It’s you? Trying to make sure I don’t leave you without a story for as long as I did last time, I presume? Not that I can blame you, of course. But I’m afraid you haven’t quite given me the time to prepare what I was going to tell you next. Well yes, I do have plenty of tales to tell, but I’m afraid that most of this castle’s inhabitants wouldn’t take too kindly to me airing their dirty laundry to every fair unknown who passes through Camelot’s gates. Ah! I know! I’ll tell you the tale of two of the round table’s good friends, Sir Tristan and Queen Isolde the Blonde, they’re from Cornwall and, more importantly, not here. Now, you didn’t hear this from me, but rumors spiral, and I heard that the two of them drank a love potion right before Isolde’s wedding… to Tristan’s uncle! And that’s not all— Isolde was all set to marry someone else before Tristan showed up, and that someone is now a knight of the round table. And to further complicate this love triangle, I’ve seen a pretty good case presented that Isolde wasn’t Tristan’s motivation for splitting up the pair, if you know what I mean. And that’s not even starting on Tristan’s wife, also named Isolde, who- Hold on, I’ve completely lost my composure, haven’t I? You’ll hear more about Tristan and Isolde’s love lives soon enough, I’ll promise you that, but for now, let’s just get on to Chevrefoil, by Marie de France, translated by Judith P Shoaf.
-Sir Bedevere
-
It's my pleasure and I want truly
For the lai men call Chevrefoil
(Honeysuckle), the truth to tell:
Why it was made, how it all befell.
More than one has told me or spoken,
And I've found it also written
About the Queen and Sir Tristram,
Their love so true, so pure, from
Which their sorrows multiplied—
Then, in a single day, both died.
King Mark was angry and then some—
Angry at his nephew Tristram;
He banished him beyond his border,
Because of the Queen, for he loved her.
He goes home to whence he hails—
He was born in South Wales.
He lives there for one whole year.
He could not go back to see her.
But then he's ready to risk it all—
Death, destruction, any downfall.
Don't be too surprised, really:
Any true love who loves loyally
Suffers, and depression haunts
Him when he can't have what he wants.
Tristram suffers, his thoughts roam,
So he slips himself away from home.
He goes straight into Cornwall,
There where the Queen is known to dwell.
He hid himself in the forest alone,
Wanting to be seen by none.
But he crept forth in the evening light
When men seek shelter for the night.
With peasants and the poorest folk
That night he his lodgings took.
He asked the news—just anything
About the doings of the King?
They told him then what they had heard:
The barons, summoned by the King's word,
Must come to Tintagel castle, where
The King wishes to hold court; there
At Pentecost, at Whitsunday,
They'll gather for joy, sport, and play.
The Queen, of course, will take part.
Tristram hears, joy fills his heart.
No way she can go to Tintagel
Without his seeing how she'll travel.
The day the king was on the move,
Sir Tristram came into a grove
Through which, he knew, the road lay
The crowd must use to pass this way.
He cut a hazel in half there,
Shaped and trimmed it, neatly square.
When he had prepared this staff,
He autographed it with his knife.
If the Queen saw this invention,
She would pay it great attention;
For this had all happened before—
She'd realized thus that he was there.
She'll recognize it, easy, quick,
As soon as she sees her lover's stick.
This is the gist of what he wrote,
The message he sent her, as he spoke:
That he'd stayed there for quite a while,
Waiting, lingering in exile,
Spying, trying to learn or hear
How he could find a way to see her,
For without her he cannot live.
For those two, it's just like with
The sweet honeysuckle vine
That on the hazel tree will twine:
When it fastens, slips itself right
Around the trunk, ties itself tight,
Then the two survive together.
But should anyone try to sever
Them, the hazel dies right away,
And the honeysuckle, the same day.
“Dear love, that's our story, too:
Never you without me, me without you!”
The Queen was riding through the wood.
She looked around, as far as she could;
She saw the staff, paid heed to it,
And, by the letters on it, knew it.
The knights who led the cavalcade
Accompanying her—quite a parade—
She commands to halt their progress;
She wants to dismount, take a rest.
What the Queen commands, they do.
She wanders far from her retinue.
She calls out to her own maiden
To come to her—good, true Brengvein.
She leaves the path, a step or two;
In the woods she finds that man who
Loves her more than any other.
They show their joy, to be together—
He can talk to her at leisure,
She speaks to him all her pleasure.
Then she outlines every little thing
Needed to make peace with the King,
For it weighs heavy on her husband
Thus to have sent him from the land—
Accusers forced him, it wasn't fair.
Now she goes, she leaves her friend there.
But when it's time for them to sever,
Each begins weeping for such a lover.
Tristram goes back to Wales as before.
Till his uncle commands that he be sent for.
Because of the joy, the delight
He found in his beloved's sight,
And because of what he'd written,
Exactly as the Queen had spoken,
To keep those words in memory sharp,
Tristram, who played so well the harp,
Made of this a brand-new lai.
The name is easy for me to say:
English folk call it “Goatleaf,”
French “Chevrefoil” (“Honeysuckle,” in brief).
I've spoken for you the whole truth of the lai
Which I recounted for you today.