The Man of Law’s Tale

The Introduction

OUR HOST SAW WELL that the bright sun

His daylight arc had run

The first quarter, and half an hour and more,¹

And though not learned deeply in such lore,

He knew it was the eighteenth day

Of April, that is messenger to May;

And saw well that the shadow of every tree

Was in length the same quantity

That was the body that caused it.

And therefore by the shadow made his judgement

That Phoebus, which shone so clear and bright,

Degrees was five and forty ascended on high,

And for that day, in that latitude,

It was ten o‘clock, he began to conclude,

And suddenly he pulled his horse about.

“Lordings,” said he, “I warn you, all this company,

The fourth part of the day is gone.

Now for the love of God and of Saint John,

Lose no time, insofar as you may.

Lordings, time is wasting night and day,

And steals from us, what with sleeping,

And through negligence in our waking,

As does the stream that never turns again,

Descending from the mountain into the plain.

Well can Seneca and many a philosopher

Bewail time more than gold in a coffer;

For ‘Loss of property may recovered be,

But loss of time ruins us,’² said he.

It will not come again, without doubt,

No more than will Malkin’s maidenhead,

When she lost it in her wantonness.

Let us not grow moldy thus in idleness.

Sir Man of Law,” said he, “so have you bliss,

Tell us a tale anon, as we agreed.

You be submitted, through your free assent,

To stonde in this cas at my jugement.

Acquiteth yow, and holdeth your biheste,

Than have ye doon your devoir atte leste.”

“Hoste,” quod he, “depardieux ich assente,

To breke forward is not myn entente.

Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn

Al my biheste; I can no better seyn.

For swich lawe as man yeveth another wight,

He sholde him-selven usen it by right;

Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn

I can right now no trifty tale seyn,

But Chaucer, though he can but lewedly

On metres and on ryming craftily,

Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can

Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.

And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother,

In o bok, he hath seyd hem in another.

For he hath told of loveres up and doun

Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun

In his Epistelles, that been ful olde.

What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde?

In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion,

And sithen hath he spoke of everichon,

Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eke.

Who-so that wol his large volume seke

Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde,

Ther may be seen the large woundes wyde

Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbee;

The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;

The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon;

The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion,

Of Adriane and of Isiphilee;

The bareyne yle stonding in the see;

The dreynte Leander for his Erro;

The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo

Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomëa;

The crueltee of thee, queen Medëa,

Thy litel children hanging by the hals

For thy Jason, that was of love so fals!

To stand in this case at my judgement.

Acquit yourself now of your obligation;

Then you will have at least your duty done.”

“Host,” said he, “depardieux, I assent;

To break my promise is not my intent.

A promise is a duty, and I would keep

All my promises, I can no better say.

For such law as a man gives another,

He should himself obey it, by right;

Thus says our text. But nevertheless, certainly,

I can right now no fitting tale say

That Chaucer, though he knows but little

Of meters and skillful rhyming,

Has said them in such English as he can

Long ago, as knows many a man;

And if he has not said them, dear brother,

In one book, he has said them in another.

For he has told of lovers up and down

More than Ovid made of mention

In his Epistles ³ that be full old.

Why should I tell them, since they have been told?

In youth he wrote of Ceyx and Alcion,⁴

And since then he has spoken of everyone,

These noble wives and these lovers also.

Whoso will his large volume seek,

Called the Legend of Good Women,⁵

There may he see the large wounds wide

Of Lucretia, and of Thisbe of Babylon;

The sword of Dido for the false Aeneas;

The tree of Phyllis for her Demophon,

The plaint of Deianira and of Hermione,

Of Ariadne, and of Hypsipyle—

The barren isle standing in the sea—

The drowned Leander for his Hero;

The tears of Helen, and also the woe

Of Briseyde, and of you, Laodomia;

The cruelty of the queen Medea,

Her little children hanging by the neck,

For your Jason, who was in love so false!

O Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste,

Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste!

But certeinly no word ne wryteth he

Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,

That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;

Of swiche cursed stories I sey ‘fy’;

Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,

How that the cursed king Antiochus

Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,

That is so horrible a tale for to rede,

Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.

And therfore he, of ful avysement,

Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns

Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,

Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.

But of my tale how shal I doon this day?

Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,

To Muses that men clepe Pierides—

Metamorphoseos wot what I mene:—

But nathelees, I recche noght a bene

Though I come after him with hawe-bake;

I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.”

And with that word he, with a sobre chere,

Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.

The Prologue

O hateful harm! condicion of poverte!

With thurst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!

To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;

If thou noon aske, with nede artow so wounded,

That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid!

Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence

Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!

 

Thou blamest Crist, and seyst ful bitterly,

He misdeparteth richesse temporal;

Thy neighebour thou wytest sinfully,

And seyst thou hast to lyte, and he hath al.

Oh Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcestis,

Your fidelity he commends with the best!

“But certainly no word writes he

Of that wicked example of Canacee, ⁶

Who loved her own brother sinfully—

Of such cursed stories I say fie!

Or else of Apollonius of Tyre,⁷

How that cursed king Antiochus

Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead,

That is so horrible a tale for to read,

When he her threw upon the pavement.

And therefore Chaucer, after careful thought,

Would never write in any of his sermons

Of such unnatural abominations,

Nor will I any rehearse, if I may.

“But of my tale how shall I do this day?

I am loath to be likened, doubtless,

To Muses whom men call Pierides⁸—

The Metamorphoses know what I mean;

But nevertheless, I do not care a bean

Though I come after him with poor fare.

I speak in prose, and let him rhymes make.”

And with that word he, with sober face,

Began his tale, as you shall after hear.

The Prologue

Oh hateful misfortune, condition of poverty!⁹

With thirst, with cold, with hunger so distressed!

To ask help you feel shame in your heart;

If you none ask, you are with need so wounded

That need lays bare all your hidden want!

Against your will, you must from indigence

Either steal, beg, or borrow your sustenance!

 

You blame Christ and say full bitterly

He wrongly divides riches temporal;

Your neighbor you accuse sinfully,

And say you have too little and he has all.

“Parfay,” seistow, “somtyme he rekne shal,

Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the glede,

For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir nede.”

 

Herkne what is the sentence of the wyse:—

“Bet is to dyën than have indigence;”

“Thy selve neighebour wol thee despyse;”

If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!

Yet of the wyse man tak this sentence:—

“Alle the dayes of povre men ben wikke;”

Be war therfor, er thou come in that prikke!

 

“If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,

And alle thy freendes fleen fro thee, alas!”

O riche marchaunts, ful of wele ben ye,

O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!

Your bagges been nat filled with ambes as,

But with sis cink, that renneth for your chaunce;

At Cristemasse merie may ye daunce!

 

Ye seken lond and see for your winninges,

As wyse folk ye knowen al th‘estaat

Of regnes; ye ben fadres of tydinges

And tales, bothe of pees and of debat.

I were right now of tales desolat,

Nere that a marchaunt, goon is many a yere,

Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal here.

The Tale

PART ONE

In Surrie whylom dwelte a companye

Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,

That wyde-wher senten her spycerye,

Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe;

Her chaffar was so thrifty and so newe,

That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare

With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.

“By my faith,” you say, “sometime he shall take account,

When his tail shall burn in live coals,

For he helps not the needy in their need.”

 

Harken to what is the judgement of the wise:

“Better is to die than to live in need,

Such that your very neighbor will you despise.”

If you be poor, farewell your respect!

Yet of the wise men take this opinion:

“All the days of poor men be miserable.”

Beware, therefore, that you come to that condition!

 

If you are poor, your brother hates you,

And all your friends flee from you, alas!

Oh rich merchants, full of prosperity be you,

Oh noble, oh prudent folk, as in this case!

Your cups be not filled with snake eyes,

But with six and five, a winning throw of the dice,

At Christmas merry may you dance!

 

You seek over land and sea for your profit;

As wise folk you know all the estate

Of reigns; you be fathers of tidings

And tales, both of peace and conflict.

I would be right now of tales desolate,

Were it not for one that a merchant, gone many a year,

Taught me, which you shall hear.

The Tale

PART ONE

In Syria once dwelt a company

Of merchants rich, and therefore trustworthy and true,

Who far and wide sent their silk and spice,

Cloth of gold, and satins rich of hue.

Their merchandise was so good and so new

That every person wanted to trade

With them, and also to sell them their wares.

Now fel it, that the maistres of that sort

Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;

Were it for chapmanhode or for disport,

Non other message wolde they thider sende,

But comen hem-self to Rome, this is the ende;

And in swich place, as thoughte hem avantage

For her entente, they take her herbergage.

 

Sojourned han thise marchants in that toun

A certein tyme, as fel to hir plesance.

And so bifel, that th‘excellent renoun

Of th’emperoures doghter, dame Custance,

Reported was, with every circumstance,

Un-to thise Surrien marchants in swich wyse,

Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.

 

This was the commune vois of every man—

“Our Emperour of Rome, god him see,

A doghter hath that, sin the world bigan,

To rekne as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,

Nas never swich another as is she;

I prey to god in honour hir sustene,

And wolde she were of al Europe the quene.

 

In hir is heigh beautee, with-oute pryde,

Yowthe, with-oute grenehede or folye;

To alle hir werkes vertu is hir gyde,

Humblesse hath slayn in hir al tirannye.

She is mirour of alle curteisye;

Hir herte is verray chambre of holinesse,

Hir hand, ministre of fredom for almesse.”

 

 

And al this vois was soth, as god is trewe,

But now to purpos lat us turne agayn;

Thise marchants han doon fraught hir shippes newe,

And, whan they han this blisful mayden seyn,

Hoom to Surryë been they went ful fayn,

And doon her nedes as they han don yore,

And liven in wele; I can sey yow no more.

Now it befell that the masters of that sort

Had arranged themselves to Rome to wend;

Whether for business or pleasure,

No other messenger would they thither send,

But go themselves to Rome; that was their end.

And in such place as they thought advantageous

For their purposes, they took their lodging.

Sojourned have these merchants in that town

A certain time, as they wished.

And so it befell that the excellent renown

Of the Emperor’s daughter, dame Constance,

Reported was, with every detail,

Unto these Syrian merchants in such a way,

From day to day, as I shall for you describe.

 

This was the common opinion of every man:

“Our Emperor of Rome—God him protect!—

A daughter has who, since the world began,

To reckon as well her goodness as beauty,

Was never such another as she.

I pray to God to sustain her in honor,

And would she were of Europe all the queen.

 

“In her is high beauty, without pride,

Youth, without callowness or folly;

In all her works virtue is her guide;

Humility has slain in her all tyranny.

She is mirror of all courtesy;

Her heart is the very chamber of holiness,

Her hand, minister of charity generous.”

 

And all this report was true, as God is true.

But now to the point let us turn again.

These merchants have laden their ships anew,

And when they had this blissful maiden seen,

Home to Syria went they full gladly,

And conducted their business as they had done before,

And lived in prosperity; I can tell you no more.

Now fel it, that thise marchants stode in grace

Of him, that was the sowdan of Surrye;

For whan they came from any strange place,

He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,

Make hem good chere, and bisily espye

Tydings of sondry regnes, for to lere

The wondres that they mighte seen or here.

 

Amonges othere thinges, specially

Thise marchants han him told of dame Custance,

So gret noblesse in ernest, ceriously,

That this sowdan hath caught so gret plesance

To han hir figure in his remembrance,

That al his lust and al his bisy cure

Was for to love hir whyl his lyf may dure.

 

Paraventure in thilke large book

Which that men clepe the heven, y-writen was

With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,

That he for love shulde han his deeth, alias !

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas,

Is writen, god wot, who-so coude it rede,

The deeth of every man, withouten drede.

 

In sterres, many a winter ther-biforn,

Was written the deeth of Ector, Achilles,

Of Pompey, Julius, er they were born;

The stryf of Thebes; and of Ercules,

Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates

The deeth; but mennes wittes been so dulle,

That no wight can wel rede it atte fulle.

 

This sowdan for his privee conseil sente,

And, shortly of this mater for to pace,

He hath to hem declared his entente,

And seyde hem certein, “but he mighte have grace

To han Custance with-inne a litel space,

He nas but deed;” and charged hem, in hye,

To shapen for his lyf som remedye.

Now befell it that these merchants stood in the good graces

Of he who was the Sultan of Syria;

And when they came from any foreign place,

He would, of gracious courtesy,

Make them welcome, and eagerly sought

Tidings of sundry reigns, to learn

The wonders that they might have heard or seen.

 

Among other things, specially,

These merchants had told him of dame Constance

And of her nobility, especially, and in such detail

That this Sultan derived great pleasure

To see her image in his mind’s eye,

So that all his hope and all his pleasure

Was to love her so long as his life endured.

 

Perhaps in that large book

Which men call the heavens, written was

In the stars, that when he his birth took,

He was destined to die for love, alas!

For in the stars, clearer than is glass,

Is written, God knows, whoso could it decipher,

The fate of every man, without doubt.

 

In stars, many a winter therebefore,

Was written the death of Hector, Achilles,

Of Pompey the Great, of Julius Caesar,¹⁰ before they were born;

The siege of Thebes,¹¹ and of Hercules,

Of Sampson, Turnus¹² and of Socrates

Their deaths, but men’s wits be so dull

That no man can read it in full.

 

This Sultan for his closest advisors sent,

And, briefly of this matter to look over,

He has to them declared his intent,

And told them, certainly, unless he had the grace

Of Constance within a short time,

He was as good as dead; and ordered them in haste

To devise for his life some remedy.

Diverse men diverse thinges seyden;

They argumenten, casten up and doun

Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden,

They speken of magik and abusioun;

But finally, as in conclusioun,

They can not seen in that non avantage,

Ne in non other wey, save mariage.

 

Than sawe they ther-in swich difficultee

By wey of resoun, for to speke al playn,

By-cause that ther was swich diversitee

Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn,

They trowe “that no cristen prince wolde fayn

Wedden his child under oure lawes swete

That us were taught by Mahoun our prophete.”

 

And he answerde, “rather than I lese

Custance, I wol be cristned doutelees;

I mot ben hires, I may non other chese,

I prey yow holde your arguments in pees;

Saveth my lyf, and beeth noght recchelees

To geten hir that hath my lyf in cure;

For in this wo I may not longe endure.”

 

What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?

I seye, by tretis and embassadrye,

And by the popes mediacioun,

And al the chirche, and al the chivalrye,

That, in destruccioun of Maumetrye,

And in encrees of Cristes lawe dere,

They ben acorded, so as ye shal here;

 

How that the sowdan and his baronage

And alle his liges shulde y-cristned be,

And he shal han Custance in mariage,

And certein gold, I noot what quantitee,

And her-to founden suffisant seurtee;

This same acord was sworn on eyther syde;

Now, faire Custance, almighty god thee gyde!

Different men different things said;

They argued, considered ups and downs;

Many a subtle reason forth they laid;

They spoke of magic and deception.

But finally, in conclusion,

They could not see any advantage

Nor any other way, save in marriage.

 

Then saw they therein such difficulty

By way of reason, for to speak all plain,

Because there was such difference

Between their religions, that they said

They believed that no “Christian prince would care to

Wed his child under our law sweet

That was taught us by our prophet, Mahomet.”

 

And he answered, “Rather than I lose

Constance, I will be christened, doubtless.

I must be hers, I may no other choose.

I pray you hold your arguments in peace;

Save my life, and be not negligent

To get her—in whose hands lies my fate—

For in this woe I may not long endure.”

 

Need I with words more elaborate?

I say, by treaty and negotiation,

And by the pope’s mediation,

And supported by all the church, and all the chivalry,

To further the destruction of idolatry,

And to increase the reign of Christ’s law dear,

They came to an accord, as you shall hear:

 

Whereby the Sultan and his barons

And all his lieges should christened be,

And he should have Constance in marriage,

And certain gold, I know not what quantity;

For this provided sufficient surety.

This same accord was sworn on either side;

Now, fair Constance, almighty God you guide!

Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,

That I shulde tellen al the purveyance

That th‘emperour, of his grete noblesse,

Hath shapen for his doghter dame Custance.

Wel may men knowe that so gret ordinance

May no man tellen in a litel clause

As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.

 

Bisshopes ben shapen with hir for to wende,

Lordes, ladyes, knightes of renoun,

And other folk y-nowe, this is the ende;

And notifyed is thurgh-out the toun

That every wight, with gret devocioun,

Shulde preyen Crist that he this mariage

Receyve in gree, and spede this viage.

 

The day is comen of hir departinge,

I sey, the woful day fatal is come,

That ther may be no lenger taryinge,

But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some;

Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome,

Ful pale arist, and dresseth hir to wende;

For wel she seeth ther is non other ende.

 

 

Alias! what wonder is it though she wepte,

That shal be sent to strange nacioun

Fro freendles, that so tendrely hir kepte,

And to be bounden under subieccioun

Of oon, she knoweth not his condicioun.

Housbondes been alle gode, and han ben yore,

That knowen wyves, I dar say yow no more.

 

“Fader,” she sayde, “thy wrecched child Custance,

Thy yonge doghter, fostred up so softe,

And ye, my moder, my soverayn plesance

Over alle thing, out-taken Crist on-lofte,

Custance, your child, hir recomandeth ofte

Un-to your grace, for I shal to Surryë,

Ne shal I never seen yow more with ye.

Now would some expect, as I guess,

That I should tell all the preparations

That the emperor, in his great nobility,

Had planned for his daughter, dame Constance.

Well may men know that such great preparation

May no man tell in a little clause

As was arranged for so high a cause.

 

Bishops were appointed with her for to wend,

Lords, ladies, knights of renown,

And other folk enough; this is the end;

And made known was throughout the town

That every person, with great devotion,

Should pray to Christ that he this marriage

Receive favorably and speed this voyage.

 

The day came for her departure;

I say, the woeful fatal day arrived,

That there might be no longer tarrying,

But forward they prepared themselves, all and some.

Constance, who was with sorrow all overcome,

Full pale arose, and prepared herself to wend;

For well she saw there was no other end.

 

 

Alas, what wonder that she wept,

Who should be sent to a strange nation

From friends who so tenderly her kept,

And to be bound under subjection

Of one who—she knew not his disposition?

Husbands be all good, and have been of yore;

That know wives, I dare say you no more.

 

“Father,” she said, “your wretched child Constance,

Your young daughter raised so tenderly,

And you, my mother, my sovereign pleasure

Above everything, except Christ above,

Constance your child commends herself often

Unto your grace, for I shall go to Syria,

Never shall my eyes see you again.

Allas! un-to the Barbre nacioun

I moste anon, sin that it is your wille;

But Crist, that starf for our redempcioun,

So yeve me grace, his hestes to fulfille;

I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille.

Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,

And to ben under mannes governance.“

 

I trowe, at Troye, whan Pirrus brak the wal

Or Ylion brende, at Thebes the citee,

Nat Rome, for the harm thurgh Hanibal

That Romayns hath venquisshed tymes three,

Nas herd swich tendre weping for pitee

As in the chambre was for hir departinge;

Bot forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or singe.

 

O firste moeving cruel firmament,

With thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay

And hurlest al from Est til Occident,

That naturelly wolde holde another way,

Thy crowding set the heven in swich array

At the beginning of this fiers viage,

That cruel Mars hath slayn this mariage.

 

Infortunat ascendent tortuous,

Of which the lord is helples falle, alias!

Out of his angle in-to the derkest hous.

O Mars, O Atazir, as in this cas!

O feble mone, unhappy been thy pas!

Thou knittest thee ther thou art nat receyved,

Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.

Imprudent emperour of Rome, allas!

Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?

Is no tyme bet than other in swich cas?

Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,

Namely to folk of heigh condicioun,

Nat whan a rote is of a birthe y-knowe?

Alias! we ben to lewed or to slowe.

“Alas, unto the Berber nation¹³

I most go anon, since that is your will;

But Christ, who died for our redemption

So give me grace his heedings to fulfill!

I, wretched woman, no matter if I die!

Women are born to thralldom and penance,

And to be under man’s governance.”

 

Not at Troy, when Pyrrhus¹⁴ broke the wall

And the city burned, nor at Thebes,

Nor at Rome, when it was poised to fall

To Hannibal, who thrice vanquished the Romans,

Was heard such tender weeping for pity

As in the chamber was for her departing;

But go she must, weeping or singing.

 

O primum mobile!¹⁵ Cruel firmament,

With your diurnal sway that crowds ever

And hurls all from east to west

That naturally would go another way,

Your force set the heavens in such array

At the beginning of this dangerous voyage,

That cruel Mars will slay this marriage.

 

Inauspicious ascendent tortuous,¹⁶

Of which the lord was helplessly fallen, alas,

Out of his angle into the darkest house!

Oh Mars, oh atazir, as in this case!

Oh feeble moon, unhappy are your steps!

You conjoin where you are not well-received;

From where you were well, you are now banished.

 

Imprudent Emperor of Rome, alas!

Was there no astrologer in all your town?

Was no time better than another in that case?

For a voyage is there no choice,

Especially for folk of high position?

Not when a date of birth is known?

Alas, we be too unlearned or too slow!

To shippe is brought this woful faire mayde

Solempnely, with every circumstance.

“Now Jesu Crist be with yow alle,” she sayde;

Ther nis namore but “farewel! faire Custance!”

She peyneth hir to make good countenance,

And forth I lete hir sayle in this manere,

And turne I wol agayn to my matere.

 

The moder of the sowdan, welle of vyces,

Espyëd hath hir sones pleyn entente,

How he wol lete his olde sacrifyces,

And right anon she for hir conseil sente;

And they ben come, to knowe what she mente.

And when assembled was this folke in-fere,

She sette hir doun, and sayde as ye shal here.

 

“Lordes,” quod she, “ye knowen everichon,

How that my sone in point is for to lete

The holy lawes of our Alkaron,

Yeven by goddes message Makomete.

But oon avow to grete god I hete,

The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte

Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte!

 

What shulde us tyden of this newe lawe

But thraldom to our bodies and penance?

And afterward in helle to be drawe

For we reneyed Mahoun our creance?

But, lordes, wol ye maken assurance,

As I shal seyn, assenting to my lore,

And I shall make us sauf for evermore?”

 

They sworen and assenten, every man,

To live with hir and dye, and by hir stonde;

And everich, in the beste wyse he can,

To strengthen hir shal alle his freendes fonde;

And she hath this empryse y-take on honde,

Which ye shal heren that I shal devyse,

And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse.

To ship was brought this woeful fair maid

Solemnly, with every ceremony.

“Now Jesus Christ be with you all!” she said;

There was no more, but, “Farewell, Constance!”

She tried to put on a brave face;

And forth I let her sail in this manner,

And turn I will again to my matter.

 

The mother of the Sultan, well of vices,

Espied has her son’s plain intent,

How he would abandon his old sacrifices;

And right anon she for her private counsel sent,

And they came to know what she meant.

And when assembled were this folk together,

She set herself down, and said as you shall hear.

 

“Lords,” said she, “you know every one,

How my son is about to forsake

The holy laws of the Koran,

Given by God’s messenger Mahomet.

But one vow to great God I promise,

The life shall rather out of my body depart

Before Mahomet’s law departs my heart!

 

“What should happen to us with this new law

But thralldom for our bodies and remorse,

And afterward in hell to be drawn,

If we renounce our belief in Mahomet?

But lords, will you make assurance,

To follow what I shall say, assenting to my advice,

And I shall thereby make us safe for evermore?”

 

They swore and assented, every man,

To live with her and die, and by her stand,

And every one, in the best way he could,

To strengthen her would persuade all his friends;

And she has this enterprise taken in hand,

Which you shall hear that I shall describe,

And to them all she spoke right in this way:

“We shul first feyne us cristendom to take,

Cold water shal not greve us but a lyte;

And I shal swich a feste and revel make,

That, as I trowe, I shal the sowdan quyte.

For though his wyf be cristned never so whyte

She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,

Thogh she a font-ful water with hir lede.”

 

O sowdanesse, rote of iniquitee,

Virago, thou Semyram the secounde,

O serpent under femininitee,

Lyk to the serpent depe in helle y-bounde,

O feyned womman, al that may confounde

Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malyce,

Is bred in thee, as nest of every vyce!

 

O Satan, envious sin thilke day

That thou were chased from our heritage,

Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!

Thou madest Eva bringe us in servage.

Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.

Thyn instrument so, weylawey the whyle!

Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt begyle.

 

This sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warie,

Leet prively hir conseil goon hir way.

What sholde I in this tale lenger tarie?

She rydeth to the sowdan on a day,

And seyde him, that she wolde reneye hir lay,

And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,

Repenting hir she hethen was so longe,

 

Biseching him to doon hir that honour,

That she moste han the cristen men to feste;

“To plesen hem I wol do my labour.”

The sowdan seith, “I wol don at your heste,”

And kneling thanketh hir of that requeste.

So glad he was, he niste what to seye;

She kiste hir sone, and hoom she gooth hir weye.

“We shall first feign us Christianity to take

Cold water shall not grieve us but a little—

And I shall such a feast and revel make

That, as I believe, shall the Sultan revenge.

For though his wife be christened ever so white,

She shall have need to wash away the red,

Though she bring a baptismal font.”

 

Oh Sultaness, root of iniquity^!

Virago, you Semiramis the second!

Oh serpent disguised as femininity,

Like to Satan deep in hell bound!

O feigned woman, all that may destroy

Virtue and innocence, through your malice,

Is bred in you, a nest of every vice!

 

Oh Satan, envious since that day

That you were chased from our Garden,

Well know you women in the old way!

You made Eve bring us into servitude;

You would destroy this Christian marriage.

Your instrument—alas!—

Make you of women, when you would beguile.

 

This Sultaness, whom I thus blame and curse,

Secretly dismissed her counsel to go their ways.

Why should I in this tale longer tarry?

She rode to the Sultan on a day,

And said that she would renounce her faith,

And Christianity at the priest’s hands accept,

Repenting that she had Mahomet so long worshiped,

 

And beseeching him that he would do her the honor,

That she might have the Christian folk to feast—

“To please them will I make an effort.”

The sultan said, “I will comply with your behest.”

And kneeling thanked her for that request.

So glad he was, he knew not what to say.

She kissed her son, and home she went her way.

PART TWO

Arryved ben this Cristen folk to londe,

In Surrie, with a greet solempne route,

And hastily this sowdan sente his sonde,

First to his moder, and al the regne aboute,

And seyde, his wyf was comen, out of doute,

And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the quene,

The honour of his regne to sustene.

 

Gret was the prees, and riche was th‘array

Of Surriens and Romayns met y-fere;

The moder of the sowdan, riche and gay,

Receyveth hir with al-so glad a chere

As any moder mighte hir doghter dere,

And to the nexte citee ther bisyde

A softe pas solempnely they ryde.

 

Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius,

Of which that Lucan maketh swich a bost,

Was royaller, ne more curious

Than was th‘assemblee of this blisful host.

But this scorpioun, this wikked gost,

The sowdanesse, for al hir flateringe,

Caste under this ful mortally to stinge.

 

The sowdan comth him-self sone after this

So royally, that wonder is to telle,

And welcometh hir with alle joye and blis.

And thus in merthe and joye I lete hem dwelle.

The fruyt of this matere is that I telle.

Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste

That revel stinte, and men goon to hir reste.

 

The tyme cam, this olde sowdanesse

Ordeyned hath this feste of which I tolde,

And to the feste Cristen folk hem dresse

In general, ye! bothe yonge and olde

Here may men feste and royaltee biholde,

PART TWO

Arrived were this Christian folk to land

In Syria, with a great solemn company,

And hastily this Sultan sent his message

First to his mother, and all the reign about,

And said his wife was coming, with no doubt,

And prayed for her to ride toward the queen,

The honor of his reign to sustain.

 

Great was the crowd, and rich was the raiment

Of Syrians and Romans met together;

The mother of the Sultan, rich and gay,

Received her also with a glad face

As any mother might her daughter dear,

And to the next city there beside

Slowly and solemnly they rode.

 

I believe that Caesar’s triumphal march,

Of which Lucan makes such a boast,¹⁷

Was not more royal or elaborate

Than was the assembly of this blissful host.

But this scorpion, this wicked spirit,

The Sultaness, for all her flattery,

Planned under this full mortally to sting.

 

The Sultan came himself soon after this

So royally that it wondrous is to tell,

And welcomed her with all joy and bliss.

And thus in mirth and joy I let him dwell;

The heart of this matter is what I tell.

When the time came, men thought it for the best

The revels to end, and men went to their rest.

 

The time came that this old Sultaness

Ordained this feast of which I told,

And to the feast Christian folk attended

In general, yea, both young and old.

Here may men feast and royalty behold,

And deyntees mo than I can yow devyse,

But al to dere they boughte it er they ryse.

 

O sodeyn wo! that ever art successour

To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse;

Th‘ende of the joye of our worldly labour;

Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse.

Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,

Up-on thy glade day have in thy minde

The unwar wo or harm that comth bihinde.

 

 

For shortly for to tellen at o word,

The sowdan and the Cristen everichone

Ben al to-hewe and stiked at the bord,

But it were only dame Custance allone.

This olde sowdanesse, cursed crone,

Hath with hir frendes doon this cursed dede,

For she hir-self wolde al the contree lede.

 

Ne ther was Surrien noon that was converted

That of the conseil of the sowdan woot,

That he nas al to-hewe er he asterted.

And Custance han they take anon, foot-hoot,

And in a shippe al sterelees, god woot,

They han hir set, and bidde hir lerne sayle

Out of Surrye agaynward to Itayle.

 

A certein tresor that she thider ladde,

And, sooth to sayn, vitaille gret plentee

They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde.

And forth she sayleth in the salte see.

O my Custance, ful of benignitee,

O emperoures yonge doghter dere,

He that is lord of fortune be thy stere!

 

She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys

Un-to the croys of Crist thus seyde she,

“O clere, o welful auter, holy croys,

Reed of the lambes blood full of pitee,

And dainties more than I can for you describe;

But all too dear they bought it before they rose.

Oh sudden woe, that ever is successor

To worldly bliss, sprinkled with bitterness,

The end of the joy of our worldly labor!

Woe occupies the end of our gladness.

Harken to this counsel for your safety:

Upon the glad day have in your mind

The unknown woe or harm that comes behind.

 

For shortly for to tell, in a word,

The Sultan and the Christians every one

Were hacked and stabbed at the table,

Except for dame Constance alone.

This old Sultaness, cursed crone,

Has with her friends done this cursed deed,

For she herself would all the country lead.

 

None of the Syrians who were converted,

Who of the counsel of the Sultan knew,

Were not stabbed or to pieces hewn.

And Constance they took anon with hot feet,

And in a rudderless old hulk, God knows,

They her set, and bid her learn to sail

From Syria back to Italy again.

 

A certain treasure she thither carried,

And, truth to tell, of food great plenty

They have her given, and clothes also she had,

And forth she sailed in the salt sea.

Oh my Constance, full of benignity,

Oh Emperor’s young daughter dear,

He who is lord of Fortune may your ship steer!

 

She blessed herself, and with full piteous voice

Unto the cross of Christ said she:

“Oh pure, oh blessed altar, holy cross,

Red with the Lamb’s blood full of pity,

That wesh the world fro the olde iniquitee,

Me fro the feend, and fro his clawes kepe,

That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.

 

Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,

That only worthy were for to bere

The king of heven with his woundes newe,

The whyte lamb, that hurt was with the spere,

Flemer of feendes out of him and here

On which thy limes feithfully extenden,

Me keep, and yif me might my lyf t‘amenden.”

 

Yeres and dayes fleet this creature

Thurghout the see of Grece un-to the strayte

Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure;

On many a sory meel now may she bayte;

After her deeth ful often may she wayte,

Er that the wilde wawes wol hir dryve

Un-to the place, ther she shal arryve.

 

Men mighten asken why she was not slayn?

Eek at the feste who mighte hir body save?

And I answere to that demaunde agayn,

Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,

Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,

Was with the leoun frete er he asterte?

No wight but god, that he bar in his herte.

 

God liste to shewe his wonderful miracle

In hir, for we sholde seen his mighty werkes;

Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,

By certein menes ofte, as knowen clerkes,

Doth thing for certein ende that ful derk is

To mannes wit, that for our ignorance

Ne conne not knowe his prudent purveyance.

 

Now, sith she was not at the feste y-slawe,

Who kepte hir fro the drenching in the see?

Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe

That washes the world of old iniquity,

Me from the fiend and from his claws keep,

That day that I shall drown in the deep.

 

“Victorious cross, protector of the faithful,

That alone was worthy for to bear

The King of Heaven with his wounds new,

The white lamb, that was wounded with a spear,

Banisher of fiends from him and her

Over which your limbs faithfully extend,

Me keep, and me give the power my life to amend.”

 

Years and days drifted this creature

Through the Sea of Greece unto the Straits

Of Gibraltar, as it was her luck.

On many a sorry meal now may she dine;

For her death full often may she wait,

Before that the wild waves will her drive

Unto the place where she shall arrive.

 

Men might ask why she was not slain

Also at the feast? Who might her body save?

And I answer to that demand again,

Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave¹⁸

Where every person save he, master and servant,

Was by the lion devoured before he escaped?

No person but God whom he bore in his heart.

God chose to show his wonderful miracle

In her, that we should see his mighty works;

Christ, who is to every harm the medicine,

By certain means often, as know scholars,

Does things for certain ends that full dark are

To men’s wit, that in our ignorance

We can not know his prudent providence.

 

Now since she was not at the feast slain,

Who kept her from drowning in the sea?

Who kept Jonas in the fish’s maw¹⁹

Til he was spouted up at Ninivee?

Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he

That kepte peple Ebraik fro hir drenchinge,

With drye feet thurgh-out the see passinge.

 

Who bad the foure spirits of tempest,

That power han t‘anoyen land and see,

“Bothe north and south, and also west and est,

Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?”

Sothly, the comaundour of that was he,

That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte

As wel whan [that] she wook as whan she slepte.

 

Wher mighte this womman mete and drinke-have?

Three yeer and more how lasteth hir vitaille?

Who fedde the Egipcien Marie in the cave,

Or in desert? no wight but Crist, sans faille.

Fyve thousand folk it was as gret mervaille

With loves fyve and fisshes two to fede.

God sente his foison at hir grete nede.

 

She dryveth forth in-to our occean

Thurgh-out our wilde see, til; atte laste,

Under an hold that nempnen I ne can,

Fer in Northumberlond the wawe hir caste,

And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste,

That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde,

The wille of Crist was that she shulde abyde.

The constable of the castel doun is fare

To seen this wrak, and al the ship he soghte,

And fond this wery womman ful of care;

He fond also the tresor that she broghte.

In hir langage mercy she bisoghte

The lyf out of hir body for to twinne,

Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne.

 

A maner Latin corrupt was hir speche,

But algates ther-by was she understonde;

Till he was spouted up at Nineveh?

Well may men know that it was no person but he

Who kept the Hebrew people from their drowning,

With dry feet passing through the sea.²⁰

 

Who bade the four angels of tempest²¹

Who have the power to trouble land and sea,

Both north and south, and also west and east,

“Trouble neither sea, nor land, nor cross”?

Truly, the commander of that was he

Who from the tempest ever this woman kept

As well when she woke as when she slept.

 

Where might this woman food and drink have

Three years and more? How lasted her provisions?

Who fed Saint Mary the Egyptian in the cave,²²

Or in the desert? No one but Christ, without doubt.

It was as miraculous as when with two loaves and fishes

Five thousand folk he fed.

God sent his plenty at her great need.

 

She drove forth into our ocean

Throughout our wild sea, till at last

Under a castle that I cannot name,

Far in Northumberland the waves her cast,

And in the sand her ship stuck so fast

That thence would it not float for all a tide;

The will of Christ was that she should abide.

 

The constable of this castle down is fared

To see the wreck, and all the ship he searched,

And found this very woman full of sorrow;

He found also the treasure that she brought.

In her language mercy she besought,

The life out of her body to take,

Her to deliver of the woe that she was in.

 

A kind of corrupted Latin was her speech,

But nevertheless thereby was she understood.

The constable, whan him list no lenger seche,

This woful womman broghte he to the londe;

She kneleth doun, and thanketh goddes sonde.

But what she was, she wolde no man seye,

For foul ne fair, thogh that she shulde deye.

 

She seyde, she was so massed in the see

That she forgat hir minde, by hir trouthe;

The constable hath of hir so greet pitee,

And eek his wyf, that they wepen for routhe,

She was so diligent, with-outen slouthe,

To serve and plesen everich in that place,

That alle hir loven that loken on hir face.

 

This constable and dame Hermengild his wyf

Were payens, and that contree everywhere;

But Hermengild lovede hir right as hir lyf,

And Custance hath so longe sojourned there,

In orisons, with many a bitter tere,

Til Jesu hath converted thurgh his grace

Dame Hermengild, constablesse of that place.

 

In al that lond no Cristen durste route,

Alle Cristen folk ben fled fro that contree

Thurgh payens, that conquereden al aboute

The plages of the North, by land and see;

To Walis fled the Cristianitee

Of olde Britons, dwellinge in this yle;

Ther was hir refut for the mene whyle.

 

But yet nere Cristen Britons so exyled

That ther nere somme that in hir privetee

Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigyled;

And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three.

That oon of hem was blind, and mighte nat see

But it were with thilke yën of his minde,

With whiche men seen, after that they ben blinde.

The constable, when he was done his search,

This woeful woman brought he to the land.

She knelt down and thanked God’s providence;

But who she was she would no man tell,

For foul nor fair, though she should die.

 

She said that she was so bewildered in the sea

That she lost her memory, by her troth.

The constable had for her such great pity,

And also his wife, that they wept for compassion.

She was so diligent, without sloth,

To serve and please everyone in that place

That all her loved who looked upon her face.

 

This constable and dame Hermengyld, his wife,

Were pagans, as was that country everywhere;

But Hermengyld loved her right as her life,

And Constance so long sojourned there,

Giving herself to prayer, with many a bitter tear,

Till Jesus converted through his grace

Dame Hermengyld, the constable’s wife of that place.

 

In all that land no Christians dared gather;

All Christian folk were fled from that country

Because of the pagans, who conquered all about

The coasts of the north, by land and sea.²³

To Wales fled the Christian

Old Britons dwelling in that isle;

There was their refuge for the meanwhile.

 

But yet were not Christian Britons so exiled

That there were not some who in secret

Honored Christ and heathen folk beguiled,

And near the castle there dwelt three.

And one of them was blind and might not see,

Except with those eyes of his mind

With which men may see, after they go blind.

Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,

For which the constable and his wyf also

And Custance han y-take the righte way

Toward the see, a furlong wey or two,

To pleyen and to romen to and fro;

And in hir walk this blinde man they mette

Croked and old, with yen faste y-shette.

 

“In name of Crist,” cryde this blinde Britoun,

“Dame Hermengild, yif me my sighte agayn.”

This lady wex affrayed of the soun,

Lest that hir housbond, shortly for to sayn,

Wolde hir for Jesu Cristes love han slayn,

Til Custance made hir bold, and bad hir werche

The wil of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.

 

The constable wex abasshed of that sight,

And seyde, “what amounteth al this fare?”

Custance answerde, “sire, it is Cristes might,

That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare.”

And so ferforth she gan our lay declare,

That she the constable, er that it were eve,

Converted, and on Crist made him bileve.

 

This constable was no-thing lord of this place

Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond,

But kepte is strongly, many wintres space,

Under Alla, king of al Northumberlond,

That was ful wys, and worthy of his hond

Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel here,

But turne I wol agayn to my matere.

 

Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigyle,

Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun,

And caste anon how he mighte quyte hir whyle,

And made a yong knight, that dwelte in that toun,

Love hir so hote, of foul affeccioun,

That verraily him thoughte he shulde spille

But he of hir mighte ones have his wille.

Bright was the sun in that summer’s day,

For which the constable and his wife also

And Constance had taken the right way

Toward the sea a furlong length or two,

To play and roam to and fro,

And in their walk this blind man they met,

Crooked and old, with eyes fast shut.

 

“In name of Christ,” cried this blind Briton,

“Dame Hermengyld, give me my sight again!”

This lady waxed afraid of the sound,

Lest that her husband, shortly for to tell,

Would her for Jesus Christ’s love have slain,

Till Constance made her bold, and bade her work

The will of Christ, as daughter of his church.

 

The constable waxed abashed at that sight,

And said, “What does all this mean?”

Constance answered, “Sire, it is Christ’s might,

Who helps folk out of the fiend’s snare.”

And so much she began our religion to declare

That she the constable, before it was evening

Converted, and in Christ made him believe.

 

This constable was not lord of this place

Of which I speak, where he Constance found,

But kept it strongly many a winter’s space

Under Alla, king of all Northumberland,

Who was full wise, and brave in battle

Against the Scots, as men may well hear;

But turn I will again to my matter.

 

Satan, who ever waits us to beguile,

Saw of Constance all her perfection,

And plotted anon how he might repay her soon,

And made a young knight who dwelt in that town

Love her so hotly, with such passion,

That verily he thought he should die,

Unless he of her might once have his will.

He woweth hir, but it availleth noght,

She wolde do no sinne, by no weye;

And, for despyt, he compassed in his thoght

To maken hir on shamful deth to deye.

He wayteth whan the constable was aweye,

And prively, up-on a night, he crepte

In Hermengildes chambre whyl she slepte.

 

Wery, for-waked in her orisouns,

Slepeth Custance, and Hermengild also.

This knight, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,

Al softely is to the bed y-go,

And kitte the throte of Hermengild a-two,

And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,

And wente his wey, ther god yeve him meschance!

 

Sone after comth this constable hoom agayn,

And eek Alia, that king was of that lond,

And saugh his wyf despitously y-slayn,

For which ful ofte he weep and wrong his hond,

And in the bed the blody knyf he fond

By dame Custance; allas! what mighte she seye?

For verray wo hir wit was al aweye.

 

To king Alla was told al this meschance,

And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wyse

That in a ship was founden dame Custance,

As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.

The kinges herte of pitee gan agryse,

Whan he saugh so benigne a creature

Falle in disese and in misaventure.

 

 

For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,

So stant this innocent bifore the king;

This false knight that hath this tresoun wroght

Berth hir on hond that she hath doon this thing.

But nathelees, ther was [ful] greet moorning

He wooed her, but it availed not;

She would do no sin, in no way.

And for spite he plotted in his thought

To make her in shameful death to die.

He waited when the constable was away,

And privately upon a night he crept

Into Hermengyld’s chamber, while she slept.

 

Weary, exhausted from prayer,

Slept Constance, and Hermengyld also.

This knight, through Satan’s temptation,

All softly is to the bed gone,

And cut the throat of Hermengyld in two,

And laid the bloody knife by dame Constance,

And went his way, may God give him mischance!

 

Soon after came this constable home again,

And also Alia, who king was of that land,

And the constable saw his wife cruelly slain,

For which full oft he wept and wrung his hands,

And in the bed the bloody knife he found

Beside Dame Constance. Alas, what might she say?

In her woe her wit was all away.

 

To King Alla was told all this mischance,

And also the time, and where, and in what way

That in a ship was found this Constance,

As herebefore you have heard described.

The king’s heart of pity began to tremble,

When he saw so benign a creature

Fall in distress and misadventure.

 

For as the lamb toward its death is brought,

So stood this innocent before the king.

This false knight, who has this treason wrought,

Falsely accused her of having done this thing.

But nevertheless, there was great mourning

Among the peple, and seyn, “they can not gesse

That she hath doon so greet a wikkednesse.

 

For they han seyn hir ever so vertuous,

And loving Hermengild right as her lyf.”

Of this bar witnesse everich in that hous

Save he that Hermengild slow with his knyf,

This gentil king hath caught a gret motyf

Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere

Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere.

 

Allas! Custance! thou hast no champioun,

Ne fighte canstow nought, so weylawey!

But he, that starf for our redempcioun

And bond Sathan (and yit lyth ther he lay)

So be thy stronge champioun this day!

For, but-if Crist open miracle kythe,

Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swythe.

 

She sette her doun on knees, and thus she sayde,

“Immortal god, that savedest Susanne

Fro false blame, and thou, merciful mayde,

Mary I mene, doghter to Seint Anne,

Bifore whos child aungeles singe Osanne,

If I be giltlees of this felonye,

My socour be, for elles I shal dye!”

 

Have ye nat seyn some tyme a pale face,

Among a prees, of him that hath be lad

Toward his deeth, wher-as him gat no grace,

And swich a colour in his face hath had,

Men mighte knowe his face, that was bisted,

Amonges alle the faces in that route:

So stant Custance, and loketh hir aboute.

 

O quenes, livinge in prosperitee,

Duchesses, and ye ladies everichone,

Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee;

Among the people, and said they could not guess

That she had done so great a wickedness,

 

For they had seen her ever so virtuous,

And loving Hermengyld right as her life.

Of this bore witness everyone in that house,

Save he who slew Hermengyld with his knife.

This gentle king was deeply moved

By this witnessing, and thought he would inquire

Deeper into this, for to learn the truth.

 

Alas! Constance, you have no champion,

Nor can you fight, so wellaway!

But he who died for our redemption,

And bound Satan (who yet lies there still),

So be your strong champion this day!

For, unless Christ an open miracle reveals,

Guiltless you shall be slain and soon.

 

She knelt down, and thus she said:

“Immortal God, who saved Susanna

From false blame,²⁴ and you, merciful maid,

Mary I mean, daughter to Saint Anne,

Before whose child angels sing Hosanna,

If I be guiltless of this felony,

My succor be, for else shall I die!”

 

Have you not seen sometime a pale face,

Among a crowd, of him who is led

Toward his death, who has received no grace,

And who has such a color in his face that

Men might see that trouble standing out

Of all the faces in the crowd?

So stood Constance, as she looked her about.

 

Oh queens, living in prosperity,

Duchesses, and you ladies everyone,

Have some pity on her adversity!

An emperoures doghter stant allone;

She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.

O blood royal, that stondest in this drede,

Fer ben thy freendes at thy grete nede!

 

This Alla king hath swich compassioun,

As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,

That from his yen ran the water doun.

“Now hastily do fecche a book,” quod he,

“And if this knight wol sweren how that she

This womman slow, yet wole we us avyse

Whom that we wole that shal ben our justyse.”

 

A Briton book, writen with Evangyles,

Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon

She gilty was, an in the mene whyles

A hand him smoot upon the nekke-boon,

That doun he fil atones as a stoon,

And bothe his yen broste out of his face

In sight of every body in that place.

 

A vois was herd in general audience,

And seyde, “thou hast desclaundred giltelees

The doghter of holy chirche in hey presence;

Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees.”

Of this mervaille agast was al the prees;

As mased folk they stoden everichone,

For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.

 

Greet was the drede and eek the repentance

Of hem that hadden wrong suspeccioun

Upon this sely innocent Custance;

And, for this miracle, in conclusioun,

And by Custances mediacioun,

The king, and many another in that place,

Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace!

 

This false knight was slayn for his untrouthe

By jugement of Alia hastily;

An Emperor’s daughter stands alone;

She has no one to whom she can make her moan.

Oh blood royal, who stands in this dread,

Far be your friends at your great need!

 

This Alla king has such compassion,

As a gentle heart is filled with pity,

That from his eyes ran the water down.

“Now hastily do fetch a book,” said he,

“And if this knight will swear how that she

This woman slew, yet will we think carefully

Who shall be her executioner.”

 

 

A British book, written with Gospels,

Was fetched, and in this book he swore anon

She guilty was, and in the meanwhile

A hand him smote upon the neck-bone,

And down he fell as a stone,

And both his eyes burst out of his face

In sight of everybody in that place.

 

A voice was heard by everyone there,

That said, “You have slandered, guiltless,

The daughter of holy church in God’s presence;

Thus have you done, and yet I held my peace!”

By this miracle astonished was all the gathering;

As bewildered folk they stood every one,

For dread of vengeance, save Constance alone.

 

Great was the dread and also the repentance

Of those who had wrongly suspected

This true innocent, Constance;

And for this miracle, in conclusion,

And by Constance’s mediation,

The king—and many another in that place—

Converted was, thanked be Christ’s grace!

 

This false knight was slain for his untruth

By judgement of Alla swiftly;

And yet Custance hadde of his deeth gret routhe.

And after this Jesus, of his mercy,

Made Alla wedden ful solempnely

This holy mayden, that is so bright and shene,

And thus hath Crist y-maad Custance a quene.

 

But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,

Of this wedding but Donegild, and na mo,

The kinges moder, ful of tirannye?

Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast a-two;

She wolde noght hir sone had do so;

Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take

So strange a creature un-to his make.

 

Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree

Maken so long a tale, as of the corn.

What sholde I tellen of the royaltee

At mariage, or which cours gooth biforn,

Who bloweth in a trompe or in an horn?

The fruit of every tale is for to seye;

They ete, and drinke, and daunce, and singe, and pleye.

 

They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right;

For, thogh that wyves been ful holy thinges,

They moste take in pacience at night

Swich maner necessaries as been plesinges

To folk that han y-wedded hem with ringes,

And leye a lyte hir holinesse asyde

As for the tyme; it may no bet bityde.

 

On hir he gat a knave-child anoon,

And to a bishop and his constable eke

He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is goon

To Scotland-ward, his fo-men for to seke;

Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,

So longe is goon with childe, til that stille

She halt hir chambre, abyding Cristes wille.

And yet Constance had of his death great pity.

And after this Jesus, of his mercy,

Made Alla wed full solemnly

This holy maiden, who was so bright and shining;

And thus Christ made Constance a queen.

 

But who was woeful, if I shall not lie,

Of this wedding but Donegild, and no others,

The king’s mother, full of tyranny?

She thought her cursed heart would break in two.

She would not that her son had done so;

She thought it an insult that he should take

So strange a creature to be his mate.

 

I care not about the chaff, nor the straw,

Of this long tale—only the kernel.

What should I tell of the royalty

At marriage, or which course went before;

Or who blew a trumpet or a horn?

The heart of every tale is what we should tell:

They ate, and drank, and danced, and sung, and played.

 

They went to bed, as it was reasonable and right;

For though wives be full holy things,

They must take in patience at night

Such necessities as be pleasing

To folk who have wedded them with rings,

And lay a little of their holiness aside,

For awhile—that is in life the way.

 

On her he begot a boy child anon,

And to a bishop, and his constable also,

He gave his wife to keep, while he was gone

To Scotland-ward, his enemies to seek.

Now fair Constance, who is so humble and meek,

So long is gone with child, that still

She stayed in her chamber, awaiting Christ’s will.

The tyme is come, a knave-child she ber;

Mauricius at the font-stoon they him calle;

This constable dooth forth come a messager,

And wroot un-to his king, that cleped was Alle,

How that this blisful tyding is bifalle,

And othere tydings speedful for to seye;

He tak‘th the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.

 

This messager, to doon his avantage,

Un-to the kinges moder rydeth swythe,

And salueth hir ful faire in his langage,

“Madame,” quod he, “ye may be glad and blythe,

And thanke god an hundred thousand sythe;

My lady quene hath child, with-outen doute,

To joye and blisse of al this regne aboute.

 

Lo, heer the lettres seled of this thing,

That I mot bere with al the haste I may;

If ye wol aught un-to your sone the king,

I am your servant, bothe night and day.“

Donegild answerde, ”as now at this tyme, nay;

But heer al night I wol thou take thy reste,

Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste.”

 

This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,

And stolen were his lettres prively

Out of his box, whyl he sleep as a swyn;

And countrefeted was ful subtilly

Another lettre, wroght ful sinfully,

Un-to the king direct of this matere

Fro his constable, as ye shal after here.

 

The lettre spak, “the queen delivered was

Of so horrible a feendly creature,

That in the castel noon so hardy was

That any whyle dorste ther endure.

The moder was an elf, by aventure

The time came that a boy child she bore;

Maurice at the baptismal font they him called.

This constable sent for a messenger,

And wrote to his king, who was called Alia,

How this blissful tiding had occurred,

And other tidings useful for to say.

He took the letter, and went forth his way.

 

This messenger, to do himself good,

Unto the king’s mother swiftly rode,

And saluted her full fair in his language:

“Madame,” said he, “you may be glad and blithe,

And thank God a hundred thousand times!

My lady queen has a child, without doubt,

To the joy and bliss of this reign about.

 

“Look, here the letters sealed of this thing,

That I might bear with all the haste that I may.

If you wish to send something to your son the king,

I am your servant, both night and day.”

Donegild answered, “At this time, nay;

But here all night I would you take your rest.

Tomorrow will I tell you what I wish.”

 

This messenger drank steadily ale and wine,

And stolen were his letters secretly

From his box, while he slept as a swine;

And counterfeited was full subtly

Another letter, wrought full sinfully,

Unto the king direct of this matter

From his constable, as you shall after hear.

 

The letter said the queen delivered was

Of so horrible a fiendish creature

That in the castle no one so hardy was

Who for any while dared they endure.

The mother was an evil spirit, by chance

Y-come, by charmes or by sorcerye,

And every wight hateth hir companye.”

 

Wo was this king whan he this lettre had seyn,

But to no wighte he tolde his sorwes sore,

But of his owene honde he wroot ageyn,

“Welcome the sonde of Crist for evermore

To me, that am now lerned in his lore;

Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce,

My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce!

 

Kepeth this child, al be it foul or fair,

And eek my wyf, un-to myn hoom-cominge;

Crist, whan him list, may sende me an heir

More agreable than this to my lykinge.”

This lettre he seleth, prively wepinge,

Which to the messager was take sone,

And forth he gooth, ther is na more to done.

 

O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,

Strong is thy breeth, thy limes faltren ay,

And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.

Thy mind is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,

Thy face is turned in a newe array!

Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,

Ther is no conseil hid, with-outen doute.

 

O Donegild, I ne have noon English digne

Un-to thy malice and thy tirannye!

And therfor to the feend I thee resigne,

Let him endyten of thy traitorye!

Fy, mannish, fy! o nay, by god, I lye,

Fy, feendly spirit, for I dar wel telle,

Though thou heer walke, thy spirit is in helle!

 

This messager comth fro the king agayn,

And at the kinges modres court he lighte,

And she was of this messager ful fayn,

Come, by charms or sorcery,

And every person hated her company.

 

Woe was this king when he this letter had seen,

But to no person he told his sorrows sore,

But in his own hand he wrote again,

“Welcome the dispensation of Christ for evermore

To me who knows his lore!

Lord, welcome be your wish and pleasure;

My will I put all in your hands.

 

“Keep this child, albeit foul or fair,

And also my wife, until my homecoming.

Christ, when he wishes, may send me an heir

More agreeable than this to my liking.”

This letter he sealed, privately weeping,

Which to the messenger was taken anon,

And forth he went; there was no more to be done.

 

Oh messenger, filled with drunkenness,

Strong is your breath, your limbs falter ever,

And you betray all secrecy.

Your mind is lost, you chatter as a jay,

Your face has a new look.

Your drunkenness reigns with any group,

There are no secrets kept, without doubt.

 

Oh Donegild, I have no English fit

For your malice and your tyranny!

And therefore to the fiend I you commend;

Let him indite of your treachery!

Fie, mannish, fie!—oh nay, by God, I lie—

Fie, fiendish spirit, for I dare well tell,

Though you here walk, your spirit is in hell!

This messenger came from the king again,

And at the king’s mother’s court he alighted,

And she was of this messenger full eager,

And plesed him in al that ever she mighte.

He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte.

He slepeth, and he snoreth in his gyse

Al night, un-til the sonne gan aryse.

 

Eft were his lettres stolen everichon

And countrefeted lettres in this wyse;

“The king comandeth his constable anon,

Up peyne of hanging, and on heigh juyse,

That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse

Custance in-with his regne for t‘abyde

Thre dayes and a quarter of a tyde;

 

But in the same ship as he hir fond,

Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir gere,

He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond,

And charge hir that she never eft come there.”

O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere

And sleping in thy dreem been in penance,

When Donegild caste al this ordinance!

 

This messager on morwe, whan he wook,

Un-to the castel halt the nexte wey,

And to the constable he the lettre took;

And whan that he this pitous lettre sey,

Ful ofte he seyde “allas!” and “weylawey!”

“Lord Crist,” quod he, “how may this world endure?

So ful of sinne is many a creature!

 

O mighty god, if that it be thy wille,

Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be

That thou wolt suffren innocents to spille,

And wikked folk regne in prosperitee?

O good Custance, allas! so wo is me

That I mot be thy tormentour, or deye

On shames deeth; ther is noon other weye!”

 

Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place,

Whan that the king this cursed lettre sente,

And pleased him in every way that she might.

He drank, and put them down,

He slept, and snorted in his way

All night, till the sun began to rise.

 

Again his letters were stolen every one,

“And counterfeited letters in this way:

The king commands his constable anon,

Upon pain of hanging, and by high court,

That he should suffer in no way

Constance in his realm to abide

More than three days and a quarter tide;

 

“But in the same ship as he her found,

Her, and her young son, and all her gear,

He should put, and drive her from the land,

And charge her that she never should return.”

Oh my Constance, well may your spirit fear,

And, sleeping, in your dream be misery,

When Donegild plotted this ordinance.

 

This messenger in the morning, when he woke,

Unto the castle took the shortest way,

And to the constable he the letter took;

And when that he this piteous letter saw,

Full often he said, “Alas and wellaway!”

“Lord Christ,” said he, “how may this world endure,

So full of sin is many a creature?

 

“Oh mighty God, if it be your will,

Since you are rightful judge, how may it be

That you would suffer innocence to die,

And wicked folk reign in prosperity?

Oh good Constance, alas, so woe is me

That I must be your tormentor, or die

Myself; there is no other way.”

Wept both young and old in all that place

When the king this cursed letter sent,

And Custance, with a deedly pale face,

The ferthe day toward hir ship she wente.

But natheles she taketh in good entente

The wille of Crist, and, kneling on the stronde,

She seyde, “lord! ay wel-com be thy sonde!

 

He that me kepte fro the false blame

Whyl I was on the londe amonges yow,

He can me kepe from harme and eek fro shame

In salte see, al-thogh I see nat how.

As strong as ever he was, he is yet now.

In him triste I, and in his moder dere,

That is to me my seyl and eek my stere.”

 

Her litel child lay weping in hir arm,

And kneling, pitously to him she seyde,

“Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee non harm.”

With that hir kerchef of hir heed she breyde,

And over his litel yen she it leyde;

And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,

And in-to heven hir yen up she caste.

 

“Moder,” quod she, “and mayde bright, Marye,

Sooth is that thurgh wommannes eggement

Mankind was lorn and damned ay to dye,

For which thy child was on a croys y-rent;

Thy blisful yen sawe al his torment;

Than is ther no comparison bitwene

Thy wo and any wo man may sustene.

 

Thou sawe thy child y-slayn bifor thyn yen,

And yet now liveth my litel child, parfay!

Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryën,

Thou glorie of wommanhede, thou faire may,

Thou haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,

Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse

Rewest on every rewful in distresse!

And Constance, with a deathly pale face,

The fourth day toward the ship she went.

But nevertheless she took in good intent

The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strand,

She said, “Lord, ever welcome be what you will!

 

“He who kept me from false blame

While I was in the land among you,

He can keep me from harm and from shame

In salt sea, although I see not how.

As strong as ever he was, he is yet now.

In him I trust, and in his mother dear,

Who is to me my sail and also my rudder.”

 

Her little child lay weeping in her arm,

And kneeling, piteously to him she said,

“Peace, little son, I will do you no harm.”

With that her kerchief she removed from her head,

And over his little eyes she it laid,

And in her arms she lulled it full fast,

And unto heaven her eyes up she cast.

 

“Mother,” said she, “and maid bright, Mary,

True it is that through woman’s urging

Mankind was lost, and doomed ever to die,

For which your child was on a cross torn.

Your blissful eyes saw all his torment;

There is no comparison between

Your woe and any woe man may sustain.

 

“You saw your child slain before your eyes,

And yet now lives my little child, by my faith!

Now, lady bright, to whom all woeful cry,

You glory of womanhood, you fair maid,

You haven of refuge, bright star of day,

Take pity on my child, who in your gentleness

Pities every soul in distress.

O litel child, allas! what is thy gilt,

That never wroughtest sinne as yet, pardee,

Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?

O mercy, dere constable!” quod she;

”As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;

And if thou darst not saven him, for blame,

So kis him ones in his fadres name!”

 

Ther-with she loketh bakward to the londe,

And seyde, “far-wel, housbond routhelees!”

And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde

Toward the ship; hir folweth al the prees,

And ever she preyeth hir child to holde his pees;

And taketh hir leve, and with an holy entente

She blesseth hir; and in-to ship she wente.

 

Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,

Habundantly for hir, ful longe space,

And other necessaries that sholde nede

She hadde y-nogh, heried be goddes grace!

For wind and weder almighty god purchace,

And bringe hir hoom! I can no bettre seye;

But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.

PART THREE

Alla the king comth hoom, sone after this,

Unto his castel of the which I tolde,

And axeth wher his wyf and his child is.

The constable gan aboute his herte colde,

And pleynly al the maner he him tolde

As ye han herd, I can telle it no bettre,

And sheweth the king his seel and [eek] his lettre,

 

And seyde, “lord, as ye comaunded me

Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein.”

This messager tormented was til he

Moste biknowe and tellen, plat and plein,

Fro night to night, in what place he had leyn.

“Oh little child, alas! what is your guilt,

Who never wrought sin as yet, by God?

Why will your hard father have you killed?

O mercy, dear constable,” said she,

“Grant that my little child dwell here with you;

And if you dare not save him, for blame,

So kiss him once in his father’s name!”

 

Therewith she looked backward to the land,

And said, “Farewell, husband ruthless!”

And up she rose, and walked down the strand

Toward the ship—her followed all the crowd—

And ever she prayed her child to hold his peace;

And took her leave, and with holy intent

She blessed herself, and into the ship she went.

 

Provisioned was the ship, it is no doubt,

Abundantly for a long voyage,

And of other necessities

She had enough—praise be God’s grace!

For wind and weather almighty God provide,

And bring her home! I can no better say,

But in the sea she sailed forth her way.

PART THREE

Alla the king came home soon after this

Unto his castle, of which I told,

And asked where his wife and child were.

The constable felt his heart turn cold,

And plainly everything he him told

As you have heard—I can tell it no better—

And showed the king his seal and also his letter,

 

And said, “Lord, as you commanded me

Upon pain of death, so have I done, certainly.”

This messenger tortured was until he

Must reveal and tell, bluntly and plain,

From night to night, in what place he had lain;

And thus, by wit and subtil enqueringe,

Ymagined was by whom this harm gan springe.

The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,

And al the venim of this cursed dede,

But in what wyse, certeinly I noot.

Th‘effect is this, that Alla, out of drede,

His moder slow, that men may pleinly rede,

For that she traitour was to hir ligeaunce.

Thus endeth olde Donegild with meschaunce.

 

The sorwe that this Alla, night and day,

Maketh for his wyf and for his child also,

Ther is no tonge that it telle may.

But now wol I un-to Custance go,

That fleteth in the see, in peyne and wo,

Fyve yeer and more, as lyked Cristes sonde,

Er that hir ship approched un-to londe.

 

Under an hethen castel, atte laste,

Of which the name in my text noght I finde,

Custance and eek hir child the see upcaste.

Almighty god, that saveth al mankinde,

Have on Custance and on hir child some minde,

That fallen is in hethen land eft-sone,

In point to spille, as I shal telle yow sone.

 

Doun from the castel comth ther many a wight

To gauren on this ship and on Custance.

But shortly, from the castel, on a night,

The lordes styward—god yeve him meschaunce!.

A theef, that had reneyed our creaunce,

Com in-to ship allone, and seyde he sholde

Hir lemman be, where-so she wolde or nolde.

 

Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon,

Hir child cryde, and she cryde pitously;

But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon;

For with hir strugling wel and mightily

And thus, by wit and subtle inquiring,

Imagined was by whom this harm had sprung.

The hand was known who had the letter written,

And all the venom of this cursed deed,

But in what way, certainly, I do not know.

The effect was: that Alla, with no doubt,

His mother slew—that men may plainly read—

For she was traitor to her allegiance.

Thus ended old Donegild, with mischance!

 

The sorrow that this Alla night and day

Made for his wife, and for his child also,

There is no tongue that tell it may.

But now will I unto Constance go,

Who floated in the sea, in pain and woe,

Five years and more, by Christ’s command,

Before her ship approached unto land.

 

Under a heathen castle, at last,

Of which the name in my text I find not,

Constance, and also her child, the sea upcast.

Almighty God, who saves all mankind,

Have for Constance and her child some mind,

Who fallen are in heathen hands again.

To the point of death, as I shall tell you anon.

 

Down from the castle came there many a person

To stare at this ship and also on Constance.

But shortly, from the castle, on a night,

The lord’s steward—God give him mischance!—

A thief, who had renounced our belief,

Came into the ship alone, and said he should

Her lover be, whether she would or no.

 

Woe was this wretched woman’s plight;

Her child cried, and she cried piteously.

But blissful Mary helped her right anon;

For with her struggling well and mightily

The theef fil over bord al sodeinly,

And in the see he dreynte for vengeance;

And thus hath Crist unweummed kept Custance.

 

O foule lust of luxurie! lo, thyn ende!

Nat only that thou feyntest mannes minde,

But verraily thou wolt his body shende;

Th‘ende of thy werk or of thy lustes blinde

Is compleyning, how many-oon may men finde

That noght for werk som-tyme, but for th’entente

To doon this sinne, ben outher sleyn or shente!

 

How may this wayke womman han this strengthe

Hir to defende agayn this renegat?

O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe,

How mighte David make thee so mat,

So yong and of armure so desolat?

How dorste he loke up-on thy dredful face?

Wel may men seen, if nas but goddes grace!

 

Who yaf Judith corage or hardinesse

To sleen him, Olofernus, in his tente,

And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse

The peple of god? I seye, for this entente,

That, right as god spirit of vigour sente

To hem, and saved hem out of meschance,

So sente he might and vigour to Custance.

 

Forth goth hir ship thurgh-out the narwe mouth

Of Jubaltar and Septe, dryving ay,

Som-tyme West, som-tyme North and South,

And som-tyme Est, ful many a wery day,

Til Cristes moder (blessed be she ay!)

Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,

To make an ende of al hir hevinesse.

 

 

Now lat us stinte of Custance but a throwe,

And speke we of the Romain Emperour,

The thief fell overboard all suddenly,

And in the sea he drowned for vengeance;

And thus has Christ undefiled kept Constance.

 

Oh foul lust of lechery, look at your end!

Not only do you weaken men’s minds,

But truly will you his body ruin.

The end of your work, or of your lusts blind,

Is lamentation. How many a time may men find

That not for the deed sometimes, but for the intent

To do this sin, be they either ruined or slain!

 

How may this weak woman have the strength

Herself to defend against this renegade?

Oh Goliath, immeasurable of length,²⁵

How may David make you so defeated,

So young and of armor so desolate?

How dared he look upon your dreadful face?

Well may men see, it was not but by God’s grace.

 

Who gave Judith courage or strength

To slay Holofernes in his tent,²⁶

And to deliver out of wretchedness

The people of God? I say, for this intent,

That right as God the spirit of vigor sent

To them and saved them out of mischance,

So sent he might and vigor to Constance.

 

Forth went her ship through the narrow mouth

Of Gibraltar and Morocco, sailing ever

Sometimes westward, sometimes north and south,

And sometimes east, full many a weary day,

Till Christ’s mother—blessed be she ever!—

Has planned—through her endless goodness,

To make an end to all her sorrow.

 

Now let us stint of Constance but a short while,

And speak we of the Roman Emperor,

That out of Surrie hath by lettres knowe

The slaughtre of Cristen folk, and dishonour

Don to his doghter by a fals traitour,

I mene the cursed wikked sowdanesse,

That at the feste leet sleen both more and lesse.

 

For which this emperour hath sent anoon

His senatour, with royal ordinance,

And othere lordes, got wot, many oon,

On Surriens to taken heigh vengeance.

They brennen, sleen, and bringe hem to meschance

Ful many a day; but shortly, this is the ende,

Homward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.

 

This senatour repaireth with victorie

To Rome-ward, sayling ful royally,

And mette the ship dryving, as seith the storie,

In which Custance sit ful pitously.

No-thing ne knew he what she was, ne why

She was in swich array; ne she nil seye

Of hir estaat, althogh she sholde deye.

 

He bringeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf

He yat hir, and hir yonge sone also;

And with the senatour she ladde her lyf.

Thus can our lady bringen out of wo

Woful Custance, and many another mo.

And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,

In holy werkes ever, as was hir grace.

 

The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,

But for al that she knew hir never the more;

I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,

But to king Alla, which I spak of yore,

That for his wyf wepeth and syketh sore,

I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance

Under the senatoures governance.

Who had from Syria by letters known

The slaughter of Christian folk, and dishonor

Done to his daughter by a false traitor,

I mean the cursed wicked Sultaness

Who at the feast had ordered slain both more and less.

 

For which this Emperor had sent anon

His senator, with royal ordinance,

And other lords, God knows, many a one,

On Syrians to take high vengeance.

They them burned, slew, and brought to mischance

Full many a day, but shortly—this is the end—

Homeward to Rome they began to wend.

 

This senator repaired with victory

Toward Rome, sailing full royally,

And met the ship driving, as says the story,

In which Constance sat full piteously.

He knew not who she was, nor why

She was in such a condition, nor would she say,

Not even upon threat of death.

 

He brought her to Rome, and to his wife

He gave her, and her young son also;

And with the senator she led her life.

Thus can Our Lady bring out of woe

Woeful Constance, and many another more.

And long time dwelled she in that place,

In holy works ever, as was her grace.

The senator’s wife her aunt was,

But despite that she knew her never the more.

I will not longer tarry in this case,

But to king Alla, of whom I spoke before,

Who for his wife wept and sickened sore,

I will return, and I will leave Constance

Under the senator’s governance.

King Alla, which that hadde his moder slayn,

Upon a day fil in swich repentance,

That, if I shortly tellen shal and plain,

To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance;

And putte him in the popes ordinance

In heigh and low, and Jesu Crist bisoghte

Foryeve his wikked werkes that he wroghte.

 

The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born,

How Alla king shal come in pilgrimage,

By herbergeours that wenten him biforn;

For which the senatour, as was usage,

Rood him ageyn, and many of his linage,

As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence

As to don any king a reverence.

 

Greet chere dooth this noble senatour

To king Alia, and he to him also;

Everich of hem doth other greet honour;

And so bifel that, in a day or two,

This senatour is to king Alla go

To feste, and shortly, if I shal nat lye,

Custances sone wente in his companye.

 

Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance,

This senatour hath lad this child to feste;

I may nat tellen every circumstance,

Be as be may, ther was he at the leste.

But soth is this, that, at his modres heste,

Biforn Alla, during the metres space,

The child stood, loking in the kinges face.

 

This Alia king hath of this child greet wonder,

And to the senatour he seyde anon,

“Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder?”

“I noot,” quod he, “by god, and by seint John!

A moder he hath, but fader hath he non

King Alia, who had his mother slain,

Upon a day fell into such repentance

That, if I shall tell it short and plain,

To Rome he went to receive his penance;

And put himself in the Pope’s command

In all things, and Jesus Christ besought

To forgive the wicked works that he had wrought.

 

The news anon through Rome town was borne,

How Alla the king should come in pilgrimage,

By servants who travelled him before;

And so the senator, as was his custom,

Rode toward Alla, with many of his retinue,

As much to show his own noble estate,

As to do any king a reverence.

 

Great greeting did this noble senator

To king Alia, and he to him also;

Each of them did to the other great honor.

And so it befell that in a day or two

This senator was to Alla gone

To feast, and shortly, if I shall not lie,

Constance’s son went in his company.

 

Some men would say at request of Constance

This senator had brought this child to the feast;

I may not tell every circumstance—

Be it as it may, there was he at the least.

But the truth is this, that at his mother’s behest

Before Alla, during the dinner time,

The child stood, looking in the king’s face.

 

This Alia king had of this child great wonder,

And to the senator he said anon,

“Who is that fair child who stands yonder?”

“I know not,” said he, “By God, and Saint John!

A mother he has, but father has he none

That I of woot”—but shortly, in a stounde,

He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.

 

“But god wot,” quod this senatour also,

“So vertuous a livere in my lyf,

Ne saugh I never as she, ne herde of mo

Of worldly wommen, mayden, nor of wyf;

I dar wel seyn hir hadde lever a knyf

Thurgh-out her breste, than been a womman wikke;

Ther is no man coude bringe hir to that prikke.”

 

Now was this child as lyk un-to Custance

As possible is a creature to be.

This Alla hath the face in remembrance

Of dame Custance, and ther-on mused he

If that the childes moder were aught she

That was his wyf, and prively he sighte,

And spedde him fro the table that he mighte.

 

“Parfay,” thoghte he, “fantome is in myn heed!

I oghte deme, of skilful jugement,

That in the salte see my wyf is deed.”

And afterward he made his argument—

“What woot I, if that Crist have hider y-sent

My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente

To my contree fro thennes that she wente?”

 

And, after noon, hoom with the senatour

Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.

This senatour dooth Alla greet honour,

And hastifly he sente after Custaunce.

But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce

Whan that she wiste wherefor was that sonde.

Unnethe up-on hir feet she mighte stonde.

 

When Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette,

And weep, that it was routhe for to see.

For at the firste look he on hir sette

He knew wel verraily that it was she.

That I know of“—and shortly, in a little while,

He told Alla how this child was found.

 

“But God knows,” said this senator also,

“So virtuous a being in my life

Never saw I ever as she, nor heard of more,

Of worldly women, maid, nor wife.

I dare well say she would rather a knife

Through her breast, than be a woman wicked;

There is no man who could bring her to that point.”

Now was this child as like unto Constance

As possible is a creature to be.

This Alla had the face in remembrance

Of dame Constance, and thereon mused he

If this child’s mother were she

Who was his wife, and inwardly he sighed,

And left the table as soon as he might.

 

“By my faith,” thought he, “I am seeing phantoms!

I ought deem, by all good judgement,

That in the salt sea my wife is dead.”

And afterward he made his argument:

“What know I if Christ has hither sent

My wife by sea, as he her sent

To my country from thence she went?”

 

And in the afternoon, home with the senator

Went Alla, for to see this wondrous chance.

This senator did Alla great honor,

And hastily he sent after Constance.

But trust well, she did not with joy dance

When she learned why she was sent for;

Upon her feet she could scarcely stand.

When Alla saw his wife, fair he her greeted,

And wept so that it was a pity for to see;

For at the first look he upon her set

He knew well verily that it was she.

And she for sorwe as domb stant as a tree;

So was hir herte shet in hir distresse

Whan she remembred his unkindnesse.

 

Twyës she swoned in his owne sighte;

He weep, and him excuseth pitously:—

“Now god,” quod he, “and alle his halves brighte

So wisly on my soule as have mercy,

That of your harm as giltelees am I

As is Maurice my sone so lyk your face;

Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!”

 

Long was the sobbing and the bitter peyne

Er that hir woful hertes mighte cesse;

Greet was the pitee for to here hem pleyne,

Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.

I prey yow al my labour to relesse;

I may nat telle hir wo un-til tomorwe,

I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

 

But fynally, when that the sooth is wist

That Alla giltelees was of hir wo,

I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,

And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two

That, save the joye that lasteth evermo,

Ther is non lyk, that any creature

Hath seyn or shal, whyl that the world may dure.

 

Tho preyde she hir housbond mekely,

In relief of hir longe pitous pyne,

That he wold preye hir fader specially

That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne

To vouche-sauf som day with him to dyne;

She preyde him eek, he sholde by no weye

Un-to hir fader no word of hir seye.

 

Som men wold seyn, how that the child Maurice

Doth this message un-to this emperour;

But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce

And she, for sorrow, as silent stood as a tree,

So was her heart shut in her distress,

When she remembered his unkindness.

 

Twice she swooned in his own sight;

He wept, and excused himself piteously.

“Now God,” said he, “and his saints bright

Surely on my soul have mercy,

That of your harm guiltless am I

As is Maurice my son, so like your face;

Else the fiend me fetch out of this place!”

 

Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain,

Before their woeful hearts might cease;

Great was the pity for to hear them lament,

Though that lamentation made their woe increase.

I pray you all my labor to release;

I would need to tell all their woe until tomorrow,

And I am so weary for to speak of sorrow.

 

But finally, when the truth was known

That Alla guiltless was of her woe,

I believe a hundred times have they kissed,

And such a bliss was between the two

That, save the joy that lasts evermore,

There is nothing like that any creature

Has seen or shall, while the world may endure.

 

Then requested she of her husband meekly,

In repayment for her long, piteous suffering,

That he would invite her father specially

If in his majesty he would incline

To vouchsafe some day with him to dine.

She prayed him also that he should in no way

Unto her father any word of her say.

 

Some men would say that the child Maurice

Brought this message unto the Emperor;

But, as I guess, Alla was not so foolish

To him, that was of so sovereyn honour

As he that is of Cristen folk the flour,

Sente any child, but it is bet to deme

He wente him-self, and so it may wel seme.

 

This emperour hath graunted gentilly

To come to diner, as he him bisoghte;

And wel rede I, he loked bisily

Up-on this child, and on his doghter thoghte.

Alla goth to his in, and, as him oghte,

Arrayed for this feste in every wyse

As ferforth as his conning may suffyse.

 

The morwe cam, and Alla gan him dresse,

And eek his wyf, this emperour to mete;

And forth they ryde in joye and in gladnesse.

And when she saugh hir fader in the strete,

She lighte doun, and falleth him to fete.

“Fader,” quod she, “your yonge child Custance

Is now ful clene out of your remembrance.

 

I am your doghter Custance,” quod she,

“That whylom ye han sent un-to Surrye.

It am I, fader, that in the salte see

Was put allone and dampned for to dye.

Now, gode fader, mercy I yow crye,

Send me namore un-to non hethenesse,

But thonketh my lord heer of his kindenesse.”

 

Who can the pitous joye tellen al

Bitwix hem three, sin they ben thus y-mette?

But of my tale make an ende I shal;

The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.

This glade folk to diner they hem sette;

In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle

A thousand fold wel more than I can telle.

 

This child Maurice was sithen emperour

Maad by the pope, and lived Cristenly.

Toward him who was of such sovereign honor

And who was of Christian folk the flower,

To have sent any child, but it is better deemed

He went himself, Maurice in his retinue.

 

This emperor has granted genteely

To come to dinner, as he him besought;

And well read I in my book that he looked intently

Upon this child, and on his daughter thought.

Alla went to his inn, and as he ought,

Prepared for this feast in every way

As far as his skill might suffice.

 

The morrow came, and Alla began to dress,

And also his wife, this Emperor to meet;

And forth they rode in joy and gladness.

And when she saw her father in the street,

She alighted, and fell to his feet.

“Father,” said she, “your young child Constance

Is now full clean out of your remembrance.

 

“I am your daughter Constance,” said she,

“Who once you sent unto Syria.

It is I, father, who in the salt sea

Was put alone and damned for to die.

Now, good father, mercy I you cry!

Send me no more unto heathens,

But thank my lord of his kindness.”

 

Who can the piteous joy tell all

Between the three, since they were thus met?

But of my tale I shall make an end;

The day goes fast, I will no longer delay.

These glad folk to dinner they them set;

In joy and bliss at dinner I let them dwell

A thousandfold more well than I can tell.

 

This child Maurice was in time Emperor

Made by the Pope, and lived Christianly;

To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour;

But I lete al his storie passen by,

Of Custance is my tale specially.

In olde Romayn gestes may men finde

Maurices lyf; I bere it noght in minde.

 

This king Alla, whan he his tyme sey,

With his Custance, his holy wyf so swete,

To Engelond been they come the righte wey,

Wher-as they live in joye and in quiete.

But litel whyl it lasteth, I yow hete,

Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;

Fro day to night it changeth as the tyde.

 

Who lived ever in swich delyt o day

That him ne moeved outher conscience,

Or ire, or talent, or som kin affray,

Envye, or pryde, or passion, or offence?

I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,

That litel whyl in joye or in plesance

Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.

 

For deeth, that taketh of heigh and low his rente,

When passed was a yeer, even as I gesse,

Out of this world this king Alla he hente,

For whom Custance hath ful gret hevinesse.

Now lat us preyen god his soule blesse!

And dame Custance, fynally to seye,

Towards the toun of Rome gooth hir weye.

 

To Rome is come this holy creature,

And fyndeth ther hir frendes hole and sounde:

Now is she scaped al hir aventure;

And whan that she hir fader hath y-founde,

Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde;

Weping for tendrenesse in herte blythe,

She herieth god an hundred thousand sythe.

To Christ’s church he did great honor.

But I let all his story pass by;

Of Constance is my tale especially.

In the old Roman histories may men find

Maurice’s life; I bear it not in mind.

 

This king Alla, when he his time saw,

With his Constance, his holy wife so sweet,

To England were they come the shortest way,

Where they lived in joy and quiet.

But a little while it lasted, I may tell you,

Joy of this world, for not long will abide;

From day to day it changes as the tide.

 

Who lived ever in such delight one day

That he never felt another sensation,

Either anger, or desire, or some kind of fear,

Envy, pride, or passion, or offence?

I say but this sentence:

That little while in joy or in leisure

Lasted the bliss of Alia with Constance.

 

For Death, who takes of high and low his rent,

When passed had many a year, even as I guess,

Out of this world this king Alla he seized,

For whom Constance had full great sorrow.

Now let us pray to God his soul to bless!

And dame Constance, finally to say,

Toward the town of Rome went her way.

 

To Rome is come this holy creature,

And found her friends whole and sound;

Now has she escaped all her adventure.

And when she her father found,

Down on her knees she fell to the ground;

Weeping for tenderness in heart blithe,

She praised God a hundred thousand times.

In vertu and in holy almes-dede

They liven alle, and never a-sonder wende;

Til deeth departed hem, this lyf they lede.

And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende.

Now Jesu Crist, that of his might may sende

Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,

And kepe us alle that ben in this place! Amen.

In virtue and in holy alms-deeds,

They lived all, and never parted were;

Till death separated them, this life they lead.

And fare now well! My tale is at an end.

Now Jesus Christ, who of his might may send

Joy after woe, govern us in his grace,

And keep us all who have been in this place! Amen.