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 Mérian, standing near, interpreted. “Rule your realm in peace as God gives you strength.”
“In the strength of God,” replied Bran, “I will.” As he said those words, he felt Mérian 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 Banfáith 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 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?”