Schmendrick accepted the place by the fire, graciously declined the gelid morsel, and replied, "I have heard that you are the friend of the helpless and the enemy of the mighty, and that you and your merry men lead a joyous life in the forest, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. I know the tale of how you and Jack Jingly cracked one another's crowns with quarterstaves and became blood brothers thereby; and how you saved your Molly from marriage to the rich old man her father had chosen for her." In fact, Schmendrick had never heard of Captain Cully before that very evening, but he had a good grounding in Anglo-Saxon folklore and knew the type. "And of course," he hazarded, "there was a certain wicked king —"
"Haggard, rot and ruin him!" Cully cried. "Aye, there's not one here but's been done wrong by old King Haggard — driven from his rightful land, robbed of his rank and rents, skinned out of his patrimony. They live only for revenge — mark you, magician — and one day Haggard will pay such a reckoning —"
A score of shaggy shadows hissed assent, but Molly Grue's laughter fell like hail, rattling and stinging. "Mayhap he will," she mocked, "but it won't be to such chattering cravens he'll pay it. His castle rots and totters more each day, and his men are too old to stand up in armor, but he'll rule forever, for all Captain Cully dares."
Schmendrick raised an eyebrow, and Cully flushed radish-red. "You must understand," he mumbled. "King Haggard has this Bull —"
"Ah, the Red Bull, the Red Bull!" Molly hooted. "I tell you what, Cully, after all these years in the wood with you I've come to think the Bull's nought but the pet name you give your cowardice. If I hear that fable once more, I'll go and down old Haggard myself, and know you for a —"
"Enough!" Cully roared. "Not before strangers!" He tugged at his sword and Molly opened her arms to it, still laughing. Around the fire, greasy hands twiddled dagger hilts and longbows seemed to string themselves, but Schmendrick spoke up then, seeking to salvage Cully's sinking vanity. He hated family scenes.
"They sing a ballad of you in my country," he began. "I forget just how it goes —"
Captain Cully spun like a cat ambushing its own tail. "Which one?" he demanded.
"I don't know," Schmendrick answered, taken aback. "Are there more than one?"
"Aye, indeed!" Cully cried, glowing and growing, as though pregnant with his pride. "Willie Gentle! Willie Gentle! Where is the lad?"
A lank-haired youth with a lute and pimples shambled up. "Sing one of my exploits for the gentleman," Captain Cully ordered him. "Sing the one about how you joined my band. I've not heard it since Tuesday last."
The minstrel sighed, struck a chord, and began to sing in a wobbly countertenor:
"Now comes the best part," Cully whispered to Schmendrick. He was bouncing eagerly on his toes, hugging himself.
"Like sheep," Cully breathed. He rocked and hummed and parried three swords with his forearm for the remaining seventeen stanzas of the song, rapturously oblivious to Molly's mockery and the restlessness of his men. The ballad ended at last, and Schmendrick applauded loudly and earnestly, complimenting Willie Gentle on his right-hand technique.
"I call it Alan-a-Dale picking," the minstrel answered.
He would have expounded further, but Cully interrupted him, saying, "Good, Willie, good boy, now play the others." He beamed at what Schmendrick hoped was an expression of pleased surprise. "I said that there were several songs about me. There are thirty-one, to be exact, though none are in the Child collection just at present —" His eyes widened suddenly, and he grasped the magician's shoulders. "You wouldn't be Mr. Child himself, now would you?" he demanded. "He often goes seeking ballads, so I've heard, disguised as a plain man —"
Schmendrick shook his head. "No, I'm very sorry, really."
The captain sighed and released him. "It doesn't matter," he murmured. "One always hopes, of course, even now — to be collected, to be verified, annotated, to have variant versions, even to have one's authenticity doubted… well, well, never mind. Sing the other songs, Willie lad. You'll need the practice one day, when you're field-recorded."
The outlaws grumbled and scuffed, kicking at stones. A hoarse voice bawled from a safe shadow, "Na, Willie, sing us a true song. Sing us one about Robin Hood."
"Who said that?" Cully's loosened sword clacked in its sheath as he turned from side to side. His face suddenly seemed as pale and weary as a used lemon drop.
"I did," said Molly Grue, who hadn't. "The men are bored with ballads of your bravery, captain darling. Even if you did write them all yourself."
Cully winced and stole a side glance at Schmendrick. "They can still be folk songs, can't they, Mr. Child?" he asked in a low, worried voice. "After all —"
"I'm not Mr. Child," Schmendrick said. "Really I'm not."
"I mean, you can't leave epic events to the people. They get everything wrong."
An aging rogue in tattered velvet now slunk forward. "Captain, if we're to have folk songs, and I suppose we must, then we feel they ought to be true songs about real outlaws, not this lying life we live. No offense, captain, but we're really not very merry, when all's said —"
"I'm merry twenty-four hours a day, Dick Fancy," Cully said coldly. "That is a fact."
"And we don't steal from the rich and give to the poor," Dick Fancy hurried on. "We steal from the poor because they can't fight back — most of them — and the rich take from us because they could wipe us out in a day. We don't rob the fat, greedy Mayor on the highway; we pay him tribute every month to leave us alone. We never carry off proud bishops and keep them prisoner in the wood, feasting and entertaining them, because Molly hasn't any good dishes, and besides, we just wouldn't be very stimulating company for a bishop. When we go to the fair in disguise, we never win at the archery or at singlestick. We do get some nice compliments on our disguises, but no more than that."
"I sent a tapestry to the judging once," Molly remembered. "It came in fourth. Fifth. A knight at vigil — everyone was doing vigils that year." Suddenly she was scrubbing her eyes with horny knuckles. "Damn you, Cully."
"What, what?" he yelled in exasperation. "Is it my fault you didn't keep up with your weaving? Once you had your man, you let all your accomplishments go. You don't sew or sing any more, you haven't illuminated a manuscript in years — and what happened to that viola da gamba I got you?" He turned to Schmendrick. "We might as well be married, the way she's gone to seed." The magician nodded fractionally, and looked away.