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La Chanson de Roland (The Song of Roland)

Part IV: The Death of Roland

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

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

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

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Contents

Verses 151-153: Roland sways in the saddle but recovers

Roland, on seeing that his friend had died,

Who, face down, had bitten the earth beneath,

Most sweetly, he began this sad lament:

‘Dear companion, thus is your valour lost!

We have lived side by side so many years,

Nor aught ill has been, twixt you and me.

Now you are dead, now but grief I know!’

With these words the count swayed again,

Full faint in the saddle, as he sat Veillantif,

Kept upright by his stirrups wrought of gold,

Nor could he fall, whichever way he leaned.

When the Count was in his senses once more,

And recovered from the faintness he’d felt,

Great indeed was the slaughter he viewed.

Dead were the Franks, all of them were lost,

Save the archbishop, and Gualters de Hum

Who, descending from the mountain-side,

Had fought fiercely gainst the men of Spain.

His own were dead, slain by the Saracens,

And whether or no he wished, he now fled,

Calling to Roland to aid him in his plight:

‘Noble count, valiant soul, where are you?

For whenever I’m with you, I feel no fear.

Gualters is here, that conquered Maelgut;

Nephew was I to old white-haired Droün.

My courage you ever thought most high.

My lance is broken, and pierced my shield,

Shattered my hauberk, and shorn of mail,

For eight times has a spear-thrust struck me.

Now am I close to death, yet buy it dearly.’

Roland heard his cry and, swiftly responding,

Spurred his horse on, fiercely, towards him.

Grief-filled, Roland was driven to anger,

And galloped into the press striking fiercely.

Twenty, of the Saracen foe, he left for dead,

And Gualters six, Archbishop Turpin five.

Cried the pagans: ‘Bold wretches are these!

Take care, my lords, that they flee not, alive!

A wretch is he that fails to counter them,

A recreant the man that grants them safety.’

So recommenced the mighty hue and cry,

As from every side they rode to the attack.

Verses 154-155: Gualters is slain, Turpin badly wounded

Count Roland now played the noble knight,

Gualters de Hum proved a goodly warrior,

While Archbishop Turpin showed his skill;

None of them falling far behind his friends.

Among the press of pagan foes they struck,

A thousand Saracens fighting now on foot,

And upon horseback forty thousand men.

Daring not to approach too close, I deem,

Their lances and spears they hurled instead,

Arrows, and barbs, and darts, and javelins.

At the first flight, brave Gualters was slain,

Turpin of Reims’ shield was pierced through,

His helmet cracked, and his head wounded,

His hauberk all torn, and shorn of its mail.

Four spear-wounds he bore upon his body,

While, beneath him, his war-horse fell dead.

Great grief it was when Turpin was unseated.

Then Turpin of Reims, feeling he must die

Of the four spear-wounds through his flesh,

Nonetheless, rose right swiftly to his feet,

And, seeking Roland, he sped towards him,

Uttering this cry: ‘I am not conquered yet!

A brave man ne’er yields while life remains.’

He drew Almace, his blade of glowing steel,

And struck a good thousand blows and more,

Granting no quarter, as Charlemagne declared,

Who found him later, midst four hundred foes,

Some wounded, and some struck dead amain.

So, the tale, and so says one that was there,

The brave Saint Gilles, of God-given virtue,

That wrought the charter of Laon minster.

He knows little that has not heard that same.

Verses 156-157: Roland blows his horn once more

Count Roland had fought the fight most nobly,

But now his body was all drenched in sweat.

His flesh was hot as coals, his head pained him.

He’d strained to sound his war-horn so loudly.

Longing to know if Charlemagne would come,

He blew the ivory horn again, though feebly.

The emperor heard, and halted where he was:

‘My lords’ he said ‘great trouble is upon us,

For Roland, my nephew, it seems, is fading.

I hear his war-horn yet the cry barely carries.

He that would be in time, ride swiftly now,

And have every trumpet blown behind you!’

Sixty thousand blared out at their command.

The mountains rang, and the valleys echoed.

The pagans heard and recognised the import,

And cried, as one: ‘Charlemagne approaches!’

‘The emperor,’ they cried, ‘rides forth to battle;

Tis the sound of Frankish trumpets that we hear!

Meet the emperor and great losses we’ll sustain;

For while Roland lives, he will renew the war,

And the land of Spain we’ll lose, that’s ours.’

Four hundred then assembled, helms gleaming,

The best of those that fought amidst their ranks.

And made a bold and fierce attack on Roland,

Who’d much to do in seeking to withstand them.

Verses 158-161: Roland and Archbishop Turpin make their stand

Roland, when he saw the Saracens approach,

Seemed, visibly, to wax stronger and fiercer!

While he had breath, he’d ne’er yield his life.

He sat his mount, the steed named Veillantif,

And pricked him hard with his golden spurs.

Into their ranks he plunged to meet them there,

And by his side, yet, rode Archbishop Turpin.

The pagans cried to each other: ‘Friends, flee!

Those are the trumpets of the Franks we hear,

Charlemagne approaches, their powerful king!’

Count Roland had no love at all for cowards,

Nor the arrogant, nor those with evil hearts,

Nor any knight that was not brave and loyal.

He called aloud now to Archbishop Turpin:

‘Sir, I am mounted, while you fight on foot.

For love of you, here shall I make my stand.

Together, we shall receive the good and ill;

I’ll quit not your side for any mortal man.

We’ll render these Saracens all they give,

For Durendal will strike the harsher blow.’

Said Turpin: ‘Vile is he that does not so;

Charlemagne comes, and will avenge us.’

The pagans cried: ‘Ill, the day we were born;

For a fateful day it is that’s dawned for us!

Now we have lost our masters and our peers,

And Charlemagne comes, with his brave host.

We hear the trumpets of the Franks blaring,

Great the noise of their war-cry: “Montjoie!”

Count Roland is a knight of such fierce pride

By no one man will such as he be conquered.

Aim towards him, and slay him on the spot!’

Fierce darts and arrows they let loose, indeed.

Lances, spears, and many a feathered shaft

Shattered, and penetrated, Roland’s shield,

And tore the mail from the Count’s hauberk.

Yet not one of their blows pierced his flesh,

Though Veillantif was wounded thirty times,

And the horse fell dead beneath his master.

The pagans fled, and left the Count alone;

Yet Roland stood upon his feet once more.

The pagans fled, fearful, and full of anger;

Back towards Spain they made their way,

Roland lacking the means to give chase,

Since Veillantif, his brave steed, lay dead.

He, like it or not, was forced to go afoot,

Yet still brought aid to Archbishop, Turpin.

He unlaced the gold helm from Turpin’s head,

Removed the white hauberk from his body,

Cut its folds in strips, bound up his wounds,

Setting the cloth about his limbs and chest,

And then clasped him quietly to his heart;

And upon the green grass laid him, gently.

Most sweetly Roland then made this request:

‘Ah, noble knight, grant me now your leave;

Our comrades, men whom we held so dear,

Are all dead, yet we cannot leave them lie;

I will go seek for them, and bear them here,

Set their bodies down in ranks before you.’

Said the Archbishop: ‘Go then, and return.

Thanks be to God, the field’s yours, and mine!’

Verses 162-164: The Saracens having fled, Roland searches for his friends

So, Roland turned, and trod the field alone,

Searching all the hillsides and ravines.

There he found Gerins, and Gerers

And his comrade, Otes, and Berengers,

And there he found Anseis and Sansun,

And then Gerart the old, of Rossillon;

One by one he bore away those barons,

Bringing them to the archbishop’s side,

And laying them in ranks before his eyes.

The archbishop could not help but weep,

And lifted high his hand, in benediction;

Then he said: ‘Ill, was your fate, my lords!

Now the Lord above, He has your souls,

Sets you among the flowers in paradise!

Now my own death-pains are upon me;

Nor shall I live to greet our Emperor.’

Roland turned, and searched the field alone,

And, in a while, found Oliver, his friend.

Clasping his body tight against his chest,

He returned once more to the archbishop,

And laid him on a shield next the others.

The archbishop absolved and blessed him,

Whereupon his grief and pity waxed anew.

Then said Roland: ‘Fair comrade, Oliver,

You were the son of good Count Reinier,

Who held the marches nigh Val de Runers;

Ne’er has any land known a better knight

For shattering lances, breaking bucklers,

Shearing the mail from many a hauberk,

Conquering, and dismaying, the proud,

Leading men, and giving good counsel,

Overcoming, and confounding, the vile.’

As Roland contemplated his dead peers,

And Oliver, whom he had dearly loved,

He grew most tender, and he shed a tear.

The colour drained further from his face,

He could scarce stand, so great his grief,

And whether he would or no, he fainted.

Said the archbishop: ‘Ill-fated, brave lord!’

Verses 165-167: The death of Archbishop Turpin

When the archbishop saw him in a faint,

Ne’er had he felt so great a weight of woe.

He stretched his hand out to the ivory horn,

For through Roncesvalles a river flowed,

And he would bear its water to the Count.

Step by step, he stumbled o’er the ground,

So weak was he, that he could go no further,

Lacking strength now from loss of blood;

Ere he’d crossed an acre of the battlefield,

His heart failed him, and he fell full length,

And there the pangs of death overcame him.

Count Roland recovered from his faintness,

And rose to his feet, great was his sorrow,

As he gazed at the hillsides and the vale;

And on the grass, beyond his companions,

He saw him lying there, that noble baron

The archbishop, who had fought in God’s name.

He spoke his sins aloud, and gazed on high,

Raised his conjoined hands to the heavens,

And prayed to God to grant the man paradise.

Dead was Turpin, Charlemagne’s warrior,

In mighty battles, and many a fine sermon,

Ever a champion against the pagan hosts.

‘God grant him,’ he prayed, ‘His blessing now!’

Count Roland gazed upon the dead archbishop

Viewed his entrails spilling from his body,

And saw the brains leaking from his brow.

Folding the baron’s arms across his chest,

He crossed the two hands, so white and fine,

And voiced his grief, as was the custom then:

‘To celestial glory I hereby commend you,

Noble lord, and knight, so great in manner;

Never a man served Him more willingly,

Since the apostles; ne’er did a prophet so

Maintain the creed, and draw men to him.

Now may his soul know no suffering!

May the gates of Paradise be open wide!’

Verses 168-170: Roland withstands a last attack, and shatters his war-horn

Roland felt that death was drawing close,

As if his brains were seeping from his ears.

He prayed to God to summon up his friends,

And that the angel Gabriel be at his side.

He took the ivory horn, forever blameless,

And, grasping Durendal in the other hand,

Crossed a bare place facing towards Spain,

As wide as a cross-bow’s quarrel might fly,

And, climbing the cliff, underneath a tree,

He saw four terraces of gleaming stone.

There he lay down upon a patch of turf,

Fainting again, and feeling death was near.

High were the mountains and tall the trees,

About those terraces of gleaming stone;

There lay Roland, faint, upon the grass.

A Saracen had watched him all this while,

Who, feigning death, lay among the dead,

His face and body all stained with blood.

He rose to his feet, and drew near Roland.

Strong and fierce, he was full of courage,

The mortal hate within fuelled by his pride.

He clutched Roland’s body, then his sword.

‘Charlemagne’s nephew lies here!’ he cried,

‘To Arabia I shall bear this blade of his.’

Yet, as he unsheathed it, the Count awoke.

He felt the sword drawn from its sheath,

Opened his eyes, and addressed the man:

‘I see that you are no warrior of ours!’

And, gripping the war-horn, yet his own,

Struck at his enemy’s gold-studded helm,

Shattering the steel, the bones of the skull,

And driving the eyeballs from their sockets,

The pagan tumbling dead, before his feet.

‘Wretch, you proved over-bold,’ he cried,

‘Seizing my sword, careless of the cost!

Had any man seen, a fool he’d name you.

Now I have shattered my war-horn, too,

The crystal and gold it bore all scattered.’

Verses 171-173: He tries to shatter his sword, Durendal

Then Count Roland’s sight seemed to dim;

Exerting his remaining strength, he rose,

The remaining colour draining from his face,

Struck with his sword, a boulder before him,

And dealt ten blows, in his rage and sorrow;

The steel rang out, but did not bend or break.

The Count cried: ‘Mother of God, aid me!

Ah, good Durendal, ill must be your fate!

No need have I now for you; my life is lost.

Many a battle we have gained in the field,

In many a broad land have we two fought

That white-bearded Charlemagne holds now!

No man has owned you that e’er fled another!

Long has a brave man held you in his grasp;

Ne’er shall sovereign France behold your like.’

Roland struck the gleaming stone again.

The steel rang out, but did not bend or break.

When he found it could not be shattered,

He began to complain to himself, aloud:

‘Ah, Durendal, you shine so bright and fair,

Reflecting these fiery rays of the sun!

Charlemagne was in the Vale of Morian,

When God, in the heavens, bade an angel

Carry you to a count and captain there;

That great and noble king girt it upon me.

With you, I won him Brittany and Anjou,

Then, with you, won Poitou, and Maine.

With you, I won him Normandy the free,

Then, with you, Provençe and Aquitaine,

Lombardy, and the whole of Romagna.

And then I won Bavaria, and Flanders,

And fair Burgundy, and Apulia entire.

Constantinople now pays him homage;

While Saxony does all as he commands.

With you, I won Scotland, Wales, Ireland,

England also, wherein he has a dwelling;

Such are the lands that I’ve won, with you,

For Charlemagne, whose beard is white!

Sorrow weighs upon me, now, my blade.

I’d rather die than leave you midst pagans.

Our Father on high, let not France be shamed!’

Roland struck the gleaming stone again,

Breaking off more of it than I can say.

The steel rang out, but did not bend or break.

Up to the skies it recoiled from the blow.

When he found it could not be shattered,

Quietly he complained, to himself again:

‘Ah, Durendal, most fair, and most holy!

For many a relic’s within your hilt inset.

Saint Peter’s tooth, the blood of Saint Basil,

With a lock of hair of my lord Saint Denis,

And a piece of the robe Mother Mary wore.

Tis wrong that pagan hand should hold you,

For Christian men alone you should serve.

No man should grip you that is a coward!

Many the lands that I have won, with you,

For Charlemagne, whose beard is white,

And rendered my king both rich and proud.’

Verses 174-176: The death of Roland

Count Roland felt that death was upon him,

Descending now from his head to his chest.

Beneath a pine, he stumbled then in haste,

And lay there prone upon the grassy turf,

His sword and shattered horn beneath him.

He turned his head towards the pagan dead,

Doing so that Charlemagne might truly say,

And all that stood there of the Frankish host:

‘Ah, noble count, victory was his in death.’

He confessed his sins, then, repeatedly,

And called on God, offering up his gauntlet.

Count Roland felt now that his life was done.

Gazing at Spain, he lay, on that high cliff,

And with his right hand he struck his breast:

‘Mea Culpa, Lord; cleanse me of my sins,

Through your virtue, my sins great and small,

All I’ve committed, since the day I was born

Until this day, when this life is done with!’

And he held aloft his gauntlet as he spoke,

Hoping an angel might descend from on high.

Count Roland lay there, beneath the pine,

Turning his gaze towards the land of Spain,

While memories of the past filled his mind,

Of the many lands that he had conquered,

Of fair France, and those of his noble line,

Of Charlemagne, his lord who’d raised him,

And, doing so, could not but weep and sigh.

But his own self, he had not yet forgotten.

He spoke his sins, and asked God’s mercy:

‘True Father, in whom no falsehood lies,

You that raised Lazarus from the dead,

And rescued Daniel from the lions’ den,

Guard my soul now from every peril,

Born of the sins I have wrought in life!’

He offered his right gauntlet to the air,

And Saint Gabriel took it from his hand.

Over his right arm his head he bowed,

Joined his hands, and so his life ended.

God sent to Earth His angel Cherubim,

With Saint Michael of Peril; to his side

Descended there, as well, Saint Gabriel.

They bore the Count’s soul to paradise.

Verses 177-180: Charlemagne takes revenge on the pagan army

Roland lay dead; God had his soul in heaven.

The emperor to Roncesvalles now came.

There was not a place or path anywhere,

Not a patch of soil, not a foot of ground,

Upon which no dead Frank, or pagan lay.

Charlemagne cried: ‘Nephew, where are you?

Where the archbishop and Count Oliver?

Where Gerins, and his friend brave Gerers?

And Otes, and the good Count Berengers,

And Yvoeries and Ivon, so dear to me?

What’s become of the Gascon, Engeliers,

Sansun the duke, and Anseis the bold?

Where’s old Gerart of Rossillon, where

The dozen peers that I left behind me?’

To what avail, for no man there replied.

‘Lord!’ cried the king, ‘now am I dismayed

That I was not here, to command the fight!’

And he tore at his beard fiercely, in anger,

While all the noble knights about him wept.

Twenty thousand were shaken at the news;

The fierce Duke Neimes was moved to pity.

Not a knight or baron present but wept,

Feeling the deepest pity and grave sorrow.

For sons, brothers, nephews they grieved,

And for their friends, and their liege lords,

While many slumped to the ground below.

Whereupon Duke Neimes acted wisely,

And said to the emperor, speaking first:

‘Before us, and not two leagues away,

See, a cloud of dust spurts from the road;

The pagans are there, and a mighty host,

Ride on, therefore! Avenge this slaughter!’

‘Lord,’ cried Charlemagne, ‘they’re far already!

Regain for me now my realm, and honour;

They’ve stolen from me fair France’s flower.’

The king summoned Gebuin and Otun,

And Tedbalt of Reims, and Count Milun:

‘Guard this field, these hills, this vale,

Let the dead remain, all just as they lie,

Let no lion, or other fierce creature, near,

Nor let any squire or groom, be present.

I forbid any man to approach this ground,

Till I, if God wills it, return once more.’

They replied nobly, showing their love:

‘True emperor, dear Sire, so will we do.’

And a thousand knights he left with them.

The emperor had all the trumpets sounded.

And galloped forth with his mighty host.

The Franks, as one, started on their chase,

Pursuing those of Spain as they departed.

When the king saw that evening was nigh,

He dismounted in a grass-green meadow,

And, kneeling there, prayed to God above,

That the sun might yet linger in its course,

And night be delayed, the day prolonged.

And then an angel seemed to speak to him,

And without pausing, issued this command:

‘Ride on, King Charlemagne, you need no light.

The flower of France, as God knows, is dead;

Take your revenge upon those sinful folk.’

At those bold words, the emperor remounted.

God granted Charlemagne a wondrous thing:

For the sun appeared to linger in one place.

The pagans fled, the Franks pursued swiftly,

Through the Vale of Shadow, that lay there,

And chased the pagans towards Zaragoza,

Dealing heavy blows against their rearguard,

And barring all the side-roads and the paths.

The river Ebro lay before the pagans’ eyes,

Deep it was, its flow was wondrous strong;

No barge they found nor any kind of boat.

Some called upon their god, on Termagant,

And plunged in, but found no safety there,

Many, dragged down by their heavy armour,

Drowning swiftly in the river’s onward flow,

While the rest were thrust by it downstream.

A deal of water the most fortunate yet drank,

Till all but a few found there a watery grave.

The Franks cried: ‘Ill, Roland, was your fate!’

Verses 181-184: Charlemagne pitches camp by the Ebro

Once Charlemagne had viewed the pagan dead,

Some slain, while the greater part had drowned,

After his knights had gathered up the spoils,

That noble king descended from his charger,

Knelt on the ground, and gave thanks to God.

When he rose to his feet, the sun was setting.

Said the emperor: ‘Tis time to pitch our tents;

Tis too late, I deem, to regain Roncesvalles,

For our horses are worn out, and foundered:

Unsaddle them, now, remove their bridles,

And let them graze the grass in these fields.

The Franks replied: ‘Sire, you counsel well.’

The emperor pitched his encampment there;

The Franks dismounted in the wilderness,

Took the saddles from their horses’ backs,

Unstrapped the gold bridles from their heads,

And let them roam among the grassy places.

No better service could they render them.

The weariest men then slept on the ground,

And none kept watch as sentinels that night.

Charlemagne had lain down in the meadow,

His mighty lance planted beside his head;

On such a night he would not go unarmed.

He wore his white embroidered hauberk,

His helmet, laced, studded o’er with gold,

Girt with Joyeuse, that was his peerless sword,

That changed its colour thirty times a day.

All know of, and have spoken of, that lance

By which Our Lord was wounded on the Cross:

Charlemagne, by God’s grace, held its blade,

Which he had ordered set in his sword’s hilt.

The sword itself was then named Joyeuse,

As witness to the honour, and its sanctity.

The barons of France are pledged to recall it,

Thus ‘Montjoie,’ is their war-cry in battle,

Such that no army e’er can overcome them.

Clear was the night, brightly shone the moon.

Charlemagne lay down, mourning Roland,

While thoughts of Oliver weighed upon him,

And of all the Twelve peers, all the Franks,

Those blood-stained dead, left at Roncesvalles.

He could not help but weep, and be wrathful,

Praying that their souls be in God’s keeping.

The king was weary, for his grief was great.

Thus he fell asleep, too mournful to do more.

About the meadows slept the Frankish army;

And not one mount of theirs was on its feet,

The steeds that grazed, they did so lying down.

He's a wise man that understands their plight.

Verses 185-186: Charlemagne’s two dreams

Charlemagne slept, like one worn out by toil.

The Lord sent Saint Gabriel down to him,

Commanding him to guard the emperor,

And the angel stood all night at his head.

In a vision the angel addressed him, speaking

Of a battle that would be fought against him,

And in signifying so, showed all troubled.

For Charlemagne felt he gazed on high,

And beheld fierce gales, and thunderstorms,

Hail, tornadoes, and horrendous tempests.

Flashes of fire, and flame appeared to him,

Swift lightning-bolts that struck his people,

Scorching their lances of ash and apple-wood,

And their shields, even to their gilded bosses,

Splitting the shafts of the sharpened spears,

Crushing their hauberks, and helms of steel.

He saw his knights all mightily distressed,

Bears and leopards ready to consume them;

Serpents and wyverns, dragons and demons,

And of gryphons more than thirty thousand,

And not one but set upon some Frank of his.

The Franks called out: ‘Aid us, Charlemagne!’

Which stirred the king to grief and pity.

He wished to do so, but was impeded,

For, from a wood, came a mighty lion,

Fierce, proud, and vicious in appearance,

That sought him out, and leapt upon him.

Each gripped the other tight in his arms,

Yet he knew not which fell or conquered,

For the emperor dreamt no more, but slept.

Then, later on, there came a second vision.

He was in France, at Aix, upon a terrace,

And he held a bear by two long chains;

Out of the Forest of Ardennes came thirty,

And each bear spoke, as a man can speak:

Saying: ‘Sire, render this one to us again!

It is not right he should remain with you,

For he is of our kin, and we must aid him.’

Then a bear-hound shot from his palace,

And attacked the mightiest of the bears,

On the green grass, far beyond the others.

The king marvelled at the wondrous fight,

Yet he knew not which fell, or conquered,

For God’s angel chose to reveal no more.

Charlemagne slept on, till the dawn of day.

Verses 187-188: Marsilius retreats to Zaragoza

King Marsilius was in flight to Zaragoza.

Neath an olive he dismounted, in the shade;

He laid aside his sword, helm and hauberk,

And lay down, on the green grass, heavily.

His right hand had been wholly shorn away;

He’d shed such blood, he fainted with pain.

Before him his wife, Queen Bramimunde,

Wept and wailed, in the depths of sorrow.

About him stood full twenty thousand men,

Cursing Charlemagne, and France the fair.

Apollo’s statue they surrounded, en masse,

Threatening, shouting, loud in disapproval:

‘Why bring such shame upon us, vile god?

Here is our king; why must you confound him?

To those who serve you well, you deal evil!’

They downed the statue’s sceptre and crown,

And hung it by the arms from a high column,

Then shattered the idol beneath their feet,

Striking it hard with heavy sticks and cudgels.

They robbed Termagant of his bright ruby,

Throwing an effigy of Mahomet in a ditch,

For the dogs and swine to devour and foul.

When Marsilius recovered from his faintness,

He had himself borne to a vaulted chamber,

Whose walls were all painted and inscribed.

Bramimunde, his queen, wept for him there,

Tearing her hair, crying her wretchedness.

These words she spoke out, loud and clear:

‘Ah! Fair Zaragoza, robbed thus you’ll be

Of the noble king that had you in keeping!

Our god has allowed great mischief here,

Who in battle, in the morn, has failed us.

Our generals will reveal mere cowardice,

If they fight not against that hardy people,

So fierce that they’re careless of their lives.

Their emperor, he of the whitened beard,

Commands brave men, and proves stubborn.

Such that he’ll never flee the battlefield.

A great grief it is that none has slain him!’

Verses 189-193: The advent of Baligant and his army

Now, Charlemagne, displaying his power,

Had campaigned for seven years in Spain,

And taken many a castle and many a city,

Much to King Marsilius’ sore displeasure;

At the start, the king had sent a missive,

To Babylon, to summon Lord Baligant;

He was an admiral, full old in antiquity,

Who’d outlived both Homer and Virgil.

He bade him bring succour to Zaragoza.

Should he not, the king would quit his creed,

Abjuring the idols whom he’d worshipped,

Receive the creed then of the Christian foe,

And be reconciled to their noble emperor.

Baligant, being far off, was much delayed.

But gathered his army from forty realms,

And then made ready a vast fleet of vessels,

Barges, skiffs, great warships, and galleys.

In a bay, upon the coast, near Alexandria,

He there assembled his whole fighting fleet.

This was on the first summer’s-day in May,

And, with his whole force, he set out to sea.

Great was the number of those combatants;

Swiftly they sailed, skilled their navigation.

They set, in the yards, and at their mast-heads,

Many a flame, many a lamp dispersing light,

And so at night such was the light they shed

The sea was well-nigh as visible as by day,

And so, as they attained the land of Spain,

The countryside all about was brightly lit.

The news of their coming reached Marsilius.

That pagan host delayed for scarce a moment,

For they left the saltwater, then, for the fresh;

And, leaving Marbrose, and Marbrise behind,

That whole army, sailed upriver, on the Ebro.

Many a flame they had there, many a lamp,

That all night long gave them ample light;

And on the morrow they came to Zaragoza.

Clear was the sky, and the sun was bright,

When the admiral disembarked his barge,

And Espaneliz issued forth beside him,

While seventeen kings followed on behind,

With I know not how many dukes and counts.

Beneath a laurel that grew amidst a field,

On the grass they spread a white silk mat,

And set upon it an ivory folding-chair.

Baligant, the pagan, seated himself there,

And all the rest stood ranged about him.

That lord of them all was the first to speak:

‘Hearken to me, you knights, brave and free!

Charlemagne, the emperor of the Franks,

Shall not eat, save it be at my command.

Throughout Spain a mighty war he’s waged,

But I will go seek him now, in fair France,

Nor will cease to do so while I yet live;

I’d rather die, and lose my claim on life.’

With his right gauntlet his knee he struck.

What he had said he now was bound to do;

Nor would he fail, for all the gold on earth,

To seek out Aix, and Charlemagne’s court:

His men cheered, such was their counsel too.

Then he summoned two of his bold knights,

One was Clarifan, and Clarïen the other:

‘You two are the sons of king Maltraïen,

Who once bore my messages, and gladly.

I command you to journey to Zaragoza.

There announce, to Marsilius, in my name,

That I am here to help against the Franks.

And if I find them, great will be the battle.

Give him this glove, gold-embroidered,

And ask him to wear it on his right hand.

Take this wand of office, of purest gold,

And bid the king come, to pay me homage.

To France I go, to war with Charlemagne.

Save he kneels at my feet, and cries mercy,

And rencounces the Christian creed forever,

I’ll snatch the crown from his aged head.’

The pagans cried as one: ‘Sire, well said!’

Verses 194-198: Baligant sends his envoys to Marsilius

Cried Baligant: ‘Now, gallop forth, my barons!

One grip the wand, the other grasp the glove!’

They answered: ‘Dear Sire, that we shall do!’

They rode out, and quickly reached Zaragoza.

Passed its ten gates, crossing its four bridges,

And entered the streets, amidst its citizens.

As they approached the citadel, on high,

They heard a great noise from the palace,

Which was surrounded by many pagans,

Weeping and groaning, filled full of woe,

Cursing their gods, Mahound, Termagant,

And Apollo, who’d failed to bring them aid.

Said each to each: ‘What can we do now;

Now vile confusion has overcome us so?

We’ve lost the strength of King Marsilius,

Whose hand bold Roland severed yesterday;

We’ve lost his son too, Jursaleu the Blond,

And all of Spain lies widowed and bereft.’

The envoys both dismounted on the terrace.

They left their mounts beneath an olive tree,

Two Saracen lads seizing them by the reins.

The envoys wrapped their cloaks around them

And climbed the great stairway to the palace.

They entered, and found the vaulted chamber

Where Marsilius was, and him they greeted.

‘May Mahomet, who has us in his keeping,

And Termagant, and our true lord Apollo,

Preserve the king, and e’er defend the queen!’

Says Bramimunde: ‘Mere foolishness I hear!

Those gods of ours are full of cowardice.

In Roncesvalles they wrought an evil deed;

They left our warriors dead upon the field,

And failed my lord too, in his hour of need,

For his right hand was severed in the battle,

By that rich Frankish knight, Count Roland.

Charlemagne will rule the whole of Spain.

What will become of me, a woeful wretch?

Alas! That I have none that will slay me!’

Said Clarien: ‘Come, speak not so, my lady!

We are pagan envoys of Lord Baligant;

Who brings aid and protection to your lord.

He sends a wand of office, and his glove.

We have four thousand boats on the Ebro,

Barges, skiffs; with four thousand galleys,

Countless vessels more, of various kinds.

Our admiral is both powerful and wealthy.

And goes to seek Charlemagne in France.

To prove him a coward there, or slay him!’

Said the queen: ‘An ill-considered task!

The Franks are far closer than you think;

Charlemagne has warred here seven years,

The emperor’s a courageous combatant,

One who’d rather die than quit the field;

And all other kings he considers children.

King Charlemagne’s afraid of none alive.’

‘Cease such talk! cried Marsilius the king:

To the envoys he said: ‘Pray, speak to me.

You see that I am destined soon to die,

And no son now or daughter will inherit.

One son I had, that yesterday was slain,

Ask your lord to come, and see me here.

The admiral has the right to rule in Spain;

I’ll yield my claim to the realm, if he will,

And he shall defend her from the Franks!

I’ve advice to give regarding Charlemagne,

For within a month he may be defeated.

Bear to your lord the keys of Zaragoza,

And let him go no further, if he trusts me.’

They answered: ‘Sire, so he does, indeed.’

Marsilius said: ‘The emperor Charlemagne

Has slain my men and laid waste the land,

Shattered their walls, and sacked my cities;

And he camps this night beside the Ebro;

I account him scarcely seven leagues away.

Bid the admiral lead his host towards me,

And tell him he may seek his battle here.’

Then, he gave them the keys of Zaragoza.

The messengers bowed low before the king,

Took their leave so, and went on their way.

Verses 199-203: They return, and Baligant rides to Zaragoza

The messengers, mounting their swift steeds,

Issued forth, without delay, from the city,

And, concerned, went to seek the admiral,

To whom they bore the keys of Zaragoza.

Said Lord Baligant: ‘What have you learnt?

Where is Marsilius whom I summoned?

Clarien replied: ‘He’s destined, Sire, for death.

The emperor left the pass but yesterday,

Wishing to be on the road to fair France,

Setting a rearguard, to maintain his safety.

Count Roland, his nephew, there remained,

With Oliver, the rest of the Twelve Peers,

And twenty thousand Franks in full armour.

Marsilius fought against them most bravely;

He and Roland jousted there upon the field.

The Count’s blade, Durendal, dealt a blow

That severed the right hand from his body.

Marsilius’ son, so dear to him, was slain,

And full many of the barons whom he led.

With no strength to fight longer, he fled,

And the emperor chased him to his city.

The king begs you to bring him succour.

And yields to you all the realm of Spain.’

Baligant began to think on this, deeply,

Bowed down by a mighty weight of woe.

‘My lord Admiral,’ Clarien then continued,

‘At Roncesvalles indeed was that day’s battle.

There the Count lies dead, with him Oliver,

Dead the Twelve Peers, dear to Charlemagne;

Of those Franks twenty thousand perished.

King Marsilius has lost his right hand there,

The emperor has chased him from the field.

Throughout this land scarce a warrior is left,

Nigh all were slain, or drowned in the Ebro.

Charlemagne has camped beside the river,

Into this land so far has he now advanced;

Yet, if you will it, you can bring him woe!’

Baligant regarded him, and waxed proud,

He felt joyful, at ease, filled with courage;

And leapt up from the stool on which he sat,

Calling out: ‘Barons, linger here no more;

Leave the vessels, mount, and gallop forth!

If old Charlemagne neglects to flee in time,

Then at least Marsilius shall be avenged;

An emperor’s head shall pay for that hand!’

The pagans from Araby soon disembarked,

And, mounted their horses, and their mules,

Ready to gallop forth, without more ado.

The admiral who ruled that mighty host,

Summoned Gemalfin, one of his captains:

‘I appoint you commander of this army.’

Baligant then mounted his sorrel steed,

And, with four dukes following on behind,

Rode forth until he came to Zaragoza.

He dismounted on the marble pavement,

With four counts at his stirrup assisting,

And ascended the stairway to the palace.

Bramimunde hastened forth to meet him

Complaining: ‘Sorrow is now my fate,

In losing my lord, Sire, so shamefully.’

She fell at his feet; Baligant raised her.

Sadly, they entered the king’s chamber.

When Marsilius saw Baligant before him,

He called to him two Saracens of Spain:

‘Raise me by the arms, I would sit upright.’

One of his gloves he took in his left hand,

And said to Baligant: ‘Your Royal Admiral,

I yield to you all this wide realm of mine,

Zaragoza, and all honours that appertain,

For I am doomed to die, as were my people.’

Baligant answered him: ‘I grieve the more,

That we may not speak together at length;

Nonetheless, I’ll take the glove from you,

Charlemagne expects no attack from us,’

He turned away in tears, such grief he had.

He traversed the palace steps once more,

Mounted his horse, and sped to the army,

Galloping hard till he found the vanguard;

From rank to rank he went then, shouting:

‘Come, pagans, for the Franks flee already!’

In the morn, once the dawn had broken,

Charlemagne awakened from his sleep.

Saint Gabriel, who watched there o’er the king,

Raised his hand, and set his mark upon him.

The king rose, but cast aside his weapons,

And the rest of the host, did so, likewise.

Then they mounted, and galloped swiftly,

Thus, by wide roads and by lengthy trails,

Returning to view the wondrous slaughter,

On the battlefield, there, at Roncesvalles.

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