‘I am Gahmuret of Anjou!’

‘I give you my parole,’ replied the other.

Gahmuret accepted it and sent him in. This won him much praise from the ladies looking on.

But Gaschier of Normandý was riding up at speed, a proud and fearless warrior and a jouster of great power. Handsome Gahmuret was ready to receive him in a second clash. His lance-head was broad, the shaft stout: the strangers were immediately engaged. The scales were soon tipped: down went Gaschier, horse and all, under the shock of the joust, and he was forced to surrender willy-nilly.

‘Your hand on it, which gave so good an account of itself!’ said doughty Gahmuret. ‘Now ride to the army of the Scots and ask them to refrain from attacking us, if they would be so kind. Then follow me into the town.’

His order – or request – was duly carried out. The Scots were forced to call off the fight.

Kaylet was next to ride up. Gahmuret turned aside, since Kaylet was his cousin on his mother’s side. What cause had he to harm him? The Spaniard pursued him with loud cries. Kaylet’s helmet bore an Ostrich-crest. He was arrayed in flowing silk, as I am bound to tell, and the meadow rang with the little bells he wore as he passed through it. Ah, flower of manly beauty! He outshone all but two, of a later generation: Lot’s son Beacurs and Parzival, who were yet to come. These were still unborn: but in later days they were singled out for beauty.

Gaschier seized Kaylet’s bridle. ‘Your wildness will be tamed, believe me, if you oppose the Angevin, riding there with my surrender. Take my advice, which is also a request, my lord. I have promised Gahmuret that I will turn you all from battle, he has my hand on it. For love of me, press on no more, or he will show you his mettle when it comes to blows.’

‘If he is my cousin, Gahmuret fil li roi Gandin,’ replied King Kaylet, ‘I have no quarrel with him! Let go my bridle!’

‘I will not let go before I see your head bared! – My own is rocking!’ Kaylet unlaced his helmet and doffed it.

Gahmuret had more fighting to do. As yet the morning was but half spent and the townsfolk who had seen this joust were glad it was so. They all hurried along to the outermost defences, for he seemed to them like a net: whatever came beneath was trapped! He mounted a fresh horse (so I was told) which flew along barely touching the ground, was equally apt in the left or right wheel, courageous in battle and, for all its pace, was easily checked. Thus mounted, what did he achieve? Deeds such as move me to commend his valour! He rode within sight of the Moors as they lay with their host, westwards down by the sea.

There was a prince named Razalic, the mightiest man of Azagouc. Day after day he never failed to set out for the town in search of jousting. In this his race did not belie him, he was a scion of royal stock. Yet the warrior of Anjou ended his prowess with a swift check-mate, with the result that a dusky lady who had sent Razalic there was deeply grieved that any should defeat him. Without prompting, a squire had handed his master a spear with a bamboo shaft, and with it Gahmuret had thrust the Moor over his cruppers clean on to the sand. But Gahmuret did not let him lie for long before taking him prisoner.

With this the war was high and dry, and Gahmuret had covered himself in glory.

Gahmuret then caught sight of eight pennants floating in the direction of the town. He quickly told his gallant captive to turn them back. He then ordered him to follow him in. Razalic complied, for so necessity decreed.

Nor had Gaschier failed to appear. It was this that first told the Burgrave that his guest had taken the field.