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Updated: June 24, 2025
The king replied, "Then you seem to me to have lost your senses entirely". "I have indeed lost them", said Bertran. "And how?" asked the king. "Sire, on the day that the noble king, your son, died, I lost sense, knowledge and understanding." When the king heard Bertran speak of his son with tears, he was deeply moved and overcome with grief.
He believed Bertran so far, that the Count of Poictou was in his country, and King Henry with a host in his. War between Philip and the Count was a foolishness. Peace between the Count and King Henry was another. On all grounds, therefore, he decided to write privily to his kinswoman, Queen Eleanor of England.
'Sire, he said, 'there is a new strife between the Count of Poictou, "Yea-and-Nay," and the French King on this account: the Count repudiates Madame Alois. 'Now, why does he do that, Bertran? cried King Sancho, opening his eyes wide. 'Sire, it is because he pretends that his father, the old King, has done him dishonour. Says the Count, Madame Alois might be my stepmother, never my wife.
Let us go to Limoges and think with the Viscount. But let us by all means kill Bertran de Born first. During this speech, which had much to recommend it, Richard, as I have told you, did his thinking by himself.
'Attend to me now, Richard, he said, with much work of the eyebrows; 'if that ill-gotten beast Bertran had been of your meinie our last words had been said. Beast! He is a toothed snake, that crawled into my boy's bed and bit passion into him. Lord Jesus, if ever again I meet Bertran, help Thou me to redden his face! But as it is, I am content.
Let me alone; I am not all mud nor all devil. I shall do my duty, marry the French girl, and love my golden Jehane until I die. 'That is the saying of a poet and king at once, said Gaston, and really believed it. So they came at dusk to Autafort, a rock castle on the confines of Perigord, held by Bertran de Born. It looked, and was, a robber's hold, although it had a poet for castellan.
I would sooner collect life red devils than liddle monkeys. When dey do not bite off your thumbs dey are always dying from nostalgia home-sick for dey haf der imperfect soul, which is midway arrested in defelopment und too much Ego. I was dere for nearly a year, und dere I found a man dot was called Bertran. He was a Frenchman, und he was goot man naturalist to his bone.
With rage he will go up, laughing come down. Ho! He will be for you and against you; eager, slow; a wooer, a scorner; a singer of madrigals, ah, and a croaker afterwards. There is no stability in him, neither length of love nor of hate, no bottom, little faith. Berengère rose. 'You vex yourself, Bertran, and me also, she said. 'It is ill talking between a prince and his friend.
These speak, to this day, with fewer modifications than have taken place in any other of the European languages during the same lapse of time, the very tongue in which wrote Bertran de Born and Pierre Vidal, the idiom in which Dante and Petrarca found some of their happiest inspirations, and which, we are told, Tasso envied for its poetic capabilities.
'Now here, says Abbot Milo, dealing with the same topics, 'I make an end of Bertran de Born, who did enough mischief in his life to give three kings wretchedness the young King Henry, and the old King Henry, and the new King Richard. If he was not the thorn of Anjou, whose thorn was he? He was cast off. His peers were at the Holy War, his enemy on a throne.
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