Rise of the Wolf by Steven A McKay Page A

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