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IX. The Waits

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At dawn Sir Richard and Thomas arose in Lee’s camp, both groaning over the bruises they had sustained in their river contest. The knight leaned on his staff as he hobbled about. Neither man commented upon the injuries, as if such discomfort was merely part of their daily tasks.

“What now for you?” asked Thomas. “More guardianship of your bridge?” He tore a hunk off the remaining bread, winced, and chewed it.

Sir Richard made to smile but immediately winced as if the act was painful. “No,” he answered. “I have five men to hunt up who should have by last night arrived here. Something has forestalled them.”

“I would offer to help you look, as a courtesy to my generous host, but I’ve given my word to a dead man that his family shall receive his proceeds.”

“And that’s something you must honor. If I’d understood that yesterday, I would not hurt so much this morning.”

“You gave as good as you got,” Thomas assured him.

Sir Richard filled the two cups with ale, handing one to Thomas. “To equality,” he said. Thomas laughed and drank it down.

“So, tell me, good Sir Richard,” he asked, “which path takes me to the King’s Way?”

The knight pointed to the southeast. “That one, follow it between the birches. It will lead you across open grassland, and into the oaks again before Clipstone. You might even catch sight of the King’s Houses along the way.”

Thomas picked up his mason’s bag, pulled the strap over his shoulder. “I’ll be off, then. May we meet again where I can return your hospitality.”

“Good hunting, Sir Thomas,” said Sir Richard and they parted ways.


As promised, the path led Thomas to the King’s Way, well south of Robert Hodde’s split oak tree, even though he eventually lost his way and somehow missed both the place called Clipstone and the royal hunting estate.

As he arrived on the broader road, he found that he was not alone, and paused at the edge behind a tree.

A wagon was rolling along from the north. Poles projected up from its four corners, with colorful pennants at the top of each, and large dyed sheets of linen canvas hung between them. Six men walked alongside and behind the wagon, dressed in patchwork kirtles, smocks, and one in a long red robe. One of them at the back whistled a tune briefly, then repeated it. The man in front of him put words to it, singing, “Oh, my dear Catherine, she must be . . .” The younger man in front of him finished it: “. . . the ugliest witch in the north country.” Objections followed along with laughter. “Oh, now you’re stealing lyrics, Warin! At least invent your own, you thief.”

“But it rhymes,” insisted Warin, and the others piled on with their opinions in a blustering but friendly way. It was into this raucous debate that Thomas inserted himself by stepping out onto the road.

Horse and wagon drew up. “Thief, thief, armed to the teeth,” recited the heavyset driver. The six on foot left off arguing to look him over.

“Are there more of him, Benedict?”

“Out, outlaws!” called the red-robed man, who towered over the rest. He turned to them. “That would make a good title for a little play, no?”

“So ’e’s alone, then. I must say, very brazen.”

“Brazen?”

“To pull a robbery by himself.”

The man nearest him, balding and gray-bearded, placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Thy bow and thy staff, they comfort thee?”

“In Latin, for God’s sake, Elias!” cried the tall one. “Do you want to get us hanged before we’ve even rehearsed?”

“How so, Geoffrey? He’s neither bishop nor cardinal, but bedecked in Lincoln green.”

“I repeat, thief.”

“Shush, Benedict. For all you know he’s in excellent standing in the Pipe rolls. Good sir,” said Elias, “are you a traveler?”

“Ask him does ’e ’ave any musical talents?”

“What? Why, Osbert?”

“We might be able to rid ourselves of Warin.”

“Oh, an’ thankee, ya lout,” Warin answered, others laughing.

The one called Elias asked Thomas, “Where are ye bound, stranger?”

“Nottingham.”

“Oh, ho,” crowed Osbert. “Then ye must enlist in our company.”

“Or accompany our list.” Geoffrey leaned to one side.

Someone at the back blew a raspberry at that.

“But . . . forgive me,” said Thomas, “who are you all?”

Replied Osbert, “Why, sir, we are the Waits of Nottingham.” They all bowed theatrically.

“You’ve heard of us, naturally,” said the tall Geoffrey. He made a great show of bowing.

“I am sorry to say I have not.”

“You see?” whined Warin. “We are less and less relevant with each passing year.”

“Well, you are,” called one at the back.

“What are the Waits?”

“Ha’ ye been living in the woods or someplace on the moon?”

“Hush up, Osbert. After all, if he hasn’t visited the town yet, he’s likely no experience of us,” Elias said. He seemed to be the leader of the troupe. “The Waits,” he explained to Thomas, “are the watchmen of Nottingham. For example, we blow horns—”

Geoffrey had reached into the wagon, drawn out a long straight brass horn. He blew it so loudly that Elias jumped and Osbert glared.

Elias cleared his throat. “And we bang drums and generally sound the alarm if the town is besieged.”

Thomas asked, “Is that effective when you do it from here?”

“Oh—”

“He has a point.”

“Ahem!” Elias cleared his throat with extra vigor. The others fell silent. “Four of us are on watch in Nottingham at all times. Which determines who makes up the company, for we’re also in great demand as traveling players these days.”

Geoffrey chimed in, “We have just completed three days in York and another in Warsop. I’m surprised you ain’t encountered us somewhere.”

“I’ve been living in the woods.”

“Ah, heh-heh, I apologize for that remark,” Osbert replied.

“Why?” asked Thomas. “It’s true. I have been.”

“What? Really. Well, for how long?”

“On that I’m a bit vague. Long enough that I seem to have missed four crusades.”

They silently exchanged confounded glances. Then Osbert began to laugh and the others joined in. Geoffrey insisted, “We must steal that. ‘I stayed out so long I missed the Crusades!’” He howled with glee.

As the laughter died down, Thomas said, “So you bang drums and play horns in other towns and villages, too? Do they not have a watch of their own?”

“You’re a true marvel, sir, don’t mind me saying.”

Warin said, “We perform music, plays, stories. Yes, we do Robyn and Gameleyn, about three boys with deadly archer’s skills. Everyone dies in the end—it’s very satisfying.”

“And there’s Thomas of Erceldoune’s Prophecy,” added Elias. “That’s ever the crowd-pleaser, because of course we simply make up new items to fit where we are. But you trade on a name such as that and everybody believes.”

Thomas had to work not to react.

“And of course the tale of The Monk and the Devil. You must know that one.”

“Sorry. I don’t.”

“Really? What has happened to education? Well, it’s about a monk who wants to be a great healer and so he bargains with the Devil for knowledge of the curative powers of every plant. He becomes the great healer, warding off many plagues and terrible illnesses—until the Devil inevitably comes to collect his soul, and the monk, opening his final bottle of wine, hands the Devil a potion to drink because he has fashioned an elixir that keeps the Devil away, a bottle prepared years ago in anticipation of this very day. So he drives off the fiend and goes on healing the sick.”

“Speaking of which,” said Benedict with some urgency, “we need to go on, too.”

“Oh, apologies. I’ve held you up.”

“He held us up. Told you ’e was an outlaw!” cried Benedict to the amusement of almost no one.

“Yes, you did,” Elias replied heavily. “Please walk along with us if you like, sir. Those of us who are not Benedict, including young Calum way at the back, would enjoy your company.” The wagon lurched forward and they all continued down the King’s Way.

Warin said, “Perhaps, too, we can convince you to join the Waits. If you’re staying in Nottingham, of course.”

Osbert strode forward. “Are you by chance at all good with disguise?” He drew a hand across his face and where it passed his features seemed to transform. “Like that?”

Thomas studied the ground. “Not really, no,” he lied.

“Oh,” Osbert replied. “Well, we could teach you.”

“Let the man be,” said Elias. “Forgive us, but the forest is queer today, and has unnerved us all a bit.”

Geoffrey said, “Tell him of the body.” To Thomas he added, “’Twas the most unnatural of spectacles.”

“I was . . .”Elias paused, making an effort to keep control of his temper.

Osbert interjected. “About five mile back, we come across a body in the road.”

Thomas tried to look surprised. He was, after a fashion—surprised the Yvags had left it there. Did that mean they were still in pursuit of Little John and whatever he’d stolen? He hoped so.

“A skeleton, it were,” said Osbert.

“But dressed up in bishop’s robes and miter. With an ivory crozier to hand,” Warin added. “That we, ah, brought with us. Wonderful prop it’ll make.”

Benedict said, “I’m still thinkin’ it’s some outlaw’s prank.”

“Sure and if ’is name’s Till Eulenspiegel.”

“’Tweren’t owls nah mirrors a part of it.”

“What if ’e were the bishop of Skillington, then?”

A collective of groans followed that. Geoffrey blew another blast on the horn.

“But e’en before that,” called one of those in back, “were a very strange night in the high forest.”

“What was so strange?” Thomas asked.

“Lights. Odd fires. Odious small flying creatures that harried travelers, pulling at their hair and biting them.”

“And the ghosts o’ knights on black steeds wi’ hot coals for eyes, straight from hell.”

“You saw these?”

“Well, we didn’t,” admitted Geoffrey. “Maybe one weird fire off in the distance, and Warin swears one of them flying fae bit him while he sat on watch. Show him the marks, Warin.” While Warin pulled up his sleeve, Geoffrey went on. “Nah, others we passed this morning told us they had been assaulted by them ghosts.”

“Ransacked their belongings, ne’er said a word.”

“Couldn’t just be more outlaws, could it?” he asked.

“That is precisely what I said,” Elias replied, obviously happy to share an opinion at last.

“Don’t forget how the little flying beasties went tearing open sacks of grain.”

“More like elves or fairies, I think,” argued Benedict.

“Or mice,” suggested Thomas, though he knew exactly what flying beasties these must be.

Geoffrey lurched in closer to the conversation. “I wager e’en now we are under observation.”

“But you always think that,” countered Osbert.

“In Sherwood, aye, I do,” Geoffrey agreed. “The size of our company is the only reason we’re not robbed coming and going. Too many of us. Plus, we have weaponry.” He reached into the wagon and drew out an arming sword that might have been a prop. He slashed with it as he continued walking. The others, as if wary of him armed, immediately allowed him more room.

In that moment, blond Warin ran up and showed Thomas where he’d been bitten on the forearm by something with tiny needlelike teeth, a perfect oval. “You see? I didn’t imagine it, an’ that’s no bat nor bird.”

Thomas had to agree. Even as he nodded, for a moment he felt a dull pressure in his head. He braced himself, expecting a fit to drop him in his tracks and a new riddle to come spewing forth, but the sensation dwindled as they walked along, and he wondered if Geoffrey wasn’t perhaps right and they had just passed hidden Yvag knights or even a cluster of those hideous little hobs in the woods.

“In that case,” he said, “I’m doubly glad to be in your company.”

Elias’s response was to ask, “And what do we call you, sir?”

Unprepared as he was, he knew he couldn’t be Sir Richard nor himself now, and if they performed some sort of Thomas of Erceldoune play, they might even know both of Learmonth and his Tàm Lynn guise. In desperation, he reached for a name the Waits had themselves thrown out only minutes earlier. “Robyn,” he said. “The same as in your play.”

“Of course.” Elias smiled in a way that suggested he knew it for a lie but would let the name pass.

Thomas saw the look but was far too focused on what they’d told him about the weird night. The flying homunculi and the described knights were all too familiar, and he found himself wondering again what Little John could have stolen that had brought those eldritch creatures openly into Sherwood Forest.


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