“In Beltayn, or as it then was called / Armorica, there was a knight enthralled / to love, who served his lady wi’ his best / in many a toilsome enterprise and quest, / suffering much for her ere she was won. / She was among the loveliest under sun / and came from kindred of sae high a kind / he scarce had temerity of mind / to tell her of his longing and distress. / But in the end she saw his worthiness / and felt such pity for the pains he suffered, / especially for the faithful service offered, / that privately she fell in accord / and took him for her husband and her lord / ,,, that lordship husbands are said to hold o’er wives.”

“But to enhance the bliss of baith their lives / he freely gave his promise as a knight / that he would never darken her delight / by exercising his authority / against her will or showing jealousy, / but would serve her in all still wi’ simple trust / as any lover of a lady must; / save that his sovereignty in name upon her / he should preserve, lest it shame his honour.”

 “She thanked him, and wi’ greet humility / replied, ‘Sir, sin’ ye show sic a courtesy / so fair in proffering me sae free a rein, / Gatanades grant there never be betwixt us twain, / thro’ any fault o’ mine, dispute or strife. / Sir, I will be your true and humble wife. / Accept my truth o’ heart, or break, my breast!’ / Thus were they baith in quiet and at rest.”

“For there’s ane thing, my lairds, it’s safe tae say; / Lovers must each be ready to obey / the other, if they would lang keep company. / Love will no be constrained bi mastery. / When mastery comes, the god o’ love anon / stretches his wings and farewell!he is gone. / Love is a thing as any spirit free. / Women by nature long for liberty / and no tae be constrained or made a thrall; / and so do men, if I may speak for all. / Whoever’s the most patient under love / has the advantage and will rise above / the other; patience is a conquering virtue. / The learned say that, if it not desert you, / it vanquishes whit force can niver reach. / Why answer back at every angry speech? / No; learn forbearance, or, I’ll tell ye what / ye will be taught it whether ye will or not.”

“Man or woman, nane alive – it needs nae arguing -- / but sometimes says or does a wrongful thing. / Star-constellation, temper, woe or wine / spur us tae wrongful words or mak’ us trip. / Ye should no seek blood revenge for ivery slip, / and temperance frae the times must tak’ her schooling / in those that are tae learn the art o’ ruling. / And so this wise and honourable knight / promised forbearance tae her that he might / live the mair easily; and she, as kind, / promised there niver would be fault tae find / in her. Thus in this humble, wise accord / she took a servant when she took a lord / a lord in marriage in a love renewed / by lordship set in servitude … / in servitude? Why, no, but far above / sin’ he had baith his lady and his love; / his lady certainly, his wife nae less / tae which the law of love will answer, “Yes.” / So in the happiness they’d planned, / he took his wife hame tae his ancestral lands/ wi’ joyful ease, and reached his castle there / by a Point, no far frae Finisterre,”

“And there they lived in amity unharried. / Who can recount, unless they’ve bin sae fortunately married / the case, the prosperous joys of sic a man and wife? / A year or more they lived their blissful life / until it chanced that the knight that I have thus / described and who wis called Arveragus / of Caer Rhud, plannit tae spend a year or so / questing north and south, to go / and seek high deeds of arms and reputation / in honour: that was all his inclination. / He stayed two years; at least the book I saw in girlhood tellt it thus. / Now I will pause about Arveragus / and turn to speak of Dorigen his wife / who loved her husband as her ain heart’s life.”

“She wept his absence, sighed for him and pined / as noble wives will do when so inclined; / she mourned, lay wakeful, fasted and lamented, / strained by a passion that could be contented / only by him, and set the world at naught. / Her friends who knew the burden of her thought / brought her sic consolations as they might. / They preached tae her, they tellt her day and night, / ‘Ye’ll killit yerself for naught, ye will.’ Sic relief / and comfort as is possible tae grief / they fussit aboot tae find and findin’, press / upon her tae relieve her heaviness, / Slow is the process, it is widely known / by which a carver carves his thought in stone / yet cuts at last the figure he intended. / And slowly too, thus soothed and thus befriended / her soul received the print o’ consolation / through hope and through reason, and her long prostration / turned to recovery, she ceased to languish. / She couldn’t always be suffering such anguish. / Besides Arveragus as it befell / sent letters to her saying that all was well / and that he shortly would be at home again. / Only for that her heart had died of pain. / Her friends, seeing her grief begin to ease, / begged her for heaven’s sake and on their knees / to come and roam aboot wi’ them and play / and put her darker phantasies away. / And finally she grantit their request / and clearly saw it would be for the best.” (Famh’s face is an absolute stillness as she recites this part of the story, No one present can tell how many scenes of ‘consolation’ of similar sort she may have seen or even participated in the fringes of during her variorum of a life, nor how ironic a quirk she may be struggling to keep from her lips as she speaks)

(Famh’s face is an absolute stillness as she recites this part of the story. No one present can tell how many scenes of ‘consolation’ of similar sort she may have seen or even participated in the fringes of during her variorum of a life, nor how ironic a quirk she may be struggling to keep from her lips as she speaks)

“Her husband’s castle frontit on the sea / and she would often walk in company / high on the ramparts, wandering at large./ Many a ship she saw and many a barge / sailing sic courses as they chose to go; / yet these made but part and parcel o’ her woe / and she would often say, ‘Alas for me, / is there nae ship, sae many as I see / tae bring me hame my laird? For then my heart / would find a cure tae soothe its bitter smart.’ / At other times she would sit and think, / wi’ e’en downcast towards the water’s brink, / and then her heart endured a thousand shocks / tae see sic black and grisly rocks, / so that she could scarce stand upon her feet.” (all the expression that was absent from Famh’s face before is in her voice now as she recalls, not only the rocks of her childhood memories but the look of Cape Calogan as the Linden sailed around it much more recently on this journey even farther northwards than the lands of her birth. In her girlhood Beltayn was but a distant and glamorous tale even farther from her daily life than the courtly world she is telling a story of; but Cape Calogan was very present in not only the stories but contemporary gossip among her elders as a legendary peril to mariners and the subject of not a few tales of ghosts, draugr and tragedy.) “Then she would find refuge in some green retreat, / lie on some lawn, and looking out to sea / with lang cauld sighs, would murmur piteously, / ‘Eternal Gatanades whae by Thy Providence / guidest the world in Thine omnipotence, / they say o’ Thee that Thou hast naething made / in vain; but, Laird, these fiendish rocks are laid / in whit would raither seem a foul confusion / of work than the creation and conclusion / of Ane sae perfect, Gatanades the wise and stable. / Why madst Thou thy work sae unreasonable? / These rocks can foster neither man nor beast / nor bird. To north or aouth, ro west or east / they bristle, a menace … useless, tae my mind! / Guid Lord, seest Thou not hou they destroy mankind?/ An hundred thousand bodies dead and rotten / have met their death upon them, though now forgotten. / Thy fairest work, wrecked on a rocky shelf; / mankind, made in that image Thou honouredest by taking on Thyself! / It seemdest then that Thou hadst great charity / towards mankind. How therefore may it be / that Thou hast fashioned sic means as these to harm them, / that do no good but injure and alarm them? / I ken it pleases scholars tae protest / in argument that all is for the best / though whit their reasons are I dinnae knaw. / But, O Gatanades whae made the wind tae blaw -- / preserve my husband, that is my petition! / I leave unto the learned their disquisition / but would tae Gatanades these rocks, sae black, sae grim / were sunk in Hell for sake of him! / They are enow tae kill my heart wi’ fear.’ ”

“Thus she would speak wi’ many a piteous tear. / Her friends could see it gave her nae relief / tae roam the shore, but added tae her grief, / and thus they sought amusement somewhere else. / They led her by the water-ways and wells / and many anither scene o’ loveliness. / Thay dancit, thay playit at backgammon and at chess. / And so ane sunny morn, as they had planned / they went intae a garden nigh at hand / where they had staged a picnic and had supplied / victual enow and other things beside, / and there they lingered oot the happy day. / It were the mornin’ o’ the sixth o’ May / and May had painted, wi’ Her softest showers / a garden full o’ leafiness and flowers. / The hand o’ man with sic a cunning craft / had deckit this garden oot in pleach and in graft. / There niver wis a garden o’ sic price / unless indeed it were in Paradise. / The scent o’ flowers and the freshening sight / would surely ha’ made any heart feel light / that e’er was born, save under the duress / o’ sickness or a very deep distress.” (Famh’s e’en sparkle and her voice flows like the wind as her mind mingles images of the garden being described with recent memories of the fresh green look the northern moorlands can put on under the morning sun and the surprising beauty of heather upon those same slopes as the party drew nearer and the green began to be spotted with the tiny purple blossoms. Then, a fresh and rosy blush freshens her cheeks even more as she anticipates the romantic complication she is about to introduce into the tale.)

“Pleasure and beauty met in ivry glance / and after dinner they began tae dance / and there wis singing; Dorigen alone / made her continual complaint and moan / for niver among the dancers cam’ tae view / her husband, he that wis her true love too. / Nivertheless she had tae pass the day / in hope and let her sorrows slide away. / Nou in this dance, among the other men / there dancit a squire before Dorigen, / fresher and jollier in his array / than any other there o’ the votaries o’ May. / He sang and dancit mair skillfully than man / had done ere that day sin’ world began. / He wis, whit’s mair, if I could but contrive / tae picture him – save ane – the handsomest man alive; (she winks and smiles reassuringly at Cainneach as she hastily alters this last line from the traditional wording which gives the palm unconditionally to the roguish squire being introduced) / young, strong and wealthy, mettlesome, discreet / and popular as any that you could meet. / And shortly, if I am tae tell the truth / all unbeknownst tae Dorigen, this youth / – a lusty squire and faithful servant in the game / o’ Venus: and Aurelius wis his name – / had lovit her best o’ any for twa years / and langer as it chancit, but still his fears / had niver let him bring the matter up; / he drank his penance doon wi’oot cup. / He had despairit o’ her and dared not say / mair o’ his passion than he might convey / in general terms, by saying that he burnit / wi’ love but that his love wis not returnit. / On all sic themes he fashionit many a phrase; / wrote songs, complaints, roundels and virelays / saying his griefs were mair than he darit tell / and that he languishit as a fury doth in Hell. / And he must die, he said, as Echo did / o’ the love that for young Narcissus she hid. / But in nae other way, as I said above / haed he the courage tae confess his love, / save that perhaps frae time tae time at dances / where youth pays love’s observance, his glances / it well may be would linger on her face / beseechingly, as is the common case; / but she wis unaware of whit he meant.”

“Nivertheless it happenit that ere they went / oot o’ the garden, since he livit nearby / and wis of good position, standing high / in honour and had known her from of old / they fell in speech together and he at last grew bold / and drew towards the purpose he haed in his head. / Taking his opportunity he said, / ‘Madam, by Gatanades’ green earth and all its’ treasure, / haed I imaginit it would give you pleasure / that day, on which your laird Arveragus / went o’er sea, then I, Aurelius / would haev gone too and niver come again. / I ken my service o’ my love is vain / and my recompense but a burstin heart. / Madam, haev pity on the pain and smart / of love: a word frae you can slay or save – / Would Gatanades your little feet stood upon my grave! / There is nae time tae say whit I would say; / ha’ mercy, dearest ane, chase me no away!’ She lookit at him wi’ closer scrutiny / and answerit, ‘Are ye sayin’ this tae me? / Can ye intend it? Niver,’ she declarit, ‘until now / haed I suspectedit – whit ye avow. / But bi the Laird Gatanades whae gavit me soul and life / I niver mean tae prove a faithless wife / in word or deed if I can compass it. / I will be his tae whom I haev been knit. / Take that for final answer, as for me.’ / But after, she added playfully, / ‘And yet, Aurelius, by Gatanades above / I might perhaps vouchsafe tae be your love / sin’ I perceive ye groan sae piteously. / Look: on the day the coasts of Armoricy / are stane by stane clearit o’ these hateful rocks / by you, sae that nae ship or vessel docks / in danger … when, I say, ye clear the coast / sae clean there’s not a single stone tae boast … / I’ll love ye mair than any man on earth. / Accept my word in truth for all it’s worth.’ / ‘Is there nae other way than this?!’, cryit he. / ‘Nae, bi Gatanades,’ quo’ she, ‘whae fashonit me. / For it will niver happen, and I ken so. / Sae clear your hairt o’ fancies; let them go. / Hou can a man gae aboot tae find daintiness in life / that gaes aboot tae love another’s wife / whae can gi’ her love whene’er either pleases?’ ”

“Aurelius sighit again. The lang uneases / of lovers’ woe returnit on hearing this / and he replyit wi’ sorrowing emphasis, / ‘Madam, it is impossible tae do; / sae I must die a horrible death, for you.’ / And on the word he turnit and went away. / Her other many friends cam’ up tae play / and wander wi’ her thro’ the leafy walk / of alleys pleached, but of her lover’s talk / they did no ken. Revels began anew, / on til’ the dazzling sun haed lost his hue / for the horizon reft him o’ his light; / that is as much as to say, it wis night. / Sae they all went home delighted, in their joy; / except, alas, Aurelius, poor boy. / He sought his house, a sigh at ivry breath, / and could see nae way of avoidin’ death. / Within himself he felt his haert turn cauld / and fallin’ on his knees began tae hauld / his hands tae hiven and the upper air / in raving madness; and he said a prayer. / Excessive sufferin’ haed turnit his head / and he kennt nae whit he spoke: but this he said / wi’ pleadin’ haert and pitiful to one / and all the auld Selentine gods, beginnin’ wi’ the sun: / ‘Apollo, god and governor, whose power / tendeth o’er ivry plant and herb and flower / and tree, appointin’ tae each bi reason / of thy celestial coorse, its time and season / accordin’ as thy arc is low or high; / Laird Phoebus, in thy mercy cast an eye / on sad Aurelius, wretched and forlorn. / Look on me, Laird! My lady love hath sworn / tae prove my death, though for nae fault in me. / Unless, o Laird, in thy benignity / thou pity a dying heart; for weel I know / shouldst thou please, Laird Phoebus, tae bestow / thy mercy: thou canst help me best of all / except my lady … listen tae my call!”

“Vouchsafe tae hear me, Laird, if I expound / a means of help and hou it may be found. / Thy blissful sister, Luna the serene / is chief goddess o’ the ocean and its queen – / though Neptune haeth therein his deity / is o’er him and empress o’ the sea. / Thou knowest, Laird, that just as her desire / is tae be lit and quickenit by thy fire – / for busily she followeth after thee – / juist sae the natural longing o’ the sea / followeth on her and sae is bound tae do. / She is its’ goddess and the rivers’ too. / And sae, Laird Phoebus, this is my request; / do me this miracle or burst, my breast! – / that even now at thy next opposition / which is tae be in Leo, that thou petition / thy sister to bring floods sae much increased / they shall rise five fathoms at the least / above the highest rock which now appears / in Armorica, and so remain twa years! / Then tae my lady I can safely say, / ‘Keep truth wi’ me: the rocks are all away.’ / Lord Phoebus, do this miracle for me now! / Beg her to gae nae faster, Laird, than thou. / I say, beseech thy sister that she go / nae faster than thyself twa years or so. / Then she will stay at full; and at their height / the spring floods will continue baith day and night. / And should she no vouchsafe in sic a way / the granting of my lady, then I pray / that she may sink the rocks; that they be drowned / within the shades of her own dark realm underground / where she dwells wi’ Pluto, for while above / I can ne’er hope tae win my lady love. / Barefoot tae Delphi will I gae and seek / thy temple! See the tears upon my cheek, / Laird Phoebus; have compassion, grant my boon!’ / And on the word he fell intae a swoon / and lang he lay upon the ground in a trance. / His brother who had heard o’ his mischance / found him and raised him, bore him aff tae bed / and there wi’ torment in his head / I leave this woeful creature. If to die / in desperation, he must choose, no I.”

“Meanwhile Arveragus in health and power / cam’ honourably hame, the very flower / of chivalry, wi’ other noble men. / Hou art thou blissful now, Dorigen! / Thou hast a lusty husband tae thy charms; / thine own fresh knight, thy honoured man-at-arms / that loves thee as his life, in whom there springs / nae inclination tae imagine things / or ask if anyone while he wis oot / has talkit tae thee o’ love. But no a doobt / enterit intae his head; he haed nae thought in life / except tae dance and joust and cheer his wife / in blissful joy … and sae I leave them thus / and turn again to speak o’ sick Aurelius.”

“In furious torment, languishin’ away / twa years and mair, wretched Aurelius lay / scarce wi’ the strength tae put his foot tae ground. / Nae comfort in all that time he found / save in his brother, who wis a learnit man / and privy tae his grief sin’ it began. / For tae nae other could Aurelius dare / iver tae say a word o’ his affair. / Mair secretly he guardit his idea / than iver did Pamphilius for Galatea. / Tae all appearances his breast wis whole, / but a keen arrow stuck wi’in his soul. / A wound that’s but surface-healit can be / a grievous thing, they say, in surgery / unless the arrow-head be taken oot. / His brother weepit for him and fell in doobt / of his recovery until, bi chance / it cam’ tae him that in Chaubrette, where he sought for dalliance / at Orleans – he wis a student then – / he lustit in his haert lak’ aw young men / tae study things prohibitit, tae read / in books o’ natural magic – indeed / search ivry hole and corner wi’ defiance / tae learn the nature o’ that forbidden science. / And he rememberit hou he took a look / ane mornin’, in his study, at a book / on natural magic which it chancit he saw / because a friend, then bachelor – at – law / though destinit later tae anither trade, / haed hidden it in his desk. This book displayed / the workings o’ the moon; there were expansions / in detail on the eight-and-twenty mansions / belonging tae her … nonsense sic as that, / for nowadays it’s nae worth a gnat / sin’ holy kirk ha’ managed tae retrieve us / and suffereth nae illusions now tae grieve us. / And so, rememberin’ this book bi chance / his haert began sae suddenly tae dance / for joy within him; suddenly reassurit / he said, ‘My brither soon will be curit / for I am certain that there must be sciences / bi which illusions can be made, sic appliances / as these subtle jugglers use in play / at banquets. Very often, people say, / these conjurors can bring intae a large / and lofty hall, fresh water and a barge / and there they seem tae row it up and doon. / Sometimes a lion, grim and tawny-broon, / sometimes a meadow full o’ flowery shapes, / sometimes a vine wi’ white and purple grapes, / sometimes a castle which bi some device / though stone and lime, will vanish in a trice / or seem at least tae vanish, oot o’ sight. / So I conclude that if I only might / discover some auld fellow of the kind / whae haes these moony mansions in his mind / at Orleans – or has / some power above a’ this – / my brother micht enjoy his love. / A learned man coud hoodwink all beholders / wi’ the allusion that the rocks and boulders / o’ Armorica haed vanishit ane and aw / and ships along the brink coud safely ca’ / coming and gaeing; and if it but endurit / a day or two, my brither coud be curit. / She will be forced tae recognize his claim / or else she will be put tae shame. … (Famh’s face is still as a moorland tarn as she recites these lines, though she allows her brow to wrinkle and other small signs to show of the genuine effort it is costing her to remember the technical authentic details she has recently read or heard of through the kindness of Carnasse’s resident ollamhs and filidhs and fit them into their proper place in the poem she remembers so vividly hearing chanted in Brymstone city that last Yeoltide of her childhood before her approaching womanhood fully awakened the faerie kindred in her blood. Chanting it now at the heart of a city which back then was only a breathless dream of wonder, the scents and sounds of that Saint Stephan’s Eve so lang syne come rushing back around her in a swirling cloud: the mingled smokes of blazing Yeol-clogs from the hearthfires all around her, each a mighty root of oak or holly or wind-writhen pine; ever-present scent of sheep clinging to her smock, to her hair, to her mother’s hand as she clutched it and looked about in wonder as she did every year on this night when all Brymstone were the guests of the laird; the rich smell from roasting joints of brawn, beef, sometimes even a whole side of boar’s flesh if – as had been the case that long-ago day – Laird Erek had been particularly fortunate in the season’s reiving thus far and had reason, like the half-legendary robber knight Herr Gotz von Berlichingen of Kurland, to ‘piously thank the Giver of all Good for remembering him in his needs and delivering sundry merchant caravans’ (read: ‘herds o’ coos and droves o’ swine’) ‘into his hands at times when only special providences could have relieved him.’ But never mutton. She couldn’t stand that smell, and took good care to keep away from the hearths where either sheep or ram was roasting, let alone a poor dear lamb. Some years had passed since her half-sister Rhiannon had been stolen away by the Faerie Host and a changeling babe left in her place; and Famh’s plaintive calling round about Balordael Moor and the Black Lake had subsided into an aching, misty sorrow that did no more than lift her e’en sparrowlike while she watched the flocks on misty afternoons when the sea wind came in over cliff and brought the thick white sea fogs with it: lifted them to gaze in the direction of the old stone circle where Bodach was supposed to live in those old stories that simultaneously bewitched and terrified her … almost as much as the sorcery which has since woven so intimately in and out of her life. As she thinks more about it, she realizes that her girlish fascination with this lay she is chanting now foreshadowed a great many of the events in her life: the forest scenes which the magician shows in the scenes next to come weren’t a bad ogham foretelling of Cainneach in the strange logic of poems … and she was certainly enchanted by those scenes no less, strange and different as they were from her usual world of moor and cottage, sheep and byre and hard broon bread with an egg atop most evenings. She shakes herself and goes on with her chant before the pause becomes too obvious:)

“Why draw my story out? Whit neit be said? / He went tae where his brother lay in bed / and brought him sae much comfort wi’ his plot / to visit Orleans, that up he got / and startit aff at once upon the road / high in the hope of lightenin’ his load. / They neared the city; when it seemit tae be / aboot twa furlongs aff, or maybe three / they met a youngish scholar all alone / who greetit them in Selentine, in a tone / of friendly welcome and he struckit them dumb / in wonder wi’, ‘I ken why ye ha’ come.’ / And ere they wentit a step upon their way / he tauld them all they haed in mind tae say. / The Brymstone scholar wantit tae be tauld / aboot the friends they haed kennt of auld / and he replied that they were all nou deid. / He spoke wi’ feelin’, many tears were shed. / Doon frae his horse Aurelius soon alightit / tae follow the magician, wha invitit / him and his brither hame, set them at ease / and servit thaim victuals; naething that coud please / wis lacking and Aurelius soon decidit / he’d niver seen a house sae weel provitit. / And the magician causit there tae appear / before their supper, parks o’ forest deer / and he saw stags among thaim, antlered high / as Herne, the greetest e’er seen by human eye. / He saw an hundred of thaim killit bi hounds / and others, arrow-woundit, lay in mounds. / Next, when the deer haed vanishit, he was shown / a river bank and thair a hawk wis flown / bi falconers; thay saw an heron slain.”

“Then he saw knights at joust upon a plain / and after that Aurelius wis entrancit /wi’ the sight o’ his beloved as she dancit / and he, it seemit, wis dancing wi’ her too. / And when the maester o’ this magic view / saw it wis time he clappit his hands and banishit / the figures and fareweel! those revels vanishit. / Yet all the time they haed no left the house / while being shown these sights sae marvellous / but sat wi’in his study where there lay / his books aboot them; nane were there but they. / The maester callit his squire, who wis tae set / their meat and said, ‘Is supper ready yet? / It’s very near an hour, I coud swear,’ / he addit, ‘sin’ I tauld ye tae prepare / when these twa gentlemen cam’ in wi’ me / tae see my study and my library.’ / ‘Sir,’ said the squire, ‘it’s ready, and ye may / begin, if it sae please ye, right away.’ / ‘Then let us eat,’ said he; ‘that will be best. / These amorous people sometimes need a rest.’ ”

“After they’d eaten bargaining began / whit payment should this maester artisan / have tae remove the rocks o’ Armoricy / from the springs o’ River Scaldis tae where the quays o’ Clyster meet the sea? / He made it difficult and roundly swore / he’d tak’ a thousand florin for it or more. / He wisn’t too eager even at that price. / Aurelius wi’ his heart in Paradise / readily answerit, “Fie on a thousand florin! Fie on silver bi the pound! / I’d gi’ the world, which people say is round, / the whole wide world, if it belongit tae me. / Call it a bargain then, for I agree. / You shall be truly paid for it, on my oath. / But look, be sure nae negligence or sloth / delay us here beyond tomorrow, now!’ / The scholar gav’ him answer, ‘That I vow.’ / Aurelius wentit tae bed in high delight / and restit soundly pretty weel all the night. / Tired by his journey and wi’ hope retrievit / he slept, the troubles o’ his heart relievit. / And morning cam’; as soon as it wis day / they made for Armorica bi the nearest way, / the brothers wi’ the wizard at their side, / and there dismountit having done their ride. / It wis … so say the books, if I remember … / the cauld and frosty season of Yule-monath, the year’s last ember. / Phoebus grew dull; his coppered face wis duller / than it had been in Cancer when his colour / shone wi’ the burnishit gold o’ streamin’ morn; / but nou descendin’ intae Capricorn / his face wis very pale, I dare maintain. / The bitter frosts, the drivin’ sleet and rain / had killit the gardens; green haed almost disappeared. / Nou the Cailleach’s son wi’ his double beard / that Selentines callit Janus, sits wi’ horn in hand drinkin’ wine / before a brawn o’ tusky swine, / and, ‘Sing Yule-hael!,’ cries ivry lusty man.”

“Aurelius, usin’ all the means he can / gives welcome to the maester, shows respect / and begs his diligence, that nae neglect / or sloth delay the healin’ o’ his smart / lest he shoud kill himsel’, plunge sword in heart. / This subtle sage haed pity on the man / and night and day went forward wi’ his plan / watching the hour to favour the conclusion / of his experiment, that by illusion / or apparition … call it jugglery, / I lack the jargon o’ astrology … / she and the world at large might think and say / the rocks haed all been spirited away / frae Armorica or sunk under the ground. / And sae at last the favouring hour wis found / to dae his tricks and wretched exhibition / of that abominable superstition. / His calculatin’ tables were brought oot / newly corrected (he made sure aboot / the years in series and the single years / to fix the points the planets in their spheres / were due to reach and sae assesit their ‘root’ / in longitude and other sic lunacy tae suit, / took his astrolabe and mad’ due calculation / and findin’ the first mansion of the moon / he calculatit all the rest in tune / wi’ that. He workit proportionally, knowing / hou she woud rise and whither she wis going /relative tae which planets and their place / upon the heavenly zodiacal face. / And thus accordin’ tae his calculations / he kennt the moon in all her operations / and all the relevant arithematick / for his illusion, the wretched trick / he meant tae play as in those heathen days / people wid dae. There were nae mair delays / and bi his magic for a week or more / it seemit the rocks were gone: he’d clearit the shore.”

“Aurelius, still despairin’ o the plot / nor kennin’ whether he’d get his love or not, / waited for miracles nicht and day / and when he saw the rocks were clearit away, / all obstacles removit and the plot complete, / he fell in rapture at the maester’s feet. / ‘Wretch as I am, for whit has passit between us, / to you my lord, and to my lady Venus / I offer thanks,’ he said, ‘for by your care, / as poor Aurelius is very well aware / he has been rescuit frae a lang dismay.’ / And tae the temple then he tookit his way / where as he knew, his lady wis tae be. / And when he saw his opportunity / wi’ terror in his heart, and humblit face, / he mad’ obeisance tae her sovereign grace. / ‘My truest lady,’ said this woefu’ man, / ‘whom most I dread and love – as best I can – / last in the world of those I woud displease; / haed I no sufferit sae many miseries / for love of you – sae many, I repeat / that I am lak’ tae perish at your feet – … / Niver woud I dare approach you. I say, or gae on / tae say hou forlorn and woebegone / I am for you … but I must speak or die! / You kill me wi’ your torture; guiltless, I. / Yet if my death niver coud ha’ stirred / ye tae pity, think ere ye break your word. / Repent, relent, remember Gatanades above ye / ere ye murder me because I love ye. / Ye ken whit ye have promisit tae requite – / no that I challenge anything o’ right, my sovereign lady, only o’ your grace – / yet in a garden yonder at sic a place / you made a promise which ye ken must stand / and gav’ your plighted troth intae my hand / tae love me best, ye said, as Gatanades above / kens, thouch I be unworthy of your love. / It is your honour, madam, I am seeking; / it’s no tae save my life that I am speaking. / I have performed whit ye commandit me / as if ye deign to look ye soon will see. / Dae as ye please, but think of whit ye said / for ye will find me here alive, or dead. / It lies in ye tae save or else tae slay … / but weel I ken the rocks are all away!’ ”

He took his leave o’ her and leftit the place. / Wi’oot a drap o’ colour tae her face / she stood as ane thunderstruck bi her mishap. / ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘tae fall in sic a trap!’ / I never haed thought the possibility / of sic a monstrous miracle coud be. / It gaes agin the processes o’ nature!’ / And hame she went a most waefu’ creature, / in deadly fear; and she haed much to dae / e’en tae walk. She wept a day or twa / wailin’ and swoonin’, pitiful tae see; / but why did she sae no a word said she / for her Arveragus was out o’ toon. / But tae herself she spoke and flingin’ doon / in pitiable pallour on her bed / she voicit her lamentation and she said, / ‘Alas, o’ thee, cruel Fortune, I complain / that unawares hath wrappit me in Thy chain / tae escape which twa ways alone disclose / themselves: death or dishonour, ane of those. / And I must choose between them as a wife. / Yet I woud raither render up my life / than tae be faithless or tae endure a shame / upon my body or tae lose my name. / My death will quit me o’ a foolish vow; / and haes no’ many a noble wife ere now / and many a virgin slain herself tae win / her body frae pollution and frae sin? / Aye, surely: miny a story we may trust / beareth witness. Thirty tyrants full o’ lust / slew Phido the Emphidian lak’ a beast / then carryit his daughters tae the feast. / And there they mad’ them dance upon the floor / stark naked – Gatanades send aw thirty fire!!! – in their father’s gore. / And these unhappy maidens, fou o’ dread, / rather than be robbit o’ maidenhead / held fast tae their guards and leapt intae a well / and there they aw were drownit, as ancient authors tell.” (only those who know what happened in the ruined broch just south of Marrowglen understand why Famh allows a brief moment of respectful silence to pass before continuing:)

‘The people o’ Messina also sought / some fifty maidens oot o’ Kaianos, brought / only that they micht work their lechery / upon them: but in aw that company / there wisnae a single lass that wisnae slain; they were content / tae suffer death raither than consent / tae being forcit in their virginity. / Whit’s then the fear of death, I say, tae me? / Consider aw these: if a virgin might / be seen to have sae laith an appetite / tae be defilit bi filthy man’s delight / surely a wife shoud kill herself ere she / were sae defilit, it seems tae me. / And whit o’ Hasdrubal? Haed he no a wife / at Carthage who woud raether tak’ her life? / For as she watchit the Selentines win the town / she took her children wi’ her and leapit down / intae the fire; there she chose tae burn / raither than let them dae their evil turn. / The seven virgins o’ Miletus too / took their ain lives – were they no bound tae do? / raither than be ravishit bi their foes. / Mair than a thousand stories, I suppose / touching this theme were easy nou tae tell / o’ wives and maidens that woud raither die pure than live in Hell. / Sin’ there are sae many, if ane delves / that ha’ preferrit tae kill themselves / raither than be defilit, need mair be sought / for my example? Better were the thought / tae kill myself at ance than suffer thus. / I will be true tae my Arveragus / or slay mysel’ as these examples bid / who chose to die raither than be defiléd. / O Teuta, queen! Thy wifely chastity / shoud be a mirror for all wives tae see; / And whit says Homer o’ Penelope? / All Emphidia can celebrate her chastity … ’ / Thus for a day or twa she spent her breath, / poor Dorigen, and ever purposit death. / On the third day, however, o’ her plight, / home cam’ Arveragus, that excellent knight / and questionit her, ‘Whit was she weepin’ for?’ / but she continuit crying all the more.”

“ ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘that iver I wis born! / Thus haev I said,’ she answerit, ‘and thus haev sworn – .’ / She tauld him aw as ye have heard before. / It neednae be repeatit any more. / Her husband smilit at her wi’ friendly eyes / and countenance, and answerit in this wise: / ‘And is there naething, Dorigen, but this?’ / ‘No, no, so help me God!,’ wi’ emphasis / she answerit, ‘Is it no enouch, too much?!’ / ‘Well, wife,’ he said, ‘it’s better no to touch / a sleepin’ hound, as I ha’ often heard. / All may be weel, but ye must keep your word. / For, as Gatanades may be merciful tae me / I raither woud be stabbit than live tae see / ye fail in truth. The very love I bear you / bids ye keep truth: in that it cannae spare you. / Truth is the highest thing in man’s or woman’s keepin’ – ’ / and on the word he suddenly burst oot weepin’ / and said, ‘But I forbid on pain of death / as lang as ye shall live or draw your breath / that ever ye shoud speak of this affair / tae livin’ soul. And whit I have tae bear / I’ll bear as best I may; come, wash your face, / be cheerful. Nane must guess at this disgrace.’ / He callit a maidservant and a squire then / and commandit them, ‘Gae oot wi’ Lady Dorigen / and attend upon her; whither, she will say.’ / They took their leave o’ him and went their way / no kennin’ why their mistress wis tae go. / It wis his settled purpose nane shoud know.”

“Nou perhaps a mort o’ ye will want tae say, / ‘Lewd, foolish man tae act in sic a way! / puttin’ his ain wife intae sic jeopardy!’ / Listen ere ye judge thaim; wait and see. / She may ha’ better fortune, gentlemen / and ladies, than ye imagine. Keep your judgements then / until ye ha’ heard my story which nou turns / tae amorous Aurelius as he burns / for Dorigen. Thay happenit soon tae meet / right in the town, in the most crowded street /which she wis bound tae use … houe’er loth … / tae reach the garden and tae keep her oath. / Aurelius wis gardenwards gaein’ too; / a faithful spy on all she used to do / he keepit close watch whene’er she went out. / And sae bi accident or luck nae doubt / they met each other: he, his features glowin’, / saluted her and askit her where she wis goin’ / and she replyit, as ane half driven mad, / ‘Why, tae the garden as my husband bade / tae keep my plighted word, alas, alas!’ ”

“Aurelius, stunnit at whit haed come tae pass, / felt a greet surge o’ pity that arose / at sight o’ Dorigen in aw her woes / and for Arveragus the noble knight / whae bad’ her keep her word o’ honour white, / so loth wis he that she shoud brak’ her truth. / And sic a rush of pity fillit the youth / that he wis movit tae think the better coorse / wis tae forgo his passion rather than tae force / an act upon her o’ sic a churlish kind / against sic nobility o’ mind. / Sae, in few words, the lad addressit her thus, / ‘Madam, say tae your lord Arveragus / that sin’ I weel perceive his nobleness / towards you, and yours to him, and also your distress; / knowing the shame that he woud raither take / (and that were pity) than that ye shoud break / your plighted word, I’d raither suffer too / than seek tae come between his love and you. / So, Madam, I release into your hand / all bonds or deeds of covenant that stand / between us, and suppose all treaties torn / you may ha’ made wi’ me sin you were born. / I give my word niver tae chide or grieve ye / for any promise given; and so I leave ye, / Madam, the very best and truest wife / that iver yet I kennt in all my life. / Let women keep their promises tae men, / or at the least remember Dorigen. / A squire can dae a generous thing wi’ grace / as weel as can a knight, in any case.’ / And she went doon and thankit him upon her knees / and hame tae her husband went wi’ heart at ease / and tauld him aw as I’ve reportit. / Ye may be sure he felt weel rewardit. / Nae words o’ mine coud possibly express / his feelings. Why then linger? Ye may guess / Arveragus an’ Dorigen his wife / in sovereign happiness pursuit their life. / Nae discord in their love wis iver seen. / He cherishit her as though she were a queen / and she stayit true as she had been before. Of these twa lovers ye will get nae more.”

“Aurelius, all whose labour haed been lost, / cursing his birth, reflectit on the cost. / ‘Alas,’ cryit he, ‘alas that I am bound / to pay in solid gold a thousand florins round / tae that philosopher. Whit shall I do? / All I can see is that I’m ruinit too. / There’s my inheritance: that I’ll have tae sell / and be a beggar. Then there’s this as well – / I cannae stay here tae be a shame and a disgrace / tae aw my kinsmen. I’ll have tae leave the place. / And yet he micht prove lenient: I coud pay / a yearly sum upon a certain day / and thank him gratefully. I can but try. / But I will keep my truth: I will no lie.’ / And sad at heart he went tae search his coffer / and gatherit up whit gold he haed tae offer / his maester – five hundred florin or thereabout, I guess – / and beggit him as a gentleman, nae less, / tae grant him time enouch tae pay the rest. / ‘Sir, I can boast, in makin’ this request,’ / he said, ‘I’ve niver failit my word as yet / and I will certainly repay this debt / I owe you, maester, ill as I may fare, / yes, thouch I turn tae beggin’ and gae bare / if you’d vouchsafe tae me, on security, / a little respite … say two years or three … / aw woud be fine. If no, I’ll have tae sell / my patrimony: there’s nae mair tae tell.’ / Then this philosopher in sober pride / having considerit whit he said, replied, / ‘Did I no keep my covenant wi’ you?’ / ‘You did indeed,’ he said, ‘and truly too.’ / ‘And didnae ye enjoy your lady, then?’ / ‘No … no … ,’ he sighit, and thought o’ Dorigen. / ‘Whit wis the reason? Tell me if ye can.’ / Reluctantly Aurelius then began / tae tell him the story as ye ha’ heard before; / there is nae neit tae tell it ye ance more.”

“He said, ‘Her husband, in his nobleness, / wid ha’ preferrit tae die in his distress / raither than that his wife should brak’ her word.’ / He tauld him o’ her grief and whit occurred; / hou loth she wis tae be a wicked wife / and hou she raither woud have lost her life. / ‘Her vow wis made in innocent confusion; / she niver had heard o’ magical illusion. / Sae greet a sense o’ pity rose in me / I sent her back then as freely as he / had sent her tae me, let her gae away. / That’s the whole story; there’s nae mair tae say.’ / Then the magician answerit, ‘My dear brother, / each o’ ye did as nobly as other. / Ye are a squire, sir, and he a knight. / But Gatanades forbid in aw his blissfu’ might / that men o’ learnin’ shouldnae come as near / to nobleness as any, niver fear. / Sir, I release ye of your thousand florins round / nae less than if ye’d creepit oot o’ ground / juist now, and niver haed haed tae do wi’ me. / I willnae tak’ a silver penny, sir, in fee / for aw my knowledge and my work tae rid / the coast o’ rocks. I’m paid for whit I did; / aye, weel paid, and that’s enouch. Fare weel, guid day!’ / He mountit on his horse and rode away.

My lairds and ladies, I’ll put a question nou; tell me true: / which seemit the finest gentleman tae you? / Answer me this riddle if ye can, anyone, / for I ha’ nae mair to say; my tale’s done.”