fol. 82r 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 fol. 82v 56 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 fol. 83r 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 fol. 83v 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 fol. 84r 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 fol. 84v 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 fol. 85r 365 370 375 380 385 390 395 400 405 410 415 420 425 fol. 85v 431 435 440 445 450 455 460 465 470 475 480 485 490 495 fol. 86r 500 505 510 515 520 525 530 535 540 545 550 555 fol. 86v 560 565 570 575 580 585 590 595 600 605 610 615 620 625 fol. 87r 630 635 640 645 650 655 660 665 670 675 680 685 690 fol. 87v 695 700 705 710 715 720 725 730 735 740 745 750 755 fol. 88r 761 765 770 775 780 785 790 795 800 805 810 815 820 825 fol. 88v 830 835 840 845 850 855 860 865 870 875 880 885 890 fol. 89r 896 900 905 910 915 920 925 930 935 940 945 950 955 960 fol. 89v 965 970 975 980 985 990 995 1000 1005 1010 1015 1020 1025 fol. 90r 1031 1035 1040 1045 1050 1055 1060 1065 1070 1075 1080 1085 1090 1095 fol. 90v 1100 1105 1110 1115 1120 1125 1130 1135 1140 1145 1150 1155 fol. 91r 1160 1165 1170 1175 1180 1185 1190 1195 1200 1205 1210 1215 1220 1225 fol. 91v 1230 1235 1240 1245 1250 1255 1260 1265 1270 1275 1280 1285 1290 1295 fol. 92r 1300 1305 1310 1315 1320 1325 1330 1335 1340 1345 1350 1355 1360 1365 fol. 92v 1370 1375 1380 1385 1390 1395 1400 1405 1410 1415 1420 1425 1430 fol. 93r 1436 1440 1445 1450 1455 1460 1465 1470 1475 1480 1485 1490 1495 1500 fol. 93v 1505 1510 1515 1520 1525 1530 1535 1540 1545 1550 1555 1560 1565 fol. 94r 1570 1575 1580 1585 1590 1595

The Romance of Duke Rowland and Sir Ottuell of Spayne Of Cherlles of Fraunce Fitt 1 Lordynges that bene hende and free, Herkyns alle hedirwardes to mee,              Gif that it be your will. Now lates alle your noyse be, And herkyns nowe of gamen and glee              That I schall tell yow till. Of doghety men I schall yow telle That were full fayre of flesche and fell              And semely appon sille, And with thaire wapyns wele couthe melle And boldly durste in batell duelle              And doghety proved one hill. The sone of le Roy Pepyn That was Sir Cherlles gud and fyne,              Als the cronykills us gan say, With his dusperes doghety and dyin That wele couthe feghte with a Sarazene              For to felle tham fey; Till Genyone with his traytorye Solde tham ille and wikkedly              Unto the false ley — Fourty thowsande and fyfty Of the flour of chevalrye              There dyede apon a daye! Mynstrells in that lande gan duelle, Bot alle the sothe thay couthe noghte tell              Of this noble chevalrye: How that Cherlles with his swerde gan melle, Bot suche a menske hym befell              That come hym sodeynly. They tentede to thaire daunsynge, And also to thaire othir thynge,              To make gamen and glee; Burdours into the haulle thay brynge That gayly with thaire gle gan synge              With wowynges of lady. And forthir in romance als ye mon here, This noble kynge of grete powere              Duellede in Pariche, With his lordes and his duspers That were holden felle and fers              And in batelle full wyse. All thay buskede tham for to bere Helme and hawberke, schelde and spere,              And rapede tham for to ryse Agaynes Kynge Merthill, forto were And forto kepe the heythyn here,              And struye there Goddes enymys. Bot now come tham newe note one hande, And wondirfull hasty tythande              That grevede tham righte sore; For of the chevallrye of the lande, Ther hade dyede thritty thousande,              Gif Goddes helpe ne wore! And owte of Spayne there come in hy A Sarazene that was full doghety              With grymly grownden gare, Fro the Emperour Sir Garcy To Kyng Charlles full hastilye,              That kyndilde alle thaire care. The messangere was mekill of pride. Thorowte Pareche gan he ryde              And at the kynges sale he lighttis, And there he metys in that tyde That were faire of hewe and hide,              Thre full noble knyghtis: Sir Otes and Sir Raynere, Duke Naymes was theire fere,              That ofte thaire resouns rightes. He haylsede tham with steryn chere, Sayd, “Fro the kynge am I sent a messangere,              That moste es provede of myghtis.” Duke Naymes sayde full curtaysly, “Sir, whate may thi name bee?”              He sayde, “I highte Otuell. Kyng Cherlles, where es he? Righte to hym byhovede mee              Mi message forto telle.” Duke Naymes saide, “He sittes his duspers imange, With white berde large and lange,              Faire of flesche and fell, With a floreschede thonwange, Oure noble kynge that es so strange,              His doghety men imelle. He sittes in riche meneuere; The Duke Rowlande sittys hym nere              In rede siclaton, And the gentill erle Sir Olyvere, That es full noble and felle and fere              And in batelle ay full bowun.” Forthe passede than the messangere Bifore the kynge with steryn chere,              It was hym grete renoun. He saide, “Ane evyll flawmande fyre Bryne thi berde, thi breste, and thi swyre,              Even to thi fote alle doun! A messangere ame I sent in hy Fro my lorde the emperor Sir Garcy              That settis yow alle at noghte. In paynym ne es none so doghety; He hathe the flour of chevallrye              Allredy with hym broghte. Charlles, I ne maye noghte honour thee, For thou hase grevede Mahoun and me,              That alle this worlde hase wroghte. And Rowlande, if ever I may thee see At batayle or at any semblé,              Thi dedis schall dere be boghte! And Rowlande, gif ever I maye thee mete, With my swerde I schall thee hete              To hewe thi body in two, And fulle thee under my horse fete, Sarazenes myrthe with thee to bete,              For thou hase wroghte tham woo!” And Rowlande at those wordes loughe, And said, “Sir, thou arte doghety ynoghe              Siche dedis to undirtoo! Thou may jangill and make it toughe, For here schall no man do thee woghe              Till aughte dayes ben agoo.” The kyng spekes than the Sarazene till, “Say one, felawe, whatte thou will.              Distroube thee schall righte none, Ne none of my men, lowde nor still, Touche thee with nonekyns ille              Till heghte dayes ben gone.” The Sarazene at those wordes hadde skorne. “I dowte no man,” he says, “that ever was borne,              And I my stede hafe tone, Corsu my swerde me biforne, That myche Cristen blode hathe schorne              And many a body slone.” “Where?” sayde the kynge in hy. “Sir, in the playnes of Lubardy —              Thou claymes it for thi lande, The powere there of Sir Garcy. Appon a daye we garte tham dy,              Fully fifty thousande. Nyne monethes es gone arighte Sen I with Cursu was dobbide knyghte,              My golde brayden brande. A thosande there to the dede I dighte, Of Cristen men mekill of myghte,              Righte with myn awenn hande. And thus hathe Lubades harmes laughte Bothe by dayes and by naghte,              Ne gladdes tham no glee. Myselfe was then in batelle and faughte; Myn neffes were bolnede dayes aughte              That selly was to see.” Up than stirte ane hardy knyghte, Sir Estut of Logres, forsothe, he highte,              A lorde of grete bountee. With the Sarazene wolde he fighte; A staffe in hande he takes hym righte              Was of sqwarede tree. Fitt 2 Than Rowlande sayde full sobirly, “Now, gud Sir Estut, let it be.              He es a messangere. He es ensurede to myn eme and mee. For thi gud, Sir, par charyté,              Thyn hert that thou wolde stere.” Bot yit the knyghte ne wolde noghte spare, Bot hent the Sarazene by the hare              And bakwarde doun hym bere. The Sarazene stirte up breme as bare, Cursu his swerde he drewe reghte thare —              The knyghte hede off he schere. Than saide the baronage with hole sowun, “Lay hande one the traytoure feloun!              He hase done velanye!” Bot he rollede his eghne both up and dowun And ferde als a wilde lyoun,              Brayde up his browes one hye. He braundescht hir swerde bare, That trenchande was and wele schare,              And sayde full sobirly (And by his grete Mahown he sware), “And any of yow duspers stirre thare,              The beste party schall dy!” The kyng his men sone sessed he, Sayd, “Sarazene, yelde thi suerde to mee,              And late be alle this bere.” And he sayde, “Naye, als mot I thee!” Up than rose Sir Rowlande full sobirly,              And with a lagheande chere Said, “Yelde to me thi brande brighte. I schall thee save, als I ame knyghte,              Whills that thou arte here. And when thi message es doun and dighte, I schall delyver thee thi brande so brighte,              Als I ame trewe duspere.” “In that covande I yelde it thee. I nolde gif it for twelve cité,              So bittirly will it bite! And, Rowlande, yif ever I may thee see At batayle or at any semblé,              Thi hede off therwith to smyte!” Rowlande sayde, “Sir, thou art to outrage! Fayrere myghte thou batayll wage              Than al daye thus to chide.” The Sarazene spake with stowte vesage, “Herkenys now to my message,              And I schall tell yow tyte. Kyng Cherlls, als thou may here, I am sent a messangere              Fro hym that es doghty. He weldes paynym ferre and nere: Alysaundere of grete powere,              And the londis of Boty, Toures, Sedoyne, ferre and fre, Perse, semely one to see,              And therto Fermorye. This noble kynge of grete pousté, He distruyes bothe londe and see              Reghte into Fermorye. Forthi hathe he sent thee worde by mee: That thou schall uncristen bee,              And leve appon oure ley. For we will prove in oure degré That the lawes of Cristyanté              Ne are noghte worthe ane aye! Giffe thi hert unto Mahoun, That weldis bothe toure and towun              And alle myghtis maye; Hafe done belyfe that thou be bowne Forto come to oure somoun —              Thus am I sent to saye. Hafe done, sir! Buske thee to oure kynge, For he hath ordeynede thi wonnynge,              For alle thi chevalrye; House and londe, wodde and thynge, He grauntes thee over all othir thynge              The londes of Normaundy. Inglonde also hathe giffen to thee; And to Rowlande thi nevieu fre              To be sesede in Russy. Olyver, that es faire and free, The knyghte es provede of grete bounté,              The landes of Scamonye. To Sir Florance of Surry, He hathe giffen France in hye,              That wele cane prike a stede — The kyng sone of Barbarye, To hafe it to his bayly              Therone his life to lede.” Than the kynge sayde, “Nay! Duspers, whate will ye say              Of this wonder dede? Schall never Sarazene of heythyn ley Welde France, by nyghte ne daye.              Now Jhesu it forbede!” Then thay ansuerde sone in hye, “Nay, Sir, we will oure batells guy,              And rape us for to ryde Agayne the Emperor Sir Garcy. Thurgh the myghte of mylde Marye,              Hy schall schome betyde.” The Sarazyn laughes full smothirly, “What, threte ye now Sir Garcy              With your boste and your pryde? Ther es none of yow so hardy, And ye hade sene his chevalrye,              Your hedis that ye nolde hyde!” The Duke Naymes talkes wordes one highte, Says, “Sir, if that the emperor will fighte,              We schall to hy full even!” The Sarazene ansuerde with mekill myghte, “He hath a hondreth thousande helmys brighte              And therto hundrethes seven! Ther es no kyng in Cristyanté Dare warne hym huntynge and fischynge fre,              Ne discrye hym ther with steven! Bitwix two watirs fayre and fre, He hath bigged a cité hight Attaylé —              Es none siche under the heven! Cherlles, with thi longe berde, That empoure schall make thee full ferde              With his stronge powere! For he hathe men in batell lerede That wele kon feghte with floresched swerde              And hafe lemans full clere. Lete Duke Naymes lenge at hame To kepe Pareche walles fro schame,              That no gledes neghe tham nere, Coo ne pye that there come none, For chevalrye es fro hym gone —              An olde nappere als he were!” The Duke Naymes asschamede was; The blode stert up in his face —              Agreved he was full sore. Than Sir Rowlande full rathely up he rase; “Unconnande Sarazene!” he said, “In this place              Thi wykkednes es yare. By Hym that dyede appon a tree, Thou scholde have a velany of me,              Ensurede nyfe that I ware! Bot in batelle if ever I may thee see, Schall never no kyng of Cristyanté              Be encombirde with thee mare!” The Sarazene ansueres full stoutly, “Be Mahownn, Rowlande, I ame redy              For to fighte with thee! Into yone medowe I rede we hye And luke that no man bee us by —              Grete gamen than schall men see! Whethir so werse es of us twoo, Lett hewe bothe his spourres hy froo;              He never more honorede bee.” Rowlande was of hert full throo Siche dedys to undertoo;              His hande upholdes hee. “Sir Vernague of Barabas, Sertys, myn eme I wote he was,              That Rowlande here hath slayne. I chalange his dethe now in this place. I schalle thee lede a wikkede pase,              Bothe with myghte and mayne.” The kynge at those wordes loughe, And said, “Sir, thou arte doghty ynoghe!              Garte calle a chambirlayne. Garte delyvere hym innes withowtten woghe. To sue hym, lokes that thee bene toughe              Of alle that scholde hym gayne.” The kynge garte calle Sir Grauntere, Sir Raynere, and Sir Oggere,              Bade take kepe of the knyghte. One the morne thay rose alle in fere. The abbott of Saynte-Thomers              Songe tham a messe full righte. Elleven coupes fayre to fonde Was offrede at the abbottes honde,              Full of golde so brighte. Rowlande offrede Droundale his brande, Boghte it agayne with golde at hande.              Alle honoured thay God Allemyghte.              A Fitt And unnethes was the messe alle done, When that the Sarazene come full sone,              And cryed appon highte To Kyng Cherlles with steryn tone, Sayd, “Send owte Rowlande withowtten hone!              I calle hym recreyande knyghte. I appelle hym for trouthe broken For the wordes that were spoken              Yistreven within the nyghte. In his armes that he be loken; Myn emes dethe I will hafe wroken —              He was a kynge of myghte!” Elleven duspers stode hym by To arme Sir Rowlande full hastyly,              That provede was in batayle. Ane actone they threwe appon hym hye, And ane hawberke, sekerly,              That sekire was of mayle, Hose of hawberke, gesseraunte; Broghte hym ane helme of bettant,              And lacede his aventale. Iche a knyghte gane tham avante For to sue hym to his avenaunte,              That no thynge scholde hym fayle. Thay spende hym with his gilte sporres, And dressede hym in his armours,              Alle redy to the felde. Broghte hym a schelde of faire coloure; He was a lofely creatoure,              Whoso hym than bihelde. Girde hym with Drondale to the were; Appone a stede he leppes there,              That doghety under schelde. And in his hande a noble spere, A faire course he rydes there              Hys wapyns for to welde. Then sayde Cherlles the kynge, “Loke rekreyande thou hym brynge              That hathe made this derraye! Late hym noghte skape for nonkynsthynge.” He gaffe hym Goddes blyssynge              And bade hym wende his waye. Thay broghte tham bytwene two watirs brighte — Sayne and Meryn le Graunte thay highte,              Als the bukes gan us saye — Into a medowe semely to sighte, There als thies doghety men solde fighte              Withowtten more delaye. This while hovede the Sarazene still, And called to the kynge with voyce full schrylle,              “Ane hawberke aske I thee! Spere and schelde garre brynge me till, For I hafe horssynge at my will,              None siche in Cristyanté.” The kyng than lokes hym besyde And saughe his dogheter mekill of pryde,              Belesent brighte of blee. Than he comandide hir that tyde, “Goo take hym fayre be thi syde,              Wele armede that he bee.” And scho calles Flores of Maundelle, Mayden Roselet of Barelle,              And bade tham wende to the knyghte, And haste tham that within awhile, And til a chambire gan thay syle,              And gayly gan hym dighte. To arme hym wele thay were full snelle: Out his aktone ane hawberke felle              Of colours that were brighte, That aughte gud Kynge Ragnell, That was bothe ferse and felle,              And in felde full faire couthe fighte. Thay armede hym wele withowtten fayle; With golde thay lacede his aventaile              For that it solde be trewe; Broghte hym ane helme of riche entayle Of precyouse stones, the appayrayle              That brighteste was of hewe. His helme was bothe harde and holde; Therone was sett a sercle of golde              That bett was wonder newe. Then sayde thies damesels fre one folde, A meryere armede knyghte one molde              Never yitt thay ne knewe. Thay broghte hym a schelde when he was bowun; Thies maydens two thay broghte hym dowun.              He cried aftir his stede. He rollede his eghne up and dowun, And sware by his grete Mahoun —              His enemy sore myghte drede! Than spake those two maydens smale, “Sir, kepe thee wele fro Drondale,              For it will garre thee blede! Entyre thou ones into yone vale, Comes thou never aftyr into this sale,              And Sir Rowlande righte may rede!” He toke his leve and forthe he gose, Lepe one a stede highte Mekredose,              In his hande a spere. A faire course he rydes close, Full egerly amonges his fose,              And dressede hym in his gere. When the Sarazene comen was, The kyng garte sone avoyde the place              Of Cristen that there were. To the castelle he wendes a pase, And appone the kirnells gase              To wayte appon that were. The kynge to Rowlande lowde gan crye, “Feghte one, dere sone, hardely,              In the name of Marie of heven!” The Sarazene saide, “I ame redy!” Appon Sir Rowlande he gan defy              With a full hawtayne steven. Thies kene knyghtis togedir gan glide, The medowe tremlyde one aythir syde,              In scheldes thay cowped full even. Theyre joynynge was so harde that tyde That theyre tymbir in sondire gan ryde              In mo than sex or seven. Thurghowte thaire scheldis than thay schare And all the lethirs that thare ware —              Thay assembled soryly. The poyntes appon the hawberke bare, Bot the mayles so sekir ware              The spere hedis bigan to plye. Rawlande owte his swerde wanne And hittes hym on the helme thanne              That the nasell floghe full hye. Thurgh the horse schuldirs the swerde rane — That was a styffe stroke of a man!              His noble stede gan dy. The Sarazene off his horse tublys doun And stert up fers als any lyoun,              And Cursu his swerde he drewe. He brasede his schelde and made hym bowun; He hitt Sir Rowlande one the crowun,              That fore egirnes he loughe. The nasell of his helme off glade Dowun bifore hym in the strade —              Hade almoste wroghte hym woghe! Thurgh the horse schuldirs the swerde gan wade, His stede even in sondere he hade —              The stroke was stythe ynoghe! Rowlande one the grownde es lighte, Uppon his fete he sterte uprighte;              His swerde in his hande he helde. The Sarazene cryed with mekill myghte, “This was a stythe stroke of a knyghte,              And no thynge of a childe!” Charlles herde those wordes wele; Appon his knees dowun gan he knele,              And bothe his handes uphelde. “God,” he said, “that alle schall dighte and dele, His modir mylde and Saynt Michael,              Fro schame Ye Rowlande schelde!” Rowlande raysede up Drondale; Abown his hede he gane it hale,              His enemy forto dere. He hade almoste wroghte hym bale; A quartere of his helme awaye gane vale              And halfendele his one ere, That the Sarazene bygane to helde, And up he caste his noble schelde;              In the bokells gane he schere. So thikke thaire dynttys togedir pelyde, Thaire armours hewenn laye in the felde              Als floures that strewede were. Belesent sayde full curtaysly, “Mi lorde, thay feghten full gentilly;              A grete travayle thay hafe!” Up to God he caste a crye, And to His moder Saynt Marie:              “Fro schame Ye Rowlande save! And coverte us yone gentill knyghte That es so hardy and so wighte,              For elles it were grete wathe! He es so ferse in armes to fyghte, And a man of mekill myghte.              Full doghety are thay bathe!” Than Rowlande sayde full curtaysly, “Sarazene, will thou cristenyde be              And leve appon oure laye? A noble gifte I schall giffe thee: Belesent that es brighte of ble —              In the worlde ne es siche a maye! And thou and I and Olyver, We schall be felawes all in fere,              And travell nyghte and daye. We schall ryde bothe ferre and nere, Wyn citees and towunes dere,              And gode horses at assaye!” The Sarazene ansuers full stoutly, “Thou kan to littill of clergy              To leryn me siche a lare! The wordes that thou hase spoken in hy, Thou schall tham full dere aby              With sadde dynttes and sare! I swere thee, by my grete Mahoun, I schall thee lere a newe lessoun              Or I fro thee fare, With a bofete appon thi croun That thou schall laye thi wapen doun,              Rekreyande als thou were!” Than was Sir Rowlande gretly grevede, And in his hert full sore amevede;              At the Sarazene lete he flye. He hitt hym a bown appon the heuede That to the scholdire the swerde wefede;              The fyre floghe owte full hye! Thurgh duble hawberke it hym schare, To the girdilstede it made hym bare.              Then bigane he forto plye. Drondale felle so sadde and sare That the Sarazene bigane to stare              And fallen he was full nye. The Sarazene than a lepe he made; A stroke to Rowlande forsothe he glade,              And hit hym on the hede That almoste top over tayle he rade, And nere the swerde twynede hade,              His life ther hade he lefede. Ane other stroke he to hym bere, And doun byfore hym it strypes there;              His schelde awaye revede, And alle the skirtys of Rowlandes gere. Otuell says, “My suerde kan schere!”              And into the erthe it wevede. Rowlande claghte up his noble schelde, His wapyns wightly for to welde              And helde it one his nefe. Thaire dynttis so thikke gan samen helde, Thaire harnays hewen was in the felde —              Full littill was tham levede! Thaire dynttis felle so sadde and sare That bothe thaire bodies wexen bare,              Thaire armours all todreves. Tharefore Sir Charlles hade mekill care; Appon his knees he knelys thare              And bothe his handes upheves. And als the kynge thus prayed faste, A dofe come fro the Holy Gaste              And one the Sarazene lightes. And than was he full sore agaste, And unto Sir Rowlande saide he in haste,              “Sesse, Sir, of thi fighttes! For I ame broghte in siche a will That I youre lawes will fulfill,              And become a Cristyn knyghte.” Than doun thay layde thaire wapyns still, And aythere wente othire untill;              A saughtillynge was ther dighte. Than wolde the kynge no lengere duelle, Bot hyed hym dowun of the castelle,              And grete lordes hym by. He askede Sir Rowlande how it bifelle, And he ansuerde with wordes snelle,              “Mi lorde, full gentilly I hafe foghten with the beste knyghte In alle this werlde — es none so wighte              That ever yit provede I! And he hase yolden hym to the righte; Belesent I hafe hym highte.              Gare cristen hym in hy.” Unto the grounde than knelide the kynge; He loved God of alle this thynge              And His modir fre. Two gude stedis thay garte forthe brynge, And one thay lepe withowte lettynge              And went home to the cité. Bischope Turpyn was redy With bukes and with stoles in hy.              A fownte sone halowes he To cristen hym that was doghety. Many grete lorde stode thaym by              With myche solempnyté. And when the Sarazene cristenned was, The kynge tuke his doghetir faire of face,              And gyffes hir to that noble knyghte. The lovelyeste inwith lace, And swetteste in armes for to enbrace —              In the worlde was siche a wighte. Als lely-like was hir coloure, Hir rode rede als rose floure,              In lere that rynnes righte. The kyng toke that brighte in boure With menske and with myche honoure,              And gaffe hym that birde so brighte. He said, “Hafe here my doghetir fre, And Rowlande felawe schall thou bee,              And gentill Sir Olyver. Powunce and plesaunce I schalle gife thee, With two full noble cités              With towrres heghe and dere. I make thee lorde of Lubardye, To hafe it alle to thi bayllye,              That contreth ferre and nere. For thi noble chevallrye, Welcome to this companye,              Duelle and be a pere.” The Sarazene knelyde appon his knee, And thankkes the kynge full gentilly              Of thies giftes so gude. He sayde, “Damesell, arte thou payed of me?” And scho sayde, “Yee, als mot I thee.”              Full frely was that fude. Than he said, “I make a vowe to mylde Marie: Now that I hafe chosen to my lady              That es so mylde of mode, That I schall wende to Attalé, And for thi lufe do chevalrye,              And distruye the heythyn blode. Sir Kyng, I giff agayne to thee This mayden that es faire and fre,              And in clethynge comly clede. And lokes alle that we redy be Into the landes of Lubardye,              Righte als we firste redde, Forto distruye there Goddes enemy That hathe to yowe ther grete envy,              With folkes one fote wele fedde. When I hafe tane myn eme Garcy And the cité of Attaly,              This mayden schall I wedde.” Fitt 4 The king said than to his duspers, “Now hafe herde the messangeres.              Your consell? What es beste? Sir Garcy with his stronge powere Distruyes my landes, both ferre and nere,              Mi cités brekes and bristes. He confoundes so myche of Cristen blode That I for sorowe goo nere wode,              And I may hafe no riste.” And thay than ansuerde with steryn mode, “To fende off, lorde, us thynke it gude;              To batayle are we priste.” The kynge saide, “We will habyde Till it be nerre the somertyde,              The colde of Marche be gone. We schalle sende letteres on ilke a syde, In dyverse contres, brode and wyde,              To grete lordes ichone, Sqwyers doghety undir schelde That wele kan thaire wapyns welde —              Byhynde us leve we none! And alle that are within elde, Loke that thay to batayle helde,              Goddes enemys forto slone.” Thus the kynge duellys there Till the tyme comen were,              The daye neghede neghe. With hym Rowlande and Olyvere, And the gentill Grauntere,              In batayle that was so sleghe. Sir Oggere and Sir Raynere, Duke Naymes was thaire fere,              And Gayryn of kynredyn heghe, Sir Estut and Sir Inglere, Sir Otuell the werryeure,              His dynttys were full dreghe. Appon a mornynge thay lokede owte, And saughe there powere stythe and stowtte              Comynge ferre and nere. Thay rode in many a ryalle rowte, By thowsande tale, withowtten dowte,              Under the Mount Marteres. The Almaynes and the Tuskaynes, The Flemynges full fele for the nanes              With the banereres; The Provynce worthily inwith wone, The Normandes gude of blode and bone —              There semlyde faire powere! There semled owte of Lubardye A full noble chevalrye,              And sekir at ilke a nede. The Gayscoynes comen sone in hy, And the Burgoynes faste tham by,              That worthily were in wede. The Bretons come withowtten faile; There semblede a full faire batayle              One many a stalworthe stede. With helmys one hedis that walde avayle, Full riche was thaire appayraille,              And worthily was thaire wede. One the forthirmaste daye of Averille, The kyng assemblede appon ane hille              Alle his mery menye. Full faire he offres Saynt Denys till, And appon his knees he knelys still              To God and Oure Lady; Sayde to Olyvere, gud at ilke a nede, “My sone, thou schall the vawarde lede,              For thou arte swythe doghety!” The oste remowede and forthe thay yode. Thay stirrede one many a stalworthe stede;              To thaire journaye thay hye. Olyvere his stede hathe hent, With hym yode mayden Belesent,              That lady of grete renoun. One a muyle then rode that gentyll maid, And in hir company ther were arrayed              A thousande bolde barouns. Thay passed forthe than Bretayne by, Thurgh the landes of the Mandely,              By many a ryalle toun. Thay schipped over at Vertely Into the landes of Lubardy,              Thay passede bothe dales and dowun. Under a mountayne thay herberde than Besyde a rever that highte Soltane,              And in a medowe thay lighte. Ther was many a worthy man, Ryalle howssynges thay bygan              Of pavylyons proudly pighte. So fortravellede were thay sare, That aughte dayes thay duelled thare,              Thaire harnays forto righte. Therefore Kyng Cherlles wolde noghte spare, A noble brigge he garte make thare              Over the watir of Soltane dighte. And a wonder poynte now schall ye here: To the mete thay wente alle in fere              Iche lorde in thaire lyveré, Bot Duke Rowlande and Olyvere And the Daynnes Oggere,              Stode armede undir a tree; And over the brigge than gan thay ryde Full prevaly that ilke a tyde              That no mo wiste bot they three. Awnters thoghte thay forto byde; Thay stale awaye by a wodde syde              Righte towarde Attalé. And a mile withowtten Attalé There hovede foure kynges fre              With speris in theire hande; And ichone sware in theire degree That thay wolde reghte gladly see              Olyver and Rowlande. Thay sware alle by thaire grete Mahowun, “We wolde that thay were nowe here bowun,              To loke how thay couthe stande! And so we scholde forjuste tham doun, That thay solde never see Charllyoun,              The chefe of Cristen lande!” Now, lordynges, forto rede yow righte, Thies kynges names, what thay highte,              The sothe I will yow tell. Kynge Balsame, a mane of myghte; Kynge Corsabell, another knyghte              That bothe was ferse and felle. Kyng Askuardyne, that teraunt, Of wikkednes he myghte hym avaunte,              Was lyke a fende of helle. The ferthe was faire and avenante With a full manly semblande;              Men callede hym Kyng Claryell. Kynge Clariell sayde, “Als mot I thee, Rowlande es holden full doghety —              Es none siche undir sone! Be Mahoun, I wolde he were here me by. I scholde assaye his body,              My dynttes scholde he con!” Thies knyghttes herde how thay therett were; With sporres thay brochede thaire stedis there,              Oute of the wodde thay rynn. Than sayd Kynge Clariell, breme als bare, “We hafe tham that we spake fare!              Be Mahoun, alle es wonn! Bot wendes now forthe, ye kynges three, And slees yone knyghtis of Cristyantee,              And I schall hove here styll. Alle als ye done I schall see; There es no mache unto mee,              And that me lykes ille!” Kyng Askuardyn in his gere Rydes owte a course of were              Full egerly and with ill will. And Rowlande thurgh his scholdir gan schere; His armours ne vaylede noghte a pere;              His hert blode he gan ther spill. Kyng Corsabolyn in armes full clere Rydis owte to Sir Oggere,              And hittes hym in the schelde. The Cristen knyghte neghede hym so nere, Thurgh double hawberke he hym bere,              Of horse he garte hym helde. Kyng Balsamy rode till Sir Olyvere. Thies thre kynges dyede in fere,              And lyen gronande in the felde. Thaire thretynge boghte thay there full dere; Thaire saules went alle to Lucyfere              That hade tham alle towelde. Then was Kyng Clariell full sory, And flynges owte full fersely              With hert egire and throo. He smyttys Rowlande that was doghety That his noble stede gan dy —              His bakke braste even in two. And up he keste ane heghe cry, “This was a poynte of chevalry!”              And busked hym for to goo. Oggere Dauynes gan aftir hym hye And stroke the kynge his sadill bye;              His stede he tuke hym fro. Olyvere anone hath hent the stede, And righte to Rowlande he gan hym lede,              And sayde, “Hafe this for thyne!” And he stert up bettir spede And drissede hym in his worthy wede              That lofesome under lyne. Kyng Clariell drawes Melle And faghte agaynes tham all thre;              His swerde was gude and fyne. He said, “Gud lordes, slees noghte me! A noble cheke here wonn hafe yee,              My lyfe wolde I noghte tyne.” And when his vesage was alle bare, A fayrere knyghte sawe thay never are,              And sett hym one a stede. Thay wende awaye with hym to fare; A thousande Sarazenes come one tham thare;              There bale bygan to brede. Than saide Rolande to Olyvere, “Yondere I see full brighte banere              And worthily undir wede. Tham semys bothe felle and ferse; I wolde no worde come to oure peres              That we fledde tham for drede.” Ogger Daynes was moste wysse, Sayd, “Sen we hafe getyn this kyng of price,              I rede we late tham goo. For bi God and Saynt Denys, We may noghte skape in nonekynswyse,              Ne hym will we noghte slo.” Than said Kyng Clariell there he stode, “This was a worde of gentill blode,              To speke thus for thi foo!” He tuke his leve and forthe he yode, Thankede tham with mylde mode,              And agaynes a thousande was no moo. Rowlande and Olyvere Dressede tham in armes clere,              Alle redy to the fyghte. And the Daynes Oggere Cryed “Mountjoy!” all in fere,              Bothe with mayne and myghte. For the Sarazenes thay haden dowte, To Jhesus Criste thay crye and lowte,              That moste es man of myghte. Thies paynyms put tham owte, That were halden full steryn and stoute,              And under thaire horses thay lighte. Those thre to the thousande gan ryde, And hewed one faste one iche a syde,              And brittenede blode and bone. Thay made thaire wayes wondere wyde; Ther durste no Sarazene thair dynttis byde;              To gronde thay garte tham gone. Then comes girdande Sir Carpé, The kynges sone of Aubré,              Was halden a noble man. Upone highte he castis a krye: “What schall saye to Sir Garcye?              Thre schendis us everichone?” Sir Carpy come girdande suythe: To Oggere Daynes gan he dryfe              That he swounede als he were wode. Sir Rowlande gan doghety dedis kythe, With Drondale he gan hym ryfe              Reghte to the girdillstede. Ogger Daynes wakkened than, Pulled owte a swerde highte Curtane,              Was gude at ilke a nede; Than to fighte Oggere bygane To hewe doun many ane heythyn man —              Grete travayle ther thay hade! And the gentill Erle Sir Olyvere Hewes one with Haunkclere —              Mighte none his dynttis withstande! He daunge tham doun bothe ferre and nere; It was a wonder thynge to here,              Thies thre men wroghte with hande. Than comes a Sarazene sone in hye; His name was Kyng Alphamanye,              Was fayre and wele farande. He smyttes Olyvere that was doghety, That toppe over tayle he garte hym lye              Appon a ley lande. Bot than was Sir Rowlande never so woo; Full swythe that Sarazene gan he sloo,              That to the grounde he yede. Olyvere rose with herte full throo; Belyfe his stede gan he too              And sterte up in his nede. He sayd, “Rowlande, drede thee noghte! Now I am one horse broghte,              I fayle thee at no nede!” With Hankclere many wondirs he wroghte; Fele Sarazenes to the grounde he broghte,              And ferde als he wolde wede. This while was Ogger Daynes one fete; The Sarazenes that he myghte with mete,              He wroghte thaire bodyes wo. He gaffe tham woundes wyde and wete, Full many one there lefte the swete              (The boke us telles soo) Till almoste scomfet was he. Than comes Kyng Clariell with hert fre,              Als faste als he myghte go, And bade the Sarazenes thay scholde late be: “Oggere, yelde thi suerde to me!”              Belyve he sayde hym yoo. A Sarazene come with steryn ble, Sayd, “This Cristen doge sall not saved be,              Bot sle we hym reghte here!” “Yee,” sais Kyng Clariell, “as avenche thee He schall be savede nowe, pardee!”              He heued of sone he schere. He called seven paynyms of mekill myghte, Said, “Gose, ledis hym to my leman brighte              Of colours that es clere. Loke his wondes ben wele dighte, And kepe me wele this Cristen knyghte,              For this es gentill of chere.” The Sarazenes toke hym that was hende, And to that lady gan thay wende,              Of coloures that was brighte, Tolde hir the tale unto the ende, Sayd, “Madame, this Duke Claryell yow sende              To hele hym at your myghte.” “What?” saide that lady, white als fame, “Es this Kynge Charlles that here es tane,              His men to dethe alle dighte?” “Nay, by grete Mahoun!” thay sware, “Madame, Thre knyghtes of his hath a thousande slane,              That we helde hardy and wighte. And Kyng Clariell under schelde Hymselfe was taken in the felde,              Thre kynges by hym slayne. Ther was nother bute nere belde, Ne Mahoun that alle schall welde,              For hym thay moghte nott gone. And there was none bot glotons three, And one of tham here may thou see              That Kyng Clariell hathe tane.” “What, devyll?” scho said, “How may this be? Who durste neghe my leman free,              Es beste of blode and bone?” Scho said, “Comforthe thee, sir. Be noghte abayste. Schall none of my men thee brayste.              What es the name of thee?” “Madame,” he sayde, “Oggere Daunays.” Than sayde the lady that was curtayse,              “I have herde speke of thee.” Belyfe scho garte unarme hym there, And to hym comes that lady clere,              And greses broghte that fre, That Godd sett in His awenn herbere. Als sone als ever thay dronken were,              He was lyghte als lefe one tree. Thus Oggere Daynas duelled there, And heled es of his hurtes sare              In the ladise presoun. And of his felawes speke we mare, How that thay full harde handilde ware,              Thies two knyghtes of renoun. Ten thousande Sarazenes come girdande That hardy were of hert and hande,              With helme and haberjoun. Bot than myghte thay no lengere stande, Olyver and gud Rowlande —              To flye now are thay boun. Otuell that was so wighte Duelles with Belesent the brighte,              Was comely one to calle. Oute of hir chambire he wendis righte, Als faste als ever that he myghte,              Into the kynges haulle To seche Olyver and Rowlande, Bot never nother he ther fande              Amonge the lordes alle. Therefore Kynge Charlles his handes wrange, And ever “allas!” was his sange,              “What may of this byfalle?” Ottuell sayde, “Where it be soo? Oggere Daynes and tho twoo              Are went to Attalee. Now buske we aftir thaym to goo, Or ells the Sarazenes will tham sloo —              Forsothe, thay mon alle dy.” Thay busked tham in armes full clere, Seven hundrethe bolde bacheleres              With hym to wende in hy. Belesent sayde to Sir Grauntere, “Gude Sir, ryde my lemmane nere;              The knyghte es full thethey.” Thies seven hundrethe knyghtis Duellede with Belesante the brightes              At hir awenn fyndynge. Sir Otuell that was so wighte Strykes Florence his stede brighte;              Byfore tham forthe gan he flynge. He metys Rowlande and Olyvere Faste rydande by a revere              And fresche folke aftir tham dynge. He hailsede tham with steryn chere, And sayde, “Sirres, whate make ye here?              Come ye fro fischeynge?” He reproved tham there full velanslye, And yit theire bodies were alle blodye              With wondes many one. “Wene ye, for youre chevalrye, For youre boste and youre folye,              That the Sarazenes will late yow one? Charlles with his stronge powere Schall thynke this a grete gramaungere,              This dede to undertone. Bot this chase schall thay by full dere!” He smote to a knyghte highte Sir Glantere              And belyfe he hathe hym slone. Fitt 5 Syr Otuell there righte in that gere, Full faste he dange tham doun there              And garte tham go to grounde. And his felawe Sir Ynglere In a Sarazene breke a spere              Within a littill stounde, And in his hande lefte a littill troncheoun, Therwith full faste he dange tham doun,              Full many ane heythyn hounde. He crakkede full many a carefull croun, And criede “Mountjoye!” with heghe sowun.              Fele folke thay there confounde. Then come a knyghte that highte Sir Galias, A noble Sarazene men saide he was,              And in his hande a spere. For the lufe of his leman fayre of face, A glofe to his pensalle he hase              In sygnance of his were. He rydes to Sir Inglere, And thurghe the schelde he gan hym schere              And unhorssede hym there. Thurghe double hawberke he hym bere, Bot, als Goddes will it were,              His flesche hade nonekyns dere. Appon hym also relevede a Sarazene wighte That hardy was, and Ancole highte,              Sir Inglere for to sloo. Bot Sir Ysope come with mekill myghte, And Sir Estut a noble knyghte,              And Sir Davide also; Sir Estut de ronoun, Sir Grauntere de Lyoun,              One bakke thay garte tham goo; And broghte hym upe that are was doun, And horsede hym one a stede browun              With hert egere and throo. Than come rydande Sir Galyadose, Of Sarazenes alle he bare the lose,              Was halden a noble knyghte. Faste he felled dowun of his fose! Sir Inglere righte to hym gose,              And cleves his hede full righte. Forthe rydes than Sir Grauntere, A Sarazene thurgh the body he bere,              Sir Megradyn he highte; He dange tham doun, bothe ferre and nere, Bot appon hym come a stronge powere              With baners brode and brighte. Then was there no nother crye When grete batells togedir gan hye,              With mouthe als I yow mene. Full thikke-folde gan Sarazenes dy And thaire horses thaym by,              To wete withowtten wene. Be thousandes thay tumblede doun dede, Thaire saules wente unto the quede              That myghte not nombrede be. For braynes and blode in that stede, The brode medowe was waxen rede              That ere was growen grene. Than come a Turke appon a stede To Kynge Clariell better spede,              And sayde, “Allas, how do wee! For Cristen men we hafe grete drede, And bot thou helpe us in this nede,              Grete sorowe here may thou see!” Kynge Claryell come with his powere, Oure batells ferre one bakke he bere,              Ane Almayne sone sloghe he. Also he dide the gude Gauntere, Sir Otes and Sir Raynere,              And other grete plentee. By that it was so nere nyghte Thay moghte no lengere see to fighte,              Bot stynt one ayther syde. Sir Otuell that was so wighte Stroke Florence his stede full righte,              And byfore tham forthe gan ryde. Then comes girdande Kynge Clariell, And cried to hym with wordes fell,              “To speke thou schalt abyde, Thi righte name that thou me tell!” He sayde, “I highte Otuell,              For no man will I hyde! And fro youre Mahoun ame I went, And Cristyndome hafe I hent,              And baptiste ame I full righte. My leman es bothe faire and gent, Hir reghte name es Belesent,              Charlles dogheter the brighte.” Bot than the Sarazene said, “Allas! Now is this a wikkede case,              And thou so noble a knyghte! Whi duelles thou there amonges thi fase? Foully there thou wichede was.              And whi es this dede thus dighte? I rede that thou coverte thee in hye, And then sall saughtyll with thyn eme Sir Garcy,              And forsake not thy lawe.” Unto the Sarazene gon he defye, “Your lawes are noghte worthe a pye,              That dare I savely saye! And if thou wilt for Mahoun fighte, Loo, me here, a Cristyn knyghte,              With Hym that myghtes maye Stalworthely to stande for oure righte!” Kyng Clariell his trouthe hafe plighte              At morne to holde his daye. Kyng Clariell wendis to the cité That men callede Attalé,              Ther into duelle al nyghte; Sir Otuell to his companye, To Kyng Charlles that was fre,              And Belesent so brighte. That faire mayden of hewe and hide, Hirselfe unarmed hym that tide              And thris scho kissede that knyghte, And groped hym wele, body and syde, That he ne hade no woundes wyde,              And esede hym at hir myghte. Knyghtis wache was there sett, Faire fyres was there bett              To ese tham that there ware. Of dede folkes thay hepes fett To berye tham withowtten lett,              Those that Cristen ware. Leches come that couthe one booke Woundede men for to loke,              To salve tham of thaire sare. And grete lordes riste toke, And nyghte wache full worthily wooke,              Blewe and made grete fare. Kyng Clariell rose at morne, Wiste whate othes that he hade sworne              And to his chambir went, Garte kaste armoures hym byforne, That riche was and comly korne.              Ane actone one he hent, One he dide ane hawberke schene, Of the mayster handwerke of Galyene              That never no wapyn rent. When that was armed clene, A fayrere knyghte was never sene,              For joly ne for gent. His creste was of an eddire hede With golde abowte it was bywevede              And sett one hym Mahoun And Appolyne that he one levede. Alle his armours was overdrevede              With stones of grete renoun. He girde hym with a suerde that hate Modlee, Broghte hym a schelde of faire blee.              He buskede and made hym boun, Lepe on a stede semely to see, With mekill myrthe and solempnytee              He rydes thurghowte the toun. An hundrethe knyghtes of Turkeye Bare his mawmettis hym by,              And paste over that strande; And doun thay lighten all in hye. Thay were halden full doghetye              Alle in thaire awenn lande. Thay sett thaire goddes appon a stone And dowun thay knelyde everichonee,              And made tham thare offerande. Kyng Clariell his leve hase tone, Lepe one a stede that highte Browan —              That horse was noble at hande. Charlles come rydande by a revere, With hym Rowlande and Olyvere              Appon the ferrere syde. Duke Naymes was thaire fere, And Sir Otuell the gude werryere,              Full faire of hewe and hyde. Than comes girdande Kynge Clariell, And cried to tham with wordis felle:              “To speke ye schall abyde! I beteche yow to the devell of helle! How longe schall I aftir batelle duelle?”              Thus bygynnes he forto chide. “And yitt,” he cried, breme als bore, “Wiche of yow foure es mayster thore?”              Kyng Charlles calles on, “Mee!” “Now cursede worthe thou ever mare, For thou hase wroghte us myche care              In many dyverse contree.” The kyng sayde, “Be Saynt Marie, And hir dere Sone Almyghtye              That derely dyede one tree, With dyntt of swerde thou schalte aby, And take your Emperoure Sir Garcy,              And distruye alle youre citee.” The Sarazene ansuerde with wordes full bolde, “Charlles, methynke that thou scholdeste folde,              And thou were streken sore. Thi vesage es crounkilde and waxen olde; A nobill suerde thee burde not wolde              Now for thi mellyde hare. Bot, by righte, methynke thou scholde be founde Als those it were an olde grewhounde              That myghte rynn no mare.” The kynge wex grevede in that stounde And keste his clothes appon the grounde              “As armes!” he cried thare. Bot Sir Otuell saide full curtasely, “Gude Lorde, graunte this batell to me,              For trowthes hafe we plighte. He sett the lawes of Cristyantee Nott at a pillynge of a tree              Yistereven within the nyghte.” Charlles thankkes hym ther he stode, Taughte hym to Godde that diede one rode,              That alle schall deme and dighte. Elleven duspers with hym yode, To dresse hym in his armours gude,              Alle redy for to fighte. When he was armede in his gere That was bothe faire white and clere,              Thay girde hym with a brande; Broghte hym ane helme was riche and dere That aughte gud Kynge Galliere —              Was none siche in that lande! The lady lufsome under lyne Garte the Bischope Sir Turpyne              Assoyle hym with his hande. Scho kiste hym thryse with herte full fyne, Bytaughte hym unto dere Dryghtyne,              That mayden faire to fande. Lordes that weren of mekill pride Overe the brigge than gan thay ryde,              With mouthe als I yowe mene. Bot then the Sarazene begynnes to chide: “Now schalte thou, fole, lose thi pryde,              Bothe with traye and tene! To oure goddes I rede thou gone And knele bifore tham everichone,              Of colours that are clene.” “Nay!” he sayde, “There es no God bot one That ever made ne blode ne bone.              Nowe sone it schall be sene!” Than bothe thies kene knyghttes there, Togedir thay reden a course of werre              With stronge speres in theire hande, That alle in sondre floughe thaire gere; Tayle over tope bothe doun gon bere —              The stroke was wele sittande! Belysent keste up a crye Unto God and milde Marie;              Scho wepede and handis wrange. Bot up thay stert full hastily, And ayther gan to other defye              With swerdis large and lange. This noble kyng this Clariell, Smyttes to Sir Otuell              A dynt that he myghte fele; Bot one his helme it myghte nott duelle, So sadly one his scholdire it felle;              The knyghte bygane to knele. Bot up he stirte full hastilye, “I vowe to God thou schall abye,              That alle schalle deme and dele!” Cursu thurghe his helme gan hye That alle his one cheke hyngede bye —              His tethe were schaven wele! He said than, “Clariell, als mote thou thee, Whi grynnes thou nowe so one mee,              As thofe thou wolde me byte? Alphayné, thi leman white and fre, Thare never yerne to kysse thee;              Therfore I may nott hir wyte!” The kynge ferde than als he wolde wede; To the knyghte he hyed hym bettir spede,              Full egerly to smyte, And thurgh his schelde he gan hym schrede, That schulde hafe savede hym at his nede —              Almoste he was scomfite! The kynge woundede Otuell so sore, Hade he nott schounte his stroke thore,              Forsothe, he hade bene slayne. Bot than Cursu that the knyghte bare Thorowowte the kynges herte it schare,              Bothe with myghte and mayne. And to the grounde he tumbills doun; His saule went unto Mahoun,              Than by those gates gayne. And a full blythe man was Charllyoun, And lovede God with full heghe sowun,              And Belesent was full fayne. Fitt 6 For sorowe Sir Garcy went nere wode For Clariell dede, was stronge of mode,              And sware by Appolyne That mete ne drynke scholde done hym gude Are he struyed hade Cristen blode              And broghte tham alle to pyne. His grete bataylls he garte arayee And his baners brode displeye              With coloures noble and fyne. And Charlles wele thynkes that he maye Forto kepe the heythyn laye              With the helpe of dere Drightyn. Sir Barlott of Perse come girdande swythe Also faste als he myghte dryfe —              Was holden a noble knyghte — And doghety dedis gun he kythe; Ther myghte no wapen his wedys ryfe,              So savely was he dighte. He rydes owte a course of were And in his hande a noble spere,              His armours glyssenede full brighte. He askede leve at Sir Garcy there To juste with Rowlande and Olyvere,              Theire bothere dede to dyghte. And one his horse he come rynnande With his spere faste in his hande;              His armour glessened clere. He called firste one Rowlande, One Otuell stalworthe forto stande,              And sythen one Olyvere. “Hafe done,” he saide. “Brynge mee forthe your kynge, Or ells to dethe I schall yow dynge,              Forsothe, alle foure ifere.” Rowlande askede the kynges blyssynge; He stroke his stede and forthe gan flynge —              His thretynge boghte he dere! When that thay togedir mett, A sekere stroke was there sett              That bothe thay tynte thaire stedys. And up thay rose withowtten lett, And ayther harde one othir bett              And persed some of thaire wedys. Rowlande doghty dedis gan kythe; With Drondale he gan hym ryve              That reghte to the girdill it yede. And Sir Barlot loste his lyfe; He faughte nothir with foure ne fyve;              His lyfe was hym full gnede. Then comes a Sarazene girdande there; His name was called Sir Lamagere,              Was holden a noble knyghte. He come als breme als any bore, And woundede Sir Rowlande wonder sore              Thurgh his brenyes brighte. And Olyvere saughe his felawe blede, With sporres he touches his noble stede;              The Sarazene garte he lighte. The grete batells by than togedir yede; Thay hewede one faste and full gude spede,              And now bygynnes thaire fyghte. Bot other noyse was ther none When the grete togedir gun gone              Bot stronge strokes and steryn! Thay hewede one faste and full gud wone, Brusten bothe bak, blode, and bone —              Of wandrethe myghte men leryn! Be thousandes thay doun gan dryfe, For bothe helme and haberjeone thay ryfe —              Ther myghte no man tham werun! Kyng and duke there loste thaire lyfe; With dynt of swerde, spere, and knyfe,              Thay brittenede many a beryn. Doun thay dange thaire baners brade Bothe in slakkes and in slade,              One bukes as we rede. Full fele Sarazenes feble thay fade, And many one to the grounde thay hade —              Thaire lyfe was tham full gnede. Full grisely thay grone and grenne; Maisterles thaire horse thay rynne —              Of tham toke no man hede. The Cristen men gan the maystry wynn, Bot yitt thaire barett ne wolde not blyn.              On nowe bygynnes thaire dede. Sir Elys come with mekill myghte, With seven hundrethe newe-made knyghtes              Oute of Bretayne. Thise fresche men so freschely fyghte That it was joye to see that sighte,              Bothe with myghte and mayne. A Sarazene come with felawes fyve, Thorowte Sir Briane gane he dryfe;              That nobill knyghte was slayne. And yitt that paynym loste his lyfe; With a spere thay gan hym ryfe;              His saule went unto payne. Sir Otuell that noble man, To his awenn cosyn he ran              Full grymly in his gere. He strikes the Duke Balamé, The kynges sone of Alphané,              Even thurghowte with a spere. Than Kynge Alphané come in hye With twenty thowsande of Barbarye              That wele couthe wapyns bere, And the Kynge Cursabolee With thritty thousande of Turkee,              And alle one fote thay were. Thies futemen so stalworthe were That oure batells full ferre one bakke thay bare, 1              Ther myghte none stirre thaire schelde. Thaire dynttes felle so sadde and sare That wele ané alblastire schott and mare,              Thay myghte no wapyns welde. Thay were so mekill and so unryde, And so foulle of hewe and hyde,              That thay hade almoste wonn the felde. Thay gafe thaym wondes wete and wyde, And brittenede tham bothe bake and syde;              Oure batell garte thay helde. Than come girdande a gude sqwyere, Sir Grym sone, the gude duchere,              That was borne in Pareyche — With hym an hundrethe that hardy ware — His name was hatten Naymere,              A man of mekill pryce. To arme thaym grete hye thay hade, Dispoyle the bodyes that laye one brade,              Ichone one thaire beste wyse. Of thaire clothes pensalles thay made; To Kyng Cherlles belyfe thay rade:              “Mountjoye!” was thaire discrye. The grete batell than relyed agayne, Both with myghte and with mayne,              And brittenede blode and bone. Kyng Charlles than was full fayne, And lovede God, es noghte to layne,              And His Modir allone. Kynge Corsable hoved by Apparoun And seese hys men alle doungen doun,              And sone gane he to tham goo. Bot Aymere hitt hym one the crowun, That that lorde hathe loste alle his renoun,              In the felde he hathe hym tone. Aymere hathe the kynge hent, And to Kynge Charlles he hathe hym sent              By foure of his sqwyeres. Bot when that he made hym that ther sent, He loves Gode that luffe hade lent              And His mylde Modere dere. Thies fresche men so fersely fighte, It was grete joye to see that syghte,              And a wondere thynge to here! This noble man Sir Ottuell, Thilke-folde he gane tham felle              With strengthe and noblitee. And certis, als the bookes gane telle, Thaire saulles wente unto helle,              Those fele that there gun blede. Thus kynges and dukes to the dede thay dighte; A hundrethe dubbide thamselfe to knyghte,              That worthy were and welde. And to the banere belyfe thay wanne, And foure gude kynges thay sloughe ther thane —              Thaire lyfes was tham full gnede. Thurgheowte the oste are that he blane Unto Kynge Charlles als a mane.              He thankede hym of that dede. Than for sorowe Sir Garcy said, “Allas!” To a kynge that highte Sir Abars,              That was armede full clere. “Yone renayede thefe my cosyn was; He ledis us here a wikkide pase,              Bothe with traye and tene!” The kyng ansuerde to Sir Garcy, “Loo, where Sir Cherlles commes thee by              And dynges alle doune bydene, Now, for Mahomis lufe, that thou thee hye With twenty thousande of Turkye              Till that we redy bene!” The kyng dide als the emperour bad: With those Turkes that he hade              He stroke into the stourre. There were oure folkes full styffely stadde; Thay hewede one faste als thay were madde,              And brittenede brighte armour. The Duke Naymes stede was slayne, And hymselfe in the felde tan —              That boughte thay sythen full sourre. Rowlande, gude of blode and bone, And Sir Otuell hase thre kynges slone,              And reschewsede hym with honoour. Than was there no nother crye, Bot thik-folde gane the Sarazenes dy,              And grysely gane thay grone. A sory man was Sir Garcy, And alle the Sarazenes that hoved hym by —              Thaire herttis was fro tham tone! Oggere Daunays laye in presoun, And of that noyse he herde the soun;              A heghte men kepede hym one. Bot prevaly he made hym boun; With an astell schide he slewe tham doun;              Hys wardens thus hath he slayne. He armede hymselfe iche a thwnge, And to a stabill gan he gange              And hent a noble stede. The horse was styffe, thuoghe, and strange, He caughte a spere, was large and lange,              And leppe up better spede. He kayres forthe owte of the cité, “Nowe hafes alle gude daye!” says he,              And to his felawes thus he yede. And gladdere men there myghte none bee Ne thay were when thay Sir Oggere Daynnes see,              That doghety was of dede. Now Oggere Daynas bygynnes to fighte, And to hew doun many ane heythen knyghte,              And brittyne blode and bone. Kynge and duke to the dede he dighte; The emperour tooke hym to the flighte —              To the toun he wolde hafe gone. Sir Otuell stroke his stede Floryne With two sporres of golde full fyne,              And belyfe he to hym come. “Nay, Sir!” he sayde, “Be Sayne Drightyne, Thou schall noghte to the toun to dyne,              Bot here thee moste be tone!” Sir Otuell hase there tane the emperour; That lorde hath loste there his honour;              To Charlles he hathe hym sent. Knyghtis streghte in ilke a stourre Token up cité, toun, and toure;              The Sarazenes are alle schent. When thay had wroghte one swilken wyse, Home thay wente than to Pariche,              Full wightly one thaire waye; And Charlles lovede God of this enpryce, And Sir Otuell that worthy es,              Now weddede he Belesent. And than thay helde a mangery With alle the noble chevalry              That semely was to see. Thay made hym lorde of Lubardy To hafe it alle in his bayly,              That contré faire and free. And thus he duellys and es a pere, Rowlande felawe and Olyvere,              A gud Cristyn man was hee. And Jhesus Criste that boghte us dere, Brynge us to Thi blisses sere.              Amen, par charité.                                      Here endes the romance Charlles                     Of Duk Rowland and Sir Otuell of Spayne.                                        Explycit Sir Otuell

(see note) noble toward be quiet merriment brave flesh and skin [i.e., body] handsome in the hall fight endure on (see note) chronicles twelve peers; dignified; (see note) slay them Ganelon faith flower in one day truth fought Until; honor attended Minstrels courting may hear Paris; (see note) twelve peers considered strong and fierce skilled prepared coat of mail hastened make war engage with destroy trouble tidings Were it not for God’s help; (see note) in haste sternly wrought armor caused; worrying much Paris hall; alights [Those]; complexion companion Who often provided sound judgment greeted; stern expression [as] a am called Directly; it is required of among (see note) of body bearded cheek; (see note) strong among manner silk (t-note) strong and fierce eager; (see note) stern He was held in great renown flaming; (t-note) Burn; throat in haste deems you worthless pagandom combat sorely paid for strike knock you down Gladden Saracens by beating you laughed undertake mock; boast harm eight; have passed (t-note) No one shall disturb you loud or quiet May harm you; nothing eight fear If; have mounted Corsouse; (see note) spilled slain [Otuel speaks]; Lombardy; (see note) [Despite] caused months dubbed ornate sword sent to death own Lombards; received night fists; swollen; eight; (see note) remarkable squared wood earnestly in surety; uncle You should control your anger seized; hair (t-note) angry as a boar; (see note) sheared; (see note) in unison eyes behaved Raised his brows quickly; (see note) his; (t-note) keen; sharp If better part of you ordered to cease commotion as I may thrive; (see note) laughing expression sword protect done and delivered return By that promise too discourteous (t-note) fierce expression quickly rules pagan lands Alexandria (see note) Sidonia; far away and noble; (t-note) Persia, pleasing to look at Also power destroys (see note); (t-note) For this reason believe in our faith victory an egg; (see note) rules; tower has almighty power Give up the religion that holds you summoning Go quickly dwelling place Despite forests (t-note) noble nephew in possession of Russia (see note) already spur a horse [He is]; (t-note) rule (see note) law prepare our battalions hasten experience shame menacingly; (see note) That were you to see; (t-note) Who wouldn’t hide your heads loudly leave right away helmets [i.e., men] prevent him from; freely rebuke; voice lovely erected; Ataly; (see note) afraid skilled in warfare brandished; (t-note) beautiful paramours rest at home Paris’ sparks come near Jackdaw; magpie nap-taker; (see note) Incensed quickly Foolish excessive disgrace If I had not given my oath troubled by; again urge; go Whichever; (t-note) Let both his spurs be cut off from him eager deeds [Otuel speaks] Truly; uncle; (t-note) give you a grievous blow (see note) call forth Have him taken care of without harm aid; diligent assist Ordered [them]; care together Saint-Omer; (see note) caskets Durendal; (see note) Redeemed it with an offering of gold Fitt 3 barely haughtily delay cowardly accuse; of Yesterday evening armor; fastened be avenged (t-note) padded jacket coat of mail sturdy Chain mail leggings, jacket of scale armor beaten metal neck covering come forward help; advantage girded; gilded spurs; (see note); (t-note) [To] those who Armed; battle Adeptly [i.e., in a fair manner] weapons; (t-note) to defeat; (see note) disturbance escape; anything Seine; Marne (t-note) awaited loud coat of mail let be brought to me an equipped horse courteously (see note) hurry to; proceed colorfully eager Above; strong once belonged to should design armor dependable freshly and beautifully crafted noble on earth on earth attired led him forth called for (see note) young Once you’ve entered; valley chamber If; is able to deal rightly Leapt onto Adeptly; sturdily dressed up ordered that the place be cleared takes a path to the tower window goes battle (see note) to taunt haughty voice charged trembling; either fought lances; broke asunder (see note) slashed leather parts fought fiercely bore down upon sturdy bend drew; (t-note) nose guard flew flanks tumbles (see note) seized Who eagerly he brought low; (see note) fell path; (see note) fierce has alighted Above; draw injure harm fall half of his own earpiece fall boss of a shield; he [Roland] struck; (t-note) hewn pieces of armor scattered nobly hard labor she convert [for] us powerful pity both believe; faith complexion maid (t-note) together fine test know; learning teach; lesson in haste dearly pay for hard blows; painful Before; go blow Defeated; (see note) aggrieved enraged blow went sparks; at once sheared waist bend down was stunned nearly had not; broken in two ended (t-note) thrusts was shorn away cut clutched powerfully fist so thickly began to come armor very little was left to them became scattered casts up dove alights; (see note) peaceably toward accord; made delay hurried noble valiant tested; (t-note) promised Let him be christened at once above on they leapt; delay (see note) vestments baptismal font; blesses lords dressed in was [never] such a creature; (t-note) lily-like complexion; (see note) In an honest face lovely one in bower courtesy lady noble Power; delight governance; (t-note) country; (t-note) Stay pleased with might I thrive; (t-note) noble; young woman (t-note) temperament go love beautifully attired Just as we first planned malice With well-nourished foot soldiers; (t-note) (see note) (t-note) (t-note) breaks and crushes harasses rest make a defense ready wait summertime in all directions every one We won’t leave anyone behind of age enlist in battle slay dwells came near skilled noble lineage destructive strong and sturdy company count (tally) Montmartre; (see note) Germans; Tuscans numerous for the occasion; (see note) banner-bearers Those who nobly dwell in Provence assembled trustworthy Gascons; in haste Burgundians splendidly; armor battalion (see note) protect first company Saint Denis; (see note) reverently vanguard advanced; (t-note) rode; (t-note) (t-note) (t-note) (see note) Brittany; (see note) (see note) Vercelli hills and valleys took shelter lodgings erected fatigued; sorely eight armor and weapons; adjust Because; was diligent bridge he ordered to be made (see note); (see note); (t-note) wondrous event meal; together heraldic clothes Ogier the Dane secretly no one knew except Adventures outside of rode wish; headed find out; stand [in fight] might; unhorse (defeat) might never [again] tell tyrant boast honorable appearance (see note) (t-note) know; (t-note) were threatened spurred on; (t-note) hastened fierce as a boar; (see note) here of whom we spoke; (t-note) no match [i.e., no fourth knight] charge (t-note) stab was not worth a pear; (see note) He caused him to fall from his horse lay groaning paid for possessed advances bold (t-note) loud cry prepared to ride away hastened after him taken [Roland]; more quickly got ready was handsome under linen; (see note) (see note) victory; (see note) lose face before expected to go away with him came upon Their anxiety began to grow They seem to be; (t-note) don’t want any; peers (t-note) him [Clarel] any way (see note) no more [i.e., only three] And with together; (see note) [Because] of; fear kneel troubled them upon every side destroyed made them fall charging (t-note) overcome swiftly attacked swooned; senseless; (t-note) perform cut waist recovered labor (see note) beat [What] soon in haste (see note) handsome meadow (t-note) bold Quickly he regained his horse fought as if he were a madman During this time; on foot wet lifeblood defeated Quickly; then; (t-note) stern countenance may you be avenged He [Clarel] cut off his head quickly; (t-note) Go, lead him; paramour Of beautiful coloring tended protect for me this [man, i.e., Ogier] white as foam; (see note); (t-note) near to neither aid nor support succeed villains captured she; (t-note) attack [Who] is abashed harm Quickly; had him disarmed potions; noble one (see note) handled charging coat of scale armor flee; (t-note) Dwells Why has this happened have gone prepare headstrong; (see note) By her [Belesent’s] own maintenance; (see note) rush charging after them greeted (t-note) mockingly grant you [victory] foolish enterprise; (see note) cost them dearly; (see note) quickly short time remained; cudgel loud voice glove on; pennant As a sign of his pledge no injury at all arose of renown horseback before (t-note) brave was the most distinguished knocked down his foes He [Megradyn] had struck strong power [i.e., the Christians] rushed together know and not to guess to join the wicked (t-note) (t-note) at rapid speed And unless He pushed our battalions further back German (t-note) Because ceased Spurred charging You will stop to speak [to me] departed accepted baptized proper foes bewitched advise that you convert at once next; reconcile faith magpie; (see note) safely Lo, see me here (t-note) keep his appointment [i.e., challenged him to duel]; (see note) [returned] to; (t-note) thrice (see note) look-out made comfort; (t-note) gathered in heaps bury; continuously Physicians; knew by book how to look after wounds rest watchmen; stayed awake Blew [horn]; fanfare Remembered; oaths Ordered his armor be laid out handsomely selected padded jacket Made by; (see note) had never been torn by that one; thoroughly jolity; gentility adder’s interwoven beset [with images of] in whom he believed studded [i.e., jewels] They; (see note) appearance went forth; ready idols; (see note) passed; river (t-note) (t-note) offering took his leave further (t-note) (t-note) consign do I have to wait for battle as savage as a boar; (see note); (t-note) (t-note) cross pay [I shall] capture give up Before you are crinkled might not; wield gray; (see note) treated Like an old greyhound; (t-note) became aggrieved cast clothes To arms At less than the worth of a tree bark Yesterday evening Commended; (t-note) (see note) To get him attired sword belonged to linen clothes Bless (absolve) Commended; Lord behold as I tell you; (t-note) pain and torment [Appearing] in bright colors (t-note) commenced a battle pieces Head over heels well aimed (t-note) grievously pay for it carve hung sideways well shaven thrive though fair and noble (generous) I would not blame her; (see note); (t-note) as if he were mad at great speed defeated dodged sheared Then; quickly; (see note) praised; loud outcry elated death That he would neither eat nor drink Until he had ruined Christendom pain battalions; gathered Restrain the heathen law [his] dear Lord Persia; charging perform tear securely; armored glistened permission of dead brother to avenge spurred paid for fell off delay either beat hard against the other; (t-note) pierced; garments (i.e., armor) display waist lacking [i.e., he is dead] fierce as any boar; (see note) mail shirt struck down battalions; clashed together the great encounter had begun furiously and a long while misery; learn jacket of scale armor ward off; (t-note) man in valley and on hill; (see note) feebly they weakened grimace Riderless won the upperhand conflict; cease And now their [heroic] deeds begin; (t-note) (t-note) Brittany (see note) on foot [heathen] footmen; (t-note) disturb; shield-wall truly and sorely however well a crossbowman could shoot He couldn’t wield a weapon numerous; savage battered They held back our battalion duke Paris much worth haste By despoiling the bodies that lay broadly way pennants quickly; rode shout rallied it is no lie; (t-note) waited; [the statue of] Apollin; (t-note) sees captured (t-note) [Aymere] had sent [Corsable] there [Charles] praises; peace Thickly (t-note) Those many who bled there they struck to death were dubbed as knights powerful banner [i.e., the battle]; (t-note) completely lost without delay; (see note) large group He [Charles] thanked him [Otuel] That recreant thief gave us a wicked turn treason and trouble completely (t-note) struck; battle thoroughly challenged They paid for that later quite bitterly rescued (t-note) haughty; guarded him readied himself piece of firewood at each point; (t-note) went sturdy, tough; strong took at great speed goes went As they were (see note) [Garcy] Holy Lord dine taken (see note) at once in every battle Captured overcome conquered in such a way Paris boldly praised; achievement feast Lombardy governance many (see note) (see note); (t-note)