The Second-Best Archer in the Forest - Part 2

Comedy short - Dale infiltrates Robin Hood's tavern.

“Quit shuffling around, squire, you’re blocking my view,” Dale said, peeking through a bramble behind the tavern.

“I can’t help it, sir,” the squire said. “This wig is itchy.”

“Quit your bellyaching. You ruined the entire walk over with your whining, and I already gave you a pass on the false teeth.”

“I was getting splinters.”

Dale shook his head. “I swear I’ve seen a stronger constitution on a paper spittoon.”

A horse and cart came clomping by, they ducked for cover. Dale popped back up without his wig, which got caught on a branch.

The squire resurfaced. “Sir, your wig.”

Dale took it back angrily, put it on backwards, and stood for a moment sensing something was off. Then straightened it. He watched as the last of Robin Hood’s men left the bar.

“Alright, squire. Now’s our chance.”

They emerged from the bushes, swiping leaves and debris from their minstrel clothes, and walked toward the tavern.

“Sir,” the squire said, “I’m just not sure why we need to disguise ourselves as performers. We’re not that well known here, and I don’t even know how to play the lute.”

“Certainly not you, but the legend of Dale has been sung in these woods for years now. Remember that fifth runner-up in last fall’s archery competition. Would have been a first if that crow hadn’t begun spatting off. We wear the disguises, get the location of Sherwood Forest, and report it to the king. We’ll collect our bounty and be restored as the rightful heroes of this village. Well, me at least. You’ll remain a squire, but with better clothes.”

They entered the tavern.

“Good day,” Dale announced.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man with a limp.

“Good day,” Dale said.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man in an eyepatch.

“Good day,” Dale said. He turned to the squire and whispered, “Is this a tavern or an infirmary?” He edged his way over toward the fire. “We’re just a couple of entertainers in search of an audience.”

“Normal regular entertainers,” the squire said.

“If I may regale you with one of our latest poems,” Dale said. He pulled a piece of parchment from his purple and teal vest and swiped a few strands of wig hair off his face. Then cleared his throat:

The rancid fish roasted on the spit.
A feral possum eyed a juicy bit.

A smell so foul it could start a fire,
But not any worse than the smell of a squire.

Laughter burst out from the tavern. Dale took a slight bow, the wig almost flopping off. He slid it back in place, then they sidled up to the bar.

A large man with a beard cracked his neck beside him. “Great poem, Dale.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” Dale said. “I’m Gus. A minstrel. We’ve been looking for an audience. I hear the Merry Men enjoy some entertainment. Might I—”

The barkeep slid two ales down the counter. “Your usual, Dale?”

Dale stared at the cup, then picked it up and drank.

The squire leaned toward him. “Sir, I think our cover may be blown.”

Dale exhaled loudly. “I told you to wear the false teeth, you imbecile.”

Dale turned slowly. In the far corner, Robin Hood sat at a table with three men, all laughing. He glanced over at Dale with a pleasant expression, then went back to his conversation.

“We’re leaving,” Dale said.

“But, sir, the location.”

“Now.”

The squire chugged his drink and followed Dale outside. Dale ripped the vest off, yanked the wig from his head, and threw it into a water trough. It floated.”

“Same time next week?” the squire asked.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

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If you’re interested in the first adventure of Dale and the squire, they can be found here: