The Archer's Apprentice

"Hail, soldier, I hear you have a message for the Shire Reeve?" I call, standing between a pair of crenellations. I realise I probably look as little like the archetypal Shire Reeve as it is possible to be, in my open linen shirt, covered in the sweat from my exertions, no chain mail or Jewel of Office about my neck. I left it behind in my office, but I am in no mood for the niceties of etiquette, I want my message!

"I have a message for Lord William Archer, for his ears only. Fetch him immediately, my man!"

I have no patience for this big oaf's delay. The mid-morning sun is already warm on this bright spring day and even while he has waited for his summons to be delivered to me and my hot footing it to this gate, he has not even had the courtesy to me, or considered the comfort of his sweating horse, to dismount. I will force the issue to a resolvement.

"You can see that the town and Castle is closed to travellers, because of plague within, and the Shire Reeve is busy about his duties and sent me, his trusted clerk, to extract your message. I see you carry no parchment in your hand, so I assume the message is conveyed by mouth?"

"It is, and the Lady said it was only to be delivered to the Lord hisself."

He is annoying me now and my temper is on short tether.

"Does your Lord know that you gadder about the countryside passing on private messages for good Ladies?"

"Aye, my present Master be a guest at the Inn at Oaklea, and has given me leave to deliver the message. I was given four pence by the Lady's servant to pass on the message and was told that I would receive a further four pence for my trouble from the Lord William Archer when I deliver it. I will not deliver the message until I am paid."

There are two guards with me on the battlements. Bartholomew is only a child of thirteen or fourteen, such is the toll of the pestilence in this part of Riverside, but his fellow man at arms, Neville, is a regular soldier and a family man.

"Neville, do you have a purse upon you with four pence in it?" I hiss, "I have come hot foot and uncloaked from training upon the archery ground."

"Of course, Sire, I have five and a half pence in my purse, though the half was already defaced—"

"I have no problem with half or quarter coins, Neville, I have oft used each myself from time to time, and when called upon by necessity, have even chopped through my liege King's face to do so!"

Neville grins in relief.

"Remove a penny ha'penny, Neville, and toss your purse to this fellow. I know you have a good arm, and I can promise you will be repaid with interest directly."

"Aye my Lord," Neville drops his voice to a whisper for my ears only, "but what of the spread of the pestilence through the purse, Sire?"

"Fear not of the vagaries of the pestilence, Neville, concern yourself only in the certainty of your aim."

Neville throws his bag of coins and, as the man reaches up for the coins, I pin his hand to a willow tree behind him with an arrow. I had carried my nocked bow all the way from the archery ground as if it were an extension of mine own bone and sinew.

His horse is panicked and unseats him, leaving him pinned to the tree, his feet fully two feet off the ground. He screams like a trapped vixen desperately seeking aid from her mate before she is reduced to gnaw through her own leg.

I imagine the man at arms, in his heavy mail coat, regrets not dismounting now.

"Come on, Neville, let's go get your purse back and as for his four pence, if he has indeed got such a sum about him, it is yours by forfeit."

In a short time we are upon the man.

"Tell me your message, cur, and be quick about it, or we will leaving you hanging here until the crows have had their fill."

"I was sent here to tell Lord William that his Lady was in labour and is born a son."

"And is this true?" I ask.

"Nay, the Count thought that the news of the birth would bring your Lord arunning into his clutches, and I were told that if he were reluctant to leave I was to say that there was complications of a medical nature. And that the Priest was with her, and that the Lady herself desireth her husband to come to her side immediately. He never said nothing about no plague. Can you release me, or I think I will lose my hand? Have mercy, master bowman, like you, I am a humble servant of my Master and his friends and must do their bidding. Please!"

"Well, I am a humble servant all right, of the King. I am the Lord you came here to deceive. I need to know who this Count is and what is his intent by this wicked deception?"

"I know not what he intends, my Lord, I only do as I am bid," he says, "the Count is Count Gervaise De La Warre, although the Lord I normally serve is Lord Wellock. But he ordered me and another twenty men to serve with the Count while he was his guest in England, and to follow his orders until we return to Wellock Brigga sometime in the summer. Now may you have mercy on me, Sire?"

"And how fares my wife, has she been harmed by this Count you serve?"

"Not to my knowledge, my Lord, and it is not two hours since when I left the village and she were held under lock and key in the brew house I hear."

"And is anyone else in Oaklea hurt by your Count's actions?"

"Only a Steward who tried to intervene, Sire. He had his head broken for trying to prevent her Ladyship's capture, and is being cared for by the Lady in the same brew house. Then a bowman passing through was hacked down for trying to intervene and killing three of our men. I know not if he lives or dies."

So, Henry's non return is explained. Maybe I sent the poor man to his death. The war in Chester must have driven the maggots from the woodwork, hoping to profit from kidnap and ransom, or worse. I will see this Count upon the gibbet for his effrontery. At least Alwen is not yet in labour, but is held by a Count that I have never heard of, for reasons that are a mystery to me.

But Lord Wellock's man is right, if I had received the news of the birth in any normal circumstance, it would surely have taken me into this Count's clutches. He must know nothing of the plague we have here, his man was certainly never warned.

I have no idea who this Count is, and whether Lord Wellock is involved with him in some intrigue, or if he has merely allowed some of his men to help a fellow Norman in his travels.

I know it has long been a custom among the Normans to abduct another nobleman's wife and hold her and her household to ransom, but this is not a custom I would wish to become common in any shire where I am charged with upholding the peace!

"Why did you shoot me?" Lord Wellock's man says, "How did I give myself away?"

"My wife would certainly have sent one of our friends to me to celebrate the birth of our child, knowing that I could neither admit such messenger, nor return with them. Our town is closed to all passage within and without. We have the plague and now, through your actions, you are involved in our scheme to contain it.

"My dear wife can read and write, unusual in a common woman certainly, but however brief, she would certainly have written a note to express her joy and not entrust such expressions to an unknown oaf. Only if something catastrophic happened, would she not have sent me a note. And if you were really a stranger sent as messenger from my wife, then she would not have balked at an extra tuppence, she would have given you six pence, as this has some significance as a love token to us both."

While Neville bears his weight, I reach up and pull out my arrow, a barbless target arrow, which comes out easy. I roughly bind his hand, using a replacement linen face mask from my hip pocket.

I turn to Neville, "Have him taken to the lock-up and kept there under lock and key until we reopen the court assizes, once enough judges and lawyers have recovered from their sick beds. This man is charged with being an accessory to abduction and suspected murder."

"Aye, Sire. I will send Bart off to the Castle to get replacements, and when they get here, we'll have him taken there. ... My Lord, are you riding now or upon the morrow to free Lady Alwen?"

I nodded. "Tomorrow, it will be dark soon."

"Then I would sorely like to be in that party, my Lord."

"I will bear that in mind, Neville, and I will have to think this through first but one way or another I leave for Oaklea in the morning."

But I already know what I have to do, and I will prepare to ride alone to Oaklea, even knowing it is a trap set for me for reasons unknown. I feel that the fever may be past but the sickness in this kingdom still has to run much of its course before a cure be found.

25.

Ride!

(Robin of Oaklea narrates)

It is the middle of the night and the full moon helps our progress as we approach the Priory at Lichfield. We are all deeply sore and tired and look forward to sleep, but Brother Canon Ranulf drives us on. He is unstoppable!

There had been no sign of Lady Elinor's mother, recently made Lady Elsbeth Elliott, of the tiny estate of an inn and garden at Pitstone. We had arrived there, after changing our mounts twice, and collecting four more heavily armed Brothers of different orders, who are accompanying us to the end of our journey.

The influence and prestige of Rebecca, our friend and banker, seems to know no bounds. At each stop we are given an audience with the Priory Abbot, each one of them insisting on blessing us on our mission as if it were God's own, instead of under the protection of a woman of a different faith, which the Mother Church in Rome would consider heresy. Such appears to be the independence of these priories and their concern with the protection of their trade and way of life among the anarchy caused by those who regard themselves as our ruling class.

My grimace of agony turns to a grin of pleasure as I realise I sound more like my father in his absence than his presence, my independence of thought appears so alike his.

Lady Elinor was clearly upset that her mother had been taken. Despite Rebecca's fears, she had never believed it possible until matched by the evidence of our own eyes. The Inn's maids and servants were nervous at our presence, worried that we would blame them for being unable to prevent the abduction.

"She went more'n willing," the Overseer of 'The Three Horseshoes' had told us, a red faced middle aged woman, running slightly to fat, chewing her lip nervously, as she described to us what had happened.

"She even changed into a black bliaut an' cloak with hood, so she was almost alike, 'cept by stature, as all them what she rode away with. They appeared big, strong men. They was Knights, though, dressed in black, not unlike your guard."

Our "guard", the Augustinian Canons and the other Friars, wear black and had arrived there all armed to the teeth, though discreetly, and they do look like Knights, whether it be from a distance or close up.

Lady Elinor and the Overseer had embraced in mutual comfort, following the exchange.

Canon Ranulf had showed us a brief message received by pigeon from Rebecca, written on the tiniest scrap of parchment.

"It is written in a code based on Latin," Ranulf had explained, "it says that if Lady Elinor's mother is not here than she has already been taken to Oaklea. We must leave tonight, now, if we are to reach Oaklea sometime tomorrow. We will reach Lichfield by the middle of the night, and sleep for two hours only, rising at the Office of Matins and ride on."

"I don't think there's that much necessity to rush," the Overseer of 'The Three Horseshoes' added brightly, "Lady Elsbeth's rescuers turned up earlier today, saying they was on their way to catch up with her."

"Rescuers?" asked Ranulf, "and who were they?"

"There were about twenty of them, an' was led by a Lord, what was his name, now?" she thought, "he had a great big scar on his face, one so that you had to stare at the brooch on his coat, to stops you lookin' at it, a Lord Gerald, of ... Hilloak, I think."

"Could it have been 'Wellock'?" I had asked of the Overseer.

"Aye, lad, that's it! Lord Gerald of Wellock!"

"Who is this Lord Wellock?" asked Ranulf later, when were outside the inn.

"He has a large and wealthy Manor in Bartonshire, but is always moaning about his taxes and has a particular bee in his helm about bridge rebuilding at the moment. My father doesn't trust him."

"He is the Lord that brokered the deal for my marriage to the Count," said Lady Elinor, "I believe he must be a distant cousin of De La Warre."

"But a rescuer? Rebecca said nothing about a rescue mounted by anyone other than us," Ranulf had said, deep in thought as we walked towards our mounts.

"Would she have sent another rescue mission?" I asked, reminded by the inn sign swinging in the wind, "to be on the safe side, as we could easily have been delayed, even by one of us throwing a horseshoe."

"Not without telling me." Ranulf said as he was mounting his steed, his determination to carry out his mission undented. "Let us be off, and I will send her a message from Lichfield."

"Why would your mother be taken to the tiny village where Hugh and I live?" I had asked Elinor as we rode together.

It seemed inconceivable, as there had never been any relationship between Lady Elinor's mother and my family or anyone that I know or could imagine.

"I really don't know, Robin, it is a mystery and I am very concerned about her and why she departed her home so willingly."

"We cannot do anything about it until we get there, Lady Elinor. We must ride and rest where we can, so we can be alert and prepared for whatever is laid before us upon our arrival."

It was thirty leagues to Oaklea, with a short stop during the night at Lichfield.

26.

Execution!

(Lady Alwen Archer of Oaklea, wife of Will Archer, narrates)

It is morning now and Henry has just breathed his last, poor man, now at eternal peace. He never fully woke up during that long night, so I comfort myself in knowing that he was ignorant of his painful wounds, and was now safe and sound, yet still looking out for us as he always did, now from his lofty place in Paradise.

It is long past noon, when a pair of soldiers come to the brew house and drag poor delirious Stephen and I up to the road in front of the inn. There we find they have dragged a number of old tree trunks, that had originally been sawn into convenient lengths in a stack in the garden behind the Inn, onto the middle of the road. There next to them stands a man, naked to the waist, but with a leather helm upon his head, like the drawings of executioners I have seen the bards read gruesome stories from, to frighten children and full-growns alike. Standing a little apart from the executioner is the Count, who has now swapped his nightshirt for his ermine robes as befits the rank he holds.

We do not have "Counts" over here, although the Normans call our shires "counties", as too many small boys snigger behind their hands. The Church advised against calling the Earls "Counts", accordingly, which they heed, but insist that our shires be regarded as Counties. The Counts are like one of our old Earls, of whom only a few exist now, replaced one by one by the Dukes appointed by the Norman Kings, except the Earls of the Borders and Marches, where their influence exceeds the single shires of old.

The guard, who has dragged me thus far, flings me to the ground at the Count's feet. Although I have not drunk a drop for a full day and a morning, I summon enough spittle to decorate his boots. The Count snarls at me and drags me up by the arm to stand, and indicates with his other arm, pointing away up the hill.

It is quite sunny today, and the sun has moved well past the meridian. In the bright afternoon sunshine I can see a man, walking down the hill from the church, walking unsteadily, limping, dragging both his feet as if he is extremely unwell. He leans heavily on a tall stick, taller even than he is. A stick that is wrapped in strips of cloth, some appearing unravelled as if he has walked a long way, from Bartown itself maybe, or even further beyond.

My eyes grow accustomed to the brightness of the afternoon and I look closer at the man who cometh. He has a long, voluminous cloak with hood, covering him head to feet and wrapped around him, woven of dark dyed wool, the weave napped like that of velvet.

The travel stained and dusty velvet shakes and shivers like it contains a man who is suffering from the ague or the flux or some other pestilence that looked as though it could take him from this mortal earth forever any second.

I know my husband, as well as I know my face in a mirror. It is he, my William Archer, Lord of this Manor of Oaklea, Knighted in the service of this English Realm by His Majesty Henry The King of England himself, and serving Shire Reeve of my home county of Bartonshire.

He has come at last for me. Even if he is alone, I know he has come for me, to free me and all our friends and dependents and he will wreak vengeance for the murder and abductions, that will lie heavy with guilt upon the hands of these devils who came unbidden into our peaceful, blameless lives.

Some thirty or forty paces away, he stops, visibly shaking with the fever. He lifts one hand to the cowl of his thick cloak and pushes it back over his head. His face is reddened with hideous swollen spots, his eyes half closed as if he is near to the end of his days.

I cry as loud as I can, "It is my husband, and he has the plague, he brings to us the plague!"

There is a gasp from the assemblage of ragtag men at arms, helmed Knights and other divers enemies of us and no doubt the Crown, assembled here and lining the road in the shade of Inn, for no other purpose than mischief and mayhem.

"Then you have come, Shire Reeve, and come alone as asked!" cries the Count. "And you are just in time to witness true Norman justice."

We hear the sickening thud of a blade hitting wood and the severed head of Stephen rolls in the road in front of us.

I twist my head in shock, to see the twitching torso of poor Stephen of Gloucester, my Inn Steward, slumped over one of the wooden trunks, the executioner, lifting his blood-drenched double handed broadsword, something not seen since the days of the old Saxon warriors, and already sweeping the blade clean with a rag.

"Hold there!" yells the Count, as he flings me onto the tree trunk in front of him. I land heavily and, before I can recover, the executioner is leaning on me and pulling my hands together and looping them with some kind of hitch knot and another thick thong dragged over my back and hooked on the other side of the trunk.

Struggle though I may, I am held fast, immobile, my head dangling over the sawn end of the trunk.

Immediately in front of me, Stephen's glazed lifeless eyes look up me, reflecting my destiny to suffer the very same fate.

27.

Plague on You!

(Lord William Archer narrates)

I arrive in Oaklea on foot, bent over almost double and leaning heavily on a long stick, the true nature of the stick hidden by wrappings around of short strips of muslin, half coming undone, reminiscent of a leper suffering from deep neglect and long past caring about appearances.

About my person is wrapped a long cloak, with a full cowl completely obscuring my face, and reducing my scope of vision, although, as I descend the hill past the church, my workshop and the smithy, I take in all that I see through my woven window. There are sixty or seventy plus men on view around the Inn, and possibly archers behind the windows of the Inn, staying back in the shadows where I cannot see them. The men gathered here, I see, are a mixture of Knights, Lords and men at arms. Every one of them is my enemy today, who will pay dearly for this treachery, if not in this life, though it may take me years to track down them all down, then I can only hope Alwen is right so I can pursue them in the next.