Lines 569–848

Ef þu art trewe of dedes,
Do nu ase þu sedes.
Nu þu hast wille þine,
Vnbind me of my pine.”
“Rymenhild,” quaþ he, “beo stille;
Ihc wulle don al þi wille.
Also hit mot bitide,
Mid spere ischal furst ride,
And mi kniȝthod proue,
Ar ihc þe ginne to woȝe.
We beþ kniȝtes ȝonge,
Of o dai al isprunge,
And of vre mestere
So is þe manere,
Wiþ sume oþere kniȝte
Wel for his lemman fiȝte,
Or he eni wif take;
For þi me stondeþ þe more rape.
Today, so crist me blesse,
Ihc wulle do pruesse
For þi luue in þe felde,
Mid spere and mid schelde.
If ihc come te lyue,
Ihc schal þe take to wyue.”
“Kniȝt,” quaþ heo, “trewe,
Ihc wene ihc mai þe leue.
Tak nu her þis gold ring,
God him is þe dubbing.
Þer is vpon þe ringe
Igraue, ‘Rymenhild þe ȝonge.’
Þer nis non betere anonder sunne,
Þat eni man of telle cunne.
For my luue þu hit were,
And on þi finger þu him bere.
Þe stones beoþ of suche grace,
Þat þu ne schalt in none place
Of none duntes beon ofdrad,
Ne on bataille beon amad,
Ef þu loke þeran
And þenke vpon þi lemman.
And sire Aþulf, þi broþer,
He schal haue anoþer.
Horn, ihc þe biseche
Wiþ loueliche speche,
Crist ȝeue god erndinge,
Þe aȝen to bringe.”
Þe kniȝt hire gan kesse,
And heo him to blesse.
Leue at hire he nam
And in to halle cam.
Þe kniȝtes ȝeden to table,
And horne ȝede to stable.
Þar he tok his gode fole,
Also blak so eny cole.
Þe fole schok þe brunie,
Þat al þe curt gan denie.
Þe fole bigan to springe,
And horn murie to singe.
Horn rod in a while
More þan a myle.
He fond o schup stonde
Wiþ heþene honde.
He axede what hi soȝte,
Oþer to londe broȝte.
An hund him gan bihelde
Þat spac wordes belde,
“Þis lond we wulleȝ wynne,
And sle þat þer is inne.”
Horn gan his swerd gripe
And on his arme wype.
Þe sarazins he smatte,
Þat his blod hatte.
At eureche dunte
Þe heued of wente.
Þo gunne þe hundes gone,
Abute horn al one.
He lokede on þe ringe,
And þoȝte on rimenilde.
He sloȝ þer on haste
On hundred bi þe laste.
Ne miȝte noman telle
Þat folc þat he gan quelle.
Of alle þat were aliue
Ne miȝte þer non þriue.
Horn tok þe maisteres heued,
Þat he hadde him bireued,
And sette hit on his swerde,
Anouen at þan orde.
He verde hom in to halle,
Among þe kniȝtes alle.
“Kyng,” he sede, “wel þu sitte,
And alle þine kniȝtes mitte.
To day, after mi dubbing,
So irod on mi pleing,
I fond o schup Rowe,
Þo hit gan to flowe,
Al wiþ sarazines kyn,
And none londisse Men.
To dai, for to pine
Þe and alle þine.
Hi gonne me assaille.
Mi swerd me nolde faille;
I smot hem alle to grunde,
Oþer ȝaf hem diþes wunde.
Þat heued iþe bringe
Of þe maister kinge.
Nu is þi wile iȝolde,
King, þat þu me kniȝti woldest.”
A Moreȝe þo þe day gan springe,
Þe king him rod an huntinge.
At hom lefte ffikenhild,
Þat was þe wurste moder child.
Heo ferde in to bure,
To sen auenture.
Heo saȝ Rymenild sitte
Also he were of witte.
Heo sat on þe sunne,
Wiþ tieres al birunne.
Horn sede, “lef þinore,
Wi wepestu so sore?”
Heo sede, “noȝt ine wepe;
Bute ase ilay aslepe,
To þe se my net icaste,
And hit nolde noȝt ilaste.
A gret fiss at þe furste,
Mi net he gan to berste.
Ihc wene þat ihc schal leose
Þe fiss þat ihc wolde cheose.”
“Crist,” quaþ horn, “and seint steuene,
Turne þine sweuene.
Ne schal iþe biswike,
Ne do þat þe mislike.
I schal me make þinowe,
To holden and to knowe,
For eurech oþere wiȝte;
And þarto mi treuþe iþe pliȝte.”
Muchel was þe ruþe
Þat was at þare truþe,
For Rymenhild weop ille,
And horn let þe tires stille.
“Lemman,” quaþ he, “dere,
Þu schalt more ihere.
Þi sweuen schal wende,
Oþer sum Man schal vs schende.
Þe fiss þat brak þe lyne,
Ywis he doþ us pine.
Þat schal don vs tene
And wurþ wel sone isene.”
Aylmar rod bi sture,
And horn lai in bure.
Fykenhild hadde enuye
And sede þes folye:--
“Aylmar, ihc þe warne,
Horn þe wule berne.
Ihc herde whar he sede,
And his swerd forþ leide,
To bringe þe of lyue,
And take Rymenhild to wyue.
He liþ in bure,
Vnder couerture,
By Rymenhild, þi doȝter;
And so he doþ wel ofte.
And þider þu go al riȝt;
Þer þu him finde miȝt.
Þu do him vt of londe,
Oþer he doþ þe schonde.”
Aylmar aȝen gan turne,
Wel Modi and wel Murne.
He fond horn in arme,
On Rymenhilde barme.
“Awei vt,” he sede, “fule þeof,
Ne wurstu me neuremore leof.
Wend vt of my bure,
Wiþ muchel messauenture.
Wel sone bute þu flitte,
Wiþ swerde ihc þe anhitte.
Wend ut of my londe,
Oþer þu schalt haue schonde.”
Horn sadelede his stede,
And his armes he gan sprede.
His brunie he gan lace,
So he scholde, in to place.
His swerd he gan fonge;
Nabod he noȝt to longe.
He ȝede forþ bliue
To Rymenhild his wyue.
He sede, “lemman, derling,
Nu hauestu þi sweuening.
Þe fiss þat þi net rente,
Fram þe he me sente.
Rymenhild, haue wel godne day,
No leng abiden ine may.
In to vncuþe londe,
Wel more for to fonde.
I schal wune þere
Fulle seue ȝere.
At seue ȝeres ende,
Ȝef ine come ne sende,
Tak þe husebonde,
ffor me þu ne wonde.
In armes þu me fonge,
And kes me wel longe.”
He custe him wel a stunde,
And Rymenhild feol to grunde.
Horn tok his leue;
Ne miȝte he no leng bileue.
He tok Aþulf, his fere,
Al abute þe swere,
And sede, “kniȝt so trewe,
Kep wel mi luue newe.
Þu neure me ne forsoke,
Rymenhild þu kep and loke.”
His stede he gan bistride,
And forþ he gan ride.
To þe hauene he ferde,
And a god schup he hurede,
Þat him scholde londe
In westene londe.
Aþulf weop wiþ iȝe,
And al þat him isiȝe.
To lond he him sette,
And fot on stirop sette.
He fond bi þe weie,
Kynges sones tweie;
Þat on him het harild,
And þat oþer berild.
Berild gan him preie
Þat he scholde him seie
What his name were,
And what he wolde þere.
“Cutberd,” he sede, “ihc hote,
Icomen vt of þe bote,
Wel feor fram biweste,
To seche mine beste.”
Berild gan him nier ride,
And tok him bi þe bridel.
“Wel beo þu, kniȝt, ifounde;
Wiþ me þu lef a stunde.
Also mote i sterue,
Þe king þu schalt serue.
Ne saȝ i neure my lyue
So fair kniȝt aryue.”
Cutberd heo ladde in to halle,
And he a kne gan falle.
He sette him a knewelyng,
And grette wel þe gode kyng.
Þanne sede Berild sone,
“Sire king, of him þu hast to done.
Bitak him þi lond to werie;
Ne schat hit noman derie,
For he is þe faireste man
Þat eureȝut on þi londe cam.”
Þanne sede þe king so dere,
“Welcome beo þu here.
Go nu, Berild, swiþe,
And make him ful bliþe.
And whan þu farst to woȝe,
Tak him þine gloue.