The Archer

Customers of such Jewish bankers, like myself, who have no fixed abode during most of our trading seasons and, for our own protection, rather secretive about the exact whereabouts of our winter quarters, need a secure and trusted means of investing savings, securing sufficient return to furnish for the comfort of our old age and eventual retirement from the daily toil of labour, travel and trade. Jacob used the flow of such coins thus deposited to fund and spread risk across a number of trading adventures and enterprises. The trust of savers like me were rewarded with due interest and guaranteed security. Over time, amounting to a dozen years of honest dealings between us, Jacob became a beloved and trusted friend.

But royal politicking, being fickle and driven by greed and avarice above the bounds of common sense or decency, decreed on trumped up religious reasons that the hitherto settled Jewish bankers be driven out of the country and their coffers emptied by confiscation into the royal treasury. Thence, no doubt, to be spent on wine, courtly finery or financing fruitless skirmishes with other quarrelling royals from a rival house, none of such monies would be invested in trade of goods or services, to the detriment of the living conditions of their loyal subjects.

Thus the Jewish quarter of the city, where Jacob had lived and worked for many years, was cleared out by force and a family of impoverished haberdashers apparently now shiver in Jacob's stripped hall. With no trade of fine raw wool going out and no woven cloth coming in, the new tenants starved just as hard as the sheep farmers, burning oak furniture, which was too solid to remove as plunder, for firewood. Meanwhile the sheep farmers had turned to thievery and were running the shire reeve's men ragged on the county highways and byways.

Kings! Anointed by the Almighty, be damned! Even the dullest farmer knows that you save sufficient of the best grain for sowing next season; grinding the whole crop to flour may mean a loaf or two more bread this winter but guarantees starvation when harvests fail and nights grow long and cold once again. Madder than March hares, kings and princes are, only necessarily rarer and far less palatable.

An alewife on the West road, on the approach to the city, had espied and recognised me as I purchased some pie to fortify myself at her inn, as my horse rested, prior to my journey into the heart of the city. She took me to one side, whispering that she had a message left from our mutual friend Jacob, that he had gone from the city to the "inn with the well".

She had no idea where that location was but Jacob had assured her that I would recognise the reference and that she would be rewarded by me for the information. Even the inns were suffering from the straightened state of the vanishing market: the traders no longer coming to a city with nothing to trade in exchange for wool, now worthless and barely worth the effort of cutting off the poor animals.

I pressed a little silver into the alewife's palm in thanks and proceeded by a roundabout route, to avoid being followed, to Oaklea. This place I hadn't visited since my youth, barely a year or two older than this young Robin, whose very presence reminds me of my own miserable history, the memories of which I have tried to bury deep within my soul ever since.

THE VILLAGE OF OAKLEA

It had been a hard winter back the first time I visited Oaklea, almost twenty years ago now. In the early spring of that year the king had campaigned in France against the Burgundians or possibly some other perceived ducal or royal rival and had rounded up as many able men for the purpose as deemed possible. I had quartered the winter safely from the military draft in the wilderness of the mountains and hills of North Wales, making longbows with my father. I had brought part of our stock to the rural manor of Oaklea, having heard of the famous annual tournament held there at the inn, which was the richest prize of all in this English shire at the time.

I found nought but devastation in the village upon my arrival. With all the men vanished from the large village, the constable and lord along with them, a thieving band of mercenaries had gone through the place a month before and taken everything of value.

My coin was eagerly snatched from my proffered hand at the famous inn, the alewife there almost my mother's age but still youthful in spirit and very comely in appearance. I was weary from my long journey on foot and I wasn't alone of like company. Others also came, lured by the expected promise of archery prizes, trading and profit, and stood there empty-handed and disappointed.

The alewife's husband had also been taken off to war, forced along with the others into the military draft and had not returned, having buried his precious wealth in the ground before he left; where it was, no-one in his family knew. The ale in the inn was, however, noteworthy in quality and plentifully produced in anticipation of the spring throng, so the archers and associated traders determined to stay at the inn. A worthwhile prize of sorts was raised from the agreed entry fees of the participants, aided by the mutual interests of the wager mongers who had also thronged to the manor in expectation of filling their purses.

I won the first prize that year surprisingly easily, just a leather bag of a meagre few silver pennies, three or four shy of a shilling, I recall. I was but a boy then, and it was the very first tournament I had entered and won with my bow. I had been apprenticed in the bow-making craft to a master, my own beloved father, inheriting from his loins a natural good eye for a target. I traded nearly half of the bows I had brought with me at the completion of the contest. Most of the other competitors left immediately after for other fairs, but I tarried a couple more days, after the alewife sought an additional boon of me.

The marauders that attacked the village prior to our arrival that spring not only took all they could carry off, they also took by force the virginities of all the village maids as well as compromised as many of the wives who were considered comely enough for their brutal attentions.

I remember blushing furiously at what my youthful ears were unaccustomed to absorb and was grateful that the alewife explained the circumstances in the softest of tones while we were alone in the low flickering light of the night fire, which minimised from her view my gross embarrassment. I was a big lad for my age then, tall and powerful enough to draw my father's longest longbow, thus I believe, the alewife thought I was much older and more experienced in the innermost workings of the adult world than I truly was.

What she was most concerned by was that her daughter was early with child without a husband, which was both an unhappy circumstance for any young woman and her child, particularly for a family of some standing in the community. There was no other suitable male of marriageable age left in the village. The local lord had cleared out all the able men of nearby vills at the same time, the policy of a fool - as are most nobles of my limited acquaintance.

The alewife ushered her only daughter into the room. She was a sweet, slim, flaxen-haired girl, with the biggest and bluest eyes I had ever seen. She was petite and shy, Alwen by name, and she shyly curtsied before me. I had not seen her before this juncture, her mother the dame and the maids in the inn had kept her well hid from view. She was a beautiful girl, so startling in her angelic appearance that she literally took my breath away. The mother's request was that I marry Alwen, so that she would have her child born within the social recognition and blessings of holy wedlock.

I would not have to tarry longer than a day or two at the most in the village, the alewife assured me. The priest would marry us in the church upon the morrow and I would be free to go on my way the following morn and not have to take the slightest legal or financial responsibility either in the upkeep of my bride or the raising of the fatherless child. The inn would care for them and, at a future undetermined date, the alewife would have the marriage annulled on grounds of the absent husband's abandonment. There would be no hue and cry, a simple acceptance of a marriage of convenience tidily terminated to the benefit of all participants. Thus I would have no long-term commitment to mother or baby; the child would benefit from not being born a bastard out of wedlock and Alwen would have her present impeccable respectability duly maintained.

I declared that I would sleep upon the outrageous proposal a further night before deciding my course of action. The alewife offered to let me sleep on it that night in company with her daughter, as she was already just showing with child. I declined, though I was not much more than an overgrown callow youth myself. I could not sleep with a girl so young I announced adamantly, who was, despite her condition, clearly an innocent.

That was a laugh, I told myself, I was less than a handful of years older than Alwen and wholly an innocent myself!

As an alternative inducement, therefore, the comely alewife offered herself to me in her daughter's stead, erroneously believing me to be of full maturity myself. She too, had been a forced provider of carnal pleasure to the villains who imposed themselves on the village women. She had resigned herself to the subjugation, hoping by taking them on turn by turn, they would spare her daughter and divers other innocent maids residing as servants at the inn. Alas, there were too many soldiers and one mercenary strayed to sample the pleasures of the daughter. Although she was otherwise quite well hid, she emerged from her secure hiding place through her own innocent curiosity.

The alewife assured me that she herself was barren and unable to bear another child. Alwen had been her only offspring in full twenty years of marriage to her absent husband, the only man she had ever enjoyed private relations with prior to the last moon's passing when the women of the manor were imposed upon so cruelly. She suggested instead to gladly take me to her bed if it would make my consideration of her marriage proposal to her daughter more palatable by the morrow.

Alas, I was weak and, ashamed to my thinning hair roots even now at my advanced age of almost eight and thirty years. I admit that I partook freely of her ale in plenty that eve and her curvy body apparently well enough to favourably consider fulfilling the proposed arrangement. If I would wed her daughter, it would be on the understanding that it was for our mutual temporary benefit only and no long-term commitment of one to the other, freeing both of us to marry for love in the future, as fate determined or faith decreed.

Come the morrow, I was the only sojourner left from the visiting parties at the inn and the alewife broached the subject, that was so close to her heart, once more as I broke my fast. I pondered upon the problem and her proposed solution further, during which she added slyly that, as the husband of the daughter, I would become the son of the innkeeper, and therefore would face no imposition of the normal tariff for my extended stay at the inn. Also, I would have my sack filled with pastries, cold meat cuts and bread for my journey plus as many skins of their freshest ale as I could carry.

The inn had done so well out of the ad hoc archery competition that, in addition to my prize, I would be given six shiny silver pennies to fill my purse and, as a final incentive, knowing how marketable my father's longbows were, the alewife would purchase the remainder of my stock to sell on to future travellers. This meant I would be free to travel home immediately; I lived with my parents, who were still alive back in those days. My father had been invalided in battle the year before, hence my being forced out to earn the bread for the family much earlier than planned. I would have earned half a season's income in the first month of the year. Good news indeed for my family.

I was tempted by the offer and additional inducements. Once I had toted up the list of benefits in my head, I agreed to the marriage with no further hesitation on my part.

The priest Father Andrew was duly summoned from the chapel at the top of the hill. He was an old man then, as old as I am now, with lively eye, and silken tongue. He was nowhere near as unworldly as I was, or indeed as would be expected of an adherent to the cloth of Christ. Father Andrew was a man experienced both in war and want, who had settled for the priesthood and dedication to his flock somewhat late in life.

Ensconced in my bedchamber at the inn, the priest, Alwen and I sat alone, her mother sent forth from the chamber by the priest. Father Andrew spake to both our impressionable minds of love and marriage and what such constitution meant for the benefit of families. I tried to explain to the venerable father that this was a marriage of convenience, ordained by bargain rather than love but he waved away my protests. Alwen spake but not a word throughout the Father's sermon.

All marriages are forged in heaven, Father Andrew preached sagely, whether they be of momentary convenience or otherwise. We should accept that a bond was thus formed between us, girl and near-adult boy, he smiled.

"Both of you have obligations to your families," he winked, the one and only priest I have ever witnessed thus, "But you are also committed to each other in front of the ever seeing eyes of God Almighty. He alone will decide the eventual outcome of your blessed union."

The priest knew that I had been sent into the world to trade and barter, to bring the larger share of my bounty home to support my own ageing family. Alwen too, had serious responsibilities ahead, the pain of childbirth, the rearing of the child and, in due course, the day to day work and management of the inn and hostelry; until she married once more to someone more suitable than an inveterate travelling tradesman and competitor. Both of us in our separate ways had strong family bonds which tied us hither and thither, but there also existed a unique bond between us, guided by the Almighty, the priest asserted, which we were honour-bound to respect as long as time itself.

Even now, in my middle years, I remember his words in my sparse bedchamber and repeated at that simple ceremony held in the mean church, all that this small parish and its tight-fisted Lord of the Manor could afford. I remembered my vows to honour and cherish a girl, made woman too soon by man's carnal greed and wicked violence; a girl, my beautiful bride, a person I hardly knew, had barely spoken to, and never even touched except that last brief binding kiss. We exchanged rings, ones that the alewife had sometime taken in payment from hard-up visitors.

I still wear mine to this day, though not in public view, but securely bound on a twine cord around my neck; cold metal made warm by contact, as close as possible to my heart.

As we kissed that single brief kiss between us all those years ago, I pressed my slim linen purse containing six silver pennies into her hand, whispering she was to hold them to use for herself or the child when necessary, one rainy day.

Thus my thoughts now run through my greying head as sleep comes late to my weary bones, the disquiet in my mind following the lively exchange with my new young friend, Robin. Memories that return burn me deep into my very soul.

***

The morning is misty and murky, still within the grip of the late nip of winter as the declining season gradually releases its cold hold on the land, reluctantly giving way to the burgeoning emergence of spring. The sky is a bright blue, clear of all bar thin streaky cloud, so the sun soon burns off the lingering dew by the time the archers keenly break their fast and gather in anticipation on the archery field.

I seek out the gaming clerks as soon as they appear on the scene and place my stakes of chance with several of them. Some bookkeepers are old acquaintances who had already suspected that they remembered me of old and raise their eyebrows at the particularity of my investments, before shortening the odds in consequence, but only after shaking my hand to cement the honour of my wagers.

Young Robin steps forward as the lowest of the qualifiers from the previous round at the commencement of the final round. The target is now placed a hundred and fifty paces away from the oche, but can clearly be seen in the bright mid-morning light. Robin relaxes his flesh-spare but broad-boned shoulders, breathing easily as directed, draws his smaller borrowed bow to its fullest extent and lets fly. The first arrow, one of a dozen I had freshly refletched for him during the previous evening, flies straight and true, landing just inside the top of the gold centre bull.

The gathered crowd, which is large, as befits the draw of the contest, gasps at this feat by such a callow youth, who had shewn so little likely promise in earlier rounds. There is much speculation that the first shot is a fluke and therefore cannot possibly be repeated by the second arrow of his set. Pledges are swiftly placed accordingly, stakes and promises of odds eagerly exchanged between the interested parties. The particular bookmakers I had spoken to earlier, I notice, appear more than willing to take wagers that the feat will not be repeated, before the attention of all in attendance focusses back to the field as Robin draws his bow for his second shot.

The second arrow describes a perfect arc and buries itself deep in the target, the feathered end vibrating violently following the impact. But all eyes strain towards the point of the dart, where has it landed?

The crowd whose view is blocked by larger spectators in front of them, try to surge forward to see up the field. Others, whose eyesight is obscured, weak or fading, desperately question younger, taller men around them, keen to learn if their wager has found success or not. Many different opinions of the result are bandied back and forth, yays and nays by turn. Spirits rise and fall according to this opinion or that.

"Centre of the bull!" cries the master of the target, waving a flag for the benefit of the steward at the firing point. A very few cheers and many more groans come from the crowd while cut and whole silver coins exchange hands with many more smiles from the money changers than the gamblers. Further wagers are placed for the final shot due from Robin, although much fewer stakes are placed than hitherto, the odds narrowing from the heights they were.

Robin smiles at me as he steps up to the oche again. He shakes any tension out of his shoulders and relaxes. Robin breathes as I taught him, nocks the arrow in the string which has been reversed twisted with additional threads woven in at the nocking points for extra strength and stability. He exhales his second breath completely as he draws bead and releases the arrow. Once more the throng holds its breath as the dart soars and flies, to bury itself in the bull, almost touching the second arrow. Dead centre once again!

A ripple of spontaneous applause runs around the crowd. I look around at my fellow competitors. A few look ashen. The two old veterans see me looking their way and nod to me with a grin. They know the way the land lies, having experience of so many of these exhibitions.

Nobody else comes close to Robin, try though they may. Alan of Wakefield, a veteran archer I have met many times on my travels, wins second prize, pipping my earlier effort by a whisker. No matter, all present in the throng know it was my bow loaned to the youth that won the prize for Robin and I sell all my spare bows and five belt quivers of arrows, all that I had been able to carry on foot on this trip. And, as a bonus to the few pennies won in prize money, I had a full purse of silver collected from the bookmakers who had happily made fortunes themselves from Robin's unexpected triumph.