The Story of England by Robert Manning of Brunne, A.D. 1338. Edited from mss. at Lambeth Palace and the Inner Temple, by Frederick J. Furnivall |
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Hic miserunt Guncelinum Archiepiscopum ad
Regem Minoris Brytannie. |
 | The Story of England |  |
Hic miserunt Guncelinum Archiepiscopum ad Regem Minoris Brytannie.
Al þe clergie of þe contrees,
& lordynges of londes & fees,
At Londone þey toke þer conseil,
What myght hem helpe in þer turpeyl:
“Þys aliens al day vs noyes,
“& þe Cristen blod destruyes.
“Bot Iesu Crist visite vs sone,
“We Cristen men schul be fordone.”
Þen was at Londone þe bischopes se,
When Cristendam com first to be.
Þe Erchebischop highte Guncelyns,
A ful holy clerk was in deuynes;
Þys Erchebischop his conseil tok
At þo þat þis lond schulden lok,
Þat he wolde wende to þe Lasse Bretayne,
Þer Conan vmwhile was cheftayne.
Aldroan highte þe kyng was þan,
Þe ferþe kyng after Conan.
Þe bischop wente in to þe lond,
Sire Aldroel þer kyng he fond;
Þe kyng receyued hym curteysly—
His fame was god, his stat was hey,—
He asked what he so fer had sought,
& what tydynge he hadde brought.
& lordynges of londes & fees,
At Londone þey toke þer conseil,
What myght hem helpe in þer turpeyl:
“Þys aliens al day vs noyes,
“& þe Cristen blod destruyes.
“Bot Iesu Crist visite vs sone,
“We Cristen men schul be fordone.”
Þen was at Londone þe bischopes se,
When Cristendam com first to be.
Þe Erchebischop highte Guncelyns,
A ful holy clerk was in deuynes;
Þys Erchebischop his conseil tok
At þo þat þis lond schulden lok,
Þat he wolde wende to þe Lasse Bretayne,
Þer Conan vmwhile was cheftayne.
Aldroan highte þe kyng was þan,
Þe ferþe kyng after Conan.
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Sire Aldroel þer kyng he fond;
Þe kyng receyued hym curteysly—
His fame was god, his stat was hey,—
He asked what he so fer had sought,
& what tydynge he hadde brought.
“Lord,” he seyde, “ȝow þar nought wene,
“Why y am comen ȝe may wel mene,
“& what encheson me hider led,
“Þat y to ȝow so hastely sped;
“ffor ȝe nar nought born so late,
“Ne bytwyxt vs so fer gate,
“Þat ȝe naue herd tydynge seye,
“How alyens don vs schamely deye.
“Syþen Maximien went vs fro,
“We han y-lyued in sorewe & wo.
“Þat þys lond þorow conqueste wan,
“& gaf hit þyn auncestre, sire Conan,
“Oure doughti folk al wyþ hym went,
“& siþen were we neuere bot schent.
“Donward syþen haue we gon;
“ffrendes fond we fewe or non
“Þat euere vs wolde socoure or were;
“Bot to fele we fynde þat wolde vs dere.
“Whylom, Bretons landes wonnen,
“Þe renoun of þeym þorow lande ronne;
“Now ar þey nought so mykel of myght
“Þat þer lond may halde to ryght.
“Þey of Rome halp vs whylom;
“Now haue þey for-sake vs alle & sum,
“ffor fer wonyng & gret costage,
“Þat often mys-spedde in þer passage.
“Of folk we are ynowe ȝyt leued,
“Bot kepere non, ne kyng, to heued,
“Þat can oure folk to bataille lede,
“Ne oure enemis to haue of no drede.
“Bot we haue help by tyme now
“Of oþer landes, oþer of ȝow,
“We kenne neuere oure cursed kare,
“So fer doun byneþe we are.
“I ne may nought telle, for sor of herte,
“Al oure sorewe þat ys so smerte,
“Þat we han had, & ȝit haue;
“Bot God wyle, nought may vs saue.
“Here-fore am y to ȝow comen,
“As to kyþ of oure kynde nomen,
“ffor ȝe ar Brutes, & we Breton;
“& for þat skyle & þat reson,
“Help vs now to venge our foo,
“As we wolde ȝow & ȝe were wo.
“Þorow right lawe write men fynde,
“Þat men oughte to helpen þer kynde;
“& hit ys also worldes honur,
“At nede þer frendes for to socour.
“Þey no sybrede of kynde cam,
“Helpe ȝe scholde Crystendam.”
“Why y am comen ȝe may wel mene,
“& what encheson me hider led,
“Þat y to ȝow so hastely sped;
“ffor ȝe nar nought born so late,
“Ne bytwyxt vs so fer gate,
“Þat ȝe naue herd tydynge seye,
“How alyens don vs schamely deye.
“Syþen Maximien went vs fro,
“We han y-lyued in sorewe & wo.
“Þat þys lond þorow conqueste wan,
“& gaf hit þyn auncestre, sire Conan,
“Oure doughti folk al wyþ hym went,
“& siþen were we neuere bot schent.
“Donward syþen haue we gon;
“ffrendes fond we fewe or non
“Þat euere vs wolde socoure or were;
“Bot to fele we fynde þat wolde vs dere.
“Whylom, Bretons landes wonnen,
“Þe renoun of þeym þorow lande ronne;
“Now ar þey nought so mykel of myght
“Þat þer lond may halde to ryght.
“Þey of Rome halp vs whylom;
“Now haue þey for-sake vs alle & sum,
“ffor fer wonyng & gret costage,
243
“Of folk we are ynowe ȝyt leued,
“Bot kepere non, ne kyng, to heued,
“Þat can oure folk to bataille lede,
“Ne oure enemis to haue of no drede.
“Bot we haue help by tyme now
“Of oþer landes, oþer of ȝow,
“We kenne neuere oure cursed kare,
“So fer doun byneþe we are.
“I ne may nought telle, for sor of herte,
“Al oure sorewe þat ys so smerte,
“Þat we han had, & ȝit haue;
“Bot God wyle, nought may vs saue.
“Here-fore am y to ȝow comen,
“As to kyþ of oure kynde nomen,
“ffor ȝe ar Brutes, & we Breton;
“& for þat skyle & þat reson,
“Help vs now to venge our foo,
“As we wolde ȝow & ȝe were wo.
“Þorow right lawe write men fynde,
“Þat men oughte to helpen þer kynde;
“& hit ys also worldes honur,
“At nede þer frendes for to socour.
“Þey no sybrede of kynde cam,
“Helpe ȝe scholde Crystendam.”
Whan Aldroel herde so Gwyncelyn speke,
ffor sorewe hym þoughte his herte wolde breke;
Þe teres ronnen out of his eyne,
ffor þat þey were in so gret pyne,
Gretand ageyn he hym answered,
“ffor þe doel þat y haue herd,
“Y schal do al my trauaille
“Þat y to ȝow may helpe or vaille.
“ȝyf y myghte my self, y wolde fayn,
“Bot Frensche men me chace ageyn;
“Þey werre on me al þat þey may,
“My self am þer a[t] ylka fray;
“I wol nought leue my litel þynge,
“Myn heritage, for more wynnynge;
“I haue a broþer, sire Constaunt,
“God werrour, & man valliaunt;
“Wyþ two þousand y schal hym sende,
“Wyþ gode knyghtes, ȝour lond to fende;
“Hym to Bretaigne schaltow lede,
“Þorow gode grace for to spede.”
He sente þenne for Constantyn,
& bytaughte hym sire Gwyncelyn.
Whan Guncelyn byheld þe knyght,
Þe hand he lyfte þat was þe ryght,
& gaf Constant þe benisoun:
Þe knyght byfore hym kneled doun,
Þe bisschop foure wordes seyde;
Þe wordes arn, o Latyn leyde,
“Christus vincit, Christus rengnat!
“Christus vincit, Christus inperat!”
Þe kyng þen bitaughtym four þousand
Of men of armes wel seruand,
& þre þousand men of fote.
Þe kyng þan seyde, “Þys may do bote
“To saue ȝour lond ilka del.
“My kynde þer-inne, gret þem wel.”
ffor sorewe hym þoughte his herte wolde breke;
Þe teres ronnen out of his eyne,
ffor þat þey were in so gret pyne,
244
“ffor þe doel þat y haue herd,
“Y schal do al my trauaille
“Þat y to ȝow may helpe or vaille.
“ȝyf y myghte my self, y wolde fayn,
“Bot Frensche men me chace ageyn;
“Þey werre on me al þat þey may,
“My self am þer a[t] ylka fray;
“I wol nought leue my litel þynge,
“Myn heritage, for more wynnynge;
“I haue a broþer, sire Constaunt,
“God werrour, & man valliaunt;
“Wyþ two þousand y schal hym sende,
“Wyþ gode knyghtes, ȝour lond to fende;
“Hym to Bretaigne schaltow lede,
“Þorow gode grace for to spede.”
He sente þenne for Constantyn,
& bytaughte hym sire Gwyncelyn.
Whan Guncelyn byheld þe knyght,
Þe hand he lyfte þat was þe ryght,
& gaf Constant þe benisoun:
Þe knyght byfore hym kneled doun,
Þe bisschop foure wordes seyde;
Þe wordes arn, o Latyn leyde,
“Christus vincit, Christus rengnat!
“Christus vincit, Christus inperat!”
Þe kyng þen bitaughtym four þousand
Of men of armes wel seruand,
& þre þousand men of fote.
245
“To saue ȝour lond ilka del.
“My kynde þer-inne, gret þem wel.”
Syre Guncelyn aryued at Toteneys,
& sire Constant wyþ his harneys.
Þat herde þe Bretons alle aboute,
Þo þat er skulked for drede & doute.
Out of wodes & out of mountaynes
(Þat durste nought er come to þe playnes,)
To Constant come þen men ynowe,
Þat þer enemys ouer al slowe.
He dide hym vntil Westmorland;
Þe countre al wasted he fand;
Al þe lond, leye hit lay,
Þe folk for fere wer fled away;
Hadde þey nought vn-to þe fode,
Bot bestes wylde, & fische on flode.
Þeyr enemys þer þey broughte of lyue,
Þe remenaunt out of lond gon dryue.
& sire Constant wyþ his harneys.
Þat herde þe Bretons alle aboute,
Þo þat er skulked for drede & doute.
Out of wodes & out of mountaynes
(Þat durste nought er come to þe playnes,)
To Constant come þen men ynowe,
Þat þer enemys ouer al slowe.
He dide hym vntil Westmorland;
Þe countre al wasted he fand;
Al þe lond, leye hit lay,
Þe folk for fere wer fled away;
Hadde þey nought vn-to þe fode,
Bot bestes wylde, & fische on flode.
Þeyr enemys þer þey broughte of lyue,
Þe remenaunt out of lond gon dryue.
| The Story of England | |