Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley

Mery it was in the grene foresteAmonge the levès grene,Wheras men hunt east and westWyth bowes and arrowes kene;

To raise the dere out of theyr denne;Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene;As by thre yemen of the north countrey,By them it is I meane.

The one of them hight Adam Bell,The other Clym of the Clough,The thyrd was Wyllyam of Cloudesley,An archer good ynough.

They were outlaw’d for venyson,These yemen everych-one;They swore them brethren upon a day,To Englyshe-wood for to gone.

Now lith and lysten, gentylmen,That of myrthes loveth to here:Two of them were single men,The third had a wedded fere.

Wyllyam was the wedded man,Muche more then was hys care:He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,To Carleile he would fare;

For to speke with fayre Alyce his wife,And with hys chyldren thre.‘By my trouth,’ sayde Adam Bel,‘Not by the counsell of me:

‘For if ye go to Carleile, brother,And from thys wylde wode wende,If that the Justice may you take,Your lyfe were at an ende.’--

‘If that I come not to-morowe, brother,By pryme to you agayne,Truste you then that I am taken,Or else that I am slayne.’

He toke his leave of hys brethren two,And to Carleile he is gon:There he knock’d at his owne windòweShortlye and anone.

‘Wher be you, fayre Alyce,’ he sayd,‘My wife and chyldren three?Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbànde,Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’--

‘Alas!’ then sayde fayre Alyce,And syghèd wonderous sore,‘Thys place hath ben besette for youThys halfè yere and more.’--

‘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.’

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.

There lay an old wyfe in that place,A lytle besyde the fyre,Whych Wyllyam had found of charytyeMore than seven yere.

Up she rose, and forth shee goes,Evel mote shee speede therfore!For shee had sett no foote on groundIn seven yere before.

She went unto the Justice Hall,As fast as she could hye:‘Thys night,’ shee sayd, ‘is come to townWyllyam of Cloudeslyè.’

Thereof the Justice was full fayne,And so was the Shirife also:‘Thou shalt not trauaile hither, dame, for nought,Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go.’

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.

They raysed the towne of mery CarleileIn all the haste they can;And came thronging to Wyllyam’s house,As fast as they might gone.

There they besette that good yemanRound about on every syde:Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes,That thither-ward fast hyed.

Alyce opened a backe wyndowe,And lokèd all aboute;She was ware of the Justice and Shirife bothe,Wyth a full great route.

‘Alas! treason!’ cryed Alyce,‘Ever wo may thou be!Goe into my chamber, my husband,’ she sayd,‘Swete Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’

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.

Fayre Alyce, like a lover true,Took a polaxe in her hande:Said, ‘He shall dye that cometh inThys dore, whyle I may stand.’

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.

‘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.’--

‘Yelde the Cloudesley,’ sayd the Justice,‘And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.’--‘God’s curse on hys hart,’ sayd fair Alyce,‘That my husband councelleth so!’--

‘Set fyre on the house,’ saide the Sherife,‘Syth it wyll no better be,And brenne we therin Wyllyam,’ he saide,‘Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.’

They fyred the house in many a place,The fyre flew up on hye:‘Alas!’ then cryèd fayre Alyce,‘I see we here shall dye.’

Wyllyam openyd a backe wyndowe,That was in hys chamber hie,And there with sheetes he did let downeHis wyfe and children three.

‘Have you here my treasure,’ sayde Wyllyam,‘My wyfe and my chyldren thre:For Christès love do them no harme,But wreke you all on me.’

Wyllyam shot so wonderous well,Tyll hys arrowes were all agoe,And the fyre so fast upon hym fell,That hys bowstryng brent in two.

The sparkles brent and fell uponGood Wyllyam of Cloudesley:Than was he a wofull man, and sayde,‘Thys is a cowardes death to me.

‘Leever had I,’ sayde Wyllyam,‘With my sworde in the route to renne,Then here among myne enemyes wodeThus cruelly to bren.’

He toke hys sword and hys buckler,And among them all he ran,Where the people were most in prece,He smot downe many a man.

There myght no man abyde hys stroakes,So fersly on them he ran:Then they threw windowes and dores on him,And so toke that good yemàn.

There they hym bounde both hand and fote,And in a deepe dungeon him cast:‘Now Cloudesley,’ sayd the Justice,‘Thou shalt be hangèd in hast.’

‘A payre of new gallowes,’ sayd the Sherife,‘Now shal I for thee make;’And the gates of Carleile shal be shutte:No man shal come in therat.

‘Then shall not helpe Clym of the Clough,Nor yet shall Adam Bell,Though they came with a thousand mo,Nor all the devels in hell.’

Early in the mornynge the Justice uprose,To the gates first can he gone,And commaunded to be shut full closeLightilè everych-one.

Then went he to the markett place,As fast as he coulde hye;There a payre of new gallowes he set upBesyde the pyllorye.

A lytle boy among them asked,What meanèd that gallow-tre?They sayde to hange a good yemàn,Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslèy.

That lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard,And kept fayre Alyce’s swyne;Oft he had seene Wyllyam in the wodde,And geven hym there to dyne.

He went out att a crevis of the wall,And lightly to the woode dyd gone;There met he with these wight yemenShortly and anone.

‘Alas!’ then sayde the lytle boye,‘Ye tary here all too longe;Cloudeslee is taken, and dampned to death,And readye for to honge.’

‘Alas!’ then sayd good Adam Bell,‘That ever we saw thys daye!He had better have tarryed with us,So ofte as we dyd him praye.

‘He myght have dwelt in grene foreste,Under the shadowes greene,And have kepte both hym and us att reste,Out of all trouble and teene.’

Adam bent a ryght good bow,A great hart sone hee had slayne:‘Take that, chylde, to thy dynner,And bryng me myne arrowe agayne.’

‘Now go we hence,’ sayed these wight yeomen,‘Tarry we no longer here;We shall hym borowe by God his grace,Though we buy itt full dere.’

To Carleile wente these bold yemen,All in a mornyng of maye.--Here is a Fyt of Cloudesley,And another is for to saye.

And when they came to mery Carleile,In a fayre mornyng tyde,They founde the gates shut them untyllAbout on every syde.

‘Alas!’ then sayd good Adam Bell,‘That ever we were made men!These gates be shut so wonderly well,We may not come therein.’

Then bespake him Clym of the Clough,‘With a wyle we wyl us in bryng;Let us say we be messengers,Streyght comen from our King.’

Adam said, ‘I have a letter written,Now let us wysely werke,We wyl saye we have the Kyngè’s seale;I holde the porter no clerke.’

Then Adam Bell bete on the gatesWith strokès great and stronge:The porter herde such a noyse therat,And to the gates he thronge.

‘Who is there now,’ sayd the porter,‘That maketh all thys knockinge?’--‘We be two messengers,’ quoth Clym of the Clough,‘Be come ryght from our Kynge.’--

‘We have a letter,’ sayd Adam Bell,‘To the Justice we must it brynge;Let us in our message to do,That we were agayne to the Kynge.’--

‘Here commeth none in,’ sayd the porter,‘By hym that dyed on a tre,Tyll a false thefe be hangèd,Called Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’

Then spake the good yeman, Clym of the Clough,And swore by Mary fre,‘And if that we stande long wythout,Lyke a thefe hangèd shalt thou be.

‘Lo! here we have got the Kynge’s seale:What, lordane, art thou wode?’The porter wende it had ben so,And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.

‘Welcome is my lordes seale,’ he saide;‘For that ye shall come in.’He opened the gate right shortlye:An evyl openyng for him!

‘Now are we in,’ sayde Adam Bell,‘Wherof we are full faine;But Christ he knowes, that harowed hell,How we shall come out agayne.’

‘Had we the keys,’ said Clym of the Clough,‘Ryght wel then shoulde we spede,Then might we come out wel ynoughWhen we se tyme and nede.’

They callèd the porter to counsell,And wrang his necke in two,And caste hym in a depe dungeon,And toke hys keys hym fro.

‘Now am I porter,’ sayd Adam Bell,‘Se, brother, the keys are here!The worst porter to merry CarleileThat ye had thys hundred yere.

‘And now wyll we our bowès bend,Into the towne wyll we go,For to delyver our dere brothèr,That lyeth in care and wo.’

Then they bent theyr good yew bowes,And lokèd theyr stringes were round,The market-place of mery CarleileThey beset in that stound.

And, as they lokèd them besyde,A paire of new galowes they see,And the Justice with a quest of swerers,That judged Cloudesley hangèd to be.

And Cloudesley lay redy in a cart,Fast bound both fote and hand;And a stronge rope about hys necke,All readye for to be hang’d.

The Justice called to him a ladde,Cloudesley’s clothes shold hee have,To take the measure of that yeman,Thereafter to make hys grave.

‘I have sene as great mervaile,’ said Cloudesley,‘As betweyne thys and pryme,He that maketh a grave for mee,Hymselfe may lye therin.’

‘Thou speakest proudlye,’ said the Justice,‘I will thee hange with my hande.’Full wel herd this his brethren two,There styll as they dyd stande.

Then Cloudesley cast his eyen asydeAnd saw hys brethren standeAt a corner of the market place,With theyr good bowes bent in theyr hand.

‘I se comfort,’ sayd Cloudesley;‘Yet hope I well to fare;If I might have my handes at wyll.Ryght lytell wolde I care.’

Then bespake good Adam BellTo Clym of the Clough so fre,‘Brother, se you marke the Justyce wel;Lo! yonder you may him se:

‘And at the Sheryfe shote I wyllStrongly wyth an arrowe kene.’--A better shote in mery CarleileThys seven yere was not sene.

They loosed their arrowes both at once,Of no man had they drede;The one hyt the Justice, the other the Sheryfe,That both theyr sides gan blede.

All men voyded, that them stode nye,When the Justice fell to the grounde,And the Sheryfe fell nye hym by;Eyther had his deathes wounde.

All the citezeyns fast gan flye,They durst no longer abyde:There lyghtly they losèd Cloudesley,Where he with ropes lay tyde.

Wyllyam start to an officer of the towne,Hys axe out hys hand he wronge,On echè syde he smote them downe,Hym thought he taryed to long.

Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,‘Thys daye let us lyve and die,If e’er you have nede, as I have now,The same you shall finde by me.’

They shot so well in that tyde(Theyr stringes were of silke ful sure)That they kept the stretes on every side;That batayle did long endure.

They fought together as brethren true,Lyke hardy men and bolde,Many a man to the ground they threw,And many a herte made colde.

But when their arrowes were all gon,Men presyd to them full fast,They drew theyr swordès then anone,And theyr bowès from them cast.

They went lyghtlye on theyr way,Wyth swordes and bucklers round;By that it was mydd of the day,They had made many a wound.

There was many an out-horne in Carleile blowen,And the belles backwarde dyd ryng;Many a woman sayde, Alas!And many theyr handes dyd wryng.

The Mayre of Carleile forth com was,Wyth hym a ful great route:These thre yemen dred hym full sore,For theyr lyvès stode in doute.

The Mayre came armèd a full great pace,With a polaxe in hys hande;Many a strong man wyth him was,There in that stowre to stande.

The Mayre smot at Cloudesley with his byll,Hys buckler he brast in two,Full many a yeman with great yll,‘Alas! Treason!’ they cryed for wo.‘Kepe well the gatès fast we wyll,That these traytours therout not go.’

But al for nought was that they wrought,For so fast they downe were layde,Tyll they all thre, that so manfully foughtWere gotten without, at a braide.

‘Have here your keys,’ sayd Adam Bell,‘Myne office I here forsake;And yf you do by my counsellA new porter do ye make.’

He threw theyr keys there at theyr hedes,And bad them well to thryve,And all that letteth any good yemanTo come and comfort his wyfe.

Thus be these good yeman gon to the wodeAs lyghtly as lefe on lynde;They laughe and be mery in theyr mode,Theyr enemyes were farre behynd.

When they came to Inglyswode,Under theyr trysty tre,There they found bowès full good,And arrowès great plentye.

‘So God me help,’ sayd Adam Bell,And Clym of the Clough so fre,‘I would we were in mery Carleile,Before that fayre meynye.’

They set them downe, and made good chere,And eate and dranke full well.--A second Fyt of the wightye yeomen:Another I wyll you tell.

As they sat in Inglyswode,Under theyr trysty tre,They thought they herd a woman wepe,But her they mought not se.

Sore syghèd there fayre Alyce, and sayd‘That ever I sawe thys day!For nowe is my dere husband slayne:Alas! and wel-a-waye!

‘Myght I have spoken wyth hys dere brethren,Or with eyther of them twayne,To show to them what him befell,My hart were out of payne.’

Cloudesley walked a lytle beside,Looked under the grene wood lynde,He was ware of his wife and chyldren three,Full wo in herte and mynde.

‘Welcome, wyfe,’ then sayde Wyllyam,‘Under this trysty tre:I had wende yesterday, by swete saynt John,Thou sholdest me never have se.’--

‘Now well is me that ye be here,My harte is out of wo.’--‘Dame,’ he sayde, ‘be mery of chere,And thanke my brethren two.’

‘Herof to speake,’ said Adam Bell,‘I-wis it is no bote:The meate, that we must supp withall,It runneth yet fast on fote.’

Then went they downe into a launde.These noble archars all thre;Eche of them slew a hart of greece.The best they cold there se.

‘Have here the best, Alyce, my wyfe,’Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudesley;‘By cause ye so bouldly stode me byWhen I was slayne full nye.’

Then wente they to theyr suppereWyth such meate as they had;And thankèd God of theyr fortune:They were both mery and glad.

And when that they had suppèd well,Certayne withouten lease,Cloudesley sayd, ‘We wyll to our Kynge,To get us a charter of peace.

‘Alyce shal be at sojournyngIn a nunnery here besyde;My tow sonnes shall wyth her go,And there they shall abyde.

‘My eldest son shall go wyth me;For hym have I no care:And he shall bring you worde agayn,How that we do fare.’

Thus be these wightmen to London goneAs fast as they myght hye,Tyll they came to the Kynge’s pallàce,Where they woulde needès be.

And whan they came to the Kynge’s courte,Unto the pallace gate,Of no man wold they aske no leave,But boldly went in therat.

They presyd prestly into the hall,Of no man had they dreade:The porter came after, and dyd them call,And with them began to chyde.

The usher sayde, ‘Yemen, what wold ye have?I pray you tell to me.You myght thus make offycers shent:Good syrs, of whence be ye?’--

‘Syr, we be outlawes of the forest,Certayne withouten lease;And hether we be come to the Kyng,To get us a charter of peace.’

And whan they came before our Kynge,As it was the lawe of the lande,They knelèd downe without lettyng,And eche held up his hand.

They sayd, ‘Lord, we beseche you hereThat ye wyll graunt us grace;For we have slayne your fat falowe dereIn many a sondry place.’

‘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.’--

‘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.

‘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.

There they toke these good yemen,And arested them al thre:‘So may I thryve,’ sayd Adam Bell,‘Thys game lyketh not me!

‘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,

‘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.’

‘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.

‘My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this landeTo be your wedded wyfe,The fyrst boone that I wold aske,Ye would graunt it me belyfe:

‘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.’--

‘Then, good my lord, I you beseche,These yemen graunt ye me.’--‘Madame, ye myght have asked a booneThat shuld have been worth them thre.

‘Ye myght have askèd towres and townes,Parkes and forestes plentye.’--‘None soe pleasant to my pay,’ shee sayd;‘Nor none so lefe to me.’--

‘Madame, sith it is your desyre,Your askyng graunted shal be;But I had lever have geven youGood market-townès thre.’

The Quenè was a glad woman,And sayde, ‘Lord, gramarcy!I dare and undertake for themThat true men shal they be.

‘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.’

They had not setten but a whyle,Certayne without lesynge,There came messengers out of the northWith letters to our Kynge.

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.’

‘How fareth my Justice,’ sayd the Kynge,‘And my Sheryfe also?’--‘Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge,And many an officer mo.’--

‘Who hath them slayne,’ sayd the Kynge,‘Anone that thou tell me.’--‘Adam Bell, and Clym of the Clough,And Wyllyam of Cloudesley.’--

‘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;

‘For I have y-graunted them grace,And that forthynketh me:But had I knowne all thys before,They had been hangèd all thre.’

The Kyng hee opened the letter anone,Himselfe he red it thro,And founde how these outlàwes had slainThre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the Justice, and the Sheryfe,And the Mayre of Carleile towne;Of all the constables and catchipollesAlyve 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 y-slaw;

And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;Of all they chose the best;So perèlous out-lawes as they wereWalked not by easte nor west.

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.’

The Kynge callèd hys best archarsTo the buttes wyth hym to go:‘I wyll se these felowes shote,’ he sayd,‘In the north have wrought this wo.’

The Kynge’s bowmen buske them blyve,And the Quene’s archers also;So dyd these thre wyght yemen;With them they thought to go.

There twyse or thryse they shote aboutFor to assay theyr hande;There was no shote these yemen shot,That any prycke myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudesley:‘By God that for me dyed,I hold hym never no good archar,That shoteth at buttes so wyde.’--

‘At what a butte now wold ye shote,I pray thee tell to me?’--‘Nay, syr,’ he sayd, ‘at such a butteAs men use in my countrè.’

Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,And with him his two brethren:There they set up two hasell roddesTwenty score paces betwene.

‘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.’

‘I shall assaye, syr,’ sayd Cloudesley,‘Or that I farther go.’Cloudesley with a bearing aroweClave the wand in two.

‘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.

‘I have a sonne is seven yere olde,He is to me full deare;I wyll hym tye unto a stake:All shall se, that be here;

‘And lay an apple upon hys head,And go syxe score paces hym fro,And I my selfe with a brode arowShall cleve the apple in two.’

‘Now hastè the,’ then sayd the Kynge,‘By hym that dyed on a tre,But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde,Hangèd shall thou be.

‘An thou touche his head or gowne,In syght that men may se,By all the sayntes that be in heaven,I shall hange you all thre!’

‘That I have promised,’ said Wyllyam,‘That I wyll never forsake.’And there even before the KyngeIn the earth he drove a stake:

And bound thereto his eldest sonne,And bad hym stand styll thereat;And turned the childè’s face him fro,Because he should not start.

An apple upon his head he set,And then his bowe he bent:Syxe score paces they were out-met,And thether Cloudesley went

There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,--Hys bowe was great and longe,--He set that arrowe in his bowe,That was both styffe and stronge.

He prayèd the people, that was there,That they all styll wold stand,‘For he that shoteth for such a wager,Behoveth a stedfast hand.’

Muche people prayèd for Cloudesley,That his lyfe savèd myght be,And whan he made hym redy to shote,There was many weeping e’e.

But Cloudesley clefte the apple in two,That many a man it se;‘Over God’s forbode,’ sayde the Kynge,‘That thou shold shote at me!’

‘I geve thee eightene pence a day,And my bowè shalt thou bere,And over all the north countrèI make the chyfe rydère.’

‘And I thyrtene pence,’ said the Quene,‘By God, and by my fay;Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,No man shall say the nay.

‘Wyllyam, I make the a gentlemanOf clothyng, and of fe:And thy brethren yemen of my chambre,For they are so semely to se.

‘Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,Of my wyne-seller he shall be;And when he commeth to mans estate,Better avaunced shall he be.

‘And, Wyllyam, bring me your wife,’ said the Quene,‘Me longeth her sore to se:She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,To governe my nurserye.’

The yemen thanked them all courteously,And sayd, ‘To Rome wyl we wend,Of all the synnes, that we have done,To be assoyld at his hand.’

So forth be gone these good yemèn,As fast as they might hye;And after came and dwell’d with the Kynge,And dyed good men all thre.

Thus endeth the lyves of these good yemèn;God send them eternall blysse;And all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth:That of heven they may never mysse!