mourned each by name.

‘What shall I do?’ she cried in pain,

‘For I shall ne’er know joy again!

I loved these four knights ere now,

And loved each for himself, I vow,

In each great good I did discover;

Each loved me above all others.

Given their beauty and prowess,

Given their valour and largesse,

I turned all their thoughts on me;

If I’d sought one, to forgo three,

Who was he I’d most grieve for?

But I can feign and hide no more,

One is wounded, slain are three,

Naught in the world can comfort me.

The dead knights now I shall inter,

And if the wounded knight with care

May yet be healed, his nurse I’ll be,

And the best doctors he shall see.’

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): The last of the four

SHE had him borne to her chambers,

And then had them lay out the others;

She lovingly, nobly, to rich effect,

Adorning them in every respect.

Then to a wealthy abbey she gave

A handsome gift, for each grave

Prompted an act of giving there.

May God have them in his care!

Wise doctors she summoned outright,

Sending them to treat the knight,

Who lay wounded in her chamber,

Till his hurt was somewhat better.

She went to see him frequently,

And then much comforted was he.

But she mourned the other three,

And grieved for them continually.

After dinner, one summer evening,

The lady to the knight was speaking,

When, remembering her great sorrow,

Her head veiled, her face in shadow,

She fell into deep contemplation,

And while musing in this fashion,

He, seeing her so deep in thought,

Sought to address her, as he ought:

‘Lady, you seem troubled,’ said he,

‘What is’t you think of? Tell it me!

You should let your sorrow go

And be comforted, this I know.’

‘My friend,’ she said, ‘all my thought

Is with those other three who fought;

None of such lineage as mine,

However noble, wise or fine,

Has loved four such men I say,

And lost more in a single day;

All but you, so wounded that I

Feared indeed that you would die.

Since I’ve loved you all, as I say,

I wish to recall my grief alway.

I’ll weave a lay of all that same;

‘The Four Sorrows’ shall be its name.’

The Lay of Chaitivel (or The Unfortunate One): The naming of the lay

AS soon as he heard, the knight

Replied, as swiftly as he might:

‘Ah, Lady, let it, when tis done,

Be called ‘The Unfortunate One,’

(‘Chaitivel’ in Breton), that same,

Here’s why it should bear that name:

The others died some time ago,

Their day is gone, as we all know,

With all the pain each did suffer

In seeking to become your lover.

Yet I, escaping with my life,

All wretched there amid the strife,

Who at this time can still love so,

Now must see you come and go,

And hear you speak morn and eve,

Yet may no pleasure here receive,

Never a kiss, nor an embrace,

But only words to take their place.

Worse is all that I now suffer,

Death indeed would serve me better:

And so ‘The Unfortunate One’

I’d call the lay when it is done.

They who’d call it ‘The Four Sorrows’

May learn a truer name tomorrow.’

‘I’faith’ she said, ‘I deem that well,

And we shall call it ‘Chaitivel’.

And thus the lay was first begun

And ended, and when it was done,

Some folk who carried it abroad

‘The Four Sorrows’ did afford

It as a name, though both names fit,

And since the story so requires it,

‘Chaitivel,’ is the one you’ll hear.

Now it ends, there’s naught else, I fear;

No more heard I of what befell,

Thus I no more to you may tell.

The End of the Lay of Chaitivel