Aucassin and Nicolete

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

Aucassin was armed and mounted as ye have heard tell. God! how goodly
sat the shield on his shoulder, the helm on his head, and the baldric on
his left haunch! And the damoiseau was tall, fair, featly fashioned, 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 Aucassin 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 shield, and straightway they led
him off a prisoner, and were even now discoursing of what death he should
die.

And when Aucassin heard them,

"Ha! God," 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, God 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
Aucassin, his enemy, so he came into that place, and Aucassin 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 Aucassin laid hands on him, and caught him by the
_nasal_ of his helmet, and gave him to his father.

"Father," quoth Aucassin, "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 Aucassin, "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 God 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, "God 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 Aucassin.

"So help me God," quoth his father, "yea!"

"Certes," quoth Aucassin, "this is a sorry thing meseems, when a man of
thine age lies!"

"Count of Valence," quoth Aucassin, "I took thee?"

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

"Give me thy hand," saith Aucassin.

"Sir, with good will."

So he set his hand in the other's.

"Now givest thou me thy word," saith Aucassin, "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 God'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 Aucassin. "Ha, knowest thou not it was I that took thee?"

"Yea, sir," quoth the Count Bougars.

"God help me never, but I will make thy head fly from thy shoulders, if
thou makest not troth," said Aucassin.

"In God's name," said he, "I make what promise thou wilt."

So they did the oath, and Aucassin 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 Aucassin 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 passion 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:

Aucassin 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 shine clear through a
window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, so she minded
her of Aucassin 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
grass, and so went her way down through the garden.

Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue and smiling, her face
featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red than
cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; her breasts
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 shining right clear, and so wandered she till she
came to the tower where her lover lay. The tower was flanked with
buttresses, 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 Aucassin 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 Aucassin'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,
Aucassin 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 Aucassin heard Nicolete say that she would pass 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."

"Aucassin," 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 Aucassin, "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 pass away."

Now while Aucassin 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.

"God!" 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 Aucassin, 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!"

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

"Ha!" quoth Nicolete, "be the soul of thy father and the soul of thy
mother in the rest of Paradise, so fairly and so courteously hast thou
spoken me! Please God, I will be right ware of them, God keep me out of
their hands."

So she shrank under her mantle into the shadow of the pillar till they
had passed by, and then took she farewell of Aucassin, and so fared till
she came unto the castle wall. Now that wall was wasted and broken, and
some deal mended, so she clomb thereon till she came between wall and
fosse, and so looked down, and saw that the fosse was deep and steep,
whereat she was sore adread.

"Ah God," saith she, "sweet Saviour! If I let myself fall hence, I shall
break my neck, and if here I abide, to-morrow they will take me and burn
me in a fire. Yet liefer would I perish here than that to-morrow the
folk should stare on me for a gazing-stock."

Then she crossed herself, and so let herself slip into the fosse, and
when she had come to the bottom, her fair feet, and fair hands that had
not custom thereof, were bruised and frayed, and the blood springing from
a dozen places, yet felt she no pain nor hurt, by reason of the great
dread wherein she went. But if she were in cumber to win there, in worse
was she to win out. But she deemed that there to abide was of none
avail, and she found a pike sharpened, that they of the city had thrown
out to keep the hold. Therewith made she one stepping place after
another, till, with much travail, she climbed the wall. Now the forest
lay within two crossbow shots, and the forest was of thirty leagues this
way and that. Therein also were wild beasts, and beasts serpentine, and
she feared that if she entered there they would slay her. But anon she
deemed that if men found her there they would hale her back into the town
to burn her.

_Here one singeth_:

Nicolete, the fair of face,
Climbed upon the coping stone,
There made she lament and moan
Calling on our Lord alone
For his mercy and his grace.

"Father, king of Majesty,
Listen, for I nothing know
Where to flee or whither go.
If within the wood I fare,
Lo, the wolves will slay me there,
Boars and lions terrible,
Many in the wild wood dwell,
But if I abide the day,
Surely worse will come of it,
Surely will the fire be lit
That shall burn my body away,
Jesus, lord of Majesty,
Better seemeth it to me,
That within the wood I fare,
Though the wolves devour me there
Than within the town to go,
Ne'er be it so!"

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

Nicolete made great moan, as ye have heard; then commended she herself to
God, and anon fared till she came unto the forest. But to go deep in it
she dared not, by reason of the wild beasts, and beasts serpentine. Anon
crept she into a little thicket, where sleep came upon her, and she slept
till prime next day, when the shepherds issued forth from the town and
drove their bestial between wood and water. Anon came they all into one
place by a fair fountain which was on the fringe of the forest, thereby
spread they a mantle, and thereon set bread. So while they were eating,
Nicolete wakened, with the sound of the singing birds, and the shepherds,
and she went unto them, saying, "Fair boys, our Lord keep you!"

"God bless thee," quoth he that had more words to his tongue than the
rest.

"Fair boys," quoth she, "know ye Aucassin, the son of Count Garin de
Biaucaire?"

"Yea, well we know him."

"So may God help you, fair boys," quoth she, "tell him there is a beast
in this forest, and bid him come chase it, and if he can take it, he
would not give one limb thereof for a hundred marks of gold, nay, nor for
five hundred, nor for any ransom."

Then looked they on her, and saw her so fair that they were all astonied.

"Will I tell him thereof?" quoth he that had more words to his tongue
than the rest; "foul fall him who speaks of the thing or tells him the
tidings. These are but visions ye tell of, for there is no beast so
great in this forest, stag, nor lion, nor boar, that one of his limbs is
worth more than two deniers, or three at the most, and ye speak of such
great ransom. Foul fall him that believes your word, and him that
telleth Aucassin. Ye be a Fairy, and we have none liking for your
company, nay, hold on your road."

"Nay, fair boys," quoth she, "nay, ye will do my bidding. For this beast
is so mighty of medicine that thereby will Aucassin be healed of his
torment. And lo! I have five sols in my purse, take them, and tell him:
for within three days must he come hunting it hither, and if within three
days he find it not, never will he be healed of his torment."

"My faith," quoth he, "the money will we take, and if he come hither we
will tell him, but seek him we will not."

"In God's name," quoth she; and so took farewell of the shepherds, and
went her way.

_Here singeth one_:

Nicolete the bright of brow
From the shepherds doth she pass
All below the blossomed bough
Where an ancient way there was,
Overgrown and choked with grass,
Till she found the cross-roads where
Seven paths do all way fare,
Then she deemeth she will try,
Should her lover pass thereby,
If he love her loyally.
So she gathered white lilies,
Oak-leaf, that in green wood is,
Leaves of many a branch I wis,
Therewith built a lodge of green,
Goodlier was never seen,
Swore by God who may not lie,
"If my love the lodge should spy,
He will rest awhile thereby
If he love me loyally."
Thus his faith she deemed to try,
"Or I love him not, not I,
Nor he loves me!"

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

Nicolete built her lodge of boughs, as ye have heard, right fair and
feteously, and wove it well, within and without, of flowers and leaves.
So lay she hard by the lodge in a deep coppice to know what Aucassin will
do. And the cry and the bruit went abroad through all the country and
all the land, that Nicolete was lost. Some told that she had fled, and
some that the Count Garin had let slay her. Whosoever had joy thereof,
no joy had Aucassin. And the Count Garin, his father, had taken him out
of prison, and had sent for the knights of that land, and the ladies, and
let make a right great feast, for the comforting of Aucassin his son. Now
at the high time of the feast, was Aucassin leaning from a gallery, all
woful and discomforted. Whatsoever men might devise of mirth, Aucassin
had no joy thereof, nor no desire, for he saw not her that he loved. Then
a knight looked on him, and came to him, and said:

"Aucassin, of that sickness of thine have I been sick, and good counsel
will I give thee, if thou wilt hearken to me--"

"Sir," said Aucassin, "gramercy, good counsel would I fain hear."

"Mount thy horse," quoth he, "and go take thy pastime in yonder forest,
there wilt thou see the good flowers and grass, and hear the sweet birds
sing. Perchance thou shalt hear some word, whereby thou shalt be the
better."

"Sir," quoth Aucassin, "gramercy, that will I do."

He passed out of the hall, and went down the stairs, and came to the
stable where his horse was. He let saddle and bridle him, and mounted,
and rode forth from the castle, and wandered till he came to the forest,
so rode till he came to the fountain and found the shepherds at point of
noon. And they had a mantle stretched on the grass, and were eating
bread, and making great joy.

_Here one singeth_:

There were gathered shepherds all,
Martin, Esmeric, and Hal,
Aubrey, Robin, great and small.
Saith the one, "Good fellows all,
God keep Aucassin the fair,
And the maid with yellow hair,
Bright of brow and eyes of vair.
She that gave us gold to ware.
Cakes therewith to buy ye know,
Goodly knives and sheaths also.
Flutes to play, and pipes to blow,
May God him heal!"

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

When Aucassin heard the shepherds, anon he bethought him of Nicolete, his
sweet lady he loved so well, and he deemed that she had passed thereby;
then set he spurs to his horse, and so came to the shepherds.

"Fair boys, God be with you."

"God bless you," quoth he that had more words to his tongue than the
rest.

"Fair boys," quoth Aucassin, "say the song again that anon ye sang."

"Say it we will not," quoth he that had more words to his tongue than the
rest, "foul fall him who will sing it again for you, fair sir!"

"Fair boys," quoth Aucassin, "know ye me not?"

"Yea, we know well that you are Aucassin, out damoiseau, natheless we be
not your men, but the Count's."

"Fair boys, yet sing it again, I pray you."

"Hearken! by the Holy Heart," quoth he, "wherefore should I sing for you,
if it likes me not? Lo, there is no such rich man in this country,
saving the body of Garin the Count, that dare drive forth my oxen, or my
cows, or my sheep, if he finds them in his fields, or his corn, lest he
lose his eyes for it, and wherefore should I sing for you, if it likes me
not?"

"God be your aid, fair boys, sing it ye will, and take ye these ten sols
I have here in a purse."

"Sir, the money will we take, but never a note will I sing, for I have
given my oath, but I will tell thee a plain tale, if thou wilt."

"By God," saith Aucassin, "I love a plain tale better than naught."

"Sir, we were in this place, a little time agone, between prime and
tierce, and were eating our bread by this fountain, even as now we do,
and a maid came past, the fairest thing in the world, whereby we deemed
that she should be a fay, and all the wood shone round about her. Anon
she gave us of that she had, whereby we made covenant with her, that if
ye came hither we would bid you hunt in this forest, wherein is such a
beast that, an ye might take him, ye would not give one limb of him for
five hundred marks of silver, nor for no ransom; for this beast is so
mighty of medicine, that, an ye could take him, ye should be healed of
your torment, and within three days must ye take him, and if ye take him
not then, never will ye look on him. So chase ye the beast, an ye will,
or an ye will let be, for my promise have I kept with her."

"Fair boys," quoth Aucassin, "ye have said enough. God grant me to find
this quarry."

_Here one singeth_:

Aucassin when he had heard,
Sore within his heart was stirred,
Left the shepherds on that word,
Far into the forest spurred
Rode into the wood; and fleet
Fled his horse through paths of it,
Three words spake he of his sweet,
"Nicolete the fair, the dear,
'Tis for thee I follow here
Track of boar, nor slot of deer,
But thy sweet body and eyes so clear,
All thy mirth and merry cheer,
That my very heart have slain,
So please God to me maintain
I shall see my love again,
Sweet sister, friend!"

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

Aucassin fared through the forest from path to path after Nicolete, and
his horse bare him furiously. Think ye not that the thorns him spared,
nor the briars, nay, not so, but tare his raiment, that scarce a knot
might be tied with the soundest part thereof, and the blood sprang from
his arms, and flanks, and legs, in forty places, or thirty, so that
behind the Childe men might follow on the track of his blood in the
grass. But so much he went in thoughts of Nicolete, his lady sweet, that
he felt no pain nor torment, and all the day hurled through the forest in
this fashion nor heard no word of her. And when he saw Vespers draw
nigh, he began to weep for that he found her not. All down an old road,
and grassgrown he fared, when anon, looking along the way before him, he
saw such an one as I shall tell you. Tall was he, and great of growth,
laidly and marvellous to look upon: his head huge, and black as charcoal,
and more than the breadth of a hand between his two eyes, and great
cheeks, and a big nose and broad, big nostrils and ugly, and thick lips
redder than a collop, and great teeth yellow and ugly, and he was shod
with hosen and shoon of bull's hide, bound with cords of bark over the
knee, and all about him a great cloak twy-fold, and he leaned on a
grievous cudgel, and Aucassin came unto him, and was afraid when he
beheld him.

"Fair brother, God aid thee."

"God bless you," quoth he.

"As God he helpeth thee, what makest thou here?"

"What is that to thee?"

"Nay, naught, naught," saith Aucassin, "I ask but out of courtesy."

"But for whom weepest thou," quoth he, "and makest such heavy lament?
Certes, were I as rich a man as thou, the whole world should not make me
weep."

"Ha! know ye me?" saith Aucassin.

"Yea, I know well that ye be Aucassin, the son of the Count, and if ye
tell me for why ye weep, then will I tell you what I make here."

"Certes," quoth Aucassin, "I will tell you right gladly. Hither came I
this morning to hunt in this forest; and with me a white hound, the
fairest in the world; him have I lost, and for him I weep."

"By the Heart our Lord bare in his breast," quoth he, "are ye weeping for
a stinking hound? Foul fall him that holds thee high henceforth! for
there is no such rich man in the land, but if thy father asked it of him,
he would give thee ten, or fifteen, or twenty, and be the gladder for it.
But I have cause to weep and make dole."

"Wherefore so, brother?"

"Sir, I will tell thee. I was hireling to a rich vilain, and drove his
plough; four oxen had he. But three days since came on me great
misadventure, whereby I lost the best of mine oxen, Roger, the best of my
team. Him go I seeking, and have neither eaten nor drunken these three
days, nor may I go to the town, lest they cast me into prison, seeing
that I have not wherewithal to pay. Out of all the wealth of the world
have I no more than ye see on my body. A poor mother bare me, that had
no more but one wretched bed; this have they taken from under her, and
she lies in the very straw. This ails me more than mine own case, for
wealth comes and goes; if now I have lost, another tide will I gain, and
will pay for mine ox whenas I may; never for that will I weep. But you
weep for a stinking hound. Foul fall whoso thinks well of thee!"