Arthurian Romances (31 page)

When he was rid of these, he went to make a gift of shame and sorrow to the others, who were carrying off the maiden. He caught up with them and attacked them like a starved and ravenous wolf leaping upon its prey. He felt at this moment that he had been born under a lucky star, since he could perform bold deeds of chivalry openly before the one who gave him cause to live. Now he would rather die than fail to free her; and she, who did not know how near he was, was nearly dead with anxiety for him. With his lance fewtered, Cligés spurred his steed to a most satisfying attack: he struck one Saxon and then a second, so that at a single charge he toppled them both to the ground, though he split his ashen lance. The two fell in such pain, with wounds to their bodies, that they were unable to rise again to do him any hurt or harm. Inflamed with anger, the other four rode as one to attack Cligés, but he did not stagger or lose his balance, nor could they knock him from his saddle. Eager to win the acclaim of her who was awaiting his love, he quickly drew his sharp steel blade from its sheath, bore down upon a Saxon, struck him with his keen blade, and severed his head and half his neck from the body. That was all the mercy he showed him.

Fenice, who was watching and saw all this, did not know it was Cligés; she wished it were he, yet because of the danger she told herself that she would not want him there. In both respects she was a perfect love for him, since she both feared for his death and sought his glory.

With his sword Cligés attacked the remaining three, who were putting up a fierce fight; they slashed and split his shield, but were powerless to lay hands on him or penetrate his cloak of mail. And whatever of theirs was within the reach of Cligés was pierced or ripped asunder, unable to withstand his blows. He whirled around faster than the top that is spun and driven by the whip. Valour and Love, which had him in their sway, gave him boldness and courage. He pressed the Saxons until he had killed or captured them all; some lay wounded, others dead. But one alone he let escape, when just the two of them were left upon the field, so that from him the duke might learn of his loss and suffer for it. But before this knight left, he persuaded Cligés to tell him his name; and when he repeated it to the duke he was filled with rage. Hearing the extent of his misfortune, the duke was greatly saddened and disheartened.

Meanwhile Cligés, obsessed and tormented by love, returned with Fenice. But if he does not now confess his love to her, Love will be his lasting tormentor, and she too will suffer for all time if she remains silent and does not reveal her pleasure; for at this moment they could each tell the other privately their feelings. But both were so fearful of being rejected that they dared not open their hearts. He was afraid that she would reject him; and she would have opened her heart had she not feared rejection by him. Yet in spite of this the eyes of each revealed their secret thoughts, had they only known to look! Cautiously they conversed with their eyes, but they were so fearful of their tongues that they dared not put into words the love that tormented them. It is no wonder that Fenice dared not begin, for a maiden should be reticent and shy. But why did Cligés hesitate? What was he waiting for? He, whose every deed was emboldened by her, afraid of her alone? God! What was the source of this fear, that caused him to cower only before a maiden, a weak and fearful creature, simple and shy? This was as if I had seen the hounds fleeing before the hare and the trout chase the beaver, the lamb the wolf, and the dove the eagle. Or imagine the peasant abandoning his hoe, with which he labours and earns his livelihood, the falcon fleeing from the duck, the gyrfalcon from the heron, and the mighty pike from the minnow; the stag would chase the lion, and everything would be reversed.
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But now I feel some urge welling up within me to give some reason why it happens that true lovers lack the good sense and courage to reveal their thoughts when they have the opportunity, place, and time.

You who are wise in the ways of Love, who faithfully adhere to the customs and usages of his court and have never violated his injunctions no matter what the consequences, tell me: is it possible to behold the object of one's love without trembling and growing pale? Should someone doubt me in this, I can easily refute his argument: for whoever does not grow pale and tremble, and does not lose sense and memory, is only out to steal what does not rightfully belong to him. A servant who does not fear his master should not stay in his company or serve him. You fear your master only if you respect him; and unless you hold him dear you do not respect him, but rather seek to deceive him and steal his goods. A servant should tremble with fear when his master calls or summons him, and whoever devotes himself to Love makes Love his lord and master. Thus it is right that whoever wishes to be numbered among the court of Love should greatly revere and honour him. Love without fear and trepidation is like a fire without flame or heat, a day without sunlight, a comb without honey, summer without flowers, winter without frost, a sky without a moon, or a book without letters. So I wish to challenge the opinion that love can be found where there is no fear. Whoever wishes to love must feel fear; if he does not, he cannot love. But he must fear only the one he loves, and be emboldened for her sake in all else.

So if Cligés trembles before his sweetheart, he does not err or do wrong. But this would not have kept him from speaking to her at once of his love, whatever might have been the outcome, had she not been his uncle's wife. What causes his wound to fester and torment and pain him the more is that he dares not speak of his desire.

So they both made their way to their own people, and if they spoke of anything it was of little consequence. Both seated on white horses, they rode back swiftly towards the camp, which was plunged in sorrow. A deep and bitter sorrow reigned throughout the camp, but they were quite mistaken in proclaiming that Cligés was dead; for Fenice, too, they grieved, thinking they would never retrieve her. Thus the whole camp was in deep despair for him and for her. But the two of them will not be long in coming, and everything will change; indeed, already they are back in camp and have transformed the sorrow into joy. Joy returns and sadness flees as everyone hurries out to greet them and the whole camp gathers round.

When they heard the news of Cligés and the maiden, the two emperors with happy hearts rode out together to greet them. Everyone was eager to learn how Cligés had found the empress and won her back. Cligés told them, and all who heard were astounded and praised him for his courage and devotion.

But in the other camp, the duke raged. He swore, insisted, and proposed that they meet in single combat, if Cligés dared. The terms would be as follows: if Cligés emerged the victor, the emperor could proceed without challenge, freely taking the maiden with him; but if the duke killed or defeated Cligés, who had caused him much harm, there was to be no truce or peace to prevent each side from doing its best. Such were the duke's intentions and, by an interpreter of his who knew both Greek and German, he sent word to the two emperors that he sought the combat on these terms.

The messenger delivered his message in both languages so that all might understand it clearly. The entire camp was stunned and in an uproar, saying that if it pleased God, Cligés should not undertake this battle. Even the two emperors were terrified. But Cligés fell at their feet, begging them not to be distressed. If ever he had done them any pleasing service, then he wished to be granted this battle as his reward and recompense. But if it is refused him, then he will never again serve his uncle's cause and honour even for a single day. The emperor, who loved his nephew as he should, took his hand and helped him to his feet, saying: ‘Dear nephew, I am very sad that you are so eager to fight, for I expect sorrow to succeed our joy. You have made me happy, I cannot deny it; but it causes me great sadness to send you forth to this combat, since in my view you are much too young. Yet, knowing you to be so proud of heart, there is no way I would dare refuse anything you were pleased to ask. Be sure that you need only ask and it will be granted. Yet if my pleadings had any effect, you would not take on this charge.'

‘My lord, there is no point in discussing this further,' said Cligés. ‘So help me God, I would rather undertake this battle than be given the whole world. I see no reason why I should ask you for a long postponement or delay.'

The emperor wept for pity, but Cligés shed tears of joy when he was granted the battle. Many a tear was shed there, but no postponement or delay was sought: before the hour of prime, word was sent back by the duke's own messenger that the terms of battle had been accepted as proposed.

The duke, confident and convinced that nothing could prevent him from swiftly defeating or killing Cligés, had himself armed at once. Cligés, who was eager for the fight, was sure that he would be able to defend himself well. He requested arms from the emperor, and asked that he be knighted. So the emperor graciously gave him armour, which Cligés, with the fire of battle in his heart – keen and eager as he was for combat – took. He hastened
to arm himself; when he was armed from head to toe the emperor, with a heavy heart, came to gird on the sword at his side. Fully armed, Cligés mounted his white Arabian charger; at his neck he hung by its straps an ivory shield, which bore no colour or device and could not be split or broken. His armour was entirely white, and his horse and trappings were both whiter than the whitest snow.

Once Cligés and the duke were armed, they made an accord with one another to meet midway and to have their men remain at either side, without lances or swords, under oath and pledge not to be rash enough, so long as the battle lasted, to dare move under any circumstances – no more than they would dare pluck out their own eyes. Under these terms they met, with each impatient for battle since each was confident of winning the joy and glory of victory. But before a blow was struck, the empress had herself escorted to the field, anxious as she was for Cligés. She had determined that if he were to die, she herself would the on that very field: nothing could possibly console her or keep her from dying with him, for life without him held no pleasure for her.

When everyone had assembled on the field – noble and commoner, young and old – and the guards were posted, then both men took their lances and charged straight at one another, breaking their lances and knocking one another to the ground, for they could not stay in their saddles. But they immediately leapt to their feet, for neither had been wounded, and set upon each other without delay. Their sword blows echoed from their helmets with a tune that made their comrades marvel; to the onlookers it seemed their helmets sparked and were aflame. When their swords rebounded, flaming sparks leapt from them as from the smoking iron the smith strikes upon his anvil after he pulls it from his forge. Both knights were generous in giving blows aplenty, and each was quite willing to return what he was given.
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Neither of them grew weary of repaying, without accounting and without measure, both capital and interest to his enemy unceasingly. But his failure to conquer or kill Cligés in the first attack truly vexed the duke, who became inflamed with wrath. He gave him such an astonishingly strong and mighty blow that Cligés fell to one knee at his feet.

The emperor was so frightened by the blow that felled Cligés that, had he himself been under the shield, he could not have been more distressed. And Fenice was so fearful that she could not keep herself from crying out ‘God help him!' as loudly as she could, heedless of the consequences for her. But these were her only words, for her voice failed her at once and with her
arms outspread she fell in a faint, injuring her face slightly as she did. Two high noblemen helped her up and supported her on her feet until she regained consciousness. But in spite of her countenance, no one who observed her knew why she had fainted. No one held it against her, but rather they all praised her for this, since everyone believed she would have done the same for him, had he been in Cligés's place – though this was not at all the case.

Cligés distinctly heard Fenice when she cried out, and her voice gave him renewed strength and courage. He leapt quickly to his feet and rushed angrily at the duke, pursuing and attacking him with such fury that the duke was terrified, for now he found Cligés more eager to fight, stronger, more agile, and more aggressive than he had seemed to be when first they joined in battle.

Frightened by his onslaught, the duke cried out: ‘Young man, so help me God, I see you are brave and noble. Were it not for my nephew, whom I shall never forget, I would gladly make peace with you, give way to you in this quarrel, and never again take it up.'

‘Duke,' replied Cligés, ‘what do you mean? When a man is unable to defend his right, is he not obliged to abandon it? When one is forced to choose between two evils, it is better to take the lesser. Your nephew was unwise to provoke an angry quarrel with me. And if I have the chance, I will treat you just as I did him unless you offer suitable terms for peace.'

To the duke it seemed that Cligés's strength was constantly increasing, so he thought it much better to admit defeat at this mid-point in the fight and get out of this impasse before he was totally exhausted than to persist along a dangerous path. None the less he did not admit the whole truth to Cligés, but said: ‘Young man, I can see that you are a noble and gifted fighter, filled with valour. But you are still very young in years, and so I think – indeed I'm certain – that were I to defeat and slay you it would afford me no praise or glory. And should I ever tell a worthy man I fought with you, it would bring only glory to you and only shame to me. But if you understand the meaning of honour, it will always be a source of honour to you to have withstood me in only two attacks. Now it is my wish and desire to cede to you in this dispute and no longer fight with you.'

‘Duke,' said Cligés, ‘this is not enough. You will have to repeat this for everybody to hear, because it must never be said or recounted that you did me a kindness, but rather that I took pity on you. If you wish to be reconciled with me, you will have to acknowledge this before all here present.'