“You lot! Move up!”
The sergeant's bellowed command startled Allan from his pleasant reverie and he moved forward with about twenty other entrants to take aim at the big targets lined up in front of them.
“Good luck!”
Allan grinned at the man next to him as they fitted their bowstrings, pulled arrows from their belts and took aim, ready for the burly sergeant's order to shoot, which seemed to take forever as the soldier peered along the line of bowmen, looking for any sign of obvious weakness in their stance. Finally, he stepped back, satisfied and roared, his shout reverberating off the great stone walls.
“Loose!”
Three times the archers shot, before the sergeant checked the targets and then informed them who'd qualified and who hadn't.
Allan knew this exercise was merely to weed out those who were truly unskilled, so he made sure to hit the centre of the target with only two of his shots, although he surely could have managed all three, as the distance to it was quite short and the target itself rather large.
Still, a few of the men in his qualifying group failed to hit the centre even once, and one competitor failed to strike the big round board at all, his missiles clattering harmlessly into the wall behind the target pitifully and sending some of the idly spectating guardsmen running, with angry curses spilling from their mouths.
“The next heat will be in two days!” The sergeant shouted, addressing Allan and the rest of the men who had successfully qualified. The man pointed at another soldier seated at a table close-by. “Collect a token from the clerk there, and make sure you bring it when you return or you won't be granted entry. Now get out of the fucking way, so the next lot can take their turn.”
Thirteen remained from the original group of twenty and, as they all cheerfully made their way to collect their qualifying tokens Allan could see no threat from any of them. None had performed spectacularly, although one man did manage to hit the red circle in the centre of the target with each of his three shots. He was an older man though, and his arms would surely weaken and give out during the tournament itself. No, Allan didn't think any of the men from his qualifying group posed a threat to him.
Then again, some of them might be hiding their true ability just as he was...
Grinning, he collected the wooden token that would grant him entry back into the castle in two days and, with a cheery wave to the next row of nervous qualifiers, made his way out the castle and through the bustling streets to The Ship, hoping he wouldn't find Gareth in his cups telling the entire common room about his adventures with Robin Hood and Little John.
He heaved a small sigh of relief when he made it back to his room in the inn and found Gareth there, mending some of his clothes with a bone needle and some thread. His face was a little flushed, suggesting that he'd spent a few coins on wine that afternoon but he was by no means drunk.
“How did you get on?” the young man asked, eyes lighting up as his companion strode into their sparsely furnished room. “Did you beat everyone?”
Allan shook his head and slumped onto the flea-ridden bed, stretching out happily. “Nah, I got through to the next round, but if I'd been too good it might have drawn attention to me. I only want to do enough to get through the qualifiers and into the tournament itself. Then I'll show them what a lowly wolf's head can do.”
Gareth jumped up and pulled on his worn old leather boots. “Come on, don't go to sleep, it's still early. I've been on my own all day, I'm bored. Let's go and get that drink you talked about this morning, and some of the inn-keep's food that I can smell cooking up.”
There was a very meaty aroma wafting through the inn, Allan had to admit, and his stomach rumbled loudly as if in response to Gareth's request.
“Alright, let's go,” he agreed, standing up and straightening his brown jacket. “But no mentioning Robin.”
Their night was a pleasant one, and Gareth behaved himself well enough. The inn-keeper brought them bowls of beef stew with vegetables which was excellent if a little short on meat. Then they had a few ales, listened to some of the locals singing and eventually retired to their room.
Robin had been worried about nothing, Allan thought. Even if he didn't win the tournament, and the silver arrow, this was going to be an enjoyable few days. Who could possibly recognise him or Gareth in a city full of strange faces?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next round of qualifying in the castle courtyard was a little harder than the first one, with the very worst of the entrants now gone and only those competent with the longbow left. Some of them were very good, Allan noted, as he stood waiting to take his own turn, watching the other competitors firing arrow after arrow into the worse-for-wear targets which hadn't been replaced or repaired in the past few days.
Three times Allan and his group shot, with three arrows each time, and the scores were tallied by the same sergeant that decided who progressed on the outlaw's earlier visit to the castle.
Allan made sure to hit the red-painted centre section on six of his nine shots. The other three he aimed close but hit just outside the middle. It was enough to see him through to the tournament itself, without drawing any unwanted attention from the guards or, indeed, the other competitors.
He enjoyed the afternoon's shooting, relishing the chance to stretch his great shoulder muscles, and he made mental notes of the best of the other archers, so he'd know who to watch out for when the tourney started for real in a few days.
Then he strolled back to The Ship with a swagger, pleased with how things were going and catching the eye of a group of young girls who were washing clothes on the banks of the River Leen. Their giggles and whispers as they watched him pass made him smile – he hadn't enjoyed female attention like that in such a long time.
Exiled to the greenwood as he was, living with only hard, hairy-arsed men for company, could be a lonely existence at times and he vowed to pass along this road again tomorrow, only next time he'd stop to drink from the well. Maybe even strike up a conversation with one or two of the pretty girls...
His thoughts came back to reality as he reached The Ship and remembered Gareth.
Again, he prayed the young man wasn't drunk but, as before he needn't have worried. Gareth was in the common room of the inn, and he had a mug of wine before him, but he was sitting alone quietly, observing a couple of the locals singing for the rest of the patrons.
“You made it through?” the skinny youngster demanded when he caught sight of his broad-shouldered mate coming towards him.
“Of course!” Allan grinned, gesturing to the serving girl to bring him an ale and settling his bulk into the wooden chair to watch the singers. “No problem. I'm in the tournament for real.” He handed over a small coin, nodding his thanks before taking a long pull of the freshly brewed ale. “And I'm sure I've got a good chance.” He wiped froth from his upper lip absent-mindedly, engrossed in the surprisingly good rendition of “Man in the Moon” that the two locals were belting out.
It was a song that brought back fond memories for Allan, who had performed that very tune with Robin a couple of years ago when they'd passed themselves off as travelling minstrels to gain access to a rich nobleman's house. They'd impressed Lord John de Bray's guests that night, before rescuing Will Scarlet's daughter Beth from a life of slavery the next morning.
The minstrel lifted his mug to his lips and drained the lot in one go, the glow from the alcohol and the happy memories spreading throughout his body almost instantly and he grinned to the serving girl, waving his empty mug for a refill.
As the singers finished their song Allan turned and fixed Gareth with a stony glare. “I feel like having a few ales here tonight to celebrate getting into the tourney but I'm warning you – keep silent about who we are, where we came from and who we know. You understand?”
Gareth gave a sullen nod and fiddled with his mug like a naughty child.
“I mean it, lad,” Allan continued. “We can have a good time here this evenin
g, but if you so much as mention Robin I'll fucking knock you out. Your tongue loosens when you've had a few drinks and it could get us all killed so...”
“Alright!” the younger outlaw shouted, slamming his mug onto the table angrily. “I'm not an idiot.” He met Allan's eyes but continued in a much quieter voice as people turned to see what the commotion was about. “I won't say a word about anything. Alright?”
The minstrel felt guilty for upsetting his companion. “Good lad,” he smiled, gripping Gareth's wrist. “Get yourself another cup of wine, then, and we'll order some food. Tonight we celebrate!”
* * *
Afternoon gave way to evening and The Ship began to fill up as Gareth and Allan enjoyed the drinks, the food and the banter. The minstrel watched his younger friend like a hawk in case Gareth mentioned Robin or the fact they were outlaws but the evening went smoothly and, as darkness drew in outside, the inn-keeper banked the fire in the old stone hearth and the low-ceilinged room was filled with light, laughter and music.
As they joined in with the rest of the inn's patrons on yet another sing-along Gareth shouted into his friend's ear.
“You brought your gittern, didn't you? Go and get it. We'll give this lot a tune to remember!”
Allan shook his head. “We can't draw attention to ourselves,” he shouted back, cupping his hands against Gareth's ear to be heard over the raucous singing.
The wine and ale flowed as time wore on and the two outlaws had the best time they'd had in months. Their bellies were full of the inn-keeper's tasty stew, they had plenty of alcohol to drink and the locals had welcomed them warmly into their company. There were even some good-looking older ladies throwing them suggestive glances.
They were having so much fun, and the drink was flowing freely. Too freely. As always, tongues were loosened...
“Aye, I'm Robin Hood's right-hand man. We're like brothers!”
The woman fluttered her eye-lashes and smiled at the story, not really taking it in. The singing was loud and the man beside her was too drunk to be believed, but he had a purse full of coin and she planned on making the most of it tonight.
“I'm telling you,” he went on, seeing the blank look on her face. “We've had lots of adventures. I'm only here in the city for this tournament. Keep it to yourself, but...” He leaned in close and tried to whisper in her ear, although in his inebriated state it came out as a bellow. “I'm an outlaw!”
Thankfully the music drowned out the confession. His companion heard him though.
“What are you doing? You'll get us both jailed!”
Allan shook his head with a snort. “Shut up, Gareth,” he slurred. “No one's listening. Why don't you go an' get my gittern from our room?” The big outlaw stood up, a broad, drunken smile on his face. “I'll show these people how a true minstrel performs.”
“Fucking sit down!” Gareth grabbed Allan's arm and hauled him back into his seat, looking around nervously to see if anyone had heard the confession.
Reality hit the minstrel, even through the alcoholic haze, and he grinned sheepishly, lifting his mug ostensibly to take another drink but in reality to try and hide from what he'd just done.
He looked blearily around the room but all he could see were happy revellers enjoying the singing. The ladies that had been sitting beside them shared irritated glances and wandered off into the crowd to try and find some other, less inebriated, drinkers to take advantage of.
“Ah, fuck 'em,” Allan waved a hand after them, staring at Gareth who shook his head in return.
“You've got a cheek talking about me,” the younger man hissed. “You're the one that's going to get us into trouble with your shouting about Robin Hood.”
No one was taking the slightest bit of notice of them as far as Allan could tell. He shrugged, smirking like a naughty boy and drained the last of the ale in his mug.
“I'll get us another,” he mumbled, fumbling in his pouch for coins.
“No you bloody won't,” Gareth retorted. “You've had plenty. Just sit there and watch the singers until I finish my wine. Then we're going back to the room so you can sleep it off.” He shook his head again in irritation. “And you were worried about me acting like an arsehole...”
* * *
Friar Tuck smiled at the bald old Benedictine monk that opened the large wooden door to the priory. “God be with you, brother.”
The man's rheumy eyes glared at him for a moment, taking in Tuck's grey cassock that marked him as a member of the Franciscans.
“What d'you want?”
Tuck laughed; a genuine, happy sound, filled with affection and pleasure to be in a familiar place with a familiar face. “It's me, you old sod. Robert!”
He gave his real name, Tuck being merely a nickname shared by many friars on account of the way they sometimes wore their cassocks, with the material tucked between their legs for freedom of movement.
The gate-keeper narrowed his eyes in confusion, leaning out of the doorway to gaze at the man before him. “Robert? Is it you, truly? I remember you having a lot more meat on your bones.”
The door was hauled open by a second, much younger Benedictine, and Tuck moved forward to grasp the older fellow's arms. “It's me right enough, Edwin,” he grinned. “I lost some weight recently – nearly died, in truth – but the good Lord saw fit to return me to life, and to you too now.” He nodded towards the second, younger monk, who returned the gesture.
“Well met, Osferth.”
Finally, the old gatekeeper smiled and squeezed Tuck's arms happily. “It is you! Oh, Robert, it's good to see you again, the place has been quiet without you around. Come in, come in!”
They moved inside and Osferth shoved the heavy door closed, drawing the great iron bolt into place. They were safe enough these days, but old tales of marauding Vikings had left their mark on many clergymen who were happy to make themselves as secure as possible behind their thick stone walls and stout doors.
“I'll leave you to it,” the younger monk said as he turned and made his way along the corridor. “I have chores to do.”
“It's good to see you, Robert,” the old man repeated, paying no heed to the departing Osferth. “But... why have you returned?”
Tuck shook his head. “I know the prior –”
“You don't know,” Edwin interjected. “The man hates you. In the name of Christ, Robert, he'll have your balls for dinner when he sees you've returned. What possessed you to come back here? His hatred for you has barely dulled in the time you've been gone.”
Tuck nodded and clasped his hands within the folds of his voluminous grey cassock. “I have my reasons,” he replied. “Hopefully what I bring to the prior will go some way to restoring me in his favour.”
Edwin snorted, an incredulous look on his face. “I'll give you one last chance, Robert. The brothers here all miss you, as do I, even if you're not one of us. But I'd rather you left than suffer de Monte Martini's wrath. Go now – back to your outlaw friends – and I'll not tell a soul you were here.” He grasped Tuck by the forearm and stared into his eyes earnestly. “Go, my friend.”
Tuck had expected Prior de Monte Martini to hate him after everything that had happened. De Monte Martini was a vindictive, petty man who liked to throw his weight around at the best of times but Tuck had done much to earn the man's hatred, even if he didn't deserve it. He had done his best to protect the prior's belongings – it hadn't been his fault they'd been stolen. Twice...
He smiled, trying to appear more confident than he felt.
“It'll be fine, Edwin. Prior de Monte Martini will be glad to see me, trust me.”
The gatekeeper shook his head sadly, a heavy sigh escaping from his thin old lips. “If you say so, old friend, if you say so. Let me take you to him then.”
He turned and hobbled off along the chilly corridor which seemed to press in on Tuck who had become so used to the open spaces and bright, natural beauty of Barnsdale Forest.
They passed one or two of the brethre
n who looked across in astonishment as they went by, and the prior's bottler, Ralph, who gaped open-mouthed then hurried back down to his cellar, before Edwin stopped in front of another great door made of dark, varnished oak and gave Tuck a final look.
“If you're sure about this, Robert, I'll tell the prior you've returned.” He shook his head, again, at Tuck's firm nod and grasped the cast-iron handle. “If you insist, then. May God be with you.”
* * *
“Oh, fuck.”
It was a sign of Allan-a-Dale's advanced inebriation that he never even raised his head from the table at Gareth's muttered oath.
“Wake up!”
The skinny young outlaw grabbed his big friend's arm and shook him until Allan looked up with bloodshot eyes. “We've got trouble. Probably because of your big mouth.” He nodded towards the bar and the minstrel looked around to see one of the city's guardsmen in conversation with the inn-keeper. Three more soldiers followed their leader, all clad in light armour covered by the blue surcoat the sheriff's men wore as their uniform. Behind them stood two grey-robed friars: Brother Walter, smiling nastily while his charge, the oblate Hubert, looked about unhappily.
“Oh fuck,” Gareth repeated, the panic evident in his voice. “The guards are coming over. What do we do?”
“Sing them a song?” Allan smiled, watching the oncoming soldiers who threaded their way through the inn's patrons, most of whom moved aside to clear a path although some of them stood their ground and stared sullenly at the lawmen pushing past.
“You.” The guard sergeant stopped behind Allan's chair and glared down at them, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“Sit, my lord!” Gareth grinned nervously. “What can we do for you?”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 8
