The garden of the Lady – 3 – Courteous Jousting
.oOo.
Near the canopy, amidst the torches, a table is set under the lentisks, garnished with gruel, olives and dates.
The Lady invites the visitor to join her in the centre of the arena and turns towards the west:
–"The Dispossessed remember the Akallabêth and vow to serve your memory, O Pharazon the Golden! May your children recover your glory and the supremacy of our arms in these lands of exile!"
For a moment, the Lady's eagle profile seems to be lit by fire and beaten by tumultuous waves, painting her as the daughter of Númenor, ambitious and the holder of a secret power. The garden glows with red reflections, the shadows of long banners floating between the eucalyptus tops. Then the vision fades, the frail figure surrenders to herself, but a regal glow lingers in her eyes.
Vaguely uncomfortable, Bergil in turn recites the devotion to the 'Atalantë' used by the Dúnedain.
The Mistress of the Garden courteously leads him to his seat, while a servant lays before them freshly baked bread and deer stew. Then she sits down in turn, under an orange tree, which branches adorn her headdress with flowery garlands.
The maid arranges fine silverware and presents the ewer to the guests. The Lady then skilfully cuts the haunch herself, arranging the lion's share in front of Bergil, before bowing and sitting down again:
–"Joly Sir, please! "
Our balladeer still knows his manners well enough and bows without touching his cutlery:
–"Madam, this cannot be! "
–"Sweet Sire, will you honour my table? "
Our landless knight loves playing a gallant role with the girls:
–"A gentleman cannot break his fast without his hostess. "
La Dame coule un regard engageant vers son visiteur, mais la commissure de ses lèvres se relève, goguenarde. Le « chevalier » errant joue son rôle avec application il a promis de se bien conduire mais elle a dû déployer ses artifices pour l'en convaincre…
– Noble Sire, lance-t-elle avec un regard en-dessous, il est une tradition en ce jardin. Avant que de rompre le pain avec moi, me ferez-vous la grâce d'exaucer un vœu ? Je ne saurais manger avant cela !
Bergil se demande si la Dame s'adonne souvent aux plaisirs de la conversation courtoise et si tous les convives sont invités avec la même force de persuasion au hameau de l'arène. Il grime de grâce sa circonspection et s'incline pour répondre :
The Lady looks at her visitor with an enticing glance, but the corners of her mouth turn up in mockery. This 'errant knight' is playing his part with application; he has promised to behave well, but she has had to use her tricks to convince him...
– "Noble Sire," she says with a sweet look, "there is a tradition in this garden. Before you break bread with me, will you grant me a wish? I cannot eat before that! "
Bergil wonders whether the Lady often indulges in the pleasures of courtly conversation and whether all guests are invited to the arena hamlet with the same persuasiveness. He graciously hides his circumspection and bows to answer:
– "How shall I know, Madam, that this promise, which your benefits demand and deserve, will not contravene any pledge sworn by my faith?"
Any friendliness leaves the Lady's dark gaze, while the surrounding foliage is rustling, like a gust of wind heralding a storm. The felines roll their backs, their hair bristling and their mouths threatening.
– "You will know that by imitating the faith I have placed in the purity of your wanderings and your intentions... Were you not in a dire strait, before you found asylum in my garden? You pretend being a prudent man for a fugitive... "
Red-faced, Bergil concedes defeat:
– If I can please you with my hand or my mind, please consider me your servant!
– Your tempting words might betray you, knight!" replies the Lady with a sly smile, as the aroma of jasmine is wafting through the still night air and her lynxes curl up peacefully in their dark robes. But rest assured," she adds more graciously, "I ask only for a story to distract me before our meal. Tell me, if you will, how your wanderings have brought you to my humble courtyard!
.oOo.
Bergil doesn't ask for that much!
The braggart of the taverns, the bravado of the courts, the singer by the window at the time when beauties are having their nap, launches into a colourful tale, where the said beauties compete in loveliness - without ever reaching that of the Lady - and above all in smiles for a deprived knight, poor in goods but rich in wit.
The fatality of his gallant character leads him from flippancy to promises, from adventures to imprudences, from jokes to duels...
The tale banters like an amiable vaudeville, without end nor moral. The story's thread wanders through evasive truths, meanders between the demands of decency. Bergil's dramatic findings follow one another at random, praising a little too much the merits of the landless knight. Under the orange trees bursting with ruddy fruit, the cats purr at the feet of their mistress, who barely lifts a corner of her lip in amusement at the visitor's courteous embroidery, encouraging him with some "Is that possible?"or "On your Faith?" or "Surely?" without even a doubtful raise of the eyebrow at his shameless bluster.
The Lady revels in this youthful ardour - but doesn't this visitor know that youth and its candour are already deserting his forehead? As the tale is unfolding, the garden is adorned with brightly coloured fruits and thicker thorns. For heady lies are not allowed in the court of love... The Lady enjoys these fables and rejoices in these faults that leave her visitor in her debt...
When Bergil leaves his story for a moment, the Lady is curling up in his arms and drinking his words from the cup of his very lips. Above the couple lying down, the canopy delivers wonderful, sweet and promising fruits, like a heavenly cornucopia. Only the white cat is watching over its mistress, like an impassive marble lowering its eyelids over its watchful pupils. A thick forest, fleshy and flowery, encloses the warm bed, lined with the thorns of peril.
The landless knight emerges from a dream. Finally, he is no longer hungry. He doesn't know exactly why, but he blames himself a little and vaguely knows he is at fault.
But in a knowing whisper, the lips next to his claim their fill of fable and romance, yearning for the ephemeral sweetness of a warm breath on the wounds of spite.
.oOo.
Suddenly a tomcat leaps onto the bed, jolting the Lady out of her emotions.
Bergil recoils with a shudder of disgust, while the pet gives him a vindictive yelp and crawls to the bosom of its mistress.
The Lady looks into the changing opalescence of the feline eyes.
Her pale face becomes livid, her delicately arched nose makes a grimace, and then she looks at Bergil with a venomous gaze. The dark garden under the moon lights up with a thousand small silver eyes, attentive and hostile.
As the alarmed Dúnadan shies away, the Lady's pupils soften:
– "No, my sweet minion... No, our knight knows nothing of these dark destinies! He is devoted innocence! Dark fortune has brought him here, a docile instrument for those who know power..."
The mellowed Lady watches Bergil attentively, bending gracefully over his face and playing with his ragged crop:
– "How strange, he's nothing like that... So accessible... So predictable... But never mind, the opportunity is too good... to bend that pride..." she adds, her eyes burning with an ill-contained concupiscence.
The alarm is over. The swooning Lady blows tender words into Bergil's neck, teases the locks at his neck...
The bad boy lets himself be flattered by the attentions of this dry desert plant, whose graces are barely faded, but whose abstinence and lack of dew he feels...
– "Sire Bergil, son of Berodwen, now do your duty and bring your tale to a swift conclusion! Let my beloved enter my garden, and taste its marvellous fruits, forbidden to a clumsier knight than himself!"
The stirred foliage quivers in a warm breeze. Pastel corollas sway gently under lascivious palms. Shameless arums distil heady perfumes.
– "How does this witch know who I am? And that peremptory tone! I shall embrace whoever suits me! Giving herself, how fine! But demanding, how vile!"
The man remembers his escape - now it seems obvious to him that the felines have led him here! Odious beasts spying for a bewitching woman, however charming she may be! He adjusts his doublet and pretends to leave the bed. But the whole garden seems to have grown, the plants have multiplied with every caress his pride has made him accept. The canopy is now floating on a sea of flowers, fruits and thorns, the only resource of a couple destined for doom.
– "Do you think you owe me nothing, landless Sire, after the lies and boasts you have showered me with?"
The words are acid, but the mouth is made of honey. The reproach is bitter, but the repentance is sweet. Bergil, caught in the trap, must accept the pledge. Already vines hang from the canopy, embracing Lady and Knight, tying the lovers together.
.oOo.
Her fury exhausted, the Lady is lying languidly. After the ride, the knight cradles his lady...
The garden slumbers in the diaphanous light of dawn. The trees are gently swaying in the clear morning. The drowsy plants have closed their flowers for the night. The arena is open to the victor, who dresses and prepares to leave the place.
Bergil turns to his lover one last time for a silent farewell.
Her eyes are wide open and she's looking at him with a serious and attentive expression.
– "You must grow up now, Bergil, son of Berodwen... Learn and accept a heavier secret than your ancillary love affairs..."
An abrupt nuance comes to punctuate this announcement, in an irrevocable, almost cruel tone.
– "My name is Berùthiel. I am descended from the Lords of Umbar, the imperial port of Númenor the Sunken..."
Curiously fascinated by his mistress's words, Bergil gazes at the small, dark-haired woman perched on her silk sheets, busy raising her black hair into an elaborate headdress. All fatigue and spite have fled from her fearless face. Her somber eyes stare at the dúnadan with fierce determination, far from the languid murmurings of the night before. Her fair skin is adorned with the morning gold, her complexion radiates with pure light. While she's grooming, the garden seems to open in harmonious perspectives, unveiled by the glorious morning rays. When she rises, moulded in a black taffeta dress, the Lady's regal bearing confounds Bergil. The mistress of the garden reigns over the dazzlingly rich alleys. At sunrise, the gleaming arena sings the glory of the most desirable of women.
As Bergil is panting with desire, the Lady raises her eyes to the sky with a hint of annoyance and plunges her last words into his heart:
- So, our landless knight does not have much spirit either... I am your brother's wife, the Queen of this Land! Perhaps I will finally bear an heir to this distraught husband of the ocean...
.oOo.
The Lady is dreaming, her gaze plunged into the faded eyes of a tall, enamoured man curled in her lap. The woman's dark pupils browse the errands that animate the mind of her watchful minion:
- You won't lie to me again, will you? You know what it costs you to attempt hiding your royal brother's intentions from me?
The man purrs as the Queen scratches behind his ears. A wispy croak in the voice of her minion arouses the attention of the Lady, whose dark eyes light up with sensual curiosity:
- So Tarannon is arming ships! What dark designs carry off this poor fool? ... Come, my sweety, go and probe for me this spawnless gentleman!
.oOo.
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