16

The Lay of Guigemar: His parentage and youth

ALL those who do fine work conceive,

If tis ill done, are forced to grieve.

Hark, my lord, for so says Marie,

Who’d seek not to mar this story.

That man the people ought to praise

Whose deeds they speak of always;

But if there is somewhere on earth

A man or woman of great worth,

Who, by their virtue, sparks envy,

Folk will oft speak of them basely,

And seek then to decry the brave.

So doth some vicious dog behave

That takes to acting feloniously,

And biting folk, full treasonably.

But in no manner shall I desist,

If those malicious tongues insist

On directing me toward aught ill:

Such is their right, to slander still!

These true stories of other days

Of which the Bretons made lais,

I’ll now relate to you; and thence,

The first with which I’ll commence

Told to the letter and the scripture,

Is a story of high adventure,

And it took place in Brittany,

In ancient times, so all agree:

Then King Howell held the land,

War and peace at his command,

And in his suite there rode a baron,

He who was the Lord of Léon,

Indeed, Oridial was his name;

And he was prized, by this same

Noble king, as a man of courage.

There were born of his marriage

Both a son and a daughter fair;

She was Noguent, while, his heir,

He bore the name of Guigemar;

None more handsome near or far,

Thought a marvel by his mother,

And a fine lad by his father.

Now, once of age, he took wing

And left them, to serve the king.

Prudent and brave, it did befall,

That he was loved by one and all.

When his promise was fulfilled

And he was old enough and skilled,

The king then dubbed him a knight

Granting him armour, as of right.

Then Guigemar left, having bought

Fair gifts for all his friends at court.

In Flanders he his fortune sought,

Where unending war was fought.

In Lorraine, or in Burgundy,

In Anjou, or in Gascony,

No finer a knight, to my mind,

In those days, could any find.

In so much had Nature misfired

That ne’er to love had he aspired.

Yet there was not beneath the sky

One fair maid or lady, say I,

Who’d not her love have invested

In him, gladly, if so requested.

Many had sought his, and often,

Yet he resisted, time and again.

None could see that he’d ever

Be minded to seek a lover;

So that, friends and all, they

Thought him doomed to ill alway.

The Lay of Guigemar: The white deer

IN all the flower of his fame, he

Sought return to his own country,

To greet his lord, his dear father,

His good mother, and his sister,

Whom he’d long wished to see;

And spent, so it was told to me,

A whole month with them entire,

To hunt the forest his desire.

So he summoned his company,

Knights, huntsmen, and eagerly

At dawn to the forest they went

Such being their joyful intent.

They were after a mighty stag

And loosed the dogs, nor did lag

The huntsmen, who swiftly led

The young man, and rode ahead.

A squire bore his hunting bow,

His quiver and his spear also.

The knight was led, by his horse,

To wander now from his course,

And saw, beneath a spreading tree,

A doe, with her faun in company,

And the creature was purest white,

Yet bore horns, a wondrous sight.

The hounds, baying, bounded high;

He drew his bow, and then let fly,

Striking her on the hoof, so she,

Fell to the ground there, instantly.

Yet the arrow turned back in flight

And on returning struck the knight,

There on the thigh, so violently

He too fell earthward instantly.

Stretched upon the grass he lay

Beside the deer he’d sought to slay.

The doe, wounded, plaintively

Sighed, in anguish, then did she

In this manner, give forth speech:

‘I die, alas, yet now shall teach

You, the wretch who struck at me,

The form of your own destiny.

You shall find no healing now,

No root no herb will it allow,

Nor from potion or medicine

Shall you a lasting cure win

For that deep wound in your thigh,

Unless one comes who shall sigh,

Suffer deeply, for love of you,

The deepest pain and sadness too,

More than woman e’er did suffer,

While you endure the like for her;

And both shall greater wonders be

Than any that this world did see,

Or shall hereafter, till time cease.

Now go from here! Leave me in peace!’

Guigemar his wound surveyed,

By all he had heard, dismayed;

And then soberly considered

Where he might be delivered

Of a cure for that grave ill;

To cheat death was all his will.

And yet he found that he knew

Of no fair lady living who

Might accept his love, and so

Heal him of his great sorrow.

He summoned his squire, and said:

‘My friend, now spur on ahead!

Tell my companions to return

So I may speak of my concern.’

The squire spurred onward; he did stay,

With sighs his pain he did betray.

Strips of his shirt he then wound

About his wound, tightly bound.

Then he mounted and did depart,

Slowly riding some way apart,

So that none of his company,

Might trouble him now too closely.

The Lay of Guigemar: The ship of ebony

THROUGH the wood he did stray

Travelling down a green way,

That led, beyond it, to a plain;

And saw he might a headland gain,

With high cliffs above the water,

A bay there, a natural harbour.

One sole vessel lay there afloat,

Its flag he knew not; that boat

Was well-fitted, inside and out,

It was caulked with pitch about,

So no man could find a crack;

And every timber front to back,

Was fashioned out of ebony;

The finest the heavens might see.

Much astounded then was he;

For on the coast of that country

Of such ships he’d heard none tell,

Among those who there did dwell.

He rode on and there dismounted,

Then, despite his anguish, mounted

To the ship for he thought to find

Those aboard, to its care assigned;

There were none, none did he see.

A bed he found amidships, finely

Adorned, at head and foot, as one

Once was wrought for Solomon,

Of pure gold, carved skilfully,

And cypress, and white ivory;

Silken cloth all laced with gold

Did the mattress there enfold;

Beyond price the other sheets;

And if of the pillow I must speak

Whoe’er there their head did lay

Never a white hair would betray.

Alexandrine purple the spread,

Trimmed with sable, on that bed.

Two candlesticks of fine gold

That each a tall candle did hold,

Each candlestick a treasure yet,

Upon the ship’s bows were set.

At all this, Guigemar marvelled,

Then lay down, much travelled,

Tired by his wound, he rested so.

When he rose, prepared to go,

Thwarted of his return was he,

For the vessel was now at sea,

Running freely o’er the wave,

Before a light wind, though brave.

Nor could he affect aught there,

All sad and helpless in this affair.

No wonder if he showed dismay,

His wound festered night and day.

To suffer pain was now his fate.

He prayed to God ere too late,

To find port, a cure somewhere,

To save him from dying there.

Then down again to sleep he lay

While the ship sailed all that day,

Until, ere night, the ship and he

Arrived at a fine ancient city,

The capital of all that region,

Where a cure might yet be won.

The Lay of Guigemar: The walled garden

THE lord who ruled there for life

Was elderly, with a young wife,

And she was a highborn lady

Free, courteous, wise and lovely;

He was jealous beyond measure,

For such is an old man’s nature;

Old men will espouse jealousy –

All hate the curse of cuckoldry –

Such is the common fault of age.

He prisoned her, as in a cage,

For below the keep there lay

A garden closed up every way;

Of green marble was the wall,

And it was broad as it was tall;

To pass it there was but one way,

Which was guarded night and day.

On the far side it faced the sea;

So none could reach it easily,

For they’d have need of a boat

To reach a keep with such a moat.

The lord had made a chamber fair,

Within the wall to house her there,

No finer chamber neath the sky.

And a chapel he built nearby.

Now, the chamber was painted all;

Venus, love’s goddess, on the wall

Was portrayed in many a picture;

In one part, depicting the manner

In which all men in love must be,

And serve her well and faithfully;

In another, she consigned to fire

Ovid’s book; he did conspire

To teach the cures for such a fate;

Thus would she excommunicate

All who that book of his might read,

And practise aught of such a creed.

There was the lady held, in prison.

Of chambermaids she had but one

Whom her master had allowed her;

Her niece, daughter of her sister,

Both virtuous and kindly too,

Great was the love between the two.

For she kept the lady company

As she walked with her, did she.

No man or woman comes there,

None beyond the wall doth dare.

And an old priest with white hair,

Holds the key to door and stair.

His lower limbs are but frail,

And he beyond jealousy’s tale.

He says the mass, and every day

Serves at table the best he may.

The Lay of Guigemar: The ship comes to shore beside the garden

ON this day, after dinner, she

Went to the garden, by the sea

Together with her faithful maid,

And together long they strayed,

For having slept after the meal

She wished to wander a good deal.

Glancing then towards the sea

A fair ship floating they did see,

The vessel was cresting a wave,

Seeking the shore it did lave,

Though none seemed to steer.

The lady turned pale with fear,

Scared by this wondrous sight,

And thus all prepared for flight,

But the maiden who was sage,

Possessed of greater courage,

Comforted and reassured her.

The boat now came to harbour.

The maiden did her cloak resign,

And went aboard the ship so fine.

But there she found naught living

Except the knight, yet sleeping,

So pale, she thought him dead.

She gazed, standing by his bed,

Then ran back to seek her lady,

Crying out to her, hastily.
All the facts she then relayed,

Of the dead knight there laid.

To her lament, she then replied:

‘We must inter whoe’er has died,

With the priest’s aid: yet, return;

Whether he lives, we must learn.’

They climbed aboard, as she bade,

The lady first, and then the maid.

The Lay of Guigemar: He tells the lady of his fate

SHE went aboard, as I have said,

And halted there, beside the bed;

She upon the knight took pity,

Seeing his wound and his beauty;

Grieved for him, and gave a sigh,

Saying his youth was marred thereby.

She placed her hand upon his chest

And felt it warm, and neath the breast

His heart there she found was beating.

The knight, who had been but sleeping,

Now awoke, his eyes oped wide,

He greeted the lady at his side,

And realised he was come ashore.

The lady, pensive, weeping more,

Answering him in kindly manner,

Asked him then how he’d come there,

From what land he’d sailed before,

And whether wounded there in war.

‘Lady,’ said he, ‘such was not so,

If you would hear the truth though,

Then I shall relay the tale to you,

Nor will conceal aught from view.

I come, in truth, from Brittany,

And, hunting there in that country,

In the wood, shot a white deer,

Yet the arrow returned full clear,

Wounding me thus in the thigh,

Ne’er to be healed before I die.

The doe lamented, and she spoke,

Cursed me, saying that the stroke

Could ne’er be cured, as you see,

Except it were by a certain lady.

Yet I know not who she may be.

So, thus apprised of my destiny,

I left the wood, and went my way,

And found this vessel in the bay.

I entered the ship, thoughtlessly,

And it then sailed away with me.

I know not where tis I am now,

Nor this city’s name, I do avow.

Fair lady, for God’s sake, I pray,

Of your mercy, counsel me this day;

For I could not direct the vessel,

Nor know where lies this castle.’

The Lay of Guigemar: The lady encourages him to remain there

AND she answered him: ‘Fair sire,

I shall counsel you, as you desire:

My lord is the master of this city

And all the neighbouring country;

He’s rich, and of noble parentage,

But bowed down now with age,

And he is riven with jealousy.

For that reason, as you may see,

Within these walls, I’m caged about.

There’s only one way, in or out,

And an old priest guards the door.

Thus God grants, ill goes amour!

Here am I prisoned, night and day,

Naught can I do, nor find a way

To leave except by his command,

For I must stay if he so demand.

Here my chamber and chapel be,

And my only maid, for company.

If it would please you to remain,

Until you might depart again,

Then gladly you may be our guest

And we will serve you of the best.’

When he had heard her speech, he

Thanked the lady most graciously,

He would remain there, he said,

Then dressed himself, on the bed;

And with their kind aid, moreover,

They both led him to a chamber;

Above the chambermaid’s bed,

There hung a canopy overhead,

That curtained off the bed-space;

It was the maid’s sleeping place.

They brought him water by and by,

And washed the wound in his thigh,

And with a cloth of purest white

Rinsed the blood from the knight.

Then they bound the wound tightly,

For they cared for him most dearly.

When the time for dinner came,

The maid served him of the same

Until the knight was fair replete;

A fine meal, with wine complete.

And yet love had struck him deep,

He Torment’s company did keep;

The lady’s beauty pierced him so,

Thoughts of return he did forego.

And of his wound he felt no ill,

And yet he sighed in anguish still.

The chambermaid he addressed,

Asked that she leave him to rest,

So, departing, she left him there

By his leave, and did then repair

To her mistress, whom she found

Was by a like anguish bound;

The same fire that, with its art,

Had inflamed Guigemar’s heart.

The Lay of Guigemar: He is enamoured of the lady

OUR knight remained there all alone,

And he was pensive and made moan.

He knew not yet what he should do,

Yet nonetheless he thought it true,

If he were not healed by the lady

Then he would die, of a certainty.

‘Alas,’ he cried, what shall I seek?

I’ll go to her, to her I’ll speak;

Beg her to have mercy, and pity

A wretch so drowned in misery.

If she should refuse my prayer,

Is full of pride, and hath no care,

Then must grief be mine, I say,

I’ll languish of this ill alway.’

Then he sighed, yet in a while

A new intent did him beguile,

For he said that he must suffer

He indeed could do no other,

And all the night he lay awake

And sighed for his lady’s sake,

In his heart’s depths recalling

All her words and her seeming,

Her grey eyes, her lips’ sweet art,

Whose sadness touched his heart.

And to himself he cried mercy,

That he could not her lover be.

If he had known how she felt

How Love his blow had dealt,

He would have known delight.

A little ease it brought the knight

All of this excess of dolour

That stole from his face its colour.

If he knew sorrow for love of her,

She with that sorrow must concur.

The Lay of Guigemar: The maid, her niece, promises to help him

AT dawn, ere the sun shone red,

The lady rose from her bed.

She had lain awake, she cried,

Love had caused it, and sighed.

Her niece who kept her company

Saw, by the lady’s face, that she

A profound love now revealed,

For this knight now concealed

In the chamber, for his healing,

But knew not the knight’s feeling.

The lady went to chapel to pray,

While she went to where he lay,

But found him seated by the bed.

And he addressed her, and said:

‘Fair friend, where goes my lady?

Why is she risen now, so early?’

Then he fell silent, and sighed.

The maid to him now replied:

‘You are in love, sire,’ said she,

‘But do not love too secretly.

You may love in such a guise

That love is well won; likewise,

He who would love my lady,

Must think of her graciously;

Such love doth befit the other,

You were made for one another.

You are handsome, she is fair.’

Swiftly came his answer there:

‘I’m seized by such love, I vow,

That I must come to ruin now,

If I find nor succour, nor aid;

Give me counsel then, sweet maid!

How then shall I further this love?

The maid did with sweetness move

To reassure, and comfort him,

And promised her aid to him,

By every means within her power;

Good and kind was she that hour.

After she’d heard Mass, the lady

Returned again and asked that she

Learn how her guest was and kept,

If he was awake now, or slept,

Since love of him filled her heart.

She summoned her maid apart,

And sent her to seek the knight,

Who thus at his leisure might

Speak to her, reveal his state,

And turn the edge of his fate.

The Lay of Guigemar: The lovers’ meeting, and the nature of love

SHE greeted him as he did her.

Both of them were full of fear,

And hardly dared say a word.

For his foreignness deterred

Him from speaking out lest he

Err at all, prompting enmity.

But none can be healed until

They choose to reveal their ill.

Love is a pain within the heart,

Silent, that dwells not apart.

It is an ill that long endures,

For it comes of nature’s laws.

Yet many make a mockery

Of love, as some vile courtesy,

Who gallivant about the earth,

Yet find their acts of little worth,

Not love, indeed, but rather folly,

Mere wrongdoing, plain lechery.

Who finds a true and loyal friend,

Should love and serve without end,

And be ever at their command.

Guigemar loved, you understand,

In such a way, and lastingly;

New life and health he might see,

Love had roused his courage,

He must let his passion rage.

‘Lady,’ he said, ‘I die for you.

My heart it languishes anew.

If you deign not to heal my ill,

I, in the end, must perish still.

I ask of you loving-kindness,

Deny me not your tenderness!’

When she had heard all his plea

She answered him, smilingly:
‘Friend, thus to grant your prayer

May make for too rash an answer,

I am not accustomed so to do,

Perhaps then I should resist you.’

‘Lady, for God’s sake, mercy,

Be not annoyed if I spoke freely!

A woman light in her manner

Will long resist every prayer

For she wishes none might see

Her wield her art too openly.

But if a woman of good intent,

Whose actions are all well-meant,

On finding a man of manners,

Is not too proud to grant his prayers,

She should love him, or lack joy,

And then, ere any gossip employ,

They’ll have their love joyfully;

For then the thing is done, lady!’

The lady knew that he spoke true,

And granted him her friendship, too,

And kissed him most willingly.

And thus was Guigemar at ease.

They lay together, spoke together,

Kissed and embraced each other,

Pure excess did their joy offer,

Of all the other had to proffer!

So a year and a half passed by,

That Guigemar with her did lie;

Delightful was that life indeed,

But Fortune, her law, decreed

That she turn her wheel about,

And one was in, the other out.

A sad wound they now received,

For their loving was perceived.

The Lay of Guigemar: Their love affair is exposed

ONE morning in summer they,

Both he and she, together lay,

She kissed his lips, tenderly,

Then: ‘Fair sweet friend,’ said she,

‘My heart declares I must lose you,

Our love will be brought to view;

And if you die then I shall die,

But if you should depart, say I,

You will find some new amour,

And I’ll be left with my dolour.’

‘Speak not so, my lady,’ said he,

For I would have no joy or peace,

If to another I should turn!

Fear not that for such I yearn!’

‘Of that, love, grant me surety!

Yield your shirt, give it to me!

I’ll knot a corner of the cloth,

You must swear to me, in troth,

That you will love whoever

Can loose what I knot together.’

He swore, and granted surety.

She then tied the knot securely,

Such that none could it undo

Unless twas torn or cut in two.

The shirt he gave she did return,

He received it, and in his turn,

Asked her for mutual surety,

For a belt likewise now she

Must wear around her waist,

About her bare flesh laced,

And she must love whoever

Might undo it yet not sever

Its fastening, nor it destroy.

He kissed her, she did it deploy.

That very day their love was known,

They were seen and found alone,

By an ill-disposed chamberlain,

That to her husband did pertain.

He would speak with the lady

And yet could not gain entry.

Through the window then, he saw

The pair, as to his lord he swore,

Who upon hearing all his story

Was transported with rare fury,

And summoning servants three

Led them away to seek the lady,

He had the door oped outright,

And within he found the knight.

Filled with anger he demanded

Instant death, and so commanded.

The Lay of Guigemar: He is forced to return to his own country

NOW Guigemar leapt to his feet,

Fearless, not deigning to retreat.

He swiftly seized a wooden bar

Which held the canopy, a spar,

In his grasp, and made a stand;

Good to take any man in hand;

Ere he might be seized by them

He was ready to trouble them.

The lord, regarding him closely.

Asked who he was, of what country,

And of his birth, and how that he

Had come there, and gained entry.

He told of how his ship did stray,

How the lady had made him stay.

He told about his wretched fate,

Of the deer he’d wounded of late,

Of his own wound, and his foray;

Now in the lord’s power he lay.

The lord said he believed him not,

Nor that there by ship he had got,

But if the vessel could be found

He’d set him homeward-bound.

As to his wound, be he assured,

If he drowned it would be cured.

Once they had swiftly ascertained

That there the ship still remained,

They set him aboard it; instantly

It sailed toward his own country.

The ship it might not there abide,

The knight aboard wept and sighed,

His thoughts upon his love intent,

Praying, to the Lord Omnipotent,

To deliver him the death he sought,

Nor let the vessel come to port,

If he might not regain his lover,

Whom he loved more than ever.

As he thus lamented endlessly,

The ship attained his own country,

Reaching the port whence it came.

Swiftly he disembarked the same;

And met a youth he knew on sight,

Who was walking behind a knight,

Leading a war-horse in his hand.

He called aloud to the young man,

Raised in his household previously,

Who recognised him, instantly.

His lord seeing them, in due course,

Dismounting, gifted him the horse.

He rode home to his friends, then,

Who joyed on finding him again.

The Lay of Guigemar: The tower of marble

HE was welcomed in his country,

But every day sighed, pensively.

They wished that he would marry,

But he was not inclined to any.

He’d accept none anywhere,

Not in love or marriage, there,

Unless they could undo the knot

In his shirt, without tear or cut.

Through Brittany went the news,

Maid nor lady would he choose,

Unless they could loose that tie;

None could, though a host did try.

Now I must tell you further of,

That one lady he could so love:

The lord took counsel of a baron,

And thus the lady did imprison,

In a grey marble tower, perverse

Her fate; days ill, the nights worse.

None in this world could e’er relate

How sad, how wretched was her state,

All the anguish, all the dolour

That she suffered in that tower.

Two years and more passed by,

No joyful sight there met her eye.

Oft her love she regretted too:

‘Guigemar, ill the day I saw you!

I would rather die now, swiftly,

Than suffer such pain endlessly.

Could I but escape, my friend,

In those waves I’d make an end,

Where your fair ship took flight.’

Then she arose and, strange sight,

Found the door unlocked, and so,

Seizing her chance, stepped below,

For none she found to trouble her;

And saw a ship there in the harbour.

To the rock it was tied, she found,

Where she had wished to drown.

Seeing the ship, she went aboard;

But one thought it did her afford:

As for her love, it was not likely,

He was alive, in his own country.

Though its coast he may have spied,

Yet of his wound he’d surely died,

He’d suffered such pain and travail.

Of its own will, the ship set sail,

And Brittany it reached ere long

Beneath a castle, tall and strong;

And the lord of that very same,

Was one Meriadu by name.

The Lay of Guigemar: The lady reaches Meriadu’s castle

ON his near neighbour he made war,

And was about to send out more

Of his troops to bait the enemy;

Thus he himself had risen early.

Now, standing at a window, he

Watched the vessel dock from sea;

By the stairway, the hall did gain

And, summoning his chamberlain,

He hastened to view it further,

Climbing aboard, by the ladder.

On the ship they found the lady,

She, like a faerie for her beauty;

By the cloak he now seized her,

And to his castle swiftly led her,

Delighted to have found a lady

So immeasurably lovely.

Whoe’er sent her o’er the sea,

He knew she came of nobility.

He conceived such love for her

Toward none was his love greater.

In his house, he’d a fair sister,

He asked that she serve and honour

This lady, whom he commended

To her, and she, as commanded,

Decked out the lady splendidly;

Yet the maid sighed pensively.

He oft came to speak with her,

Seeking to make her his lover.

He might ask; but she cared not,

Showed the belt, had not forgot;

Never a man could she now love

But he who might the belt remove

Without breaking the clasp there;

Thus, mortified, he answered her;

‘Likewise there is within this land

A worthy knight, I understand,

Who is prevented from so loving

Any maid by the shirt he’s wearing,

That bears a knot on its right side,

That may not, by force, be untied,

By tearing at the cloth, or cutting;

And you, I fear, knotted the thing.’

When she heard this, she sighed,

Awhile, her breath it almost died.

In her arms he took her no less,

And cut the laces of her dress:

And then would undo the clasp,

But could not achieve the task.

The Lay of Guigemar: Guigemar sees a fair lady at the tournament

NEVER a knight did there abide,

Who did not fail, though each tried.

Then he arranged a tournament,

And news was spread of his intent;

Meriadu brought knights from afar,

To fight those on whom he made war.

He summoned them all to his side,

And Guigemar too, to him did ride.

He had been asked his aid to lend,

As his companion and his friend,

And thus assist him in his need,

And come to him as he decreed.

Thus more than a hundred knights

Gathered there, a splendid sight.

Meriadu lodged them in his tower,

And showed them honour that hour.

He sent two knights at his command

To his sister, and did thus demand,

That she bring to them the lady

Whom he now loved so deeply.

She, at his command, addressed

The lady, whom she richly dressed,

Hand in hand they went to the hall,

Though the lady was pale withal.

Hearing Guigemar named, she

Was ready to fall there at his feet,

And if the other had not held her,

She would have swooned further.

The knight rose, seeing her there,

Gazing at her, he saw her manner

And her seeming, and then he

Drew back a little, amazedly:

‘Is it she, then, my dear friend,

My hope, heart, life without end,

That fair lady whom I so love?

From whence did she remove?

Who led her here? Tis my folly,

This cannot be my love, surely?

Women may in her guise appear,

A form, my mind confuses here.

But since she doth so resemble

Her, it makes me sigh and tremble,

With her I would willingly speak.’

So her company he did seek,

Kissed her, sat her at his side.

Not a word did he say beside,

Except to beg her to be seated.

The Lay of Guigemar: The lovers are united once more

MERIADU, that act completed,

Musing on all that he could see,

Spoke to Guigemar, smilingly:

‘Sire, he said, ‘now, if you please,

That lady, sitting there at her ease,

Might seek that knot to untie,

In your shirt.’ ‘Yes,’ was his reply,

‘I’d wish her to do that very same.’

And calling to him a chamberlain,

He who had the shirt in his care,

He ordered him to bring it there;

Then gave it to the lady yet

She hesitated, seemed upset,

Her heart was filled with distress;

And yet she’d attempt the test,

For at her own knot she stared;

If she might, and if she dared.

Meriadu, troubled to the core,

Grieved, he could do no more:

‘Lady,’ he said, ‘now make assay,

Untie the knot here if you may!’

When she heard his command

She took the fabric in her hand,

Then unknotted it skilfully.

The knight, now, wonderingly,

Knew that it was she, although

He could scarce believe it so.

He spoke to her in quiet measure:

‘Ah my friend, ah sweet creature,

Is it you indeed, tell me truly!

Now, at your waist, let me see

The belt set there, which I tied!’

Placing his hand upon her side,

He touched the belt, instantly,

‘Fair one, by what chance,’ said he

Comes it that I find you here?

Who, indeed, has led you here?

She told him of all the dolour,

The pain and grief of the tower,

Where she had lain in prison,

And the manner and the reason,

How escaped the lord’s grip;

Wished to drown, found the ship,

Went aboard, and came to harbour,

Where Meriadu had with honour

Treated her, yet sought her love.

But now, by all the heavens above,

Now, all was joyful once more.

‘Friend, love me now as before!’

The Lay of Guigemar: Meriadu tries to seize the lady and is defeated

NOW Guigemar rose to his feet,

‘My lords,’ he cried, ‘I do entreat

Your attention; my love is here,

Whom I thought lost, many a year!

Meriadu, of his mercy, I pray

To grant her to me, here today;

And then his liegeman I will be,

And serve him two years or three,

With a hundred knights and more.’

Meriadu spoke thus: ‘Guigemar,

Fair friend,’ said he, ‘think not that I

Am so troubled so by war, that I

Have need of what you propose;

I have men enough, God knows.

I did find her, and will hold her,

And against you I’ll defend her.’

On hearing all this, Guigemar

Summoned his knights to war.

He went from there, defiantly,

Sad at leaving her so swiftly.

None of the knights who went

There to fight the tournament

But took his part in this affair,

And stood beside him there.

All of them swore to follow

Him wherever he might go,

And would consider as a traitor

Any man who failed thereafter

To join that night the lord who

Now warred against Meriadu.

That lord lodged them willingly,

Delighted, joyful them to see,

And the aid Guigemar brought.

To end the war he now sought.

They rise at dawn the next day,

Gather, and swiftly ride away.

Issuing forth with a mighty din,

Guigemar leading, they begin

Meriadu’s castle to assail;

Yet they cannot at first prevail.

Guigemar laid siege, as well,

Nor would retreat until it fell.

So many his friends and allies,

That all went hungry there inside.

The castle was laid to waste,

And its lord of death did taste.

Guigemar led his love away,

All their ills ended that day.

And of this tale, I have relayed,

The lay of Guigemar was made,

That they sing to harp and rote,

And sweet to hear is every note.

Note: The name Guigemar may be derived from Guihomar, Viscount of Léon (c1021-1055).

The End of the Lay of Guigemar