Part 48

“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee, “Syn I my Sauyour see; To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn, “With the myght of mylde Mary.”

Then spake Moche the mylner sune, Euer more wel hym betyde, “Take xii thi wyght zemen Well weppynd be thei side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon That xii dar not abyde.”

“Off alle my mery men,” seid Robyne, “Be my feithe I wil non haue; But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow Til that me list to drawe.”

* * * * *

“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid Litulle Jon, “Maister, and I wil beyre myne, And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon, “Vnder the grene wode lyne.”

“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde Robyn Hode, “In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee, But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn, “In feith I holde the thre.”

Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too, Bothe at buske and brome, Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister V s. to hose and shone.

A ferly strife fel them betwene, As they went bi the way; Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone, And smote him with his honde; Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde.

“Were thou not my maister,” seid Litulle Johne, “Thou shuldis by hit ful sore; Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more.”

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hymselfe mornynge allone, And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, The pathes he knowe alkone.

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to God and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne.

He gos into seynt Mary chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode; Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode.

Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke, I pray to God woo he be; Full sone he knew gode Robyn As sone as he hym se.

Out at the durre he ran Ful sone and anon; Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone.

“Rise vp,” he seid, “thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne; I haue spyed the kynges felone, For sothe he is in this towne.

“I haue spyed the false felone, As he stondes at his masse; Hit is longe of the,” seide the munke, “And euer he fro vs passe.

“This traytur name is Robyn Hode; Vnder the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.”

Vp then rose this prowd schereff, And zade towarde hym zare; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with him can fare.

In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ilkone, “Alas, alas,” seid Robin Hode, “Now mysse I Litulle Johne.”

But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne; Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust, Thidurward wold he.

Thryes thorow at them he ran, Then for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day.

Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; “The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn, “I pray God wyrke him woo.

“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid Robyne, “Alasse, agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle.”

Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euerilkon; Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone.

* * * * *

Non of theym were in her mynde But only Litulle Jon.

“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle Jon, “For his luf that dyed on tre; Ze that shulde be duzty men, Hit is gret shame to se.