Tuck (33 page)

William Rufus rode to the centre of the yard, where his personal canopy had been set up. He dismounted and was greeted by Bran. Mérian and Baron Neufmarché joined them to make certain that no misunderstandings arose because of a simple lack of language on either side. A small table had been set up beneath the canopy, and two chairs. On the table was a jar and a single bowl.

“Your Majesty,” said Bran, “if it please you, sit with me. We will drink together.”

“I would like nothing better,” said the king. Seeing Neufmarché, he stopped and turned to his wayward vassal. “Baron, do not think that your part in this will be ignored.”

The baron inclined his head in acceptance of the king’s charge, but replied, “What I have done I did for the greater good.”

“Ha!” scoffed the king. “Your own good most of all, I do not doubt. By the Virgin, man, how could you turn against me?”

“It was not so much turning against you, Sire,” replied the baron, “but protecting myself. Even so, it is fortunate that we did not have to try one another in battle.”

“Fortunate, eh?” said the king. “We will talk of this another time.” He moved to take his place beneath the brightly coloured canopy. Bran joined him and sat down, with Mérian on one side and Tuck on the other. The baron stood to one side between the two kings and, acting as steward, poured wine into the bowl. He handed the bowl to Bran, who took it up, drank a draught, and then offered it to William.

Red William accepted the bowl and drank, then returned it to Bran. The back-and-forth continued until the bowl was drained, whereupon Baron Neufmarché refilled it and placed it on the table between them.

“God with you, Your Majesty,” said Bran, who between Mérian and the baron was able to make his thoughts known. “And though we might both wish that the occasion was otherwise, I do bid you welcome to Caer Cadarn and Elfael. It is my hope that we rise from this table better friends than when we sat down.”

“Let us cut to the bone,” replied the king in English. “What are your terms?”

Bran smiled. “I want only what I have always wanted—”

“Your precious throne, yes,” answered the king. “You shall have it. What else?”

“Full pardon for myself and my Grellon, and any who have aided me in returning the realm to my rule,” said Bran. “And that will include Baron Neufmarché.”

The king frowned at this last part when it was explained to him, but gave a grudging nod of assent. “What else?”

“Nothing more,” said Bran. “Only your seal on a treaty of peace between our kingdoms.”

William gave a bark of disbelief when Neufmarché translated Bran’s last remarks. “Nothing else? No reparations? No silver to pay your soldiers?”

“My warriors are mine to repay,” said Bran. “We Cymry take care of our own.”

“I wish every fiefdom took care of itself, by the blood,” replied William. He leaned back in his chair and gave every appearance of beginning to enjoy himself. “If you have nothing else, then hear my terms. I require your oath of fealty and a tribute to be paid each year on . . .” He tapped his chin as he thought, then caught a glimpse of Tuck and said, “You, there, priest—if you
are
a priest—what is the nearest holy day to this one?”

Tuck moved a step forward. “That would be
Gwyl Iwan y Coed
,” he replied. “The Feast of Saint John the Baptist, in plain English.”

“John le Baptiste, oui,”
said Neufmarché, passing this along to the king.

“Henceforth, on the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, a tribute of . . .” He looked around at the rude fortress and the mean, common dress of the half-starved inhabitants and the grim determination he saw on their faces and made his decision. “A tribute of one good longbow and a sheaf of arrows to be presented to the Royal Court at Londein and given over to the care of the Chief Justiciar.”

Mérian gasped with joy, and Tuck, who caught most of what was said, chuckled and told the others standing round about.

“Oh, Bran,” breathed Mérian, giving Bran’s shoulder a squeeze. Tuck relayed the terms to the Grellon and all those looking on. “The king has decided to be generous.”

Baron Neufmarché and the king exchanged a brief word, and the baron said, “King William will accept the release of his sheriff now.” He summoned the knights forward, and de Glanville was marched to the table.

“As a token of the peace we have sworn between us, I release him to your authority,” said Bran. He motioned to his champion, standing behind Friar Tuck. “Iwan, cut him loose.”

The big warrior stepped forward and, grinning with good pleasure at the astonishing turn events had taken, drew the knife from his belt and began cutting through the bonds at the sheriff ’s wrists. The rawhide straps fell away, and with a sweep of his hand, Iwan indicated that the prisoner was free to go.

As Iwan replaced the knife and made to step back, de Glanville snatched the dagger from his belt and leaped forward. In the same swift movement, he drew back his hand and prepared to plunge the dagger into Bran’s unprotected neck. The naked blade flashed forward and down. Tuck saw the arcing glint hard in the bright sunlight and gave out a yelp of warning. Iwan, startled, put out his hand.

But it was too late.

The knife slashed down a killing stroke.

Then, even as the cruel blade descended to its mark, the sheriff ’s hand faltered and appeared to seize in its forward sweep. Halted, it hovered in midstroke. The knife point quivered, then fell to the ground.

It happened so fast that almost no one saw what had arrested the knife until Sheriff de Glanville let out a shriek of agony and crumpled to his knees. Only slowly, as if in a dream, did the stunned onlookers discover Will Scarlet standing over the sheriff, his own hand clamped tight over de Glanville’s. He gave the captured hand a squeeze, and there was a meaty crunch and pop as the sheriff ’s fingers gave way.

De Glanville gave out a roar of pain and anger and swung at Scarlet with his free hand. Tuck, snatching the crosier from Bishop Asaph’s hand, grasped it like a quarterstaff and swung it once around his head and brought it down with a solid thump on the top of the sheriff ’s head; de Glanville crumpled to the ground, where he lay on his side, whimpering and cradling his broken fingers.

“Stand him up!” commanded William with an airy wave of his hand. Turning to Bran he spoke with some sincerity. “His Majesty offers heartfelt apologies,” Neufmarché translated. “He asks what you would like him to do with the rogue.”

“I will leave that to Scarlet,” replied Bran, looking to Will for an answer.

“Broken fingers are a long and painful reminder of a man’s failure,” replied the forester. “As I should know. I am satisfied if he takes that away with him—so long as we never have to see him again.”

“That’s a far sight more mercy than he deserves,” said Bran. “And more than he ever showed you, Will.”

“And is my husband not the better man?” said Noín, taking Will’s arm.

Bran’s decision was delivered to King William, who merely grunted. “This man is no longer one of my sheriffs. Remove him from our sight.” Then, rising, he held out his hand to one of his knights. “Your sword,” he said.

The knight drew his blade and handed it to the king, who turned to Bran. He spoke and indicated a place on the ground before him.

“His Majesty is saying that he must leave now if he is to reach Normandie in time to collect his tribute,” Baron Neufmarché explained. “He says there is but one more thing he must do before he goes.”

“Sire?” said Bran.

Again the king spoke and indicated the place on the ground at his feet.

“He says you are to kneel and swear your fealty to him,” said Neufmarché.

Bran called Bishop Asaph to him. “Father, will you see that it is done properly?”

“Of course, Rhi Bran,” said the old man. “It will be an honour.” As the bishop took his place beside King William, Bran knelt and stretched out his hand to grasp the king’s foot. William, holding the sword upright in both hands, directed his newest vassal in the age-old ceremony which bound man to lord, and lord to king. Bishop Asaph lofted his crosier and offered a prayer to seal the vow, and the simple rite was concluded.

William touched the edge of the sword to the back of Bran’s neck and told him to rise. “You are now my liegeman, and I am your liege lord,” the king told him, and Mérian, standing near, interpreted. “Rule your realm in peace as God gives you strength.”

“In the strength of God,” replied Bran, “I will.” As he said those words, he felt Mérian slip her hand into his, and then he was caught up in the tremendous sea wave of acclamation that rose up from the long-suffering folk of Elfael, whose joy at seeing their king triumphant could not be contained.

King William called for his horse to be brought and his men to depart. “We will meet again, no doubt,” he said.

“On the Feast of Saint John the Baptist,” replied Bran.

“Rule well and wisely,” said the king in English. He searched the crowd for a face, and found it. “And see you keep this man close to your throne,” he said, pulling Tuck forward. “He has done you good service. If not for him, there would be no peace to celebrate this day.”

“In truth, Your Majesty,” said Bran. “I will keep him with me always.”

That night Rhi Bran ap Brychan celebrated his return to the throne with the first of what would become many days of feasting, song, and merriment, and went to sleep in his own bed. And though in the days ahead he would often return to the greenwood to visit Angharad’s grave and tell his Wise Banfáith how his kingdom fared, he never spent another night in the forest so long as he lived.

EPILOGUE

  Nottingham, 1210

R
umour had it that King John had come north to hunt in the royal forest at Sherwood. His Majesty was lodged with High Sheriff Wendeval in the old castle on the mound overlooking the river. Thomas a’Dale, following the royal progress, had come to Nottingham hoping for a chance to perform for the king and add a royal endorsement to his name—
and
a handsome fee to his slack purse.

As he walked along the dirt track, humming to himself, he recalled the last time he had been here; it was with his father, when he was a boy learning the family trade. As he remembered, he had juggled while his father played the psaltery and sang the songs that made his family a fair living. Thomas remembered Nottingham as a good-sized city with a lively market and plenty of people from whom to draw the crowds a minstrel required. Passing quickly through the town now, he saw that the market was just opening and merchants beginning to set out their wares, including a pie man who carried his steaming gold treasures on a long plank from the bakery oven to his stall. The aroma brought the water to Thomas’s mouth, and he felt the pinch in his empty stomach.

Still, hungry as he was, he did not dally. He marched straightaway to the castle and presented himself at the gate. “God bless you right well, sir,” he addressed the gateman. “Is the lord of the manor at home?”

“He is,” replied the grizzled veteran controlling the castle entrance, a man with one eye and one hand: both lost in some nameless battle or other. “Not that it is any business of your’n.”

“Oh,” replied Thomas lightly, “that is where you mistake me, sir. I am a minstrel, Thomas a’Dale by name. I’ve performed before the crowned heads of many a land, and now I’ve come to entertain the lord high sheriff and the king.”

“What makes you think the king is here?” queried the gateman, sizing up the wanderer with a long, one-eyed appraisal.

“That is all the talk of the countryside,” answered Thomas. “You can hear it anywhere.”

“Do you believe ever’thing you hear?”

“And do
you
believe everything you see?” countered Thomas. Producing a silver penny from his purse he held it up between thumb and finger for a moment before placing it on his eye. Squinting to hold the coin in place, he showed both hands empty, palms out. Then with a shout, he clapped his hands and the coin vanished.

The gateman gave a snort of mild amusement and said, “Where’s it gone, then?”

By way of reply, Thomas opened his mouth and showed the silver penny on his tongue.

“That’s a good’un, that,” the old man chuckled. “You have more o’ those japes, sim’lar?”

“As many as you like,” said Thomas. “And more of
these
, too,” he added, offering the man the penny, “for a fella who speaks a good word of me to his lordship’s steward tonight.”

“I reckon I’m that fella,” answered the porter, plucking the penny from the young man’s fingers. “You come back at e’ensong bell, and you’ll find a welcome.”

“Good man. Until then,” replied Thomas. “God be good to you, sir.”

Having secured his employment, he returned to the town square and found a place to sit while he watched the market folk. When the first rush of activity was over—the wives and maids of wealthier households, first in line to buy the best on offer—the market assumed a more placid, easygoing air. People took time to exchange news and gossip, to quench their thirst at the tavern keeper’s ale vat, and to more casually examine the contents of the various booths and stalls lining the square.

Thomas pulled his psaltery from its bag on his back and began tuning the strings, humming to himself to get his voice limbered and ready. Then, slinging the strap around his neck, he strolled among the market-goers, plucking the strings and singing snatches of the most fashionable tunes. One by one, folk stopped to listen, and when he had gathered enough of an audience, he cried, “Who would like to hear ‘The Tale of Wizard Merlyn and the Dragon King’?”

A clamour went up from the throng. “I sing all the better with the sweet clink of silver in my ear.”

He placed his hat on the ground before him and strummed the psaltery. In a moment, the chink of coins did ring out as people pitched bits of pennies and even whole coins into the minstrel’s hat. When he reckoned he had got all there was to get, he began the song: a spirited and very broad tale with many humorous and unflattering allusions to the present reign thinly disguised as the antics of King Arthur’s court.

When he finished, he thanked his patrons, scooped up his hat, and made his way to a quiet place to count his takings. He had managed three pence—enough for a pie or two, which he bought; leaving the market, he strolled down to the river to find a shady spot to eat and rest. He took from his bag an apple he had found in the ditch, and ate that along with his pork pie. Having slept badly in the hedge beside the road the night before, he napped through the warm afternoon, waiting for the long summer day to fade.

At the appointed time, Thomas roused himself, washed in the river, gave his clothes a good brushing, combed his hair, and proceeded up the track to the castle once more, where he was admitted and led to the great hall. The meal was already in progress, but it would be a while yet before the crowd was ready to be entertained. He found a quiet corner and settled back to wait, snatching bits of bread and cheese, meat and sweets from the platters that went past him. He ate and tried to get the measure of his audience.

In the centre of the high table, resplendent in blue silk, sat King John, called Lackland by his subjects—not well liked, but then, truth be told, few monarchs ever were while still alive. John’s chief misfortune seemed to be that he was not his brother, Richard, called Coeur de Lion. The lionhearted king was better regarded—perhaps because he had hardly ever set foot in England during his entire reign. And where Richard was remembered as tall and robust, John was a squat, thick-necked man with heavy shoulders and a spreading paunch beneath his tight-stretched silks. His best years were behind him, to be sure; there was silver showing among the long dark locks that his shapeless hat could not hide.

The High Sheriff, Lord William Wendeval, was a bluff old champion who was said to rule his patch with an authority even the king himself could not claim. He was a tall, rangy fellow with long limbs and a narrow, horsy face, and short grey curls beneath his hat of soft green velvet. The king and his sheriff had been drinking some time, it would seem, for both men wore the rosy blush of the vine across cheeks and nose. And both laughed louder and longer than any of the revellers around them.

Slowly, the meal progressed. As the many dishes and platters circulated around the tables, musicians trooped into the hall and sent a fine commotion coursing among the throng at table. This Thomas considered a good sign, as players always gave an evening’s roister a more festive air. When men enjoyed themselves, the money flowed more easily, and never more easily than when they were in a celebratory mood.

He watched and waited, listening to the happy clatter around him and idly tuning the strings of his instrument; and when he judged the time to be right, he rose and walked to the high table.

“My lords and ladies all!” he cried aloud to make himself heard above the raucous revel. “A songster! A songster!”

“Hear!” shouted the high sheriff, rising from his chair and pounding on the board with the pommel of his knife. “Hear him! Hear him! We have a minstrel in our midst!”

When the hall had sufficiently quieted, Thomas faced the high table and, with a wide sweep of his hat, bowed low, his nose almost touching his knee. “My lord high sheriff, my best regards,” he said. He bowed again, lower still, and said, “Your Majesty, I beg the honour of your attention on this splendid festal evening.” Turning to the rest of the company, he waved his arm. “My lords and ladies, gentlefolk all, it is my good pleasure to sing for your amusement.”

“What will you sing?” called the sheriff, resuming his seat.

“Tonight, I have prepared a special surprise right worthy of this splendid occasion—but more of that anon. I will begin with a tune that is sure to please Your Majesty.” He began strumming, and soon the hall was ringing to the strains of a song called “The Knight and the Elf Queen’s Daughter.” It was an old song, and most minstrels knew it. Though not the most taxing on a songster’s abilities, it had a soothing effect on a restive audience and made a good prelude to better things.

The song concluded, and the last strains were still lingering in the air when Thomas began the lay known as “The Wooing of Ygrain”—also a firm favourite among the nobility, what with its themes of flirtation and forbidden love.

He sang two more short songs, and then, pausing to retune his psaltery, he announced, “Majesty, Lord Sheriff, distinguished lords and ladies, hearken to me now! Tonight in your hearing for the first time anywhere, I give you a song of my own composing—a stirring epic of adventure and intrigue, of kingdoms lost and won, and love most fair and wondrous. I give you ‘The Ballad of Brave Rhiban Hud’!”

In fact it was not, strictly speaking, the first time he had sung this song. He had laboured over its verses, true, but in the main it remained much as it had been composed by his grandfather and sung by his father. Indeed, the song had earned his family’s reputation and never failed to find favour with an audience so long as the singer took care to adapt it to his listeners: dropping in names of the local worthies, the places nearby that local folk knew, any particular features of the countryside and its people—it all helped to create a sense of instant recognition for those he entertained, and flattered his patrons.

Thomas strummed the opening notes of the song and then, lifting his head, sang:

Come listen a while, you gentlefolk alle,

That stand here this bower within,

A tale of brave Rhiban the Hud,

I purpose now to begin!

The song began well and proceeded through its measured course, pulling the audience into the tale. Very soon the listeners were deep in the singer’s thrall, the various lines drawing, by turns, cheers and cries of outrage as events unfolded.

Thomas, knowing full well that he had captured them, proceeded to bind his audience with the strong cadences of the song. For tonight’s performance, the tale was set in Nottingham and the forest was Sherwood. William Rufus and the Welsh March and Richard de Glanville never received a mention. Tonight, the king of the tale was John, and the sheriff none other than Sheriff Wendeval himself. It was a risky change of cast—noble hosts had been known to take umbrage at a minstrel’s liberties—but Thomas perceived the mood was light, and everyone thrilled to the daring of it.

“God save the king,” quod Rhiban to he,

“And them that wish him full well;

And he that does his true sovereign deny,

I wish him with Satan to dwell.”

Quod the king: “Thine own tongue hast curséd thyself,

For I know what thou verily art.

Thou brigand and thief, by those treasonous words,

I swear that thou lyest in heart.”

“No ill have I done thee,” quod Rhiban to king,

“In thought or in word or in deed,

Better I’ve served than the abbot’s foule men,

Who robbéd from them in sore need.

“And never I yet have any man hurt

That honest is and true;

Only those that their honour give up

To live on another man’s due.

“I never harmed the husbandman,

That works to till the ground;

Nor robbed from those that range the wood

And hunt with hawk or hound.

“But the folk you appointed to rule my stead,

The clergymen, shire reeves, and knights,

Have stolen our homes and impoverish’d our kin

And deny’d us what’s ours by full rights.”

The good king withdrew to consider the case

And did with his counsellors sit,

In very short time they had come to agree

On a ruling all saw justlie fit:

“King Bran, thenceforward, full pardon shall have,

By order of royal decree.

And the lands that his fathers and grandsires kept,

Have no other ruler than he.”

Quod Rhiban: “Praise Christ! This suits me full goode,

And well it becomes of us both.

For kings must be e’er protecting their folk

So hereby we swear you our troth.

“And vow we this day, to the end of the earth,

shall grief ne’er come ’tween us twain.”

And the glory of Rhiban Hud, eke his king,

i’this worldsrealm always shall reign.

Thomas led the crowd a merry chase through the greenwood and the exploits of the noble rogue Rhiban and his struggle to regain his birthright. Justice denied and at last redeemed was a theme that always swayed an English crowd, and it seemed now as if he played upon the very heartstrings of his audience as blithely as he plucked the psaltery. Both king and sheriff listened with rapt expressions; there were occasional sighs from the ladies, and grunts of approval from the men. Deeper and deeper did the spell become, recounting those days long ago—times all but forgotten now, but kept alive in his song. Inevitably, stanza gave way to stanza and the song moved to its end, and Thomas, singing for his king as he had rarely sung before, delivered the final lines:

The seasons pass quickly in the realm of King Bran—

As seasons of joye always do.

John and Will Scadlocke many children now owne

And each have another past due.

Strong sons and fayre daughters to them and their wyves

The Good Lord upon them has blest.

But the fairest and strongest and smartest who is,

None of them e’er has guess’d.

And Rhiban the Hud now feasts in his hall,

For marriéd now has he beene.

And summer has settled in clear, peaceful lands,

For Mérian reigns as his queene.

But we see not the fryer who wedded them two,

What has become him his luck?

Lo, newly installed in the bishopric there,