The Wayland-Dietrich Saga
By raiding all his County of Guienne......
Yet, for the reason that he wore the Cross,
Richard to Raymond bare not any grudge,
The twain were ever friendly. At this time
My young Lord Raymond nursed a broken arm;
This with a head wound, and smashed rib or two,
Kept him at Akka. Salve for arrow wounds,
Sword cuts, and lance thrusts, he there shortly found
In the bright eyes and loving heart of Joan,
Our King's fair sister, Queen of Sicily.
Here too was my good friend, an Englishman,
But of true Norman stock, Vinsauf by name;
Geoffrey de Vinsauf, at this time a clerk.
He should have been a Knight, but by his sire
Was from his childhood destined for the Church.
Another there was the young Troubadour,
Peyrols, who well knew to sing tender lays
And fierce sirventes......Banished for his love,
Who set his eyes too high on perilous game,
He came to Palestine from far Auvergne
To 'scape his Lord's just anger..... Here was one,
A merry knave, yet mad, Pierre Vidal called......
Vain as a peacock, flighty, daring, wild.......
Who thought all women loved the ground he trod,
And worshippped e'en his shadow......He maintained
That in great prowess he surpassed all knights;
Yet was he brave withal, a singer sweet,
Whose songs belied his strange fantastic airs.
I think at times our young Queen fretted much,
Wearily then the dragging hours slow passed;
Yet some days she was merry and would sing,
And bid us sing, or make us each tell tales
In the old Castle Hall........When she had dined
She would walk in the gardens, and there long
On the soft silken cushions dreaming lie,
Listening to rippling water and birds' song......
Idly we too would gather round our Queen
In that sweet garden. Ringed was it all round
By cactus hedges and great cypress trees,
And all within was radiant to the eye.
Smooth grassy paths between sweet-scented shrubs
Of oleanders and azalias wound
In wandering mazes. Jacarandas blue
Challenged the Syrian sky, bright crimson stars
Of the euphorbias glowed, and tamarisks
Shewed rosy buds, pale blue wistaria crept
Mingled with gold acacia's (14) scented blooms,
Hanging in graceful clusters......One path led
Down to a terrace that o'er looked the sea,
And on the landward side a white stone wall
Bordered this shut in garden, dropping low
Into an orange grove from which uprose
The sweet rich scent of orange blossoms.......There
The golden fruit hung like to lighted lamps
Amidst the tender green and lace-like flowers.......
The sward on which we lay was girdled round
By ancient cedars brought from Lebanon
When they were young, none knew how long ago,
Whose spreading branches by the dying breeze
Were scarcely swayed. On the broad balustrade,
That hid and guarded the cliff's sharp incline,
Grew wondrous flowers and herbs in copper bowls......
Geraniums, gilly-flowers of every hue,
And great carnations, marvellous to view.......
And everywhere climbed roses, intertwined
With honeysuckle and convolvulus,
And vines ran riot 'midst the scarlet flowers
Of the hibiscus, that shone like live flames.
Here too were waving palm trees, aloes thrust
Their sword like leaves defiantly between
The silvery olives tipped with soft gold sheen.......
Beyond lay stretched the town.......Rows of white walls
And terraced roofs and many coloured domes
Bathed in the pure glow of the setting sun.
One night I'll ne'er forget.......O'er the far hills
Crept a faint purple flush.......The hidden sun
From clouds of rosy grey cast golden streaks
That deepened into orange, tarnished, shrank
And vanished, leaving naught but lavender;
Then chilly grew the night, but suddenly
The grey film sprang to life......A deep rose red
Tinged the cloud edges, soon to die away
In tender shades of pink......The great grey clouds
Rolling spread seawards, o'er them sailed the moon,
A golden crescent.....Purple robed the hills.....
A deep Imperial purple, crimson tinged.....
The western sky like burnished brass appeared,
Paling to lemon, orange shades between,
This merged in Nile green and soft tints of jade
To melt at last in blue infinity.
Within the garden lilac shades 'gan fall
Upon the emerald of the smooth cropt turf.
Faint murmurs rising from the town below
Fell on our ears not unmelodiously,
And in mysterious echoes died away.
Far off some minstrel a lute soft did play;
The Syrian slaves crept silently to light
The hanging lamps.....The pages brought warm wrapts;
Yet now it seemed not cold, for the soft air
Still kept the warmth of the departing sun,
Diffusing fragrance from the myriad flowers....
Then for her fur-lined cloak of cramoisie
Called the young Queen, and it was lightly flung
O'er broidered gown of pell of Pavia.....
On each side of her raven tresses hung
A shimmering veil of silver tissue woven,
That came from looms of far-off Oriande.......
This was confined by a rich diadem,
Studded with triple bands of gleaming gems,
Rubies and sapphires and great emeralds,
Surmounted by the royal fleur-de-lis,
So that she seemed to wear a double crown;
Yet nothing heavy was it, but had grace.
Her triple plaited tresses were entwined
With rose-red ribbands and rich golden braid.....
Her dark eyes shone like stars, her pretty lips
Were curved in a slight smile as she looked round.
Then said my Lady sweetly, "Come, fair Sirs,
A song or tale to gladden this still hour.....
Sir Bertrand, hast thou naught of love or war
To tell us for our pleasure, of thy grace?
I have heard, Sir, thou art far-travelled man."
But, quoth the Castellan in surly mood,
"I have no tales to please a lady's ear.
Mine savour overmuch of camp or field.....
Nor, to say sooth, care I o'ermuch to sit
And hearken to new-fangled jangling songs
And foolish vapourings......An I may ask
Without offence I fain would take my leave......
The ramparts need each night my careful eye,
And I must hold high Court, and justice deal......
There are two knaves wait hanging" ......muttered he,
"Sir Stephen de Mountchenis takes my place
Here in attendance".......But, said our fair Queen,
With a quick laugh, yet colouring as though vexed,
" 'Tis well nigh dark, the ramparts thou didst tramp
But one short hour ago, and I have heard
That after sunset no judge holds his Court,
That criminals have respite till the dawn......
No, no my Lord, thy pleading is but vain,
Nor may such lame excuses serve thy turn.......
Why, good Sir Bertrand, I do need thee here
To judge our young Knights' merits, and keep watch
With thy trained wit and long experience
O'er their quick-wagging tongues, lest they should trip."
Sir Bertrand bowed and grumpily stood back,
Hanging his head and frowning. Said the Queen,
"Sing thou, Peyrols"......He leapt upon his feet,
With a swift graceful gesture bowing low,
Then took his viol and sat at her feet,
Upon a cushion cross-legged easily,
"More like a heathen Turk than Christian man,"
Grumbled Sir Bertrand in gruff undertone,
But old Sir Stephan smiling shook his head
And bade him listen......Then the minstrel sang: (15)
14. Mimosa. [Back]
15. Peyrol's Song. Adapted from the original Provencal. [Back]
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