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[Primus Passus: A Fitt]
All werthy men that luffes to here
Off chevallry that byfore us were
That doughty weren of dede,
Off Charlles of Fraunce, the heghe kinge of alle
That ofte sythes made hethyn men for to falle
That styffely satte one stede.
This geste es sothe, wittnes the buke,
The ryghte lele trouthe whoso will luke
In cronekill for to rede.
Alle Lumbardy thay made thaire mone
And saide thaire gaummes weren alle gone,
Owttrayede with hethen thede.
The Sowdane, Arabas the stronge,
Werreyde appon Crystyndome with wronge
And ceties brake he downn,
Robbyde the Romaynes of theire rent,
The Popys pousty hase he schente
And many a kynges with crownn.
In Tuskayne townnes gon he wyn
And stuffede tham wele with hethyn kyn,
This lorde of grete renownn.
And sythen to Lumbardy he wanne;
Mighte to lett hym hade no man.
Thus wynnes he many a townn.
The emagery that ther solde bee,
Bothe the Rode and the Marie free,
Brynnede tham in a fire.
And than his mawmettes he sett up there
In kirkes and abbayes that there were,
Helde tham for lordes and syre.
To Melayne sythen he tuke the waye
And wanne the cyté apon a daye,
Gaffe his men golde till hyre.
Many a martyre made he there
Off men and childire that there were
And ladyes swete of swyre.
The lorde of Melayne, Sir Alantyne,
Sawe the Crystynde putt to pyne.
Owte of the townn he flede
To a cyté that was thereby;
All nyghte he thoghte therin to ly.
He was full straytly stede.
Thay myghte it wynn with spere and schelde;
Appon the morne hym buse it yelde 1
Or laye his lyfe in wede.
Was never no knyghte putt to mare care.
Full hertly to Criste than prayes he thare
To knawe the lyfe he ledde.
The Sawdane sent hym messangers free
And bade hym torne and hethyn bee
And he solde have his awenn:
Melayne, that was the riche cité,
And alle the laundis of Lumbardye,
And to his lawe be knawenn:
`And if he ne will noghte to oure lawe be swornne,
He sall be hanged or other morne
And with wylde horse be drawen,
His wyffe and his childire three
Byfore his eghne that he myghte see
Be in sondre sawenn.'
He prayede the Sowdane than of grace
That he wolde byde a littill space
Whils one the morne at daye,
And he sall do hym for to witt
If that he wolde assent to itt
To leve apon his laye.
Bot than heves he up his handis to heven,
To Jesu Criste with mylde steven
Full hertly gane he praye.
`Lorde,' he saide, `als Thou swelte appon the Tree,
Of Thy man Thou hafe peté
And Mary mylde, that maye.
`If I solde Crystyndome forsake
And to hethyn lawe me take,
The perill mon be myn.
Bot, Lorde, als Thou lete me be borne,
Late never my sawle be forlorne
Ne dampnede to helle pyne.
Bot, Lorde, als Thou swelte on the Rode
And for mankynde schede Thi blode,
Some concelle sende Thou me--
Whethire that me es better to doo,
The hethyn lawe to torne too
Or my lyfe in lande to tyne.'
Than wente that knyghte unto bedde
For sorowe hym thoghte his hert bledde,
And appon Jesu than gan he calle.
And sone aftire that gane he falle one slepe
Als man that was wery for-wepe.
Than herde by hym on a walle
Ane angelle that unto hym gane saye,
`Rysse up, Sir Kynge, and wende thy waye,
For faire the sall byfalle
To Charles that beris the flour-delyce--
Of other kynges he berys the pryce--2
And he sall wreke thy wrethis alle.'
The angelle bade hym ryse agayne,
`And hy the faste to Charlemayne,
The crownnede Kynge of Fraunce,
And say hym God byddis that he sall go
To helpe to venge the of thy foo
Both with spere and launce.'
The Kynge was full fayne of that;
His swerde in his hande ge gatt
And therto graythely he grauntis.
He garte swythe sadyll hym a palfraye 3
And even to Fraunce he tuke the waye.
Now herkenys of this chaunce.
The same nyghte byfore the daye
Als Kyng Charls in his bedde laye
A swevn than gan he mete.
Hym thoghte ane angele lyghte als leven 4
Spake to hym with mylde steven,
That gudly hym gane grete.
That angele bytaughte hym a brande,
Gaffe hym the hiltis in his hande,
That even was handefull mete
And saide, `Criste sende the this swerde
Mase the His werryoure here in erthe--
He dose the wele to weite. 5
`He biddes thou sall reteyne it tyte
And that thou venge alle His dispyte,
For thynge that ever may bee.
And sla alle there thou sees me stryke
And sythen thou birnne up house and dyke,
For beste He traystis in thee.'
The walles abowte Melayne townne
Hym thoghte the angele dange tham downn
That closed in that cité,
Sythen alle the laundis of Lumbardy
Townnes, borows and bayli.
This was selcouthe to see.
When Charls wakenede of his dreme,
He sawe a bryghtenes of a beme
Up unto hevenwarde glyde.
Bot when he rose, the swerde he fande
That the angelle gaffe hym in his hande
Appon his bedde syde.
He schewede it thanne to his barouns alle,
And than saide his lordes bothe grete and smalle:
`The sothe is noghte to hyde;
We wote wele that Goddis will it es
That thou sall conquere of hethennesse
Countres lange and wyde.'
To mete than wente that riche kynge,
Bot sone come there newe tydynge
Als he in sete was sette.
The lorde of Melayne he sawe come in,
That was his cosyn nere of kyn,
And hym full gudely grette.
The grete lordis alle hailsede hee
And prayede tham all sesse of theire glee
And sayse to Charls withowtten lette,
`Jesu Criste hase comannde thee
To fare to the felde to feghte for mee,
My landis agayne to gette.'
He tolde tham alle at the borde and by
That the Sarasenes had wonn Lumbardy --
Thay mornede and made grete mone --
And how the angelle bade hym goo.
The Kynge tolde his sweven alsoo;
Thay accordede bothe in one.
Thane sayde the Beshope Turpyne:
`Hafe done! Late semble the folke of thyne.
Myn hede I undirtake
That Gode es grevede at the Sarasenes boste.
We salle stroye up alle theire hoste,
Those worthely men in worde.'
Bot alle that herde hym Genyenn
That was a lorde of grete renownn
And Rowlande modir hade wedde.
Thare wery hym bothe God and Sayne John!
The falseste traytoure was he one
That ever with fode was fedde.
For landis that Rowlande solde have thare
Dede fayne he wolde that he ware,
The resone ryghte who redde.6
His firste tresone now bygynnes here
That the lordis boghte sythen full dere
And to ladyse grete barett bredde.
`Sir,' he sayde, `that ware a synfull chaunce.
What solde worthe of us in Fraunce
And thou in the felde were slayne?
Thyselfe and we at home will byde
And latte Rowlande thedire ryde,
That ever to bekyre es bayne
With batelle and with brode banere.
Of his wyrchippe wolde I here,
Witt ye wele, full fayne.'
For Rowlande this resone he wroghte;
Everemore in his herte he thoghte
He solde never come agayne.
The kynge than sent a messangere
To grette lordes bothe ferre and nere
And bade tham make tham yare.
Bot the peris take a concelle newe
That made alle Fraunce ful sore to rewe
And byrdis of blyse full bare.
Thay prayede the Kynge on that tyde
That he hymselfe at home walde byde
To kepe that lande right thare,
`And sendis Rowlande to Lumbardy
With fourty thowsande chevalry
Of worthy men of were.'
Then Rowlande, thus his were than made,
Fares forthe with baners brade;
The Kynge byleves thare still
Within the cité of Paressche
For to kepe that townn of pryce
Als thay accordede till.
And if the Sowdane wane the felde
Lyghtly walde they it noghte yelde
To thay had foughtten thaire fill.
Bot be comen was the feftenede daye
Therfore myghte mornne bothe man and maye
And ladyse lyke full ill.
To Melayne even thay made tham bownn
And batelde tham thare byfore the townn,
Those knyghttis that were kene.
And into the Sowdane thay sent a knyghte
And bade hym come owte with tham to fyghte,
To witt withowtten wene.
The Sowdane grauntis wele thertill
That tornede oure gud men all to gryll
And many one mo to mene.
Than the Sarasene come owte of that cité
Forty thowsandes of chevalrye,
The beste in erthe myghte be[ne].
The forthirmaste come a Sarasene wyghte,
Sir Arabaunt of Perse he highte;
Of Gyon was he kynge.
He saide ther was na Cristyn knyghte,
Ware he never so stronge ne wyghte
To dede he [ne] solde hym dynge.
And one Sir Artaymnere of Beme
That was Sir Olyveres eme--
Byfore the stowre thay thrynge.
And even at the first countire righte
The Sarasen slewe oure Cristyn knyghte.
It was dyscomforthynge.
The lorde of Melayne to hym rade,
Sir Alantyne withowtten bade,
The Crystyn knyghte to wreke;
Bot he stroke oure Cristyn knyghte that stownde
That dede he daschede to the grounde,
Mighte no worde after speke.
Sythen afterwarde he bare down
Worthy lordes of grete renownn,
Ay to his launce gane breke.
And sythen areste thaire nobill stedis
And to the hethyn hoste tham ledis.
Loo thus-gates fares the freke.
Bot by that was done the grete gon mete,
Barouns undir blonkes fete
Braythely ware borne doun.
Thay stekede many a staleworthe knyghte;
The hethen folke in that fyghte
The moste were of renownn.
Oure knyghtis one the gronde lyse
With wondes wyde one wafull wyse:
Crakkede was many a crownn;
Riche hawberkes were all to-rent,
And beryns thorowe thaire scheldis schent
That many to bery was bownn. 7
The Sarasens semblede so sarely
That thay felde faste of oure chevalrye;
Oure vawarde down thay dynge.
Righte at the firste frusche thay felde
Fyve thowsande knyghtis trewly telde--
This is no lesynge.
Oure knyghtis lyghtede one the bent;
Thorowe thaire scheldis are they schent.
Of sorowe than myghte thay synge.
Than oure medillwarde gane tham mete,
Thare myghte no beryns oure bales bete,
Bot the helpe of hevens Kynge.
The medillwarde Sir Rowlande ledde;
That doghty in felde was never drede
To do what solde a knyghte.
Fyfty lordis of gret empryce,
Of Fraunce that bare the floure-delyce,
Hase loste bothe mayne and myghte.
Our medillwarde sone hade thaye slayne,
And Rowlande was in handis tane
And other seven that were knyghtes.
Bot als God gaffe hym that chaunce,
Thay wende he hade bene Kynge of Fraunce
That lyfede in thase fyghtis.
Bot of a knyghte me rewes sore
That in the felde laye wondede thore:
The Duke of Normandy.
He lukes up in the felde,
His umbrere with his hande up helde;
On Rowlande gane he cry:
`Rowlande, if the tyde that chaunce
That thou come evermore into Fraunce,
For the lufe of mylde Marie,
Comande me till oure gentill Kynge
And to the Qwene, my lady yynge,
And to all chevalrye.
``And if thou come into Normandy,
Grete wele my lady
And Sir Richerd my sonne;
And dubbe hym duke in my stede
And bydde hym venge his fadir dede,
Of myrthe if he will mone.
Bid hym hawkes and houndes forgoo
And to dedis of armes hym doo,
Thase craftes for to konne
Appon the cursede Sarasens for to werre,
Venge me with dynt of spere,
For my lyfe is nere done.
`A, Rowlande, byhaulde nowe whatt I see:
More joye ne myghte never bee
In youthe ne yitt in elde.
Loo! I see oure vawarde ledde to hevene
With angells songe and merye stevene
Reghte as thay faughte in the felde.
I see moo angells, loo, with myn eghe,
Then there are men within Cristyanté
That any wapyn may welde.
To heven thay lede oure nobill knyghtis
And comforthes tham with mayne and myghtis,
With mekill blysse and belde.'
Bot by Rowland gan a Sarasene stande
That braydede owte with a bryghte brande
When he harde hym say soo;
And to the Duke a dynt he dryvede.
At the erthe he smate righte of his hede.
Therfore was Rowlande woo.
And Rowland styrte than to a brande
And hastily hent it owte of a Sarasene hande,
And sone he gane hym sloo.
With that swerde he slewe sexty,
The beste of the Sarasens chevalrye,
Off hardy men and moo.
Than Rowlande in handis is taken agayne
And putt unto full harde payne
That sorowe it was to see.
And foure nobill knyghtis than have thay slayne
Byfore that were in handis tane
With Sir Rowlande the free.
The Sowdane comandis of his men
An hundrethe knyghtis to kepe tham then,
Rowland and other three,
And to oure rerewarde sythen thay rode.
Oure barouns boldely tham abode.
Nowe helpe tham the Trynytee!
The Duke of Burgoyne, Sir Belland,
The fadir of Sir Gy of Nevynlande,
The rerewarde than rewlis hee.
He comforthede alle oure nobyll knyghtis,
Said, `Lordis, halde your feldes and your ryghttis
And no Sarasene yee flee.
And thofe ye see thies lordis be slayne
Ne hope ye noghte for alle thaire payne
That ne we sall solance see;
By the werkynge of oure wondis sare
Of the paynes of helle fele we no mare
Bot hy to heven one heghe.'
Thay fruschede in fersely; for Goddis sake
Grete strokes gane thay gyffe and take
With wondis werkande wyde.
Bot yitt the Sarasens with thay speris
Full ferre on bakke oure batelle berys
And knyghtis felde undir fete.
Walde never no Crystyn knyghte thethyn flee
Thoghe that he wyste ryghte there to dye, 8
I doo yowe wole to wytt.
Bot alle in fere thay endide righte thare
That sewede the Sarasenes sythen full sare
For lordis that levede the swete.
Thus fourty thowsande hafe thay slayne
Safe foure that were in handis tane,
Rowlande ande other three.
One was the gentill erle, Sir Olyvere;
Another was Sir Gawtere,
The Kyngis cosyns nere;
The thirde was Sir Gy of Burgoyne--
His fadir in the felde laye there slone;
The soryare myghte he bee.
They ledde thies lordes into Melayne;
With that the Sowdane turnes agayne,
Righte gladde of his menyee.
[Secundus Passus: A] Fytt
To the Sowdane chambir many a man
Oure foure lordis ledd thay than
To rekken of theire arraye.
Thay ette and dranke and made tham glade,
Bot littill myrthe oure lordis hadde.
The Sowdane gane tham saye,
`Welcome be thow, Kynge of Fraunce;
The bytide a cely chaunce:
Thi lyfe was savede this daye.
The false lawes of Fraunce sall downn;
The rewme sall leve one seynt Mahownn
That alle the myghtyeste maye!'
And Rowlande answerde full gentilly,
`I ne rekke whethir I lyfe or dye,
By God that awe this daye.
Kynge of Fraunce ame I none,
Bot a cosyne ame I one
To Charlles, by my faye.
He will gyffe me golde and fee,
Castells ryche with towris heghe--
That lorde full wele he maye.
Bot Goddis forbode and the holy Trynytee
That ever Fraunce hethen were for mee
And lese oure Crysten laye.
`For sothe, thou Sowdane, trowe thou moste
One the Fader and the Sone and the Holy Goste.
Thire thre are alle in one
That borne was of Marye free
Sythen for us dyede one a tree;
In other trowe we none.' 9
Thane loughe the Sowdane withe eghne full smale
And saide, `Ane hundrethe of youre goddis alle hale
Have I garte byrne in firre with bale
Sen firste I wanne this wone.
I sawe at none no more powstee
Than att another rotyn tree
One erthe, so mote I gone. 10
`Goo, feche one of theire goddis in
And if he in this fire will byrne
Alle other sett att noghte.'
Than furthe ther rane a Sarasene in that tyde
To a kyrke was there byside;
A faire rode in he broghte
Fourmede ewenn als He gane blede. 11
Oure Cristen knyghtis bygane thaire crede
And Rowland God bysoughte
And saide, `Thou that was borne of a may,
Schewe thou, Lorde, Thi meracle this day,
That with Thi blode us boghte.'
They keste the rode into the fire
And layde brandis with mekill ire;
Fayne wolde thay garre hym birne.
The Sowdane saide, `Now sall ye see
What myghte es in a rotyn tree
That youre byleve es in.
I darre laye my lyfe full ryghte
That of hymselfe he hase no myghte
Owte of this fire to wyn.
How solde he than helpe another man
That for hymselfe no gyn ne kan,
Nother crafte ne gyn?'
Thay caste one it full many a folde;
The rode laye still ay as it were colde.
No fire wolde in hym too.
All if the crosse were makede of tree
The fire yode owtt that come ther nee.
Than wexe the Sowdan woo.
`And yif the devell,' he sayde, `be hym within,
He sall be brynt or ever I blyne';
Of hert he was full throo.
`Thies cursede wreches that are herein
Has wethede thaire goddis that thai may not byrn;
I wote wele it es soo.'
Than bromstone that wele walde birn
And pykke and terre mengede therin
Thay slange in the fire full bolde.
Torches that were gude and grete
For to helpe that mekill hete
Thay caste in many a folde.
The fire wexe owte at the laste;
Oure knyghtis made thaire prayere faste
To Criste that Judas solde.
The rode braste and gaffe a crake
That thamm thoghte that alle the byggynge brake
That was within that holde.
A fire than fro the crosse gane frusche
And in the Sarasene eghne it gaffe a dosche,
Ane element als it were,
That thay stode still als any stone.
Haundis nore fete myghte thay stirre none
Bot drery wexe in chere;
Thay wyste nother of gude ne ill.
Than Rowlande sais his felawes untill,
`Sirs, hy us alle hethyn in fere.
This meracle es schewede thorowe Goddis grace,
For alle the Sarasenes in this place
May nother see nore here.'
Sayde Sir Gy of Burgoyne, `Yitt or I goo
The Sowdane sall have a stroke or twoo
That glade sall hym no glee.'
He ferkes owte with a fawchon
And hittis the Sowdane one the crownn
Unto the girdyll welle nee.
Thay tuke the grete lordes with ire
And brynte tham in that bale fire;
Those doughty garte they dye 12
Bot sythen the Sarasenes crouned Sir Garsy,
Thay ofte sythes chaste oure chevalry--
A bolde Sarasene was he.
Alle that was than in that place
Thay slewe clenly thorow Goddis grace,
Oure worthy men and wyghte.
And sythen owte at the gates they yede.
Ilkone of tham fande a whitte stede
Sadlit and redy dighte.
Thay stirtt up on those stedis full steryn;
Thay fande no man that tham wolde warne,
Oure ferse men, felle in fighte.
And als the cronekill yitt will saye,
Even to Fraunce thay tuke the waye;
To Paresche thay ryde full righte.
Bot yitt thay wolde noghte come att Paresche
To thay had offerde to Seyne Denys
And wendis to that abbaye,
And leves thaire stedis righte at the gate
And wightly in thay tuke the gate,
Thaire prayers for to say.
And by thay hade thayre prayers made
Agayne thay come withowtten bade.
Thaire horse than were away
And alle the bellis that in that abbaye was
Range allone thorowe Goddis grace
Whils it was pryme of the day.
And thereby wiste those lordis of pryce
That the myghte of God and Seynt Denys
Had broghte tham thethyn away.
Thaire horse that so there come to handes
Was thorowe the prayere of Seynt Denys--
Thus will the cronecle say.
Bischope Turpyne than come fro Paresche townn
To Seynt Denys with grete processiownn
For thiese lordes for to pray
That was in Lumbardy at the were.
And when he sawe Rowlande there
He saide, `Lordis, morne we may.'
Thay mervelde why the bellis so range
And the clergy lefte theire sange,
Thoghte ferly of that fare.13
Thay hade mervelle whate it myghte mene.
Als sone als the Byschoppe hade Rowlande sene,
To hym he went full yare.
Sayd, `A, Rowlande, how fares Lumbardye
And all oure nobill chevallry
That thou hade with the thare?'
`Certis, Sir Bischoppe, it is noghte to layne,
The Sarasenes hase oure gude men slayne;
Thou seese of tham na mare.'
The Bischop keste his staffe hym fro,
The myter of his hede also.
`I sall never were the more,
Ne other habite for to bere,
Bot buske me bremly to the were
And lerene one slyke a lore.
A, Mary mylde, whare was thi myght
That thou lete thi men thus to dede be dighte
That wighte and worthy were?
Art thou noghte halden of myghtis moste,
Full conceyvede of the Holy Goste?
Me ferlys of thy fare. 14
`Had thou noghte, Marye, yitt bene borne,
Ne had noghte oure gud men thus bene lorne.
The wyte is all in the.
Thay faughte holly in thy ryghte
That thus with dole to dede es dyghte.
A Marie, how may this bee?'
The Bischoppe was so woo that stownnd
He wolde noghte byde appon the grownnd
A sakerynge for to see;
Bot forthe he wente--his handis he wrange--
And flote with Marye ever amange 15
For the losse of oure menyee.
Then come Kynge Charls appon pilgremage
Fro Paresche town with his baronage;
To Seynt Denys he went.
Bot when the Bischoppe mett with the Kynge,
He wolde noghte say `Gud mornynge'
Ne ones his browes blenke.
The Kynge had mervelle what that myght be;
Bot als sone als he Rowlande see,
Wyghtly to hym he went.
Be Rowlande had his tale tolde,
The Kynge myghte noghte a tere holde.
For bale hym thoght he brynt.
`Allas,' he saide, `cosyn syne,
Whare are alle the nobill knyghtis of myne
That ever to fighte were fayne?'
`Sir, bi God and by Sayne John,
The Sarasenes alle bot us hase slone--
It is no bote to layne.
Bot we were taken into holde;
Bot als that Criste hymselfe wolde
That we wan owte agayne,
Thorowe the grace of God omnipotent
In his chambir or we went
The Sowdane have we slayne.'
Genyonn saide, `Lorde, by my rede,
All if the Sowdane thus be dede,
Thay will have another newe,
A more schrewe than was the tother,
Garcy that is his awenn brothir,
That more barett will brewe.
These landes of hym I rede ye halde
Or he will kindill cares full calde;
Yhe trowe this tale for trewe.
Or ells within thies monethes three
Als qwhitte of Fraunce sall yhe bee
Als yhe it never ne knewe.'
`Now Cristis malyson,' quod the Bischoppe, `myghte he have
That Charls first this concell gaffe
And noghte bot it be righte.
To make homage to a Sarasene--
Jesu kepe us fro that pyne
And Marie His modir bryghte.
Bot at home, Sir Kynge, thou sall kepe nanne
Bot alle thy gud men with the tane
That worthy are and wighte
Appon yone cursede Sarasenes for to were
And venge the one tham with dynt of spere
That thus thi peris hase dyghte.
And alle the clergy undirtake I
Off alle Fraunce full sekerly
Thay sall wende to that were.
Of the Pope I have pousté:
Att my byddynge sall thay bee,
Bothe with schelde and spere.'
The Bischoppe sendis ferre and nere
To monke, chanoun, preste and frere
And badd tham graythe thaire gere
And keste thaire [care] clene tham froo,
Come helpe to feghte one Goddis foo,
All that a swerde may bere.
The clergy grauntes alle ther-to,
Als doghety men of dede solde do
That worthy were and wyghte.
Be comen was wekes three
Thare semblede a ful faire menyhé
In baneres burneschid bryghte.
A hundrethe thowsande were redy bownn
Of prestis that werede schaven crownn
And fresche men for to fighte.
Thay lightede appon a lawnde so clere
Undir the Mownte Mowmartere:
It was a ful faire syghte.
With that the Bischoppe Turpyn come
And also a cardynall of Rome
With a full grete powere.
Thay semblede appon another syde,
Baners bett with mekill pryde,
The clergy that was so clere.
And appon thaire knees thay knelide down;
The Bischoppe gafe tham his benyson,
All hollyly in fere.
And thane sent he in to the Kynge
And badde hym forth his barouns brynge
And saide, `My prestis are here.'
Bot yitt this false Genyonn
Conselde the Kynge ay with treson
That hymselfe solde duelle ther still:
`And lette the Bischoppe wende his waye,
Doo at yone Sarasenes that he maye;
There sall he feghte his fill.
And byde thiselfe in this citee.
Slayne in the felde gife that thou bee,
Alle Fraunce may like it full ill.'
And with his concelle and his fare
Slyke concell he gaffe tham thare
The Kynge grauntis thertill.
And forthe to the Bischoppe than sendis he,
And for thynge that ever myghte bee
He solde hym never beswyke.
Bot take his nobill chevalrye
And wende forthe into Lumbardy,
`For I will kepe my ryke.'
The Bischoppe saide, `By Goddes Tree,
Or that Charls doo so with mee
Full ill it sall hym lyke!
I sall hym curse in myddis his face.
What! sall he nowe with sory grace
Become ane eretyke?'
The Bischoppe leves his powere thare
And into the cité gane he fare
And the Cardenall with hym.
And when he come byfore the Kynge,
There was none other haylsynge
Bot stowte wordes and grym.
He saide, `Allas, Sir Charllyone,
That thou thus sone becomes a crayon!
Me thynke thi body full dym.
Alle the false councell that touches the crown
Here gyffe I tham Goddis malyson,
Bothe in lyfe and lyme.
And Cristis malyson myghte he have
That fyrste to the that concell gaffe;
And here I curse the, thou Kynge!
Because thou lyffes in eresye,
Thou ne dare noghte fyghte one Goddes enemy.'
And a buke forthe gane he brynge.
And the sertayne sothe als I yow telle
He dyde all that to cursynge felle.
This was no manere of lesynge.
`Nowe arte thou werre than any Sarasene,
Goddes awenn wedirwyne;
Of sorowe now may thou synge.
`If Cristyndome loste bee
The wyte bese casten one the.
Allas that thou was borne!
Criste for the sufferde mare dere,
Sore wondede with a spere,
And werede a crown of thorne;
And now thou dare noghte in the felde
For hym luke undir thy schelde,
I tell thi saule for lorne.
Men will deme aftir thi day
How falsely thou forsuke thi laye
And calle the Kynge of Skornne.'
Bot then Kyng Charls withowtten wene
At the Byschopp was so tene,
A fawchone hase he drawen.
And the Bischopp styrte than to a brande,
Hent it owt of a sqwyers hande
Both with myghte and mayne
And braydes owte the blade bare.
Be myghtfull God than he sware:
`If I wiste to be slayne, 16
Charls, and thou touche mee,
Thou fares noghte forthir fete thre
Or it be qwitt agayne.'
Than grete lordes yede tham bytwene;
The Kynge comande his knyghtis kene
The Bischopp for to taa.
And the Bischopp said, `Sirres, I will yow no scathe
And bi my faythe it es grete wathe
Bot if ye late me gaa.
For certis I will noghte taken bee
With nane that I now here see
Bot if yee firste me slaa.
And whilk of yow that touches me
Withowtten harme passes noghte hee.'
Than with his horse come thay.
`Here,' he said, `I avowe to mylde Marie
And to hir Sone, God Almyghttye,
I sall noghte leve the soo.
For we are halden with the righte,
Clerkes appon cursede men to fighte.
I calle the Goddes foo.
I sall gerre buske my batelle bownn
And halde the, Charls, within this townn:
Withowt thou sall noghte goo.
Was never kynge that werede a crown
So foule rebuytede with relygyon;
Thou sall sone witt of woo.
`Goddes byddynge hast thou broken;
Thurghe the traytour speche spoken
Alle Cristendom walde thou schende.
When Criste sent the a suerde untill,
Thou myghte wele wiete it was His will
That thiselfe solde thedir wende.
Therefore I sall stroye the,
Byrne and breke downn thi cité
If thou be never so tene.
Then to yone Sarasenes wende sall I,
Fighte with tham whils I may dry,
In Goddes servyce to ende.'
The Bischopp and the Cardynere
Appon thaire horses gatt bothe in fere;
Owte of the townn thay rade
Also faste als thay myghte dryve
To the grete batelle belyfe
And buskede baners full brade.
They romede towarde Paresche town
And thoghte to bete the cyté downe
With the powere that he hade.
(Slyke clerkes beris my benysone,
For trewere men of relygyoun
In erthe were never none made.)
Charls over the walles bihelde
And sawe the hoste come in the felde
And drawe towardes the town.
Bot than said Duke Naymes unto the Kynge:
`Sir, yonder comes us new tythynges
With baners buskede alle bown.
I rede ye praye yone clergy sesse
And aske the Bischoppe forgyfnesse
And absolucioun.
And graunt hym graythely for to goo
For to feghte appon Goddis foo,
Or loste es thi renownn.'
`In faithe,' saide the Kynge, `I graunt.'
The Bischopp es gude and on evynhaunt
With baners bryghte of hewe
Before tham a furlange and mare.
The Kynge undid his hede alle bare--17
The Bischopp wele hym knewe --
And appon his knees he knelid down
And tuke his absolucyoun.
Theire joye bygane to newe.
The Kynge says: `Haly fader free,
This gilte I praye the forgyffe me
And I will wirke your will.
And with your clergye tournes agayne;
Riste and ryott yow by the water of Sayne,
Ay whils I come yow till.'
The Bischoppe grauntis hym in that tyde
And pyghte pavylyons with mekill pryde,
With wyne and welthes at will.
The Kynge into the citee went
And aftir his baronage he sent,
All forwardes to fulfill.
And by the thre wekes comen were,
Charls had semblede a faire powere.
Hymselfe come all at hande
Erles, dukes and the Twelfe Duchepers,
Bothe barouns and bachelers,
Knyghtis full hevenhande.
Thay offerde alle at Seynt Denys
And grete lordes to armes chesse,
And Charls tuke his hande
And thus romewes that grete powere.
The levenynge of [thair] baners clere
Lyghtenes all that lande.
[Tertius] Passus: A Fitt
Thus Charls with his chevalrye
Unto he come at Lumbardy
In no place wolde he hone.
And to the Sarasenes was it tolde
That Charls make werre appon tham wolde
To venge that are was done.
The grete lordes than togedir spake:
`It is better that we Sir Garcy take
And crownn hym the Sowdane sone.'
Than sent thay to many an hethyn knyghte;
Thay badde that alle solde come that myghte,
By the heghten day at none.
When thay were semblede sekerly,
Thay crownnede the Sowdane Sir Garcy
That solance was to see[ne].
Sexty knyghtis of dyverse lande,
Ilkon sent hym sere presande
To witt withowtten wene.
Thay dressede on hym a dyademe
And made hym emperour, so hym seme,
Those knyghtis that were kene.
Syne present hym with golde
And stones of vertu that was holde,
The beste in erthe myghte bene.
The Kynge of Massedoyne lande
Sent the Sowdane a presande,
The meryeste one molde:
Sexty maydyns faire of face
That cheffeste of his kyngdome was
And faireste appon folde;
Sexty fawconns faire of flyghte;
And sexti stedis noble and wyghte
In everilke journay bolde
And appon ilke a stede a knyghte sittande
With a fawcon appon his hande
And a cowpe full of golde;
Sexty grewhondes unto the gamen;
And sexti raches rynnande in samen,
The beste in erthe myghte bee.
He come hymselfe with this presande
And broghte in his awenn hande
That was worthe thiese three:
Invisebill, a full riche stone,
A safre, the beste that myghte be one
To seke alle Crystiantee.
The Sowdane was full fayne of this
And kyndely gan his cosyn kysse
With mekill solempnytee.
When he his powere semblede hade,
A ryalle feste the Sowdan made
Of worthy men in wede.
Of alle the damesels bryghte and schene
The Sowdane hade hymselfe I wene
Thaire althere maydynhede.
By tham ilkone he laye a nyghte
And sythen mariede hir unto a knyghte:
Thay leffed one haythen lede.
So mekill luste of lechery
Was amange that chevalry
That thay [myg]hte noghte wele spede.
To Charls now will I torne agayne
That passes over mountayne and playne;
At [Me]layne wolde he bee.
And when he come into that stede
Whereals the Cristyn men byfore weren dede,
Off Fraunce so grete plentee,
There heghe appon an hill, appon highte,
Turpyn garte an awtre dyghte
That alle the folke myghte see;
And off the Trynytee a messe he says
And hertly for the saules he prayes
And the bodyes that thare gan dye.
The Bischopp sone gane hym revesche;
In gude entent he says a messe
In the name of God Almyghte.
He blyssede the awtere with his hande
And a fayre oste of brede therappon he fande
That ever he sawe with syghte.
His chalesse was so full of wyne
There myghte no more hafe gone therin--
It come fro heven on highte.
He dide his messe forthe to the ende
And thankede Gode that it hym sende
And Marie, His modir bryghte.
The Bischopp in his hert was fayne
And thankede God with all his mayne
And Marie, His modir free.
He tolde the hoste with lowde steven
How brede and wyne was sent fro heven,
Fro God of moste poustee:
`And all that ever hase sene this syghte,
Yee are als clene of syn, I plyghte,
Als that day borne were yee.
And whoso endys in this felde
In His byggynge sall he belde,
Evermore in blysse to bee.'
The Bischopp than keste of his abytte
And aftir armours he askede tytte;
For egernesse he loughe.
A kirtill and a corsett fyne,
Therover he keste an acton syne
And it to hym he droughe
An hawbarke with a gesserante;
His gloves weren gude and avenaunte.
And als blythe als birde one boughe
He tuke his helme and sythen his brande,
Appon a stede, a spere in hande
Was grete and gud ynoghe.
Sayse, `I praye yow, all my cleregy here,
Assembles undire my banere;
The vawarde will I have.
Charls and his knyghtis kene
Lete erles and barouns with hym bene,
Both sqwyers and knave
I beseke freschely for to fyghte
That the [le]wede men may se with syghte
And gud ensample have.
Standis [now baldly f]or youre trouthe;
Appon yo[ne Sarasen]es haves no rewthe.
For golde in erthe, none save.'
Thus Ch[arls led]eth a faire menyhé
Bifo[re Mela]yne, that riche cité,
Braydes up baners yare.
And when the Sowdane hase tham sene,
He comandes his knyghtis kene
That thay solde make tham yare.
And or he wolde passe owte of the townn,
He made his offerande to Mahownn--
The wars, leve Gode, tha fare. 18
And sythen owt of that citee
Off heythen men an hugge menyhee
That semyde als breme als bare.
Sir Arabaunt, with ire and hete,
A furlange bifore the batelle grete
Come and askede fighte.
And byfore of oure folke had he slayne
Bothe the lorde of Melayne
And many another knyght.
Than sayde the Bischopp, `So mot I spede,
He sall noghte ruysse hym of this dede
If I cane rede aryghte.'
And or any knyght myght gete his gere
The Bischopp gart hym with a spere
Appon his tepet lighte.
Turpyn strake hym so sekerly
Thurgh the breste bone all plenerly
A lange yerde and more
That dede he daschede to the grounde
Grysely gronannde in that stownde,
Woundede wonderly sore.
The Bischopp than lighte full apertly
And off he hewes his hede in hy
That are was breme als bare.
His horse unto the Cristen oste gan spede;
A sqwyere broghte agayne his stede
And one he leppe righte thare.
The Bischopp sqwyere in the place
Saw that the Kynge dede was
That had bene of grete powere.
His helme and his hawberke holde,
Frette overe with rede golde,
With stones of vertue dere
His gowere pendande on the grounde --
It was worthe a thowsande pownde
Off rubys and safere.
He lowttede down, up wolde itt ta;
The Bischopp bad hym fro it ga:
`Go fonnge the another fere.
To wyn the golde thou arte a fole;
Thou bygynnes sone for to spoyle.
Loo! yonder comes moo.
Thou settis more by a littill golde
That thou seese lye appon the molde
Than to fighte one Goddes foo.
Loo! yonder comes Sarasenes in the felde;
Go kill tham down undir thi schelde.
Slyk [w]orchippes were gude to do.'
He tuke the pendande in his hande;
The Bishoppe bett hym with his brande
[That] he keste it hym fro.
With that come girdande Sir Darnadowse,
A nobill knyghte and a chevallrouse,
Prekande one a stede.
He was the chefe of Famagose,
A Sarasene that fayne wolde wyn lose,
And to the Cristen oste gan spede.
He bad sende owte Charlyon
If he dare come to wynn pardonn,
A bofett for to bede.
He wolde noghte fighte bot with a kynge;
He calde hymselfe withowt lesynge
The chefe of hethyn thede.
Then Kyng Charls tuke his spere hym to;
The Bischopp Turpyn and other mo
Prayede God solde hym spede.
`A, dere lorde,' said Rowlande in heghe,
`Late me fare to fighte for thee,
For Hym that one Rode gan blede.'
Than Charls sweris by Saynt Paule:
`Sen ilke a man feghtis for his saule,
I sall for myn do mede.
Slayne in the felde gif that I bee,
Kynge off Fraunce here make I the,
With reghte the reme to lede.'
Than withowtten any more habade
Theis two kynges togedir rade
With ire and grete envy.
And at the firste course that thay ranne
Thies kynges two with horse and manne
At the grounde bothe gun ly.
Deliverly up sone bothe thay stirtt
And drewe thaire swerdis with noble hertt,
Withowtten noyse or cry.
Thay dalt so derfely with thaire brandes
Thay hewe theire scheldis to thaire handis
In cantells hyngand by.
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