Yvain
or the Knight of the Lion

Chrétien De Troyes

A Translation into English by

A. S. KLINE

With Illustrations by

Henry Justice Ford (English, 1886–1920)

POETRY IN TRANSLATION

www.poetryintranslation.com

Contents

About this Work

Lines 1-174 Calogrenant is urged to recite a tale, at Arthur’s court

Lines 175-268 Calogrenant tells of how he came to a wooden tower

Lines 269-580 Calogrenant’s adventure in the wood

Lines 581-648 Yvain takes up the challenge

Lines 649-722 Yvain determines to adventure alone

Lines 723-746 Yvain departs the court secretly

Lines 747-906 Yvain repeats the adventure and the fight

Lines 907-1054 Yvain is trapped in the knight’s palace

Lines 1055-1172 Yvain is rendered invisible by the ring

Lines 1173-1342 The dead knight’s wounds bleed

Lines 1343-1506 Yvain falls in love with the dead knight’s lady

Lines 1507-1588 The maiden plans to free Yvain

Lines 1589-1652 The maiden seeks to advise the lady

Lines 1653-1726 The maiden promotes Yvain’s interests

Lines 1727-1942 The lady sends for Yvain thinking him at court

Lines 1943-2036 Yvain declares his love for the Lady of Landuc

Lines 2037-2048 The lady consents to take Yvain as her lord

Lines 2049-2328 King Arthur is invited to the lady’s court

Lines 2329-2414 King Arthur and his company enter the fortified town

Lines 2415-2538 Gawain urges Yvain to attend the tournament

Lines 2539-2578 Yvain seeks leave of his lady to accompany Gawain

Lines 2579-2638 The lady gives a magic ring to Yvain

Lines 2639-2773 Yvain breaks the promise to his lady

Lines 2774-3130 Yvain loses his mind but is restored to health

Lines 3131-3254 Yvain defends the Lady of Noroison’s castle

Lines 3255-3340 Yvain defeats Count Alier

Lines 3341-3484 Yvain encounters the lion

Lines 3485-3562 Yvain laments breaking his promise to his lady

Lines 3563-3898 Yvain promises to rescue Lunete

Lines 3899-3956 Yvain agrees to fight the giant, Harpin

Lines 3957-4384 Yvain slays the giant, then hastens to save Lunete

Lines 4385-4474 Yvain champions Lunete

Lines 4475-4532 Yvain fights the Seneschal and his brothers

Lines 4533-4634 Yvain is victorious, and goes to seek his lady

Lines 4635-4674 Yvain departs carrying the lion inside his shield

Lines 4675-4702 Yvain and the lion are cured of their wounds

Lines 4703-4736 The two daughters of the Lord of Blackthorn

Lines 4737-4758 The younger daughter arrives at Arthur’s court

Lines 4759-4820 The younger daughter requests a champion

Lines 4821-4928 The maiden seeks the Knight of the Lion

Lines 4929-4964 The maiden approaches the magic fountain

Lines 4965-5106 Yvain agrees to champion the younger daughter

Lines 5107-5184 The Castle of Ill Adventure

Lines 5185-5346 The three hundred maidens

Lines 5347-5456 Yvain receives an initial welcome in the castle

Lines 5457-5770 Yvain defeats the two devils

Lines 5771-5871 Yvain returns to King Arthur’s court

Lines 5872-5924 All await the expiry of the time decreed

Lines 5925-5990 The sisters insist on their respective causes

Lines 5991-6148 Gawain and Yvain contest the issue

Lines 6149-6228 The two fight to a standstill

Lines 6229-6526 Their identities are revealed, Arthur gives judgement

Lines 6527-6658 Yvain rides to the fountain, and rouses the tempest

Lines 6659-6706 Lunete goes to find Yvain

Lines 6707-6748 The lady finds Yvain is the Knight of the Lion

Lines 6749-6766 The lady accepts she must reconcile with Yvain

Lines 6767-6788 Yvain seeks their reconciliation

Lines 6789-6803 Yvain and his lady are reconciled

Lines 6804-6808 Chretien’s envoi

About the Author

About the Translator

About this Work

Chrétien de Troyes’ Arthurian Romances, written in the late 12th-century, provide a vital link between the Classical Roman poets, Ovid in particular, and the later medieval world of Dante and Chaucer. The five major verse tales, namely Érec and Énide (c1170), Cligès (c1176), Yvain or the Knight of the Lion (before 1181) Lancelot or the Knight of the Cart (before 1181), and Perceval (before 1190), introduce motifs and plot elements that recur frequently in later literature. Well-structured, lively, and witty the tales were written for a sophisticated courtly audience, and the five stories considered together gave expression to the reality and the deeper ideals of French chivalry. Chrétien appears to have used themes culled from French and British sources, while characters such as Lancelot, and features such as the Holy Grail appear for the first time in European literature in his work. Here translated in rhyming couplets to mirror the original, rather than in unrepresentative prose, is a fresh treatment of one of France’s and Europe’s major poets.

Lines 1-174 Calogrenant is urged to recite a tale, at Arthur’s court

ARTHUR of Britain, that true king

Whose worth declares: in everything

Be brave, and courteous, always,

Held royal court, on that feast-day

Of the descent of the Holy Ghost,

That is known to us as Pentecost.

The king was at Carduel in Wales;

After dinner, amid their wassails,

The noble knights took themselves

To wherever the fair damsels,

And fine ladies summoned them.

Some told stories to amuse them,

While others there spoke of Amor,

Of all the anguish and dolour,

And of the great joys, accorded

To the followers of his order,

To which, once rich and strong,

So few disciples now belong

That the order is nigh disgraced,

And Amor himself much abased.

For, once, those lovers among us

Deserved to be called courteous,

Brave, generous and honourable.

But now all that is turned to fable.

Those who know naught of it, say I,

Claim they love, but in that they lie;

True love seems fable to those I cite,  

Who boast of love but lack the right.

Yet, to talk of those who once were,

Leave those to whom I now refer;

For worth more is dead courtesy,

To my mind, than live villainy.

Thus I take joy, now, in relating

Things indeed worth the hearing,

About that king of such great fame

That near and far they speak his name,

And, I concur here with the Bretons,

Shall do, as long as worth lives on;

And, through them, we remember,

His worthy knights who forever

Did labour in the court of love.

Yet, that day, wonderment moved

Them, at his rising from among them,

And some were troubled among them,

And on the subject spoke full more,

Since none had e’er seen him before

In mid-feast his apartments enter,

To rest or to sleep in his chamber.

But on this day, upon some whim,

The queen, it seems, detained him,

And he remained so long by her

He forgot himself in slumber.

Now, outside the chamber door,

Were Dodinel and Sagremor,

And there was my lord Gawain,

And nearby my lord Yvain,

And with them Calogrenant,

A handsome knight and elegant,

Who did, with a tale, a hearing claim,

One not to his honour, but his shame.

And as he commenced the story,

The Queen heard him and swiftly

Rising from beside the king, she

Came upon them all so secretly

That before ever she was seen

She was amongst them, I ween;

Calogrenant, but none other,

Rose to his feet to greet her.

Then Kay, who was divisive,

Deadly, sharp, and abrasive,

Cried: ‘By God, Calogrenant

I see you now, bold and gallant;

Indeed, it greatly pleases me

To see you outdo us in courtesy,

And seek to show your excellence,

Since you possess so little sense.

Of course my lady will agree

You exceed us all, as we see,

In boldness, and in courtesy.

Through boldness, mayhap did we

Or sloth, fail to rise; or again

Twas that we did not so deign?

In God’s name, sir, twas not so

But because we did not know

My lady was here till you rose.’

‘Truly, Kay, I must suppose,

On my honour,’ said the Queen,

That you are so full of spleen

You would burst if you could not

Pour out the venom that is your lot.

You’re a tiresome rascal, that I know,

To scorn all your companions so.’

‘Lady, ‘said Kay, ‘if we gain naught

Then indeed, let us not lose aught,

By your presence; I have not said

Aught of which I now stand in dread.

I beg you to speak no more of this.

Neither courtesy nor sense, I wist,

Lies in chasing after vain dispute.

Let us not then maintain pursuit,

Nor any here advance the matter.

But demand you the tale, rather,

So as to quell all such nonsense,

That he was ready to commence.’

At these words, Calogrenant

Prepared to render his account:

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I care but little

To pursue any such quarrel,

Little it is, and small the prize;

If it pleases you so to despise,

That will never do harm to me.

You have troubled, frequently,

Better and wiser men than I,

My Lord Kay, and them defy,

For such is your custom, I think;

The midden, it will ever stink,

Horseflies bite, and bees buzz,

And so doth a bore torment us.

But I’ll not now begin my story

With due leave from my lady,

For I beg her to ask no more,

Nor this thing that I now abhor

Demand of me, in her mercy.’

‘All those who are here, my lady,’

Said Kay, ‘shall be in your debt,

Who willingly would hear it yet;

But do not ask this thing for me:

By the faith you owe the king, he

Who is your sovereign and mine,

Demand this, for ’twould be fine.’

‘Calogrenant,’ declared the Queen,

‘Ignore all that’s unfair and mean

In this Sir Kay, our Seneschal;

His custom is to speak ill of all,

And not to punish him is best;

I command you, and I request

You bear no anger in your heart

Nor for him cease your fair art,

A thing we would like to hear.

If you desire my favour here,

Begin again, and from the start.’

‘Lady, it will break my heart

To do as you order me to do;

This eye of mine I’d rather lose

Than tell more of my tale today,

If I did not seek your ire to allay;

So I will do what you ask of me

However much it may grieve me.

Who’s pleased to do so, then, attend!

Your heart and ears to me now lend,

For soon it is forgot, the word,

If by the heart it is not heard.

There are those who all they hear

Understand not, though they hear;

They listen with the ears alone,

While the heart is like a stone.

On their ears the words do fall

Like the wind that blows on all,

Yet never for a moment stays

And in an instant speeds away,

Unless the heart is wide awake

And the meaning thus doth take;

For it may seize it when it comes

And capture it and give it room.

The ears are the path whereby

A voice may enter, by and by,

And the heart within the breast

Seize the voice the ears accept.

Now who wishes to hear me

Must lend heart and ears to me,

For I shall not serve you a dream,

A fable, or some lying scheme,

As many another man would do,

But speak of what I know is true.’

Lines 175-268 Calogrenant tells of how he came to a wooden tower

IT chanced that seven years ago,

A lonely traveller on the road,

I was in search of fresh adventure,

Casting my net all at a venture,

Fully-armed, as the truest knight;

And came to a track on my right

Leading into the dense woodland.

The path was bad; on every hand,

Hedged about with thorns and briars.

What trouble it was, and pain entire,

That woodland track, iniquitous!

And for nearly a whole day thus,

I rode along, as best I could,

Till at last I issued from the wood;

That was in Broceliande.

From the forest onto open land

I came, and saw a wooden tower

A Welsh league away, no more,

And a moat, below its palisade,

Deep and wide, that round it lay.

And on the bridge above it stood

The lord of all this tower of wood,

With a moulted falcon at his wrist.

No sooner had I reached its midst,

And saluted him, than he did lend

Me his aid, and helped me descend.

I descended; I could not deny

I would need shelter by and by.

And he declared to me, at once,

More than seven times, if once,

That truly blessed was the way

By which I had come that day.

We passed beyond the bridge and gate

Into the inner courtyard straight.

Midst the court of this kind vavasor,

To whom God owes joy and honour

For all on me he bestowed that night,

Hung a gong, and with never a sight

Of iron or wood, for this I thought:

All of copper the gong was wrought.

And three times then did the master

Strike at the gong with a hammer

He had hung on a post nearby;

And those who were waiting nigh

High in the tower, heard the sound,

And soon descended to the ground

And came out into the yard below. 

Some attended my horse, I trow,

Which the master was holding;

While I saw, towards me, coming

A right fair and noble maiden.

And saw, as she came nearer, then,

That she was tall, and slim, and true.

And skilled with my armour too;

She removed it swiftly and well,

And wrapped me in a fine mantle,

Green stuff with peacock feathers.

We were abandoned by the others,

She and I were left alone, quite,

None remaining, to my delight,

For I sought no more than her.

And she led me to sit with her,

In the sweetest mead to be found

And ringed by a wall all round,

There I found her so educated,

So well-spoken and cultivated,

Of such manner and character,

I was delighted to sojourn there,

Never wishing to part from her,

Nor evermore be obliged to stir.

But twilight came eventually,

And my host came seeking me,

Since it was the hour for dinner,

Which meant I could not linger,

So I followed him right away.

Of the dinner I’ll briefly say

That all was as I could wish it,

For the fair maid came to sit

Opposite where I was sitting.

After supper, we were talking;

My host confessed it must be

Who knows how long since he

Had welcomed a knight errant,

And one upon adventure bent,

To whom he’d shelter offered.

After which he then requested,

That as a favour, I promise him

On my return, to lodge with him.

And I replied: ‘Willingly, sir,’

Thinking it shameful to demur.

Lines 269-580 Calogrenant’s adventure in the wood

NOW I was well lodged that night

And saw, with the morning light,

My steed all saddled, for the way,

As I had sought the previous day,

When we had ended our supper.

My kind host, and his fair daughter,

To the Holy Spirit I commended,

Took my leave with none offended,

And departed swiftly as I could.

I’d not gone far, through the wood,

When I came upon, in a clearing,

Some savage bulls, freely roaming,

And sparring, among themselves,

With such load roaring that I fell

Back a little from them, in fear,

For no beast fiercer doth appear,

Nor is more dangerous, than a bull.

A fellow, black as mulberry, full

Hideous, massive beyond measure,

And as thoroughly ugly a creature,

More so than words could express,

I beheld, on a stump, seated at rest, 

A mighty club gripped in his hand.

I then approached the fellow, and

Perceived that his head was bigger

Than a horse, or any other creature;

His brow below black tufts of hair,

For more than two spans, was bare;

His ears were mossy and full large,

Like an elephant’s as it doth charge;

His eyebrows thick, his face flat,

With owl’s eyes, nose like a cat,

And jaws like to a wolf, split so,

Teeth, a wild boar’s sharp and yellow;

Beard black and tangled, as for the rest,

His chin seemed merged with his chest,

His backbone long, hunched, twisted.

Propped on his club, he sat and rested,

Dressed in a mighty strange garment

Neither of wool nor of linen blent,

But of two bull or ox hides made,

Hung round his neck, newly flayed.

When toward him I made my way,

The fellow leapt up straight away

Seeing me there, nearing slowly,

I knew not if he would strike me,

Nor whether he’d offer offence,

But I was readying my defence

When I saw him take his stand

On a tree-trunk close at hand,

Straight and tall, and motionless,

Seventeen feet; not a fraction less.

He gazed; never a word did yield,

No more than a beast of the field,

And I assumed he lacked reason,

And could not utter like a man.

Nevertheless I ventured boldly,

Saying to him: ‘Come now, tell me

Whether thou art truly human!’

And he replied: ‘I am a man.’

‘What kind of man? ‘Such as you see;

I am no more than I seem to be.’

‘And what dost thou here; aught good?’

‘I guard the cattle in this wood.’

‘How, by Saint Peter of Rome?

Unless these cattle, as they roam,

Understand human speech, I know

In a wood you’ll not guard them so.’

‘I guard them so well and rightly,

They will scarcely stray from me.’

‘How is that? Come tell me true.’

‘When they see me come in view

They will not dare to move a yard.

For whenever I grip one hard

I give its horns such a wrench

The others from fear do blench,

For my grip is harsh and strong;

Then all around me they throng

As if they were crying mercy:

And none can do this but me,

For if it were another instead,

Once among them, he’d be dead.

So I am master of these beasts,

And now you must tell me at least

What you are and what you seek.’

‘I am,’ said I, ‘a knight, and seek

A thing I cannot find, God wot;

Long have sought it but found it not.’

‘And what is this you seek, say I?’

‘An adventure, to prove thereby

My prowess, and my bravery.

And now I request of you, tell me,

If you know, give me true counsel,

Of some adventure, or some marvel.’

‘Of that,’ said he, ‘you may report

That of adventure I know naught,

Nor have I e’er heard tell of any.

But if you’d wish to go and see

Some way from here, a fountain,

Your return will cost you pain,

If you fail to respect its power.

Close by you’ll find at any hour

A path to lead you there, I say:

Follow it true, on that true way,

If you’d employ your steps aright,

Or else you may end in sad plight;

For, there, full many a path uncoils.

There lies the fountain that boils

Yet colder than marble is maybe.

’Tis shaded by the loveliest tree

That ever was formed by Nature,

And its leaves they last forever,

Never lost in the harshest winter.

An iron basin hangs there ever,

Attached it is to so long a chain

That it will reach to the fountain.

A stone you’ll find, beside this spring

Such as you’ll see but, here’s the thing,

I cannot tell you what, I ween,

For it’s like I have never seen.

On the other side stands a chapel,

Though small ’tis very beautiful.

From the basin take some water,

On the stone the droplets scatter,

Then comes a tempest in the sky,

And every creature hence will fly,

Each stag and doe, fawn and boar,

And not a bird will linger more;

For you will see such lightning fall

Such gales that roar among it all,

That if you turn, and so depart,

If you can that is, by whatever art,

Without great trouble and mischance,

You will be better served, perchance,

Than any knight ever was yet.’

I left the fellow, and soon was set

Upon the path that he did show.

Tierce was almost past, I know,

And it was near to noon, maybe,

When I saw the chapel and the tree.

That tree standing there, tis true,

Was the loveliest pine that grew,

Ever, upon this earth of ours.

Never was there so dense a shower

That even a drop of rain could pass,

Within; all fell without, en masse.

From a branch hung a basin of gold,

Made of the purest metal sold

In any marketplace anywhere;

While the fountain I saw there

Like boiling water it seethed;

The stone was emerald, I believe,

Pierced like a cask all through,

With four rubies beneath it too,

More radiant and a deeper red

Than the sun risen from its bed

And lighting all the eastern sky;

For, know that I would never lie

To you, or speak a word untrue.

The marvel now I wished to view

Of the tempest, and the gales,

Not wise to all that it entailed,

But would have repented though,

Gladly, if I could have done so,

Hearing the pierced stone stir

With the fall of the basin’s water.

But I poured too much, I deem,

For straight I saw the heavens teem.

From far more than fourteen sides,

Blinding my eyes, the lightning rides,

And the clouds let fall, pell-mell,

Rain and hail, and snow as well.

It was so heavy, blew so strong

That I was almost dead and gone,

For the lightning struck all about,

And mighty trees were rooted out.

Know that it did me much dismay,

Until the clouds were snatched away.

For God then showed me such grace

That the tempest vanished apace,

And all the storm winds fell silent,

Not daring to counter God’s intent.

On seeing the air clear and bright

I was filled again with delight,

For joy, as I have noted often,

Causes all pain to be forgotten.

As soon as the storm had passed,

I saw so many birds amassed,

Believe it or not, on the pine,

Not a branch there, thick or fine,

That was not cloaked with birds,

Such that the tree proved lovelier.

For all the birds sang in that tree

So as to meld in harmony,

Yet each was singing its own song,

So that I heard not a single one

Sing the song that another sung.

And I felt joy, their joy among,

Listening to them all sing anew

Until their orisons were through.

I never heard such joyousness,

No other ear could be so blessed

Unless it too were there to hear

What did so please and endear

That in true rapture I was lost.

I stayed thus till I heard a host

Of knights, as it seemed to me,

Full ten at least, approaching me,

Yet all that great noise was made,

By one knight entering the glade.

When I saw that he came alone

On his steed, I caught my own,

And mounted it without delay,

While he still pursued his way

With ill intent, as an eagle flies,

And fierce as a lion, to my eyes.

From as far off as I could hear

His challenge floated to my ear,

Crying: ‘Vassal, you bring me

Shame and harm, with no enmity

Between us; if you would fight

You should challenge me of right,

Or seek the aid of justice before.

Upon my life, you declare war.

But, Sir Vassal, it is my intent

That on you falls the punishment

For all the harm that you dispense;

And around me lies the evidence,

Of my woods, and of their ruin.

His the complaint who falls victim;

And I have reason to complain

For with lightning, wind and rain,

You have driven me from my home.

You bring ruin, and you alone,

Cursed be he who thinks it well,

Upon my woods, and my castle.

You but now made such an attack

That no aid is of use to me, alack,

Men, nor arms, nor defensive wall,

No safety is here for a man at all

Whatever fortress may be his home

Whether of wood or solid stone.

From now on, ’tis war without cease

Between us, neither truce nor peace.’

At these words we rushed together,

While each one himself did cover,

Both grasping our shields full tight.

His steed was fitting for a knight,

His lance true; he, without doubt,

Was a head taller, or thereabout.

Mine then the risk, being smaller

Since he was so much the taller,

And his horse stronger than mine.

Amidst the truth, I know that I’m

But seeking to hide my shame.

The strongest blow I can claim,

I dealt him, giving of my best,

On the top of his shield, I attest,

And struck home with such force,

My lance shattered in its course.

His lance as yet remained whole,

And a heavier and longer pole

Than his lance was, I know not,

For no knight’s lance, God wot,

Not one, so massive, have I seen.

And the knight then struck at me

So hard he knocked me from my steed,

Over the crupper I flew, indeed,

And landed flat upon the ground;

He left me ashamed, I am bound

To say, and without another glance,

Took my horse, and off did prance,

Returning by the way he came:

And I, who scarcely knew my name,

Was left there, in anguished thought.

The fountain’s brink then I sought,

And sat me there awhile, to rest.

As for the knight, I thought it best

Not to pursue him, for fear lest I

Commit some folly by and by.

Besides I knew not where he’d gone.

In the end, my thoughts dwelt on

The promise to my host I’d made

To return to his house in the glade.

As the thought pleased me, so I did.

But of my armour myself I rid,

So as to walk more easily,

And thus returned, shamefacedly.

When I came to my host’s door

I found my host was as before,

Full of the same delight and joy,

That he did previously employ.

I observed not one thing, either

From himself or from his daughter,

To say they welcomed me less,

And the same honour, I confess,

Showed me as the previous night.

And I give thanks, as is but right,

For the honour all did me there.

And, as far as they were aware,

None before had escaped that strife,

But he who went there lost his life,

In that place, from which I came,

Or was taken captive in that same.

So I went, and so returned,

With the fool’s reward I earned.

Now have I told you of my shame,

Nor wish to speak of it again.’

Lines 581-648 Yvain takes up the challenge

‘BY my head’, said my Lord Yvain,

‘You are my own cousin-germane,

And we should love each other well,

Yet I find you foolish not to tell

Me of all this matter long ago.

If I have called you foolish though

I pray that you’ll take no offence,

For, if I win leave, I’ll go thence,

And take revenge for your shame.’

‘This is but an after-dinner game,’

Said Kay, who never went unheard.

‘In a wine-jug there are more words,

Than in a whole barrel of beer.

The cat that’s fed is full of cheer;

After dinner, and without stirring,

Every one of you would be fighting,

Wreaking vengeance on Nur ad-Din!

Are your saddle-bags full within,

And your greaves of steel shining,

And your banners yet unwinding?

Leave you tonight, in God’s name,

Or is it tomorrow, my Lord Yvain?

Tell us now; let us know, dear sir,

When do you go to act the martyr?

We would wish to convey you there.

Never a provost who, in this affair,

Would not, willingly, escort you.

But whate’er may occur, I beg you,

Don’t go without taking leave of us.

And if tonight some ominous

Dream you dream, then, do stay!

‘The Devil take you, my Lord Kay,’

The Queen cried, ‘must your tongue

Forever be running on and on?

Let that tongue of yours be cursed

That forever must speak the worst!

For sure, your tongue does you no

Good, or even worse, in doing so.

All say who hear that tongue of yours:

 “That’s the tongue that ever more

Goes speaking ill, may it be damned!”

Your tongue utters ill of every man;

It makes you disliked everywhere.

No greater traitor to you is there

Than it, and know, if it were mine

I would it to some prison consign,

Any man who can’t be reformed

To divine justice should conform,

And be treated as one proven mad.’

‘Certain, my lady, never his bad

Or sad jests anger me,’ said Yvain,

‘Wit, wisdom, and worth, he claims,

Such that in any court, Lord Kay

Will ne’er be mute, but have his say.

For he can reply with courtesy

And good sense to every villainy,

And never has done otherwise.

Tell me if what I speak are lies.

But I have no care to squabble

Or begin some foolish quarrel.

He does not always win the fight

Who at first doth show his might,

But he who his revenge savours.

He should rather fight a stranger

Who would his companions stir.

I would not seem like some cur,

That growls and bites, on whim,

Because some other yaps at him.’

Lines 649-722 Yvain determines to adventure alone

WHILE they thus talked together,

The king emerged from his chamber

Where he’d been awhile dormant,

Sleeping deeply, till this moment.

As soon as the knights saw him,

They leapt to their feet to greet him,

Though he told them to be seated.

He sat by the queen, who greeted

Him with Calogrenant’s story,

Which she retold from memory

Recounting it all, word for word,

Skilled in retelling tales she heard. 

The king, who listened willingly,

By his father’s soul swore three 

Great oaths; by Uther Pendragon’s

That is, his mother’s, and his son’s,

That he would go see this fountain,

Before the next fortnight was done,

The storm and all the marvels there,

On St John the Baptist’s eve, where

He intended then to spend the night,

And that any of them who might

Wish to view the chapel as well,

Could journey with him to that dell.

Now all the court approved the plan;

The lords and bachelors to a man

Wished to be party to the visit,

Since the king desired to see it.

But whoever was thus delighted

Yet my Lord Yvain felt slighted,

For he had thought to go alone.

He, grieving, to himself made moan,

Now that the king himself would go.

For this, especially, grieved also

That he knew well the encounter

Would fall to my Lord Kay rather

Than him, should Kay so request;

For the king would elect the best;

Or even to my Lord Gawain

Who, perchance, would first lay claim.

A request from either of those two

The king indeed could ne’er refuse;

Yet he would not wait to see,

Not requiring their company,

For to go alone was all his wish

Whether to his joy, or his anguish.

And, whoever might stay behind,

The third day himself would find

In Broceliande, and if he could

He’d seek and take, in that wood,

The narrow path, the harsh way

To the strong castle in the glade,

And find the gentle maiden there

Who was so charming and fair,

And at her side her worthy sire,

Who to grant honour did desire,

Being so true, and well-meaning.

And then the bulls in the clearing,

He’d see, and that giant fellow,

Guarding them; he longed to know

That fellow who was so hefty,

So vast, misshapen, and ugly,

Black as a smith; then he would

Come to the stone, if he but could,

And to the basin, and the fountain,

The tree of birds, and rouse the rain,

And cause the great winds to blow.

But of his purpose none must know,

For of his plan he’d make no boast,

Until from it he received the most

It might grant, of shame or honour;

Only then be it known to others.

Lines 723-746 Yvain departs the court secretly

YVAIN from the court was gone

Without encountering anyone,

Then strode to his lodging house,

And his whole household roused,

Ordering them to saddle his steed.

Then a squire, privy to his needs,

He summoned up, immediately.

‘Come now,’ he said, ‘follow me,

To the yard, and bring my armour;

I’ll leave through that gate yonder,

On the palfrey, but have far to travel,

So ride my charger I’ve had saddled,

And then do you bring him after me,

Thus you can return on the palfrey.

But take good care, I now command,

When any my whereabouts demand,

That you offer them no news of me.

If you do, be sure, of a certainty,

You will have of me nothing good.

‘Sire,’ said he, ‘twill be as it should,

And none will learn aught from me.

Lead on, I’ll follow your palfrey!’

Lines 747-906 Yvain repeats the adventure and the fight

MY Lord Yvain mounts; his plan

To avenge the shame, if he but can

Ere he returns, his cousin garnered.

The squire runs to collect the armour,

The steed, and is mounted straight,

For his master will no longer wait;

Nor doth he lack spare shoes and nails.

Then he follows his master’s trail,

Until he sees him about to descend,

And waiting for him, at the bend

Of a track, far from the road, apart.

His arms and armour he doth cart

To his master, and so equips him.

My Lord Yvain now dismissed him,

And, once armed, made no delay,

But swiftly journeyed on each day;

Among the hills and dales did ride,

Through the forests deep and wide,

Places savage and most strange,

Many a wilderness did range, 

Past many a peril, many a narrow,

Till the true path he found to follow,

Full of briars, and many a shadow;

But, once assured of the way to go,

Knowing he’d not wander astray,

He forged ahead along the way,

Nor would he halt until he gained

The pine that shaded the fountain

And saw the stone, knew the gale,

With all its thunder rain and hail.

That night, as you might know,

He had good lodging, though.

And greater grace and honour,

In his host, did he discover

Than he’d garnered from the story,

And a hundred times more beauty

Sense and charm in the maid,

Than Calogrenant had conveyed;

For one cannot rehearse the sum

Of what man or maid may become,

When either is intent on virtue;

And I could ne’er express to you

Nor could the tongue e’er relate

All the honour their deeds create.

My Lord Yvain found, that night,

Good lodging, much to his delight.

Moreover when the next day came

He saw the bulls and the villain,

Who showed him the path to take.

The sign of the cross he did make

A hundred times, viewing that monster,

Marvelling how Nature ever

Had made so ugly a person.

Then made his way to the fountain,

And saw all he had wished to see.

Without resting for a moment, he

Poured the basinful of water

Over the stone; from every quarter

The wind blew, down fell the rain,

As that tempest was roused again.

And when God calmed what stirred,

All the pine was covered with birds,

And sang with joy full marvellous,

Above the fountain perilous.

Before their joyful song had ceased

The knight arrived through the trees,

‘The knight arrived through the trees’
The Book of Romance (p168, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Ablaze like a fiery log, with anger,

As if chasing a lusty stag, but louder.

Then they charged, and clashed together,

While the signs, as each struck the other,

Of mortal hatred, they betrayed.

Each gripped a lance, stoutly made,

And did with blows the other assail

Piercing both shield and mail,

While the lances no better did fare

Scattering splinters through the air.

Then each the other doth assault

Attacking fiercely with the sword,

As the blades, in their swordplay,

Cut both their shield-straps away,

Slicing the shields, as they defend

From side to side, and end to end,

Till in the pieces, hanging down,

No useful cover can be found,

For they are now so torn by all

The blows, the bright blades fall

Upon their arms, along their sides,

Across the hips, and more besides.

Perilous now seems their attack,

But neither of them draws back,

Unyielding as two blocks of stone.

Never was such a battle known,

Each intent on the other’s death,

Seeking to waste nor blow nor breath,

But still strike out, as best they may.

On their helmets the blows they lay

Dent the metal, likewise their mail,

The hot blood’s drawn without fail,

And while the mail coats grow hot,

The defence they offer them is not

Much more help to them than cloth.

A lunge at the face reveals their wrath.

Wondrous it was, so fierce and strong

Their blows, the fight could last so long.

But both men were of such great heart

That neither of them would, for aught,

To the other yield a foot of ground,

Till he had dealt him a mortal wound.

Yet both from this did honour obtain:

They did not try, nor would they deign

To harm their mounts, in any way,

Yet remained astride them alway;

Not attacking their horses ever,

With feet planted on earth never;

Which rendered their conflict finer.

At last, my Lord Yvain did hammer

At the knight’s helmet so fiercely,

The blow stunned the knight wholly,

Such that he fainted right away,

‘The blow stunned the knight wholly, such that he fainted right away’
The Book of Romance (p194, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

He never having, until that day,

Felt such a blow; his skull split

With the tremendous force of it.

And now the outflow from it stains

His bright mail with blood and brains;

And he with such pain doth meet,

His heart almost neglects to beat.

He fled then, gasping for breath,

Being nigh wounded to death,

Such that he lacked all defence.

With that thought he rode hence,

Towards his castle, at full speed;

Its drawbridge is lowered at need,

Its entrance gate is opened wide.

Meanwhile my Lord Yvain doth ride,

Spurring his steed on, in his train;

As a gerfalcon stoops on a crane,

Seeing it afar, then drawing near,

Seeking to seize, yet forced to veer,

Thus doth Yvain his victim chase,

So near he has him in his embrace;

Yet cannot quite achieve his prey,

Though so close he hears him pray

And groan aloud in his distress,

Yet ever onwards seeks to press,

While Yvain pursues amain

Yet fears his effort will be in vain,

Unless he takes him alive or dead,

While the words run in his head

My Lord Kay spoke in mockery;

Of his pledge he is not yet free,

The promise made to his cousin,

Nor will they believe his win,

If no proof of it he can show.

The knight leads him onward though

From the drawbridge to the gate;

Both enter, neither dare hesitate;

No man or woman do they meet

As they go swiftly down the street,

Till both together terminate

Their ride before the palace gate.

Lines 907-1054 Yvain is trapped in the knight’s palace

THIS palace gate was high and wide,

Yet the way proved so narrow inside

That two knights astride their steeds

Could not ride there, abreast, indeed

Without encumbrance and great ill,

Nor two men pass each other at will.

This entrance way so narrow it was

A crossbow bolt could scarcely pass.

The gateway could be closed tight

By a mechanism, upon the knight,

With a blade above ready to fall

If but a lever were touched at all;

Beneath the way two levers set

Connected with a portcullis let

Into the stone, its sharpened teeth

Ready to mangle a man beneath;

If he to the lever weight did lend,

Then the portcullis would descend,

And capture or crush with a blow

Whoever was present there below.

And within this narrowest compass,

Lay the path that they must pass,

As a man pursues the beaten trail.

Along this straight and narrow vale,

Rode the knight most knowingly,

And Lord Yvain, most foolishly,

Hurtled after him at full speed,

So closely on his heels indeed

At the gate he seized him behind,

And was most fortunate to find

That bent forward, thus extended,

When the portcullis descended,

He escaped being cut in two,

His horse’s rear legs, on cue,

On the hidden levers treading,

While the iron spikes falling,

Hellish devils, in their course

Struck the saddle and the horse

Behind, severing them cleanly;

But scarce harming, God a mercy,

My Lord Yvain, grazed slightly

Where it touched his back lightly,

Though it severed both his spurs

Behind the heel, the tale avers.

As unhorsed, he fell, dismayed,

The other, wounded by his blade,

Escaped him in this manner;

Far ahead there was another

Gate, like the one left behind;

This gate the knight did find

Open for him, by this he fled,

After which it fell, like lead.

So my Lord Yvain was caught,

Greatly troubled and distraught,

Enclosed there, within this vale

Close studded with gilded nails,

Its stone walls all painted over

With fine work in precious colours.

But nothing gave him such pain

As not knowing where his bane,

The wounded knight, had gone.

The door of a chamber shone

In the wall of the narrow way,

As he stood there in dismay;

Through it, there came a maid,

Who beauty and charm displayed,

Closing it after her again.

When she saw my Lord Yvain

She was also dismayed at first:

‘Surely, sir knight, this is the worst

Time’ she said,’ to enter here.

If any other should appear

You will be done to death,

For my lord breathes his last breath,

And you it is that wrought the deed.

My lady is filled with grief, indeed

And all her people round her cry,

Of sorrow and anger like to die,

They know you are prisoned here

But their sorrow so great appears,

They cannot deal with you as yet.

If they’d hang you by the neck

They’ll be scarcely like to fail,

When these narrows they assail.’

And my Lord Yvain replied,

‘They could never if they tried

Take or kill me, if God so will.’

‘No,’ she cried, ‘for I have still

The power to protect you here.

He’s no man who shows his fear;

So I take you to be full brave

Seeing that you are not dismayed.

And rest assured that I will do

All I can to serve and honour you,

As you would do the same for me.

To the royal court, my lady

Sent me once to carry a message;

I suppose I was not of an age

To be as practised in courtesy

As a maiden at court should be;

But never a knight took the care

To say a single word to me there,

Except for one, now standing here;

But out of kindness to a mere

Maid, you did me honour and service;

And, for your fair honour, in this

Place you shall now win your reward.

I know the name that they accord

To you, for I recognise you again,

You are the son of King Urien,

And go by the name of Yvain,

And you may be sure and certain,

That if you listen to my advice

You’ll ne’er be caught in their vice.

So take now this ring from me,

And return it later, if you please,

Once I shall have delivered you.’

She added further fair words too,

As she handed him the ring:

It would conceal him, this thing

As sapwood by the bark of a tree

Is hidden away, so none can see.

But the ring must be worn aright,

So the stone was hid from sight,

For if the stone was so turned

He need have no more concern.

Even among his enemies

He need not fear their enmity,

For with the ring on his finger

None there would see him linger

However sharp their eye might be,

Any more than the inner tree,

Hid by the bark, showed plain.

All this pleased my Lord Yvain.

When her advice was complete,

She led him to a niche, its seat

Covered with a quilt more fair

Than had the Duke of Austria; 

There she said that if he wished

To dine, she’d bring him a dish

Or two, he accepting her offer.

She sped quickly to her chamber,

And returned as swift as thought,

And a roasted fowl she brought,

And a cake and a napkin appear,

And wine then of a vintage year,

A full jar, capped by a drinking cup,

And last she invited him to sup.

And he who was in need of food,

Ate and drank, and found it good.

Lines 1055-1172 Yvain is rendered invisible by the ring

BY the time he’d finished eating,

The people within were stirring,

Searching for the knight, for they

Wished to avenge their lord that day,

Whom they’d laid now on his bier.

The maid said to him: ‘Do you hear,

My friend, all now come seeking you;

And a great noise and stir doth brew;

But no matter who comes and goes,

Move you not, nor the noise oppose,

For they will never find you, sir,

If from this seat you do not stir;

Soon you will see this place full

Of angry and ill-disposed people,

Who will expect to find you here.

This very way they’ll bring the bier

To bury his body on this day;

And they will begin to assay

The paving, walls, and this seat.

Such will prove a joy complete

To a knight who lacks all fear,

Watching them, searching near,

Yet blindly and in vain alway,

So discomfited, and all astray,

They’ll be awash with anger.

But here I can stay no longer,

Thus I’ll seek no more to say,

But thank God who, this very day

Has brought me to the only place

Where I might serve your grace,

As I so greatly wished to do.’

Then the maid vanished from view.

Even before she turned away,

The host were all making their way,

From beyond the gates, toward

The place, gripping club and sword;

Nearer and neared they pressed,

Hostile and angry in their quest,

And found the rear of his steed

Beyond the portcullis. Indeed

They also thought now to find

With the gate full open, confined

Within, the murderer they sought.

And so they lifted that iron port,

Which had brought a sudden end

To the lives of a vast host of men;

And as the levers were now unset,

There remained no obstacle as yet,

So they passed the gate two abreast.

There they discovered all the rest

Of Yvain’s charger that had died,

But never a searching eye espied

My Lord Yvain, silent and still,

Whom they gladly sought to kill.

Yet he could see them, in their rage,

Besides themselves, all engaged

In calling out: ‘How can this be?

Not one opening can we see,

By which a living being might

Flee, larger than a bird in flight,

A squirrel, marmot or another

Kind of similar small creature.

The gate’s a grid of iron bars,

And descended, where we are,

As soon as the master passed by.

Dead or alive, the man is nigh,

Since there’s no sign of him outside.

More than half of his saddle lies

Here within, as we all can see,

But nothing of the man, yet he

Has left these mangled spurs behind,

Sheared at the heel, for us to find.

Come, all this talking is in vain,

Let us look everywhere again,

He must be here still, I believe,

Or we by enchantment deceived,

Or evil spirits whisked him away.’

Thus in a rage they make survey,

Seeking him all about the place.

About the stone walls they race,

Looking on and under the seats.

And yet my Lord Yvain’s retreat

Remained free of all their blows,

Thus he remained unbeaten, though,

They thrashed around sufficiently,

And made as much noise as can be,

Laying about them with their clubs,

As a blind man pounds on his tub

Unable to see all the things inside.

As they were hunting, far and wide

And under the seats, uselessly

There entered the loveliest lady,

That any mortal man hath seen.

So fair a Christian dame, I mean,

Has ne’er been spoken of, although

She was nigh mad with sorrow,

As if seeking the means to die.

And suddenly she gave a cry,

So loud no cry could be louder,

Then fell forward with a shudder,

And when roused from her faint,

Like a madwoman made plaint,

Clawing her face in deep despair

And tearing fiercely at her hair;

She tore at her hair and her clothes,

And, at every step, fell then rose.

Nor was there any comfort here,

Forced to view her husband’s bier

Carried before her, and him dead,

She could no more be comforted;

Thus she cried loudly for her loss.

The holy water and the cross

And the tapers before him went,

Borne by nuns from the convent,

And the missal and the censers,

And the priests to mutter there

The absolution of the dead,

At the poor soul’s feet and head.

Lines 1173-1342 The dead knight’s wounds bleed

MY Lord Yvain heard the cries

Of a sorrow none could realise

In words nor could e’er describe

To see penned by some scribe.

Thus the sad procession passed,

But a large crowd were massed

In the space around the bier,

For warm crimson blood appeared

Trickling from the dead man’s wounds;

Thus the note of justice sounds,

Declaring present, without fail,

One whose actions had entailed

The dead man’s death and defeat.

Thus, with their quest incomplete,

They searched again and again,

Till all of them were weary, drained

By all of this trouble and toil

Created by their fresh turmoil,

On seeing the warm crimson blood,

That from the corpse did flood.

And my Lord Yvain, he too

Was well-nigh beaten black and blue,

Yet did not stir, while the crowd

All took to wondering aloud

As to why those drops were shed,

That blood that trickled from the dead,

For they’d found naught, and cried:

‘The murderer is still here, inside,

And yet no sign of him we see,

Here, then, is some strange devilry.’

At this the lady felt such pain

She fell in deathly faint again,

Then, as if she’d lost her mind,

Cried: God, why cannot they find

My good lord’s killer, that traitor,

That vicious unknown murderer?

Good? The best of all good men!

I know none other I may blame,

For God, yours will be the fault,

If you let such escape this vault,

For you are hiding him from view.

Aught so strange none ever knew,

Nor such a wrong as you do me,

In not permitting me to see

One who must be lurking here.

Well may I say, if he is near,

That some phantom from hell,

Among us, has cast its spell.

A dire enemy of some kind.

He’s a coward, to my mind,

And great cowardice he shows,

For cowardice we must suppose

In one so fearful of appearing.

A phantom is a cowardly thing.

Yet why so cowardly towards me,

When with my lord you made free?

A vain thing, and an empty thing,

Why are you not a captive being?

Why can I not grasp you now?

And how could it be, I trow,

That you could kill my lord

Unless treachery were abroad?

I doubt my lord would e’er have been

Defeated, if your face he’d seen.

Nor God nor man has met, I know,

His like, or could his equal show,

In this world now; if you indeed

Were mortal, both in form and deed,

With my lord you’d ne’er have dared

To fight, for none with him compared.’

Thus with herself she doth debate,

Thus she struggles with her fate,

Thus she exhausts herself anon,

And the people with her move on,

Showing the great grief felt by all,

As they bear the corpse to its burial. 

After their efforts the crowd now rest,

Exhausted by their fruitless quest,

And leave off, in their weariness,

A search that brought no success,

In finding the miscreant, at least.

And now the nuns and the priests,

Having ended the funeral service,

All leave the church, and with this

Are on their way to the sepulchre.

But to all this not a moment’s care

Doth the maid in the chamber give;

My Lord Yvain her thoughts are with;

And swiftly she runs to him now

And says: ‘Fair sir, all that crowd,

Searching for you, are now at rest,

Having raised no small tempest,

And nosed about in every corner,

More closely than a setter ever

Searched for a partridge or a quail;

Fear then was yours, without fail.’

‘By my faith,’ said he, ‘you say true.

I never felt such fear; but a view,

Through some opening, would I

Willingly have as it goes by,

If such were possible of course,

Of the procession and the corpse.’

Yet he’s no interest to mention

In the corpse or the procession,

He’d gladly see them go up in sparks,

And happily pay a thousand marks.

A thousand marks? By God, three!

He speaks of them, but tis the lady,

That’s where his true interest lies.

The maiden lets him feast his eyes,

He, from a little window, gazing,

She, as best she can, repaying

Him for his display of honour.

From this window down upon her,

The lady that is, my Lord Yvain

Spies, as she cries aloud, in pain:

‘On your soul may God have mercy,

My fair lord, for none did see

A knight there in the saddle who,

In any manner, equalled you.

My dear lord, there was no other

Who might rival you in honour,

In courtesy, or chivalry;

Your friend was generosity,

And courage your companion.

So may your soul now make one

Among the saints, my fair sire!’

And then she tore at her attire

And all she laid her hands upon.

A hard thing when said and done

It was then for my Lord Yvain

Not to run, and her hands restrain.

But the maiden at first requested,

Then begged and, finally, insisted,

Though courteously and with grace,

That he not, rashly, show his face;

‘Here, all is well,’ said the maiden,

‘So move you not, for any reason,

Till all their sorrow has abated.

And all the turmoil they created,

For presently they will depart.

If you take my advice to heart,

And can restrain yourself, I say,

Good things may come your way.

Tis best if you are seated here,

And watch those who may appear,

As they pass, whom you can view,

While they can see naught of you,

In that there is great advantage.

But take care to commit no outrage,

For he who fails in self-restraint,

And gives good reason for complaint,

When tis neither the time nor place,

Folly, not courage, doth embrace.

Take care that your foolish thought

To foolish deeds doth ne’er resort.

The wise their foolish thoughts do hide,

And see their wiser thoughts applied.

So take care not to risk your head,

But dwell among the wise instead.

Your head will ne’er win a ransom;

Let self be your consideration,

And from all my good counsel learn;

Rest quietly here, till I return,

For I must now join the throng,

I have lingered here too long,

And I fear they must suspect me

If they now should fail to see me

Mingling there with all the rest,

And it would harm me, I confess.’

Lines 1343-1506 Yvain falls in love with the dead knight’s lady

SHE then departs, while he remains

With naught to show for all his pains.

He’s loath to see the corpse interred,

When he has naught but his own word

As evidence to prove aright

That he subdued and slew the knight,

Lacking a witness or guarantor

He can present on reaching court.

‘I’ll meet with scorn and mockery,

For Kay is spiteful, and fell is he,

Full of quips, scattered at whim;

I shall ne’er have peace from him.

He’ll be forever laughing at me,

With his taunts and his mockery,

Just as he did the other day.’

For the taunts from my Lord Kay

Still have power to wound his heart.

But Love a fresh quarry doth start;

Wild in the chase, Love hunts anew,

Stirring Yvain through and through,

And seizes on the prey wholly,

His heart snatched by his enemy.

He loves her who hates him most.

And the lady has avenged the loss

Of her lord, though unknowingly,

A vengeance far greater than she

Could ever have wrought unless

Love helped her to her success,

Who took him softly, by surprise,

The heart struck through the eyes,

A wound that longer doth endure

Than any dealt by lance or sword.

A sword-cut is soon made sound

Once a physician treats the wound,

But love’s wound is worse I fear

Whene’er the physician is near.

Such the wound of my Lord Yvain,

Of which he’ll ne’er be healed again,

For Love now is ensconced within.

All those places he once dwelt in,

Love abandons, and lives there,

Nor lodging nor host doth prefer

Above this one, and is most wise

To leave the hovel where he lies,

And not some other lodging seek,

Who often haunts dire hostelries.

Shame it is that Love doth such,

And seeks vile places overmuch,

Conducts himself in so ill a manner

Choosing places lacking honour,

Ever the lowliest ones, to rest,

Just as readily as the best.

But here he is most welcome, for

He will be shown great honour;

In such a place tis well to stay.

Love should always act this way,

Who is of so noble a nature

That it is strange such a creature

Will lie where shame is, and harm.

He is like one who spreads his balm

Over the embers, amongst the ash,

Hates honour, and loves the brash,

Blending sugar with agrimony,

Mixing acrid soot with honey.

Yet this time he hath not done so

But lodged nobly, here where no

Man can reproach him, instead.

When they have buried the dead,

The crowd of people go their way.

And not a clerk or sergeant stays

Nor any lady, but only she,

Who doth not hide her misery.

But she alone remains behind,

Wrings her hands, un-resigned,

Clutches her throat, beats her palms,

Or from her psalter reads a psalm,

A psalter illumined in gold.

All the while Yvain doth hold

His position, and gazes at her,

And the more that he regards her

The more he loves her, in delight.

He only wishes that she might

Cease her weeping, leave her book,

And yield him but a word or look.

Love has brought about this longing

There, at the window, Love found him.

Yet of his wish he now despairs,

For he neither thinks, nor dares

To hope, it can be realised,

And says: ‘A fool I am, unwise

To wish for that which cannot be;

Her lord met his death through me,

And yet I’d see us reconciled!

By God, I know less than a child,

If I know not she hates me now

More than anything; yet, I trow,

That I say ‘now’ shows wisdom,

For though she has good reason

A woman is of more than one mind,

And her mood now I hope to find

Altered, and alter it will, I’ll dare

To say, so I’d be mad to despair;

And may God grant it alters soon,

Since to be her slave I’m doomed

Always, for such is Love’s desire.

Whoever’s heart does not beat higher

When Love appears to him, then he

Commits a treason and felony.

I say to him, and let all men hear,

That he deserves no joy or cheer.

And yet of that say naught to me,

Since I must love my enemy,

As indeed I must hate her not

Or to betray Love were my lot;

I must love as he doth intend.

Should she then call me friend?

Yes, truly, for her love I’d claim.

And I thus call myself the same,

Though she hate me, as of right,

Since I killed her beloved knight.

Must I then prove her enemy?

No, her friend, of a certainty,

For I ne’er wished so for love, I own;

At her lovely tresses, I make moan;

Brighter than gold shines each tress;

I fill with anguish and distress,

Seeing her at those tresses tear;

And none can staunch the tears there;

The tears that from her eyes do flow.

And all these things distress me so!

Although they are filled with tears,

Of which an endless stream appears,

Never were eyes so beautiful,

And her tears render my eyes full;

Nor aught causes me such distress

As her face, that her nails address;

Such treatment it has not merited;

I ne’er saw a face so finely tinted,

So fresh, or so delicately formed.

It pierces my heart to see it harmed.

And how she clutches at her throat!

Surely she does to herself the most

Hurt that any poor woman could do,

And yet no crystal or glass, tis true,

Is as smooth, or e’er as lovely,

As her throat, in all its beauty.

God! Why must she wound herself so?

Wring her hands, and deal fresh blows

To her breast thus, and scar her body?

Would she not be a wonder to see,

If she was filled with happiness,

When she is so lovely in distress?

Yes, in truth, for I would swear,

That never has Nature anywhere

So outdone her own art, for she

Has passed beyond the boundary

Of aught, I think, she ever wrought.

How could such beauty be sought?

Its presence here, how understand?

God made her, with His naked hand,

That Nature might look on amazed.

For all her effort she would waste,

Wishing to forge her likeness here,

Since she could ne’er create her peer.

Not God Himself, were he to try,

Could know, tis my belief say I,

How to create her likeness again,

Whatever heights He might attain.’

Lines 1507-1588 The maiden plans to free Yvain

THUS my Lord Yvain spied upon

She whom grief had nigh undone;

Nor may it ever again occur

That some man held prisoner,

Should love in so strange a manner,

That he is unable to speak to her

On his own behalf or another do so.

So he watched there, at the window,

Until he saw the lady depart,

While the others, for their part,

Lowered the twin portcullises.

Another might have felt distress,

One who preferred deliverance,

To long imprisonment, perchance,

But he was otherwise disposed,

Careless of gates, open or closed.

He’d not have departed, certainly,

If the passage had been left free,

Unless she’d granted him leave,

And her pardon he’d received,

Freely, for the death of her lord;

Then indeed he might go abroad,

Whom Honour and Shame detain,

On either hand him to arraign.

For he would be ashamed to leave,

Since none at court would believe

All the outcome of his adventure.

And in addition there was the lure

Of a further sighting of the lady.

If that were granted, and that only!

So captivity gives him scant concern.

He would rather die there than return.

But now the maiden doth reappear,

Wishing to offer him good cheer,

And company, and provide solace,

And fetch and carry to that place

Whatever was needful he desired.

But she found him pensive, tired

By a longing that caused him pain,

And said to him: ‘My Lord Yvain,

How has it gone with you this day?’

‘I spent the time in a pleasant way.’

‘Pleasant? How can that be true?

How may one hunted, such as you,

Spend his time thus, pleasantly,

Unless his death he desires to see?’

‘Surely,’ he said, ‘my sweet friend,

I have no desire to meet my end,

What I saw has pleased me though,

And, God’s my witness, still does so,

And will please me, I know, forever.’

‘Now you may leave all that bother,’

She said: ‘For indeed I know well

Where such words lead; let me tell

You now, I’m no foolish innocent,

Ignorant of what those words meant.

But you come along now, with me,

For I shall find a way, presently,

To release you from this prison.

You shall soon have your freedom.’

And he replied: ‘Be certain I

Will not depart, though here I die,  

Like a vile thief and in secret.

When all the people are met,

In the narrow way outside,

Then I can go, and need not hide,

Rather than leave here secretly.’

After these words then doth he

Follow her to the little chamber.

And the maiden, kindly as ever,

Seeking to serve, doth dispense

All there, for his convenience,

Everything that he might need.

And, as she does, reflects indeed,

On all that he had told her before,

All his delight with what he saw,

When they sought for him outside,

Intent on ensuring that he died.

Lines 1589-1652 The maiden seeks to advise the lady

THE maid was in such good standing

With the lady that there was nothing

She could not say to her, without

Regard to how it might turn out,

For she was her close companion.

Why then not give of her opinion,

In order to bring comfort to her,

If it might redound to her honour?

At first she says to her, privately:

‘My lady, it is a wonder to me

To see you so wild with grief.

Tis surely not, lady, your belief

You’ll recover your lord by sighs?’

‘No, I wished rather,’ she replies,

‘To die thus, of grief and sorrow ’

‘But why?’ ‘So that I might follow.’

‘Follow? Why may God defend you,

And as fine a lord yet send you

As is consistent with His might.’

‘What mischief is this you cite?

He could not send me one so fine.’

‘A finer, if you’ll make him thine,

He shall send you, as I will prove.’

‘Be gone, there is none so, to love.’

‘Such there is, if you wish, today.

For tell me now, if you can say,

Who it is will defend your land

When King Arthur is at hand,

Who in a week we’ll see riding

To the stone beside the spring?

You have warning of his intent,

For the Demoiselle Sauvage sent

Letters to you, to that effect;

Firm action now will you reject!

You should be taking counsel how

You might defend your fountain now.

And yet your tears you will not stay!

Now you ought not to delay,

For all the knights you can show

Are worth less, as well you know,

Than a solitary chambermaid:

If it please you, my lady,’ says the maid,

‘The best of them will never wield

To any purpose a lance or shield.

Of cowards you have many here,

Who are scarce brave enough I fear

Even to dare to mount a horse;

And the king comes in such force

He will seize all, and none defend.’

The lady knows it, and doth attend,

Aware that this counsel is sincere,

But to a foolishness doth adhere,

That is present in other women,

And seen in almost all of them,

Who of folly themselves accuse,

And what they truly wish, refuse.

‘Be gone,’ she said, ‘Spare me pain!

If I hear you speak of this again,

You will suffer, except you flee,

So greatly your words weary me.’

‘Well, God be praised, then, Madame,

Tis plain that you are a woman;

Who is angered if she hears

Good advice, when such appears.’

Lines 1653-1726 The maiden promotes Yvain’s interests

THEN the maiden went her way,

With the lady, having had her say,

Thinking she might be in error:

Wishing she could know moreover,

How, in truth, the maiden might

Show there lived a better knight

Than her lord had proved to be.

She’d listen now, and willingly,

But had forbidden her to speak,

No more advice could she seek,

Until the maid appeared again,

Whom no stricture could contain,

For she ran on in like manner:

‘Oh my lady must you rather

Choose then to die of grief?

From modesty, tis my belief

And shame you should desist,

For tis not seemly, in the least,

To lament your lord so long.

Remember to whom you belong,

Your people and your noble birth,

Think you all virtue and all worth

Have died together with your lord?

There are a hundred knights abroad,

As good or better, this day, say I.’

‘God confound you, if you lie!

Come name me but a single one

Thought to be as fine a man,

As my lord was all his days.’

‘If I were to sound the praise

Of such a one, you’d be angry,

And in less esteem hold me.’

‘I assure you, truly, I will not.’

‘Then may it brighten your lot,

And good come to you always,

That you let me sound his praise;

May God incline to your wish!

I see no reason to hide all this,

For not a soul’s listening to us.

Doubtless I may appear audacious,

But I will say how it seems to me:

Now when two knights, in chivalry,

Meet together, armed for the fight,

Whom do you think the better knight,

Should the one defeat the other?

As for me, I’d honour the victor

With the prize. Whom would you?’

‘It seems what you have in view

Is to entrap me with your words.’

‘By my faith, truth will be heard,

And my words shall prove true,

For, indeed, I shall prove to you

That much the better man is he

Who slew your lord than was he:

He undid your lord, then pursued

Him furiously, and what ensued

Was that he was then imprisoned.’

‘Now, hear the word of unreason,’

Cried the lady, ‘the wildest ever.

Be gone, ill spirit, and forever.

Be gone, you foolish, tiresome girl.

Never such vain invective hurl,

Nor show yourself here, again,

Or speak out in defence of him.’

‘Indeed, my lady, I well knew

I should earn no thanks from you.

And I said as much ere I began.

Yet you declared, for so it ran,

That you would reveal no anger,

Nor think the less of me, ever.

Badly your promise you keep;

For your anger I surely reap,

And all your ire on me is spent,

Who lose, in failing to be silent.’

Lines 1727-1942 The lady sends for Yvain thinking him at court

THEN she returns to that chamber

Where my Lord Yvain awaits her,

Which has concealed him with ease.

But to him naught now doth please,

For the lady he can no longer see.

He hears not, and pays no heed,

To the news that the maiden tells.

And, all night, the lady as well

Is in a like state of distress,

Thinking, in her unhappiness,

Of how to defend the fountain,

And repenting of her action

In blaming the maiden who

She had treated harshly too,

For she is now perfectly sure

That never, for any reward

Nor for any love she bore him,

Would the maid have spoken of him;

And that she loves her lady more,

Nor would bring her shame, or

Annoy, or ill advice intend.

For she is too much her friend.

Thus the lady is quite altered,

And as for her she has insulted,

She fears the maid will never

With a true devotion love her;

And he whom she denied, she

Now pardons, and most sincerely,

And with right, and with reason,

For he has done her no wrong.

Thus she argues as if he were

Now standing there before her;

Yet with herself debates, say I:

‘Come,’ she says, ‘can you deny,

That tis through you my lord died?

‘That,’ says he, ‘I’ve ne’er denied,

And yes, I slew him.’ ‘Why? Tell me,

Was this thing done to injure me,

Out of hatred perhaps, or spite?’

‘May death hound me without respite,

If I’ve done aught to injure you.’

‘Then you’ve done me no wrong, tis true,

Nor him, for to slay you he would

Have sought, and done so if he could.

As regards this, it seems, sir knight,

I judged well, and have judged aright.’

So she proves that her own opinion

Shows sense, and justice, and reason:

And to hate him would not be wise;

Thus what she wishes she justifies,

And lights a fire within by the same

Means which, like a bush when flame

Is set beneath it, smokes on and on

Till stirred a little or breathed upon.

If the maiden came to her now,

She’d win the argument, I trow,

For which reproach she’d earned,

And by it had been badly burned.

And return she did, with the day,

Commencing again, in a like way,

From the point she had reached;

Again, to the lady, she preached,

Who knew she had acted wrongly

In attacking the maid so strongly.

Now she wished to make amends

And asked, now they were friends,

His name, nature, and ancestry,

Wise now in her humility,

Saying: ‘I would cry you mercy,

In that I spoke so foolishly,

And hurt you, scorning, in my pride,

Advice that must not be denied.

But tell me now, all you know

Of the knight whom you have so

Praised to me, for I beg of thee,

What man is he, of what family?

If he is of such who might attain

Me, then the lord of my domain

I shall make him, I promise you,

If he, that is, will wed me too. 

But he must act in such a way

None can reproach me and say:

‘There, is a lady who has wed

One by whom her lord is dead.’

‘In God’s name, lady, so will he;

This knight is of high nobility,

More so than any, in the bible,

That issued from the line of Abel.

‘How is he named?’ ‘My Lord Yvain.’

‘By my faith, he is no mere thane,

But, as I know, is of noblemen,

If he’s the son of King Urien.’

‘Indeed, my lady, you speak true.’

‘And when shall we see him too?’

‘In five days’ time.’ ‘Tis too long,

I wish he were already among

Us, say tomorrow, or tonight.’

‘Lady, not even a bird in flight

Could fly so far in a single day,

But I’ll send a squire without delay,

One who shall travel right swiftly,

And by tomorrow night may be

Arrived at King Arthur’s court;

At least, my lady, tis my thought

That is the place where he will be.’

‘This is too slow, it seems to me.

The days are long; tell him that he

Must be back by tomorrow eve,

And that he must brook no delay

But swiftly hasten on his way,

Swifter than he has ever done.

Two days journey he’ll make in one,

If he tries his hardest, and then

The moon shines bright again,

So let him turn night into day,

And when he returns I’ll repay

Him with whatever he might wish.’

‘Leave me then to take care of this,

And you will find Yvain is here,

As soon as ever he can appear.

Meanwhile your people command,

And of them counsel demand

Regarding the coming of the king.

To maintain that customary thing,

The sole defence of your fountain,

You must seek their counsel again;

Yet none will show himself so bold

As to boast he will there uphold

Its sole defence; then you may say

That you must wed, straight away;

A certain knight doth seek your hand,

Most suitable; they must understand

That you’ll not wed if they disagree.

And then the outcome you will see.

I know they are such cowards all,

That if on another man should fall

A burden far too heavy for them,

At your feet they will fall again,

And offer up their thanks to you,

For what’s beyond their power to do.

For the man who fears his shadow,

Will, gladly, if he can, forego

Any encounter with lance or spear,

‘The man who fears his shadow will, gladly, if he can, forego any encounter with lance or spear’
The Book of Romance (p96, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

For that’s a game that cowards fear.’

‘By my faith,’ the lady replied,

‘Such is my wish; I so decide.

Indeed, I had already thought

Of this plan that you have wrought,

And so that is what we will do.

Why linger here? Be off with you,

Whilst my people I’m gathering.’

And when they finished speaking,

The maid feigned to send a man

To seek Yvain in his own land.

Meanwhile, each day she sees that he

Bathes and grooms himself, while she

Prepares for him robes of crimson,

Of good cloth, fine as any person’s, 

New, and lined throughout with vair.

There is nothing that he needs there

She fails to bring, his body to deck.

For a gold clasp gleams, at his neck,

Ornamented with precious stones,

Such lend grace to a man, I own,

And a belt and a wallet made

Of some kind of rich brocade.

She fits him out handsomely,

And then goes to tell her lady

That the messenger has returned,

And his reward has truly earned.

‘So,’ she cries, ‘when doth he appear,

Your Lord Yvain? ‘He’s already here.’

‘Already here!’ Bring him to me,

Secretly, then, and in privacy,

For on me now no others attend;

And let no other this way wend,

There is no need here for a fourth.’

At this the maiden doth go forth,

And returns to her guest, apace,

But doth not reveal, in her face,

The joy that in her heart arose.

But feigns that her lady knows

She has concealed him somewhere.

And says to him: ‘By God, fair sir,

There is no point in hiding now.

The thing’s so widely known, I trow

That even my lady has heard.

She reproaches me, with every word,

And doubtless will blame me more;

And yet this she says, to reassure,

That I may still bring you before her,

Without harm, or risk, or danger.

No harm will come to you, I feel,

Except one thing I must reveal,

Or I’d commit an act of treason,

She’ll wish to keep you in prison.’

‘That,’ he said, ‘indeed, I’d wish,

 Nor will it harm me in the least,

For in such a prison I long to be.’

‘And, by this right hand you see,

So you shall! But, swiftly, come,

And my advice is this, in sum,

You must act humbly before her;

Thus captivity will prove easier.

And as for that, feel no dismay,

I think perhaps that prison may

Not seem too tiresome to you.’

Thus the maid leads him on anew,

Now alarming, now reassuring,

Speaking, as onward they are stealing,

Of the prison to which he goes;

For love is a prison, God knows,

And they are right who so claim,

For all who love do seek the same.

Lines 1943-2036 Yvain declares his love for the Lady of Landuc

TAKING him by the hand again,

The maiden leads my Lord Yvain

To where he will be dearly loved,

Yet thinks he will be disapproved,

And that he thinks so is no wonder.

They came upon the lady yonder

Seated upon a crimson cushion.

Great fear was his first emotion,

When our Yvain made his entry

To the room, and saw the lady,

While she to him said not a word.

Thus he felt more deeply stirred,

And by fear was much dismayed,

Thinking he had been betrayed.

He stood mute so long before her

That the maiden cried, in anger:

‘A thousand curses on this woman

Who leads a knight here, by the hand,

To a lovely lady’s room, one who

Is motionless, and speechless too,

Without the sense to say his name!’

Then by the arm she seized the same,

Saying: ‘Step forward now, sir knight,

Forget your fear that she may bite,

Though tis you that killed her lord,

And seek for peace now and accord.

And I will join with you in prayer

That she pardons you for that affair,

In which you slew Esclados the Red,

Who was her lord.’ Yvain now said,

Like a true lover clasping his hands

While on his knees you understand:

‘Lady, I will not ask for mercy,

But rather I must thank you humbly

For aught you would inflict on me.

Naught you do can me displease.’

‘Truly? And if I have you killed?

‘Lady, my thanks, if tis your will,

For from me you’ll hear naught else.’

‘Never,’ said she, ‘have I heard tell

Of aught like this; this very hour

You place yourself in my power,

Without my exercising force.’

‘Lady, there doth exist no force,

In truth, as strong as that, I say,

Which commands me to obey

All your pleasure, and wholly.

I’ll not hesitate to apply me

To aught you are pleased to order.

And if there were any way to alter

The fact of your lord’s death, I vow,

Though not to blame, I’d do so now.’

‘What,’ said she, ‘do you address

Me, thinking now to win forgiveness,

And feign you were not in any way

To blame for my lord’s death that day!’

‘Lady’ he said, ‘pray you mercy,

When your fair lord attacked me

Was I wrong to offer stout defence?

How does he commit an offence

Who is at risk of capture or death,

Should he deny the other breath?

‘He doth not, if we judge aright,

What good would be served, sir knight,

If your death were my sole concern?

Yet now I would, willingly, learn

From whence that great force may

Arise, that compels you to obey

My every wish, unquestioningly.

Of all accusations you are free;

But sit, so you may now explain

What force renders you so tame.’

‘Lady,’ he said, the force doth rise

From my heart; for you it sighs,

And the heart prompts my desire.’

‘And what prompts the heart, fair sire?’

‘The eyes, lady.’ ‘And the eyes?’

‘The beauty that in you they spy.’

‘And that beauty, how doth it err?’

‘Lady, it leads love to despair.’

‘Love? Of whom?’ ‘Of you, my dear.’

‘I?’ ‘Truly.’ ‘Of what character?’

‘A love that could ne’er be deeper,

One that seeks joy of you forever,

Joy it could never find elsewhere;

Such that no other thought I share;

Such that I wholly yield myself;

Such that I love you more than self;

Such that for your protection, I

As it please you, will live or die.’

‘And would you dare to undertake

To defend the fountain for my sake?’

‘Yes, truly, lady, ’gainst any lord.’

‘Well then, we are truly in accord.’

Lines 2037-2048 The lady consents to take Yvain as her lord

THUS they are fully reconciled,

And the lady, who hath beguiled

Her barons already, as we know,

Says: ‘From here, now we will go,

And seek my people in the hall,

Who do advise, and counsel, all,

Because of the need that they see,

That I take a husband to me,

And, because of that need, so I do,

For here I give myself to you.

Nor should I refuse such a one,

A valiant knight and a king’s son.’

Lines 2049-2328 King Arthur is invited to the lady’s court

NOW has the maiden achieved

All that she’d wished, I believe,

And my Lord Yvain’s mastery’s

More than he’d dared hope to see;

For the lady, taking his hand,

Leads him to the hall, where stand

All her knights and all her people,

And my Lord Yvain seems so noble

That all gaze on him with wonder,

And rising to their feet they render

A bow, and thus all welcome, now,

My Lord Yvain, and all avow:

‘This is he whom my lady fair

Would wed, cursed be those who dare

Object to such rare nobility.

The Empress of Rome would be

Nobly wed to this best of men.

Well, if he has already spoken,

And she him, with naked hand,

Tomorrow takes and weds the man.’

Thus they all murmured together.

There, where they could see her;

At the very top of the hall,

She was seated before them all.

And my Lord Yvain made as if

To sit at her feet, against her wish,

For she raised him, and did call,

At once, upon her Seneschal

To speak out, both loud and clear,

So that all her folk might hear.

No slow or ineloquent man,

Thus, the Seneschal began:

‘My lords,’ he said, ‘war is coming.

Not a day goes past but the king

Prepares fresh forces to gather,

With all the speed he can muster.

Before this fortnight is over

All to ruin he will deliver,

Unless some champion appears.

When my lady, not seven years

Ago was wed, she did so freely

On your advice, and now that he

Her lord is dead, doth weep and moan.

Six feet of earth is all he owns,

Who was the lord of this country,

And glory of our nobility.

Tis a pity he his life did yield;

A woman cannot bear a shield,

Nor can she battle with a lance.

Marriage her role would enhance,

Marriage with some worthy lord.

Never was greater need or more

Pressing; advise that she wed again,

So that the custom might remain,

That which this castle has seen

For more than sixty years, I mean.’

At this the gathering proclaimed

That it was right she wed again.

And bowed to her accordingly,

Strengthening her desire indeed.

Yet as if despite herself, she lent

Her ear to them, and gave consent,

Speaking of her wishes, indeed,

As she would have if they’d not agreed:

‘My lords, since it is your wish,

Of the knight by me, I say this:

He has sought and won my hand,

He undertakes to defend the land,

In my service and for my honour,

For which I thank him, on your

Behalf. True, I did not know him,

Yet I had heard much talk of him.

Know, he is of high lineage then

The son of famed King Urien.

Besides his noble parentage,

He displays such great courage,

Such wisdom, and such courtesy,

That he is full worthy of me.

Of a certain Lord Yvain, I know,

You have heard all men speak so.

And this is he, who seeks my hand,

And I shall have, you understand,

A nobler husband than I deserve,

On the day this marriage occurs.’

‘Today,’ they reply, ‘if you are wise

Your marriage shall be solemnised,

For it would be folly to delay

So fair a thing for e’en a day.’

They so beg her she doth consent

To that which was ever her intent,

For Love himself doth her command,

To do as the council doth demand;

Yet more honour doth accrue

If her people request it too;

And their urging is no grief,

Rather it strengthens her belief

That her heart should win the day.

The horse that’s already on its way,

Goes faster still for being spurred.

Before them all she speaks the word,

And gives herself to my Lord Yvain.

And from the hand of her chaplain,

He received the Lady of Landuc,

(Laudine, heir to Laudunet, the Duke)

And thus, without the least delay

The two were wed, that very day;

And the marriage, then celebrated,

With mitres and croziers was sated,

For the lady had in no way forgot

To summon each bishop and abbot.

Many were there, and great richness,

And all folk full of happiness,

More so than I’d know how to tell

Though I thought long and well;

Better be silent than court disaster.

Now is my Lord Yvain the master,

And the dead man is quite forgot;

He who slew him his wife has got,

And they have commerce together;

And all men love their new master,

More than they ever loved the dead.

He is now their liege lord instead.

They feasted till the eve of the day

When King Arthur came to assay

The wondrous fountain and the stone,

And did not venture there alone,

But brought with him his company,

His whole household, to that country,

‘And did not venture there alone, but brought with him his company’
The Book of Romance (p160, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Such that not one remained behind.

And Lord Kay now spoke his mind:

‘Ay! What has become of Yvain

Who at our dinner did maintain

That he would avenge his cousin;

For with us now he should be seen?

Clearly twas the wine that spoke!

He has fled, like a puff of smoke,

Not daring to maintain it now.

He was foolish to boast, I trow.

He’s bold who boasts of his prowess

With none to praise, and no witness,

To testify to his great deeds

Except some flatterer, indeed.

Take the cowardly and the brave,

How differently the two behave;

For the coward before the fire

Boasts of himself, like any liar,

And thinks us fools who know him not.

While the brave are distressed by what

Some other man has said of them

Praising the courage seen in them.

And yet the coward, I maintain,

Is not so wrong if he proclaims

His own prowess himself always;

No other will lie and sing his praise.

If he doth sing it not, who will?

Even the heralds keep silence still,

Who yet proclaim the brave aloud,

But lose the coward in the crowd.’

Thus did my Lord Kay men deride,

But then my Lord Gawain replied:

‘Mercy, my Lord Kay, show mercy!

If Lord Yvain’s absent, as I see,

You know not what duties he has,

Never so low has he stooped as

To accuse you of villainy,

But speaks of you with courtesy.’

‘Sir,’ said Kay, I’ll hold my peace.

Today, I shall not dare to speak,

For I see that it gives you pain.’

And now the king, to view the rain,

That basin of water did assign

To the stone beneath the pine,

And rain poured down from the sky.

They waited there and, by and by,

Fully armed, my Lord Yvain

Entering the forest once again,

Came at a mighty gallop indeed,

Riding a fine and handsome steed,

Strong and bold, on battle intent.

And now my Lord Kay was bent

On demanding the first assay;

For he always, come what may,

Wished to begin every melee,

Every joust, or was out of temper.

To the king he made his prayer,

That this first battle might be his.

 ‘Kay,’ said the king, ‘if you so wish,

And since you ask before the rest,

Not to deny you, pleases me best.’

‘Kay thanks him, and takes the saddle.

If he can now shame Kay a little,

My Lord Yvain will be pleased,

And gladly Kay’s defeat he’d see.

He knows it is Kay from his shield.

Grasping his own, he takes the field

As does Kay, and they meet together,

Horses spur, and their lances lower,

Holding them gripped in their hand.

Then extend the lances a little and

Grasp the butt, wrapped in leather,

So that as they now clash together

They deal each other such a blow

That both the lances splinter so

They are split down to the handle.

Kay is knocked from the saddle

By the force of Lord Yvain’s blow,

Turns a somersault then, to follow,

And strikes the ground helmet first.

To harm him in some manner worse,

Is not my Lord Yvain’s intent.

From his steed he makes descent,

And takes Kay’s horse, pleasing many,

Who cannot help but say, gladly:

‘Behold, behold where he now lies

He who others doth so despise!

Nevertheless it behoves us all

Rightly to pardon his downfall

For such ne’er befell him before.’

And approaching now they saw,

Before the king, my Lord Yvain,

Leading the war-horse by the rein.

Which to Arthur he would render.

‘Sire, this steed I here surrender,

For I’d commit a wrong, I’m sure,

Should I withhold aught that’s yours.’

‘But who are you?’ the king replied,

‘I should not know you, except I

Heard your name freely uttered

Or saw you without your armour.’

‘Yvain, am I, the very same.’

Then was Kay filled with shame,

Mortified, and discomfited,

For saying that Yvain had fled;

But the rest shared their delight,

At Kay’s discomfort and the fight.

Even the king was quietly pleased,

And Lord Gawain, whole-heartedly,

Nay, a hundred times more than all,

That to Yvain doth the victory fall,

For he loved his company too,

More than any knight he knew.

And the king then asked Yvain,

If it so pleased him, to explain;

For Arthur had a great desire

To know all that had transpired,

What adventure Yvain was on,

And what honour he had won.

And so Yvain now tells the tale

Of how the maiden without fail

Hath done him loyal service;

Not passing over aught of this,

Nor forgetting a single thing.

And after that asks of the king

If he and all his band of knights

Would lodge with him that night,

For a joy and honour it would be

To offer him hospitality.

And Arthur says that he will stay

With Yvain for a week and a day,

And honour him with his company.

My Lord Yvain gave thanks, then he

Mounted, and without seeking rest

Led them along the very shortest

Road that ran towards the castle.

And in advance he sent a vassal

Bearing only a moulted falcon,

To reassure the lady, so not one

Of her folk is caught by surprise,

But, in readiness, to please all eyes,

Deck their houses to greet the king.

And when she heard of his coming

Then was in her great joy created,

And all the townsfolk were elated,

Hearing the news of Arthur’s visit.

The lady asked her lords to submit

To her wish, and go and greet him,

And they as one agreed to meet him,

For they were all now anxious to do

Whatever their lady wished them to.

Lines 2329-2414 King Arthur and his company enter the fortified town

HER people ride, on mounts from Spain,

To greet King Arthur, in her name,

Saluting first, most courteously,

The King of Britain, and secondly

All those who ride in his company.

‘Welcome,’ they cry, ‘to all; for see

Here is a gathering of noble men.

Blessed be he who brings them then

And grants us such handsome guests.’

The town resounds, offering its best

For the arrival of the puissant king;

Silken drapes, now forthcoming,

All hung aloft, to deck the event;

Tapestries clothe the pavements;

And, in a further preparation,

Against the great heat of the sun,

They cover the streets with awnings.

Bells, horns, and trumpets blaring,

Make the castle walls to resound,

Louder than doth thunder sound.

And there, where girls are dancing,

Flutes and reed-pipes are playing,

Timbrel, kettle-drum, and tabor,

While the younger men do labour,

To leap about, as if in flight.

All strive to show their delight,

Showing their joy to the king,

As is their duty, in everything.

And now the lady doth appear,

She her imperial garb doth wear,

A robe of ermine, fresh and new,

And on her brow a diadem too,

That a wealth of rubies grace.

There is no cloud upon her face,

Smiling, she reveals her beauty,

More beautiful, as all may see,

Than was ever any goddess.

Around her now the crowd do press,

As they all cry, with one accord:

‘Welcome to the king and lord

Of kings, and all earthly lords!’

The king could not reply before

He saw the lady fast approaching

To hold his stirrup, so not waiting

For her to reach him, God defend,

He promptly hastened to descend,

The moment that she hailed in sight,

While she saluted him outright:

‘A hundred thousand greetings this day,

To my Lord the King, and, I do pray,

Blessed be his nephew, Lord Gawain,’

‘May joy and good fortune appertain

Ever to your noble form and features,

Is my wish for you, fair creature.’

Cried the king, then about her waist,

Gently and freely, his arm he placed,

And she embraced the king, equally.

You’ll win not another word from me,

About the honour she thus conferred;

But never has any spoken or heard

Of a crowd of guests so well received,

So honoured or so well-served indeed.

I might tell you more of their delight,

Were it not it would weary you quite.

Yet you deserve some brief mention

Of a meeting twixt the moon and sun,

Which in private counsel occurred,

And of which I’d gladly say a word.

Do you know of whom I now indite?

He who was lord among the knights,

And greater than them all, in fame,

Must here the sun’s position claim.

I speak of course of my Lord Gawain,

For chivalry does his form proclaim,

And he illumines it with his rays,

Just as the sun, at break of day,

Sheds his light, and illumines all

The places where his rays do fall.

And our damsel I call the moon,

For here there can be only one

Of such great aid and service.

I call her not so because of this

Merely, she so free from blame,

But because Lunete is her name.

Lines 2415-2538 Gawain urges Yvain to attend the tournament

THE damsel’s name then was Lunete,

A charming and most clever brunette,

With wisdom, kindness and courtesy.

As dearer to Lord Gawain grows she,

He prizes her and loves her dearly,

And claims her for himself wholly,

For from death did she not defend,

His good companion and his friend.

He grants her his service freely,

While she tells of her difficulty

In winning over her mistress

To take in marriage no man less

Than Lord Yvain as her new sire,

And how she’d rescued him entire,

From the hands of those who sought him,

Though, among them, failed to see him!

My Lord Gawain laughed profusely

At her tale, and said, most gladly:

‘Mademoiselle, I commit to you,

Whether needed or not, this true

Knight, such that is as I may be;

Do not, for another then, forsake me,

Thinking you might well do better;

For I am yours and so, forever,

My demoiselle shall you be.’

‘I thank you kindly, sir,’ said she.

While they were meeting thus,

Others there proved as flirtatious;

More than sixty ladies were present

And every one virtuous, prudent,

Fair and courteous, of high worth,

Each of them being of noble birth;

So the knights could spend their day

Embracing and kissing, all in play,

Talking and gazing, occupied

In sitting pleasantly by their side;

So much at least might they gain.

In festive mood is my Lord Yvain,

Now the king is lodged with them,

While the lady so honours them,

Each separately, and all together,

That a foolish man might gather

That out of love she acted thus,

And with him seemed amorous.

But rightly he a fool is proved

Who thinks that he is truly loved,

Because a lady is courteous

And addresses the least of us,

Gives delight and doth us embrace;

A fool is lost to a lovely face,

And to fair words, completely.

All spent the time thus pleasantly,

Throughout the whole week entire,

For all might hunt as they desired,

Among the woods, along the rivers;

Or view what the realm delivers

That my Lord Yvain has won,

By marrying with such a one,

As his lady, for they might seek

Within a few leagues, that week,

One of his several castles, nearby.

When the king had fully satisfied

His curiosity, nor wished to stay,

He made ready to wend his way.

But all that week his knights sought

By argument and subtle thought,

Requests, and prayers, and demands,

And all the wit at their command,

To urge Yvain to return with them.

‘Will you prove one of those men,’

He was asked by my Lord Gawain,

‘Who with his wife must remain?

For cursed be they, by Saint Mary,

Who lose all worth when they marry.

She should enhance a man’s life

A fair lady, as his lover or wife;

And tis not right that she love on,

If worth and reputation are gone.

Surely you would regret her love

If you a lesser man should prove.

A woman will soon cease to prize,

Rightly, a man she doth despise,

Who, though become the lord of all,

Through his love into sloth doth fall.

Now your fame should see increase.

Throw off the rein, break the leash,

Come to the tournament with me,

So none accuse you of jealousy.

Now you should not hold back,

But upon the tourney make attack,

And in the lists the brave accost,

Whatever to you may be the cost.

He’s lost in dream who will not stir.

You must come, indeed, dear sir,

And not another word from me.

Fair companion, think carefully,

Let not a friendship fail in you,

That in my heart is ever true.

A wonder it is how in nature

What is deferred sinks deeper.

Pleasure is sweeter through delay,

And a little goodness, any day,

Tastes richer if tis waited for,

Than lost in devouring more.

The joy in honour slow to arrive

Is like green wood, better dried,

Burning then with greater force,

If to patience one has recourse,

And yielding greater heat within.

One may grow so used to things

Tis less painful to yield than not,

And wishing to alter, one cannot.

And lest you mistake me, true,

If I had as lovely a lady, as you,

My dear companion, do possess,

Let God and his saints bear witness,

I too would find it hard to leave,

I too to her, in truth, would cleave.

Yet a man may advise someone

To do what he himself would shun.

Just as we see with the preachers,

Who are such deceitful creatures,

They proclaim what tis right to do,

But naught of what they say pursue!’

Lines 2539-2578 Yvain seeks leave of his lady to accompany Gawain

LORD Gawain spoke at such length,

Indeed with such force and strength,

That Yvain promised he would speak

To his wife, and her leave would seek

To accompany him, in some wise,

And whether it be foolish or wise,

Would not fail to seek permission

To return with Gawain to Britain.

She knew naught of what he sought

When with her he shared his thought,

Saying: ‘My lady, my life’s goal,

You who are my heart and soul,

My health, my joy, my happiness,

A favour I ask of you, no less,

For your honour, and for mine.’

The lady did her head incline

Though she knew naught of his wish,

Saying: ‘Fair sir, command me in this,

Whatever your request might be.’

Then my Lord Yvain asks her leave

To follow the king, and her consent

To attend the royal tournament:

‘That none there may think me idle.’

She replied: ‘Your leave I will

So grant, until a certain date,

But then my love will turn to hate,

That I bear you, you may be sure

If you should remain on that shore

Beyond the time that I shall set,

And I will keep my word yet;

Though you break yours, I will not.

So if for my love you care a jot,

If, above all, you hold me dear,

Think you to be once more here

Within a year from this very day,

A week after Saint John’s, I say,

For this is the eighth day since then.

And if you are not back again,

Restored to me, then by all above,

You can offer a mass for our love!’

Lines 2579-2638 The lady gives a magic ring to Yvain

MY Lord Yvain now weeps and sighs

So bitterly that he scarce replies:

‘That, lady, is too long a wait.

If I could be with you, my fate,

Whene’er I wish your face to view,

Then I’d nigh always be with you.

And I pray God, if he so please

Not to detain me at his ease.

Yet we think to return often,

Ignorant of what will happen,

And I know not what may occur

That may act to keep me there,

Imprisonment perhaps or sickness.

You do me an injustice, no less,

In not granting exemption for

Some obstacle I cannot ignore.’

‘My lord’, she said, ‘I will so do.

Nevertheless, I now promise you,

That, if God spare you from death,

And you recall me at every breath,

No obstacle will block your way.

This my ring, I give you, pray,

Wear it always on your finger,

And I ask you now, remember

All regarding the gem there set,

For no prison will hold you yet

If you love loyally and are true,

Nor will any harm come to you,

No wounds, and no bloodshed,

If you’ve heard what I’ve said;

Wear it ever, and hold it dear,

And remember your lady here.

Then it will protect you like steel,

To you it will be mail and shield;

Nor have I trusted this ring ever

To any knight before, however,

I lend it you now, out of love.’

Now Yvain has leave to remove,

But he weeps greatly at parting.

The king would not, for anything,

Brook delay, rather he sought

To have all the palfreys brought,

And all saddled and equipped,

And would not stop for a quip;                                                         

For as he wished so it was done.

The steeds were led forth at once,

Thus it only remained to mount.

I know not if I should recount

My Lord Yvain’s leave-taking,

Or the kisses bestowed on him,

Which were mingled so with tears,

Bathed in sweetness it appears.

And what shall I say of the king,

How the lady took leave of him,

Accompanied by her ladies all,

And the knight, her Seneschal?

Far too long would we tarry here.

Seeing the lady bathed in tears,

He begged her to return amain,

And in her castle there remain,

And he begged her so urgently,

She returned with her company.

Lines 2639-2773 Yvain breaks the promise to his lady

MY Lord Yvain is now so greatly

Distressed at parting from his lady,

His heart it can do naught but stay.

The king may lead the body away,

But not the heart, for she so chains

And binds his heart, she who remains,

Not even the king has the power

To draw it away for even an hour.

And if the body lacks its heart

How shall it live when they’re apart?

Lacking its heart, a living body

Is a marvel no man e’er did see.

Yet this marvel has come about,

For he is still living, yet without

His heart, which once beat within,

And now no longer follows him.

In a fine place the heart doth dwell,

The body lives in hope, as well,

Of returning to the heart it left.

It fashions a heart, though bereft,

Out of hope, in a strange manner,

Hope that proves false traitor ever.

He will not be aware till later

Of the hour hope plays the traitor,

For if by a single day he exceed

The term of leave that he agreed,

It will be hard for him to win

His lady’s pardon ever again.

And yet I think he’ll not return,

For my Lord Gawain doth yearn

To retain him in his company,

And go together to the tourney

Wherever the joust holds sway.

And as the year now slipped away,

Such success had my Lord Yvain,

Everywhere, that my Lord Gawain

Greatly wished to do him honour,

And so caused him to malinger

That whole year was past and gone,

And sufficient part of another one

That the middle of August arrived

When the king at Chester did abide;

Having returned the previous eve,

From a tournament, I do believe,

At which my Lord Yvain made one,

And every single prize had won.

And, it seems, the tale tells how,

The two companions both did vow

Not to lodge there within the town,

But pitched their tents on level ground

Outside the walls, and there held court.

They went not to the king’s own court,

But the king, instead, he went to them,

For his best knights were with them,

And were there in greatest number.

Among them all, sat King Arthur,

And it was then Yvain remembered

That he’d exceeded the time stated

His lady had given permission for,

And no thought surprised him more

Than this awareness of his delay,

The breaking of the pledge he’d made,

Regarding the promised day and year.

He could scarcely forgo his tears,

But held them back, for very shame.

He was thinking on it, all the same,

When he saw a maid approaching,

Towards him at speed, and riding

A piebald palfrey; before his tent,

None ran to assist in her descent,

Though she dismounted, in due course,

Nor did they come take her horse.

Seeing the king among them all,

She then allowed her mantle to fall,

And thus attired, and thus arrayed,

Entered Yvain’s tent right away.

And came and stood before the king,

Saying her mistress gave greeting

To the king, and my Lord Gawain,

And all the others, except Yvain,

That disloyal knight, that traitor,

That foul liar, and oath-breaker,

Who’d deserted and deceived her.

Now she saw how he treated her,

Pretending that he loved her true,

Yet disloyal, through and through.

‘My lady doth give witness here,

That no mischief did she fear,

For it never occurred to her

That he would prove a robber.

Lovers may steal a lady’s heart,

But there are others, a race apart,

Thieves, that empty vessels prove,

Who, with deceit, go making love.

They are robbers and hypocrites,

Traitors who, caring not a whit,

Steal hearts that to them mean naught;

True lovers to hold them dear are taught,

And then restore them faithfully.

But Yvain has nigh killed my lady,

Telling her that he would guard her

Heart, and then would return it her

Before the promised year was out.

Forgetful of you, Yvain, to flout

Your pledge, clearly unconcerned

That you ought to have returned,

To my lady within that year gone.

For until the feast of Saint John

My mistress had granted you leave;

Yet you so lightly did conceive

Your pledge, you failed to remember.

While every night, within her chamber,

My lady counted the months and days;

For when one loves, one frets always,

And never a restful sleep did earn,

And all night long tossed and turned.

Through all the days that come and go

What doth the lover? Doth thou know?

Counts the months, tells the seasons,

I am not here without good reason,

Who disturb you making holiday,

Nor to complain from vain display,

But simply to say, we are betrayed,

By you whom my lady wed that day.

Yvain, my lady for you doth care

No longer, and her message I bear

Never return, and one further thing,

Do not seek to retain her ring.

I whom you now see before you

She demands you render it to;

Render it now, for so you must.’

Lines 2774-3130 Yvain loses his mind but is restored to health

YVAIN, his tongue as dry as dust,

Was stunned, and unable to reply,

While the maid approached him nigh,

And from his finger took the ring,

Then to God commended the king

And, but for Yvain, all the rest,

Leaving that lord in great distress.

And his sorrow is ever increasing,

And all that he sees torments him.

He would rather be exiled alone,

In deep seclusion, and all unknown,

Banished to some savage place,

Where none would ever see his face,

No man or woman of his country

Knowing more where he might be,

Than if he’d plunged in the abyss.

For he hates most the thing he is,

And knows not where to find relief

From himself who’s his own grief.

He’d be a madman not to take

Vengeance now, for his dire mistake,

Upon himself, who his joy hath lost.

He removes himself from the host,

Fearing madness, if he remain,

And they ignore him, for it is plain,

As they watch him go on his way,

That he cares naught for aught they say,

Nor hath need of their company;

While he goes wandering, till he

Is far from tents and pavilions.

Then such a made tempest rages on

Inside his head that all sense is lost,

He tears his flesh, and naked almost,

Flees through the fields and valleys,

And leaves his folk in perplexity,

As to where he might be found.

They search all the country round,

In among the knights’ lodgings,

Gardens, hedges, and surroundings,

Seeking where he is no longer.

While he flees, further and further,

Till he comes upon, beside a park,

A lad with a bow, and doth mark

His quiver, with many an arrow,

Broad, sharp, and barbed also.

Sense enough, as yet, he had

To seize the bow from the lad,

And the arrows in their quiver,

And yet he would not remember

A single thing that he had done;

And in this way he wandered on.

He killed the deer, and then he ate

The venison in its raw state.

So he dwelt among the trees,

As madmen do or savages;

Till he came upon, one day,

A hermit’s hut, beside the way,

And the hermit working near,

Who saw a naked man appear,

And thinking that perhaps he had

Thus to deal with a man run mad,

Soon ascertained that it was so;

Fearful and surprised, although

He entered his humble hut, he set

At the window, a little bread.

And there Yvain came in need

And on that morsel did feed.

He took the bread and of it ate,

And I doubt not that such bait,

So hard, he’d never had before,

The grain within not worth more

Than twenty sous, all bitter, sour

As yeast, made of a kind of flour,

Barley mixed with oaten straw,

So that the bread tasted more

Like bark, stale, dull with blight.

Yet hunger whets the appetite,

So the bread to him was sweet,

For hunger doth dress any meat,

Like to a sauce, mixed with art.

My Lord Yvain played his part,

Ate the bread, and found it good,

Drank cold water with his food,

Then was minded to disappear, 

Into the woods, to seek the deer;

While the holy man, concerned,

Prayed to God, that if he returned,

His own self he’d protect alway,

And so preserve him on that day.

Nevertheless, whate’er may be,

A man will return, and willingly,

To a place where he’s treated well.

Not a day passed, but to his cell,

In his wild fit, the madman came,

Bringing the hermit wild game,

Thus to repay him for the bread.

This was the life that Yvain led.

And thus the holy man within

Would the wild creatures skin,

And cook the venison, and ever

He would set the bread and water

At the window, so the madman

Might eat a meal, as others can;

With cooked meat, cold drink,

Water from the stream’s brink,

Venison without salt or pepper;

And the hermit, so as the better

To provide bread, sold the hides,

And bought barley loaves besides,

So, Lord Yvain, from that time on,

Had bread aplenty and venison,

And this sufficed in every way.

Thus was he found asleep one day,

By two maidens in the forest,

Accompanying their mistress,

Whose servant they both were.

On finding a naked creature there,

One of them dismounted, and ran

And looked closely at the man,

But saw nothing by which to tell

Who he was, though she might well

Have recognised him, so carefully

Did she gaze at him, if only he

Had been dressed in rich attire,

As before, that she might admire.

Thus she was slow to know him

Yet nonetheless she stared at him,

Till her eyes rested, finally,

On his face, and a scar did see;

And such a scar she well knew

Had Lord Yvain on his face too,

She remembered to have seen,

And so, by the scar, did glean

That it was he, without a doubt,

And wondered how it came about

That she had found Yvain here,

Who poor and naked did appear.

She seeks not to touch or wake him,

Though struck by the state he’s in,

But takes the bridle and remounts,

Rides to the others, and recounts

Her adventure, in floods of tears.

I know not if I should pause here,

To tell of her sorrow and distress;

Weeping, she spoke to her mistress:

‘Lady, we have come upon Yvain,

He who has proved, time and again,

To be the truest knight in the world,

And yet I know not what has hurled

This nobleman from his great height,

For it seems he is now in evil plight,

From some misfortune, tis my belief.

For one may lose one’s wits through grief.

And one can readily see that he

Has lost all sense, for it seems to me,

He would never act so strangely,

If he’d not lost his mind wholly,

And his senses were not askew.

Now may God his wits renew,

To the sanity that they once had,

And Yvain then be pleased to add

His aid to the cause of your castle,

And lodge there with you as well!

Count Alier who makes war on you

Would see the war between you two

End by bringing you great honour

If God would but show his favour

And his full wits to Yvain restore,

His true sense, and, furthermore,

Aid you then in your hour of need.’

The lady replied: ‘Now take heed,

Tis a certainly, if he doth not flee,

That we’ll rid him of his insanity,

Clear the madness from his head,

The sorrow and the storm it bred.

But we must be off, swift as ever,

For there’s a salve that I remember;

Margot the Wise gave it to me,

And said there was no malady

Of the mind it would not cure.’

So off to the castle they venture,

Which is near, being no more

Than a half a league away, for,

As leagues go in their country,

Compared with ours, you see,

Two make one, and four make two.

Yvain sleeps on, now lost to view;

They’re away to seek the ointment.

Now the lady to a chest she went,

Removed a box, and gave it to

The maid, telling her not to use

The ointment on him too freely,

Rubbing it into the temples only,

There being no need for it elsewhere.

She should anoint his brow with care,

But then keep all the rest by her;

For the only ill he had incurred

Was in his brain; there, the trouble.

A robe of vair, a coat and mantle

Of scarlet silk she finds for him;

The maid takes them, and to him

Leads a fine palfrey by the rein,

And from her own store adds again

A fresh shirt, with soft leggings

And new hose, well-cut and trim.

Taking all these, she rode away,

And finding Yvain, where he lay,

Still fast asleep, within the wood,

Tethered her horse where it stood,

Beside a clearing, among the trees.

Now, clothes and box she carries

To where the madman lies sleeping,

Then, slowly but with great daring,

Approaches Yvain, cautiously,

So she may tend him while asleep.

And thus the ointment she applies

Emptying the box despite its size,

So concerned for the man in her care,

She spreads the ointment everywhere.

With the salve she proves so reckless

She forgets the words of her mistress,

And uses more than is necessary,

Though, she thinks, most usefully:

She salves his brow and all his body,

So that from his brain, swiftly,

Will ebb all that raging madness;

Though using so much is foolishness,

For there is no need to anoint him so.

If she’d had five times more, though,

She’d have used it all, it seems to me.

She took the box, and thought to flee,

Reaching her steed, then hid behind,

But left the clothes for him to find,

Hoping that if God restored him

He would see the clothes around him,

And take them and swiftly dress.

Beside an oak tree she doth rest,

Till, after sleeping long, Yvain

Is cured and now himself again,

Regaining wits and memory;

Yet finds he’s naked as ivory.

Although his shame were more

If he’d known what went before,

Yet knows no more than he is bare.

He sees the new robe lying there,

And marvels, immeasurably,

As to how that has come to be

And how the other clothes appeared.

His nakedness makes him afeared,

Ashamed and troubled as he is,

Thinking himself undone by this;

If any who know him have been,

And found him, naked, and seen.

Meanwhile rapidly he dressed,

And looked about in the forest,

To mark if anyone was in sight.

He thought to rise and stand upright,

But lacked the strength so to do;

He needed help to stand anew,

To help him walk, and sustain him,

His illness had so troubled him,

He scarce could rise to his feet.

The maiden seeing his defeat,

Could wait no longer, and so she

Mounted, and passed by quietly,

As if not knowing he was there;

And he, being so in need of care,

Indifferent as to who might bring

Aid to help him to some lodging,

Where he might gather his strength,

Called out to the maiden, at length;

While the maiden, for her part,

Looked about her, and gave a start,

As if she knew naught of all this.

At his call, it not being her wish

To go straight to him, she delayed,

And he began to call: ‘This way!

This way, demoiselle!’ Thus she

Guided her palfrey to him slowly,

So he’d think by her manner there

Of proceeding, performed with care,

That she knew naught of the matter,

Nor had ever strayed any closer,

Being both wise and courteous.

When she arrived before him thus:

‘Sir knight what do you wish of me,

To call so loud and long?’ said she.

‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘fair maid so wise,

I find myself, in curious guise,

Among these woods by some mischance;

For God’s sake, would you, perchance,

Lend me, I pray, on word of honour,

Or give outright, if you may so offer,

That palfrey that you are leading.

‘Willingly, sir; yet where I’m going

You shall also, and accompany me.’

‘And where is that?’ ‘Beyond the trees,

To a castle that stands nearby.’

‘Demoiselle, tell me then if I

Am needed at the castle there?’

‘Yes’ said she, ‘and yet, I declare,

You are not in your full strength,

And must recuperate at length,

A fortnight at the least, I’d say.

Take this palfrey, and lead away,

And we will go find you lodging.’

And since that was all his longing,

He mounted and they went their way,

Until to a narrow bridge came they,

Over a swift and violent river.

Then the maid, into its waters,

The empty ointment box did toss,

Thinking to explain the loss

Of box, and all, to her mistress,

By pleading that in her distress

At crossing o’er that perilous river,

The box had fallen in the water;

For by some chance the palfrey

Had stumbled, and the box, sadly,

Had escaped her hands, and she

Had almost followed, willy-nilly;

So it might have been even worse!

This sad tale she would rehearse

When she came before her lady.

They continued on their journey,

Till they came to the castle wall,

Where the following did befall.

Within, the lady then detained

Most pleasantly, my Lord Yvain,

But her box, and her ointment,

Demanded of the maid she’d sent,

Privately. And then the maid

Told the tale that I’ve relayed,

Just as she had intended to,

Not daring to repeat the truth.

The lady was dismayed: ‘This is

A great loss, and certain it is

That it will not be found again;

Yet, since tis gone, I maintain,

There’s nothing more to be said.

Often the good desired, instead,

Turns to ill that no one wished.

So from our noble knight, in this,

I thought to have blessing and joy,

But now have lost, in its employ,

The possession I held most dear.

Nevertheless, pray you, appear

Ready to serve him in everything.’

‘Oh, my lady, tis wisdom speaking,

For it would be a sad game, true,

To make of one misfortune, two.’

Lines 3131-3254 Yvain defends the Lady of Noroison’s castle

ABOUT the box, they keep silent,

And thus to my Lord Yvain present

Their services; with every care,

They bathe him, and wash his hair,

Shave him close, and trim his beard,

For fistfuls of hair had now appeared

On his face; now he lacks nothing:

If he wants armour, arms they bring,

If he desires to ride a while

They bring a steed for him to trial,

Handsome, spirited, strong as ten.

Yvain is there, on a Tuesday, when

Against the town comes Count Alier,

With knights and foot in fine array,

Burning, plundering, laying waste.

The people arm themselves in haste,

Ready to defend their castle.

Whether armed or unarmed still,

They issue forth to the attack,

The enemy not turning back

But waiting in a narrow pass.

Yvain charged against the mass;

‘Waiting in a narrow pass Yvain charged against the mass’
The Book of Romance (p232, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

For having rested for so long,

He was now both fit and strong.

On the shield he struck a knight,

Fiercely downing him outright,

Meeting him with mighty force

Toppling the rider and his horse,

Nor could the man arise again,

For his heart had burst amain,

And his very spine was broken.

My Lord Yvain drew back a token,

And took a moment to recover,

Then, with the brief respite over,

Spurred forward to clear the pass.

One could scarce the numbers cast,

One, and two, and three, and four;

Four brave knights he doth floor,

And to deliver more is ready,

Advancing fast and furiously;

While those fighting beside him

All take fresh courage from him;

As a man of faint and timid heart

When he sees the brave man dart

Towards the foe before his eyes,

Driven by shame, his fear defies,

Finds fresh heart, then doth flee

The former heart from his body;

So he brings them, for his part,

Each a noble and valiant heart.

Thus rendered brave and sound

In the melee, each stood his ground,

And in attack he found new power.

Now the lady, she was in her tower,

Watching from the castle height,

‘The lady, she was in her tower, watching from the castle height’
The Book of Romance (p78, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

The whole battle, with the fight

To conquer and regain the pass;

And saw upon the ground, alas,

Dead and wounded full many,

Both her troops and the enemy,

But more of them than her own.

For my Lord Yvain, a man alone,

Courteous, brave, and excellent,

Stoops upon them, in his intent,

As doth the falcon on the teal.

And those within the walls feel

Heartened, man and maid alike,

And cry, as they see him strike:

‘Ah! How bravely he doth reap!

How he makes the enemy weep!

How fiercely he thus terrifies!

For he appears no otherwise

Than as a lion among the deer,

Driven by hunger, doth appear.

And then every other knight

Is braver, fiercer in the fight,

For were it not for his bravery,

No shattered lance would we see,

Not a sword drawn, on our part.

One must love with all one’s heart

A noble man when one is found.

See now how he holds his ground,

See how bravely he makes good,

See how he drenches in blood

His lance, and his naked sword,

See how he scatters them abroad,

See how boldly he doth attack,

Then wheels about, turning back!

See how he rests awhile, and then

Returns to the assault again,

The fresher for his brief sojourn;

See how lightly, on his return,

He holds the worth of his shield;

To piercing blows doth it yield.

How mercilessly he doth fight,

Returning blows left and right

In revenge for those undergone.

If all the forests of Argonne

Were felled, his lances to supply,

None would be left by night, say I,

For none they provide can endure,

He breaks them all, and asks for more;

And see what prowess is displayed

Whene’er he seeks to draw his blade.

Never with his sword, Durendal,

Did Roland once, at Roncesvalles,

Wreak more havoc, there in Spain

Against the Turks, and if Yvain

Had more good men in his company,

The villain who’s now our enemy

Would this day, discomfited, retreat,

Or stand his ground and meet defeat.’

Then, they pray the heavens above

Bless her to whom he gives his love,

For he so puissant in arms is found,

And above all others is renowned,

As a taper midst candles shines afar, 

As the moon shines among the stars,

As the sun doth outshine the moon,

For he has all hearts there in a swoon,

This one’s here and that one’s there,

For all who regard him now declare

They wish he had their lady’s hand,

And was the lord of all their land.

Lines 3255-3340 Yvain defeats Count Alier

THUS was Yvain praised anew,

And all that they said proved true,

For so fierce an attack he led

That one and all the enemy fled;

But he presses hard on their heels,

With his companions, who feel

As safe there, as if they were all

Enclosed behind some castle wall,

High, and wrought of solid stone.

The pursuit is long and hard, I own,

Till those who flee, drained by fear,

Are struck as their pursuers near,

Their horses now disembowelled,

The living stumbling o’er the dead,

As they deal fresh wounds and slay,

Destroying all things in their way.

Meanwhile the Count doth flee,

Followed by Lord Yvain, as he,

Count Alier, now feigns a wound,

Until by Yvain he is found

At the foot of a high hill, caught

Near to the entrance of a fort,

Which belongs to this Count;

Where he reigns in his mount,

With none there to lend him aid.

Now, with but little to be said,

Yvain accepted his surrender.

For once he had the Count closer,

And they were alone face to face,

Without the chance of escape,

The Count had no way to turn,

Or resist, and must thus return

To face the Lady of Noroison;

And there be held as if in prison,

And make peace mayhap with her.

Once he has so pledged his word,

He must then his helmet yield,

And from his neck loose his shield,

And render up his naked sword.

Then he doth the honour accord

To Yvain of leading him where he

May be handed to his enemies,

Who delight in it, and not a little.

The news was carried to the castle

Before they had arrived, and there

All met them, their delight to share,

Led by the lady of the land.

My Lord Yvain takes the hand

Of his prisoner, and presents him.

Of her demands she now tells him,

The Count accedes most willingly,

Swears by his faith such shall be;

Thus she secures it upon oath,

He gives his word and pledge, both.

Pledges he gives to her and swears

That he will live in peace with her,

And all her losses will restore,

All that she can prove and more,

And rebuild where there is need.

Once these things were all agreed

As the lady wished, for his part,

My Lord Yvain sought to depart.

Nor would she have granted this

If as his wife, and his mistress,

He had taken her, thus to tarry

There with her before they marry.

But not one step would he allow

Any man there to escort him now,

But set himself to ride away,

For naught could make him stay;

Leaving the lady in sad plight,

To whom he had brought delight.

The greater the joy he brought her,

The greater was her pain and deeper,

When he no longer wished to stay.

She’d wished to honour him that day,

And make him, had it been his desire,

Lord of all she possessed, entire;

Or, if not that, to have granted him

Wealth for his services, asking him

To take as much as he might want.

But to linger there was not his wont,

He paid no heed to woman or man,

But from her knights now was gone,

And the lady; though all might grieve,

Despite their pleas, he chose to leave.

Lines 3341-3484 Yvain encounters the lion

PENSIVELY, he took his way,

Until he came to a deep glade.

Among the trees, as he drew nigh,

He heard a loud and dismal cry,

And turned then towards the same,

To seek the spot from which it came,

And when he reached the very place

He saw a lion, in that open space,

And a serpent gripped it by the tail,

Striking its rear, like a fiery flail,

Scorching the beast with hot flame.

He spent no time, my Lord Yvain,

Watching this marvel rather took

Counsel with himself, at a look,

As to which of the two to aid.

The lion best deserved his aid,

For a venomous and treacherous

Creature should be slain by us,

And the serpent was venomous,

For from its throat fire burst,

So full it was of poisonous bane.

Thinking thus, my Lord Yvain

Chose to kill the serpent first,

‘Thinking thus, my Lord Yvain chose to kill the serpent first’
The Book of Romance (p106, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Drew his sword, and then he durst

Advance, his shield before his face,

So as to bar the flames’ embrace;

Foe from its throat the flames start,

A throat as wide as some great jar.

If the lion should then attack

It would ne’er an answer lack,

But, whatever might occur,

He would aid the lion first,

For pity urged him so to do,

To bring aid and succour to

A beast so grand and noble.

With a sharp and powerful

Blow of his blade, he first

Strikes the snake to the earth,

Then cuts it into separate parts,

Striking and slicing it apart,

Destroying it, piece by piece.

Yet, so that he might release

The lion, he is forced to cut

From its tail at least a foot,

Which the treacherous serpent’s head

Has engulfed and on it fed;

Yet he cuts only what he must.

When the lion was freed at last,

He thought he would need to fight

And that it would attack outright,

Yet found it was not minded to.

Hear what the lion chose to do:

It acted nobly, for it bowed low,

And now began to act as though

It wished to surrender itself to him,

Extending its front paws towards him,

And lowering its head to the ground,

Kneeling, and fawning like a hound,

Hind legs raised; Yvain drew near,

To find its mask all wet with tears,

Moistened so, in humility.

My Lord Yvain, of a verity,

Knew the lion was thanking him,

Humbling itself there before him,

Because of the snake he had slain,

Delivering it from death, and pain.

He was pleased with his adventure,

He cleaned his sword of the ordure

And venom the snake left, and then

Sheathed his sword, now bright again,

And set off, to continue his ride,

With the lion walking by his side,

Unwilling to part from him ever,

Wishing to be his friend forever,

Eager now to serve and protect.

The lion walks on till it detects,

On the wind, the scent of prey.

Somewhere ahead, along the way,

A herd of wild deer are feeding,

And its nature then and breeding

Prompt the lion to seek its kill,

And secure itself food, at will;

Such is the nature of the beast.

It runs ahead, some way at least,

To show its master it has found

Spoor and scent upon the ground,

And halting, on encountering this,

Looks to its master, for its wish

Is to serve him in every way,

And not to wittingly disobey

His will, in any way whatever.

And Yvain sees from its manner

The lion awaits his command.

Yvain perceives and understands

That if he withdraws, it will too,

And if he follows it will pursue

The deer that it scented ahead.

So he cried out, and onward sped,

As if he were urging on a hound,

And then the lion, at the sound,

Set its nose to the deer’s scent;

Nor did it err in its intent,

For within a bow-shot, in a vale,

It found its quarry without fail;

A deer was there feeding alone.

This the lion took, on its own,

Killing the deer at the first leap,

And of the hot blood drank deep.

Once it was dead, the lion laid

It on his back, and so conveyed

The warm carcase to his master,

Setting it down before him there. 

Yvain now held him in deep affection,

For this display of true devotion.

Darkness fell, and it seemed good

To spend the night there in the wood,

And strip the deer of its venison,

Or of enough fine meat for one.

A cut along the rib he did make,

And from the loin carved a steak,

And striking a spark from his flint,

From dry brushwood flame did win,

Roasting his steak till it was done.

Yet the meal was a scanty one,

For he had neither salt nor bread

Nor knife nor cloth; yet he was fed.

While he was eating, the lion lay

By him, not stirring in any way,

But watched him steadily, as he

Took what he wished of the meat,

And ate till he could eat no more.

The lion the rest did then devour,

All the carcase down to the bone;

Then while Yvain slept all alone,

His head resting on his shield,

To win what rest that doth yield,

The lion showed his intelligence,

Lying awake, with every sense

Alert, guarding Yvain’s steed,

That on the scanty grass did feed.  

Lines 3485-3562 Yvain laments breaking his promise to his lady

AT dawn they both left together,

And that life lived every other

Single day of the next fortnight,

Till chance led them to alight

Upon the fount beneath the pine.

There, nearing it a second time,

Remembering all, my Lord Yvain

Nigh on lost his wits again,

On seeing the chapel and the stone.

A thousand times he made moan,

Then, grieving, fell into a swoon,

And as he stumbled there, eftsoon

His sword tumbled from its sheath,

Striking the chain mail beneath

The jaw, then entering his neck.

The links split; naught could check

The point which pierced, like a nail,

The flesh beneath the shining mail,

So that it caused hot blood to flow.

The lion imagined that the blow

Had killed its dear friend and master.

You can ne’er have heard greater

Grief e’er written of or narrated,

Than that creature demonstrated.

He pawed the ground, and groaned,

Conceiving the wish, as he moaned,

Of pinning himself upon the sword

Which he thought had slain his lord.

Carrying the blade in his jaws, he

Lodged it against a fallen tree,

Pressed it against the trunk behind;

Thus it was firm and well-aligned,

To pierce him through the chest;

And so was nigh put to the test,

But Yvain emerged from his swoon,

And thus the lion escaped its doom,

When on the point of rushing upon

The blade as a wild boar has done,

Many a time, heedless of dying.

There my Lord Yvain was lying

Half in a swoon beside the stone.

Recovering, he made violent moan,

Blaming himself for returning late,

And thus incurring his lady’s hate,

Crying: ‘Why does he not choose

To die, who thus his joy doth lose?

Alas, for death should he not strive?

How then should I linger here, alive,

Viewing all this that my lady owns?

Why does a soul cling to these bones?

What does that soul do, dwelling here

In this sad flesh? Let it disappear,

And so be done with all its pain.

And so I should despise and blame

Myself, and tis true, for so I do.

Who loses all joy and comfort too

Through his own fault, he rightly

Should hate himself, and mortally.

He ought to hate himself and die.

Since none looks on, why should I

Spare myself, and not die today?

For, have I not seen this lion prey

To such grief, for me, that it tried

To kill itself, and well-nigh died

By hurling itself upon my sword?

Should I escape such death the more

Who have turned delight to sorrow?

Delight is far distant from me now.

But of that I say naught: for, nay,

There is, now, but naught to say.

And all is but a foolish question.

That joy I had in my possession

Proved the greatest joy of mine,

And yet endured such little time;

Who ends his joy by his own hand,

Good fortune should ne’er command.’

Lines 3563-3898 Yvain promises to rescue Lunete

WHILE Yvain bemoaned his fate

Our poor Lunete, in wretched state,

Imprisoned in the chapel there,

Heard, and saw this whole affair,

Through a crevice in the wall.

And as soon as Yvain was all

Recovered from his swoon, she cried:

‘Now tell me, who is this outside?

Who is it who complaineth so?’

He said: ‘Who is it who would know?’

‘I am,’ she said, ‘a wretched thing,

For I’m the saddest person living.’

And he replied: ‘Ah, fool, be silent!

Your grief is joy, your ill content.

Those who by great joy are won,

Are more saddened and more stunned

By grief than others, when it comes;

The weaker one, by use and custom,

May bear more weight than can another,

Though of greater strength, moreover,

Despite all that the latter would do.’

‘By my faith,’ she said, ‘tis true,

These words you utter I believe,

Yet tis no reason to conceive

That your ills are worse than mine,

And as for that, though you repine,

It seems to me that you are free

To go where’er you wish to be,

While I remain imprisoned here;

Such is my fate, it would appear,

Thus I shall be seized tomorrow,

And must to mortal justice bow.’

‘My God,’ said he, ‘for what misdeed?

‘Sir knight,’ she said, ‘let God indeed

Ne’er have mercy on my poor soul

If I have ever deserved such woe!

Nonetheless I’ll explain to you,

And every word I speak is true,

Why it should be I lie in prison:

I am here, then, accused of treason,

And to defend me can find none;

Tomorrow, I’ll be burned or hung.’

‘Well then,’ he replied, ‘I still say,

That my grief and sorrow outweigh

This grief and woe of yours, for you

Might be delivered by one who knew

Of the danger in which you lay.

Might that be so?’ ‘Why yes, I say!

But who that might be I know not,

There are only two men, God wot,

Who would dare to so defend me,

By warring against three enemies.’

‘What,’ said he, ‘then there are three?’

‘Yes, sir knight, ‘by my faith, there be

Three who call me a traitor, I know’

‘Who are the two who love you so,

That either would be daring enough

To go against these three, for love,

And save and protect you, say I?’

‘I will tell you, and speak no lie,

For the one is my Lord Gawain,

And the other is my Lord Yvain,

Through whom, unjustly, I shall be

Martyred tomorrow; tis death to me.’

‘Through whom? What say you?’ said he,

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘May God defend me,

Through the son of King Urien.’

‘And now,’ he said, ‘I comprehend!

You’ll not die except he dies too,

For I am Yvain, through whom you

Are now prisoned, in deep distress.

And you indeed must be, no less,

Than that Lunete who, most bravely,

Guarded and preserved my body

And life, twixt those portcullises,

When I was troubled and in distress,

Well-dismayed at being so caught.

I should have been killed for sport

Or taken then, if not for your aid.

So tell me then, my sweet maid,

Who is it accuses you of treason,

And keeps you here in this prison,

In such secluded confines too?’

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I’ll hide naught from you,

Since you would have me tell you all;

Nor was I slow, as I recall,

To assist you in all good faith;

Twas upon my advice i’faith,

My lady took you as her sire,

And by my counsel did so desire;

And, by the sacred Paternoster,

I believed it was for her, rather

Than you, indeed, that I did so;

In all of this I’d have you know.

It was her honour and your desire

I served; God knows I am no liar.

But when it came about that you

Had not returned when you were due,

Within the year that you agreed,

My lady was furious with me,

And said that she had been deceived

By all I’d said, that she’d believed.

And once she’d told her Seneschal,

A cunning and a faithless rascal,

Who towards me bore great envy;

For on many a matter, you see,

She trusted him far less than me.

He knew to pursue his enmity

Against me, and claimed ere long, 

In open court, all looking on,

I treacherously favoured you;

Nor had I aid or counsel true,

Except mine own, and yet I knew

Never had I sought to pursue

Treachery in deed, or thought.

So I answered, before the court,

Without taking counsel myself,

That I would be defended well,

By one who’d battle any three.

He was so lacking in courtesy

That he disdained to refuse,

Nor could I retreat, or excuse

Myself whate’er might happen.

At my word had I been taken;

So I was forced to furnish bail,

And in forty days, without fail,

Must find a knight to battle three.

Many courts I journeyed to see;

I travelled to King Arthur’s court,

But found no aid, nor what I sought,

Nor were there any there who could

Tell aught of you, for ill or good,

For of yourself they had no news.’

‘Where then was that kind and true,

And honest knight, my Lord Gawain?

Any maid that to him complained

On approaching him, her distress

He’d ne’er fail thus to address.’

‘If I had found Gawain at court,

Whatever it was that I now sought

He would ne’er have denied it me,

But some knight, so they told me,

Had lately carried off the Queen,

The King having, quite foolishly,

Let her abroad, in his company;

The King, I believe, sent Gawain

After the knight, and he was fain

To seek her, in his great distress.

Nor will he know a moment’s rest,

Until he again restores the lady.

Now have I, and in verity,

Told the whole of my adventure.

Yet tomorrow I’ll live no longer,

For a shameful death, I’ll meet,

All through you and your deceit.’

 ‘May God forbid,’ Yvain replied,

‘That e’er, for me, you should die!’

Nor shall you yet, while I am here.

Tomorrow, then, will I appear,

Prepared, with all my strength,

To employ my body, at length,

For your deliverance, as I ought.

Take care, if my name is sought,

To tell all those present naught!

And when the battle has been fought,

Still utter not a word of me.’

‘There’s no torment, of a certainty,

Would make me reveal your name,

Since you charge me with the same;

Sire, I would rather suffer death.

Yet I pray that you, nonetheless,

Do not battle thus for my sake.

I would not have you undertake

Such a desperate fight as this.

I thank you too for your promise

That you would willingly do so;

Think yourself free of it, though,

For better it is that I die alone

Than witness the pleasure shown

At your fate, as well as mine;

For to death they’ll me consign

Once they have seen you killed;

Tis better that you live on still,

Than that both encounter death.’

‘Now’ said Yvain, ‘I feel the breath

Of your despair, my dear friend;

I fear that either you intend

To seek death and not be saved,

Or do despise the willing aid

I bring to your deliverance.

Cease such pleas to advance,

For you have wrought so much for me

I shall not fail, of a surety,

To bring you aid, come what may.

Though I witness your dismay;

If it please God, in whom I trust

All three shall lie there in the dust.

Now no more, for now I should

Seek some shelter in that wood,

Since there can be no lodging here.’

‘She replied, ‘May God, my dear,

Give you good shelter and good night,

And, as I wish, keep you outright

From every danger there might be!’

My Lord Yvain, went guardedly

On his way, and the lion after.

They went on, a little further,

Reaching the castle of a baron,

Both well-fortified and strong,

Its walls high, with nary a fault;

Thus the castle feared no assault,

From catapult or mangonel,

Nor could it be stormed at will;

And outside the walls the ground

Had been cleared all around,

With never a hut or dwelling.

And you may hear at some fitting

Time the reason why that was so.

Now, my Lord Gawain did go

The shortest way to the castle,

And seven pages forth did amble,

Once the bridge had been lowered,

To meet him, and yet they cowered

When they had sight of the lion,

All being most afeared of him;

So they asked him, if he pleased,

Whether the lion, for their ease,

Might wait outside, before the gate.

Yvain replied: ‘No more! I state

That I’ll not enter without him;

Either we find lodgings within,

Or I’ll remain outside, myself,

For he is as dear as my own self.

Nonetheless you need fear him not,

For I will keep him close, God wot,

So all of you may be reassured.’

They answered: ‘Be it so, my lord!’

Then the castle they do enter,

And pass on till they encounter

Many a knight and fair lady,

Many a maid of high degree,

Who salute him with honour,

Helping him remove his armour,

Saying: ‘Welcome be yours, fair sir,

Who enter now among us here,

And God grant that you may stay

Until you leave us, on a day,

Rich in honour, and content.’

This, high and low, is their intent;

Their pleasure in him to display,

As they to the castle lead away.

But when their first joy is over,

A deep sadness they remember,

Which makes them forget their joy;

Tears and cries they now employ,

And begin themselves to cudgel.

Thus for a long while they mingle

Tears with joy, joy with sadness;

Joy still in honouring their guest,

Yet their thoughts are elsewhere,

For an event fills them with care

That they expect on the morrow,

Certain they are that it will follow;

Happening, indeed, before midday.

My Lord Yvain was so amazed

At all these frequent changes of tack,

From joyousness to grief, and back,

That he advanced that very question,

Asking the castle’s lord the reason:

‘Fair, dear and gentle sir,’ said he,

‘By God in heaven, please tell me

Why you all have honoured me so,

And thus mix your joy with sorrow?’

‘Yes, if such should be your pleasure,

Yet to know naught of the matter,

Would yet prove far wiser a wish;

To sadden you by speaking of this,

Is what I would ne’er seek to do,

For it can only bring grief to you.’

‘I must not do naught, leave all be,

And fail to hear the truth,’ said he,

‘For I wish greatly now to know,

What trial tis I must undergo.’

‘Well then, I’ll seek to tell you all.

A giant doth this realm appal,

By seeking after my daughter,

Who is more lovely, and by far,

Than any maiden to be found.

This fell giant, whom God confound,

Is named Harpin of the Mountain,

Who, every day, doth cause me pain,

By seizing, from me, all he can.

Better right than I hath no man

To complain, lament, and grieve;

I shall go mad, ah, I do believe,

For had not I six knightly sons,

In all the world the fairest ones,

And the giant has seized all six;

Before my eyes, two he picked

To kill, and the rest, tomorrow,

He will slay, to my great sorrow,

Except I can find one who might

For the lives of my four sons fight,

Or surrender my daughter to him,

Whom he says that he will ruin,

And give to the vilest of his court

The basest fellows, for their sport,

Since he himself loves her no longer.

Such the grief tomorrow offers,

If you or God deny me aid.

So tis not any wonder today

Fair sir, that we are full of sorrow;

Yet, for you, we try to borrow,

For a moment, a cheerful face,

And honour you in this place.

For he’s a fool who has as guest

A nobleman, and fails of his best,

And a noble man you seem to be.

Now have I explained wholly,

The whole cause of our distress;

For in neither town nor fortress

Has this giant left for us aught

Except all that here we brought.

If you have taken a look around,

Then indeed you’ll have found

He has scarce left an egg or two,

But for the walls which are new;

For he has almost razed the place.

When he has taken or defaced

All he wishes, the rest he fires,

And torments me as he desires.’

Lines 3899-3956 Yvain agrees to fight the giant, Harpin

MY Lord Yvain attention paid

To all that his host had to say;

When he had heard everything,

He was pleased to answer him:

‘Sire,’ said he, ‘your unhappiness

Yields me much sorrow and distress,

And yet to me it seems a marvel,

That you have ne’er sought counsel

At the court of good King Arthur,

For there’s no man of such power

That at his court he could not find

Many a knight who’d feel inclined

To prove themselves against him.’

Then this man of wealth tells him

That, at the court, indeed, he would

Have found true aid if any could

Have told him where to find Gawain.

‘Nor would I have asked in vain,

For my wife is his cousin germain:

But a foreign knight had been fain

To lead away the wife of the king,

Whom at the court he’d gone seeking,

Nor would he have succeeded too,

Not by any means that he knew,

Had not Kay beguiled King Arthur

Such that the king had placed her

In the man’s charge, in all innocence;

He a fool, she lacking prudence.

Great the harm and great the loss,

And great the both to me because

Tis certain that my Lord Gawain

Would have hastened here again

For his niece and for his nephews,

If of this matter he’d heard news;

But he knows naught, and so I grieve,

Enough to break one’s heart, I believe;

For he’s gone chasing after that same

Knight, to whom may God grant shame

And woe, for leading the Queen away.’

Hearing all this, my Lord Yvain

Doth frequently yield up a sigh,

And, driven by pity, doth reply:

‘Fair noble sir, right willingly

Will I, instead, take upon me,

This adventure, and its peril,

If the giant and your sons will

Only arrive tomorrow in time,

Delaying me but little, for I’m

Bound to be away, and soon;

Tomorrow at the hour of noon,

A promise I uttered I must keep.’

‘Fair sir, my thanks you shall reap,

A hundred thousand times indeed,’

Said the nobleman, ‘for this deed.’

And all the good folk in his castle,

They thank my Lord Yvain as well.

Lines 3957-4384 Yvain slays the giant, then hastens to save Lunete

THEN came forth from her chamber,

A lovely maiden, his fair daughter,

Her form graceful, her face pleasing.

She was simple, quiet, and grieving,

For her sorrow appeared endless;

Her head was inclined, in sadness.

And then her mother entered too,

For the host had summoned the two

To come to him, and meet his guest;

Both held their mantles to their heads

In order to conceal their tears,

But he urged them to calm their fears,

And uncover their faces straight,

Saying: ‘You should not hesitate,

To do as I now command you to;

God and good fortune have, today,

Brought you this noble man, I say,

And he will fight the giant for us.

Now give thanks to the courageous,

And throw yourselves at his feet!’

‘May God forbid, it is not meet;

Tis no way fitting for me to see

These ladies offer such courtesies,

Sister and niece to my Lord Gawain,’

In protest cried, my Lord Yvain.

And may God Himself defend me

From such pride as could ever see

Them humbling themselves at my name,

For I could never forget the shame.

But I would yet give thanks if they

Were comforted a little this day;

And then tomorrow they will see

If God Himself will grant them mercy.

Yet now I have no other prayer

But that the giant will be there,

And in good time, that I may not

Break my true word, for I must not

Fail to be present at noon elsewhere

Tomorrow, at a mighty affair,

The worst business I must say

I’ve undertaken for many a day.’

Thus doth Yvain show unwilling

To reassure them quite, knowing

That if the giant fails to appear,

In ample time, he must, he fears,

Still rescue Lunete, the maiden,

In the chapel as yet imprisoned.

Nevertheless what he doth promise

Leaves them full of hopefulness;

And he is thanked by one and all,

For his prowess, that men recall,

And think him a true nobleman

Seeing his lion, like a lamb,

As confident in man’s company

As any creature e’er might be.

The hope that they place in him

Comforts and brings joy to them,

And they lay aside their sadness.

And when the hour arrived for rest,

They led him to a fine chamber.

Both the maiden and her mother

Escorted him to a room, quite near,

For they already held him dear,

And a hundred thousand times more

Would have done so, I am sure,

If they’d known all his courtesy

And prowess; and the lion and he

Both lay down, and fell asleep.

But the others all feared the beast,

And shut the door up tight so they

Could not emerge, come what may;

Till the next day, when in the morn,

The door was opened wide at dawn.

Yvain arose, and next heard Mass,

And then, as promised, he let pass

The hour of prime, ere summoning

In the hearing of all, his host to him,

Then he addressed him, with honour:

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I can wait no longer,

Let me leave, though you wish it not,

For though I linger here, I must not.

But I would have you know that I

Would gladly have stayed to defy

The giant, and I will, awhile at least,

For the sake of the nephews and niece

Of my Lord Gawain, whom I do love.’

At this the maiden is sorely moved,

Her every vein trembles in fear;

The lady and her lord appear

As moved, fearing he will depart,

Wishing from the depths of their hearts

That they might stoop there at his feet,

Yet knowing he’d think it not meet,

Deeming it neither well nor good.

So then his host offered him goods,

Either in land, or some other guise,

Could he but agree, in any wise,

That he with them might so remain.

‘God forbid,’ cried my Lord Yvain,

‘That I should accept aught of yours!

From the maiden the tears do pour;

Greatly she grieves, in her dismay,

Begging him thus that he might stay.

A maid distraught and in distress,

By the Queen of Heaven she begs,

By the angels, and the Lord above,

‘By the Queen of Heaven she begs, by the angels, and the Lord above’
The Book of Romance (p352, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

That he will elect not to remove,

And for a little while might wait,

For her and for her uncle’s sake,

Whom he doth know, love and prize.

Then doth great pity within him rise,

On hearing her proffer her request,

In the name of the man he loves best,

And in that of the Queen of Heaven,

And God Himself, the sweet leaven,

The honey of mercy none may deny.

Full of anguish he heaves a sigh;

For the kingdom of Tarsus, he

Would not see Lunete, cruelly,

Burned at the stake, she to whom

He gave his promise, for his doom

Would be death, or madness again,

If too late to her help he came;

Yet, on the other hand, to recall

The great kindnesses, above all,

Of his dear friend, Lord Gawain,

Near breaks his heart in two again,

He knowing that he cannot stay.

And yet he doth not ride away,

But so delays and lingers near,

The giant doth suddenly appear,

Driving, in front of him, the knights,

And hanging there at neck-height,

He carries a stake, big and square,

Point before, spurring them there.

Nor were they clothed in aught

Worth a straw, dressed in naught

But torn shirts, filthy and soiled;

Hands and feet tied, they toiled

To stay aloft, on four tired hacks

Weak and thin, with broken backs,

That limped on, as best they could.

As they advanced, beside the wood,

A dwarf, hunchbacked and swollen,

Who’d knotted the horses’ tails in one,

Beat the knights, remorselessly

With a four-tailed scourge, till he

Had marred them from head to toe,

As though some prize for doing so

Were his. He beat them till they bled,

Thus were they shamefully sped,

Betwixt the giant and the dwarf.

The giant cried out to the lord,

Before the gate there, in the plain,

That his four sons would now be slain,

If he did not produce his daughter,

So as to avoid their slaughter;

Then the daughter he would offer

To his lads, to make sport of her,

For he’d not love, or have her, ever;

She’d have a thousand lads about her,

Often enough, and repeatedly,

Naked wretches, vile and lousy,

Scullery boys, scum from the kitchen,

Who’d all grant her their attention.

At this the lord was sore dismayed,

Listening to this fellow portray

What fate his daughter would face,

Or, should he save her from disgrace,

Hearing how his four sons would die.

And such distress is his, say I,

That he would rather die than live.

Full often a deep sigh he doth give,

And weeps and bemoans the day.

Then to him Lord Yvain doth say:

‘Sire, most vile, most insolent,

Boastful, indeed, is this giant.

Yet God above will ne’er suffer

Your daughter to be in his power!’

So says my frank and noble Yvain.

‘He insults her, and shows disdain.

Dire would be the misadventure,

If indeed so lovely a creature,

And one of such high import,

Were given to vile lads in sport.

Come, my armour, and my steed!

Lower the drawbridge now, with speed,

And let me forth, for forth I must.

One will be left here in the dust,

Whether he or I, I do not know;

Yet can I but humiliate, though,

This cruel felon at your gate

Who comes against you straight,

Such that he renders you your sons,

And, for his insults, have him come

And make amends to you, then I

May commend you to God on high,

And go about my own affairs.’

His horse was led to him there,

And a squire his armour brought,

And to arm him swiftly sought,

So that he was soon equipped.

In doing so they let naught slip,

Taking as little time as they might.

Once they had fully armed the knight,

There was naught remained but, lo,

To lower the bridge and let him go.

They lowered it and away he went

Nor was the lion, his friend, content

By any means, to remain behind;

While those who were so left, I find,

Commended him to Our Saviour,

For they greatly feared the power

Of that miscreant, their enemy,

Who’d conquered and slain so many,

On that field, before their eyes,

Anxious lest this end likewise.

So they pray God might defend

From death and save their friend,

And grant he might kill the giant.

And each man prays, as best he can,

Most silently to his God above.

For now the giant made a move,

A fierce advance, threatening too,

Crying: ‘The man who hath sent you

Loves you but little, by my eyes!

And for certain he could realise

Vengeance on you in no better way.

He wreaks his revenge well, I say,

For whatever wrong you’ve done.’

But Yvain, who was afraid of none,

Replied: ‘Mere empty speech I find.

Now do your best and I will mine,

You weary me with words in vain.’

And thereupon my Lord Yvain,

Now anxious to be on his way,

Struck the giant, in fierce assay,

Whose breast a bear-skin covered.

Though the giant soon recovered,

And ran towards him, full pelt,

My Lord Yvain a fresh blow dealt,

On his breast, that broke the skin,

And the tip of his lance drove in,

And tasted hot blood in its course.

Yet, wielding the stake with force,

The giant forced him to bow low.

Yvain drew his sword, fierce blows

Of which he could swiftly deal,

Knowing the giant lacked a shield,

Reliant on brute force instead,

Scorning armour, helm for his head;

Thus he, who had drawn his blade,

‘Against the giant now made assay, struck the giant a trenchant blow’
The Book of Romance (p260, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Against the giant now made assay,

Struck the giant a trenchant blow,

Not with the flat, but slicing so

As to cut from his cheek a steak,

While the other, wielding his stake,

Dealt Yvain such a blow he fell

Over his horse’s neck, as well.

At the blow, the lion, unafraid,

Rose up, to bring its master aid,

And leapt in anger, tooth and claw

Shredding the pelt the giant wore,

In its rage, like the bark of a tree.

Thus it tore away a massive piece

Of the thigh, with its layer of skin,

Flesh and sinew embedded within.

The giant fought free, with a fierce pull,

Roaring and bellowing, like a bull,

For the lion had wounded him badly.

Wielding his stake in both hands, madly,

He thought to strike the lion but failed,

For the cunning lion swift turned tail,

The giant’s blow was dealt in vain,

And he fell beside my Lord Yvain,

But without either of them touching.

Now did my Lord Yvain, wielding

His sharp sword, land two great blows,

Dealt quickly, before the giant rose,

And with the trenchant edge cut free

The arm and shoulder from the body;

With his next blow he drove the rest

Through the liver, below the chest,

Driving home the whole of his blade;

The giant fell; with his life he paid.

And if a massive oak were to fall,

Twould make no greater sound at all,

Than that giant made when he fell.

All those upon the wall were well

Pleased at seeing that mighty blow.

Then were the speediest seen below,

Longing to be first at the kill,

Like hounds in the chase that will

Run till they seize upon the deer;

So the men and women ran here,

Towards the giant without delay,

Where he now, face downward, lay.

And the lord hastened there as well,

And all the nobles from the castle,

And the daughter, and her mother;

While joy reigned among the brothers,

After the woe those four had suffered.

But though their services they offered,

They saw they could no longer detain,

Despite their prayers, my Lord Yvain;

And yet they beseeched him to return,

To stay and enjoy the rest he’d earned,

As soon as he’d done with the affair

That was summoning him elsewhere.

And he replied that he did not dare

To promise them aught for, once there,

He could say naught for certain, till

He knew if fate meant him good or ill;

But this much he did ask of the lord,

That his four sons seize the dwarf,

And with his daughter ride, amain,

To the court, to my Lord Gawain,

Once they knew of that knight’s return;

And all that happened, there, confirm,

And relate what he had done, alone;

For good deeds should be widely known.

The lord replied: ‘Twould not be right

To hide such kindness from the light,

And,’ he added ‘be sure we shall do

Whatever it is you’d wish us to;

But tell me now what should we say,

Sire, when we meet with Lord Gawain;

To whom should we grant the fame,

Having no knowledge of your name?’

And he replied: ‘This shall you say

When you stand afore him that day,

The Knight of the Lion is my name,

And that I told you to state the same.’

And I now make a request, that you

Convey, from me to him, this truth:

If he knows not then who I may be,

Yet I know him well as he doth me.

There is naught else I require of you,

And thus I must bid you all adieu;

That which doth me most dismay

Is that too long I extend my stay;

For ere the hour of noon is past,

I face elsewhere an ample task,

If I can indeed outrun the hour.’

Then swiftly he rode from the tower,

Though, before he went, his host

Begged him, to the very utmost,

To take with him his four sons,

For of the four there was not one

Would fail to serve him if he wished.

It pleases him not, though they insist,

That any should keep him company;

Forth he goes, that place doth leave,

And, careless of both life and limb,

As fast as his horse can carry him,

He now returns to the distant chapel.

The way ran straight toward the dell,

And he knew how to keep the road;

Before he reached the chapel though

They had dragged Lunete outside;

Already the pyre was raised on high,

On which she’d die in short shrift.

And there, naked but for her shift,

Bound before the pyre they held her,

All those who did her guilt infer,

Based on a plot that she denied.

And now it was that Yvain arrived,

Saw to what they would bring her,

And was thus consumed by anger;

For neither courteous nor wise

Are any who’d think him otherwise.

Indeed his anger proves immense,

But he trusts in God, and hence

That God and the right will see

Him right, they being of his party.

For in their company he will fight,

And no less trusts the lion’s might.

On the crowd he advances swiftly,

Crying: ‘Now, let the maid go free,

You sinful folk, as I do command!

It is not right that she should stand

Within the flames, though innocent.’

And on either side they now relent,

And part to leave him passage way,

Neither will he brook more delay,

Until his own eyes gaze on, there,

She whom he must aid, where’er

She might be, with all his heart;

So his eyes seek her, for his part,

Until he finds her, yet restrains

His heart, as one grasps the reins,

And holds in check, a lively steed.

Nonetheless, he is glad, indeed,

To see her, and sighs so to see,

Although he sighs not openly,

That none might see he does so,

Stifling all, that none might know.

And he is seized with pity also

When he sees, hears, and knows

The grief of the ladies, who cry,

With many a sad tear and sigh:

‘Ah God, thus, you forget us now,

Leave us in deep despair, we trow,

We who shall lose so dear a friend,

Who such good counsel us did lend,

And did intercede for us at court!

She it was for our comfort besought

My lady to clothe us in robes of vair;

All altered now will be our affairs,

For there’ll be none to speak for us.

Cursed be he who caused our loss,

For great is the harm he has brought.

There will be none to say at court:

“Dear lady, give that cloak of vair,

That surcoat and that fine gown there,

To such and such an honest maid,”

For so her charity she displayed,

“Truly, right well will you employ,

These things with which you toy,

For she is in need of them today.”

Such words as these none will say,

For none are so true and courteous;

Rather than helping others thus,

Each seeks their own to secure,

Though they need nothing more.’

Lines 4385-4474 Yvain champions Lunete

THUS did they lament their fate,

And my Lord Yvain, as I do state,

Among them all, heard their plaint,

Which was neither false nor faint:

He saw Lunete there, on her knees,

‘He saw Lunete there, on her knees’
The Book of Romance (p132, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

In her shift, as the law doth please;

She had already made confession,

Besought God’s mercy for her sins,

And summoned up her punishment.

Yvain, who’d loved her deeply, went

Towards her, raised her to her feet,

And said: ‘Dear maid, where may I meet,

Those who’ve accused you from afar?

Let them come from where’er they are,

And, here and now, do battle with me.’

And she who’d neither sought to see,

Nor look at, him said: ‘Sire, indeed,

You come now in my hour of need,

On God’s behalf, for so it must be!

Those who bore false testimony,

They stand all about me here.

If you’d arrived much later, I fear,

I’d have been but ash and cinder.

But you are here, as my defender,

And may God grant you strength,

In accord with my innocence,

As regards the charge against me.’

The Seneschal listened to this speech,

With his two brothers by his side,

‘Ah, woman, truth averse,’ they cried,

‘But full ready with many a lie!

That knight’s a fool who seeks to die,

On your account, in this affair.

That knight is a sad rascal there,

Who comes now to challenge me,

When he is one, and we are three.

My advice to him is: retreat,

Before your downfall proves complete.’

Yvain replied, now angered quite:

‘Let those flee who fear, sir knight!

I’m not so scared of your three shields,

That without a blow I’d yield.

I would prove a rascal indeed,

Did I the field to you concede,

Body intact, without a wound!

As long as I am whole and sound,

I’ll not flee for all your threats.

But I’d advise you to forget

Your claim now, and free this maid,

Whom you unjustly have waylaid;

She has said, and I believe her,

For on her faith she doth swear,

On peril of her soul, that she

Hath never committed treachery

Against her lady, in word or deed,

Or thought; to all that I accede,

Thus I’ll defend her as best I can,

For innocence will aid a man.

Hear, if you would, the truth, sir knight,

God ever holds to what is right.

For God and Justice they are friends,

And if to me their aid they send,

Then I am in worthy company,

And worthier aid is granted me.’

Then the other foolishly replies

That he may try him in any wise,

As he should please, or as he can,

So long as the lion is banned.

And Yvain replies that the lion

Will not fight as his companion,

And that he needs no other there.

But should the lion attack, beware,

Let him defend himself full well,

For more than that he cannot tell.

‘Whate’er you say,’ said the Seneschal,

‘If your lion you will not call,

And keep it quiet on one side,

You shall no longer here abide.

Be gone at once, and be wise,

For, in this country, all realise

How this girl betrayed her lady;

Tis right that she suffer swiftly

The punishment she doth merit.’

‘Not so, by the Holy Spirit,’

Cried Yvain, who knew the truth.

‘Let God deny me joy, forsooth,

If I should fail to deliver her!’

Then he told the lion to defer,

Retreat, and lie down silently,

And as requested, so did he.

Lines 4475-4532 Yvain fights the Seneschal and his brothers

THE lion withdrew completely;

And the dispute and the parley

Being ended both retreated;

Then all three Yvain greeted,

As he rode towards them slowly,

Not wishing to be beaten wholly,

Or toppled at the very first blow.

Thus keeping his own lance whole

He let the three their lances wield,

Making a target of his shield,

Against which each man broke his lance;

Yvain withdrew, better to advance,

And halted eighty yards away,

But then, not wishing to delay,

Returned to confront them all.

Attacking, he met the Seneschal

Before he ever reached his kin,

Splintering a lance upon him,

Despite the shield, laying him low,

Giving him such a mighty blow,

Long he lay stunned, disarmed,

Without the means to work harm.

And then the two brothers attacked;

With bare blades, they dealt no lack

Of mighty blows, both together,

But greater blows he doth deliver,

For every one of his compares

In power to any two of theirs.

Thus he defends himself so well

They fail to make their strength tell,

Until the Seneschal now recovered

Adds his weight to his two brothers’;

And all three then make their stand,

Thus slowly gaining the upper hand.

The lion, watching Yvain defend,

No longer waits to aid his friend;

Yvain needs him, now or never;

While the ladies, gathered together,

Who are all devoted to Lunete,

Call upon God to help him yet,

Begging Him, most earnestly,

Not to grant those three victory,

Nor let Yvain be killed that day,

Who for her doth enter the fray.

The ladies aid him with their prayers,

The only weapons that are theirs.

And the lion assists also

Such that with its very first blow

It strikes so at the Seneschal,

Who has risen after his fall,

That links fly from his chain mail

Like loose straw blown in a gale;

With such force it bowls him over,

Tearing the flesh from his shoulder,

And all down his left flank beside.

Whatever it touches it tears aside,

So that his innards are laid bare;

While his brothers, vengeance dare.

Lines 4533-4634 Yvain is victorious, and goes to seek his lady

NOW their numbers are both equal,

For the Seneschal’s wound is mortal,

As he twists, and writhes, and claws

Through a wave of blood that pours,

In a crimson stream, from his body.

While he thus did suffer greatly,

The lion now attacked the brothers.

Though Yvain, to deter the creature,

Menaced it with threats and blows,

‘Yvain, to deter the creature, menaced it with threats and blows’
The Book of Romance (p122, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

He failed to drive it backwards so.

And the lion doubtless knew,

Its master set no slight value

On its aid, but loved it the more;

So it attacked with greater force,

Till the brothers bent to its blows,

And it was wounded by its foes.

Yvain seeing the lion wounded,

Is pained to the heart, angered

By its treatment, and rightly so;

And in revenge strikes such blows

And presses them so hard that they

Are beaten back, and held at bay;

Till they are so weak defensively,

They throw themselves on his mercy;

Due most to the lion’s fierce attack,

Which had taken them so aback,

Though the beast was sore dismayed,

Wounded all over, by their blades. 

Nor for his part was my Lord Yvain

In any the less distress and pain,

With many a wound to his body.

Though for his own self his worry

Is less than for the wounded lion.

And now has he deliverance won

For the maiden, as he has wished,

And the lady has now dismissed

The charge against her, of her grace.

And those are burned in her place,

Who for her had built the pyre.

For tis right and just we require

Those who accuse the innocent

To receive the very punishment

That they themselves pronounce.

Now her joy doth Lunete announce,

Being reconciled with her mistress;

And they enjoy such happiness

As never did any two such before.

And all now offered to their lord,

While they lived, loyal service,

Without recognising him, that is.

Even the lady, she who had got

His heart, and yet knew him not,

Begged him to stay if he pleased

Until he was once more at ease,

And he and his lion recovered.

He replied: ‘Lady, I could never

Remain a moment in this place,

Until I am no more in disgrace

And my lady free of her anger;

That alone can end my labour.’

‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘that troubles me.

That lady must fail in courtesy,

Who shows anger toward you.

She should not close her door to

A knight who is so valorous,

Unless he has proven traitorous.’

‘Lady’ he said, ‘though it hurts me,

What e’er she wishes pleases me;

But speak no more of the matter,

For the reason, or the crime rather,

I will say naught of, but to those

Who know how the affair arose.’

‘Does any know of it but you two?’

‘Yes, truly, lady.’ ‘Well, your name

Fair sir, now tell me that very same,

And then you are quite free to leave.’

‘Quite free, lady? I must say nay,

For I owe more than I can pay.

Yet I ought not to hide, I own,

The name by which I may be known.

Word of the knight of the lion

You may hear, tis of me alone.

By that title I would be called.’

‘By God, fair sir, I cannot recall

That I have e’er seen you before,

Nor heard this name of yours?’

‘Lady, from that you may see,

It is not widely known indeed.’

The lady returned to her theme:

‘Once more, if it doth not seem

Displeasing to you, please stay.’

‘Lady, I’d dare not linger a day,

Unless I knew, of a certainty,

Her goodwill encompassed me.’

‘Then may God grant, fair sir,

That all you endure and suffer,

He of His grace may turn to joy!’

‘Lady, God hear, and thus employ

Such grace!’ he said. Then silently:

‘Lady, tis you that holds the key.

You possess though you know it not

The casket wherein my joy is locked.’

Lines 4635-4674 Yvain departs carrying the lion inside his shield

THEN he departed in great distress,

None knowing who he was, unless

We except Lunete, for she alone

Rode with him some way on her own.

‘She alone, rode with him some way on her own’
The Book of Romance (p10, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Lunete alone kept him company,

And he requested her, frequently,

Not to reveal whom he might be

The champion who’d set her free.

‘Sire,’ she replied, ‘I never would.’

Then he requested that she should

Remember him and strive that he

Be thought of kindly by his lady,

Whene’er, that is, she had the chance.

She says that, in that circumstance,

She will, and she will not forget,

But work for him as loyally yet.

He thanks in her a thousand ways,

Then, pensively, he rides away,

Concerned for his lion which he,

As it cannot walk, must carry.

Of his shield he makes a litter,

Employing moss, fern, and other

Fronds, in which he lays the lion

Just as gently as ever he can,

And carries him half-concealed,

Within the inmost of his shield.

Thus he goes to seek his fate,

Until he stops before the gate

Of a mansion, strong and fair.

Finding it shut, he halted there,

And called, upon which a porter

Opened the gate in short order,

Requiring no second command,

But seized the reins in his hand,

Saying to him: ‘Fair sir, enter,

My master’s greetings I proffer;

May it please you to descend.’

‘A lodging I would welcome, friend,’

Yvain replied, ‘for I’m in need

Of his hospitality, indeed.’

Lines 4675-4702 Yvain and the lion are cured of their wounds

THUS through the gate he passed,

And saw the household, en masse,

Running forward there to meet him,

Help him dismount, and greet him.

On the ground a space they made

For his shield where the lion lay,

Then took his horse by the bridle

And led it quietly to the stable,

While, as was their duty, others

Relieved him of arms and armour.

The master having heard the news

Came, just as soon as he knew,

To greet him there in the court,

And then his lady he had brought,

And his sons and daughters all,

And a host of others, from the hall,

Who offer him lodging, in delight.

They gave him a room, full quiet,

For they saw that he was wounded,

And showed kindness unbounded

By placing the lion at his side,

Who silently did there abide;

And to minister to him two maids

Well versed in surgery, now stayed

By his side, daughters of the lord,

Remaining there till he was cured.

But just how long he was there,

Whether a long or brief affair,

Before he and the lion were well,

And went away, I could not tell.

Lines 4703-4736 The two daughters of the Lord of Blackthorn

BUT, within that time, it appears

The Lord of Blackthorn, old in years,

Was set to have it out with death,

Death so robbing him of breath,

That he was thus obliged to die.

After his death it seems, say I,

That of the lord’s two daughters

The claim was made by the elder

That she would now rule the land

For all the days at her command;

The younger would take no share.

She would go, cried the younger,

To the court of good King Arthur,

And there pursue her claim further.

And when the elder sister saw

The younger would not withdraw

Her rightful claim on the estate

She was in a most dreadful state,

Thinking, if possible, she ought

To be the first to arrive at court.

So she prepared for the journey,

And once equipped did not tarry,

But rode till to the court she came.

Her sister followed, but in vain,

For though after her she chased,

And at full speed she did haste,

The elder had already gained

A hearing with my Lord Gawain,

And he had quickly promised her

That upon which they did confer.

But between them they agreed

If she said aught of it, then he’d

Not take up arms for her again;.

And she swore thus to Gawain.

Lines 4737-4758 The younger daughter arrives at Arthur’s court

NOW the younger arrived at court,

And she was attired in a short

Mantle of scarlet cloth and ermine.

Twas the third day since the Queen

Had returned from the prison where

Maleagant had been holding her,

With many another, in captivity,

And Lancelot, through treachery

In that tower was forced to stay.

And upon that very same day

That the younger came to court

News of the vile Harpin was brought,

That giant, that monstrous felon

Whom the brave knight of the lion

Had mortally wounded and defeated.

In his name, Gawain was greeted

By the nephew, and the niece, who

Told him all that they both knew

Of the knight’s service and prowess

In aiding them in their distress.

And said Gawain knew him well,

Though who he was none could tell.

Lines 4759-4820 The younger daughter requests a champion

OF this the younger was aware,

Such that she knew great despair,

And sadness and deep dejection,

For she’d find scant protection

At the court, and little assistance,

If its finest knight was absent.

She had appealed frequently

And insistently but lovingly

For aid to my Lord Gawain,

Yet he replied: ‘My dear, tis vain

To beg for my involvement there,

For I have at hand another affair,

Which in no way dare I neglect.’

So the maiden left him, to direct

Her steps at once towards the king.

‘King,’ she said, ‘I come seeking,

Counsel, at court, and yet I find

None, and wonder in my mind,

Why I can win no counsel so.

But it would not be right to go,

Without taking my leave of you.

My sister should know, for tis true,

She could obtain by being kind,

Whatever she wished of mine,

But I shall never bow to force,

And lose my inheritance because

Of her; never, while I seek aid.’

‘You speak wisely,’ the king said,

‘And since she is here I advise

And urge and beg her to be wise,

And grant to you what is your right.’

But the elder, sure of that knight

Who was the finest one could see,

Replied: ‘Sire, God punish me

If I ever divest of aught, to her,

Town or castle or glade confer,

Woods or fields, or aught at all.

But if some knight answers her call,

Who e’er he may be, and would fight,

Such that he might assert her right,

Well, let him step forward now.’

‘That is no fair offer, I avow,’

Said the king, ‘if she doth wish

To seek out a champion in this,

Forty days is what she ought

To be awarded by any court.’

Then the elder replied; ‘Sire,

The king makes law as he doth desire,

As he so pleases, and it is good,

It is not for me, it is understood,

To contradict him in any way,

So I must bow to what you say,

And grant her leave, if she so wish.’

The younger says that indeed it is

Her wish, she demands this thing,

Then to God commends the king,

And thus from the court departs,

Thinking to seek in every part

Through all the world, ceaselessly,

For the Knight of the Lion, for he

Devotes himself to bringing aid

To women in need, and afraid.

Lines 4821-4928 The maiden seeks the Knight of the Lion

THUS she entered upon her quest;

Through many a land she progressed,

Without news of him, by dale and hill;

And felt such sorrow that she fell ill.

But from that ill good came to her,

For the house of a friend of hers,

She attained, who loved her well.

Clearly from her face they could tell

That she was sick and ill did fare.

They insisted she rested there,

And when she told them of her plight

Another maid went to seek the knight;

In her place, the quest she entered on,

Sent forth to find where he had gone.

So the one stayed and took her rest,

While the other started on the quest.

Riding alone all day, she wandered

Until the darkness drew upon her.

Night brought her great anxiety

And her ills were doubled indeed;

The heavens oped in a cloudburst

As if God sought to do His worst,

And she there, deep in the woods;

They at night brought her no good.

But worse than the woods at night

Was the rain deepening her plight.

And the path was so poor indeed

That many a time her weary steed

Was steeped, up to its girth, in mud,

Now any maid, alone in a wood,

Would be dismayed without escort

At night, and by bad weather caught.

In such darkness she could not see

Her horse beneath her, so that she

Called to God first, then her mother

Then all the saints, one and another;

And offered up many a prayer

God would lead her to safety there,

And reveal the path from the wood.

While in prayer, she thought she could

Hear a horn-cry, which gave her joy,

For whoe’er that horn did so employ

Might offer her shelter, she bethought,

If she could but find what she sought.

So then she turned towards the sound,

And came to a stretch of paved ground,

And this paved causeway led her on

Towards the cry of the distant horn;

For three times, both loud and clear,

Sounded the horn’s call to her ear.

So she followed the road straight

And travelled, at her quickest gait,

Towards it till she came across,

As she rode on, a wayside cross,

Standing before her, on her right;

And she thought that way might

Lie both the horn and its owner.

So she gave her horse the spur,

Till she came to a bridge and saw

The barbican and the blank walls

Of a castle, of a circular nature.

For she’d arrived, peradventure,

At the castle by following

The sound of that horn calling,

A horn that it appears was blown

By a watchman stationed alone,

On the heights of the castle wall.

When he saw her he gave a call

To greet her, and then descended,

And the key of the gate then did

He take, and oped the gate, and said:

‘Welcome who e’er you be, fair maid,

For tonight you’ll be lodged well’

‘And I ask no more, truth to tell,’

Said the maid; and he showed her in.

After the trouble and the pain

She had encountered that day,

Now happy to find a place to stay,

She enjoyed much comfort there.

After dinner her host addressed her,

And was pleased to enquire, in short,

Where she went and what she sought.

‘I seek a knight in arms whom I’ve

‘Never seen,’ the maid replied,

‘To my knowledge, and never known.

A lion goes with him, and doth own

Him as its master, and they say

That I may trust in him alway.’

‘I bear witness to that,’ he said,

‘For he struck my enemy dead,

The other day, so avenging me;

Before my eyes, and delighting me.

And there tomorrow you may see

Beyond the gate, the mortal body

Of the monstrous giant he slew,

So easily he scarce changed hue.’

‘For God’s sake, sir,’ said the maid,

‘Give me fresh news of him, i’faith,

Whether he lodges here at present,

Or if you know which way he went!’

‘I know not, as God is my witness,

But tomorrow, on the road no less

By which he departed, I’ll start you.’

‘May God,’ she said, ‘lead me to

A place where I’ll have news of him,

For great is my joy if I can find him!’

Lines 4929-4964 The maiden approaches the magic fountain

THUS they conversed, as I have said,

Till the hour came to retire to bed.

When dawn broke the following day

The maiden arose to go her way,

Anxious, not wishing to stay for aught

Till she had found the one she sought.

And the master of that mansion

Arose, and all his companions,

And pointed the road to the shrine,

By the fountain beneath the pine.

Then she promptly hastened away

To the castle, by that straight way;

And when she arrived, within sound

Of it, asked the first folk she found

If they’d at any time had sight

Of the lion and of the knight,

Travelling there in company.

And they told her that they did see

Him conquer three other knights

And in that very place, outright.

And she responded, instantly:

‘For God’s sake hide naught from me,

Since you’ve already spoken freely,

If you know more you must tell me.’

‘No,’ they said, ‘we know no more

Than we have spoken of before.

We know nothing of what became

Of him; if she, for whom he came,

Can give you no further news,

None here can enlighten you,

And if you wish to speak to her,

You need not go much further,

For she’s in prayer to God quite near,

And to that church has gone to hear

The Mass, and has been there so long,

Prolonged must be her orisons.’ 

Lines 4965-5106 Yvain agrees to champion the younger daughter

WHILE they were in conversation,

Lunete returned from her devotions.

‘Now,’ they cried, ‘you shall meet her.’

So the maiden ran to greet her;

And after greeting one another,

The maiden promptly asked her

For news of the knight she sought.

So Lunete asked to have brought,

And saddled, her own fair palfrey;

She’d keep the maiden company,

To where she’d last had sight,

In a meadow there, of the knight.

The maiden thanked her profusely,

And as soon as Lunete’s palfrey

Had been brought she mounted.

As they rode, Lunete recounted

How she’d been accused of treason

And imprisoned, without reason;

And how the fire had then been lit,

To which they’d have her submit;

And how he’d brought aid indeed

In that, her hour of greatest need.

And speaking thus Lunete led her

Along the road to the mead where

She’d parted from my Lord Yvain.

On reaching that same spot again,

She said to her: ‘Now take this road,

Until you come to a place I know

Were you’ll hear fresher news, if it

Pleases God and the Holy Spirit,

Than I can give to you, in truth.

I know I left him here, forsooth,

But know not where he was bound.

He needed dressings for his wounds,

When he parted thus from me.

I send you after him, you see;

If God wills you’ll find him well,

Tonight, tomorrow, I cannot tell.

Now go; to God I commend you,

For no longer may I ride with you,

Lest my lady’s displeased with me.’

Then the two parted company;

Lunete turned back, the maid rode on

Alone, till she reached the mansion,

Where Yvain sought bed and board,

Until his health was quite restored.

There, before the gate, she sees

Men-at-arms, and knights and ladies,

And the lord of the manse, also.

She greets them, and would know

If they have any news to tell

And can inform her, as well,

Concerning the knight she seeks.

‘What knight?’ they ask, ‘It is he

Whom a lion accompanies, they say.’

‘Fair maid,’ the lord says, ‘by my faith,

He hath parted but now from us.

By eve, if such be your purpose,

And you follow him without delay,

You may overtake him on his way.’

She says: ‘God save me from delay,

But tell me now, Sire, which way

I should follow.’ And he replies:

‘That road, ahead, he took, say I.’

Then they ask her to pass on

Their greetings to him, but she is gone,

Without heeding their courtesy,

Galloping away, at full speed.

Now the time passed all too slow,

It seemed, to her, even though

The palfrey’s pace was fast and good.

Thus she galloped through the mud,

And where the road ran flat and true,

Until the brave knight came in view,

With the lion in his company.

Then, in delight: ‘Thank God!’ cried she.

‘Now I see him who was long hidden!

Well have I sought, as I was bidden.

Yet, if I find him but naught attain,

In meeting him where is the gain?

Little, or nothing, that I can see;

For if he fails to return with me,

Then I have wasted all my pains.’

So saying, she pressed on again,

Such that her palfrey was all a-sweat.

At last she neared him, and they met,

And he replied, to her greeting:

‘God save you, fair maid, in meeting,

And deliver you from grief and woe!’

‘God save you, fair maid, in meeting’
The Book of Romance (p70, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

‘And you, sire, who, or I hope so,

Will now deliver me of my task.’

Then she drew near, his aid to ask:

 ‘Sire, I have long sought for you.

For your renown and worth I knew,

Such that I’ve followed tirelessly

Many a long mile of this country.

So hard I followed, God of his grace

Hath led me to you in this place.

And whatever ill kept me company,

I no longer feel its malaise in me,

Nor complain of it, nor remember.

I feel lightness in every member,

For my sorrow has flown away,

On meeting here with you this day.

The need I speak of is not mine,

For I am sent by one more fine;

A woman nobler, more excellent.

But if her hope in you is spent,

And your renown is traitor to her,

She expects aid from no other.

For through you she seeks to end

Her sister’s suit, and so defend

Her right to her inheritance.

And she desires no other lance,

For none at all can persuade her

That any other knight could aid her.

By securing what is her share,

You would win, in this affair,

Honour, and love, sir knight,

By asserting her lawful right.

She herself was seeking you,

To ask all she hoped of you,

And here would be no other,

Had sickness not detained her,

Forcing her to take to her bed.

Now tell me, if you please,’ she said,

‘Whether you’ll dare to appear,

Or whether you will idle here.’

‘No,’ said he, ‘no man wins praise

By idling away his days.

Nor will I to idleness lend

Myself; I’ll follow you, sweet friend,

Willingly, where’er you please.

And if she has great need of me,

She for whom this knight you sought,

Banish all fear from your thought,

That I might fail in this, my duty.

Now God, of His good grace, grant me

Both the courage and the might

To thus defend her lawful right!’

Lines 5107-5184 The Castle of Ill Adventure

AND so, conversing together,

They ride, till they encounter

The Castle of Ill Adventure.

They’ve no wish then to ride further,

For the day is fast declining.

To the castle they come riding,

And the folk, seeing them come,

Call out to the knight, as one:

‘Ill-come here, sir, ill-come here!

This lodging doth to you appear

That you might suffer ill and shame:

An abbot e’en would swear the same!’

‘Ah, foolish folk and villainous,

Are you so vile and mischievous,

Are you so lacking in all pride;

Why assail me thus?’ he cried.

‘Why? That, you’ll soon discover,

If you advance a little further;

Yet you’ll learn nothing more

Until you do ascend the tower;

So climb you up to the fortress.’

Now doth my Lord Yvain address

The steep; and the folk cry out,

All as one, and loud they shout:

‘Ah! Wretch, where will you climb?

If ever, in life, there was a time

You found aught that brought you woe

And shame, whither you now go

Such, there, will be done to you

You’ll ne’er tell of what ensues.’

‘You folk, lacking honour or pity,

You folk, filled with audacity,

Why must you assail me like this?

What seek you? What is your wish,

That after me you yap this way?’

‘Friend, keep you your anger at bay.’

Cried a woman, wrinkled with age,

Who seemed most courteous and sage.’

‘They mean no harm by what they say,

They are merely warning you away;

And if you grasp what you hear aright,

You’ll not choose to stay the night.

Though they dare not tell you why,

They give fair warning with their cry,

Because they wish to rouse your fear.

And this they do for all who appear,

All who to the tower would climb,

To give them warning in due time.

The custom is that we outside

Grant no lodging, whate’er betide,

To any gentleman riding by,

Who would outside the tower lie.

What happens now be on your head,

None will thwart you, as I have said:

Should you wish it, you may ascend,

But take my advice, and turn again.’

‘Lady,’ said he, ‘were I to take

That path, twould be a dire mistake,

By which I might honour forego,

And furthermore I do not know

What other lodging I could find.’

‘By my faith, tis no concern of mine,’

She said: ‘and now I’ll silent be.

You may go where’er you please.

Nevertheless twould give me joy

Should you return again, my boy,

Without incurring too much shame,

Though tis unlikely,’ said the dame.

‘Lady, God grant your wish,’ said he,

‘In thrall my errant heart holds me,

I must do what my heart desires.’

And so to the gate he now retires,

The lion and maid in company;

And the porter calls full loudly,

Crying: ‘Come, and come apace,

Now are you destined for a place

Where you’ll be lodged with care,

And ill shall be your visit there.’

Lines 5185-5346 The three hundred maidens

THUS the porter made an end,

And hastening then to ascend,

After his ill speech, gave a sigh.

My Lord Yvain, without reply,

Passed straight on, and there he found

A great hall, both fine and sound;

Before it, was a walled courtyard,

By long and pointed stakes marred.

Seated amongst the stakes he saw

Three hundred maidens, and no more,

Upon the diverse cloths there spread;

With golden and with silken thread,

Each embroidered as best she knew.

Yet such was their wretchedness too,

That, hair unbound and loosely clad,

Full poor they looked, humble and sad.

And their garments were torn at best,

About the elbow and the breast,

About their necks the cloth was stale;

Their necks were slender, faces pale

With hunger, and with deprivation.

They looked at him, and he at them,

They bowed their heads low, and wept;

A long while motionless they kept,

Unable to attend to aught,

With their eyes the ground they sought,

So bowed down were they with woe.

When he awhile has viewed them so,

My Lord Yvain then turns about,

Towards the door that leads without,

But now the porter bars the way:

‘Wish not for that,’ he doth say,

‘You may not depart,’ fair master.

‘Now you wish you’d not entered,

Yet, upon my life, you wish in vain,

Before you go you’ll know such shame

More than you can ever have known.

You were not wise to enter though,

When you chose to venture here,

For you shall not depart, I fear.’

‘Nor do I seek to, fair brother,

But by the soul of my dear father,’

Says Lord Yvain, ‘now tell me

Whence came those maids I see,

Weaving cloths of silk and gold?

The work they do is fine, I hold,

Yet it distresses me to see

Them so thin in face and body,

Their skin so pale, and they so sad.

It seems to me if they but had

Everything they might desire,

They would be ladies to admire.’

‘I’ll not tell you,’ says he, ‘go play,

 Go find some other who might say.’

‘So shall I, for I can do no more.’

Then he searched and found the door

Into the courtyard where the maids

At their embroidery were arrayed,

Greeted them all, and saw the flow

Of tears that from their eyes so

Poured down, as they did weep,

That their eyes more tears did reap.

Then he said: ‘May God be pleased

To lift from your hearts this grief,

Its cause I know not, and bring joy.’

And one replied: ‘May God employ

His grace, and so hear your prayer!

From you we shall not hide where

Tis we come from, and who we are,

Hoping such brought you from afar.’

‘For that,’ he said, ‘I’m here indeed.’

‘Sire, a great while ago, you see,

The King of the Isle of Maidens,

Went to seek fresh information

From every country, every court,

Until, like a born fool, in short,

He came upon this perilous place,

In an evil hour, for we now face,

We wretched maids, who are here,

The shame and misery and tears

We ourselves have not deserved.

And rest assured you’ll be served

With like shame, and such receive

Unless, ransomed, you may leave.

Regardless of that, twould appear

That our king indeed came here,

Where live two sons of the devil,

And do not think this all a fable,

For he begot them on a woman.

To fight the king was all their plan,

Whose terror was great indeed for he

Was aged but eighteen years, you see;

So they might easily dismember

One like a lamb and just as tender.

Now the king, but a fearful knight,

Escaped from them as best he might,

Swearing an oath that he would pay

Every year, on that very same day,

A tribute to them of thirty maids;

Thus was he freed, if he so paid;

And he swore to them this forfeit

Would last for just as long as it

Was the case that they still lived;

But on the day that they might give

Battle and die, or meet defeat,

He would be quit of it complete,

And all of us would then be free,

And relieved of all our misery,

And all this labour and distress.

We shall never know happiness,

For I spoke folly of this mischance,

Who talked of our deliverance,

We who will never leave this place;

We will weave cloth all our days,

Though we will ne’er be better clad;

We will always be bare and sad,

And ever hunger and ever thirst;

For we are poor, and we are cursed

Never to win ourselves better food.

We have bread, but scarcely good,

A little at morn and less at eve,

For none may earn, you may believe,

By her work, so much as to give

Four pence a pound on which to live,

And that is not enough we’ve found

To buy enough food all round,

For in a week not one shall gain

Twenty shillings despite her pains.

Yet each of us you may be sure

Turns out twenty shillings or more

Of well-sewn work for sale, which

Would any less than a duke enrich!

While we exist in great poverty

Rich from our labour grows he

For whom we thus toil each day.

Much of the night we work away,

And all the day for sordid gain,

For they forever threaten pain

To our bodies whene’er we rest,

And rest we dare not, I confess.

What more do you wish to hear?

All the shame and ill found here,

I could not tell you a fifth of it.

But what angers us most is this,

That we witness the deaths often,

Of armed knights, fine gentlemen,

Who with these two devils do fight.

He pays a high price, doth the knight

Who battles them, as you tomorrow,

Who must fight them to your sorrow

In single combat, willing or no;

Fight, and lose your fair name so,

Against these two known devils.’

‘May God, the true and spiritual,

Defend me,’ said my Lord Yvain,

‘And joy and honour grant you again,

If it is His will that such He’ll do!

Now it seems I must part from you

And seek those who dwell within,

And find what cheer I may win.

‘Go sire, and pray He fortune brings,

 Who gives and takes away all things!’

Lines 5347-5456 Yvain receives an initial welcome in the castle

HE went on till he came to the hall,

Where he found no one at all,

Either good or bad, so he,

Passed on with his company,

Till they came to a garden, fair.

None spoke of stabling horses there,

Yet they were stabled readily,

By those who seemed to believe

That they were now theirs to own.

I know not why they thought it so,

For their master was still alive!

Yet the horses were set to thrive,

For they had their oats and hay.

Into the garden he made his way,

With all his company, and they

Saw there a gentleman reclining

On a silk rug, and a maiden reading

To him there, from, I assume,

Some romance, I know not by whom.

And to hear this romance through,

Recline, and gaze, and listen too,

A lady had come, who was her mother,

And a gentleman, who was her father,

For the two of them much enjoyed

Seeing and hearing her thus employed,

For no other child had they between

Them; she was not yet seventeen,

And so lovely, such grace within her,

The God of Love, if he had seen her,

Would have felt obliged to serve her;

Nor would he ever have made her

Love anyone, unless twas he.

He’d have doffed his divinity,

Becoming human, his own heart

Struck by a blow from that cruel dart

The wound from which is healed never,

Except through a treacherous doctor.

For it is wrong if we recover,

Unless treachery we suffer;

Who’s cured by other ministry

Ne’er loved his lover loyally.

Of such a wound I could speak

And still not finish in a week,

If, that is, you wished to list.

Though some indeed would insist,

My tale was merely tedious,

For folk are not now amorous,

Nor do they love as once they did,

And they would rather keep it hid.

But hear now with what courtesy

What manner of hospitality,

My Lord Yvain they did greet.

All of them rose to their feet,

All who in the garden were,

As soon as they saw him there,

Called to him: ‘Fair sir, this way;

With all that God may do or say

May he indeed bless all below,

Both you, and all you love also!’

Mayhap they sought to deceive him,

But with great joy they received him.

And made as if twould greatly please

Should he be lodged all at his ease.

And even the lord’s daughter

Treated him with great honour,

As one should treat a noble guest,

Helped him of his armour divest,

And nor was that the most she did,

For with her own hands she bid

Fair to bathe all his neck and face;

The lord wished that in that place

They might show him every honour;

So they did, and she did offer

A folded shirt from out a chest,

And white leggings, of the best,

Then with needle and thread she

To the shirt attached new sleeves,

Thus clothing him most carefully.

God pray it prove not too costly

All this service and attention!

Over his shirt, I should mention,

She dressed him in a fine surcoat,

With a mantle, up to his throat,

Scarlet and vair, good and new.

She takes such pains to serve him too

He feels embarrassed before her,

But so courteous is the daughter

So open-hearted and debonair,

Little she thought she did there,

Knowing it pleased her mother

To leave no service to another

That might win the knight’s praise.

That night, in as many ways,

He was so well served at dinner,

Those who carried in the platters

Were tired, there were so many.

That night they showed him any

Amount of courtesy; shown to

A comfortable bed, and left to

Rest his weary head, all replete.

And there the lion lay at his feet,

As was its habit so to do.

In the dawn when God renewed

His great light throughout the world,

As He would see all things unfurled,

Who hath all things in His command,

Yvain, once risen, took by the hand

The daughter, and accompanied her

To the chapel, and there they heard

A Mass said for them, as was fit,

To honour there the Holy Spirit.

Lines 5457-5770 Yvain defeats the two devils

AFTER the Mass, my Lord Yvain,

In view of the warning, was fain

To leave, still believing naught

Would a swift departure thwart:

It happened not as he desired.

On saying: ‘I shall go now, sire,

If you please, and by your leave.’

‘As yet I cannot grant you leave,

My friend,’ the lord to him replied.

‘The reason you must be denied

Is that we practice here, you see,

A piece of violent devilry,

To which I’m bound to adhere.

For I’ll now summon to appear

Two great fellows, fierce and strong,

To whom, whether right or wrong,

A challenge you must now extend;

And if you can your life defend,

And defeat, and slay these two,

My daughter shall wed with you,

And of this castle you will win

The lordship, and thus all within.’

‘Sire,’ said he, ‘I wish for neither.

God grant me not your daughter,

And by your side may she remain;

The German Emperor would fain

Marry with her she is so lovely.’

 ‘Let me hear no more,’ said he,

‘Since there’s no escape for you,

My castle and my daughter too

He must have, with all my land,

Who defeats the two who stand

Full ready to assail you now.

You’ll not evade a fight, I vow,

Nor can renounce it any wise;

From sheer cowardice, I surmise

You would refuse my daughter,

Thinking that in such a manner

You might well escape the fight;

But know this as true, sir knight,

That contend with them you must.

For no knight escapes their thrust,

Who lodges in this perilous place.

Established custom now you face,

A custom which will long endure;

My daughter shall not wed before

I’ve seen them go down to defeat,

The two that you have yet to meet.’

‘Despite myself then, I must fight,

Though willingly, and with delight,

I assure you, I’d renounce the same.

And yet that honour I shall claim,

Reluctantly, since it must be so.’

Then there appeared, black as woe,

Those two sons, beloved of night,

Both of them bearing for the fight

A crooked club of cornel wood

Which they had clad, to draw hot blood,

In copper, and had bound with brass.

From the shoulder each one was

Armoured right down to the knee,

But the head and face were free,

And their legs were wholly bare,

Of which each had a brawny pair.

Armed thus they came towards him,

Bearing round shields, light and trim

Yet sturdy enough for the fight.

The lion quivered at the sight,

For from the weapons it could see,

And understand, most readily,

That, as enemies, they’d appeared

To fight its master, or so it feared.

It roused and bristled in a moment,

Shaking with rage and brave intent,

Thrashing the ground with its tail,

Thinking its efforts might avail

To rescue its master ere he die.

And, on seeing the lion, they cry:

‘Fellow, remove that lion from hence

That, menacing us, doth give offence.

Surrender yourself as our prisoner,

Or otherwise, we hereby declare,

You must set it where it can do

No harm to us, or give aid to you;

Where it cannot take part, in short.

You must come alone to our sport.

For there’s no doubt the lion would

Willingly aid you, if it could.’

‘Move him yourselves, if you fear,’

Said my Lord Yvain, loud and clear,

‘For I would be well-satisfied

If it came about that he terrified

Both of you, and gave aid to me.’

‘Indeed,’ they said, ‘it shall not be!

Do the very best you can alone;

Of other aid, you shall have none.

Single-handed, free of all others,

You must fight us both together.

If that lion kept you company

Two against two that would be,

For if his aid we should condone,

Then you’d not be fighting alone,

So you must, you’ll understand,

Remove the lion, as we demand,

However much you may object.’

‘Where then do you want him kept?

Where then would you have him be?’

Pointing to a room all could see,

They said: ‘Let the lion stay there.’

‘It shall be done, tis your affair,’

He said, and led the lion away.

When tis done, they send away

For armour to protect his body,

And his horse, saddled and ready,

They bring to him, and he mounts.

Then the two open their account

By riding at him to do him harm,

Since now the lion fails to alarm,

Being imprisoned in that room.

With their maces they seek his doom,

Landing such blows on helm and shield

That scant protection do they yield.

For, striking his helm, they begin

To beat and drive the metal in,

And his shield too they shatter

Like glass; the holes they batter

Are wide enough to insert a fist,

Since all their strength they enlist.

What can he do against these devils?

Urged on by shame, dreading evil,

He defends fiercely with all his might,

And, steeling himself to the fight,

Deals powerful and weighty blows;

They lose nothing for he bestows

Two blows for every gift of theirs.

But now the lion is in despair,

Grieved at heart, in his prison,

For he recalls the kindness done

Him by his master’s brave deed

Who must surely have great need

Now of his service and his aid.

His master might now be repaid,

In full measure, the whole amount

Of his kindness, with no discount,

If he could but escape from there.

So he searches the room with care;

Still he can find no clear way out,

Hearing the noise of blows without,

The fight being perilous and dire;

And rages, fuelled by his desire;

Yet his great grief pains him more,

So he revisits the well-worn door;

The thing is rotten about the sill,

He tears away at the wood until

He is through up to his haunches.

Meanwhile my Lord Yvain launches

Blow on blow, toiling and sweating.

‘Yvain launches blow on blow, toiling and sweating’
The Book of Romance (p177, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

Now these two devils he was finding

Strong and fell, to blows inured.

And many a blow had he endured,

And repaid them as best he could,

Yet every blow they withstood

Being well-skilled in the fight,

While their shields, unlike the knight’s,

Were such they resisted every blade,

However sharp twas and well-made.

So strong were the two, Lord Yvain

Knew that he now faced death again,

Yet he contrived to fight on alone

Till the lion escaped, on its own,

By tearing away at the door’s sill.

If these devils they cannot kill

Between them now, they never will,

For the lion will attack them till

He or they die, while it still lives.

It launches at one and doth give

Him such a blow, he falls like a tree.

The wretch himself, in terror is he,

But there is no man in that place

Without a look of joy on his face;

For the devil will ne’er rise again

Unless the other doth him sustain,

The lion having laid him full low.

The second devil seeing the blow

Runs to help, and himself defend

Lest the lion doth turn and rend

Him, once it has the other killed,

Whom to the earth it has spilled;

For he suffers from greater fear

Of the lion than its master here.

My Lord Yvain were now a fool

Seeing the back now of the ghoul,

Bare-necked, as his arm’s stronger,

If he spares his life much longer,

For the moment serves him well.

The neck bared, the head as well,

The villain was open to his blow,

And such a one now did follow

He beheaded him, like a shot, 

So smoothly that he knew it not.

Then to the ground he descended

By the other, the lion had up-ended,

Wishing to assist and save him,

But in vain, for the lion had him,

Such that no doctor was of use.

It had attacked him, once twas loose,

Quite furiously, and wounding him

Had left him in the plight he was in.

Yet Yvain dragged the lion back,

And saw the shoulder had, alack,

Been torn from its socket clear.

Of the fellow he had lost all fear,

His club had fallen from his hand,

While he lay there like a dead man,

Who might neither move nor stir;

Yet he had strength to utter a word,

And said, as clearly as he could:

‘Remove your lion, if you would,

Fair sire, lest he work further harm;

You may do, without more alarm,

With myself whate’er you desire.

He who mercy asks and requires,

Should not be denied that grace,

Unless one pitiless he doth face.

I will defend myself no more,

Nor from here can I rise I’m sure,

For I’d have need of aid so to do,

And thus I entrust myself to you.’

‘Say then,’ said he, ‘that you render

Yourself defeated, and thus surrender.’

‘Sire,’ he replied, ‘the battle is lost.

Despite my efforts, I paid the cost.

And my submission I here tender.’

‘Then you need fear me no longer;

The lion will harm you no more.’

Onto the field a crowd now pour,

And they surround him, anew;

And the lord, and his lady too,

Embrace him joyfully, and seek

Of their daughter now to speak,

Saying to him: ‘You shall be

Lord and master of all that we

Possess, and wed our daughter,

For upon you we bestow her.’

‘Yet I hereby restore her to you.

Let those who have her keep her too.

I care not, though tis not disdain,

For your daughter,’ said Lord Yvain.

‘I cannot, and I must not, take her.

But deliver to me, at your pleasure,

The wretched women held here yet;

For the right of it is, lest you forget,

The terms dictate that go they may.’

‘Tis true,’ he said, ‘tis as you say,

And I surrender them, willingly,

For an end to all of it let there be.

But you will take, or so I advise,

My wealthy daughter, if you are wise,

For she is charming, prudent, fair;

Never so rich a marriage, I swear,

Shall you find if you take her not.’

‘Sir,’ he replied ‘you know naught

Of my commitments and my affairs,

Nor to explain them do I dare;

But know you this, if I refuse

What no man would e’er refuse,

Whose heart and will were free

To settle on a girl such as she,

I would willingly marry her,

If I could, and no harm incur.

But I cannot; nor your daughter

Nor, if truth be told, any other.

And so let me depart in peace,

For the demoiselle awaits me,

Who did accompany me here.

As she held to me, tis clear

I should seek to hold to her,

Whate’er to me might occur.’

‘You wish to go, fair sir, but how?

Never, unless I so allow,

And my judgement tells me to.

My gate will not open to you,

And you remain my prisoner.

You are prey to pride and error

If I ask that you, to your gain,

Wed my daughter and you disdain.’

‘Disdain, sir? No, upon my soul,

I can take none to have and hold,

Nor linger here, on any account.

I can do naught else but mount,

And ride with the maiden now,

But, by my right hand, I vow,

And swear to you, if you agree,

That I’ll return, plain as you see

Me now; that is, if ever I can,

And receive your daughter’s hand,

Whenever that seems good to you.

‘Fool be he who seeks from you

Pledge, or oath, or word, or promise!

If my daughter had pleased, I wist

Tis soon enough that you’d be back.

But you’ll return no sooner, alack,

For swearing that you will come;

So go now, I release you from

All pledges, oaths and promises;

Naught you do will me distress,

For I care not where’er you go!

My opinion of her is not so low

I’d bestow my daughter anywhere.

Now be you about your own affairs,

Tis all the same to me, this day,

If you go now, or if you stay.’

Lines 5771-5871 Yvain returns to King Arthur’s court

THUS my Lord Yvain turned away

From the tower, and would not stay,

And before him went the maidens,

Those so wretchedly imprisoned,

Poor, ill-clad, weary in every limb,

Whom the lord had released to him.

Now they are rich it seems to them,

For they are free of the tower again,

Preceding Yvain, two by two,

With no less joy, I say to you,

Than they would have felt if He

Who made this world of ours wholly,

Had descended from Heaven to Earth.

Those who’d deemed him of little worth,

The folk who’d warned him previously,

Now come to beg for mercy and peace;

And seek to escort him on his way.

He knows not why they beg he says:

‘What you mean by it, I cannot tell,

For you are free of blame as well,

And I can think of naught you said

That did me harm, or to harm has led.’

They are delighted so to hear,

And all hold his courtesy dear,

And, after escorting him some way,

They commend him to God alway.

And then the maidens, for their part,

Having asked his leave, so depart.

And, as they leave him, all do bow,

And they express the wish that now

God will grant him health and joy,

And protect him from all annoy,

Wherever it is that he might be.

Then he, being anxious to leave,

Replied: ‘God save you, equally.

Go, and safe and happy may He

Now conduct you to your country.’

Thus they part from him joyfully,

While, as they go, my Lord Yvain

Takes himself to the road again,

And in the opposite direction.

And all that week they hasten,

Led by the maid, for every day

She never fails to find the way,

Making the best speed they can

To the place where she had left

That lady of all her lands bereft.

But when the lady hears the news

And the maiden comes in view,

Leading the Knight of the Lion,

Her delight is second to none,

Such the joy that fills her heart;

For she believes that now her part

Of the inheritance, her sister must

Relinquish to her, as is only just.

She had been ill a goodly while

This lady, and but a little while

Recovered from the malady

That had troubled her greatly,

As was apparent from her face.

But now she hurried on, apace,

To greet them without delay,

And honour them in every way.

In every manner that she might.

Of the joy indoors that night,

I’ll not speak, though I surely could;

Yet not a word of that joy should

Be told, for it would take too long.

So I’ll neglect it, and pass along

To the morrow when they did ride,

And journeyed on till they espied

The castle wherein King Arthur

Had lodged a fortnight or longer.

Now, the elder sister lodges there

Who has stolen her sister’s share;

For she has kept close to the court,

Waiting her sister’s advent, in short,

Who’s on her way, and drawing near.

Yet the elder sister feels little fear,

Doubting the younger has on hand

Any knight who could withstand

The prowess of my Lord Gawain.

And only a day doth now remain,

Of the forty that were decreed;

And by law and justice, indeed

The inheritance is hers alone

And she can claim it as her own,

Once that certain day has passed.

And yet more might be done, at last,

Than she e’er believed or thought.

Humble are their lodgings, sought

Outside the castle, for the night,

Where none who know them might

Recognise them; if lodgings they

Take there within then many may,

And for that they do not care;

Their lodgings thus are mean and bare.

As morn is breaking they emerge,

But then with the dawn shadows merge,

Until the sun shines clear and bright.

Lines 5872-5924 All await the expiry of the time decreed

I know not how many days might

Have passed since my Lord Gawain

Had vanished, and all would fain

Have news of him, all of the court,

Except she whose cause he sought

To defend, that is, the elder sister;

For she knew he had hidden near,

But three or four short leagues away.

When he returned, on that day,

None who knew him at court

Recognised him, as they ought,

For he was wearing strange armour.

Openly, thus, the elder sister

Presented him to all the court,

As one whom she had brought

To defend her cause though she

Had wronged her sister utterly.

She said to the king: ‘Now, Sire

The time allotted has expired,

Tis almost noon, this is the day.

And I, for witness it now you may,

Am ready to maintain my rights.

If my sister could produce a knight

To fight for her then we should wait.

But, God be thanked, she is too late,

She neither sends word, nor is here.

Tis plain, she will not now appear,

And all her trouble was for naught,

While I have my champion brought

Prepared till this hour, at your sign,

To prove my right to what is mine.

I’ve proved it thus, without a fight.

And I may now, as is my right

Enjoy my inheritance in peace;

And no account of its increase

Henceforth to my sister give;

And sad and wretched may she live.’

But King Arthur who well knew

That the lady great wrong did do,

As disloyal to her younger sister,

Said: ‘It is the custom, my dear,

In royal courts, i’faith, to wait

While justice doth yet deliberate,

Until the king decides the case.

We’ll grant her a little grace,

For I think she may yet appear,

And we shall see your sister here.’

Before the king’s speech was done,

He beheld the Knight of the Lion,

And saw the younger sister too.

Alone, they advanced, these two,

Having left the lion, out of sight,

There, where they’d passed the night.

Lines 5925-5990 The sisters insist on their respective causes

THE king had the maid in view,

And at once her face he knew,

And he was filled with delight

To see her there beside the knight;

In his concern for what was right,

Holding she was wronged quite.

Full of joy, at seeing her near

He called out to her, loud and clear:

‘God save you! Approach, fair maid!’

The elder heard him and, afraid,

Turned about, and saw the younger,

And the knight too, whom her sister

Had brought, to aid and support her;

And her face turned black as thunder.

The maiden was welcomed, in short,

And, before the king and his court,

Cried: ‘King, if my rightful claim

Can by a knight be here maintained

Then it shall be so by this knight;

And he my thanks doth earn outright,

Whom I have brought to this affair,

Though he hath business elsewhere,

A knight so courteous and debonair;

Yet he’s taken such pity on me,

He has set aside, as you can see,

All other affairs for my own.

Let courtesy and right be shown

Now, by this lady, my sister dear,

Whom I love with a love sincere,

By yielding me what is my right,

So betwixt us peace shine bright;

For I ask of her naught that’s hers.’

‘Nor do I ask aught of my sister’s,’

The elder said, ‘for she has naught

Nor shall; and naught is the import

Of her words, and naught the gain.

Now may she wither away in pain.’

Then the younger sister, since she

Was wise in the ways of courtesy,

And was prudent too and charming,

Replied: ‘Grief to me it doth bring,  

That two such gentlemen should fight,

On our behalf, to prove what’s right.

Though tis a small disagreement,

I may not renounce my intent,

For I am left in too great need;

So I’d be grateful to you indeed

If you would render me my share.’

The elder sister replied: ‘Whoe’er

Would do so must surely be mad.

May I with fire and flame be clad,

Before I seek to improve your lot!

The rivers will run boiling hot,

The sun elect to shine at night,

Before I will renounce this fight.’

‘God, and the right I claim in this,

In which my trust both was and is,

Always, until this present hour,

May they both now lend their power

To one whose kindness and pity

Is offered thus in service to me;

Though I know not who he may be,

And he doth know no more of me!’

Lines 5991-6148 Gawain and Yvain contest the issue

ONCE their words were at an end,

They led out the knights to defend

Their two causes, amidst the court.

And everyone a place there sought,

In the way folk are accustomed to

Whenever they’ve a wish to view

A fine battle between two knights.

But these two who are set to fight,

Who’ve shown love to one another,

Have failed to recognise each other.

Do they still love each other now?

Both ‘Yes,’ and ‘No’, do I avow.

And I will prove both to be true

In revealing my reasons to you.

In truth then my Lord Gawain

As his companion loves Yvain,

And Yvain him where’er he be;

Even here if he knew ‘twere he,

He would now make much of him

And he would give his life for him;

As he would give his life, Gawain,

Before harm came to Lord Yvain.

Is that not Love, entire and fine?

Yes, certainly. Is there no sign

Of Hate being equally present?

For one thing is indeed apparent,

This day they’d both wish to devote

To flying at one another’s throat,

Or in wounding the other so

He the depths of shame might know.

I’faith, tis wondrously revealed

That in one heart may be concealed

Faithful Love and mortal Hate.

Lord, how in one dwelling-place

Can things which are such contraries

Reside, as twould appear do these?

For in one dwelling, it seems to me

There cannot lodge two contraries.

Since they could not appear together

In that dwelling, in any manner,

Without some quarrel being aired

If each knew the other was there.

But as the body has several members,

As lodgings have several chambers,

Such might well be the case here:

I think Love’s chosen to disappear

Into the depths of a hidden room,

While Hate has chosen to assume

A seat high up, above the scene,

So as to be both heard and seen.

For Hate now is mounted on high,

And pricks and spurs so to outfly

Love, with ease, as oft may prove,

While Love indeed fails to move.

Ah, Love! Where art thou now?

Reveal yourself, regard the crowd

That the enemy brings against you;

Enemies makes of your friends too.

For enemies are these two friends,

Who love each other to holy ends,

With that love, nor false nor faint,

Precious, worthy of many a saint.

Here Love proves utterly blind,

And Hate is sightless too we find,

For if Love had recognised them,

He would them have obliged them

Never to attack each other

Or do harm to one another.

Thus, in this matter, Love is blind

Discomfited, to error consigned;

And those who are Love’s by right,

Love knows not in broad daylight.

And e’en though Hate cannot state

Why each the other doth so hate,

Hate would see them both frustrate

The other through such mortal hate.

No man loves another, or could,

Who’d do him harm, and draw blood,

Seek his death, or see him shamed.

How then? Would my Lord Yvain

Kill his friend, my Lord Gawain?

Yes, and he the other, the same.

Would then his friend, my Lord Gawain

With his own hands slay Yvain,

Or do some worse thing instead?

No, I swear not; as I have said,

Neither would his true friend disarm,

Nor bring him shame, nor do him harm,

For aught with which God graces man,

Or the Empire of Rome doth command.

And yet I cannot help but lie,

For one can plainly see, say I,

That with lances thus they hover

Ready to attack each other.

And each would strike his friend

And wound him though he defend,

And work him woe without restraint.

Gainst whom shall he lodge complaint?

Who has the worst then of the fight,

When conquered by the other knight?

For if they now should come to blows

The fear is great, I would suppose,

That each will fight against his friend,

Till one of them the fight shall end.

Could Yvain claim, in all reason,

If he is worsted, that tis treason;

That he has been hurt or shamed

By a man that he’d have named

As a friend, one who has never

Called him aught but that ever?

Or if injury were done Gawain,

Would he be right to complain,

He had therefore been betrayed,

If he were shamed in any way?

No, for he’d know not by whom.

Now, they grant each other room,

Prepared for their joint encounter.

At the first shock the lances shiver,

Though they are ashen and strong.

Neither uttered a word thereon,

Yet if they had exchanged a word,

Their meeting had proved absurd.

Neither lance nor sword, we know,

Would have dealt a single blow.

They’d have kissed and embraced,

Rather than each other have faced.

Yet as they face each other now

Their swords win naught, I vow;

Nor their helms nor their shields,

Which are dented as they yield;

While the keenness of each blade,

They blunt, the steel they abrade.

Many a harsh blow they pledge,

Not with the flat, with the edge,

And the pommels deal such blows

On the neck, and about the nose,

And on the cheeks and brow too,

That the skin is black and blue

For, beneath, the blood gathers.

And their chain-mail shatters,

While the shields are so unsound,

Beneath them dire harm is found.

So hard they labour, courting death,

They can scarcely catch their breath;

And so hotly they strive to win,

That every emerald and jacinth

That upon their helmets is inset,

Is crushed to shards at their onset;

While the two so pound away

With the pommels, both are dazed,

Almost braining one another.

Their eyes in their sockets glitter,

The heavy fists are firmly squared,

Solid the bones, and strong the nerves;

They strike each other about the face

As long as they can grip their blades,

Which offer them both good service,

While they wield them in their fists.

Lines 6149-6228 The two fight to a standstill

WHEN a long while they’d striven,

Till their helms were wholly riven;

And they with the steel had flailed

Fiercely enough to split their mail,

The shields too frail now to contest,

Both drew back a little, to rest;

To let the blood cool in their veins,

And so restore their breath again.

And yet they do not long delay,

But attack, strongly as they may,

More fiercely even than before;

And all confess they never saw

A pair of more courageous knights:

‘It is no manner of game this fight;

Their cause each strives to assert,

And their worth and true deserts

Will ne’er be rendered completely.’

The two friends heard them, surely,

And knew that all spoke together

Of reconciling sister to sister,

Yet had failed to devise a way

To pacify the elder that day,

Nor placate her in any manner;

While the intent of the younger

Was but the king’s word to obey,

Not contradict him in any way.

Yet the elder is so stubborn here

That even the queen, Guinevere,

And the lords also, and the king,

Most courteous in everything,

All side with the younger sister.

To the king requests are proffered,

That he, despite the elder sister,

Might grant title to the younger,

At least a third or a quarter part;

And might these two knights part

Who had displayed such courage;

For it would do the court damage

If one should now the other injure,

Or deprive him of any honour.

Yet now the king declares that he

Is unable to achieve a peace,

For the elder is such a creature

As desires not peace, by nature.

All this was fully understood

By the two knights who stood

Against each other there, while all

Marvelled at so equal a battle,

For none knew nor could attest

Which was worst, and which was best.

Even the two who are in the fight

Where pain wins honour as a knight,

Marvel now, and are taken aback,

That both prove equal in attack;

Such that each man wonders who

Is matched with him and doth pursue

Such fierce combat, while the light

Fades, and day draws on to night.

They have fought, and fight, so long.

That neither man waxes as strong,

Their bodies tire, the arms weary.

While warm blood, trickling slowly

From many a wound to the ground,

There beneath their mail runs down.

They are both in such distress,

No wonder if they wish to rest.

They feel no further urge to fight,

Partly because of the fall of night,

Partly through mutual respect,

Reasons that lead them to effect

A truce, and swear to keep the peace.

Yet, ere they leave the field, these

Two shall disclose their identities,

And affirm their love and sympathy.

Lines 6229-6526 Their identities are revealed, Arthur gives judgement

MY Lord Yvain it was spoke first,

Yvain, the brave and courteous;

Yet his good friend knew him not

From his speech, since he had got

Such a deal of blows his blood

Was sluggish and, though he stood,

His speech was both low and faint,

His voice yet subject to constraint.

‘Sir,’ said he ‘night doth approach,

I think nor blame nor reproach

Accrues to those parted by night.

But, for my part, I say, sir knight,

I admire you, and much respect you;

Never in my life have I so rued

A contest, so suffered in a fight,

Nor ever thought to see a knight

Whom I would so seek to know.

You grasp both how to land a blow

And how to employ your strength.

No knight I have fought at length

Has dealt me such blows as those.

Against my will, I took the blows

That I’ve received from you today.

My head felt every blow, I say.’

‘By my faith,’ said my Lord Gawain,

‘I am no less mazed and faint

Than you are, but rather more so;

Twill please you I think to know

If I but tell you the simple truth,

Of what I lent you, in good sooth,

You have rendered full account,

Adding interest to that amount;

For you were readier to render it

Than I to receive the half of it.

But now, however that may be,

As you wish to know from me

By what name I may be called,

I’ll not hide it from you at all;

Son of King Lot am I, Gawain.’

On hearing this, my Lord Yvain

Is sorely troubled and amazed,

And, by anger and sorrow mazed;

To the earth his sword he throws,

From which the blood yet flows,

And then his shattered shield also,

And down from his horse he goes,

Crying: ‘Alas! What mischance!

How, through mutual ignorance,

We have battled with each other

Not recognising one another!

If I had known that it was you

I would never have fought with you;

Before e’er dealing a single blow

I’d have yielded, as you well know.’

‘How so,’ cries my Lord Gawain,

‘Who art thou then?’ ‘I am Yvain,

Who loves you more than any man

In all the world doth love, or can.

For you have loved me always,

And honoured me, all my days.

And now, in this business too,

I’d make amends and honour you,

For I offer complete surrender.’

‘So much to me you’d render?’

Said the noble Lord Gawain,

‘Surely twould bring me shame,

To let you thus seek amends.

The honour is not mine, my friend,

But yours, to whom I thus resign it.

‘Ah! Speak, fair sir, no more of it!

What you have said can never be;

For I can endure no more you see,

I am so wearied from the fight.’

‘Surely, your wounds are but light,’

His friend and companion replied,

‘While I’m sore overcome,’ he sighed,

‘And I offer that not in flattery,

For there’s no stranger, equally,

To whom I would not say the same.

Rather than suffer further pain.’

So saying, Gawain descended

And to each other they extended

Their arms in friendly embrace,

Each swearing to the other’s face

Twas himself who’d met defeat,

Their protestations incomplete

When the king and his knights

Joining them, to assess their plight,

And finding them joined in amity,

Desired to know how this could be,

And who these two knights were

Who such mutual joy did aver.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the king, ‘tell me

What has brought about such amity

Between you both, this rare accord

After the enmity and discord

You have exhibited all day?’

‘Sire, your request I now obey,’

Replied his nephew, Lord Gawain,

‘The cause of conflict and the pain

That thus ensued, of that I’ll tell,

Since you attend us here as well,

To hear of it, and know the truth.

It is right to inform you, in sooth,

That I, sire, your nephew, Gawain,

Failed to recognise twas Yvain,

My companion, fought with me, 

Till God was pleased, thankfully,

To prompt him to ask my name.

Once I replied, and he the same,

We knew the other, but not until

We both had fought to a standstill.

Already we had fought for long,

And if we had continued strong

And fought on as furiously

It would have gone most ill for me;

He’d have slain me, upon my life,

Given injustice caused this strife,

And given also Yvain’s prowess;

Much better it is, I now confess,

My friend defeats me than kills me.’

Rising to this claim, and fiercely,

My Lord Yvain replied, in one:

‘God aid me, my dear companion,

You are in error in saying so.

Let my Lord the King, now know,

That I was defeated in the fight,

And surrendered, as well I might.’

‘No, I.’ ‘No, I.’ Thus they dispute.

And both are so courteous, in truth,

That each the honour and the crown

Grants the other, and lays it down.

Neither gives way to the other here,

But strives to make King Arthur hear,

And all the people gathered round,

That defeated, he yields the ground.

Yet, after indulging them, a little,

The king ended the loving quarrel.

For he indeed took much pleasure

In what he heard, and the measure

Of these friends in warm embrace,

Though while fighting face to face

They had wounded each other too.

‘My lords,’ said he ‘twixt you two,

Lies great affection, as can be seen

By each conceding defeat, I mean;

So place yourself now in my hands

And I’ll arrange, as I have planned,

That in great honour you’ll be held

And I’ll be praised by all the world.’

Then they both swore, most willingly,

To obey his wish, and loyally

Accept all that he chose to say.

And then the king said, that today

He’d resolve the cause, and justly.

‘Where now,’ he asked, ‘is that lady

Who forcibly, by her command,

Has seized her own sister’s land?

‘Sire,’ cried the elder, ‘here I am.’

‘Are you there? Well then, advance,

You who claimed the inheritance.

For some time now have I known

That you your sister’s right disown,

But she’ll no longer be denied,

For you the evidence supplied;

You must now resign her share.’

‘Ah, sire,’ she answered,’ if I there

Spoke a thought, unwise, absurd,

Do not now take me at my word.

For God’s sake, do not harm me!

You are the king, and should be

Wary of every wrong and error.’

‘And that is why I wish to render

To your sister what is her right;

Against the wrong I’ll ever fight,’

Said the king, ‘You will have heard

How both your champion and hers

Have left the matter in my hands.

You’ll not have what you demand.

For its injustice is obvious.

Each claims that his was the loss,

Seeking so to honour the other.

But upon that I will not linger,

Since the judgement lies with me.

Either you obey me promptly,

In regard to what I pronounce,

Willingly, or I shall announce

My nephew it was that met defeat.

That would all your cause unseat;

Yet I would do so, against my will.’

He would never so have done, still

He said it to see whether she would

In fear of him, perform the good,

And render to her sister, at once,

Her share of the inheritance;

For the king quite clearly saw

That she would surrender naught,

Despite aught that he might say

Unless force or fear won the day.

And due to her doubt and fear

She replied: ‘Sire, it is clear,

I must yield to you, for my part,

Though indeed it grieves my heart.

But I will do what yet grieves me,

My sister shall have what she seeks,

As her share; and I will advance

As guarantor of her inheritance,

Your own self, to reassure her.’

‘Then, swiftly, restore it to her,’

Said the king, ‘and let her now stand

As your vassal, and from your hand

Receive her share, and then may you

Love her, and she to you prove true,

As her lady and her sister.’

Thus the king resolved the matter,

While the younger received her share

And thanked the king for all his care.

So then the king asked his nephew,

That knight most valiant and true,

That of his armour he be eased,

And Lord Yvain, if he so pleased,

To lay aside his armour too,

Who now might suffer so to do.

Thus they disarmed as he dictated,

And on equal terms they separated.

And while they were thus disarming,

They saw the lion come running,

That was seeking for its master.

As soon as the lion drew nearer,

It demonstrated its delight;

While all the folk there took fright,

Even the bold began to flee.

Then my Lord Yvain cried he:

‘Stay, why run, none chases you?

Fear not that it will mischief do;

The lion there that you now see

Is mine, and I am his; trust me,

If you but will, that we are one,

And each a true companion.’

Then those folk were assured

Who had heard voiced abroad

All the adventures of the lion

And all those of his companion,

That this was the very knight

Who’d killed the vile giant in fight;

And my Lord Gawain then said:

‘My dear friend, God be my aid,

You fill me with shame today.

I little merited of you, I say,

The service you rendered me

In saving my nephews and niece;

Slaying the giant, so fearlessly.

I have been thinking, fruitlessly,

Of whom that knight might be

For it was said that I and he

Were well-acquainted; indeed,

I thought a deal on it, you see;

But I could never come upon

A memory of a fighting man,

Whom I’d heard tell of anywhere,

In any land where I did fare,

And known by name to anyone,

As this same Knight of the Lion.’

They disarmed as Yvain replied,

And the lion came to his side,

To the place where his master sat,

And reaching him this giant cat

Showed all the joy a dumb beast might.

Then it was meet that both the knights

Be led to the infirmary, and there,

Receive a royal doctor’s care,

And have their wounds treated swiftly.

Now, Arthur, who loved them dearly,

Had the two men brought before him,

And a surgeon, he’d attached to him

As one who knew more than most,

He now had minister to them both.

And he worked on them so well

He returned them both to health

More swiftly than any other might.

And when he had healed the knights,

My Lord Yvain, whose heart was yet,

Without recourse, on his love set,

Knew that he would not last a day

But would die of his love alway,

If she, for love of whom, his lady,

He was dying, showed no mercy.

So he thought to leave the court

And go alone to where he’d fought

Beside the fountain that was hers,

And cause there such a mighty stir,

Such a tempest of wind and rain,

That perforce she must then again

Grant him peace, or there would never

Be an end to the business ever

Of the troubling of that fountain,

And all its storm of wind and rain.

Lines 6527-6658 Yvain rides to the fountain, and rouses the tempest

SO, now, once my Lord Yvain

Felt fully healed and sound again

He left the court, with none knowing

Where he and the lion were going;

For the lion wished its life to be

Spent in its master’s company.

They journeyed on until they saw,

The fount, and made the rain to pour.

Don’t think I seek to tell a lie

If I say the tempest, there on high,

Was so violent none could tell

A tenth of it; caught in its spell

It seemed the whole forest would drown;

While the lady feared for the town,

Lest it too foundered altogether.

The tower sways, the walls totter,

And, about to fall, hang perilously. 

The bravest Turk would rather be

A prisoner in Persia than it befall

That he is trapped between such walls.

The folk are so filled with fear they

Revile their ancestors; thus they say:

‘Let that man’s name be accursed

Who, within this town, was first

To build a house; accursed its founder,

Who in this world could find no other

Place more evil, where but one man

May invade our territory, and can

Trouble us and torment us so!’

‘You must take good counsel though,

In this matter, lady,’ said Lunete,

‘For you will find no other yet

To aid you in this hour of need

Unless you seek far off indeed;

Or we shall never have repose

In this castle, nor dare expose

Our lives to aught beyond the wall.

Not a knight here will meet the call,

As well you know, for none will dare

To offer himself in this affair;

Even the best of them step back.

And should it appear that you lack

A knight to defend your fountain

You will seem a fool, for certain.

True, great honour to you accrues

If he who attacks it should choose

To withdraw now without a fight;

Yet you will be in sadder plight

If you can think of no better plan.’

‘If you, who are so wise then, can

Some better plan at once devise,

Then I will do as you advise,’

Cried the lady. ‘If I’d one, as yet,

I’d willingly share it,’ said Lunete,

‘But you have need for a greater

Source of wisdom than I can offer.

And since I can do no better,

With the others I will suffer

Both the wind and pouring rain

Until, please God, I see again,

At your court, some worthy knight,

Who’ll take it on himself to fight,

And bear the burden of the battle.

Although, as far as I can tell,

Today, no such thing shall be.’

‘No more of him!’ cried the lady,

Exceeding prompt in her reply.

‘You know, among my folk, that I

Have not one whom I might expect

To step forward and, to any effect,

Defend the fountain and the stone.

I ask, that you yourself, alone,

Determine what should be our plan!

In need, they say, woman or man,

May prove the value of a friend.’

‘Lady, if any knows where to send

For him who slew the giant outright,

And overcame the three knights,

Then he’d do well to do so now.

Yet while that knight, I do avow,

Knows his lady’s anger and scorn,

There is no man or woman born,

It seems to me, he would follow

Unless she swore, on oath also,

All in her power would be done

To set aside the enmity shown

By her, to him, for tis my belief,

He is dying of trouble and grief.’

And the lady said: ‘I will attest,

Ere you enter upon this quest,

To give you my word faithfully,

And swear, that if he comes to me,

I, without guile or deception,

Will do all that can be done

To bring about his peace of mind.’

And Lunete replied: ‘You will find,

My lady, that you may easily

Bring about such a state of peace,

If you so wish; yet before I may

Set out, myself, upon the way,

Do not be angry, I must also

Hear you swear it before I go.’

‘That is well.’ replied the lady.

Lunete, so full of courtesy,

Brought a precious relic to her

Immediately, on which to swear;

And the lady fell to her knees.

Then Lunete, most courteously,

Took her assertion upon oath.

And in administering that oath

She forgot naught that might

Be useful to serve the knight.

‘Lady,’ she said, ‘now raise your hand!

For I’d not wish, you understand,

That you lay some charge on me

After tomorrow, because, you see,

What you do is for you, not me!

Now you shall swear, if you please,

To display your good intention

Towards the Knight of the Lion,

Until he knows he has regained

All the love that once obtained,

As completely as ever he knew.’

The lady raised her hand anew,

And replied: ‘Thus, I swear true:

As you have said, so shall I do,

And if God aid me and the saints

My heart shall ne’er prove faint,

Nor fail to do all in its power.

If strength I own, love is his dower,

And the grace I’ll render him too,

That with his lady he once knew.’

Lines 6659-6706 Lunete goes to find Yvain

LUNETE had done her work full well,

She wished no more than there befell, 

For all she’d wished, she had achieved.

Already a mount she had received,

A gentle palfrey, without delay,

Mounted, and set out on her way;

She rode along for some time,

Until she found beneath the pine

One whom she had scarcely thought

To find so near; the man she sought;

For she had expected far and wide

To seek, before that knight she spied.

As soon as e’er she came in view

She saw the lion and thus she knew,

And riding towards him swiftly

Descended to the earth promptly.

And my Lord Yvain knew her

As soon as he set eyes on her;

Gave her greeting, and she he,

Saying: ‘Sir, I’m more than happy

To find you here, so near at hand.’

Said Yvain: ‘Must I understand

That you are here then seeking me?’

‘Yes, my lord, and most joyfully,

More than e’er in my life before.

I’ve so wrought that my lady swore,

On pain, that is, of perjury,

She will be, as she used to be,

Your own lady, and you her lord.

This be the truth, be you assured.’

At this my Lord Yvain rejoiced,

And his deep gratitude he voiced,

Clasped her, and kissed her gently.

‘And his deep gratitude he voiced, Clasped her, and kissed her gently’
The Book of Romance (p122, 1902) - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
Internet Archive Book Images

She said: ‘Let us away, swiftly!’

Then he demanded: ‘And my name

Have you told it her?’ ‘Nay, blame

Me not, for name have you none

To her, but the Knight of the Lion.’

Lines 6707-6748 The lady finds Yvain is the Knight of the Lion

THUS conversing they went along

The lion behind them following on,

Till to the castle all three came.

The lady before him, Lord Yvain,

As soon as he saw her thus, he fell

Straight to his knees, all armed as well.

And Lunete, who was standing by,

Said: ‘Lady, raise him, and apply

All your efforts, skill and sense

To granting peace and recompense

To one whom you should pardon;

For in all the world, there is none

Except it be you can grant this prize.’

Then the lady made him to rise,

And said: ‘My power is his alone

And willingly I’ll give all I own

If I can but bring him happiness.’

‘Lady, I’d not say this unless

The thing was true,’ said Lunete.

‘All this is now within your power;

You’ve ne’er had nor will you ever

Possess such a good friend as he.

God wills that between you and he

Such sweet love and peace shall be

It shall endure to eternity.

God has let me find him so near.

The proof of this will now appear,

And I have but one thing to say

Lady, grant him pardon today,

For he has no lady but you:

This is Yvain, your husband too.’

Lines 6749-6766 The lady accepts she must reconcile with Yvain

THE lady, trembling at what was said,

Replied: ‘God stand me in good stead,

For now at my own word you take me

And, despite myself, you’d make me

Love a man who accounts me naught.

Well indeed have you now wrought!

A great service now you’ve done me!

I’d rather my whole life should be

But wind and storm, and so endure!

And if ‘twere not that to perjure

Oneself were a vile thing, surely

He would ne’er find peace with me,

Nor true accord twixt us abide.

Always in my heart would hide,

As fire lurks among the cinders,

What I no longer wish to utter,

Nor care to mention here again,

Who seek accord now with Yvain.’

Lines 6767-6788 Yvain seeks their reconciliation

MY Lord Yvain now understood

His cause tended towards the good,

That he would have peace and accord,

And said: ‘Mercy one should afford

To a sinner, my lady. I have paid

For my madness, and dearly I say

I should have paid, full many a day.

Madness twas, made me keep away.

And rendered me guilty and forfeit.

And bold indeed do I prove in it,

By daring to come before you here.

But if you’d wish to keep me here,

Nevermore will I do you wrong.’

She replied: ‘I must go along

With that, for I’m perjured if I

Do not with all my powers try

To make peace now twixt you and me;

Thus, by my faith, the thing must be.’

‘Five hundred thanks, lady,’ said he.

For, may the Holy Spirit aid me,

Never a man in this mortal life

Has for a woman known such strife!’

Lines 6789-6803 Yvain and his lady are reconciled

NOW was my Lord Yvain at peace.

And this, the truth, you may believe,

That he had never such joy of aught,

Despite the trouble it had brought.

For all has turned out well we see,

And Yvain is loved by his lady,

And she by him is held the dearer.

His ills he no more remembers,

For, through joy, all are forgot,

That joy in her which is his lot.

And Lunete’ mind is now at ease,

Nothing is lacking her to please,

She has her contentment gained

In making peace between Yvain

And his dear and charming lady.

Lines 6804-6808 Chretien’s envoi

THUS Chrétien now ends his story,

His worthy romance of Yvain,

For no more doth the tale contain,

Than he has heard, or you may hear,

Unless one seeks to add lies here.

The End of the Tale of Yvain

About the Author

Chrétien, likely a native of Troyes in north-eastern France, served at the court of his patroness, Marie of France, Countess of Champagne and daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine, between 1160 and 1172. Hers was a literate court, and she herself knowledgeable in Latin as well as French texts, and Chrétien used the legendary court of King Arthur as an analogue for the French and Angevin courts of his own day. Marie’s mother Eleanor became Queen of England, in 1154, as the spouse of Henry II, following annulment of her marriage to Louis VII of France, thus Chrétien was able to blend French and British traditions in his works. Between 1170 and 1190, Chrétien, writing in fluent octosyllabic couplets, developed and transformed the narrative verse tradition, and laid the foundations for the plot-driven prose narratives of later times.

About the Translator

Anthony Kline lives in England. He graduated in Mathematics from the University of Manchester, and was Chief Information Officer (Systems Director) of a large UK Company, before dedicating himself to his literary work and interests. He was born in 1947. His work consists of translations of poetry; critical works, biographical history with poetry as a central theme; and his own original poetry. He has translated into English from Latin, Ancient Greek, Classical Chinese and the European languages. He also maintains a deep interest in developments in Mathematics and the Sciences.

He continues to write predominantly for the Internet, making all works available in download format, with an added focus on the rapidly developing area of electronic books. His most extensive works are complete translations of Ovid's Metamorphoses and Dante's Divine Comedy.