Chapter 13
His bloude at this was waxen flaminge hotte, Without adoe he turned once agayne, And hytt de Griel thilk a blowe, God wote, Maugre hys helme, he splete his hede in twayne. This Auffroie was a manne of mickle pryde, 205 Whose featliest bewty ladden in his face; His chaunce in warr he ne before han tryde, But lyv'd in love and Rosaline's embrace; And like a useless weede amonge the haie Amonge the sleine warriours Griel laie. 210
Kynge Harolde then he putt his yeomen bie, And ferslie ryd into the bloudie fyghte; Erle Ethelwolf, and Goodrick, and Alsie, Cuthbert, and Goddard, mical menne of myghte, Ethelwin, Ethelbert, and Edwyn too, 215 Effred the famous, and Erle Ethelwarde, Kynge Harolde's leegemenn, erlies hie and true, Rode after hym, his bodie for to guarde; The reste of erlies, fyghtynge other wheres, Stained with Norman bloude theire fyghtynge speres. 220
As when some ryver with the season raynes White fomynge hie doth breke the bridges oft, Oerturns the hamelet and all conteins. And layeth oer the hylls a muddie soft; So Harold ranne upon his Normanne foes. 225 And layde the greate and small upon the grounde, And delte among them thilke a store of blowes, Full manie a Normanne fell by him dede wounde; So who he be that ouphant faieries strike, Their soules will wander to Kynge Offa's dyke. 230
Fitz Salnarville, Duke William's favourite knyghte, To noble Edelwarde his life dyd yielde; Withe hys tylte launce hee stroke with thilk a myghte, The Norman's bowels steemde upon the feeld. Old Salnarville beheld hys son lie ded, 235 Against Erie Edelward his bowe-strynge drewe; But Harold at one blowe made tweine his head; He dy'd before the poignant arrowe flew. So was the hope of all the issue gone, And in one battle fell the sire and son. 240
De Aubignee rod fercely thro' the fyghte, To where the boddie of Salnarville laie; Quod he; And art thou ded, thou manne of myghte? I'll be revengd, or die for thee this daie. Die then thou shalt, Erie Ethelwarde he said; 245 I am a cunnynge erle, and that can tell; Then drewe hys swerde, and ghastlie cut hys hede, And on his freend eftsoons he lifeless fell, Stretch'd on the bloudie pleyne; great God forefend, It be the fate of no such trustie freende! 250
Then Egwin Sieur Pikeny did attaque; He turned aboute and vilely souten flie; But Egwyn cutt so deepe into his backe, He rolled on the grounde and soon dyd die. His distant sonne, Sire Romara de Biere, 255 Soughte to revenge his fallen kynsman's lote, But soone Erie Cuthbert's dented fyghtyng spear Stucke in his harte, and stayd his speed, God wote. He tumbled downe close by hys kynsman's syde, Myngle their stremes of pourple bloude, and dy'd. 260
And now an arrowe from a bowe unwote Into Erle Cuthbert's harte eftsoons dyd flee; Who dying sayd; ah me! how hard my lote! Now slayne, mayhap, of one of lowe degree. So have I seen a leafic elm of yore 265 Have been the pride and glorie of the pleine; But, when the spendyng landlord is growne poore. It falls benethe the axe of some rude sweine; And like the oke, the sovran of the woode, It's fallen boddie tells you how it stoode. 270
When Edelward perceevd Erle Cuthbert die, On Hubert strongest of the Normanne crewe, As wolfs when hungred on the cattel flie, So Edelward amaine upon him flewe. With thilk a force he hyt hym to the grounde; 275 And was demasing howe to take his life, When he behynde received a ghastlie wounde Gyven by de Torcie, with a stabbyng knyfe; Base trecherous Normannes, if such actes you doe, The conquer'd maie clame victorie of you. 280
The erlie felt de Torcie's trecherous knyfe Han made his crymson bloude and spirits floe; And knowlachyng he soon must quyt this lyfe, Resolved Hubert should too with hym goe. He held hys trustie swerd against his breste, 285 And down he fell, and peerc'd him to the harte; And both together then did take their reste, Their soules from corpses unaknell'd depart; And both together soughte the unknown shore, Where we shall goe, where manie's gon before. 290
Kynge Harolde Torcie's trechery dyd spie, And hie alofe his temper'd swerde dyd welde, Cut offe his arme, and made the bloude to flie, His proofe steel armoure did him littel sheelde; And not contente, he splete his hede in twaine, 295 And down he tumbled on the bloudie grounde; Mean while the other erlies on the playne Gave and received manie a bloudie wounde, Such as the arts in warre han learnt with care, But manie knyghtes were women in men's geer. 300
Herrewald, borne on Sarim's spreddyng plaine, Where Thor's fam'd temple manie ages stoode; Where Druids, auncient preests, did ryghtes ordaine, And in the middle shed the victyms bloude; Where auncient Bardi dyd their verses synge 305 Of Cæsar conquer'd, and his mighty hoste, And how old Tynyan, necromancing kynge, Wreck'd all hys shyppyng on the Brittish coaste, And made hym in his tatter'd barks to flie, 'Till Tynyan's dethe and opportunity. 310
To make it more renomed than before, (I, tho a Saxon, yet the truthe will telle) The Saxonnes steynd the place wyth Brittish gore, Where nete but bloud of sacrifices felle. Tho' Chrystians, stylle they thoghte mouche of the pile, 315 And here theie mett when causes dyd it neede; 'Twas here the auncient Elders of the Isle Dyd by the trecherie of Hengist bleede; O Hengist! han thy cause bin good and true, Thou wouldst such murdrous acts as these eschew. 320
The erlie was a manne of hie degree, And han that daie full manie Normannes sleine; Three Norman Champyons of hie degree He lefte to smoke upon the bloudie pleine: The Sier Fitzbotevilleine did then advaunce, 325 And with his bowe he smote the erlies hede; Who eftsoons gored hym with his tylting launce, And at his horses feet he tumbled dede: His partyng spirit hovered o'er the floude Of soddayne roushynge mouche lov'd pourple bloude. 330
De Viponte then, a squier of low degree, An arrowe drewe with all his myghte ameine; The arrowe graz'd upon the erlies knee, A punie wounde, that causd but littel peine. So have I seene a Dolthead place a stone, 335 Enthoghte to staie a driving rivers course; But better han it bin to lett alone, It onlie drives it on with mickle force; The erlie, wounded by so base a hynde, Rays'd furyous doyngs in his noble mynde. 340
The Siere Chatillion, yonger of that name, Advaunced next before the erlie's syghte; His fader was a manne of mickle fame, And he renomde and valorous in fyghte. Chatillion his trustie swerd forth drewe. 345 The erle drawes his, menne both of mickle myghte; And at eche other vengouslie they flewe, As mastie dogs at Hocktide set to fyghte; Bothe scornd to yeelde, and bothe abhor'de to flie, Resolv'd to vanquishe, or resolv'd to die. 350
Chatillion hyt the erlie on the hede, Thatt splytte eftsoons his cristed helm in twayne; Whiche he perforce withe target covered, And to the battel went with myghte ameine. The erlie hytte Chatillion thilke a blowe 355 Upon his breste, his harte was plein to see; He tumbled at the horses feet alsoe, And in dethe panges he seez'd the recer's knee: Faste as the ivy rounde the oke doth clymbe, So faste he dying gryp'd the recer's lymbe. 360
The recer then beganne to flynge and kicke, And toste the erlie farr off to the grounde; The erlie's squier then a swerde did sticke Into his harte, a dedlie ghastlie wounde; And downe he felle upon the crymson pleine, 365 Upon Chatillion's soulless corse of claie; A puddlie streme of bloude flow'd oute ameine; Stretch'd out at length besmer'd with gore he laie; As some tall oke fell'd from the greenie plaine, To live a second time upon the main. 370
The erlie nowe an horse and beaver han, And nowe agayne appered on the feeld; And manie a mickle knyghte and mightie manne To his dethe-doyng swerd his life did yeeld; When Siere de Broque an arrowe longe lett flie, 375 Intending Herewaldus to have sleyne; It miss'd; butt hytte Edardus on the eye, And at his pole came out with horrid payne. Edardus felle upon the bloudie grounde, His noble soule came roushyng from the wounde. 380
Thys Herewald perceevd, and full of ire He on the Siere de Broque with furie came; Quod he; thou'st slaughtred my beloved squier, But I will be revenged for the same. Into his bowels then his launce he thruste, 385 And drew thereout a steemie drerie lode; Quod he; these offals are for ever curst, Shall serve the coughs, and rooks, and dawes, for foode. Then on the pleine the steemie lode hee throwde, Smokynge wyth lyfe, and dy'd with crymson bloude. 390
Fitz Broque, who saw his father killen lie, Ah me! sayde he; what woeful syghte I see! But now I must do somethyng more than sighe; And then an arrowe from the bowe drew he. Beneth the erlie's navil came the darte; 395 Fitz Broque on foote han drawne it from the bowe; And upwards went into the erlie's harte, And out the crymson streme of bloude 'gan flowe. As fromm a hatch, drawne with a vehement geir, White rushe the burstynge waves, and roar along the weir. 400
The erle with one honde grasp'd the recer's mayne, And with the other he his launce besped; And then felle bleedyng on the bloudie plaine. His launce it hytte Fitz Broque upon the hede; Upon his hede it made a wounde full slyghte, 405 But peerc'd his shoulder, ghastlie wounde inferne, Before his optics daunced a shade of nyghte, Whyche soone were closed ynn a sleepe eterne. The noble erlie than, withote a grone, Took flyghte, to fynde the regyons unknowne. 410
Brave Alured from binethe his noble horse Was gotten on his leggs, with bloude all smore; And now eletten on another horse, Eftsoons he withe his launce did manie gore. The cowart Norman knyghtes before hym fledde, 415 And from a distaunce sent their arrowes keene; But noe such destinie awaits his hedde, As to be sleyen by a wighte so meene. Tho oft the oke falls by the villen's shock, 'Tys moe than hyndes can do, to move the rock. 420
Upon du Chatelet he ferselie sett, And peerc'd his bodie with a force full grete; The asenglave of his tylt-launce was wett, The rollynge bloude alonge the launce did fleet. Advauncynge, as a mastie at a bull, 425 He rann his launce into Fitz Warren's harte; From Partaies bowe, a wight unmercifull, Within his owne he felt a cruel darte; Close by the Norman champyons he han sleine, He fell; and mixd his bloude with theirs upon the pleine. 430
Erie Ethelbert then hove, with clinie just, A launce, that stroke Partaie upon the thighe, And pinn'd him downe unto the gorie duste; Cruel, quod he, thou cruellie shalt die. With that his launce he enterd at his throte; 435 He scritch'd and screem'd in melancholie mood; And at his backe eftsoons came out, God wote, And after it a crymson streme of bloude: In agonie and peine he there dyd lie, While life and dethe strove for the masterrie, 440
He gryped hard the bloudie murdring launce, And in a grone he left this mortel lyfe. Behynde the erlie Fiscampe did advaunce, Bethoghte to kill him with a stabbynge knife; But Egward, who perceevd his fowle intent, 445 Eftsoons his trustie swerde he forthwyth drewe, And thilke a cruel blowe to Fiscampe sent, That soule and bodie's bloude at one gate flewe. Thilk deeds do all deserve, whose deeds so fowle Will black theire earthlie name, if not their soule. 450
When lo! an arrowe from Walleris honde, Winged with fate and dethe daunced alonge; And slewe the noble flower of Powyslonde, Howel ap Jevah, who yclepd the stronge. Whan he the first mischaunce received han, 455 With horsemans haste he from the armie rodde; And did repaire unto the cunnynge manne, Who sange a charme, that dyd it mickle goode; Then praid Seyncte Cuthbert, and our holie Dame, To blesse his labour, and to heal the same. 460
Then drewe the arrowe, and the wounde did seck, And putt the teint of holie herbies on; And putt a rowe of bloude-stones round his neck; And then did say; go, champyon, get agone. And now was comynge Harrolde to defend, 465 And metten with Walleris cruel darte; His sheelde of wolf-skinn did him not attend, The arrow peerced into his noble harte; As some tall oke, hewn from the mountayne hed, Falls to the pleine; so fell the warriour dede. 470
His countryman, brave Mervyn ap Teudor, Who love of hym han from his country gone, When he perceevd his friend lie in his gore, As furious as a mountayne wolf he ranne. As ouphant faieries, whan the moone sheenes bryghte, 475 In littel circles daunce upon the greene, All living creatures flie far from their syghte, Ne by the race of destinie be seen; For what he be that ouphant faieries stryke, Their soules will wander to Kyng Offa's dyke. 480
So from the face of Mervyn Tewdor brave The Normans eftsoons fled awaie aghaste; And lefte behynde their bowe and asenglave. For fear of hym, in thilk a cowart haste. His garb sufficient were to move affryghte; 485 A wolf skin girded round his myddle was; A bear skyn, from Norwegians wan in fyghte, Was tytend round his shoulders by the claws: So Hercules, 'tis sunge, much like to him, Upon his sholder wore a lyon's skin. 490
Upon his thyghes and harte-swefte legges he wore A hugie goat skyn, all of one grete peice; A boar skyn sheelde on his bare armes he bore; His gauntletts were the skynn of harte of greece. They fledde; he followed close upon their heels, 495 Vowynge vengeance for his deare countrymanne; And Siere de Sancelotte his vengeance feels; He peerc'd hys backe, and out the bloude ytt ranne. His bloude went downe the swerde unto his arme, In springing rivulet, alive and warme. 500
His swerde was shorte, and broade, and myckle keene, And no mann's bone could stonde to stoppe itts waie; The Normann's harte in partes two cutt cleane, He clos'd his eyne, and clos'd hys eyne for aie. Then with his swerde he sett on Fitz du Valle, 505 A knyghte mouch famous for to runne at tylte; With thilk a furie on hym he dyd falle, Into his neck he ranne the swerde and hylte; As myghtie lyghtenynge often has been founde, To drive an oke into unfallow'd grounde. 510
And with the swerde, that in his neck yet stoke, The Norman fell unto the bloudie grounde; And with the fall ap Tewdore's swerde he broke, And bloude afreshe came trickling from the wounde. As whan the hyndes, before a mountayne wolfe, 515 Flie from his paws, and angrie vysage grym; But when he falls into the pittie golphe, They dare hym to his bearde, and battone hym; And cause he fryghted them so muche before, Lyke cowart hyndes, they battone hym the more. 520
So, whan they sawe ap Tewdore was bereft Of his keen swerde, thatt wroghte thilke great dismaie, They turned about, eftsoons upon hym lept, And full a score engaged in the fraie. Mervyn ap Tewdore, ragyng as a bear, 525 Seiz'd on the beaver of the Sier de Laque; And wring'd his hedde with such a vehement gier, His visage was turned round unto his backe. Backe to his harte retyr'd the useless gore, And felle upon the pleine to rise no more. 530
Then on the mightie Siere Fitz Pierce he flew, And broke his helm and seiz'd hym bie the throte: Then manie Normann knyghtes their arrowes drew, That enter'd into Mervyn's harte, God wote. In dying panges he gryp'd his throte more stronge, 535 And from their sockets started out his eyes; And from his mouthe came out his blameless tonge; And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies. As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie, Stretch'd onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie. 540
And now Erle Ethelbert and Egward came Brave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist; A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name, An arrowe drew, that dyd them littel list. Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet, 545 And Ethelbert at Walleris set his; And Egwald dyd the siere a hard blowe hytt, But Ethelbert by a myschaunce dyd miss: Fear laide Walleris flat upon the strande, He ne deserved a death from erlies hande. 550
Betwyxt the ribbes of Sire Fitz Chatelet The poynted launce of Egward did ypass; The distaunt syde thereof was ruddie wet, And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass. As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde, 555 The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade. And hytt the squier thylke a lethal wounde, Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead: Oh shame to Norman armes! a lord a slave, A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave! 560
From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew, And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek; Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two: There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak--
* * * * *
BATTLE OF HASTINGS.
[No 2.]
Oh Truth! immortal daughter of the skies, Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies, Teach me, fayre Saincte! thy passynge worthe to pryze, To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse. The sickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays, 5 Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte, With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies, The world, that wotted not it coud be nyghte; Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd, She sees Kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands curse and pryde. 10
With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay; Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde; Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie! This even in drinke, toomorrow with the dead! Thro' everie troope disorder reer'd her hedde; 15 Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme; Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde, And wak'd in torments from so sweet a dream. Duke Williams menne, of comeing dethe afraide, All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd and praied. 20
Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde; Goe, Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills halfe a score, And search how farre our foeman's campe doth bound; Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more. My brother best belov'd of anie ore, 25 My Leoswinus, goe to everich wite, Tell them to raunge the battel to the grore, And waiten tyll I sende the hest for fyghte. He saide; the loieaul broders lefte the place, Success and cheerfulness depicted on ech face. 30
Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilwarde dyd advaunce, And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde. When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and launce Made them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd. He lyfted up his voice, and lowdlie cryd; 35 Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell; Girthe drew hys swerde, and cutte hys burled hyde; The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle; Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokynge curles, Reflected bie the moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles. 40
A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came, Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie; Thoughe Girthe and Ailwardus perceevd the same, Not once theie stoode abashd, or thoghte to flie. He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die; 45 Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne, That makes a vallie wheresoe're it lie; [1]Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne; So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe. And on the verdaunt playne he layde the champyone lowe. 50
Tancarville thus; alle peace in Williams name; Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe. Girthe cas'd his weppone as he hearde the same, And vengynge Normannes staid the flyinge floe. The sire wente onne; ye menne, what mean ye so 55 Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte? Quod Gyrthe; oure meanynge we ne care to showe, Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte; Here single onlie these to all thie crewe Shall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe. 60
Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd, Nor joie in dethe, lyke madmen most distraught; In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde; He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte. And now the news was to Duke William brought, 65 That men of Haroldes armie taken were; For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte, And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere. Quod Willyam; thus shall Willyam be founde A friend to everie manne that treades on English ground. 70
Erie Leofwinus throwghe the campe ypass'd, And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde; They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte theyr last, And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde. He started backe, and was wyth shame astownd; 75 Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth rage; When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound, Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age! Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde? Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead. 80