‘How fareth my Justice,’ sayd the Kynge, ‘And my Sheryfe also?’-- ‘Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, And many an officer mo.’-- CXXXV ‘Who hath them slayne,’ sayd the Kynge, ‘Anone that thou tell me.’-- ‘Adam Bell, and Clym of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’-- CXXXVI ‘Alas for rewth!’ then sayd our Kynge: ‘My herte is wonderous sore; I had lever than a thousande pounde, I had knowne of thys before; CXXXVII ‘For I have y-graunted them grace, And that forthynketh[698] me: But had I knowne all thys before, They had been hangèd all thre.’ CXXXVIII The Kyng hee opened the letter anone, Himselfe he red it thro, And founde how these outlàwes had slain Thre hundred men and mo: CXXXIX Fyrst the Justice, and the Sheryfe, And the Mayre of Carleile towne; Of all the constables and catchipolles Alyve were scant left one: CXL The baylyes, and the bedyls both, And the sergeauntes of the law, And forty fosters of the fe[699], These outlawes had y-slaw; CXLI And broke his parks, and slayne his dere; Of all they chose the best; So perèlous out-lawes as they were Walked not by easte nor west. CXLII When the Kynge this letter had red, In hys herte he syghèd sore: ‘Take up the tables,’ anone he bad, ‘For I may eat no more.’ CXLIII The Kynge callèd hys best archars To the buttes[700] wyth hym to go: ‘I wyll se these felowes shote,’ he sayd, ‘In the north have wrought this wo.’ CXLIV The Kynge’s bowmen buske them[701] blyve[702], And the Quene’s archers also; So dyd these thre wyght yemen; With them they thought to go. CXLV There twyse or thryse they shote about For to assay theyr hande; There was no shote these yemen shot, That any prycke[703] myght stand. CXLVI Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudesley: ‘By God that for me dyed, I hold hym never no good archar, That shoteth at buttes so wyde.’-- CXLVII ‘At what a butte now wold ye shote, I pray thee tell to me?’-- ‘Nay, syr,’ he sayd, ‘at such a butte As men use in my countrè.’ CXLVIII Wyllyam wente into a fyeld, And with him his two brethren: There they set up two hasell roddes Twenty score paces betwene. CXLIX ‘I hold him an archar,’ said Cloudesley, ‘That yonder wande cleveth in two,’-- ‘Here is none suche,’ sayd the Kynge, ‘Nor no man can so do.’ CL ‘I shall assaye, syr,’ sayd Cloudesley, ‘Or that I farther go.’ Cloudesley with a bearing arowe[704] Clave the wand in two. CLI ‘Thou art the best archer,’ then said the Kynge, ‘Forsothe that ever I se.’-- ‘And yet for your love,’ sayd Wyllyam, ‘I wyll do more maystery. CLII