Username: Shallarinath
Title: Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire!
Word Count: 1940
All of England was running to and fro, busily preparing for the thirty-fifth birthday of King Henry, which was to be held three days hence within the city of London. By the orders of the King himself it was to be a merry day, full of festivals and contests and feasting for all!
Many trees had been cut down in Sherwood Forest, and many more were cut down in preparation of this monumental event. Suddenly, upon the edge of the wood, a small man appeared from thin air amongst the fresh cut tree stumps. He wore baggy clothes and had a lute carved from strange, dark, wood strapped across his back. He gave a low whistle as he gauged the amount of time he would have to walk in order to reach London. He estimated about three days on foot, if he traveled swiftly. Beside himself the short minstrel titled his wide brimmed hat in a nod to the forest behind him and set off at a startling pace toward the city of London.
When the day of King Henry’s birthday arrived the entire city of London was ablaze with bright colors and dazzling banners of all shapes and sizes! The streets were filled with music and the sweet scent of roasting meats, meanwhile all the people of England were playing games of chance, or watching knights as they jousted in the arenas. Beside these good folk were those who were musically talented, who were offered a very special chance on this very special day. Each musician would be given the chance to perform in front of an audience; it was the job of the audience to pick who they liked best out of the performers. Then all of the chosen musicians would compete against each other in a set number of rounds. Finally, as all other players were eliminated during previous rounds, the last musician standing would be given fifty gold crowns and a chance to perform for the King himself later in the evening.
Thus there were long lines of bards and minstrels that morning come from far and wide, waiting at stations for their chance to register into this once in a lifetime event. At one of the stations a fat, stubby man was taking names for the contest.
“Name?” he shouted at the next person in line, not even looking their way.
“Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire!” came a swift and melodic reply.
The pudgy name taker spoke the name aloud as he scribbled it down on a list of performers, “Robin Gold-Foe-Low…Wait a second, what the devil kind of name is Goldfoelow? Just what are you trying to pull here little man?” The name taker barked as he looked at the owner of the name which he had just criticized. He saw before him a small fellow, with baggy clothes and a wide brimmed hat! Robin was covered from head to toe in a fine layer of road dust, yet not so much as a particle resided upon his unblemished face or his slender fingers. He took the dark wood lute out of its’ rest on his back and began to tune it while speaking to the name taker.
“Nay I try not to pull anything good friend, I wish merely to perform before the King! I’m certain that he will hear me above all.” Robin said with an impish grin.
The name taker eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then handed Robin his contest entry slip, “Well whatever your name is just wait until they call your number on that slip there before you perform.”
“Aye and I good day to you to milord!” Robin said as he walked into the performers’ tent and awaited his turn to dazzle the crowds.
After a short while Robin was called upon to perform, “Hundred an seven, Robin Gold-foe-low? Your up!”
Robin, who had been chatting with a few fellow lute players, now strutted out into the performance yard. The performance yard wasn’t much, just a small square yard covered in straw and surrounded by wooden stands for the spectators. He walked out and sat down upon the old, worn, stool that was presented to him. Unlike the other musicians Robin did not get intimidated by the crowd, but rather he met each and every gaze in the audience and acted as if he were friends with every one of them.
“Well now, here’s as fine a display of Lords and Ladies as ever I clapped eyes on!” Robin said merrily “I will not fool the likes of ye, I’ve no great songs or ballads prepared in my defense. So I’ll ask ye straight up! What do all you gentlefolk want to hear?” For a moment the crowd was silent, not used to having their opinion asked of them, since a majority were peasants anyway, but after that brief moment passed the people erupted in a chorus of preferences. Out of the throng of words a general theme began to creep from the woodwork.
“We want a good workin’ song!”
“Aye, with beer and broads aplenty!”
“Alright, alright!” Robin said, quelling the rambunctious crowd. “I’ve got just the song in mind, ‘tis a working song all the way from Ireland by the name of Byker Hill!” Robin cleared his throat and began to sing baritone while he strummed the bass part on his lute. The sounds melded into perfect harmony.
“If I had another penny,
I would have another Jill,
I would pay the piper play me the bonny lass of Byker Hill!”
Several verses later he had managed to get the entire crowd to start singing with him. When the song finally ended the spectators burst into laughter and immediately voted Robin into the next round.
Robin played next around high noon, after the midday feast. Sensing the general mood of sloth that had crept over the crowd Robin sent wordless tunes spinning soothingly through the hot air of noon. He played for well over an hour before finally he changed beat and increased the tempo of his playing, putting wild tunes into the audience. Quite suddenly the crowd found themselves roused to their feet and dancing with one another! For a few moments the people’s feet were moving as fast as Robin’s fingers as he plucked the lute’s strings at a breakneck pace, until finally the tempo dropped to a slow waltz, and then the music stopped altogether. A huge round of applause went up from the audience, and once more Robin was advanced. Except this time he was voted straight into the final round.
During the time that he would have to wait for the final round Robin assembled all the men that had been voted out, which turned out to be somewhere around fifty.
“Now,” Robin said “I need two and a half score able players! Each man in my company shall receive one gold crown, but they must do exactly as I say! Can I see a show of hands?” Every hand in the assembly shot skyward.
“Good, very good! Now I want the percussion in the back. Horn players split to either side, I want you on the edges if you would be so kind!” Robin instructed with an overdramatic flourish of his dark wood lute. “Those with pipes fill in the middle there. You who play a stringed instrument I want you to line the front row. You there, with the ocarina, I want you front and center! Where’s the big fellow with the harpsichord? I want him up here by me! Careful now, that harpsichord is rather heavy!”
When everything was set Robin assigned each man his part to play and, producing a small stick from one baggy sleeve, began to conduct them in a practice session. Robin went on for the last time a few hours before sundown, his troupe of players in tow. They set up in complete silence, falling into the places they had been assigned. Robin raised his stick and began conducting furiously, the audience was greeted by and orchestra of sound!
All the while the single ocarina player would stop playing from time to time and, in a sweet tenor voice, he would sing a ballad of the deeds and life of Robin Hood. Slowly the audience began to swell in number as more and more people were attracted to the wondrous music coming from the player’s yard. Eventually all the people in the festival, save the King himself, crowded around the player’s yard in wonder at the sweet music that was being produced therein. Finally the ballad ended and the whole of the festival was weeping at the sad demise of Robin Hood. A great weeping bear of a man walked straight into the yard and handed Robin the winner’s prize of fifty crowns, and Robin in turn handed it to the ocarina player.
“Make sure each man gets his due, I’ll not be needing such coin myself!” Robin said to him, then the strange little lute player was swept away by the throng of Londoners and was carried all the way to the King’s court. He was seated in the middle of an open arena on an elaborately carved stool. All around nobles gathered in sheltered pavilions while King Henry himself was seated directly in front of Robin. An announcer heralded the appearance of the little minstrel to the crowd just as the sun began to set.
“Presenting Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire to His Royal Majesty!”
King Henry paused a moment and looked Robin up and down. “Gold-Foe-Low? What manner of name is that, pray tell?”
Robin chuckled darkly, his face hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat. “’Tis the name I bear, good King.”
“But surely such a name is false!” King Henry retorted. “Tell us thy true name good minstrel, so I may know what to call thee.”
“My name,” Robin said as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. “shall be revealed in good time. For now, I think I’ll favor you with a song. It has been so very long, Henry, since last we met!”
“What? I’ve never met you in my life!” cried Henry.
But Robin offered no retort, he merely bent over his lute and began to produce a strange melody that caused the spine to chill and every hair stand on end. The tempo increased, faster and faster, as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky. A vengeful wind howled through the pavilions and Robin began to laugh a dark, insidious laugh. It was high at first, then it began to drop octaves, rapidly becoming deeper than was humanly possible. Finally the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon and Robin struck a chord of absolute discord that sent people running in terror. Then the once small man grew in size, double, then triple, and quadruple, until he was as tall as a mansion!
“MY NAME, LITTLE HENRY, IS ROBIN GOODFELLOW, BUT WHEN LAST WE MET YOU CALLED ME PUCK!” Puck roared over the screams of the people, right into the face of the King, who stood rigid with fear. The wind reached a howling crescendo, whipping frost about as it went. “YOU HAVE NOT HONORED OUR DEAL HENRY, OBERON IS NOT PLEASED! I GIVE YOU ON BEHALF OF MY MASTER ONE LAST CHANCE TO STOP CUTTING DOWN SHERWOOD FOREST, DON’T MAKE HIM REGRET IT!”
Puck unleashed another blast of unearthly laughter and then, in a great gust of wind, he vanished. The only things that remained in his wake were a terrified king and a light coat of rime over the pavilions.
Title: Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire!
Word Count: 1940
All of England was running to and fro, busily preparing for the thirty-fifth birthday of King Henry, which was to be held three days hence within the city of London. By the orders of the King himself it was to be a merry day, full of festivals and contests and feasting for all!
Many trees had been cut down in Sherwood Forest, and many more were cut down in preparation of this monumental event. Suddenly, upon the edge of the wood, a small man appeared from thin air amongst the fresh cut tree stumps. He wore baggy clothes and had a lute carved from strange, dark, wood strapped across his back. He gave a low whistle as he gauged the amount of time he would have to walk in order to reach London. He estimated about three days on foot, if he traveled swiftly. Beside himself the short minstrel titled his wide brimmed hat in a nod to the forest behind him and set off at a startling pace toward the city of London.
When the day of King Henry’s birthday arrived the entire city of London was ablaze with bright colors and dazzling banners of all shapes and sizes! The streets were filled with music and the sweet scent of roasting meats, meanwhile all the people of England were playing games of chance, or watching knights as they jousted in the arenas. Beside these good folk were those who were musically talented, who were offered a very special chance on this very special day. Each musician would be given the chance to perform in front of an audience; it was the job of the audience to pick who they liked best out of the performers. Then all of the chosen musicians would compete against each other in a set number of rounds. Finally, as all other players were eliminated during previous rounds, the last musician standing would be given fifty gold crowns and a chance to perform for the King himself later in the evening.
Thus there were long lines of bards and minstrels that morning come from far and wide, waiting at stations for their chance to register into this once in a lifetime event. At one of the stations a fat, stubby man was taking names for the contest.
“Name?” he shouted at the next person in line, not even looking their way.
“Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire!” came a swift and melodic reply.
The pudgy name taker spoke the name aloud as he scribbled it down on a list of performers, “Robin Gold-Foe-Low…Wait a second, what the devil kind of name is Goldfoelow? Just what are you trying to pull here little man?” The name taker barked as he looked at the owner of the name which he had just criticized. He saw before him a small fellow, with baggy clothes and a wide brimmed hat! Robin was covered from head to toe in a fine layer of road dust, yet not so much as a particle resided upon his unblemished face or his slender fingers. He took the dark wood lute out of its’ rest on his back and began to tune it while speaking to the name taker.
“Nay I try not to pull anything good friend, I wish merely to perform before the King! I’m certain that he will hear me above all.” Robin said with an impish grin.
The name taker eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then handed Robin his contest entry slip, “Well whatever your name is just wait until they call your number on that slip there before you perform.”
“Aye and I good day to you to milord!” Robin said as he walked into the performers’ tent and awaited his turn to dazzle the crowds.
After a short while Robin was called upon to perform, “Hundred an seven, Robin Gold-foe-low? Your up!”
Robin, who had been chatting with a few fellow lute players, now strutted out into the performance yard. The performance yard wasn’t much, just a small square yard covered in straw and surrounded by wooden stands for the spectators. He walked out and sat down upon the old, worn, stool that was presented to him. Unlike the other musicians Robin did not get intimidated by the crowd, but rather he met each and every gaze in the audience and acted as if he were friends with every one of them.
“Well now, here’s as fine a display of Lords and Ladies as ever I clapped eyes on!” Robin said merrily “I will not fool the likes of ye, I’ve no great songs or ballads prepared in my defense. So I’ll ask ye straight up! What do all you gentlefolk want to hear?” For a moment the crowd was silent, not used to having their opinion asked of them, since a majority were peasants anyway, but after that brief moment passed the people erupted in a chorus of preferences. Out of the throng of words a general theme began to creep from the woodwork.
“We want a good workin’ song!”
“Aye, with beer and broads aplenty!”
“Alright, alright!” Robin said, quelling the rambunctious crowd. “I’ve got just the song in mind, ‘tis a working song all the way from Ireland by the name of Byker Hill!” Robin cleared his throat and began to sing baritone while he strummed the bass part on his lute. The sounds melded into perfect harmony.
“If I had another penny,
I would have another Jill,
I would pay the piper play me the bonny lass of Byker Hill!”
Several verses later he had managed to get the entire crowd to start singing with him. When the song finally ended the spectators burst into laughter and immediately voted Robin into the next round.
Robin played next around high noon, after the midday feast. Sensing the general mood of sloth that had crept over the crowd Robin sent wordless tunes spinning soothingly through the hot air of noon. He played for well over an hour before finally he changed beat and increased the tempo of his playing, putting wild tunes into the audience. Quite suddenly the crowd found themselves roused to their feet and dancing with one another! For a few moments the people’s feet were moving as fast as Robin’s fingers as he plucked the lute’s strings at a breakneck pace, until finally the tempo dropped to a slow waltz, and then the music stopped altogether. A huge round of applause went up from the audience, and once more Robin was advanced. Except this time he was voted straight into the final round.
During the time that he would have to wait for the final round Robin assembled all the men that had been voted out, which turned out to be somewhere around fifty.
“Now,” Robin said “I need two and a half score able players! Each man in my company shall receive one gold crown, but they must do exactly as I say! Can I see a show of hands?” Every hand in the assembly shot skyward.
“Good, very good! Now I want the percussion in the back. Horn players split to either side, I want you on the edges if you would be so kind!” Robin instructed with an overdramatic flourish of his dark wood lute. “Those with pipes fill in the middle there. You who play a stringed instrument I want you to line the front row. You there, with the ocarina, I want you front and center! Where’s the big fellow with the harpsichord? I want him up here by me! Careful now, that harpsichord is rather heavy!”
When everything was set Robin assigned each man his part to play and, producing a small stick from one baggy sleeve, began to conduct them in a practice session. Robin went on for the last time a few hours before sundown, his troupe of players in tow. They set up in complete silence, falling into the places they had been assigned. Robin raised his stick and began conducting furiously, the audience was greeted by and orchestra of sound!
All the while the single ocarina player would stop playing from time to time and, in a sweet tenor voice, he would sing a ballad of the deeds and life of Robin Hood. Slowly the audience began to swell in number as more and more people were attracted to the wondrous music coming from the player’s yard. Eventually all the people in the festival, save the King himself, crowded around the player’s yard in wonder at the sweet music that was being produced therein. Finally the ballad ended and the whole of the festival was weeping at the sad demise of Robin Hood. A great weeping bear of a man walked straight into the yard and handed Robin the winner’s prize of fifty crowns, and Robin in turn handed it to the ocarina player.
“Make sure each man gets his due, I’ll not be needing such coin myself!” Robin said to him, then the strange little lute player was swept away by the throng of Londoners and was carried all the way to the King’s court. He was seated in the middle of an open arena on an elaborately carved stool. All around nobles gathered in sheltered pavilions while King Henry himself was seated directly in front of Robin. An announcer heralded the appearance of the little minstrel to the crowd just as the sun began to set.
“Presenting Robin Goldfoelow, Minstrel Extraordinaire to His Royal Majesty!”
King Henry paused a moment and looked Robin up and down. “Gold-Foe-Low? What manner of name is that, pray tell?”
Robin chuckled darkly, his face hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat. “’Tis the name I bear, good King.”
“But surely such a name is false!” King Henry retorted. “Tell us thy true name good minstrel, so I may know what to call thee.”
“My name,” Robin said as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. “shall be revealed in good time. For now, I think I’ll favor you with a song. It has been so very long, Henry, since last we met!”
“What? I’ve never met you in my life!” cried Henry.
But Robin offered no retort, he merely bent over his lute and began to produce a strange melody that caused the spine to chill and every hair stand on end. The tempo increased, faster and faster, as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky. A vengeful wind howled through the pavilions and Robin began to laugh a dark, insidious laugh. It was high at first, then it began to drop octaves, rapidly becoming deeper than was humanly possible. Finally the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon and Robin struck a chord of absolute discord that sent people running in terror. Then the once small man grew in size, double, then triple, and quadruple, until he was as tall as a mansion!
“MY NAME, LITTLE HENRY, IS ROBIN GOODFELLOW, BUT WHEN LAST WE MET YOU CALLED ME PUCK!” Puck roared over the screams of the people, right into the face of the King, who stood rigid with fear. The wind reached a howling crescendo, whipping frost about as it went. “YOU HAVE NOT HONORED OUR DEAL HENRY, OBERON IS NOT PLEASED! I GIVE YOU ON BEHALF OF MY MASTER ONE LAST CHANCE TO STOP CUTTING DOWN SHERWOOD FOREST, DON’T MAKE HIM REGRET IT!”
Puck unleashed another blast of unearthly laughter and then, in a great gust of wind, he vanished. The only things that remained in his wake were a terrified king and a light coat of rime over the pavilions.
