He toke his leave of hys brethren two, And to Carleile he is gon: There he knock’d at his owne windòwe Shortlye and anone. XI ‘Wher be you, fayre Alyce,’ he sayd, ‘My wife and chyldren three? Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbànde, Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’-- XII ‘Alas!’ then sayde fayre Alyce, And syghèd wonderous sore, ‘Thys place hath ben besette for you Thys halfè yere and more.’-- XIII ‘Now am I here,’ sayde Cloudesley, ‘I would that in I were. Now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe, And let us make good chere.’ XIV She fetchèd hym meate and drynke plentye, Lyke a true wedded wyfe; And pleasèd hym with that she had, Whom she loved as her lyfe. XV There lay an old wyfe in that place, A lytle besyde the fyre, Whych Wyllyam had found[665] of charytye More than seven yere. XVI Up she rose, and forth shee goes, Evel mote shee speede therfore! For shee had sett no foote on ground In seven yere before. XVII She went unto the Justice Hall, As fast as she could hye: ‘Thys night,’ shee sayd, ‘is come to town Wyllyam of Cloudeslyè.’ XVIII Thereof the Justice was full fayne[666], And so was the Shirife also: ‘Thou shalt not trauaile hither, dame, for nought, Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go.’ XIX They gave to her a ryght good goune, Of scarlate, [and of graine]: She toke the gyft, and home she wente, And couchèd her doune agayne. XX They raysed the towne of mery Carleile In all the haste they can; And came thronging to Wyllyam’s house, As fast as they might gone. XXI There they besette that good yeman Round about on every syde: Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes, That thither-ward fast hyed. XXII Alyce opened a backe wyndowe, And lokèd all aboute; She was ware of the Justice and Shirife bothe, Wyth a full great route. XXIII ‘Alas! treason!’ cryed Alyce, ‘Ever wo may thou be! Goe into my chamber, my husband,’ she sayd, ‘Swete Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’ XXIV He toke hys sword and hys buckler, Hys bow and hys chyldren thre, And wente into hys strongest chamber, Where he thought surest to be. XXV Fayre Alyce, like a lover true, Took a polaxe in her hande: Said, ‘He shall dye that cometh in Thys dore, whyle I may stand.’ XXVI Cloudesley bente a wel good bowe, That was of a trusty tre, He smot the Justice on the brest, That hys arowe brast in three. XXVII ‘God’s curse on his harte,’ saide Wyllyam, ‘Thys day thy cote dyd on! If it had ben no better then myne, It had gone nere thy bone.’-- XXVIII