The Fairy Mythology Illustrative of the Romance and...

There formerly lived in Britain a man who was rich and old. He was Avoez or governor of Caerwent on the Doglas, and lord of the surrounding country. Desirous of having an heir to his estates, he espoused a maiden "courteous and sage, and passing fair." She was given to him because he was rich, and loved by him for her beauty. Why should I say more, but that her match was not to be found between Lincoln and Ireland? "Great sin did they who gave her him," adds the poet.

On account of her rare beauty, the jealous husband now turned all his thoughts to keeping her safe. To this end he shut her up in his tower, in a large room, to which no one had access but himself and his sister, an old widow, without whose permission the young wife was forbidden to speak to any even of her female attendants. In this tower the suspicious husband immured his lovely bride for seven years, during which time they had no children, nor did she ever leave her confinement on any account. She had neither chamberlain nor huissier to light the tapers in her chamber when she would retire, and the poor lady passed her time weeping, sighing, and lamenting; and from grief and neglect of herself losing all her beauty.

Before he set out he called up the old dame to fasten the door after him. This done, she took her psalter and retired to another room to chant it. The imprisoned lady awoke in tears, seeing the brightness of the sun, and thus began her moan:

When baptised he was to be, In hell's rivere deep dipt was he; Hard are his sinews, hard each vein, And lively blood they all contain. Oft have I heard the people tell, That in this country there befell Adventures in the days of yore, That did to joy grieved hearts restore; Knights met with damsels, fair and gent, In all things unto their talént; And dames met lovers courteoús, Handsome, and brave, and generous; So that they never blamed were, For save themselves none saw them e'er.[476] If this may be, or ever was, Or any it befallen has, May God, who hath all might and power, My wish perform for me this hour.

Scarcely had she uttered this pious wish, when she perceived the shadow of a large bird at a narrow window. The bird now flew into the room. He had jesses on his legs, and appeared to be a goss-hawk.[477] He placed himself before the lady, and in a few minutes after became a handsome gentle knight. The lady was terrified at the sight, and covered her head; but the knight was courteous, and addressed her,

Lady, said he, be not thus stirred; A goss-hawk is a gentle bird. If my secréte should be obscure, Attend, and I will you assure; Maketh now of me your lovére, For that it is I am come here. Long have I loved you and admired, And in my heart have much desired; I ne'er have loved save you alone, And save you never shall love none; But I could never come to you, Nor from own countrie issúe, If you had not required me: Your lover now I may well be.

And to put the matter out of all doubt, he directs her to feign sickness, and send for the chaplain, when he undertakes to assume her form, and receive the holy Sacrament. The dame does accordingly; and the old woman, after many objections, at length sends for the chaplain.

The scruples of the lady being now entirely removed, she grants le don d'amoureuse merci, and the bliss of the lovers is complete. At length the knight takes his leave, and in reply to the lady's question, of when she should see him again, he tells her that she has only to wish for him, and the wish will be fulfilled by his appearance;[479] but he warns her to beware of the old woman, who will closely watch her, assuring her at the same time that a discovery will be his certain death.

The lady now bids adieu to all sadness and melancholy, and gradually regains all her former beauty. She desires no longer to leave her tower; for, night or day, she has only to express a wish, and her knight is with her. The old lord marvels greatly at this sudden change, and begins to distrust the fidelity of his sister. On revealing his suspicions, her replies fully satisfy him on that head, and they concert between them how to watch the young wife, and to discover her secret. After an interval of three days, the old lord tells his wife that the king has sent for him, and that he must attend him, but will soon return. He sets out, and the old woman having closed the door as usual after him, gets behind a curtain to watch. The lady now wishes for her lover, and instantly he is with her, and they continue together till it is time to rise. He then departs, leaving the spy, who had seen how he came and went, terrified at the strange metamorphosis.

When the husband, who was at no great distance, came home, his spy informed him of the strange affair. Greatly grieved and incensed at this, he began to meditate the destruction of his rival. He accordingly got four pikes made, with steel-heads so sharp that

So said, so done: the bird was at the window; but alas! too eager for caution, he overlooked the pikes, and, flying against them, was mortally wounded. Still he entered the chamber and threw himself on the bed, which his blood soon filled, and thus addressed his distracted mistress:

He said unto her—"My sweet friend, For you my life comes to an end; I often told you 't would be so, That your fair cheer would work us woe." When she heard this she swooned away, And long time there for dead she lay; Her gently to herself he brought, And said, that grief availeth nought; That she by him a son would bear, Valiant and wise, and debonair; He would dispel her sorrows all. Ywenec she should him call. He wouldè vengeance for their sake Upon their trait'rous enemy take.[480]

Exhausted with loss of blood, he can stay no longer. He departs; and the lady, uttering loud cries of woe, leaps after him, unapparelled as she is, out of the window, which was twenty feet from the ground, and pursues him by the traces of his blood.

Along his path strayed the dame, Until unto a hill she came.[481] Into this hill one entrance led; It with the blood was all sprinkléd. Before her she can nothing see; Whereat she thinketh full surelý Her lover thither is gone in. She entereth with mickle teen; Within it light ne found she none; Thorow it still she goeth on, Until she from the hill issúed In a fair meadow, rich and good. With blood she stained found the grass, At which she much dismayed was; The trace lay of it on the ground. Quite near she there a city found; With walls it was enclosed all.— There was not house, nor tower, nor hall, That did not seem of silver fair: The Mandevent[482] right wealthy are. Before the town lay marshes rude, The forest, and wild solitude. On the other side, toward the donjón, The water all around did run; And here the shippès did entér, More thannè three hundréd they were. The lower gate wide open lay; Therein the lady took her way, Stil following the blood, that fell The townè thorow to the castél. Unto her spaké there no one, Ne man nor woman found she none. She to the palace came; with blood The steps she found were all embrued; She entered then a low chambére; A knight she found fast sleeping there; She knew him not—she passed on— To a larger chamber came anon; A bed, and nothing more, there found, A knight was on it sleeping sound. Still farther passed on the dame; Unto the third chambére she came, Where she gan find her lover's bed. The posts were gold enamelled; I could not price the clothes aright:

At seeing his wretched state the unhappy lady swoons again. The expiring knight endeavours to console her; and, foretelling his own death on that day, directs her to depart, lest his people in their grief should ill treat her as the cause of his death. She, however, protests that she will stay and die with him, as, if she returns, her husband will put her to death. The knight repeats his consolations, and gives her a ring, which, while she wears, her husband will retain no remembrance of what relates to her. At the same time he gives her his sword, which she is to keep safely and to give to her son when grown up and become a valiant knight. He says, she then

Unto a festival will go; Her lord will thither wend also; Unto an abbey they will come, Where they will see a stately tomb, Will learn the story of the dead, And how he was there buried. There thou the sword shalt to him reach, And all the ádventure then teach, How he was born, who was his sire; His deeds enough will then admire.

He then gave her a dress of fine silk, and insisted on her departure. She is with difficulty induced to leave him, and is hardly half a league from the place when she hears the bells tolling, and the cries of grief of the people for the death of their lord. She faints four times, but at length recovering retraces her steps, and returns to her tower. Her husband makes no inquiry, and gives her no farther uneasiness. She bare a son, as Eudemarec had foretold, and named him Ywenec. As he grew up, there was not his peer in the kingdom for beauty, valour, and generosity.

After Ywenec had been dubbed a knight, his supposed father was summoned to attend the feast of St. Aaron at Carlion. He went, accompanied by his wife and Ywenec. On their way, they stopped at a rich abbey, where they were received with the utmost hospitality. Next day, when they asked to depart, the abbot entreated them to stay a little longer till he should show them the rest of the abbey. They consented, and after dinner,

On entering the chapter-room, They found a large and stately tomb, Covered with rich tapestry, Bordered with gold embroidery. At head and feet and sides there were Twenty tapers burning clear; Of fine gold were the chandeliers; Of amethyst were the censéres, With which they incensed alwáy, For great honoúr, this tomb each day.

The curiosity of the visitors was excited by the sight of this magnificent tomb, and they learned, on inquiry, that therein lay one of the noblest and most valiant knights that had ever lived. He had been king of that country, and had been slain at Caerwent for the love of a lady, leaving a vacancy in the throne which had never been since filled, it being reserved, according to his last commands, for his son by that lady.

She then gave him the sword she had kept so long, relating the whole story to him. At the conclusion she fainted on the tomb, and expired. Filled with rage and grief, Ywenec at one blow struck off the head of the old man, and avenged both his father and mother. The lady was buried in the coffin with him whom she had loved, and the people joyfully acknowledged Ywenec as king of the country.

The forest of Brezeliande, near Quintin, was, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, regarded as the chief seat of Breton wonders. It contained the tomb of Merlin. Robert de Wace, hearing of the wonders of this forest, visited it; but, by his own account, to little purpose.