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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| De probitate nunciorum Arthury. |
 | The Story of England |  |
De probitate nunciorum Arthury.
Þe knyght was frayed, no wonder was,Þe Emperour cried “alas! alas!
“Slayn þey haue sire Quyntalyn
“Now right here byfore myn eyn!
“Ȝyf þey a-scape vs alle fro,
“Merueille may men telle of þo.”
Romayns ronne out of pauylons,
& hasted fast after þe Bretons.
Ilkon tok þat þey myght hent,
& after þem prykede faste, & went.
On þer was þat hadde a stede,
Þat byfore alle þe oþere ȝede,
& cried ful loude, “abyd! abyd!
“Ȝyf þou dar, turne, & to me ryd!”
Sire Geryn herde what he seyde,
& turnde hym, & his spere forþ leyde,
& of his gode hors hym cast
Als fer as þe spere wold last.
Þen seide Geryn als he lay þore,
“Þyn hors bar þe ouer faste byfore;
“Ȝit were þe bettere ha ben at þe ost
“Þan fort ha foched þy deþ wyþ bost,
“& haue holde þe fer o drey,
“ffor now þe ouer-þynkeþ þou come so ney.”
“Now right here byfore myn eyn!
“Ȝyf þey a-scape vs alle fro,
“Merueille may men telle of þo.”
Romayns ronne out of pauylons,
& hasted fast after þe Bretons.
Ilkon tok þat þey myght hent,
& after þem prykede faste, & went.
On þer was þat hadde a stede,
Þat byfore alle þe oþere ȝede,
& cried ful loude, “abyd! abyd!
“Ȝyf þou dar, turne, & to me ryd!”
Sire Geryn herde what he seyde,
& turnde hym, & his spere forþ leyde,
& of his gode hors hym cast
Als fer as þe spere wold last.
Þen seide Geryn als he lay þore,
“Þyn hors bar þe ouer faste byfore;
444
“Þan fort ha foched þy deþ wyþ bost,
“& haue holde þe fer o drey,
“ffor now þe ouer-þynkeþ þou come so ney.”
Beofs of Oxenforde þen loked bak,
& listned how þat Geryn spak,
Saw þe Romayn ded þer lay,
& his hors wente forþ o stray;
Þen þoughte sire Beofs, “y am to blame
“But y do til anoþer þe same.”
His hors he turnd þen, and abod,
& til anoþer Romayn rod;
& wyþ his spere he bar hym yn
Þorow-out þe þrote, byneþe þe chyn.
Gapyng he lay at erþe al streked
Als he was wyþ þe launce cheked.
Þen seide sire Beofs, for þat he gaped,
“To þe mete fuer sone hym raped,
“But ly now stille þer, ar þou ete,
“& ȝif þy felawes þe ouer gete,
“Sey, ‘þe messegers wente here forþ god spede,
“‘& wiþ suche musseles he can ȝow fede.’”
& listned how þat Geryn spak,
Saw þe Romayn ded þer lay,
& his hors wente forþ o stray;
Þen þoughte sire Beofs, “y am to blame
“But y do til anoþer þe same.”
His hors he turnd þen, and abod,
& til anoþer Romayn rod;
& wyþ his spere he bar hym yn
Þorow-out þe þrote, byneþe þe chyn.
Gapyng he lay at erþe al streked
Als he was wyþ þe launce cheked.
Þen seide sire Beofs, for þat he gaped,
“To þe mete fuer sone hym raped,
“But ly now stille þer, ar þou ete,
“& ȝif þy felawes þe ouer gete,
“Sey, ‘þe messegers wente here forþ god spede,
“‘& wiþ suche musseles he can ȝow fede.’”
Þen cam anoþer ride faste byforn,
A noble knyght of Rome born,—
Marcels, hit seyþ his name hight,—
& hadde an hors was ferly lyght;
Of þem alle last horsed he was,
& passed þe formest a gret pas;
And for gret haste, as of chaunce,
He hadde furgete at hom his launce.
He sporede his hors, forþ faste gan schake,
Wel wende he Wawayn for to ha take,
& seyde, “hit were ful gret ferlik
“But he broughte Wawayn to þem al quyk.”
Wawayn wondred hym ferne fro
Þat his hors myght so wel go.
ffor Marcel neyghed Wawayn right hende,
Wawayn to take ful wel he wende;
But his hors com so smertly,
& passed Wawayn fast hym by,
& als he by Wawayn glent,
Wawayn had his swerd out hent,
And clef his heued at o dynt,
Þorow helm, þat at þe breste hit stynt;
His gode armure auailled nought,
Wyþ þat strok to þe erþe he sought.
In his fallynge, seide Wawayn,
“Marcel, y rede þou turne a-gayn,
“& go to Quyntalyn to helle,
“& on myn half þou hym telle,
“Þat þe Bretons þat ȝe þus chace,
“Wel more con do þan manace.
“Sey Quyntalyn, ‘we hym by þe grete,
“‘& more wol gyue þan we wol hete!’”
Now to-gydere þey gonne þem drawe,
& oþer þre þey dide of dawe;
Lenger to iuste myght þey nought stande,
But þem defended al wyþdrawande.
Þe Romayns on alle halue hem went,
Wiþ swerd & spere strokes þey lent,
But neuere for strok þat þey þer tok,
Of stirop ne sadel out ne schok,
Ne drowen blod, ne gof þem wounde,
Ne stopped þem þer wey no stounde.
A noble knyght of Rome born,—
Marcels, hit seyþ his name hight,—
& hadde an hors was ferly lyght;
Of þem alle last horsed he was,
& passed þe formest a gret pas;
And for gret haste, as of chaunce,
445
He sporede his hors, forþ faste gan schake,
Wel wende he Wawayn for to ha take,
& seyde, “hit were ful gret ferlik
“But he broughte Wawayn to þem al quyk.”
Wawayn wondred hym ferne fro
Þat his hors myght so wel go.
ffor Marcel neyghed Wawayn right hende,
Wawayn to take ful wel he wende;
But his hors com so smertly,
& passed Wawayn fast hym by,
& als he by Wawayn glent,
Wawayn had his swerd out hent,
And clef his heued at o dynt,
Þorow helm, þat at þe breste hit stynt;
His gode armure auailled nought,
Wyþ þat strok to þe erþe he sought.
In his fallynge, seide Wawayn,
“Marcel, y rede þou turne a-gayn,
“& go to Quyntalyn to helle,
“& on myn half þou hym telle,
“Þat þe Bretons þat ȝe þus chace,
“Wel more con do þan manace.
“Sey Quyntalyn, ‘we hym by þe grete,
“‘& more wol gyue þan we wol hete!’”
Now to-gydere þey gonne þem drawe,
& oþer þre þey dide of dawe;
Lenger to iuste myght þey nought stande,
But þem defended al wyþdrawande.
Þe Romayns on alle halue hem went,
Wiþ swerd & spere strokes þey lent,
446
Of stirop ne sadel out ne schok,
Ne drowen blod, ne gof þem wounde,
Ne stopped þem þer wey no stounde.
Þenne had Marcel a neuew
Þat was horsed vntil his prew:
In his wey Marcel he fond,
Liggyng slayn þer on a lond.
After þe messegers trauersed [he] þe feld;
& Wawayn houed, & byheld
Þat he cam so gret a spurne,
He had no leyser his hors to turne
Vntil he cam among þem alle,
& of his hand his spere let falle,
& drow his swerd, scharp to byte:
He wende Wawayn wel to smyte;
& as he lifte his swerd vp heye,
At his hand Wawayn let fleye,
& smot of boþe hand & arm,
So þat he dide namore harm.
Anoþer strok he scholde haue had,
But wiþ þe Romayns þey were ouerstad,
So ferly fele after þem schok.
But for al hem, þe wode þey tok,
Þat was bitwixt hem & Arthures hold,
Þe newe castel y lang er told.
Þat was horsed vntil his prew:
In his wey Marcel he fond,
Liggyng slayn þer on a lond.
After þe messegers trauersed [he] þe feld;
& Wawayn houed, & byheld
Þat he cam so gret a spurne,
He had no leyser his hors to turne
Vntil he cam among þem alle,
& of his hand his spere let falle,
& drow his swerd, scharp to byte:
He wende Wawayn wel to smyte;
& as he lifte his swerd vp heye,
At his hand Wawayn let fleye,
& smot of boþe hand & arm,
So þat he dide namore harm.
Anoþer strok he scholde haue had,
But wiþ þe Romayns þey were ouerstad,
So ferly fele after þem schok.
But for al hem, þe wode þey tok,
Þat was bitwixt hem & Arthures hold,
Þe newe castel y lang er told.
| The Story of England | |