Rise of the Wolf by Steven A McKay Page B

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 brethren 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?”
    “We were given a tip from someone that saw you in the street earlier today,” the soldier replied. “He says you're Robin Hood's men.” The sergeant shrugged, as if sick of hearing these tales that inevitably turned out to be nothing. “I don't care if you are or not, but you're coming to the castle with us –”
    Before he could finish his sentence Allan stood up and rammed the back of his head into the guard's face, sending the man reeling, nose shattered and bleeding  before he collapsed onto the filthy rush-covered floor in a daze.
    The remaining three guardsmen, used to dealing with rowdy drunkards, moved in to restrain their leader's broad-shouldered assailant, but, belying his inebriation, Allan side-stepped the