UNTIL 1984, WHEN A. J. Holden published his edition of Le Roman de Waldef, this romance was known, but rarely studied. While there were entries on it in encyclopedic compendia, and it was occasionally mined for linguistic material, the only sustained discussions of the work as a whole were by Legge, in her survey of Anglo-Norman literature, Levy, in a 1972 article, and Anderson, in an extended entry in a multi-volume work (see Suggested Further Reading). The availability of Holden's edition changed this, though less than might have been expected. The sheer length of the text, as well as its unavailability in a modern English (or French) translation, still prevented it from attracting the attention it deserves, in spite of Rosalind Field's seminal 2000 article “Waldef and the Matter of/with England” and Judith Weiss's discussions of some aspects of it in a series of articles over the past fifteen years or so. We embarked on the present translation in the hope of rescuing this highly interesting narrative from undeserved neglect by making it more accessible both for novices and for seasoned scholars. It has a great deal to offer both categories.

The lengthy genesis of the book had its roots in each translator's dissatisfaction with the romance's academic obscurity, but each of us balked at the sheer magnitude of the undertaking. In the spring of 2011, Thelma Fenster pointed out that a text of this length required a collective effort, and that is how our team came together. During the years we spent working on Waldef we have had few opportunities to meet in person: an initial get-together over lunch to discuss general principles, a break between conference sessions a year later, which we used to review a draft translation of some sections of the text together, and, several years after that, a week when all three of us were able to sit around the same table, putting the finishing touches to our first complete draft. In between, e-mail, cloud-based data sharing, and electronic video-conferencing allowed us to bridge the Atlantic and ignore, for the most part, differences in time zones.

DATEDTO APPROXIMATELY 1200–1210, the anonymous romance Waldef provides a foundation myth for East Anglia, particularly Norfolk. Drawing on a rich combination of earlier romances, classical legends, chronicles, and saints’ lives, the author creates a multi-layered story of pre-Conquest kings whose shifting political alliances lead both to battles and to peace treaties, some brokered by princesses who fall in love opportunely with these belligerent monarchs. Although the author does not name his patron, he claims to write for a lady who wanted to “read and learn” (v. 81). The intended audience is the French-speaking (or at least French-literate) gentry and nobility of England, most likely during the reign of King John. Set in an indeterminate past after the withdrawal of the Roman Empire in 410 and before the Conquest of 1066, the romance underlines the Anglo-Norman upper classes’ identification with their new homeland: the Anglo-Saxon era is their history, too. The adventures of Waldef and his family connect England to a wider world, not only Normandy and France, but Germany and the Mediterranean. At the same time, the romance problematizes that connection, as Waldef's sons overreach their ability to rule outside their father's kingdom.

The romance critiques social structures and political actions as well as chivalric values. Its protracted battles repeatedly reveal the difficulties inherent in shaping and maintaining alliances, as well as emphasizing the value of reconciliation and forgiveness. It also traces fault-lines and conflicts within families, particularly between fathers and sons. The author reworks one common romance motif, the separation and reunification of a family, by refusing to allow Waldef to live happily ever after once his lost sons, Guiac and Gudlac, return to him. Instead, the grown sons leave home in search of foreign conquests, rejecting their father's strategy of warring on his neighbours. Their parents grieve their departure, rightly so since the second separation proves permanent: Waldef dies alone, battling the treacherous nephews of a former enemy turned ally. Conflicts continue through generations, rather than achieving lasting resolution.

Similar revisions of familiar tropes occur frequently. The poet combines well-known plot devices in original and thought-provoking ways, interlacing themes so that readers are constantly challenged to re-evaluate their judgments of characters and situations. Because Waldef both draws on earlier tales and influences later stories in both Anglo-Norman and Middle English, it is central to the Anglo-Norman literary corpus.

IN BRITAIN LONG before our time there lived many powerful kings from whom nobles held their lands. What is now called England was then called Britain. Julius Caesar, who was bent on conquering, made a great effort to take it. Julius, the emperor of Rome, often came to conquer England with a fierce army, for he greatly desired the land. He came often with a large force, and often lost men, which left him heavy-hearted. Finally he conquered it by military might, with the help of Androgeus, a duke of Kent, as the Brut clearly tells. It relates how the Romans conquered it, received tribute, often suffered defeat, and subsequently lost the tribute. Whoever wants to know the story should read the Brut, and he will hear it there. (1–24)

I want to tell you a story well worth listening to. It is based entirely on the truth, for it is about the English kings: how at that time they held, divided, and ruled the land, and what happened to them. This history is much loved and well remembered by the English, by princes, dukes, and kings. That is, it was much loved by the English, great and small, until the Norman Conquest. When the Normans took the land the great histories composed in English survived and were translated for the people, who changed at that time, just as the languages did. Afterwards yet more stories were translated, such as the Brut, such as the story of Tristram, who suffered so much pain and sorrow, and of good King Aelof, who fought so much and so violently. These and many others that you can often hear are greatly loved by many people. These heroic tales, which were in English, have been translated into French. People in olden times had a very good custom: between them they remembered what had happened to them, committing all those events to memory, so that their successors often recounted them, improving them in the process. (25–62)

I want to tell you the history of the powerful and valiant king Waldef: how he was often betrayed, how he lost his two sons, taken away from him to foreign lands when they were very young, in which country each was brought up, how there was mortal war between them, how they eventually became good friends, and the many heavy misfortunes that befell them.

Prologue (1–74)

En Bretaigne furent jadis Plusurs rois mult poësteïs,

Ki devant nus dunc i esteient,

De qui les granz honurs teneient; 4

Bretaigne esteit dunc apelee Qu’ore est Engleterre clamee; Julius Cesar la conquist,

De conquere mult s’entremist. 8

Julius de Rome ert emperere, Suvent avint ove gent fiere En Engleterre pur conquerre

Car il desiroit mult la terre; 12

Od grant esforz i vint suvent E suvent perdi de sa gent, Dunt il ot le quor mult iré.

Puis la conquist par poësté 16

Par Androgeu, un duc de Kent, Com le Bruit conte apertement: Come le Romein la conquistrent,

Combien de tens le treü pristrent, 20

Com il ierunt suvent vencu, Com perdirent puis le treü; Qui l’estoire savoir voldra

Lise le Brut, illoc l’orra. 24

D’une estoire voldrai parler Ki mult fet bien a escuter, De verité est tute feite

Kar des rois engleis est estreite, 28

Com il la terre dunc tenoient, Cum entreuls parti l’avoient,

En quel maniere puis la tindrent

E les aventures q’avindrent. 32

Ceste estoire est mult amee

E des Englés mult recordee,

Des princes, des ducs e des reis;

Mult iert amee des Engleis, 36

Des petites genz e des granz, Desqu’a la prise des Normanz. Quant Li Norman la terre pristrent

Les granz estoires puis remistrent 40

Qui des Engleis estoient fetes,

Qui des aucuns ierent treites, Pur la gent qui dunc diverserunt

E les languages si changerunt. 44

Puis i ad asez translatees,

Qui mult sunt de plusurs amees, Com est le Bruit, com est Tristram,

Qui tant suffri poine e hahan, 48

Com est Aelof, li bons rois,

Qui tant en fist des granz desrois; Ces en sunt, e altres asez

Que vus asez oïr purrez, 52

Ces gestes, qu’erent en engleis, Translatees sunt en franceis. Les anciens ça en ariere

Mult par orent bone manere; 56

Les aventures que lur avindrent Entreuls tutes bien les retindrent E en memorie les metoient,

Que cil qui en aprés venoient 60

Suventes foiz les recorderent, Plusurs suvent en amenderent.

OKENARDSAID: “MY dear lord, I’ll willingly swear the oath.” They asked for the relics, and Okenard swore upon them to what Edward required. Next he asked for leave to go and they all granted it. He commended them to God and gave them many thanks for thus freeing him, then he left and quickly made his way out of the city. He rode so long that day that he lodged in Hertford, where he was received with great honour. He stayed there all that day, and left next morning, to go straight to King Waldef. Waldef was then in Thetford, holding a great feast. King Merlin and King Florenz and King Swein, with large retinues, King Felix of Huntingdon with his family and his friends, and dukes, earls, and barons from other parts, had all come to the feast and were most joyful at the return of King Waldef, who had escaped from prison. Then a traveller appeared, spurring into King Waldef's presence. “Sire,” he said, “listen to me and you’ll hear news of Okenard. He is quite free now; you’ll soon see him in the city.” When King Waldef heard him, he rejoiced greatly. “My lords,” he said, “now quickly mount your horses and all together come with me. We’ll go and greet Okenard. We should show him great honour, for he's saved me from death and God sends him here to us. I’ll reward him as soon as ever I can.” King Waldef mounted his horse, accompanied by his magnificent assembly of barons. Bells rang in the city and a Te Deum was sung. Everyone went to meet Okenard and greeted him with great joy. Having received him courteously, they all went back together. Whoever serves a worthy man prospers mightily, but whoever serves a bad man comes off the worse. He who serves the worthy man will in the end profit by it, and he who serves the bad one, as we have heard many times, will never get anything good from him; on the contrary, he who has served him the most will, in the end, seek to trick his master into dismissing him. According to a proverb I have often heard, he who serves a bad man wastes his time. (10807–74)

The Origins of Mordred

Mordred is one of literature's greatest traitors. Moreover, his treachery is compounded by sexual sins that are not its necessary or usual corollaries: adultery and incest. However, the first text in which he appears, the Welsh Annal for the year 537 (which may itself be no older than middle of the tenth century), refers to ‘the battle of Camlann in which Arthur and Mordred fell’ (‘Gueith Camlann in qua Arthur et Medrait corruerunt’) only in a way that seems to be entirely neutral. It is not obvious that he was on the opposite side to Arthur at the sixth-century battle; and the two men may well have fought and died together. References to Mordred in twelfth-century Welsh texts are positive: his valour and good nature form a standard for the praise of others. Arthur and Mordred – although not originally related, as far as we can tell – might thus be said to be warriors ‘on the same side’ and from the same place. In this essay, I propose to discuss how Mordred came to be such an paradigmatically evil figure, to the point where he is used as a template for villainy in other later texts. At the same time, I also want to consider the survival of those admirable aspects in his characterization that ultimately make him a figure of considerable ambivalence: simultaneously both anti-hero and hero.

In 1963, in a groundbreaking book, Dominica Legge asserted that ‘the love of the sea and of voyages is characteristic of Anglo-Norman literature’. Over forty years later, scholars are more cautious and more inclined to detect ambivalent attitudes in such literature. Sebastian Sobecki sees, in Anglo-Norman narratives after Benedeit’s St Brendan, a ‘growing uneasiness towards the deep’ and anxieties about the ‘cold, treacherous and tempestuous sea of Northern Europe’, even if this sea enabled communications and carried Christianity. The Vie de St Edmund, by Denis Piramus (c. 1170), and the anonymous romance of Waldef (1200–10), both unfinished, enable us to explore both views. These narratives have many features in common: they are influenced by Wace’s Brut, they write in East Anglia on whose history and topography they are knowledgeable, and they are acutely aware of its coastline’s vulnerability to invasion. But they also have fundamentally different attitudes to the sea, which probably in the end comes down to their different genres: one is a saint’s life, with its undercurrent of optimism in the power and ultimate beneficence of God, and the other is a romance which, though generically uncharacteristic in its lack of optimism – it recurrently portrays disorder and political injustice – sees progress achieved through secular rather than religious means.

The most remarkable feature of the Vie de St Edmund would seem to support Legge’s assertion. By the time Denis Piramus composed his work, there were many versions of the saint’s life in existence, and yet his is the only one to describe with nautical detail Edmund’s voyage by sea from Saxony to East Anglia. It is a pleasing irony that this journey rests ultimately on a fundamental misunderstanding of the earliest known Life of the saint. The Continental scholar, Abbo of Fleury, spent a couple of years (c. 986–8) at Ramsey abbey, where the monks commissioned him to write about the patron saint of Bury St Edmunds, martyred by the Danes in 869–70; the result was the Passio Sancti Edmundi. Abbo (c. 945–1004) claimed to have heard his story of Edmund first-hand from St Dunstan but ‘almost certainly … knew virtually nothing about St Edmund’s death’.

The most famous literary swoon in insular literature is probably Troilus's, in Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde. Although I do not wish to make this swoon the principal focus of my look at fainting in romances, it is instructive to start with it, because recent reactions to it have been polarised and as a result might perhaps skew our attitudes to other fainting men and women in medieval literature. In my necessarily incomplete investigation of when and why medieval fictional people faint, and who do so, I have primarily used examples from insular romances in Anglo-Norman and English, and have sought to widen their context by referring to medieval medical views on syncope (still the word for fainting today). The latters' objective accounts and explanations of the phenomenon provide a welcome antidote to some of the twentieth- and twenty-first-century approaches adopted in recent studies of Chaucer's masterpiece.

In Book III of Troilus the hero swoons during his first night with Criseyde and has to be revived by his beloved and Pandarus. Many critics of the last twenty years have characterised Troilus's faint in disparaging terms: he is unmanly, even emasculated, impotent, helpless and passive. In other words he is supposedly behaving like a woman, or at least like a stereotypical one. Two important studies by Jill Mann and Gretchen Mieszkowski have rebutted these charges, approaching them from different directions. Mieszkowski has alerted us to the way our outlook has been influenced by attitudes to fainting observable in the narratives of the eighteenth and subsequent centuries, when ‘women became the swooners’ and men rarely faint and are ridiculed if they do.