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Guy of Warwick.

Sythe þe tyme, þat god was borne
And Crystendome was set and sworne,
Mane aventewres hathe befalle,
That ȝyt be not knowen alle;
Therfore schulde men mekely herke
And thynke gode allwey to wyrke
And take ensawmpull be wyse men,
That haue before thys tyme ben:
Well feyre aventurs befelle them
(And sythen scheweyd to mony men),
For þat they leuyd in sothefastenes,
In grete trauell and in angwysche.
Of gode menys lyuys men schulde here
And of þer gode dedys sythen lere:
He, that myght lerne and holde faste,
He schulde wexe wyse at the laste.
Hyt ys holdyn grete maystry
To holde wysdome and leue folye.

Of an Erle y wyll yow telle
(Of a better may no man spelle)
And of hys stewarde bryght of hewe,
That was bothe gode and trewe,
And of hys sone, that good squyere,
Whyll he was hole and fere,
And howe he louyd a may ȝynge,
The Erlys doghtur, a swete thynge.

The Erle was of Ynglonde
And helde Warwyk in hys honde:

Ryche he was and of grete myght,
Also curtes and a gentyll knyght.
He was ryche, wythowten otheys,
Of golde and syluyr and many clothys,
Of stronge castels and cyteys ryche:
In all that londe was none hym lyche,
Knyght nor swayne, in no wyse,
That durste agenste hym ryse,
But þat he toke þem, as thefe felon,
And caste them in hys pryson.
Well he louyd feyre stedys
And gaue gyftys and grete medys;
Therfore all men hym dradde
And to hym grete loue hadde.
Erle he was of grete poste
And lorde ouyr that cuntre:
Of Oxonford all the blys,
Euery daye hyt was hys;
Of the Erledame of Bokyngham
Lorde he was and bare the name.
Syr Roholde, for sothe, he hyght:
He was a nobull man and a wyght.

A doghtur he had be hys cowntes,
Ther myght no man telle hur feyrenes.
Lysten to me: telle y wyll
Of hur bewte; for that ys skylle.
Whyte sche was, as felde flowre;
Hur vysage was of feyre colowre,
Longe, small and well farynge;
Feyre mowthe and nose syttynge,
Feyre forhede and feyre here.
Soche a mayde was neuer ȝere,
So feyre schapyn and wele dyght:
Ioye hyt was to see that syght.
Wyse sche was and curtes of mowthe,

All the vii arse sche cowthe.
Sche had maysturs at hur honde,
The wysest men of that londe,
And taght hur astronomye,
Arsmetryck and gemetrye.
That mayde was of grete prys,
For sche was bothe warre and wyse.

Dewkys, erlys of grete kynne
Of mony a londe come hur to wynne:
Of them all wolde sche none
For the godenes, that was hur on.
Wele feyre was that damycell
Hur name was Felys la Belle.
Of all maydenys sche bare þe flowre:
That tyme was none of hur honowre.
Yf men soght all mankynde,
A feyrer maye schall no man fynde.
Who so schulde the fayrenes telle,
All to longe schulde he dwelle.

Now of þe stewarde speke we then,
For he was comyn of ryche kynne.
A man he was of grete myght:
In hys tyme ther was no knyght,
Of armes, of strenkyth of honde
That bare soche pryse in all þat londe.
In Wallyngforde he was borne:
All that londe to hym was sworne.
He was a man of grete poste:
Ther was none bettur on þat halfe þe see.
He cowde ynogh of nobull seruyse,
Therfore he was of nobull pryce.
Ther was noon in all that londe,
That durste aȝenste hys lorde stonde,
But he batyd anon hys boste
Wyth the strenkyth of hys hooste

And toke hym wyth folke ynowe,
Yf they into Scotlonde flowe.
He helde all hys lordys londe
Wyth grete honowre vndur hys honde.
He made pees, as he wolde:
Yf a man were chargyd wyth golde,
He schulde fynde no robber hym to reeve,
That wolde take oght agenste hys leeue.

Segwarde was the stewardys name,
A trewe man, wythowten fame:
A bettur stewarde had no man.
That ylke stewarde had a sone,
A feyrer may no man knowe
Nodur of hye nor of lowe.
Curtes he was and wyse of lore
And wel belouyd wyth lesse and more.
The Erle Roholde he seruyd than:
He was desyryd of many a man.
The Erle louyd that squyere,
Before all odur he louyd hym dere.
Of hys cowpe he seruyd hym on a day,
In þe knyghtys chaumbur he laye.
Goode he was and bryȝt of hewe:
He wolde not hym chawnge for no newe.
Gye he hyght of Warwykk:
In all þe londe was non hym lyke.
Ther was nodur squyer nor knyȝt,
But þey hym louyd wyth all þer myȝt,
And he þem gafe gyftys wythall,
So þat he was louyd of all.
Thorow feyrenes and strenkyþ allone
They honowred hym euerychone.
Feyre he was and bryght of face:
He schone as bryȝt, as ane glace.
Hys kynne was wondur yoyfull þan,
That he waxe so feyre a man.

Hende he was and mylde of mode:
All men speke of hym grete gode.
Wyth a swyrde he cowde well pleye
And pryck a stede in a weye.
Gye had to maystyr a knyght
(Syr Harrawde of Ardurne he hyȝt),
A nobull knyght and an hardye
Full well he taght aye Gye.

At Whytsontyde felle a daye,
As y yow telle may,
The Erle made a grete feste
Of lordys of þat londe honeste:
Knyghtys, erlys and barons
Come thedur fro many townes;
Ladyes and maydenys free
Come þedur fro mony a cuntre.
Knyghtys sate in the halle,
Ladyes in the chaumbur alle.
When þey were to mete sett,
Gye came and þe Erle grett.
The Erle clepyd Gye anon
(A sylke gowne he had vppon):
He badde hym go to chaumbur stylle
And serue hys doghtur at hur wylle.
Wele he besemed that ylke clothe:
To chaumbur forthe anon he goyth.
Gye on hys kneys sone hym sett
And that maydyn feyre he grett.
‘Madame,’ he seyde, ‘god the see.
Thy lorde the gretyth well be me
And comawndyd, y schulde, par ma faye,
Before the serue thys same daye.’
Felys askyd at that case,
Who that Gyes fadur was.
‘My fadur,’ he seyde, ‘hyght Seqwarde,
That ys thy lordys stewarde.’

The mayde seyde: ‘Seqwarde ys gode,
And so be all, þat be of hys blode.’

Than can þe maydyn vp stande
And askyd watur to hur hande.
The maydenys wysche wythowten lett
And to þer mete they ben sett.
Gye entendyd all that daye
To serue that lady to hur paye.
Well hur seruyd yonge syr Gye:
There were maydenys thretty,
That for hys seruyse in the halle
There loue on hym can falle.
Therof roght Gye noght:
An other loue was in hys thoght.
Gye ouyr all louydde Felyce,
The Erlys doghtur wyth þe feyre vyce.

Aftur þe mete (hyt waxyd nere eve)
Gye at þe mayde toke hys leue:
To hys inne ȝede Gye,
A carefull man and a sorye.

Nowe sorowede Gye nyght and daye,
That he ne wyste, what he do may.
He ys full of sorowe and care:
Full longe ne may he wele fare.
Ofte he began to syke and wepe.
He wakenyd ofte, when he schulde slepe:
On nyght, when odur men had reste,
Then was hys sorowe all preste.
When odur lye, þen wyll he stonde:
For sorowe þen wryngyþ he hys honde.
Loue hath geuyn hym soche a wounde,
That he may not wele stonde.
Ofte seyde Gye: ‘allas, allas,’
That euyr he borne was.
Hys sorowe hym lastyd day and nyght
All that ylke fowrtnyght.

Gye ys moche bemoonyd of all
In þe Erlys cowrte and in þe Kyngys halle;
For he was wonte there to serue
Before the Erle hys mete to carve.
All, þat þere were, boþe moost and leeste
Of Gye they had a grete breste.

When þe feste was broght to ende
And lordyngys can home wende,
Gye then to cowrte came,
A carefull and a sory man.
Before the mayde felle Gye adowne
And seyde: ‘for þy loue y muste dye soone.’
The mayde lokyd on Gye full grymme
And wele wrothely answeryd hym:
‘Art thou not Seqwardes sone Gye?
Who made the so folehardye
For to assaye me of loue?
Be Iesu, that syttyth aboue,
And y þys my fadur telle vnto,
For þys worde he wyll the sloo,
Soone that þou schalt be drawe,
On galowse hangyd, and þat ys lawe.
On grete folye þou the bethoght,
When þou me of loue besoght.
Neuer dud man me that vylenye
To assaye me of folye.
Wende hens owt of my syght,
Or þou schalt dye, my trowþe y plyȝt.’

When Gye these wordys harde,
To hys inne soone he farde.
Now begynnyth hys sorowe newe:
Ther louyd neuer man ȝyt so trewe.
Nyght and day he ys in sorowe,
Late on euyn, ȝarly on morowe.
For loue now may he haue no reste:
Ofte he desyryd, hys hert schulde breste.

Into a chaumbur he ys gone:
Ther wyste no man, but he allone.
There he felle in swownyng downe:
The chaumbur was hys grete prisowne.

When þe Erle wyste of þe state of Gye,
For hym he was sorye:
He sende to hym lechys fele
Of hys sekenes hym to hele.
Out of þem all wyste þer none,
What sekenes was hym vppon.
The leche was wyse and ware
And askyd hym of hys fare.
Gye answeryd at that case
Not as the sothe was:
‘In my hed comyth a colde blode,
That makyþ me to qwake, as y were wode.
Aftur comyth a stronge hete,
That makyth my body for to swete:
All y brenne boone and hyde
Also hote, as any glede.
Thys ys my lyfe nyght and daye:
For payne reste y ne maye.’
The lecheys cowde hym helpe noȝt,
To Iesu they haue hym betaght.
Gye leuyd stylle there
In sorowe and care, as he was eere.

Hyt befelle vppon a daye,
Gye to the castell toke þe way.
As he romeyd all abowte,
He lokyd on a towre wythowte:
Therynne was þe maydyn hende,
That Gye louyd wythowten mynde.
‘Therinne,’ he seyde, ‘ys þat maye,
For whom y morne boþe nyȝt and day.’
Wyth þat worde hys body can bowe,

Downe he felle þere in a swowe.
He rent hys cloþe, he drewe hys here,
Ofte he felle in swownyng there.
For loue he waxyd almoste wode:
For wo he swett and caste blode.

Of swownyng he rose vp than:
For sorowe he waxe pale and wan
And seyde: ‘ȝyt schall y oonys prove
For to wynne þat maydenys loue.
Sche may do me no more woo,
Then telle hur lorde and do me sloo.
Then schall me falle grete honour to,
That y for hur to deþe was do.
Yf y therfore schall dye to daye,
Y wyll hur of loue praye.’
Sore he wept and sore he syght:
To the castell he hym dyght.

As he in the garden wonde,
Felyce, þat lady, there he fonde:
There sche was almoost allone,
Ther was wyth hur maydyns but oon.
When Gye Felyce there sye,
To hur he ranne all in hye.
He felle before hur downe on hys kne
And seyde: ‘Felyce, haue merce on me.
I am to blame now wyth skylle:
I am come hedur agenste þy wylle.
I may not slepe nyght nor day:
So thy loue byndyth me aye.
On nyghtys, when odur men slepe,
Thou makyst me full sore to wepe.
When þy lorde wottyth euery dell,
That y loue the so well,
Therfore he wyll do me slee:
That schall to me grete worschyp be,
Yf any man may synge or rede,

That y was for þe done to dede,
That men may say be many a day,
That y was slayne for soche a maye.’

When Gye had these wordys seyde,
To the grownde he hym leyde.
Sche rewyd then on Gyes payne:
When sche sawe hym in swownyng layne,
Sche bad hur maydyn in þat stownde
Arere vp Gye fro the grounde.
The maydyn ȝede to Gye thoo
And toke hym in hur armes two.
To Felyce than sche broght Gye.
Felyce seyde to hym: ‘þou doyst folye.
Who gaue the thys ylke redde,
That þou for my loue woldest be dedde?
Soone schalt þou to dethe be doo.’
‘God grawnt,’ quod Gye, ‘þat hyt be soo,
That men myȝt saye be ony way,
That y was slayne for soche a maye.’
Then seyde þe maye, þat toke vp Gye,
To Felyce, hur ladye:
‘Yf my fadur were kyng or knyght,
Erle or emperowre of myght,
And he were man poreste
And y maydyn feyreste,
And he louyd me so derne,
Y myght not hym loue werne.’

Felyce spake to Gye anone:
‘For thy loue y wyll now done,
Ther ys no maydyn in þys londe
Nor no lady, y vndurstonde,
That þou wylt haue to thy wyfe,
But þou schalt haue hur, wythowtyn stryfe.’
Gye answeryd Felyce there:
‘Ys hyt no better, þen hyt was cere.
Other, then the, kepe y none:

For the y wyll my lyfe forgoon.’

When Gye had seyde thys reson,
Therwythall he felle downe,
Felyce on Gye began to loke
And in hur armes hym vp toke.
‘Gye,’ sche seyde, ‘be nowe stylle.
Here me, yf hyt be yowre wylle.
Knyghtys and erlys y haue forsake,
That wolde me to wyfe take.
And y loued now a yong knaue,
How schulde y my worschyp save?
When þou art dubbed a knyght
And proued well in euery fyght,
Then, for sothe, hyght y the,
That þou schalt haue þe loue of me.’
When thys harde Gyeowne,
For yoye in swownyng he felle adowne.
Felyce spake to hym wyth mowthe
And comefortyd hym, as sche well cowthe.
He rose vp fro swownyng
And toke leue at þe maydyn ȝyng.
Owt of þe ȝarde he went aryght,
To hys inne he well sone hym dyght.
There he was to þe secunde daye,
That hys sekenes went awaye.

When Gye had couyrde hys estate,
To þe erlys court he toke þe gate.
Well feyre Gye the Erle grett,
Before hym on hys kneys he hym sett.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y prey the,
That þou knyght dubbe me.
Yf þou wylt me þe ordur yeue,
I wyll the serue, whyll þat y leue.’
The Erle grauntyd hym hys boone
And seyde: ‘þou schalt be dubbed soone.’

Forthe then yede hym Gye
And chase to hym squyers twenty.
Into a chaumbur þey be goon,
There þey schulde be dubbed ychone.
Kyrtyls they had oon of sylke
Also whyte, as any mylke.
Of gode sylke and of purpull palle
Mantels above they caste all.
Hosys þey had vppon, but no schone;
Barefote they were euerychone.
But garlondys þey had of precyous stones
And perlys ryche for the noones.
When þey were þus ycledde,
To a chaumbur the Erle hym yede.
A squyer broght newe brondys:
They toke þe poyntys in þer hondys.
They hangyd on euery swyrde hylte
A peyre of sporys newe gylte.
Before þe awter þey knelyd ychone,
Vnto mydnyght were all goone.
The Erle come anon ryghtys
And wyth hym two odur knyghtys.
The Erle seyde: ‘lordyngys dere,
At thys nede helpe vs here.’
The knyghtys, þat were hende,
Knelyd to the awters ende.
The Erle, that was the thrydde,
Began all in the mydde.
At the furste to Gye he come,
Of the swyrde þe spurres he nome.
He set the spurres on hys fote
And knelyd before hym, y wote,
And wyth the swyrde he hym gyrte
Ryght abowte at hys herte
And smote hym on þe neck a lytull weyȝt
And bad hym become a good knyȝt.

There were hys felowes euerychon
Dubbed knyghtys be oon and oon.

The Erle at morne a feste made:
There were feele lordyngys glade.
When þe knyghtys had etyn
And at þe borde longe setyn,
Vp they rose euerychone:
To þe chaumbur be þey goone.
Gye hym went anon ryght
To Felyce, that swete wyght.
He seyde: ‘lemman, for thy sake
Knyghtys ordur haue y take:
For þe y am dubbyd knyght.
Do nowe, as þou me hyght.’
‘Gye,’ sche seyde, ‘what wylt þou done?
ȝyt haste þou not wonnen þy schone.
Of a gode knyghtys mystere
Hyt ys the furste manere
Wyth some odur gode knyght
Odur to juste or to fyght.
Goo and do thy cheualrye
And þen þou schalt lye me bye:
Then þou shalt haue þe loue of me
And at þy wylle my body shall be.’

Gye toke hys leue of þat maye
And to þe halle he toke þe waye.
The Erle he fonde in the halle
And on hys kneys he can down falle.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘gyf me leeue
For to go myselfe to preue.
I wyll fare to odur londe
Dedes of armes for to fonde.’
The Erle spake to Gye stylle:
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘take all þy wylle.’
Gye toke hys leue þere in þe halle

And went owt fro þem all.

He wente to hys ynne warde:
There was hys fadur Seqwarde.
Well sone he set hym on hys kne
And seyde: ‘fadur, lysten to mee,
For sothe, fadur, y yow telle,
Noo lengur wyll y here dwelle.
Fadur, yf thy wylle bee,
Y wyll wende ouyr the see:
I wyll preue, sauns fayle,
Of turnement and batayle.’
‘Sone,’ he seyde, ‘þou art full ȝynge
For to preue of soche thynge.
Ȝyt haste thou no myght
To turnament nor to fyght.
Lenge at home, pur charyte,
Leve soon, y prey the,
Tyll þou can more skylle.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘that y do nylle.’
‘Sone,’ seyde he, ‘sythe þou wylt soo,
Thou schalt not allone goo.
Of my tresure take thy fylle;
For hyt ys þyn all at þy wylle.’
He gaue hym tresure gret plente
And betoke hym knyghtys three,
Harrawde, Toralde and Vrrye,
And betoke þem hys sone Gye,
That they schulde hym kepe wyth þer myght;
For þey were bothe hardy and wyght.

Gye toke hys fadurs beneson
And went forthe of the towne.
They harde of a gode schyppe:
All iiii theryn they lepe.
They drewe sayle, þe wynde was gode,
Thay yede into the salte flode.
They sayled forthe wythowten ore:

The syght of Ynglonde loste þey þore.

Noþyng sawe þey þem abowte,
But salte watur and waweys stowte.
Forthe þey went be day lyght,
Tyll hyt drewe to the nyght.
Londe they sye at the laste:
Thedurwarde þey drewe faste.
They came to londe wyth grete hye
And ryden into Normandye.
To a cyte they come wyth lyght,
There they schulde be all nyght
At a burges hows of the towne,
That was a man of grete renown.
As they at the soper sete
(Some dranke and some ete),
Gye cowde speke of many a þynge
And axyd the gode man tythynge,
Yf he harde anythynge
Of turnament or of justynge.

‘Ȝys, for sothe,’ seyde þe gode man,
‘Of a turnament telle y can.
Of Almayn the Emperowre
Hath a doghtur of gret valowre,
That hath a turnament let crye,
The moste, þat euer man sye.
Ther ys no knyght in þat cuntre,
That ys of grete degree,
That of armes anythynge can,
But he schall be there than.
Ne schall be knyȝt in all Spayne,
From hens to þe see of Bretayne,
That had louyd any maye ȝynge,
But he schall be at that justynge
For to do hys proves
And to schewe hys hardynes.
Thedur schall come knyȝtys of many londys

Wyth grete pryde and spere in þer hondys.
Othyr thynge y schall the telle,
That y haue herde spelle.
He, that ys of grete valowre,
Wynne he may grete honowre.
That mayde, that y speke of here,
Sche ys the Emperowres doghtere.
That turnement sche schall see:
Who may hur wynne, wele schall he be.
A gerfawcon whyte, as mylke
(In all þys worlde ys non swylk),
And thre feyre stedys grete and hye
(Feyrer sye neuyr man wyth eye:
All be as whyte, as any snowe:
Feyrer may no man knowe);
Two feyre greyhowndys, þat be lyght
(Bettur had neuer kyng nor knyght)—
He, þat hath þe gre of turnament,
All thys þyng schall be hym sent
And þe loue of þat feyre wyght,
But he haue a lemman bryght.’

When he harde thys tythynge,
He was gladde, wythowt lesynge,
And seyde to hys companye:
‘Make we vs gladde and yolye.
Wyth goddys grace, when hyt ys day,
We wyll wende on owre way.’
He gafe hys oost a gode palfray
For hys wordys, þat he dud say.

Gye rose in the mornynge
And went forthe, wythowt lesynge,
And hys odur men ychone,
Knyghtys, squyers, oon and oon,
That were bolde men in fyght
To defende them and wyght,
Tyll þey were come to justynge

Amonge þe knyghtys in þat mornynge.

Now ys Gye come to game,
There fele knyghtys be gedurd same.
Owt of the lystys rode a knyght,
That was feyre, gent and wyght.
Gye askyd oon, þat by hym stode,
What was þat knyȝt, þat owt þere rode,
And he answeryd syr Gye than:
‘I schall the telle, as y can.
Ȝondyr ys Gayere, an harde swayn,
The emperowre sone of Almayn,
That ys redy for to play,
Yf any knyght come hym to say.’

When Gye sye hyt was Gayere,
Armed he rode hym nere.
Owt of þe lyste he can sone ryde
In the place to abyde.
Be þat þe knyghtys came same.
Now begynneth a newe game:
Gayer smote Gye in the felde
Wyth hys spere thorow þe schelde,
That hys spere brake in two:
Gyes hawberk dud not soo.
Gye smot Gayer wyth myght,
To þe erthe he feele down ryght.
Gayers hors he lepe vpon
And let hys own awey goon.
Tho began Gye to play:
He fellyd all, þat stode in hys way.
He dud well, wythowten fayle:
He toke knyghtys in þat batayle;
He brake so many sperys asonder,
That eche man of hym had wonder.
Was noon so strong a knyȝt, þat he smote,
But þat he fell down to hys fote.

The felle dewke Oton of Payuye

To Gye had grete envye.
Wyth pryde he wolde juste wyth Gye:
The worse parte come hym bye.
Gye smote hym þorow þe schouldur bone:
The dewke felle of hys hors anon.

There come prykyng dewke Raynere,
A bolde knyght wythowten feere,
Pressyng on a stede faste:
Of Gye was he not agaste.
‘Traytur,’ he seyde, ‘þou schalt abye:
Why smote þou Oton of Payuye?
In euyll tyme þou dedyst hym wronge.
He ys my neme, y schall the honge.
Here y am, the dewke Raynere:
I wyll my neeme awreke here.’
‘I wyll,’ seyde Gye, ‘so mote y the,
Furste turne ageyn and juste wyth the.’
Gye turned hym and smote faste:
Boþe þer sperys all tobraste.
Gye smot Rayner on the schelde,
That hyt flewe into the felde,
And smote hym downe of hys stede.
To hys hors sone he yede:
‘Syr dewke, haue here ageyn þy stede.
When þou seyst tyme, qwyte me my mede.’
And sythen he qwyt hym full well;
For he was a knyght gentyll.
The dewke vp start all in hye
And ranne to Gye smertlye.
Syr knyght, telle me beforne:
What ys þy name? where were þou borne?’
‘Gye of Warwyk, for sothe, y hyght:
In Ynglonde was y borne aryght.’

Tho came the dewke Louayne,
Wyth Gye he wolde juste fayne.

Wyth a scharpe growndyn spere
He rode to Gye faste there.
Gye turned ageyn and of hym had wondur,
But sone þer sperys brake in sondur.
Faste þey drewe ther bryght brondys
And faght togedur wyth boþe þer hondys.

Tho come prekyng Harrawt
And to dewke Myrande he made asawte.
Of hys hors he hym caste:
Hys strenkyþ myght no lenger laste;
And sythen he smot Waldynere:
To þe grownde he fellyd hym there.
He bare hym well, as knyght hardy:
So dud Toralde and Vrry.

Nowe ys þe turnament well stronge:
Wyth grete strokys euer amonge
Many sperys brake in twoo
And many to the erthe can goo.
No clerke can on boke rede
To telle þe doghtynes of þer dede,
But all the men wyth hartys free
Haue geuyn Gye the maystree.
Gye had the pryce and no nodur
That day and ylke the todur.

When hyt come to the þrydde day,
That all knyghtys went away,
Then came the dewke Raynere,
An hardy knyght and a stere,
And seyde: ‘herkyn eche man to me
And, yf y amys seye, amende me.
Geve me the stedys and the fawcon
And þe greyhowndys: wyth gret reson
He schall þem haue, þat þem wanne,
Of Warwykk Gye, þat doghty man.
He, that seyth, hyt ys any odur,

I wyll hyt preue, þogh he were my brodur.’
And all þey seyde wyth oon assente:
‘We graunt wele to yowre yugement.’
Thorow þe place þey dud crye
To ȝylde that present to syr Gye.

Now ys departyd that turnement,
And Gye ys to hys ynne went.
He dud of hys armowre:
He was full wery in þat stowre.
Than came a squyer prekynge
Hende and wyse and wele spekynge.
To Gyes chaumbur he ys gone
And gret hym wele feyre anone.
‘God þe save,’ he seyde, ‘syr Gye,
Of all þe worlde þe moost worthy.
Thou haste þe pryce of þys turnament:
Thys present ys to the sente
On þe maydenys halfe Blanchflowre,
Kyngys doghtur and emperowre,
And þe loue of þat maydyn ȝynge,
So þou haue no nodur darlynge.’

Gye answerde at that tyme:
‘Haue þou goddys thanke and myne.
I wyll hyt resseyue wyth wyll gode
And hur loue wyth well gladder mode:
I wyll hur serve wyth all my myght
Euyr, as hur owne trewe knyght.
Felowe,’ seyde Gye, ‘herkyn to me:
Knyght wyll y dubbe the,
The, and thy seruawntys thre
Schall haue ryche gyftys of me,
For ye wolde do thys message:
Y schall qwyte yow wele yowre wage.’
Than þey seyde all togedur:
‘Therfore came we not hedur;

But god the ȝylde, þat beste may.
We wyll not dwelle, haue gode day
We wyll telle Blancheflowre
Of thy gyftus and thyn honowre.’

The messengere home ys went
And lefte there stylle þat present.
Two seruauntys Gye can calle
And bad þem hye swythe all
And take þat present so hende
Into Ynglonde for to wende.
To þe erle Roholde they schall fare
And delyuyr to hym þat present þare
And sey, þat Gye hym þat hath sente.
When þey harde hys comawndement,
Wythowtyn more forthe they rode,
Tyll þey were passyd þe see brode.
When þey came to Ynglonde,
At Warwyk þe erle þey fonde
And gaue hym þere þat present
And seyde, þat Gye hyt had hym sent,
The gerfawcon and þe stedys thre
And the greyhowndys feyre and free:
As Gye þem wanne, þere þey tolde
And how he was boþe wyght and bolde
And how Blancheflowre, þat swete þyng,
Let crye and make a grete justynge,
That sche myght see in the felde,
Who cowde beste welde spere and schylde
And whych was the feyrest knyght
And in batell beste cowde fyght:
He schulde haue thys present
And þe loue of þat maydyn gente.
When þe erle harde þys tythynge,
He was gladde, wythowt lesynge,
That Gye was of so grete prys

And so ware a man and wys.
Hys fadur and hys modur for hys sake
Grete yoye dud they make.

Nowe wendyth Gye to justynge
For to wynne hym preysynge.
In Almayn and in Lumbardye,
Yn Frawnce and in Normandye—
Ther was no justyng in þat londe,
But Gye had the bettur honde.
Nowe ys he come wyth gret honowre
To Rome to hys harbenyowre.
Now spake Harawde, that knyght,
Gyes maystyr day and nyght:
‘Now wyll we wende to owre contre.
We may wele, so mote y the.
Into Ynglonde wyll we fare
And gete vs loue of kyng Edgare
And of all the baronage,
That be men of grete parage.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y grawnt wele,
That ye sey, euery dele.
We wyll to morowe, when hyt ys day,
Hye vs faste on owre way.’

A gode schypp there þey fonde
And sayled ouer boþe wawe and sonde.
Now be þey come to Ynglonde:
The kyng þere sone they fonde.
The kyng of hym was full gladde
And all þe men, that he hadde.
Sythen to Warwyk can þey goon:
The erle Roholde they fonde anon,
That of hym was full blythe
And thankyd god fele sythe.
Golde and syluyr he wolde hym take,
A ryche man he wolde hym make.
Hys fadur and modur for hys sake

Grete yoye can they make.

Nowe ys Gye to Felyce went,
On whome all hys loue was lent.
He gret hur on hys manere
And seyde: ‘god loke þe, my lemman dere.
I haue for the turned my redde:
Yf þou were not, y were but dedde.
Ordyr of knyght þou dud me take,
And passyd the see for thy sake.
Then þou seyde to me wele ryght,
When y were a doghty knyght
And went far into straunge londe
Dedes of armes for to fonde,
Then schulde y haue þe loue of the:
Therof well gladde wyll y bee.
Now am y come to wytt thy wylle,
What þou wylt seye lowde or stylle.’

Felyce seyde full wysely:
‘Haue therof no haste, syr Gye.
Ȝyt art þou not of soche poste,
But ther be bettur in thys contre.
Thou art well stronge and wyght,
Bolde also in every fyght:
Yf y the graunt ouyr all thynge
My loue and to be thy derlynge,
Thou woldest be so yelowse
And of me so amerowse,
That þou woldest not þy narmes take:
Then wolde þy lose moche slake.
That were a grete schame for the
To lose þy pryce for þe loue of me.
All my þoght y wyll the schowe,
For y wyll, that þou hyt knowe.
My love y wyll not the hyght,
Or thou be the boldyst knyght,

That may be fownde in any londe
Of doghtynes and strenckyth of honde,
Of euery justyng and stronge stowre
Of all the worlde to bere the flowre;
And, when þou haste borne þe so euyn,
That þer ys no bettur vndur hevyn,
All my loue thou schalt haue
And þeraftur no lenger crave:
All the whyle y am on lyue,
Wyll y be thy weddyd wyue.’

When Gye harde Felyce speke,
Hym þoght, hys hert wolde breke.
‘Now wot y wele, þou seydyst not ryght,
When þou me furste of loue behyght.
The beste schall y neuyr bee,
That ys in all crystyante.
I schall wende to far londe,
More of justyng wyll y fonde.
From the dethe y schall not flee:
If y dye, hyt ys for thee.’

All wepeyng he went awey
And toke hys leue at þat may.
He ys went to hys oostell,
There wyll he no lenger dwelle:
To the erle he toke hys way.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘haue gode day.
I wyll wende on the stronde
Ferr into a nodur londe.
I wyll put me forþe, as y can,
To be knowen a doghty man
And be preysed for my prowe,
And y wyste, what wey and howe.
And ye haue men of gret valowre,
Moche hyt ys for yowre honowre:
Ye schulde be holde the more dere

In euery londe bothe ferre and nere.’

Than he spake, the erle Rohawt:
‘Syr Gye, haste þou any defawte
Of golde, of syluyr or of ryche clothe?
Or any man haþ made þe wrothe?
Syr Gye, leue þat fowle wylle
And leue at home here wyth me stylle.
Thou schalt haue, what þou wylt craue:
Hawkes, howndys, what þou wylt haue.
Wyth howndys we wyll chace dere
And wyth hawkes to the ryuere.
To dwelle at home ys my cownceyle:
That may the gretly avayle.
In tyme þen may þou passe þe see,
Afturwarde, when bettur may bee.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘at thys tyde
For nothyng wyll y here abyde.
God yow ȝylde, haue gode day.’
He toke hys leue and went away.

To hys fadur he went full ȝare.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y wyll fare
To the londe, there y was ere,
A whyle for to dwelle there
For to wynne me loueyng
Bothe of emperowre and of kynge.
He, that may do gode dede,
He schulde hym force in yowthehede,
So þat he may, when he ys oolde,
For a doghty man be tolde.
The whyle y am a yonge man,
I wyll travell, as y can,
That men may holde me doghty in elde,
When y may not myselfe welde.’

‘Swete sone, let be thy fare:
Thou makest me to haue sorowe and care.

Whereto schulde þou passe the see?
Hyt ys bettur at home to bee.’
Then spake hys modur dere:
‘Leef soone, dwelle thou here.
Do aftur thy fadurs redde:
Hyt wyll the helpe from the dedde.
All thys yere thou wyth vs bee
And afturward þou passe the see.
Thou wottyst, we haue no nodur heyre,
But thou, my swete sone dere.
Yf þou were deed thore,
Heyre schulde we haue no more.
Who schulde þen aftur owre day
Haue owre londys, yf þou ne may?’
‘Fadur,’ he seyde, ‘god the kepe,’
And therwyth he can wepe;
‘And my modur dere alsoo:
Haue gode day, for y wyll goo.’

Now ys Gye goon fro hys kynne,
God hym sende ageyne wyth wynne.
To the see he ys goon,
A gode schyppe there he nome.
He passyd the see in hye,
Comen he ys to Normandye.
Thorowe the londe vtturly
He dud grete cheualry.
Forthe he went to Bretayne.
There were justyngys in Spayne,
That he went to turnaye,
Whyll he was there, euery day.
Now wendyth he fro Spayne,
Comen he ys to Almayne.
Fro þens he went to Lumbardye,
There was grete cheualrye.
Thorow hys strenkyth þere he wanne
Grete looueyng of many a man.

He was large of spendynge:
They honowred hym, as a kynge.

As he come fro a turnement,
That was besyde Bonement,
He was greuyd swythe sore
Of a wounde, þat he had thore.
Then bethoght hym the dewke Oton,
A grete traytur and a felon,
He louyd syr Gye nothynge:
He sye hym woundyd at þat justynge.
When Oton the sothe harde,
That syr Gye not wele farde,
He clepyd to hym erle Lambart,
A herde knyght and of gode harte,
And wyth hym knyghtys fyftene,
All bolde men and keene.
To the pase he bad them ryde,
There syr Gye schulde wende besyde.
‘Lordyngys,’ seyde the dewke Oton,
‘Herkyn all to my reson.
Ȝe be my men to me plyght,
Ye be holdyn to do my ryght,
And to do my comawndement,
In what stede ye be sente.
Goyth belyue and venge mee
Of Gye and hys felows three,
That ys enturd into my londe:
He wyll me brynge warre on honde.
He ys woundyd swythe sore,
Loke, that he dedde wore.
Ye schall be sworne on bokeys gode,
That ye schall wende to the wode
And kepe that pase ferre and nere,
That he passe not on no manere.
Ye schall brynge hys owne corse
And sloo hys men all wyth force.

I schall hym caste in my pryson:
For hym schall go no rawnsome.
Wyth paynes stronge he schall be dedde:
Ther schall be no nodur redde.’

‘Syr,’ they seyde, ‘wyth gode wylle
Yowre comawndement we schall fulfylle.’
Then þey armed them wele
Bothe in yron and in steele.
To the pase they conne ryde
And hyt besett on euery syde.
Gye ne wyste of that skathe,
That schulde come to hym so rathe.

Now Gye came faste rydynge
On a mewle wele awmbelynge.
He had gret angwysche of hys wounde:
Allas, þat he was not hole and sownde.
To passe þe watur he went full rathe,
But furste he had grete skathe.
Then he harde horsys neye,
Helmes he sawe bryght on hye.
‘Harrawde,’ he seyde, ‘here ys treson.
We be all dedde, be my crowne.’
Of the mewle he downe starte
And toke hys stede wyth gode herte.
All hys harnes he toke well ryght
And arrayed hym, as a doghty knyght,
And seyde to hys felows all:
‘Fyght faste, or we downe falle.
Euery man, that ys of myght,
Dyght hys body for to fyght.
And, yf y may, so mote y the,
He schall forþynk, þat comyth to me.’

Then seyde Harrawde, þat gode knyght:
‘Wende hens: ye may not fyght.
He schall forþynk, þat comyth to vs,

I swere be swete Ihesus;
For we schall kepe thys passage,
Thogh we be take wyth gret owtrage.
Bettur hyt ys, þat we dyed all,
Than ye amonge vs schulde mysfalle.’
Gye answeryd anon ryght,
As a bolde man and a wyght:
‘And all ye dyed, yf hyt so bee,
For all þys worlde wolde y not flee.’

Wyth that starte vp a Lumbarde:
I wott, he was a cowarde.
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘ȝylde the to me:
Be my hedde, hyt schall so bee.
I haue sworne to dewke Oton
To brynge the to hys pryson,
Or thou the water passed wore.’
Gye hym hytt and smote sore
Thorowe the body wyth the spere,
That hys fete myght not hym bere.
Another he mett all in hye
And he hym smote, wytturly.
The hedde wythowte lettynge
Flewe of wyth that strykynge.

Forthe then came syr Harrawt,
To the thrydde he made asawte.
He smote hym þorow wyth hys bronde:
The herte blode ranne on honde.
Then come prekyng syr Toralde,
An hardy knyght and a bolde.
A Lumbarde there he mett,
That the wey hym had besett,
Or he ouyr the watur went.
A grete stroke he had hym lente,
That the crowne wyth the heuydde,
Vppon the sonde þere was leuydde.

Forthe then come syr Vrry:
Ther was fewe there so hardy.
Slayne he hath a doghty knyght,
For he wolde mayntene vnryght.

Nowe begynneth newe batayle:
Echon odur faste can assayle
Wyth grete strokys vpon scheldys,
That þe pecys flewe in the feldys.
Of the helmes feyre and bryght
There was a rewfull syght.
Forthe came the erle Lambarde,
An hardy knyght and an harde.
Vrry the gode he hath slone
And let hym lye and forthe ys gone.
When Harrawde sawe þat ylke dede,
He ranne to Lambarde a gode spede.
He smote hym þorow wyth hys spere:
Vrryes dethe he venged there.
Then came forthe Hewchon,
That was cosyn to dewke Oton.
He was an hardy knyght
And in euery place stronge and wyght,
Toralde now hath he slayne,
Therof was not Harrawde fayne.
He sawe Toralde falle to grownde:
He þoght to venge hym in a stownde.
Hym to venge he þoght wele hate:
Hewchon on þe crowne he smate.
To the gyrdull stede hyt wode,
That dud Harrawde moche gode.
When syr Gayer sawe that dede,
That was an hardy knyght at nede,
Harrawde he mett and hym dud smyte
Wyth a swerde, þat wolde wele byte,
Thorow þe body in a stownde,

That syr Harrawde felle to grownde.
When Gye sawe them dedde all,
From hys stede he had nere falle.
For sorowe he waxe nere wode:
He was so wrothe in hys mode.
Gye smote oon of Lumbardye,
He rose no more, wytturlye:
He clafe hys body in twoo:
The ton syde from þe todur can goo.

Gye ys now euyll befalle:
Lorne he hath hys felows all.
He can syke and sore grone:
He wyste not, to whom to make hys moone.
All were slayne of þem, but two,
And they abowte syr Gye can goo.
Gye smote oon of tho
Hys rygge bone euyn in twoo.
Tho start forthe Segwarde,
A full felle Lumbarde.
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘ȝylde the;
For hyt so full wele may bee.
I see, þou mayst no lenger stonde
For to fyght wyth thyn honde.
I see now thy gode schelde:
The pecys lye in the felde,
Thy helme on that odur syde.
Blody be þy wowndys wyde.
I may see well be thy chere,
Fyght mayste thou no lengere.
I schall þe brynge to dewke Oton:
He schall þe caste in hys pryson.’

‘Nay,’ seyde Gye, ‘so mote y thryue,
Neuer, whyll y am on lyue.
Ne schall y wyth the dewke carpe,
The whyle y haue spere so scharpe
And whyll y haue so moche force

In my hondys and my corse.
The whyle y may defende me,
Schall y neuyr ȝylde me to the.’

Segwarde smote then Gye,
As knyght bolde and hardye.
On the helme he smote syr Gye:
In fowre pecys hyt went, wytturly.
Wyth the grace of heuyn kynge
Hymselfe had no hurtynge.
When Gye hym felyd smeten sore,
To ȝylde hyt hym he was yore.
He start to hym wyth gret force
And hyt hym egurly on the corce.
The schoulder fro the body well
He smote of euery dell.
Segwarde fledde faste awey
From syr Gye wyth grete derey.
Gye hym sone turned ageyne
To hys felows, þat were slayne.
Segwarde prekyth to Payuye
All wowndyd and blody.

As the dewke came from huntynge
And odur men oolde and ȝynge,
He sawe a knyght rydynge:
Hys ryght arme was mysfarynge.
The dewke stode stylle and hym beþoght
To here, what tydyngys he had broght:
‘Hyt semeth well a woundyd man.’
Segwarde hym hyed faste than.
‘Sey,’ quod the dewke, ‘art þou wrathe?
Who hath done the that skathe?
Where ys Gye? ys he tane?
And hys men, be they slane?’

Segwarde seyde: ‘y wyll the say
Also moche of Gye, as y may.

At the ryver we hym mett
And we hym all abowte sett.
We slewe all of hys men,
But hymselfe skapyd then.
My felows be slayne to grownde
And y myselfe bere dedly wounde.’
‘Where ys he, syr Hewchon?’
‘Dedde,’ seyde Segwarde, ‘be my crowne.’
‘And the erle Lambarde the goode?’
‘I lefte hym sprawlyng in hys blode.’
When þe dewke harde hym so sey,
‘Allas,’ he seyde, ‘and wele awey
For my men, that be spylte:
All hyt ys my nowne gylte.’

Now ys Gye comen there,
As hys men slayne were.
‘Allas,’ seyde Gye, ‘þat y was borre,
My gode men þat þus be lorne.’
In the stedd, þere Gye stode,
He sawe the bodyes lye in blode.
When he sawe þe bodyes colde
Of þe knyghtys, þat were so bolde,
‘Allas,’ he seyde, ‘and wele away,
That euer y wakenyd on þys day.
Jesu Cryste, what ys my redde?
For my loue þese men be dedde.
Sory wordys were me lente,
To serue Felyce when y was sente.
Felyce,’ he seyde, ‘for thy sake
To vs ys comen moche wrake,
And all for the loue of the
Dedde be here knyghtys thre.
They were þe beste in euery londe,
That myght bere spere on honde.

Me þynkyth,’ he seyde, ‘y am a fole,
When y to a woman make soche dole.
I am not þe furste nodur þe laste,
That þorowe a woman downe ys caste;
Nothur be two, nothur be three,
All wyse men be ware be me.
Here haue y loste Harrowde, a nobull knyȝt,
That was bolde bothe day and nyght.
Who schall me helpe, when y haue drede?
Thou were redy in all my nede.
I may not on no manere
Parte fro the, thou art my fere.
Y wolde, y were dedde and leyde on beere:
Allas,’ he seyde, ‘þat hyt so were!
Hangyd be the Lumbardes,
That be so fowle cowardes,
That y ne were wyth the slone!
Why haue þey lefte me allone?

A,’ he seyde, ‘erle Rohawte,
Of thy cowncell y haue defawte.
Had y restyd a whyle wyth the
And aftur that passyd the see,
Soche sorowe vndur a wode syde
For noþyng schulde haue me betyde.
He, þat wyll not hys fadur here
Nodur þe cowncell of hys modur dere,
Hyt schall hym nothynge avayle.
I haue hyt preuyd, wythowten fayle,
For þe sorowe and for the care
Of my felows, þat now dedde are,
And for my wounde, þat ys so wyde,
Well depe on euery syde.’

To þe erthe he felle downe
And smete in a grete swowne.
When he rose of swownynge,
He began hys hondys to wrynge.

Of hys felows, þat were dedde,
Then cowde he no nodur redde,
But toke hys hors sone anon
And to an hermytage he can goon.
‘Ermyte,’ he seyde, ‘come wyth me
(Thys horse of pryce y geue the)
And take vp bodyes tweyne,
That in þe wode lye slayne,
And bery þem wyth moche honowre;
For þey were of grete valowre.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y come ryght nowe.
Go before, y wyll sewe yow.’
Gye hath hym þe bodyes tane
Of Toralde and of Vrry than.
Sythen he ys lopen on hys stede:
He wyth hym Harrawde dud lede.

Gye wendyþ now from þat place,
There he had a febull grace.
The body of Harrawde wyth hym he bare
And lefte the odur corsys thare.
He went to an abbey,
That was a lytull besyde þe wey.
The abbot sone he fonde there
And spake to hym on hys manere:
‘God, þat dyed on a tree,
Sur,’ he seyde, ‘saue the.
I the bydde pur charyte
In the name of the trynyte,
That þou take thys body here
And bery hyt on all manere.
He was to day a doghty knyght
And ryght now was slayne in fyght.
God wyll ȝylde the thy mede
And y schall, when y may spede.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘wyth full gode chere
Schall y bery thys body here.

Syr,’ he seyde, ‘what ys þy name?
Telle þou me and, fro whens þou came.’
‘I am a knyght of straunge lande.
To day, as y come rydande,
There theuys come syxtene,
Bolde men and also kene.
Lefte y am myselfe allone:
All my felows haue þey slone.
I myselfe haue woundys wyde,
Well depe in the ryght syde.’
Gye turned fro the abbey
And hyed faste on hys wey.
To an ermyte he can wende,
That þerebefore had be hys frende.
There he had helyd hys wounde
Well sone in a lytull stounde.
The dewke Oton was full woo,
That syr Gye was passyd soo.

The abbot had grete pyte
Of þat knyght feyre and free.
He let bere hym yn sone:
In a chaumbur was he done.
Whyll he in the chaumbur laye,
Ther come oon of that abbaye,
A man, þat was gode and trewe:
Of all wowndys, for soþe, he knewe.
There he knelyd, wytturly,
And lokyd hys woundys and see þem bye,
That he had no dedly wounde.
He seyde: ‘y schall in a lytull stownde
Make thys knyght hole and fere.’
Therto he dud hys powere
And, as he seyde, so dud he,
As ye schall here aftur of me.

Now ys Gye hole of hys sare

And aftur broght owt of hys care.
The ermyte he yaue gode day
And to Pole he toke the way.
There he went to the kynge,
That had grete yoye of hys comyng.
Syluyr and golde he had hym sente:
Thereof had Gye no talente.
So had Gye taryed thore,
That all hym louyd, þat þere wore,
And of euery justynge
Wyth hym ys lefte the preysynge.

Leue of þe kynge Gye toke anon
And to Sesoyne ys he gone
To the nobull dewke Raynere,
And he welcomyd hym wyth gode chere.
So longe he hath hawntyd bordys,
That of armes he bare the prys.
He hym bethoght on a daye,
That he wolde wende away:
To hys contre wolde he fare.
He wolde not longe dwelle thare.

Now ys he went fro Sesoyne,
Comen he ys to Burgoyne
To dewke Myllon, that was þan:
Of Gye he was a yoyfull man.
All hys castels and all the lande
He dud take Gye in hys hande.
Thorow the londe he wan þe prys
Of justynge and of bordyse,
Now ys Gye loueyd well
Thorow all þe londe euery dele.
Was þer nodur lorde nor knyght
Nor squyer, that had any myght:
He gaue þem armes to be knyght
Thorow þer strenkyþ and þer myght.

So well he had there hym spedde,
That ladyes wolde be to hym wedde;
But none of all wolde he haue
For noght, þat þey myght craue.
For all þe sorowe, was hym befalle,
Ȝyt louyd he Felyce moste of all.
What for gyftys, what for larges,
What for bewte, what for proves,
Ther was no knyght beyonde þe see,
That was so moche preysed, as hee.

On huntyng Gye went on a day,
He mett a palmer be the way.
He clepyd to hym the palmere
And spake to hym on hys manere:
‘Gode man,’ seyde Gye, ‘telle þou me,
Fro whens þou came and fro what cuntre.’
‘Fro Lumbardy comyn y am.
There haue y tholed moche schame:
There loste y my lorde dere,
That was a knyght of gret powere.
The dewke Oton of Payuye
Desseyuyd vs thorow trecherye.
God, that dyed on a tre,
Let hym neuer forgeuyn bee.
On þys manere wyll y wende
Allwey to my lyueys ende.
I wyll bydde for hym well faste,
All þe whyle my lyfe may laste.’

‘Who was thy lorde,’ seyde Gye,
‘That þou loueyst so trewlye?’
‘Gye he hyght of Warwyke:
In all þys worlde ys none hym lyke.’
Gye began to syke sore.
When þe palmer had seyde thore,
‘Gode man,’ he seyde, ‘what ys þy name?
So god þe schylde fro synne and schame.’

‘Harrawde,’ he seyde, ‘men clepe me
Of Ardurne in that cuntre.’

When Gye harde þat, also smerte
Downe of hys stede sone he sterte.
He toke hym in hys armes twoo,
Owt of the stedde wolde he not goo.
He kyssyd hym an hundurde sythe:
Neuyr before was he so blythe,
Wyth hys eyen he wepyd sore
For yoye, that he stode thore,
And seyde, ‘syr Harrowde, þou seye me, why
That þou knowyst not syr Gye.’
Then he myght no lenger stonde,
But in swowne he felle to grownde.
Ther was yoye wythowte care:
Ayther askyd other of hys fare.

Nowe be they bothe two sett:
They haue grete yoye, þat þey be mett.
Than Gye all hath to hym seyde,
How he hym on hys hors leyde;
Vnto an abbey how he hym bare,
For þat he schulde be beryed thare.
For nothynge wolde he late,
But ylke tolde odur of þer state.
Now begynneth Harowde to spelle
And of hys sorowe he can hym telle,
How he was helyd of hys wownde
And made bothe hole and sownde
Be a monke of that abbey,
As ye haue herde me before sey,
And how he went to many a londe
Gye to seke, yf he myght be fonde.

Now be they horsyd bothe thare
And to the cyte dud they fare.

Gye dud hym bathe full well
And clothyd hym newe euery dell
Wyth ryche robys of grete prys
Furryd wele wyth veire and grys.
When he was so well cladde,
To dewke Myllon he hym ladde
And he hym tolde euery delle,
How ther wo was turned to wele.

At þe dewke þey toke leue:
þer was noþyng, myȝt hym more greue.
þey þoght to wende ouer þe sonde,
Tyll þey came to Ynglonde.
The dewke wolde haue had þem stylle,
But þat was not at ther wylle,
That þey schulde dwelle þere longe.
They wente þere forthe wyth songe:
Ryght to Flawndurs be þey goon.
Ther inne there was takyn anone:
To the see they wolde wyth ryght
On þe morne, when day was lyght.

Gye to a wyndowe yode
To loke, how the wynde stode.
In the way he sye come there
A pylgryme sekeyng hys sopere.
Gye askyd on feyre manere:
‘Pylgryme, wylt þou be herberde here?
Nyght hyt ys, þou mayste not wende.
Goode hyt ys, þat thou here lende.’
Than spake the pylgryme:
‘God the ȝylde and seynt Martyne.’

Than askyd Gye full yare,
In what cuntre he had fare
And yf he herde in any londe,
Where ony warre were on honde.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y schall yow telle
Of a warre stronge and felle.’

Gye seyde: ‘seye me belyue.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘so muste y thryue,
The ryche emperoure Raynere,
That all Almayne haþ in hys powere,
Hath besegyd dewke Segwyn
And dothe hym there moche pyne
(Hys men be slone and hys towres brent
And hys castels be brokyn and schente:
Therfore ys he nothynge fayne)
For hys cosyn, þat he hath slayne
Hym defendawnt, sawns fayle,
For he dud hym furste assayle,
Before at a turnement,
That was made for entysement.

There was þe nobull dewke Segwyne,
To whom longyd all Lowyne,
And of Lorayne dewke Loyere:
He was a bolde man and a fere.
Knyghtys came of the londe
Dedes of armes for to fonde.
The dewke Segwyn dud owt wende,
When þe game was broght to ende:
There hath he slayne a gode knyght,
That was a bolde man and a wyght.

Than came Saddok prykande
The dewke Segwyn saylande:
Of hym Saddok had grete envye
For hys grett cheualrye.
He was þe emperowrs cosyn,
Hys systurs sone, a bolde hyne.
Of justynge he was werye,
Hys hawberke haþ he caste bye:
In playne armes was he gone.
For sothe, he was a prowde mane.

‘Syr dewke,’ he seyde, ‘turne the
And oon tyme juste wyth me.
Thou art a bolde knyght and a kene:
For sothe, nowe hyt schall be sene.’
‘Saddok,’ he seyde, ‘let be thy stryfe.
I wolde not do þat for my lyfe.
I loue the dere in my herte:
To juste wyth the hyt wolde me smerte.
Thou art my lordys cosyn:
To do þe harme þe shame were myn,
When y the vnarmedde see.
Soche a coward wyll y not bee.’

Then seyde Saddok: ‘þou art a cowart
And a man of feynte harte.
So god me helpe in trynyte,
But þou ones juste wyth me,
I schall the hurte thys ylke day
And wrath þe, yf that y may,
And kepe þe, well wytterly,
As for my dedly enmye.’

He ranne to hym wyth grete yre
And the dewke turnyd hym þere.
Faste þey smote þen togedur,
That þer sperys can toschyder.
Saddok smote hym furste there
Owt of þe schelde a quartere.
He smote hym þorow þe arme also,
That the spere braste in twoo.
Than beganne the dewke to smyte,
For he thoght grete dyspyte.
Thorow þe body þe spere glode:
Of that dynte þe deþe he hadde.
He toke þe body, þere hyt laye,
And bare hyt to an abbay
And beryed hyt sone anon

Feyre in a marbull stone.

The dewke ys went and odur thre
To Argone, hys cyte.
The walles þere he dud mende:
He þoght hym þere to defende.
All þe castels of that cuntre
Full sekyr sone then made he.
Sythen messengerys he sente,
That all þat londe þorowe wente.
Swythe sende he hys sonde
To all men of hys londe
And badde, þey schulde be hym nere
Hym to helpe in hys mystere;
For stronge men, harde he say,
Thorow hys londe wolde haue þe way.
He thoght, whyll hys lyfe wolde laste,
To defende the cyte wyth þe beste.

When the emperowre harde telle
All þat case, how hyt felle,
That Saddok was so slayne,
Therof was he nothyng fayne.
He sende hys sonde thorow Almayne
Knyghtys and dewkys into Spayne,
Erlys, barons, lorde and swayne,
That þey schulde come wyth all þer mayne
To ther lorde, the emperowre,
To whom þey owe gret honowre.

When þey were gedurd togedur,
That they were comen thedur,
‘Gode men,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘Ye harde speke of the traytowre,
Howe the dewke of Lowyne
Slewe Saddok, my cosyn,
Therfore y bydd yow all in fere,
That ye me helpe wyth yowre power

Ageyne the dewke for to fyght:
He hath done ageyne the ryght.’
‘Syr,’ they seyde wyth oon assent,
‘We schall do thy comawndement.
We schall neuer thens goo,
Or we haue done hym moche woo.’

Now wendyth the grete ooste
Wyth grete pryde and mekyll boste.
There þey wente, brode and wyde
They dystroyed on euery syde.
There ys lefte but oon cyte
Far and nere in that contre;
That ys the cyte of Argone,
That ys formed aftur Rome.
Hyt ys closed wyth lyme and stone:
In all þys worlde ys bettur none.’

When þe pylgryme had all seyde,
Mete and drynke to hym was leyde.
Gye herkenyd euery dele
And vndurstode hyt full wele.
Then þoght Gye, there he stode,
To helpe þe dewke þat hyt were gode.
He seyde: ‘Harrawde, what redyst þou?
Yf me cowncell, for thy prowe.
Wyll we helpe the dewke hende,
Or we wyll to Ynglonde wende?
What ys thy wylle? saye nowe;
For þy cownsell wele y trowe.’

Syr Harrawde spake than:
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y am thy man.
I schall þe yeue gode cownsayle,
That schall the full wele avayle.
I rede the, harnes the ryght wele
Bothe in yron and in stele
And wyth þe v hundurd men on ende:
To the dewke wyll we wende.

We schall hym helpe wyth gode chere:
Of socowre he hath grete mystere.
Ye may so do in that stowre,
That euyr ye may gete honowre.’
‘Gramerey, syr,’ seyde Gye;
‘I the thanke, wytturlye.
Now y knowe, þou louyste me,
When y soche cowncell haue of the.
To þe cyte wyll we hye
Wyth moche haste and cheualrye.’

Fyve hundurde knyghtys yare,
That were redy wyth hym to fare,
Of all Frawnce þey were the beste,
Armed well on hors preste.
To Argone they be comen,
Into the cyte þe way þey nomen.
They toke ther ynnes in the cyte:
Gladde may the dewke be.

On the morne Gye rose
And to churche soone he gose:
Masse and matens þer he harde
And sythen to hys ynne farde.
He sawe men renne same:
He þoght be þem, hyt was no game.
Scheldys and sperys he sawe þem bere,
Ryght as hyt were to the were.
Gye sone clepyd a man:
‘What men,’ he seyde, ‘be ȝone?
Telle me, pur charyte,
Why ys thys haste in thys cyte?’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘be thys day,
Y schall the the sothe say.
Thys ys the steward to the emperowre,
That ys a man of grete valowre:
He ys holden of grete pryce

And of batell bothe war and wyse;
And other knyghtys wyth hym grete plente:
But ther ys none so gode in þys contre.
Yf any knyght so hardy bee,
That ys in all thys grete cyte,
That wyth hym ones dar fyght,
Forþe þen come odur anon ryght:
Be he neuyr so bolde nor so stowte
Cometh he neuer owt of þat rowte:
Other he schall be slayne wyth wronge
Or ellys taken to pryson stronge.’

Gye askyd hys armowre than
And armyd hym, as a doghty man.
All hys knyghtys dud also:
Forthe in fere can they goo.
As þey went from the cyte,
The steward myght þey all see.
Gye thedurwarde dud ryde,
There the steward dud abyde.

When the steward sawe Gye,
Stowtly he can hym hye.
He began to make deraye
And to hys felows dud he say:
‘Yondur cometh hedur a knyght,
That ys redy for to fyght.
He hath an hors of grete pryce:
He schall not longe, y trowe, be hys.
God delyuyr me neuyr of synne,
But y that horse soone wynne.’

He prekyd to juste wyth Gye,
As a bolde man and an hardye.
Bothe they strekyn faste:
They mett togedur at the laste.
Now they smeten faste on schelde:
The pecys flewe in the felde.
Gye hath hym a stroke raght

Wyth hys fawchon at a draght:
To the erthe he felle downe
Euyll at ese, be my crowne.
Then dud Gye, as felle to were:
In batell he toke hym there.
He drewe hys swerde of stele:
On hys hedde he hyt hym wele.
He hym toke, as in batayle:
That was honowre, wythowten fayle.

When the Almayns sye þat dede,
That were hardy men at nede,
How ther lorde takyn was,
They came to hym in that case.
Or they were fro þe felde ladde,
Many of them þe dethe had.
Now came Gye ageyn wyth game
And all hys felows hym wyth same.
He smytyth þe Almayns sare:
For nothynge wolde he spare.

All the men of that cyte
That batell myght beholde and see.
They went and armed them stylle
Bothe in yron and in stele.
Owt of the cyte can they wende
Gye to helpe, as men hende.
There men myght see strokys vnryde
And knyghtys juste on euery syde:
Bothe wyth swyrde and wyth spere
Echoon odur sore dud dere.
There men myght see knyghtys crye
And falle downe fro þer horsys on hye,
That were woundyd swythe sore.
Ther dyed many men thore.
There was dedde in a throwe
Fyve hundurde on a rowe.

Faste peyned hym syr Gye:
So dud Harrawde, wytterlye.
The Almayns were ouyrcome,
Some slayne and some nome.
Wele had Gye spedd that day:
So may all that eyte say.
The Almayns be scowmfett
Wythowte any more lett.

Now ys Gye turned ageyne:
Of hys dede he was fayne.
He and hys felows redde,
Ryche prysoners wyth þem ledde.
To hys ynne ys he gone,
He and hys felows euery oon.
Bolde þey were, sawns fayle;
For þey had wonne the batayle.
Gye restyd hym a thrawe:
All hys armvr he dud of drawe.

When þe dewke herde tythyng,
He was then a yolye thynge.
When he wyste, þat Gye was come,
The men slayne and þe steward nome,
He lepe on a palfraye,
To Gyes chaumbur he toke þe way.
He gret hym on feyre manere,
For hys comyng he made gode chere.
‘Welcome,’ he seyde, ‘syr Gye,
And þy felows, sekyrlye.
Now y wene to vengyd be
On myn enmyes, þat hate me.
They warre on me day and nyght:
That ys all wythowte ryght.
Syr Gye, y geue þe all myn honowre
Of my castell and my towre
And also of all my londe,
My men to serue the to þy honde.

From now forwarde, y bydde the,
That þou bothe lorde and syre bee.
All schall be at þy comawndemente,
Into what stedde that they be sente.
I wyll do aftur yowre avyse
And venge me on myn enmyes.’
‘Thou art a curtes man,’ quod Gye;
‘Syr dewke,’ he seyde, ‘gramercy.
Y schall yow helpe wyth all my myght
Wyth gode cowncell to venge the ryght.’

He hath yeuyn hym hys powere
Of all, that he hath far and nere,
He hath geuyn Gye into hys honde
And made hym lorde ouyr hys londe.
He wenyth be hys cownceyle
To acorde wyth þe emperowre, sawns fayle.
There they spake togedur stylle,
How þey myght gete ther wylle.

Gye sendyth now a messengere,
That was queynt on hys manere:
He sent into many a dyuers londe,
There he had bee before honde:
Knyghtys v hundurd, y vndurstonde,
There come to hym fro many a londe.
Wolde he nodur stynte nor blynne,
Or he þat londe wyth force myȝt wynne.
Thorow Gye and hys cownceyle
All he venged, wythowte fayle.

When þe emperowre all had harde
How Gye wyth þe dewke farde,
Hys stewarde to hys pryson tane,
And how he had hys men slane,
He had grete sorowe and care

For hys men, that dedde ware.
‘Lordyngys, what ys yowre redde
Of owre knyghtys, that be dedde?
I schall be neuyr glad nor blythe,
Or y be vengyd on hym swythe.’

‘Syr,’ seyde dewke Oton of Payuye,
‘Let be thyn yre and thyn envye.
Or hyt be passyd dayes thre,
Vengyd wele schalt thou bee.
Ye schall take yowre baronage
And odur men, þat wyll take wage.
Of Sesoyne the dewke Raynere
And the constable Waldynere
And y schall come to yow in hye
And brynge grete cheualrye.
To the cyte wyll we fare.
Yf Gye and þe dewke be thare,
But yf y take the traytowre
And brynge hym vnto yowre towre
And put hym in yowre depe pryson
(For hym þer schall goo no rawnsome),
Broke y neuyr ellys my lyfe
Nodur my chyldyr nor my wyfe.’

Than hym spake the emperowre:
‘Thou art a man of grete valowre.
Thou haste me geue cownceyle,
I wene, hyt schall me avayle.
Syr,’ he seyde, ‘make the ȝare
To the constable to fare
And to the dewke of Payuye
Wyth hys grete cheualrye:
To Argone ye schall in hye
And take the dewke and Gye.
Yf ye may do that ylke dede,
I schall the helpe at all nede.’

‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘wyth gode entente
We schall do thy comawndement.’

Now haue þey ther leue tane,
To ther innes be they gone.
On the morne, when hyt was day,
Vp þey rose and went ther way,
All the captens wyth moche ooste.
All they wente: they made boste.
To the cyte they came bolde,
Twenty hundurde scheldys tolde.

When they sye in that cyte
Men wythowte grete plente,
The bellus faste dud they rynge.
I wote, they made no dwellynge:
They armed them, as Gye badde,
Euery man, that harnes hadde.
When þey were come to syr Gye,
To fyght they were redy
The dewke clepyd Gye there
And bad, yf hys wylle were,
That Harrawde schulde haue wyth hym eche dell
Fyve hundurde knyghtys armed well
And wende forthe, wythowte fayle,
Boldely them for to assayle,
‘And ye, syr Gye, a thousande
Bolde men and wele bydande:
And, yf he haue mystere.
Helpe hym wyth gode chere.
And y wyll come wyth my mayne
Faste prekynge aftur the.
We schall so wyth them fyght
Wyth goddys grace and owre myght,
That we schall haue the maystrye.’
‘Thou seyest wele,’ seyde Gye.
‘Wendyth forthe for to fonde:

For nothynge wyll we wonde
To helpe the in thys stowre
For to holde vp thyn honowre.’

When he to the churche came,
Oton was the furste man
That he sawe in batayle,
For sothe wythowten fayle.
Harrowde, he þoght furste to assay
The felle dewke Oton of Payuaye.
‘Thynkyst thou not of thy velonye,
That þou duddyst my lorde and me
In Lumbardye, thy nowne contray?
We schall be venged wele to day
Wyth goddys grace: yf þat y may,
Wyth my handys y schall assay.’

Now they smyte faste in same:
I wot, ther was but lytull game.
Betwene þem was lytull play:
They drewe swerdys, as y say.
Grete batell þere men myght see:
Nother wolde fro odur flee.
He smote dewke Oton þere so faste,
That he felle downe at þe laste.
Soone he had hym slayne thare,
But hys men came full yare
And socowrde hym, wytterlye,
Or ellys he hadde dedde bee.
Then came hys men wyth myȝt and mayn
And set the dewke on hors agayn.

Then began a grete batayle:
Echon odur faste can assayle.
He peyned hym faste, syr Harrawt:
To the dewke he made assawt.
An hundurd he slewe, sawns fayle,
That belefte dedde in þat batayle.

The dewkes herte was full sore,
When he sawe hys men lye thore:
He began faste to crye
And seyde: ‘ye do velanye.
Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘what do ye nowe?
Styr ye nowe for yowre prowe.
Se ye not thys traytowre,
That doyth me thys dyshonowre?
He hath slayne my men goode:
They lye sprawlande in þer blode.
But y be venged on that thefe,
Schall ye neuer be to me lefe.’

Then þey gedurde on a hepe
And abowte they dudde lepe.
Grete angwysche ys Harrawde beforne,
Now he haþ of hys felows lorne.
But he gate helpe, y vndurstande,
For grete socowre came hym on hande.
All þey chacyd hym at the laste:
Then came Gye rydynge faste.
He mett hym faste fleande:
Hys spere was brokyn in hys hande
And hys hors woundyd on the knee,
That vnnethe goo myght hee.
Then seyde Gye: ‘turne ageyne.
Where by þy men? be þey slayne?’
‘Nay,’ seyde he, ‘y vndurstande:
I lefte them faste fyghtande.’
Gye beganne on hym to crye:
‘Harrawde, come on smertlye.’

When Gye sye dewke Oton,
Soone he schewyd hys reson:
‘Dewke,’ he seyde, ‘þynkyst þou noght
Of þe treson, that þou me wroght?
At the pase of thy foreste

In Lumbardy, þere þou myght beste,
Thou slewe my men wyth sorowe and care,
And y myselfe was woundyd thare.
So god me helpe, þys same day
I schall the ȝylde, yf þat y may.
I the warne, wyth all my myght
Here y wyll wyth the fyght.
I schall neuer be gladde nor blythe,
Or y be vengyd on the swythe.’

Gye turned the hedde of hys stede
They faght togedur gode spede.
They smeten so faste on þer sheldes,
That þe pecys flewe in þe feldes.
The dewke smote so syr Gye
On the schelde smertlye,
That hys spere flewe in thre.
‘For god,’ seyde he, ‘þou hyttest me
All wyth myght and wyth mayne.’
Gye turned hym agayne.
There he wolde haue had hys heuydde,
But sone he was fro hym reevyd
Wyth an hundurde knyghtys tolde,
That were hardy men and bolde.
All þey went abowte Gyone,
But he defendyd hym, as a lyon.

Gye cowmfortyd hys felawe
To do wele a lytull thrawe.
Now þey smyten faste samen:
I wot, ther was lytull gamen.
Many knyghtys þere dyed þat day
And in þat place full lowe lay.
Gye hym payned that day soo
To take Lumbardes and to sloo;
For he wolde vengyd bee

On the dewke and hys mayne.
Gye dud wele that ylke day
And all hys men wythowte delay
And slewe þe Lumbardes on euery syde
Wyth swerdys and wyth sperys vnryde.
Thorow Gye they be ouercome,
Many slayne and many nome.
They flewe awey, Gye dud þem chace;
Of dedde men was full the place.

Then came the dewke Raynere
And the constabull Waldynere
And wyth them grete company.
In a vale they sawe syr Gye
And faste to hym can they hye
Wyth full grete envye.
Gye drewe to an hylle
And all hys men wyth gode wylle.

‘Lordyngys,’ seyde Gye, ‘herkenyþ me,
The ylke men, þat ye yonder see,
Ys the dewke of Cesoyne
And the erle of Coloyne.
We may not passe, wytterlye:
Wyth them ys grete cheualrye.
They haue vs closed on euery parte:
We may not passe wythowten hurte.
We muste nede oon of the two
Othur to defende vs or to dethe go
Better hyt ys in honowre to dye,
Than to be takyn and hangyd hye.
Therfore euery man be gode couenande
Defende vs, whyll we may stande.
Hyt schall turne to grete honowre
Afturwarde in yche a stowre.’
All þey seyde wyth oon couenande:

‘Defende vs, whyll we may stande.
Helpe hym euyr god, that ys bolde,
Whyll he may stonde and wepon holde.’

Now they wente in hye,
Gye and hys companye.
There beganne a grete batayle:
Euery man odur faste can assayle.
Or the battell endyd were,
Many a stronge knyght dyed there.
Gye smote the dewke Raynere:
Of hys stede he dud hym bere.
He hyt a nodur in a stownde,
That he felle to the grownde:
Thorow þe body he hym smote,
He rose no more, wele y wote.
Than he smote Waldynere
Owt of hys schelde a quartere.
From hys sadull downe he starte:
I wot, Waldynere hyt dud smerte.
Another knyght he sloo tyte
Wyth hys swyrde, þat wolde byte.
Then forthe came Gylmyne,
The dewke Segwyns cosyn.
The erle smote abowte faste,
But Gye of hys hors hym caste.
Gye peyned hym wele to do
And all hys men dud also.
Of þe Almayns þey haue tane,
Many woundyd and many slane.
When he sawe dewke Raynere
And the constabull Waldynere,
How þer men were broght to grownde
Wyth grete yre yn a stownde,
Gye beganne to crye in hye:
‘Ȝelde yowreselfe or ye dye.’
Than he hyed full faste:

Them to sloo he was full preste.
For noþyng þey wolde flee,
And Gye faght full boldele.
Of þer men he slewe many:
To grownde þey wente sodenly.

Then came dewke Raynere
To mete wyth Gylmyn, þat was full fere.
He hath hym smeten þorow þe syde
And gaue hym a wounde longe and wyde.
Gylmyn flewe at the laste
On hys stede swythe faste.
To dewke Segwyne he ys gone:
The dewke hym knewe and þat anon.
Hys herte was full sare,
When he sye Gylmyn so fare.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘ye do grete wronge,
That ye dwelle here so longe.
Go and helpe thy men tyte:
They be in poynt to be scowmfyte.’

When the dewke harde þe tythyng,
That syr Gylmyne dud brynge,
He smote þe stede wyth þe sporys
And spared nother dyke nor forys
And seyde: ‘lordyngys, haue in yowre þoȝt,
That owre men þus dye noght.
Yf þey þus be slayne and tane,
We bene dedde euery man.’
Than þey wendyd in þat case
To helpe Gye a grete pase.

Nowe came the dewke faste rydynge
And the Almayns faste smytynge.
He smote a knyght in that tyde:
Into the body hyt can glyde.
Or he to Gye wanne,

He hedyd many a doghty man.
Now þey be mette thare,
To fyght þey were full ȝare
Wyth the Almayns anon ryght
Wyth scheldys, sperys and myght.
They schett bothe sperys and dartes:
Faste þey faght on bothe partes.
Hawberkys þey brake and styffe scheldes
And made to flye into þe feldus:
Hondes and armes þey leuyd there,
Fete, schankys, schelde and spere.
Wele gode knyghtys many oon,
In the felde þey were slone.
They were ryche menys sonnes,
All they were feyre gromes,
That þedur came lose to wynne.
Hyt was bothe grete shame and synne:
There fadurs be not well lykynge,
When þey harde of þat tythynge.

Forþe þen came dewke Raynere.
Slayne he hath Gawtere,
That was to Gye a trewe frende
Owtetakyn Harrawde þe hende.
Gye hyt sawe and was woo:
The dewke to smyte he can goo.
He smote hym hye vppon þe crowne,
That he felle fro hys hors downe.
Gye dud, as an hardy knyght,
And toke hym þere wyth strenkyþe of fyȝt.
Than hys swyrde he owte hynte
And gaue many an euyll dynte.
Gye toke in that stowre
An hundurd men of grete valowre.

The dewke Segwyne þo stert owte
On a gode stede and stowte.
Syr Waldynere þere he dud smyte,

That he felle from hys hors tyte.
He hath hym take wyth myght:
Bothe were woundyd in þat fyght.
Now be þe Lumbardes take be tale
And þe Almayns slayne alle.
The dewke and Gye dud þem chace:
Of dedde men was full þe place.

Tho came Tyrrye of Gormoyse
Wyth grete pryde and moche noyse
Wyth an hundurde of gode knyghtys,
That were armed at all ryghtys.
They were comyn wyth lawnce and spere
For to helpe the Almayns there.
As þe Almayns awey rode,
Tyrrye þem mett, and þey abode.
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘wyll ye flee?
Turne ageyne and stonde be me.
Fyght ageyne yowre enmyse
And let be yowre cowardyse,
Or y schall telle the emperowre,
That ye do hym þat dyshonowre.
Yf ye haue be ferde afore hande,
Turne ageyne: y wyll be yowre warante.’
He made þem to turne ageyne þan:
Newe batell they beganne.

The dewke Segwyne came full faste:
For noþynge wolde he be laste.
To an Almayne tho he starte
And smote hym streyght to þe harte.
When Tyrrye sawe hym dedde,
He cowde than no bettur redde,
But to dewke Segwyn he caste
A grete strook at the laste.
The dewke hym turned on hys manere
And faght ageyne wyth gode chere.
They two faght togedur wele

Wyth gode swerdys, were made of stele.
Tho came Harrowde on hys stede,
That was a gode knyght at euery nede.
Wyth a swyrde oon he smote
That he felle downe at hys fote.

That sawe the erle Tyrrye,
A gode knyght and an hardye.
Harrawde to smyte sone he yede:
He made hym to falle downe in þat stede.
Aftur hys folke he dud crye:
The Almayns come hastylye.
The dewke Segwyne þey sorowe wroght
And hys men to dethe broght.
Wyth strenkyth þey were dreuyn ageyne,
Many woundyd and many slayne.

When he sawe the dewke Segwyne,
He was wrothe, be seynt Martyne,
And all in hys wraþe seyde to Gye:
‘Thys ys grete schame, wytterlye,
When þus allone þat oon knyght
Schulde vs do that onryght.’
Gye hym answeryd, sawnce fayle:
‘Turne ageyne, yf hym batayle.
Hyt ys bettur slayne to be,
Then cowardely awey to flee.’

They leyde þe Almayns so vppon,
That they gaf back euerychon.
Ageynste þem rydyth Tyrrye
And makyth many a man blody.
When Tyrrye sawe syr Gye,
He rode to hym, as knyght hardye.
He wende Gye to haue slayne,
But he was turned soone agayne.
Betwene þem two was grete fyght:
Gye hym turned, as an hardy knyght.
They smote togedur so faste,

That there sperys all tobraste.
Than þey toke þer bryght brondys
And faght togedur wyth þer hondys.
Gye claue hys helme and hys schelde,
That þe pecys lay in the felde.
Tyrrye smote to Gye a stroke:
As god wolde, hys swyrde broke.
Sone Tyrrye turned hys stede
And fledde faste, as he had nede:
Full dere had that stroke be boght,
Had he there dwellyd oght.
The Almayns flewe wyth þer brondys
Bryght drawen in ther hondys.

The dewke Segwyne, for sothe y say,
To þe cyte he toke þe waye.
Syr Gye of Warwyk wyth hym ys gone
And hys men euerychone.
Dewkys, erlys and barons
They broght wyth þem to þer prysouns.
All, that in the cyte were,
Thankyd god wyth gode chere.

Now be þey to þer ynnes wente
Euery man wyth gode entente
And thankyd god in þat place,
That had sente þem soche grace.
The dewke ys went vnto hys towre:
The prysoners he lokyd wyth moche honowre,
The dewke Raynere of Sesoyne
And the erle Waldynere of Coloyne
And Gawter, the stewarde,
That was a nobull man and a harde:
He let serue them full tyte,
Or he wolde any mossel byte.

The dewke to hys systur can say,
That was gente and a feyre maye:

‘The ryche prysoners þou here take,
Well at ese þou þem make:
Of all þynge the dewke Raynere;
For he ys me bothe leue and dere.’
‘Syr,’ sche seyde tho full ryght,
‘I schall hym serue wyth all my myght.’

The ryche emperowre Raynere
Wottyth not of thys comberere.
He ne wyste of thys tythyng:
He pleyed at þe chesses wyth a kynge.
Tho came Tyrrye faste prekande
And hys swerde brokyn in hys hande:
Hys schelde was brokyn, y wene,
In the fyght, there he had bene.
The bryght helme was croked downe
Vnto þe mydward of hys crowne.
The blode ranne downe fro hys syde:
He had grete woundys and wyde.

‘Syr emperowre, vndurstande þys þynge:
I schall þe telle newe tythynge.
Thy barons, that were so wyght,
Thou schalt þem neuer see wyth syght.
Come be in the felde slane
And some vnto pryson tane.
Takyn ys the dewke Raynere
And of Coloyne the erle Waldynere.
The dewke Oton haþe a wounde wyde
Wyth a spere thorow the syde:
Of hys dethe he hath drede,
He wenyth neuer to ryde on stede.’

The emperowre harde full well,
That Tyrrye seyde, euery dell.
He ys so sory for that dede,
That for sorowe hys herte dud blede.
He haþe holdyn vp hys hande

And sworne be god all weldande,
That he schall neuer yoyfull bee,
Or he haue that cyte
And also the traytowrs tane
And wyth jugement þem slane.

He let the comyn belle rynge:
Hys men came wythowte dwellynge.
Sythen he partyd hys grete ooste:
To fyght made þey grete boste.
They ouyrspradde all þe feldys
Wyth spere, hawberk and wyth scheldys.
To the cyte they be wente.
Yonge Gayer þey haue sente
Wyth fyve hundurde knyghtys wyght:
They were redy for to fyght.
Than the men of that cyte
All the Almayns dud see.
The cuntre of þem was made lyght
Wyth scheldys and wyth helmes bryght.

Then came the dewke Segwyne ryght
Armed on a rabett wyght
And seyde: ‘Gye, gyf me þy cownceyle:
Wyll we the yonder men assayle?
Or we wyll the walles kepe:
The sekyrlyar may we slepe.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘y schall the saye
Gode cowncell, yf y maye:
An hundurde knyghtys we schall take
And a sawte we schall þem make.
Yonder y see stonde nere
The emperowres sone Gayere
And wyth hym grete companye of knyghtys
Armed wele at all ryghtys.
They be wente before the ooste

All for pryde and for boste.
Yf we haue the wars syde,
Into the cyte wyll we ryde.’

Nowe be þey an hundurde bolde
Wyght men and wele of tolde.
They wente, wythowten fayle,
Syr Gayer to assayle.
Of all þe Almayns þey wyll be wreke:
Of no corde wyll they speke.
To fyght they begynne faste:
Some were of þer horsys caste.
Gye smote Gayer there:
Of hys hors he dud hym bere.
There he was take wyth myght and mayne.
Hys men flewe to the ooste agayne:
So were they chaced at the laste,
That ther hertys almoste braste.
Some were woundyd and some tane
And some scaped and some slane.

When the ooste sye ther men
So faste toward them renne
And wyste also, that Gayere
Was takyn, wyth euyll chere
They hastyd them swythe
The dewke to brynge owt of lyue.
Than beganne a grete fyght:
Knyghtys many dyed ryght.
Grete lore was thore,
But the dewke had the more.
He hath lorne many of hys men:
They were awey ladde then.
The dewke passed myles thre
From hys men and hys cyte,
But neuer the lees þey dud well,
And so dud Gye, as haue y hele.

And wyth hym was Harrawte,
In batell dud neuyr defawte.

Then came prekynge Tyrrye,
A bolde knyght and an hardye.
He hath smetyn þe dewke Segwyne:
Hys hors he made hym for to tyne.
The dewke starte on fote:
He sawe no nodur bote.
He drewe hys swerde wyth myght
And defendyd hym, as a knyght.
Ther was no man, he myght come to,
But full sone he wolde hym sloo.
Tyrrye assayed the dewke than:
He hym defendyd, as a man.
The Almayns come on euery syde
Wyth scheldys and speres vnryde.
He ys woundyd ylle and sore:
Men wende, he schulde lyue no more.

When Gye sye hym haue care,
Ther was none, þat he wold spare,
Nor none, that he myght reche,
That had nede of odur leche.
Than he smote a doghty knyght:
Of hys hors he made hym to lyght.
He had hym smetyn swythe sore,
That he rose vp no more.
Hys gode swerde he drewe owte
And smote all, that stode abowte,
To helpe þe dewke fro them away:
Many a man he slewe that day.

Than spake syr Gyowne:
‘Dewke, herkyn to my resone.
To the cyte wyll we fare:
We may defende vs no mare.
Fyve hundurd knyghtys be redy

To fyght wyth vs here in hye.’
To the cyte be they gone,
Gye and hys men euerychone.
The knyghtys were bolde and hende:
To the wallys can they wende.
There þey wyll þemselfe defende,
Tyll Jesu Cryste them helpe sende.

When þe emperowre of þys harde,
How hys sone syr Gayer farde,
To hys men can he say:
‘Assembull yow thys ylke day.
Wende yow forthe to þat cyte:
All avaunsyd schall ye bee.’

Now þey can forthe fare,
To the cyte they come yare.
They schette dartes and speres amonge
Wyth abblasters, that were stronge.
So þey schett wyth harowes small
And sett laddurs to the walle.
Wyth ingynes þey caste stones
And breke the walles for þe nones.
They defendyd þe towne wythynne:
A stronge batayle they begynne.
Of the Almayns there that day
Many bare the dethe away.

The emperowre had sorowe and syght,
That he ne may be vengyd ryght.
Euery day, wythowten fayle,
He made hys men þe cyte to assayle,
But the dewke, Gye and Harrawte
Made mony a grete sawte,
That ther enmyes had grete skathe.
Therwyth þe emperowre was wrathe.

Hyt was on a somers day,
As y the sothe telle may:

When the emperowre had ete
And hys grete care forgete,
He clepyd hys hunte to hym there
And seyde, he wolde chace þe dere
Erly in the morowtyde
In the forest, þat was so wyde,
Bothe at hartys and at hyndys
And wylde bestys of odur kyndys,
‘Preuely that hyt be wroght,
That þe dewke wytt hyt noght.’

All harde thys a spye,
That was nye, wytterlye.
Owte of the courte ys he gone
And to þe dewke went sone anone.
He came rennyng all in hye
To the dewke preuelye.
‘Syr dewke,’ he seyde, ‘vndurstande;
For y schall telle the tythande.
The ryche emperowre Raynere
Schall to morowe chace þe dere
In the foreste preuelye
Wyth a lytull companye.
Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y lye þe noght.
Be hym, þat all þys worlde haþe wroght,
Ye may to morne there, wytterlye,
Take þem euerychone, sekurlye.’

When he had hys errande sayde,
The dewke on hym hys hande layde.
‘Yf hyt be sothe, that thou seyste here,
Thou schalt haue for thy labere
An hundurd besawntys of golde
To chere the wyth (for þou art oolde),
And to dubbe the a knyght
Ryght wythynne þys fowrtnyght.

Gye and Harrawde, wyll ye here?
Come to me euerychone here

And Rofaran’ (þat was an hardy man):
Ther was none wysear in Almayn),
Certenly, as y yow telle,
For to geue gode cowncell).
‘Lordyngys, what ys yowre redde,
All, þat be gedurd in þys stedde,
Of owre lorde the emperowre,
To whom we owe grete honowre?
He schall in the mornynge
Wende owte an huntynge
But wyth a small compane:
Thus hyt was tolde me.
Nowe may we wythowte care
Venge vs on hym thare.’

‘Syr dewke,’ seyde Gye, ‘y schall þe saye
The best cowncell, þat y maye.
An hundurd knyghtys y schall take,
That wyll wende for thy sake,
And myselfe wyth them wende
To the emperowre full hende.
Y wyll hym prey on feyre manere
To come and dyne wyth yow here,
He and all hys companye:
We schall þem serue rychelye.
Y rede, ye dwelle here at hame:
To take yowre lorde hyt were schame.
Dyght thy pales nobullye:
Loke, the mete be all redye.
Yf he wyth loue wyll not bowe,
He schall wyth awe, as y trowe.
What wyth strenckyth and wyth game,
Y schall þem brynge all same.’

Then seyde the dewke: ‘ye sey wele.
Ye schall wende, so haue y hele.
An hundurd knyghtys bolde and kene

Schall wende wyth yow, yf mystur bene.
Ye schall wende to that foreste
And kepe hym, þere ye may beste.
I prey yow, let for nothynge,
But that ye hys body brynge.’
Gye hym armed swythe well
Bothe in yron and in stele.
He hyed on hys errande faste:
Hys felows folowed hym at þe laste.

The emperowre rose ȝerlye
And so dud Gye, wytterlye.
The emperowre and hys barons
Wente to þe forest of Lyons.
When þat þey come thore,
The hunters fonde a wylde boore,
That was bothe wylde and kene:
He slewe þe howndys all bedene.
The hunters faste dud hym chace:
The emperowre folowed wyth hys mace.
They had redyn but a whyle,
Vnnethe the mowntaunce of a myle:
They sye nerehande them a lyght,
As hyt were of helmes bryght.
All full were the feldus
Bothe of hawberkys and of scheldus.
‘We be take,’ they seyde, ‘allas,
Confowndyd and slone in thys place.
Tyrrye, my frende so lefe and dere,
Come and see, that y see here.’
He behelde on the hylle:
‘Thou mayste þem see, and þou wylle:
They haue vs beset on euery syde,
That we may nodur go nor ryde.

They wyll vs take thys ylke day
Qwyck or dedde, yf they maye.
They be the dewkys men Segwyne:
God gyf them schame and pyne.
Gye ys formeste in that dede
And armed on a gode stede.’

Then seyde Tyrrye to the emperowre:
‘Wende yow hens wyth honowre;
For y wyll fyght, whyll y may stande
Wyth thys swyrde in my hande.
Yf y may mete wyth Gye,
He schall haue scathe, wytterlye.
All, þat come to my honde,
Schall haue skathe wyth my bronde.
Whyll that y be take or slone,
Ȝyt ye schall be hens gone.’
‘Nay certys,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘Ther schall me neuer falle þat dyshonowre.’
He armed hym wele, as a man,
And on hys stede lepe he than.

Wyth that come Gye prekyng there:
A branche of olyfe in hys hande he bere.
That was a feyre tokenynge
Of pees and of looueyng.
Syr Gye dud of hys hode
And gret þe emperowre wyth goode:
‘He the saue, syr emperowre,
That made þys worlde, and þyn honowre
And thy barons, that be wyth the
Gode cowncell for to geue the.
The dewke yow sendyth tythynge
Be me in thys morownynge
And preyeth the, yf þy wylle bee,
To come and dwelle in hys cyte,
Ye and all yowre companye:
Ye schall be seruyd rychelye.

He wyll the ȝelde castell and towre
And the cyte wyth grete honowre.
Yf þat he haue oght mysdoone,
Hyt schall be amendyd soone.’

When þat þe emperowre þys harde,
That Gye wyth no treson farde,
He clepyd the kynge of Hungarye
And the erle syr Tyrrye
And the erle of Wekelwolde
And a knyght, syr Grumbolde.
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘what sey ye?
Wyll we wende to that cyte?’
‘Ye,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘for sothenes,
Hyt ys a grete mekenes,
When the dewke in hys poste
Wyll ȝylde yow hys gode cyte
And hys londe euery dele:
Ye oght to loue hym wele.
We schall jugge at yowre wylle.
I rede yow, wende: that ys skylle.
Yf hyt be sothe and no lesynge,
He may do to yow no more thynge.’
The emperowre seyde: ‘ye sey wele.
So wyll y do, so haue y hele.
Yf y do that, wythowten fayle,
I sewe my barons cownceyle.
Y wyll wende wyth yowre redde,
Whethur hyt stonde to lyfe or to dedde.’
To the cyte all they went:
They speke of acordement.

Now be they come to þat cyte
All wyth game and wyth glee.
Gye broght them to þe ryche pales:
I wott, he made hym wele at ese;
So they dud hys meyne
Wyth pyment and wyth sotelte,

Wyth swannes and wyth herons,
Wyth hertys and wyth brawnes.
Gye hym payned on hys manere
Hym to serue and make goode chere.
Ther was none so lytull a knaue
In þat cowrte, þat mete wolde haue,
But to hym was sente plente
Of þe beste in þat cuntre.
The dewke Segwyne helde hym behynde:
He drad, þe emperowre wolde hym schende.
He was seruyd wyth the prysons,
And wyth hym were grete barons.

The emperowre erly arose
And to holy churche sone he gose,
Wyth hym hys grete baronage,
That were of dyuers langage.
The dewke rose erly on the morowe
And to þe prysoners made he sorowe:
‘Lordyngys, y bydde yow alle,
That ye for me downe falle
Before my lorde the emperowre,
That ys a man of grete valowre,
And prey hym, pur charyte,
That he wyll forgeue me
Hys yre and hys malecolye,
That y neuer seruyd, wytterlye.’
All they seyde wyth gode wylle:
‘We schall the helpe lowde and stylle.
We schall anon wyth hym wende
And pray hym to be thy frende.’

He made hym nakyd, for he was meke,
Saue hys schurte and hys breke.
All, that euyr dud hym see,

For hym had grete pyte.
To the emperowre he ys gone:
A branche of olyfe hath he tane.
Barefote he went þorow þe strete:
Many a man for hym dud grete.
Dewkys, erles and barons
Went wyth hym, þat were prysons.
They went to the churchewarde:
God þem spede and seynt Rycharde!

When they were to churche come,
The emperowre they fonde anon.
‘Syr emperowre,’ seyde Segwyne,
‘Ye haue had for me grete pyne.
Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y wyll be dedde
Ryght in þys same stedde
Or be drawe wyth horsys stronge
Or ellys on galows hye to honge.
Haue here thys swyrde bryght
And smyte of my hed ryght.
Take my londys and my fees,
My castels and my cytees.
I them the graunte vtterlye;
For y dud that folye,
When y slewe thy cosyn dere,
Me defendawnt on all manere.
The dewke of Coloyne was þer ryght
And many an nodur doghty knyght:
Yf any be, that sey therageyne,
That he wyth felonye was slayne,
Yf y may not defende me,
Hangyd be y on a tree.’

‘Leue fadur,’ seyde Gayer,
‘Haue mercy on the dewke here.
He may yow helpe in yowre mystere
In euery londe farre and nere.

Forgeue hym, pur charyte,
Or ye schall neuer haue yoye of me.’

Than spake the dewke Raynere:
‘Ye oght to loue hym dere
(When he ys put in yowre mercy,
To leue or dye he ys redye),
When he yowre systur sone sloo
Hym defendawnt, so mote y goo:
Yf ther be any knyght,
That wyll preue, y sey not ryght,
For hym wyll y here fyght
And defende hym wyth my myght.
But yf ye the dewke foryeue,
Y schall warre on yow, whyll y leue.’

Forþe þen came erle Waldynere:
‘Syr emperowre, y say here,
I loue the dewke ouyr all thynge.
He hath hyt seruyd, wythowte lesynge.
We felows ben togedur plyght.
Yf ye do hym any vnryght,
I schall wende to my cuntre
An oost to gedur and wende wyth the.’

The stewarde spake anon ryght:
‘The dewke ys a doghty knyght.
He hath done grete honowre:
Whyll ye be in hys owne towre,
He puttyth hym in þyn owne wylle
To leue or dye; and þat ys skylle.
Ye oght to grawnt at hys askynge,
Yf hyt were a gretter thynge.
Forgeue hym, lorde, þy euyll wylle:
To do hym harme hyt were no skylle.’

Gye spake to the emperowre:
‘Lorde, for yowre grete honowre
Here my prayer at thys tyme.
Haue mercy on dewke Segwyne

And wyth couenande y schall bee
Yowre man in euery cuntre
Yow to helpe in yowre mystere.
In euery cuntrey ferre and nere
I schall the serue lowde and stylle.
Forgeue the dewke þyn euyll wylle.’

‘Lorde,’ seyde erle Tyrrye,
‘Of the dewke thou haue mercy.
Yf ye thorow Segwyne
Haue lorne Saddok, yowre cosyn,
In stede of yowre cosyn schall he be
And yow to serue wyth lewte.’

When he had seyde on hys manere,
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘that be here,
Ye haue me bydden lowde and stylle
To foryeue þe dewke myn euyll wylle,
For he slewe Saddok the gode,
My systurs sone, myn owne blode.
He was a doghty knyght:
I louyd hym moste of any wyght.
I forgeue hym at thys tyde
(Y see hym meke wythowten pryde)
All my wrath and my euyll chere:
He schall be to me boþe lefe and dere.’
Dewkys, erlys and all dud crye:
‘Syr emperowre, gramercy!’
All þey felle downe ywysse
Wepynge for yoye and blys.
Now haue þey kyste and be gode frendys,
And many to ther ynne wendys.

Than come forthe dewke Oton:
In all þat londe þer was not a more felon.
‘Syr emperowre, what haue ye wroght?
Ye be all to grownde broght.
Ye haue forgeuyn here
The dethe of yowre cosyn dere.

What man schulde haue of the drede,
Yf þey be quytt of ther mysdede?
And ye them drawe and hongyd hye,
All wolde yow drede, þat hyt had sye,
Bothe Gye and Segwyne,
That yow neuer dud but sorowe and pyne.
Now schall ye þem loue dere,
More, then any odur fere.’

Whan Gye harde the dewke speke
(He thoght longe to be awreke):
‘Then lyest þou, dewke Oton,
When þou spekyst of soche felon
Ageyne the dewke or ellys me:
Ryght y wyll, hyt prouydde bee.
Thou art a thefe and theffes fere:
That ys sothe (y proue hyt here),
When þou laste betrayed me
And slewe my men in thy cuntre.
Yf þou wylt saye ageyne ryght,
Defende the nowe wyth me to fyght.
The grace of god fro me be reeuyd,
But y smyte of thy heuydde.’

There he can hys gloue wage
Ryght before the baronage.
They were departyd all to rathe,
That neyþer odur dud no skathe.
The emperowre swere hys othe:
Whedur of them dud odur lothe,
He schulde be drawe and hangyd tyte
Wythowt any more respyte.
Pese ys cryed amonge euery man:
Ther was none, that spake than.

There come forthe dewke Raynere
To Segwyne wyth gode chere
And askyd hym hys syster dere

Hur to haue vnto hys fere.
He grauntyd anon wyth honowre
That mayde, that was bryght in bowre,
And he hur weddyd wyth moche game,
And to hys cuntre they went same.

The emperowre on the morne
The dewke Segwyn calde hym beforne:
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘stondyth here.
Thou schalt haue my doghtur dere.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘god of heuyn
Ȝylde yow for hys nameys seuyn.’
The brydale was makyd than:
Feyrer sawe ther neuer man.

Gye to Segwyne toke hys way
To take hys leue wele awaye.
‘Syr dewke,’ seyde Gye full yare,
‘I may here dwelle no mare.
Y haue seruyd the in thy were:
Yf any man wyll more the dere,
Sende aftur me, hardylye,
And y wyll come, sekerlye.’
‘Syr,’ seyde the dewke, ‘gramercy:
Hyt ys vndeserued, verylye.
But ye schall dwelle here wyth me:
Of my castels and my cyte,
Of my goodeys the more dele
Y schall the geue, so haue y hele.’
He toke hys leue and went hys way:
The dewke wepte, y dare well say.

The emperowre can thens wende
And wyth hym Gye and Harrowde hende.
He bad hym castels and ryche cyteys,
Grete honowrs and large feys.
On ryches thoght he noght,

On odur thyngys was hys thoght.

Now ys the emperowre and Gye
To Almayne gone, wytterlye.
All the men of that cuntre
Preysed Gye for hys bewte.
He went to þe wode to chace þe dere
And after wyth hawkys to the ryuere.
On a day, as Gye dud ryde
On huntynge be the see syde,
He sawe a dromande to londe dryue:
Faste he hyed hym thedur belyue
And askyd, what that they dud þere
And of what cuntre þat þey were,
Fro whens þey came and what þey soght
And what maner marchandyse þay broght.
‘Hyt semeth to me be yowre chere,
That ye haue grete ryches here.’
Vp than starte a marynere
(Of langage þere was none hys pere)
And seyde: ‘we came hedur on þe stronde
Fro Constantyne, the nobull londe.
We be marchandys of that cyte,
That fro that cuntre chaced bee.
The ryche sowdan of Sysane
(To honowre god wyll he not payne),
xv kyngys of hethynesse
And syxty amerals more and lesse,
That haue beseged the emperowre
Wyth mony knyghtys and grete socowre.
Ther ys not lefte in that cuntre
Castell, towre nor cyte,
But hyt ys brente and stroyed all;
And the emperowre and hys men all,
To Constantyne he ys wende

Hym and hys men to defende,
That faught wyth sarazyns kene,
That euery day doyth them tene.
An hundurd myle may men wende,
Or they any crysten man fynde.
We be passyd wyth grete payne,
That we ne were take or slayne.
We be comen to thys cuntre:
Veire and gryce we haue plente,
Golde and syluyr and ryche stones
Of grete vertue for the nones,
Clothys of golde of grete pryce
And many odur marchandyse.’

When þe marchandys had all sayde,
Gye hys hande on hym layde
And betaght hym gode day:
To hys men he toke the way
And seyde: ‘Harrowde, what redyst þou?
Yf me thy cowncell nowe.
I wyll take leue at þe emperowre.
Hyt wyll be moche for owre honowre:
To Constantyne wyll we fare
The emperowre to helpe thare.
Marchandys me tolde of that lande,
That he ys besegeyd strongly on euery honde.
The hethyn dystroye castell and cyte,
And mekyll anoyen crystyante.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Harrawde, ‘y rede wele
To wende thedur, so haue y hele.’

They yede to the emperowre
And toke þer leue wyth grete honowre.
He was sory of ther partynge
And offerd þem golde and ryche rynge.
Therof had they no thoght;
For, where þey come, þey wantyd noght.

He toke an hundurde knyghtys wyght:

To the emperowre they went ryght.
They had gode wynde and passyd þe see:
Theder they come wyth harte free.
The emperowre harde seye than,
Gye was comyn to be hys man.
Of hys comyng was he blythe
And sende aftur hym swythe
Wyth an erle of grete renowne.
The emperowre seyde hys resone:
‘Welcome, Gye of Warwyck,
In all the worlde ys none þe lyke.
I haue harde the preysed be
Yn many a dyuers cuntre.
Y trowe, þat ye schall me avayle
Wyth yowre helpe and counsayle.
The sarasyns haue beset me
And lefte me nothur towne nor cyte,
But oonly thys, þat we are ynne.
Some þey stroye and some þey brenne.
They slewe my men on a day
Thretty thousande, for soþe to say.
Now y prey the for Mary sone
And for the rode he was on done,
That thou helpe to venge me
And make my londe recouerd to bee.
I schall þe geue my doghter dere
And all my londys boþe far and nere.’

‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘gramercy!
I wyll dwelle here, wytterlye.
Y schall the serue day and nyght,
As y am a trewe knyght.’
Nowe he hath hys leue tane
And to hys ynne ys he gone.

He haþ hym restyd but a whyle,
But the mowntance of a myle.
He sawe many armed men

Faste in the strete renne.
‘What,’ he seyde, ‘ys all thys fare,
That y see in the strete thare?
I see knyghtys armed wele
Bothe in yron and in stele.’
Than bespake a man wyse
Of Ynglonde and Englysche:
‘Hyt ys the admyrall Coldran,
A cosyn of the ryche sowdan.
He ys grete, hye and longe:
In all þys worlde ys none so stronge.
Hys wepon ys smered wythall
Wyth venome bytterer þen he galle.
Ther ys no man in ȝorthe, y wote,
But he schulde dye, and he hym smote.
He slewe my lordys sone þe emperowre
Thys endurs day in a stowre.
Moche shame he hath vs wroght
And ofte on vs warre broght.
Ther ys no knyght in londe so wyght,
That durste ones wyth hym fyght.
Wyth hym ys the kyng of Turrye,
That ledyth all that cheualrye.’

Gye seyde to hys companye:
‘Arme we vs all in hye.
The sarasyns wyll we assayle:
To smyte faste we wyll not fayle.’
They be armed euery man:
On ther horsys they lepe than.
They went forthe to fyghtynge:
I wot, ther was no lettynge.
Gye can the admerall assayle:
Hawberke nor schelde myght not avayle.
The hedde fro the body he schare:
To the emperowre a man hyt bare.
When þe emperowre hys hedde had,

He was bothe yoyfull and gladde.

Harrowde smote the kynge of Turrye,
The moste schrewe of all þe crye:
Thorow þe body he gaf hym a wounde,
That dedde he felle to the grownde.
Than come prekynge Gandyners,
Of Almayne a knyght ferse:
Smetyn he hath Rayndowne,
A more traytur was neuer none.
Euyn in two he clafe hys harte:
That was a strock smarte.
Then came forthe Mordagowre,
The steward to the emperowre:
Bolde he was and hardye,
But a traytowre, wytterlye.
He smote there a sarazyn:
Hys hedde he made hym to tyne.
He sturde hym full boldelye,
And so dud all, that were wyth Gye.
Whyll Gye had hys wepon in holde,
He slewe many sarasyns bolde.
So dud Harrowde, the gode knyght:
He payned hym faste for to fyght.

The sarasyns were swythe stronge
And helde fyght begle and longe.
Then came forthe Astadart,
A sarasyn of a wyckyd parte.
The burges sone of Burrye,
A bolde knyght and an hardye,
Syr Tebawde, he hath slayne
Wyth a scharpe swyrde and wyth mayne.
Then come forthe Aulart,
A bolde sarasyn, wyth a darte:
Syr Gylmyn he broght to grownde
And gaue hym the detheys wownde.

That sawe Harrawde the gode:
He was sory, be my hode.
Aulart he hyt wyth gode harte:
The hedde fro the body starte.

When Astadart sawe þat dede,
For sorowe he wolde nere wede.
He smote Harrowde anon ryght
And he defendyd hym, as a doghty knyȝt.
They two smeten togedur faste,
That of þer horsys downe were þey caste.
There þey wyth ther brondys bryght
Faste togedur they dud fyght.
They brake scheldes and speres longe:
They were knyghtys styffe and stronge.
On þer helmes þey smete wyth soche dynte,
That þe fyre flewe owt, as hyt doþe of flynte.
Then Harrowde hym folowde faste,
But to hym come helpe at the laste.
Ther came an hundurde sarasyns then,
That dud hym moche stronge pyne.
Ther þey had hym almoste slone,
But syr Gye come anone.
Hys swyrde harde dud he grype:
The hed of of oon he can wype,
Another he slowe wythowte lettynge,
The thrydde also, wythowte lesynge.
He hym helpyd at that nede
And sett hym vpon hys stede.
There he slowe and broght to grownde
Many sarasyns in that stownde.
On bothe partes were slayne vnryde,
But moo on the sarasyns syde.
Gye and hys meyne
Haue slayne of them plente.

The sarasyns flewe home ageyne.
Gye them chacyd wyth myȝt and mayne.

Or they were of of the felde wente,
Many were slayne and all toschente.
Ȝyt was Astadart behynde,
That the crysten men schende;
But he flewe at the laste
On a rabett swyfte and faste.
Hys gode schelde was fro hym reeuyd,
His helme was broke to hys heuydde.
Gye hym sawe and was drerye,
That he schulde passe so lyghtlye.
Gye faste aftur hym dud ryde:
For nothynge he wolde abyde.
‘Astadart,’ seyde Gye, ‘turne the
And oon tyme juste wyth me.
Be the trowthe, þat y leue on,
Here ys no man, but y allone.’

Then seyde Astadart to syr Gye:
‘I the swere, wytterlye,
Be thys day and be my browe
And be Mahownde, þat y in trowe,
I schall neuer be glad nor blythe,
Or y haue thy hedd swythe.
Y haue behet hyt to my lemman,
That ys the doghter of the sowdan.’

He turned hym and faght faste:
Ther was nother of other agaste.
Astadart smote Gyone
Thorowe hawberke and hakatone
Ynto the body wyth a spere:
Soche a dynte had he neuer ere.
Wyth yre Gye smote hym in felde:
Ther sauyd hym nodur hawberk nor shelde.
He smote hym wyth grete envye
Wyth a spere thorow the bodye.

Astadart flewe awey:
Gye hym folowed, per ma fay.
The lyght rabet bare hym awey:
Gye was sory, the sothe to say.

Now ys Gye to hys felows went:
To the cyte they be lente.
In the cyte ys game and glee,
That the sarasyns scowmfet bee.
The emperowre sende aftur Gye
And hym honowred: he was worthy.
The emperowre seyde: ‘be seynt Rogere,
I wyll the geue my doghter dere.
Thou art a man of grete valowre.
Ryght wolde, þou schuldest be emperowre.
All, that euyr be my mayne,
I wyll, that they bowe to the.’

The steward sate at the borde
And was sory of that worde.
To Gye he had grete envye
And thoght to do hym trecherye.

Astadart rode towarde the ooste:
Moche was fallyn of hys boste.
In hys body he had a tronchon:
He helde hys honde on hys arson.
Bothe behynde and before
The blode ranne downe of hys gore.
Hys helme was leyde on the syde:
Hys schelde was smeten in pecys wyde.
Of the dethe he had grete care
And vnto the sowdan can he fare.
The sowdan Astadart can see
And hys woundys, þat blody bee.
Quod the sowdan: ‘what eyleth the?
Telle me, who hath woundyd the?’
Quod Astadart: ‘y schall yow saye
Wyckyd tythyngys, be my fay.

The admyrall Cordran ys dedde,
And the kynge of Turrye etyþ neuer bredde.
An hundurd men and ȝyt moo
Before Gye to dethe can goo.’

Than bespake the sowdan:
‘Ys thys trewe, wythowten layne?
How schulde me falle þys auentowre?
Is ther any socowre comen to þe emperowre?’
‘Ye, for sothe,’ quod Astadart,
‘A schrewde knyght and of wyckyd harte.
Ther ys none so stronge in all þys lande,
That schulde stonde a stroke of hys hande.
In all thys worlde ys none hym lyke:
Men calle hym Gye of Warwyke.
Ther may no man stonde hys stroke,
Thogh he were as stronge as an noke.
He hath an hundurd knyghtys wyth hym,
Of Almayne the beste therynne.
He hath me þorow the body smytte:
Hyt ys my dethe, ye may wele wytt.’

The sowdan sware be hys crowne,
Be Apolyn and be Mahowne,
That he schall neuyr wele be,
Or he haue tane that cyte.
And all herde a queynt spye
And came anon vnto syr Gye
And tolde hym, how þe sowdan
Wolde besege the cyte anon.
The emperowre wyste nothynge
Of the spyes smert tythynge.
When he wyste hyt, he was full yare;
For to hys herte hyt dud grete care.

The emperowre was full fayne,
When the sarsyns were so slayne.
He calde forthe hys fawkenere

And seyde, he wolde to the ryuere
Wyth hys hawkys hym to playe:
Hys men went wyth hym þat daye.
Afturwarde a lytull whyle,
When he was passyd but a myle,
Then came forthe Mordagowre:
Iwysse, he was a traytowre.
‘Syr Gye,’ he seyde, ‘so haue y hele,
In my herte y loue the wele.
I haue castels and ryche cytees,
Brode londys and ryche feys:
All, y wyll, that they be yowre;
For ye be of grete valowre.
Y desyre ouyr all thynge
Yowre worschyp and yowre looueyng.
Go we now to chaumbur same
On some maner to make vs game,
To the chesses or to the tabels
Or ellys to speke of fabels
Before the bedde of þat feyre maye;
For sche the louyth boþe nyght and day.’

Into hur chaumbur þo þey yode:
Before hur bedde the mayde stode.
‘Syr Gye,’ sche seyde, ‘welcome ye be:
Ys hyt yowre wylle to kysse me?’
Gye hur kyssyd curteslye
And sythen they spake preuelye.
Then downe was the chekur leyde
And before þe maydenys bedde dysplayde.
Gye was queynte of hys playe
And wanne þe furste game, wythowten nay,
And the tother wyth the beste
And the thrydde, or he wolde reste.

Vp starte the steward than
(He was an envyows man)
And seyde: ‘Gye, dwelle here stylle

And solace þe mayde at hur wylle.
I schall wende to the cyte
And come ageyne sone to the.’

Forthe wente Morgadowre
And lefte Gye in þe maydens bowre.
The emperowre sone he fonde.
‘Steward,’ he seyde, ‘what tythande?
Telle me sone and lye noght:
Of the sarsyns harde thou oght?’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘wythowte blame,
For nothyng wyll y heyle schame.
Ye haue a knyght at yowre wage:
For yow he ys an euell page.
To day yowre chaumbur he haþ brokyn
And wyth thy doghtur he hath spokyn:
All wyth myght and wyth mayne
There he hath by hur layne.
And yf ye leue not me,
Hye yow home and ye may see,
In the chaumbur where he ys
The maydyn for to clyppe and kysse.
Therfore y come to telle hyt yow:
For sothe, hyt ys agayne þy prowe.
Yf ye hym take and bynde faste
And in yowre pryson hym lowe caste
And aftur be yowre mayne
Jugge hym for to hange hye,
Then schall men yow sore drede
And do to yow no wyckyd dede:
Hyt schall be moche for your honowre
To slee soche a traytowre;
And to Almayne wyll y fare
For to loke, what they do thare,
And y schall brynge yow companye
Thorowe the londe sone in hye

To venge vs on owre enmyse,
That haue vs stroyed in all wyse.’

‘Do way,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘For all my cyte wyth the honowre
Wolde not Gye do me that skathe,
That þou haste seyde here full rathe;
For he ys a full trewe knyght
Bothe be day and be nyght.
Y haue hym behet my doghtur dere:
I wyll not breke my couenande here.’

When Morgadowre sawe hyt wele,
That he hym louyd euery dele,
Of hys wordys he can forthenke;
But ȝyt he thoght anodur wrenke.
To the chaumbur he ys gone,
Ther Gye was wyth þe maydyn allone.
When he was comen nere Gye,
He seyde: ‘herkyn preuelye.
Gye,’ he seyde, ‘be seynt Mychell,
Y loue the in my herte well.
Therfore y warne þe of þy skathe:
I rede, that þou fle hens rathe.
Hyt ys tolde the emperowre,
That þou wyth strenckyþ haste brokyn hys bowre
And hys doghtur þou haste by layne:
Therof ys he nothynge fayne.
He sware be hys ryght hande,
Yf þou be fowndyn in hys lande,
Thou schalt be drawe and hongyd hye:
No nodur dethe schalt thou dye.
Hye the hens for anythynge:
Loke, thou make no dwellynge.
Yf ye be fownde in thys cyte,
Thou muste be slayne and þy meyne.’

‘Allas,’ he seyde, ‘that ys wronge.
Nowe haue y dwellyd here to longe,
When y schall for my mede
Suffur dethe for my gode dede.
For anythynge, þat euer y wroght,
Wythowte gylte hyt ys on me broght.
To day at morne, so haue y hele,
Be hys worde he louyd me wele.
Who may leue anythynge
In feyre wordys or feyre behetynge?
To day, when he to rever yede,
He hyght me londe and moche mede.
Wyth wronge he wyll slo me here
For the wordys of a losengere.’

Owt of þe chaumbur Gye ys went
All drery wyth hevy entent.
To hys ynne he ys gone
And calde hys felows euerychone.
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘arme yow all sone.
Here ys no dwellyng for vs to wonne.
We ben bewryed to the emperowre,
That we schulde do hym dyshonowre.
Be hym, that made sonne and moone
And for vs was on rode done,
Or we be tane and slayne wyth wronge,
Many of them schall dye amonge.
Than schall they wytt, wytterlye,
That we be flemed falselye.’

They armed þem hastyly þat tyde
And on þer horsys þey can stryde.
Gye went wyth hys mayne
Wyth wrath fro that cyte.
Toward the soudan can þey fare
To serue hym and dwelle thare.

Tho came home the emperowre

Fro huntynge wyth moche honowre.
The wedur was clere and day lyght:
He sawe helmes many and bryght.
The emperowre asked then,
What were all tho armed men.
Oon seyde, hyt was syr Gyowne,
‘All in wrath goyth fro þe towne
In odur stedde to do hys beste
Wyth schelde and spere to fyght preste.
He went in wrath, so haue y hele,
Armed on a stede wele.’

When the emperowre harde so saye,
He toke hys hors and rode hys way.
He stroke the stede wyth the sporys:
He spared nother rugge nor forys.
‘Syr Gye,’ he seyde, ‘stonde stylle
And telle me now, what ys þy wylle?
And who hath trespaste so to the,
That þou wylt now wende fro me?
My dere frende, seye me sone:
What thynge ys the mysdone?
Haue y trespaste anythynge?
Telle me now wythowte lesynge;
For, what thynge some euyr hyt be,
That hath þe greuyd in crystyante,
Hyt schall be dressyd thys ylke day,
How some euyr ye wyll say.
I vndurstande, that ye wyll fare
To the sowdan and dwelle thare.
I schall neuer haue þen yoye nor blysse,
Whyll y in thys worlde ys.
Golde and syluyr he may þe take
And a ryche man he may þe make;
Therfore þou wylt goo dwelle þere
And fyght sore agenste vs here.’

‘Syr,’ quod Gye to the emperowre,
‘Schall y neuyr be traytowre.
Hyt was me tolde in the cyte,
That nede had ye none of me
Nor no wylle of my seruyse,
For y serued yow wyth fantyse.
Therfore thedur wyll y fare
And my seruyse schall be thare,
Or ellys y wolde not agenste yow be
For all the golde in crystyante.’

The emperowre anon ryght
Askyd hym and seyde ȝyt:
‘My dere frende, turne ageyne:
Therof wolde y be full fayne.
And all schall be at thy wylle,
What þou wylt haue lowde or stylle.
For noþyng, þat men may say,
Wyll y be wrothe, be my fay.’

Now be they kyssyd and cordyd well
And all forgeuyn every delle.
There at the furste Gye perseyued,
That þe steward hym dysseyued.
Gye hyt on hys harte layde
And wolde hym not þerof vpbrayde.

‘Syr emperowre,’ seyde syr Gye,
‘Herkyn to me, wytterlye.
We schall be beseged wyth oost vnryde
Abowte þe cyte on euery syde,
Wyth sarsyns bothe black and kene
Wyth full grete force, as y wene:
To the cyte wyll they fare
Wyth grete ooste and mekyll mare.
Hymselfe sowdan wyll come hedur
And all the sarsyns wyth hym hedur.

He hath sworne be Apolyne,
That all schall dye, þat be þerynne.’
The emperowre seyde to Gye sone:
‘As ye wyll, hyt schall be done.
Y haue geue yow my powere
And therto gode auentere.
Yf they wyll vs assayle,
We schall vs defende, sawns fayle.’

Gye calde forthe þe constabull,
A nobull man and of cowncell stabull:
Crystofor was hys ryght name,
So god schylde hys body fro schame.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘herkyn hedur:
Take we owre cowncell now togedur.
To morne schall we assayled bee:
Wyll we holde the cyte
Or ellys þem kepe in the felde
To fyght wyth þem wyth spere and schelde?
Or they be passyd the hyllys hye,
We schall þem wrath, be my nye.’

Gye seyde to the constabull:
‘Thys cowncell schall be holde, wythowt fabull.
Do crye anon thorow the cyte,
That all the men, that there bee [OMITTED]
Helpe hym neuyr god at nede,
That leuyth behynde for any drede.’

On þe morne were gedurd in þe feldys
Twenty thousande whyte scheldys.
‘Lordyngys,’ sey e Gye, ‘herkenyth me,
All, that beleue on the trynyte.
The sarsyns schall we assayle:
For nothynge wyll we not fayle.
Thynke on god in trynete
And to holde vp crystyante

And wyth strenckyþ of owre hondys
Defende owre goodys and owre londys.
They haue slayne owre frendys dere:
Loke, that we be vengyd here.
Yf we anythynge flee,
Slayne schall we sone bee.
Then schall þys londe, wythowte feyne,
Be in angur and yn peyne.
Therfore wende we boldelye
And fyght wyth them manlelye.
Y wyll wyth yow thedur fare:
Yf y yow fayle, god gyf me care.’
All they seyde: ‘gramercye!
Wele haue ye spokyn now, syr Gye.’
To the hylle be they gone:
The sarsyns there þey fownde anon.
All the cuntre thereabowte
Was full of sarsyns grymme and stowte.

The sowdan calde a man wyth yre:
He was ryche and a grete syre:
Kynge he was wyse and bolde,
The beste in all þat londe tolde.
‘Kynge,’ seyde þe sowdan, ‘y commawnde þe,
Take twenty thousande men wyth þe:
Go to the hylle swythe anone
And sloo the theuys euerychone.
They haue me greuyd swythe sore:
Loke, that y see them no more.’

The kynge went forthe wyth hys ooste
(And made moche noyse and boste)
Wyth pryde for take the hylle,
But y wene, that they spedde ylle.
Ryght at the entre of the hylle
Gye cryed lowde and schrylle:
‘Lordyngys, do yowre helpe now:
Hyt wyll be mekull for yowre prowe.

Yf þey may gete the mowntayne,
We schall be takyn all or slayne.
Yf we haue the hylle and þey þe dale,
We schall þem worche moche bale.’

They caste stones and schett dartes
And scharpe speres on all partes.
They schett arows heded wyth stele;
They faght wyth scharpe swyrdys wele.
Gye, y wott, was well bolde:
He gedurd them, as schyp in folde.
When Gye was vppon the hylle,
He made them sone to fare full ylle,
That in ther downe fallynge
Echoon slewe odur, wythowt lesynge;
So that in a lytull stownde
Tenne thousande were broght to grownde.

When he hym sawe, þe kynge of Tyre,
Forthe he start wyth mekyll yre.
He bare a swyrde longe and scharpe:
He thoght to crysten men to carpe.
He smote a knyght on the heuydde:
Hys lyfe þere was hym bereeuydde.
When Gye sawe that owtrage,
He thoght to quyte hym hys wage.
He smote the kynge wondur sore:
He cleuyd hys crowne, he speke no more.
He slewe paynyms thyckfolde,
That on the hylle lay full colde.

When the sowdan see hys men,
How they in the felde ranne,
He clepyd the kynge of Nvmbye:
He was of grete felonye.
‘Kyng,’ he seyde, ‘seyst þou noght,
How owre men be downe broght?

The bodyes of them on the hylle lyse.
The kyng ys slayne, þat was full wyse.
So euyr me helpe goddys myne,
Termagawnt and Apolyne,
But y be vengyd on hym sone,
I schall neuyr abyde tyll none:
Y schall take the hylle wyth force
And sloo eche oon, be my corse.
We haue an hundurd agenste oon,
And therfore sone schall þey be tane.’

They toke þe hylle swythe faste
And many a stone downe caste.
The Greges defendyd þem well
Aȝenste the sarsyns, þat were trebell.
They smote of wyth þer gysarmes
Fete and honde, schouldur and armes.
That ylke batell was full stronge:
There dyed many a man amonge.

So wele dud Gye that day,
That he was preysed for nobull ay.
In a stedde stylle he stode
And faght wyth an harte gode.
The paynyms faste hym assayle:
He them hyt, wythowten fayle,
Bothe before and behynde.
He smote downe, þat he myght fynde,
That wythynne a lytull stownde
There lay abowte hym on þe grownde
An hundurd slayne and wele moo,
That hym had ȝernyd for to sloo.
To hys breste laye the hepe,
That he myght not awey lepe.
Also dud Harrowde sore:
He faght, as a wylde bore.
He had a swyrde, that was gode:

Many a hedde wyth that of yode.
Of the sarsyns he smote þat day
Two hundurd, or he went away.
Hys hawberke was brokyn wyde
Wyth many hoolys on euery syde.
Paynyms assaylyd hym at þat case,
That hys hawberke brokyn was.
He defendyd hym, as a lyowne,
And all, þat was wyth Gyowne;
And also dud the Gregeyse
Defende them wele in all wyse.

The kyng of Charturs was tane
And other sarsyns many ane.
Gye þere made a grete wondur;
For some of þem he smote in sondur.
Gye and hys ferys were armed wele
Bothe in yron and in stele.
In þat brunte many they hente
And many slewe and all torente.
They were so smert and so kene:
They made the sarsyns all to flene
On euery syde therwythall.
They of þe hylle downe let falle
Many and þyck of grete stones,
That were ordeygned for þe nones,
As grett, as any man may bere,
The sarsyns wyth for to dere.
They let the stones downe glyde
And slewe many on euery syde.
Tenne thousande in a stownde
There were slayne and broȝt to grownde.
Hyt felle so that ylke day,
That fewe of þem went away.

The nyght ys comen, þe day ys gone:
The sarsyns bene all slone.

So many sarsyns þere were slone,
That ix furlonge men myght gone,
Ȝyt schulde þey set no fote on grownde
For dedde bodyes in þat stownde.

Forthe went in yre Abelle the wyght:
He was newe dubbed knyght.
To the sowdan he come thore:
He was woundyd passynge sore.
‘Sowdan,’ he seyde, ‘flee or be dedde:
Seyst thou not thy men redde?
Thy goddys þe had not in þer thoght,
Therfore haue we spedde noght.
We wyll þem brenne in fyre bryght:
They dud vs neuer gode in fyght.
Wende now on yowre stede browne
Whome vnto yowre pavelowne.
Brynge home þe men, þat woundyd are:
Ȝyt some of þem may wele fare.’

Now be the sarsyns come ageyne
Wyth grett schame and many slayne.
The sowdan dud before hym brynge
All hys goddys in a thrynge.
‘A, goddys,’ he seyde, ‘ye are false:
The deuyll yow honge be the hals.
I haue done yow many a gode dede:
Euyll ye haue qwytt me my mede.
Ye wolde me serue, yf ye myght stonde,
As ye haue done before honde.’
He toke a staffe of appulle tre
And bete hys goddys all thre.
He brake of þem boþe legge and arme:
‘Ye dud me neuer gode, but harme.
Gode may ye do me none
More, than the harde stone.’
He toke þem be the fete faste
And dud þem sone owte caste.

Sythen he lepe on hys rabyte
And sende a messengere full tyte
To all men in hys poste
Fro thens vnto the redde see
And bad þem come for þer honowre
Hym to helpe and to socowre.

Gye clepyd to hym hys mayne:
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘god thanked be.
We haue done a feyre chace:
Lorde be thankyd of hys grace.
Owre enmyes be all tane,
Ouyrcomen and many slane.
To the cyte wyll we gone
Wyth owre felows euerychone.’
All wyth yoye þey went home,
But þey were woundyd euerychone.

Now ys Gye of grete poste:
All hym loueyd in that cyte.
The emperowre, so haue y hele,
Loueyd Gye swythe wele.
Thorowe hys helpe he wende full well
To wynne hys londe euery dele.
Gye doyth all, that euyr he wyll,
In the courte bothe lowde and stylle.

Then spake syr Morgadowre,
That ylke false traytowre.
He began to thynk a wyle,
How he myght Gye begyle.
He hath thoght a felonye
(Soche oon harde y neuer, wytterlye)
For to make Gye to do message
To the sowdan, that ys so rage.
He thoght, yf Gye thedur wente,
He schulde neuer aftur more be sente.
Gone he ys the emperowre nere

100

And seyde to hym on thys manere:
‘Yf ye wyll leue my cownceyle,
Hyt schall þe well gretly avayle
In all thynge, that y may do;
For y am moost holdyn thertoo.
But y telle yow gode redde,
I wyll, ye do me vnto dedde.
The sowdan hath sende hys messengere
Thorow all hys londe ferre and nere,
To hym schulde come more and lesse
All men, that in hys lande ys,
That may bere schylde or spere
Or hys owne hedde bere,
Yow to sege in yowre cyte
And yow to take and yowre meyne.

Now haue ye here a knyght:
In all þe worlde ys none so wyght.
That ys Gye of moche pryse
And wyth hym Harrowde þe marchyse.
In hym ye may yow wele affye;
He wyll yow helpe, sekurlye.
Sende a knyght þe sowdan to say
And byd hym sygne a certeyn day.
Whyll he wyll algate haue þy lande
And all wyth strenckyth of mannys hande,
Byd hym sende a gode knyght
Wyth oon of yowres for to fyght.
Yf hyt may so betyde,
That yowrys haue þe bettur syde,
He let yow haue all yowre lande
Wyth pees in yowre owne hande.
And, yf hys knyght haue þe maystry
And ouyrcome yowres wyth felonye,
For yowre lande ye schall do homage
And euery yere ȝelde hym trewage.’

101

Than spake þe emperowre Ernys:
‘Syr steward, at thyn avyce
I schall wytt at my baronage,
Who wyll do thys message;
And, yf any wyll thedur fare,
He schall be preysyd for euermare.
He, þat wendyth abowte that thynge,
Drede hyt ys of hys home comynge.’

He let calle hys baronage
And all men, þat he gaue wage.
‘Lordyngys,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘I say for yowre honowre,
All, that euyr be gedurd here,
Erle, baron, knyght and squyere:
I wyll sende a messengere
To the sowdan on all manere.
I wolde not warre, yf y myght,
But holde my londe wyth lawe and ryght.
Let hym fynde a sarsyn
And y to fynde a knyght of myn.
The batell vpon them schall goo:
Let hyt be done betwyx þem twoo.
Yf my man ouercome bee,
I schall hym ȝelde my londe free.
Yf he falle on þe warse syde,
As god graunte, hyt so betyde,
He schall fro my londe ryde
And make here no lenger abyde
Nor no nodur of hys lynage
Do me no wronge nor no owtrage.
And, who dar do my ȝernynge
And fro me bere thys tythynge,
I schall hym loue ouer all odur
And holde hym, as myn own brodur.’

When þe emperowre had all sayde

102

And all hys speche downe layde,
Ther was none of all, þat þere ware,
That wolde speke, lesse nor mare.
Then vp starte a nobull knyght:
The constabull Crystofor he hyght.
To hys gyrdull hys berde was longe:
Whyll he was yonge, he was stronge.
‘Syr emperowre, be thys day,
As me thynkyth, y schall say.
I oght to geue yow gode cownceyle
And to do yow honowre, wythowte fayle.
To sende yowre men for to be dedde,
Me thynkyth, hyt ys a sympull redde.
Thou myghtyst as wele wyth þyn hande
Slee þy men wele wyttande.
I wene, ye schall fynde none in þys lande,
That wyll on that errande fonde.
For cowardyse sey y hyt noght;
For wyth my wylle and my thoght,
Yf y now also nobull were here,
As y was wythynne thys ix yere,
I wolde do that ylke sonde:
For þe dethe schulde y not wonde.
Y am oolde and haue whyte hare
And of my strenckyth am made bare.
Hyt ys an hundurd wyntur ryght,
Sythe y was made a knyght.
Whyll y was a yonge man,
Grete messages dud y than.
Now am y olde and may not vayle,
But yf hyt be to geue cownseyle.’

Harrawde lokyd on syr Gye
And thoght, what he wolde sey, veryly.
He wolde haue askyd þat vyage,
Yf Gye had not take þat owtrage.

103

When Gye harde the worde to ende,
That no man profurde hym to wende
(He stode stylle, as a stone,
To wytt the wylle of euery mone
Yf any were so bolde and wyght,
That durste do þat errande ryght):
Gye vp starte swythe wyght.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y am yowre knyght:
Y schall to the sowdan fare
And telle hym yowre errande thore.
To do yowre errande y schall fonde:
For the dethe y wyll not wonde.
There schall be none so lytull a page,
But he schall here my message’ [OMITTED]

Gye ȝyt answeryd wyth grete yre:
‘I schall not leeue, be my swyre,
But y wyll wende in thys case
To dye therfore in the place.’

Now wendyth Gye owt of þe prees
Vnto the oost of the Gregeyes.
Gye ys a bolde baron:
God, that suffurde hys pascioun,
Yeue hym grace wele to fare
And to come ageyne wythowten care!
He came to hys herbergye
And fonde hys felowes heuelye.
They wolde wende wyth hym echone,
But he wolde suffer of þem neuer oon.
Quod Harrowde: ‘let me wyth the fare:
To dye wyth the y am full yare.’
‘Harrowde,’ seyde Gye, ‘be here stylle:
Thou schalt not wende wyth my wylle.’

Gye hym armed on all wyse
Wele and on a queynte gyse.

104

On he caste an hawberke bryght:
Whyll he had þat, he dradde no wyght.
On hys hedde hys helme he caste
And lasyd hym swythe faste:
A serkyll of golde, þat wolde noght
Wyth an c pownde of golde be boght.
Hyt was full of precyous stones
And ryche perles for the nones.
Sythen he gurde hym wyth hys bronde:
Hyt was worthe moche londe.
Hys schylde he caste abowte hys halse
And a spere he toke alse.
Hys gode stede he bestrode:
Forthe of the cyte sone he rode.
Al men of that grete cyte,
Of syr Gye had grete pyte.
All þey wepyd swythe sore:
They wenyd to see hym no more.

Now hath Gye, as y say,
Toward the sowdan take þe way.
He ne stynte nor he ne blanne,
Or he to the sowdan came.
As he rode vp and downe,
He knewe þe sowdans pavelowne.
An egull of golde þeron was bryght
And a stone, that gaue grete lyght,
That men myght see all the nyght,
As hyt had be the sonne bryght.

When he came to the pavelowne,
In he wente, be my crowne.
He fonde the sowdan at hys mete
And wyth hym xv kyngys grete
And odur men of grete valowre,
And all þey seruyd the sowdan þore.
Forthe than starte syr Gyowne

105

And schewyd sone hys resowne:
‘That ylke kynge, þat syttyþ in heuyn,
That made þe erthe and þe planettys seuyn
And in the see the sturgone,
Yeue the, syr sowdan, hys malysone
And all, that y hereynne see,
That beleue in Mahowndys poste.

Thys worde sendyth þe the emperowre,
That ys a man of grete valowre,
Thorow whom the sarsyns were tane,
Many woundyd and many slane.
He bad, þou schuldest not dwelle longe
In hys londe to do hym wronge.
Yf ye chalenge oght wyth ryght,
He byddyth the sende forthe a knyght,
That wyll sone for the fyght;
And, yf owres be slayne wyth force and myȝt,
He wyll the geue trewage be yere
And serue the, as hys lorde dere;
And, yf hys knyght thorow grace
Ouercome yowrys in the place,
Thou schalt delyuyr hys londe rathe
And restore hym ageyne hys skathe.
Wyth the emperowre, y the say,
Of thys thynge thou take a day.
And, yf that þou wylte not thys,
Telle me, whyt thy talente ys.
Here y am for my lordys sake:
Yf ony wyll the batell take,
I wyll defende my lordys londe,
Whyll y leue, wyth myn honde.’

þen seyde þe sowdan: ‘what art þou,
That comes into my courte nowe?
Ther was neuer knyght nor squyere,

106

That durste speke so to me ere.’
Gye seyde: ‘y schall the saye
My name, or y wende awaye.
I wyll þe nor no nodur beswyke.
Y am Gye of Warwyke.’

‘Art thou,’ he seyde, ‘þat ylke page,
That hast done me all þe owtrage?
Thou slewe my cosyn Coldrane:
Hys hedde thou smote of allone.
I schall neuyr ete bredde
To day, or þat þou be dedde.
Thy lorde the louyd nothynge,
When he comawndyd þe þys message to brynge.
Now y schall vengyd bee:
Thou schalt be hongyd on a tree.’

He comawndyd, he schulde be tane
And in a pytte caste allone.
When he had etyn and made hym at ese,
He thoght Gye for to sese.
Abowte Gye was grete thronge.
‘God wott,’ quod he, ‘y stonde to longe.’
There he faryd, as he wolde wede:
Wyth hys spurrys he stroke hys stede.
‘Sowdan,’ he seyde, ‘þou schalt abye
Furste of all thys companye.’
He smote the sowdan wyth hys sworde,
That the hedde trendyld on þe borde.
The hedde he toke in hys honde:
Owte of þe pales dud he wonde.
He smote of many a hevydde
Of þem, þat wolde haue hyt fro hym revydde.
The hedde wyth strenckyþ awey he bare
And knytt hyt in hys lappe thare.

Faste he pryckyd þorowe þe ooste
On hys stede, þat moche coste.

107

The sarsyns hyed þem full faste
Aftur Gye, when he was paste.
Gye to take they were preste:
Many a man dud hys beste.
Gye rode to a roche of stone:
The paynyms folowde hym euerychone.
Ofte he turned them ageyne:
Many of them hath he slayne.
Ther was neuer ȝyt man on grounde,
That durste agenste so many stonde.

Now of Harrowde wyll we speke:
For sorowe, he þoȝt, hys herte dud breke.
He haþe so moche sorowe and woo,
That he may not oon fote goo.
For Gye all þat sorowe hath he:
He wende, he schulde hym neuer see.
‘Alas, Gye,’ syr Harrowde seyde,
‘That þou were so fowle betrayed.
Now wott y wele, wythowten drede,
I schall hym neuer see on stede.
Then were y schente: what shall y doo?
I haue no man to moone me too.’

As he was in sorowe and dud wepe,
Vppon hys bedd he felle on slepe.
He can mete a straunge swevon:
He thoght, he sawe syr Gyowne
On a stede faste syttande
And a scharpe spere in hys hande.
Lyons and lebardes assayled hym faste,
That had made hym sore agaste.
Hys schylde was brokyn euyn in two,
And hys hawberke was reuyn also.
Wyth moche pyne he helde hys lyfe:
He was in so moche stryfe.

When Harrowde of hys slepe dud wake,
For drede faste can he quake.

108

On hys felows dud he calle:
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘arme yow all.
To helpe Gye, loke, no man fayle;
For he ys in moche batayle.’
Hastyly were they dyght
On ther horsys redy to fyght.
Faste they redyn forthe in hye
For drede of ther maystyr Gye,
That he schulde be woundyd or slane
Or ellys wyth þem to preson tane.

At the laste they sawe the ooste
Of the sarsyns, that made boste.
Of armed men were full þe feldes,
Some wyth hawberkys and some wyth scheldes.
All they chasyd there syr Gye;
Hym to sloo they were redye.
They hym assayled on euery syde,
And he gaue þem strokys vnryde.
So nerehonde þe paynyms yede,
They had þe brydull of hys stede.
Then was Gye in sorowe and woo,
That he myght not passe þem froo.
All tho, that wolde hym take,
He made þe rugges for to crake.

Then came syr Harrawde:
To a paynym he made asawte.
He hyt hym hye vppon þe crowne:
There halpe hym not syr Mahowne.
To þe breste þe swyrde went ynne:
Therof thoght he no synne.
Echeoon of the companye
Slewe two paynyms or thre.
Than þere was a batell stronge,
And many sarsyns dyed amonge.

Now hath Harrowde yoye and game,

109

That he and Gye were mett same.
For yoye, that they were mette,
Wyth ther eyen bothe þey grette.
Then kyssyd Gye euery man,
When he was fro thronge tane.
The sarsyns be ageyne wente
All wyth sorowe and beschente.
Gye wyth yoye and hys meyne
Turned ageyne to the cyte
All wyth pryde and yolytee,
Wyth moche game and more glee.
Then beganne þe bellus to rynge,
Prestys and clerkys meryly to synge.
When þey sawe þe hed than,
Moche yoye made many a man.
All they seyde: ‘wythowte lese,
Of the sowdan schall we haue pese.
Thankyd be god all weldynge,
That he vs hath sende that tythynge.’

Gye ys gone vnto the towre
And presentyd the hedde to the emperowre.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘vndurstande:
The hedde, that y bere in hande,
Ys the hedde of the grete sowdan:
I hym slewe myselfe allone.
Y yow make thys present:
Take hyt wyth gode entent.’
When þe emperowre sawe þat thynge,
He myȝt hym not holde fro wepeynge.
An hundurd sythe he hym kyste:
What yoye he made, no man wyste.
All they thankyd heuyn kynge,
That þe warre was broght to endynge.

Gye made or the thrydde day

110

A pyller of marbull grett and graye:
Aboue he set a hedde of brasse,
In that the sowdans hed was.
Aboue all he sett a crowne;
Ryght in mydwarde of the towne,
That all odur warned myght bee,
That wolde do harme to the cyte.

Than spake the emperowre Ernys:
‘Gye, herkyn to myn avyse.
I thynke to do the gret honowre:
Take þou my doghtur in hur bowre.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘gramercy:
That ys vndeserued, sekerlye.’

The emperowre comawndyd hys men
To make þem redy be ix and tenne,
‘And thorowowt my londe fare
And store ageyne, þat lorne was are.’

The emperowre rose erlye:
Matens and messe he harde in hye
And sythen he lepe on a mewle browne
And toke wyth hym syr Gyowne,
Dewkys and erlys, that there were,
That had hym serued far and nere:
To hunte they went that day.
The wedur was hote in þe waye.
Gye sawe, as he dud ryde,
As he blenchyd hym besyde,
A lyon come towarde hym werelye,
But vnnethe he myght drye.
He brayed faste and gaped wyde:
He wyste not, where he myȝt hym hyde.
Aftur hym come a dragon,
That folowde faste the lyon.
Hys hed was gret and grennyng
And hys eyen, as fyre, brennyng.

111

Hys tethe scharpe, hys mowþe wyde:
Hys body was grett and vnryde.
He was grymme and he was felle:
He went, hyt had be þe deuyll of helle.

Then seyde Gye to hys meyne:
‘I wyll go forthe sekerlye.
Y wyll preue wyth all my myght,
Whedur y dare wyth þe ȝondur dragon fyȝt.
Loke, ye store not of þat stedde,
Whedur y be quyck or dedde.’

Gye a spere toke in hys honde:
Fro hys felows he hym wonde.
He went forthe a gode spede
To helpe the lyon at that nede.
When þe dragon sawe Gyowne,
He came to hym and lefte þe lyone.
Gye sawe hym come fleande:
He toke hys spere in hys hande.
He lokyd, where he myȝt do hym skathe,
And he aspyed hyt sone full rathe.
Vndur the wynge he schett þe spere:
Thorow þe body he dud hym bere.
Then the dragon felle to grownde
And dyed in a lytull stownde.
He drewe hys swerde made of stele
And smote of hys hedde euery dele.
He behelde the body on grownde:
Hyt stanke, as a pyllyd hownde.

Gye rode to hys men warde:
The lyon folowed hym full harde.
He went before Gye pleying
And wyth hys tayle hym faynynge.
He lykkyd Gyes fete alse
And lepe abowte hys stede halse.
Gye had wondur of that dede
And lepe downe of hys stede.

112

He strokyd hym on þe rygge ofte
And leyde hys hande hys hedde on lofte.
The lyon walowed on the grownde
Before Gye, as dothe an hownde.
Sythen he playde wyth hym faste:
Of hym Gye was not agaste.
Gye lepe on hys stede than:
The lyon before hym faste ranne.
He folowed Gye est and weste:
Gye hym louydde at the beste.
Gye to the emperowre dud ryde:
The lyon yede be hys syde.
Gye hym tolde euery dele,
How that he had spedd wele.
All þey wondurde on the lyon,
That he louyd so syr Gyone.

The emperowre and hys meyne
Went vnto the cyte.
Bothe Gye and the emperowre
Togedur þey went to the towre.
Gye into hys chaumbur ys gone
And wyth hym went hys gode lyone.
Into what stede þat Gye wente,
The lyon folowed hym, verament.
Before Gyes bedde he laye:
Ther myȝt no man brynge hym awaye.
Of hym was Gye full fayne,
For he was hys chaumburleyne.

When þey had the londe rede thorowe,
Castels, cytes, towne and borowe,
To Constantyne þey came in hye.
The emperowre callyd to hym syr Gye.
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘grathe the therforne:
My doghtur þou schalt wedde to morne.
Tyme ys comen, and y am payde:
Hyt schall no lenger be delayde.’

113

Gye answeryd, as a knyght:
‘Yow therfore ȝelde þe kynge of myght.’

On þe morne Gye dyȝt hym nobullye
And went to the churche merelye,
And hys felows euerychone
Wyth hym full feyre they gone.
Ther was none so lytull of all,
But they were cladde in palle.
All men, that sye syr Gye,
Of hys degre they had ferle
Gye came to churche than
And there he sawe many a man,
Kynge, dewke and barowne,
The beste of all that regeowne.
There were ryche byschoppes for hys sake,
That the maryage schulde make.

‘Gye,’ seyde Ernyse, ‘come to me:
My doghtur here geue y the
And, whyll y leue, halfe my londe
And, when y am dedde, all in þy honde.
Thou schalt be emperowre aftur me:
Before my baronage y grawnte þe.’
All men, þat þere dud stande,
Were fayne of that tythande.
Gye hym thankyd nobullye
Of hys honowre and hys curtesye.

Then came the byschoppe revyscht
And broght ryngys of the beste.
When he sawe þe ryngys broght,
On feyre Felyce was hys þoght.
‘A, Felyce,’ he seyde, ‘þat feyre wyght,
I haue þe louyd wyth all my myght.
Schall y for ryches forsake now þe?

114

Hyt schall neuyr for me so bee.
Thy bare body ys darre to me,
Then all the gode in crystyante.’
Wythowte ony more he felle to grownde:
Soche an euyll toke hym in þat stownde.

‘Syr emperowre,’ seyde Gye,
‘For the loue of owre lady,
Do thys spowsage in respyte
(Ye may me nothynge wyte),
Tyll that y amendyd bee
Of stronge peyne, þat greuyþ me.’
‘Me forthynkyth,’ quod þe emperowre, ‘sore,
That hyt schulde be delayed more.’
The emperowre made euyll chere
And all, þat euer abowte hym were.

Now be they partyd aweye
Wyth moche sorowe, be thys daye.
The mayde for Gye sorowed faste:
Sche þoght, hur herte wolde tobraste.
Ther myȝt no man brynge hur away:
Sche swownyd soo that ylke day.
Gye leyde hym on hys bedde:
Ther wyste no man, what euyll he hedde.
Thre dayes he helde hym stylle
In hys chaumbur at hys wylle.
Ther wyste no man, þat was wroght,
Of hys fantyse and hys thoght.
So grete dole hath the lyon
For hys lorde syr Gyowne:
Thre dayes owte and owte
Ete he no mete, wythowte dowte.

Gye calde Harrowde to hym þat day:
‘What ys the beste? thou me saye.
Harrowde,’ he seyde, ‘what ys thy redde?
For sorowe y am nere dedde.

115

Redyst thou, that y weddyd bee,
Or to wende to my cuntre?
In Ynglonde ther ys a maye
(Now to the y dare well saye),
The erlys doghtur Rohawte:
Sche hath my loue, wythowte defawte.
Men calle hur feyre Felyce:
In all thys londe ys none so wyse.
Sche ys feyre and bryght of hewe:
In all þys worlde ys none so trewe.’

‘Syr,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘y schall þe say
The beste cowncell, þat y maye.
The emperowrs doghtur, loke, þou take
(A ryche man sche may þe make)
Aftur hym to be emperowre.
God haþ geuyn yow grete honowre:
In all þys worlde schall none bee
Of yowre ryches and yowre poste.
Soche twenty schulde be at þy hande
Of ryche erledams wyth wode and lande,
Than ys erle Roholde the gode.
He, þat forsakyth worschyp, ys wode.’

‘Let be, Harrawde: þou louyst me noght,
When þou me soche cowncell broght.
When þou me seyst forsake þat maye
I schall be dedde that ylke day.’

‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘holde yow stylle;
For now y wott, what ys your wylle.
That ye hur so louyd, wyste y noȝt.
When ye of cowncell me besoȝt,
Wyth all my myght, be thys day,
Gode cowncell y wyll geue yow, yf y maye:
Whyll ye so loue Felyce,
Forsake hur not, yf ye be wyse.’

Gye rose vp at the laste:
To courte went he full faste.

116

All had yoye, þat þere ware,
þat he was couyrde of hys care.
Wyth hym came hys lyone,
Thorow whome felle treson.
Tho bad the emperowre grete,
That Gye schulde dwelle at mete,
To do hym some solace;
For þorow hym he delyuerd was.
The lyon went thorow þe pales
And of hym spake all the Gregyes
And of the boldenes of Gyowne,
How he slewe the dragon.
The steward had grete envye:
He þoght, þe lyon schulde abye.

Aftur mete a longe owre
Gye went wyth the emperowre:
The lyon went in that palees
Meryly and in feyre pese.
In the garden ageyne þe sonne
He laye to slepe, as he was wonne.
Gye went and laye to slepe:
Of the lyon toke he no kepe.
In a soler stode the stewarde
At a wyndowe to loke owtwarde.
He þoght to sloo hym wyth hys hande,
As that he laye slepande.
He wolde venge hym on syr Gye:
He was a traytowre, verelye.
In hys honde he toke a spere:
Thorow the lyon he can hyt bere.
The lyon vp starte wythowten more,
But he was woundyd passynge sore.
That sawe a maydyn in hur bowre
And cryed on Morgadowre

117

And seyde: ‘þou haste done grete wronge.
Thou schalt hyt fynde, or hyt be longe.
When Gye wottyth, þat he ys slayne,
He wyll hym venge wyth grete mayn.’

The lyon ranne forþe into þe strete:
Hys bowels trayled at hys fete.
Also faste, as he myght renne,
He came home to Gyes ynne.
In hys chaumbur he hym fonde
On hys bedde slepande.
He came before Gyowne:
At hys fete he felle downe.
Hys fete he lykkyd wyth mornynge:
Hyt was a tokyn of loueynge.

When Gye hym sawe woundyd þore,
For hys lyon he wepyd sore.
‘God,’ he seyde, ‘of mekyll myght,
Who hath do me þys vnryght?
Now he hath my lyon slane,
All my yoye ys fro me tane.
Be god, that dyed on a tre,
I wolde not for thys feyre cyte,
What some euyr that he bee,
That hath thus betrayed me.’

Wyth that he sawe before hys eye
Hys lyon gode there dye.
He seyde: ‘now haue y care:
Ther was noþyng, y louyd mare.
Thou art dedde in thys place:
To venge me gode geue me grace.
Yf y wyste, who had the slane,
Sone schulde y be hys bane.
In all þys lande ys none so wyght,
Dewke, erle, baron nor knyght,
But my lorde the emperowre,
But y schall slee that traytowre.’

118

He toke hys swyrde abowte hys swyre:
To the cyte he came wyth yre.
A knyght sawe, þat he was wrothe,
And seyde: ‘who dud yow lothe?
He askyd thorow the halle:
‘Lordyngys, y prey yow all,
Yf any wote, he wyll me saye,
Who slewe my gode lyon þys day.
Y schall hym geue ryche mede
And be hys man in euery stede.
Thys þynge schall be hys medys:
xv hawkys and xv stedys
And an hundurd besawntys of golde:
Therfore he schall to me be beholde.’
They seyde all, sekerlye:
‘We can not telle yow, syr Gye.’

Sythen he went fro the halle:
Knyghtys and squyers he askyd all.
Fro chaumber to chaumber Gye went:
At the laste he mett þe maydyn gente.
Sche askyd tho Gyone,
Who had slayne hys lyone.
Sche was not fayne, wytterlye:
‘I sye hym smetyn þorow þe body.’
‘Now,’ quod Gye, ‘my dere lemman,
Telle me sone: spare for no man.
I schall geue the golde schynande
And serue from fote to hande.’
The maydyn seyde: ‘Morgadowre
Hath the done thys dyshonowre.
I sye hym smyte hym sore:
I wote, he myght leue no more.’

When Gye herde speke of þat felon,
That had slayne hys lyone,
Owt of þe chaumbur hyed Gye.

119

To seke þe steward he was besye.
Into a chaumbur can he gone:
He fonde the steward þere anon.
He pleyde at chesses wyth hys cosyn,
When he sye Gye loke so grymme.
Then seyde Gye: ‘traytowre, þou be drawe.
Why haste þou my lyone slawe?
Thou haste wyth the no reson
For to do me thys treson.
Defende þe now, as a knyght:
I wyll þe smyte wyth all my myght.’
He drewe hys swyrde: or he stynte,
Hys hedde he smote of at a dynte.

When hys cosyn sye that dede,
For wo, he þoght, hys herte wolde blede
He starte on a nodur parte
And in hys honde he hent a darte.
Gye hym kept and dud hym harme:
He smote of hys ryght arme.
Tho he cryed: ‘Gye, gramercye,’
And he went fro hym in hye.

Comen he ys to the emperowre:
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘for yowre honowre
I haue the seruyd wyth my powere:
Hyt ys me quytt on euyll manere,
Whyll y haue lorne be treson
In yowre court my gode lyon.
Yowre steward slewe hym in grete yre:
I haue quyt hym wele hys hyre.
For euer he hath hys waryson:
Schall he neuer more do treson.
Who wyll be yowre seruande,
When ye may hym not warande,
Nor a straunge man yn yowre cyte,
But he haue harme and vylene?

120

I wyll wende to my cuntre:
Y desyre there for to bee.
To see my frendys y wolde be blyþe:
I wyll haste me thedur swythe.
Yf any man wyll yow dere
Odur in pees or in were,
Do me to wyt anon ryght:
I schall yow helpe wyth all my myȝt.’

When the emperowre sye Gye,
That he was wrothe and drerye:
‘Syr Gye,’ he seyde, ‘for goddys mercy,
Yf any man haue done yow velany,
Take thyselfe vengeawnce:
I hyt grawnte, so haue y chawnce.
Let be youre frendys in your cuntre:
To morowe schall yow weddyd bee.’

Gye seyde: ‘syr, y thynke, noght.
Wyfe to take ys not my thoght.
Yf y had weddyd þy doghtur dere
And ye had made me lorde here,
Yowre men wolde among þem saye
And oftesythe make deraye,
That ye had made the emperowre
But of a pore bachelowre,
And that hyt were a grete dysperage
To the and all thy baronage.
Bettur hyt ys to wende wyth honowre,
Then to dwelle here wyth grete dolowre:
Therfore y sey yow, syr emperere:
I wyll wende on all manere.
Haue gode day, now wyll y fare:
God yow schelde fro sorowe and care.’

When the emperowre harde hys wylle,
That he wolde not dwelle stylle,
Wyth hys eyen he wepyd sore

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And all þe men, that þere wore.
Fyfte somers and fyfte stedys
He badde Gye to hys medeys,
But he had wonne before ynowe
Of þe sarsyns, that he had slowe.

The emperowre dud, as a lorde hende,
To Gyes men, when þey schulde wende:
He gaue them golde for Gyes sake
As moche, as they wolde take.
All they seyde, the emperowre
Was a man of grete valowre.

Knyghtys and squyers, þat þere ware,
All dud wepe, when Gye dud fare.
Wyueys, maydenys and chylder also
All þey weped, when he schulde goo:
Whyll he was in that lande,
Ther wolde no man brynge warre on honde.

The emperowre syr Harrowde calde
And askyd hym, yf he dwelle wolde
Wyth hym in that cyte,
And a ryche man schulde he bee:
He schulde hym geue, sekurlye,
Of all þat lande þe feyrest lady.
‘Syr,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘gramercy.
Wytt ye wele, y am wyth Gye:
Hym schall y neuyr fayle
For no ryches, þat may avayle.’

Now ys Gye in the see:
God saue hym for hys pyte
And all hys feyre companye.
Faste they sayled, wytterlye.
So longe þe wynde haþ þem dreuyn:
At Almayne they be vp reuyn.
To the emperowre þey come swythe:
For Gyes comyng he was blythe.
The emperowre honowred Gye

122

And all hys feyre companye.
When Gye a stownde had dwellyd þare,
To hys cuntre wolde he fare.
They hyed on ther way faste:
They come to Loren at the laste.
They were resseyuyd nobullye
For ther grete cheualrye.

Hyt was in may on a daye,
When euery fowle makyth hys laye:
Thorow a foreste as þey dud ryde
(A feyre cyte was besyde),
Wyth grete loue Gye badde hys men
Wende vnto the cyte then
To take þer innes, þere þey dud knowe;
For þere he wolde be a throwe
To here fowles merely synge
And see feyre flowres sprynge.

Hys men haue the wey tane:
In the forest Gye ys allane.
As he lay myrthe to here,
Hys þoght chaungyd and hys chere.
Forthe he went in that foreste:
There was many a wylde beste.
As he wente in that solace,
He harde besyde at a place
A grete mornyng of a man:
Thedurwarde he drew hym than.
Vndur an hawþorne tree he fande
A man lyeng sore bledande.
He thoght, he was a gentyll knyght,
That had be woundyd at some fyght.
He behelde hym, wytterlye:
He had of hym grete farlye.
Feyre and grete and moche he was:

123

Gye had wondur of that case
And seyde, be Mary of heuyn quene,
A fayrer man had he not sene.
Hys berde was longe, as a spanne:
Hys vysage was boþe pale and wanne
For the blode, that he had bledde,
And for þe woundys, that he hedde.
Hys eyen were black, hys vysage brade,
Longe forhede and wele made.
Feyre and longe was he thore:
A godelyar man was none bore.
In a robe of scarlet was he cladde.
Thorow þe body a wounde he hadde.
Hosyd and schode he was ryght:
He semyd wele to be a knyght.
Hys neck was feyre, whyte and longe.
Hys fyngers were boþe grete and stronge.
Hys schouldurs thyck, hys breste brade.
On euery syde he was wele made
And gyrde wyth a swyrde of stele.
Hys schylde laye at hys hedde wele.

Gye behelde and had pyte
And askyd hym: ‘pur charyte,
Knyght,’ he seyde, ‘what ys þy name?
Where were þou borne? who dud þe shame?
Say to me anon ryght.
Wyth þat couenande y schall þe plyght,
Of me schalt thou haue no skathe,
But y schall helpe the as rathe.’

‘Syr knyght,’ he seyde, ‘aske me no mare;
For y haue so moche care.
I may not telle, be my crowne,
To no wyght my chesowne.
Yf y rehersyd now my care,
Then schulde y haue moche mare.

124

Wende ye hens, syr, y the pray;
For wyt ye not of me to day,
But yf ye wyll graunt me a þyng,
That y schall say, wythowte lesynge,
And yowre trowthe to me plyght
To day me to helpe wyth all your myȝt,
And y schall telle þe all my case,
Fro whens y came and what y was
And who me haþe woundyd sore
Thorowe chawnce and wyckyd lore:
Ellys y schall yow neuer saye,
Thowe ye wolde helpe me þys day.’

Gye thoght in hys herte ryght,
Whedur he wolde be trowþeplyght.
But he was in soche atyre,
That for to wyt he had desyre.
‘Syr knyght,’ he seyde, ‘in þy ryght
The to helpe my trowþe y plyȝt,
So þat þou wylte the sothe saye,
Who hath done þe all þys deraye.’

Then seyde to hym þe woundyd man:
‘I schall þe telle, syr, as y can.
I was the erlys sone Awbrye
Of Gormoyse, syr, sekurlye.
Wyth þe dewke Lorayne y was:
I seruyd hym in many a case.
He had a doghtur, a feyre wyght:
In all þe worlde ys none so bryȝt.
Y louyd hur wythowte fayntyse:
So dud she me on all kyns wyse.
Sche behett to loue me than
Before ony odur erthely man.
For hur loue y made me knyght:
Owt of my cuntre y me dyght
Farre into vncowthe londe

125

Dedes of armes for to fonde
In Frawnce and in Burgoyne,
In Almayne and in Sesoyne.
Ther was no justes nor turnament
In all the lande, where y wente,
But y had the beste of all.
On me soche pryse þere dud falle.

Sythen harde y speke beyonde þe see
Of warre in a farre cuntre.
The sarsyns, þat were so many and stronge,
In Rome had bene and warryd longe.
They had dystroyed that cuntre
And moche of all crystyante.
Thedur y went lose to wynne
And slewe many a sarsyne.
I was preysed for doghty of hande,
As for the beste in all þat lande.
There y slewe a paynym kynge
And broght the warre to endynge.

Then came swythe to me a sonde,
That broght me wyckyd tythande,
How the dewke Oton of Payuye
Wolde do me grete vylenye.
He schulde on the syxte daye
Wedde Ozelde, that feyre maye,
And bad, þat y schulde come swythe
To helpe þat maye, or sche were wyfe,
And at þat tyme redy be thare
To feche hur or neuyr mare.

Thedur y toke the wey than
And wyth me went many a man.
Nyght nor day restyd we noght,
Tyll we were to þe cyte broght.
There was wyth the dewke Oton

126

Many a knyght and many a gode baron.
They were redy at that weddynge
Wythowte any more dwellynge
Toward the churche for to be wedde:
Betwene two lordys sche was ledde.
Faste y prekyd in that thronge,
Tyll y myght that lady fonge.
Wyth hur sone there y mette:
I toke hur wythowten lett.
Y sett hur on hors myn me behynde:
I rode awey, as dothe þe wynde.

Thorow the cyte rose grete crye,
That Ozelde wente wyth Tyrrye.
Than armed was many a knyght
And on hors full sone dyght.
All they chacyd me at the laste
And my dethe they sworen faste.
I kepte them full hardlye:
So dud many of my companye.
Then was there a grete fyght:
Many of myn þey dud vnryght.
At the laste y was lefte allone,
And all my men fro me were slone.
When y sye my men so dedde,
Full of sorowe was my redde.
Y was nye owte of my wytte.
Many of them sore y hytt
And slewe þere in a lytull stownde
Twenty men vppon the grownde.
In þe worlde, y went, þer was no knyght,
But syr Gye, that ys so wyght,
That schulde haue done so wele allone,
But yf that he had be slone.

Then sye y come many and thycke

127

Of Lorens and of Lumbardes wycke.
All þey sayled me, euery man:
I myght not defende me than.
Y toke my lemman me behynde
And rode forthe, as the wynde.
They chasyd me that ylke day:
Fro the stedde y wanne away.
Tyll hyt came to darke nyght,
Euyn they folowed me ryght.
All þat londe thorowe y rode,
Tyll y came to a watur brode.
Schyppe myght y there fynde none.
They chasyd me þedur euerychone.
Brode and depe the watur was,
And odur wey myght y not passe.
I hastyd me vpon my stede,
That was gode at euery nede:
The watur y toke and passyd wele
Wyth goddys grace euery dele.
Forthe y wente a gode pase:
Ther durste no man come, þere y was.

Hedur y came to thys foreste
Wyth my lemman, y louyd beste.
I wente, none had be in þys wode,
That wolde haue done me, but gode.
What for wakyng and for fastynge,
What for trauell and for fyghtynge,
I restyd me on thys grownde
And felle aslepe in a stownde
And tyed my hors tyll a tre:
My lemman sate before me.
Then came theuys fyftene,
Bolde men and eke kene.
All slepynge þey woundyd me:

128

I am dedde, as thou mayste see.
Sythen þey toke Ozelde, þat maye,
And my stede and wente awaye.

I haue þe tolde now all my lyfe,
How y haue bene in mekyll stryfe.
Of the dethe geue y noght:
On þat maye ys all my thoght.
Of þe þeuys she getyþ grete shame.
God venge me for hys holy name.
Thou haste harde now my care:
I wot, y may leue no mare.
Yn goddys name y conyure the,
That þy trowþe þou plyght to me:
As soone, as þat y am dedde,
Thou bere me to some gode stedde,
To churche or to abbaye,
Or y be any wylde bestus praye.
To þe ȝondur hylle, loke, þat þou fare,
And þe theuys þou schalt fynde þare.
Yf þou myght þem confownde
And þe theuys brynge to grownde,
Thou mayste wynne to þyn honde
The fayrest maydyn in þys londe
And also the beste stede,
That euer knyght rode on at nede:
Y wan hym in paynym londe
Owt of a scarsyns honde.
For hym men bydde me at a tyme
Fyftene castels of stone and lyme
And xv cytees, þe beste on molde,
And also many horsys chargyd wyth golde:
All þat me badde a sarsyn kynge.
He was tryste in all fowndynge.
My schylde and spere here thou take
And helpe þe maydyn for my sake.
Thynke on þy trowthe and do þy myght:

129

God the helpe in my ryght.’

When Gye sye, hyt was Tyrrye,
That was bolde and hardy,
Faste he moonyd hym, wele y wate,
þat he was in so euyll estate,
And þoȝt, he shulde neuer be glade nor blyþe,
Or he had vengyd Tyrrye swythe.
He toke hys schylde and hys spere
And hys swyrde wyth hym dud he bere.
To þe mowntayne can he fare:
A grete logge fonde he thare.
Before þat dore he fonde þe stede.
He farde than, as he wolde wede:
Downe he lepe and drewe hys bronde,
In he bare hyt in hys honde.

When he sye the theuys prowde,
He began to crye lowde:
‘Trayturs, þeuys, þe deuyll yow honge.
Why haue ye do soche a wronge?
Ye haue slayne a doghty knyght:
Ye schall hyt bye, my trowþe y plyght.’
He, þat furste cownturd þere wyth Gye,
Hys hedde loste he smertlye:
The seconde and þe thrydde also,
The fowrthe, þe v. and also moo.
Nyehande he slewe þem wythynne,
Or þey myȝt þer wepons wynne.
Ther was lefte there but oon,
But þey were woundyd or ellys slone.
He ys paste, as y yow say,
But deþeys wounde he bare away.

Gye starte to þat maydyn ȝynge
And seyde: ‘make no dole, my swete þynge.
Ryse vp and come wyth me:
To Tyrrye y wyll lede the.’
On a mewle he sett þat maye

130

And to þe wode he toke þe way.
When he came to þe hawethorn tree,
Awey was syr Tyrre.
Therfore he made grete deraye,
For he was so gone away.
Sory was tho syr Gye;
For he wende full sekurlye,
That wylde bestys of þat foreste
Wyth hym had made ther feste.

He lokyd hym a lytull besyde
And he sye fete of horsys vnryde.
He set þe mayde on þe grownde
And rode hymselfe forþe in þat stownde.
He folowed the trace swythe faste
And he sye knyghtys at the laste.
Syr Tyrrye wyth þem þey dud lede
And he hyed hym aftur a gode spede.
Full sone þen came he þem nere:
He bad þem on feyre manere
To delyuer to hym þat woundyd knyght.
‘I haue to hym my trowthe plyght
(Y wylle hyt holde, yf þat y myght.
Ye do hym, me þynkyþ, no ryght),
That y schulde, when he wore dedde,
Bery hym in some gode stedde;
And y bydde yow now pur charyte,
That body ye delyuyr to mee.’

There turned ageyne a Lumbarde,
That was Otons stewarde.
In a bote he passed owre
Aftur Tyrrye and odur fowre.
To Gye he seyde: ‘what art thou?
Thou loueyst full lytull þyn own prowe,
When thou came on thys manere

131

Thys body for to chalenge here.
Thou art hys felowe: be my crowne,
Thou schalt be ladde to dewke Oton.
There schall yow bothe hangyd bee
Hye vppon a galowe tree.’

‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘þou seyest not ryght:
Ȝyt had y leuyr wyth yow all fyght.’
He gaue oon a stroke on the heuydde,
That hys boste soone þere was leuydde.
To þe gyrdull came the dynte:
Ȝer wolde not þe swyrde stynte.
Another he smote also thare,
For nothynge wolde he spare:
Of hys hedde he smote clene,
That hyt flewe on the grene.
Than cam syr Hewchowne,
That was cosyn to dewke Oton:
He can Gye faste assayle,
That þe steroppe he made hym to fayle.
So nye Gye dud he goo,
That Gye smote hys body in twoo.
The fowrthe fledde at the laste:
I trowe, he were somewhat agaste.
Gye toke vp syr Tyrrye
And set hym on hys hors hym bye.
Gye hym to þat thorne broght,
But þat maye fonde þey noght.

Now wyll we leue of syr Gye
And of the maydyn speke in hye,
On what maner sche was gane
And owt of the foreste tane.
Of Gyes felows wyll we telle
In the foreste, as we spelle.
In the cyte, there þey ware,
They dyȝt hys mete and made hyt yare

132

Of hym they all had meruell grete,
Why he came not to hys mete.
Harrawde then, the gode knyght,
To the foreste wente full ryght.
Thorow all þe wode þey haue hym soȝt,
But, for sothe, they fonde hym noght.

Then they harde a playnte mylde,
Os a woman were wyth chylde.
Ofte sche moonyd hur of care.
Harrawde, nerre hur can he fare:
Vndur a thorne they hur fande,
Hurselfe allone sore wepande.
Harrowde askyd hur of hur name
And what she soght and fro whens she came
And why she made so grete mornynge.
Sche wolde þem seye no nodur thynge,
But þat sche was a wrecchyd woman
And for hur lorde sche made that mone.
Sche bad, no man schulde hur see,
But kepe hur feyre in pryuete.
To the cyte they went in hye,
For they myght not mete wyth Gye.

Now go we to a nodur matere
And speke we, þere as we were ere,
How þat Gye wyth syr Tyrrye
To the hawthorne faste dud hye.
When Gye come þedur, he fonde noght.
Vp and downe there he soght.
When he ne myght fynde that maye,
To hys ynne he toke the waye.
‘Syrs,’ they seyde, ‘make gode chere,’
When they sye Gye hole and fere.
Then seyde Gye: ‘syrs, take þys knyght
And loke, that he be wele ydyght.’
Gye sende aftur the lechys in hye

133

For to helpe syr Tyrrye.

As he stode and he hym bye,
He thoght, he harde a rewfull crye.
He callyd to hym hys chaumberleyn
And soone he can to hym sayne:
‘What was þat noyce and þat dynne?’
And he seyde, þer was a maye wythynne,
‘That Harrowde fonde in þe ȝondur foreste:
Of all, þat euer y sye, she ys þe feyreste.’
‘A,’ seyde Gye, ‘for god allmyght,
Sende aftur hur yn anon ryght.’
The chaumberleyn went in hye
And broght þat maye vnto syr Gye.
‘Welcome,’ he seyde, ‘my swete wyȝt:
Y am bothe gladde and lyght.’

When sche sye Tyrre lye thare,
Sche felle in swowne for sorow and care.
Gye hur in hys armes plyght
And seyde: ‘be stylle, my swete wyȝt.
Make no more none euyll chere:
Thy lemman shall be hole and fere.’
Sche sye þe body lye on þe grownde
And þeron many a bytter wounde.
Sche seyde: ‘Tyrrye, my dere lemman,
Thou art now boþe pale and wan.
Some tyme þou were of grete honowre,
And rodye, as rose, was þy colowre.
In wyckyd tyme þou trowest my redde,
When þou for my loue shalt be dedde.
I schall be dedde also wyth the:
God gyf me grace, þat hyt so bee.
Yf ye dye, y schall me sloo:
Schall y neuer fro hens goo.’
On hys bodye, þere hyt laye,

134

Sche felle downe þere þat daye.
Sche kyssyd hys mowþe and hys face
And ofte sche cryed: ‘allas, allas!’
Sche waxed bloo, as any ledde,
And felle downe, as she were dedde.

Gye toke that swete wyght
In hys armes vp wyth myght
And seyde: ‘my dere lemman, let be þy fare,
For thy lorde schall welfare.’
The leche seyde at that stownde,
He shulde be bothe hole and sownde.
Gye hur cowmfortyd wyth gode wylle.
He seyde: ‘feyre lady, be stylle.’

Now dud Gye hele Tyrrye
And kept hym wele and tendurlye.
But Gye wolde telle no wyght,
Fro whens he came nor what he hyȝt.
Gye hym purueyde lechys gode
And for hys loue chaungyd hys mode.
In the cyte þey dwellyd longe,
Tyll that Tyrrye was styffe and stronge
And myght vpon an hors ryde:
Howndys they had on euery syde.
When he was hole, þere was game
Betwene Gye and hym in same.
They went to þe wode and to þe ryuere
And louyd togedur on all manere.

Fro huntyng as þey came vpon a day,
Gye dud to Tyrrye saye:
‘Y haue the done curtesye,
Whyll y haue dwellyd þus longe þe bye
In thys londe and thys cuntre:
All was for the loue of the.
Wyll we nowe trowthe plyght
And be felows day and nyght
And, whyll þat we be leuande,

135

Nodur fayle odur in no lande?’

Then bespake the erle Tyrrye:
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘gramercye.
Thys ys a grete specyalte,
That ye wyll my felowe bee.
God of heuyn geue me grace
Yow to quyte in some place.
Ȝyt þou art the trewest knyght,
That euer slepyd in wynturs nyght.
Ye had a wyckydde redde
For to saue me fro the dedde,
But y yow louyd on all manere
And seruyd yow, as my lorde dere:
Y were ellys gretly to blame,
As god schylde me fro schame.’

Than the toon kyssed the todur
And eyther dud, as other brodur
To the cyte can they fare,
As yoyfull men wythowten care.
They be comen to ther ynne
Wyth grete yoye and mekyll wynne.

Gye dud make hys thynge yare:
Into Ynglonde wolde he fare.
Tyrrye he wolde wyth hym take
And many odur for hys sake.
To the kynge wolde he fare
And entendyd to leue þere full yare
He þoght of hym to haue honowre
And ryche castels wyth many a towre.

Gye in a wyndowe stode
And spake to syr Tyrrye the gode
Of hys passage ouyr the see
And how he wolde wende to hys cuntre.
Than came oon prekande ryght:
He semyd full wele to be a knyght,

136

That had had grete trauayle.
Gye hym askyd, wythowte fayle,
Of whens he was and what tythande,
What he hyght and of what lande
And what he soght in that cuntre:
‘Lye thou not, but telle mee.’

He answeryd hym sone full wele:
‘I schall the telle euery dele.
Y wynde to seke syr Tyrrye,
Of Gormoyse the erlys sone, sekurlye.
I haue hym soght in many a cuntre.
Also god haue parte of mee,
I schall yow the sothe saye:
Of grete dole here ye may.
Tyrrye seruyd dewke Loyere,
And hym louyd and helde hym dere
And dud hym grete honowre:
He was a man of grete valowre.
The dewke had a doghtur in bowre:
Whyte sche was, as lylly flowre.
The dewke Oton vpon a day
Came for to wedde that maye.
Than came Tyrrye, y yow say,
And wyth strenkyth had hur away.
They chasyd there Tyrrye longe
And gaue hym there batell stronge.
Many of them he broght to grownde
Wyth yre in a lytull stownde.
Whedur he be dedde, y wote noght:
In many londys y haue hym soght.

Then hym thoght the dewke Loyere
Of Tyrryes fadur to venge hym þere.
Grete oost he thedur broght:
The dewke Oton forgate noght,
He broght wyth hym a companye,
Many oon of Lumbardye.

137

At Gormoyse y them lefte.
The lande ys stroyed and all torefte:
But y haue grace to fynde Tyrrye,
That londe ys lorne, sekurlye.
Hys fadur ys olde and whytehore:
Hys strenkyth lassyth more and more.’

‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘be god almyght,
Thou schalt lenge wyth me alnyght.
All, that y may, y schall þe wysse,
Where that Tyrrye of Gormoyse ys.’
Gye comawndyd hys meyne
To resseyue the knyght so free.
‘Leue syr,’ quod Tyrrye to Gye,
‘Of my fadur haue mercye.
As we be felows plyght,
Helpe my fadur wyth þy myght;
For he hath grete mystere
Of vs now, that be here.
Yf he be tane or euyll fare,
I am dystroyed for euyr mare.
Hyt were grete,’ he seyde, ‘for me
And schame also, me thynkyþ, to the.’

Quod Gye: ‘Tyrrye, þou spekyst yn vayne.
Thou woldyst neuer halfe so fayne
Helpe thy fadur in hys mystere,
As y wolde wyth my powere.
I schall the neuyr fayle at nede,
Whyll y may ryde on any stede.’
‘Syr,’ quod Tyrrye, ‘gramercye.
Now þou wylt go, y am merye.’

Then sende Gye a messegere
To Almayn to the emperere.
He sende hym knyȝtys bolde and wyght
Fyve hundurd wele ydyght.

138

‘Tyrrye,’ he seyde, ‘make the redye
For to helpe thy fadur in hye.’
Than belyue þey were dyght:
They reden bothe day and nyght.

When they come to Gormoyse,
There they harde moche noyse.
They enturde in sone in haste,
For they were nothynge agaste.
Grete yoye had erle Awbrye
Of hys sone, syr Tyrrye,
And also of syr Gyowne,
That was a nobull barowne.
There he kyssyd erle Awbrye:
For yoye he wepte, wytterlye.
‘Dere fadur,’ quod Tyrrye,
‘On all thynge honowre Gye.
Y wyll, that ye wete hyt ryght,
That we be troutheplyght.
He sauyd me fro þe deþe,’ quod Tyrrye.
‘God hym ȝylde,’ quod erle Awbrye.
‘All, that ys in my lande,
Schall be redy to hys hande,
Cyte, castels, towne and towre:
I make hym maystyr wyth honowre.
Y am now waxyn olde
And vnmyghty and vnbolde:
I wyll, he haue the maystry
Of all thys lande, verylye.’

Nowe be they in myddes þe cyte
All wyth pryde and yolyte.
They rose vp in the mornynge
And made grete gederynge
Before the erle Awbrye:
There þey made a grete crye.
Gye askyd oon in preuyte,

139

What was the noyce in þat cyte
And wherefore þey made þat crye,
That he harde, wytterlye.
He seyde, hyt was dewke Loyere,
That oftetyme had be here.
‘Of cheualre he hathe the flowre
And therto grete socowre.’

Then seyde anon syr Gye
To hys feyre companye:
‘Lordyngys, y prey yow, arme yow sone
Aȝenste þe yondur men we wyll gone.’
‘Syr,’ þey seyde, ‘we be redye
Aȝenste þem for to fyght in hye.’
To hys ynnes dud he fare
And armyd hym soone thare.

When they were all redy dyght
In a stedde togedur wyth helmes bryght,
Quod Gye to Tyrrye: ‘herkyn me,
Two hundurd knyghtys take the
The Lorens boldely to assayle.
Loke, yowre hertys not afayle.’
Tyrrye toke the knyghtys wyght
Armed on ther stedys ryght.
Forthe of the cyte dud he fare:
To the ooste he came full yare.
There came prekynge before þe ooste
A knyght wyth mekull boste.
Tyrrye hyt hym wyth hys spere,
That hys hors fete myght hym not bere.
A nother þere he woundyd depe:
Schylde nor hawberk myght hym not kepe.
Wyth strenkyth he smote hym thore,
That on hys fete he yede no more.

When Tyrrye sye hys men fyght,
He slewe many a doghty knyght.

140

There lay in the felde slone
In a whyle many oon. .
Boldelye faght syr Tyrrye
And all hys feyre companye.
Tyrrye smote the constabull
Of hys stede, wythowte fabulle.
He had hym wonne in that fyght,
But þat þere came soone many a knyȝt:
Icheoon soone vpon an hepe
Abowte Tyrrye dud they lepe.
He defendyd hym, as a nobull knyght:
Many a hedde he smote of ryght.
All he slewe, that were hym abowte,
Were they neuer so bolde nor stowte.
Gret angwysche to hym came þen;
For soone he had lorne all hys men
Thorowe the Lorens, þat abowte þem wende:
There were slayne many an hende.
What tane and what slone,
Hys felows were awey euerychone.
Tyrrye defendyd hym, as a lyon:
Many an hedde he smote of, be my crowne;
For lothe he was for to flee:
He had wele leuyr slayne bee.

Then seyde Harrowde to Gye:
‘Se ye not syr Tyrrye?
He ys a nobull knyght:
But yowreselfe, þer ys none so wyght.
Helpe hym,’ he seyde, ‘pur charyte:
Hyt ys tyme, so mote y thee.’
Then hyed he forthe a gode spede
To helpe Tyrrye in hys nede.

Now comyth Gye to that batayle:
The Lorens sone dud hym assayle.
Sone Gye smote Gayere,
The dewkys cosyn Loyere.

141

He smote hym downe wyth hys spere
And he hym toke, as falleth to were.
Gye to a nodur rode:
Hys spere þorow the body glode.
He smote a nodur, so dud he moo:
Many he made to dethe goo.
Then þey smote togedur thare:
Ther wolde none of them odur spare.
There dyed many a knyght,
That were bolde, hardy and wyght.
Who so had sene Gye
And wyth hym Harrowde and Tyrrye,
There they dud that ylke day,
That hyt ys wondur for to say.
Of Lorens grete plente
Dyed that day ryght in hye.

Gye the constabull hyt thare,
That of hys hors he hym bare.
He toke hym than in þat batayle.
The Lorens flewe, wythowten fayle:
Gye and Tyrrye chasyd faste.
All the Lorens at the laste
Were woundyd and slone that day:
Vnnethe xxxti passyd away.
Gye wente home and Tyrrye
Wyth ther gode companye.

Then þer came a messengere
Faste to dewke Loyere.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘herkyn to mee.
Loke, þou thynke vengyd to bee.
In the mornynge to day
To the cyte we toke þe way
Wyth fyve hundurd knyghtys wyght,
And euyll chawnce came to vs ryght.
All we be takyn and slayne:
Ther be not xxxti comen agayne.

142

There ys comen syr Tyrrye
And wyth hym þe doghty Gye
And a knyght of grete pryce;
Harrowde of Ardyrne hys name ys.
All they be wyght and bolde:
Thorow þem owre knyȝtys are colde.

Then seyde the dewke: ‘ys þat no lye,
That to þem ys comen Tyrrye and Gye
And Harrowde, that ys so wyght,
Then we go to schame anon ryght.’

The dewke rose ȝerlye
And vnto Gormoyse dud he hye.
He toke in hys companye
A thowsande knyghtys hardye.
He manaste Gye and Tyrrye:
Yf he þem fonde, þey shoulde abye.

As Gye come þorow a churche ȝarde,
He lokyd to the felde warde.
He sawe, the ooste of dewke Oton
Be an hylle came passande downe
He callyd to hym Tyrrye
And schewyd hym, that he sye.
Gye seyde: ‘what wyll we doo?
The ooste of Lorens cometh vs too.
The dewke Oton of Payuye,
He ys myn olde enemye.
Y knowe hym wele redylye.
Wyth hym to fyght y am redye.
Let we arme vs sone wele
Bothe in yron and in stele
And an hundurd knyghtys wyth vs take
And moche shame we shall hym make.
We schall be vengyd thorow þe grace
Of hym to day in the place.’

When þey were armed all preste,

143

They range þe bellus: þey wolde not reste.
Now they be gedurde same:
They þoght for to worche no game.
Owte of the cyte dud they fare:
They fonde þe Lorens redy thare.
They smeten togedur faste:
The speres sone in sonder braste.
Then þey drewe swyrdys bryght
And faght togedur wyth þer myght.
There were many slayne on boþe partes:
The warse had the Lumbardes.
Of ther men be many slane
And many vnto preson tane.
Gye smote the erle Jurdan,
That was lorde of Melayn,
A grete stroke in the schylde,
That he felle downe in þe felde.

Then came prekynge syr Tyrrye:
Wyth force he smote Amerye:
He was þe dewkes steward Oton.
Of hys hors he felle downe.
He drewe there hys fawchone
And slewe Amery there anon
Wyth hys swyrde, that was of stele.
That sawe the dewke Oton wele.
There they slewe the Lumbardes:
They felle downe, as cowardes.
Grete was that dyscowmfyte:
To a Lumbarde came dole tyte.

On a syde faste prekande
Came dewke Oton faste fleande.
No man hym sye, but Harrawte:
To hym he thoght to make assawte.
He flewe faste and can nye wende,
And Harrowde aftur, that was hende.

144

‘Turne þe,’ he seyde, ‘so muste þou thryue:
Here ys no man, but y, on lyue.
Defende here that felonye,
That þou duddyst in Lumbardye.’

The dewke turned hym to ageyne,
And therof was Harrowde fayne.
Faste they smote on helme and shylde,
Tho two knyghtys, in the felde.
The fyre flewe owte at euery dynte:
Nodyr wolde for odur stynte.
They brake helmes and hawberkys gode:
The blode be þer bodyes downe yode.
Betwene þem two was stronge batayle:
Eyther can odur faste assayle.
Thoght Harrowde: ‘y schall vengyd bee
Or ellys be dedde, so mote y thee.’
He hyt the dewke Oton sare:
A pece owt of the helme he schare.
The swyrde in the schouldur wode
Halfe a fote, or hyt stode.
Downe felle that nobull syre:
Harrawde hym hyt wyth grete yre.
He wolde haue smetyn of hys heuydde,
But wyth strenkyth he was hym reuydde:
An hundurd knyghtys came wele dyght
Abowte Harrowde anon ryght.
To sloo Harrawde þey dud þer myght
And he defendyd hym, as a nobull knyght.

Then he hyt a Lumbarde wele:
The hedde yede of euery dele.
He faght wyth hys swyrde of stele:
At the laste he felyd hym euyll.
He wolde haue to the cyte fare,
But hys hors was woundyd sare.
Tho þey all on Harrowde thronge

145

And wroght hym moche wronge:
Wyth ther speres, þat were scharpe,
They brake helme and hawberke.
He was there nere dedde:
Hys body ranne on blode redde.

Then owte starte a Lumbarte:
Felle he was, as a lybarte.
Barant was hys ryght name.
He þoght to do Harrowde shame:
He gaue Harrowde a wyde wounde
Thorowe the body in a stownde.
He vengyd hym sone full hote:
Hys hedde of there he smote.
Anodur he þoght to smyte ryght:
Hys hedde þere on the ȝorthe lyght.
But hys swerde glasedde lowe
And stroke vpon the sadull bowe:
So faste hys swerde he dud owt take,
That in hys hande hyt all tobrake.
‘Allas,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘now haue y care:
I may defende me now no mare.
Allas, swerde, who made the,
Hongyd be he on a tree.
Why haste þou fayled me so sone?
My lyue dayes be now done.
Me had leuer here haue be slane,
Then þus amonge þese men tane.’

Then starte vp a Lumbarde:
For sothe, he was a cowarde.
‘Thefe,’ he seyde, ‘thou schalt abye:
Thou haste done vs moche vylenye.’
Harrowde wyth hys fyste hym smate,
That hys neck in two brake.
Tho seyde Harrowde: ‘so mote y the,
Harme schall y none haue of þe.’

146

There came forthe a doghty knyght:
Of Frawnce he was, Josep he hyght.
He was þe dewkys sowdyere:
He seruyd hym for mystere.
‘Harrowde,’ he seyde, ‘ȝylde þe to me.
Ther schall no skaþe be done to the
Of the dewke and hys meyne,
Also muste y thryue or the.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘be seynt Mychell,
To þat couenawnde y graunt well,
So þat ye me slo in the felde,
Or ye me to the dewke ȝelde.’
They sett Harrowde on a stede,
Towarde þe ooste þey dud hym lede:
They were gladde euerychane,
When they had Harrowde tane.

Now turne we ageyne to syr Gye
And to the bolde erle Tyrrye.
Þe Lumbardes þey had ouercomen echon,
Some fledde, some taken and slone.
‘Where ys Harrowde?’ seyde syr Gye,
‘I haue wondur and ferlye.’
Then seyde oon: ‘be my crowne,
I sye hym chace dewke Oton.
He hym folowed owte of þe fyght
Prekynge on a stede wyght.’
‘Allas,’ seyde Gye, ‘þat y was borne,
Now y haue Harrowde forlorne.
Forthe a whyle y wyll fonde,
If y may of hym here tythande.
Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘pur charyte,
Wendyth home to the cyte;
For y wyll wende nyght and day,
Harrowde yf y fynde may.
schall neuer ete bredde,

147

Or y fynde hym quyck or dedde.
Tyrrye,’ he seyde, ‘come wyth me
To seke Harrowde, pur charyte.’

They toke þer stedys wyth þer sporys:
They prekyd ouer rugges and forys.
To the ooste can they fare
To loke, yf Harrowde were thare.
Gye lokydde, wytterlye:
He sawe dewke Oton of Payuye
And wyth hym Harrowde, þat nobull knyght,
Euyll woundyd and euyll dyght.
‘Allas,’ seyde Gye, ‘Harrowde ys tane:
Amonge hys enemyes he ys allane.
Tyrrye,’ he seyde, ‘my dere felowe,
Helpe me now a lytull throwe.’
‘Ȝys,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘so mote y the,
Whyll that y lyueande bee.’

Gye a Lumbarde smote faste:
Hys hors and hym downe he caste.
Tyrrye hyt a nodur wele
The hed wente of euery dele.
There þey drewe þer swyrdys bryght
And slewe many a doghty knyght.
To Harrowde Gye sone wanne,
A gode swyrde he toke hym than
And bad hym to defende hym, as an hardy knyȝt.
There þey were in a grete fyght.
Tho þre knyghtys faght so faste,
That þe Lumbardes were scowmfet at þe laste.

To the ooste flewe dewke Oton:
Gye hym chacyd vp and downe.
Wythynne the oost a bowe draght
Gye wyth hys swyrde hym raght.
He thoght for to smyte sore
And for to be avengyd thore:

148

Betwene the body and the arson
Felle hys dynte there adowne.
The sadull of golde and þat stede
He smote a too in that nede.
There they prekyd abowte syr Gye,
But he defendyd hym manlye.
Gye prekyd thorow the ooste:
They hym folowed wyth grete boste.
He mette Harrowde and Tyrrye:
Of hym they had ferlye,
On what maner he passyd away.
They thankyd god þat same day,
That þey had so mette the Lumbardes,
They schulde not sey, þey were cowardes.
They gaue them strokys vnryde
And woundyde them on euery syde.

Then seyde Gye to hys felows tho:
‘Hyt ys tyme, that we goo.’
To the cyte can they fare
And carefull lefte þe Lumbardes þare.
Gye and Tyrrye be hole and sownde,
Harrowde hath an euyll wounde.
Forthe they wente all thre
Wyth yoye vnto the cyte.
All the men of that cuntre
Looueyd god in trynyte,
That syr Harrowde had hys lyfe;
For he had be in so moche stryfe.
Gye made to come to hys honde
The beste lechys of that londe.
Harrowdes wounde þey helyd wele
In a whyle, so haue y hele.
They were then full blythe
And thankyd god fele sythe,
That þey had ouercomen þer enemyes
Thorow goddys helpe and syr Gyes.

149

Now þey drad þem no mare,
For they were broght owt of care.

The dewke Oton ys comen hame:
Of hys dede he had grete schame.
Lechys he had there gode:
They helyd hym sone, be my hode.
When hys woundys were whayle,
He wente to the dewke, sawns fayle,
And tolde hym of hys wykkyd care,
How he had be in sorowe sare.

To dewke Loyer seyde Oton:
‘Herkyn to my reson.
But ye haue þe better cownsayle,
Ye lose yowre londe, wythowte fayle,
Thorowe þe men Harrowde and Gye
And wyth them þe erle Tyrrye.
All yowre knyghtys þey haue tane
And yowre frendys many slane.
The stronge cyte may no man wynne
Nodur wyth force nor wyth gynne.
They haue of many a londe socowre:
Yf we fyght, we gete the worre.
Yf ye wyll my cowncell trowe,
Wyth some wyle we wyll venge yow.
Men schulde preue in all wyse
To venge them on þer enmyse.

Sende ye wyth loue vnto Tyrrye
And to hys fadur, erle Awbrye,
And sey, þou wylt ȝeue þy doghtur dere
To syr Tyrrye wyth full gode chere,
And bydde hym come to thys cyte
(And sey, ye wyll acordyd bee
All seker and not dredande
Wyth all the knyghtys of þe lande:
All wyth loue and charyte

150

Here schall they weddyd bee.
When they be fro þe cyte gone
But þe mowntenans of a rone,
Ye schall take the trayturs all
And euyll schall them befalle.
Echoon of them schall dampned bee
In yowre courte to hynge on a tre.
Y prey yow, syr, hertely,
Geue me Harrowde, Tyrrye and Gye
They be my dedly enmyse:
Y schall them peyne in all wyse.
They schall be broght into Payuye
And in pryson depe they schall dye.
And dampne hym to dethe, Tyrrye:
So schall hyt be, sekurlye.
Then schall y haue þy doghtur dere
In Payuye for to wedde hur there.’

Tho hym spake the dewke Loyere:
‘Let be, Oton, thy wyckyd manere.
For all the gode in thys towne
Y wolde not do Tyrrye þys tresown.
I wolde not Tyrrye so begyle
Nor qwyte hym not so hys wylle
For hys gode dede and hys serues
Nodur Gye nor Harrowde þe marches.
Yf syr Tyrrye haue done any skathe,
Sone he may amende hyt rathe.
Gye and Harrowde, be thys day,
Hyt were pyte so þem to betraye.’

Then spake the dewke Oton:
‘Me thynkyth, ye speke no reson,
When ye loue the theuys so well,
That ye wyll do be no cowncell
Nor put them in yowre pryson

151

To ȝelde to yow rawnsome
Odur do þem gode costage
To amende þer owtrage.
Y schall haue Harrowde and Gye
Tyll þey be swagyd a gode partye
And chastysed thorow þer owtrage.
Then schall ye þorow your baronage
Wyth them sone acordyd bee
To wynne þer loue to þe and me.’

He thoght a nodur trecherye:
Yf he myȝt gete þem to hys baylye,
He wolde not for all Lumbardye,
But þey were dedde full ha telye.
He besoght dewke Loyere
Wyth soche wordys and preyere,
That he grauntyd for hys sake
A messengere for to make.
They toke þe byschopp of þat lande
And tolde hym all that tythande,
How þey wolde make acordynge,
Wythowte any lesynge.
Forthe he wente that ylke day
Wyth grete fare and nobelaye.
Or hyt were dayes thre,
Comyn he was to that cyte.
There he fonde the erle Awbrye
And he hym kyssed curteslye.
‘He grett yow wele, þe dewke Loyere,
And byddyth yow on feyre manere
Come to hys cyte, verament:
And, yf ye wyll to hym assent,
He wyll geue thy sone Tyrrye
Hys doghtur to wyfe, sekurlye,
And in that same feyre cyte

152

Schall the brydale holdyn bee.
Yowre baronage schall come þedur
To make yoye all togedur,
And also all yowre cheualrye
Muste be there wyth yow redye.
Of bothe halues many schall bee
In pavelons before that cyte.
There schall ye acordyd bee,
Y tryste, in grete specyaltee.’

All þey seyde in feyre manere:
‘Blessyd be god and seynt Rogere.
Wyth owre lorde, dewke Loyere,
We wyll be attone on þys manere.
We wyll come at hys comawndement,
When he aftur vs thus haþ sente.
We haue done agenste hys wylle:
We schall amende hyt, and þat ys skylle.’

Gye seyde: ‘dowte ye noght,
Leste þat þey haue treson wroght?
The dewke Oton of Payuye
Hatyth vs full dedlye:
He may geue an euell redde,
Thorow whych we myght be dedde.
I wott, the dewke Loyere
Wolde do but gode to hys powere.’
The byschopp seyde: ‘drede ye noght:
In hym ys no wyckyd thoght.
He wolde not for all thys towne
Do yow any tresowne.’

Now wendyth þe byschopp to Loreyne.
The erle Tyrrye ys full fayne.
When the tyme was nye tolde,
All the knyghtys yonge and olde
Dyghtyd them, as men hende,
And to the parlement dud þey wende:

153

The erle Awbrye and Tyrrye,
Harrowde and gode syr Gye;
Wyth þem v hundurde knyghtys wyght,
Echon on stedeys feyre and lyght.
They were all clothed well
In scarlet and in ryche sendell.
They had wyth þem þe maydyn ȝynge.
Of treson wyste they nothynge.

They came to the parlement:
They thoght to make acordement.
There were straungers of many a cuntre,
That came the weddyng for to see:
Of Lorayne the dewke Loyere
And wyth hym mony a bachelere
And of hys baronage grete plente,
That came the maryage for to see;
The dewke Oton of Payuye
And fele erlys of Lumbardye.

‘Lordyngys,’ seyde dewke Oton,
‘Herkenyth to my reson.
Well ye wott, that Tyrrye,
Of Gormoyse the erlys sone Awbrye,
Trespassyd agenste dewke Loyere,
Whyll he was to hym lefe and dere.
In hys courte was he longe,
Tyll he was waxyn stronge:
He made hym knyght rychelye,
And he qwytt hym euyll, wytterlye,
When he soche þynge toke on hande,
To lede hys doghtur owt of hys lande.
To Costantyne he hur broght,
There as the dewke ys louyd noght.
And hys knyghtys he hath slayne
And hys londe dystroyed wyth mayne.

154

Ȝyt he hath done more, be þys day,
But y wyll not all say.
I beseche hym pur charyte
And all thys baronage, sekerlye,
That the dewke in hys parlement
Hym forgeue hys maleentente
And geue Tyrrye wyth honowre
Hys doghtur bryght in bowre
Wyth hym to the cyte for to fare
A ryche brydale to make thare.
For syr Tyrrye there schall bee
Grett myrthe and yolyte.
Then schull we euyr frendys bee,
And þen wyll y wende to my cuntre.’
Thus the dewke Oton can say:
‘For goddys loue, graunte vs þat to daye.’

Than seyde dewke Loyere:
‘As ye haue seyde, y graunt hyt here.
I forgeue hym myn euyll wylle:
I schall hym loue lowde and stylle.’

Then spake dewke Oton:
‘I prey yow all, beseche Gyowne,
Yf y haue oght ageyne hym done,
That y muste amende hyt sone.
Wyth þat couenande kysse me here
Euyr to be my frende dere.’
‘Syr dewke,’ seyde Gye, ‘holde þe stylle:
To kysse the y haue no wylle.
Thou me betrayed in þy cuntre
And slewe my nobull knyghtys thre.
That ys not to reherce here:
Speke we of a nodur matere.
Go and do, what thy wylle ys,
The erle Awbrye for to kysse.
Acorde wyth hys sone Tyrrye:

155

To the hyt ys no vylenye.’

Then þey kyste all same
Bothe wyth yoye and wyth game.
Gye hym drewe bakwarde:
He wolde kysse no Lumbarde.
They kyssed then euery man:
At the dewke Gye began.

‘Dewke Loyere,’ seyde Awbrye,
‘Here y take the my sone Tyrrye:
Here y the take a gode knyght:
My blessynge haue he day and nyght.’
The erle hym turned sone anon:
The wey to Gormoyse ys he gon.
The dewke Loyere went hys way
And all hys baronage wyth hym þat day.
Harrowde ledde þat maye bryght:
Sche was bothe feyre and whyght.
Sche had hur fadurs wylle
For to be wyth Harrowde stylle.
Gye, Harrowde and Tyrrye
Rode syngyng merelye.
Grete game was in þer thoght:
For of treson wyste þey noght.
Or hyt were none of the day,
They schulde synge: ‘wele away.’

That ylke day þey rode faste.
Sone they sye at þe laste
Besyde þem a feyre playne:
Therof was þe dewke fayne.
He bad them all downe lyght
To reste þer horsys a lytull wyght.
Hyt was hote that ylke day,
As they had redyn aftur þe way.
Sone, when þey lyght downe,

156

Vp rose dewke Otown.

‘Herkyn,’ he seyde, ‘owre companye
Of Loren and of Payuye:
All, þat euer now be here
On þe dewkys halfe Loyere,
I comawnde yow, wythowte more
Take the trayturs, that be þore,
And loke, that ye them bynde
All ther handys þem behynde.
We schall them to Loreyn brynge
And dampne þem on galowse to hynge.
He, that spareth any of alle,
In the same jugement he schall falle.’

The Lumbardes starte vp full bolde
As thycke, as schepe do in folde,
And wyth them knyghtys of Loreyne,
That of the dede were fayne.
Tyrre was besett abowte:
They helde hym in, he myȝt not owte.
They toke Tyrre at that fyght
And also syr Harrowde the wyght.

‘Dewke Loyer,’ seyde Gyowne,
‘Why haue ye do thys treson?
I helde yow for a gode knyght,
Tyll hyt was nowe ryght.
Were we not kyste and made at oon
Before the barons euerychone?
Ye haue trowed dewke Oton,
That euer was lefe to doo treson.
Had ye neuer thys thynge wroght,
But be Otons avyse and thoght.’
Grete dole had dewke Loyere:
He myght not speke a worde there.
He rode owte at the oon syde:
For dole he myght no lenger abyde.

157

Than starte forthe a gode knyght,
A bolde man and a wyght.
Be the mantell toke he Gye
Wyth grete yre, wytterlye,
That the lace brake in thre:
Many a man hyt can see.
Gye hym turned sone hote
And wyth hys fyste he hym smote.
He rose no more for to fyght,
For sothe, as y the behyght.
They assayled faste syr Gye,
The Lumbardes, wyth grete trecherye,
That hys robe of sendell
Was reuyn in pecys euery delle.
Euery man a pece hente:
All the robe was torente.
Gye wyth strenkyth dud vp lepe
And fellyd mony on a hepe.
Hys stede sone he bestrode
And lepe on hym, as he were wode.
He smote the stede in the syde:
Forthe of the place dud he ryde.

When he hym sye, the dewke Oton,
That syr Gye was so gone,
Lowde he cryed to hys meyne:
‘Lepe on yowre stedys: what do ye?
And faste ye haste aftur Gye.
For goddys loue, be redye:
Yf he passe, y am schente.
Hym to take do yowre entente.
Be god, þat made boþe nyght and day,
Yf he fro yow passe away,
I schall yow sloo wyth myn hande
All, that be of my lande;
And he, þat bryngyth hym quyck or dedde,

158

He schall haue golde redde
And odur ryches, y yow say,
All my lande aftur my day.’

Aftur Gye rode many a knyght,
Two hundurde wele ydyght.
They chasyd Gye, he flewe allone:
Wepon had he neuer oone.
Hym to slee or to take
All abowte hym dud they schake.
Forthe starte oon of that lande
Wyth helme on hedde and spere in hande.
To Gye he rode wyth dyspyte:
Thorow þe body he wolde hym smyte,
But god wolde not, þat he had skathe.
Gye bare hys spere downe rathe:
Betwene hys arme and hys syde
The spere awey feyre dud glyde.
Hyt carue hys skynne in manere:
He thought, hyt came a lytull to nere.
Gye hym turned, as he had nede:
He smote hym downe of hys stede.
Fro hym passyd tho syr Gye:
A nodur came full hastelye.
He bare a swerde wele growne:
Be Gyes syde þe stroke felle downe
Into the sadull a large fote.
Gye flewe faste: god hyt wote.

They hym folowed swythe faste.
Gye lokyd besyde hym at þe laste:
A polle he sawe a man bere.
He rode to hym in feyre manere:
‘Geue me that powle, dere frende,
And, as y am a knyght hende
I schall the quyte thys ylke day
Also sone as euyr y maye

159

And he answeryd: ‘hende knyght,
Ye schall hyt haue anon ryght.
Well y see thy traueyle:
God the helpe, þat wyll not fayle.’
In hys hande he toke the polle
And hym defendyd, be my nolle.
The furste man, he mett þore,
Wyth the polle he stroke sore:
He smote hys necke euyn in two
And toke þe stede and can goo,
Tyll he came to that man:
‘Haue thys stede,’ quod Gye than;
‘Take thys for thy gode dede:
God quyte the thy mede.’
‘Knyght,’ he seyde, ‘gramercye!’
Vp he lepe and went in hye,
And forthe wente syr Gyowne:
He spared nodur felde nor towne.
Ther was neuer ȝyt no knyght,
That defendyd hym so in fyght.
When he had nede in the fyght,
He hym defendyd, as a knyght,
Tyl he came to a watur brode:
In he wente and ouyr he rode.
Ther durste none aftur hym þere passe,
For the watur so stronge was.
Ageyne they turned euerychone
Vnto the dewke Oton.
That Gye was passyd so allone,
He blamed hys men euerychone.

‘Syr dewke Loyere,’ seyde Oton,
‘He ys paste, that false felon.
To Payue now let vs dyght

160

To wedde Ozelde, þat maye bryght.
Tyrrye and Harrowde schall wende wyth me:
In my pryson schall they bee
(They schall haue no harme for me,
But as ye thynke, so mote y the),
Tyll that ye wyll do yowre wylle
Of þem bothe, as hyt ys skylle.
The todur knyghtys take wyth yow
And kepe þem for yowre own prowe.’

‘Dewke Oton,’ quod Loyere,
‘Hyt schall not be so, be seynt Rogere.
Take the erle Tyrrye wyth the
And, yf þou wylt haue þe loue of me,
Kepe hym to hys honowre,
For he ys a knyght of grete valowre.
Kepe hym wele, for hyt ys skylle,
Tyll y wytt, what y do wylle.
Harrowde, wende wyth me to towne:
I schall the put in my pryson.
That ye kepe hym, wyll y noght:
Thou woldyst hym sloo, hyt ys þy þoght.’
There þey kyssed and toke ther leue:
Ther was none of þem, þat wolde odur greue.

To Loren wente dewke Loyere
And wyth hym Harrowde wyth euyll chere.
The dewke Oton to Payuye wente:
He toke wyth hym that maydyn gente,
So he dud the erle Tyrrye,
That was a man full sorye.
Wyth a thonge þe dewke dud hym bynde
Bothe hys handes hym behynde.
He set hym on a bare palfrey
And led hym vnto Payuye.
When Ozelde sye hym so dyght,
Of hur hors sche felle downe ryght.

161

Sche swownyd then ofte for woo:
Sche þoȝt, hur herte wolde breke in two.

When the dewke lokyd on that maye,
He can to hur sone saye:
‘Woman,’ quod he, ‘art thou madde,
When thou for an harlat ladde
Makyste dole in soche manere?
I the swere be seynt Rogere:
Make þou dole, that y may see,
And y schall hym slee before þy nye.
Dere lemman, be gladde and blythe.
We schall come to Payuye swythe:
There schalt þou weddyd bee
And wele at ese þou schalt hym see.
I schall hym serue on all manere,
Yf thou wylt make gode chere.’

‘God yow ȝelde,’ quod that maye;
‘But of oon thynge y wolde yow pray:
That xl dayes ye wolde hyt respyte.
Ye may me not moche wyte:
Be that y schall be redy in bowre,
That ye may me wedde wyth honowre.’
‘I graunte the þat, my swete maye.’
Wyth þat to Payue he toke þe waye,
But sche thoght a nodur þynge:
Or he schulde abowte þe spowsage brynge,
Sche wolde in hur bowre allone
Wyth a knyfe hurselfe slone.
Sche had cowmforte of a thynge,
That Gye was paste wythowte hurtynge.
Sche hopyd thorow Gyes cowncell
To haue helpe be some wyle
And, that Tyrre hur lemman
Thorow hym fro prison schulde be tane.

Wyth that to Payuye were þey broght.
The dewke Oton forgate noght,

162

He dud Tyrrye in hys pryson
In a pytt depe there downe.
Whyll þat he in pryson laye,
He myȝt not wytt, when hyt was daye.
Mete nor drynke had he nane.
Gye sone bethoght hym than:
He made sorowe nyght and day
For Tyrrye, that in pryson laye.

Of Gye to speke ys my redde,
That god had sauyd fro the dedde.
When he was paste þe watur vnryde,
He lokyd abowte on euery syde.
He sawe, he was there allone:
Felowe had he there none.
He þoght on hys felows gode
And for sorowe he waxe nere wode.
‘Lorde,’ he seyde, ‘how schall y fare?
Y am full of sorowe and care.
I haue lorne gode Harrawte
And syr Tyrrye, wythowte defawte.
Wele y wot, þey schall be slane,
Wythowte othe, now þey be tane.
Allas,’ he seyde, ‘dewke Loyere,
How myȝtyst þou do on þys manere?
As for the dewke Oton,
He hath done euyr treson:
But for cawse of hys fauowre
Thou schalt be holde a traytowre.
Lorde, how schall y wyth þe emperowre fare?
Amonge þem may y come no mare.
When y came to thys cuntre,
He sende me knyȝtys gode and free
To helpe me, when mystere ware,
And þey be now in grete care.
Now haue y not so lytull a grome

163

To holde my hors, where þat y come.
Allas,’ he seyde, ‘for Tyrrye!
We be departyd, sekerlye.
I trowe, y schall the neuer see:
My lyfe y schall lose for the.
And Oton schall haue Ozell,
Yf sche hur kepe neuer so well.
Fro the dethe schall y not flee,
Tyll that y avengyd bee.’

All that day Gye dud ryde
Thorow þe lande, þat was vnryde.
At the laste he sye nerehande
A castell be a watur stande.
There he þoght to dwelle all nyght,
For no forther he ne myght.
At the gate he fonde a knyght:
He was curtes and wele dyght.
Be hym stode knyghtys thre:
He hym beþoght, whych lorde schulde be.
‘Knyght,’ quod Gye, ‘god the see,
That for vs dyed vpon a tree.
I am a knyght of farre cuntre:
I aske harbowre for charyte.’
The lorde answeryd on feyre manere:
‘Syr, ye schall be welcome here.’
He made oon hys hors to stabull lede,
‘And kepe hym, as myn owne stede.’

The lorde was curtes þerewythall
And ledde Gye to the halle.
He toke a mantell of ryche colowre
And caste on Gye for hys honowre.
Then seyde the lorde vnto syr Gye:
‘Syr, y the beseche specyallye,
Telle me, what ys thy name,
Who þou art and fro whens þou came.’

164

Then seyde Gye: ‘y schall þe say,
Syth that ye me so feyre pray.
Gye of Warwyk men clepe me:
I am knowyn in many a cuntre.’
‘I kenne þe wele for a knyght hende:
Some tyme þou were my frende.
Y was then yowre squyere:
Ye louyd me wyth yowre powere.
Ye made me knyght wyth yowre hande
And ledde me sythen to many a lande
To justes and to bordys:
Then was y of grete pryce.
Sythen toke y wyfe, as ye may see,
Ames de la Mowntayn, so mote y thee.’

Also sone as Gye hyt wyste,
Well hartelye he hym kyste.
Then seyde Ames: ‘where haue ye gone
In thys londe thus allone?
Me þynkyth, þat ye haue had tene,
As ye had yn grete batayle bene.
Where be all yowre meyne,
And syr Harrawde, where ys hee?’
Then seyde Gye: ‘y schall the telle
All my case, how hyt felle.’
There he tolde lesse and more,
How he fonde Tyrrye sore
And how þat he broght hym home
To helpe hys fadur fro schome
And how þat þey were betrayedde echeon
At a parlement, that they had tane,
And how he was paste away
Wyth angwysche that ylke day
And how Harrowde and Tyrrye
Were takyn to pryson, sekerlye,

165

‘And wyth þem fyue hundurde knyȝtys bolde:
All, y wote, they be in holde,
I wot not, whedur qwyck or dedde:
Therfore sory ys my redde.’

When Gye had tolde euery dele
Of hys wo and of hys wele,
Then seyde Ames: ‘syr, a whyle be stylle
And here me, yf hyt be thy wylle.
I haue nodur castell nor towre
In thys londe wyth honowre,
But they schall be at thy wylle
And my men lowde and stylle.
Fyue hundurd knyghtys may y brynge
To helpe yow in all thynge.
Wyth my strenkyth and my meyne,
That be in thys cuntre,
We schall wrath þe dewke Oton
And stroye hys castels and hys towne.
Wele schall ye vengyd bee
On the dewke and hys meyne.
We schall neuer fro hys lande gone,
Or that he be takyn and slone.’

‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘gramercye!
Hyt were to longe, wytterlye,
For to gedur ooste so stronge:
The vengeawnce wolde dwelle to longe.
I schall sone vengyd bee:
Fro the dethe y wyll not flee.’
Gye syxe dayes was thare:
Euyr he had sorowe and care.
Ames cowmfortyd hym well þan,
For hym he was a sory man.
Ames wolde wyth hym wende:
‘Do wey,’ seyde Gye, ‘my dere frende.’
Ames ys stylle, Gye toke the waye:
For hym bad Ames ofte that day,

166

That god, for hys grete grace,
Schylde hym fro schame in þat place.

Now ys Gye to Payuye towne:
He þoght to do schame to Otown.
He smeryd hym, or he came there,
Hys vysage and hys yelowe here
Wyth a black oyntmente,
That he was black and beschente.
Ther was none so wyse a man,
That cowde Gye knowe than.
At Payuye he fonde dewke Oton:
Herke, how he shewyd hys reson.

‘Syr dewke,’ he seyde, ‘god the see:
A ryche man thou art of poste.
Comyn y am fro ferre cuntre
Day and nyght to seke the.
I haue þe broght þe beste stede,
That euer knyght rode on at nede.
Furste hym wanne a sarsyn,
Sythen y had hym of my cosyn.
Ther ys none in þys worlde so wyght
Lyon nor swalowe nor fowle in flyght:
Yf a dromande were seylande,
He wolde passe hym be the lande.
In the see the grete brymme
He wyll sone ouyr swymme.
Yf ye leue not, that y say,
I wyll hyt preue thys ylke day.
He hath an euyll manere:
Ther ys no man, þat comeþ hym nere,
He wyll hym slee day or nyght,
But yf that y kepe hym myght.’

Then seyde Oton: ‘gramercye!
Hyt ys a feyre gyfte, wytterlye.
Thou schalt dwelle wyth thy stede:

167

Golde and syluyr schall be þy mede.
I haue mystere of soche a stede
For to ryde on at my nede.
Of myn enmyse y haue tane
A grete parte, but oon ys gane.
God, that dyed on a tre,
Geue, he were in my poste:
Hys lyfe dayes were awaye;
He schulde be hongyd ȝyt to day.’

‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘for the trynyte,
What traytur may that bee?’
‘My frende,’ he seyde, ‘be thys day,
Gye he hyght, wythowte delaye,
Of Warwyk, that thefe stronge:
He wyll do me mekyll wronge.’
‘Syr, full wele know y Gye:
God wolde, that he stode me bye.
He slewe my brodur ones in fyght:
I wolde be vengyd, yf y myght.
Knowe ye not oon Tyrrye?
That ys my dedlye enmye:
He slewe my brodur, þat was me dere,
Hyt ys not gone ȝyt halfe a yere.
God let me neuyr dye in lande,
Or y may venge me wyth my hande.’

‘My frende,’ seyde dewke Oton,
‘I haue hym in my pryson.
Y wyll, that þou kepe Tyrrye
And do hym schame and vylanye.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘gramercye!
I schall yow sey, wytterlye:
Y schall hym kepe ȝerlye and late.
I trowe sone to chaunge hys state.’
He gaue hym the keyes there
And made hym hys geylere.
The dewke askyd, what he hyght,

168

And he seyde [OMITTED]
The dewke comawndyd, he shulde haue
A feyre chaumbur and a knaue.
Lytull wyste dewke Oton,
Who schulde kepe hys pryson.

For seynt Thomas loue of Cawnturberye,
Fylle the cuppe and make vs mery.

Now haþ Gye all hys wylle
In the courte boþe lowde and stylle.
To the court Gye ys gone:
He fonde a pryson of lyme and stone.
xl fadoms hyt was depe:
Thereynne he harde oon sore wepe.
Gye askyd hastelye,
Who hyt was, þat made that crye.
‘I am a wrecche, a caytyfe:
Me forthynkyth, y am on lyfe.
Erle Tyrrye was my name:
Ther was neuer man, þat had more shame.
I am in a dongeowne
And myssayde of dewke Oton.
I bere on me yron more
Then euyr man dud before:
All my body weyeth, as ledde,
Lorde, þat y wolde fayne be dedde.
I was felowe wyth a knyght:
In all þys worlde ys none so wyght.
For þe dewke myght not hym sloo,
On me þe vengeawnce wyll he doo.
Thys thre dayes ete y no mete:
I muste dye for hungur grete.’

‘Be stylle,’ seyde Gye, ‘herkyn a þrowe;
For y am Gye, þyn owne felowe:
I schall delyuyr the of pryson.’

169

Then seyde Tyrrye to Gyowne:
‘For goddys loue and seynt Mary,
Wende awey faste in hye.
How came þou heder? telle þou me.
Skathe schall y haue for the:
Yf Oton wytt, that þou be here,
He wyll þe sloo on all manere.
Hyt ys bettur to dye myselfe allone,
Then we togedur schulde be slone.
For the loue of heuyn kynge,
Wende hens wythowte lettynge.’

All þat harde a Lumbarde,
Of ther speche how hyt farde.
He beganne for to crye:
‘Gye, y schall the sone bewrye.
Ye schall bothe hangyd bee
On the galowse, so mote y the.’
‘For god, that dyed on a tree,
Haue mercy of Tyrrye and of me.
Well y wote, that thou may
Make vs to haue grete harme to day
What schall thou therof wynne,
Yf we be slayne wyth schame and synne?
I schall become thy man here
And serue the, as my lorde dere.
Thou schalt be a nobull knyght;
And þerto, my trowthe y plyght,
We schall sese into thyn hande
Halfen dele of all owre lande.’
‘Do wey,’ seyde the Lumbart,
‘Of heuyn haue y neuyr part,
But y telle dewke Oton:
Y wolde not ellys for all þys towne.’

To the courte sone he ranne
And Gye hym folowed than.
He hyt þe Lumbarde on þe crowne,

170

That to þe grounde he felle downe.
He rose no more tales to telle:
For soþe, hyt was done full well.
Then seyde Oton: ‘what haste þou done?
Thou schalt be hangyd longe or none.
How durste thou be so hardy
To slee my man before my nye?’
‘My lorde,’ seyde Gye, ‘here, how hyt was:
I schall telle yow all the case.
Y went in þys courte abowte
Bothe wythynne and wythowte:
Then y fonde thys traytowre
Wyth Tyrrye spekyng in þe towre.
He broght hym mete at hys wylle:
Of wyne and ale he had hys fylle.
Me forthoght that full sore,
And he manaste me to sloo thore.
Y seyde to hym redelye,
I wolde yow telle, sekerlye;
And wyth hys fyste he smote me sore:
Sythen he flewe awey full ȝore.
Wyth wrath þerfore y smote hym here.
Y pray yow þerfore, my lorde dere,
Forgeue now thys trespas:
For yowre prowe done hyt was.
All schall be chastysed in þys towne
Thorow hym to kepe yowre prysowne.’

The dewke sware: ‘be heuyn kynge,
Was hyt done for no nodur thynge?’
‘No,’ he seyde, ‘be goddys grace.
I had leuyr be hongyd for þe trespas
Or some odur dethe dye,
Then he schulde scape so, sykerlye.’
‘Y forgeue the then in þys place,’
And Gye hym thankyd of hys grace.

Gye went into that cyte

171

And boght mete grete plente.
He broght hyt yn preuelye
And gaue hyt to syr Tyrrye.
Thus dud Gye many a day,
Tyll Tyrryes sorowe was away.
Awey he toke euery dele
All the bondys of yron and stele.

Into þe chaumbur Gye came on a day,
There he fonde that swete maye.
All in mornynge was hur songe:
Sche was then in parell stronge.
Gye seyde to that maye bryght:
‘Ye oght to knowe me well ryght.
I hyght Gye of Warwyke,
Thogh y be not now hym lyke.
Y am comyn to thys cyte,
Ther ys no man, þat knoweth me.
Y am comyn to delyuer Tyrrye,
That y loue so specyallye.’

When sche harde, hyt was Gyowne,
For yoye there sche felle downe.
Gye toke hur vp hastelye
And seyde: ‘þou doyst grete folye.
Thou wylt vs here sone confownde,
Yf þou fare thus any stownde.
And hyt be perceyuyd anyþynge,
We schall haue schame wythowt dwellyng.’
Than beganne þat maye to crye:
‘Of me þou haue some mercye:
The terme ys on þe prydde day,
That we schall be wedde wythowte delaye.
And, or that y be hys wyfe,
I schall me sloo wyth a knyfe.’

‘Do wey,’ seyde Gye, ‘holde þe stylle.
Folowe ay all hys wylle.

172

Of hys errande he schall mys,
Or he come to þe churche, ywys.
I schall hym sloo, or he come þare,
And then schalt þou wyth me fare.’

He wente to the pryson ȝare
And the maydyn lefte he þare.
‘Tyrrye,’ seyde Gye, ‘for þyn honowre,
Hye the faste fro thys towre.
Loke, þou stynte not nyght nor day,
But wende faste on thy way,
Tyll þou come to Ames de la Mowntayn
In a castell vp in Spayne.
Grete hym wele, as he ys hende.
Dwelle wyth hym: he ys þy frende.
Tyll y come or my sonde sende,
Loke, þat þou not fro hym wende.’
‘I graunte,’ quod Tyrrye than;
Y wyll sone thedur ganne.’
Gye hym kyste in that tyde:
Fro þe towre faste he hyedde.
He broght hym to þe hye waye
And betaght hym there gode day.
Tyrrye went, Gye was lefte þare:
He came to þe towre full ȝare.
He sawe the mayde at the laste
And þedurwarde he hyed faste.
He cowmfortyd hur all, þat he myȝt,
Bothe be day and be nyght.

As Tyrrye wente fro þat cyte,
Longe and brode was þat cuntre:
Hyllys, wodes and feldes wyde
Was in that cuntre on euery syde.
So longe Tyrrye trauelde ywys,
To Ames castell comen he ys.
Ames in the halle he fande

173

Feyre at the chesses pleyande;
Wyth hym xxxti of bolde knyghtys,
That serued hym on dayes and nyȝtys.
They were wyth hym dwellande
For warre, þat had be in þat lande.
‘Syr,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘god the see.
I prey þe, a worde þou speke wyth me
Be yowreselfe preuelye,
Nor man bye, but ye and y.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Ames, ‘at þy wylle
I schall speke wyth the stylle.’
Vp rose Ames and þat anone:
To a wyndowe ys he gone.

‘Ames,’ seyde Tyrrye,
‘Be me well gretyþ yow syr Gye.
He sende me hedur at yowre wylle
To be here wyth yow stylle,
Tyll he come or sende sonde.
To speke wyth Oton he wyll fonde.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Ames, ‘sekerlye,
Thys ys a grete curtesye,
That he wolde þe hedur sende.
What ys þy name, dere frende?’
‘Syr, y hyght Tyrrye,
Of Gormoyse þe erles sone Awbrye.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Ames, ‘so mote y the,
Thou art full welcome vnto me.’
He hym kyste then full swete
And wyth hys eyen dud he grete,
That he was so fowle ydyght:
To amende hyt he dud hys myght.
He made hym full wele at ese
And made hys men hym to plese.
He hym cladde in a wede nobull,
In ryche sylke and purpull:

174

The rychest of all þat lande
He made to be broȝt to hys hande.
Feyre he preyed hym þere to lynge,
Tyll he of Gye harde tythynge.

Speke we now of dewke Oton
And of þe knyȝt, syr Gyown.
The dewke let make þen a crye,
Þat all men to þe brydale be redye,
All, that were in Lumbardye
And in the cyte of Payuye.
The dewke was a yoyfull man,
That þe terme was comyn than.
Comen he ys to that maye
Wyth grete game þat ylke day.
‘Lemman dere, dyght þe:
To day schalt þou weddyd bee.’
‘Syr,’ sche seyde, wyth glade chere,
‘All thy wylle y wyll do here.’
Sche greythed hur nobull well
To plese þe dewke þat day, as y yow telle.
Sche lepe on a palfray,
To the churche sche toke þe way
Thorow þe cyte and the towne:
Wyth hur wente dewke Oton.
He wened to haue wedde wyth yoye þat maye:
Sorowe to hym came þat ylke day.

Gye hym armed tho in stele:
He had armer at hys wylle.
Forthe he wente, þe dewke Oton:
That mayde þey had in þer bandown.
Gye hys stede sone bestrode
And owte of þe castell faste he rode.
Faste he prekyd þorow þe towne
And ouyrtoke þe dewke Oton.
‘Dewke, stonde þou stylle thare:

175

Y comawnde þe, þou store no mare.
Thynkyst þou not of that treson,
That thou dydyst to syr Gyon
At the pase, there we went?
At þat tyme my men were schente.
Therwyth woldyst þou not holde the,
But wythynne these monythys thre
Thou dydyst me a vylanye,
When þou betraydest syr Tyrrye.
Thys ys Gye, that thou seyst here:
Thou schalt abye, be seynt Rogere.’

He breyde owt hys gode bronde
And helde hyt nakyd in hys honde.
The dewke he smote vpon the hode,
That to the gyrdylstede hyt wode.
‘Syrs,’ quod Gye, ‘be my lewte,
Yf any starte owte aftur me,
Sone schall he lese hys hedde;’
And wyth þat mayde awey he yede.
He set hur on hys hors hym bye
And rode awey full hastelye.

All they folowed tho syr Gye
And þorow þe cyte rose grete crye.
Fro þem all he paste awey:
Ther came none hym nere þat ylke day,
But a man of grete renowne,
That was cosyn to dewke Oton.
He was bolde, Barrarde he hyght:
He rode on a stede lyght.
He folowde Gye thorow þe londe
Wyth a spere in hys honde.
When he had folowed hym v myle,
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘abyde a whyle.
For hys loue, that dyed on tree,
Oon tyme thou juste wyth me.’

Gye hym turned þat ylke stownde

176

And set þe mayde to þe grownde.
He toke hys spere and hys schelde
And he hyt brake: Gye hyt felde.
Gye had wondyr of that dynte
And turned ageyne, or he wolde stynte,
And wyth hys spere he smote Barrarde
On hys schelde, þat was so harde,
Thorow all hys armour a wyde wounde,
That hys stede and he felle to grounde.
Barrarde starte vp full tyte
And drewe hys swyrde wyth dyspyte
And smote þe stedys rugge in two
And bad, þe deuell schoulde hym sloo,
When he myȝt not on fote stonde
For a dynte of a knyghtys honde.
He seyde: ‘Gye, adowne lyght
A whyle wyth me for to fyght.
Hyt schall be seyne þys ylke day,
Who schall bere the pryce away.
The grace of god be me reuyd,
But y smyte of thy heuydde.’
‘My frende,’ seyde Gye, ‘let be þy fare:
I wyll fyght wyth the no mare.
We may come, wythowte fayle,
In better tyme to batayle.’

On hys hors Gye toke þe way
And passyd forþe that ylke day.
Barrarde wente to hys cuntre
Ageyne vnto that feyre cyte.
They broȝt þe dewke to chyrche in hye
And beryed hym wele rychelye.
Barrarde to þe emperowre ys gone
And tolde, how þe dewke was slone.
He gaue to hym all hys senyorye:
That was the dewche of Payuye.

177

He gaue hym armes at hys wylle
And all, þat he wolde aske wyth skylle.
He made hym steward of Almayne:
Therof was many a man fayne.

And Gye went wyth that mayde trewe:
Then beganne hur sorowe to newe.
‘Syr Gye,’ sche seyde, ‘how schall y fare?
Schall y neuyr see Tyrrye mare?
Wele y wot, he schall be dedde,
Yf he be lefte wythynne þat stedde.
I wolde be there ageyn full ȝare:
Then had y yoye wythowten care.’
‘Be stylle,’ quod Gye, ‘for, be my hode,
Tyrrye schall eyle noþyng, but gode.
Y spake wyth the geylere,
That he schulde hym kepe on feyre maner.’

So longe had they redyn on faste,
They came to þe cyte at þe laste,
On the mowntayn þere hyt stode,
Thedur he sende Tyrrye the gode.
To the cyte when þey came,
To þe halle þe wey þey name.
Ames sawe Gye and knewe hym well.
‘Welcome,’ he seyde, ‘be seynt Mychell.’
When Tyrrye sawe Gye þe wyght
And wyth hym þat mayde so bryght,
To the mayde can Tyrrye goo
And toke hur in hys armes twoo
And kyste hur there anon.
‘Welcome,’ he seyde, ‘my dere lemmon.’
Aftur he went vnto syr Gye
And kyste hym there, sekurlye.
‘Welcome,’ he seyde, ‘for sothe, ye bee
And wyth yow my lemman free.
That ye be comyn to thys place,

178

Thankyd be god of hys grace.
I prey to god in trynyte,
Let vs neuer efte departyd bee.’

Now be þey all comen same:
There was moche yoye and game.
When þat mayde sawe Tyrrye,
That sche louyd specyallye,
For grete yoye amonge þem all
In a swowne sche dud downe falle.
Sche had not wente to haue fonde hym þare.
Tyrrye toke hur vp full ȝare
And seyde: ‘lady, let be thy fare.
To game and yoye ys turned owre care.
I am,’ he seyde, ‘bothe hole and fere,
And so art thou, y see well here.’
There þey dwellyd all longe:
Yoye and game was þem amonge.

Gye hym þoght vpon a day
Of gode Harrowde, þat was away,
And callyd Tyrrye and Amys
And seyde: ‘lordyngys, here myn avyce.
Wyll we to Gormoyse wende
To the erle, that ys so hende?
For vs, y wote, he ys sorye.
Vs to venge he wyll helpe in hye
And brynge my men owt of pryson,
That Loyere holdyth wyth gret treson.’
Then bespake Tyrrye anon:
‘Full glad wyll he be wyth yow to gone
And ellys y wolde, þat he were colde;
For he ys þerto moste beholde.’

Then bespake Ames the hende:
‘Y wyll also wyth yow wende
To helpe yow in all thynge.

179

Fyue hundurd knyghtys wyll y brynge
And of squyers a thousande:
They schall be redy to yowre hande.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘gramercye;
For in yowre helpe y me affye.’
Ames sende aftur hys knyghtys all:
They came sone to hys calle;
So dud hys squyers euerychone:
They fayled hym neuer oon.

When they were redy dyght,
Forþe þey went on stedys lyght.
To Gormoyse they toke the way:
Loreyn þey stroyed that same day.
As þey went in þat londe,
They slewe all, that they fonde.
They come to Gormoyse in hye:
Joyfull was the erle Awbrye.
He was so yoyfull a man,
That he swownyd, when þey came.
He wende full sekurlye
Neuer to haue sene Tyrrye nor Gye.
All the men of that cyte
Of þer comyng made game and glee.

Tyrrye tolde hys fadur than,
How Gye was a nobull man
And toke hym fro the pryson
And wyth hys hande slewe dewke Oton.
‘Amonge þem all he forgate noght,
But my lady awey he broght.
Now he þynkyþ bothe day and nyght
Dewke Loyere for to stroye wyth myght.
He wyll not wyth grete yre
To be vengyd on that syre.’

But, when þe dewke harde tythande,
Þat Gye was comyn to hys lande,

180

Wyth hym Ozelde, hys doghtur dere:
He was gladde and made gode chere.
He calde Harrowde to hym in hye
And tolde hym, how þat Tyrrye and Gye
Were comyn and grete power broght
And in hys londe grete harme had wroȝt
And Ames de la Mowntayne
And wyth hym all the men of Spayne.
When he harde tythyngys of Gye,
That he was comyn wyth Tyrrye,
He was neuer so gladde nor blythe:
He thankyd god fele sythe.

‘Harrowde,’ seyde the dewke Loyere,
‘Y wyll, þou be my messengere.
To erle Awbrye þou schalt gone,
To Gye and Tyrrye and þat anon
And prey them pur charyte
For to be at oon wyth mee;
And y wyll amende at þer wylle
And all þer harmes to fulfylle
And all, þat euer þat þey wyll craue;
And my doghtur Tyrrye schall haue
And, whyll y leue, halfe my londe
And, when y am dedde, all in hys honde.
I prey the, bere wytnesse
Of all þese wordys more and lesse.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘wyth gode chere
Wyll y be yowre messengere.
I wyll do myn entente
Faste abowte that cordement.’

The dewke let the constabull calle
And bad hym brynge owt þe prisoners all
And delyuyrde them full yare
And all þer harnes lesse and mare:
Ther was none, þat fayled onyþynge
The mowntance of a farthynge.

181

He seyde, þey schulde all wyth Harrowde fare
To speke abowte the cordement þare.

Now ys Harrowde redy dyght
And wyth hym many a doghty knyȝt:
They were felows euerychone,
To Gormoyse they be gone.
Gye and Ames went þat day
Wyth Tyrrye into þe felde to play.
They lokeyd besyde þem on þe playne:
Ther came knyghtys þem agayne.
They were agaste of treson.
Ames seyde to syr Gyon:
‘Yonder comeþ a meyne,
But y wot not, what þey bee.
Hedur, me þynkyþ, þey take þe way.
I schall wytt, yf that y may,
Whedur hyt be in pece or in werre.’
In hys honde he toke a spere:
Forthe he rode prekande,
Tyll he came nerehande.
He stode and avysyd them euerychone:
Harrowde hym knewe and þat anon.
‘Ames,’ he seyde, ‘where ys Gye
And whedur wyndyst þou þus hastelye?’
‘Harrowde,’ quod Ames, ‘y schall þe saye,
Thou schalt see Gye thys ylke day.
I lefte hym on the ȝondur hylle
And hys meyne hove stylle.’
Then seyde Harrowde: ‘go we thedur,
Euerychone and all togedur.’

There they redyn a gode pase,
All the knyghtys, þat þere wase.
Gye houyd there stylle,
Tyll þey were vpon the hylle.
‘Lorde,’ seyde Gye, ‘god almyght,

182

Ȝondur y see Harrowde the wyght
And my felows euerychone:
Y wene, they be owt of pryson tane.’
When Gye and Tyrrye and Harrowde were mett,
They kyste eyder oder wythowten lett.
‘Syrs,’ quod Harrowde, ‘y prey yow here,
A gode councell þat yow lere.
For y am comen, as a messengere,
From the dewke syr Loyere.
Y oght to loue hym, as my brodur:
He honowred me afore all odur.
Y sey yow for yowre prowe:
He wyll be at one wyth yow.
He wyll geue Tyrrye hys doghtur dere
(And be at oon on all manere)
And all hys londe more and lesse
And therto fynde sekernesse.
Wyth þys message he hath me sente
To yow, syr Gye, and Tyrrye presente.
He wyll amende in all thynge,
That he haþ trespaste, at yowre askynge.
I wyll, þe parell be on me leyde,
That he wyll do, as y haue seyde.’

There þey preyed all syr Gye
And wyth hym erle Tyrrye,
That þey schulde graunt for to bee
Wyth hym in loue and charyte.
To the cyte wente syr Gye
And tolde hyt to erle Awbrye,
How þat Harrowde was comen home
And wyth hym hys felows euerychon
And how he wolde acordyd bee
And geue to Tyrrye hys doghtur free

183

And make amendys for hys trespas
‘And put hym in owre owne grace.’
‘Therto my gode wylle y graunt here,’
And so dud all, þat þere were.

On þe morowe þey made þem all ȝare
Vnto Loren for to fare,
The erle Awbrye and syr Gye,
Ames, Harrowde and Tyrrye,
And wente vnto þe dewke Loreyne,
And he of þem was full fayne.
They were made at oon thore
And louyd togedur for euermore.
There was forgeuyn euery trespas
And grete yoye in that cyte was,
That Tyrrye was on feyre manere
Acordyd wyth the dewke Loyere.
The dewke hys doghtur gaue to Tyrrye
And of hys londe the more partye
Before all hys baronage,
That were of dyuers langage.
The brydale was ordeygned than:
A feyrer sawe neuyr no man
Of kynge nor of emperowre.
Hyt was made wyth grete honowre.

At the partynge of the feste,
That was made so honeste,
They toke þer leue, knyghtys free:
Home þey wente to þer cuntre.
The erle Ames hys leue hath tane
And to hys castell he ys gane.
There was Gye a whyle stylle
And had ynogh of hys wylle;
Tyll he wente vpon a day
Wyth howndys hym for to play,
And also the dewke Loyere

184

Wente for to chace the dere:
Wyth hym he toke þe erle Tyrrye
And many a nodur knyght hardy.

They enturde into a wylde foreste
And þere þey fonde a bore wylde and preste.
All þe howndys, they had, than
Aftur the bore faste they ranne.
The bore awey faste ys gone
And many of þe howndys he haþ slone:
Moo, þen twenty, in a stownde
Had he broght vnto the grownde.
He passyd the foreste hastelye:
They folowed hym wyth grete crye.
Faste he passyd thorow þe londe:
Ther durste no hownde come nerehonde.
The knyghtys prekyd aftur faste,
Tyll þer horsys myght not laste.
The howndys, that folowed þat day,
Were slayne all be the way:
Thes odur were werye,
They went home, þey myȝt not drye,
All, but thre, that were wyght,
That folowed alwey wyth ther myght,
Tyll they come to Bretayne.
Ther folowed þem nodur knyȝt nor swayne:
Of them all was no huntere,
That wyste, where the borre were,
But syr Gye hymselfe allone,
That folowed faste wyth grete randone
On hys stede faste prekynge
And wyth hys horne faste blowynge.

Gye chasyd the borre so faste,
He came to Bretayne at the laste.
Be then was þe boore full hote:

185

He fonde a dyke and yn he smote.
There he wandyrde faste abowte
And wrotyd faste wyth hys snowte.
Gye sawe the bore well
And, what he dud, euery delle.
Downe he lyght of hys stede
And to the bore soon he yede.
He toke hys swyrde in hys hande:
The boore hym sye and came rennande.
Gye on þe rygge smote hym soo,
That hys body felle in twoo.
The boore felle downe at þe laste,
And Gye wyth hys horne blewe a blaste.
He wende to haue had some felowe,
But ther was none, þat dud hym knowe.
He was in a farre cuntre
All aloone fro hys meyne,
And, as he openyd there the boore,
Euyr he blewe more and more.

Then bespake erle Florentyne:
‘What may thys be, for seynt Martyne,
That y here blowe in my foreste?
Takyn they haue some wylde beste.’
Forthe he clepyd there a knyght,
Hys owne sone, that was wyght.
‘My dere sone,’ he seyde, ‘hye the,
That he were broght anon to me.
Whedur he be knyght or huntere,
Brynge hym hedur on all manere.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘hyt schall be done.’
He lepe on a stede sone.
To the foreste he came in hye
And sone he mett wyth syr Gye.
He bare a staffe and that a longe:
Therwyth he þoght to do Gye wronge.

186

‘Harlot,’ he seyde, ‘what art thou,
That comen art into þys foreste nowe
Wythowte þe leue of my fader?
In wyckyd tyme come thou here.
How durste þou take thys wylde beste
Wythowte leue in thys foreste?
Geue me thy horne: be thy swyre,
I schall þe brynge vnto my syre.’

‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘wyth gode chere,
Yf ye hyt aske in feyre manere.’
‘Nay, traytour, y the say,
Thou schalt not passe fro me away.’
Be the brydull he toke þe stede:
He had hym leuyr, þen any mede.
Wyth hys staffe Gye he smote,
That he felyd hyt full hote.
Gye seyde: ‘þou doyst vncurteslye
For to smyte me wrongeuslye.’
Wyth hys horne Gye brake þan
Hys hedde vnto þe brayne panne.
‘Felowe, take þou that therfore.
Loke, þou smyte no knyght no more.’

Forthe he rode a gode spede,
When he was lopyn on hys stede.
He went the foreste nye abowte,
Or he myght wende owte.
He lokyd abowte hym on euery hande,
But he knewe noþyng of þat lande:
He sawe a towne be the way.
He fasted all that same day.
He had not redyn, but a whyle,
Vnnethe þe mowntawnce of a myle:
He sawe a castell nerehande
Feyre on an hylle stande.
He hyed hym thedur faste rydande:

187

He mett wyth oon of that lande.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘for thy lewte,
Who owyth the ȝondur cyte?’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y schall the say.
A bettur lorde leuyth not to day:
Men calle hym Florentyne.
A better man dranke neuer wyne.’

Gye rode to the castell gate:
Porter fonde he none therate.
He went to the halle ȝare
And of hys stede he lyght thare.
In he wente a gode pase:
He fonde syttynge at the deyse
An olde man, an hore knyght.
He semyd of moche myght.
To hym came syr Gye
And gret hym full curteslye.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘herkyn to me:
I am a knyȝt of straunge cuntre.
Yf hyt yowre wylle bee,
I aske mete for charyte
But for oon meel of thys day,
And sythen y wyll wende away.’
He seyde: ‘syr, so mote y the,
Thou art welcome vnto me.’

He bad hys men and þat in haste
Go feche forthe of the beste.
Gye ete faste on feyre manere
Of hys mete wyth gode chere.
He harde bellys faste rynge
In the cyte wythowte cessynge.
All, þat þere were, aferde was,
For they harde soche noyse.
‘Lady,’ þey seyde ‘heuyn quene,
What may all thys sorowe bemeene?’

Wyth þat they come wyth sory chere

188

And broght hys sone layde on a beere
And leyde hym there in the halle.
‘Lorde,’ seyde he, ‘þat boght vs all,
Ys thys,’ he seyde, ‘my dere sone,
That on beere ys thus come?’
He drewe hys cloþys and hys hare:
He þoght, hys herte myȝt breke for care.
‘Allas,’ he seyde, ‘my dere chylde,
Who hath þe slone in the felde?
God, that dyed on a tree,
Leve, he stode here be me:
Y wolde not leeue for all þys lande,
But y wolde slee hym wyth myn hande.’

Then bespake a squyere:
‘He syttyth now before yow here.
I knowe hym ryght wele:
Y sawe that dede euery dele.’

When þe erle harde, þat hyt so was,
He starte hym vp fro the dayse.
A spere he toke in hys hande
And came to Gye rennande
And seyde: ‘traytour, þou schalt dye here,
For þou slewe my sone dere.’
Vp he drewe then hys arme:
He þoght to do Gye grete harme.
Wyth grete wrath he can mynte,
But he fayled of hys dynte.
Halfe a fote the spere stode
And into the borde wode.
‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘for goddys mercye,
Smyte not, but ye wott, why.
If y haue slayne thy dere sone,
Me defendawnt hyt was done.’

Tho they lept Gye abowte,
Knyghtys, þat were styffe and stowte.
Gye wanne hys schelde, þere hyt stode,

189

And in hys hande an axe gode.
He turnedde hys rygge to a walle
And hym defendyd for them all.
Tho starte forthe the steward:
Hyt semyd, he was no cowarde.
Wyth a swyrde he smote Gye
On the schelde hardelye.
Wyth hys axe Gye to hym mynte:
He fayled not of hys dynte.
He claue hys hedde euyn in twaye:
Hys lyfe he loste that ylke day.
Gye wyth hys owne hande
Defendyd hym wyth hys axe bytande.
There he slewe knyghtys thre,
The strengyst of all þat cuntre.

‘Erle Florentyne,’ seyde Gye,
‘For the holy crosse loue, mercye!
Thou art holdyn a doghty knyght,
A wyse man of werre and fyght:
Yf thou slee me in thys halle,
All men wyll the traytour calle.
Hyt were a grete schame vnto the,
When þou harbarowste me for charyte.
Were hyt wyth ryght or wyth wronge,
Hyt wolde þe turne to schame stronge
And moost of all in that case,
When y at the mete was.
Therfore do wythowte blame,
That hyt turne not to no schame.
Do me now to haue my stede
And owte of the ȝate me lede.
Hyt were to the more honowre,
Then y were slayne in thy towre.’

The erle wythdrewe hym than.
He was a sory man,

190

When he sye þem þere lye dedde.
What he myȝt do, he cowde no redde.
‘Allas,’ he seyde, ‘and wele away!
My sone ys dedde thys ylke day
Now schall y euyr mare
Leue in sorowe and in care.’
He swownyd soone vpon the beere.
Ther was no man in þat place þere,
But of hym they had pyte.
He comawndyd hys meyne,
That none were so hardye
To assayle hym before hys yee.
He dud delyuer to hym hys stede
And also all hys odur wede.
When he were owt of the towre,
He schulde be slayne wyth dyshonowre.

Gye toke hys gode stede
And on hym lepe, as he had nede.
Hys swyrde he forȝate noght,
And hys spere was to hym broght.
Owte of the castell ys he gane:
The way he hath soone tane.
Be þat the erle was armed wele
Bothe in yron and in stele.
Faste he sewyd there syr Gye
Wyth hys grete companye.
Gye turned the hed of hys stede
And farde, as þat he wolde wede.
He mett a knyght and smote hym sore,
That he rose neuyr more.
A nother there soone he smote.
The erle came then full hote
(To slee Gye he dud fonde)
Wyth a spere in hys honde.

191

Gye hym turned and dud hym see:
To fyght wyth hym wolde he not flee.
They faght togedur þere full faste,
Whyll þere speres myght laste.
The erle smote tho syr Gye
Thorow the schelde hardelye.
Gye smote at hym a nodur dynte:
Hys hors and hym downe he tynte.

Gye had pyte of that knyght,
When he sawe, he had be of myght,
And þat he had hys sone slone.
Twenty wyntur hyt was gone,
Sythen he myght armes bere,
Or helpe hymselfe in any were.
Gye seyde: ‘haue here thy stede
And hye þe whome a gode spede.
Hyt were bettur for þe to be in churche
And holy werkys for to wyrche,
Then to welde schelde or spere
Or any odur armes to bere.
I haue ȝyldyd the thy mede:
For þy mete haue here thy stede.
I wolde haue askyd þe none, yf y had wyste,
Thogh y schulde haue dyed for hungur and þryste.
I schall neuyr more come to the
To aske mete for charyte.
God let me euyr wele fare,
At þy courte or y come mare.’

Also so god geue yow reste,
Fylle the cuppe of the beste.

Now wendyþ Gye faste away:
He wolde not ȝelde hym þat day.
Þer came knyȝtys on euery syde
Yonge and of moche pryde.

192

Wyth the helpe of þat cuntre
They chasyd Gye grete plente.
Gye rode faste thorow þat londe:
A grete foreste there he fonde.
Ofte he turned them hys vysage
And dud them grete owtrage.
Many a wownde awey þey bere
And many slayne eke in fere.

Gye on hys stede rode faste:
Fro þem all soon he paste.
The erle and hys companye,
Ageyne they went hastelye.
He toke hys sone, that was dedde,
And beryed hym in a holy stedde.
All that day Gye dud ryde
(He wolde not there abyde),
Tyll hyt were on a nodur morne:
He sawe Loreyn hym beforne.
He knewe that cuntre:
He wente to that cyte.
All hys men þere he fonde,
That were for hym sore dredeande.
All they made gode chere,
When þey sawe Gye holde and fere.
He tolde þem all, or he wolde blynne,
What parell that he was ynne.
Then they þankyd seynt Mychell,
That he was delyuyrd so well.

When he had a stownde dwellyd þare,
Into Ynglonde wolde he fare.
He toke leue of dewke Loyere
And he hym bad on feyre manere
Of hys tresure for to take
And þat he schulde hyt not forsake.
Of the tresure kepte he noght:

193

On odur thynge was hys þoght.
To Tyrrye went Gyown
And schewyd hym hys reson.
‘Tyrrye,’ he seyde, ‘y wyl fare:
Into Ynglonde y wyll ȝare
For to see there my kynne
To wyt, what state þat þey be ynne.
I wot not, whethur þey be leueande,
And therfore y wyll passe þe sande.
Thys vii yere y sawe not thame:
For sothe, therfore y am to blame.
Yf anythynge come to the,
What some euyr that hyt bee,
Sende to me for anythynge,
And y wyll come wythowte lettynge.
Now þou haste þy wyfe hende
And all þy warre broght to an ende:
Thyn enmyse, they be slone,
For soþe, that y knowe, euerychone.
In pese now ys all thy londe:
Ther dar no man brynge þe warre on honde.
Thou art holdyn of pryce,
Therfore the wyll drede thyn enmyse.
I schall the sende my messengere:
Thou do also, my brodur dere.
Myselfe wyll come to þe some day,
And þat schall be, when þat y may.’

‘Syr,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘gramercye!
I am sorowfull, sekerlye.
Thou haste me sauyd fro þe dedde
In mony a dyuers stedde.
Yf þou wylte now wende fro me
Y not, whethur euer y schall þe see.

194

Then schall myn enmyse wyt full wele,
How we be departyd euery dele:
The Almayns wyll geue me were,
Wyth þer myght þey me wyll dere.
They be of Otons kynne,
And many a lande ys therynne.
I schall be in grete stryfe
Euyr, whyll that y haue lyfe.
Yf we be togedur here,
Me þar not drede on no manere.
Yf ye wyll dwelle wyth me,
Castels and cytees y schall geue þe
(The beste, that in thys londe be,
Schall be thyn), so mote y the)
And dwelle wyth þe dewke Loyere:
All Gormoyse ye schall haue here.
I sey wyth my herte, god hyt wote,
Schall y neuyr chalenge fote
Of all Gormoyse eche a thynge,
Not so moche, as a farthynge.’

‘Tyrrye, bydde me no more:
Hyt ys no saluynge for my sore.
I desyre that londe fayne
And for þy loue y wolde turne agayne.
Yf hyt ne were for my lemman dere,
I wolde not go fro the here.
Togedur we wolde be, wythowte othynge,
Tyll we came to endynge.
Dere brodur, let be thy care:
Y wyll come ageyne full ȝare.’
They kyste togedur ryght thore
And wepte wyth ther eyen sore.
Ther was none, when Gye dud goo,
But he wepte wyth hys eyen twoo.

Gye lepe on a softe palfray

195

And he wente forthe on hys way.
The erle lefte stylle thare:
For Gye he made moche care.
Gye, forthe euyr dud he ryde,
Tyll he came to the see syde.
A schyppe he fonde and gode fare:
Into Ynglonde he came ȝare.
To Wynchestur he came ryght:
The kynge was þere wyth myght.
When he came to that cyte,
Agenste hym came þe kynge free.
All the men of that cuntre
Preysed Gye for hys bewte.
The kynge hym nome abowte þe halse
And wyth yoye he kyste hym alse.
All men of hym had ferlye,
That he had passed so, syr Gye.

At the chesses vpon a day
Gye wyth the kynge dud play.
Then came knyghtys prekande:
‘Syr,’ they seyde, ‘here tythande.
A beste ys comen to the lande:
Ther may no man agenste hym stande.
He ys comyn fro Yrelande:
Moche care he bryngyþ on hande.
He sleyth bothe beste and man
And all, that euer he fynde can.
He ys a dredefull beste:
Hys hedde ys black and wyth þe meste;
Hys wombe ys black, hys rygg donne,
Hys body ys gretter þen a tonne.
Wyngys he hath on euery syde:
Hys body ys longe and vnryde
(Skales he hath all abowte:
Of no wepon he þar not dowte),

196

Hys breste brode and black skynne.
At hys mowthe a stede myght ynne.
Powes he hath, as a lyon.
He ys an vgle, fowle dragon.
Hys tayle ys grete and þerto longe.
Ther ys no knyȝt halfe so stronge,
Were he armed neuer so wele,
But, and þe dragon hyt hym wele
Wyth hys tayle a lytull mynte,
But he schulde dye of that dynte.’

When the kynge harde well,
What they seyde, euery dell,
He was in sorowe stronge:
He myght not speke aftur longe.
‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘let be thy thoght:
Of þat beste drede the noght.
I schall wende to that cuntre
And, yf that beste fowndyn bee,
I schall hym sloo wyth force and myght
And come ageyne anon ryght.’
‘Nay,’ seyde the kynge to Gyown,
‘Ye schall not wende owt of þys towne,
But wyth yow an hundurd knyȝtys or two:
All the sykerer may ye goo.’
Gye hym answeryd hastelye:
‘God forbede and seynt Marye,
That for a beste all oonlye
Men schulde brynge soche compenye.’

Gye toke hys leue wythowten more,
And to hys ynne he went thore.
He hym dyght soone that day:
To that beste he toke þe way.
Hys felows wolde wyth hym wende:
He wolde not let þem, so god me mende.
Wolde he none let wyth hym goo,
But syr Harrowde and odur twoo.

197

When he þedur came, syr Gye,
There he sawe the beste lye,
Gye hym armed soone then:
Sythen he comawndyd all hys men,
That none were so hardye
To come to hym, þogh he schulde dye.
Vndur an hylle went syr Gye,
There as, he sawe, þe beste dud lye.
Gye sate vpon hys stede:
Of hym he had grete drede.
He smote hym wyth hys spere faste:
Hyt brake in pecys at the laste.
So thyck was hys skynne,
That he myȝt not thorow wynne.

When the beste feled the dynte,
Wyth hys hedde he dud mynte.
To Gye he starte, as he wolde wede,
And smote hym downe and hys stede.
There was Gye stonyed sore:
Soche a dynte had he neuer ore.
Gye starte vp and lay not longe.
‘God,’ he seyde, ‘of myght so stronge,
That madyst bothe day and nyght
And dyed on tre for synfull wyght
And sauyd Sampson fro the lyon,
Kepe me to day fro thys dragon.’

Hys swyrde anon he drewe owte:
To þat beste he starte full stowte.
Before the hedde dud he smyte,
But the swyrde wolde not byte.
So grete wondur had Gye there,
That no wepon myght hym dere.
He was now in batell stronge:
The dragon faght agenste hym longe.
As Gye assayled hym in the place,
Hym befelle auenturs case:

198

So nye Gye the beste wente,
That wyth hys pawes he hym rente
The pecys of hys hawberke,
That was boþe stalworthe and starke.
In aventure was Gye than:
To a tre faste he ranne
To loke, yf he myght better fare,
And for to defende hym thare.
He on Gye faste dud bete
And wyth hys tayle faste he dud hym smete
Thorow þe schelde in a stownde,
That Gye felle flat to þe grownde.

Than there a lytull whyle
Gye was in grete paryle:
He foldyd hys tayle hym abowte,
That he myght not on no syde owte.
Hys tayle was grett and vnryde:
He brake two rybbes in Gyes syde.
Gye seyde: ‘y am but dedde,
But god sende me þe bettur redde.’
He smote hym þere wyth all hys myght
Aboue þe tayle in two full ryght.
Wyth grete angwysche and wyth woo
At þat tyme he wanne hym fro.
Then perseyuyd Gye full wele,
That no wepon made of stele
Fro the tayle to the heuydde
Myght hym not þe lyfe haue reuydde.

The beste hym felyd smetyn sore:
He caste a crye and a rore.
Thorow þat cuntre was the dynne:
All myght here, þat was þerynne.
Ther was no man, þat herde þat crye,
But that they wente for to dye.
Ȝyt ranne Gye abowte the tre:

199

He þoght, fro hym he wolde not fle.
Hys hawberke þere was all torente:
Hys body was full nere schente.
At the laste Gye hym bethoght,
To smyte before hyt helpyþ noght.
As the dragon was turnande,
Gye had hys swyrde in hys hande:
Euyn betwene the wyngys twoo
He smote the body almoste a too.
He felle downe and myght no more,
But beganne to crye and rore.
Gye wythdrewe hym sone than:
For grete stynke he was nye slane.
He restyd hym vpon the playne:
Of hys dede he was full fayne.

When Gye had rested hym well,
He rose and mett hym euery delle:
Syxty fote was he longe.
Therof men had wondur stronge:
All, that came be the way,
Wondurd on hym, þere he lay.
The hedde of soone he schare.
To the kynge a man hyt bare:
To Ȝorke the hed dud he brynge
And presentyd hyt to the kynge,
And wyth a grete precessyowne
They broght Gye to the towne.
At Ȝorke the hed was hangyd þan:
Theron lokyd many a man.

He toke leue at þe kynge thare
And to Walyngforde dud he fare.
The kynge was then full blythe
And thankyd god fele sythe.
Longe was paste, wythowte lesynge,

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Or he of hym harde more tythynge.
Hys fadur was dedde longe gone:
Odur heyre, bote he, was ther none.

Gye callyd Harrowde on a day,
That hym had seruyd aye:
He gaue hym þe castell and þe towre
And all hys londe wyth honowre.
To euery knyght ferre and nere,
Lesse and more, that wyth hym were,
That had bene wyth hym in fyght,
He gaue þem waryson full ryght.

To Warwyk dud he wende
And þere he fonde þe erle so hende,
That honowred hym wyth hys myght:
So dud all the londe, baron and knyght.
The erle dud hym honowre aye
And wolde not leue hym an owre of a day:
They went to þe wode and to þe ryvere
To solace them on all manere.

He tolde Felyce all hys wylle and lyfe,
And, how he was bedyn ryche wyfe,
Kyngys doghtur and emperowre,
And wyth hur moche honowre:
‘Of them all wolde y noght,
For on yow was all my thoght.’

‘Syr,’ sche seyde, ‘gramercye!
I yow sey, sekerlye:
For me þer hath be preyere
Of kynge and dewke ferre and nere.
Of them all wolde y nane:
Ye had my loue wyth yow tane.
I am yowrys (hyt ys skylle)
To do wyth me at yowre wylle.’

Gye hur kyste wyth yoye than:
He was neuer so gladde a man.

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He toke hys leue and home wente:
Of myrthe and yoye was hys entente.
He made yoye nyght and day,
When he was seker of þat maye.

Hyt happenyd, þe erle calde hys doghtere
And resonyd hur on hys manere
And seyde: ‘doghtur, odur heyre haue y noon
Nor neuer schall haue, but þe allone.
Hyt were tyme, þou toke an husbonde
Aftur my day to kepe my londe.
Dewkys dyuers of farre cuntre
Haue comen for to aske the:
Of þem all wolde þou none.
How longe schalt þou maydyn gone?’
‘Syr, y schall yow the sothe say
Be the space of the thrydde day.’

When the þrydde day was gone,
The erle came ageyne anone.
‘Doghtur, now wyll y wytt,
Haste þou takyn þy cowncell ȝyt?’
‘Syr,’ sche seyde, ‘blame me noght,
Yf that y telle yow now my thoght.
Hyt ys Gye, the nobull knyght,
That y haue louyd wyth all my myght:
Sertys, but yf he haue me,
Weddyd schall y neuyr bee.’
‘Doghtur,’ he seyde, ‘for thy reson
Haue þou goddys benyson,
When þou desyrest soche a knyght,
That may mayntene my londe wyth ryȝt.
I had leuyr, then thys cyte,
That Gye wolde haue the.
He hath forsakyn, be thys day,
The loue of many a ryche maye,
Dewkys doghtur and emperowre,

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That were and are of grete valowre.
Y schall wytt, so mote y the,
Of hym wythynne þese dayes thre,
What he wyll sey, trewlye,
Whyll þou louest hym so specyallye.’

Gye and he wente on a day
To the wode them to play:
Venyson they had plente.
The erle callyd Gye in preuyte:
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘y prey the here,
Telle me þy wylle on all manere.
What tyme wyll yow weddyd bee?
I prey yow, leyne hyt not fro me.’
‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘y schall the say,
In all the worlde ys no maye,
But oon, that euer y wyll wedde,
And brynge hur vnto my bedde.’

‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘loke in a throwe:
I haue a doghtur, þat ye well knowe.
I haue no heyre, but hur, lyueande:
Sche wyll be yowrys, y vndurstande.
I geue hur the wyth herte free,
And lorde of my londe schalt þou bee.’
To þe erle tho spake Gye
And seyde: ‘syr, for yowre profur gramercye!
I had leuyr the body all bare
Of yowre doghtur wythowten mare,
Then þe doghtur of þe emperowre
Wyth all hys londe and hys honowre.’

The erle anone kyssed Gye
And thankyd hym full curteslye:
‘Now wote y,’ quod he, ‘full well,
That ye loue me, be seynt Mychell,
That ye wyll my doghtur take
And soche ladyes for to forsake.
From hens be the seuynth day

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Schall be the weddynge, yf y may:
At Warwyk, myn owne cyte,
There schall that ryche brydale bee.
All the lordys of thy cuntre,
At that brydale schall they be.’
‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘y wyll fulfylle
Yowre ordynaunce at yowre wylle.’

Syr Gye tolde Harrowde euery dele,
How the erle seyde, full wele.
‘Harrowde, now may y synge,
That y haue wonne that swetynge,
That y trauelde fore day and nyght,
And euer hur louyd wyth all my myght.’

Now ys the weddynge ordeyned soone:
There the brydale schulde be done,
There came grete meyne,
Lordys of many a cuntre,
Dewkys, erlys and baronage,
Knyghtys, squyers of grete lynage.
The mayde was rychelye dyght
And weddyd to Gye, þat nobull knyght.
A ryche brydale was ordeyned thare:
Hyt stode fowrtene nyghtys and mare.
There were mynstrels on all manere:
Moche yoye there men myght here.
Ther was none so lytull a grome,
But þey had gyftys of syr Gyowne.
He gaue them robes many oon:
Golde nor syluyr he wantyd none.

They partyd on the fyftenyth day:
Euery man wente hys owne waye.
Gye had of yoye hys fylle,
When he had of Felyce hys wylle.
Fyfty dayes and no mare
Lasted hur yoye wythowten care.

204

Hyt felle on the furste nyght,
When Gye laye wyth that wyght,
He gate of hur a man chylde,
That afturwarde was full mylde.

For the gode, that god made,
Fylle the cuppe and make vs glade.

Hyt was in a somers tyde,
That Gye had moche pryde:
He came fro huntyng on a day
Wyth grete solace and mekyll play.
Þey toke plente of veneson
And broght hyt vnto the towne.
At euyn he wente into a towre
Wyth moche yoye and honowre.
He behelde there the ayre
And the lande, þat was so fayre.
The wedur was clere and sternes bryȝt.
Gye beganne to thynke ryght,
How god, that sate in trynyte,
Had made hym a man of grete poste,
And how he was preysed in euery lande
Thorow dedys of hys hande,
And how he had many slane
And castels and towres many tane
And how in many londys longe
He had bene in parell stronge
And all for þe loue of þat maye,
That he trauelde fore nyght and day,
And not for god, hys creatowre,
That had done hym that honowre.

He thoght þere wyth all hys myȝt
To serue hym bothe day and nyght.
Gye beganne to syke sore.
In hys herte he thoght more:
He thoght for to chaunge hys lyfe

205

And to leeue thys worldys stryfe
And ordeygne hym in all wyse
To leue and dye in goddys seruyse.

Wyth that Felyce thedur soght:
Sche fonde hur lorde in a thoght.
‘Syr,’ sche seyde, ‘what thynke ye?
Telle me, for seynt Charyte.’
‘Lemman,’ he seyde, ‘stande stylle,
And y schall telle þe all my wylle.
Sythe þe tyme, þat y þe knewe,
For þe my sorowe was euyr newe.
I wene, ther was nevyr knyght,
That had so moche sorowe in fyght
For none, as y haue had for the.
Farre in many a dyuers cuntre
I haue many a man slane,
Abbeys brente and cytees tane:
All þat euyr y haue wroght,
Syth furste þat y on þe thoght,
And all y dud, my lemman free,
For to wynne the loue of thee.
And all, þat euer y wanne þere,
I haue geuyn hyt knyȝt and squyere.
Had y bene warre and wyse
And spendyd hyt in goddys seruyse,
Halfen dele my trauayle,
Of heuyn schulde we neuer haue fayle.
I haue done for hym nothynge,
Therfore y may in sorowe synge.
I haue done mekyll schame:
God hath leyde on me þe blame.
All thys worlde y wyll forsake
And penaunce for my synnes take.
Wende y wyll yn goddys seruyse,
Ellys were y nothynge wyse.

206

Euyr schalt þou, wythowten fayle,
Haue halfe þe mede of my trauayle.’

‘Syr,’ quod sche tho full tyte,
‘Haue ye me now in soche dyspyte?
Well y wot, so god me redde,
Ye haue a lemman in odur stedde,
And now ye wyll vnto hur fare
And come ageyne neuyr mare.
Allas,’ quod sche, ‘that y was borne.’
Sche felle in swownynge hym beforne.
He toke hur in hys armes twoo
And seyde: ‘lemman, let be thy woo.
I holde the a grete fole,
Yf thou make soche dole.
I haue now þys vyage thoght:
For all þys worlde y leue hyt noght.
Dwelle wyth thy frendys here
And, y prey the, make gode chere
And bydde thy fadur cowmfort the,
Yf þou wylt haue þe loue of me.
Thou haste conceyuyd a chylde be me:
Kepe hyt wele, pur charyte;
For thyselfe and all thy kynne
May haue of hym yoye and wynne.’

‘Allas,’ sche seyde, ‘how schall y fare,
Wrechyd woman full of care,
When ye wyll wende me froo?
Bettur hyt were me for to sloo.
Yf ye wyll leue my redde,
Ye schall not wende fro þys stedde.
Abbeyes, syr, let thou make,
And so schall y for thy sake:
Holy men schall for the pray
Wyth þer myght bothe nyght and day.
Thus may yow saue yow fro paryle:

207

Why wyll yow wende in exsyle?’

‘Lemman,’ he seyde, ‘let be thy fare:
Speke thou therof no mare.
Thou louyste lytull þyn own prowe,
Yf þou make me to breke my vowe:
That y haue wyth my body wroght,
And wyth my body hyt shall be boght.’

When sche sawe, for lefe nor lothe
That he wolde not chaunge hys othe,
Sche clepyd hurselfe caytyfe:
‘Allas,’ quod sche, ‘that y haue lyfe.’
Downe sche felle vnto þe grownde:
Ofte sche swowned in that stownde.

Then seyde Gye: ‘y wyll fare,
But, dere lemman, take no care;
For y schall come ageyne soone,
When y haue my penaunce done.
Also oon thynge y bydde the:
Yf thou wylt loue me,
Do so moche for my sake,
That no man see þe sorowe make,
As þou derelye loueste me here.
Grete wele ofte thy fadur dere
And Harrowde, þe knyght so fre,
And all myn odur meyne.
Loke, þat þou be meke and mylde.
Fro þe tyme, þat þou haue chylde,
Kepe hyt, tyll hyt can goo,
And aftur to Harrowde þou hym doo.
He wyll hym kepe wyth gode chere
And norysche hym on all manere.
Ther was neuer ȝyt a trewer knyght
Leuyng in ȝorthe day nor nyght,
Then he hath be vnto me:
Therfore y loue hym wyth herte fre.
Take here my swyrde of stele

208

And kepe hyt to thy sone wele:
In ȝorthe ther ys none bettur nowe.
Therwyth may he wynne prowe.’

Tho he kyssyd Felyce swete:
He myȝt not speke, for he dud grete.
There was dole in þat stownde:
They swownyd boþe on þe grownde.
Gye rose fro swownynge
And went forthe in mornynge.
‘Syr,’ sche seyde, ‘pur charyte,
Abyde and take þys rynge of me.’
Gye toke at hur feyre þat rynge.
Dole was at ther partynge.

Then went hym forþe syr Gyowne
Hys wey soone owte of þe towne.
Gye wolde speke wyth no wyght
Nor wyth Harrowde, þat trewe knyght.
Forthe he wente to the see:
At Jerusalem wolde he bee
And in many an odur londe,
There holy men were lygande.

In þe towre Felyce he lefte þare.
Sche was in grete sorowe and care:
‘Lorde,’ quod sche, ‘what may y say?
How schall y leue þys wofull day?’
Hur handys sore dud sche wrynge:
Sche felle downe in swownynge.
Hur cloþys sche drewe and hur hare:
Ther was neuer woman, dud so fare.
On hur handys brake the rynge:
Sche was tho a sory thynge.
At hur nayles þe blode braste owte.
Thys lyfe sche ladde þe nyght owte.
Ofte sche cryed there: ‘allas,’
That euyr sche borne was.

209

Owte sche toke þe swyrde bryght
And set hyt to hur harte ryght
And thoght to seche þe harte blode,
For sche had lorne hur lorde goode.
Then sche bethoght hur full wyselye,
That sche was tempted wyth grete folye
And þat sche had a chylde hur wythynne:
Hyt to sloo hyt were grete synne;
And þat sche myȝt not hurselfe sloo,
But yf sche slewe bothe twoo.
Sche þoght also anodur manere:
When he hyt wyste, hur fadur dere,
Hur fadur and hur frendys all
Wolde in grete sorowe falle:
They wolde sey, that syr Gyowne
Had slayne hur, or he went fro towne.
Therfore folye sche thoght than:
Ellys sche had hurselfe slane.

Of all þe nyght sche had no reste
More, then had a wylde beste.
In the mornynge vp sche rose
And to hur fadur soone sche gose.
‘Fadur,’ sche seyde, ‘wot ye noght?
Wyckyd tyþyngys y haue yow broght:
My lorde ys wente fro thys cuntre.
I trowe, y schall hym neuyr see.
Yn exsyle he ys gone:
For sorowe y may myselfe slone.’
Wyth þat she felle to þe grounde
And swowned soone in þat stounde.

‘Doghtur,’ he seyde, ‘let be þy mornyng.
I may not leue hyt for nothynge,
That he wolde wende in exsyle

210

And put hym in soche paryle.
He hath done hyt to proue þe now,
How he may thy loue trowe.’
‘Nay,’ sche seyde, ‘so mote y the,
He wyll neuyr come to me.’

Vp he rose and dwellyd noght,
And thorow all þe cyte he soght.
When he myght not fynde Gye,
Aftur hys men he sente in hye
And tolde, how that syr Gye
Was went, and no man wyste, whye.
When þey wyste that tythynge,
All they made moche mornynge.

When syr Harrowde herde sey,
That hys lorde was gone awey,
He ne blanne nyght nor day,
But he sorowed for hym ay.
To the erle he toke the way.
‘Syr,’ quod he, ‘what may y say,
When y haue lorne my lorde so free?
I wene, y schall hym neuer see.
Y rede yow, sende yowre messengere
Thorow all þys londe boþe farre and nere.
Yf he be not fowndyn here,
He ys in Loreyn, be seynt Rychere,
Wyth gode erle Tyrrye,
That he louyth specyallye.’

A messengere was forþe sente
And all the londe þorow wente.
He myght not fynde hym thare:
Whome ageyne he can fare
And seyde, all Ynglonde he had soght,
But Gye he cowde fynde noght.

There þoght Harrowde, he wolde fonde
To seke hym in odur londe.
He toke two messengerys ryght,

211

Bothe a squyer and a knyght.
He gaue them tresoure grete plente
And bad þem wende beȝonde the see
To seke euery londe and gode towne
To spere tythyngys of syr Gyowne.
Harrowde hymselfe forthe ys gone:
Wede of palmer hath he tone.
The erle of Warwyk soone he fonde
And betoke hym all hys londe
And seyde: ‘in wede of palmere
I schall seke Gye boþe farre and nere
Yn euery stedde, in euery londe,
There he hath bene beforehonde.’
When he sye Harrowde so dyght,
He seyde: ‘þou art a full trewe knyght.’

Harrowde went forþe fro þe erle þare.
To the see he came full ȝare:
Schyppe he fonde and passed in hye.
Comen he ys to Normandye,
Sythen to Frawnce and Burgoyne,
To Almayne and to Cesoyne:
He harde no man speke wyth mowthe,
That of Gye telle cowthe.
Then he þoght, þat he was schent,
And into Ynglonde soone he went.
All that londe was sorye,
That no man myght fynde Gye:
Kynge, erle and baron,
All made dole for Gyown;
For þey wenyd full sekerlye
Neuyr to haue seyne hym wyth eye.

God, þat dyed on a tre,
Saue Gye fro schame and vylane!

Now turne we ageyne and speke of Gye,
As we fynde in owre storye.

212

All þat yere Gye can gone
Þorow kyngys landys many oon
All he wente thorow and thorow
Ryght vnto Jerusalem, þe borowe.
Longe wolde he not dwelle thare.
Furthermore wolde he fare
Into hethen cuntre:
To Anteoge, that cyte,
Thedurwarde thoght hee.
Hyt was a grete jurne.
Vndur an hawthorne þere he fonde
A pore pylgryme there stonde.
Hyt semyd wele a sarsyne,
That had moche pyne.
He semyd comen of hye lynage.
He had grete eyen and stronge vysage,
Hys hed whyte, hys berde longe.
He semyd a bolde man and a stronge.
He made grete mornynge:
Gye had pyte of that tythynge.
He drewe hys berde and hys hare:
He swownyd anon þere for care
And seyde: ‘allas,’ þat he was borne;
‘Harde wordys ys me beforne.’

Then seyde Gye: ‘what art thou,
That makyst all þys dole now?
I see well be thy chere,
That þou art noyed on some manere:
Therfore, syr, telle thou me,
In the name of the trynyte.’
‘Syr,’ seyde the pylgryme,
‘Thou haste me congurde at þys tyme:
Sone y schall telle the, why
That y am so sorye.

213

I trowe, þou wylt haue pyte,
When þat y haue tolde hyt the.

I was some tyme doghty of hande,
And to me felle moche lande.
I was a bolde man and a wyght:
Erle Joonas so y hyght.
I had sonnes fyftene,
Bolde men and therto kene.
I wene, þer was neuer man lyueande,
Syth crystendome was broȝt to lande,
That had so many sonnes wyght
Echeoon in hys owne ryght,
As y had onys be the way
(Allas, that euyr y abode þys day)
At a batayle certeyne
Of sarsyns, that haue done trayne.
To Jerusalem comen they were
And dystroyed farre and nere:
We gedurde ooste, as men wyght,
And gaue þem batayle anon ryght.
A grete batayle was there oon,
For there dyed many a man.
I and my sonnes fyftene
Made the sarsyns for to flene.
At þat tyme wyth strenkyth toke we
Seuyn amerallys and kyngys thre.

We chasyd them þorow þat londe,
I and my sonnes, a kynge folowande:
Hys name was Triamore:
He ys a man of grete honowre.
To Alysawndur he fledde ryght,
There he was kynge of myght.
We dud there a folye stronge,

214

That we folowde hym so longe.
There was redy in a wode
Two hundurde knyghtys, þat were gode.
Owte of the wode þey came anon
And belapped vs euerychon.
Many of them we smetyn sare:
For nothynge we wolde spare.
Owre stedys þere soone they slowe
And many oon abowte vs drowe.
On fote we faght faste than
And slewe there mony a man:
Or we wolde ȝylde vs or be tane,
Many of þem þorow vs was slane.
Tyll owre swyrdys were brokyn of stele,
We defendyd vs full wele.
We sawe there no socowre:
We ȝyldyd vs to kynge Triamore.
We made soche couenande,
Therto he helde vp hys hande,
That we schulde for owne rawnsome
Be delyuyrde fro pryson.

To Awfryke he led vs thare
And put vs in a pryson ȝare:
Mete and drynke we had smalle
And euyll lyfe led wythall.
Hyt ys xii wynter and more,
Syth we were put in pryson þore;
Tyll hyt befelle soon in a tyde,
That the sowdan wyth grete pryde,
That was þe kyngys lorde Triamore,
He made a feste wyth honowre:
Thretty kyngys þere were ryght,
That were vnto the sowdan plyght,
And amerallys þere were fowrtye,
That were vndurnethe hys crye.
Theder wente kynge Triamore

215

And wyth hym hys sone Fabore.
He was yonge and also wyght
And therto newe made knyght.

At the thrydde day of the feste,
That was ryche and honeste,
The sowdon sone rose vp full ryght
(Syr Sowdan of Perce he hyght):
‘Faber,’ quod Sowdan, ‘y bydde the
To playe at þe chesses wyth me.’
‘Syr,’ quod he, ‘wyth myn entente
I schall do yowre comawndement.’
To Faber chaumber þere þey wente
And aftur the chesses soon þey sente.
They sate downe frendys in all wyse,
But þey were wroþe, or þey dud ryse.
Syr Faber at þe chesses a worde seyde:
Sowdan was wroþe and owte brayde
And clepyd hym horeson thore
And wyth a roke he smote hym sore:
On the hedde he brake the crowne,
That þe blode faste ranne downe.
‘Syr, thou doyst me dyshonowre,’
To Sowdan seyde Fabowre,
‘When thou haste brokyn my heuedde.
The grace of god be fro me reuedde,
Yf thou were not my lordys sone,
Thou schuldyst abye, þat þou haste done.’
Then seyde Sowdan: ‘what seyste thou?
Haste thou me manest nowe?
In euyll tyme þou hyt thoght:
Thyn own deþe þou haste wroght.’
And wyth hys fyste he wolde hym smyte,

216

But Faber thoght hyt dyspyte:
On hys fete dud he stonde
And toke the chekur in hys honde.
He smote Sowdan vndur the ere:
He felle to grounde and dyed þere.

When Faber sye, that he was dedde,
For fere he flewe fro that stedde.
He yede as faste, as he myȝt renne,
Towarde hys fadurs ynne then
And tolde hys fadur there anon,
How the sowdans sone was slone.
The kynge dowtyd hym thare:
For the deþe he had grete care.
On hys hors lepe he swythe:
Forþe þey rode in hye vnblythe
Faste fleande to Alysawndur,
Or þer were resyn more sclaunder.
Owte of the londe soone þey went,
Or any wyste, þat Sowdan was schent.
When he came to that cyte,
A sory man, for sothe, was hee.

But therof be, as be may,
Let vs be mery, y yow pray.

But, when hyt wyste þe sowdan,
Þat hys sone so was slane,
He was, y trowe, a sory syre,
Full of tene and of yre
And beryed hys sone rychelye,
And þoght to venge hym hastelye.
He sente hys sonde to the kynge,
As man, þat louyd hym nothynge,
And bad hym come hastelye
And defende hym of felonye
And brynge hys sone wyth hym, Fabowre,
That slewe Sowdan, as a traytour.

217

‘Yf he wyll not do that couenande,
Bydde hym flee forþe of hys lande,
Or ellys soche jugement suffur þere,
As in courte ordeygned were.’

The kynge dyght hym full ȝare:
To the sowdan dud he fare,
And wyth hym Faber, þe hende knyght,
Before the sowdan came ryght.
He askyd hym and that anon,
How he had hys sone slone:
Yf he myght hyt not defende,
That dede he schulde derely amende.
He broght forthe a sarsyne:
A fowler dranke neuyr wyne.
Comyn he ys fro the lande of Ynde,
A stronger man may no man fynde.
He ys black, as any pyck,
And also felle, as a lyon in his swyck;
Hys breste brode, hys body grete:
He ys more, then a nete.
Ther were not þre in all þat lande,
That durste stande a stroke of hys hande.
He ys two fote and more
Hyer, then any, that was þore.
Yf þe kynge durste wyth hym fyght
And hym defende wyth all hys myght,
That Sowdan was neuer dedde
Thorow hym nor hys sonnes redde,
And hym vnto dethe brynge,
He schulde passe quyte in all thynge.

Triamore had drede stronge
Of that sarsyn, þat was so longe.
Neuer þe lesse before them all

218

The sarsyn there he dud becalle
And seyde, that Sowdan was neuer dedde
Thorow hym nor hys sonnes redde,
And, yf he myght hym to deþe brynge,
That he schulde passe quyte in all þynge.
A xii monyth þe trewse was tane
And thretty dayes, tyll he was gane.
Soche a man in hys cuntre
Neuyr was nor neuyr schall bee.
Yf he durste not hymselfe fyght,
He schulde fynde anodur knyght.

To Alysawnder the kynge ys went
And to hys barons he hath sente
And made crye thorow the lande,
Yf they had ony man fande,
That durste for hym þat batell craue;
And halfe hys londe he schulde haue.
He myȝt neuer fynde none so wyght,
That durste agenste þat gyawnt fyght.

He toke me owte of hys pryson
And askyd me thys reson,
Yf y knewe any knyght,
That durste agenste þe gyawnt fyght.
A ryche man he wolde hym make
And do hym honour for hys sake
And geue hym golde grete plente
And halfe hys londe euyrmore free.
I knewe none, y seyde to thame
(For to lye me þoght hyt schame),
In no cuntre nor in no lande,
That durste þat batell take on hande,
But yf hyt were Gye, the knyght,
That, all men seyde, was so wyght.
‘And y myght fynde Gye or Harrawte,

219

They wolde do hyt, wythowte defaute:
Then myght þou be seker, sawns fayle,
To haue the vyctorye of that batayle.’

When the kynge stode me bye
And herde me speke of syr Gye,
Hys hande he leyde vpon me.
‘But y haue helpe,’ he seyde, ‘of the,
I schall neuer of man leueande
Haue helpe, y vndurstande.
Yf y myght haue Gye,
That ys knyght so hardye!
Into Ynglonde schalt þou fare
For to loke, yf Gye be thare.
Yf he may not fowndyn bee,
Loke, Harrowde thou brynge wyth þe;
And y schall delyuer þe owt of pryson
And all thy sonnes wythowte rawnsome.
Thou schalt haue for thy seruyse,
Yf thou wylt be ware and wyse
And of tonge be trewe and holde,
Fyftene somers chargyd wyth golde.’
Sythen y sware on all manere
For to be trewe messengere;
And, yf þat y of þem fonde none,
I schulde come ageyne allone:
Y schall be hangyd on a galowe tre,
Wyt ye wele, y am sore.

I went into Almayne
Fro Fraunce vnto Hyespayne,
Sythen to Pole and Burgoyne,
Into Sysyll and Cesoyne
And sythen into Ynglonde
(And askyd euery man, þat y fonde)
To Warwyk, hys cyte,
There he was wonte lorde for to bee.

220

I harde neuer man speke wyth mowthe,
That anythynge telle cowthe
Of Harrowde odur of syr Gye:
Therfore a sory man am y.
Gyes men tolde me on a day,
For sothe, syr, as y the say,
That Gye was in exsyle wente:
In holy weyes was hys entente.
And Harrowde aftur hym ys gone
For to seke hym, be seynt Iohan.
Longe dwellyd y there noght
And many landys syth haue y soght.
I myght neuer fynde no wyght
That cowde telle me of that knyght.

Now come y hedur thys ylke day
And restyd me be the way.
Hyt ys xii monythys and mo,
Syth y the kynge wente fro.
And now y wende to hym agayne,
Well y wote, for to be slayne:
For the dethe wyll y not flee
(I haue the tolde, how hyt wyll be);
For y haue my trowthe plyght.
That y schall come ageyne ryght.
Then, y wott, y schall be slone
And my sonnes euerychone.
Of my lyfe yeue y noght,
But for my sonnes ys all my thoght.
They were knyghtys bolde and wyght
And well defendyd þem in euery fyght.
Yf they myght leue and olde bee,
They myght moche helpe crystyante.

221

Now to hym wyll y fare
And take my dethe ryght thare.’

Wyth that he swownyd before Gye,
And therfore he was sorye.
Gye had sorow and moche care,
For he sawe the erle so fare.
‘Leue pylgryme,’ seyde Gye,
‘That for thy sonnes art sorye
And Gye and Harrowde boþe haste soght
In far londys and fonde þem noght,
Yf thou haue dole, hyt ys no ferlye,
When þou mayste þem nowhere aspye:
Thorow þem þou wenyst delyuerd to be
Owte of pryson and thy sonnes fre.
Some tyme y was in my lande
Holdyn doghty of my hande.
For the loue of god allmyght,
That he me gaue soche myght,
And for syr Gye and Harrowdes sake
That batell for þy loue wyll y take,
And þorow þe grace of heuyn kynge
The and þy sonnes owt of prison brynge.’

When erle Joonas sawe Gye,
That he was bolde and hardye
To do that batell, yf he myght,
And wyth þe gyawnte for to fyght,
He avysed hym full wele
Fro þe hedde downewarde euery dele.
Hys body, he þoght, was feyre and longe
And wele ymade to be stronge:
Hys bones were bare of flesche.
He semyd all of wyldurnesse:
Hys berde was longe, fowle farande.
He lokyd vp steype starande.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘for thy reson

222

Haue thou goddys beneson.
Thou knowest not þat sarsyne,
That ys so wyckyd and so kene:
Had he ones lokyd vpon the
Wyth hys eyen, wytterle,
He wolde the agaste make,
That þou schuldyst the batayle forsake.’

Then seyde Gye: ‘þerof drede þe noght.
God ys myȝtfull, þat ys my thoght.
Many haue prouyde to do skathe
And wyth þer eyen lokyd wrathe:
Fro þem flewe y neuer in no batayle.
My harte schall not therfore fayle.
Yf þou thynke, y febull bee,
God ys soche of poste,
That he may geue me grace and myght
To slee þe gyawnt in þe fyght.’
‘Syr,’ seyde þe pylgryme, ‘gramercye!
God, that borne was of Marye,
Ȝylde hyt the, or þou be dedde.’
For yoye he swownyd in þat stedde.

Tho seyde Gye: ‘as haue y hele,
Let vs go forthe, we schall fare wele.’
To Alysawnder þey can þem dyght:
Before þe kynge þey came full ryght.
When the kynge Joonas sawe,
Full soone þere he dud hym knowe.
‘Jonas,’ seyde the kynge than,
‘Where ys Gye, that nobull man,
And Harrowde, þat þou haste soght?
Haste þou any of them broght?’

223

‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y schall the saye:
I wyll not lye, be thys day.
Y haue bene in many a cuntre:
Harrowde nor Gye y myȝt not see.
I was farre in many a londe
And askyd euery man, þat y fonde.
They seyde, he was in exsyle wente,
Therfore the londe was nye schente;
And seyde, Harrowde had take þe way
To seke Gye nyght and day.
But y haue broght a nobull knyght,
In armes þat ys bolde and wyght:
For yow he schall do thys batayle
Thorowe helpe of god and not fayle.
He wyll defende þe full ryght
And wyth þe gyawnt wyll he fyght.’

Tho seyde þe kynge to erle Joonas:
‘Loke, þou lye not in thys case.
Yf y be betrayed thorow the,
Hongyd hye schalt thou bee,
And þy sonnes euerychone
Wyth þe the same wey schall gone.’
‘I grawnte,’ quod Joonas, ‘that ye saye.
God vs helpe, that beste maye.’

The kynge clepyd soon Gyown
And tolde hym there all hys reson.
‘Pylgryme,’ he seyde, ‘what ys þy name?’
And he hym tolde, but not þe same.
‘Frende,’ seyde tho the kynge,
‘Telle me wythowte lesynge,
Where haste þou bene and in what lande?
Was þer þere no corne growande?’
‘Syr,’ quod he, ‘syth y was knyght,

224

I haue bene in mony a fyght.’

‘Art þou Englysche,’ seyde the kynge,
‘Me oght to hate þe ouer all thynge.
Knewe thou oght syr Gyowne
And wyth hym Harrawde, þat bolde baron?
Yf that þey be nowe leueande,
They be full bolde and stronge of hande.
I oght to hate Gye wyth yre:
He slewe my fadur, Clynant of Tyre,
And my neme wyth hys hande
And þe sowdan at mete syttande.
I sawe hym smyte of hys hedde,
And wyth strenckyth awey hyt ledde.
Awey he pryckyd at the laste,
All we chacyd hym full faste.
The deuell hym saued: we slewe hym not þan,
But he slewe of vs many a man.
Lorde geue, that he were here:
Then schulde y make gladde chere.
Yf he wolde fyght for me,
All forgeuyn schulde hyt bee.’

Tho Gye answeryd curteslye:
‘Well,’ quod he, ‘knowe y syr Gye
And Harrowde also, so mote y goo:
I knowe þem wele bothe twoo.
Yf ye had owder Harrowde or Gye,
Ye myght be sekur of vyctorye.’

‘Telle me,’ seyde the kynge than,
‘Why art thou so lene a man?
Vnkynde men thou seruest aye,
When þou partyste so pore awaye;
Odur hyt ys for thy folye,
That þou fareste so porelye.’

225

‘Hyt may,’ quod he, ‘full wele befalle,
My state knowe ye not ȝyt all.
I was some tyme in gode seruyse:
My lorde me louyd in all wyse.
For hym y had grete honowre
Of kynge, prynce and maydyns in bowre.
But ones y dud an hastenesse:
Therfore y loste boþe more and lesse.
Sythen y went fro my cuntre.’

Then to hym spake þe kynge free:
‘Telle me þe soþe, so mote þou the.
Wylt þou take þe batell for me?
Or ellys y schall gete a nodur.
Telle me þe sothe, lefe brodur.’
And Gye seyde: ‘þerfore come y hedur,
Joonas and y now togedur.
Thorow þe helpe of þe trynyte
The batell y schall take for the
And slo þe gyawnt wyth my hande,
Yf ye wyll graunt me þys couenande,
That Joonas and hys sonnes echone
Fro pryson be delyuyrde anon.’

Then seyde the kynge: ‘y þe grawnte.
Mahownde þe helpe and Termagawnte.’
‘Nay,’ seyde Gye, ‘but Mary sone,
That for vs on a rode was done:
He may me helpe for hys mercye.
Syr kynge, y sey, that ys no lye,
But that Mahownde haþ no poste
To helpe nodur the nor me.’

Then seyde þe kynge: ‘my frende dere,

226

I schall make þe a couenande here.
Yf þou may the gyawnt sloo
And brynge me owte of thys woo,
Thy god for the loue of the
Schall haue also þe loue of me.
The crysten men, that y haue tane,
Schall be delyuyrde euery man.
Ther schall be none in heþynnes,
Man nor woman, more nor lesse,
That ys of crystyante,
But they schall delyuyrde bee.
For þe and for þy goddys sake
I schall in thys londe make,
That crysten men schall wende
Thorow þys londe feyre and hende,
And, yf any be so hardye
To do þem schame and vylenye,
Be he neuer so grete nor so stowte,
He schall dye, wythowte dowte.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘gramercye!
Thys ys a feyre gyfte for me.’

The kyng bad, he schulde baþed be,
‘And geue hym robes grete plente:
Loke, þat he wante noght.’
But Gye had of þat no thoght.
‘Syr kynge,’ he seyde, ‘of þat be stylle
Hyt ys nothynge at my wylle
Ryche robes for to haue:
I am but a pore knaue.
Mete and drynke geue me my fylle,
And þen y haue all my wylle.’
The kynge bad, þat he schulde haue,
What some euer he wolde craue.

When þe tyme was comen sone,
That þe batell schulde be done,
The kynge was full rychely dyght

227

And wyth hym all hys baronage wyȝt:
To þe sowdan wolde he fare.
Swyþe he wente and came full ȝare.
Gye wente armed and wele ydyght,
As felle to a gentyll knyght.
On hym he had an hawberke:
Hyt was made of ryche warke.
In farre londe hyt was wroght
And to þe kynge in present broght.
When hyt came to Jerusalem,
Hyt was bryght, as sonne beme.
A thefe hyt stale sythen wyth honde
And broght hyt vnto hethyn londe.
The aunceturs of kynge Tryamowre
Boght hyt wyth moche honowre.
Hyt was of grete tresorye
And in þat nede was geuyn to Gye.
Thretty wyntur was gone and more,
That hyt came in no felde ȝore.
Hyt was so clere and so bryght,
That all þe halle schone of þe lyght.

He had an helme of olde warke
And on euery syde stones starke.
He, that on hys hedde hyt bare,
Schulde not be vencowsde in no warre.
Hyt was Alysawndurs, þe kynge:
He wanne hyt in hys fyghtynge.
When he slewe kynge Pore,
He wanne hyt and moche more.
He bare a swyrde in hys hande:
Ector hyt oght, y vndurstande.
There were Gregyows many a wonne,
Or he hyt gate, that were slone.
He had also a nobull targe:
Hyt was bothe bryght and large.

228

Ther was noþyng, þat myȝt hyt dere,
Knyfe, swyrde, axe nor spere.

When he was dyght, syr Gye,
Of hym all men had farlye.
Echeon askyd, what he myght bee,
Fro whens he came and fro what cuntre,
That schulde for the kynge fyght.
They sawe neuer so semelye a knyght.

Then seyde the kynge to þe sowdan:
‘Herkyn me, syr, and that anon
Now y am comen to the here
To defende me on all manere
Of that wyckyd felonye,
That was put on me vntrewlye,
Thorow þe knyght, þat stondyth here,
That Sowdan, thy sone dere,
Thorow my sone was neuer dedde
Nodur þorow my cowncell nor my redde.’
The sowdan seyde: ‘syn þou haste hym broght,
Hyt schall soone be sene, so ys my thoght.

Brynge forthe,’ he seyde, ‘the gyawnt,’
A paynym, that hyght Amerawnt.
He was armed nobullye:
Euery man of hym had farlye.
Hys body was boþe grete and longe:
He semed to be owtrageus stronge.
But, when Gye sye that sarsyn,
That was so myghty and so kene,
‘Be Cryste,’ he seyde vnto þe kynge þan,
‘Ȝondur ys þe deuell and no man.
Who schulde hym a stroke stande?
He wolde hym felle wyth hys hande.

Forthe þey wente to that batayle
Hastelye, wythowte fayle,
To an yle besyde the see,

229

There the batayle schulde bee.
When þey came þere, as þey shulde fyght,
They lepe on þer stedys full ryght.
Soone þey smote togedur faste,
Whyll þer sperys wolde laste.
Soone þer sperys dud glyde
Abowte þer hedys in pecys wyde.
Soone þey drewe þer swyrdys of stele
And faght togedur faste and wele.

Amerawnt drewe hys swyrde owte:
Hyt was scharpe all abowte.
Hyt was Arcules swyrde þe wyght:
He hyt bare in euery fyght
And þerwyth slewe many a man.
Amerawnt hyt in warre wanne.
Hyt was put in the watur of helle;
For hyt was boþe scharpe and felle.
God of heuyn thynke on Gye;
For he came to hym full hastelye.

Togedur soone dud they smyte
Wyth brondys, þat full wele cowde byte.
Wyth grete wrath starte Amerawnt
Wyth hys strenkyth Gye sayleant.
He smote hym on the helme bryght,
That was made of stele ryght,
That þe flowrys felle all abowte,
And hys schelde he smote þorowowte,
That was neuyr peyred are
In stryfe nor in warre, but thare.
Thorow þe sadull he smote also
The gode stede euyn in twoo.
The swyrde felle downe þore
Into þe erthe two fote and more.
Gye was at þe grownde anon;
Hys gode stede þere was slone.

‘Lorde,’ quod Gye, ‘god almyght,

230

That made boþe þe day and nyght,
Schelde me fro schame thys day,
As þat þou of all beste may.
Kepe me, for thy holy grace,
That y be not slayne in thys place.’
On hys fote he starte vp ryght,
As a nobull doghty knyght.
He toke hys bronde wyth cnvye
And smote to þe gyawnt hardelye.
On þe helme the stroke glode:
Besyde þe gyawnt downe hyt rode.
Hys hors neck he smote in two:
The gyawnt to þe grownde felle þo.
Vp he starte wythowte lettynge,
But he playned hym nothynge.
He smote Gye wyth hys myght
And he hym kepte, as a nobull knyȝt.
Then þey faght faste thare:
Ther wolde nodur odur spare.
They faght togedur wyth grete yre:
Of þer helmes sprange þe fyre.
Ther strokys breke styffe scheldys,
That þe mayles flewe to þe feldys.

Amerawnt haþ hym bethoght,
That in many a stowre he had foght,
But neuer are before that day
Was he so stadde in no jurnaye.
Therfore hys armes he lyfte vp ryght
And smote Gye wyth all hys myght:
Gye was bothe stronge and lyght
And kept hym, as a nobull knyght.
Then they faght so faste thare,
That nodur of þem wolde odur spare.
He smote Gye on the hedde tho,
That the perlys dud downe goo,

231

At the drawyng of that bronde
That Gye on hys kneys felle to grounde.

Vp he starte, as a man,
But hyt greuyd hym sore than.
Greuyd was Gye sore:
‘Lorde Cryste,’ he seyde, ‘thy nore.
Neuyr in batayle nor in no fyght
Knelyd y are for dynte of knyght.’
He lyfte vp tho hys hande
And smote vnto Amerawnde
In the helme, that clere was,
That golde felle downe a gode pase:
The mayles he smote also in twoo.
Then was Amerawnt full woo,
That nothynge helped the mayle,
But all tobrake hys ventayle.
He hyt hys flesche: þe blode downe ranne.
Hys necke he made lyke no man.
Hys targe, þat was golde belokyn,
Hyt was all tofruschyd and brokyn.
To þe bokull, þat was golde begone,
He made hys bronde to go anon.
Sythen he brayde ageyne soo,
To þe grownde þat he dud goo
On kneys and on handys also,
As he had had no frendys tho.
Amerawnt dud, as a gode knyght:
He lyfte hys swyrde anon ryght.
Gye sore there he smote:
So eydur odur, wele y wote.
Of ther helmes flewe the fyre:
So faste they faght wyth grete yre.
Betwene þem was so grete fyght,
That no man þe bettur knowe myght.
So stronge batayle was neuer made:
Of þem, þat hyt sye, hyt was so sayde.

232

Hyt was in somer, the wedur was hote:
The story so tellyth, wele y wote.
On þe morne aftur mydsomyr day,
As we in boke telle yow may,
Was the batell of the barons,
That frescher were, þen any lyons.
Amerawnt drewe hym ageyne
And helde hys hedde, as men seyne.
What for blode, þat he had leuyd,
And what for yre, þat he was greuyd,
Thurste he had euellye:
But yf he dranke, he muste dye.
‘Telle thou me, syr knyght,’ quod he,
‘Of whens þou art and of what cuntre.
Art thou Gye of Warwyke,
That, men sey, ther ys none lyke?
I wolde fayne fyght wyth hym,
For he hath slayne mony of my kynne.
Hys hedde y schulde smyte of here:
He schulde neuyr moo men dere.
Of vs he slewe twenty thousande
Wyth hys dyntes of hys hande.
Yf that y had hym ones slayne
And syr Harrowde, þat ys hys swayne,
Two the beste then slayne had y:
Then myght y be full yolye.’

‘Now þe deuell,’ quod Gye, ‘þe honge:
Dud he the euyr any wronge,
That thou wolde hys hed of smyte?
Of synne þou art gretly to wyte.’
He seyde: ‘nay,’ wyth moche vnwynne,
‘But he hath mysdone to my kynne.

Crysten man, vndurstande me:
The wedur ys hote, as þou may see.
For the lordys loue, þat þou leuyste ynne,

233

And as he may forgeue þe þy synne,
Geue me leue to go stylle
To drynke of water but my fylle.
Thurste y haue vndurgone:
My herte wyll breste and that anon
Yf y for thurste ouyrcomen ware,
Thou schuldyst be preysed neuer þe mare,
But schame therof þou schuldyst haue,
And thou warne me, that y craue.
Y prey the for goddys sone,
That made boþe þe sonne and mone
And geue the grace well to spede
In euery place and euery nede.
And, yf thurste vpon the falle,
Ȝeue þe leue to drynke y schall.’
Then seyde Gye: ‘y grawnte the
To drynke ynogh in safete,
So that efte þou geue me leue
For to drynke, yf þurste me greue.’

But, when þat he the leue hadde,
He was neuer before so gladde.
He ranne to þe watur, wythowte fayle,
And vnlasyd hys ventayle,
There as he was moste hate:
For to drynke ynogh he thrate.
‘Knyȝt,’ seyde þe gyawnt, ‘ȝelde þe to me:
Thy endynge day thou haste ysee.
Euyll y haue begyled the,
When þou to drynke leue gaue me.
I am freschar, then y was are:
Thou schalt dye, wythowten care.
My custome ys soche, y the say:
Fyght y neuer so moche on a day,
And y myght haue ony space
My mouthe to wete wyth ony gras,

234

Sythen anon geue y no tale
To fyght, where that euer y schale.’
Then seyde Gye: ‘noþyng drede y þe.
That þynge getyst þou not of me.’

Togedur they streke, as ye may herke,
And on þe helmes strokes they marke.
Nother flewe a strawe brede:
In þat tyme no dethe they drede.
Togedur þey smeten to make þem tame:
On ther bodyes þey dud schame.
In pecys scheuyrde þey þer scheldus:
They schente þer vysage wyth þer swyrdus.
Amerawnt greuyd tho full hote
And on the hedde Gye he smote.
The pomell, þat on þe helme was,
In sonder was smyten into þe place.
The dynte felle on Gyes schoulder:
Hys hawberke he smote þere in sonder.
Wyth that he brake an hole wyde
And woundyd Gye in the syde.
In the ȝorthe a fote he smote:
Of that men spake, wele y wote.
Of that dynte Gye wondur hadde,
That euer he myght set ony so sadde.
Gye hym to ȝelde had grete desyre
And Amerawnt he smote wyth grete yre:
Wythynne the schelde a fote and more
Hys swyrde hyt and bote sore.
Sythen ageyn he hyt droghe,
As a man, that was wery ynogh.

Then seyde Gye to Amerawnt thore:
‘To the y telle wythowten more:
Soche a thurste ys me befalle,
But yf y drynke, y dye wythalle.
Therfore, Amerawnt, y prey to the,

235

Of me þou woldyst haue pyte.
Now that boone thou quyte me,
That þou are behyghtest me,
That y to drynke leue schulde haue,
At what tyme y wolde hyt craue.’
Amerawnt seyde: ‘was þat þy thoght?
Leeue to drynke getyste þou noght.’
To that sarsyn answeryd Gye:
‘Of me thou haue some mercye.
Yf y for thurste dedde bee,
For cowardyse men wolde wyte the.
Wylt þou suffur, þat y drynke nowe
(For hyt were gretly for my prowe),
Then,’ seyde Gye, ‘we may fyght same,
To wytt, who schall haue harme or game.’

The gyawnt seyde: ‘thou art smarte:
I wyll not the holde for no cowarte.
Y wolde not for þys cyte wyth þe gylte towre,
But y myght stroye kynge Tryamowre.
When y haue thy hedde of schorne
And þe slayne the kynge beforne,
Hys landys y nede not for to craue;
For the beste of them y schall haue.
The sowdan hath a doghtur dere:
In all þys worlde y knowe not hur pere.
Y loue hur well, so dothe sche me:
The sowdan þynkyth to geue hur me.
Ȝelde the,’ he seyde, ‘vnto me
And of thy harnes vnlace the,
And thy lyfe y schall saue soo:
And, yf thou wylt not, y schall þe sloo.’

Gye answeryd then wyth grete yre:
‘Y wyll not ȝyt, leue syre.
Hyt ys not þe custome of my londe.
Arste wyll y be drawyn wyth horsys stronge,
Then euyr y schulde in soche a nede

236

Ȝelde me vnto soche a quede.’

Then seyde Amerawnt: ‘sey me now
Where were þou borne and what hyght þou?
To let the drynke haue y thoght;
For why þy name þou layne noght.
Thou makeste men to clepe the,
I trowe, not so, os hyt schulde bee.
Yf þou on þe that name bare,
Thou schuldyst be knowyn wyde whare.

Gye answeryd: ‘thou schalt here;
Loke, thou ley hyt to thyn ere.
Gye of Warwyk clepyd am y,
Borne in Ynglonde, wytterlye.
I fyght for Tryamowre the kynge
The to take ouer all thynge
And to delyuyr hym of fame stronge,
That ys put on hym wyth wronge.’

But, when Amerawnt vnduryode,
That Gye there before hym stode,
That so moche preysed was,
Of hym had he wonder in þat place.
He seyde: ‘Gye, welcome mote þou bee.
Ouyr all thynge desyred y the.
Now wot y well, that sothe hyt ys,
That men haue spokyn of þe or þys.
But so, or y go, y schall the dere,
That þy hed fro þe body y wyll schere,
And present hyt to my lemmon:
Hyt schall be so, be seynt Mahowne.
Now þat y am seker of Gye,
Yf men wolde geue me all Hungurrye,
To drynke y wolde not geue þe leue:
Thou myghtest me sore aftur greue.’

‘Lorde,’ quod Gye, ‘what schall y done?
Leeue to drynke haue y noone.’

237

Syþen he hath beþoght hym there
To lepe into the ryvere.
Thedurwarde ys he gone:
Drynke he muste or dye anone.
Amerawnt folowed wyth hys swyrde:
Gye was then sore aferde.
Of the watur he was fayne.
But god hym helpe, he ys but slayne.
Now ys Gye bestadde sore,
In þe water to þe gyrdull and more.
Into þe watur hys hedde he threste
To þe schoulders, or he wolde reste,
And Amerawnt smote hym soo,
That in þe water he knelyd thoo:
The colde water abowte hym ranne.
Gye start vp then, as a man.
Then seyde Gye, that all myght here:
‘Thou haste me hyt on ylle manere.
Thou haste me baptysed, hyt ys þy schame.
But ȝyt þou haste not chaunged my name.’

Forthe of the water he came, y wote,
And Amerawnt full soone he smote.
Eyther hath other bethoght,
How þey myght to grownde be broght.
Of acorde was not speke:
Eyther of odur wolde be awreke.
‘A, felle fende,’ seyde syr Gye,
‘Thankyd be god full hastelye.
Thorow þe water at þe brymme
I was well holpyn soone þerynne.
Yn þe affye y me no more,
Traytoure,’ he seyde, ‘be goddys ore.’

Then they togedur rathe
Smote, as men, þat were wrathe.
Fro the morne to the nyght,
And at euyn were sterrys bryght,

238

So haue þey foghtyn all that day,
That no man þe bettur knowe may.
At a dynte, that Gye caste,
Amerawnt to smyte he hyed faste.
Of he smote hys ryght arme:
Into þe felde hyt flewe full warme.
When Amerawnt was smetyn soo,
He was greuyd, as y troo.
Vp he nome hys grete bronde
And helde hyt faste in hys honde
And assayled Gyowne,
As he were a lyone,
That had fasted xiiii nyght.
But Gye defendyd hym, as a knyght:
Fro Amerawnt he noþyng drowe,
And Amerawnt was hote ynowe.
Thorow þe blode, þat fro hym ranne,
The dyntys lessud of that man.
At a dynte, that Gye smote
(Amerawnt felyd hyt full hote),
The lyfte arme wyth þe schoulder boon,
Hyt yede of and that anon.
So nye Gye dud he gone,
That almoste he felle hym vpon.
Gye smote to hym faste
And to þe grounde þe gyawnt caste.
Hys ventayle he vnlasyd, y wote,
And hys hedde of soone he smote.

Wyth the boot he came passynge
And caste hyt to Tryamowre þe kynge.
The sowdan þere hym quyte made
And all, that euyr he there hadd.
To Alysawndur he went, þe ryche towne,
And wyth hym broght he syr Gyowne
And sythen he sende aftur erle Joonas,
And he came to hym a gode pase.

239

He kyssyd hym there full soone
And hys sonnes euerychone
And wythowte any respyte
Of pryson he made þem þere quyte.
‘Erle,’ seyde tho the kynge,
‘Thou schalt be my darlynge.’

The kynge seyde: ‘lorde, þat þe wroght,
Geue, hyt were in thy thoght
To dwelle stylle here wyth me.
Golde and syluyr y wolde geue the:
I wolde geue parte of my londe
To cese hyt now into þy honde.’
Gye seyde: ‘hyt ys not in my thoght:
To dwelle wyth þe kepe y noght.’

The erle at þe kynge toke hys leue
And prayed hym, þat he wolde hym not greue.
To Jerusalem, the gode towne,
The erle Joonas þoght to gone.
But he at Gyes partynge
Wolde wytt of hym some tythynge
And, as they wente on þer waye,
At þer partynge þe erle can say:
‘Telle me, syr, for seynt Symonde,
What ys þy name, in þys stownde,
That makyste vs to clepe the
Other weyes, then hyt schulde bee.
I prey the, now we be same,
Telle to me thy ryght name.
I prey þe for þe loue of þe trynyte,
Thy ryght name þou layne not fro me.

Then seyde Gye to hym in haste:
‘Erle Joonas, be Jesu Cryste,
Loke, that þou layne hyt wole.
Yf þou me bewrye, hyt ys dole.
Gye of Warwyk ys my name.
Yf þou me bewrye, þou mayste me shame.

240

For the toke y the fyght
And slewe þe gyawnt be goddys myght.’

But, when he harde verelye,
That hyt was syr Gye,
To Gyes fete dud he falle,
And Gye toke hym vp þerwythall.
‘Syr,’ seyde þe erle, ‘for goddys mercye,
That thou goyst thus, say me, whye,
And þou art so doghty and stronge:
God made neuer a bettur schorte nor longe.
The erledame of Durras y geue the,
And many a man schall serue the,
And y myselfe become thy man
And my sonnes euerychone:
All we schall be trewe to the
And swere on boke to serue the.
We schall noþynge chalenge fro þe
Of honowre nor of dygnyte.
Thou haste wonne hyt wyth þy hande,
Thogh hyt were bettur, þen any lande;
For, yf thou thyselfe ne were,
We had be dedde and leyde on bere.’

‘Erle Joonas,’ tho seyde Gye,
‘I thanke the moche and gramercye.
To dere thou haddyst hyred me,
Yf y thy landys toke fro the.
Wende whome on þy way nowe:
Goddys blessynge haue thou.
I wyll home to myn own lande
(Y haue so thoght, y vndurstande)
And neuyr efte see the more.’
Wyth þat they kyssed and leue toke þore.
To Durras þe erle wente agayne,
As man, þat was nothynge fayne.

Now goyth Gye god thankende

241

For the honowre, god had hym sende.
The londe he haþe thorow gone
And soght the halowse euerychone.
He sogernede wythynne þat londe nobell
And sythen he went to Constantyne þe nobell.

Off þe lady now wyll y telle,
Of Gyes wyfe, and nothynge dwelle.
Of charyte þer was none hur make,
Sythen hur lorde þe wey dud take
Halowse to seke mony oon:
He neuyr stynte, or he had done.
Abbeyse, churchys sche dud make
At that tyme for Gyes sake
And pore men bothe clothe and fede
Mony, sythe þat Gye fro þe londe yede.
Neuyr for game, that was done,
Loghe sche, sythe þat Gye was gone.
That lady had a sone free:
A feyrer myght no man see.
They crystenyd hym in a fant stone
And clepyd hym Reynbowrne.
To Harrowde þey delyuyrde þe chylde,
As Gye badde the lady mylde.
Harrowde toke the gode grome
And kepte hym, as hys lordys sone.
He betoke hym two knyghtys þore
To kepe hym well and do no more.
When the chylde was vii yere olde,
Well waxen he was and feyre and bolde.

Many marchandys of wyde where,
Of Rosse, as ye harde ȝerre,
Golde and syluyr þey had broght thoo,

242

Copur and tynne and brasse þertoo,
Veire and gryce and pylches armyne
And clothys of sylke and of satyne.
Ryght at deuer haue þey reuyn
And to kynge Athelston a present geuyn.
To þer schyppes be they gone
And soght townes many oon,
So þat þey came to Wallyngforde
x myle tolde fro Oxonforde.
Hyt was a cyte gode wythall
And wele yclosyd wyth stone walle;
And, syþen wyth warre hyt was caste down,
Hyt was neuer syth so gode a towne.
The marchandes þoght not to be schente
And to Harrowde broght a presente,
And Harrowde toke hyt wyth gode wylle
And thanked þem bothe lowde and stylle.

When the marchandes sye that chylde
Pley in þe halle so wanton and wylde,
Wondur had the marchandys there:
A fayrer chylde sawe þey neuer ere.
They asked the knyghtys in that place,
Whose that feyre chylde wase.
They answeryd, sekerlyke:
‘Hyt ys syr Gyes sone of Warwyke.’
In feyrenes they hym preysed tho
And thoght, that he schulde wyth þem goo;
For þey thoght to selle hym full dere,
In what londe so that they were.
And wyth the portar they spake tho
And wyth the chylde awey þey dud goo.
To London þey wente soone agane,
But of that chylde wyste no man.

243

To Russye the wey they dud take,
And, when þey sawe þe londe, grete yoye þey dud make.
They wende to haue reuyn feyre and wele,
But to them befelle grete sorowe and dele.
The nyght waxed soon black, as pycke:
Then was the myste boþe marke and thycke.
The weder waxe þycke, þe wynde blewe faste:
Almoste the schyppe hyt dud downe caste.
Then were þey turmentyd soo,
That they wyste not, whodur to goo.
The wawes ouyryede þe schyppe soo,
That þey were wete fro toppe to too.
Hyt brake þer cordys and eke ther maste:
Then wende þey to dye all at þe laste.
Ouyr all greuyd them that turmente:
They preyed to god omnypotente,
That he schulde þat lowde wynde felle
And borowe þer sowles owt of helle.
Farre in þe see þe schyppe ys dryuen:
In Awfryke well soone þey be yryuen.

When þe marchandys can þat see,
That they in Awfryke aryuen bee,
They þoȝt Reynbowrn, þat chylde, to take
The kynge wyth hym a present to make,
That þey may freschly and well
Go þorow þe londe feyre and well
For to selle and for to bye,
That no man schulde þem affraye.
Sythen they toke two marchans
Wele ydyght of Romans:
To þe kynge þey presentyd þat chylde,
And he hym resseyuyd wyth wordys mylde.
The kynge had a doghtur in þe towne:
Of þe selfe age was Reynbowrne.
Sche preyed þorow hur modur wylle

244

Of hur lorde boþe lowde and stylle,
The chylde myȝt in hur chaumber be
To norysche hym wyth hur own mayne,
Yf þat he myght serue hur wele.
The kynge hur grauntyd euery dele.

When Harrowde perseyued soo,
Þat þe chylde was stolen hym fro,
He made hym to be soȝt þorow þe towne
And þorow þe cuntre be dale and downe.
When he wyste, for soþe, þat case,
That þe chylde stolen wase,
Tho beganne moche of hys woo;
For he had so lorne hys lordys two.
In all Russye he dud hym seke
And in many a straunge lande eke;
And, when he myȝt not be fownde,
He swowned, as a man for sore wounde.

Then so befelle, kynge Athelston
Let gedur hys barons euerylkon,
Boþe hys erlys and hys barons,
The wysest þat were of all resons.
Harrowde of Arderne þedur yede:
The kynge hym louyd for hys gode dede
More, then any of hys lande;
For he was doghtyest of hys hande.
And odur lordys therof had envye,
And betwene them they can seye,
That the kynge dud grete wronge
To honowre so moche Harrowde þe stronge;
For he was but a pore knyght:
‘Hys lorde he hath done moche vnryght.’

‘Lordyngys,’ þen seyde þe kynge,
‘Vndurstandyth wele my tythynge.
Y wyll yow now of cowncell praye,
For y wot well, ye haue harde saye,

245

That the kynge Anlate of Denmarke,
That ys full felle, styffe and starke,
Wyl come on vs wyth moche heer
All owre londes for to dere
And þem to haue wyth grete myght,
But we defende vs wyth grete fyght.
Many yerys hyt ys gone,
Syth he claymed thys kyngdome.’

Then answeryd syr Harrawte:
‘We dowte hym not, wythowte defawte.
Yf þey come in yowre landes,
We schall þem sloo wyth owre handes.
Gode men haue ye and cytees stronge:
Ye nede not to dowte none of hys wronge.
In olde dayes, men seyden, aplyght,
That Danes schulde haue þys lande wyth ryȝt;
But þorow batell þey were slone:
Therfore now ryght haue þey none.
But now comawnde thy barowns,
Tho that haue castels and townes,
Wyth horse and harnes to be made ȝare
Into batell wyth the to fare
And to yowre knyghtys of armes all,
That þey be redy at yowre calle:
They may yow helpe on all manere,
What tyme ye haue to þem mystere,
Or þey haue yowre londe wythowten ryght,
Yf the Danes wyth yow fyght.
For yowre men þen schall be redy
And fyght wyth þem well manlye.
Thorow helpe of god all weldande
We schall haue the hyer hande.’

‘Syr,’ seyde the kynge, ‘wythowten fayle,

246

Thys ys a nobull cownsayle.
As þou haste seyde, euery dele
Y schall do, also haue y hele.’

Vp starte þe dewke Merof in yre:
He was a cruell lorde and syre.
He was a whytehore knyght
And also he had be bolde and wyght.
‘Syr kynge,’ he seyde, ‘for yowre honowre,
Leue ye no more that losengeowre.
Yowre barons haue well euell wylle
To greue yow odur lowde or stylle,
But well more ye loue hym allone,
Then yowre barons euerychone;
And we can well bettur geue yow cownseyle
And in a saye wyll more avayle,
Then that traytour, that y see thare.
He haþe betrayed hys lorde well ȝare,
That made hym knyght of grete renowne
Of a mysprowde garesowne;
And, sythen he hath had grete honowre,
That furste was a pore vauesowre,
He hath quytt hym full euyll hys mede,
When he solde hys soone for nede.
To men of Russye he hym solde
And many a peny for hym he tolde.
He wyll bothe yow and yowre sone
Begyle, as hyt ys hys wonne.’

When he harde that grete syre,
Vnnethe he myght speke for yre.
On hys fete he starte full ȝare,
Os man, that was agreuyd sare.
‘Thou lyest,’ seyde Harrowde full egerlye,
‘When þou me blameste of felonye.
When þou before my lorde, þe kynge,
Repreuest me of soche a thynge,
Yf thou wylte that thynge avowe,

247

That þou haste seyde here nowe,
Loke, þou arme the hastelye
To preue thy false testymony.
And y not defende me,
I wyll, that men do hange me.
Thou haste me sclawnduryd of a lesynge
Here before my lorde, the kynge,
That y solde þe chylde Reynbowrne,
My lordys sone, syr Gyowne.
Also helpe me god, þat all hath wroght,
That þynge came neuer in my thoght.
The ryche marchandys, be god veray,
Stale þat chylde be nyght away.
Gretter sorowe had neuyr no man,
Then had y, when he was gane,
And sythen y wente and odur thre
To Russye, that feyre cuntre;
But y cowde not fynde hym in no stedde,
Therfore sorowfull ys my redde.
Be y false or be y noght,
I am for euyr in sclawndur broght.
Before þe kyng y schall hym hyght
And therto my trowthe hym plyght
Owte of thys londe for to fare
And come ageyne neuyr mare,
Or y myght my lordys sone
Fynde, yf he be vndur þe mone.’

‘Be stylle,’ seyde the dewke so felle,
‘The deuell þe honge, þat ys in helle.
Whyll þou art in þys cuntre,
Traytour schalt thou holdyn bee.’

All that harde a nobull knyght,
Syr Edgare, for sothe, he hyght.
Trewe he was and doghty of hande.
He was steward of Harrowdes lande.
Soche sorowe had þat ylke knyght,

248

That he ne wyste, what he do myght.
Before the dewke he starte in hye
And spake to hym wyth grete envye.
‘Syr dewke,’ he seyde, ‘be heuyn kynge,
When þou on my lorde seyste soche þynge,
Thou lyest falsely of that dede;
The whych y wyll preue vpon my stede
Allone wyth þe for to fyght:
Then men may see, who hath þe ryght.
The helpe of god be fro me reuyd,
But y smyte of thy heuydde.’

The kynge comawndyd on þer lyfe,
That þer schulde be no more stryfe.
When þe kynge had all seyde
And hys charge on them leyde,
That þey schulde kepe well hys londe
And be euyr redy to hys honde,
Home þen wente the knyghtys free
Euerychone to ther cuntre.

Home wente also Harrowde þe free
To Wallyngforde, hys cyte.
Harrowde had ay gret tene and schame,
That he was broȝt in soche false fame;
And all was but a lesynge,
That þe dewke had tolde þe kynge.
‘Edgare,’ he seyde, ‘dwelle thou here
And kepe my londe wyth thy powere,
Bothe my chylde and my wyfe
And my cyte, wythowten stryfe;
For moost of all men tryste y the.’

‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘gramercye;
But, swete syr, leue thys folye,
And wende wyll y in farre cuntre.
Y schall not blynne day nor nyght,
Or y see that chylde wyth syght.

249

I was ones seuyn yere
Yn the see a marynere:
In crystyante ther ys no lande,
But y haue be therin dwellande;
And ye be oolde and whytehore:
Ye may not well trauell no more;
Wherefore y prey yow, leue yowre wylle.’

‘Edgare,’ he seyde, ‘holde the stylle.
For all the gode, that euyr god made,
Y wolde not cese, or y hym hade.
Full well y wott, when y am gone,
Myn enmyes wyll come anone
And sege the wyth grete batayle:
Defende þe then, wythowten fayle.’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘so god me mende,
Yf any come, we schall vs defende.’

Now wendyth Harrowde fro that cyte:
A well sorowfull man was he.
Schyppe he fonde and passed yare
And soght Reybowrne wyde whare:
In Denmarke and in Yrelonde,
In Norwey and in Scotlonde,
Yn Almayne and in Sossyrrye,
In Cesoyne and in Turkye
Euyr hys lordys sone he soght,
But, for sothe, he fonde hym noght.
When he myght nowhere fowndyn bee,
Another tyme he wente to the see.
At Costantyne wolde he bee,
And tho come a tempaste on the see
And chased þem þen belyue:
Ryght at Awfryke þey can ryue.
He sawe besyde hym on the londe

250

A swythe feyre cyte stonde:
But the wallys of that towne
To þe ȝerthe were brokyn downe.

‘Lorde,’ seyde a marynere,
‘Moche sorow schall we haue here.
We be now faste ryuande
Into the kynge Harkes lande.
He ys a full ryche kynge
Of golde and syluyr and other þynge.
Then seyde Harrowde: ‘who owyth þys cuntre,
That ys dystroyed, and thys cyte?’
‘Syr,’ seyde a schypman,
‘Ther ys none so felle to fleme Jordan.
Y schall yow telle, as y can.
Hyt ys admyrals Presane:
He hatyth crysten men echon.
Full well y wote, he wyll vs slone.
The kyng Harkes hath seged hym here
And stroyed þys londe bothe far and nere.’

Wyth þat þe paynyms were kene
And armed them all bedene,
And Harrowde and hys companye
They broght þem to þer lorde in hye,
And caste them in hys pryson all:
Of mete and drynke they had small.

When the dewke Merof hyt fonde,
That syr Harrowde was owt of þat londe,
He gedurde grete ooste of Cornwayle
And þe stewarde faste he can assayle;
But he hym defendyd day and nyght
Full well, as a doghty knyght.

251

He hyred men of that londe
And full rychely he them fonde.
He gaue þem golde and ryche tresoure
And kepyd þat londe wyth grete honowre.
All that yere owte and owte
He defendyd hym, as a knyght full stowte.
He gaue the dewke batayle stronge
And slewe hys men euyr amonge.
A thousande were there slayne
Of the dewkys men, certayne.
The dewke myght spede nothynge
Of that ylke longe segeynge:
To Cornwell he went agayne
And lefte þere hys men wyth schame slayne.

Now wyll we speke of syr Gye,
As we fynde in storye:
At all seyntes he had bene
In Costantyne þorow and bedene.
He thoght in hys harte yare
Into Ynglonde for to fare:
Hys wey he hath sone tane.
So longe on hys wey hath he gane
Bothe wyth trauell and wyth payne,
That comen he was to Almayne.

As he came on a day,
In that wylde cuntraye
A cros he fonde standynge
And thervndur a pylgryme syttynge.
He made sorowe on all thynge,
And euyr he seyde wyth mornynge:
‘Allas, my sorowe, þat arte so stronge,
And my lyfe, that lastyth so longe.’

When Gye þat sawe, he had pyte
And seyde to hym wyth herte free:

252

‘Y bydde the for my loue nowe,
So god the slake of thy sorowe,
Thou me telle wyth gode harte,
Fro whens þou came and what thou art.’

He answeryd, as he myght:
‘Yf y tolde the anon ryght,
Thou woldyst of me haue pyte,
And y schulde neuyr þe better bee.’
Tho Gye answeryd and seyde: ‘nay,
Y may þe comforte, par ma faye.
Par auenture y myght þe say,
How þy sorowe may passe away.
Hyt befallyth to trauelde men
Eyther other some gode to kenne.’
Tho seyde þe palmer: ‘soþe seye ye.
Almes hyt were to teche me.
Lefe syr, now wyll y telle
All my sorowe, how that hyt felle.

I was a knyght of ryche lande
And castels and towres in my hande.
Of gode y had grete plente:
All þat londe had drede of me.
In crystendome þer was no lande,
But y was preysed of my hande.
Y was bothe kynde and hende
And also y had mony a frende.
Golde y had grete plente
And helde mony meyne.
Now haue y not an halpenye
My mete nor drynke for to bye.
Y am nowe a pore caytyfe:
Hyt ys wonder, y haue my lyfe.’
For sorowe myght he speke no more,
For sorowe and for wepynge sore.

253

‘Lo here my sorowe, let be þy fare:
Aske me now of thys no mare,
What y hyght or fro whens y came;
For to telle me thynkyth hyt schame.
Yf y my lyfe to þe schulde telle,
To longe here schulde y dwelle.
Whereto aske ye me soche thynge?
Thou mayste not me fro sorowe brynge.
I had leuyr haue some mete;
For y haue grete myster to ete.’

Gye seyde: ‘pylgryme, so mote þou the,
And for goddys loue in trynyte,
Telle me þy name, and lye noght,
And why þou art in soche state broght.
And Iesu, that ys myn affyawnce,
May happe to geue þe ryȝt gode chaunce.
And owre mete schall y bye:
Ȝyt y haue lefte a penye.’
He answeryd: ‘y schall the saye.
I wyll not lye, be my faye.

My name ys erle Tyrrye.
I was ryche, syr, sekerlye:
Now am y a wreche and a caytyfe,
Me forthynkyth, þat y haue lyfe.
All Loren was to me sworne:
In that londe y was borne.
I had a felowe, þat hyght Gyown:
Sythen god suffurde hys pascioun,
Was neuer, þen he, a trewer borne.
To be hys fere y haue sworne:
A trewer man was neuer beforne.
In Warwyke þere was he borne.
We were felows trewtheplyght:
We louyd well, hyt was ryght.
Twyes he sauyd me fro the dyeng:
He louyd me ouyr all other þynge;

254

Tyll hyt befelle, that syr Gye,
That was my felowe trewlye,
Slewe the dewke of Payuye:
He had done hym velenye.
Amonge hys knyghtys euerychone
Gye hym slewe and passed anon
And broght my lemman wyth hym dere,
That y louyd on all manere.

That dewke had a cosyne,
That ys preuyd a felle hyne:
Barrarde ys hys ryght name.
Lorde god geue hym moche schame.
He was then but a squyere
And serued the emperere.
The emperowre louyd hym wele
And gaue hym Payuye euery dele.
Thys ylke Barrarde tho beganne
For to be a prowde man,
So prowde and so felle,
That no man myght be hym dwelle.
In þe worlde ys none hys pere,
None so stalworthe nor none so fere.
Men drede hym more allone,
Then an hundurd knyghtys echone.
Yf any man were armed wele
Odur in yron or in stele,
And he hyt hym in the felde,
But he kepte hym wyth hys schelde,
Wyth þe myght of hys swyrde dynte
The hed schulde of, or hyt stynte.
Thou harde neuer speke of soche a knyght:
In all þys worlde þer ys none so wyght
Nor none so stronge in thys lande,
But, and he hyt hym wyth hys hande,

255

He wolde breke hys neck in two
Wyth oon dynte wythowten moo.
Barrarde ys so felle a page
And so stowte of hys corage,
Ther ys no knyght in all þys londe
Nor none so wyght of hys honde,
And Barrarde were wroþe, þogh he were stowte,
When he sawe hym loke abowte,
But for feere he schulde quake
And flee awey for hys sake.
He ys wyght of hys honde
And sore dredde þorow þe londe.
Steward hym made þe emperowre
And gaue hym feys to hys honowre.
Men drede hym more allone,
Then hys barons euerychone.
Yf ther be dewke or erle in lande,
But þey be to hym boweande,
The steward wyll anone ryse
And dystroye hym on all wyse:
He schulde anone wyth hym be slane
Or ellys to pryson sone be tane.
Men drede hym moche þe more;
For, yf a pore man þer wore,
And Barrarde hym louyd wyth herte fre,
He myght be of moche poste.
Dewke, erle or nobull knyght,
Were he neuyr so ryche a wyght,
Thogh he were prynce or kynge,
And he greuyd hym anythynge,
He wolde hym brynge vnto the grownde
And make hym pore in schorte stownde.

Hyt befelle, that the emperowre
Helde a cowncell of grete valowre
Of erlys, dewkys and barons

256

And to me he made somons,
And thedur y wente wyth grete meyne:
An hundurd knyghtys came wyth me.
When y came before the kynge,
Barrarde me askyd of soche thynge
And seyde, Oton þorow my meyne
Was broght to dethe, sekerlye.

Forthe y starte full hardelye
To defende me of felonye
And ȝaue my gloue before þe kynge
To fyght wythowten dwellynge
Agenste hym and all odur men,
That cowde oght sey agenste me þen.
The emperowre hyt toke full ryght
And set a day, when we schulde fyght.
At that cowncell fonde y no man,
That durste be my borowe than,
For drede of the dewke Barrarde.
The emperowre þen helde me harde.
I was louyd more, then he,
But he was drad in that cuntre.
All my frendys dysseyuyd me:
Ther durste not oon my borowe bee.
I was sory at the laste:
All dud me fayle, that y dud aske.
Thorow cowncell of Barrarde
I was then bestadde harde.
The emperowre put me at hys wylle
In hys pryson for to spylle.
He sesyd then my londe soone:
He wolde my wyfe þen haue fordone,
But sche hyed awey on hur stede,
I wot not, whodur, so god me rede.

When y was in pryson thare,
Nyght and day y was in care.

257

Thorow me he wened to wynne
Gye of Warwyke wyth some gynne.
Were he vengyd vpon Gyown
Wyth some maner of treson,
Soone þen aftur schulde y be dedde:
For me schulde go no golde redde.
Yn that pryson was y longe
And suffurde there peynes stronge.
I sawe neuer there no lyght
No more, þen hyt had be nyght.
Y ete neuyr there my fylle
Nor spake neuer þere wyth men at wylle.

My frendes came at the laste
And preyed þe emperowre for me faste
And gaue hym gyftes grete ynowe
And to Barrard they dud also,
That y myȝt wende fro pryson
Thorowe thys condycyon,
That y schulde wende to seke Gyown
To euery lande and euery towne:
I schulde not reste day nor nyght,
Tyll y had fonde þat gentyll knyght,
And brynge hym to the emperowre
To defende hym, as a traytowre,
Of that grete owtrage
Before all hys baronage
And to defende me that day
Of þynge, þat men wolde to me say.

Then y wente wyth grete care
And in mony a londe haue y fare.
I haue soght Gye in fere
Thorow Inglonde far and nere.
When y came þere and fonde hym noght,

258

Then on Harrowde was all my thoght;
And bothe were gone fro that lande,
And that was wyckyd tythande.
Men seyde, Harrowde bothe nyght and day
Soght hys lordys sone, that was away,
And Gye was in exsyle wente.
Then me þoght, þat y was schente.
Ther was no man, there y dud goo,
That cowde telle me of þem two.
And sythen haue y soght Gye þe fre
In mony a straunge cuntre
And y fonde neuer man be þe way,
That oght of Gye cowde say.
I can not thynke, but he ys dedde,
And therfore sorowfull ys my redde.’
Therwythall he wepyd sare:
He was full of sorowe and care.

When Gye sye Tyrrye, þe knyght,
That was so doghty and so wyght,
That he louyd so trewlye,
He lokyd on hym soberlye.
He was pore for þe nones,
He had noþynge to hylle hys bones:
Hys lymmes were bare and euyll beseyn,
That some tyme were clad in scarlet in greyne.
For dole Gye felle to the grownde:
Ofte he swowned in that stownde.
When Tyrrye hym sye falle to grownde,
He toke hym vp in that stownde.
Tyrrye seyde: ‘be of gode harte.
Me þynkyth, þys euyll holdyþ þe smarte.
Telle me, yf hyt be thy wylle,
How longe ye haue had thys euyll.
Hyt ys the fallynge euyll ryght,
Therfore y hate hyt wyth my myght.’

259

‘Hyt ys,’ quod Gye, ‘longe not agone,
Sythe of thys euyll y had none.’

Tho seyde Tyrrye vnto Gye than:
‘Hyt ys greuawnce to euery man.
To day twelfmonyth, for soþe, hyt was
Sythe y for Gye toke the pase,
And sythen y dwellyd neuer a day,
There y on the nyght laye.
I haue bene ay trauelande,
What be see and be lande.
Hyt was me tolde wythowte fayle,
At Spyre schulde be a cownsayle
Of the emperowre Raynere,
And all hys baronage schall be þere:
Ther ys none in that cuntre,
But he schall at þat cowncell bee.
Hyt ys my terme daye
To come, yf any happe be may
To brynge Gye in my hande,
Yf that he were lyueande.
Yf y fynde hym nowhare,
I may not come in þat lande no mare.
Yf y come, y schall be dedde,
And therfore y can no redde,
Whedur y schall take þe wey fro þen
Or ellys thedur turne ageyne.’

Gye hym harde all sorowande:
Vnnethe myȝt he vpryght stande.
‘Lorde,’ he seyde, ‘of myght stronge,
Why haue y leuyd þus so longe,
That y see hym thus euyll dyght
And thus pore a nobull knyght.
A trewar felowe, þen he was oon,

260

Was neuer made of flesche and boon.
Hangyd be y thys ylke daye,
But y venge hym, and y maye.
Now may y speke my fylle:
I haue my spyrytes somewhat at wylle.
But y reue Barrarde hys lyfe
Odur wyth swyrde or wyth knyfe
And venge Tyrrye, my gode felowe,
God let neuer me of gode knowe,’
Then spake Gye to syr Tyrrye:
‘Pylgryme, be not sorye.
Hyt may the helpe nothynge
Sorowe to make or mornynge.
No man may wete, be my hode,
That we wyll proue for any gode.
We wyll drawe nerehande,
That we may here tythande,
That we may the better bee.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘so schall hyt be.’

They toke the wey to the cyte,
And a sory man was Tyrrye.
Gye goyth Tyrrye comfortynge,
But in hys harte he made morenyng.
Gye to wepe forbare nothynge,
When he sawe Tyrrye so faste wepynge:
He couyrde hys face wyth hys slaveyne,
That Tyrrye schulde not knowe hys peyne.
They were gone but myles thre
In the way to that cyte:
‘Lorde,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘what schall y do?
Heuynes ys comen me too.
But y slepe here a whyle,
I dye, or y haue gone a myle.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘lye down stylle

261

A throwe and slepe all þy fylle.
I schall for þe loue of the
At thy hedde reste me.’
‘Syr,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘gramercye!
Thou doyst to me grete curtesye.’

Now lythe Tyrrye on þe grownde
And slepyd but a lytull stownde.
Also faste as Tyrrye dud slepe,
Also faste can Gye wepe.
As Tyrrye lay in slomerynge,
Owt of hys mowþe wente a þynge
Also whyte, as any armyne.
Gye lokyd theron wele and fyne.
To an hylle went hyt than
And in at an hole hyt ranne.
Hyt dwellyd not longe, os y yow say:
Ageyn hyt came soon þat same day.
In at þe mowthe dud hyt goo,
There as hyt came froo.
When Gye had þat syght sene,
He had wondur, what hyt myȝt mene.

Tyrrye wakenyd soone thore:
Vp he rose and sykyd sore.
‘A, lorde,’ he seyde, ‘heuyn kynge,
I haue a grete wonderynge.
Me þoght, y was on a hylle gone
And y fonde þere a roche of stone:
Full hyt was of golde redde,
And there lay a dragon dedde.
A bryght swyrde be hym lay:
Ther ys none bettur in þe worlde þys day.
Also me thoght, that syr Gye
Was here be me, full sekerlye,
And my hed in hys armes lay:
Me þoght, my sorowe was away.’

262

Tho seyde Gye: ‘my dere frende,
Thorow þe grace of god so hende
Schalt þou wynne þorow Gyown
All thy londe, castell and towne.
We schall fare wele þys ylke day:
To spyr þe gate take we þe way.
But furste y rede, þat we abyde,
And we wyll wende to þe hylle besyde,
There, þou þoght, þat þat tresure laye.
Yf that we hyt fynde maye,
Hyt may vs helpe on all manere,
And therof we haue mystere.’
‘I graunte,’ quod Tyrrye, ‘be þys day:
Goo we þedur wythowte ony more delaye.’

To the hylle þey came hastelye
And fonde the hole, certenlye,
As Tyrrye had thoght beforehande:
The tresure, þe swyrde þere þey fonde.
The swyrde was styffe ynoghe:
Owte of þe scheþe Gye hyt droghe.
‘God of heuyn,’ seyde Gye than,
‘Was ther neuyr crysten man,
That had any soche bronde.
Y trowe, hyt came fro far londe.’
The poynte was couyrde euery dele
Wyth bryght golde gayly wele.
Of þat swyrde was Gye fayne:
He put hyt into þe skabarde agayne,
And sythen he seyde to Tyrrye:
‘That tresure, þat þou seyst there lye,
Take hyt vnto thy poste;
For þe swyrde schall byde wyth me.’
Tho seyde Tyrrye: ‘at yowre wylle.
Of tresure haue y my fylle.
Ther ys so moche dole in my thoght,

263

That of no tresure yf y noght.
To that cyte wyll we gone:
Me þynkyth, we be to longe fro home.’

‘I graunte,’ in haste seyde syr Gye:
Bothe they wente forthe in hye.
Then wenyd Tyrrye knowen to haue be
Of some man, þat hym had see.
When they came to that cyte,
A sory man was erle Tyrrye.
They were harbarowde at þe townes ende
And aftur mete dud they sende.

Gye rose vp, full hardelye,
And lefte hys swyrde wyth Tyrrye.
He hyed faste to the towre
To speke wyth the emperowre.
The emperowre fro the churche come,
Gye hym kepyd sone and anon;
And Gye hym grett hendelye,
As a man, that cowde of curtesye.
‘God saue þe,’ he seyde, ‘syr emperowre.
Ye be a man of grete valowre,
And y am pore and of far cuntre:
I aske the gode for charyte.
Of yowre helpe y haue mystere,
As ye may se, in all manere.’
The emperowre answeryd: ‘gladlye
I wyll þe helpe, be seynt Marye.
To the pales come wyth me:
Thou schalt haue mete to plese þe.’

When þey were comen to þe halle,
The emperowre and hys meyne all,
The lordys to the mete yode,
And Gye there before þem stode.
‘Pylgryme,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘Telle me, y prey þe pur amowre.

264

Thou semeste trauelde for to be:
Where were þou borne and in what cuntre?’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘ye schall vndurstande,
That y haue be in mony a lande:
In Jerusalem and in Surrye
And in Costantyne þe nobull, sekerlye.’

‘Pylgryme,’ he seyde, ‘be thy lewte,
What sey men þere of me?’
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘ye schall here:
Schame and skathe on all manere,
When ye thorow wyckyd cownceyle
Of yowre steward, þat may not avayle,
That ye banysched Tyrrye, þe knyȝt,
And many odur wythowten ryght.
Therfore of þe ys spokyn schame
And in euery lorde moche blame.
Ye do yowreselfe moche dyshonowre
To leue soche a losengeowre.’

Barrarde harde, that Gye sayde,
And he beganne to geue a brayde.
He fared, as a wode man,
And wolde haue smeten Gye than,
But he hym helde, þat stode hym bye,
That he dud Gye no vylanye.
He seyde: ‘thou lyest, traytowre.
Yf hyt were not for the dyshonowre
Of my lorde, the emperowre,
Thou schuldyst haue a scharpe schowre.
I schulde schake þy berde so sore,
That thy tethe schulde falle me before
Thou art a lyar and þat a stronge:
Thys lyfe haste þou vsyd longe.
If y the fynde wythowte þe towne,

265

I schall þe caste in stronge presowne.
Thys vii yere þou schalt not passe away:
Thou schalt not wytt, when hyt ys day.
Men schall so chastyse soche glotons
For to myssaye gentyll barons.’

‘A, gode syr,’ seyde Gye, ‘what be ye?
A nobull baron ye seme to bee.
I sawe yow neuer are, syr, verelye:
Ye some bothe bolde and hardye.
To do a pylgryme skathe vtterlye
To yow hyt were grete vylenye.
Hyt wolde yow turne to muche owtrage,
When ye be of so grete lynage.
I seyde here no nodur thynge
(Y take recorde of the kynge),
But wyth synne and vnryght
That ye had dysheryted Tyrrye þe knyȝt
And chased hym fro hys londe,
Becawse ye bere hym wronge on honde,
That yowre cosyn schulde be dedde
Thorowe hym and hys redde.
Ofte harde y sey, wytterlye,
That he was nothynge geltye.’

Then spake þe dewke wyth yre:
‘Be god, that made water and fyre,
Ȝyf þou were that same knyght,
That durste for Tyrrye take þe fyght!’
Tho Gye answeryd wythowten more
(He sawe þe dewke greuyd sore):
‘Lo, here ys my gloue all redye
For to fyght for erle Tyrrye,
That he neuer slewe þe dewke Oton,

266

That was þe felle and false gloton.’
Gye seyde to the emperowre:
‘Take here my wedde, for your honowre;
For wyth hym wyll y fyght
To helpe Tyrrye in hys ryght.’

Tho vp start then that syre,
That was full of farvente yre.
‘Pylgryme,’ he seyde, ‘þou art stowte
And bolde þerto, wythowten dowte,
Whyll þat þou wageyst þys batayle.
I am seker, wythowten fayle,
The deuell hath bedyn the
And hedur he hath broght þe
For to do þys same dede,
And y schall quyte the thy mede.
The grace of god be fro me reuyd,
But y smyte of soone thy heuydde.’

‘Syr emperowre,’ seyde Gyown,
‘Herkyn to my reson.
Comen y am fro far cuntre:
Here ys no man, þat knowyth me.
Armer haue y none redye
Nor no syluyr none wyth to bye.
Ye muste for þe ordur of knyght
Helpe the pore in hys ryght
And in hys mystere do hym socowre:
Hyt ys mekyll for yowre honowre.’

To the emperowre be þey gane:
Bothe þer weddys hath he tane,
And syþen he comawndyd þem full ryȝt,
Ȝerly that þey schulde be dyght.
He wyll hymselfe the batell see
And bad, ȝerlye þat hyt schulde bee.

267

The dewke hym hyed þo full swyþe:
He þoȝt in þe morne to make some vnblyþe.
The emperowre clepyd hys doghtur dere
And bad hur on all manere,
That sche schulde kepe þe pylgryme wele
And arme hym boþe in yron and stele.
To a chaumbur sche hym ladde
And dud, as hur fadur hur badde.
He preyed hur for godys loue of myght
To arme hym well at all ryght.

All men, that dud hym see,
Had wondur and grete pyte,
That he durste agenste Barrarde fyght.
They preyed to god full of myght,
That he schulde geue þe pylgryme grace
To ouercome Barrarde in the place.

Ȝerly rose the emperowre
And masse he herde wyth honowre.
To hys pales he ys gone
And hys barons euerychone,
And redy was there Barrarde
Also ferse, as any lybarde,
Armed on a gode stede.
To the courte þey dud hym lede.
The maydyn then forgate noght:
To arme þe pylgryme was hur thoght.
Sche cawsyd hym to haue a stede,
That seker was at euery nede.
Hys swyrde þen forgate he noght:
Queyntlye hyt was wroght.
He fett hyt fro Tyrrye,
That no man wyste, sekerlye.
Therof had he mystere,
As ye may afturwarde here.

268

When sche had armed hym wele, þat maye,
On all manere, that he cowde saye,
Sche broght hym before þe emperowre.
He was of grete bewte and valowre
All, that lokyd on syr Gye,
Of hym they had farlye.
He was a semely knyght,
When he was armed ryght.
All swere be seynt Rychere,
Hyt was neuyr the palmere,
That toke þe batell wyth Barrarde to fyght;
For he semed a doghty knyght.

‘Lordyngys,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘All, that be at thys honowre,
Thes two knyghtys, þat stonden here,
Be men of grete powere.
A batell they haue waged here,
Ye wote all, on what manere.
Thys pylgryme, þat stondyth me bye,
Wyll defende erle Tyrrye
Of felonye and treson,
That he neuer slewe þe dewke Oton,
Agenste the dewke Barrarde,
That ys a champyon felle and harde
For hys cosyns dedde,
That he was slayne þorow hys redde.
We schall see at thys batayle,
Who hath þe wronge, wythowten fayle.’
The lordys seyde: ‘we assente,
We graunte to hyt wyth gode entente.’

They wente þedur, þe batell shulde bee,
On an hylle besyde the cyte.
The boke was broght þem before
And, when þey had þer othes swore,
To the hylle dud they gone
And smeten togedur and that anon.

269

There beganne a stronge batayle:
Eyther other faste dud assayle.
They smote togedur on helmes bryght,
And there beganne a stronge fyght.
They brake bothe sterop and paytrelle
And all the harnes of ther sadelle.
Ther styffe hawberkys wolde not ryue.
Of ther stedys þey dud downe dryue.
They stode on fote bothe,
But soone þey began to waxe wrothe.
On þer stedys they lepe stowte:
Nayther had of odur dowte.
Then þey drewe þer swyrdys stronge
And faght togedur swythe longe.
The cantels of ther scheldes
Flewe into the feldes.

Gye was armed well thore,
But Barrarde had wel more:
He had two helmes styfe and bryght
And two hawberkys for drede of fyght
Rychelye sett wyth precyus stones
All abowte for the nones.
They seyde abowte euery man,
That Gye was no ȝerthely man:
He was no man ȝerthelye,
He was an aungell, sekerlye.
Whedur of them was hardear,
Ther wyste no man, þat was thare.

All, þat were in þat cyte, wythowten fayle,
Came to see that batayle:
Men, women and chylder also
And freres and nonnes thedur dud goo.
Lesse and more in that cyte
Came that batell for to see,
But all oonlye syr Tyrrye
In a churche was preuelye

270

To god preyng, þat he wolde here
And hym to helpe in hys mystere.

In came a preste syngynge
And fonde Tyrrye there lyyng.
‘Pylgryme,’ seyde the preste than,
‘I trowe, thou art a holy man.
Wherefore wylt þou not ȝonder goo
To see þe fyght of knyghtys twoo?
A pylgryme ys the oon knyght
And for erle Tyrrye doyth he fyght.’
‘Who ys þe pylgryme?’ quod erle Tyrrye.
‘I wot not,’ quod he, ‘sekerlye.
He ys doghty in the felde:
Brokyn he hath þe dewkys schelde.’

Tho vp rose Tyrrye anon
And to the batell can he gone.
He had grete drede of knowynge:
That made hym to loke drowpynge.
Soone he knewe Barrarde:
He bledde full sore and full harde.
He had yoye wythowten care,
When he sawe Barrarde euyll fare:
Euyr the pylgryme hym sayled faste.
Then quod Tyrrye at the laste:
‘Thys ys not the palmere,
That be þe way was my fere.
Hyt ys a bolde man and a wyght:
He semeth to be a nobull knyght.
He semed leene and febull in syght,
Hongre and olde and euyll dyght:
Now ys he whyte and noþyng wanne.
I wene, he be no ȝerthely man.
When y hym see, y thynke on Gye:
He ys lyke hym, wytterlye.
Yf Gye were not dedde, y wolde say,
That hyt were he, be thys day.’

271

Then for Gye he wepyd sore.
To churche he turned wythowten more.
Ofte he preyed god that day
To helpe hym, as he well may.

The batell lasted swythe longe
Fro morowe vnto euynsonge.
They wolde not let of ther fyght,
Tyll hyt came to the nyght.
Whan they lackyd lyght of day,
They wyste not, what þey myȝt say.
Messengerys were sente:
To the emperowre they wente.
They tolde hym, þat hyt was nyght,
They myght see no more to fyght.

The emperowre clepyd in þat stowre
Fowre barons of grete honowre.
‘Lordyngys,’ he seyde, ‘take Barrarde nowe
And kepe hym, as ye mowe
As in yow y affye,
Ȝylde hym to me ȝerly,
And y schall kepe my pylgryme wele,
Tyll hyt be day, so haue y hele.
Then schall they togedur goo:
Men schall see of them twoo,
Whether schall haue the vyctorye
Thorow helpe of seynt Marye.’

They toke Barrarde, þe nobull knyght,
And kept hym, as they myght,
And the emperowre toke syr Gye
And kepyd hym tendurlye.
The dewke Barrarde, þe fals gloton,
Bethoght hym of a treson.
Fowre cosyns, that he hadde,
Preuely he them badde,

272

That they schulde to þe courte goo
The pylgryme þere for to sloo.
They were armed and that anon
And came to þe courte euerychon.
Forthe they yede full preuelye,
Tyll þey came þere, as was syr Gye.
Gye lay in a lofte bedde
Wyth golde cloþys well yspredde.
Hys kepears were faste slepeande,
And euery man on þe bedde leyd hande.
The bedde they toke vp thare
And to the see they hyt bare.
But euyr slepyd syr Gye:
God of hym haue mercye!
They caste the bedde into þe see:
But god helpe, drowned had he bee.
Hyt was caste wyth a wawe
Vp a whyle and downe a thrawe.

Gye wakyd at the laste
And hys hedde vp he caste.
He sawe þe sterres bryght schynande:
On no syde sawe he no lande,
But brode watur all abowte.
Therfore he had grete dowte.
‘God,’ he seyde, ‘all weldande,
That stabulde boþe watur and lande,
Who hath done to me þys dede?
Lorde, y faght for no mede,
For golde nor syluyr, þou doyst knowe,
But for my trewe felowe
To delyuyr hym of paryle,
That hath be in exsyle.
Some tyme he was a doghty knyght
And now he ys a wrechyd wyght.
Ageyne Barrarde y toke the fyght
For to haue getyn Tyrrye hys ryght.

273

Yf y had that traytowr slayne,
Tyrrye schulde haue hys lande agayne.
I am but dedde, well y wote:
Thorow me he getyth no bote.
And all ys thorowe Barrart:
God let hym neuer of blysse haue part.’

Wyth that came a fyscher
In a bote Gye full nere.
What he was, he bad hym say,
And whethyr he leuyd on goddys lay.
Vp he heuyd hys hedde, Gye,
And cryed the fyscher mercye.
‘My frende,’ he seyde, ‘haue no drede:
I leue in god, so he me spede.
Knowest þou oght of a fyght
Betwene a pylgryme and a knyght?’
‘Ȝysse,’ quod the fyscher, ‘y sawe hyt,
The batell, to the darke nyght.
The emperowre parted them late
And made to kepe þem, wele y wate.’
‘I am,’ quod Gye, ‘the pylgryme,
That faght þen agenste hym.
We were partyd ȝystur nyght:
We no lenger myght see to fyght.
Into a chaumbur was y broght:
Of no treson y ne thoght.
Ynto a bedde was y done:
I was wery and slepyd soone.
Now am y here, but y not, howe.
My dere frende, helpe me now.
For thy trewthe and thy lewte
Haue thou some mercy of me.’

The fyscher for hym was sorye

274

And toke hym into hys bote hym bye
And ledde hym home þat ylke nyght
And kepte hym wele wyth all hys myght.

The emperowre rose well ȝerlye
And masse he harde in grete hye.
Sythen he came into hys halle
And wyth hym hys barons all.
He bad brynge to hym Barrardyne
And afturwarde hys pylgryme.
Fowre barons forthe dud wende
And broght þe dewke, as men hende.
To the emperowre they dud say,
That the pylgryme was away:
Bothe was awey he and hys bedde.
The knyghtys, þat stale hym, were fledde.
Ther wyste no man, where he was done.
The emperowre was wrothe sone
And sware be god and seynt Marye,
That they schulde be hangyd hye,
That had betrayed hys pylgryme
And hys wardens, be seynt Martyne.
Tho he spake wyth grete yre
To the dewke, that stowte syre.
‘Dewke,’ he seyde, ‘wythowte stryfe,
Brynge hym forthe vpon þy lyfe,
That þou haste takyn in þy kepeyng,
Or y schall juge the for to hynge.
Dede or quyck brynge hym to me:
Thou haste hym slayne, wele y see.’

Barrarde starte vp, wythowten dowte,
As man, þat was boþe styffe and stowte.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘now fynde y wele,
That men me tolde euery dele.
I haue serued yow, as ye knowe,

275

And kept yowre lande to yowre prowe:
Wolde ye now thus juge me?
Ye schall not so, so mote y the.
Yf here be any man so hardye,
That dar hyt proue and byde þerby,
I schall hym wyth my swyrde so smyte,
That hys hedde schall of tyte.
And ye, that haue þus juged me,
Y schall yow teche, so mote y the:
Wynde y schall to Lumbardye
And gedur my power, hardelye,
And thorow þy lande come ageyne,
And all, þat y fynde, schall be slayne.
I schall dystroye the euery dele
And all thy londe, so haue y hele.’

The emperowre harde þys wele
And knewe hys maners euery dele.
He beganne to waxe wrothe
And often sware then hys othe,
Yf he went, he schulde be slane,
And he myght hym fynde or tane.

Then came forthe the fyschere
And sayde to the emperere:
‘Syr, y prey yow pur charyte,
Here me, yf yowre wylle bee.
Of that pylgryme y can sey,
Where he ys, be thys day.’
‘My frende,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘Saye me, so god geue þe honowre.
Thou schalt haue, be he not dedde,
An hundurd besawntes of golde redde.’

Tho seyde þe fyscher: ‘herkyn me trewlye;
For, syr, y wyll not to yow lye.
To nyght late was y gone
On þe see to fysche allone.

276

I fonde a lofte bedde fletynge
And therin a knyght lygynge.
Y askyd hym, what he was,
And he me tolde in that case,
That he was that pylgryme,
That faght wyth dewke Barrardyne.
Y leyde hym in my bote wythynne
And ladde hym home to myn ynne
And haue kepyd hym þys nyght.
Sende aftur hym anon ryght.’
‘My frende,’ seyde the emperowre,
‘Thou schalt haue grete honowre.’

Aftur þe pylgryme sone he sente,
And he came at hys comawndement.
Hastelye, wythowten fayle,
They were do to batayle.

Now togedur can they goo:
They dalte strokys many tho
And wyth þer swyrdys þere of stele
They smetyn togedur wele.
Hyt was wonder for to see:
A stronger fyght myght none bee.
They faght tyll vnderne of þe day:
‘Thys ys grete wonder,’ they can say.

The dewke was full of felonye
And smote Gye wyth envye
And repulde hys face and hys chynne
And of hys cheke all the skynne.
Downe be þe schoulder þe stroke dud glyde:
Hyt brake many a mayle vnryde.
Of þe schelde brake a quartere,
Os he wolde take hys swyrde hym nere.
Gye felle also skete
Bothe on hondys and on fete.

277

Gye starte vp, as sparke of fyre,
And smote Barrarde wyth grete yre.
He smote hym on þe helme so there,
That awey flewe a quartere
And of hys odur helme wythall,
And made hym to þe grownde falle.
Wyth hys swyrde he smote also
Bothe hys hawberkys quyte in two,
Hys arme and hys schoulder bothe
Fro the body, wythowten othe:
Thorow hys bowels also hyt yode,
Two fote into þe grounde hyt glode.
Downe he felle to the grownde
And dyed in a lytull stownde.
All the men, that stode besyde,
Had wonder of that stroke vnryde
And seyde, no man in ȝerthe lyueande
Myght smyte soche a stroke wyth hande.

On the ȝorthe Gye set hym downe
And seyde: ‘Barrarde, false felowne,
Nowe art thou here forlorne.
A lack, that euer þou was borne!
A boldear knyght was neuer lyueande
Nor a doghtyar of hys hande:
Yf thou a false traytowr ne were,
In all þys worlde had not be þy pere.’
All, that euer abowte hym stode,
Sayde, he was of sarsyns blode.

Gye ys to the emperowre gone
And to þe barons euerychone
And askyd, yf Tyrrye myȝt be quyte
And of all chalengeys tyte,

278

And all cryed wyth oon voyce:
‘Ye, be the holy croys,
All schall be forgeuyn here
Wyth the wylle of owre emperere.’
The emperowre answeryd also tyte:
‘I graunte well, that he be quyte.
All forgeue y here Tyrrye
My euyll wylle and my malycolye.
Y schall delyuyr hym all hys lande
And all þe honowre into hys hande.
And y wyste, where he wore,
Y schulde delyuyr hym lesse and more.’
Gye answeryd: ‘yf y may,
Ye schall hym see thys ylke day.’
‘My frende,’ he seyde, ‘hastelye
Go seke me erle Tyrrye.’

He wente all the cyte abowte
And soght Tyrrye wythynne and owte.
At the laste he dud hym fynde
In a churche faste prayinge.
‘Ryse vp,’ seyde Gye, ‘pur charyte,
The emperowre hath sende aftur þe.’

Vp he helde hys hedde, Tyrrye,
And seyde: ‘lorde Iesu Cryste, þy mercy!
In whome may any man trowe
For to telle hys cowncell nowe?
Thou semed trewe for to bee
And now þou haste bewryed me:
To the emperowre þou haste tolde
And to Barrarde, that ys so bolde.
Now muste y dye, or y ete mete:
Thou haste takyn gyftes grete.
Thou haste me betrayed and do me schame.
Allas, þat euer thou knewe my name.
I wende, þou haddyst be full trewe:

279

Wele away, that y the knewe!
Y schall wende now wyth the:
Yf y dye, thou arte gylte.
Me thynkyth lothe to wende wyth þe.
God of me haue pyte.’

Tho seyde Gye: ‘Tyrrye, make gode chere.
Thou schalt now newe tythyngys here:
The dewke Barrarde, he ys dedde
(Of hys councell y can no redde)
Thorow a pylgryme, hardelye,
That the defendyd of felonye.’

When þey before þe emperowre came,
Ȝyt had Tyrrye drede of blame.
To the emperowre spake Gye:
‘Lo, here ys erle Tyrrye.’
Tho seyde Tyrrye: ‘thus am y:
Longe haue y be thus drerye.
Y haue be in sorowe stronge:
Thys odur halfe yere me þoȝt to longe.
Y had neuyr reste a day,
But in wo trauelde aye
To seke Gye, yf he myȝt be fownde,
Far in many an vncowthe londe.
In Ynglonde there harde y say,
There he was borne and norysched ay,
He was wente in exsyle:
Therfore the londe was in paryle.
And now here y saye, the pylgryme
(Haue he goddys beneson) and myn),
That hath þe dewke Barrard schent:
Y weene, god hym hedur sente.’
And tho on kneys felle Tyrrye
And seyde: ‘emperowre, mercye!’

Dewkys, erlys grete plente,
That were curtes men and free,
Downe þey felle and þat anon:

280

For Tyrrye they preyed euerychon.
The teerys fro þe emperowre yede þo.
‘Tyrrye, gentyll baron,’ seyde he thoo,
‘Thou haste had grete trauayle.
Gentyll knyght, wythowte fayle,
Of thy gode y haue plente:
To day wyll y cese the
In all þy lande, castell and towre.
Ȝyt schalt þou haue more honowre:
Y make þe steward of my londe.
Y hyt the geue vnto thy honde.’
All they seyde at oon crye:
‘Syr emperowre, gramercye!’
The emperowre then kyste Tyrrye
And forgaue hym hys malycolye.
Dewkes and erles euerychone
Kyste Tyrrye and that anone.

The emperowre seyde to Tyrrye:
‘Say me now, for þe loue of me,
What man ys the pylgryme?
Ys he thy brodur or of thy kynne,
That faght wyth Barrarde so hardelye
To defende the of felonye?
I went, ther had be no knyght
That wyth Barrarde durste take þe fyght.
‘Syr,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘as y trowe,
And be the feyth, y haue to yow,
Thys pylgryme sawe y neuer are,
But be þe way, as y dud fare,
Nor neuer wyste or now ryght,
That for me he had tane þe fyght,
And now y wote wyth glad mode:
God, that dyed on the rode,
Ȝelde hym hys mede, wythowte fayle.
He hath me delyuyrde of trauayle.’

281

The emperowre full curteslye
Into a chaumbur ladde Tyrrye
And cloþed hym in a ryche mantell
Lynydde wyth gode sendell
And gaue hym stedys two or thre,
The beste in all that cuntre.
He went to Gormoyse hastelye
And wyth hym he ladde godde syr Gye.

To that cyte came Tyrrye:
He was resseyuyd worschypfully.
The pylgryme wyth hym he broght:
That hyt was Gye, wyste he noght.
Hys cowntes soght he thorow þe londe
And at the laste he hur fonde,
There sche was hydde for grete dowte
Of Barrard, þe steward, þat was so stowte.

Now ys Tyrrye bolde and wyght
And in all þat londe moost of myght.
He wolde not forgete in no manere
The tresure in the hye rochere,
That þey fonde betwene them twoo
Be the way, as þey dud goo.
Vnto Gormoyse he dud hyt brynge:
There was mony a ryche thynge.
He gaue hyt vnto syr Gye,
But he wolde none, verelye.
Of golde nor syluer roght he noght:
To serue god was all hys thoght.
Tho seyde Gye: ‘geue some to pore menys hande
And wyth the remlawnt store thy lande.’

On a day Gye hym bethoght:
Lenger wolde he dwelle noght.
He toke hys leue at erle Tyrrye
And spake to hym full drerelye:
‘Syr, wyth thy leue now wyll y fare.
Wyth þe may y dwelle no mare.

282

Y bydde the, yf thy wylle bee,
That on the way thou lede me.
Soche thynge may þou here say,
That þou schalt haue wonder to day.
Looke, þat no man come wyth the.’
‘Nay,’ seyde Tyrrye, ‘so mote y the.’
Tyrrye lepe on a mewle awmblande
And thorow the cyte wente prekande:
Ther myght no man wyth hym goo,
But hyt were themselfe twoo.

When þey were paste but a myle,
They set them downe þere a whyle.
Tho seyde Gye to Tyrrye: ‘herkyn me now.
Ye knowe not me, as y trowe.
Yf ye vndurstode wele,
Ye oght to knowe me some dele.
May ye not Gye knowe,
That was some tyme yowre felowe,
That slewe for yow þe dewke Oton
And delyuyrd yow of pryson?
Furste y fonde yow woundyd sare
Yn the foreste, as y can fare,
And slewe for þe theuys fyftene
And wanne þy lemman bryght and schene
And the fro fowre knyghtys wanne
And slewe them euerychane
And on my hors led þe a stownde
And helyd the of thy wounde
And sythen soyorned wyth þy fader dere
And halpe the on all manere
And now slewe Barrarde wyth my honde,
That chasyd the owt of thy londe.
Thys ys Gye, that thou seyst here:
Thou oghtyste to knowe me on all manere.’

283

When Tyrrye sye Gye, hys harte wolde breke:
Not a worde myght he speke.
To grownde soone felle he than:
More sorowe, þen he had, had neuer no man.
‘Gye,’ he seyde, ‘my dere felowe,
Wherefore myght y the not knowe?
Allas, that euyr y bode thys day!
Myn eyen were blynde, so may y say.
Y myght haue sene and knowen full ryght,
That ye were Gye, þat nobull knyght,
Be yowre strenkyth and be yowre myght
And be yowre strokys, that were so wyght.
Who schulde haue be on lyue so stronge,
That durste agenste Barrard stonde so longe,
But yf hyt were yow, syr Gye?
Therfore of me haue mercye.
Y aske yow mercye, Gye, nowe,
That y dud mysknowe yow.’

Downe he felle to Gyes fete
And full sore dud he grete.
Hys legges were bare euery dele,
That were some tyme cloþed well.
Therfore he wepyd and wrange hys hande:
In thys worlde was none lyueande,
That myght them boþe haue see,
But þey wolde haue had pyte.

Gye had grete moornynge:
He myght not a worde forþe brynge.
Gye toke vp erle Tyrrye
And kyste hym full tendurlye.
But þey had so grete moornynge,
They felle bothe in swownynge.
Then seyde Gye: ‘my felowe dere,
Now wyll y wende: þou schalt byde here.

284

I þe beteche god almyght:
He þe kepe bothe day and nyght.
Y haue a chylde be my wyfe:
He wyll be a man, yf he haue lyfe.
Yf he haue to the mystere,
Helpe hym wyth thy powere.’

‘My brodur,’ seyde Tyrrye than,
‘For hym, that thys worlde wan,
Dwelle here stylle wyth me
And my trowthe y plyght þe,
All, þat in þe worlde myn ys,
Halfe schall be thyne, so haue y blys,
Whyll that y leue maye.
Y prey þe, sey not þerto nay.
And yf þou wylt not so do,
Whome wyth þe then wyll y goo;
For leuyr me ys wyth þe to be,
Than here in woo for to dree;
For y had leuyr to wende wyth þe,
Then all þe gode in crystyante.’

Tho seyde Gye: ‘so schalt þou noȝt.
In ydull þou ocapyest þy thoȝt.
Ageyne þou schalt go wyth ryght
And serue þy lorde wyth þy myght.
Be not prowde, y the rede,
And serue þy lorde wele at hys nede.
I wyll go: þou schalt byde here.
Y the betake to goddys powere.’

At þat partynge grete sorow þey made.
Togedur þey kyste: þey were not glade.
All wepynge they went in twoo
And sye neyþer odyr neuer aftur moo.
The erle ageyne wente soone anon:
Into hys chaumbur he wente whome.
Thre dayes myȝt he nodur ete nor drynke:
Hyt wolde not in hys body synke.

285

When the cowntas sye thoo,
That hyt was Gye, that was agoo,
Sche bemoonyd hym swyþe stronge
And hur lorde sche blamed amonge
And seyde: ‘yf ye wyth loue ne holde hym myȝt,
Ye schulde wyth strenkyþ haue do yowre myȝt.’

Now Gye goyth forthe full sorye
And ofte he thynkyþ of Tyrrye.
So longe he went in hys jurnayse
Thorowe many vncowthe cuntrayse,
Tyll he came to whyte sande
And ryued into Ynglande.
There he askyd of many a oon,
Where he myght fynde kynge Adelston,
And þey seyde to hym: ‘at Wynchestur,
But twenty myle fro Chychestur.
Grete ooste he begynneth þedur to bede
(For he had neuyr more nede)
Of dewkes, erles and barowns
And ryche lordys of many townes,
All, that may wyth harnes spede:
Ther was neuer ȝyt more nede.
Byschoppes, archedekyns and abbottys,
Wyse men of the churche and no sottys,
At Wynchestur be euerychone,
The moost parte of the relygyown.
They haue sende thorow Ynglande
To yonge and olde, y vnderstande,
That þey schulde faste dayes thre
And nyght and day in preyers bee,
That god them sende soche a man,
That wyll and may, dar and can
Thorow helpe of god almyght
For Ynglondes sake in batell fyght
Wyth the gyawnt Collebrande

286

And hym to stroye wyth hys hande.

For the kynge of Denmarke,
A felle man and eke a starke,
He ys comen into thys lande
And grete warre haþ broȝt vs on hande.
The londe he stroyeth and cuntrayse
And brennyth townes and abbayes.
A champyon he haþ broght wyth hym
Of Awfryke a felle man and a grymme:
More he ys dowted in fyghtes,
Then an hundurd armed knyghtes.
Men sey, he hyght Collebrande:
A strongar man ys none lyueande.
The kyng of Denmarke to owre kyng haþ sente,
Wherethorow he holdyþ hym nere schente,
That he ȝylde vp Ynglande
Hastelye vnto hys hande
And hys man become and trewþe plyght
And trewage hym ȝelde euery yere be ryght
And, but yf that he graunt wylle
To parforme all hys wylle,
Or ellys that he wyll fynde a knyght,
That may and dar mayntene hys ryght
Agenste the kynge of Denmarke,
A sterne man and a starke,
And to fyght wyth Collebrande,
Yf þat he dar hyt take on hande,
And therto sett a certen day
Or ellys lose hys ryght for ay;
And to haue an answere in þys case
He hath grauntyd a serten space.

But, we vndurstande, kynge Adelston
Amonge hys knyghtys may fynde none,
That the batell dar vndurtake

287

For no preyar, that he can make.
The gyawnt ys so stronge of myght,
That þer dar none wyth hym fyght;
Wherefore we deme, wythowten fayle,
Thys londe wyll be loste wythowte batayle.’

‘Where ys,’ quod Gye, ‘gode Harrawte,
That in nede made neuer defawte?’
They answeryd hym and that anon:
‘He ys owte of thys londe gone
To seke Reynbowrne, Gyes sone,
That marchandys haue awey nome.’
Gye wepyd then for grete pyte
And sykyd sore, sekerlye,
And seyde: ‘what doyþ þe erles doghtur, þe cowntas?’
They answeryd: ‘neuer a bettur woman was.
Woman borne neuyr none dud
So moche godenes in a stedde.
Pore men sche fedyþ and makyþ abbeyse
And makyth brygges and cawsayse
And preyeth to god to lende hur þat day
To see hur lorde Gye verraye,
Quyck or dedde may þey hym fynde:
He ys euyr in hur mynde.’

Toward Wynchestur wente syr Gye:
No man knewe hym, sekerlye.
Hyt was at þe byrþe of seynt Iohan:
At Wynchestur was kynge Adelston
And also all hys baronye,
But none, þat he myght on affye.
He calde then soone hys cowncell vnto:
‘What ys beste,’ he seyde, ‘to doo?
Lordys, y prey yow, vndurstonde,
And also erles and barons of my londe:
Agenste the Danes we muste vs were,
That they may not vs dere.
Cowncell of yow y wolde craue,

288

Yf hyt so were, y myght hyt haue,
What were beste for to done
Agenste the thefe and fendys sone,
That men calle Collebrande,
That þynkyth to stroye all my lande?
So hath he promysed hys lorde, þe kyng:
He þynkyþ hyt sewre on all þyng;
Whereþorowe moche ys þe kyngys pryde,
Wherefore we may þe warse abyde.
But we ȝelde hym trewage,
He wyll do vs moche owtrage
And dystroye my castels and my townes
Boþe be dales and be downes,
To polle my wodeys and forestys downe
And let my game forthe gone.
Yf that here be any knyght,
That wyth Collebrande dar fyght,
Halfe my londe y wolde geue
To hys mede, whyll y may leue.’

All they sate stone stylle:
A worde þey spake nodur gode nor ylle.
Nodur erle nor knyȝt, þat was þere,
Durste speke a worde for pewre fere.
‘A,’ quod þe kyng at the fryste,
‘Lorde, in whome may y tryste,
When none of yow for my sake
The batayle wyth hym dar vndurtake?
A, syr Gye, thou gentyl knyght,
And Harrowde, þy felowe so wyȝt,
Yf y had holdyn other of yow,
Wele at ese had y be nowe.
Yf that y had done so wele
Of my londe the halfen dele
To haue geuyn to Gye wyth moche honour,
Then had y be sekyr of socowre.

289

In proverbe hyt ys seyde full ȝare:
Mony for þe lesse forgoyþ þe mare.
Yf y had Gye so moche betaght,
Of myn enmyes y had not roght.’

Vp rose then the dewke of Kente
And to the kynge seyde hys entente:
‘Syr kynge, þou muste sende þy sonde
Far into vncowthe londe
To euery towne þorow and thorowe
Bothe in cyte and in borowe
All, that may armes bere,
Swyrde, axe, schelde or spere,
To come to þe at a day certeyne,
And þat þey stande not þerageyne;
For of the þey schall haue
More wageys, þen þey wyll craue.
Wyth þe kynge þen we schall fyght
And hym ouercome wyth goddys myght.
I haue now my cowncell sayde:
Yf hyt be wele, y am well payde.’
Wyth that they parted euerychone:
Odur cowncell was ther none.

The kynge at nyght to bedde was broȝt
In cloþys of golde rychely wroght.
All that nyght he lay and wakyde
And to Iesu hys preyer maked,
That he wolde sende hym soche a man,
That of þe batayle he myght tryste on;
And god forgate hym nothynge:
As he was in slepeynge,
An aungell he sende to hym full euyn
Hym to cowmfort wyth mery steuyn,
And seyde: ‘kynge, slepyste thou?
The sendyth worde the kynge Iesu:
To morne, when þat hyt ys day,
Take thou the redy way

290

And go vnto the northe gate
And loke, whome þou fyndyst þerate.
A pylgryme þou schalt there mete.
On goddys halfe thou hym grete
And anon þou schalt hym lede wyth the
And pray hym pur charyte,
That he the batell for the take
In goddys name and for hys sake.’

Wyth þat þe aungell wente hym froo:
The kynge was blythe thoo.
Tho ȝerly he rose and that anon
And to þe northe gate can he gone.
Two erles wyth hym lad he
And the byschoppe of that cyte.
Vnto mydmorne stode they,
And many a pore man came þat wey.
Amonge þem he sye a pylgryme:
Well sone he knewe hym.
The kynge hys hande on hym layde
And swythely to hym sayde:
‘Pylgryme, pur charyte,
Dwelle a whyle here wyth me.’
‘Let me stonde,’ seyde he,
‘Wyth yow to goo hyt lykyth not me.
Pore y am and hungry stronge:
Here ye tarye me to longe.’

‘Pylgryme,’ he seyde, ‘we byd pur charyte
For grete nede, we schewe to the,
Ageyne the kynge of Denmarke,
That ys a sterne man and a starke,
That þou þe batell wylt vndertake.
Y schall þe sey, for what sake.
Thorow þe strenkyþ of a knyght
Lese y schall my realme be ryght
Agenste the gyawnt Collebrande:

291

Ther ys none so stronge in all þys lande.
For hys loue y bydde the,
That syttyth aboue in trynyte,
Thou thys batell for hys sake
Agenste Collebrande þat þou take.’

Who so had the kynge beholde
And hys barons, þat were so bolde,
Betterlye wepte they euerychone.
‘Syr,’ quod Gye and that anon,
‘For goddys loue in trynyte
And, for yow all beseche me,
Thys batelle y vndurtake:
For no feer y schall hyt slake.’

Owre kynge þankyd hym wyth gode wylle
And to þe kynge of Denmarke sende a bylle,
How þat oon had takyn on hande
For to fyght wyth Collebrande.
And the day was ysett
Of the batell wythowten lett
In a place, where þey schulde bee
Yn an yle wythynne the see.
Who was gladde, but kynge Adelston
And hys lordys euerychone,
That the pylgryme wolde take on hande
For to fyght wyth Collebrande
And wyth the grace of god almyght
To delyuyr ther enmyes wyth ryght?

The kynge comawndyd and that anon
To hys armerars euerychone,
That they schulde purvey armewre
Of the beste and moost sewre
For hys champyon, the pylgryme,
In peyne of lyfe, lyth and lymme.
Ynto euery place they sende and gone
But mete armowre fonde þey none.

292

When Gye sye, ther cowde non be fownde,
To þe kynge he went in that stownde.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘be goddys myght,
Y harde sey, ther was a knyght
Some tyme dwellyng in Warwyk towne
Large and longe from fote to crowne,
And, but hys armowre wyll serue me,
Y trowe, in Ynglonde none ther bee;
Wherefore y rede yow, be my lyfe,
Sende for hyt to Gyes wyfe.’
As he seyde, so dud the kynge,
And sche hyt sende wythowte grucchynge.
When hyt was comyn, they hyt assayed:
Hyt was mete, þey were wele payde.
Sche had hyt kept, þat lady hende,
That hyt was not peyred before nor behynde.

When þe tyme was ycomen
Of þe batayle, þat was nommen,
Gye was armed rychelye
Ryght feyre and gentullye.
Hys helme was rychely dyght
Wyth a cros of golde, þat schone bryght
The serkyll of golde was so ywroȝt,
That for noþyng hyt cowde be boȝt.
Therynne were set precyus stones
Well schynynge for þe nones.
Before an hye ouyr the nasel
Was a charbokull set full wele,
That so grete lyght caste on þe nyȝt,
As hyt were the day bryght.
On þe helme was a flowre,
That was wroght of mony a colour.
Gyrde he was wyth a swyrde of stele:
Kynge Adelston louydde hyt wele.
And syþen men broȝt hym a stede:

293

In all þe londe was none better at nede.
Hastelye he was hym vpon:
The blessyng he had of mony a man.
He had a spere carvande
And towarde the batell was rydande.

When he into þe place come,
Of hys stede he lyght anone.
On hys kneys he set hym downe
And to Cryste he made hys orysown
And seyde: ‘lorde, þat reysed Lazerowne
And Sampson werred fro þe lyon
And socurde Susan fro þe felons,
þat wolde haue slayn hur be tresons,
Schylde me to day fro þe ȝondur gloton,
That y thorow hym haue no confusyon.’

Swyþe men broȝt a boke anon.
The kynge of Denmarke swere þeron,
Yf hys man were to dethe woundyd,
Slayne or ellys in batell confowndyd,
That he schulde neuyr aftur þat day
In peyne of renayenge of hys laye
Ryght to clayme in Ynglonde,
But wende whome into hys londe
And neuyr more in hys lyue
Wyth Englysche nodur fyght nor stryue.
And sythen swore kynge Adelston
Before the barons euerychon,
That, yf hys man be slawe,
That he schall stande to þys lawe:
Hys sworne man become he schall
And of hym holde hys landys all;
Grete trewage he schulde ȝolde
And hys heyres aftur hym hyt holde.

When þey had sworne in þat stownde
And eche of them hostage fownde,

294

Collebrande forthe schett.
He was so large and so grett,
That no hors hym bere myght
Nodur in pese nor to fyght:
Therfore on fote euyr he foght;
For odurwyse kepte he noght.
Armowre he had of many a manere:
Vnnethe a carte myght them bere.
In the place they were leyde,
That he myght take at hys nede.
Gret was Collebrande,
And hys hawberke was full stronge.
Of mayles was not hys hawbarke:
Hyt was of odur maner warke.
Hyt was made of splentys of stele
Before and behynde yoyned wele.
Hys legges were in the same case
Wyth splentys, as hys body wase.
A helme he had bothe gret and stronge:
Abowte hys swyre a targe longe.
Wyth yron and stele bowndyn hyt was:
No nodur metell theron was.
Black hyt was and lothelyche,
Hys armowre, as hyt were pych.
Hys spere carvande of stele
And hys dartes fyredde wele
And hys axes also smeten
Wyth gaddes of stele, þat made þem to betyn;
Mases of yron and gaddes of stele
And gysarnys for to smyte wele.

The champyons bene togedur ladde.
Gye was then sore adradde:
Neuyr in batell before he nas,
That of hys deþe so ferde he was.
Hys hors wyth þe spurres he prykkeþe
(That ranne as faste, as fowle, þat flyeth)

295

Towarde Collebrande wyth myght,
And, or he to hym come myght,
He lawncyd to hym dartys thre:
Wyth ii he fayled, wyth þe þrydde hyt he
Thorow þe schelde paynted wyth golde;
For þorow, he þoght, þat hyt schoulde.
Betwene hys arme and hys syde
That scharpe darte forthe dud glyde
And so forthe into the mede
More, then an akers brede.
But Gye on þe helme hym smote
Wyth a darte, that came hote;
And so faste hyt can dryve,
That hyt brake in pecys fyve.
Collebrande drewe hys swyrde anon
And smote Gye þe helme vpon:
Betwene þe body and the arson
Felle þat grete stroke adowne
And gaue the stede dethys wounde,
And downe he felle to the grownde.

Gye vp starte they full rathe:
Blessyd be god, he had no skathe!
And syþen hys swyrde soone he drowe,
That was gode and carvande ynowe,
And Collebrande he smote wyth myght
That þe sparkes of fyre to grownde lyȝt.
A newe lesson he wolde hym teche;
But he myght not hye reche.
And hys swyrde was longe be syght:
But hyer, þen þe schouldur, reche he ne myȝt.
On the schoulder felle the stroke:
A grete splente owte hyt smote.
The flesche hyt carue, þe blode owt ranne:
He, that hyt smote, was a nobull man.

Collebrande tho was aschamed,

296

When he sye hys blode so tamedde.
Soche a stroke he smote to Gye
Hye on hys helme, sekerlye:
The flowre felle and þe serkyll also,
The schelde he carue also in twoo.
Of soche a strokk y haue not harde.
Stronglye Gye was aferde.
Sythen Gye wyth hys honde
Stroke vnto Collebronde
And hym smote so, os y yow seye,
That þorow þe schelde hyt wente, par faye,
That hys swyrde stycked faste.
Tho was Gye sore agaste:
Hys swyrde brake wyth the vpbrayde,
And therwyth was Gye dysmayede.

Now the Danes prowde bene
And seyde þemselfe þem betwene,
That Gye was þen ouercomen
And the kynge yschente and ynomen.
‘Knyght,’ seyde Collebrande,
‘Thou haste no wepyn in þy hande.
To werre þe þou art not myghtye:
Come to me and crye mercye,
And y schall haue mercy of the,
Wyth that thou wylt beseche me.
Y see, thou art an hardy man,
Syn þou to fyght wyth me began.
And to my kynge y schall þe brynge:
He wyll be gladde of that tyþynge.
Thou schalt wyth hym acordyd bee:
He schall the geue ryche fee.’

‘Nay,’ quod Gye, ‘þerof speke noght;
For þerto schall hyt neuer be broght,
That y schulde the mercye crye:
Y wolde thynke hyt vylenye.
Thogh þat y haue lorne my bronde,

297

Ȝyt my lorde ys so stronge,
That he may helpe me, sawns fayle,
Or y be ȝoldyn in þys batayle.
Of harnes þou haste here gode oon
Grete and longe euerychone:
Harnes þou haste grete plente,
Whereof þou schalt lende me.’
Then seyde Collebronde full ryght:
‘So helpe me Mahownde of myght,
Harnes getyst þou none of me:
Furste y schall haue the hedde of þe.
Thou schalt not fynde me soche a brayton
Harnes to take þe into þy bandone.’

Or Collebronde hym turne myght,
To the axes Gye lepe aryght:
An axe there vp he nome
And to Collebronde þerwyth he come.
When Collebronde that sye,
Hastelye forthe he came to Gye.
Wyth strenkyth he smote to hym in hye
A stroke, that was full myghtye.
But Gye soone asyde schete
And ellys he had sore be smete.
Into þe ȝorthe felle the bronde:
Wrothe therfore was Collebronde
Gye forgate that nothynge,
The axe he hente, wythowte lesynge:
The arme he smote of of Collebrande
Wyth the strenkyth of hys hande.
When Collebrande felyd hym smyte,
To hys bronde he lepe tyte
And take hyt he wolde in hys lefte hande,
When of the todur no helpe he fonde.

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Toward the grownde he lowtud in hye,
And Gye yede hym so nye:
Hys stalworthe axe well hye he hafe
And soche a strock in þe neck he hym gafe,
That hys hedd of dud flye.
Gye was fayn then, sekurlye.

The gloton felle downe to grounde anon:
The Danyschmen were sory echon.
The kyng Anlafe was well woo
And hys odur folke echoon alsoo.
To schypwarde they be wendande
And anon homewarde þey be saylande.
And blythe ys kyng Adelston
And hys barons euerychone.
There they toke syr Gye
And lad hym forthe, sekurlye,
To Wynchestur, the ryche towne,
Wyth songe and wyth precestion
‘Te deum laudamus’ syngyng
And god almyghty therof thankyng.

Gye wyth þat vnarmed hym
And sythen askyd hys slauyn.
The kyng hym toke be the honde
And askyd hym, in what londe
He was in borne, and of hys name;
For he was a man of grete fame.
And bad hym gyftys gode and ryche,
Castels enclosed wyth depe dyche.
And syr Gye hyt all forsoke,
That he of hym ryght noght toke,
But thankyd god, Maryes sone,
That Collebrande was ouercome.

‘Mercye, syr,’ seyde the kynge,
‘For hym, þat schope all thynge
And suffurde dethe vpon þe rode
All for mankyndeys gode,

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That þou thy name telle me,
Where þou were borne and in what cuntre.’
And he seyde: ‘thou schalt here,
When þou me byddyst on soche manere,
Wyth that thou do, as y schall say.
Brynge me forwarde on my way
And þyselfe allone wyth me goo
Beȝonde þe towne a myle or twoo,
And all þe soþe y schall yow telle,
That of oon worde y lye ne wyll.’

Forthe of the cyte be they goo,
But wel farre yede they not thoo.
‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘stynte a throwe.
For ye me haue bettur knowe,
Y schall yow telle in thys stedde,
Sythe ye me haue so often bedde.
But, syn ye schall wytt my name,
Loke, ye put me to no grame;
For y telle yow on soche forwarde,
That all þys yere hereafturwarde
Of my cowncell me not bewrye,
But kepe hyt secrete betwene vs tweye
Bothe in felde and in towne,
As þou art gentyll kynge wyth crowne.’
And the kynge hyt vndurtakyth
And therof hym seker makyth,
That hys cowncell telle nyll he
To none, that now on lyue bee,
Nodur be day nodur be nyght,
And therto hys trowthe he plyght.
‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘sekurlye,
My ryght name ys Gye
Of Warwyk, thyn owne knyght:

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Well thou louedyst me aryght.’

When the kynge harde that
And of hys name vndurȝate,
That hyt was the gode Gye,
Neuyr ȝar he had so grete farlye.
Of hys hors he alyght
And on kneys he felle tho ryght.
The kynge seyde tho: ‘syr, mercye!
How came thou hedur, syr Gye?
Hyt ys gone well farre two yere,
That y harde sey, thou dedde were.
Blessyd be Iesu, Maryes sone,
That þou art hedur to vs ycome.
God the hath hedur sente:
Ellys we had be fowle yschente.
And þou schalt haue for þy seruyse,
As myselfe schall deuyse,
The halfen dele of Ynglande
I take the into thy hande.’

‘Syr,’ quod Gye, ‘be yowre leeue, stylle:
Thou spekyst all agenste my wylle.
Y wyll none of thy rychesse,
Of þy londe nor of thy nobulnes;
But oon thynge, syr, y prey the
For hym, that sytteth in trynyte:
Yf that Harrowde ageyne come
And brynge wyth hym home my sone,
Honowre hym, y prey the,
And on hym well may þou tryste þe.
And be thy leue, syr, y wyll goo:
I beteche þe god for euyrmoo.’

The kynge for þat was vnblythe:
He kyste hym well mony sythe.
Homewarde he wendyþ all wepande

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And sorry was and all morenande.
Hys folke agenste hym be gone
And askyd of hym euerychone:
‘Who was then the pylgryme,
That goyth allone and noman wyth hym
And that wolde for yow fyght?
A gode man he ys and of moche myght.’
And þe kynge hym helde stylle
And seyde: ‘hyt ys agenste hys wylle,
That y yow þe sothe schulde telle.
For me hyt schall be holde cowncell.
Or thys yere be all gone,
The sothe ye schall knowe euerychon.’

Now wendyþ Gye hys wey ryght:
Ofte he þankyþ god almyght
Of hys worschyp and of hys sonde,
That he hym sente in mony a londe.
So longe wente he hys jurne,
That he came to that cyte,
Whereof he lorde clepyd ys,
And of no man ys perceyued ywys.
To the castell gate he came:
That hym knewe, was þere no man.
Amonge þe pore men he hym dudde:
Grete sorowe toke he in the stedde.
The curtes Felyce was there thoo:
xii pore men sche fedde and moo
Euery day by and bye,
That god schulde saue hur lorde Gye,
Wyth soche drynke and soche mete,
As sche hurselfe was wonte to ete.

Hyt was at the none tyde:
The lady wolde no lenger abyde,
Sche set hur downe to hur mete,
And wyth hur sett knyghtys grete.

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And the pore men forthe were fett:
Before the lady they were sett.
Gye was oon of the twelue:
Ouermaste he sate be hymselue.
The cowntas behelde hym, sekurlye,
For he was so sekelye,
And deuysed hym well also:
So dud odur, wythowten noo.
On Guy sche þoght þen, hur gode lorde,
And to a squyere þere sche spake þys worde:
‘Go bere þys,’ sche seyde, ‘to þat pylgryme,
That ȝondur syttyth in a slauyn.
Of bredde and wyne and mete plente,
Of þe beste þat he haue, y charge þe.’
To parforme hur wylle he not forsoke
And the pylgryme fayre he toke.
The cowntas hym bad, soþely to say,
Thedur for to come euery day:
Inogh he schulde haue of wyne and brede.
Sythen all gates sche hym bede
And, that he schulde aftur mete
Speke wyth hur and not forgete.
And he seyde: ‘lady,’ full lowlye,
‘Syþen ye comawnde me, full blyþely.’

When þat þey had eton all
And þe bordys let downe falle,
The pylgryme þen, þedur he came,
Owt of that towne hys wey he name.
Besydes Warwykk go he can
To an ermyte, þat he knewe or þan.
On a ryuere syde hys hows he hadde
(A full holy lyfe he there ladde)
Besydes Warwyke, þat was hys,
That Gybbeclyf clepyd ys.
But þe hermyte þen dedde wes:

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No man leuyng þere nas, dredeles;
And Gye hym beþoght anon,
That fro þens wolde he neuer gone:
Thens on lyue neuyr he go nolde,
But serue god þere he wolde.

The cowntas seyde then aftur mete:
‘Where ys þe pylgryme? ys he forgete?’
Then seyde a knyght, þat was full hende:
‘Owte of þe towne y sawe hym wende.’
Then soght he was in a lytull stownde,
But nowhere he myght be fownde.
In the hermytage Gye ys leuynge
And þere he leuyth at hys lykynge
A preest he knewe þere nygh þat stude,
That goddys seruyse to hym þere dudde.
All hys lyfe he tolde hym thoo,
And he assoyled hym also.
A full holy lyfe he ledde there:
Goddys seruyse forgate he nere.

On Gye a sykenes now ys befall,
So wyll, for soþe, vpon vs all.
Vpon a nyght a slepe hym nam:
Now herkenyþ, what on hym bycame
Goddys aungell þere to hym can go.
Apertely to hym he spake tho:
‘Guyown, Guyown, slepest þou now?’
‘Nay,’ he seyde, ‘why, who art thou?’
‘Y am Crystys own messangere,
Seynt Myghell, þat þou seyst here.
Fro my lorde Iesu y am comen to þe,
And he þe greteth wele be me.
Schryve þe clene: ryght, as y þe seye,
Thys day viii dayes þou schalt dye.’
And Gye awaketh anon ryght:
He sawe þe angell feyre and bryght.
Sythen he seyde: ‘speke wyth me,

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Goddys frende, now prey y the.
Where schall my sone be and my wyfe bo?’
‘In paradyse þey schull be,’ he seyde þo.
Hastyly aftur hur þou sende
And bydde hur, þat sche to þe wende.
The xl. day hereaftur, syr Gye,
Sche schall be wyth owre lady.’
And Gye seyde then wyth herte fre:
‘As god wold, so mote hyt bee.’

When þat hys deþe day was ycome,
He clepyd anon to hys grome:
‘Lefe felowe,’ then seyde he,
‘To Warwykk þou wende, y prey þe.
To the cowntas þou schalt goon
On my message ryght anon.
Thys rynge, þou hyt not forȝete
And on my behalfe þou hur grete
And sey to hur, þat þe same pylgryme,
That sche sende bothe bredde and wyne,
And sey to hur, for that presente
Thys rynge y haue to hur sente.
Y wot well, sche wyll hyt knowe
Also soon, as þou doyst hyt to hur schowe.
Then anon sche wyll aske the,
And a ryche gyfte þou schalt haue,’ seyde he.
‘Aftur me hur askynge schall be mest,
And þou schalt sey, that in þe foreste
An ermyte y am and in poynt to dye
And þeryn þat thou me sye;
And þat þere þou longe ne dwelle,
But ȝyt þou schalt hur telle,
That sche hastely to me come;
For dethe me hath nygh ouercome.
Go now þy wey, for seynt Charyte:

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To Iesu Cryste now y betake the.’

Now ys the page forthe goon:
To Warwyck he came anoon.
The cowntas he fonde in hur halle:
On knees to hur soone can he falle.
‘Lysten to me, lady, now, y prey the:
A message ys sente to yow by me
Fro my lorde, that pylgryme,
That was in yowre halle in hys slauyn
And þat ye sende to plente of mete.
To grete yow well he wyll not forgete.
Now he ys dwellyng in þe foreste:
By ȝerbes and rootys he leuyth mest.
Lyfe he ledyth, as man well wyse:
Of goddys grace fulfyllyd he ys.
Thys same rynge to yow he sente,
That y to yow take now in presente.’

The rynge to hur sche can brayde:
‘Gode felowe,’ to hym sche sayde—
‘Allas, lefe lorde, now mercy!
Thys was my lordys rynge, syr Gye.’
In swownyng she fell and hur hert agroos,
And, when þat sche of swownyng aroos:
‘Thys tokyn y knowe, þat to me ys broȝt.
For my loue, ne heyle hyt noght
And tresowre þou schalt haue, y telle þe,
The soþe yf þou wylt sey to me.’
‘In þe foreste,’ he seyde wyth wordys mylde,
‘Wyth þe bestys wode and wylde
There he lyueth, be god aboue;
And he beseketh yow for loue,
That he be beryed þorow yowre redde;
For there he lyeth almost dedde;
And þat ye bewrye hym to no wyght:
So he me badde, syr Gye, þe knyght.

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And ye schall dye not longe to:
He sende me to yow to sey so.
Of myrthys ye schull haue þe meest
In the yoye, þat euyr schall laste.’

Furste for sorow sche was nye madde
And syþen sche became full gladde,
That sche schulde hur lorde see,
And a dolefuller loker may none be:
That sche schulde see hym dedd,
Hur harte was heuyer, þen þe ledde.
Vpon a palfrey sche lepte anoon
And hastyly forthe can sche goon.
Forþe she rode wyth knyȝt, squyere and page,
Tyll sche came to that ermytage.
There þat lady dud feyre alyght,
And so dud many a gentyll knyght,
Erlys, barons, and abbottys tho,
Archebyschopes and byschoppes also.

The cowntas lyȝt downe in grete hye
And, hur lordys body when sche sye,
Wondurly hygh sche caste vp a crye.
Wyth þat hys eyen openyd syr Gye:
Vp he loked anon ryȝt
And clepyd Felyce, as he myght,
And helde vp boþe hys handys
Before þat lady, as sche standys,
In tokenyng hur mercy for to crye
Of þe sorowe, sche dud for him drye.
Hedde to hedde þere lay they thoo:
Swetely eyther kyssed other also.
But oon worde Gye þere ne speke,
And þe goost þen fro hym breke.

When þat hys sowle fro hym wente,

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Seynt Myghell anon hyt hente:
As a whyte dowve, he toke hyt þere.
To god in heuen he dud hyt bere
Wyth grete yoye and mery songe:
‘Gloria in excelsys’ þey seyde amonge.

That louely lady, Felys la Belle,
Wyth dolefull harte dwellyþ in þat chapelle.
On hym sche swowned in þat place
And often sche kyssyd hym mowþe and face.
‘Thes be þe hondys,’ sche seyde thoo,
‘That the rynges breke atwoo.’
Of hur fyngers þe blode owt ranne:
Sorowe and woo sche had than.

Grete worschyp þere god hym dudde,
Syr Gye, þat ys in þat blessed stude.
Of Gye a sauour spronge at þe laste
And hath so grete swetnes caste,
As and all þe spycys, þat man may see,
And all swete þyngys, þat here may bee,
In oon stude togedur were,
Swete and swote bothe in fere.
So swete a þyng in erthe was noon,
As of hys body then can goon.
They þat were in grete sykenes,
Heele þey had þorow þat swetnesse.
The swetnesse lasted, wythowten less,
Tyll þat the body beryed wes.

To Warwyk þen þey wolde hym haue dyȝt,
But remeve hym þere no man myght;
For thretty knyghtys þere were broght
And hym remeve myght þey noght.
All þat was þorow goddys wylle,
And þey hym þere beleuyd stylle.
Felyce, that was feyre and free,

308

To þem sche seyde: ‘now letteth bee.
He sente me a sonde be a messengere,
That y hym schulde berye here.’
A through þey ordeyned gode and fyne
Hys body and bones to berye þeryn.
Thretty masses þere were songe,
And almes dudde to oolde and ȝonge,
That euyr lasteth vnto þys day:
Ther ys none soche geuyn for man nor may.

When þe body was leyde in grownde,
Thens þey wente in a lytull stownde.
But þe cowntas, sche leuyd there:
Fro þens on lyue go wolde sche nere.
Fro þat place neuyr sche go nolde,
But þere to serue god sche wolde.
Forty dayes there leuyd þat lady
And beryed sche was be gode syr Gye.
In oon pytte þey lye togedur boo:
Iesu kepe þer sowlys from woo.
And all, þat here oght of thys,
God of hys grace grawnt þem blys.

Now, lordyngys, ye haue harde of Gye
Of Warwyk, þat was wondur hardy,
And also of feyre Felyce, hys wyfe,
That he moste louyd of women on lyue,
And in what maner þey partyd in twoo
And how þey leued then alsoo
And how þey dredde god almyght:
Euery synfull schulde so wyth ryght.
As ye haue herde me rede or þys,
Ther lyfes þus þere endyd ys.
Iesu Cryste all weldynge,
That art god and crowned kynge
(In trynyte þou art þe fadur fre
And all knytt in oon persones thre),

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We the beseche lowde and stylle,
That þou vs grawnt þorow þy wylle
To be also safe, as ys Gyown
Of Warwykk, þat bolde baroun.
To Mary mylde prey we for þan,
That sche wyll helpe euery synfull man,
That god forgeue vs owre synnes all,
That we all day beyth yn yfalle,
And that owre sowles we mote hym sende,
When we owte of þys worlde schull wende.

Now, lordyngys, lystenyþ of þe noyse
Of gode syr Tyrrye of Gormoyse:
For Gye was dedde, wythowten lees,
In herte a sorowfull man he wes.
He myght noþur drynke nor ete
Nor no comfort he myȝt hym gete.
To þe see he wente, y vndurstonde,
And at London he came to londe
And þere wythynne a lytull stownde
Kynge Athelston he had yfownde.
He tolde hym all of syr Gyown,
How they were felows, by gode resown,
And how þat they were þerebeforne
Trewe brethern togedur sworne,
That neythur schulde fayle othur,
‘And y þorow trowthe am hys brodur.’
Hys boones he desyryd wyth mylde boone
And kynge Athelston hym grauntyd soone:
That body warne hym he nolde
To carye hyt, whodur he wolde.
Tyrrye the body then vp drogh
And worschypped hyt feyre ynogh.
To Loren then he ledyth syr Guye:
Grete worschypp þere hym dud Tyrrye.
An abbey he made, y vndurstonde

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(Ther ys none so ryche in all þat londe),
For Gyes sowle and for hys wyfe,
That he loued, as hys lyfe,
Hys loue so he quytt hym all.
The abbey standeth and euer schall
For to prey for gode syr Gye,
That god on hys sowle haue mercy
And that god schylde from woo
Hys sowle; and owres alsoo!

Of Gye an endynge y muste make:
To Cryste, crowned kynge, y hym betake
And to hys modur also now ryght,
That they vs brynge to þat blys bryght.

Lystenyth now, y schalle yow telle,
As y fynde in parchement spelle,
Of syr Harrowde, þe gode baron,
That lyeth in Awfryke in pryson.
Porely he ys besemydde,
That lyfe hym vnneþe ys beleuedde;
For lytull he etyth and lasse drynketh:
There ys none, þat hym forthynketh;
And bemoonyth sore hys lordys sone,
For whome he ys there in prysone.
There he weneþ anon ryght to dye
And not to skape be no weye
And bemoonyth hys gret sorowe
Bothe on euyn and on morowe,
Hys ryches and his feyrehedde,
Hys grete byrthe and hys stalworþehedde.

The geyler harde hym, þere he stode,
And hys moonyng vndurȝode

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Of hys strenkyth and of hys myght.
To þe admerall he came tho ryght.
‘Syr, wot ye not,’ seyde he,
‘What prysoner in yowre pryson haue ye?
Of soche oon haue y not harde, aplyght,
Of soche pryce nor of soche myght.’
Then seyde the admyrall:
‘That y anon wyt schall.
Brynge hym,’ he seyde, ‘before me,
And y schall wytt, what ys hee.
Of soche a man y haue grete nede,
Yf y myght tryste hym and hys dede.’

The geyler forþe went anon:
To the gayle he ys gone.
Harrowde vp he drewe anon,
That was full megur and a febull mon:
Hys berde was whyte ouergrowen wyth here;
For grete mysese he suffurde there.
Ther ys no man, þat hym knowe myght
Nodur be semblant nor be syght:
Noght hys modur, þat hym bere,
Kowde not haue knowyn hym þere.
Gret he was, mekyll and longe:
Well he semydde myghty and stronge.
Before þe admerall he hym ledyth:
Then of hys lyfe well sore he dredyþ.

Then seyde the admerall
(Of ryches he hath no pere egall)
And spake to Harrowde, þe gode baron,
And askyd of hym mony a reson,
Who he was and of what londe
And yf he batell durste take on hande,
As he was hymselfe knowe,
When he was in pryson lowe,

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Þat odur folke hym here myght,
Bothe be day and be nyght;
And yf he myght of hym be sekure
Odur in batell or in bekur
And to serue hym trewlye.
And he wolde wythholde hym blyþelye
And armes hym geue gode, aplyght,
To mayntene hys warres in all ryȝt.

Then seyde Harrowde, þat nobull man:
‘Syr, y schall telle the, as y can.
Harrowde y hyȝt, þe Englysche knyȝt.
In me ys nodur mayn nor myght:
Yf my strenkyþ were ageyne comen,
That me in pryson was benomen,
And þou me fowndest gode armewre,
That were boþe gode, mete and sewre,
In me myghtyst þou wele affye,
Be hym, þat borne was of Marye.’
The admerall answeryd Harrawde,
A gentyll knyght and no rybawde:
‘Thou schalt haue harnes sekur ynogh
And all, that þou haste nede too.
Syth þou were in Ynglonde bore,
Sey me the sothe, wyth othe yswore,
Yf þou knewe oght of Gye,
That y haue harde so moche preysye.’

‘Be god,’ quod Harrowde, ‘y knewe hym well:
Hys knyght y was and ȝyt y wyll.’
‘For soþe, y wolde,’ quod the admerall,
‘That y hym had geuyn þe halfen dell
Of all my londys brode and wyde,
Wyth þat he stode the besyde:
Mekull he myght helpe me
To maynten my warres, y telle þe.’

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He forþe clepyþ hys chaumberleyne,
That was a gode knyght and no sweyne:
In feyre cloþys he bad hym schredde and dyȝt
And harnes grayþe feyre and bryght.

The admerall to Harrowde spekyth.
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘my herte in two brekyth:
The kynge Argus full of boste
Ageyne me werryþ, well þou woste,
That of all my grete realme
He haþ me lefte but þys cyte, þat y in am.
And that ys thorowe a yonglynge,
A knyght vncowthe of newe dubbyng,
That hath my londe ferre brent and stroyede
And me well swythe sore anoyede
For my folke, þat he hath slawe
And þorow hym broȝt fro lyfe dawe.
And yf thou myght wyth anythynge
Hym confownde or to dethe brynge,
Be Mahownde and Termagawnte,
Y schall the to honowre avawnte.’
Harrowde answeryd, þat nobull man:
‘Syr,’ he seyde, ‘y schall, yf y can.
Jesu, seynt Maryes sone,
Me to helpe vnto strenkyþ come.’

Ther come a messengere swyþe bolde:
To þe admerall grete heuynes he tolde,
That þe kyngys constabull Argus
Prowde and sterne and cureus,
Oon of hys castels hath besett
And hys men slayne wythowten lett:
‘Ther ys not oon on lyue scapyd.’
Then þe admerall gret dole makyd.
Anon he comawndyd hys constabull,

314

A stalworth knyght, wythowten fabull,
That he were armyd swythe anon
And all hys men euerychone.
And he so dud well hastelye
Swythe well and ryghtlye.
Harrowde hys gode hors bestryte
Wyth a spere in hys hande, þat sharply wolde byte,
And wendyd owte of that cyte
And ouyrgoyth all that cuntre,
And comen in a lytull stownde,
There þey haue þe castell fownde,
Well straunge assayled and besett:
Many oon þere was well euelly grett.
Helmes men sye boþe bryȝt and schene,
And stedys nye togedur ȝedyn.
Yn yron was mony a knyght
On hors back redy for to fyght.
Eydur odur can assaylye
And eydur smote odur wyth envye
Harrowde a sarsyn smote,
That dedde he felle anon fole hote:
A nodur and the thrydde also
All dedde he fellyd to grounde tho.
Dedde felle all, þat hys handys raght:
Well to smyte ne spared he noght.
Dede þey lay in the feldys wyde.
Harrowde was preysed on euery syde:
All they sayde, hyt was a fende,
That þe deuell had thedur sende.

The kyngys own stewarde,
A stalworthe knyght and no cowarde
(Ther was neuer an hardyar sarsyn
Nor more seruyd Mahownde and Apolyn,

315

Harrowde he gretyd and hys folkes euerychon,
And to Harrowde he come anon
And wyth hys swyrde so bytturly smote,
That þorowowt Harrowdes shelde hyt bote.
Sythen þey drewe þer swyrdys kene
And smote togedur wyth grete tene.
The constabull ys ouyr ygoo:
Of Harrowdes folkes he wrekyd hym þo.
Harrowde mony of hys men dud lese,
But he cowmfortyd þem neuer þe lese:
Than þe constabull þey ouyrcomen
And almoste hym there had nomen,
But aweywarde he flewe well hastelye,
And Harrowde hym folowed stronglye.
The constabull goyth awey fleynge
And be hys flanke þe blode downe rennynge.
Harrowde hym folowed vpon a rabyte,
And he euyr fleyng and dyscowmfyte,
And Harrowde hym ouyrtakyth
And hys helme on hys hedde he crakyth.
Grete strokys togedur þey dud smyte
Wyth ther swyrdys, þat well cowde byte.
Harrowde hym nome in that fyght,
And agayn he ledde hym anon ryght.

Toward hys felows he can dryue
And prysoners he ladde moo, þen fyve,
And so all, þat þey wolde haue, þey had þo
And to the cyte be they goo;
And a knyght hardy and bolde
To the admerall hath tolde,
That Harrowde was so gode a knyght:
‘So gode was neuer sene in fyght.
And þe constabull he hath ynome
And hys men yslawe and ouercome.’

Harrowde come forthe anon ryght,
Before þe admerall dud he lyght.

316

The constabull he ȝalde hym hastelye,
And he toke hym well gladlye.
‘Harrowde,’ seyde þe admyrall anon,
‘Thou haste dyscomfett my foon.
My lefe frende, y grawnt the
The maystry to haue of þys cuntre.
I make þe my constabull:
Thou þe ne holde hyt for no fabull.’

Of Harrowde men haue moche dowte
Boþe wythynne þe cyte and wythowte.
Harrowde not longe þere abydyþ,
But fro þem soon he rydyth
Thorow þe londe and þat cuntre:
Castels and cytees conquered hee,
That þe admerall had forgone:
He conqueryd them euerychone.
The kynge he doyþ grete harme, aplyȝt:
Hys men he slewe downe ryght.

When þe kynge harde thys,
That þe constabull takyn ys
And hys men slayne in þe felde also
And hys barons dyscowmfyt boþe too,
He ys wroþe þerfore and well sorye
And wyth angur wele can aske in hye,
Why hyt ys and wherefore,
That hys men be thus forlore.
Then answeryd to hym a knyght:
‘Syr, y shall telle þe anon ryght.
To the admyrall ys ycome
A swyþe moche myȝty grome,
An olde hore knyȝt and a belde:
Soche a nodur come neuer in felde.
In all þys londe þer ys not soche a knyȝt,
Were he neuer so well ydyȝt,
That hys stroke myȝt adrye,

317

But he schulde hyt sore abye.’

Þe kynge þerof had moche wondur
(He þoȝt, hys herte wolde breke in sondur),
And comawndyd þere anon ryghtys
To assemble an c thousand knyȝtys
Wyth strenkyþ to take þe admyrall,
‘And hys fowle hed of smyte y schall.
Fro þens depart wyll y noght,
Or y hym haue to dethe broght
And that olde churle hye honge:
Hys rewle lastyth a lytull to longe.’

Hys oost he can togedur bede
And vpon þe admyrall strongly he yede
And dystroyed hys castels and hys cytees:
That Harrowde wanne, ageyne he les.

The admyrall hys folke can bede,
Lytull and mykell in all hys lede,
And Harowde to hym came þo ryghtys,
That was þe beste of all þe knyghtys.
There archers anon he dyght
And graythed them all redy to fyght.
Sythen þey smetyn to þer foon
And woundys made þorow flesche and boon.
Harde þey smetyn on odur syde
And redyn and prekyd be þe feldys wyde.
Grete harme þey dud þe kynge there
And slewe hys men, þat stalworthe were.
Stronglye hym wrathed þo þe kynge
And to hys folke he made chalynge.
Hyt was feyre day and ferre fro nyght:
Many oon was dradde in that fyght.
Wyth sorow many dyed there
Of the knyghtys, þat well cowde were.

The admyrall in that stownde

318

Fellyd ys downe to the grownde
And many of hys men hath he lore:
Well swyþe wo he ys therfore.
Hys knyghtys all tohewen bee
And þorow þe felde faste can flee,
But they turned soone ageyne
And assayled þe kynge vpon a grene,
And he hym defendyd, as a man:
All, þat he smote, felle downe þan.

Harrowde that can aspye
And to hym soone drewe nye.
Betwene hym and hys men he wendyþ
And harde strokys to hym he sendyþ.
But þe steward soone come can
For to helpe hys lorde than,
And þorow strenkyþ and þorow myȝt
Harrowde wanne þe steward ryght,
And aftur þat he gate an hors
And to þe admyrall swyþe goys
And horsyd hym full myghtylye
In mavgre of þose, þat stode hym by.
Of many he made þe hedde of to fleyn
Of þem, þat stode hym agayne.
The kynge he assayled and hys men
And ouyrþrewe þem in þe fenne.
The kynge was well wroþe wythall,
When he sye hys men to grounde falle.
Thorow them that ylke day
He demyd to fayle of hys pray.
He þoght, þe warse went on hys syde.
There he wolde no lenger abyde:
Homewarde fleyng faste he goyth
And wenyth, that no man hyt ne seyth.

And, when Harrowde þat aspyed,
That the kynge ageynwarde flyede,

319

Harrowde hym folowed faste,
Whyll þat þe stede wolde laste.
He had hym take or ellys ynome
Or in batell haue be ouercome,
But þat þer come a yonglynge:
Of all þe todur he myght be kynge.
When he sawe þe kynge fleande
And Harrowde aftur hym dryuande,
Then he þe kynge soone to socowre ȝode
And seyde to Harrowde, as he rode:
‘Thou olde and forhoryd man,
Well lytull wytt ys the an,
That þou folowest owre kynge,
That y loue ouyr all thynge.
Thou schalt abye, or thou goo,
For þou haste wroȝt vs moche woo.
That gode stede, þat ys thyne,
Y hope to god, he schall be myne.’
He smote at Harrowde soone anon
And sende hym strokys gode won,
And to the todur hym well smote
Wyth a swyrde, þat well bote,
That bothe þey felle of þer stedys.
And syþen þer swerdys þey drewe, wythowte dredys:
Grete strokys þey smyten there
Vpon the helmys, that trysty were.
They hewe þe helme wyth golde enclosed
And the brymme small ymaylydde.
Togedur þey smete wyth swyrdys bryght:
Eydur odur to sloo they dud þer myght.

Harrowde hym drewe soone besyde;
For he wolde no lenger abyde.
‘Knyght,’ he seyde, ‘gode and hende,

320

Telle me, or þou hens wende,
So almyghty god saue the,
Where were þou borne and in what cuntre,
And do wyselye and ȝelde the rathe,
That y do the no more scathe.
Swyþe yonge þou art, so þynketh me:
Grete harme hyt were, and y slewe þe.’

And he answeryd anon ryght:
‘So helpe me god and hys myght,
Thou schalt not wytt, who y am,
For me nor for no nodur man.
Arste y schall þy hedde of smyte,
Allþogh þou holde of me so lyte,
But yf thou before telle mee,
Of whens þou art and of what cuntre;
For soche a cuntre þou name myȝt,
Þat þou schalt go quyte fro þys fyȝt.
Thou art olde and whyte yblowe:
Thy myght ys slakyd syn, y trowe.
Me þynkyþ, hyt were a lytull maystry
For to cawse the to dye.’

Harrowde answeryd: ‘y telle þe,
Soche be þe men of my cuntre:
When þey be well strekyn in elde,
Then þey waxe stronge and belde.
Or y depart now fro the,
Yonge ynogh þou schalt fynde me.’

Anon togedur þey smetyn faste:
Nodur of odur was agaste.
Smarte strokys togedur þey geuyn,
That the vales all todynnon.
Men myght kenne on euery syde
The blode owt of þer bodyes glyde.

321

Tho Harrowde seyde: ‘syr knyght,
Abyde now a lytull wyght
And stynte in pees a lytull þrowe,
Yf y þe myght bettur knowe.
For soþe y telle þe now ryght,
That y haue be in mony a fyght
And mony an harde stowre ouercomen
And many a knyȝt in batell nomen.
Yf þou were of me ware,
How y am preysed wyde whare,
Thou woldyst noþyng schame þe
Thy name for to telle me.
I beseke the, syr knyght,
For hys loue, þat þys worlde haþ dyȝt,
That þou thy name telle me,
Where þou were borne and in what cuntre,
And here y my trowthe plyght,
Y schall the telle anon ryght,
Of whens y am and what me clepe me
And where y was borne and in what cuntre.’

Wyth that he wythdrewe hym there
Wyth sterne semblant and harde chere:
‘Knyght,’ he seyde, ‘þou art well wyse,
Wyght, hardy and of mekyll pryce.
Thorow strenkyth y wolde not þe telle:
Arste y wolde myselfe let qwelle;
But, for þou in loue besechyst me
Thyn askynge y schall telle the.
I was borne yn Ynglonde
Yn Warwyk, as y vndurstonde.
Syr Gye my fadur was:
A bettur knyght neuyr nas.
When he owte of þat londe wente,
A knyght he louyd veramente:
Hys name was Harrowde of Arderne.
Wyth hym y was þe werre to lerne:

322

He me forþe bredde and louyd me myche
And kepyd me well worschypfullyche.
And marchandys me awey ladde
(Therfore Harrowde moche sorowe made)
And broght me into thys londe
And gafe me to þe kynge in honde.
Hys doghtur swyþe me forþe bredde
In hur bowre and well me fedde.
The kynge dubbyd me a knyght:
So bad hys doghtur, þat swete wyght,
And holpe me to thys stownde,
That y mett wyth þe on þys grownde.’

Whan Harrowde ouerharde thys
Of Reynbowrne, how hyt ys
Hys owne kynde lordes sone,
For whome mekyll sorow he haþ ouercome:
He forsoke hys swyrde and hys schylde
And toward heuyn hys handys vp helde
And seyde: ‘lorde, þat all thynge wroght
And mannys sowle fro helle boght,
Looued thou be of thys day,
That y my lordys sone see may.’

For yoye he wepyd and wrothe hys hande,
On fote he myght no lenger stande:
In swownyng he felle þere to grownde.
That sawe Reynbowrne þat ylke stownde.
Betwene hys armes areryd hym hee:
Of hym he toke grete pyte.
Harrowde vpon hys fete hym dyght:
Reynbowrne had wondur of þat syght.
‘Syr knyght, mercye,’ quod he;
‘Who thou art, telle hyt me.’
Soone answeryd Harrowde þe knyght,

323

That wyth Reynbowrn had holdyn þe fyght:
‘Some tyme well þou knewe me
In Wallyngforde, my chefe cyte.’

When Reynbowrn þus hym harde speke,
For dole hyt wolde hys herte breke.
At hys fete he felle to grounde
And seyde: ‘Harrowde, allas þys stownde!
Haue mercy on me, yf thou wylt:
All to mekyll ys my gylte.’
What for pyte and what for yoye,
Bothe in swowne felle they,
And aftur lyght vpon þer stedys
And toward the cyte boþe þey yede.
Then þe admyrall þey tolde þare
Of ther acorde and of ther fare,
And he hym worschypped well swyþe;
For hym he was bothe glad and blyþe,
That the kynge ys ouercome
And hys men slayne and ynome.

They askyd lycence for to goo
Into þe cuntre, þey came fro.
The admerall preyed þem to dwelle stylle,
But þat was noþynge of þer wylle.
But, when he sawe, þat þey wolde wende,
He offurde þem, as man full hende,
Golde and syluyr grete plente
To lede wyth þem into þer cuntre.
Schyp þey fownde þere redy dyght:
They went theryn that ylke nyght.
So longe þey wente saylande,
That comyn þey were vpon þe lande.
All that day þey haue gone,
But castell nor cyte fonde þey non,
Tyll hyt was at the euyn tyde.
They sye a castell nye besyde:

324

Hyt was all wastyd wyth warre and fyȝt.
To þe ȝate þey came full ryght.

Then quod Harrowde to þe portere:
‘Speke wyth me, for seynt Rychere.
Who ys lorde of thys cuntre?
We aske harbowre for charyte.
To morne ȝerly, when hyt ys day,
We wyll wende forthe owre way.’
The porter seyde: ‘be thys day,
Of my lorde can y not say,
But in þe halle ys my lady
Full sorowfull and full drery:
For hur lorde, that ys forlorne,
Sche mornyth boþe euyn and morne,
But to my lady wyll y goo
And telle hur of yow twoo.’

The porter went into þe halle:
Before þe lady he can down falle.
‘Madame,’ he seyde, ‘here wythowt
Stonde ii knyghtys bolde and stowte.
That oon ys yonge, þat othur ys olde:
They seme bothe curtes and bolde.
They be men of farre cuntre,
By ther array as semyth me,
And boþe þey be of vncowthe lande
And þey beseche þe, y vndurstande,
Of harbowre for thys nyght
For the loue of god almyght,
And ȝerly at morowe ryse þey wyll
And no lenger abyde they nylle.’

And þe lady comawndyd þem in to come
And preyde to Cryste of heuyn, godys sone,
That sche þat day byde myght
Of hur lorde to haue a syght.
The porter ȝede ageyne anon
And swyþe he let þem in goon.

325

At þe halle dore þey dud lyght,
The two gode knyghtys of grete myȝt.
Serjawntys lepyn anon ryght,
Wyth grete wylle þer harnes dud dyȝt
And toke þer lawncys and þer sheldys
And leyde þem vpon þe teldes.
The lady grett them feyre anon
And vnarmyd þem swythe soon:

To mete she ladde þem fayre ydyght
And to soper set þem anon ryght.
Of seruyse they had grete plente;
And, when þey had ete and dronke in hye,
Harrowde askyd of þe lady thys,
What hur lordys name ys.
And sche answeryd: ‘y schall þe telle,
Not oon worde lye y nylle:
De la Mowntayn syr Amys.
Now ther ys none of more pryce.
A steward ther was in Almayn,
That made mony a wyckyd bargeyn.
Stewarde he was wyth the emperowre:
God geue hym mysauentowre.
Hys lordys traytour prouyd he was,
For whom we be in sorowfull case;
For Gye of Warwyk we louyd well,
And my lorde hym recetted in hys castelle
For the dewkys dethe Oton,
A thefe, a traytowre, a false felon;
And syþen we flewe owte of þat lande
And in þys cuntre we were of stande.
Thys cuntre ys full of eluys:
The mekyll Ardern yclepyd hyt ys.
An eluysch knyȝt longyth þertoo:

326

Moche sorow he hath vs doo.
Wyth hym oones faght my lorde
And many a dynte gafe hym wyth hys sworde.
To many men he dud owtrage,
To yoman, grome, squyer and page.
He hente my lorde at a tyde
And gafe hym strokys full vnryde.
Noþyng myȝt depart hys hawberk wele,
Swyrde nor spere ne knyfe of stele.
He chasyd my lorde halfe a day:
Thorowowt þe wode he flewe away.
There he hath made a queynt gynne:
A man, þat comyth onys therynne,
But yf hyt were þorow godys grace,
Comyth he neuer owt of that place.
Thorow trechery of þat knyght
My lorde had full mekyll vnryght.
Sethyn harde y neuer of hym tyþande
Nor neuyr schall, y vndurstande.’

‘Lorde,’ seyde Harrowde, ‘hyght he Amys,
Of þe Mowntayn þe gode marchys?
He was my frende and my felawe:
To hym wolde y full ferre drawe.
A, my dere soone Reynbowrne,
How he louyd thy fadur Gyown,
And so syr Gye louyd hym dere;
For he had ofte to hym mystere.
We schall hym helpe, yf me may spede:
To owre socowre he hath grete nede.’
Reynbowrn answeryd: ‘þorow godys grace
Yn þat forest now wyll y chace.
I schall neuer stynte nor blynne,
Madame, or y thy lorde wynne.’
The lady seyde: ‘for seynt Mary,
Ne be þou not to folehardy.

327

Ȝyf þou passe wythynne that gynne,
Ther schall neuer man ageyn þe wynne.’

Full feyre were ther beddys dyght:
They lay and slepyd all þat nyght.
They arose soon in the mornynge
And dyȝt þem wythowte dwellynge.
When Reynbowrn was all redy dyght
And armyd well to hys ryght,
Hys gode stede he bystrode
And owt of þe castell he þen rode.
‘Harrowde,’ he seyde, ‘þou schalt dwelle here
And make the lady full gode chere.
I schall here holde, þat y hur behyght,
And brynge hur lorde þorow godys myght.’
Syr Harrowde wolde wyth hym haue goon,
But he wolde haue neuyr oon.
Syr Harrowde was in drede of hym sore:
To Jesu Cryste he betoke hym thore.

Reynbowrn went forthe and Harrowde he lefte þare:
To the foreste he can fare.
Euyr he speryd the ryght way,
And men hym taght, how hyt lay:
He knewe þe markys of that place.
Then he was in a parels case.
Well longe he rode forthe, y say,
Tyll hyt was none of that day:
Wyth that he sawe hym besyde
An hylle wyth ȝatys feyre and wyde.
Tho he blessyd hym wyth hys ryȝt honde
And into the hylle he wonde.
The ȝatys closyd, when he in wente:
Full sore he drade hym to be schente.
Hyt was darke: syght had he none,
Well halfe a myle tyll he had gone.
Then he sawe a lyght full clere
And he beganne to make gode chere.

328

He sawe a watur depe and brode:
Thedurwarde full faste he rode.
Beȝonde þe watur he sawe a grene:
A feyrer had neuer kynge nor quene.
All maner flowrys grewe there,
That of any vertews were.
Ther was in þat herber grene
All spycys, that myght bene.
Wythynne þer stode a palays bryght:
A feyrer had neuer kynge nor knyȝt.
The postys were of fyne corall
And þe sparrys of cydre medylde wythall.
Of fyne corall were the stonys
Medulde wyth metall for þe nonys.
Some were of safewrs and some of saradyn
And some were emrodys fyne.
Hyt was closyd, that ylke palays,
Wythynne þe wallys wyth saradyns.
Hyt was bataylyd longe and wyde
Wyth flowrys coruyn on euery syde.
All were þe wallys of marbull fre.
Before þe ȝatys there stode a tree:
Theryn were fowlys nyght and day,
That songyn mony a mery lay.
The nobull array of þat ylke halle
Y haue no tyme to telle yow all;
For, yf y schulde hyt yow telle,
All to longe y schulde here dwelle.

Raynbowrn all awondurd was
Ouyr that watur for to passe.
He prouyd þe watur wyth hys spere,
Yf þat hys hors myȝt hym ouer bere.
But he nyghed no maner grownde:
He was full drery in that stownde.
But tyll hymselfe he can say,

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That he schulde neuer wende away,
Tyll he wyste, yf that he myght,
What was þat yoye and that lyght.

He blessyd hym wyth hys ryght honde
And syþen into þe watur he wonde.
That watur hym closyd all wythynne
Fro the fote vp to the chynne.
He felle depe, or he myght ryse,
Thretty fote of longe assyse.
God he cryed mercy thare.
The stede was gode, þat hym bare,
And also connyng and well lyght
And lawncyd vp wyth full grete myȝt
And fastenyd hys fete vpon þe londe þan,
And Raynbowrn was a yoyfull man
And þankyd god heuyn kynge,
That he wolde hym owt of parell brynge.

To þe paleys he hym dyght:
Before þe halle downe he lyght.
Syþen he went into þe halle
And fownde no man, þat wolde hym calle.
Fro chaumbur to chaumbur he can fare:
Mony a mervell he fonde thare.
He come into a chaumbur of stone:
Therynne he fonde a knyȝt allone.
He hym gret on feyre manere:
Awondurd he was, what he dud þere.
‘Syr knyght,’ he seyde, ‘for seynt Martyn,
Ys all þys feyre paleys thyn?
Or what man ys lorde here?
Whethur ys he farre or nere?
Wyth hym wolde y aqweyntud bee.
And also, syr knyght, for charyte,
Telle me þy name, my frende so dere,
And why þou lyest on þys manere.’

And he answeryd: ‘y hyght Amys.

330

I was some tyme a knyȝt of pryse.
Hedur y come thorow trechery:
Therfore y þus in preson lye.
Of all þys ys myn nothynge,
Y the telle, wythowte lesynge;
But he, that ys lorde here,
He ys full felle on all manere.
He come owte of elves londe.
All thys ys hys in thys londe:
The palays and thys foreste wyde
All ys hys on euery syde.
Soche vertue hath þys palays,
Men myȝt leve þeryn allways,
Nor he schulde neuyr older bee,
Then when he comyþ to þys cuntre.’

Tho seyde Raynbowrn: ‘art þou Amys,
The gode knyȝt of so mekyll pryce?
Thorowowte þe forest y haue þe soȝt
And hedur y am in parell broght.
But, now y haue þe fownde here,
Thou schalt go wyth me, be seynt Rychere.
I schall þe lede to thy wyfe:
Sche ys full trewe in hur lyfe.’
Amys answeryd: ‘for my loue, let bee.
Moche wondur y haue of the,
How and on what manere
Thou were so hardy to come here.
Ther come neuer man in þys hylle
Thorow qweyntys nor þorow grylle,
But yf the lorde hym hedur broght:
But þorow hys leue come þou noght.
How myghtyst þou me fro parell brynge
And mayste not þyselfe for noþynge?
Yf thou ledde me now away,
For oght, þat euyr þou do may,

331

Or we were paste a furlonge,
We schulde be slayne wyth peynys stronge;
For he, that ys lorde here,
He ys full felle, be seynt Rychere.
Yf he were fro hens a thousande myle,
He wolde wete wythynne a whyle
All, that euyr we wolde haue done,
And be here at vs full soone.’

Reynbowrn seyde: ‘drede þat noght.
We schall do well, as y haue þoght.
Ryse vp, for the trynyte,
And come forthe boldely wyth me.
Be god of heuen and seynt Mary,
Yf any man be so hardy
To holde vs here ageyn owre wylle,
I schall wyth hym play full ylle:
Wyth my swyrde, þat well can byte,
I schall hym full sore smyte.’

Then quod Amys: ‘let be þy fare.
Hyt ys not worþe to speke no mare.
Wyth no strenkyþ of þyn arme
Wyth þy wepyn þou schalt hym not harme.
But take þys swerde, þat hangyth here
Besyde me on thys pyllere:
Wyth that swyrde þou schalt hym tane,
Yf euyr thou schalt hym slane.’

Then he drewe owte þat swyrde bryght:
Thereþorow þen was all þat chaumbur lyȝt.
In he put hyt agayne:
Of that swyrde he was full fayne.
To Amys he wente forthe than
And toke hym vp, as a man.
Bothe vpon þat stede þey strode
And full faste forþe þey rode.

As he can faste forwarde ryde,

332

They sye a knyght þem besyde,
A feyre knyght faste prekande
Well armyd wyth a spere in hys hande.
‘Syr knyȝt,’ he seyde, ‘abyde a throwe.
Me þynkyþ, þou doyst ageyn þe lawe.
How were þou now so folehardye
To passe the watur so boldelye
And come into my palays here
My preson to breke on þys manere?
Thus dud neuer man ere
Wythowt my leue, or y here where.
Bothe schulle ye dwelle wyth me:
Ye schall neuyr delyuyrd bee.
Here schall ye leue yowre hedys baþe,
Y yow plyght here, full rathe.’

Amys starte forthe full lyght.
Syr Raynbowrn can to hym dyȝt:
The elvysch knyȝt smote hym full sare
Wyth that swyrde, that he bare,
And he to hym wyth all hys myght.
There beganne a grete fyght.
Hawberke and schylde he smote in twoo,
Hys helme of stele he dud alsoo.
Raynbowrn began to þynke than
On hys fadur Gye, the nobull man.
He smote as faste, as he myght drye,
The elvysch knyȝt on þe helme so hye.
He bowyd yn a fote the panne:
The elvysch knyȝt to þe grownde yede þan.
The swyrde owt of hys hande he reuydde
And schulde haue smetyn of hys heuydde,
But then he began to crye:
‘Syr Reynbowrn, for godys mercy!
Well y wote, thou art full ryght
Gyes sone, the nobull knyght.

333

Sle me not, and on that couenande
Y schall the ȝelde all my lande
And all, þat be in my prysown,
And all þe gode in my bandown;
And feyre and well y schall þe brynge
Owte of the hylle wythowte lettynge.’
Tho seyde Reynbowrn: ‘be seynt Myghelle,
Of thy tresowre kepe y no delle,
But delyuer þe prysoners echoon,
For god,’ he seyde, ‘ryght anoon.’
Into þe palays he went thare
And delyuyrde lesse and mare:
Wythowte peny or farthynge
He dud them forthe brynge.
Owt of þe wode into a playne
He broȝt þem all and went agayne.

Raynbowrn was a yoyfull man,
Þat he had wonne Amys þan.
Then belyve wythowten mare
To þe castell can þey fare.
When þey were comyn to þe halle,
Glade and blyþe were they all.
The lady was glad and blythe
And thankyd god oftesythe,
That sche sawe hur lorde so dere
Comyn home boþe hoole and fere;
For sche wende sekurlye
Neuyr to haue seyn hym wyth eye.
Also Harrowde, þe gode knyght,
Full faste he thankyd god almyȝt,
That Raynbowrn þorow godys grace
Passyd so well þat ylke place,
And also for Amys sake:
Full grete yoye can þey make.

Then he tolde Amys, how longe

334

He had bene in preson stronge
And suffurde peyne and vylene
For hys lordys sone so free,
And how he was syr Reynbowrn,
That delyuyrde hym of pryson;
And seþyn he tolde hym all hys lyfe,
How he had be in grete stryfe,
And how þat Gye sethyn longe whyle
Was wente in exsyle.
Betwene þem was yoye and gamyn
That tyme, þat þey were all samyn.

Wyth that þer come a knyght prekande
And broȝt þem full gode tythande,
That Barrarde was broȝt to grownde:
A pylgryme hym slewe in þat stownde
And defendyd erle Tyrry,
But no man wyste, sekurly,
Fro whens he come ne fro what cuntre,
Nor wyste no man, what he myght be.
And at mony a man there
The emperowre dud enquere:
‘Yf Amys myȝt foundyn bee,
All hys londe he schall haue free.’
When Amys herde, þe dewke was slayne,
He was neuer afore halfe so fayne.
He thankyd god in trynyte,
That he myght so venged bee.
All, that euer were there dwellyng,
Had yoye of that tythynge.

Harrowde and Reynbowrn dwellyd þare
Thre dayes and no mare.
Erly on the fowrthe day
They toke þer leue and wolde away;
And the erle dud also:
Home to hys londys wolde he goo
And preyed them for charyte

335

To come wyth hym to hys cuntre
And he wolde geue þem all bedene
All hys londys fre and clene.
But þey wolde of hym noþynge:
They betoke hym to heuyn kynge.

Afturward Amys wyth grete honowre
Into Almayn ȝede to þe emperowre,
And he delyuyrd to hym all hys londe
Frely into hys own honde,
And he hyt toke wyth gode chere
And seruyd hym, as hys lorde dere.
Harrawde and Reynbowrn come in hye
Into Ynglonde warde full hastylye.
So longe þey had þat londe owt wente
And trauaylyd wyth gode entente:
To Burgoyn comyn they were,
There as Harrawde was knowyn ere.
That londe was all feryd than,
And Harrowde askyd an vncowþe man,
Why þat londe was so euyll dyght,
And he hym tolde anon ryght,
That hyt was þorow þe prowde dewke Mylon,
‘That ys so stowte and so felon.
He hath not lefte a fote of londe,
But a castell here nyehonde,
That stondyth hye vpon þe rochere:
There he dwellyth wyth hys powere;
And all ys þorow a sowdyere,
Of vncowthe londe a knyght full fere.
Soche oon sawe þou neuyr in no lande,
That was so wyght a man of hande.
Ȝonge he ys and mekyll of myght:
Berde hath he noon, þat nobull knyght.

336

Wyth the erle he hath byn a yere
And spedd full well on all manere
He hath vencowsyd the dewke thryes
And slayne hys men on all wyse.
The castels, þat the erle hath lorne
Many a day herebeforne,
He hath þem wonne þorow strenkyþ of honde:
In hys power ys all that londe.
Thorow hym hath the erle bote
And put the dewke vndur fote.
Ȝondur he dwellyth vpon þe hylle,
There many a man hath spedde full ylle.
An hundurde men haue loste þe lyfe,
That haue be there wyth hym in stryfe.
A streyte passage ys holdyn thare:
Yf any man schall forthe fare,
Hawberke or schelde he schall þere geue,
Yf he wyll afturwarde leue.
Yf any marchande passe or burges,
He schall lese hys beste harnes.
And, yf he gruch anythynge,
He schall be slayne wythowte dwellyng.
Therfore hastely y yow say,
That ye wynde a nodur way.’

Syr Reynbowrn answeryd than
And speke, as an hardy man:
‘Thankyd be Cryste Iesu of heuyn,
That y haue fownde my make euyn.
Yf he aske of vs anythynge,
I schall hym telle wythowte lettynge,
That we haue of hys ryght noght,
Nodur of vs he getyth ryght noght.
We wyll for owre lyuys fyght,
Whedur we do wyth wronge or ryght.’

They þen wente forthe ther way
But a whyle, as y yow say.

337

Vpon an hylle þey sawe þere stande
A knyȝt well armed full nerehande.
Then seyde Reynbowrn: ‘be my honde,
Ȝondur y see my felowe stonde.’
He made hym redy for to fyght:
To hym he wolde anon ryght.
‘Wyth hym to juste ys my longyng.’
Quod Harrowde: ‘wende on my blessyng.’

Raynbowrn rode þen wyth gode wylle:
The todur came towarde the hylle.
For pryde þer hertys wolde nere breke:
They wolde nodur to odur oon worde speke.
They justed togedur a grete stownde,
Tyll þey were boþe broght to grownde.
They starte on fote and drewe þer brondys
And leyde on wyth bothe ther hondys.
They hewe faste on helmys and scheldys:
The pecys flewe into the feldys.
That ylke batell was full felle:
The blode ranne down, as watur on welle.
Harrowde behelde þe knyghtys fyght:
For Raynbowrn he preyed to god almyȝt
To kepe hym fro skaþe of hys lyfe;
For he was in a grete stryfe.
Harrowde seyde, wythowte fayle,
He sawe neuer a grettur batayle.

‘Syr knyght,’ quod þen Raynbowrn,
‘Abyde and here my resown.
Thou art full bolde and wyȝt of hande:
Telle me now, in what lande
Thou were borne and in what cuntre
And what name men calle þe.
Neuyr ȝyt, but now thys throwe,
Ne myght y fynde my felowe,

338

That myȝt me stande, but þou now here:
Therfore y rede on feyre manere,
That þou the ȝylde here to me
(My trowthe y schall plyght the,
That we schall euer frendys be)
And come wyth me to my cuntre:
I schall þe geue castels and feys,
Townes, borowghs and gode cyteys.’

‘Syr knyght,’ he seyde, ‘let be þy fare.
So god me helpe owt of my care,
Of me schall þou wete nothynge
For heste nor for no sermonynge:
Thy hed schall of, be my crowne.
Whereof makyst þou so longe sermowne?
Vpon thys hylle haue y reuydde
Mony a man fro hys heuydde.
Fownde y ȝyt neuyr no knyght,
That so well plesyd me in fyght,
But well y wote, or we haue done,
I schall þe geue full euyll dome
And þat olde churle also
(He ys thy fadur), so mote y goo.
For sothe, lytyll he louyd the,
When he þe sende to fyght wyth me.
I schall hym make a gode present
Of thy hedde wyth gode entent:
Then schall y hys berde so schake,
That hys neck schall all tocrake.’

When Raynbowrn vndurstode ryȝt þore,
Þat he wolde reuerens hym no more,
As faste as he myght drye,
Vp he toke hys swyrde in hye.
On hys helme he smote so faste,
That a quarter all tobraste.
He was so stonyed, he myȝt not stonde:

339

Adown he felle on boþe hys honde.
Vp he start full of tene
And smote Raynbowrn wyth wraþ, y wene.
They faght wyth so grete yre,
That owt of þe helme flewe þe fyre.
Soche strokys gaf þe knyghtys stowte,
That þe hylle donyed all abowte.
A felle fyght then there was:
Vndur hevyn neuer gretter nas.
Longe myȝt they not fyght soo,
But þat oon schulde þat other sloo.

Harrowde sawe, wythowte fayle,
Ayther can other so faste assayle.
He cowde not chese the bettur þan:
For them he was a sory man.
He seyde: ‘hyt were grete dele and care,
Yf oþer schulde other mysfare.’
He went betwene them in hye
And seyde: ‘syr knyght, for seynt Mary,
Wythdrawe þe now, as a goode felowe,
And speke wyth me a lytyll throwe.
I rede, thou leue now þys fyght
And acorde þe wyth thys knyght.
He ys ryche and of grete powere.
Of landys and ledys on all manere
He schall þe geue grete plente:
All at thy wylle schall hyt bee.
I rede, yf þou wyll me trowe,
Thou do þe in hys mercy now.’

And he answeryd: ‘þou olde hore,
Say þou me wythowt more,
So helpe þe god and seynt Mary,
What ys þy name? telle me in hye.
Syth the tyme, y spake wyth þe,
All y qwake, as leef on tre:
For drede of þe thys ylke day

340

All my strenkyth now ys away.
Syth y myght armes bere,
Ferde of oon was y neuer ere.
But for hys name y comawnde þe,
That suffurde deþe vpon a tre:
Telle me, in what maner of wyse
I haue thys drede and þys fayntyse.
Other art þou þe deuyll of helle,
That art comyn me to qwelle?
Or what þou wylt, for charyte,
Euyll or gode, now telle hyt me.’

‘Nay,’ seyde Harowde, ‘do wey þy fare;
For of me schalt þou wyte no mare,
But thou telle me beforne,
What ys þy name and where þou were borne.
Afturward may thou here,
What y am, that stondyth here.
Sethyn may þou wytt of þys knyȝt,
What he ys, anon ryght.
We schall þe telle all þys þynge,
Wyth þat þou make to vs no lesynge.’

And he answeryd: ‘ye schall not here
For drede of hym in no manere,
But for to wyt, for what þynge
I haue þys drede and þys qwakynge.
Y was borne in Ynglonde
In Wallyngforde, y vndurstonde.
My fadur was a doghty knyght:
Harrowde of Ardern, for soþe, he hyȝt.
When he went owt of þat cuntre
To seeke hys lordys soon so fre,
That marchandys stale on wykkyd manere,
Sethyn more, then vii yere,
The erle of Leycestur kepyd me

341

And louyd me wyth herte fre.
When y was a yonge squyer,
Wyth hym y was in grete power.
Yf y dud any skathe
Or ony man wyth me were wraþe,
I schulde þen haue vpbrayde
And for my fadur be myssayde,
For y wolde not forthe fare
To seke my fadur, where he ware,
Yn any londe yf he were slane
Or he were in preson tane.
Therof was y repreuyd ay,
But y bethoght me on a day,
To seke my fadur y wolde fonde:
For noþynge wolde y wonde.

To Wallyngforde y wente prekande:
My fadur armes there y fonde,
Hys hawberke and hys gode stede,
Hys schylde, hys swyrde and hys oþer wede.
Y made myselfe a knyght than:
Ne tolde y arste neuer man.
Forthe y went on þys manere:
Y haue hym soght bothe ferre and nere.
Sethyn y haue redyn and gone
Yn straunge londys many oon,
In Lumbardy and in Spayne,
In Sesoyn and in Almayne:
Ȝyt herde y neuer speke of no where,
But y haue soght my fadur þere.

Sethyn y come to thys londe,
I fonde an erle faste werrande:
He was stroyed þorow þe dewke Mylon,
All hys londe, castell and towne,
But thys castell besyde þe see,

342

There de dwellyth and hys meyne.
I come to hym in hys mystere:
I haue hym holpe wyth my powere.
Then had he, that knyght free,
Thretty knyghtys in hys meyne:
Now hath he iii hundurde wyght
And other men well dyght.
Hys londe ys well wonne agayn
And hys enmyes take and many slayn.
Here on þe hylle well ofte y stande
Agayne þe men, þat passe þe londe.
I aske euery man, that y fynde,
Of my fadur some tythynge,
But herde y neuer man speke wyth mowþe,
That oght of hym telle cowthe.
Therfore ofte was y wrathe
And many a man y haue done skaþe.’

Harrowde herkenyd hym ryȝt þore
And wyth hys eyen he wepyd sore.
Quod Harrowde: ‘leue syr knyght,
Telle me þy name, for god almyȝt.’
‘Asslake,’ he seyde, ‘ys my name.
Here y haue had full grete schame.’

Harrowdes herte wolde nere breke:
Vnneþe a worde myght he speke.
‘Asslake, what haste thou done?
I am þy fadur, þou art my sone.
I am Harrowde, þat þou haste soght:
Iesu hath me hedur broght.
Y haue suffurde paynes stronge
To seke my lordys sone full longe.
Loo, he ys here, syr Raynbowrne,
The nobull knyȝtys sone, syr Gyown.
Wyth hym þou haste foghtyn longe:
Ye be boþe wyght and stronge.
Falle down to hys fote in hye

343

And on thy kne þou crye hym mercy.
Ȝylde hym þy swyrde in þys place
And do the all in hys grace.’

When he wyste, syr Asslake,
That hys fadur to hym spake
And Gyes sone was redy there,
That he faght so faste wyth ere:
He had grete yoye in þat stownde
And on hys kneys he felle to grownde.
He ȝyldyd to hym hys swyrde bryght
And bad hym do, as hyt was ryght:
‘Smyte of my hedde at thy wylle.
Thys trespas ys boþe grete and grylle.
Or ellys take homage here
To serue the, as my lorde dere.’

When Raynbowrn harde, þere he stode,
That hyt was Harrowdys sone þe gode,
He toke hym vp be hys hande
And kyssyd hym sore wepande.
Seþyn he kyste hys fadur dere:
Ther yoye was gret on all manere.

Sythyn Asslake ladde þem well þare:
Before þe erle þey came full ȝare.
He tolde þe erle euery dele,
How he had fownde hys fadur well
And Gyes sone of Warwyke:
‘In all þe worlde ys none hym lyke.’
The erle of hym was glad and blythe
And honowryd hym oftesythe
And profurde hym grete honowre,
Boþe feyre castels and ryche towre.
But þerof wolde he ryght noght:
Into Ynglonde was all hys thoght.
They ne stynte ne þey ne blanne,

344

Tyll they to the see came.
A schyp they fownde all in hye:
Ouyr they passyd full hastelye.

Ryght to London can þey fare:
The kyng þey fownde redy þare,
And all þe beste of þat cyte
Welcomyd them to þat cuntre.
They honowred þem on all manere
And made þem ryche and of grete powere
And gaf þem all ther own lande
And well more into ther hande;
And þey hyt toke wyth game and glee
And soyorned there dayes thre
And toke leue on þe fowrþe day:
To Warwyk þey toke the way.
Of þer men þey toke homage.
Glad was all the baronage,
That þey were comyn hole and fere:
They þankyd god on all manere.

Harrowde to Wallyngforde wende
And Asslake, hys sone hende:
There wolde they dwelle and be
Wyth hys lady feyre and fre;
For he had be in trauell ferre
Loos and pryce to wynne in werre.

God for hys names seuyn
Graunt vs all þe blysse of heuyn
And gyf vs grace, þat hyt so bee:
Amen, amen, for charyte!