Part 49

“Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away; Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say.

“He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly; Therefore I trust in her specialy No wycked deth shal he dye.

“Therfor be glad,” seid Litul Johne, “And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde, With the myght of mylde Mary.

“And I mete hym,” seid Litull Johne, “We will go but we too . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre Vnder the levys smale, And spare non of this venyson That gose in thys vale.”

Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere.

Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge, And lokid forth at a stage; He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with him a litul page.

“Be my feith,” said Litul Johne to Moche, “I can the tel tithyngus gode; I se wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode.”

Thei went into the way these zemen bothe As curtes men and hende, Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke, As thei hade bene his frende.

“Fro whens come ze,” seid Litul Johne, “Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray, Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode], Was takyn zisturday.

“He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne.”

“So did he me,” seid the munke, “Of a C pound and more; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therefore.”

“I pray God thanke yow,” seid Litulle Johne, “And we wil when we may; We wil go with yow, with your leve, And brynge yow on your way.

“For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen; If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn.”

As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke an Litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede Ful sone and anone.

Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away.

Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe; Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne.

Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd, And drew out his swerde in hye; The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye.

“He was my maister,” said Litulle Johne, “That thou hase browzt in bale; Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge For to telle hym tale.”

John smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle; So did Moche the litulle page, For ferd lest he wold tell.

Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And Litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kyng.

* * * * *

He kneled down vpon—his kne, “God zow sane, my lege lorde, Jesus yow saue and se.

“God yow saue, my lege kyng,” To speke Johne was fulle bolde; He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond, The kyng did hit unfold.

The kyng red the letturs anon, And seid, “so met I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond I longut so sore to see.

“Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?” Oure kynge gan say; “Be my trouthe,” seid Litull Jone, “He dyed aftur the way.”

The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon xx pound in sertan, And made theim zemen of the crowne, And bade theim go agayn.

He gaf Johne the seel in hand, The scheref for to bere, To brynge Robyn hym to, And no man do hym dere.