Produced by Robert S. Rudder
The White Knight: Tirant lo Blanc
written and copyrighted by Robert S. Rudder
Joanot Martorell and Marti Johan d'Galba.
The White Knight: Tirant lo Blanc.
Robert S. Rudder. 1556 Lafayette Rd. Claremont, CA. 91711.
rrudder@lausd.k12.ca.us
THE WHITE KNIGHT: TIRANT LO BLANC
by
Johanot Martorell
and
Marti Johan d'Galba
Edited and Translated
by
Robert S. Rudder
For
Jose Rubia Barcia
Friend and colleague at UCLA
A true "caballero andante"
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I. COUNT WILLIAM OF WARWICK
CHAPTER II. THE TOURNAMENT
CHAPTER III. SICILY
CHAPTER IV. CONSTANTINOPLE
CHAPTER V. THE BATTLEFIELD
CHAPTER VI. A TRUCE
CHAPTER VII. IN THE PRINCESS'S BED
CHAPTER VIII. THE BETROTHAL
CHAPTER IX. WIDOW REPOSE
CHAPTER X. THE BARBARY COAST
CHAPTER XI. PLAERDEMAVIDA
CHAPTER XII. CONQUEST
CHAPTER XIII. THE WEDDING
CHAPTER XIV. DEATH
CHAPTER XV. AFTERMATH DEO GRATIAS
INTRODUCTION
"Tirant lo Blanc is the best European novel of the fifteenth
century," says Damaso Alonso in his excellent study.(1) Miguel
de Cervantes, writing from the 17th century, affirms: "as far as
style is concerned, this is the best book in the world."(2) If
this is so, why has the novel all but disappeared from view?
Some place the blame on the language of the original: Catalan,
whose literature is not widely read in the original tongue.
Others say it is the fault of the erotic scenes ~~ too shameful
for the polite society of earlier times. To my mind, a heavily
contributing factor is its rhetoric. As Joseph Vaeth says:
"Within this work may be found religious and philosophical
discourses, speeches and disputations...; formal debates...;
documents and papers...; formal challenges and replies...;
dramatic lamentations; long and fervent prayers; and allusions to
classical Latin authors, to biblical characters and to figures
prominent in medieval literature." He goes on to say that if the
novelist had omitted many of these elements, "his book would in
that case have been reduced to approximately one-fourth of its
present size, but quite probably it would now be considered a
masterpiece of narration and dialogue."(3)
Such has been the aim of this translation: The story line has
been slightly abridged, but the most dramatic change is that most
of the rhetoric has been eliminated. If the reader's literary
palate is tickled by this version, and if he would like to read
the entire manuscript in English, he is referred to the version
by David Rosenthal or to the even more complete translation by
Ray La Fontaine.(4)
Who was the author of this spicy, brutally realistic novel of
kings and knights of the fifteenth century? We know that Joanot
Martorell, son of the king's chamberlain, Francesc Martorell, was
born in Valencia in about 1413. He lived in England during the
years 1438 and 1439, and also traveled to Naples. Death came to
him in 1468. During his life he wrote several letters of combat,
and he began to write his novel Tirant lo Blanc in about 1460.
Whether or not he actually finished the book is still a matter of
debate, for it was not published during his lifetime. Another
writer, Marti Joan de Galba, adds his name as a second author,
and says that he wrote the last one-fourth of the book. But he
died six months before it was published, and his contribution, if
any, is questionable.
And what was the success of this novel? Only 715 copies were
printed on its initial run in 1490, and apparently all were sold.
A second edition did not appear until 1497. An abridged
translation into Spanish was finally produced in 1511, and no
further Spanish editions appeared until the 20th century.(5) It
was translated into Italian in the 16th century, into French in
the 17th century, and finally into English late in the 20th
century.
Of interest is the fact that soon after the appearance of Tirant
lo Blanc, and throughout the 16th century, Spain was flooded with
novels of chivalry. But these were of quite a different nature.
Although the major characters are also knights highly instilled
with the code of chivalry, they become involved in fantastic
adventures filled with dragons, enchanters, and the like,
following the lead of the French romances that were translated
into Spanish beginning in the 13th century. These Spanish novels
of chivalry were produced in such great numbers and read so
widely that no less than Spain's great mystic, Saint Teresa of
Avila, was for a time a voracious reader of them.
While Tirant lo Blanc had no literary followers until Cervantes
more than one hundred years later, it does have the honor of
being "the earliest existing romance of chivalry printed in the
Peninsula."(6) This being so, from where did Joanot Martorell
receive his inspiration? Although Professor Henry Thomas notes
that "the tracing of sources...(may be only) one degree higher
than the hunting of cats,"(7) we feel impelled to relate some of
the more important discoveries of literary scholarship. The
first section of the book is in imitation of an English romance,
"Guy of Warwick", in which England fights off a Danish invasion.
When Tirant lo Blanc appears for the first time, asleep on his
horse, and stumbles upon the hermit who explains at great length
the order of chivalry, the entire section (which this present
translation omits) is taken from Ramon Lull's Libre del Orde
d'Cauayleria.(8) Tirant himself may be an amalgamation of
several historical figures: Roger de Flor, Richard Beauchamp,
Louis IX, Peter II of Aragon, Joan Hunyadi lo Blanch of Hungary,
etc. Tirant's adventures in Africa closely parallel many people,
events and place names from Ramon Muntaner's Chronica.(9)
More important than any of these "sources", however, is this
question: What did Martorell do with the material that came to
him from books, from life, and from his imagination?
Cervantes, writing more than one hundred years after Tirant lo
Blanc was published, was sufficiently impressed to talk about it
in his Don Quixote not once, but on two separate occasions, in
fairly glowing terms.(10) Furthermore, some readers have pointed
out scenes that appear to be similar in both books: both Philippe
and Don Quixote find holes in their stockings, which leads one
into great searching for a lost needle, and the other into even
deeper depression; there is a cat-howling episode in both books,
etc. And there is one other way that Tirant lo Blanc points the
way toward the Quixote: in the framework. Cervantes uses a
device often found in the novels of chivalry that preceded his
work, stating that his book is no more than a "translation" from
another language. (While, in fact, the authors of those books
are simply advertising the next novels they intend to write in
the series, much as the "Hardy Boys" or "Nancy Drew" series
advertise in the final pages of each novel.) But in the Quixote
the device has a far deeper purpose: Cervantes informs us that
Don Quixote is a flesh and blood figure whose real-life
adventures appear in several Arabic histories, and one in
particular, by a certain Cide Hamete Benengeli. With the aid of
a translator, Cervantes says, he is now bringing the story of Don
Quixote's life back into the Spanish tongue. What we have here
is, of course, a ploy to make the characters seem more real, and
Cervantes makes this assertion with a broad wink, for while we
are "suspending our disbelief," we also know that it is nothing
more than his artistry.
And what of Tirant lo Blanc? According to Martorell's
dedication, his book is also a translation: from the English
original, he is translating into Portuguese, and from the
Portuguese into Catalan. But where is the English original from
which this book is simply a translation? There is no character
in English literature or history named Tirant lo Blanc, and
discounting the beginning pages, taken from the "Guy of Warwick"
romance, there is no book in English from which this one has
been translated. As for the translation into Portuguese, there
is no book about Tirant in that language. So why does Martorell
tell us all this? (Although, as we have noted, other novels of
chivalry speak of themselves as "translations", all were printed
after the publication of Tirant lo Blanc.) Is this novel then,
which Cervantes so admired, also presenting us with a "true
history" which has been "translated" in a way similar to the
Quixote? Within Tirant lo Blanc we also find allusions to
historians who have "originally" set these words down. For
example: "Here the book returns to the emperor..."
"Hippolytus... performed singular acts of chivalry which this
book does not relate, but defers to the books that were written
about him." Is there any difference between this and the
statements of Cervantes about his characters? ("Here Cide Hamete
Benengeli leaves him for an instant and returns to Don
Quixote..." "The history goes on to tell that when Sancho
saw...") But we are given no broad wink from Martorell. It is
all true, he tells us, and there is nothing more to be said.
That Martorell died before the work was published, and that Marti
Joan de Galba may have made some additions before it was finally
published, does not clarify the matter. For De Galba also
affirms that the book is no more than a translation from the
English to the Portuguese, and from that language into the
Valencian tongue, and that he is merely finishing what Martorell
was unable to complete.
There are no broad winks. But the characters belie the
"history": They come to life as no straight-forward, factual
history can bring its subjects to life. As Damaso Alonso so
accurately puts it: this fifteenth century work "is precisely
that whip that could excite Cervantes' imagination. Tirant was
not yet the modern novel, but in it were many elements, and
furthermore, essential elements of what would become the modern
novel."(11)
Having read this novel, who could forget the characters that
Martorell has brought to life? Who would not feel grief at the
death of Tirant and the princess, no less united in soul than
Calisto and Melibea in Spain (making their appearance a few short
years later in Fernando de Rojas' masterpiece, La Celestina),
than Romeo and Juliet in England, and no less tragic. And in
remembering Tirant, who would not smile at the thought of him
serving as a go-between for Prince Philippe and the infanta,
Ricomana. Could anyone be more delightful than the forthright
Plaerdemavida (whose name translates literally as
"Pleasure-of-My-Life") -- surely one of the best delineated
characters in any literature. Or anyone more villainous than the
odious Widow Repose -- a figure stamped indelibly on our minds,
wearing her ridiculous red stockings and hat in the bath.
As Cervantes says: "In (Tirant lo Blanc) knights eat and drink,
sleep and die in their own beds, and make their wills before they
die..." And his praise for Tirant is also borne out by the
characters in the Quixote. For in many of that book's most
memorable episodes, they too eat and drink (and regurgitate),
they sleep (when someone or something does not awaken them to a
new adventure), Don Quixote makes out his will (to the
contentment of some of the beneficiaries), and finally he dies in
his bed (and Cervantes warns us that no one should try to revive
him: "For me alone Don Quixote was born, and I for him... We two
alone are as one." This identification of the author with his
work was felt no less keenly by Martorell. As he says in his
dedication: "And so that no one else may be blamed if errors are
found in this work, I, Johanot Martorell, knight, alone wish to
bear the responsibility, and no one else with me, for this work
has been set down by myself alone..."
If Don Quixote's Dulcinea did not exist until she took form in
his (or in Cervantes') mind, or the windmill that was a giant, or
the Cave of Montesinos, they have now come into existence in the
mind of every reader of that novel. So may Tirant and his men,
the princess, the emperor, Plaerdemavida, also come to life
alongside the gentle and not so gentle folk of Cervantes, in
every reader's imagination. Let me leave the reader with these
words about Tirant lo Blanc by Cervantes: "Take him home and read
him, and you will see that what I have said of him is true." (12)
Finally, a word about this English translation which brings
Martorell's work full circle, back into the English language from
which he says he has translated it. My work was begun in 1976,
and completed in 1982. Shortly afterward, the English
translation by David Rosenthal appeared, which includes most of
the "philosophical discourses, speeches", etc. that I have
purposefully omitted. So my translation lay unmolested in a box
during these past several years while the computer has been
developing at breakneck speed, now allowing this great 15th
century novel to be read, electronically, throughout the world.
(What would Joanot Martorell say...?) And more "finally",
thanks to the many people who have supported me on this project
and on others in the past: To Walter Pattison who awakened me to
the excitement and beauty of Spanish literature; to my late
friend, Arturo Serrano Plaja, who made a valiant attempt to
refine my taste, and who guided me throughout the years; to my
many colleagues and friends at the University of Minnesota; and
also to good memories of several of my colleagues at UCLA: my
dear friend, the late Richard Reeve, John Crow, the late Donald
Fogelquist, Julio Rodgriguez Puertolas, Enrique Rodriguez Cepeda,
Carlos Otero, Paul Smith, and of course the incredibly fine man
to whom I dedicate this translation, and who helped me in my
darkest hours: Jose Rubia Barcia. There being so many, if I have
neglected anyone in particular, I pray and know that they will be
more than understanding. Vale
Robert S. Rudder Claremont, California Nov. 1995
NOTES
(1) Primavera de la literatura europea (Madrid: Ediciones
Guadarrama, 1961). p. 237.
(2) Don Quixote. Tr. Walter Starkie. (London: Macmillan, 1957),
pp. 89-90.
(3) Tirant lo Blanc: A Study of Its Authorship, Principal Sources
and Historical Setting (N.Y.: AMC, 1966), pp. 159-60.
(4) David H. Rosenthal (N.Y.: Shocken, 1984). Ray La Fontaine
(New York: Peter Lange, 1993). Although Rosenthal's translation
appeared in print first, the fact is that La Fontaine's more
complete translation preceded it, lying in hibernation, much as
my own manuscript, since 1974.
(5) Madrid: Alianza, 1969. Tr. by J. F. Vidal Jove.
Introduction by Mario Vargas Llosa. Also, further editions of
the 1511 translation by Martin de Riquer (1947-49; 1974) and by
F. Buendia (1954).
(6) Henry Thomas, Spanish and Portuguese Romances of Chivalry
(Cambridge: University Press, 1920), pp. 32-33. It should also
be noted that El cavallero Cifar, although not in print until
1512, was probably composed at the beginning of the 14th century.
Amadis de Gaula, the model for so many imitations, and not
printed until 1508, was in manuscript form in the 14th century.
(7) p. 277
(8) See the English translation by William Caxton: The Book of
the Ordre of Chyualry. Westminster: William Caxton, 1484? And
reprinted several times. For these and other medieval
translations from the Spanish, the reader may wish to consult my
bibliography: The Literature of Spain in English Translation. New
York: Ungar, 1975.
(9) See the English translation by Lady Goodenough: The Chronicle
of Muntaner. London: Hakluyt Society, 1920-21.
(10) After his initial words of praise ("a treasure of delight, a
mine of entertainment,... the best book in the world"), Cervantes
adds this puzzling phrase: "the author deserves to be praised,
for he did not deliberately commit all these follies, which had
they been intentional would send him to the galleys for the rest
of his life." [Starkie's trans., p. 90] Here, he is apparently
condemning the book, although, in the next breath, the curate
recommends the book to the barber: "Take him home and read
him..." And in a later chapter Cervantes speaks of "the never
enough to be praised Tirante the White." So what are we to make
of this apparently condemnatory phrase about the "galleys"?
Scholarship has provided some ingenious theories to negate the
condemnation, to wit: it is not a statement, but a question; the
galleys are less a punishment than a death sentence would be; it
is not Cervantes' opinion, but the curate's; the word galleys
actually refers to "galley-proofs" and mean that the work should
remain in print forever, etc. (See, for example, Patricia J.
Boehne, The Renaissance Catalan Novel [Boston: Twayne, 1989],
Antonio Torres Alcala, El realismo del Tirant lo Blanch y su
influencia en el Quijote [Barcelona: Puvill, 1979?], and the
studies by Martin de Riquer.) Very interesting theories, but we
are no more certain of the meaning behind Cervantes' words than
when we first read them: they remain a puzzle. However, the
novel Tirant lo Blanc also speaks to us: Do we feel that the
novel is utter nonsense and badly written, or is it moving, at
times exciting, often humorous? In short, is it good literature?
Through our own eyes we can make a judgement about the meaning of
those apparently incongruous words of Cervantes.
(11) Footnote: pp. 203-204.
(12) p. 90.
CHAPTER I
COUNT WILLIAM OF WARWICK
In the fertile, rich and lovely island of England there lived a
most valiant knight, noble by his lineage and much more for his
courage. In his great wisdom and ingenuity he had served the
profession of chivalry for many years and with a great deal of
honor, and his fame was widely known throughout the world. His
name was Count William of Warwick. This was a very strong knight
who, in his virile youth, had practiced the use of arms,
following wars on sea as well as land, and he had brought many
battles to a successful conclusion.
The count found himself at the advanced age of fifty-five, and
moved by divine inspiration he decided to withdraw from the
practice of arms and make a pilgrimage to the holy land of
Jerusalem. This virtuous count wanted to go, because he felt
sorrow and contrition for the many deaths he had caused in his
youth.
That evening he told the countess, his wife, about his plans, and
although she was virtuous and discreet, she became very upset at
the news because she loved him so much. In the morning the count
had all his servants, both men and women, come to him, and he
said:
"My children and most faithful servants, it is the will of His
Divine Majesty that I should leave you, and the time of my return
is uncertain. Since the journey will be very dangerous, I want
to pay each of you now for all the good services you have
rendered to me."
He had a large chest full of money brought out, and to each of
his servants he gave much more than he owed, so that they were
all very satisfied. Then he gave the countess all his land and
all his rights. And he ordered that a ring of gold be made with
his and the countess's coat of arms on it, and this ring was made
in such a way that it was divided into two parts. Each part was a
complete ring in itself, showing half the coat of arms of each of
them, and when the two halves were joined together the entire
coat of arms could be seen.
When all this had been done, he turned to the virtuous countess,
and said kindly:
"I know that you will accept my departure with love and patience,
and if it is God's will, my journey will soon be over. I am
leaving in your charge everything I have. And here is half of
the ring I had made. I beg you dearly to hold it in my stead,
and to guard it until I return."
"Oh, dear!" cried the countess. "Then it's true, my lord, that
you are leaving without me? At least allow me to go with you so
that I can serve you. I would rather die than go on living
without you. Just when I was thinking that all my misfortunes
were over, I see that my unhappiness is only increasing. I'm
left with only this poor son as a pledge from his father, and his
sad mother must be consoled with him."
She seized her small son by the hair and pulled it, and then
slapped his face, saying:
"Cry, my child, for your father's departure, and you will be good
company to your mother."
The tiny infant, who had been born only three months before,
burst out crying. The count, seeing both mother and child in
tears, felt deeply grieved, and he could not hold back his own
tears. And for some time he could not speak, while all three of
them wept.
The count took his leave of her, kissing her again and again,
tears running freely from his eyes. He said farewell to the
other ladies, and when he left he took only one squire with him.
Leaving his city of Warwick, he boarded a ship, and sailed with a
good wind, and as time passed he arrived safely at Alexandria.
There he disembarked and made his way to Jerusalem. When he
reached Jerusalem he confessed his sins, and with great devotion
he received the precious body of Jesus Christ. Then he entered
the holy sepulchre of Jesus Christ and prayed there fervently and
tearfully, with great contrition for his sins.
After visiting all the other sanctuaries, he returned to
Alexandria. Then he boarded a ship and went to Venice. When he
was near Venice he gave all the money still in his possession to
his squire who had served him well, and he arranged a marriage
for him so that he would not want to return to England. Then he
had his squire spread the news that he had died, and he arranged
for merchants to write to England that Count William of Warwick
had died while returning from the Holy Land of Jerusalem.
When the countess heard the news, she felt deeply grieved, and
went into mourning, and she arranged for the funeral rites that
such a virtuous knight deserved. With the passing of time, the
count returned alone to his own land, having let his hair grow
down to his shoulders, while his beard, completely white, reached
to his waist. He was dressed in the habit of the glorious Saint
Francis, and lived from charity, and he secretly entered a devout
hermitage of Our Lady which was very close to his city of
Warwick.
This hermitage was in a lovely spot on a high mountain, with a
dense thicket of trees, and a clear running spring. The count
retired to this solitary place, and lived alone to escape the
materialistic world and to do penance for his sins. Living from
charity, he went to his city of Warwick once a week to beg for
alms. With his thick beard and long hair the people there did
not recognize him, and he went to the countess, his wife, to beg.
When she saw him asking for charity so humbly, she made them give
him more than they gave any of the others. And he spent his
poor, miserable life this way for some time.
Some time later the great King of Canary was filled with anger
because some pirate ships had plundered a village that belonged
to him. He left his land with a large armada, and sailing with a
favorable wind he reached the fertile, peaceful shores of
England.
In the dark of night the entire fleet entered the port of
Southampton and all the Moors went ashore very quietly. When
they were on land, they put their troops in order and began to
attack the island.
When the peace-loving king received the news, he gathered as many
men as he could to put up a resistance, and went into battle with
the Moors. The fighting was great, indeed: many men died,
especially the Christians. Because the Moors were greater in
number, the forces of the English king were destroyed. He had to
retreat with his remaining men, and he took refuge in a city
called Saint Thomas of Canterbury where that holy body now rests.
The King of England mustered more men, and he learned that the
Moors were conquering the island, killing many Christian men and
dishonoring the women and young girls, making captives of them
all. When this Christian king discovered that the Moors held the
pass near a watercourse, he placed his forces in a passage at the
hour of midnight. But he did not do it very secretly, and the
Moors heard of it, and held back until it was broad daylight.
Then they pressed them in a very cruel battle where many
Christians died, and those whose lives were spared fled with the
unfortunate king, while the Moorish king remained in the camp.
Great was the misfortune of this Christian king who lost nine
battles, one after another, and had to withdraw to the city of
London. When the Moors learned of it they laid siege to the
city. Every day there was heavy fighting until finally the poor
king was forced to leave London, and he went toward the
mountains, passing through the city of Warwick.
When the countess heard that the king was fleeing to that city,
she had food and everything necessary prepared for the night.
The countess, who was a very prudent woman, began to think of how
she could strengthen her city so that it would not be lost so
quickly, and as soon as she saw the king she said to him:
"Virtuous king, I see that your grace, and all of us on this
island, are in great danger. But Sire, if Your Highness would
like to remain in this city, you will find it abundant in
provisions and everything necessary for war. My lord and
husband, William of Warwick, who was count in this land,
provided this city and his castle with arms as well as bombards,
cross-bows and culverins, and many other kinds of artillery. And
divine Providence, in its mercy, has given us a great abundance
of fruit from the land for the last four years. So your grace
may be safe here."
"I am very happy", said the king, "to stay here, and I pray you,
countess, to arrange things so that my army will have everything
they need."
The countess and two of her ladies immediately left the king, and
went with the magistrates of the city through the houses, making
them bring wheat and barley and everything necessary. When the
king and his men saw what a great abundance there was of
everything, they were very pleased.
When the Moors discovered that the king had left the city of
London, they pursued him until they learned that he had taken
refuge in the city of Warwick. On the way the Moors attacked and
took a castle called Killingworth, two leagues from where the
king was. Since they had now conquered a great part of the
kingdom, the Moorish king appeared with all his forces before the
city of Warwick. The wretched Christian king, seeing that there
was no hope, did not know what to do: he climbed to the top of a
tower in the castle, and watched the huge body of Moors burning
and destroying villas and castles, killing as many Christians as
they could, both women and men. Those who were able to escape
came running and shouting toward the city. Their terrible
screams could be heard a good half league away, and it would have
been better for them to die than to become captives of the
infidels.
As the king watched the immense suffering and destruction, he
thought he would die from all the grief he felt. Unable to look
any longer at the desolation, he came down from the tower and
went into a small chamber where he began to sigh deeply. Tears
ran from his eyes, and he lamented more gravely than any man had
ever done. The stewards were outside the chamber listening to
the king's agony, and when he had cried and lamented at length,
he said:
"Lord, Thy compassion and pity will not allow for this. Thy
mercy will not allow Thy Christian people, great sinners though
they may be, to be afflicted by the scourge of the Moors.
Rather, defend and preserve them and let them be returned to Thy
holy service so that they may serve Thee and praise Thee and
return glory unto Thee."
While the poor king was lamenting, he put his head down on the
bed, and it seemed to him that he saw a very beautiful lady
coming through the doorway to his chamber, dressed in white
damask, holding a small child in her arms. Following her were
many other ladies, all singing the Magnificat. When he had
finished his prayer, the lady walked toward the king, and placing
her hand upon his head, she said:
"Oh, king, be doubtful of nothing. Be very confident that the
Son and the Mother will help you in this great trial. The first
man you see with a long beard who asks you for alms in the name
of God, kiss him on the mouth as a sign of peace, and beg him
graciously to put aside the habit, and make him captain over all
the people."
The poor king awoke and saw nothing. He was astonished at the
dream, and he thought about it a great while, remembering
everything he had seen. Then he left the chamber, and there
stood all the principal knights, who told the king:
"Your grace, all the Moors have set up their tents in front of
the city."
The king did everything possible to have the city well guarded
that night.
The following morning the hermit-count climbed the high mountain
to gather herbs for his sustenance, and he saw the great number
of Moors teeming over all the land. He left his desert
habitation and went into the city.
The poor old man, who had spent several days on a diet of nothing
but herbs, saw that the city was in deep sorrow, and he went to
the castle to beg alms from the countess. When he was inside the
castle he saw the king coming from mass, and when he saw him so
nearby, he sank to his knees and begged him in God's name to give
him alms. The king remembered the dream and helped him up. Then
he kissed him on the mouth, took hold of his hand and led him
into a room. When they had sat down, the king said to him:
"I beg you to help and advise us in our time of need, for I see
that you are a holy man and a friend of Jesus Christ. I beg you
dearly, if you love God and if you have charity in your heart,
cast off the clothing you are wearing for penance, and dress
yourself in the clothes of charity, which are arms. For with
God's help and your command we will have a glorious victory over
our enemies."
When the king had finished these words, the hermit began to
speak:
"My lord, I am astonished that your grace is asking me, a poor,
weak man, for advice and help. As Your Excellency can see, my
old, weak body is in a state of decrepitude because of its many
years and the harsh life I've led so long on the mountain, eating
only herbs and bread. I don't have the strength to bear arms. I
beg Your Excellency to allow me to decline."
The king became very pained at this answer, and said:
"Reverend Father, I kneel at your feet and with these tears I
again beg you, if you are a steadfast Christian, to have
compassion on me, a miserable king, and on all Christians. All
their hope and mine is in the mercy of God and in your great
virtue. Don't refuse me this."
The painful tears of the king moved the hermit to pity, and his
heart softened.
After a brief pause while the hermit made the king rise, he said:
"Out of love for you, my king, I will obey your commands and try
to save you and your kingdom. And, if necessary, I will place
myself in the thick of battle, old as I am, to defend
Christianity and bring the haughty Mohammedan sect to its knees,
with the understanding that Your Excellency will be guided by my
advice."
The king answered: "Reverend Father, since you grant me so much
grace, I promise you, on my word as king, that I will not go one
step beyond your orders."
"Now, my lord," said the hermit, "when you are outside in the
great hall, show a happy and very content face to the knights and
all the people, and speak to them very complacently. And when
you dine, eat well and enjoy yourself, and show much more
happiness than you ordinarily do, so that all those who have lost
hope will regain it. For a lord or a captain should never wear a
sad face, no matter how great an adversity there may be, so that
his people will not be discouraged. Have some Moorish garments
brought to me, and you shall see what I am going to do. When I
was on my way to the Holy Land of Jerusalem I stayed in
Alexandria, and in Beirut they taught me the Moorish tongue,
because I was there many days. In Beirut I learned to make
explosives of certain materials that delay six hours before they
ignite, but when they do, they could burn up the entire world,
and all the water in the world would not be able to extinguish
them, unless oil and pine resin is used."
"It is astonishing," said the king, "that they can only be
extinguished with oil or pine resin. I thought water would put
out any fire in the world."
"No, my lord," said the hermit. "If your grace will allow me to
go to the castle gate, I will bring you a special substance, and
with clear water or wine you will be able to light a torch."
"In faith," said the king, "I will take great pleasure in seeing
it."
The hermit immediately went to the castle gate since, when he
entered, he had seen quicklime there, and he picked up a little
sod and came back to the king. Then he took some water, and
throwing it on the quicklime he lighted it the way a straw lights
a candle.
The king said: "I would never have been able to believe such a
thing if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Now I am certain
there is nothing that men cannot do. I beg you, Reverend Father,
please tell me what we need to make the explosives."
"My lord," said the hermit, "I will go and buy it, because it is
much better to know if the materials are good, and I have made
them many times with my own hands. When they are made, Sire, I
will go to the Moors' camp alone, and put the explosives near the
king's tent. At the hour of midnight the explosives will ignite
and all the Moors will run there to put out the fire, and your
grace will be armed and waiting with all your men. When you see
the huge fire, attack them with all your forces, and your
lordship may be sure that ten thousand of your men will cause
confusion among one hundred thousand of theirs."
The hermit's words pleased the king, and he gave deep thanks for
his offer, and was very happy. He immediately gave orders that
everything the hermit had commanded should be carried out.
The hermit, who had left the king, soon returned with the things
they needed for the explosives, and he said to the king:
"My lord, there is only one element we lack, but I know that the
countess has it. When her husband, William of Warwick, was
alive, he had a great deal of it since it can be used for many
things."
The king said: "Then I want both of us to go to the countess now
to get it."
The king sent word to the countess that he wanted to speak with
her. When the countess came out of her room she saw the king and
the hermit.
"Countess," said the king, "by your grace and virtue, be so kind
as to give me a little sulfur, the kind which causes heat and
does not burn itself up, the kind that the count, your husband,
put into the torches so that no matter how much the wind blew
they would not go out."
The countess answered: "Who told your grace that my husband,
William of Warwick, could make torches like that with that kind
of flame?"
"Countess," said the king, "this hermit standing here."
And the countess quickly went to the weapons chamber, and she
brought back so much of it that the king was highly pleased.
When the king had returned to the great hall where the meal was
already prepared, he took the hermit by the hand and sat down at
the table, making the hermit sit at his side, honoring him as he
deserved. The king's courtiers were astonished at the great
honor the king was bestowing upon the hermit, and the countess
was even more astonished because she was accustomed to giving him
alms. And she said to her ladies:
"Oh, how angry I am at my great ignorance! Why did I not honor
this poor hermit much more? Now I see that he must be a man who
has led a very holy life."
Rising from the table, the King of England gave the hermit
permission to go and make the explosives. A few days later, when
they were finished, the hermit went to the king and said to him:
"Sire, if your grace will give me leave, I will carry out our
plan.
Your Excellency should have all the men get ready."'
The king said that he would. In the dark of night the hermit
changed into the Moorish clothing that was prepared for him. He
went out through a back door of the castle very secretly, and no
one saw him. Then he went into the Moors' camp.
When he thought the time right, he threw the explosives into the
camp, near the tent of a great captain who was a relative of the
Moorish king. And when it was almost midnight the fire broke
out, and it grew so great and so terrible that everyone was
astonished at the enormous flames. The king and the other Moors,
unarmed, hurried to where the fire was greatest in order to put
it out. But instead of being extinguished, the more water they
threw on it, the more brightly it burned.
When the King of England saw the huge fire, he went out of the
city, armed, and with the few men he still had he attacked the
Moors. And they brought such great destruction to them that it
was fearful, and they spared no one.
When the Moorish king saw such a large fire and so many of his
men dead, he mounted a horse and fled. He took shelter in a
castle he had taken, named Killingworth, together with all those
who had escaped the camp, and they recovered their resolve.
He and all the other Moors were astonished at how they had been
defeated, and they could not understand what had caused such a
great disaster, because their forces were fifty times greater
than those of the Christians. When the Moors fled, the
Christians pillaged their camp, and day was upon them when they
entered the city victoriously.
After four days had passed, the Moorish king sent his emissaries
with a letter challenging the King of England, and it said the
following:
"To you, Christian king who rules the isle of England, I, Abraim,
king and lord of Canaria, say that if you wish the war between
you and me to end, and the killing between your people and mine
to cease, let us have a joust, king against king, under the
following pacts and agreements: If I should defeat you, you will
hold all England under my power and command, and you shall give
me two hundred thousand pieces of gold in tribute each year. And
if fortune decides that you are the conqueror, I shall return to
my own land, and you will remain in yours in peace, and you and
all your people will enjoy full peace and tranquility. And in
addition I shall restore to you all the cities and castles that I
have won and conquered by my own victorious hand.
"These words are not spoken for vainglory or out of disdain for
the royal crown, but so that God Who is great may give to each
that share which, by his merits, he will deserve."
Two great Moorish knights, whom the King of Canary was sending to
the city of Warwick as envoys to the King of England, left the
castle of Killingworth, and before they departed, they sent a
messenger to the city to request safe conduct.
When the messenger came to the gates of the city the guards told
him to wait a little while, and they would return with the reply.
One of the guards quickly went to the king to tell him. After
the king had held a brief counsel, he told the guard to let him
in. When the messenger was inside the city, the Count of
Salisbury spoke to him and said:
"Messenger, on behalf of His Majesty, the king, I can tell you
that the envoys may come without danger and in safety, for they
will not be harmed in any way."
And the count gave him a silk garment and one hundred pieces of
gold. The messenger departed, very content, and before the
envoys came, the hermit said to the king:
"My lord, let us put fear into the hearts of these Moors. Your
Majesty should order two grandees to go out to the gate and
receive the envoys. And let many men, very well armed, but
without helmets, go with them. Have three hundred men at the
gate to guard it, armed like the others. And let all the ladies
and maidens who are able, old as well as young, hang banners in
the windows and on the roofs, as tall as the women's chests, and
each of these women should put armor on her head. When the
envoys pass by they will see the coats of mail shining, and will
think they are all warriors. Have the three hundred guarding the
gate follow them by other streets, and let them appear in the
square and on the corner. Then, after the envoys have passed by,
let them do the same again and again until they reach Your
Highness. And you may be sure that they will be frightened when
they see so many soldiers after the battle they have lost.
Seeing the great number of men, they will believe that many have
come from Spain or France or Germany to help us."
The king and all his council thought very highly of the hermit's
words. It was decided that the Duke of Lancaster and the Count
of Salisbury should receive the envoys, and that four thousand
men should go with them, each wearing a garland of flowers on his
head. They went a good mile out of the city to receive the
envoys.
Then the Duke of Bedford said:
"Tell us, Father, since there are so many ceremonies to be
performed for the envoys, how should they find the king, clothed
or naked, armed or unarmed?"
"That would be a good question," said the hermit, "if there were
not so much anger behind your words. But I see the meaning of
your words, and that they are intended more for malice than good.
It is because I am old and a hermit that you are trying to
besmear my advice and belittle me before my lord the king. Hold
your tongue. If you do not, I shall put a bridle in your mouth
that will make you stop at every turn."
At this, the duke rose to his feet, drew his sword, and said:
"If it were not because you are so old and you wear the habit of
Saint Francis, I would take this sword and cut your skirts right
up to the waist."
Then the king rose angrily to his feet, seized the duke and took
the sword out of his hand, and had him imprisoned in the tower.
All the other noble lords there calmed the hermit, telling him
that because of his age and the habit he wore he should be
forgiving, and he was content to forgive. But the king would
not, in spite of all the pleas of the hermit and the other noble
lords.
In the midst of these troubles, news was brought to the king that
the Moorish envoys were approaching, and those who had been
chosen went out quickly as they had arranged.
When the envoys stood before the king, they gave him the letter,
and the king commanded that it be read in everyone's presence.
The hermit drew near to the king and said to him:
"Your Highness, accept the challenge."
Then the king said:
"I agree to the battle, in accordance with the conditions your
king sets down."
He begged the envoys to remain there until the following day when
he would give them the formal reply. He showed them to very
comfortable chambers and gave them everything they needed.
Then the king convoked a general council, and while it was being
prepared, the hermit, along with the other lords, went to the
king.
He knelt at the king's feet and kissed his hands and feet, and
very humbly begged him to give him the keys to the tower so that
he could release the duke. The hermit pleaded so much, as did
the other lords, that the king was obliged to give them to him.
Then the hermit went with the others to the tower where the duke
was imprisoned, and there they found a friar hearing his
confession, because he was certain he would be killed. When he
heard the door open he was so startled that he felt he was losing
his mind, for he thought they were coming to take him out to
execute him.
When the hermit saw him he said:
"My lord, duke, if you and I have spoken harmful words to each
other, I beg you to forgive me, for I most willingly pardon you."
When they had made their peace they all returned to the council
where the king and all the dukes, counts and marquis were, and
they read the letter from the Moorish king once more. Because
the king and all the others loved and revered the hermit and they
saw that he led a saintly life, and that he expressed himself
well and was knowledgeable about arms, they all agreed that he
should be the first to speak, and this led to the following
discourse.
"I will tell you my opinion, although I realize that I am not
worthy to speak of such things since I know little of the use of
arms. Because of the weak disposition of my lord, the king, who
is young and has a weak constitution and is sickly, although he
has the courage of a virtuous knight, it would not be fitting or
just for him to do battle with a man as robust as the Moorish
king. Instead, let the Duke of Lancaster, who is the uncle of my
lord king, undertake this battle, and let our king grant to him
the scepter and the royal crown so that the Moorish king will not
be deceived and so that he may combat a true king."
Scarcely had the hermit spoken these last words when three dukes
sprang to their feet in great anger: the Duke of Gloucester, the
Duke of Bedford, and the Duke of Exeter. And they began to cry
loudly that they would not consent for the Duke of Lancaster to
enter into battle and be made king, because each of them was more
closely related to the king, and it was more just for them to do
battle than the Duke of Lancaster.
The king would not permit any further discussion, and he said:
"It is not my pleasure that any of you should take my place in
battle. Since I have accepted, I wish to carry it out alone."
A baron stood up and said the following:
"Sire, may Your Excellency forgive me for what I am about to say.
We will never consent to what Your Highness has said. If our
Heavenly Father has indeed given you the desire, he has taken
from you the strength. We all know that Your Highness is not
ready for such a formidable and arduous battle as this will be.
Let your grace be ruled by our counsel and will. If we believed
that Your Excellency were disposed for such an undertaking, we
would very willingly have agreed to what Your Highness has
commanded."
All the other barons and knights praised what this baron had
said.
"My most faithful vassals and subjects," said the king, "since it
is not to your liking, and you see that I am not fit to combat
the Moorish king, I give you my thanks for the great love you
have shown me, and I submit to your will. But it is my wish and
my command that no one, under pain of death, shall be so bold as
to say that he will take my place in battle, except the one I
shall choose. Unto him I shall give the crown, the kingdom and
the royal scepter."
Then the king said:
"Dukes, counts and marquis, and all the rest of my most faithful
subjects, I am relinquishing my station, the scepter and the
royal crown, and my title to my beloved father hermit."
He removed the garments, and said:
"As I relinquish these royal robes, and put them on the father
hermit, in the same way I relinquish my throne and my station to
him. I beg him to accept, and to do battle for me with the
Moorish king."
When the hermit heard the king say these words, he arose quickly
because he wished to speak, and all the great lords who were
there also stood and gathered so closely to the hermit that they
would not let him speak, but instead removed the habit he was
clothed in and made him dress in the royal robes. As the king
turned over all his power to the hermit, it was duly noted in the
presence of all the council and with the consent of all the
barons. When the hermit king heard the pleas of all those in the
council, he accepted the kingdom and the battle, and quickly
asked them to bring him armor that would fit him well. They
brought him many suits of armor, but of all the ones they
brought him there was none he was pleased with.
"In faith," said the hermit king, "nothing will stop this battle,
even if I have to go dressed in only my shirt. I beg you, my
lords," said the hermit king, "to be so good as to go to the
countess and entreat her by her great virtue and kindness, to
lend me the armor of her husband, Sir William of Warwick, which
he wore when he went into battle."
When the countess saw so many dukes, counts and marquis, and the
entire council of the king approaching, and she heard the reason
they had come, the virtuous countess gave them a suit of armor
of little value. When the king saw it, he said, "This is not the
one I asked for. There is another that is much better."
All the barons returned once more to the countess and asked for
the other armor, and the countess told them that there was no
other. When the king heard the answer, he said:
"My lords and my brothers, let us all go, and we shall try our
luck."
When they were all before the countess, the king said:
"Countess, out of your great kindness and gentility, I beg you to
lend me the armor of your husband, Sir William of Warwick."
"Sire," said the countess, "may God take this child from me, for
I have no other dear thing in the world: I have already sent the
armor to you."
"That is true," said the king, "but this is not what I asked for.
Lend me the armor that is in the small chamber in your bedroom,
covered by green and white damask."
The countess knelt, and said:
"Sire, by your mercy and your grace, I beg Your Majesty to tell
me your name and how you came to know my lord and husband, Count
William of Warwick."
The king answered: "My lady, because you wish me to tell you, I
will. I was in his company continually, for in the wars we were
brothers in arms."
The countess immediately replied:
"I beg your lordship to forgive me for not doing all that I could
have for Your Highness when you were a hermit. If I had known
how close you were to my lord, William of Warwick, I would have
honored you much more and given you more of my possessions than I
did."
The king was very content with the words of the countess:
"Where there is no error there is no need to beg forgiveness. I
only ask you, out of your great virtue and genteelness, to lend
me the armor I have asked you for."
The countess immediately had other armor brought to him, covered
with blue brocade. When the king saw it, he said:
"Countess, my lady, how well you have kept the arms of your
husband! In spite of all the supplications that these lords and
I have made to you, you have been unwilling to lend them to us.
These are the ones which William of Warwick used in tournaments;
the ones I want are hanging in the alcove, and are covered with
white and green damask, with the emblem of a lion wearing a
golden crown. And if my entering there would not anger you,
countess, I am sure that I would find them."
"Oh, wretched me!" said the countess. "It's as though you had
been raised in this house! Your grace may indeed go in and look,
and take everything you wish."
When the king saw her willingness he thanked her, and they all
went into her chamber and saw them hanging there. The king had
them brought to him, and he had them repaired.
The battle was arranged for the following day. In the evening
the king went to the main church and stayed there all night,
kneeling before the altar of the holy Mother of God, Our Lady,
with all his armaments upon the altar. When it was full
daylight, he very devoutly heard mass. After mass he had himself
fitted with armor inside the church, and ate a partridge in order
to fortify himself. Then he went out to the field.
When the hermit king was in the field he saw the Moorish king
with all his foot soldiers and horsemen. All the Moors climbed
to the top of a hill to view the battle, and the Christians
remained near the city. The hermit king held a well sharpened
lance and had a small shield on his arm, along with his sword and
a dagger. The Moorish king had a bow and arrow, a sword, and on
his head was a helmet wrapped with a turban.
When the two brave kings were in the field, they charged at each
other. The Moorish king quickly shot an arrow which hit the
center of the hermit king's shield, passing freely by him near
his arm, and at once the Moorish king shot another which hit him
in the thigh, but with the armor the hermit king was wearing the
arrow could not penetrate it completely. The hermit king hurled
the lance at him when they were near. The Moorish king was very
skillful with his arms: when he saw the lance coming he deflected
it with his bow. By this time the hermit king had drawn so near
that the Moorish king could not shoot more arrows. When he was
so close that he could almost touch him with his hand, the hermit
king cried out in a loud voice:
"If You help me, Lord, it will not matter if all the Moors in the
world attack me."
When the Moorish king saw him so near, and realized that he could
not shoot any arrows, he felt that he had lost.
After the hermit king had thrown the lance, he quickly reached
for his sword, and drawing as close to the Moorish king as he
could, he gave him a mighty blow on the head. But he did him
little harm because of the thick turban the Moorish king wore!
Then the hermit king struck him a mighty blow with his sword,
cutting off his arm, and as he plunged his sword fully into his
side the Moorish king fell to the ground. As quickly as he
could, the hermit king cut off his head. Then he picked up his
lance and stuck the head on the end of it, and rode back into the
city in triumph.
Imagine what rejoicing there was among the Christians, the women
and the young girls, when they thought they were now released
from their captivity! When the king was inside the city he had
the doctors brought to him, and they ministered to his wounds.
On the morning of the following day the king held his council in
the bed where he lay, and it was decided that two knights would
be sent as envoys to the Moors, to tell them that they wished to
observe the pacts they had all agreed to and sworn to, and that
they could go to their own lands in safety, with all their ships
and clothing and jewelry, and that no one in the kingdom would
harm them.
The envoys departed, and when they were with the Moors they
explained their mission to them. They were given lodging, and
were asked to await the reply. The Moors told them this in order
to do them great harm, for they were now very vengeful because of
the death of their king.
Among them a great dispute arose over whom they would make king.
Some wanted Cale-ben-Cale, others wanted Aduqueperec,
cousin-german of the dead king. Cale-ben-Cale was chosen king,
and he immediately ordered the envoys seized, along with all who
had come with them, and he had them put to death. They cut off
their heads, put them inside a packsaddle, and sent them to the
city on a mule. The guards who were in the city towers saw two
horsemen driving the mule on. When they were near the city they
abandoned the mule and galloped away. The captain of the guards
saw them and ordered ten men on horseback to go and see what it
was all about. When they got there they wished they had not gone
out to see such a terrible thing, and they immediately went to
tell the king and his entire council. When the king heard the
news he was very much taken aback, and he said:
"Oh, cruel infidels: you who have little faith, for you cannot
give what you do not have! Now I make a solemn vow, wounded as I
am, never to enter a covered building, except to hear mass at a
church, until I have driven these Moors from the entire kingdom."
He quickly had his clothing brought to him, and he left his bed
and had the trumpets sound. The first to leave the city was the
king, and he had all the men who were more than eleven years old
and less than seventy summoned, and under penalty of death they
all had to follow him. That day his tents were raised on the
very spot where the Moors had been defeated, and the king had a
great deal of artillery for war brought out.
When the virtuous countess learned that the king had proclaimed
such a summons, and that those who were more than eleven years
old were to follow him, she was very upset, for she realized that
her son was included. So she hurried to where the king was, and
fell to her knees on the hard ground. Then, with a grieving
voice, she began to say:
"Have pity on me. I have nothing of value except this son who is
so young that he cannot help you. Grant me this favor in memory
of your great friendship and love for my virtuous husband. And
let me remind your grace of the alms that I used to give you when
you were a hermit. Please hear my supplications, and leave my
son with me. His father is dead, and the only thing I have to
console me is this poor son."
The king saw the countess's error, and quickly replied:
"I would very much like to obey you, Countess, if your petition
were honorable and just. But it is well known that men must
learn to use arms, and they must know the practice of war, and
the gentle ways of this blessed order of chivalry. It is
customary for men of honor to begin to use arms when they are
very young, for they learn better at that age than at any other.
And because he is now at the best age in the world to see and
understand the great honors that knights achieve, I wish to keep
him in my company as my own son. He must come with me, and
tomorrow I shall dub him a knight so that he may imitate the
virtuous actions of his father, William of Warwick."
"I am called mother only by this son of mine," said the countess,
"and if he dies in battle, what will become of me, for I shall
have lost my husband and my son and all that I had in this
miserable world?"
When the countess had finished, her son began to speak:
"Madam, I beg you, please do not cry for me. You know that I
have now reached an age when I have to leave the protection of my
mother's wings, and that I am worthy of bearing arms and going
into battle to show the mettle I am made of, and who my father
was. If it is God's will, He will keep me from harm and will
allow me to carry out such actions that He will be pleased, and
they will give consolation to my father's soul, and your grace
will be made happy."
When her son had gone, the countess went into the city, weeping,
and many virtuous women of the city went with her, consoling her
as best they could.
That night the king had the camp well guarded, and he allowed no
one to take off their armor. In the morning, when the sun came
out, he had the trumpets sound, and they moved the camp to within
half a league of where the Moors were. When the tents were set
up he let the men rest. This happened after the noon hour.
When the Moors learned that the Christians had come out of the
city, they were astonished, because a short time before they had
not dared take a step outside the city, and now they came looking
for them. Some captains said this was because of the great
cruelty of their king, Cale-ben-Cale, who had killed the
Christian ambassadors so cruelly, and they said that they might
be recruiting men from Spain or France:
"That is why they are coming so near, and you can be sure that
any of us they capture will be cut to shreds."
One of the ambassadors who had taken the letter to convene the
joust, said:
"They paid us many honors, and as soon as we were in the city we
saw great numbers of men in the towers, the squares, in the
windows and on the rooftops. It was astonishing to see so many
armed men. By Mohammed, I would guess there were two hundred
thousand soldiers. And this wicked king killed their ambassadors
without reason."
After all the captains had heard the words of this ambassador,
they talked to the other Moors who had gone into the city with
him, and when they knew the truth of the situation, they killed
Cale-ben-Cale and chose a new king. Nonetheless, they armed
themselves for battle and went in sight of the Christians.
The sun was nearly down, but they still decided to go up a nearby
hill. When the hermit king saw them, he said:
"In faith, they're afraid of us. That's why they've gone up to
such a high place. Let everyone do what I do, and with Divine
help we will have vengeance on our enemies."
He took a basket in one hand, and a spade in the other, and went
in front of them all. When the great lords saw the king do this,
each of them did the same, and followed him.
Before leaving the city, the virtuous king had procured
everything necessary for the war. Around the palisade he dug a
deep ditch that led to a large water hole, and they left a great
entryway in the middle, through which one hundred fifty men could
pass at one time. On the other side they dug another ditch that
led to a high cliff.
The king said:
"Since we've finished, and there are only two hours left till
dawn, you, Duke of Gloucester, and you, Count of Salisbury, go
quickly to the countess, and ask her to give me two large barrels
that belong to William of Warwick. They are full of copper
spikes, and she will find them upstairs, in the weapons room."
They went there quickly and begged and commanded her, on the
king's behalf, so that she gave them to them, even though she was
upset with the king because he had not given her son back to her.
But she realized how great their needs were, and so she did it,
although she could not help saying:
"Lord, have mercy on me! What's going on that this king knows so
much about my house? There's nothing I have that has to do with
weapons or war that he doesn't know about. I don't know if he is
only guessing or if he's a wizard."
The barons had the barrels of spikes loaded onto carts, and took
them to the camp. When they were before the king, they told him
everything the countess had said, and the virtuous king burst out
laughing, and he smiled and joked with them at length.
Afterward he had the spikes taken to the gate, and they placed
them on the ground so that when the Moors came through, they
would stick into their feet. He also had many holes, like wells,
dug, so that if they escaped one danger they would fall into
another. And the Christians worked at this all night long.
When daylight broke, the Moors began to beat drums, and they blew
trumpets and pipes, and shouted their battle-cries, and with
great joy they streamed down the mountain to attack the
Christians. The hermit king ordered all the men to lie down on
the ground, and pretend to be asleep. When they were almost
within range of bombards they all got up, and gave signs of being
unprepared for battle. When the Moors were inside the entryway,
the king said:
"Gentlemen, do not dismay, I beg you. Let's turn our backs, and
pretend to run away."
When the Moors saw them fleeing, they rushed forward as quickly
as they could. They ran inside the entryway which, as we have
mentioned, they could not pass through because the copper spikes
stuck into their feet. When the virtuous hermit king saw the
Moors inside the entryway he made his men slow down, like an
expert in war and weaponry, and he saw the Moors stopping because
of the wounds from the spikes, while others were falling into the
wells that were covered by branches with dirt piled on top. Then
the king began to shout with a loud voice:
"Oh knights of honor, take your eyes from the city, and turn your
faces to the enemies of the Christian faith. Let us attack with
great courage, for this day is ours. Give them a cruel battle,
and grant mercy to no one!"
The king was the first to strike a blow; then the others
followed. The Moors saw the Christians doing battle savagely
while they were all unable to move because of their wounds, and
so they were forced to die, and great destruction was wrought
unto them. Those who were coming behind saw how the Christians
were slaughtering the Moors, and they fled back to the castle
they had come from, without offering resistance.
The king pursued them, killing and beheading as many as he could
catch. When the king was worn out from his wounds, he stopped
for a moment and they captured a very tall Moor of enormous
proportions. After the king had knighted the countess's son, he
wanted him to kill that Moor. And very bravely the boy stabbed
him with his sword until he killed him. When the king saw that
the Moor was dead he took the boy by the hair and threw him on
top of the Moor, and rubbed him hard against the man, filling his
eyes and face with blood, and he made him stick his hands into
the wounds, and in that way he baptized him in the blood of the
Moor. He grew up very bravely, and in his time in a large part
of the world there could not be found so worthy a knight.
When the good king saw that the battle was won, he began to
pursue the Moors, and he killed all those he caught. This was
the greatest destruction and slaughter of men that took place in
that time, for ninety-seven thousand Moors died in the space of
ten days. Since the king could not walk well because of his
wounds, they brought him a horse so he could ride.
"In truth, I shall not," said the king. "All the others are
going on foot, and if I went on horseback it would be very
unjust."
They went along slowly until they came to the castle where the
Moors had barricaded themselves, and here they made camp and
rested that night. In the morning, when it was broad daylight,
the king ordered the trumpets blown, and all the men armed
themselves. The king put on his royal tunic and went in front of
all the rest, and they charged the castle. They were met by
cross bows and spears and rocks that were thrown down on them
from the top of the castle. And the king pressed on so hard
that he went ahead alone, without anyone being able to help him.
The countess's son shouted loudly:
"Run, knights of honor! Let us run and help our king and lord
who has placed himself in great danger!"
And he took hold of a small shield that a page was carrying, and
jumped into the moat to go to where the king was. The others,
seeing the small boy going by, all rushed forward at the same
time to get to the other side, and many knights died or were
wounded. But the small boy, with the aid of Our Lord, suffered
no harm.
When they had all crossed over they gathered a great deal of
wood, and they set fire to the door of the castle. The boy began
to shout as loudly as he could, and he said:
"Oh, English ladies! Come out, and regain your lost liberty: the
day of your redemption has come."
Three hundred nine women were inside the castle. When they heard
that voice they all ran to the back door of the castle, for there
was a huge fire at the other one and all the women were welcomed
by the Christians, and among them were many noblewomen.
When the Moors saw the great fire, and that the entire castle was
burning, they wanted to surrender, but the valiant king would not
permit it.
Instead, he wanted them all to die by fire and the sword. And
those who came running out of the castle were either quickly
killed, or the spears forced them back inside. In this way
twenty-two thousand Moors were killed and burned that day.
The hermit king left the castle with all his men, and they went
through all the kingdom to those places the Moors had taken.
They did not find one Moor that they wanted to spare, and they
went all the way to the port of Southampton where they found all
the vessels and ships on which they had come. Afterward the king
ordered that any Moor who came to the island of England, no
matter what his business might be, should die without mercy.
When they had retaken the entire kingdom, the king's vow was
fulfilled and all the people went into the city of Warwick. When
the countess learned that the king was coming she went out to
welcome him with all the ladies and maidens of the city, since
not one man had stayed there except the sick and wounded. When
the countess was near the king, she fell to her knees, and all
the other women shouted with a loud voice:
"Welcome, victorious King!"
The virtuous gentleman embraced them all, one by one, and took
the countess's hand, and they walked along, talking, until they
were inside the city. The countess thanked him profusely for all
the honor he had bestowed on her son, and then she thanked all
the other great lords.
Having rested for a few days, the hermit king was in his chamber
one day, thinking to himself. Since he had ended the war, and
the entire kingdom was at peace, he decided to reveal who he was
to his wife, the countess, and to all the others, so that he
could return the royal scepter to the first king, and go back to
his penance.
He called his chamberlain, and giving him the half-ring he had
divided with the countess before going to Jerusalem, he told him
to speak to her and give her the ring. The chamberlain quickly
went to the countess, and kneeling before her, he said:
"My lady, one who has loved and continues to love you sends you
this ring."
The countess took the ring, and when she looked at it she turned
pale. She ran into her chamber and opened a box where she kept
the other part of the ring. She put the two parts together, and
saw that they were one piece, revealing the family arms. She
understood that it belonged to her husband, the count, and she
cried out:
"Tell me, sir, where is my husband, the Count of Warwick?"
And she tried to find the door to leave the chamber, but in her
confusion she could not. Then she fell to the floor in a faint.
When the chamberlain saw what a state the countess was in, he ran
to the king in fright. The king said:
"My friend, what's wrong? What news do you bring me?"
The chamberlain fell to his knees before him, and said:
"I dearly wish you had not sent me. I don't know what special
power that ring has, or if it was made by sorcery and your
worship took it from the Moors, because as soon as the countess
placed it on her finger she fell to the floor, dead."
The king got up from his seat and quickly went to her chamber
where he found her more dead than alive, with all the doctors at
her side. As soon as the countess regained consciousness, and
saw her husband and king, she quickly got up and knelt before him
to kiss his feet and his hands. But he would not allow it, and
instead he took her arm and lifted her from the floor, and
embraced and kissed her many times. Then he revealed who he was
to all the lords in the kingdom, and to the entire town. And all
the lords and ladies came to honor the king and their new queen.
When the son learned that the king was his father, he hurried to
the chamber and knelt and kissed his hands and feet many times
over.
There were great celebrations, and after nine days four hundred
carts arrived, loaded with gold and silver, jewels, and very
valuable items which they had found in the Moors' possession.
The king ordered the jewels, the gold, and the silver to be given
to four lords: the Duke of Gloucester, the Duke of Bedford, the
Count of Salisbury, and the Count of Stafford.
After this had been done the king called a general council for
the following day. When they were all present, the king came
into the council chamber in his royal robes, the crown on his
head and the scepter in his hand, and sitting down, he said:
"My lord and king, Your Highness must be content with the grace
that almighty God has given you, for with the help of your
vassals you have recovered the entire isle of England. And so,
in the presence of all these worthy lords, I return to you the
kingdom, the crown, the scepter and the royal robes."
He immediately removed the garments and dressed again in his
habit.
The king and all the barons recognized his great virtue and
gentility, and gave him many thanks. The king asked him to
remain in his court, and offered to make him Prince of Wales, but
he excused himself, saying that he would not leave God's service
for the vanities of this world. Then he left the king and those
in the court, and went to his village, about a league from the
city, and there he rested for a few days.
When the countess learned that her husband had gone, she left the
castle without saying a word to the king or to anyone, and went
with her ladies and maidens to be with her husband.
Within a few days the king and his people were ready to leave.
Then the hermit-count told his son to go with the king, and to
serve him fully. And if disagreements arose in the kingdom, in
no case should he turn against his king and lord.
After the king had left for London, the countess begged her
husband:
"My lord, let me stay with you so that I may serve you. Let us
make a hermitage separated into two parts, with a church in
between."
So much did the countess implore him that the count was forced to
obey her. The countess then wanted to go to another site that
was lovely, with many trees and a beautiful, clear spring, and in
the middle of that fine meadow was a pine tree of striking
beauty. And everyday all the wild beasts of the forest came to
drink from that clear spring.
When the hermitage was finished, and the count and countess were
about to go and live in it, the Count of Northumberland arrived,
as an ambassador of the king, to ask them to go to London, for
the king was to marry the daughter of the King of France. And if
the count could not go, the countess was requested to go, for she
was needed to teach the queen the customs of England.
The count-hermit answered:
"Ambassador, tell His Majesty, the king, that I would he very
happy to serve His Excellency, but I cannot abandon the vow I
have made to serve God. As for the countess, her presence there
can take the place of both of us."
The countess would have preferred to remain behind and serve her
husband, but when she saw her husband's wishes, and realized her
duty to the king, she agreed to go. The count left them with
many tears and went to the hermitage. And every day, after
prayer, he went underneath the beautiful tree to see the animals
drink from the clear spring.