But I was about to pass over a scene that must not be overlooked. Cligés went to request and take leave of his lady Fenice, wishing to commend her to God. He came before her and knelt, with tears streaming down and moistening his ermine-lined tunic. He cast his eyes to the ground, not daring to look directly at her, as if he had done her some wrong or fault, for which he seemed covered with shame. Not knowing what had brought him there, Fenice, timid and frightened, looked at him and said with some effort: ‘Friend, good sir, arise! Sit down here beside me, stop your weeping, and tell me what you want.’
‘My lady, what shall I say? And what leave unsaid? I am seeking your leave.’
‘My leave? For what purpose?’
‘My lady, I must go to Britain.’
‘Then tell me for what purpose, before I give you my leave.’
‘My father on his deathbed, as he was departing this life, urged me not to let anything deter me from going to Britain as soon as I was knighted. Nothing in this world, my lady, could make me want to go against his request. From here to there is not a particularly tiring journey. But it is a long way to Greece, and were I to go on to Greece the journey from Constantinople to Britain would be very long for me. So it is right that I take leave of you, to whom I am wholly devoted.’ Many hidden and secret sighs and sobs marked their parting. Yet no one had eyes sharp enough or ears keen enough to know for certain from what he saw or heard that the two of them were in love.
Cligés, though filled with sadness, set off at the first opportunity. Disconsolate, he rode off; disconsolate, the emperor and many others remained behind. But the most disconsolate of all was Fenice: her sad thoughts so multiplied and abounded in her that she could find no bottom or boundary to them. She was still disconsolate when she arrived in Greece, where she was held in high honour as their lady and empress, but her heart and mind were with Cligés, wherever he went; and she had no desire for her heart to return to her unless it was borne back by the man who was dying of the malady with which he was killing her. Were he to heal, she would be healed; but whatever price he paid for love, she too would pay. Her illness showed in her complexion, for she was very pale and changed. The pure, bright, and fresh colour Nature had given her face was quite altered. She cried often, and sighed often; little did she care for her empire and the riches she possessed.
She held constant in her memory the hour of Cligés’s departure and the leave he took of her, how he flushed and grew pale, and his tearful face; for he had come to her to weep, humbly and simply upon his knees, as if he were about to worship her. All this was pleasant and agreeable for her to remember and recall. Afterwards, as a little treat, she placed upon her tongue in lieu of spice a sweet expression, which for all the wealth in Greece she would not have wished to have been spoken by him in any other way than that in which she had understood it, for she lived upon no other delicacy and nothing else pleased her. This one expression sustained and nourished her, and lightened all her pain. She sought no other food to eat, no other beverage to drink: at the moment of parting Cligés had said that he was wholly devoted to her. This expression was so sweet and comforting to her, that from her tongue it slid into her heart, and she placed it in her heart and on her tongue so that she might guard it more closely. She did not dare store this treasure under any other lock, for she could not place it in any better spot than in her heart. She would not leave it exposed at any price, so fearful was she of thieves and robbers. But she need not have worried, and her fear of hawks was groundless because her treasure was not movable, but rather was like an edifice that could not be destroyed by flood or fire and would never be dislodged from its place. But she was not confident of this, so she troubled herself and took pains to seek out and find some point of assurance, for she saw the situation in several ways.
She was both prosecution and defence, arguing with herself as follows: ‘With what intent did Cligés say to me “I am wholly devoted to you”, if he was not prompted by Love? What rights do I have over him? Why should he prize me so much as to make me his sovereign lady? Is he not much fairer than I and of much higher rank? I can see nothing but Love that could have granted me such a gift. Taking myself – who am incapable of escaping Love’s power – as an example, I will prove that he would never have declared himself “wholly mine” had he not loved me: just as I could never have been wholly his, nor dared say as much, had Love not destined me for him, so Cligés in the same way could never have said he was “wholly mine” if Love did not hold him in his grasp. For if he does not love me, he cannot fear me. Perhaps Love, who gives me entirely to him, has given him entirely to me. But I am still unsure, for it is a common expression, and I may soon find myself deceived again. For there are people who say by way of flattery, even to a complete stranger, “I and everything I have are wholly yours”. They chatter more than jays. So I don’t know what to believe, because it might turn out that he said it just to flatter me. Yet I saw him flush and weep most piteously. In my opinion his tears and his sad, embarrassed face were not the result of trickery; no, there was no trickery or deceit. Nor did his eyes, from which I saw tears streaming, lie to me; if I know anything of love, I saw much evidence of it in them.
‘Yes! As long as I thought of love as misfortune, I knew and experienced it as misfortune, for I have suffered much on its account. Suffered? Indeed, upon my word, I am as good as dead since I do not see the one who has stolen away my heart by his flattery and cajoling. Through his teasing endearments my heart left its home and refuses to stay with me, so much does it hate me and the abode I offer it. Truly I have been ill-treated by the man who has my heart in his command. Since he has stolen it and all I have, he does not love me, of that I’m certain. Certain? Then why did he weep? Why? It was not without reason, for there was cause enough. I must not think I am in any way responsible for his grief, since it is always quite painful to leave anyone you know and love. So I should not be surprised if he was sad and upset, and wept when he left someone he knew. But whoever advised him to go and dwell in Britain could not have pierced my heart more deeply. Whoever loses his heart has it pierced through, and whoever deserves it should suffer – but I have not deserved it at all. Unhappy soul! Why then has Cligés slain me without my having done him any wrong? Yet I am wrong to accuse him like this, for I can allege no reason.
‘I know for certain that Cligés would never have left me if his heart felt like mine. But it is not like mine, I think. And if my heart lodged itself in his, never to leave, then his heart will never leave without mine for mine follows his in secret: such is the company they have formed. But if the truth be told, they are quite different and opposite. How are they opposite and different? His is master and mine serf; and the serf, whether he likes it or not, must do his master’s bidding and forsake all other matters. But what is that to me? He has scarcely a thought for my heart and my service. I suffer for this division, which makes the one the master of the two. Why can my heart alone not be as strong as his? Then both would be of equal might. But my heart is captive and cannot move unless his moves too; and whether his wanders or stays put, mine is always ready to follow and go after him. God! Why are our bodies not close enough that I could find some way to bring back my heart. Bring it back? Cruel folly, for I would wrest it from its solace and might be the death of it. Let it stay where it is! I have no wish to disturb it, but let it remain with its lord until he deign to take pity on it. He is more likely to have pity on his servant there than here, since they are in a foreign land.
‘If he is skilled in the use of flattery, as one must be at court, then he will be rich before he returns. Whoever wishes to be in his lord’s good graces and sit at his right hand, as is the custom and habit of our days, must pick the feather from his head, even when there isn’t one.14 But there is a contrary side to this: even after he has smoothed down his lord’s hair the servant does not have the courtesy to tell his lord of any wickedness and evil within him, but lets him believe and understand that no one is comparable
to him in valour and in knowledge, and his lord believes he speaks the truth. A man is blind to his real self if he believes what others tell him of qualities he doesn’t possess. Even if he is wicked and cruel, cowardly and spineless as a hare, stingy, crazy, and misshapen, and evil in both words and deeds, still someone will praise him to his face and then laugh at him behind his back. When his lord is listening, he praises him in conversation with another, pretending that his lord cannot hear what they are saying to each other; but if he truly thought he could not be overheard, what he would say would not be pleasing to his lord. And should his lord wish to lie, he is quite ready to back him up and his tongue is never slow to proclaim the truth of whatever his master says. Anyone who frequents courts and lords must be ready to serve with lies. My heart, too, must lie if it wishes to have its lord’s favour. Let it cajole and flatter! But Cligés is so handsome, noble, and true a knight that no matter how it praised him, my heart could never be false or deceitful: for in him there is nothing to be improved upon. Therefore I wish my heart to serve him, for as the peasant says in his proverb: “He who serves a worthy man is wicked indeed if he does not improve in his company”.’ Thus love tormented Fenice, but this torment was a pleasure of which she never wearied.
Cligés crossed the sea and came to Wallingford, where he put himself up in handsome lodgings at great expense. But his thoughts were constantly on Fenice, whom he did not forget for even an hour. While he stayed there and rested, at his command his men asked and inquired around until they learned and were told that King Arthur’s men, and indeed the king himself, had organized a tournament. This combat was to be held in the plains outside Oxford, which was near Wallingford, and was to last four days. Cligés would have adequate time to make preparations – should he discover that he needed anything in the meantime – for there were still more than two weeks before the tournament. He had three of his squires set off at once for London with orders to purchase three distinctive sets of arms, one black, the second red, and the third green; and he ordered them on the way back to cover each set with new cloth, so that if anyone encountered them on the way he would not know the colour of the arms they were carrying.
The squires set off immediately and soon arrived in London where they found at their disposal everything they required. Their purchases were quickly made, and they returned as swiftly as they could. They showed Cligés the arms they had brought back, and he was most satisfied. He had them concealed and hidden along with the arms the emperor had given him when he was knighted beside the Danube. Should anyone want to ask me why he had them concealed, I prefer not to answer: for everything will be explained and told to you once all the high barons of the land, who have come to the tournament in search of glory, have taken to their horses.
On the appointed day the worthy barons gathered. King Arthur, with a company selected from among the very best, took up his position near Oxford, while the majority of the knights ranged themselves near Wallingford. Don’t think I am going to draw out my story by telling you that such and such kings and counts were there, and that this one and that one and another came.
Just before the barons were to begin the fray, one of the most valiant knights from among King Arthur’s company rode forth alone between the two lines, as was the custom in those days, to signal the start of the tournament. But no one dared come forward to joust against him and all stood silently watching. There were those on Arthur’s side who asked: ‘What are these knights waiting for? Why does no one come forth from their ranks? Surely someone will begin soon!’
And the others were saying: ‘Don’t you see who they’ve sent out against us? Be sure, if you didn’t already know it, that he is a pillar to equal any of the four best knights known.’
‘Who is he then?’
‘Can’t you see him? It’s Sagremor the Unruly.’
‘Is it really?’
‘Beyond any doubt.’
Cligés, who listened and heard all this, was seated upon Morel, dressed in armour that was blacker than a ripe mulberry. Every piece of his armour was black. As he broke from the ranks and spurred on Morel to a furious charge, everyone who saw him exclaimed to their neighbours: ‘He’s riding forth with his lance at the ready. This is a splendid knight who knows how to bear his arms, and the shield at his neck suits him perfectly. But he might be considered foolhardy to have undertaken to joust against what is surely one of the best knights known in this land. Who is he then? Where was he born? Who knows him?’
‘Not I.’
‘Nor I. But clearly it hasn’t snowed where he comes from, for his armour is blacker than the cope of a priest or monk.’
While the others were busy talking, the two of them delayed no longer, but gave rein to their horses, for they were inflamed and eager to meet in the joust. With his first blow Cligés smashed Sagremor’s shield against his arm and his arm against his body, stretching him out flat upon the ground. Cligés rode gallantly up to him and made Sagremor swear to become his prisoner, which Sagremor did. Then the battle began, with knights rushing upon one another pell-mell. Cligés plunged into the fray, seeking adversaries with whom to joust. Every knight he met he unhorsed or took captive. He won the glory on both sides, for wherever he went to joust, there he put an end to the fighting. Those who advanced to fight against him were not lacking in courage: there was more glory in standing to face him than in capturing any other knight. Even if Cligés led him away prisoner, just daring to joust against him was a mark of glory. Cligés was accorded the fame and glory of all the tournament.
At dusk Cligés returned in secret to his lodgings, so that no one on either side could question him. And should anyone come seeking the house displaying the black arms, he had them locked in a room where they could not be seen or found; and he had the green armour displayed at the street door for passers-by to see. Thus, if anyone came asking or looking for him, he would not know where his lodgings were, since he could discover no trace of the black arms he was seeking.
So by this ruse Cligés was able to remain hidden in the town. The men he had taken prisoner went from one end of town to the other asking for the black knight, but no one could give them any information. Even King Arthur had him sought high and low, but everyone said: ‘We have not seen him since we left the tournament and don’t know what’s become of him.’
The king sent more than twenty young knights to seek him, but Cligés had concealed his tracks so well that they could find no trace of him. King Arthur signed himself with the cross when he learned that neither noble nor commoner could be found who knew where the knight was staying, any more than if he had been in Cæesarea, Toledo, or Candia in Crete.15
‘Upon my word,’ he exclaimed, ‘I don’t know what to say, but I am truly astonished. Perhaps this was some ghost that came among us. He has defeated many a knight today and taken pledges from the best of them; but if within the year they cannot find his door, his land or country, they will all have broken their oaths.’
Thus the king expressed his thoughts, but he might as well have kept silent. That night all the barons could speak of nothing except the black knight. The next morning they all took up their arms again, without having been summoned or requested to do so. Lancelot of the Lake, who was not at all weak of heart, rode out for the first joust.16 Cligés, in armour greener than meadow grass, immediately galloped forward on a fawn-coloured charger with flowing mane. As Cligés spurred forward on the fawn-coloured steed, young and old alike looked on in wonder, and on every side people exclaimed: ‘This knight is nobler and more skilled in every respect than yesterday’s black knight, just as the pine tree is fairer than the hornbeam, and the laurel than the elderberry. Though we still don’t know who yesterday’s knight was, we’ll learn who this one is before the day is out. If anyone recognizes him let him say so.’
But each one said: ‘I don’t recognize him at all; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. But he is more handsome than yesterday’s knight, and fairer than Lancelot of the Lake
. Were he armed in a sack and Lancelot in silver and gold, still this knight would be more handsome.’ Thus they all favoured Cligés.
The two knights spurred their horses and charged at one another as fast as their horses would run. Cligés struck Lancelot a blow to his golden shield with the painted lion that knocked him from his saddle. He came up to receive his surrender and Lancelot, unable to defend himself, swore to become his prisoner. Then the strife began with a clatter and breaking of lances. Those on Cligés’s side placed all their trust in him, for none of those he challenged was strong enough to keep from being thrown from his horse to the ground. This day Cligés did so well, and unhorsed and captured so many knights, that he pleased those on his side twice as much and won twice the glory that he had the day before.
At dusk he returned with all due haste to his lodgings and immediately had the red shield and trappings brought out. He ordered the arms he had worn that day to be hidden, which his host carefully did. That evening the knights he had captured searched far and wide, but could find no news of him. Most of the knights in their lodgings spoke of him with words of praise and admiration. The next day the eager and mighty knights took up their arms again. From the Oxford ranks a knight of great renown rode forth; his name was Perceval the Welshman. As soon as Cligés saw him move forward and heard that he was truly Perceval, he was eager to joust with him. Wearing red armour, he came swiftly forward from among his own ranks upon a chestnut Spanish charger. Then everyone gazed upon him with even more astonishment than before, saying they had never seen such a perfect knight. Without a moment’s hesitation, the two charged towards one another. They spurred on until they landed mighty blows upon their shields; their short, thick lances arched and split. For all to see, Cligés struck Perceval a blow that knocked him from his horse, and without a long fight or much ado made him pledge himself as his prisoner.
As soon as Perceval surrendered, the two camps rushed together to begin the tournament. Every knight Cligés met he forced to the ground. He did not leave the battle for a single hour all that day. They struck against him as against a tower, but not by twos and threes, for that was not the custom or usage in those days. His shield was like an anvil on which the others forged and hammered, splitting and quartering it; but all who attacked him paid the price of losing their stirrups and saddles. And unless one were willing to lie, you could not say in parting that the knight with the red shield had failed to carry the day. The best and most courtly knights wanted to make his acquaintance, but that would not be soon to happen, for he had ridden off secretly the moment he saw the sun go down. He had his red shield and the rest of his trappings removed and had the white arms brought forward, those in which he had been knighted, and placed with the white horse at the front door.
Arthurian Romances Page 25