And whan they came before our Kynge, As it was the lawe of the lande, They knelèd downe without lettyng[694], And eche held up his hand. CXVII They sayd, ‘Lord, we beseche you here That ye wyll graunt us grace; For we have slayne your fat falowe dere In many a sondry place.’ CXVIII ‘What be your names,’ then said our Kynge, ‘Anone that you tell me?’-- They sayd, ‘Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’-- CXIX ‘Be ye those theves,’ then sayd our Kynge, ‘That men have tolde of to me? Here to God I make an avowe, Ye shal be hangèd al thre. CXX ‘Ye shal be dead without mercỳ, As I am Kynge of this lande.’ He commanded his officers everich-one, Fast on them to lay hande. CXXI There they toke these good yemen, And arested them al thre: ‘So may I thryve,’ sayd Adam Bell, ‘Thys game lyketh not me! CXXII ‘But, good lorde, we beseche you then, That yee graunt us grace, Insomuche as we be to you comen, Or else we may fro you passe, CXXIII ‘With such weapons as we have here, Tyll we be out of your place; And yf we lyve this hundred yere, We wyll aske you no grace.’ CXXIV ‘Ye speake proudly,’ sayd the Kynge; ‘Ye shall be hangèd all thre.’ ‘That were great pitye,’ then sayd the Quene, ‘If any grace myght be. CXXV ‘My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande To be your wedded wyfe, The fyrst boone that I wold aske, Ye would graunt it me belyfe[695]: CXXVI ‘And I asked you never none tyll now; Therefore, lorde, graunt it me!’-- ‘Now aske it, madam,’ sayd the Kynge, ‘And graunted it shal be.’-- CXXVII ‘Then, good my lord, I you beseche, These yemen graunt ye me.’-- ‘Madame, ye myght have asked a boone That shuld have been worth them thre. CXXVIII ‘Ye myght have askèd towres and townes, Parkes and forestes plentye.’-- ‘None soe pleasant to my pay[696],’ shee sayd; ‘Nor none so lefe[697] to me.’-- CXXIX ‘Madame, sith it is your desyre, Your askyng graunted shal be; But I had lever have geven you Good market-townès thre.’ CXXX The Quenè was a glad woman, And sayde, ‘Lord, gramarcy! I dare and undertake for them That true men shal they be. CXXXI ‘But good lord, speke som mery word, That comfort they may se.’-- ‘I graunt you grace,’ then sayd our Kynge; ‘Washe, felows, and to meate go ye.’ CXXXII They had not setten but a whyle, Certayne without lesynge, There came messengers out of the north With letters to our Kynge. CXXXIII And whan they came before the Kynge, They knelt downe on theyr kne; And sayd, ‘Lord, your officers grete you well, Of Carleile in the north countrè.’ CXXXIV