Fitt IV

The squyer wyste not what she mente,
Ageyne to the kyng he went,
And knelyd downe on hys kne.
" Lorde, in the yondur schyp nothyng ys,
But a woman in lyknes,
Sche rose and lokyd on me.
A fayrer thyng say y never none,
That ever was made of flesche and bone,
But hyt were Mary free !
Sche makyth me sygnes with hur honde,
As sche were of an unknowen londe
Beyonde the Grekys see."

Be Jhesu swere that gentylle kynge,
" Y wylle se that gentylle thynge,"
And thedur he goyth apase.
To the schyp he come anon ;
Ageyne the kyng sche rose sone,
That lady that was so feyre of face :
That damycelle that was so mylde,
So sore had gret for hur chylde,
Sche was wexyn alle horse.
To a chaumbur they hur ladd,
Dylycyus metys they hur badd,
Wyth gode wylle sche them tase.

Aftur mete hur frayneth the kyng,
" Of whens art thou, my swete thyng,
For thou art bryght of blee ? "
Sche seyde, " Y was borne in Artas,
Syr Prynsamowre my fadur was,
The lorde of that cuntre."
Sythen hyt befelle upon a day,
Y and my maydenys went to play
Be the syde of the see.
There was a lytylle bote stode,
Y and my squyer ther in yode,
Un-Crystynman was hee.

" On londe y lafte my maydenys alle,
My squyer on slepyng can falle,
A mantelle y ovyr hym drewe."
The kyng seyde, " Make gode chere,
Thou art my brothurs doghtyr dere."
For yoye on hym sche logh.
Kepe we thys lady whyte as flowre,
And speke we of syr Egyllamowre,
Now comyth to hym care y-nogh.

When syr Egyllamowre was hole and sounde,
And wele recovyrd on hys wounde,
He buskyd and made hym yare ;
He thankyth the emperoure of thys,
Hys doghtur and the emperes,
And alle that evyr ware thare.
Crystyabelle was in hys thoght,
The dragonys hedd forgeteth he noȝt,
Upon hys spere he hyt up bare ;
Be xij. wekys were comyn to ȝende,
Yn the londe of Artas can he londe,
And to hym come letturs of care.

The cuntre herde telle, y undurstonde,
That syr Egyllamowre was come to londe ;
Grete yoye they made in dede.
A squyer wente ageyne hym sone,
" Lo ! lorde, what the erle hath done !
Fayre Crystyabelle ys dedd !
A man-chylde had sche with hur borne,
The erle hath hys lyfe forlorne,
He was bothe whyte and rede ;
Yn a schypp on the see he dud them two,
And wyth wyndys let them goo ! "
The knyght swownyd in that tyde.

" Lorde God ! " seyde the knyght so free,
" Where ever the gentylle women bee,
Yn chaumbur that wyth hur was ? "
The squyer answeryd hym fulle sone,
" Lorde, when sche to the see was done,
Ylke oon toke ther wey to passe."
Unto the halle than can he fare,
Among the lordys that were thare
Be the erle of Artas :
" Have thou here thy dragonys hedd,
Alle ys myn that here ys levydd,
Thou syttyst in my place."

A grete rewthe hyt was to here,
How he callyd Crystyabelle hys fere,
And seyde, " Art thou gone to the see ?
God that dyed on crosse verye,
On thy soule have mercy,
And on thy yong sone so free ! "
And for fere of syr Egyllamowre,
The erle rose up and toke a towre,
There evyr more wo hym bee !
" Gentylle men, so God me save,
Alle that ordre of knyght wylle have,
Ryse up and take hyt at me."

The gentyls that come hym tylle,
Then they were fulle fayne to do hys wylle,
He gave them ordurs sone ;
Yn the halle that he there hadd,
V. and thretty knyghtys he madd,
Be that odur day abowte none ;
And he that was the porest of them alle,
He gaf for Crystyabellys soule
Londys to leve upon.
A thousand, as y undurstonde,
He toke with hym, and went into the Holy Londe,
There God on cros was done.

Syr Egyllamowre, as ye may here,
He dwellyd in the Holy Londe xv. yere,
The hethen men amonge ;
Fulle doghtyly he hym bare,
There ony dedes of armys ware,
Ageyne them that levedd wronge.
Be the xv. yerys were comyn and gone,
The chylde that the grype hath tane
Waxe bothe bolde and stronge ;
Yn yustyng ne yn turnament,
Ther myȝt no man with-sytt hys dynte,
But he to the erthe them thronge.

Syr Degrabelle was wyse and wyght,
The kyng of Ysraelle hath made hym knyȝt
And prynce wyth hys honde.
Lystenyth, lordyngys, leve and dere,
What armys that thys chylde bere,
And ye wylle undurstonde.

He bare, Aserre, a grype of golde,
Rychely beton on the molde,
Yn hys clothys hangyng
A chylde in a skarlet mantelle bounde,
As he was broght to londe
Thorowe that grype, withowt lesynge.

The kyng of Ysraelle waxe fulle olde,
To Syr Degrabelle hys sone he tolde,
" Y wolde thou haddyst a wyfe ;
For y trowe thou art me dere,
When y am dedd, thou getyst no pere,
Of ryches thou art so ryfe."
A messengere come before the kyng,
" Yn Egypt wonnyth a swete thyng,
The feyrest that evyr bare lyfe ;
The kyng hath soche othys sworne,
No man schalle have hur that ys borne,
But he wynne hur wyth stryfe."

The kynge swere, " And sche be gode,
Therfore we wylle not let be the rode,
Have done sone and buske the swythe."
And he comawndyd a messengere to gon,
To bydd hys knyghtys everychon
That they were there belyve.
They buskyd them wyth ryalle fare,
And to the see they went fulle yare,
And passyd the watur lythe ;
Be th[r]e wekys were comyn to ȝende,
Yn the londe of Egypt can they wende,
Ther forsus for to knowe swythe.

A messengere wente before to telle,
" Here corny th the kyng of Ysraelle
Wyth mony a man semele ;
The prynce hys sone with many a knyȝt,
For to wowe yowre doghtur bryght,
Yf that yowre wylle bee."
He seyde, " Be God, y hope y schalle
Fynde redy yustyng for them alle,
They be welcome to me ;
And yf they come on gode array,
To ther mete y schalle them pray,
As mote y thryve or the."

Trumpus in the topp-castelle rose,
The ryche kyng to the londe gose
Wyth hys knyghtys clad in palle ;
The chylde, that was of xv. yere,
Gothe them among, as ye may here,
A fote above them alle ;
The kyng of Egypt ageyn hym wente,
And sythen be the honde hym hente,
And bad hym to the halle.
" Y prey the thou gyf me a syght
Of Crystyabelle, yowre doghtur bryght,
As whyte as bone of whalle."

Owt of a chaumbur was sche broght,
"With mannys hondes as sche were wroght,
Or corvyn on a tree ;
By rome some stode and hur behelde,
" Wele were hym that hur myght welde,"
To hym-selfe seyde hee.
The kyng of Ysraelle that lady can asche,
Yf she myght the see ovyr-passe,
Hys sonnys wyfe for to bee.
Tho seyde sche, " Yf he may
Gete me with hys schafte to-morowe at day,
Thy askyng grawnte y the."

Grete lordys were at the assent ;
Waytys blewe, to mete they wente
Wyth a fulle ryalle chere.
Two kynges the deyse began,
Syr Degrabelle and Crystyabelle than,
Thowe they were sybbe fulle nere.
Kynges wente to sytt y-wys,
Ylke squyer in hys offyce
To serve hys lorde fulle dere ;
Aftur mete than seyde they
Deus pacis, clerkys cunne seye
Yn the halle there men may hyt here.

At morne when day sprange,
Gentyl men to haruds thrange,
Syr Degrabelle was dyght ;
Trumpus in the felde rose,
Eche lorde to odur goys,
That was a semely syght.
Grete lordys made to crye,
" What maner of man ys hee,
That beryth the grype so bryght ? "
Harowdes of armes conne them telle,
" That ys the prynce of Ysraelle,
Be war, for he ys wyght ! "

The kyng of Egypt hath take a schafte,
The chylde satt and nere hym raght,
Thogh he be nevyr so kene ;
Ageyn the kyng the chylde can fare,
Hors and man he bare downe thare
Strongely on the grene.
The kynge seyde, " So God me save,
Thou art beste worthy hur to have."
Thus seyn they alle-be-dene.
Lordys they justyd there that day,
The squyers on the morne, withowt nay,
Doghty men and kene.

Two kynges have there trowthe plyght
To Crystyabelle that was so bryght,
To the churche they conne hur lede.
Thus gracyously he hath spedd,
Hys owne modur he hath wedd,
Thus harde y a clerke rede.

Hys armes they bere hym beforne,
Sche thenkyth how hur chylde was awey borne,
And grete sorow she made in thoght.
" Lorde, in thyn armes a fowle y see,
That sometyme rafte a chylde fro me,
A knyght fulle dere hym boght."
The kynge swere be Goddys myght,
" In my foreste can he lyght,
A grype to londe hym broght."
He comawndyd a squyer for to wende,
And aftur hys cofur he hym sende,
Ther in hyt was leyde so softe ;
There y wot he toke owte thare
The mantelle and the gyrdylle bothe,
That rychely was be-wroght.

The lady seyde, " Fulle wo ys me,
They were rafte fro me in the see ! "
On-swownyng downe sche brayde.
" How longe sethen ?" the kyng can say.
" xv. yere, syr, permafay ! "
They grauntyd alle that sche sayde.

" Gode Lorde, we alle thou wys and rede,
A sybbe maryage thys day have we made
In the spryngyng of the mone ;
Y rede ye loke, so God me save,
What maner of man that hur schalle have,
That hyt were done full sone."
" Ye, ffadur, y trowe, hyt be gode,
And so dothe my modur, be the rode !
But y weddyd hur before none ;
Therfore ther schalle no man have hur, be seynt Mary,
But he hur wynne os doghtyly,
As y myselfe have done."

Grete lordys conne to odur saye,
" For hur love we wylle turnay,
Wyth swerdus in owre honde ;
He that wynnyth that lady clere,
He schalle wedd hur to hys fere,
There hym lovyth beste to lende."
Harowdes of armes than they wente,
For to dyscrye thys turnayment
In eche londys ȝende ;
Syr Egyllamowre was in that cuntre sone,
And herde telle of thys grete renowne,
And thedurward can he wende.

For Crystyabelle was put in-to the see,
Now soche armes beryth he,
Lystenyth, y wylle yow dyscrye.
He bare of Aser, a schyp of golde,
A lady as sche dye schoulde,
And a chylde lay hur bye ;
Hys maste of sylvyr and of golde,
The chylde was but of oon nyght olde,
And evyr in poynte to dye ;
And of redd golde was hys fane,
Hys gabulle and hys ropys everechone
Was portrayed verely.

Gentylmen that herde of thys crye,
Thedur come they redylye,
Tho that doghty were ;
The kyng of Sydone came fulle sone
Wyth mony knyghtys herde of bone,
That yoly colourys bare.
Schaftys they made in the felde,
That grete lordys myght them welde,
Fulle faste they turnayed thare ;
Syr Egyllamowre, thogh he come laste,
Ȝyt was he not awey caste,
The knyght was cladd in care.

Crystyabelle, that lady smalle,
Was broght to a corner of the walle,
There the crye was made.
The chylde that was of xv. yere elde,
Was aventurs in the felde,
And yn a stowre he rode ;
When he began to smyte,
Fro hys handys they went not that tyde,
Ther wolde none hys dyntys abyde;
He sende a knyght anon fulle stylle
Unto syr Egyllamowre, to wyt hys wylle,
And seyde, " Wylle ye not ryde ? "

He seyde, " Syr recreawntes,
I am fer comyn owt of hethennes,
Grete synne hyt were me to tene ! "
Hys owne sone seyde, " So mote y the,
Than schulde ye not have armyd he,
More worschyp had hyt bene."

The knyght answeryd, and on hym logh,
" Haste thou not ȝyt askyd me y-nogh,
But thou on me more praye ? "
" Syr, y am aventurs in thys stowre
For a lady whyte as flowre,
To wynne hur yf y may."
" Be Jhesu," seyde the knyght then,
" Y wylle loke yf y can
For hur love onythyng turn ay ;
Be God, sometyme have y sene,
In as herde aventurs have y bene,
And wonne fulle wele away."

Grete lordys with weponys longe,
Gentylmen to horsus spronge,
Doghty men echone ;
And syr Egyllamowre turnyd hys swerde flatt,
And gafe hys sone soche a patte,
That to the erthe he ys gone.
Alle they sweryd upon the molde,
" He that beryth the schylde of golde
Hath wonne hur hymselfe allone."
The lady seyde, " Be Goddys pete,
My sone ys dedd ! fulle wo ys me !
That kene knyght hath hym slone ! "

Harowdes of armes swore owt than,
" Yf ther be ony gentylman,
To make hys body gode."
These grete lordys seyde now,
" Beste worthy, syr knyght, art thou
To wedd thys frely fode."
To onarme hym the knyght goys,
In cortyls, sorcatys and schorte clothys,
That doghty weryn of dede.
Two kyngys the deyse began,
Syr Egyllamowre and Crystyabelle than,
Jhesu us alle spede !

Sche askyth be what chesone he bare
A schyp of golde, bothe maste and ore ;
He tolde hur, as he was hynde.
He seyde, " For in the see was done
My lemman and my yongest sone,
And there they made ther ȝende."
That lady lettyd for no schame,
" Gode syr, what ys yowre name ? "
He tolde hur in that stownde,
" Men calle me, there y borne was,
Syr Egyllamowre of Artas,
That with the worme was woundyd."

There was many a robe of palle,
The chylde servyd in the halle
At the fyrste mete that day.
Prevely scho to hym spake,
" Ȝondur ys thy fadur that the gate ! "
A grete yoye hyt was to see ay !
When he knelyd downe on hys kne,
There was mony an herte sore,
Be God that dyed on a tree !
Hyt ys sothe seyde, be God of heven,
Mony metyn at on-sett stevyn ;
And so befelle hyt there !

The kyng of Israelle can hym telle
How he fonde syr Degrabelle,
Knyghtys lystenyd ther-to than.
Syr Egyllamowre knelyd on hys kne,
" A ! Lorde God, ȝylde hyt the,
Thou haste made hym a man ! "
The kynge seyde, " Y hym geve
Halfe my kyngdome whylle y leve,
My sone as whyte os swan."
The kynge of Sydon seyde also,
" And my doghtur Organata y gyf hym to,
For my londys hys fadur wan."

Syr Egyllamowre prayed these lordys hynde,
Home to Artas that they wolde wynde,
At hys weddyng to bee.
They grauntyd alle that there ware ;
They buskyd them with ryalle fare,
And sone come ovyr the see.

Schyppus lay wrekyd on the sonde,
Eche lorde toke odur be the honde,
Pagys ther horsys conne dryve ;
Thys behelde syr Prynsamowre,
He felle bakward ovyr a towre,
And brake hys nekk belyve !
A messengere come before to telle,
What maner aventurs there befelle :
Wyth God may no man stryve !
Alle the nyght there they laye,
Tylle on the morowe that hyt was day,
To wedd that lady whyte belyve.

Ther was many a lorde of pryde,
A kynge ladde hur on eche a syde,
Hyt was a semely syght ;
Sythen a byschop can them wedde,
Than thanked they God they had so spedd,
And Mary mekylle of myght !
Sethen to wedde them can they goo,
Syr Degrabelle and Organata tho,
He was a fulle feyre knyght.
There was throwyn golde in that stounde,
The mowntans of a thousand pounde,
Gete hyt who so myght.
The mynstrels that were of ferre londe,
They had mony robys, y undurstonde,
And mony a ryche gyfte.
Sythen to the castelle they wente,
To holde brydale they hente,
Hyt lastyd a fourtenyght.

When the brydale was alle y-done,
Eche oon toke ther leve to gone,
There they were levest to lende.
Mynstrels that there were in that stounde,
Ther gyftys were worthe iij. c. pounde,
The bettur myght they spende.
In Rome thys geste cronyculd ys ;
Jhesu brynge us to that blys,
That lastyth withowten ende ! Amen.