But, good my lord, speke som mery word,
That comfort they might se."
"I graunt you grace," then sayd our king;
"Washe, felos, and to meate go ye."
They had not setten but a whyle
Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our kyng.
And whan the came before our kynge,
They knelt downe on theyr kne;
And sayd, "Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntre."
"How fareth my justice," sayd the kyng,
"And my sherife also?
Syr, they be slayne without leasynge,
And many an officer mo."
"Who hath them slayne?" sayd the kyng;
"Anone that thou tell me."
"Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè."
"Alas for rewth!" then sayd our kynge:
"My hart is wonderous sore;
I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before:
"For I have graunted them grace,
And that forthynketh me:
But had I knowne of this before,
They had been hanged all thre."
The kyng he opened the letter anon;
Himselfe he red it thro,
And founde how these outlawes had slain
Thre hundred men and mo:
Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,
And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Alyve were scant left one:
The baylyes, and the bedyls both,
And the sergeauntes of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe,
These outlawes had yslaw:
And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous out-lawes, as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.