Everliving Kings (the Heroes of Darkness Saga) (19 page)

26

“My Lord please re-consider this… contest, not only is it undignified and beneath your station but think of the damage to your reputation.” The Arch-bishop grumbled just before the carriage rolled to a stop.

Prince John frowned and waved his left hand in front of his face. “Oh stop it Matthew, my reput
ation could not get any worse. Besides, this… is the best thing I could do don’t you see? Even if I lose this stupid contest and give up my claim to that worthless pile of sheep droppings, I have gained all of England! Don’t you see it man? Once this is done, win or lose I go from being that ‘Regent fellow’, the snob brother of the King who lives in London, to the guy who got smashed at Old Brike’s Pub overnight! I will be no different from any of them… that will give me a lot of forgiveness room.” He laughed before jumping out of the now open door.

A crowd had gathered both inside and out of the favorite local meeting house, to witness a drin
king spectacle like no other. This was perhaps the most lewd display of Royal silliness since the infamous ‘whore off’ of the Roman Empress Valeria Messalina.

Shamus O’Connor and his supporters were a
lready waiting at the center table, with a ring of cheering spectators all around them and for a moment, Prince John thought it looked like a flashback to the days of the Gladiators.

“Well yer’ Majesty! Surprised I am you showed yer’ face, I was afraid I was gona’ have ta’ buy me own drinks taday!” he shouted bringing a roar of laughter from the crowd.

John laughed with them and shouted back, “Well then you would be stuck with water!” getting an even bigger reaction from the crowd.

John Brike, the owner of the tavern, was to stand in as impartial judge, as he was of Welsh d
ecent and cared not who ruled either England or Ireland. Brike, being a large bearded bald man with a booming voice, also meant there was little chance either side could sway him in his judgment. So long as the losing King paid the bar tab for both, he was willing to hold this contest annually. The tavern-keeper stepped into the circle and explained the rules to all present.

“Alright good gentles! Welcome to Brike’s Ta
vern and the official contest for the crown of Ireland!” he shouted sending a roar up from the crowd. The building itself was jam-packed and heating up fast, with spectators crowding the windows from the street to see.

“Because the position of King requires many skills, this contest will be done in rounds of varying difficulty and topics, to find the man best qualified. If the score is tied at the end of the point round, an a
lternating 360 tiebreaker will be used!”

Prince John frowned and shouted at the man, “What are you talking about? You sound like this is the way Welsh kings have always been crowned!”

John Brike turned to stare at the Regent but said nothing. “The Challenger has chosen mugs of stout…and whiskey as the penalty shot!” Once more the crowd roared with approval.

“Now, gentleman to begin, the first point will be given for the fastest to finish three mugs of stout!” the crowd screamed and then broke off into indivi
dual chants for the King they were backing, with half of the room shouting, “Prince John!” and clapping twice before repeating it.

The Irish contingent was not to be outdone, as they were shouting, “Sha-mus! Sha-mus! Sha-mus!” also clapping twice between the names.

Once all three mugs for each contestant were full, the crowd chants changed to a loud unanimous, “Mug! Mug! Mug! Mug!” that continued until both men had tilted passed forty five degrees. At that point the shouting changed to a sustained “OOOOHHHH!” (That would not be repeated in England again until the invention of football pitches), complete with outstretched shaking hands, that would continue until the empty mugs were slammed down on the table, and the “Mug!” chant began anew.

Thus went the first round, with Shamus fi
nishing just a half a mug ahead of the incumbent Prince.

“Point to the Challenger, Shamus O’Connor! One shot penalty for Prince John!” Brike yelled to the delight of the crowd.

One of the barmaids poured a shot of whiskey for the Prince and now the crowd began to chant, “Shot! Shot! Shot!” until the Regent slammed the empty shot glass down on the table with a shake of his head.

“Second Round!” The moderator cried at the top of his lungs. “A King must always keep his wits and his cool in tense situations, so to test this skill, this will be the Insult category!” as expected the crowd went wild.

“Prince John! You first!” Brike said as he pointed at the Royal.

Prince John frowned before saying, “You are so ugly, we can’t tell what way you’re facing until you speak!”

The crowd laughed and yelled, “OOhhhh!”

Once the noise died down, O’Connor smiled and said, “You are so stupid, you think your mot
her’s native country is between grandma’s legs!” at that the room exploded in laughter and cheering, and even Prince John laughed hard at that one.

“Point to the Irishman! Prince John, Drink!”

“Mug! Mug! Mug! Mug! Mug!” the crowd chanted as he tilted back another stout and then another shot of whiskey.

“Round three!” Brike yelled and had to wait for the crowd to settle down before continuing. “A King must not only command the respect of his people, but he must also be humble before God. So gentl
emen, you must now tell us all your most embarrassing moment! Shamus you first.”

Shamus frowned in thought as he searched his memory. “Oh…ah well I… when I tried to kiss a girl for the first time, I moved too fast and head-butted her. Knocked her out cold.”

That story got a mild response from the unruly crowd, causing Prince John to turn around and wink at the flabbergasted Arch-bishop.

“I was so drunk at a Royal function once, as I presented my mother to the Pope, I vomited on his papal robes!” that thought got the mob roaring again.

“Point to Prince John! Mug of stout and a two shot penalty for the grievous wounding of a young girl for Shamus O’Connor!” the Tavern-keeper screamed to the delight of the crowd.

“Fourth Round! My
Lords, a king must be wise enough to listen to words of his subjects. You must now answer a question from the people! Shamus goes first….you there ask a question!” he boomed as he pointed at a stunned young man in the front.

“Um… why do I hasta’ pay taxes?” he spit out, drawing some raised eyebrows from the spectators.

O’Connor nodded his head in thought, “Well if ya don’t, we have no money for war. If we have no money for war… and we get invaded with no money for war we lose our land. If we lose our land…we lose everything. That is why you pay taxes.”

That answer hushed the audience as they pondered the wisdom of his words.

“Prince John, same question!” the game judge yelled.

“If you don’t pay your taxes, I have no money. If I have no money I will need to get a job! If I get a job I will be the one to fix your wagon wheel. If I am the one who fixes your wagon wheel, your wheel will fall off and you will drive off of a cliff and die. So…you pay your taxes so you don’t die!” once more laugher filled the room.

“Point to Prince John! Shamus, drink!”

“Mug! Mug! Mug! Mug!...OOOOhhhh!!”

On and on it went, back and forth, from math problems to the tactics of battle, to the most impressive dance moves and Irish history, the combatants exchanged insults and chug-fests until they found themselves in a tie.

“This is it! Twenty fifth and deciding round! This is the tiebreaker! The rules of this are simple! Both of these men have proven their worth on the booze-filled battlefield, but now we must know….who will be left standing! First a Mug of stout….then they must stand up, turn around and sit back down. We will do this until one man falls!”

Once more the rafters shook with the chanting, “Mug! Mug! Mug!...”

Prince John went first, by aiming for the table in the middle. He staggered but caught himself and lowered himself onto his stool.

Shamus fired back his mug and screamed a war cry as he slammed his mug on the table. His spin around, was less graceful as he spun too far and missed the table altogether. With a stagger he caught himself and reached out to his left to find the table. When he missed it a second time he crashed face first to the floor sending the bar into a frenzy.

“Prince John! Prince John! Prince John!...” the crowd chanted as the contented Regent of England and still King of Ireland, fell backwards
into the arms of his loyal supporters, blue-blind paralytic drunk and out cold. 

27

“I can’t believe you are stupid enough ta fink this is a good idea!” Scarlet shouted as he threw his hands up in frustration.

The Irish shifter shrugged his shoulders, “If Hearn says he needs us to get that arrow, than that’s what we do. I don’t think it’s gonna’ be easy, and more likely it’s a trap…but we have to try Will.”

Will Scarlet stood alone among the shifters in his belief that the dusty old arrow thing was not worth risking their lives on. In frustration he turned back to face Robin, “Did he at least say why it was so important?”

Robin paused as he looked around at all of the men and wolves who now saw him as their new lea
der. “Yes… He said we will need it to combat against the other powerful objects we will be facing. He did not say what that meant, but he insisted we get the arrow. So that brings us back to the first question, ‘will it be easier to win the arrow…or steal it.’ I still think it is best to try to win it first, if that doesn’t work then we steal it.”

All around him man and wolf alike, nodded their heads in agreement…all but one.

“Will? We need you, will you stand with us.” Robin asked as all eyes waited.

“You still want me to go with you, even though I think this is a huge mistake?” he asked.

Robin smiled at the red eyed shifter. “I insist. The fact that you hate this plan makes you that much more important to it. I need you to help me Will, I can’t lead this pack without your support, even if you disagree with me.”

“At that Will Scarlet nodded his head and gave in. “All right I’m in…if only ta pull yer butt out o’ the fire once things go bad!” he laughed.

“Ok,” Robin said with a smile as he turned back to the rest of the pack, “Scarlet and Shamus will each lead teams to cover our escape if things go wrong, Tuck, Little Shawn, Alan and myself will be in disguise in the fair. I will enter the contest and my team will make sure I have a lane to get back out.  Scarlet if you and your team take out the main gate guards, Shamus and his group can cover any backup that may arrive. Everybody clear on this? …Good, let’s keep our eyes open; Shamus and Scarlet are probably right about this being a trap. Anyone have any questions or concerns….I mean besides Scarlet.”

To Robin’s surprise Friar Tuck cleared his throat and stood up to speak. “I must admit I know very little about Pagan magical objects, and I have no idea why it may be so important for us to… um, let’s say liberate it? But I do know what I saw when we were there the other day. They have more than enough guards to overpower us and kill or capture all of us. It is a must some of us get away if things go wrong. I know none of you would feel right about leaving a pack-mate behind, but we must be smart about this. If it is a trap, and we can’t get to Robin straightaway… we may have to fall back and re-group before attempting any rescues.” That ominous speech sent a murmured rumble of grunts and growls through the crowd.

Scarlet looked around and then shouted, “Aye, Tuck’s right, there ain’t no shame in re-setting if we miss the first time! Shamus, what ya fink?”

Shamus nodded his head in agreement, “Aye, tis’ the wise way ta do it tis’.
”

So it was decided on the third day of the faire, Robin Hood and his band of shape-shifting wolves would try for the grand prize of archery contest, win, lose or draw.

When they got to Nottingham Castle, the crowd crushing into the main gate was huge. Most of them had been turned away from the side gates that lead directly to the fairground fields behind the castle, causing a log-jam to get in.

Once Robin got near the gate, he understood the tactic of forcing the crowd into only one entrance. Just inside of the gate itself, sat Sir Guy of Gisbon and the French Mercenary commander Tesouid. They were on horseback scanning the crowd for the arrival of Robin and his men, no doubt with the intent of sending him straight to the gallows.

Robin pulled the brim of his hat down even more than it already was, and hoped his fake white beard and mustache were convincing enough. The shifters had tried to teach him how to just grow hair on just his face, but each time he tried he ended up growing a full snout and long pointed wolf ears.

Just as Robin and his group reached the gate, they heard Sir Guy shouting, “Hold! That one! Bring him here!”

Robin froze and started to reach for his sword as one of the guards approached him. Luckily for him, Friar Tuck Put a hand on Robin’s wrist as he realized the guard was after someone else.

The guards grabbed the man next to Robin who began to struggle and shout. “Let me be! I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong!”

The guards dragged the man over to Sir Guy who shouted back at him, “We shall see about that! I recognize your face! You are the one I saw hunting the King’s deer the other day! Take him away!”

The
disturbance gave the group just enough of a distraction to squeeze by both Sir Guy and the French mercenary without being noticed. Once inside, the crowd was easy enough for them to disappear into and even Little Shawn drew few stares. The men spaced themselves around the tournament field and waited for Robin, who had given his name as Gwrgi Garwlwyd the Tinker.

That choice made Tuck afraid a monk or a Welshman might be man
ning the registration table. If so they may recognize the name from the Old Welsh poem Pa Gur, as the werewolf warrior who fought King Arthur's men in the mountains of Eidyn near Edinburgh. When Robin told Tuck of his plan with a laugh he said, “I doubt a Welsh poems scholar will be there, nobody will get the joke!”

But Tuck shook his head and said, “I got it, and I am not a fan of Welsh poems!
What if the Lady Anya is paying attention? I would bet you Spanish dollars to rocks she has read it!”

So now the Friar waited to see if an old Welsh werewolf would be called to the target range.

Sure enough, ten or so minutes into the contest, Tuck heard the Crier shout, “Garwlwyd the Tinker!” Tuck cringed and looked off to his right to find Shawn Little, frowning and shaking his head.

When he looked back to find Robin he unde
rstood exactly why Shawn was frowning. Robin was making his way to the shooting line with an obvious limp, waving to the crowd and chatting away with the other shooters.

It was only when he drew back the bow string that his whole demeanor changed. All at once his motion stopped as if he had turned to stone, the bow in his left hand turned slightly inward, allowing the arrow to rest between the bow and his hand. As he pulled the bow string back to full, he lifted
his front hand to give the proper range, and let fly.

To say that Robin had been somewhat boas
tful about his skills with a long bow would be an understatement, however, once he shot, it was clear he had not been exaggerating.

“In the black!”
was the shout from the range master after Robin’s arrow struck dead center of the target. With that he turned to the men shooting next to him and shouted, “Ah, I hit it! Had me eyes closed that time I did! Must be me lucky day lads!” before he once again limped off the field.

Friar Tuck was not the only one who found his performance a bit too much. In the Royal box of the main grandstand, the nobles chatted and drank, and paid little attention to the early rounds of the co
ntest, with the exception of the soon to be Lady of Nottinghamshire. Anya smiled at the gaudy limp and snow white beard on the man still in his late teens.

“William?” she said in a sweet voice, tearing him away from his conversation with the Prince R
egent.

“Yes, my dear, what is it?” he asked still su
rprised she had not called him Sheriff.

“I believe I have found you an excellent we
dding gift!” she giggled, surprising him even more.

“Oh?”

“Watch the Tinker.” She said with a sly smile as she pointed to the contestants getting back in line.

“Is it him?” Brewer asked in a hushed voice.

Anya smiled as if he had said something funny before saying, “Yes, it’s him. But don’t arrest him yet, let’s see how he does.”

At that the Sheriff bowed his head and waved Sir Guy over to whisper in his ear the plan. “Su
rround the field, but don’t approach until I give the signal.” As Guy moved his men into place, the Sheriff informed Prince John of the plan, who almost spit out his wine as he laughed.

“Oh, this is wonderful! I must say Sheriff, I never expected to have this much fun this week!”

The Lady Marion, who was seated next to the Lady Anya, frowned in confusion at all of the commotion and whispered conversations in the Royal box. As she was about to ask Anya what she must have missed, the field crier shouted, “Garwlwyd the Tinker!”

Once more Robin hobbled towards the shoo
ting line, but this time he glanced up and made eye contact with the Lady Marion. He smiled and tipped his wide brimmed hat with a wink before finishing his limp at the line.

Marion’s eyes went wide and she drew a sharp breath of surprise. She may as well have screamed at the top of her lungs, with the
Risen sitting next to her, for to Anya, it was obvious she also knew the Tinker’s real name.

“I something wrong Lady Marion?” Anya asked as she studied the young woman’s reactions.

“Hmm? Oh, no my lady of course not! I just… well that man looks a bit too old to shoot a bow doesn’t he?” she stammered now unsure what to do.

Anya smiled at her, “Oh I am sure he will do just fine. Your concern is very kind of you, should we ask him to withdraw? I am sure we could disqualify him for his own safety if you so wish it.” Anya said in an innocent tone of voice.

Again Marion’s eyes went wide, “Oh, no that won’t be necessary! Perhaps I was being too hasty.” She said as she pointed to the arrow stuck in the center of the target.

Again the field marshal shouted, “In the black!” as he checked the Tinker’s shot.

Anya smiled at her, “Yes, perhaps you were…still best to keep an eye on him just in case.”

“Yes, of course my Lady!” Marion agreed, pe
rhaps a bit too quickly.

And so the contest went through the elimin
ation rounds, with the winners of each bracket, placed into another group until only one group of five shooters remained. All the while, the field grew smaller until only those five targets were left. At this point, both the cheering crowd and the guardsmen were almost on top of the shooters.

For the werewolves this was a nightmare set up, at this point they were completely cut off from Robin Hood by the armored guards and even an a
ttempt at getting to him would get them all killed. There was nothing more for them to do but watch and hope either he loses soon and can walk out, or his disguise somehow fools everybody in the Royal box. With one of those in the box seats being Anya, that was not likely to happen, unless she felt like letting him get away with it.

Robin himself had hardly noticed the guards moving in, as he was having too much fun playing the crowd and pretending to be this crazy old Tinker.

“The final round shall be one shot each on a single target at sixty paces. Miller of Devonshire! First shot!”

The first shot sailed down range but struck the target high and to the right
. Had it been an enemy in combat, the shot would have been a kill, but for the contest it was not good enough.

“
High and wide! Second shooter, William the Fletcher!”

The Fletchers shot struck the target in the black but
just low of the center. “In the black! Shooting for Prince John, Sir James of London.”

Much like the Fletcher’s shot; James hit the target in the black center disk, but was off to the left of center.

“In the black! Now shooting Garwlwyd the Tinker!”

Anya stole a peek at the Lady Marion who was holding her breath.

The Tinker drew back his arm and then looked up and around checking the sky before saying, “Looks like rain tonight.” With his head facing backwards, he let the arrow fly with a “Whoops.”

The crowd held their breath as they waited for the official call. “In the black, dead center!” the range officer shouted sending up a loud cheer from the crowd.

Even in the Royal box they laughed and cheered the Tinkers antics.

“Well master Frenchman
, looks like you can save that arrow for your supper.” Robin laughed as he waved at the cheering crowd.

The Frenchman nodded his head and said with a smile, “We shall see my friend.”

“Last shooter, representing Nottingham castle, François Tesouid of Normandy.”

The field went deadly quiet as the mercenary captain took his aim. His shot was true and all could see it was close to where Robin’s previous shot was.

“In the black, dead center! The arrows are touching, we have a tie!” once more the crowd went crazy.

The range offi
cer trotted down the field to reach the contestants and spoke briefly with each, before turning back to the crowd saying, “My Lords and Ladies, the contestants have agreed to each shoot one final flight. The distance shall be ninety paces!”

That sent ooo’s and ahh’s rippling through the crowd,
as most would be lucky to even hit the hay bale at that range, never mind the target at the center.