Dorigen 5 A Journey to Orleans

A Journey to Orleans

Tristan too went home, head down, and walking slow.

His fingers fumbled as he opened his own door,

And scarcely could he turn the key.

His head felt heavy and he fell

Cold in a faint upon the stony floor.

His brother, who knew of all he had been through,

Took him up and helped him to his bed

And brought him blankets warm and pillows soft

And did his best to make him feel at ease.

The next day Roderick came home.

How happy is young Dorigen then

As she welcomes him and takes him in her arms.

She holds him tight and promises herself

He never will escape her from her again.

This knight had never given a thought

That any man might have come near

And murmured words of love.

It had never crossed his mind.

And so in joy and bliss I let them dwell

And of sick Tristan I will tell.

Many weeks and many months passed by,

And Tristan never left his bed

But sickened despite the constant care

The whole day from his brother there,

Whose name was Anselm.

Tristan took help from him alone,

For he would tell no other of his love,

He spoke no word of his dire plight,

But only to his brother, and in him

He confided all by day and night.

Anselm wept to see his brother there so ill

And then thought back to many years before,

When he studied in Orleans. For there he’d met

A wizard who had kept the students in that place

Dumbfounded by his knowledge and his skill.

His tricks and magic had amazed them all.

‘If I can find this man’ he thought,

‘Then he might help us in some way.’

He then went straight to his brother’s room

And gently woke him from his fitful sleep

And told him of his plans and hopes.

As the first sun rose the very next day

And lit the early farm hands to their work

Through the cold and silent streets,

To Orleans straight they took their way

Through the sparkling morning mist,

To find this man of magic there,

This strange illusionist.

They took their horses and rode fast

With the rising sun right in their eyes,

Tristan always far ahead and urging on his brother,

Angrily shouting back to him to hurry more.

Poor Anselm had as much as he could do,

To stay upon his steed.

More used he was to a stool and desk

Than to a saddle and the stirrups hard

From which his feet would always jump

And leave him grabbing for the mane.

He could not rise to the gentle trot,

But bounced along and hit the leather at each step.

Next day for certain he’d be saddle sore.

He was not good at cantering at all.

To gallop was far beyond his skill,

And I am sure that if he’d tried

He’d have finished down on the roadside,

And that’s the truth. 

We all have different strengths

And these at times we show with pride,

Yet all of us have some weak point

Which as best we can we try to hide.

But finally they neared Orleans

And Anselm gave a prayer of thanks

When he saw the great west front  

Of the cathedral there and the slim spire behind

With its weather cock that never crowed

But turned all day to left and right

To spot those coming up along the road

Long time before they reached the gate.

And as they rode up to the wall,

A man approached and said,

‘I know why you have come.’

And then he told them all they had in mind.

He was the wizard they had come to find.

Anselm asked about his friends from earlier years

But the wizard said that all of them had died,

And at this news poor Anselm cried

And freely flowed his tears.