University of Virginia Library

Sothly by Arthurys day
Was Bretayne yn grete nobyle,
For yn hys tyme a grete whyle
He soiourned at Carlile.
He had with hym a meyne there,
As he had ellys where,
Of the rounde table the knyghtes alle,
With myrth and joye yn hys halle.
Of eache lande yn the worlde wyde
There came men on euery syde,
Yonge knyghtes and squyers
And othir bolde b[a]chelers,
Forto se that nobly
That was with Arthur alle-wey;
For ryche yeftys and tresoure
He gayf to eache man of honoure.

With hym there was a bachiller,
A yonge knyght of mushe myght,
Sir Landevale for soith he hight.
Sir Landevale spent blythely
And yaf yeftes largely;
So wildely his goode he sette
That he felle yn grete dette
“Who hath no good, goode can he none;
And I am here in vnchut londe,
And no gode haue vnder honde.
Men wille me hold for a wreche;
Where I be-come I ne reche.”
He lepe vpon a coursier,
With-oute grome or squier,
And rode forthe yn a mornynge
To dryve a-wey longynge.
Then he takyth towarde the west
Be-twene a water and a forest.
The sonne was hote that vndern tyde,
He lyghte a-downe and wolde a-byde.
For he was hote yn the weddir,
Hys mantelle he toke and folde to-geder;
Than lay downe that knyght so free
Vndre the shadow of a tree.
“Alas!” he saide, “no good I haue.
How shalle I doo? I can not craue.
Alle the knyghtes, that ben so feers,
Of the rounde table, they were my pyers,—
Euery man of me was glade,
And now they be for me full saide.”
“Alas! alas!” was his songe;
Sore wepyng his hondis he wronge.

Thus he lay yn sorow fulle sore;
Than he sawe comynge oute of holtes hore
Owte of the forest cam maydyns two,
The fayrest on grounde that myght goo.
Kyrtyls they had of purpyl sendelle,
Smalle i-laside syttyng welle,
Mantels of grene veluet
Frengide with golde were wele i-sette.
They had on a tyre therwith-alle,
And eache of them a joly cornalle,
With facys white as lely floure,
With ruddy rede as rose coloure;
Fayrer women neuer he see,
They semyd angels of hevin hie.
That one bare a golde basyne,
That othir a towail riche and fyne.
To hym warde come the maydyns gent;
The knyght anon agaynse hem went:
“Wel-come,” he saide, “damsels fre.”
“Sir knyght,” they seide, “wel thu be.
My lady, that is as bright as floure,
The gretith Landavale paramoure.
Ye must come and speke with her,
Yef it be your wille, sir.”
“I graunt,” he saide, “blythely,”
And went with them hendly.
Anone he in that forest syde
A pauylione i-pight an hy,
With treysour i-wrought on euery syde,
Al of werke of the faryse.
Eche pomelle of that pavilione
Was worth a citie or a towne;
Vpon the cupe an heron was,—
A richeer no-wher ne was,—
In his mouthe a carboncle bright,
As the mone that shone light.
Kyng Alexander the conquerour,
Ne Salamon yn hys honour,
Ne Charlemayn, the riche kyng,
They had neuer suche a thing.
He founde yn that pavilione
The kynges daughter of Amylione,—
That ys an ile of the fayre
In occian fulle faire to see.
There was a bede of mekylle price,
Coueride with purpille byse.
There-on lay that maydyn bright,
Almost nakyde and vp-right.
Al her clothes by-side her lay,
Syngly was she wrappyde parfay
With a mauntelle of hermyne,
Coveride was with Alexanderyne.
The mauntelle for hete downe she dede
Right to hir gyrdille stede.
She was white as lely in May
Or snowe that fallith yn wynterday.
Blossom on b[r]iere ne no floure
Was not like to her coloure.
The rede rose whan it is newe
To her rud is not of hewe.
Her heire shone as gold wire;
No man can telle her atyre.
“Landavale,” she seide, “myn hert swete,
For thy loue now I swete.
There is kyng ne emperour,
And I lovyd hym paramor
As moche as I do the,
But he wolde be full glad of me.”
Landevale be-helde the maydyn bright,
Her loue persyde hys hert right;
He sette hym down by her syde.
“Lady,” quod he, “what so be-tyde,
Euer more, lowde and stylle,
I am redy at your wylle.”
“Sir knyght,” she said, “curteyse and hende,
I know thy state euery ende.
Wilt thow truliche the to me take,
And alle other for me forsake?
And I wille yeue the grette honoure,
Golde inough and grete tresoure.
Hardely spende largely,
Yife yeftes blythely,
Spende and spare not for my loue,
Thow shalt inough to thy be-hove.”
Tho she saide to his desyre,
He clyppide her a-bowte the swire,
And kyssyde her many a sith,
For her profer he thankyd hir swyth.
This lady was sithe vp sette
And bad hir maydyns mete fette,
And to thir handes water clere,
And sothyns went to soupere.
Bothe they to-gedirs sette;
The maydyns seruyd theym of mete,
Of mete and dryng they had plentie,
Of alle thing that was deynte.
After soper the day was gone,
To bedde they went both anone.
Alle that nyght they ley yn fere
And did what thir wille were.
For pley they slepyde litille that nyght.
Tho it be-gan to dawe light:
“Landavale,” she saide, “goo hens now.
Gold and syluer take with you;
Spend largely on euery man,
I wille fynd you inough than.
And when ye wille, gentil knyght,
Speke with me any night,
To sum derne stede ye goo
And thynke on me soo and soo.
Anone to you shalle I tee.
Ne make ye neuer bost of me;
And yff thou doyest, be ware be-forn,
For thow hast my loue for-lorn.”

The maydeyns bringe hys horse anone,
He toke hys leue and went sone.
Of tresoure he hath grete plentie
And ridith forth yn-to the ciete.
He commythe home to hys in,
And mery he makyth hym ther-in.
Hym sylf he clothyde ffulle richely,
Hys squyer, hys yoman honestly.
Landavale makyth nobile festes,
Landevale clothys the pore gestes,
Landevale byith grette stedes,
Landevale yeuythe riche wedys,
Landevale rewaredithe religiouse,
And acquitethe the presoners,
Landevale clothes gaylours,
Landevale doithe eache man honours.
Of his largesse eche man wote,
But how it comythe no man wote.
And he wille, derne or stelle,
Hys loue ys redy at his wylle.

Vpon a tyme Sir Gawyne,
The curteys knyght, and Sir Ewayne,
And Sir Landavale with them also,
And othir knyghtes twente or moo,
Went to play theym on a grene
Vnder the towre where was the quene.
Thyse knyghtes with borde playde tho;
Atte the last to daunsyng they goo.
Sir Landevale was to-fore i-sette;
For his largesse he was louyd the better.
The quene hersylf be-held alle this.
“Yender,” she saide, “ys Landavalle.
Of alle the knyghtes that bene here
There is none so faire a bachylere.
And he haue noder leman ne wyfe,
I wold he louyde me as his life.
Tide me good or tyde me ille,
I wille assay the knyghtes wille.”

She toke with her a company
Of faire laydys thyrty;
She goithe a-downe a-none righte
For to daunce with the knyghte.
The queene yede to the first ende
Be-twene Landavale and the Gawyne so hende,
And alle her maydens forth a-right,
One be one be-twyxt eche knyght.
Whan the daunsynge was i-slakyde,
The quene Landavale to concelle hath takyde.
Shortely she saide, “Thu gentil knyght,
I the loue with alle my myght.
And as moche desire I the yere
As the kyng and moche more.
Goode is to the tanne hap
To loue more me than any woman.”
“Madame,” he saide, “be God, nay.
I wilbe traitoure neuer, parfay.
I haue do the kyng othe and feaulte;
He shalle not [be] be-traid for me.”
“Fy,” saide she, “thow fowle cowarde,
An harlot ribawde I wote thou harte.
That thow liuest it is pite.
Thow lovyst no woman ne no woman the.”
The knyght was agreued thoo,
He her ansurid and saide noo,
“Madame,” quod he, “thu seist thi wille.
Yet can I loue, derne and stelle,
And am I loued and haue a leman
As gentille and as faire as any man.
The semplest maide with her, I wene,
Over the may be a quene.”
Tho was she a-shamyd and wrothe;
She clepid her maydens bothe;
To bede she goithe alle drery,
For doole she wold dye and was sory.

The kyng came from huntyng,
Glade and blithet yn alle thing,
And to the quene can he tee.
Anone she fel vpon her kne;
Wonder lowde can she crie:
“A! helpe me, lorde, or I die!
I spake to Landavale on a game,
And he be-shought me of shame,
As a foule viced tratoure;
He wold haue done me dishonoure.
And of a leman bost he maide,
That werst maide that she hade
Myght be a quene ouer me,—
And alle, lorde, in dispite of the.”

The kyng was wondir wrothe,
And forthe-withe swore hys othe,
That Landavale shulde bide by the lawe,
Be bothe hangyd and drawe;
And commanded iiij knyghtes
Tho fetche the traitoure anone rightes.
They iiij fechyng hym anone,
But Landavale was to chamber gone.
Alas! he hath hys loue for-lorne,
As she warnyd hym be-forne.
Ofte he clepid her and sought,
And yet it gaynethe hym nought.
He wept and sobbet with rufulle cry
And on hys kneys he askythe mercy,
And cursed hys mouth that of hir spake.
“O,” he said, “gentille creature,
How shalle my wrechyd body endure
That worldes blysse hath for-lore?
And he that I am vnder arest for—”
With shuche sorowe alas! that stounde,
With that he fel dede on the grounde,
So long that the knyghtes comyn
And ther so they hym namyd,
And as theff hym ladde soo;
Than was his sorow doble woo.
He was brought before the kyng.
Thus he hym grete at the begynnyng,—
“Thow atteynt, takyn traytoure,
Be-soughest thou my wiff of dishonour?
That she lothely thou dedist vpbrayde
That of thy leman the lest mayde
Was fayrer than ys my wyffe;
Therefore shalt thou lose thy lyffe.”
Landavale ansuryd at hys borde,
And told hym the sothe euery worde,
That it was nothing so;
And he was redy for to die tho
That alle the countrey wold looke.
Twelue knyghtes were dreuyn to a boke
The sothe to say and no leese
Alle to gedir as it was.
Thise vij wist withe-outen wene
Alle the maner of the quene;
The kyng was good alle aboute,
And she was wyckyd oute and oute,
For she was of suche comforte
She lovyd men ondir her lorde.
Ther-by wist thei it was alle
Longe on her and not on Landavalle.
Herof they quytten hym as treue men,
And sithe spake they farder then,—
That yf he myght hys leman brynge,
Of whome he maide knolishynge;
And yf her may deuyse bryght and shyne
Werne fairer than the quene
In makyng, semblaunt, and hewe,
They wold quyte hym gode and true.
Yff he ne myght stound ther-tille,
Thann to be at the kynges wille.
This verdite thei yes to-fore the kynge;
The day was sett her for to brynge;
Borowys he founde to come ayene,
Sir Gawyne and Sir Ewyne.

“Alas,” quod he, “now shalle I die!
My loue shalle I neuer see with ee.”
Ete ne drynke wold he neuer;
But wepyng and sorowyng evire,
Syres, sare sorow hathe he noun;
He wold hys endyng day wer come,
That he myght ought of life goo.
Every man was for hym woo,
For larger knyght than he
Was ther neuer yn that countrey.

The day i-sett com on hy[y]nge;
His borowys hym brought before the kyng.
The kyng lett recorte tho
The sewt and the answer also,
And bad hym bryng his borowis in syghte.
Landevalle sayde that he ne myghte.
Tho were commaundyd the barons alle
To gyve iudgement on Sir Landevalle.
Then sayd the Erle of Cornwaylle,
That was att the councelle:
“Lordynges, ye wott the kyng our lorde,
His oune mowthe berythe recorde,
Ther yf we go by the lawe
Landevale is worthy to be drawe.
Butt greatt vilany were ther-vpon
To for-do suche a man,
That is more large and fre
Then eny of vs that here be.
Therfore by oure reade
We wolle the kyng in suche a way lede
That he shalle commande hym to goo
Oute of this lande for euer mo.”

While they stode thus spekyng,
They sawe in fere cum rydyng
Two maydyns whyte as flower,
On whyte palfrays with honour;
So fayre creaturys with ien
Ne better attyryde were neuer seen.
Alle the iudgyde theym so sheen
That one dame Gaynour they myght be a queen.
Then sayde Gawen, that curteys knyght,—
“Landevale, care the no wyght;
Here commyth thy leman kynde i-core,
For whom thow art anoiede sore.”
Landevale lokyd and said, “Nay, i-wisse,
My leman of hem ther none is.”
Thise maidens come so riding
In to the castelle before the king.
They light a-down and grete hym so
And be-sought hym of a chamber tho,
A place for their lady that was cummyng.
Than said Arthour, the nobill king:
“Who is your lady and what to done?”
“Lord,” quod they, “ye may wetyne sone.”
The king lete for her sake
The fairest chamber to be take.
Thise maidens gone to bowre on hye,
Than said the king to his baronys:
“Haue i-do and gyve iugement.”
The barones saide: “Verament
We haue be-helde these maidens bright.
We will do anone right.”

A new speche began they tho,
Summe said wele and summe said not so,
Summe wolde hym to dothe deen
Ther king theire lorde for to guene.
Summe hym wolde make clere.
And while they spake thus in fere
Other maidens ther commyn tho,
Welle more fairer than the other two,
Riding vpon moiles of Spayne,
Bothe sadelles and bridels of Almayne;
They were i-clothed in a tire,
And eache aman had grete desire
To be-holde her gentrise,
They came in so faire assise.
Than sade Gawyne the hende:
“Landevale, broder, heder thou wende.
Here commyth thy loue thou maist wel se;
That one herof I wote ys she.”
Landevale with dropyng thought:
“Nay, alas! I know them nought.
I ne wot who they beith,
Ne whens they come ne whethir they lith.”
These maidens reden yn to the paleys
Right a-fore the kynges deys
And gretith hym and his quene eke.
That one of them thise wordys spake:
“Sir riche kyng Arthure,
Lete dight thyn halle with honoure,
Bothe rofe and grounde and walles,
With clothys of gold and riche palle[s]
Yet it is lothely yef thou so doo
My lady for to light ther-to.”
The kyng said: “So shalle it be.
My lady ys welcome and soo be ye.”
He bade Sir Gawyne bryng hem yn fere
With honour there the othir were.
The quene ther-fore trowid of gyle,
That Landevale shuld be holpyn in awhile
Of his leman that ys commynge:
She cried and saide, “Lorde and kyng,
And thow louyst thyne honour,
I were a-venged on that tratour;
To sle Landevale thou woldest not spare.
Thy barons do the besmare.”

While she spake thus to the kynge,
They saw where came ridynge
A lady her self alle alone,
On erthe fayrer was neuer none,
On a white palfrey comlye.
There nesse kyng that hath gold ne fee
That myght by that palfrey
With-oute sellyng of lond awey.
This lady bright as blossome on brere,
Her ieene lofe-sum bright and clere,
Ientylle and iolyffe as birde on boweh,
In alle thing faire y-nough;
As rose in May her rude was rede,
Here here shynyng on her hede
As gold wyre yn somer bright;
In this worlde nat so faire a wight.
A crowne was vpon her hede
Al of precious stones and gold rede.
Clothid she was in purpylle palle,
Her body gentille and medille smale.
The pane of hir mantelle in-warde
On hir harmes she foldid owte-warde,
Whiche wel be-came that lady.
Thre white gre-houndes went hyr by;
A sparow-hauke she bare vpon hir hande;
A softe paas her palfrey commaunde.
Throw the citie rode she,
For euery man shuld hir see.
Wiff and childe, yong and olde,
Al come hir to by-holde.
There was man ne woman that myght
Be wery of so faire a sight.
Also sone as Landevale hir see,
To alle the lordys he cryed on he:
“Now commyth my loue, now commyth my swete;
Now commyth she my bale shalle beete:
Now I haue her seyne with myne ee,
I ne reke when that I dye.”
The damselle come rydyng stoute (?)
A-lone yn the citie throw-oute,
Throw the palys yn to the halle,
Ther was the kyng, the quene alle.
Her iiij maidens with gret honoure
A-gayne her came oute of the bowre,
And helde her steroppys so;
The lady dyd a-light tho,
And they gently can hyr grete,
And she hym with wordys swete.
The quene and othir ladyes stoute
Be-helde her alle aboute;
They to her were allso donne
As the mone-lyght to the sonne.
Than euery man had grete deynte
Her to be-holde and preseith hir beaute.

Than saide the lady to the kynge:
“Sir, I come for shuche a thynge,—
My trew leman, Sir Landevalle,
Is accusyd a-monges you alle
That he shuld with tratoury
Beseche the quene of velony.
That ys fals, by Seynt Iame;
He bad her not, but she bad hyme.
And of that othir that he saide,
That my tholiest maide
Was fairer than the quene,—
Loke a-none yf yt so bene.”

The kyng be-held and sawe the southe,
Also erlys and barons bothe,
Euery lorde said than
Landevale was a trew man.
When the iugement gyvyne was,
At the kyng her leue she takys
And lepe vpon hir palfrey
And be-toke them to gode and goode day.
The kyng fulle fare and alle his
Besechit hir with-outyne mys
Longer to make soiournynge,
She said nay and thankyd the kynge.
Landevale saw hys loue wold gone,
Vpon hir horse he lepe anone
And said, “Lady, my leman bright,
I wille with the, my swete wight,
Whedir ye ride or goo,
Ne wille I neuer parte you fro.”
“Landevale,” she said, “with-outyne lette,
Whan we ffirst to-gedir mete
With dern loue with-outen stryfe,
I chargyd you yn alle your lyffe
That ye of me neuer speke shulde;
How dare ye now be so bolde
With me to ride with-oute leve?
Ye ought to thyng ye shuld me greue.”
“Lady,” he said, “faire and goode,
For his loue that shed his blode,
For-yefe me that trespace
And put me hole yn your grace.”

Than that lady to hym can speke,
And said to hym with wordys meke:
“Landevale, lemman, I you for-gyve.
That trespace while ye leue.
Welcome to me, gentille knyghte;
We wolle neuer twyn day ne nyghte.”

So they rodyn euyn ryghte,
The lady, the maydyns, and the knyghte.
Loo, howe love is lefe to wyn
Of wemen that arn of gentylle kyn!
The same way haue they nomyn
Ryghte as before she was commyn.
And thus was Landevale broughte from Cardoylle,
With his fere into a ioly yle,
That is clepyde Amylyone,
That knowith euery Brytane.
Of hym syns herde neuer man;
No further of Landevalle telle I can;
Butt god, for his greatt mercy,
Bryng vs to his blysse on highe.