With a hey down down a down down
Maid Marian called by name,
Did live in the North, of excellent worth,
For she was a gallant dame.
For favor and face, and beauty most rare,
Queen Hellen she did excel;
For Marian then was praised of all men
That did in the country dwell.
’Twas neither Rosamond nor Jane Shore,
Whose beauty was clear and bright,
That could surpass this country lass,
Beloved of lord and knight.
The Earl of Huntingdon, nobly born,
That came of noble blood,
To Marian went, with a good intent,
By the name of Robin Hood.
With kisses sweet their red lips meet,
For she and the earl did agree;
In every place, they kindly embrace,
With love and sweet unity.
Rob kissed my hand, but I felt pale and weak and sick. This couldn’t be a good thing, and I felt eyes on me, de Clare and Isabel at the very least.
The song went on, verse after verse, telling some silly false story of kisses and feasts and me getting wounded and Rob rushing to my aid. Which, I’m sure, were true in some way, but it felt strange and different, and I sounded like a simpering lady. Not one word of my knives, or the scrapes I’d saved him from. I felt myself scowl deeper and deeper at Allan.
“It isn’t really about us,” Rob whispered to me. “It’s what they want to hear.”
“They want to hear lies,” I grunted.
He flipped my hand over. “Stories aren’t about what’s true; what’s real and not real.”
His fingers trailed over mine, and mine chased after him, fingertips touching, kissing, breaking. “No?” I asked.
“No. Stories are told to make you feel something, and they can tell ours over and over again, and every time it will be something different.”
He drew a heart in my palm with his fingertip, and I looked at him.
He grinned. “Pay attention; Allan will be hurt if you miss it.”
In solid content together they lived,
With all their yeomen gay;
They lived by their hands, without any lands,
And so they did many a day.
But now to conclude, an end I will make
In time, as I think it good,
For the people that dwell in the North can tell
Of Marian and bold Robin Hood.
He finished with a great big flourish of music, and Rob’s hand slid full into mine. I looked at Rob, shy over my shoulder, and he were staring at me, drunk on me, leaning forward until our lips met.
All I could hear were the strange symphony of my breath and my heart and his heart until our lips parted, and then I could hear people clapping. I pulled away from him, frightened, but no one were cruel about it; they were smiling, laughing, clapping in a happy way, celebrating us.
Here. At court, where I’d only known games and claws and teeth.
I looked back at him. “I love you,” I whispered.
He nodded. “I love you too. And that’s the best chance we have,” he told me.
The clapping died down, and de Clare, sitting between Leicester and Margaret, cleared his throat.
“Surely, minstrel, your tale is taller than most,” he said.
Allan gave a fancy bow. “Nay, my lord, for the proof sits here with us.”
De Clare tapped his finger on the table. “Yes, the subjects of your story are here. But you failed to capture many things I’m sure the prince would be most upset about.”
“Please correct me, my lord, so I don’t make such a mistake in the future,” Allan said.
“You forgot the true hero of the story was the prince, triumphing over two fools who tested his patience and his generosity at every turn. They fought his knights, they stole his bread. The Lady Huntingdon even tried to kill him. You praise a traitor, minstrel.” De Clare twisted his cup on the table. “I cannot think that the prince will look kindly on such.”
“Lady Huntingdon is no traitor,” Margaret said to him.
“Forgive me; she was a traitor and is now a high-ranking lady instead,” de Clare said, taking her hand and squeezing hard enough that she winced. “Things change so quickly I can barely hope to keep up.”
“My wife is an uncommon thing,” Rob said, his deep voice rumbling. “Stalwart and brave in all things. It is the prince, and perhaps the law, that changes so swiftly, for she is like the evergreen forest, eternal and sure.”
De Clare chuckled. “The prince will be here soon, my lord,” de Clare told Rob, “and you’ll see how he feels about your wife. And you.” De Clare raised his cup to Allan. “You most of all, minstrel.”
“Come now, de Clare, it was a lovely song,” Lady Suffolk said.
“Yes,” Suffolk said, beside her. “But perhaps we ignored our best source of adventure. De Clare, please, tell us of the goings-on in the north.”