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|
Herkneth to me, gode men -
Wives, maydnes, and alle men -
Of a tale that ich you wile telle,
Wo so it wile here and therto dwelle.
The tale is of Havelok imaked:
Whil he was litel, he yede ful naked.
Havelok was a ful god gome -
He was ful god in everi trome;
He was the wicteste man at nede
That thurte riden on ani stede.
That ye mowen now yhere,
And the tale you mowen ylere,
At the biginnig of ure tale,
Fil me a cuppe of ful god ale;
And wile drinken, her I spelle,
That Crist us shilde alle fro helle.
Krist late us hevere so for to do
That we moten comen Him to;
And, witthat it mote ben so,
Benedicamus Domino!
Here I schal biginnen a rym;
Krist us yeve wel god fyn!
The rym is maked of Havelok -
A stalworthi man in a flok.
He was the stalwortheste man at nede
That may riden on ani stede.
It was a king bi are dawes,
That in his time were gode lawes
He dede maken and ful wel holden;
Hym lovede yung, him lovede holde -
Erl and barun, dreng and thayn,
Knict, bondeman, and swain,
Wydues, maydnes, prestes and clerkes,
And al for hise gode werkes.
He lovede God with al his micth,
And Holy Kirke, and soth ant ricth.
Ricthwise men he lovede alle,
And overal made hem for to calle.
Wreieres and wrobberes made he falle
And hated hem so man doth galle;
Utlawes and theves made he bynde,
Alle that he micte fynde,
And heye hengen on galwe-tre -
For hem ne yede gold ne fee!
In that time a man that bore
Wel fifty pund, I wot, or more,
Of red gold upon hiis bac,
In a male with or blac,
Ne funde he non that him misseyde,
Ne with ivele on hond leyde.
Thanne micthe chapmen fare
Thuruth Englond wit here ware,
And baldelike beye and sellen,
Overal ther he wilen dwellen -
In gode burwes and therfram
Ne funden he non that dede hem sham,
That he ne weren sone to sorwe brouth,
And pouere maked and browt to nouth.
Thanne was Engelond at hayse -
Michel was swich a king to preyse
That held so Englond in grith!
Krist of hevene was him with -
He was Engelondes blome.
Was non so bold louerd to Rome
That durste upon his bringhe
Hunger ne here - wicke thinghe.
Hwan he fellede hise foos,
He made hem lurken and crepen in wros -
The hidden hem alle and helden hem stille,
And diden al his herte wille.
Ricth he lovede of alle thinge -
To wronge micht him noman bringe,
Ne for silver ne for gold,
So was he his soule hold.
To the faderles was he rath -
Wo so dede hem wrong or lath,
Were it clerc or were it knicth,
He dede hem sone to haven ricth;
And wo dide widuen wrong,
Were he nevre knicth so strong,
That he ne made him sone kesten
In feteres and ful faste festen;
And wo so dide maydne shame
Of hire bodi or brouth in blame,
Bute it were bi hire wille,
He made him sone of limes spille.
He was the beste knith at nede
That hevere micthe riden on stede,
Or wepne wagge or folc ut lede;
Of knith ne havede he nevere drede,
That he ne sprong forth so sparke of glede,
And lete him knawe of hise hand dede,
Hu he couthe with wepne spede;
And other he refte him hors or wede,
Or made him sone handes sprede
And "Louerd, merci!" loude grede.
He was large and no wicth gnede.
Havede he non so god brede
Ne on his bord non so god shrede,
That he ne wolde thorwit fede
Poure that on fote yede,
Forto haven of Him the mede
That for us wolde on Rode blede -
Crist, that al kan wisse and rede
That evere woneth in any thede.
The king was hoten Athelwold.
Of word, of wepne, he was bold.
In Engeland was nevre knicth
That betere held the lond to ricth.
Of his bodi ne havede he eyr
Bute a mayden swithe fayr,
That was so yung that sho ne couthee
Gon on fote ne speke wit mouthe.
Than him tok an ivel strong,
That he wel wiste and underfong
That his deth was comen him on
And saide, "Crist, wat shal I don?
Louerd, wat shal me to rede?
I wot ful wel ich have mi mede.
Hw shal now my douhter fare?
Of hire have ich michel kare;
Sho is mikel in my thouth -
Of meself is me rith nowt.
No selcouth is thou me be wo:
Sho ne can speke ne sho kan go.
Yif scho couthe on horse ride,
And a thousande men bi hire syde,
And sho were comen intil helde
And Engelond sho couthe welde,
And don hem of thar hire were queme,
And hire bodi couthe yeme,
Ne wolde me nevere ivele like,
Ne though ich were in heveneriche."
Quanne he havede this pleinte maked,
Therafter stronglike quaked.
He sende writes sone onon
After his erles evereichon;
And after hise baruns, riche and poure,
Fro Rokesburw al into Dovere,
That he shulden comen swithe
Til him, that was ful unblithe,
To that stede ther he lay
In harde bondes nicth and day.
He was so faste wit yvel fest
That he ne mouthe haven no rest,
He ne mouthe no mete hete,
Ne he ne mouchte no lythe gete,
Ne non of his ivel that couthe red -
Of him ne was nouth buten ded.
Alle that the writes herden
Sorful and sori til him ferden;
He wrungen hondes and wepen sore
And yerne preyden Cristes hore -
That He wolde turnen him
Ut of that yvel that was so grim.
Thanne he weren comen alle
Bifor the king into the halle,
At Winchestre ther he lay,
"Welcome," he sayde, "be ye ay!
Ful michel thank kan I you
That ye aren comen to me now."
Quanne he weren alle set,
And the king aveden igret,
He greten and gouleden and gouven hem ille,
And he bad hem alle been stille
And seyde that greting helpeth nouth,
"For al to dede am ich brouth.
Bute now ye sen that I shal deye,
Now ich wille you alle preye
Of mi douther, that shal be
Yure levedi after me,
Wo may yemen hire so longe,
Bothen hire and Engelonde,
Til that she be wman of helde
And that she mowe hir yemen and welde?"
He answereden and seyden anon,
Bi Crist and bi Seint Jon,
That th erl Godrigh of Cornwayle
Was trewe man wituten faile,
Wis man of red, wis man of dede,
And men haveden of him mikel drede -
"He may hire altherbest yeme,
Til that she mowe wel ben quene."
The king was payed of that rede.
A wol fair cloth bringen he dede,
And thereon leyde the messebok,
The caliz, and the pateyn ok,
The corporaus, the messe-gere.
Theron he garte the erl swere
That he sholde yemen hire wel,
Withuten lac, wituten tel,
Til that she were twelf winter hold
And of speche were bold,
And that she couthe of curteysye,
Gon and speken of lovedrurye,
And til that she loven muthe
Wom so hire to gode thoucte;
And that he shulde hire yeve
The beste man that micthe live -
The beste, fayreste, the strangest ok;
That dede he him sweren on the bok,
And thanne shulde he Engelond
Al bitechen into hire hond.
Quanne that was sworn on his wise,
The king dede the mayden arise,
And the erl hire bitaucte
And al the lond he evere awcte -
Engelonde, everi del -
And preide he shulde yeme hire wel.
The king ne moucte don no more,
But yerne preyede Godes ore,
And dede him hoslen wel and shrive,
I wot fif hundred sithes and five,
And ofte dede him sore swinge
And wit hondes smerte dinge
So that the blod ran of his fleys,
That tendre was and swithe neys.
He made his quiste swithe wel
And sone gaf it everil del.
Wan it was goven, ne micte men finde
So mikel men micte him in winde,
Of his in arke ne in chiste,
In Engelond, that noman wiste;
For al was yoven, faire and wel,
That him was leved no catel.
Thanne he havede been ofte swngen,
Ofte shriven and ofte dungen,
"In manus tuas, Louerde," he seyde,
Her that he the speche leyde,
To Jesu Crist bigan to calle
And deyede biforn his heymen alle.
Than he was ded, there micte men se
The meste sorwe that micte be:
Ther was sobbing, siking, and sor,
Handes wringing and drawing bi hor.
Alle greten swithe sore,
Riche and poure that there wore,
And mikel sorwe haveden alle -
Levedyes in boure, knictes in halle.
Quan that sorwe was somdel laten
And he haveden longe graten,
Belles deden he sone ringen,
Monkes and prestes messe singen;
And sauteres deden he manie reden,
That God self shulde his soule leden
Into hevene biforn his Sone,
And ther wituten hende wone.
Than he was to the erthe brouth,
The riche erl ne foryat nouth
That he ne dede al Engelond
Sone sayse intil his hond,
And in the castels leth he do
The knictes he mighte tristen to,
And alle the Englis dede he swere
That he shulden him ghod fey beren:
He yaf alle men that god thoucte,
Liven and deyen til that him moucte,
Til that the kinges dowter wore
Twenti winter hold and more.
Thanne he havede taken this oth
Of erles, baruns, lef and loth,
Of knictes, cherles, fre and thewe,
Justises dede he maken newe
Al Engelond to faren thorw
Fro Dovere into Rokesborw.
Schireves he sette, bedels, and greyves,
Grith sergeans with longe gleyves,
To yemen wilde wodes and pathes
Fro wicke men that wolde don scathes,
And forto haven alle at his cri,
At his wille, at hise merci,
That non durste ben him ageyn -
Erl ne barun, knict ne sweyn.
Wislike for soth was him wel
Of folc, of wepne, of catel:
Sothlike, in a lite thrawe
Al Engelond of him stod awe -
Al Engelond was of him adrad,
So his the beste fro the gad.
The kinges douther bigan thrive
And wex the fairest wman on live.
Of alle thewes was she wis
That gode weren and of pris.
The mayden Goldeboru was hoten;
For hire was mani a ter igroten.
Quanne the Erl Godrich him herde
Of that mayden - hw wel she ferde,
Hw wis sho was, hw chaste, hw fayr,
And that sho was the rithe eyr
Of Engelond, of al the rike;
Tho bigan Godrich to sike,
And seyde, "Wether she sholde be
Quen and levedi over me?
Hwether sho sholde al Engelond
And me and mine haven in hire hond?
Datheit hwo it hire thave!
Shal sho it nevere more have.
Sholde ic yeve a fol, a therne,
Engelond, thou sho it yerne?
Datheit hwo it hire yeve
Evere more hwil I live!
She is waxen al to prud,
For gode metes and noble shrud,
That hic have yoven hire to offte;
Hic have yemed hire to softe.
Shal it nouth ben als sho thenkes:
Hope maketh fol man ofte blenkes.
Ich have a sone, a ful fayr knave;
He shal Engelond al have!
He shal king, he shal ben sire,
So brouke I evere mi blake swire!"
Hwan this trayson was al thouth,
Of his oth ne was him nouth.
He let his oth al overga.
Therof he yaf he nouth a stra,
Bute sone dede hire fete,
Er he wolde heten ani mete,
Fro Winchestre ther sho was,
Also a wicke traytur Judas,
And dede leden hire to Dovre,
That standeth on the seis oure,
And therhinne dede hire fede
Pourelike in feble wede.
The castel dede he yemen so
That non ne micte comen hire to
Of hire frend, with to speken,
That hevere micte hire bale wreken.
Of Goldeboru shul we now laten,
That nouth ne blinneth forto graten
Ther sho liggeth in prisoun.
Jesu Crist, that Lazarun
To live broucte fro dede bondes,
He lese hire wit Hise hondes!
And leve sho mote him yse
Heye hangen on galwe tre
That hire haved in sorwe brouth,
So as sho ne misdede nouth.
Say we now forth in hure spelle!
In that time, so it bifelle,
Was in the lond of Denemark
A riche king and swythe stark.
The name of him was Birkabeyn;
He havede mani knict and sweyn;
He was fayr man and wict,
Of bodi he was the beste knicth
That evere micte leden uth here,
Or stede on ride or handlen spere.
Thre children he havede bi his wif -
He hem lovede so his lif.
He havede a sone, douhtres two,
Swithe fayre, as fel it so.
He that wile non forbere,
Riche ne poure, king ne kaysere,
Deth him tok than he best wolde
Liven, but hyse dayes were fulde,
That he ne moucte no more live,
For gold ne silver ne for no gyve.
Hwan he that wiste, rathe he sende
After prestes, fer an hende -
Chanounes gode and monkes bothe,
Him for to wisse and to rede,
Him for to hoslen an for to shrive,
Hwil his bodi were on live.
Hwan he was hosled and shriven,
His quiste maked and for him gyven,
Hise knictes dede he alle site,
For thoru hem he wolde wite
Hwo micte yeme his children yunge
Til that he kouthen speken wit tunge,
Speken and gangen, on horse riden,
Knictes and sweynes by here siden.
He spoken theroffe and chosen sone
A riche man that under mone,
Was the trewest, that he wende -
Godard, the kinges owne frende -
And seyden he moucthe hem best loke
Yif that he hem undertoke,
Til hise sone mouthe bere
Helm on heved and leden ut here,
In his hand a spere stark,
And king been maked of Denemark.
He wel trowede that he seyde,
And on Godard handes leyde;
And seyde, "Here biteche I thee
Mine children alle thre,
Al Denemark and al mi fe,
Til that mi sone of helde be,
But that ich wille that thou swere
On auter and on messe gere,
On the belles that men ringes,
On messe bok the prest on singes,
That thou mine children shalt wel yeme,
That hire kin be ful wel queme,
Til mi sone mowe ben knicth.
Thanne biteche him tho his ricth:
Denemark and that ther til longes -
Casteles and tunes, wodes and wonges."
Godard stirt up and swor al that
The king him bad, and sithen sat
Bi the knictes that ther ware,
That wepen alle swithe sare
For the king that deide sone.
Jesu Crist, that makede mone
On the mirke nith to shine,
Wite his soule fro helle pine;
And leve that it mote wone
In heveneriche with Godes Sone!
Hwan Birkabeyn was leyd in grave,
The erl dede sone take the knave,
Havelok, that was the eir,
Swanborow, his sister, Helfled, the tother,
And in the castel dede he hem do,
Ther non ne micte hem comen to
Of here kyn, ther thei sperd were.
Ther he greten ofte sore
Bothe for hunger and for kold,
Or he weren thre winter hold.
Feblelike he gaf hem clothes;
He ne yaf a note of hise othes -
He hem clothede rith ne fedde,
Ne hem ne dede richelike bebedde.
Thanne Godard was sikerlike
Under God the moste swike
That evre in erthe shaped was.
Withuten on, the wike Judas.
Have he the malisun today
Of alle that evre speken may -
Of patriark and of pope,
And of prest with loken kope,
Of monekes and hermites bothe,
And of the leve Holi Rode
That God himselve ran on blode!
Crist warie him with His mouth!
Waried wrthe he of north and suth,
Offe alle men that speken kunne,
Of Crist that made mone and sunne!
Thanne he havede of al the lond
Al the folk tilled intil his hond,
And alle haveden sworen him oth,
Riche and poure, lef and loth,
That he sholden hise wille freme
And that he shulde him nouth greme,
He thouthe a ful strong trechery,
A trayson and a felony,
Of the children for to make -
The devel of helle him sone take!
Hwan that was thouth, onon he ferde
To the tour ther he woren sperde,
Ther he greten for hunger and cold.
The knave, that was sumdel bold,
Kam him ageyn, on knes him sette,
And Godard ful feyre he ther grette.
And Godard seyde, "Wat is yw?
Hwi grete ye and goulen now?"
"For us hungreth swithe sore" -
Seyden he, "we wolden more:
We ne have to hete, ne we ne have
Her inne neyther knith ne knave
That yeveth us drinke ne no mete,
Halvendel that we moun ete -
Wo is us that we weren born!
Weilawei! nis it no korn
That men micte maken of bred?
Us hungreth - we aren ney ded!"
Godard herde here wa,
Ther-offe yaf he nouth a stra,
But tok the maydnes bothe samen,
Al so it were up on hiis gamen,
Al so he wolde with hem leyke
That weren for hunger grene and bleike.
Of bothen he karf on two here throtes,
And sithen hem al to grotes.
Ther was sorwe, wo-so it sawe,
Hwan the children by the wawe
Leyen and sprawleden in the blod.
Havelok it saw and therbi stod -
Ful sori was that sely knave.
Mikel dred he mouthe have,
For at hise herte he saw a knif
For to reven him hise lyf.
But the knave, that litel was,
He knelede bifor that Judas,
And seyde, "Louerd, mercy now!
Manrede, louerd, biddi you:
Al Denemark I wile you yeve,
To that forward thu late me live.
Here hi wile on boke swere
That nevremore ne shal I bere
Ayen thee, louerd, sheld ne spere,
Ne other wepne that may you dere.
Louerd, have merci of me!
Today I wile fro Denemark fle,
Ne neveremore comen agheyn!
Sweren I wole that Bircabein
Nevere yete me ne gat."
Hwan the devel herde that,
Sumdel bigan him for to rewe;
Withdrow the knif, that was lewe
Of the seli children blod.
Ther was miracle fair and god
That he the knave nouth ne slou,
But for rewnesse him witdrow -
Of Avelok rewede him ful sore,
And thoucte he wolde that he ded wore,
But on that he nouth wit his hend
Ne drepe him nouth, that fule fend!
Thoucte he als he him bi stod,
Starinde als he were wod,
"Yif I late him lives go,
He micte me wirchen michel wo -
Grith ne get I neveremo;
He may me waiten for to slo.
And if he were brouct of live,
And mine children wolden thrive,
Louerdinges after me
Of al Denemark micten he be.
God it wite, he shal ben ded -
Wile I taken non other red!
I shal do casten him in the she,
Ther I wile that he drench be,
Abouten his hals an anker god,
Thad he ne flete in the flod."
Ther anon he dede sende
After a fishere that he wende
That wolde al his wille do,
And sone anon he seyde him to:
"Grim, thou wost thu art my thral;
Wilte don my wille al
That I wile bidden thee?
Tomorwen shal maken thee fre,
And aucte thee yeven and riche make,
Withthan thu wilt this child take
And leden him with thee tonicht,
Than thou sest the monelith,
Into the se and don him therinne.
Al wile I taken on me the sinne."
Grim tok the child and bond him faste,
Hwil the bondes micte laste,
That weren of ful strong line.
Tho was Havelok in ful strong pine -
Wiste he nevere her wat was wo!
Jhesu Crist, that makede go
The halte and the doumbe speken,
Havelok, thee of Godard wreke!
Hwan Grim him havede faste bounden,
And sithen in an eld cloth wnden,
He thriste in his muth wel faste
A kevel of clutes ful unwraste,
That he mouthe speke ne fnaste,
Hwere he wolde him bere or lede.
Hwan he havede don that dede,
Hwat the swike him havede he yede
That he shulde him forth lede
And him drinchen in the se -
That forwarde makeden he -
In a poke, ful and blac,
Sone he caste him on his bac,
Ant bar him hom to hise cleve,
And bitaucte him Dame Leve
And seyde, "Wite thou this knave,
Al so thou wit mi lif save!
I shal dreinchen him in the se;
For him shole we ben maked fre,
Gold haven ynow and other fe:
That havet mi louerd bihoten me."
Hwan Dame Leve herde that,
Up she stirte and nouth ne sat,
And caste the knave so harde adoun
That he crakede ther his croune
Ageyn a gret ston ther it lay.
Tho Havelok micte sei, "Weilawei,
That evere was I kinges bern -
That him ne havede grip or ern,
Leoun or wlf, wlvine or bere,
Or other best that wolde him dere!"
So lay that child to middel nicth,
That Grim bad Leve bringen lict,
For to don on his clothes:
"Ne thenkestu nowt of mine othes
That ich have mi louerd sworen?
Ne wile I nouth be forloren.
I shal beren him to the se -
Thou wost that hoves me -
And I shal drenchen him therinne;
Ris up swithe an go thu binne,
And blow the fir and lith a kandel."
Als she shulde hise clothes handel
On for to don and blawe the fir,
She saw therinne a lith ful shir,
Al so brith so it were day,
Aboute the knave ther he lay.
Of hise mouth it stod a stem
Als it were a sunnebem;
Al so lith was it therinne
So ther brenden cerges inne.
"Jesu Crist!" wat Dame Leve,
"Hwat is that lith in ure cleve?
Ris up, Grim, and loke wat it menes!
Hwat is the lith, as thou wenes?"
He stirten bothe up to the knave
For man shal god wille have,
Unkeveleden him and swithe unbounden,
And sone anon him funden,
Als he tirveden of his serk,
On hise rith shuldre a kynmerk,
A swithe brith, a swithe fair.
"Goddot!" quath Grim, "this ure eir,
That shal louerd of Denemark!
He shal ben king, strong and stark;
He shal haven in his hand
Al Denemark and Engeland.
He shal do Godard ful wo;
He shal him hangen or quik flo,
Or he shal him al quic grave.
Of him shal he no merci have."
Thus seide Grim and sore gret,
And sone fel him to the fet,
And seide, "Louerd, have mercy
Of me and Leve, that is me bi!
Louerd, we aren bothe thine -
Thine cherles, thine hine.
Louerd, we sholen thee wel fede
Til that thu cone riden on stede,
Til that thu cone ful wel bere
Helm on heved, sheld and spere.
He ne shall nevere wite, sikerlike,
Godard, that fule swike.
Thoru other man, louerd, than thoru thee
Shal I nevere freman be.
Thou shalt me, louerd, fre maken,
For I shal yemen thee and waken -
Thoru thee wile I fredom have."
Tho was Haveloc a blithe knave!
He sat him up and cravede bred,
And seide, "Ich am ney ded,
Hwat for hunger, wat for bondes
That thu leidest on min hondes,
And for kevel at the laste,
That in my mouth was thrist faste.
I was ther with so harde prangled
That I was ther with ney strangled!"
"Wel is me that thou mayth hete!
Goddoth!" quath Leve, "I shal thee fete
Bred an chese, butere and milk,
Pastees and flaunes - al with swilk
Shole we sone thee wel fede,
Louerd, in this mikel nede.
Soth it is that men seyt and swereth:
'Ther God wile helpen, nouth ne dereth.'"
Thanne sho havede brouth the mete,
Haveloc anon bigan to ete
Grundlike, and was ful blithe.
Couthe he nouth his hunger mithe.
A lof he het, I woth, and more,
For him hungrede swithe sore.
Thre dayes ther biforn, I wene,
Et he no mete - that was wel sene!
Hwan he havede eten and was fed,
Grim dede maken a ful fayr bed,
Unclothede him and dede him therinne,
And seyde, "Slep, sone, with muchel winne!
Slep wel faste and dred thee nouth -
Fro sorwe to joie art thu brouth."
Sone so it was lith of day,
Grim it undertok the wey
To the wicke traitour Godard
That was of Denemark a stiward
And saide, "Louerd, don ich have
That thou me bede of the knave:
He is drenched in the flod,
Abouten his hals an anker god -
He is witerlike ded.
Eteth he nevremore bred:
He lith drenched in the se.
Yif me gold and other fe,
That I mowe riche be,
And with thi chartre make fre;
For thu ful wel bihetet me
Thanne I last spak with thee."
Godard stod and lokede on him
Thoruthlike, with eyne grim,
And seyde, "Wiltu ben erl?
Go hom swithe, fule drit-cherl;
Go hethen and be everemore
Thral and cherl als thou er wore -
Shaltu have non other mede;
For litel I do thee lede
To the galwes, so God me rede!
For thou haves don a wicke dede.
Thou mait stonden her to longe,
Bute thou swithe hethen gonge!"
Grim thoucte to late that he ran
Fro that traytour, that wicke man,
And thoucte, "Wat shal me to rede?
Wite he him on live he wile bethe
Heye hangen on galwe tre.
Betere us is of londe to fle,
And berwen bothen ure lives,
And mine children and mine wives."
Grim solde sone al his corn,
Shep with wolle, neth with horn,
Hors and swin, geet with berd,
The gees, the hennes of the yerd -
Al he solde that outh douthe,
That he evre selle moucte;
And al he to the peni drou.
Hise ship he greythede wel inow;
He dede it tere an ful wel pike
That it ne doutede sond ne krike;
Therinne dide a ful god mast,
Stronge kables and ful fast,
Ores gode an ful god seyl -
Therinne wantede nouth a nayl,
That evere he sholde therinne do.
Hwan he havedet greythed so,
Havelok the yunge he dede therinne,
Him and his wif, hise sones thrinne,
And hise two doutres that faire wore.
And sone dede he leyn in an ore,
And drou him to the heye see,
There he mith altherbeste fle.
Fro londe woren he bote a mile,
Ne were it nevere but ane hwile
That it ne bigan a wind to rise
Out of the north men calleth "bise,"
And drof hem intil Engelond,
That al was sithen in his hond,
His, that Havelok was the name;
But or he havede michel shame,
Michel sorwe and michel tene,
And yete he gat it al bidene;
Als ye shulen now forthward lere,
Yf that ye wilen therto here.
In Humber Grim bigan to lende,
In Lindeseye, rith at the north ende.
Ther sat his ship upon the sond;
But Grim it drou up to the lond;
And there he made a litel cote
To him and to hise flote.
Bigan he there for to erthe,
A litel hus to maken of erthe,
So that he wel thore were
Of here herboru herborwed there.
And for that Grim that place aute,
The stede of Grim the name laute,
So that Grimesbi it calleth alle
That theroffe speken alle;
And so shulen men callen it ay,
Bitwene this and Domesday.
Grim was fishere swithe god,
And mikel couthe on the flod -
Mani god fish therinne he tok,
Bothe with neth and with hok.
He tok the sturgiun and the qual,
And the turbut and lax withal;
He tok the sele and the hwel -
He spedde ofte swithe wel.
Keling he tok and tumberel,
Hering and the makerel,
The butte, the schulle, the thornebake.
Gode paniers dede he make,
On til him and other thrinne
Til hise sones to beren fishe inne,
Up o londe to selle and fonge -
Forbar he neyther tun ne gronge
That he ne to yede with his ware.
Kam he nevere hom hand-bare,
That he ne broucte bred and sowel
In his shirte or in his cowel,
In his poke benes and korn -
Hise swink he havede he nowt forlorn.
And hwan he took the grete lamprey,
Ful wel he couthe the rithe wei
To Lincolne, the gode boru;
Ofte he yede it thoru and thoru,
Til he havede wol wel sold
And therfore the penies told.
Thanne he com thenne he were blithe,
For hom he brouthe fele sithe
Wastels, simenels with the horn,
His pokes fulle of mele and korn,
Netes flesh, shepes and swines;
And hemp to maken of gode lines,
And stronge ropes to hise netes,
In the se weren he ofte setes.
Thusgate Grim him fayre ledde:
Him and his genge wel he fedde
Wel twelf winter other more.
Havelok was war that Grim swank sore
For his mete, and he lay at hom -
Thouthe, "Ich am now no grom!
Ich am wel waxen and wel may eten
More than evere Grim may geten.
Ich ete more, bi God on live,
Than Grim an hise children five!
It ne may nouth ben thus longe.
Goddot! I wile with hem gange
For to leren sum god to gete.
Swinken ich wolde for my mete -
It is no shame for to swinken!
The man that may wel eten and drinken
Thar nouth ne have but on swink long -
To liggen at hom it is ful strong.
God yelde him, ther I ne may,
That haveth me fed to this day!
Gladlike I wile the paniers bere -
Ich woth ne shal it me nouth dere,
They ther be inne a birthene gret
Al so hevi als a neth.
Shal ich nevere lengere dwelle -
Tomorwen shal ich forth pelle."
On the morwen, hwan it was day,
He stirt up sone and nouth ne lay,
And cast a panier on his bac,
With fish giveled als a stac.
Al so michel he bar him one,
So he foure, bi mine mone!
Wel he it bar and solde it wel;
The silver he brouthe hom ilk del,
Al that he therfore tok -
Withheld he nouth a ferthinges nok.
So yede he forth ilke day
That he nevere at home lay -
So wolde he his mester lere.
Bifel it so a strong dere
Bigan to rise of korn of bred,
That Grim ne couthe no god red,
Hw he sholde his meiné fede;
Of Havelok havede he michel drede,
For he was strong and wel mouthe ete
More thanne evere mouthe be gete;
Ne he ne mouthe on the se take
Neyther lenge ne thornbake,
Ne non other fish that douthe
His meyné feden with he mouthe.
Of Havelok he havede kare,
Hwilgat that he micthe fare.
Of his children was him nouth;
On Havelok was al hise thouth,
And seyde, "Havelok, dere sone,
I wene that we deye mone
For hunger, this dere is so strong,
And hure mete is uten long.
Betere is that thu henne gonge
Than thu here dwelle longe -
Hethen thou mayt gangen to late;
Thou canst ful wel the ricthe gate
To Lincolne, the gode boru -
Thou havest it gon ful ofte thoru.
Of me ne is me nouth a slo.
Betere is that thu thider go,
For ther is mani god man inne;
Ther thou mayt thi mete winne.
But wo is me thou art so naked,
Of mi seyl I wolde thee were maked
A cloth thou mithest inne gongen,
Sone, no cold that thu ne fonge."
He tok the sheres of the nayl
And made him a covel of the sayl,
And Havelok dide it sone on.
Havede he neyther hosen ne shon,
Ne none kines other wede:
To Lincolne barfot he yede.
Hwan he cam ther, he was ful wil -
Ne havede he no frend to gangen til.
Two dayes ther fastinde he yede,
That non for his werk wolde him fede.
The thridde day herde he calle:
"Bermen, bermen, hider forth alle!"
Poure that on fote yede
Sprongen forth so sparke on glede,
Havelok shof dun nyne or ten
Rith amidewarde the fen,
And stirte forth to the kok,
Ther the erles mete he tok
That he bouthe at the brigge:
The bermen let he alle ligge,
And bar the mete to the castel,
And gat him there a ferthing wastel.
Thet other day kepte he ok
Swithe yerne the erles kok,
Til that he say him on the brigge,
And bi him many fishes ligge.
The herles mete havede he bouth
Of Cornwalie and kalde oft:
"Bermen, bermen, hider swithe!"
Havelok it herde and was ful blithe
That he herde "bermen" calle.
Alle made he hem dun falle
That in his gate yeden and stode -
Wel sixtene laddes gode.
Als he lep the kok til,
He shof hem alle upon an hyl -
Astirte til him with his rippe
And bigan the fish to kippe.
He bar up wel a carte lode
Of segges, laxes, of playces brode,
Of grete laumprees and of eles.
Sparede he neyther tos ne heles
Til that he to the castel cam,
That men fro him his birthene nam.
Than men haveden holpen him doun
With the birthene of his croun,
The kok stod and on him low,
And thoute him stalworthe man ynow,
And seyde, "Wiltu ben wit me?
Gladlike wile ich feden thee:
Wel is set the mete thu etes,
And the hire that thu getes!"
"Goddot!" quoth he, "leve sire,
Bidde ich you non other hire,
But yeveth me inow to ete -
Fir and water I wile you fete,
The fir blowe and ful wele maken;
Stickes kan ich breken and kraken,
And kindlen ful wel a fyr,
And maken it to brennen shir.
Ful wel kan ich cleven shides,
Eles to turven of here hides;
Ful wel kan ich dishes swilen,
And don al that ye evere wilen."
Quoth the kok, "Wile I no more!
Go thu yunder and sit thore,
And I shal yeve the ful fair bred,
And made the broys in the led.
Sit now doun and et ful yerne -
Datheit hwo the mete werne!"
Havelok sette him dun anon
Al so stille als a ston,
Til he havede ful wel eten;
Tho havede Havelok fayre geten.
Hwan he havede eten inow,
He kam to the wele, water up drow,
And filde ther a michel so -
Bad he non ageyn him go,
But bitwen his hondes he bar it in,
Al him one, to the kichin.
Bad he non him water to fett,
Ne fro brigge to bere the mete.
He bar the turves, he bar the star,
The wode fro the brigge he bar,
Al that evere shulden he nytte,
Al he drow and al he citte -
Wolde he nevere haven rest
More than he were a best.
Of alle men was he mest meke,
Lauhwinde ay and blithe of speke;
Evere he was glad and blithe -
His sorwe he couthe ful wel mithe.
It ne was non so litel knave
For to leyken ne for to plawe,
That he ne wolde with him pleye.
The children that yeden in the weie
Of him he deden al here wille,
And with him leykeden here fille.
Him loveden alle, stille and bolde,
Knictes, children, yunge and holde -
Alle him loveden that him sowen,
Bothen heye men and lowe.
Of him ful wide the word sprong,
Hw he was mikel, hw he was strong,
Hw fayr man God him havede maked,
But on that he was almest naked:
For he ne havede nouth to shride
But a kovel ful unride,
That was ful and swithe wicke;
Was it nouth worth a fir-sticke.
The cok bigan of him to rewe
And bouthe him clothes al spannewe:
He bouthe him bothe hosen and shon,
And sone dide him dones on.
Hwan he was clothed, osed, and shod,
Was non so fayr under God,
That evere yete in erthe were,
Non that evere moder bere;
It was nevere man that yemede
In kinneriche that so wel semede
King or cayser for to be,
Than he was shrid, so semede he;
For thanne he weren alle samen
At Lincolne at the gamen,
And the erles men woren al thore,
Than was Havelok bi the shuldren more
Than the meste that ther kam:
In armes him noman nam
That he doune sone ne caste.
Havelok stod over hem als a mast;
Als he was heie, als he was long,
He was bothe stark and strong -
In Engelond non hise per
Of strengthe that evere kam him ner.
Als he was strong, so was he softe;
They a man him misdede ofte,
Neveremore he him misseyde,
Ne hond on him with yvele leyde.
Of bodi was he mayden clene;
Nevere yete in game, ne in grene,
With hire ne wolde he leyke ne lye,
No more than it were a strie.
In that time al Hengelond
Th'erl Godrich havede in his hond,
And he gart komen into the tun
Mani erl and mani barun,
And alle that lives were
In Englond thanne wer there,
That they haveden after sent
To ben ther at the parlement.
With hem com mani chambioun,
Mani with ladde, blac and brown,
And fel it so that yungemen,
Wel abouten nine or ten,
Bigunnen the for to layke.
Thider komen bothe stronge and wayke,
Thider komen lesse and more
That in the boru thanne weren thore -
Chaunpiouns and starke laddes,
Bondemen with here gaddes,
Als he comen fro the plow.
There was sembling inow;
For it ne was non horse-knave,
Tho thei sholden in honde have,
That he ne kam thider, the leyk to se.
Biforn here fet thanne lay a tre,
And pulten with a mikel ston
The starke laddes, ful god won.
The ston was mikel and ek gret,
And al so hevi so a neth;
Grundstalwyrthe man he sholde be
That mouthe liften it to his kne;
Was ther neyther clerc ne prest,
That mithe liften it to his brest.
Therwit putten the chaumpiouns
That thider comen with the barouns.
Hwo so mithe putten thore
Biforn another an inch or more,
Wore he yung, wore he hold,
He was for a kempe told.
Al so the stoden and ofte stareden,
The chaumpiouns and ek the ladden,
And he maden mikel strout
Abouten the altherbeste but,
Havelok stod and lokede thertil,
And of puttingge he was ful wil,
For nevere yete ne saw he or
Putten the stone or thanne thor.
Hise mayster bad him gon therto -
Als he couthe therwith do.
Tho hise mayster it him bad,
He was of him sore adrad.
Therto he stirte sone anon,
And kipte up that hevi ston
That he sholde putten withe;
He putte at the firste sithe,
Over alle that ther wore
Twelve fote and sumdel more.
The chaumpiouns that put sowen;
Shuldreden he ilc other and lowen.
Wolden he nomore to putting gange,
But seyde, "Thee dwellen her to longe!"
This selkouth mithe nouth ben hyd:
Ful sone it was ful loude kid
Of Havelok, hw he warp the ston
Over the laddes everilkon,
Hw he was fayr, hw he was long,
Hw he was with, hw he was strong;
Thoruth England yede the speche,
Hw he was strong and ek meke;
In the castel, up in the halle,
The knithes speken therof alle,
So that Godrich it herde wel:
The speken of Havelok, everi del -
Hw he was strong man and hey,
Hw he was strong, and ek fri,
And thouthte Godrich, "Thoru this knave
Shal ich Engelond al have,
And mi sone after me;
For so I wile that it be.
The King Athelwald me dide swere
Upon al the messe gere
That I shude his douther yeve
The hexte that mithe live,
The beste, the fairest, the strangest ok -
That gart he me sweren on the bok.
Hwere mithe I finden ani so hey,
So Havelok is, or so sley?
Thou I southe hethen into Inde,
So fayr, so strong, ne mithe I finde.
Havelok is that ilke knave
That shal Goldeboru have!"
This thouthe with trechery,
With traysoun, and wit felony;
For he wende that Havelok wore
Sum cherles sone and no more;
Ne shulde he haven of Engellond
Onlepi foru in his hond
With hire that was therof eyr,
That bothe was god and swithe fair.
He wende that Havelok wer a thral,
Therthoru he wende haven al
In Engelond, that hire rith was.
He was werse than Sathanas
That Jhesu Crist in erthe stoc.
Hanged worthe he on an hok!
After Goldeboru sone he sende,
That was bothe fayr and hende,
And dide hire to Lincolne bringe.
Belles dede he ageyn hire ringen,
And joie he made hire swithe mikel;
But netheless he was ful swikel.
He saide that he sholde hire yeve
The fayreste man that mithe live.
She answerede and saide anon,
By Crist and bi Seint Johan,
That hire sholde noman wedde
Ne noman bringen hire to bedde
But he were king or kinges eyr,
Were he nevere man so fayr.
Godrich the erl was swithe wroth
That she swor swilk an oth,
And saide, "Whether thou wilt be
Quen and levedi over me?
Thou shalt haven a gadeling -
Ne shalt thou haven non other king!
Thee shal spusen mi cokes knave -
Ne shalt thou non other louered have.
Datheit that thee other yeve
Everemore hwil I live!
Tomorwe ye sholen ben weddeth,
And maugre thin togidere beddeth.
Goldeboru gret and yaf hire ille;
She wolde ben ded bi hire wille.
On the morwen hwan day was sprungen
And day-belle at kirke rungen,
After Havelok sente that Judas
That werse was thanne Sathanas,
And saide, "Maister, wilte wif?"
"Nay," quoth Havelok, "bi my lif!
Hwat sholde ich with wif do?
I ne may hire fede ne clothe ne sho.
Wider sholde ich wimman bringe?
I ne have none kines thinge -
I ne have hws, I ne have cote,
Ne I ne have stikke, I ne have sprote,
I ne have neyther bred ne sowel,
Ne cloth but of an hold whit covel.
This clothes that ich onne have
Aren the kokes and ich his knave!"
Godrich stirt up and on him dong,
With dintes swithe hard and strong,
And seyde, "But thou hire take
That I wole yeven thee to make,
I shal hangen thee ful heye,
Or I shal thristen uth thin heie."
Havelok was one and was odrat,
And grauntede him al that he bad.
Tho sende he after hire sone,
The fayrest wymman under mone,
And seyde til hire, fals and slike,
That wicke thrall that foule swike:
"But thu this man understonde,
I shall flemen thee of londe;
Or thou shal to the galwes renne,
And ther thou shalt in a fir brenne."
Sho was adrad for he so thrette,
And durste nouth the spusing lette;
But they hire likede swithe ille,
Sho thouthe it was Godes will |