Самые известные английские легенды
Адаптация текста Д. А. Демидовой

English Legends

The Lass of Roch Royal, or, Lord Gregory

It was a wild, stormy night, many years ago since now, when a fair-haired young girl knocked on the gate of the Roch Royal Castle. Her clothes were soaking wet[1] with rain; her large, sad eyes were moist with tears; and in her arms there was a bundle containing a small baby.

“I am a poor young girl that came from Cappoquin[2],” she cried, “I’m in search of Lord Gregory, pray God I’ll find him! The rain beats my yellow locks and the dew wets me still. Besides, my child is cold and shivering in my arms. Lord Gregory, let me in!”

A window-shutter clanged high above her, and a rough female voice shouted:

“Lord Gregory is not here and henceforth can’t be seen, as he is gone to bonny Scotland to bring home his new wife. So leave now these windows and likewise this castle, for it is deep in the sea you should hide your downfall.”

“But who will shoe my baby’s little feet?” the girl moaned, in despair. “Who will put gloves on her hands? Who will put a long linen band around her waist? Who will comb her yellow hair with an ivory comb? Who will be her father till Lord Gregory comes home?”

But there was no answer; the gates remained shut.

“Do you recall, darling Gregory,” the unfortunate lass continued, her voice breaking with sorrow, “that night in Cappoquin, when we exchanged pocket handkerchiefs, and, as for me, it was against my will? Your handkerchief was pure linen, love, and mine just coarse cloth, for yours cost a guinea, and mine but a penny? Do you remember, love Gregory, that night in Cappoquin, when we exchanged rings on our fingers, and me – against my will? For yours was pure silver, and as for mine, it was simple tin, for your ring cost a guinea, and mine but one cent. But Lord Gregory, I’m standing at your door now, with your child in my hands. Pray, open to me, let me it, let us get warm and merry again by your heat! I beg you to show some mercy at least, if I’m denied your love!”

No sound came from within the castle; only the storm and the sea waves united to turn the night into the chaos of the elements[3].

The girl raised her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse[4] of some movement behind the windows, but could only see the streams of heavy rain, a lightning, and the sky, cracked from side to side[5]. As for the hall behind the gate, nothing seemed to stir inside.

The poor lass was desperate. There was a boat waiting for her in the nearby bay; and it was there she turned, still holding the child in her arms. She set the sail[6], and the boat pulled out, a mere chip in the terrible storm. Soon it could not be seen anymore behind the thick veil of the shower.

A few hours later, nevertheless, the storm subsided. Morning came fresh and clean, with the autumn sun shining from behind the light mist. The sea waves looked tamed now; but no sign of the night visitation were there to find.

Soon after waking up, the young Lord Gregory went to tell his mother of the weird dream he saw that night.

“You told me to get back to bed, mother, but I was sure I heard a female voice, young, melodic and sorrowful, at our gates.”

“Oh my foolish son!” the old lady exclaimed, “There was no one at night. I told you to sleep on and bother yourself not.”

“You deceive me, mother!” young lord protested. “I dreamt of the lass I love who came here, bearing my child in her white, slender arms.”

“My son, this was but a beggar who foolishly claimed to be your wife. What she wanted was to deceive you, to bind you with the bounds of the promise you aren’t obliged to keep. I told her to get away and to seek refuge[7] for herself and her shame at the bottom of the sea. That wearisome girl must be lying down there now.”

“Now my curse on you, mother!” cried the lord, horrified. “Sure I heard the girl come knocking to my door, and you didn’t let her in! Now, go and order three horses to be saddled for me: the black, the brown and the bay, saddle me the best horses in my stable; and I promise I’ll range over mountains, over wide valleys and over the sea shore till I find the girl.”

And so he rushed away from Roch Royal to find the cold body of the drowned lass and to fall dead by her side.

The Dream of Maxen Wledig[8]

The Emperor Maxen Wledig was the most powerful Caesar who had ever ruled Europe from the City of the Seven Hills[9]. He was an incredibly handsome man, tall and strong and skilled in all manly exercises; besides, he was gracious and friendly to all his vassals and tributary kings[10], so that he was universally loved. One day he went hunting, and was accompanied on his expedition down the Tiber valley by thirty two vassal kings, with whom he enjoyed the sport heartily. At noon the heat was intense, they were far from Rome, and all were tired. The emperor suggested they made a stop, and they dismounted to take rest. Maxen lay down to sleep with his head on a shield, and soldiers and attendants stood around making a shelter for him from the sun by a roof of shields hung on their spears.

Thus he fell into a sleep so deep that none dared to awake him. Hours passed by, and still he slept, and still the whole company waited impatiently for his awakening. At last, the soldiers grew so tired that they could not stand still any longer, and the sounds of their spears against the shields awoke Maxen Wledig. He roused with a start[11].

“Ah, why did you wake me?” he asked sadly.

“Lord, your dinner hour is long past – did you not know?” they said.

He shook his head mournfully, but said nothing, and, mounting his horse, rode in silence back to Rome, with his head sunk on his breast. Behind him the whole company of kings and tributaries rode in fear, as they knew nothing of the cause of his sorrowful mood.

From that day the emperor changed utterly. He rode no more, he hunted no more, he paid no attention to the business of the empire, but remained in his own apartments and slept. The court banquets continued without him, he refused to listen to music and songs, and, though in his sleep he smiled and was happy, when he awoke his melancholy could not be cheered. When this condition had continued for more than a week it was determined that the emperor must be cured from this dreadful state of apathy, and his groom of the chamber[12], a noble Roman of very high rank – indeed, a king, under the emperor – resolved to make the endeavour.

“My lord,” said he, “I have evil tidings for you. The people of Rome are beginning to murmur against you, because of the change that has come over you. They say that you are bewitched, that they can get no answers or decisions from you, and all the affairs of the empire are unattended while you sleep. You are no longer their emperor, they say, and they will no longer be loyal to you.”

Then Maxen Wledig roused himself and said to the noble: “Call my wisest senators and councilors, and I will explain the cause of my melancholy, and perhaps they will be able to give me relief.”

Accordingly, the senators came, and the emperor ascended his throne, looking so mournful that the whole Senate grieved for him, and feared that he would die.

He began to address them thus: “Senators and Sages of Rome, I have heard that my people murmur against me, and will rebel if I do not arouse myself. A terrible fate has fallen upon me, and I see no way of escape from my misery, unless you can find one. It is now more than a week since I went hunting with my court, and when I was wearied I dismounted and slept. In my sleep I dreamt, and a vision cast its spell upon me, so that I feel no happiness unless I am sleeping, and seem to live only in my dreams. I thought I was hunting along the Tiber valley, lost my companions, and rode to the head of the valley alone. I followed the river to its mouth. There was a great mountain, which looked to me the highest in the world; but I ascended it, and found beyond it fair and fertile plains, far more vast than any in Italy, with wide rivers flowing through that lovely country to the sea. I followed the course of the greatest river, and reached its mouth, where a noble port stood on the shores of a sea unknown to me. In the harbour lay a fleet of good ships, and one of these was most beautifully decorated with gold and silver, and its sails were of silk. There was a gangway of ivory, so I entered the vessel, which immediately sailed into the ocean. The voyage was short, and we soon came to a wondrously beautiful island. In this island I walked, led by some secret guidance, till I reached its farthest shore, broken by cliffs and mountain ranges, while between the mountains and the sea I saw a fair and fruitful land through which there was flowing a silvery, winding river, with a castle at its mouth. When I came to the gate of the castle, I was amazed by its splendour. It was all covered with gold, silver and precious stones, and two fair youths, whom I saw playing chess, used pieces of gold on a board of silver. Their clothes were of black satin embroidered with gold, and golden circlets were on their heads. I gazed at the youths for a moment, and then became aware of an aged man sitting near them. His carved ivory seat was decorated with golden eagles, the token of Imperial Rome; his ornaments on arms and hands and neck were of bright gold, and he was carving fresh chessmen from gold. Beside him sat, on a golden chair, a maiden (the loveliest in the whole world she seemed, and still seems, to me). White was her inner dress under a golden overdress, her crown was of rubies and pearls, and a golden waist was on her. The beauty of her face won my love in that moment, and I knelt and said: ‘Hail, Empress of Rome!’ but as she bent forward from her seat to greet me, I awoke. Now I have no peace and no joy except in sleep, for in dreams I always see my lady, and in dreams we love each other and are happy; therefore in dreams will I live, unless you can find some way to satisfy my longing while I wake.”

The senators were at first greatly amazed, and then one of them said: “My lord, will you not send out messengers to search throughout all your lands for this maiden? Let each group of messengers search for one year, and return at the end of the year. So you shall live in good hope of success from year to year.”

The messengers were sent out accordingly; but, however hard they tried, after three years three separate groups had brought back no news of the mysterious land and the beautiful maiden.

Then the groom of the chamber said to Maxen Wledig: “My lord, will you not go forth to hunt, as on the day when you had your dream?”

To this the emperor agreed, and rode to the place in the valley where he had slept. The groom of the chamber then said: “Will you not send messengers to the river’s source, my lord, and tell them to follow the track of your dream?”

And thirteen messengers were sent, who followed the river up until it issued from the highest mountain they had ever seen. “Behold our emperor’s dream!” they exclaimed, and they got to the top of the mountain, and descended the other side into a most beautiful and fertile plain, as Maxen Wledig had seen in his dream. Following the greatest river of all – probably it was the Rhine – the ambassadors reached the seaport on the North Sea, and found the fleet waiting with one ship larger than all the others; and they entered the ship and were carried to the fair island of Britain. Here they journeyed westward, and came to the mountainous land of Snowdon, where they could see the sacred isle of Mona, or Anglesey[13], and the fertile land of Arvon[14] lying between the mountains and the sea. “This,” said the messengers, “is the land of our master’s dream, and in that fair castle we shall find the maiden who our emperor loves.”

So they went to the castle of Caernarvon, and in that impressive fortress was the great hall, with the two youths playing chess, the old man carving chessmen, and the maiden in her chair of gold. When the ambassadors saw the fair Princess Helena[15], they fell on their knees before her and said: “Empress of Rome, all hail!”

But Helena half rose from her seat in anger as she said: “What does this mockery mean? You seem to be men of gentle breeding[16], and you are evidently messengers: why, then, do you mock me thus?”

But the ambassadors calmed her anger, saying: “Do not be angry, lady: this is no mockery, for the Emperor of Rome, the great lord Maxen Wledig, saw you in a dream, and he swore to marry none but you. Which, therefore, will you choose, to accompany us to Rome, and there be made empress, or to wait here until the emperor can come to you?”

The princess thought deeply for a time, and then replied: “I would not be too credulous, or too hard of belief. If the emperor loves me and would like to marry me, let him find me in my father’s house, and make me his bride in my own home.”

After this the messengers returned to the emperor in haste. When they reached Rome and informed Maxen Wledig of the success of their mission he at once gathered his army and marched across Europe towards Britain. He conquered Britain and eventually reached the fair country of Snowdon. He entered the castle and saw, at last, with his own eyes first the two youths, Kynon[17] and Adeon[18], playing chess, then their father, Eudav[19], the son of Caradoc[20], and then his beloved, beautiful Helena, daughter of Eudav.

“Empress of Rome, all hail!” Maxen Wledig said; and the princess bent forward in her chair and kissed him, for she knew he was her destined husband. The next day they were married, and the Emperor Maxen Wledig gave Helena as dowry all Britain for her father, the son of Caradoc, and for herself three castles, Caernarvon[21], Caerlleon[22], and Caermarthen[23], where she lived in turn; and in one of them was born her son Constantine, the only British-born Emperor of Rome. To this day in Wales the old Roman roads that once connected Helena’s three castles are known as “Sarn Helen.”

The Tale of Gamelyn[24]

In the reign of King Edward I[25], there lived in Lincolnshire a noble gentleman, Sir John of the Marches. He was now old, but was still a model of all courtesy and a perfect gentle knight. He had three sons, of whom the youngest, Gamelyn, was born in his father’s old age, and was greatly beloved by the old man; the other two were much older than he, and John, the eldest, had already developed a wicked character. Gamelyn and his second brother, Otho, respected their father, but John had no respect or obedience for the good gentleman, and was the chief trouble of his declining years, as Gamelyn was his chief joy.

At last old age and weakness overcame the worthy old Sir John, and he was forced to take to his bed[26], where he lay sadly thinking of his children’s future, and wondering how to divide his possessions fairly among the three. Fearing that he could commit an injustice, Sir John sent throughout the district for wise knights, asking them to come hastily, if they wished to see him alive and help him. When the country squires and lords, his near neighbours, heard of his serious condition, they hurried to the castle, and gathered in the bedchamber, where the dying knight greeted them thus:

“Lords and gentlemen, I may no longer live; but I pray, for my sake[27], to help me to divide my lands among my three sons. For the love of God, do it justly, and forget not my youngest, Gamelyn. Seldom does any heir to an estate help his brothers after his father’s death.”

The friends whom Sir John had invited thought long over the disposal of the estate. Most of them wanted to give all to the eldest son, but a strong minority said they must not forget the second. They all agreed, however, that Gamelyn might wait till his eldest brother chose to give him a share of his father’s lands. At last it was decided to divide the inheritance between the two elder sons, and the knights returned to the room where the brave old knight lay dying, and told him their decision. He summoned up strength[28] enough to protest against their plan, and said:

“No, by Lord, I can yet leave my lands to whom I wish: they still are mine. Then be silent, neighbours, while I make my will. To John, my eldest son, and heir, I leave five ploughlands, my dead father’s heritage; and same to my second, which I myself won in battles; everything else I own, in lands and goods and wealth, goes to Gamelyn, my youngest. And I ask you, for the love of God, not to forsake, but guard his helpless youth and let him not be denied his wealth.”

Then Sir John, satisfied with having proclaimed his will, died with Christian resignation, leaving his little son Gamelyn in the power of the cruel eldest brother, now, in his turn, Sir John.

Since the boy was very young, the new knight, as a natural guardian, got the control of Gamelyn’s land, vassals, education, and nurture; but he did not fulfil his duty, for he clothed and fed the boy badly, and neglected his lands, so that his parks and houses, his farms and villages, fell into decay[29]. The boy, when he grew older, noticed this and tried to change it, but did not realise the power in himself with which he tried to redress the wrongs[30]. Later, though, he fully understood what injuries he could inflict others, so no man would dare to face him in fight when he was angry, so strong a youth had he become.

While Gamelyn, one day, walking in the hall, was thinking of the ruin of all his inheritance, Sir John came in, and, seeing him, called out: “How now: is dinner ready?”

Furious at being addressed as if he were just a servant, Gamelyn replied angrily: “Go and do your own baking; I am not your cook.”

Sir John was astonished. “What, my dear brother, is that the way to answer? You have never addressed me so before!”

“No,” replied Gamelyn, “because until now I have never considered all the wrong you have done me. My parks are broken open, my deer are driven off; you have deprived me of my armour and my horses; all that my father left to me is falling into ruin and decay. God’s curse upon you, false brother!”

Sir John was now angry beyond all measure[31], and shouted: “Stand still, vagabond! What right do you have to speak of land or vassals? Thou shall learn to be grateful for food and the roof above your head.”

“A curse upon him that calls me a vagabond! I am no worse than yourself; I am the son of a lady and a good knight.”

In spite of all his anger, Sir John was a careful man, thinking of his own safety. He would not risk an encounter with Gamelyn, but called his servants and told them to beat him well, till he should learn better manners. But when the boy understood his brother’s intention he promised that he would not be beaten alone – others should suffer too, and Sir John not the least. Leaping on to the wall, he got a pestle standing by the wall, and so boldly attacked the servants, that he drove them into a heap. Sir John had not even got that small amount of bravery: he fled to the next room and shut the door, while Gamelyn cleared the hall with his pestle, and chased the cowardly grooms.

“Brother,” said Gamelyn, when he finally saw where the latter was hiding, “come a little nearer, and I will teach you how to play this merry game.”

“No, I will not come till you put down that pestle. Brother, be angry no more, and I will make peace with you. I swear it by the grace of God!”

“I was forced to defend myself,” said Gamelyn, “I could not let grooms beat a good knight’s son; but now grant me one gift, and we shall soon be at peace with each other.”

“Yes, certainly, brother; ask for your gift, and I will give it readily. But indeed I was only testing you, for you are so young that I doubted your strength and manliness. It was only a pretence of beating that I meant.”

“This is my request,” said the boy: “if there is to be peace between us you must give to me all that my father left me while he was alive.”

To this Sir John agreed with apparent willingness, and even promised to repair the decayed houses and restore the lands and farms; but though he showed content with the agreement and kissed his brother with affection, yet he was inwardly planning a treachery against the unsuspecting youth.

Shortly after this quarrel between the brothers a wrestling competition was announced, the winner of which would become the owner of a fine ram and a ring of gold, and Gamelyn decided to try his powers. Accordingly he asked a horse from Sir John, who offered him his choice of all the horses in the stable, and then curiously questioned him as to his purpose. The lad explained that he wished to compete in the wrestling match, hoping to win honour by bearing away the prize; then he mounted his horse and rode away merrily, while the false Sir John locked the gate behind him, praying that he might get his neck broken in the contest.

The boy rode along, rejoicing in his youth and strength, singing as he went, till he drew near the appointed place, and then he suddenly heard a man’s voice crying, “O grief! Alas!” and saw a venerable yeoman wringing his hands[32].

“Good man,” said Gamelyn, “why are you in such distress? Can no one help you?”

“Alas!” said the yeoman. “Woe to the day on which I was born[33]! The champion wrestler here has overthrown my two sons, and unless God help them they will die of their injuries. I would give ten pounds to find a man to avenge on him for my dear sons.”

“Good man, hold my horse while my groom takes my coat and shoes, and I will try my luck[34] and strength against this champion.”

“Thank God!” said the yeoman. “I will do it at once; I will guard thy coat and shoes and good horse safely – and may Jesus Christ help you!” When Gamelyn entered the ring, barefooted and ready for wrestling, all men gazed curiously at the reckless youth who dared to challenge the best champion, and the great man himself, rising from the ground, went across to meet Gamelyn and said imperiously: “Who is your father, and what is your name? Truly you are a young fool to come here!”

Gamelyn answered equally imperiously: “You knew my father well while he lived: he was Sir John of the Marches, and I am his youngest son, Gamelyn.”

The champion replied: “Boy, I knew your father well in his lifetime, and I have heard of you, but nothing good: you have always been in mischief.”

“Now I am older and you shall know me better,” said Gamelyn.

The wrestling had lasted till late in the evening, and the moon was shining over the scene when Gamelyn and the champion began their fight. The wrestler tried many wily tricks, but the boy was ready for them all. Then, in his turn, he grasped his rival round the waist, and cast him so heavily to the ground that three ribs were broken, and his left arm. Then the winner said mockingly:

“Shall we count that, or not?”

“By heaven! No man will survive in your hands,” said the champion painfully.

The yeoman, who had watched the match with great anxiety, now broke out with blessings[35]:

“Be blessed, young sir, that ever you were born!” and, turning to the fallen champion, added: “It was young ‘Mischief’ who taught you this game!”

“He is master of us all,” said the champion. “In all my years of wrestling I have never been used so cruelly.”

Now the winner stood in the ring, ready for more wrestling, but no man would dare to compete with him, and the two judges who kept order and awarded the prizes asked him to retire, for no other competitor could be found to face him.

But he was a little disappointed at this easy victory. “Is the fair over? Why, I haven’t yet had enough fun,” he said.

Later, when the judges returned to their seats, they formally awarded the prize to Gamelyn, and now came to him, bearing the ram and the ring.

Gamelyn took them gladly, and went home the next morning, followed by a cheering crowd of admirers; but when the cowardly Sir John saw the people he shut the castle doors against his more favourite and successful brother.

The porter, obeying his master’s commands, refused Gamelyn entrance; and the youth, angry at this insult, broke down the door with one blow, caught the porter, and flung him down the well in the courtyard. His brother’s servants fled from his anger, and the crowd that had accompanied him spread into courtyard and hall, while the knight took refuge in a little tower.

“Welcome to you all,” said Gamelyn. “We will be masters here and ask no man’s leave[36].

Yesterday I left five barrels of wine in the cellar; we will drain them dry before you go. If my brother objects (as he may, for he is greedy), I will be a butler and caterer myself and manage the whole feast. Any person who dares to protest may join the porter in the well.”

Naturally no objections followed, and Gamelyn and his friends held the carouse for a week, while Sir John was hiding in his tower, terrified at the noise and revelry, and fearing what his brother might do to him now he had so many followers.

However, the guests departed quietly on the eighth day, leaving Gamelyn alone, and very sorrowful, in the hall where he had held the feast. As he stood there sadly, he heard a timid footstep, and saw his brother coming towards him. When he had attracted Gamelyn’s attention he spoke out loudly: “Who made you so bold as to destroy all my household stores?”

“No, brother, be not angry,” said the youth quietly. “If I have used anything I have paid for it fully beforehand. For these sixteen years you have had full use and profit of fifteen good ploughlands which my father left me; you have also the use and increase of all my cattle and horses; and now all this past profit I abandon to you, in return for the expense of this feast of mine.”

Then said the treacherous Sir John: “Wait, my dear brother: I have no son, and you shall be my heir – I swear by the holy St. John.”

“Honestly, brother,” said Gamelyn, “if that is the case, and if this offer is made in all sincerity, may God reward you!” for it was impossible for him to suspect his brother of treachery.

Sir John hesitated a moment, and then said doubtfully: “There is one thing I must tell you, Gamelyn. When you threw my porter into the well I swore in my wrath that I would have you bound hand and foot. That is impossible now without your agreement, but I swore to god and cannot forget my promise. I will go to hell unless you let yourself be bound for a moment, as a mere form[37], just to save me from the sin.”

So sincere Sir John seemed, and so simple did the whole thing appear, that Gamelyn agreed at once. “Why, certainly, brother, you shall not go to hell for my sake.”

So he sat down, and the servants bound him hand and foot; and then Sir John looked mockingly at him as he said: “So now, my fine brother, I have you caught at last.” Then he ordered to chain him fast to a post in the centre of the hall. Gamelyn was placed on his feet with his back to the post and his hands tight behind him, and as he stood there the false brother told every person who entered that Gamelyn had suddenly gone mad, and was chained for safety’s sake, so that he would not do himself or others some deadly hurt. For two long days and nights he stood there bound, with no food or drink, and grew faint with hunger and weariness, for his ropes were so tight that he could not sit or lie down; bitterly he regretted the carelessness which made him fall such an easy prey[38] to his treacherous brother’s evil plans.

When all others had left the hall Gamelyn appealed to old Adam Spencer, the steward of the household, a loyal old servant who had known Sir John of the Marches, and had watched the boy grow up. “Adam Spencer,” he said, “unless my brother wants to kill me, I am kept hungry too long. I pray, for the great love my father had for you, get the keys and release me from my bonds. I will share all my free land with you if you help me in this distress.”

The poor old servant was greatly perplexed. He knew not how to reconcile his grateful loyalty to his dead master with the loyalty to his present lord, and he said doubtfully: “I have served your brother for sixteen years, and if I release you now, he will rightly call me a traitor.”

“Ah, Adam! You’ll find him a false rogue in the end, as I have done. Release me, dear friend Adam, and I will be true to my agreement to share my land with you.”

By these words the steward was persuaded, and, waiting till Sir John was safely in bed, managed to get the keys and release Gamelyn, who stretched his arms and legs[39] and thanked God for his liberty. Then Adam took him to a private room and set food before him; eagerly he ate and drank till his hunger was satisfied and he began to think of revenge.

“What is your advice, Adam? Shall I go to my brother and smite off his head? He well deserves it.”

“No,” answered Adam, “I know a better plan than that. Sir John is to give a great feast on Sunday to many Churchmen and prelates; there will be present a great number of abbots and priors and other holy men. Do you stand as if bound by your post in the hall, and ask them to release you. If they help you, your liberty will be gained with no blame to me; if they all refuse, you shall cast aside the unlocked chains, and you and I, with two good sticks, can soon win your freedom. Christ’s curse on him who fails his comrade!”

“Yes, let me be cursed if I fail in my part of the bargain! But if we must need to help them to do penance for their sins, you must warn me, brother Adam, when to begin.”

“Certainly, master, I will give you a warning. When I wink at you be ready to cast away your chains at once and come to me.”

“This is good advice of yours, Adam, and blessings on your head. If these imperious Churchmen refuse to help me I’ll pay them well.”

Sunday came, and after mass many guests arrived to the feast in the great hall; they all stared curiously at Gamelyn as he stood with his hands behind him, apparently chained to his post, and Sir John explained sadly that he, after killing the porter and wasting the household stores, had gone mad, and was to be chained, for his fury was dangerous. The servants carried delicious dishes round the table, and beakers of rich wines, but, though Gamelyn cried aloud that he was hungry, no food was brought to him. Then he spoke pitifully and humbly to the noble guests:

“Lords, for Christ’s sake help a poor captive out of prison.” But the guests were hard-hearted, and answered cruelly, especially the abbots and priors, who had been deceived by Sir John’s false tales. So rude was their reply that he grew angry.

“Oh,” said he, “that is all the answer I am to have to my prayer! Now I see that I have no friends. Cursed be he that ever does good to abbot or prior!”

Adam Spencer, busied about the removal of the tablecloth, looked anxiously at Gamelyn, and saw how angry he was growing. He thought little more of his service, but, making an excuse[40] to go to the pantry, brought two good oak sticks, and put them beside the hall door. Then he winked at Gamelyn, who with a sudden shout flung off his chains, rushed to the hall door, took a barrel and whirled his weapon as lightly as if it had been a holy water sprinkler. There was a dreadful mess in the hall, for the fat Churchmen tried to escape, but Gamelyn was able to scatter the prelates. Now he had no pity on these cruel Churchmen, as they had been without pity for him; he knocked them over, battered them, broke their arms and legs, and brought a terrible fear among them; and during this time Adam Spencer kept the door so that none might escape. He called aloud to Gamelyn to respect the sanctity of men of Holy Church and shed no blood[41], but if he should by chance break arms and legs there would be no sacrilege, because no blood would be shed.

Thus Gamelyn did what he wanted, laying hands on monks and friars, and sent them home wounded, while some of them muttered: “We were better at home, with just bread and water, than here where we have had such a sorry feast!”

Then Gamelyn turned his attention to his false brother, who had been unable to escape. He caught him by the neck, broke his backbone with one blow, and chained, sitting, to the post at which he had stood.

“Sit there, brother, and cool thy blood,” said Gamelyn, as he and Adam sat down to a feast, at which the servants served them eagerly, partly from love and partly from fear.

Now the sheriff happened to be only five miles away, and soon heard the news of this disturbance, and how Gamelyn and Adam had broken the peace. As his duty was, he determined to arrest the lawbreakers. Twenty-four of his best men were sent to the castle to arrest Gamelyn and his steward; but the new porter, loyal to Gamelyn, denied them entrance till he knew their errand; when they refused to tell it, he sent a servant to wake his master and warn him that the sheriff’s men stood before the gate.

Then answered Gamelyn: “Good porter, go; delay my foes with fair speech at the gate till I have invented some plan. If I survive this incident, I will requite you truth and loyalty. Adam,” said he then to his steward, “Our enemies are on us, and we have no friend – the sheriff’s men surround us, we must go where our safety calls us.”

Adam replied: “Go where you want to go, I’ll follow you to the last or die abandoned. But this proud sheriff will flee soon.”

As Gamelyn and Adam looked round for weapons, the former saw a stout post used for propping up the shafts; this he seized, and ran out of the back gate, followed by Adam with another staff. They caught the sheriff’s twenty four bold men from behind, and when Gamelyn had overthrown three, and Adam two, the rest fled.

“What!” said Adam as they were running away. “Drink a cup of my good wine! I am lord here.”

“No,” they shouted back; “such wine as yours scatters a man’s brains far too well.”

This little fight was hardly ended before the sheriff came in person with a greater group of soldiers. Gamelyn knew not what to do, but Adam again had a plan ready. “Let us stay no longer, but go to the greenwood: there we shall at least be at liberty.”

The advice suited Gamelyn, and each drank a draught of wine, mounted his steed, and lightly rode away, leaving the empty nest for the sheriff. However, when his party arrived, one of the officers dismounted, entered the hall, and found Sir John nearly dying. He released him, and summoned a doctor who healed his grievous wound, and thus enabled him to do more mischief.

Meanwhile, Adam wandered with Gamelyn in the greenwood, and found it very hard work, with little food. He complained aloud to his young lord: “Weren’t we better at home? I do not like this wood, there are too many trees, but no food or drink, or place to rest.”

“Ah! Adam,” answered Gamelyn, “Cheer yourself! A good man’s son often feels bitter woe at home!”

As they spoke sadly together Gamelyn heard men’s voices nearby, and, looking through the bushes, saw about a hundred and forty young men, sitting round a plentiful feast, spread on the green grass. He rejoiced greatly. Adam longed for a good meal, too, for they had found little to eat since they came to the greenwood. At that moment the master-outlaw saw them in the bushes, and told his men to bring to him these new guests whom God had sent: maybe, he said, there were others besides these two.

The seven bold youths went to fulfil the task, and cried to the two newcomers: “Do not move and hand us your bows and arrows!”

“Much sorrow may he bring who stops in front of you,” cried Gamelyn. “Why, with five more you would be only twelve, and I could fight you all.”

When the outlaws saw how boldly he behaved, they changed their tone, and said calmly: “Come to our master, and tell him of your trouble.”

“Who is your master?” asked Gamelyn. “He is the crowned king of the outlaws,” said they; and the two strangers were led away to the chief.

The master-outlaw, sitting on a wooden throne, with a crown of oak-leaves on his head, asked them their business, and Gamelyn replied: “He must walk in the wood who may not walk in the town. We are hungry and tired, and will only shoot the deer for food, for we are in great danger.”

The outlaw leader had pity on their distress, and gave them food; and as they ate ravenously the outlaws whispered one to another: “This is Gamelyn!” “This is Gamelyn!” Understanding all the evils that had befallen him, their leader soon made Gamelyn his second in command; and when, after three weeks, the outlaw king was pardoned and allowed to return home, Gamelyn was chosen to succeed him and was crowned king of the outlaws. So he lived merrily in the forest, and cared not about the world outside.

Meanwhile, the treacherous Sir John had recovered, and became a sheriff. He accused his brother of felony as soon as he could. As Gamelyn did not appear to answer to that accusation, he was proclaimed an outlaw, and a price was set for his life. His yeomen and vassals were grieved at this, for they feared the cruelty of the wicked sheriff; and therefore they sent messengers to Gamelyn to tell him the bad news. The youth was as furious as they had expected, and he promised to come and teach Sir John in his hall and protect his own tenants.

It was certainly very daring to go into the county where his brother was sheriff, but he rode boldly into the hall, with his hood thrown back, so that all might recognise him, and cried aloud: “God save all you here present! But, your broken-backed sheriff, evil he may be! Why has he done me such wrong and disgrace as to accuse me and proclaim me an outlaw?”

Sir John did not hesitate to use his legal powers. Seeing that his brother was quite alone, he imediately had him arrested and cast into prison, where, as was his intention, only death could release him.

All these years the second brother, Otho, had been living quietly on his own lands and taken care of the quarrels of the two others; but now, when news came to him of Sir John’s deadly hatred to their youngest brother, and Gamelyn’s trouble, he was deeply grieved, roused himself from his peaceful life, and rode to see if he could help his brother. First he asked Sir John’s mercy for the prisoner, for the sake of brotherhood and family love; but the latter only replied that Gamelyn must stay imprisoned till the justice decides otherwise. Then Otho offered to be bail[42], if only his young brother might be released from his bonds and brought from the dismal cell where he lay. To this Sir John finally agreed, warning Otho that if the accused failed to appear before the justice he himself must suffer the penalty for the breach of bail.

“I agree,” said Otho. “Have him released at once, and deliver him to me.”

Then Gamelyn was set free on his brother’s surety, and the two rode home to Otho’s house, talking sadly of all that had befallen, and how Gamelyn had become the king of the outlaws. The next morning Gamelyn asked Otho’s permission to go to the greenwood and see how his young men were doing without him, but Otho pointed out very clearly how dreadful would be the consequences to him if he did not return. The young man then vowed: “I swear by James[43], the mighty saint of Spain, that I will not leave you, nor will fail to stand my trial on the appointed day, if God Almighty give me strength and health and power to keep my vow. I will be there, so that I might demonstrate what bitter hate Sir John, my cruel brother, holds against me.” So Otho let him go. “God shield you from shame! Come when you see it is the right time, and save us both from blame and reproach.”

So Gamelyn went to the merry greenwood, and found his company of outlaws; and so much had they to tell of their work in his absence, and so much had he to tell of his adventures, that time passed by, and he soon fell again into his former mode of life, and his custom of robbing none but Churchmen, fat abbots and priors, monks and canons, so that all others spoke good of him, and called him the “courteous outlaw.”

Gamelyn stood one day looking out over the woods and fields, and it suddenly came to his mind that he had forgotten his promise to Otho, and the day of the trial was very near. He called his young men (for he had learned not to trust honour or loyalty of his brother the sheriff), and told them to prepare to accompany him to the place of the trial, sending Adam first to learn the news. Adam returned in great haste, bringing sad news. The judge was in his place, and the jury were ready to condemn Gamelyn to death, as they were bribed by the wicked sheriff, and Otho was put in prison in place of his brother.

The news made Gamelyn very angry, but Adam Spencer was even more infuriated; he would gladly kill every person in court except Otho; but his master’s sense of justice was too strong for that.

“Adam,” he said, “we will not do so, but will kill the guilty and let the innocent escape. I myself will have some conversation with the justice in the hall; and meanwhile you, my men, hold the doors fast. I will make myself justice today, and you, Adam, shall be my clerk. We will give sentence this day, and God save our new work!”

All his men applauded this speech and promised him obedience, and the whole group of outlaws hurried to surround the hall.

Once again Gamelyn strode into the jail in the midst of his enemies, and was recognised by all. He released Otho, who said gently: “Brother, you have nearly overstayed the time; the sentence has already been given against me that I should be hanged.”

“Brother,” said Gamelyn, “this day shall your and my enemies be hanged: the sheriff, the justice, and the wicked jury.”

Then Gamelyn turned to the judge, who sat as if paralysed in his seat, and said: “Come from the seat of justice: too often you have polluted law’s clear stream with wrongs; too often you have taken reward against the poor; too often help villainy, and given judgment against the innocent!”

The justice sat still, dumb with astonishment, and Gamelyn struck him fiercely, cut his cheek, and threw him over the bar so that his arm broke; and no man dared to withstand the outlaw, for fear of his company standing at the doors. The youth sat down in the judge’s seat, with Otho beside him, and Adam in the clerk’s desk; and he dealt with the false sheriff, the justice, and the unjust jury, and accused them of wrong and attempted murder. In order to keep up the forms of law, he created a jury of his own young men, who brought in a verdict of “Guilty,” and the prisoners were all condemned to death and immediately hanged, though the false sheriff tried to appeal to the brotherly affection of which he had shown so little.

After this daring punishment of their enemies Gamelyn and his brother went to lay their case before King Edward, and he forgave them, in consideration of all the wrongs and injuries Gamelyn had suffered; and before they returned to their distant county the king made Otho the sheriff of the county, and Gamelyn chief forester of all his free forests; his band of outlaws were all pardoned, and the king gave them posts according to their talents. Now Gamelyn and his brother settled down[44] to a happy, peaceful life. Otho, having no son, made Gamelyn his heir, and the latter married a beautiful lady, and lived with her in joy till his life’s end.

Hereward[45] the Wake

When the weak but saintly King Edward the Confessor[46] ruled in England, the land was divided into four parts, of which Mercia and Kent were held by two powerful rivals. The two earls, Leofric of Mercia[47] and Godwin of Kent[48] did not only dislike each other, but also each other’s families, each other’s power and wealth, and their sons were also enemies.

Their wives were as different as their lords. Lady Gytha[49], Godwin’s wife, of the royal family of Denmark, was imperious, arrogant and scheming, the best match there could ever be for her husband the earl, who was so ambitious that he would stick at nothing[50] to win kingly power for his children. But Lady Godiva[51], Leofric’s beloved wife, was, on the contrary, a tender, religious, faithful and loving woman, who had already won an almost saintly reputation when she saved her husband’s oppressed citizens at Coventry[52]. She then pitied the people of that town, who were suffering under her husband’s taxation. Lady Godiva asked her husband again and again to lower the sum of money they had to pay. At last he said he would do it if she agreed to ride naked on a horse through the streets of Coventry. Lady Godiva took him at his word[53], and, having asked all the people to stay indoors and shut their windows, rode through the town, clothed only in her long hair. So Leofric had to agree not to oppress his citizens anymore. Fortunately, her sacrifice awoke a nobler spirit in her husband, so he was to play a worthier part in England’s history. She, in turn, sympathized with the religious aspirations of Edward the Confessor, and would gladly have seen one of her sons become a monk, perhaps to win spiritual power over the king and his court.

For this holy vocation she chose her second son, Hereward, a wild, rebellious lad with rather an uncontrollable temper. He was a robust, strongly built youngster, with long golden curls and eyes of different colours, one grey, one blue. In vain[54] Lady Godiva tried to educate him for the monkish life, but he utterly refused to follow her scheme. He did not like studying and had only the most primitive knowledge of the basic subjects, but spent his time in wrestling, boxing, fighting and other exercises. He would not be inspired even with the noble ideal of knighthood, to say nothing of an ecclesiastic career. His wildness and recklessness were only increasing with his years, and often his mother had to stand between him and his father, as Hereward was sometimes bold enough to confront the earl.

When he was sixteen or seventeen he became the terror of Mercia, because he gathered a band of youths as wild and reckless as himself, who chose him for their leader, and obeyed him absolutely, however outrageous were his commands. Earl Leofric understood little of the nature of his second son, and looked upon what he was doing as evidence of a cruel and lawless mind, a threat to the peace of England, while they were, in reality, only the signs of a restless energy boiling against the background of dull life in England of that time.

The disagreements between father and son were very frequent, and Lady Godiva could foresee a bad ending of the argument every time Hereward and his father met; yet she could do nothing to prevent it. None of the men would recognize that the other could be right, and so things went from bad to worse.

Nevertheless, in all Hereward’s deeds there was no wickedness. He hated monks and loved playing tricks upon them, but took his punishment, when it came, also with cheerfulness; he robbed merchants, but then returned all that he had stolen, satisfied with that he had had fun; his band fought other bands, but it was not because of hatred, but more for exercising their strength, and the youths did not keep any offence after the fighting was over. There was, however, one feature in Hereward’s character that was not noble enough: he was jealous of admitting that any man was stronger or more attractive than him. But it cannot be denied that his vanity had solid grounds[55], as he indeed was marked with extraordinary might and beauty.

So, what brought Earl Leofric’s terrible wrath upon his son were not matters of pointless wickedness, but of recklessness and lawless personal violence. Called to attend his father to the King’s court, the youth, who had little respect for anyone who disliked war and fighting, said something with an evident contempt for saintly king, his Norman prelate and the monks. He said it too loudly, and thereby shocked the weakly Edward, who honestly believed that piety to be the whole duty of man. But his wildness abused the king a lot. In his simple, somewhat naive patriotism Hereward hated the Norman favourites who surrounded the Confessor; besides, he was all covered in marks of the personal injuries he received when fighting the Normans in simple boyish fights, and he kept on talking of more injuries which he gave them, until at last his father could endure the disgrace no longer.

During an audience of the king, Leofric formally asked for a permission to outlaw his own son. Edward the Confessor, surprised, but not displeased, felt even sorry as he saw the father’s affection beaten by the judge’s severity. Earl Godwin, Leofric’s greatest rival, was present in the council, too, and he pleaded to forgive the noble lad, whose faults were only those of youth. But that was sufficient to make Leofric more insistent in his petition. The curse of family feud[56], which afterwards made England lie powerless at the foot of William the Conqueror[57], was already felt. It felt so strongly that Hereward behaved more aggressively seeing Godwin’s attempts to save him more than when learning of his father’s sternness.

“What!” he cried, “shall a son of Leofric, the noblest man in England, accept pity from Godwin or any of his family? No. I may be unworthy of my wise father and my saintly mother, but I am not yet sunk so low[58] as to ask a favour from Godwin. Father, I thank you. For years I have been disturbing the peace of the land, and thus have caused your displeasure; but I shall now go in exile, and in exile I may go abroad and win my fortune at the sword’s point[59].”

“Win your fortune, foolish boy!” said his father. “And where will you go?”

“Wherever fate and my fortune lead me,” he replied recklessly. “I can do anything – serve the Emperor in Constantinople, kill dragons and other monsters, follow a quest to the north – but never shall Mercia see me again till England calls me home. Farewell, father; farewell, Earl Godwin; farewell, reverend king. I go. And pray that you may never need my arm, for it may happen that you will call me and I will not come.”

So Hereward rode away, followed into exile by one man only, Martin Lightfoot, who left his father’s service for that of his outlawed son. Also, that time at court Hereward first saw and liked of a lovely little Saxon maiden named Alftruda[60], a servant of the pious king.

Hereward was now legally outlawed in Mercia by the wish of the king himself, but the decision had only nominal weight[61] in Northumbria, where Earl Siward[62] ruled almost as an independent lord. Hereward went there, for there lived his own godfather, Gilbert of Ghent[63], and his castle was known as a good training school for young candidates for knighthood. Sailing from Dover, the young man landed at Whitby, and made his way to Gilbert’s castle, where he was well received. His godfather was smart; he knew that an outlawry could be reversed at any time, and Leofric’s son might yet come to rule England. Thus Hereward was added to the number of other young men, mainly Normans or Flemings, who were seeking to perfect themselves in chivalry before taking knighthood. He soon showed himself a brave warrior, a superb wrestler, and a dangerous fighter, and soon no one wanted to fight the young Mercian, who beat them all in manly sports. The envy of the young Normans was only controlled by two things: Gilbert’s presence and fear of Hereward’s strength. But one day, in Gilbert’s absence, an incident occurred which placed the young exile so far above them that only by his death could they hope to stop being much inferior to him.

Gilbert kept in his castle court an immense white Polar bear, feared by all for its size and strength, and called the Fairy Bear. It was even believed that the huge beast had some family relation to old Earl Siward, who bore a bear upon his crest, and was said to have been as dangerous and strong as a bear in his youth. This white bear was so much scared of that he was kept on a chain and in a strong cage.

One morning, as Hereward was returning with Martin from his morning ride, he heard cries from the castle yard, and, reaching the great gate, entered and quickly closed it behind him, for there outside the broken cage, with broken chain dangling from his neck, stood the Fairy Bear, looking savagely round the courtyard. Not far from it stood a deadly frightened girl of about twelve years of age. She happened to stay outside when everybody rushed inside the castle. There were sounds of men’s voices and women’s cried from within, but the doors were closed, while the girl, in her terror, beat on the doors and begged them, for the love of God, to let her in. The cowards refused, and in the meantime the great bear, irritated by the dangling chain, ran towards the child. Hereward rushed forward, shouting to distract the bear, and just managed to stop him attaching the girl. The savage animal turned on the newcomer. Taking his battle-axe, the youth threw it masterly and split the skull of the furious beast, which fell dead. It was a blow so mighty that even Hereward himself was surprised at its deadly effect. Then the little girl, who turned out to be no other than the king’s servant, Alftruda, and who had been watching with fascinated eyes first the approach of the monster, and then its sudden death, now ran to Hereward, who had always been kind to the pretty child, and flung herself into his arms[64].

“Kind Hereward,” she whispered, “you have saved me and killed the bear. I love you for it, and I must give you a kiss, for my dame says so do all ladies that choose good knights to be their champions[65]. Will you be my champion?” As she spoke she kissed Hereward again and again.

“Where have they all gone, little one?” asked the young noble.

“We were all out here in the courtyard watching the young men at their exercises, when we heard a crash and a roar, and the cage opened, and we saw the dreadful Fairy Bear. They all ran, the ladies and knights, but I was the last, and they were so frightened that they closed the door in and left me outside; and I thought the bear would eat me, till you came.”

“The cowards!” cried Hereward. “And they think themselves worthy of knighthood when they will save their own lives and leave a child in danger! They must be taught a lesson. Martin, come here and help me.”

They put the body of the dead bear just where the castle door, opening, would show it at once. Then Hereward asked Alftruda to call to the knights inside saying that all was safe and they could come out, for the bear would not hurt them. He and Martin, listening, heard with great glee the argument within as to who should risk his life to open the door, the many excuses given for refusal, and, best of all, the cry of horror with which the knight who had dared to open the door shut it again on seeing the Fairy Bear waiting to enter. Hereward even carried his trick so far as to thrust the bear heavily against the door, making all the people within cry for the protection of the saints. Finally, when he was tired of the joke, he convinced the knights that they might go out safely, and showed how he, a youth of seventeen, had killed the monster with one blow. From that time Hereward was the favourite of the whole castle, petted, praised, beloved by all its inhabitants, except his jealous rivals.

The foreign knights became so jealous of the Saxon youth, and disliked his sarcastic humour so much that they planned several times to kill him, and once or twice nearly succeeded. This insecurity, and a feeling that perhaps Earl Siward did have some relation to the Fairy Bear and would wish to avenge his death, made Hereward decide to leave Gilbert’s castle.

The spirit of adventure was strong upon him, the sea seemed to call him; now that he had become evidently superior to the other noble youths in Gilbert’s castle, his ambition called him on. Accordingly, he took a sad leave of Alftruda, an affectionate one of Sir Gilbert, who wished to knight him for his brave deed, and a mocking one of his angry and unsuccessful rivals.

Boarding a merchant ship, he sailed for Cornwall[66], and there was taken to the court of King Alef[67], a minor British chief, who, like a true patriarch of old times, was getting rid of his children as he could, and had betrothed his fair daughter to a terrible Pictish[68] giant, breaking off, in order to do it, her engagement with Prince Sigtryg[69] of Waterford, son of a Danish king in Ireland.

Hereward was chivalrous, and little Alftruda had made him feel pitiful to all maidens. Seeing at once how the princess hated and feared her new betrothed, a horrible, misshapen creature, nearly eight feet high, he decided to destroy him. He arranged a quarrel with the giant, and killed him the next day in fair fight. But the vengeful Pictish tribe made Kind Alef throw Hereward and his man Martin into prison, so he promised trial and punishment for them in the morning.

To the young Saxon’s surprise, the princess appeared to be as grieved and as revengeful as all the native Picts, and she not only rejoiced at the fact that the two men would be thrown in the prison and executed the next day, but herself helped to bound them. When they were left in their lonely cell, Hereward began to blame the princess for hypocrisy, and said that it was impossible for a man to know what a woman wants.

“Who would have thought,” he cried, “that that beautiful maiden loved a giant so horrible as this Pict? Had I known, I would never have fought him, but her eyes said to me, ‘Kill him,’ and I did so; this is how she rewards me!”

“No,” replied Martin, laughing, “this is how”; and he cut Hereward’s bonds. “Master, you were so angry with the lady that you could not see what was happening. I knew that she must have pretended to grieve, for her father’s sake, and when she came to test our bonds I was sure of it, for at that moment she put a knife into my hands, and told me to use it. Now we are free from our bonds, and must try to escape from our prison.”

In vain, however, they searched for an exit; it was a tiny chapel, with walls and doors of great thickness. Having tried every possible way and sitting down on the altar steps, Hereward asked Martin what good was freedom from bonds in a secure prison.

“Much,” replied the servant; “at least we die with free hands; and I believe that the princess has some good plan, if only we are ready.”

While he was speaking they heard footsteps just outside the door, and the sound of a key in the lock. The two stood ready, one at each side of the door, to make a dash for freedom, and Martin was prepared to kill any who should enter. To their great surprise, the princess entered, accompanied by an old priest. The princess turned to Hereward, crying, “Pardon me, my deliverer!”

The Saxon was still sad and surprised, and replied: “Do you now say ‘deliverer’? This afternoon it was ‘murderer, villain, cut-throat.’ How shall I know which is your real mind?”

The princess almost laughed as she said: “How stupid men are! What could I do but pretend to hate you, since otherwise the Picts would have killed you then and us all afterwards, but now you were our prisoners. How else could I have come here tonight? Now tell me, if I set you free, will you swear to carry a message for me?”

“Where shall I go, lady, and what shall I say?” asked Hereward, meekly.

“Take this ring, my ring of betrothal, and go to Prince Sigtryg, son of King Ranald of Waterford. Say to him that I am beset on every side, and pray that he comes and claims me as his bride; otherwise I fear I may be forced to marry some man of my father’s choice, like that Pictish giant. From him you have saved me, and I thank you; but if Sigtryg delays his coming it may be too late, for there are other hateful suitors who would suit my father, but not me. Ask him to come with all speed.”

“Lady, I will go now,” said Hereward, “if you will set me free from this cell.”

“Go quickly, and safely,” said the princess; “but before you go you must bind me hand and foot, and put me, with this old priest, on the ground.”

“Never,” said Hereward, “will I bind a woman; it is disgraceful!”

But Martin only laughed, and the maiden said again: “How stupid men are! I must pretend to have been overpowered by you, or I shall be accused of having freed you, but I will say that I came here to question you, and you and your man bound me and the priest, bound us, took the key, and so escaped. So shall you be free, and I shall have no blame, and my father no danger; and may Heaven forgive the lie.”

Hereward reluctantly agreed, and, with Martin’s help, bound the two hand and foot and laid them before the altar; then, kissing the maiden’s hand, and swearing loyalty and truth, he turned to leave. But the princess had one question to ask.

“Who are you, noble stranger, so chivalrous and strong? I would like know for whom to pray.”

“I am Hereward Leofricsson[70], and my father is the Earl of Mercia.”

“Are you that Hereward who killed the Fairy Bear? No wonder that you managed to kill the Pictish monster and set me free[71].”

Then master and man left the chapel, after carefully turning the key in the lock. They succeeded in getting a ship to carry them to Ireland, and eventually reached Waterford.

The Danish kingdom of Waterford was ruled by King Ranald, whose only son, Sigtryg, was about Hereward’s age, and was as noble-looking a youth as the Saxon hero. The king was at a feast, and Hereward, entering the hall with the captain of the ship, sat down at one of the lower tables. But he was not one of those who can pass unnoticed. The prince saw him and his noble bearing, and asked him to come to the king’s own table. Hereward gladly did so, and as he drank to the prince and their goblets touched together he dropped the ring from the Cornish[72] princess into Sigtryg’s cup. The prince saw and recognised it as he drained his cup, and soon left the hall, followed by his guest.

Outside in the darkness Sigtryg turned hurriedly to Hereward, saying, “You bring me a message from my betrothed?”

“Yes, if you are that Prince Sigtryg to whom the Princess of Cornwall was promised.”

“Was promised! What do you mean? She is still my lady and my love.”

“Yet you leave her there without your support, while her father gives her in marriage to a horrible Pictish giant, breaking her betrothal, and driving the helpless maid into despair[73]. What kind of love is yours?”

Hereward said nothing yet about the killing of the giant, because he wished to test Prince Sigtryg’s sincerity, and he was satisfied, for the prince burst out[74]: “I wish to God I had gone to her before! but my father needed my help against foreign invaders and native rebels. I will go immediately and save my lady or die with her!”

“No need of that, for I killed that giant,” said Hereward coolly, and Sigtryg embraced him in joy and they swore blood-brotherhood together.

Then he asked: “What message do you bring me, and what means her ring?”

The other replied by repeating the Cornish maiden’s words, and asking him to start at once if he wanted to save his betrothed from some other hateful marriage.

The prince went to his father, told him the whole story, and got a ship and men to journey to Cornwall and rescue the princess; then, with Hereward by his side, he set sail, and soon landed in Cornwall, hoping to reach his bride peaceably. Alas! – he learnt that the princess had just been promised to a wild Cornish leader, Haco[75], and the wedding feast was to be held that very day. Sigtryg was greatly enraged, and sent forty Danes to King Alef demanding the fulfilment of the promise, and threatening vengeance if it were broken. To this the king returned no answer, and no Dane came back to tell of their reception.

Sigtryg would have waited till morning, trusting in the honour of the king, but Hereward disguised himself as a minstrel and got to the wedding feast, where he soon won applause by his beautiful singing. The bridegroom, Haco, offered him any gift he liked to ask, but he demanded only a cup of wine from the hands of the bride. When she brought it to him he put her betrothal ring inside, the very token she had sent to Sigtryg, and said: “I thank you, lady, give back the cup, richer than before.”

The princess looked at him, then into the goblet, and saw her ring; then, looking again, she recognised her deliverer and knew that rescue was at hand[76].

While men feasted, Hereward listened and talked, and found out that the forty Danes were prisoners, to be released in the morning when Haco was sure of his bride, but released useless and miserable, since they would be blinded. Haco was taking his lovely bride back to his own land, and Hereward saw that any rescue, to be successful, must be attempted on the march. Yet he knew not the way the bridal company would go, and he lay down to sleep in the hall, hoping that he might hear something more. When everything was still, a dark shape came through the hall and touched Hereward on the shoulder. It was the princess’s old nurse. “Come to her now,” the old woman whispered, and Hereward went, though he knew not that the princess was still true to her lover. In her tower, which she was soon to leave, Haco’s aggrieved bride awaited the messenger.

She smiled sadly on the young Saxon: “I knew your face again in spite of the disguise, but you come too late. Give my farewell to Sigtryg, and say that my father’s will, not mine, makes me forget my promise.”

“Have you not been told, lady, that he is here?” asked Hereward.

“Here?” the princess cried. “I have not heard. He loves me still and has not abandoned me?”

“No, lady, he is too true a lover for falsehood. He sent forty Danes yesterday to demand you of your father.”

“And I did not know of it,” said the princess softly; “yet I had heard that Haco had taken some prisoners, whom he wants to blind.”

“Those are our messengers, and your future subjects,” said Hereward. “Help me to save them and you. Do you know Haco’s plans?”

“Only this, that he will march tomorrow along the river, and where the ravine is darkest and forms the border between his kingdom and my father’s, the prisoners are to be blinded and released.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Three miles to the east from this hall,” she replied.

“We will be there. Have no fear, lady, whatever you may see, but be bold and look for your lover in the fight.” So saying, Hereward kissed her hand and went out of the hall unnoticed.

Returning to Sigtryg, the young Saxon told all that he had learnt, and the Danes planned an ambush in the ravine where Haco had decided to blind and set free his captives. All was in readiness, and side by side Hereward and Sigtryg were watching the pathway from their covert. The bridal procession came in a strange way: first the Danish prisoners bound each between two Cornishmen, then Haco and his unhappy bride, and last a great group of Cornishmen. Hereward had taken command[77], so that Sigtryg might take care of safety of his lady, and his plan was simplicity itself. The Danes were to wait till their comrades, with their guards, had passed through the ravine; then, while the leader engaged Haco, and Sigtryg took care of the princess, the Danes would release the prisoners and kill every Cornishman[78], and the two parties of Danes, uniting their forces, would restore the order in the land and destroy the followers of Haco.

The plan was carried out exactly as Hereward had planned. The Cornishmen, with Danish captives, passed first without attack; next came Haco, riding angry and morose beside his silent bride: he was sure of his success, while she was looking eagerly for any signs of rescue. As they passed, Hereward sprang from his shelter, crying, “Upon them, Danes, and set your brothers free!” and himself struck down Haco and smote off his head. There was a short fight, but soon the rescued Danes were able to help their deliverers, and the Cornish guards were all killed; while the men of King Alef, who never cared too much about Haco, fled, and the Danes were left masters of the field. Sigtryg had in the meantime seen to the safety of the princess, and now, together with Hereward, he escorted her to the ship, which soon brought them to Waterford and a happy wedding feast.

The Prince and Princess of Waterford always recognised in Hereward their deliverer and best friend, and in their gratitude wished him to always live with them in their castle; but he knew “how hard a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes”, and would not stay. His reckless and daring temper drove him to deeds of arms[79] in other lands, where he was going to win many a battle. But he always felt glad in his own heart that his first deeds had been to rescue two maidens from their fate, and that he was rightly known[80] as Hereward the Saxon, the Champion of Women.

William of Cloudeslee[81]

In the green forest of Englewood, in the “North Country”, not far from the fortified town of Carlisle[82], lived a merry band of outlaws. They were not villains, but sturdy archers and yeomen, whose outlawry had been caused only by shooting the king’s deer. The royal claim to exclusive hunting in the vast forests of Epping, Sherwood, Needwood, Barnesdale, Englewood, and many others seemed preposterous to the yeomen who lived on the borders of the forests, and they took their risks and shot the deer and ate it, convinced that they were wronging no one and risking only their own lives. Thus it happened that they were accused of that “crime”, which legally made them outlaws.

The outlaws of Englewood were under the headship of three famous archers, brothers-in-arms, who swore to stand by each other, though they were not brothers in blood. Their names were Adam Bell, William of Cloudeslee, and Clym[83] of the Cleugh; and of the three William of Cloudeslee alone was married. His wife, fair Alice of Cloudeslee, lived in a strong house within the walls of Carlisle, with her three children, because they were not included in William’s outlawry. It was possible, therefore, for her to send her husband warning of any attack planned by the Sheriff of Carlisle on the outlaws, and she had saved him and his comrades from surprise several times already.

When the spring came, and the forest was beautiful with its fresh green leaves, William began to miss his home and family; he had not dared to go into Carlisle for some time, and it was more than six months since he had seen his wife’s face. So he announced his intention to his home, at the risk of capture by his old enemy the Sheriff. In vain his comrades tried to make him stay. Adam Bell especially urged him remain in the greenwood: “If the sheriff or the justice learn that you are in the town, your life will end soon. Stay with us, and we will fetch you tidings of your wife.”

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Примечания

1

soaking wet – насквозь мокрый

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2

Cappoquin – Каппоквин

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3

elements – стихия

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4

catch a glimpse – уловить движение

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5

cracked from side to side – треснувшее от края до края

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6

set the sail – поставить парус

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7

seek refuge – искать приют

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8

Maxem Wledig – Магн Максим, император-узурпатор Запада Римской империи в 383–388 годах.

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9

City on the Seven Hills – Рим, «город на семи холмах»

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10

tributary king – король подконтрольного империи королевства, обязанный платить метрополии дань

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11

with a start – вздрогнув

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12

groom of the chamber – смотритель покоев

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13

Anglesey – Англси (остров на западном побережье Уэльса)

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14

Arvon – Арвон (кантрев в Уэльсе)

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15

Helena – Елена

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16

of gentle breeding – знатного происхождения

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17

Kynon – Кинон

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18

Adeon – Адеон

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19

Eudav – Юдав

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20

Caradoc – Карадок

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21

Caernarvon – Карнарвон

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22

Caerlleon – Карлеон

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23

Caermarthen – Кармартен

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24

Gamelyn – Гэмлин

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25

King Edward I – Эдуард I, правил Англией в 1272–1307 гг.

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26

take to one’s bed – слечь в постель

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27

for my sake – ради меня

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28

summon one’s strength – собраться с силами

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29

fall into decay  – прийти в плачевное состояние, разрушаться

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30

redress the wrongs – (зд.) возместить ущерб

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31

beyond all measure – вне всякой меры

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32

wring one’s hands – в отчаянии заламывать руки

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33

woe to sth. – горе тому…

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34

try one’s luck – попытать удачу

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35

broke out with blessings – рассыпался в благословениях

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36

ask leave – просить позволения

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37

as a mere form – для проформы

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38

fall an easy prey for sth/smb – стать лёгкой добычей

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39

stretch one’s arms and legs – размять руки и ноги

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40

make an excuse – находить причину

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41

shed no blood – не проливать крови (по обычаю, лиц церковного звания и королевской крови не позволялось пытать или казнить с пролитием крови)

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42

to be bail – быть поручителем, заплатить залог

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43

St James – (зд.) Иаков Старший, один из двенадцати апостолов

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44

settle down – осесть, остепениться

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45

Hereward – Херевард

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46

King Edward the Confessor – Эдуард Исповедник, правил Англией в 1042–1066 гг.

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47

Leofric of Mercia – Леофрик, эрл Мерсии

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48

Godwin of Kent – Годвин Уэссекский

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49

Lady Githa – леди Джита

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50

stick at nothing – ни перед чем не останавливаться

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51

Lady Godiva – леди Годива

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52

Coventry – Ковентри

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53

take smb at their word – ловить на слове

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54

in vain – тщетно

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55

solid grounds – веские причины

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56

the curse of family feud – (зд.) проклятие семейной вражды

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57

William the Conqueror  – Вильгельм Завоеватель, первый нормандский король Англии; завоевал страну в 1066; правил в 1066–1087 гг.

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58

sink so low – опуститься так низко

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59

at the sword’s point  – (зд.) остриём своего меча

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60

Alftruda – Альфтруда

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61

nominal weight – номинальный характер

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62

Siward – Сивард

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63

Gilbert of Ghent – Гилберт Гентский

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64

fling oneself into smb ’s arms – броситься в объятия

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65

champion – (в рыцарстве) защитник дамы

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66

Cornwall – Корнуолл

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67

Alef – Алеф

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68

Pictish (прил.), Pict (сущ.). Пикты – группа племён предположительно кельтского происхождения, населявшая север и восток Шотландии в конце Железного века и раннем Средневековье. Обычаи пиктов традиционно овеяны легендами, так как фактической информации о них крайне мало.

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69

Sigtryg – Зигтриг

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70

Leofricsson – Леофриксон

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71

set free – освободить

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72

Cornish – корнцы (этнотерриториальная группа кельтского происхождения)

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73

drive into despair – приводить в отчаяние

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74

burst out – выпалить, взорваться

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75

Haco – Хако

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76

at hand – рядом, близко

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77

take command – (зд.) взять на себя командование

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78

Cornishman – мужчина, представитель корнцев

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79

deeds of arms – ратные подвиги

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80

was rightly known – был справедливо назван

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81

Cloudeslee – Клодесли

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82

Carlisle – Карлайл

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83

Clym – Клим

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