“As you like,” replied his host. “Here you will be undisturbed, and master of all you do. Count Raoul often makes this room his abode when he comes to Bourbon; but it is a long time since he has shown himself here. For our master, who was so good a knight, is sadly changed. Since he took him a wife, he has not laced helm or donned hauberk, and he holds the world as naught. I doubt not, however, you have heard these things reported of him.”
“I have, indeed, heard them spoken of,” replied Guillem, “but I have far other concerns. I suffer from a sore ailment, and if the waters here heal me not, I know not what I shall do to be cured.”
“Rest assured as to that, fair sir,” answered Pierre Gui. “Know that no one, however sick, comes to our baths without going away cured, if only he stay long enough.”
The room was large and clean and well furnished. There wanted neither bed nor hearth nor aught else for comfort. Guillem caused all his belongings to be brought and placed therein. Then, when his host had retired, he dismissed his squires, instructing them to let none know his name, saying simply that he was from Besançon.
It was the night after Easter, the season when the nightingale accuses with his songs those who have no care of love. One sang in the grove near Guillem’s window, and the young man could not close his eyes, though his couch was white and soft and wide.
“Ah Love,” he sighed, “what will become of me? At your behest, leaving my own people, I have come into this country a pilgrim, a stranger. Sighing without cease, I suffer from a desire that has taken fast hold of my heart. I feign sickness now, it is true; but I shall need to feign it no longer, if I am not soon cured of this ill.”
Then, as day was beginning to break, and his bed brought him no repose, he arose, crossed himself, and prayed to Saint Blaise, Saint Martin, Saint George, Saint Genies, and five or six other saints who were gentle knights, that they might make intercession for him. Before beginning to dress, he opened his window and looked upon the tower where his lady languished.
“O lady tower,” he cried, “you are beautiful without and pure and white within. Would to God I were inside your walls, so as not to be seen of Archambaut, of Margarida, or of Alis!”
So saying, his arms fell, his feet no longer sustained him, his color fled, and he fainted. One of his squires, seeing him about to fall, seized him, held him close, and bore him to the bed. The squire was greatly frightened, for he could not feel the beat of his master’s heart. This was because Love had transported his spirit to Flamenca’s tower, where Guillem held her in his arms, and caressed her so gently she was not aware of it. Then his soul, having had its will, returned to his body, which was not long in reviving.
It was clear he had come back from a place full of delight, for he was more blithe and beautiful than before. The young squire had wept so much that his master’s face was wet with his tears.