Rise of the Wolf by Steven A McKay

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 by 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