University of Virginia Library

King Nicolas hes his lordis semblit hale,
Thame for to ask þair verdit and counsall:
“Lordingis, ȝe se quhow þis was cum and gane—
It mendis nocht to mak murning or mane.
Thir Greikis ar cruell men and orgillus,
And þis ȝoung king has na piete of ws;
Forthy me think, to saif þe blude of man,
Nane vther way as now counsall I can,
Bot mycht I get him anis hand for hand,
I durst weill antir bodie, lyf, gude, and land,
And þat nane haid þe scayth onlie bot we,
As mycht fall by fortune, I or he.”
All to þis thing þe counsall cordit sone,
And on þe morn ane messinger, but hune,
Till Alexander þai send with mekill feir,
Sayand, gif he wald mak end of þe were,
And stanche effusioun of saikles menis blude,
It war his will, sa þat him thocht it gude,
To fecht to-gidder þai tuay, cors for cors,
On þair best wise inarmit vpoun hors,
Or tua for tua, as him list, thre for thre;
And quhilk of þame þat maister of vther be,
He salbe lord of all, baith men and land,
Without moire stryf obeyand till his hand;
And [thretty] hostages þairvpoun suld send,
Chosinn of þe best þat in his court war kend,
And prisoneris all suld be deliuerit fre,
Syne throw battall all thing suld endit be.
The message com till Alexander þe king,
The quhilk was nocht ill payit of þat thing;
And quhan he haid þe messing[er] all hard,
The anser till his counsall he referd,
And þairon war þe douzeperis semblit sone,
In þis thing quhat was best to be done.
Thay said it standis maist at his awin curage:
Sen he haid wonning ane battall of vantage,
And thocht dreidles to win þe toun of force,
It war folie to antir cors for cors,
For, and he suld ony misfortune fall,
It war þe tinsall of his pepill all.
Than he that haid þe curage of a lioun
Wist weill þat God haid grantit him fortune,
And thocht he suld throw hevinlie desteny
Conques þis erd, and soueran of it be,
Bad þame reconfort þame and mak gud cheir,
“For it suld neuir be said in no maneir
That he þe battall suld proffer me,
And I sa cowartlie my hart suld bee,
Him to forsaik þat I haue win in feild.
Supois he be of strenth, stature, and elde,
Hiear þan I be thre fute of his cors,
And mare of strenth, of þat I gif na force,
For men seis oft, quha in þair force hes pride,
Oftyme it hapnis þame þe war betyde;
Supois I be ȝit bot of tender age,
I traist in God þat, for þe wrang trewage
Quhilk he wald haue of Grece and Macedone,
His wrang desyre sall fall him-self vpoun.”
This was þe answer grantit in þe kynd;
Thay wryte lettres þe cunand for to bind,
The ostage all war chosin furth and send,
Thay armit þame, and to feild þai wend.
King Nicolas thocht lang for to be þare:
He was sa stark, sa mekill, and sa square,
Him thocht þat he suld haue bot litill ado
And he mycht anis in gripis win him to,
Or till oure-reik his bodie with ane dint,
And to þe feild armit or euir he stint
He prikit furth, ane hunder knychtis in rout,
And forbad ony man to follow him out.
It was gret ioy to se his fair attyre—
His helm of charbunkill schinit as fyre,
His scheild was all plantit with diamantis,
Quhilkis war hardar na flint or adamantis,
His cot-armes was all of topas treist,
And all þe champ of rubeis was infeist,
For sa he bare lyk armes of Arigone,
Palit ȝallow and red, as schawis in his blasone,
For richer armes to king ma na man prise,
Na of precius stanis, quha couth þame weill devise;
And als at his hawbrek and at his chammall
Ane perle of Orient hang at euerie male;
His trapour of his hors and his musell,
Oure-fret with stanis of price, war teire to tell;
Ane vnui[n]sibill stane on him he bare,
Was neuir batall vinquest quhare it ware;
Thair was na thing þat langit his array
Lakar na gold, na till his hors alsuay;
His brand was charmit with inchantment,
That þair was neuir armour þat mycht it stent.

Than Alexand[er], þat louit neuir no pryde,
Saw he was cum in feild him to abyde,
In sic aray þat mervell was to behald,
In his company ane hunder knychtis bald;
Bot he þat was euir kinglyk in his geir,
As it efferde, but prid, with litill feir,
The king bad feche him Busefall his steid,
And armit him as him thocht best to speid,
And said, “Suppois ȝone man ane gyant be,
Ȝit God may grant me grace to win þe gre,
For all ȝone iolie geire and ryche aray:
To traist in God is mekill better ay.”
He callit Aristotill, and with him spak,
And at þe douzeperis all his leve he tak,
And to þe feild, bot he and Busefall,
And in þe presence of þe gret battall
Thay straik to-gidder baith, with sic a force
That baith þair speiris sounderit doun in dros;
Bot Alexander haid persit him þe scheild—
His hawbrek also was to him no beild,
For persit also was his gesserant:
The sperehed past in sidlingis by a sclent,
And drew na blude, and stonist him rycht mekill.
With þat King Nicolas drew abak a littill,
And drew þe brand of his inchantment,
And schupe till him with all his haill intent,
Hit him on þe ouir cantell of þe scheild,
Quhill ane quarter flaw out into þe feild,
And on þe hals of his helm a kerf he made,
And parit of his hawbrek a hand-bred;
Bot Alexander feld weill he was nocht hurt,
Bot þat his scheild was taistit, all to-turt,
For þe intentioun was of Nicolas,
And he haid hit him quhair his willis was,
He thocht till haue made ane end of all þe pley,
For quhare it hit, it bare all quyte away.

Quhan Alexander recouerit of þe straik,
He thocht rycht weill he suld ȝeild him þe maik,
And saw his schulderis was all scheildles bare,
And thocht þat he mycht maist haid grevit him þair,
And doutit him ane vther straik to get.
With all his mane and all his mude him set
Till ettill him ane vther, straik so weill
That of his strenth he suld þe power feill,
And with his brand with all his maine and mycht
Gaue him ane straik sidlingis, endlangis þe sycht,
That in tua halfis quiklie þe helm he claif:
Sum said þe goddis blissit haid his glaif,
That he suld neuir in feild disconfit be—
Sic was his fortume and his destany.
Than fell his helm in tua pairtis adoun:
The tane befoir him fell one his arsoun;
The tane half held þe tee þat fell bakwart,
The vther held þe tee þat fell forwarde,
That beter it war it strukin fra him haid bene,
Quentlie but mair, and fallin on þe grene;
His knychtis saw, and said he was forlorn:
“Allace”, þai said, “þe tyme þat we wes born!
Now se we weill þair is no dome bot dede—
This realm is tint, and we ar left in fede;
He may forthink þat euir he send message
To ask of Grece and Macedone trewage.”
Than Busefall, þat was cruell and kene,
Wald lyvis fane ay on his hors haid bene,
Bot Alexander wald nocht thole him to ga,
For he wist weill his hors was armit sa
He suld haue haid mare greve þan vantaging,
And als sen he haid oblist king for king,
Corps for corps, and onlie man for man,
Him thocht his cunand war nocht keipit þan.

Quhan Nicolas saw þat his hede was bair,
He wald haue fled, war nocht his ostare þair;
Than till him self he said in þis maner:
“Better is de king na leve ane presoner—
May nane repreif me quhan I de ane king,
Bot gret lak is to leve ane vnderling.”
And in this [breth and] ramage, with his glave
Sic ane straik till Alexander he gaue
Vpoun þe tother cantell of þe scheild,
The baudrik brak, and it flew in þe feild,
And als his brand into þe middilwart brast;
Quhan he saw þat, than was he neuir sa gast.
Than was King Alexander rycht sair agrevit
That he his armour haid sa sair apprevit,
Baith helm and schelde, and als his hawbrek,
And with his dintis gart his banis werk;
His curage rais, and changit all his hew,
And thocht he wald him pay fane of his trew,
And till him schupe ane straik rycht sturdelie;
Vpoun þe hede he hit him sickerlie,
Quhill doun toward þe rycht pape he him schare,
And of his scheild claif half ane fute and mare;
With þat stark dede he fell doun at his fute—
Thus Alexander him payit his tribute.
Thay tuk þe trapouris and armouris of his hors;
The king bad þame do honouris to his cors,
And syne he past vnto his pavillioun.
Bot lord! quhat los, quhat honour, quhat renoun,
Was spokin of him and of his company,
That all þe cuntre quakit helelie.
The douzepeiris com, and brocht in his ostage,
Said, “Lord, quhat salbe done with þis barnage?”
The king said, “Lordis, ȝe se quhow þis is gane—
It is na bute for dede to mak na mane.
Ȝe ken ȝour cunandis—keip ȝour iuramentis;
Ȝe wat þat all is myne, lordschip and rentis,
And ȝe wat quhow ȝe ar oblist to me,
Me to deliuer Cesare þe citie,
With all þe gudis, tressour, and riches,
And all thing þat pertenit King Nicolas,
And ȝe to me men ar syne alhaill,
The kinrik and þe sege imperiall;
Mak ȝe in þis ony deficultie,
Or I ett mette ȝe sall all hingit be
On hie gallows, sidlingis about þe toun.”
With þat he bad þat all men suld be boun
To ferme þe sege about þe citie sone;
Than all þe lordis on kneis þai haue þame done,
Sayand, “Fair lord, we ar all at þi will—
The citie furth-with deliuerit sall be þe till;
Als, we ar heir, and all þe haill barnage,
Quhan euir ȝe list sall mak þe full homage;
The princis of þis land ar all content
For to remane vnder þi gouernment.”
The toun was opnit, all enterit þat wald;
With þat þe king for Tholomee furth cald,
Bad him pas and tak sasing of þe place,
And dele amang þe men all þe ryches,
“And for þi wirschip, and þi gret valour
I saw þe do þis hinder day in stour,
This lordschip and þis kinrik I þe geve,
To hald of me my man quhill þat I leve,
And efter þis, quhan crounit I sall be,
Efter my crouning sone I sall croun þe—
With grace of God, I think throw conquessing
To mak my douzeperis euirie man ane king.”