Then would the bailiffs that were come from France—drive out the Flemings who made the disturbance;—but they turned against them with sword and with lance,—strong men and nimble.—I tell you for truth, in spite of their vaunting,—and in spite of the patronage of the King of France,—four hundred and five had there mischance—by day and also by night.
Sir Jacques de St. Paul heard how it was:—he assembled sixteen hundred knights on the grass;—they went towards Bruges step by step,—with a very great body of people.—The Flemings heard tell of the case; they begin to clink their basins of brass,—and they break them all to pieces as a stone does glass,—and fell them to the ground.
Sixteen hundred knights had there their end;—they lay in the streets stuck like swine;—there they lost their steeds, and many a horse,—through their own pride;—Sir Jacques escaped by a cunning contrivance,—out at a postern where they sold wine,—out of the fight home to his lodging,—in very great fear.
When the King of France heard this, anon—he assembled his douze peers every one,—the proud Comte d’Artois and others many a one,—to come to Paris.—The barons of France began to go thither,—into the palace that is paved with stone,—to judge the Flemings to be burnt and slain,—through the fleur-de-lis.
Then said King Philip, “Listen now to me,—my earls and my barons gentle and free,—go, fetch me the traitors in bonds to my knees,—hastily and quickly.”—Then swore the Comte de Saint Paul, “By the throat of God!—we shall fetch the ribalds wherever it be thy will,—and draw them with wild horses out of the country—by five-thousands.”
“Sir Ralf Devel,” says the Comte de Bologne,—“we will not leave alive either canon or monk,—let us go forth anon right without any excuse,—nor no man alive (?).—We shall flay the Conyng (rabbit), and cause his loins to be roasted;—the fame of him shall spring as far as Cologne,—so shall it to Acre and into Saxony,—and make them full pale.”
Seven counts and forty barons in number,—fifteen hundred knights proud and very bold,—sixty thousand squires what with young and old,—to take the Flemings.—The Flemings boldly came against them;—these proud French comtes, their knights, and their men—they killed and slew over the hills and the plains,—all for their King’s sake.
These French came to Flanders as light as the hare;—before it was midnight there fell upon them care;—they were caught in the net as a bird is in the snare,—with horse and with steed.—The Flemings dab them on the bare head;—they will take for them neither ransom nor pay;—they dod off their heads, happen what may,—and thereto have they need.
Then saith the Comte d’Artois, “I yield me to thee,—Peter Conyng by name, if thou art gentle and free,—that I may suffer no shame nor disgrace,—and that I may not be slain.”—Then swore a butcher, “By my loyalty!—thou shalt never more see the King of France,—nor be in prison in the town of Bruges,—thou wouldest consume bread.”
There they were heaped into the pit-full,—these counts and barons and all their knights;—their ladies may wait for them in bower and in hall—very long.—In their place must their king call other knights,—and take other steeds out of their stables:—there they have drunk bitterer than gall,—upon the dry land.