Chapter 11 | Alan a Dale
The power of my music was not lost on me as I played that evening. I held the camp in thrall with my whimsical tunes, my soulful laments, and my gentle stories.
Humility never benefited the storyteller, after all, and I was that good.
I saw the power of my music in the glassy eyes of the younger folk in camp, when I switched from a rousing ballad to a stricken elegy. The dirge shifted my fingers from hammering speed to feather-plucked notes. My voice lowered into a breathy, raspy measure. The soft melodies carried through the trees, mingling with the breeze that shook the leaves.
I told a story of lovers lost and heroes gone. Relatable tales that my audience could appreciate, nodding their heads, eyes stuck on me like I was their entire world.
I mostly played for the forgotten lasses who were nearly traded to fiendish sex slavers, before Robin’s daring rescue. My lute sang for the orphans from the almshouse in Ravenshead, and the people we had lost along the way.
More than anything, however, I played for myself.
Music had always been an escape for me. When I sang and plucked, I thought of nothing else but the story I told. And that was the perfect thing to occupy my mind with when I had so many intrusive threads cycling through me.
I didn’t need to think of Maid Marian or her near-certain treachery at hand. For a few hours of the night, I could forget the death of Much the Miller’s Son, and the capture of Little John, and the deaths of those Templar fellows Robin and the band told me about once they’d returned.
Did those knights deserve to die? Who was to say? I hadn’t been there. And I didn’t need to contemplate that right now. It could wait for tomorrow.
I took note of the first listener I lost. She was a slight thing named Maria—the girl Much had talked incessantly about before we’d rescued her. She rose from her little spot on the dirt at the campfire and wandered off toward Friar Tuck’s fire.
Furrowing my brow, I missed a note on my lute and cursed myself. Quickly, I recovered, before any of the other lasses and lads around the fire could notice.
Across the way, however, sitting by his lonesome at another fire, Will Scarlet noticed. He shot me a smug, shitty little smirk, which almost made me miss another note.
I cursed again, then continued my requiem and tried to ignore him.
I could feel the little badger’s eyes on my shoulder and the side of my fire-lit face. Half of me wanted to throw down the lute, storm over there, and bend him over a log to wipe that shitty little smirk from his lips.
Will could destroy me in a battle, undoubtedly. But he preferred me to do the destroying behind closed doors.
My cock twitched in my pants, and I shook my head to continue telling my tale.
Once I was finished—barely making it through the song—I glanced over again. Will had his eyebrows raised, as if trying to tell me something. He nudged his chin toward my seated audience of a dozen, and my eyes followed his.
The younglings were starting to fidget and look around. Shifting in their seats. I was losing more of them.
Moving my gaze back to Will’s challenging stare, I narrowed my eyes. Then I realized what he was trying to tell me. Perhaps sad songs of death and lost love are not what the folk want to hear right now. I should read the room better.
That’s my mistake.
I readjusted myself on the overturned log, sat up, and cleared my throat. With a flurry, I strummed my lute louder than I had all evening. It rang out, almost jarringly, and got everyone’s attention.
Ears perked up. People sat straighter. They listened as I began another rousing tale, this one about a great dragon and the slippery thieves who would steal his greatest treasure—the maiden the fierce dragon kept captive among his treasure.
The soft faces of the younglings broke into smiles and grins. They bumped shoulders with one another, nodding along as my story unfolded and the notes rang out of me like a flood ripping toward a dam.
I broke the dam with another melodic flurry of plucked notes, my staccato rhythm picking up speed. The whelps cheered and clapped along. Even Maid Marian, standing far off where Robin could keep an eye on her, bobbed her head along to my tune.
At a nearby campfire on my other side, the strange old man Wulfric had the large cook Bess nearly on his lap, arms tangled together as they kissed in a passionate embrace. I smiled at the sight, while some of the younglings at my fire noticed and snickered and teased.
I caught Taffa and Brand—a fierce girl and a one-eyed boy, both from the orphanage—exchanging sly glances and smiles across the fire. Their cheeks were heated pink, and more from just the warmth of the flames.
Two others, Gracie and Ada, stood from the fire together and skipped off into the shadows. I raised my brow at that, but thought nothing of it. Gracie was the younger sister of Emma, Robin’s former handmaid, and had been rescued from the almshouse in Nottingham with the other orphans. Ada had been rescued alongside Gracie’s sister during Robin’s daring Rufford Abbey rescue. Gracie and Ada had become fast friends.
My smile widened as I recognized the community we had built here. Boys and girls and men and women from all corners of life. At first, the older bandits and veteran scoundrels in our ranks had been hesitant and against the idea of allowing orphans and younglings into our camp.
Robin had persuaded them.
Now, I truly felt like we were building a family . . . and we were doing it on our own terms. Here in Sherwood Forest, we didn’t have the stringent laws and rules of the cities and towns hovering over us like dark clouds. We could be our own people.
For the first time, I started to truly see what Robin had always wished for, and what her brother Robert had begun with the Oak Boys.
The sensation swelled my heart with joy. I played harder, faster, and more whimsically. I stood from the log, pacing around, nestling the lute against my hip as I tore from one side of the fire to the other, everyone’s eyes now on me with rapt, unmitigated attention.
There were gasps when I told of the dragon fighting the gallant knights and thieves. Claps when I spoke of the dragon falling to the invaders. Cheers when I announced the king winning his prize: the damsel in distress.
Time seemed to stop. I raised my leg and stomped my foot on the log, striking a pose. My hand stuck in midair on the final stroke, moonlight glinting off it as my penultimate notes faded into the black night. Somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted and pierced through the crackling of the flames in front of me.
I surveyed my audience, everyone holding their breaths, their eyes wide, leaning forward.
It was the perfect moment for a minstrel—that space between reality and fantasy, night and day, light and dark—when not a breath could be heard as the musician held the tense moment, and the entire rapt audience, in the palm of his hands. I could hear the communal heartbeats of everyone rapidly beating.
Then my hand came down in a flash of notes, the crescendo breaking open, and my fantastical tale came to a sweeping conclusion.
Everyone cheered. They stood and clapped. Even the sullen adults, the veterans who had seen as much death and despair as anyone, hollered.
It was perhaps the best rendition of the song I’d ever played. Any song, even.
I took my flowers and rolled into a low bow to my audience, smiling wide.
Wulfric the healer’s eerie-white smile speared through the darkness more than anything. He had momentarily pulled his tongue out of Bess’ throat to cheer, his braids nearly undone from how roughly the robust older woman had scrubbed her hands through his mane.
Maid Marian smiled at me with her arms haughtily crossed under her chest. The smile was one of a succubus who wanted to rip my clothes off, or was imagining what I looked like without them on.
Robin stood next to her brother, Robert’s arm draped over her shoulder, and simply beamed.
My racing heart calmed as attention turned away from me.
I heard the sniveling lad Tick tell his friend Rosco, “I want to be King Arthur! His life sounds amazing the way Alan told it!”
Rosco scoffed and shouldered the small lad. “You’re not tall enough to be the king.”
“And you are?!”
Rosco raised his chin. He towered over his friend. “Sure am. I’m—”
“Lankier than a tree branch!” Tick scowled. “I’ve never seen a knight so skinny!”
Girls giggled nearby, and Rosco flushed.
Emma the handmaid, however, and Robin’s second-in-command when it came to domestic camp affairs, smiled coyly at the lanky boy.
I couldn’t help but also smile.
“There are plenty of Knights of the Round Table for everyone to play one,” I called out, chuckling as I stepped between Rosco and Tick before they could come to blows.
My tale had resonated. I looked over to Will to thank him, but the sullen lad was nowhere to be seen.
Of course. The man responsible for gearing me in the right direction didn’t stick around to hear my song.
I wouldn’t let it sadden me, because I saw joy—however brief it stayed—everywhere I looked around the camp.
Somehow, my song had helped bloom a closed flower, opening the petals and scattering love in the air. I saw it in Emma’s glance at Rosco, in Taffa and Brand’s coy exchange, and perhaps even Gracie and Ada’s disappearance. I certainly saw it in the way Wulfric and Bess embraced. Hell, everyone saw that, and the two elders of the camp weren’t ashamed in the least.
Let them have it. We’re free here. Both are exciting new additions to our camp—an Oak Boys chef, and a nomadic healer with pet wolves.
I’ve seen stranger things.
“Never mind the gallant knights,” Emma said, standing next to the arguing boys. “I just want to see the shining city of Camelot! It sounds splendid.”
“Silly, it doesn’t exist!” Taffa shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth.
Emma scowled at her.
Robin came to Emma’s rescue. “Are we sure about that?” my little songbird asked.
Tick swiped a thin tree branch off the ground and held it out like a sword at Rosco. “You be Arthur. I’ll be Sir Lancelot. And . . .” He trailed off, looking around.
“I’ll be Lady Guinevere!” Emma said, laughing and tossing her hair over her shoulders.
Rosco scoffed. “Alan said Guinevere has red hair, like waves of crimson thread. Your hair looks like rabbit stew!”
All the whelps around the fire snickered, while Emma just fixed Rosco with a deadly glower.
Rosco’s face brightened like the sun.
You fancy her, Ros, yet tease her as your strategy? A bold move with someone so close to Robin. I’ve seen it work before, though. All Will Scarlet does is goad and prod me until my good-natured demeanor breaks and I shove my cock inside him.
At least Robin isn’t that testy.
Robin said, “Careful, Rosco, or Queen Guinevere will kick your ass.”
Emma smiled at her, nodding. “That’s right. Listen to your leader.”
“She’s your leader, too, stew-head!” Rosco guffawed, throwing up his arms.
“Maybe the new girl could be Guinevere?” Tick offered, glancing over. “Madam Marian, was it?”
Everyone looked over expectantly to Maid Marian, who had a shocked expression on her face. Of all people, she glanced over at Robin, who simply shrugged at her.
“Erm, no, I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Marian fumbled, flapping her hand. “I won’t be partaking.” She turned to leave.
Tick grumbled, “Well you’re no fun,” in a low voice.
My eyes surveyed the four campfires that brightened the glade, and the dark edges of the trees beyond.
Where did my little badger run off to, anyway?
Noticing that Robin had everything in hand, especially with Little John and Robert so close, I wandered away from the fire.
I followed the trajectory I expected Will to take—deeper into the trees—heading west.
When I heard rustling nearby, I pushed branches aside to get a better view. A soft voice crooned just beyond, and I walked through a hedge of thick foliage.
“Will?” I began—
And nearly ran into Gracie and Ada, their faces slanted in the shadows, lips seared together. Grace’s hands cupped Ada’s gaunt cheeks as they kissed.
The girls heard my voice and footsteps and swiftly separated, their cheeks bruised pink with embarrassment. Gracie let out a gasp and Ada yelped.
I stumbled back a step, hands lifting in surrender, and floundered. “O-Oh, shit! Apologies, ladies, I . . .”
I tilted my head. Stared harder at them for a beat. Their heads were bowed in shame and embarrassment, hands folded in front of them to create the very picture of chastity and safety.
Then Gracie’s head whipped up urgently. “Y-You can’t tell my sister! Emma can’t know, sir.”
I pouted. “Can’t know what, dear girl?”
Gracie’s eyes darted to Ada’s bowed face and her dark hair shielding it, then back to me. “That we’re . . . that we’re . . . like you.”
Creases lined my forehead. “I don’t understand. Like me?” I chuckled. “Unless you have a very unexpected surprise you wish to share with me, Gracie, I’m quite sure you’re not like me. I’m a man, however paradoxical it may seem at times. You are young women.”
Gracie frowned. “You know what I mean.”
“I . . .” My voice cut out. I closed my lips. “What do you think you know about me, lass?” My words came out a bit more forceful than I would have liked.
“Um. My sister talks.” Gracie bowed her head deep, even more ashamed. “I-I’m sorry, Sir Alan.”
“I’m not a knight,” I said flatly, staring her down.
Ada raised her head. Her voice was soft, like an angel, though stern. “She means that you fancy men. And Robin. But also men. Just like we . . . fancy each other.”
“And is that something I’m supposed to be ashamed of?” I asked the girl.
Ada’s mouth opened and closed, face twisting with confusion. “Erm. No? I don’t—it’s a sin!”
I blinked at her, letting her words sit between us. “What’s sinful about love, Lady Ada?”
“I’m not a noblewoman,” she snapped, throwing my words about being a knight back at me. “It’s not sinful to love, Alan-a-Dale, but it’s sinful to love like that.”
I snorted, shaking my head. My arms folded over my chest. “Well, that sounds a bit silly when it rings in the air, doesn’t it? Love is love, love. Is it not?”
She struggled to find her words again. When she looked over at Gracie for assistance, Gracie just shrugged. They were at a loss.
I let out a heavy sigh and stepped a bit closer to both of them. My hands came out to touch their shoulders, to bring the three of us closer so I could speak candidly to them. They didn’t flinch away—their eyes lifted to mine, their faces a mess of confusion, regret, shame, and fading desire that they held for one another.
I know all of those feelings well, lasses.
I spoke softly. “Listen to me, girls. Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are. Understand? Hold your heads high and proud. Be ready to defend yourselves from the shame, guilt, and ridicule others might try to thrust upon you.”
“But how?” Gracie asked incredulously. She threw her arm out, past the foliage hiding us in this little nook away from camp. “Anyone finds out, we’ll be—”
“Chastised? Teased? Beaten? Killed?” I shook my head sternly. “Not here, Grace. Here, in the forest, we are free. The woods are our protection. And you have a growing army of men and women who will defend your honor and lives. Remember that. The Merry Men are a family, loves. I can guarantee you that with Robin at the helm, she doesn’t give a single shit about who you kiss, which means the others won’t, either. Frankly, she has bigger things to worry about. We all do.”
Their necks bobbed as they gulped and shared a quick glance. Their shame had shifted into fear, and unfortunately I could only do so much to discourage that.
Cautious fear was understandable. Shame about who they were, in my opinion, was unacceptable.
I took my hands off their shoulders and wagged a finger at them. “Don’t be scared and meek. With our freedom in Sherwood comes responsibility to ourselves—to learn to understand ourselves. Otherwise we’ll never be content. You can’t live your lives in shame, Ada, Gracie.”
I nodded firmly to them, to indicate I was finished with my spiel.
I could feel the questions in their souls and on their faces. Questions they didn’t know how to ask.
In time, they would learn. This was only the beginning of their journey, and it made me smile as their faces shifted from fear to something like understanding.
“Who says it can’t be Lady Guinevere and Lady Iseult, eh?” I asked, bumping Gracie’s shoulder with mine to try and lighten the heavy mood.
She snickered. Ada flushed.
I flapped a hand at them and said, “Carry on,” then turned to leave the small clearing.
“Thank you, Alan.”
I froze and looked over at my shoulder. Gracie bowed her head as she finished her thanks, fingers laced together in front of her.
I gave her and Ada a nod and a sad smile. “Feel free to explore yourselves here, loves, behind these trees.” Then I sighed. “Because God knows people like us can’t do it outside of them.”