According to legend, Richard the Lionheart wrote this song while imprisoned for several years in Austria. The song is also known as “The Song of Captivity” and “King Richard’s Ballad.”



The legend goes that shortly before Christmas, 1192, Richard I was captured near Vienna by Leopold V, Duke of Austria, who accused the English monarch of arranging the murder of his cousin Conrad of Montferrat. Richard had also personally insulted Leopold by casting the Duke’s standard from the walls of Acre during the Third Crusade. Leopold, in revenge, imprisoned Richard at Dürnstein Castle.



At first no one in England knew what had happened to their king. Finally, the minstrel Blondel, who had been searching for his master throughout Europe, overheard that Dürnstein held a high-ranking, closely-guarded prisoner. Suspecting that this was his master, Blondel approached the castle in secret and located a tiny barred window high up on the wall. He stood beneath the window and sang the first couplet of a Troubadour song he had composed. Immediately a voice responded, singing the second couplet of the song. It was the King.



Richard was eventually released, but not until after the English had paid a hefty ransom. During his years in prison, or so the story goes, the King composed Ja Nus Hons Pris. In the song, he addresses Marie of France, his half-sister, begging her to come to his rescue.



Our arrangement includes the song's first four stanzas in a polyphonic setting by Bill. Below are the original lyrics with translation.



Ja nus hons pris ne dira sa raison
Adroitement, se dolantement non;
Mais par effort puet il faire chançon.
Mout ai amis, mais povre sont li don;
Honte i avront se por ma reançon—
Sui ça deus yvers pris.

​

Ce sevent bien mi home et mi baron–
Ynglois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon–
Que je n’ai nul si povre compaignon
Que je lessaisse por avoir en prison;
Je nou di mie por nule retraçon,—
Mais encor sui [je] pris.

​

Or sai je bien de voir certeinnement
Que morz ne pris n’a ami ne parent,
Quant on me faut por or ne por argent.
Mout m’est de moi, mes plus m’est de ma gent,
Qu’aprés ma mort avront reprochement—
Se longuement sui pris.

​

N’est pas mervoille se j’ai le cuer dolant,
Quant mes sires met ma terre en torment.
S’il li membrast de nostre soirement
Quo nos feïsmes andui communement,
Je sai de voir que ja trop longuement—
Ne seroie ça pris.



~



No prisoner can tell his honest thought
Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong;
But for his comfort as he may make a song.
My friends are many, but their gifts are naught.
Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here—
I lie another year.

​

They know this well, my barons and my men,
Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou,
That I had never follower so low
Whom I would leave in prison to my gain.
I say it not for a reproach to them,—
But prisoner I am!

​

The ancient proverb now I know for sure;
Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie,
Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie.
Much for myself I grieve; for them still more.
After my death they will have grievous wrong—
If I am a prisoner long.

​

What marvel that my heart is sad and sore
When my own lord torments my helpless lands!
Well do I know that, if he held his hands,
Remembering the common oath we swore,
I should not here imprisoned with my song,—
Remain a prisoner long.

​

Bill: tenor recorder

Gwen: harp

Amy: dumbek

Penny: flute

Lael: voice