Читать книгу Legends & Romances of Brittany - Льюис Спенс - Страница 21

Trogoff’s strong tower in English hands

Has been this many a year,

Rising above its subject-lands

And held in hate and fear.

That rosy gleam upon the sward

Is not the sun’s last kiss;

It is the blood of an English lord

Who ruled the land amiss.

“O sweetest daughter of my heart,

My little Marguerite,

Come, carry me the midday milk

To those who bind the wheat.”

“O gentle mother, spare me this!

The castle I must pass

Where wicked Roger takes a kiss

From every country lass.”

“Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!

The Seigneur would not glance

On such a chit of low degree

When all the dames in France

Are for his choosing.” “Mother mine,

I bow unto your word.

Mine eyes will ne’er behold you more.

God keep you in His guard.”

Young Roger stood upon the tower

Of Trogoff’s grey château;

Beneath his bent brows did he lower

Upon the scene below.

“Come hither quickly, little page,

Come hither to my knee.

Canst spy a maid of tender age?

Ha! she must pay my fee.”

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Fair Marguerite trips swiftly by

Beneath the castle shade,

When villain Roger, drawing nigh,

Steals softly on the maid.

He seizes on the milking-pail

She bears upon her head;

The snow-white flood she must bewail,

For all the milk is shed.

“Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,

There’s plenty and to spare

Of milk and eke of good red wine

Within my castle fair.

Ah, feast with me, or pluck a rose

Within my pleasant garth,

Or stroll beside yon brook which flows

In brawling, sylvan mirth.”

“Nor feast nor flowers nor evening air

I wish; I do entreat,

Fair Seigneur, let me now repair

To those who bind the wheat.”

“Nay, damsel, fill thy milking-pail:

The dairy stands but here.

Ah, foolish sweeting, wherefore quail,

For thou hast naught to fear?”

The castle gates behind her close,

And all is fair within;

Above her head the apple glows,

The symbol of our sin.

“O Seigneur, lend thy dagger keen,

That I may cut this fruit.”

He smiles and with a courteous mien

He draws the bright blade out.

THE DEATH OF MARGUERITE IN THE CASTLE OF TROGOFF

She takes it, and in earnest prayer

Her childish accents rise:

“O mother, Virgin, ever fair,

Pray, pray, for her who dies

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For honour!” Then the blade is drenched

With blood most innocent.

Vile Roger, now, thine ardour quenched,

Say, art thou then content?

“Ha, I will wash my dagger keen

In the clear-running brook.

No human eye hath ever seen,

No human eye shall look

Upon this gore.” He takes the blade

From out that gentle heart,

And hurries to the river’s shade.

False Roger, why dost start?

Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,

Clad in his sombre mail.

“Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,

And why art thou so pale?”

“A beast I’ve slain.” “Thou liest, hound!

But I a beast will slay.”

The woodland’s leafy ways resound

To echoings of fray.

Roger is slain. Trogoff’s château

Is level with the rock.

Who can withstand Du Guesclin’s blow,

What towers can brave his shock?

The combat is his only joy,

The tournament his play.

Woe unto those who would destroy

The peace of Brittany!

In the decisive battle of Auray (1364) Charles was killed and Du Guesclin taken prisoner. John of Montfort, son of the John who had died, became Duke of Brittany. But he had to face Oliver de Clisson, round whom the adherents of Blois rallied. From a war the strife degenerated into a vendetta. Oliver de Clisson seized the person of John V and imprisoned 36 him. But in the end John was liberated and the line of Blois was finally crushed.