The Ballad of Allyn-a-Dale (Outlaws of Avalon, Book One)

By Danielle E. Shipley

Welcome to Avalon, a Renaissance Faire where heroes of legend never die. Where the Robin Hood walking the streets is truly the noble outlaw himself. Where the knightly and wizardly players of King Arthur’s court are in fact who they profess to be. Where the sense of enchantment in the air is not mere feeling, but the Fey magic of a paradise hidden in plain sight.

Enter Allyn-a-Dale. The grief of his father’s death still fresh and the doom of his own world looming, swirling realities leave the young minstrel marooned in an immortal Sherwood Forest, where he is recruited as a member of Robin Hood’s infamous outlaw band. But Allyn’s new life may reach its end before it’s scarcely begun. Their existence under threat, the Merry Men are called upon to embark on a journey to the dangerous world Outside – ours – on a quest which must be achieved without delay, or eternity in Avalon will not amount to very long at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danielle E. Shipley
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310606366

Danielle E. Shipley

Danielle E. Shipley is the author of the Wilderhark Tales novellas, the novel Inspired, and several other expressions of wishful thinking. She has spent most of her life in the Chicago area and increasing amounts of time in Germany. She hopes to ultimately retire to a private immortal forest. But first, there are stories to make.

Book preview

~ The Outlaws of Avalon, Book 1 ~

by Danielle E. Shipley

Copyright 2016 Danielle E. Shipley

Cover photography by Lars van de Goor

Cover design by Milan van de Goor

Map of Avalon Faire by Jesse Kennedy, Cartographer of the Cosmos

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters therein and anyone outside of legends of old is entirely coincidental.

Published by Ever On Word at Smashwords.

This book is available in print.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

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please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

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work of this author.

Table of Contents

Overture

Stanza One

Stanza Two

Stanza Three

Stanza Four

Stanza Five

Stanza Six

Stanza Seven

Stanza Eight

Stanza Nine

Stanza Ten

Stanza Eleven

Stanza Twelve

Stanza Thirteen

Stanza Fourteen

Stanza Fifteen

Stanza Sixteen

Stanza Seventeen

Stanza Eighteen

Stanza Nineteen

Stanza Twenty

Stanza Twenty-One

Stanza Twenty-Two

Coda

From the Author to You

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Bonus Song

Also by Danielle E. Shipley

Dedicated to the Bristol Renaissance Faire.

Stay magical.

~ OVERTURE ~

Loren fought the growing urge to panic.

Surrounding her were creatures of every imaginable kind. Beings that stood some twenty feet tall and held smaller people in their power, forcing them to dance like dolls on strings. Cloaked figures with dragons perched on their shoulders, their eerie reptilian heads turning to follow the progress of passersby. Women in bejeweled corsets and embroidered gowns. Women and men, both, decked out in tunics, capes, and – in Loren’s case – a hat which may have been meant for a cowboy, once, but which now boasted one side of the brim sewn up to the crown, along with a big flourish of a feather.

But the incredible hodgepodge of Renaissance Faire fashion do-s and don’t-s to be seen on every side were the least of Loren’s concerns at the moment – the greatest of them being that she’d lurked at the edge of the Archer’s Green for ages… and there was still no sign of him anywhere.

A singsong voice beside her warned, You’re going to miss your interview…

I still have a few minutes. Loren snuck another compulsive glance at her pocket watch before turning to the teenaged girl in jester’s motley juggling half-a-dozen beanbag balls from hand to hand. And you told the corset shop about me, right, Janey? They know I’m not habitually late.

The juggler went cross-eyed in exasperation. "I should have thrown in an addendum: ‘Oh, sure, my big sister’s punctual to a fault. …Unless her idol’s involved. Then all bets are off.’ Couldn’t decide to pass the time watching a scheduled show, could you, instead of one that pops up willy-nilly? There’s one just ending now in Camelot Quarter, y’know. You could’ve gone to watch that one and been left with plenty of time to spare. But no-o-o."

The Sword in the Stone show? What for? Loren asked absently, neck craning as she scanned the crowds again. "I’ve perused the literature. I know how it ends: A young Arthur succeeds where all others have failed and is named High King of all the Britons. I bet the show even calls the blade Excalibur, even though there are just as many sources stating the Sword in the Stone – or the sword in the anvil on top of the stone – was just some sword, and Arthur didn’t get Excalibur until the hand of the Lady of the Lake tossed it to him from underwater or some such thing. But then, accounts of legend will vary, right?"

Mm, said Janey, more than used to her sister’s over-involved discourses on tales of old. She let her juggling balls fall one by one into the colorful pouch at her hip, remarking, He may not even show up.

He might, Loren spoke with brave optimism. "It’s the sort of thing where he would show up. At least, that was practically the whole idea, in the stories. And anyway, she added, hoping that speaking the words aloud would go some way toward convincing her of their truth, even if he doesn’t, it’ll still be fun."

More fun than landing the job you begged me to line up for you? Janey said pointedly.

Before Loren had settled on a responsible reply, a man bedecked in a quite official-looking getup – all bright velvets and a hat to beat the band – took his place on a raised platform to one side of the Green. A fawn-brown young woman in a fuss-free gown of darker browns and greens stepped up beside him, the pair of them in the middle of a conversation so loud, it couldn’t have been intended to remain private.

What say you, my lady? the man asked, with a hint of swagger. Is it not a fine day for a shooting match?

I daresay, sir, the woman agreed, hands held demurely not far below the cascade of curls at her back. "But perhaps almost too fine! ‘Tis a fair-weather day, with scarce a breath of wind in the air. Surely anyone with a bow in hand could send an arrow near the mark in such ideal conditions as these – especially as you’ve placed the targets almost insultingly close by."

Close by, say you! cried the man, gesturing toward the row of hay bales marked with bull’s-eyes that stood, to Loren’s mind, a rather intimidating distance from the Green’s edge. Far enough, I’d say! Would you have me place the mark on the far side of Nottinghamshire? What man would be able to win the prize then?

The young woman offered a sly sort of bright-eyed smile. I know tell of one man who could.

The spectators around the platform began to buzz and chuckle with anticipation, one or two even going so far as to call out the name they guessed was hinted at. The gaudily dressed man’s face grew comically red.

Who dares speak that name? he bellowed. "There will be no talk of that rogue here – not while I’m still Sheriff of Nottingham! This is a contest for honest men, not sneaking scoundrels! For men and women who like to earn their gold through fair play and skill, not tricks and robbery! Show these good people the prize, my lady!"

The crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed as the woman held up the shining article for all to see. Behold, cried the Sheriff. "The Golden Arrow! Let whoever aims truest today take the prize. And let’s show my lady, here, that there stands at least one in Nottinghamshire who can shoot better than even this outlaw favorite of hers! Who will aim first?"

A dozen hands shot up and waved wildly in the air, Loren’s among them. The woman on the platform made a short show of consideration before pointing the Golden Arrow at a youngster in a chainmail shirt. Loren could have screamed with jealousy; though she wasn’t overly miffed at having not been selected to shoot first, she’d have killed for some awesome chainmail.

A fellow who didn’t seem to have any function other than to hand contestants their bow and arrow stepped up to do just that, and Chainmail Kid took aim. Most tried not to laugh too hard when the arrow hit the ground about a yard in front of the target.

A middle-aged woman in a hardcore ye olde barmaid outfit was chosen to go next, and she at least managed to hit the base of the bale.

Four random others went up in succession. That Loren was not among them was more of a disappointment than a surprise. By this point in her early adult life, she was more or less resigned to the likely truth that she would never be any kind of Chosen One outside of her fantasies.

It’s probably just as well, she muttered as a guy in a hooded green poncho shuffled forward to have his turn. "I’d probably just end up hitting something behind me, anyway."

Yeah, said Janey, the nod of her head setting her floppy hat’s bells jingling. "With the bow."

Loren was still undecided whether to laugh or knock her sister around a little (for the love of all things medieval, she wasn’t that clumsy!) when a gasp went up from the throng. Green Poncho Guy had hit the target dead center! The crowd’s impressed cheers and whistles at their fellow amateur’s lucky shot filled the air, cut short by another startled intake of breath when a second arrow from the same bow zipped forward, splitting the first bull’s-eye arrow right down the middle.

Ohmygosh… Loren whispered, even as the Sheriff leaned over the end of the platform and demanded, You there! Archer! Show your face!

Why, my good Sheriff, Poncho Guy laughed, the casually grand removal of his hood revealing a fall of chestnut hair and a beard-framed grin. "Can it be that you do not know me – again?"

Loren shrieked with glee, Janey giggling with conspiratorial delight, each sound all but lost in the din raised all around them. Everyone and their Valkyrie-costumed grandmother cried the same thing: ROBIN HOOD!

"You! roared the Sheriff. How dare you show your face here?"

Golden Arrow Lady answered, a laugh in her voice, I believe you just told him to.

Guards! The Sheriff’s throat had to be suffering, by now. "Arrest that man! Seize Robin Hood!"

A handful of men charged from behind the platform, swords in hand and evil leers upon their faces. At once, Robin Hood placed his fingers on either side of his lips to produce a piercing whistle, calling out after, "To me, my Merry Men!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, two more players vaulted onto the Green: One clad in vibrant shades of red and wielding a sword in each hand, the other a black-bearded giant who brandished a thick wooden staff.

Will Scarlet and Little John! Loren squealed, clapping her hands, bouncing on her toes, and trying not to get knocked off her feet – no easy thing, with the crowd jostling for a better view of the choreographed fight taking place before the archery targets. Blades flashed and flew, everyone thrusting and parrying, ducking and dodging, with plenty of Aha!-s and witty quips for showmanship’s sake.

In the end, the Sheriff’s men were induced by sharp objects at their throats and/or a Little John headlock to surrender. The Sheriff ran off, spewing curses so old-school that their exact meaning was anyone’s guess. And the audience cheered so boisterously that it was some time before the players on the Green were able to carry on with their prearranged dialogue.

Well, green-hooded archer, said she of the Golden Arrow, doing her ladylike best to bring some decorum back to this free-for-all event. You have clearly won the day. Come, claim your prize.

Gladly, said Robin Hood, bright blue eyes a-twinkle. "Though I care naught for golden arrows. I would that my prize be you, my love, fair maid Marion! Will you not come back with me to Sherwood Forest?"

I will, Marion said, allowing herself to be caught up at the waist and spun around in the name of romance. But what are we to do with this? she asked, motioning with the arrow.

Why not let it be awarded to one of these good folks here? suggested Robin, the sweep of his arm encompassing the knot of spectators. Taking the Golden Arrow in hand, he scanned the faces in the crowd, then stepped forward to hold the prize before a hyperventilating Loren.

Would you accept this gift from a humble outlaw, my lady? he asked, his voice solemn, a smile in his eyes.

Totally, good sir, Loren answered in a daze, something that would probably have been better off as a solid melting to mush inside of her as his strong, rough hand brushed her fingers during the transfer.

Her gaze flew to Janey in silent question. Did you…?

The grinning jester shook her head, hands up in a vow of denial.

Before you could say Farewell, good people of Nottingham, the Merry Men were gone. The crowd began to disperse. And Loren – clutching to her breast the Golden Arrow that Robin Hood! Robin Hood! Robin Hood! had touched – decided that she could pretty much fall down dead that very second and not give a hoot.

Sometimes, after a full day of shouting to be heard over the shouts of a thousand others, it was difficult for Marion to remember what peace and quiet sounded like.

And spending an evening in an alehouse in the company of Will Scarlet never did anything to hasten that remembrance.

…Then the whole thing fell right over on top of him, he crowed, approaching the climax of this, the latest of his Outsider antics anecdotes. "And from underneath it all, you could hear this muffled voice saying, ‘Dude, I have like no bars!’ Will slapped the bar top, laughing uproariously. Epic fail!"

That sounds dreadful, Robin said, chuckling along nonetheless. Will’s zestful manner was infectious that way. Was the poor young fellow very much hurt?

I doubt it, said Will, shrugging. It was only a lot of stuffed toys and hats that landed upon him. And he seemed more concerned about his phone’s signal strength, or lack thereof, than any possibility of broken limbs, anyway.

Foolishness, Little John pronounced from the next barstool over, with a sip from his tankard of ale.

I know, right? said Will, smiling broadly. That’s what I love about the Outsiders: They are so delightfully daft! Like that Indian girl at the archery show earlier, hey, Marion? The one whom our dear Robin so intuitively knew would most highly value any worthless trinket from his hand? She looked about mad enough to try running off into Sherwood with your husband in your place!

Marion smiled, in spite of the dull ache in her head. Do you hear that, Robin? Apparently, it is a sure sign of madness to wish to run away with you to Sherwood.

Little John’s snort noted that everyone knew as much already.

All right, you three, enough of you, Robin laughed. I can neither help it nor offer explanation as to why it causes young women to lose their heads every time they hear my name.

"Because you’re a legend, Robin, Will intoned, pulling an excessively grave face. And truly great legends—"

Never die? Robin supplied.

Will tossed back another swallow of ale. I was going to say ‘inspire lunacy,’ but I suppose your ending works, too.

Marion’s expression caught between one of amusement and one of pain; exhaustion really had set her head throbbing. At last, she felt compelled to announce her early leave of the party. Of course Robin proposed to go with her at once, but she urged him to stay. You needn’t cut short your merrymaking on my account.

"When have we ever cut it short on any account? observed Will. He raised his mug to their group’s departing member. Feel better, Marion, love! I’ll be sure to drink your health on the next round."

She called behind her, You’re all thoughtfulness, Will.

Marion made her way around the Faerie Glade, toward the shadowed wood. Out of the golden glow of the tavern’s lamplight, the silver stars shone softly. Away from the laughter of her companions, faint strains of music could be heard. Already the dim, melodious atmosphere began to ease the pain in her head, and by the time she stepped beneath the boughs of Sherwood, it was all but gone.

If it was madness to wish to live here, she thought as she wove through the trees, then it would be just as well for her to never recover. There could be no living anywhere else; not for her; for more reasons than she could rightly name.

She was seconds from sight of home when she froze, head angled in a listening pose. Footsteps. Not her own, for she had long mastered the art of near-noiseless woodland travel. Not anyone from the Glade, for they walked even more quietly than she. Someone from Camelot Quarter?

No; as the source of sound came into view (and as she quickly stepped out of it), she knew this person to be a stranger. Even in the lack of light, Marion could see on his pale, youthful face the bemused expression that marked him as an Outsider, even if his clothing did not immediately do so. In fact, he looked very much the part of one of their more enthusiastic visitors, or even a hired player, in his colorful tunic, hose, and feathered hat, and with what appeared to be a lute strapped across his narrow back.

Marion’s full lips turned downward in disapproval. The place had been closed to guests for hours. All nonresidents should have been long gone, not loitering around the Faire, and certainly not wandering so deep into Sherwood.

Taking hold of the knife at her hip, she moved away from her half-concealed position and made her presence known.

Make no sudden movements, please, she requested, polite but firm, allowing the weak starlight filtered through the leaves to shine off of her weapon. The young man – not yet out of his teens, at first guess – obediently froze, his eyes widening slightly, but his face otherwise composed.

Thank you, Marion said. I will thank you, also, for an explanation as to your presence here.

The corner of the boy’s mouth lifted in an unpracticed sort of smile. The whole of that story is one I might be a long while telling, he said, and his gentle voice was like a song.

For expediency’s sake, I will accept a brief summary, to start, Marion prompted him.

In that case, said the stranger, would you believe I blew in on the wind?

~ STANZA ONE ~

Hear now the Ballad of Allyn-a-Dale,

Minstrel prince of Carillon land,

Who wandered ‘lone at start of this tale,

Heart-led down the path of the wind.

He looks all wrong.

Allyn hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words had slipped out of their own volition. And why not, when they were only true? Jackillen Gant did look all wrong. Because he was so pale, his shining light dimmed and sparkling energy gone.