The Wayland-Dietrich Saga
But now was acting as her Chamberlain,
An office that sat oddly on a man
Who was a sailor, used to the high seas.
He said, and gripped my shoulder, "Here sits one
Who knows a tale worth telling.... "Come, Sir Rolf!
Forward, and speak the truth...... Who had the Camp,
One winter's night in far-off Picardy,
All thronging round the watch-fire when thou told'st
One of thy northern tales of wizardry?.....
'Twas by sheer luck thou 'scap'st the Provost, man,
For sure the sentinels had much ado
To keep their ears closed to thy thrilling tales"......
Whereat Sir Bertrand gave me a grim smile,
To indicate my fate had he been nigh......
Quoth Geoffrey, the younger clerk, "I pray thee tell,
Fair friend, of monks a little.....Sometimes they
In times of stress doff cassock for the sword.....
Ah! Would that I might," sighed he dolefully.
Said then my Lady Joan of Sicily,
"Something of love distressed in jeopardy
Tell us, fair Knight," and Vidal laughing cried,
"Of women's love and women's wiles who tires?
Though of monks' tricks least told is best, I guess".....
Then Roger Tesson, who stood there on guard
In his full armour, save for his great helm,
Spake with an effort.....Since his late disgrace
He had remained in Akka, by command,
On constant duty at the Citadel.......
But Berengaria in her Queenly grace,
Lest he should fall again beyond redress,
From sheer depression caused by loneliness,
Would have him keep guard at her Court at times.....
Now, with his dark face flushed he stammering said,
"Comrade, know'st thou a tale of how a man
Lost all he had, yet won some back again,
So paid his debts? I have heard some such tale
When I was but a child.....I have forgot.....
Something there was in it of love and fate.....
Of two friends sundered by a woman's spite,
Of mortal sin repented at the last,
Of how from suffering there came forth peace.....
A Northern tale I fain would hear again".....
But Peyrols said a little scornfully,
"What does the frozen North know of hot love,
That bears and wolves in plenty breeds, naught else?"
Then said my Cypriote Princess timidly,
But with a heightened colour, "I would well
Hear of the North, the land of mystery,
And of the brave deeds of her gallant sons.....
I would hear of the Vikings"......The old Knight,
Sir Stephen de Mountchenis, turned to her,
"Sweet Princess, surely thou shalt have thy wish,
If our fair Queen will grant Rolf leave to speak.....
He is a lad of parts.....May be his tale
Will be worth hearing"....But with scowling brow
Sir Bertrand spake and darkly glowered on me,
"Now by old Mahoun's horns and hooves and hide,
I'm sick of minstrels' folly......Trouveres' tales
Of fickle women and such japeries
Are deadly dull to my mind, but if he
Can tell us of campaigns and deeds of war,
Sieges of towns, adventures on high seas,
Or a brave bout at arms, why then for sure
I might with patience listen......But in truth,
What can a youngster tell to please a man?
How much of war doth know this beardless youth,
Though he has served, I grant it, two campaigns;
And, all considered, has not badly done?
Yet rather, with thy leave, my Lady Queen,
I would sit here and drain my cup in peace.
This Cretan vernage and these Cypriote wines
Might be much worse".......Said then the smiling Queen,
"Fill up Sir Bertrand's tankard, Jocelyn!
Then at his elbows set two flasks of wine;
And thou, Sir Rolf of Bradcar, tell us, Sir,
Thy tale in thine own way, that we may hear
And judge its merits"......Said I, haltingly,
For I was young and inexperienced
In the gay customs of the Ladies' bower,
"Thy word I will obey, my Lady Queen.....
The tale is long, nor is it all mine own;
Some has come down from father unto son,
E'en from King Olaf's time, who ruled long syne
The land of Norway, Olaf Tryggvason......
I learnt it from my sire, whose ancestor
Was Wulf the Red, a famous sea-rover......
If my tongue lags or falters, blame not ye
The matter of my tale, but rather scorn
Him who presumptuous dares to make th' attempt
To tell what never yet was told in full,
The life and deeds of the great Ostrogoth,
Dietrich of Bern, his friends in arms, his foes,
And all that is connected with his name.....
How he stood firm when sore oppressed by Fate,
When 'gainst him seemed arrayed both God and man,
As a tall granite rock, round which high surge
The restless waves that rage incessantly
Beating upon its rugged face......Yet vain
Their gnawing fury; it doth naught prevail
Against the steadfastness of that strong rock;
Though battered sore, it rests immovable,
Yet bears henceforth of that assault some trace....
Or, when a swimmer breasts those boisterous waves,
Nigh swamped, he labours in the hollow trough
And turmoil of the sea with panting breath;
Yet by degrees he doth with steadfast heart
Collect his courage and his inmost might,
And through the threat'ning billows thrusts strong arms,
Dashing the foam aside; so masters them,
Though sorely buffeted on every side,
Cleaving the waters with his powerful stroke,
Until he comes at last triumphant home
Unto the haven of his fixed desire.....
Yet having won there, maybe he shall find
It is not what he thought, and he has spent
His store of energy and now doth tire;
So cometh to his own a weary man,
Gladly of his rest, naught else doth he require....
So will I shew how Dietrich strove with Fate,
And all his joys and sorrows will relate."
Said Berengaria graciously, "Say on.....
The night is young, the moon doth brightly shine,
The stars are listening......Cupbearers, bring wine!
Vidal and Peyrols, take your viols now
And softly play at times, that thus the tale
Fitly may be accompanied.....Sir Rolf,
I pray thee, sit now at thine ease,
And tell thy tale.....We listen." Then I told
Some part that summer evening 'neath the moon,
And more at other times; and many folk
Heard what I had to tell ere I had done.
Some part my Lord King Richard heard withal,
And my dear Master, Leicester's noble Earl;
For ere I ended many things had chanced,
And summer turned to autumn......Yet of all
Who heard my story none has ever said
That it were best untold, which heartened me.
Now have I written down for your delight
What I began to tell that night in June,
In Akka's garden 'neath the crescent moon,
For a Queen's pleasure......Judge me then aright
By reading what I here and now indite,
Before ye cast me off as of no use,
A trifler who doth mock ye......All mine aim
Is to give pleasure now as I did then......
Ah! Brave Saint George! Forgive me if I err,
Or if too vaguely wander my frail pen.
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