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La Chanson de Roland (The Song of Roland)

Part II: Roland Leads the Rear-guard

Death of Roland from the Grandes Chroniques de France, Paris, BNF, Fr. 2813, fol. 122v

Battle of Roncevaux Pass from the Grandes Chroniques de France, Paris, BNF, Fr. 2813, fol. 121r
Picryl

Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2024, All Rights Reserved.

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Contents

Verses 53-55: Ganelon returns; the army departs for France

Charlemagne had drawn nearer his kingdom,

And the fortress of Galne had thus attained.

Count Roland, seizing it, had razed the walls,

To leave the site in ruins for a hundred years.

The king awaited tidings, there, of Ganelon,

And for tribute from the wider land of Spain.

At dawn of day, as the heavens brightened,

Count Ganelon reached the encampment.

The emperor had risen, at the break of day,

Heard Matins, and the Mass, and prayed.

He sat before his tent on the green grass,

Where Roland stood, and Oliver the brave,

Duke Neimes and many another nobleman.

Ganelon arrived, the felon, the perjurer,

And began to speak, while aiming to deceive:

‘God save you, Sire!’ was his first greeting,

‘I have brought you the keys of Saragoza.

Great wealth from the Saracen’s treasury,

And twenty hostages; let them be guarded!

Marsilius, called the brave, requests of you,

That the caliph, his uncle, not be blamed,

Though I saw four hundred thousand men,

Clad in armour, with their visors closed,

Swords with hilts of gold at their sides.

Follow the caliph from the Spanish shore,

Deserting Marsilius, since Christianity

They neither wished to know or to receive.

Yet, ere they’d sailed four leagues or less,

There came a mighty storm from the north,

There they drowned, nevermore to be seen.

Were he alive, I would have brought him here.

The pagan king, indeed, Sire, bids you trust

That ere you have seen this first month pass,

He will follow you to France, to your realm,

And will accept the creed to which you hold.

Hands together, he’ll do you homage there,

And will rule the realm of Spain in your name.

Said the emperor: ‘Thanks be to God above!’

You have done well, and earned a rich reward.’

And then he had a thousand trumpets sounded,

The Franks struck camp, the mules were loaded,

For the army would set forth, for fair France.

Charlemagne, having laid waste all Spain,

Taken the castles there, ravaging the cities,

Had thus declared his campaign was over,

And he would ride towards France the fair.

Count Roland had fixed his pennon to a lance,

And set it high, on a cliff, against the sky.

The Franks were lodged all about that place.

Meanwhile, the pagans rode midst the valleys,

Breastplates they wore, and helms laced tight,

Visors closed, with fine swords at their sides,

Lances sharpened, and shields newly painted.

There, in the mist, beyond the peaks, lurked

Four hundred thousand waiting for the dawn;

Lord, what sorrow for the unknowing Franks!

Verses 56-57: Charlemagne’s vision

The day now being past, the night had fallen,

And the emperor, Charlemagne, lay asleep;

He dreamt he stood in the wide Pass of Sizer,

And gripped in his hands his ash-wood spear;

Count Ganelon seemed to seize it from him,

Shake it aloft, brandish it, in such a way

That great splinters from it flew up to the sky.

Charlemagne slept, nor woke from his dream.

For, after this, he glimpsed another vision,

That in France he was, in his chapel at Aix.

A vicious bear was gnawing his right arm,

And a leopard, from the Forest of Ardennes,

Made assault upon his body, most fiercely.

But then a hound sped forth from the hall,

That raced and leapt towards Charlemagne,

And, first, it caught at the bear’s right ear,

Then angrily made war upon the leopard.

The Franks then spoke of a mighty battle,

Yet he knew not which combatants had won.

So Charlemagne slept on; nor woke as yet.

Verses 58-63: Roland is appointed to lead the rear-guard

The night flew past, and the bright day dawned.

The emperor rode proudly midst his host,

Regarding them oft, closely, as he passed.

‘My lord barons,’ King Charlemagne declared,

‘You see the pass, here, and the narrow valley,

Advise me now; who should lead the rearguard?’

‘Why not my step-son, Roland?’ said Ganelon,

‘You’ve no greater vassal amongst the barons.’

On hearing this, the king gazed at him fiercely,

And said to him: ‘You’re the devil incarnate.

There’s a mortal hatred in that heart of yours.

Who then shall go first, to lead the vanguard?’

‘Why, Oger of Denmark.’ Ganelon replied,

‘You have none better to occupy that place.’

When Count Roland heard his name proposed,

He addressed these few words to Ganelon:

‘Step-father, whom I should hold most dear,

So you would see me lead the rearguard!

Yet Charlemagne of France shall not lose.

Not a single charger or palfrey he owns,

Donkey, or mule that can raise a canter,

Nor pack-horse, shall he lose, no not one,

Unpaid paid for at the point of my sword.’

Said Ganelon: ‘Tis true, I know that well.’

Once proposed as the leader of the rear-guard,

Roland spoke to his step-father, most angrily:

‘Ah, villain! You wretch, of doubtful heritage,

Think you my glove will fall to the ground,

As your wand of office did, before the king?’

Then: ‘My true emperor,’ said Count Roland,

‘Grant me the bow you carry in your hand,

And ne’er shall any man say, in reproach,

That it fell from my grasp to the ground,

As the wand of office did from Ganelon’s.’

The emperor stood with lowered gaze,

Grasped his chin, and tugged at his beard,

Nor could move for the tears in his eyes.

Now, after that, Duke Neimes stepped forth,

(There was no finer vassal there at court)

And said to the King: ‘You have heard him;

Roland is greatly angered, and is insistent.

It has been proposed he leads the rear-guard:

You have no baron here would do as well.

Give him the bow you have strung and bent,

Then grant him men, to form his company.’

The king complied; Roland received the bow.

The emperor then addressed Count Roland.

‘My fair nephew, truly I’d have you know

That, as of now, you have half my army.

Accept them; they will be your safeguard.’

Then said the count: ‘No, I’ll not take all.

God confound me if I fail still in the task!

Twenty thousand brave Franks I’ll accept.

Withdraw through the pass in safety, now,

You need fear no enemy, while I’m alive.’

Verses 64-66: He positions his men

Count Roland soon mounted his charger,

Beside him rode his comrade Oliver,

With Gerins, and the proud Count Gerers,

And Otes followed, also Berengers,

And Sansun, and the aged Anseis,

Gerart of Rossillon, bold and fierce,

And then the Gascon duke, Engeliers.

‘By my life!’ Archbishop Turpin said, ‘I’ll go,’

‘And I go with you,’ cried Count Gualters,

‘Roland’s man am I, and shall not fail him.’

They selected twenty thousand knights.

Count Roland summoned Gualters de l’Húm:

‘Take a thousand Franks of our dear France,

And so dispose them, mid cliffs and crags,

That the emperor loses not a single man.’

Gualters replied: ‘For you, I’ll do that same.’

Gualters then ordered his thousand Franks

To range themselves about the cliffs and crags,

And not descend, however ill the tidings,

Until full seven thousand swords be drawn.

King Almaris, of the kingdom of Belserne,

Would meet them in battle on the fatal day.

High were the peaks, the valleys full of shade,

Rugged the cliffs, the mountain passes narrow.

The Franks spent the day possessed by gloom,

Their presence being noised for fifteen leagues.

Since they had been in Spain, that wider world,

They’d dreamed of Gascony, their lord’s realm,

Remembering their fiefdoms, their honours,

Its most lovely ladies, and their noble wives.

Not a man there failed to shed a tear of woe,

Yet Charlemagne’s anguish was the greater,

At leaving his nephew in that narrow pass.

He wept from pity, and sorrow gripped him.

Verses 67-78: Twelve enemy champions offer to slay the Twelve Peers of France

The Twelve Peers, thus, remained in Spain,

Twenty thousand Franks in their company.

They had no fear, and death they disdained.

Meanwhile, the emperor withdrew to France,

Hiding his countenance beneath his mantle.

Duke Neimes, came riding up beside him.

And said to the king: ‘What troubles you?’

Charlemagne replied: ‘You err in asking;

My sadness such I can do naught but grieve.

France will be ruined, through Count Ganelon.

Last night an angel visited me, in dream:

And seemed to break the spear in my hand,

Judging me negligent towards the rear-guard.

I have left them there, in that foreign land.

By God, if they’re lost, I'll not be forgiven!’

Charlemagne could not but be moved to tears,

With him grieved a hundred thousand Franks,

Filled too with wondrous fear for Roland’s life.

That wretch, Ganelon, had wrought treachery.

And from the pagan king gained rich reward,

Silver, and gold, and robes, and silken cloth,

Chargers and mules, camels, and lions too.

Marsilius had summoned his lords in Spain,

His counts, viscounts, dukes, and admirals,

His emirs, and all the sons most nobly born.

Four hundred thousand gathered in three days,

In Zaragoza they sounded the battle-drums.

Mahound they called on from the minarets,

There was ne’er a pagan failed to follow him.

Then they rode forth, amidst great confusion,

Through land they held, by mountain and vale,

Till they saw the banners of the Franks on high.

The Frankish rear-guard, and its Twelve Peers,

Could not fail to meet their enemies in battle.

Marsilius’ nephew rode up to the vanguard,

On a mule, which he goaded with his baton.

Smiling brightly, he then addressed his uncle:

‘My lord and king, since, in your service,

I have endured much pain and suffering,

Have fought in battle, and have won the field,

Grant me a boon: the right to meet this Roland.

I’ll slay him with my lance, tis good and sharp,

If Mahomet will but be my guarantor,

I’ll remove the French yoke from Spain’s neck,

From the Spanish Pass as far as Durestant.

Charlemagne will weary, and the Franks flee,

And there’ll be no more war while you live.’

Marsilius then placed the gauntlet in his hand.

Marsilius’ nephew, the glove in his hand,

Made request, full of pride, of his uncle:

‘Fair lord and king, great the gift you grant.

Choose now for me eleven of your barons

So that we may fight their Twelve Peers.’

Of those barons, Falsaron first made reply,

He that was brother to King Marsilius:

‘Fair, nephew, let us go then, you and I,

And truly battle shall be done upon them,

The rear-guard of Charlemagne’s vast host;

For tis decreed that we shall slay them all.’

King Corsalis, the lord of another realm,

A barbarian, and steeped in the evil arts,

Spoke to them, as befits a loyal vassal,

By God’s riches he would prove no coward.

Malprimis de Brigant, then sped forward,

As quick on his feet as a nimble steed,

And, before King Marsilius, cried loudly:

‘My person will appear at Roncesvalles;

Should I meet Roland there, he’s mine.’

There was an admiral there from Balaguet,

Of noble form, of gaze fierce and high.

Since first he had e’er mounted a steed,

He had been proud indeed to bear arms.

Well-known as a true vassal of the king,

He was a Christian, yet a baron there.

Before Marsilius he spoke out, loudly:

‘To Roncesvalles my body too shall go!

If I meet Roland, he shall meet his death,

As will Oliver, and all the Twelve Peers;

The Franks will die of shame and grief.

Charlemagne is old, and in his dotage;

He will be weary then of waging war,

And Spain will be ours to enjoy in peace.’

King Marsilius rendered thanks to him.

An admiral too was there from Moriane,

None more vicious in all the land of Spain.

Before King Marsilius he made his boast:

‘To Roncesvalles I shall lead my company,

Twenty thousand men with shield and lance,

Find Roland, and acquaint him with death;

And every day shall Charlemagne feel woe.’

From the crowd came, Turgis of Turteluse,

He was a Count, and that city was his own.

He sought to wreak ill on these Christians.

Before Marsilius he stood, as had the rest:

And said to the king: ‘Be in nowise dismayed!

Mahound yields naught to Rome’s Saint Peter!

Serve him well, and the battle honours are ours.

To Roncesvalles, to meet Roland, I shall go;

No badge of safety’s granted him by Death.

See here my sword, that is long and sharp,

I’ll bear it to its encounter with Durendal,

And you will shortly hear which will yield.

Those Franks will die, whom we fall upon;

Old Charlemagne will suffer grief and shame,

Nevermore to wear his crown in this world.’

From the crowd came, Escremiz of Valterne;

A Saracen, that same land was all his own.

Before Marsilius he cried, midst the host:

‘To Roncesvalles I’ll go, to humble pride.

Should I find Roland there, I’ll take his head,

And Oliver’s, he the first among the rest.

The Twelve Peers are all doomed to death;

Franks shall die, and France be widowed,

And Charlemagne lose many a fine vassal.’

From the crowd came pagan Esturganz;

Estramariz also, who was his comrade;

Treacherous and sinful men were they.

Then said Marsilius: ‘You may advance!

Into the pass, go then, to Roncesvalles,

And aid in marshalling my people there.’

They made answer: ‘Sire, as you command!

We will make war on Oliver and Roland;

Death grants the Twelve no badge of safety.

Our swords are good, and are sharp indeed;

We’ll crimson the blades in seething blood,

Franks will die, and Charlemagne feel woe,

And wider France we’ll give into your hands;

Go yourself, Sire, if you would see it true,

Their emperor himself we’ll give to you.’

Margariz of Sibilie, he too came forward,

Who held land about Cadiz, to the sea.

For his beauty, all the ladies loved him;

Not one could view him without delight;

Not one on seeing him but must smile,

For ne’er was there as chivalrous a pagan.

Midst the crowd, above them all, he cried:

‘Be not dismayed now, King Marsilius!

To Roncesvalles I go, to slay this Roland,

Nor shall Oliver escape there with his life.

The Twelve Peers are doomed to martyrdom.

See this my sword, whose hilt is pure gold,

I received it from the admiral of Primes.

I pledge to drench it with crimson blood,

Franks shall die, and France be humbled.

To old Charlemagne, with flowing beard,

No day shall come, but brings grief and rage.

Within a year we’ll seize all of fair France,

And lodge in the city, there, of Saint Denis.’

The pagan king bowed his head profoundly.

From other realm came Chernubles de Munigre,

His hair well-nigh sweeping the very ground,

Who, for a jest, would bear a heavier weight

Than four mules that strained beneath the yoke.

In that land, I have named, in which he dwelt,

No sun shone, nor did the ground yield crops,

No dew fell there, nor e’er a shower of rain,

And never a stone there but was blackened.

Many a devil lived there too, it was said.

Chernubles cried: ‘My sword is at my side.

I’ll stain its blade crimson at Roncesvalles.

Should I find Roland, should he meet my sight,

I’ll assail him, else ne’er trust my word again.

Durendal I’ll conquer, with this blade of mine,

Franks shall die, and France shall be laid waste.’

And with this, those twelve champions departed,

Leading forth a hundred thousand Saracens,

All hastening on to battle, in their eagerness.

In a fir-wood, they prepared to take the field.

Verses 79-81: Oliver, from a height, views the Saracen forces

The pagans donned their Saracenic hauberks,

Which, for the most part, were in three layers;

Then they laced on good Zaragozan helmets;

Girding on their swords of steel from Vienne.

Fine shields they had, fine spears from Valence,

And ensigns in white, and blue, and crimson,

They’d left their mules and palfreys behind,

Mounting their chargers, riding side by side.

The day was clear, the sun brightly shining,

Its rays reflected from their gleaming gear.

They sounded a thousand war-horns, proudly,

In a mighty fanfare, to impress the Franks.

Said Oliver: ‘My lord and friend, I believe,

That we must meet these Saracens in battle.’

Answered Roland: ‘Ay! God grant us victory!

War we must wage, in the emperor’s cause;

For a man must suffer pain for his true lord,

Enduring the fiercest cold, or burning heat,

Exposing his flesh and hair to the elements.

Let every man now deal them mighty blows,

So minstrels sing no shameful songs of us.

The pagans err; the Christian faith is true.

Ne’er shall I be, to others, an ill example.’

Oliver climbed to a high vantage-point,

And, gazing to his right along the valley,

He saw the pagan army there, advancing;

He called to Roland, then, his companion:

‘Hear the tumult that rises out of Spain;

See the bright hauberks, the gleaming helms!

They will fall upon the rear-guard in anger.

Ganelon knew; he played the traitor’s part,

In offering up our names before the king.’

Count Roland answered: ‘Hush now, Oliver!

He is my step-father; not one word more.’

Oliver stood thus, on the heights above.

Clear was his view of the realm of Spain,

And of the Saracens, gathering in numbers,

Their gleaming helmets, adorned with gold,

Their shields, their embroidered hauberks,

And their lances, with fluttering pennons.

Countless the ranks beyond ranks of them;

So many there, no measure could be set.

He was astonished, wondered to himself,

And clambered down as swiftly as he could,

Reached the Franks, and there told his tale.

Verses 82-87: Oliver begs Roland to sound his war-horn and recall the army

Said Oliver: ‘I’ve viewed the pagan host.

No man on earth has e’er seen a greater,

A hundred thousand bearing their shields,

Helmets laced, and their hauberks shining;

Raised on high the wooden lances gleam.

A battle we'll have, such as ne’er has been.

Lords of the Franks, God grant you valour!

Hold your ground, and we’ll not be beaten!’

Said the Franks: ‘Shame on him that flees:

Fight, now, to the death; let no man falter.’

Said Oliver: ‘The pagan force is mighty,

While we Franks, it seems to me, are few;

Roland, my comrade, sound your war-horn!

Charlemagne will hear, the army will return.;

Roland answered him: ‘I’d seem but foolish,

And lose all my renown in France the fair.

Great blows I shall deal, with Durendal,

And, to the hilt, drench its blade in blood.

The wretched pagans shall not take the pass;

I pledge you this: to death they are doomed.’

‘My comrade, Roland, sound your ivory horn.

When the emperor hears, the army will return;

The king and his knights will come to aid us.’

Roland answered: ‘By God, ne’er shall it be

That my kin be brought to shame through me.

Nor fair France through me know ignominy!

Rather I’ll deal fierce bows with Durendal,

This mighty sword that hangs at my side;

Until you see its blade drenched with blood.

These vile pagans gather to their doom;

I pledge you, I’ll send them to their deaths.’

‘My comrade, Roland, sound your ivory horn!

If Charlemagne hears; still within the pass,

I promise you, he and the army will return.’

‘Such is not God’s will!’ Roland answered.

‘Ne’er shall it be said, by any living man,

That I blew my war-horn for mere pagans!

Not through me shall they reproach my kin.

When I am there in the thick of the battle,

And deal a hundred blows, a thousand, more,

You’ll behold Durendal’s crimsoned blade.

Franks are fine men; they’ll act courageously;

These warriors of Spain, Death will not spare.’

‘There’s no blame in sounding it,’ cried Oliver,

‘I’ve viewed their host, these Saracens of Spain;

It clothes the very mountains, and the valleys,

The wastelands here, and all the farthest plain.

Great are the numbers of these foreign folk,

While we are but few, our little company.’

Roland replied: "My wrath and anger grows.

Ne’er, may it please God and all his angels,

To behold, through me, Frankish valour fail!

Rather I’d seek to die than be dishonoured.

Greater the emperor’s love, if we fight well.’

Roland was proud, where Oliver was wise.

Yet both of them showed wondrous courage;

Once they had mounted, and were fully armed,

They’d rather have died than evade the battle.

Bold were the counts, fierce their language.

As the vile pagans came riding on apace.

Says Oliver: ‘Look, Roland, see before you

How near they are, while Charlemagne is far.

Deign, now, to sound your horn of ivory.

Were the king here, there’d be no fear of harm.

Only look there, towards the Spanish Pass,

And see the whole rearguard full of woe.

He that attempts this deed, will do no other!’

Roland answered him: ‘Speak not so ill!

Evil his heart, whose thoughts are cowardly!

We shall remain here, and hold our ground.

From us will come the blows and the assault.’

Verses 88-92: Roland and the rearguard prepare to attack the foe

When Roland saw that battle must ensue,

He grew fiercer than a lion or a leopard;

He called aloud to the Franks, to Oliver:

‘An end to words, my friends, my comrade!

The emperor, who left us as the rearguard,

Chose twenty thousand men, set us apart,

And knew not one would prove a coward.

A man should suffer any ill for his lord,

Enduring the bitter cold, or burning heat,

Giving freely of his flesh, and his blood.

Strike with the lance, as I with Durendal,

My lovely blade, a token from my king,

Such that if I die, who wields it may say,

(As well he must) it was a noble knight’s.’

From the ranks there came Archbishop Turpin,

He spurred his horse, and mounted a hillock;

Called to the Franks, and began this speech:

‘My lord barons, Charlemagne set us here;

It is well that we should perish for our king.

Help you, now, to sustain all Christendom!

Battle you’ll see, that you are bound to face,

Your eyes behold the Saracen foe before you.

Confess your sins, and pray for God’s mercy!

To heal your souls, I grant you absolution,

So, though you die, you shall be martyrs,

And thrones you’ll have in blest Paradise!’

The Franks dismounted, knelt on the ground,

And the archbishop gave God’s benediction,

And bade them, as their penance, strike hard.

The Franks then rose, and stood in their ranks,

Absolved and rendered clean of all their sins,

The archbishop making the sign of the cross.

Then they mounted on their eager chargers.

They were dressed according to knightly lore,

Well-apparelled, armoured, for the battlefield.

Count Roland spoke with his comrade Oliver:

‘Friend and companion, it is apparent now,

That Ganelon has betrayed the king’s trust,

Gold he has received, much wealth indeed.

Tis the Emperor must seek revenge for this.

King Marsilius has bought our lives for little;

Yet at sword-point he shall pay the balance!’

Roland now rode through the Spanish pass,

Spurring on his fine charger, Veillantif.

He bore his arms; well they became him,

Riding with his lance gripped in his hand,

Its point raised towards the skies above.

A white ensign he’d affixed to the shaft,

The gilded fringe fluttering o’er his hand;

Noble his form, his face smiling brightly.

And Oliver, his comrade, followed him,

For in Roland the Franks placed their hopes.

Proud was his gaze towards the Saracens,

Humble and benign towards the Franks,

Whom he now addressed most courteously:

‘My lord barons, now hold a steady pace!

These pagans come seeking martyrdom.

Fine and noble is the prize this day brings,

None so brave e’er won by Frankish king.’

With these words, the armies met together.

Said Oliver: ‘There is no more to say.

You deign not to sound the ivory horn.

And so Charlemagne can send no aid.

Naught has he heard, so bears no guilt.

Nor are those about him to be blamed.

So gallop on, as fiercely as you’re able!

And you lord barons, hold your ground!

I pray you in God’s name, be prepared

To strike a blow, receive, and strike again!

Forget not the war-cry of Charlemagne!’

At this, the Franks shouted as one man.

Who heard the cry there, of ‘Montjoie!’

Might well recall their days of service.

They rode on, God on high, with such pride,

Spurring on their mounts, to gather speed!

They rode to the attack, to strike, what else?

While the Saracens, as yet, showed unafraid.

The Franks and pagans, then, met together.

Verses 93-94: Roland and Oliver slay two of the Saracen champions

Marsilius’ nephew, whose name was Aelroth,

First of them all, rode out before the ranks,

Speaking ill of the Franks, as he went forth:

‘Come you Frankish villains, joust with us.

He’s betrayed you that ought to guard you.

Mad is the King who left you in this pass.

So shall fair France’s brave renown be lost;

Charlemagne’s right arm be torn from him.’

On hearing this, what anger Roland felt!

He pricked his spurs, driving on his steed;

He sought, at once, to strike with all his force,

The other’s shield he broke, split the hauberk,

Sliced his belly, and shattered bone beneath,

The whole spine he severed, broke his back,

Hurling soul from the body, with his lance.

He brandished the corpse, pinned hard, on high,

And, with the hilt, he flung it from its steed:

He had broken this Aeroth’s neck in two,

Nor quit the corpse, they say, till he’d cried:

‘Begone, villain! Charlemagne is not mad!

He has no love of treachery, nor works it.

Proud was his deed, in granting us our post,

Fair France’s brave renown shall ne’er be lost.

Strike on, you Franks! Ours, the mightier blows.

We are in the right, these wretches in the wrong!’

A duke came forth, his name was Falsaron,

And he was brother to King Marsilius.

He held the realms of Datliun and Balbiun;

No worse a villain between earth and sky.

The space between his eyes was so broad

It measured half a foot, at least, in width.

Grief it brought to see his nephew slain.

Through the ranks he now came, riding,

While voicing the pagan war-cry, aloud,

Sounding his opposition to the Franks:

‘The honour of fair France shall be lost!’

Now Oliver heard this, and waxed furious,

With his golden spurs, he pricked his steed,

And moved to strike, as befitted a baron.

He shattered his foe’s shield, pierced his hauberk,

And drove his lance, pennon deep, into the flesh,

Flinging Falsaron, dead, from the saddle.

He gazed at the villain, lying on the ground,

And cried aloud, rightly, in proud words;

‘I’ve cleansed your mouth, now, of menaces.

Strike on, you Franks! Readily, we’ll conquer!’

‘Montjoie!’ he shouted, Charlemagne’s war-cry.

Verses 95-104: The rest are slain, except for Margariz

From the enemy ranks came King Corsalis,

The barbarian lord of a foreign country.

He called aloud to the other Saracens:

‘Well it is we join battle here together,

For there are but few Franks in the field.

Most vile those that present themselves,

And none has succour from Charlemagne.

This is the day they shall meet their death.’

Archbishop Turpin heard the monarch’s boast;

No living man was he so disposed to hate.

He pricked his steed with his golden spurs,

And, moved by true virtue, rode to the attack,

Broke the foe’s shield, pierced the hauberk,

Thrusting his lance through the king’s body,

Pinning it so well, he brandished the corpse,

Then flung it from his lance to the ground.

Gazing at the villain, lain dead in the dust,

He lingered there, and spoke thus, they say:

‘Vile pagan, all can see now that you lied!

In Charlemagne, my lord, dwells our safety.

Not one Frank here has thoughts of fleeing.

And all your company will, here, remain;

Such are my tidings, for death you’ll suffer.

Strike on, we Franks! And no surrender!

Thanks be to God, the first attack is ours!’

‘Montjoie!’ he cried, for all the field to hear.

Gerins then struck Malprimis de Brigant,

Whose stout shield offered scant defence,

Shattering the boss, wrought from crystal,

As one half flew downwards to the ground.

His blow tore through hauberk to the flesh.

On his good lance, he caught the dying man,

Then from the shaft the pagan’s body slid,

While, swiftly, Satan carried off his soul.

Geres, his comrade, dealt with Balaguet,

Broke his shield, and burst his hauberk,

Such that the lance drove deep into his guts.

So tightly he’d pinned him through the body,

He flung him from his lance to the field.

Cried Oliver: ‘Right noble is this fight.’

Duke Sansun struck the emir, Moriane.

He broke his shield, gold-flower-embossed,

While the hauberk provided scant defence,

Sliced through his heart, lungs, and entrails,

And flung him down dead, for good or ill.

Cried Turpin: ‘Tis a baron’s thrust, indeed.’

Now, Anseis let his steed leap ahead,

And charged at Turgis of Turteluse,

Shattered his shield below its golden boss,

And pierced the hauberk’s double layer.

His lance-tip pierced his enemy, as well,

Such that the steel blade emerged behind.

Then he flung the dying man to the field.

Cried Roland: ‘Right skilful was that blow!’

Next, Engeliers the Gascon, of Burdele,

Spurred on his charger, letting fall the reins,

And moved to strike Escremiz of Valterne,

Breaking his chin-guard which shattered,

And tearing the ventail from his hauberk.

Between the arm-pits he pierced his chest,

And flung his foe, dead, from the saddle;

Shouting: ‘Thus, I send you to perdition!’

Then Otes struck the pagan Esturganz.

Upon the shield, upon its leathern band,

Slicing through the white and the crimson,

Piercing the thick layers of his hauberk,

Thrusting his lance right through the body,

And flung him dead, as his steed passed by.

Then he cried: ‘No safety for you, now!’

And Berengers, then, charged Estramariz.

He broke the shield, and split the hauberk.

His sharp lance pierced the man’s body;

Dead he fell, seen by a thousand Saracens.

Of their twelve champions, ten were dead.

The two foes who, as yet, remained alive,

Were Chernubles, and Count Margariz.

Margariz was a most courageous knight.

Handsome and strong, swift and nimble;

He spurred his steed to strike at Oliver

Whose shield he broke, lancing its gold buckle.

Along his ribs, slid the pagan’s spear-point;

God spared Oliver, his body yet unpierced.

The shaft broke, while Oliver kept his seat;

The other turned away; he stopped for none,

Sounding a trumpet, then, to rally his men.

Wondrous the fight engaged in now by all.

Count Roland, ignoring his own safety,

Struck with his lance, while the shaft endured.

After fifteen blows, it broke, and was lost.

Then he drew Durendal; with naked blade,

Spurring his steed, to strike at Chernubles.

Broke the helm, on which bright garnets shone,

Sliced the cap, and sheared the hair below,

Cut through the forehead, between the eyes,

The bright hauberk, of close-woven mail,

Down through the body, likewise, to the groin,

Reaching the saddle tooled with beaten gold.

By the steed below arrested but a moment,

The blade cut its spine, splitting it in two,

And horse and man lay dead, upon the field.

Then Roland cried: ‘A false move, villain!

You shall win no help now from Mahomet.

By such as you the field shall not be gained.’

The End of ‘La Chanson de Roland: Part II’