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 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."