The Palace of Pleasure, Volume 1

by Unknown

Loue commonly is counted the greatest passion amongs all the most greuous, that ordinarily do assault the sprites of men, which after it hath once taken hold of anye gentle subiecte, followeth the nature of the corrupt humour, in those that haue a feauer, which taking his beginning at the harte, desperseth it selfe incurablye, through all the other sensible partes of the bodie: whereof this present historie giueth vs amplie to vnderstand, being no lesse maruelous than true. Those that haue read the aunciente histories and chronicles of Spaine, haue sene in diuers places the occasion of the cruell ennimitie which raigned by the space of XL. yeares, betweene the houses of Mendozza and Tolledo, families not onely righte noble and aunciente, but also most aboundante in riches, subiectes and seignories of all the whole realme. It happened one day that their armies being redie to ioyne in battaile, the Lord Iohn of Mendozza chief of his armie, a man much commended by al histories, had a widow to his sister, a very deuout Lady, who after she vnderstode the heauie newes of that battaile, falling downe vppon her knees, praied God incessauntly, that it would please him to reconcile the two families together, and to make an ende of so manye mischiefes. And as she vnderstode that they were in the chiefest of the conflicte, and that there were a greate nomber slaine on both partes, she made a vow to God, that if her brother retorned victorious from that enterprise, she would make a voyage to Rome on foote. The ouerthrowe fell (after much bloudshead vpon them of Tolledo. Mendozza brought away the victorie, with the lesse losse of his people. Wherof Isabell aduertised, declared vnto her brother the vow that she had made. Which seemed very straung vnto him, specially how she durst enterprise so longe a voyage on foote, and thoughte to turne her purpose, howbeit she was so importunate vppon him, as in the ende hee gaue her leaue, with charge that she should go wel accompanied and by small iourneis, for respect of her health. The Ladie Isabell being departed from Spaine, hauing trauersed the mountaines Pirenees, passed by Fraunce, went ouer the Alpes, and came to Thurin, where the Duke of Sauoye had then for wyfe, a sister of the kinge of Englande, whoe was bruted to be the fairest creature of the weste partes of the world. For this cause the Lady Isabel desired greatly in passing by to see her, to know whether truth did aunswere the great renowne of her beauty. Wherein she had fortune so fauourable, that entring into Thurin, she found the Duchesse vpon her Coche, goinge abroade to take the ayre of the fields: which the Lady Isabell vnderstandinge, stayde to behold her, being by fortune at that present at the doore of her Coche. And then with great admiration, considering the wonderfull beautie of that princesse, iudging her the chiefest of beautie of al those that she had euer seene, she spake somewhat loude in the Spanish tongue, to those of her companie, in this maner: “If God woulde haue permitted that my brother and this Princesse might haue married together, euery man might well haue said, that there had bin mette the moste excellente couple for perfection of beautie, that were to be found in all Europa.” And her wordes in deede were true: for the Lord Mendozza was euen one of the fairest knightes that in his time was to be found in all Spaine. The Duchesse whoe vnderstoode the Spanishe tongue very well, passing forth, behelde all that companie: and fayninge as thoughe shee had not vnderstande those woordes, thoughte that shee surely was some greate Lady. Wherefore when shee was a litle paste her, she saide to one of her pages: “Marke whether that ladye and her companye go to their lodging, and say vnto her, that I desire her, (at my returne) to come and see mee at my Castell.” Which the page did. So the Duchesse walking a long the riuer of Poo, mused vppon the words spoken by the Spanishe Ladye, which made her not longe to tarie there, but toke the waye backe againe to her Castel, where being arriued, she founde the Lady Isabell, who at the Duchesse request, attended her with her company: and after dutiful reuerence, the Duchesse with like gratulacion, receiued her very courteouslie, taking her a part, and demaunding her of what prouince of Spaine shee was, of what house, and what fortune had brought her into that place. And then the Lady Isabell made her to vnderstand, from the beginninge, the occasion of her long voyage, and of what house she was: the duchesse vnderstanding her nobilitie, excused her selfe, for that shee had not done her that honour which shee deserved, imputinge the faulte vpon the ignorance of her estate. And after diuers other curteous communications the Duchesse pressed her to know whereunto the wordes tended that shee had spoken of her, and of the beautie of her brother. The Spanishe lady somewhat abashed, saide vnto her: “Madame, if I had knowen so much of your skill in our tongue, as now I do, I would haue beene better aduised before I had soe exalted the beautie of my brother, whose praise had beene more commendable in the mouth of another: yet thus much I dare affirme (without affection be it spoken), as they that know him can report, that hee is one of the comliest Gentlemen that Spaine hath bredde these twenty yeares. But of that which I haue saide touching your beautie, if I haue offended, muche a doe shall I haue to get the same pardoned, because I cannot repent mee, nor say otherwise, except I should speake contrary to truth. And that durste I enterprise to be verified by yourselfe, if it were possible that nature for one quarter of one houre onelye had transported into some other that which with right great wonder she sheweth to be in you.” Wherunto the Duchesse to the ende shee woulde seeme to excuse her prayse, aunswered with a litle bashfulnes, which beautified much her liuely colour, saying: “Madame if you continue in these termes, you will constraine me to thincke, that by chaunging of place you haue also chaunged your iudgemente: for I am one of the leaste to be commended for beauty of all this lande, or els I will beleeue that you haue the beautie and valour of my Lorde your brother soe printed in your minde, as all that whiche presenteth it selfe vnto you, hauinge anye apparaunce of beautie, you measure by the perfection of his.” And at that instante the Ladie Isabell, whoe thoughte that the duchesse had taken in euill parte the comparison that she had made betweene her brother and her, somwhat in choler and heate, said vnto her: “Madame, you shall pardon mee for that I haue so much forgotten my selfe, to presume to compare your beautie to his: whereof if he be to be commended, yet I maye well be blamed, being his sister, to publishe the same in an vnknowen place: notwithstanding, I am wel assured, that when you shall speake, euen with his enemies, that yet besides his beautie, they will well assure him to be one of the gentlest and best condicioned gentlemen that liueth.” The Duchesse seinge her in these alterations, and so affected to the praise of her brother, toke great pleasure in her speach, and willingly woulde haue had her to passe further, had it not bin for feare to offende her, and to put her in a choler. And to thintent to turne her from that matter, she commaunded the table to be couered for supper, where she caused her to be serued honourably of all the most delicate and most exquisite meates that were possible to be gotten. Supper done, and the tables vncouered, after they had a little talked together, and that it was time to withdrawe themselues, the Duchesse the more to honor her, would that she should lodge in her chamber with her, where the pilgrime (wearied with the way) toke very good rest. But the Duchesse pricked with the strange talke of the Lady Isabell, hauing a hammer working in her head, could not sleepe. And had so wel the beauty of the unknowen knight graued in the bottom of her hart, as thinking to close her eyes, she thought that he flew continuallye before her like a certaine fansie or shadowe. In sorte, that to know further what he was, she would gladly haue made greater inquirie. Then sodainlye after a little shame and feare intermingled with a certain womanhoode longe obserued by her, and therewithall the fidelitie which shee bare to the Duke her husbande, presentinge it selfe before her, shee buried altogether her first counsell which died and tooke ende, euen so sone almoste as it was borne. And so tossed with an infinite number of diuers thoughtes passed the night, vntill the daye beginning to lighten the world with his burning lampe, constrained her to ryse. And then the Lady Isabel, ready to departe, went to take leaue of the Duchesse, who willingly would haue wished that she had neuer sene her, for the newe flame that she felt at her harte. Neuerthelesse, dissembling her euill, not able to holde her any longer, made her to promise by othe, at her retourne from her voyage, to repasse by Thurin, and after she had made her a very liberall offer of her goodes, taking her leaue, she left her to the tuicion of God. Certaine dayes after the departing of the Spanish lady, the Duchesse thinking to quenche this new fier, the same began further to flame, and the more that hope failed her, the more did desire encrease in her. And after an infinite number of sundrie cogitacions, Loue got the victorie. And she resolued with her selfe in the ende, whatsoeuer might come thereof, to communicate her cause to one of her beloued damsels called Emilia, and to haue her aduise, in whom she wonted to repose her trust in all her secrete affaires, and causing her to be called for secretely, she said vnto her: “Emilia, I beleue that if thou hast taken any good heede to my auncient maner of behauiour, euer since I departed from England, thou haste knowen me to be the very ramper and refuge of all afflicted persons. But now my destenies be turned contrarie. For I haue nowe more neede of counsel than any other liuing creature, and hauing no person about me worthy to be priuie of my misfortune, but thou, my first and last refuge is to thee alone: of whom I hope to receiue consolation in a matter whiche toucheth me no lesse than my life and honour.” And then the Duchesse declared vnto her priuily, how since the departing of the Lady Isabell she had had no reste in her minde, and how she was enamoured of a knight whome she neuer sawe, whose beautie and good grace had touched her so nere, as being altogether vnable any longer to resiste her mishap, she knew not to whom to haue recourse, but to the fidelitie of her counsell: adding thereunto for conclusion, that she loued him not dishonestly, or for hope she had to satisfie any lasciuious appetite, but onely to haue a sight of him: whiche (as shee thought) would bring unto her such contentation, as ther by her grief shoulde take ende. Emilia who euer loued her maistresse as she did her owne heart, had great compassion vpon her, when she vnderstode the light foundation of her straunge loue: neuerthelesse desiring to please her euen to the last point of her life, she said vnto her: “Madame if it wil please you to recreate your selfe from these your sorrowes, and to respite me onely twoo dayes, I hope to prouide by some good meanes that you shal shortly see him who vndeseruedly doth worke you all this euill.” The Duchesse nourished with this hope, desired her effectually to thinke vppon it: promising vnto her, that if her woordes came to good effect, she would make her such recompence as she her self should confesse she had not done pleasure to an ingrate or vnthankefull woman. Emilia which had the brute to be one of the moste subtile and sharpe witted dames of all Thurin, slept not during the time of her prescription. But after she had searched an infinite number of meanes to come to that which she desired, there was one that semed moste expedient for that purpose, and of least perill aboue other. And her time of delaye expired, shee went to Madame the Duchesse, and sayd: “Madame, God knoweth howe many troubles my minde hath sustayned, and how much I haue striued with mine own conscience to satisfie your commaundement, neuerthelesse, after I had debated thinges so substantially as was possible, I coulde deuise nothing more worthy your contente, than that whiche I wyll nowe declare vnto you, if it wyll please you to heare mee. Whiche to be short is, that for the execution of this our enterpryse, it behoueth you to fayne your selfe to be sicke, and to suffer your selfe to be trayned into suche maladies as there shall rather appeare in you token of death, than hope of lyfe. And being brought into such extremitie, you shall make a vowe (your health recouered) to go within a certayne time to Saint Iames on pilgrimage, which thing you may easely obtayne of the Duke your husbande. And then may you make your voyage liberally with the Ladye Isabell, who will passe this waye vpon her retourne, without discouering your affection vnto her, and wyll not fayle by reknowledging the curtesie that you haue vsed towardes her in these partes, to conduct you by her brother’s house, wher you may see him at your ease, that maketh you to suffer this great torment. And I will aduertise you furthermore of one thing, which till this time I haue kept close, whiche is: that for as mutch as we two togethers cannot without great difficultie accomplishe our businesse, it hath seemed good vnto me to know of you, if you would that a third persone shalbe called hereunto, who is so much at my commaundement as I dare comit my trust vnto him. It is maister Fraunces Appian the Millanor, your phisitian, who (to say the very truth vnto you) hath bene so affectioned to mee this yeare or two, as he hath not ceassed by al meanes possible, to wynne me (but to honest loue) for he pretendeth to marry me. And because that hetherto I haue made small accompt of him, and haue not vsed any fauour towards him, nor hitherto any good entertainement, I assure my self seing the great amitie that he beareth me, that if I did but fauorably behold him fiue or sixe times with pleasaunt lookes, adding therunto a few kisses, he would hazard a thousand liues for my sake if he had them, to content me. And for as much as I know him to be a diligent man, learned, and of great reputation, and one that may stande vs to great stead in this busines, I thought good not to conceale or kepe from your knowledge my aduise herein.” The Duchesse vnderstanding all this pretie discourse, so apt for her affections (rauished with great ioye) embraced hard Emilia, and saide vnto her: “Emilia my deare friend, if thou diddest knowe in what wise I do esteme thee, and what I meane in time to come, to bestowe vpon thee, I am well assured, albeit thou hast hetherto sufficiently shewed thy good will, yet thou wilt hereafter doe me greater pleasure promising thee, by the faithe of a Prince, that if our enterprise doe well succeede, I will not vse thee as a seruaunt, but as my kinswoman and the best beloued frend I haue. For I holde my selfe so satisfied with that thou hast sayd vnto me, as if fortune be on our side, I see no maner of impediment that may let our enterprise. Goe thy way then, and entertaine thy Phisitian, as thou thinkest best, for it is very expedient that he be a partie, and for the rest let me alone: for neuer was there any Lazar that better coulde dissemble his impotencye, than I knowe how to counterfeit to be sicke.” The Duchesse being departed from Emilia, began to plaine her selfe bitterly, faining sometime to fele a certain paine in her stomack, sometime to haue a disease in her head, in such sort, as after diuers womanly plaintes (propre to those that feele themselues sicke) she was in the end constrayned to laye her self downe, and knew so well howe to dissemble her sicknesse, as (after she had certaine dayes kept her bedde) there was mutch doubt of her health. And during this time Emilia had layed so many amorous baytes to seede her Phisitian, that he whiche knewe very well the moste happy remedies for the body, could not now finde out any that was able to heale the maladie of his owne minde. Emilia hauing noseled maister Appian with amorous toyes, began to make him vnderstande the originall of the Duchesse sickenesse, the effectes of her passion, the order that she had vsed during the furious course of the same: adding thereunto for conclusion, that if he would keepe the matter secrete, and ayde them with his counsell, she would by and by promise hym mariage by woordes, for the present tyme, and that from thenceforth she would neuer denie him any fauour or priuitie. That onely reserued which no man can honestly demaunde, till the mariage be solempnized in the face of the church. In witnesse wherof she kissed him with great affection. The Phisitian more eased there withall, than if he had sene his Hippocrates or Galen, raysed againe from death, promised rather to lose his life than she should want his helpe. And for the better beginning of this enterprise, they wente presentlye to visite the Duchesse: in whom they found her pulse so to beate, the tongue so charged, the stomacke so weakened by continuall suffocation of the matrice, that the pacient was in verye great perill of death. Whereunto euery man did easely geue credite for the reputation and great experience of the Phisitian: and maister Appian hauing commauuded all the chamber to be voyded, made the Duchesse to vnderstande in fewe wordes, how it behoued her to gouerne her selfe. And the better to cloke her cause, he brought her at that instant a little perfume, by receiuing the sauour wherof she should often times fal into certaine litle soundinges, and by vsing the perfume it woulde diminishe her colour for a time, and make her looke as though she had kepte her bed halfe a yeare before: neuerthelesse it should doe her no other displeasure, and that in three or foure dayes, with certaine other drugges, hee would restore her colour so freshe as euer it was. Whiche counsell the Duchesse liked best of any thing in the world. And they three together played their partes so wel, as the common brute throughout all the citie was, that the Duchesse was in great daunger of death. The duke being aduertised of these thinges, caused all the phisitians of Thurin to assemble, to prouide for the health of the Duchesse: who being come together, with the Duke into her bedde chamber, a litle after she had receiued maister Appian’s perfumes: and seing her to sowne diuers times before them, were in great dispaire of her health. And after they had somewhat debated the matter with Maister Appian, not knowing wherupon to resolue, they said vnto the Duke, that it behoued him to prouide for her soule, for that they saw in her the ordinarie tokens and messangers of death. The poore Duke being sorowfull beyond measure, for that he loued the Duchesse entierly, sent for the Suffragane of the Bishop of Thurin, a man of uery holy life, to thintent he might geue her ghostly councell. To whom she confessed her self with a voyce so feeble, that it seemed to be more than halfe dead. Her talke was not long, but yet she made him beleue that nature failed her, and that by litle and litle she drewe towardes her ende: desiring him to haue her and her poore soule in remembraunce when he made his orisons and praiers. The Suffragan being gone, the Duke and others, with a great number of Gentlemen and Ladies, went into the chamber. But she began then to enter into so great rauing, as euery body was afeard of her. And after that she had tossed her selfe in her bed like a senselesse creature, her speach fayled her. Whereat those present, stricken with no smal wonder, thinking the soule would straight wayes haue departed the body, some of them cried vpon her, Madame remember Iesus, som other S. Barbara. But wilie Emilia more priuie of her counsell than the rest, taking her tenderly by the arme, cried upon her with a loude voice: “Madame call vpon S. Iames, who hath so often succoured you in youre aduersities.” And with that the Duchesse awaked as it wer out of a heauy sleepe, and rowling her eyes to and fro, with a straunge trembling of all her members, began to pronounce with an interrupted voyce: “O glorious Apostle, in whome from my tender youth, I haue euer had my stedfast trust and hope, be now mine intercessor in this cruel assault of death, to Iesus Christ. And I make a vowe nowe vnto thee, that if I may recouer health, I will my self in person, go honor thy sacred body, in the proper place where it reposeth.” And hauing ended her fayned prayer, she counterfaited a sleepe, and so continued the space of twoo or three houres, whiche caused all the companie to withdrawe themselues, excepte the poore Duke, who would not depart from her vntil she waked, and in the meane time ceassed not to praye to God for the health of his loyall spouse. After shee had so well plaied this pageaunt by the space of an houre or twoo, faining then to awake, she began to stretche forth her armes and legges with suche force, as whosoeuer had heard the noyse, would easely haue iudged that she had bene deliuered from some great torment. And beholding the Duke her husband, with a pitifull eye (who had leaned his head nere vnto her’s in the bed) she cast her stretched armes negligently vpon his neck, and kissing him sayd; “Now may I safely kisse you my Lorde, that within these three houres was in such pitifull plight, as I thought my self for euer depriued of that benefit. Thankes be geuen to God and that good Sainct to whom I made my vow I am presently so wel eased, as if I fele myself no worse, I will yet deteine you (husband) a while from an other mariage.” But the poore Duke altogether rauished with ioye, hauing his white beard all tempered with teares, knew not what answere to make, but behelde her with such admiration, as he seemed to be besides himself. And in the meane time certayn whiche wer at the dore, hearing them speake, entred the chamber, who finding the Duchesse somwhat better then she was, published her recouerie incontinently throw al the citie, whereof the citizens being aduertised (because they loued her dearly) made processions and other thankesgeuing to God, as in cases like are accustomed. Within a whyle after, the Duchesse began by litle and litle to taste her meates, and to vse suche diet as shee recouered her former health. Except the newe plague which pynched her tender harte for the Lorde Mendozza, whiche she could not cure, but by the presence of him that bare the oyntment boxe for that sore. And so long she continued in the amorous thoughtes, till the Lady Isabell retourned from her pilgrimage, who came to the castell according to her promise. And after friendly gretinges one of an other, the Duchesse made her to vnderstande how since her departure she had neuer almost commen out of her bed, for that she had been afflicted with a moste grieuous sickenesse. Neuerthelesse by the helpe of God, and the intercession of good S. Iames (to whom she had vowed her selfe) she had recouered health. And if she could obtaine leaue of the Duke her husband, she would thinke her selfe happy to make a voyage thither in her companie. Which the Spanishe Lady persuaded by all meanes possible, shewing vnto her many commodities, she should finde in Spayne, and the honorable company of Gentlemen and Ladies, who at her arriuall there (if it would please her to doe them so muche honor as to visite them in passing by) would leaue nothing vndone for the best manner of entertainement that possibly might be deuised. And by this meane the Ladye Isabell thought to pricke her forward, who was in dede but to quicke of the spurre already, and thinking euery houre VII. determined one morning thereof to moue the Duke her husbande, to whom she sayd: “My Lorde, I beleue that you doe sufficiently well remember my trouble paste, and the extreme martyredome that I suffred in my late sickenesse, and namely of the vowe whiche I made for recouery of my health. Nowe finding my selfe whole and strong, my desire is that with your licence I might accomplishe my voyage, specially with so good opportunitie: for the noble woman of Spayne of whome I have heretofore told you, is returned, and it should be a great ease to vs both to go in companie together. And for so much as it is a matter of necessitie, and that early or late, I must aduenture to paye my vowed debte, it is best both for my commoditie and also for my honour, to goe in her companie.” Whereunto the good Duke did willingly accorde: who neuer had any manner of suspicion that sutch a treason was lodged in the harte of so great a Princesse. And hauing giuen order for all things requisite for her departing, she tooke a certaine number of Gentlemen and damsels, amongst which, Maister Appian and Emilia were not forgotten, and being all apparelled in pilgrimes weedes, by long trauaile and weary iourneis, after they had passed the cold Alpes, they came into the countie of Rossilion, and entred into Spayne: and then the Duchesse feling her selfe to approche the place where her harte of long tyme had taken hold, desired the Lady Isabell and her company earnestly, not to make it knowen to any persone what she was. And so traueiling by small iourneyes, and deuising of diuerse matters, they arriued within two litle dayes iourney to the place where the Lorde of Mendozza kept his ordinarie housholde. For which cause the Spanishe lady entreated the Duchesse not to be offended, if she sent some one of her men before to geue aduertisement of their comming, which the Duchesse graunted. And the messenger finding the Lord of Mendozza readie to receiue them, and hauing done him to vnderstand of the coming of the Duchesse, of the first talke betwene her and his syster, of the great entertainement that she had geuen them, of the singuler beautie with the which she was adorned: he was not so grosse but that he knewe by and by, that the Duchesse at those yeares, had not bene so liberall of her labour, to make such a voiage one foote, without some other respect: and dissembling what he thought, caused thirty or fortie of his gentlemen incontinently to make them ready. To whome making as though hee would goe hunte the Hare, he went to meete the Duchesse: and hauing discouered them a farre of in a fielde, the Lady Isabelle did forthwith knowe theim. Who aduertised the Duchesse that he which ridde vppon the whyte Ienet of Spayne, was the Lorde of Mendozza her brother, and that the other were his servauntes. The Prince then after he had made his horse to vaute three or foure times aloft in the ayre, with an excellent grace and marueilous dexteritie lighted from his horse, and kissing her hand, sayd vnto her: “Madame, I beleue that if the wandering knightes of olde tyme, who haue eternized their memorie, by an infinite numbre of renowmed victories, had had so muche good lucke, as many tymes in their aduentures to meete with such pilgrimes as you be, they woulde willinglye haue abandoned the Launce and Murrion, to take the Staffe and Scrippe.” The Duchesse then beyng comparable with anye ladye of her tyme, for her education and comely talke, assayled with ioye, feare, and shame, that no lacke of dutie might be founde in her, sayde vnto hym: “And in deede my Lorde like as if the knightes of whom you speake, had tasted of some good hap (as you terme it) by meting with such pilgrimes: so also we hope that the Saint to whome we be vowed, in the honor of whom we haue enterprised this perillous voyage, will receiue vs in good parte: otherwyse our payne were altogether loste, and our iourney euil imployed.” And after they had geuen this first amorous atteint, the Lord of Mendozza taking her by the arme, conducted her vnto his castell, deuising of pleasaunt matters. And he was greatlye astonned, to see so rare a beautie, as appeared in the Princesse: whiche neither the wearinesse of the waye, nor the parching beames of the Sunne, coulde in any wyse so appaire, but that there rested ynough, to drawe vnto her the very hartes of the moste colde and frosen men of the world. And albeit the Lorde of Mendozza tooke great pleasure and admiration in beholding her, yet was it nothing in respect of the Duchesse: who after she had aduised and well marked the beautie, excellency, and other good giftes of grace, in the Lorde of Mendozza, she confessed that al that which she had heard of his sister, was but a dreame in comparison of the proufe, which discouered it selfe vpon the first viewe: seeming vnto her by good iudgement, that all the beauties of the worlde were but paintinges, in respect of the perfection of that whiche shee sawe with her eyes. Wherin she was not deceiued, albeit that her feruent loue might haue bewitched her senses. For all the histories in Latine, Spanishe, and Italian, the whiche make mention of Mendozza, geue vnto him the firste place in beautie of all the Princes and Lordes that were in his tyme. The poore Duchesse, after she had manifested by outwarde gestures, and countenaunces, to the Lord of Mendozza, that which was in the inward part of her harte, without receiuing the full satisfaction of his sight, whiche she desired, determined (hauing soiourned three dayes in his castell) to departe the nexte morning (vnwares to the knight), to performe her voyage. And so soone as the light of the daye began to appeare, she went to the chamber of the Lady Isabell, whom she thanked affectuously, aswell for her good companye, as for the great courtesie and humanitie, that she had receiued in her house. And hauing taken leaue of her, departed with her traine. The knight Mendozza, about an houre or two after her departure, aduertised thereof, was greatly troubled, what the matter might be that she was gone without taking leaue of him. And after that he had a little thought therupon, he easely perceiued, that all the fault therof was in him selfe: and that this great Princesse had abandoned her countrie, of purpose by all iudgement to visite him, and that he had shewed himself very slacke for her satisfaction, in that he had not offred her his seruice: wherat being iustly greued, she did not vouchsafe to geue him a farewell. And so accusing himselfe, he determined to followe after her, accompanied onelye with twoo pages. And beyng on horsebacke, it was not long before hee espied her in the hyghe waye to Saint Iames, where lighting, hee walked twoo myles with her, reasonyng the matter without intermission: desiring her amonges other thynges, to let hym vnderstand what displeasure shee had concerned in his house, that caused her so spedy and secret a departure: adding thereunto, that if her pleasure were, he would accompanie her to the place whether she was vowed, and would also reconduct her in his owne persone to Thurin, in so honourable sorte, as she should finde cause to be contented. Then passing further, with sighes sayd vnto her: “Madame, fortune had done me a great benefite, if when my sister made her vowe to go to Rome, I had lost the battaile against mine enemies, and that her vowe had bene without effect. For it might haue bene that I should haue remained quiet by the losse of some of my people. But alas, I fele now, since your comming into this countrie, a battaile so cruel, and assault so furious in my harte, as not being able any longer to resiste it, I finde my selfe vanquished, and caught captiue, in such sorte as I know not to whom to complain, but to you, which is the motion of all my disquietnesse: and yet, which grieueth me most, you dissemble as though you did not vnderstand it. And to bring me to my last end, you are departed this day out of my house, not daining to see me, or to appease me with one farewel, which hath so further inflamed my passion, as I die a thousand times a day. Beseching you for the time to come, to entreate me more fauourably, or you shall see me, in that state, wherein you would be loth to see your enemy: which is, most cruel death.” And in dede, he shewed sufficiently, how great the grief was that pressed him, and how well the passion that he felt, was agreable to the wordes which he spake: for in pronouncing his wordes he sighed so in his tale, and changed his colour so often, and had his face so besprent with teares, as it semed his soule attached with superfluous sorrowe, would at that very instant haue abandoned his bodye. Which the Princesse perceiuinge, touching at the quicke the very spring of all his euill, sayd vnto him: “Seignior Mendozza, I know not what you wold that I should do more for you, nor for what occasion you do pretende, that I should be the cause of your death: for if the occasion thereof should happen through my default, my life by strengthe or abilitie, could not endure one houre after, for the sorowe I should conceiue therof. Thinke me to be yours, and be not offended, I besech you, if openly I doe no longer talke with you: for I would not to winne al the goodes in the world, that any of this traine which doth accompany me, should perceiue any one sparke of the great kindled fire, wherin my harte burneth day and night for you, being assured that if you had felt one houre of my payne, in place to accuse me of crueltie, your self complaining, wold pitie the griefe whiche I haue sustained for your long absence: for without the continual presence of your persone, representing it selfe in the eyes of mine understanding, with a firme hope once to haue seen you: it had bene impossible for me, to resist the long and hard assaulte, wherwith loue hath euery houre assailed me. But one thing I must nedes confesse vnto you, that by reason of the cold welcome which you made me in the beginning, I thought it preceded of some euill opinion conceiued of me or peraduenture that you had thought me ouer liberall of mine honour, to haue left the countrie where I commaunde, to render my selfe subiect to your good grace, which caused me without leaue to depart your house. But now that I do know by your countenaunce and teares, the contrarie, I acknowledge my fault, and desire you to forget it. With full promise that vppon my retourne from my voiage of S. Iames, I will make you amendes, in the very same place, wher I committed the fault: and remaining your prisoner for a certaine time, I wil not depart from you, vntill I have satisfied, by sufficient penance the greatnes of my trespas. In the meane time you shal content your selfe with my good will: and without passing any further retorne againe home to your castell, for feare least some suspicious persone in my company should conceiue that in me, which all the dayes of my life I neuer gaue occasion so much as once to thinke.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza obeied, more to content her than otherwise, for hee had the beauties and good behauiours of the Princesse, so imprinted in the moste pleasaunt place of his harte, as he would haue desired neuer to haue departed her companie. But like as they determined iocundly, to imploy and satisfie their desire, at her retorne from her voyage, euen so fortune in the meane while did beset the same, and so fully brake the threde of their enterprises, as the issue had not so good successe, as was their prefixed hope. Now leaue we the Duchesse to perfourme her voyage, and the Lord of Mendozza to entertain his amorous passions, and let vs digresse to the duke, who about X. or XII. dayes after the Duchesse his wife was departed, began to fele her absence, which not being able to susteine for the great loue he bare vnto her, and specially knowing the great fault that he had committed (being the sister of a king and wife of such a Prince) so to let her go like an vnfeathered shaft, in so long a voyage: determined with him selfe (for feare least if any misfortune happening vnto her, the same should touch his honour) to call together his counsel, and to prouide some remedie. The counsel assembled, and the cause proponed, euerie of them told the Duke that he had ouer lightly consented to the will of the Duchesse, and that if she should chaunce to incure any inconuenience, all men would impute it to his reproch wherof they would haue aduertised him at the beginning, sauing for feare they had to displease him: adding for conclusion, that it was most expedient the Duke should put himselfe on the sea to goe seeke her in Galisia. Which he did, and imbarked him selfe with a great companie of gentlemen, to whome the winde was so fauourable, as he ariued at S. Iames before her: and hauing made enquirie for her, vnderstode she was not come. Neuerthelesse he was aduertised by certaine pilgrims, that it could not be long before she would be there, for that they had left her not paste three or foure dayes iourney from thence, traueiling with her trayne, by small iourneis: wherof the Duke was exceading glad, and sent certaine of his gentlemen to mete her vpon the way, as she came, who rode not farre before they met the Duchesse with her companie, and did her to vnderstand of the Duke’s arriuall, and of the cause of his comming from Thurin. Which tidinges was not very ioyfull to her, and by her will would have wished that he had not taken so much paynes: neuerthelesse, preferring honor before affection, she made the more haste to see him, and at her arriuall seemed to bee glad of his comming, and to lament the payne that he had taken by committing himselse in so many daungers for her sake. Afterwardes they entred into the churche with great deuotion, where when the Duchesse had made certaine particuler praiers, shee began to perceiue that God had withstanded her lasciuious wil, and pitying the good Duke her husband, would not permit him to be deceiued in suche disloyal sort, repentantly bewayling her forepassed faulte. And feling herself pressed euen at the very soule with a certaine remorse of conscience, she was so victorious over her affections, as she determined wholly to forget Mendozza and his beautie: praysing God neuerthelesse that it had pleased him to graunt her the grace so well to dispose her matters, that her affections had not exceeded the bondes of honor: determining from thenceforth, not onely to put Mendozza in vtter obliuion, but also for euer clerely to cut of his amorous prastise, and therfore would not so much as bid him once farewell, nor yet to let him in any wise vnderstand those newes. And so settled in this deliberation, solicited her husbande very instantly to departe, whiche he did, and all thinges prepared to the Sea, they toke againe their course to Thurin, and had the wynde so prosperous, as from thence in fewe dayes after, they arriued at Marsellis; and wearye of the Seas, he caused horses to be prepared to ryde from thence to Thurin by land, wher he and his wife liued together in right great ioy and amitie. The Lorde of Mendozza greatly payned with the long absence of the Duchesse, sent a gentleman of purpose to Galisia to know the cause of her long tarying. Who brought certain newes that the Duke was comen in persone to fetche his wife, and that he caried her awaye with him by Sea; wherewithal he was marueilously out of pacience, determining neuerthelesse one daye when his affaires were in good order, to go visite her at Thurin. During the time that these thinges remained in this estate, as well of the one side, as of the other: the Almaines prepared a great army, and entred into Fraunce, where they wasted and burned al the countrey as they passed. The king being aduertised hereof, sent for the Duke of Savoie, to goe mete them with the men of armes of Fraunce. But before his departure from Thurin, he lefte for his Lieutenant generall, the Earle of Pancalier, by the aduise and counsell of whome he intended that all the affaires of the Duchie should be ruled and gouerned in his absence, and that he should in so ample wyse be honoured and obeyed, as his owne persone. This Earle of Pancalier was a nobleman, verie prudent in his doinges, and knewe right well how to gouerne the common wealth, who seing that hee had the whole countrie at his commaundement, and hym selfe many tymes in presence of the Duchesse, viewing her so fayre and comelie, could not so well rule his affections, but that by litle and litle he fell into loue with her, in such wyse as hee forgat hym selfe, making no conscience to offer his seruice vnto her. But the Princesse, who was resolued to lyue a good woman, abhorred all his lasciuious orations, requiring hym to bee better aduysed another tyme, before he presumed to vtter sutche talke, excepte to sutch that were his equals. Telling hym that a man ought not to bee so vnshamfast to offer his seruice to anye great Ladie, or to make other sute vnto her, before hee hadde fyrste knowen by her gesture or woordes, some lykelyhoode of loue: which he could not deeme in her, for so much as she neither to him or to any other had euer, (til that day in all her life) shewed such fauour, as other suspicion could be conceiued, but that which was conuenable and meete for her honour. Which when the Countie of Pancalier vnderstoode, he toke his leaue of her, ashamed of that he had done. But he folowing the custome of louers, not thinking himselfe cast of for the first refuse, eftsones renewed his requestes: and framing a louing stile, besought her to haue pitie vppon him, and to respect the greatnesse of his passion: and that he could not prolonge his life without the fauour of her good grace, who onely was the very remedie of his euill. The Duchesse pestred with such like talke, said vnto him: “Sir Countie, me thinke you ought to haue satisfyed your selfe with my first deniall, without further continuance in the pursuing of your rash enterprise. Haue you forgotten the place that you keepe, and the honour whereunto my Lorde the Duke my husbande hath exalted you? Is this nowe the loyall reward that you render vnto him for creating you his Lieutenaunt ouer all his landes and seignories, to demaund the preheminence of his bedde? Assure your selfe for final warning, that if euer hereafter you shal againe fall into like error, I sweare vnto you by the faith of a Princesse, that I will make you to be chastised in suche sort, as al semblable traytors and disloyal seruants shal take example.” The Earle seeing himselfe refused, and thus rebuked, and in doubt that the Princesse woulde make her husbande to vnderstande his enterprise upon his retourne, chaunging his greate loue into hatred more then mortall, determined whatsoeuer should come thereof, to inuente all meanes possible, vtterly to destroye the Duchesse. And after that he fansied diuers thinges in minde, he deuised (by the instinct of the deuil) to cause one of his nephewes, being of the age of XVIII. or twentie yeares, which was his heire apparant, for that he had no children, and was one of the fayrest and best condicioned gentlemen of all Thurin, to sort that deuilish attempt to purpose. And finding opportunitie, one daye hee saide to the yonge man (that depended wholly vppon him) these words: “Nephew, thou knowest that all the hope of liuing thou hast in this world resteth in me alone, of whom I make so good accompte as of my childe. And for that it pleased God to giue me no children, I haue constituted and ordeined thee my sole and ouely heyre with ful hope that from henceforth thou wilt dutifully acknowledge thy selfe most bounde vnto mee, and therefore obedient in all thinges which I shal commaunde thee, specially in that which may be most for thine aduancemente. The Duke as thou knowest, is absent, olde, and crooked, and at all houres in the mercy of death throughe the daungers of the warres. Nowe if he should chaunce to die, my desire is to mary thee with some great Lady: yea and if it were possible with the Duchesse her selfe, which God knoweth what profite it would bring both to thee and thy frendes, and in my iudgement an easie matter to compasse, if thou wilt dispose thy selfe after my counsell, or at leaste wise, if thou canst not come to the title of husband, thou maiest not faile to be receiued as her frend. Thou art a comly gentleman, and in good fauour with the Duchesse, as I haue oftentimes percieued by her communication, albeit that holdinge fast the bridle of her honor, shee hath been afraid hetherto to open herselfe vnto thee. Spare not my goods, make thy selfe braue and gallant from henceforth whatsoeuer it coste, and be dilligente to please her in all that thou maiest, and time shall make thee know that which thy tender yeares hath hitherto hidden from thee.” The poore yonge man giuing faith to the vnfaithfull inuentions of his vncle (whom hee counted as his father) began oft to frequent the presence of the Duchesse, and shamefastlye to solicite her by lookes and other offices of humanitie, as nature had taught him, continuing that order the space of a moneth. Which by the Duchesse wel viewed and marked, she was diligent for her part to accept the honest and affectionate seruice which the yong man dailye did vnto her, and shewed vnto him likewise a certaine more curteous fauour than to the rest of the pages, as wel for the birth and beautie wherwithal nature had enriched him, as for that she saw him enclined to do her better seruice than the rest, not thinking of any dishonest appetite in the yong man, nor the malice of his vncle, who conceiued none other felicitie but in reuenge of the Duchesse, his ennemie, and not able to beare the cruell mallice rooted in his harte, determined to play double or quit. And callinge his nephew before him he said vnto him: “My childe, I do perceiue and see that thou art one of the most happiest gentlemen of al Europe, if thou knewest how to folow thine owne good luck. For the Duchesse not onely is amorous of thee, but also consumeth for the earnest loue shee beareth thee. But as thou knowest women be shamefast and woulde be sued vnto in secrete, and do delight to be deceiued of men, to thend it might seeme how with deceit or force they were constrained to yeld to that which of their own minds they would willingly offer, were it not for a litle shamefastnes that doth withdrawe them. And thereof assure thy sefe, for I haue oftentimes experimented the same, to my great good lucke. Wherfore credite my councel, and follow mine aduise. And thou thy selfe shalt confesse vnto me, before to morrow at this time, that thou art the happiest man of the world. I will, then, that this night when thou seest conuenient time, thou shalt conueye thy selfe secretlye into the chamber of the Duchesse, and there hide thy selfe vnder her bedde, for feare of being espied: where thou shalt remaine vntil an houre after midnight, when all men be in the depth of their sleepe. And when thou perceiuest euery man at rest, thou shalte closely rise, and approching the Duchesse bed, thou shalt tell what thou art, and I am sure for the earnest loue she beareth thee, and for the long absence of her husband, she wil curteouslie receiue thee betwene her armes, and feast thee with such delights as amorous folke doe embrace their louers.” The simple yong man giuing faith to the words of his vncle that was honoured as a king (thinking perhaps that it proceeded by the perswasion of the Duchesse) followed his commaundement, and obeied whollie his traiterous and abhominable hest. Who (oportunitie found) accomplished from pointe to point, that which his cruel vncle had commaunded. And a litle before midnight, fearing least his treason shoulde be discouered, toke with him three councellors, and certaine other of the guarde of the castell. Whereunto as Lieutenaunt to the Duke, he might both enter and issue at al times when he list, and not opening the cause of his intent, went straight to the portall of the Duchesse chamber, and knockinge at the dore, said that the Duke was come. Which being opened, hee entred in with a nomber of lightes, accompanied with the guarde, hauinge a rapier readye drawen in his hande, like a furious man besides himselfe, began to looke rounde about, and vnder the bedde of the Duchesse: from whence he caused his owne proper nephew to be drawne. To whom, without geuing him leisure to speake, for feare lest his malice should be discouered, he saide: “O detestable villaine thou shalt die.” And therewithall he thruste the rapier into him, to the hard hiltes, and doubling another blowe to make him faile of his speache, hee pearced his throte, so fiercely, as the poore innocente after he had a little staggered, fell downe deade to the grounde. When he had put up his rapier, he turned towards the Counsellers, and saide vnto them: “My frends, this is not the first time I haue espied the lasciuious and dishonest loue betweene this my lecherous nephew and the Duchesse, whom I haue caused to die to honourably in respect of his desert, for by the very rigor of the law, he deserued to haue bin burnt quick, or els to be torne in peeces with foure horses. But my Ladie the Duchesse I meane not to punishe, or to prouide chastisement for her: For you be not ignoraunt, that the auncient custome of Lombardie and Sauoye requireth that euery woman taken in adulterie, shal be burned aliue, if within a yeare and a day she finde not a Champion to fight the combate for her innocencie. But for the bounden duetie that I beare to my Lord the Duke, and for respect of the estate which he hath committed to my charge, I will tomorrow dispatch a poaste, to make him vnderstande the whole accident as it is come to passe. And the Duchesse shall remaine in this chamber, with certaine of her maids, vnder sure keeping and safegarde.” All this time the Duchesse who had both iudgemente and spirite so good as any Princesse that raigned in her time, suspected by and by the treason of the Earle. And with a pitifull eye beholding the dead body of her page, fetching a deepe sighe, cried out: “Oh, innocent soule: which sometime gauest life to this bodye that nowe is but earth, thou art nowe in place where thou seest clearelye the iniquitie of the murderer, that latelye did put thee to death.” And hauing made an ende of this exclamation with her armes a crosse, shee remained as in a sowne with out mouing either hande or foote. And after she had continued a while in that state, shee desired the Counsellers to cause the bodye to be buried, and to restore it to the earth whereof it had the first creation. “For (quoth she) it hath not deserued to be tied to the gibet, and to be foode for birds of the ayre.” Which they graunted not without a certaine greuous suspicion betweene her and the page. For so muche as she excused not herselfe, but the innocencie of him, without speaking any worde of her owne particular iustification. This pitifull aduenture was out of hande published through all the Citie, with so great sorrow and murmure of the people, as it seemed the enemies had sacked the towne. For there was not one, from the very least to the greateste of al, but did both loue and reuerence the Duchesse, in such sort as it seemed vnto them, that this misfortune was fallen vpon euery one of their children. The Earle of Pancalier did nothing all that day, but dispatch the poastes. And hauing caused all the whole matter to be registred as it was seen to be done, he commaunded the Counsellers, and them of the Garde, to subscribe his letters. And all the matter being put in order he sent away two currors with diligence, the one into Englande to aduertise the king her brother, and the other to the Duke: who being arriued, ech man in his place, presented their charges. Whereunto both the brother and the husband gaue full credite without any maner of difficultie: perswaded principally thereunto by the death of the nephew: who (as it was very likely) had not been put to death by his owne vncle, and of whom he was also the very heire, without his most greueous fault, praysinge greatly the fidelitie of the Earle, that had not pardoned his owne proper bloud, to conserue his dutie and honour to his soueraigne Lorde. And it was concluded betweene them, by deliberate aduise and counsaile, as well of those of the king of England, as by a great nomber of learned men of Fraunce, whom the French kinge made to assemble for that respect in fauour of the Duke, that the custome should be so inuiolably kepte, as if the Duchesse were the most simple damsell of all the countrie: to the ende that in time to come, greate Lordes and Ladyes which be as it were lampes to giue lighte to others, might take example. And that from thenceforth they should not suffer their vertues to be obscured by the clouds of such execrable vices. The king of England to gratifie the Earle of Pancalier: who (in his iudgement) had shewed himself right noble in this act, sent him an excellent harnesse, with a sword of the selfe same trampe by the Currour, with letters of aunsweare written with his owne hand, how he vnderstode the maner of his proceedings. And the messenger vsed such diligence, as within few daies he arriued at Thurin. Shortly after that the king of England had sent back the Currour, the Duke of Sauoie retorned his, whom he staied so much the longer, because the matter touched him most neere: for he would that the matter should be debated by most graue and deliberate counsell. And when he had resolued what to do, he wrote to the counsellers and other Magistrates of Thurin, aboue al things to haue respecte that the custome should be inuiolably obserued, and that they should not in any case fauour the adultery of his wife, vpon paine of death. Then in particuler, hee wrote his letters to the Earle, whereby he did greatly allow his fidelitie, for the which he hoped to make him suche recompence, as both he and his should taste therof during their liues. The Currour of the duke arriued, and the matter proponed in counsell, it was iudged, that (followinge the auncient custome) a piller of marble should be placed in the fieldes neere Thurin: which is betweene the bridge of the riuer Poo and the Citie, wherupon should be written the accusation of the Earle of Pancalier against the Duchesse, which the Duchesse vnderstanding (hauing none other companie but Emilia, and a yong damsell) dispoiled herselfe of her silken garmentes, and did put on mourninge weede, martired with an infinite nomber of sondrie tormentes, seing herselfe abandoned of al worldly succour, made her complaints to God: beseeching him with teares to be protector of her innocencie. Emilia who vnderstode by her that shee was vniustlie accused, and seing the iminent perill that was prepared for her, determined by her accustomed prudence to prouide therfore. And after she had a litle comforted her she saide vnto her: “Madame, the case so requireth that now you must not consume time in teares and other womanish plaints, which can nothing diminishe your euill. It seemes most expediente vnto mee, that you fortefie your selfe againste your enemye, and finde some meane to sende maister Appian in poaste to the Duke of Mendozza, one of the best renowmed in prowesse of all the knightes in Spaine, whoe being aduertised of your misfortune, wyll prouide so well for your affaires, (that your honour being recouered) your life shall remaine assured. Wherefore if you will follow mine aduise, you shall write him an earnest letter (as you know right wel how to indite) which Appian shal present on your behalfe. For if you follow not this counsel, I know none els (as the world goeth now) that will hazarde his life vnder the condicion of so straunge a lotte as yours is, specially hauing respect to the renowne and magnanimitie of the Earle, who as you know, is in reputation to be one of the most valiaunt men and most happy in armes that is in all Sauoie or Lombardie.” “My deare frende (quoth the Duchesse) doe what thou wilt: for I am so resolued and confirmed in my sorowe, as I haue no care either of death or life, no more than if I had neuer been borne. For neither in the one nor in the other, can I forsee anye remedie for mine honour alreadie lost.” “Madame (quoth Emilia) let us for this time leaue the care of honour in the hands of God, who knoweth both howe to keepe it and restore it, as shall seeme good vnto him. And let vs giue order for our parte that there be no want of diligence, for feare of being ouertaken.” And hauing made an ende of her tale, shee gaue her incke and paper, sayinge vnto her: “Now Madame I shall see at this pinche, if your harte will serue you at a neede or no.” The Duchesse withdrew her selfe a part, and after she had longe discoursed in her minde of that which was paste betweene the knight and her, she wrote vnto him as followeth: “My Lord Mendozza, I do not write these letters vnto you, vppon any hope to be deliuered by your meane from the poinaunt pricke of fierce death which doth now besiege me, knowing death alwayes to be the true port and sure refuge of all afflicted persons. For since that God willeth it, nature permitteth it, and my heauie fortune consenteth to it, I will receiue it with righte good will, knowinge that the graue is none other but a strong rampier and impregnable cartel, wherein we close our selues against the assaults of life, and the furious stormes of fortune. It is farre better (as appeareth manifestly by me) with eyes shut to waite in graue, than no longer to experimente life (the eyes beinge open) liuing with so many troubles vpon earth. But gladly woulde I bringe to remembraunce, and set before your eyes how sometime I abandoned the place which was no lesse deare vnto me than mine owne country where I was borne, and delicatelye nourished in honor and delightes, to extende my selfe into an infinite nomber of perills, contrarye to the deutie of those that be of mine estate, losinge the name of a Princesse to take the title of a caytife pilgrim, for the onely seruent and vnmeasured loue which I bare you, before I did euer see you, or by anye meanes bounde thereunto by any your preceding benefites. The remembraunce whereof (as I thinke) ought now to deliuer such an harde enterprise, to the port of your conscience, that breaking the vaile of your tender hart, you shoulde therefore take pitie and compassion of my straunge and cruell fortune. Which is not onely reduced to the mercy of a most dolorous prison, and resteth in the power of a bloudie and mercilesse tyrant: but (which is worse) in the continuall hazarde of a shamefull death. Which I do not much lament hauing long desired to accelerate the same with mine owne hands, to finde rest in an other worlde: were it not that by death I shoulde leaue an eternall blot to my good name, and a perpetuall heritage of infamie to my house and kindred. Wherefore if it so be, that frendship loketh for no rewarde, or that frendship cannot be paid but by the tribute of an other, make me now to taste the auncient fruite of frendship. And if pitie be the sole and onely keye of Paradise, displaye it now on the behalfe of her, who (forsaken of al humaine succour) attendeth but the fatall houre to be throwen into the fier as a poore innocent lambe in sacrifice. And for that the bearer shal make you vnderstand the rest by mouth (whom it may please you to credite as mine owne selfe) I will make an ende of my heauie letter. Beseching God to giue a good life vnto you, and to mee an honorable death.” The letter closed and sealed vp with the seale of the Duchesse, shee commaunded Emilia to deliuer it to Appian, and to require him to vse diligence, not ceasing to ride day and night vntil he come to the place where they left the knight Mendozza, giuinge charge to make him vnderstande (at length) her innocencie and false accusation. Appian being dispatched, was so affected to please his maistresse, and so desirous to see her deliuered of her imprisonmente, as hee ceassed not to trauaile day and night, till he came within the frontiers of Spaine. And after that he had ridden yet two or three dayes iourney, approching nere the place wher he thought to find the knight Mendozza, he began to inquire of the host of the inne where he laye that nighte, as well of his good health, as of his other affayres, whoe made him aunswere, that it wente euen so euill with him at that present, as with the poorest gentleman of al Spaine: although that he were in deede a very great Lorde. “For (quoth he) within these few monethes past, his ennemies of Tolledo, whom he hath diuers times vanquished, have so wel allied themselues together out of al partes of Spaine, that they haue brought a great armie to the field. And fortune of the warre hath been so fauourable unto them, that they discomfited Mendozza and all his armie. Who hath retired himselfe, with those few of his people that hee could saue aliue, into a litle towne of his, where yet to this present he is besieged. And so it is (as euery man sayth) that he doth his endeuour maruellouslie well, in such sort as his ennemies cannot enter the towne.” Master Appian then demaunded of him, if the towne besieged were farre of. And he answered, that it was about VII. or VIII. poastes. Then withoute making any longer inquirie, he toke a guide that accompanied him euen almoste to the campe. And when he sawe the towne a farre of, he sent the guide backe againe, and went the same daye to offer his seruice to a certaine captaine of lighte horsemen, who receiued him into wages, and then he bought armour to serue his purpose. And maister Appian besides his learning was a wise and polliticke man, and determined so sone as any skirmishe did begin to be formost, and in deede he vsed the matter so well, as hee suffred himselfe to be taken prisoner and to be caried into the towne. And being within, he desired those that had taken him, to conduct him to the Lorde of Mendozza their chieftaine: whoe knew him by and by, for that in the voyage which the Duchesse made into Spaine, he saw him euer more neere her then any other of her gentlemen. And after that the Lord of Mendozza had demaunded of him by what meanes he entred the towne, vpon his aunswere, he perceyued that he was a man of good experience, and well affected to the seruice of his maistres, that durst hazard his life in such wise to obey her desire. Incontinently maister Appian deliuered vnto him the Duchesse letter: which when he had read, he retired into his chamber with maister Appian, hauing his face all bedewed with teares: and because that the letter did import credite, he prayed maister Appian to declare his charge. Who said unto him, “My lady the Duchesse which is at this day the most afflicted Princesse vnder the coape of Heauen, commendeth herselfe vnto your honour, and doth humbly besech you not to be offended for that at her last being in Galisia, shee departed withoute accomplishing her promise made vnto you: prayinge you to impute the fault vpon the importunitie of the Duke her husband: whom being constrained to obey, she could not satisfye the good will that she bare vnto you.” Then he began to declare in order howe the Earle of Pancalier fell in loue with her, and not beinge able to obtaine his desire, caused his nephew to hide him vnder her bedde: and how hee had slaine him with his owne handes. Finallye, the imprisonmente of the Duchesse, and the iudgemente giuen againste her. Wherat the Lord of Mendozza was greatly astonned: and when hee had heard the whole discourse, hee began to conceiue some euill opinion of the duchesse: thinkinge it to be incredible, that the earle of Pancalier woulde so forget himselfe, as to murder his owne proper nephewe and adopted sonne, to be reuenged of a seely woman. Neuerthelesse, he dissembled that which he thoughte, in the presence of maister Appian, and said vnto him: “Appian my frende, if mine aduerse fortune did not speake sufficiently for me, I could tel thee here a long tale of my miseries: but thou seest into what extremitie I am presently reduced, in sorte that I am vtterly vnable to succour thy maistresse, I my selfe stil attending the houre of death: and all the pleasures which presentlye I can doe for thee, is to set thee at libertie from the perill prepared for vs.” And without longer talke, hee caused a hot skirmishe to be giuen to his enemies, to set Appian at large: who being issued forth, made certaine of his men to conduct him to place of suretie. Appian seinge no way for Mendozza to abandon his citie for peril of death prepared for him and his, thoughte his excuse reasonable. And to attempt some other fortune, he vsed such diligence, as he in short time was retourned to Thurin, wher hauing communicated the whole matter to Emilia, she went straight to the Duchesse, to whom she said: “Madame, God giue you the grace to be so constant in your aduersities, as you haue an occasion to be miscontented with the heauy newes that Appian hath brought you.” And then she began to recompt vnto her the misfortune of Mendozza, the thraldome wherunto his enemies had brought him, and for conclusion, that there was no hope of helpe to be expected at his handes. Which when the Duchesse vnderstoode she cryed out: “Oh, poore vnhappy woman, amongste all the most desolate and sorowfull: thou mayst well now say that the lighte of thy life from henceforth beginneth to extinguishe and growe to an ende: seing the succour of him, vpon whom depended thine assuraunce, is denied thee. Ah, ingrate knight: now knowe I righte well (but it is to late) that of the extreme loue which I did beare thee, sprong the first roote of all mine euil, which came not by any accident of fortune, but from celestiall dispensation and deuine prouidence of my God: who now doth permit that mine hipocrisie and counterfaite deuotion shall receiue condigne chastisemente for my sinne.” And then Emilia, seing her so confounded in teares, said vnto her: “Madame, it doth euil become a greate and wise Princesse, (as you hitherto haue euer been reputed) to tormente her selfe, sith that you know howe all the afflictions which we receive from heauen, be but proues of oure fidelitie: or as your selfe confesseth by your complaintes, to bee iust punishment for our sinnes. Nowe then be it the one or the other, you ought to be fortified against the hard assault of your sorow: and to remit the whole to the mercie of God, who of his aboundant grace, will deliuer you of your trouble, as he hath done many others when they thought themselues forsaken of all helpe, by causinge certaine dropps of his pitie to raine down vpon them.” “Alas, deare hart,” (quoth the Duchesse,) “how easie a matter it is for one that that is hole to comforte her that is sicke: but if thou feltest my griefe thou wouldest helpe me to complaine: so greuous a matter it is vnto mee, with life to loose mine honour. And I must confesse vnto thee, that I sustaine a very cruel assault both againste death and life, and I cannot either with the one or with the other, haue peace or truce in my selfe. Ne yet do know how to dissemble my sorrowe, but that in the ende the same will be discouered by the fumes of myne ardente sighes, which thinking to constraine or retaine, I do nothinge els but burie my selfe within mine owne bodye: assuringe thee, that greater is one droppe of bloude that swelteth the harte within, then all the teares that maye be wept in the whole life without. Wherefore I pray thee leaue mee a litle to complaine my dolor, before I go to the place from whence I shal neuer retorne.” Emilia, that willingly would haue sacrificed herselfe to redeeme the Princesse from perill, not beinge able anye longer to endure the hard attempte wherewith pitie constrayned her hart, was forced to goe forth and to withdraw herselfe into another chamber, where she began to lament after so straunge maner, as it seemed that it had been shee that was destened to death. Whiles these ladies continued thus in their sorowes, the knight Mendozza toke no rest by day or night, ne ceassed continually to thincke vpon the distresse of the Duchesse. And after that he had well considered the same, hee accused himselfe for fayling her at that greate neede, saying: “Now do I well knowe that I am for euer hereafter vtterly vnworthy to beare armes, or to haue the honourable title of knight, sith the same order was giuen me, wyth charge to succour afflicted persons, specially Ladies, whose force onely consisteth in teares. And yet neuerthelesse, I (like a caytife) haue so shamefullye neglected my dutye towards the chiefe person of the worlde, to whom I am greatly bounden, as I die a thousand times that day wherein I thincke vpon the same. It behoueth mee then from henceforth to establishe new lawes to my deliberation, and that I breake the gate of mine auncient rigor: louing much better to die in honour, poore, and disinherited, than to liue puissant, vnhappie, and a cowarde. Wherfore let fortune worke her wil: sithens the Duchesse did forsake her countrie, to come to see me in her prosperitie, I may no lesse do now, but visite her in her aduersitie.” Pressed and solicited inwardlye with this newe desire, determined whatsoeuer happened to go to her rescue, and hauinge giuen order to all that was necessary for the defence of the Citie: putting his confidence in the fidelitie of those that were within, caused all his Captaynes to be called before him: whom hee did to vnderstande, how he was determined to go seeke succour, to leuie the siege of his enemies. Duringe which time he constituted his nere kinsman, his Liefetenaunte generall, and the nexte morning before the daye appeared hee gaue a great alarme to his ennemies, wherein hee escaped vnknowen. Being mounted vppon a Ienet of Spaine and out of daunger, he toke post horse, and made such expedition as hee arriued at Lions, where he prouided the beste armour that he could get for money, and two excellent good horses, whereof the one was a courser of Naples. And hauing gotten a certaine unknowen page, toke his waye to Thurin, where beinge arriued, hee lodged in the suburbs, demaunding of his host if there dwelt anye Spaniards in the towne, whoe made aunsweare, that hee knewe but one, which was a good olde religious father, that for the space of twentie yeares was neuer out of Thurin, a man of vertuous life, and welbeloued of all the Citizens, and had the charge of a certaine conuente. Neuerthelesse his lodginge was aparte from his brethren, to solace himselfe, and to auoide the incommoditie of his age. The knight hauinge learned of his hoste the place wher this good father dwelled, went with diligence betimes in the morning, to see him, and said vnto him in the Spanish tongue: “Father, God saue you: I am a Spaniarde comen hither into this country for certaine mine affaires, towardes whom you mighte doe a charitable deede, if it woulde please you to suffer mee to remayne with you foure or fiue dayes onelye, crauinge nothinge els but lodginge: for my seruaunte shall prouide for other necessaries.” Whiche the good father willingly graunted, muche maruelling at his goodlye personage. And whiles the seruante was gone to the towne to bye victualls, the good father demaunded of him, of what countrye in Spaine hee was, whiche the knighte francklye confessed. And the fatherlye man then hauinge his face all be sprent with teares, sayde: “Praysed be the name of GOD, that he hath giuen mee the grace before I dye, to see so great a Lorde in my poore house, of whom I am both the subiecte and neighbour.” And then he began to tell him how for deuocion he had forsaken his natiue countrey and had bestowed himselfe there, the better to withdrawe him from worldly vanitie. Neuerthelesse he said: that he knew his father, his mother, and his graundfather. Desiring him to vse his house at commaundement, where he should be obeyed as if he were in his owne: and then the lord of Mendozza said vnto him, that he was departed from Spaine of purpose to see Fraunce, and there to make his abode for a time. And that passing by Lions one aduertised him of the infortunate chaunce of the Duchesse, whom if he thought to be innocent of the crime whereof she was accused, he would defend her to the sheading of the last drop of his bloude. Neuerthelesse he would not hazard his life or soule to defend her, if he knew her to be guiltie. Which wordes the good man greatly allowed, saying vnto him: “My Lord, touchinge her innocencie, I beleue there is at this day no man liuing, but herselfe and the Earle, her accuser, that can iudge. But one thinge I can well assure you, that wee heere, do deeme her to be one of the beste Princesses, that euer raigned in this countrie, specially for that a yeare paste she went on foote to S. Iames, with suche deuotion and humilitie, as there was no man but pitied to see her so mortified for her soules healthe. And to combate with the Earle of Pancalier, you seeme vnto me very yong: for besides the continual exercise that he hath alwayes had in armes, he is withal esteemed to be one of the strongest, readiest, and most redoubted knights of all Lombardie: the victorie notwithstanding is in the hand of God, who can giue it to whom he pleaseth: which hee made manifest in the yong infante Dauid, against the monstrous Giante Golias.” To whome the knighte aunswered: “Father, I have deuised a waye how to prouide against the scruple of my conscience, touchinge the doubte conceyued by mee, whether the combat that I shall take in hande against the earle of Pancalier, be iust or not, which is, that I vnder colour of confession, might vnderstand of the duchesse, the trouth of the matter. And therfore if you thinke good I may cause my head and beard to be shauen, and apparelling my selfe in such habite as you do weare, we two may easely (as I thinke) with the leaue of her keepers, go into the Duchesse Chamber, to exhort her to pacience: for about this time of the yeare, the day is expired.” Wherunto the good father without any great difficultie, consented, aswell for respect of his good zeale, as for his reuerent duty to the nobility of the stock whereof he came. And so all things prouided, they wente together towards the castle of the Duchesse. And he that had seen the knight Mendozza in his fryer’s apparell, would vnethes haue discerned him, to be so great a Lorde as he was: for besides his dissembled gestures and countenaunces, wherwith he knew right wel how to behaue himselfe, he was so leane and poore, aswell for the care of the battell he lost, and ouerthrowe of his people, as for the mishap of the Duchesse, and the peril of his life at hand, by reason of the combate betweene the Earle and him, as he resembled rather a holy S. Hierome, mortified in some desert, then a Lorde, so noble and valiaunt as he was. Arriued at the castell, the olde father addressed himself to the guarde and sayd: “Maisters, because the time for the death of the miserable duchesse doth approche, we be come hither to geue her such spirituall comforte, as wherwith God hath inspired vs, hoping that hee will this daye geue vs the grace to induce her to die paciently, to the intent that by losse of the bodye, her soule may be saued.” Wherunto they accorded willinglye, and caused the chamber to be opened vnto them. They within the chamber went forth incontinently, thinking that the Gouernour had caused the good fathers to come to heare the last confession of the poore Duchesse, who was so sorowefull and pensife as she was forced to kepe her bed: which came very well to passe, for the knight Mendozza, comming neare vnto her bedde, with his face towardes her, so counterfayted hym selfe as he coulde not in any manner of wyse be knowen. And the good olde father fryer taried in a corner of the chamber a farre of, that he might heare none of their talke: and as the Lorde of Mendozza leaned vpon her bedsyde, he sayde vnto her in the Italian tongue, which was so familiar to him as the Spanishe: “Madame, the peace of our Lorde be with you.” Wherunto the lady aunswered: “Father why speake you of peace, sithe I am in continuall warre, depriued of al contentation, and doe but attende the last end of my calamitie, whiche is a moste cruell and shamefull death, without desert.” And then the Lorde of Mendozza, who had consumed the moste parte of his youthe in good letters, saide vnto her: “I beleue madame you be not ignoraunt howe miseries and tribulations, fall not by accident or fortune, but by the prouidence or dispensation of God, before whome one litle sparrowe onely is not forgotten, as the prophete Amos doth manifeste vnto vs when he sayth: ‘there is none euil in the Citie that I haue not sent thither:’ whiche is also apparaunt in Job, whome the Deuil could not afflicte before he had first obtayned licence of God. And it is necessarye for you to knowe, that tribulations and affliction bee tokens of the fore chosen and elected people of God, and the true markes of our saluation: so that if you consider the order of all the Scriptures, from the beginning of the worlde vntyll this tyme, you shall fynde that they whome God hath alwayes best loued and cherished, he hath commaunded to drinke of the cup of his passion, and to be more afflicted than others: examples whereof be common in the Scriptures. As when Abell was afflicted by Caine his brother, Isaac by his brother Ismaell, Ioseph by his brethren, Dauid by Absolon his sonne, the children of Israel (the electe people of God) by Pharao: whiche thinges beinge profoundlye considered by Sainct Paule, he sayde: ‘If we had not an other hope in Iesus Christe, than in the lyfe present, we might well say that we were the most miserable of al others. And yet moreouer, saith he, it is litle or nothing that we endure, in respect of that which Iesus Christe hath suffered.’ Who (although he framed the whole worke of the worlde) was called the Carpenter’s sonne, for preaching he was sclaundered, he was caried vp to a mountaine to be throwen down, he was called Glotton, Dronkard, louer of Publicanes and sinners, Samaritane, Seducer, Diuell: saying, that in the name of Belzebub he did cast out Diuels. But let vs consider, madame, a litle further, what thinges were done vnto him, hee was naked to clothe vs, prisoner and bounde to vnbinde vs from the chain of the Diuell, made a sacrifice to cleanse vs of all our inward filth, we doe see that he suffred his side to be opened, to close vp hell from vs, we see his handes whiche in so comely order made both heauen and earth for the loue of vs, pearced with pricking nailes, his head crowned with three sharped thornes to crowne vs with heauenly glorie. Let vs way that by his dolour came our ioye, our health grew of his infirmitie, of his death was deriued our life: and should we be ashamed to haue our head touched with a fewe thornes of trouble? Strengthen your self then (madame) in the name of God, and make you ready to receiue death in the name of him that was not ashamed to indure it for you. Is his strong hande any thing weakened? Is it not in him to ouerthrow the furie of your enemie, and so to humble your aduersarie that he shall neuer be able to be relieued? How many poore afflicted persones haue there bene seene to be abandoned of all succour, whom he hath behelde with his pitiful eye, and restored to greater ease and contentation, then euer they were in before? learne then from henceforth, to comforte your selfe in God, and say as the great doctor holy Ignatius sayd in his Epistle to the Romaines: ‘I desire that the fier, the gallowes, the beastes, and all the tormentes of the Diuil might exercise their crueltie vpon me, so as I may haue fruition of my Lorde God.’” And after that the knight had made an ende of his consolation, the Duchesle was so rapte in contentation, as it seemed her soule had already tasted of the celestiall delightes, and would flie euen vp into heauen. And then feeling her selfe lightened like one that had escaped some furious tempest of the seas, she began to confesse her selfe vnto him from point to point, without omitting any thing of that whiche she thought might greue her conscience. And when she came to the accusation of the Earle, she prayed God not to pardon her sinnes, if she had committed in deede or thought, any thing contrarie to the dutie of mariage, except it were one dishonest affection that she had borne to a knight of Spaine, whom vnder pretence of a fained deuotion she had visited in Spayne, not committing any thing sauing good will whiche shee bare vnto him. “Which maketh me thinke (quod she) that God being moued against myne hypocrisie, hath permitted this false accusation to be raysed against me by the Earle of Pancalier, whiche I will paciently suffer, sithe his will is so.” Her confession finished, she plucked of a rich diamonde from her finger, saying: “Good father, albeit I haue heretofore bene a riche Princesse, as you knowe, yet nowe myne ennemies haue taken awaye all my goodes from me (this diamond except) which my brother the kyng of Englande gaue me, when I was maried to the Duke of Sauoie. And because I can not otherwise doe you good, I geue it vnto you, praying you to remember me in your prayers, and to kepe it for my sake: for it is of a greater price then you thinke, and may serue one daie to supply the necessitie of your conuent.” The confession ended and the diamond receiued, the twoo friers retourned home to their conuent. And so sone as they were arriued there, the Lorde of Mendozza sayde vnto hym: “Father, nowe doe I know certainly, that this poore woman is innocent, wherefore I am resolued to defende her so long as life doth last. And I feele my selfe so touched and pressed in mynde, as I thinke it long till I be at the combat. Wherefore I praye you if it chaunce that fortune be contrary vnto me, after my death, make it to be openly knowen what I am, and chiefly that the Duchesse may vnderstande it, for speciall purpose. And if it fortune that I escape with life (which can not be but by the death of the Earle) be secrete vnto me in these thinges which I haue declared vnder the vayle of confession.” The good father promised so to doe. And hauing passed all that day and night in praiers and supplications, he armed himselfe, and made ready his courser. And when the dawning of the daye began to appeare, he went in his armour to the gates of the Citie, and calling one of the Guarde, he sayd vnto him: “Good fellowe, I pray thee bidde the Counte of Pancalier to prepare him selfe, to mainteine the false accusation, which he hath falsely forged against the Duchesse of Sauoie. And further tell him, that there is a knight here, that will make him to denie his horrible vilany before hee parte the fielde, and will in the presence of al the people cut out that periured toung, which durst commit such treason against an innocent Princesse.” This matter was in a moment published throughout all the citie, in such sorte, as you might haue sene the churches full of men and women, praying to God for the redemption of their maistresse. During the time that the guarde had done his ambassage, the Lord of Mendozza went towardes the piller where the accusation was written, attending when the accuser should come forth. The Earle of Pancalier aduertised hereof, began incontinently to feele a certaine remorse of conscience, which inwardly gript hym so nere, as he endured a torment lyke to very death. And being vnable to discharge himself therof, would willingly haue wished that he had neuer attempted the dishonour of the Lady. Neuerthelesse that he might not seeme slacke in that he had begonne, he sent woorde to the knight, that he mould write his name vppon the Piller, to whome Mendozza made aunswere, that he might not know his name, but the combat he would make him feele before the daye went downe. The Earle of Pancalier made difficultie of the combat, if firste he knewe not the name of hym with whom he should haue to doe. The matter well aduised, it was clearely resolued by the Iudges, that the statutes made no mention of the name, and therefore he was not bounde thereunto, but that the statute did expreslye fauour the defendant, geuing vnto him the election of the armour, and semblablie it was requisite that the persone accused should be brought forth in the presence of the twoo Champions. Which thinges vnderstanded by the Earle, albeit that he trusted not his quarell, yet making a vertue of necessitie, and not vnlearned in the order of such conflictes, forthwith armed hymselfe, and came into the place ordayned for the campe, where he founde his enemy armed in a black armour, in token of mourning. Immediately after they sent for the Duchesse, who ignoraunt of the matter wondered much when she vnderstode that there was a knight in the field all armed in black, seming to be a noble man, that promised some great matter by his dexteritie and bolde countenaunce, and would also mainteine against the Earle of Pancalier his accusation to be false. The poore Duchesse then not being able to imagine what he should be, greatly troubled in mind, and comming forth of the Castel was conducted in a litter couered with black cloth, accompanied with more then two hundreth ladies and damsels, in semblable attire vnto the place where the Iudges, the people and the two knightes were, who did but attend her comming. And after they had wayted her going vp to a litle stage ordained for that purpose, the Deputies for the assurance of the campe, demaunded of her these wordes, saying: “Madam, for that you be accused of adulterie by the Earle of Pancalier here present, and the custome requireth that you present a Knight within the yeare and daye, by force of armes to trye your right: are you determined to accepte him that is here present, and to repose your selfe vpon him, both for your fault and innocencie?” The Duchesse aunswered: that shee committed all her right into the mercie of God, who knew the inwarde thoughtes of her harte, and to the manhode of the knight, albeit she thought that she had neuer seen him. And when she had ended those woordes, she fell downe vppon her knees, then lifting vp her eyes all blubbered with teares towardes heauen, she prayed: “O Lorde God, which art the very veritie it self, and knowest the bytternesse that I fele in my harte, to see my self falsely accused, shew forth now the treasure of thy grace vpon me wretched Princesse: and as thou diddest deliuer Susanna from her trouble, and Iudith from Holofernes, deliuer me from the hande of a tiraunt: who like a lion hungrie for my bloud, deuoureth both myne honour and life.” And hauing made an ende of her prayer, shee remained vnmoueable as if shee had bene in a traunce. And nowe the knight Mendozza, offended to see the Earle to praunce his horse vp and downe the campe, making him to vaut and leape, with a countenaunce very furious sayd vnto him: “Traytour Counte, because I am certayne that the accusation which thou hast forged against this Princesse, is inuented by the greatest villany of the world, I do maintaine here before al the people, that thou hast falsely accused her, and that thou liest in thy throte, in all that thou hast contriued against her, and that thou haste deserued to bee put into a sacke, to bee caste into the Riuer for the murder that thou haste committed vppon thy Nephewe, the innocent bloud of whom doth nowe crie for vengeance to be taken for thy synne before God.” And scarce had he made an ende of his woordes, but the Earle aunswered him with a marueilous audacitie: “Infamous villain, which hidest thy name for feare lest thy vices should be knowen, thou arte nowe fouly deceiued by thinking to warrant her, who hath offended against the Duke her husbande, by her whoredome and adulterie: and for that thou hast parled so proudly, and wilt not be knowen, I can not otherwyse thinke but that thou art some one of her ruffians: and therefore I doe mainteine, that thou thy selfe doest lie, and that thou deseruest to be burnt in the same fire with her, or els to be drawen with foure horses by the crosse pathes of this towne, to serue for an example in the worlds to come, not onely for all lasciuious Ladies and Damsels, but also for such abhominable whoremongers, as be lyke thy selfe.” Incontinently after, the Harraulde of armes began to make the accustomed crie, and the Knightes to put their launces in their restes: they let run their horses with such violence, as ioyning together their shieldes, their bodies and heads, they brake their staues, euen to their Gauntlets, so roughly, as they fel both down to the ground without losing, neuerthelesse, the raines of the bridles. But the heate of the harte, and desire to vanquishe, made them readily to get vp againe, and hauing cast away the troncheons of their staues, layd handes on their swordes, and there began so straunge and cruell a sturre betwene them, as they which were the beholders were affrighted to see them able to endure so much: for they were so fleshed one vppon another, and did so thicke bestowe their strokes without breathing, as the lookers on confessed neuer to haue seene any combat in Piemonte betwene twoo single persons, so furious, nor better followed then that of the Earle and of the knight Mendozza. But the Spanishe knight encouraged with the Iustice of his quarell, and the rewarde of his fight, seemed to redouble his force: for euen when euery man thought that power must needes fayle him, it was the houre wherin he did best behaue himselfe. In such sort, as his enemy not being able any longer to susteine his puissaunt strokes, being wounded in diuers partes of his bodye, did nowe no more but defende himselfe, and beare of the blowes which were bestowed vpon hym without intermission: whiche the Spanishe knight perceiuing, desirous to make an ende of the combat, made so full a blowe with all his force ypon the top of his helmet, as he wounded his head very sore. Wherewithall the harte of the Earle began very muche to faint, and staggering here and there like a dronken man or troubled in his senses, was constrained to fall downe from his horse: and then the Lorde of Mendozza dismounting him selfe, and takyng holde vpon the corps of his shield, plucked it so rudely to him, as he ouerturned him on his other syde. Then with the pomell of his sworde he did so swetely bumbast him, as he made his helmet to flye of his head: and setting his foote vpon his throte, made as though with the point of his swearde he woulde haue killed hym, saying: “Counte, the houre is now come that thou must goe make an accompt with God of thine vntrouth and treason which thou hast committed against the Duchesse.” “Ah, sir knight (quoth the Earle) haue pitie vpon me, and kil me not I beseche thee, before I haue a litle bethought me of my conscience.” “Villaine (quoth the Spaniard) if I had any hope of thine amendement, I would willingly geue thee dalay of life: but being a traytour as thou art, thou wilt neuer ceasse to afflicte innocentes. Neuerthelesse if thou wilt acknowledge thy fault publikely, and require pardon of the Duchesse, I wil willingly leaue thee to the mercy of the Duke, although that if I did obserue the rigour of the lawe, I should cause the presently to receiue the payne prepared for the Duchesse.” To whom he obeied for safegarde of his life, and kneeling on his knees before the Duchesse in the presence of al the people, made a long discourse of his loue towardes her, of the repulse that she gaue him, and that for reuenge, he ayded him self with his nephewe, thinking to ouerthrowe her chastitie. Finally, howe he had slayne his Nephewe, to induce the Duke to iudge her to be culpable of the adulterie. And then tourning his face towardes the Duchesse, sayde vnto her: “Madame it behoueth me to confesse that the losse of this one life is to litle to paye the tribute of the curelesse faulte that I haue committed against you. Yet sithe it is so, I beseche you by preferring pitie and mercy before the rigor of your iustice, you will permit that I may liue yet certayn dayes to make a view of my life past, and to prouide for the scruple of my conscience.” Then new ioye approched to garnishe the spirite of the Duchesse, and both the soule and the harte began to shewe theim selues ioyful, in such wyse, as she was a long tyme without power to speake, and did nothing els but ioyne her handes and lifte vp her eyes to heauen, saying: “O Lorde God, praysed be thy holy name, for that thou hast caused the bright beames of thy diuinitie, to shyne vpon the darkenesse of my sorrowfull life, enforcing so well the mynde of this traytour the murderer of mine honour by the prickes of thy rigorous iustice, openly to acknowledge before all men, the iniurie that he hath done me.” And without speaking any more wordes, she torned her face for feare lest she should make him any other aunswere. Then all the people began to laude and magnifie God, and to sing psalmes for ioye of the deliueaunce of their Duchesse, who was brought backe and reconducted into the Citie, with so great triumphe, as if she had made a seconde entrie. Whilest these things were adoing, the Deputies for the suretie of the campe caused the wounded Earle to be borne to pryson. The knight Mendozza stale secretly awaye, and after that he had in the next village dressed certaine small woundes that he had receiued in the combat, he toke his way into Spain. In the meane time, the Duchesse caused him to be sought for in euery place, but it was not possible to know any more newes of him, than if he had ben neuer seene. Whereat being grieued beyond measure, she made her mone to Emilia, to know wherefore he should so absent himself from her. “Madame (quoth Emilia,) he is sure some French knight, or els it may be some

kinsman of your own, that is come out of England into these partes for certayne other affaires: and fearing least he should bee staied here, will not be knowen, reseruing the manifestation of himself till an other tyme more apte for his purpose.” “Let him bee what he may bee (sayde the Duchesse) for so long as my soule shall remayne within this bodye, I wyll doe hym homage during life: for the whiche I am so duelye bounde debtour vnto him, as neuer subiecte was to his soueraigne Lorde.” In this tyme whylest these matters went thus at Thurin, the Duke of Sauoie, the Lieutenant generall for the king against the Almaines, encountring with his enemies in a skirmishe, by fortune was slayne: whereof the king of England being aduertised, and specially of the deliuerie of his syster, desirous to haue her about him, sente for her to marrie her agayne, and to leaue vnto her the entier gouernement of his householde: and to gratifie her at her firste arriuall, he gaue the rule of his daughter vnto her, which was of the age of sixtene or seuentene yeares, with whom by certayne meanes there was a mariage practized for the Prince of Spayne. Let vs now leaue the Duchesse to liue in honor with her brother, and retorne we to the Lorde of Mendozza, who being arriued nere vnto his Citie, vnderstode incontinently that they which had besiedged it had leuied their campe. For that they of the towne had so well done their endeauour as not onely their enemies were not able to enter, but also they had in a certain skirmishe taken the Lord Ladolpho their chieftaine prisoner, who was yet to that present detained: because meanes were made for peace to be concluded on al sides: neuerthelesse they durst doe nothing without hym: whereat the Lorde of Mendozza beyng replenyshed with greate ioye to see his affaires prosper so well in all partes, entred the Citie: and the articles of the peace communicated vnto him, hee founde them verie profitable for him: and being concluded and approued by him he began to solace himselfe in his owne house, without taking care for any thing saue onely from thenceforth to thinke by what meane he might goe to see the Duchesse, and recount vnto her the issue of his affaires. But fortune prepared him a more readie occasion than he thought of: for the kyng of Spaine being aduertised of certaine talkes that had bene bruted of the mariage of his sonne with the daughter of the king of Englande, determined with speede to send a great companie of noble men thyther, to demaunde his daughter in mariage: of the which the Lorde of Mendozza, as wel for his nobilitie, as for the knowledge he had in languages and other good disciplines, was elected chiefe, with speciall commission to accorde the mariage in case it should so please the kyng. The Ambassadours vsed suche expedition, that they arriued at London, where the kynge for that presente made his abode: who aduertised of their comming, gaue commandement to the Princesse his daughter, and to the Duchesse his sister, to prepare them selues to receyue a great companye of Lordes of Spayne, whiche that daye would come to his Courte to treate of the aforesayde mariage. And God knoweth if the ladies spared oughte of that, whiche they thought might augmente their beautie. The king also for his part, to doe them more honour, wente to meete them in persone, and at their arriuall, gaue them a moste friendly welcome: but sodaynly as they presented themselues to doe their reuerence to the ladies, the Duchesse who incontinently knew the Lord of Mendozza, began so to deteste him as she was not able to rule her selfe, but (with a sodayne mutation of colour) she abandoned the companie: the Lorde of Mendozza knowyng the originall of her griefe, lefte not his dutie vndone towardes the Princesse and other ladyes which accompanied her, dissembling to haue taken no regarde to the absence of the Duchesse. And Emilia, who had followed her mistresse into the chambre, fearynge leaste there were some sodaine mischaunce happened, demaunded of her, wherfore she was retired from a company so honourable: and sayd that she did great wrong to her owne estimation: to whom the Duchesse (with extreme choler) made aunswere: “Why Emilia, thinkest thou that I haue the harte to suffer my hand to be kissed by that moste trayterous and moste cowardly knight of the world, who made no conscience to abandone me in the greatest necessitie of my life? where as I, contrary to the dutie of all the lawes of honour, and contrary to my sexe, did so muche abase my selfe as to visite hym in Spayne. Naye rather my dayes shall ceasse their course than myne affection shall euer reuiue in him: he shall neuer receiue any other fauour of me, but as of his most cruell and mortall enemy.” And then Emilia smiling, sayd vnto her: “In good earnest, madame, I thought that the sharpenesse of your imprisonement, with the other tormentes paste, whiche you indured, might haue put all these matters quite in obliuion, and woulde so haue mortified you, that you had wholly lost all desire of reuenge: but so farre as I can perceiue, I am deceiued of mine accompte, seying that sodaynly so soone as you behelde the knight Mendozza, you began to flie, as if your ghostly enemie had come before you, in his moste hideous and horrible forme.” Yet could not Emilia perswade her, to shewe her selfe abroade before dynner, tyll the king sent for her, with woorde that if she came not, he would himselfe fetche her. And then a little shamefast colour began to renew her alablaster cheekes, which rendred her so ruddye and fayre, as the Spanyards confessed neuer to haue seene in any parte of the worlde, where they had bene, one so faire and beautifull a wydow. The tables couered for dynner, the king tooke his place, and for their more honourable entertaynement, caused them to be set at his owne table: and made the Lorde of Mendozza to be placed right ouer against the Duchesse his sister: who was so inflamed and moued with choler, as shee duste not lift vp her eyes for feare least vpon the sodayne she should bee perceyued: whiche eyes sparkeling sometymes with greate yre, resembled properlye twoo starres of the night, that shoote forth their brightnesse vpon the earth, when all thinges be in silence. And all this tyme the Lorde of Mendozza conceyued suche pleasure at these pretie toyes, as he would not haue chaunged his ioy for the best Citie in all Englande: and as the Duchesse in this order did firmely fix her eyes, shee sawe by fortune a ryche diamonde that Mendozza ware vpon his finger, wherupon hauing oftentymes caste her eyes, she sodaynly knew that it was the very same that shee had geuen to the good father that confessed her at Thurin, the daye before shee was leadde to the Piller, and began then to imagine with her selfe, how it might be that he could come by the same: and not knowing what to saye, immediatly after shee had dyned and the tables taken vp, she caused maister Appian her Phisitian to be called vnto her: whome she desyred to know of the Lord of Mendozza, by what meanes he came by the Diamonde that he ware vpon his finger: which Appian did. And after he had talked with the knight of certain common matters, he sayde vnto hym: “My Lorde, you haue a very fayre Diamonde there, whiche as I thinke I haue sene before this tyme, wherefore sir I praye you tel me where you had it.” To whome the Lorde of Mendozza answered in laughing wise: “Maister Appian, where I had the ring, is to secret for you to know, but tell my lady the Duchesse, that the knowledge thereof onely appertayneth vnto her.” Whiche aunswere Appian declared to the Duchesse: and albeit that she tooke no great pleasure in the aunswere, yet neuerthelesse very desyrous to vnderstande the truth, she repayred to the Knight whiche the same time walked alone in a Gallerie, who after he had kyssed her handes, began to discourse of his fortunes past, declaring vnto her, that he repented of the refusall that he made to maister Appian for her succour, and howe within a while after he rode to Thurin: adding the deuise whereby he had heard her confession, and how the Diamonde came into his handes, putting her in remembraunce from worde to worde, of all his talke with her, during the tyme that he was in frier’s weede, then finally his victorie against the Earle, his secret flyght, and all the whole as before hath bene declared. Whereat the Duchesse no lesse abashed than rapt with ioy and admiration, fel downe in a swoune betwene his armes, holding her mouth so faste closed against his, that it seemed she would drawe the soule out of his bodye, to ioyne and vnite with her’s: and after she had remayned a whyle in this traunce, shee cried out: “O poore harte so long tyme plagued, whiche hast for the space of a yeare nowe passed, bene tossed with so many tempestes and diuers assaultes of fortune: receiue at this present the medicine apt for thy health, sithens thou enioyest him betwene thine armes, that by the pryce of his blood, valiant force and extreme trauailes, hath raised thee from death to life: let fortune from henceforth doe her will in that she is able to deuise against me: and yet wyll I, for this onely benefite, confesse my selfe this daye to be eternally bounde vnto her.” “Madame (quod the knight) I pray you let vs not renewe the memorie of our former griefes: wherein, if by any meane I haue done you good, I was but the organe or instrumente thereof: for God, who is the righter of all wrong, did neuer suffer iustice without his due acquitall, howe long so euer he taried. So (you not beyng in any wyse culpable) if I had neuer enterprysed the combate whereunto I was bounde, our Lorde God would haue raysed some other to achieue the same.” “Well then my Lord, (quoth the Duchesse) sithens it pleaseth you not, that I renewe my dolours past, which have taken ende by your meane, I shall humbly beseche you to excuse mee, if this daye I haue not geuen you that honour and good entertainement whiche you deserued: assuring you that before you shall departe this countrey, I wyll make you amendes according vnto your own discretion.” “Madame, (quod the knyght) for all the wronges that euer you did vnto me, (if they may be called wronges) the curtesie, fauour and gentlenesse which alreadie I haue receiued, doth at one instant requite and recompence. Neuerthelesse if it may please you to receyue me for your seconde husbande, sithe it hath pleased God to call your first out of this lyfe into an other: that is and shal bee the fulnesse of all the felicitie that I looke for in this worlde.” “My Lorde Mendozza, (sayd the Duchesse) the recompence whiche you demaunde of me, is very little in respect of the amendes and satisfaction whiche I ought to make you. But of one thing I can well assure you, that if I had the whole world at my commaundement, and that I were the greatest Princesse of the earth, in all kinde of beauties and giftes of grace, I would willingly submitte my self vnto you, in consideration of your worthinesse, and benefits bestowed vpon me with so willing a minde, as presently I do yelde vnto your request: and I must nedes confesse, that I am now greatly bounde to fortune, that hath deliuered me into your handes, from whome I hope never to be seuered so long as my soule shall reste within my body: being predestinated as I beleue to no other ende but to serue and obey you.” And as they thought to make a longer discourse of their talke, Emilia told them that the king was in counsell, and that the other Lordes of Spaine attended his comming: who with his company being come before the king, and hauing done their reuerence vnto him, he began to declare his charge, and how they were of purpose sente to his maiestie in the behalfe of the king of Spaine, to demaunde the Lady his doughter in mariage, for his sonne the Prince of Spaine: which he had chosen aswel to haue his alliance (a matter by him only desired) as for the beautie and good grace, for the which she was specially recommended. And if so bee, he had willed to haue chosen his matche els where, that there was not at that day any Prince in al Europa, that woulde not willingly haue accorded vnto him. To whom the king answered: “My frendes, I feele my selfe so much honored, for that it hath pleased the king to send vnto me, as if he had not preuented me, I had thought to haue sent vnto him for the same purpose. And albeit that herein he hath vanquished me in ciuilitie and courtesie, yet I will not faile if I can to surmount him in amitie. For he hath bound me during life, in such wise as he, and my Lord his sonne, may boldly vaunt themselves to haue a king of England and a realme from henceforth at their commaundement.” The mariage concluded, the Duchesse diligentlye made sute to talke with the king alone, to communicate vnto him the agreement betweene the Lord of Mendozza and her. And perceiuing that the king was gone into his chamber, she went vnto him, and being alone with him, hauing her face al bedewed with teares, kneling, she said vnto him: “My Lord, when I consider my miseries paste, and the cruell assaultes that I haue receiued of fortune, being not onely committed to the mercy of a moste cruell prison, but (which is more) at the very last point of a shamefull death, I am so afflicted, that the onely remembraunce of those miseries terrifieth me, and causeth a certaine extreme bitternesse to rise in my hart. And when on the other side, I thinke of the great goodnesse that Almightie God hath shewed vnto me, by stretching forth his mighty hand to deliuer me out of that perill, chieflie to make mee triumphe ouer the death of mine enemy: I feele such comforte of minde as all the delightes of the world be but griefes, in respect of the ioye, pleasure and contentacion that I receiue: wherein nothing offendeth me so much as hetherto that I haue not acknowledged the benefit receiued of him, who was elected of God to be my deliuerer: neuerthelesse sir, by your onely word, you may both satisfie him, and content mee, yea and (as it were) prolong the dayes of my life.” The king, who loued his sister no lesse than his daughter, seeing her pitifull complainte and teares, and to speake with such affection, toke her vppe, and holdinge her by the arme, said vnto her: “Deare sister and frende, if I have not to this present satisfied him that was the cause of your deliueraunce, I cannot be accused of ingratitude, for that hitherto I haue not knowen him, ne yet your selfe doth knowe what he is, (as you haue oftentimes tolde me:) but of one thing you maye be assured, and I sweare vnto you at this present, by my Scepter, that so sone as I shall vnderstande what he is, I will vse him in such wise as he shall thincke himselfe satisfied and contented, thoughe it did coste me the one halfe of my kingdome: for the pleasure which he hath done vnto you bindeth not you alone, but mee also, to be partaker of that band, both our honours being iointly bound thereunto.” “Alas, my Lord, (said the Duchesse) it is the knighte Mendozza, chiefe of this ambassade, to whom, if it please you to giue your consent that we two might marrie, all auncient bands and debtes shal remain extinct, and so by a smal reward you shal restore life to two persons, almost dead, for the excessiue loue which one beareth the other.” And therewithal she began to declare to the king, thoriginal and processe of the whole discourse. First, the voyage of the sister of Mendozza into Piemont: her owne peregrination to S. Iames, the honest amitie betweene her and Mendozza, the message of maister Appian to Mendozza, his refusall of that request, his retorne after to Thurin, her confession, the Diamonde knowen againe, finally, how all the whole had passed betwene them: the counterfaite deuocion to Sainct Iames onelye reserued, which, for her honour’s sake, shee woulde not tell him. The kinge vnderstanding this straunge discourse, was so rapte with ioye and appalled with gladnesse, as hee could not for a longe time make any aunswere. When his passion was moderated, hee said to his sister: “But be you well assured, that hee will receiue you for his wyfe.” “Yea, my Lord, (quoth shee) I ought well to be assured of it, since he himselfe hath made the requeste.” “And truly, (quoth the kinge) God forbidde that I should be the cause to breake so holy an accorde: for if the Lorde of Mendozza were inferiour in qualitie, nobility, and goods, than hee is: yet hath hee so much done both for you and mee, as we may not honestlie refuse him. Howe much more then be we bounde to him: being a greate Lorde as hee is, issued of noble and famous families of Spaine, rich in goodes, and hauinge hazarded his life for the conseruation of your honour: and therewithall seeketh mine alliaunce. Goe your wayes, (dere sister and frend) goe your wayes, make much of him, and entreate him as you thincke beste. And when I haue walked two or three tornes here, I will come vnto him, to communicate more amplie of these matters.” Scarce had the Duchesse leysure to aduertise the Lorde of Mendozza of that which was concluded betweene the kinge and her, but he came downe into the hall, where the moste parte of the Spanishe gentlemen walked, and with a very ioyfull countenaunce wente to the knight. To whom hee said: “My Lorde Mendozza, I praye you to embrace mee: for so farre as I see, I haue a better intereste in you than I thought.” And the Lorde of Mendozza thinking to embrace him, his knee vppon the ground, was immediatelye desired to stand vp, Whom the kinge cleeping aboute the necke, saide vnto him so loude as euerye man mighte heare: “Sir knighte, by the God of Heauen, since that I might commaunde in the realme of Englande, I haue not entertayned Gentleman nor Prince, to whom I have bin more endebted than to you: nor neuer was there any dearer vnto mee than you, for the greate gratitude and kindnesse, wherewith you haue bound me, and wherby I shal not from henceforth be satisfied, vntil I haue in some thinge acknowledged the bonde wherein I am bounde vnto you.” When hee had spoken those woordes, hee began to declare from point to point, in the presence of all the assemblie, the contentes of the whole before declared historie. Whereat there was none in all the company, but was greatly astonned at the prudence of Mendozza, by so well dissembling, and accomplishing so great enterprises, without making them manifest. And the king of Englande commaunded that the mariage of him and his sister shoulde be published throughe out his realme, that all his nobilitie might be assembled. And for his greater honour, the kinge did from thenceforth constitute him his high Constable of England, and reposed himselfe in him, as vppon a firme piller, for the administration of the wayghtiest affaires of his realme. The mariage solempnized and consummate with the Duchesse, he retourned into Spaine, to accompanye the Prince into England, whose mariage was celebrated at London, with the king of England’s daughter, in such pompe and solempnitie, as semblable Princes be commonlie accustomed to do in such like cases.

[ THE FORTY-SIXTH NOUELL.]

A King of England loued the daughter of one of his noble men, which was Countesse of Salesburie, who after great sute to atchieue that he could not winne, for the entire loue he bare her, and her greate constancie, hee made her his queene and wife.

This historie ensuinge, describing the perfect figure of womanhode, the naturall qualitie of loue incensinge the hartes indifferentlye of all nature’s children, the liuely image of a good condicioned Prince, the zealous loue of parentes and the glorious reward that chastitie conduceth to her imbracers, I deeme worthie to be annexed to the former Nouell, wherein as you haue hearde, bee contayned the straunge aduentures of a fayre and innocente Duchesse: whose life tried like gould in the fornace, glittereth at this daye like a bright starry planet, shining in the firmament with moste splendent brightnesse aboue all the rest, to the eternal prayse of feminine kinde. And as a noble man of Spaine, by heate of Loue’s rage, pursued the louinge trace of a king of England’s sister: euen so a renowmed and most victorious Prince (as the Auctour of theim both affirmeth) thorow the furie of that passion, which (as Apuleus sayth) in the firste heate is but small, but aboundinge by increase, doth set all men on fier, maketh earnest sute by discourse of wordes to a Lady herselfe, a Countesse, and Earle’s doughter, a beautifull and faire wighte, a creature incomparable, the wife of a noble man his own subiect: who seing her constante forte to be impregnable, after pleasaunte sute and milde requeste, attempteth by vndermining to inuade, and when with siege prolixe, hee perceiueth no ingenious deuise can atchieue that long and painfull worke, he threateth mighte and maine, dire and cruell assaultes, to winne and gette the same: and laste of all surrendred into his hands, and the prisoner cryinge for mercie, he mercifully is contented to mitigate his conceyued rigour, and pitifully to release the Lady, whom for her womanlye stoutnesse and coragious constancie hee imbraceth and entertayneth for his owne. This greate and worthy king, by the first viewe of a delicate Ladie, thorowe the sappe of loue soaked into his noble harte, was transported into manye passions, and rapte with infinite pangues, which afterwards bredde him great disquietnes. This worthie Prince (I say) who before that time like an Alexander, was able to conquere and gain whole kingdomes, and made all Fraunce to quake for feare, at whose approch the gates of euery Citie did flie open, and fame of him prouoked ech Frenchman’s knee to bowe, whose helmet was made of manhods trampe, and mace well steeled with stoute attemptes, was by the weakest staye of dame Nature’s frame, a woman (shaped with no visage sterne or vglie loke) affrighted and appalled: whose harte was armed with no lethal sworde or deadly launce, but with a curat of honour and weapon of womanhode, and for all his glorious conquests, she durst by singuler combat to giue refusall to his face: which singuler perseueration in defence of her chastitie inexpugnable, esclarisheth to the whole flocke of womankinde the brighte beames of wisedome, vertue and honestie. No prayers, intreatie, suplication, teares, sobbes, sighes, or other like humaine actions, poured forth of a Princesse hart, could withdrawe her from the boundes of honestie. No promise, present, practise, deuise, sute, freinde, parent, letter or counsellour, could make her to stray oute of the limites of vertue. No threate, menace, rigour, feare, punishmente, exile, terror, or other crueltie, could diuert her from the siege of constancie. In her youthly time till her mariage day, shee delighted in virginitie: from her mariage day during her widow state, she reioysed in chastity: the one she conserued like a hardie Cloelia, the other she kept like a constant Panthea. This notable historie therfore I haue purposed to make common, aswel for encouragement of Ladies to imbrace constancie, as to imbolden them in the refusal of dishonest sutes, for which if they do not acquire semblable honour, as this Lady did, yet they shall not be frustrate of the due reward incidente to honour, which is fame and immortall prayse. Gentlemen may learne by the successe of this discourse, what tormentes be in Loue, what trauailes in pursute, what passions like ague fittes, what disconueniences, what loste labour, what plaints, what griefes: what vnnatural attemptes be forced. Many other notorious examples be contayned in the same, to the greate comforte and pleasure as I trust, of the wel aduised reader: and although the auctour of the same, perchaunce hath not rightlye touched the proper names of the aucthours of this tragedie, by perfecte appellations: as Edward the third for his eldest sonne Edward the Prince of Wales (who as I read in Fabian) maried the Countesse of Salesburie, which before was Countesse of Kent, and wife vnto sir Thomas Holland: and whose name, (as Polidore sayth) was Iane, daughter to Edmond Earle of Kent, of whom the same Prince Edward begat Edward that died in his childish yeres, and Richard that afterwards was king of England the second of that name, and for that she was kin to him, was deuorced: whose sayde father maried Philip, daughter to the earle of Henault, and had by her VII. sonnes: and Ælips for the name of the sayde Countesse, beinge none suche amonges our vulgare termes, but Frosard remembreth her name to be Alice, which in deede is common amonges vs: and the Castell of Salesburie, where there is none by that name, vppon the frontiers of Scotlande, albeit the same Frosard doth make mention of a castell of the Earle of Salesburie’s, giuen vnto him by Edward the third when he was sir William Montague and maried the saide Lady Alice for his seruice and prowesse against the Scottes: and Rosamburghe for Roxboroughe: and that the said Edwarde when hee saw that hee could not by loue and other perswasions attaine the Countesse but by force, maried the same Countesse, which is altogether vntrue, for that Polydore and other aucthors do remember but one wife that hee had, which was the sayde vertuous Queene Philip, with other like defaults: yet the grace of the historie for all those errours is not diminished. Whereof I thoughte good to giue this aduertisemente: and waying with my selfe that by the publishing hereof no dishonour can dedounde to the illustre race of our noble kinges and Princes, ne yet to the blemishinge of the fame of that noble kinge, eternized for his victories and vertues in the auncient Annales, Chronicles and Monuments, forren and domesticall, (because all nature’s children be thral and subiecte to the infirmities of their first parentes,) I do with submission humblie referre the same to the iudgement and correction of them, to whom it shall appartaine: which beinge considered, the Nouell doth begin in this forme and order.

There was a kinge of Englande named Edwarde, which had to his first wyfe the doughter of the Counte of Henault of whom hee had children, the eldest whereof was called also Edward, the renowmed Prince of Wales, who besides Poictiers subdued the French men, toke Iohn the French king prisoner, and sent him into England. This Edwarde father of the Prince of Wales, was not onely a capitall eunemie of the Frenchmen, but also had continual warres with the Scottes his neighbours, and seing himself so disquieted on euery side, ordayned for his Lieutenant vpon the frontiers of Scotland, one of his Captaynes, named William, Lord Montague: to whom because he had fortified Roxborough, and addressed many enterprises against the enemies, he gaue the Earledome of Sarisburie, and maried him honourablie with one of the fairest Ladies of England. Certaine dayes after, kinge Edward sent him into Flaunders, in the companie of the Earle of Suffolke, where fortune was so contrarie, as they were both taken prisoners, by the Frenchmen, and sente to the Louure at Paris. The Scottes hearing tell of their discomfiture, and how the marches were destitute of a gouernour, they speedely sente thether an armie, with intente to take the Countesse prisoner, to rase her Castle, and to make bootie of the riches that was there. But the Earle of Sarisburie before his departure, had giuen so good order, that their successe was not such as they hoped: for they wer so liuely repelled by them that wer within, as not able to endure their furie, in steede of making their approches, they were constrayned to go further of. And hauinge intelligence by certaine spies, that the king of England was departed from London, with a great armie, to come to succour the Countesse, perceyuing that a farre of, they were able to do litle good, they were faine shortly to retire home again to their shame. King Edward departed from London, trauayling by great iourneyes with his armye towardes Sarisburie, was aduertized, that the Scottes were discamped, and fled againe into Scotland. Albeit they had so spoyled the castle in manye places, as the markes gaue sufficiente witnesse, what their intente and meaning was. And althoughe the kinge had thoughte to retourne backe againe vppon their retire, yet being aduertised of the great battrie, and of the hotte assault they had giuen to the Castell, he went foorth to visit the place. The Countesse whose name was Ælips, vnderstanding of the kinge’s comming, causing all things to bee in so good readinesse, as the shortnesse of the time could serue, furnished her selfe so well as shee could with a certaine nomber of Gentlewomen and Souldiours that remained, to issue forth to meete the king, who besides her natural beautie, for the which she was recommended aboue all the Ladies of her prouince, was enriched with the furniture of vertue and curtesie, which made her so incomparable, that at one instante, she rauished the hartes of all the Princes and Lordes that did behold her, in such wise, as there was no talke in all the armie but of her graces and vertue, and specially of her excellent and surpassing beauty. The kinge hauing made reuerence vnto her, after hee had well viewed all her gestures and countenaunces, thoughte that hee had neuer seen a more goodlier creature. Then rapte with an incredible admiration he said vnto her: “Madame Countesse, I do beleeue, that if in this attire and furniture wherein you now be, accompanied with so rare and excellente beautie, ye had beene placed vppon one of the rampiers of your Castell, you had made more breaches with the lokes and beames of your sparkling eyes, in the hartes of your ennemyes, than they had beene able to haue done in your castel, with their thundring ordinaunce.” The Countesse somewhat shamefast and abashed, to heare herselfe so greatly praysed of a Prince so greate, began to blushe and taint with roseall colour, the whitenesse of her alablaster face. Then lifting vp her bashfull eyes, somewhat towards the king, she said vnto him: “My soueraigne Lord, your grace may speake your pleasure, but I am well assured, that if you had seen the nomber of shotte, which by the space of XII. houres were bestowed so thicke as hayle, vpon euery part of the fort, you might haue iudged what good wil the Scots did beare vnto mee and my people. And for my selfe I am assured, that if I had made proufe of that which you saye, and submitted myselfe to their mercie, my bodye nowe had been dissolued into duste.” The king astonned with so sage and wise aunswere, chaunging his minde, went towarde the castell: where after interteignement and accustomed welcome, he began by litle and litle, to feele himselfe attached wyth a newe fier. Which the more he laboured to resist, the more it inflamed: and feelinge this new mutacion in himselfe, there came into his mind, an infinite nomber of matters, balancing betwene hope and feare, somtimes determining to yeld vnto his passions, and somtimes thinking clerely to cut them of, for feare least by committinge himselfe to his affections, the vrgent affayres of the warres, wherewith hee was inuolued, should haue ill successe. But in the ende vanquished wyth Loue, hee purposed to proue the hart of the Countesse, and the better to attayne the same he toke her by the hande, and prayed her to shewe him the commodities of the fortresse. Which shee did so well, and with so good grace intertaigne them all the whyle wyth infinite talke of diuers matters, that the litle grifts of loue which were scarcely planted, began to growe so farre as the rootes remayned fast grounded in the depthe of his harte. And the kyng not able any longer to endure such a charge in his minde, pressed with griefe, deuised by what meanes he might enioye her, which was the cause of his disquiet. But the Countesse seing him so pensife, without any apparaunt occasion, sayde vnto him: “Sir, I doe not a litle maruell to see you reduced into these alterations: for (me thincke) your grace is maruelously chaunged within these two or thre houres, that your highnes vouchsaued to enter into this castel for my succour and reliefe in so good time, as al the dayes of my life, both I and mine be greatly bound vnto you, as to him which is not onely content liberally to haue bestowed vpon vs the goods which we possesse, but also by his generositie, doth conserue and defend vs from the incursions of the enemie. Wherein your grace doth deserue double prayse, for a deede so charitable: but I cannot tell nor yet deuise, what should bee the cause that your highnesse is so pensife and sorowful, sith without great losse on your parte, your enemies vnderstandinge of your stoute approche, be retired, which ought, as I suppose, to driue awaye the Melancholie from your Stomacke, and to revoke your former ioy, for so much as victorie acquired withoute effusion of bloud, is alwayes most noble and acceptable before God.” The king hearing this angel’s voyce, so amiably pronouncing these words, thinking that of her owne accord shee came to make him mery, determined to let her vnderstand his griefe, vpon so conueniente occasion offred. Then with a trembling voice he said vnto her: “Ah Madame, how farre be my thoughtes farre differente from those which you do thincke me to haue: I feele my hart so opprest with care, as it is impossible to tell you what it is, howbeit the same hath not beene of long continuance, being attached therewithall, since my comminge hether, which troubleth me so sore, as I cannot tell whereupon well to determine.” The Countesse seing the king thus moued, not knowing the cause whye, was vncertaine what aunswere to make. Which the king perceyuing, said vnto her, fetching a deepe sighe from the bottome of his stomacke: “And what say you Madame thereunto, can you giue mee no remedie?” The Countesse, which neuer thoughte that any such discurtesie could take place in the kinge’s hart, taking things in good part, said vnto him: “Syr, I know not what remedie to giue you, if first you do not discouer vnto me the griefe. But if it trouble you, that the Scottishe kinge hath spoyled your countrie, the losse is not soe greate, as therewith a Prince so mightie as you be, neede to be offended: sithens by the grace of God, the vengeaunce lieth in your handes, and you may in time chasten him, as at other times you haue done.” Whereunto the kinge seinge her simplicitie, aunsweared: “Madame, the beginninge of my griefe ryseth not of that, but my wounde resteth in the inwarde parte of my harte, which pricketh mee so soore, as if I desire from henceforth to prolonge my life, I muste open the same vnto you, reseruing the cause thereof so secrete, as none but you and I must be partakers. I must now then confesse vnto you, that in comminge to your Castell, and castinge downe my head to behold your celestiall face, and the rest of the graces, wherewith the heauens haue prodigally endued you, I haue felt (vnhappie man as I am) such a sodaine alteration, in al the most sensible partes of my body, as knowing my forces diminished, I cannot tel to whom to make complaint of my libertie lost (which of long time I haue so happily preserued) but onely to you, that like a faithfull keeper and onely treasurer of my hart, you may by some shining beame of pitie bring againe to his former mirth and ioye, that which you desire in me: and by the contrarie, you may procure to me a life more painefull and greeuous than a thousand deathes together.” When he had ended these woordes, hee helde his peace, to let her speake, attendinge none other thing by her aunswere, but the last decree either of death or life. But the Countesse with a grauitie conformable to her honestie and honour, without other mouing, said vnto him: “If any other besides your grace had been so forgetful of himself to enter in these termes, or to vse such talke vnto me, I knowe what should be mine aunswere, and so it might be, that he shoulde haue occasion not to be well contented, but knowing this your attempt to proceede rather from the pleasantnes of your hart, than for other affection, I wil beleue from henceforth, and perswade my selfe, that a Prince so renowmed and gentle as you be, doth not thincke, and much lesse meane, to attempt any thing against mine honour, which is a thousand times dearer vnto mee than life. And I am perswaded, that you do not so litle esteeme my father and my husband, who is for your seruice prisoner in the hands of the Frenchmen, our mortal enemies, as in their absence to procure vnto them such defamation and slaunder. And by making this request your grace doth swarue from the bounds of honestie very farre, and you do greate iniury to your fame, if men should know what termes you do vse vnto me. In like maner, I purpose not to violate the faith, which I haue giuen to my husband, but I intend to keepe the same vnspotted, so long as my soule shalbe caried in the Chariot of this mortall body. And if I should so far forget my self, as willingly to commit a thing so dishonest, your grace oughte for the loyal seruice of my father and husband toward you, sharpely to rebuke me, and to punish me according to my desert. For this cause (most dradde soueraigne Lord) you which are accustomed to vanquishe and subdue other, bee nowe a conquerour ouer your selfe, and throughly bridle that concupiscence (if there be any) vnder the raynes of reason, that being quenched and ouercome, they may no more reuiue in you, and hauing liuely resisted the first assaultes, the victorie is but easie, which shalbe a thousande times more glorious and gainefull for you, than if you had conquered a kingdome.” The Countesse had scarce made an ende of her tale, but one came to tell them that the Tables were couered for dinner: the king well fedde with Loue, dined for that time very soberly, and not able to eate but vppon amorous dishes, did caste his lokes inconstantly here and there, and still his eyes threw the last loke vppon that part of the table where the Countesse sate, meaninge thereby to extinguish the boiling flames, which incessantly did burne him, howbeit by thinking to coole them, he further plonged himselfe therein. And wandering thus in diuers cogitacions, the wise aunsweare that the Countesse made, like a vaunt currour, was continually in his remembraunce, and was well assured of her inuincible chastitie. By reason whereof, seing that so hard an enterprise required a longer abode, and that a hart so chast, could not so quickly be remoued from purpose, carefull on the other side to giue order to the waightie affayres of his realme, disquieted also on euery side, through the turmoile of warres, determined to depart the next day in the morning, reseruing till another time more conuenient the pursute of his loue. Hauing taken order for his departure, in the morning he wente to seeke the Countesse, and taking his leaue of her, praied her to thinke better of the talke made vnto her the daye before, but aboue al, he besought her to haue pitie vpon him. Wherunto the Countesse aunswered, that not onely shee praied God incessantly to giue him victory ouer his outward enemies, but also grace to tame the carnal passion, which did so torment him. Certaine dayes after that king Edward was arriued at London, which was the place of his ordinarie abode, the Countesse of Sarisburie was aduertised, that the Earle her husband, being out of pryson, consumed with griefe and sicknes, died by the way homewards. And because they had no children, the Earledome retourned to the kinge, which first gaue the same vnto him. And after she had lamented the death of her husband the space of manye dayes, shee returned to her father’s house, which was Earle of Warwike. And for so much as he was one of the king’s priuie Counsel, and the most part of the affayres of the Realme passed by his aduise and counsell, he continued at London, that hee might be more neare vnto the kinge’s person. The king aduertised of the comming of the Countesse, thoughte that fortune had opened a way to bring his enterprise to desired effect, specially for that the death of her husband, and the witnesse of his earnest good will, woulde make her more tractable. The kinge seing all thing (as he thought) to succede after his desire, began to renue his first affections, seeking by all meanes to practise the good will of the Countesse, who then was of the age of XXVI. yeares. Afterwards he ordeyned many triumphes at the Tilt and Torney, Maskes, Momeries, Feastes, Banquettes, and other like pastimes, whereat ladies accustomablye doe assemble, who made much of theym all, and secretely talked wyth them. Notwithstanding he could not so well disguise and counterfaite his passions, but that he still shewed himselfe to beare beste good will to the Countesse. Thus the kinge could not vse such discretion in loue, but that from his secret fier, some euident flames did issue oute: but the Countesse which was a wise and curteous Ladye, did easely perceiue, how the king by chaunging the place, had not altered his affection, and that hee still prosecuted his talke begon at Sarisburie. She despising all his amorous countenaunces, continued her firme and chaste minde: and if it chaunced that sometimes the king made more of her than discretion required, sodainly might haue been discried a certaine palenesse in her face, which declared the litle pleasure that she toke in his toyes, with a certaine rigour appearinge, that yelded to the king an assured testimonie that he laboured in vaine. Neuerthelesse, she, to cut of all meanes of the kinges pursute, kept still her father’s house, shewinge herself in no place where the king mighte see her. The king offended, seing himselfe depriued and banished her presence, whom he esteemed as the comfort of his life, made his secretarie priuie to the whole matter, whose fidelity he had wel proued in matters daungerous, with mind to pursue her by other way, if it chaunced that she persisted in her wonted rigor and refusal. Howbeit before he preceded any further, sithe he could not secretely talke with her, he purposed to send her a letter, the tenor whereof insueth:

“Madame, if you please by good aduise to consider the beginning of my Loue, the continuance of the same, and then the last issue wherunto it tendeth, I am assured that laying your hand on your hart, you wil accuse your selfe, not only of your curst and froward stomacke hitherto appearing, but also of that newe ingratitude, which you shewe vnto me at this houre, whoe not contented to bathe and plondge mee into the missehappe of my paines paste, but by a newe onset, to abandon your selfe from my presence, as from the sighte of your mortall eunemie: wherein I finde that heauen and all his influences, doe crie out for myne ouerthrowe, whereunto I doe agree, since my life taking no vigor and increase, being onely sustained by the fauour of your diuine graces, can not be maintained one onely minute of a daye, without the liberall helpe of your sweetenesse and vertue: beseching you, that if the hartie prayers of any mortal tormented man, may euer haue force and power to moue you to pitie, it may please you miraculously to deliuer from henceforth this my poore miserable afflicted mynde, either from death or martyrdome:

He that is more yours than his ownne,

Edward, the desolate king of England.”