At one end stood the target, at the other a tent of striped canvas, from the pole of which fluttered many-colored flags and streamers.

In this booth were casks of ale, free to be broached by any of the archers who might wish to quench their thirst.
Across the range from where the seats for the better folk were raised was a railing to keep the poorer people from crowding in front of the target.

Already, while it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality, who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon palfreys that curveted gaily to the merry tinkle of silver bells at bridle reins.

With these came also the poorer folk, who sat or lay upon the green grass near the railing that kept them from off the range.
In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and threes; some talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day; some looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true, for neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such a prize.

And never was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at Nottingham Town that day, for the very best archers of merry England had come to this shooting match.