I Sing the Nightwatchman
Nottingham Castle, Nottinghamshire, England-- The young troubador adjusted his lute, framed his beardless face for maxiumum emoting, and, as always with a maximum eye to the ladies (or in this case, the Lady), began with a boast:
"I sing a fair song of a gallowglass, I sing a fair song of a fishing lass,
I sing a fair song for the time to pass, and sing a song as you raise a glass...
and save yet a cup for me.
Yet, know ye that better than a gallowglass, better than a fishing lass,
Is a tale with a hero in its cast
And so I sing the Nightwatchman. Aye, the bold Nightwatchman.
'Twas at the Maying, as telling goes, When weather warms, and we need no shoes,
In the time of me gaffer, or farther back still, When the tales were of fey-kind or brave Jack-o-hill,
That out, hard by Nettlestone, In the village of Clun,
Came ill-evil so great, There was nought to be done.
With the night all around us, Times hard and means thin
We look to the rider with no kith nor no kin:
He will come to watch o'er us 'til dark turn to day,
'Til bad times have passed and 'til trouble gives way.
The sick lay a-dying, Lined 'long the West Road, From sickness so black, all knew what it bode:
Death, vicious and painful, Straight from Hell's bowels,
Allowing the sick to speak only in howls.
Gentle farmers, hardy mothers, alike gripped in strife.
Neither friar nor surgeon could save yet one life.
With the night all around us, Times hard and means thin
We call for the rider with no kith nor no kin:
He will come to watch o'er us 'til dark turn to day,
'Til bad times have passed and 'til trouble gives way.
When darkest of night had yet fallen once more, The nights of Clun's plague numbered twenty and four.
And sweet Gemma Greene, Clun's fairest young maid, Had set down her milking and took to her bed.
With sickness that threatened her skin; cream-soft and fat,
Her hips, full and round, her bosom, quite jolly, and fine russet hair she wore in a plait.
The people of Clun felt full despair, Yet found six still-strong men agreeing to bear
Pretty Gemma Greene, away from her cows, Down to the West Road, as if on a pyre
And set her to wait with the others on the make-shift death's-bower.
With the night all around us, Times hard and means thin
We pray for the rider with no kith nor no kin:
He will come to watch o'er us 'til dark turn to day,
'Til bad times have passed and 'til trouble gives way.
Those six still-strong men, the friar and surgeon, Along with the sick numbered more than two dozen
Waited that night for sweet Gemma to pass, But in truth their hearts had no hope for the lass.
Then came the hoofbeats that not a-one heard, The footfalls as silent as tucked wing of a bird,
The hour was late, or early, some say, When the night pitches blackest before break of the day.
A figure appeared of which none there did ken, But 'twas later known as Night's brave Watchman.
How quickly he moved, like as Sherwood's cool breeze, Bringing a medicine for all ill to ease.
But no potion or poultice could cure Clun's fair flower, And it seemed Gemma Greene would be dead ere the hour.
He never removed the mask from his face, Never explained how God gave him the grace,
But he knew somehow his hands where to place: One at her heart, its mate to her waist,
And bending quite low, as if her to kiss, He whispered a Blessing on Clun-town's good Gemmy
And hearing his words, God did grant her a remedy.
With the night all around us, Times hard and means thin
We trust in the rider with no kith nor no kin:
He will come to watch o'er us 'til dark turn to day,
'Til bad times have passed and 'til trouble gives way.
Now, though from that day on she was hearty and hale, And grew pleasantly stout, 'tis the end of her tale,
For sweet Gemma Greene's fair looks never altered, and throughout her long life,
No man could induce her to altar--to be his good wife.
'Twas said that if asked, Gemma Greene would sure say:
She'd handfasted with The Watchman that day in the May.
With the night all around us, Times hard and means thin
We look to the rider with no kith nor no kin:
He who comes to watch o'er us 'til dark turn to day,
'Til bad times have passed and 'til trouble gives way.
He brings plain folk succor again and again
And for that we well thank him, the brave Nightwatchman."
Marian worked to stifle a giggle. "Magnificent!" She attempted genuineness, choosing to overlook the hackneyed meter and erratic rhyme scheme. "You say," she questioned the sincere-faced minstrel, "this tale is from your grandfather's time?"
"Oh yes, milady, or even before...you know, it is said," he spoke with hushed conviction, "that in times of great need the Nightwatchman will come. It is commonly said," he assured her, nodding, "even beyond the village of Clun."
She swallowed her gut reaction: incredulity. "Do you know Tale of the True Loves?" she asked, to gain herself a moment of composure.
He began to strum and sing.
Handfasting! she scoffed, but not angrily, under her breath. His grandfather's time! Marian of Knighton re-read the paper the young fellow had brought with him as means of introduction, bound by a chartreuse silk ribbon she would save for her hair. It read: 'a gift of song on the occasion of the Lady Marian's birthday'.
Her back to the singer (woefully studying his lute, as the melancholy ballad required), she waved the paper near an open flame. Additional wording (encoded) appeared, "I have found this boy for you, singing for his supper along the West Road. I think you might find something to admire in his best work, and most-requested song (per the local village girls). I am working hard to teach it to the gang so we may serenade you with it upon our next meeting, which, if God wills, will not be too long away."
She had almost forgotten his plummy handwriting, though he had tried to suppress it here. It would do no good to give away one's priviledged education, even when writing in code, even with trick ink.
The closing was smudged and she was unable to be sure--did it say "Forever, my love? Ever your servant? Forwith my lady?" She would have to study the smudge more closely. It was followed by the coded initials which deciphered into "RLEH", a sign Robin was feeling confidant enough, cheeky enough to sign his land and title after the simple "R" that would have more than sufficed. He was having a good day, a strong day.
She smiled.
"Shall I play it again? The Nightwatchman, milday? For your pleasure?"
"Oh yes, certainly," she agreed, "We must have it again. I think you must play it. I think you absolutely must." And she knew in her heart she could hear Robin out in Sherwood, or a village, or Nottingham's marketplace (wherever he was today) laughing his head off. The brave Nightwatchman, two generations ago, handfasting with a buxom milkmaid.
"Oh, shut up," she told the faraway Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon under her breath, knowing he had sent the gift he'd found as much to razz her as to delight her. "Think of what they will sing of you, my bright boy. Oh, only imagine!"
But today, on her birthday, both delighted and a little razzed, she thanked him anyway.
DISCLAIMER: Robin Hood and Marian are no one's property (as they will well tell you should you see them), but the versions used herein are currently property of BBC/BBC America and Tiger Aspect.
NOTE: Not my smoothest work, and rather quickly reeled off, but this came up as a side-trip during a bigger project (Death Would Be Simpler to Deal With, also here at fanfiction), so though this will always be my first posted RH fanfic, it will not be my first written (that I am still working on).
This came about as a seed planted by Foz Allen's commentary on Season Two's "Sisterhood", wherein he and Dominic muse on the possibility of a Nightwatchman series.
Thanks to Sorche Nic Leodhas for the opening rhyme of gallowglass and fishing lass.
And yes, "Jack-o-hill" is an inside nod to Jane Yolen's Watchman-like Jackaroo.
I hope you like it.