The Archer

Robin is excited at winning first prize, of course he is. I still remember my first win, and not only because the youngster puts me so in mind of it but the circumstances which followed.

We pack up our few belongings for the short journey to Oaklea. I am certainly travelling much lighter burdened than previously, having just my own bow and quiver to carry. Robin offers to carry my small bag of personal belongings on the journey.

Robin has a nice chestnut bay to ride, while I am as usual tramping to our destination on foot. We leave the town in mid afternoon, knowing we had a four to five hour brisk walk to Oaklea, so we can't leave our departure too late if we are to arrive before risking encountering the dangers of travelling in the dark.

We talk much along the way. Robin questions me of the places I have visited, while I wish to hear more about his village and his home life, if only to learn more of his guardian, the Dame Alwen. Eventually, we get around to the subject of his home village and the inn, the future running of which he considers boring, compared to the excitement of the tourney. His long-ailing invalided father died early in the cold damp of the immediately past winter, he says. His recently-widowed sister, Alwen, runs the inn efficiently, as she has done for many years and would continue to do so even after her wedding. His own mother he cannot remember, she died when he was an infant and his sister Alwen had been guardian and surrogate mother to him for as long as he could remember.

I am sorry to hear that the alewife had died. I do not have any particular feelings for her in my heart, but not only was she kind to me, she was the only woman whose bed I had shared since that night she made me a man.

It seems to me that the innkeeper had taken his grandson Robin on as if he was his own child and kept hid from him the fact that he was actually his 'sister' Alwen's child. This means, I suppose, that Robin will inherit the inn in three or four years' time when he becomes of age. In practice this probably means that Alwen will continue to run the inn until Robin took a wife for himself.

I cannot help but wonder who Alwen had once been married to (after divorcing me, of course) and to whom she was now due to wed but Robin doesn't mention the deceased husband nor any nephews or nieces. I remember from our conversation last night that he called his guardian the "Lady Alwen", so it appears her second husband was either a lord or a knight at least. Robin does not elaborate and despite my curiosity I do not feel I want to add to the pain in my heart by asking him about her marriages, either.

Robin does, however, boast that the inn's ale has a fine reputation that brings visitors from far and wide. Here I can afford to smile openly at his swelling pride. When I followed up Jacob's flight from the city to the mysterious "inn with the well", that the city alewife directed me to some six years ago, I already knew that the Jew could only mean that he was sheltering in the inn at Oaklea.

***

Sometime before, it must be some ten years since, I had heard from other travellers on the road, that the inn at Oaklea was lately being avoided, their famed but ancient water well, the source of the particular quality of its ale, had collapsed during the previous winter flooding and the tenants of the inn couldn't pay to have a new one dug. Also the local manor had become so impoverished that the landowner couldn't afford to maintain the manor's assets. There was talk of the inn closing and the tenants being evicted, Alwen's family finding itself at its lowest ebb.

The annual archery contest of Oaklea had never resumed after my only involvement, so my rival competitive archers on the circuit had no longer any reason to visit the village or its now-fading tavern, except en route to other fairs or markets.

On my instructions ten years ago, my banker friend Jacob had travelled to the inn, as soon as could be arranged, and advanced the innkeeper the cost both of water source divination and the construction of a brand new well, using the best construction methods available. It cost me two years' archery earnings, but the inn insisted on repaying the debt in full and with interest, which they achieved within three years. Only the inn owner, Alwen's father knew who invested, Jacob assured me, everyone else was told that the aid came from a distant family member who preferred to remain anonymous. I was at the time, I believed, still married to Alwen, which made me family after all. That was then, where am I now in relation to my ex-wife's family? That is another matter.

It is hot and dusty on that road as my dreaming thoughts return to the present. With half a mile to go, in the gathering dusk on a surprisingly well-maintained road, the youth could no longer contain his excitement, so with a smile I willingly let Robin go on ahead, eager to regale his sister of his archery adventure. Also, I don't think he has ever been away from home for so long in his short life before.

"Thank you Will," the youth gushes, "I am eager to get home and ... I know I shouldn't tell you this, not yet anyways, but I only found out a week ago that my beloved sister is also ... my ... mother!" Robin looks at me shyly. "It would take me too long to explain, Will, and I'm not sure I understand the whole story myself, but to discover that I'm not an orphan is too much information for me to hold in!"

He gallops off on the bay, and leaves me alone with my thoughts reeling over his last statement. Of course he was Alwen's child, I had known since the moment I saw him wield my father's old bow, one of a handful bought by the alewife. And, as my wife's child, he was, during the time that I was married to his mother, however briefly, Robin was also my son by dint of the law of marriage.

My son! A child raised straight and true, a son to be proud of, however violently he may have been conceived. Alwen had truly raised him as a boy to be rightly proud of, a man worthy of the name in the making. If she was indeed a Lady, as she appeared to be, then he was also a Lord in the making. I have no time for lords, but in Robin, just this once, I believe I might make an exception.

Such thoughts I am left with to chew over! Without the youngster's enthusiastic and constant chatter, the world about me seems suddenly silent. I reflect on how ridiculous this situation is, how difficult will I find facing his guardian-sister-mother, the Lady Alwen again? Surely, after all this time, the girl that once was will not remember me. We saw each other all too briefly and I had changed much, the years betwixt the wedding and now have been hard and unkind to me. Most of the time we were together, in my chamber and before the altar, her eyes were downcast. Only when I lifted her veil and tenderly kissed her pretty face just that once, the very moment we were wedded man and wife, did she lift up her long pale-lashed lids and stare deep into my soul with those huge blue eyes. Just the once. We kissed with our eyes wide open. Those eyes I would never ever forget. They were with me every night. They are with me now.

How was Alwen even aware of my one and only return, I wondered, just six years ago? I had espied her myself then, serving jugs of ale brought from the kitchen, but I kept my hood up with my face in shadow the whole time I talked in the back room of that inn with Jacob and his beautiful daughter Rebecca.

Rebecca, of course! Girls gossip all the time. Rebecca would be about a year or two greater than Robin's age now, almost a full-grown woman herself. A raven haired beauty now, no doubt, as she was always a beautiful child. With my nomadic lifestyle and the inaccessibility of my home hamlet in Wales, I had had no contact with Jacob since helping him to a ship captained by my fisherman cousin and away from England to safety. But it was quite possible that Alwen corresponded with Jacob or Rebecca. I saw Alwen reading her ledger and writing out a bill from my vantage point when I entered through the inn's back passageway, seeking out my homeless old friend.

Also, that same year I was truly inspired in my bowmanship and won every single contest I entered in that shire and the neighbouring ones to the west of the English Midlands. Fellow travellers may have spread the news of William the Bowman's exploits, as I was known at the time. That was one of the reasons why I had previously dropped using Will Archer as my name and was now Will Fletcher, an archer who had absolutely no reputation at all.

I wonder as I walk alone, how could I so easily fall into her mother's marriage scheme? Youthful enthusiasm to do right by the wronged girl? Maybe. Open to bribery by a doting mother? Certainly I gave in to temptations offered. All of these things, I was both Samaritan and Judas. I walked away some nineteen years ago feeling like a sneak thief, with pieces of silver rattling in my purse and fat skins of ale to wash down my twin guilts of abandonment of a wife ripening with child and the additional unwanted shame of cuckolding the absent innkeeper. I tried to assuage my guilt by leaving Alwen a few token pence, but those other acts were my baptism into adulthood and have haunted me all my lonely nights since.

Too tired, hungry, thirsty and dusty to turn away from my destiny now. Robin has my bag, including all my coin, me, the one who trusts no-one! I am left only clutching my knife, bow and meagre quiver of arrows, the later two for my protection on the road as well as testimony to my art and trade. Now I find, my left boot sole is in urgent need of a cordwainer's attention; my left big toe feels every single sharp stone on the road and as a consequence I am developing a slight limp. My fate is thus sealed in regard to my destination and my next night's necessary rest. Even if I wanted to change direction, I wouldn't get very far.

I reconcile my fears with the knowledge that at least I know I will not be recognised at the inn for who I once was, one Will Archer, the first husband of the now dame innkeeper. Old and bald and grey, where a few hairs cling tenaciously to my pate, I am but a shadow of my former youth. I hope also that, since her new marriage, the Lady Alwen has grown fat with a host of babes feeding on her gross teats and I can laugh heartily at my good fortune of being rid of her and rest thereafter with the dreamless sleep of a much happier man. I can hope, can't I?

OAKLEA REVISITED

Walking from the east, I climb the steep hill past the old Saxon stone church, the scene of my only wedding ceremony, at the top of the hill and the drystone wall around it. Curiously, I notice a line of yew trees, often associated with churchyards, outside the line of the curtilage of the church. My memories may be dim in some respects, but I was sure those ancient yew trees were inside the graveyard all those years ago.

Yew trees always attract my interest for potential bow wood stock and I cannot fail to notice, as I tarry catching my breath after my long hill climb for a few moments, that many are the boughs and stems which could be cut and split for longbows, were the church or the noble landowners willing to allow me leave for the few pennies I can afford to pay. There are two new-built low stone buildings, built better than ordinary workshops, with fine weather-tight slate roofs, next to the church. The farthest one a smithy, its still-smoking forge and anvil in an open-sided lean-to by the side, now clearly shut down for the night, the embers cooling in the gathering dusk.

There is a well at the top of the hill with a stone wall around it. Like the buildings, clearly of recent construction, the impoverished manor must have having taken a significant turn for the better in the past decade. Clearly, Alwen's precious lord is or was a man of some substance and intelligence, investing in his land's future, probably the somewhat wiser son of the wastrel old fool that went before.

A lone young boy sits on the well wall, warmed by the late afternoon sun high on the hill and cheerfully kicking his heels as young boys are wont to do in lieu of freer activities. Next to him is a pail of water, the sides glistening wet in the evening light, showing it has only recently been hauled up from the depths. The boy seems barely strong enough to have pulled up the bucket, but no-one else is in the vicinity.

"Good evenin' Sire, are you William, known as the bowman?" the urchin asks of me, with a tentative smile on his lips, though his chest puffs out in pride of his appointed role as look-out.

"Aye," I cannot help but grin in reply to the eager child, entrusted with this important task and apparently glad of it.

He hops off the wall, saying "There's fresh-drawn water in the pail, m'Lord for your refreshment. Ev'rything's ready for thee; yon inn is at the foot of the hill on the right. I'm right away down the hill now to let the Lady know you're safe arrived."

With that, he trots off down the hill, to his supper and shortly after that, no doubt, abed. Beyond him I can see the main well-maintained stone lane that runs downhill through the village, with the inn on the right hand side and its stables behind, with vegetable and herb gardens, green with fresh spring shoots, beyond that down to the shallow brackish stream. I remember crossing that little brook last time I came, so I could visit Jacob without being seen by the dame of the inn. Even from here I can see that the stream is very much deeper and wider, the lowering sun glistening off the surface, and impossible now to ford. It appears the old mill, burned to the ground by those original marauders, must have been rebuilt and the millpond to drive the wheel restored and greatly enlarged in the past six years or so since my visit.

I slake my thirst at the well, dipping my hands into the cool water in the pail and splash some over my head to the blessed relief of the back of my hot neck. The sun is sinking below the distant hills and the valley bottom is already plunging into darkness, the lamps are lit and the downstairs windows of the inn are flickering aglow with inviting lights.

The inn looks prosperous, as I walk gingerly, favouring my limp, down the hill towards my destination. I bear the tension of much trepidation of my reception on my shoulders, as well as the discomfort of my left big toe. Spring flowers sway in the gently cooling evening breeze, rooted into earthen pots and wooden tubs along the outside walls and a garland of late daffodils surround the welcoming open doorway, reminding me of my distant home.

I walk inside the great hall of the inn. There are fresh reeds strewn on the earthen floor, with stone flags near the great fire against one wall, stacks of firewood ready to replenish the roaring blaze to chase away the cooling air as the sun readies itself to drop behind the western hills. Compared with the low bright late-afternoon sunset, my ancient eyes take some time to adjust to the ambient glow from the rushlights that illuminate the hall within.

"Will!" cries Robin, his tall, gangling form rises from a settle near the fireplace and advances toward me, "Come, I will take you up to your chamber. I sent your baggage up with a trusted servant directly upon my arrival. Are you thirsty and hungry?"

"I am still a little thirsty, Robin, thank you. It's dusty on that road. But just a little water will suffice for now, I assure you."

Clearly the boy messenger was not reporting back to Will, I am certain he would have met me by the doorway if he knew I was coming down the hill directly. My thoughts turn to the Lady Alwen once more, as they ever do, ever will, until we settle the ambiguous state of our affairs for once and for all.

"I will have a jug of sweet fresh drinking water sent up, Will," the youth smiles, developing into the perfect host, "A bath is ready to be drawn for you, with hot water being prepared and I have laid out some clean fresh robes on the bed for you. Wait, you are limping, sir, are you hurt?"

"No, Robin, my old boots have just stepped a league too far and have given out, my toe is a little sore, that is all."

"When you get to your chamber I will take your worn out boots and send for the cobbler. You would have passed his workshop next to the church. He will fashion you a fair copy by the morrow's dawn."

"No, Robin, they can easily be repaired during tomorrow. I fear that the workshop is presently shut up for the night."

"Nonsense, Will, the cobbler is enjoying his very first ale in the hall downstairs. I will despatch him with your boots to effect a decent repair immediately and fashion a copy while about it in the finest Moorish leather, otherwise he will not get his accustomed skinful this eve nor any other!"

"Thank you, Robin, you are too kind, lay on to my chamber then."

I cannot help but chuckle at the enthusiasm of youth, when anything is possible. I take a chance as he turns his back though, to glance around the room. No sign of Alwen, thanks be to heaven. If the Lady had any inkling that it was her old husband Archer who was in attendance and not this other infamous archer Will Bowman, the woman's curiosity would know no bounds. At this time of the early evening she will be in the kitchens supervising the preparation of the main meal. I take a deep breath, sigh with relief, and hobble after my young host.

Robin leads the way up a grand new-made oaken stairway, the like of which I have never seen outside of the largest city, leading to the first floor galleries. Then we traverse a long passage into a new-built part of this old inn, before entering a large well-appointed bedchamber. At the far end of the room, a huge high bed is covered in furs and deep pillows, with rich dark red brocade curtains around it to keep at bay unwelcome debilitating draughts. On the bed is spread a cream linen bed smock, next to fresh white linen under- and over-shirts and a fine pair of dark brown woollen breeches. On the floor lay a pair of kid slippers, provided for my comfort. All around the room are lit white beeswax candles, throwing clear bright smokeless light across the room. The very walls are covered in rich tapestries, the waxed and polished oak floorboards strewn with divers rugs and woven wool carpets.

This inn is like no other I have stayed in, if this is the quality of but one of its bedchambers. A prince or cardinal could not have found better welcome. A roaring fire in the grate, supplied with a stone-faced chimney on one wall is blazing away, fuelled by coal. This is a fire fit for a king surely, rather than an inveterate fashioner of even the very best of longbows. In one corner of the chamber, with its own sheltering curtains swept aside to reveal, sits a wooden tub bath which even now is being filled by a succession of smiling maids carrying jugs of steaming water.

A knurled old male servant arrives then with a jug of cool fresh-drawn water and a cup fashioned from incised crystal glass, the like of which I have heard spake of by tellers of tall tales but never seen before, pouring me a measure which I drain gratefully. I hand the cup back to the servant gingerly, the breakage of which I would have to work until I died to repay. He acknowledges my thanks with a simple wordless nod and departs. I assume he may be deaf and dumb.

The bath duly drawn and filled, the maids file out the door with their empty jugs for the last time, giggling like children as they pass. Robin's smile of pride at his inn's overwhelming hospitality is a backlit stained glass window to behold. He pulls the curtains close to around the tub and urges me to get my distressed boots off. He asks me to go behind the curtain and pass out my soiled clothes, which he promises he will have clean and hot iron pressed before cock's first crow. Behind those thick cushioning curtains, the still air is already steamy and warm, the water hot and inviting, real soft soap in a dish set on a three-legged stool next to the steaming bath.