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|
Lef, lythes to me
Two wordes or thre,
Of one that was faire and fre
And felle in his fighte.
His righte name was Percyvell,
He was fosterde in the felle,
He dranke water of the welle,
And yitt was he wyghte.
His fadir was a noble man;
Fro the tyme that he began,
Miche wirchippe he wan
When he was made knyghte
In Kyng Arthures haulle.
Beste byluffede of alle,
Percyvell thay gan hym calle,
Whoso redis ryghte.
Who that righte can rede,
He was doughty of dede,
A styffe body on a stede
Wapynes to welde;
Tharefore Kyng Arthoure
Dide hym mekill honoure:
He gaffe hym his syster Acheflour,
To have and to holde
Fro thethyn till his lyves ende,
With brode londes to spende,
For he the knyght wele kende.
He bytaughte hir to welde,
With grete gyftes to fulfill;
He gaffe his sister hym till
To the knyght, at ther bothers will,
With robes in folde.
He gaffe hym robes in folde,
Brode londes in wolde,
Mony mobles untolde,
His syster to take.
To the kirke the knyghte yode
For to wedde that frely fode,
For the gyftes that ware gude
And for hir ownn sake.
Sythen, withowtten any bade,
A grete brydale thay made,
For hir sake that hym hade
Chosen to hir make;
And after, withowtten any lett,
A grete justyng ther was sett;
Of all the kempes that he mett
Wolde he none forsake.
Wolde he none forsake,
The Rede Knyghte ne the Blake,
Ne none that wolde to hym take
With schafte ne with schelde;
He dose als a noble knyghte,
Wele haldes that he highte;
Faste preves he his myghte:
Deres hym none elde.
Sexty schaftes, I say,
Sir Percyvell brake that ilke day,
And ever that riche lady lay
One walle and byhelde.
Thofe the Rede Knyghte hade sworne,
Oute of his sadill is he borne
And almoste his lyfe forlorne,
And lygges in the felde.
There he lygges in the felde -
Many men one hym byhelde -
Thurgh his armour and his schelde
Stoneyde that tyde.
That arghede all that ther ware,
Bothe the lesse and the mare,
That noble Percyvell so wele dare
Syche dynttys habyde.
Was ther nowthir more ne lasse
Of all those that ther was
That durste mete hym one the grasse,
Agaynes hym to ryde.
Thay gaffe Sir Percyvell the gree:
Beste worthy was he;
And hamewardes than rode he,
And blythe was his bryde.
And thofe the bryde blythe be
That Percyvell hase wone the gree,
Yete the Rede Knyghte es he
Hurte of his honde;
And therfore gyffes he a gyfte
That if he ever covere myghte
Owthir by day or by nyghte,
In felde for to stonde,
That he scholde qwyte hym that dynt
That he of his handes hynte;
Sall never this travell be tynt,
Ne tolde in the londe
That Percyvell in the felde
Schulde hym schende thus undire schelde,
Bot he scholde agayne it yelde,
If that he were leveande.
Now than are thay leveande bathe;
Was noghte the Rede Knyghte so rathe
For to wayte hym with skathe.
Er ther the harmes felle,
Ne befelle ther no stryffe,
Till Percyvell had in his lyffe
A son by his yonge wyffe,
Aftir hym to duelle.
When the childe was borne,
He made calle it one the morne
Als his fadir highte byforne -
Yonge Percyvell.
The knyghte was fayne a feste made
For knave-childe that he hade;
And sythen, withowtten any bade
Offe justynges they telle.
Now of justynges they tell:
They sayne that Sir Percyvell
That he will in the felde duelle,
Als he hase are done.
A grete justynge was ther sett
Of all the kempes that ther mett,
For he wolde his son were gette
In the same wonne.
Theroff the Rede Knyghte was blythe,
When he herde of that justynge kythe,
And graythed hym armour ful swythe,
And rode thedir righte sone;
Agayne Percyvell he rade,
With schafte and with schelde brade,
To holde his heste that he made,
Of maistres to mone.
Now of maistres to mone,
Percyvell hase wele done,
For the love of his yonge sone,
One the firste day.
Ere the Rede Knyghte was bownn,
Percyvell hase borne downn
Knyght, duke, erle, and baroun,
And vencusede the play.
Right als he hade done this honour,
So come the Rede Knyghte to the stowre.
Bot "Wo worthe wykkyde armour!"
Percyvell may say.
For ther was Sir Percyvell slayne,
And the Rede Knyghte fayne -
In herte is noghte for to layne -
When he went on his way.
When he went on his way,
Durste ther no man to hym say,
Nowther in erneste ne in play,
To byd hym habyde;
For he had slayne righte thare
The beste body at thare ware,
Sir Percyvell, with woundes sare,
And stonayed that tyde.
And than thay couthe no better rede
Bot put hym in a prevee stede,
Als that men dose with the dede,
In erthe for to hyde.
Scho that was his lady
Mighte be full sary,
That lorne hade siche a body:
Hir aylede no pryde.
And now is Percyvell the wighte
Slayne in batelle and in fyghte,
And the lady hase gyffen a gyfte,
Holde if scho may,
That scho schall never mare wone
In stede, with hir yonge sone,
Ther dedes of armes schall be done,
By nyghte ne be daye.
Bot in the wodde schall he be:
Sall he no thyng see
Bot the leves of the tree
And the greves graye;
Schall he nowther take tent
To justes ne to tournament,
Bot in the wilde wodde went,
With bestes to playe.
With wilde bestes for to playe,
Scho tuke hir leve and went hir waye,
Bothe at baron and at raye,
And went to the wodde.
Byhynde scho leved boure and haulle;
A mayden scho tuke hir withalle,
That scho myghte appon calle
When that hir nede stode.
Other gudes wolde scho nonne nayte,
Bot with hir tuke a tryppe of gayte,
With mylke of tham for to bayte
To hir lyves fode.
Off all hir lordes faire gere,
Wolde scho noghte with hir bere
Bot a lyttill Scottes spere,
Agayne hir son yode.
And when hir yong son yode,
Scho bade hym walke in the wodde,
Tuke hym the Scottes spere gude,
And gaffe hym in hande.
"Swete modir," sayde he,
"What manere of thyng may this bee
That ye nowe hafe taken mee?
What calle yee this wande?"
Than byspakke the lady:
"Son," scho sayde, "sekerly,
It es a dart doghty;
In the wodde I it fande."
The childe es payed, of his parte,
His modir hafe gyffen hym that darte;
Therwith made he many marte
In that wodde-lande.
Thus he welke in the lande,
With hys darte in his hande;
Under the wilde wodde-wande
He wexe and wele thrafe.
He wolde schote with his spere
Bestes and other gere,
As many als he myghte bere.
He was a gude knave!
Smalle birdes wolde he slo,
Hertys, hyndes also;
Broghte his moder of thoo:
Thurte hir none crave. 1
So wele he lernede hym to schote,
Ther was no beste that welke one fote
To fle fro hym was it no bote.
When that he wolde hym have,
Even when he wolde hym have.
Thus he wexe and wele thrave,
And was reghte a gude knave
Within a fewe yere.
Fyftene wynter and mare
He duellede in those holtes hare;
Nowther nurture ne lare
Scho wolde hym none lere.
Till it byfelle, on a day,
The lady till hir son gun say,
"Swete childe, I rede thou praye
To Goddes Sone dere,
That he wolde helpe the -
Lorde, for His poustee -
A gude man for to bee,
And longe to duelle here."
"Swete moder," sayde he,
"Whatkyns a godd may that be
That ye nowe bydd mee
That I schall to pray?"
Then byspakke the lady even:
"It es the grete Godd of heven:
This worlde made He within seven,
Appon the sexte day."
"By grete Godd," sayde he than,
"And I may mete with that man,
With alle the crafte that I kan,
Reghte so schall I pray!"
There he levede in a tayte
Bothe his modir and his gayte,
The grete Godd for to layte,
Fynde hym when he may.
And as he welke in holtes hare,
He sawe a gate, as it ware;
With thre knyghtis mett he thare
Off Arthrus in.
One was Ewayne fytz Asoure,
Another was Gawayne with honour,
And Kay, the bolde baratour,
And all were of his kyn.
In riche robes thay ryde;
The childe hadd no thyng that tyde
That he myghte in his bones hyde,
Bot a gaytes skynn.
He was a burely of body, and therto right brade;
One ayther halfe a skynn he hade;
The hode was of the same made,
Juste to the chynn.
His hode was juste to his chyn,
The flesche halfe tourned within.
The childes witt was full thyn
When he scholde say oughte.
Thay were clothede all in grene;
Siche hade he never sene:
Wele he wened that thay had bene
The Godd that he soghte.
He said, "Wilke of yow alle three
May the grete Godd bee
That my moder tolde mee,
That all this werlde wroghte?"
Bot than ansuerde Sir Gawayne
Faire and curtaisely agayne,
"Son, so Criste mote me sayne,
For swilke are we noghte."
Than saide the fole one the filde,
Was comen oute of the woddes wilde,
To Gawayne that was meke and mylde
And softe to ansuare,
"I sall sla yow all three
Bot ye smertly now telle mee
Whatkyns thynges that ye bee,
Sen ye no goddes are."
Then ansuerde Sir Kay,
"Who solde we than say
That hade slayne us to-day
In this holtis hare?"
At Kayes wordes wexe he tene:
Bot he a grete bukke had bene,
Ne hadd he stonde tham bytwene, 2
He hade hym slayne thare.
Bot than said Gawayn to Kay,
"Thi prowde wordes pares ay;
I scholde wyn this childe with play,
And thou wolde holde the still.
Swete son," than said he,
"We are knyghtis all thre;
With Kyng Arthoure duelle wee,
That hovyn es on hyll."
Then said Percyvell the lyghte,
In gayte-skynnes that was dyghte,
"Will Kyng Arthoure make me knyghte,
And I come hym till?"
Than saide Sir Gawayne righte thare,
"I kane gyffe the nane ansuare;
Bot to the Kynge I rede thou fare,
To wete his awenn will!"
To wete than the Kynges will
Thare thay hoven yitt still;
The childe hase taken hym till
For to wende hame.
And als he welke in the wodde,
He sawe a full faire stode
Offe coltes and of meres gude,
Bot never one was tame;
And sone saide he, "Bi Seyne John,
Swilke thynges as are yone
Rade the knyghtes apone;
Knewe I thaire name,
Als ever mote I thryffe or thee,
The moste of yone that I see
Smertly schall bere mee
Till I come to my dame."
He saide, "When I come to my dame,
And I fynde hir at hame,
Scho will telle the name
Off this ilke thynge."
The moste mere he thare see
Smertly overrynnes he,
And saide, "Thou sall bere me
To-morne to the Kynge."
Kepes he no sadill-gere,
Bot stert up on the mere:
Hamewarde scho gun hym bere,
Withowtten faylynge.
The lady was never more sore bygone.
Scho wiste never whare to wonne,
When scho wiste hir yonge sonne
Horse hame brynge.
Scho saw hym horse hame brynge;
Scho wiste wele, by that thynge,
That the kynde wolde oute sprynge
For thynge that be moughte.
Than als sone saide the lady,
"That ever solde I sorowe dry,
For love of thi body,
That I hafe dere boghte!
Dere son," saide scho hym to,
"Thou wirkeste thiselfe mekill unroo,
What will thou with this mere do,
That thou hase hame broghte?"
Bot the boye was never so blythe
Als when he herde the name kythe
Of the stode-mere stythe.
Of na thyng than he roghte.
Now he calles hir a mere,
Als his moder dide ere;
He wened all other horses were
And hade bene callede soo.
"Moder, at yonder hill hafe I bene;
Thare hafe I thre knyghtes sene,
And I hafe spoken with tham, I wene,
Wordes in throo;
I have highte tham all thre
Before thaire Kyng for to be:
Siche on schall he make me
As is one of tho!"
He sware by grete Goddes myghte,
"I schall holde that I hafe highte;
Bot-if the Kyng make me knyghte,
To-morne I sall hym sloo!"
Bot than byspakke the lady,
That for hir son was sary -
Hir thoghte wele that scho myght dy
And knelyde one hir knee:
"Sone, thou has takyn thi rede,
To do thiselfe to the dede!
In everilke a strange stede,
Doo als I bydde the:
To-morne es forthirmaste Yole-day,
And thou says thou will away
To make the knyghte, if thou may,
Als thou tolde mee.
Lyttill thou can of nurtoure:
Luke thou be of mesure
Bothe in haulle and in boure,
And fonde to be fre."
Than saide the lady so brighte,
"There thou meteste with a knyghte,
Do thi hode off, I highte,
And haylse hym in hy."
"Swete moder," sayd he then,
"I saw never yit no men;
If I solde a knyghte ken,
Telles me wharby."
Scho schewede hym the menevaire -
Scho had robes in payre.
"Sone, ther thou sees this fare
In thaire hodes lye."
"Bi grete God," sayd he,
"Where that I a knyghte see,
Moder, as ye bidd me,
Righte so schall I."
All that nyghte till it was day,
The childe by the modir lay,
Till on the morne he wolde away,
For thyng that myghte betyde.
Brydill hase he righte nane;
Seese he no better wane,
Bot a wythe hase he tane,
And kevylles his stede.
His moder gaffe hym a ryng,
And bad he solde agayne it bryng;
"Sonne, this sall be oure takynnyng,
For here I sall the byde."
He tase the rynge and the spere,
Stirttes up appon the mere:
Fro the moder that hym bere,
Forthe gan he ryde.
One his way as he gan ryde,
He fande an haulle ther besyde;
He saide, "For oghte that may betyde,
Thedir in will I."
He went in withowtten lett;
He fande a brade borde sett,
A bryghte fire, wele bett,
Brynnande therby.
A mawnger ther he fande,
Corne therin lyggande;
Therto his mere he bande
With the withy.
He saide, "My modir bad me
That I solde of mesure bee
Halfe that I here see
Styll sall it ly."
The corne he pertis in two,
Gaffe his mere the tone of thoo,
And to the borde gan he goo,
Certayne that tyde.
He fande a lofe of brede fyne
And a pychere with wyne,
A mese of the kechyne,
A knyfe ther besyde.
The mete ther that he fande,
He dalte it even with his hande,
Lefte the halfe lyggande
A felawe to byde.
The tother halfe ete he;
How myghte he more of mesure be?
Faste he fonded to be free,
Thofe he were of no pryde.
Thofe he were of no pryde,
Forthyrmore gan he glyde
Till a chambir ther besyde,
Moo sellys to see.
Riche clothes fande he sprede,
A lady slepande on a bedde;
He said, "Forsothe, a tokyn to wedde
Sall thou lefe with mee."
Ther he kyste that swete thynge;
Of hir fynger he tuke a rynge;
His awenn modir takynnynge
He lefte with that fre.
He went forthe to his mere,
Tuke with hym his schorte spere,
Lepe on lofte, as he was ere;
His way rydes he.
Now on his way rydes he,
Moo selles to see;
A knyghte wolde he nedis bee,
Withowtten any bade.
He came ther the Kyng was,
Servede of the firste mese.
To hym was the maste has
That the childe hade;
And thare made he no lett
At gate, dore, ne wykett,
Bot in graythely he gett -
Syche maistres he made.
At his firste in-comynge,
His mere, withowtten faylynge,
Kyste the forhevede of the Kynge -
So nerehande he rade!
The Kyng had ferly thaa,
And up his hande gan he taa
And putt it forthir hym fraa,
The mouthe of the mere.
He saide, "Faire childe and free,
Stonde still besyde mee,
And tell me wythen that thou bee,
And what thou will here."
Than said the fole of the filde,
"I ame myn awnn modirs childe,
Comen fro the woddes wylde
Till Arthure the dere.
Yisterday saw I knyghtis three:
Siche on sall thou make mee
On this mere byfor the,
Thi mete or thou schere!"
Bot than spak Sir Gawayne,
Was the Kynges trenchepayne,
Said, "Forsothe, is noghte to layne,
I am one of thaa.
Childe, hafe thou my blyssyng
For thi feres folowynge!
Here hase thou fonden the Kynge
That kan the knyghte maa."
Than sayde Peceyvell the free,
"And this Arthure the Kyng bee,
Luke he a knyghte make mee:
I rede at it be swaa!"
Thofe he unborely were dyghte,
He sware by mekill Goddes myghte:
"Bot if the Kyng make me knyghte,
I sall hym here slaa!"
All that ther weren, olde and yynge,
Hadden ferly of the Kyng,
That he wolde suffre siche a thyng
Of that foull wyghte
On horse hovande hym by.
The Kyng byholdes hym on hy;
Than wexe he sone sory
When he sawe that syghte.
The teres oute of his eghne glade,
Never one another habade.
"Allas," he sayde, "that I was made,
Be day or by nyghte,
One lyve I scholde after hym bee
That me thynke lyke the: 3
Thou arte so semely to see,
And thou were wele dighte!"
He saide, "And thou were wele dighte,
Thou were lyke to a knyghte
That I lovede with all my myghte
Whills he was one lyve.
So wele wroghte he my will
In all manere of skill,
I gaffe my syster hym till,
For to be his wyfe.
He es moste in my mane:
Fiftene yere es it gane,
Sen a theffe hade hym slane
Abowte a littill stryffe!
Sythen hafe I ever bene his fo,
For to wayte hym with wo.
Bot I myghte hym never slo,
His craftes are so ryfe."
He sayse, "His craftes are so ryfe,
Ther is no man apon lyfe,
With swerde, spere, ne with knyfe
May stroye hym allan,
Bot if it were Sir Percyvell son.
Whoso wiste where he ware done!
The bokes says that he mon
Venge his fader bane."
The childe thoghte he longe bade
That he ne ware a knyghte made,
For he wiste never that he hade
A fader to be slayne;
The lesse was his menynge.
He saide sone to the Kynge,
"Sir, late be thi jangleynge!
Of this kepe I nane."
He sais, "I kepe not to stande
With thi jangleyns to lange.
Make me knyghte with thi hande,
If it sall be done!"
Than the Kyng hym hendly highte
That he schold dub hym to knyghte,
With thi that he wolde doun lighte
And ete with hym at none.
The Kyng biholdes the vesage free,
And ever more trowed hee
That the childe scholde bee
Sir Percyvell son:
It ran in the Kynges mode,
His syster Acheflour the gude -
How scho went into the wodde
With hym for to wonn.
The childe hadde wonnede in the wodde;
He knewe nother evyll ne gude;
The Kynge hymselfe understode
He was a wilde man.
So faire he spakke hym withall,
He lyghtes doun in the haulle,
Bonde his mere amonge tham alle
And to the borde wann.
Bot are he myghte bygynn
To the mete for to wynn,
So commes the Rede Knyghte in
Emanges tham righte than,
Prekande one a rede stede;
Blode-rede was his wede.
He made tham gammen full gnede,
With craftes that he can.
With his craftes gan he calle,
And callede tham recrayhandes all,
Kynge, knyghtes inwith walle,
At the bordes ther thay bade.
Full felly the coupe he fett,
Bifore the Kynge that was sett.
Ther was no man that durste hym lett,
Thofe that he were fadde.
The couppe was filled full of wyne;
He dranke of that that was therinn.
All of rede golde fyne
Was the couppe made.
He tuke it up in his hande,
The coupe that he there fande,
And lefte tham all sittande,
And fro tham he rade.
Now from tham he rade,
Als he says that this made.
The sorowe that the Kynge hade
Mighte no tonge tell.
"A! dere God," said the Kyng than,
"That all this wyde werlde wan,
Whethir I sall ever hafe that man
May make yone fende duelle?
Fyve yeres hase he thus gane,
And my coupes fro me tane,
And my gude knyghte slayne,
Men calde Sir Percyvell;
Sythen taken hase he three,
And ay awaye will he bee,
Or I may harnayse me
In felde hym to felle."
"Petir!" quod Percyvell the yonge,
"Hym than will I down dynge
And the coupe agayne brynge,
And thou will make me knyghte."
"Als I am trewe kyng," said he,
"A knyghte sall I make the,
Forthi thou will brynge mee
The coupe of golde bryghte."
Up ryses Sir Arthoure,
Went to a chamboure
To feche doun armoure,
The childe in to dyghte;
Bot are it was doun caste,
Ere was Percyvell paste,
And on his way folowed faste,
That he solde with fyghte.
With his foo for to fighte,
None othergates was he dighte,
Bot in thre gayt-skynnes righte,
A fole als he ware.
He cryed, "How, man on thi mere!
Bryng agayne the Kynges gere,
Or with my dart I sall the fere
And make the unfere!"
And after the Rede Knyghte he rade,
Baldely, withowtten bade:
Sayd, "A knyght I sall be made
For som of thi gere."
He sware by mekill Goddes payne,
"Bot if thou brynge the coupe agayne,
With my dart thou sall be slayne
And slongen of thi mere."
The kynghte byhaldes hym in throo,
Calde hym fole that was hys foo,
For he named hym soo -
The stede that hym bere.
And for to see hym with syghte,
He putt his umbrere on highte,
To byhalde how he was dyghte,
That so till hym spake.
He sayde, "Come I to the, appert fole;
I sall caste the in the pole,
For all the heghe days of Yole,
Als ane olde sakke."
Than sayd Percyvell the free,
"Be I fole, or whatte I bee,
Now sone of that sall wee see
Whose browes schall blakke."
Of schottyng was the childe slee:
At the knyghte lete he flee,
Smote hym in at the eghe
And oute at the nakke.
For the dynt that he tuke,
Oute of sadill he schoke,
Whoso the sothe will luke,
And ther was he slayne.
He falles down one the hill;
His stede rynnes whare he will.
Than saide Percyvell hym till,
"Thou art a lethir swayne."
Then saide the childe in that tyde,
"And thou woldeste me here byde,
After thi mere scholde I ryde
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