fol. 30v 5 10 15 20 25 30 fol. 31r 35 40 45 50 55 60 fol. 31v 66 70 75 80 85 90 fol. 32r 95 100 105 110 115 120 fol. 32v 125 130 135 140 145 fol. 33r 150 155 160 165 170 175 fol. 33v 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 fol. 34r 215 220 225 230 235 240 fol. 34v 245 250 255 260 265 fol. 35r 271 275 280 285 290 295 fol. 35v 301 305 310 315 320 325 fol. 36r 331 335 340 345 350 355 fol. 36v 361 365 370 375 380 385 390 fol. 37r 395 400 405 410 415 420 fol. 37v 425 430 435 440 445 450 fol. 38r 455 460 465 470 475 480 fol. 38v 485 490 495 500 505 510 515 fol. 39r 520 525 530 535 540 545 fol. 39v 550 555 560 565 570 575 580 fol. 40r 585 590 595 600 605 610 fol. 40v 615 620 625 630 635 640 645 fol. 41r 650 655 660 665 670 675 fol. 41v 680 685 690 695 700 fol. 42r 706 710 715 720 725 730 fol. 42v 736 740 745 750 755 760 fol. 43r 766 770 775 780 785 790 795 fol. 43v 800 805 810 815 820 fol. 44r 825 830 835 840 845 850 fol. 44v 855 860 865 870 875 880 fol. 45r 885 890 895 900 905 910 fol. 45v 916 920 925 930 935 940 945 fol. 46r 950 955 960 965 970 fol. 46v 976 980 985 990 995 1000 1005 fol. 47r 1010 1015 1020 1025 1030 1035 fol. 47v 1040 1045 1050 1055 1060 1065 fol. 48r 1070 1075 1080 1085 1090 1095 fol. 48v 1100 1105 1110 1115 1120 1125 fol. 49r 1130 1135 1140 1145 1150 1155 1160 fol. 49v 1165 1170 1175 1180 1185 fol. 50r 1190 1195 1200 1205 1210 1215 fol. 50v 1220 1225 1230 1235 1240 1245 fol. 51r 1250 1255 1260 1265 1270 1275 fol. 51v 1280 1285 1290 1295 1300 1305 fol. 52r 1310 1315 1320 1325 1330 fol. 52v 1335 1340 1345 1350 1355 1360 fol. 53r 1365 1370 1375 1380 1385 1390 fol. 53v 1395 1400 1405 1410 1415 1420 fol. 54r 1425 1430 1435 1440 1445 1450 1455 fol. 54v 1460 1465 1470 1475 1480 1485 1490 fol. 55r 1495 1500 1505 1510 1515 1520 fol. 55v 1525 1530 1535 1540 1545 1550 fol. 56r 1555 1560 1565 1570 1575 1580 fol. 56v 1586 1590 1595 1600 1605 1610 1615 fol. 57r 1620 1625 1630 1635 1640 fol. 57v 1646 1650 1655 1660 1665 1670 fol. 58r 1676 1680 1685 1690 1695 fol. 58v 1701 1705 1710 1715 1720 1725 1730 fol. 59r 1735 1740 1745 1750 1755 1760 fol. 59v 1765 1770 1775 1780 1785 1790 1795 fol. 60r 1800 1805 1810 1815 1820 1825 fol. 60v 1831 1835 1840 1845 1850 1855 1860 fol. 61r 1865 1870 1875 1880 1885 1890 fol. 61v 1895 1900 1905 1910 1915 1920 fol. 62r 1925 1930 1935 1940 1945 1950 fol. 62v 1955 1960 1965 1970 1975 1980 1985 fol. 63r 1990 1995 2000 2005 2010 fol. 63v 2016 2020 2025 2030 2035 2040 fol. 64r 2045 2050 2055 2060 2065 2070 fol. 64v 2075 2080 2085 2090 2095 2100 fol. 65r 2106 2110 2115 2120 2125 2130 fol. 65v 2135 2140 2145 2150 2155 2160 fol. 66r 2165 2170 2175 2180 2185 2190 fol. 66v 2195 2200 2205 2210 2215 2220 fol. 67r 2225 2230 2235 2240 2245 2250 fol. 67v 2255 2260 2265 2270 2275 2280 fol. 68r 2285 2290 2295 2300 2305 fol. 68v 2311 2315 2320 2325 2330 2335 fol. 69r 2341 2345 2350 2355 2360 2365 fol. 69v 2371 2375 2380 2385 2390 2395 fol. 70r 2401 2405 2410 2415 2420 2425 fol. 70v 2430 2435 2440 2445 2450 2455 fol. 71r 2460 2465 2470 2475 2480 fol. 71v 2485 2490 2495 2500 2505 2510 fol. 72r 2516 2520 2525 2530 2535 2540 fol. 72v 2546 2550 2555 2560 2565 2570 fol. 73r 2576 2580 2585 2590 2595 2600 fol. 73v 2606 2610 2615 2620 2625 2630 2635 fol. 74r 2640 2645 2650 2655 2660 2665 fol. 74v 2670 2675 2680 2685 2690 2695 fol. 75r 2700 2705 2710 2715 2720 2725 fol. 75v 2730 2735 2740 2745 2750 2755 fol. 76r 2761 2765 2770 2775 2780 2785 2790

Fitt 1 Herkenyth, lordynges, and gevyth lyst, In the worchyp of Jhesu Cryst,              Of a conquerour That was yhote Sir Charlemayn, Howe he wan Galys of Spayne              With ful grete honour, And how that he overcam .........................................              With full grete vygour, And howe Rowland and othyr knytys to Ageyn four knytys foughtyn do,              And ever was a grete warryour. And the Kyng Ebryan Helde werre ageynes ham,              And greved hem ful sore; And howe Rowlond slowe Vernagu Thorugh the myght of Jhesu,              That leved in false lore; And the caytyf Emon Helde werre agens Charlyon              Thrytty wyntyr and more, And magre hym and al hys Thorugh the myght of Jhesu              In the Mount Albene thay wore. And ther Rouland the gode knyght Overcom Otuell in fyght —              Nowe ye schulle yhuyre — And was cristenyd withoute fayle, And helpe Charles in many a batayle,              And was hym lef and dere. And all the dussyperys with hym, Bothe Gwynes and Sir Turpyn,              That was stoute in fyght; And howe Charles aftyr than All hys fomen overcam              Thorowe the grace of God Almyght; With swerdys dynt, withouten les, Hys lond he held in grythe and pes,              Withoute warre and fyght. The Ercheboschope Syr Turpyn Alle those dedys wrote in Latyn              Whiles he hem saugh in syght. Of Charles that was so grym, Nowe y wolle begynne of hym              To tell you aryght. Nought longe theraftyr yt was, That ther byfel a wondyr cas              On Chyldermasse Day. Charlys, thorugh Goddys grace, Out of Parys toke the pas              To Seynd-Denys, the ryght way. Hys dussypers with hym he ladde, And other men, also goode and sadde,              And knytys stoute and gay. Thenne came there a messynger That was bothe stout and fer,              And made grete deray. Syr Otuell he hyght, A man of moche myght,              To batayll he was boun. To hym he clepyd a knyght That was curteys and wyght,              Gawter of Amoun, And sayd, “Syr, Y thee beseke That thou woldyst me teche              To Kyng Charlyon, And to Roulond hys nevewe That hath many a vertu              And grete of renon.” And tho Gawter answered, And sayde, “He with the hore berde,              That ys Charlyon. And the dussipers that sitten hym next, Tho arne the twelf that thou syxt,              Curteysly, withoute lesyng.” Otuel yede the kyng nere And hym myssayde, as ye now here,              And bade hym sytte stylle And sayde, “Y am Garcies messanger — In alle thys world nys hys peer.              He hath me sent thee tylle. The wylde fyre, that ys so sterne, Thyn hore lokkys there schulle berne              For thyn dedes ylle. And Roulond that Y be thee se, And alle tho that be wyght thee,              Yut Y hope to spylle.” Roulond sayde, “Do nought ylle, But thou haddyst eny skylle,              To none that ys hereinne. But yf thou haddyst spylt Ere eny thyng more mysgylt,              Harm schal tou none wynne.” Charlemayn the conquerour Comaunde to every dussiper,              What tale that he bygynne, That no man leye on hym none hond To to the messanger no schond —              Hys wyt hys ful thynne. “Ye, Charles, ne care thou nought therefore — That ylke man nys nought ybore              That durst me abyde. Though he hadde my deth yswore, Al hys oth schulde be forlore              Whylys that Y have by my syde Cursins my goode swerde, Wherwith Y was fyrst gerde              Of Kyng Garcy with pride.” Roulond sayde, “Styfly thou standyst And ful yelpe wel thou canst,              And wel canst chyde. Yf thou wylt thyn erande bede, Tel on and wende hom in thy nede —              No lenger that thou ne abyde!” Tho were the Frenche stylle, And Otuel gan to carpe grylle              To Syre Charlemayn, And sayde, “Garcy sent me thee tylle, And sayde that he wyl thy body spylle              For the wynnyng of Spayne. Byleve on hys god Mahon, Jubiter, and Syre Platon,              Thou mayst be ful fayn.” Charles sayde, “So mote Y thee, That ylke thay schal thou never se,              I telle thee for certayn, That Y schal byleve on Termagaunt, Ne on mametrye that yow by stant,              Whyle me lastyd my lyf. But by the Kyng in Trinité, Al so sone as Y may Garcé se,              Out of londe Y schal hym dryve.” “Ye, so thynketh me,” quod Otuel, “The Frenche konne yelpe wel —              Ful evyl mote they thryve! Faynte men thay gonne agaste, And of here dedys thay best unwraste,              Suche maystrye to kythe.” Tho sayde Syre Charlyon, “Sarsin, so helpe thee Mahon,              Wyl Garcye with me fyght?” “Ye, Syre,” he sayde, “By my croune, Alle the Frenche to fylle adoun,              Be thay never so wyght. I wote he haght redy thare An houndred thousand men and mare,              By day and be nyght; For nothyng wel he flen, Though he wyste yslaw to ben,              For no maner syght. And yut hath my Lord Garcy Has don arered in Lumbardy              A burgh that ys ryche, Ful wel hyt ys walled uyterly. The bourgh hys hote Utaly —              There nys none so ryche! Two wateres rennen there abowte That hym bytrenten, san doute,              With many a dep dyche. Yf thow wylt, Charles, undyrfare, Men schulle se thy sydes bare              With many a sory tyche. Thow olde cherl,” Otuel sayde, “Come nought there, Y thee rede,              But go and make a flyng To throwe aboute in ferhede Pies and crowes to don to deth,              And other foules, olde and yong! For age ys stolen thee uppon, And thy lyf dayes beght ny don,              And don hys alle thy werryng. Thou nart nought wordy at nede Ageynes a knyght to prike a stede,              And thynne arn al yong.” “Schrew Sarsin,” Roulond sayde, “Were thow al so doughty in thede              As tou nowe seist with worde, Alle thys lond in lengthe and brede Myght have of thy body drede,              Withouten speres orde. And thou unto Lumbardy fare, And Y may mete thee there              With Dorundale my brond, I schall wyte howe hyt can byte For thy wordys and thy dyspyte,              By Jhesu Crist my Lorde.” “Ye,” sayd Otuel, and lowe, “The brydde that syttyth on the bowe,              For drede of thee fle he wyl fonde, And Y schall wete wel ynowe Why thou makyst hyt sa towe              Yf thou wylt come to honde. The wylde best in the fryth Ther ne may no man make hys gryth              Where thou hom fynde in londe. Yf thou wylt with me fyght, Do arme thee anoneryght              And go we pley in same. Y am redy, syker Y thee plyght, Have Y helme and hauberk bryght              To layke with thee a game. Men schull wyte be lyte Wetheres swerde can bettyr byte,              And that ys levest to grame, Wethyr swyrd bettyr byte schall, Of Cursins and of Dorundale,              By Mahon swete name!” Rouland sayd, “Y wyl thee nought spare, And Y wyst to fynde thee thare,              Forthe with thee wolde Y fyght.” And Otuel sayd, “Have thou no care, Into a medowe we schull fare,              By Mahon ful of myght! And wethur of us hym withdrawe, Men schull deme the ryght sawe              Longe er hyt be nyght.” And Rouland sayd with wordys bolde, “That ilke covenaunt Y schall holde              Thorugh grace of God Almyght.” Gauter of Amoun and Oger, And Olyver and hys fadyr Reyner,              Charles comaunded in fere, And hys chamberleyn Reyner, And yfynde the messanger              All that nede were. Fitt 2 Here bygynnyth a batayle snelle Of Rowland and of Otuel,              That wondyrlyche was in syght, And howe Otuel ycristened was. Herkenyth nowe a mery pas              And of a stronge fyght! Amorwe er it were daylyght And er the sonne schon bryght,              Charles to chyrche yede, To byseche God Almyght For Roulond that noble knyght,              To helpe hym at nede, With alle the dussypers, And the abbot of Seynt-Omeres,              In ryme as Y rede. The abbot song the masse With ful moche mekenesse              And bad Roulond that God schulde hym spede. Kyng Charles brought a basyn With florens of gold fyn,              And yede to the offryng. That he wan of a Sarsin In the lond of Appolyn,              Withoute eny lesyng, Charles offrede the basyn al; And Roulond offred Dorundal,              ..............n to honouryng, ...n pound of florens, Y undyrstonde. ...Dorundale that good bronde              ............yn gaf Charles the kyng. ...whenne the masse was don everydel, ....com the Sarsin Otuel              ...........ay al in hyghyng: ...ys Roulond he ys nought lel! ...trouth nys neveradel!              ........deth of hys endynge. ......ale yesterday there he stode, ..........................was lete blod,              ........................wenyng, ......................ough so byhyd, ....................chal out be kyd,              .............nge dwellyng. ................kneled in a schapel .......................e Sarsin Otuel,              What bost he gan blowe. He yede to hym with hert lel, And sayde, “Dogge, thou lyest by Seynt Mychel,              And that schal thou ben knowe! For Y was never pale ne wan, For Sarsin ne for no man,              So God my soule owe.” Tho Charles the conquerour Comandyd to every dussyper              To arme Roulond arowe. The dussypers everychone Yede to arme Roulond anone,              Alle withoute fayle. On hym an haketon thay gonne done Over hys hauberk, that bryght schon,              That ryche was of mayle — And it made, ywys, That was whylom Denys prentys —              Of a trewe entayle. Estre of Langares, that was lel, Brought hym an helm of steel              Ful strong to assayle. The helm was grene as glas Tha whylome hit aught Galyas,              And sythe Kyng Barbatyan. Hym gert in that plas With Dorundale that good was,              That he byfore wanne. Duk Reyner hym brought a schyld, A fayrer myght have be non in feld,              And that wel many a man telle can, With a lyon thereinne raumpande, That whylome aught a geante              That was a doughty man. Tho Olyver hym brought a spere, As good as any man myght bere              In feld to batayle; Kyng, knyght, ere any ryder Myght it ful wel were,              Hys enymye to assayle. The Duk Terry sette anone The spores that of gold schon,              Forsothe withoute fayle. Oger hym brought hys stede, As good as any man myght lede —              Hyt was wonne in Hongery. Hit ne bar never knyght at nede But he schulde wel spede              And wynne the maystery. The sadyl was wel dere-worth, The beste aboven erthe              That eny man myght aspeye. Roulond into the sodel sprong, And rod hym to Charles the kyng,              Hys mercy forto crye. Kyng Charles hef up hys hond And blessyd hys cosyn Roulond,              And at hym leve he tok, And into the medewe he gan ryde. There ran a water by that syde,              That was a wel dep brok. That on Leire ycleped ys, And that other Some, ywys,              Also sayth sure the bok. Anone com Otuel to the kyng, And bysought hym in hyyng              That he hym lente armur: Spere and schyld atte bygynnyng, Helm, hauberk, and other thyng              That myght dyntes endure. Kyng Charles called Belysent, Hys doughter, so fayre and gent,              Curtayse, cler, and pure. “Doughter, tak to the messanger Into thy chaumber ryght now here,              And arme hym wel and sure.” The mayde hym answared with hert lel, “Y schal hym arme swythe wel,              As ye han me bede.” Sche toke Laumbr de Mouble, And mayde Resonet de Rowenele,              To fette forthe hys wede. Sche went to the kynges cheste And tok armur of the beste              That eny knyght myght lede, And gan to arme that hethen knyght, That in batayle ne in fyght              Of no man hym ne drede. Fyrst an haketon of fyn styl, And an hauberk ywrought ful wel,              She dude on that knyght. Mayde Rosynet de Rowenel An helme brought to Syre Otuel,              And on hys heued hyt dyghte. The helme was riche, for the nonys, Of sylver, gold, and precious stones              That schone ful bryghtt. The Belysent hym gyrde With Cursins hys gode swerde              That felon was in fyght. The burde Belysent hym brought A schylde, no bettyr myght be wrought,              Forsothe withoute fable. Hyt was so wel ywrought That none myght bettyr be thought,              With thre Sarisins heuedys of sabyl In syghte of hys schylde, to lede. Thay broughten to hym Mygades stede              Out of the kyngys stable; Anon the stede wyst wel That hys maystyr Otuel              Schuld to batayle. The mayde Rosenet de Rouenel Thoo spores fettyn hym, good and lel,              Wythouten ony fayle. The Sarisin spronge into the sadyl anone, And priked the stede and let hym gone,              That was of fayre entayle. Agen to Belysent he rode; The mayde stode and abode,              That was of hye parayle. “Damysel, gramercy!” sayde Otuel, “Myn armure ys good and lel,              By that Y se in syght; And that schal Rouland fynde wel, With my swerde yground of stel,              That Y am a man of myght.” “Syre Otuel,” quod that mayd smale, “I rede thee that thou kepe fro Dorundale,              For Rowland ys a man ful wyght; And but thou kepe wel thyne heued, Ellys hyt worthe sone astoned              Ful longe ere hyt be nyght. Ac thyke Lorde, that best may, Fro schame schylde thee today,              Yf yt be Hys wylle.” Otuel went forthe hys way Into the medewe as hyt lay;              Rowland he thought to spylle. Kyng Charles the conquerour Went up into hys toure,              An gan to crye schrylle: “Now, lordyngys al!” he sayde, “Gothe nowe fast oute of the mede,              That no man come hem tylle!” And the knyghtes with sperys tho Smyten her horsys and let hem go,              As men of moche myght. In the felde to fyght thay were tho, For eythyr was other foo —              That was a sely syght! The gonne to ryden with grete raundon Eyther to bere other adown,              With strengthe and fyght. The speres were scharp and gode, And thorugh the schyldes they wode,              Into here bryny bryght. Yperced was eyther scheld That the speres al toschyvered,              That were so gret and long. Off here stedys they fellyn adoun, So dude eyther gomphanon —              No game was hem among! Tho sone thay wyste that thay were sounde And neyther of hem hadden wounde,              Anone ageyn to hors they sprong; Ful faste they gonne togedyr smyte Ful sterne strokys and stryte,              The fyr therafter outsprong. “Now,” quod Belysent, “Y am sure That good and trewe ys Otuels armure;              The sothe Y se everydele. To God Y make my prayer, As He hys Lord and brought ous dere,              Leve hym to spede wel.” The knyghtes eft togyder gonne ryde And foughten as they were wode,              With good hert and lel; Duk Roulond with Dorundale, He gaf strokys many and fele,              And spared neveradel. Roulond with Dorundale so fel A sterne stroke gaf Otuel              Uppon the helm so schene, That god and stonys and crystall Tobrokyn and into the foeld fel,              To wetyn and nought to wene. Hys honde he withdrowe, aplyght, And smote a dynte of muche myght              That thay myghten it sene. The hors byfore the knyght By the schuldrys anoneryght,              He smote on the grene. Otuel fyl to grounde And felt hym hole and sounde,              And sayd to Rouland in sede, “Yut am Y hole and sounde, And thou worse than ony hounde,              So Mahon me spede! Thou hast don grete vylonye Wenne thou sparest my bodye              And hast slayn my stede. And er we departe atto, Y schall do thee moche wo              And do thy sydes to blede.” Anon Sir Otuel with hys honde A strok gaf Sir Roulande,              A ful styrne dynt of myght. He forcarfe, Y understande, A grete pese with hys honde              Off hys hauberk, ful ryght. The stede he carf even ato, Bytwene the schuldrys, anoneryght tho,              Even into the erthe ryght. Roulond fel to the grounde, But he ne hadde no wounde,              He thonkyth God Almyght. Tho was Rouland sore agramyd; Was he never so sore aschamed              Byfore in no batayle. Eft they foughten in samen, Ne was ther no chyldys game,              So harde gan eythyr othyr assayle. The medewe quok of her dynt, The fyr outsprang as spark of flynt,              Oute of helme, hauberk, and mayle. Tho Roulond hastylyche anone Dronke to hym wel good wone              Of strokys, withouten fayle. Quod Belysent to the kyng tho, “Thy batayle worthe sone ydo,              By that Y se in syght. The swete worchyth hem to wo, That here hertys bothe to              Bene astonyed of fyght.” Kyng Charles felle don on knees tho, And an oryson to God he gan do,              That ys in hevyn lyght, That He sende pes hem bytwene, And the Sarisin to be cristen,              As He ys ful of myght. Roulond to Otuel tho sayd, “Sarisin, do by my rede,              And leve on God Almyght! And to the kyng Y woll thee lede, And he woll geve thee to mede              Hys doughtyr so bryght. And thou and I and Oliver Mowen wende togedyr in fere              Into batayle and into fyght. Ne schulle we fynde in no londe None that schall us withstonde,              Neythyr kyng ne knyght.” Quod Otuel, “So mote Y thee, That ne schaltou never se —              To forsake Mahon, Ne Tormegaunt that ys so fre, Ne Jovyn, the goddys thre,              That beth goddys of grete renown! By that I have yment Erst Y schall geve thee a dynt              With Cursins my fauchon!” Efte togedyr they smyten, aplyght, Eythyr of hem was so lyght              And wode as eny lyon. Duk Roulond the gode knyght Smote a dynt of moche myght              Anone to the paynym. Therof the Sarisin hadde a syght And that strok he flye, aplyght,              That hyt fel bysyde hym. The hauberk fro the schuldyr bone, Rouland carf yt down anone —              That was a stroke ful grym! “Allas!” he sayde, “unworthy in hape.” For ther ne fel out no blodys drepe              Out there at none lym. The Frenche cryed anonryght, “Nowe overcome ys thys fyght,              Thorughe helpe of God and Marye!” At lyte they knewe that hethyn knyght, By God that thys world had dyght,              Ne nothyng of hys felonye. Roulond on the holme he smote With Cursins that bytter bote              A strok with grete envye. Yf the swerde ne hadde ywenyd, Rouland hys lyf ther hadde lenyd,              And Otuel wonne the maystrye. Tho was Rouland swythe wo That he ne myght that Sarisin slo              That was so ful of pryde. The Sarisin smote efte so Hys hauberk evene ato,              Evene alonge by the syde. The Frenche seyen that all, And to Jhesu Cryst they gonne calle,              And alle to God helpe they cryede. With that ther come a colvyr bryght That fro hevene tho lyght,              In that ilke tyde. The Holy Gost thorugh here alder prayer Alyght apon that Sarisin there              Thorugh Goddys holy myght. Tho sayd the messanger, “Leve Roulond, come me ner.              Y have forlorne my fyght. Mahon and Jovyn Y wyl forsake, And to Jhesu Crist Y wyl me take              To bene Hys knyght.” The Sarisin drewe awey hys bronde, And so dude Duk Roulond,              And kust hem anonryght. And Charles went thyder anone, And so dud the barons echon              That weren in that cyté. Quod Charles, “How ys thys ydon?” And Rouland sayd to hym anon,              “Thys Sarisin cristen wyl be, But thou most sese in hys hond Belysent, with muche londe,              Thy doughtyr, fayr and fre.” Tho sayd Charles the kynge, “Y am glad of thys tythyng              That Y hem so schal se.” To chyrche they went anonryght, And Turpyn cristened that knyght              That couthe Goddys lawe. The kyng toke her by the hond; “Doughtyr,” he sayd, “to me thou undyrstond              Nowe a lyte throwe Thou schalt be weddyd to thys knyght.” “Syr,” sche sayd, “syker aplyght,              Therof Y am ful fawe.” Tho sayd Charles to Sir Otuel, “Thou schalt have thys damysel              Ryght as for thyn awe.” Quod Otuel, “Yf ye love me wel, Ye ne dur drede neveradel              Of Garcins grete power.” The mayde yaf agen an answere, “Syr,” sche sayd, “Have thou no care,              By Goddys moder dere, Y love thee more in hert myn Thanne Y do my fadyr and al my kyn              That me to woman bere.” Syr Otuel to the kyng sayde, “Thou most lede with thee thys mayde              Withouten eny vylonye, With knyghtys gode, doughty in dede, With schyld, and spere, and many a chylde,              Ferre into Lumbardye. Whenne thou hast that londe ynome And all the Sarisins overcom              And yslowe Kynge Garcye, Thenne woll we be spousyd, ywys, And holde fest with joye and blysse              In the burugh of Utalye.” The kyng with hys knyghtys alle Wenten to Parys into hys halle              With moche melodye. He held fest ryche and ryall, Forsothe, in the kyngys halle,              With myrthe and mynstrelsye. At the fourtenyghtys ende, He asked yf he wolde wende              Forthe into Lumbardye, Or ellys byleve styl thare Tyl the wynter passed were              And the wethyr were drye. Kyng Charles of Seynt-Denys In that same cyté of Parys,              Somer he ther gan byde. And whenne the fowlys songon on the rys, The kyng sent aftyr knyghtys of prys;              To a mownteyn gan he ryde. Forsothe, the left the kyng, And with hym many a gret lordyng,              With ladyes ful gret in pryde. Ther was Rowland and Olyver And Syr Otuel and Oger —              In hert ys nought to huyde! Esteryche of Langares and Sir Turpyn, Archel, Etus, and Syr Geryn,              Nemes and Sir Reyner, Tho thay were in the kyngys inne, They say many a paynym              Comyng with grete power: Lemosyns, Bretons, and Lumbardye, Bayons, Gaskoynes, and Pycardye,              Of londys bothe ferre and ner; Provynciales and Almaynes, That couthen wel fyght on the playnes,              Of Normans bothe stoute and fere. Fitt 3 Nowe here bygynnyth a batayle Ful fel to founde, sam fayle,              Of thre goode dussypers — Rowlond, Olyver, and Oger. Forsothe, yt were knyghtes sam pyr,              Ypreved in many contrés. Howe they slowe undyr a forest Kynges thre that were full prest              To fyght in mede othyr in felde, And the furthe kynge they toke, As hyt ys fownd in the boke,              And slowen all that with hym helde. In Averel the thyrdde thay, Whenne foules synge on the spray,              Thay wentyn fro Seynt-Denys. Syre Otuel with muche pryde Sette Belysent by hys syde              Uppon a mule a prys. And sone after thay forlete The lond that hem thought swete,              And leftyn Parys. Forth to Burgoyne the wente, Two ferdales, verement,              That Otuellys was, ywys. And forth they wente into Lumbardye, To that mount swythe hey              That men callyn Poyne. And there the Frensche myghten se The borwgh that men calle Utalé,              Bysyde the water of Coyne. In a mede that grene was Charles chese a fayre plas              To telden on hys pavylon. Sevene dayes he sojourned there, And over the water he dude rere              A fayre brygge, withoute assoyne, That the Frenche men myghten tho Over that brygge come and go,              To fleen here enymyes. Uppon a day it byfylle so, The Duk Roulond and knyghtes to              Spokyn wordys unwys; And armeden hem in goode wede, And uche of hem tok a gode stede              That was of gret prys; Thay bysaughtyn God Almyght That he schulde hem fynde here fylle of fyght,              For the love of Sent Denys. Kynges foure withouten fayle, Were went out to seche batayle,              Of hedynesse thay were, Wel yarmyd, syker sam fayle. Ye mowe yhere grete mervayle.              Lordynges, wyl ye now here? Here names Y wylle that yow wyte, As in Frensche it ys ywrete,              Now lesteneth to lere — Curables and Askeward And Balsomon strong and hard;              Clarel was here fere. The knyghtes seyden as they gonne ryde, Yf thay myght that tyme abyde              That thay myght with Roulond mete, Thay wolde hym make blody syde, And Olyver that was so ful of pride,              With grymly woundes and grete. Tho sayde Clarel that ryche kyng, “Suche res nyl helpe no thyng,              Ne no bale vyl it bote. Ye han herd here byfore, That Roulond as a knyght ycore,              Curtays be way or strete. At wolde my lord Termagaunt, That Y myght mete with Roulond,              With hym wolde Y fyght. Hyt scholde hym rewe, with myn hond, The doughty eyres of Agelond              That he slow with unryght.” The knyghtes undyr the forest were, And herden the kynges alle there,              And of hem haddyn a syght. The place was called Forestent, That the knyghtes were in went,              That weren of muche myght. Roulond to hys felawes sayde, “Now we have that we bede —              God ous save hole and sounde — But we ben doughty in dede And styf syttyng on stede              Whenne we hem haven founde.” He smot hys hors and let hym gon, And Kyng Clarel sey hym anone,              By hys lord Mahound, “Thre knyghtes Cristen Y se! We beth foure, and thay but thre.              Go we felle hem to grounde.” Alle foure knyghtes with muche pride Smyten here hors and gonne to ryde              Ageynes the knyghtes kene. And Askeward, nought to hyde, He gaf Roulond a wounde wyde              With a spere that was ful kene, That thorugh hys schylde yt wode, And at hys hauberk hyt withstode,              Wel Y wote, withowtyn wene; And Rowland thoughth that strok to yelde, An karfe ato the kyngys schelde,              Anonryght uppon that grene. The stroke was scharp that Rouland sprong, And thorugh the kynges hert hyt stonge              And thorughoute hys syde. Kyng Corable so egre smot With a spere that bytter bote              Bytwene hauberk and hyde. Tho was the spere byhynde fast, The knyght sat the sadyl brast,              With yre and muche pryde. Oger Denys hys swerde out brayde, And to the kynge fast he leyde —              He couthe ful wel hys craft. A wownde he made swythe wyde, The armur fyl down by hys syde,              The helme conne outbrast. Balsamon, a kyng unhende, To Olyver he wolde wende              And quelle hym with hys craft. Oliver he smot with hys schelde, The launce brast in the felde —              That was a wel gode schaft. Olyver withouten abode With that cours to hym rode,              And in the schylde hym hytte. The schaft was strong and the heued brod, And thorugh the kynges body hyt glod,              And made a wel brod flytte. Doun he fyl dede to grounde, Ne was he never afterward sonde,              Non lenger myght he sytte. Slaw weren the kynges thre, But yet nolde nought the ferthe fle,              So wod he was of wytte. Hym thought hys hert brast ato But yf he myght Olyver slo              Ere he thennes wende. He smot hys stede and let hym go. In hys herte hym was ful wo,              For slawe were al hys kynde. But Roulond tho bytwyne rode And the kynges strok he abode,              He kydde that he was hende. Ac though the strok weren ful grete, In the schelde he it sette,              He nolde no lenger lende. The schaft was bothe gret and long, And the kyng was wondyr strong,              And schof as he wolde awede. Theren nas no game hem among, The schaft was styf and nought outsprong              And overdrew hys stede. Hors and man of Roulonde ryght The kyng threw doun, aplyght.              “Mahoun joye!” he gredde. That was the maner of the lawe, Whenne a knyght were overthrowe              That doughty were of dede. Kyng Clarel wolde awey have rede, Ac Oger com by that other syde              And smot hym with a spere. Hys hynder arson gan out glyde, Over the sadyl, it nys nought to hyde,              There Oger gan hym bere. Oger tok the kynges stede, And to Roulond gan hym lede,              And sayd, “Here ys on thee to bare! Thys ys an hors good an fyn And moche bettyr thanne was thyn,              And with gayer gere!” Rowland up stert and nought ne lay, And into the sadyl that was so gay              Smertilyche gan he sprynge. Ryght to the place they token the way, Ther that they fought, sothe to say,              With Sir Clarell the kyng. The Duk Roulond and Olyver, Wyghthly they wente the kyng ner,              Withouten more dwellyng, But Kyng Clarel toke that fyght Agens hem thre with al hys myght,              Forsothe withoute lesynge. Tyl hys swerd was brost atto, No wondyr thowe hym were wo,              Nedes he most hym yelde. He bysought Rowlond do, He schulde hym save from hys fo,              And from alle harme hym schylde. That broke swerd hym bytok The good Rowland, so seyth my boke,              Ther he yt fonde in felde. They setten the kyng uppon a stede, And to Charles they thought hym lede,              To Mount Paynt that ys teld. Fitt 4 Nowe here bygynneth a batayle Of these thre knyghtes, sam fayle,              That wondyr it ys to telle! For Cristendom they foughten ful sore With vi milers and vii sckore              Off Sarisins stronge and felle. And as they yendyrward weren, The sey an host hem byforn              Of Kyng Garcions knyghtys, With vi milers and vii skore, The strengyst Sarisins that ower were;              Alle they were redy to fyght. Ther-thorugh thay most hym lede, Or ellys lese her manhede              Yf that they flowyn, aplyght. He herde trumpes and tabeures, Hornes, chymbys, and chynoures.              Somdel they were afryght. The good Oger sayd tho, “Good hyt ys to lete hym go,              Clarelle the kene kyng — Yut he may save ous fro wo; Among the Sarisins altho              He ys a grete lordyng.” Where he wolde, thay lat hym passe. And these knyghtys with Goddys grace              Assaylethen bothe elthe and yong. Roulond made a grysly wounde In Kyng Bremer, forsothe, that stounde              That he hadde hys endyng. Tho Syre Olyver after thanne Slow a kyng that hyght Blasan,              That ful strong was in fyght. Syre Oger, that doughty man, Slow another that hyght Morgan              With Cursable so bryght. And Roulond with Dorundale, Deled strokes gret and smale —              Forsothe, there was a semly syght! Olyver with Haunchecler Slow many a Sarsin there              With swerd that schon ful bryght. Over alle, where these knyghtes rod There was ymad a way ful brod              That waynes myghten mete. For there that Dorundale glod, There was no Sarsin that abod              That he ne lese hys swete. There come Carmele de Taborye Uppon a stede of Lumbardye,              And grymlyche gan to grede. “Fyghteth,” he sayde, “better wone, Or ellys we beyth dede uchone!              Who schal ouren bale bete? Fy, a devlys! How may thys be That these Crysten knyghtes thre              Schulle bryng ous alle to grounde? Ryght ful sone ye schullyn se Myn owyn hond schal you sle              Wythin a lytyl stounde.” He smot Oger on the schylde That he felle into the fylde              And in hys body a wounde. Oger do off hys stede felle, And the blod of hys body outwelle —              Such hap he hath there founde! Tho Roulond that syght sey, For wrath he was wood wel neyghe              And priked tho to Carmele. He smot hym on the helm in hye That in to the sadyl the swerd fley —              No leche ne myght hym hele. Tho come Syre Aufer of Daubery, The strengest with Garcy,              He thought with hym to mele. With hys spere he smot hys schylde, That the hede at the haubrek feld,              So myche was that steole. Tho Roulond worthy on wede, He dude dere a welle good dede:              That Sarisin there he slow. These knyghtes bothe, for certayn, Ere they wenten out of the playn,              Fyghtyng they hadde ynowe. As Olyver sat on hys stede, Rowlond tho to hym yede,              “Here bygynneth a sory plawe!” Therof sayd Olyver, “Thou ne drede! My strenghthe ys good and nothyng gnede —              Of hem Y ne yeve nought an hawe!” Tho thay bothe gonne to ryde, And slowe adown ucche syde              Alle that they before hem stode. Of gode Oger in that tyde, That blod ranne oute of hys wounde wyde,              And he syked sore unsounde. Tho the Sarisins hym throng With sperys and swyrdys strong,              And made hym many a wounde. So fast hys body gan blede That he forgate hys gode stede —              Wel wo was hym that stowunde! With that come ryde an amerel Bysydes the Kyng Clarel              That Roulond feld adown; For Oger savede hym that tyde, Amonge the Sarisins of muche pryde              Dude Oger grete renon. “Come to me!” Clarel seyde, “Of nothyng ne schaltou drede,              Ne of no Sarsins treson. Forsothe, there schal no man de drede Whyles my body may thee were,              By my god Mahon.” The ameraunt sayde, “So mote Y thee, Thou ne schalt nought hys waraunt be,              That he ne schal be todrawe.” The kyng wel wroth tho was he, He hewed the ameraunt in peces thre,              And so he hath hym slawe. “Lo,” he sayde, “Syre Ameral, Thus men thee teche schall              To sygge wycked sawe, Now may Oger Denys Ever more have pes              In ernest and eke in plawe.” He dude knyghtes come hym ner, And bytok hem Denys Oger              To hys lemman hym to lede. Forth they went alle yfere, And fond that mayde in on erbere,              And thus to here thay sayde: “Kyng Clarel, thyn owyn lemman, Swythe wel thee grete can,              And for hys love he thee bede Thou scholdyst kepe thys Cristen knyght. Today he had wonne in fyght              Many goode knyghtes in dede. Twey other and thys knyght Thys day haveth slaw in fyght              A thousand of oure mayné.” Thenne lowe that mayde so bryght, And sayde to hym anoneryght,              “Why ne hadde ye brought al thre?” Tho sayde to here a knyght doughty, “Good damysel Enfamy,              Ous ne lyketh syker no gle! Fyrst mote somer come Ere thay tweye wyl be ynome,              And more batayle schal be.” The damysel do anoneryght Cleped sevene of here knyght,              And bytok hem Syre Oger. Bothe by day and eke by nyght, Hereself hys woundys gan dyght              And gaf hym drynkes der. Sche made hym salves soft, And as Oger lay in loft              He feld hym bothe hole and fer. Whenne he waked, he hadde no wounde, But felt hys body hole and sounde.              To God he made hys prayer. And ever Roulond and Olyver Ageynes the Sarsins foughte there,              That were so ful of pryde. Tho that they sey that Garcy com there With helm bryght and many spere              Uppon here ryght syde, Ful loth hem was to ben ytake do. They smyten here hors and letten hem go,              Away gonne thay to ryde. An houndred Sarsins and wel mo Faste redyn after tho              To take hem in that tyde. * * * Otuel aspyede wel there How Oger, Roulond, and Olyver              Weren out yfare, And with hem never a dussyper. Charlys the coquerour              Therfor was in care. Otuel let crye thorow the oste, “In the name of the Holy Gost,              As armes, lordynges, yare!” Florys, hys stede, he bestrod, And Samon by hym rode              And hys baner bare. Toward the batayle he gan ryde With hys knyghtes by hys syde;              With Roulond he gan mete. Many a Sarisin in that tyde Sayden to Roulond, and cryde,              “Lese thou schalt thy swete!” Syr Otuel gan to chyde, And sayde, “Roulond, for thy pryde              Thy lyfe thou wylt forlete! What wenes tou and Olyver alone To sle the Sarysyns everchon,              And thus to grounde hem bete? Nay, though thou and Y and Olyver Hadde ben ther al in fer              Ageyns the hedyn lawe — And ek Charles the conquerour, Though he brought alle hys power —              Yet schuld they be nought alle slawe. Ac turne ageyn with me anone, And venge we ous of Godys fone,              And gynne we a new plawe. Ther schulle a thousand, for thys thyng, Thys day of hem have here enthyng              Withinne a lytel thrawe.” A knyght there was swythe fre, He was cleped Emptybré,              In the foward of the batayle. He come dryvyng to Syr Olyvere, Allemost he com hym to ner,              Forsothe without fayle. Olyver with a good spere Thorugh the hert gan hym bere              Ryght over at hys hors tayle, That the Sarisin overdrew — That the soth men wel knewe,              That weren at that assayle. Esterych of Langares, a dussyper, Slow a Sarysin stoute and fer              That was of Turkye. He smot hym thorugh the lyver, That he ne flycted, fer ne ner.              “Mahon, help!” he gan crye. Many an helme was ofwenyde, And many a bassinet al tocleved              Of the Sarsin companye. Many a spere and many a schyld, Were dryven adown into the feld,              And many a sadyl made empty. Olmadas of Aschomoyne He gaf Charles chamberleyne              That bar Duk Reyner adoun, And toke the stede by the reyne To wynnen at he was ful fayne              And lepe into the arson. But Emoleres, a strong knyght, Hym to sle he dud hys myght              With hys gode fawchon. He smote the Sarisin in the schyld, That helm and heued flye into fylde,              And wanne hym grete renoun. Tho come Galyan, that hethen knyght That erst hadde slayn in fyght              Many a Crysten man. He smote Emoleres aplyght, That to grownde he fyl ryght.              Hys stede of hym he wan. Wel nyghe he hadde hym slawe And brought hym of lyf dawe,              Ac Sire Artok tho cam And savyd hym fro vylonye, That unnethe he myght crye              That the Sarisins flowen echon. And as the Sarisins flowyn in that tyde, The Cristen swed and gan to ryde,              And tho com Kyng Clarel the kyng, And slowe by every syde. Whoso wolde strokys abyde              Hadde there hys endyng. He slewe the Emperour of Almayne — Sore hyt rwed Charlemayne              That heye lordyng. Empater ther come byhynde, A kyng ycome of grete kynde,              And oute of many a bekeryng. Syr Bernard of Orlyaunse, Empater gaf hym myschawnce              With dynt of dethys wownde. Among the dussypers of Frawnce, Empater gaf hym myschaunce,              And gan to ryde to Otuel in that stounde. Ac Otuel of hym was ware, And with Cursins he smote hym thare              On hys helme that was rownde. He clef hys heued into the teth, So that all men wel seth              He grenned as an hownde. Syr Otuel tho made alle The dukes adown falle,              That he myght hytte aryght. To Mahon they gonne crye and calle, To Jovyn and to her goddys all,              That schulde hem help in fyght. Tho thay flowyn with a careful crye, Tyl they com to Kyng Garcy,              As fast as they ever fle myght. Duk Rouland and Syr Otuel And Olyver that was gode and lel              The Sarisins slowen down ryght. Fitt 5 Here bygynnyth a batayll felle Of Kynk Clarell and Otuel,              And wondurlyche strong; How they fouten for the lawe, Lystenyth to my sawe,              And thynketh nought to long. Anone Clarel to Otuel sede, “Sey me, knyght, so God thee spede,              What that thy name now be? Thou hast yslaw in length and brede An c knyghtes of oure ferede,              Sethe Y fyrst saw thee. Wel fayn Y wolde thyn name bryng To Garcy, the ryche kyng              That ys so fayre and fre.” “O, thou coward!” sayde Otuel, Thou oughtest my name know well,              By God that ys in Trinité, Forsothe, my name Otul ys; Thou hast yknowe or thys.              Now Mahound Y have forsake. Kyng Charles of Seynt-Denys Me hath ygeve hys doughter of prys,              And Crystendom Y have take.” “O,” quod Clarel the fayre kyng, “Now Y here a wondour thyng.              Mahound geve thee wrake But thou byleve on Jovyn, Termagaunt, and Appolyn,              And hem amendys make.” “Cursed be,” Otuel seyde, “Mahound and alle hys felawrede —              Forsothe, thay beyth alle unwrest! Whoso hem loveth, thay mowe drede; Of goodnesse here lawe ys gnede,              And schal be whyle it last.” Sayde Clarel, “So Mahound thee spede, Were we yend in that mede,              We selve to alle prest, Y wolde thee teche that Appolyn, Termagaunt, and Jovyn              Were goddys of the best.” “Ye,” sayde Otuel the good gome, “Tomorwe Y wyl thyder come,              My treuthe Y thee plyght.” The glove of that kyng he had ynome Among the knyghtes alle and som,              With Kyng Clarel to ffyght. Tho the sonne to rest was gonne, The kyng yede to bedde anone              As sone as it was nyght. On morwe whanne the larke song And the lyght day it sprong,              There rose bothe baron and knyght. Clarel of hys bedde awoke, And cleped hys knyghtes fotehote,              Hys wyll to don in dede. Gamor, Melyn, and Memorok, None of hem hys heste forsok,              But duden as he hem bede. An haketon they duden hem uppon And an haberjon that bryght schon              That lyght was forto lete. And thereon a corset, san fayle — What man so it bare in batayle,              What man so it bare in batayle, Men brought hym an helm bryght That Barnard the gode knyght              Was went forto be were. Thereon an adderes heued, aplyght — Forsothe, it was a sely syght              In eche batayle to bere. And a schyld that was unryde, Of warlok that sayntes hyde,              He was a greselyche fere. Ypaynted it was with Mahoun Of gold, Jubiter and yk Platon,              And yche ymad with a spere. Forth they fettan hym a schaft — He that it made couthe hys craft;              Hyt was of a trew tre. Hys swerd Melyn was hym betaught; Therwith he hadde heuedes ykaught              Of kynges, two or thre. Hys stede forth was fette, And Kyng Clarel thereon set,              That semely was to se. Twe hethe knyghtes also sket Two spores of gold duden on hys fet,              And eyther sat on hys kne. Tho thay fette here god Mahound, And alle the Sarsins of renoun,              And settyn hym amyd the toun of Utalye. That uppon here knees thay seten adown, With alle the lordys of that toun,              And also Kyng Garcye. Thay sayden, “Mahound, we thee byseche, Today thou be oure alder leche,              And on Clarel have mercy. As thou art god ful o muche myght, That he mowe sle Otuel in fyght,              That doyth thee so muche vylonye.” Over that water Clarel gan to ryde, And tho sey he come, on hys ryght syde,              Charlys the Kyng of Fraunce. The dussypers comen that tyde, And alle here ost with muche pride,              With schyld, spere, and launce. “Thou, olde Charlys,” Clarel sayde, “Swythe long thou hast ous anyede,              Kyng Garcy with disturbaunce, And now thyn dayes ben agoon, And age ys fallyn thee uppon,              Thou mayst doute of myschaunce. Old wrecche, what dost thou here? Thou ne art nought worth, fer ne ner,              Schaftys forto schake, Hors to stryde, ne armour to bere, A kyng to assayle with no spere,              Crounes forto crake, Ne emp no sadyl, ne wynne no stede, Ne do no knyghtes sydes to blede;              Thyn handys gynnen to quake. Fy, a devylys, for vylony, That thou dretest Kyng Garcy              Suche maystryes to make!” Tho byspake he that was wys, Charlys of Sent-Denys,              To the Kyng Clarel ful ryght, “Thrytty kynges of prys Y have yslaw or thys              In hedynesse with fyght. Thorugh grace of Almyghty God in Trinité, Thys day thou schalt on of hem be              Ful longe ere it be nyght. Make thee redy, that thou were dare, For myn olde body schal be yare,              Thorugh grace of God Almyght!” Duk Roulond stood the kyng by, “Mercy, Lord!” he gan to crye,              “Ne com nought in batayle! Thou hast knyghtes ful hardy, Bothe Otuel, Neymes, and Y,              Kyng Garcy to assayle. Y wyl fyght with hym, ywys, That hath sayde to thee amys.              Hyt ne schal hym nought avayle!” The dussypers everychon, Profreden thus anone,              That weren hye of parayle. Charlys was swythe wroth, And to Sent Denys made hys oth              That to deth he schulde be dyght. “He schall wete the certayn soth That he is to Jhesu Crist loth,              Yff he wylle kythe hys myght.” Otuel gan to Charles crye, And sayde, “For the love of Sent Marye,              So leteth me with hym fyght! For yesterday in the medes, For hys falce wordys              My treuthe Y dude hym plyght. Y schall yow telle every word, How it began, ende and ord,              The stryf betwyn ous to. He sayde that oure God vas nought worth a tord, And that he wold prove with dynt of swerd,              To whom that it wolde do, And sayde that we were thourgh Hym ylore, That of a womman was ybore,              And schent forevermore; For Hys lesyng and for Hys sawe, Uppon a cros He was ydrawe.              Alle thus sayde he me to thare. Y answered and sayde, ‘Nay, That He was bore of a may              To save al menkynde, And ros, and to helle toke the way, That byfyl uppon the drydde day,              And Satan brought in bonde; And toke therout Eve and Adam, And all with Hym tho God nam;              And sythe the Holy Gost sende, And after Hys rysyng upsty To Hys Fadyr up an hy.              Thys we haven in mynde.’ Of my wordys he ne helde no pryse, And cleped me ‘schrew unwys,’              And low me to skorne and game.” Tho sayde Charles of Seynt-Denys, “Otuel, as tou sayst it ys,              Go fyght, in Godys name!” The dussyperes weren alle prest To arme Otuel of the best;              Thay spedden al in same. Duk Roulond an helm fette, And on hys heued he hyt sette,              That was withowten blame. The helm was worth muche thyng; Hit aught sumtyme an hethen kyng,              Of Babylone the sawdan. And Syr Olyver, over hying, A scharp spere gan hym bryngge,              In Spayne hymself it wan. Thenne henged thay aboute hys swyre A schyld that was ryche and dere,              That hym gaf hys lemman — Thre swerdys of sylver bryght, And thre swerdys with gold ydyght,              With many a ryche ston. Men broughten hym a stede broun, And two spores that were boun;              On hys helys thay ham dyght. He lep to hors and nought abode; Over the water Otwel rod,              With the grace of God Almyght. Thanne hym spak Kyng Clarel, “Artou ycome, Syre Otwel,              As thou me behyght? Thou art welcome to batayle, Thou myghte be fayn, sam fayle,              Agens suche a kene knyght. Thou schalt wete, er thou gon, That thou haddyst beter ben at hom,              Thanne hedyr come to suche a thyng. For thou mayst wel wete, withoute fayle, That Y am ycome of heye parayle,              And am a gret lordyng.” “Ye,” quod Otwel, “Though thow be strong, Alle it is in God long,              That ys alle-weldyng. Yut today schulle we that se, That God ys bettyr in Trinité              Thanne Mahon and all hys ospryng.” No lengyr they wolde abyde, But togedyr thay gonne ryde,              As folke that weren fone. With grete sperys and unryde, So that they bothe fyllen in that tyde,              Ryght ther to grownd anon; But up thay sprong, so yt ys wrete, And aftyr sones togyder thay smyte,              That men hyt seyon uchon, The schaftys were stronge and gode, The knyghtys scheuyn as they were wode,              Ne was ther no bettyr wone. Heyr peytrelys broston atwo, And the gerthys also,              Her scheldes fellen to grownde, The knyghtys weren ful wo, To grounde thay yede bothe two              In that ilke stownde, And eythers stete went forthe, That on sowthe, that othyr north,              That weren fayre and rownd. Thanne sayde Roulond to Belysent, That was the kynges doughtor gent,              “Here ys a fayre fyght yfownde.” Sythe he sayd that he was bore, “Ne sey Y never her byfore              Suche two men of myghtys. Though a man sought syxti skore, Ne schulde he fynde none doughtyer,              Ne suche othyr to knyghtys.” Tho sayd Oliver that dussyper, And the abbot of Seynt-Omer,              That yt was a fayre fyghtys. Tho sayd Belysent that may, “God save Otuell today,              For Hys moche myghtys!” The knyghtys eft togedyr yede, To fyght on fote thay most nede;              Here stedys weren schent. Of helmes, hauberk, in lenthe and brede, The fyr sprange oute as sparcle of glede,              So stronge was others dynt. Clarel with hys swerd of stel So harde strokys he smote to Otuel,              To sle hym he hadde ment. Kyng Clarell was nygh wood, For that Otuel so longe agen hym stode,              And for harme that he hent. He hytte hym on the helme an heye, That golde and stonys adown flye,              Al off hys helme so rownde. Though Otuel were of werre sly, He nas never hys deth so ny, so near death              He fylle in swowe on the grownd. Kyng Charles to Jhesu gan speke, “Lord,” he sayd, “Thou me awreke              Uppon thys hethen hounde! And schyld from schame thys Crystyn knyght, That he be nought slayn in thys fyght,              In the worchyp of Thy wownde.” Syr Otuel that gode knyght Stert up tho anoneryght,              And was nothyng aferd. And thought that hys body wolde brest aplyght But he myght be awreke anoneryght              With Cursins hys swerde. He smote hym on the helme anone, That a quarter of hym away gan gone,              Bothe hys schelde and hys berde, Forsothe, the boke wytnessed, That men myght sen hys tethe,              Bothe lewed and lered. Tho lowe Otuel, and sayd, “Y sawe never, so God me rede,              Sythe that Y was bore, Never man in knyghtys wede, Al so fer as Y have rede,              A berd so clene yschore! So God me save and sent savour, Now ys Cursins a good rasour!              Hyt were harm that it were lore, Hyt ys scharp, and that ys sene! Hyt had yschave thy berd ful clene              That ther nys laft no more! Now be thou syker in alle thyng: Nyl never Garcy the Kyng              Byleve on thee after thys, Neyther Enfamé, that fayrer thyng, Sche nyl namore of thy playyng,              Ne for no love thee kysse. Now thy behoveth to grenne, And to make thee to mowe on menne,              For thy mouth syttyth alle onmys. Now ne helpth ne nought thy god Mahound, Jubiter, ne that breythen Platoun,              That thou ne art syker of thys.” Kyng Clarel to hymself sayde, “Allas, that Y began thys dede              Ageynes that Cristen knyght! Though Y sle hym in thys mede, Alle the world in lengthe and brede,              Schal me skorne aplyght: ‘None fayrer knyght myght by founde, And now he grenneth as an hounde,              Both day and nyght.’ He schall abye, be Appolyn!” And with hys swerd Melyn              To deth he wolde hym dyght. ........................................... Syr Otuel hys dynt wel sye,              And kept it on hys schylde; Kyng Clarel tho fast fly, And Otuel clef hys targe atouey,              That halfe fley in the felde, And thorugh Otuel had be born; Ne hadde ben hys haberjon,              Syr Otuel hadde he queld. Of that strok Clarel was blythe, And sayd “Yf Y thee hytte anothyr syde,              Thy lyf hys adoun feld!” Thanne sayd Otuel, “Y have ment That myn schal be that other dent,              As Y am a trewe knyght! To fyght fast wyl Y nought stent.” That feer flye out as sparkyl of flynt,              Out of helm and hauberk bryght. With Cursins that byttyr bot To Kyng Clarel he smote,              Thoroweoute the helme aplyght. Kyng Clarell fyl tho adown — Tho men myght se that ys god Mahon              Was but of lytyl myght! Syr Otuel namore ne gradde, And the Sarisins were ful madde              For Clarel the Kyng. The dussypers tho forthe Otuel ladde, And thonkyth God that day hym hadde              And had overcome that fytyng. Kyng Garcy and hys knytys To the temple yede anonryghtys,              And kneleden, elde and yong; And cryed on Mahon and Appolyn, Termagaunt and Jovyn,              “Why suffur ye all thys thyng, That Clarel had lore the swete, So ofte as hym ye hadde hete              Whenne he wolde bygynne? And Kyng Charles we schult mete, And with grysly lawnces hym grete,              All Cristendom to wynne? Allthough Y make to thee my mone, Ye stondyn stylle as ony stone,              No word nyl ye mynne! Y wene that ye ben doume and def; On yow was all my bylef              More thanne to alle my kynne! For longe ye have forhete, Y wene that ye most be bete,              Howe so it ever byfalle.” Bothe hym was longe to threte, He dud fette stonys grete,              Toforn hym in the halle, All hys goddys he gaf a cloute, He gaf hem strokys styf and stoute;              “Harawe!” they ganne to calle. He brake bothe legges and swere, And kest hem bothe into the fere,              Mahon and hem all. Fitt 6 Here bygynneth a batayle, sykerly, Of Charles and of Kyng Garcy,              That wondyr yt ys to here, And howe Garcy ycristeneth was. Herkeneth nowe a mery pas,              I pray yowe nowe all in fere. Anone bad Kyng Garcy, “Lordynges, doth arme you redy,              And every man redy to fyght! And thus we schulle bete oure mametrye. For that thay nolde nought ous socurye,              Thus we schulle hem dyght.” There were in the fyrst warde Syxty thousand stoute and harde,              With helm and breny bryght, With pencelys of sykelaton, Of grene sendal and of broun —              Ther was a semely syght! Syxty thousand in thys maner Come after with brod baner,              Alle thretyng Charles the Kyng, And both Otuel and Olyver, And also eche dussyper,              And Rouland, hys gode derlyng. Kyng Charles that was so fre, Hys ost hath partyd at thre              Ryght erlyche in the morownyng. In eche warde there were tho Syxty thousand and wel mo              Of knyghtes eld and young. Ac couthe no man telle the route Of folk that were goyng abowte,              Speremen and arblasteres, Wel yarmed and stoute; Of the hethen thay hadde no doute,              Thow they were cruel and fel and fers. Charles to hys barones sayde, “Lorthynges, ye mote do by rede,              Bothe barones, knyghtes, and squyers, Bowmen, slyngers, withoute fayle, Holdeth yow in youre batayle,              With youre gode wynteners. Charlys the Duk Neymes hym bythought, In that nede, ne fayle hym nought              To bere hys gode baner. And he answerd with word and thought, “By Hym that hath alle thys world ywrought,              Y am ful redy now ryght here!” The trompes bygonne fer to blow For that the Sarisins schulde knowe              That the Cristen men were there. The Sarisins wenten into the feld, With helm and spere and ek with schyld,              Of Kyng Garcyons power. A Torkeyes was pryketh out beforn, ......................................................... And threw hem over the castyll wal, And brak hys cheynes to peces alle,              And outward faste hym drow, So he dude in that yle, Thorugh hys queyntys and hys gyle,              That hym thought game ynow. Hys good stede sone he fond, And in hys hond hys good brond,              And alle hys other gere; He armed hym, Y undyrstande, And into the sadyll anone he wond,              With good schyld and spere. Oger tho gan to crye, “Have good day, Dame Enfamye,              Y wyll dwelle no lenger. And yf thou, fayre, prayest me, Tomorwe Y schall speke with thee,              By Jhesu Crist Y swere!” Into the ost rod Oger, And fond Roulond and Olyver,              With many a doughty knyght. Thay cleptyn and kyssedyn alle in fer, And askedyn yf he hole were;              He sayde, “Ye, anoneryght! Never sythe that Y was bore, In alle my lyf here byfore,              Ne felt Y me so lyght! Go we blyve into batayle, The hethen houndes to assayle,              And sle we hem doun ryght.” To the Turkeyes thay gonne to ryde, And leyde hem doun in yche syde,              Thay schedde here brayn an blode; There nas none that myght hym hyde, That thay ne lore in that tyde              The balles in here hod. Kyng Garcy thereof tok hede, And with hys spore he smot hys stede,              And fley as he were wood. Syr Otuel that gan aspye, And gan a country with Kyng Garcy,              With welle egre mood. “Yelde, ye traytours!” Otuel gredde, “Thou lyest, by Hym that for ous bledde!              Ne bost ne gynne to crake, Tofore Charles thou schalt be ladde, And legge thy lyf there to wedde,              But thou Mahoun forsake.” Garcy hys stede smot, And to Otuel he rod,              Hys spere he gan to schake. Hys hors stomblyd at a stone, He felle and brast hys arme anone,              And Olyver gan hym take. Thenne bede he Olyver, pur charité, That he ne schulde hym nought sle;              Hys hondys began wryngge, And he wolde cristen be. And Olyver graunted, that was so fre,              To court he gan hym bryng. And kneled tofore Charles and tolde That he hys londys of hym wolde holde              Ryght into hys enthyng. Charlys of hym tok goode hede, And to Parys he dude hym lede,              With trumpes and daunsyng. The Erchebyschop Syre Turpyn, A swythe good clerk of dyvyn,              Crystened hym that day; The soule of that Sarsin Forto save fro helle pyn,              He lered hym Goddys lawe. Thus Charles and hys dussypers Lyved in warre many yerys              And faughten, the soth to say; For every batayle that he began, Thorugh the grace of God he it wan,              As Y yow telle may. Fitt 7 Here bygynneth a batayle grym, Of Charles and of Ebrayn              That was wonderlyche strong. At Cordys how thay foughten same, Alle for the love of Cristendom,              Herkeneth and thenketh nought long! Afftyr Garcy, nought longe hyt nas To Kyng Charles told hyt was              That Ebrayn, the stronge kyng, Wyth strenthe was come to Cordys, With hym many a Sarisin, ywys,              And many a grete lordyng. The Almayns, saum fayle, Tha aschapeden fro the batayle              Of Angulaittes werryng. Tho Charlys thys herde Of that kyng, how hyt ferde,              He com thydyr anon hying. With hys knyghtys of pris, And tho he come to Cordys              And neghhode the cyté, The Sarisins com ageyns hym, Syxty thousand stout and grym,              Forsothe, in parties thre. Charlys syker nadde no mo But syxti thousand tho              Ageynes hem all to be! Tho Charlys made thre batayl: The furst of knytys, saum fayl,              That ryght symly hyt was to se; That other of fotemen tho; The trydde knyghtys also,              As the fyrst were. The kyng with grete rawndoun Come agen Syr Charlemon,              As ye mowe here, With batayles stern ten. The furst weren fotmen              That gryslyche were of chere. With her thay war behong, And berdys swyde long,              And hornys on hond bere. And al so that on batayle Schulde that othyr assayle,              The bowmen weren byforn, And come ageyne the knyghtys. And tho ther, anonryghtys,              Everyche blewe hys horn. Tho the stedys gonne here and se, Fast away thay gonne to fle,              They ne spared thyk ne thorn; Forsothe, the knyghtys bolde Myghten nought hem withholde,              Though thay hadde ysworn. Whenne thay that weren on fote, Ne say no bettyr bote,              Away that flowyn also; For her knyghtes gode, Ageyn hem nought ne stode;              Thay seye wel thay myght nought don. Tho Charles that gan se, That hys fotemen gonne fle,              In hert hym was ful wo. Hys stede he turnyd agayn anon, For he ne seye no bettyr wone,              But faste went aftyr tho. Tho the Sarisins seyen that cas, They swed aftyr wel gret pas              Tylle they comyn to an hylle. Two myle uppon that playn, The Cristened turnyd manlyche agayn,              As hyt was Goddys wylle. The Sarisins seyen hem come, And flewen away, all and somme,              Hom to her cyté wel stylle. Charlys with hys knyghtys Setten her pavylons upryghtys,              And all nyght ther gonne dwelle. Tho on morwe whan hyt was daylyght, Charlys bad anonryght              That all here horsys of the ost With wex to stoppe here ere, That they myght nought yhere              Her noyse ne her bost. Forsothe, hys hest was sone ydone, An her eyyen yhudde anon,              Bothe lest and mest And Charles prayed to God Almyght To helpe hym that day in fyght,              So wyss hem the Holy Gost. Alle they come togederes on morwe, The Sarisins to moche sorowe,              Into the felde to fyght; And the Kyng Ebrayn Come ful evyn ageynes hym              With hys ost aplyght. Togedyr thay gonne smyte; Eythyr spared other lyte —              Ther was a symly syght! Of the hethen lawe, Many onothyr was yslawe,              Well longe or hyt were nyght. The Sarisins seyen alle Howe her felawys down gonne falle;              Ther rose a rufull crye. Togyder they gonne hem drawe, That folk of hethen lawe;              Forsothe, they were sory. Amyd hem was a char That here banerer that tyme bar              Uppon a spere on hye. With twelf oxen yt was ydrawe; That tyme hyt was the lawe              That none schulde fle away The whyle her syne stood. Charlys, by the rode,              That the baner schulde adown. Forsothe, he semyt wood outryght So fast tho he gan to fyght,              As hyt were a wylde lyon. Ther nas neythyr spere ne schyld, That dury myght in the feld              A strok of hys faucon. Tho Rouland and Oliver, And everyche of the dussyper,              To batayle were ful boun. All tho that hey mette wyth, Forsothe, to grownd thay yede ryght,              So fast they faught thare. Kyng Charles tho, anoneryght, Thorugh the grace of God Almyght,              Evene come into the char, And with hys gode fawchon He smote the baner adown              That with hymself were; He smote the baner adownryght — Tho that hyt sawe, they were aflyght              And in sorowe and care. He smote tho suche a dynt, That fyre flye out as sparke of flynt,              And tho the Sarisins were in hart sare, An gonne to fle in eche syde. They ne durst no lengyr abyde —              Of blysse they were alle bare! Tho Ebrayn the strong kyng Come wyth spere kervyng              To the Kynge Charlemayn, And yaf hym suche a wownde That Charles fylle to grownd              Off hys stede adown. Charles, forsothe, that hym yeld, That helm and heued fly in the feld,              Tho ryght with hys fauchon; And many anothyr paynym, Forsothe, ther was yslawe with hym,              ............................... That were yholde of grete renown. To Charles they yeld the gode toun,              And cristened wolde he be. Gret othes they swore thare: “Of hym wyl we holde evermore              Cordys the good cyté.” Therof Charles was glad tho, And all were cristened in a thro,              With grete joye and solempnité. * * * Welle sone theraftyr come tythyng To Charles the ryche kyng              By a well trwe messanger, That the kyng of Naverne Gan to robbe and to berne              In hys lond bothe fer and nere. Tho Charles hyt wyst afyn, He com to Mount Gardyn,              And ther they mette in fere. Eythyr had othyr behyght Togedyr on morowe forto fyght              In the same stede ther. Tho Charles made an oryson With ryght gode devocion              To Jhesu and to Marye, He sende hem grace, withoute fayle, To wete who schulle in bataylle              Wynne the maystrye; And who schull be yslawe Of knyghtys of Cristen lawe              In Kyng Charles partye, That everych that schuld be ded Most bere a croys red              On hys schuldyr on hye. On morwe wanne yt was day, Charlys rose with gret noblay              And to hys knyghtys cryed, “To batayle forto fare!” Thenne sey he moche care              Of ten hundred that tyde. Then was the kyng in grete dolour, And prayed to ten hundred, par amour,              At the chapel to abyde. And sayde yf thay with hem went, They schuld be de, verrament,              With the Sarisins ful of pride. Thay answerd and askeden, “Why?” Then sayde Charles, “Sykerly,              Y se on you the sygne of deth, withoute drede. Loke nowe echon on othyrs schulder: Amonge you alle nys none othyr              But beryng the croys red; For why Y wote, thorough my prayer, That ye schulle be ded, all in fer,              Yf Y yowe with me lede. Ac dwellyth here vithouten stryf, Today Y schall save your lyfe;              To spylle you yt ys no nede.” Tho to batayl the kyng gan ryde, Hys good dussypers by hys syde,              And faste the ganne to fyght. Of the Sarisins thay slowyn so yern That the kyng tho of Naverne              Ageyns hem he had no myght. Kyng Charles slowe that day, He and hys ost, sothe to say,              Syxty thousand tho ful ryght. And whenne he come to the mede, He fonde hys knyghtys al dede              Ther he hem left, aplyght, By the ensampyl who mowe se That no man schall hys deth fle              For nones kynnes nede. Tho all Naverne Charles toke Into hys honde, so saythe the boke,              In trewthe, so Y nowe rede, And gaf hyt hys, saum fayle, That hadde hym holpe in batayle,              That doughty were of dede; And was departyd amonge hem uchon, And were yfeffyd therwith anon              To lyve in joye and pryde. And whenne the Kyng Charlemayn Hadde ywonne Naverne and Spayne              And yslawe the hethen knyghtys, Hys catel and hys townys He gaf to hys barownys,              And made hem grete lordynges. Portyngale, Naverne, To the Brytons he gaf hyt yerne,              And thus parteth hys wynnyngys. Tandylyf, a strong castel, To the Jercos he gave hyt yche a del,              Ryght in grete hyynges, And the londe of Galeys He gaf the Frenchemen, ywys,              But thay nolde dwelle nought thare. Thay forsokyn that ylke londe Forto have into her honde,              For yt was so dere. In Spayne Charles tok, As Y fynde in my boke,              All that hethen were, That lyved in false lawe; He dud hem honge and to drawe              Wel fast by the swere. Charles stabeleth forto be An erchebyschop in that cyté              Ther that Sent James lys; And alle the bysschopys in Spayne, By the hest of Charlemayn,              And eke in Galys Schulde be undyr hym. Ac the Byschop Syr Turpyn              Halowed that stede, ywys, For ther nas arst no cyté, Charles hote, that ther schuld be              Composterne of prys. And in the moneth of Yver, Charlys comaund, fer and nere,              In Galys and ek in Spayne, That eche hous of power Schulde gef twelf penyes a yer,              By the hest of Charlemayne, To Seynt Jams of Galys, And be quyt of other servys,              That hous to sustayne. And so thay dude withoute lete; For Charles hyt hade sette,              Durst no man be ther agayn. Fitt 8 Here bygynnyth a rewful tale: How Rowlond deyde at Rouncyvale. Now lete we be of thys, And speke we of Charles,              That muche was of myght. Of hys lengthe and hys brede, As clerk ye doth in boke rede,              Y schal yow telle aryght. Twenty fot he was of lengthe, And therto man of gret strength,              And a man of sterne syght; Blake of here, red of face, Ther he come in many place,              He was a doughty knyght. Foure tymes in the yer, Uppon hys heued he wolde ber              The holy croune of thorne: At Ester and at Whytsontyde, At Seynt James Day with pride,              And at the tyme that God was born, At the mete in the halle, Among hys knyghtes alle,              With drawe swerd hym byforn. That ys in the maner ay And schal be tyl Domesday              Of emperour that ys corne. Whereso he slepe a nyght — Wyse he was, as felle to hys ryght,              And ever douted treson — An hundred knyghtes schulde hym kepe Were that ever he schuld slepe,              Of knyghtes grete renoun: And everych doughthy knyght, Hold a torche brennyng bryght              And a nakyd fachoun. Thus the Kyng Charles lay With hys ost many a day              In the cité of Pampulon. Twey Sarsins tho of Spayne Were ysent to Charlemayne,              With hym forto be; The sawdan of Babylonye, He sent hem to Paumpylayne              Fram Perce, the ryche cité. Mansour hyght that other, And Beligans hys brother,              That was of gret pusté. Thay dwelleth there long whyle, Kyng Charles to bygyle,              Whenne thay myght here tyme se. Charlys bythought hym tho That thay ne scholde nought dwelle so              But thay cristen were. He sent to hem sone A knyght into Aragone —              Gwynes a dussyper — But Charles wyst nought The treson of Gwynes thought,              The wykked fals messanger. Forsoth, he hath hys way ynome; To Mansure that he ys come,              And sayde that Charles hem grette. He sayde that hys brother and he Scholde, forsothe, ycristened be,              Withouten any lette. Mansure was full fel, And made a ryche jeuel;              Forth he lete it fette, And gaf the messanger, And sette hym to the soper —              Wel fayre, forsothe, thay hym grette, Mansure tok tho Gwynes, And sayde to hym thus,              “I pray thee, Gwynes, lysten to me. Yf thou wylt Charles forsake And to my consayle take,              Full ryche schal tou be. Thrytty somers and yut mo, Bathe of sylver and gold also,              Forsothe, Y wyll geve thee.” Thorugh that ylke tresour, Gwynes bycome traytour —              Evyl mote he the! Thenne dyvysed Gwynes That he wolde sey thus              To the Kyng Charlemayn, That Mansour and Belyganns Wolde come into Fraunce;              Thereto thay were they boun. And Mansure therewhyle Trayeth hys ost with gyle,              To sle hym with treson. Charlys was wel apayede, And to Gwynes tho sayde,              “Thow art a good baroun.” Tho was Mansoure glad That the treson was ymad,              And gaf that traytour Thrytty somers and mo Of gold and sylver also,              With swythe gret honour. And thrytté stedes with gold fyn To Charles sent that Sarsin,              Alle they were whyt a flour; And an houndred tonne of wyn, That was bothe good and fyn,              And swythe fayre colour. Gwynes hys leve tok And went hym hom, so sayth the bok,              Wyth that presaunt so ryche. And sayde Syre Charles tho, “Mansure wylle come thee to,              Ryght wel blythelyche. Forsothe, hys brother and ek he Wyllyn bothe ycristened be,              With here folk, lytell and muche.” Forsothe, Gwynes tho was A fals traytour, as was Judas,              And many mo beyt suche! Charlys grethed hym to wende To Fraunce with hys knyghtes hende,              By the traytours rede. There he fond fomen fale In the forest of Runcyvale,              That wolde hym do to dede. The kyng bad Roulond hys cosyn Twenty thousand to take with hym,              Stouttelyche forto lede. Whenne Charles hadde yhote tho, The best bodyes that were tho              With Roulond, forsothe, thay yede. Twenty thousand Charles ladde, And also fele Roulond hadde              Into the rere batayle. Charlys ne tok no dussyper But Gwynes and Turpyn yfer,              That weren of heyghe parayle. Mansoure lete tho passe Charlys folk, bothe more and lasse,              Forsothe withouten fayle. Tho com Roulond with hys ost, And Mansoure with muche bost              Hard hym gan assayle. Syxty thousand and ek mo Mansoure with hym brought tho,              Out of the wode aplyght. The Cristen thay gonne assayle; Many deyde in that batayle              Or it ever were nyght. Togyder thay gonne smyte; Neyther ne spared other but lyte;              There was a wel gryslych syght. Roulond was there yslawe, And good Olyver hys felawe,              And wel many a trewe knyght! Syre Constantyn of gret Rome Ageynes Belyngas, forsothe, come,              With a gret spere kervyng, And to hym he it bare; He brast it on peces thare,              Withouten any lesyng. With swerd and with mas, Forsothe, in that plas              Togedyr thay hem thryng. Jhesu Crist, Kyng of blys, Lord withouten mys,              Here soules to hevene bryng! Whenne Oger Denys seye thys, That hys good felaw yslawe ys,              In hert hym was full who. He faught as he were wood, That alle ageyn hym stod,              To grounde he fylle hem tho. Raynold of Auby d’Espyne Com prikyng on a stede fyn,              And faught ful hard also. Wel sone the Cristen were byset As der that beyth withinne the net,              With ten thousand and mo. Thay faughten wel by the lawe, But sone thay were alle yslawe,              Withinne a lytel stounde. Men seyeth in old sawe, That ten men in a lytel thrawe,              Mowe be brought to grownd. Though Oger faught fast, Yut sone at the laste,              He hadde dethys wounde, And Raynold wyth also, And wel many a gode knyght mo,              In boke as hyt ys fownde. Tho Sir Bertram the baner, Bothe Rouland and eke Olyver,              And Sir Gaumfres the kyng Gonne tho to fyght ful fast, And also ground tey caste              Wel many a gret lordyng. Forsoth, Olyver and Rouland do Cleven men and hors atowo,              So thay faught in that thryng. Syre Bertram the baner, Bothe Roulond and Olyver              Ne spared elde ne yong. Ful sone after in a stounde, Ganfres was brought to grounde              With the cursed Sarisins. Tho good Olyver was slawe tho, And many a doughty knyght also,              With the develes lemes. A Sarsyn that hyght Langelye, He com with gret envye,              As Y yow say in rymes. He com and smot Olyver on the croune, That bode hys eyghen fyl adown,              Fram hym in that tymes. Whenne that Olyver was blynth, Bothe byfore and ek byhynde              He leythen faste aboute; And evermore as he rod, He made a way swythe brod              Of the Sarisins that were stoute. And as he faught wondurlyche fast, Roulond com ate last              To helpe hym, saun doute. So hard Olyvere smot Roulond That hys schyld from hym wond              Among the hethen route. “Allas!” sayde Roulond tho, “Olyver, why faryst thou so?              Artou paynym bycome?” “Nay!” sayde Olyver, “God it wot, Y ne wyst never whom Y smot!              My syght ys me bynome!” Tho thay bode layden on in fere, Bothe Roulond and Olyver,              And slowyn there many a gom. With that com l’angelye, The cours have he of Oure Ladye,              That most hath myrthes mone. .................................................. And with a spere swythe feloun,              That dede he fyl to grounde. Tho Roulond sey that fyght, With sorow and care he smot a knyght,              That same hethen hound, That hors an man, bothe at onys, He evene cleved hys body and bonys,              Ne myght no man hym hele that wounde. Bothe Ganfer and Ganfres, Ryght besyde Oger Denys,              There lay yslaw that stounde. Anguler and Anastes ther, And Syr Yvory, here gode fer,              Alle quyk thay were ynome, And yhongeth heyghe on a tre, That grete dele it was to se              Uppon many a Cristen gom. Therfore Mansoure was ful fawe That thay were so alle yslawe,              The Cristen, bothe alle and sum. But Roulond skaped away In a busk of an hegge, forsoth to say,              With hys drydde gome. And as Rouland the gooth knyght Com framward that strong fyght,              A Sarsin ther he fand, That resteth hym ther upryght Y say, forsothe aplyght,              With foure of hys bond. So upryght by a tre, He yede forth and let hem be,              Styll for to stonde, And went uppon an heyghe hylle, And hys horn he blew wel schylle,              That he held in hys honde. The Cristen gonne it knowe That weren away yslowe,              And comyn to hys cry. 1 Wel an hundred on a drowe Ageyneward gonne drawe              To the Sarsins, sykerly. Roulond hys swerd gan drawe, To the Sarsin he sayde in a thrawe,              “Anone thow schalt deye, But thow me telle, ywys, Where Mansoure thy lord ys —              Sey me hastlye! .................................................. Thenne wyl Y save thee,              My treuth Y thee plyght.” The Sarsin was blythe To askape with hys lyve,              And sayde, “Go we anoneryght!” Forth thay went alle prist, Bothe togederes in that forest,              So faste as thay myght. The Sarsin sayde, “He ys thys That bereth the schylde of prys              With a dragon of gold bryght.” Roulond mette an hathen hounde; Suche a strok he hym founde              That ded he fyll in that plas. Hard he layde on bothe syde; Whome Roulond mette in that tyde,              Hym byfyll a sory cas. Mansure he mette, saun fayle, In that same batayle,              As it was Goddys grace. Roulond let tho the Sarsin gon, And to the batayle he went anone,              There Mansure in was. Strong fyght was hem bytwene, They al tohewen the helmes schene,              And here schyldes dude also. Thorugh the hauberk the blod was sene, For the strokys weren ful kene,              That theleth were bytwene hem to. Roulond smot a strok with yre On the helm of Syre Mansure,              And clef hys body tho. Welle a thousand Sarsins, Alle of Godys wytherlyngges,              Thay flowyn away hym fro. Whenne Belyngans hys brother Sey that hit was none other,              He fleye with hys ost To Saragous, that ryche cyté, Bothe he and eke hys mayné,              Wyth bobaunce and with bost. Roulond had so many a wounde, Wondyr that he ne fyl to grounde,              And that was sorw most. “God!” he cryed, “mercy, blyve!” Lord, help hym in hys lyve,              As Tou art the Holy Gost! Roulond com doun anone, Of febelnesse he hadde gret wone;              With that come Syre Baudewyne, And Terry also, withouten fayle, That weren askaped from that batayle;              That on was hys owyn cosyn. He seye hys armur al totore, Hys body with speres thorugh-bore,              Hys lyf in poynt to tyne. Roulond throw out Dorundale, And sayde there a rewfull tale,              And wroth was in fyn. Tho he bygan to make hys mone, And faste loked there uppon,              As he it held in hys hond: “O, swerd of gret myght! Better bar never no knyght,              To wynne with no lond! Thow hast ybe in many batayle, That never Sarsin, saum fayle,              Ne myght thy strok withstonde! Go! Let never no paynym Into batayle bere hym              After the deth of Roulond. O, swerd of gret power! In thys world nys nought thy per,              Of no metal ywrought. Alle Spayne and Gales, Thorugh grace of God and thee, ywys,              To Cristendom ben brought. Thow ert good, withouten blame; In thee ys graveth the Holy Name,              That alle thyng made of nought.” Roulond smot it on a stone, And he it karf ato anone,              To breke it tho was hys thought. Tho he hadde that ston yschorne, Wel lowde he blew tho hys horne,              To have yhad more socour. Thre note he blew so, That hys horn clef atwo,              That was of good yvour, That the temple and hys vayne, Brost bothe with gret mayne,              Of Roulond the conquerour. Syxty myle men herde the soun; Tho the Kyng Charles of renoun,              Made gret dolour. “Gyne, Y can Roulond knowe, Ryght now, forsothe, Y herde hym blowe,              Y drede lest he mysfare. As armes anone, gret and smale, To that forest of Rouncyvale,              To loke yf he be dare.” Gwynes, that wyst of thys dede, To the kyng anone he sayde,              “Syre, have ye no care! Roulond ys so jolyf a man That he hys blewyng bygan              For huntyng of an hare.” Lo, thys falce traytour — God yeve hym myssauntour              For hys falce lesyng! * * * Rowlond now lyth on the gras, And Baudewyn with hym was,              And schulde hym water bryng To fecche hym water he gan gon, But he ne myght fynde none,              For nones kynnes thyng. Tho he tolde that there none was, Roulond sayde, “Allas, allas!”              With swythe gret mornyng. To fecche eft yede Baudewyn. With that there come a Sarsin              There that lay Roulond, And tok that swerd Dorundale, And thus he sayde in hys tale,              As he it held on hond: “O, Dorundale, thou art wel founde! Wyth thee hath Roulond ybrought to grounde              Many a Sarsin of oure lond! Now schal may a Cristen berd Wynne schame here afterward              Thorugh help of Mahoundys honde!” Whenne Roulond herd hym speke so, In hys hert hym was ful wo,              And hastylyche up he stert. He yede anon to that paynym, And with hys horn he smot hym,              That he felle overthwart. That blod and brayn start up byforn; Forsothe, hys lyf there was lorn,              That he nas never after quart. Deth he fel, so sayd my tale, For he wolde have stolyn Dorundale;              He hadde a stroke ful smert. With that com Baudewyn anone agayn, And fond Roulond on the playn;              He leyde hym on hys stede. Swerd and horn he tok also, As man that was in muche wo;              Away he gan hym lede, Out of that forest of Rouncyvale Into another dep dale,              And leyde hym a mede, And sayde, “Roulond, pur charité! Thenk our God in Trinté              That for ous wolde blede!” With that, Roulond Godys knyght Loketh up to hene lyght,              And sayde on hys maner: “Jhesu, that syttyth in Trinté, O God and Persones Thre!              Now here my prayer! Y com to thys contré, Lord, for the love of Thee,              And Thy moder there, The hethen for to slo, That wrought Thee so muche wo              Whyle that Thou were here. Lord, as Thou art Kyng ycorne, Let Thou me be nought forlorne,              But bryng me to blys, There that ys Thy reynyng, Jhesu Criste, hene Kyng,              Therof that Y ne mys, And thylke that ben yslawe For the ryght lawe,              And for the stedfastnesse.” Ryght in thys same prayer, Roulond the very martyr              Passed out of hys lyve. Angelys comyn fro hevene, By syxty and by sevene —              Of hym thay were ful blythe — And broughten hym into blys That never more schal mysse,              There joye ys ful ryve. Now Jhesu, Mary Sone, Graunt ous alle therre to wone              For Thy woundys fyve. And as the angel Mychael, Gabriel and Raphael              Roulondys soule bare Over Charles chapyll, ywys, As Turpyn messed, ywys,              A gret crye he gan here, Of fendys that weryn felle That weren towarde helle              With the soule of Mansur. Turpyn bad hym abyde, And axed hem in that tyde              What thyng that they beryn there. “On that ys ous ful sure, Forsothe, the soule of Mansure;              He hath yserved ous ay. He schall have to hys hure The pyne of helle sure —              None other be it ne may! And Roulondys soule ys Ybrought into paradys,              With joye and with play, Thereinne for to be, And there hyt to se,              Forsoth, Y thee say.” Whenne the masse was don, The Byschop Turpyn anon              To Charles went and sayde, “Charlys Syre, forsothe ywys, Ryght now none other there nys,              Roulond ys do to deth. Forsothe, Y sey now ryght Angls of muche myght              Hys soule to hevene lede.” Wyth that com Baudewyn, Roulondys owyn cosyn,              Rydyng on hys stede. The swerd and the horn He brought the kyng beforn,              And tolde hym of that cas: How Roulond was yslawe, And Olyver hys gode felaw,              And alle that that ever was; Thorugh Mansures rede, Alle hys folk were dede              And yspylt in that plas. Tho Charles wust thys, He was ful sory, ywys,              And sayde, “Allas, allas!” With dwele and muche crye, Charles went in hye              Roulond for to se; And fond hym there ded, And thus to hym he sayde,              As Y schal telle thee: “O, Roulond, the good conquerour And the noblyst warryour              That ever more schal be, How Y have thee forlore? Dey Y wylle thee before              But God wyl save!” On swowne he felle to grounde, Anone in that same stounde,              As a man that was in care; And whenne he up stood, He cryed as he were wood,              And wep and tor hys here. With a rewful rage, He cracched hys vysage,              And sayde with sykyng sore, “Roulond, now for the love of thee, Dede now wyl Y be;              Of blys Y am alle bare! Thow were strong as Sampson, And bolder thanne any lyon,              In batayle and eke in fyght. I may wepe for thy partyng So dude David the kyng              For Absolon the whyte! Best me ys myself to sle, For glad ne worthe Y never mo              After thys ylke syght. Thow were in were good and wys, As was Judas Machabeus,              That was Godys knyght.” The barouns beden hym let be, And sayde, “Syre, pur charyté,              Lete away thys ylke mornyng. Wel ye seth how it geth — There nys no bote of mannys deth.              Take to thee confortyng.” The kyng let that body dyght, With myrre and baume aryght              For drede of rotyng; And sythe went to Rowncyvale, Ther the bodyes lyen be tale,              Of many an heyghe lordyng. And also Oliver ther they fownde, With foure wythes harde ybownde,              And ded he lay undyr a tre. On hys body was many a wownde. Charlys sayd tho in that stownde,              “Allas, that yche schulde thys ever se.” Her pavylons ther they pyght, And waketh the bodyes all that nyght,              With swythe grete solemptnité. The kyng swore by God Almyght, That ys an heye in hevene lyght,              Therof he wolde awreke be. Anonryght that trewe kyng Made there ryght hys prayng              To Jhesu ful of myght, That He wolde sende hym grace Ryght ther in that same place,              To have the dayes lyght For to sle hys enemys, And also to wynne the peys              Or come the next nyght. An angel come ther sone, And sayd, “Yherd ys thy bone.              Ryse an wende to fyght, For tylle thou have thy wylle, The sonne schall stonde stylle              In the firmement.” The kyng was tho glad and blythe, And thonked God fele sythe,              Jhesu Lord Omnipotent. Kyng Charles and Turpyn, Terry and eke Bawdewyn,              To batayl sone they went, And sworyn by Goddys mounde, Thay schulde never stytnt stownde              Tylle the Sarisins were schent. Fitt 9 Here bygynnyth a batayle stronge and fyn Of Kyng Charles and of Turpyn              That joye ys of to here; That faughten agens the Sarisins stoute At Saragous, wythoute dowte,              As gode men schulde and sure. Charlys hys ost gan oute lede, And comyn to Sadrak, so Y rede,              That ys a fayre watyr and clere, Two myle from Saragon. Belyngas thay fownde sone,              That was wel stoute and fere; Of Percy the ryche sowdan That hyght Syre Perygan —              Ne wust nower hys per; And also many a paynym That were bothe stoute and grym,              And of swythe gret power. Too thowsand of Percyans And also fele Affricans              Thay browten to the feld. Of Babyloyn the sowdan He brought with hym many a man              With spere, swerde, and schylde. Syxty thowsand and mo He brought with hym do;              Thus Turpyn had ous told. Two hundred of Percy, Charlys ne hadde but thyrty              Of knyghtes that were bold. To batayle thay were boune, Bothe with spere and gomphanoune,              And fast thay gonne to fyght. Syre Turpyn and Charlyon With here gode swerde broun              Hewyn on the helmes bryght. Many a paynym there fyl adoun That weren of swythe gret renoun,              Longe er it were nyght. Otuel tho with hys fauchoun, And the gode Duk Hugoun,              A man of muche myght, In the fyrst batayle The saudan they gonne assayle,              Of Percy that hyght Perigon. Syre Otuel smot hym tho, That evene he cleft hym ato,              Syker bothe hors and man. Byschop Turpyn with hys spere To Belyngans he gan it bere,              That thorugh hys body it ran. Therewhyle the Kyng Charlyoun Slow with hys fauchoun              Of Babylone the sawdan. Tho Turpyn was byset As a der in the net              There among the paynemes, And neygh yslawe that stounde, And hadde many a wounde              Of the falce Sarsins. Of strokes hard and sore Turpyn suffred thare              Of Godys wytherlynges. And Turpyn and Tybaut Made a swythe noble saught              To slen the fyndes lemes. Thay and here ost faughten so That syxty thousand and mo              Suffreth dere dedes wounde. Grete peple thay gonne sle, And wenten fele into the se,              For drede of deth that stounde. No Sarsin, syker aplyght, From that batayle skapyn myght              That owher myght be founde. Alle thay were yslawe, And ybrought of here lyve dawe,              There uppon the grounde. And ever schon the sonne bryght To yeve Kyng Charles lyght              In that fayre fyrmement. Thre dayes of mowntans ryght, Tylle he hadde ywonne the fyght              Thorugh grace that God hym sent. And he slowe alle hys enemys, And worschyplyche he wan the pris              Wyth swythe gode entent. The kyng was do glad and blyde, And thonketh God many sythe              For the grace that He hath hym sent. Anon thereaftyr he toke the way Ther that Rowlandys body lay,              And with hym many a knyght. “Forsothe,” sayd Turpyn and Turry, “Gwynes had made thys, sekerly,              And thys fals treson had ryght.” Tho the Kyng Charlyon Commawndyth swythe anone              To brynge hym forthe anonryght. Terry to hym anone forthe wonde, And of the deth of Rowlond              He hym withclepyth aplyght, And sayde, “Thorugh thy false treson, Many a gode lorde ys brought adown,              And hathe suffryd dedes wownde.” Gwynes sayd, “Nay! Thowe lyxt falsly, by thys day!              And that schall be well yfownde, Thy body anoneryght ys to myn. Arme thee anon wel afyn,              And Y wyth a spere ygrownde. But Y me defende, Y grawnt, so God me amende,              Byhonged and trawe thys stownde.” Anone Turry the gode knyght Armed hym wel aplyght,              And Gwynes dude also. Thay come bothe into the felde, Bothe with spere and with schelde,              Togedyr thay reden tho. Gwynes smote Turry That hys schylde sykerly              Evene clef atoo Turpyn and Charles the kyng Bothe thay say that fyghtyng —              In hert hem was ful wo. But Turry with hys half-schylde, To Gwynes rod in the felde              With a grete rawnan. He gafe the traytour suche a wownde That down he fel to grownde              Wyth Crystys malyson. Ther the traytour was overcome, And swythe anone he was ynome              By the hest of Charlyon. And ther he was byknowe, Byfore heye and eke lowe              Of that ylke false treson: The Crystyn howe he solde For thrytty somers of golde              To her enomys. “Forsothe,” sayd Charles, “hyt ys the lawe That thow be honged an drawe,              By Crst and Sent Denys.” He tolde that Mansure and Belygans, How thay schulde have come into Fraunce              And have ywone the prys, And have yslaw Kyng Charles, Turpyn, and alle hys barounes              Ryght at here Dynys. Tho by the heste of Charles the kyng The traytour was don to hongyng,              And was ydrawe thorugh the toun. And after yhonged wel faste, Forsothe, tho in haste,              Alle quyk he was leten doun, And ybounde to a stake, And hys bowels out ytake,              To brenne hym byforn. To foure stedys he was yknyt By the hondys and by the fet,              At the heste of Charlyoun. On eche stede sat a knyght, And thus he was totwyt,              Gwynes the falce traytour. Forsothe, hit were skele and ryght, That everych traytour were so ydyght,              And hadde muche myssaunter! Charlys tok hys knyghtes And went to Roulond anoneryghtes              With swythe gret dolour. Roulondys body he let dyght With murre and baune anoneryght,              With swythe good othour. Bothe Roulond and Olyver And everych of the dussyper              With baune weren ydyght. Of some, withoute fayle, Men duden out the entrayle,              And in lede layde hem aryght. And tho that weren nought so, Ful wel in salt men dude hem do,              To be swete bothe day and nyght. Thus thay weren dyght anone, Wel ynoynted everychon,              Withouten any unryght. Thus Charles doth, that ys so hende, To bryng hys knyghtes to good ende,              Forsothe, as hym thought best. Other lordys that weren there, Men layde hem on hors bere,              And were rychelyche brought in cheste. Charlys bysyde Runcyvale Lete rere a chyrche good withalle              For hem to rede and syng. Now Jhesu Crist in Trinté, O God and Persones Thre,              To joye and blysse ous bryng. Here endeth Otuel, Roulond, Olyver, And of the twelf dussypers,              That deyden in the batayle of Runcyvale. Jhesu Lord, hevene Kyng, To Hys blysse ous and hem bothe bryng              To leven wythoute bale. Amen quod J. Gage.

Listen (t-note) called Galicia (t-note) two Against; then; (t-note) Ebrahim them aggrieved them slew; (t-note) believed; false beliefs; (see note) wicked; (t-note) Thirty winters in spite of Mount Alben (in Lombardy); were; (t-note) hear [Otuel] was baptized; (t-note) beloved and dear; (t-note) twelve peers; (see note) Ganelon strong enemies lies [i.e., truly] order and peace deeds; (see note) As; witnessed them; (t-note) stern (see note) marvel (see note) path; (see note) Saint-Denis; (see note) trustworthy mighty and merry fierce trouble was called ready called brave beseech show (t-note) nephew renown; (t-note) then white; (see note) Those are; see lying [i.e., truly] went insulted none is to you; (t-note) wild fire [of battle]; savage white locks; burn wicked see beside you those; with slay; (see note) If you have any sense Unless; cause harm Before; offends; (t-note) No harm will come to you; (see note) Whatever his message be To do; disgrace He has a dim wit don’t worry about that No one has yet been born dares; fight oath; broken Corsouse; (see note) armed By Proudly boast insult carry on your errand go home stay silent speak fiercely; (t-note) kill (t-note) (see note); (t-note) You must [do so] eagerly; (t-note) thrive; (see note) very day; (t-note) [never] believe idolatry; adhere to; (see note) (t-note) boast They frighten cowards are worthless proclaim (t-note) Saracen; (t-note) conquer mighty know; has commanded flee knows he will be slain recently raised; (t-note) city completely; (see note) called; Ataly (see note) rivers encircle it journey [to Ataly] wound advise you start armed combat; (see note) Magpies birds are nearly done is; warring worthy; (t-note) your [knights] are all young; (see note) as; deed; (t-note) point If Durendal; (see note) teach [you] insults laughed bird; bough be tempted to flee know; enough How tough you will make it to fight wild beast; forest protect him If you were to find him; (t-note) immediately together truly; promise play know in a short time Which which is most eager to harm (t-note) Should I happen (t-note) judge; verdict; (t-note) before very same Ogier together; (t-note) supply to All that he needs fierce (t-note) story In the morning before went Saint-Omer; (see note) piety prayed fine gold coins; (see note) Whatever lying completely haste loyal nothing at all (see note); (t-note) (see note) [i.e., afraid] owns Then one by one Came padded jacket coat of mail was made, truly By one who was once an apprentice of Denis beautiful design (see note) once was owned by; (t-note) afterwards armed reared up was once owned by a giant Then or Then spurs; shone; (t-note) have success splendid find To seek his blessing held he [Roland] took his leave [of Charles] brook Loire Somme; (see note) (t-note) at once should lend first blows beautiful receive very bidden (see note) garments wear So that He might fear no man padded jacket coat of mail put head; placed (see note) Then; (t-note) Corsouse fierce lady; (t-note) shield black; (see note) on the front of; carry (see note) Then; trustworthy; (t-note) (see note); (t-note) appearance high nobility sharpened young advise powerful Unless; (t-note) become; smashed before But this same kill loudly meadow near them (t-note) remarkable They; speed pierced coats of mail splintered banners As soon as violent sparks is; redeemed (bought) Allow not a bit bright god [i.e., depiction of Mahoun] (t-note) To know and not to guess; (see note) certainly so much in front of field himself to be in his seat; (t-note) make sliced off in half (t-note) enraged Once again; together (see note) quaked with their strokes good fortune; (t-note) will soon be done sweat stirs; woe two dazed prayer; (t-note) (t-note) baptized; (t-note) advice believe in as a reward May go; as companions thrive Instead I intend that First sword; (see note) Again; (t-note) agile mad dodged luck drops of blood any limb Little did they know Nor anything of his violent temper; (see note) (t-note) bitterly struck malice slipped lost very dismayed; (t-note) (t-note) once again evenly in half saw dove alighted very moment of them all (see note) Dear given up; (t-note) threw; (t-note) they kissed grant tiding learned from me in a short while very truly willing own need never endure dread at all (t-note) Who raised me to womanhood; (t-note) must take person (i.e., man) taken slain; (t-note) married city feast two weeks’ should remain (t-note) Summer; await birds; branch excellence then departed; (t-note) hold back When; lodgings saw Limousins (i.e., inhabitants of Limoges) And; (see note) violent to relate, without fail without peer ready fourth; captured April; day; (t-note) branch of worth; (see note) departed Burgundy they furlongs, truly; (see note); (t-note) belonged to Otuel very high hill (see note) chose pitch his tent; (see note) (t-note) build bridge; delay (see note) two Spoke unwise words [i.e., acted foolishly] clothing (i.e., armor); (t-note) each find for them abundant fighting seek heathenness; (t-note) might Their written learn companion; (see note) If it were to happen bloody his sides rashness It won’t cure any misfortune is; special everywhere By the will of He will regret heirs; (see note) prayed for If saw Spurred fierce (t-note) sharp penetrated But lie return in two eagerly bit bitterly skin When; stuck behind [on] the broken saddle anger Ogier the Dane; drew; (see note); (t-note) knew shattered ignoble overcome; strength delay Forcefully; (see note); (t-note) spearhead; (t-note) wound (t-note) (t-note) maddened Unless from there gallop slain; people showed; noble But even though delay charged; enraged between them flexible extended beyond; (t-note) Roland’s horse and body directly truly cried custom ridden uptilted back of a saddle one for more colorful didn’t lie down Skillfully; (t-note) Valiantly the three of them When if He had to surrender then; (t-note) broken (see note) six thousand and seven score [i.e., 6,140] headed in that direction (yonder); (t-note) They saw ever; (t-note) reputation for valor Were they to flee They; drums; (t-note) chimes; cymbals; (t-note) They were quite afraid; (t-note) because (see note) Wherever he wished Assailed; old; (t-note) soon after splendid (see note) carts; pass [i.e., broad as a two-way street] Wherever encountered [it] lifeblood (t-note) lament for better luck each one relieve our suffering then; (t-note) ill luck When surgeon fight spearhead; broke strong; steel armor in armor there enough plight Do not fear not lacking Of them I care not a bit; (see note) slew; each groaned Then; bombarded abandoned moment Saracen lord Because Ogier had saved him once [He] did Ogier a great honor make you afraid; (t-note) guard guarantor; (see note); (t-note) dismembered (t-note) say; statement peace play commanded entrusted to them sweetheart together garden her prays (t-note) troops laughed them We really don’t like your mockery Before those two; taken then; (t-note) Called for tended to precious potions felt himself grow; strong When captured then; (t-note) spurred; gallop noticed; (see note) gone away anxious To arms; make ready; (see note) (t-note) lifeblood give up presume; (t-note) (t-note) heathen; (t-note) (t-note) foes; (t-note) let us begin a new battle; (see note) ending; (t-note) short time; (see note) noble vanguard fell over; (t-note) (t-note) couldn’t escape; (see note) flew off struck; (see note) eager saddle previously to the end of his life days But So that scarcely might he cry out Before all the Saracens fled pursued Sorely did Charlemagne mourn for; (t-note) battle Orléans injury might see grinned; (see note) loyal fierce Between faith words don’t consider it too long; (t-note) Tell hundred; army (t-note) (t-note) before ruin Unless fellowship wicked Whoever; ought to fear lacking Were we to go Ourselves to battle together the best gods man promise; (see note) Before When went from quickly orders padded jacket; (t-note) coat of armor reflected light body armor Had once worn snake’s head marvelous fearsome Of a demon that scares saints; (t-note) It was grisly in appearance also each bearing fetched; (t-note) knew sturdy brought to him; (see note) heathen; quickly; (t-note) fastened brought [the idol of] kneeled; (t-note) healer of us all saw (t-note) annoyed us fear; (t-note) crack empty any threaten; (t-note) heathenness; (t-note) if you dare; (t-note) ready Proffered [themselves] noble without peer he [Clarel]; (t-note) learn hateful show troth; promise beginning to end worthless; (see note) attest lost ruined tale there maiden third; (t-note) (t-note) then; took afterwards; sent ascended no worth rascal laughed; (t-note) (see note) belonged once to hurrying; (t-note) neck sweetheart adorned (see note) ready heels promised know come here high nobility It’s all in God’s power; (see note) all-wielding descendants against each other foes menacing written That every man spoke of it thrust; insane course of action horses’ breastplates saddle straps same moment steed; (t-note) one He said that since the time he was born sixty score [i.e., 1200]; (t-note) worthier two maid once more gone (t-note) burning coal; (see note) received on top crafty so near death swoon avenge (see note) wound burst Unless (t-note) (see note) unlearned and learned; (see note) laughed shaved send salvation razor It would be a shame if it were lost (t-note) grin grimace amiss; (see note) (t-note) worthless be protected from this pay for this (t-note) saw deflected it with cut Otuel’s shield in two would have struck through Otuel Had it not been for his coat of armor; (t-note) He would have killed Otuel again; (t-note) is intend fire bitterly cut his cried out no more dismayed he had won that day; (t-note) allow lost his lifeblood; (t-note) So often did he pray to you Whenever he would begin [battle] speak dumb and deaf; (t-note) Too long; disregarded [me] beaten Both [i.e., Mahoun and other idols]; he was determined Before beating they [the Saracens] necks cast; fire (t-note) while idolatry aid treat them battalion mail shirt banners; silk linen threatening divided into three parts (t-note) But no man could count the number crossbowmen fear (t-note) (t-note) soldiers armed with slings Maintain your ranks commanders of twenty soldiers chose far; (t-note) Turk; (see note); (t-note) (t-note) them [Ogier’s guards] came to; island cunning enough sat (see note) embraced well quickly Turks (t-note) heads; helmets battle eager cried For neither boast nor attempted trick answer for; wager Unless you forsake Mahoun spurred overtake baptized [Garcy] kneeled hold his lands [as Charles’ vassal] until death; (t-note) (see note) divinity taught (see note) Ebrahim Cordoba; together (t-note) Until (t-note) Germans escaped [i.e., those from Anjou] When About; fared hurrying when; Cordoba neared; (t-note) Only (see note) battalions seemly [i.e., Ebrahim]; speed ten fierce battalions gruesome; appearance hair; covered so; (t-note) in the event that Should the other side attack in front then; immediately When; heard and saw avoided; thicket Couldn’t restrain them Didn’t see any better remedy they fled; (t-note) safety Nothing protected against them saw; could do nothing When course of action pursued Christians; courageously saw quietly Set up wax; their ears Their noises nor their boasts command [the horses’] eyes were blinkered As the Holy Ghost may guide them; (t-note) very little seemly before gathered themselves chariot their banner then bore; (t-note) insignia [swore] by the cross; (t-note) utterly crazed As soon as endure falchion eager All those whom they (t-note) Skillfully All by himself When; took to flight When he struck sorrowful slashing returned that to him (t-note) yielded they quickly ceremony; (see note) (see note) Navarre When Charles fully understood it (see note) promised; (t-note) place prayer That they grant him; (t-note) know Among the knights So that everyone destined to die May High upon his shoulder saw; grief fervently To remain at the chapel dead; (t-note) On account of for certain If you remain they eagerly returned Where; truly anyone escape By any means; (see note) as [to] his [people]; (t-note) [it] was divided; (t-note) enfeoffed; (see note) property Portugal distributed his winnings; (t-note) (see note) With great honor Galicia declined expensive neck established; (t-note) lies also; Galicia Then Hallowed (consecrated) never before declared equal to Compostela April; (t-note) (t-note) religious house coins freed of other obligations In order to sustain that house hesitation Because; decreed against; (see note) Roncevaux appearance (see note) As ever had been the manner divinely chosen was his right suspected guard Wherever (t-note) Pamplona; (see note) sultan Persia (see note) power (t-note) see their chance; (see note) thought to himself Unless; baptized from Ganelon didn’t know about intent taken He arrived before Mansour treacherous produced He had it brought forth supper then packhorse loads (t-note) Ill may he thrive plotted ready to go at that time Would betray; guile would be well satisfied would say as a flower; (see note); (t-note) said [to] joyfully of low and high station (see note) shall be so; (see note) prepared counsel many foes bring to death Boldly; (see note) commanded this be done (t-note) went led rear guard Except for; (see note) high nobility of high and low station Then (see note) Before (t-note) mace pressed sorrowful galloping; (t-note) deer; (see note) for the faith in a moment (see note) When; banner-bearer they cast down; (t-note) then; (t-note) Split throng By By; followers; (see note) both; eyes; (t-note) blind; (t-note) struck; (t-note) (t-note) very wide path; (t-note) fell company did not know; (t-note) taken; (see note) both fight together; (t-note) an angel from Who most has inspired mirth (t-note) dangerous he [Oliver] When once evenly companion; (t-note) alive; captured (t-note) sorrow man determined escaped bush; hedge third companion [perhaps Baldwin]; (t-note) good; (t-note) away from rested; (t-note) vassals; (t-note) them; (t-note) loudly; (t-note) (see note) (t-note) in a group in a moment (t-note) eager swiftly costly shield fought demolished dealt; (t-note) enemies; (see note) Zaragoza arrogance [It is a] (t-note) quickly fell down in full Baldwin That one saw; broken stabbed to lose (i.e., near death) drew out utterly upset equal Galicia is engraved; (t-note) it [the stone] it [the sword]; (see note) When; carved ivory his temple and his vein; (see note) Burst; powerfully Sixty thousand lament Ganelon suffer misfortune To arms there; (t-note) misfortune (see note) By any means When; reported fetch [water] again Where many; beard [i.e., men] sideways spewed in front of him healthy (t-note) Because strong (t-note) in a meadow Think upon heaven’s; (t-note) One dear; (t-note) chosen lost reign heaven’s those who have been slain faith (see note) Directly after true be lacking Where; plentiful dwell (see note) gave mass were headed to ordered them to; (t-note) asked One is very certainly ours reward (see note) I just now saw (t-note) plot When; knew grief at once I wish to die in your presence Unless God prevents it scratched; face As mighty will I nevermore be war (see note); (see note) goes remedy; (see note) be prepared balm To avoid one by one willow ropes (t-note) willow ropes; (t-note) (t-note) avenged Prayed there directly peace Before sun mount [i.e., Calvary]; (see note) pause for a moment defeated (see note) river (t-note) From Persia nowhere (see note) (see note) there; (t-note) (t-note) headed banner polished swords was almost slain (t-note) enemies; (see note); (t-note) assault devil’s followers; (see note) their; (t-note) many jumped into anywhere (t-note) to the end of their life days (see note) Exactly the length of three days; (see note) worshipfully (honorably) then; blithe; (t-note) (t-note) (t-note) caused; (t-note) has arranged; (t-note) leapt forth accuses him at once; (see note); (t-note) lie; (see note) Your body immediately against mine completely sharpened Unless drawn; (t-note) made ready then saw (t-note) roar curse seized exposed as guilty How he had sold the Christians enemies Christ He [Ganelon] confessed gained the prize here at Saint-Denis command sentenced to then Still living horses; tied command dismembered wise misadventure; (see note) prepared myrrh; balm; (see note) aroma; (t-note) balm; anointed From some [of the dead] lead preserved them uncorrupted (t-note) impropriety horse-drawn biers caskets; (t-note) Built One suffering; (see note); (see note) says; (see note)