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 habetur magnum bellum inter Inperatorem
& Arthurum in valle Swesy, inter Ostum &
Langres. |
 | The Story of England |  |
Hic habetur magnum bellum inter Inperatorem & Arthurum in valle Swesy, inter Ostum & Langres.
When Lucius had þus gat seid,
fforþ þey ferde alle at o breyd,
& armed þem ilkon right wel,
& sette ilk man til his eschel:
Kynge & prynces of Payen
Were medled among Cristen,
Þat her landes of Rome held,
& to þer werre seruise of scheld.
By milers & by centeners
Sette þey þe bataille seers;
Horsmen, fotfolk, on ilka partie,
Were somme set lowe, & somme heye,
Right after þat þeym god þought.
Þat were of prowesse, & of bataille dought,
When þey were dight & set
In twolue batailles, þo þat hym get,
Doun wyþ þe hil þey toke þe weye
Al sarrely in to þe valeye;
& þat o syde toke þe Romayns,
& Arthur þat oþer euen þer-gayns.
Þe Romayns comen fro-ward þe west,
& Arthures folk were al prest;
On boþe sydes þey gonne to blowe
Trumpes & pipes a wel god þrowe;
Þe batailles neyghed ney & ney,
Sadly passing, and softely.
When þey seye þat þey might mete,
Wyþ bowes & arblastes gan þey schete,
Dartes, launces, stones, kaste,
On boþe parties þykke & faste;
Vneþes myght any open his eye,
So þykke atones gon þey fleye,—
Also þkke as snow þen snew,
Or al so hail þat stormes blew,—
Þorow scheldes smiten, & þorow paunces.
After þat schot, þey schote launces;
ffer weys mighte men here þe brusche,
A þousand breken at o frusche.
After launces, wyþ swerdes smiten,
& wyþ axes & daggares þat wel biten;
Þer was bataille merueillous,
Neuer non byfore so perilous,
Ne non so asper ne so þyk,
ffor ilk was oþer euen quik.
Þat wel couþe feighte, he fond his mecche,
Cowardie halp þer no wrecche.
Al þe valeye aboute schok,
So harde þe parties to-gidere tok;
ffull harde to-gydere gan þey hurte,
Þat on a-geyn þat oþer burte.
Manye doun fulle, & fele þer stod,
& mani on lay drenkled in blod;
Many knyght of sadel was wrast,
& many stede wyþ hem were cast,
& many oþer wente o stray,
Þe bridles broken, & sadeles a-way.
Wel þey foughte a ful long stounde,
Ilk fonded oþer to haue to grounde.
So vaillaunt was neuere no Romayn
Þat myghte þe Bretons ruyse ones ageyn,
Ne þe Bretons of þem nought wan,
So wel þey stoden ilka man;
Neþeles, foure batailles of oures
Had hard encountre & scharpe stoures,—
Agusel & sire Cador,
Beofs & Geryn, þyse were þor,
Achil, Loth, & sire Ohel,
& sire Wawayn þat dide so wel,—
Þyse foure wyþ þe comun host,
Alle had þey ful hand al-most.
Noman mighte þer wel chese
Whilk of þem schold wynne or lese,
Til þat o bataille forþ spred,
Þat sire Kay & Beduer led.
Þey saw þe Bretons nought ne wan,
Þe Romayns helde as þey bigan;
To þem þey seyde þey wilde al-gate.
On al þe pres þey gonne hem abate;
In to al þe þrong þer was þykkest,
Kay & Beduer in gonne brest.
fful wel faught Beduer, & so dide Kay;
Þo þat þey hitte, ded þey lay:—
Þus seyde þo þat stode þem ner,
Þat neuere styward ne botyler
Þat serued kyng ne kayser,
So wel halp at here power;—
fful mikel þey dide, & more þey scholde
ȝyf þey had lyued, & Crist hit wolde.
Byfore þey breke þe Romayns route,
Þer folk folewode, & hadde no doute;
Many a strok þey gaue & tok,
Out of þer sadeles mani on schok.
Sire Beduer among hem presed,
Romayns to slo nought ne sesed;
O þat oþer side Kay ne blan,
ffor he feld doun hors & man.
ȝyf þey hem self couþe haue meþed,
& als þer strokes couþe haue leþed,
And þer folk wolde haue byden,
And alle to-gidere þat þey had ryden,
Til þat oþer bataille had comen,
& þenne alle at ones nomen,
Gret prowesse of þem had ben told,
& saued þer bodies, þat sone were cold.
Alas! ȝyf þat God had wyld!
Þer hardinesse þem seluen spild!
Þey þoughte to perce þe host þorow-out,
ffor þey hadde hertes ful fers & stout,
& on hem self ouer mykel affyed,
Þer men to hem were so allyed
Þat þey ne roughte where þey ȝede,
Ne nought rewarded how þey were in drede:
fforþ þey ferde alle at o breyd,
& armed þem ilkon right wel,
& sette ilk man til his eschel:
Kynge & prynces of Payen
Were medled among Cristen,
Þat her landes of Rome held,
& to þer werre seruise of scheld.
By milers & by centeners
Sette þey þe bataille seers;
Horsmen, fotfolk, on ilka partie,
Were somme set lowe, & somme heye,
Right after þat þeym god þought.
Þat were of prowesse, & of bataille dought,
When þey were dight & set
470
Doun wyþ þe hil þey toke þe weye
Al sarrely in to þe valeye;
& þat o syde toke þe Romayns,
& Arthur þat oþer euen þer-gayns.
Þe Romayns comen fro-ward þe west,
& Arthures folk were al prest;
On boþe sydes þey gonne to blowe
Trumpes & pipes a wel god þrowe;
Þe batailles neyghed ney & ney,
Sadly passing, and softely.
When þey seye þat þey might mete,
Wyþ bowes & arblastes gan þey schete,
Dartes, launces, stones, kaste,
On boþe parties þykke & faste;
Vneþes myght any open his eye,
So þykke atones gon þey fleye,—
Also þkke as snow þen snew,
Or al so hail þat stormes blew,—
Þorow scheldes smiten, & þorow paunces.
After þat schot, þey schote launces;
ffer weys mighte men here þe brusche,
A þousand breken at o frusche.
After launces, wyþ swerdes smiten,
& wyþ axes & daggares þat wel biten;
Þer was bataille merueillous,
Neuer non byfore so perilous,
Ne non so asper ne so þyk,
ffor ilk was oþer euen quik.
471
Cowardie halp þer no wrecche.
Al þe valeye aboute schok,
So harde þe parties to-gidere tok;
ffull harde to-gydere gan þey hurte,
Þat on a-geyn þat oþer burte.
Manye doun fulle, & fele þer stod,
& mani on lay drenkled in blod;
Many knyght of sadel was wrast,
& many stede wyþ hem were cast,
& many oþer wente o stray,
Þe bridles broken, & sadeles a-way.
Wel þey foughte a ful long stounde,
Ilk fonded oþer to haue to grounde.
So vaillaunt was neuere no Romayn
Þat myghte þe Bretons ruyse ones ageyn,
Ne þe Bretons of þem nought wan,
So wel þey stoden ilka man;
Neþeles, foure batailles of oures
Had hard encountre & scharpe stoures,—
Agusel & sire Cador,
Beofs & Geryn, þyse were þor,
Achil, Loth, & sire Ohel,
& sire Wawayn þat dide so wel,—
Þyse foure wyþ þe comun host,
Alle had þey ful hand al-most.
Noman mighte þer wel chese
Whilk of þem schold wynne or lese,
472
Þat sire Kay & Beduer led.
Þey saw þe Bretons nought ne wan,
Þe Romayns helde as þey bigan;
To þem þey seyde þey wilde al-gate.
On al þe pres þey gonne hem abate;
In to al þe þrong þer was þykkest,
Kay & Beduer in gonne brest.
fful wel faught Beduer, & so dide Kay;
Þo þat þey hitte, ded þey lay:—
Þus seyde þo þat stode þem ner,
Þat neuere styward ne botyler
Þat serued kyng ne kayser,
So wel halp at here power;—
fful mikel þey dide, & more þey scholde
ȝyf þey had lyued, & Crist hit wolde.
Byfore þey breke þe Romayns route,
Þer folk folewode, & hadde no doute;
Many a strok þey gaue & tok,
Out of þer sadeles mani on schok.
Sire Beduer among hem presed,
Romayns to slo nought ne sesed;
O þat oþer side Kay ne blan,
ffor he feld doun hors & man.
ȝyf þey hem self couþe haue meþed,
& als þer strokes couþe haue leþed,
And þer folk wolde haue byden,
And alle to-gidere þat þey had ryden,
Til þat oþer bataille had comen,
& þenne alle at ones nomen,
Gret prowesse of þem had ben told,
& saued þer bodies, þat sone were cold.
473
Þer hardinesse þem seluen spild!
Þey þoughte to perce þe host þorow-out,
ffor þey hadde hertes ful fers & stout,
& on hem self ouer mykel affyed,
Þer men to hem were so allyed
Þat þey ne roughte where þey ȝede,
Ne nought rewarded how þey were in drede:
A bataille þey mette, & smot þer-in,
Nought of þe Romayns, but of Sarazyn,—
Of Mede he was, Bokkus he hight,
Kyng he was, & ful god knyght.—
A ful gret host þys Bokkes ledde,
Our Erles were hardy, & nought ne dredde,
Right on þem alle fulbut þey riden;
Þer was a bataille ful sore smyten
Bytwixt þe houndes Sarazyns,
& Herupeys & Angeuyns.
Bokkes rod in wyþ a gleyue,
ffayn wold he Beduer deseyue;
In att þe brest Beduer he smot;
Þe glayue was scharp, & ouer fer bot;
Scheld & hauberk þorow he brak,
Þe spere fley out al at his bak.
Þen fel Beduer; myght non hym saue;
But Ihesu Crist his soule ay haue!
Kay fond Beduer þer he lay,
ffayn wold he haue þe body a-way,
Of alle men he louede hym most;
& þenne gan faste relie his host,
& gaf eft bataille to þem of Mede;
Wyþ force he dide hem flitte þat stede.
Als he schuld þer þe body vp fange,
He dwelled þer-on a litel to lange,
ffor þenne com Sentor, kyng of Lubye,
Wiþ gret power of paynye,
& on sire Kay smot he þore,
& wounded hym ferly sore;
But for no wo, wounde, ne dynt,
Þe body ne lefte he, ne tynt.
His gode folk was hym aboute,
& holpe hym of þat mykel doute;
Þē bodi þen to þe dragon brought,
Maugre þo þat on hym sought.
Nought of þe Romayns, but of Sarazyn,—
Of Mede he was, Bokkus he hight,
Kyng he was, & ful god knyght.—
A ful gret host þys Bokkes ledde,
Our Erles were hardy, & nought ne dredde,
Right on þem alle fulbut þey riden;
Þer was a bataille ful sore smyten
Bytwixt þe houndes Sarazyns,
& Herupeys & Angeuyns.
Bokkes rod in wyþ a gleyue,
ffayn wold he Beduer deseyue;
In att þe brest Beduer he smot;
Þe glayue was scharp, & ouer fer bot;
Scheld & hauberk þorow he brak,
Þe spere fley out al at his bak.
Þen fel Beduer; myght non hym saue;
But Ihesu Crist his soule ay haue!
Kay fond Beduer þer he lay,
ffayn wold he haue þe body a-way,
Of alle men he louede hym most;
& þenne gan faste relie his host,
& gaf eft bataille to þem of Mede;
Wyþ force he dide hem flitte þat stede.
474
He dwelled þer-on a litel to lange,
ffor þenne com Sentor, kyng of Lubye,
Wiþ gret power of paynye,
& on sire Kay smot he þore,
& wounded hym ferly sore;
But for no wo, wounde, ne dynt,
Þe body ne lefte he, ne tynt.
His gode folk was hym aboute,
& holpe hym of þat mykel doute;
Þē bodi þen to þe dragon brought,
Maugre þo þat on hym sought.
| The Story of England | |