Yonec, A Tale Beloved of
Marie de France
by Yvonne Owens
Art by Helena Domenic
Great ladies, distinguished lords—listen now and you will hear a tale of love and loss, treachery and murder, grief, retribution and devotion. This lai was beloved of Marie de France, noble heir to all of Brittany. She told it well, in a fine and ringing voice and wrote it down as well, in her own exquisite hand. Truly, this lady was adept at all a man could do, for she could ride a horse and wield a sword or axe, play the harp or sing. None could match her for singing, for her notes rang true, sweet and high. Her great grandfather, William of Aquitaine, was the first troubadour and a fierce warrior, and Marie inherited his way with the pen, the lute and the sword. She kept troupes of musicians and Moorish dancers on hand to render her creations, for she penned lays of all descriptions, heroic chansons de geste as well as tensos and albas, the tender dawn songs of lovers when parting after stolen nights of pleasure.
In her later years she traveled to England and ruled over an illustrious abbey. She crossed the channel to be near her mother in that great queen’s long exile. Her Royal Majesty, Eleanor of Aquitaine, once Queen of France and lately Queen of England, was imprisoned by King Henry for the rebellion of her sons and for the stridency of her objection when he took, as mistress, a younger woman. She was confined in her high tower for sixteen years and only Marie’s stories and songs sustained the royal prisoner through those dark times. Far and wide, Marie of France sought for stories with which to soothe her regal mother in the endless hours of the Queen’s captivity, even commissioning new tales from Chretien de Troyes and other troubadours. This is perhaps why this tale, in particular, was so well loved by Marie of France.
Listen now, and you may understand.
There was a rich and powerful Churchman, advanced in years and greatly endowed with lands and influence, who desired a young wife by whom to have sons. His house and lands, all his wealth and possessions, would revert to the Church if he died without heirs, so he sought a young maiden with the greater part of her childbearing years ahead of her. Though he was placed in his position of power over the peasants, lands, towns and villages of his fiefdom as a steward of the Holy Church, he, like many another, had declared himself lord over his own holdings, and set his armies to guard his vast holdings against all claimants, even the Holy See. After he had the Pope’s legate slain, no more delegates from Rome dared venture into the lands under the old man’s control, so he lived like a renegade Prince of the Church, and there was much pillage and lawlessness in the land.
One of his liege lords offered his only daughter in marriage to the old man. Indeed, as his vassal he could do no less. This child was but thirteen years old, and lovely to look at. She had long, golden hair and the voice of an angel. Her eyes were blue as cornflowers and her youthful skin as fresh as berries and cream. Her family was a noble one in Wales, the land of Cymru, and had once held great estates west of the mountains, far beyond the King of England’s grasp. Lately fallen to the Church’s incursions and claims to the land, the maiden’s family was laid low beneath the yoke of tribute, forced to give their allegiance to the corrupt Churchman set over them, with his siege engines and armies.
They had raised their only daughter and youngest child carefully, with meticulous attention to her education and erudition, endowing her with all the graces befitting her station and breeding. She was therefore very learned, could write, read, dance, play the lute and harp, and sing the madrigals. She was fluent in Latin and could converse with scholars and kings. Her voice, while singing or speaking, was like filtered honey, clear and sweet. For beauty, wisdom, piety and courtliness she had no peers in spite of her tender years. They named her Branwen.
The old warlord, her new husband, loved her with a fierce and jealous passion, but he could not bed her as he wished. For all that he desired her slender body, his own aged flesh would not obey him. And so she remained a virgin as the years went by and she blossomed into full and glorious womanhood. The old man became crazed with possessive zeal on this account, and locked his beautiful wife in an isolated tower, which stood high above the castle keep, with only an old woman, his sister, to keep her company. He set guards about the perimeter of the tower’s base and none could approach his young bride except the old woman and the scullery servants, who cleaned the paved chamber of her captivity and brought her food, water and wine. She who had regaled fine company in exalted courts and splendid castles was now reduced to silent inactivity. The servants were forbidden to speak to her and no visitors could get past the old woman, her sister-in-law. She was permitted no musicians, no books, no instruments, for the old man, who was ignorant and illiterate, was jealous of her accomplishments. She was never allowed out of her lonely chamber, not even to go to the chapel or hear Mass. Even her loom was denied her, lest she weave a rope by which to scale the tower walls. And thus she was kept for seven years.
Branwen, once beautiful, became thin and wan. She lost her looks as she lost her erudition. Her fine, learned mind became rusty and still as she slowly, gently, relinquished all thoughts, all yearnings, all dreams, all hopes, which only brought her pain. Her eyes, long unused to reading, forgot how. Her slender hands, once so strong and able, grew idle and slack, forgetting their way with the pen and the harp. Her hair, once so thick and lustrous, grew brittle and dry. Her voice, once rich, sweet, smooth and vibrant, faded to a sad whisper; her wit, once so quick and bright, deserted her. In the seventh year of her captivity, Branwen barely resembled the lovely flower who had entered her husband’s house. Neglect and abandonment had dimmed her fire; her warmth and light was all but snuffed out.
Over the years, Branwen’s warder lost her vigilance. Since her young charge barely moved, nor even spoke any longer, the old woman often sought out the kitchen maids for company. She spent the afternoons in the solarium or gardens, gossiping with the daughters and wives of her brother’s knights. So Branwen found herself unattended even by her aged sister-in-law, as often as not, which she preferred, for then she could drift in her memories without being drawn into the intolerable present. Her memories of life as a child in her parent’s home, and of the stories and songs she heard there in her youth, formed the only realm in which she could bear to live, and she became all but lost to this world. In her reveries, she was visited by a fair and faithful knight like those in the lays and chansons of the troubadours, one who loved her and revered her, who listened to all she said with wonder, who walked with her in fair gardens and lay with her at night.
It was during this time, when Branwen’s spirit was all but gone from the world of mortal men, that she began to be visited by a wild falcon. This bird would come to her chamber window and perch upon the sill. At first Branwen was frightened as this was a strange thing for a bird of prey to do, but as the weeks passed and the bird continued to visit her, she became used to it. Gradually, she came to look forward to the bird’s arrival in her chamber. He only came when the old woman was not there, but as soon as she was safely out of sight, there he would be, in all his feathered splendor, at her window high above the castle yard. She began to talk to the bird and found that she could tell him all her heart’s sorrow. All her disappointment and loss, her loneliness and distress, her suffering and neglect came pouring out, a river of pain, and her voice once again grew supple and strong in its melancholy, once again melodious, even if unutterably sad.
She began to dream again, and to hope, and she told the bird of her desires, her wish for a lover and friend, someone to end the isolation of her heart, for, in her twentieth year, she had yet to lie with a man or know the tender caresses of a wise and considerate lover. She was a virgin, but not by choice. Despite the life she lived, she had never wanted to be a nun; that was not the vocation she sought. Neither had she wanted to live a cloistered existence, she who was so gifted in life’s joys, arts and graces. She wanted a lover, she told her winged companion, a lordly and valiant man to be her swain. She recalled the great loves portrayed in the lays and legends of her youth, when storytellers and bards would speak of soul companions, lovers who came in the forms of magical shape shifters or fairy lords, fey knights who would woo the ladies’ hearts and offer them joys no mortal husband could match. She recalled vistas of magical lands, enchanted kingdoms of folklore and myth, where a woman may have all that she desired and no one think the worse of her. She said aloud, with no one to witness her but her feathered friend, “Let him come to me here, let me see my true lover. If it be possible this side of death, let my soul fly to meet him who knows all of my heart and soul and who, for this alone, will love me.”
With her brave, impassioned words, a most miraculous event transpired, for the falcon changed before her eyes, into a knight. Fair of face and gesture, kind in word and deed, noble in his bearing and in his inmost heart, this lordly being took her pale hand and kissed it, bowing his head and swearing his loving fealty from that day forth. “Long I have loved you,” said the knight as he knelt upon the flagstones, his eyes gazing up into hers. “These many years I have known of you here, and watched over you. Make me your beloved, for truly I love you, heart and soul. I am your husband and spouse in all but deed, for I adore you completely and will serve you always.”
The lady Branwen was sore troubled by these words. She thought she might finally have gone resoundingly mad. But she put forth her hand and touched his cheek, which was clean-shaven, warm and smooth to the touch, and she knew that he was real. Her wish had come true. A man who knew the deepest recesses of her heart and soul was here with her, in her lonely exile, and he loved her. For this alone, he would serve her all his days. She took him to her bed and they lay together. Long before Branwen’s sister-in-law turned the key in the lock, the acute hearing of the Falcon Knight, whose name was Muldumarec, heard the woman approach upon the stair. He transformed into the shape of a bird in a wink of an eye, and flew from the high tower window, just as the old woman entered the room. For many months Branwen and her lover avoided discovery because of this, but other clues developed to give them away.
The pattern of their days became thus: As soon as the old woman, her caretaker, locked the chamber door and descended the winding stair of the tower, Branwen thought of her true love. He would hear her thought and fly to her at any hour of the day or night. Within minutes he would be with her, flying through the window and settling upon the bed, one moment a falcon, the next a lordly man. They would talk and laugh, sport and caress, then lie in each other’s arms gazing into each other’s eyes. He would tell her of his own country, where he reigned as a prince, far from her place of imprisonment but close enough as the crow flies. She would tell him of her childhood with loving parents and older brothers, of her joys and pains, dreams and wishes. He would caution her not to let their love show, saying, “Midons, whenever it pleases you, as quick as a thought, I shall be with you, but please let us be moderate. For should your sister-in-law betray us and your husband discover our secret, he will set a trap to kill me, and I will have no way of preventing my death.”
But Branwen was helpless to prevent her love from showing. She grew more beautiful by the day, recovering her looks and her talent and her voice, all before the old woman’s suspicious eyes. Even Branwen’s hair grew once again golden and lustrous. Her eyes sparkled and it was obvious to all who had eyes to see that she was happy and cherished. It became apparent she had a lover though her jailers could not understand how this might be so.
“No one comes or goes but that I see,” the old woman told her brother. “She speaks to no one, touches no one. She has no friend in all the world, and no beloved either, though she stays alone more willingly than before.”
But the old lord was cunning and was not fooled by this. “In faith, that I believe,” said he. “You must do something for me. Pretend to leave her alone, but spy on her from outside the tower, to see if anyone comes or goes by the window. There is treachery here, and I will find it.”
And so the old woman saw the great bird fly to the window and disappear within. Three hours later, the bird exited by the same way, and she saw it wing its way toward the north. She was sore puzzled by this, for why would a wild bird enter into a human abode, unless it was a familiar spirit or demon?
She reported all she had seen to her brother, and he deduced the truth. His wife was consorting with a magical creature, a spirit spouse, the only type of being who could breach his defenses. He was distressed but not defeated. He had cruel iron spikes fashioned by the smith and set them in the window with soldiers to guard it, ready to be raised at any approach. Branwen wept and feared for her lover, and refused to summon him for many days. But eventually her love arrived of his own accord, wondering why she had not thought of him, why he hadn’t heard her heart’s call. As he flew through the window, the guards who had been set to guard the window raised the spikes by a cruel and ingenious mechanism, and the Falcon Knight was speared through. He gave one fierce cry of anguish, then wheeled away from the window, mortally wounded, his bright blood falling from his breast as he winged his way north. Branwen collapsed upon the stone floor of her chamber, for she knew she would never see him again in the mortal world.
In her dreams though, he came to her. He told her that he dwelt inside the earth, in the timeless paradise of Summerland, beyond the Hollow Hills, in the company of his faery ancestors. There, he sipped unwatered wine and ate of pheasant and venison. There, no one aged or died, but remained youthful and beautiful for time everlasting and, though he could no longer visit her in the flesh, he waited for her there in the land called Avalon, the Apple Isle. He told her that she would bear his son and that she must call him Yonec.
From this day forth, her husband would forget his bitter jealousy and give her the freedom of the realm. She must travel north to the Faery Hill of Snowdonia, and enter into the rock. There she would find a cloak, ring and sword. The cloak would protect her, the ring proclaim her as his bride, and the sword she must give to their son when he came of age. With it Yonec would avenge his father’s death and claim his kingdom of the north, whence she would pass on to meet with him again in the perpetual summer of Avalon. In paradise, she would take her rightful place as his bride among the apple groves of eternal summer. To this goal she would remain fixed through all the long years which followed, as her son was born and grew to manhood, and her own flesh aged and faded, and she looked toward her death and resurrection by Muldumarec’s side.
Three days after he flew from her window as a falcon, bleeding and doomed, she took advantage of her newfound freedom to journey to the Faery Hill of Snowdon in Northern Wales. Alone, feeling the life within her stir, she passed through the green hillside, into the faery halls within. She walked across gleaming floors of surpassing richness, all deserted, until she found a prince’s bier in a beautiful chapel room. Laden with treasure, it was a burial fit for a king. The stone read, “Here lies Muldumarec, the Falcon Knight, Beloved of His People and King in the Otherworld.” Branwen took the ring, the rich cloak and the gleaming sword and scabbard she found among the treasure, and walked from the Halls of the Fairy Shee.
She knew not to eat of any of the fine food, magically preserved in perfect freshness, piled upon the tables of the deserted banquet halls. Her familiarity with faery lore gained from the songs of bards and troubadours had taught her that if she once ate even a single piece of fruit, or merely tasted the wine and viands arrayed before her, she would never return to the land of the living. Her son would never be born. So she journeyed on through the echoing halls, ignoring the temptations and splendors on every side, until she emerged once more into the natural light of day. She returned to her husband’s castle and waited until the birth of her child. Finally the day came, at midsummer, on St. John’s Eve, and she was delivered of a son.
Though the boy bore the stamp of his magical father in every respect, in his great beauty, brilliant mind, and peerless strength and courage, the old man accepted him as his own, apparently forgetting that the had never begotten a son with Branwen. Her husband acceded to her request to name the boy Yonec, and the years went by in peace and harmony, with the child growing in graces and skills with every passing year.
On his fifteenth birthday, Branwen and Yonec went with the old man to the feast of St. John at the summer solstice in Snowdonia. As they traveled north, the lands changed and became prosperous and cultivated. This was obviously a blessed and peaceful country, well ruled by a great lord, for all was right in the land. No one of her entourage knew that Branwen had traveled here once before, entered the Hollow Hill, and come back with a ring, a cloak and a sword; the old woman, her sister-in-law, had died over a decade ago, and her old guards had been reassigned or moved on. Only Branwen knew that this was a magical realm, the abode of faeries and haunts, for all that it was lovely and cultivated. This was the land once ruled by her true husband, Yonec’s father, and his beauty lay all about the land.
They came to a great city. Within the walls was the castle where they would stay. As they rode through the streets of the town, they noticed the wealth of their surroundings, the health and wellbeing of the folk, and the cleanliness of the streets. This was a charmed place, and it seemed the memory of Muldumarec was everywhere, for the castle’s coat of arms bore a falcon in flight, and the sigil of the Falcon Prince was everywhere displayed. They came to a graceful chapel and entered within to say prayers at the altar. There they saw a finely carved stone bier, with the likeness of a beautiful prince fashioned into the marble lid of the casket. It was Muldumarec, her beloved, and she wept bitterly.
“What ails you mother,” asked Yonec, alarmed at her grief.
“Here lies your true father, once prince of this land, a Lord of the Shee, slain by my husband in his jealousy,” she told her son through her tears. “This is your domain. It has been waiting for you to come and inherit your father’s throne and rule as king, but first you must avenge your father’s murder. That sword you bear was Muldumarec’s sword, this mantle that has protected us all these years, his mantle. This ring proclaims me as his own true bride, and not that of this cold-hearted stranger, whom you must now slay.”
With those words, she lay upon the bier of the Falcon Prince and died. In his grief and fury, Yonec slew the old Churchman, her mother’s false husband and usurper in the land. He cut off the old man’s head and held it aloft on his spear. The townspeople had gathered, and they proclaimed Yonec, at once, as their rightful king for whom they had been waiting since the death of Muldumarec. He assumed the throne in Snowdonia that very day.
Branwen was given a royal funeral and laid to rest beside her lord. Her body lay in state and was given all honor, worshipped and reverenced by all the people of that blessed land. But her spirit walked with Muldumarec in the apple orchards of the Summerland, where their love was eternal and their joy was never-ending.
*****
The noble trobairitz fell silent, for the lay had ended. She bowed her head in honour of the court, and dropped low in a deep curtsey. The harper accompanying her likewise bowed his head, while the final notes rang around the hall. The court savoured the subtle denouement, mingled of tragedy and joy, triumph and loss. So like life in all its complexity were the stories of Marie de France—mysterious and fey, wise and full wondrous. Then they raised a cheer for the noble lady’s tale and made great joy of it, lifting their cups and rousing the spirits, long into the night.
Yvonne Owens writes art history, emotional histories, philosophy of art, and creative critical studies. Her publications to date have mainly focused on representations of women and the gendering of evil “defect” in classical humanist discourses, cross-referencing these figures to historical art, theology, literature, and the sciences. Her most recent book is Abject Eroticism in Northern Renaissance Art: The Witches and Femmes Fatales of Hans Baldung Grien (Bloomsbury, 2020). She also writes cultural criticism, exploring contemporary post-humanist discourses in art, literature and new media. Her edited anthology, Trans-Disciplinary Migrations: Science, the Sacred and the Arts, is forthcoming in 2024 from Cambridge Scholars Publishers. Her massive compendium of pagan
oriented fairytales, The Witch’s Book of Fairytales, is under construction.