The Sege of Melayne*
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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. So darfely bothe thaire dynttis thay driste A littill while thay wolde tham riste;    The Sarasene prayede hym styntt. `Nowe certis, sir,' he saide, `me rewes of thee A Cristynn man that thou solde bee:    Thou arte so stronge of dyntt. Bot torne unto oure lawes and take tham to And I sall gyffe the rewmes two,    And elles will thou harmes hentt.' Bot the Bischoppe Turpyn than cryes on heghte, `A! Charles, thynk appon Marie brighte,    To whayme oure lufe es lentt. `And if ever that thou hade any myghte, Latt it nowe be sene in syghte    What pousté that thou hase. Latte never oure Kynge with dynt of brande B[e] slayne with yone Sarasene hande    Ne ende, Lady, in this place. A [God] wote we sall be safe; [Never] the lyk wolde we hafe    Of oure comly Kynge of face. [Thou Ma]kere bathe of son and see, [Pity t]he dole w[e d]ree for Thee    And graunte us of Thi grace.' [Charls] saide, `Sir Bischopp, nay, [Never sall I] forsake my lay.'    And togedir gan thay goo. So stiffely aythere at othere strake; Appon his helme Sir Charles brake    His nobill swerde in two. Bot than the Franche folke with nobill stevenn Thay cry up unto the Kynge of Hevenn    And for thaire lorde were wo. The Sarasene was curtays in that fighte And lawses owt a knyfe full righte;    His swerde he keste hym fro. And Charles voydede his broken brande; Owte he hent a knyfe in hande.    And samen thay wente full tytte. Thay daschede full darfely with thaire dynt. Mighte no steryn stele tham stynt,    So styffely bothe thay smyte. In sondre braste thay many a mayle; Thaire hawberghes thurgh force gan fayle.    To see had lordis delitte. Botte a felle stroke Sir Charls gafe hym one Evyn at the breste bone;    That strake his hert gan blende. The Sarasene was dede of that strake And Charls gan this fende up take;    And with his awenn brande He broches hym so boldely That his hert blode sekerly    Rane to oure Kynges hande. And thare he wane the Sarasene swerde And certis that with one the erthe    He conquered many a lande. The Cristen folke were never so fayne; Bot by the Kynge was horsede agayne    The batells were doande. And hawberkes sone in schredis were schorne And beryns thorowe the bodys borne    And many a Sarasene slayne. Knyghtis one the bent bledis; Many lay stekede undir stedis    In gilten gere full gay[n]e; Other with glafes were girde thurgh evyn. We may thanke Gode that is in heven    That lent us myghte and mayne. Thay sloughe tham downn with swerdis bright. The Cristynnd faughte in Goddis righte;    The Bischopp loughe for fayne. Bot, als the cronakill yitt will telle, Ther come a Sarasene fers and felle    And to the Bischoppe glade, And stroke hym righte thorowe the thee And agayne to the hethen oste gane flee;    And Turpyn after hym rade. The Bischoppe folouede hym so ferre That the Sarasene hade the werre    For the maystrie that he [made]. 19 He stroke hym so in the Sowdane syghte, He fande never man that after myghte    Hele the hurt [he had]e. Bot they helde in the Bischoppe in that rowtte That he ne myghte noghte wyn owte    And ther he [was doande]. The Kynge of Massedoyne land with a spere The Bischop fro his horse gane bere    And sette [on hym his hande]. The Sarasenes sware he solde be dede And the Kynge sayde, `Naye,' in that stede    `For no Sarasene liffande.' And righte als thay solde oure Bischopp slo, Thay smote the Kynge of Massaydoyne fro    Clenly of his reghte hande. Bot than Kynges men of Massaydoyne weren wo When thay saughe thaire lorde was wondede soo    And trowede he walde be dede. Thay braydede owte swerdes full bryghte Agaynes the Sowdane folke to fighte    Full styffely in that stede. For that gane fyfetene thowsandes dy Of the Sowdans chevalry,    Laye bledande than full rede. And with that Turpyn gatt awaye To Charls oste--full fayne were thay.    A horse thay to hym lede. Bot when the Bischoppe was horsede agayne, Alle the cleregy weren full fayne    And presede into the place. So depe wondes that day thay dalt That many on wyde opyn walt    That wikkidly wondede was. Thay sloughe so many an heythen kynge That at the laste thay tuke to flyinge    Als God us gaffe the grace. Many a Sarasene garte thay falle, And Turpyn with his clergy alle    Folowede faste one the chase. And Charls on the tother syde Sloughe tham downn with wondis wyde; The doughty garte thay dy. 20 The Sowdane hymselfe so harde was stedde That with ten thowsande away he fledde,    And faste to Melayne gatt he. The Cristen men chasede tham to the barres And sloughe righte there fele folke and fresche,    All that there walde byde and bee. 21 Bot than Kynge Charls tuke the playne And semblede all his folke agayne    To luke how beste myghte [the]. Thay myghte noghte the cité wynn, The strenghe of the Sarasenes that were within.    The Bischoppe said, `I rede Of oure knyghtes in the felde Es many woundede undir schelde    And also some are dede. And yone Sarasenes full of tresone es. There I concelle bothe more and lesse    We stirre noghte of this stede Ne or tomorne serche never a wounde Bot luke than who may be sownde.    Lat Criste wirke.' And forthe he yede. Here to a[c]ordes everilkon; Lordes [haf] thaire horse tone    And comen es the nyghte. Fo[r alle] the Sarasenes there Th[ay ne mygh]te no forthir fare    Bot bydis in brenys bryghte. Ch[arles acordede] als thay rade. All [nyghte on]e the bent thay bade    With standardes even up streghte. The Kynge prayede the Bischoppe fre His wonde that he wolde late hym see    That he hade tane in that fighte. Bot the Bischoppe saide, `A vowe to God make I here: There sall no salve my wonde come nere    Ne no hose of my thee Ne mete ne drynke my hede come in, The cité of Melayne or we it wyn    Or ells therfore to dye.' He garte dele his vetells then Furthe amanges oure wonded men,    Bot no mete neghe wolde hee. Bot als so sore wondede als he was, Knelande he his prayers mase    To Gode of moste pousté. Oure folke hade done so doughtily That many of tham weren ful wery--    So hade thay foghten than. Bot one the morne the Cristen stode, A thowsande, over theire fete in theire blode,    Of theire awenn wondes wane. Othere refreschynge noghte many hade Bot blody water of a slade    That thurghe the oste ran. The Sowdane sent a messangere To Kynge Charles als ye may here;    And that sawe many a man. The messangere bare a wande Of an olefe in his hande,    In takynnynge he come of pece. And lowde he cryede appon Charls the Kynge And saide he myghte his handis wrynge    Appon lyfe if that he es: `For oure Sowdane hase by Mahownn sworne That he salle mete hym here tomorne    With full prowde men in prese, With fowrty thowsande of helmes bryghte: Was never yitt frekkere men to fighte    Sene in hethynnesse.' And Charles ansuerde at that tide, `In faythe I sall tham here habyde,    Wode giffe that thay were. If that he brynge alle the Sarasenes That es alle heythynnesse within,    Hyne will I noghte fare.' The messangere agayne than rade And they sett wache and still habade    Whills pryme was passede and mare. Bot or the nonnee neghede nee, To tham than soughte a felle semblé    With baners breme als bare. Bot than Sir Charles spekes full gudely To Rowlande his nevewe that stode hym by    And said, `Sir, so God the spede, This day wirke thou manfully With thi nobill chevalry    And of the Sarasenes hafe [no dre]de. Thou sall see that I sall noghte be sparede; Myselfe sall have the vawarde.    There Jesu [Crist the spe]de.' The trumpetes trynes one righte than; To joyne so jolyly thay bygane,    Oure worthy men in wede. Thay ruysschede samen with swilke a rake That many a Sarasene laye on his bake;    And one the lawnde righte ther thay lay Full grisely gronande one the grete, Stekyde undir stedis fete,    And liste nothynge of playe. So darfely than thay dynge tham downn Thay saide the myghte of saynt Mahownn    Was clenely all awaye. `A! Mountjoye!' oure lordes gane crye, And Charles with his chevalrye    Full freschely faughte that day. They hewe of hethen hedis in hye. Oure Cristen men so sekirly    Of tham hade littill drede Bot brittenesse tham with brandis bare And Sarasenes thurghe the schuldirs schare    That to the girdill it yode. Thay tuke none hede of gudes nore golde, Lay never so mekill appon the molde,    Oure worthy men in wede, Bot beris abake the batells brade; Fowrty thowsande in a slade    Laye stekede under stede. And so harde bystade was the Sowdane, Hymselfe with ten thowsande than    To Melayne tuke the gate. Oure Cristen knyghtis with thaire speres The hyndirmaste fro thaire blonkes beres    And chacede tham to the gate. The owte barres hew thay downn And slewe hethynn kynges with crownn    And thaire powere therate. To sawtte the cité sadly thay bygann; Off Cristyn men many a cruelle man    The hethyn wex all mate. With speris and with spryngaldes faste, With dartis kenely owte thay caste,    Bothe with myghte and mayne. With gownnes and with grete stones Graythe gounnes stoppede those gones 22    With peletes, us to payne. Our Cristyn men that were of price Bendis up bowes of devyce    And bekirs tham agayne. Appon bothe the sydis so freschely thay fighte That by it drewe unto the nyghte    Fele folke of Fraunce were slayne. There were of oure clergy dede And other lordes in that stede    Or thay of sawte walde sesse. By than thay sawe it was no bote to byde And fro the cité warde thay ryde,    Oure prynces provede in presse. The Bischoppe es so woundede that tyde With a spere thoroweowte the syde    That one his ribbis gan rese. Thurgh the schelde and the browe bare A schaftemonde of his flesche he schare--    Lordynnges, this es no lese. He pullede it owte, keste it hym fro, And weryde the handis that it come fro    And that it lete forthe glyde. The Sowdane over the wallis byhelde And sawe the Cristen in the felde    Frowarde the cité ride. And appon Kynge Charls than cryes he: `What Charls, thynkes now to flee?    I trowe the moste habyde. I sall the mete tomorne in felde With fourty thowsand under schelde,    Sall fonde to felle thi pryde.' Says Charls, `Thou false hethyn hownde, Thou ne dare noghte byde appon the grounde.    Ther evermore worthe the woo; Bot aythire of thies dayes ilyke Hase thou stollen awaye lyke a tyke.    The develle myghte with the goo! That cité bot thou yelde to me And fully trowe and Cristyn be    Appon one God and no moo, In felde yif ever I see the mare I sall by myghtfull God,' he sware, `Hewe thi bakke in twoo.' Then of oure Cristen men in the felde Many semblede under schelde    And some ware wondede sare. Thay that were bothe hale and sownnde Comforthed tham that were evyll wounde,    So als Criste wolde it were. The Kynge than of his helme tase And to the Bischoppe swythe he gase    And sayde, `Fadir, for Goddes are, Thy woundes that thou walde late me see; If any surgeoun myghte helpe thee,    My comforthe ware the mare.' `What! wenys thou, Charls,' he saide, `that I faynte bee For a spere was in my thee,    A glace thorowte my syde. Criste for me sufferde mare. He askede no salve to His sare,    Ne no more sall I this tyde. I sall never ette ne drynke Ne with myn eghe slepe a wynke,    Whate bale als ever I byde, To yone cité yolden bee Or ells therfore in batelle dye--    The sothe is noghte to hyde.' Als thay stode spekande of this thynge, To Charls come a newe tydynge    That blenkede all his blee. Thay saide that one Sir Tretigon, That was the Sowdane syster son    And the best of Barbarye, `Certys, Charls, he comes at hande With men of armes a sexty thowsande    To strenghe with yone cité.' [At least one leaf of the manuscript is lost at this point. In the missing lines, Charlemagne apparently tells one of his knights to ride to France for help.] `Now sone, when I hafe foughten my fill, I sall avise me gif that I will    One thi message to wende.' `Now Sir Bawdwyne, buske and make the bownn.' He saide, `Allas, thou Charelyoun,    That ever I tuke thi fee; For yitt myselfe es saffe and sownnde, My body hole withowttyn wounde,    Als thou thiselfe may see. I walde noghte, for all thi kyngdome, That ever that worde unto France come    I solde so feyntly flee. Gett the a currour whare thou may; For, by God that awe this day,    Thou sall have none of mee.' `A, Sir Ingelere, for a knyghte thou art kyde.' `Whi, Sir Charls, what walde thou that I dide?'    `I pray the wende thi waye.' `Bi Jesu Criste that sittis aboffe, Me thynke thou kydde me littill luffe    When thou that worde wolde saye. Bot me sall never bytyde that taynte. I hope thou wenys myn herte be feynte. 23    I say the schortly, naye. That I sall never so fremdly flee, God lett me yif it his wille bee    Never habyde that daye.' The Duke Berarde was wondede sare: Thurgh the schelde into the body bare    He was borne with a brande. Of this message thay gun hym frayne, Bot he hade no worde to speke agayne    Bot grymly stude lukande. Than Turpyn gan to Charls say, `Here arte thou servede, bi my fay,    Thou fayles of that thou fande. The Duke es woundede so wonder sare It ware grete syn to greve hym mare;    Gude Sir, thou late hym stande.' Thay prayede a banarett than of pryce, One Sir Barnarde of Parische,    For grete gyftis he wolde wende. And he saide, `Lordynges, by my faye, I ame over symple to yow to saye    Whereever ye will me sende. I aske ordir of knyghte thertill. Bot giffe your giftis where ye will;    Elles ye be my frende.' Thay made hym knyghte with full gud chere; He tuke leve at the Twelve Duzepere,    This curtayse knyghte and he[nde]. He saide than: `Have gud daye, Charls, in this stede, For thou sall never gyffe me brede    Ne in thy burdynge say If I be pore of golde and fee That I fro this grete journee    Fayntly fledde away.' He rydis even to the gatis of Melayne And there with Sarasenes was he slayne.    He dide full wele that day. And Charls for hym in hert was woo; Bischoppe Turpyn and othere moo    For his dede sore mournede thay. Thus have thay prayede everylkone, Bot there wolde goo never one;    The symple thay bade none sende. The Bischoppe Turpyn cryede appon highte: `Sen ye are so frekke for to fighte    God of his myghte yow mende. Yitt are we ten thowsande here That are yitt bothe hole and fere,    That wele for kene are kende, And of gude men that none will flee To fourty thowsande or we dye    In the felde to make thaire ende.' Bot als Turpyn lenys hym on his brande, Over an hill he saw comande    Ful many a brade banere. The Duke of Bretayne, Sir Lyonelle, That Charls was thare he herde telle    And had mystere of powere. He broghte hym thirty thowsande fyne, Vetaylls gude and nobill engyne,    This bolde with full blythe chere. Than Turpyn gan to Charls say, `I see a felle hoste, bi my fay,    That sone will neghe us nere. Yone are the Sarasenes mekill of mayne, The full powere owt of Spayne,    That sone sall full ill spede. For, by Hym that swelt on tree, This day no Sarasene sall I see    Sall gerre me torne my stede.' And in his hande he caughte a launce -- `Have gud day, Charls, and grete wele Fraunce!' --    And agayne that hoste he yede. In fewter sone he keste his spere And thoghte the boldeste down to bere    That batelle walde hym bede. So blody was that Bischoppis wede His conysaunce ne yit his stede    The Bretons ne couthe noghte knawe. Bot als an harawde hym byhelde He lukede up into his schelde    And sayde to alle one rawe, `If Bischoppe Turpyn appon lyve be, In faythe, lordynges, yone es he    That ye se hedirwarde drawe.' Thay ferlyde why he fewterde his spere. `A Mountjoye!' cryes one that he myghte here:    He was glade of that sawe. The wardayne rydis hym agayne And said, `Sir Bischoppe, for Goddis payne,    Who hase greved the?' He tuke his spere owt of reste adownn And gaffe tham alle his benysoun,    The Bretons when he tham see. The Bischoppe tolde tham of his care; Bot than the Bretons hertis were sare    For the dole oure oste gun dryee. A messangere went to telle the Kynge. So fayne was Charles never of thynge    With eghe that he gan see. And or Turpyn myghte his tale halfe telle, He sawe come hovande over a felle    Many a brade banere, Standardis grete with stalworthe men. Sexti thowsande wele myghte thay ken    In brenyes burnescht clere. Under the cante of an hille Oure Bretons beldis and bydis stille    When thay wiste whate thay were. The Bischoppe saide, `Bi Goddis myghte, Thaym sall rewe or it be nyghte    The tyme that thay come here. `Go we to yone company With ``Mountjoye'' baldly and tham ascrye;    Late ther be no lettynge.' An hawrawde saide, `To fewe are we To fighte with slyke a grete menyé;    It is better wende to the Kynge.' `A, sir, whare thay are sexti thowsande men, And if thay were mo bi thowsandis ten,    [Bi] God that made all thynge, The more powere that thay be The more honour wyn sall we.    We dowte noghte tham to dynge.' The Bischoppe to the Kyng sent And prayes hym to byde appon the bent,    The cité for to kepe That there no Sarasene solde come owte To thay had rekkenede with that rowte    Thay sawe come overe the depe. Oure Bretonns kyndely comforthes he, Sayse, `Alle the Sarasenes ye yonder see,    Thaire frendis sore may wepe. We sall wirke tham wondis full wyde; I hete tham be thaire lemans syde    Sowndely never sall thay slepe.' For isschuynge owte of the cité Kynge Charles with his menyé    Helde his batelle still. Oure Bretons bolde that fresche come in Thoghte that thay wolde wirchipp wyn    And gatt the cante of the hill. The Sarasenes were so strange and stowte Thay late no lede that thay wolde lowte,    Thay were so wykkede of w[ill]. Oure Bretonns dide so doughtyly That lange or none sekerly    The Sarasenes lykede full ill. Samen than strake that grete stowre Als it were aftire the none ane houre --    It was noghte mekills mare. Bot many a Sarasene in that stownde Lay grysely gronande on the grownde,    Woundede wonderly sore. Bot there God will helpe ther es no lett; So stronge strokes thay one tham sett    With burneschede bladis bare That fourty thowsande Sarasenes kene With brandis lay brettenyde one the grene:    So bolde oure Bretonns were. And to the cité the tother wolde have flede And Rowlande thoghte he wolde tham stedde;    Ten thowsande was with hym. And when he with the Sarasenes mett, Full grym strokes he over tham sett    With growndyn speris and grym. Charles appon the tothere syde Sloughe tham downn with woundis wyde    And made thaire dedis full dyme. And thus thay chase tham here and thare Als the howndes dose the hare    And refte tham lyfe and lyme. Rowlande rydis to Letygon That was the Sowdane sister sone    And stroke hym with a spere That dede he daschede in the felde. Helme ne hawberke he myghte none welde    Ne never after none bere. Of sexti thowsande, sothely to say, Passede never one qwyke away;    Bot evyll thay endide there. The Cristenyde knelide down in that place And thankede God that gaffe tham grace    So worthily tham to were. The false in the felde thus gun thay felle. The Kynge callede Sir Lyonelle    And avauncede hym full heghe. The Duke of Burgoyne bifore was dede. He sessede hym in his stede 24    And gafe hym his doughter free. And to the Bischoppe than swythe he gase That wery and sore woundede was    And fastande dayes three. Be that tyme he myghte note wele a worde owt-wyn. The teris rane over Charles chynn    That sorowe it was to see: `And thou dy, than dare I saye The floure of presthode es awaye,    That ever hade schaven crownn. For there ne is kynge ne cardynere In Cristyndome may be thi pere    Ne man of religiownn.' He will no man his wondes late see Ne mete ne drynke none neghe hym ne,    For prayer ne for pardownn. Oure oste for the Bischoppe mournes alle And graythes tham to Melayne walle    With baners buskede bownn. New vetailles the Bretons broghte than, That refresschede many of oure men,    Of brede, brawne and wynne. A nobill hurdas ther was graythede And baners to the walles displayede    And bendis up thaire engyne.	love; hear    knights bold high oftentimes; heathen stalwartly; steed story; true honest chronicle; read Lombardy; complaint pleasures Destroyed by heathen people Sultan Made war; wrongfully cities wealth Pope's power; ruined Tuscany; (see note) manned afterwards; reached hinder conquers [sacred] images; should; (see note) Cross; noble Burned idols churches Milan; then conquered as pay children lovely; neck Milan torture severely; beset stake his life more should lead Sultan; noble convert should; own Milan [Saracen] faith; professed faith before another children eyes asunder cut Sultan time Until let him know believe; faith raises voice died pity maiden should faith must as Let; lost damned; torments died; Cross Which on earth to lose it seemed to him As; worn out with weeping shall befall you fleur-de-lis avenge; injuries hasten yourself shall foe glad quickly; obeys directly listen to what happened As dream; dream voice greet entrusted; sword hilt That just fit the hand possess; quickly; (see note) injury slay then; wall trusts It seemed to him; struck Then; Lombardy fortresses; walls marvelous from showed truth know; is meal seat relative greeted saluted stop their merrymaking delay table were very sorrowful dream agreed Have assembled head; pledge angered; boast destroy (see note) (see note) Roland's mother curse food begins paid for distress caused should become If fight; ready army; broad banner valor Know; gladly explanation should; back ready peers grievously to regret ladies; bliss; deprived time would abide Lombardy war trouble remains Paris guard; splendor agreed to Sultan Until by [the time that] maiden set out prepared for battle bold without doubt agrees grief lament knights first; man Persia he was called bold death; strike Bohemia uncle battle; push forward encounter rode without delay avenge time dead; fell struck until seized; steeds in such a way; man were meeting horses' feet Violently pierced lie wounds; in a piteous manner Broken; head slashed up men through; wounded attacked; fiercely struck down; knights vanguard; strike charge counted lie fell; field Through; wounded main body men; woes make better main body bold man; afraid should prowess fleur-de-lis strength main body taken prisoner thought participated in these battles I grieve greatly wounded there visor if the opportunity befalls you Commend young knights place think learn make war thrust behold old age; (see note) vanguard voice more; eye wield strength much; protection drew; sword heard blow To; smote; off; head sorrowful rushed; sword seized slay more noble guard rear guard withstood Burgundy rear guard; leads protect though expect solace inflicting; (see note) hasten; high charged inflicting everywhere (see note) backwards; army pushes felled from there I let you know well together pursued lost their lives Except for four; taken prisoner Near kin to the King slain Thereupon army; (see note) evaluate; condition befell; happy beliefs; be overthrown realm; believe in; (see note) Who is most powerful care governs relative faith fief high (see note) heathen; on account of lose; faith; (see note) believe; must Then laughed; eyes had burned; (see note) dwelling power (see note) consider worthless time church crucifix maiden Show redeemed crucifix wood; great wrath make it burn rotten faith of itself it has come it itself; plan skill; contrivance many times crucifix take hold in it Although; wood went; near became; aggrieved Even if; it It; before; stop furious wet know brimstone pitch; tar mixed threw great heat many times burned out crash building stronghold leap eyes; blow (see note) move became sorrowful; countenance knew hasten; from here together worked hear before will bring him no joy strikes; sword belt; near oftentimes deftly valorous went Each one prepared formidable hinder valiant straight; (see note) Paris; directly to Until; (see note) go boldly; made their way delay Until; (see note) knew; worthy lords from there through war eagerly there lie cast off wear clothes; wear arm; fiercely; war only such death; put valiant held to be lost blame entirely grieved; time in that place consecration [of the mass] army eyebrows raise Quickly By [the time that] tear withhold sorrow (see note) glad slain use; lie made our way before advice Although cruel; the other own trouble advise stir up You deprived; you curse gave (see note) affliction take valiant make war yourself on them; thrust peers; treated pledge surely turn power clergyman; friar prepare from; (see note) foe agree In three weeks assembled; army adorned prepared wore shaved heads vigorous alighted Montmartre ornamented; great pure blessing solemnly together always remain to; what fight if demeanor Such thereto betray protect; kingdom to his face heretic leaves; forces he went greeting menacing coward sinful advisors; affect curse limb curse you; advice heresy against certain truth pertained lying worse own enemy blame grievously (see note) count; lost judge faith hesitation angry sword rushed; sword Seized draws By if repaid went take I wish you no harm danger Unless; go slay whichever foe I shall have my army readied Outside rebuked know about sorrow destroy sent a sword to you know thither go destroy you angry endure Cardinal together As . . . as quickly raised advanced batter Such; have; blessing (see note) advise; cease quickly foe agree (see note) furlong be renewed generous Rest; refresh yourselves; Seine until; to agrees with; time pitched pavilions luxuries agreements by [the time that] assembled came to him peers worthy resolved upon leads off flashing; bright Until delay formerly quickly eighteeenth; noon assembled securely joy Each; different gift Indeed; hesitation placed as it seemed fitting for him that were held to have power Macedonia gift earth earth falcons horses; swift every battle each horse falcon cup greyhounds; hunt hunting dogs; together gift own (see note) sapphire; best one that might be If all Christendom were searched glad much solemnity feast armor beautiful suppose The maidenhead of them all each one (see note) much prosper place (see note) high had an altar prepared of; mass put on his vestments mass altar fairer host Than chalice high mass glad strength voice power pledge dies; field dwelling; find shalter cast off; habit immediately laughed (see note) then beautiful sword enough vanguard page example pity army (see note) Raises; quickly should; ready army fierce; boar hatred furlong; army prosper boast struck (see note) surely completely dead; fell Terribly groaning; place boldly cuts; instantly formerly; bold; boar back (Kynge = Sir Arabaunt) dependable Adorned rare power (see note) sapphires bent; take go get; companion fool [too] soon; despoil earth against honorable deeds pendant So that; cast charging chivalrous riding (see note) fame blow; offer lie people Cross each; soul duty realm; lead delay rode hatred On; both lay Nimbly; leaped struck; valiantly cut segments; hanging valiantly; blows; struck rest stop I regret realms receive whom; given power sun; sea suffering; endure faith voice sorrowful courteous draws threw away took together; quickly struck; valiantly pain-inflicting; stop Asunder burst; metal ring hawberks delight reached fiend own pierces surely by [the time that] doing [i.e., being waged] shreds; cut men; stabbed pierced excellent spears; pierced gave joy ferocious went thigh back worse Heal company get away fighting living slay believed drew bleeding gave many a one gaped wide fleeing they made fall pressed barriers many assembled thrive (see note) perceive treachery Nor before; probe went agrees everyone taken abide; coats of mail agreed; advised field; waited noble wound taken from; thigh had his rations divided food; come near makes power leaden-hued wounds stream encampment branch olive tree As a token that If he is alive battle bolder Seen await Mad if Hence waited Until before noon approached Towards; moved a fierce army (see note) nephew fear vanguard strike up armor charged; such a rush back field groaning; ground Pierced took no pleasure from battle valiantly; strike eagerly cut off surely cut to pieces cut went heed; goods ground armor force back the scattered battalions valley pressed made his way rearmost; horses knock off outer barriers forces assault; valiantly fierce became; distraught catapults engines of war (see note) missiles; harm worthy (see note) shoot; back Many assault; cease no use to abide (see note) battle struck against his ribs (see note) cut off; (see note) lie cast cursed Away from believe you must abide tomorrow try; bring down may sorrow come to you alike cur unless; yield believe wounded wounded off; takes quickly; goes mercy think thigh small wound eye pain Until; yielded speaking made pale; complexion the Saracen world reinforce consider mission prepare; ready became your vassal without should courier governs renowned show; love befall unnaturally (see note) live to see struck they asked him try asked then a worthy knight; (see note) Paris of too low a degree thereto In another manner noble joking property siege death The people of the lower class bold help uninjured and strong boldness; known leans Brittany need of troops good men Provisions; machines of war fierce draw near to us died make me turn grasped greet went (see note) Who would do battle with him armor heraldic device; rank herald all together hither marveled; leveled hear saying (see note) blessing distress; endured eye rising; hill mail burnished bright slope take shelter challenge delay herald fear stay in the field guard Until; dealt; host inflict on pledge; lovers' honor side acknowledged; people; bow to much; (see note) where; hindering burnished cut to pieces stop sharpened deaths; dismal deprived them of fell use alive make war strike down advanced goes By; utter If has passed away shaved; head cardinal equal come near prepares to go raised meat prepared; (see note) aim

[The manuscript ends at this point.]