Fierabras and Floripas: A French Epic allegory, First modern English translation 9781599101576, 9781599101583, 2009048136

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Fierabras and Floripas

Fierabras and Floripas A French Epic Allegory FIRST MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATION BY

MICHAEL A.H. NEWTH

ITALICA PRESS NEW YORK 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Michael A. H. Newth ITALICA PRESS, INC. Street, Suite 605 New York, New York  595 Main

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of Italica Press. For permission to reproduce selected portions for courses, please contact the Press at [email protected]. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Fierabras. English. Fierabras and Floripas : a French epic allegory frst modern English translation / by Michael A.H. Newth. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-59910-157-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-59910158-3 (e-book) 1. Epic literature, French--Translations into English. 2. Charlemagne, Emperor, 742-814--Romances. 3. French literature--To 1500. I. Newth, Michael A. PQ1461.F3E5 2003 841’.1--dc22 2009048136

Cover: “Pagans Repulsed by the Relics of the Passion.” Drawing from Fierabras (Hannover, Niedersächsische Landesbibliothek, MS IV-578, f. 88r), re-worked and hand-painted by Kate Stengl.

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About the Editor & Translator

Born in 1950 at Felton in southwestern England, Michael Newth was a foundation Choral Scholar of Coventry Cathedral and King Henry VIII Grammar School, before emigrating to Australia in 1965. Graduating from Macquarie University in 1973, he currently lives in Sydney, where he has worked for over 35 years as a classroom teacher. Michael A.H.Newth has published several verse translations of Old French chansons de geste, including, The Song of Aspremont (1989), The Song of Aliscans (1992), Girart de Vienne (1999) and Heroes of the French Epic (2005), a collection of six epics of which two, The Song of William and Raoul de Cambrai, have been anthologized and illustrated in Epics of the Middle Ages (ed. R. Barber) by The Folio Society. Fierabras and Floripas – A French Epic Allegory continues his collaboration with Italica Press, which began in 2005 with the publication of Aymeri of Narbonne – A French Epic Romance. Michael Newth’s other abiding passion is music in general and the British art-song in particular.

Honour is fashed off exploit, so we say; And those strokes once that gashed fesh or galled shield Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that feld, And, on the fghter, forge his glorious day. On Christ they do, and on the martyr may; But be the war within, the brand we wield Unseen, the heroic breast not outward-steeled, Earth hears no hurtle then from fercest fray…’ Sonnets, Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1888

CONTENTS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS INTRODUCTION

Genre Authorship Artistic Achievement Sources and Infuences Editorial Policy

Select Bibliography

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ix x xvi xxiv xxx xxxiii

FIERABRAS AND FLORIPAS

Prologue 1 The First Geste: Vanity — Tells of the Destruction of Rome 5 The Second Geste: Submission — Tells of the Duel between Fierabras and Oliver 45 The Third Geste: Desires — Tells of Strain and Striving 91 The Fourth Geste: Deserts — Tells of Pain and Thriving 161

GLOSSARY

APPENDIX I: Extracts from the French Original APPENDIX II: Fierabras ex Libris

223 225 245

ILLUSTRATIONS 1. Pagans Repulsed 2. Pagans at Sea 3. Rome Sacked 4. Oliver Challenged 5. Roland Admonished 6. Fierabras Wounded 7. Fierabras Saved 8. Floripas Resolved 9. Waved Parted 10. Defenses Breached 11. An Evil Shorn 12. A Blessing Sworn 13. Rome Restored 14. Anglo-Norman Manscript 15. Middle-English Text 16. Schubert Score 17. Doré Engraving

xxxvi 13 37 43 50 86 98 105 169 181 213 215 220 245 246 249 251

INTRODUCTION Genre With the exception of The Song of Roland there can be no other fower of Old French epic poetry to have inspired such enduring and widespread hybridization as that displayed here in its frst English setting for some six hundred years. Indeed the chanson de geste presented in this volume as Fierabras and Floripas may well afford today’s admirers of the medieval landscape a more attractive glimpse of that literary genus that blossomed across France for approximately two hundred years (c.1100-1300) than Turoldus’s soaring but strikingly monochrome cultivar of martial chauvinism. Rooted in their common soil of religious zeal and feudal loyalty, the narrative of The Song of Roland is sustained upon a high level of emotional intensity by the poet’s command of his art form’s rhetorical devices and by the carefully pruned symmetry of his formal approach. His work divides equally into four complementary parts, whose individual stanzas display a high degree of similarity in length and a matching balance in the cohesion of their internal structure. The mood and style of Fierabras and Floripas, however, are much closer to those of the great majority of the ninety or so surviving specimens of Old French epic writing, which bear the genetic imprint of their long, common oral tradition beneath a more luxuriant blooming of their individual authors’ imaginations. The work translated in this volume, for example, is almost eight thousand lines long (i.e. twice Roland’s length), and this represents the average length of the poems in the surviving corpus. Fierabras and Floripas also displays a dazzling array of the personalities and adventures that crowded the borders of

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Fierabras and Floripas its genre’s aesthetic, in comparison with the Roland’s severe economy of plot and casting. The vista afforded us by the present poem is, however, even broader than that of almost any other of its equally pretty peers — for as well as giving us a striking look at the aims and accomplishments of the chanson de geste genre during the last one hundred years of its development from an oral/aural to a written/read art form, its vivid narrative engages us, through an eye-catching allegory, in expansive moral and spiritual contemplations as relevant to our natural lives today as they were to those of its original audience. Authorship The present volume treats as one poem two chansons de geste traditionally considered and named separately as La Destruction de Rome (1508 lines) and Fierabras (6219 lines). Although the latter work appears without the former in the majority of its extant manuscript copies (of which there are well over a dozen), it is obvious that it was originally intended to follow the shorter narrative, whose frst editor (Gröber, 4) considered their common authorship a certainty. The earliest versions of both compositions are written in the Picard dialect of Northern France, and the latest editor of Fierabras (Le Person, 142) considers the original of that chanson de geste to date from around 1190. As with the vast majority of extant Old French epics the author’s name remains unknown, although some tantalising bait for scholarly speculation is left trailing by the narrator in his prologue: They’re wrong in many verses; the song was lost, you see, Until Gautier of Douai, a man of gallant zeal, And France’s monarch Louis — God rest his soul in peace, Through Mary, maid and mother, from mortal sin redeemed —

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Introduction Restored the early version until it stood complete, Then polished up the rhyming and rhythm till it gleamed. The lines of it had languished in France at Saint-Denis Among the church’s records, and when they were revealed, They proved that it had been there at least a hundred years. The clerk who frst composed it had never let it leave And never wished to sell it for any gift or fee, For any mule or palfrey or any noble feece; Nor did he ever sing it for any noble ear. (ll. 7-19)

Both poems belong to the so called geste du roi, a series of twenty or so epic poems that focus on the legendary history of the great Frankish king and Western emperor Charlemagne (742-814) in his role as Defender of the Christian Faith. With the much shorter and lighter-hearted work called Le Pèlerinage de Charlemagne (Charlemagne’s Pilgrimage), the Destruction and Fierabras form a sub-cycle of their own that centers on the history and meaning of the relics of Christ’s Passion. The inspiration for the composition of a such a poetic cycle, and certainly one of the major reasons for its dissemination and widespread success, came undoubtedly, as the lines in the prologue suggest, from the abbey of SaintDenis itself. Situated, in the twelfth century, just outside the city wall to the north of Paris, this one monastery became, from 1140 onwards, under its great Abbot Suger, an epicenter of religious, artistic and political life in France. Most pertinently, each June the abbey’s forecourt became the focalpoint of a great fair and holiday, known as the Lendit, which celebrated the religious house’s relics of the Passion, and where the opportunity to welcome, accommodate and nourish thousands of pilgrims, both physically and spiritually, was in no way overlooked by the brothers and their enterprising leader. It can be considered very likely, then, that the Lendit crowds were the frst to be entertained and instructed by tales dealing with the frightening sack of Rome (La Destruction de

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Fierabras and Floripas Rome), the campaign of retribution led by Charlemagne in Spain to recover its relics (Fierabras) and the return of these relics to several great abbeys in France via Saint-Denis itself (Le Pèlerinage de Charlemagne). The Arab invasions of the Italian peninsula in 813, 846 and 870 provided the historical sparks, which were fanned lovingly into legendary fames by certain tenth-century chroniclers around successive sackings of Rome, and thence warmed the creative imagination of the chronicler-brothers and jongleur-poets at Saint-Denis. The Life of Pope Sergius II, for example, states that in 846 a Saracen army left Ostia and sailed up the Tiber to Rome, massacring the pilgrims sent forth to stop them, overrunning sacred Christian sites and sacking St. Peter’s Basilica. The Chronicle of St. Benoît (967) specifes further that the pontiff met his death during this raid and that the Saracens were only put to fight when the Frankish army of Gui II of Spoleto arrived — a series of events that closely matches those dramatised in the frst part of the present narrative. Two further invasions of papal territory, each at two centuries historical distance from the Arab incursions, are also thought to have infuenced the legends surrounding the sackings of Rome and thus contributed to the narrative framework inherited and developed by the individual poet of the present work. In 536–37 the famous Byzantine general Belisarius, astride a horse called Balan (the name of the protagonists’ father in the present work), laid siege to Rome and captured Hadrian’s Mausoleum (Castel Sant’Angelo, called Crescent Tower in La Destruction de Rome). Similarly, in 1084 the Franconian Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV sacked St. Peter’s Basilica, forcing Pope Gregory VII to seek refuge in the same Crescent Tower, from where he was delivered by Robert Guiscard’s Normans, only to die shortly thereafter.

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Introduction The documented history of Saint-Denis’ own cask of relics, whose treasures Joseph Bédier (161) identifed, somewhat wryly, one hundred years ago as ‘the principal characters in the entire sub-cycle’, illustrates once more the alchemical effects of common time and uncommon talent upon the base metals of chronological record. Since Carolingian times themselves a pilgrimage had taken place every year on St. John the Baptist’s Day (24 June) to the abbey at Saint-Denis, which since the reign of Dagobert (629–39) had become the resting place of French monarchs and the home of their sacred red war banner, the Orifamme. In the course of succeeding centuries this pilgrimage had developed into the Lendit fair mentioned above, an occasion that it was certainly in the political and economic interests of the religious house to promote through the production of a series of home-made “historical” records and “true-to-life” chansons de geste that could be disseminated as promotional “fiers” along the pilgrimage routes to other important shrines. At the end of the eleventh century the monks at Saint-Denis themselves composed a text that was called Descriptio qualiter Karolus Magnus clavum et coronam Domini a Constantinopoli Aquisgrani detulerit qualiterque Karolus calvus hec ad sanctum Dyonisium retulerit (a description of how Charles the Great brought the nail [of the cross] and the crown [of thorns] of our Lord away from Constantinople to Aix-la-Chapelle and of how Charles the Bald took them to Saint-Denis). In their narrative the monks also relate how Charlemagne defeated the pagans and received certain holy relics, most notably those of the Passion, as an imperial reward for the restoration of the Patriarch at Jerusalem. The church records at Notre Dame in Paris indicate that in 1108 a fragment of the Holy Cross itself was accepted by its authorities, who in the next year instituted their own commemorative procession in its honor to the place called the Lendit. It seems, therefore,

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Fierabras and Floripas quite likely that the monks of Saint-Denis, whose abbey was located along Notre Dame’s processional route, and who had written their Descriptio previously to authenticate their own relics of the Passion, subsequently decided to initiate a procession of their own and take a much greater part in the ensuing fair. On the one hand then the authorship of Fierabras and Floripas must have been prompted by the desire of the Church authorities to beneft economically from an entertainment provided to fairground patrons as well as more pious pilgrims observing the relics at Saint-Denis during that June festival. On the other hand, there is no doubt that for the monks of Saint-Denis at the time of Louis VII the performance of narratives dealing with Charlemagne’s quest for the relics of Christ’s Passion was part of a propaganda campaign on behalf of the French monarchy, organised by Abbot Suger himself. This one highly inventive man, who had been chief spiritual and political adviser to Louis VI, had seemingly made it his personal quest to boost the prestige of the contemporary French king. To achieve this he consciously nurtured, from his abbey at Saint-Denis, a cult of the greatest French king of them all, Charlemagne, the premise of which was that France was the one and only kingdom of God on earth. As Friedrich Heer (357) states: “The same basic themes recur in the Chanson de Roland, in the writings of Suger of St. Denis and in the political propaganda of the French kings, which, starting in the late twelfth century, kept roughly to the same line for the next two hundred years: the French nation is culturally superior to all others, it is the only nation of true believers and the lawful heir of Charlemagne, the French nation fghts God’s battles for Him on earth, and all its wars are Crusades.” Consciously “written” chansons de geste, such as those in the Relics sub-cycle, continued to affrm these claims through the ‘historicity’ of their narratives’ association

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Introduction of the Frankish monarchy with the deliverance of Rome, the restoration of papal authority, and with the recovery, demonstration and generous distribution of Christ’s relics across the kingdom. Most cleverly of all, in an allegorical work such as Fierabras and Floripas, they were able to achieve a sophisticated identifcation of the royal crown with the crown of Christ, of the king of France with the King of Heaven. As Le Goff states (141) “A crown of humility, the relic is nonetheless a crown, a royal relic. It embodies the image of a humble and suffering monarch — which is what the image of Christ became for thirteenth-century Christians, whose worship dwelt upon suffering — an image that the imagination could transpose onto the head of the king, the image of Jesus on earth, an image of a reign in suffering.” Thus, on one level, the authorship of Fierabras and Floripas can be seen as one of the frst fruits of a political agenda that was to blossom so spectacularly in thirteenth-century Europe and beyond — the establishment of the monarch as God’s representative on earth. The above notwithstanding, it is the eternal symbolic signifcance of the relics as stimuli to spiritual contemplation, and ultimately, to the acceptance or rejection of a value system that they suggest, that makes the present narrative as relevant to us today as it was eight hundred or so years ago. As its modern editor says (Le Person, 188): “This song is a meditation on the vanities of this world and their false glamour, and on the search for true spiritual values.” The ideal at the heart of this poem’s authorship defnes its artistic approach at every level, casting all characters, driving all confict, creating all humour and structuring all narrative development. It is the present translator’s hope that this version will fulfl the original author’s intention of providing a song that holds ‘good and godly lessons for those who pay

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Fierabras and Floripas attention’ (ll. 7719-20), while conveying at least a little of the medieval poet’s artistic achievement. Artistic Achievement In Fierabras and Floripas the author has created a wide range of psychologically intriguing characters whose relationships, both cordial and hostile, are depicted with considerable dramatic and comic skill. His narrative is well crafted and varied in style — combining epic action with historical anecdote, satiric humour with romantic intrigue — to form an allegorical tale that has been, and can still be, enjoyed on three interpretative levels of national, religious and personal signifcance. Several of the genre’s best-known heroes appear throughout the pages of the present work, but the author is exceptional in his unconventional presentation of their personalities and unique in his subordination of their signifcance to that of his two pagan protagonists. The religious sentiment, which to a greater or lesser degree runs through every surviving representative of this art form, providing the moral fulcrum on which the drama and comedy of their narratives turn, is expressed most bluntly in The Song of Roland itself: Pagans are wrong and Christians are right.

(l. 1015)

This axiom is certainly made explicit in countless restatements throughout Fierabras and Floripas, and steers each turn of its plot, which may briefy be summarised thus: The Saracen emir, Balan, and his son, King Fierabras, a giant, sack Rome, despite some heroic resistance, and steal many sacred Christian relics, including two casks of the balsam used to embalm Christ’s corpse, which balsam can still heal the wounds of anyone who drinks it. The Emperor Charlemagne, sending Count Gui of

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Introduction Burgundy with an advance party, comes to Rome’s aid. In the course of a single combat Count Oliver, although severely wounded, defeats Fierabras, who immediately seeks to become a Christian. At this point Emir Balan and his pagans fee with the relics to their stronghold of Aigremore in Spain. The French pursue them but Oliver, then all of the remaining eleven peers of Charlemagne are captured and imprisoned in the Spanish town. Floripas, Balan’s headstrong and assertive daughter, has fallen in love with Gui of Burgundy, whom she has but glimpsed in battle, and as a result, helps all her father’s Christian prisoners to survive their harrowing ordeal until their eventual rescue by Charlemagne and Fierabras. Balan, refusing to change his faith, is beheaded. Floripas, gladly embracing that of her beloved, marries Gui, who then shares a chastened Spain with Fierabras for Charles and Christ. The emperor returns to France and distributes the recovered relics among various abbeys, showing special favour to Saint-Denis. Three years later he will be summoned once more to Spain, where the fower of French knighthood will perish at Roncevaux [Chanson de Roland].

The pagans of both sexes are certainly depicted at the start of the present work as the genre’s traditional “evil others.” Defned only in terms of their ignorance or opposition to Christianity, then endowed with physical features and a general deportment both on and off the battlefeld that parody the Christian and the chivalric ideals, the pagans’ narrative function is principally to bear the moral discomfort and discomfture of their blighted situation. In the chansons de geste the pagan rank and fle are lampooned for their light-headedness, their brittle obedience to their leaders and their fckle adherence, in adversity, to their faith and its gods. Their leaders themselves often demonstrate reciprocal

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Fierabras and Floripas immoderate conduct, and although little lacking in bravery, their exaggerated boasts and taunts are there to be punished by the righteous and loyal French with curt or elaborate schadenfreude. A majority of the several fnely drawn scenes of comedy in Fierabras and Floripas both proceed and succeed upon this understanding. With traditional chanson-de-geste gusto idols are beaten in punishment and used as missiles by both Christian and pagan hands; pagan leaders and their lackeys are out-talked and out-witted, given a drubbing, a thumping or a soaking, and taunted, slapped and slain. The author’s most original and greatest achievement, however, is that he increases the genre’s intellectual range signifcantly through the employment of a Bildungsroman structure that leads his Saracen protagonists, and us, if we wish, through four stages of spiritual development at three levels of selfawareness. Not formally defned or distinguished in the original text, the four developmental stages are discernible as those of vanity, submission, desires and deserts, while the awareness levels are those of national, religious and personal identity. Of the two siblings, it is Fierabras who covers the largest moral journey, from satanhood to sainthood in fact, through a material and mental landscape clearly marked with allegorical signposts. ‘Fierabras’ (fem. Fierebrace), meaning ‘ the proud-, [strong-, fery-,] armed’, is a cognomen far from unique to the present protagonist in the manuscripts of medieval France. Both Count William II (963–90) and his son William III bore the name, as did at least one of the several Count Baldwins of medieval Flanders. Moreover, the most endearing character in over two dozen other French epics, William of Orange, is also called ‘ferabrace’. King Balan’s strong-armed son begins his narrative life, however, as the very incarnation of evil. His giant stature (he is described as ffteen feet tall) serves only to mirror the moral deformity of his pagan soul. In Stage

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Introduction One of the poem (Vanity) he burns churches to the ground, condones slaughter, rapine and rape, himself stealing the relics of Christ’s Passion and slaughtering the pope in the process. In Stage Two, during the course of his long personal combat with the only French champion who will face him (signifcantly, this is Oliver ‘the wise’, not Roland ‘the proud’), Fierabras, like the biblical devil in the wilderness, tempts the Christ-fgure Oliver three times with inducements of earthly wealth, through himself, and immortal life, through the magical balsam in his possession, scorning and warning the bleeding Christian, who doggedly persists in his divinely inspired quest. Fierabras’s long personal journey to a state of grace may, in summary, be schematised thus: Stage Level Narrative Illustration 1. Vanity a) National: he challenges France’s right to anything; he scorns fghting Frenchmen singly b) Religious: he breaks most of the Ten Commandments; he sacks St. Peter’s and slays the pope c) Personal: he unconsciously follows the pleasure principle 2. Submission a) National: he is defeated by a single, wounded Frenchman b) Religious: he accepts Christ and seeks Baptism c) Personal: he consciously rejects the pleasure principle 3. Desires a) National: he devotes his ‘strong arm’ to the French b) Religious: he devotes his soul to the Lord God c) Personal: he seeks the salvation of others 4. Deserts a) National: he receives a ‘French crown’ in Spain b) Religious: he receives a ‘heavenly crown’ as a saint c) Personal: he fnds salvation for himself

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Fierabras and Floripas Less subtle indications of the narrator’s didactic intent are provided by the completely fctional names he has given to places in Spain that are associated with the spiritual transformation of his major character. Fierabras stalks Charlemagne through the vales of Morimonda (Moor-world). His personal strength allows them to fnally cross the fearsome bridge Mautriblez (Tribulation) over the River Flagot (Arena), before they can capture the pagan stronghold of Aigremore (Bitter-Moor, or perhaps even, Bitter-Death). Less obvious, however, is the seemingly odd naming of one of the pagan giant’s swords: called Bautismez (The Baptiser), it has bathed many a previous Christian — in blood. However, it proves to be the very blade that Oliver himself seizes to infict the decisive wound on his opponent. The withdrawal of the appellation “giant” from Fierabras’s name as soon as his Baptism has taken place is also deft indication that his ego, at least, is no longer so enormous. It is within the soul-destroying confnes of Aigremore’s stronghold itself that his sister Floripas (Passion Flower) is obliged to conceive of and bring forth her own mortal happiness and immortal salvation. Concerning this princess, the only main female character in the entire poem, the present writer cannot at all agree with one eminent medievalist’s judgment of her narrative signifcance, when she wrote ffty years ago: “Floripas is merely one of a line of repulsive females who became rather popular in the decadent period of the chansons de geste” (Crosland, 165). The blunt opinion of this wonderful scholar does however highlight, by contrast, the critical interest taken by this century’s scholars in a stock character of the later chansons de geste, which fnds its supreme representation here in King Balan’s headstrong daughter. The larger-than-life fgure of the amorous pagan princess, smitten with love for a Christian knight and fred with the uncompromising zeal of the newly converted, was probably created by the twelfth-

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Introduction century authors of chansons de geste in an attempt to compete for audience approval with the contemporary popularity of the female-dominated romans courtois. Certainly the southern sirens that appear in many French epics of this era added a new dimension of sensuality and humour to the old songs. The sensuality was inherent in the princess’s foreign origin and exotic beauty, the comedy apparent in the invective she was prepared to loose and the plots she was prepared to hatch against the Saracen enemy, her own kith and kin, in pursuit of her romantic goals. Floripas certainly has, and does, all of this — to extremes. Each section of the narrative is enlivened by her energetic efforts to keep Gui of Burgundy (and the other peers, of course) from death, and by the blunt speeches and brazen acts she is prepared to engage in to achieve this aim. These explicit behaviours however also mask a personality that makes an identical, if less expansive, journey in four stages, along a road of worldly, spiritual and individual education. Her name itself, Floripas, holds the key to our understanding of her narrative signifcance. That she is a fower of physical beauty can be seen immediately. In general terms she is always referred to as “the beautiful, the fair, the lovely and the lithe,” and the poet dwells on the perfection of her specifc charms in some detail. The beauty of her soul, however, requires closer scrutiny. At the beginning of the song Princess Floripas is vanity personifed. Spoilt by her father, she demands complete respect from everyone around her, without ever showing why she deserves it. Tellingly, though, she instinctively repels with verbal and physical abuse all her Saracen suitors (most signifcantly one called Lucifer), and constantly shocks her teacher, called Gloryless, by extolling “France the brave and sweet, and Charlemagne too, whose face with valor gleamed” (ll 362–63). Curiously, she shows only passing regret at

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Fierabras and Floripas her brother’s reported death but is moved to so much pity when Oliver bewails his sister Aude’s bleak future that she murders his jailer. She works tirelessly to keep the Twelve Peers hidden in her own room, finging the wretched Gloryless out of its lofty window to accommodate them. Initially she instinctively beseeches the French to petition the idols in her father’s mosque for assistance, then, on witnessing their mute helplessness, gives glad submission of her soul to Jesus and the Blessed Virgin. She also submits physically to incarceration and hunger in Aigremore tower, where she fghts off the rape-attack of a pagan menial. She immediately falls victim to extreme anxiety and depression in any matter concerning the dangers faced by her absent French beloved, but herself gives inspirational speeches to the French peers present whenever their native courage seems, to her, to be waning. She openly desires Gui of Burgundy physically but also soliloquizes her loving admiration of Oliver for his courtliness, Roland for his valor, Richart for his daring and old Naimon for his youthful spirit and wise counsel. Using all her own considerable wit to save them from death time and again, her deserts refect her conscious and unconscious striving — she wins the man of her heart, becoming a countess of France, the land of her birth (now fertile with Faith), and the Faith of her worth. Through conversion she is turned inside out and Floripas becomes what she instinctively always was — Passifore, a Passionfower, a fower of passion and of the Passion. n Several of the chanson de geste genre’s best known characters appear in unfamiliar roles in Fierabras and Floripas, adding to the audience’s further appreciation of them as fesh and blood personalities, not simply as character types. Charlemagne himself is certainly not always depicted as the demi-god as he appears in the Chanson de Roland, or even as the selfcontrolled, wise and loving liege lord of the majority of the

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Introduction Old French epics. He demonstrates little of any of these qualities in his dealings with his beloved nephew Roland, whom he continually abuses, both verbally and physically, for his initial reluctance to face Fierabras in single combat. Moreover, he recklessly sends the troubled youth, and with mounting anger, his chief adviser Duke Naimon, on a mission where capture is a certainty and death a distinct possibility. Neither does the emperor’s exalted vision, as the French “Ancient of Days,” blind him to an appreciation of the much closer view of Princess Floripas’s nubile body, most memorably her naked body, as she is divested to enter the baptismal font. Other striking examples of the author’s divergent approach are to be found in his portrayal of the genre’s super-heroes, Roland, Oliver and Duke Naimon, and its arch-villain Ganelon. In this poem, Count Oliver, the traditional hero’s friend, has the starring role, while Roland’s contribution is not only subsidiary but often unfattering to himself and to others. He is jeered by Charlemagne’s cronies and struck by the emperor himself. His innate pride drives him into a ft of pique during which he not only draws his sword on his liege lord but is humiliated when a wounded Count Oliver rides off to do battle in his place. His conduct throughout the narrative is that of someone trying to redeem himself, and indeed his minor role may in this respect be said to parallel that of Fierabras and Floripas themselves. Roland too must pass through stages of vanity and submission to achieve desires that are worthy of lasting reward. Old Naimon, while exhibiting plenty of his familiar serene wisdom, also cuts an unusual fgure in some of the most memorable scenes of the poem where he displays a most uncharacteristic predilection for verbal, combative and even sexual bravado. At another extreme Count Ganelon, whose personal spite against Roland, soon to explode at Roncevaux, simmers also on the plains of Morimonda, shows nothing but fdelity, courage and honor before his royal liege lord in Fierabras and Floripas. n xxiii

Fierabras and Floripas The versifcation techniques to be found in the present poem are of a type and talent common to many chansons de geste composed towards the end of the twelfth century. The emotive qualities of rhetorical, formulaic language, whose syntactic and semantic constructions were so vital to the oral composition and performance of the short, early epic chants, are still evident in expanded ritualised accounts of duel and warfare. The abrupt stanzas that presented confict through dialogue in the frst, dramatic songs, are, however, increasingly subsumed in chapter-like stanzas of debate and declaration. A conscious refection of courtly lifestyle is achieved through the extensive description of dwelling-places, clothes and other material objects, the elaboration of travel sequences and the pointed illustration of correct and incorrect modes of behavior, as characters proliferate and secondary episodes interpose. The old jongleur is still present in the written text, however, as the omniscient narrator, who controls the attention and emotion of his audience by frequent interjections of humour, horror and homespun philosophy. He establishes that vital performer’s rapport with his public by constantly communicating his own enthusiasm for the tale through praise or censure of its protagonists. In Fierabras and Floripas, however, the centuries-deep roots of an oral tradition feed headier literary blooms, as his similes sprout into metaphors and his didacticism blossoms into allegory. Sources and Influences The two different manuscript components of the present translation, La Destruction de Rome and Fierabras are thought to have their common origin in an eleventh- or early twelfthcentury chanson de geste, now lost but referred to by scholars as La Chanson de Balan. A summary of this supposed source

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Introduction poem has been preserved in the 1260 Chronique rimée of Philippe Mousket, an invaluable document for Old French epic enthusiasts, containing as it does both brief and extensive résumés of many chansons de geste whose French originals are either now lost or preserved only in much later copies. The prototype oral chant for this original poem is thought by at least one critic (Stimming, 550–88), to have evolved in the ninth and tenth centuries in response to the Saracen siege of Rome in 846. This chant, which Stimming calls Chanson de Savari, is thought to have commemorated the tragic events and personalities that dominate the frst part of the present translation, and then to have been developed by successive trouvères, such as Gautier de Douai, in collaboration with the authorities at Saint-Denis, for the beneft of that abbey’s Lendit celebrations and cult of Charlemagne . The Picard origin of the surviving pieces of writing may also refect a localised hagiographical infuence upon the creation and development of the totally fctional character of Fierabras himself. The present poem states clearly that the historical fgure on whom its main character is based is one St. Florent of Roye: Friends, what they say is true: this Moor, when he was dead, Became a saint whose bones were relics soon themselves, As St. Florent of Roye, say all the holy texts. (ll. 3337-9)

Gros (129) has pointed out that the beatifcation and cult of St. Florent was founded on historical facts and miraculous deeds associated with this fourth century disciple of St. Martin of Tours that bear a symbolic, but nonetheless striking similarity to the psychological and spiritual development of Fierabras in the present fctional work. St. Florent’s ministry of conversion was achieved at Les Mauges, a stony dark-wooded area between the River Loire to the north and Colet to the south. Where the bleak landscape meets the lovely river he founded an abbey on a hill called Mont-Glanne. In the poem

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Fierabras and Floripas Fierabras is converted in the dark, stony vales of Morimonda, between the diffcult waters of Le Far (the Strait of Rome), made calmer indeed by the sacrifce of Christ’s balsam into their depths, and the unnavigable torrents of the River Flagot, crossed only through divine intervention. St. Florent is said to have assumed the shape of a bear and guided local sheep safely back to their folds, as the ferce beast in Fierabras, tamed by the Divine Shepherd, leads his straying countrymen to Christianity. St. Florent is said to have rid the slopes of Mont-Glanne of its infestation of snakes, just as Fierabras exorcises himself and then his country of the savage fears and poisonous temptations of their paganism. According to his legend, Saint Florent travelled across the River Loire on a worm-eaten boat, guarded by an angel against all devilish attempts to capsize it on his way to attend Mass, as Fierabras is guided to faith on the barque of his destiny. The symbolic signifcance of such a hagiographical source would surely not have been lost on a poet from the same general region of France (Douai is just ffty miles from Roye in the south of Picardy). It is also seen as possible that St. Florent (whose name means ‘one holding a fower’) may himself have also unwittingly dropped the seed that sprang up years later as Floripas. n The extraordinary popularity of the subject-matter in Fierabras and Floripas during the Middle Ages can be seen frstly in the diversity of manuscripts that have preserved the original tales. There are sixteen, transcribed across three centuries (the thirteenth to the ffteenth) in six different French dialects, (including one in the Langue d’Oc), and located now in six countries (France, Belgium, Germany, England, Spain and Italy). A second indication is provided by the considerable number of contemporary chansons de geste themselves that either refer directly to the present poem’s

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Introduction protagonists (e.g., Aliscans, Girart de Roussillon, Anseis de Carthage, Les Enfances Garin and La Chanson des Saisnes), or allude briefy to its famous episodes (e.g., Jehan de Lanson) or copy extensively from its narrative construction (e.g. Otinel and Girart de Vienne.) Thirteenth-century catalogues of romances such as those contained in the Provençal Flamenca and the Ensenhamen of the troubadour Guiraut de Cabrera also record it in their must-read fles. Strict prose translations and cavalier adaptations of Fierabras and Floripas have appeared principally in French, English, German, Portugues, Italian and Spanish across the last six hundred years. On its native soil, manuscripts 2172 and 4969 of the Bibliothèque Nationale, dating from the end of the fourteenth century, narrate the original verses minus the rhyme. Volume two of David Aubert’s 1458 prose compilation called Les Croniques et Conquestes de Charlemaine begins with a prose summary of the epic tale Girart de Vienne, in which Charlemagne learns of the pagan assault on Rome, then it goes on to précis the events narrated in both poetic components of the present volume. The most infuential of all written revisitations of the Fierabras tale was undoubtedly that of Jehan Bagnyon, frst made in 1478 in volume two of his Histoire de Charlemagne. Achieving many editions in France over the succeeding one hundred years, Bagnyon’s work allowed François Rabelais to discover a pagan giant of suffcient stature to beget his own larger-than-life protagonists (see below, 247). Appearing from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century in the countless cheap, peddlers’ editions of the famous Bibliothèque Bleue series, Bagnyon’s prose spread the popularity of the old trouvère’s verse across the land, assuring the immortality of its legend and even its adaptation as a sort of modern morality play, performed by villagers in the pays basque. In this patriotic task he was fnally and fnely aided by

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Fierabras and Floripas Mary-Lafon in 1857, who with the gifted assistance of Gustav Doré produced a beautifully illustrated prose version of the old Langue d’Oc copy of the tale, entitled Fierabras: Légende Nationale (see ex libris, 251 below). Translated and printed by William Caxton in 1485 as the History and Lyf of the Noble and Christen Prynce Charles, Bagnyon’s work also began the widespread dissemination of the Fierabras legend among the cultures of the English-speaking world (see Appendix II). Translated into Spanish by Nicolas de Piemonte in 1521, it inspired the dramatist Pierre Calderon de la Barca’s baroque masterpiece La puente de Mantible, and certainly intrigued the creator of Don Quixote enough to eulogise ‘el bálsamo de Fierabrás’ on several occasions (again, see Appendix II, ex libris, 248 below).Via its own Spanish translation, Bagnyon’s Fierabras inspired the romances written by Juan José Lopez at the end of the eighteenth century, which, through publication by Don Augustus Durán in 1851, have echoed down to modern times in the decimas of Latin American popular singers. Translated into Portuguese by one Geronimo Moreira de Carvalho, Bagnyon’s labors were the basis of a successful play called Auto de Floripas, performed in 1728, but also of a nineteenth-century German libretto ‘so full of improbabilities and absolutely undramatic’ that even the lyric genius of Franz Schubert could not save it from operatic oblivion (see Appendix II). Fourteenth- and ffteenth-century verse translations of the Old French tale exist in Italian and, more surprisingly, given the cross-channel relations at the time, in the English language. Sir Ferumbras exists in a 1380 manuscript, edited by S. J. Herrtage in 1879, and follows the original versetext of Fierabras very closely indeed. One ffteenth- century manuscript preserves the Romaunce of the Sowdone of Babylone and of Ferumbras his Sone who conquered Rome, in which the Middle English translator has combined the material

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Introduction preserved in La Destruction de Rome with that contained in Fierabras proper. As Marianne Ailes has pointed out (178), Fierabras was the most popular chanson de geste ever to cross the English Channel and the desire of English-speaking writers to promote its legend during the Hundred Years War refects more upon their appreciation of its religious symbolism than upon any contemporary admiration for the land or people of its provenance. For the Middle English writers the French heroes of Fierabras and Floripas could be celebrated as fowers of Christian chivalry, deserving of a richer linguistic soil in which to fourish. In France itself the work of Rabelais began a process whereby the name of Fierabras was to become a common noun increasingly embedded in the native tongue. In Pantagruel (1532) the great Renaissance writer alludes six times to the characters and events of the old trouvère’s poem, mentioning the name Fierabras three times and naming the defeated giant as an ancestor of his own huge hero. As a pejorative character name, that of Fierabras can be found in the works of several sixteenth- and seventeenth-century dramatists, including Corneille and Claude de l’Estoille. French dictionaries from the seventeenth to the twentieth centuries then document the lexical slide of this once-proud cognomen, from proper name to pejorative epithet: ferabras: un homme fort et vaillant. Gilles Ménages, 1694. ferabras: “gloriosus, jactator. Terme populaire qui se dit d’un fanfaron qui fait le brave et le furieux et qui se veut faire craindre par ses menaces. Académie, 1762–1878. ferabras: fanfaron qui fait le brave. Académie, 1932–35. ferabras: a braggart. Collins-Robert French Dictionary, 1979.

In the literary world at large nothing is remembered today of King Fierabras of the chanson de geste, and very little notice taken by the general public of the pagan whose amazing defeat and stunning conversion made him a medieval symbol

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Fierabras and Floripas of “Sin overcome by the Cross,” the monster who became “meek as a lamb and humble as a chidden slave.” For some, however, the personalities of Fierabras and Oliver, like those of Goliath and David, have crystallised into mental symbols embedded deep in a shared consciousness. For the religious mind they can still illuminate the vanitas mundi, and for the more secular, transmute the existential id. Editorial Policy The frst edition of the Langue d’Oïl Chanson de Fierabras was that published by A. Kroeber and G. Servois in 1860, as Volume 4 in the Ancien Poètes de France series. This edition was almost entirely based upon manuscript 12603 of the Biblothèque Nationale in Paris. The latest edition is that of Marc Le Person, published in 2003 as Volume 142 of the Classiques Francais du Moyen Age. Professor Le Person’s meticulous edition integrates all variant lines from the twelve major surviving manuscripts, while using that of the monastery of El Escorial in Madrid as its base text. In making this translation I have used the older edition, simply because it provides the oldest record of the poem as a single complete ‘performance’ and, from a purely artistic viewpoint, holds therefore more integrity than a composite text. This said, I have constantly consulted Le Person’s edition, occasionally used one of his variant readings when it made more logical sense, and have incurred a great debt to his scholarship for my appreciation of the poem both as a literary work and as a cultural phenomenon. The conference papers delivered and subsequently published under his directorship by the Université Jean Moulin at Lyons in 2002-3, under the title Le Rayonnement de Fierabras dans la littérature européenne, have also been indispensable tools for me in making this translation.

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Introduction My translation of the frst part of the present volume is based upon the edition of La Destruction de Rome, première branche de la chanson de geste de Fierabras made by Gustav Gröber and published in the journal Romania (Volume 2) in 1873. While preserving the medieval verse-structure as much as possible, I have also tried to accommodate the needs and expectations of modern readers, maintaining, for example, a uniform past tense in narration, which does not refect the typically indiscriminate mixture of tenses used in the Old French originals. Although the heavy end-stopping of individual lines found in the earliest recorded chansons de geste is much less evident in later poems like Fierabras and Floripas, in the interests of fuency again I have created even more run-on lines. I have also, again for the ease of modern reading, divided the complete text into four distinct parts, called Gestes, which are discernible but not distinguished or named thus in the original manuscript. The performancedriven ‘poetic’ diction of Fierabras and Floripas, which this translation attempts to recreate, ranges from the colloquial to the ceremonial, is highly formulaic and musically charged. Ideally, therefore, the whole translation should be read aloud, or at least declaimed inwardly, so that something of the frst chansons’ dynamic qualities may also be appreciated. This translation is primarily intended for general readers, for scholars and students of history, of comparative literature or of gender studies, and for readers of modern French who may not often venture beyond the formidable frontiers of the Renaissance writers. The select bibliography intends alike to be of service primarily to the needs and interests of these groups. It is also hoped, however, that this volume, with its extended extracts from the original poems included in the Appendix, will be useful to scholars and students of Old French itself, for classroom or individual purposes.

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Fierabras and Floripas I should like to record my thanks to Anke Hölzer and Birgit Zimny at the Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Bibliothek in Hannover for supplying me with a microflm of their library’s original manuscript, from which the pictures that illustrate this book were developed by my friend Wolf Stengl, and in one instance, re-worked and hand-painted by his wife Kate as the book’s cover. I am also grateful to the British Library for permission to reproduce in Appendix II of this work the illustration Knight on a Riverbank, by Gustav Doré, from its ‘images on-line’ collection. All inadequacies that appear in the following pages remain mine alone and are no refection on the scholarship or skill of any other person mentioned during these introductory remarks.

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SELECT BIBLOGRAPHY EDITIONS Chanson de Fierabras. Edited by A. Kroeber and G. Servois. Coll. Anciens Poètes de France, 4 Paris: 1860; rpt., New York: Kraus, 1989. Fierabras: Chanson de geste du XIIe siècle. Edited by Marc Le Person. Classiques Français du Moyen Âge, 142; Paris: Champion, 2003. La Destruction de Rome, première branche de la chanson de geste Fierabras. Edited by G. Gröber. Romania 2 (1873): 1—48. La Destruction de Rome. Edition and modern French translation by J. H. Speich. Publications Universitaires Européennes: Série 13, Langue et littérature françaises, 135. Bern, New York: P. Lang, 1988.

SECONDARY MATERIAL Ailes, Marianne J. “La réception de Fierabras en Angleterre.” In Le Rayonnement de Fierabras dans la littérature européenne. Edited by Marc Le Person. C.E.D.I.C., 21. Lyon: Université Jean Moulin, 2003, 177–89. ————. “Romance and Epic Elements in the Different French Versions of Fierabras.” Olifant 10 (1982–83): 41–49. ————. “Faith in Fierabras.” In Charlemagne in the North:Proceedings of the 12th International Conference of the Société Rencesvals. Edited by Philip E. Bennett et al. Edinburgh: Société Rencesvals British Branch, 1993, 125–133. Bédier, Joseph. “La composition de la chanson de Fierabras.” Romania 18 (1888): 22-51. ————. Les légendes épiques. 3rd ed. 4 vols. Paris: H. Champion, 1926–29. Boutet, Dominique. La chanson de geste. Forme et signifcation d’une écriture épique au Moyen Age. Paris: PUF, 1993.

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Fierabras and Floripas Burns, E. Jane. Bodytalk: When Women Speak in Old French Literature. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania State Press, 1978. Comfort, William W. “The Character Types in the Old French Chansons de Geste.” PMLA 21 (1906): 279-434. —————. “The Literary Role of the Saracens in the French Epic.” PMLA 55 (1940): 628–59. Crosland, Jessie. The Old French Epic. Oxford: Blackwell, 1951. Daniel, Norman. Heroes and Saracens: An Interpretation of the Chansons de Geste. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1984. De Weever, Jacqueline. Sheba’s Daughters: Whitening and Demonizing the Saracen Woman in Medieval French Epic. New York: Garland, 1998. Gautier, Léon. Les épopées françaises. 4 vols. Paris: Palmé, 1879; rpt., Osnabrück: Zeller, 1966. Gros, Gérard. “Fierabras devenu Saint Florent de Roye.” In Le Rayonnement de Fierabras dans la littérature européenne. Edited by Marc Le Person. C.E.D.I.C., 21. Lyon: Université Jean Moulin, 2003, 121–35. Harden, Robert A. “The Element of Love in the Chansons de Geste.” Dusquesne Studies: Annuale Medievale 5 (1964): 65–80. Herman, Gerald. “Aspects of the Comic in the Old French Epic.” Ph.D. Dissertation, Stanford University, 1967; Ann Arbor, MI: University Microflms Inc., 1968. Herr, Friedrich. The Medieval World. New York: Mentor, 1963. Hindley, Alan, and Brian J. Levy. The Old French Epic: Texts, Commentaries, Notes. Louvain: Peeters, 1983. Holmes, Urban T. A History of Old French Literature. New York: F. S. Crofts, 1948. Kay, Sarah. The Chansons de Geste in the Age of Romance. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Keller, Hans-Erich, ed. Romance Epic: Essays on a Medieval Literary Genre. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1987. Knott, Gordon A. “The Historical Sources of Fierabras.” Modern Language Revue 52 (1957): 504–9. —————. “Notes on Reality and Improbability in Fierabras.” Olifant 20 (1995–96): 145–70. Krause, Kathy M., ed. Reassessing the Heroine in Medieval French Literature. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2001.

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Bibliography Le Goff, Jacques. La Vie de Saint Louis. Paris: Gallimard, 1996. Le Person, Marc, ed. “Le rayonnement de Fierabras.” In Le Rayonnement de Fierabras dans la littérature européenne. C.E.D.I.C., 21. Lyon: Université Jean Moulin, 2003, 9–44. ——————. “Le Rire et le sourire dans la Destruction de Rome et Fierabras.” In Miscellanea Mediaevalia: Mélanges offerts à Philippe Ménard. Champion: Paris, 1998, 2: 897–915 ——————. “Du paganisme à la sainteté: l’itinéraire de Fierabras dans le petit cycle des reliques (La Destruction de Rome et Fierabras).” In Paroles sur l’Islam dans l’occident médiéval. Cahiers du Centre d’Histoire Médiévale, 1. Lyon: Université Jean Moulin, 2002, 22–23. Mandach André de. Naissance et développement de la chanson de geste en Europe: V, La Geste de Fierabras: le jeu du réel et de l’invraisemblable. Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1987. Ramey, Lynn T. Christian, Saracen and Genre in Medieval French Literature. New York: Routledge, 2001. Riquer, Martin de. Les chansons de geste françaises. Trans. by Irénée Cluzel, 2nd ed. Paris: Librairie Nizet, 1968. Smyser, H.M. “The Sowdone of Babylon and Its Author.” Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature 13 (1931): 185–218. Suard, François. Chanson de geste et tradition épique en France au Moyen Âge. Caen: Paradigme, 1994. Taylor, Karen J. Gender Transgressions: Crossing the Normative Barrier in Old French Literature. New York: Garland, 1998.

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Pagans Repulsed by the Relics of the Passion

Fierabras and Floripas

PROLOGUE

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ood honorable people, attention if you please! Ignore a while the hustle and bustle of the street And listen to a story whose glory is unique! Each line of it is truthful, without a lie between. No other merry minstrel who’s sung upon its theme Knows anything about it that’s worth a penny piece. They’re wrong in many verses. The song was lost, you see, Until Gautier of Douai, a man of gallant zeal, And France’s monarch Louis — God rest his soul in peace, Through Mary, maid and mother, from mortal sin redeemed — Restored the early version until it stood complete, Then polished up the rhyming and rhythm till it gleamed. The lines of it had languished in France at Saint-Denis Among the church’s records, and when they were revealed, They proved that it had been there at least a hundred years. The poet who composed it had never let it leave And never wished to sell it for any gift or fee, For any mule or palfrey or any noble fleece. Nor did he ever sing it for any noble ear. So you, if you will listen, will be the first to hear The truth of Rome’s destruction by pagans in their greed, Who stove in walls and buildings till every brick was breached And drove the realm to ruin through every fief and field. They stole the crown our Savior was crowned with on the tree, The blessed nails that pierced Him upon His hands and feet, The winding sheet His body was wrapped in and revered, When on that Holy Friday they took Him from the beams. So many sacred relics by heathen hands were seized When Fierabras the pagan attacked the Holy See! So many days of hardship, so many nights of grief And heavy deprivation of food and drink and sleep, He caused great Charlemagne, his barons and his peers! So many tears henceforward were shed in France the sweet, So many shields were shattered, so many byrnies pierced, So many heads were severed, so many hands and feet,

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Fierabras and Floripas And countless heathen spirits sent plunging to the fiend! My song has many virtues, as soon you will agree. Since God created Adam and his companion Eve, There never was a finer or wiser one to heed.

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ood honorable people, attention, so that I 40 Can bring to you a story that’s true in every line, The text of it recorded at France’s royal shrine! The other bards who sing it may hold their knowledge high, But even if ten thousand were gathered here, then I’d Be bold enough to tell them and dare them to deny That all their common knowledge could never rival mine! For I was first to learn it, the ancient song revived, So I shall tell you nothing but what I know is right About the crown that Jesus was wearing when He died Inside the holy city, where sorely He was tried. 50 He bore a spear that spiked Him and tore His flesh aside, And blessed nails that splintered His hands and feet alike To bind Him to the gallows upon Golgotha’s heights, That ran with blood the morning they took His mortal life. I’ll tell you of the relics, so worthy to be prized, Which heathen hands molested and wrested from their sites. King Fierabras the giant removed them in his pride, With the emir, his father, whose heart alike was high. They ravaged Rome in anger, they toppled it in spite, But suffered for it later when thirty thousand died 60 Who wouldn’t turn to Jesus and earn eternal life! Charles summoned all his Frenchmen, with vengeance on his mind, And gathered all his forces from kingdoms far and wide. My song has many virtues, and soon you won’t deny There never was a finer since ancient Adam’s time! I’ll tell you all the story of Fierabras the giant And of his mighty battle with Oliver the knight.

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ood honorable people, attention one and all, And listen to a story that history records! If you attend, I’ll sing of a Spanish overlord And Fierabras, a giant from Alexander’s port,

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Prologue The haughtiest of pagans that ever was of yore. The great emir his father — King Balan he was called — Ruled many lands and peoples, the Saracens and Moors In every Arab region and every pagan court Of Africa and Europe and countries big and small Along the Red Sea border to faraway Beauclor And Babylon the mighty, whose crown alike he bore. He held Constantinople, that famous town, and all The wilderness that wallows in ignorance or scorn Of Jesus Christ our Savior and every Christian law. This Balan, who controlled it, sought Rome itself and more, And so began the foray that turned into a war, For he believed his glory should hold the rest in thrall. Although he had three brothers, whose names, as I recall, Were Babilan and Bruzor and Mazor, almanzors Who governed mighty kingdoms beyond the eastern shores, This Balan was determined to dominate them all. He bred a pair of children, whose names I know of course, For how could I forget them and tell you any more? King Fierabras the giant was Balan’s pride and joy, And Floripas, his daughter, was fairer than the dawn. So listen to their story — and think of it as yours!

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THE FIRST GESTE — VANITY Tells of the destruction of Rome

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ne sunny day King Balan went hunting with his court. One thousand strong they strutted the hills of Aigremore In quest of savage quarry, the lairs of bears and more. Imagine rapid grayhounds unleashed and dashing forth And Ascopars and pagans disporting with their swords Across the brakes and beaches in search of bear and boar, With scores of fghting falcons and hunting hawks galore! 100 The great emir had gathered his nobles south and north To celebrate a feast day of false Mahomet’s law. From dawn to dusk they hunted and cheered till they were hoarse — But ere they all departed they’d make a different noise! Upon the coast a galley approached the Spanish shore And came to rest at anchor in Aigremort’s own port. The pagans rushed towards it for news of those on board, But no one on the vessel would speak or walk abroad. The great emir commanded the crew to hurry forth, Then charged them in a manner that gave them little choice: 110 “I order you to tell me your origin and course! Who owns this load of treasure you have in hold and hoard?” “My lord,” replied the captain, “I’ve naught to hide at all! I’m one of yours! I’ve come here to plead my case and cause Against the Roman Christians who have what’s mine and yours, Such wealth as in its measure was never seen before! With fourteen ships in convoy I sailed and reached the ports Of wealthy Almeria, whose purple silks I bought And loaded up, with treasure, to bring to you, my lord! But then a tempest drove us towards the Roman shore, 120 And when we hit the channel, the Christians plied their oars To board us and to slay us, with sharp and shining swords! Lord, I alone escaped them, to bring you this report With those aboard my galley and rally your support. The other crews were slaughtered, their bodies cruelly shorn.

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Fierabras and Floripas Ten thousand heads were severed as Christian men rejoiced. The Roman pope is ruthless, a proud and fearsome lord Who’s kin to Charlemagne, the king of France and more. He wishes to usurp you in everything and force You from Constantinople and every land that’s yours, To kill your hopes forever and still the Prophet’s call!” On hearing this, King Balan was more than overwrought. His body lurched with loathing, his mind with savage thoughts. He snapped in two the baton his hands had held before. He tossed his head in fury and rolled it back and forth. My friends, if you had seen him, you would have been appalled At such a ft of frenzy beyond my wit to draw! No pagan there beheld him who didn’t quake with awe. He cried aloud: “Mahomet! They’ll curse that they were born! I’ll never rest or dally, I swear before you all, Till Rome itself is taken and totally destroyed! I’ll raze the realm around it with fre and with sword, And desecrate its churches, its altars and its vaults, And lop the lying lips off each man and monk that’s caught! I’ll ride to Charles’s chapel at royal Aix and haul The haughty Frenchman from it and pierce his eyes with awls If henceforth he refuses to heed Mahomet’s law! And every man and woman will fear my awful force, And every year I spare them give thanks to me in coin!” In this way he intended to rob or kill them all. But friends, it’s said in censure, and wisely so, I’m sure, That many thirst for action whose only drink is thought, And many burn their fngers who only sought their warmth! How better far is silence than bitter foolish talk! This worthy song has lessons for those who can be taught. You won’t have heard a better in all your life before, If you’ve a mind to listen and let me sing it all!

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he great emir of Spain was full of raging grief. He summoned forth at once his counsellors-in-chief, Called Sortinbrans of Coinbres, Brulanz of Montmirree, Mordant and Clamaton, Eulzunt and Tempestee, Brutans and Parsagon, Gaubu and Tenebree,

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First Geste — Vanity King Baufumez the old and fourteen more emirs. They met their haughty liege beneath an olive tree, Where, having pitched his tent, he brooded, ill at ease. With ringing tones he spoke, his hand upon his beard: “These Christian folk in Rome must hold my honor cheap, Who brazenly attack my sailors and my feets! By right of old, I’m told, that city is my fef, And Fierabras my son’s, when I have ceased to be! My heritage includes the whole of Romany! I’m little feared, it seems, by murderers or thieves, Who rob me of my wealth and slay my men of liege! I thought my power ran so fully far and near That no man would have cared or dared to anger me! If I don’t seek revenge and see it fercely wreaked, May great Mahom himself, whose virtue is my shield, Forbid me evermore from ruling fef or feld!” Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, I grieve at what I hear. I’ve always served you well in times of woe and weal. Both you and Fierabras have all my loyalty. Heed therefore what I say, for what I say I mean: A man who beats your dog, would strike at you, my liege! Whoever hits my slave, has struck a blow at me! Now Rome has slain your men, its men must pay the fee. One thousand deaths of theirs for one of ours we’ll seek. The walls of Rome will fall and everything between, And everything around will lie in ruined heaps, The churches and the shrines and every vault beneath. No clergyman at all, no humble clerk or priest, No abbot, monk or man who serves their foolish creed, Will fee from our revenge but suffer till they scream. We’ll slit their lying lips, like any common thief’s! We’ll ride to Charles’s church at royal Aix and seize The haughty Frenchman forth and hang him in the breeze! Then you can set your son upon that royal seat, For it is his by right of birth and ancient brief!” The great emir replied, “You speak the truth, indeed, And just as you have said, I bid us to proceed! I’ve heard no speech before with which I’ve so agreed!”

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Fierabras and Floripas And so, without delay, through letters signed and sealed, The barons in his thrall were called from far and near. Almanzors, princes, kings, emirs and dukes appeared, From Babylon’s far west to Durestant’s far east. No Persian knight or Slav, no Moorish knight or peer, Did not obey at once and hasten to convene: Constantinople’s best, the worst in Salatrie. Jerusalem the blest sent men of false belief. From far Siglayan ports to Tribulean peaks 210 The pagan armies marched to meet the great emir Below Mautriblez’ heights, well armed with shining steel. Erecting tents galore upon the Moorish felds, They stayed for several days, till every man and beast Had rested from their march and felt alert and keen. Their army was so long they measured it in leagues, And while it blocked the felds their boats were stocked to leave: One hundred thousand Moors would be aboard to feed, With thirty reigning kings to rule them and to lead. God pity those of Rome and help them in their need: Without His loving hand, their death was guaranteed! 220

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ow mighty was the host of hated heathen knaves! One hundred thousand Moors? No mortal man could say. Their numbers could have been one hundred times as great! The great emir ensured his ships were in good shape: Their masts were tall and wide beyond a man’s embrace, With sails of quartered silk — each one had four the same, That bore Apollo’s form high up above the waves, A cudgel in his hand to crush the Christian claim! Before the wind he turned more swiftly every way Than does a feeing dove before the falcon’s chase! With silver and with gold each vessel’s hold was laid, And bread and wine galore for every knight and knave, And hay and oats to feed each steed and destrier, And arms of every sort, of steel or iron made, And strong machines of war, great catapults, which they Would haul ashore to storm the walls of Rome and raze Its marble-pillared halls and all that they contained.

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First Geste — Vanity One Lucifer of Baldas, whose face with valor blazed, Called out to the emir and hailed him with a wave: “I have a boon to beg, great admiral of Spain! You’ve summoned me to come, through many lands and states, And now, before your men, I summon you the same, To grant a wish of mine, on this agreement’s base: If I can bring to you the hoary Charles in chains, With Roland and his friend Count Oliver the brave, And Naimon, and Richart, and brave Ogier the Dane, And all the haughty knights who travel in their train, Will you give me the hand of Floripas today? For all that I would do I seek no other wage. Her dowry will be France, from Aix to Montpellier!” Said Balan, “That I will, if she agrees the same.” At this appeared the maid of matchless wit and grace. A precious gown of silk adorned her lovely shape. Her gleaming eyes out-glowed the purest gold that day! Her face was fairer far than winter’s snow and blazed With eyes of deeper black than any falcon’s gaze. Her cheeks were both as red as roses on the spray, Her mouth just made to kiss, so sweetly was it framed With lovely lips the hue of peaches’ bloom in May. Her breasts were small and frm, like apples in their shape, And whiter than the snow upon a winter’s day. She truly was more fair than any words could say. They watched her as she left her saddle-horse, whose rein And ring the Baldas king ran forth to tend and take. “My child,” said the emir, “how ft you are for praise! Now see! If you agree, I’ve promised in good faith You’ll wed on our return the fnest and most brave Of all my knights to fght these Christians to their graves!” She said, “And who is that? You shouldn’t hide his name!” “Sir Lucifer it is who’s courted you, fair maid! To merit you he’s sworn to slaughter Charles the great, His nephew Roland, too, and Oliver the brave!” “Allow me time to think!” cried Floripas in haste. But Lucifer strode up, in hope of an embrace, And Floripas struck out, who couldn’t stand the knave.

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Fierabras and Floripas She punched his mouth so hard his lover’s lips were chafed! The king was most ashamed, but didn’t show his rage, For anger is no use with women and their ways! “Retainer, dare no more!” fair Floripas exclaimed, “That’s not the way to woo or win a worthy maid!” King Lucifer was stunned and, reeling back in shame, He wished he could have launched his courtship once again! “My child,” said the emir, “let pledges be exchanged, So you and he may wed once you have been engaged.” “My lord,” his daughter said, “when you return, we may! When you have taken France and won Montpellier, And Roland has been caught, and Oliver the brave, Duke Naimon, Duke Richart and Duke Ogier the Dane, And Burgundy’s Sir Gui, whom everyone acclaims, Then he and I shall wed — if I am worth the wait!” Said Lucifer at once, “I seek no richer gain! If I should fail the task, then take my head, I say, But give it frst a kiss, if that should prove the case!” “I’d gladly kiss it then!” she openly proclaimed, And said between her teeth: “You foolish, feckless knave! A thousand pounds of gold won’t buy you my embrace! I’d rather change my faith than meet so foul a fate!” King Estorgans was called, and so was Oriez, By the emir to hear the promises they made: She’d be his wife the day French chivalry was slain! The daylight dimmed away, and as the evening came, The tide fowed into port and swept the swelling waves. The wind bode very fair, the sailors there maintained, And summoned all on board, without the least delay. As helmsmen took the helms, and sailors shook the sails To raise them to the wind with hearty skill and haste, A thousand bugles rang with every anchor weighed. The shining galleys bathed the shoreline in their rays. So mighty was the roar those heathen forces made That folk could hear the noise ten mighty leagues away! God help the folk of Rome, with all His might and main, For such a storm of woe was very soon to break As none had seen before or ever would again!

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he pagan host had come in mighty sum and zeal. Its navy flled the port and sea for thirty leagues. The turning tide was high, the breezes fair and keen — They struck the silky sails and gave them greater speed Than falcons when they chase the magpies in the trees. The combers few with foam from water thrashed between The thrusting of their bows and threshing of their keels. The very sails and masts sang out upon the breeze: The sound of them rang out for fve and further leagues. The barge of the emir was very large and sleek. There never was before its better or its peer. A galleon it was, with mighty masts, and keeled With timbers wrapped in hide that boiling pitch had sealed. No tempest that it met could harm it in the least. Each masthead formed an arch, and there were four of these, On which four silky sails caught every breath of breeze. Apollo’s form regaled the tallest sail of each, A cudgel in his hand, that wafted west and east To lay down heathen law and crush the Christian creed. The boats themselves were built with every skilful means To hold below their decks a stable for the steeds, With water that was fresh and fodder that was clean. For prisoners of war they had a dungeon each, With cellblocks under hatch well locked with latch and key. The cabins built on board were lined with gold — indeed The barge was like a fort with rooms where the emir Could either take his rest or pleasure, as he pleased, With three Nubian kings and Lucifer the ferce, And fourteen further lords who governed realms in fef, And Fierabras his son, whose face with valor gleamed. And Floripas was there, so fair from head to feet, With twenty maids at hand from Persian lands of liege, Whose fathers all were kings of noble might and means. Her father, the emir, had shown her great esteem: The fnest rooms on board were Floripas’s suite, Where roses were in bloom each season of the year And eglantine in fower each hour they spent at sea. A perfume blent of mint and balsam, and replete

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Fierabras and Floripas With every blossom’s scent, was wafted from the beams, Where cinnamon was grown and spice of Araby, And every tender bud that rendered air more sweet. The room flled all inside with an abiding peace. And Floripas was there, so fair from head to feet, The rarest fower of all to spring from pagan seed! She had with her a fool, who kept her spirits cheered, And, as the day drew on, sang songs for her to hear, And told her tales at night until she fell asleep. She also had her maids, whose love for her was deep, To whom she often spoke of noble France the sweet, And Charlemagne too, whose face with valor gleamed. Her teacher, Gloryless, would scold her then and screech, “My girl, have you gone mad? What wicked words are these? Don’t speak the name of him who crushes down our creed! By good Mahom, I swear you’ll be the death of me!” “My lady,” said the maid, “I don’t know what you mean! Would you be so distraught if I exchanged beliefs?” Said Gloryless, “In truth, I’d rather kill you here Than think that I had reared a lamb for France to eat: Its king would serve you ill, to fll his barons’ greed!” But all her threats were vain — her lovely ward indeed Would spurn her gods and turn to Christianity — Thank God, for Roland’s sake and all his fellow peers, Whose noble lives she saved for love of gallant Gui, In Fortress Aigremore, which soared to Heaven’s reach, And where the great emir had thought them safely sealed! You’ll hear a tale that sings of great noblesse indeed, Of great desire and fre and ferce temerity — Of how almighty Rome was smitten to its knees, How many spears were split and many shields were pierced, And pagan souls returned to hell’s eternal grief.

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ow mighty was that army of hated heathen folk ­— Some seven hundred thousand, or so the record shows. Their mastheads knocked together as breezes rocked the boats And turned them willy-nilly and churned the waves to foam. The gold upon their sailcloth set all the sea aglow,

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Pagans at Sea (ll.384-87)

As on the open ocean they sallied forth in rows. With waxing moon and breezes they scurried to their goal Through night and day, unhindered by any blight or blow. At last their feet arrived in Le Far, the strait of Rome. The feast day of St. Vincent it was when they approached A mooring-bay that bordered ten mighty leagues of coast. With every haste and hurry they lowered ramps and ropes, And every sail and sheeting was tumbled down and stowed. Then all of them came forward, a curse upon their souls, Erecting tents and awnings with every measure strode, Magnifcent pavilions, of silk and sendal sewn, Their ridges topped with eagles of bright and shining gold. Ten mighty leagues they covered, or so the record shows. May God, the Lord almighty, protect the Roman throne: If ever its defenders are left to fght alone, Their courage will be shaken and everything will go: All friendship will be fractured, all brotherhood dissolved. A valley-full of silver, will never, this I know, Persuade the living devil to loosen his control!

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pon the open seas the pagans sailed and sallied Until they reached at last Le Far, the Roman channel. Their sailors worked the ropes and, letting fall the anchors, 410 They quickly dropped the sails and lowered ramps and gangways. In fve and ffty scores that horde of heathens landed, Erecting tents and camps with every measure swaggered. If you had been there too, you would have seen the fapping Of glossy fags, adorned with eagle shapes and dragons, On awnings made of cloth inlaid with golden patterns, And royal tents that glowed with noble silk and samite. Ten mighty leagues of land were covered by their campsite. King Balan, their emir, at once appeared and gathered His ffteen vassal-kings and fourteen ferce almanzors, 420 Who, each in Persia born, were leaders of their landsmen, And Cordova’s emir, a very cherished clansman, And Fierabras, his son, whose visage glowed with valor. Whenever Balan neared, his trumpets played a fanfare, And twenty drums and horns all added to the clamor. His bodyguards would leap, and as he walked, his vassals Would scatter fragrant mint around his feet and ankles, And irises and rush upon each path he traveled. The great emir himself was very ferce of manner, His beard so long and hoar it futtered like a banner, 430 His hairy head so white the summer spray looked pallid. His eyes were widely spaced, six inches I would hazard. His brow was very large, his bosom strong and massive. If only he’d believed in Jesus and His Passion, The world would not have held so fne a king as Balan. An expert in his law, he still was very savage: He showed no grace at all to youth or aged in battle. With every step he took they shook before his shadow. King Balan thought indeed his rule was so unchallenged That no man in the world would ever dare his anger. 440 He summoned forth Brulanz of Montmirree, his captain, Together with a sage called Sortinbrans of Coinbres: “My lords, equip at once one hundred thousand vassals To take in hand this land and punish the Romagna! Be merciful to none and nothing that you capture!

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First Geste — Vanity Set every church on fre, each priory and abbey! Seize women, children forth, and cut them down or hang them! Show every monk and nun your unrelenting malice — Disfgure every one in any shameful fashion, 450 To vilify their faith and everything it stands for!” Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, indeed we’ll do it gladly.” He sounded forth a horn to call his horde to action. Five thousand thousand score, and ffty more exactly, Emerging from their tents, surged forward to their stallions. King Lucifer held up the heathens’ fag for battle, And thirty thousand Moors rode forward as a vanguard. What carnage they would wreak! What sacrilege and damage! The great emir himself had had his tent established Within a shady grove where water fowed from rapids. Upon its golden pole he few his eagle standard, 460 Which signifed his will to take the town and sack it. The pagan sat within, and while he played backgammon, His army sallied forth, both confdent and happy. With Lucifer to lead, his heathen hauberk fashing, And lashing to his lance the great emir’s own banner, They kindled every town till every brick was blackened, Then ruined every church and raided every chapel To sever nose and lips from laity and abbots, From hermits in the felds and brothers in their abbeys. They forced themselves on nuns, and having raped and ravished, 470 They cut away their breasts with savage satisfaction. And women there with child were opened up with daggers, Their little babies plucked and struck to death or strangled. The Roman hills were flled with misery and sadness. A dozen leagues around, or so the record has it, They burned the papal lands, and turning all to ashes, They plundered rich and poor and left them to their anguish, With every church ablaze and every building fattened. Inside the city walls they saw the fames in fashes, And some climbed up at once the summit of Miraour 480 And watched the glowing fres with ever-growing panic — From wonder, then alarm, to fear of what had happened. For none of them could see the reason for the damage —

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Fierabras and Floripas The smoke around the town had cast so thick a shadow That it completely hid the hillsides and the valleys. The sentries would have seen, I’m certain, if it hadn’t. From ffty leagues away they would have warned the barracks. The country folk themselves began to fee and scatter, And women, children, men, escaping their attackers, Ran in as well to tell the pontiff what had happened: That Balan had arrived to capture fef and allod, That nobody alive had seen a host so massive, That fourteen leagues of feld were covered with their campsite, And every hill and dale was overrun and ravaged. They told him of the miles of misery and damage, And of the many dead, from babies through to barons, How everyone was slain who’d lain within their passage. On hearing this, the pope was horrifed, not having Suffcient knights to fght a foe in open battle. Resolved to stay in Rome, he prayed within his chapel To all the city’s saints for guidance in his actions, And then to God the Lord for help against King Balan.

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he pontiff, when he heard so many Moors had come And camped on Roman felds, was horrifed and stunned. He called upon the Lord, St. Mary’s blessed Son, Then summoned local knights to come to Rome at once And counsel him within his great basilica. He stood before them all and called upon them thus: “Most worthy men, my lords, what can and shall be done? The great emir of Spain has come to run amok! His pagans have destroyed the countryside we love! This holy realm of Rome will soon be overrun! Has any man a plan that can deliver us?” A wise Pavian knight, on hearing this, stood up. He held Placence from France and all Ivoria. His hoary beard was long, his hair the same enough. His name was Sir Garin, and very brave he was, But very shrewd of speech, of prudent mind and tongue. One quarter of all Rome was his alone to run. The mighty Crescent Tower was in his power’s trust.

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First Geste — Vanity He hailed the pontiff thus: “With every haste you must Send messengers to Charles in Saint-Denis at once And summon him to save the faith we serve and love! If not, the Roman streets will run with Christian blood. The great emir is here with countless infdels! No Moor has been ignored, from far Almeria Throughout the Persian realm to blest Jerusalem; From every Arab port his admirals have thrust Their navies on the seas in overwhelming sums!” 530 “My lord,” the pope replied, “if others say as much, I’ll send out trusty men, as daylight turns to dusk, To tell him of our plight — God speed them every one! We’ve lost too many lives in what has just begun — I think it only wise to seek his help at once. While time enough remains, let Garin’s plan be done!” At this a fery count no longer held his tongue: One quarter of all Rome was his alone to run — The mighty Nero Tower was in his power’s trust. The pontiff’s kin he was, born in Lombardia — Sir Savari his name, a duke of Hungary’s son, 540 And cousin to a duke — Richart, of Norman blood. In all the realm of Rome no braver lord there was. With ringing voice he cried, his visage rearing up: “Good pontiff, in all faith, I cannot stand here mum And watch as Rome displays so pale a show of pluck It fails itself before its aim has even struck To split a buckler’s hide or slit a hauberk’s husk! By brave St. Peter’s soul, which I adore and love, I’d rather thirty wounds should bleed me back and front And see my hauberk rent, my byrnie’s leather crushed! 550 These men are mad! Their minds and strength have been unstrung. Their words should not be heard or heeded here by us. A little fright, indeed, turns little people numb! No help can reach us now, by land at least there’s none That men in Miraour won’t notice if it comes. A curse upon the frst whose daring turns to dust! When challenge needs riposte, good riddance to the dumb!” Yet even as he spoke the city gates were rushed

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Fierabras and Floripas By fourteen thousand men who’d borne the pagan brunt: There wasn’t one whose lips or nostrils were uncut, Not one whose ears or hands were anything but stumps, Whose bleeding flled the street and swilled it like a food. They rushed up to the pope, and cried aloud, each one: “For Christ our Savior’s sake, sweet Mary’s blessed Son, Without your aid, my lord, this land is dead and done!” When Savari heard this, his angry cheeks were fushed. He laced them in a helm that glittered in the sun, While calling for his arms and byrnie-coat at once, And girding on a blade that severed all it touched. They led him forth a steed, of Syrian breed and blood, And magpie-like of hue, snow-white and black as smut. For fve leagues and a half that horse could run and jump And never lose the strength that drove it, limb and lung! Bold Savari leapt up and seized his gonfalon, Then, as a horn was blown from Rome’s great citadel, The men of Rome were armed and every bell was rung.

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he men of Rome were armed and soon the city seethed. In great alarm the bells in every belfry pealed. A warning-horn was blown on Crescent Tower to mean That everyone should arm, the paupers with the peers. The abbots and the monks, the clerics and the priests Ran forward to the square to muster and to meet, With ffty thousand men, or so the song decrees, And seven noble counts, who each possessed a fef, And twelve elected peers, of proud demeanor each. Count Savari stood up before them all to speak. A worthy man he was, of gallant clan and breed. He saw the pope and said, “If you will trust in me, Tonight, with fading light, I’ll leave the city streets With brave and ready men — one hundred knights I’ll need, And troops, a thousand men equipped with worthy steel And well supplied with arms and rapid battle steeds; To Miraour we’ll ride with every spur of speed. Our city has no fort that’s better placed to see, As far as Mount Chevrel, an enemy appear.

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First Geste — Vanity They’ve told us nothing yet, and that must either mean Its men are unaware or little care to leave, Or, hid away in fear, they slumber in a dream! God willing, with the night the truth will be revealed.” “Fine nephew,” said the pope, “there’s wisdom in your speech. We’ll send an envoy too, upon his own, to reach The place where folk have said these forces are convened, Then gallop on for help to France and Saint-Denis.” The Romans in the square gave this address a cheer, But Savari himself would not at all agree To seeking help from France, forbidding it indeed — Alas for them he did — his veto cost them dear, When every wall was razed and every brick was breached! They waited, each and all, until the dusk appeared, Then through the town they went, well armed from head to heel. Behind each wall and ditch they lined up, jowl by cheek, Till arrows flled each nook and every niche between. King Lucifer, meanwhile, approached the great emir. Inside his tent he went and, bowing, showed his liege The Christians he had caught since landing on the beach: A line of men and monks chained up by hands and feet, With children and with priests and hermits of the felds. The women and the girls had blindfolds on them each, As all were led inside for the emir to see. The Spanish ruler said, “King Lucifer, indeed You’ve labored hard and well for Mahom and for me, And earned the starting part of your requested fee! Be careful not to spare a single one of these. Let all of them be chained and slain with every speed — I’ll not have any troops delayed by refugees! Now take them all way and slay them as you please! Apollo and Mahom reward you as is meet.” King Lucifer replied, “My lord, at your decree.” He led the captives forth and forced them to a feld Where everyone was hung then fung upon a heap. Lord God above, with love, received the souls of each. The Saracens that night made merry with a feast,

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Fierabras and Floripas Then some of them kept watch while others went to sleep. Inside the walls of Rome they armed brave Savari And old Garin the wise, whose face with valor gleamed. One hundred ready knights were with them, and with these Were more than ffty score on stallion and steed, Who with the fall of night departed Nero’s Field. The pope commended all to God almighty’s keep. Before they turned for home, what blows they’d feel and deal! How many limbs they’d lop, how many hands and feet! How mightily they’d need those blades of naked steel! They rode past Miraour, not stopping till they reached The heights of Mount Chevrel, that looked to land and sea. Inside the fort a guard had climbed up high and seen The phalanx go, although, not knowing of their scheme, He hurried down and told his captain, wrongfully, “Three days of raiding done, a Moorish corps is near! I am indeed amazed they’ve come so close to here! My lord, if you’ve the will, there’s vengeance to be wreaked, The fame of which will build your name in after years!” The captain, hearing this, had bugles blown in brief, And all his men took arms and armor made of steel. In fne and ferce array they left the castle’s keep And, at the bridge, unlocked its sturdy gates to leave, As noble steeds were brought towards them all and each. They mounted, keen to fght the forces all had seen, But Savari called out, who saw they’d been deceived: “For God’s sake, stay your hand! We’re not your enemy!” The captain heard his words and, knowing instantly His master’s voice, rejoiced and welcomed him indeed. He opened up the gates and very soon all three, The captain, old Garin and gallant Savari, Were in the fort and went at once to reach its keep, So strongly built of yore it feared no force’s siege. Unless they starved to death, its men would never yield! Famed Miraour this was, of which the legends speak: How from its highest nook, whoever looked could see For thirty leagues and more on every side and reach: Those men who’d seen the Moors could vouch for that at least!

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First Geste — Vanity Good people, let me sing this song of woe and weal! If taken to the heart as well as through the ears, Its physic will repel the deadliest disease!

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o, mounting to the top of lofty Miraour, Sir Savari, Garin and others in the force, Looked forwards to the coast and most of it they saw, For brightly shone the moon, and soon it was the dawn. They saw a mighty host of heathens in a horde That flled the ground around a dozen leagues or more. The captain spoke at once, with terror in his voice: “My lords, if you had seen the murderous assault, The awful blows and woes that yesterday were wrought By lawless pagan hands upon our men and yours! No prisoner was spared the spitefulness they brought. They cut off countless heads with fercely fashing swords. We heard such awful cries up here inside our walls That no one, in their fear, would dare to venture forth And tell the folk in Rome, so daunted were we all. King Balan, their emir, is lord of Aigremore, The liege of thirty kings and fourteen almanzors, And all the Moors who breathe from here to Terre Maior! Our force in Rome alone won’t hold them back, I’m sure. If you had not arrived, I swear by God the Lord, As soon as darkness fell, I would have left the fort! Fine lord, for love of God, Who holds the world in ward, How fares the pope himself and those within his court?” Said Savari, “Each one is held in terror’s thrall!” The captain said, “In truth, I’ve done my duty’s call. I’d rather leave my post than linger any more!”

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ood captain, listen here!” Count Savari exclaimed: “For Christ our Savior’s sake, Who bore the cross’s bane, Relinquish all craven thoughts! Let each of us today Resolve to do our best and not to run away! My men will journey on, our battle standards raised, One thousand strong in helms, on horses loosely reined. And captain, you, my lord, must stay and guard this gate

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Fierabras and Floripas Until we have returned with pagan kings in chains!” “My lord,” the captain said, “your will I will obey.” So Savari strode down the tower steps in haste, With Garin by his side, and left the fort again. They armed themselves at once with lances and with blades, And heavy hauberk coats of sleek and shining mail, And helmets brightly strapped with strips of leather lace. When every knight was dressed, they pressed ahead in haste And left Fort Miraour in serried ranks and straight. With rods of strongest steel the captain barred his gates, As Savari rode forth and gave his spear a shake. Then, when he saw the tents that pagan hands had raised, He spurred his courser on, his visage charged with hate. His force would meet the Moors before it was midday.

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ing Lucifer of Baldas stepped boldly from his tent, Demanding arms and armor, in which he soon was dressed. Ten thousand savage pagans took up their arms as well To harry Christ’s religion and hunt it to its death. When everyone was ready the pagan vanguard left, And, looking ever eastward to mighty Rome itself, They saw our gallant barons in serried ranks ahead. Said Lucifer, “Mahomet! We’ve had our frst success: Their bravest men already await us on the crest! Proud nobles, my companions, display your great prowess! 730 Strike blows against these Romans that tear apart their fesh! Make certain that there’s no one whom ransom can abet!” “My lord,” replied his liegemen, “we’ll do our very best!” Count Savari spurred forward his charger swift of step, And Lucifer did likewise, his battle fag erect. Their lances struck the bucklers with such enormous strength That both men lost their balance and found the ground instead. Their coats of mail were sturdy, no link or chink was rent, And both men showed their valor and leapt up once again. King Lucifer was livid with shame and self-contempt 740 And drew his sword and swung it with murderous intent At Savari and struck him with cruel strokes and dread.

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First Geste — Vanity What mighty blows they bartered on helms inlaid with gems! The land around resounded with every blow they fetched. Count Savari, surrounded, was very nearly felled, But Roman knights and comrades rode swiftly to his help. At this a melee started, which led to many deaths: Both forces sped like falcons until their horses met, And then a hundred lances and buckler shields were cleft! The fsts and arms of many were scattered right and left, As souls were sent to heaven, or otherwise to hell! God bless that band of heroes, Whose mercy never ends — Before they left the melee their battered bodies bled With injuries so awful they turned the meadow red. From Balan’s mighty forces fve thousand horsemen sped To reinforce the vanguard with spur and speed unchecked. When Savari beheld them, he knew at once his men Could never stand against them, so turning back, they fed. They few back to the city and through its gate they went, As waiting porters locked it and blocked it with a wedge. Inside, the population was stricken with distress When they observed the proof of the pagans’ deadly threats. Count Savari proceeded to meet the pope and tell The tale of what had happened to him and to his quest: “Your Grace, most holy father, my plan was cut to shreds! I’ve never seen such forces, nor will you ever hence Behold so big a navy as this emir has sent: Three hundred thousand helmets I saw, with fashing gems. By God, I am uncertain what action would be best.” On hearing this, the pontiff let out a great lament, And set alarm-bells ringing throughout the city’s length. Each peer and every pauper was armed from heel to head And marshalled cheek by jowl behind each wall and trench. The pagans reached the city and their assault commenced: They hurtled stones and boulders from slings and mangonels And cracked the walls with mallets and metal picks as well. The air was thick with arrows — it bristled there, my friends, As pagan bows and Roman shot endless streams ahead — Behind each wall and rampart the town showed great defence.

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Fierabras and Floripas When darkness came the pagans withdrew their men to rest. The Romans posted sentries along the city’s length To watch them and be certain they took no forward step.

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t daybreak in the morning and when the dawn was light, The pope went to his chapel, where Mass was said and signed. When this was done he summoned his barons and his knights And all of them assembled about him on all sides. “My lords,” the pope exhorted, “I ask for your advice. The great emir has come here with overwhelming might To crush our town and cruelly to slaughter all inside. Alone, we cannot fght him for any length of time.” 790 To this a baron answered whose heart was brave and high, Whose beard hung to his belt-knot, so long it was and white. With ringing voice he bellowed, “My lord, be strong a while! Our city is a great one, constructed to survive, And flled with noble barons of hardy limb and mind, Who bravely will defend it with every breath of life.” Count Savari broke silence, whose valor never died: “Good pontiff, I implore you,” the gallant fghter cried, “Let courage and your conscience advise you what is right. Command your knights and barons to dress again in iron, 800 And arm the common people with no delay alike. I’ll lead them to the pagans, and God shall be our guide!” At once the pontiff answered, “Your courage strengthens mine! Give weaponry and armor to every gallant knight, And do your part, my brothers, with all your heart and pride. I swear by good St. Peter, I’ll lead you in the fght. May God in His great mercy defend us in our plight And let us save His city from heathen shame and spite.” He raised his hand to heaven and with the cross’s sign Confessed their lives of error and blessed them all in Christ. 810

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hen this was done the pontiff donned armor straightaway. He put on frst a jacket, well padded to the waist, And then a hardy hauberk whose mail was fnely chained. He laced his sword about him, a fnely tempered blade, Then placed a jeweled helmet about his head and face.

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First Geste — Vanity A squire of his led forward his rested destrier And, stepping in the stirrups, he mounted in all haste. He seized the lance they gave him, its gonfalon upraised, Which bore St. Peter’s likeness on painted silk brocade. 820 Then all the pontiff’s barons were quickly armed the same, And when his rank was ready they left without delay. When all had gone, the porter and others barred the gates, While every man remaining lined every open space To keep the town defended until they came again. God bless them all, His servants who ventured forth or stayed: Before they reunited, what blows they’d give and take! The pontiff led his forces, his gonfalon upraised, With Garin of Pavia, whose face with valor blazed, And Savari behind him, his courser loosely reined, Then ranks of gallant Romans in fne and ferce array. 830 The worthy pope went charging, to challenge for his faith. From Nubia a noble took up the charge and came. One joust was all it needed — the pope was fung away; His lance split into fragments before the pagan’s weight! The Moor jumped off his war horse to cut his visor’s lace, And would have cut his head off, but saw that it was shaved! At once the Moor rebuked him, “What shame for me, you knave! I thought that I had jousted a leader of his race! You’d be much better suited to singing songs of praise Than bringing lance and buckler to bitter fghts and frays! 840 Go back inside your cloister and ring your bells and pray! Mahomet damn you, prelate — remount and ride away, For if I were to slay you, my fame would turn to shame!” The pagan helped the pontiff to mount his horse again, Then both of them turned swiftly to fee the other’s face!

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he noble pope of Rome was beaten, bruised and battered, But rescued very soon by Garin and his vassals. They led him through the ranks from Balan’s mighty phalanx, Not drawing rein until they’d brought him to his barons. On doing this, they turned with all their hate and anger To face the pagan force and spurred their horses at them. “By God, Who dwells in might,” cried Savari the gallant,

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Fierabras and Floripas “Without delay or stay I shall avenge our captain!” He gripped his lance and gored his war-horse to a gallop. He spied the pontiff’s foe and spurred his charger at him. With all his native heart he smote his buckler’s panels, Then slit the hauberk’s coat and split its padded jacket. From front to rear his spear rammed through as he attacked him And fung him to his death with all his strength and anger. 860 Sir Garin and the rest displayed so fne a valor That soon a thousand Moors lay dead upon the valley. At this, Tanpin del Guez, King Balan’s cherished clansman, His cousin, says the song, employed his rapid stallion. One hundred in his ranks, of proven strength and passion, Beside a leafy wood chased Savari and trapped him. What agony they wrought on him and his companions — How many limbs were cropped and lopped off as they battled! How many men were slain, of Christian brain and savage! “By God, Whose loving grace exceeds our understanding, Where is my lord the pope?” Count Savari cried sadly, 870 “What torture he’ll endure if they should take him captive!” With every haste he raced away from Tanpin’s challenge And found the pope at last beside a wide embankment. With great relief he sighed and hastened to him gladly, Then blew his horn aloud to make his forces rally And turn their steeds for Rome; they hurried home — they had to, For had they made a stand, they never could have matched them. Inside his gates the guard unlocked them and unlatched them, As Savari rode in, the pope, his men and Garin, Then closed them with a clang and barred them with a banging! 880 The pagans chased them back towards the city’s ramparts, Where Lucifer called out, “Attack it, loyal vanguard!” His men replied with pride, “Our pleasure, king of Baldas!” They struck with picks at bricks to break it down and dash it, While, on the walls themselves, in ranks and relays standing, The Romans volleyed rocks in an unbroken barrage On heathen helms and heads and did some deadly damage. When darkness fell the Moors turned round towards their campsite. The pope, alike, returned inside his safest palace With Savari and those our Savior chose to ransom. 890

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First Geste — Vanity All night they sought repose till morning light and matins. King Balan rose alike, and striding forth, examined The walls of Rome and called his plotters and his planners, Brulanz of Montmirree and Sortinbrans of Coinbres: “So tell me, by the gods,” he thundered, “what has happened? My vanguard has been stopped, my sappers beaten backwards. My brave Nubian king was slaughtered and abandoned, And hundreds of my knights outlasted by a handful. Without revenge galore, I’ll nevermore be happy! So what is your advice?” demanded mighty Balan, “You know that those in Rome have shamed me very badly. I’ve lost two thousand men, fne Persian knights and Slavic. My sorrow spills in tears and flls again with anger!” Said Sortinbrans, “Call forth your master of mechanics, And he will tell you how this city can be vanquished.” “At once!” said the emir of Spain and all the Spanish: “Go fetch the man yourself, and don’t delay or dally!” “My lord,” said Sortinbrans, “your wishes are my actions!”

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ing Sortinbrans, he summoned Mabon the engineer. Mabon arrived directly before the great emir, 910 Who thundered, “By the gods, man, have you been fast asleep? Assemble me some engines and set this town to siege!” “My lord,” Mabon responded, “Three days and nights I’ll need — Beyond the walls the ditches around the town are deep. But, by the gods, tomorrow, at break of dawn, I’ll lead One thousand carts in convoy to forest-depths unseen, Where I shall build you platforms and wondrous siege machines. I’ll fll the carts with lumber and branches from the trees, Enough to fll the ditches and let the walls be reached. Then I shall build you ladders with every haste and speed 920 So hundreds of your barons can scale the walls with ease. Your navy, in the meantime, can sail up Tiber’s stream. And I shall add more gangways to every masthead beam, So even more attackers may cross the ditch between And overcome the Romans, their city and their creed!” King Balan cried, “With blessing!” and kissed his chin and cheek: “If I survive, I’ll pay you beyond your wildest dreams,

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Fierabras and Floripas And all of your descendants will bless what you achieved!” The engineer left swiftly, in great delight indeed, And called his men around him and told them, full of cheer, “Tomorrow, in the morning, as soon as dawn appears, One thousand carts we’ll convoy with strong and rested steeds To forest depths unnoticed, as swiftly as can be! We’ll load the carts with lumber and ride inside so we May fll up all the ditches of Rome from west to east With Roman trunks and branches for pagan wheels and feet!” “My lord,” his men responded, “how ftting an idea!” Throughout the night they rested till light of day appeared, Whereon they all made ready and left with every speed. In forest depths well hidden they started on their scheme: They felled enormous oak trees and flled the carts with glee.

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abon the Moor mechanic, in forest depths unknown, Filled up a thousand cartloads with mighty limbs of oak. Then, when this was accomplished, without delay he told His men to make up platforms with axes sharp as goads. Without delay they labored, in swift and skilful strokes, Then tied the carts to horses that dragged them forth to Rome. They flled the city’s ditches with lumber from their loads, Then, placing platforms on them, made sure that they would hold One hundred knights in armor who strode on them or rode. 950 Imagine, friends, the frenzy among the Roman folk When they beheld their ditches flled in and turned to roads The Moors could come and go on exactly as they chose! The nuns and all the women began to weep and moan, While every man seized armor and weaponry to go Once more upon the ramparts and fght the pagan foe. Cried Savari, “Lord Jesus, Who bore the cross’s woe, Endow us with the courage to save our haven home!” They cried as one, “St. Peter!” in fervent, ringing tones. King Balan shouted also, but he addressed his own: 960 “My lords, the moment calls us to reap the harvest sown! To him who shows great honor, great honor will be shown!” “Your wish is ours, your highness!” they answered, nothing loath. King Fierabras the giant had warning trumpets blown

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First Geste — Vanity And by the city ramparts the Moors arrived in rows. With all their skill and ardor the archers aimed their bows And every wall was showered with arrows and with bolts. The city’s brave defenders replied with volleyed stones, As life and limb were shortened of Moor and Christian both. 970 Then ships came up the Tiber, that fed the city’s moat. The platforms on their mast heads were raised, and as they rose The Moors aboard were able, God curse their crafty souls, To grapple hand to hand with defenders high and low. The roar of war resounded across the city’s slopes: What ferce attacks they countered! What fne defence they showed! How many bricks were broken, how many stones were thrown As pagans picked to pieces the sturdy walls of Rome! From dawn light they attacked them until the day grew old, Then turned back to their campsite when night was black and cold. Returning to their lodges, they left the town alone — 980 Though every Roman sentry was constant in patrol. The great emir was angry, appalled and very wroth That ramparts hadn’t fallen that should have long ago! He blamed his army’s leaders, his raging face aglow. Said Lucifer of Baldas, “You trust in me, I hope! I have a plan to please you, which now I will disclose.” King Lucifer lacked honor, as plainly then was shown: He planned to change his armor to match the arms of Rome! He spoke his thoughts to Balan, and this is how he spoke: “Emir of Spain, your highness,” he said in cunning tones, 990 “This town is very sturdy, its people very bold. We’ll never break the ramparts while it and they are so, Unless we use a ruse here — and this is one I know: The town contains a hero who’s feared by high and low — Count Savari his name is, his clan of mighty mold. Each day he leaves the city to fght us, and his blows Have cost us many corpses with severed heads and bones. I’ve seen his arms and armor, and taken note of those Belonging to his comrades, and learnt them all by rote! Tonight, my lord, at twilight, I’ll ride along the road 1000 That passes through the woodland and then a slope below. Ten thousand men shall follow, the best my army boasts,

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Fierabras and Floripas And when we’ve set up camp there among its shady groves, We’ll alter the devices upon our shields and coats To those of Rome, and bear them and wear them as a cloak! When Savari goes fghting, as is his daily wont, Then I and my companions will gallop forth to Rome. The city guard will see us, I know, as we approach, And, opening their entrance, will welcome us back home, 1010 For we shall be arrayed as the Savari they know! And when we’ve made it in there, beneath their very nose, Our last will see for certain that every gate is closed! Then with our cheery sword blades we’ll give them such ‘hellos!’ Each mouth will gape in wonder and every head will roll!” “Sir Lucifer,” said Balan, “well spoken! By my troth, I’ve never needed counsel so well conceived or told! You’ll heed it to the letter, and better quick than slow!” Said Lucifer, “Your highness, the dice is on the roll!” That very night, with darkness, as vesper bells were tolled, Ten thousand men departed and hastened to a grove 1020 Where, in the shining moonlight, they painted shields and clothes. When everything was ready they swapped their own for those, Then rested under awnings until the morning broke. At dawn upon the morrow, and as the sun arose, On Savari’s instruction a horn was blown in Rome: “To arms again you Romans whose veins with valor fow!” He thundered, as his liegemen and he prepared to go: “Put all your mind and muscle behind your bravest blows! Consider well your holdings and everything you own! Defend your wives and children and what their future holds!” 1030 “My lord,” his men responded, “Your service is our goal!” On saying this, they readied their bodies and their souls And left their lovely city, with faith and frm resolve. The gates of Rome behind them were barred across with bolts. With Savari to lead them, his battle standard fown, They spurred their horses fercely towards the heathen foe. How many shields they shattered, how many spears they broke, How many limbs they severed, how many hands they smote! The meadow grass was reddened with all the blood that fowed. When Savari was busy, and all his men, with blows, 1040

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First Geste — Vanity King Lucifer raced forward and left his hiding hole With each of his companions, as fast as they could go, And spurred their horses wildly towards the gate of Rome. The Moor addressed the porter to raise him from his post: “Rise up, for we are routed by Balan’s heathen host!” On hearing this, the captain himself fung back the bolts And let the pagans enter — alas that it was so — He thought that they were Romans, and how was he to know? The pagans, when they entered, cried joyfully and crowed: “Companions, now we’ve got them, don’t let the villains go!” 1050 The captain’s head went fying with Lucifer’s frst blow, And equal fates awaited the citizens they smote. The blood of dead and wounded went fooding down the moat. King Lucifer made certain the outer gates were closed — And few indeed escaped them before the bolts were thrown. They sought the inner bailey and through its gate they drove, Then struggled to secure it with iron bars and poles. But when the pagans rushed it its ancient pillars broke And, crushing sentry boxes, went crashing down the slope. When Savari, unheeding, had fought the heathen host, 1060 He turned his horse and forced it to hasten back to Rome. His vassals, right behind him, were anything but loath, Their sortie having taken a mighty, mortal toll: Five thousand rode to battle, three hundred battled home. Count Savari was riding as fast as he could go Towards the gates, expecting to enter unopposed, But when he called the porter, no answer came from Rome! The pagans were inside there, God rot their blighted bones, And sturdy steel made certain no others could encroach! Count Savari lamented, “Alas! The dice is thrown! 1070 If pagans have the city, they’ve struck a mortal blow! Let every man among us confess himself and go To face his fnal battle — for death is on the rove! Companions, raise your weapons against the wicked foe! Let no man fail or falter while heart and honor hold! May God, the King of glory, receive our Christian souls!” Then all his men and barons their many sins bemoaned And beat their breasts contritely, God’s mercy to invoke:

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Fierabras and Floripas “May Jesus Christ redeem us, Who bore the cross’s woe!” On saying this, they galloped again to face the foe 1080 And gave the pagan vanguard so ferce a jousting jolt That very soon they’d slaughtered some twenty score of those. But they themselves were fnished — each one of them was thrown Or mown down, even Garin, a Roman France had grown. The only one who wasn’t was Savari alone. Eventually, his warhorse was slaughtered under blows, Though Savari continued his strong and gallant strokes. But when he knew for certain his death was very close, He turned about and struggled to reach the walls of Rome, Still thinking he might enter the city on his own. 1090 A giant Moor pursued him, whose name was Estragot — A man who’d murdered hundreds by sundering their bones. His face was big and piggish and yet he wore a crown And bore a battle hammer of steel superbly honed. At Savari he swung it and struck him such a blow He split his skull and scattered his brains upon the slope. The hero held his arms up till in a cross they closed Upon his breast in falling, with him, in death’s repose. St. Gabriel, in glory, to glory took his soul. The Romans, from their rooftops, saw everything below, 1100 And went with great lamenting and wending to and fro, Until they reached the palace and told the worthy pope How Savari was slaughtered and all with whom he rode, And how their outer bailey was swarming with their foes. On hearing this, the pontiff made great lament and moan, And called upon His mercy, Who bore the cross’s woe: “Alas the choice rejected, the chance’s moment fown For us to seek salvation from Charlemagne’s throne! Count Savari forbade it and we shall pay the toll. Our city will be shattered, St. Peter’s overthrown!” 1110 “My lord,” a vassal urged him, a kinsman of his home, “Although it is belated, still let us even so Do what we should: have letters transcribed and sealed to go To Saint-Denis directly, with tidings that invoke King Charles’s swift assistance, for God’s sake and his own! Inform him that King Balan is here with tribes untold,

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First Geste — Vanity And, if he doesn’t help us, not only we in Rome, But everyone will suffer and he himself the most.” “I heartily commend it, at once,” replied the pope, 1120 “With urgency and hurry have messages composed!” “My lord,” the cleric answered, “the scribes are at the scrolls!” With letters duly written and papal seals bestowed, The pontiff said, “Sir Geoffrey, be messenger for Rome, And travel with two others articulate and bold To Charlemagne’s abbey of Saint-Denis the old. Petition him to save us, and every Christian soul! Without the king’s assistance our city has no hope: St. Peter’s will be ravaged, its altar overthrown. The crown of thorns that Jesus our Savior wore will go To Spain, with other relics that we revere in Rome. 1130 Your quest must be successful — do all in your control!” “My lord,” responded Geoffrey, “we shall do, nothing loath!” That very night, at twilight, with every stealth they stole Their way outside the city, departing for their goal. They took no other horses except for those they rode, In fearful dread of capture and death if they were slowed; Throughout the night they journeyed beneath the moonlight’s glow, With all the speed and hurry a spurring heel can goad, Until they reached a castle that served their mood and mode, For Savari had owned it and made it Geoffrey’s own! 1140 Inside they took refreshment and well deserved repose, Until, upon the morrow, with dawning day they rose To ready three more horses that swiftly they bestrode, Then goaded with their rowels and galloped down the road, With God above to guide them, Who governs all below. They journeyed on so briskly through country high and low That soon they came to Paris and found the king’s abode. With every speed dismounting, they greeted him and spoke, “May God, Who dwells above us in Trinity extolled, Be with you, Charlemagne, and all your barons bold! 1150 The Roman pontiff greets you, as do the common folk, And all of them entreat you to lift a dreadful yoke — The lord of Spain, King Balan, has struck them from the coast And sits before the city with all his heathen host —

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Fierabras and Floripas Some thirty ruling monarchs and fourteen shahs enrobed, With men two hundred thousand, in helms of shining gold. They’ve slain or maimed already the knights that were our own, And spared no Christian cleric in cloister or in close. They’ve tortured nuns and brothers in cruel assault and gross, And hewn the heads of virgins whose maidenhood they stole. 1160 They’ve sundered and they’ve plundered the land surrounding Rome. My lord, without your rescue, Rome’s glory will dissolve, Its people will be slaughtered, its altars overthrown. The crown of Christ will vanish in pagan hands and so Will many other relics our holy city holds. If Balan is successful, your city and your throne Will be the next to suffer — no mercy will be shown.” On hearing such a message, the king’s expression froze. They handed him the letters and, ripping seal and fold, He gave them to a cleric to read the tale they told: 1170 ‘The Roman pope sends greetings, as do the common folk, In great esteem and friendship, to royal Charles the bold And all his gallant barons who live by honor’s code. We Roman folk entreat you to lift our present yoke. The Spanish Moor, King Balan, has seized us by the throat And threatens now to throttle our faith until it chokes! Without your royal rescue our city has no hope. For pity’s sake, fne monarch, come straightaway to Rome!’ King Charlemagne shivered and shook from head to toe, Then called on Gui, the scion of Burgundy, and spoke — 1180 Sir Gui was Charles’s nephew, his sister’s son, I’m told — “Good nephew, take my vanguard to aid the folk of Rome, Some ffty thousand soldiers well armed for any foe. Be rapid in your muster and swift upon the road. Throughout the realm I’ll summon what armies I control And ride forth to support you before the month is old.” “Your will be done, fne uncle,” said Gui, and turned to go. And yet, before they’d travelled a single day, you know, The city had been taken! The Moors had entered Rome. A traitor helped them do it, a sentry knight more loath 1190 To lose his head than forfeit the honor of his post. That night he’d left the city, in sooty darkness cloaked,

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First Geste — Vanity And turned his fated footsteps to Balan’s tented dome. He met the haughty pagan, and this is how he spoke: “My lord emir, take pity on such as I in Rome. I am a knight who’s willing to serve you, on my oath. My coming here should prove it — I’ve naught to hide but hope. I serve as city sentry and lead the gate patrols, So I can gain you entry, if you would enter so. 1200 But in return I ask you to let me live and grow In standing and in riches, and feudal lands to own.” Said Balan: “By Mahomet, I’ll gladly grant you those! I’ll give you many strongholds and any land or gold!” On hearing this, Sir Tabor, the traitor, swore an oath That he would do exactly the deed he had proposed That coming night, provided the pagan pledged his troth. The great emir responded, “I swear, with all my soul!” On hearing this, the traitor made straightaway to go And turned upon his boot heels and headed back to Rome, Where, deaf to any greeting, he took his night’s repose. 1210 When Fierabras was told of the treason to unfold He swore upon Apollo, in ferce and fery tones, That he’d reward the traitor — by slicing through his throat! On saying this, he rested until the morning broke. The pagans, on the morrow, with merry japes and jokes, Took pleasure in their leisure and made no move on Rome. Then, when the light was waning, and night began to grow, King Fierabras commanded his trumpeters to blow A summons to his army, to raise them from their sloth. From every tent they issued, young warriors and old, 1220 With nothing to detain them and everything to goad. King Fierabras, to lead them, was mounted on a roan. With Lucifer and Brulanz and Sortinbrans the bold, And Clamaton and Mordas to guard the rear, they rode In serried ranks and silent beneath the moon aglow, Until they reached the level before the gates of Rome. King Fierabras rode forward a little on his own, Well armed upon the back of his richly saddled roan. As pagan he was peerless — in strength he stood alone. A feared and fearsome giant, his beard hung long and low. 1230

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Fierabras and Floripas Upon his shield three lions showed rampant in a row. He gripped his lance and galloped the fnal yards alone. Tabor the traitor saw him and played his evil stroke: He hastened to the gateway and, finging back the bolts, He let the pagans enter — alas, his blackened soul! King Fierabras came charging, and with his sword he clove The traitor down the middle, and galloped into Rome.

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ing Fierabras the pagan came charging through the gate With Lucifer of Baldas, a monarch strong and brave, And Sortinbrans and Brulanz, Embruns and Tempestez, And heathens by the hundred, a curse on them, I say! His ringing voice rejoicing, the pagan cried, “Betrayed!” And cleft the foul betrayer with one blow of his blade, Then with his cutting lance head he fung the wretch away. “A curse on you,” he bellowed, “and every nurse of shame, For in the end all traitors receive a traitor’s wage!” Then, spurring on, he galloped along the city lanes Beside his ferce companions, with ever looser reins. With ringing voice he ordered, “Spare nobody your rage! Slay every man and woman, and child of any age! Kill every nun and brother! Let none of them escape! Today shall mark the end of their foolish Christian faith!” “My lord,” his men responded, “we’ll willingly obey.” And slaughtered all, regardless of station or estate. Across the stricken city what awful cries were raised, As Roman felds were covered with blood from Christian veins That streamed down every incline and fooded every drain, Except for those encumbered by wounded folk or slain. The pope went to St. Peter’s and every chaplain came From all parts of the city to be with him and pray. But Fierabras the pagan came storming up the nave, With Lucifer of Baldas and all his men the same, Till every aisle was seething with Satan’s renegades. The pagan dragged the pontiff before his altar’s rail, Then swiftly struck his head off with one blow of his blade. Lord Jesus Christ our Savior received his soul in grace. King Fierabras strode onward, remarking, in his place,

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1240

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1260

First Geste — Vanity A canon of the vestry, whose back was bent with age: Two hundred years he’d witnessed the world and all its ways. King Fierabras addressed him, in tones that made him quake: 1270 “Stand up, old man, and tell me, without the least mistake, Where I can fnd the relics of Jesus and your faith — The crown and nails that pierced Him, when on the cross He lay, The shroud in which His body was swaddled and was swathed: The cross itself that tore Him and bore Him to His grave — I order and command you to tell me straightaway!” “My lord,” the canon answered, “I cannot but obey.” And carried forth a casket with gold all overlaid. Then swiftly he unclasped it and brought to light of day The very crown that Jesus had worn, and then the nails, 1280 The royal sign that scorned Him and mocked His loyal pain, And then the shroud His body was wound in, in the grave: “By all the gods,” the Moor said, “I’ve done good work today! I’ve won the crown their Savior was pierced with to his shame, And many other relics in which they set their faith!” He plunged his fngers further and on the casket’s base He found two precious barrels with fnest gold ornate,

Rome Sacked (ll. 1283-85)

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Fierabras and Floripas And opened them, suspecting the wealth that they contained. He called upon the canon and asked him straightaway: “Well, well! I hope your Savior will save you now, old sage! 1290 What wealth lies in these barrels? Don’t lie to me, you knave!” “My lord,” replied the canon, “you’ll hear the truth, in faith! These barrels hold the balsam in which our Lord was bathed, His mortal wounds anointed, when laid inside the grave. Now any wound it touches can nevermore give pain, But heals up in a moment — its blessing never fails.” “Mahomet!” cried the pagan, “A blessing on your grace! I’ll never sell these barrels for any gold or gain!” He packed up all the relics and had them brought away, Then tied against his saddle the barrels’ precious weight. 1300 Before he left he severed that canon’s head the same, And all his heathens ravaged Rome’s altars and its naves. They cast down all its crosses, its images and saints, And then, when that was fnished, they laid the churches waste. With horns and cornets blowing, they set the lot ablaze. King Fierabras, remounting his richly saddled bay, Rode off to rob the city of all that it contained, With Lucifer and others — a curse upon their race! Dear Lord above, what riches their wretched hands waylaid — From cups of gold and silver, and goblets all engraved, 1310 To noble cloth and sendal from lands beyond the waves. When every good was taken and every human slain That they could fnd, they hastened to ruin what remained. They burned the noble city till every wall was razed, Then racing to their campsite, made haste to get away.

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ing Fierabras the Moor laid waste the lovely city, And took away its balm and other relics with him. Each Roman face was chased, each Christian head was smitten, Then all the city burned and turned to smoky cinders. When everything was done, they left there very quickly, 1320 And Fierabras at once, reporting on the mission, Regaled his father’s hands with everything they’d pillaged. The great emir rejoiced and, in the highest spirits,

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First Geste — Vanity Himself he carried off the bags with balsam in them, And stored the other hoard in coffers tightly lidded. “My lord,” announced his son, “I’ll say what I am thinking. You’ve all that you desired and more than you could wish for. You’ve conquered Rome itself, its relics and its riches. Its Christian folk are dead, not one of them is living. 1330 But Charles will seek revenge upon our Spanish kingdom!” Said Balan, “By Mahom, I’ve no desire to linger. Prepare our ships and men to leave this very minute. The frst of winds to blow shall tow our forces with it!” The pagans cheered for joy on hearing this decision. They packed and stacked their tents and all of their equipment, Their sharp and shining arms, their horses strong and nimble, Their wine and bread and oats, and sundry more provisions, Till every boat afoat and every ship was dipping! Then when, as sailors say, the wind was fair and bidding, King Balan strode on board with happy heart and willing, 1340 And Fierabras the proud and Floripas the pretty, And every pagan peer, a curse upon the villains! With everyone on board, they set the sails abillow And sped by heavens bright through day and night so swiftly That soon they came to Spain and lowered mains and mizzens. King Balan left his barge, attended by his kinsmen, And Fierabras his son, who led his lovely sister. The sailors cast ashore their armor and equipment, Then led the horses forth, the strong ones and the swift ones. When every Moor had left, and all on board was lifted, 1350 King Balan journeyed on, through valley, plain and village, Until at last he came to Aigremore, his city, To stop and stay a while, with all his pagan princes.

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o Aigremore, his city, rode Balan the emir, With all his pagan princes, a curse upon the breed! What happened to the rescue? How far did it succeed? Well, look and see, good people — see Burgundy’s young Gui With Charles’s banner fying through hill and dale, to lead Some ffty thousand Frenchmen for Charles of Saint-Denis! They set up camp at nighttime upon the meadows green,

1360

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Fierabras and Floripas Then some remained as sentries while others went to sleep. They laid their heads in slumber upon their buckler shields And left their horses grazing the grasses in the feld. At dawning, with the lark song, as light of day appeared, They swung astride their horses and rode with every speed Towards the blessed city, to aid their Roman peers, Although they had before them a day to ride at least. Sir Geoffrey, sent as envoy, raced forward on his steed. He knew the high- and by-ways, and fords in every stream. He looked towards his city, but all that he could see Was blazing feld and homestead on every side and reach. He groaned and wept for pity and cursed his birth in grief. “Sir Gui,” he cried in anguish, “alas for what I’ve seen! Behold the smoky ruin of Rome upon its knees! I’m sure the Moors have taken the precious proof it keeps! We took too long to get here — and now, what help are we?” “My lord,” Sir Gui responded, “Your tidings torture me!” On saying this, they hastened, with all their raging zeal, Towards the gates and found them wide open, and between They saw the city blazing and raising such a heat They couldn’t pass the porch way or enter any street. The vanguard made its campsite outside, upon the lea, And stayed there, numb and dumbly, for one dejected week. My friends, with your agreement, I’ll leave them to their grief And tell of Charlemagne, that strong and royal liege. Throughout his lands and counties he summoned all his peers. No serving count or baron remained within his fef, But rode at once for Paris when summoned from his seat. When all were reassembled, in ranks of their degree, The emperor addressed them in ringing tones and clear: “Attend to me in silence and ponder what you hear! The great emir, King Balan, has struck from overseas. One hundred thousand pagans assault us as I speak! Sweet Rome, my noble city, is locked in heavy siege, While all the land around it is crushed beneath their heel! Without our help the city will be destroyed in brief!” “My lord,” his barons answered, “we’ll follow where you lead. Not one of us will fail you who lives enough to breathe!”

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1370

1380

1390

First Geste — Vanity The king rejoiced to hear it and flled with mighty cheer, On seeing them so ready to barter word for deeds. 1400 He went himself directly to gather all he’d need, As did his counts and barons of royal France the sweet. When all were armed they started their steeds along the streets, Three hundred thousand horsemen — how fne and ferce a scene! Count Oliver was chosen to bear the fag and lead, While Roland, frst of fghters, was captain of the rear, As all began to follow the vanguard of Sir Gui. Through day and night they journeyed, not stopping once to sleep, With loosened rein till reaching the plains of Romany. Young Gui observed the banner of Charles of Saint-Denis 1410 And spurred his mount to greet him with tidings full of grief: That Rome was lost already and that the Moors had thieved The crown of thorns our Savior was crowned with on the tree, The nails and other relics, beloved of our creed, And that the one who’d led them was Fierabras the ferce, Who’d fed with them, returning to Spain aboard their feet! What tears of bitter sadness wet Charlemagne’s cheeks! But then, at once, he ordered that ships be commandeered, And swore upon his honor, and by his shining beard, To never journey homeward till vengeance had been wreaked! 1420 When every ship was ready and all equipped to leave, The king rode on his galley with gallant company: With Oliver and Roland, whose hearts with courage beat, Duke Renier of Geneva and Naimon, wise with years, And other peers, including Sir Gui of Burgundy. A good wind struck the vessels and drove them out to sea. Through day and night they journeyed and swept before the breeze Across the open ocean till land of Spain was reached. At once they loosened canvas and anchored by a beach. They lowered ramps and gangways and led away their steeds, 1430 Unloading their equipment and shining battle gear. The king forsook his galley with ferce intent and keen, And every baron followed, God bless them all and each! They mounted horse directly and, heading to the east, They spurred them, nothing sparing, until at last they reached The vales of Morimonda and flled them with marquees.

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Fierabras and Floripas Ere long the news had travelled to reach the great emir That Charles and all his army had landed in his fef To challenge its possession and Balan’s wealth and weal! 1440 On hearing this, what anger convulsed the great emir, Who called his son to see him, King Fierabras the ferce! When Fierabras attended, he spoke as you will hear: “The Frenchman Charlemagne has landed in my fefs! Three hundred thousand Christians have followed him, it seems, In vengeance for our sortie upon the Roman see, And hope that they’ll recover the relics of their creed. My son, I bid you and beg you to foil their evil scheme And bring me on a platter his hoary head and beard!” “My lord,” his son responded, “your will I will achieve.” While Fierabras the fearsome was readying to leave, 1450 The Frenchman Charlemagne was arming all his peers To lead his vanguard forward and lay the town to siege. Brave Oliver and Roland replied, “Most willingly! Both Aigremore and Balan will fall ere night is here!” So Oliver and Roland and Gui of Burgundy And wise Ogier of Denmark took weaponry of steel And stole away fve thousand, in vanguard, up the steeps Of Morimonda’s mountains, well-armed on sturdy steeds. When Fierabras the pagan beheld them on the peak, Without delay he shouted for all the town to hear: 1460 “My worthy Moors stout hearted, come whet your blades with me! I see the Frenchmen coming to set our town to siege!” “My lord,” his men responded, “we’re ready, all and each!” With Fierabras to lead them, they left on speedy beasts, Some ffty thousand pagans of heathen brain and breed. Then our men saw them coming and spurred their mounts to meet, Count Oliver the foremost, his gallant face agleam. With Charles’s royal banner well fxed upon his spear, He spurred his horse like fury across the vanguard’s peak, Where Fierabras the giant made sure that he was seen! 1470 What mighty blows they bartered and battered on their shields: Their spears were quickly splintered from striking blows so ferce. Count Oliver was wounded — the pagan’s lance had sheared His fesh below the breastplate and all his side beneath.

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First Geste — Vanity

Oliver Challenged (ll. 1466-67)

My friends, it was a wonder he stayed astride his steed. King Fierabras rode onward, along the lookout’s reach, Where Roland, Charles’s nephew, called halt to his career By striking him so strongly upon his pagan shield He split his lance directly — it splintered into three. Then Sortinbrans of Coinbres arrived upon the scene 1480 With forty thousand heathens of strength and temper mean, Who fuelled the battle further with all their anger’s heat, Till wounded men and corpses bestrewed the feld of green. Count Oliver and Roland displayed such hardy zeal That very soon they’d slaughtered a score of pagans each. But in the end their valor bade fair to cost them dear, For just as both had started to leave a forded stream, Five thousand pagans faced them, whose cutting swords unleashed A storm of blows upon them with blades of sharpest steel. They would have died that morning, the ancient song reveals, 1490 Had France’s older fghters not rushed to their relief. Count Renier led the graybeards, Geneva’s worthy liege. So many heads they severed, so many limbs they sheared, The battle still was raging as daylight disappeared. But when the darkness hid them both forces turned to leave, The Frenchmen to their campsite, where all disarmed in brief. Attendants brought them water as soon as Charles decreed,

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Fierabras and Floripas Then straightaway his barons sat down to drink and eat. The king, when he had fnished, grew freer in his speech And boasted that his graybeards had fought with greater zeal Than any of his young ones, whose gallantry was green! On hearing this, young Roland was flled with bitter pique. His uncle, Charles, unheeding, renewed with solemn mien His pledge to God almighty to fght and never yield. No wind or storm whatever would force his troops to leave Till they’d regained the relics of Jesus and the Creed. Good people, I beseech you to let my song proceed: It has a lot to teach you — if only you will heed!

The first part of our story, vainglory is complete.

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1500

THE SECOND GESTE — SUBMISSION Tells of the duel between Fierabras and Oliver

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ood, honorable people, attend again and hear A fne and fearsome story whose glory is unique! 1510 Each line of it is truthful, without a lie between, The text of it discovered in France at Saint-Denis, Where, hidden, it had languished at least a hundred years. So, if you wish to listen, you’ll learn at last from me How mighty Charlemagne, his face aglow with zeal, Regained the crown our Savior was given on the tree, The blessed nails that pierced Him, the holy winding sheet, And every sacred relic that pagan hands had seized. This treasure was transported to France and Saint-Denis, And shared upon its terrace, at what is called Lendit. 1520 These relics are the reason, my story makes it clear, The yearly fair they hold there is still known as Lendit. In former days no payments or taxes were decreed, But all of that has altered because of people’s greed. The world is always changing, and getting worse, I fear, When fathers who were beggars breed offspring who are thieves! In everything, I fancy, our world has grown so weak That nobody within it, however well esteemed, Is loyal to the pledges they guarantee to keep. Enough of that, however! Good people, I’ll proceed! 1530 The emperor had summoned his barons and the peers From every land he governed, both faraway and near: And grand it was, and mighty, his army when convened, And when he led them forward till everyone had reached The vales of Morimonda and flled them with marquees. Count Oliver the noble, whose valor was unique, Had led ahead a party, equipped with shining steel,

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Fierabras and Floripas To guard the vale of Raier and watch its open felds: But pagans soon attacked them — they stormed up the ravines, 1540 Some ffty thousand fghters with banners on their spears, Contending for the country, the allods and the fefs. Count Oliver the noble was wounded, and indeed The truth is that his vanguard would soon have met defeat, Had Charlemagne’s cronies not suddenly appeared. The pagans saw them coming and swung around to leave! The noble king, undaunted, returned to his marquee, Where Roland’s name was taunted before they went to sleep. At sunrise on the morrow, as light of dawn appeared, The chaplain, clad in ermine, said Mass for all and each, Then everywhere the tables were laid for them to eat. 1550 Before they did, however, their hunger disappeared, On hearing from a pagan who’d followed their retreat: No fercer Moor before him had ever lived or breathed!

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he king and many barons together went to bathe: Before they did, however, their hunger went away, On hearing from a pagan who’d stumbled on their trail. No fercer Moor before him had ever held the reins Of Alexander’s empire, its harbors and its waves, From Babylon as far as the Red Sea and the plains Of mighty-bordered Russia and all of old Kolane, 1560 And all Palermo’s towers — so mighty was his sway. He’d wanted Rome moreover, so battered down its gates, To make its men and women his servants and his slaves. The city had been stubborn, its people very brave, And so he’d had them slaughtered and laid St. Peter’s waste. He’d fogged the gallant pontiff, then slain him with his blade, And maimed the holy brothers and had the sisters raped. He’d stolen holy relics, the bitter crown and nails That pierced our Savior’s body, and took His shroud away, With countless other relics, too numerous to name. 1570 Jerusalem he’d conquered, beloved of our faith, And commandeered the gravesite where Christ Himself had lain. The name of this despoiler both you and I can say: King Fierabras the giant — now listen to his tale!

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Second Geste — Submission

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ehold the man! This heathen, so full of pride and ferce, As mightily he thundered upon his Arab steed! He’d ridden round the valley, well hidden, west and east, Then north and south, just missing the Frenchmen in between. But when he couldn’t see them, oppressed with savage grief, He’d stopped to ponder further between two spreading trees, 1580 When, suddenly, he spotted the emperor’s marquee — Its golden eagle pommel shone brightly in the breeze Among the many lodges that overspread the felds. On seeing it he bristled, and as his anger peaked He swore upon Mahomet, whose virtues he believed, That he would never falter till they had felt his spear. With ringing voice he bellowed, so all of them could hear: “Ahoy there, king of Paris, you coward! Let me meet The boldest of your barons, the bravest of your breed — Count Oliver and Roland and him called Thierri 1590 And Ogier, count of Denmark, whose valor is esteemed. I’ll take on half a dozen of your exalted Peers! If you refuse to send them or fght against me here, Then I shall come for you, Charles, before the night is here, And you will not escape me, but learn to taste defeat Before I cut your head off — one stroke is all I’ll need — And lead away your heroes to Balan the emir! You’ll rue the day you landed, you reckless, feckless fend!” When this was said, dismounting beneath the spreading trees, He shed his arms and armor with every show of zeal. 1600

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he Moor at once dismounted beneath the spreading pines And shed his arms and armor with every show of pride. His ringing voice resounding, he faced the French and cried, “Where are you, Charlemagne? I’ve called you countless times! Send Oliver to fght me, for whom your love is high, Or Roland, your young nephew, whose face with valor shines, Or Ogier, count of Denmark, whose valor is admired. If none of them will meet me in single joust or fght, Send two of them together, well ftted out in iron, Or three of them, whatever, I’ll still survive and thrive! I’d never shun a challenge, though they were four or fve!

1610

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Fierabras and Floripas By mighty Lord Mahomet, to whom I’ve pledged my life, If six should ride against me, of gallant breed and line, I’d stand my ground to meet them and strike so many times My arms would be immersed in the bleeding of your knights! Not one of my descendants shall ever bear the slight That I gave up an acre to any Frenchman’s might! Upon my own I’ve slaughtered ten monarchs at a time!” Our monarch held his head down and shook it side to side, Then called Richart, the elder who ruled the Norman shires: “Sir duke,” said Charlemagne, “don’t hide the truth or lie, But tell me, do you know him, this arrogant young knight Who places his own power at such a wondrous height That six men cannot reach it — if I have heard him right.” “My lord, I tell you truly,” the Norman duke replied, “This man’s the strongest pagan that pagan ever sired. No Saracen before him has ever been his like! He doesn’t give a penny for any king alive.” King Charlemagnwe shuddered and shook from side to side. To St. Denis he promised, with all his heart and mind, That he would shun the taking of any food or wine Until his Christian barons had fought this antichrist.

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1620

1630

he king of all the Frenchmen was flled with awful dread. He called Richart towards him, who stood upon his left: “Sir duke,” said Charlemagne, “don’t hide the truth or guess, But tell me what his name is, this arrogant young wretch!” “My lord, I tell you truly,” Richart the Norman said, “King Fierabras his name is, most feared of kings and men. He raided Rome and razed it, then set alight its realm. He slew the pope and abbots and hung them by their necks, 1640 Then robbed the nuns and brothers of everything they kept. He took the crown that Jesus was crowned with at His death, And all the holy relics, the loss of which you wept. Jerusalem he captured, beloved of Christian men, And sepulcher most holy whence Jesus rose again.” King Charlemagne answered, “My anger needs revenge! I’ll nevermore be happy until this devil’s dead!” On hearing this, the Frenchmen were flled with awful dread —

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Second Geste — Submission Not one of them came forward, promoting his prowess. When Charlemagne saw it, he almost lost his head. 1650 He called young Roland forward: “Won’t you defend me, then?” “My lord,” his nephew answered, “your plea is ill addressed, For, by the Lord, I tell you, because of what you said, The truth is, at this moment, I’d rather see you dead Than seize my weapons for you and fght in your defense! The pagans, when they saw us and stormed us on the crest, Were ffty thousand fghters, in helmets bright with gems, Who struck us in a body upon our bucklers’ edge. Count Oliver, my comrade, was almost gored to death. Our vanguard would have fallen, you know that I’m correct, 1660 If you had not relieved us with all your hoary friends. The pagans saw you coming and swung around and left. Returning to the campsite, we rested in our tents, But later on you boasted, when wine was in your head, That you and every graybeard who’d ridden to our help, Had outfought every youngster in valor, skill and strength — And I myself was taunted and made the butt of jests. But you’ll regret your vaunting, I swear upon my geste! Let’s see how all your graybeards can meet the present threat! For by the God above us, Lord Jesus Christ, I pledge 1670 That any man who loves me yet dares to arm himself And meet this pagan’s challenge, will lose me as a friend!” “Young fool,” said Charlemagne, “your pride will kill you yet!” And with his right hand gauntlet, inlaid with golden thread, He struck his angry nephew so bitterly and vexed That Roland’s nose was bloodied and bled a crimson red. Young Roland lifted swiftly his sword of graven edge And would have struck his uncle, when halted by the French. “Ah God,” said Charlemagne, “how far I’ve fallen, when I’m set upon and challenged by one of my own men! 1680 It’s he that should protect me from other villains’ threats! May God the Lord, our Savior, Who suffered in our stead, Not let me ever witness the waning sun again Unless I’ve slain and slaughtered this antichrist myself! Arrest my fckle nephew, true men among the French!” On hearing this, the barons were flled with awful dread,

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Fierabras and Floripas

Roland Admonished (ll. 1675-76)

And no one had the courage to take a forward step. Count Roland cried, “I warn you, keep every sword in check, For there is no one present who’d take me in arrest, Whose skull I wouldn’t sever and split him to his belt!” 1690 “Good noble, you’re at fault here,” Ogier of Denmark said, “For you should love your liege lord above whatever else.” “In truth,” young Roland answered, “he’s made me lose my head.”

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he king beheld his nephew in wrath and very wroth And saw the blood he’d started still running from his nose. It hardly was a wonder if sadness flled his soul, As turning to his barons he uttered with a moan: “Almighty God in heaven, Who governs all below, I cannot tell, this moment, my comrade from my foe, When my own nephew fails me, who should support me most, 1700 Then draws his sword against me and aims it at my throat!” “My lord, forget this matter!” Duke Naimon wisely spoke, “Send someone else than Roland to match the pagan’s strokes.”

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Second Geste — Submission “Then tell me who,” he thundered, “for, truly, I don’t know!” He shook his head and pondered upon his sudden woe. Now Oliver lay injured, whose burning valor glowed, When someone came to tell him what you have just been told — How Roland and his uncle had almost come to blows. And when he heard that no one was brave enough to go And face the pagan’s challenge upon the lookout’s slope, 1710 He fretted with a frenzy, their weakness stirred him so. He raised his arms and stretched them to feel his limbs, although His gashes were so painful he sweated and he groaned. However, from his tunic he tore a lengthy fold And bound it round his thigh wound, as hastily he rose And called his squire towards him, who hurried from his post: ‘Bring weaponry and armor, and do it nothing loath, For I shall face the pagan who bars the army’s road!” “My lord,” young Garin answered, “I hope to God you won’t! Are you so keen to perish or further break your bones? 1720 You won’t survive, I know it, if you advance alone.” “No more of this discussion!” Count Oliver imposed, “For when it comes to honor, no grounds deny its growth! Who more than I should fght for King Charlemagne’s own? While I’m alive I’ll always defend him, nothing loath. What voice have villains right to, who break their plighted troth? If every other Frenchman should turn his back for home, And I should do as they do, what help is there or hope? When need is at the greatest, the greatest love is shown. Bring weaponry and armor! My honor still is whole!” 1730 “My lord,” young Garin answered, “I will obey — although I’m very loath to do so — I cannot well say ‘no’.” And so, with no delaying, his arms and armor both Were carried to his camp bed, whoever grieved or groaned.

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ount Renier’s worthy son laced on his shining helmet. Garin, his loyal squire, assisted with his leggings And then his coat, at which the count arose and tethered His sword called Halteclere, that tenderly he cherished. Then Garin led him forth his Spanish horse, called Ferrant, And Oliver raised up his gallant hand to bless it:

1740

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Fierabras and Floripas “Good Ferrant, bless the man who keeps you well and ready! If I survive this quest, he’ll gain the prize he merits: At Eastertime I’ll knight this loyal lad with pleasure!” At this he grasped the horse, and when astride and settled, He seized the silken straps that held his shield against him, Then took the solid spear that Garin’s hand extended. With golden nails the count attached a silken pennant. Geneva’s pride and joy bestrode the stirrups’ metal So forcefully the horse beneath its saddle trembled. How fair that hero was, of face and graceful temper: May God, Who made the world, preserve his soul forever! That very day he fought the fercest pagan felon The world has ever seen from that day to the present!

1750

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eneva’s pride and joy bestrode his Spanish gray. How well he wore the sword about his wounded waist! How well he bore his shield and jeweled helm the same! He held aloft his spear, both strong it was and straight, Then, using both his spurs, he spiked his destrier. He seized his buckler’s straps and showed a fearsome gaze As courage flled his breast and glowed upon his face. He crossed himself and prayed for God almighty’s aid, Then took his leave at once and spurred his steed away. His rapid courser few until he drew its rein Before King Charles’s tent and entered straightaway. Inside he saw Guimer and Naimon, wise with age, Berart of Montdidier and bold Ogier the Dane, Together with the rest of France’s best and brave, Count Roland at their head, both angry and dismayed, Despondent with remorse and very much ashamed That he had left his liege and uncle so enraged. How gladly he’d have fought if Charles had asked again. But tardy was the thought, too lengthy the delay, As Oliver rode up, his gallant face ablaze. His noble courser few until he drew the rein. The barons stood and stared at Oliver that day, And to a man admired the valor in his veins!

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1760

1770

Second Geste — Submission

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e rode up to the tent, and then he strode within it, And when he saw the king, he said, his sentence ringing, “Rich emperor, my lord, as Jesus is my witness, Some four and twenty months have run their seasons’ limit 1780 Since I became the friend of Roland gallant visaged. I’ve never sought before one penny of your riches, But now I seek a boon for services I’ve given.” The emperor replied, “I swear upon my whiskers, As soon as we return to noble France, I’m willing To give you any land or anything you wish for! There’s nothing you could want that I’d be loath to give you — A castle or a fort, or any wealthy city.” Said Oliver, “My lord, my only wish is this one: That I might have the right to fght this pagan villain! 1790 My service would be paid if only I could kill him!”

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n hearing this, the French, said softly to their kinsmen, “By blessed Mary’s blood, his judgment too is stricken! Does he intend to fght when he’s so badly injured?” “Sir Oliver,” said Charles, “this folly ill befts you! The injury you bear is very deep and wicked. Return to bed, my friend, and rest a while, I bid you! Just riding here, I’d say, has ruptured all your stitches! You will not go to fght this pagan — I forbid it!” At this Sir Hardré rose, with Ganelon, from sitting — 1800 May God confound them both, Who made the world we live in! Three years alone would pass, as many were to witness, Before the pair betrayed our peers like proven villains To King Marsile in Spain, who slew them with his kindred. “My lord,” said Ganelon, “attend to us a little! Back home in lovely France you told us, in your wisdom, That if two peers agreed upon a certain mission, The others should obey and follow their decision. We’ve seen the count, my lord, and both of us consider That Oliver is ft to wage a fght and win it.” 1810 On hearing this, the king inclined his head and hid it, As anger flled his breast and glowed upon his visage.

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Fierabras and Floripas Then, looking up, he said, with fearsome rage and bitter, “Count Ganelon, you rogue — I curse the jealous spirit In you and all your clan, your cousins and your children! Count Oliver shall go, since you have forced the issue, But by the saint in Rome, as Jesus is my witness, If he is killed or caught, be certain there’s no city Upon this earth with gold in any way suffcient To save you from the noose or fre in which I’ll fing you, Or keep your kith and kin within my sight or kingdom!” Said Ganelon, “My lord, may good prevail, God willing!” Then to himself alone, between his teeth he whispered: “May Oliver’s fair limbs return him here a victor — But when they do, by God, I hope his head is missing!”

1820

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he king of France, on hearing Count Ganelon adjudge The youngster ft and ready to fght the Saracen, Began to call him traitor and lashed him with his tongue: “Count Ganelon, I warn you! You’ve stirred my angry blood! Young Oliver shall do it, since you have said he must, But if he’s killed or taken, then you’ll be burnt or hung, And all your kith and kindred dismissed from France at once.” Said Ganelon, “Your highness, the will of God be done.” But through his teeth he whispered, to all appearance mum, “I hope his limbs return him — but may his throat be cut!” “Count Oliver,” the king said, “may God almighty’s love Defend you and inspire you and bring you back to us!” Then mighty Charlemagne extended forth his glove To Oliver, who took it and thanked him for the trust. Then Renier of Geneva, the noble duke, strode up And on his knees sought mercy for Oliver his son. He kissed the monarch’s ankles and to his legs he clung: “For God’s sake, have some pity, most mighty emperor! My son is in his hauberk, with spear and buckler clutched, But if he meets this giant, the match will be too much. He bears a wound already, you know it well enough. How can a man wound others, whose injuries are such?” But Renier spoke for nothing — he needn’t have begun,

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1830

1840

Second Geste — Submission For Oliver was noble, his spirit never crushed. King Charlemagne’s honor was safe with Oliver.

1850

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ir Renier of Geneva came forward with a stride, The father he of Oliver and lovely Aude alike: “Fine emperor,” he pleaded, “I’ve served you all my life. Have pity, I implore you, on Oliver my child! In Jesu’s name, Who suffered and bore the cross’s spite, Your loving eyes have witnessed the wound upon his side. You know that if he leaves us, he’ll not return alive; And half of me will perish if Oliver should die! For love of God, fne monarch, dispatch another knight!” The barons, when they heard him, began to weep and cry — But Oliver, not waiting, began to turn aside.

1860

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eneva’s gallant son sought blessing from the French. Commending him to God, they gave it and he left. For pity’s sake each man among the army wept. The monarch raised his hand to bless him as he went, And Oliver rode forth, his gonfalon erect. With steady step he scaled the trail that lay ahead, Not stopping till he saw the Moor upon its crest. King Fierabras was lying beneath the trees at rest, And when he saw the Frenchman, his manner and his dress, He paid him no regard, but showed him such contempt He never even stood — his pride was so immense. Geneva’s gallant son maintained his steady step, But when he saw the Moor, he drew the rein at length And, stopping where he lay, he offered no “well met” But looked him in the eye and, frm of voice, he said, “Who are you, haughty Moor, to roar at us with threats?” And Fierabras replied, “You need to ask, you wretch? I swear, by good Mahom, I’ll teach you some respect! I am the greatest man this world has heard of yet! King Fierabras I’m called, of Alexander’s realm — The conqueror of Rome, your city, and its men! I’ve slain the pope and put his acolytes to death.

1870

1880

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Fierabras and Floripas I’ve tortured every monk and torn apart their dens: I’ve seized the crown of thorns that on your Savior’s head Lay crushed against His brow when on the cross He bled. I also have the nails and shroud that Rome possessed, And best of all, the town, Jerusalem the blest, Whose sepulcher was where your fallen Christ was left.” “In truth,” replied the count, “you strengthen my revenge! If what you say is true, then rest assured, my friend, You’ll pay a heavy price for what you’ve done with them! Prepare yourself to fght and hurry up, my friend! The French are looking on, down there by Charles’s tent! There’s Roland and the knights and mighty Charles himself! Prepare yourself to fght, without delay or let. This solid spear of mine is keen to feel your fesh!” On hearing this, the Moor mocked even more and said To Oliver, “My friend, you’ll rue this recklessness! But tell me, in all truth, before I waste my strength, Just who you are — your name, your native land and geste! When you have told me this, I’ll put you to the test!”

1890

1900

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ing Fierabras the Moor hailed Oliver again: “Don’t lie to me, my friend, but let me know your name!” Count Oliver replied: “I truly hope and pray You’ll know it well enough before the end of day! The mighty monarch Charles has sent me here to say That you must leave Mahom, to be baptised and saved Through faith in Jesus Christ, Who never lies or fails. If you refuse to change, I’ll fght you to reclaim These allods here in Spain and all of your domains! So, run away, you rogue, if you’re afraid to stay, A pole across your back, like any rustic knave — Or fght me now and see if you are truly great!” Said Fierabras, ‘Sir knight, your tongue outruns your brain! I swear upon Mahom, to whom I owe my faith, The sight of me on foot, with any weapon raised, Will turn your bones to stone, unless you run away! But frstly tell me this, if God permits the grace: What kind of man is Charles? I’ve heard him highly praised.

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Second Geste — Submission And tell me, if you will, of Duke Ogier the Dane, Of Roland and his friend, Count Oliver the brave, And Thierri’s gallant son, Berart of Montdidier. How gladly I would meet these heroes of your faith!” “Brave pagan,” said the count, “I’ll tell you straightaway: No man on earth can match King Charlemagne’s make: His nephew Roland wields so valiant a blade He’s never fought a man who’s got away unscathed. Count Oliver, his friend, is strong and brave the same, But never Roland’s peer, I’ll never fear to say, For no one’s ever seen that champion afraid! Prepare yourself to fght — enough of this delay! By God, the only Lord, Who governs mortal fate, This solid spear of mine is keen to ply its trade.” When Fierabras heard that, he tossed his head in rage And answered straightaway, with all his heart and hate: “By good Mahom, the lord I honor and I praise, I swear you’ll never see the sunlight’s setting rays, Before you bathe in blood that’s broken from your veins!”

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ing Fierabras the Moor leaned forward on his shield, A champion so proud, his vanity so ferce That Oliver to him was dust beneath his feet. He said to him, “I hope your Savior’s not asleep! Who are you, reckless youth? I need to know your breed!” Count Oliver replied, “I’ll tell you truthfully. Garin is who I am and Périgord’s my fef — My father was Ysor, of vavasor’s degree. The mighty Charlemagne, whose visage glows with zeal, Required a voice to you and set his choice on me To climb the lookout’s hill and claim his rightful lease! If you’ve the heart to fght, proud heathen take your spear!” When Fierabras heard that, he laughed aloud indeed: “But Garin, tell me frst, and please don’t lie to me, Why hasn’t Roland come, whose visage glows with zeal, Or Oliver, his friend, his gallant arms agleam, Berart of Montdidier and Ogier, famed and feared.” Said Oliver, “In faith, they hold your valor cheap.

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Fierabras and Floripas But I, who matter not, have climbed the lookout’s peak To challenge you, unless you change or choose to fee! We’re wasting time, my friend! Mount up your hasty steed, Or by the saint besought at Rome in Nero’s Field, I’ll strike you where you are and skewer you with steel.” On hearing that, the Moor was mortifed indeed And answered him at once with anger on his cheeks: “Upon my faith, Garin, there’s one thing you’ve achieved: Since I was dubbed a knight, I never once have been Observed to fght a man of such a low degree! I’m used to fghting kings or counts or great emirs, And slaying such as you won’t pay me in the least! In fact I’m very sure that I should lose esteem For taking on at all the son of one so mean! I’ll show you nonetheless a grace no other’s seen: I will arise and mount my nobly saddled steed And place around my neck my heavy buckler shield, For you to make a charge and see what you achieve! My friend, I’ll make pretend I’m toppled by your spear, And you can lead my horse away to your marquee. If I do this for you, at least you’ll honor me!” Count Oliver replied, “I’ll think you’re mad, indeed! With your consent or not, I’ll soon possess your steed. You’ll lose your head as well, unless you choose to yield!” On hearing that, the Moor was almost lost for speech.

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arin,” at last he answered, “I’ll speak my honest mind: You’re very brave and gallant, and much to be admired. I swear by good Mahomet, there’s much in you I like. But I’ve no wish to battle a man so mean of line, For even when I beat you, what fame will I derive? In fact, I’m very certain that I would be despised For picking on the son of a vavasor to fght! But you have earned a favor I’ve shown no other knight: You’ll see me, in a moment, bestride this bay of mine, And when you make a challenge, however ill you strike, I’ll let myself be toppled by your courageous iron, So you can lead my horse off and take my shield alike!

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Second Geste — Submission Then send to me Count Roland or Oliver the wise, Or Ogier, duke of Denmark, whose bravery is prized! If none alone will fght me, I’ll still defend my rights: Send two of them together to fght me side by side, Or three or even four men, I’ll not refuse or hide!” “Indeed,” the count responded, “your tongue outruns 2000 your mind! The humble have a saying, in censure of the high: That those of us too mighty to fear another’s might, Are beaten in the long run by their almighty pride! There is a time for talking, but also there’s a time For silence, and to know it distinguishes the wise. In my opinion, pagan, your bluster is a lie And I am not a rabbit whom windy words affright. Before you see the sunset or feel the breeze of night, I hope to slice the head off your blighted heathen hide! And so, my friend, get ready — prepare yourself to fght! 2010 For if you don’t, by Jesus, Who bore the cross’s spite, I’ll run you through regardless with this good lance of mine!” The Moor was so affronted he almost lost his mind. But as he braced and bristled and rolled his angry eyes At Oliver before him, he saw his bleeding side: His battle wound was seeping outside his hauberk bright, For riding to the pagan had torn its stitches wide. The pagan was astonished and straightaway inquired: “Young Garin, what’s this bleeding that’s coming from your thigh?”

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he pagan saw the seeping of blood upon the feld And hailed the gallant Frenchman exactly as you’ll hear: “Young Garin, what’s this bleeding that cannot be concealed? Are you already wounded by someone else’s steel?” Count Oliver responded, “No, not at all, indeed!” “So where then does it come from, the bleeding I can see?” Count Oliver responded, “The truth is that my steed Is highly strung and stubborn, and I must ride it mean. Since mounting up I’ve spurred it so strongly with my heels That from its fanks I’ve driven the crimson blood in streams.” The Moor replied, “I’m certain you’re lying through your teeth,

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Fierabras and Floripas For it is clear to any, the blood’s above your knees. Young braggart, I am certain you’re hurt in some degree. But strapped upon my saddle are caskets of the cream With which the corpse of Jesus was cleaned from head to feet The day they bore His body from cross to crypt in grief. Now, any wound it touches, I tell you truthfully, Is healed at once, no matter how wide it is or deep, The moment that this balsam can penetrate beneath. From Rome itself I took it, the town that you esteem, So, gallant Christian, use it — however much you need. Your injury and bleeding will heal immediately And you will feel much better — before you die or yield!” Count Oliver responded, “Don’t waste your breath on me!” Said Fierabras, “Your hunger to win is over keen! The quickest way to fll it, and still it, is defeat!”

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ing Fierabras the Moor rose up till he was sitting, And looking at the count, he said, with laughing visage, “Garin, come tell me now, don’t lie or keep it hidden: Count Roland — what’s he like? What kind of fghter is he, And Oliver his friend, the terror of my kinsmen?” And Oliver replied, “Then look at me and listen! Count Oliver, I swear, is not a hair’s breadth bigger. Count Roland’s not as tall, though only by a little, But more than twice as bold and very ruthless with it. No mortal man he meets, however proud or princely, He ever fails to beat or force into submission. Count Oliver’s strong arm can’t rival his for vigor!” King Fierabras replied, “What foolishness you drivel! I swear by all the faith I owe to my religion, Though four of him should come, with all the strength you give him, They still would perish here as soon as I have hit them.” “Proud pagan,” said the count, “you overreach your limits! Prepare yourself to fght — one fnal time I bid you — Or, by the saint besought of penitents and pilgrims, This cutting spear of mine will strike before you’ve risen!” “You’re very keen to die!” the Moor responded swiftly.

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Second Geste — Submission “In truth, as soon as I bestride my horse’s stirrups, No Roland or his like will rescue you, young Christian! I’ll hew your shining helm — your shining face still in it!” Count Oliver replied, “You’re blinded by ambition! Before we leave this fght, you’ll recognise your limits!”

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ount Oliver responded, “Enough, you blackamoor! We’ve wasted time already with over-lengthy talk! Prepare yourself for battle, with weapons, not with taunts!” Proud Fierabras responded, “Though when I do, I’m sure You’ll wish you hadn’t hurried — for when you see how tall And big I am, there’s no one who wouldn’t fear my force!” “I know your mouth’s much bigger than any man’s before! To speak in moderation is much the wiser course! You’d learn a useful lesson if you could be outfought.” On hearing this, the pagan was angered even more, And leaping up, looked fercer than any forest boar. At ffteen feet he measured, or so the song records. If only he had chosen and championed the Lord, No better knight or fghter would ever have been born!

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ing Fierabras the pagan was ffteen feet in height. His shoulders were enormous, his body strong and wide, Embellished by a tunic of beaten gold in stripes. The world has never witnessed so powerful a knight. If only he had followed and fought for Jesus Christ, No better knight or fghter would ever have been sired!

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ing Fierabras the pagan was glutted with disdain, In ringing tones deriding Count Oliver again: “Garin, by good Mahomet, I pity you today. I see a lad before me with valor in his veins, And sorrow that his courage has so outgrown his brain! If I proceed to fght you, I’ve nothing good to gain! One fnal time I bid you: return to Charles the great And swap yourself for Roland or Oliver the brave, Or Ogier, duke of Denmark, whose pride I’ve longed to tame!” Count Oliver responded, “You’re dreaming, renegade!

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Fierabras and Floripas I’ll never turn my war horse upon the lookout’s trail Till you have learnt the lesson of my well-tempered blade! Prepare yourself for battle — how long you have delayed! I would have struck already, but I have learnt my place!” On hearing this, the pagan laughed loudly in his face And answered, “By Mahomet, I tell you in good faith It moves me that you taunt me and still show unafraid. I’m ready, I assure you. Come forward, noble knave. And, not to disappoint you, I’ll don my coat of mail!” Count Oliver responded, “For that alone I came.”

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ing Fierabras the pagan was ferce of word and act. He gazed upon the youngster and said to him, “Garin! Come here and see the armor and weapons that I have. Perhaps you’ll reconsider your challenge after that!” The count said, “Can I trust you, that this is not a trap?” Said Fierabras the pagan, “Assuredly you can. While breath remains within me I’ll never break a pact.” The Moor was in no humor to loiter or to lag. He seized an eastern leather and threw it on his back — Snow white it was and perfect as padding in a wrap To lay beneath his hauberk of linkage gold and black. Above the hauberk’s hooding he laced another cap Of sturdy steel, the fnest produced by any land. Then, on the top, he buckled a helm of shining bands, And Oliver assisted with thirty of the straps — A fne and noble action that moved King Fierabras To speak aloud his feelings, while offering his thanks: “Garin,” the Moor addressed him, “you are a gallant man, And truly I am sorry that you and I must clash. If you could fnd it in you to turn and gallop back, How gladly I would let you return to Charles’s camp.” But Oliver responded: “Forget this dreary cant! Prepare to fght your hardest and do the best you can!” “Your heart is truly fearsome,” replied King Fierabras. And then he put his sword on, a marvel called Plorance, And seized upon Baptiser, a golden-hilted brand, And then a third their equal, that bore the name Garbain.

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Second Geste — Submission There never were three weapons like these the pagan had: No other arm or armor could counter their attack. I tell you very truly — I know it for a fact — If you had had the leisure to look at Fierabras, You couldn’t but remember how fne he was and grand. If only he’d believed in the Son of God and Man, No better knight or fghter the Christians would have had.

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ing Fierabras the Moor was glutted with contempt: He took his sword Plorance and girded it, and then He hung Baptiser’s hilt upon his saddle’s left, And on the right Garbain, whose hilt was gilt of edge. I know about the smith, who made the blades, my friends, For he was one of three that one magician bred: The frst was called Galant, or so the record says; Magnifcans, I read, without a lie, was next; And Aurisas the third, or so I’ve heard it said. Nine swords this trio made, whose fame outshone the rest. All Fierabras’s swords were Aurisas’s best: Baptiser and Plorance, and Garbain’s supple strength — Twelve years he worked in all to hone them razor edged. Magnifcans, he made bright Durendal, and then Cortain and Musanguine, both mighty blades and blest, With which Ogier the Dane bled many Moors to death. Smith Galant made Floberge, of tempered steel the best, As well as Halteclere and great Joyeuse itself, Which Charlemagne used with such prolonged success. The brothers’ swords indeed passed every test they met. King Fierabras had three, and having armed and dressed, He seized his eastern steed, aglow with ferce prowess. The Moor was fully armed and very ferce and dread As, leaping, he bestrode his steed of white and red, One stirrup held, in truth, by Oliver himself. The pagan plied the rings with such a mighty tread The strong nielloed iron on either side was bent. He stowed his extra swords behind him, with address, And then he seized his shield and hung it round his neck. Four lion cubs, in gold, were painted round the fesse,

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Fierabras and Floripas With old Apollo’s face upon the boss, inset Beneath a cap of steel to guard it from offence! The shield had leather strips and stripes of gold as well. With straps of corded silk it hung around his neck. The pagan seized a spear of solid iron, whose head Displayed a fag attached with screws of golden thread. How fne a sight he was, when in his battle dress! How powerful his limbs, his shoulders and his chest! He spurred his Arab steed, so feet of speed, and let A white horse run at will, its golden rein unchecked. Accustomed so to go, this courser ran, content To know that should the Moor dismount to fght instead And strike his man to ground, as oftentimes it went, The steed could hasten back and trample down the wretch. He’d stop him in this way from standing up again, And grind him to the ground until the man was dead. “Garin, I’m ready now,” the fearsome pagan said, “But for the love of Him Who’s driven you to quest, Take reason’s path and shun the way that this one ends. I pity you — it’s true — for you’ve displayed noblesse! Assail me, if you must, upon the lookout’s crest. Do everything you can to strike me, and I’ll let My body sway and fall — I’ll do it all myself — So you can take my steed and lead it to your tents.” Count Oliver replied, “Your words are wasted breath! I’d never fght like that in joust or common press! If God, the King of kings, will only help me, then It’s you I’ll take to Charles, before the sun has set.” King Fierabras replied, “Your pride betrays you yet! I ask you one more time to truthfully confess — Upon the blessed founts where you yourself were blest, And by the faith you owe to Charles and all his men, And by the very cross on which your Jesus bled, And by the very grave where He was laid in death — I ask you one last time to truthfully confess Just who you are — your name, your country and your geste.” Count Oliver replied, “Your pride won’t rest content! How wise your teacher was who taught you all that text!

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Second Geste — Submission Count Oliver’s my name! Geneva is my realm. I’m one of Charles’s peers and Roland’s closest friend.” “In truth,” replied the Moor, “I knew it! I could tell That there was some good cause of honor to prevent You turning from a fght that might have left you dead! I know that all your clan is very bravely bred. Sir Oliver, explain the wound upon your fesh. If I should kill you now, I’d forfeit all respect — The blame would far outweigh the fame of my success, For everyone would say I’d slain a man half-dead! Sir Oliver, ride back! This fght is at an end. A thousand marks of gold won’t goad me to accept.” Count Oliver replied, “You will, I swear it yet! If you escape me here, I swear it won’t be said That you refused to fght a knight already dead!”

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ount Oliver continued, “Good brother nobly born, There’s one thing I will tell you of which you can be sure: Whoever battles Jesus will always be at fault! The bravery that flls you, is wasted, rest assured, Since you’ve rejected Jesus, Who died to save us all. Brave monarch, shun Mahomet, your weak and wicked lord, And be baptised for Jesus and live for evermore. Your comrade will be Roland, whose courage matches yours, And I shall never fail you, while I have breath to draw. Together we shall conquer the kingdoms of the Moors!” “Enough!” the king responded, “I want to hear no more! Though you should give me Paris, Etampes and Orléans, I never would be willing to heed the Christian law! Before this day has ended, you’ll know the wiser course! If Charles has ever loved you, then he’s about to mourn — And truly I shall sorrow, the moment that you fall. Brave fghter, use the balsam that’s tethered to my horse, So you may get the better of any wounds you’ve brought, And fght me in possession of all your former force!” Count Oliver responded, “May Jesus Christ the Lord Forbid me any lotion or potion that is yours, Until I’ve made the purchase and paid you with my sword!”

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ing Fierabras the Moor was full of ferce prowess. He leaned upon his shield, imposing and immense, And said, in ringing tones, “Sir Oliver, my friend, Will anything I say persuade you to relent?” Count Oliver replied, “You’ll only waste your breath! I’ll never leave you now till one of us is dead.” “Then, vassal, let us turn along the lookout’s crest!” Count Oliver replied, “Your will is mine as well!” Between the felds they wheeled their destriers and went. 2260 They spurred their mounts apart about a furlong’s length, Then loosened rein to let their chargers have their head. They held aloft their shields, they grasped them to their breast, Together with the reins, one-handed, as they sped, Each one abrim with zeal to do his very best: No duel was half as cruel as what would happen next! Their fnal challenge made, each spurred his mount ahead And sped along to meet upon the lookout’s crest. The French watched every pace, their faces flled with dread, And said among themselves, “Which fghter’s marked for death?” “Ah Jesus, King of kings,” King Charlemagne said, 2270 “Take pity, I beseech, on Oliver, my friend, So I may see him here unharmed and whole again!” He draped his silken cape around his silver head And went, with lowered look, inside his chapel’s tent. Embracing Jesu’s feet upon the cross, he begged The Lord with humble heart to strengthen and protect Young Oliver his friend, who fought there in his stead. And all the while they spurred, those paragons of men, With all the speed they could, until at last they met! What awful blows they swapped, which went where they were meant: 2280 Dead center on those shields of gold they held erect. Beneath each golden boss the wooden boards were rent: No use the ring or glue in which the wood was set — Both cutting spears ran through and ripped the lot to shreds. Their burnished coats of mail were all that saved them then, As lances hit and split in fragments end to end. Their noble steeds had charged with such intrepid steps

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Second Geste — Submission Their riders met head on, not veering right or left, With all the clash and crash of double force unchecked. 2290 Their bucklers smashed apart and shattered edge to edge. From battered wrists the reins and buckler straps were wrenched, And vision robbed from eyes that throbbed with fery specks! My friends, you could have sped one half a league yourself, Ere either could have said just where they were or went! Ah God! How fne a joust! How fêted by the French! As soon as both could see they turned their steeds again. The pagan drew Plorance, the blade upon his left, The Frenchman Halteclere, its hilt niello blent, And when their vision cleared they reared them overhead. Astride his steed Ferrant the count swung Halteclere, 2300 His buckler shield secured before the saddle’s head. And Fierabras advanced, his ferce intent no less. As Oliver approached, his pace grew greater yet, And when he struck a blow of overwhelming strength Upon the pagan’s helm, inlaid with golden gems, It smote to ground the stones and foral cones inset. The pagan felt the blow, and as he turned his head, Count Oliver drove on the blade’s well-sharpened edge. So fearsome was the stroke it broke away the mesh Of Fierabras’s mail upon his shoulder’s hem: 2310 Four thousand metal chains and more the weapon rent And cleft apart the guard he’d placed around his neck. His Cappadocian coat was all that saved him then. So heavy was the blow he forced him to accept It wrenched the pagan’s feet from either stirrup’s tread And stripped his horse’s reins from fngers drained of sense. The horse itself was numbed, with unaccustomed stress, Then felt the spurring Moor, who feared to fall no less. The pagan king was stunned, bereft of brain and breath, And could have gone, I’d say, for half a league ahead 2320 Before he knew for sure just where he was again! On seeing this, the French cried out as one and said, “How fne a blow was that, by Mary’s blessed breast!” Said Roland, “Yes indeed, I saw it very well. You couldn’t tell from that he bore a wound so fresh!

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Fierabras and Floripas If only God above had wanted me instead Of Oliver my friend, upon the lookout’s crest, In armor and with arms like Durendal, I pledge That Fierabras or I would meet a brutal end!” The emperor replied, “You say it now, you wretch! You wouldn’t go before because of your contempt! You offspring of a whore! You speak too late again! If we survive this war, then no one will forget!” Count Roland held his peace, on hearing this, except To answer thus: “My lord, say what you will, and when.”

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he blow amazed the pagan and rendered him so dazed That all he felt was anger and unrequited rage. Without revenge exacted, he would have gone insane. So, spurring forth his charger, he slackened off the reins And swung Plorance above him, whose hilt was gilt inlaid. Upon the Frenchman’s helmet a mighty blow he laid, Which smote to ground its jewels and foral cones engraved. Count Oliver was staggered and almost lost his brains As Fierabras the pagan went after him again. With all his strength and temper a second blow he rained That split away the neck guard upon his hauberk’s chain, And, forging on, inficted great injury and pain. The fashing blade tore open four thousand chains of mail And cut away one half of the neck guard’s sturdy plates. The Frenchman bled profusely, his body wet and maimed. The pagan raised his sword blade to strike again and grazed A track along his backbone and hacked a spur away. But God observed His vassal and kept his leg unscathed: He turned the weapon’s angle and drove it in the plain. The blow amazed the Frenchman, and rendered him so dazed He swayed upon his charger and almost swooned away. The pagan’s blow had landed so fearsomely and straight It cleft in half the saddle and swept the bits away. Good Ferrant fell beneath it, struck senseless with the strain, And when it rose, its rider felt clearly much the same. He cried, “Dear God of glory, reveal to me a way That I may win his weapons, whose blows, I know, are great!”

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Second Geste — Submission Then, with his hand before him, the cross’s sign he made, Which much annoyed the pagan, who challenged him again: “By all the gods, young hero, you’ve lost your vaunting vein, And, truly, I don’t wonder — your strength has bled away! Upon my word, I’m sorry to speed its loss’s rate. At least you have obliged me to feel a little pain! But now you must be certain that by the end of day Your severed head and helmet will mark the lookout’s trail. 2370 The signs of death already are showing on your face. Yet still I’m very willing to give you an escape, Before my muscles strengthen, in measure with my rage! So far I’ve only forced you to feel a little pain, But when I see my own blood escaping wounds you’ve made, My strength will only double with every blow I make! How little Charles must love you, to send you to your grave Instead of to a sick bed, which was a ftter place.” On hearing this, the Frenchman replied with lifted gaze: “Proud pagan, you have boasted beyond belief today. 2380 God willing, I will show you the power of my faith. Beware of me, I warn you — we’ve had enough debate!” On saying this, they goaded their chargers once again And, sparing of no effort, struck mighty blows well aimed Against each other’s helmets, with golden bands inlaid, That dashed to ground the jewels and emblems they displayed. The swords of both were noble and nothing broke their blades.

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ood, honorable people, if only you had seen How lustily they battled with blades of steel agleam! Such mighty blows they bartered on burnished helms of green That fery sparks exploded from blades and helmets each, And every mountain echoed the clash of steel on steel. “Sweet Mary, holy maiden,” the mighty Charles beseeched, “Save Oliver, I beg you, from death and from defeat. Upon my father’s spirit, if Oliver dies here, I swear no church or chapel that serves the Christian creed Will know again the blessing of clergyman or priest: Their altars and their crosses will crumble piece by piece!” “My lord!” said hoary Naimon, “Let be so wild a speech!

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Fierabras and Floripas To speak in such a manner is foolishness to me. Pray rather that our Father, Who never fails the need, Will strengthen with His mercy the son of Renier’s zeal.” “By God,” said Charlemagne, “I will, most willingly!” Both fghters, in the meantime, beneath the ancient trees, Attacked each other fercely with mighty blows of steel. King Fierabras the pagan was very tall and ferce: How many blows he rendered brave Oliver beneath! He split apart the visor against the Frenchman’s cheek, Who felt the blow and swiftly swayed backwards on his steed. If not, it would have caught him and slaughtered him indeed. The blow completely severed his visor and his shield And would have fnished Ferrant if Ferrant hadn’t leaped! On seeing this, the pagan was furious with grief: “Mahomet, lord,” he shouted, “how heavily you sleep! I’ve struck a blow in anger, and still the Frenchman breathes!” Count Oliver, for his part, betrayed no bit of fear: Against the pagan’s onslaught he brandished Halteclere And locked in mortal combat upon the lookout’s peak. The swords of both were noble and nothing broke their steel. But Oliver was wounded with injuries so deep His body bled all over; the blood had fed his cheeks. Good people, it’s no wonder the hero felt so weak: May God almighty help him in his almighty need!

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ow lustily they fought, their gallant faces gleaming! What mighty blows they swapped, our hero and the heathen! Count Oliver was hurt, and dreading much to feel it, He called upon the Lord, Who never fails the needy: “Great Father of us all, Who in the grove of Eden Made Adam and then Eve, the frst of human beings: You gave to them the fruits of every tree to feast on, 2430 Except an apple tree that you forbade them eat of. The serpent tempted Eve, who tempted Adam’s weakness, And eating there, they lost the paradise bequeathed them. Their lives became a trial of suffering and grieving, Their evil act, in turn, unleashing powers of evil Until no saint at all, whatever his achievements,

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Second Geste — Submission Could save the world from death, but went to hell defeated. You saw creation’s fall and pitied all its people, And sent St. Gabriel to tell its true believers 2440 That You would come to earth in Mary’s womb as Jesus. The creatures of Your hand rejoiced at once to hear it: The very beasts and birds were glad of heart and cheerful. Three kings from countries far pursued a star to see You, And worshipped You, in joy and adoration kneeling. Your holy hand touched theirs, receiving gifts most regal That You did not eschew, but full of grace, received them. Through foreign lands they rode, returning to their regions, For wicked Herod’s sake, who’d sent his men to seek them — They slew, in fear of You, the new born of Judaea, The Innocents, whose souls repose in joy unceasing. 2450 Across the land You went, to Your disciples preaching. You taught them good from bad through all your deeds and speeches, But You were put to death by evil disbelievers. When Longinus the guard had pierced You with his spear point, Your blood ran down his lance and lit his eyes like teardrops. This pagan, blind from birth, the holy Bible teaches, Was chastened by Your blood and straightaway saw clearly. He beat his sorry breast and begged You to reprieve him, As You forgive us all, with loving heart and eager. They laid You in a crypt, with light of day receding, 2460 From which, upon three days, You rose as if from sleeping, To storm the gates of hell and rescue every creature From Adam to the last whose willing heart receives You. Then You appeared before the twelve apostles’ meeting And ordered them to spread Your holy word and teach it — And then You rose on high, where faithful eyes can see You. As truly, noble Lord, as I believe and heed You And everything I’ve said about You, I beseech you To help me end the pride of this deriding heathen, So he can see Your love and Your love can redeem him.” 2470 He raised his hand at this and signed the cross between them, Then with his sword aloft and buckler shield much nearer, Upon his stallion’s back he braced himself severely. King Fierabras, alike, prepared again to meet him,

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Fierabras and Floripas But, looking at the count, he said, with laughing features, “Count Oliver, my friend, don’t keep it as a secret, But clarify for me the prayer you’ve just repeated. By Tervagant, my god, it pleased me much to hear it.” Count Oliver replied, “If only you’d believe it As much as I believe its truthfulness and meaning — In truth, I’d love you then as Roland’s very equal!” King Fierabras replied, “Enough of such unreason! For all the gold it takes to fll King Balan’s steeple, I cannot let you live to feel the evening breezes! Defend yourself — although you know you won’t defeat me!” Count Oliver replied, “I will, so help me Jesus!” Once more their weapons fell on helmets bright and gleaming, Exploding fery sparks, in ten directions leaping. Again their bucklers split, this time to little pieces. Their horses buckled too, both staggering and reeling. No pair before or since fought such a duel as these two!

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hat bitter blows they swapped on pastures sweet and pleasant: In Morimonda’s dale, amid its lovely meadows, Those famous heroes fought, with mighty strength and temper, Their naked swords aloft, whose blades were made to sever. Count Oliver was hurt, struck hard upon his breastbone, And down his back the blood ran freely from a neck wound. His shining face and eyes were troubled then and leaden. Again and yet again he called on help from heaven. King Fierabras the Moor, in ringing tones, addressed him: 2500 “Sir Oliver, dismount upon this channel headland And take the healing balm that’s on my saddle’s tether. You’ll feel as blithe and well as swallows in fne weather, And with your strength renewed, pursue me all the better!” Count Oliver replied, “Don’t preach to me, you felon! I’ll never use the balm for all of rich Tudela, Unless I win it fair with Halteclere my weapon.” Said Fierabras, “Ye gods, to talk with you is senseless! Beware of me henceforth — here comes another message, Which I am very sure you’ll take to heart directly!” 2510

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hat bitter blows they gave, more grave and ever bleaker! With gallant hearts and great they faced each other fercely. The pagan held Plorance and swung it like a reaper, While Oliver held up good Halteclere “The Healer,” And moved to strike the Moor upon his helmet’s greening. He struck away the screws and gilded jewels between them And split its collar through and byrnie’s triple weaving. He struck him good and true and drove the weapon deeper. He ripped his leggings through and clipped the leg beneath it: His hamstring and his thigh both felt the razor reach them. 2520 He would have lost, I think, the smitten limb completely, When something turned the blade and sent it crashing steeply. It struck the earth and stuck at least twelve inches deeper! The grass around was red from Fierabras’s bleeding, And he was redder still, with dreadful rage, to see it, And leaned at once to reach his saddlebags, retrieving Its precious store — worth more than all of rich Pavia — So he could drink the balm that had anointed Jesus. He drank it and was healed, his strength at once increasing. “Sweet Mary!” cried the count, “Blest Mother, help the needy!” 2530 King Fierabras replied, “You’ve gone beyond all pleading!” Count Oliver replied, “The truth is, haughty heathen, Good Halteclere and I will have your head ere evening!” Within the camp the French beheld the mighty meeting. King Charlemagne cried, “Sweet Mary, I beseech you. Protect my fghter’s life from death or mortal evil!”

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hat bitter blows they bartered, the Frenchman and his foe. Count Oliver was wounded, and very badly so; With shining spurs he goaded his worthy steed and smote King Fierabras the pagan two overwhelming blows 2540 Upon his heathen helmet, inlaid with studded gold. They smote below the esses, the coils and precious stones, And when the pagan felt them they stunned him to the bone! The second blow was greater — it struck his saddlebows And severed both the pouches in which the balm was stowed: A lucky stroke of fortune, all praise the Lord of hosts, Both barrels falling quickly with Fierabras’s jolt.

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Fierabras and Floripas His charger flled with terror and bolted to and fro. Before the Moor recovered and had his horse controlled, The Frenchman’s hands collected the barrels as they rolled, And drawing out a stopper, flled up his thirsty throat. As soon as he had swallowed he felt his troubles go And thought at once of doing a daring deed and bold: If he could hurt the pagan with further telling strokes, And keep him from the barrels, now he himself was whole, At last he could defeat him, and quickly too, he hoped. And so he cast the barrels amid the channel’s fow. They few, but gold inside them made sure they didn’t foat! And now, upon St. John’s Day, each summer, folk behold Those barrels reappearing and bobbing on the tow! On seeing this, the pagan was flled with bitter woe: “I promise you, your army will pay a heavy toll For every precious barrel your reckless arm has thrown! Their worth to me was greater than all Romagna’s gold! If I can show my prowess, then you will pay the most!”

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ing Fierabras the pagan was fearsome in his rage. He glowered at the Frenchman and called to him again: “So tell me, gallant vassal, upon your Christian faith, Why throw such precious barrels among the fowing waves? How could you, as a Christian, throw Jesu’s balm away?” “So help me God, I tell you,” said Oliver the brave, “Although you speak with reason, my reason won’t be blamed: I fear your courage greatly, I’m not afraid to say, And if, when we are fghting with sharp and shining blades, My thrust should beat your parry and wound you, as it may, The balm within those barrels would heal you straightaway. To wound you would be only to strengthen you, in faith!” “Indeed,” the Moor responded, “your logic merits praise! I never saw your equal for bravery and brains! You’ve wounded me forever by casting them away! But neither God nor valor will save you from the grave: I still intend to slay you upon the lookout’s trail!” Said Oliver, “You’re weaker without the barrels’ aid! A humble deed speaks louder than haughty words, I’d say.”

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Second Geste — Submission The Moor was stung to action, when this remark was made. With golden spurs he goaded his Spanish destrier Towards the count, who saw him and gallantly remained To face him: though he feared him, his courage never failed. He raised his shield before him, to feld the pagan’s hate, Then called aloud and frmly upon our Savior’s name, In sure belief that Jesus would aid him with His grace.

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he noble count beheld the pagan in his anger, And raised his arms aloft to parry and attack him. The pagan struck a blow so merciless and massive That everything it hit was split apart and shattered. The helmet’s ring itself was shorn apart and scattered, As would have been the head, if God had let it happen. But Jesus turned the blow, and falling at an angle, It struck between the ears the Frenchman’s fearless stallion. Good Ferrant fell in death as Oliver went backwards, 2600 Yet scarcely touched the ground, so swift were his reactions. His swung aloft his sword, with its nielloed handle, And hung his battered shield to face and chase the challenge! Four mighty steps he took towards the Alexandrian, As God again displayed the power of His actions: The Saracen’s white horse — I’ve told you how it trampled On folk its master felled and ground them to the gravel — It never turned its head when Oliver was stranded, But calmly stood instead among the shade and shadows. Inside their leader’s tent the Frenchmen watched the battle, 2610 Their bodies numb with dread for Oliver their captain. I’m sure they would have gone and helped him, to a man there, But Charles himself had banned all movement from the campsite, To keep his plighted word with Oliver the baron — For death before disgrace had always been their canon. He knelt upon the ground and prayed aloud in anguish: “Majestic King of kings, Who dwells in heaven’s palace, Look down with loving grace on Oliver your vassal!” The Frenchman stood his ground, his heart aggrieved and angry To see his cherished steed cut down in such a fashion. 2620 He strode towards the Moor and hailed him in this manner:

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Fierabras and Floripas “Untempered king, it seems your pride outstrips your valor: You take away my steed to make me fght you standing! This morning you were sure your shining sword could vanquish Some half a dozen knights, and do it single handed! You boasted of your birth, your noble worth and stature — Yet kings who slay a horse have little grounds for grandeur!” The Moor replied, “Indeed, there’s reason in your rancor, But, by the gods, I swear that wasn’t meant to happen! 2630 I’m very well aware my last blow was a bad one. I know I’ve slain your horse, but I’ll replace it gladly. Accept my own instead! Bestride its noble saddle And ply its stirrups’ iron, and I shall fght you standing — Or take the reins and mount my white and wondrous stallion: No horse alive today in any way can match it. I’m very much surprised this steed has not attacked you — One hundred men and more its hooves before have mangled! You truly are the frst it’s been averse to stamp on! It’s always been so keen and seen so many battles.” Count Oliver replied, “The hand of God forbad it! 2640 Whoever trusts in Him will never be abandoned. I’ll take no steed of yours not fairly won in battle.” “In truth,” replied the Moor, “I think you’re overgallant. If you refuse my steed, such gallantry is rashness. But I shall do for you a thing I never have done, Because I’ve never met so valiant a baron.” On saying this, he leapt and left his steed abandoned, To land before the count and fght against him standing — A giant in his height, the ancient writing has it. How famously they fought as toe to toe they grappled 2650 With shining blades well aimed to carry blows and parry! The wonder was indeed how either man could stand it: So hot they were and wet with sweat from head to ankle They almost swooned away — their swagger now a stagger.

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ou’ll never hear again of such a fearsome fray: Two heroes never fought for such a loss or gain, Or threw so many thrusts with lances strong and straight, As these two with their swords upon the lookout’s trail!

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Second Geste — Submission King Fierabras the Moor, with ringing voice exclaimed, “Sir Oliver, in truth you know I shall prevail!” The count replied, “In faith, I know that you must fail!” From every lodge the lords of Charlemagne gazed, Exclaiming, “By the Lord, Who bore the Ccoss’s bane, How long this duel has gone! How strong this cruel debate!” At this Geneva’s lord, the famous Duke Renier, Knelt down at Charles’s feet, in grief and great dismay. “Great emperor,” he cried, “for Christian pity’s sake, Have mercy on my son, young Oliver the brave! I can’t believe how long he’s borne the pain and strain. He’s careless of the hours or powers he’s to face! I beg of you, my lord, to offer prayers again!” The king implored: “Dear Lord, Your will be done today — But if I lose my knight and every right I claim, The death-knell will have rung for Christians and their faith! No altar more will stand, nor any church remain!” Then Charles affrmed his faith, continuing to pray: “Dear God and Lord of all, Who bore the cross’s bane: Inside the Virgin’s womb assuming human shape, You let Yourself be born in Bethlehem, a babe Whose rich and royal limbs in swaddling rags were laid. Your Holy Star shone bright to light up where You lay, As shepherd horns announced to all with simple faith. Your birth lit up the world with godly love and grace That foolish Jews ignored and Herod raged against, Who slew each baby boy his countryside contained. For two and thirty years as Jesus Christ You stayed. As God You made us all — frst Adam out of clay, Then Eve from him, and they begat the human race: In paradise, on earth, You made for them a place And granted them the fruits of every tree to take, Except for one, whose crop You said they shouldn’t taste, But Adam did, enticed by Satan’s wicked ways, And fell to sin that holds the human heart enchained. Dear God, Who healed the Jew called Marcus of the plague Of leprosy that ate his limbs and face away — This felon was the frst, I’ve heard the learned say,

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Fierabras and Floripas To suffer this disease, with all its pain and shame, Because he bound our Lord against the whipping stake And earned His curse, and worse, His heavenly Father’s rage — Who knew that without faith no human could be saved, Forgive us too, dear God, Who never lies or fails! Fell Judas did his worst, and like a proven knave, Upon a Tuesday night betrayed You as You prayed. When Friday came You bore the cross’s awful bane: The faying of Your fesh, the pain of piercing nails. With briar and with thorn they crowned You and they made The crimson blood to fow upon Your holy face. St. Mary flled with woe and wept to see Your fate, Who bore You in her womb, her agony so great That none, however skilled, or flled with words, could say. And still You solaced her, with godly love and grace, And placed her in the care of John, the blessed saint, Directing him to tend her sorrow for four days — For then it was, You said, that You would rise again. Your sacred heart was struck by Longinus’s blade — The Roman guard whose eyes had never seen, they say — And running down his lance, Your blood began to bathe And clear his blinded eyes to know You straightaway, And look to You for grace, Who knew that he was changed. Dear Lord, Your body bled with injuries so grave Your precious blood was lost upon Golgotha’s plain. You cried, “Forgive them, Lord!” as some denied Your name. Then Nicodemus came, whose wisdom was his fame. St. Joseph held Your corpse when rescued from the nails — For Pilate had agreed, when Your supporters came, That with the fall of night Your body could be claimed And laid within a tomb, a room inside a cave. Four Marys sought You there and visited Your grave With ointment and with balm to wash each wicked graze. But You were there no more, for You had gone away And left an angel guard, a herald, girt by fame, To tell them You were well, and risen, full of grace. At this, the women turned, both woeful and amazed. You rent the gates of hell and rescued from its chains

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Second Geste — Submission All those in Satan’s thrall, all those who’d kept the faith. Then giving Peter’s hand the keys to heaven’s gate, You rose again on high, as Your disciples gazed, And bade the world, through them, to be baptised and saved. As all of this is true, as truly I maintain, 2740 Save Oliver, Your knight, from Fierabras’s blade, And let him prove my right to Rome and its domains!” This said, he signed the cross, his royal hand upraised. At once, a mighty light revealed an angel shape, A seraph God had sent, in His majestic way. Before the monarch’s tent it halted and proclaimed, “Fine emperor and king, be happy, not dismayed! This bitter fght will end, and your knight will prevail. Count Oliver will win, although in mighty pain.” The angel, saying this, rose up and went away. But Charlemagne heard, and turning straightaway, 2750 He bowed his body low then looked above in praise Of God the Lord, before he rose and stood up straight. Count Oliver fought on, though weary with the strain. The heathen Moor, I’m sure, felt very much the same: The pair was dripping wet with sweat like heavy rain. King Fierabras the strong cried out in his disdain, “Count Oliver, my friend, you’ll not survive today!” The gallant knight replied, “It’s you should count the days! You’ll lose your head, and more, unless you change your ways!”

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ow bitterly they battled upon the lookout’s rise! Both fghters struck each other with such aggressive pride Their senses almost shattered with every mighty strike. Their solid German helmets and shields were cleft aside, As were the sturdy hauberks, whose mail was double lined. The pagan swung his sword blade — its edges honed so fne That nothing made could stop it, no steel or any iron — And striding to the Frenchman, he struck him helmet high. His weapon cleft the nasal, but on the Frenchman’s side Were God and good St. Peter, who turned its edge awry — Without them, I can tell you, Count Oliver the wise Would certainly have suffered an injury so dire

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Fierabras and Floripas He wouldn’t have recovered for seven days and nights. “You liar!” cried the pagan, “it’s you who’ll not survive!” “In truth, you are the liar!” Count Oliver replied, “Unless you are a grayhound, with speed to run and hide, There soon will be a coffn, with your remains inside! Before you can escape me, with Halteclere I’ll strike. Your giant strength will crumble before the will of Christ!”

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ing Fierabras the Moor could hear the taunt intended, And lusted, in his rage, to punish and to end it. 2780 He held aloft his sword, Plorance, its hilt nielloed, And ran against the count, his face aglow with frenzy. The Frenchman saw him come and running up, attempted To beat the blow, and did — with two upon his helmet That smote to ground the stones and sliced its foral esses. The helmet’s steel was hard, too strong itself to sever, And stopped the blade’s advance — no harm was done whatever. When Oliver saw this, it stung him like a nettle, And once again he raised his worthy blade against him, As Fierabras’s own was bearing in already! 2790 God, what a pair they were, their daring so relentless That neither one would quit until his foe surrendered! Their glowing blades exchanged a range of blows so heavy The shield of each was shorn, their helmets torn and severed. And both of them took blows so stunning and so many They bled from mouth and nose upon the lookout’s level. The count was so beset by searing pain and sweating That when he swung his sword in one immense endeavor He fung it from his grasp — six feet or more he sent it. On seeing this, he flled with awful dread and terror, 2800 But like a gallant knight he strode at once to fetch it, His shield across his head — as if its shred could help him! At once he felt a blow that cleft his hauberk’s edges Before it scored his skin and bored a biting fesh wound. The count maintained his stance, but almost lost his senses. He saw his sword ahead, but sweated as he fretted To stoop and pick it up — unsure the Moor would let him.

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Second Geste — Submission The French, inside their camp, at once went for their weapons — Some fourteen thousand men rose up as one to help him, 2810 And I am sure the Moor would soon have been prevented, When Charlemagne cried that none should mount a rescue, Remembering the word that God the Lord had sent him. The haughty pagan heard and mocked their wasted effort. No fear was in his voice, as recklessly he bellowed, “By all the gods, it seems I’ve conquered every Frenchman!” Then, turning to the count, he taunted him, to tempt him: “I tell you, by Mahom, your faith and you are feckless! Your sword is close at hand, so why not go and get it? If you refuse to fght, then I have won already! You’re too afraid to bend for ten whole cities’ treasure! 2820 My weapons strike so hard your conscience can’t forget it! Good vassal, spurn the faith that you have been misled in And turn to mine and live within its mighty empire! I’ll share with you the land that I am to inherit. With Floripas’s hand in marriage I shall bless you. My sister has no peer — her beauty knows no measure! Before the year is out, we’ll conquer France together And you shall be a king in one of our possessions.” Count Oliver replied, “Your offer’s ill directed! I never will renounce the Lord and all His blessings, 2830 The saints, and holy maid in whom He came from heaven, Nor ever serve Mahom and his benighted devils, Whose idols can be tossed in ditches and in trenches, As people do with dogs whose little day has ended!” Said Fierabras, “I swear, your arrogance is endless, And truly, there is none who’s tried my patience better! But go on! Take your sword! I give you leave to get it!” Count Oliver replied, “Your offer does you credit, But there’s no mortal way I ever could accept it. For if you acted now with anything like friendship, 2840 And I should kill you hence, the blow would go against me. Let God alone decide if I should live or perish, And let Him do it now, before you pay your penance!” Said Fierabras again, “Your courtesy’s offensive!

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ount Oliver regarded the angry-hearted Moor, As, rushing forth, he wielded the razor-sharp Plorance. With Halteclere relinquished and with his buckler shorn, 2850 My friends, it’s little wonder the Frenchman was unsure! But then he saw before him, upon the pagan’s horse, Suspended from its saddle, those two nielloed swords, And, leaping forth and lunging, he plundered one with joy — The better one and ftter, indeed a happy choice. He hit upon Baptiser, its blade a hand span broad. He drew it from its scabbard, and how it glittered forth! He swung it in a circle to gather all its force, And lifted what was left of his shattered buckler’s boards. He called upon the pagan and spoke a gentle taunt: 2860 “By God, that was an error for such a perfect lord, To let me have so lightly this noble sword of yours, One blow of which will ransom its world of woe before! I’ve challenged you and warned you — beware of me henceforth!” On seeing what had happened, the pagan dropped his jaw: “Baptiser!” he lamented, “so many fghts we’ve fought! In truth, I never girded a greater sword for war!” Once more he called the Frenchman and said, with ringing voice, “Count Oliver, allow me to say one sentence more.” Count Oliver responded, “You may, but make it short!” 2870 Said Fierabras, “That summons is easy to perform. Return to me Baptiser and take your fallen sword, So we can end this combat the way that we had thought.” “In truth,” replied the Frenchman, “I don’t agree at all! I’ve no desire to barter in any coin or cause Before I’ve had a moment to try this noble sword.” More lustily than lions they lunged ahead and roared. The Frenchman was the quicker to land his blow and score. He couldn’t reach the helmet but struck his buckler’s boards Above the boss and split them across the central joint. 2880 Six feet away the splinters were scattered on the foor.

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Second Geste — Submission The blow went through the hauberk, one skirt of which was torn, As was the hose of scarlet and golden spur he wore, Before the blade embedded twelve inches in the soil. “This blade is such a sweet one!” cried Oliver with joy, “God bless the smith who crafted and hardened it of yore.” The blow was such a great one the pagan’s arms were sore, And so, before his counter had time to fully fall, Count Oliver was able, and managed in the pause, 2890 To double down and gather good Halteclere his sword. And when again he held it, he glorifed the Lord, Then, looking at the pagan, most chivalrously called, “By God and blessed Jesus, your wish I will accord: Take back your noble weapon, in grace’s name restored.” “But that would be ungracious,” replied the royal Moor, “For you declined the offer I made to you before! I’ll cleave your limbs asunder before I’ll plunder yours! I’ll hack your gallant head off and give it to my lord!” Said Oliver, “That’s something more dearly sold and bought!” At this the fghters doubled their efforts and their force. 2900 How fearsomely they menaced! What mighty blows they scored That split to bits their bucklers, as smashing back and forth They fought along the lookout a mighty mile or more, Till, drawing back a little, they gathered breath and paused. The scion of Geneva beheld the king and saw Above the rim remaining upon the shield he bore The pagan’s ferce expression beneath his helm of war: “Almighty God,” he muttered, “our everlasting Ward, How valiant this man is! How proud and self-assured! I’ve never set my eyes on his equal, all in all. 2910 Your will be done forever, but it would be a joy If Charlemagne had him within his camp or court Until he could convert him to serve the Christian law! Not only I, but Roland would be his friend henceforth, Companions true and loyal, with solemn pledges sworn. St. Mary, blessed lady, I beg you to transform This pagan’s heart and turn it to serve the Christian cause — For that would be a triumph, and triumph’s best reward.” King Fierabras addressed him and said with ringing voice,

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Fierabras and Floripas “Sir Oliver, please answer a question in my thoughts: 2920 Will nothing stop you fghting, whatever may befall?” “There’s nothing, in God’s service that I would not perform! Beware of me henceforward — for ftness conquers force!” Once more they came together, their tempers on the boil. King Fierabras the pagan was frst to swing his sword Towards the gallant Christian, who raised his buckler’s boards. The pagan’s blow was awesome, and through the boss it bored And severed it completely across a central joint The Frenchman held so closely he almost felt its point. 2930 “In faith,” the pagan bellowed, “I’ve pared you to the core! This game of ours, Sir Gallant, will soon be mine, not yours!” Count Oliver said nothing, his mind on other thoughts. He gripped the blade whose handle in black and gold was wrought, And swung it at the pagan with all his faith and force. The Moor threw up his buckler to take and break its fall, Which, splitting through the center, it did, and little more. Both fghters hit together so fercely that before Their vision cleared it clouded with fery specks galore!

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hat bitter blows they bartered with mortal skill and strength, As each attacked the other with blades of shining edge! 2940 King Fierabras the pagan was proud of his prowess: In countless fghts beforehand he’d slain so many men He’d never fought another and fnished second best. That brave and brutal record was fated soon to end! The count had but a quarter of his good buckler left, Yet Fierabras attacked it again and yet again. They smote each other fercely upon their shining helms. From battered steel and iron few fery sparks and specks, As foral emblems shattered and scattered all their gems. They traded blows so forcing that both men almost fell. 2950 Cried Fierabras the pagan, “Your time is overspent! Your mighty King, Lord Jesus, won’t save you now from death.” When this was said they hurtled towards each other, then The pagan struck the Frenchman a blow like nothing yet. Upon his helm embellished with golden arabesques The blade completely severed whatever edge it met.

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Second Geste — Submission From head to hip it slithered and shaved the hero’s fesh So close it left his body not only bare but red! If God’s hand hadn’t stopped it, it would have split him dead! Cried Fierabras the pagan, “I’ve got you now, my friend! You’ve seen the last in this life of Charles the white of head!” On hearing this, the Frenchman spoke gallantly and said, “In faith, majestic monarch, you haven’t triumphed yet! Before we leave this valley, it’s you who will confess Submission and contrition in Charlemagne’s tent!”

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y friends, you’ll never hear of so long and strong a fght. Both champions were swathed in the sweat of pain and strife. King Fierabras the pagan beheld the count and cried, “Brave hero, by Mahomet, you’ve overspent your time! My blade of steel’s aquiver to part your head and hide!” 2970 “In truth,” the count responded, “if God had so desired, This fght would long have ended — and that’s what I’d have liked! May God permit and favor the end I have in mind — Though let Him do whatever is good to Him and right.” The pagan drew his sword blade and swung it one more time Towards the Frenchman’s helmet, with gold and jewels bright. The blow was so enormous, so full of pagan spite, It split the foral emblems and stones that had survived, Then slit away the coif cap — one quarter few aside, As in his hair it slithered and shaved a hefty slice! 2980 But God was with His vassal, and halting it midfight, Count Oliver returned it, his heart and courage high, Towards the pagan’s helmet, with gold and jewels bright. The pagan saw it coming and lifted what survived Of his well-battered buckler to halt the weapon’s drive. The Moor had raised his arm up so frmly in his stride That he exposed completely his body’s right-hand side. Count Oliver was ready, and saw his chance arise! He halted in his down stroke, and swinging up the iron, He struck the pagan’s midriff with every main and might. 2990 The hauberk’s triple lining was severed in a trice, As Oliver thrust upward with all his Christian ire: His face aglow with ardor, he forced the blade inside

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And pierced the pagan’s body as far back as his spine. The blow just missed his innards — a little left or right, His bowels would have ruptured and burst across his thighs. The crimson blood erupted upon his wounded side. My friends, attend the moment that changed this hero’s life: In mortal pain the pagan looked up towards the sky, And suddenly he flled with the consciousness of Christ, As heaven’s Holy Spirit lit up his heart and mind. He called upon the Frenchman for mercy and respite: “Fine noble, do not end me, but render me alive To Charlemagne’s mercy, whose face with valor shines! I promise you sincerely, upon my word as knight, That I shall give the crown back that pierced the dying Christ, His shroud and every relic — alas, the blame is mine! Ah me, why did I take them? How miserable am I! The shame of it, I’m certain, will haunt me till I die! Count Oliver, fne noble, take pity on my plight! The world will surely blame you if I die unbaptised. My friend, unless you help me, I’ll fall before your eyes!” On hearing this, the Frenchman wept openly and cried, As tenderly he laid him upon the lookout’s rise.

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he duel was done and won; the battle lost and gained. The count embraced the king, whose wound was very grave, And laid him down with love upon the lookout’s trail. He tore his tunic’s cloth to bind the pagan’s waist. “Please take me,” cried the Moor, “to be with Charles the Great! 3020 With willing heart and true I seek the Christian faith! If I die unbaptised, you surely will be blamed.” Said Oliver, “In truth, my injuries are great. I cannot lift you up or carry you away.” The Saracen stood up, with awful pain and strain, And staggered to the count, then sat with him again. To Oliver he turned, with anguish in his face, Addressing him as meek as any chidden slave: “Please take me with you now to be with Charles the Great! My heart has missed a beat. I’m close to death, I’d say. Behold my rapid steeds — two rested destriers! 3030 Untie the noble red that’s tethered by its reins, And by its golden rings remount it straightaway — Return to me at once within this shady glade And bear me forth to Charles upon the lookout’s trail! Relieve me of Plorance: it pains me with its weight. Take every sword of mine — their strength remains the same! My white steed at our right can follow on a trace. Come, hoist me on my steed without the least delay: Those mighty elms beyond have hidden in their shade One thousand men of mine I’d bidden there to wait. 3040 I quitted them at dawn, forbidding all that came From moving forth at all, for any man or maid, Until I had returned from fghting Charles the Great.” On hearing this, at once the Frenchman grew afraid, But answered nonetheless, “My friend, we’re on our way! I’ll take you back to Charles, since that is what you crave.” So, striding to the steed, he mounted straightaway And rode it back at once to where the pagan lay, Then reined it by his side, with noble, tender grace. The pagan struggled up, whose injury was grave, 3050 And crawled across the bows, contorted with the pain —

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Fierabras and Floripas An effort, which, alas, would prove to be in vain. His choice of seeing Charles at once was doomed to fail, As pagan voices boomed in looming ambuscade! King Sortinbrans, King Brulanz and ferce King Mautriblez, King Moridas, Acenas, Amulgis and Gondez, King Modras and Cenars and strong King Malquarez With ffty thousand Moors came racing through the glade! Count Oliver looked up and tried to speed away, But he was held in check by Fierabras’s weight. The Frenchmen saw the Moors, and shouting in their rage, They blew aloud their horns across the camp they’d made. The nephew of King Charles, Count Roland, armed in haste, As did Guilemer the Scot, Berart of Montdidier, Naimon, the German duke, and brave Ogier the Dane, With Normandy’s Richart and brave Sir Gui the famed, Old Geoffrey of Anjou and Aubrey, wise with age, Thierri of Ardennes and Geoffrey, wise and brave, And Oliver’s own sire, Geneva’s Duke Renier. The king himself was armed and ready straightaway. Then every man set forth upon the lookout’s trail As fast as they could run — not one of them remained. Count Oliver looked down upon the Spanish plain And saw the Moors approach with long and loosened reins. Brulanz of Montmirree was leader of the chase. A camel was his mount, which never slackened pace, But bolted like a hound when taken off its chain. Each time it struck a stone it kindled sparks of fame As, like a fre itself, it scorched across the plain. And fery was the Moor who rode in such a haste. Within his hand he shook a sickle strong and straight: The venom of a toad was blended with its blade! When Oliver saw this, the blood froze in his veins. He said to Fierabras, “Good brother, step away! I cannot bear you forth, which flls me with dismay, But worse will be in store unless I can escape. The hills are flled with Moors of yours, and more again! You know that if I’m caught, they’ll slay me straightaway.”

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Second Geste — Submission On hearing this, the Moor was riven with dismay. And urged the count again, “Don’t leave me in this strait! 3090 You’ve brought me to the ground — don’t damn me to the grave! If infdel I die, then hell will be my fate! Bring back into the fold this lamb that went astray!”

Our story’s second part, a humble heart, is made.

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ount Oliver, my lord,” King Fierabras implored, “For love of God on high, don’t leave me here to mourn! You’ve brought me to my knees with bright and shining swords And given me your word, with plea and pledges sworn, That I could rise again and walk with God the Lord. If you desert me now, your lofty fame will fall. You’ve brought me to my knees and made my honor yours. 3100 As far as I can see, your injuries aren’t more, And neither have you met, as yet, my blackamoors!” Count Oliver replied, “You speak as heroes ought! I swear by God above, Whose love redeems us all, I’ll never leave your side, unless I’m killed or caught!” “Count Oliver, my lord,” King Fierabras implored, “Unbuckle from my back this double coat of war And lace it on your own — your need of it is sore: You have no quartered shield, nor any shield at all!” The count replied, “I will, and willingly, what’s more!” 3110 So, taking off his helm and lacing off his coif, He took the pagan’s coat and helmet that he’d worn, To wear above his own, so help him, God the Lord, And brandished Halteclere, in which his valor joyed. Let any Moor that dared, or cared, adventure forth — He might as well have tried to ride against a wall! The strongest knight alive would not have made him fall!

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he pagan lay before him: he held him on his steed, And would have ridden gladly, but time had intervened. The Saracens, advancing, had thwarted his retreat. Behold their haughty captain, Brulanz of Montmirree! He drove a rapid camel towards the lookout’s peak And battered with his sickle our hero’s helm of green. The second helm beneath it protected him from grief:

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Fierabras and Floripas The sickle cracked in pieces — its brittle strength was brief! On seeing him, the color fed Fierabras’s cheek, And, calling on the Frenchman, he gave him leave to fee: “Friend, lay me down, I bid you — enough’s enough for me. I’ve no desire to blame you, or cause to feel aggrieved, But lay me down, I beg you, beyond my army’s reach, Lest I am trod and trampled beneath their horses’ feet! May God above defend you with all His loving zeal, And may He look with pity on little men like me! I’m stunned that Charlemagne, your leader and your liege, Should hesitate to help you when every minute’s dear! And why does Roland tarry, whose love for you is deep? Why doesn’t he support you, with every other peer? Ah, wretched me, I’ll perish, a heathen unredeemed!” On hearing this, the Christian was moved again to tears.

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he count embraced the heathen and laid him down to lie, With tender grace and pity, beneath the leafy pines. He gave him back his weapon, to which the Moor replied By bowing, as the Christian bestrode his horse’s sides To spur among the pine trees, where he’d have tried to hide, Had thirty thousand pagans not suddenly arrived! He turned around to fee them, with all his main and might, But Persian Moors and Turkish, some thirty thousand knights, Were suddenly before him, their silky fags aligned. He cried aloud, “Lord Jesus, Who made the water wine, That day You blessed the wedding among the Canaanites, Defend me from these mongrels, so, if You will it, I May see again the monarch whose face with valor shines!”

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ount Oliver the noble knew well that he was stranded, And called upon our Savior, Who bore the cross’s anguish, To help him, in His mercy, outrun the coming vanguard. With Halteclere uplifted, he rushed at his attackers And ran against the son of the sultan Alepantin. He swung his shining weapon and such a blow he landed He hit him down the middle and split him to the backbone! He took the golden buckler on Fierabras’s saddle 3160

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Third Geste — Desires And shook a spear that carried his somber-colored standard. He spurred his mottled charger, whose turn of speed was rapid, And smote upon his buckler the pagan ruler Claris. His hauberk was as useless as any silken jacket: The iron battered through it and fung him on the gravel. With Halteclere the Frenchman resisted any capture, Two further pagans falling as soon as he attacked them. He fung himself against them with every ounce of valor And scattered them before him like grouse before a falcon! But four of them stood frmly — King Torgis and Moradas, 3170 King Margariz the mighty and Sortinbrans of Coinbres. With ringing voice, in chorus, they taunted Charles’s baron: “You’ll never leave here living, we promise, by Mohamet!” With Halteclere uplifted Count Oliver reacted, And every Moor he greeted was very slow to answer! The pagan ranks were parted wherever he attacked them, He severed them and split them as cleanly as with axes The woodsmen in the forest divide the slender saplings. He’d sell his honor dearly before they’d kill or catch him.

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hey brought him down at last, but with his buckler clenched, 3180 He stood up once again with all his Christian strength And sent whoever came to swift and bloody death. If only you had been upon that ancient ledge, You would have seen and said that he was knighthood’s best To fght for Christ the King, Who furnished him with strength! Again they brought him down, and with a dreadful yell They cast their heathen darts with deadly sharpened ends. In more than thirty spots his buckler shield was rent. They went through both his coats, whose mail was fnely meshed, And more than three or four drove on inside his fesh 3190 And pinned him to the ground with pain that was immense. Good people, hear the truth! They caught him there, and then They bound his eyes with cloth, and tied his arms and legs, Then tossed him on a horse of fowing mane and crest. He cried out, “Charlemagne! Where are you, king of men? Don’t stay your gallant hand, Sir Roland, noble friend!”

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hen Oliver was taken, the pagans turned to leave. They bound his eyes with samite, ripped roughly from his sleeve, 3200 And wound his hands with leather and tied them at his rear. A guard of ffty heathens watched every breath he breathed, As down the verdant valley they left the lookout’s peak. In hot pursuit Count Roland rode Wide-Awake, his steed, With Guilemer the Scotsman and Ardennes’ Thierri, And Berart of Montdidier, Geoffrey and Savaris, Sir Auberi and Naimon, and Burgundy’s Sir Gui, Together with the gallant Richart of Normandy. The mighty Charlemagne, astride his whitest steed, Cried heavenward, “God, help us! Mountjoy for Saint-Denis! 3210 How dare they take our fghter, those blighted heathen thieves!” Count Roland struck Corsublez upon his gilded shield: He tore apart like ribbons the hauberk underneath And ran his spear right through him to ruin all between! Duke Berart of Montdidier advanced upon Torgis, As Ogier struck Athenas, and Richart Margariz, And Gui attacked a monarch called Brudelant Monbis. Each one of them defeated whichever foe he reached, And when their lances shattered, unsheathed their shining steel. They slew so many pagans and Turks of the emir 3220 That Morimonda valley was red instead of green! The pagans scattered backwards, along the lookout’s reach, But rallied when their trumpets brought forward their reserves, Who charged the Christian forces and battered them indeed. The Moors employed their wyverns and sickles long and sleek. The French had heavy hauberks, but couldn’t parry these, As William was slaughtered, Gautier and Anseis, And other leading barons, some forty-six at least. The Saracens pursued them for further than a league And hunted down Sir Berart, the son of Thierri, 3230 And Guilemer the Scotsman and noble Auberi, And Geoffrey, duke of Anjou, whose face with valor gleamed.

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Third Geste — Desires In twisted rope they bound them, with ferce and gloating glee, On fne and sturdy horses, not hacks or sumpter beasts. When Charles saw what had happened, the blood went from his cheeks. In ringing tones he shouted so all his men could hear: “Pursue them, noble barons! Your spirit is too meek! If such as these are captured, what hope have such as we?” On hearing this, his forces were flled with angry zeal, And spurring hard their horses they sped ahead and reached 3240 The pagans and their captives below a hillock’s peak. How murderous a melee began and ran its lease! With Durendal the deadly, whose burnished hilt he seized, Count Roland did his utmost for Oliver’s release. With every blow he landed one death was guaranteed! Impelled by rage and rancour he struck a high vizier And split him, brow to breastbone, whoever groans or grieves. Within a trice he’d slaughtered nine more upon the feld. The others fed in panic along the lookout’s reach, But clung on to their captives, whose faces flled with grief. 3250 Each baron there pursued them, and no one moved to leave.

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he pagans fed. Their vanguard led Oliver away With Guilemer the Scotsman, Berart of Montdidier, And Geoffrey, duke of Anjou, and Auberi the brave. Each baron there pursued them, and no one left, I say. Count Roland spurred his warhorse, the worthy Wide-Awake, His sally well supported by Duke Ogier the Dane, Whose charger called The Dasher loved rocky ground or grade. They raced behind the pagans, they chased with heart and hate And took the heads of any who faltered or delayed. 3260 Until the hour of vespers they never stopped the chase. The land around was littered with wounded men or slain, As Roland swore they’d never return to camp again Until their blades had severed their comrades from their chains. What pain and strain they’d suffer before that end was gained! Three mighty leagues the pagans outran them and outraced. God pity all the Christians they’d blinded and enslaved! They rode at such a gallop, on horses loosely reined,

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ow long the Christian force pursued those heathen horsemen! How many chargers reeled or kneeled from sheer exhaustion! With loosened reins the Moors raced back to reach their fortress, Pursued by Charles’s host for fve leagues and a quarter, Who took the heads of most whose horses slowed or faltered. The pagans left the dales and raced their horses forward. In hot pursuit the French raised heavenward their sword blades And dug their golden spurs so hard against their horses That every fank and shank turned bloody from the goring. Young Roland swore an oath, before the Christian forces, 3280 To stay in Spanish land, however long it called for, Until he’d saved the band that pagan hands had thwarted. Some sixty days would pass before he could perform it! The Saracens were fast and frst around each corner, And when the king observed the foreign darkness falling, He dreaded that the Moors had laid an ambush for them. With this in mind he called on St. Denis and ordered His gallant men to halt and turn their weary coursers. They heard his ringing voice, and heeding it, they halted Their chasing of the Moors and hurried back to join him. 3290 The army sought its camp, through open felds and gorses, Till in a grove they saw King Fierabras before them. When Charlemagne came, he knew him when he saw him And thundered, in his face: “Your evil is rewarded! Because of you and yours, good men of mine have fallen! Because of you I’ve lost a youth I cherish warmly!” The pagan heard his voice and heaved a sigh, forlornly: He lay upon his side but turned his face towards him And looked at Charles a while, whose glower never altered. Proud Fierabras the Moor most humbly then implored him: 3300 “Ah Charlemagne, lord, what penance can restore me? You cannot hate me more than my own heart abhors me! I want the world to know that Oliver’s outfought me, And I have pledged to him with humble heart and loyal That I shall keep the faith of Jesus Christ henceforward:

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Third Geste — Desires The gods I loved before are worthless — I deplore them! Baptise me, Charlemagne, for God and for His glory. If I survive the wounds that I have worn and borne here, Then I shall serve the Lord and labor to exalt Him 3310 By changing pagan hearts, as mine alike has altered. I’ll give you Jesu’s crown and then the shroud that bore Him, And every sign divine that tells His wondrous story, Which you and all your knights so gallantly have fought for! By force of arms you’ve stormed and overrun my borders, Which angered me at frst, but now I thank you for it. I swear to you by God, to Whom my soul is forfeit, That I am more distressed at Oliver’s misfortune Than at my own, although the wound I bear is awful. But you shall have him back — or many will be slaughtered! True emperor, in faith, take pity on my torment: 3320 Baptise me, or be blamed when others hear my story!” On hearing this, the king was flled with pity for him And on his golden shield he had him gently hoisted And carried off with care by noble knights as porters, Who never halted once until they reached their quarters. Count Roland and Count Ogier undid his heavy war shirt, Until the giant lay in just a tailored corset. His waist was very trim, his shoulders big and brawny, His visage large and fne, its features well proportioned, With eyes of steely gray, just like a moulted falcon’s. 3330 He truly was more fair than any there before him. The Frenchmen stared in awe; they praised him and they lauded Count Oliver again, whose faith had overborne him.

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ow fne he was and fair, as there he lay undressed, Although his look was wan, exhausted and distressed. The wound upon his side was bleeding still, unchecked. As Roland held him up, he swooned, bereft of sense. “Dear God, Who bore the cross,” cried all of Charles’s men, “How laudable and strong is Oliver’s prowess, To battle such a man and beat him at his best! St. Mary, blessed maid, return him to us yet!” Great Charlemagne stood as soon as this was said,

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And summoned up Milon and Turpin — famous men, Archbishops brave and bold, extolled for holiness: “Prepare at once a font, and bless it well,” he said, “To purify this king of all that he’s confessed.” The two of them replied, “We’ll do as you request!” Both prelates flled a font without delay and fetched The Moor and plunged him in, with others there to help. They changed his pagan name to one of Christian strength: They chose the name Florent — although until his death He still was called by all King Fierabras instead. When all was done, the Moor, his spirit born afresh, Was lifted from the font and carried to a bed. You’ve heard it and it’s true: this Moor, when he was dead, Became a saint whose bones were relics soon themselves, As St. Florent of Roie, say all the holy texts. King Charlemagne called two doctors to his tent, And said at once, “My lords, attend my order well! Inspect this wounded man for any signs of death.” The doctors both replied:,“My lord, we’ll do our best.” And coming to the king, they felt his bones and fesh. His innards were intact, no vital organs cleft, And so they said to Charles, “My lord, don’t be distressed!

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Third Geste — Desires Before two months have passed, we’ll have him well again!” “Ah God!” the king replied, “Your mercies never end! If Oliver were here, and all those other men Bound up in pagan bonds, my heart would be content.” On saying this, he sat, his chin upon his chest, While far away the Moors rode on with rein unchecked, And led away the peers, their noble hearts oppressed. Still higher up they rode along the lookout’s ledge And crossed the fearful bridge that guarded Mautriblez. With rein unchecked they rode beyond until at length They reached the pagan town of Aigremore itself. Before its gate they blew the horns around their necks And soon the great emir came striding down the steps, Beside him a vizier of hoary beard and head. Brulanz of Montmirree dismounted frst, and then King Balan the emir, without delay, addressed These words to him and said, “Most welcome back, my friend! What tidings do you bring? What happened on your quest? Are Roland and his peers among the captured men: Sir Oliver, the count renowned for his prowess, Berart of Montdidier and Naimon white of head?” Brulanz replied, “Our ride met sorrow not success! The Christians and their king have killed our peers instead! Prince Fierabras your son was one whose match was met! A noble knight of France, unknown to me as yet, Outfought him with his sword upon the lookout’s crest. Your son has bowed to Charles and vowed to fght for them!” On hearing this, the Moor fell down, bereft of sense, And then, no sooner raised, he swooned away again! “Ah Fierabras, my son, what’s happened to your strength? Where are you now, and why have I been so bereft? What mighty sin, my son, has felled you at your best, Who never once before failed any mortal test? I’d rather you had lost your sturdy arms and legs Than tossed away your faith, by choice or in duress!”

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hen Balan heard the news of gallant Fierabras, His temper reared and seared, like fat tossed in a pan! He slumped upon a step, his jaw held in his hand, Then called, or rather bawled, again to King Brulanz: “Where is Tudela’s king, by all the gods we have? And Clargis of Pinele, my nephew Enbrouchanz, And Fierabras my son, who always led our ranks? He rode Castilian steeds, the fnest pair we had! If truly they are gone, I’ll fay Mahomet’s fanks!” The pagan stamped with rage, but stumbled, falling fat. Down every step he rolled, then writhed upon the sand. Brulanz of Montmirree ran forth to help him stand.

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rulanz of Montmirree ran forth to help him rise. King Balan the emir was flled with raging spite: “What happened on your quest, my lord Brulanz?” he cried. “Who taught my son to yield, who never kneeled betimes?” “I swear that it was him!” the pagan peer replied, “That handsome, lithe of limb, that strong and slim young knight Who’s over there and wears the blindfold on his eyes!” At once the pagan screamed, “Go hang the villain high! I’ll touch no food or drink while such as he survives!” 3420 On hearing this, the French were petrifed with fright. They looked around and wept for pity at their plight. But Oliver spoke up, to comfort them and guide, “My lords,” he said to all, “give ear to me a while! I urge you to conceal your titles with a lie. For if they know that we are royal peers, our lives Will never be redeemed for all the gold that shines! They’ll hang or slay us all — each one of us will die!” The French agreed and said, “We’ll do as you advise.” At this, the bidden Moors who’d ridden with the knights, 3430 Unclothed the bleeding count, who held his stricken side, And cleft the biting bands, whose strands were tightly tied, And left him there to stand in just a gown attired. His face was very wan, his body sorely tried. To see him added fuel to Balan’s angry fre, And, ranting in his rage, he charged him, wide of eye:

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Third Geste — Desires “By all the gods, you dog, who are you then?” he cried. “I want your proper name — don’t give me any lies!” “My name is Anguiré, my lord,” the count replied, “A vavasor by birth, of humble worth and line, Whose home is in Lorraine. I swear by Jesus Christ That all I have was gained when I became a knight. And all these friends of mine, assembled at my side, Are born of humble fame and humble name alike.” “Mahomet!” cried the king, “What blight has blasted mine? I thought I’d caught at least some worthy men, of might, Five paladins of France, of royal blood and high!” He hailed his chamberlain: “Barbadas, heat the spikes Upon my wyvern darts till each is fery bright! Hale every one of these inside my hall and bind The fve of them against my pillars in a line. In every way I can I’ll humble France’s pride. My archers are to cast against them, left and right, Until they burn to black the whitest Christian hide!” “My lord,” said King Brulanz, “this may not be the time: The sun of day has set already in the sky And you will be reproved for justice done at night That should have been performed in everybody’s sight! Allow them, noble lord, one evening of respite. Imprison them, and then, tomorrow, when it’s light, Your wisest men can come and publicly unite In judgment of the wrong and witness of the right: If death’s to be their due, then cruelly they shall die. But if the king of France, whose power we defy, Is willing to return King Fierabras in time, In barter for his French, then they must stay alive!” “There’s wisdom in your words,” the great emir replied, “For love of you, Brulanz, we’ll do as you advise.” He summoned forth, at once, his jailer, who arrived: “Good Brutamont, secure these Frenchmen! Let them lie Within the deepest cell and darkest you can fnd!” Said Brutamont at once, “With pleasure, noble sire.” And led them down below, as far as they could climb. No tale will ever tell of any cell as vile!

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Fierabras and Floripas It saw no light of day nor moon or star at night, And every corner crawled with snakes of every kind, And through a sluice the sea could food it from outside! When Brutamont’s own brutes had tossed the French inside, He hurried to a valve and turned it open wide. Before you could have walked or ridden for a mile, The water in the cell had risen shoulder-high! Count Oliver was stung by such a bitter bite Of salt upon his wounds he fainted more than twice. Indeed he would have drowned and never have survived, Had Berart and Guilemer not raised him from the brine. The water bore them past two rocky walls, whose height Was ffteen feet at least, and when they could, they plied Their strength upon the edge and ledge of either side. They clambered on and clutched Count Oliver alike, Who sat among the rest and rued his wretched plight: “I’ll never see again my father’s fery eyes! And you must wait to wed, sweet sister Aude of mine!” “My lord,” replied Berart, “why speak in such a wise? Such lowly words go ill with valor that’s so high! God willing, Who controls the days of every life, We’ll clamber from this hell and clothe ourselves in iron, To feel again the steel of weapons set to strike! Before I fail my pledge and honor as a knight, I’ll rob a thousand Moors of limb, if not of life!” Good people, now I’ll tell of Floripas a while, Whose beauty was unmatched, back then or any time! She’d heard each gallant word that Oliver had sighed, And his regret for Aude had touched her maiden mind.

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he barons had been bustled to Balan’s deepest jail. They would have died inside it, beneath the rising waves, Without its walls of granite, whereon they climbed and raised Count Oliver, who fretted for Aude his sister’s sake And Renier of Geneva, of fery eye and brave. The great emir’s own daughter heard every sigh he gave, The fairest, fnest maiden of then or any day. Good people, let me dwell on the beauty of this maid!

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Third Geste — Desires Her fgure was bewitching, both slender and well shaped. Her skin was soft and creamy, like blooms of summer’s spray, Her blushing cheeks like roses that fush the felds of May. Her mouth was pert and dainty, her teeth were fne and straight, Like ivory well polished, but whiter still, I’d say. Her lovely lips were fulsome and red with passion’s fame, Her nose was fnely chiselled, her brow a noble plane With shiny eyes more glowing than any falcon’s gaze. 3520 Her hips were low, and lissom and slender was her waist That wore Galician velvet with saffron overlaid. The fey that made her garment had studded it with swathes Of golden stars that shimmered and shed a wondrous ray. Its belt was fnely threaded with seams of golden chain, And fastened by a buckle with gleaming gold ornate. The hair of those that wore it would never turn to gray, Nor could their body suffer from poison, herb or plague. If anyone had fasted for three or four whole days, Then seen this belt and buckle, they felt a force so great It slaked their hungry body, their hungry heart and brain. 3530 Her legs were clad in trousers of silk with gold brocade, And on her feet were slippers, adorned with chequered lace And fnished very fnely with gold and silver paint. Across her pretty shoulders a lovely cloak was draped, Embroidered very richly by some artistic fey Upon the isle of Colchis that’s famous as the place Where ancient Jason journeyed upon his quest to gain The Golden Fleece he needed, or so the scholars say. Her cloak was sable crested, and scented so it made The smell of mint or lily seem very small and faint. 3540 The maid herself was clever and fair of form and face. Her shapely hips were slender, her breasts were small the same, But frm and round as apples, and white as meadow may. Her hair was tawny colored and worn in curly waves Delightfully embellished with coils of golden braid. This marvel was the maiden who listened on that day To Oliver’s lamenting for Aude, his sister’s sake. She darted forth in pity and down the steps in haste, With ffteen maids-in-waiting of high descent and race.

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Fierabras and Floripas She hastened through the palace and heard the Moors’ dismay At Fierabras their leader, his capture and his fate. Fair Floripas intruded and asked them straightaway, “By all the gods, what’s happened? Don’t spare me any pains!” “My lady fair, your brother, who loved you, has been slain!” On hearing this, the maiden sighed deeply and bewailed Her brother, while the others redoubled their complaints.

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ow wildly they lamented, those Saracens and Moors, For Fierabras their leader, their champion and lord, With Floripas his sister, whose tears began to fall. But then she heard the Frenchmen, inside their prison vault, 3560 And called out to the jailer, that brute called Brutamont, “What creatures have you captured that make so wild a noise?” “My lady, they are Frenchmen, or so I heard them called. They serve King Charlemagne, whom nobody can halt From fghting our religion and spiting heathen law. They helped to kill your brother, before they too were caught. But there is one among them whose worth outweighs them all, Whose bravery and beauty we haven’t seen before. He found your matchless brother and downed him with his sword.” “Good Brutamont,” she answered, “I’d see this man and talk, 3570 For I would know these people, their character and thoughts.” “My lady,” said the jailer, “I cannot let you forth. They’ll play on your good nature and ply you with remorse! And the emir, your father, made clear to me, and more, That if we gave admittance to anyone at all, He’d surely pluck our eyes out — and so he would, I’m sure! My lady fair, through women much damage has been caused. I still remember clearly what happened once before, When Aimer, called ‘The Captive,’ cut down an almanzor Whose wife changed her religion and chose the Christian cause 3580 To spend her life with Aimer and be his married whore! Upstanding men have fallen through foolish women’s fault!” On hearing this, the princess glowed inwardly with scorn. “How wise you are,” she smouldered, “for such a simple boor! Before this day is over, you’ll reap a ripe reward! My warm appreciation is rising to the boil!”

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Third Geste — Desires Towards her then she motioned her chamberlain — a lord Who, knowing of her mettle, and what she’d do, in short, Ran frst to fetch a cudgel — for that was what she sought! Then Floripas stood boldly before the prison door, 3590 Pretending she was ready to batter down the boards! But as the guard reacted, without a moment’s pause, Fair Floripas attacked him with such determined force His eyes few from their sockets — he lost them after all! She struck him down before her, but with so little noise No pagan in the palace heard any fght or fall! She had his body carried inside the drainage vault, Then threw him in and drowned him — he couldn’t swim at all! Among themselves the Frenchmen were frightened and distraught. They thought it was the devil who’d come to grieve them more! 3600 Fair Floripas ran forward to light a faming torch, And running to their dungeon, at once unlocked the door. Concealed behind a pillar, she squinted, holding forth A fare that, when she waved it, cast blazing light abroad. She shouted, when she saw them inside the evil vault: “My noble lords, speak truly! What land and liege are yours?” Said Oliver: “My lady, we’re Frenchmen, bred and born,

Floripas Resolved (ll. 3595–96)

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Fierabras and Floripas Who serve King Charlemagne, so feared in peace and war! The lord of Spain, King Balan, has thrust us in the maw Of this most evil prison that starves us as it gnaws! God help us in His mercy, Who holds the world in ward! I’d rather die in battle than bit by bit indoors! But one as fair as you are will give us food, I’m sure, And care about our welfare, ere you farewell us all!” But Floripas responded, “Your wit outruns your thought! I’m sure you’d fare much better, in view of your resource, To promise, on your honor, to give me your support!” “With happy heart I’ll do so,” he said, with ringing voice. “I promise that I’ll help you, though life or limb be shorn! But we’re in need of weapons to help our common cause! If I can leave this cavern and catch the fendish Moors, I’ll smite the heads of ffty, and ffty heads will fall!” “Bold vassal,” said the maiden, “your vaunting overvaults! You speak of catching pagans, while you yourself are caught! How better far is silence, than foolish, empty talk!” “My lady,” said Sir Berart, “but those who have a voice Should sing when they’re unhappy, or what are voices for?” Said Floripas, “Your own one, I hear, is far from hoarse! Though truly I don’t know you or see you here, I’m sure That you’re a wondrous wooer of maidens rich and poor, Whose mouth does more than singing in bedrooms south and north!” Said Guilemer the Scotsman, “You’ve picked his fnest point! In that he has no equal from here to Salem’s walls!” Fair Floripas responded, “That warrants proof, of course.”

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hen Floripas had fnished with what she had to say, She summoned up her servant, whose name was Marmucet. “I need a rope, a long one, a strong one, straightaway!” “As you desire, my lady” he answered and obeyed. He brought her, in a twinkling, the item that she craved, A paddle, like a saddle, inserted in its tail. 3640 He lowered it to reach them inside the gloomy jail, And when the barons saw it they sang a song of praise! The frst one to be rescued was Oliver the brave.

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Third Geste — Desires So lustily they pulled it, the servant and the maid, That Oliver was hoisted and rescued from the cave. Then, one upon the other, they rescued all the same. When this was done, the maiden conducted them in haste Towards an ancient chamber behind a rusty gate. Her servant held the torch up to light the gloomy way, And when they reached the entrance, unlocked an ancient grate. 3650 The room within was noble and very richly raised By pillars made of marble most beautifully planed, With ornament and coping of Moorish mode and shape. Across its biggest archway were artfully displayed The starry skies of winter along with those of May, The moonlight of the nighttime and sunlight of the day On forest, mead and mountain, in pictures made of paint, With bird and beast embellished and sundry crested snakes. The room indeed was splendid, both stately and ornate. Each work of God’s creation was lavishly portrayed. 3660 Methuselah the monarch had had this building made, And all his wit and glory had built it to remain, But then his heart was broken — he died of grief, they say, When King Namaan usurped him and everything he’d gained.

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ow very rich it was, that room, from foor to ceiling. Upon a rock of black it sat there, facing seaward. Inside the room itself a garden grew, believe me, Where fowers bloomed and fruit, at any time or season, And mandrake’s magic root that has the power of healing All injuries and ills except for mortal bleeding. Here Floripas had lived, with Gloryless, her teacher, The mother of King Flor, whose name was Queen Galeta, And Clarimonde, Florette and lovely Madorita, The daughters all and each of King Sidor the heathen.

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er room, from foor to ceiling, was built to be the best, With marble ribs supporting the arches end to end, And windows with a view of the ocean’s fow and ebb: Here Floripas had lived with her teacher Gloryless, And with them Queen Galeta, the aunt of the princess.

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Fierabras and Floripas Said Gloryless, her teacher, “My girl, I’ll shave my head If that one isn’t Oliver, no matter what he says, Geneva’s son and brother of Aude the blonde herself, The fairest maid wherever the swallow’s wing has swept!”

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aid Gloryless, her teacher: “I tell you truthfully That that’s your brother’s killer, Count Oliver indeed, And that’s Berart, whose valor is dreaded far and near, And there, the curly-haired one, is noble Auberi, And that one is Sir Geoffrey, with bruises on his cheek. May good Mahomet curse them and put a curse on me If I should eat a morsel of any bread or wheat 3690 Before I tell your father the truth of what I see!” On hearing this, the maiden turned whiter than a sheet, Who knew her father’s rages and dreaded for the peers. She called the woman closer to where she stood, between The window’s marbled arches that overlooked the sea. So Gloryless came forward, without a thought or heed, But felt her shoulders foisted above the sea beneath! Then Floripas called loudly and Marmucet appeared, Who knew her fery temper, and few to seize the feet And legs of that old know-all; then with a willing heave 3700 They tossed her in the ocean, which drank and sank her deep. Said Floripas, “Old teacher, that lesson wasn’t cheap! Don’t overcharge you charges — that’s something learnt from me!” On hearing this, the barons laughed loudly in relief, And all her lovely handmaids began to chat and cheer! She looked upon the barons and gave a kiss to each, Then saw the blood and bruises on Oliver revealed. “I need to know,” she asked him, “and truth is what I need! How badly are you injured? Which injuries still bleed?” Said Oliver, “The wounds on my side are wide and deep.” 3710 To which the maiden answered, “Then they’re the frst I’ll heal!” And, going to the mandrake, she picked a tiny piece. She brought it to the count there, and using it, was pleased To see him getting stronger as all his bleeding ceased. Then, in a lovely alcove, they lit a fre, and seats Were settled in a circle for every baron’s ease.

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Third Geste — Desires Their hands were washed and tables were laden with a feast Prepared by her attendants, most gladly and with glee, In glass and bowl aplenty for all to drink and eat — And lustily they did so, whose appetites were keen! The maidens heated bathtubs until the water steamed, For every man to bathe in, and so they did indeed, Not leaving till their bodies, their face and hair were clean. Then all were given garments of wealthy web and weave And clad in costly tunics and mantles from the East. Then Floripas addressed them: “My lords, you will agree: I’ve saved you from a dungeon both dangerous and deep And brought you to my chambers, where everything is ease. But if our path was followed, our comfort will be brief — For you have doomed my brother, and I have set you free, Committing mortal treason upon my pagan peers. I know your names and status — so let’s be honest here: You’re in enormous danger, but so am I, you see! I need you to assure me you’ll not abandon me!” Said Oliver, “My lady, I’ll not, assuredly!” Fair Floripas responded, “Then swear it, on your knees!” The maiden held her hand out, and all of them agreed To carry out her wishes that lay within their reach. She answered, “Now I’ll tell you the purposes I seek. My lords, I am in love with a knight of France the sweet: The doughty and the dashing Count Gui of Burgundy, Whose clan is that of Roland and Charlemagne each. Since frst I saw him fghting I knew he was for me! When the emir, my father, invaded Rome, Sir Gui Fought Lucifer of Baldas and brought him from his steed. He totally outfought him and fung him on the feld. If Gui won’t be my husband, I swear that none shall be! For Gui I’ll follow Jesus and heed the Christian creed!” On hearing this, the barons praised God and all His means. Said Lord Berart, “My lady, if we were armed with steel, We could attack the others and sweep the palace clean!” “My lord,” the maid responded, “forget such restless schemes, For here you are in comfort, in lusty health and cheer, With fve most willing maidens of beauty, grace and breed!

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Fierabras and Floripas Embrace one and enjoy it, or do you feel too weak? I’ll gladly stay on guard here, in case the Moors appear — I’ve no desire to dally with any save the liege Who rules my heart already — my lord of Burgundy!”

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et’s leave a while the barons — but gladly I’ll continue To tell of Charlemagne, so valiant of visage! Sir Renier knelt before him, in sadness and submission: “My lord,” he said, “have mercy, for love of God, I bid you! My Oliver has vanished, whose zeal was never missing! I seek your leave tomorrow to fnd him, dead or living.” Charles nodded as he listened and flled with deepest pity. He stared across at Roland and hailed him very grimly: “Fine nephew, I am angry at your part in this business And have resolved to send you on such a sombre mission That doing it, I’m certain, will dim your lighter spirits! You’ll leave from here tomorrow for Aigremore the city And its emir, King Balan, commanding him to give me The thorny crown our Savior wore at His Crucifxion, And every other relic whose loss is our affiction. And you will also tell him to free my knights from prison! And if he seems unwilling to bide by these conditions, Then tell him I will hang him in fetters, when I’ve fnished Parading him in irons, like any thief or villain, Through every bog and quagmire that I can fnd to fing him!” “My lord,” protested Roland, “for God’s sake, reconsider! I never shall return from a meeting so malicious!” “True emperor,” said Naimon “whatever are you thinking? Sir Roland is your nephew, the son of your own sister! He’ll never reach the end of an utterance so bitter!” “Then both of you will go there and let him know my wishes!” Cried angry Charlemagne, “I swear it, by my whiskers!”

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uke Basin of Geneva, at this, began to rise. He looked at Charles, astonished, approaching him the while: “True emperor, your highness, for love of God on high, Why ever are you sending this noble pair to die? Though two should go, I’m certain that neither would survive!” 3790

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Third Geste — Desires “Then three of you will go there, and let him know my mind!” Cried angry Charlemagne, “I swear it, by my eyes!”

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he duke of the Ardennes stood up, called Thierri, And hailed the angry king as you shall hear from me: “True emperor, my lord, have mercy on all three! Though all should go, I’m sure that none will reappear.” “Then four of you shall go, to let him know my grief.” Cried angry Charlemagne, “I swear it, by my beard!”

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nother duke arose — Ogier the worthy Dane: “True emperor, my lord, pay heed to what I say: Though four should go, I’m sure they’ll not come back again.” “Then fve of you shall go, to let him know my pain, I swear it, by my eyes!” King Charlemagne raged.

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rave Normandy’s Richart could not abstain from speaking, And said to mighty Charles, “My lord, return to reason! However many men you send this evil heathen, You know that when they meet, the outcome will be evil!” “Then six of you shall go, to let him know my feelings,” King Charlemagne bawled, “Whoever this displeases!”

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ome forward, gallant Gui of Burgundy, my lord! You’re kith and kin to me,” King Charlemagne roared, “And seventh man you’ll be to see the Spanish Moor, With legal letters sealed, all clearly setting forth His need to be baptised and heed the Christian law, To have his land in peace from this agreement forth, But frst he must return our Savior’s crown of thorns, And every other sign and relic he’s purloined, And free the Frankish knights he holds in Aigremore. If Balan should refuse, or chooses to ignore, Then tell him I shall wring his greedy heathen craw!” Sir Gui replied, “My lord, your words will kill us all! You’ve seen the last of me — of that I’m very sure!” But Naimon knew the king and said, with ringing voice, “My lord, we ask your leave to start upon our course.

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Fierabras and Floripas We’ll tell the great emir each wish and word of yours. And if there’s any here we messengers before Have ever hurt or harmed by foolish deed or talk, Forgive us through your grace and love of God the Lord.” On hearing this, the tears of all began to fall, And many wrung their hands and strands of hair, distraught. On seeing this, the king took pity on their thoughts And said to all his peers, “Good gentlemen, my lords, God fold you in his arms, Who holds the world in ward!” At this, the party dressed and then they mounted horse And rode the lookout’s rise, through ridge and rocks galore, And many a heathen heath no Christian ever saw.

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et’s leave a while the Frenchmen and turn our mental gaze Towards the pagan palace of Balan, king of Spain! At Aigremore, his city, he sat, in highest rage, Upon a royal faldstool with royal gold inlaid, Surrounded by the monarchs he’d summoned there that day. The wisest one, Moradas, was frst to speak and say, “My lord emir, what is it that makes you so irate?” “The Frenchman Charlemagne is spitting in my face By seeking acquisition of everything in Spain! But mine shall be the purchase, and his the price to pay! He’ll never bring his armies to bother us again, But evermore be grateful to lie at ease in Aix, Where minstrels can amuse him with songs and merry tales, Or he can go to chapel and praise his precious faith! His hunger should be happy with what is on his plate! Moradas, go and see him in Morimonda vale And tell the hoary villain the terms he must obey: He must accept Mahomet with all his heart and brain, And free my son, our scion, King Fierabras the brave, If he would lease possession of France from me in Spain! But should he fail to follow your logic, tell him straight, One hundred thousand pagans and I will soon explain! And if you meet with Christians upon the road you take, Behead them and present them to mighty Charles the great!” “My lord,” replied Moradas, “we envoys will be slain!

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Third Geste — Desires The French are wicked felons, rank infdels and knaves! If they’re at all offended by what we start to say, They’ll haul us off for torture before we end the phrase! I say this not to spite you, the bravest of the brave, And not because I’m frightened — you know I’m not afraid. Whenever I’m in battle and barter blows in hate, If I don’t slay a dozen before I stay my blade, I bid you, nay I beg you, to kill me straightaway!” His fellow kings responded, “My lord, and we the same!” On saying this, they left him and armed themselves in haste, Then leapt astride the saddles of rested destriers. With banners on their lances they galloped through the gates And passed, as fast as fury, the bridge of Mautriblez. Duke Naimon, on his journey, looked up and saw the swathe Of pagan fags abillow upon their windy way: “Dear God above,” he shouted, “what now, for heaven’s sake?” Richart replied, the Norman, “My lord, don’t be dismayed! Their number is but twenty or thirty, I should say. Our banners sweep as bravely, and braver still our blades!” On saying this, they headed their horses straightaway Towards the pagan party, with loose and fowing reins. Moradas was the frst one to see them as they came. Well armed upon his charger, he shouted in their face, “You seven, are you Christians? If so, you’d better pray!” “Sir Arrogant,” said Naimon, “forego your vaunting vein! We’re knights of Charlemagne, the monarch strong and brave, Who travel with a message to the emir of Spain.” On hearing this, Moradas asked angrily again: “And have you hearts for fghting as well as tongues to prate?” Said Naimon, “Both are ready to use as God dictates!” “Then which one,” said Moradas, “will face me in debate?” Said Naimon, “I can answer to any charge you make!” King Moradas responded, “You’ve not the brawn or brain, For I could knock the wind out of ten old men a day! Your head’s too white and woolly to claim or counterclaim!” He called to his companions and asked for them to wait: “My lords, attend a moment the judgment of this place! Whatever is the verdict, don’t leave until it’s made,

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Fierabras and Floripas Then lead them to the court of King Balan and their fate!” 3900 On hearing this, the anger rose up in Roland’s face. He shouted to Moradas: “Enough of this charade! I’ll be your judge and jury, and hangman too, I pray!” With this, he set the spur to his war-horse Wide-Awake, And mighty blows they bartered on bucklers gold inlaid, That broke aside the bosses, of gold alike, and shaved The sturdy mail beneath them, that saved them from the grave. Both weapons snapped — no wonder they couldn’t take the strain — And, reaching to their scabbards, they drew aloft their blades. Sir Roland, Charles’s nephew, released a blow so great 3910 Upon the pagan’s helmet, its gems were hacked away, And Durendal was bathed in King Moradas’s brain. With twisting hand he fung him upon the grass of May. On seeing this, the others were frightened and enraged. They said to one another, “What hope have we today, If Moradas is beaten, whose valor was his fame? At least let us avenge him as swiftly as we may!” On saying this, they parted, both embassies the same, And started to deliver their messages of hate! If only you had been there and seen them in the fray, 3920 You’d not forget how fnely the barons plied their trade: Their swords did all the talking till naught was left to say! Just one of Balan’s envoys was able to escape, Not stopping till he’d galloped to Aigremore again, And bounded up the stairway to Balan’s hall of state. The great emir, astonished, addressed him straightaway: “What cheer, my worthy envoy? What news imbues your haste?” The messenger responded, “Our quest has been waylaid! We met with seven cutthroats a mile past Mautriblez — All men of Charlemagne, whose beard is white with age, 3930 They’re riding here to charge you in Charlemagne’s name! Each leader that you honored as messenger is slain, Except for me, your highness — I managed to escape.” King Balan heard in horror, then almost went insane!

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et’s leave him to his raving and turn our heads to hear King Charlemagne’s envoys and see their gallant deeds! With weary limbs from fghting, the gallant barons leaned Or lay upon the meadow amid the grass of green. “My noble lords,” said Naimon, “how now shall we proceed? If my advice is wanted, I counsel us to leave! Let’s tell King Charlemagne of what has happened here. He’ll not despise the harvest our trusty swords have gleaned!” “My hoary lord,” said Roland, “it’s not enough for me! As long as God enforces my sword of graven steel, I’ll not return, I tell you, till I’ve seen the emir! Let’s do a deed that merits the praises of our peers: Let’s show the heads we’ve taken to everyone we meet Upon our way to give them to Balan the emir!” The duke at once retorted, “Let’s what, you crazy fend? You’d damn us all to torture and death that’s guaranteed!” But Thierri of Ardennes said, “For one, I cheer his speech!” And so said all the others — and so they turned to leave, Attaching to their saddles two heathen trophies each! With every haste they mounted and left upon their steeds. Duke Naimon was the frst one to peer ahead and see The mighty bridge Mautriblez, so famous and so feared!

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ttend to me, my lords!” Duke Naimon said and pointed, “See Aigremore, our goal! Its arches soar before us!” Ogier the Dane replied, “No, that is but its border Called Mautriblez, as is the famous bridge before it, Whose thirty marble vaults protect it like a fortress. In strong cement and lead their stone bestrides the waters, With ten defensive posts from end to end that quarter A dozen soldiers each, who guard it night and morning. Its walls from end to end are solid and enormous — Some sixty feet in height they measure at their smallest. I couldn’t guess the length it spans from either shoreline. I know a hundred knights can pass across on horseback. At either end are chains, attached across a causeway, That they can raise, or drop for access to be thwarted.

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Fierabras and Floripas The bridge’s stone is ribbed with marble reinforcements, And eagles, made of gold, catch every sunbeam falling, And shine like summer suns on every span and corner. One league away, they say, they glitter as a warning. I’ve heard all this before, although I never saw it. The riverbank itself is twelve feet off the water, Which fows with greater speed than arrow from its drawstring. No boat can cross its fow or even make a mooring. A wicked giantess defends the river foreshore, 3980 Who bears a giant mace of steel and copper forging. No hero in the world, however strong or dauntless, Can swing a pole so well, so fast and so adroitly, As she does when she lifts her wicked mace towards you. This is Mautriblez Bridge — the ridge that any mortal Must pass before he sees the evil king, its warden!” “Then how shall we proceed?” his comrades said in chorus. “My lords,” Richart replied, “don’t let it stop or stall us! As long as God protects the edges of my sword blade, I fear no soaring bridge or any Moors aboard it! I swear by God the Lord, Who bore the cross’s torment, 3990 If I should meet him frst, I’ll fell the bridge’s porter!” Old Naimon cried at once, “You’ll what, you crazy Norman? You’d sow a blow you know will harvest seven slaughters? By good St. Peter’s soul, that watches heaven’s portal, I’ll get us past the guard — but I must do the talking!” This said and heard they spurred and sped their horses forward.

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he bridge’s porter saw them and held them in his gaze While, dashing from their quarters, one hundred heathens came With halberds on their shoulders, a mighty pole or mace. The French approached the crossing, and leading them that day 4000 Was wily old Duke Naimon, his whiskers white with age. The porter bustled forward and, seizing Naimon’s rein, Demanded very brusquely, “And what brings you this way?” The duke at once responded, “Without a lie, I say We’re men of Charlemagne, the monarch strong and brave, Who’s sent us with a message, to Aigremore from Aix,

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Third Geste — Desires That we must give to Balan, the gallant and the great — Although he keeps his borders and country far from safe: We met a dozen cutthroats among the Spanish dales, 4010 Who tried to stop and rob us of our good destriers. But, thank the Lord, they suffered a hazard of their trade: We played a game of cutthroat that took their heads away!” On hearing this, and looking, the porter flled with rage, Then cried aloud to Naimon, “Proud vassal, hear me straight! The toll I take is heavy, and you will have to pay!” The duke replied, “I’m willing! What payment must we make?” The pagan porter answered, “A heavy one, that’s made Of seven hundred freedmen, from servant thrall reclaimed, A hundred hunting falcons and maidens that are chaste, A thousand sturdy palfreys, a thousand steeds the same — 4020 Each hoof of which will cost you a thousand marks each way — And fnally four sumpters with gold and silver laid. The king himself determines the toll that he will take, And if a man refuses to pay the proper rate, His head and heart are forfeit and taken in exchange!” “Good porter,” answered Naimon, “if that is all it takes, We’ll have it here, I promise, and well before midday — One hundred thousand guardsmen are with our baggage-train, And plenty of young maidens, who every day are chased, And sturdy shields and helmets and shining coats of mail: 4030 Man, you can have as many as your desiring craves!” At once the porter answered, “This bargain is well made!” He dropped the rein and Naimon passed over Mautriblez! Sir Roland, Charles’s nephew, laughed loudly in his wake And said, “Well done, Sir Naimon! Well spoken, on my faith! A heavy toll we’ll levy upon this bridge today!” Sir Roland started forward, whose daring was his fame, And saw a pagan leaning across the bridge’s rail. “Ah God,” he said, “Whose glory and honor never fail, Let me at last do something that earns a little praise!” 4040 So, jumping from the saddle straight off his destrier, He ran towards the pagan and grabbed him by the waist, Then hurled him in the torrents with all valor’s hate. Duke Naimon, looking round him, caught sight of this, amazed,

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Fierabras and Floripas And saw the pagan tossing and turning in the spray. “Dear God above,” he muttered, “Who bore the cross’s bane, This reckless scion Roland will kill us all one day! What devil drove his uncle to bring him into Spain?”

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nd so, at last, they passed the mighty bridge together, And rode to Aigremore, with rein unchecked and steady, 4050 Until they reached its gate, through which at once they entered. Inside they gazed, amazed, upon the city’s center, Where sparrow hawks galore were roosting or were resting, And pigs were being roasted, and roaring bears were tethered. They stopped a passing Moor and asked the haughty fellow, “Where is the great emir? We’ve many things to tell him!” The Moor replied, “Indeed? Your hash is quickly settled! He’s over there, you see — that shady tree’s his shelter.” Duke Naimon said, “My lords, let me have Charles’s letters, And listen when I speak, for frstly I’ll address him.” 4060 “I want to speak as well!” cried Roland, brave of temper, But Naimon said at once, “You what, you crazy Frenchman? You’ll kill us all, I’m sure, before today has ended!” The palace ground they found and sauntered through its entrance Straight up to the emir, not stopping till they met him. Duke Naimon spoke the frst, and thus it was addressed him: “May God, the one and three, Who dwells in highest heaven, Bless Charlemagne’s quest, our strong and true defender, His peers and Oliver, and Roland, Charles’s nephew. But may he curse a king who governs so ineptly 4070 That so much of his land is prey to thieves and felons! Beyond your famous bridge, some ffteen, in a meadow Attempted to purloin our steeds and our possessions! But God has made them pay a very heavy penance: Behold their severed heads, and hold it to our credit!” On seeing this, the Moor was wrought beyond expression, When who should come but he who’d had to fee the Frenchmen, And, in a voice that rang, sang out as he beheld them: “All powerful emir the time is here for vengeance! These villains are indeed the men who killed your envoys!” 4080 The pagan found his tongue: “Their words alone condemn them!

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Third Geste — Desires Gray-bearded duke,” he growled, “continue with your message!” “Of course!” the duke replied, “Your order is my pleasure! Now listen to the terms that Charlemagne sends you: Our Savior’s thorny crown must be returned directly To Charles, whose anger glows for all the Roman relics, Together with his knights your dungeon holds in fetters. Emir, if you refuse to follow these directions, Our king will string you up, with all your heathen henchmen! But frst, around your throat, he’ll tie a silky neckband And drag you like a dog upon a lengthy tether Through every bog he fnds to shame you for your errors!” The great emir replied, “Your words offend my presence! Sit over there at once and hold your tongue, decrepit! I’ll hear from all the rest, whose text had best be better! I swear by good Mahom, whose loving law I cherish, No food shall pass my lips till you have been beheaded!” “God willing,” said the duke, “your fast will last forever!”

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ichart was next to speak, the noble Norman duke: “Nubian lord,” he said, “I too have words for you Which come from Charlemagne, whose beard is white of hue. He bids you be baptised to live in Christian truth! But frst you must return the thorny crown that bruised Our Savior’s brow, and all the relics you removed, Together with the knights you’ve taken and entombed. But, as his letters say, emir, if you refuse, Our king will string you up, with all your heathen crew!” The great emir replied, “Your tongue offends me too! And what is more, you look just like the Norman duke Who slew King Corsublez and my uncle Maltru. If I had old Richart in Aigremore, not you, No food would pass my throat till his was in a noose! Sit over there at once, along with that buffoon! I’ll hear from all the rest, whose text had best be true!”

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uke Basin of Geneva rose swiftly to his feet And hailed the haughty Balan exactly as you’ll hear: “My words are Charlemagne’s, the king of Saint-Denis:

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Fierabras and Floripas You must return the relics for which his kingdom weeps, And all the noble barons imprisoned in your keep. If you delay or scruple to do as he decrees, He’ll string you up and hang you upon a gallows tree!” “Your message is an insult!” replied the great emir. “Sit over there, I tell you, beside your fellow fends! I’ll hear from all the others, whose text had better please!”

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uke Thierri of Ardennes jumped swiftly with a thump! He curled his lip and snarled, he bared his teeth and tongue And looked just like a wolf, his hairy hackles up! On seeing this, the Moor was frightened very much And cried, “By all the gods, this fend’s Beelzebub!” “Emir,” the hero growled, “my text is brief enough, 4130 But from my master’s mouth each morsel of it comes! Return to Christian hands what heathen claws have clutched! If you refuse to do as he and we instruct, Then from a gallows tree our king will have you hung!” The pagan said, “Your mood is far too rude and rough!”

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ude vassal,” said the pagan, “don’t lie or play the fool, But speak of Charles’s valor, his manhood and repute Among the Christian women he dallies with and woos!” The noble duke responded, “I’ll never hide the truth: Our king is very gallant and very worthy too. 4140 I’m sure if he were with us and saw your present mood, He’d box your ears directly to show you who was who! He doesn’t give a button for heathen gods or you!” The pagan laughed with malice on hearing this rebuke, Then slowly said, “So tell me, by all you hold as true, If I were in your power, as you are mine, sir duke — For here you are as helpless as in my vaulted rooms — My friend, how would you treat me? Don’t lie or play the fool!” Duke Thierri responded, “I’ll never hide the truth. Before the hour of complin I’d have you in a noose!” 4150 King Balan cried, “The folly of Christian text is proved! Should I ‘do unto others as they should do to you’?

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ing Charles’s nephew Roland leapt up at this and cried, “Attend to me, King Balan, and hold your peace a while! The king of France has spoken, and this you must abide: You must believe in Jesus and duly be baptised, And then return the relics whose plunder was a crime, Together with the barons you’ve captured and confned. If you ignore the orders these letters have prescribed, The king of France will slay you or fay your heathen hide.” The great emir responded, “You slander me and mine! Sit over there, I tell you, beside your fellow knights, While I attend this other, whose text had best be kind! I swear by great Mahomet, my guardian and my guide, I shall not eat a morsel until I’ve seen you die!” “God willing,” answered Roland, “your fast will last for life! Emir, I do not fear you the slightest mote or mite!”

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gier the worthy Dane rose up till he was standing Above the great emir, and hailed him in this fashion: “Attend to me a while and hold your peace, King Balan! The king of France has said that this is what must happen: You must return to him the relics of the Passion, Together with the knights that you have taken captive. If you refuse to do as I have said you have to, Our king will have you hung, with no reprieve or ransom.” The great emir replied, “Your words offend me badly! Sit over there, I say, beside the other madmen! I’ll listen to this last, whose text had best be gladder!”

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he last to stand that day was Gui of Burgundy, Who hailed the great emir as you yourselves shall hear: “The mighty Charles decrees, the king of Saint-Denis, That you must be baptised and change your old beliefs. The lessons you must learn are ones that I can teach. Undo your robe and hose, and shoes upon your feet,

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Fierabras and Floripas And bear alone the shirt you’re wearing underneath. Then load upon your back the saddle of a steed And walk the road to Charles in penance for your deeds. If you refuse to do the bidding of our liege, You’ll burn alive or hang; he offers no reprieve!” The great emir replied, “Your words offend my ears! I swear by great Mahom, who never fails the need, I’ll eat no meat at all until you’ve ceased to breathe!” “God willing,” Gui replied, “your fast will last for years!”

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ing Balan turned his back in anger and dismay, And called upon Brulanz to meet him straightaway, With Sortinbrans of Coinbres and other peers the same: “My loyal lords,” he said, “what action should we take?” Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, these seven should be slain, Then we should ride in force, on horses swift of pace, To Charlemagne’s camp in Morimonda vale. He truly must be mad. Let’s drag the fool away And hang in Aigremore this head-without-a-brain! At Saint-Denis in France your head shall take its place!” Said Balan, “So be it! Mount up, in Mahom’s name!”

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ow Floripas the fair had heard their voices ringing, And left the room she shared to go downstairs and listen. Across the ground and grove she strode till she was with them, Then called the great emir to say what she was thinking: 4210 “My father,” said the maid, “please answer me, I bid you: What barons have we here? Don’t lie or keep it hidden!” “My daughter,” said the Moor, “from land of France they’ve ridden The road to Aigremore to plague us all with insults! Good daughter, tell me now, what treatment should I give them?” “My lord,” the maid replied, “the remedy is simple. Remove their arms and legs, then take the rest and fing it Upon a burning pyre outside the city’s limits!” “Good daughter,” said the Moor, “your cure’s a sure and swift one! We shall apply it all and naught shall be omitted! 4220 Now fetch the other fve and bring them here from prison!” But Floripas replied, “My lord, it’s time for dinner!

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Third Geste — Desires I fear, O great emir, if you proceed so strictly, Your plighted fast will last until the day’s half fnished! Give me these men to guard, fne father, and consider: Your dinner can be done as their desert’s beginning!” “Good daughter,” said the Moor, “your words have wit and wisdom!” Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, your own have neither in them! Are you prepared to let a woman’s wiles convince you? 4230 It seems that you forget what happened to Duke Milon, Who loved Girart so much he knighted and equipped him With arms that in the end usurped his son Garsilon, And stole his daughter’s heart, the lovely faced Galienne?” When this was said the maid felt all her passions kindle, And with these very words she hailed the haughty villain: “You harlot’s son! You wretch!” she quavered as she quivered: “If I could but escape the blame of other women, I’d strike you such a blow upon your loathsome visage The crimson blood would fow from nose to mouth and fll it!” “Good daughter,” said the Moor, “no more of this ill spirit! 4240 Remove these men and do according to your wishes!” Fair Floripas replied, “If that is your decision.” Then said to all the French, “My lords, attend me quickly!” Good people, none was loath to follow her as bidden!

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ear God,” old Naimon sighed, “Who dwells in might above: Was ever maiden made that matched this lovely one? How warm a glow would tan the man who had the luck Of catching this one’s eye and basking in its sun!” Count Roland said at once, “I’ve never heard you thus! What devil, hoary duke, has tuned your tongue to love?” 4250 “Good youth,” replied the duke, “I too was youthful once!” Said Floripas, “My lords, I’ll hear no more — enough! I haven’t brought you here to hear your idle tongues!” At this they reached her room, and once inside it, shut And barred the door once more, lest anyone should come. Count Roland saw his friend and, running up, they hugged. “My bosom friend,” he cried, “what cheer, dear God above?” “Thank God indeed, I’m well, and whole!” said Oliver. Said Floripas, “My lords, let what must be, be done:

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Fierabras and Floripas Each one of you must pledge your service and your trust To me and my desires, with no deceitfulness, So I may reach the end of what I have begun.” “Most gladly,” said the duke, “but you must pledge to us That we shall not be lost when you have done and won!” “Most willingly I swear,” replied fair Floripas, And striding forth, she swore that she would injure none. On saying this, she grasped old Naimon’s belt in front And said, “And who are you, Sir Old-but-bold-of-blood?” “Fine lady,” said the duke, “I warm to you at once! Duke Naimon I am called, born in Bavaria. King Charlemagne’s man, his closest counsellor!” “Charles misses you, I’m sure, by God!” said Floripas.

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hen Floripas took boldly Richart of Normandy: “And you, sir, what is your name, whose face with valor gleams?” “I am Richart the Norman, that duchy’s lord and liege.” The maid replied: “Mahomet! I’ve cursed your former deeds! You killed my lord Ducàbel and my uncle Matreez! But never fear my vengeance for what has passed and been.”

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hen Floripas took hold of Count Roland’s belt and cried: “And you sir, what is your name, whose face with valor shines?” 4280 “My lady, I’m the son of the Breton leader Miles: My given name is Roland, and has been all my life! I’m Charlemagne’s nephew, whose visage glows with might.” “Ah, God be praised in heaven!” the lovely maid replied, And, falling down before him, for mercy’s sake she sighed. Count Roland raised her quickly, whose heart was proud and high, As Floripas addressed him and all the rest besides: “My heroes, you must help me accomplish my design!” “My lady,” said Count Roland, “most truly we shall try. But tell us how, fair maiden, and what you have in mind.” 4290 Fair Floripas responded, “The truth, without a lie, Is that I love a Frenchman, a brave and dashing knight.” “And who is he, fair lady?” asked Roland, brave alike.

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Third Geste — Desires “Most willingly I’ll name him,” the lovely maid replied, “It is Sir Gui the Burgund, who fghts in armor bright!” “Upon my soul,” said Roland, “he stands before your eyes, A leap away, this moment, from you and me alike!” “My lord, then he’s the husband of whom I’d be the wife!” “Upon my soul,” said Roland, “your wish won’t be denied! Sir Gui,” he called, “come forward and claim her as your bride!” “My lord,” the youth responded, “please God, I’ll never plight My heart or hand to marriage at this or any time Without the king’s instruction, suggestion or desire.” At this, the Maiden shuddered, her passion all afre. She swore upon Mahomet: “If he objects, then I Will hang you all on gibbets — like fapping fags you’ll fy!” “Sir Gui,” implored young Roland, “for all our sakes, comply!” “My lord,” Sir Gui responded, “I’ll do as you require.” And, stepping up beside her, betrothed her in their sight. “Dear God,” exclaimed the princess, “I’ll serve You till I die, For here on earth You’ve blest me with all that I desired! Because of Gui I’ll gladly believe and recognise The power and the glory of Your Son Jesus Christ.” She hung to Gui and hugged him to show him her delight, But didn’t dare to kiss him upon the lips or eyes, For she was still a pagan and still unsanctifed. Then Floripas, the princess of face and fgure fne, Walked over to a casket and fung it open wide. She grasped a silken blanket that covered all inside And placed it on her fooring of green and gleaming tile. My friends, she laid upon it the thorny crown of Christ, The nails that pierced His body, the holy shroud alike, And then she said to Roland: “Behold, most noble knight, Before you is the treasure you’ve journeyed far to fnd.” The barons stood in wonder and marvelled at the sight: “Dear God above,” said Roland, “we praise the Love Divine!” And then he kissed the crown of Christ Jesus crucifed. My friends, we’ll leave the barons and Floripas a while, And hear again of Balan, whom we had left behind With all his knights and barons about to sit and dine.

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Fierabras and Floripas But as they did, another rushed up the steps outside: King Lucifer of Baldas — the cruellest man this side The Red Sea or the Dead Sea, or so the record writes.

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ing Lucifer bestrode the vaulted palace building, And, seeing the emir, called out, in accents ringing: “My lord, is this a fact, or fantasy and fction? Has Fierabras your son, the fercest fghter living Or ever having lived, been humbled by a Christian?” “In faith, he has indeed, why should I keep it hidden? A Frenchman brought him down on Morimonda’s ridges. King Brulanz sought revenge, and with Nubia’s princes He captured fve of theirs, who now are in my prison. And seven more I’ve caught, who came here on a mission, But angered me with threats, insulting our religion. My daughter Floripas has forced them to go with her.” Said Lucifer, “My lord, that shows a lack of wisdom, For women change their minds at any moment given! My lord, I’ll go to her, if you will but permit me, And fnd out who they are, these envoys so malicious!” “Of course,” said the emir, “Mahomet bless your visit! Then bring my daughter here, so fair of face and fgure.” So Lucifer strode off to his beloved princess: Each step upon his way was one towards perdition! If he’d have known, I say, just how his day would fnish, He’d not have trod that path for all of Russia’s riches!

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ing Lucifer of Baldas was very proud and ferce. He swaggered to her chamber, whose marble pillars gleamed, His pride so overweening he didn’t call or speak But raised his foot, his right one, though neither one was weak, And struck its door so strongly the hinges few their niche, 4360 And door and all fell backwards upon the foor beneath. On seeing this, the color fed Floripas’s cheek, But still she challenged Roland and told him: “Gallant peer, If I am here to help you, then you must help me here! This animal has threatened to marry me in brief — But there’s no crueller pagan from here to Balaguer.

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Third Geste — Desires He’s beaten down my doorway to harry you and me!” “Fair lady,” answered Roland, “you’ve nothing more to fear. But let him learn some manners before he turns to leave. He’ll fnd he’s never damaged a door that cost so dear!” The pagan raged towards them, in fury at the scene, And though they all had weapons, he showed no bit of fear. The frst one he accosted was Naimon, sere of years, Whose head, without its helmet, was plain for him to see. The pagan ran towards him and, clutching at his beard, He pulled the duke against him and whisked him off his feet. He stared him in the eyeballs and then he bared his teeth: “Old cretin, where are you from? No lying or deceit!” “So help me God,” said Naimon, “you’ll hear the truth indeed! Bavaria’s the homeland of which I am the liege. I serve King Charlemagne as counsellor-in-chief, And all these other barons are men of high degree. We traveled here as envoys from Charles to the emir, But what we had to tell him was not what he would hear. And now, my tender gallant, release my hoary beard, Or I shall tell you nothing — although you’ve much to learn!” The Moor responded archly, “Oh, do forgive me, please! So teach me of the Frenchmen, and tell me truthfully Of nobles’ lives and leisure in lovely France the sweet.” Said Naimon, “When the monarch has dined with all his peers, They go outside together, for pleasure, to compete In fencing bouts or races upon the meadow leas, Or some to play backgammon or chess upon the green. They hear a Mass each morning and live the Christian creed By giving up their riches, with willing hands and free, And fghting for Our Savior with every might and means: When Frenchmen come to battle they never yield the feld.” The Moor said, “By Mahomet, they sound like fools to me!”

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ou Christians don’t know how to live or how to play! You French don’t even know the game called ‘Blow the Flame’!” “In truth, I’ve never heard a word about the game.” “Old man, then you must learn — I’ll teach you straightaway!”

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Fierabras and Floripas At this he marched the duke towards the fery grate, As Roland nudged Berart, the lord of Montdidier: “My friend, you’ll never see a game like this again: Tell everyone to watch how well old Naimon plays!” Young Lucifer bent down to choose a burning cane. He chose the hottest brand that lay within the blaze, And blew so hard the fames leapt off and few away: Then, turning to the duke, he said, “Now, blow the fame!” And Naimon took the brand — but gave the rules a change! He strode towards the Moor and left him little space To move in, right or left, which mystifed the knave. Then suddenly he blew, and when they few, the fames Lit Lucifer’s great beard and whiskers just the same! Then Naimon swung his fst and punched him in the face So heftily the Moor was almost foored with pain! He roared aloud and rushed at Naimon once again, His visage twice as red, with injury and rage! But Naimon, who was old but very strong and brave, With brand in hand, attacked and snapped the fery cane Against the pagan’s neck — the force of it so great That both his heathen eyes few straight inside the fames. Then Naimon picked him up and tossed him in the grate! “You devil,” cried the duke, “God send you to your fate! You thought I was a fool, a bear for you to bait!” At this, young Roland cried, “Upon my Christian faith, I have to say, my lord, you’re good at playing games! God bless the arm that strikes as yours has done today!” “My lord,” the duke replied, “I’ll not be mocked or shamed! This pagan chose to warm his wits against my age — I’d say the heat he took has overcooked his brains!” Said Floripas, “My lords, let’s leave him there to bake: I know he loves a fre — he’ll never move away! He’ll never need me now to warm his bed, I’d say. My father’s will it was, that I should wed the knave — I would have chosen death before I had obeyed!” She put her lovely hands around Duke Naimon’s waist: “I’ll always love you, sir, for what you did today.”

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aid Floripas, “My lords, now listen to my plan: My father and his men stand frmly, man to man, And they admired this peer as much as Fierabras. If you are found in here, when Lucifer’s not back, A world of Christian gold won’t save you from the rack! So arm yourselves in helms of jeweled green and snatch Whatever shields you see, as quickly as you can — For men in arms are wolves, and those without are lambs! You can’t remain, my lords, or else you’ll all be trapped. Escape across the hall that’s trimmed with golden bands. Spare nobody at all, the lowly nor the grand!” “Well spoken!” said the French, “We’ll do exactly that!” And straightaway they laced the leather cap and straps Of helms about their heads and swords about their fanks: With shields aloft, they left the maiden’s room and ran, Advancing brave as lions, two men in every rank! Too bad for any Moors who strayed upon their tracks — They slew them with their swords in merciless attacks!

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he sun began to set, and with the fading light, The Frenchmen left the room and hurried, side by side. Count Roland led the way, most valiant of knights. 4460 Like all the rest he raised his naked blade to strike, And very soon they found the Saracens inside. “Mountjoy! Display your pride!” the gallant Roland cried. And so they did, at once, not one of them was shy! Count Roland struck Corsublez and split him down the spine, While Oliver fung dead King Cosdruez the wild. Each one of France’s peers displayed their peerless might, And all the dinner served to the emir that night Was scattered on the ground or clattered from their knives, Together with the mugs and goblets full of wine! 4470 The diners fell themselves, and many of them died, Though many ran and jumped through windows left and right Of Balan’s graven hall to save their craven lives. The great emir himself leapt up and took to fight As Roland gave him chase, his face with anger bright,

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Fierabras and Floripas His wrists awash with blood that soaked him elbow high: “Emir, your death is near!” with ringing voice he cried. On hearing this, the Moor was seized with dreadful fright And ran towards an arch that framed a window’s light. 4480 With every haste he chased towards the arch and climbed Upon the lookout’s ledge above the moat, and dived! Count Roland’s graven sword slashed everything in sight, But only struck the stone — twelve inches deep and wide! Said Oliver, “My friend, he’s got away this time!” “Worse luck!” his friend replied, “But rest assured, he’s mine!” The Frenchmen took the keep, the hall and walls alike, And slaughtered every Moor who’d thought they’d come to dine, Before they closed the gates and drew the drawbridge high. I hope to God the Moors left food enough behind — The French could hope for naught from anyone outside 4490 In tent or lodge, unless they won it in a fght. No Moor in Aigremore would help them to survive. Without their army’s help, they still were bound to die! Behold the great emir, who’d fallen from the heights: Afoat, inside the moat, he fainted more than twice Before his senses cleared and, looking round, he cried, “For great Mahomet’s sake, where are you, men of mine? Without your helping hands, I’ll never leave alive!” On hearing this, Brulanz of Montmirree arrived With Sortinbrans, the king’s frst counsellor and guide. 4500 “My lord,” the latter said, “in future, be advised: The danger of a road increases with its miles! And on a harder road an older dog survives!” “Don’t sermonise me now!” the great emir replied. “This crime shall be avenged before three days expire! Sound every horn at once! My men shall turn the tide!” “My lord,” said Sortinbrans, “I’ll do as you desire, But soon the setting sun will leave us naught but night. Defer your plan, emir, until the morning light, And give your men the time to gather and unite.” 4510 Said Balan, “Learned man, I’ll do as you advise. Ah Lucifer, my lord, your fate has weighted mine! You’ll not return — I know the French have claimed your life!

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Third Geste — Desires But by the god who rules the motions of my mind, I swear to lay a siege, as soon as dawn arrives, That I shall never lift, for any storm or ice, Till I have breached the walls and captured all inside! Their bodies shall be drawn until we’ve bled them dry, And Floripas, the whore, will suffer death by fre. The French will have to yield when they behold our size, Or scurry to the felds when they’ve no more supplies. Their king won’t bring his force this far, for I surmise The bridge at Mautriblez flls even him with fright!” “We’ll do as you have said,” King Sortinbrans replied. So, with their counsel done, and everyone apprised, They reached their readied tents, and when it turned to night They slept until the sun began to rise and shine. At dawn so many Moors had mustered and arrived The line of all their tents went longer than a mile! The king addressed his men and told them that his pride Would never lift the siege, however long the fght! May Jesus shine His light upon the French inside — They’ll never see their way to freedom otherwise.

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he Frenchmen had the tower, a strong one and an old one. The pagans struck its walls with arrows and with boulders That threatened not at all as most fell in the moat there. At this, King Balan hailed Malbrun of Agramola: No burglar was his peer this side the frozen ocean. “Good man, I have a plan that only you can shoulder! If Floripas’s belt, the magic one, were stolen, 4540 These villains won’t survive for long against my soldiers. If you can steal the belt, I swear by all that’s holy, I’ll give you so much gold one cart will never hold it. But while she wears the belt, their purpose won’t be broken.” “My lord,” the villain said, “the dead of night’s my moment! I swear that ere the light of morning bright is showing, The maiden’s magic belt won’t be where she supposes!” On hearing this, the king was happy, and he showed it. And so, as daylight dimmed, and dark of night was growing, The robber sought repose till dead of night awoke him. 4550

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Fierabras and Floripas Then, stealing to the moat, he stealthily crossed over And clambered up the tower, more agile in his motion Than squirrels in the woods when springing up the oak trees. He slithered in the room, on silent feet, unnoticed, And hastened to observe the Frenchmen and their hostess. He tried the chamber door, but fnding it was bolted, He spoke an evil spell and, lo, the doorway opened. He lit a candle next, upon the fre, and noticed The Frenchmen in the room, who lay asleep or dozing. 4560 He spoke another spell that left their bodies frozen In such a heavy trance that nothing would have woken. But Gui of Burgundy, his eyes with valor glowing, Was in another room that looked upon the ocean, To spy upon the host assembled in the open. The villain didn’t halt, but hurried through, approaching The lovely maiden fair, who lay there bare and golden. He felt and found the belt around her waist, and stole it, Then by its golden clasp he grasped it round his own one. He saw the maiden there, so lovely and unknowing, And felt his passion grow, and his desire to show it. 4570 So, leaping in the bed, he held her to him closely. At once the maid awoke and shrieked in high emotion: “St. Mary, blessed maid, and queen of all that’s holy, Where are you, men of France? I’ll suffer for your slowness!” With tousled hair, the maids arrived in great commotion, But when they looked and saw the blackamoor, the boldest Spun round and sped instead to reach their door and bolt it! The wicked thief meanwhile forced Floripas below him And would have stolen more than just a kiss, I know it, When Gui at last perceived her grieving and her groaning, 4580 And rushed inside her room to see what they betokened. Good people, rest assured that what he saw provoked him! “Maid, never fear, I’m here!” he cried in tones so stony They struck the villain’s ears and fung him from her shoulders. Too late! The Frenchman’s sword rebuked the Moor so nobly It split him, wits to waist, and slit the belt he’d stolen. His candle, like his life, went out that very moment, And then, at once, the spell he’d cast from hell was broken.

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Third Geste — Desires The Frenchmen woke at once, and then the youngster told them The scene in which he’d been, and how it had unfolded. 4590 On saying this, they thrust the villain through a hole there, The belt as well, which hung in halves upon his clothing. I wish to God their thrust could not have been so robust — His body and the belt went plunging in the ocean! Its wizardry was worth a tower full of gold dust — A fact they really rued once Floripas had told them, Although, in truth, they knew that grieving gets you nowhere. They comforted the maid, composed her and consoled her. Outside the dawn appeared, and when the sun was showing, The pagans seized their arms, those Saracen no-hopers, 4600 Resolved to take the tower and those who had opposed them!

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utside, the dawn was glowing, and soon the sun appeared. The pagans seized their weapons and donned their battle gear. King Balan called together Brulanz of Montmirree And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, his counsellors-in-chief: “My worthy lords, advise me with wisdom and with speed. Our thief has not reported — they’ve captured him, I fear.” “My lord, I truly think so,” old Sortinbrans agreed. “Sound every horn, exhorting your army to proceed!” “At once! Attend the order!” replied the great emir. 4610 The air was split asunder as brassy trumpets pealed And mangonels made ready to set the tower to siege. They catapulted boulders to breach the wall between, But none of them could reach it to worry in the least The captives in the tower, God guard them all and each! But when they had no water, no bread or any wheat, The princess and her maidens turned very wan and weak. Fair Floripas, she fainted as color fed her cheeks, And Gui the gallant caught her and tended to her ease, Beside himself with worry, with bitter rage and grief: 4620 “Companions,” he addressed them, “attend a while to me! Our stronghold is a weakness, for none of us can leave, And none of us has eaten for over half a week. These lovely maids are dying of hunger, and if we Should lose them in this manner how shameful that would be!

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Fierabras and Floripas I swear by good St. Peter, the keeper of the keys, I’d rather feel the anguish of ten attacking spears Than that of not attempting to get some food to eat — Enough for these young maidens to live upon, at least! 4630 I say we arm for battle and with our swords of steel Go down upon the meadows and pillage their marquees! I’d rather die with honor than live in shameful need!” Each one of them responded, “You speak the truth, indeed.” “There’s something else the matter!” the maiden intervened: “Your God is not as mighty as He’s supposed to be! If only you had worshipped the gods that we believe, You woudn’t now be fasting but sitting at a feast!” “Fair maiden,” answered Roland, “then show us what you mean. If your gods aren’t as idle as all their idols seem, Then let them fll our stomachs and bring to our relief 4640 The whole of Charles’s army — I swear, if they succeed, Then we shall serve them gladly and glorify their creed.” Fair Floripas responded, “Good barons, come with me!” And hurried as, before them, she seized a ring of keys. She took them to a passage that led them underneath Towards a mosque whose doorway she opened to reveal The idols of Apollo and Tervagant the fend, Of Jupiter and Margos and others such as these. Of purest gold their molding, the fnest in the East. The roots of spice and rushes were strewn about their feet, 4650 And everywhere was scented with mint and balsam sweet. A treasure past all measure was there for all to see. “Just look at this, companions!” said Burgundy’s Sir Gui. “I’ve never seen such treasure, but what a waste it seems! This temple has more riches than Christendom’s demesne! I wish to God in heaven, Who governs all and each, That we could carry Jove here to Rouen, Richart’s fef, And let it fund his church of the Holy Trinity! Our king should have the others to keep in his marquees: Their gold could pay his soldiers and honor worthy peers, 4660 Or serve as reparation for all the damage wreaked On Rome and in St. Peter’s by pagans in their greed.” Said Floripas, “Good vassal, your words are indiscrete!

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Third Geste — Desires Repent and offer worship, and they will heed our pleas!” “How can they?” answered Ogier, “They have no ears to hear!” Sir Gui replied, “Exactly! They’re all stone-deaf indeed! What’s more, their eyes are open, and yet they’re sound asleep!” On saying this, he took one and cast it on the reeds, While Ogier struck another, that fell and split its teeth! 4670 “Fair maiden,” said Sir Roland, “your gods are very weak: They seem to have no answer when Christian valor speaks!” “My lord,” the maid responded, “the truth is plain to see, And I’ll be damned henceforward if I’ll believe in these! I’ll pray at once to Jesus, Who bore the cross’s grief, And urge the blessed Mary, His Mother, heaven’s queen, Who bore Him as a virgin, as truly I believe, To send us the assistance we desperately need, And with their holy favour, to fnd us food to eat!” No sooner had she fnished her sentence and her speech, When suddenly she fainted — her heart had missed a beat, 4680 And as her body failed her, Sir Gui began to weep. Said Oliver, “Companions, we’re wasting time in here! By Jesus Christ our Savior, I quite agree with Gui: I’d rather feel the torment of ten attacking spears Than that of not attempting to rescue such as she!” “My lords,” responded Roland, “in truth, I too agree.” So straightaway they hurried to seize their bucklershields And left there in a furry of fashing, naked steel. They pressed on to the stables, and fnding many steeds, They opened up the gateway and dropped the bridge to leave. 4690 Brave heroes all and martyrs, God bless them and godspeed! What blows they’d have to barter before they left the feld!

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he barons strode and rode, descending from the fortress Until they reached the gate, then opened it before them. On doing this, they dropped the wide and lengthy drawbridge, And Roland turned and said to Naimon in the courtyard, “My lord, will you remain with Thierri the dauntless To guard this palace gate and wait for reinforcements?” The duke replied, “My lord, God damn me at the dawning Of any day henceforth that I become your porter! 4700

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Fierabras and Floripas Though all my hair is hoar, I won’t have people scorn me. My muscles still are strong; my heart is still undaunted. I have the will and skill to speed a ready warhorse And strike a shining sword through jeweled helm and hauberk!” Said Roland, “On my soul, that’s truly said, old stalwart! Ride next to me, my lord — and nevermore be thwarted! Duke Thierri shall stay with brave Basin of Lengres.” On hearing this, the pair bowed faithfully towards him, Though neither man was glad, but saddened at the order.

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hen Thierri of Ardennes heard Roland’s will proclaimed — The nephew of the king had asked him to remain — He colored to his ears in anger and in shame. With ringing voice he cried, “What folly, lord, has made You pick on me today to stay inside the jail?” Said Roland, “Noble lord, for God our Savior’s sake, Good men and true, like you and Duke Basin must stay To guard the maiden’s gate against the heathen race!” The hero’s wounded pride was somewhat thus assuaged, And, though aggrieved, he pledged to stay behind and wait. The rest of them rode forth on Arab destriers Belonging to the Turks and sundry pagan knaves. The fort was choc-a-bloc with every breed and shape. Each Frenchman took a spear, on which a pennon waved, And spurred across the bridge to hurry on his way. Behind them, all was closed and barriers were raised. Descending to the felds, those heroes tempted fate. Lord God was on their side, Whose guidance never fails — But even so, what blows they’d have to give, and take!

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he day was fne and sunny, the afternoon was hot. Descending to the meadows, the barons spurred along, And everywhere they headed they saw the pagan throng In happy mood, well certain of victory ere long. The great emir was watching, and from the lookout’s lodge He saw the barons coming with arms and armor on. He summoned up directly his counsellors Brulanz

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Third Geste — Desires And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, and others, says the song. “Look yonder, lords,” he told them, “and ponder thereupon! The peers of France are riding with rein and helmet dropped, Compelled at last to plunder our lodges and our stocks! 4740 If one of them escapes us, our honor will be lost. Sound every horn for battle: to dally would be wrong.” On hearing this, the pagans were flled with angry shock, And sounded every trumpet and every horn of bronze. Then all their forces hurried to put their armor on — And while the pagans scurried, the barons galloped on. “Mountjoy!” Sir Roland rallied, “My gallant lords, lay on!” And so they did, so fercely that any whom they crossed They crushed — a hundred pagans were slaughtered on the spot By lances, or by sword blades when every lance had gone. The gallant hand of Roland raised Durendal aloft, 4750 That drank the blood of pagans and drained them till they dropped! Each peer displayed his courage and proved himself so strong That all of Balan’s vanguard was slain or frightened off. Behind were ffteen thousand led forth by Clarion, King Balan’s cherished nephew, his Spanish sister’s son, Most feared of all the pagans that nation boasted of!

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ow bitter was the fght! How brutally they fought! King Clarion the ferce rode forward on his horse With hardy knights galore, whose one delight was war! Count Roland raised his head and said, with ringing voice To Berart and to Gui and Ogier, Denmark’s lord: “Strike gallantly, good peers, for Jesus and for all Those maidens in the fort, whose need we can’t ignore!” At this he galloped forth and brandished Durendal Against the shining helm of Tempier the Moor: He split the knave in half, from brow to belt and more, And when they witnessed this the pagans shook with awe And fed before the count like wood doves from the hawk. On seeing this, Berart cried out, with ringing voice: “We too must do no less, whose prowess in reward Would earn a maiden’s kiss, and more than this, henceforth! A curse on him who fears his manhood falling short —

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Fierabras and Floripas A puny tool despoils the eager workman’s toil!” This banter flled the rest with ready zest and force To do their very best against so many more, Till every feld was flled with dead or dying Moors! But nothing would have changed, without Divine support — The heathen foe was banked in massive ranks galore, Their total hard to state, so great was every corps.

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ow bitter was the fghting! How brutally they met: 4780 The pagans kept on coming, from every lodge and tent, Until our daring dozen faced twenty thousand men! They turned around, despondent, for all had done their best, Still holding at the ready their blades of graven edge. Thank God above, returning, their searching found success: They happened on some sumpters whose heavy backs were bent With packs and sacks aplenty of food and drink as well. Old wine there was and claret, and meat and wheat and bread, And venison and peacock, with salted meat and fresh. Their minders didn’t mind it — at least when they were dead — 4790 As Roland and the others took everything and left! Sir Roland led, as others rode back and forth to help, While Naimon drove them forward, with Scotland’s Guilemer. The hue and cry that followed brought further Moors abreast, And made the barons tarry to face them once again. But as the hotter headed were cooled by sudden death, The others in the vanguard were loath to race ahead: No pagan blade or Persian was keen to face the French! At last they reached a river, and at the shallows’ edge The fghting grew much thicker with every slower step. 4800 The heathens cast their wyverns and feather-steered fechettes, And one of them proved deadly — Basin of Lengres fell, As Auberi, his nephew, bent over him and wept. Count Oliver and Roland rode over to him then With noble Gui and Ogier, renowned for their prowess. From every side and angle the pagan forces pressed, And hemmed them in with arrows that Turkish bowmen sent.

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Third Geste — Desires The villains cried, “You vermin! You’ll not escape our net!” On hearing such an insult, young Gui arose, incensed, 4810 But as he moved to strike them, he felt a blow instead, And suddenly, beneath him his noble steed was dead! He tumbled down, he had to, and hardly knew it when A dozen pagans seized him and held his arms and legs. They slit away and lifted his helm, aglow with gems, And wound a silky blindfold about him, tightly stretched. His hands were bound behind him with cord that cut his fesh, As heavenward he hollered for God almighty’s help: “Ah, Charlemagne, uncle, you’ll not see me again!” King Clarion rebuked him, “Your words are wasted breath, For soon I’ll hand you over to mighty Balan’s men, 4820 Who’ll guard you till tomorrow, then hang you by the neck!” “God willing, you’re a liar!” the gallant youngster said. The barons saw their comrade so bitterly beset, And ground their teeth in anger at his and their distress. Abandoning their sumpters, across the ford they fed, Though Oliver’s quick thinking enabled him to clench Three peacocks from the baggage, together with some bread And claret-wine in pouches, before he joined the rest. In hot pursuit, the pagans came breathing down their necks And drove them ever backwards towards the gate they’d left. 4830 On reaching it and wheeling, the barons formed a wedge That forced the pagans backwards one lance’s range, and then They raced across the drawbridge that rose with every step, Then barred the doors to bolster the mighty gate’s defence. Inside, they all dismounted, with heavy hearts and vexed, Ogier the Dane and Roland, and all the other men. Count Oliver unloaded the little food he’d fetched. I’m sure he’d not have swapped it for any riches then! Fair Floripas came forward, the Saracen princess, And seeing Roland mournful, she asked him, full of dread: 4840 “Where is Sir Gui, the hero to whom my hand is pledged? You took him from me swiftly — now give him back no less!” “Fair maiden,” answered Roland, “his life hangs by a thread — The pagan forces caught him and haled him to their tents.”

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Fierabras and Floripas On hearing this, she shuddered and, clutching at her breast, She swooned upon the marble again and yet again. Sir Roland raised her gently, lamenting as he wept.

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ir Roland raised her gently, with teardrops in his eyes, And when the maid recovered, in ringing tones she cried, “My lords, by God almighty, Who made the dew and sky, If he I want to marry is never to be mine, I’ll render up this tower before the dawn arrives. For all the gold that glitters I’ll never change my mind! Alas, all-loving Mary, the queen of heaven high, I was supposed to marry Sir Gui and be his wife, In new life as a Christian to love the living Christ! The bonds, alas, are severed ere ever they were tied! Divinities, sustain me, or I shall lose my mind!” On saying this, the maiden fell down a second time And only then recovered to mourn again her plight. “What matters to me hunger, what matters thirst alike For which my body wasted three days of precious life?” Count Roland saw the sorrow and sadness in her eyes And, moved to deepest pity, addressed her in this wise: “My lady, calm your sorrows,” he tenderly replied, “I’d rather feel the anguish of ten attacking spikes Than not attempt the rescue of such a gallant knight!” On hearing this, the maiden embraced his feet and sighed, As Charlemagne’s nephew assisted her to rise.

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y lady, calm your sorrows,” Count Roland said again, God willing, I shall bring you Sir Gui, your fancee.” Count Oliver said also, “Remember, noble maid: In sorrow and misgiving there’s nothing to be gained. What’s true is that you’ve fasted for three unhappy days, And so have all your servants who’ve faithfully remained. Be glad of what we have here, and you, my lords, the same. The sooner we have eaten, the better stand we’ll make!” “My gallant friend,” said Roland, “may God and you be praised! Since common sense commends it, let’s eat without delay.” So, stepping from the courtyard, they reached the hall of state

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Third Geste — Desires And, barring every entrance, the barons sat and ate, Beside each one a maiden of noble birth and grace. At last the thirst and hunger of everyone were slaked.

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nside his tent and waiting was Balan the emir. His bullies brought before him young Gui of Burgundy And stripped him of his hauberk, whose mail was damascened. His face was bled of color, all wan it was and bleak — He hadn’t drunk or eaten for almost half a week — Yet still he looked a hero, his body strong and lean, A knight of peerless valor from here to Balaguer. The great emir demanded, in ringing tones and ferce: “So who are you, young vassal? Speak truly, if you please!” The noble youth responded, “I never lie or cheat! Fair Burgundy’s my homeland and I am called Sir Gui. My mother is a daughter of Miles of Angeleer. My cousin is Sir Roland, whose face with valor gleams.” “I know you then, already!” cried Balan, more aggrieved, “Five months have run their limit, and more than that it seems, Since Floripas my daughter has loved you more than me, Or any other mortal — I know this so to be! Because of you I’ve suffered the loss of many peers, My lovely painted palace, its fortress and its keep! Unless my walls surrender, they’ll echo to your screams! So tell me, then, Sir Truthful, what other lords are here?” The noble youth responded, “I shall do, never fear! There’s Oliver and Roland, the captain of our peers, Sir Guilemer of Scotland, Berart of Montdidier, Ogier the Dane and Aubri, whose heart with valor beats, Richart the famous Norman and Ardennes’ Thierri, Sir Geoffrey, duke of Anjou and Naimon, white of beard. Duke Basin, who was with us, lies slaughtered on the feld, While I am here in tethers, the twelfth of Charles’s peers. You’ll pay for this, God help me, when Charlemagne’s here!” On hearing this, King Balan was flled with bitter spleen. King Safarez, beside him, rose swiftly to his feet And, with his right arm swinging, a mighty limb and mean, He punched Gui on his forehead, and on the nose between,

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Fierabras and Floripas So fercely that the bleeding ran all across his cheeks. At this, the noble youngster felt all his anger seethe: He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t, although it cost him dear, 4920 Deny his urge for vengeance, and, weaponless, he seized The shaggy mass of tresses that trailed the villain’s ears, And swung his right arm upwards to plant his fst his beneath The heathen’s chin as trimly as trunk supports a tree! His jaw, though, couldn’t take it, and neither could his teeth: The Burgund thrust him backwards and threw him in a heap. On seeing this, King Balan, in anger and in grief, Cried out, his voice aquiver, “Arrest this reckless fend!” And so they did; his henchmen rushed in and, grabbing Gui, They pummelled him and kicked him with vicious fsts and feet. 4930 The pleats upon his tunic were torn at every crease. “Don’t kill him yet, good vassals!” commanded the emir. “My lord,” his henchmen answered, “we’ll do as you decree,” But tied his hands so roughly that still they made him bleed. King Balan summoned to him Brulanz of Montmirree, With Sortinbrans of Coinbres and sundry other peers: “What counsel can you give me, on which you all agree, Relating to this Christian who thumbs his nose at me?” Said Sortinbrans: “This villain may prove to be the key That opens up your fortress, if that’s your wish, my liege.” 4940 “It is,” replied King Balan, “above all else indeed.” Said Sortinbrans, “Then this is the way you should proceed: Select a thousand pagans with every haste and speed, And when they’re armed in iron and set on rested steeds, Conceal them, at the ready, among our woodland trees. Beyond them, where the moat is, raise up a gallows beam And start this hero’s hanging where all his friends can see. The French are very reckless: I know that they will leave The fort and try to save him — they’ll show themselves, my liege, And those inside the woodland will capture them with ease. 4950 Then you may wreak a vengeance as bitter as it’s sweet!” “Good Sortinbrans,” said Balan, “your planning pleases me. Your wisdom is the wisest; we’ll do as you decree!”

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he Moor was in no mood to dally or delay. He chose a thousand men and armed them straightaway, Inside a shady wood their shady deed to wait, With Clarion the king and royal Tournfer. Beyond them, by the moat, a gallows beam was raised And Gui put in the hands of thirty heathen knaves. With rods of apple wood they beat him on his way And bloodied him with blows from head to toe that day. They led him on a rope that choked him as it chafed, And, tugging, lugged him forth with all their heathen hate. Young Gui implored the Lord, Whose justice never fails, To help him in his need and comfort him with grace: “Ah, noble knights of France, ride quickly to my aid! If I should die today, then so will all your fame!”

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ir Roland, Charles’s nephew, was leaning, all alone, Against an upper window in Balan’s ancient home, When, looking down, he noticed upon the nearest slope 4970 A gallows that had risen beyond the castle moat. At once he summoned forward Count Oliver the bold And every other baron, God bless their gallant souls: “My lords, I am bewildered at this,” the hero spoke. “I don’t know what they’re planning, these misbegotten rogues, But I can see a gallows erected down below.” “My lord,” said hoary Naimon, “I fear that I may know: It’s Gui — they’re going to hang him, and right before our nose! Behold his naked body beneath its tattered clothes! My lords, unless we hurry, they’ll have him in the rope!” 4980 On hearing this, the anger rose up in Roland’s throat. Then Floripas rushed nearer, whose ears had heard them both, And when she saw the gallows, her fery spirit froze: “Good barons, are you statues,” she asked them as she groaned, “Content to stand here idle as Gui goes to the rope? I swear by the apostle, God’s deputy in Rome, If he should die, there’s nothing and nobody I know Will hold me back from jumping to die with my betrothed!” She knelt before Count Roland and, in her wretched woe,

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Fierabras and Floripas The proud and haughty princess embraced his feet and moaned: “Great Charlemagne’s nephew, I beg of you to go And rescue my beloved, whose anguish I behold. To each man I can render the very steed he rode When coming here. They’re stabled inside a cave of stone, Where Halteclere is waiting for Oliver to hold!” Sir Roland said, “I’m ready! God rot the limb that’s loath!” How fast they ftted helmets, how swiftly they enclosed Their gallant hips in iron and gripped their bucklers close, And raced down from the tower, their eyes aglow with hope! The maiden freed their horses, escorting one, and so Did each of her attendants, their willing skill on show In steadying the stirrups, whose rings were made of gold. God help Sir Gui, as only His power could — although, Without some swift assistance, it could have been too slow!

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aid Roland, “Noble lords, attend to what I tell you! We all are gallant men, but only ten, remember, And there are Moors galore inside the gleaming shelters. For love of God, my lords, ensure you keep together, Each one of you, with sword and lance-head at the ready To guard each other’s backs in loyalty and friendship. If one of us should fall, the nearest hands must help him, As one, and one for all, as living or as dead men. And I shall be the fag that rallies and defends you. Wherever I may go, you know that I’ll attend you. While Durendal endures, I pledge you its protection. Ignore my calling horn and all of us will perish!” His fellow knights replied, “We’ll do as you request us. May God above, in love, look down on us from heaven!” Said Floripas, “My lords, you should have left already! Sir Gui will soon be dead, unless you leave directly.” She rushed inside her room and from her chest of treasures She bore the thorny crown that tore our Savior’s temples. As each bestowed a part upon his jeweled helmet, It flled him, head and heart, with such a sense of blessing That not a shred of dread beset them whatsoever. Upon its chains of iron the mighty bridge descended,

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he Moors had reached the gallows — a curse upon their haste! The hands of Gui were tethered, and then a hangman placed The noose, and then a blindfold to hide his gallant gaze. The pagan crowd was baying, the rope was being raised, When Roland and the others came rushing up, enraged: “A curse upon you killers! By God above, you’ll pay!” Young Gui, beneath the gallows, was left alone to wait, As Roland spurred his warhorse, the speedy Wide-Awake, And Ogier goaded Dasher, his fashing destrier. They trapped the hanging party between them and the lake, 5040 And twenty of the thirty were slaughtered straightaway. But then the hidden thousand came rushing in the wake Of Tournefer the warlord, his padded saddle plain, To spring the trap before them and bring one in its place For Roland and the others, God help them all, I say! A pagan chorus mounted: “You’ve had it now, you knaves! Farewell your fond companion — our king has sealed his fate! If you attempt his rescue, we’ll string you up the same!” When Roland heard the taunting, he almost went insane, And, brandishing his weapon, he charged at Tournefer. 5050 The pagan countercharged him, his face aglow with hate, And hitting Roland’s buckler, he split its golden paint. His hauberk was a strong one and nothing broke the mail, But Tournefer’s great weapon was shattered tip to tail. Before the Moor could swivel or swing himself away, Young Roland smote his helmet, with glowing gems inlaid, And nothing that was on it or under it availed, As Durendal went through it and split him to the waist. Then, rushing to the gallows, Count Roland slashed away The awful noose and blindfold around the Burgund’s face, 5060 Then slit the thongs and tethers that bit against his veins. He gave him, and he mounted, the steed of Tournefer’s, Together with a warning: “Don’t leave me till you gain

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Fierabras and Floripas Good armor and good weapons to serve you in the fray.” “Good cousin,” Gui responded, “your will I will obey!” And then the Moors were on them, with savage whoops and wails. How bitterly they battled! What hatred they exchanged! How many spears were broken and bucklers split in twain, As fst and foot went fying from swiftly swinging blades! 5070 The bloodshed and the bleeding, in truth, were very great. Count Roland struck a pagan whose name was Tempestez, And then, as they were passing, he smote his head away. He cried out to his cousin, “Sir Gui, no need to wait! Here’s weapons and a charger that shouldn’t go to waste!” Young Gui agreed and thanked him for all that he had gained, And didn’t wait to use them, but spurred across the plain. “Strike hardy blows,” he bellowed, “for Charlemagne’s sake! I’ll show them what a captive can do when he’s unchained!” When this was said, the barons, with every might and main, Attacked and hacked the pagans one furlong from the lake. 5080 In dozens they were slaughtered, in hundreds they were maimed. But back inside in the campsite, ten thousand more remained, Who, riding forth, encircled and trapped them once again!

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ow fearsome was the fght, how mighty was the melee! What worthy blows were struck by those eleven Frenchmen! With Durendal in hand, whose blade was fnely tempered, Count Roland hailed the rest, God bless them all forever: “Ride forward, noble knights — God rot the limb unready! Ten thousand men and more, I know, are stood against us, But I am just as sure retreat will prove as deadly. 5090 So never turn your steed but speed it to the peril! If we can drive a wedge and edge our way to shelter, Their size won’t matter then, though they indeed are many.” “But even so,” said Gui, “our castle keep is empty! Though we should reach unharmed the ramparts that protect us From outer blows, the woes of inner want will fell us! By all the faith I owe St. Richier, I tell you I’d rather fall in fght, against the pagan menace, Than die of hunger’s bite, inside a fort’s defences. If God has made this day and way for us to perish, 5100

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Third Geste — Desires Then let us with prowess and humble pride accept it!” “Well spoken, Gui, in truth,” said Count Ogier of Denmark. While this was being said, the maiden, you’ll remember, Was leaning at a ledge, inside the hall, together With all her lady’s maids, whose willing skills were ready. Her eye looked high and low along the sloping meadow, And when she noticed Gui, her bosom heaved in pleasure. With ringing voice she called so loudly that it echoed: “Sir Gui, a kiss from me, so all can see our friendship! 5110 I couldn’t care who knows — a curse on those it vexes! If I survive, I swear by every saint in heaven, I hope that the emir, my father, will surrender!” “Companions, did you hear?” exclaimed the count of Denmark: “Who wouldn’t give his all to pleasure such a treasure? I’d rather die, I swear, than spare my blade’s endeavors. Berart of Montdidier, let’s strike a blow together!” So off they rode to fght, as did the whole eleven. And what a sight it was, when like a wedge, they met them! Wherever Roland turned, the pagan challenge ended: Like doves before the hawk the heathen forces fed him. 5120 And Burgundy’s young Gui rode right against their center, With Tournefer’s own sword tormenting his tormentors! He struck the graven helm of Tempier the Terror, And halved him with a hit that split him to his belt knot: “Good cousin,” Roland cried, “you’re handy with their weapons! Revenge is sweeter still when pagan swords avenge us! I’m glad the maiden sought and caught your keen attention! She well deserves a kiss, and more than this, God help me!”

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ow mighty was the melee, how long it was and ferce. The barons fought their bravest, determined not to yield. Fair Floripas the princess called out from where she leaned: “My lords, for love of Jesus, collect some food to eat!” Count Oliver, on hearing, confessed in Roland’s ear, “Just listen to the maiden! It’s very clear to me That she would have us bring her a little more than Gui!” “I know it!” answered Roland, “And what she says, she means! Whose bravery could slacken when such a spur is near?

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Fierabras and Floripas Mountjoy!” he cried, “God help us!” and drove anew his steed, And every baron followed with every bit of speed! They struck the pagans’ circle so fercely with their steel 5140 That fnally they cracked it and hacked a way between, Until the pack was routed by Roland and the peers, And scattered to its campsite and back to the emir, While fortune blessed the barons by forcing their retreat: They plundered ffteen sumpters, provisioned for their needs With ready meat and salted, with bread and wine and wheat, That Cordova’s controller had sent at Balan’s plea. Dismissing very quickly the men who drove the beasts, The barons took their job on with very happy zeal! Bavaria’s Duke Naimon rode bravely in the lead 5150 With Thierri of Ardennes, of hoary hair and beard. The other peers, with Roland, rode jointly at the rear, And fought off all attackers, performing mighty feats With unremitting valor until their journey ceased. They found Basin of Lengres, while making this retreat, And in their arms they brought him inside the castle keep. While others led the sumpters to safety and to feed, Sir Roland raised the drawbridge and barred the gates between. They had enough provisions for sixty days at least, And swore they’d not surrender to Balan or the siege, 5160 Not doubting for a moment that mighty Charles, their liege, Would realise their trouble and ride to its relief. King Balan, in his campsite, was angry and aggrieved. Without delay he summoned Brulanz of Montmirree And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, his counsellor-in-chief: “My lords,” he cried, “I’m livid! The biter bit is me! The foe has stocked my tower with food I cannot eat! Once Charlemagne knows it, we’ve much to fear indeed! He’ll bring his army forward, my lords, I guarantee! What happens if he crosses the bridge at Mautriblez? 5170 What action can be taken? I fear for what will be!” “Then, truly, I advise you,” said Sortinbrans in brief, “To gather men together and cover them with steel: Arm every man in iron, then hurtle them, ten deep,

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Third Geste — Desires At every wall that baulks us, in towers towed on wheels. Sound out a thousand trumpets, and when we move, the fear Will weaken wits and bodies, ensuring you’ll succeed!” “Lord Sortinbrans,” said Brulanz, “it’s your wits that are weak! The men in there aren’t cowards whose gallant blood will freeze! They are the fnest fowers of France’s chivalry! You’ve heard, I think, of Roland, whose courage has no peer, And Oliver, his comrade, whose eye and arm are ferce — Who forced our heathen hero, King Fierabras, to yield? These very men are in there with others such as these — We covered them with blindfolds upon the lookout’s peak. Berart is one, who’s slaughtered so many of our breed, And Thierri of Ardennes, of hoary hair and beard, Whose valor only hardens with every breath he breathes. A thousand men he’s murdered, by every savage means, Within the northern forest where he resides as liege. And Ogier’s there, of Denmark, and Naimon, white of beard, And Duke Richart the Norman, whose face with valor gleams, Who in the Roman meadows pursued our own emir And dealt him such a head wound he almost died, I hear. And Gui is there, the Burgund who slaughtered Fausabri, With others of his mettle, their names unknown to me. The French are like no others; they’re more like living fends. Although they’re but eleven, as fghters they’re supreme. Count Roland, Charles’s nephew, is so bewitched he fears No wound from any weapon that mortal hand can wield! They’re living here at leisure, and should they ever feel Like hunting, they pursue us in hundreds through the felds. I tell you, if they numbered a hundred, it is we Whom they would be besieging, and we who’d have to leave! Their God not only saves them, He helps them to succeed, While ours behave like cowards and drunkards on the street: No help to any others or to themselves in need!” “Brulanz!” King Balan shouted, “What shameless blasphemy!” He seized a rod and raised it to beat him for his speech, But Sortinbrans ran forward and wrenched the weapon free.

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on’t fght among yourselves,” said Sortinbrans the wise, “But chorus every horn to charge the tower’s might.” The great emir replied, “By good Mahom, you’re right.” And soon the sound of shawms and horns of brass combined To rally all the Moors till swarms of them arrived. The feld, across a league, was flled with heathen kind. The engineer Mabon, to the emir’s delight, Constructed him a bridge that never had its like: A foating one that rode on logs in latticed lines. What clamouring there was, what awful whoops and cries, As Balan crossed the moat, where force alone contrived To breach the bailey walls and reach the keep inside. The barons, brave as lions, fought back with all their pride, And showered heavy rocks upon those antichrists. The maidens there, again, were anything but shy: Each one of them laced on a hauberk light and white And placed upon her head a helmet green and bright. No Saracen or Moor, however strong or wild, If stricken by a rock that tender hands had shied, Was any less upset, or any more alive! Fair Floripas herself waved out to Gui and cried, “My friend, a kiss for me, in case we both should die!” “Most willingly,” said Gui, “if that is your desire!” In armor they embraced, in everybody’s sight — And Roland flled with joy that overfowed in smiles.

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y friends, I have to say, the pagan charge was awesome! Their engineer had made his tower so adroitly It wasn’t hard at all to draw it back and forward, Or drag it round the keep to constantly assault it. Their arrows and their bolts soared everywhere like falcons! 5240 The engineer cried out, with ringing voice and raucous: “Withdraw your men, emir, for many may be slaughtered, And I can take this tower before the night has fallen! Give ffty thousand Turks the fnest swords you’ve brought here, And choose the quickest youths you have in all your forces.” The great emir replied, “I’m happy to support you. Select the youths yourself and any weapons also.”

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Third Geste — Desires At this, the builder turned, with no desire to dawdle, And ffty thousand Turks were chosen at his orders 5250 And given sturdy shields, the lightest and the shortest. The engineer went round, God damn his soul in torment, And gave each youth a pick whose tip was sharply pointed. King Sortinbrans himself said he would lead them forward, And did, without a halt, until they reached the fortress. And then the engineer prepared Greek fre and brought it Before the keep, to light and fight it at the walls there. The very stones were lit as streaky fame went soaring Until it hit the shafts that fanked the upper storey. On seeing this, the French were startled, and forlornly They said among themselves: “Our efforts have been thwarted! 5260 We must surrender now, or we’ll be naught but corpses!” But Floripas replied, “Don’t let your courage falter! Though death awaits us all, I’ll never let it stalk me!” She ran at once to fetch some camel’s milk and poured it, With vinegar as well, on every wall and foorboard. She threw it at the fames, and all the French were awe struck As every column stilled and every ficker halted! The great emir himself was livid when he saw it! Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, this fact cannot be altered — Our troubles have been caused by Floripas, your daughter!” 5270 “I know!” said the emir, “She’s willing to destroy me — But I shall get her frst, and have her drawn and quartered!” “Sound every horn again!” King Sortinbrans implored him. “I know we’ll take the keep, if only we keep storming!” The great emir replied, “Then go ahead — assault it!” King Sortinbrans obeyed and led his Turks towards it, To strike with pick and sword through wood and brick and mortar. How piercing was the noise of brassy horns and cornets, Of Saracens and Moors, with all their fearsome roaring, And arrows as they few, like squally snowfakes falling. 5280 With mangonels the Moors launched boulders at the corners And turrets of the keep, as grappling irons clawed them. On seeing this, the French were sad again and mournful, And said among themselves: “We’ll never stop or stall them, Or stay inside the keep — it’s very close to falling!”

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Fierabras and Floripas Said Floripas, “My lords, control yourselves! This fortress Is very thick and strong — I know it as the storehouse Of all my father’s wealth, his gold and other fortune. It holds so many plates of gold that I assure you, This counterthrust could last for fourteen days, and always 5290 You’d have suffcient plates to hurl at heathen foreheads! Each one of us can hold an armful and can launch them Like stones against the bones of heathen heads and torsos!” “God bless your gallant heart!” said Roland, who was joyous, While Burgundy’s Sir Gui ran up to hug her warmly. The maiden led them all to where the plate was hoarded, And — laugh or cry at this — she seized a pile and bore it Away, then so did they, and started to employ them Like stones to scatter those whose skill could not avoid them! A plateful, served in hate, is nothing to rejoice in! 5300 And those who saw the plates go rolling in the forecourt, Abandoned their assault to gather up a fortune, And split each other’s heads with axes to ensure it! A lot of them saw gold, but not a lot enjoyed it! The great emir looked on and raged with disappointment. With ringing voice he cried a brief and bitter order. “Pull back at once, I say! We’ll wait until the morning — If not, I’ll lose the gold that years untold have brought me! Upon my soul, Mahom is fast asleep and snoring! I’ll shake him till he wakes and make his old eyes water! 5310 A curse on any god who lets a mortal scorn him!” Said Sortinbrans, “My lord, you shouldn’t blame or taunt him, For how can he be charged for someone else’s falseness? Though slumber closed his eyes, his spirit can’t be faulted: He’s overseen your gold for centuries, undaunted. The French are very sly — they’ve tricked his ancient wardship! Forgive him, noble lord, a single lapse of caution!” And so King Balan did, who’d lost his taste for talking. Then, halting the assault, with darkness almost falling, He ambled back to camp, to eat and sleep till morning. 5320

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ing Balan the emir returned to eat and sleep, His face a map of woe, his spirits low with grief. The barons’ mood was high, inside the mighty keep, With food and wine galore to well content their needs, And maidens fair and fne to firt with at their ease. The nephew of King Charles, Sir Roland, went to lean Against a window’s ledge, to look across the lea, And saw the great emir about to eat his meal. He ran inside and cried to halt the barons’ feast: “My loyal lords of France, is our prowess so weak That it permits a foe to eat his food in peace? Would noble hearts not go and snatch it from his teeth?” Said Oliver, “You’re right! My lords, prepare to leave!” And so they did, and left in good and gallant cheer. The pagan saw them come, well armed upon their steeds, And almost lost his mind, his anger was so bleak. He summoned frst of all King Espaulart the ferce: “Fine nephew, don’t delay! Prepare yourself to leave! The foe has come to rob our table of its meat! The entrée may be theirs, but ours shall be the sweet!” His nephew said, “My lord, that’s food enough for me!” He left at once to don his armor for the feld And mount his rapid steed with every show of speed. He took with him his sword and wyvern for a spear. Behind him came his men, four thousand, so I read. He rode towards the French, and, at an arrow’s reach, He grasped his wyvern’s grip, of elm, and held it free. Then hailing Roland frst, though his intent was clear, He cast his wyvern dart, with skill and art supreme, To shy the distant mark before he tried the near! Across its golden boss he shattered Roland’s shield, Though God was on His guard and saved the fesh beneath. When Roland felt the blow, then all his senses reeled, And spurring forth, he swore to right the craven deed! With Durendal aloft he struck his helm of green So well that man and mount fell headlong on the heath. Young Espaulart was proud; he quickly found his feet

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Fierabras and Floripas And drew his golden sword six inches from its sheath. But Roland’s gallant arm outsped him, as it seized Him roughly by the scruff beneath his hauberk’s seams With all his angry strength, his valor and his zeal. He threw him on his horse, before him, as he wheeled Good Wide-Awake around to join the other peers. As Balan saw the deed, his anger broke its leash. With ringing voice he cried, with stinging voice he screamed, “Go after him, you fools! Don’t lag or drag your heels! If Espaulart is caught, you’ll forfeit my esteem!” His loyal lords were stung and fung up from their seats To speed away, although they needn’t have, indeed. The barons, on the spot, slew seventy with ease, Then galloped to and fro to fnd their pagan peers, Till everywhere was red with dead or dying fends! Across the bloody land the barons turned their steeds And raced with every haste to reach the castle keep. Count Roland entered frst, his iron grip so ferce That Espaulart the Moor could barely move or speak. The others followed fast, God bless them all and each! The tower bridge was raised and every entrance sealed, As Roland left his mount beneath an almond tree.

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he French again were safe, and this time they had treasure: 5380 The young King Espaulart, the great emir’s own nephew. To Floripas he went, his cousin fair and slender, Who couldn’t hide her smiles at seeing him arrested! Richart was frst to speak when all were reassembled: “My worthy lords,” he said, “our fght is far from ended. Inside these ancient walls we’re captives still and ever. At length the only choice we have is to surrender, Unless one gallant man can summon Charles to help us.” “What foolish talk is this?” said Naimon hoary headed: “There’s no one, even here, so mad as to attempt it! 5390 Behold the land — it’s crammed with countless heathen devils. Whoever went would die before he’d crossed the meadow! To plan or plot escape’s itself a wasted effort. No help can save us now, except from God in heaven!”

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Third Geste — Desires Said Floripas, “My lords, be stout of heart and ready To tarry here and fear the pagans less than berries! For by your side are brides of peerless skill and temper. Choose any one you like! I’ve nothing else to tell you, Except that while we’re here, let’s live in cheer together.” “In truth,” Count Roland said, “your words could not be better! 5400 I never saw a maid so gallant and so clever!” The barons, hearing this, were heartened and made merry.

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he barons in the fortress had treasure in their charge: The great emir’s own nephew, the young King Espaulart. To fnd out more about him they went to Floripas And asked about his country, his riches and his caste. She said, “I’ll answer truly each question that you’ve asked. This man’s my father’s nephew, the son of my old aunt. His clan is very mighty, his wealth is very large. If ever you would anger and taunt my father’s heart, 5410 Then slay this haughty pagan — cut off his legs and arms!” “Upon my soul,” said Naimon, “that thought would be my last! If one of us in future were in an equal pass, This hostage could redeem him, if he remains unharmed.” The barons said, “Old Naimon, you walk in wisdom’s path.” Said Thierri of Ardennes, “And yet it breaks my heart That we remain entombed here like doomed men set apart, Who know that death awaits them and has them in its mark! At least let’s try to summon our noble monarch Charles To rescue or avenge us with all the force of France.” 5420 Said Ogier, duke of Denmark: “Well spoken, gallant spark! But surely there is no one will make so wild a cast As to attempt to leave here and fght his way to Charles?” “I will!” said noble Roland, “I’ll gladly take the chance! I’ll leave before the dawning, while everything is dark!” “You won’t, my lord!” said Naimon, “For love of God, you can’t! If Balan and his pagans discover where you aren’t, Their fear of us remaining will fall by more than half! While you are still beside us, it flls them with alarm!” Said Guilemer the Scotsman: “Then I shall try to pass!” 5430 “No, I will, if you’ll let me,” said young and bold Berart.

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Fierabras and Floripas At once Sir Gui grew angry. “No more of this!” he barked. “Let no one contradict me — this mission is my task!” But Floripas responded, “I’ll stop you, for a start! I order you to stay here, away from hurt or harm! I want you here to kiss me and hold me in your arms!” “Enough of this, you hot heads!” cried Normandy’s Richart. “You know I am an old man whose glory days have passed, But one who whose wife has borne him a scion sure and sharp! 5440 If I should try this journey and die from its demands, I know my land will fourish in his courageous charge. When Charlemagne gave me the duchy I command, I only would accept it, this truth is known at large, Upon these two conditions I asked the king to grant: The frst, that if a serf came in fight from other parts And lived within my duchy at peace and labored hard A twelvemonth, I could free him and he would not be harmed. The second strict condition I sought and won from Charles Was this: if we should ever be held, as now we are, And sought a man to carry some message near or far, 5450 Then I would be that person — and Charles agreed at last.” Said Naimon, “I was there, lords; this truly came to pass. If he indeed desires it, this mission is Richart’s.” “Desire it? I demand it!” the hoary hero snarled. “My noble lord,” said Roland, “since such a die is cast, Will you make solemn promise, to us and Floripas, That you will ride undaunted through wind and stormy blast, Not stopping under cover but once, unless by chance You’re hard beset with sickness or evil circumstance, Or caught and put in prison? Will you so swear, Richart?” 5460 “My lord,” Richart responded, “I will, with all my heart.” “Then so be it!” said Roland, “Now let us all think hard How good Richart can do this and make his way to Charles Without him being captured by Balan’s heavy guard.” The duke replied, “I’ve planned it, but all must play a part! Tomorrow, in the morning, as dawn lights up the dark, We’ll gallop out together, in armor and well armed, To strike the pagan army and penetrate its heart. While pagans swarm around you, to keep their king from harm,

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Third Geste — Desires I’ll go — I know this country as well as my own palm. If God, in His great mercy, will give me half a chance, I’ll bring back Charlemagne and all the host of France!” The barons wept for pity, on hearing old Richart.

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y lords,” said old Richart, “don’t worry or be mournful! If God almighty’s hand will succor and support me Enough for me to fee this pagan siege before us And cross Mautriblez bridge, which is a fearsome border, Then I’ll return with help, in God’s name I assure you!” Each baron there replied, “God bless you, now and always!” On saying this, they ceased their planning and their talking 5480 And watched the setting sun, and then the darkness falling. Count Roland stood on guard, with Oliver the dauntless, Throughout the moonless night till light of day was dawning. Then, saddling up their steeds and putting on their hauberks, They all prepared to leave and mounted up their horses. But what a shock they got before they spurred them forward! The great emir had moved his vanguard to the fortress: Five hundred score and more had made the walls their quarters! On seeing this, the French were stung with disappointment, Richart the most of all, whose mission had been thwarted. 5490

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he barons in the fortress, the marbled castle keep, Watched every night and waited, in hauberks damascened, But long it was in coming — some sixty nights at least — Before Richart was able to do as he’d agreed, Upon an hour that happened to help him as you’ll hear: The great emir, one morning, was hunting with his peers For venison and pheasant beside the river’s stream. Their foray was so lucky they held a mighty feast When back in camp, neglecting their watch upon the keep. The barons, in a twinkling, prepared themselves to leave, 5500 Then lowering the drawbridge upon its iron leash They left in gallant fashion, in ranks of two apiece! The pagan watch was tardy: King Balan, armed with steel, Sent men at last to stop them, while making every speed To reach the tower and take it, but failed again with each!

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Fierabras and Floripas Good people, what an uproar as brassy cornets squealed, And heathen fghters hurried to arm themselves and meet The barons and defeat them upon the meadow green. The doughty French continued, God bless their gallant zeal, 5510 Not stopping once or slowing until the camp was reached. The pagans screamed in chorus as Balan’s guard was breached, And straightaway a hundred were fattened on the feld. From everywhere the pagans rushed in against the peers, But every baron faced them with frm resolve and keen. When Duke Richart was certain he couldn’t well be seen, He galloped through the fghting, as quickly as could be, And, trusting God to guide him, sped off to fnd his liege. At once, his comrades halted and wheeled around to leave! They reached the moat, but so did the heathens at their heels, And mighty blows were needed to force them to retreat. 5520 At last they crossed the drawbridge and slammed the gates between. Richart, on high- and byway, through any strand or stream, Strove hard to fee unnoticed across the pagan leagues. The barons rushed to windows high up inside the keep To watch his fight below them until he disappeared, Commending him to Jesus, Who tends our every need. The Norman rode, stout hearted, in good and gallant cheer, But scarcely had he started when fortune spun its wheel And turned the hero’s courage to agonising fear. While riding up a hillside, a lengthy one and steep, 5530 His horse began to falter and, dropping to its knees, Sent every fush of courage from Richart’s gallant cheeks! He called on God in heaven, the King of majesty: “Dear Father, Lord in glory, Who bore the cross’s grief, Protect me, I implore you, from death or injury, Until I’ve gained assistance for Roland and the Peers!” The sun was high in heaven, the daylight bright and clear, And old Richart was angry to know his foe so near. He feared that they would see him, as soon they did indeed. The frst ones were the worst ones: Brulanz of Montmirree 5540 And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, his friend and fellow fend! To Clarion, their leader, the son of the emir’s Beloved elder sister, they hurried, eyes agleam.

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Third Geste — Desires Said Brulanz, “By Mahomet, fne monarch, can you see That traveler who’s trying to sneak across the peak? I’m certain he’s a Frenchman who’s left the rest to seek King Charlemagne’s forces and hasten them back here! My lord, unless we stop him, the villain may succeed!” Their leader froze, on thinking that such a thing might be, Then rose, his order ringing: “Bring sword and spear to me!” And so they did, together with armor made of steel. He armed and then he mounted his massive battle steed. My friends, you’ve never witnessed so ferce or ft a beast! This horse could run unfagging for thirty leagues at least. The pagan seized towards him his sturdy, banded shield, Then with his lance head ready, he hurtled down the feld. His henchmen raced to follow, from every nook and niche, Like pack-hounds on the scent of a sorely driven deer. God speed Richart, and guide him beyond their savage reach! Before the day was over, he’d feel their deadly teeth.

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ichart, the Norman duke, had ridden, ferce of eye, Till fortune spun its wheel against him on the ride: His weary horse had dropped, upon a rugged rise, And watching this was more than Richart could abide. “Dear God above,” he cried, “direct me so that I Can reach our gallant king and bring the help required To rescue those in thrall, so everyone may thrive! My way is far and dark — direct me with Your light!” He raised his arm aloft and made the cross’s sign. Then, looking round, he saw the pagans breaking line, Four thousand men and more, their gonfalons on high Behind King Clarion: he’d hurtled on astride A steed of greater speed than any beast alive, Though clad from head to hoof in cloth of silk incised. God help Richart the duke, His true and gallant knight — That pagan pack of hounds was baying for his life!

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ichart, the Norman duke, had ridden to the crest. He scanned the pagan land and saw King Balan’s men Approaching in pursuit along the route he’d kept. King Clarion was frst, in splendid battle dress, Upon an Arab steed whose breed you’ve never met. Pay heed and I’ll describe just how it looked and went! One fank was brighter white than meadow fowers, but then The other was a blaze of deep and fery red. Its tail was peacock blue, its croup was highly set, Its thighs were short and thick, with long and sturdy legs. Its back was straight and true, its slender head erect, Wide nosed and narrow eared, long maned and glossy necked. Its eyes were shiny bright, the chest on it immense And piebald in its hue, but freckled with more specks Than I have ever seen on any partridge breast.

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Fierabras and Floripas The saddle that it bore was ivory and held By four enormous girths whose worth was in their strength. Its stirrups were of gold, its breast plate was as well, And on each side it bore a hundred tiny bells. And when this wonder ran — and how it ran and leapt! — The sound of every bell was such, I must confess, As would outplay the lays of even my vièle! The pagan drove it forth; he spurred it right and left, And as it rang it sprang some thirty feet in length, Then streaked across the feld like lightning overhead! The Moor who sat astride was full of pride unchecked, And, looming on the duke, with booming voice he said, “Vile envoy, by Mahom, you’ve ridden to your death: You’ll never speak the words rehearsing in your head!” On hearing this, Richart was flled with angry dread, And said at once, “What cause have you to seek my death? So help me God the Lord, I’ve done you no offence. I urge you, as a knight, to let me do my quest, And if I live, I swear to honor you no less. If we should meet again within the battle’s press, I pledge to let you live and save you from the French.” The Moor replied at once, “Your bargain makes no sense. If I should let you go, I might as well be dead! A dozen cities’ gold won’t ransom you, my friend!” On hearing this, the duke aroused his horse again As Clarion closed in, with all his ferce contempt, And struck the Norman’s shield and peeled its golden shell. He struck it through the boss and cracked it edge to edge, Then cleft the coat beneath, whose saffron glaze was rent. Against the Norman’s ribs the rod was sent, and went, And as it hit, it bit one inch inside the fesh: Without our saving Lord it would have bored his breast. The blood exploded forth and fooded down his leg. The duke did very well: he neither swayed nor fell, But watched the pagan’s shaft, which split from haft to head. Then throwing down his own, he drew his blade and swept A mighty blow across the pagan’s jeweled helm. But nothing hit was split, the steel was tempered well,

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Fourth Geste — Deserts And, seeing this, the duke was livid with distress. With all his angry strength he raised his sword and sent A second mighty blow at Clarion that cleft The pagan through the neck and sent his severed head Six feet or more away before it dropped again! He kicked the headless corpse, and forced its soul to hell! On doing this, he caught the pagan’s horse and left His weary bay to stray, and rode the Moor’s instead. At once he knew for sure that nothing on four legs Would catch the pagan’s horse upon its course ahead — It had the lungs to run for leagues without a rest, And had the strength to bear two knights in battle dress Upon its back all day, whatever pace they kept, And never to concede the smallest bead of sweat! The gallant Norman faced his native horse and said, “Baucent, may God on high, Who guides us all, direct Your weary steps to where you’ll fnd a ftting rest! You’ve served me long and well through many a battle’s stress. I thank you from my heart for all of your prowess. May God go with you now and bless you, good old friend!” On saying this, the duke turned round at once and left, As scores of pagans came, with spur and rein unchecked, To fnd their noble lord had left the world of men. His corpse lay on the ground — they saw its headless neck, A sight that flled with fright their boldest men — but then They saw the head itself and cried in wild lament. They ran at old Baucent, who still was there — and yet They couldn’t catch the horse! With rearing, kicking legs, It snorted as it fought for God with such success It wounded fourteen steeds and killed another ten! Then suddenly it turned, and few, as if possessed!

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ichart, alike was fying, his face aglow to feel His trusty sword beside him and such a horse beneath! The pagans reached the summit, God send them every grief, And found their leader’s body, King Clarion their liege. His head lay in its helmet, upon the grassy green, His trunk lay on the trackway that led across the lea.

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Fierabras and Floripas The Saracens were livid at such an awful scene, And set upon old Baucent, the Norman’s gallant steed, But none of them could catch it — its valor wouldn’t yield. 5670 Then, suddenly, it bolted and galloped down the feld, And never slowed its running until it reached the siege. The frst to see it coming was Balan the emir, Who summoned up King Gorran, the son of King Brahier, And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, his counsellor-in-chief, And hollered, “By Apollo, I hold my nephew dear! He’s slain the Christian envoy — his straying steed is here! Ride after it and catch it, then add it to our steeds!” On hearing this, his henchmen prepared themselves to leave, But Baucent saw them coming and ran about between The pagan tents, not stopping till reaching the emir’s! 5680 The barons, in the meantime, high up inside the keep, Were looking down to follow the movement they could see — And what they saw alarmed them: Richart, the hero’s steed, Pursued by thieving heathens, a curse upon their greed! Without a moment wasted they hastened from the keep, And when they reached the drawbridge, they dropped it at their feet. Baucent, God bless him, saw them and with no “by your leave” He crossed the bridge, unaided, which hoisted with a heave! When this was done they gathered around the gallant steed, Bemoaning and lamenting the loss it seemed to mean. 5690 “Richart, you noble Norman,” said Naimon, white of beard, “May God in heaven bless you and rest your soul in peace! No longer shall your courage assist the Christian need!” Both Oliver and Roland, at this, began to weep, As did the other heroes, who’d loved him long and deep. But Floripas the maiden reproached them for their grief: “Good barons, stop this moaning and groaning in my ears! You cannot be so certain of what you haven’t seen!” While up inside the tower the French were full of tears, The pagans were returning from vain attempts to reach 5700 Richart, that gallant hero, upon their leader’s steed! They bore the Moor in silence, upon his golden shield. When Balan saw them coming he flled with foolish glee:

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Fourth Geste — Deserts “Has Clarion, my nephew, despatched the envoy-peer?” “No, not at all,” they answered, “the opposite indeed! The envoy’s killed your nephew, whose heart with valor beat.” When Balan saw the body, he burned from cheek to cheek, Then swooned away in anguish upon the golden shield. With ringing voice he shouted, when raised upon his feet, “Ah Clarion, fne nephew, how dear you were to me! May Mahom and Apollo, who govern what will be, Attend your soul with mercy in its eternal need!”

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he Saracens and pagans lamented long and sore, And many of them fainted when they beheld the corpse. The barons too were stricken and tortured with remorse, When suddenly they listened and heard the wretched Moors Lamenting in their hundreds for Clarion their lord, Beheaded by an envoy who swung a fashing sword. On hearing this, the barons erupted in a roar, As Roland hailed the maiden and said, with ringing voice: “My lady, hear the moaning among the heathen force! What evil life has faltered upon its blighted course?” Fair Floripas responded, “A life that’s lengthened yours! King Clarion’s been slaughtered, who ruled the Spanish shores. Richart has cut his head off and rides his magic horse! Upon a hill he caught him; beneath a pine they fought.”

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aid Floripas, “My lords, their loss is your good luck: Richart has won a horse that cannot be outrun! My father will be flled with grief at what he’s done. He loved young Clarion, his nephew, like a son.” Count Oliver, at this, addressed Sir Roland thus: “Companion mine,” he said, “by God, the King of love, I feel much safer now than I have felt for months. Richart will win renown and keep his vow to us.” “God bless him and his quest!” the count replied at once. What joy the peers displayed, the maid and everyone, As on his rapid steed Richart rode on and up, No drop of fear within to thin his gallant blood!

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ear Jesus, how he rode! How bold a sight he made Upon that horse he’d won, so worthy to be praised! King Balan, in his tent, was full of grieving rage, And called to him a man, articulate and brave. “Bestride a camel now and ride to Mautriblez! Confront my porter there and ask him to explain Why he allowed the French so freely past his gates, Who’ve commandeered my fort and Floripas the maid! I swear upon Mahom, the founder of my faith, If this occurs again, I’ll punish him the same As any other rogue in Charlemagne’s pay! The Frenchman wants my throne and all I own in Spain! Mautriblez must be closed! Tell Agolafre straight That no one is to pass unless he knows his face! I’ll pluck out both his eyes if this is disobeyed!” The messenger replied, “I’ll make your message plain. What’s more I can outrun a camel on these trails! My nimble limbs can pass a dozen in a day, And run a hundred leagues, if that is what it takes!” “Then run!” said the emir, “Mahomet keep you safe!” The envoy turned around and left without delay: No falcon could outfy the speed that villain made! He spied Richart at last, just past the rock Guimez, And cried in ringing tones, “You fend, there’s no escape!” He added nothing more, but scampered on his way, More mindful of his need to speak at Mautriblez. Arriving there, he sought the giant at its gate And spoke his message forth till naught was left to say. On hearing it, the brute was driven to a rage And, foaming at the mouth, his jaws began to grate. My powers can’t describe the foulness of his face!

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he messenger arrived at Mautriblez the fort. To Agolafre’s face he spoke his message forth: “Fierce warden, by Mahom, I speak with Balan’s voice. The great emir would know, whose fowing beard is hoar, Why you allowed the French to cross this bridge of yours! They’ve commandeered the tower in wealthy Aigremore,

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Fourth Geste — Deserts And Floripas the maid, so beautiful of form, And slaughtered many men, among them Clarion. To Baratron his god the great emir has sworn That if you are as kind as this to any more, There’s nothing in this world will save you from his sword.” On hearing this, the brute embraced a pole and roared Towards the runner’s head, to pound it to the foor — But four companions ran and clutched it from his claws. At this, the giant leapt upon a step and called A loud and piercing note upon his brassy horn. At once, a mighty crowd of angry pagans swarmed. May God, Who bore the cross, help poor Richart henceforth!

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hey sounded out the timbrels in every city mosque. At once, a mighty muster of angry pagans focked To mount upon their horses without a moment lost. They left the town Mautriblez, some ffteen thousand strong, To reach the bridge and cross it, then block the entrance off. God help Richart, Whose mercy unfastens every lock — I cannot see, without it, how he could ever cross. Richart approached Mautriblez, his glowing gaze aloft, But when he saw the pagans, who flled the felds beyond, His spirits sank within him and thus he prayed to God: “Dear Lord, eternal Father, have pity on my lot. If I oppose so many, I’ll get my head cut off. But if I cross the river, I’ll drown upon the spot, And dying without trying to strike a blow is wrong! Yet I must keep the promise I made in solemn bond To gallant-hearted Roland, in front of everyone. God, pity my dilemma, Who suffered on the cross. I must attempt the river, but strike a blow frst off! My life’s at Your disposal — employ it as You want!” He turned towards the river and, with his rein half-dropped, He spurred and held a spear up that someone else had lost. The Saracens were waiting to welcome him, the dogs, And Balan’s other nephew was leading them upon A lightly-dappled stallion with battle armor on. He hailed the gallant Norman, in manner far from fond:

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Fierabras and Floripas “My busy little envoy, it’s time for you to stop And take a ftting payment for killing Clarion!” Richart was far from happy and in a swift riposte He spurred towards the pagan and, as their horses crossed, He struck the pagan’s buckler so hotly through the boss His shield was turned to tinder, his hauberk burned to dross. He cleft him through the breastbone and slew him on the spot. His henchmen raced towards him, their voices raised aloft, As Richart seized his war horse, whose golden reins had dropped, And turned towards the river, content with God’s response! Towards the river Flagot he galloped till he stopped Beneath a shady bower, upon a bank of rock. He watched the noisy water, so deep and wide across, Run faster than an arrow that archer ever shot! On seeing this, the Norman appealed again to God: “Dear Lord, eternal Father, Who cleft the ocean’s throng: Your will be done forever, but give me strength anon!”

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is face a mask of terror, Richart beheld the water. He didn’t dare to enter — so ferce it was and awful, And faster than an arrow when driven from the drawstring. No boat could get across it or even set a mooring. The very banks were dreadful, so steep and deeply falling The sight of them confounded the gallant-hearted Norman. With ringing voice invoking Lord Jesus, he implored Him: “Dear Lord, eternal Father, Who bore the cross’s torment, And perished that Your people might live again in glory, Defend me in this danger from any fate or fortune That breaks my solemn promise of reaching Charles’s forces!” Good people, hear the wonder that God above performed there For mighty Charlemagne and Duke Richart the Norman! Upstream, upon the river, a league away or almost, The swell upon the surface began to grow enormous Until the waves erupted and broke on either shoreline. And then a hart appeared there at God almighty’s order, A lovely beast to look on, as white as snow in autumn. Before Richart it waited, as if to coax him forward, And then, with swift decision, it bounded off before him!

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Richart could see behind him the hordes of pagan horsemen, 5850 And you could hardly blame him if fear had made him falter! But in a fash he followed the hart that seemed to call him, And let his horse tread freely the course it chartered for them. The white hart crossed the water, both gallantly and surely, And soon it reached the shallows upon the other foreshore. The pagans reached the river and glowered when they saw him, But didn’t dare to follow, the billows so appalled them. They turned around and vanished, on very hasty horses! How fercely Agolafre, the bridge’s giant porter, Ran down towards the water and cleared the other causeway. 5860 “Don’t lose him now, good barons!” his frantic lungs exhorted. “For Mahom’s sake, make certain his gain is but a short one!” Across the boards in hundreds went heathens on their horses. Richart had crossed the river, in gratitude rejoicing, And leapt to ground, re-girthing his gallant-hearted war horse. But when he saw the pagans he didn’t lag or loiter But straightaway remounted, his weapon held before him. The pagan pack pursued him upon their Arab coursers, And he allowed his charger to do what it was born for:

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Fierabras and Floripas It pounded on the gravel so fercely, as it vaulted, 5870 The heavy hooves drew fashes from every stone that caught them. The gallant duke, God bless him, outran the bridge’s wardens, His fear more disappearing at every crest and corner. The pagans, knowing quickly they’d never overhaul him, Rode back again, disarming with burning disappointment.

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he noble duke rode onward, his gallant eyes aglow, Astride a steed unequalled on level mead or slope. With slackened rein he hastened to Charlemagne’s host — Unknowing of the trouble beginning there to grow! The king was in his campsite, disconsolate with woe. He summoned to him Hardré and Ganelon and old Grifon of Autefuelle, their father, so I’m told, Macaire and Lord Aloris, and men of equal mold, With Renier of Geneva, whose noble fame you know. “My lords,” said Charlemagne, “what cure can you propose? My heart is sown with sadness, its harvest fully grown Since I have lost my power, my honor and my hope. Another’s brow must carry the crown I’ve worn alone. I’ll never wear it further to govern what it owns!” On hearing this, his barons were horrifed, although Count Ganelon was cheerful, whoever grieves or groans. He answered Charlemagne, and this is how he spoke: “True emperor, your highness, I swear upon my oath To give you loyal counsel, and I advise you so: Dismantle every shelter! Pack everything in rolls Till every mule and sumpter is stacked with heavy loads And every man is ready to take the homeward road! Tomorrow, with the sunrise, I say that we should go, For every man is wounded or weary to the bone, And if you take them further, our losses will but grow! Great Aigremore’s too mighty for you to overthrow, And the emir, King Balan, will prove a deadly foe. He’s summoned tens of thousands from every coastal post. And now his son has chosen to live in Christian hope, His vengeance and his anger are ready to explode! Attend my loyal counsel, and let us head for home.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts The scions that we left there need further time to grow: In twenty years they’ll ripen to settle scores of old! Revisit all these places in twenty years or so, 5910 And then you will recapture the land of Spain, I know, Together with the relics whose losses we bemoan. Seek vengeance in the future for Roland and for those Whose gallant lives have ended and rent apart our own!” As Charlemagne listened, he visage fell so low He couldn’t give an answer, for fourteen cities’ gold — His wits were so afficted the words stuck in his throat, As teardrops wet his eyelids and fooded past his nose. “Ah, woe is me!” he muttered, “What’s best to do?” he groaned: “If like a dog I scurry, I’ll earn a cur’s reproach, And everyone will call me a feeble, foolish rogue! 5920 I’d rather fall in battle than fail my plighted troth!”

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he emperor of France was lost in lengthy thought, Then roused himself at last and spoke with ringing voice: “Attend to me,” he cried, “my good and gallant lords! Count Ganelon’s advice is that I should withdraw Without avenging Rome or any vengeance sought For loyal men whose lives were lived in my support, And beat a quick retreat — but I am far from sure! Each future day I live I’ll be the butt of scorn.” At this, Macaire stood up, a high and haughty lord, With others of his clan: Grifon of Autefuelle, Hardré and Aloris, and some one hundred more, Of similar descent, may heaven curse them all For traitors and for knaves, co-wicked to the core! They chorused to the king: “Your highness, we applaud The wisdom of his words, which all of us endorse. Retreat, we all agree, would be the wisest course. Our clan has brought you men, good men, a thousand score, Whose will to fght has gone, whatever their reward, Since Roland has been slain, whose valor was their ward.” “Ah God,” said Charlemagne, “Whose Judgment Day will dawn: Each step I turn to France will mark my stature’s fall, That leaves behind the men whose standing made me tall!

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Fierabras and Floripas To give me such advice displays no love at all!” At this, Duke Renier said, “Give ear to me, my lord! If you accept advice from such an evil source, You set your kingdom’s breast against these braggarts’ swords! The rest will have no faith to fght for you henceforth, And you would be a fool to lead a freelance force! Whoever loses then, it won’t be them, I’m sure!” Aloris strutted forth, on hearing this, and roared, “By God, Renier, you dare to speak of us with scorn? Your very words betray your family’s remorse — If only Charles weren’t here, I swear that I would gorge The hunger of my blade upon your bloody corpse! We all know what you are and scorn you, one and all. Your father, Duke Garin, owned naught in land or coin, Except by plotting plans to steal from other lords! Since time began your clan has played the others false!” On hearing this, Renier strode straightaway and launched A blow that laid the rogue full-length upon the foor. “A curse on you, sir knave!” exclaimed Geneva’s lord. “Garin’s a gallant man, whose clan surpasses yours!” When Aloris was felled and Hardré saw the cause, His temper broke its leash and roared its anger forth. His kinsmen, when they heard the rancor and the roar, Ran off to gather arms and lend him their support, One thousand, to a man his clan by blood or law. If God had stayed His hand, they would have ruined all.

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he uproar was enormous, as, arming right and left, 5970 The clansmen of Aloris displayed their ferce prowess. Count Renier would have met with a swift and evil end, Had most of Charles’s Frenchmen not rushed to his defense. And both sides would have battled, I’m sure of this, my friends, Had Fierabras not risen, rebuking their intent. Upon his crown of offce King Charlemagne pledged That any man who started a fght that he condemned, Would hang like any robber convicted of a theft, Regardless of his station, his valor or his wealth. And all at once they halted, so fearful of his threat 5980

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Fourth Geste — Deserts That every footstep faltered and every jaw was clenched: God bless the man whose stature obliges such respect! The king told every leader to meet him in his tent, And Ganelon went in there with others of his geste, Who privately made pledges to bring about the death Of Renier of Geneva, before their journey’s end. Good people, there are proverbs that no one should forget: The promises of mortals are sooner made than kept! And traitors never prosper or proft in the end, But gain they pain they plotted, in this world or the next! So in his tent they entered and, rising to address Sir Hardré and his kinsmen, King Charlemagne said, “My lords, you have insulted my offce and myself! To fght within my presence shows nothing but contempt! I swear you will be punished as justice judges best. Aloris you committed the frst and worst offence. Unclasp your noble mantle, to show that you regret The slight you offered Renier, and make it right again.” Said Ganelon, “Your highness, we’ll do as you direct. You never will be thwarted by me or by my men.” “Confound the thought!” said Grifon, the lord of Autefuelle. And so, his cloak unclasping, Aloris went and knelt Before Geneva’s hero and duly beat his breast. But had the king not made him and fexed his royal strength, Then nothing would have prompted that villain to repent: He only made submission to keep the king content. The emperor proceeded to seek advice again: “If I return without them, I’ll die with every step!” At this Sir Grifon answered, “I too am white of head, And so deserve your hearing, your heeding and respect. My son and I have loved you and served you long and well. Although there’s some objection to Ganelon’s address, Without a doubt the counsel he gave you was correct. We’ve overstayed our moment and chances of success. Too many days in armor have bloodied all my fesh. I’m heartsick and exhausted, and so are all the French. But back in France the children, too young for war as yet, Will ripen, strong and willing in twenty years or less

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Fierabras and Floripas To form a mighty army and gain a great revenge. In twenty years revisit this misbegotten realm And take revenge for Roland, our captain and our friend, And all the other barons, who now, alas, are dead!” On hearing this, for pity great Charlemagne wept. But somehow they bewitched him, the traitors, to accept Their plan, and he assented to head for home at length. Throughout the camp his trumpets announced his new intent, And, stacking their equipment, the soldiers packed their tents. In truth, a few were happy, but most of them were vexed.

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o, following the counsel of Ganelon the knave, They packed up in the morning and stacked the baggage train. Duke Renier of Geneva was wretched with dismay For Oliver and Roland, lamenting unrestrained. “Indeed,” said Charlemagne, “I’ve crossed a line today. That I should lose the heroes whose greatness made me great, And seek no whit of vengeance, but weakly ride away! Ah Roland, gallant nephew, I loved you come what may, And now I’ll never see you on any day again! May God the Lord forgive me, Whose Judgment Day awaits, And evermore forbid me to wear a crown of state!” On saying this, he fainted upon his destrier And would have fallen further without his stirrups’ aid.

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ow sad a sight prevailed in Morimonda’s valley, As royalty bewailed for royalty abandoned! But sadder than the rest was Charlemagne’s anger: “How great a loss, alas, my foolishness has fashioned! I’ve killed you, lovely youth, through arrogance and rashness!” On hearing this lament, how many swooned for sadness! The army blew its horns and started back for Paris, And France’s honor shrank with every step it traveled. Then, suddenly, the king, when turning in his saddle Beneath a lofty pine, beheld a Christian vassal: Richart, the gallant duke, had news to make him happy, And gladden every man, save Ganelon’s companions!

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he hills of Morimonda are very high and steep. The king, upon their summit, was resting on his steed, When, turning in the saddle, he looked towards the East, And in a distant valley, along a steep ravine, He saw a Christian rider approaching him at speed. He turned towards his barons and called the best of these. 6060 Hoel of Nantes came forward and Raoul Grizzledbeard. “Detain the host, good vassals! Don’t let the van proceed, For I can see a rider, a Christian knight indeed! How resolute his mount is on rocky mound or mead! His right hand leads another that’s just as fast it seems! His riding style resembles Richart of Normandy’s! Dear God, almighty Father, most humbly I beseech Your power at this hour to let his message be That Roland and the barons are still alive at least!” The brassy horns had sounded to halt the host’s retreat, As old Richart approached them, his face aglow with zeal. 6070 Dismounting from his charger, he kissed his monarch’s feet, And when he saw his visage, the king was quick to speak: “Heroic son, most welcome! Brave champion, what cheer? For love of God in glory, what’s happened to the Peers, And my beloved nephew, whose face with valor gleams? Are any of them living? Are any of them free?” “Indeed they are!” he answered, “Don’t doubt of it, my liege! The morning that I left them, they all were safe indeed, In Aigremore’s strong fortress, where they control the keep! One hundred thousand pagans surround them in a siege 6080 That Fierabras’s father, King Balan the emir, Has sworn by his Mahomet and Tervagant, the fends, To never lift or lessen, while breath he has to breathe, Until he’s caught and hung them and swung them in the breeze. My lord, I’ve come to tell you that you must set them free, And Balan’s lovely daughter, who’s with them and in league! No maiden is her equal across the seven seas! And she has all the relics you’ve journeyed to retrieve. She’ll give them to you gladly, once everyone is freed. If you can stop her father and those he has convened, 6090 The rest of Spain will tremble and tumble to defeat!”

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Fierabras and Floripas The happy king exulted to hear he could redeem A treasure past all measure of any in the East!

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he happy king exulted, to think of his redeeming A treasure past all measure of any in Pavia! “By St. Denis,” he thundered, “my patron to Lord Jesus, Count Ganelon was lying! His clan is all deceivers! If Roland leaves here living, no love will die between them! My royal court in future will never hear or heed them!” “Richart,” the king continued, “how damaged is the keep there? 6100 If they can hold the fortress till Monday night, believe me, I’ll put to death this Balan and scatter his besiegers Who think that they can conquer whatever they are pleased to. The cells of hell tomorrow, I promise, will be heaving!” “My lord,” the duke responded, “I never will deceive you. King Balan’s very brutal, a man of ruthless evil, With such a mighty army of battle lords and liegemen Their campsite is enormous. From Aigremore it reaches Two leagues away — moreover, the city seethes with people! A causeway lies before it, a lofty one and fearsome, 6110 Well guarded by an outpost whose name it shares — Mautriblez! Around it many towers and castles guard the region, While through it runs a river no boat can stop or steer in. Its torrent runs from mountains within the realm Candia, And in the pagan language it’s known as “The Arena.” In width it is a spear cast, in depth two spears or deeper, With nowhere you can cross it except the bridge Mautriblez, Whose span itself is greater than any arrow’s reaching. And even when you cross it, the barracks-town that greets you Is built upon a mountain that’s girt around completely 6120 By terraces of towers well garrisoned with heathens! But frst there is the tower upon the bridge to deal with! They’ve fortifed before it a vaulted gate, whose breaching Is thwarted by three pairs of enormous bars that seal it — Three barricades of iron, whose purpose is a clear one: No blow from any hammer or any axe’s wielding, Will budge them in the slightest and surely never cleave them! A giant guards the entrance, a wild and loathsome creature

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Fourth Geste — Deserts Whose name is Agolafre, God curse him for a demon! His hide’s as black as pitch is, his features foul and fendish, 6130 Yet ffty knights surround him and serve him as their liege lord. Mautriblez won’t be taken by force alone, believe me, And storming it, I’m certain, will serve no purpose either. Our weapons will be useless without a ruse to lead them! The bridge is there for crossing — but not without some scheming! A few of us must go there in merchants’ clothes, concealing With long and fowing garments our iron coats beneath them, And with our weapons hidden by mantles wide and sweeping. Behind us, like a convoy, we’ll muster mules on leashes, And you must be behind them, but not where they can see you! 6140 When I’m across the causeway, I’ll draw my sword and seize it, And then I’ll give a horn call! The moment that you hear it, Appear with all you forces and storm across to meet us! If there’s a way, it’s this way! We’ll do it, if God pleases!” “I swear, by blessed Mary,” said Charlemagne, beaming, “You’ve spoken well! God bless you, Richart, most gallant hero!” His royal horn was sounded, to bring his forces nearer. One fnal night they rested on Morimonda’s reaches.

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ne fnal night they rested in Morimonda’s vale, And then, the coming morning, as dawn lit up the day, 6150 King Charlemagne ordered his forces in the dales To arm themselves for battle and clothe themselves in mail. And so they did, directly, without the least delay. The mighty king, whose empire restored the saving faith, Rode forth before his army and led them all the way, Well armed upon his war horse, the Orifamme upraised. Below his glowing helmet his hoary whiskers lay Like snow upon his hauberk that drifted to his waist. Meanwhile, Richart the Norman, whose face with valor blazed, Gave up his swarthy courser, whose head was dappled gray, 6160 To Renier of Geneva, who seized its golden reins. And then the daring Norman selected a brigade Of nobles dressed as merchants and brought them on their way. Beneath each fowing mantle each man was in his mail, And bore a fashing weapon beneath his fowing cape.

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Fierabras and Floripas On every horse’s saddle of gleaming gold was draped A cloth within whose stitches they threaded sheaves of hay To cover up its riches and hide the glowing rays. With sumpters led on leashes, well laden, as for trade, And lusty knights beside them, how fne a sight they made! Richart rode out before them, his face aglow with grace, As did Hoel of Nantes and Gui of La Vallée, And Raoul Grizzled-Bearded, who clutched a hungry blade, And Renier of Geneva, whose gallantry was great. If haughty Agolafre, the guard, was not awake, A head could be the toll fee, but he the one to pay! The king hid in a forest one half a league away, With every knight and noble of France’s hall of fame!

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he king hid in a forest with thousands of his host. The Norman led his convoy of sumpters laid with loads, And never stopped till reaching the bridge across Flagot. He looked upon its fortress and on the fow below, Its mighty race outpacing an arrow from its bow. The bridge, whenever lowered, was guarded from approach By outworks that were shielded with barricades enclosed In mighty chains of iron, that wound around the posts. The span had never needed to fear a living soul. Raoul of Mans was staggered. “Just look at that!” he groaned: “Has any Christian ever attempted such a road? For love of God, the crossing’s a fortress on its own!” “It truly serves to herald the strongest city known From Balaguer to Aspre,” said Richart, nothing loath. Said Renier of Geneva, “That’s true enough! Behold! A thousand Moors are waiting behind each wooden post.” Sir Hoel said forlornly, “My blood is running cold! May Jesus, born of Mary, be with us as we go!” “Good barons,” said the Norman “don’t sink your spirits so In fortune’s troubled waters, but lift them to your hopes! Just let me do the talking! I’ll meet the guard alone And get us past his gatehouse and then across the fow. Prepare to shed your mantles and let your weapons show A steady hand that’s ready to render winning blows!”

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he men approached Mautriblez, the bridge, in mighty dread. The Norman rode before them, a hood upon his head. Behind him came the sumpters and then the men who led. Until they reached the gatehouse their progress was unchecked, But Agolafre saw them, and as they came, addressed The duke in surly fashion: “What brings you here, and whence

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Fierabras and Floripas Comes this almighty convoy, and who are all these men?” Richart disguised his accent, and speaking Spanish, said: 6240 “My lord, I am a merchant, and trade’s my daily bread. This convoy carries thousands of silks I’m here to sell. My lord, we’re bound for Mecca, with good Mahomet’s help. His feasting ground in Mecca is where our journey ends. But we should like to tarry and take a day of rest In Aigremore and visit the great emir himself, To offer him and others the bargains and the best! These other men are merchants, all foreign born and bred. Good warden, can you tell us the safest path to tread?” “In truth,” said Agolfare, “I’m lord of Mautriblez 6250 And everything around it for ffty leagues as well. But recently some villains got by me, who were French, And said they’d brought a message from Charlemagne’s tent. The toll that they still owe me is one I must collect. But at this very moment they’re in far deeper debt, Imprisoned by King Balan, and facing certain death. One villain has escaped him, who like a robber fed Upon a steed unequalled for speed of limb or strength. Across these roaring waters he spurred it and it sped! He killed my noble cousin, and that is why I fret! 6260 At good Mahomet’s pleasure we’ll catch the killer yet, And when we do, I tell you, I’ll split him to his belt! The great emir, my master, sees treachery ahead, Because his son’s deserted the faith he should defend. His man, on three occasions, has warned me not to let A single person past me, no matter who or when, No nobleman or servant, not anyone, unless I know his name or study his face to know it hence! So show me yours and tell me the name it represents!” On hearing this, the Norman looked further down instead, 6270 And clutched his naked weapon with lionlike prowess, As Raoul edged towards him, whose courage matched his friend’s, With Hoel, duke of Nantes, and Renier, bravely bred. When Agolafre saw them, the heart within him leapt, And crying out, he warned them: “Don’t take a single step! By Baratron the holy, I’ll not be fooled again!”

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Fourth Geste — Deserts He seized the bridge’s lever that lifted up its end, As four of them rushed forward — and fell inside his den!

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he convoy’s gallant leaders had rushed inside the gate, But straightaway its warden had raised the bridge’s chain. 6280 He faced them in his gatehouse, his visage full of hate, And said, “Well now, for merchants, I think you’re very brave To rush in here so boldly when bidden to remain! But now you’re here, rest easy inside my cosy jail! Your fellow merry merchants are welcome just the same! Tomorrow I’ll escort you to the emir you crave! Now lift those heavy mantles that hide your shifty shapes! You’re trouble merchants, aren’t you, and treachery’s your trade!” On saying this, he rushed them and, seizing Hoel’s cape, He swung him in a circle, again and yet again, 6290 Till fnally he fung him and stung his breath away. “By God!” Raoul exploded, “I’ll not abide and wait

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Fierabras and Floripas To see my cousin murdered by such a brutal knave. God damn me for a coward if all I do is gape!” At this, he cast his mantle and drew his shining blade To strike the giant’s head off, but all he did was shave A sliver of his ear lug as Agolafre swayed. Then both Richart and Renier threw off their heavy capes To battle with the giant, their glowing weapons raised. 6300 Alas, their brave endeavors to wound him were in vain — They couldn’t hurt or harm him: his body was encased Inside a scaly snakeskin as tough and hard as nails. At Raoul’s gallant body the giant swung his blade, But this time he was thwarted — God twisted it and made The hero leap, ensuring the serpent missed its prey! Instead it struck a column and split it through the grain As easily as if it had been a wisp of hay! “Dear God, the King of glory,” the Mansel knight exclaimed, “How mighty is the devil! His stature is so great We cannot hit his wits out or fend his arms away!” 6310 With drooping gaze he noticed a wooden post, well shaped From heart of oak so solid he hoped it couldn’t break. With hasty hand he took it and prayed it would prevail! He saw the fend and struck him a blow below the waist That broke the legs he stood on and felled him straightaway! On sinking down, he uttered so wild a howl of pain The riverbanks and meadows resounded with the wail, And every heathen henchman came running to his aid. Within the briefest moment ten thousand men had made A beeline from the city to Agolafre’s gate, 6320 To swarm around the Christians, their evil wyverns raised! But Richart reached the drawbridge and drew it down again, As all of his companions surged forward in a wave That broke upon the pagans and choked them in its wake: They buffeted and drowned them in blood their weapons drained! Richart, the gallant Norman, held up his horn to make The signal Charles awaited — a strong and lengthy strain, That carried to him clearly within his shady glade. “Mountjoy!” he cried in answer and spurred his steed away, As did they all — I tell you, not one of them delayed. 6330

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Fourth Geste — Deserts Until they reached the crossing, they never drew a rein. Count Ganelon, moreover, and all his clan, were brave: With fags aloft, they got there among the frst that day And drove the pagans backwards until they reached a place Beyond the bridge, a ridgeway on which redoubts were raised, And where the pagans rallied and countered them again. How many men were victims of this last-ditch display, As piercing weapons pitched them in hundreds down the grade, Where wounded slid and slithered and dead out sped the lame! The gallant son of Pepin struck time and time again With great Joyeuse, his weapon that fed them to the grave! Count Ganelon, moreover, and all his clan displayed Their love for Charlemagne and bravery that day The Christians battled fercely to conquer Mautriblez: Alas that love and valor should last so brief a space!

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he towers of the city were very tall and steep, While all around the ditches defending it were deep. His body clad in iron, the mighty king was keen To cross the bridge together with all his men of liege. He saw there Agolafre, an image of the fend, 6350 Still writhing, still surviving to do his evil deeds, Protected by the snakeskin that nothing sharp could pierce Or puncture any part of to still the heart beneath. Instead, his shining sickle was swinging round to reap The lives of thirty Christians and sow a row of grief. What evil, if allowed to, the devil’s servants wreak! Good people, with their power the Christians crushed the beast And cast him in the waters whose fow and tow are feet, And then they took the bailey that lay enclosed between The crossing and the city; ten thousand, the élite, 6360 Through day and night assaulted the ramparts west and east, And suffered many losses and many injuries. The sighing cries of pagans resounded through the felds For miles around, announcing that Mautriblez was breached, And drawing, in their hundreds, the heathens far and near Till more than ffty thousand arrived in helms of green. Without the Lord to help them, Who bore the cross’s grief,

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Fierabras and Floripas The French would not have triumphed and could have met defeat. The city walls before them were made of marble, each 6370 Dark block of which was mounted inside an iron seal. The hue and cry around them was deafening to hear, And Effraon, the giant who guarded them, appeared, His hand around a hammer as horrible as he. His wife, called Amietta, had two young sons to feed, And did so in a cavern that served their giant need! Each gateway to the city, the largest and the least, The giant closed and bellowed, “So where is Charles the ferce? He wants the relics, does he, to take to Saint-Denis? I swear by good Mahomet, who’s always sworn by me, He should have stayed in Paris — a dotard needs his sleep! 6380 He’ll never leave here living, unless he turns and fees! I’ll catch him and dispatch him to Balan the emir. My master, once he’s got him, won’t ever set him free: He’ll hang him on the gallows or have him dragged by steeds!”

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nd Effraon, the giant, the city’s whip and warden, Embraced his iron hammer, as hard as he who bore it. I couldn’t state the tally of Christian men he slaughtered — Enough, I know, to rally the chastened Moors before him! How bitterly they battled before the city’s portals. The entranceway was littered with falling men and fallen. His face a mask of anger, Charles vaulted from his war horse, One hand upon his buckler, the other on his sword hilt. With all his country’s nobles, who hastened to support him, He looked upon the giant and boldly strode towards him.

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ow valiant a stand King Charlemagne made. His weapon in his hand, he swung its shining blade And struck the giant guard, with little love mislaid, Before the pagan’s arm could swing its giant mace. He struck him well — a blow that traveled from his brains Through everything below and split him to the waist — Then with a twist of wrist he fung him to his grave. On seeing this, the Moors were flled with bitter rage, And with an awful roar, their ugly jaws agape,

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Fourth Geste — Deserts Advancing in a wedge they edged against the gates. What worthy blows Richart the Norman hero gave, And Renier, gallant sire of Oliver the brave, And Duke Hoel of Nantes, whose courage never failed, And Count Raoul of Mans, who, like a boar, displayed Such courage that the stand and helping hand they gave Not only turned around the Saracen blockade, But drove it and themselves inside the city’s gates! God help them! Charles himself was very nearly slain As twenty thousand Slavs surrounded them and aimed Their arrows from the walls to shower them like rain! A hundred heathens ran to bar the gates again, But didn’t have the time to raise the bridge’s chains Before the Christian van was staring in their face! How ferce a fght ensued to save or stave the gate! You needn’t ask if Charles was sad to see them raise The gateway’s mighty bar and jar it into place! With all his heart he called upon our Savior’s aid, And Roland, in regret, and Oliver the same. On hearing his distress, Richart himself exclaimed: “Fine emperor of France, I beg you, don’t bewail The valor we have lost, but value what remains! What use is gallant blood inside a coward’s veins? May God, Who judges all, condemn me for a knave If ever I submit while brain and breath remain! Let each of us display our courage while we may!”

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urrounded by the Moors, King Charles was in the city. Richart, the Norman duke, and Duke Renier were with him, As was Raoul and Hoel of Nantes, or so it’s written, Their naked blades aloft, and every portion dripping With heathen blood each time they struck the pagan pickets. But all would be for naught without the Lord’s assistance — The heathen hold too strong to brook long opposition! “Mountjoy!” cried Charlemagne, with all his pride and spirit, And Ganelon outside, moreover, flled with pity. He raced up to the gate, dismounting very quickly, And shouted, “Autefuelle!” to summon all his kinsmen.

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Fierabras and Floripas Some eighteen hundred came, armed splendidly and swiftly, And charged the city gate as hard as they could hit it. The heathens ran at once to reach their highest buildings, And showered rocks below like snowfakes in a blizzard On Grifon’s fery clan, and many there were injured. “What fools we are indeed!” cried Aloris, grim-visaged: “The overlord of France is cornered, and God willing, It surely won’t be long before the pagans kill him: At last we can avenge the injuries and insults Inficted on our clan by him and all his minions! A curse on any man who’d offer him assistance, When we can take his land and govern it like princes! Our father can be king and give us what he wishes. No baron here, I think, will live to contradict us!” But Ganelon replied, “May God above forbid me From doing any deed that breaks an oath I’ve given! If I allowed his death, I’d brand myself a villain. Our land depends on Charles, and everything within it. We owe him our support, as liegemen and as Christians! Each one of us has pledged his word to this commitment!” When Aloris heard this, his temper passed its limit.

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e cried aloud, “My brother — so you’d betray our race? You have a chance for vengeance, and yet you hesitate? The king is caught inside there and if he should be slain, I’m sure that all the others will share his sorry fate. The Moors will punish for us the enemies we’ve made! Abandon this encounter and let us ride away!” But Ganelon responded, “May God forbid the day That mighty Charlemagne should ever be betrayed! I’d rather face the gallows or lose a limb than fail To do my duty by him, and earn undying blame.” When Aloris had heard him his temper broke its chain. Their father, hoary Grifon, was flled alike with rage, And soon the clan was clashing, those for with those against. The men began retreating, their plan in disarray, When Fierabras harangued them, in armor and in pain. “Where is King Charlemagne?” his ringing voice exclaimed.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts Count Aloris responded, “He’ll not be seen again! He leapt the mighty ditches and swept inside the gates!” 6480 King Fierabras responded, “And you are here, you knave? What evil has seduced you to leave him to his fate? Whatever is the reason, it’s treason just the same! Mountjoy! My lords, attend me, and show that you are brave!” On hearing this, the Christians took heart again and raced Their steeds towards the gatehouse and charged against the gate. Count Ganelon they found there, with bloodied limbs and face — But Fierabras was happy: the drawbridge wasn’t raised! He stormed across the timbers and with the gallant aid Of Ganelon and others, he swung a mighty mace That battered down the portals of dreaded Mautriblez. 6490 The others crashed inside there, like one enormous wave, And when Aloris saw them and knew the king was saved, He joined them, with his traitors, their gonfalons upraised. Their forces struck together, and with their shining blades Drew so much blood they fooded the city’s lanes and drains! The pagans whelped and whimpered and wrapped their heathen tails Between their legs, forsaking the city’s rich domains. In huddles, by the hundreds, they begged Mahomet’s aid And called upon King Balan, whose absence they bewailed: “Come here, emir, and save us before it’s all too late!” 6500 One Saracen among them was able to escape For Aigremore and goaded his horse with every haste, To tell of Christian thriving and pagandom in pain: You’ll hear it too, good people — but only if you stay!

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n Mautriblez the fghting was very ferce and heavy, And many blows were bartered before the town surrendered. The clashing and the clamour was heard by Amietta, Whose lair beneath the hallway was in a vaulted cellar. Confned upon a pallet, her labor there had ended In giving birth to boy twins, whose safety she attended. 6510 This giantess, I tell you, had skin as black as peppers, And eyes that fickered redder than any faming embers, Between a massive forehead and mouth of equal measure. Her standing height was greater than man and spear together,

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Fierabras and Floripas And, all in all, her features were hideous and dreadful. And now a Moor was running, in great alarm, to tell her That Effraon was slaughtered, the warden who had wed her, And fearsome Charlemagne had flled the town with Frenchmen. When Amietta heard it, her temper broke its tether And drove her from the pallet, her shaggy locks dishevelled: 6520 They tumbled past her hip line and hid them altogether. She stared ahead, and seizing a sickle, said that never, While breath was in her body, would any pass the threshold. “Dear God and blessed Mary,” the king himself lamented, “A devil stands before us with skin as black as peppers, A giantess who’s scything my noblemen like nettles! My triumph will be empty unless I can protect them! Whoever has a crossbow, go, bring it here directly!” Hoel, the duke of Nantes, did swiftly as requested, The king at once releasing the locking string that set it, 6530 While aiming at her forehead, to strike it in the center. The weapon hit its target and split it to the temples, Then, as she fell against it, the heavy bolt was severed. Her mouth erupted vapors that voided from her belly, And all the men threw boulders to bury her forever. Then suddenly they realized that nothing more could check them: Their worthiness had striven, had thriven and had entered!

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o Mautriblez was taken by hardiness of mind, And many pagans slaughtered who couldn’t fee or hide. How many robes and riches were stashed away inside, In shiny gold and silver and garments silky bright. The great emir had hoarded his treasure there in piles, Because the blighted city had been his strongest site! The emperor, whose valor and honor both were high, Distributed the treasure among his many knights, With lavish hands, beftting a monarch of his kind. Both lofty born and lowly took all they could desire. Then Charlemagne rested another day and night.

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o Mautriblez was taken by hardiness of soul, And Charlemagne tarried to gain its full control. 6550 He sent his men patrolling the city and its homes, And soon they found the cellar beneath its parlor stones, Where Amietta’s infants were languishing alone. They picked them up and took them to Charlemagne’s abode, Who crossed himself on seeing such bonny babes as those. To St. Denis, his patron, he swore a solemn oath That neither one should perish, for all Milano’s gold. So Hermann, his archbishop, gave Christian names to both, One Oliver, one Roland —or so the story goes. The babes themselves, however, would never live to know: 6560 Soon after, while they slumbered, some villain cut their throats, Before the King had toppled ferce Balan from his throne.

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ood people, it was May, when summer’s warmth begets New blossom from the trees and meadow grass afresh. Through bravery and brains they’d captured Mautriblez, And nothing more remained save Aigremore ahead. The emperor of France called forward and addressed Richart, Hoel of Nantes and Renier, white of head, And Raoul, lord of Mans, whose courage was immense: “My lords, who will remain in Mautriblez?” he said, “To guard it and its bridge until we come again?” “My lord,” the Norman said, “the man I’d recommend Is Raoul of Le Mans — I think he’d be the best.” “In truth,” the king replied, “I think you’ve chosen well, And I endorse the man and plan that you suggest.” “Your will is ours as well,” responded all the rest. So Hoel and Raoul were left behind and kept Some seven hundred knights for Maultriblez’ defense. At Charlemagne’s plea, these men were of the best, And needed so to be, believe you me, my friends! The monarch blew his horns across the town to tell His fghting force to pack and stack their sumpters well With meat and wheat and oats, and sacks of wine and bread, But that was all, no more: they carried nothing else,

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Fierabras and Floripas No shelters, no marquees, pavilions or tents — They left behind the lot in mighty Mautriblez. The royal host regrouped, rearmed itself and left In straight and serried lines of valiant prowess. Astride his horse Blanchart the king bestrode a crest To look upon his force, his mighty ranks of French, And, gazing at the sky, with humble heart confessed: “Almighty God on high, how richly You have blest My feeble life with help and strength in times of stress! How fortunate I am to lead such worthy men, Whose mighty thirst to do my will is never quenched!” On saying this, he bowed, then crossed his loyal breast, Before he galloped back in joy and great content. Godspeed them all, I say, Whose glory never ends. Before he freed the counts and fully crowned his quest, Both they and he would face the might of hell itself: The great emir had called on all his mortal strength Of men from fourteen lands and fourteen languages.

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he Emperor of France, his snowy whiskers gleaming, Led forth across the land a hundred thousand liegemen. The Norman duke Richart was made the vanguard’s leader, While guardian of the rear was Renier of Geneva. The army rode in force directly through Serria, Well led by old Richart, who knew the roads and region, And Fierabras himself, whose faith had turned to Jesus. Godspeed them all, I say, Whose glory never ceases! When Balan heard the news an escapee repeated That Mautriblez was crossed, the city lost in seizure, And Agolafre slain, who’d ruled the river’s reaches, He roared aloud with rage and fell to heavy grieving. “Ah, woe is me, Mahom! My world is ever weaker! You wretched gods of mine, your might’s not worth a peanut! My son was right, I’d say, to change his faith and leave you! Whoever trusts in you will die and be defeated! Wherever was the help you offer those who heed you? I swear I’ll make you pay for having so deceived me!” Before him stood a mace and, in a rage, he seized it

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Fourth Geste — Deserts And, running to the mosque, his face a mask of evil, He struck the graven god against its giant ear hole! He cracked its face apart and broke its neck completely, As Sortinbrans, his friend, tried both to chide and cheer him: “Most noble lord emir, you have no right or reason To punish Lord Mahom — it’s very wrong, believe me, And you must make amends for such a misdemeanor!” The great emir replied, “It angers and aggrieves me To think that old Mahom could punish me so meanly! Why else has he allowed their king to cross Mautriblez, To plunder me at will and sunder my achievements?” “My lord,” said Sortinbrans, “send forth a man to see if Their army’s on its way, and where we may defeat it! Attack him frst, my lord, with all your levied legions. If we can capture Charles, his heroes will be beaten, And when we’ve taken them and him inside Mautriblez, We’ll simmer them in pitch to blacken up their features! King Fierabras, your son, should still be hung for treason.” King Balan heard his words, and grieving while agreeing, He knelt before his god in penitent entreaty.

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ing Sortinbrans the pagan implored his lord, together With Codroel and Brulanz and Tempestee, his nephew, Until he’d paid a penance of twenty thousand bezants To mend the broken statue and make it even better. This done, he sounded trumpets to give his troops the message That everyone should gather their armor and their weapons. His catapults were loaded on trellised tracks, assembled To ford the fnal ditches, with stones and picks aplenty, To make a fnal onslaught upon his tower’s Frenchmen! 6650 King Balan roared an order to go on the offensive, And with their leading volleys they breached the keep’s defenses At fve points so completely a loaded cart could enter. Both Oliver and Roland were leaning out from ledges, Like every other baron, with hauberk on and helmet, With naked blade and buckler in either hand held ready. Their faces tense with horror, however bold their tempers, However keen their ardor to counter and prevent them,

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Fierabras and Floripas They watched as pointed pick-heads broke bricks at every level. They tumbled heavy timbers and boulders from the crenels 6660 And made the ditch below them a bloody bed for many. “Great Tervagant, defend us!” the mighty Balan bellowed. “Get in and kill, good huntsmen — we’ve trapped the prey already!”

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n Balan’s keep the French and Floripas the maiden Were trapped by the emir, whose pagan force assailed them. The Moor harangued his men: “Don’t weaken now or waver! I’ll burn the royal whore whose conduct has betrayed us. Both she and all the French will pay the price of traitors.” At this they struck anew and drummed upon their tabors, And soon they took the tower, except its highest chamber. Without the help of God, that too would soon be taken. “My friend,” Sir Roland said, “for heaven’s sake, I pray you, Let’s do what good we can, though nothing may avail us!” Said Oliver, “My friend, our faith is our salvation! And we are ten good men, still valiant and able! Let’s seek the light and fght for Jesus Christ our Savior: I’ll die in honor’s sun, not dismal degradation.” Said Duke Ogier the Dane: “Well spoken, count, and bravely! We’ll do as you have said, and no one here will fail you!”

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he French and Floripas, in Balan’s keep on high, Were stranded in a room whose doom was drawing nigh. At fve selected points the breaches were so wide Two wagons could have passed the smallest side by side. The Moors about their door were just about to strike, When Roland fung it out and offered them the fght! As Floripas looked on, with ringing voice she cried, “You noble knights of France, display your honor’s pride! If you repulse this charge, and somehow we survive, Then I shall tell you where and show you how to fnd The objects of your quest — the relics of the Christ!” On hearing this, they wept for pity’s sake and plied Their sharp and shining swords with even greater might. They slaughtered Turkish Moors in scores, as they arrived,

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Fourth Geste — Deserts And pitched one hundred more across the walls to die: Inside the ditch below their boldest lay in piles! Two barons each, they reached and flled those breaches fve So none could pass, unless they paid a mortal price. Fair Floripas observed the valor of the knights, And hailing Naimon frst, his head as white as ice, 6700 And Thierri of Ardennes, whose beard alike was white, And Geoffrey of Anjou, the record says she cried, “My lords, you made a pledge and swore to me alike That you, as best you could, would do as I desired! I want to show you now the thorny crown and spikes And shroud that I possess of Jesus crucifed.” On hearing this, all three most willingly replied, “We’ll serve you, to a man, in any plan or plight!” When this was said, she sought a coffer from inside, And from it brought a box of purest gold to light. Inside a precious silk, Galician of design, 6710 The holy relics blazed with blessed rays and bright. Duke Naimon spoke the frst, exclaiming with a sigh, “God bless you, noble maid! What comfort you provide! I beg you, let us keep this casket for a time, So each of us may press our lips to it a while! We’ll give it back to you, I swear it on my life.” The window ledge was near, veneered with marble tiles, And there, one thousand Moors, who’d clambered to its height, Were just about to take the chamber by surprise, When Naimon thrust the box before their very eyes. 6720 At once, without a lie, a thousand fell and died! Old Naimon cried aloud, “This proves to all mankind That here we hold indeed true signs of the Divine! Be cheerful now, my lords, in body, heart and mind, And fearful nevermore of heathen might or spite!” “In truth, no evil more can harm us,” they replied. “God’s Trinity henceforth shall be our guard and guide.”

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he Christians, though entrapped, were all in cheerful spirits, Their strength renewed to know the holy signs were with them.

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Fierabras and Floripas Duke Naimon called the maid, fair Floripas, to give her 6730 The relics she had fetched; but frst of all he kissed them, And then she took them back and wrapped them up and hid them. Then, taking off her cloak, she entered, wearing little Except a shift of silk that shone abroad and shimmered. Each step she went, her scent was sweeter far than lilies. Though armed from head to knee, young Gui could not resist her, And kissed her as they leant against the tower’s window. King Balan flled with rage to see the lovers kissing, And couldn’t stop his food of spitefulness from spilling: 6740 “Ah, daughter fair to see, but so unfair to witness! Your father was a fool to trust you for a minute! How truly do they say that “only fools trust women”! You wanton girl — be warned! Your whoring days are fnished! The time has come to still your passion for this villain: The pair of you shall burn — no other cure will kill it!” On hearing this, the maid was furious and lifted A rod up in her hand and cursed her father with it. King Balan seized a horn and blew it loudly bringing His forces to the wall and urging them to split it! Their catapults released and many of them hit it, 6750 Amassing on the ground great mounds of broken building. Without the help of God, they’d soon have those within it! Count Oliver spun round as gallant Roland sprinted To reach that vaulted room where false Mahomet’s fgure Was cast in shining gold, beside his evil kindred. Each baron picked one up and piggy-backed an image, With Roland in the lead — Apollo was his piggy! — Then dropped them on the Moors wherever they were thickest! Duke Ogier hugged Margot — but not for long — he ditched him, Then Oliver alike dumped Tervagant as quickly! 6760 When Balan saw his gods the color left his visage, And straightaway he swooned from all the pain within him. King Sortinbrans was there and, raising him, continued To urge their forces on, who did as they were bidden. The great emir looked up, his lamentation bitter, And many pagans wept to see their gods belittled.

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he Great emir, King Balan, was overcome with grief. King Sortinbrans consoled him, with old King Tempestee. “My lord, don’t lose your courage!” they told their dismal liege. “Before tomorrow evening, your vengeance will be sweet. This tower will be taken — as you can clearly see, Its outer wall is falling, in twelve positions breached — And soon you’ll have its captives to punish as you please.” “Mahomet!” cried King Balan, “You have forsaken me! Why else am I afficted? Or have you gone to sleep? There was a time your power fulflled my every need — That hour, though, is fnished, and you are old and weak. Too slow and feeble even to save yourself, it seems!” Said Sortinbrans: “Your highness, you’re ill advised indeed To speak so of Mahomet and hold his honor cheap, Who every day has proven a god without a peer, And blesses us each season with felds of wine and wheat. I’m sure, when he intends it, his might will be revealed, But he is still offended at how you boxed his ears, When yesterday you struck him and broke him to the teeth! I’m certain, when his anger and pride have been appeased, He’ll let you have the Frenchmen; just wait a while and see.” At this Mahomet’s statue was brought to the emir, And someone there called Cruanz crawled into it unseen, And spoke aloud, pretending the stone had power of speech! “Emir, most mighty monarch, dismiss your dismal fear! Sound out your horns and order your forces to proceed. Before this day is over, I swear you’ll take the keep.” The king jumped up, ecstatic, and cried in happy cheer: “Attack again, good hunters! Don’t give them any peace!” On hearing this, his forces were still in shock and fear, But when they heard his trumpets and bugles urging speed, They ran to man their scaffolds, their mighty siege machines, And battering rams on trolleys, their timbers tipped with steel.

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Fierabras and Floripas They drove them all to shatter the walls of Balan’s keep. God help those in its shelter, Whose wonders never cease! Without His aid, and Charles’s, their deaths were guaranteed.

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ow brutal was the brunt! How wild it was and bitter: In ffteen spots the walls were battered down and smitten By pagans wielding picks that shattered bricks and windows. Their scaffolding aligned, they climbed against the building, And nobody remained in Balan’s camp who witnessed 6810 The ease of their advance — they thought the French were fnished. But no, indeed, my friends! The knights of Charles’s kingdom Struck hundreds with their blades in wonderful resistance, And those they hammered well went straight to hell’s perdition — Though they themselves were doomed without divine assistance. Sir Ogier spoke and said, “My noble comrades, listen! Make sure no wicked words are sung of our submission To craven deed or thought, when songs of us are written! Our harbor here is swept by such a tide of billows, That very soon I’m sure they’ll overwhelm and kill us. 6820 But by the Lord, Who made the world and all within it, I swear to you, before my fesh gives up its spirit, If God protects Cortain, my sturdy blade, then with it I’ll slaughter Moors enough to make a mighty midden!” Count Roland raised his sword, on hearing this, to witness His comrade raising his, with bloody droplets dripping. Each Frenchman did the same, and, flled afresh with vigor, They swore to hold the fort or hold their honor little! Fair Floripas exclaimed, “Sweet Mary, Blessed Virgin, Tonight I shall be slain in pain that’s unremitting. 6830 Destroy this cursèd fort and let me perish quickly!” But gallant Gui replied, “Be calm, my lovely princess!” “My lord,” the maid replied, “my mind is much afficted. If help does not arrive, my life’s already fnished. I hoped to be your wife, the happiest of women, And raised before the font, baptised to be a Christian. I would have been a queen and helped you in your kingdom!” At this, the maiden cried, and sighing deep within her, She sank towards the ground, as Gui ran to assist her.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts Duke Naimon, during this, was looking in the distance, When suddenly he spied a sight that made him quiver: He shouted to the counts, “The king of France is with us! He’s riding like the wind, his Orifamme abillow! The fag of Saint-Denis is sailing down the hillside, Its helmsman steering course directly for the city! It’s very clear that we’re the port he wants to visit, And that he’s not alone — in truth, a whole fotilla Of knights has ploughed its way beyond the Flagot river! Tomorrow they will swamp the blackamoors and sink them!” Fair Floripas exclaimed: “Sweet Mary, Blessed Virgin, Most glorious of maids, all praise to you be given! But shame on you, Sir Gui, for duty’s dereliction! Our lips have never met — you’ve never come to kiss me! Good duke, embrace me now, and I will feel as blissful As if I’d had a meal of tender, spicy chicken!” On hearing this, the French sent peals of laughter ringing, But as for Gui, he fushed, then blushed a burning crimson!

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ow much their spirits lifted with Naimon’s happy message That all their hearts’ desiring was coming to their rescue! They hurried to the windows and, leaning on the ledges, 6860 Saw noble France’s army and noble Charles who led it. They knew at once the standard, in all its sacred splendor, And flled with joy to savor the Orifamme’s protection. To Balan came an envoy with bitter news to tell him That Charles had crossed the valleys, the mountains and the meadows With men a hundred thousand, their armor on already. “Prepare your troops for battle! Select your sharpest weapons To welcome Charlemagne, his face aglow with vengeance! Prepare to save your city, your kingdom and your empire!” Cried Balan, “By Mahomet, the sooner done the better. 6870 We’re right and they are guilty. We shall destroy the Frenchmen!” This judgment was repeated by all of those assembled, And ffty thousand pagans were ordered forth directly To guard the valley leading from Aigremore’s defenses. The king of France rode onward, his banner raised to heaven, Richart the gallant Norman, beside him still, attended

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Fierabras and Floripas By all the other barons, then every rank together, In serried rows advancing to reach the valley’s entrance. And there they made a campsite, though nothing was erected, No spur or helm unbuckled and nothing worn divested. The horses lay beside them, and having fed, they rested To wake up with the lark song and rise with its ascending.

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t dawn the coming morning, with daylight growing bright, The king of France assembled his men in serried lines And formed his ranks for battle, not wasting any time. To Fierabras he beckoned and looked him in the eye. “My friend,” he then addressed him, “now Christ is in your life, I’ll cherish you and love you until the day I die. I tell you, if your father will leave Mahom behind, He’ll not give up a penny or any of his might. 6890 But if he won’t, I’m sorry, I must oppose his right.” “My lord, select an envoy,” young Fierabras replied, “And send him to my father to see if he’ll comply. If he decides against it, that’s his affair not mine. It won’t be on my conscience if he must pay the price.” On saying this, they summoned Sir Renier to their side, And brave Richart the Norman, whose counsel was their guide. “My lords,” the king addressed them, “what man can we assign To take our ultimatum to Balan and his knights? Count Ganelon is gallant, in body and in mind. 6900 When Mautriblez was captured his bravery was high. I’ll hasten him to Balan, if you agree alike. “My lord,” Richart responded, “I saw him in the fght, And heard him tell his kinsmen, in ringing tones and high, That he would never fail you for all the gold that shines. I’m sure that you can trust him to do what is required.”

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he Emperor of France bade Ganelon appear. “I want you, noble count, to ride ahead from here And tell Balan from me that he must change his creed And heed Lord Jesus Christ, Who bore the cross’s grief. I order him alike to set my nobles free And render me at once the relics that I seek.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts His lands and life are safe, if only he’ll agree. If not, then we shall fght, and what will be will be.” Said Ganelon, “My lord, I’ll go most willingly.” And drew his helmet’s strap more tightly round his cheeks. He donned a coat of mail with shining links of steel And then bestrode a steed of sturdy Gascon breed. Around his neck he hung a lion-crested shield, Then gathered in his hand a banner-bearing spear. He rode out on his own, dismissing friend and peer, Then spurred his way across the valley and its streams. The pagan guards approached, as soon as he was seen, And since he rode alone, they ordered him to speak. “Who are you, noble lord, whose purpose merits speed?” “A messenger of Charles,” said Ganelon in brief. And so they let him ride across the pagan leagues Unchecked, until he reached the tent of the emir. He never left his horse, but rising in his seat By leaning on his spear and thrusting with his heels, He spoke his message forth, regardless of its grief.

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ount Ganelon was clever, articulate and brave. He said aloud to Balan, “Attend to what I say! The mighty Charlemagne commands you to forsake Your faith in false Mahomet and all his fellow fakes, And love the Lord almighty, and serving Him with praise, To save your soul forever through baptism and grace. He bids you to surrender his barons in your jail, And all the blessed relics belonging to our faith. If you obey his orders, your empire will be safe, And all his life he’ll love you, as will your son the same. But, great emir, be certain that if you disobey, Your men and you will languish in Charlemagne’s hate. Make sure he never fnds you in any land he claims, For if his hand arrests you, not only you will pay. Your men will be dismembered, the monarch with the knave, And all your land surrendered to friends that he has made.” On hearing this, the pagan was driven wild with shame. His great moustaches quivered, his eyebrows leapt in rage,

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Fierabras and Floripas And gripping it so tightly, he broke his rod of state. 6950 “You Christian dog!” he bellowed, “How dare you speak this way? I swear, by good Mahomet, you’ll rue the hour and day You burst your way inside here, with threats and weapon raised. The dotard Charlemagne cares nothing for your fate, Who sends you here unaided with such demands to make! I know you’ll never tell him the answer he awaits! If ever you should leave here, you’ll never sound the same!” He cried out to his henchmen: “Arrest him straightaway!” If Ganelon was frightened, he didn’t seem afraid, 6960 But seizing what he leaned on, he took a steady aim And lunged it at the breast of a pagan in the way. He plunged it through his middle, the force of it so great It fung the corpse to Balan, where at his feet it lay. Sir Ganelon turned quickly and spurred his mount away, As Balan started forward and cried aloud for aid. From every heathen shelter the pagans poured in haste, And more than ffty thousand bestrode their destriers And dashed across the valley with every hackle raised. Duke Naimon, in the tower, his beard afow with age, Was leaning on the marble that made the window frame: 6970 He saw it all and summoned the captive counts again. “Companions, look and listen!” he beckoned and he waved, “I see a Frenchman feeing — an envoy, being chased By ffty thousand pagans, their angry weapons raised! Our king has sent an envoy whose embassy has failed. I see him well! It looks like Sir Ganelon, in faith!” “My lord, you’re right, it is him!” Sir Roland’s voice exclaimed. “May God above in glory defend him from the knaves! My heart would fll with sorrow if he were caught or slain.” They all stood at the windows and watched the wicked chase, 6980 And prayed aloud together for Ganelon’s escape.

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n Tachebrun his steed Count Ganelon kept running, With one hand on his sword, the other on his buckler. He looked for all the world a man of noble courage. The pagans gave him chase, a curse upon their number, As valley changed to hill and still they thundered up it.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts So Ganelon drew rein, and facing them, he swung at A Moor from Aigremore, whose charger kept on coming. From helmet top to teeth he split the man asunder, 6990 Then slaughtered Tenebrez, King Sortinbrans’s brother. His weapon laid them low, one foe upon the other! Count Oliver looked on, God bless the honest youngster, Addressing Roland thus, both readily and bluntly: “My noble friend,” he cried, “I swear by God above us, When Ganelon fghts thus, I cannot help but love him! By Jesus Christ our Lord, and by His holy Mother, If only I could ride beside him on the rump of My rapid horse, well armed with Halteclere the cutting, I’d make these heathens pay for every day we’ve suffered!” They couldn’t look away or speak of any other 7000 But Ganelon, surrounded and hounded by the hundred. Then suddenly the Moors were halted with a shudder Of fear, when they could see that Charles himself was coming! How rapidly they changed from hunters to the hunted, And sped the other way to tell their liege to hurry! “Arm every able man you can to save the country!” “Most willingly,” said he, and straightaway instructed One thousand men to blow their olifants and trumpets. So awful was the din, so hellish was the hubbub That no one could describe the riot and the uproar. 7010 The Moors fell into rank, and as they did, in dozens, A messenger rode up to the emir among them With happy news, for him: Brulanz the king, his brother, Had brought a force whose sum had never yet been summoned! King Balan, hearing this, was full of bliss and hurried Upon his giant steed to thank him and to hug him. How joyfully they met to join their mighty numbers!

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ow mighty was the number of their united crowd. In twenty-six divisions they set and sent them out. May God, Who bore the Passion, be Charles’s frm redoubt: He certainly would need one before the sun went down! Count Ganelon few boldly on Tachebrun his mount To bring him such an answer as Balan had allowed:

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Fierabras and Floripas That Charlemagne’s charges weighed little on his brow, While God and all His angels weighed lighter than an ounce! Said Ganelon, “I’m lucky to stand before you now! In front of all I challenged his credit and his power, And in his soaring shelter killed someone of his house: I thrust my weapon through him and slew him on the ground! A thousand Moors pursued me like hellish hunting hounds!” 7030 Said Charlemagne, “Truly, you are a gallant count! Sound out my horns for battle! Let Olifant resound!” Richart brought out the latter and raised it to his mouth, And when Sir Roland heard it, his rapture knew no bounds, As blissfully rejoicing, he told the other counts. Great Charlemagne’s army grasped every weapon found And, lances at the ready, rode every charger down. So many lances shimmered as sunlight cleft the clouds, And so much armor glittered, the land was lit around. The king split up his barons, and doing this endowed 7040 Each column with a leader of courage and renown. Richart advanced the vanguard, its fghters and its scouts, While Renier joined the second and led them fercely out, Count Ganelon the third one, then Aloris the count. Old Grifon Autefuelle, his hair as white as fowers, Led forth the ffth battalion, or so the song avows, And ferce Macaire the sixth one, his hair a grayish brown! Sir Hardré led the seventh, the eighth Duke Amagauz, And Sanson led the ninth one, both trim of limb and sound. King Charles himself assembled and led the last one out. 7050 Ten thousand, dressed in iron, was every rank’s amount. Each army saw the other and marvelled, open mouthed. King Balan hailed his brother, his brutal face unbowed: “Advance a hundred thousand, in iron girt and gowned, And take King Charlemagne, but do not kill him now! We’ll haul him and his henchmen through every Spanish town, Then with my son, the traitor, they’ll all be disembowelled!” When this was said, his trumpets shook every nook with sound.

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rulanz, the evil Moor, rode off with hordes of men. One crossbow’s range he raced in front of all the rest. He swept across the plain, his gonfalon erect, And cried out: “Africa!” in one enormous breath. “Where are you, Charles the bold, so old and white of head? I challenge you for this and every other realm! You’ll pay a heavy price for crossing Mautriblez! This morning marks the end for you and all the French. Your men will be destroyed and you will lose your head, Then we shall ravage France right up to royal Aix! If any man should wish to see your face again, He’ll have to come to us and pay four golden pence!” On hearing such a speech and feeling its contempt, King Charlemagne spurred his rapid steed unchecked, To strike the brazen Moor upon his buckler’s edge. His weapon broke the boards, then burst the hauberk’s mesh And threw him on the feld one fatal lance’s length! The sturdy spear had hit, but hadn’t split or cleft, So, bloodied as it was, Charles drew it from the fesh. It saddened him to see its banner, with the crest Of St. Denis, awry, and heavy with regret, He tore it from the shaft and wore it on his breast. Then, spurring hard his mount, he turned about and sped To strike a Turk who ruled the vale of Pincenet, And yet whose shining mail availed him nothing when King Charlemagne’s spear went ramming through his chest: The pagan, in a fash, went crashing to his death. It broke the monarch’s shaft, but with enormous strength He drew his sword Joyeuse and threw it right and left. So ferce a blow he gave the knave who challenged next, He struck him as he passed and freed him of his head! At this there rose a roar as both sides poured ahead And met with awful force in one enormous press. How hard a fght ensued! How ferce it was and dread! You’ll never hear a bard describe its like again!

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ow mighty was the battle! How awful were the screams! What bloody blows were witnessed by eyes aglow with zeal! So many spears were splintered, so many shields were pierced, The blood of slaughtered heathens turned puddles into streams. King Tenebrez came spurring upon his rapid steed And struck Jehan of Ponthieu so fercely with his spear It split aside the boss of his golden-banded shield. 7100 He drove its tip of iron right through him as he screamed: “For Aigremore!” and threw him to die upon the feld. Then, taking out his weapon, whose hilt was damascened, He slaughtered noble Huon and Gui of Linden Lea. “I swear to you,” he boasted, “you’re on the road to grief! You made a fatal error in passing Mautriblez! Not one of you will ever return to France the sweet. By nightfall Charlemagne will mourn his missing peers!” Richart the gallant Norman heard Tenebrez’s speech, And racing forward rendered a frm response indeed: 7110 He split his shield and parted the hauberk’s burnished seams, Then silenced him by stilling his windy lungs beneath, So sweetly and so swiftly he never made a peep! “Be gone!” cried Charlemagne, “Your pride has overreached!” Richart the gallant Norman withdrew his sword of steel And struck from brow to breeches another Turkish fend. The Christian army entered the vale of Josuee And never reined its horses until it reached the felds Of Aigremore, confronting the pagan force convened. Some thirty reigning monarchs had brought to the emir 7120 One hundred thousand soldiers of every heathen breed. But when his van had faltered and told him, in retreat, How Tenebrez his brother had perished in between, The cheery blood in Balan ran swiftly from his cheeks, And every horn was sounded and every banner reared. He called upon his nephew whose name was Tempestee, And Sortinbrans of Coinbres, his counsellor-in-chief: “My noble lords,” he ordered, “pay heed to my decree! Just fnd me Charlemagne and leave the rest to me! If I cannot defeat him, I’ll curse the air I breathe. 7130

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he great emir rode forth, his face a mask of menace, Well armed upon a steed of rapid speed, whose better Was nowhere to be found across the pagan empire, Its back as black of hue as any briar’s berry. The Moor himself was dressed in gold from heel to helmet. His legs were long and strong, his chest was hard and hefty. His helmet laced, he placed his beard across the ventail: It tumbled in a feece that almost reached his belt-knot, 7140 And looked as white as snow that falls in February. Then ordering his troops to raise the royal ensign, He galloped from his ranks to show that he was ready. At this, a hundred horns resounded all together, And every pagan rank rode out towards the Frenchmen. The leading row contained strong archers, holding steady Their Turkish bows, whose bolts were tipped with deadly venom. And then it came — the rush, and then the crushing melee, Where many died at once, succeeded by their fellows, In agony as swords and lances slammed against them. 7150 The Turkish bows began their terrible offensive And arrows fell as thick and quick as hail from heaven. Sir Renier charged ahead, regardless of the peril, Now Oliver his son was near enough to rescue. King Sortinbrans of Coinbres was frst to feel his temper, And what a blow he dealt, and how the pagan felt it. The panels on his shield did nothing to protect him And neither did the mail his coat was double meshed in. From front to back he took the spear point and the pennon And tumbled to his death — good riddance to the devil! 7160 But, as he fell, the spear was snapped across the center, So Renier drew his sword, the best of all his weapons, And very soon the Moors began to roar and bellow In warning to their peers to turn or learn a lesson! And one who did informed the great emir directly That his beloved friend, King Sortinbrans, had perished.

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ing Balan was distraught at Sortinbrans’s slaughter. With grief and anger wrought, he turned around his war horse And spurred its sooty sides to send it storming forwards. He struck Hugh of Milan upon his buckler’s border And, splitting boards in half, he slit his eastern hauberk. From hip to hip he drove his lance’s tip, unhorsing The hapless Hugh, who fell, to France’s great misfortune. When Balan broke his lance, he drew his naked sword blade To slaughter ffteen French and fourteen noble Normans. 7180 “For Aigremore,” he cried, “and Sortinbrans the loyal! The Christian foe should know the beast that they have taunted! This very day the best of France’s knights will falter. Not one of them shall live to see the land that bore them! By Charlemagne’s beard I’ll drag him to my fortress. With Roland he shall hang, and Oliver shall join them!” The warmth of Balan’s words inspired his pagan forces And flled them with the fre to face the French before them.

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he battle reignited, the fghting grew red hot. Across the feld came riding the gallant Ganelon, With Aloris and Hardré, and Hautefuelle’s Grifon, And Hervis’s own father, Macaire of old Lyons, The haughty clan united, in fearsome band and bond. The impact of their lances together was so strong They threw a thousand pagans and slew them on the spot. King Balan, on his charger of black from Aragon, Attacked with such a fury the noble Duke Milon The coils upon his helmet weren’t worth a piece of cloth. In truth, he would have split him between his wits and on, But somehow, in the hitting, the weapon slid and lopped The saddlebow before him, and horse’s head beyond, To land them in a huddle upon the sandy rock.

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ow long the battle lasted! How fercely it was fought! The Christians could have crumbled and all have been for naught, But Roland and the others came running in support! Outside, upon the meadow, were stallions galore, And every baron mounted the charger of his choice. As well as rapid horses, abandoned by the score, Lay scattered shields and lances across the valley foor. From high up in the tower came Floripas’s voice: “Protect my fair fancé, I beg of you, my lords!” Then, entering the battle, with total faith and force, 7230 From one side to the other they drove the startled Moors. Each one of them was gallant: on coming to a halt, They picked themselves a pagan and hurled him from his horse! When every spear was shattered, they drew their peerless swords. How many limbs were severed, or toes and fngers shorn! Wherever Roland saw them the pagans fed in force,

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ing Balan saw his men stray everywhere and fee, And those who stayed were fayed by shining blades of steel. 7250 With all his heart and hate he spurred his sooty steed, His hand around his sword, his face aglow with zeal. Upon the helm he struck Sir Huon of Saint-Lis And split his skull in half, from noble brow to teeth. Then Geoffrey and Girart fared just the same as he, And Garin Aubefort and Flair of Saint-Denis. The king of France advanced, in anger and in grief, And countered with Joyeuse, his sword without a peer. He couldn’t reach his helm, as Balan’s body veered, But slit the leathered boss and gloss upon his shield 7260 And split it into half to slay the horse beneath. King Balan fell to ground, but with a bounding leap He swung his heavy sword at Charlemagne’s steed, And fung its weight of white upon the grassy green. King Charlemagne fell, but quickly found his feet, His shield prepared to fend, his sword prepared to deal The mighty blows he’d swap to stop the great emir.

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ing Charles and the emir were standing in the meadow. Their shining blades aloft, at last they came together. In height the great emir had half a foot the better And, hitting Charles’s shield, he split it through the center, Inficting ffteen wounds upon our faith’s defender.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts But Charlemagne too spared nothing in his efforts, Returning such a blow upon his panelled helmet Its jewels few below and all its foral emblems. Its shiny coif was strong, and so the blow defected And split in half the shield that Balan thrust against it, Before it cleft his spur, then whirring on, embedded Twelve inches in the ground, the force of it so heavy. “Presumptive!” roared the king, “What mercy do you merit? Your evil ways have long both angered and oppressed me, And you were wrong to steal, conceal and keep our relics. Yet if you will renounce Mahomet and the devil, For love of Fierabras I’ll spare you and your empire.” On hearing this, the Moor was driven into frenzy, And, roaring like a lion, he leapt towards the Frenchman.

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hen Balan heard the charges, the choices and demands, His visage fushed with anger, and roaring forth, he grasped His golden-hilted weapon and swung a blow so hard At Charlemagne’s helmet that, when it hit, it cast 7290 The stones and foral emblems all round upon the grass. Then, whirring on and downwards with Balan’s sturdy arm, It shredded Charles’s legging, then cleft his spur apart, Embedding in the meadow one foot and more, so fast That when he tried to free it, the blade was split in half. On seeing this, King Balan, his face a livid mask, Threw down upon the meadow his foral-patterned targe, And drawing forth a dagger, lunged viciously at Charles. I’m sure he would have killed him, but God was on His guard And hurried to his rescue the Norman Duke Richart 7300 And Oliver and Roland, God bless their gallant hearts, Who ran between the parties and stopped the pagan’s charge. Sir Ogier left his war horse, and when he saw the chance, He seized upon King Balan while others tied his arms. The pagan thrashed in fury, and struggling to the last, He struck at haughty Hardré and hit his jaw so hard The teeth beneath were battered and shattered into shards. If only Hardré’s helmet had been unlaced, I grant That blow might well have lessened the future woes of France!

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Fierabras and Floripas With ringing voice the convert, King Fierabras, advanced: “Emir, my noble father, return to wisdom’s path! Spurn providence no longer, but learn it as your task, By walking in the footsteps that Charlemagne plants!” “Be silent!” cried his father, “I curse you as you are! If ever you are captured, or ever in my grasp, I’ll burn you and I’ll broil you in boiling, blackest tar, For your contempt in spurning our faith and its commands! Your future will be shameful, your honor will be past. Your soul will writhe in torment and perish at the last!” On hearing this, the convert could not conceal a laugh, But sighed to see his father in such a fatal pass. He didn’t dare approach him, but urged him from afar.

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he ferce emir was seized and bound with biting cord Before they hauled him up astride a sumpter horse. On Charlemagne’s leash, as prisoner-of-war, They led him like a thief inside strong Aigremore. And when the pagans saw that their emir was caught, They fed to save their lives — which only reinforced King Charlemagne’s will to show them no remorse. Count Roland and the best of Charlemagne’s lords Pursued the rest for hours and put them to the sword. King Corsublez reversed his rapid steed and stormed Away to reach his ship and galloped it on board. To Cappadocia’s king he sailed, who when informed Of Balan and the loss of wealthy Aigremore, Was mortifed and mad, of that you can be sure! In time he summoned forth a hundred thousand Moors And led them back to seize the land of Gui’s reward, Besieging his domains for seven months and more, Destroying country fefs and castle keeps and forts, And wounding with his spear the fearless Burgund lord. But Charles went on to Spain, and when he’d won it all, Returned to right the wrong, or so the song records. In Aigremore the shades of night began to fall. The Christian army camped around the city walls, And having eaten, slept until the break of dawn.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts With morning light the king invited all his lords And asked them to prepare a dozen fonts or more. “King Balan shall be frst!” he cried with ringing voice. So everything was done as he decreed, and all The people gathered round the gates of Aigremore. An ancient vat was found, of shining marble wrought, Which folk had flled with wine at Balan’s feasts before. Now water took its place and when enough was poured, The king asked Fierabras to bring his father forth. When Balan came he writhed and raged as he was brought And had to be subdued for Ogier to withdraw His hauberk and divest the rest of what he wore. Then Charlemagne rose and asked in ringing voice If he would heed the creed of Christ the Lord of all, Who in the Virgin’s womb was carried and was born To die upon the cross and save us from the Fall: Who conquered death itself, inside the blessed vault, Then rose to God on high, which his disciples saw, And bade us be baptised in witness evermore. “If you believe in Him, your soul will be restored, And here on earth you’ll keep whatever once was yours.” “I never will agree!” the angry pagan roared: “While mortal breath remains Mahomet is my lord! No promises or threats will ever change my choice!” On saying this, he spat inside the vat with scorn. The blood in Charles’s veins at once began to boil, And from its sheath he drew Joyeuse, his shining sword. He would have hewn his head, so dread his mood and raw, When Fierabras cried out, and clasping him, implored His mercy and his leave to plead with him once more. Then Floripas appeared and volunteered her thoughts: “His death is overdue! Don’t stay your hand, my lord! All shame on him who’d spare or rescue one so false!”

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he King unsheathed Joyeuse, and held aloft, it shimmered. He called to the emir, when Duke Ogier had stripped him, And asked if he would heed the creed of Christ the risen, And cast away Mahom and all his worthless kindred,

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Fierabras and Floripas To gain immortal life and keep his mortal riches. King Fierabras knelt down and pleaded, full of pity: “For Heaven’s sake, my lord, please do as you are bidden, And those who hate you now will love you as a Christian.” The great emir replied: “Then, very well — I’m willing.” King Charles was overjoyed with the emir’s decision And flled the vat at once with water clear as crystal. In solemn line he stood with all the rest to witness The blessing of the fonts, and then as day was dimming, They called the great emir, whose beard was gray and grizzled. The bishop asked at once, in charity of spirit, If he would mend his ways and pray for God’s forgiveness. On hearing this, the blood rose up in Balan’s visage, As anger lit his face, like freshly kindled tinder! He spat inside the font, in scorn of our religion, Then, leaping to his feet, he seized the worthy bishop And would have tossed him in, if Ogier hadn’t hit him. The pagan, nonetheless, got off a blow so vicious It snapped the bishop’s jaw and bloodied all within it. As Charlemagne watched, his joy was much diminished.

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ing Fierabras,” he cried, “though you’re a friend of mine, Your father, I can see, will never be baptised. And now he has defled our font in scorn of Christ. It’s very clear to me that he prefers to die.” On hearing this, it pierced the hero like a knife, And struck him down with grief — no need to wonder why. “For love of God on high,” he cried, with tearful eyes, “Fine emperor, my lord, reprieve my father’s life, If you can fnd the heart to pardon such a crime. In truth, if he could live until he’s been baptised, I shouldn’t fear as much the way or day he dies.” But Floripas exclaimed, “Why waste the present time? My father is a fend! What use is he alive? His death is naught to me, as long as Gui is mine! My heart will never grieve, achieving its desire.” “How wrong of you, indeed!” King Fierabras replied. “He gave us life itself, this man that you despise.

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Fourth Geste — Deserts If you can’t pity him, your heart is made of iron! I swear upon the tomb of Christ the crucifed That I would gladly lose these arms and legs of mine, If that was Balan’s price for casting sin aside!” At this, the hero wept and heaved a heavy sigh. “I beg you, great emir and father, change your mind And let yourself be led to baptism and Christ! If you believe in God, your soul will live and thrive. The only thing of use that’s in Mahomet’s shrine Is all the gold you’ve spent your life on to acquire! The true God is the Christ, Who bore the cross’s spite To free from mortal hell all those who see His light! If you believe in Him, then all is well and right.” But Balan said, “No more! Your wits have gone awry! I never shall believe that God was Jesus Christ! A thousand years have passed since he was crucifed: To hell with any fool who thinks he’s still alive! I tell you, by Mahom, if I were still astride My worthy horse, I’d force old Charles to change his mind,

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Fierabras and Floripas Before I’d let myself be caught again and tied!” When Fierabras could see he’d not be reconciled, He said to Charlemagne, “Do what you think is right. If you demand his death, I know it’s justifed.” The emperor, at this, addressed his Frankish knights And said, “Which one of you would end this heathen’s life?” “I would and will indeed,” the Danish duke replied. “The pain that he has caused demands that he should die!” At this, he drew Cortain, whose hilt was gold incised, And cut off Balan’s head, before their very eyes. King Fierabras absolved the Dane of any crime, While Floripas the fair called Roland to her side: “Now you must keep your word, Sir Roland, worthy knight!” “I will indeed,” said he, “at once and with delight: Sir Gui of Burgundy, the time is more than ripe For you to show you’re true, and take the maid to wife!” “I would and will indeed,” the gallant youth replied, “If mighty Charles agrees and thinks it well advised.” “I wouldn’t baulk your will, or hers!” the king replied. So then she was undressed, in everybody’s sight, Revealing skin as fair as summer fowers are white! Her little breasts were round, her body tall and lithe, Her hair as fair as gold, in color and in shine. The Frenchmen, looking on, were flled with ferce desire. The emperor himself could not subdue a smile, And could have lost his heart to Floripas, despite His beard of grizzled gray and hair of hoary white! And so they led the maid and let her be baptised Inside the very vat her father had reviled, To earn through Jesus Christ a new and blessed life. His face aglow with zeal, the monarch held her tight, With Thierri of Ardennes, as almost every knight Stood willingly around in witness of the rite. They didn’t change her name, not then or any time. When everything was done, they dressed her as a bride And walked her to the square, with everyone behind, Where Gui and she were led and wed as man and wife.

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The king gave Balan’s crown, and its attendant rights, To Floripas herself and Gui the brave and wise. Then as a bishop blessed the peerless pair in kind, Charles offered Spain itself to Gui, though he assigned One half of all its lands to Fierabras alike, To hold in fef from Gui, with solemn pledges signed. In gloomy Aigremore the palace glowed with light, And there the French retired and dined in regal style On rich and varied fare most lavishly supplied. The revels ran a week, or so the record writes, And Charlemagne stayed some thirty days besides, Till all the land around was purged and pacifed.

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hen Charlemagne held the land around, he sought Throughout it all for those opposed to God and brought 7490 As many as he could, in rows, to Aigremore, Where they could choose the Lord or Charlemagne’s sword! A Sunday soon arrived, where at the break of dawn, When Mass was rung and sung, King Charlemagne called

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Fierabras and Floripas On Floripas and said, with ringing, singing voice, “Fair lady, I have made this Spanish kingdom yours, And you have been baptised, for which we thank the Lord, And wed the best of knights in any Christian court Or land across the sea, beyond the western shores. So Fierabras and he may lack for no support, I’ll leave you men of mine, some twenty thousand score. Tomorrow I must go to noble France’s north, Yet still I wait to see the relics of our Lord. I bid you, lovely bride, bring every treasure forth!” “Most gladly!” she replied, “Your bidding is my joy!” She left him straightaway, and racing to the fort, She leapt up to the room and fung aside its door. She saw the silver chest, and taking out a drawer, Ran back again to Charles and showed him what it bore. He bowed his head at once, then knelt upon the foor Before he touched the tray, withdrawing frst of all That cruel crown of scorn they thrust upon our Lord. It wasn’t made of gold or silver, but of thorns Entwined in bog-land weed and reeds with piercing points. He showed it to the knights, who, humbled in its thrall, Knelt down and beat their breasts, confessing all their faults, And weeping countless tears of pity and remorse. The bishop there was wise: to prove it wasn’t false, He raised it from the cloth, on which it had been borne, To arm’s length in the air, then let it go once more: My friends, it hovered there and never fell at all! The bishop said at this, “We truly can be sure That here’s the very crown our Savior wore of yore!” His fngers touched its rim, to bring it down in awe And place it on the silk where it had lain before. Its scent was twice as sweet as burning cinnamon, A sweetness far beyond my powers’ reach to draw.

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he burning brands and candles threw wondrous light around The golden hall encircled with curtains all about. Around the crown they gathered and soon there was a crowd. 7530

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Fourth Geste — Deserts The second thing the bishop extracted, from a pouch, Were nails, and when he’d pressed them against his eyes and mouth, King Charlemagne kissed them, then all did in the tower. The bishop, in his wisdom, to prove without a doubt The nails were those of Jesus, withdrew and held them out At arm’s length from their wrapping, a golden-painted towel, Then, kissing them in silence, he let his hand fall down. The nails remained suspended, they never fell to ground, And everyone who saw it rejoiced at Jesu’s power. “Good barons,” said the bishop, “for God’s sake, hear me now! 7540 These very nails went through Him, whoever drew them out!” Each Frenchman, as he watched them, most reverently bowed. “All praise to Christ our Savior!” King Charlemagne vowed: “My heart is flled with gladness that I have been allowed To have and hold the relics that ransom mortal hours: The nails that bled our Savior and His most blessed crown. God willing, all my kingdom will know salvation now!” The bishop raised the relics, then, as he brought them down, He said a benediction and crossed each baron’s brow. Then, setting down the relics, the bitter nails and crown, 7550 His hand brought forth another, the golden holy shroud. Its scent was twice as heavy as any censer’s cloud, And as each baron saw it, with humble heart he bowed, His eyes afow with teardrops from pity’s fooding fount. The worthy bishop took it in hands both meek and proud And laid it on the blanket of golden silk that wound Around the many relics the silver casket housed.

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he Emperor began on a noble enterprise: On long and sturdy trestles he raised a table high And laid it with a satin of oriental style. Then, bringing all the relics, he laid them in a line And, wrapping each securely, placed each of them inside The best and fnest coffer within his rich supply, So each would reach in safety his kingdom’s greatest shrine. The crown of thorns he parted, and all the little spikes That held it he extracted, and every prickly spine.

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Fierabras and Floripas His face aglow with fervor, he made of them a pile He placed inside his gauntlet, so none was left behind. He held the glove before him to hand it to a knight, Who didn’t see the gesture, so never took the prize, Which hovered in mid-air there, by grace and will of Christ, As long as it would take you to walk a country mile! The king had other matters and, unaware, retired, Till later, wanting water to wash before he dined, He wet his hands, and thinking about the gauntlet, tried In vain then to remember the knight he’d stood beside! Then, suddenly, he saw it — the glove still hovered high Above the worthy bishop and all the Christian knights! My friends, it was a wonder — well worth its telling time! King Charlemagne took it and held it while he dined.

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he noble Charlemagne sat down at last to eat, With Floripas beside him, so fair for all to see, As well as he who’d wed her, young Gui of Burgundy. King Fierabras, before him, poured out the monarch’s mead And brought, on golden dishes, the fnest of the feast. When everyone had eaten and tablecloths were cleared, They left to seek amusement, the knights upon their steeds. King Charlemagne ordered a quintain to be reared And everybody jousted until the dusk appeared. With setting sun they trotted inside the town to reach Their hostels and their lodges and left to take their ease, Where, after entertainment, they all retired to sleep. King Charlemagne’s slumber was very sound and deep, Until his rest was troubled by visions in a dream. He dreamt that he was staying at Aix, his royal seat, When ringing voices reached him from Spanish lands in need. Their message was a bleak one: “Ride swiftly and redeem The faith and fefs of Jesus from heathen hate and greed!” He saw the lands assaulted by armies of the fend That caught and fought the people in wondrous sums indeed. One day alone they slaughtered a thousand score at least. Again, he saw in Paris, a hunting dog unleashed, That tried to rip his heart out with one ferocious leap,

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Fourth Geste — Deserts And nobody around him who dared to face the beast. The king awoke in shudders, the dream had been so ferce, And crossed himself, invoking Christ Jesus in his fear. He tossed and turned till morning, and when the dawn appeared, He summoned ancient Naimon, his counsellor-in-chief, And told him of the visions that had disturbed his peace. 7610 “My lord,” the duke responded, “to me your visions mean That you will fght the pagans again within three years, And that there lies a viper within the nest you’ve reared! God’s save us from his venom, Who judges all and each!”

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he Emperor of France arose when it was morning And went at once to Mass inside the shining fortress. Then, having heard God’s word, he left there with his forces, To tread the homeward track with steady step and stalwart: God speed his worthy band, Whose hand made wine from water Upon that wedding day at Cana in old Jordan!

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o Charles left Aigremore one fne and sunny day. Queen Floripas the fair rode with him through the gates And on, until he said, “Return upon your way!” And she replied, “My lord, your will I will obey. May Blessed Mary’s Son keep everybody safe!” She kissed him on the lips and held him in embrace, Then parted, as did he, with sad and tearful face. But Fierabras and Gui continued and remained With Charlemagne’s host, among his royal train, Until they reached the fort and bridge at Mautriblez, Where Raoul and Jehan rode out to them in haste. The army made its camp along the sloping plain, But only overnight, and when the morning came King Gui, as now he was, farewelled his liege from Spain, Both he and Fierabras, his face aglow with grace. As both said their goodbyes, their sorrowing was great, And Charles did all he could to comfort their dismay.

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he emperor of France farewelled his gallant vassals, Both Fierabras and Gui, whose faces beamed with valor.

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Rome Restored (ll. 7645–47)

He hugged the pair that day in sadness and in gladness, And told them to remain forever frm companions. And then his army left. My friends, the record has it That everything went well, through dell and deepest valley, And all were back in France in seven days exactly, Each man within his land, his province and his parish. At Saint-Denis the king went straight inside his chapel, And, calling from their halls the bishops of its chapter, He showed them all, in awe, the relics he’d recaptured Of Jesus Christ the Lord; including all the abbots, The bishops and archbishops, some thirty-six were gathered With every gallant knight from Orléans to Paris.

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t noble Saint-Denis how great a crowd assembled, As Holy Mass was sung at Lendit on the terrace. The crown of thorns was pared and shared as a memento, One part of it to stay at Saint-Denis forever, Together with a nail — the proof of which is present. Not only was the crown, but every other relic

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Fourth Geste Was shared around that day in testament and blessing. The shroud went to the shrine you’ll fnd at Compiègne. To honor God that day the king bestowed the relics On shrines across the land with hands so free and ready That that’s how Lendit Fair began and is remembered: As one without a fee or payment to be rendered! Three years alone would run, ere once again they ventured To Spain, where Roland’s death was plotted with a vengeance By Ganelon, who sold the life of Charles’s nephew, And went to death himself, when rapid horses rent him. Count Pinabel was slain at Laon upon the meadow, His blighted body struck by Duke Thierri’s weapon. In battle armor hung, with lolling tongue he perished. For traitors all, my friends, will meet the ends they merit: Their evil, in due course, will force them to the devil!

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God bless you with His mercies, my verses now are ended! The first ones, and the last ones, hold good and godly lessons: Each part does, and the heart does, for those who pay attention. Long live, say I, the poet who put them all together!

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GLOSSARY allod

An estate held in absolute ownership, without acknowledging a superior; the opposite of a fef . almanzor A Saracen chieftain. bezant A gold coin of Byzantine origin. boss A round metal knob or stud on the center of a shield. buckler A small round shield. byrnie A long knee-length garment of leather, upon which metal rings were sewn in various patterns; for the protection of the body and the thighs in battle. castellan A governor of a castle. chain mail Armor made of small metal rings linked together. coif A close cap worn under the helmet. complin The last canonical hour of the day; around 6:00 p.m. crenel An open space in an embattled parapet, for shooting arrows through, etc. demesne A liege lord’s own territory. denier A coin of little value; a penny. destrier A war-horse; a charger. emir A Saracen prince or governor. fealty A feudal tenant’s fdelity to his lord. fef An estate held in fee by a vassal from a superior. The opposite of an allod. geste 1. A military exploit; 2. An epic narrative; 3. A clan. gonfalon A banner with streamers. hauberk A long knee-length garment of chain mail, which protected the body and the thighs in battle. jongleur An itinerant musician. liege lord A feudal superior. liegeman A sworn vassal (q.v); a faithful follower. mail Armor composed of metal rings or chain work. mangonel A military engine for casting stones; a catapult. matins A canonical hour of the breviary, ending at dawn. Nero’s Field Site of the circus Neronis in Rome; the traditional place of St. Peter’s martyrdom and the present-day site of the Vatican.

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Fierabras and Floripas olifant An ivory horn. Orifamme The sacred red banner of the abbey at Saint-Denis; the fag traditionally handed to French kings at the start of any war. paladin 1. One of the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne’s court; 2. A knight-errant; a champion. quintain A jousting post, often provided with a shield as a mark to tilt at and a sandbag to swing round and strike the unskilful tilter. seneschal A steward in a noble household. squire A knight’s attendant. sumpter A beast of burden. vassal A holder of land by feudal tenure. vavasour A vassal holding of a great lord and having other vassals under him. vespers A canonical hour of the breviary, ending at dusk. vièle A fve-stringed, lute-shaped instrument played with a bow. wyvern A snake-shaped dart hurled by Saracen warriors.

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APPENDIX I EXTRACTS FROM THE French ORIGINAL 1. From La Destruction de Rome Prologue A. The Singer rises Seignours, or fetes pes, franke gent honoree Gardes k’il n’i ait noise ne corous ne mellee, S’orres bone chancon de bien enluminee: N’i sera fable dite ne mensonge provee. Niuls des altres jouglours, k’els le vous ont contee, Ne sevent de l’estoire vailant une darree. Le chancon ert perdue et le rime fausee, Mais Gautier de Douay a la chiere membree Et li rois Louis, dont l’alme est trespassee — Ke li fache pardon la verge honoree – Par lui et par Gautier est l’estoire aunee Et le chanchon drescie, esprise et alumee, A saint Dynis de France premierement trovee, Del rolle de l’eglise escrite et translatee; Cent anz i a este, ch’est verite provee. Cil ke la chanchon fst l’ad longement gardee, Ains il n’en volut prendre a voir nulle darree Ne mul ne palefroi, mantel ne chier fourree; Ne onke en halte court ne fu par lui chantee. S’entendre me voles, ja vous serra contee La verite com Rome fu destruite et gastee, Et la cite fondue, destruite et cravantee, Le pais exilles et la terre gastee, Et come la corone d’iloc fut enportee, Et les clous dont Jesu avoit sa char navree Et le digne suaire ou fu envoloupee Au jour du vendredi kant del crois fu ostee;

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Fierabras and Floripas Mainte digne relique i ont prise et robbee: Par le roi Fierabras fu la cite praiee. Charles en souffri puis mainte dure journee, Mainte faim, mainte soif, et mainte conseuree, Et li riche bargnage de France la loiee. He diex, si en fu puis tante lerme ploree, Et tante targe effreinte, tante broigne fausee, Et tant pie et tant poign, tante teste coupee, Tante alme de payens fors de son corps jettee! Or comence chanchon de bien enluminee; Puis que dieux fst Adam et Eve s’espousee, Ne fu plus fere dite, s’el soit bien escoutee. Seignours, or m’escotes, si lesses le noisier, Chancon de droite estoire vous voil je comencier; L’estoire en est escrite en seint Dinis moustier. Les altres jougelours s’en soilent bien preisier: Mais s’ore en fuissent ci ensamble x milier, Devant eus oseroie bien dire et affchier K’euls tous ne sevent mie le montee d’un dinier. Par moi orres le voir, dont ele mut premier. Jeo ne vous dirrai mie fable ne losengier, Ainc dirrai del corone au verai justisier, Qui en Jerusalem se lessa travailier Et ferir de la lance et navrer et plaier. Et des seintismes clous, dont hom li fst percier Les paumes en la crois et les pies cloufchier Desi k’en Golathas virent son sang raier. Et dirrai des relikes, que tant font a preisier, Que Sarrazin robberent, li gloton losengier. Li fors rois Fierenbras fst le pais cerchier Et l’admirals, ses piere, qui le corage out fer, Par force prisdrent Rome et frent trebuchier. He diex, puis en mourirent plus de xxx milier De tels gens, k’omke dieu ne voldrent souplier. Charles en somond France, pour sa terre vengier, Et trestote sa terre qu’il out a justisier.

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Appendix I Or comence chancon hui mais a efforcier: Mieldre ne fu trovee ainc Adam, li premier. Del fort roi Fierenbras vous vourai comencier Et del tres grant bataile qu’il fst od Olivier. (ll. 1-67) B. The Heroine stands her ground Aitant es vous la bele, ou il n’out qu’enseignier Vestue d’un diapre, onke ne vi tant chier, Ses crins sur ces espaules plus lusoient d’or mier, Sa char out bele et blanke plus que noifs en fevrier, Les oes avoit plus noirs que falcon montenier, Et la colour vermaile con rose de rosier, La bouche bien seant et douce pour baisier, Et les levres vermailes come four de peskier; Les mameles out dures com pomme de pommier, Plus sont blanches que noifs que chiet apres fevrier; Nuls hom ne porroit ja sa grant bealte preisier. La pucele discent du palefroi coursier, Lucifer de Baldas li corut a l’estrier. “File,” dist l’admirails, “moult vous puis ge praisier, Jeo vous ai mariee, sil voles otraier, Par Mahomet mon dieu, au melior chivalier Que hom poist trover pour Francois detrenchier.” “Sire, qui est il donc? Ne moi deves celer.” “Bele, c’est Lucifer, qui vous doit nocier: Pour vostre amour doit il Charlon le chief trenchier Et Rolllant, son neveu, et le conte Olivier.” “Sire,” dist Floripas, “lasses m’ent consaillier.” Lucifer passe avant, que l’em quide embracier, Et Floripas le fert, que ne l’a guere chier, De son poign ens es dens qu’ele li fst seignier. Li rois out moult grant honte, mais ne se volt irrier, Por ceo qu’hom ne se doit a femme coroucier. “Vassal,” dist Floripas, “or vous trahes arier, “Ensi ne doit home mie pucele manoier.”

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Fierabras and Floripas Lucifer out grant honte, s’en prist a vergognier; Meuls volsist que ceo fust encore a comencier. “File” dist l’admirals “laisse toi fancier, Et aprers la fance te ferai nocier.” “Sire,” dist Floripas, “ceo ert au repairier, Quant vous aures pris France et conquis Monpellier, Et il m’aura rendu Rollant et Olivier, Richard de Normandie et le Danois Ogier Et Guion de Bourgoine, que j’ai oi presier; Donke le prendrai jeo, s’il moi deigne nocier.” “Bele,” dist Lucifer, “ne jeo mieux ne vous quier; Si jeo nes vous rend pris, fai moi le chief trenchier, Mais ke vous m’otroies soullement un baisier.” “Volontiers,” dist la bele, “vous l’aures sans dangier.” Puis dist entre ses dens: “fols couard losengier, Jeo ne vous baiseroie pour .M. livres d’or mier. “Meuls ameroie jeo Mahon a renoier.” (ll. 253-97) C. The hero falls Fierenbras d’Alisandre est el cite entres: A sa vois qu’il out clere trahie ad escrie; Et od lui Lucifer, uns fors rois corones, Brullans et Sortinbrans, que deu doint mal dehe. Le chef a Fierenbras au portier decoupe, Od sa lance trenchant le cors en a boute. “Dieux” fst il, “te maldie, et que t’ont engendre: “”Kar traitour au darain averont mal dehe.” Puis s’est outre passes, el cit est galopes, Et tot si compaignon, les freins abandones. Adonke comanda: “tous soient desmembre, “Et femmes et enfans et moigne et abbe Et prestres et nonains; ne soit uns ransones: La loi as cristiens hui aurons abeise.” “Sire,” frent si home, “a vostre volonte.” A tous cels qu’ils atteignent, en ont les chefs coupes.

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Appendix I Adonke fu li cris moult grans en la cite. Del sanc que des corps ist li champs est sanglentes; Aval le pendant court, come uns ruissels de gue; Li champ est replenis des mors et des nafres. L’apostoille est meismes al grant moustier ales Et tote la clergie del mirable cite. Al moustier de seint Piere est Fierenbras ales, Ovec lui Lucifer et si riches barnes: Li moustiers en poi d’houre fu des payens poeples. Fierabras les l’autier l’apostoille a traine, La teste lui coupa ou le brand ascere: S’alme receut Jesus, li rois de mageste. Fierabras passe avant, jouste li out garde Et voit I vieil chanone a la terre encline: Bien avoit II C. ans puis l’oure qu’il fu nes. Fierenbras l’en apelle si l’a areisone: “Ore sus, dans viellard, si me di par verte, Ou les reliques sont Jesu de mageste, La corone et li clous, dont en crois fu cloues, Et li digne suaire, dont fu envoloupes, Et le sainte crois vraie, dont ses corps fu penes? Jeo te pri et comand me di la verite. “Sire,” fst li chanones, “a vostre volonte.” Puis en trait un escrin tot a or esmere, Ignelement et tost l’en a il defferme. Puis i a mis la main, la corone a porte, Et en apres les clous et le singne honore, Et le digne suaire, dont Diex fu voloupe. “Par dieu,” dist Fierabras, “ore ai jeo bien erre: J’ai conquis la corone dont Deux fu corones, Et les altres reliques, dont il i a asses.” (ll. 1237-1274)

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Fierabras and Floripas 2. From Fierabras The Second Geste – Submission D. Pride at odds Quant li rois l’a véu, pour peu n’est forsenés; Rollant en apela: “Biaus niés, car i alés.” “Sire,”ce dist Rollans, “chertes, tort en avés, Car, par ichel signeur ki Dix est apelés, Je vauroie moult miex que fuissiés desmenbrés Ke jou en baillasse armes ne ne fuisse adoubés. Lors quant paien nous virent à l’issue des gués, .L. mile furent, à vers elmes jesmés; Grans caus i soustenimes sur les escus bouclers; Oliviers mes compains i fu à mort navrés. Tout fuissons desconft, c’est fnes verités, Quant vous nous secourustes o vos viellars barbés, Et paien s’en tournerent les frains abandonnés. Quant fumes repairié as loges et as trés, Puis te vantas le soir, quant tu fus enivrés, Que li viel chevalier c’avoies amené L’avoient moult miex fait que li joule d’assés; Assés en fui le soir laidis et ranponés. Mais, par l’arme mon pere, mar en estes vantés; Or i parra des vieulx come vous esploiterés, Car, par ichel Signeur qui dix est apelés, Il n’a en ma compaigne un tant soit si osés, Se il en prenoit armes, mais fust de moi amés” “Ha Diex!” dist Karlemaines, “Rollans, tu es irés.” Karles trait son gant destre, qui fu à or parés, Fiert le comte Rollant en travers sur le nés; Après le caup en est li clers sans avalés. Rollans jete la main au branc qui est letrés; Ja en ferist son oncle se il n’en fust ostés. “Ha Dix!” dist Karlemaines, comment sui vergondés, Quant icil me ceurt seure qui mes niés est clamez! Vers tous hommes déuse par lui estre tensés. Ja Damedieu ne plaice, qui en crois fu penés,

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Appendix I Ke puisse tant véoir que cis jours soit passés, Si soit à meles armes ochis et afolés.” Il escrie: “Franchois, or tost sel me prendés.” Quant Franchois l’entendirent, e les vous effréés; Mais n’i ot tant hardi qui soit avant passés. Rollans lor escria: “Tout en pais vous tenés, Car n’i a si hardi, s’il ert avant alés, Ne le pourfende ja juque au neu du baudré.” Dist Ogiers li Danois: “Biaus sire, tort avés, Car par vous déust estre garandis et tensés.” “Certes,” ce dist Rollans, “ja serai forsenés.”

(ll. 1650-93)

E. Prayers to gods Or sunt li doi baron ensamble au capléis; Fierement se requierent as brans d’acier forbis. Grant caus se sunt donné sur les elmes burnis, Que la fambe et li fus est de l’achier salis. Des grans caus qu’il se donnent est li mons retentis. “Sainte Marie dame,” dist Karles au fer vis, Garisiés Olivier qu’il n’i soit mors ne prins; Car, par l’arme mon pere, se il estoit ochis, Ja en moustier de France ni en tout les païs Ne seroit clers ne prestres à nul jour revestis; Trestous feroie abatre auteus et crucefs.” “Sire,” ce dist dus Naimes, laisiés ester vos dis; Li hons qui si parole sanble du sens mendis; Mais priés pour le conte le roi de paradis, Qu’il lui soit en aïe par ses saintes merchis.” “Volontiers,” dist li rois, “el nom de Jhesu Cris.” Et li doi baron sunt desous le pin antis; Fierement se requierent, grans est li capléis; Fierabras d’Alixandre fu preus et enforcis; Souvent a Olivier au branc d’acier requis; De l’hiaume li abat le cercle sur le vis; Olivier sent le caup, s’est arriere guenchis;

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Fierabras and Floripas S’il ne tornast le cief, malement fust baillis; En .ii. moitiés li a l’escu pardevant mis; Ja fust mors li cevaus, ne fust avant sallis; Quant Fierabras le voit, si est d’ire noirchis: “Mahom,” dist Fierabras, “vous estes endormis, Quant au premerain caup n’ai che Franchois conquis.” Mais li quens Oliviers ne fu pas esbahis; Quant voit venir l’espée, s’a le soie avant mis. A l’encontre des brans fu moult grans li estris; Boines sunt les espées, n’i ont les brans malmis. Oliviers fu navrés et u cors et u pis; Tant a perdu de sanc, tout en est enpalis. Ce n’est mie merveille se il est afoiblis; A grant meschief il est: or li soit Dius aidis. Moult fu grant la bataille et li caple sunt grant; Fierement se combatent, car fort sun de sanlant. Oliviers fu navrés, si se va esmaiant; Damedieu reclama, le pere roi amant: “Glorieus Sire peres, qui formastes Adam Et Evain sa moullier, dont li pules sunt grant, Tout lor abandonastes par le vostre commant, Fors le fruit d’un pumier dont ne fuissent goustant; Eve l’en fst mengier par le dit du serpent, Paradis en perdirent trestout e maintenant, Laborer les convint, dont moult furent dolent; Puis furent li dyable en après si poissant, Qui n’estoit saint ne sainte, tant fuissent bienfaisant, Ne convenist aler en ynfer le puant. Pitié vous en prinst, Sire, quant souffert eustes tant; Par saint Gabriel l’angle fu fais l’anoncement Que en la sainte Virge prenderiés naissement. Trestoute créature en fu reléechant, Grant joie en demenerent bestes, oisiel volant. Li troi roi d’autres teres vous alerent querant, Tout lié vous aourerent quant vous vinrent devant; Vo destre main tendistes, à vous furent offrant, Lor offrandes presins, nes alas refusant,

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Appendix I Et par estraignes teres furent puis repairant Pour le felon Herode qui les aloit cercant; Puis decola pour vous maint innochent enfant, Desquels les ames sunt en joie permanent. Puis alastes par tere vos amis préechant, Le bien leur demonstrates et alas pourcachant. En la crois vous pendirent li felon mescréant. Quant Longis vous feri de la lance trenchant, Il n’avoit ainc véu en trestout son vivant; Li sans li vinst par l’anste juques as ex coulant, Il en terst à ses ex, tantost en fu véant. Merchi vous cria, Sire, sa poitrine batant, Et vous li pardonnastes sans point de mautalent. El sepucre fus mis après nonne sonnant, Au tierc jour en après éus suscitement; En infer en alastes, si en jetas Adan Et tes autres amis qu’en furent desirant. A saintismes apostres fustes apparissant, Commandas que ton nom alaissent préechant; Puis montastes ou chiel, trestout lor ex véant. Si voirement, biax Sire, com jou i sui créant, Et c’est voirs que j’ai dit, si me soiés aidant, Ke je cest paien faice de bataille taisant, Et ke il croie en vous, ains qu’il soit recréant.” Lors a levé sa main, de Diu se va saignant, L’escu prinst as enarmes et a trait le sien branc; Fierement se rafce pardesus l’auferrant. Fierabras d’Alixandre se sist sus son courant. Olivier apela, si li diast en riant: “Biaus amis Oliviers, ne me va pas celant, Quele orison est ce qu as devisé tant? Volontiers l’ai oïe, par mon diu Tervagant.”

(ll. 2367-2457)

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Fierabras and Floripas F. The Hero at zero Moult fu fors la bataille, longuement ont caplé; N’i ait celui d’angoisse n’ait le cors tressué. Fierabras d’Alixandre a le conte escrié: “Par Mahom, Oliviers, trop avéz hui duré; De vous prendrai la teste à mon branc aceré.” “Certes,” dist Oliviers, “se Dieu venist en gré, Pieça euissiens nous, mon voel, cest canp fné; Diex en otroit briement ce que j’ai en pensé!” Or en soit Diex au droit par la soie bonté! Fierabras d’Alixandre trait le branc aceré; Vait ferir Olivier un cop desmesuré, Amont parmi son haume, ki à or est gemmé; Les pieres et les fours en a jus avalé, Un quartier de la coiffe li a parmi copé, Et des chaveus du cief grant partie rasé. Damediex le gari, en car ne l’a navré. Et li quens refert lui par grant nobilité; Il asma pardesus dou vert elme gemmé. Fierabras voit le caup que li quens a esmé; Ce qu’il tint de l’escu a contremont levé. Si haut a Fierabras amont son brac geté Ke tout a descouvert le fanc et le costé; Olivier l’aperchoit, si l’a bien droit visé, A retraite le fert du branc d’acier tempré; Pardesous la mamele li a grant cop donné, Le blanc hauberc trellis a rout et dessaffré. Lui quens s’i apoia, qui ot le cuer iré; Toute i a sa vertu et son branc abouté; Enfresi à l’eskine l’a trencié et copé, Pour poi que li boiel n’en sont tout fors volé, Mais ains n’i ot boiel malmis ne entamé; Li sans à grant randon li ist hors del costé. Oiés de Fierabras con fu de grant ferté: Contremont vers le ciel a li rois resgardé; De Damediu li menbre, le roi de maisté, Et dou saint Esperit tous fu enluminés. 234

(ll. 2946-2981)

Appendix I The Third Geste: Desires G. Acknowledging the body “Hé Diex,” ce dist dus Namles, “biaus rois de maïsté, Qui vit si bele dame ains mais en nul regné? Moult l’aroit bien Jhesu véu et espiré, Qui ele en son courage averoit bien amé.” Et respondi Rollans: “Onques mais n’oï tel; Trop par avés ce poil et kanu et mellé; Quel .L. dyable vous font d’amours parler?” “Sire,” ce dist dus Namls, “je fui ja bacelers!” “Signeur,” dist Floripas, tout ce laissiés ester; N’estes pas ci venu pour granment sejourner.” En la cambre s’en entrent sans plus de demorer; Après aus fst les huis Floripas rebarer. Rollant voit Olivier, sel courut acoler: “Compains,” ce dist Rollans, comment vous est, pour Dé?” “Moult bien,” dist Oliviers, “la merci Damedé. “Signeur,” dist Floripas, “vers moi en entendés: Or voel que tout ensamble vois fois me plevirés Que vous ferés mon boin sans nul point de fauser, Et de ce m’aiderés que je vorrai rouver.” “Volontiers,” dist dus Namles, “mais vous me plevirés Que nous n’i arons garde pour homme qui soit nés.” Et respont Floripas: “Volontiers et de grés.” Elle passa avant, si lor a affé. Puis a saisi duc Namle par le neu du baudré: “Comment avés à nom, frans chevaliers menbré?” “Dame,” ce dist li dus, apermain le sarés; On m’apele Namlon, de Baviere fui nés, Et sui hom Karlemaine, ses consilliers privés.” “Hé Diex!” dist Floripas, “or est Karles irés.” Floripas a saisi Richart de Normendie: “Comment avés à nom, frans chevalier nobiles? “Dame,” ce dist li dus, “ne vous mentirai mie: On m’apele Richart, dus sui de Normendie.”

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Fierabras and Floripas Et respont Floripas: “Mahomet te maudie! “Tu m’ocesis Corsuble et mon oncle Matrie; Mais tu n’i as or garde pour ceste baronnie.” Floripas prent Rollant par le neu du baudré: “Comment avés à nom, frans chevalier menbré?” “Dame,” ce dist li quens, “fx sui Milon d’Engler, Et si ai nom Rollans, ensi sui apelés, Et sui niés Karlemaine au courage aduré.” “Hé Diex,” dist Floripas, “tu soies aorés!” Ele li ciet as piés, merchi li a crié; Et Rollans l’en redrece au corage sené. “Signeur,” dist Floripas, “vous m’avés afé Que d’une grant besoigne vers Karlon m’aiderés” “Dame,” ce dist Rollans, “c’est fne verités; Dites le nous, puciele, par la vostre bonté.” Et respont la puciele: “ja orrés la verté; Je aim en douce France .I. leger baceler.” “Dame, comment a nom?” ce dist Rollans li ber. Et respont la puciele: “Ja le m’orrés nommer; Gui a nom de Borgoigne, moult i a bel armé.” “Par mon cief,” dist Rollans, “à vos ex le véés; N’a pas entre vous deus .IIII. piés mesurés.” “Sire,” dist Floripas, “cel voel quel me donnés.” “Par mon cief,” dist Rollans, “à vostre volonté. Venés avant, dan Guis, la mollier recevés.” “Sire,” ce a dit Guis, “ne place Damedé Que j’aie ja mollier en trestout mon aé, Se nel me donne Karles, li fors rois couronnés.” Quant l’entent Floripas, tout ot le sance mué, Et jure Mahomet: “Se vous ne me prenés, Je vous ferai tous pendre et au vent encruer!” “Sire Guis,” dist Rollans, “faites nos volontés.” “Sire,” ce respont Guis, “si soit com vos volés.” Il est passés avant pour la dame affer. “Hé Dix,” dist Floripas, “tu soies aourés! Or ai la riens en terre que j’ai plus desiré; Or me ferai pour lui baptizier et lever, Et kerrai en Jhesu de sainte majesté.”

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(ll. 4226-4294)

Appendix I H. Asserting the mind Puis a fait l’engignieres fu grigois aporter, Devant la tour le fait et esprendre et jeter; La piere art et bruist si que le fst fanber; De la plus maistre estage esprendent li piler. Quant François l’ont véu, n’i ot qu’espoenter, Et dist li us à l’autre: “Cis fait à redouter; Rendre nous convenra, près sommes d’afoler.” “Signeur,” dist Floripas, “ne vous estuet douter; Nous n’avons c’une mort entre nous à passer.” Du lait de la camoille lor courut aporter, Et avoec de l’aisil s’a fait tout destrenper, Par devant nos François l’a fait ou fu jeter; Erraument fu estains, il ne puet plus durer. Quant le voit l’amirans, du sens quide derver. “Sire,” dist Sortinbrans, “ne vous en quier celer, Tout ce fait Floripas, vostre flle au vis cler.” “Voire,” dist l’amirans, “bien me veut affoler, Mais ançois le ferai trestoute desmenbrer.” “Sire,” dist Sortinbrans, “faites vos cors sonner, Ja ert prinse la tor, que il n’ont que ruer.” “Or tost,” dist l’amirans, “vous i convient aler.” Sortinbrans de Coinbres s’en va as murs ester; Dont commença l’assaus du tout renouveler. Lors oïssiés buisines et cors d’arain sonner, Et Turs et Sarrazins et glater et uler. Plus menu vont sajetes que noif ne puet voler; Dont véissiés perrieres et grans quarriaus jeter, A ces haus pis d’acier et ferir et hurter; Les quarriaus en abatent et font esquarteler. Quant François l’ont véu, n’i ot k’espoenter, Et dist li uns à l’autre: “Ne poons plus durer; Ja verrés ceste tour et caïr et verser.” “Baron,” dist Floripas, “trop vous vous amatés; Ceste tours est moult forte, ne vous estuet douter; Laiens a fait mes peres son tresor assambler;

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Fierabras and Floripas Tant y a plates d’or nus nes porroit nombrer; Desci à .xv. jours puet li assaus durer, Ne vous fauront les plates de fn or à geter. Cascuns de nous en puet plain geron aporter, Ausi comme de pieres les en puet on ruer.” “Dame,” ce dist Rollans, “moult faites à louer.” Li quens Guis de Borgoigne le courut acoler. Lors le vait le puciele au grant tresor mener. Il méismes en porte, qui qu’en doie peser. (ll. 5235-5277) I. Affirming the spirit Premiere en apela Richart de Normendie: “Signeur,” ce dist li dus, “ne vous mentirai mie, Nous sommes ci enclos en ceste tour antie; Je sai bien que au loing n’i garironnes mie. Car mandons à Karlon et secours et aïe.” Dist Namles de Baviere: “J’oi parler de folie; N’a si hardi chaiens que ce message die. Vous véés de paiens toute tere jonchie; Se nus en i aloit, n’enporteroit la vie. De l’aler est noiens, c’est parole falie, Car mais, se Diex n’en pense, n’i averons aïe.” “Signeur,” dist Floripas, “ne vous esmaiés mie; Mar douterés paiens vallissant une allie. Chaiens a .v. pucieles de moult grant signourie; Je ne sai plus que dire: cascuns praigne s’amie, Tant que nous i serons, menerons boine vie.” “Certes,” ce dist Rollans, “dit avés courtoisie; Ains ne vi mais puciele de si grant signourie.” A iceste parole sont no gent esbaudie. (ll. 5364-82)

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Appendix I The Fourth Geste: Deserts J. Fears disappear Richars resgarde l’yaue, qui moult fait à douter; Si est grande et hideus que n’i osse entrer. Plus tost cuert que sajete quant on le lait aler; Ne barge ne galie n’i puent abiter; La rive en est moult haute, bien fait à redouter. Richars de Normendie se prinst à resgarder, Escortrement commence Jhesu à reclamer: “Glorieus sire pere, qui te laisas pener En la crois benéoite pour ton pule sauver, Garisiés hui mon cors de mort et d’afoler, Que je puisse Karlon mon message conter.” Or oiés quel vertu Diex i vaut demonstrer Por le roi Karlemaine, qui tant fait à douter. Ançois que on éust une liué alé, Véissiés si Flagot engroisier et enfer, Que par desous la rive commence à seronder. Atant es vous .i. cerf, que Diex i fst aler, Et fu blans comme nois, biaus fu à resgarder. Devant le ber Richart se prent à demostrer, Devant lui est tantost ens en Flagot entrés. Li dus voit Sarrazins après lui aroutés; S’il ot paour de mort ne fait à demander. Après le blance bisse commencha à errer, Tout ainsi come ele vait, lait le ceval aler; Et li ciers vait devant, qui bien s’i sot garder, D’autre part à la rive se prent à ariver. Atant es Sarrazins, qui Diex puist mal donner; Tant redouterent l’yauwe, n’i osserent entrer, Arriere s’en repairent sans plus de demorer. Ens el portier Galafre n’i ot que aïrer; Isnelement et tost vait le pont avaler: “Or tost,” fait il, “baron, pensés d’esperonner, Gardés que li messages ne s’en puist escaper.” Dont véissiéz paien par le pont arouter.

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Fierabras and Floripas Richars fu d’autre part, li gentix et li ber; Il estoit descendus son ceval recengler, Isnelement monta, n’i vot plus demourer, L’espiel prinst en son puing, ne le vaut oublier. Après lui voit paiens et poindre et galoper; Le ceval laisse coure sans plus de demorer; Par isi grant vertu le terre fait crauler, Si que des caillaus fait le fu estinceler. Et li dus s’en va bien, qui Dix puisse sauver; Ne les doute trestous. .i. denier monnaé. Quant paien ont véu nel porront atraper, A Mautrible revienent, si se vont desarmer.

(ll. 5808- 5853)

[See Gustav Doré’s 1857 illustration of this episode in Appendix II] K. Evil falls Li berfroi sont moult haut et grant li rouléis, Et parfont li fossé qui clooient la cit. Karles passa le pont armés et fervestis, Et François après lui, qui Diex a benéis. Li rois vait Agolafre, ki sanbloit Antecris Et gisoit à la terre, n’er pas encore ocis; Que la pel du serpent, dont il estoit vesti, Le deffent si des armes que le cuer n’a mal mis. A la hace trencant que tient li maufés vis, A mort .XXX. François, dont Karles est maris; S’il péust estre en piés, mal les éust baillis. As pierres et as mans ont le maufé ocis, En Flagot l’ont jeté, dont parfont est li ris. Entre pont et la ville ont le baille conquis; Là sont entré .x. mille de nos François ellis, Mautrible ont assalli .ii, jours tous acomplis; Moult i ot de François navré et mal baillis. .V. lieues environ en oïsiés les cris, Ke li pons de Mautrible est par force conquis; Lors véissiés venir paiens et Sarrazins

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Appendix I Plus de .L. mille, à vers heaumes burnis. Se Damediex n’en pense, qui en la crois fu mis, N’en passera mais Karles, si sera moult laidis. Et li mur de la vile sont tout de marbre bis, As cevilles de fer sont li quarrel assis. Moult par fu grans la noise et li hus et li cris. A la porte est venus Effraons li gaïs, Et tint .i. mail de fer qui grans fu et traitis. En une cave gist sa fame de .ii. fs; Amiete leur mere les avoit bien nourris. A bandon fait la porte fremer les postis; Li diables s’escrie: “Où est Karle au fer vis? En veut il les reliques porter à Saint Denis? Par Mahomet mon dieu, par qui je sui garis, Miex venist au viellart que il fust à Paris. Jamais n’escapera s’il ne s’en est fuis, Ains sera l’amirant mon signeur rendus prins. Si l’amirans le tient, ja nen sera raïns Ne soit pendus as forkes ou detrais à roncins.” A la porte est venus Aufricans li tirans; A .ii. puins tint le mail qui est traitis et grans; Des chevaliers de Franche ot ocis ne sai quans. Et paien s’atornerent, ki ont les cuers dolens. Iluec fu la bataille et li estours pesans; Là péusiés véoir des mors et des sanglans. Karles est descendus, iriés est ses sanblans, Prinst l’escu as enarmes, entesé le nu branc; Après lui vint au dos li barnages des Frans. Vers le gaiant s’adrece l’emperes poissans. Charles li enpereres fait forment à loer: Il tint traite Joiouse, qui moult reluisoit cler; Anchois que li gaians se péust trestorner, L’a feru Karlemaines, qui ne le pot amer. Amont parmi le cief bien le seut asener. Entresci que ou pis ne laissa que cauper;

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Fierabras and Floripas Li rois estort son cop, mort le fst craventer. Quant Sarrazin le virent, n’i ot que aïrer; Atant les oïssiés et glatir et uller, Et tout communaument entre les nos capler. Richars de Normendie, qui moult fst à loer, Et li pere Olivier, qui fu gentis et ber, Li dus Hoel de Nantes, où il n’ot que blamer, Et dans Riol del Mans, qui ot cuer de sangler, Cil .iiii. et Karlemaines font paiens destraver, Et par force les font Mautrible trespasser. Aveuc aus sont entré, Dix les puist regarder! L. The Hero rises L’emperere de France tint trait le branc forbi, L’amirant en apele, quant il l’ot desveti: S’il veut croire en la loi que Diex a establi, Et guerpisse Mahon, le mauvais dieu fali, Ja n’i perdra du sien vaillisant .i. espi. Fierabras s’ageneille, si li cria merchi. “Pour Dieu,” fait il, “biaus pere, car le faites issi, Si t’ameront tout chil qui de toi sont haï.” Et respont l’amirans: “Et je l’otroi ensi.” Si le font metre es fons quant furent benéi. Karles ot moult grant joie quant la parole oï; D’une clere fontaine la cuve raenpli, Et li rois et li autre pourcession sivi. Quant li fons sont saignié, ja fu plus de midi; L’amirant apelerent, qui ot le poil fouri; Li vesques li demande bielement, sans estri, S’il veut guerpir le diable et proier Diu merci. Quant l’amirans l’entent, tous li sans li noirchi, Comme fus embrasés de maultalent rougi, Ens en fons benéis en despit rescopi, Puis est salis en piés, s’a le veske saisi; Ja le mesist es fons quant Ogiers li tolli.

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(ll. 6324-89)

Appendix I Nonpourquant l’amirans si du puig le feri Que très parmi la guele li clers sans en sali. Adont fu l’emperere dolens et esmari. “Fierabras,” dist li rois, “vous estes mes privés; Bien voi que vostre pere n’ert ja crestiennés; Grant honte nous a fait des fons c’a vergondez: Ne puet mais remanoir que ne soit afolé.” Quant Fierabras l’entent, li sans li est mués. Se il en fu dolens, ne l’estuet demander; Karlon cria merchi, dolens et abosmés: “Sire drois emperere, merci, pour amour Dé! Saciés ja se mes peres seroit crestienés, Et, se il ne puet estre à ceste fois matés, Ja puis ne me caura s’il a cief caupé.” Et Floripas s’escrie: “Karles, que demourés? Ce est .i. vis diables; pour coi ne l’ociés? Moi ne caut se il meurt, mais que Gui me donnés; Je le plourai moult peu, se j’ai mes volentés.” “Bele,” dist Fierabras, “moult grant tort en avés; Ja est il nostre pere, qui nous a engerrés; Trop estes felenesse, se pité n’en avés. Par icel saint sepucre où Jhesus fu posés, Je voroie ore avoir tous les menbres caupez, Mais k’il fust en sains fons baptiziés et levés.” Lors ploura Fierabras, s’a grans soupirs getés. “Biaus dous peres,” dist il, “et car vous pourpensés, Et soiés en sains fons bautiziés et levés; Vostre ame sera sauve se en Jhesu créés. Ja ne vaut Mahomet .ii. deniers monnéés, Fors seul li ors qui est entour lui amassés; Mais icil est vrais Diex, qui en crois fu penés, Et ki d’infer geta ses drus et ses privés: S’en lui avés créance, boin garant en arés.”

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Appendix II FIERABRAS EX LIBRIS A. The Manuscript Copy. Anglo-Norman. c. 1300. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz Bibliothek – Niedersächsische Landesbibliothek, Hannover. MS IV, 578, f. 1r.

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Fierabras and Floripas B. Sir Ferumbras. Anon. c. 1377. Edited in 1897 by Sidney J. Herrtage and published as Part One of the English Charlemagne Romances by the Oxford University Press for The Early English Text Society.

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Appendix II C. Pantagruel. 1534. François Rabelais.Translated by J.M. Cohen, Penguin Classics, 1955. 1. It is true that one fnds in some books of luxuriant growth certain occult properties; and among these are counted Toss-pint, Orlando Furioso, Robert the Devil, Fierabras, William the Fearless, Huon of Bordeaux, Mandeville and Matabrune. [From the Author’s Prologue.] 2. “…who begat Sisyphus, who begat the Titans, from whom sprang Hercules, who begat Enac — who was very expert in taking little worms out of the hands — who begat Fierabras — who was beaten by Oliver, peer of France and companion of Roland — who begat Morgan — who was the frst in this world to play at dice with his spectacles.…” [From Chapter I: Of the Origin and Antiquity of the Great Pantagruel.] 3. …Meanwhile I, who am telling you this most authentic tale, had hidden myself under a burdock leaf, which was quite as wide as the arch of the Bridge of Monstrible (i.e. Mautriblez). [From Chapter 32.] D. Don Quixote. 1605. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Translations quoted from the Wordsworth Classics edition, 1993. 1. “Then I am satisfed,” replied Don Quixote, “you yourself are the man that raves and is enchanted, since you have thus boldly blasphemed against a truth so universally received, that whosoever presumes to contradict it, as you have done, deserves the punishment you would infict on those books, which in reading offend and tire you. For it were as easy to persuade the world that the sun does not enlighten, the frost cool, and the earth bear us, as that there never was an Amadis, or any of the other adventurous knights, whose actions are the subjects of so many histories. What mortal can persuade another, that there is no truth in what is recorded of the Infanta Floripes and Guy of Burgundy: and also Fierabras at the bridge of Mantible, in the reign of Charlemagne? Which passages, I dare swear, are as true as that now it is day.’ [from Chapter 48] 247

Fierabras and Floripas 2. “Not I, by my troth,” replied Sancho. “I never did meet anything like you in history, for I neither can read nor write; but that which I dare wager is, that I never in my life served a bolder master than your worship; pray Heaven this same boldness may not bring us to what I bid you beware of. All I have to put you in mind of now, is, that you get your ear dressed, for you lose a deal of blood; and by good luck I have here some lint and a little white salve in my pocket.” “How needless would all this have been,” cried Don Quixote, “had I but bethought myself of making a small bottleful of the balsam of Fierabras, a single drop of which would have spared us a great deal of time and medicaments.” “What is this same balsam, if it please you?” cried Sancho. “A balsam,” answered Don Quixote, “of which I have the receipt in my head; he that hath some may defy death itself, and dally with all manner of wounds: therefore, when I have made some of it, and given it thee, if at any time thou happenest to see my body cut in two, by some unlucky back-stroke, as it is common among us knightserrant, thou hast no more to do but to take up nicely that half of me which is fallen to the ground, and clap it exactly to the other half on the saddle, before the blood is congealed, always taking care to lay it just in its proper place: then thou shalt give me two drops of that balsam and thou shalt immediately see me become whole and sound as an apple.” [From Book II, Chapter II.] E. Fierabras. 1823, Opera. Libretto by Josef K. Kupelwieser, music by Franz Schubert. World Premiere 9th February 1897, at the Court Theatre in Karlsruhe in celebration of the composer’s 100th birthday, almost seventy years after his death. (See extract p. 249.)

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The action was set in the time of Charlemagne’s wars with the Spanish Moors. It revolves around Fierabras, a prince of the Moors, who had fallen in love with his enemy’s daughter.

“The overture is one of Schubert’s fnest instrumental works. His Romantic ideals express themselves transparently in a piece that departs very little from Classical forms. Its quiet string introduction establishes a mood of melancholic uneasiness, followed by a rich chorale in the horns that introduces a hint of tension. The rest of the overture is vigorous and energetic. Its main theme appears at once, defning a sort of restless energy, which gradually accumulates momentum until the constant motion ends powerfully in an only slightly restrained triumph.” (from Program Notes – November 1993)

Appendix II

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Fierabras and Floripas The convoluted plot includes: Fierabras’s capture, a rival for his lover’s hand, a wrongful imprisonment, escape, knights switching sides, a battle in which Fierabras prevents his rival from killing the Moorish king, the unmasking of the illicit romance, surprise awarding of the king’s daughter to Fierabras’s rival, Fierabras’s conversion to Christianity and eventual allegiance to the former enemy king — everything ends in general rejoicing. With a plot based on all that, small wonder that the opera failed.” Program notes by C. Michael Kelly for Immaculata Symphony performance of the Overture on November 20th, 1993. F.

Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 1898. E. Cobham Brewer (1810-97).



Fierabras (Sir), of Alexandria, son of Balan, King of Spain. The greatest giant that ever walked the earth. For height of stature, breadth of shoulder, and hardness of muscle he never had an equal. He possessed all Babylon, even to the Red Sea; was seigneur of Russia, Lord of Cologne, master of Jerusalem, and even of the Holy Sepulchre. He carried away the crown of thorns, and the balsam which embalmed the body of Our Lord, one drop of which would cure any sickness, or heal any wound in a moment. One of his chief exploits was to slay the “fearful huge giant that guarded the bridge Mantible,” famous for its thirty arches of black marble. His pride was laid low by Olivier, one of Charlemagne’s paladins. The giant then became a child of God, and ended his days in the odour of sanctity, “meek as a lamb and humble as a chidden slave.” Sir Fierabras, or Ferumbras, fgures in several mediaeval romances, and is an allegory of Sin overcome by the Cross.

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Appendix II G. “Fierabras”, Légende Nationale. 1857. Modern French translation by J. B. Mary-Lafon. Illustrated by Gustav Doré. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved 11498.g.47.

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Fierabras and Floripas H. Heroic Legends, London, 1908. Agnes Grozier Herbertson. Illustrated by Helen Stratton. American version c. 1910. The French camp lay as still as a hive of drowsy bees. Scarce a sound of life issued from it. Above it the sky stretched in great blue vastness; beneath the sky the calm air hardly moved. Everywhere a deep stillness prevailed. Perhaps the stillness was the one sign of the great battle and victory of a few days since. It told of weary warriors within their tents; it told of the peace that treads close upon the heels of victory. But that peace was rudely broken. Suddenly upon the air came a heavy sound as of the thunder of horses’ hoofs. It came nearer and nearer, a dull clamp-clamp upon the ground. The sunlight caught a moving glitter, and wrapped it round with radiance. As that radiance drew nearer the French camp, it grew greater, larger, an increasing fash of brightness, and as it grew there grew with it the loudness of that heavy clamping sound. Then there came into view, breaking the peace of the place, a horseman in armor, a horseman so immense that he seemed to fll the horizon and dominate the plain. He rode upon a horse as great as he, and as he swept his furious way towards the French hosts, his steed’s hoofs fell again and again upon the ground with a thunderous noise. He fashed across the plain like a lightening of sunlight, drawing rein at last before the royal tent of Charlemagne. There he halted and upraised his voice, which was like the roar of some angry creature other than man. “Behold, great Charlemagne,” said he, “I have sought thy camp, and would honor thy knights by doing battle with them. Send out Roland or Oliver, or another of like prowess, that by showing him his littleness I may take pleasure in mine own strength. Nay, send out Roland and Oliver, and another with them; send out seven knights if thou wilt. Have not I in my time slain kings, and is not my strength equal to that of ten men?” This furious roar came to the ears of Charlemagne, and he halted in his speech to his knights. “Tell me,” said he to one of the dukes, “who is this champion whose mouth is so full of words?”

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Appendix II The duke replied: “He is Fierabras the giant, son of Balan, an admiral of the Moors. By repute I know him well, and it is true that in his time he hath slain many valiant men and overcome kings. Moreover, he hath done many evil deeds among Christians, and it is he who hath in his possession the sacred tomb of our Lord.” [From Legend 5. How Oliver Fought for France and the Faith.] I.

Stories of Charlemagne. Alfred J. Church. The Baldwin Project: Children’s Online Literature: Bringing Yesterday’s Classics to Today’s Children, 2006. (http://www.mainlesson.com/)

Balan, who was admiral of the Moors in Spain, had a son, Fierabras by name, who was the most marvellous giant that was ever born of woman. There was no man that could be matched with him for height, and bigness of limb, and strength of body. This Fierabras was King of Alexandria, and ruled the whole land of Babylon from the Red Sea eastwards. Russia also he possessed, and Cologne; he was lord, moreover, of Jerusalem, and had possession of the Sepulchre of our Lord. It happened on a certain day that this man came riding furiously to the camp where King Charles lay with his army, and asked that someone should come forth and fght with him. No man answering him or coming forth, he fell into a great rage and sware by his god Mahomet that he would not depart from the place till he should have done battle with some Christian man; but still no one came forth to him. Then he cried with a very loud and terrible voice, “King of Paris, send out to me your strongest and bravest knight, be he Roland, or Oliver, or Thierry, or Ogier the Dane, that he may fght with me. Nay, and if you will send out against me six or seven of your strongest knights, I swear by my god Mahomet that I will not refuse to fght with them all. But if you will not send out any man, then I will assuredly assail your camp before nightfall this very day, and strike off your head, and lead away Roland and Oliver as prisoners. You have come into this my land without cause, and verily you shall depart without honor.” When he had spoken thus he lay down under a tree, and having tied his horse to one of the boughs, took off his armor. This done, he cried to the King, “Send now Roland or Oliver to fght

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Fierabras and Floripas with me. And if these dare not come alone, then let two others come together with them; and if the four be afraid, let six come. Ten kings have I slain already in single combat; there was not one of them, for all that they were mighty men of valor, that could stand against me.” [From How Fierabras Defed King Charles; episodes 127 and 128.]

This Book Was Completed on November 16, 2009 at Italica Press, New York, New York. It Was Set in Charlemagne & Garamond & Printed on 60-lb Natural Paper in the U.S.A. and E.U. n

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