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 Neufmarche.

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 va.s.sal 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 Merian, standing near, interpreted. "Rule your realm in peace as G.o.d gives you strength."

"In the strength of G.o.d," replied Bran, "I will." As he said those words, he felt Merian 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 Banfaith how his kingdom fared, he never spent another night in the forest so long as he lived.

EPILOGUE.

Nottingham, 1210 Rumour 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 endors.e.m.e.nt to his name-and a handsome fee to his slack purse. 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. Pa.s.sing 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. "G.o.d 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 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. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 j.a.pes, sim'lar?"

"As many as you like," said Thomas. "And more of these 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. "G.o.d 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 a.s.sumed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 c.h.i.n.k 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 amus.e.m.e.nt."

"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 n.o.bility, 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-n.o.ble 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.

"G.o.d 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 cursed 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 robbed from them in sore need."And never I yet have any man hurtThat honest is and true;Only those that their honour give up To live on another man's due. 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 woodAnd 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 kinAnd deny'd us what's ours by full rights."The good king withdrew to consider the caseAnd did with his counsellors sit,In very short time they had come to agreeOn 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 folkSo 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.s 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. And each have another past due.Strong sons and fayre daughters to them and their wyvesThe 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 married now has he beene.And summer has settled in clear, peaceful lands,For Merian 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,Is one: Bishop Fryer Tuck.Good gentlefolk all, we have finished our laye-A song of brave Rhi Bran the Hud;Taking only from others what never was theirs,He restored his land to the good.But one final ride has our Rhiban to make,Before his and our paths shall part.See, he has outlived his queene and his friendsAnd bears he within a sadde heart.He rides on his steede with a bow by his side,Much as he has done of olde.His long hair is white and his eyesight is weakBut he calls in a voice strong and bold:"Once again, O, my fine merrye men,We shall in the greenwood meet,And there we'll make our bowstrings tw.a.n.g-A music for us, very sweet."

AUTHOR'S NOTE The High Cost of Heaven And so . . . the legend grew, extending its reach far beyond the place and time of its birth. Not only did it travel, it changed in the telling as poets, singers, and wandering storytellers the likes of Alan a'Dale and grandson Thomas charmed their audiences by adjusting their tales to more closely conform to current local tastes. Rhi Bran y Hud the British freedom fighter may have faded in the process-transformed at last into Robin Hood the loveable outlaw-but the legend endured, and still delights.

Some readers may bridle at the central premise of this series: that a scant handful of homegrown volunteer warriors could successfully stand against the combined might of an entire army of heavily fortified professional soldiers.

As unlikely as it seems, this exact scenario was repeated time and again in British history. One of the best examples took place in 1415 in what has become famous as the Battle of Agincourt. Not only did a vastly inferior British force confront the best and boldest knights of France on a muddy farm field a stone's throw away from the little northern town, but the beleaguered British dealt them a blow never to be forgotten.

Henry's ragged no-hope army was largely made up of volunteers and va.s.sals, most of them sick with dysentery and exhausted from a summer-long campaign in miserable weather. Harried and hopelessly outnumbered, they prepared to face the flower of French n.o.bility a few miles from Agincourt. The French army, under King Charles VI's commander, Constable D'Albert, numbered in excess of twenty thousand men, mostly knights. Opposing them, King Henry V commanded around six thousand ragged and starving men-but, of those, five thousand were archers, and most of them Welsh.

On that bright Saint Crispin's day in October, the great French army was ma.s.sacred. Accounts of the battle read like a "What Not Not To Do" handbook of combat. The French produced blunder after blunder in bewildering array, so many as to be almost literally incredible. Even so, it would have taken a military miracle for French horse-mounted knights to succeed when, by some estimates, upwards of seventy-two thousand arrows were loosed in the first fateful To Do" handbook of combat. The French produced blunder after blunder in bewildering array, so many as to be almost literally incredible. Even so, it would have taken a military miracle for French horse-mounted knights to succeed when, by some estimates, upwards of seventy-two thousand arrows were loosed in the first fateful minute minute of the conflict. Of this devastating power, historian Philip Warner writes, "Fear of the longbow swept through France. Its deadly long-range destruction made it seem an almost supernatural weapon." Prayers against it were offered in churches at the time; this was a last resort, for nothing else came close to stopping it. of the conflict. Of this devastating power, historian Philip Warner writes, "Fear of the longbow swept through France. Its deadly long-range destruction made it seem an almost supernatural weapon." Prayers against it were offered in churches at the time; this was a last resort, for nothing else came close to stopping it.

Britain's losses that day in the fields of Agincourt numbered around one hundred-and many of those were noncombatants: unarmed, defenceless baggage boys and chaplains who were slaughtered out of extreme frustration by the already-beaten French who attacked the supply wagons encamped a mile or so from the battle field. On the other side of the equation, the French lost around two thousand counts, barons, and dukes; well over three thousand knights and men-at-arms; and more than one thousand common soldiers for a tally in excess of six thousand dead. These numbers are conservative: some accounts of the time estimate that as many as twelve thousand were killed or captured that day.

In any event, it was a defeat so devastating that it would be a generation or more before France could regain its military confidence against the British. As military historian Sir Charles Oman put it: "That unarmoured men should prevail against men cased with mail and plate on plain, open ground was reckoned one of the marvels of the age."

Decisive as it may have been, Agincourt was not by a very long shot the first battle to be decided by the longbow, nor would it be the last. But it was, perhaps, the most powerful demonstration of a now little-remembered law of medieval combat-namely, that when two opposing forces met, those with the most archers would invariably win. A sort of corollary stated that when both sides boasted roughly the same number of archers, the side with the most Welsh Welsh archers would win. Such was the highly recognized talent of the Cymry with the longbow, and their renowned fighting spirit. archers would win. Such was the highly recognized talent of the Cymry with the longbow, and their renowned fighting spirit.

As we are once again reminded by the British chronicle of the Saxon kings, the Brenhinedd y Saesson Brenhinedd y Saesson: "The men of Brycheiniog and the men of Gwent and the men of Gwynllwg rebelled against the oppression of the Ffreinc. And then the Ffreinc moved their host into Gwent; and they gained no profit thereby, but many were slain in the place called Celli Garnant. Thereupon, soon after that, they went with their host into Brycheiniog, and they gained no profit thereby, but they were slain by the sons of Idnerth ap Cadwgan, namely, Gruffydd and Ifor . . ."

This rebellion provoked a reaction: "In that year King William Rufus mustered a host past number against the Cymry. But the Cymry trusted in G.o.d with their prayers and fastings and alms and penances and placed their hope in G.o.d. And they hara.s.sed their foes so that the Ffreinc dared not go into the woods or the wild places, but traversed the open lands sorely fatigued, and thence returned home empty-handed. And thus the Cymry defended their land with joy."

It was precisely this fierce and tenacious spirit that the Normans faced in their ill-advised invasion of Wales. The unrivalled talent with the longbow-though born in the forests and valleys of Wales-was honed to lethal perfection in the white heat of contention following William II's decision to extend the dubious benefits of his reign beyond the March. It was a decision which sparked a conflict that was to sputter and flare for the next two hundred years or more, and provided the fertile ground from which sprang the legends featuring that shrewd archer, Robin Hood.

Wily Welsh archers were not the only plague in William's life, however; he also suffered from that acute affliction of his time: fear of purgatory.

Like a great many prominent men,William Rufus found himself in continual debt to the church, paying out huge sums of money for prayers to be said for the departed under his purview. All throughout the Middle Ages, abbeys and monasteries large and small did a roaring trade in penitential prayer, employing their priests on a perpetual, round-the-clock basis. The holy brothers prayed for their patrons and their patrons' families, of course, and also for the souls of those unfortunates their patrons might have killed. For the right fee, the local abbot could guarantee that the requisite time in purgatory would be shortened, or even excused altogether, and no one would have to suffer eternal d.a.m.nation.

Quaint as it might seem today, buying and selling prayers for cash was a business conducted in dead earnest at the time. For it would be difficult to overestimate the fear of h.e.l.l and its attendant horrors for the medieval mind. As tangible proof of this deep-seated and widespread phobia, the abbeys rose stone by ornately carved stone to dominate the medieval landscape of Europe. These beautifully wrought works of art can still be visited a thousand years later: belief made physically manifest.

Though greatly reduced in every way now, all through the Middle Ages the monasteries ama.s.sed enormous wealth on the exchange of prayer for silver, becoming ever more powerful, extending their influence into all areas of medieval life and commerce. It was to be their downfall in the end. For when the wealth and power grew so ma.s.sive as to exceed that of the monarchy, the threatened kings fought back.

For William II, bucking the trend was not an option. He was caught in the stifling embrace of a system he could neither control nor ignore. He was not the last monarch to discover that the need for money to pay his debt to the church would intrude on, if not dictate, his political agenda. Decisions of polity often bowed before the expediency of keeping the clergy cheerful-even in weightier matters such as war and peace. The medieval king might not like it, but more often than not he swallowed his resentment and did what was necessary to pay up. Whoever said heaven would come cheap?

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Keep Reading for an Excerpt of The Paradise War The Paradise War, Book One in the Song of Albion Trilogy Book One in the Song of Albion Trilogy [image]

AVAILABLE IN BOOKSTORES EVERYWHERE.

Chapter 1.

AN AUROCHS IN THE WORKS.

It all began with the aurochs.

We were having breakfast in our rooms at college. Simon was presiding over the table with his accustomed critique on the world as evidenced by the morning's paper.

"Oh, splendid," he sniffed. "It looks as if we have been invaded by a pack of free-loading foreign photographers keen on exposing their film-and who knows what else-to the exotic delights of Dear Old Blighty. Lock up your daughters, Bognor Regis! European paparazzi are loose in the land!"

He rambled on awhile, and then announced: "Hold on! Have a gawk at this!" He snapped the paper sharp and sat up straight-an uncommon posture for Simon.

"Gawk at what?" I asked idly. This thing of his-reading the paper aloud to a running commentary of facile contempt, scorn, and sarcasm, well mixed and peppered with his own unique blend of cynicism-had long since ceased to amuse me. I had learned to grunt agreeably while eating my egg and toast. This saved having to pay attention to his tirades, eloquent though they often were.

"Some bewildered Scotsman has found an aurochs in his patch."

"You don't say." I dipped a corner of toast triangle into the molten center of a soft-boiled egg and read an item about a disgruntled driver on the London Underground refusing to stop to let off pa.s.sengers, thereby compelling a train full of frantic commuters to ride the Circle Line for over five hours. "That's interesting."

"Apparently the beast wandered out of a nearby wood and collapsed in the middle of a hay field twenty miles or so east of Inverness." Simon lowered the paper and gazed at me over the top. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Every word. Wandered out of the forest and fell down next to Inverness-probably from boredom," I replied. "I know just how he felt."

Simon stared at me. "Don't you realize what this means?"

"It means that the local branch of the RSPCA gets a phone call. Big deal." I took a sip of coffee and returned to the sports page before me. "I wouldn't call it news exactly."

"You don't know what an aurochs is is, do you?" he accused. "You haven't a clue."

"A beast of some sort-you said so yourself just now," I protested.

"Really, Simon, the papers you read-" I flicked his upraised tabloid with a disdainful finger. "Look at these so-called headlines: 'Princess Linked to Alien s.e.x Scheme!' and 'Shock Horror Weekend for Bishop with Ma.s.sage Parlor Turk!' Honestly, you only read those rags to fuel your pessimism."

He was not moved. "You haven't the slightest notion what an aurochs is. Go on, Lewis, admit it."

I took a wild stab. "It's a breed of pig."

"Nice try!" Simon tossed his head back and laughed. He had a nasty little fox-bark that he used when he wanted to deride someone's ignorance. Simon was extremely adept at derision-a master of disdain, mockery, and ridicule in general.

I refused to be drawn. I returned to my paper and stuffed the toast into my mouth.