Then it’s three cloaks off, and it’s three swords out,
And it’s three swords whistling like the tea.
“By the faith of my body,” says Captain Cully,
“Now ye shall have neither the stane nor she.”

And he’s driven them up, and he’s driven them down,
And he’s driven them to and fro like sheep—

“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.”