“These men are my bodyguards,” the little merchant replied in a surprisingly powerful voice, waving a hand at his henchmen. “I'm selling fine gemstones. Here, take a look” –
The guard waved the merchant away with a scowl as the man opened his coat to display his wares.
“What about you two?”
“I'm here to enter the tourney.” Allan brandished his longbow to illustrate his point. “That silver arrow the sheriff's offering as a prize is as good as mine.” He winked at the guardsman confidently. “Seriously, mate, get your money on me.”
“Aye, I'll be sure and do that,” the guard nodded with a disinterested frown. “I'm sure you'll be able to beat that French archer that's been practising in the town centre for the past week.” He glared at Gareth, taking in the young man's skinny arms and red-rimmed eyes. “What about you, boy? You ain't here for the silver arrow are you? You don't have the shoulders of your mate here. You don't look strong enough to peel the hose off one of the whores at the Maidenshead, never mind shoot a longbow.”
The merchant roared with laughter at the guard's simple joke while his bodyguards grinned at the outlaw, daring him to make a smart reply to the old guard.
“I'm just here to watch the tourney,” Gareth grunted, his face flushing scarlet in embarrassment. His lack of stature made him feel inadequate every day, especially living with a gang of outlaws who were, to a man, built like the trees they used to conceal their camp-sites. “So you can fuck off,” he added angrily, but under his breath so the guard wouldn't hear.
“Wait! That one – hold him there. I know him.”
A voice carried to them from the tower doorway behind the guards and Allan shared a worried glance with Gareth. The merchant surreptitiously inched away from them as another blue-liveried guard pushed past his fellows and stared at Allan.
“I know you.”
* * *
Matilda wiped her brow and reached for the cup of fresh water her mother had brought her a short time ago. Her young student, Marjorie, had visited earlier on, asking if they could go hunting again but Matilda was too busy. Her father had been commissioned by a wealthy merchant in Sheffield to make a large batch of arrows. Not just any arrows though – these were to be the finest: birch fletched with eagle feathers.
Henry had managed to procure some, but eagles weren't common so he'd told Matilda to use sparrowhawk and peregrine falcon feathers as well. The merchant would just have to make do.
The young woman had helped her mother tidy the house in the morning and now sat outside in the sun, sorting the feathers into piles – left wing or right. Little Arthur was playing with some discarded, poor-quality feathers and he'd occasionally sing to himself or shout random noises which brought a big smile to Matilda's face. The boy's sweet voice certainly made chores more enjoyable.
Once she'd separated a batch of the feathers she shaped them then glued and bound them onto poplar shafts her father had already prepared. It was simple enough work but required nimble fingers and concentration. Thankfully her infant son was well-behaved and only rarely tried to wander off when he thought his ma wasn't watching.
This was her usual day, although, normally, she'd be using goose feathers and working much faster. Every now and again, though, her father would pick up an order from some nobleman who wanted fancy feathers or exotic woods for his shafts and production would slow. Her fingers ached after a day's work, even now when she'd been doing it for years, but it brought a decent wage and could be done inside in the winter months.
It wasn't a bad way to make a coin, not at all. Especially in this fine weather. Still...
She would have liked to go hunting with Marjorie, even just for a short time to break up the monotony of her work, but the merchant had ordered a large number of arrows and they had to be completed quickly or he'd pay them less.
It would do the younger girl good to catch a few hares on her own anyway. Assuming foresters didn't catch her again...
“Get down from there, right now!”
Arthur turned round guiltily, halfway up the stone wall that separated the Fletcher's from the field next to them.
“Now!”
The little boy slowly dropped back to the ground and ran to her, laughing, and she couldn't help joining in even though she knew she should scold him and beat him like all the other young mothers in the village did with their children.
She put down the shaft she was working on and stood to scoop up her squealing son, spinning him round and hooting herself before dropping onto the grass, gasping.
“Never caught anything. Not one bloody hare.”
Marjorie walked into the garden and slumped onto the stool Matilda had just vacated.
“Off you go, little boy,” Matilda grinned, kissing Arthur on the cheek and shooing him off towards the house. “Go and play with the wooden soldiers daddy brought you from the market in Barnsley. No more climbing or I'll smack your arse.”
She watched him toddle off, then sat down on the ground next to Marjorie, lifting her unfinished shaft and starting work on it again.
“I set those snares days ago. Should have caught something by now.”
“Maybe the hares are too smart for us now,” Matilda shrugged. “I wouldn't worry about it.”
“No, you wouldn't worry about it, because you always catch something.” Marjorie growled, staring at her sister-in-law as if it was her fault she hadn't been able to catch anything for her family's dinner pot. She sighed, again.
Matilda could see Arthur inside the house, trying to climb the ladder that led to her parent's bed and, exasperated, she jumped to her feet. “Get down from there, right now,” she shouted, flailing her hand angrily. “Down. Now!” She suddenly rounded on Marjorie.
“Look, you're no good at hunting. Tough. I'm trying to work here, while making sure my son doesn't break his neck at the same time. Why don't you go and make yourself useful instead of trying to be your brother?”
She regretted her angry words instantly, as tears welled up in Marjorie's eyes and the girl stood, knocking the stool onto the floor, before running off without a word. There was no time to chase her though.
“Arthur, get down from there right now!”
* * *
“Everything all right?” the gate guard demanded, glaring at the newcomer. “We've got a queue a mile long here, Thomas.”
“Just trying to remember where I've seen this man. Let the others move on.”
The merchant waved them farewell, a look of relief plain on his face as the queue began to move into the city again. From the corner of his eye, Allan could see Gareth's head swivel as if searching for the fastest escape route and a cold bead of sweat dripped slowly down his back, making him shiver.
Allan's clasped his hands, preparing to grab the dagger he carried hidden in his belt. They would not escape when the guard realised who he was; the crowd was too thick and the guards too many. The burly archer wouldn't go down without a fight, though.
At last the guard's eyes flared in recognition and he grabbed his older companion's arm roughly.
“I remember now! He's a minstrel. You played for us in Hathersage – Lord de Bray's manor house.”
Allan's face creased in a huge grin and he moved his hand away from the hidden blade to pat his gittern case, relief flooding through him.
Thomas smiled at the other guard who looked irritated rather than impressed as he continued checking any visitors who looked like they might be coming into his city to cause trouble.
“Him and his mate – they looked like soldiers but played and sang like minstrels. It was a fine night.” He glanced at Gareth then looked back at Allan. “After Lord de Bray was ruined I left to take up a job here in Nottingham. Strange business it was...” His voice trailed off as he remembered his former employer's downfall which had, unbeknown to Thomas, been brought about by Robin Hood and his men. “Anyway,” he went on, face brightening again. “What brings you here? You and your little mate going to play
music for Sir Henry?”
“Nah, I'm here to enter the tourney. I'm almost as good with the longbow as I am with the gittern. The sheriff might as well give me that silver arrow right now.”
Thomas grinned then looked back over his shoulder at the guardhouse. “Well, good luck, lad. It was good seeing you again. I better get back to my post or the sergeant will kick my arse.” He clapped Allan on the arm then turned away. “If you're bored and looking to earn an extra coin or two, make your way to the Cotter's Rest. That's where most of us guards go for a drink when our shifts are done. The landlord, Fat Robert, will put you up in return for a few songs. Farewell!”
At last the old gate-guard gestured impatiently for them to move on through the gates and Allan blew a long breath of relief as they left the gatehouse behind.
“My lord,” a young lad of no more than fourteen years grinned at them from behind a stall stacked with oatcakes and loaves. “Freshly baked. Finest in the city, I swear it.”
Allan produced a coin and tossed it to the boy, lifting a couple of the oatcakes from the display and handing one to Gareth as he bit into his own, crumbs spilling down his gambeson.
“We need a place to stay,” the minstrel mumbled, eyeing the savoury snack in appreciation. “Somewhere far away from the Cotter's Rest.”
The boy nodded and winked knowingly. “Want to avoid the law eh? I don't blame you – when they've had a skinful they cause more trouble than anyone.” He pointed to the east side of the city and gave them directions to The Ship – an establishment he assured them was one of the best in the whole city.
Allan handed him another coin in thanks and the outlaws moved off into the crowd again.
They'd taken some money from their own funds back at the camp-site; not enough to draw attention to themselves should guards like the ones at the gate take an interest in them, but enough to pay for food, ale and lodging for a while. Maybe enough even for a visit to the fabled Maidenshead – Prior John De Monte Martini's own establishment – or one of the other brothels in the city, Allan mused, grinning to himself at the ease of their passage into Nottingham.
They moved from one inn to another, checking the quality of the accommodation and sampling the ale in each one. Although they were, to all intents and purposes, simple peasants – yeomen at best – they were rich men by the standards of most of Nottingham's populace, thanks to the success they'd enjoyed as part of Robin Hood's gang. Although they couldn't flaunt their wealth without drawing unwelcome attention to themselves in the potentially hostile city, they could afford to pay for some half-decent lodgings for the few days they expected to spend there.
“I like this place,” Gareth smiled, his bony fingers curled around a wooden cup of cheap wine when they eventually reached The Ship and found a table to share. It was a pleasant enough place, with fresh rushes on the floor and a newly painted sign above the door which suggested the landlord took pride in his establishment.
Allan eyed his young companion sceptically. “You mean you like the drink they're serving up.”
Gareth was past caring whether Allan knew about his taste for strong drink or not. “Aye, I do,” he nodded, “it's not the barber's grain drink, but it's better than that piss-water you all drink. Ale. Pfft. This stuff,” he held his cup aloft with a crooked smile, “is all right.”
Allan paid the inn-keep the three shillings he demanded for a few nights room and board the next time the man passed their table, wondering if he'd made a wise decision coming here with Gareth. None of the other outlaws had shown any interest in taking part in the tourney, which had surprised the minstrel who knew better than anyone how good they were with longbows, long-swords or quarterstaffs. He'd expected some of them would want to test themselves against the best men the Sheriff's tournament would attract, but no... they were all content to sit around that God-forsaken forest, day after day, eating rabbit stew and talking about a time when they'd be free men again.
Well, Allan mused, Robin was right. Once he had the silver arrow he'd be able to sell it and bribe some powerful nobleman to grant them all pardons.
“More wine,” Gareth demanded with a grin as he gazed at the buxom serving wench who came to clear their empty cups. “Bring me more, my beauty.”
The girl looked amused as she carried the empties away and Allan sighed. Maybe it would have been better to be lonely than bringing this young sot along after all.
It'd be an early night for them both tonight, even if he had to drag Gareth away from the bar by his hair.
* * *
In the morning Allan asked the inn-keeper if he knew anything about the upcoming tournament.
“Aye,” the red-faced man replied, nodding. “They seek to sort the wheat from the chaff. Anyone that wants to enter an event has to go to the castle to prove their skill in qualifying heats. What're you doing?” He took in Allan's wide shoulders and nodded. “Archery, eh?”
“Aye,” the minstrel replied. “I'm not bad with a blade as well, but I don't think I could match the best in the shire. Shooting a longbow though...”
“A match for Robin Hood himself, eh?” the inn-keep smirked, one eyebrow raised almost mockingly. He'd heard these tales before countless times, and learned to take them all with a healthy pinch of salt.
Allan was just glad Gareth, who stood at his side, hadn't been drinking yet that morning. No doubt the youngster, if he'd been inebriated, would have told the barman all about their friend Robin.
“Aye,” the minstrel returned the man's condescending smile. “I'd say I can match the famous wolf's head. But he won't be entering this tournament will he? Not if he's got any sense – the law would be all over him. So I reckon I've as good a chance as any of winning the silver arrow.”
“Sure you have,” the man shrugged in boredom. “If you want to enter, you'd better get yourself to the castle. If you're as good as you think you are, they'll let you enter the tournament.” He moved away to continue cleaning up the worst of the mess from the previous evening's revelry, leaving his two guests to their conversation.
Gareth had decided to stay at the inn, rather than going to the qualifying heats. “All those soldiers? Someone might recognise me,” he said. “Besides, I'm shit with a bow, I'll just get in the way. I'll hang around the inn. Might even take a walk about the town.”
“Someone might recognise you,” Allan growled sarcastically, fixing the younger man with a stern look.
“I'll keep my head down,” Gareth replied, pulling the hood on his cloak up over his head to show how well he could hide in its dark shadows.
Allan moved to stand right in front of his companion and gazed at him. “I'm not joking,” he said. “Don't sit around here drinking all day, mouthing off to anyone that'll listen. You'll get us both in trouble, and if you say enough, you'll bring hell down on Robin, Will, John and all the rest of our friends.”
Gareth shook his head angrily. “I won't even be drinking,” he muttered.
“I'll be back soon enough. There's no doubt I'll qualify for the tourney. After that I'll head straight back here. We can get a drink then, all right?” Allan patted the youngster on the arm reassuringly. “And don't go showing off your coin either, unless you want some thief to take it from you.”
Lifting his longbow and checking the little pack he carried on his belt to make sure the hemp string was safely inside, Allan gave a last nod to Gareth and left The Ship to make his way to the qualifying rounds at Nottingham Castle.
* * *
Sure enough, Allan qualified for the archery section of the sheriff's tournament without any problems.
Getting into the castle was easy enough, although the guards did look closely at every entrant's face before granting them access to the courtyard where the heats were being held. The minstrel knew Robin would have been recognised immediately by the guards under such scrutiny – his description would have been well known to the soldiers and a fat purse would be the reward for any who spotted the notorious outlaw so despised b
y Sir Guy of Gisbourne.
Allan, on the other hand, was known to few of the lawmen although, in his younger days he had performed as a minstrel in many places and secretly hoped someone or other would shout, “You! You're that fine gittern player,” just as the gate-guard had done.
It would certainly be preferable to being recognised for the outlaw that he was, but no-one gave him a second glance as he made his way to take part in the qualifying rounds.
The castle was, of course, home to a variety of equipment used in the training of soldiers, and it was all seeing action that morning as Allan walked to the big targets that would separate the skilled archers from the talentless.
The wolf's head was surprised at the number of entrants; the courtyard was full of them, all hoping to win the magnificent silver arrow that the sheriff had, perhaps foolishly, placed on display atop the battlements so the competitors could all see what they were striving for.
“Christ, that thing looks heavy,” the middle-aged man in line next to Allan muttered, glancing at the minstrel with wide-eyes. “We'd never have to work another day in our lives if we won that.”
Allan smiled. In all honesty, he was already a fairly rich man, as were all the members of Robin Hood's gang. The gold and silver coin they'd taken from the obscenely wealthy nobles and clergymen travelling through Yorkshire over the past couple of years had made them all financially secure. Set for life, they were.
It was just unfortunate they were all outlaws so could never enjoy the fruits such wealth might bring.
That arrow, though... It must have been worth a fortune, Allan guessed. Truly, such an amount of silver... It could be melted down or small slivers could be shaved off to barter with and there'd be enough to truly set a man up for life – even an outlaw like him. He could make his way to France, bribing lawmen and officials along the way to allow him safe passage. Then he'd build a house somewhere in Normandy or Brittany, buy the fanciest gittern he could find, and settle down to a life of wine, women and song, safely away from Gisbourne or the sheriff or anyone else. He'd have to learn to speak their language but...
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 7