Man of Law's Tale - Richard Brodie's Modern English translation

Discover a great modern American poetic treasure Ellin Anderson

Richard Brodie's modern English translation of
The Man of Law's Tale
from Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales

Also completed: General Prologue, Knight, Miller, Reeve, Cook, Prioress

Introduction

Oure Hooste saugh wel that the brighte sonne
The ark of his artificial day hath ronne
The ferthe part, and half an houre and moore,
And though he were not depe ystert in loore,
He wiste it was the eightetethe day
Of Aprill, that is messager to May;
And saugh wel that the shadwe of every tree
Was in lengthe the same quantitee
That was the body erect that caused it.
And therefore by the shadwe he took his wit
That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,
Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte,
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude,
And sodeynly he plighte his horse aboute.

"Lordynges," quod he, "I warne yow, al this route,
The fourthe party of this day is gon.
Now for the love of God and of Seint John,
Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may.
Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day,
And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge,
And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge,
As dooth the streem that turneth nevere agayn,
Descendynge from the mountaigne into playn.
Wel kan Senec and many a philosophre
Biwaillen tyme moore than gold in cofre;
For `Los of catel may recovered be,
But los of tyme shendeth us,' quod he.
It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede,
Nomoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede,
Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse.
Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse.

"Sire Man of Lawe," quod he, "so have ye blis,
Telle us a tale anon, as forward is.
Ye been submytted, thurgh youre free assent,
To stonden in this cas at my juggement.
Acquiteth yow now of youre biheeste;
Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste."

"Hooste," quod he, "depardieux, ich assente;
To breke forward is nat myn entente.
Biheste is dette, and I wole holde fayn
Al my biheste, I kan no bettre sayn.
For swich lawe as a man yeveth another wight,
He sholde hymselven usen it, by right;
Thus wole oure text. But nathelees, certeyn,
I kan right now no thrifty tale seyn
That Chaucer, thogh he kan but lewedly
On metres and on rymyng craftily,
Hath seyd hem in swich Englissh as he kan
Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man;
And if he have noght seyd hem, leve brother,
In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.
For he hath toold of loveris up and doun
Mo than Ovide made of mencioun
In his Episteles, that been ful olde.
What sholde I tellen hem, syn they been tolde?

"In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcione,
And sitthen hath he spoken of everichone,
Thise noble wyves and thise loveris eke.
Whoso that wole his large volume seke,
Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupide,
Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde
Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tesbee;
The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;
The tree of Phillis for hire Demophon;
The pleinte of Dianire and of Hermyon,
Of Adriane, and of Isiphilee --
The bareyne yle stondynge in the see --
The dreynte Leandre for his Erro;
The teeris of Eleyne, and eek the wo
Of Brixseyde, and of the, Ladomya;
The crueltee of the, queene Medea,
Thy litel children hangynge by the hals,
For thy Jason, that was of love so fals!
O Ypermystra, Penelopee, Alceste,
Youre wifhod he comendeth with the beste!

"But certeinly no word ne writeth he
Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
That loved hir owene brother synfully --
Of swiche cursed stories I sey fy! --
Or ellis of Tyro Appollonius,
How that the cursed kyng Antiochus
Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
Whan he hir threw upon the pavement.
And therfore he, of ful avysement,
Nolde nevere write in none of his sermons
Of swiche unkynde abhomynacions,
Ne I wol noon reherce, if that I may.

"But of my tale how shal I doon this day?
Me were looth be likned, doutelees,
To Muses that men clepe Pierides --
Methamorphosios woot what I mene;
But nathelees, I recche noght a bene
Though I come after hym with hawebake.
I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make."
And with that word he, with a sobre cheere,
Bigan his tale, as ye shal after heere.

The sun’s position in its heavenly arc
Along its twelve hour course our Host did mark,
And saw the hours from dawn were roughly three;
And though from Oxford he had no degree,
Yet he knew that it was the eighteenth day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And then he notes, as he looks all around,
That each tree casts a shadow on the ground
In length exactly equal to its height.
And thus by this eclipsing of the light
He knew that Phoebus, which shone clear and bright,
Had climbed to forty-five degrees in height;
And when one sees this in this latitude,
That it is ten o’clock one can conclude.
He stops and suddenly his horse does turn.

“Now everyone please listen well and learn;
Already one-fourth of this day is gone.
Now for the love of God and of Saint John,
Try not to lose time, for all night and day
The precious hours and minutes waste away;
Some stolen from us when our sleep we take,
Some lost through negligence when we’re awake.
It’s kind of like a stream caused by the rain,
That flows one-way from mountains to the plain.
Well Seneca advises, as we’re told,
That time is far more valuable than gold.
‘Lost property,’ he says, ‘can be returned,
But lose time, brother, and you’re really burned!”
Without a doubt it cannot be restored,
Just like Meline’s virginity, who whored,
Which in her wantonness away she tossed.
Now may we not let time and life be lost.

“Sir, Man of Law,” he said, “your story tell,
And be content that you have honored well
Those terms to which all present here agreed,
That to my judgment you would all concede.
It’s your turn on your promise to make good;
Then you’ll have done your duty, as you should.”

“Host,” answered he, “in God’s name I assent;
To break my word is never my intent.
A promise is to me just like a debt;
That I mine honor, you your life can bet.
Laws given to another to obey,
One should observe oneself - that’s what I say;
I’m sure there’s scripture to support this view.
But there’s no tale now I can tell to you
That Chaucer, who is clumsy with his rhyme
And messes up his meter all the time,
Has not already given his best shot
With such skills limited as he has got;
If in one book he has not told them, brother,
Then you will find he’s told them in another.
For he hath told of lovers left and right
More than those which old Ovid use to cite
In his Epistles, that are very old.
Why should I tell them, since they have been told?

In youth he wrote of Alcion and Ceyx
And since, though with his usual mistakes,
Of noble wives and lovers, tales he makes.
Whoso a look at this large volume takes,
The Legend of Good Women, as it’s called,
May there see all the pains, and be appalled,
Of poor Lucretia, Thisbee who expires,
And Dido’s sword Aeneas false inspires;
How Phyllis for her Demophon did faint;
Deianire and Hermione’s complaint,
And Ariadne’s, and Hypsipyle’s --
That Thracian island all devoid of trees --
How poor Leander drowned for want of light;
The tears of Helen, and the tragic plight
Of Laodamia, Briseis too;
The cruelty of queen Medea, who
Her children that she bore to Jason slew
Because he with Creusa was untrue!
Alcestis and Penelope, as wives --
He praises as exemplary their lives.

“But he’d not stoop to write a single word
Of wicked Canacee, of whom you’ve heard,
Who wrongfully did love Machaire, her brother --
Instead of that cursed tale, he’d tell another --
Nor of Antiochus, that wicked king,
Who did dishonor to his daughter bring
When a most horrible and evil thing
He did, as with her he in bed did lay,
And her virginity he took away.
So he decided after careful thought,
That such abominations he would not
Include in any of his compositions;
They’ll also be among my own omissions.

“So now what kind of tale shall I rehearse?
Poetically it would be a curse
To be compared to those Pierides
Defeated in the Metamorphoses;
I’ve no illusions, everybody knows
That when compared to Ovid, I suppose,
My humble rhyming might as well be prose.”
And with that he did solemnly begin,
As you shall all now hear, his tale to spin.

Prologue

O hateful harm, condicion of poverte!
With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confoundid!
To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;
If thou noon aske, with nede artow so woundid
That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid!
Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence
Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!

Thow blamest Crist and seist ful bitterly
He mysdeparteth richesse temporal;
Thy neighebor thou wytest synfully,
And seist thou hast to lite and he hath al.
"Parfay," seistow, "somtyme he rekene shal,
Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the gleede,
For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir neede."

Herkne what is the sentence of the wise:
"Bet is to dyen than have indigence";
"Thy selve neighebor wol thee despise."
If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!
Yet of the wise man take this sentence:
"Alle the dayes of povre men been wikke."
Be war, therfore, er thou come to that prikke!

If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,
And alle thy freendes fleen from thee, allas!
O riche marchauntz, ful of wele been yee,
O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!
Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes as,
But with sys cynk, that renneth for youre chaunce;
At Cristemasse myrie may ye daunce!

Ye seken lond and see for yowre wynnynges;
As wise folk ye knowen al th' estaat
Of regnes; ye been fadres of tidynges
And tales, bothe of pees and of debaat.
I were right now of tales desolaat,
Nere that a marchant, goon is many a yeere,
Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal heere.

O hateful harm, to live in poverty!
By thirst, by cold, by hunger so distressed!
Ashamed to ask in thine extremity
For food and drink, for shelter and for rest,
And that with balm thy wounded heart be dressed!
It’s not your fault you can’t get on your feet;
You’ll borrow, beg, or steal to make ends meet!

Thou blamest Christ and say with bitter soul
He spreads this world’s wealth most unfairly round;
You blame a neighbor, who’s not on the dole,
And say that your lost money he has found.
“Well someday, when he’s six feet neath the ground,”
Thou sayest, “in live coals his butt shall burn,
For helping not the poor who to him turn.”

Listen to the opinion of the wise:
“Death is to poverty to be preferred;
There’s no respect, for that’s what money buys.”
Thy friends will turn, and to thee flip the bird!
This wisdom from the wise is often heard:
“The days of pain for poor men never end.”
Be sure you don’t get in this fix, my friend!

A man who’s stinking poor, his kin despise;
His friends won’t hesitate to say, “You suck!”
Toward merchants well-off all men turn their eyes,
As they ill-fortune’s daggers always duck!
They’re dealt no lousy hands - that’s not their luck;
Full-houses they will get, or royal flushes,
And at the Christmas party drink like lushes!

For winnings over land and sea they course;
And they are privy to all the intrigues
Of foreign lands; of tidings they’re the source,
And tales of wars, alliances, and leagues.
I’d on my fiddle have to play you gigues,
Not tell a tale, if I’d not heard, one time,
A merchant this recite in royal rhyme:

Part 1

In Surrye whilom dwelte a compaignye
Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,
That wyde-where senten hir spicerye,
Clothes of gold, and satyns riche of hewe.
Hir chaffare was so thrifty and so newe
That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare
With hem, and eek to sellen hem hire ware.

Now fil it that the maistres of that sort
Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;
Were it for chapmanhod or for disport,
Noon oother message wolde they thider sende,
But comen hemself to Rome; this is the ende.
And in swich place as thoughte hem avantage
For hire entente, they take hir herbergage.

Sojourned han thise merchantz in that toun
A certein tyme, as fil to hire plesance.
And so bifel that th' excellent renoun
Of the Emperoures doghter, dame Custance,
Reported was, with every circumstance,
Unto thise Surryen marchantz in swich wyse,
Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.

This was the commune voys of every man:
"Oure Emperour of Rome -- God hym see! --
A doghter hath that, syn the world bigan,
To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,
Nas nevere swich another as is shee.
I prey to God in honour hire susteene,
And wolde she were of al Europe the queene.

"In hire is heigh beautee, withoute pride,
Yowthe, withoute grenehede or folye;
To alle hire werkes vertu is hir gyde;
Humblesse hath slayn in hire al tirannye.
She is mirour of alle curteisye;
Hir herte is verray chambre of hoolynesse,
Hir hand, ministre of fredam for almesse."

And al this voys was sooth, as God is trewe.
But now to purpos lat us turne agayn.
Thise marchantz han doon fraught hir shippes newe,
And whan they han this blisful mayden sayn,
Hoom to Surrye been they went ful fayn,
And doon hir nedes as they han doon yoore,
And lyven in wele; I kan sey yow namoore.

Now fil it that thise marchantz stode in grace
Of hym that was the Sowdan of Surrye;
For whan they cam from any strange place,
He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,
Make hem good chiere, and bisily espye
Tidynges of sondry regnes, for to leere
The wondres that they myghte seen or heere.

Amonges othere thynges, specially,
Thise marchantz han hym toold of dame Custance
So greet noblesse in ernest, ceriously,
That this Sowdan hath caught so greet plesance
To han hir figure in his remembrance,
That al his lust and al his bisy cure
Was for to love hire while his lyf may dure.

Paraventure in thilke large book
Which that men clepe the hevene ywriten was
With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,
That he for love sholde han his deeth, allas!
For in the sterres, clerer than is glas,
Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede,
The deeth of every man, withouten drede.

In sterres, many a wynter therbiforn,
Was writen the deeth of Ector, Achilles,
Of Pompei, Julius, er they were born;
The strif of Thebes; and of Ercules,
Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates
The deeth; but mennes wittes ben so dulle
That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle.

This Sowdan for his privee conseil sente,
And, shortly of this matiere for to pace,
He hath to hem declared his entente,
And seyde hem, certein, but he myghte have grace
To han Custance withinne a litel space,
He nas but deed; and charged hem in hye
To shapen for his lyf som remedye.

Diverse men diverse thynges seyden;
They argumenten, casten up and doun;
Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden;
They speken of magyk and abusioun.
But finally, as in conclusioun,
They kan nat seen in that noon avantage,
Ne in noon oother wey, save mariage.

Thanne sawe they therinne swich difficultee
By wey of reson, for to speke al playn,
By cause that ther was swich diversitee
Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn
They trowe that no "Cristen prince wolde fayn
Wedden his child under oure lawe sweete
That us was taught by Mahoun, oure prophete."

And he answerde, "Rather than I lese
Custance, I wol be cristned, doutelees.
I moot been hires; I may noon oother chese.
I prey yow hoold youre argumentz in pees;
Saveth my lyf, and beth noght recchelees
To geten hire that hath my lyf in cure,
For in this wo I may nat longe endure."

What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?
I seye, by tretys and embassadrie,
And by the popes mediacioun,
And al the chirche, and al the chivalrie,
That in destruccioun of mawmettrie,
And in encrees of Cristes lawe deere,
They been acorded, so as ye shal heere:

How that the Sowdan and his baronage
And alle his liges sholde ycristned be,
And he shal han Custance in mariage,
And certein gold, I noot what quantitee;
And heer-to founden sufficient suretee.
This same accord was sworn on eyther syde;
Now, faire Custance, almyghty God thee gyde!

Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,
That I sholde tellen al the purveiance
That th' Emperour, of his grete noblesse,
Hath shapen for his doghter, dame Custance.
Wel may men knowen that so greet ordinance
May no man tellen in a litel clause
As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.

Bisshopes been shapen with hire for to wende,
Lordes, ladies, knyghtes of renoun,
And oother folk ynowe; this is th' ende;
And notified is thurghout the toun
That every wight, with greet devocioun,
Sholde preyen Crist that he this mariage
Receyve in gree and spede this viage.

The day is comen of hir departynge;
I seye, the woful day fatal is come,
That ther may be no lenger tariynge,
But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some.
Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome,
Ful pale arist, and dresseth hire to wende;
For wel she seeth ther is noon oother ende.

Allas, what wonder is it thogh she wepte,
That shal be sent to strange nacioun
Fro freendes that so tendrely hire kepte,
And to be bounden under subjeccioun
Of oon, she knoweth nat his condicioun?
Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore;
That knowen wyves; I dar sey yow na moore.

"Fader," she seyde, "thy wrecched child Custance,
Thy yonge doghter fostred up so softe,
And ye, my mooder, my soverayn plesance
Over alle thyng, out-taken Crist on-lofte,
Custance youre child hire recomandeth ofte
Unto youre grace, for I shal to Surrye,
Ne shal I nevere seen yow moore with ye.

"Allas, unto the Barbre nacioun
I moste anoon, syn that it is youre wille;
But Crist, that starf for our redempcioun
So yeve me grace his heestes to fulfille!
I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille!
Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,
And to been under mannes governance."

I trowe at Troye, whan Pirrus brak the wal
Or Ilion brende, at Thebes the citee,
N' at Rome, for the harm thurgh Hanybal
That Romayns hath venquysshed tymes thre,
Nas herd swich tendre wepyng for pitee
As in the chambre was for hire departynge;
But forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or synge.

O firste moevyng! Crueel firmament,
With thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay
And hurlest al from est til occident
That naturelly wolde holde another way,
Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array
At the bigynnyng of this fiers viage,
That crueel Mars hath slayn this mariage.

Infortunat ascendent tortuous,
Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas,
Out of his angle into the derkeste hous!
O Mars, o atazir, as in this cas!
O fieble moone, unhappy been thy paas!
Thou knyttest thee ther thou art nat receyved;
Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.

Imprudent Emperour of Rome, allas!
Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?
Is no tyme bet than oother in swich cas?
Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,
Namely to folk of heigh condicioun?
Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe?
Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe!

To shippe is brought this woful faire mayde
Solempnely, with every circumstance.
"Now Jhesu Crist be with yow alle!" she sayde;
Ther nys namoore, but "Farewel, faire Custance!"
She peyneth hire to make good contenance;
And forth I lete hire saille in this manere,
And turne I wole agayn to my matere.

The mooder of the Sowdan, welle of vices,
Espied hath hir sones pleyn entente,
How he wol lete his olde sacrifices;
And right anon she for hir conseil sente,
And they been come to knowe what she mente.
And whan assembled was this folk in-feere,
She sette hire doun, and seyde as ye shal heere.

"Lordes," quod she, "ye knowen everichon,
How that my sone in point is for to lete
The hooly lawes of our Alkaron,
Yeven by Goddes message Makomete.
But oon avow to grete God I heete,
The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte
Or Makometes lawe out of myn herte!

"What sholde us tyden of this newe lawe
But thraldom to oure bodies and penance,
And afterward in helle to be drawe,
For we reneyed Mahoun oure creance?
But, lordes, wol ye maken assurance,
As I shal seyn, assentynge to my loore,
And I shal make us sauf for everemoore?"

They sworen and assenten, every man,
To lyve with hire and dye, and by hire stonde,
And everich, in the beste wise he kan,
To strengthen hire shal alle his frendes fonde;
And she hath this emprise ytake on honde,
Which ye shal heren that I shal devyse,
And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse:

"We shul first feyne us cristendom to take --
Coold water shal nat greve us but a lite! --
And I shal swich a feeste and revel make
That, as I trowe, I shal the Sowdan quite.
For thogh his wyf be cristned never so white,
She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,
Thogh she a font-ful water with hire lede."

O Sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee!
Virago, thou Semyrame the secounde!
O serpent under femynynytee,
Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde!
O feyned womman, al that may confounde
Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malice,
Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!

O Sathan, envious syn thilke day
That thou were chaced from oure heritage,
Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!
Thou madest Eva brynge us in servage;
Thou wolt fordoon this Cristen mariage.
Thyn instrument so -- weylawey the while! --
Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt bigile.

This Sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warye,
Leet prively hire conseil goon hire way.
What sholde I in this tale lenger tarye?
She rydeth to the Sowdan on a day,
And seyde hym that she wolde reneye hir lay,
And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,
Repentynge hire she hethen was so longe,

Bisechynge hym to doon hire that honour,
That she moste han the Cristen folk to feeste --
"To plesen hem I wol do my labour."
The Sowdan seith, "I wol doon at youre heeste,"
And knelynge thanketh hire of that requeste.
So glad he was, he nyste what to seye.
She kiste hir sone, and hoom she gooth hir weye.

A group of merchants, rich beyond compare,
From Syria, were trustworthy and true,
And any place they took their spicy fare,
Their cloth of gold, their satins rich in hue,
Folks found their stuff so useful and so new
That they desired this merchandise so strange,
And offered them their own goods in exchange.

The leaders, it so happened, of these chaps
Got ready on a trip to Rome to go
For business or for pleasure - both perhaps;
You’d think they’d send a messenger - but no;
They came with no fanfare, but lots of dough.
And in such place as serves their purpose they
Take lodging where they for the night will stay.

So long around this town these merchants tour,
As they were entertained by its allure.
And it so happened that the great renown
Of dame Custance, child of the Emperor,
Reported to the Syrians was, down
To the last little detail in a way
That I’ll relate to you, from day to day.

The general opinion went like this:
“Our Emperor of Rome - God give him bliss! -
A daughter has, that all men would agree,
Has beauty that’s impossible to miss;
There’s never been another such as she.
We pray that God her honor might sustain;
A queen like this o’er Europe ought to reign.

“Though blessed with beauty, she’s not cursed with pride,
No folly immature goes with her youth;
In all her actions virtue is her guide;
Humility she has, to equal Ruth.
All courtesy reflects in her, and truth
And piety and grace and honor shine,
In her good deeds and character benign.”

All of these things were true, as God is great.
But now let’s get back to the point again.
These merchants loaded on their ships new freight,
And when they saw this maiden, all these men
Content to Syria return, and then
Their business goes on, and they live quite well
As always. There is no more I can tell.

It happened that they all stood in good graces
Of him who as the Sultan there did reign;
And when they came back home from foreign places,
Out of his graciousness he’d entertain,
And see what information he could gain
About the countries where they’d been; he’s keen
To learn of wonders that they’d heard or seen.

Of many things they spoke, but dame Custance
They did describe at such great length that he
Began to feel the stirrings of romance.
This Sultan thought on her with such great glee,
All his ambition was with her to be.
All his concern, all his desire intense
Was her to love while he had life and sense.

It’s written in that big book in the sky
Which men call heaven, in the stars, alas!
This Sultan for the sake of love would die.
Ere birth it’s known how from this life we’ll pass,
For in the stars, much clearer far than glass,
Is written, for those who can make it out,
The death of every man, without a doubt.

The stars told, like the writing on a tomb,
The death of Hector, and Achilles too,
Pompeii, and Julius while in the womb;
Who down, in Thebes, great Hercules would hew,
And when the life of Socrates was through.
But men’s wits are so very dull, indeed,
The meaning they cannot completely read.

The Sultan with his privy council met,
And very briefly to pass over this,
He told unto them how his heart was set,
And said , “If I cannot enjoy the bliss
Within a little time to have this Miss,
I’ll come to grief.” He asked if they might find
A plan to lift this burden off his mind.

Each of these men had different things to say;
They argue back and forth, as every one
Gives reasons black and white, and shades of gray;
Of hope, some think in magic there’s a ray.
But finally, when all is said and done,
That these things will not work, they all decide;
He’ll simply have to take her for his bride.

But on reflection they soon realize,
To say what’s plain in everybody’s eyes,
The problems with religion this would cause,
With radically divergent holy laws.
They thought, “No Christian prince would think it wise
To wed his child in the Islamic ways
Mohammed taught - to Allah be all praise!”

To all of this he said, “Before I lose
Custance, I’ll have in Christ my faith confessed.
I must be hers; no other may I choose.
I pray you, give your arguments a rest;
To get her for me, you must try your best,
For on her all my happiness depends;
Without her all my joy in living ends.”

Need words be multiplied about this? Nay.
I say, by statesmanship and treaties signed,
And by the blessing of the pope this day,
That all crusaders, who are of one mind,
That hell’s streets with idolaters be lined,
And that Christ’s law be spread both far and near,
Agree in unison, as you shall hear:

This Sultan should, along with every sheik
And servant in his kingdom christened be;
He then the hand of dame Custance may take,
And gold, I know not in what quantity,
Along with pledges, as a guarantee.
All swore to this agreement on each side;
Now, fair Custance, may God thy footsteps guide.

Now some men might expect, as I suppose,
That of those preparations I should tell
Made by the Emperor, whose greatness shows
In all of the expense to which he goes
For dame Custance; but men should know quite well
That no man in a few words could relate
All that was done for an affair so great.

Bishops had been appointed to attend;
Ladies and lords, and knights of great renown,
But not much more to tell do I intend.
It is made known to all throughout the town
That everyone should on their knees go down,
And pray that Jesus Christ this bond will bless,
And to their homeward voyage lend success.

The day is finally come for her to leave;
That woeful, fatal day, a day to grieve.
No longer may they linger; all must start
To make their preparations to depart.
Custance’s heart’s nigh breaking, I believe;
Face pale with sorrow she prepares to pack,
For well she sees there is no turning back.

It is no wonder that she feels ensnared,
She who unto a foreign land must come,
Away from friends who fondly for her cared,
With one whose heart to her has not been bared,
And there in bondage live beneath his thumb.
Husbands have always been regarded good;
Especially where the women wear a hood.

“Father, Custance thy wretched child.” she cried,
“Thy daughter whom so tenderly you raised,
And mother, thou my greatest joy beside
Dear Jesus Christ, our Lord, whose name be praised,
Custance, who must in Syria reside,
Can but commend herself unto your graces,
For ne’er again shall I behold your faces.

“Alas, unto barbaric nations I
Must now depart, since for me that’s your will;
But Jesus Christ, who for our sins did die,
Grace give me his commandments to fulfill!
They very well may this poor woman kill,
For we are born to servitude and pain,
And life subjected to a husband’s reign.”

Not when Thebe’s wall Achilles’ son did pierce,
Nor when Troy’s topless towers were aflame,
Nor when bold Hannibal, with armies fierce,
Three times brave Roman legions put to shame,
Was e’er such piteous weeping heard as came
Out of her chamber as the time to go
Drew nigh, but go she must, in joy or woe.

O cruel firmament! O primal force,
Driving inexorably from day to day
All things, from east unto the west, a course
In opposition to their natural way.
Thine influence set forces into play
Upon that day when anchors up they pull,
Allowing Mars this marriage to annul.

Unfortunate ascending evil sphere,
Auguring ill this hapless ruler’s place,
Rising unto the darkest house of fear!
O Mars, thou planet dominating here!
O moon, unhappy is thy feeble pace!
In an unwelcome house thou dost intrude,
Far from where thou art favorably viewed.

Thou Emperor of Rome short-sighted! Brother!
You’ve no astrologers? Give me a break!
Is one time just as good as any other?
No inauspicious time a voyage to take
When high-placed people’s fortunes are at stake,
And when the date precise of birth you know?
Alas, we’re stupid, or in wit too slow!

Unto the ship is brought this woeful maid
With ceremonies not exactly gay!
“Now Jesus Christ be with you all!” she prayed.
“Farewell Custance!” is all that’s left to say.
She tries her best the happy girl to play.
I leave her sailing, as the tide doth swell,
And now of other kinds of currents tell.

This Sultan’s mother really is bad news!
Her son’s intention to convert she sees,
How rituals Islamic he’ll refuse.
A meeting of her council she decrees;
They come to hear and rubber-stamp her views.
And when those men were gathered all around,
She sat down, and as follows did expound:

She said, “Of those assembled here, each lord
Knows that my son’s intending to forsake
The laws Mohammed, prophet of the sword,
Recorded in the Koran. Now I make
One promise unto God, this vow I take:
First from my body shall the life depart
Before Mohammed’s teachings leave my heart!

“What should this new religion to us give
But slavery on earth, and suff’ring too;
And then forever we in hell shall live,
Since to Mohammed’s faith we were untrue?
But lords, will you assure me that you’ll do
As I shall say - praise unto Allah be -
And I shall save us from this heresy?”

Down to the very last man they did swear
To stand with her and die - no man was mute.
So one and all they promised they would dare
To strengthen her, and all their friends recruit;
For she this Christian heresy would boot
Out of an Arab and Islamic land;
So to them she revealed what she had planned:

“Acceptance, first, of Christendom we’ll fake -
Cold water for a while we can endure -
And I shall such a festive party make
As payback for the Sultan to ensure.
For though his wife be white, naïve, and pure,
A whole baptismal font she’d better bring
To cleanse the crimson of my caustic sting!”

O Sultaness, fount of iniquity!
Thou Virago, thou Semiramis Two!
Snake, in the cloak of femininity,
Just like that viper deep in hell are you
In woman’s guise! Thy malice can fordo
All innocence and virtue, for thou art
A nest of every vice, bred in thine heart!

O Satan, jealous since thou wert expelled
From heaven’s heritage, cast down to hell.
A woman’s way of old thou knowest well!
Eve thou enticed, and humankind was felled;
This Christian marriage you would like to quell.
Women are, since the time of man’s inception
Thine instrument, when times call for deception.

This Sultaness, whom I thus blame and curse,
Quietly had her council go their way.
This tale should I belabor to rehearse?
She rides to meet the Sultan one fine day,
And said aside Mohammed she would lay;
A Christian to become, she would elect;
From her false pagan faith she would defect.

That she might have the honor, she requests
A feast to make, the Christian folks to feed -
“I’ll try my best to please them as my guests.”
“According to your will shall be my deed,”
He says, “and thanks for thinking of their need.”
Speechless he was to hear her talk like this.
She leaves, but first gives him an adder’s kiss.

Part 2

Arryved been this Cristen folk to londe
In Surrye, with a greet solempne route,
And hastifliche this Sowdan sente his sonde
First to his mooder, and al the regne aboute,
And seyde his wyf was comen, out of doute,
And preyde hire for to ryde agayn the queene,
The honour of his regne to susteene.

Greet was the prees, and riche was th' array
Of Surryens and Romayns met yfeere;
The mooder of the Sowdan, riche and gay,
Receyveth hire with also glad a cheere
As any mooder myghte hir doghter deere,
And to the nexte citee ther bisyde
A softe paas solempnely they ryde.

Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius,
Of which that Lucan maketh swich a boost,
Was roialler ne moore curius
Than was th' assemblee of this blisful hoost.
But this scorpioun, this wikked goost,
The Sowdanesse, for al hire flaterynge,
Caste under this ful mortally to stynge.

The Sowdan comth hymself soone after this
So roially that wonder is to telle,
And welcometh hire with alle joye and blis.
And thus in murthe and joye I lete hem dwelle;
The fruyt of this matiere is that I telle.
Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste
That revel stynte, and men goon to hir reste.

The tyme cam, this olde Sowdanesse
Ordeyned hath this feeste of which I tolde,
And to the feeste Cristen folk hem dresse
In general, ye, bothe yonge and olde.
Heere may men feeste and roialtee biholde,
And deyntees mo than I kan yow devyse;
But al to deere they boghte it er they ryse.

O sodeyn wo, that evere art successour
To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse,
The ende of the joye of oure worldly labour!
Wo occupieth the fyn of oure gladnesse.
Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse:
Upon thy glade day have in thy mynde
The unwar wo or harm that comth bihynde.

For shortly for to tellen, at o word,
The Sowdan and the Cristen everichone
Been al tohewe and stiked at the bord,
But it were oonly dame Custance allone.
This olde Sowdanesse, cursed krone,
Hath with hir freendes doon this cursed dede,
For she hirself wolde al the contree lede.

Ne ther was Surryen noon that was converted,
That of the conseil of the Sowdan woot,
That he nas al tohewe er he asterted.
And Custance han they take anon, foot-hoot,
And in a ship al steerelees, God woot,
They han hir set, and bidde hire lerne saille
Out of Surrye agaynward to Ytaille.

A certein tresor that she thider ladde,
And, sooth to seyn, vitaille greet plentee
They han hire yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,
And forth she sailleth in the salte see.
O my Custance, ful of benignytee,
O Emperoures yonge doghter deere,
He that is lord of Fortune be thy steere!

She blesseth hire, and with ful pitous voys
Unto the croys of Crist thus seyde she:
"O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys,
Reed of the Lambes blood ful of pitee,
That wessh the world fro the olde iniquitee,
Me fro the feend and fro his clawes kepe,
That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.

"Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,
That oonly worthy were for to bere
The Kyng of Hevene with his woundes newe,
The white Lamb, that hurt was with a spere,
Flemere of feendes out of hym and here
On which thy lymes feithfully extenden,
Me kepe, and yif me myght my lyf t' amenden."

Yeres and dayes fleet this creature
Thurghout the See of Grece unto the Strayte
Of Marrok, as it was hire aventure.
On many a sory meel now may she bayte;
After hir deeth ful often may she wayte,
Er that the wilde wawes wol hire dryve
Unto the place ther she shal arryve.

Men myghten asken why she was nat slayn
Eek at the feeste? Who myghte hir body save?
And I answere to that demande agayn,
Who saved Danyel in the horrible cave
Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,
Was with the leon frete er he asterte?
No wight but God that he bar in his herte.

God liste to shewe his wonderful myracle
In hire, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis;
Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,
By certeine meenes ofte, as knowen clerkis,
Dooth thyng for certein ende that ful derk is
To mannes wit, that for oure ignorance
Ne konne noght knowe his prudent purveiance.

Now sith she was nat at the feeste yslawe,
Who kepte hire fro the drenchyng in the see?
Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe
Til he was spouted up at Nynyvee?
Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he
That kepte peple Ebrayk from hir drenchynge,
With drye feet thurghout the see passynge.

Who bad the foure spirites of tempest
That power han t' anoyen lond and see,
Bothe north and south, and also west and est,
"Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree"?
Soothly, the comandour of that was he
That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte
As wel whan she wook as whan she slepte.

Where myghte this womman mete and drynke have
Thre yeer and moore? How lasteth hire vitaille?
Who fedde the Egipcien Marie in the cave,
Or in desert? No wight but Crist, sanz faille.
Fyve thousand folk it was as greet mervaille
With loves fyve and fisshes two to feede.
God sente his foyson at hir grete neede.

She dryveth forth into oure occian
Thurghout oure wilde see, til atte laste
Under an hoold that nempnen I ne kan,
Fer in Northhumberlond the wawe hire caste,
And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste
That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde;
The wyl of Crist was that she sholde abyde.

The constable of the castel doun is fare
To seen this wrak, and al the ship he soghte,
And foond this wery womman ful of care;
He foond also the tresor that she broghte.
In hir langage mercy she bisoghte,
The lyf out of hir body for to twynne,
Hire to delivere of wo that she was inne.

A maner Latyn corrupt was hir speche,
But algates therby was she understonde.
The constable, whan hym lyst no longer seche,
This woful womman broghte he to the londe.
She kneleth doun and thanketh Goddes sonde;
But what she was she wolde no man seye,
For foul ne fair, thogh that she sholde deye.

She seyde she was so mazed in the see
That she forgat hir mynde, by hir trouthe.
The constable hath of hire so greet pitee,
And eek his wyf, that they wepen for routhe.
She was so diligent, withouten slouthe,
To serve and plesen everich in that place
That alle hir loven that looken in hir face.

This constable and dame Hermengyld, his wyf,
Were payens, and that contree everywhere;
But Hermengyld loved hire right as hir lyf,
And Custance hath so longe sojourned there,
In orisons, with many a bitter teere,
Til Jhesu hath converted thurgh his grace
Dame Hermengyld, constablesse of that place.

In al that lond no Cristen dorste route;
Alle Cristen folk been fled fro that contree
Thurgh payens, that conquereden al aboute
The plages of the north, by land and see.
To Walys fledde the Cristyanytee
Of olde Britons dwellynge in this ile;
Ther was hir refut for the meene while.

But yet nere Cristene Britons so exiled
That ther nere somme that in hir privetee
Honoured Crist and hethen folk bigiled,
And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three.
That oon of hem was blynd and myghte nat see,
But it were with thilke eyen of his mynde
With whiche men seen, after that they ben blynde.

Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,
For which the constable and his wyf also
And Custance han ytake the righte way
Toward the see a furlong wey or two,
To pleyen and to romen to and fro,
And in hir walk this blynde man they mette,
Croked and oold, with eyen faste yshette.

"In name of Crist," cride this blinde Britoun,
"Dame Hermengyld, yif me my sighte agayn!"
This lady weex affrayed of the soun,
Lest that hir housbonde, shortly for to sayn,
Wolde hire for Jhesu Cristes love han slayn,
Til Custance made hire boold, and bad hire wirche
The wyl of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.

The constable weex abasshed of that sight,
And seyde, "What amounteth al this fare?"
Custance answerde, "Sire, it is Cristes myght,
That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare."
And so ferforth she gan oure lay declare
That she the constable, er that it was eve
Converteth, and on Crist made hym bileve.

This constable was nothyng lord of this place
Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond,
But kepte it strongly many a wyntres space
Under Alla, kyng of al Northhumbrelond,
That was ful wys, and worthy of his hond
Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel heere;
But turne I wole agayn to my mateere.

Sathan, that evere us waiteth to bigile,
Saugh of Custance al hire perfeccioun,
And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while,
And made a yong knyght that dwelte in that toun
Love hire so hoote, of foul affeccioun,
That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille,
But he of hire myghte ones have his wille.

He woweth hire, but it availleth noght;
She wolde do no synne, by no weye.
And for despit he compassed in his thoght
To maken hire on shameful deeth to deye.
He wayteth whan the constable was aweye,
And pryvely upon a nyght he crepte
In Hermengyldes chambre, whil she slepte.

Wery, forwaked in hire orisouns,
Slepeth Custance, and Hermengyld also.
This knyght, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,
Al softely is to the bed ygo,
And kitte the throte of Hermengyld atwo,
And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,
And wente his wey, ther God yeve hym meschance!

Soone after cometh this constable hoom agayn,
And eek Alla, that kyng was of that lond,
And saugh his wyf despitously yslayn,
For which ful ofte he weep and wroong his hond,
And in the bed the blody knyf he fond
By Dame Custance. Allas, what myghte she seye?
For verray wo hir wit was al aweye.

To kyng Alla was toold al this meschance,
And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wise
That in a ship was founden this Custance,
As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.
The kynges herte of pitee gan agryse,
Whan he saugh so benigne a creature
Falle in disese and in mysaventure.

For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,
So stant this innocent bifore the kyng.
This false knyght, that hath this tresoun wroght,
Berth hire on hond that she hath doon thys thyng.
But nathelees, ther was greet moornyng
Among the peple, and seyn they kan nat gesse
That she had doon so greet a wikkednesse,

For they han seyn hire evere so vertuous,
And lovynge Hermengyld right as hir lyf.
Of this baar witnesse everich in that hous,
Save he that Hermengyld slow with his knyf.
This gentil kyng hath caught a greet motyf
Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere
Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere.

Allas! Custance, thou hast no champioun,
Ne fighte kanstow noght, so weylaway!
But he that starf for our redempcioun,
And boond Sathan (and yet lith ther he lay),
So be thy stronge champion this day!
For, but if Crist open myracle kithe,
Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe.

She sette hire doun on knees, and thus she sayde:
"Immortal God, that savedest Susanne
Fro false blame, and thou, merciful mayde,
Marie I meene, doghter to Seint Anne,
Bifore whos child angeles synge Osanne,
If I be giltlees of this felonye,
My socour be, for ellis shal I dye!"

Have ye nat seyn somtyme a pale face,
Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad
Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace,
And swich a colour in his face hath had
Men myghte knowe his face that was bistad
Amonges alle the faces in that route?
So stant Custance, and looketh hire aboute.

O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee,
Duchesses, and ye ladyes everichone,
Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee!
An Emperoures doghter stant allone;
She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.
O blood roial, that stondest in this drede,
Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede!

This Alla kyng hath swich compassioun,
As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,
That from his eyen ran the water doun.
"Now hastily do fecche a book," quod he,
"And if this knyght wol sweren how that she
This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse
Whom that we wole that shal been oure justise."

A Britoun book, written with Evaungiles,
Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon
She gilty was, and in the meene whiles
An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon,
That doun he fil atones as a stoon,
And bothe his eyen broste out of his face
In sighte of every body in that place.

A voys was herd in general audience,
And seyde, "Thou hast desclaundred, giltelees,
The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence;
Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees!"
Of this mervaille agast was al the prees;
As mazed folk they stoden everichone,
For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.

Greet was the drede and eek the repentance
Of hem that hadden wrong suspecioun
Upon this sely innocent, Custance;
And for this miracle, in conclusioun,
And by Custances mediacioun,
The kyng -- and many another in that place --
Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace!

This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe
By juggement of Alla hastifly;
And yet Custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe.
And after this Jhesus, of his mercy,
Made Alla wedden ful solempnely
This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene;
And thus hath Crist ymaad Custance a queene.

But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,
Of this weddyng but Donegild, and namo,
The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye?
Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo.
She wolde noght hir sone had do so;
Hir thoughte a despit that he sholde take
So strange a creature unto his make.

Me list nat of the chaf, ne of the stree,
Maken so long a tale as of the corn.
What sholde I tellen of the roialtee
At mariage, or which cours goth biforn;
Who bloweth in a trumpe or in an horn?
The fruyt of every tale is for to seye:
They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye.

They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right;
For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges,
They moste take in pacience at nyght
Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges
To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges,
And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside,
As for the tyme -- it may no bet bitide.

On hire he gat a knave child anon,
And to a bisshop, and his constable eke,
He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon
To Scotlond-ward, his foomen for to seke.
Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,
So longe is goon with childe, til that stille
She halt hire chambre, abidyng Cristes wille.

The tyme is come a knave child she beer;
Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle.
This constable dooth forth come a messageer,
And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was Alle,
How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle,
And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye.
He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.

This messager, to doon his avantage,
Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe,
And salueth hire ful faire in his langage:
"Madame," quod he, "ye may be glad and blithe,
And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe!
My lady queene hath child, withouten doute,
To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute.

"Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng,
That I moot bere with al the haste I may.
If ye wol aught unto youre sone the kyng,
I am youre servant, bothe nyght and day."
Donegild answerde, "As now at this tyme, nay;
But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste.
To-morwe wol I seye thee what me leste."

This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,
And stolen were his lettres pryvely
Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn;
And countrefeted was ful subtilly
Another lettre, wroght ful synfully,
Unto the kyng direct of this mateere
Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere.

The lettre spak the queene delivered was
Of so horrible a feendly creature
That in the castel noon so hardy was
That any while dorste ther endure.
The mooder was an elf, by aventure
Ycomen, by charmes or by sorcerie,
And every wight hateth hir compaignye.

Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn,
But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore,
But of his owene hand he wroot agayn,
"Welcome the sonde of Crist for everemoore
To me that am now lerned in his loore!
Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce;
My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce.

"Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feir,
And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge.
Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir
Moore agreable than this to my likynge."
This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge,
Which to the messager was take soone,
And forth he gooth; ther is na moore to doone.

O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,
Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay,
And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.
Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,
Thy face is turned in a newe array.
Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,
Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute.

O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne
Unto thy malice and thy tirannye!
And therfore to the feend I thee resigne;
Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie!
Fy, mannysh, fy! -- o nay, by God, I lye --
Fy, feendlych spirit, for I dar wel telle,
Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle!

This messager comth fro the kyng agayn,
And at the kynges moodres court he lighte,
And she was of this messager ful fayn,
And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte.
He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte;
He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse
Al nyght, til the sonne gan aryse.

Eft were his lettres stolen everychon,
And countrefeted lettres in this wyse:
"The king comandeth his constable anon,
Up peyne of hangyng, and on heigh juyse,
That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse
Custance in-with his reawme for t' abyde
Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde;

"But in the same ship as he hire fond,
Hire, and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere,
He sholde putte, and croude hire fro the lond,
And charge hire that she never eft coome theere."
O my Custance, wel may thy goost have feere,
And, slepynge, in thy dreem been in penance,
Whan Donegild cast al this ordinance.

This messager on morwe, whan he wook,
Unto the castel halt the nexte way,
And to the constable he the lettre took;
And whan that he this pitous lettre say,
Ful ofte he seyde, "Allas and weylaway!"
"Lord Crist," quod he, "how may this world endure,
So ful of synne is many a creature?

"O myghty God, if that it be thy wille,
Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be
That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille,
And wikked folk regne in prosperitee?
O goode Custance, allas, so wo is me
That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye
On shames deeth; ther is noon oother weye."

Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place
Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente,
And Custance, with a deedly pale face,
The ferthe day toward hir ship she wente.
But nathelees she taketh in good entente
The wyl of Crist, and knelynge on the stronde,
She seyde, "Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde!

"He that me kepte fro the false blame
While I was on the lond amonges yow,
He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame
In salte see, althogh I se noght how.
As strong as evere he was, he is yet now.
In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere,
That is to me my seyl and eek my steere."

Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm,
And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde,
"Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm."
With that hir coverchief of hir heed she breyde,
And over his litel eyen she it leyde,
And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,
And into hevene hire eyen up she caste.

"Mooder," quod she, "and mayde bright, Marie,
Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement
Mankynde was lorn, and damned ay to dye,
For which thy child was on a croys yrent.
Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment;
Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene
Thy wo and any wo man may sustene.

"Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne yen,
And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay!
Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen,
Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may,
Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,
Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse
Rewest on every reweful in distresse.

"O litel child, allas! What is thy gilt,
That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee?
Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?
O mercy, deere constable," quod she,
"As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;
And if thou darst nat saven hym, for blame,
So kys hym ones in his fadres name!"

Therwith she looked bakward to the londe,
And seyde, "Farewel, housbonde routhelees!"
And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde
Toward the ship -- hir folweth al the prees --
And evere she preyeth hire child to holde his pees;
And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente
She blisseth hire, and into ship she wente.

Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,
Habundantly for hire ful longe space,
And othere necessaries that sholde nede
She hadde ynogh -- heryed be Goddes grace!
For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace,
And brynge hire hoom! I kan no bettre seye,
But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.

The Christian party from their ship descends
On Syrian soil, a large and solemn band;
His messenger this Sultan quickly sends
First to his mother, then throughout the land,
And that his queen’s arrival is at hand
Proclaims, and bids her come and see his wife,
And thus help to forestall potential strife.

The crowd was large, all richly dressed were they,
With Syrians beside the Roman race;
The Sultan’s mother, richly robed and gay,
Receives her, as she feigns a happy face,
As mother’s might a daughter new embrace;
And to the nearest city, side by side,
Unhurriedly and solemnly they ride.

No Caesar in triumphal glory greeted,
As Lucan liked to boast about, compares
In splendor to the way in which was feted
This happy host who ride on royal chairs.
This scorpion, though innocent her airs,
This Sultaness, neath all her flattering,
Had planned a very deadly, mortal sting.

Up with these ladies soon the Sultan meets;
How royally arrayed I can’t express.
His mother whom he loves and trusts he greets.
I leave their mirth and joy for you to guess,
As the denouement of this I address.
The time came when they thought it would be best
To cease festivities, and all should rest.

The Sultaness, who her true motive cloaks,
Gives signals as the time for feasting nears,
And to the feast come all the Christian folks,
Those bent with age, and youths of tender years.
All toast the Sultaness with shouts of: “Cheers!”
Delicious dainties are before them placed,
But all will soon Islamic terror taste.

O sudden woe, that always seems to follow
With bitterness close on the heels of bliss,
And makes our worldly happiness seem hollow!
The end of gladness is in grief to wallow.
Now for thy safety hearken unto this:
When everything seems rosy keep in mind
The unexpected pain that’s close behind.

To tell you just as briefly as I’m able,
The Sultan and all Christians, God’s elect,
Are hacked to pieces sitting at the table;
Lady Custance alone does God protect.
Allah be praised? What else can you expect
But carnage in the name of Islam’s Lord,
When a false faith is founded on the sword!

All Syrians who to the Sultan’s new
Religion did convert, ere they could flee,
And save their lives, were hacked to pieces too;
And then Custance they took down to the sea.
Set in a ship without a rudder, she
Was told to teach herself to catch a gale,
Back home to Italy alone to sail.

Her Christian treasures they unto her give;
Plenty of food and clothing they provide,
That she in lonely terror long might live,
And forth she sails upon the salty tide.
O my Custance, so full of good inside,
O Emperor’s young child, his joy and pride,
May God thy rudder be, thy fortunes guide.

Custance herself did bless, with piteous voice;
Unto the cross of Christ she this did say:
“Thou altar where disciples true rejoice,
Red with the blood which for our sins did pay,
And washed the sins of ages all away,
Safe from the devil’s claws wilt thou me keep,
That day when I shall perish in the deep.

“Victorious tree, protection of the pure,
Worthy alone the bleeding King to bear,
As He exquisite suff’ring must endure,
The spotless Lamb, whose flesh the spear did tear,
Who banished demons from men everywhere,
To thee in fervent prayer my knees are bent,
Guard me and give me power to repent.”

This creature floats around almost a year
Upon the Sea, till to Gibraltar’s Strait
She finally comes - this was her fate I fear.
Unappetizing were the meals she ate;
Her fear of drowning in the sea was great;
Ere she was washed ashore she’d often think:
“Beneath the surging waves I’ll surely sink!”

Well might men ask: “How come she was not slain
Like all the others? Who could her life spare?
And in reply I give this answer plain:
Who rescued Daniel from the lion’s lair
Where none else did so fortunately fare,
But who, ere they could flee, were torn apart?
Those with the love of God within their heart.

A miracle most wondrous God will show
In her, that men His mighty works may see;
Christ, who is balm for every injury,
By certain means oft, as a priest would know,
Does something for a certain reason we
In ignorance fall short of comprehending,
Unable to foresee His prudent ending.

Already from the sword her, God did save;
Who spares her now from drowning in the sea?
Who Jonas, in the fish, from Neptune’s grave
Kept till at Nineveh spewn out was he?
None other than, as wise men all agree,
He who the Hebrews, through the surging flood
On dry ground brought, where once there was wet mud.

Who bade the four tempestuous winds to cease
That have the power to harm both land and sea,
From north, south, east, and west, commanding, “Peace!
Bring harm to neither sea, nor land, nor tree”?
Surely the one who ordered that would be
The same who made sure that Custance stayed dry,
And did not when awake or sleeping die.

How could this woman’s food and drink have lasted
So many months at sea? Were Christ not there,
In Egypt’s desert Mary would have fasted.
Five thousand hungry followers no fare
Would have enjoyed, but them with food to spare,
With five loaves and two fishes He did feed.
God sent His plenty in their time of need.

Into the wild Atlantic she is driven,
Till to the British Isles she comes at last
Next to a castle whose name can’t be given,
Far in Northumberland by waves she’s cast,
And in the sand her ship got stuck so fast
That it would stay put at the highest tide;
It was Christ’s will that she should here reside.

The castle’s constable came and assessed
This wreck, wherein for valuables he sought,
And found this woman weary and distressed;
He also found the treasure that she brought.
And in her native tongue her drift he caught,
That he could take her life, for all she cared,
For then more pain and woe she would be spared.

She spoke a Latin dialect impure,
But he could nonetheless her understand.
When of this vessel he did end his tour,
This woeful woman brought he onto land.
She knelt and thanked God for his guiding hand;
But who she was to none would she reveal
For anything - in death her lips she’d seal.

She was bewildered so upon the sea,
She said, her recollection was impaired.
Such pity had the constable that he
With his good wife did weep; for her they cared.
She was so diligent, and nothing spared
To serve and please all living in that place,
That all do love her who look on her face.

This constable and Lady Hermengild,
His wife, were pagans as was every Celt;
But Hermengild with love for her was filled.
Custance, who for so long with her had dwelt
Did offer many a tearful prayer heartfelt,
Until Dame Hermengild for Jesus yearns,
And through His grace into a Christian turns.

In all that land to meet, no Christian dared;
All Christian folk had from that country fled
Because the pagan armies so well fared
In northern coastal regions. It is said
All Christian folks from there to Wales did head,
Those Britons old who dwelt upon this land;
There was the refuge for that little band.

But Christian Britons were not so suppressed
That some did not in secret congregate
To honor Christ - the heathens never guessed!
Three such resided near the castle gate,
And one of these, since blindness was his fate,
Sees only with his mind’s eye, so to speak -
God’s substitute for sight when eyes grow weak.

The sun shone brightly one fine summer’s day,
On which the constable his wife did take,
And with Custance went by the shortest way
Down to the sea to walk around and play,
And from their daily routine take a break.
While there, into this blind man they did bump,
Eyes tightly shut, and on his back a hump.

“In Jesus’ name,” this sightless Briton said,
“Dame Hermengild, my sight to me restore!”
This lady was, at these words, filled with dread,
For fear her husband might with her be sore,
And for Christ’s love his wrath upon her pour,
Until Custance to challenge her made bold,
To serve Christ as a daughter in His fold.

The constable this outburst thought bizarre,
And said, “What is the meaning of this noise?”
“With Christ’s great pow’r this for the course is par.”
Custance replied, “Whom Lucifer annoys,
To help defend folks Jesus Christ enjoys.”
So forcefully His doctrine she asserted,
By evening was the constable converted.

This constable in no way was the master
Of this place where Custance he rescued, and
In wintertime he warded of disaster
Under king Alla of Northumberland,
Who deftly does a mighty force command
Against the Scots, as well may people learn;
But now unto my subject I’ll return.

Satan is always trying to trip us up;
Custance’s goodness fills him with disgust;
He plots, with bitterness to fill her cup,
And makes a young knight notice her with lust,
Who wants her so, to sleep with her he must.
He dreams of how he’d love with her to lie,
And thinks, “I’ll have my way with her or die!”

He tries to win her, but to no avail;
No way would she to any sin descend.
And out of malice, since his efforts fail,
He plots to make her meet a shameful end.
And to his wicked business to attend
He waits until the constable’s away
And creeps in where the sleeping ladies lay.

Custance was sound asleep from all her prayers,
And right beside her Hermengild was too.
This knight, entrapped in one of Satan’s snares,
Sneaks toward the bed, the work of Hell to do,
And slashed the throat of Hermengild. A clue
To frame Custance, the bloody knife, was laid
Beside her, may he by God’s grief be paid!

This constable back home returns, and he’s
With king Alla, whose company he kept.
His good wife mercilessly slain he sees,
For which he wrung his hands in grief and wept,
And found the bloody knife, where she had slept,
By Dame Custance, who suffered pain untold;
Beset with woe, she could not be consoled.

The king was told of this great tragedy,
The time, location, and the manner too,
Where in a ship Custance they first did see,
As you have all been told before by me.
With pity was the king’s heart filled to view
A creature whom God with such goodness blessed,
Fallen in such misfortune, and distressed.

For as the lamb unto its death is led,
So stands this innocent before the king.
This lying knight, whose hands with blood are red,
Does in this case false testimony bring
Against this woman who for justice pled.
The people mourned, for they could not believe
Custance could such a wicked crime conceive.

For they’d all noticed how her virtue shone,
And Hermengild loved, more than her own life.
All said, “To such a crime she’d not be prone.”
All, that is, but this lying knight alone,
Who Hermengild did murder with his knife.
King Alla all these witnesses inspire;
Now for the truth he deeper would enquire.

No champion for poor Custance, it seems;
And for herself - alas! - she cannot fight.
But he who died, and thereby us redeems,
And has in Hell bound Satan by his might,
Be thou her champion in this her plight!
A miracle must all see clearly from
Christ Jesus, or to grief she’ll surely come.

She knelt down on her knees, and thus she prayed:
“Immortal God, that didst Susannah save
From accusations false, and thou, kind maid,
Mary, who birth unto the Savior gave,
While hosts of angels heavenly music played,
If in this felony I have no guilt,
Help me, and spare me dying if thou wilt!”

You may, among a mob, have seen this thing:
The face, white as a sheet, of one who knows
That he unto the gallows goes to swing;
The color in his face, at his life’s close,
That he’s the one in trouble clearly shows,
Among all other faces in the crowd;
So stands Custance, and looks at all the proud.

O queens, who live in luxury’s soft lap,
O duchesses, all of a royal race,
Into the wellsprings of thy pity tap!
A princess stands alone here in this place,
And there is no one who can plead her case.
In trouble, she who royal blood does boast,
Far from her friends is, when she needs them most!

Compassion this king Alla’s heart so moves,
His noble breast with pity overflows,
And water down his cheeks from his eyes goes.
“Go fetch a book, and if this young knight proves,
By swearing on it, that he really knows
Exactly how this woman she did did slay,
We’ll see what for herself she has to say.

A British book that had the gospels four
Was fetched, and on this book anon he swore
That she was guilty, and at once a hand
Came out of nowhere, with a blow so sore
Upon his neck that down he tumbled, and
Out of their sockets bursted forth each eye,
As every person there could testify.

And then a voice by everyone was heard,
That said, “Thou hast defamed a guiltless daughter
Of God’s most holy church. Now hear My word:
In spite of this, I shall refrain from slaughter!”
The crowd was terrified when this occurred;
Each of them stood bewildered and amazed,
Except Custance alone, who was not fazed.

Great was the dread of those who now repent
That of Custance they had suspected guilt -
That pure and holy, blessed innocent.
Upon this miracle much faith was built,
And its effect Custance played to the hilt.
The king and many others there, through her,
Thanks be to Jesus Christ, converted were.

This false knight for his perfidy was slain,
As Alla’s judgment quickly did require;
And yet his death did cause Custance great pain.
Then through his mercy Jesus did inspire
This king for sweet Custance to feel desire,
And so a marriage feast he does convene;
And thus did Jesus make Custance a queen.

To tell the truth, this wedding one displeased.
Just Donegild, the mother of the king,
Controlling and opinionated, seized
Upon this opportunity to bring
Objections up, as to most anything.
It was an insult to the family name,
She thought, for him to wed this foreign dame.

About the chaff and bran I shall not tell,
But get right to the kernel of the tale.
On all the royalty I will not dwell,
Who to the marriage came, nor on the ale,
Nor food, nor entertainment, in detail.
I’ll get right to the substance, if I may:
They eat, and drink, and dance, and sing, and play.

As was appropriate, they went to bed;
For though in holy things wives put much stock,
They must at night by carnal lust be led
And not at certain special favors balk
That will a husband’s world with pleasure rock.
Their holiness aside they need to set,
For that’s as good as it is going to get.

So she conceives as they together lay;
A bishop and his constable he charges
To be her guardians, while he’s away
To Scotland, on his enemies to prey.
Custance with patience while her womb enlarges,
Waits humbly, by temptations not enticed,
And in her room abides the will of Christ.

The time arrives - a baby boy she bears;
Mauricius they christen him with joy.
The constable a missive then prepares
To tell Alla how blissfully affairs
Have gone, that he’s the father of a boy,
And other happy tidings of the day.
A courier’s then sent forth on his way.

In hopes that there might be some profit in it,
This messenger to Donegild first rides.
Smooth talking, where there’s money he can win it:
“Madame, you may be happy,” he confides,
“And thank the Lord, who all men’s fortunes guides!
The queen has borne a son, no doubt of this,
For all his reign a thing of joy and bliss.

“Here are the letters sealed, of this new lad,
That I with haste unto the king must bear.
If there is anything you’d like to add
Unto your son the king, for you I’m there.”
“Right now there’s nothing of which I’m aware,”
Said Donegild to him, “but stay the night,
And then tomorrow I may something write.”

Of ale and wine he guzzled many a swig,
And lost the letters unto him committed;
He slept, while in a stupor, like a pig;
Thus Donegild him sinfully outwitted
And had new letters subtly counterfeited,
Sent from the constable unto the king,
As you shall later hear, about this thing.

The queen delivered was, the letter said,
Of such a fiendish creature, such a freak,
That all who looked on it were filled with dread,
Some so aghast they couldn’t even speak.
The mother must have a demonic streak,
Possessed of witchcraft, so that every one
Does her despise - her company they shun.

This letter read, king Alla says goodbye
To joy, but to himself keeps all his pain,
And by his hand composes this reply:
“Now that I know his teachings, till I die,
From blessing Jesus Christ I’ll not refrain.
Lord, thy will and desire shall I accept;
All thy commandments shall by me be kept.

“So guard this child, whether it’s foul or fair,
And too my wife, till I from war return.
Christ, at his pleasure, may send me an heir
More suitable, in answer to my prayer.”
He seals it, as his eyes with teardrops burn,
And then a messenger he gives it to;
Right now, there’s not much more that he can do.

O messenger, to alcohol a slave,
Your breath reeks, all things double you do see;
With you no confidence is kept, you knave.
You like a magpie chatter mindlessly;
Your speech is peppered with profanity.
Wherever drunken chums together chat,
No secret’s kept, you can be sure of that.

O, Donegild, the words I cannot find,
Your malice and your tyranny to tell!
And therefore may you be consigned to hell;
Those words exist within the devil’s mind!
Fie, mannish woman! - nay, God knows you well -
The queen of all demonic, fiendish ladies,
Though here you walk, your spirit is in Hades!

This messenger returns, back from the king,
And at the court of Donegild dismounts;
She welcomes him, and to him she does bring
That ale which is for him the only thing,
Besides carousing with the girls, that counts.
Snorting in bed, he tries to sleep it off,
Until the sun does night’s dark mantle doff.

Again the letters that he brought were lifted
While, wasted, off in la-la land he drifted,
And changed to read: “The constable’s commanded
On pain of hanging - not just reprimanded -
Custance, that dame who on the beach was stranded,
He must not let within his realm abide
More than a week, as measured by the tide.

“But with her young son to that ship where she
Had landed, he, along with all her gear,
Should take, and he should shove them out to sea,
And tell her she must never come back here.”
O my Custance, now may you sleep in fear;
In peace your troubled spirit may not dream,
Since Donegild devised this wicked scheme.

Next morning, when this messenger arose,
Unto the castle by the shortest path
He on his evil errand quickly goes;
And when unto the constable he shows
This letter, great his weeping and his wrath.
”Lord Christ,” said he, “how can this world survive,
When sinful people in abundance thrive?”

“O God almighty, it must be thy will
Thou righteous judge, and yet how can it be
That wicked people innocent ones kill,
And then enjoy lives of prosperity?
O good Custance, alas, it falls to me
To be the instrument of thy distress,
Or die; there is no other way, I guess.”

Both young and old in all that country cry;
The cause, that cursed letter from the king!
And poor Custance! when that fourth day draws nigh,
Her and her son unto the ship they bring.
But nonetheless Christ’s praises she will sing;
And so, while kneeling in the sand she prays:
“It’s not for me to question, Lord, thy ways!

“He who upon the land protected me
From accusations false while here I’ve stayed,
Is able to protect me now at sea,
Though how I can’t imagine, I’m afraid.
Ever I’ll trust in Him to whom I’ve prayed,
Whose strong arm will the faithful never fail;
He who shall be my rudder and my sail”

Within her arms she took her weeping son,
And on her knees she piteously said,
“Peace, I’ll do thee no harm, my little one.”
Then she removed the scarf upon her head,
Which o’er his little eyes she gently spread,
And lulled him fast asleep. No more he cries.
Then she to heaven lifted up her eyes.

“Mary, thou shining mother blest of my
Redeemer, since a woman sinned, it’s true,”
She said, “mankind was lost, and damned to die,
For which thy child was nailed, for thee to view,
Upon a cross, and cruelly taunted, too;
There’s no comparison between thy pain
And grief, and any grief men may sustain.

“Thy child before thy very eyes was slain,
Yet mine now lives, for which the Lord I praise!
Thou shining maiden, fair and without stain,
Who, filled with pity, knows all peoples’ pain;
Thou haven, refuge from life’s stormy days,
Have pity on my child; thy name I bless,
Thou who dost comfort all in dire distress.

“O little child, what is thy guilt,” she said,
“That never yet has stolen, killed, or lied?
And why should thy mean father want thee dead.
O mercy, my dear constable,” she cried,
“Allow my son to live here by your side;
And if to save his life you do not dare,
Then kindly kiss this child who’s Alla’s heir!”

With that she took one last look at the land,
Her husband’s meanness weighing on her mind.
She rises up, then walks down to the strand
Toward the ship - the crowd was close behind -
Holding her child, who was to cry inclined.
Her mien befits the faith that she confesses,
For as she boards the ship, herself she blesses.

Provisions were abundant in the ship,
To feed her well for an extended trip.
She had all the necessities she’d need,
And praised God’s grace for food, and drinks to sip!
May God provide the winds that with all speed
Will bring her safely home! What can I say,
But that to sea she goes forth on her way.

Part 3

Alla the kyng comth hoom soone after this
Unto his castel, of which I tolde,
And asketh where his wyf and his child is.
The constable gan aboute his herte colde,
And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde
As ye han herd -- I kan telle it no bettre --
And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre,

And seyde, "Lord, as ye comanded me
Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein."
This messager tormented was til he
Moste biknowe and tellen, plat and pleyn,
Fro nyght to nyght, in what place he had leyn;
And thus, by wit and sotil enquerynge,
Ymagined was by whom this harm gan sprynge.

The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,
And al the venym of this cursed dede,
But in what wise, certeinly, I noot.
Th' effect is this: that Alla, out of drede,
His mooder slow -- that may men pleynly rede --
For that she traitour was to hire ligeance.
Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance!

The sorwe that this Alla nyght and day
Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also,
Ther is no tonge that it telle may.
But now wol I unto Custance go,
That fleteth in the see, in peyne and wo,
Fyve yeer and moore, as liked Cristes sonde,
Er that hir ship approched unto londe.

Under an hethen castel, atte laste,
Of which the name in my text noght I fynde,
Custance, and eek hir child, the see up caste.
Almyghty God, that saveth al mankynde,
Have on Custance and on hir child som mynde,
That fallen is in hethen hand eft soone,
In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone.

Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight
To gauren on this ship and on Custance.
But shortly, from the castel, on a nyght,
The lordes styward -- God yeve hym meschance! --
A theef, that hadde reneyed oure creance,
Cam into ship allone, and seyde he sholde
Hir lemman be, wher-so she wolde or nolde.

Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon;
Hir child cride, and she cride pitously.
But blisful Marie heelp hire right anon;
For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily
The theef fil over bord al sodeynly,
And in the see he dreynte for vengeance;
And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance.

O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende!
Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde,
But verraily thou wolt his body shende.
Th' ende of thy werk, or of thy lustes blynde,
Is compleynyng. Hou many oon may men fynde
That noght for werk somtyme, but for th' entente
To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente!

How may this wayke womman han this strengthe
Hire to defende agayn this renegat?
O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe,
Hou myghte David make thee so maat,
So yong and of armure so desolaat?
Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face?
Wel may men seen, it nas but Goddes grace.

Who yaf Judith corage or hardynesse
To sleen hym Olofernus in his tente,
And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse
The peple of God? I seye, for this entente,
That right as God spirit of vigour sente
To hem and saved hem out of meschance,
So sente he myght and vigour to Custance.

Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth
Of Jubaltare and Septe, dryvynge ay
Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south,
And somtyme est, ful many a wery day,
Til Cristes mooder -- blessed be she ay! --
Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,
To make an ende of al hir hevynesse.

Now lat us stynte of Custance but a throwe,
And speke we of the Romayn Emperour,
That out of Surrye hath by lettres knowe
The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour
Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour,
I mene the cursed wikked Sowdanesse
That at the feeste leet sleen bothe moore and lesse.

For which this Emperour hath sent anon
His senatour, with roial ordinance,
And othere lordes, God woot, many oon,
On Surryens to taken heigh vengeance.
They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance
Ful many a day; but shortly -- this is th' ende --
Homward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.

This senatour repaireth with victorie
To Rome-ward, saillynge ful roially,
And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie,
In which Custance sit ful pitously.
Nothyng ne knew he what she was, ne why
She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye
Of hire estaat, althogh she sholde deye.

He bryngeth hire to Rome, and to his wyf
He yaf hire, and hir yonge sone also;
And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf.
Thus kan Oure Lady bryngen out of wo
Woful Custance, and many another mo.
And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,
In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace.

The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,
But for al that she knew hire never the moore.
I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,
But to kyng Alla, which I spak of yoore,
That for his wyf wepeth and siketh soore,
I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance
Under the senatoures governance.

Kyng Alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn,
Upon a day fil in swich repentance
That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn,
To Rome he comth to receyven his penance;
And putte hym in the Popes ordinance
In heigh and logh, and Jhesu Crist bisoghte
Foryeve his wikked werkes that he wroghte.

The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born,
How Alla kyng shal comen in pilgrymage,
By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn;
For which the senatour, as was usage,
Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage,
As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence
As to doon any kyng a reverence.

Greet cheere dooth this noble senatour
To kyng Alla, and he to hym also;
Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour.
And so bifel that in a day or two
This senatour is to kyng Alla go
To feste, and shortly, if I shal nat lye,
Custances sone wente in his compaignye.

Som men wolde seyn at requeste of Custance
This senatour hath lad this child to feeste;
I may nat tellen every circumstance --
Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste.
But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste
Biforn Alla, durynge the metes space,
The child stood, lookynge in the kynges face.

This Alla kyng hath of this child greet wonder,
And to the senatour he seyde anon,
"Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder?"
"I noot," quod he, "by God, and by Seint John!
A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon
That I of woot" -- and shortly, in a stounde,
He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.

"But God woot," quod this senatour also,
"So vertuous a lyvere in my lyf
Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo,
Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf.
I dar wel seyn hir hadde levere a knyf
Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke;
There is no man koude brynge hire to that prikke."

Now was this child as lyk unto Custance
As possible is a creature to be.
This Alla hath the face in remembrance
Of dame Custance, and ther on mused he
If that the childes mooder were aught she
That is his wyf, and pryvely he sighte,
And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte.

"Parfay," thoghte he, "fantome is in myn heed!
I oghte deme, of skilful juggement,
That in the salte see my wyf is deed."
And afterward he made his argument:
"What woot I if that Crist have hyder ysent
My wyf by see, as wel as he hire sente
To my contree fro thennes that she wente?"

And after noon, hoom with the senatour
Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.
This senatour dooth Alla greet honour,
And hastifly he sente after Custaunce.
But trusteth weel, hire liste nat to daunce
Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde;
Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde.

Whan Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hire grette,
And weep that it was routhe for to see;
For at the firste look he on hire sette
He knew wel verraily that it was she.
And she, for sorwe, as doumb stant as a tree,
So was hir herte shet in hir distresse,
Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse.

Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte;
He weep, and hym excuseth pitously.
"Now God," quod he, "and his halwes brighte
So wisly on my soule as have mercy,
That of youre harm as giltelees am I
As is Maurice my sone, so lyk youre face;
Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!"

Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne,
Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse;
Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne,
Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.
I pray yow alle my labour to relesse;
I may nat telle hir wo until to-morwe,
I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

But finally, whan that the sothe is wist
That Alla giltelees was of hir wo,
I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,
And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two
That, save the joye that lasteth everemo,
Ther is noon lyk that any creature
Hath seyn or shal, whil that the world may dure.

Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely,
In relief of hir longe, pitous pyne,
That he wolde preye hir fader specially
That of his magestee he wolde enclyne
To vouche sauf som day with hym to dyne.
She preyde hym eek he sholde by no weye
Unto hir fader no word of hire seye.

Som men wolde seyn how that the child Maurice
Dooth this message unto this Emperour;
But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce
To hym that was of so sovereyn honour
As he that is of Cristen folk the flour,
Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme
He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme.

This Emperour hath graunted gentilly
To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte;
And wel rede I he looked bisily
Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte.
Alla goth to his in, and as hym oghte,
Arrayed for this feste in every wise
As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise.

The morwe cam, and Alla gan hym dresse,
And eek his wyf, this Emperour to meete;
And forth they ryde in joye and in gladnesse.
And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete,
She lighte doun, and falleth hym to feete.
"Fader," quod she, "youre yonge child Custance
Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance.

"I am youre doghter Custance," quod she,
"That whilom ye han sent unto Surrye.
It am I, fader, that in the salte see
Was put allone and dampned for to dye.
Now, goode fader, mercy I yow crye!
Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse,
But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse."

Who kan the pitous joye tellen al
Bitwixe hem thre, syn they been thus ymette?
But of my tale make an ende I shal;
The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.
This glade folk to dyner they hem sette;
In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle
A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle.

This child Maurice was sithen Emperour
Maad by the Pope, and lyved cristenly;
To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour.
But I lete al his storie passen by;
Of Custance is my tale specially.
In the olde Romayn geestes may men fynde
Maurices lyf; I bere it noght in mynde.

This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say,
With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete,
To Engelond been they come the righte way,
Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete.
But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,
Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;
Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.

Who lyved euere in swich delit o day
That hym ne moeved outher conscience,
Or ire, or talent, or som kynnes affray,
Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence?
I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,
That litel while in joye or in plesance
Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.

For Deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente,
Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse,
Out of this world this kyng Alla he hente,
For whom Custance hath ful greet hevynesse.
Now lat us prayen God his soule blesse!
And dame Custance, finally to seye,
Toward the toun of Rome goth hir weye.

To Rome is come this hooly creature,
And fyndeth hire freendes hoole and sounde;
Now is she scaped al hire aventure.
And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde,
Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde;
Wepynge for tendrenesse in herte blithe,
She heryeth God an hundred thousand sithe.

In vertu and in hooly almus-dede
They lyven alle, and nevere asonder wende;
Til deeth departeth hem, this lyf they lede.
And fareth now weel! my tale is at an ende.
Now Jhesu Crist, that of his myght may sende
Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,
And kepe us alle that been in this place! Amen

Soon after this Alla the king returns
Unto his castle; for his wife he yearns,
And wonders where she and his child have gone.
Then into ice the constable’s heart turns,
As plainly he recounted what went on.
The letter to the king he does reveal,
Who sees that it is stamped with his own seal,

And says, “My Lord, I’ve done this thing because
On pain of death, that’s what your order was.”
The messenger, tormented till he talked,
Is asked to spill his guts, and so he does.
The secrets of his movements were unlocked,
And thus by subtle questioning they got
Down to the bottom of who hatched this plot.

Whose hand this letter wrote it soon was clear,
And just how evil was this cursed act;
I don’t know how they learned all this, I fear.
The upshot was: this monarch mercy lacked;
His mother - and we know this for a fact -
He as a traitor slew, so all may see
That for this, Donegild cannot go free.

The sorrow Alla felt, and all the hell,
For Custance and his child, that he went through,
And all his suffering, no tongue can tell.
But now on poor Custance I’d like to dwell,
Who floats upon the sea, in sorrow too,
More than a year or two, as it did please
The Lord, before the land at last she sees.

Down from a heathen castle, finally,
The name of which is in my text not found,
Custance and child were cast up by the sea.
Have some regard for her, that is our plea
Almighty God, whose mercy does abound;
She’s fallen into heathen hands again,
And is in mortal danger from the men.

Down from the castle curious people came,
Upon Custance, and at her ship, to stare.
But one night came, with passion all aflame,
The steward of the lord - ill may he fare! -
One who had given up on faith and prayer,
Into the ship, and said he’d come for sex,
Whether she’s in agreement, or objects.

This wretched woman was beset with woe;
She and her child most piteously cried.
But blessed Mary made her fiendish foe
To understand the meaning of her “No!”
She struggled, and this jerk fell o’er the side,
Drowned in the sea because he honor lacked;
And thus has Christ her virtue kept intact.

O lo thine end, foul lecherous desire!
Not only is man’s judgement left impaired,
But consequences physical are dire.
The end result of all thy passion’s fire
Is lamentation. One should be prepared
To be disgraced sometime, or be done in,
For even thinking of this wicked sin!

Whence came the strength that this weak woman had
To ward off this foul renegade’s attacks?
How was Goliath felled, so big and bad,
By youthful little David, one lone lad,
Who weaponry and heavy armor lacks?
How did he dare this dreadful foe to face?
There was no other way but by God’s grace.

Who gave to Judith courage and endurance
Great Holofernes in his tent to slay,
And thereby gave God’s people the assurance
Of His protective care? In this same way,
As to them mighty power in the day
Of their travail, to send was God’s intent,
So to Custance He might and vigor sent.

Into the narrow strait her ship goes forth
That twixt Gibraltar and Morocco lies,
And sometimes east, and sometimes south and north,
And sometimes west she’s driven, in this wise,
Till Jesus’ mother hears her plaintive cries
And, through her boundless goodness does devise
A plan to wipe the teardrops from her eyes.

But let us leave Custance now for a bit,
For of the Roman Emperor I’d speak.
This angry ruler to be tied was fit
When letters came from Syria; He’d seek
On that false wicked Sultaness to wreak
Revenge for treatment given to his daughter,
As payback for her ruthless Christian slaughter.

For this thing did the Emperor dispatch
His senator, with many an armed brigade,
For which the Syrian forces were no match.
For vengeance, waste to all the land they laid;
All those Islamic terrorists they slayed -
The taste of their own medicine they know!
Then back to Rome they all prepare to go.

This senator in victory then goes
Toward Rome, with all his mighty royal fleet,
And quite by accident they chance to meet
The ship Custance is in, beset with woes.
They know not who she is, and incomplete
Their knowledge will remain; her lips she seals,
And very little of herself reveals.

He brings her back to Rome; her and her boy
He shows unto his wife, who takes them in.
A happy life with them she does enjoy.
Thus can Our Lady over evil win;
Custance She saves from suffering and sin.
A long time she resided in that place,
And did much good, as was her special grace.

Though like an aunt this woman was to her,
About her very little did she know.
But let us leave Custance, for I’d prefer
Now into king Alla’s affairs to go,
Who for his dear wife weeps, and sighs with woe.
Back safely from barbaric heathen lands
She, with the senator, is in good hands.

Alla, this king who his own mother killed,
Was with sore feelings of regret so filled
That he, to make a long tale very short,
Came, grieving that his mother’s blood he’d spilled,
And to the Pope in Rome he did report.
From Jesus Christ he sought to be absolved
Of wicked works in which he was involved.

Through Rome the tidings rapidly were spread
Of Alla’s pilgrimage to see the pope
By messengers who sought for board and bed.
And so the senator a party led,
With many of his lineage, with the hope
To meet, as was the custom, with this king,
And fitting royal greetings to him bring.

The senator unto this king extends
Great hospitality, and in return
Alla, to do the same, o’er backwards bends.
And then one day the senator attends
A feast that Alla gives, and as we learn --
This is God’s honest truth, believe you me --
Custance’s son went in his company.

Some say it was Custance who was behind
Her boy receiving at the feast a chair;
All of the details I can’t call to mind --
But be that as it may, the kid was there.
I know this though, his mother took great care
To tell him during dinner to arise
Before Alla, and look him in the eyes.

At this fair child king Alla wondered greatly,
And to the Senator he said, anon,
“Who is that boy that stands up there so stately?”
“I do not know, by God and By Saint John!
He has a mother, but his father’s gone.”
The senator, who with the king conversed,
The circumstances of Custance rehearsed.

“But God knows,” said this senator, “I’ve never
So good a woman seen in all my life,
Nor of a woman have I heard of, ever,
As virtuous as she -- no maid, no wife.
I dare say she would rather have a knife
Thrust through her breast, than stoop to wicked ways;
She always God’s will, not some man’s, obeys.

In every way this child Custance took after.
He mused, as on this youthful face he gazed,
And noticed how his smile, his looks, his laughter,
Resembled hers, as he recalled, amazed.
“Could she be here?” The thought left him half-crazed
With sheer anticipation. From the table
He jumps up, running fast as he is able.

“Surely,” he thought, “my judgment is unsound!
For reason tells me that I should believe
That in the salty sea my wife was drowned.”
Then this alternative he did conceive:
“How do I know Christ did not have her leave
My country to return from whence she came,
Just as he safely brought her from the same?”

Unto his house the senator extends
An invitation to the king, that he
Indeed may for himself this wonder see.
And for Custance at once in haste he sends.
But trust me, not too overjoyed was she
When she the reason she was wanted knew;
To stand up on her feet was hard to do.

His wife with gentle greetings Alla meets;
How sad it is to notice how he cries;
For from the moment that on her his eyes
First look, he knows that it is her he greets.
But she, mute as a tree, with sorrow sighs,
For off from his her tender heart is walled,
When she his cruelty to her recalled.

Two times in his own sight she nearly faints.
And for his family many a tear he spilt.
“Now God,” said he, “and all his glorious saints,
As on their mercy all, our faith is built,
I’ve for your injury as little guilt
As does Maurice my son, who has your face,
Else may the devil fetch me from this place!”

For many hours their sobbing did not cease,
But then they did begin to find some peace.
Great was the pity their lament to hear,
By which they did all of their grief release.
Now I must take a little break, I fear,
For of their woe I can no longer speak;
From telling of their sorrow I’ve grown weak.

But when the truth was known about the crimes
Of which Alla had falsely been suspected,
I think they must have kissed a hundred times,
In bliss their souls inseparably connected.
Their happiness, eternal joy reflected;
No persons on this earth, I’m pretty sure,
Have ever had a joy that was so pure.

Then of her husband meekly she did pray
That, to relieve her long and piteous pain,
He of her father would inquire some day
If, in his busy and majestic reign,
He graciously with him to dine would deign,
But that unto her father she’d prefer
That he speak not a single word of her.

Now some would say it was Maurice her son
That to the Emperor this message spoke;
But I doubt that’s the way that it was done,
For Alla knows that it’s no funny joke
If he insults the flower of Christian folk
By sending one so young, so I think he
Went with the child, as would most fitting be.

This Emperor majestic condescends
To come to dinner, as he was requested;
When on this child his eyes intently rested,
To think about his daughter’s face he tends.
Alla then to his inn goes with some friends,
And makes all preparations for this feast -
That is, as well as he knew how, at least.

The morning came, and Alla and Custance
To meet the Emperor began to dress;
And forth they go in joy and happiness.
And when they meet him in the street, by chance,
She falls down on her knees, his name to bless.
“Father,” she said, “the child you have begotten,
Custance, you now completely have forgotten.

“I am your daughter, your Custance,” said she,
“Whom one time you to Syria did send.
It’s I, who was alone put out to sea
And damned that neath the waves my life would end.
Good father, on your mercy I depend!
To heathen lands send me no more away,
But to my lord thy kindness show, I pray.”

Who can relate all of the piteous bliss
There was, since they first met, between these three?
But it is time to make and end to this;
The day goes fast, no more delay there’ll be.
These glad folks down to dinner sat with glee,
The full extent to tell I know not how,
And there in joy and bliss I leave them now.

This child Maurice the Emperor became,
Crowned by the Pope, and in a Christian way
Gave to the church great honor, but his fame
To tell of I’ll leave for another day,
For from Custance’s story I’d not stray.
From telling of Maurice I shall refrain;
Old Roman histories his life contain.

This king Alla, who for his homeland yearned,
To England, when the time was right, returned
With his Custance, his sweet and holy wife;
And there in bliss and peace they lived, but learned
Such joy lasts not forever - such is life.
For time will not stand still; it takes to flight,
And changes like the tide from day to night.

Who has not lived, one day, in such delight,
Only to see how all has changed the next.
Because one is by passion or by fright,
Anger, desire, offense, or envy vexed?
I only mention this so that I might
Point out how short-lived are this couple’s pleasures,
How fleeting life’s few little blissful treasures.

For Death, that from both high and low collects
His payment, Alla, when a year had passed,
Out of this world did seize; and this affects
Custance, who is with sadness all downcast.
Let’s pray his soul now rests with God at last!
And then Custance one final journey takes;
Toward Rome, where she was born, her way she makes.

And so this holy creature comes to Rome,
And there that all her friends are fine she sees;
All her adventures over, now she’s home.
To see her father does her greatly please;
Down on the ground she falls, upon her knees.
Weeping for joy to know that he still lives,
She endless praises unto heaven gives.

In virtue and in charitable causes
Inseparable together they did dwell,
Till on his rounds Death at their doorstep pauses.
My tale is at an end, so fare thee well!
May Jesus Christ, who after all life’s hell
Gives joy to us through his redeeming grace,
Grant peace to all assembled in this place. Amen