Lines 2096–2403

“Deus!” quoth ubbe, “hwat may þis be?
Betere is i go miself, and se:
Hweþer he sitten nou, and wesseylen,
Or of ani shotshipe to-deyle,
Þis tid nithes, also foles;
Þan birþe men casten hem in poles,
Or in a grip, or in þe fen:
Nou ne sitten none but wicke men,
Glotuns, reueres, or wicke þeues,
Bi crist, þat alle folk onne leues!”

He stod, and totede in at a bord,
Her he spak anilepi word,
And saw hem slepen faste ilkon,
And lye stille so þe ston;
And saw al þat mikel lith
Fro hauelok cam, þat was so brith.
Of his mouth it com il del,
Þat was he war ful swiþe wel.
“Deus!” quoth he, “hwat may þis mene!”
He calde boþe arwe men and kene,
Knithes, and serganz swiþe sleie,
Mo þan an hundred, with-uten leye,
And bad hem alle comen and se,
Hwat þat selcuth mithe be.

Als þe knithes were comen alle,
Þer hauelok lay, ut of þe halle,
So stod ut of his mouth a glem,
Rith al swilk so þe sunne-bem;
Þat al so lith was þare, bi heuene!
So þer brenden serges seuene,
And an hundred serges ok:
Þat durste hi sweren on a bok.
He slepen faste alle fiue,
So he weren brouth of liue;
And hauelok lay on his lift side,
In his armes his brithe bride.
Bi þe pappes he leyen naked:
So faire two weren neuere maked
In a bed to lyen samen:--
Þe knithes þouth of hem god gamen,
Hem forto shewe, and loken to.
Rith also he stoden alle so,
And his bac was toward hem wend,
So weren he war of a croiz ful gent,
On his rith shuldre swiþe brith,
Brithter þan gold ageyn þe lith.
So þat he wiste heye and lowe,
Þat it was kunrik þat he sawe.
It sparkede, and ful brith shon,
So doth þe gode charbucle ston,
Þat men Mouthe se by þe lith,
A peni chesen, so was it brith.
Þanne bihelden he him faste,
So þat he knewen at þe laste,
Þat he was birkabeynes sone,
Þat was here king, þat was hem wone
Wel to yeme, and wel were
Ageynes uten-laddes here.
“For it was neuere yet a broþer
In al denemark so lich anoþer,
So þis man þat is so fayr
Als birkabeyn, he is hise eyr.”

He fellen sone at hise fet,
Was non of hem þat he ne gret,
Of ioie he weren alle so fawen,
So he him haueden of erþe drawen.
Hise fet he kisten an hundred syþes,
Þe tos, þe nayles, and þe lithes,
So þat he bigan to wakne,
And wit hem ful sore to blakne,
For he wende he wolden him slo,
Or elles binde him, and do wo.

Quoth ubbe, “louerd, ne dred þe nowth,
Me þinkes that I se þi þouth.
Dere sone, wel is me,
Þat y þe with eyne se.
Man-red, louerd, bede y þe,
Þi man auht i ful wel to be,
For þu art comen of birkabeyn,
Þat hauede mani knith and sweyn;
And so shalt þou, louerd, haue,
Þou þu be yet a ful yung knaue.
Þou shalt be king of al denemark,
Was þer-inne neuere non so stark.
To-morwen shaltu manrede take
Of þe brune and of þe blake;
Of alle þat aren in þis tun,
Boþe of erl, and of barun,
And of dreng, and of thayn,
And of knith, and of sweyn.
And so shaltu ben mad knith
Wit blisse, for þou art so with.”

Þo was hauelok swiþe bliþe,
And þankede God ful fele siþe.
On þe morwen, wan it was lith,
And gon was þisternesse of þe nith,
Vbbe dide up-on a stede
A ladde lepe, and þider bede
Erles, barouns, drenges, theynes,
Klerkes, knithes, burgeys, sweynes,
Þat he sholden comen a-non,
Biforen him sone euerilkon,
Also he louen here liues,
And here children, and here wiues.

Hise bode ne durste he non at-sitte,
Þat he ne neme for to wite
Sone, hwat wolde þe iustise:
And he bigan anon to rise,
And seyde sone, “liþes me,
Alle samen, þeu and fre.
A þing ich wile you here shauwe,
Þat ye alle ful wel knawe.
Ye witen wel, þat al þis lond
Was in birkabeynes hond,
Þe day þat he was quic and ded;
And how þat he, bi youre red,
Bitauhte hise children þre
Godard to yeme, and al his fe.
Hauelok his sone he him tauhte,
And hise two douhtres, and al his auhte,
Alle herden ye him swere
On bok, and on messe-gere,
Þat he shulde yeme hem wel,
With-uten lac, with-uten tel.

He let his oth al ouer-go,
Euere wurþe him yuel and wo!
For þe maydnes here lif
Refte he boþen, with a knif,
And him shulde ok haue slawen,
Þe knif was at his herte drawen,
But god him wolde wel haue saue,
He hauede reunesse of þe knaue,
So þat he with his hend
Ne drop him nouth, þat sori fend,
But sone dide he a fishere
Swiþe grete oþes swere,
Þat he sholde drenchen him
In þe se, þat was ful brim.

Hwan grim saw þat he was so fayr,
And wiste he was þe Rith eir,
Fro denemark ful sone he fledde
In-til englond, and þer him fedde
Mani winter, þat til þis day
Haues he ben fed and fostred ay.
Lokes, hware he stondes her:
In al þis werd ne haues he per;
Non so fayr, ne non so long,
Ne non so mikel, ne non so strong.
In þis middelerd nis no knith
Half so strong, ne half so with.
Bes of him ful glad and bliþe,
And cometh alle hider swiþe,
Manrede youre louerd forto make,
Boþe brune and þe blake.
I shal mi-self do first þe gamen,
And ye siþen alle samen.”

Oknes ful fayre he him sette,
Mouthe noþing him þer-fro lette,
And bi-cam is man Rith þare,
Þat alle sawen þat þere ware.

After him stirt up laddes ten,
And bi-comen hise men;
And siþen euerilk a baroun,
Þat euere weren in al that toun;
And siþen drenges, and siþen thaynes,
And siþen knithes, and siþen sweynes;
So þat, or þat day was gon,
In al þe tun ne was nouth on
Þat it ne was his man bicomen:
Manrede of alle hauede he nomen.

Hwan he hauede of hem alle
Manrede taken, in the halle,
Grundlike dide he hem swere,
Þat he sholden him god feyth bere
Ageynes alle þat woren on liue;
Þer-yen ne wolde neuer on striue,
Þat he ne maden sone þat oth,
Riche and poure, lef and loth.
Hwan þat was maked, sone he sende,
Vbbe, writes fer and hende,
After alle þat castel yemede,
Burwes, tunes, sibbe an fremde,
Þat þider sholden comen swiþe
Til him, and heren tiþandes bliþe,
Þat he hem alle shulde telle:
Of hem ne wolde neuere on dwelle,
Þat he ne come sone plattinde,
Hwo hors ne hauede, com gangande.
So þat with-inne a fourtenith,
In al denemark ne was no knith,
Ne conestable, ne shireue,
Þat com of adam and of eue,
Þat he ne com biforn sire ubbe:
He dredden him so þhes doth clubbe.

Hwan he haueden alle þe king gret,
And he weren alle dun set,
Þo seyde ubbe, “lokes here,
Vre louerd swiþe dere,
Þat shal ben king of al þe lond,
And haue us alle under hond.
For he is birkabeynes sone,
Þe king þat was vmbe stonde wone
For to yeme, and wel were,
Wit sharpe swerd, and longe spere.
Lokes nou, hw he is fayr;
Sikerlike he is hise eyr.
Falles alle to hise fet,
Bicomes hise men ful sket.”
He weren for ubbe swiþe adrad,
And dide sone al þat he bad,
And yet deden he sumdel more,
O bok ful grundlike he swore,
Þat he sholde with him halde
Boþe ageynes stille and bolde,
Þat euere wolde his bodi dere:
Þat dide he hem o boke swere.

Hwan he hauede manrede and oth
Taken of lef and of loth,
Vbbe dubbede him to knith,
With a swerd ful swiþe brith,
And þe folk of al þe lond
Bitauhte him al in his hond,
Þe cunnriche eueril del,
And made him king heylike and wel.
Hwan he was king, þer mouthe men se
Þe moste ioie þat mouhte be:
Buttinge with sharpe speres,
Skirming with taleuaces, þat men beres,
Wrastling with laddes, putting of ston,
Harping and piping, ful god won,
Leyk of mine, of hasard ok,
Romanz reding on þe bok;
Þer mouthe men here þe gestes singe,
Þe gleymen on þe tabour dinge;
Þer mouhte men se þe boles beyte,
And þe bores, with hundes teyte;
Þo mouthe men se eueril gleu,
Þer mouthe men se hw grim greu;
Was neuere yete ioie more
In al þis werd, þan þo was þore.
Þer was so mike yeft of cloþes,
Þat þou i swore you grete othes,
I ne wore nouth þer-offe croud:
Þat may i ful wel swere, bi god!
Þere was swiþe gode metes,
And of wyn, þat men fer fetes,
Rith al so mik and gret plente,
So it were water of þe se.
Þe feste fourti dawes sat,
So riche was neuere non so þat.
Þe king made Roberd þere knith,
Þat was ful strong, and ful with,
And willam, wendut het, his broþer,
And huwe rauen, þat was þat oþer,
And made hem barouns alle þre,
And yaf hem lond, and oþer fe,
So mikel, þat ilker twenti knihtes
Hauede of genge, dayes and nithes.

Hwan þat feste was al don,
A thusand knihtes ful wel o bon
With-held þe king, with him to lede;
Þat ilkan hauede ful god stede,
Helm, and sheld, and brinie brith,
And al þe wepne þat fel to knith.
With hem fiue thusand gode
Sergaunz, þat weren to fyht wode,
With-held he al of his genge:
Wile I na more þe storie lenge.
Yet hwan he hauede of al þe lond
Þe casteles alle in his hond,
And conestables don þer-inne,
He swor, he ne sholde neuer blinne,
Til þat he were of godard wreken,
Þat ich haue of ofte speken.
Hal hundred knithes dede he calle,
And hise fif thusand sergaunz alle,
And dide sweren on the bok
Sone, and on þe auter ok,
Þat he ne sholde neuere blinne,
Ne for loue, ne for sinne,
Til þat he haueden godard funde,
And brouth biforn him faste bunde.

Þanne he haueden swor þis oth,
Ne leten he nouth for lef ne loth,
Þat he ne foren swiþe rathe,
Þer he was unto þe paþe,
Þer he yet on hunting for,
With mikel genge, and swiþe stor.
Robert, þat was of al þe ferd
Mayster, was girt wit a swerd,
And sat up-on a ful god stede,
Þat vnder him Rith wolde wede;
He was þe firste þat with godard
Spak, and seyde, “hede cauenard!
Wat dos þu here at þis paþe?
Cum to þe king, swiþe and raþe.
Þat sendes he þe word, and bedes,
Þat þu þenke hwat þu him dedes,
Hwan þu reftes with a knif
Hise sistres here lif,
An siþen bede þu in þe se
Drenchen him, þat herde he.
He is to þe swiþe grim:
Cum nu swiþe un-to him,
Þat king is of þis kuneriche.
Þu fule man! þu wicke swike!
And he shal yelde þe þi mede,
Bi crist þat wolde on rode blede!”