You’ve probably never heard of Marie de France, which is not surprising since virtually nothing is known of her life, including her real name. Marie de France was the non de plume of a poet who lived in England during the late 12th century, and is principally known for The Lais of Marie de France, a collection of twelve narrative poems that are all largely concerned with the concept of courtly love.
This retelling of her stories was published in 1989, with the intent of drawing more attention to her literary contribution, and it’s neither the first nor the last time Naomi Lewis and Angela Barrett collaborated on a project. It’s also a perfect match for Barrett’s particular style, for her ornate details and delicate brushstrokes capture that distinct quality of the subject matter: a mysterious medieval period that only ever existed in tales of chivalry and romance.
This is my favourite illustration from the book, which comes from the story Yonec. It’s extraordinary for its time considering the woman depicted in the picture goes on to have an extramarital affair with the shape-shifting man who flies through her window in the form of a hawk, and yet is still treated sympathetically by the narrative. She’s been locked in a tower by her jealous (and much older) husband, but after meeting the knight Muldumarec, she falls in love and eventually gives birth to his child, a son called Yonec.
After her vindictive husband mortally wounds Muldumarec, the lady raises their son as heir to the lordship of Caerwent, and on eventually finding out who is real father is, Yonec slays his evil stepfather. Unfortunately, his mother isn’t around to enjoy this, as she’s already died from Strong Emotions at the tomb of her lover, but it’s still quite astounding that a twelfth-century poem could treat the subject of infidelity so casually (and probably only gets away with it because the story is rooted in far more ancient myths).
Barrett captures the unnamed lady’s confinement through the suffocating narrowness of the room: the way the bed expands past the corners of the frame, and how the high walls and bed curtains create a sense of captivity. But the hawk’s wings break through the lines of the open window, signalling the approach of the lady’s spiritual and bodily freedom.
Barrett also makes the choice to depict the lady facing away from us, forcing us imagine the look on her face when the hawk bursts into the room, rather than showing it outright. She does however, give us one clue – the way the woman’s fist clenches the bedsheets in either fear or excitement (or both).
That she’s reclining on the bed in bare feet is a deliberately sensual choice, which makes sense considering this is a tale in which a married woman will eventually be impregnated by her shape-shifting lover, though the crucifix and rosary beads on the sideboard seem to act as a divine sort of condonement of what other medieval tales would denounce. (They’re also a detail from the poem itself: holy objects that the lady uses to assure herself of her lover’s virtue and godliness).
But my favourite element would have to be the border, made up of white lilies and drops of blood. The lilies signify devotion and death (the lovers stay true to each other, but both are dead by the end of the story) and the blood droplets are made when the jealous husband’s trap is sprung, fatally wounding the knight but providing the lady with a trail to follow when she chases him back to his home.
It’s magical, mysterious, medieval and even a little holy – a striking image amidst the pages of a book that’s full of striking images.
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