"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 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 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 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 friends

And 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 weak

But 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 twang-

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.