Lines 312–620

Hwan þis trayson was al þouth,
Of his oth ne was him nouth.
He let his oth al ouer-ga,
Þerof ne yaf he nouth a stra;
But sone dede hire fete,
Er he wolde heten ani mete,
Fro winchestre þer sho was,
Also a wicke traytur iudas;
And dede leden hire to doure,
Þat standeth on þe seis oure;
And þerhinne dede hire fede
Pourelike in feble wede,
Þe castel dede he yemen so,
Þat non ne micte comen hire to
Of hire frend, with hire to speken,
Þat heuere micte hire bale wreken.

Of Goldeboru shul we nou laten,
Þat nouth ne blinneth forto graten,
Þet sho liggeth in prisoun:
Ihesu crist, that lazarun
To liue broucte fro dede bondes,
He lese hire wit hise hondes;
And leue sho mo him y-se
Heye hangen on galwe tre,
Þat hire haued in sorwe brouth,
So as sho ne misdede nouth!

Sawe nou forth in hure spelle;
In þat time, so it bifelle,
Was in þe lon of denemark
A riche king, and swyþe stark.
Þe name of him was birkabeyn,
He hauede mani knict and sueyn;
He was fayr man, and wicth,
Of bodi he was þe beste knicth
Þat euere micte leden uth here,
Or stede onne ride, or handlen spere,
Þre children he hauede bi his wif,
He hem louede so his lif.
He hauede a sone and douhtres two,
Swiþe fayre, as fel it so.
He þat wile non forbere,
Riche ne poure; king ne kaysere,
Deth him tok þan he best wolde
Liuen, but hyse dayes were fulde;
Þat he ne moucte no more liue,
For gol ne siluer, ne for no gyue.

Hwan he þat wiste, raþe he sende
After prestes fer an hende,
Chanounes gode, and monkes beþe,
Him for to wisse, and to Rede;
Him for to hoslon, an forto shriue,
Hwil his bodi were on liue.

Hwan he was hosled and shriuen,
His quiste maked, and for him gyuen,
His knictes dede he alle site,
For þorw hem he wolde wite,
Hwo micte yeme hise children yunge,
Til þat he kouþen speken wit tunge;
Speken and gangen, on horse riden,
Knictes an sweynes bi here siden.
He spoken þer-offe, and chosen sone
A riche man was under mone,
Was þe trewest þat he wende,
Godard, þe kinges oune frende;
And seyden, he Moucthe hem best loke,
Yif þat he hem vndertoke,
Til hise sone Mouthe bere
Helm on heued, and leden vt here,
In his hand a spere stark,
And king ben maked of denemark.
He wel trowede þat he seyde,
And on Godard handes leyde;
And seyde, “Here bi-teche i þe
Mine children alle þre,
Al denemark, and al mi fe,
Til þat mi sone of helde be;
But þat ich wille, þat þou suere
On auter, and on messe-gere,
On þe belles þat men ringes,
On messe-bok þe prest on singes,
Þat þou mine children shalt wel yeme,
Þat hire kin be ful wel queme,
Til mi sone mowe ben knicth,
Þanne biteche him þo his Ricth,
Denemark, and þat þertil longes,
Casteles and tunes, wodes and wonges.”

Godard stirt up, an swor al þat
Þe king him bad, and siþen sat
Bi the knictes, þat þer ware,
Þat wepen alle swiþe sare
For þe king þat deide sone:
Ihesu crist, that makede mone
On þe mirke nith to shine,
Wite his soule fro helle pine;
And leue þat it mote wone
In heuene-riche with godes sone!

Hwan birkabeyn was leyd in graue,
Þe erl dede sone take þe knaue,
Hauelok, þat was þe eir,
Swanborow, his sister, helfled, þe toþer,
And in þe castel dede he hem do,
Þer non ne micte hem comen to
Of here kyn, þer þei sperd wore;
Þer he greten ofte sore,
Boþe for hunger and for kold,
Or he weren þre winter hold.
Feblelike he gaf hem cloþes,
He ne yaf a note of hise oþes;
He hem ne cloþede rith, ne fedde,
Ne hem ne dede richelike be-bedde.
Þanne godard was sikerlike
Vnder god þe moste swike,
Þat eure in erþe shaped was,
With-uten on, þe wike Iudas.
Haue he þe malisun to-day
Of alle þat eure speken may!
Of patriark, and of pope!
And of prest with loken kope!
Of monekes, and hermites boþe!
And of þe leue holi rode,
Þat god him-selue ran on blode!
Crist warie him with his mouth!
Waried wrthe he of norþ and suth!
Offe alle man, þat speken kunne!
Of crist, þat made mone and sunne!
Þanne he hauede of al þe lond
Al þe folk tilled in-til his hond,
And alle haueden sworen him oth,
Riche and poure, lef and loth,
Þat he sholden hise wille freme,
And þat he shulden him nouth greme,
He þouthe a ful strong trechery,
A trayson, and a felony,
Of þe children forto make:
Þe deuel of helle him sone take!

Hwan þat was þouth, onon he ferde
To þe tour þer he woren sperde,
Þer he greten for hunger and cold:
Þe knaue þat was sumdel bold,
Kam him ageyn, on knes him sette,
And godard ful feyre he fer grette;
And Godard seyde, “Wat is yw?
Hwi grete ye and goulen nou?”
“For us hungreth swiþe sore:”--
Seyden he wolden haue more,
“We ne haue to hete, ne we ne haue
Herinne neyther knith ne knaue
Þat yeueth us drinken, ne no mete,
Haluendel þat we moun ete.
Wo is us þat we weren born!
Weilawei! nis it no korn,
Þat men micte maken of bred?
Vs hungreth, we aren ney ded.”

Godard herde here wa,
Ther-offe yaf he nouth a stra,
But tok þe maydnes bothe samen,
Al-so it were up-on hiis gamen;
Al-so he wolde with hem leyke,
Þat weren for hunger grene and bleike.
Of boþen he karf on two here þrotes,
And siþen karf hem alto grotes.
Þer was sorwe, we so it sawe!
Hwan þe children bi þe wawe
Leyen and sprauleden in þe blod:
Hauelok it saw, and þer bi stod.
Ful sori was þat seli knaue,
Mikel dred he mouthe haue,
For at hise herte he saw a knif,
For to reuen him hise lyf.
But þe knaue, þat litel was,
He knelede bifor þat iudas,
And seyde, “louerd, merci nov!
Manrede, louerd, biddi you!
Al denemark i wile you yeue,
To þat forward þu late me liue;
Here hi wile on boke swere,
Þat neure more ne shal i bere

Ayen þe, louerd, shel ne spere,
Ne oþer wepne that may you dere.
Louerd, haue merci of me!
To-day i wile fro denemark fle,
Ne neuere more comen ageyn:
Sweren y wole, þat bircabein
Neuere yete me ne gat:”--
Hwan þe deuel herde that,
Sum-del bigan him forto rewe;
With-drow þe knif, þat was lewe
Of þe seli children blod;
Þer was miracle fair and god!
Þat he þe knaue nouth ne slou,
But for rewnesse him wit-drow.
Of auelok rewede him ful sore,
And þoucte, he wolde þat he ded wore,
But on þat he nouth wit his hend
Ne drepe him nouth, þat fule fend!
Þoucte he, als he him bi stod,
Starinde als he were wod:
“Yif y late him liues go,
He micte me wirchen michel wo.
Grith ne get y neuere mo,
He may me waiten for to slo;
And yf he were brouct of liue,
And mine children wolden thriue,
Louerdinges after me
Of al denemark micten he be.
God it wite, he shal ben ded,
Wile i taken non oþer red;

I shal do casten him in þe se,
Þer i wile þat he drenched be;
Abouten his hals an anker god,
Þat he ne flete in the flod.”
Þer anon he dede sende
After a fishere þat he wende,
Þat wolde al his wille do,
And sone anon he seyde him to:
“Grim, þou wost þu art mi þral,
Wilte don mi wille al,
Þat i wile bidden þe,
To-morwen i shal maken þe fre,
And aucte þe yeuen, and riche make,
With-þan þu wilt þis childe take,
And leden him with þe to-nicht,
Þan þou sest se Mone lith,
In-to þe se, and don him þer-inne,
Al wile i taken on me þe sinne.”
Grim tok þe child, and bond him faste,
Hwil þe bondes micte laste;
Þat weren of ful strong line:--
Þo was hauelok in ful strong pine.
Wiste he neuere her wat was wo:
Ihesu crist, þat makede to go
Þe halte, and þe doumbe speken,
Hauelok, þe of Godard wreken!

Hwan grim him hauede faste bounden,
And siþen in an eld cloth wnden
A keuel of clutes, ful, un-wraste,
Þat he ne mouthe speke, ne fnaste,
Hwere he wolde him bere or lede.
Hwan he hauede don þat dede,
Hwan þe swike him hauede hethede,
Þat he shulde him forth lede
And him drinchen in þe se;
Þat forwarde makeden he.
In a poke, ful and blac,
Sone he caste him on his bac,
Ant bar him hom to hise cleue,
And bi-taucte him dame leue,
And seyde, “wite þou þis knaue,
Al-so thou with mi lif haue;
I shal dreinchen him in þe se,
For him shole we ben maked fre,
Gold hauen ynou, and oþer fe;
Þat hauet mi louerd bihoten me.”

Hwan dame leue herde þat,
Vp she stirte, and nouth ne sat,
And caste þe knaue adoun so harde,
Þat hise croune he þer crakede
Ageyn a gret ston, þer it lay:
Þo hauelok micte sei, “weilawei!
Þat euere was i kinges bern!”
Þat him ne hauede grip or ern,
Leoun or wlf, wluine or bere,
Or oþer best, þat wolde him dere.
So lay þat child to middel nicth,
Þat grim bad leue bringen lict,
For to don on him his cloþes:
“Ne thenkeste nowt of mine oþes
Þat ich haue mi louerd sworen?
Ne wile i nouth be forloren.
I shal beren him to þe se,
Þou wost þat bi-houes me;
And i shal drenchen him þer-inne;
Ris up swiþe, an go þu binne,
And blou þe fir, and lith a kandel:”
Als she shulde hise cloþes handel
On forto don, and blawe þe fir,
She saw þer-inne a lith ful shir,
Also brith so it were day,
Aboute þe knaue þer he lay.
Of hise mouth it stod a stem,
Als it were a sunnebem;
Also lith was it þer-inne,
So þer brenden cerges inne:
“Ihesu crist!” wat dame leue,
“Hwat is þat lith in vre cleue!
Sir up grim, and loke wat it menes,
Hwat is þe lith as þou wenes?”
He stirten boþe up to the knaue,
For man shal god wille haue,
Vnkeueleden him, and swiþe unbounden,
And sone anon upon him funden,
Als he tirneden of his serk,
On his rith shuldre a kyne merk;
A swiþe brith, a swiþe fair:
“Goddot!” quath grim, “þis is ure eir
Þat shal ben louerd of denemark,
He shal ben king strong and stark;
He shal hauen in his hand
Al denemark and engeland;
He shal do godard ful wo,
He shal him hangen, or quik flo;
Or he shal him al quic graue,
Of him shal he no merci haue.”
Þus seide grim, and sore gret,
And sone fel him to þe fet,
And seide, “louerd, haue merci
Of me, and leue, that is me bi!
Louerd, we aren boþe þine,
Þine cherles, þine hine.