"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: