SIR TRYAMOUR: FOOTNOTES1 The king ordered his armed forces to prepare
2 Why are you so happy about this thing that has happened?
3 Every man showed him love, in a manner befitting their station in life
4 Whenever a man protected his body (i.e., put on armor)
5 I think it (Tryamour's promise of aid) will not hold good
6 He (Tryamour) issued a challenge for (the hand of) the lady
SIR TRYAMOUR: NOTESBefore 1 A colophon appears on the leaf preceding the romance: Here endyth Syr Egyllamowre of Artas and begynneth Syr Tryamowre.
19 The name Marrok, and the name of the giant, Moradas, are similar to the names of the giant brothers, Marras and Arrok, in Sir Eglamour of Artois.
27 A proverbial expression meaning "as true the steel spear point is to the wooden shaft."
38 Following the tradition established by Urban II, who preached the First Crusade throughout France, knights took vows from the pope to fight the infidel in the Holy Land. As a sign that they were God's soldiers, they wore red crosses sewed to their surcoats.
45 us. MS: was. Fellow's emendation. Schmidt adheres to the MS but suggests in her note that us makes better sense. The idiom refers to Christ's crucifixion which redeemed the souls of humanity.
48 Fellows emends Prevy to Hevy.
80ff. The queen addresses Marrok, an inferior, with the singular pronoun, while he addresses her in the polite plural.
91 lady free is a conventional epithet for a courtly lady, one who is liberal in rewarding knights. Here the pun on freedom may be ironic.
103 This is a proverbial expression occurring in Guy of Warwick and Sir Perceval of Galles (Syr Tryamowre, ed. Schmidt, p. 88).
139-41 The sense of these lines is "When he had accomplished all that he had pledged / With words that were true." The list of sites which comes next follows grammatically from line 139, done hys pylgrymage . . . To Fleme Jordan, etc. Though Ardus' earlier vow (line 32) refers to crusading, crusading and pilgrimage to the Holy Land were spiritually and geographically analogous, not to mention historically linked.
156 "She told the king her tidings" makes better sense (Syr Tryamowre, ed. Schmidt, p. 89).
189 A common euphemism (see Sir Tristrem and Syr Tryamowre, ed. Schmidt, p. 89).
212 An adulterous queen was legally considered a traitor, and burning was the accepted punishment.
246 wayne wyth the wynde. I.e., leave with the swiftness of the wind (Syr Tryamowre, ed. Schmidt, p. 89).
270 This formula appears in Chaucer's romance parody, Sir Thopas (CT VII[B2]796).
305 I take the sense of the passage to be "There were none of that company, no matter how bold or strong, that Sir Roger did not hit on the head so that his sword split them to the waist. The soldiers requited them, striking Roger rapidly as though they were berserk."
313 Trewe-love as a dog's name also occurs in the ballad Horn Childe.
343 The line begins with a large capital B, marking the beginning of the second section of the story relating the vicissitudes of the queen and the eventual discovery of her innocence.
353 The sense of the line seems to be that the men did not know how they would account to Marrok for their failure to find Margaret. The word unkynde here has the sense of "unnatural," i.e., "unknightly." Defacing the body of a fallen adversary was most unchivalric.
392 hym. MS: hy. Schmidt's emendation.
ryn and mosse. MS: ryn mosse. Schmidt's emendation.
401 Hungary is the setting for the adventures of Sibille, Charlemagne's calumniated queen. It is considerably closer to the frontiers of Charlemagne's empire than to Aragon, but romance need not observe realities of physical and political geography.
422 Barnard is a messenger (i.e., emmissary or herald), perhaps for the king. The fact that he is hunting a hart is an indicator of chivalric status.
452 Tryamour is also the name of the fairy mistress in Sir Launfal.
485 The first day of Yule is Christmas Day.
499 in hys wede. Literally "in his clothes"; a formulaic filler here perhaps best glossed as "at his [the dog's] behavior."
567 Line 388 suggests that the body had begun to decay. An uncorrupted corpse was a sign of special sanctity.
613 Space for a large capital A at the beginning of this line marks the end of the calumniated queen episode and the beginning of Tryamour's adventures.
639 Dread and fear were considered appropriate responses to a lord. By cultivating them in his subjects, he would be able to maintain order.
690 Fifteen seems to have been the usual age for knighting of romantic heroes. See Degrebelle (Eglamour’s son) and Octavian.
736 noght forthy is usually translated "nevertheless," which seems inappropriate here. "Rode forth" would make better sense, though it does not fit the meter or rhyme. See line 400 for a similar locution.
754 A bachylere was a novice knight or a knight without vassals who served under the banner of a greater knight.
781 There is a similar formula in the corresponding scene of father-son combat in the Thornton manuscript of Eglamour (line 1260) where the father gives the son swylke a swappe.
799 In the manuscript, this line begins with a large capital T, marking the beginning of the third day of the tournament. From this proceeds James' ambush and the Emperor's revenge on Ardus.
814 Lithuania was an important state in the lands of the Teutonic Knights; see Chaucer's description of the Knight in the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales (I[A]54-55).
832 It seems odd that Tryamour would be pleased (fayne) to see James wound Ardus, unless he is pleased to have a reason to attack James.
916 This reference to a book as the source for a romance is highly conventional. There is no reason to believe it alludes to an actual volume.
940-1020 This passage corresponds to the fragment preserved in the Rawlinson manuscript.
943 in hys present does not make sense. Schmidt suggests, in thys present, i.e., "now."
945 The knights achieved little honor in that the princess would accept none of them.
983 The corresponding line in the Rawlinson fragment reads, With gunnes and grete stones round.
997 But in lines 871-78 Argus came to Tryamour's aid against James.
1006 Schmidt (Syr Tryamowre, p. 93) notes that yowre is "evidently a scribal error for owre."
1036 In the manuscript, this line begins with a large capital W, marking the episode of Tryamour's departure to claim Helen.
1067 The loss of a hand was a typical penalty for poaching.
1188 barryd. The suggestion seems to be that the battlefield was enclosed.
1191 Tryamour is now knighted, having proven himself in the earlier combats and acquired a patron of sufficient status to grant knighthood. He is no longer a bachelor, and is now able to lead men in battle.
1222 Killing a horse was considered to be unchivalric.
1238 An idiom. A new-made knight was said to win his shoes when he performed a gallant deed (Syr Tryamowre, ed. Schmidt, p. 94).
1251-52 Moradas may be a mistake for Ardus. The following line, including a kiss of peace between Ardus and the Emperor, makes better sense with this reading (see Fellows, Of Love and Chivalry, p. 308.
1282 In the manuscript this line begins with a large capital H marking Tryamour's departure from Ardus and his journey through the pass of the giant brothers.
1325 the mowntans of a myle. That is, the time in which a mile can be traveled.
1368 To wage one's glove was an idiom equivalent to "throw down the gauntlet." The sending of a glove to an opponent was a challenge to combat.
1370 "Love par amours," a French expression, refers to courtly - that is, romantic - love.
1441 In the manuscript, this line begins with a large capital T, marking the final episode: the combat with Burlond.
1496, 1499 Such repetition is unusual in Sir Tryamour and may be a corruption.
1561 Chevy Chase, a fifteenth-century ballad, contains a similar incident (Fellows, Of Love and Chivalry, p. 309).
1619 It was traditional to give gifts to messengers and minstrels.
1636 To begin the dais is to sit at the head of the table, the place of honor and high social status.
Heven blys that all schall wynne,
Schylde us fro dedly synne
And graunte us the blys of hevyn!
Yf ye wyll a stounde blynne,
Of a story Y wyll begynne,
That gracyus ys to nevyn;
Of a kyng and of a quene,
What bale and blys was them betwene,
Y schall yow telle full evyn.
A gode ensaumpull ye may lere,
Yf ye wyll thys story here
And herkyn to my stevyn.
He was the kynge of Arragon,
A nobull man and of grete renown,
Syr Ardus was hys name.
He had a quene that hyght Margaret,
Trewe as stele Y yow behett,
That falsely was broght in blame.
The kyngys steward Marrok hyght;
False and fekyll was that wyght
That lady for to fame.
He lovyd well that lady gente;
For scho wolde not to hym assente
He dud hur mekyll schame.
The kyng lovyd well the quene,
For scho was semely on to sene
And trewe as stele on tree.
Ofte tyme togedur can they meene,
For no chylde come them betwene,
Sore syghed bothe sche and hee.
Therfore the kyng, as Y undurstonde,
Hath made a vowe to go in to the Holy Londe
To fyght and not to flee,
That God almyghty schulde helpe them so
A chylde to gete betwene them two
That ther heyre myght bee.
When the kyng hys vowe had maked
And at the pope the cros takyd,
To bedd then were they broght;
That nyght on hys lady mylde,
As God wolde, he gate a chylde,
But they of hyt wyste noght.
Sone on the morne, when hyt was day,
The kyng wolde forthe on hys way
To the londe there God us boght;
Than began the quene to morne;
For he wolde no lenger soyorne,
Prevy sche was in thoght.
The kyng bad ordeygne hys armoryes; 1
Knyghtys, squyers and palfrays,
All redy for to goo.
He toke hys leve at the quene,
At erlys and barons all bedene,
And at Syr Marrok alsoo.
He comawndyd Marrok, on hys lyfe,
That he schulde kepe wele the quene hys wyfe,
Bothe in wele and in woo.
Betwene the quene and the kyng
Was grete sorowe and mornynge,
When they schulde parte in twoo.
Now ys the kyng passyd the see,
To hys enemyes gon ys he,
And warryth there a whyle;
But than Syr Marrok, hys steward,
Was faste abowtewarde
To do hys lady gyle.
He wowyd the quene bothe day and nyght,
To lye hur by, he had hyt hyght,
He dredyd no peryle.
Feyre he spake to hur aplyght;
Yf he hur thoght turne myght
Wyth wordys, hyt was hys wylle.
The quene was stedfaste of wylle;
Sche herde hys wordys and stode styll
Tyll he all had sayde.
Sche seyde, “Traytur, what ys thy thoght?
All that thou spekyst hyt ys for noght.
Owt upon the, thefe!” sche seyde in that brayde.
“My lorde, when he went to the see,
For specyall tryste he toke me to the
To have undur holde;
And now thou woldyst wondur fayne
Be the furste to do me trayne!
How darste thou be so bolde?”
He seyde, “Ye be my lady gente
For now ys my lorde wente
Agayne hys fone to fyght;
And but the more wondyr bee
Ye schall nevyr more hym see;
Therfore Y rede yow ryght.
Now ys he gone, my lady free,
In hys stede ye schall take me;
Am Y not a knyght?
And we schall do so prevely
That whethyr he leve or dye
Ther schall wete no wyght.”
Then was the quene wondur wrothe
And swere mony a grete othe,
As sche was woman trewe!
“Yf ye be so hardy
To wayte me wyth velanye
Fowle hyt schall the rewe.
Y trowe Y schall nevyr ete bredd
Tyll thou be broght to the dedd,
Soche balys then schall Y the brewe.
Y may evyr aftur thys
That thou woldyst tyse me to do amys
No game schulde the glewe.”
Marrok seyde, “Madam, mercy,
Y seyde hyt for no velanye
But for a fondynge;
For Y wolde wytt yowre wylle
Whethur that hyt were gode or ylle
And for no nothyr thynge.
And now, madame, Y may see
That ye ar trewe as stele on tree
Unto my lorde the kynge;
And that ys me wondur lefe
Wherefore taketh hyt to no grefe
Or wyckyd askynge.”
So excusyd he hym tho,
The lady wende hyt had byn soo
As Syr Marrokk sayde.
He goth forthe and holdyth hys pese,
More he thenkyth then he says,
He was full evyll payde.
Of the quene let we bee
And thorow the grace of the Trynyté
Grete wyth chylde sche was!
And of Kyng Ardus speke we,
Farre in hethennes ys he
To werre in Goddys grace.
There he had grete chyvalry,
He slewe hys enemyes wyth grete envy
Grete worde of hym aroos.
In hethennes and yn Spayne,
In Gaskyn and in Almayne
Wyt they of hys loos.
When he had done hys pylgrymage
And maked all hys message
Wyth wordys that ware not wyckydd,
To Fleme Jordon and to Bedlem,
And to the borogh of Jerusalem,
There God was dede and qwykk,
Then longed he at home to bene
And for to speke wyth hys quene
That hys thoght was evyr upon.
And he gate schyppys prevay
And to the schypp on a day
He thoght that he flewe anon.
So longe they drove upon the fome
That at the laste they come home
To hys owne lande
When the kyng and the quene were togedur agayne
They made mekyll joye, gle and game,
Then tolde the kynge hur tythande.
The kynge behelde the quene mylde
And sawe that sche was wyth chylde,
Then made he glad semland.
Twenty tymys he dud hur kysse,
Then made they game and blysse
And he toke hur be the hande.
But sone aftur come tythyngys,
Marrok mett hys lorde kynge
And faste he can hym frayne.
“Syr,” he seyde, “for Goddys pyne,
Of a thyng that now ys ynne,
Whareof be ye so fayne? 2
Ye wene the chylde yourys be;
Hyt ys not so, so mote Y the,
The quene hath done the trayne!
Another knyght, so mote Y spede,
Gat the chylde syth thou yede
And hath the quene forlayne!”
“Allas,” seyde the kyng, “What may that be?
Betoke Y not hur to the
To kepe hur in weyle and woo?
Sche was undur thy kepeyng
Why letyst thou hur do that wyckyd thynge
Alas! Why dud sche soo?”
“Syr,” seyde Syr Marrok, “Wyte not me
For grete moone sche made for the
As sche had lovyd no moo.
Y trowed in hur no falsehedd
Tyll Y fonde them wyth the dede
Togedur betwene them two.
In the fyrste fourtenyght that ye were went,
Y fownde them togedur verament
Or they ther wylle had done.
To hym Y ran wyth egur mode
And slewe the knyght there he stode
Be myn owne dome!
Then wende sche, sche schulde be schente,
And me behett londe and rente
And hyght me to do my wylle:
But Y myselfe wolde noght;
Ye were evyr in my thoght
Bothe lowde and stylle.
“Allas,” seyde the kynge; “now Y wondur;
For sorowe my herte brekyth in sondyr.
Why hath sche done amys?
Y wot not to whom Y may meene,
For Y have loste my comely quene
That Y was wonte to kysse!”
“Marrok,” he seyde “What ys thy rede
Whether that sche be done to dedd
That was my blysse?
For sythen sche hath forsaken me
Y wylle hur no more see
Nor dwelle wyth hur, ywys.”
“Syr,” seyde Marrok, “Ye schall not soo;
Ye schall hur nother brenne nor sloo
For dowte of synne.
Bettyr hyt ys, syr, be my rede,
Owt of yowre londe sche be flemyd in dede,
And faste ye schall hur comawnde to wynne.
“But take hur an oolde stede,
And an olde knyght that may hur lede
Tyll sche be paste yowre realme,
And gyf them some spendynge,
That them owt of thy londe may brynge;
Y can no bettyr deme.
“For, syr,” he seyde, “Hyt were not feyre,
A horcop to be yowre heyre,
But he ware of yowre kynne.”
Then seyde the kynge, “So mote Y the,
As thou haste seyde, so schall hyt bee,
Arste y schall not blynne.”
Then exylyd the kyng the quene.
Sche had wondur what hyt myght meene,
What made hym so to begynne:
No lenger he wolde gyf hur respyte
Nor no worde he wolde speke hur wyth,
And that was grete synne.
He let clothe hur in sympull wede
And set hur upon an olde stede
That was bresyd and blynde;
And toke to hur an olde knyght
That Syr Roger hyght,
That curtes was and kynde,
And gaf them twenty dayes to passe;
And ovyr that tyme hys wylle was,
Yf men myght hur fynde,
Sche schulde be takyn and be brente,
And the knyght, be there assente,
Schulde wayne wyth the wynde.
Thretty florens to there spendynge
He gaf them, wythowte lesynge,
And comawnded them to goo.
The qwene for sorowe wolde dye
For sche wyste not wherefore nor why
That sche was flemed soo.
Therfore sche had grete drede
And sche swownyd on hur stede;
Hyt was no wondur thogh sche were wo.
Syr Roger comfortyd the quene
And seyde, “At Goddys wylle muste hyt bene,
What helpyth hyt yow yf ye youreselfe sloo?”
Knyghtys, squyers and ladyes gente
Morned for the quene was wente;
The kynge had no chesowne,
And the quene had grete care
For sche schulde fro hur lorde fare
Wythowte ony resowne.
But then they wente fro that stede,
On ther way forthe they yede
Ferre fro every towne
Into a grete wyldurnes;
Full of wylde bestys hyt was,
Be dale and eke be downe.
Marrok thoght utturly
To do the quene a velanye,
Hys luste for to fulfylle.
He ordeygnyd hym a companye
Of hys owne meynye
That wolde assente hym tylle.
To a wode they wente in hye,
There the quene schulde passe by,
And there stode they all stylle.
There had he thoght redyly
To have do the quene a velanye —
Fayne he wolde hur spylle.
The quene and Syr Roger come into the wode,
Wote ye wyll thay thoght but gode
To passe wythowtyn dowte.
Then were they war of the steward
Come rydyng to them warde
Wyth a grete rowte.
“Here ys treson,” seyde the quene.
“Allas!” seyde Roger, “what may that bene?
We here be sett all abowte!
Syth we here schall dye,
Oure dedys full sore they schall abye,
Be they nevyr so stowte!”
The steward Roger can ascrye,
And seyde, “Yylde the, for thou schalt dye.
To us thou haste no myght!”
Syr Roger seyde, “Traytur forthy
My dethe schalt thou dere abye,
Yf that Y wyth the fyght.”
There come they to hym in hye;
Syr Roger, wyth grete envy,
Kydd he was a knyght.
They hewe on hym full boldely.
Ther was none of all that company
So bolde nor so wyght.
Syr Roger smote them on the hede
That to the gyrdyll the swerde yede.
Of hym were they qwyte.
They hewe on hym faste as they were wode,
On eche syde then sprong the blode
So sore on hym they dud smyte.
Trewe-love, hys hownde so gode,
Halpe hys maystyr and be hym stode.
Byttyrly he can byte.
Whyll they were togedur bestedd,
The quene passyd awey and fledd
On fote and lefte hur stede.
Sche ranne to a thorne grene;
Tyl sche come thedur sche wolde not blyn
And daryth there for drede.
Syr Roger sche dydd beholde;
He hewe on ther bodyes bolde,
Hys hownde halpe hym at nede.
Os hyt ys in the story tolde,
Forti Syr Roger downe can folde
So qwyt he them ther mede.
Had he ben armyd, ywys,
All the maystry had byn hys.
Allas! why wantyd he hys wede?
As Syr Roger gaf a knokk,
Behynde hym come Syr Marrok —
Therfore evyll mote he spede.
He smot Syr Roger wyth a spere,
Thorow the body he can hym bere,
Faste then can he blede.
He hath an evyll wounde —
That dynte hath broght hym to the grounde
And fellyd hym on the grene.
Than he was slayne certenly,
They rode forthe wyth grete envy
To seke aftur the quene;
But they wyste not what they myght sey —
Hur stede they fonde, sche was awey —
Then had that traytur tene.
Ther jurney then they thoght evyll sett,
But they wyth the lady not mett,
They wyste not what to mene.
Ovyr all the wode they hur soght
But, as God wolde, they fonde hur noght;
Then had they grete tene.
When he myght not the lady fynde,
He wente away as knyght unkynde
To Syr Roger there he lay.
Thryes he styked hym thorowowt,
Of hys dede he had no dowte.
Allas that ylke day!
When that traytur had done soo,
He turynd ageyne there he come fro,
Unmanly for to say,
For hys company was all gon,
Forty he had chaunged for oon:
Ther skaped but two away.
The quene was aferde to be schente
Tyl sche sye that they were wente
And passyd owt of the slogh;
Then rose sche up and come agayne
To Syr Roger and fonde hym slayne —
Then had sche sorow ynogh.
“Allas!” sche seyde, “Now am Y spylte;
Thys false thefe, wythowtyn gylte
Why dyd he the to-slon?
Syr Roger, thys haste thou for me:
Allas that evyr Y schulde hyt see!”
Wyth that sche felle in swowne.
When sche myght ryse sche toke hur stede;
Sche durste no lenger dwell for drede
That no man schulde fynde hur thore.
Sche seyde, “Roger, Y see the blede.
Allas who may me wys and lede?
For certen thou mayst no more.”
Hys gode hownde, for weyle nor woo,
Wolde not fro hys maystyr goo
But lay lykyng hys woundys.
He wende to have helyd hym agayne;
Therto he dyd all hys mayne —
Grete kyndenes ys in howndys.
He lykkyd hym tyll he stanke,
Than he began and konne hym thanke
To make a pytt of ston;
And to berye hym was hys purpos,
And scraped on hym bothe ryn and mosse,
And fro hym nevyr wolde gon;
Than levyd they stylle thare.
The quene faste can sche fare
For fere of hur foon;
Sche had grete mornyng in hur herte
For sche wyste not whedurwarde
That sche was beste to goon.
Sche rode forthe, noght forthy,
To the londe of Hongary,
Tyll sche come thedur wyth woo.
When sche come undur a wode syde
Sche myght no lenger abyde,
Hur peynys were so throo;
Sche lyghtyd downe, that was so mylde,
And there sche travaylyd of a chylde,
Hyrselfe allon, wythowtyn moo.
Forthe sche went wyth sorowe ynogh
And tyed hur hors to a bogh,
Tyll the throwes were all ydoo.
A feyre sone had sche borne,
When sche herde the chylde crye hur beforn
Hyt comfortyd hur full swythe;
So when sche hurselfe myght styr,
Sche toke up hur sone to hur
And lapped hyt full lythe.
What for febulnes, wery and woo,
Sche felle aslepe and hur sone alsoo;
Hur stede stode hur behynde.
There come a knyght them full nere
That hyght Syr Barnard messengere,
Huntyng aftur an hynde,
And founde that lady lovely of chere
And hur sone slepyng in fere,
Lyeng undur a lynde.
He put upon that lady bryght,
And sche loked upon that knyght,
And was aferde full sore of hys comyng.
He seyde, “What do ye here, madam?
Fro whens come ye? What ys yowre name?
Why lye ye here nowe?”
“Syr,” sche seyde, “yf ye wyll wytt,
My name at home ys Margaret,
Y swere be God a vowe.
Here have Y mekyll grefe;
Helpe me now at my myschefe,
At some towne that Y were.”
The knyght behelde the ladyes mode
And thoght sche was of gentyll blode,
That in the foreste was bystadd there.
He toke hur up full curtesly
And hur sone that lay hur by
And home he can them lede.
He let hur have wemen at wylle
To tent hur, and that was skylle,
And broght hur to bede.
Whatsoevyr sche wolde crave
All sche myght redyly hyt have,
Hur speche was sone spedd.
They crystenyd the chylde wyth grete honowre
And callyd hyt Tryamowre;
Of hyt they were full gladd.
A norse they gatt hyt untyll
Sche had mekyll of hur wyll;
They dud as sche them badd.
Sche was bothe curtes and hynde,
Every man was hur frynde
And of hur was full gladd.
There dwellyd that lady long,
Moche myrthe was them amonge
But ther gamyd hur no glewe.
Of hyr they were nevyr yrke,
Sche techyd hur sone for to wyrke,
And taght hym evyr newe;
Hur sone that then dwellyd hur wyth,
He was mekyll of boon and lyth,
And feyre of hyde and hewe.
Every man lovyd hym aftur ther estate; 3
They had no cheson hym to hate,
So seyde all that hym knewe.
Leve we stylle at the quene
And of the greyhound we wyll mene
That we before of tolde.
Seven yere, so God me save,
Kepyd he hys maystyrs grave
Tyll that he wexyd olde.
Evyr on hys maystyrs grave he lay;
Ther myght no man gete hym away
For oght that they cowde do,
But yf hyt were onys on the day,
He wolde forthe to gete hys praye,
And sythen ageyne he wolde goo.
Seven yere he levyd there,
Tyll hyt befell agenste the Youle
Upon the fyrste day;
The hounde, as the story says,
Ranne to the kyngys palays
Wythowt ony more delay.
As the kyng at the mete was than,
Into the halle the hound can ren
Amonge the knyghtys gay.
All abowte he can beholde
And when he sawe not that he wolde
He dyd hym faste away.
The hound rennyth evyr, ywys,
Tyl he come there hys maystyr ys;
He fonde not that he soght.
The kynge wondurth in hys wede
Fro when he come and whedur he yede,
And who hym thedur broght.
He thoght that he had sene hym thare
But he wyste not when nor whare,
Forthy then seyde he noght;
But faste bethenkyth he hym then,
For he thoght he schulde hym kenne —
So syttyth he in a thoght.
The tother day on the same wyse,
As the kynge fro the borde can ryse
The hownde spedd not thoo.
All abowte the halle he soght,
But at that tyme he fonde hym noght,
Than dyd he hym faste to goo.
Then seyde the kyng that ylke stounde,
“Me thynkyth that was Syr Roger hounde
That wente wyth hym thoo
When the quene was flemed owt of my londe.”
“Syr,” they seyde, “we undurstonde
For sothe that hyt ys soo!”
The kyng seyde, “What may thys mene?
Y trowe Syr Roger and the quene
Be comen to thys londe,
For nevyr syth they went, ywys,
Sawe Y Syr Roger hounde or thys.
That ys wondur tythand!
When he goth, pursewe hym then,
For evyrmore he wyll renne
Tyll he come there hys maystyr ys.”
The tothyr day among them all
To mete as they were sett in halle
Syr Marrok was there ferre wythynne, ywys.
And the hounde wolde nevyr blynne,
But ranne abowte faste wyth wynne
Tyll he wyth hym metyth.
He starte up verament,
The steward be the throte he hente:
The hownd wrekyd hys maystyrs dethe.
The stewardys lyfe ys lorne —
There was fewe that rewyd theron
And fewe for hym wepyth.
The greyhownde dyd hym sone to go
When hys maystyrs dethe he had venged soo
On hym that wroght hym trayne.
All they folowed hym in that tyde
Some on horsys and some besyde,
Knyghtys, squyers and swayne.
Reste wolde he nevyr have
Tyll he come to hys maystyrs grave
And then turned he agayne.
They myght not gete hym therfro;
He stode at fence ageyn them tho,
But they wolde hym have slayne.
When they sawe no bettyr bote
They turned ageyne on hors and fote,
Wyth grete wondur, Y wene.
They tolde the kyng all thus,
“Allas!” seyde kyng Ardus,
“What may thys be to meene?
Y trowe Syr Marrok, be Goddys payne,
Have slayne Syr Roger be some trayne
And falsely flemyd my quene.
The hound had not Syr Marrok slayne
Had not some treson byn,
Be dereworth God, as Y wene!”
They wente agayne, bothe knyght and knave,
And founde Syr Roger in hys grave
As hole as he was layde.
They toke hym up and leved hym noght,
The corse before the kyng was broght,
That made hys herte sory, as men sayde.
Hys hownde wolde not fro hym fare.
“Allas!” seyde the kyng, “now have Y care,
Thys traytur hath me betrayed.
For he hath slayn an awnturs knyght
And flemyd my quene wythowten ryght
For false tales that he hath me telde.”
The steward also tyte
The kyng let drawe hym, wyth grete dyspyte,
Wyth horsys thorow the towne,
And hanged hym on the galowe tree
That al men myght hyt see,
That he had done treson.
Syr Rogers corse wyth nobull delay
They beryed hyt the tothyr day,
Wyth many a bolde baron.
Hys hownde wolde not fro hym away
But evyr on hys grave he lay
Tyll deth had broght hym downe.
The kyng let sende a messengere
Fro towne to towne, ferre and nere,
Aftur the quene to spye;
For nothyng that they cowde spere
They cowde nevyr of hur here.
Then was the kyng sory:
He seyde, “Now can Y no rede,
For well Y wot that Y am but dedd,
For sorowe Y wyll now dye!
Allas! that sche evyr fro me wente,
Owre false steward hath us schent
Wyth hys false traytory.”
Thus leveth the kyng in sorowe;
Ther may no blys fro bale hym borowe
Tyll he be broght to grounde.
Soche lyfe he leved many a yere,
Wyth mekyll sorowe and evyll chere;
Nothyng may make hym sounde.
Hyt dothe the kyng mekyll payne
When he thenkyth how Syr Roger was slayne,
And then halpe hys hownde;
And of hys quene that was so mylde,
How sche went fro hym grete wyth chylde;
He swownyd that ylke stownde.
And at Syr Roger yende we wyll dwelle,
And of the quene we wyll telle,
And of hur chylde Tryamowre;
He was a moche man and a longe,
In every lym styff and stronge,
And semely of colowre.
Men and wemen dwellyd he among
Yyt wrethyd he nevyr non wyth wrong;
That was hys owne honowre.
In that tyme certaynly
Dyed the kyng of Hungary
And was beryed, ywys.
He had no heyre hys londys to welde
But a doghtyr of seven yerys elde;
Hur name Helyn ys.
Sche was whyte os blossom on flowre,
Mery and comely of colowre,
And semely for to kysse.
When hur fadur was dede
Moche warre began to sprede
Yn hur lande all abowte.
Therfore sche ys gevyn to rede
To take a lorde to rewle and to lede
Hur londe, wyth hys rowte.
A nobull knyght that cowde or myght
Rewle hur londe wyth gode ryght
That men myght drede and dowte.
Hur cownsell wyll that sche do soo,
For grete nede cawsyth hur therto,
And sche answeryd them there on hye
That they schulde faste hur wyth no fere,
But he were prynce or prynceys pere,
Or ellys chefe of chyvalry.
Therfore that lady feyre and gente,
Wyth them wolde sche assente
A justyng for to crye;
And at that justyng schall hyt bee
Who so evyr wynneth the gree
Schall wedde hur wyth ryalté.
A day of justyng was ther sett;
Halfe a yere, no lenger, they lett
To be thore at that day
That they myght have there a space,
Knyghtys of dyvers a place,
And no lenger delay.
Knyghtys of dyvers londys,
When they harde of these tythandys
They gysed them full gay.
Of every londe the beste,
Thedur they rode wythowten reste,
Full wele arayed and dyght;
Some therselfe for to assay,
And some to wynne that feyre may
That semely was in syght.
Mekyll was the chevalry
That then come to Hungary,
To go juste wyth ther myght.
When Tryamowre herde telle of thys tythand,
Of that justyng in that londe
Schulde hastely begynne,
Yf he wyste that hyt wolde gayne,
He wolde purvey hym full fayne
That lady for to wynne.
He had nothyr hors nor spere
Nor no wepyn hym wyth to were;
That brake hys herte wythynne.
Faste he bethynkyth hym bothe evyn and morow
Where hym were beste to borowe,
Arste wolde he not blynne.
To hys lorde he can meene,
And preyed hym that he wolde hym leene
Wepyn, armowre and stede,
“For at the justyng wolde Y bene
To kythe me wyth the knyghtys kene,
My body for to blede!”
Syr Barnard seyde, “What haste thou thoght?
Of justyng canste thou ryght noght,
For thou art not of age.”
“Syr,” he seyde, “what wott ye
Of what strenkyth that Y bee
Or Y be provyd in felde wyth the sage?”
Barnarde seyde also hynde,
“Tryamowre, syn ye wyll wynde,
Ye schall wante no wede
For Y schall lende the all my gere,
Hors and harnes, schylde and spere,
And helpe the at thy nede.”
Then was Tryamowre full blythe;
He thanked Bernard fele sythe
Of hys feyre proferynge.
Before the justyng schulde bee,
The chylde wente to hys modur free
And preyed hur of hur blessynge.
Sche wolde have had hym at home fayne,
But ther myght no speche gayne,
Ther myght be no lettynge.
Sone on the morne when hyt was day
Tryamowre was gysed full gay,
Redyly armyd and dyght.
When he was armed on a stede
He was a mykell man of brede
And also moche man of myght.
Tryamowre to the felde rydeth;
Barnard no lenger abydeth
But rode wyth hym full ryght.
Ther was no prynce that day in felde
That was so semely undur schylde
Nor bettur besemyd a knyght.
Then was that lady sett
Hye up in a garett,
To beholde that play.
There was many a nobull knyght
And prynceys proved in that fyght
And themselfe to assay.
Wyth helmes and armowre bryght
That felde schon as candull lyght,
So were they dyght gay.
There was mekyll pres in pryde
When eche man began to ryde —
Knyghtys of grete renowne.
Hyt befelle Tryamowre in that tyde
To be on hys fadurs syde,
The kyng of Arragon.
The fyrste that rode noght forthy
Was the kyng of Lumbardy,
A man of grete renowne,
And Tryamowre rode hym ageyn:
Thogh he were mekyll man of mayne,
The chylde broght hym downe.
The kyngys sone of Armony,
On a stede, wyth grete envy,
To Tryamowre he ranne;
And Tryamowre turnyd forthy
And justyd wyth hym pertly
And downe he bare hym than.
Then seyde Barnard wyth gret honowre
“A Tryamowre! A Tryamowre!”
That men myght hym kenne.
Maydyn Elyn, that was so mylde,
More sche behelde that chylde
Then all othur men.
Then was ther a bachylere,
A prowde prynce wythowtyn pere,
Syr James he hyght,
The emperoure sone of Almayne.
He rode Syr Tryamowre agayne,
And he kepyd hym full ryght;
Ayther on other sperys braste
But neyther to the grounde was caste,
Bothe ware they men of myght.
But Syr James had soche a chopp
That he wyste not, be my toppe,
Whethur hyt were day or nyght.
Thus they justyd tyll hyt was nyght
Then they departyd in plyght:
They had nede to reste.
Sone on the morne, when hyt was day,
The knyghtys gysed them full gay
And proved them full preste.
Then, wythowtyn more abode,
Every knyght to odur rode
And sykurly can they stryke and threste.
Tryamowre rode forthe in haste
And prekyd among the oost
Upon the tother syde;
The fyrste that rode to hym thon
Was the kynge of Arragon
He kepeyd hym in that tyde.
He gaf hys fadur soche a clowte
That hors and man felle down wythowt dowte
And sone he was dyscryed.
Syr Asseryn, the kyngys sone of Naverne,
Wolde nevyr man hys body warne, 4
He come hym ageyne.
He hyt hym on the helme soo,
Soche a strokk he gaf hym tho,
That all men hyt syen.
The blode braste owt at hys eerys
And hys stede to grownde he berys —
Then was Syr Barnard fayne!
Then that lady of grete honowre,
Whyte os lylly flowre, —
Hur love was on hym lente.
They sesyd not tyll hyt was nyght
And then they departyd them in plyght
And to ther ynnys they wente.
The nyght was paste, the day was come,
Every knyght hys hors hath nome, —
Some were wey and on wylde.
The Dewke of Sysell, Syr Sywere,
He was the furste in that were
That fared forthe to the felde.
Syr Tryamowre toke to hym a spere,
To the dewke he can hyt bere,
And hyt hym on the schylde
And togedur they wente,
That hyt bowed and bente,
So ferse he was in felde!
And at that tyme, as Y yow hente,
Many a lovely lady gente
Full faste them behelde.
The Dewke of Lythyr, Syr Tyrre,
He prekyd forthe full pertly
Tryamowre to assayle.
Tryamowre turned hym belyve,
To the dewke can he dryve
But lothe he was to fayle;
Soche a strokk he gaf hym then
That the dewke bothe hors and man
Turned toppe ovyr tayle!
Then rode to hym the Dewke of Aymere;
He servyd hym on the same manere, —
Ther myght no thyng avayle!
Kyng Ardus rode forthe in pres;
The Emperours sone, Syr James,
A spere spendyd he thare.
He prekyd to the kyng wyth fors
And bare hym downe of hys hors
And hath hym hurted sare.
Then Tryamowre was fayne.
Then he pryked to James of Almayn
As kene as ony bore.
So harde to hym can he caste
That schylde and spere all to-braste;
Then myght James no more.
Tryamowre wolde nevyr have reste
But bare hym boldely to the beste —
That was moost of honowre.
To ylke a prynce he was preste,
Hors and man downe he caste,
So styrde he hym in that stowre.
Ther was none so gode as he,
Therfore they grauntyd hym the gree,
That hyght Tryamowre.
Than hath that lady gente
Chosyn hym wyth comyns assente
To be hur governowre.
Than began the justyng to cese
And Tryamowre wened to have had pese,
And onarmed hym also tyte.
The Emperours sone, Syr James,
Wyth grete pryde aftur hym can pres,
Of hym he had grete dyspyte;
To Tryamowre can he crye,
“Yelde the thefe, or thou schalt dye.
Thou schalt not go qwyte!”
Tho seyde Tryamowre wyth grete envy,
“Syth Y am demed to dye,
Some stroke wyll Y smyte.”
Ther was no lenger let;
On ylke a syde they hym beset
And gaf hym many a wounde.
Tryamowre sturde hym so there
That whosoevyr he come nere
He was nevyr aftur sownde.
Syr Barnard was of myght
And halpe Syr Tryamowre to fyght,
And styrde hym in that stownde.
Kyng Argus of Arragon
Come rydyng to the towne
And sawe them fyght in fere.
Hyt dud the kyng mekyll grefe
When he sawe the chylde at myschefe
That was hym leve and dere.
Than halpe he Tryamowre
And broght hym gode socowre.
Men that of myght were
Then began a strong stowre;
Ther was no lenger socowre
But every man to hys pere.
Syr James was prowde and preste,
Among the knyghtys can he thruste —
At Tryamowre had he tene.
Styfly he stroke in that stownde
And gaf Tryamowre a wyckyd wounde
Thorowowt the flanke, Y wene.
Then was Tryamowre owt of hys wytt.
Syr James on the hedd he hytt
Tyll he felle downe at that stede.
When Syr James to the grownd was caste,
Hys men were aferde and fledd faste
And morned for drede.
Tryamowre was hurte sore
That fyght myght he no more,
So byttyrly can he blede.
Tryamowre made no lenger lettyng
But takyth hys leve at the kyng
And thankyd hym for hys feyre dede.
And nevyr wolde he blynne
Tyll he come to Syr Barnardys town wythynne,
And to hys modur he yede.
That lady sorowed in hur wede
When sche sawe hur sone blede,
That all wan was hur blee and hur blode.
Tryamowre kyssed hys modur in hye
And seyde, “Modur, let be yowre crye;
Me eylyth nothyng but gode.”
A leche was sent aftur in that stownde
For to serche the chyldys wounde
And for to stawnche the chyldys blode.
Tryamowre he undurtoke belyve
To save hym upon hys lyfe,
Then mendyd hys modurs mode.
The tother knyghtys, the boke says,
Prekyd to the palays
The lady for to here.
Knyghtys apperyd to hur prest,
Then myght sche chose of the beste
Whych that hur wylle were.
Tho knyghtys behelde that free
But Tryamowre can sche not see,
Then chaungyd hur chere.
Sche seyde, “Lordyngys, where ys hee
That yysturday wan the gree?
I chese hym to my fere.”
All that stode there thay soght
But Tryamowre fonde they noght;
Then was that lady woo.
Hur barons were before hur broght
Sche prayed them to graunt hur hur thoght:
Respyte of yerys two.
Sche seyde, “Lordyngys, so God me save
He that me wan, he schall me have.
Ye wot wele yowre crye was so.”
The lordys assentyd wele ther tylle
For sche seyde nothyng but skylle
And that sche wolde no moo.
When thys was grauntyd verament,
Of all the folke the lady gente
Wolde none but Tryamowre.
Every prynce in hys present
Home to mete there thay went;
There dyd they lytyll honowre.
Syr James men were not fayne
For ther lorde was slayne
That was so strong in stowre.
And in a chare they hym layne
And ladd hym home into Almayne
To hys fadur the Emperowre.
The Emperowre felle downe in swown
When they hys sone broght hym beforn
And seyde, “Who hath hym slayne?”
They seyde, “We wott not what he ys,
But Tryamowre he hyght, ywys.
Ther was none there so moche of mayne.
The kyng of Arragon alsoo
He halpe hym yowre sone to sloo
And also all hys pres!”
“Allas!” seyde the Emperowre,
“Tyll Y be venged of Tryamowre
Schall Y nevyr cese!
Kyng Ardus and Tryamowre
They schall abye full sore
The dethe of Syr James!”
The Emperowre verament
Aftur helpe he hath sente
Prynces proved in pres.
The kyng then was sore adredd,
For the Emperowre soche power hadd
And wolde hym batayle bede.
He sawe hys londe ovyr spradd;
To a castell hymselfe fledd
And vetaylyd hyt for drede.
The Emperowre was full stowte
And beseged the castell abowte
And spradd hys baners in haste,
And gaf a sawte to the holde.
Kyng Ardus was stowte and bolde
And defendyd hym full faste.
Kyng Ardus fendyd hys wonys —
Wondur grete were the stonys
That they there owt cowde caste;
They brake of some bothe back and bonys,
So they farde every day onys.
The sawte dud six dayes laste.
The kyng thoght that full stronge
To be beseged so longe
That he wyste not what to do;
Two barons on hys message he sente
And to the Emperowre they went
And prayed hym of reste thoo.
“Syr, ye wyte owre kyng wyth wronge,
For he nevyr Syr James slowe at none honde,
He wyll hymselfe qwyte full fayne;
Nor he was not in present,
Nor wyth hys wylle, nor wyth hys assent,
Was not Syr James slayne.
That wyll he do betwene yow two,
Yowreselfe and he, yf ye wyll soo,
Yf ye hyt on hym wyll say;
Or ellys to take yow a knyght,
And he to take anodur to fyght,
Be a certayne day:
And yf yowre knyght happyn soo
To be scowmfetyd or be sloo
Os hyt wyll be may,
He wyll put hym yn yowre wylle,
To make yowre pees, as hyt ys skylle,
Wythowtyn more delay.
And yf hyt so betyde,
That the knyght of owre syde
May sle yowrys wyth chawnce,
He preyeth yow that ye wyll cese
And let owre londys be in pees
Wythowtyn any dystawnce.”
The Emperowre, wythowt fayle,
Toke the day of batayle
Wyth the kyng at that chawnce,
For he had a champyon,
In every londe of moste renown, —
In hym was hys fyawnce.
When pese was cryed and day tan,
Kyng Ardus was a joyfull man;
He trystyd on Tryamowre.
He sende to seke hym wythowtyn fayle
Agayne the day of batayle,
For hys dere socowre.
The messengere ys come and gone
But tydyngys of Tryamowre herde he none;
The kyng began to lowre.
“Yf he be dedd,” he seyth, “allas!
Who schall fyght wyth Moradas,
That ys so styffe in stowre?”
Whan Tryamowre was hole and sownde
And coverde of hys grevus wounde,
He busked hym to fare.
“Moder,” he seyde wyth mylde chere,
“Wyste Y who my fadur were,
The lasse were my care!”
“Sone,” sche seyde, “wele schalt thou wytt
When thou haste done that thou hett,
Be God that for us dye can!”
“Modur,” he seyde, “yf ye wyll soo,
Have gode day, for Y wyll goo
And speke wyth my lemman.”
Tryamowre rode ovyr dale and downe
Into the londe of Arragon,
Awnturs to seke and see.
As he come rydyng in a foreste
He sawe many a wylde beste,
And had howndys thre.
To a herte he let renne;
Twelve fosters dyscryed hym then,
That were kepars of that fee.
They lapped hym in on every syde;
Ther was no bote but to abyde,
But loth was hym to flee.
He bad a wedd nevyrthelesse
And preyed them that he myght passe
Yf he had trespaste oght.
Then swere the fosters all twelve,
They wolde no wedd but hymselfe,
Othurwes be hyt noght;
“Soche ys the lawe of thys londe
That ye muste lese yowre ryght honde,
Othur may hyt be noght!”
Then seyde Tryamowre, wyth herte throo,
“That wedd ys me lothe to forgoo,
But hyt be dere boght.”
There was noght ellys to say,
But all the fosters to hym cun lay
Wyth sterne worde and mode;
But sone of pees they hym pray.
Ther wente but oon on lyve away;
There had they lytyll gode.
When they were betyn to the growndys,
Tryamowre wente to seke hys howndys
And wolde not leve them soo,
Tyll he come to a watur syde —
There he sawe the beste abyde,
And had slayn hys howndys twoo.
The thrydd hownde fyghtyng he fyndys,
The beste stroke hym wyth hys tyndys
And Tryamowre was full woo.
He stroke hys hors into the rever,
Ho socowrd hys hownde and slew the dere.
Hys bewgull blewe he tho.
The kyng soyournyd in that tyde
At a maner there besyde,
And herde a bewgull blowe.
All that were in the halle
Wondurd, bothe gret and small,
For no man dud hyt knowe!
Wyth that come a foster,
Certenly wyth a fowle chere,
Into the kyngys halle, Y trowe;
The kyng at hym can frayne,
“Syr,” he seyde, “yowre men ar slayne,
Alle nyn on a rowe!”
Than he tolde a tale trewe,
That was he that the horne blewe
That thys wondur hath wroght.
“Twenty men were full fewe
To take the knyght, he ys soche a schrewe,
But hyt were dere boght!”
Kyng Ardus seyde then,
“Y have mystur of soche a man;
God hath hym hedur broght.
Full well Y am begone,
Y trowe God hath me sent won
That shall Moradas bryng to noght.”
The kyng callyd knyghtys fyve
And bad them go belyve
And fynde hym at hys play;
“No evull worde to hym ye nevyn
But sey to hym wyth mylde stevyn,
He wyll not sey yow nay!”
Anon the knyghtys ther horsys hente
And to the wode then they went
To seke aftur the chylde.
They fonde hym be a water syde;
He sate and fedd hys howndys in that tyde
Wyth the beest so wylde.
They seyde, “God be at yowre game.”
He seyde, “Welcome all same.”
He lete hym selfe then be gylyd.
They seyde, “Syr, ys hyt thy wylle
To come and speke owre kyng tyll,
Wyth wordys meke and mylde?”
Tryamowre asked them full hende,
“Syr,” he seyde, “what hyght yowre kyng
And what hyght hys londe?”
“Thys londe,” they seyde, “hyght Arragon,
The kyng hyght Ardus wyth crowne,
Hys place ys nere-honde.”
When Tryamowre come into the halle
He haylesed the kyng and sythen all;
He knewe hym at that syght.
The kyng toke hym be the hande
And made hym glad semelande
And asked hym what he hyght.
“Syr,” he seyde, “Y hyght Tryamowre,
Ye halpe me onys in a stowre,
Ye feynyd yow not to fyght;
Had ye not byn, Y had be slayne
Wyth the Emperowrs sone of Almayne.
Ye knewe wele that knyght.”
The kyng wyste wele that hyt was he,
He kyssyd hym tymes thre;
And terys let he falle;
He seyde, “Welcome ye bee!
Grete blame Y have sofurd for the.”
And sythen he tolde hym all.
“Wyth the Emperowre Y have takyn a day
To defende me yf Y may.
To Jhesu wolde Y calle;
Os Y nevyr Syr James sloo,
He delyvyr me of woo,
And so Y trowe He schall.”
Tryamowre seyde, “Y am full woo
That thou art for me anoyed soo,
Yf Y myght hyt amende.
At the day of batayll forthy
Ther schall no man fyght but Y,
Take the grace that God wyll sende.”
Then was the kyng bothe blythe and gladd,
And seyde, “For Moradas Y am not adrad
To batayle when he schall wende.
Ofte Y made men aftur yow to spere
But myght Y not of yow here —
My ryght schall thou defende.”
Than dwellyd they togedur same
Wyth mekyll joye and game,
Therof they wantyd ryght noght.
They went on hawkyng be the rever
And other whyle to take the dere
Where that they gode thoght,
Tyll the day of batayll was comen
That they had before nomen,
Then the Emperowre thedur soght.
Wyth hym he broght kyng and knyght;
And Moradas that was so wyght,
To batayle was he broght.
Bothe the partys there were harde
And sythen to the felde they farde
The place was barryd and dyght.
The kyng comfortyd Tryamowre.
For sothe, or he went to the stowre,
He made hym a knyght.
The kyng kyste hym and seyde hym full feyre,
“Tryamowre, Y make the myn heyre,
And for me thou schalt fyght!”
“Syr,” he seyde, “have thou no drede,
Y tryste in God that He schall me spede,
He standyth wyth the ryght.”
Then bothe the partyes swore
To holde the covenaunt they made before;
To Jhesu can they calle.
Syr Tryamowre and Moradas
Wery redy armed in that place
And broght among them all.
Ayther were armed on a stede;
Of Tryamowre was grete drede —
Ther was non so hynde in halle.
Moradas was so styff in stowre
Ther myght no man hys dyntys dewre,
But he made them to falle.
Than rode they two togedur aryght,
Wyth scharp sperys and swerdys bryght
Thay smote togedur sore.
Ther sperys they spendyd and brake schyldys;
The pecys flewe into the feldys —
Grete dyntys dud they dele thore.
All had wondur that there were,
Olde, yonge and chylde, Y swere,
So sore they dud smyte.
Tryamowre thoght hyt schulde be qwytt,
He faylyd of hym, hys hors he hytt,
To hys herte hys spere can byte.
Moradas seyde, “Hyt ys grete schame
On a hors to wreke thy grame!”
Tryamowre seyde as tyte:
“Levyr Y had to have hyt the.
Have my hors and let me bee,
Y am lothe to flyte.”
Moradas seyde, “Y wyll hym noght
Tyll thou have that strok boght,
And wynne hym wyth ryght.”
Than leved Tryamowre hys stede;
He lyghtyd downe and to hym yede —
On fote can they fyght;
Tryamowre sparyd hym noght
But evyr in hys hert he thoght,
“Today was Y maked knyght!
Owthyr schall he sle me sone,
Or on hym Y schall wynne my schone,
Thorow the grace of God almyght.”
Grete wondur hyt was to see them two,
The strokys that were betwene them tho,
So harde on helme they hewe.
Moradas was forfoghtyn and forbledd,
Therfore ho was nevyr so sore adredd;
Hym gamed lytyll glewe.
Tryamowre was then ferse:
Thorowowt the armour into the flesche
He gaf hym a wounde newe.
Thorow hys herte the swerde ranne;
The Emperowre was then a sory man
And Moradas asked trewe.
He kyssyd the Kyng and was hys frende
And toke hys leve for to wende,
No lenger wolde he dwelle.
Kyng Ardus and Tryamowre
Were ledd home wyth honowre,
For sothe as Y yow telle.
All that yn that cyté were,
Bothe lesse and more,
Hym presed for to see.
There were they wythowtyn care,
Wyth glad semeland and welfare;
Ther myght no bettur bee.
Grete was the honowre and the renowne
That he had in Arragon
For hys feyre dede.
The Kyng profurd hym full feyre,
“Tryamowre, Y make the myn heyre
Of londe and of lede.”
“Syr,” he seyde, “gramercy, nay,
Efte togedur speke we may,
Y aske yow but a stede:
To other londys wyll Y spere,
More of awnturs for to here
And who dothe beste yn dede.”
There he dwellyd whyll he wolde;
The Kyng gave hym bothe sylver and golde
That ryche gyftys were.
Gode horsys wantyd he noght
To take or to leve whethur he thoght,
And all hys other gere.
He toke hys leve at the kynge
And kyssed hym at hys partyng;
The Kyngys herte was full sore.
He seyde, “Tryamowre, all that ys myne,
When thou wylt, hyt schall be thyn,
My londe lesse and more.”
Now ys Tryamowre wente,
Hym selfe ys in gode atente
For every man ys hys frende.
Yn to every londe, ferre and nere,
Where he myght of awnturs here,
Thedur can he wende.
In all londys he had the gree,
Ther was none so gode as hee
Of all the knyghtys hende.
Therfore gate he grete name
Yn every londe there he came,
In all placys where he can wende.
Justyng and turnamentys let he bee
And in to Hungary wende wyll hee,
For no man wyll he lett.
Betwene two mowntayns was hys way;
He went forthe as the strete lay,
Wyth a palmer he mett;
He askyd hym gode for charyte,
Tryamowre gaf hym wyth hert free.
The palmer for hym can grete;
He seyde, “Syr, turne agayne,
For or ye passe the mowntayne
Ye schall be slayne or bete!”
Tryamowre asked hym, “How soo?”
“Syr,” he seyde, “for brethur twoo
That on thys mowntayn can dwelle.
Therfore Y prey yow wyth herte fayne
That ye wyll turne ageyne,
For drede hyt ys wyth them to melle!”
Then seyde Tryamowre, “But they were moo,
Owt of my wey wyll Y not goo,
Yf they were devyls of helle!”
He seyde, “Palmer, have gode day.”
And went forthe on hys way
Os faste os he cowde ryde.
He had not redyn but a whyle,
Not the mowntans of a myle,
Two knyghtys sawe he hove and abyde;
The toon rode hym untyll,
The tother hovedd on an hylle
A lytull there besyde.
The toon hoved and behelde
The strokys they gaf undur schylde;
Gret wondur had hee!
Betwene them can he ryde
And preyed them to abyde
And sone then let they bee.
To Tryamowre he seyde anon,
“So strong a knyght sawe Y nevyr non,
Thy name anon telle thou me.”
Seyde Tryamowre, “Then wolde Y fayn wytt
Why ye two kepe thys strett,
And sythen Y schall telle the.”
The tother brothur seyde, “We schall yow tell,
For thys cheson here we dwelle,
And wroght all thys woo.
We had a brodur they callyd Moradas,
Wyth the Emperowre he was
A stalworth man ynogh.
In Arragon, for the Emperowre,
A knyght they callyd Tryamowre
In batayll dud hym sloo!
Yf we wyth hym mett,
Therfore kepe we thys strett.”
And Tryamowre logh thoo.
“And also, Y say another:
Burlonde owre other brother,
The man moost of myght,
He besegeth a lady,
The kyngys doghtyr of Hungary,
To wedd hur hath he hyght.
And so well then hath he spedd,
That for sothe he schall hur wedd,
Syr Burlonde that knyght,
But yf sche fynde may
To defende hur, os Y yow say,
A man of armes bryght;
Therfore sche hath takyn a day,
Certenly, os Y yow say,
And waged hur glove for to fyght.
And that same Tryamowre
Loveth that lady peramowre,
As hyt ys me tolde,
And sche hath aftur hym sente
And we have waytyd hym verament
And slayne hur barons bolde;
And yf he wyll to Hungary,
Thus forthe schall hys way lye,
And sle hym fayne we wolde.
He hath hur socowre hett
Yf we may, we schall hym lett,
Y trowe hyt schall not holde. 5
And yf sche at hur day fayle,
Ther schall no thyng hur avayle
But Burlonde schall hur wedd,
And Tryamowre noght, we kenne.
Wherefore ther passyth here no men
Wyth strenkyth but they be kedd.
Now have we the cheson tolde,
Thy ryght name wytt fayne we wolde
And be thou not adredd.
Thou schalt dwelle here wyth us twoo
And yf thou wylt not soo,
Evyll then haste thou spedd!”
“Spede,” seyde Tryamowre, “as Y may,
Whyll Y have behett yow for to say
My name schall Y not layne.
Yowre jurnay may ye thynk well sett:
Wyth the man have ye mett
That yowre brothur hath slayne.
And ye wyll geve me leve to goo,
Wyth Burlonde wyll Y fyght so,
For hur love that ye sayne!”
“Welcome,” they seyde, “Tryamowre,
Hur love thou schalt bye full sore,
Nothyng may the gayne!”
They smote togedur wyth hert throo
And he allone ageyne them twoo,
To fyght he was full preste.
Ther armowre myght not gayne,
Bothe thorowowt back and bone
He made the blode to owtbreste.
Grete strokys they gaf amonge
And that lasted wondur longe
Wythowtyn any reste.
So faste abowte conne they goo
That they wroght hym mekyll woo,
As Y yow say, be Goddys est!
Tryamowrs hors was sekur, ywys,
And hys schylde flewe all to pecys,
So harde to hym they yede.
ln that tyme ther was not soche thre,
Gret wondur hyt was to see,
So doghty they were in dede.
But Tryamowre, at the laste,
The too brothur downe he caste,
Then had the tothur mekyll drede.
No lengur there then wolde he byde
But rode forthe there a lytull besyde
And hovedd on hys stede.
Sone had Tryamowre slayn the tother,
A sory man was hys brothur
And wolde be venged fayne;
“Take the grace that God wyll sende me,
Me ys levyr to dye then flee.”
Wyth that he turned agayne.
Wyth hys swerde to hym he yede,
And slew Syr Tryamowrs stede,
Full mekyll was hys mayne.
Syr Tryamowre faght on fote,
What schall we more of hym mote?
The tothur brothur was slayne.
Tryamowre takyth the knyghtys stede,
For that lady he was in drede
For sche besegedd lay.
The lady had so grete thoght
For Tryamowre came noght,
Sche wyste not what to say.
The day was come that was sett,
Lordus come, as they hett,
Many oon stowte and gay.
Burlonde was there redy dyght
And bad hur brynge forthe hur knyght
And sche seyde schortly, ‘Nay.”
In the castell had sche hyt hyght
To defende hur wyth all hur myght,
So as hur counsayle radd;
“Certys, yf Tryamowre be on lyfe,
Wyth Goddys grace he schall come belyve;
Wyth enemyes Y am bestadd!
For Y trowe he loveth me wele
And trewe he ys as any stele.
In worlde where evyr he be bestedd,
And he wyste of thys case,
Hyddur he wolde take hys pase —
My lyfe dar Y lay to wedd.”
And ryght wyth that come Tryamowre
ln the moost of that stowre,
Then gamed hym no glee.
He asked a man what hyt myght meene
And he tolde hym all bedeene
How the batayle schulde bee.
He sawe Burlonde on hors hove,
He rode to hym and waged hys glove;
That lady chalenged hee. 6
Sayde Tryamowre, “Who so wyll fyght,
Y am redy in my ryght
To slee hym or he mee!”
The lady on a towre stode
And sche wende that he had ben wode
For sche knewe not hys myght.
Sche asked Barnarde then,
“Syr, can not ye a knyght kenne
That ys to batayle dyght?
A kreste he beryth in blewe.”
Syr Barnarde then hym knewe
And seyde at that syght,
“Madam, God hath sent yow socowre,
For yondur ys Syr Tryamowre,
That wyth Burlonde wolde fyght.”
Then was that lady full fayne,
Bothe to Jhesu can they prayne
To gyf hym grace to spede.
Tryamowre to hym berys,
And they all to-braste ther sperys,
That bothe to the grownde they yede.
That ylke metyng was so throo
When bothe to the grownde conne goo,
The rychest in wede.
They settyd strokes of mode,
When they bothe to the grownde yode,
They were bothe doghty in dede.
They start up bothe wythyn a whyle,
Ther stedys on the grownde lay full styll;
On fote they faght in fere.
Ther was none in felde thoo
That cowde chese the bettur of them twoo,
So boldely they them bere.
The batayle lasted wondur longe,
They seyde, “Be Burlonde nevyr so stronge,
He hath fonde hys pere.”
Wyth swerdys scharpe the faght faste,
At ylke stroke the fyre owt braste —
They nyghed wondur nere.
Tryamowre at hym conne mynte;
Hys swerde felle fro hym at that dynte.
To the grownde can hyt goo.
Then was Burlonde full gladd
And that lady was sore adradd,
Knyghtys were full woo!
Tryamowre asked hys swerde agayne
But Burlonde faste can hym frayne,
Then seyde he to hym soo:
“Telle trewly what thou hyght,
And why thou chalangyst that lady bryght,
And take thy swerde the too.”
Sayde Tryamowre, “On that covenaund
My ryght name schall Y not wande
Ware thou the devyll of helle!
Men calle me Syr Tryamowre,
Y wanne thys lady in a stowre,
Wyth tonge as Y the telle!”
Then seyde Burlonde, “Thou hyt was
That slewe my brodur Moradas;
A feyre chawnce there the befelle.”
Tho seyde Tryamowre, wyth hert throo,
“So Y dud thy brethur twoo
That dwellyd upon the yondur hylle.’”
Then was Burlond all preste,
“Tryamowre have thou no reste.
Now am Y well bethoght;
Thy swerde getyst thou nevyr agayne,
Tyll Y be venged or be slayne,
Sorowe haste thou soght!”
Tho seyde Tryamowre, “Holde thou thy pese,
That schall the rewe or that we cese.
Go forthe! Y drede the noght!”
Burlond to fyght was bowne;
Hys fote schett and he felle downe,
And Tryamowre wylyly wroght.
Tryamowre hys swerde he hente
And agayne to Burlond he wente
And servyd hym on the newe gyse.
He smote Burlond of be the kneys
And hewe hys leggys all in pecys
Ryght as he schulde ryse.
“A lytull lower, syr,” seyde hee,
“And let us small go wyth thee;
Now are we bothe at oon assyse!”
A lowde laghtur that lady logh
And Syr Barnard was prowde ynogh
And thanked God fele sythes.
Burlonde on hys stompus stode,
Wyte hym not yf he were wode,
Then faght he wondur faste!
Tryamowre on the hedd he hytt;
He had gevyn hym an evull smytt
But hys swerde braste.
Tryamowre seyde to hym full sone:
“Thy gode dayes are nere done,
Thy power ys nere paste!”
Tryamowre at hym can stryke
That hedd and fete lay bothe in lyke,
To grownde was he caste.
Now ys Burlonde slayne,
And Tryamowre, mekyll of mayne,
To the castell ys he wente.
That lady that was so mekyll of myght,
At the gate she kepyd the knyght
And in hur armes hym hente.
Sche seyde, “Welcome, Syr Tryamowre,
Ye have boght my love full sowre!
My love ys on yow lente!”
Then seyde all the barons bolde,
“Of hym we wyll owre londes holde
Be the comyns assent.”
Then was ther no nother to say
But takyn they have another day
That he schulde hur wedd.
Tryamowre had aftur hys modur sente;
Barnard aftur hur was went
And to the cowrte hur ledd.
Tryamowre seyde to hys modur then,
“Now Y wolde my fadur kenne,
For now have we well spedd!
Telle me now, modur free,
Who ys my fadur and what hyt hee?
For nothyng be ye adredd.”
Hys modur togedur hur fyngers can folde
And all togedur sche hym tolde
And mekyll sche can hym meene.
“Kyng Ardus of Arragone,
He ys thy fadur, and thou art hys sone,
And Y was hys weddyd qwene;
And afturward Y was delefully demydd,
And owt of that londe Y was flemydd.
Y nevyr wyste what hyt myght meene,
Why hyt was, nothur wherefore,
Nothur myght hyt wete lesse nor more,
But Y was broght in tene!”
When Tryamowre thys tale herde,
How he wyth hys modur farde,
Letturs he dudd wryte;
To the kyng he sente them tylle
And preyed hym, yf hyt were hys wylle,
That he faylyd hym not at that tyde,
But that he wolde come to Hungary
For to worschyp that mangery;
Therof he hym besoght.
Then was the kyng wondur gladd,
The messengere gode gyftys hadd
That the tythyngys broght.
The day was come that was sett
The kyng come as he hadd hett,
Wyth mekyll pres in pryde.
The lordys wolde no lenger lett;
The maydyn forthe was fett
And erlys on ylke a syde.
The lady to the churche they ledd,
A byschopp togedur them to wedd,
Yn herte ys not to hyde;
And sone aftur the weddynge
They crowned Tryamowre kynge;
They wolde no lenger abyde.
Ye may well wytt certeynly
That there was a grete mangery,
There as so many were mett:
Qwene Margaret began the deyse,
Kyng Ardus, wythowtyn lees,
Be hur was he sett.
The kyng behelde the qwene,
Hym thoght that he schulde hur have seene,
Wyth glad chere he hur grett:
“Yf hyt be yowre wylle,” he seyde, “Madam,
Telle me what ys yowre name,
For nothynge that ye lett.”
“Syr,” seyde the qwene then,
“Some tyme was ye cowde me kenne,
And ye were well bethoght.”
The kyng spake not oon worde
Tyll men had etyn and drawen the borde,
But stylle he satt in thoght.
Then the kyng toke the lady gente
And to a chaumbur anon they went.
Syr Tryamowre dud they calle.
Sche seyde, “Here ys yowre sone,
Knowe hym yf ye konne.”
And sythen sche tolde hym all.
Sche tolde how Marrok wowyd hur in dede
Aftur that hur lorde yede,
For nothyng wolde he spare.
“Y seyde he schulde be drawe
For hys sory sawe,
And he seyde he wolde no mare!
Aftur that, in that wode so wylde,
He mett me and Y wyth chylde;
To fordo me thoght he thare,
And Syr Roger slewe of hys men fiftene.
And Y went away full clene,
They wyste nevyr whare.
Sone aftur in a wode so wylde
Y was delyvyr of a chylde,
Wyth mekyll sorowe and care;
Then come Syr Barnard
Aftur a dere full harde,
And of me he was ware.
“He seyde, ‘Dame, what doyst thou here?’
And hym Y tolde of my matere;
Then syghed he full sore
He toke up my sone and mee
And ledd us home wyth herte free
And evyr sythen have we byn thore.”
Then was there joye and blys,
To see them togedur kysse
Full ofte, or they cowde cese.
Kyng Ardus was nevyr so blythe,
He kyssyd Tryamowre twenty sythe,
And for hys sone he hym chese.
Then the qwene was full gladd,
That sche soche a lorde hadd,
Ye wott, wythowtyn lees.
Sche seyde, “Y have well spedd
That soche a lorde hath me wedd
That beryth the pryce in prees.”
Then dwellyd they bothe in fere
Wyth all maner deynteys that were dere,
Wyth solas on every syde.
Kyng Ardus toke hys leve and wente
And ledd wyth hym hys lady gente,
Home rychely conne they ryde.
All hys londe was full fayne
That the qwene was come ageyn,
The worde spronge full wyde.
Kynge Ardus and hys wyfe
Wyth joye and blys they ladd ther lyfe,
Yn hert hyt ys noght to hyde.
Kyng Tryamowre and hys qwene,
Mekyll joye was them betwene;
Man chylder had they twoo.
Aftur that hys fadur was dedd
Then he cowde no nothur redd,
Ywys he was full woo!
Hys yongyst sone then ordeygned hee
Aftur hys fadur kynge to bee,
God grawnt hym wele to rejoyse!
Here endyth Syr Tryamowre,
That was doghty in every stowre,
And evyr wanne the gree, as the boke seys.
God bryng us to that blys
That evyr schall laste wythowt mys.
Amen, amen, for charytee!
very much; gentle
steel in wood; (see note)
from; (see note)
Privately; worried; (see note)
If he might change her mind
trust; entrusted; (see note)
liberal; (see note)
lie in wait for
inquiries; prepare you
No pastime shall amuse you
extremely ill satisfied
war in behalf of
[she] told; tidings; (see note)
after you went
in the act
Before; (see note)
I ran angrily
promised me land and rent (income)
put to death
burn; slay; (see note)
Because it might be a sin
I will not cease until it is accomplished
had her dressed; clothes
by their agreement
go; (see note)
He gave them, [I tell you] without lie
also; (see note)
Very much he would like to kill her
deaths; pay for
dearly pay for
They were requited of (revenged on) him
hound; (see note)
beset (under attack)
Forty; did throw
in armor; certainly
may evil come to him
knew not how to proceed
wicked; (see note)
saw; had gone
you kill altogether
you have done this for me
all he could
buried him; bark; (see note)
Then remained; there unmoving
gave birth to
Who was called; (see note)
servants as she wished
Her bidding was quickly accomplished
much of what she wanted
pleased her; merriment
always new (things)
great; bone; limb
fair of skin; color
then; go (return)
at; Yule; (see note)
By precious; suppose
As intact as when he was buried; (see note)
had him drawn; hatred
corpse; great pomp
buried it; next
far and near
No happiness could sway him from grief
And how his hound then helped him
death (end); stop speaking; (see note)
knew how to or was able to
fear; (see note)
A tournament to be announced
be of use
Until [then]; cease
There was no stopping him
warded him off
Either one; broke
blow; (see note)
He (Tryamour); hym (Asseryn)
past; (see note)
Some [horses] were far away; running free
it (the spear)
Lithuania; (see note)
glad; (see note)
For every; ready
he stirred himself; battle
That one was called
equal (i.e., single combats)
Nothing afflicts me
other; (see note)
but what was reasonable
she wished for nothing else
truly; (see note)
presently; (see note)
great of strength [as he]
would offer him battle
land over-run by a hostile force
in any way
If you will say it to him (i.e., speak the agreement)
If I knew
what you promised
After; hart; gave chase
asked a pledge
would receive no pledge
It may not be otherwise
the victory would cost a lot of lives
greeted; then everyone else
You did not shirk
Because of; afraid
together with each other
Where they pleased
barred; (see note)
I'd rather have hit you
I do not want him
shoes (spurs); (see note)
had fought and bled a lot
truce; (see note)
He (the Emperor)
Both of the lower and higher classes
he left off
call out to
Even if; more
duration; (see note)
they left off
guard this road
In the hope that; might meet
beseiges (tries to win)
issued a challenge; (see note)
for love's sake; (see note)
He has promised aid to her
If you are not
not serve its purpose
gave each other
they went at him
I would rather
make his way
I dare pledge my life on it
the thickest; battle
in battle dress
crest; wears; blue
bears down on
they fought earnestly
did aim a blow
And [then you can]
manner (i.e., with sword)
at the knees
Just as he was about to
let us make you become small
stumps; (see note)
would have; blow
alike (i.e., cut off)
is fixed on you
what is he called
There is no hiding it
dais; (see note)
without lie (certainly)
must have seen her before
There was a time; recognize
eaten; removed; table
he (Marrok); drawn
who wins victory in combat
he didn't know what to do
he was so unhappy
won the prize
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