University of Virginia Library

De Sepultura Walwyny.

Arthur wolde no soiour make,
But Moddred wold he sle or take;
But sorewe ful þough, did hym gret pyn,
Of sire Gawayn his dere cosyn,
& Agusel þe Scottische kyng:
Arthur made here byrying
At Wybyry, þat ys in Walys;
Þer lye þey boþe, seyþ Peres tales.
Now comeþ al Arthures sorewe & drede.
To venge hym on þe false Moddrede,
Day ne night ne wolde he blynne.
To sege Wynchestre, Moddred wyþynne,
He dide þe contre somoune al out,
& vmbyleide þe toun about.
Þen sey Moddred he was in clos,
& byseged wiþ his fos;
He þoughte þat ȝyf he so longe lay,
Wel schulde he nought wynne a-way,
Þat nedly taken schuld he be,
& maugre hym ȝelde þe cite.
Among his men he made a cry,
& bad hem alle arme hem redy;
Wyþ hym to fighte leuere he wylde
Þan, his vnþankes, to þem ȝelde.
His men in bataille gan þem renge,
& wente right out hym for to venge;
Þe parties sone to-gydere ran,
& lorn was þere þen many a man.
Moddredes partie ȝede al doun,
ffor his folk had no fuisoun;
Hit was no wonder he hadde no grace,
ffor traitour scholde nought spede in place.
He sey his side no tyme ne spedde;
ffor his misdede þe kyng he dredde;
Hym self he þoughte algate to saue,
Siþen he ne mighte no grace haue;
His priues alle til hym he tok,
Þo þat Arthur alle fursok,
Þo þat Moddred hadde forþ brought,
Þat neuere louede Arthur nought;
Priuely wyþ hem he fledde a-wey,
& lefte þer al his oþer conrey.
To Souþhaumptone he tok þe sty,
& huyred hym schipes al redy,
& swyþe anon þey gonne forþ saille;
ffor drede he fledde til Cornewaille.
Þo þat Moddred byhinde hym left,
Alle were þey slayn, þer lyues reft,
& wan þe toun of þem ilkon;
But wo was hym Moddred was gon.
Sire Vrienes sone, Iwene he hight,
Gentil of blod, and ful god knyght;
Agusel cosyn was sire Iweyn,
Þe reme of Scotland he gan to cleym,
He left hit til Iweyn in herytage,
& Iweyn made Arthur homage.
Iweyn had laught gret honour,
Ageyn Moddred he stod in stour,
& dide & seyde Moddred gret schonde,
Þe while Arthur was out of londe.
But Arthur sore ouer þoughte
ȝyf he wiste what hym doughte;
He dredde mykel his grete comynge,
Payens among þe Crystene to brynge.
Arthur wolde no lenger byde,
But gadered folk on ilka syde
Of alle þe contres heþen to Humber;
fful manye þer were, as seys þe noumber.
ȝyf Arthur hadde lenger abiden,
Þe sykerere myghte Moddred haue ryden.
When þe kyng had folk ynow,
Toward Cornewaille he hym drow,
& com in þer by þat cost
Þer þat Moddred logged his host.
Þen seide Moddred, ‘he wolde nought fle,
‘But abyde what chaunce so be;
‘He schulde er putte hym self to deye,
‘Er he wolde eft fle his weye.’
Moddred hadde fourty þousand,
In a wode busched to stand
By-syde a water, Tambre, y wene,
Þat þe parties ran by-twene.
Stronge were þe hostes, gret was þe hate,
& wrathe to-gydere dide þem abate.
Þorow hate & ire to-gydere þey ran,
& Payens loues no Cristen man;
Þerfore þe bataille was merueillous,
& þe slaughter more hydous.
On boþe partis were slayn fele,
ffor þer non wolde oþer [forbere ne] spele.
When Arthur sey Moddred feloun,
He rod til hym wiþ gret raundoun;
Byfore hym dide bere his dragoun,
Moddred to smyte as a lyoun.
Moddred he smot, & he smot hym,
On boþe partis were woundes grym.
But Moddredes side gan misfalle,
ffor he was slayn, & his men alle;
& als was slayn þer y þat stour,
Of þe Rounde Table þe faire flour,—
Þe faire ȝonglynges so mykel y-preised
Þat Arthur had norisched & vp reysed,
Þat he had gadered of alle landes,
Þe doughtiest þat were of handes;—
& Arthur hym seluen þore,
Men seyþ, he was wounded sore;
&, for his woundes were to drede,
Þer-fore he dide hym self lede
In to þe Ilde of Aualoun.
& þus seys ilka Bretoun,
Þat on lyue þere he ys,
Lyuende man wyþ blod & flesche,
& after hym ȝut þey lok.
Maister Wace þat made þys bok,
He seyþ namore of his fyn
Þat doþ þe prophete Merlyn.
Merlyn seide ful merueillouse,
Þat Arthures deþ was dotouse;
Þer-fore ȝyt þe Bretons drede,
& seyn þat he lyues in lede;
But y seye þey trowe wrong;
ffor ȝyf he now lyue, his lyf ys long;
& ȝyf he lyue þys ilke day,
He schal lyue for euere & ay.
Nought þan y trowe þe Bretons lye;
He was so wounded, he moste dye.