A Chronicle of London from 1089 to 1483 - LightNovelsOnl.com
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I warne yow he seyde bothe olde and yonge, Make yow redy withoughte delay; At Southampton to mete youre kynge, At Lammas on seynt Petrys day; Be the grace of G.o.d ant swete Mary Over the see y thenke to pa.s.se: The kyng let ordeyn sone in hy, What y mene ye knowe the ca.s.se.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
After anon, with right good chere, Hyse gret gonnys and engynes stronge, At London he schipped them alle in fere, And sone fro Westmenster then sp.r.o.ngye, With alle hyse lordys, sothe to saye: The mair was redy and mette hym there, With all the craftes in good araye, It is ful soth what nede to swere.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Heyl, comely kyng, the mair gan say, The grace of G.o.d now be with the, And speed the well in thy jornay, Almyghti G.o.d in Trinite, And graunt the evermore the degre, To felle thin enemys bothe nyght and day; Amen, seyde alle the comunalte, Graunt mercy, sire, oure kyng gan say.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
To seynt Poulys he held the way; He offred there full worthyly: Fro thens to the quen that same day, And tok his leve ful hendely; And thorugh out London thanne gan he ryde; To seynt George he com in hye, And there he offred that iche tyde, And other lordys that weren hym bye.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
And fro thens to Suhthampton, unto that strond, For sothe he wold no longer there dwell: XV hundryd s.h.i.+ppys redy there he fond, With riche sayles and heye topcastell.
Lordys of this lond, oure kyng gan there sell, For a milion of gold as y herd say, Therfore there truayle was quyte them full well, For they wolde a mad a queynte aray.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Therfore song it was wailaway; There lyvys they lost anon right in hast: And oure kyng with riall aray, To the se he past.
And landyd in Normandye, at the water of Sayn, At the pyle of Ketecaus, the sothe y yow say, On oure lady even, the a.s.sumpcion, the thirdde yer of hys rayn, And boldely hys baner there he gan display.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
And to the town of Harflew there he tok the way, And mustred his meyne faire before the town, And many other lordys I dar well say, With baners brighte and many penoun: And there they pyght there tentys a down, That were embroudyd with armys gay; First, the kynges tente with the crown, And all othere lordes in good aray.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
My brother Clarence, oure kyng gan say, The tother syde shull ye kepe, With my doughter and hire maydyns gay, To wake the Frensshmen of there slepe.
London he seyde shall with here mete, My gonnys shall lyn upon this grene, For they shall play with Harflete, A game at tynes as y wene.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Mine engynes that bethe so kene, They shull be sett be syde this hill, Over all Harflewe that they may sene, For to loke if they play well.
Go we to game be G.o.dys grace, Myne children ben redy everych on, Every greet gonne that there was, In his mouth he hadde a ston.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The Capteyn of Harflewe sone anon To oure kyne he sente on hy, To wyte what was his wille to don That he was come with his navy; Delivere me this toune, oure kyng gan say; Nay sire, he seyde, be seynt Denys; Thanne shall y it gete, if y may, Be the grace of G.o.d and myn devys.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Myne pleyers that y have hedyr brought, Their ballys beth of stonys round, Be the helpe of hym that me dere bought, They shall youre wall have to ground.
The Frensshmen cried 'Amound,' 'Amound;'
This toun, they seyde, us moste kepe.
The kyng, seith he, will nought fro this ground Or he have yolde this toun Harflete.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Tenys seyde the grete gonne, How felawes go we to game, Among the houses of Harflewe roune, It dide the Frensshmen right gret grame; Fyftene before, seyd London, tho His ball wol faire he gan it throwe, That the stepyll of Harflete and bellys also, With his breth he dide down blowe.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
x.x.x^{ti} is myn, seyd Messagere, And smartly went his way; Ther wallys that were mad right sure, He brast them down the sothe to say.
The kynges doughter, seyde here, how thei play, Herkenyth myne maydenys in this tyde; Fyve and forty that is no nay, The wallys wente doun on every syde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The engynes seide, to longe we abyde, Let us gon to ben on a.s.sent; Wherevere that the ball gan glyde, The houses of Harflew they all to rent.
An Englyssh man the bulwerk brent, Women cryed alas! that they were bore, The Frensshmen seide now be we shent, From us this toun now it is lore.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
It is best now that we therfore, That we beseche the kyng of grace, That he asayle us now no more, For to dystroye us in this place; For but the Dolfyn us reskewe, This toun to delivere wyl we sikerly, Messagers thei let make newe, And to the kyng they come in hy.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The lord Gaucourt certeynly, For he was capteyn in that place, And Gilliam Bocher com hym by, And othere also bothe more and la.s.se; To fore the kyng whan they com was, I wot they sette them on there kne; Heil comely kyng, thei seyde, in this plas, The grace of G.o.d now is with the.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Of trews we wolde beseche the, Unto it be Sounday atte non, And but it thanne reskewyd be, We shall to yow delyvere this toun: The kyng thanne seyde to them ful son I graunte you grace al this tyde, Somme of yow go forth anon, The remenaunt with me shall abyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The capteyn hied hym with al his myght, Unto Roon for to ryde, He wende the Dolfyn have founde there right But he was goon, durst he nought abyde.
Of helpe the capteyn besowte that tyde, Harflew from us is lost for ay, The wallys ben doun on every syde, We may no longere it kepe, be G.o.d verray.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Of good counsaill I wolde yow pray, What is youre will what shall y don, Bataill us moste thene be Soneday, Or ellys delivere hym the toun.
The lordys of Roon togydere gon rown, And bad he sholde the town up yelde, The kyng of Ingelond is fers as lyon, We wil noughte mete hym in the felde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The capteyn went agen withoute lettyng, Before the kyng on kneys gan fall, Heyl, he seyde, comely kyng, Most worthy prynce in this world riall, Here y have brought yow the keyes alle, Of Harflew that faire toun, All is youre owne both towr and halle, At your will Lord and at your croun.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
I thanke G.o.d, thann eseyde oure kyng, And Mary his modir that is so fre; Myn uncle Dorset withoute lettyng, Capteyn of Harflewe schall ye be.
And al that is in that toun, Wot stille shall abyde, To maken up that is adoun, That hath ben fellyd on every syde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Meyne, I now shall with yow ride, To se the toun there overall, Wyff no child lett non abyde, But have them ought bothe grete and small; And let stuffe the toun overall, With Englysshmen thereinne to be.
They left no Frenssh blod withinne the wall, But hadde all oute the comunalte.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Four hundred women and children men myght se, Whanne they wenten out sore gon they wepe; The grete gonnes engynes to the trewle, They were brought into Harflete, Oure kyng unto the castell yede, And restyd hym there as his will was Sire, he seyde, so G.o.d me spede To Caleys warde I thenke to pas _Wot ye right well that thus it was, Gloria tibi Trinitas._
Pa.s.sUS SECUNDUS.
Whanne Harflete was getyn, that ryall toun, Through the grace of G.o.d omnipotent; Oure kyng he made hym redy bown, And to Caleys ward full faire he went, My brother Clarence verament, Ye shall ryde al be my syde, My cosyn York ye take entent, For ye shall also this tyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
My cosyn Huntyngdon shall with me ryde, The erl of Suffolk that is so fre, The erl of Oxenford shall not abyde, He shall comen forth with his meyne, Sire Thomas Erpyngham, that nevere dide faille, And yit another so mote y thee, Sire John the knyght of Cornewaille, He dar abyde and that know yee.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Sire Gilbert Umfreville wil us avayle, The lord Clyfford so G.o.d me spede, Sire William Boucer that will not faille, They will us helpe when we hav nede.
Toward Caleys full faire they yede, In the c.u.n.trey of Picardie, And out of Normandie they gan ryde, Now Crist save all the c.u.mpanye.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Our kyng rood forth, blessed he be, He sparid neither dale ne doun, Be townes grete, and castell hyghe, Til he com to the water of Som; The brigge the Frensshemen hadde drawe a doun, That over the water he myght nought ryde; Oure kyng made hym redy bown, And to the water of Turwyn he com that tyde.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure kyng rood forth thanne full good sped, Into the countrey of Turvyle, To Agyncourt now as he is ride, There as oure kyng dyd his bataile; Be the water of Swerdys withoute faile, The Frensshemen oure kyng thei did aspye, And there they thought him to asaile, All in that feld certeynlye.
_Wot ye right well, &c._
The Frensshemen hadde oure kynge umbast With bataill strong on every syde; The duke of Orlions seyde in hast, The kyng of Ingelond with us shall byde; He gaf hym leve this way to ryde, Be G.o.d, me thenke, he was not wys, Therefore shall y now be hys gyde, Or that he come to strong Caleys.
